THE MOB FROM PHELPS’ RANCH.
“How, Pa-e-has-ka?” said Little Cayuse, sliding from Navi’s back.
“You make um heap quick ride to town.”
The sharp-eyed lad saw that there was something unusual in the wind.
A look at the scout’s face, even if there had been no other evidences
of trouble, would have been enough for him.
“Where are Wild Bill and the baron?” the scout asked.
He was hoping they might be so close that Cayuse could go after them
and get them to the ranch before H-P outfit arrived.
“All same down river,” reported Cayuse. “Make um hunt for Red Steve.”
“Are they having any luck?”
“Find um trail, lose um, find um again.”
“They’ve hit Red Steve’s trail, have they?”
“Hit um trail man on foot. Mebbyso Red Steve, mebbyso somebody else.
Quien sabe?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders and grunted.
“How far away are Wild Bill and the baron?”
“Mebbyso ten mile.”
This was too far. The scout could not send Cayuse after his missing
pards with any hope that they would be able to reach the Star-A
ranch before the mob of cowboys arrived. Anyway, if they were on Red
Steve’s trail, the scout preferred to leave them to run it out. It
was of the utmost importance that Red Steve be found.
Something of what was passing in the scout’s mind was divined by
Perry.
“If you could get your pards here, Buffalo Bill,” said the rancher,
“it might be a good idea.”
“I doubt whether Cayuse could cover the ten miles and bring them here
before the mob arrives,” answered the scout. “Besides, Perry, it is
almost as important that Red Steve be apprehended before he can get
out of the country. I think we had better leave Wild Bill and the
baron to take care of that part of the work. From what Cayuse tells
us, I believe luck has been with them, and that they are on the right
scent.”
Cayuse was deeply interested in the mysterious state of affairs at
the ranch. He was not given to asking questions; it was rather his
part to keep his ears and eyes wide open and pick up what he wanted
to know from the ordinary course of events.
The scout, however, proceeded to explain to him just what the
situation meant. The boy’s eyes sparkled as he listened.
“Cayuse make um ride back plenty good time, hey?” he asked. “Buenos!
Me like um.”
“Why did you come back?” the scout asked.
“Wild Bill say Cayuse come, make um stay ’long with Perry and white
squaw. Him say tell um Pa-e-has-ka we find um trail, mebbyso follow
um trail all night. Ugh!”
“I see. Wild Bill thinks he may be all night running out the trail,
and if I got back from town he wanted me to know that he thought he
was meeting with some success. Put out your pinto, Cayuse, and we’ll
go into the house. There’ll be some preparations to be made, Perry,”
he added to the rancher while the Piute boy was attending to Navi.
“It won’t take long to make the preparations,” returned the rancher.
“From the looks of things, I shouldn’t wonder if Nate and Hattie were
already making preparations.”
A wooden shutter closed over one of the cabin windows, on the side
facing the corral.
“Those shutters,” went on Perry, “are bullet-proof. Nate rigged
them up when we first began having trouble with the barons. I never
thought we’d have to use them in helping to keep a mob of lynchers
away from Nate.”
The scout caught the discouraged note in the rancher’s voice.
“There’ll be no lynching,” said he, with a resolute snap of the jaws,
“even if there are lynchers coming. Rest assured of that. I have a
little authority from the United States Government, and I’ll use it.”
“What do those frenzied cowboys care for the government?” returned
Perry. “They’re mad for vengeance by now, and it will be useless to
try to reason with them.”
“We may find a way to bring them to their senses.”
“It’s a shame and a disgrace that Bloom is not standing shoulder to
shoulder with us,” said Perry bitterly. “He doesn’t care a rap for
law and order, if there’s any violence aimed at us out here. In this
case he seems to have helped inflame the mob to do its dastardly
work.”
Cayuse came out of the corral, closed and locked the gate and stepped
to Buffalo Bill’s side. The little Piute had his revolver in his
hands and, as he walked toward the house at the scout’s side, he was
poking cartridges into the cylinder.
He was perfectly cool, and his matter-of-fact way in making
preparations showed that he could be depended on to do his best.
In the house the scout found everything in order. The shutters were
closed over the windows, and the interior of the cabin was dark and
stuffy. A rifle lay across a table in the living room. Dunbar was
laying a supply of cartridges beside it. Not far away his wife was
loading a shotgun. The two were working silently.
“Mrs. Dunbar,” said Buffalo Bill, admiration mounting in his breast
as he saw how bravely the girl was rising to the occasion, “you’re a
brick.”
