MELTON’S SCOUT—A BUSH FIGHT.
Tom Bantry had been a flatboatman since he was old enough to hold a
pole, and now for the first time paused to consider how far he had gone
down the road of sin. He was conscious of many evil deeds already
performed, but the stain of blood was not upon his soul, and although
pledged to his vile companion he could not stand by tamely and witness
the murder of so good a man as Samuel Wescott. But his good intentions
had come to naught, and the brave man was dead.
The flatboatman rose and looked about him, a wicked light coming over
his dark face. “They taught me evil, them cusses did,” he muttered. “I’d
the making of a man in me, but they sp’iled me, and now they’ve killed
as good a man as ever walked the earth. I’ll remember that ag’inst ye,
old man Garrett.”
He was literally worn out, and dropped down upon the grass and slept
until morning. He woke at last and started up refreshed, only to find a
party of white men were upon the opposite bank, and with his paint upon
him, Tom knew that it would be far from safe to meet them, and he
skulked away, keeping under cover of the bushes, and then made a circuit
through the bushes, designing to cross their path and ascertain who they
were. As he crept forward with that intention, he heard a slight
rustling in the bushes in front, and the long, snake-like head of Napope
appeared above the bushes, signaling him to fall back. He did so,
involuntarily dropping his hand upon his knife, which he had not lost in
the last night’s struggle in the stream, when he remembered that Napope
regarded all his party as friends and that he still wore the garb of an
Indian. He dropped back and the next moment Napope joined him.
“The white dogs come,” he said, in a fierce tone, “and the heart of a
chief is big in his bosom. They shall die without knowledge.”
“Who are they?” demanded Tom.
“They are white and they are not the friends of Jackwood the son of
Red-Bird. Where is your gun, my brother?”
“I lost it last night,” replied Tom, a little embarrassed. “Let me look
out and see what white men come.”
He advanced to the edge of the woods and looked out, and could detect a
white party moving hastily across the plain. Foremost among them was a
man whom he had known well some years before, Cooney Joe, and behind him
came Captain Melton and his gallant men, and it flashed through the mind
of Tom Bantry that they were in pursuit of Dick Garrett. His heart stood
still, for a backward glance showed him fifty stout Sacs, armed to the
teeth, lying under the bushes waiting for the coming of the hated white
men. Twenty-four hours ago Tom Bantry would have delighted in this, but
now he was changed, and racked his brains for ways and means to acquaint
them with the ambush before them, without destruction to himself.
Napope waved his hand, and, as if by magic, every warrior disappeared,
and a stillness like that of death fell upon the scene. The whites came
in rapidly, unsuspicious of danger, and passed through the first bushes,
when they were surprised to hear a sudden crash and a yell of surprise
and anger. The crash came from Tom Bantry, who had managed to fall down
with a great noise, at the same time giving the yell which startled the
white rangers.
“Tree, boys!” yelled Cooney Joe. “Tree and fight. Injins thar, by the
big horn spoon.”
The men who followed Cooney Joe were Indian-fighters of the first class,
and the order had scarcely been given when every man was sheltered by a
tree and had his rifle ready for action. This was not done a moment too
soon, for the feathers of the savages began to show above the bushes,
and several shots were fired, until a commanding voice shouted to the
warriors to hold their fire.
“What do the white men seek?” cried Napope. “They have been beaten once;
must we beat them again?”
“That’s Napope,” cried Cooney Joe. “I know the old cuss, and he kin
fight, if he is an Injin; but we’ll lick him out of his moccasins. Say,
Injin, you’d better clear the way; you ain’t got the major to fight
now.”
“Napope does not seek the scalps of the white men,” cried the Indian.
“If they bring the scalps to him, he will take them, but he does not
thirst for blood. Let Captain Melton turn back and cross the river.”
“The path must be clear for me to pass through,” replied Melton. “The
hatchet has been dug up and its edge turned against women and children,
and the good white man, Wescott, with his daughter, has been carried
away, and we think the Sacs know where they are.”
“The Sacs do not know,” replied Napope, proudly. “Does the white man
take us for Menomonies or Chippewas? The Sacs are men and not dogs; they
do not fight against women and children.”
“Napope is a brave man, and will not lie to save his life,” said Melton.
“Let us pass on safely, and then there shall be no blood shed, for we
seek only those who have stolen the brave man Wescott and his child.”
“My brother must turn back,” replied the chief. “There is no path over
the Indian country for white soldiers until peace is made; but if the
good white man and his child are here, they shall be made welcome, and
no harm shall come to them if Napope can give them aid. But Melton must
take his warriors and go back to his people.”
“We will not turn back,” replied Melton, angrily, “unless we take the
friends we seek with us. Let Napope clear the way, or we will try to go
on without his leave.”
