The Great Cattle Trail

CHAPTER XXX.

AT BAY

Captain Shirril and his nephew placed their ponies beside each other, with a space of only a few feet intervening. Then, standing on the ground, they rested their Winchesters across the saddles, facing in opposite directions, and were ready for the assault of the red men, who were circling back and forth and gradually drawing nearer to them.

“Keep cool,” said the captain, “and, when you fire, don’t throw away a shot.”

They were a mile from camp, and, as soon as the shooting began, it ought to attract the notice of the rest, who were sure to hurry to the spot. There was reason to believe the Indians could be held off for a long time, and, brave as they were, it was not to be expected that they would maintain their ground before such a charge as the cowboys would make, and had made a short time before.

The warriors were armed with excellent rifles, and belonged to a tribe that is unsurpassable in horsemanship. Several had blankets on their mustangs, but most were without even that protection, being bareback, while few possessed anything in the nature of a bridle. The well-trained steeds, as we have shown, were perfectly managed by word and touch, and often seemed to divine the wishes of their riders, without word or movement on their part.

But, daring as were the latter, they knew the peril involved in assailing two well-armed white men at bay. They continued their rapid galloping at a safe distance, some of them describing a complete circle around the couple, who were quietly awaiting the chances for effective work.

Before long the assailants began operations. Hardly one retained an upright position on his steed for more than a few seconds at a time. They flung themselves forward, as if in wantonness, their painted faces appearing below their horses’ necks, with their long black hair streaming away, as if it were a part of the mane of their steeds. Then they extended themselves seemingly along the spine of their animals, as if for slumber in the sun. While the steeds sped back and forth, the riders lolled here and there on their backs, as though it was impossible for them to lose their balance. Trying as were the circumstances, Captain Shirril could not help admiring the equestrian exhibition, which could not have been excelled.

But he quickly proved that he meant business of the most serious kind. He fixed his attention on one of the half-naked miscreants, who was not only nearer than any of his companions, but kept edging closer. For a time, he maintained himself on the further side of his mustang, seeming to hold himself in place by the toe of one of his moccasins thrust over the spine at the haunches, with hardly less significant help from a hand at the base of the neck.

When the horse wheeled to return over his own trail, as he frequently did, the matchless rider, with a grace that was inimitable, swung himself over in a corresponding position on the other side, so as to preserve the body of his steed as a shield.

Without warning, he discharged his rifle from beneath the neck of the animal, and the excellence of his aim was proven by the whiz of the bullet near the head of Captain Shirril.

But the latter was not disturbed. He was biding his time, and knew the opportunity was near.

Suddenly the mustang wheeled again. At the moment of doing so, he was closer to the defenders than at any period before. The rider rose to view for a moment, like a leaper going over a fence sideways. Then as he descended on the other side of the steed, he continued descending until he struck the ground, where he rolled over a single time and never stirred again.

At the critical instant, Captain Shirril had fired. An ear-splitting screech followed, and that particular Comanche was eliminated from the problem that confronted him.

The riderless horse flung up his head, with a whinny of affright, and, looking hither and thither, as if unable to understand the meaning of the occurrence, dashed off to join his companions, further away on the prairie.

The thin puff of smoke had not lifted from before the captain’s face, when his nephew let fly at one of the warriors, who was extended along the back of his animal, as if inviting a shot. Avon missed, and the Indian, with astonishing quickness, brought his own gun to a level and fired in return. The ball nipped the brim of his sombrero, passing so close that for a second the youth believed he was hit.

The situation was growing serious, and, since this particular Comanche was so defiant, Avon decided that the occasion was a good one for the use of a repeating weapon. Without pausing to take special aim, he fired three times in rapid succession at his foe.

Though the latter escaped for the moment, his steed was less fortunate. He was hit hard by the first shot, while the last brought him to earth with a bullet through his brain.

His rider was too nimble to be caught by the fall, but, leaping clear, ran swiftly across the plain in the effort to get beyond reach of the rifle, which seemed to be raining bullets all around him. His courage had given place to panic, and as he ran he bounded from side to side and up and down with the grotesque contortions of a Digger Indian when seeking to baffle the aim of an enemy.

Avon continued his fusillade, and by a piece of pure accident winged the fugitive. He did not fall, but the height of his leap and the resonance of his outcry, instantly succeeded by a pronounced limp in his gait, left no doubt that he had gotten in the path of the hurtling messenger.

“How are you making out, Baby?” asked Captain Shirril, turning his head and coolly scrutinizing his relative.

“Only fairly,” replied Avon, replenishing the magazine of his gun and keeping his gaze on the plain in front.

“It is well enough to drop a mustang, but it is better to tumble their riders off them.”

“I meant to do that, but failed.”

