A TERRIBLE FATE.
On the night following the fight with the Cave Dwellers, a feast was
held in the village of the Navahos to celebrate the great victory they
had gained.
The Indian braves and their three paleface brethren gathered closely
around the camp fire after the feasting was over. The warriors told
stories and legends of their tribe and indulged in wrestling and other
sports, in all of which they showed great skill.
Buffalo Bill and his friends noticed that in the wrestling a tall and
truculent-looking warrior named Leaping Dog overcame the other braves
with ease. He threw one of them after another with scarcely an effort,
until at last he could find none willing to meet him.
Then he turned to the white men, insolent with his triumph, and cried:
“Will you wrestle with me, palefaces? I will wager my tomahawk that
there is none of you who can throw me.”
“Remember that the white chiefs are guests in our lodges, Leaping Dog,”
said Red Cloud, in a reproving voice. “It is not seemly to challenge
them thus.”
“I mean them no harm,” declared the truculent brave. “All men say
that Long Hair is a great warrior and a mighty champion among his own
people. If that is so, he should not fear me.”
“Fear you!” yelled Nick Wharton angrily. “It ’u’d take a sight more
than you, ye durned red devil, ter scare the bravest man thet ever
straddled a hoss on the plains.”
In his indignation the old trapper spoke in English, which the Indian
did not understand. But he knew from the tone that what was said was
not particularly complimentary to himself, so he turned his piercing
black eyes on Wharton with an angry glance.
“If Long Hair will not wrestle with me, perhaps the old chief who roars
like a bull will do so,” he said sarcastically.
“Sure, thar’s nothin’ better I’d like than ter break yer neck, ye
durned savage,” retorted old Nick.
“Let him alone, old pard,” Buffalo Bill said soothingly. “I’ll take him
on, if one of us must. I guess your muscles aren’t quite as tough, or
your limbs as supple as they used to be when you were a young man.”
“You be everlastingly gol-durned, Billy Cody!” exclaimed Nick, now
thoroughly incensed. “I kalk’late I kin tackle a blamed Indian still,
even if I hev come ter be an old man. You let him get at me--an’ don’t
you or Bill Hickok butt in.”
“All right! Go as far as you like, but try not to quite kill him,”
laughed Cody.
Nick Wharton advanced into the center of the ring of redskins, in which
his adversary was already standing in an attitude of defiant challenge.
Old Nick was a husky fellow, despite his age, but he did not look the
physical equal of the red man, who was a giant over six feet tall, with
muscles that stood out like masses of whipcord all over his arms and
legs.
“I guess I may be a gone coon,” said the old trapper, as he removed his
hunting jacket and stared critically at his opponent. “I used ter be
powerful strong on the wrassle onct, but I guess I’m weakening a bit
now. In all my wrasslin’ days, I reckon I never hit up agin’ a tougher
proposition than thet thar redskin.”
Old Nick advanced boldly to the encounter, but his anticipation was
soon justified.
The redskin rushed suddenly forward and had him in a resistless grip
almost before he understood what was happening. He tried to struggle,
but, with a mighty heave, the Indian sent him squarely to the ground
and rose from his prostrate body with a sarcastic laugh.
“Will either of the other palefaces wrestle with Leaping Dog now?” he
asked.
Cody and Hickok both jumped up, ready to accept the challenge and
avenge their friend, but Wharton had already risen from the ground, and
he stepped in between them.
“Wait a minute, old pards!” he said. “This hyar is my funeral. I ain’t
had my bellyful yet, not by a long shot! I want the best two out of
three.”
When Leaping Dog understood this he said that he was perfectly willing.
He would throw the white man again, as he had thrown him before.
“It is no use, my brother,” said Red Cloud, taking Nick Wharton aside
for a moment. “In wrestling we are all as children in the hands of
Leaping Dog. He is a champion against whom no man can stand. He has
beaten the best wrestlers of all the tribes.”
Old Wharton said nothing, but a look of grim determination came into
his face that meant volumes.
The other Indians seemed to be of the same opinion as their chief, for
they shouted to the white man not to meet their champion again, saying
that he might hurt him seriously.
“Gol-durn him, let him go as fur as he kin!” muttered Nick savagely, as
he stepped forward and faced his late victor.
Leaping Dog did not seem to hold his opponent so cheaply this time. He
saw, by the glitter in the old trapper’s eyes, that he was indeed a man
to be feared.
He held his body as tense and rigid as that of a panther, and his
coal-black eyes did not waver for a second in their baleful glance into
those of the white man.
Suddenly he leaped like a wild beast straight at the throat of his
opponent, seeking to grapple him round the neck--a favorite hold among
the less sportsman-like of Indian wrestlers.
But Nick had seen Indians wrestle too often to allow himself to be
caught in that manner.
He showed an agility surprising in so old a man.
With a movement even quicker than that of the Indian, he side-stepped,
and, before his foe could recover his balance, he had grasped him round
the shoulders in a clever hold that left him little chance to break
away.
