A DESPERATE HOPE.
It was not the nature of Lightning Jo to remain idle when he had
any work like the present on hand, and leaping upon the back of his
mustang, he told Egbert to follow.
“I’m not going to ride and make you walk,” he laughed; “we haven’t
started yet, but are only making ready. Come along.”
He rode scarcely a hundred yards through the roughest part of the
hills, when he dismounted in a dense mass of undergrowth, and, without
fastening his mustang, said a few words to him, which would insure his
remaining where he was until his return, by which time Jo was quite
confident that he could secure an animal also for Egbert, as it was
indispensable that he should have one at once.
When it was certain that there were Indians in the immediate vicinity,
the greatest caution was necessary upon the part of our two friends,
and Lightning Jo made his way through the ravines, gorges and hills,
with as much circumspection as if he were reconnoitering a Comanche
camp. When he halted, they were on the very summit of one of the
highest peaks of this spur of mountains, which afforded them a most
extensive view of the surrounding prairie.
Glancing at Jo, Egbert saw that he was looking off to the westward,
with an attentive, searching look that indicated something; and, as he
did not remove his gaze from that point, he imitated him, straining his
vision to the utmost.
The young man had looked but a moment, when he detected a party of
horsemen moving in a southwesterly direction. They were so far away
that it was impossible to identify them; but there was scarcely a
doubt of their being Indians, and most probably the very ones for whom
Lightning Jo was searching.
“Well, you see them, do you?” was the question of Jo, as he looked
around and started to move away. “I s’pose you know ’em, too?”
“I suspect that they are Indians; but I conclude that not from any
certain knowledge of my own, but simply infer it.”
“Yes; they’re the Comanches that left the hills before daylight.
Swico-Cheque, the biggest red devil that walks the earth, is at
their head. He’s got enough of butting his head ag’in’ United States
soldiers, and he’s off to recruit his health.”
“But what of her--of Lizzie?” asked Egbert, in a trembling voice,
dreading to hear the answer that he was almost sure would come.
“Why, she’s with him, of course. He’ll keep her till he gets tired of
her, and then he’ll have some more fringe for his hunting-shirt.”
These words were uttered in the very desperation of vengefulness, and
the scout wheeled about with a spiteful air, and exclaimed:
“Stay here till I come back! If you see any of the infarnal
copper-skins, bore a hole through ’em. If you see anybody, break his
head! Look out for yourself! keep cautious, and rest easy till I come
back. I won’t be gone long.”
And with this rather contradictory advice, Lightning Jo wheeled about,
plunged down the hill, and was gone almost on the instant.
He had been gone but a short time, when the near crack of a rifle broke
the stillness, and Egbert started and looked around, thinking that,
perhaps, some treacherous Comanche had stolen up and sent a bullet
after him; but he could see nothing, and he concluded that Lightning
Jo had something to do with the discharge of the gun, as, indeed, it
seemed to have a certain familiar sound.
But little time was given him for speculation when the scout himself
put in an appearance.
“Come, Roddy,” said he. “I’ve found your hoss; we’re ready now; and
there’s no use in waiting longer.”
“Where did you find him?” asked Egbert, not a little surprised and
delighted at the unexpected news.
“There was a red-skin on him; he ain’t there now, and I guess won’t
bother us more.”
Sure enough, a few rods away, the identical steed which Egbert had
ridden from Dead Man’s Gulch was found secured to a bush, and, leaping
upon his back, it required but a few minutes for the two comrades to
reach the spot where the faithful mustang of Lightning Jo was awaiting
the return of his master.
“Now, let us get out of this infernal place,” added the scout, as the
two reined up their animals, side by side.
“Whither do we direct our course?” asked Egbert.
“Straight after them devils, and we’re never to stop till we cotch up
with Swico, and him and me square up our accounts.”
A little care and patience, and in a few minutes the two horsemen found
themselves upon the edge of the prairie, and they headed due west,
straight in the path taken by Swico-Cheque and his band, and the
mustangs were instantly put to a full run.
About the middle of the forenoon, when the heroic Egbert felt that he
was taxing himself beyond his strength, they struck a deserted camp,
where a party of United States cavalry, ranging through the country
upon a scout, had spent the previous night. Here were found the remains
and fragments of their meal scattered all about, and it gave to both,
what they so much needed--a nourishing, substantial meal.
“Now,” said he, straightening up like a giant refreshed with new wine,
“I am ready for any thing, I don’t care what it is.”
“I think you’ll get enough of it afore long,” was the significant reply
of Lightning Jo, adding, “we’re close onto the copper-skins, and if I
ain’t mistook more than I ever was in my life, we’ll strike their camp
inside of an hour.”
This was startling news, but was singularly verified; for scarcely a
half-hour had passed when the scout, who was riding a short distance in
advance, ascended a small swell of the prairie and almost the instant
he reached the top, wheeled his mustang about and galloped back again,
motioning to Egbert to do the same.
“We’ve reached their camp,” he said, in explanation, and cautioning
the bewildered man to resist every temptation to stir a foot from the
spot until his return, the scout moved up the prairie-swell again.
Egbert saw him crouch down like a panther about to leap upon its prey,
and then he vanished from view as noiselessly as a shadow, leaving
the lover to the trying task of waiting, fearing, hoping, watching,
listening, and to despair. Lightning Jo passed down the opposite side
of the swell, and, as was his custom in reconnoitering the camp of a
foe, he made a circuitous route by a small cluster of stunted trees,
which struck him as offering the very shelter he so much needed.
He had no thought of any of his foes being here, but he had scarcely
approached the margin when he became certain that he was close upon one
or more of them.
In his stealthy manner he insinuated himself among the trees, and
the next instant was greeted with the sight of the great Comanche
chieftain, Swico-Cheque, reclining upon the ground in a sound slumber!