On the night following the fight with the Cave Dwellers, a feast was held in the village of the Navahos to celebrate the great victory they had gained.
The Indian braves and their three paleface brethren gathered closely around the camp fire after the feasting was over. The warriors told stories and legends of their tribe and indulged in wrestling and other sports, in all of which they showed great skill.
Buffalo Bill and his friends noticed that in the wrestling a tall and truculent-looking warrior named Leaping Dog overcame the other braves with ease. He threw one of them after another with scarcely an effort, until at last he could find none willing to meet him.
Then he turned to the white men, insolent with his triumph, and cried:
“Will you wrestle with me, palefaces? I will wager my tomahawk that there is none of you who can throw me.”
“Remember that the white chiefs are guests in our lodges, Leaping Dog,” said Red Cloud, in a reproving voice. “It is not seemly to challenge them thus.”
“I mean them no harm,” declared the truculent brave. “All men say that Long Hair is a great warrior and a mighty champion among his own people. If that is so, he should not fear me.”
“Fear you!” yelled Nick Wharton angrily. “It ’u’d take a sight more than you, ye durned red devil, ter scare the bravest man thet ever straddled a hoss on the plains.”
In his indignation the old trapper spoke in English, which the Indian did not understand. But he knew from the tone that what was said was not particularly complimentary to himself, so he turned his piercing black eyes on Wharton with an angry glance.
“If Long Hair will not wrestle with me, perhaps the old chief who roars like a bull will do so,” he said sarcastically.
“Sure, thar’s nothin’ better I’d like than ter break yer neck, ye durned savage,” retorted old Nick.
“Let him alone, old pard,” Buffalo Bill said soothingly. “I’ll take him on, if one of us must. I guess your muscles aren’t quite as tough, or your limbs as supple as they used to be when you were a young man.”
“You be everlastingly gol-durned, Billy Cody!” exclaimed Nick, now thoroughly incensed. “I kalk’late I kin tackle a blamed Indian still, even if I hev come ter be an old man. You let him get at me—an’ don’t you or Bill Hickok butt in.”
“All right! Go as far as you like, but try not to quite kill him,” laughed Cody.
Nick Wharton advanced into the center of the ring of redskins, in which his adversary was already standing in an attitude of defiant challenge.
Old Nick was a husky fellow, despite his age, but he did not look the physical equal of the red man, who was a giant over six feet tall, with muscles that stood out like masses of whipcord all over his arms and legs.
“I guess I may be a gone coon,” said the old trapper, as he removed his hunting jacket and stared critically at his opponent. “I used ter be powerful strong on the wrassle onct, but I guess I’m weakening a bit now. In all my wrasslin’ days, I reckon I never hit up agin’ a tougher proposition than thet thar redskin.”
Old Nick advanced boldly to the encounter, but his anticipation was soon justified.
The redskin rushed suddenly forward and had him in a resistless grip almost before he understood what was happening. He tried to struggle, but, with a mighty heave, the Indian sent him squarely to the ground and rose from his prostrate body with a sarcastic laugh.
“Will either of the other palefaces wrestle with Leaping Dog now?” he asked.
Cody and Hickok both jumped up, ready to accept the challenge and avenge their friend, but Wharton had already risen from the ground, and he stepped in between them.
“Wait a minute, old pards!” he said. “This hyar is my funeral. I ain’t had my bellyful yet, not by a long shot! I want the best two out of three.”
When Leaping Dog understood this he said that he was perfectly willing. He would throw the white man again, as he had thrown him before.
“It is no use, my brother,” said Red Cloud, taking Nick Wharton aside for a moment. “In wrestling we are all as children in the hands of Leaping Dog. He is a champion against whom no man can stand. He has beaten the best wrestlers of all the tribes.”
Old Wharton said nothing, but a look of grim determination came into his face that meant volumes.
The other Indians seemed to be of the same opinion as their chief, for they shouted to the white man not to meet their champion again, saying that he might hurt him seriously.
“Gol-durn him, let him go as fur as he kin!” muttered Nick savagely, as he stepped forward and faced his late victor.
Leaping Dog did not seem to hold his opponent so cheaply this time. He saw, by the glitter in the old trapper’s eyes, that he was indeed a man to be feared.
He held his body as tense and rigid as that of a panther, and his coal-black eyes did not waver for a second in their baleful glance into those of the white man.
Suddenly he leaped like a wild beast straight at the throat of his opponent, seeking to grapple him round the neck—a favorite hold among the less sportsman-like of Indian wrestlers.
But Nick had seen Indians wrestle too often to allow himself to be caught in that manner.
He showed an agility surprising in so old a man.
With a movement even quicker than that of the Indian, he side-stepped, and, before his foe could recover his balance, he had grasped him round the shoulders in a clever hold that left him little chance to break away.
After swaying to and fro for a few moments, he forced the redskin backward until his shoulders fairly touched the ground.
The Indians were dumb with intense surprise for a second or two, and then they hailed the victory with loud whoops of delight. Leaping Dog, being a surly fellow, was not popular in the tribe. As the wrestling champion he had always been overbearing in his manner, and they were therefore glad to see his pride meet with a fall.
“Quits!” cried Nick. “Now fur the rubber!”
Leaping Dog got to his feet, looking angry and crestfallen. There was an expression of fierce vindictiveness in his eyes as he faced Wharton for the final bout.
Before they could clinch, Red Cloud rushed in between them, put his hand down to the brave’s belt, and pulled out a knife, which he tossed to the ground at Buffalo Bill’s feet.
There was nothing wrong in the fellow having the knife. All the braves were wearing one, as they commonly did; but Red Cloud had caught that evil look in Leaping Dog’s eyes, and he thought that the man might be tempted to use his weapon, if he were worsted again.
Leaping Dog glared at his chief savagely, but said nothing.
A chorus of emphatic “Ughs!” of approval went up from the Indians around the circle. It was clear that they did not think their chief’s suspicions were altogether unjust.
As the two men met again the Indian was far more wary than on either of the other occasions. Nick Wharton, tired of his cautious feints, eventually had to rush in and grapple him.
He secured a good grip, but the redskin struggled stoutly, bringing all his tremendous strength to bear to overcome the old scout.
The men struggled backward and forward for more than two minutes, panting heavily. Now one, and now the other, would gain a slight advantage, only to lose it again in a moment.
Then Wharton thought of an old trick which he had often used in his youth. It was too old to be used with any good effect on an expert American wrestler, but it might be new to the redskin, whose style of wrestling was altogether different.
Putting forth all his strength, he started to push the Navaho backward, inch by inch, as if he meant to force him over to the ground, as he had done before.
Leaping Dog strained his muscles to resist this attempt, just as Wharton had expected he would do. The redskin was thus pushing forward with all his strength.
Suddenly the trapper stopped pushing and pulled him violently forward.
As the Navaho’s own strength was being exerted in the same direction, he could not save himself in time. He struggled for a second or two to keep his balance, but in vain.
Before the spectators could fully realize the cleverness of Wharton’s trick, Leaping Dog was lying face downward on the ground, as flat as the proverbial pancake.
He was badly shaken up, for the fall was a heavy one. For several moments he lay prostrate, and then Nick Wharton helped him to his feet and offered to shake hands with him.
The surly Indian brushed aside the proffered hand and shouted savagely:
“I will fight you with knife or with tomahawk!”
“That you shall not!” declared Red Cloud angrily, stepping in between them. “Begone to your tepee, Leaping Dog! You blacken the face of our tribe. Learn respect for our white brothers, who have fought so well for us.”
The other braves around the fire shouted angrily that Leaping Dog ought to be expelled from the tribe.
Seeing how strong was the feeling against him, Leaping Dog retired to his lodge, as commanded, but he did not lie down to sleep.
Had any one drawn aside the flap of buffalo hide that served for a door, the buck would have been seen busy at a task congenial to his savage nature.
He was whetting a long, broad-bladed knife by the light of a lamp of crude oil, and singing a savage death song as he did so.
After the wrestling was over, some other games were indulged in, and then the circle around the camp fire broke up.
Cody and his two comrades were conducted by Red Cloud to his own tepee, which was the best in the village. He begged them to use it for the night, saying that he would sleep in the medicine lodge with Silver Fox, the venerable medicine man of the tribe.
