LIGHTNING JO.
That which arrested the attention of the company riding out of the
stockade of Fort Adams, was the sight of another party of horsemen
coming through a range of hills about half a mile distant, one glance
only being sufficient to identify them as the scouts already referred
to as being under the guidance and leadership of the great western
celebrity, Lightning Jo.
“Now, that’s what I call lucky,” exclaimed Colonel Greaves. “Jo is the
very man of all others that we need.”
The horsemen rode down the declivity at an easy gallop, and shortly
reined up in front of the stockade, with a graceful salute, and an
action that indicated that he awaited the commands of his superior
officer.
The scouts, or hunters, had turned their time to good account, as was
shown by a number of buffalo carcasses, or rather the choice portions
of such, supported across the saddles of their animals; the appearance
of the beasts, too, indicated that many of them had been subjected to
the hardest kind of riding.
A few words explained to Lightning Jo the business about to be
undertaken, and he at once assumed his position as leader of the
company that had just prepared to start, the colonel withdrawing into
the fort again, where it was his manifest duty to remain, while the
desperate attempt to relieve the beleaguered party in Dead Man’s Gulch
was being made.
The scout did not take a fresh horse, and when pressed to do so, he
declared that his mustang was as capable of a fifty mile tramp, as he
was upon the morning he started upon the hunt from which he had just
returned.
“Come, boys! business is business,” said he, in his crisp, sharp tone,
as his steed carried him by one or two bounds to the head of the
cavalcade he was to lead. “Come, Gibbons, keep yer place alongside me,
and yer can explain as we ride along.”
And as the company of brave men gallop to the southward on their errand
of mercy, each man a hero, and all with set teeth and an unalterable
determination in their hearts to do all that mortal man could do to
save the despairing little band that had sent its wail of anguish
across the prairie, we will improve the occasion by glancing at the
remarkable man who acted as their leader.
Lightning Jo had gained his appellation from the wonderful quickness
of his movements, and his almost miraculous skill as a scout. His
celerity of movement was incredible, while his equally astonishing
strength excited the wonder of the most famous bordermen of the day.
It was a well established fact that Lightning Jo, a couple of years
before, at Fort Laramie, had been forced into a personal encounter
with a badgering pugilist, who was on his return to the States from
California, and who had the reputation of being one of the most
scientific hitters that had ever entered the prize ring, and who on the
occasion referred to was so completely polished off by Jo, that he lay
a month at the fort before he recovered from his injuries.
It was said, and there was every reason to believe it, that he was
capable of running miles with the speed of the swiftest mustang of the
prairie; that he had traversed the Llano Estacado back and forth, times
without number, on foot, passing through the very heart of the Comanche
country, without any attempt to disguise himself, or conceal his
identity in any way; and yet there was not a mark upon his person to
attest the dangers through which he had passed scathless and unharmed.
His horsemanship was perfect in its way, and no living Comanche--the
most wonderful riders on the Western Continent--had been known to
exceed, and very few to equal him. For the amusement of those gathered
at some of the posts which he had visited, he had ridden his mustang at
full speed and bare back, throwing himself from one side to the other,
and firing from beneath the neck or belly of the animal, picking up his
hat from the earth when galloping, at the same headlong rate, striking
a match upon a stone on the ground and carrying the blaze lighted in
his hand. He had thrown the lasso, with such skill, as to catch the
hoof of the plunging buffalo, and then by a flirt of the rope, flung
the kicking brute flat upon his side, as the daring rider thundered
past, and slapped his hat in the eyes of the terrified animal. He could
fling the coil with the unerring certainty of a rifle shot, and would
manipulate the rope into as many fantastical convolutions as a Chinese
conjurer.
His prowess with the rifle was equally marked, and the tales of his
achievements with his favorite weapon were so incredible in many
instances, that we would not be believed were we to repeat them. He
carried a long, murderous-looking weapon, the mountings of which were
of solid silver, and had been presented to him by one of his many
friends, whom he had been the instrument of saving.
At the home of his old mother at Santa Fe--the only living relative
he had upon earth--he had rifles, swords, guns and every manner of
weapon, of the most costly and valuable nature, that had been given
him by grateful friends. His revered parent during his absence was
literally overwhelmed with attentions and kindnesses by virtue of her
relationship to Lightning Jo, the scout and guide who had proved such a
blessing to the settlers of, and travelers through the West.
The hero was about thirty years of age, slim and tall to attenuation,
with high cheek-bones, eyes of midnight blackness that snapped fire
when he was roused, and long hair, as stiff, wiry and black as the
tail of his mustang. His countenance was swarthy, and with a little
“touching up” he might have deceived Swico himself into the belief that
he was one of his own warriors. This was the more easy as Jo spoke the
Comanche tongue with the fluency of a genuine member of that warlike
tribe; but he scorned such suggestions when made to him, declaring
that he was able to take care of himself anywhere and in any crowd, no
matter who were his friends or who were his enemies, an assertion which
no one cared to dispute in a practical way.
Looking at his profile as he rode along over the prairie at a sweeping
gallop, it would have been seen that his nose was large, thin and
sharp, the chin rather prominent, and the lips thin. The mouth was
rather large, and the upper lip shaded by a thin, silky mustache of the
same jetty hue as his eyes. The rest of his face was totally devoid of
beard, except a little furze in front of his ears. He had never used
the razor, nor did he expect to do so.
Of course he sat his horse like a centaur, and, as he rode along,
those keen, restless eyes of his wandered and roved from side to side,
almost unconsciously on his part, as he was ever on the alert for the
first appearance of danger. Such in brief were a few of the noticeable
points of the great scout, Lightning Jo, who was a leader of the party
of rescue, and who is to play such a prominent part in the thrilling
events we are about to narrate.
As he rode beside Gibbons, whose anxiety was of the most intense
character, and who could not avoid giving frequent expression to it,
the scout at length said:
“Just stop that ’ere fretting of yours, now, Gib; ’cause it don’t pay;
don’t you see we’re all stretching out on that ’ere forty miles, just
as fast as horse-flesh kin stand it? Wal, that being so, where’s the
use of fuming?”
“I know, Jo, but how can a person help it when he knows not whether his
friends are dead or alive? There is philosophy in your advice about
whining and complaining, and it reminds me of one of the members of the
party--a young lady, whose disposition had something heavenly in it.”
“Who was she?” asked the scout, in an indifferent way.
“Her name, I believe, was Manning--Lizzie Manning--”
“What!” exclaimed Lightning Jo, almost bounding from his saddle, “is
_she_ there, in that infarnal place? How in the name of Heaven did she
get there?”
“She was one of the party that left St. Louis, and of course shared our
dangers the same as all.”
“The sweetest, purtiest, best little piece of calico that has been
heard,” repeated the scout to himself. “God save _her_, for she’s worth
all the rest. Come, boys,” he called out to those behind him, “ride
your hosses as you never rid ’em afore. I’d dash through fire, water,
smoke, brimstone and blazes, to save _that_ gal!”