BETWEEN TWO FIRES.
When Buffalo Bill fled from the horsemen, whom he now knew to be
outlaws in the disguise of Indians, as they hailed him in perfect
English, he felt that he was in almost as much danger as when he stood
in Panther Kate’s grave, with his worst foe standing above him holding
a pistol leveled at his heart.
His arm was bleeding freely, and he bound his silk neck scarf around
it below the shoulder as well as he could, fastening the knot with the
aid of his teeth. Though Midnight was running well, he had seen hard
service of late. There were half a dozen horses in pursuit, and, fast
as he was, they were holding their own with him, and one was steadily
gaining.
To the hills, visible before the scout, it was half a dozen miles. If
Midnight could keep up his rapid pace until they were reached, and
Buffalo Bill did not faint from loss of blood, he felt he would have a
chance to stand off his foes.
If his horse should fail him now, in his hour of need, or if he should
fall in weakness from his saddle, he knew his hour had come to die, for
he was certain no mercy would be shown him. With his lasso he secured
himself firmly in the saddle, and with his knife gave the scarf around
his arm an extra turn to tighten it, sticking the blade into his sleeve
to hold it in place. Then he again looked behind him.
A long line of horsemen was strung out. In advance, some four hundred
yards away, he saw Kent King and a man disguised as an Indian, riding
side by side, and driving their horses on with spurs that brought blood
at every blow of their heels.
“I wish that the train people could see that parson now; I guess they’d
think he needed praying for,” was the scout’s thought.
Then, as his own position struck him, he added:
“A little praying for me just now wouldn’t do any harm; come, Midnight,
come, for they are gaining on you, and the hills are yet two miles
away.”
The splendid animal seemed to feel all that was expected of him. He
made a still greater effort, though no spur or lash had touched his
glossy hide, and again held his own with the pursuers.
“That’s it, my bird of the plains, fly from your foes, and save me now,
as often you have before!”
Still more encouraged by his master’s voice, the fleet steed sped on,
indeed like a bird, until the hills were not far away, and his pursuers
yet two hundred yards distant.
“Another effort, Midnight; try again!” cried Buffalo Bill.
The next instant the horse dashed into a low thicket, while, around a
base of jutting hill, suddenly appeared half a hundred mounted warriors.
“Sioux, as I live! Now, Kent King, look out,” cried the scout, while a
glance showed him that the Indians had not seen him, and were taken by
surprise at the sight of the pursuing party.
That Kent King and his band were also surprised, there was not the
shadow of a doubt, for they quickly drew rein, a bugle call rang out
over the prairie, and those in advance began to fall back and form for
protection with those who were in the rear.
“They’ll stand the Indians off and get away, though I wish they’d be
like the Kilkenny cats. Ha, they are sending a party to see who Kent
King was in pursuit of; it’s out of the frying pan into the fire with
me!”
Buffalo Bill, who had temporarily drawn his panting horse to a
standstill, now urged him on into the hills. But though Midnight did
his best, the redskins steadily gained upon him.
Worse still, the scout became weaker and weaker from loss of blood from
his wounded arm, his head reeled, and presently, as he penetrated into
a dense cañon, he fell forward on the neck of his horse, consciousness
having left him. A few moments after the Indians came in sight and saw
the faithful horse standing still, and his rider hanging over upon his
neck, his lariat alone holding him in the saddle.
Recognizing them as foes, Midnight, in spite of the dead weight upon
him, and his fatigue, endeavored to escape; but the cañon soon ended
abruptly, and the redskins, pushing him hard, he was soon in their
grasp.
At first they seemed inclined to scalp the scout without ceremony; but,
seeing that he was not dead, they released him from the saddle and laid
him upon the ground.
His weapons were quickly distributed among them. Midnight fell to the
possession of a brawny savage, another of the party claiming the very
handsome Mexican saddle and bridle, which were profusely decorated with
silver.
Finding that the outlaws were his superior in strength, owing to their
rifles, the redskin chief withdrew his party toward the hills, content
with scalping a renegade in Indian toggery, who had fallen under their
fire.
But, as they retreated toward the hills, with the outlaws sullenly
retiring, they saw the man they had scalped spring unexpectedly to his
feet, and run for his comrades, who at once started to his rescue,
expecting the Indians would attempt to capture him.
But the savages had his scalp, and cared little for him, and he reached
the band in safety, a piteous sight to look at, and told how he had
heard of the capture and death of Buffalo Bill.
“Haddock, for those cheering words I would give a year of my life to
save you; but you are badly wounded, besides being scalped, and--hold
him up, men, for he’s falling!”
Before any one could catch the man he fell dead on the prairie; and,
remembering only himself, Kent King muttered:
“Now I can return to the train and continue on to Denver. Then, my
sweet Mary Hale, we meet again, and you will have no champion knight
to protect you, for the coyotes will feast upon him, and the vultures
will flap their wings in his handsome face. By Heaven! Sioux, I could
almost love you for the service you have done me, and grasp your hands
in fellowship.”
Giving his instructions to the band of outlaws, he returned to the
people whom he was deceiving under his disguise of a parson--a
veritable wolf in the clothing of a lamb.