As the chief turned to leave his white friends, after bidding them good night, he did not notice that a figure was watching him from the shadow cast by an adjoining wigwam.
The figure was that of Leaping Dog. He had caught the last words uttered by the chief.
He had sharpened the knife until its edge was as keen as that of a razor, and now he thirsted to plunge it deep into the hearts of his enemies.
But he knew he must be cautious. He must stab them when they were asleep. If he were discovered in his crime, his life would not be worth a moment’s purchase.
Even when the bodies were found it would go hard with him, though there might be no actual evidence that he was the guilty party. His fellow braves would at once suspect him, and they were likely enough to kill him on suspicion—for he knew that most of them disliked him strongly.
Lurking in the shadows, he wondered whom he should attack first—the whites or his own chief. Red Cloud had disgraced him before his own people, and his savage heart burned with rage at the thought. But the old white man had beaten him at wrestling, and made him a laughingstock before them all.
He must carry out his revenge quickly, and put a long distance between himself and the village before the dawn. He would have to travel fast and far, for the avengers of blood would follow on his trail as soon as the dead bodies were discovered.
With this idea in his mind Leaping Dog went to his tepee, and made preparations for a long journey. He saddled his pony, and placed some provisions and his weapons upon it. This done, he stole quietly to the medicine lodge of Silver Fox.
He had made up his mind. He would slay his chief first, and then assassinate the white men. He had a violent hatred of all palefaces, and the blood of Nick Wharton alone would not satisfy his lust for revenge.
He listened outside the lodge and heard voices talking inside. The chief of the Navahos and his venerable host of the night had not yet gone to sleep. They were talking of the white men and praising them highly. Their words added fuel to the fire of hatred in Leaping Dog’s heart.
At last their voices ceased, and by the sound of their deep and regular breathing, the watcher concluded they were asleep.
Meanwhile, the three scouts had made themselves comfortable in their wigwam, and were talking over the events of the evening.
Cody and Wild Bill congratulated their old friend heartily on his victory over the redskin wrestler.
“Thet’s all right,” said Nick, “but thar’s goin’ ter be more trouble over that. Thet redskin is out fur blood.”
“If that’s the case, we had better not all go to sleep to-night,” remarked Buffalo Bill. “He did look pretty wicked. This is his chance to get even with us, for he knows we shall probably leave the village to-morrow.
“Of course, the tribe would punish him with death if he stuck a knife into any one of us, but when an Indian sees blood he isn’t going to stop out of fear of the consequences. We must take turns at keeping watch to-night.
“By the way, don’t you think he is as likely to stab Red Cloud as any one of us? Remember how the chief treated him in front of all the other braves. That must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow.”
“Let us go to Silver Fox’s lodge and warn Red Cloud to be on his guard,” said Wild Bill. “I know which lodge it is. It’s only about a hundred yards down the line of tepees.”
His companions agreed, and they all stepped out into the cold, biting night air. Buffalo Bill took the precaution to pick up his revolver before he sallied forth.
As they came in sight of the medicine lodge they saw a figure outside it.
Before they could get near enough to recognize the man, the latter lifted the buffalo robe that hung over the door of the lodge, and passed inside.
“Come on!” said Cody, in a hoarse whisper, to his friends. “If that is Leaping Dog he may do his work before we can stop him.”
He ran toward the lodge at the top of his speed, but before he could reach it a frightful scream rang out—a cry far worse than any death yell he had ever heard. It froze his blood with horror, and for a moment he stood still—aghast.
Then he rushed forward, expecting to find the dead body of the young chief of the Navahos.
He tore aside the flap of the tent, but the sight which met his eyes was very different from that which he had expected.
Red Cloud was rising to his feet from his blanket, tomahawk in hand, but there was no foe for him to strike.
Buffalo Bill let the hand which grasped his revolver fall to his side, for he saw that the body of Leaping Dog was lying in a twisted and huddled heap on the floor.
The aged medicine man was towering over him, with his right arm outstretched, and his finger pointing down at the prostrate figure.
He looked as stern as an avenging angel. Fire seemed to flash from his eyes, and his frail form shook like an aspen leaf with the intensity of his passion.
Buffalo Bill bent down, and saw at a glance that Leaping Dog was dead.
There was a look of unfathomable terror in his eyes, and his body was twisted like the trunk of a blasted tree.
“He is dead,” said the border king. “You don’t want your tomahawk, Red Cloud. But how did he die, Silver Fox?”
“The dog was smitten by the wrath of the Great Manitou,” replied the old medicine man cautiously.
“So we see. But that wrath came through the medium of the Great Spirit’s servant, Silver Fox, I suppose. How did you do it?”
“Seek not to know the mysteries of the medicine lodge, Long Hair,” said the old priest solemnly. “They are known only to a few of us, who are bound by the most solemn oaths. We may not reveal them to our children or brothers—still less to white men. Let it suffice that there is an Indian magic which in some matters is greater than the wisdom of the palefaces.
“I knew what was in the heart of this dead dog,” he went on, spurning the body of Leaping Dog with his foot as he spoke. “I knew that he meant to murder Red Cloud as soon as he had formed the purpose in his mind. I waited for him to come and raise the knife, as I knew he would do, and then I invoked the wrath of the Great Manitou and slew him.”
“You mean that you killed him by sheer terror, Silver Fox,” said Buffalo Bill.
He bade good night to his red friends and went back, with Wild Bill and Nick Wharton, to their own tepee.
They discussed the strange death of Leaping Dog, but could come to no satisfactory conclusion about it.
“It must have been done in some way by means of hypnotism,” said Buffalo Bill. “Silver Fox must, in one momentary glance, have made the man think he saw something terrible enough to frighten him to death. And that Indian had pretty good nerves, too, I should say. Yet I never saw such a crazy look of fear and horror in any man’s eyes—not even in the eyes of men who have died under the tortures of the redskins—and you know what they look like. I tell you I’m afraid to go to sleep to-night, for I know I shall dream of that look in the eyes of Leaping Dog.”
However, in a few minutes, the border king was fast asleep. His nerves were much stronger than he had represented them to be.
The three scouts only stayed for a day or two with the Navahos after the rescue of Red Cloud. They were anxious to hurry back to Kansas and find out how the campaign against the three rebel tribes was proceeding.
A toilsome but unadventurous journey brought them back at last to Fort Larned, where they were warmly welcomed by the commandant. He heard with great pleasure the results of Cody’s mission—that there was no danger of the Navahos giving trouble, but that, on the contrary, they would do all in their power to restrain the other tribes in the Southwest from digging up the hatchet.
“Have you done much fighting with the confederated tribes while we have been away?” asked Buffalo Bill.
“No,” replied the officer. “They have kept carefully out of our way. They retreated to the mountains, where our troops could not follow them. We have had a few small skirmishes, but they are still unconquered. They have been gathering strength lately, according to the reports brought in by my scouts, and I am expecting them soon to descend down into the plains again and assume the offensive.”
“Will you be ready to meet them?” asked Buffalo Bill.
“Yes, with the help of the troops at Fort Hays. The commandant there and I have arranged to move together against the redskins as soon as they give us a chance. Between us, we ought to be able to account for any number of them.”
The commandant’s expectations were justified that very night.
A scout came riding in, with his horse all used up and himself on the point of exhaustion. He staggered into the commandant’s headquarters, where Buffalo Bill was dining as a guest, and sank limply into a chair.
Buffalo Bill saw at a glance that the man had been through a very rough experience. So it proved when, revived by a glass of wine, he told his story.
He had been scouting away up in the hills, and had witnessed the descent down into the plains of several large war parties of the three allied tribes. He had been detected by one party, and had been forced to flee for his life. After a long and hard chase, he managed to escape from his pursuers shortly before he came in sight of the fort.
The man was closely questioned as to the course the Indians had taken, and he said the war parties were converging on a point by the bank of a river about midway between the two forts where they were going to establish their military camp.
“This news must be carried to Fort Hays at once,” said Cody.
The commandant nodded.
“And I will take it as soon as my horse is saddled,” added the king of scouts.
The officer thanked him and gave him a letter to the commandant at Fort Hays, making arrangements for them to meet at a rendezvous and attack the Indians.
