THROUGH THE BUSH.
Oscar Gleeson the cowboy, who appeared at such a timely juncture for
Avon Burnet, when he was hard pressed by his Comanche pursuer, took the
young man on his mustang behind him, as the reader will recall, and set
out for the camp, several miles distant.
Despite the fears of the youth for the safety of his friends in the
cabin, the veteran ranchman was more concerned for the fifty-odd cattle
that had chosen to stampede themselves, and were at that moment dashing
over the prairie for no one could tell where.
But inasmuch as the captain had sent for help, it must be given,
regardless of other matters, and the easy swing of the mustang continued
until the two arrived at the fire that had been kindled in a small
valley, where the provision wagon was stationed with the other animals
tethered near, ready for the start that was set for an early hour the
next morning.
Most of the men had stretched themselves out in the wagon to sleep, for
a hard and arduous campaign was before them, in which they were likely
to be compelled to keep their horses for fifteen or twenty hours at a
stretch, changing them when necessary and catching snatches of slumber
as chance presented.
But the unaccountable stampede of a portion of the herd had roused all,
and, at the moment "Ballyhoo," as he was known to his friends, reined
up, preparations were under way for a general start after the absent
ones.
"Where's Madstone and Shackaye?" asked Gleeson, looking down in the
faces of the group, dimly shown in the firelight, and noticing that two
of their number were missing.
"They started out for the cattle a little while ago," replied one of the
ranchmen, "thinking as how you might not be able to manage them."
"I'd fetched 'em back all right," replied Gleeson, "if it hadn't been
for some other business that turned up."
"What's that?"
"The reds are down at the cabin raising the mischief; a lot of 'em got
after Baby here, and I had to drop one, and then take him on my hoss and
bring him along with me."
"What was he doing out at night on foot?" was the natural query of
another of the cowboys.
"Wal, he was putting in the tallest kind of running, when I set eyes on
him; if he had kept it up, I don't believe I would have been able to
overhaul him myself."
This remark caused several of the grinning ranchmen to turn toward Avon,
who had slipped off the horse and laughed as he made answer:
"I got into the worst scrape of my life," he explained, "and it would
have gone hard with me if Ballyhoo hadn't turned up just as he did. The
reason I was abroad was because Uncle Dohm thought it best I should come
to camp after you fellows."
"What's the matter with _him_?" asked one, who, despite the brief
explanation already given, could not understand how it was their leader
and his family were in special danger, even if their home was surrounded
by Comanches.
"The folks could stand them off for a week, or month, if they had water
and provisions, if it wasn't for one thing; the roof of the cabin is as
dry as tinder, and the captain knows they intend to set fire to it. If
they do, nothing can save the folks, for the building will burn down
before we can get there."
This was putting a new face on matters, and the ranchmen realized that
more serious work was required of them than rounding up the strayed
cattle. Captain Shirril was too brave a man to feel needless alarm, and
the fact that he had sent for help was proof that there was urgent need
of it.
Two of the party were gone and might not be back for several hours.
That, however, was of no account, since, including young Burnet, seven
were left, and not one of them would have hesitated, with his
companions, to attack a party of Comanches two or three times as
numerous as that which had laid siege to the captain's cabin.
These men were fully armed with Winchester, revolvers, and knives, they
had no superiors as horsemen, they were accustomed to the rough out-door
life, and it may be said that all welcomed the chance of a stirring
brush with the red men that had been hovering in their vicinity so long,
but who took care to avoid anything in the nature of a fair stand-up
fight.
There were horses for all, including Avon Burnet, and, in a very brief
space of time, the men were in the saddle and heading toward the home of
their leader.
It would be hard to find a company of cowboys or plainsmen whose members
are not known by distinctive names, generally based on some personal
peculiarity. Thus young Burnet, as we have stated, was nearly always
addressed as "Baby," because of his youth. Oscar Gleeson, one of the
most skilful and famous cowmen of the Southwest, was addressed as
"Ballyhoo," for the reason that, whenever he indulged in a shout or
loud call, he used that exclamation.
Hauser Files, the associate of Gleeson, once took part in a game of
baseball in San Antonio, during which he received the elusive sphere on
the point of his nose. He withdrew in disgust from the amusement, and
was always known thereafter as Short Stop.
Gleeson and Files were between thirty and forty years of age, but Ward
Burrell, from the lowlands of Arkansas, had rounded his half-century of
existence, acquiring during the journey such a peculiar complexion that
he was known as Old Bronze. Andy Wynwood, from the same State, was
younger. One of his most stirring narratives related to the manner in
which he escaped hydrophobia, after being bitten by a rabid wolf. He
claimed that the only thing that saved him was the use of a madstone.
Whether he was mistaken or not is not for us to say, but there was
certainly no mistake about the origin of the name of Madstone, which
clung to him forever afterward.
Antonio Nunez, the Mexican, was the "Greaser," Zach Collis from New
Mexico, who was also more than fifty years of age, was "Rickety,"
because of a peculiarity in his gait, while George Garland was "Jersey
George," for no other reason than that he was born in the State of New
Jersey.
The remaining member of Captain Shirril's party was Shackaye, a Comanche
Indian, about a year older than Avon Burnet, concerning whom we shall
soon have something to say further.
