TEX TAKES A LONG WALK
Except for desultory firing the Kiowas left the islanders alone for the
rest of the day. The fever of the wounded man mounted. Most of the time
he was out of his head, and in tossing to and fro was continually
disturbing the cold-water bandages applied by the Texan.
As soon as night had fallen, Roberts put a proposition to his companion.
"One of us has got to go for help. Take yore choice, Ridley. Will you go
or stay?"
The Easterner felt as though his heart had been drenched in ice-water.
"Can't we wait until some one comes?" he asked timidly.
"Who's likely to come? You got any friends on the way? I haven't.
There's another thing: the stage will be along to-morrow. We've got to
get warnin' to it that the Kiowas are on the warpath. If we don't--well,
you know what happened to the freight outfit."
"If one of us goes, how can he get away?"
"I've thought of that. It will be dark for an hour before the moon gets
up. The one that goes will have to drop off the bank an' swim down with
the current for a quarter of a mile or so, then get to the shore, crawl
across the prairie till he's clear of the sentries, an' make a bee-line
for Tascosa."
"I couldn't find my way in the dark," faltered Arthur.
Jack nodded. "I doubt if you could. I'm elected, then."
"Why--why can't we both go?"
"We couldn't take Dinsmore fifty yards. He's too sick a man."
"He's going to die anyhow. If I stay, we'll both die--horribly. It's
every man for himself now."
Jack shook his head. "If you feel that way, you go an' I'll stay."
"I--I can't go alone." He pushed his plea one step farther. "He's a
criminal--a murderer. He'd kill you if he could, and he's already
betrayed me. There's no call for us to wait for certain death on his
account."
The Ranger spoke gently. "None for you, but he's in my hands. I'll see
it out. Mebbe you can get through the lines. Crawl through the grass.
Keep yore nerve an' lie low if you hear 'em comin'. Once you're through,
you'll be all right."
"I tell you I can't go alone. If it has to be that one goes and one
stays, then I'll stay."
"That's how it has to be. It's about an even break, I reckon. They're
liable to get me if I go. They're liable to get you if you stay. Then
again, they're liable to get neither of us if I can get through."
"What if they rush me?"
"Don't lose yore head. You can stand 'em off. They'll never make as
strong an attack as they did this mo'nin'. If they make any real rush,
it will likely be just before daybreak. Indians don't do business at
night."
Jack made his preparations swiftly. He took off his boots and tied them
to his belt. His hat he left behind.
"How will I know whether you get through the sentries?" asked Ridley.
"If you hear any shootin', you'll know I probably didn't. But I'm sure
figurin' on gettin' through. Don't you forget for a minute that every
hour brings help nearer. So long, old man. Best of luck!"
The Ranger grinned cheerfully at the other boy as he crept into the
brush at the edge of the water. Presently Arthur heard a faint _plop_
and knew that the Texan had begun his journey.
The swift current carried the swimmer downstream rapidly. He used his
arms just enough to keep himself up, and let the power of the water do
the rest. As a small boy he had lived on the Brazos. He knew the tricks
of the expert, so that he was able now to swim with only his nose
showing. For it was certain that the Indians had set watchers on the
river to guard against an escape.
The island vanished behind him. Now and then he caught from one bank or
the other the glow of camp-fires. Once he was sure he heard the beating
of a tom-tom.
And once he gave himself up for lost. The rapid current had swept him
close to the right bank. Across his vision flashed a picture of a brave
armed with bow and arrow standing above him on the shore. He dived
instantly. When he came up for air, only a bit of his red topknot
showed. The swimmer heard the twang of an arrow and dived a second time.
He was in the deep shadows of overhanging brush when he shook the water
out of his eyes next time. For a dozen seconds he drew his breath in
fear. But there came no shout of warning to other watchers, no shot or
outcry to shatter the stillness. He guessed that the Kiowa had taken him
for a log drifting downstream and had aimed wantonly to test his
accuracy.
Several hundred yards below the island Jack caught at a bush projecting
into the water. He swung close to the bank and very cautiously drew
himself out of the river.
He listened. Except for the sound of the rushing water the night was
still. Very carefully he wormed his way forward into the prairie. His
progress was slow, for he had to make sure of each foot of his advance.
Under cover of a mesquite-bush he put on his water-soaked boots. He
crept fifty yards--one hundred. To his right a camp-fire was burning. It
seemed to him once or twice that he heard voices.