It was a hard ride that Cody had that night, but an hour after dawn he drew rein at Fort Hays and delivered his message. This done, he flung himself down on a sofa for a few hours’ sleep.
The border king awoke about six o’clock, and, going out of the commandant’s house into the courtyard of the fort, found that two hundred troopers were already saddling their horses to ride to make the junction with the Fort Larned contingent.
A well-equipped expedition was being got ready. Pack mules carrying provisions, water, ammunition, and tents were awaiting to accompany the soldiers. Their commander evidently expected a long and hard campaign.
As the men were having their breakfast, Wild Bill and Nick Wharton appeared on the scene; and the three scouts rode out with the column when it left the fort.
The march was kept up nearly all day, until late in the afternoon the rendezvous was reached.
Strong parties of Indians had been observed hovering around the flanks of the column during the morning; but they had not dared to attack, and the officer in command would not allow his men to break ranks in order to chase them.
Arrived at the rendezvous, he gave orders to pitch the camp and await the arrival of the Fort Larned forces. As yet, they were nowhere to be seen.
The mules were unloaded, and soon rows of white tents were erected on the green prairie.
Before any steps could be taken to fortify the encampment, the Indian bands which had been observed during the morning appeared again.
They hovered round the camp at some distance, keeping well out of rifle shot, but presently they were strongly reënforced by other war parties, which had evidently been sent for.
Toward the close of the afternoon the camp was ringed round by nearly two thousand redskins, who outnumbered the white soldiers by almost ten to one.
It looked as if Uncle Sam’s troopers would be doomed immediately an attack was made. However bravely they might fight, they must succumb at last to overwhelming numbers.
Buffalo Bill figured out the situation, and when the Indians were gathering their forces together for an advance he decided it was high time to try the effect of a bluff.
He remembered that the Indians had used the white flag at Fort Larned, and he decided that he would try it himself.
At the worst, he hoped to be able to hold them by talk for some time, and thus increase the chance of the troops from Fort Larned arriving before the fight was over.
He drew out his handkerchief, tied it to the barrel of his rifle, and rode toward the Indians, waving his improvised flag of truce.
His action evidently surprised the Indians, but in a few moments three or four of them, who seemed to be chiefs, rode out to meet him.
The commander of the soldiers and two or three of his officers spurred their horses after the border king, and were by his side before he met the Indians.
“What in thunder are you up to, Cody?” the commander asked.
“I am going to try to work a bluff on them,” the border king replied. “We would stand very little show if it came to a fight. I want to hold them off until the Fort Larned people show up, or else bluff them into not fighting at all.”
“How on earth are you going to do that?”
Cody did not reply, for at that moment the Indian chiefs came up to him, and he turned to salute them with his usual dignified courtesy.
One of the redskins was the same old Crow chief who had spoken to him by the camp fire the night before, and had smoked the pipe of truce to give him his fair start.
“Greeting to you, Long Hair!” the Crow exclaimed. “Our tomahawks are thirsting for the blood of white soldiers. Why do you call upon us to delay the fight? Do you wish to surrender? It is useless, for our braves are determined to take the scalps of all your men. The Crows and the Cheyennes and the Sioux do not take prisoners.”
“Listen to my words,” replied Buffalo Bill, speaking in his most impressive manner. “My tongue is not forked, and my words are the words of wisdom and mercy. I have no hatred in my heart against your tribes, and I wish to save you from absolute defeat and annihilation.
“If you attack the white soldiers, you will surely die. They are armed with rifles which cannot miss. You know how many of your braves lost their scalps in the fight at Fort Larned. Many more will bite the dust now unless you go back to your tents in peace and bury the hatchet.
“What can you gain by fighting against the white man? You know that you are always beaten. I cannot count on my fingers the number of times I have seen your braves scattered and shot down by the white soldiers, as the clouds are driven before the wind.”
Buffalo Bill’s harangue, delivered in a stern and impressive tone of voice, seemed to shake the warlike resolution of the Indian chiefs. They were all old warriors, and each one of them could remember previous occasions when he had fought against the white man and been hopelessly beaten.
“What are these new rifles that cannot miss?” asked the Crow chief, after talking with his comrades aside. “Give us a proof of their wonderful power, and perhaps we may believe your words.”
“Here is one of them,” replied the border king, tapping his own weapon as he spoke.
“Show me what it can do,” demanded the Indian.
Buffalo Bill noticed that the Indian had a bow and a quiver full of arrows slung on his back. A daring thought came to him.
It seemed impossible to execute, but he determined to try it. It was the only way he could think of to save Uncle Sam’s troopers from an attack by their overwhelming enemy.
“Shoot an arrow into the air as far and as hard as you can,” he said, “and I will cut it in halves with a bullet as it falls backward and comes whizzing down to the ground. My rifle cannot miss, and you will find, if you attack our camp, that the rifles of the white soldiers cannot miss, either.”
The Crow looked at him in amazement for a moment, and then took his bow from his shoulder, fitted an arrow to the string, and shot it into the air with all the force of which he was capable.
Buffalo Bill stood about ten paces off, with his Remington to his shoulder. The arrow soared far into the air, and then, when the momentum was exhausted, came down swiftly, turning round and round with an erratic motion.
Bang!
Buffalo Bill’s rifle cracked when the feathered missile was about ten feet from the ground.
The Indian chieftain stooped and picked up the shattered shaft, with a cry of amazement.
“See,” he exclaimed, “the bullet has broken the arrow!”
The other Indians gathered round, surprised out of their ordinary gravity and reserve. They handled the broken arrow as children would handle a new top, and looked at Buffalo Bill as if he were a magician.
They had never seen such shooting before, and they regarded it as something beyond the scope of merely human skill. There must be some witchcraft in it.
Buffalo Bill struck while the iron was hot.
He knew the Indian character thoroughly, and he immediately began another harangue about the terrible results that would ensue to their tribes unless they immediately consented to bury the hatchet and return to their villages and live in peace.
While the Indians were hanging in the wind, anxious to do as he counseled, and yet unwilling to abandon their blood lust, they saw a column of dust approaching across the prairie.
They watched it silently for a few moments, and then saw that it was a column of cavalry coming up at full gallop.
The men from Fort Larned had arrived at last to reënforce their outnumbered comrades.
This sight decided the redskins. Turning toward Buffalo Bill, the Crow chief threw his tomahawk to the ground, and said:
“Let it be buried, my brother! We will return to our villages, and dwell in peace with the white man. Bad Eye, who stirred up all this trouble, is dead; and there is nothing to be gained by keeping on the warpath. There will be wailing in our villages for the braves whose scalps have already fallen. We will bury the hatchet before worse befalls.”
Thus ended the war of the confederacy of the three tribes, which might have led to widespread massacre and suffering had it not been for the border king’s ready wit and marvelous skill with the rifle.
There was a joyous party at the bivouac that night. The troopers, while somewhat disappointed at the thought that the fighting was over, were satisfied with the complete victory that had been won.
They had seen the backs of their late enemies, who, before retreating to their villages, delivered over two chiefs from each tribe as hostages.
These prisoners were to be returned after all the details of peace had been arranged by the officials of the government.
The lion’s share of the credit was given by all to Buffalo Bill for the suppression of the rebellion, and his fame stood even higher in Kansas and all along the frontier than it had ever done before.
Several weeks after Buffalo Bill had taken leave of his friends of Fort Larned, he stood one day
upon the veranda of a little hotel in the frontier settlement of Danger Divide, when a young man
came up, and, taking him by the arm, led him courteously to the other end of the veranda.
“Mr. Doyle, let me introduce to you Colonel Cody, the chief of scouts of the Department of the
Platte.”
The speaker was a tall, handsome sun-tanned young man, whose frank, honest look and kindly,
smiling eyes would at once have prepossessed any one in his favor.
The man to whom he spoke was old enough to have been his grandfather. His appearance was
distinguished, but his face bore deep lines that spoke of some great sorrow which had clouded his
life.
The old gentleman rose from the chair in which he was sitting and bowed courteously to the man
who was being introduced to him.
“Any friend of yours, Mr. Mainwaring, honors me by his acquaintance,” he said. “But it gives
me especial pleasure to meet Colonel Cody. I have heard much about his great deeds out here in
the West, and now that I see him I am sure that nothing I have heard has been exaggerated.”
