LIGHTNING JO IN A SCRIMMAGE.
Yes; Lightning Jo found that the Comanches were coming, and at a rather
rapid rate, too. There was no flinging himself over the side of his
mustang and making him a shield against the blows of the red-skins, for
the latter were on every side of him. The fact was they had recognized
that peculiar yell of his, and hastily laid their plans to make him
prisoner.
But Jo wasn’t made a prisoner yet, by a long shot, and finding that he
was at a disadvantage on the back of his steed, he quietly slipped off;
looping his rifle by a contrivance of his own to his side, he whipped
out a couple of revolvers, one in either hand, and the fun began on the
instant.
It wasn’t the way of Jo to await the opening of a game like this, but
to open it himself, and the instant he could cock the handy little
weapons, he began popping away right and left, the astounded Comanches
going down like ten-pins before the savage “bull-dogs,” who had a way
of biting every time they gave utterance to a bark. But there were but
ten such “bites” available, and carefully as the scout husbanded his
ammunition, the barrels were speedily emptied without any sensible
diminution of his peril.
There was no one Comanche, nor no single half-dozen of them, that
would have believed it possible to secure possession of Lightning Jo,
and so they went into the scrimmage in such overwhelming numbers that
escape upon his part looked impossible. By the time the barrels of his
revolvers were emptied there were fully fifty Indians surrounding him.
Nearly, if not quite all of them, were mounted, and they were not the
men to show mercy to such a character as Lightning Jo, who had worked
more mischief against the tribe than any dozen frontiersmen with whom
they had exchanged shots.
Had this indomitable scout been alone upon the prairie his lighting
would undoubtedly have been of the most terrific nature, and he would
have died, like Colonel Crockett at the Alamo, with an “army of dead”
about him; but with all of Jo’s wonderful prowess, he saw that the
assistance of his friends was needed, and without any hesitation he
gave utterance to his “call,” which reached the ears of his listening
cavalrymen, who were equally prompt in responding to the cry.
But the time that must elapse between the call and the arrival of
reinforcements, short as it was, was all sufficient for the Comanches
to encompass the death of a dozen antagonists, unless they were checked
by a most stubborn and skillful resistance.
And just that resistance and that fight now took place.
Instead of clubbing his rifle and using the weapon in that shape, as
almost any man would have done, Jo now had recourse to that wonderful
science in which he was such an adept, demonstrating that to such a man
there is no weapon at his command like the naked fist.
It was a treat to see him use his powers, and had he only possessed a
rock or wall to back against, so as to prevent an insidious approach
from behind, he could have kept off the Comanche nation, so long as
they lunged up to him in such a blind, headlong fashion as the present.
The posture taken by Lightning Jo was according to the latest “rules of
the London prize ring,” and consisted in having his arms up in front of
him, the left slightly in advance, while he balanced himself upon his
left foot, so poised that he was “firm on his pins,” or ready to leap
backward or forward, as necessity demanded.
The foremost Comanche, who had dismounted, was almost up to Jo, when he
thought somebody’s mustang had kicked him fairly in the face, and he
made three back summersets before he could put the brake on. And then,
just as he was getting up, he was knocked down again by a couple of his
comrades going over him, and then, as those arms began working like
piston-rods, and with a velocity a hundred times as great, the cracking
of heads was something like the going off of a pack of Chinese crackers
ignited together.
Heads were down and heels up, as the red-skins leaped from the backs
of their animals and charged in upon the scout, who, as cool as when
partaking of a leisurely meal, allowed every one to come just within
reach of his iron knuckles, when he let drive like a cannon shot.
Finding that it was impossible to take him afoot, several of the
red-skins attempted to ride him down; but there was something in his
appearance as he thus acted on the defensive that prevented them from
approaching too close, just as the bravest horse will recoil from the
bear when he faces about.
Then, too, as it became apparent that there was no capturing the scout
in front, the Indians exerted themselves to the utmost to steal around
in his rear, and to fling him to the ground. This kept things lively
for the time, and the way Lightning Jo spun around and danced upon his
legs, striking incessantly, and occasionally putting in a terrific kick
now and then, was a marvel in itself.
Now he seemed to be down and out of sight, but the next instant he
popped up from some other point, and sent in a volley of blows with the
same lightning-like force and skill. The Indian that clutched at him
and was certain he had got him, clutched the empty air, and did get,
along the head, in such a way that he ever after held him in the most
vivid remembrance.
All this was thrilling and, in a certain sense, amusing; but after all,
despite the extraordinary skill and quickness displayed by the scout,
it could not really extricate him from the difficulty. A man has but
two arms with which to guard himself, and when he is pressed from every
point, with an increasing pressure, no human being can keep such a
swarm at a distance. He is like the man set upon by thousands of rats.
Furthermore, although Jo knew that his friends were making all haste to
his rescue, yet he saw things could not remain as they were even until
then.
He therefore determined to make a desperate attempt to break through
the surrounding lines.