Captain Shirril was right when he expressed his belief that the arrival
of his friends would be in the nature of one of those wild western
cyclones, which have grown quite familiar of late in the West and
Southwest.
The cowboys swung along at an easy gallop, until near the cabin. They
wanted to arrive without giving the Comanches more notice than was
inevitable; but, when they knew their approach could be concealed no
longer, they drove their spurs into the flanks of their ponies, gave
utterance to their wild whoops, and went forward on a dead run.
Before this, the Indians must have suspected that matters were not
progressing right. They were aware that one or more white men were in
the vicinity, and as a matter of course knew of the Texan camp, only a
few miles away. If the cowboys had not learned what was going on from
the reports of the guns, they must soon learn it from the whites, who
were not only near the building, but who managed to keep out of their
clutches.
Not only that, but the red men had already lost several of their best
warriors, and having been repeatedly baffled in their attempts to fire
the building, were considering a withdrawal, at the moment they were
joined by their comrade, who received such unmerited mercy from Mrs.
Shirril.
The shouts, firing of guns, and tramp of the horses settled the question
off-hand. There was an instant scattering to their own steeds, upon
whose backs they vaulted, and then, turning their heads toward the
mesquite bush, they sent them flying away at breakneck speed.
But the Texans were not to be disappointed of their entertainment in
that style. Catching a glimpse of the scurrying horsemen, they were
after them like so many thunderbolts, firing their pistols and rifles,
even when there was no chance of hitting anything. There was no time to
aim, and they took the chances of so much powder accomplishing
something, when burned with ardor and eagerness.
Thus it came about that, within a minute after the arrival of our
friends, they were out of sight again in the brush, doing their utmost
to teach the marauders a lesson that would keep them forever away from
that neighborhood.
"Ballyhoo" fixed his eye on one of the red men, who seemed to be at the
rear. He was in fact the very fellow whose life had been spared by Mrs.
Shirril. Arriving on the ground at the last moment, he was obliged to
run several rods before reaching his horse; but he did it quickly, and,
turning his head toward the bush, dashed after his companions and was
almost upon their heels.
"You're my game!" exclaimed Gleeson, banging away with his revolver at
him, but, so far as he could see, without effect.
The mesquite bush was not vigorous enough to offer much obstruction to
the mustangs, though it was much more objectionable than the open plain.
The horses could plunge through it, almost as if it were so much tall
grass, besides which it gave something of shelter to the Comanches, who
were now fleeing for their lives.
Flinging themselves forward on the necks of their steeds, who were as
fleet as those of their pursuers, with the brush swaying on all sides,
they became such bad targets that only chance or wonderful skill could
tumble them to the earth.
Gleeson was so close to the savage he had singled out as his special
target, and his own steed coursed so swiftly through the bush, that it
looked as if he would down his man. The fugitive was hardly visible, as
he stretched forward, not upon his horse's neck, but along the further
side and almost under it. About the only part of his person within reach
was his foot, the toes of which were curved over the spine of his
animal, and his left arm, which clasped the neck from below.
It was useless, therefore, for the Texan to try any sort of aim, and
when he discharged his pistol now and then, until the chambers were
emptied, it was with the same hope as before, that by accident one of
the missiles would reach home.
But this little amusement was not to be entirely on the side of the
pursuer. Suddenly there was a flash beneath the neck of the mustang, a
resounding report, and the bullet grazed the temple of the enthusiastic
cowboy.
"Well done, old fellow," he muttered, shoving his smaller weapon in his
holster, and bringing his Winchester round in front; "it makes things
more lively when they are not one-sided."
He bent forward, and, sighting as best he could, fired. A whinnying
scream rang out in the confusion, and the mustang plunged forward on his
knees and rolled over on his side, stone dead because of the bullet that
had bored its way through his brain.
Such a mishap would have been fatal to the majority of riders, but the
wonderful activity of the Comanche saved him from harm because of the
fall of his animal. He struck the ground on his feet, and showed a
tremendous burst of speed, as he took up the interrupted flight of his
horse, keeping straight on, without darting to the right or left.
"I've got you now," exclaimed the exultant Texan, holding the nose of
his animal toward him.
Astonishing as was the fleetness of the Comanche, it could not equal
that of the intelligent mustang, that knew what was needed from him. He
wanted no guidance from his rider, who was therefore left free to
manipulate his Winchester as best he could with the brush whipping about
him.
All at once the gun was brought to his shoulder, but, before it was
fired, the Indian dropped his head, dodged to one side, and vanished as
if by magic.
Where he had gone was a mystery to the Texan, whose steed checked
himself so suddenly that the rider was nearly thrown from his saddle.
There was so much noise and confusion that Gleeson could not hear
clearly, but something caused him to turn his head, under the impression
that he detected a movement near at hand.
He was just in time to catch a glimpse of the Comanche, darting through
the bush in a direction almost the opposite of that which he had been
following so long.
"How the mischief did you get there?" was the astonished exclamation of
the Texan, as he again brought his rifle to a level.
At the moment of doing so, he comprehended how it all came about. The
Comanche had darted directly under the mustang, doing so with a
quickness and skill that baffled the eye of his foe. Few, even of his
own people, could have performed the exploit which he executed with
perfection.
Ballyhoo Gleeson lowered his gun.
"You can go! I'll be hanged if you don't deserve to get away after
_that_ trick!"