“I am delighted to meet you, sir,” replied the scout.
“I heard you make a speech in the Senate two years ago, when I was in Washington on some
business with the War Department,” he added cordially.
“Ah, they say that you never forget a face, Colonel Cody, and it appears to be true. But I have
resigned from the Senate and left Washington forever.”
Buffalo Bill’s face expressed polite interest, but he made no remark. He could not help
wondering, however, how it had come about that one of the most distinguished statesmen at that
time in America should have abandoned his great career, and instead of being in his proper place
at Washington should be found at a wretched little frontier shanty—which was all that the best
“hotel” in Danger Divide could really be called.
“Yes, I have turned my back on Washington,” Mr. Doyle went on, “and I am now on my way to
California, with my two daughters. I am going to buy a ranch there and make it my home for the
small balance of my days. I want to leave all the old associations of my life behind. They have
become painful to me.
“My eldest boy died three months ago in Washington. He was the last of my three sons. My wife
died years ago, and now I have only my two girls left—May and Gertrude. Like myself, they wish
to live in a new country, among fresh scenes and people who will not remind us of the past.”
It was a strangely frank speech to make to a new acquaintance, but Buffalo Bill was a man who
inspired confidence at first sight, and Mr. Doyle found it natural to talk to him of his most
sacred and private affairs as he could not have done to another man.
A smiling, honest-looking negro came out onto the veranda and said to the old man:
“Lunch done got ready, massa. Missie Gertrude and Missie May waiting for you. I ’clar’ to
goodness, suh, I cooked de best lunch I could, but you can’t get nuthin’ more in this place
than down in ole Virginny at de end ob de wah.”
“All right, Norfolk Ben,” replied Mr. Doyle, smiling kindly at the man. “I’ve no doubt that
you have done the best you can, and probably you have done wonders, under the circumstances.”
The honest fellow, grinning his appreciation of these words, vanished through the door.
“That is my servant, Norfolk Ben,” said Mr. Doyle, turning to Cody and Jack Mainwaring. “I don
’t think any one ever had a more faithful one. He has been with us for many years, and is
perfectly devoted to my daughters. He comes from Norfolk, in Virginia—hence his name.”
“A good Virginian servant of the old stock is indeed a treasure,” remarked Mainwaring.
“Will you join us at lunch, Colonel Cody, and you, too, Mr. Mainwaring? I want to hear some more
about that ranch of yours in Texas, and my girls will be delighted to meet you, Colonel Cody, and
listen to some stories about your adventures.”
“I don’t think it will be easy to induce Cody to tell them,” said Jack Mainwaring, smiling. “
Somebody else is always the hero of the stories he tells. I have known him for three weeks, but
all that I have heard about his adventures has been from other people.”
Both men accepted Mr. Doyle’s invitation and went into the small, stuffy dining room of the
hotel with him.
They found there two girls, of about twenty and eighteen years of age respectively, whom they
were introduced to by Mr. Doyle. The elder was his daughter May and the younger was Gertrude.
Both were pretty, but the elder was by far the prettier, and Buffalo Bill, wise in such matters,
could see at a glance that young Mainwaring was powerfully attracted by her. It was the first
time they had met, for he had only made the acquaintance of Mr. Doyle a short time before he
introduced Cody to him.
The party sat down to lunch, Norfolk Ben waiting on them, and they were soon in the midst of an
animated conversation.
Jack Mainwaring told stories of his life on his ranch in Texas. He was a wealthy young fellow,
owning one of the best cattle runs in that State. He was now enjoying a hunting trip in the
farther West, and Buffalo Bill, whom he met some time before, had been able to show him some very
good sport.
As Mr. Doyle had prophesied, the two girls were eager to hear the king of scouts tell about his
own deeds, but he evaded their questions and appeals as well as he could. He was more silent and
abstracted than was his wont, and something seemed to be weighing on his mind, in spite of the
gayety of the little party.
“Mr. Doyle,” he said suddenly, in a lull in the conversation, “would you mind telling me why
you have halted in this little place on your journey to California? The accommodations are so bad
that I am sure you would not have done so without some very good reason.”
“Necessity was my reason,” replied the old gentleman, smiling. “I have a train of three
wagons, and one of the wagons was so badly damaged in crossing a deep gully near here that we had
to stop to have it repaired. From what they tell me, it will be a pretty long job. They have few
facilities for such work in a little place like Danger Divide.”
“It is a pity you could not have gone on to Fort McPherson, seventy miles farther on,” said
Buffalo Bill. “It is a military post, and they have all the means for doing such work. The
general who commands the post would have been pleased to help you. I know him well, for I am
attached to the post as his chief of scouts.”
“We could hardly get to Danger Divide,” replied the old man.
Buffalo Bill thought deeply for a few minutes, hesitating whether or not he should speak out what
was in his mind. Then he said:
“Mr. Doyle, what I am going to say to you will no doubt sound extraordinary and impertinent, but
it is prompted by my knowledge of this country.”
“Whatever it is, I am sure it will be well meant, Colonel Cody,” remarked the ex-senator,
looking puzzled.
“Well, then, it is this: When your wagon is repaired you would, in my opinion, be well advised
to turn back east, instead of trying to cross the great plains at present. If I were in your
position I would wait for a few months at least before trying to reach California by the overland
route.”
Mr. Doyle and his daughters looked very much surprised at this remark. A shadow of annoyance
crossed the old man’s face, as if he thought an unwarrantable liberty was being taken with him
and his plans, but it passed almost as quickly as it came, and he turned to the king of the
scouts and said:
“What you have just told me, Colonel Cody, is certainly rather strange, but I am sure you must
have some good reason for saying it.”
“I have,” replied the border king. “The great plains are very unsafe for wagon teams at
present—more unsafe, I think, than they have ever been before in my experience.”
Mr. Doyle looked surprised.
“I was assured by the officials of the War Department in Washington that the soldiers at the
various posts in this territory had the Indians under complete control,” he said.
Buffalo Bill smiled.
“What they don’t know about this part of the country in Washington would fill a big book,” he
retorted. “The troops do their best—they do wonderfully, indeed. But they can’t be everywhere
at once. Sometimes they are too late to protect, and can only avenge.”
The old man looked grave, but at the same time obstinate. He had made his plans, and he was not
of the kind to give them up readily.
“Of course, I know that there is always a certain amount of risk on the overland route,” he
said. “That must be taken for granted. We have reckoned it in the plans we have made, and the
girls are not at all afraid, I can assure you.”
“Indeed we are not, father!” exclaimed May, glancing at Buffalo Bill with some indignation.
“What is the special danger at present?” the old man asked.
“It is twofold: The Shawnee Indians, under their chief, Evil Heart, are in a very ugly mood
toward the whites, and there is a band of outlaws calling themselves Death Riders who have held
up several wagon trains during the past few months, and even ventured to raid some of the
settlements.”
“The Death Riders!” exclaimed the old man. “It is an ominous name.”
“And it fits them well,” returned Cody. “They show mercy to none who fall into their power.
They are the worst gang of outlaws who ever cursed the West in all my experience.”
“Have you met these Death Riders?” asked Mr. Doyle, after a brief silence produced by the impressive manner in which Buffalo Bill had spoken. “Have you had any personal experience with them?”
“Yes,” replied Buffalo Bill. “As chief of scouts I have assisted more than once in efforts to hunt them down, but those efforts have not yet been successful, although in three little skirmishes we have thinned down the gang considerably. They have a great knowledge of the best hiding places in the hills, and so have been able to elude pursuit.
“They have particular hatred of me, because of my efforts to hunt them down, and they have sent me more than one message threatening my life. Only six weeks ago Wild Bill and myself were caught by seven of them in a narrow cañon, and we had a pretty close call.”
“What happened when you met them?” asked Mr. Doyle, looking at the king of the scouts curiously.
“Oh, we managed to get away from them,” answered Buffalo Bill lightly.
“Why don’t you tell the story as I heard it from Wild Bill, Cody?” said young Mainwaring. “He told me that he was knocked senseless after two of the men were down, and that you killed the other five single-handed. Isn’t that true?”
The knight of the plains was loath to admit this, for he had an almost morbid dislike of anything that savored of boasting, but finally, under the cross-questioning of the girls, he was obliged to confess that Wild Bill had stated the facts.
