LITTLE DICK IN TROUBLE.
Little Dick Fosdick had been forgotten by Ted and the broncho boys in
their anxiety over the absence of Stella.
They had seen him around the camp, but as it was impossible for him to
accompany them on their hard rides, he had been left to his own devices.
He spent his days riding with one of the cowboys on the herd, and
grieving in his own way for Stella.
He was a sensible little chap, and seldom complained at his loneliness.
His life alone had made him patient, and he took it out in thinking.
He was now well able to take care of himself, although Stella insisted
in "mothering" him when she was in camp.
Little Dick, as most of the boys called him, felt himself quite a man,
for he could now catch his own pony and saddle it whenever he wanted to
ride, and no one paid any attention to him as he came and went.
Ted had bought for him a little, wiry bay cayuse, and both he and Stella
had taught him to ride, and Dick could now throw a rope with reasonable
accuracy and speed.
Ted had given him a small revolver, and they had had great fun learning
to shoot at a target, which was usually a bleached skull of a cow that
had died long since on the prairie, and its bones picked clean by the
coyotes.
Dick's revolver was only of thirty-two caliber, as befitted his
strength, but the youngster had a good eye and the steady nerves of
youth, and he soon got so that he could hit the skull with reasonable
accuracy.
"Putting the shot through the eye" was one of the jokes of these
shooting tournaments, in which Stella, and sometimes Bud, joined.
One day when they were shooting at a skull target, Bud missed--probably
intentionally, for Bud was a crack shot.
Dick jumped up and down in glee, for he had just knocked a chip of bone
from the skull himself.
"Bud missed! Bud missed!" he shouted, in glee. "Bud, you're an old
tenderfoot. Couldn't hit a skull as big as the head of a barrel a
hundred feet away."
"Didn't miss, neither," said Bud, in a tone of mock anger. "There's
where you're fooled. That is what I call a good shot. See that left eye
hole? Well, I aimed at that, and the bullet went through it. Ha! That's
where the joke is on you." He grinned, and winked at Stella.
A few minutes later Dick shot and missed the skull.
"Yah!" shouted Bud. "Goody! You missed. You shoot like a hayseed.
Couldn't hit a skull as big as the head of a barrel."
"That's where you're left," said the boy. "See that right eye hole?
That's what I aimed at."
The laugh was on Bud.
"All right, kiddie," he laughed. "You're on. We'd be in a dickens of a
fix if that ole cow hadn't left two eye holes when she died."
So it was that Dick had made great progress in the rudiments of a
cow-puncher's life, and it exactly suited him, but, in the meanwhile,
Stella was teaching him to read, and telling him the story of the rise
and grandeur of his own country, and of the lands that lay beyond the
seas.
So it was that Dick was unconsciously getting a better education than if
he had gone to school, for he had a mind for the absorption of all sorts
of knowledge like a sponge, and once a thing was told him he never
forgot it.
The morning of the count he had started onto the range with the other
boys, but as there would be great confusion, and perhaps danger of a
stampede, Ted sent him back to camp.
"Run on back, Dick," Ted said kindly. "I'm afraid that pony of yours
isn't quick enough to get out of the way if these dogies should take it
into their heads to act ugly."
Dick never thought of rebelling when Ted spoke, for he knew that Ted was
boss, and that he knew what was good for him.
"All right, Ted," he said. "Would it be any harm if I took a ride away
from the camp?"
"Of course not, Dick," answered Ted kindly. He felt a little sore at
himself for sending the boy away, but he knew that it was for the best.
There would be plenty of time and many occasions for Dick to run into
danger when he grew up.
Dick went back to camp, which was deserted save for Bill McCall, the
cook, who was asleep under the chuck wagon, and Mrs. Graham, who was
lying down in her tent.
Dick buckled on his belt and holster, and, mounting his pony Spraddle,
set out for a long ride across the prairie.
