A STARTLING REVELATION.
In that motte, there on the wild plain, few cared to seek sleep, with
the dead and wounded everywhere around them. General Canton and his
officers still sat around the camp fire, though midnight had come and
gone.
Presently the sound of rapidly advancing hoofbeats was heard, the
sentinel challenged, and the answer came in the stern, deep voice of
the scout.
The next instant he dashed up to the fire, accompanied by the negro,
Buttermilk, the servant of Ricardo.
Another man was with him, and this man was none other than Alfred
Carter, who had followed on, hoping to be in the fight against the
outlaws. Alfred Carter was wild in his rage against Ricardo and the
outlaws.
“Thank God! you have come, Cody. We feared danger had befallen you,”
cried the general.
“No, sir; I took the trail of this negro, and I caught him. Where is
the body of Ricardo?”
“Lying where he fell, I suppose.”
Walking hastily away into the timber, the scout soon hailed:
“Send me a few men; the chief is not dead.”
A few minutes more, and half a dozen troopers approached the fire,
bearing between them the wounded form of Ricardo, the chief of the
Brotherhood.
“Gently, men, gently; do you not hear his groans, and he is no man to
cry out at trifles. Lay him there,” said Buffalo Bill, and around the
wounded chieftain gathered General Canton, the scout, Captain la Clyde,
the negro Buttermilk, Alfred Carter, and several others.
“Ricardo Carter, for that is your real name, do you know that you are
dying?” suddenly asked Alfred Carter, in an earnest tone.
“Yes, my sands of life are ebbing out rapidly; but who are you that
calls my name--a name that has been dead to sound for long, long
years?” replied the chief, speaking with difficulty.
“I will tell you, and you must say whether I speak true or not.”
“I am listening; hasten, for death keeps back at the bidding of no man.”
After a moment’s silence Alfred Carter began speaking in a low but
distinct voice, plainly heard by all.
“Nearly thirty years ago there were two brothers, sons of wealthy
parents, living on the Missouri River. One of these brothers, in his
eighteenth year, left his home to serve in the army of his country.”
Ricardo started up, staring; then, it seemed, for the first time he
recognized in this man one whom he had known before.
As he made this discovery he fell back with a cry of terror, but still
continued to stare into the face of the man before him.
“You set out to be an honest soldier, Ricardo, but, dismissed from
the service, you leagued with robbers, roaming over the Western and
Southwestern plains for years, until at length you became the leader
of the Branded Brotherhood. Have I truly told your life, Ricardo?”
“You know all,” sadly replied the chief, “and you are my brother! And I
would have killed you. How did you discover me?”
“Through some papers you were foolish enough to leave in the place
where I was held a prisoner. Yes, I am your own brother, Ricardo; yet
you killed my wife and son, let your fiends hold me a prisoner and
carried my daughter away a captive. Now you are a prisoner, and you
have received your death wound, yet I am sorry for you, for you are
still my brother.”
The scout, pained by this interview, had walked away from the camp
fire, and only the groans of the chief broke the silence, but whether
Ricardo groaned most from pain of body or mind none knew, for he never
spoke again, and with his head supported in the arms of the negro
Buttermilk, who had so faithfully followed his master’s evil fortunes,
his breath grew shorter and more labored, until, with a curse half
uttered upon his lips, Ricardo, the chief of the Branded Brotherhood,
was dead.
When the scout left the camp fire he mounted Midnight and rode away
across the prairie. Shortly after sunrise he beheld a horseman
approaching, and upon a nearer view discovered him to be none other
than Howard Lawrence.
When Buffalo Bill recognized the horseman he put Midnight into a rapid
gallop and started toward him.
Whether it was a guilty conscience of intending wrong to the scout, or
fear, we cannot tell, but Howard Lawrence instantly turned to fly.
The scout at once urged his horse forward in pursuit.
Across the rolling prairie Howard Lawrence urged his steed, and,
heading for a piece of timber, soon disappeared in its leafy recesses.
“Ha, he has taken cover and intends to fight me! So be it,” said the
scout.
The next instant a look of disappointment was upon his face, for he saw
the fugitive dart out on the other side of the motte and continue on
across the prairie.
The next moment Midnight had reached the timber and was circling around
it, when, suddenly, a shrill call was heard, and, glancing into the
thicket, Buffalo Bill beheld the Red Bud of the Forest just preparing
to mount Fer white mare, which stood near.
Instantly he wheeled alongside of the Indian girl, and in surprise
asked:
“What does the Red Bud here alone?”
“She came to seek the great white scout. Yonder goes the enemy of
the noble scout, the man who taught the Rose of the Pawnees to love
him--the Man of Many Faces.”