“But the Shawnees are fully as dangerous as the Death Riders,” the king of the scouts added. “Indeed, I think they are even more so. I’ve had a good deal of experience of that tribe during my life on the plains.
“Unlike the tribe which is so nearly related to them—the Pawnees—they have a most inveterate hatred of the white man, and they never lose a chance of gratifying it.
“They’ve always been ugly neighbors for us, but since their present chief, Evil Heart, has risen to power they have been worse than ever.
“They have not actually dug up the hatchet and declared war against us at the present time, but there are nasty reports from our Pawnee scouts that all is not right with them in their villages.
“They are talking fight all the time, and Evil Heart and the medicine men are doing all they can to encourage it. I have had a good deal to do with Evil Heart myself at various times, and we don’t like one another much. I spared his life once when I had him in my power, and I think it was a great mistake on my part.”
“Well,” said Mr. Doyle, setting his teeth grimly, “I am much obliged to you, Colonel Cody, for this information, but I am afraid that I cannot change my plans on account of it. The dangers which you mention seem, to my mind, rather remote, and I should feel myself a coward if I were to abandon my journey on account of them.”
Buffalo Bill looked at the two girls across the table, and thought sadly that they were the ones who were likely to suffer through their father’s obstinacy.
If the party with the wagon train had consisted only of men he would have had nothing to say. They could have taken their chances, as men should.
But the thought of the danger to which May and Gertrude would be exposed worried him greatly. He was only too familiar with the tortures which the Indians were accustomed to inflict upon helpless women or any other white captives who might chance to fall into their hands.
Yet it was evidently hopeless to try to induce Mr. Doyle to change his opinion and abandon his journey. The border king was a good reader of faces and of character, and he could see quite clearly that there was a strain of obstinacy in the old man’s nature which would make him reject the best advice if it did not happen to coincide with his preconceived opinions.
“How many men have you with your wagon train?” asked the scout.
“There are four of them, not counting Norfolk Ben,” replied the old man.
“What sort of men are they?”
“They are all old frontiersmen, who have been many journeys on the overland trail.”
“Who is their boss?”
“An old man named Jake Wallace.”
“Jake Wallace! I know him well. He and I have hunted on the plains together more than once. What did he say to you when you proposed to make the trip at the present time?”
Mr. Doyle hesitated for a moment, for this question had struck home to him.
“I must confess that he took very much the same view that you do, Colonel Cody,” he finally said. “He told me that it was his business to guide parties across the plains, and that he liked to get all the jobs he could. But he added that he could not reconcile it with his conscience to let me go along with my daughters without giving me a warning.
“He did not tell me what you have said about the Shawnees and the Death Riders, but he gave me to understand that the territory was particularly disturbed and dangerous just now.”
“And in face of that—in face of these two warnings you have received from men who are in a position to know—you will persist in this mad journey!” cried Buffalo Bill, rising to his feet and facing the old man, with a look of anger on his face.
Mr. Doyle and the others looked at him in surprise, so carried beyond himself was he by his indignation at the thought of the peril to which the girls might be recklessly and needlessly exposed.
May and Gertrude were quick to reply to him. They were both angry at what they thought was an insult to their father.
“You are surely forgetting yourself, Colonel Cody!” cried May. “My father is quite able to judge what is best. He is quite able to take care of us. I know you are experienced in regard to these matters, but I think you are exaggerating the danger. In any case, if we have decided to go on we will go on in spite of all your Shawnees and outlaws.”
Gertrude was briefer in her retort, but certainly not less explicit.
“I think you are just horrid, Colonel Cody!” she cried.
Then she got up from the table and swept indignantly out of the room, followed by her sister.
Their father looked after the two girls quizzically as they went out.
“You must excuse them,” he said, turning apologetically toward Buffalo Bill. “I am sure I don’t deserve it, but as a matter of fact they idolize me, and when you questioned my judgment you touched them on a sore point.”
“They are quite right,” said Cody. “I assure you, sir, that I have no grievance in the matter. But I beg you, none the less, to think over what I have said, and to do what I suggest, if you feel that it is possible.
“In any case, if you resume your journey call at Fort McPherson on your way, and no doubt the commandant will supply you with an escort of troopers to conduct you beyond the danger zone.”
“That is not a bad idea,” replied Mr. Doyle. “But I do not feel that I can abandon my journey.”
Buffalo Bill, seeing that nothing further could be done, in view of the obstinacy of the old man, now hastened to change the subject, and the talk ranged over a variety of topics connected with frontier life and with Mainwaring’s experiences in Texas.
In the course of the conversation Mr. Doyle begged that Buffalo Bill and Mainwaring would join his party, so long as they happened to be at Danger Divide.
He did not expect, he said, to be able to get away for two or three days, and he and his daughters would be very glad to have their society while they were staying there.
The old gentleman was perfectly sincere in this invitation, and his motive was not altogether unselfish.
The other inhabitants of the place were of a rough type and repugnant to his polished nature, and he was delighted at the prospect of the society of men with whom he felt he had something in common.
Buffalo Bill, feeling that some protection was needed for the party under the circumstances, accepted the invitation, and Jack Mainwaring gladly did the same, because he desired, above all things, to have the chance to improve his acquaintance with May.
On that same evening Buffalo Bill and young Mainwaring were sitting on the veranda of the saloon alone, and the young rancher took the opportunity to cross-question his friend about the Death Riders.
Buffalo Bill told him how he had met them, and of the danger in which he and his friends stood from them and also from the Shawnees.
“The scoundrels!” exclaimed the rancher fiercely. “I have heard a great deal about the doings of these outlaws, and how they have even dared to defy the authority of the United States and fight American troops.
“I can’t think what has come to our government, that it does not make them either obey the law or wipe them out. If we only had some of them on our ranches down in Texas for a few weeks we’d make them precious sorry for themselves, I can tell you!”
“I wish you had them there,” said Cody, with a laugh.
“Pardon me, gentlemen, but I don’t think you know very much about these people you are talking of.”
The two friends looked up hastily.
They had thought that they were alone on the veranda, but a man had stolen up to them as silently as a cat while they were talking, and he stood at the young rancher’s shoulder, less than a yard away.
He was a big, broad-chested man, with a coarse, bloated face, a swaggering figure, and a bristling red mustache.
Buffalo Bill recognized him at once.
He was Simon Ketchum, known to everybody as a professional gambler and suspected to be the spy and agent of the Death Riders in the settlement of Danger Divide.
“I think I ought to know something about the Death Riders,” said the border king, after he had looked at the man in silence for a few moments. “I am in their black books, as you probably know very well.”
“How should I know anything about it?” asked the intruder quickly. “The Death Riders? There are no such people. It is an old story that they tell around here to scare tenderfeet.”
“It’s hard to prove, isn’t it?” said the king of the scouts, giving the man a significant look. “Dead men tell no tales.”
“You seem to be quite nervous about these imaginary Death Riders,” sneered Ketchum. “I should not have thought that a man with Buffalo Bill’s great reputation feared anything.”
Buffalo Bill did not reply, for he did not care to assert his courage in words. But his companion faced the swaggering stranger and said hotly:
“Cody and one of his friends managed to account for a gang of your rascally assassins between them. You had better send ten times the number next time if you want to make sure of your bloody work!
“But you had better be careful. You are suspected, and if we can only get some good evidence against you, you will find that there is some law and justice in the West, after all!”
The swaggerer’s red face grew as black as night with rage, and he seemed about to spring at the throat of his bold challenger, but Cody stepped in between them and eyed him calmly and steadily.
Ketchum tried to meet his gaze, but he could not do so. He read the menace of death there, and his cheeks turned pale.
“Get out of here!” said the border king. “We understand one another perfectly, I think. You can do your worst, and we will be ready to defend ourselves—and to strike back!”
Frightened by these words, Ketchum turned on his heel and left the veranda. He knew Buffalo Bill well by reputation, and thoroughly understood that he was not the kind of man to speak at random.
“You had better not meddle in this affair, old fellow,” said Cody to Mainwaring when they were alone again. “That man Ketchum is a coarse brute, and I’ve been inclined to insult him publicly and make him fight me. But I don’t think it would be the wisest course. I have other plans for meeting his murderous schemes.”
