RUNNING THE GANTLET.
The prisoner had, in the meantime, been brought out, and was sitting
under a tree a few yards from the council ground, surrounded by a crowd
of squaws and children and guarded by two young braves, who had not yet
taken a scalp in battle, and, therefore, were not allowed to have any
voice or vote in deciding his fate.
He was unbound. His friends, except Buffalo Bill, were with him. As he
knew of this last effort which was being made in his behalf, he was, of
course, waiting for the verdict in great excitement.
Congo was the first to speak.
“Here comes Massa Cody! He’s a-shakin’ his head an’ lookin’ berry
sober. I reckon it’s all ober wid you.”
So it was. The decision was against mercy by a majority of fifteen
votes.
A shout from the prisoner and a beckoning of his hands toward his
friends showed that he desired them to come to him. They at once
followed the rabble of squaws and children who were moving, with the
condemned man in their midst, toward the place where the gantlet was to
be run.
The lines were already being formed, almost at the same spot where the
mimic punishment had taken place half an hour before.
Poor Hare now seemed too much frightened to stand any chance of escape
in the ordeal that was before him--that was now so close at hand.
He had already thrown off his hunting jacket, and was dressed only in
his underclothing, shirt and trousers, with boots and a sombrero.
He was deathly pale about the forehead and temples, but there was a
flush on his cheeks which went and came quickly. This, with his pallor,
his wide-open nostrils, and his glaring eyes, proclaimed his excitement
to be little less than that of a madman.
Perhaps it would have been well for him if he had been mad at this
moment, for insanity might have nerved him to some deed of daring that
would have saved his life.
His conductors stopped for his friends to come up when they saw that
was his wish, and he handed to Buffalo Bill the letters which he had
written to his wife and father. He had kept them by him until now, for
the purpose of adding some pencil postscripts to them from time to time.
He had given his watch and pocketbook to Buffalo Bill secretly the
evening before, being afraid that he might be plundered of them, though
the border king had faith enough in the honor of the Sioux to believe
that there was no danger of such a thing happening.
Two redskins caught hold of the prisoner’s arm and dragged him along,
one of them saying impatiently, in English:
“Too much talk. No good!”
Hare looked back and exclaimed:
“Try--try, Cody, for mercy’s sake! Don’t give me up yet! Try
something--try anything!”
“We would fight it out for you, Hare,” Cody replied--even at the risk
of the Indians understanding. “But you know we must think of the women
first. What would their fate be if we fell, as fall we almost certainly
all would?”
Hare made some reply, but his custodians hurried him along and Cody
could not hear it. The crowd which now enveloped the prisoner prevented
the white men from getting near him.
Black Panther was hurrying to and fro like a field officer on parade
day, except that he was on foot; and if he came near the white men
he gave them no opportunity to address him, but plainly showed by
his manner toward them that he considered their presence there an
impertinence and an intrusion.
“He feels mighty big,” said Congo angrily. “I should just like to have
him alone a little while out in a field dere, widout any weapons ’cept
our fists. I’d give him such a drubbin’ dat he’d squeal like a dog
cotched under a wagon wheel.”
“Come, Cody,” said the captain, who saw the painfully anxious look of
the king of the scouts. “It is plain that nothing more can be done. We
must think of the women before everything. It will never do to turn the
vengeance of these savages against the whole lot of us.”
“Don’t let us stay and see the man butchered,” said another of the
party.
“So say I,” agreed another. “We have stayed here too long for the
safety of the women already.”
The other men concurred, except Buffalo Bill.
“Go, my friends, if you consider it your duty,” he said. “There are the
boats--take them and go. I shall certainly stay. I promised this poor
man to stay by him to the last, and I shall do it. We cannot tell what
chance may turn up, even at this eleventh hour. I do not think he has
many minutes of life left, but still there may be an opportunity of
saving him.”
Captain Meinhold hesitated, but, as it now became evident that the
lines were complete and the race about to begin, curiosity detained
him. Indeed, that same feeling--morbid, though not unnatural--induced
the whole party to press closer to the course to get a better view.
The crowd had broken away from the starting end of the line; some of
the squaws and larger boys having taken their places in the ranks,
clubs in hand, and others being scattered along the route, where they
could better see its whole extent.
