LONG ODDS.
The Brazos River, along this part of its course, flowed through
bluffy country. Here and there the low bluffs gave way to show the
river, sparkling in between.
The old corral came distinctly into view at about the time a wave of
stampeding cattle rolled down toward the plain out of the mouth of
one of the gullies in the bluffs.
Buffalo Bill shifted his eyes from the log walls of the corral to the
rushing tide of steers.
“There goes the stampede!” shouted Wild Bill. “We’re not a minute too
soon!”
“Where’s Perry?” demanded the frantic Dunbar, sweeping his eyes over
the level country in the vicinity of the corral.
“If you want to locate Perry,” answered the scout, “watch the cattle.
The scoundrels who started that stampede must have got them headed in
the way they want them to go.”
The thump of hoofs and the click of knocking horns could be heard
distinctly, while the gully began to smoke from the dust kicked up by
the racing steers.
“I can’t see Perry,” cried Dunbar; “that confounded dust blurs
everything. Let’s head off the cattle, if we can! Perhaps we can get
them to milling!”
Everything considered, this seemed to be the best course. It was
doubtful whether the frenzied longhorns would keep to the course
marked out for them by Red Steve and his men, and in this very doubt
lay a chance for Perry.
Uncertainty, however, hedged in every move the scout and his two
companions could make. Had they known definitely just where Perry
was, they could have planned their efforts in his behalf more
intelligently.
The three riders scattered, Dunbar riding to nag at the herd’s flank
close in toward the bluffs. Wild Bill made a dead set at the rolling,
dusty tide nearer the corral. The scout, on the other hand, pointed
Bear Paw in a direction that would cut the wide path along which the
steers were running at a hundred yards or more in advance of the
leaders.
As the scout rode, he not only watched the steers, but kept on the
alert for some sign of Red Steve and the scoundrels with him.
The dust had become a dense cloud, and screened most of the frenzied
herd. From the depths of the cloud came the clickety-clack of
striking horns and the rumble of hoofs.
Suddenly the scout grew rigid in his saddle. The next moment he had
lifted himself high in his stirrups, and was peering ahead at the
object that had flashed before his eyes.
The dust whirled and eddied about the object so that, for a few
moments, the scout was not sure of what he saw. When Bear Paw had
brought him closer, every doubt faded.
Perry was before him, and directly in the course of the charging
steers!
Four stakes had been planted in the earth, so as to form a square. In
the centre of the square lay Perry, flat on his back, arms and legs
stretched out. Each wrist and each ankle was fastened to a stake.
The cattleman’s torture, as he lay helpless between the stakes,
hearing the stampeding herd draw closer and closer, must have been
intense.
What was there the scout could do? While Bear Paw continued to race
on, Buffalo Bill once more lifted himself in his stirrups and shouted
for Wild Bill and Dunbar.
The dust was so thick he could not see either of the men, and the
noise was so great his voice could not travel far.
If anything was done for Perry, it must be the scout alone who did it.
There was but one move open to him. This was to fling himself forward
and get between the approaching steers and the helpless man roped to
the stakes.
Just what could be accomplished by this move was problematical. There
was absolutely no other way, however, by which even possible aid
could be given to Perry.
It was a time when seconds counted. Half a minute brought the scout
in the position he had settled upon, and he pulled Bear Paw to a
sharp halt. He was between the rancher and the moving dust cloud--the
cloud from whose forward edge pushed the foam-flecked nostrils and
the wide horns of the charging leaders.
Turning half around in his saddle so as to face the steer, the scout
lifted the gun from the saddle horn.
Could quick work with the rifle save Perry, or would that rushing
tide of steers overwhelm Buffalo Bill and the unfortunate cattle
baron?
Even as this momentous problem flashed through the scout’s brain the
rifle was at his shoulder.
Sping!
The hoarse roar of the gun echoed suddenly against the background of
noise caused by the steers.
One of the animals pitched forward.
Swiftly the scout worked the breech mechanism and forced a fresh
cartridge into place.
Sping!
Another steer went down.
He picked the animals off the edge of the herd, so that those behind
had to swerve farther and farther to the right in order to find clear
ground.
Sping! coughed the rifle; clatter, clatter, sping!
Six shots emptied the magazine, but the last two bullets dropped
steers in such a way that those behind tumbled over the slain, so
that there was a horrible tangle of living and struggling animals,
rolling and floundering on the plain.