After swaying to and fro for a few moments, he forced the redskin
backward until his shoulders fairly touched the ground.
The Indians were dumb with intense surprise for a second or two, and
then they hailed the victory with loud whoops of delight. Leaping Dog,
being a surly fellow, was not popular in the tribe. As the wrestling
champion he had always been overbearing in his manner, and they were
therefore glad to see his pride meet with a fall.
“Quits!” cried Nick. “Now fur the rubber!”
Leaping Dog got to his feet, looking angry and crestfallen. There was
an expression of fierce vindictiveness in his eyes as he faced Wharton
for the final bout.
Before they could clinch, Red Cloud rushed in between them, put his
hand down to the brave’s belt, and pulled out a knife, which he tossed
to the ground at Buffalo Bill’s feet.
There was nothing wrong in the fellow having the knife. All the braves
were wearing one, as they commonly did; but Red Cloud had caught that
evil look in Leaping Dog’s eyes, and he thought that the man might be
tempted to use his weapon, if he were worsted again.
Leaping Dog glared at his chief savagely, but said nothing.
A chorus of emphatic “Ughs!” of approval went up from the Indians
around the circle. It was clear that they did not think their chief’s
suspicions were altogether unjust.
As the two men met again the Indian was far more wary than on either
of the other occasions. Nick Wharton, tired of his cautious feints,
eventually had to rush in and grapple him.
He secured a good grip, but the redskin struggled stoutly, bringing all
his tremendous strength to bear to overcome the old scout.
The men struggled backward and forward for more than two minutes,
panting heavily. Now one, and now the other, would gain a slight
advantage, only to lose it again in a moment.
Then Wharton thought of an old trick which he had often used in his
youth. It was too old to be used with any good effect on an expert
American wrestler, but it might be new to the redskin, whose style of
wrestling was altogether different.
Putting forth all his strength, he started to push the Navaho backward,
inch by inch, as if he meant to force him over to the ground, as he had
done before.
Leaping Dog strained his muscles to resist this attempt, just as
Wharton had expected he would do. The redskin was thus pushing forward
with all his strength.
Suddenly the trapper stopped pushing and pulled him violently forward.
As the Navaho’s own strength was being exerted in the same direction,
he could not save himself in time. He struggled for a second or two to
keep his balance, but in vain.
Before the spectators could fully realize the cleverness of Wharton’s
trick, Leaping Dog was lying face downward on the ground, as flat as
the proverbial pancake.
He was badly shaken up, for the fall was a heavy one. For several
moments he lay prostrate, and then Nick Wharton helped him to his feet
and offered to shake hands with him.
The surly Indian brushed aside the proffered hand and shouted savagely:
“I will fight you with knife or with tomahawk!”
“That you shall not!” declared Red Cloud angrily, stepping in between
them. “Begone to your tepee, Leaping Dog! You blacken the face of our
tribe. Learn respect for our white brothers, who have fought so well
for us.”
The other braves around the fire shouted angrily that Leaping Dog ought
to be expelled from the tribe.
Seeing how strong was the feeling against him, Leaping Dog retired to
his lodge, as commanded, but he did not lie down to sleep.
Had any one drawn aside the flap of buffalo hide that served for a
door, the buck would have been seen busy at a task congenial to his
savage nature.
He was whetting a long, broad-bladed knife by the light of a lamp of
crude oil, and singing a savage death song as he did so.
* * * * *
After the wrestling was over, some other games were indulged in, and
then the circle around the camp fire broke up.
Cody and his two comrades were conducted by Red Cloud to his own tepee,
which was the best in the village. He begged them to use it for the
night, saying that he would sleep in the medicine lodge with Silver
Fox, the venerable medicine man of the tribe.
As the chief turned to leave his white friends, after bidding them good
night, he did not notice that a figure was watching him from the shadow
cast by an adjoining wigwam.
The figure was that of Leaping Dog. He had caught the last words
uttered by the chief.
He had sharpened the knife until its edge was as keen as that of a
razor, and now he thirsted to plunge it deep into the hearts of his
enemies.
But he knew he must be cautious. He must stab them when they were
asleep. If he were discovered in his crime, his life would not be worth
a moment’s purchase.
Even when the bodies were found it would go hard with him, though there
might be no actual evidence that he was the guilty party. His fellow
braves would at once suspect him, and they were likely enough to kill
him on suspicion--for he knew that most of them disliked him strongly.
Lurking in the shadows, he wondered whom he should attack first--the
whites or his own chief. Red Cloud had disgraced him before his own
people, and his savage heart burned with rage at the thought. But the
old white man had beaten him at wrestling, and made him a laughingstock
before them all.
He must carry out his revenge quickly, and put a long distance between
himself and the village before the dawn. He would have to travel fast
and far, for the avengers of blood would follow on his trail as soon
as the dead bodies were discovered.
With this idea in his mind Leaping Dog went to his tepee, and made
preparations for a long journey. He saddled his pony, and placed some
provisions and his weapons upon it. This done, he stole quietly to the
medicine lodge of Silver Fox.