“Those scoundrels,” Mrs. Dunbar answered, with flashing eyes, “will
not take Nate out of this house if I can do anything to help it.”
“They’ll not take him, Mrs. Dunbar,” returned the scout reassuringly.
“There are a few of us here to make sure of that. Don’t be alarmed.”
“When will we ever get to the end of these troubles?” murmured the
girl, with a catch in her voice.
“You are almost at the end of them now,” answered the scout, in a
kindly voice. “It is always darkest just before dawn, you know.”
“The day of hope is a long while breaking for us,” said Mrs. Dunbar.
“It will be all the brighter when it finally comes. Let’s go out in
front, Perry, and wait there for developments.”
There was a bench near the front door of the cabin. Here Perry and
Buffalo Bill seated themselves. Little Cayuse sat just inside the
door, his head bowed over and his arms folded. Suddenly he broke into
a crooning chant that came weirdly to the ears of the rancher and the
scout.
“What’s that?” asked Perry; “what’s the boy doing, Buffalo Bill?”
“He is calling on his fathers and his Piute gods. He wants the Great
Spirit to be kind to Nate Dunbar and the white squaw. Listen!”
“Ta-vi kwai-nant-si ya-ga-wats
Si-chom-pa kung-war-ru
Tu-yung-wi-ra-vats.”
The strange words floated out of the door, not unmusically, although
they were little more than a whisper.
“What is it?” queried Perry. “What’s the chant about?”
“It’s the ‘Eagle Tears’ song--
“‘At morn the eagle will cry,
On the farther shore of the sea,
And the rainbow will be in the sky.’”
“A rainbow,” murmured Perry, “is a sign of hope.”
“Exactly,” smiled the scout, “and Little Cayuse is doing something
which, he believes, will bring Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar a happy day. He
has a song for everything--for sadness, for victory, for bringing
courage to a warrior’s heart. The boy thinks a lot of Mrs. Dunbar.
She has been mighty kind to Cayuse, while we have been staying at
your ranch, Perry, and kindness is something the Piute boy never
forgets.”
“You and your pards are all our good friends,” said Perry, “down even
to Little Cayuse. Well, if we do get out of this, it will be Buffalo
Bill and his pards who makes the strike for us. I’ve been wondering
if we couldn’t send word to Bloom over at the H-P ranch and demand
that he come here and keep this mob away.”
The scout shook his head.
“It would be foolish to try such a move as that,” he declared. “Bloom
can not be depended on to do anything for law and order when you and
Dunbar are concerned. If we sent Cayuse after him he wouldn’t come.
Even if he did come, he wouldn’t be a help, but a hindrance.”
“If he should come here and demand that we turn Nate over to him----”
“We’d tell him mañana, Perry. We’ve got to keep Nate out of Bloom’s
hands entirely.”
“A nice state of affairs this range has dropped into,” fretted Perry,
“when honest cattlemen can’t look to the legal authorities for
protection against mobs of lynchers. If we----”
He broke off abruptly and jumped to his feet. The scout also started
up.
Old Nomad and Sam Pierce had broken into sight along the timbered
trail, running at top speed toward the house.
“I reckon we’re close to a show-down,” said the scout.
“They’re on ther way, Buffler,” puffed the old trapper, as he and
Pierce came to the front of the cabin.
“Who, Nomad?”
It was Hattie’s voice from the door.
“The punchers from the H-P ranch gal,” answered the trapper.
“How many are there of them, Nick?” inquired the scout.
“Fifteen.”
“Did you recognize any of them?”
“They was too fur off, Buffler, ter make out who they aire.”
“You could have recognized Hank Phelps easily enough, in his Mexican
clothes.”
“Waal, I didn’t see him, an’ I don’t reckon he’s erlong.”
“Into the house, pards,” ordered the scout, “and we’ll make ready to
hold our ground.”
Perry had already pushed into the cabin. Pierce and Nomad followed
him. The scout was last to enter, and he closed the door and dropped
a stout oak bar across it.
A few moments later there came a sodden roll of hoofs, growing louder
and louder.
The scout, peering through a loophole, saw fifteen armed men debouch
from the timber and surround the cabin.
“Not a shot is to be fired,” said Buffalo Bill to the silent little
group in the cabin, “until I give the word. We will use our weapons
only as a last resort and not until every other expedient is
exhausted.”
