AT DANGER DIVIDE.
Several weeks after Buffalo Bill had taken leave of his friends of
Fort Larned, he stood one day upon the veranda of a little hotel in
the frontier settlement of Danger Divide, when a young man came up,
and, taking him by the arm, led him courteously to the other end of the
veranda.
“Mr. Doyle, let me introduce to you Colonel Cody, the chief of scouts
of the Department of the Platte.”
The speaker was a tall, handsome sun-tanned young man, whose frank,
honest look and kindly, smiling eyes would at once have prepossessed
any one in his favor.
The man to whom he spoke was old enough to have been his grandfather.
His appearance was distinguished, but his face bore deep lines that
spoke of some great sorrow which had clouded his life.
The old gentleman rose from the chair in which he was sitting and bowed
courteously to the man who was being introduced to him.
“Any friend of yours, Mr. Mainwaring, honors me by his acquaintance,”
he said. “But it gives me especial pleasure to meet Colonel Cody.
I have heard much about his great deeds out here in the West, and
now that I see him I am sure that nothing I have heard has been
exaggerated.”
“I am delighted to meet you, sir,” replied the scout.
“I heard you make a speech in the Senate two years ago, when I was
in Washington on some business with the War Department,” he added
cordially.
“Ah, they say that you never forget a face, Colonel Cody, and it
appears to be true. But I have resigned from the Senate and left
Washington forever.”
Buffalo Bill’s face expressed polite interest, but he made no remark.
He could not help wondering, however, how it had come about that one of
the most distinguished statesmen at that time in America should have
abandoned his great career, and instead of being in his proper place at
Washington should be found at a wretched little frontier shanty--which
was all that the best “hotel” in Danger Divide could really be called.
“Yes, I have turned my back on Washington,” Mr. Doyle went on, “and I
am now on my way to California, with my two daughters. I am going to
buy a ranch there and make it my home for the small balance of my days.
I want to leave all the old associations of my life behind. They have
become painful to me.
“My eldest boy died three months ago in Washington. He was the last
of my three sons. My wife died years ago, and now I have only my two
girls left--May and Gertrude. Like myself, they wish to live in a new
country, among fresh scenes and people who will not remind us of the
past.”
It was a strangely frank speech to make to a new acquaintance, but
Buffalo Bill was a man who inspired confidence at first sight, and Mr.
Doyle found it natural to talk to him of his most sacred and private
affairs as he could not have done to another man.
A smiling, honest-looking negro came out onto the veranda and said to
the old man:
“Lunch done got ready, massa. Missie Gertrude and Missie May waiting
for you. I ’clar’ to goodness, suh, I cooked de best lunch I could, but
you can’t get nuthin’ more in this place than down in ole Virginny at
de end ob de wah.”
“All right, Norfolk Ben,” replied Mr. Doyle, smiling kindly at the man.
“I’ve no doubt that you have done the best you can, and probably you
have done wonders, under the circumstances.”
The honest fellow, grinning his appreciation of these words, vanished
through the door.
“That is my servant, Norfolk Ben,” said Mr. Doyle, turning to Cody and
Jack Mainwaring. “I don’t think any one ever had a more faithful one.
He has been with us for many years, and is perfectly devoted to my
daughters. He comes from Norfolk, in Virginia--hence his name.”
“A good Virginian servant of the old stock is indeed a treasure,”
remarked Mainwaring.
“Will you join us at lunch, Colonel Cody, and you, too, Mr. Mainwaring?
I want to hear some more about that ranch of yours in Texas, and my
girls will be delighted to meet you, Colonel Cody, and listen to some
stories about your adventures.”
“I don’t think it will be easy to induce Cody to tell them,” said Jack
Mainwaring, smiling. “Somebody else is always the hero of the stories
he tells. I have known him for three weeks, but all that I have heard
about his adventures has been from other people.”
Both men accepted Mr. Doyle’s invitation and went into the small,
stuffy dining room of the hotel with him.
They found there two girls, of about twenty and eighteen years of age
respectively, whom they were introduced to by Mr. Doyle. The elder was
his daughter May and the younger was Gertrude.
