MIKE AND THE MULES.
"We move in an hour!"
This was the word which was whispered about the boomers' camp shortly
after Pawnee Brown's arrival.
The great scout had found it out of the question to attempt to enter the
Indian Territory in a direct route from Arkansas City. The government
troops were watching the trail, and the soldiers were backed up by the
cattle kings' helpers, who would do all in their power to harass the
pioneers and make them turn back.
Many a man would have gone ahead with a rush, but Pawnee Brown knew
better than to do this. If he was brave, he was also cautious.
"A rush now would mean people killed, horses shot down or poisoned,
wagons ditched, harnesses cut up and a thousand and one other
disasters," he said. "We must beat the cattle kings at their own game.
We will move westward to Honnewell either this afternoon or tonight.
Get ready to go on whenever the signal is passed."
"But vot goot vill it do to vait by Honnvell?" questioned Carl
Humpendinck, a German boomer.
"We'll not wait very long there," answered Pawnee Brown.
So the word went around that the boomers would move in an hour. This was
not actually true, but it was necessary to spread some report of this
kind in order to make the slow ones hustle. If left to themselves these
few would not have gotten ready in two days.
"It's a move we are afther makin' at last, is it?" burst out Rosy
Delaney when Mike brought the news. "Sure, an' Oi'm ready, Moike
Delaney, but how are ye to git this wagon out av thet bog hole, Oi
dunno."
"Oi'll borry a horse," answered Mike. "It's Jack Rasco will lind me the
same."
Mike ran around to where Jack Rasco was in earnest conversation with a
stranger who had just come in from town. The stranger had brought a
letter from Nellie Winthrop, posted two days before, and saying when she
would arrive. The letter caused Rasco not a little worry, as so far the
girl had failed to appear.
"I haven't any horse to spare just now, Mike," he said; "but hold on,
you can have Billy, the mule, if you wish."
There was a little twinkle in his eyes as he spoke, but Mike didn't see
the twinkle and readily accepted the mule and led him over to where his
own turn-out stood.
"Moike Delaney, phot kind av a horse do yez call that?" demanded Rosy.
"It's a mule, ye ignoramus," he answered. "An' a good puller, I'll bet
me whiskers. Just wait till Oi hitch him beside the tame."
Billy was soon hitched up as Mike desired, and the Irishman proceeded to
urge him forward with his short whip.
It was then the fun began. Billy did not appreciate being called upon to
do extra work. Instead of pulling, he simply turned around, tangling up
and breaking the harness, and began to kick up the black prairie dirt
with both hind hoofs.
"Oh, the villain!" spluttered Rosy Delaney, who received the first
installment of dirt full in her eyes and mouth. "Moike Delaney, ye made
him do that a-purpose!" and she shook her fist at her husband. "Ye
bould, bad mon!"
"Oi did not," he ejaculated. "Git back there, ye baste!" he added, and
tried to hit Billy with his whip. The knowing mule dodged and, turning
swiftly, planted a hoof in Mike's stomach so slickly that the Irishman
went heels over head into a nearby puddle.
A shout arose from those standing near.
"Score one round for the mule!"
"Mike, thet summersault war good enough fer a show. Better jine the
circus!"
"Oi'll show the mule!" yelled Mike, and rushed in again. But once more
Billy turned and got out of the way, and this time he caught the seat of
Mike's trousers between his teeth and lifted the frightened man six feet
from the ground.
"Don't! Let me down! Somebody save me!" yelled the terrorized son of
Erin. "Rosy! Clemmer! Rasco! Hit him! Shoot him! Make him let go av me!
Oi'll be kilt entoirely!"
Outsiders were too much amused to help Mike, but Rosy came to the rescue
with a woman's best weapon--a rolling-pin, one she occasionally used in
making pies for the family when in camp. Whizz! came the rolling-pin
through the air, hitting Billy on the ear. The mule gave a short snort,
broke what remained of the harness and scampered off to make a complete
circuit of the camp and then fall into his regular place near Jack
Rasco's turn-out.
"Want him some more?" asked Jack, who had seen the fun, and was
compelled to laugh, in spite of his worry.
"Want him some more, is it?" growled Mike. "Not fer a thousand dollars,
Rasco! Yez kin kape the mule, an' be hanged to yez!" and he stalked off
to borrow a horse that was warranted to be gentle under the most trying
of circumstances.
