PAWNEES
At this Ash Creek camp before the wagoners had unhitched their teams
there was a cordon around the corral made up of every man who could be
spared, and the cannon crews stood silently around their freshly primed
guns. The air of tenseness and expectancy pleased Woodson, for it was an
assurance that there would be no laxity about this night's watch. With
the animals staked as close to the wagons as practicable, which caused
some encroachments and several fist fights between jealous wagoners, the
fires soon were cooking supper for squads of men from the sentry line;
and as soon as all had eaten and the camp was not distracted by too many
duties, the cordon thinned until it was composed of a double watch.
Before dusk the animals were driven inside, secured by side-line
hobbles, which are much more effective than hobbling the forelegs, and
all gaps were closed as tightly as possible.
The evening shadows darkened and ran into blackness; the night wind
crept among the branches of the thin line of trees on both banks of the
creek and made soft soughings in the tall, thick grass; overhead the sky
first darkened and then grew lighter, shot with myriads of stars, which
gleamed as only prairie stars can; and among them, luminous and bright,
lay the Milky Way. The creek murmured in musical tones as it fretted at
some slight obstruction and all nature seemed to be at peace. Then
sounded the howl of a buffalo wolf, the gray killer of the plains, deep,
throaty, full, and followed by a quick slide up the scale with a ringing
note that the bluffs and mountains love to toss back and forth. Yet it
was somehow different. Woodson and his trapper aides, seated together
against a wagon, stirred and glanced sidewise at each other. Not one of
them had felt the reflex answer of his spine and hair; not one of them
had thrilled. A simple lack; but a most enlightening one.
Franklin bit into a plug of tobacco, pushed the mouthful into his cheek
with deft tongue, and crossed his legs the other way. "Hell!" he
growled. "Reckon we're in fer it."
"They jest can't git it _all_ in, kin they?" commented Zeb Houghton,
coming up.
"No," answered Tom Boyd. "They leave out th' best part o' it." He
glanced in the direction of the nearest fringe of trees, noisy
cottonwoods all, and shook his head. "We been havin' too fine a stretch
o' weather. Hear them trees? In two hours it'll be blowin' hard; an' I
kin feel th' rain already."
From the blackness of the creek there arose a series of short, sharp
barks, faster and faster, higher and higher, the lost-soul howl climbing
to a pitch that was sheer torture to some ears.
"Kiyote sassin' a gray," chuckled Zeb, ironically.
"'Upon what meat hath--'" began Tom, and checked the quotation. "He
oughter be tuckin' his tail atween his laigs an' streakin' fer th'
Platte; or mebby _he_ missed somethin', too," he said. "Everythin' else
shuts up when th' gray wolf howls."
"Doubled watches air not enough fer tonight," growled Woodson, as a
tremulous, high-pitched, chromatic, and descending run in a minor key
floated through the little valley. If it were an imitation of a
screech-owl it was so perfectly done that no man in the caravan could
detect the difference.
"Us boys will be scoutin' 'round all night," replied Tom. "Hank an' th'
others air gittin' some winks now. I don't look fer no fight afore
daylight; but they'll shore try ter stampede us afore then. Reckon I'll
take a good listen out yonder," he said, and arose. He went to Joe
Cooper's little wagon and was promptly challenged.
"It's Boyd," he answered. "Stick to the wagon, Uncle Joe. We ain't
looking for any rush before daylight. If one comes Hank and I will get
here quick. Where is Miss Cooper?"
"In th' wagon, of course!"
"That's no place for her," retorted Tom. "Those sheets won't stop
arrows. Put her under the wagon, an' hang blankets down th' sides, loose
at th' bottoms. Tight blankets or canvas are little better than paper;
but a loose Mackinaw yields to th' impact somewhat. I've seen a loose
blanket stop a musket ball."
"Can I do anything useful, Mr. Boyd?" came Patience's voice from the
wagon. "I can load and cap, anyhow."
Tom's chuckle came straight from his heart. "Not yet, God bless you.