From his loophole the scout saw one of the cowboys throw himself from
the saddle and advance upon the front door. The plans of the H-P men
must have been well considered, for each of the party moved at once
to his post in the cordon that surrounded the cabin. There was no
talking, no confusion. A fist pounded on the door.
“Who’s there?” called the scout.
“A crowd of fellers from the H-P ranch,” answered a hoarse voice,
“and we mean business right from the drop o’ the hat.”
“What do you want?”
“We want the murderin’ hound that done fer Jake Phelps!”
A stifled cry escaped Mrs. Dunbar. Nate stepped over and put his arm
around her waist, at the same time whispering to her encouragingly.
“Is Jake Phelps done for?” asked the scout, intent on securing a
little information.
“Purty nigh,” was the answer. “He ain’t never spoke a word since he
was found on the trail, where Dunbar knocked him out o’ the saddle.”
Here was something, at all events. Phelps was still alive, and while
there was life there was hope that he would recover.
“Wait a minute,” said the scout. “I don’t like talking through a
door, and I’m coming out.”
Perry made a gesture of protest.
“I want to reason with these men,” said the scout, in a low tone,
“and I can do it better face to face with them.”
“But what if they should capture you?” murmured Mrs. Dunbar, her
voice sharp with apprehension. “What should we do then, Buffalo Bill,
with you taken from us?”
“He won’t be captered, gal,” returned old Nomad. “I’ll let Buffler
out, an’ I’ll stand by ther door ter let him in ag’in. He’ll come in
a-hummin’ ef they make er move ter rush him.”
The scout took a precautionary look through the loophole and stepped
to the door. The trapper lifted the bar and the scout stepped to the
front of the cabin.
The cowboy scowled at him. There were no more than five of the H-P
outfit in sight, the others being scattered around the cabin.
“Call the rest of your party here,” said the scout. “I want to talk
to all of you.”
“Think I’m easy?” snorted the cowboy. “When them from the back part
o’ the house come here, Dunbar’ll hike through the kitchen door an’
git inter the woods.”
“Dunbar isn’t going to run,” declared the scout. “I knew you men were
coming from the Phelps ranch, and brought the news here two or three
hours ago. If Nate had wanted to run he would have had plenty of
chance. He’s an innocent man, and I think I can make you fellows see
it and leave here in peace.”
“He ain’t innercent,” cried the cowboy. “He done fer Jake Phelps, an’
us fellers aire here ter git him if we have ter burn the house.”
“Not Nate Dunbar but Red Steve is the man you want.”
“We know who we want, an’ we ain’t goin’ ter waste much more time
gittin’ him, nuther.”
“What’s your name?” queried the scout, suddenly changing his tactics.
These men were not in a mood to listen to reason. Impatient yells had
come from all around the cabin, demanding that the spokesman stop his
talking and do something.
“Prouther,” said the cowboy.
“For whatever happens here, Prouther,” threatened the scout, “I shall
hold you and those with you responsible. You’ll not take Nate Dunbar
away from us. If you try it, there’ll be shooting; and you men out
here will be better targets than those of us who are in the house.”
Two of the other cowboys had dismounted and come to Prouther’s side.
“What good’s all this chinnin’?” growled one.
“He come out ter talk, Klinger,” answered Prouther, “an’ I reckoned
we might as well listen.”
“While we’re listenin’,” said the third cowboy, “mebby them in the
cabin aire doin’ somethin’. Pass it up an’ let’s git busy.”
“What’s yer answer?” demanded Prouther, facing the scout truculently.
“Before I give you my answer,” said Buffalo Bill, “let me tell you
this: There’s law on the Brazos still, if not State law then national
law. I represent the government. My name is Cody, and I’m on detached
service. I reckon you men know me.” His face hardened and his lithe,
muscular form straightened to its full height. “Whenever I lay hold
of a proposition I generally make good. I tell you, Nate Dunbar
had nothing to do with the injury from which Jake Phelps is lying
unconscious at the H-P ranch. He----”
“Bosh!” howled Klinger. “Didn’t him an’ Jake git ter loggerheads
in Hackamore? Didn’t you order Jake out o’ town? An’ didn’t Dunbar
foller him? What did he foller him fer if it wasn’t ter do him up?”
“Nate didn’t follow Jake Phelps, but came straight to the Star-A by
the most direct trail. Suppose he did follow him. If Nate wanted to
do Phelps up, as you say, then why didn’t he use his revolver instead
of a club? What was Phelps doing with his own revolver while Dunbar
was riding up behind him and hitting him with a club? Can’t you men
use a little reason?”