In the boot of his saddle rested his little Remington, a present from
Stella. He was going to look for an antelope, and he thought how proud
Ted would be if he brought one back with him.
He knew how hard it was to get close enough to an antelope to shoot it,
but he had just enough gameness to think that he could get one if he
came within range of it.
Anyhow, there were coyotes and jack rabbits.
He rode across the prairie at a smart gallop, occasionally changing his
course to chase a jack rabbit, which generally disappeared over a rise
in the ground like a streak of gray dust, and was seen no more.
At noon he stopped for a few minutes to eat the biscuit and piece of
bacon which he had taken from the rear of the chuck wagon before setting
forth. He found a spring not far away, and, having given Spraddle a
good, deep drink, and filling his small canteen, which was tied to the
cantle of his saddle, he set forth again.
It was about two o'clock when he came in sight of the first real game of
the day. On the top of the rise ahead of him he saw an animal about the
size of a dog. As he rode toward it, it raised its head and gave a long,
low, mournful howl.
"Coyote," exclaimed Dick to himself breathlessly. "I'll get that fellow,
and take him back to camp. Won't Ted be surprised when he sees it?"
He took his Remington out of the boot, slipped in the necessary
cartridges to fill the magazine, and rode forward slowly and cautiously.
The coyote watched him sharply, occasionally raising its head to utter
its mournful cry. When Dick thought he had got within shooting distance,
he stopped Spraddle, took a good, long aim at the coyote, and fired.
The ball kicked up the dust several feet in advance of the coyote,
which, with another howl, this time one of derision, as it seemed to
Dick, turned and trotted away.
"That was a bum shot," muttered Dick. "I'm glad Ted or Stella did not
see it. Better luck next time."
The coyote ran a short distance, then stopped and looked over its
shoulder to see if Dick was following, and, seeing that he was, took up
its lope again.
It had got some distance from Dick, when, on the top of another rise,
it stopped again, and Dick heard once more its luring cry.
It seemed to be an invitation to follow him. Dick had not paid any
attention to the direction in which he was going, and had kept no track
of time.
That he was following game, and that he intended to get it if it took
all day, was all he thought of. Soon the coyote stopped again, and
looked at Dick in a tantalizing sort of way, and again Dick approached
it cautiously.
When he thought he was within range, he raised his Remington, and,
taking a long, deliberate aim, fired. Again he missed. But he had the
satisfaction of seeing that the ball had struck the earth several feet
nearer the coyote than the first.
The coyote realized it, too, for he did not wait for another invitation,
but started on his way in a hurry, with Dick riding pell-mell after him.
Dick for the first time realized that the day was going when he noticed
the long shadow cast by himself and the pony on the prairie sod. He had
not the slightest idea how far he had come, and there crept into his
mind a sort of dread.
He pulled Spraddle down to a walk, and looked about him. Behind him
there was no trace of the cow camp, nothing but the everlasting rise and
fall of the prairie.
But ahead was the ragged line of the blue mountains. These he knew to be
the Wichita Mountains, for, although he had never seen them before, he
had heard the boys talking about them in camp.
Then he saw the coyote on a hill a little ways ahead, looking at him in
the most aggravating way. The coyote's lips were curled back from his
teeth in a contemptuous sort of a smile, it seemed to Dick, and as he
started forward again the coyote threw up its head and actually laughed
at him.
That settled it with Dick. No coyote that ever trotted the plains could
laugh at him, but as this thought came to him he felt the dread of being
lost on the prairie, or even having to stay alone in this waste all
night.
Dick had heard the boys talk of the danger of being alone at night, for
there were wolves and other animals that would daunt a man, to say
nothing of a small boy.
He thought he would follow the coyote only long enough to get another
shot at him, and then retrace his way back to the camp. By putting
Spraddle through his paces he ought to be able to reach it before dark.