“Count on me to help you in any way I can,” said the brave young rancher, setting his lips in a stern line. “It is of no use for you to tell me to keep out of this business. I am in it, and I’m going to stay in it.
“Let me tell you one thing: I love May Doyle, and I mean to try to win her for my wife. It is true I have only just met her, but I fell in love at first sight. Now, do you expect to persuade me to keep out of this trouble in order to save my own skin?”
“No, I don’t,” admitted the border king, smiling cheerfully at his friend. “I wish you luck. You couldn’t find a better girl than May Doyle if you searched all through the West.
“But let me give you a word of advice about Ketchum. He is a notorious bully, gambler, and duelist. He has killed several men in duels and has the reputation of being one of the best pistol shots in this section. If you meet him again don’t let him draw you into a quarrel.”
An ominous bending of the rancher’s dark brows was his only reply.
Just then May and her father came out to call the two men in to eat the roughly cooked dinner, which was the best that this frontier hostelry had to offer, and Mainwaring instantly forgot all about the bully in the pleasant society of the girl he loved.
But later in the evening the hot-headed young fellow met Ketchum again.
May had gone to bed, after sitting out on the veranda with him for some time, and he was wandering about the saloon disconsolately, when he happened to stroll into the card room at the back of the bar. It was full of men, sitting around little tables and playing poker, écarté, and other games.
Mainwaring sat down by the open window to smoke a cigar before going to bed, and presently, happening to turn around, he saw that Ketchum was playing poker at a small table near him with another of the men staying at the saloon.
Obeying the instinct of keen observation which had been bred in him by his life on the ranch, the young man began to watch the game with close attention.
Ketchum did not seem to like this. He was still sore, perhaps, at the memory of the meeting earlier in the evening, for he shot angry glances at Mainwaring now and then.
The other player was having a run of the very worst kind of luck. After winning a trifle, the cards went steadily against him. He lost once—twice—thrice—four times running.
He was just about to put down a fifth stake when Mainwaring jumped up from his chair and stopped him.
“Foul play!” he shouted. “Throw up your hand, sir! This game must not go on! You are being cheated!”
Instantly an excited group of spectators came pressing around them.
Ketchum rose to his feet, trembling with passion, and asked fiercely:
“Whom do you accuse of foul play, you young whelp?”
“You—you card sharper and thief!” cried the young rancher.
Tearing the cards from the bully’s hand, he dashed them in his face with such violence that the blood started from his cut cheek.
The two men sprang at one another’s throats, and in a moment they would have rolled down on the floor, perhaps not to rise again, but the other men standing around closed in and dragged them apart by main force.
Such a dispute could have but one ending, even without the deadly insult in which it had culminated.
In those early days in the West dueling was common on very much smaller cause than this quarrel afforded. Any one who had dared to dissent from the custom and refused to meet his enemy on the “field of honor” would have been publicly branded as the most cowardly of men.
“You will meet me to-morrow morning!” hissed the bully, choking back his rage with an effort.
“Certainly—whenever and wherever you like,” replied the young rancher.
At this point Buffalo Bill, who had been smoking on the veranda and had heard the scuffle, entered the room. He took in the situation at a glance and went up to Ketchum.
“I don’t like your face or your manner, Mr. Ketchum,” he said, in a hard, clear voice, which every man in the room could hear. “It will give me great pleasure if you will meet me in the morning before you fulfill your engagement with my friend here.”
Ketchum looked into the eyes of the border king, which were filled with a somber and dangerous light, and he quailed before them.
“I have no quarrel with you,” he muttered. “My quarrel is with your friend. He struck me in a most unwarranted manner.”
“Oh, is that all? Well, he’s not the only man who can do it.”
Buffalo Bill stepped lightly forward and struck the bully a smashing blow between the eyes, which sent him reeling to the floor.
“Have you got a quarrel with me now?” he asked, as the man got up and wiped away the blood that was streaming from his nose.
“Yes, curse you! I suppose I must fight you, but I insist on my right to fight this young whelp here first!”
“And so do I!” cried Mainwaring. “Cody, you mean well, but I won’t let you take up my quarrel in this way. I can fight my own battles, and I will. But I’ll be very much obliged to you if you will act as my second.”
“Certainly I will,” said Cody, seeing that it was hopeless to try to prevent the duel, now that the quarrel had gone so far. “And if you fall it will not be long before I avenge you. But, you hot-headed young ass, why couldn’t you leave him alone, as I wanted you to do?”
It was a clear, bright, beautiful morning when the two men went forth from the little frontier hotel to kill or be killed.
The sun was rising in cloudless glory over the green-clad prairie. All nature seemed peaceful and glad and bright around these two men who had murder in their breasts toward one another.
All the men who had witnessed the quarrel on the previous evening were present. One of them consented to act as a second for Ketchum, who seemed to have no friends of his own.
As the insulted party, Ketchum had not only the choice of weapons, but also the decision as to the manner in which the duel should be fought out. He chose the French “barrier” method, in spite of the protest of his second that it was altogether too bloodthirsty.
A rope was stretched between two small posts driven into the earth. Each combatant was to stand at a dozen paces from the rope barrier on either side and to advance toward it to meet the other. One shot only was allowed, and it rested with the duelists to fire when they chose as soon as the signal was given by one of the seconds dropping his handkerchief.
Thus the duel, while perfectly fair, was almost certain to end in the death of at least one of the combatants.
The man who fired first, before he got to the barrier, would be absolutely at the mercy of his opponent if he missed, for he would be obliged to walk up to the rope and be shot at a few inches’ distance—unless, of course, he chose to confess himself a coward by refusing the ordeal.
It was a thrilling moment when Ketchum’s second dropped the handkerchief.
The toughest old fire eater present felt his heart beat quicker when the two men began to move slowly toward each other, step by step, gradually raising their weapons as they advanced, and eying each other like panthers.
Crack!
There was a flash—a puff of smoke—the whistle of a bullet—a quick, short, indrawn breath from all the onlookers, breaking the tense silence like a hiss.
Mainwaring had fired—and missed!
He advanced steadily until he touched the rope. Flinging down his useless pistol, he folded his arms on his breast and stood facing his enemy, motionless as a rock. There was not a tremor on his lips.
“It’s all over now!” whispered one of the spectators, who was standing near Buffalo Bill. “Ketchum can hit a silver dollar at ten paces, and no man could miss under these circumstances.”
The bully eyed the doomed lad with the grin of a demon, and then advanced toward him, step by step. It seemed an age before he reached the rope and held his pistol right against the breast of the young rancher.
“Now, then, you young fool, take back that lie you told about me, or I’ll shoot you on the spot!” he said loudly enough for all the men standing around to hear.
“Shoot!” replied Mainwaring sternly. “I said you cheated, and I say so still!”
The spectators held their breath, for it now seemed that nothing could save the brave young fellow.
But Ketchum looked around the circle before he pulled the trigger, and he caught the steely glance of the king of the scouts piercing him through and through.
That look said as plainly as any words could have done:
“Shoot him, and I will shoot you within five minutes! Spare him, and I will spare you.”
Fear conquered even the mad passion of hatred that was raging in the breast of the bully.
“The young fool is mad! He doesn’t know what he is saying!” he muttered, and he fired the pistol in the air and folded his arms sullenly.
“Now, I am ready for you, if you wish, Buffalo Bill!” he said.
The border king walked up to him and replied, in a high, clear voice that all could hear:
“I will stand up to you and fight you, if you wish; but first I wish to offer you an apology for striking you last night. If you care to accept it our duel need not take place. It is for you to decide.”
The men standing around were amazed—and not least among them young Mainwaring. Buffalo Bill apologize and try to avoid a duel! It seemed incredible, but his courage was so well known that he could afford to do what would have branded any other man as a coward.
It was the price he paid for Mainwaring’s life, although the young man never knew it.
Ketchum did not share the surprise of the rest. He understood perfectly.
“I accept your apology, sir,” he said, with a clumsy attempt at dignity. “As you suggest, the duel need not take place.”
The two men bowed to one another, but did not offer to shake hands.
The whole party then strolled home to breakfast at the little hotel.
Buffalo Bill and Mainwaring walked together, arm in arm.
The young rancher tried to find out what had induced his friend to apologize to Ketchum, but the border king dodged the subject.