Both were pretty, but the elder was by far the prettier, and Buffalo
Bill, wise in such matters, could see at a glance that young Mainwaring
was powerfully attracted by her. It was the first time they had met,
for he had only made the acquaintance of Mr. Doyle a short time before
he introduced Cody to him.
The party sat down to lunch, Norfolk Ben waiting on them, and they were
soon in the midst of an animated conversation.
Jack Mainwaring told stories of his life on his ranch in Texas. He was
a wealthy young fellow, owning one of the best cattle runs in that
State. He was now enjoying a hunting trip in the farther West, and
Buffalo Bill, whom he met some time before, had been able to show him
some very good sport.
As Mr. Doyle had prophesied, the two girls were eager to hear the king
of scouts tell about his own deeds, but he evaded their questions and
appeals as well as he could. He was more silent and abstracted than was
his wont, and something seemed to be weighing on his mind, in spite of
the gayety of the little party.
“Mr. Doyle,” he said suddenly, in a lull in the conversation, “would
you mind telling me why you have halted in this little place on your
journey to California? The accommodations are so bad that I am sure you
would not have done so without some very good reason.”
“Necessity was my reason,” replied the old gentleman, smiling. “I have
a train of three wagons, and one of the wagons was so badly damaged
in crossing a deep gully near here that we had to stop to have it
repaired. From what they tell me, it will be a pretty long job. They
have few facilities for such work in a little place like Danger Divide.”
“It is a pity you could not have gone on to Fort McPherson, seventy
miles farther on,” said Buffalo Bill. “It is a military post, and they
have all the means for doing such work. The general who commands the
post would have been pleased to help you. I know him well, for I am
attached to the post as his chief of scouts.”
“We could hardly get to Danger Divide,” replied the old man.
Buffalo Bill thought deeply for a few minutes, hesitating whether or
not he should speak out what was in his mind. Then he said:
“Mr. Doyle, what I am going to say to you will no doubt sound
extraordinary and impertinent, but it is prompted by my knowledge of
this country.”
“Whatever it is, I am sure it will be well meant, Colonel Cody,”
remarked the ex-senator, looking puzzled.
“Well, then, it is this: When your wagon is repaired you would, in my
opinion, be well advised to turn back east, instead of trying to cross
the great plains at present. If I were in your position I would wait
for a few months at least before trying to reach California by the
overland route.”
Mr. Doyle and his daughters looked very much surprised at this remark.
A shadow of annoyance crossed the old man’s face, as if he thought an
unwarrantable liberty was being taken with him and his plans, but it
passed almost as quickly as it came, and he turned to the king of the
scouts and said:
“What you have just told me, Colonel Cody, is certainly rather strange,
but I am sure you must have some good reason for saying it.”
“I have,” replied the border king. “The great plains are very unsafe
for wagon teams at present--more unsafe, I think, than they have ever
been before in my experience.”
Mr. Doyle looked surprised.
“I was assured by the officials of the War Department in Washington
that the soldiers at the various posts in this territory had the
Indians under complete control,” he said.
Buffalo Bill smiled.
“What they don’t know about this part of the country in Washington
would fill a big book,” he retorted. “The troops do their best--they do
wonderfully, indeed. But they can’t be everywhere at once. Sometimes
they are too late to protect, and can only avenge.”
The old man looked grave, but at the same time obstinate. He had made
his plans, and he was not of the kind to give them up readily.
“Of course, I know that there is always a certain amount of risk on
the overland route,” he said. “That must be taken for granted. We have
reckoned it in the plans we have made, and the girls are not at all
afraid, I can assure you.”
“Indeed we are not, father!” exclaimed May, glancing at Buffalo Bill
with some indignation.
“What is the special danger at present?” the old man asked.
“It is twofold: The Shawnee Indians, under their chief, Evil Heart, are
in a very ugly mood toward the whites, and there is a band of outlaws
calling themselves Death Riders who have held up several wagon trains
during the past few months, and even ventured to raid some of the
settlements.”
“The Death Riders!” exclaimed the old man. “It is an ominous name.”
“And it fits them well,” returned Cody. “They show mercy to none who
fall into their power. They are the worst gang of outlaws who ever
cursed the West in all my experience.”