But the main part of the herd had been deflected. Sitting breathless
in his saddle, the king of scouts saw the edge of the rushing herd
just graze the stakes. Loose earth was thrown at him and Perry by the
flying hoofs, and a choking fog rolled around and over them.
In three or four minutes the last of the steers had passed. Six had
been left on the plain, and to those six Buffalo Bill and Perry owed
their lives.
Wild Bill and Dunbar, now that the dust had settled somewhat so they
could see, put spurs to their horses and dashed toward the scout.
“What were you killing Circle-B steers for, pard?” asked Wild Bill,
his voice husky with the dust.
“To turn the herd so it would go around Perry,” answered the scout.
“Perry?” echoed Dunbar.
The scout backed Bear Paw one side and waved his hand toward the
stakes, and the man bound between them.
A bellow of anger broke from the Laramie man, to be taken up and
re-echoed by Dunbar.
Throwing himself from his saddle, the young rancher jerked a knife
from his pocket and slashed the ropes that held Perry in his
torturing position.
For some time Perry could not move or speak, so worn out and spent
was he from the ordeal through which he had passed. At last he
succeeded in rising to a sitting posture and turned his bloodshot
eyes on the scout.
“Cody,” said he huskily, “you fought against long odds, and you won
out with the narrowest kind of a margin. If you hadn’t turned those
steers by a few feet, just where and when you did, you and I would
both have been done for.”
“A miss is as good as a mile,” laughed the scout. “There wasn’t time
to cut the ropes and ride away with you, so I had to stand my ground
and fall back on the rifle. Red Steve pegged you out, like that?”
“I don’t know who it was. The scoundrels wore white caps drawn over
their heads. They got hold of me by a trick--a trick that would have
worked successfully ninety-nine times out of a hundred. A man came to
the house and asked for me. When I went out, he said that Nate had
been arrested for stealing diamonds, that Buffalo Bill had gone to
Hackamore, and that I was wanted there. I wasn’t to tell my daughter,
nor any of Buffalo Bill’s pards. I could understand about not telling
Hattie, but why I was not to tell the scout’s pards was a mystery. I
see now that Red Steve was afraid, if old Nomad, the baron and Little
Cayuse knew where I was going, they might try to dissuade me, or to
let some one else go. I hadn’t got far from the house along the trail
when the white-capped men made an attack. The attack was unexpected,
and I was taken at a disadvantage. They bound me and carried me to
the old corral. There I was left till morning, when they brought me
here and staked me out.
“I hadn’t an idea what they were intending to do; but, when I heard
the rumble of racing hoofs, I surmised what the fiends were about.
They were planning to have those cattle race over me and trample my
life out! This must have been some of Lige Benner’s doing. But how
did you three manage to learn of my predicament?”
“If you feel able to ride, Perry,” said the scout, “we can talk that
over on the way back to the ranch. What became of your horse?”
“He got away during the fight I had with the White Caps on the trail.
I presume he went back to the ranch. Hattie is probably doing a lot
of worrying, and the quicker Nate and I reach the ranch house, the
better it will be.”
“Dunbar and I might do a little riding and see if we can’t locate Red
Steve, or some of his men,” suggested Wild Bill.
“No use,” said the scout. “Those scoundrels are on their way back to
the Circle-B ranch by now. We will leave them alone till some other
time. Our trails will cross again, pard, and when they do----”
The scout finished with a grim frown and a shrug of the shoulders.
“When our trails cross again,” said Wild Bill, “we’ll remember Ace
Hawkins. I’ve marked Red Steve for my own private kybosh. Take
notice, everybody!”
Perry got up behind Dunbar, and on the way to the Star-A ranch the
events that had led up to the stampede and the rescue of Perry were
recounted for the rancher’s benefit.
When the recital was done, Perry was silent for some time.
“I wonder,” he finally muttered, “when Nate and I will reach the end
of this hostility? How much longer will Benner keep up his evil work?”
“I think you’ve seen the last of it, Perry,” said Wild Bill. “When he
learns how his latest plans have failed, all around, he’ll probably
take a vacation in some other part of the State and stay there till
the last of the trouble blows over.”
“And he tried to rob Dunbar of his good name, and me of my life,”
exclaimed Perry, “just to satisfy his desire for vengeance!”
“He was hit pretty hard, during that other set-to we had with him,”
said Wild Bill, “and it’s hard for Lige Benner to forget.”
“He’s got something else to forget now,” commented Dunbar grimly.