THE FIVE CENT WIDE AWAKE LIBRARY
_Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by FRANK
TOUSEY, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.
C._
_Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter._
No. 565.
{ COMPLETE. }
FRANK TOUSEY, PUBLISHER, 34 & 36 NORTH MOORE STREET, N. Y.
NEW YORK, July 11, 1883. ISSUED EVERY WEDNESDAY.
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{ 5 CENTS. }
Vol. I
CUSTER'S LAST SHOT:
OR,
THE BOY TRAILER OF THE LITTLE HORN
A Romance of the Terrible Ride to Death.
By COL. J. M. TRAVERS.
[Illustration]
The subscription price for THE WIDE AWAKE LIBRARY for the year 1882
will be $2.50 per year; $1.25 per 6 months, post paid. Address FRANK
TOUSEY, PUBLISHER, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Box 2730.
CUSTER'S LAST SHOT;
OR,
The Boy Trailer of the Little Horn.
A ROMANCE OF THE TERRIBLE RIDE TO DEATH.
By Col. J. M. TRAVERS.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE YELLOW-HAIRED CAVALRY CHIEF ON THE WAR TRAIL.
CHAPTER II. SITTING BULL'S GANG OF RED MARAUDERS.
CHAPTER III. THE RECKLESS GALLOP IN THE JAWS OF DEATH.
CHAPTER IV. BRAVE CUSTER'S LAST SHOT.
CHAPTER V. HOW THE COMMAND PAID FOR IMMORTALITY.
CHAPTER VI. BOLLY WHERRIT'S BATTLE ON A SMALL SCALE.
CHAPTER VII. ROBBERS OF THE DEAD.
CHAPTER VIII. PANDY ELLIS' HOTTEST SCRIMMAGE.
CHAPTER IX. RED GOLIATH, THE GIGANTIC HERCULES.
CHAPTER X. ADELE.
CHAPTER XI. HOSKINS PAYS NATURE'S DEBT--ABOUT THE FIRST HE EVER DID.
CHAPTER XII. WHITE THUNDER ON THE RAMPAGE.
CHAPTER XIII. RENO'S RIFLE-PITS ON THE RIVER BLUFFS.
CHAPTER XIV. THE BOY TRAILER AT WORK.
CHAPTER XV. A MAN WHO NEVER BROOKED AN INSULT.
CHAPTER XVI. WHAT FATE HAS ORDAINED.
CHAPTER I.
THE YELLOW-HAIRED CAVALRY CHIEF ON THE WAR TRAIL.
"Hold up yer hands thar, ye varmints. Ef his hair air gray I kin
swar this chile's hand air as steddy and his eye as sure az they war
twenty years ago. Bein' sich a heathen, I reckon ye don't know that
wine improves wid age; ther older it air, ther better, an' I s'pose
thar's a likeness between wine an' me, az ther feller sez. Keep them
hands steddy, my red cock-o'-the-walk. Now, I'm goin' ter caterkize ye
'cordin' ter my own style. Fust and foremost, who air ye?"
The buckskin-clad hunter held his long rifle nicely poised, and the
bead at the end was in a line with the object of his speech.
Under such peculiar circumstances the warrior (for his color proclaimed
him an Indian) could do no less than remain quiet, although from his
evident uneasiness it was plainly seen that he did so under protest.
Even in this sad predicament, the boasting qualities of his race seemed
to be predominant.
"Ugh!" he ejaculated, slapping his dusky chest vigorously, "me big
chief. Hunter must hear of Yellow Hawk. Big chief, great brave. Take
much scalps. Hab hunter's in little while. What name? ugh!"
The leather-clad ranger gave a laugh that was not all a laugh, insomuch
that it appeared to be a loud chuckle coming up from his boots.
His thin face was a little wrinkled, and the tuft of hair upon his chin
of the same iron-gray color as the scalp mentioned by the redskin;
but no one would be apt to judge, taking into consideration the man's
strength and stubborn endurance, that he was over seventy years of age.
Yet such was the actual fact; for some fifty years this ranger had
roamed the wild West from the frozen region of the polar seas to the
torrid climes of the Isthmus; and everywhere had his name been reckoned
a tower of honesty, strength and power.
Though probably few men had had half of his experience among the
redskins of the mountains and prairies, there was something so
charmingly fresh in the remark of his red acquaintance that made the
ranger more than smile.
"Purty good fur ye, Yaller Hawk. I won't furgit yer name, and by hokey
I reckon I'll plug ye yet, ef things keep on ther way they seem set on
going. Az ter my name, thet's another goose. I don't s'pose ye ever
hearn tell o' such a cuss az Pandy Ellis, now did ye?"