The natural supposition of the friends was that the hot reception they had given their assailants would check them, and cause their withdrawal beyond the deadly range of their Winchesters. The reports must have reached the cowboys, and both glanced at the ridge to the west, over which they expected to see their comrades coming to their rescue.

But the Comanches could not have failed to know of the presence of others near at hand, which fact warned them that whatever they did must be done quickly. Instead of falling back, therefore, because of the loss of a single warrior and steed, they rallied and pushed the fight with greater vigor than ever.

In the face of the cracking Winchesters they rode closer than before, and then branching apart, put their animals on a run while they discharged their guns from every conceivable position. Instead of wheeling about as at first, they kept them straight away on the circle, which being less than before, enabled them to circumnavigate the defenders in a brief space of time.

The captain and his nephew had their hands full, for assailants were on every side of them, and the popping of their guns was continuous. The attack was so serious, and the defenders were in such a conspicuous position, that it was impossible to escape the storm of bullets flying all around them.

A quick start on the part of Thunderbolt showed that he had been hit, while almost at the same moment the rearing of the captain’s mustang proved that he, too, was hurt.

“Make your horse lie down,” called the elder.

Avon had already determined on this recourse, and seizing the head of his animal he ordered him down. Thunderbolt was well trained, but the hurt already received made him restless, and his young master had to engage in a partial struggle before he gathered his legs under him and rolled over on his side.

The instant he did so Avon knelt behind his body and was in the most favorable posture for defense.

Captain Shirril’s task proved more difficult. His horse refused to go down at his command, and it was necessary to throw him. He resisted with such vigor that his owner dropped his rifle and was forced to use his utmost strength before he could trip and bring him to the earth. He still fought, and the captain, losing patience for the moment, forgot the whistling missiles and gave his whole attention to the brute, which he speedily conquered.

Avon was on the point of offering help, when he perceived that the mustang was mastered, and he once more turned to the enemy, now pressing his advantage to the utmost.

The Comanches were so close, and the opportunity for aiming effectively was so good, that the shots of the youth began to tell. Had the red men been compelled to maintain one position in front, a single person with a repeating Winchester could have stood off the whole party; but, as has been explained, the Indians were on every hand.

But Avon was not throwing away his cartridges. The very first shot bored its way through the bronzed skull of a shrieking warrior, and the second slew his pony with such suddenness that the two rolled together on the plain, the warrior being unable to extricate himself from beneath his struggling mustang.

The young man, finding no one in his immediate front, turned toward a couple that were advancing from another point, but before he could make his aim sure, he was shocked to hear a groan from Captain Shirril.

“Are you hit?” asked the nephew, turning his scared face toward him.

“Yes, but still able to do something; bring your horse to his feet and make a dash for the camp. There isn’t an earthly chance for us here.”

“But I cannot leave you, uncle, and, if I could it would be impossible to run the gauntlet.”

“It’s our only hope; my horse is too badly hurt to carry me off, but you may succeed, if you ride hard.”

“It won’t do,” replied the nephew, who, had the prospect been ten-fold more favorable, could not have deserted his relative at such a time.

“Hurrah!” he exclaimed the next moment, “yonder come the boys!”

He had caught sight of their friends approaching over the ridge, their animals on a dead run.

“They will be too late,” said Captain Shirril, whose horse at that moment received another shot and renewed his frantic struggles to regain his feet. His owner interposed, but, he, too, was wounded and unable to put forth the strength that had conquered the brute a moment before.

Avon would have gone to his help had there been anything to gain by it.

“Let him go,” he said, “he can do you no good.”

“Yes, he can and he shall.”

As he spoke, the captain whipped out his revolver and drove a couple of bullets through the brain of the mustang. He expected him to drop dead on the instant, when he would serve the purpose intended of a breastwork for his master.

Avon had withdrawn his attention at the critical moment, fearful that the Comanches, realizing the straits of himself and companion, would overwhelm them before resistance could be offered. Thus his head was turned away from the mortally hurt horse of the captain, which, instead of sinking helpless to the earth, made a frantic leap and fell upon the unprepared youth.

It seemed for the moment as if a mountain had descended upon him. He struggled fiercely to free himself, and in his desperate effort worked his head and shoulders clear, but while trying to draw his revolver for his last defence, he succumbed. The sunlight faded from before his eyes, all became blank darkness, and consciousness departed.

CHAPTER XXXI.

FLAG OF TRUCE

There was nothing to cause apprehension on the part of the cowboys in camp, when they heard the report of a single rifle from beyond the ridge over which Captain Shirril, Avon Burnet, and the young Comanche Shackaye had ridden in pursuit of the cattle that went astray the night before. One of the party might have found a chance to bring down something in the nature of game, which is liable to be encountered at every part of the Great Cattle Trail, from the outskirts of the capital of Texas to its termination in the State of Kansas.

