HILT TO HILT AND FACE TO FACE.
As the Comanches saw their leader fall, they uttered a thundering yell
of rage, and came like a thunderbolt against the little band of whites.
This was echoed by a chorus of hurrahs from the trappers, and then they
went at it again.
There was no holding back on the part of the Comanches now.
They no longer cared for the Frenchman and his famous umbrella.
On they came, yelling like so many fiends, and the last spark of hope
died out of the breasts of our friends, as they looked upon the
ferocious crowd of howling demons.
There was not a spark of mercy in those gleaming, bloodshot eyes; no,
all of that (if there ever had been any, which is extremely doubtful,)
had died out with the death of their chief, Red Buffalo.
The old hunter had seized a knife and was now beside his three comrades.
Any one, upon looking at these men sitting on their horses so quietly,
would have thought that they were so terror-stricken that they could not
move.
But let him take a glance at their faces, and then he sees that which
makes him confess at once that his former conviction was utterly false.
In those flashing eyes, firmly-set teeth, and stern-looking faces he
would read their determination.
If it was fated that they should die, then at least they would go on
fighting bravely. The Comanches did not like the appearance of the four
hunters in front of them.
They looked like men in a desperate strait, who would fight for their
lives like lions, and the Indians felt a little of their courage oozing
out of their finger-ends, as they gazed upon them.
But they had gone too far now to hesitate, and so with horrible yells,
given to help keep their courage up, they mingled with the four whites.
Then began a combat which could only end in defeat to one of the two
contesting parties. None of those who were fighting, had even a thought
that the whites would get off.
The Frenchman was separated from the rest and was valiantly defending
himself from the fierce attack of several of the Indians.
His umbrella was whirling around his head, and now and then coming
against the head of an Indian with stunning force.
The other three were together, and plying their knives with vigor on
their dusky assailants.
More than one of the fierce, and bloodthirsty Indians went down before
the iron arm of the Hunter Hercules, and yet despite all of his valorous
deeds, it seemed as though the four whites must go under at last. There
was not a single chance for them to escape (as far as they or the
Comanches could see,) and they had already made up their minds to it.
Ralph had one consolation, however, and that was the fact that if he did
have to give up the ghost, he had slain his hated enemy, Red Buffalo,
first. To the old hunter this was a great thing, and he gloried in the
fact that the Comanche chieftain had bit the dust with _his_ knife in
his heart.
It seemed too bad on the part of the little Frenchman that he should be
killed just as he had found the wonderful herb, and accomplished the
darling object of his life.
But Monsieur Tierney was game to the back-bone, and not a word came from
his lips as he fought on with stubborn bravery.
The guide had, upon first sight, taken the Frenchman to be a city chap,
who would run at sight of a timid deer.
Now he found how greatly he had been mistaken.
He cast several admiring glances over to where the gallant foreigner
fought, and at length, seeing how the other was being pressed by his
foes, he fought his way over to him, and with his strong arm, stood and
fought beside him.
Although every one of the four whites fought with terrible
ferociousness, dealing blow after blow with savage earnestness, yet the
odds were too great. The arms of three of them began to ache.
Barry Le Clare and Chauncy had both received a few slight wounds, but as
yet none of the whites had been hurt very much.
Horror of horrors; would this terrible strife never come to an end?
Would the Indians ever put an end to it by killing their opponents, or
by fleeing themselves?
As to the latter, there was no chance of their doing that. Comanches
were never known to leave a foe when he was in their power, and it was
not at all likely that they would do so in the present instance.
It seemed to the tired whites as though the combat had been going on for
hours, and yet all that has been told in this and the preceding chapter,
happened in the course of thirty minutes.
There was one thing that the Comanches saw, and that was, that their
enemies would _never_ be captured alive.
Knowing this, they made no effort to take them, but did every thing they
could possibly think of, to kill them.
When Comanches can not get prisoners to torture, they are very well
satisfied with scalps.
And now they concentrated their forces for a grand and final rush, which
would cut down all of the whites.
The latter knew what was coming, and braced themselves for the coming
struggle.
They were all together now, and with heaving breasts and determined
countenances they awaited the event, holding their weapons in readiness.
They knew that in five minutes more they would be most likely rubbed
out, and they only wanted to let daylight into a few more of their dusky
foes, before the fight reached its final and fatal termination.
There was no mistaking the scowling faces of the Indians, as with one
sharp, quick yell, that meant _business_, they rode forward.
There were still eight to one, and this was too great odds for the
whites to have any hope.
Help was nearer than they thought.
There was something in Chauncy’s breast that made him think that, after
all, they would be saved.
As the Comanches dashed forward, Ralph happened to glance toward the
grove of trees which was on the left of the whites, and to his intense
joy, saw a large band of horsemen coming out of them, at a full,
sweeping gallop.
A yell of satisfaction broke from his lips at this sight, and in among
the Comanches he went, his huge fists lunging out right and left, and
knocking several of the painted devils from their horses. At first the
Indians knew not what to make of this. They had expected to do the
attacking part, not their enemies. Their sharp ears soon heard the noise
made by the approaching horsemen, and turning, they rode off,
helter-skelter, with cries of surprise and rage.
It _was_ very mortifying to say the least; this being defeated just when
the fortune of war seemed about to make them victorious. The horsemen
came up to the four whites, but only two stopped. These were Don Carlos
and his daughter. The rest swept on after the Indians, and gained upon
them, too.
The tables were completely changed now. The Indians were the fugitives,
and whites the pursuers.
“Ye just come up in good time, Don Carlos. In five minits we’d ’a’ been
rubbed out,” said the guide.
“Why, how are you, old friend? Give us your hand. How have you been
making it lately, Ralph?” said the Don.
“Oh, pretty well. How’s that, Don?” said Ralph, pointing his thumb over
his right shoulder. The Don turned and saw that the young hunter had
Donna Iola in his arms.
“It seems to have gone too far to be stopped, even did I wish it. Who is
the young fellow, Ralph?” said the young girl’s father.
“He’s the son o’ an old friend an’ comrade o’ mine. We fit in the
Mexican war together. He’s a rich gentleman, an’ lives out East. His
name is Major Branrare,” said Ralph.
“What’s that? Branrare, did you say? An uncommon name, and the name of
my adopted mother’s brother, and I have heard that he was an officer in
the Mexican war. If this young fellow should prove to be his son, it
will be all right for him. I will speak to him about it as soon as
possible,” said the Don.