Again that queer chuckle, for the Indian had slunk back, his black eyes
fastened upon the ranger's face, with a sort of dazed expression.
It appeared as though Pandy was known to him by report, if not
personally.
"Ugh! Sharp shot! Heavy knife! Big chief! Ugh!"
"I reckon," returned the old ranger dryly.
Half a moment passed, during which neither of them spoke.
Pandy's grim features had resumed their usual aspect, and there was
actually a scowl upon his face as he gazed steadily at the redskin.
"Chief," said he at length, "fur I reckon I kin b'lieve ye that fur
an' say ye air a chief, I'm going ter ax ye sum questions, an' I want
square answers to every wun o' them. Fust o' all, what'd ye shoot at me
fur?" and Pandy glanced at his shoulder, where a little tear told where
the bullet had gone.
"Me see through bushes; tink was Blackfoot squaw. Ugh!"
"Yas, I reckon. Werry plausible, az ther feller sez, but two thin.
Wal, we'll let that pass, seein' az no harm war done. I forgive ye,
chief. Receive a benediction, my red brother. Let that lie pass ter yer
credit. Now, my painted scorpion, look me full in the eye. _What hez
Sitting Bull done wid my pard?_"
This was uttered in a slow, but emphatic tone.
The Indian either could not or would not understand; he shook his head.
Pandy took a step forward, and his rifle was again raised menacingly.
"Looky hyar, ye lump o' dough, I'm inquirin' respectin' Bolly Wherrit,
the big rover o' thar plains. White Thunder, do ye understand?"
Whether it was the hunter's threatening attitude that scared the
warrior, or that he suddenly realized what was meant, can never be made
manifest; certain it is he remembered just at this critical period.
"Ugh! mean White Thunder; him dead."
"Another lie. Now, redskin, how did he come ter die?" asked Pandy, who,
although not believing this assertion, began to feel uneasy.
"Wagh! eat too much. Dine with Sitting Bull. No hab good tings
afore; stuff full and burst. Run all ober. Ugh!" grunted this savage
composedly.
"Thunder! thet air rich. How the ole man'll larf wen he hears it.
Allers prided himself on bein' a light feeder; eat az much az a bird,
him that I've seen git away wid a hull haunch o' venison while I war
chawin' the tongue. Now, Yaller Hawk, allow me ter say I don't believe
a word ye've sed; may be all is az true az Scripture, but I wouldn't
like ter swar ye. I'll tell ye what I think. Bolly air a prisoner in
yer camp. I tole him twar a fool's errand he started on, but a willing
man must hev his way, az the feller sez, so he started widout me. I'm
goin' into yer camp; tell Sitting Bull that I'll see him widin a week,
and listen, Yaller Hawk. Does ther eagle car fur its mate? will thar
she bar fight fur her cubs? Wal, I love Bolly Wherrit; he air my life,
all I care about livin' fur. Mark my words, redskin; if any harm comes
ter White Thunder, I swar Sitting Bull and his chiefs shall _go under_.
Do yer hear? Then don't fail to report. That's all; ye can retire now,
az ther cat sed when it had ther mouse by ther nape o' ther neck. Come,
git, absquatulate, vamose the ranche."
An Indian's code is "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
Yellow Hawk had attempted the ranger's life, and he expected the latter
to take his in just retaliation.
Therefore, he was not a little surprised at the words of his enemy, nor
did his amazement retard his progress.
A moment and he was beyond the range of vision, having vanished among
the trees.
Pandy Ellis, the trapper chief, was alone. He did not stay in his
exposed position long, however, knowing full well the treacherous
character of the foes he had to deal with, but plunging among the
undergrowth himself, in a direction almost opposite to the one taken by
the Indian, he made his way along, aiming for a certain spot.
This proved to be a small creek, on the further bank of which his horse
was tethered.
Crossing over, the ranger mounted and rode away. The animal he
bestrode was no mustang, but a tall, broad-breasted horse, capable
not only of carrying heavy burdens and making fast time, but also of
keeping up his pace.
Many years ago Pandy owned a quaint steed called Old Nancy, and in
memory of that faithful equine friend had this animal been named.
Reaching the prairie, the ranger dashed out upon the open space and
cantered along toward the north.
The grass was already high, and dotted here and there with beautiful
wild flowers, that seemed to make the scene one of enchantment.
His gray eyes swept both the horizon and the ground before him with
customary caution.
All at once the ranger brought Nancy to an abrupt halt, threw himself
from the saddle and bent down to examine tracks in the soft earth.
"Glory! kin I b'lieve my eyes? A hull army o' 'em, az I'm a sinner.
Ther report I heerd must be true then. My yallar-haired chief air on
the war-trail, and when Custer gits on ther rampage thar's blood on
ther moon."