In the meantime Pawnee Brown was completing his arrangements for moving
to Honnewell and then to enter the promised land by way of Bitter Creek
and the Secaspie River. Scouts sent out to watch had reported that the
cavalry were watching every movement closely, but Pawnee Brown did not
dream that Louis Vorlange had overheard what was said at a meeting in
the woods, or that this scoundrel had hired Tucker, the cavalryman, to
shoot down both himself and Dick Arbuckle.
Presently Jack Rasco found his way to the scout's side.
"Pawnee, if you can spare a little time I would like your advice," he
said, and mentioned the letter from Nellie Winthrop. "It's mighty
strange the gal don't turn up, ain't it?"
"Perhaps so; but she may have been detained," answered the scout.
At this Rasco shook his head. The bearer of the letter had seen Nellie's
name on the hotel register. Something was wrong, he felt sure of it. The
letter had contained Nellie's photograph, and he showed it to Pawnee
Brown as he asked for permission to leave his work of assisting the
boomers to be prepared for a moving in order to pay Arkansas City
another visit.
"Go on, Jack. You're my right-hand man, but I'll manage somehow without
you," answered the great scout. "A pretty niece for any man to have,"
and he handed back the photograph, after a somewhat close inspection.
Two minutes later found Jack Rasco on his way, to encounter adventures
of which he had never imagined.
"A note for you, Pawnee." It was one of the scouts sent out that morning
who spoke as he rode up. Pawnee Brown read the communication with
interest.
"Come up to the ravine back of Honnewell as soon
as possible," ran the note. "I think the cavalry are
up to some new dodge, or else the cattle men are going
to play us foul. Urgent. DAN GILBERT."
"I must away, boys!" cried Pawnee Brown, tearing up the note. "Be ready
to move, but don't stir until you hear from me," and, giving a few more
instructions, he borrowed a fresh horse from Carl Humpendinck and set
off on a gallop of twelve miles across the country.
As he covered mile after mile, through woods and over stretches of broad
prairie, he could not help but think of his racing mare, Bonnie Bird.
How she would have enjoyed this outing, and how she would have covered
this ground with her twinkling feet.
"I must find her and find the rascal who stole her!" he muttered. "I
wouldn't take twenty thousand dollars for Bonnie," and he meant what he
said. The little mare and the great scout were almost inseparable.
The afternoon sun was sinking low when Pawnee Brown struck the outskirts
of Honnewell (spelled by some writers, Honeywell). Not caring to be seen
in that town by the government agents, who might inform the cavalry that
the boomers were moving in that direction, the scout took to a side
trail, leading directly for the ravine mentioned in the letter.
Soon he was picking his way down a path covered with brush and loose
stones. Upon either side were woods, and so thick no sunlight
penetrated, making the spot gloomy and forbidding.
"Now, I suppose I'll have no picnic in finding Dan," he mused. "I'll
give the signal."
The shrill cry of a night bird rang out upon the air, and Pawnee Brown
listened attentively for a reply. None came, and he repeated the cry,
with the same result.
"I'll have to push on a bit further," he thought, and was just about to
urge forward his horse when a crashing on the opposite side of the
ravine caught his ear. Instinctively he withdrew to the shelter of some
brush to learn who the newcomer might be.
He was not kept long in waiting. The sounds came closer and closer, and
presently a tall Indian came into view, astride a horse, and carrying an
odd-looking burden in his arms.
"Yellow Elk!" almost burst from Pawnee Brown's lips. The Indian he
mentioned was a well-known chief, a warrior noted for his many crimes,
and a redskin whom the government agent had tried in vain to subdue.
The scout crouched back still further and drew his pistol, for he felt
that Yellow Elk was on no lawful errand, and a meeting would most likely
mean a fight. Then he made a discovery of still greater importance--to
him.
"Bonnie Bird, as sure as shooting! So Yellow Elk is the horse thief. The
rascal! I've a good mind to shoot him down where he sits!" He handled
his pistol nervously. "What is that he is carrying, wrapped up in his
blanket? Ha!"
A murmur of amazement could not now be suppressed. In shifting his
burden from one shoulder to the other the Indian had allowed the
blanket to fall partly back, and there was now revealed to Pawnee Brown
the head and shoulders of a beautiful, but unconscious white girl. Nor
was that all. The girl was--Nellie Winthrop!