A SLIP OF THE MEMORY.
Colonel Crockett was also equally thoughtful. He felt that a mistake
had been made through his agency, and that the gravest consequences
might be the result.
"Them b'ars have always got me into trouble," he muttered, impatiently.
"I s'pose if I git into a fight with a greaser and a b'ar comes along,
I'll leave him and put for the b'ar."
He had easily found the trail of the brute, and kept it without
trouble. The way back seemed much longer than when he was pursuing the
beast with so much zeal; but he traveled very fast, and reached the
open prairie before the sun had set.
In one hand he carried his long, reliable rifle, and over the other was
hung the huge shaggy hide of the black bear. Its size and character
made it too valuable for him to leave until it could become dried, and
so he took it to make sure of having so valuable an article.
Reaching the edge of the prairie, he found that his mustang had managed
to disengage his bridle and was cropping the grass near at hand.
Crockett was on the point of emerging from the woods, when his quick
eye detected something out upon the plain.
Scarcely a half-mile distant, and almost precisely upon the spot where
he had left his companions to pursue their buffaloes, he saw fully a
hundred mounted Comanche Indians.
"By hokey-pokey!" muttered the hunter, as he stood and watched the
sight, "that means business, sure enough!"
The band of red-skins seemed to be holding a sort of council. They were
gathered in a large circle, the heads of their horses pointed inward,
while a dozen or two on foot stood in the center, apparently debating
together upon some proposed scheme, while their devoted followers were
waiting until their leaders were ready to give their orders.
Colonel Crockett stood almost fascinated at the sight. The Comanches
were fine-looking men, gayly dressed in bright colors, all mounted on
magnificent horses, and, as is well known, they are among the finest
horsemen in the world. Sitting as motionless as carved figures, they
would have formed a capital scene for a painter.
The question that naturally occurred to the hunter was whether these
made up the entire force of Comanches that were marching against
Brownston. If they did, the town being forewarned, certainly had little
to fear from them; but the settlers who dwelt in the surrounding
country were as powerless to resist this band, as though all the
red-skins west of the Rio Grande should descend upon them.
Crockett felt that time was important, and that he endangered the
safety of others by waiting; but, he was so anxious to watch their
movements that he determined to wait awhile at least, and try to
discover their intentions.
His experience among the Creek Indians had given him a good knowledge
of Indian character and ways, and he was not long in understanding that
was a sort of council--those in the center of the large circle, having
all to say in the matter.
Crockett first carefully approached his own mustang, and securing him,
sprung upon his back, and then held himself in readiness to flee in
case the red-skins should turn their faces toward him.
Some fifteen minutes passed in this painful suspense, when a
simultaneous shout arose from the group, and they were seen turning
their horses about, and brandishing their weapons about their heads.
The conclusion had been reached!
The Comanches were now ready to march!
And just at this moment, Colonel Crockett became aware that the faces
of the Indians were turned toward him, and their horses were galloping
at full speed directly at the point in the wood where he stood.
"Be sure you're right, then go ahead," growled Crockett, as he wheeled
his mustang about, "and I think it's right for me to kick gravel."
The proximity of the trees was such that, as I have shown before, the
hunter dismounted and continued the pursuit on foot; but now, under the
influence of fear, his mustang seemed to shoot in and out among the
trees like a swallow in its flight.
"I wonder if they see'd me," muttered Crockett, as he ducked his head
to avoid being swept off his horse or having his head swept off his
shoulders. "I don't think they did, or they wouldn't have sent so
many after me. Howsumever, maybe they've heard that I am a member of
Congress."
Unconsciously Crockett had turned the head of his horse toward the
path, for which he ought to have searched, and his horse suddenly
plunged into it, and wheeled off to the right, and followed it at the
same headlong speed.
This made traveling a great deal easier, and the mustang plunged along
at a really swift gait, his rider every now and then casting his head
around, in the expectation of catching a glimpse of those fearless dogs
yelping upon his track.
"If they can ride through this wood any faster than me," exclaimed
Crockett, as a limb knocked his coon-skin cap from his head, "then I'd
like to stop and see them."
He kept up this break-neck pace for some time longer, and hearing
nothing of his enemies, he paused and listened. The sound of a leaf
that rustled through some branches overhead and fluttered down upon his
shoulder was all that reached his ear, besides the hurried breathing of
his animal.
"Sartinly if they war coming I'd hear them," he concluded, after
listening for a few minutes, and every thing was still as the grave.
