He lost no time in sending a final word to the despatcher before he
started for safety, and his call was sounding when he ran back to the
key.
"Stanley's train has passed Chimney Butte," said the despatcher. "Soon
be with you."
Words over the wire never sounded better to the frightened boy than
those words.
"The Indians are crossing the creek," Bucks answered. "Am off for the
ranch."
He closed the circuit and ran out on the platform. The warriors had
found the ford and the horses of the head braves were already leading
a file across. Bucks threw one hurried look at them; then, summoning
his strength for an endurance run, he started, with the station
building between him and the enemy, for the ranch.
He had hardly got under way when, as he reached higher ground, he saw
to his consternation a party of Indians in the bottom land between him
and safety.
He was cut off. Hoping that he had not been seen, he threw himself
flat on the ground and, turning about, crawled, behind a slight ridge
that afforded concealment, stealthily back toward the station. The
Indians up the creek had crossed, but were riding away from the
station and toward the ranch, evidently bent on attacking it next. The
flames from the burning train rose high above the creek. There seemed
no place to escape to and Bucks, creeping through the sedge grass, got
back to his key and called the despatcher.
"Cut off from the ranch by a second party of Indians. Will wait here
for the train--where is it?"
A moment passed before the answer came. "Less than ten miles from you.
Passed Driftwood Station at ten-forty."
Bucks looked at his clock. Driftwood was ten miles west. The hands
stood at ten-forty-eight. Surely, he concluded, they will be here by
eleven o'clock. Could he hold the station for twelve minutes? Even a
show of force he knew would halt the Indians for an interval.
He hastily pushed such packages of freight as lay in the store-room up
to the various windows, as slight barricades behind which he could
hide to shoot, and with much effort got the largest packing-case
against the platform door so they could not rush him from the creek
side. For the twentieth time he looked over his revolver, placed a
little store of cartridges behind each shelter, and peered again out
of the windows. To his horror he perceived that the two parties had
joined and were riding in a great half-circle down on the station.
Evidently the Indians were coming after him before they attacked the
ranch. He reported to the despatcher, and an answer came instantly.
"Stanley should be within five miles. How close are they?"
"Less than half a mile."
"Have you got a gun?"
Bucks wired, "Yes."
"Can you use it?"
"Expect I'll have to."
"Shoot the minute they get within range. Never mind whether you hit
anybody, bang away. What are they doing?"
Bucks ran around the room to look. "Closing in," he answered briefly.
"Can't you see the train?"
Bucks fixed his eyes upon the western horizon. He never had tried so
hard in his life to see anything. Yet the sunshine reflected no sign
of a friendly smoke.
"Nothing in sight," he answered; "I can't hold out much longer."
Hastily closing his key he ran to the south window. A dozen Indians,
beating the alder bushes as they advanced, doubtless suspecting that
he lay concealed in them, were now closest. He realized that by his
very audacity in returning to the building he had gained a few
precious moments. But the nearest Indians had already reached open
ground, two hundred yards away, and through their short, yelping cries
and their halting on the edge of the brake, he understood they were
debating how he had escaped and wondering whether he had gone back
into the station. He lay behind some sacks of flour watching his foes
closely. Greatly to his surprise, his panic had passed and he felt
collected. He realized that he was fighting for his life and meant to
sell it as dearly as possible. And he had resolved to shoot the
instant they started toward him.
From the table he heard the despatcher's call, but he no longer dared
answer it. The Indians, with a war-whoop, urged their ponies ahead and
a revolver shot rang from the station window. It was followed almost
instantly by a second and a third. The Indians ducked low on their
horses' necks and, wheeling, made for the willows. In the quick dash
for cover one horse stumbled and threw his rider. The animal bolted
and the Indian, springing to his feet, ran like a deer after his
companions, but he did not escape unscathed. Two shots followed him
from the station, and the Indian, falling with a bullet in his thigh,
dragged himself wounded into hiding.
A chorus of cries from far and near heralded the opening of the
encounter. Enraged by the repulse, a larger number of Indians riding
in opened fire on the station and Bucks found himself target for a
fusillade of bullets. But protected by his barricades he was only
fearful of a charge, for when the Indians should start to rush the
station he felt all would be over.
While he lay casting up his chances, and discharging his revolver at
intervals to make a showing, the fire of the Indians slackened. This,
Bucks felt, boded no good, and reckless of his store of cartridges he
continued to blaze away whenever he could see a bush moving.
It was at this moment that he heard the despatcher calling him, and a
message followed. "If you are alive, answer me."
Bucks ran to the key. The situation was hopeless. No train was in
sight as he pressed his fingers on the button for the last time.
"Stopped their first advance and wounded one. They are going to
charge----"
He heard a sharp chorus outside and, feeling what it meant, sent his
last word: "Good-by." From three sides of the open ground around the
building the Indians were riding down upon him. Firing as fast as he
could with any accuracy, he darted from window to window, reaching the
west window last. As he looked out he saw up the valley the smoke of
the approaching train and understood from the fury of his enemies that
they, too, had seen it. But the sight of the train now completely
unnerved him. To lose his life with help a few moments away was an
added bitterness, and he saw that the relief train would be too late
to save him.
He fired the last cartridge in his hot revolver at the circling braves
and, as he reloaded, the Indians ran up on the platform and threw
themselves against the door. Fiendish faces peered through the
window-panes and one Indian smashed a sash in with a war club.
Bucks realized that his reloading was useless. The cartridges were, in
fact, slipping through his fingers, when, dropping his revolver, he
drew Bob Scott's knife and backed up against the inner office door,
just as a warrior brandishing a hatchet sprang at him.