“I wonder what made the fellow spare me when he had me at his mercy,” the young fellow said, as they walked onto the front veranda of the saloon.
“I wonder!” Cody echoed, smiling inwardly.
“I suppose it must have been because there was some slight streak of decency in his nature, after all—though I confess it seems hard to believe,” said Mainwaring.
“Yes, it does seem hard to believe when you know the man,” Cody remarked, smiling now openly, somewhat to the surprise of his friend.
As they sat down to breakfast with the Doyles, May remarked brightly:
“You two were out early this morning, were you not?”
“Yes; we took a little stroll for the benefit of our health,” the knight of the plains replied.
“I suppose you feel that it has done you good?”
“Oh, yes! It has given us a good appetite.”
Not a word was said about the duel, for Cody had a suspicion that the girl returned the love which Mainwaring confessed he felt for her. He did not wish to alarm her more than was absolutely necessary, and he felt that he had only played the first game in the rubber with the Death Riders.
The stake that hung upon that rubber, as he well knew, was nothing less than life or death; but he believed that he could play out the game successfully.
Later in the day, on making inquiries, Buffalo Bill found that Ketchum had taken his horse, sold all his belongings, and driven away from Danger Divide.
He evidently had not cared to stay in the place after the proceedings of the early morning, or perhaps he feared that the king of the scouts would still call him to account in a manner that would prove fatal for him.
Everybody in the place was agreed that his departure was “a good riddance of bad rubbish,” and the only people who felt any regret at his vanishing were his creditors.
Two days later, the damaged wagon having been repaired, Mr. Doyle and his party set out from the little settlement to resume their journey.
With much regret, Buffalo Bill and young Mainwaring bade adieu to them, wondering whether, among the curious chances of life, they would ever see them again.
The young rancher had almost made up his mind that he would go to California later on, seek out the party, and renew his acquaintance with them.
He had not dared to speak to May of his love, after knowing her only for such a brief time, but it was none the less ardent.
Buffalo Bill, noticing how despondent he seemed after the wagon train had lumbered off and disappeared from view over the prairie, invited him to ride with him next day to Fort McPherson.
“We are going to have a big hunt,” the king of the scouts said. “The supply of food for the soldiers of the fort is running low, and we are going out to see if we can fall in with a herd of buffalo. There is a chance of some fine sport. I am to take a band of scouts with me, as well as some Pawnee friendlies.”
Jack Mainwaring’s eyes shone with delight. He was a sportsman through and through, and he knew very well that Buffalo Bill could show him better hunting than any other man in the West.
“Nothing would please me better than to come,” he said.
“And there is another thing that may be an inducement to you,” Buffalo Bill added slyly: “If Mr. Doyle has taken my advice in the matter of getting an escort of troopers we ought to strike Fort McPherson about the time he gets there.
“He has the start of us, but we shall travel faster on horseback than the wagon train. Besides, the general at the fort is a hospitable fellow, and he will be sure to detain them as his guests for a day or two. Visitors of the type of the Doyles are not common at a lonely military post on the edge of the great plains, and when they do arrive they are not allowed to go in a hurry, if it can be helped.”
At this idea Jack Mainwaring was more delighted than ever. He might have a chance of seeing May again, and he was consumed with impatience to start on the journey to the fort.
But Buffalo Bill had some business to finish up in the settlement, and it was not until the following morning that they mounted their horses and rode away.
Buffalo Bill, being in a hurry to reach the fort, took a shorter route than that ordinarily followed by wagon trains, so that the two men did not come up with the Doyle party, and when they reached the fort they found that it had not arrived there.
Two days passed, and still the wagon train did not arrive at the fort.
It was then evident that Mr. Doyle, true to the obstinacy which was so strongly ingrained in his nature, had decided not to take the advice of Buffalo Bill, but had pushed on, with his small force, across the plains, reckless of the dangers he might meet with.
Buffalo Bill hastened the preparations for his big hunt, for he thought it was quite possible that in the course of it he might fall in with the Doyle party.
“And if you do, Cody,” said the general in command of the troops at the fort, “there is one thing that I want to ask of you: You must bring that man and his party back, even if you have to do it by force.”
Buffalo Bill smiled queerly.
“That’s a hard proposition you are putting up to me, general,” he said. “The man is a free-born American citizen. If he wants to travel over any part of the United States I suppose he has a perfect right to do so. I don’t see what authority I have to stop him.”
“Consider the position for a moment, Cody,” said the general, leaning over his desk and addressing the scout with intense earnestness. “This man Doyle is a national character. He was a United States senator, and a great one at that! We can’t afford to allow him and his daughters to get scalped by the Indians, for the sake of our own reputations as the guardians of the frontier—without taking account, even, of the humane aspect of the matter.
“If the man is foolish it is for us to save him from the consequences of his folly. If we don’t do that there will be a national scandal that will reflect badly on the reputation of the troops who are supposed to guard travelers by the overland route.”
“You are right, general,” said Buffalo Bill. “I see the point of your argument perfectly. I will let the hunting slide until I deal with this matter. All our efforts shall be devoted to hitting the trail of that wagon train and coming up with it.
“And when we do reach it I will engage that we’ll bring Mr. Doyle back, even if we have to tie him with rawhide ropes and throw him down on the floor of one of his own wagons.”
The general rose up from his chair and grasped Cody warmly by the hand.
“That’s like you, Bill!” he exclaimed. “You know as well as I do that you must necessarily take all the responsibility in this business. If Doyle gets mad about it and complains to Washington you stand to lose your position as chief of scouts and all prospects of future employment in the government service. And yet you are willing to do it!”
“There is no other way, general,” replied Buffalo Bill simply. “It is clearly my duty—for the sake of those two girls, if not for that of the obstinate old man.”
“Well, Cody, I won’t forget this in a hurry—and if you get into any trouble over it you can rely on me to help you through, if I can possibly do it.”
Buffalo Bill, after bidding farewell to the officer, hastened out to complete the preparations for the starting of his hunting party.
In view of the new task he had before him—the end of which he felt that he could not possibly foresee—he was particularly careful to choose the best men among his corps of scouts and Pawnee friendlies.
He also saw to it that all the men were well mounted, with spare horses, and that they carried an ample supply of ammunition and dried meat for food.
This last detail surprised his great friend and comrade, Nick Wharton, who formed one of the party, as did also Wild Bill, the famous scout who at that time was only second to Buffalo Bill himself in reputation as a hunter and Indian fighter.
“What are ye thinkin’ about, Buffler?” growled old Nick. “I never seed sich a gol-durned lot of meat stocked up by a huntin’ party in all my born days. We might be goin’ ter hit the trail right across the plains ter Californy. Don’t ye think we know enough by this time ter be able ter shoot fur our grub?”
“Everybody knows that you can, Nick—if there’s any game around,” Buffalo Bill replied to this protest, smiling enigmatically. “But you never can tell whether we’ll find any. We may not see hoof or hide of a buffalo for several days. Besides—other things may happen.”
Nick Wharton, unconvinced, went off, growling, to attend to the saddling of his horse.
Buffalo Bill did not wish to take even his two best friends, old Nick and Wild Bill, into his confidence concerning the delicate task with which he had been intrusted.
If he came up with the wagon train—regarding which he had very little doubt, as he knew the course it must take, and it would necessarily have a broad, clear trail—he hoped to be able to persuade Mr. Doyle to return, without having recourse to actual violence.
That being the case, it would be unwise to tell anybody of the lengths to which he felt authorized to go in case of necessity. He allowed all the men, even Jack Mainwaring, to think that there was nothing more in the expedition than a simple hunting trip.
On the day after leaving the fort Buffalo Bill found the trail of the wagon train.
Much to the surprise of his party he had headed on a course which would take them clear away from the region in which buffaloes had been last reported by the Pawnee friendlies.
They thought he was losing his skill as a hunter, but his discipline over them was so good that they made no open protest, though they growled among themselves.
They could not know that Buffalo Bill was not looking after game, but after the Doyle party.
“We’ll follow this trail, boys,” said Buffalo Bill, pointing to the broad tracks left by the wagons. “It’s pretty fresh, and perhaps the folks will be able to tell us where the buffaloes are ranging. Anyway, we can pass the time of day with them.”
