THE BRANDED BROTHERHOOD.
Picture to yourself a bivouac of outlaws, a wild-looking but
picturesque camp scene far out in the “land of the setting sun.” A
“prairie sea” is upon every hand, here and there dotted with a timber
island, a cool and refreshing covert from the heat of the plain.
Miles and miles of land, unfurrowed by the plowshare, untilled by human
hands, stretch away in boundless expanse as far as mortal vision can
sweep. Winding its silvery length along, like a huge serpent crawling
across the rolling prairies, is a clear and lazy river, its waters cold
and inviting, coming from the icy fountains in the hills, and its banks
flower-spangled and many-hued, while here and there a motte, or growth
of timber, casts fantastic shadows across the stream.
In the deep recesses and shady retreats of one of the larger of these
mottes is this bivouac of bandits. The day is far spent, the sun is
near its setting, and its last rays cause the tall trees to stretch
their shadows far out over the waving grass, which, under the influence
of a light wind, resembles the restless waves of the ocean.
Into this encampment of the outlaws I would have the reader accompany
me, in imagination, for there he will behold a scene never to be met
with amid the boundaries of civilization. These men formed a wild and
striking assemblage of horsemen, dismounted and gathered in groups,
either preparing their evening meal around the blazing camp fires, or
else indifferently lounging around, awaiting the completion of the
culinary arrangements.
A strange set of human beings they were, of many tongues and costumes,
but with the buckskin leggings, flannel shirt, and slouch hat
predominating. They were men outlawed from the homes of civilization;
men upon whose brows rested the curse of Cain, and who were branded,
far and wide, as a brotherhood of bandits.
Many of them were dashing, daring, and gallant fighters, but turned the
gifts God had given them to prey upon the lives and fortunes of their
fellow men. Amid that motley group might be seen the deserter from the
army of the United States, the lively Frenchman, the florid Englishman,
the beer-loving German, the swarthy Spaniard, the half-breed, the
full-blooded Indian, and the American.
Truly they were a bold and reckless set, held in check by one man, who,
half reclining before a bright fire, watched the movements of his negro
cook, and ever and anon addressed some words to the three or four of
his comrades around him.
Once that elegant but powerful form had been clad in the uniform of
an honored cavalry officer of his country’s service, and the dark and
lustrous eyes had, amid the brilliant saloons of the distant cities,
Looked love to eyes
That spoke again.
But that was long ago, and time had brought many changes, and branded
his once proud name with infamy. Fully six feet in height, and of
supple, graceful form, the chief of the Branded Brotherhood wore
buckskin, with trousers elaborately worked with beads, and fringed down
the outer seams.
Instead of moccasins, his feet were incased in high-top cavalry boots,
armed with huge spurs; and a blue silk shirt and Mexican jacket,
profusely adorned with silver buttons, completed his costume, excepting
a gray slouch hat, with exceedingly broad brim, which was turned up on
one side.
The hands and face of the outlaw were burned as brown as the sun
and exposure could make them; a heavy brown beard, of a like shade,
with his long, curling hair, completely hid the lower features of
his face; but his nose was straight and firm, his forehead broad and
intellectual, his eyes strangely fiery and savage, while within their
inmost depths was an expression hard to fathom, for at times it looked
like fear, again was expressive of sadness, and at others of hatred and
mischief.
His men knew him only as “the chief.” Along the frontier he was called
“Captain Ricardo, the Bandit,” but what his real name was none knew.
Nor did any one know whence he came, only it was surmised that he had
once been a distinguished cavalry officer, who, having been dismissed
from the service for a crime committed, had taken to the plains as a
highway robber, until, in a few years he had organized the band of
which he was chief, and which had spread terror far and wide along the
border.
The chief’s horse, a splendid-looking iron-gray, fed near by, and,
serving as a resting place for his arm was a Mexican saddle, with a
belt, containing two revolvers and a bowie knife, which Captain Ricardo
kept near at hand.
The persons immediately surrounding the chief consisted of the negro
cook, a cunning-faced, wiry fellow, black as a coal, who never,
sleeping or waking, went without his revolver and knife, which he kept
in a large leather belt around his waist.
It was said the negro, whom his master called Buttermilk--as a contrast
to his color--knew more of the chief’s life than did any one else; but,
if so, he was never known to betray that knowledge.
Then there was an Indian scout, a powerful and evil-looking Sioux, who
had betrayed his own people and then sought refuge in the outlaw band,
and, thoroughly knowing the whole country, Captain Ricardo found him an
able ally.
