THE PARTY OF RESCUE.
The sun was past the meridian, when the hundred men, under the command
of Lightning Jo, left Fort Adams and struck off in almost a due
southerly direction.
It required sharp riding to reach Dead Man’s Gulch by nightfall; but
all had strong hopes of doing so, as it was summertime, and a goodly
number of hours yet remained at their command, while their mustangs
were toughened and fleet, and they were now put to the full test of
their endurance.
Lightning Jo knew very well the location of the fatal gulch, and
although he did not say as much, yet he had very little hope of
reaching it in time to be of any earthly use to the poor wretches
cramped up there and fighting so desperately for life.
Swico could not fail to know the meaning of the flight of Gibbons
through his lines. He must know that he was making all haste to Fort
Adams for succor, and that, if he did not speedily complete the awful
business he had taken in hand, without much longer delay, the chances
were that he would be disputed and compelled to fight a third party.
The prairie continued quite level, with dry grass that did not prevent
a cloud of dust arising from the hoofs of the horses. The plain
was broken here and there by ridges and hills, some of the latter
of considerable elevation. Between these the rescuing parties were
compelled frequently to pass, some of them being so close together that
the thought of an ambuscade was instantly suggested to the mind of
every one.
But Jo was not the man to go it blind into any contrivance that the
red-skins might set to entrap him, and his practiced eye made certain
that all was right before he exposed his brave men to such danger.
He was rather expecting some flank movement upon the part of his old
enemy, but he was disposed to believe that, whatever plan he adopted,
he would not “try it on” until the whites reached the vicinity of Dead
Man’s Gulch.
“Mebbe he’s got things fixed to tumble us in there too,” he thought to
himself; “and mebbe ef he has, he’ll find his flint will miss fire.”
The company galloped steadily forward until something like
three-fourths of the distance was passed, and the sun was low in the
west. They were riding along at the same rattling pace, all on the
alert for signs of their enemies, and they were just “rising” a swell
of moderate elevation, flanked on both sides by still higher hills,
when the peremptory voice of Lightning Jo was heard, ordering a halt.
The command was obeyed with extraordinary precision, and every man knew
as if by instinct that trouble was at hand. Naturally enough their
eyes were turned toward the hills, as if expecting to see a band of
Comanches swarming down upon them, and in imagination they heard the
bloodcurdling yells, as they poured tumultuously over the elevations,
exulting in the work of death at their hands.
But all was still, nor could they detect any thing to warrant fear,
although the manner of Lightning Jo indicated clearly that such was the
case.
He did not keep them long in suspense.
“Some of the Comanches are there,” remarked Lightning Jo, in his
offhand manner; “whether old Swico himself is among ’em or not, I can’t
say till I go forward and find out. Keep your guns and pistols ready,
for there may be a thousand of ’em down on ye afore ye know it.”
And with this parting salutation, or rather warning, the scout started
his horse on a gallop, straight toward the rise, as though he purposed
to ride directly between the hills already mentioned. But seemingly on
the very point of entering, he turned his mustang sharply to one side,
and instead of passing between, circled around the hill upon his right.
All this time he sat as erect and proud in his saddle as though he
were approaching the stockade of the fort, which he had made his
head-quarters for so many years.
The cavalrymen, as a matter of course, scrutinized his movements with
the intensest interest.
“How easy for a stray shot to tumble him out of his saddle!” was the
reflection of nearly every one watching the daring soldier.
This action of Lightning Jo speedily carried him over a portion of the
ridge, and out of sight of the horsemen, who could only surmise what
was going on beyond.
But the sharp, pistol-like crack of a rifle, within five minutes of
the time he had vanished from view, proved that the fears of Lightning
Joe were well founded, and that the drama had already opened in dead
earnest.
Indeed it had. The scout had detected all-convincing signs of the
presence of his old enemies upon the hill, and the simple artifice
of turning aside, at the last moment, had given him the advantage of
flanking his foes, and coming upon them from altogether an unexpected
quarter.
As he passed over the ridge, Jo saw about twenty Comanche Indians
sitting quietly upon their horses, and in a position that indicated
that they were composedly expecting the appearance of their prey from
another quarter. Instead of turning to flee, the scout saluted them
in his customary manner by bringing up his rifle, and boring a hole
through the skull of one of the astonished red-skins, before the rest
really suspected what was going on.
“Tahoo--oo!” called out Jo, as he witnessed the success of his shot,
and he followed it up with another yell that was peculiarly his own,
and which was so impossible of imitation that he was known by it from
Arizona to Mexico.
The Comanches were not men of wood to sit still upon their animals, and
remain targets for one of the most skillful riflemen living.
Identifying their assailant by means of his yell, they instantly
scattered, as if a bombshell had landed among them, and they scampered
down the other side of an adjoining hill, and out of sight of Jo,
carrying their fallen comrade with them.
This, it would seem, ought to have satisfied the scout, but it did not.
He suspected that a larger party of Indians was in the neighborhood,
and determined to make sure before returning to his men.
The actions of the Comanches seemed to indicate that they were about
making an attempt to surround him, and he made ready to guard against
it.
“Let ’em surround me! I feel wolfish to-day, and I think it’ll do me
good to let off some of my extra steam among ’em.”
He gazed furtively over his shoulder, nevertheless, for he had no wish
to be taken off his guard, in such a desperate encounter as this was
certain to prove, in case a collision occurred.
His mustang stepped very carefully, with his head raised and his ears
pricked, for he fully felt the delicacy of the situation, and knew that
at any moment they were liable to be enveloped by a horde of their
enemies.
The sagacity of the horse was the first to give notice of the approach
of danger. He was stepping stealthily along, his senses on the alert,
when he suddenly paused, with a slight whinny.
At the same instant, Lightning Jo caught a peculiar sound, as if made
by the grating of a horse’s hoof upon the gravel, and he turned his
head with the quickness of lightning.
There they were, sure enough!