“Is Buffer goin’ suddenly crazy?” asked Nick Wharton, in a hoarse aside, of Wild Bill. “What in the name of the everlastin’ hickory do we want ter pass the time o’ day with people fur? I thought we cum out from the fort ter hunt meat.
“It seems we didn’t. We cum out fur a nice sociable ride, payin’ polite calls on wagon parties! It beats all in my knowledge o’ Bill. As if a wagon train wouldn’t scare away all the bufflers within ten miles of it!”
Old Nick only voiced the feelings of the other men. Even the stolid Pawnee friendlies, trained from their boyhood not to express their emotions, looked at Buffalo Bill in sheer amazement—but they said nothing in opposition to his command, and neither did any one of his white comrades.
They all knew him well—and knew that when he gave an order he meant to have it obeyed.
The conduct of the border king was fully justified toward the evening of that same day.
As they were cresting a rise in the prairie the scouts saw the wagons of Mr. Doyle’s train about two miles away.
Buffalo Bill’s keen eye at once perceived that something was wrong. The covers of the wagons were torn, the horses and mules were on the ground, prostrate, and one of the wagons itself was overturned.
The cheeks of the king of the scouts blanched almost as soon as he topped the rise and got his first glimpse of the wagon train.
“They have been attacked!” he gasped, between clenched teeth. “Heaven alone knows what has happened to them! Forward, boys, at the gallop!”
Setting the example, he dug his spurs into the horse—a thing which he did only under stress of the direst necessity—and shot forward from his party like an arrow from the bow.
They were a hard-riding set—those scouts and Pawnees—but the Texan beat them all. Jack Mainwaring alone kept up with Buffalo Bill in that wild ride across the prairie toward the wagons.
Even Wild Bill, one of the hardest riders ever known on the great plains, was left well behind.
But Jack Mainwaring had the spur of love to urge him on, and to make him take out of his horse all the speed it had—even at the risk of killing the animal.
When, in an incredibly short time, they came up to the wagons and leaped off their panting horses, a terrible sight met their eyes.
All the horses and mules attached to the train were dead. Some of them had been pierced by bullets, others by Indian arrows.
The frontiersmen who had driven the teams and guided the party were stretched on the ground beside the animals in attitudes which showed that they had died only after making a bitter and desperate fight for their lives.
This, indeed, was proved by even plainer evidence; for around them were the bodies of more than a score of dead redskins.
“Shawnees!” exclaimed Buffalo Bill, after a single glance at one of these bodies. “This is Evil Heart’s work.”
“Where is May?” gasped Jack Mainwaring.
Buffalo Bill looked at the young man, and saw that his lips were quivering under the stress of his strong emotion. He dared not answer him, for he felt that he could give him no reply which would hold out any hope of the safety of the girl he loved.
Instead of speaking, he started to search around, in the long grass of the prairie, for the bodies of the girls.
In this search he was speedily assisted by Wild Bill and the rest of his party, who came dashing up after him.
Five minutes passed, and then Buffalo Bill came up to Mainwaring, who was standing like a man dazed, and said to him:
“Neither of the girls has been killed. Their bodies are not to be found.”
“And that means?”
The young man was pale to the lips as he asked this question. Cody did not reply.
“You know what it means, Buffalo Bill! They have been carried off by the redskins. They will be exposed to a fate worse than death. They will be tortured with the fiendish cruelty of which only the Indian squaws are capable.”
“Steady! Brace up, old fellow!” said Buffalo Bill. “Don’t give way to despair at once. All is not lost. We can follow the trail of the Shawnees, and the chances are good that we may rescue the girls. The redskins cannot have a big start of us.”
Mainwaring’s face lost its look of blank despair when he heard these words.
“Thank Heaven, Cody!” he gasped. “You have lifted a load off my mind. Yes, we will follow. We will rescue the girls, and we will make the redskins pay dearly for what they have done.”
Before Buffalo Bill could reply he was amazed by hearing a feeble voice calling to him:
“Marse Cody!”
Turning on his heel, he saw a black face peering out at him from the upraised tent of one of the wagons. It was the face of Norfolk Ben, the negro servant of the Doyles.
“Marse Cody!” the faithful black repeated, beckoning to him.
Buffalo Bill had been rooted to the spot in amazement for a moment, but now he rushed eagerly up to the wagon.
He jumped into it, and a new surprise awaited him. There, stretched out on the floor, he saw the form of Mr. Doyle, pallid as death and covered with blood from a gunshot wound through the breast and another through the leg.
Bending down swiftly, Buffalo Bill placed his hand over the man’s heart and felt his pulse. To his joy he found that he still lived, and by a swift examination of the wounds, which he dressed and bound up, he convinced himself that he even had a fair chance of recovery.
While he was attending to the wounded man in this manner, with Mainwaring looking eagerly on through the flap of the wagon tent, Norfolk Ben said nothing.
The poor negro was in a bad way. He had been cut over the shoulder with a tomahawk, which had inflicted a mere flesh wound, but one which, nevertheless, had cost him the loss of a great deal of blood.
It was also plainly to be seen that he had been hit over the head with the butt of a gun with a violence that would have cracked the skull of any one but a negro.
He sat on the floor of the wagon, nursing his sore head, until Buffalo Bill rose up from his ministrations to the unconscious old man.
Then he said:
“Marse Cody!—dem two sweet gals! Dem two cherubims! Whar am dey?”
“I don’t know, Ben. I wish I did,” replied the border king sadly.
Ben gave a groan which evidently came from the bottom of his heart and gave the plainest proof of the sincerity of his affection for his young mistresses.
“How did this happen, Ben?” asked the king of the scouts. “How does it come about that you and your master aren’t killed and scalped. It’s one of the strangest things I ever heard of.”
“I ’clar’ to goodness I don’t know, Marse Cody. Dem Injuns rushed on us ’fore we knowed it. De men with de teams fought like debbils, but dey went down in a few seconds. I was in dis wagon wid de massa, who was feeling some sick, so he couldn’t ride a hoss.
“I rushed in front ob him, but I was jess too late. He got hit by two bullets in the first volley. Then a terr’ble man struck me wid a ax, an’ I felt stars; an’ anodder hit me wid a gun.”
“But how was it that the Indians went away without finishing both of you and then scalping you? It wasn’t like them to do that.”
“I seed de reason ob that jess before I fainted off, Marse Cody. Soon as dem Injuns struck me, dere was a loud yell outside, an’ dey turned at once an’ run off. I crawled to de side ob de wagon an’ looked out.
“All de red mens was ridin’ off like as if de debbil was behind them. Anodder red man was tearin’ down on his hoss from de top ob de ridge, ’way off, an’ waving to dem wid his arms.”
“That explains it,” said Buffalo Bill. “They had a scout out there, and he signaled the approach of our party when he saw us at a long distance off. Evil Heart at once gave the yell for his band to mount and ride. But still it is strange they did not wait to lift the scalps. That would only have taken them a few moments.”
The border king assisted Norfolk Ben from the wagon and told him to point in the direction from which he had seen the solitary Indian scout riding and waving his arms.
To his surprise the negro pointed in the opposite direction to that from which his party had ridden, to another ridge.
“You must be making a mistake, Ben,” said the border king. “We came front the other side.”
“I dunno whar you came from, Marse Cody,” protested the black man. “But he was thar.”
He stuck to this so firmly that Buffalo Bill was compelled to believe him. It was evident that the Indians had not been scared away by the approach of his party. They had been alarmed by some other danger which threatened them.
“I give it up,” the scout confessed finally. “But it really makes no difference. Our course is clear. We must follow the trail of these Shawnees and rescue the girls, if it can be done.”
“An’ Norfolk Ben will come wid you, Marse Cody,” said the faithful negro.
“No, Ben,” replied the king of the scouts. “You are wounded. I must send you to Fort McPherson with your master in one of the wagons. We can hitch up some of our spare horses to it.”
“No, massa, Ben is all right. He mus’ jess go wid you an’ try to find dem sweet cherubims.”
He pleaded so earnestly that Cody had no alternative but to give in to his wish.
The wagon was hitched up, and Mr. Doyle, still unconscious, was sent off to the fort in it, under escort of three scouts.
The bodies of the slain frontiersmen were then quickly buried, and Buffalo Bill led his party at a swift pace on the trail of the Shawnees.