THUNDERBOLT.
Avon Burnet knew that when the cattlemen reached a point within a half
mile of his home, and the fire had not yet been started, that all danger
was over. It was beyond the power of the assailants, with the slight
time at their command, to harm the defenders.
Then naturally his thoughts turned to his mustang Thunderbolt, that had
been left in the mesquite bush with the animal belonging to his uncle.
The chances were that the Comanches had captured both, but he was not
without hope regarding his own pony.
The steed was so intelligent that he was certain to resist the approach
of a stranger at night, especially if he were an Indian. The redskins
were so occupied in trying to encompass the death of the Texan and his
family, besides being well supplied with their own steeds, that they
were not likely to put forth much effort to capture a single animal.
The youth was as eager as his companions to do his part in driving off
the red men, but the chance was denied him. The spare horse which he
rode, and which he put to his best pace, could not hold his own with the
rest, and consequently he arrived at the rear of the procession.
He glanced right and left, but caught the outlines of but one figure,
whose identity he suspected, because he was standing in front of the
cabin door.
"Helloa, uncle, is that you?"
"Yes, Avon; I see you have arrived; I hope you suffered no harm."
"Matters were stirring for a time, but I am safe."
At this moment, Mrs. Shirril and Dinah, recognizing the voice, opened
the door, the captain inviting them to come outside.
The fire was now burning so briskly on the hearth that the interior was
well illuminated, so that their figures were plainly stamped against
the yellow background.
"There isn't anything left for you to do," said the captain, "so you may
as well dismount."
The firing, shouts, and yells came from a remote point in the bush, and
were rapidly receding.
Avon came down from his saddle, kissed his aunt, shook hands with his
uncle, and spoke kindly to Dinah, who was proud of the handsome fellow.
"Uncle," said he briskly, "what do you suppose, has become of your horse
Jack and Thunderbolt?"
"Taken off by the Comanches, or killed."
"I suppose that is probable, but I shall make a search for them."
Believing this could be done better on foot, he left the pony in charge
of his relative and walked hastily into the bush.
"I don't suppose there is much hope, but I have an idea that maybe
Thunderbolt has been wounded and needs looking after. The bullets have
been flying pretty thickly during the last few minutes, and for that
matter," he added, pausing a few seconds to listen, "they are not
through yet."
On the edge of the bush he encountered a horseman, whose voice, when
hailed, showed that he was "Jersey."
"What's the trouble?" asked Avon, pausing to exchange words with his
friend.
"Aint nothing more to do," was the response; "the varmints are
travelling faster than this horse can go, though he was one of their
animals."
"How was that?"
"I got it in the neck--that is my critter did. I had one of them pretty
well pinned, when he fired from under his horse's belly and my pony went
down, as dead as a doornail. I came mighty nigh being mashed under him,
but I dropped the other chap, for all I couldn't see him when I drew
bead. I 'spose it was a chance shot, but the minute he went off his
horse got so bewildered he didn't know what to do with himself. While he
was trotting about, I catched him, put my bridle on him without trouble,
and here I am, Baby."
"Sure he isn't one of ours?" asked Avon, approaching still nearer and
looking him over as well as he could in the darkness.
"He is now, but he wasn't fifteen minutes ago."
Knowing that he was not Thunderbolt, the youth was hopeful that it might
prove Jack; but it took only a minute to learn that Jersey was right.
The steed had been brought to the spot by one of the Comanches and was a
fine animal, though so much time passed before the Texan secured him
that he was simply prudent in not trying to follow after the red men,
who were far beyond reach.
Jersey laughed when Avon told him his errand, but said he would not be
much surprised if he was successful, for the reasons which have been
already stated.
There had been hot work in the bush, for when the cattlemen charged the
Comanches, they did so with all the vigor of their nature. These Indians
were among the most persistent thieves in Texas, and, as the reader
knows, the man who attempts to run off another's cattle or horses
commits a more flagrant crime in that section of our Union than he does
when he seeks the owners' lives.
Avon bore to the left, leaving the principal theatre of the scrimmage,
and had not reached the border of the mesquite when he almost stumbled
over a fine horse that lay on its side, without a particle of life.
"I wonder whether that is Thunderbolt," he said, with a feeling of
dread, as he bent over to examine the body.
Drawing a rubber safe from his pocket, he struck a match, and by the
tiny flame looked at the head and side of the dead steed.
