The contest of Simpson with the wonderfully supple and sinewy Apache
began and ended in a few seconds. In the most thrilling moments the
hunter did not forget his peril from outside barbarians.
The main war-party seeing the desperate straits of their leader, who was
liable to be shot down by a ball from the revolver, galloped forward to
his assistance, and, almost at the same moment the dozen horsemen that
had set out to head him off put in appearance, all coming from different
directions, and converging toward the one point, where the veteran
borderer was suddenly transformed from an aggressor into a deeply
imperiled fugitive.
It was a time for “business” of the sternest kind, and the grizzled
hunter went at it like one who understood what it meant. Rifle and
pistol were discharged, and, therefore, useless. The former was slung
over his back, and the latter was quickly jammed into his girdle. In a
twinkling he had his huge bowie in his right hand, and, shouting to
his mustang, he headed out on the prairie, and made a dash for life and
freedom.
At such a crisis, everything depends upon the sagacity and intelligence
of the horse. It requires something more than speed--it needs a grasp
of the “situation,” upon the part of the brute, and the guidance of his
action which should result therefrom. It was in this respect that Sut
Simpson possessed an advantage which can scarcely be appreciated. He
made no attempt to guide or control the creature he bestrode; but,
bending forward upon his back and clutching his terrible weapon in his
hand, he uttered a shout, which the mustang interpreted as an appeal to
do his best, and he proceeded to do so without an instant's hesitation.
Still, it was vain to try to dodge through the converging warriors
without coming in contact with them. There were too many to permit any
such performance, but the wall was not impenetrable. Like an arrow
from the bow sped the animal, and, seeing the point toward which he was
aiming, the Apaches endeavored to close the gap. The equine fugitive did
not swerve in the least, and it looked as if he was plunging to his own
destruction.
The scout saw it all, and made no effort to change the direction he was
pursuing. He only grasped his bowie the more tightly and compressed his
lips. There was an ugly gleam in his sharp gray eye as he braced himself
for the conflict.
The nose of the mustang was almost touching the head of the other
horses, when he swerved almost at right angles, and, with a tremendous
burst of speed, shot through the nearest “opening.” This threw all his
enemies, by the brilliant maneuver, in his rear, and left the clear
prairie before him as a path in which to complete his flight.
The space separating Sut from his enemies was too slight for him to
reach safety by one plunge. The mustang was scarcely under way, when he
was compelled to dodge as abruptly as before, and in a trice he made a
third, which was done with consummate skill, and yet with the unavoidable
result of bringing the scout in collision with a swarthy warrior. Sut
was expecting it, and, bursting like a thunderbolt upon the howling
red-skin, he drove the flashing bowie with such prodigious force that,
to repeat an old expression, the first thing the Apache knew, he knew
nothing.
At the moment of making the thrust, a painted warrior riding on the
opposite side struck a terrific blow with his tomahawk, but the dextrous
flirt of the hunter's head permitted the weapon to whizz by and graze
his cheek. The time was to short for him to do any work with the
knife in the other hand, quick as was Simpson in his movements; so the
tomahawk had scarcely descended upon its harmless mission when he sent
out his left hand straight from his shoulder, like the plunge of a
piston rod.
It struck the astonished warrior straight in his face with irresistible
force and his head went down and his heels up so suddenly that he was
knocked completely off his horse--a thing which, it may be safely said,
does not occur with an Apache or Comanche once in a thousand times,
unless it be a bullet that tumbles him to the ground. This opened the
way again and the magnificent mustang settled down to the work of life
and death.
Sut saw that it was impossible for any of the horsemen to throw
themselves across his track, and so he flung himself forward upon his
matchless steed and said a few words encouragingly in the hope that it
might add a particle to his speed; but that was impossible, as the noble
creature was doing his very utmost.
The pursuing Apaches seemed to cling to the hope of capturing the daring
scout, for they thundered away in pursuit, while he as steadily drew
away from them. Suddenly came the crack of rifles, but Sut noticed that
most of them came from a point in advance, and he raised his head enough
to learn what it meant.
The mustang (whether by design or accident cannot be stated) had sped
continually in the direction of New Boston, and was dashing down toward
that point. The pioneers were on the alert, and the instant they could
distinguish pursuers from pursued, they opened on the former, with
the result of tumbling several from the backs of their steeds. This so
disorganized the hot pursuit that in the flurry of the moment the scout
shot in among the group of alarmed horses, sprang from his back, and was
soon among his friends, from whom he had been separated less than half
an hour.