But when, soon after, the shots came thick and fast, it was apparent that something unusual was going on.

“There’s mischief afoot!” called out Gleeson, “and that Comanche is at the bottom of it. Come, boys!”

There was not an instant’s hesitation on the part of any member of the company. The cattle that were quietly browsing on the succulent grass were left to wander off or stampede themselves, or do whatever they chose, while the cowboys, including Nunez, the Mexican, swung into their saddles and sped away on a dead run toward the ridge.

Before they reached it the missing cattle came up from the other side and appeared on the crest. The advent of the steer that had suffered so severely at the hands of Avon Burnet imparted a mild panic to the others, so that the whole lot were on a trot. The horsemen were in too great haste to turn aside, and the animals, therefore, swerved to the right and continued their brisk gait in the direction of the main herd.

As has been said, every mustang was running at the highest speed, but the impetuous Gleeson maintained his place in front, and thundered up the slope as if his own life were at stake. Before he struck the crest, he rose in his box-stirrups and peered over at the plain beyond.

“Just what I expected!” he exclaimed, “and that Shackaye has done it!”

It was not necessary to explain, for, before he could have done so, his comrades caught sight of the stirring scene which thrilled their leader. Captain Shirril and his nephew were standing off a party of dusky assailants, who were pressing them hard. The two mustangs were plainly seen, while the flashes of the Winchesters from behind them told the story as eloquently as if the cowboys were actual participants in the affray.

Not another word was uttered by the latter, but pressing their spurs deep into the flanks of their horses they sent them with arrowy haste straight toward the spot. They had hardly reached the base of the slope when they held their breath, for they saw the crisis had come. The red men were closing around the two combatants as if they realized that whatever was to be accomplished must be done within the succeeding few seconds.

Half the distance was passed, when the Comanches were observed scurrying toward a mass of hills hardly a half-mile distant. They rode so closely that the cowboys failed to note the momentous fact that they bore a prisoner with them.

In such emergencies a party of American Indians generally manage to carry off their dead and wounded, but the haste was too urgent in this case. The stark figures were left stretched on the prairies where they had fallen, and a number of animals also lay motionless near. The wounded were taken care of, but the dead were left to bury the dead.

The cowboys discharged a score of shots at the Comanches, but the distance was too great to accomplish anything, and, seeing that it was impossible to overtake them before they reached the shelter of the wooded hills, Gleeson led the party toward the spot where they believed their friends needed instant care.

The prostrate horses, and a partial glimpse of a figure lying between them, caused the rescuers to believe that the captain and his nephew were either slain outright or badly hurt.

The approaching mustangs kept up their run until they were thrown on their haunches with such suddenness that the shock seemed to fling the riders from their saddles. They leaped forward, and vigorous arms quickly lifted the body of the captain’s horse from off young Burnet, who opened his eyes and looked up with that faint wildness which showed he had no conception of the situation.

“Where’s the captain?”

This was the question that was asked by several, as all glared around for their leader. Before anyone attempted an answer, others examined the nephew and found he was without a wound. He had swooned under the sudden pressure of the horse shot by his uncle, but he quickly recovered, and, after being assisted to his feet and shaking himself together, everything came back to him. Turning to Thunderbolt he ordered him to rise, and the animal obeyed. He had received a couple of flesh-wounds, which stung him for the moment without incapacitating him for effective service.

Then, in as few words as possible, Avon told his story. He remembered that his uncle was wounded before his horse was killed, and it was self-evident to everyone that the poor man had been carried off by the Comanches.

“Did you see Shackaye among ’em?” asked Gleeson, his face like a thunder-cloud.

“He was not with those who attacked us; I could not have failed to see him if he had been.”

“But what became of him? He started off with you, and you must have parted somewhere on the road.”

Young Burnet now told about Shackaye’s encounter with the steer which came near slaying him. Avon’s pursuit of the other troublesome animal withdrew all attention from him, and there was no certainty of the manner of his disappearance, which, to say the least, was extraordinary.

But the absence of Captain Shirril forbade that the cowboys should waste time in idleness. Instinctively every eye was turned toward the hills to the eastward among which the Comanches had vanished with their captive.

“They haven’t had time to go far,” said Zach Collis, “and if we ride hard we shall soon run ’em down.”

“But is it best to try that?” was the question of Ward Burrell, or Old Bronze.

Gleeson, who was naturally looked upon as the leader, shook his head. “They’ll brain him the minute there’s a chance of losing him.”

“But why did they take him off and spare me?” asked the astonished Avon.

“They thought you was dead and so didn’t bother with you.”

“Why did they make him prisoner instead of doing what they had been trying so long to do–kill him?”

“He’s of more account than you; he was the chap they was after, and not you.”

“It looked for a time as though they had designs on me.”