An old trail worn nearly a foot deep by buffaloes served his need. In
this trench he was partly hidden and could make better progress. He
traveled on all fours, still alert in every sense for danger.
Suddenly he sank full length into the trench. On the other side of a
cactus-bush two Indians were squatting. They sat and talked.
The heart of the Ranger sank. At any moment they might discover his
presence, or they might sit there the whole night and hold him prisoner
in his ditch.
For an hour he lay there, wondering each moment whether the ticking of
his watch might not betray him. Then, in a leisurely way, the sentries
got up and sauntered toward the river. The moon was up now, and he could
see their naked bodies shining in the light.
The two Kiowas stopped a moment on the bank and talked before they
separated. One moved up the river; the other turned and came back
directly toward Roberts. The Ranger lay in the buffalo-trail hoping that
in the darkness he might escape observation. He was helpless. Even if he
had brought a gun with him he dared not shoot, for if the alarm were
given he would be driven out of cover in a few minutes.
The brave came forward to the very edge of the wallow. His moccasin
touched the body of the prostrate man. Some slight shift of his
attitude precipitated the crisis. He turned to listen to some sound,
and his foot pressed upon the leg of the Ranger.
There was an instant volcanic upheaval. The Indian, startled, leaped
back. Jack was upon him like a wildcat. They struggled, their bodies so
close that the Kiowa could not use his rifle. The Texan had a double
advantage, that of surprise and of a more muscular body. Moreover, the
redskin made the mistake of trying to cling to his gun. He was flung
down to the ground hard, the white man on top of him.
Jack became aware that the Indian was going to shout, and knew that if
he did all was lost. His strong, brown fingers closed on the throat of
the brave. There was a wild thrashing of limbs in a struggle to escape.
The grip tightened, cut off a gurgle of escaping air. The naked arms and
legs jerked more feebly....
When Roberts crept away into the darkness he carried with him the knife
of the Kiowa. The rifle would only have hampered him, since he had to
travel fast and light.
With every yard gained now he was nearer safety. He knew he was leaving
the camp behind. Presently he rose to his feet and traveled faster. For
the safety of the two on the island depended upon the speed with which
he covered the distance between him and Tascosa.
The plainsman seldom walks. His high-heeled boots would be torture on a
long tramp. When he wants to reach a place, he rides on horseback. Jack
had not walked five miles at a time within a dozen years. Now his long
legs reached for the ground in a steady stride that ate up the leagues.
He guided his course by the stars until he struck the river far above
the camp. Once he stopped for a drink, but the thought of Ridley on the
island drove his tired limbs on. Heel and toe, heel and toe, the steady
march continued, till the Ranger, lithe and strong though the wind and
sun and outdoor life had made him, was ready to drop with fatigue. His
feet, pushed forward in the boots by the height of the heels, burned as
with fire from the pain of outraged flesh rubbing against stiff leather.
But it was not in him to quit. He set his teeth in his exhaustion and
ploughed on up the trail. At last he saw the far, faint lights of
Tascosa. The last mile or two were interminable, but he walked into the
Bird Cage just as the clock on the wall was striking three.
The music had started for a dance. A girl in a spangled dress ran up to
him.
"Come on. Let's dance," she cried; then stopped and looked at him in
surprise: "What's the matter with you?"
The Ranger climbed up on the bar and beat upon it with the heel of his
boot. The dancers stopped in their tracks as the music died.
"The Kiowas are on the warpath. They've got two white men trapped on the
big island below the bend. Gather all the horses, guns, and men you can.
We start in twenty minutes."
Cowboys left their partners standing in the middle of the floor. The
musicians dropped their bows and fiddles. Bar-tenders left unfilled the
orders they had just taken. For Indians in their war-paint were a fact
always very near to the frontiersman, and whatever faults the Southwest
may have had in those days, its warm heart answered instantly the call
for help.
The dancers scattered in all directions to get ready. A gong, beaten by
the owner of the Bird Cage, rang out stridently into the quiet night to
rally sleeping citizens. Children, wakened by the clamor, began to wail.
Dogs barked. Excited men flung out questions and hurried away without
waiting for answers.
But out of the confusion came swift action. Each man looked to his own
ammunition, weapons, horse. Women hurriedly put up lunches and packed
saddlebags with supplies. In an incredibly short time a company of fifty
riders had gathered in front of the Bird Cage.
With the Ranger at their head, they went out of town at a fast trot. If
there had been anybody there to notice it, he would have seen that the
clock on the wall at the Bird Cage registered the time as twenty-seven
minutes past three.