Lone Wolf seemed meditating a charge down the valley, and once or twice
a formidable number of his warriors were observed gathering upon the
slope; but the moment they were discovered such a galling fire was
poured in among them that they quickly scampered out of range. The
chief, beyond question, was infuriated by the manner in which he had
been baffled, and this fury tempted him, perhaps, to a rash deed or two;
but he speedily regained his shrewdness and drew his warriors off.
A careful reconnaisance, made an hour later, failed to show a single
Apache. The entire body had departed.
The special errand of Sut in venturing out was to effect the recapture
of the lad. The chance of success was very desperate, but upon that
alone the scout had based his hopes. Had the opportunity been tempting,
the Apaches would have done all they could to head off any effort in
that direction, but it is often by a sudden dash, when apparently there
is no hope, that the most brilliant successes are made. But the issue
in the present case had been a complete failure, and Sut chafed greatly
under the reflection, for everything connected with it was mortifying to
him.
In the first place, he had been completely outwitted from beginning to
end by his old enemy, Lone Wolf. That chieftain, whom he detested with
the very intensity of hatred, had snatched up the boy under his very
nose, and made off with him. The shot that had been fired to bring
the war-chief to earth failed in its purpose, and while the hunter
was forcing him into a corner he awoke to the fact that he was there
himself, and it was only by a hair's breadth that he succeeded in saving
his bacon.
“But Sut Simpson don't give up the job just yet,” said he, the next
morning, in discussing the situation with Barnwell and the leading
pioneers. “That younker has got himself in a scrape, through no fault
of his own, and onless he gets a lift there's no show for his pullin'
out of it.”
“Mickey O'Rooney is still absent, and he may be able to help you.”
But Sut shook his head. He saw no prospect of any appreciable assistance
from that quarter.
“He's a good fellow, and I like him; but he'll have all he can do to
take care of himself. When a chap undertakes to go it alone in these
parts, he must never wink both eyes at the same time.”
“Suppose the Irishman has been killed?” ventured one of the men, who was
somewhat shaken up by the events of the night before. “It seems to me
that it is very probable.”
“You're right,” replied Sut, as if he were discussing the question of
stock. “Very likely he's gone under. We've all got to come to it sooner
or later, and what's the odds if one's a little ahead of the other?”
By this time the speaker was astride his mustang, which was as fresh and
eager as though he had not been subjected to the tremendous strain of
the night before. The little party of pioneers had come to look upon the
scout as indispensable to their safety. His timely warning of the coming
of the Apaches had saved them from a frightful massacre, and he now gave
them some parting advice, which could not be disregarded.
“You cleaned 'em out this time,” said he, as he sat on his mustang,
hesitating a few minutes, until several of the sentinels that had been
sent out could come in with their reports; “you cleaned them out this
time,” he repeated, “but don't you think on that account they'll stay
away. As I observed to you some time ago, I know something 'bout that
varmint, and he'll be back agin, and you kin bet your bottom dollar on
it. He'll fetch a pile of the dogs at his back, and he'll clean out this
place so complete that a fortnight from now a microscope won't be able
to tell where the town of New Boston stood.”
“And you urge us to give over the attempt to make a settlement here?”
remarked Barnwell, with his old cynical smile.
“For the present I do; I don't ax you to give it up forever, mind, but
only to wait some fifty or seventy-five years, till I get a chance to
wipe out Lone Wolf, and things become sorter quieted down like. It's
better to get out of bed than it is to be kicked out, and you must take
your choice.”
“But we are here, and why should we not stay?”
“The best reason is 'cause you can't. I don't know as there's any
better. It's only fifty miles to Fort Severn, and you can make it easy
in two or three days with your teams and baggage. You've traveled the
plains long 'nough to understand how the thing is done.”
At this juncture the three men who had been sent out in different
directions on a reconnoissance came in with their report. One of them
had climbed the very tree in which Fred Munson had taken refuge. This
gave him an extended view of the surrounding country. One of the others
had devoted himself to a careful examination of the river, while the
third scanned the prairie in another direction. The result in every case
was the failure to detect any signs of the Apaches.
Sut Simpson waved his friends a good-by and galloped up the slope, where
he took the trail of the Indians and at once set off in quest of his
young friend, who was a captive in their hands.