One scrutinizing glance was enough; the body was not that of his own
favorite, but of Jack, belonging to his uncle.
"Poor Jack!" murmured the youth with a thrill of sympathy, "you have
been on many a stirring campaign, but you will go on no more. I wonder
how it was you met your death."
It looked as if the mustang had been stricken by a stray shot, that may
have been fired by a friend, for it was not to be supposed that a
Comanche would have killed him purposely, when he would have been a
valuable prize.
The bridle and saddle were in the cabin, so that the owner had simply
lost one of his horses, his supply of extra ones being sufficient to
replace him without trouble.
"I am afraid there is little chance of finding Thunderbolt alive," added
the youth, as he resumed his search.
He made his way through the bush with the utmost care, for, although the
Indians had been sharply repulsed, he was aware of the custom of those
people, when any of their number are killed or wounded. The survivors
put forth every exertion to take them away with them, having the horror
of their race against any falling into the hands of their enemies. It
was more than likely that when the sun rose not a body would be anywhere
in sight. Even the warrior who had run him so hard, only to succumb to
the rifle of Ballyhoo Gleeson, would not be forgotten by his former
comrades.
Advancing with the utmost caution, he heard a rustling in the bush in
front. Quite sure that it was caused by his enemies, he stood a minute
or two listening, uncertain whether to advance or withdraw. But he found
the parties were receding, and he ventured to steal forward in order to
gain a closer sight of them.
A short walk took him to the edge of the mesquite, where the additional
light offered a partial view of a strange scene.
Two able-bodied warriors were supporting a third between them. The
wounded one was able to walk slowly with help, but it was apparent that
he was badly hurt, for he leaned heavily upon his support, who stopped
at intervals to give him rest.
Finally the party halted, and one of them emitted a tremulous but sharp
whistle. The signal was for a couple of their own horses, which loomed
to sight in the gloom, as they advanced in obedience to the command.
Fearful of being discovered, if he left the bush, Avon kept in the
shadow and watched the party. His view was indistinct, but it was easy
to see that the two warriors were lifting their wounded companion upon
the back of one of the mustangs. When this was done a Comanche took his
seat behind him, so as to hold him in place by passing an arm around his
waist. Those people had no need of saddles, their accoutrement
consisting of the single thong fastened around the head of the animal,
and by which he could be guided at the will of his master. Indeed, many
of the Comanches ride without any such aid at all, their intelligent
animals being obedient to their voices, and seeming to comprehend their
wishes as if by intuition.
Soon after the mustangs and their riders faded from view in the gloom,
the horses on a moderate walk. They would have proven easy victims to a
couple of the cattlemen, had they appeared at this moment, but, much as
the fiery ranchmen despised and hated this tribe, it may be doubted
whether there was one of their number who would have taken advantage of
such an opportunity.
The Texans were ready to fight at all times, but there is a chivalry in
their composition which prevents their taking an unfair advantage of a
foe. They would have allowed the trio to ride away unmolested, which is
just what the Comanches would not have done, had their situations been
reversed.
Avon Burnet was considering whether it was worth while to push his
search further, when, to his surprise, an exclamation broke upon his
ear, in the form of a vigorous "_Oofh!_" as nearly as it can be put in
letters.
He knew it came from the lips of an Indian, who was not far off, though
in a different direction from that taken by the warriors and their
wounded comrade. It was more to the south, though the penetrating glance
he cast in that direction failed to reveal the individual.
But it was heard again, and now, when he looked, he was able to catch
the dim outlines of a horse, walking slowly toward him.
"What's the matter with the Comanches to-night?" the puzzled youth asked
himself; "they seem to be up to all manner of tricks."
As the horseman gradually became more distinct, he saw that the rider
was in an odd quandary. He was striving to turn the animal in the
opposite direction, but he would not obey. He flung up his head,
sometimes reared angrily, and, though he maintained a walk, kept pushing
straight on toward the bush, despite the savage attempts of the rider to
make him wheel about.
A suspicion flashed through the mind of Avon. The man was an Indian
beyond question, and the horse could not be his own, for, if it were, he
would have obeyed him without urging. It must be one of the Texan horses
that he was trying to steal.
The youth uttered the familiar signal by which he was able at all times
to bring Thunderbolt to his side, when he was within hearing. The
mustang replied with a glad whinny, and broke into a trot straight for
his master. It was indeed his prized animal, with a Comanche warrior on
his back.