Dismounting from his mustang, he knelt down and placed his ear upon the
ground. Had there been horsemen anywhere in the neighborhood, the tramp
of their feet would have been heard, but to his surprise Crockett heard
nothing at all.
"There's one thing sartin," said he, "them Comanches ain't on my trail,
so I'll give the hoss a little rest."
With which he drew his animal down to a moderate walk.
By this time it was growing dark, and despite the speed with which
Crockett had ridden, he was yet a great deal behindhand, on account of
waiting to watch the movements of the red-skins. He ought to have been
at the rendezvous long before this.
All through the tumultuous excitement Crockett had clung to his
bear-skin with almost the tenacity that he grasped his rifle. He had
done it almost unconsciously, even after his cap was swept from his
head.
He was on the point of starting ahead again when his quick ear detected
something suspicious. The sound was very slight, but such as it was, it
convinced him that there was some one coming along the path.
Not knowing what it meant, the hunter drew his horse aside out of the
path, and then waited and watched. The obscurity was so great that he
could not see very distinctly, but in the gloom he discovered two men,
who passed by on a rapid run. He could see that they were Indians, and
that they were moving very fast.
What struck Crockett as singular was that these red-skins were pursuing
the opposite direction from him. Either they must have passed by the
rendezvous toward which he was hurrying, or they had gone dangerously
near it.
"What does it mean?" the Tennessean asked himself, beginning to feel
a little puzzled at the action of the red-skins; "these are queer
critters--these Comanches--they don't do business like the Creeks and
Choctaws. Now how did them two rapscallions get round on t'other side
of me? They couldn't have passed me in the path, for I was riding too
blamed fast."
He returned to the path again, and, as his horse walked along, he
thought seriously upon the situation of himself and friends.
Suddenly he started.
Could it be that there was another band of Comanches on the other side
of Hans Bungslager's cabin? Or were these scouts who were scouring
through the country in search of victims, and having discovered the
flight of the fugitives, had they made all haste to the main body that
the whites might be cut off before there was a chance of escape?
The more he reflected upon what he had seen, the more serious alarm did
he feel. It was not for himself that he feared, but it looked to him as
though the gentle Katrina Duncan was in greater danger than she or her
friends imagined.
He continued riding forward, his horse on a moderate walk, until in the
moonlight he caught the glimmer of water ahead, and he knew that he was
drawing near the rendezvous.
Feeling it his duty to be suspicious on all occasions, he dismounted
again, and fastening his horse beside the path, crept stealthily
forward and looked about him. The creek was broad and deep, but he saw
no person or boat visible.
Where was Sebastian? was the question he asked himself, as he looked
furtively about. "Can it be that those two Comanches have slain him,
and his dead body is somewhere at hand?"
He stood irresolute a moment, debating whether to begin the search or
not, when a low, cautiously-uttered whistle reached his ear. Suspecting
that it was a signal from some Indian to another, he stepped further
back in the shadow, and cocked his rifle, determined to shoot the first
red-skin that showed himself.
The whistle was repeated, and finally Crockett ventured to answer it.
He had scarcely done so when a figure appeared in the path before him
whom he at once recognized as Sebastian, the Texan.
The two met and clasped hands in the moonlight like old friends.
"Where are they?" was the first whispered question of Crockett.
"I do not know; I have seen and heard nothing of them since I left
there this afternoon."
"How long have you been here?"
"Over an hour. What kept you?"
The hunter gave a concise account of what I have already made known to
my readers, and then asked him his experience.
"I reached here as quick as I could, after leaving you," replied the
young Texan, "but the boat I expected to find here was gone, so I went
down the creek about a mile, where I found it caught in some bushes."
"How did it get there?"
"It must have got loose and drifted down there; I remember the prow
only rested against the bank, and it might have done it very easily."
"Have you seen any of the Comanches?"
"Not one," replied Sebastian.
"That's blamed queer," muttered Crockett; "there's a strange look about
things that don't suit. What can keep Bungslager?"
"He may be in trouble--"
"Hello! there he comes!" interrupted Crockett, as he saw the pursy
form of the Dutchman emerge from the wood, leading his horse that was
heavily loaded with his domestic utensils and food.
The two men stood until he advanced to where they were, and then with a
blanched face Sebastian asked the question:
"_Where is Katrina?_"
Hans Bungslager turned about and looked at the back of his horse a
moment, as if in a maze of perplexity, and then exclaimed:
"+Doonder and blitzen! I Forgot her!+"