As the white spectators were scarcely more than fifty yards distant
from the lists, they could now distinctly see everything that took
place.
Hare, catching sight of them through the opening that had been made,
beckoned to them eagerly to come nearer.
Buffalo Bill alone attempted to comply, but when he advanced about
halfway he was stopped by loud cries and angry gestures from the
Indians.
Thinking still of the women and the danger of provoking a conflict, he
went no nearer.
The prisoner was stationed with his back against a tree, and the
nearest of his watchful foes were about six feet from him, they being
two lads of sixteen or seventeen years at the head of the line. They
were evidently anxious to bring him down at the very outset of his
course.
They did not look in any way wrathful, Buffalo Bill thought. They even
exchanged nods and smiles now and then, while they waited for the
“sport” to begin; but as the starting moment drew nearer there was an
eager, intent look on their faces, like that of hunters when the deer
is breaking cover.
Running Water was seated at the end of the ground at the lower end of
the lists, where he could command a view of the race and see that no
rule of the course was violated. By him, also, the signal for the start
was to be given.
One who acted as a sort of marshal rode along the lines to see that
every man was in his proper place.
Half a minute later the starting signal was given by the chief rising
to his feet and clapping his hands loudly. Before he had struck them
twice together the prisoner sprang forward with an unexpected velocity
that carried him past the first half dozen of his enemies unharmed,
while their swift blows fell upon the empty air.
Inspired by this success, the young man dashed onward, receiving some
blows from the women and dodging others, and now and then stooping low
and darting beneath the extended clubs of his assailants.
Some happy instinct, or some rapid mental action, appeared to govern
his movements, for he seemed to see where his most formidable foes
were stationed, and to avoid them by brushing close along the other
line--too close for club blows and too swiftly for arrest or detention
by the grapple of long arms, which, dropping their weapons, strove to
clutch him as he passed.
Never, perhaps, had so singular a race been run; for although
the desperate fugitive violated no rule of the lists, he made so
many feints and dodges and sudden turns that he disappointed all
calculations as to where he would be found at any given instant.
In fact, his unexpected pluck and activity surprised both friends and
foes.
Buffalo Bill could not help sending forth a cheer of encouragement as
the fugitive sped onward.
But the cheer was ill-timed and evoked a defiant response from the
lower half of the line, where the best warriors were stationed.
As yet the panting man had encountered but few of the braves, though
there were several sturdy young men and still active old ones among
those whom he had baffled and passed by.
But even when he had entered upon the latter half of his race his
good fortune seemed still to attend him. Although some sounding blows
fell upon him and staggered him at times, he kept on, making a little
progress, though doubling often and standing at bay occasionally for a
few seconds to get breath for renewed exertions.
And now, to the astonishment of all, he had passed two-thirds of his
foes and yet retained his feet, while a tumult of cries and shouts came
up from those he had deluded, inciting the others to more vigilant and
energetic action.
That he should have gone so far unharmed seemed little less than a
miracle, but Buffalo Bill was nearly certain that some of the blows
seemingly aimed at him with the greatest fury were mere feints, and
were made by those warriors who had voted for his release in council,
and were still willing to see him go free.
But this favoritism, alas! was not likely to save him.
Black Panther, perhaps, had anticipated it; for many of his partisans
were stationed near him, and they formed a terrible phalanx which the
prisoner had yet to pass before his safety could be attained.
Jaded, breathless, bruised, and weakened, what could he do?
There was no mercy in the fierce faces before him. The sacred teachings
of forgiveness had not moved those fierce hearts.
The despised and trembling prisoner had grown almost into a hero in
their estimation, whom it would be an honor to imitate and whose escape
would be a lasting disgrace to their prowess.
The result was almost inevitable.
Poor Hare, after his really gallant effort to escape, fell under a
heavy blow. He was not a dozen yards from the goal of safety, but he
lay stunned and motionless on the ground. To all appearance he was
quite dead.
His friends, indeed, hoped that such might be the case and that his
sufferings were ended.
But in this they were disappointed, for when a few gourdfuls of water
had been dashed over him by his exultant foes he revived and showed
that he had yet enough of life in him to gratify their ferocity, which
was only now fully awakened.