“The white men will find knives and hatchets in the path,” replied the
chief, grimly. “Go back as you came, and all shall be well; refuse, and
you shall find that my young men carry guns.”
“I don’t like this,” whispered Cooney Joe in the ear of Melton. “They’ve
got twice as many warriors as we have, and the chances are good for a
fight. I never like to back out, but I don’t know but it’s the safest
plan.”
“It won’t do,” said Melton. “These scoundrels will get too impudent if
they are allowed their own way too much. There must be a fight, and at
once, and the boys must do their best. I know them too well to think
that they will back down for twice their number of Sacs.”
“What does my brother say?” cried Napope.
“Fight.” replied Melton. “We will go on.” Napope disappeared
immediately, and scarcely had he done so when a bullet whizzed by the
ear of the young scout as he hastily took to a tree. The fight now
commenced in true Indian-fashion, the Sacs forcing the fighting and
running from tree to tree to get nearer to their enemies. But they found
a different party from that with which they had fought upon Sycamore
Creek. Every bullet had its billet. Did an Indian show hand or foot from
behind his shelter, it was at once the mark of a well-aimed ball. The
men who followed Melton had lived by the rifle, and were not likely to
miss their aim easily, while the Indians were notoriously bad marksmen,
not having the patience to perfect themselves in the use of the rifle.
Besides, the weapons they carried were not of the best description,
being those furnished by the traders against the law, and their powder
was “contract,” warranted not to burn except at a slow fire. But their
numbers made the position of Melton’s small force decidedly unsafe, and
they began to close in upon every side, and every moment Melton expected
a charge with hatchet and knife, most fearful weapons in Indian hands.
But the steady valor of the scouts had inspired the savages with a
respect for them, and they fought warily, losing a man now and then, and
inflicting little damage upon the foe.
“They’ll charge soon, boys,” whispered Cooney Joe. “Pass the word down
the line to have a charge ready for the rush. Don’t throw away a shot.”
The rifles were ready when Napope gave the order, and at his signal-yell
they bounded out like tigers, flourishing their bright weapons in the
air.
This was the moment for the Border Riflemen, and each picked his man and
fired, and every bullet found a mark. Supposing the rifles empty, the
Sacs rushed on, but they were mistaken, for up rose ten more riflemen,
and the head of the assailants seemed to melt away before their fire. It
was more than Indian endurance was equal to, and they again buried
themselves in the bushes, in spite of the fierce orders of Napope, who,
although severely wounded in the shoulder, urged the men on.
He was ably seconded by Na-she-eschuck, who was also slightly wounded.
“Well done, my lads,” cried Mellon. “Bravely done, riflemen; they have
not Sycamore Creek to brag of this time, at any rate.”
Napope collected his men under cover of the bushes, but his heart was
full of anger against the gallant band of scouts, whom he had expected
to sweep from the path in that headlong charge. So far from doing that,
over one-third of his men were placed _hors de combat_, and several more
partially disabled. Aroused by the invectives of the two chiefs, they
again began to advance, but more cautiously, sliding from tree to tree,
with great care, and exposing themselves as little as possible in doing
so. But the riflemen managed to inflict new damage upon them before they
came in fair charging distance. Napope had separated his force into
three parts, sending out a small party upon each flank of the white
force, and Melton was compelled to detach eight men, four upon each
flank, to keep off these troublesome flanking-parties. This left him but
twelve men in his main force, opposed to over thirty determined
warriors, eager for the blood of those who had slain so many of their
friends.
“We have got ourselves into a pizen scrape, Cap,” said Cooney Joe, as he
stood with his back against a tree, looking to the priming of his rifle;
“but thar’s only one way to do, and that is to fight our way out. We kin
lick ’em if more don’t come; _that’s_ what I’m afraid of.”
At this moment the rush was made, and as before, the whites divided
their fire, so as to give the Indians two volleys before they reached
the trees, and then with yells which vied with those of the Indians,
they formed a line among the trees, and beat back the savages with
knife, hatchet, and clubbed rifle. It was a desperate affair while it
lasted, and the wild valor of the scouting party prevailed, and they
were driving back the Indians step by step, when one of the men who had
been sent to the right flank came running up.
“Party of Injins coming across the plain, on a run, Cap,” he reported.
“I reckon we’d better git.”
“Easier said than done,” said the captain, turning aside a blow with his
heavy knife. “Shoot that fellow, Ed.”
The borderer brought his rifle to his shoulder, and the savage fell,
shot through the heart.
“Have the Indians on the flanks retreated, Ed?” demanded Melton, as he
fired a pistol at a savage who was poising his hatchet for a throw, and
the savage went down.
