A STARTLING SURPRISE.
As the voice of Sherwood rolled across the water in his demand for
the surrender of Old Tumult and Town., the old scout burst into a
roar of laughter that fairly shook the tree in which he was perched;
then, in a tone peculiar to his powerful lungs, he requested the
renegade to go to--that very warm region prepared for the wicked.
The enemy were above them, where they could avail themselves of the
force of the current, and no sooner did they hear the old scout’s
reply, than they began bearing down toward them at a rapid speed.
Our friends could see that the enemy were armed with rifles, but, as
they did not fire upon them, they knew the distance was too great
for the range of a common firearm, they--the enemy--being over two
hundred yards above them.
“Death is a dead certainty with us now, Tumult,” said Town.
“Things look kinder scaly, lad, but I’m thinkin’ that ’ere essence o’
Satan has miscalculated our situation; or else they don’t know as how
old Vibrator here can flip lead--that _we_’ve got rifles, too.”
“But the rain has made my rifle perfectly useless, Tumult, and my
ammunition is soaking wet,” said Town., regretfully.
“Vibrator is all right. I didn’t furgit to keep her muzzle down, and
her nipple dry. My powder is in a water-proof horn, and now I’ll see
if I can’t check the speed o’ them ’ere critters afore they git in
range for their bird-pickers.”
As he concluded, the old scout thrust his rifle through the foliage,
took a deliberate aim, and fired. Had a torpedo exploded under the
advancing canoe, it could not have caused greater consternation than
did the shot fired by Old Tumult. It was wholly unexpected by the
enemy. Sherwood had convinced the savages that there was nothing to
fear from the whites--that their firearms were rendered useless by
the rain. But, when one of their number fell dead--shot through the
head with a half-ounce ball--all their savage anticipations of a pair
of scalps fled, and turning their canoe shoreward, they fled equally
as fast.
Old Tumult, with all the lion force of his lungs, gave vent to a
triumphant, defiant yell, and a derisive, mocking laugh, that made
the very blood of Dick Sherwood’s veins leap hot with rage, and burn
with resentment.
“That’ll be apt to set the hounds o’ Satan red-hot,” said the old
scout, as the enemy disappeared in the flooded timber; “and we’ve
got to keep a close look-out, fur they’ll try every way that their
cunnin’ brain kin invent to git our skulps.”
The new danger stimulated, rather than depressed, the spirit of our
friends, and they began to view their situation in a rather novel
light; but how long this would last was a question of doubt. True,
the water was falling fast, still it would be several hours before
they could set foot upon the island; and, without great precaution,
in that time the enemy might bring to bear upon them some means that
would dislodge them. The only difficulty that they experienced in
their elevated retreat was the numbness of their limbs, occasioned by
inactivity and the cramped position they were compelled to retain.
Town. drew the wet charge from his rifle, and reloaded with powder
from Old Tumult’s horn, and thus in a few minutes he had his piece
ready for use.
Something like an hour had passed after the defeat of Sherwood, when
the attention of our flood-bound friends was attracted by a huge raft
of driftwood coming down the river. It was some four hundred yards
away when first discovered, and although a number of such rafts of
flood-collected debris had passed down the river since daylight, this
was the first one that attracted unusual attention from the keen eyes
of Old Tumult.
“Thar’s deviltry up, boy,” said the old scout; “that ’ere raft o’
wood and sich, looks a leetle suspicious.”
“What do you judge from?” asked Town.
“Wal, thar’s too many logs piled on top o’ one anuther; and when you
see thar’s some brush and such, piled onto the logs, in a kind o’ a
careless way, it’s true; but I would not be afraid to bet there war
Ingins among that ’ere driftwood.”
“If there is, we will give them a chunk or two of cold lead,” said
Town., fixing his eyes upon the raft.
“Ah--they’re too sharp fur that, lad. They’re layin’ ahind the
logs--mebbe half buried in the water--and jist as soon as they git
close enough, we’ll hear, if we don’t feel, cold lead rattlin’ ’round
us. Things begin to look scaly, boy, fur us, or I’m no judge.”
The two men felt no little uneasiness for the next ten minutes as to
the real character of the raft. If there were Indians about it, as
Old Tumult had no doubt but there were, they were so hidden among the
logs and bushes as to defy all efforts of discovery, while at the
same time the whites would be exposed to the rifles of the hidden
enemy.
They could do nothing but watch and wait, while the raft continued to
drift slowly toward them. It was about a hundred yards away when Old
Tumult was sure he saw the head of a savage peering over a log, and,
to convince himself as to whether such really was the case, he raised
his rifle and fired at the object.
But, the scout never knew whether or not it was an Indian’s head,
nor what had been the effect of his shot, for, simultaneous with
the report of the rifle, the raft dropped into a strong, surging
eddy--swung swiftly around a number of times, and then, as if a
magazine had exploded in its midst, it flew apart--every log became
separated from each other by the circling force of the water; and
there, in the midst of the whirling, rolling logs and debris, were a
half a dozen Indians, struggling desperately with the waves.
Old Tumult burst into a roar of laughter when he discovered this
providential misfortune to the savages.
As the scout had mistrusted, the red-skins had secreted themselves
among the logs and debris; and, but for the parting of the raft in
the eddy, and the sudden precipitation of the cunning foe into the
seething waters, it is very probable that our friends would have been
shot down in another moment.
As fast as Old Tumult could load and fire upon the struggling,
panic-stricken enemy, he did so with telling effect. And those of
the savages that escaped his deadly aim, were overpowered by the
waves and swept away.
Again our friends had nothing, for the moment, to fear from the
Arapahoes.
