BOLLY WHERRIT'S BATTLE ON A SMALL SCALE.
When Bolly Wherrit threw himself upon the guard at his prison lodge, he
was without a single weapon.
Besides this his hands and wrists were considerably lacerated by the
cruel glass that had been the means of his gaining freedom, but he had
no doubt regarding his ability to overcome the fellow, especially as he
had the advantage of a surprise.
Finding himself so suddenly seized by the throat, the guard turned like
a flash and attempted to use his arm, thinking to get the hunter in a
bear's clasp, and then hold him till assistance came.
He counted without his host, however, as many folks are in the habit of
doing.
Raised in the school of nature, very nearly the whole of his life
being spent upon the plains in active warfare with the savage denizens
thereof, it was not likely that Bolly would in his declining years lose
the prompt discretion and agility that had marked his whole checkered
career.
Perhaps that Indian thought a thunderbolt had seized hold of him, that
is, if he took time to think at all, which is rather questionable, and
in truth he would not have been far from the truth.
The way in which Bolly shook him by means of the hold upon his throat
would have reminded one of a terrier and a rat.
So violent was the motion that the unlucky fellow's head was in danger
of coming off, and when Bolly in the end dashed his clenched fist full
in the red face, it ended the matter, for when he released his clasp
the man dropped to the ground perfectly insensible.
To stoop over the fallen brave and transfer the fellow's weapon to his
own person, was, for the ranger, but the work of a moment.
Quite a fine-looking rifle, of a modern pattern, a long, ugly-looking
knife, a revolver and some ammunition were thus appropriated without
compunction, for Bolly believed in the adage that "to the victor belong
the spoils." Besides, had not this man or his friends made themselves
owners of his articles of warfare without saying so much as "by your
leave."
There were very few men left in the village; for one to remain idle
when such deadly work was in progress at two separate points would have
been a decided disgrace.
A dozen cavalrymen dashing in at the northern and western end of the
village could have carried everything before them.
Not forty yards away from the prison lodge, some ten or twelve warriors
were clustered, being wounded braves unable to take part in the great
battle.
So interested were these worthies in what was passing before their eyes
(for, standing on a little elevation, they could see the fight with
Reno now drawing to an end, and the gallop to death of brave Custer
and his men), that the little episode in their rear did not serve to
attract their attention.
It was only when the ranger arose to his feet, after arming himself
by means of the late guard's weapons, that one of the wounded
braves happened to catch sight of him, and, giving the alarm to his
companions, the whole of them started forward with a yell.
If they were to be deprived of a share in both of the fierce battles,
why could they not get up a little affair of their own, a private
entertainment, so to speak, whereby each individual participant on
their side might share the excitement.
Unfortunately for them Bolly Wherrit proved too willing, and then again
he wanted all the fun on his side of the house.
"Now fur sumpin rich. Calculate I kin wipe out them reds like a chalk
mark. Old bruiser in front thar, take keer o' yerself."
The rifle proved to be a good one in the right hands, for as the report
sounded, one of the approaching braves sprang wildly forward with a
convulsive drawing up of the legs, and was met half way by death.
Then the revolver commenced its fearful work.
As man after man lay down never to rise again, Bolly burst out into a
wild, reckless laugh.
When the chambers were empty, only four men stood erect, and they
looked as if they wished themselves anywhere but in their present
situation.
Nothing daunted by the force of numbers, Bolly sprang towards them,
holding his empty rifle in one hand and the long knife in the other.
Some stern duty appeared to call these four brave fellows in as many
different directions, just then; at any rate they did not wait for the
arrival of White Thunder, but dashed wildly away, forgetful alike of
their wounded dignity, and their late dignified wounds. A shout from
the old hunter caused them to expedite matters, and Bolly laughed at
the ludicrous figures they cut.
A shrill neigh close by caused him to start. It was a well-remembered
sound, and the hunter quickly turned his face in the direction from
whence it came.
A horse, saddled and bridled, was fastened to a stake driven into the
ground in front of a tent, and Bolly saw that it was his own lost
steed. The animal had recognized its master, and had given token of its
love for him.
With a few bounds Bolly was at the side of Black Bess.
As his hand fell caressingly upon the noble mare's mane, the skin
serving as a door to the lodge was swept suddenly aside, and the next
instant Bolly found himself face to face with Blue Horse, a noted
chief, and an old enemy of his.
What this individual was doing in his lodge while his comrades fought
and bled will, perhaps, never be known, and does not really affect the
course of my narrative.
All that I wish to be positive about is the fact that he was there, and
that for almost fully sixty seconds the foes glared at each other.
"Ugh! White Thunder! Blue Horse no forget ears," grunted the chief, as
he put his hand to his belt and drew a revolver.
"Remember that ole scrimmage, eh, chief? Wal, I reckon I cud give ye
another leetle reminder o' this happy occasion, seein' that yer is so
partic'lar 'bout it," and the ranger laughed in the Indian's face.
Blue Horse angrily raised his weapon, but considerately refrained from
firing. The reason of this clemency on his part was obvious.
Bolly held his empty revolver in his hand, and this had been thrown
with tremendous force against the chief's head, which, not being made
of iron, gave way, and the Sioux nation had to mourn the loss of
another leader.
Bolly secured the revolver of Blue Horse, and was thinking of searching
the village from one end to the other in order to accomplish the
strange mission that had brought him to this part of the country, when
a chorus of angry yells attracted his attention.
Upon investigation these were found to proceed from a score of mounted
red men who were dashing along towards him, having evidently been
attracted by the cries of the four wounded warriors, who had fled after
their little private amusement.
"Plague take the luck, I must git. Sich a good chance thrown away. Now,
ye kin bet high on't, Bolly Wherrit's goin' ter have his own rifle back
agin, an' resky that gal mighty soon. Whoa, Bess, whoa, old girl. Have
they been treatin' ye bad? Away now, an' make the dust fly!"
Faithful Black Bess needed no second invitation, but darted away like
an arrow shot from the bow, with Bolly swinging his rifle in the air,
and shouting defiance to those who followed after.
His first thought was to make for the river and join the combatants
on the other shore, but upon glancing across, such a mass of surging
humanity met his gaze that Bolly was actually appalled. Besides, his
pursuers were between himself and the water having come from that
direction.
"Tarnal death! but it looks hot over thar. Reckon it must be Custer,
for I swar no other man wud do sich a dare-devil thing. Ef they get
outer thet hole, then I'll guv the general credit fur a heap o'
smartness. Oh! yer imps o' Satan. 'Spect ter ketch me, hey? Wal, now
we'll see what the hoss has ter say 'bout thet," muttered Bolly.
Actions often speak louder than words; if Black Bess could not talk,
she certainly showed what she thought of the case by making a streak
that promised to carry the ranger out of sight very shortly.
The last the score of Sioux saw of him he was waving his old hat in an
affectionate farewell, and the exuberant shouts he gave utterance to
came faintly across the level ground.
Bolly made at once for the hills, which he reached in a short time.
Here we will leave the brave old ranger for a time, hatching up daring
plans to carry out his singular mission, and return once more to that
ravine of death where Custer and the last of his command fell beneath
the fury of the Sioux and their renegade friends.