So he set forth again in the wake of the coyote, which was becoming more
and more aggravating every minute. Suddenly the coyote disappeared
altogether. It had done this before when it had gone down into the
trough between two of the great, rolling swales of the prairie, but
always it had come into sight again in a few minutes.
This time, however, it did not, and Dick wondered why.
In a few minutes he understood why, for he found himself at the edge of
a coulee which had been washed deep by the storms of many winters.
Dick looked up and down the coulee for the wolf, and saw a form, gray
and lithe, slinking among the bowlders with which it was filled. Dick
forced Spraddle down the steep bank of the coulee, and was soon at the
bottom.
Hastily he set after the coyote, but suddenly stopped, for a man stepped
from behind a shoulder of rock and clay and caught his bridle.
Spraddle stopped so quickly that Dick was almost unseated. But he soon
recovered himself, and stared in amazement at the man who had thus
stopped him.
He was an Indian.
Dick had often seen Indians in the towns through which the broncho boys
had passed, and occasionally they had come into the camps they had
established on the drive of the herd up from Texas.
But this was the first time Dick had ever come in contact with an Indian
when he was alone. For a moment his heart stopped beating, for he was
afraid.
"How?" grunted the Indian.
It was all Dick could do to reply with a feeble, quavering "How?"
Many times around the camp fire, with the boys all about, when Bud was
telling one of his tales of Indians, Dick had thought what he would do
if he ever came in contact with a real, live, sure-enough redskin, and
always he had thought how brave he would be. But now that he had
actually met one, he felt his nerve ooze away.
However, the Indian was not aware of it, for Dick had a way of keeping
his feelings to himself, and he seldom showed whether he was surprised
or angry, although he never hesitated to let his friends know his
pleasure at their kindness, or gratitude for what they did for him.
He was looking at the Indian steadily, taking stock of him, and this is
what he saw: A broad, dirty face, in which burned two small, narrow
eyes. The cheek bones were prominent, and on each one was a spot of red
paint. The long, black, coarse hair was braided with pieces of otter
fur, and covered with an old cavalry cap, in which was stuck a crow's
wing feather, and around his neck hung a small, round pocket mirror
attached to a red string, by way of ornament.
The Indian wore a dirty cotton shirt and a pair of brown overalls, and
his feet were covered with green moccasins, decorated with small tubes
of tin, which jingled every time he took a step.
A belt and holster hung at his hip, and the handle of a Colt forty-four
was within easy reach.
"White papoose where go?" asked the Indian, showing a row of sharpened
teeth.
"Hunt coyote," replied Dick, in a voice that trembled.
"Heap fool. No catch coyote," said the Indian, reaching over and lifting
Dick's Remington from the saddle.
He sighted it, turned it around in his hand, and then coolly slung it
over his shoulder.
"Here, give that to me," said Dick sturdily. With this act of theft all
his courage came back to him. No dirty Indian should have the rifle
Stella had given him.
But the Indian only grinned.
"Me heap brave," said the Indian. "Me Pokopokowo."
He looked at Dick as if he expected the boy to be deeply impressed.
"I don't care who you are. I want my rifle," cried Dick.
"Papoose heap fool. Get off pony." The Indian was scowling now, and
looked very ferocious, and once more Dick's courage oozed. The Indian
did not seem to be a bit frightened.
As Dick was slow in descending from the saddle, the Indian grasped him
by the arm and jerked him to the ground.
Dick was as angry as he ever got, but was sensible enough to know that
he could not fight the Indian, and that all he could do was to escape as
rapidly as possible.
He turned and ran up the coulee.
But he had not gone far when he was overtaken, and knocked flat with a
cuff on the side of the head. As he rose slowly with his head ringing,
Pokopokowo grasped him by the shoulder, and bound his hands behind him.
In a moment he was back at the pony's side, and was thrown upon its
back, but not in the saddle. This was occupied by the Indian, who
directed it down the coulee, and in the direction of the mountains.
Dick Fosdick was a prisoner.