There were also two others, both white men; one a square-framed,
brutal-faced man of forty-five, whom the chief had made his second
in command, and the other a renegade trapper and hunter, who, having
robbed his comrades, a few years before, had sought the band for
protection.
Turning to his officer, who was impatiently watching the rather lazy
preparations of the negro, Buttermilk, Captain Ricardo remarked, in a
voice strangely soft and pleasant for one who led his wild life:
“I see no reason why the train should not fall easily into our hands,
for they must cross the river at a point near here.”
“Yes, chief; but if we wait for them to come up here the troop will
have rejoined them, and now, you know, the Injun here says Captain la
Clyde and his troopers are off on a scout and the train has only its
own men to guard it.”
This was the answer of the lieutenant, who answered to the name of Red
Roark, both on account of his red hair and beard and his bloody deeds,
for at heart he was a perfect brute.
“The chief’s right,” said the renegade trapper. “You hear me talk, Red
Roark. If we waits for them fellers here they’ll come onsuspectinglike,
right onto our trap; but ef we goes out on the prairie to fight ’em,
then we’ll get some hard knocks and no pay. You see, I’s been in thar
train, as I told the chief, and I knows what I’s talkin’ about.”
The trapper was squatted down on the ground near the chief, who replied:
“You really went into their train, Long Dave?”
“You bet! I just tole ’em I was a hunter as was going to the forts,
and I tell you they has just got a ticklish-lookin’ set of fellers to
tackle. They axed me ’bout you, chief, and ef I thought they’d run
across you, and, of course, I tole ’em no, and they said ef they did
you’d have to git up early to catch them napping.”
“How many fighting men are there, Long Dave?”
“Some forty or more, big boys included; and then there’s the twenty
troopers under Captain la Clyde, who you might count on, for he just
goes scouting around, you see, and has taken a shine to one of the gals
in the train, and he’s going to be on hand when it comes to a row, you
bet.”
“Which way did the cavalry go when they left the train last night?”
“That’s jist what I was going to find out when I seed that devil of a
fellow they call Buffalo Bill a-coming across the prairie, and I jest
lit out for these diggin’s, you bet, chief, kase I knows that fellow,
and don’t want him near me.”
“You refer to Buffalo Bill, the army scout?”
“Yes, the fellow is getting mighty bold of late.”
“He is, indeed, and I would be willing to pay a round sum to take him,
for he has thwarted my plans more than once. Well, we’ll lie in wait
for the train here, and to-night, Long Dave, you and Black Wolf must
start out and bring me the exact whereabouts of both the train and the
troopers, for this rich harvest must not be lost for want of reaping.
Now let us have supper, Buttermilk, you lazy dog.”
“You be lazy, too, if you have to cook tough ole buffalo bull a
t’ousand year ole,” grumbled the negro, who always had a way of
answering back when addressed, and which his master appeared not to
notice, but would severely punish in any one else.
Just as night set in the chief and his three comrades fell to and were
soon enjoying the really delicious meal which Buttermilk had prepared.
An hour or more passed away and the bandit camp was as silent as a
“city of the dead,” for the men had rolled themselves in their blankets
and sought their rest, excepting the half a dozen sentinels who had
been set to keep watch and ward.
Now and then the howl of a hungry wolf out on the prairie broke the
stillness of the night, or the startled snort of a horse was heard.
Then again all was quiet, until suddenly there rang forth the sharp
crack of a rifle, followed by a death shriek. Instantly every man in
that camp was on his feet, excepting one, and that one was a sentinel
who lay dead where he had fallen beneath the aim of an unseen foe. In
silence the band awaited, the chief at his post, and all ready to meet
an expected attack; but slowly the minutes passed and no other sound
was heard to prove an enemy near, and the prairie looked free of danger.
But presently another sharp crack of a rifle rang out, a light flashed
out upon the prairie, and momentarily a horseman was seen by its glare.
Then a dozen voices cried out:
“Buffalo Bill!”
Beneath his aim another bandit had bitten the dust. In angry tones, the
robber chief cried:
“Mount, and after him, men! A thousand dollars for his scalp!”
There was mounting in hot haste, and half a hundred horsemen swept out
from the dark covert of a timber and spread over the starlit prairie
in pursuit of a dark object, dimly visible, flying swiftly from the
human bloodhounds upon his track, but so rapidly distancing them by the
remarkable speed of his horse that, before long, in despair of ever
capturing the daring foe, one by one the bandits returned to camp to
talk over, around the replenished camp fires, the daring of the famous
scout, and wonder at his marvelous escapes from death.