He had made up his mind. He would slay his chief first, and then
assassinate the white men. He had a violent hatred of all palefaces,
and the blood of Nick Wharton alone would not satisfy his lust for
revenge.
He listened outside the lodge and heard voices talking inside. The
chief of the Navahos and his venerable host of the night had not yet
gone to sleep. They were talking of the white men and praising them
highly. Their words added fuel to the fire of hatred in Leaping Dog’s
heart.
At last their voices ceased, and by the sound of their deep and regular
breathing, the watcher concluded they were asleep.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, the three scouts had made themselves comfortable in their
wigwam, and were talking over the events of the evening.
Cody and Wild Bill congratulated their old friend heartily on his
victory over the redskin wrestler.
“Thet’s all right,” said Nick, “but thar’s goin’ ter be more trouble
over that. Thet redskin is out fur blood.”
“If that’s the case, we had better not all go to sleep to-night,”
remarked Buffalo Bill. “He did look pretty wicked. This is his chance
to get even with us, for he knows we shall probably leave the village
to-morrow.
“Of course, the tribe would punish him with death if he stuck a knife
into any one of us, but when an Indian sees blood he isn’t going to
stop out of fear of the consequences. We must take turns at keeping
watch to-night.
“By the way, don’t you think he is as likely to stab Red Cloud as any
one of us? Remember how the chief treated him in front of all the other
braves. That must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow.”
“Let us go to Silver Fox’s lodge and warn Red Cloud to be on his
guard,” said Wild Bill. “I know which lodge it is. It’s only about a
hundred yards down the line of tepees.”
His companions agreed, and they all stepped out into the cold, biting
night air. Buffalo Bill took the precaution to pick up his revolver
before he sallied forth.
As they came in sight of the medicine lodge they saw a figure outside
it.
Before they could get near enough to recognize the man, the latter
lifted the buffalo robe that hung over the door of the lodge, and
passed inside.
“Come on!” said Cody, in a hoarse whisper, to his friends. “If that is
Leaping Dog he may do his work before we can stop him.”
He ran toward the lodge at the top of his speed, but before he could
reach it a frightful scream rang out--a cry far worse than any death
yell he had ever heard. It froze his blood with horror, and for a
moment he stood still--aghast.
Then he rushed forward, expecting to find the dead body of the young
chief of the Navahos.
He tore aside the flap of the tent, but the sight which met his eyes
was very different from that which he had expected.
Red Cloud was rising to his feet from his blanket, tomahawk in hand,
but there was no foe for him to strike.
Buffalo Bill let the hand which grasped his revolver fall to his side,
for he saw that the body of Leaping Dog was lying in a twisted and
huddled heap on the floor.
The aged medicine man was towering over him, with his right arm
outstretched, and his finger pointing down at the prostrate figure.
He looked as stern as an avenging angel. Fire seemed to flash from his
eyes, and his frail form shook like an aspen leaf with the intensity of
his passion.
Buffalo Bill bent down, and saw at a glance that Leaping Dog was dead.
There was a look of unfathomable terror in his eyes, and his body was
twisted like the trunk of a blasted tree.
“He is dead,” said the border king. “You don’t want your tomahawk, Red
Cloud. But how did he die, Silver Fox?”
“The dog was smitten by the wrath of the Great Manitou,” replied the
old medicine man cautiously.
“So we see. But that wrath came through the medium of the Great
Spirit’s servant, Silver Fox, I suppose. How did you do it?”
“Seek not to know the mysteries of the medicine lodge, Long Hair,” said
the old priest solemnly. “They are known only to a few of us, who are
bound by the most solemn oaths. We may not reveal them to our children
or brothers--still less to white men. Let it suffice that there is an
Indian magic which in some matters is greater than the wisdom of the
palefaces.
“I knew what was in the heart of this dead dog,” he went on, spurning
the body of Leaping Dog with his foot as he spoke. “I knew that he
meant to murder Red Cloud as soon as he had formed the purpose in his
mind. I waited for him to come and raise the knife, as I knew he would
do, and then I invoked the wrath of the Great Manitou and slew him.”
“You mean that you killed him by sheer terror, Silver Fox,” said
Buffalo Bill.
He bade good night to his red friends and went back, with Wild Bill and
Nick Wharton, to their own tepee.
They discussed the strange death of Leaping Dog, but could come to no
satisfactory conclusion about it.
“It must have been done in some way by means of hypnotism,” said
Buffalo Bill. “Silver Fox must, in one momentary glance, have made the
man think he saw something terrible enough to frighten him to death.
And that Indian had pretty good nerves, too, I should say. Yet I never
saw such a crazy look of fear and horror in any man’s eyes--not even in
the eyes of men who have died under the tortures of the redskins--and
you know what they look like. I tell you I’m afraid to go to sleep
to-night, for I know I shall dream of that look in the eyes of Leaping
Dog.”
However, in a few minutes, the border king was fast asleep. His nerves
were much stronger than he had represented them to be.