The words of the Texan acted like a damper on the ardor of his companions, who were eager to hasten to the rescue of their captain. Had they not known that he was wounded, it is likely they would have insisted upon an instant and vigorous pursuit; but none failed to see the truth of Gleeson’s utterances, though it was only a few minutes before that he was as impatient as any of them.

“Boys,” said he, observing that they were looking at him, “I think you know what all this means as well as I do. If we had ’em out on the plains where there was a fair chance, or if the cap could put in some licks for himself, it would be different; but they’re among them hills over there; they’re watching us now; we can’t make a move that they won’t know it the minute it’s started; they’ve got it on us, and just as soon as they see there’s any show of losing the cap they’ll finish him.”

“Ballyhoo is right,” remarked Wynwood, commonly known as Madstone; “they’ve got us foul.”

“That being so, there aint any use for you, pards; so go back to camp, look after the cattle, and leave things to me.”

The meaning of this proposition, which may sound strange to the reader, was that the only possible way of saving Captain Shirril was by negotiating for his release. The fact that the Comanches knew he was in charge of two thousand cattle, and had made him prisoner instead of slaying him, established this truth in the minds of Oscar Gleeson and his comrades.

Furthermore, the Texan was confirmed in his belief that the act of Shackaye in joining the company before the start was the first step in an elaborate plot. It was his province to win the confidence of the captain, and to communicate, in the many secret ways so well understood by his people, with the Comanches, and to help when the time came for the important movement.

His absence at the critical period gave color to this theory. Circumstances had helped the treacherous red men, for it was as if Captain Shirril walked directly into the trap set by them.

It was a brave act on Gleeson’s part to venture alone among the hills in the hope of opening communication with the red men, when, if there was any mistake, he would be completely at their mercy. But he had uttered his decision with the air and manner of one who would brook no dispute. He waved his friends off, and, wheeling about, they rode in the direction of the camp, frequently looking back at the daring fellow who realized as fully as they the delicate and perilous task he had taken upon himself.

Reaching the top of the ridge which has been referred to so often, the first glance was at the herd of cattle, which it was instantly seen required looking after. They had drifted far to the westward, and were so scattered as to need rounding-up in a general way or rather herding. Everything was favorable for good progress that day, since the stream to be crossed was small and shallow, and the sky was not only clear but the air just crisp enough to render travelling pleasant. But there was no thought of going forward until the fate of the captain was settled.

With only a brief halt the cowboys spurred their mustangs down the slope to attend to the cattle, but Avon Burnet remained on the crest, his interest lying elsewhere.

There was only a single small field glass in the company, and as it happened that was in the possession of Captain Shirril, so that the youth had to depend upon his unaided vision. But the atmosphere in the Southwest is generally of crystalline clearness, and he was able to see his friend quite plainly until the hill beyond should hide him from view.

At the moment Avon turned the head of his horse toward the east, the Texan was quite close to the place where the Comanches had taken refuge with their prisoner. His horse was walking slowly, and it was evident he was on the watch for some sign from the red men who held the key to the situation. As he drew nearer his mustang moved still more deliberately, until it was hard to decide whether he was advancing at all.

Looking closely, however, he perceived that Gleeson’s progress had not ceased, and he was making some kind of signal. He had removed the handkerchief from around his neck, and was fluttering it over his head. Although its color debarred it from serving as the regulation flag of truce, there was little doubt that the meaning of its owner would be understood by whomsoever saw it.

“Ah, there they are!”

This exclamation was uttered a few minutes later, when the watcher on the crest caught sight, not of one but of two Indians, who emerged from the hills on foot. They walked directly toward the Texan, their actions proving that they appeared in answer to his signal.

Gleeson, on perceiving them, brought his steed to a stand still and awaited their coming. None could have known better than he that he was within range of the companions of these two warriors, who could shoot him from his horse in the twinkling of an eye.

“And they will do it, too,” said Avon to himself, as the thought came to him; “but I believe I shall take a hand in this business.”

And, without waiting to observe the result of the interview, the young man set out to execute an extraordinary resolution that was formed on the spur of the moment.

CHAPTER XXXII.

DIPLOMACY

Oscar Gleeson, the Texan, was correct in his suspicion of the purpose of the Comanches in making Captain Shirril their prisoner; having secured possession of him, they intended to force a liberal ransom on the part of his friends, as a condition of his restoration to liberty.

The act was not only an audacious one on their part, but it will be perceived that the fulfilment of the terms was certain to be attended with the gravest difficulty. The cowboys were not to be trifled with, and, since it was inevitable that a point would be reached where one party must of necessity trust the pledges of the other, a violent collision with serious consequences appeared unavoidable.

It has been shown that it was not until he arrived close to the hills, among which the red men had fled with their captive, that there was any response to the signal he displayed almost from the first.