“No, they ain’t all gone yet,” replied the man, who was coolly reloading
his discharged rifle. “I guess we’d better call in the men and make a
rush through these red devils, before the others can come up.”
A signal whistle, well known to the “merry men” of Melton, brought in
all upon the flank, and with shouts of victory, all charged upon the
broken and demoralized body of Sacs. They had fought bravely, but their
courage was not proof against the assault, and they broke and fled in
every direction through the woods, pursued by the victorious whites, who
only wanted to get deeper into the woods, to avoid the force coming up
in their rear. They would not have done this had they known that it was
Dick Garrett and his party, bringing as prisoner, Sadie Wescott, whom
Minneoba would not leave.
Scouts from the party of Napope having discovered the coming of the
disguised whites, and apprised the chief, he hurried out to meet them,
and started as he saw who they held as prisoner.
“Ha!” he cried. “Then it is my brother who struck the wigwam of Wescott,
and took him prisoner?”
“Yes,” said Garrett. “You see our boss, Will Jackwood, wanted this girl,
and sent me to take her.”
“Where is Wescott, now?” demanded Napope.
“Well,” said Garrett, hesitating, “he’s gone under; that’s what’s the
matter with _him_.”
“Let my brother speak more plainly,” said the chief. “What has become of
Wescott, the good white man?”
“He has been murdered,” replied Sadie, coming forward, quickly. “Chief,
you know what he was, and that he never willingly wronged the Indians.
You know, too, that when the mob in the village assaulted Black-Hawk and
yourself, he came to your aid and helped you to escape. He has been
brutally murdered, by this base wretch, Garrett.”
“The girl lies, I reckon,” said Garrett, sullenly. “See here, chief; is
it calculated in your tribe that women are any better off for having too
much tongue?”
“My brother must let the Wild Rose speak,” replied Napope. “When the
Sacs come hungry and thirsty into her father’s lodge, she is always
ready to give them food and drink; when they are weary, and the night
air is cold, there is always a warm place by the fire to spread a
blanket. The child of Wescott must be allowed to speak.”
“Now look here, chief,” said Garrett, in the same ferocious tone.
“’Tain’t noways likely I’m going to come down to you or any man on
earth. If Wescott was killed, he was my pris’ner, and I had a right to
do what I would with him. Have you any thing to say against it?”
Napope inclined his head slowly, as recognizing the justice of the
remark. The life of the man was as little regarded by the Indians as by
Garrett, and Napope rather liked the tone of insolence he assumed.
“Napope,” cried Sadie, “I want you to listen to me. This wicked man
threw my father into the water, from the flat-boat, and he has not been
seen since. Will you see a good man murdered and refuse to avenge him?”
Napope was evidently troubled, for just now he needed the assistance of
Garrett and his men, and did not wish to make him angry.
“We will speak of that another time, Wild Rose. Until then, rest safely
with Minneoba, the daughter of Black-Hawk, while we do the work of men.
Garrett, do you know that Loud Tempest is here and he has beaten the men
of Napope, and killed many?”
“Loud Tempest; do you mean Captain Melton?”
“Yes; he is here, with the white hunter Joe, and many warriors. Napope
can not rest until we have his scalp.”
“Cooney Joe! Why, I give him a lick last night that ought to have
settled any decent man for good.”
“He is alive, and fights like a Sac,” replied Napope. “They are in the
woods and we must follow and take their scalps.”
“I’ll bet he’s arter me,” muttered Garrett. “He don’t owe me any good
will for work I’ve done, and I’ve swore to have his hair. Thar’s my hand
on it, Napope, and I’ll never quit you until he or I have gone under.”
Sadie had started at the name of Melton, and was conscious of a feeling
of joy that he had thought enough of her safety to follow her into the
Indian country, but, as she glanced over the line of ferocious faces,
she was sorry that he had incurred this danger. But she followed the
party until they reached the battle-field and found it strewn with the
slain bodies of the Sacs who had fallen, each one pierced by the deadly
bullet.
“These ain’t babies we are following,” said Garrett. “They kin fight,
Melton’s scout kin, and ef we lick ’em we lick a good crowd. How many
has he got with him?”
Napope extended the fingers upon both hands twice.
“Twenty? We’ve got our work cut out then, for twenty of Melton’s Mounted
Rifles, with the capting and Cooney Joe to lead, are a hard crowd to
manage, bet your life.”
“There was one of your men with us in this fight,” said Napope, looking
about him for Tom Bantry. “But I do not see him now.”
“Who was he?” demanded Garrett, glancing over the party hastily. “Was it
the one we call Tom?”
Napope nodded, and Garrett uttered an oath, and a search was commenced
for him. He was not among the dead or wounded, and whether he had
perished or not, Bantry was not to be found.