“Yes, I am now on his trail, Red Bud, for I would take his life, for
did he not try to destroy the Pawnee maiden, and was she not ever kind
to me when I lay sick and wounded in her father’s wigwam? The scout has
a heart and has not forgotten. But why did you seek me?”
“The Red Bud came to warn the great scout that Many Faces was his enemy
who would strike him in the back, for Red Bud heard the words of the
wicked man and the warrior from the great fort.”
“Ha! that must have been Major Belden.”
“The great scout speaks straight; the two wicked braves were to kill
the great white scout, and the Many Faces was to make one of the
paleface maidens his squaw.”
“This is news, Red Bud, and I thank you for it. Now I must be off after
yonder running hound. Come!”
Away darted Midnight, and close behind followed the steed of Red Bud.
But gradually the trained and swift horse began to draw away from his
less fleet companion, and once more, with tremendous strides, he was
drawing nearer the magnificent animal ridden by Howard Lawrence.
Thus an hour passed, and Midnight was not a hundred feet behind the
fugitive, while two miles distant upon the prairie came Red Bud, urging
her white mare forward at the top of her speed.
With his repeating rifle Buffalo Bill could have brought down both
horse and rider, but he cared not to do either, as that would have
ended the affair too soon.
A few more tremendous bounds, and Howard Lawrence saw his pursuer
almost upon him. Drawing his pistol, he opened a rapid but harmless
fire.
Instantly Buffalo Bill seized his lasso, which hung at his saddle bow,
and which he could throw with wondrous skill. It made a sweep around
his head. With a cry of horror, Howard Lawrence saw it coming and
endeavored to dodge the fatal noose.
Too late! Like a lightning flash it settled around him, and lie was
jerked violently from his saddle.
Instantly Buffalo Bill dismounted, and, loosening the lariat from
around his enemy’s waist, bade him arise.
“What means this, sir?” sternly asked Howard Lawrence as he slowly
arose to his feet.
“It means, sir, that I have pursued you, and now have captured you.”
“And why, may I ask?”
“Because of the wrong you have done that poor Indian girl. Once, when I
was sick in her father’s village, she nursed me back to health, and for
that, though she is an Indian, I regard her almost as if she were my
own sister. You have ruined her life, you base scoundrel and villain!”
“Is that all?” the young man asked, with a sneer.
“I know, also, that you are the son of the bandit chief, Ricardo, who
is now dead.”
A flush stole over the pale face of Howard Lawrence, and he was silent.
“Whether you know that Ricardo, the chief of the Branded Brotherhood,
was your father,” said the scout, “or whether you are ignorant of it,
I am not assured, but such is the case, and you are a fit son for such
a father, for under numerous disguises you have led a most villainous
life.
“You have brought ruin and death upon more than one household, and were
plotting the ruin of Rose Carter, and also Sibyl Conrad, after having
won the affection of yonder beautiful Indian girl, only in the end to
tire of her, after she had given up all for you, and cruelly desert her
to her fate.”
The scout turned and pointed toward Red Bud, who at that moment rode
up, and in silence gazed upon the two.
“You have, then, become the champion of all the redskin and paleface
girls on the border?” sneeringly replied Howard Lawrence.
Casting aside the noose, young Lawrence flashed out a knife and
attacked the scout with great fury. But Buffalo Bill met him with
steel, and the blades flashed in the sunlight like a circle of fire.
Both were men of splendid physique, and were noted for their strength,
agility, and courage, and therefore the duel between them was one of
deadly ferocity.
For many long moments in breathless suspense Red Bud of the Forest,
the poor, trusting, loving, but deserted squaw, watched the terrible
encounter.
Then her eyes gleamed with joy as she saw Buffalo Bill spring within
the guard of his enemy and once, twice, thrice drive his gleaming blade
into his bosom.
With a half-uttered cry, Howard Lawrence sank to the ground, a dead man.
“Well, Red Bud, he will do no more harm. But I hated to do it. It was
his life or mine.”
“Many Faces gone to happy hunting grounds. Stranger scout is great
brave, big chief.”
The scout looked at her kindly.
“Now let Red Bud of the Forest return and sing in her native wigwam,
where her people dwell around her; the stranger scout will always think
kindly of the Pawnee maiden.”
“The great scout has spoken,” she answered, “and Red Bud will return to
the village of her people.”
Sadly the lonely Indian maiden turned away, and before the scout could
prevent bounded upon her horse, and the next moment was flying across
the prairie.
“It is better thus. Now I must bury this body, for even my enemy I
cannot leave for the wolf to tear in pieces.”
Thus saying, with his knife the scout dug a grave in the soft soil,
and, taking the body, placed it within the narrow resting place, which
was soon filled up with earth.
Mounting his horse and leading the steed of his late enemy, Buffalo
Bill then set off across the prairie, just as the sun was sinking from
sight beyond the distant horizon.