AT FULL SPEED.
All through this singular fight, Lightning Jo had kept within reach of
his mustang, which occasionally put in a kick now and then, in the hope
that he might be turned to account; but the tumult and uproar became so
terrific, that he finally became panic-stricken, and with a whinny of
the wildest terror, he made a plunge among the scarcely-less excited
animals, when his furious struggles added to the fearful uproar, which
was already sufficient to drive an ordinary man out of his senses.
Lightning Jo, as we have said, knew that his friends were coming over
the hills at the topmost bent of their speed; but the flight of his
horse, and the rapid closing in of the Comanches, made further delay
fatal, and with the promptness that was a peculiar characteristic
of the man, he grasped his loaded rifle in his hands, and made his
desperate struggle for freedom.
This was simply an attempt to dodge beneath the horses’ bellies out
beyond them, where he knew his own fleetness could be depended on to
carry him safely into the company of his own men.
And now began a most extraordinary performance, and an exhibition of
Lightning Jo’s miraculous quickness of movement was given, such as
would seem incredible in a description like ours. He was walled in
on every hand by the swarming Comanches, but by the matchless use of
his tremendous arms, he kept back the scores from entangling him in
their embrace; until, all at once, he was seen to make a leap upward,
directly over the shoulders of those immediately surrounding, and he
shot beneath the belly of the nearest mustang like a whizzing rocket.
And, as he did so, he gave utterance to that strange yell of his,
like the yelping prairie-dog, whose bark is cut short, as he plunges
headlong into his hole, by the sudden whisking of his head out of sight.
The Comanches who caught the dissolving view of the scout, made a
desperate struggle to capture him, and those who were still mounted,
and saw him leaping beneath their animals, turned them aside, and cut,
slashed and thrust at him in the most spiteful fashion, while others
sprung off their horses, and did their utmost to intercept and cut
him off, or to trip him to the earth, or to disable him in some way
that would prevent his succeeding in his threatened escape from their
clutches.
It would be a vain attempt to follow his movements in the way of
description, when the eye itself was unable to do so; and, despite the
astonishing celerity of the Comanches, whose nimbleness of movement is
proverbial in the West, they were completely baffled in every effort
they made to entrap him.
Here, there, everywhere, he was seen, shooting out sometimes from
between a horse’s legs, and then was in another place before the animal
could resent the shock given him--in front--in the rear--leaping
to one side--backward--forward--and threw the whole troop into
confusion--every now and then giving utterance to that indescribable
yell, so that the red-skins were actually in chase of _that_--and all
the time steadily approaching the outer circle of mustangs, and ever
keeping in mind the proper direction for him to follow, to meet the
much-needed soldiers.
And all this took place in one-tenth the time required in our
references. The bewildering dodging and doubling of Lightning Jo
continued until he shot from beneath the last horse, and then with a
triumphant screech, he sped away like a terrified antelope.
Hitherto the efforts of the Comanches had been directed toward
capturing the redoubtable scout, and they soon dashed their animals
after him on a full run, in the hope of riding him down before he could
reach the assistance which they knew was so close at hand.
It proved closer indeed than they suspected; for they had hardly
started upon the fierce pursuit when a rattling discharge of rifles
rose above the din and confusion, just as the whole company of United
States cavalry thundered over the ridge, and came down upon them like
the sweep of a tornado that carries every thing before it.
There were a few exchanges of shots, and then the Comanches would
have excited the admiration of a troop of Centaurs by their display
of horsemanship. Speeding forward like a whirlwind, the shock of the
opposing bodies seemed certain to be like that of an earthquake; but,
at the very instant of striking, every Indian shied off, either to the
right or the left, and by a quick, rapid circle of their well trained
animals, they shot away beyond reach of harm from cavalry, and skurried
away over the hills and ridges, disappearing from view with the same
astonishing quickness, that made successful pursuit out of the question.
Driven away in this unceremonious fashion, the Comanches were
compelled to leave their dead upon the field--the wounded managing
to take care of themselves, and to get out of harm’s way, ere the
cavalry could swoop down upon them. The fashion of giving quarter, in
the contests between the Indians and white men, has never been very
popular, and at the present day, it may be considered practically
obsolete, so that the Comanches displayed only ordinary discretion in
“getting up and getting”--if we may be permitted to use the expressive
language of the West itself, in referring to an engagement of this kind.
Accustomed as were these men to the exhibitions of the wonderful powers
of Lightning Jo, they were astounded at the exhibition of their own
eyes, of the deeds he had done during the few minutes that he had
engaged in the encounter with the red-skins. The troop gathered around
the battlefield, and were commenting in their characteristic manner
upon his exploits, when the scout himself, seeing his mustang near at
hand, made haste to secure him, and leaping upon his back, he lost no
time in placing himself at their lead, and turning his face toward Dead
Man’s Gulch, he said, in his sharp, peremptory way, when thoroughly in
earnest:
“Come, boys, we have lost too much time. We must git there afore dark,
if we git there at all.”
Gibbons, the messenger, placed himself beside him, and, as soon as they
were fairly under way, Jo remarked to him:
“I hardly know what to make of it. Old Swico is not with them skunks,
and I am disappointed. It has a bad look.”
“Why so?” inquired his comrade, who was partly prepared for the answer.
“I ain’t sartin--but it looks to me as if the _business is finished
down at the Gulch_.”
“Then why should not the chief, released from there, be here with his
men?” continued Gibbons.
“This is only a part of his men; there wa’n’t many Comanches among the
hills. I think the old dog sent them off on purpose to bother us and
keep us back as much as they could.”
“While Swico and the others have taken another direction?”
“Exactly, and carried the women and children with them; and if so, we
might as well turn back to Fort Adams ag’in.”
But the scout, as he uttered these chilling words, set his teeth, and
rode his mustang harder than ever toward Dead Man’s Gulch.