Despite their reputation in some quarters, Pawnees are not the most
daring fighters. Any of the tribes east of the Mississippi are paragons
of courage when compared to these prairie Indians. Pawnees would rather
steal than fight; and they know that this is no helpless caravan, but
one with nearly two hundred armed men. If they were Comanches or Kiowas,
Utes or Apaches, I'd be bothered a lot more than I am now. And they know
that there are two cannons pointing somewhere into the night. All we
have to worry about is our animals."
The mournful, hair-raising screech of an owl sounded again, and then all
the demons of hell seemed to have broken loose around the camp. The
corralled animals, restless before, now surged one way and now another,
largely cancelling their own efforts because wave met wave; but all the
while they were getting wilder and more frantic and the blood-chilling
yells on all sides finally set them into a sort of rhythm which more and
more became uniform. They surged from one side to the other, striking
the wagons harder and harder. Then the yelling ceased and the Pawnee
whistle was heard. There ensued a few minutes of silence and then the
whistle sounded again. It set off a hellish uproar on one side of the
encampment and the frantic animals whirled and charged in the other
direction. The shock rocked some of the wagons and would have overturned
them but for the great weight of their loads. Anticipating this surge of
the animals some of the traders, told off by the captain, had bound
bundles of twigs and dried grass to long cottonwood sticks and now set
them afire and crawled under the wagons, thrusting the torches into the
faces of the charging mass. This started the animals milling and soon
the whole herd was running in a circle. The stampede had failed.
Here and there from under the wagons on the threatened side of the
encampment guns stabbed into the night, showing where tenderfeet were
gallantly engaged in guessing matches. Arrows curved over the wagon tops
and some of the torch wavers on the other side of the camp had narrow
escapes before their purpose was accomplished and the torches burned
out.
A cricket chirped twice and then twice again not far from Joe Cooper's
little wagon, and the alert plainsman crouched behind an outer wheel
answered by three short trills. "Don't shoot, Uncle Joe," Tom softly
called. "That's Hank."
Hank seemed to be having a hard time of it and made more noise than was
his wont. Alarmed, Tom was about to crawl out and help his friend to the
corral when Hank's querulous complaint barely reached him.
"Danged if ye ain't so plumb full o' buffaler meat ye nigh weigh a ton,"
growled the hunter. "Yourn as heavy as mine, Jim?"
"Wuss," complacently answered Ogden.
"Huh!" snorted another voice, crowding so much meaning into the grunt
that he had the best of the little exchange and the last word.
"If I could twang like you, Hank," said Ogden, pausing a moment to rest,
"I'd have a hull dozen, danged if I wouldn't. Mine's got nigh ter six
feet o' feathers a-hangin' ter him."
Tom rocked back and forth, laughing silently. "Then he makes up fer th'
rest o' yer dozen!" he gasped. "Hostages, by th' Great Horned Spoon!" He
made some funny noises in his throat and gasped again. "A _chief_, too!"
"An' a plumb waste o' good ha'r," growled Hank. "But jest now it's wuth
more on thar heads than fastened ter our belts. Hyar, haul this hyar
warrior o' mine under th' waggin. I'm all tuckered out."
"Hank kin shoot more arrers with his mouth than some Injuns kin with
thar bows," panted Jim, grasping a spoke and yanking his captive roughly
against the wheel. "All I kin imitate is a lance." He chuckled at his
joke and rested.
"When Hank twanged, Big Polecat, hyar, got right up an' stumbled plumb
over me," said Zeb's weary voice. "I near busted his skull with that
newfangled pistol. It's heftier than I'm used ter. Wonder is I didn't
bash his brains out. Hyar, gimme a hand, I can't hardly wiggle no more."
"Wonder what them danged fools air firin' at?" queried Hank, as several
shots rang out in quick succession from the other side of the
encampment. "Don't they know th' dance is over till mornin'?"
"Oh, them greenhorns'll be shootin' all night," growled Ogden. "If
thar's a rush at daylight they won't have no more powder an' ball. When
they hadn't oughter shoot, they shoot; when they oughter shoot, thar too
danged scared to pull trigger."