But the would-be lynchers had no reason. They were blindly determined
to take the law in their own hands.
“We know Dunbar done it!” Prouther whooped. “Will ye trot him out
here, or hev we got ter come in arter him?”
“Think this over well before you make a move!” warned the scout.
Suddenly, as by a preconcerted signal, Klinger and Prouther hurled
themselves at Buffalo Bill. He received them--and they must have been
astonished at the manner of their reception.
The scout’s fists shot out right and left like the piston-rods of a
locomotive. Prouther and Klinger reeled back under the impact of the
blows. With an oath, the other man fumbled at his revolver. Before he
could draw it, the scout leaped into the air, after the manner of a
French savateur, and kicked the weapon out of his hand.
Nomad, who had been watching proceedings with cat-like vigilance,
threw open the door and the scout faded inside the cabin. When the
wrathful cowboys pulled themselves together, only the blank expanse
of the door faced them. Yelling furiously, they began slamming
bullets into the stout oak barrier.
Those behind heard the shooting and likewise opened a fusillade.
“All we can do now,” said Nate Dunbar, his face white and set, “is to
give them as good as they send--or better.”
“Wait!” interposed the scout, “we’re not in the last ditch yet.”
“What d’ye want ter wait fer, Buffler?” spoke up old Nomad. “All them
thar ijuts aire in plain sight. We kin pick ’em off in one, two,
three style.”
“We’re not here to pick anybody off, Nick,” said the scout. “We’re
here to save Nate Dunbar, and not to make this matter any worse than
it is. Let them waste their ammunition on the walls of the cabin, if
they want to. It’s not hurting us, and it’s allowing some of their
steam to escape. Maybe they won’t be under such high pressure after
they shoot a while.”
For a minute or two the bullets continued to thump against the cabin
walls. After that there came an interval of silence while the cowboys
moved farther back into the timber. From the loopholes they could be
seen preparing torches.
“They’re going to fire the house!” gasped Perry.
“Them fellers’ll do anythin’,” averred Sim Pierce. “They’re crazy
mad. When they come ter think this over termorrer, they’ll wonder how
the blazes they ever let their senses run away from ’em in this way.
It’s a rough bizness, an’ no mistake.”
“They’ll not fire the house,” said Buffalo Bill. “In order to do
that, they’ll have to come within range of our guns. They have at
least sense enough to understand that we can pick them off as fast as
they come at us with their torches.”
But, in this, the scout was mistaken. The H-P men had taken the box
from a lumber wagon, and were manipulating it in such a way that half
a dozen of them could carry it and advance with it for a breastwork.
“Thet’s er whale of er idee!” growled the old trapper. “I reckon et
kyboshes us some, too. Hey, Buffler?”
The scout peered gravely at the advancing wagon box. It moved forward
for a dozen feet, and then rested. During the rest, Prouther showed
himself, and the other cowboys advanced a little.
“We’re goin’ ter give ye another chance!” yelled Prouther.
“Another chance for what?” called back the scout.
“Why, ter give up that feller we want. If ye don’t give him up, we’ll
shore burn the ranch house. If we kain’t git him one way, we kin
another.”
“There’s no way you can git him!” the scout roared defiantly. “We’re
well armed in here, Prouther, and you’ll find it out to your cost if
you keep on as you’re going.”
“Talk’s cheap. Aire we ter have Dunbar? Yes or no.”
“No!”
There was no mistaking the finality the scout put into the word.
Again the wagon box was picked up and started forward.
Then, like a bombshell, a voice came from the woods back of the H-P
men:
“Stand where you are! If another shot is fired at that cabin, or if
you fellows carry this lawless game any further, I’ll riddle the lot
of you! I’m here with twenty-five men, and they’re armed with rifles.
I’ve done a lot to make war on the Brazos, and now I’ll do just as
much to make peace. You hear me!”
There followed a breathless silence, during which a man in black rode
out of the timber and pulled his horse to a halt.
“My men are back there,” he went on, waving his hand in the direction
of the woods, “and each one of them has his rifle leveled.” He
laughed. “I reckon that, between us, Buffalo Bill and I have a cinch
on this lay-out.”
“Er-waugh!” muttered old Nomad dazedly. “I’m er Piegan ef et ain’t
Lige Benner! An’ he fightin’ fer us an’ not ag’in us! Hev I got ther
blind staggers?”