A silence ensued.
Town. was thinking of Madge and Clara, while Old Tumult was silently
wondering what course the enemy would next resort to, to dislodge
them from their retreat.
Suddenly they were startled by the sharp twang of a horn.
The sound came from the eastern shore. They glanced in that direction
and discovered a horseman moving along the shore toward the north.
They recognized him at the first glance.
It was Rollo, the Boy Ranger.
Old Tumult placed his hat upon the muzzle of his gun and waved it
above his head, shouting at the top of his lungs.
The young ranger drew rein and answered the scout’s shout by a blast
from his horn and a waving of his scarlet cap.
“Ay, Rollo, my lad,” called the scout, “it’s rather a cramped
condition we’re in, and all fur want o’ help.”
The young ranger was not over two hundred yards away, and had no
difficulty in catching the scout’s words.
“Then you shall want no longer, old friend,” replied the ranger; “I
will assist you at once.”
“But how kin ye, my lad?” asked the scout.
“I will hasten up the river to King’s Ford and get the old ferryman’s
boat,” returned the youth.
“That’ll do, my gallant boy; jist run the boat under this ’ere tree
and we’ll be ready to drop down into it.”
With a wave of his scarlet cap, the ranger dashed away on his
mission. It was about three miles to what was known as King’s Ford,
where an old half-breed by the name of King had built a ferry-boat,
for the purpose of transferring the loaded teams of settlers from one
side to the other during high waters.
Our friends did not expect the return of the ranger with the boat
under two hours, but scarcely an hour had elapsed when, to their
surprise, they saw the youth with the boat put around the bend in the
stream above, not over three hundred yards distant.
It is necessary that we should here give a brief description of the
ferry-boat, for reasons which will be made known hereafter.
It was about twenty feet in length, by half that length in width, and
constructed on the principle of a large canoe; then, in order to make
it more convenient for loaded teams, a slab floor, or deck, was laid
across the top from side to side, thus forming a hold about two feet
deep beneath the slab deck. A pair of sweeps and a tiller constituted
the propelling and guiding apparatuses of the craft. At the prow of
the boat was an opening or hatchway, about two feet square, leading
into the hold. This opening was covered with a stout slab in which
was fixed a ring and staple for raising.
Old Tumult hailed the approach of the ranger with a wild shout, and
then they began to prepare to leave their elevated retreat.
Rollo had no need of the sweeps. The force of the current carried the
boat along quite rapidly, and he had only to stand at the tiller and
keep the boat in the proper course to pass over the inundated island.
When the boat was within fifty yards of our friends, Old Tumult
shouted:
“Ye made a purty quick trip up to the Ford, lad.”
“It would have been, had I went to the ferry, but the fact of it is,
I found the boat stranded about a mile above here.”
“Possible!” exclaimed the scout, while Town. peered through the
foliage at the ranger with a puzzled expression upon his face.
“Yes,” returned the youth, bending slightly upon the tiller; “the
flood had washed it from its mooring and drifted it down stream about
two miles, where it lodged, and where I found it.”
“Wal, it’s all luck--bear to the left, lad, bear to the left--let the
prow strike the tree midways--bear hard--there--smoke of tortures!”
The exclamation was caused by the ferry-boat striking the tree, or
sapling, with such sudden force that our two friends were nearly
shaken from its branches. However, the boat came to a stand, and the
next moment our friends stood upon its deck.
Old Tumult fairly danced with joy, while Town. was compelled to rub
his limbs vigorously in order to restore the circulation.
Old Tumult pushed the boat clear of the tree, and the next moment it
was slowly veering off toward the western shore.
The scout and the young ranger entered into a conversation, and in a
moment the latter was in possession of all the facts that placed our
two heroes in the predicament in which he found them.
Rollo then gave the scout and Town. some joyful news of the
whereabouts of the two captives, Madge Taft and Clara Bryant. He
had seen them taken to the village of the prophet, while scouting
thereabouts, and but for the superiority in number of the savages
he would have attempted their rescue. This was joyful news to the
scout and Town., not because the maidens were captives in the Indian
village, but to know they had survived the peril of the night’s storm.
“Did the captives seem much depressed in spirit?” asked Town.
“Miss Taft,” returned the ranger, glancing toward the shore as if to
conceal the smile that passed over his dark, handsome face, “seemed
very sad and downcast, when she was conducted by where I was lying
concealed in the undergrowth.”
A sigh, that deepened almost into a groan, escaped Town.’s lips.
“I tell ye what, Town.,” said Old Tumult, “I know it goes plaguy tuff
with a feller when he’s mixed up in a heart-affair with a purty gal,
and that gal’s a prisoner in the hands o’ a pack o’ red-skins. I know
it goes tuff, fur I’ve been thar, Town.”
Rollo, the Boy Ranger, smiled again, as he carefully noted his course
and moved the tiller accordingly.
A silence, broken only by the swash of the water around the boat,
ensued.
Old Tumult was thinking of the past; Town. of Madge, while the
ranger, apparently plunged in mental oblivion, began whistling
softly.
Suddenly, as if moved by a single and intuitive impulse, the old
scout and Town. glanced at Rollo. The eyes of the ranger were fixed
upon the forward part of the boat with a strange expression shining
from their dark depths.
Again, as if moved by some unknown impulse, the eyes of Old Tumult
and Town. sought the object of the ranger’s attention, and to their
horror and surprise they beheld the slab over the hatchway pushed
aside, and a giant savage leap from the hold of the boat onto the
deck, followed by another until four of the painted demons stood
before them, their faces aglow with diabolical triumph!