FIGHTING THE FINEST HORSEMEN IN THE WORLD.
It did not take many seconds for both Glen and Nettle to scramble to
their feet after the tremendous header caused by the gopher-hole. Badly
shaken though he was, the boy managed to regain his saddle more quickly
than he had ever done before. But seconds are seconds; and, in so close
a race for the most valuable of all earthly prizes, each one might be
worth a minute, an hour, or even a lifetime. Glen had not more than
regained his seat, before the foremost of his pursuers, who had far
outstripped the other, was upon him. With an empty rifle, Glen had not
the faintest hope of escape this time, though Nettle sprang bravely
forward. He involuntarily cringed from the expected blow, for he had
caught a fleeting glimpse of an uplifted tomahawk; but it did not come.
Instead of it, he heard a crash, and turned in time to see the Indian
pony and its rider pitch headlong, as he and Nettle had done a minute
before. They were almost beside him; and, as he dashed away, he was
conscious of wondering if they too had fallen victims to an unseen
gopher-hole.
He had not noticed the figure running to meet him, nor heard one of the
shots it was firing so wildly as it ran. If he had he might have
realized that his salvation had not depended on a gopher-hole, but on
one of those random shots from Binney Gibbs's rifle. By the merest
chance, for it was fired without aim and almost without direction, it
had pierced the brain of the Indian pony, and decided that race in favor
of Glen.
When, to Glen's great surprise, the two boys met, he sprang from
Nettle's back and insisted that Binney should take his place, which the
other resolutely refused to do. So Glen simply tossed the bridle rein
into Binney's hand, and started off on a full run. In a moment Nettle,
with Binney on her back, had overtaken him, and the generous dispute
might have been resumed had not a party of mounted men from the
wagon-train just then dashed up and surrounded the boys. They were
headed by "Billy" Brackett, who cried out,
"Well, you're a pretty pair of babes in the woods, aren't you? And
you've been having lots of fun at the expense of our anxiety! But jump
up behind me, Glen, quick, for I believe every wild Injun of the Plains
is coming down that hill after us at this moment."
Just before the first shots were heard, some anxiety had been felt in
the train concerning the boys who had lagged behind, and "Billy"
Brackett had already asked if he had not better look them up. Then, as
the sound of firing came over the ridge, and the boys were known to have
got into some sort of trouble, he rode back at full speed, followed by a
dozen of the men. All were equally ready to go, but the rest were
ordered to remain behind for the protection of the train. Then the
wagons were quickly drawn up in double line, and the spare stock was
driven in between them.
These arrangements were hardly completed before "Billy" Brackett and his
party, with the two rescued boys, came flying back, pursued by the
entire body of Indians. As the former gained the wagons they faced
about, and, with a rattling volley, checked for an instant the further
advance of the dusky pony riders.
But those Cheyennes and Arrapahoes and Kiowas and Comanches were not
going to let so rich a prize as this wagon-train and all those scalps
escape them without at least making a bold try for it. If they could
only force the train to go into corral, while it was a mile away from
the nearest stream, they would have taken a long step towards its
capture.
So they divided into two bands; and, circling around, came swooping down
on the train from both sides at once. The Plains Indians are the finest
horsemen in the world, and their everyday feats of daring in the saddle
would render the performance of the best circus-riders tame by
comparison. Now, as the two parties swept obliquely on towards the
motionless wagons, with well-ordered ranks, tossing arms, waving plumes
and fringes, gaudy with vivid colors, yelling like demons, and sitting
their steeds like centaurs, they presented a picture of savage warfare
at once brilliant and terrible.
At the flash of the white men's rifles every Indian disappeared as
though shot, and the next moment their answering shower of bullets and
arrows came from under their horses' necks. The headlong speed was not
checked for an instant; but after delivering their volley they circled
off beyond rifle-shot for a breathing-spell.
As they did so, the wagon-train moved ahead. A few mules had been killed
and more wounded by the Indian volley; but their places were quickly
filled from the spare stock. By the time the Indians were ready for
their second charge, the train was several hundred yards nearer the
coveted water than before.
Again they halted. Again the young engineers, inwardly trembling with
excitement, but outwardly as firm as rocks, took their places under and
behind the wagons, with their shining rifle-barrels steadily pointed
outward. Some of them had been soldiers, while others had encountered
Indians before; but to most of them this was the first battle of any
kind they had ever seen. But they all knew what their fate would be if
overpowered, and they had no idea of letting these Indians get any
nearer than within good rifle-shot.
"If you can't see an Indian, aim at the horses!" shouted General Lyle,
from his position on horseback midway between the two lines of wagons.
"Don't a man of you fire until I give the word, and then give them as
many shots as possible while they are within range."
The chief had not the remotest thought of allowing his train to be
captured, nor yet of being compelled to corral it before he was ready to
do so.
The second charge of the Indians was even bolder than the first, and
they were allowed to come much nearer before the order to fire was
given. The same manoeuvres were repeated as before. One white man, a
member of Mr. Hobart's division, was killed outright, and two others
were wounded. More mules were killed than before, and more were injured;
but still the train moved ahead, and this time its defenders could see
the sparkle of water in the river they longed so ardently to reach. How
thirsty they were getting, and what dry work fighting was! The wagon
mules sniffed the water eagerly, and could hardly be restrained from
rushing towards it.
But another charge must be repelled first. This time it was so fierce
that the Indians rode straight on in the face of the first and second
volleys from the engineers' rifles. When the third, delivered at less
than two rods' distance, finally shattered their ranks, and sent them
flying across the level bottom-land, they left a dozen wagon mules
transfixed with their lances.
The Indians left many a pony behind them when they retreated from that
charge; but in every case their riders, killed, wounded, or unhurt, were
borne off by the others, so that no estimate of their loss could be
formed.
Before another charge could be made, the wagons had been rushed forward,
with their mules on a full gallop, to a point so close to the river-bank
that there was no longer any danger of being cut off from it. Here they
were corralled, and chained together in such a manner as to present an
almost impregnable front to the Indians. At least it was one that those
who viewed it, with feelings of bitter disappointment, from a safe
distance, did not care to attack. After they had noted the disposition
of the train, and satisfied themselves that it was established in that
place for the night, they disappeared so completely that no trace of
them was to be seen, and the explorers were left to take an account of
the losses they had sustained in this brief but fierce encounter.
Only one man killed! What a comfort it was that no more had shared his
fate, and yet how sad that even this one should be taken from their
number! Glen had known him well; for he was one of those merry young
Kansas City surveyors, one of the "bald heads," as they were known in
the party. An hour before he had been one of the jolliest among them. He
was one of those who had gone out so cheerfully with "Billy" Brackett to
the rescue of the boys. He had been instantly killed while bravely doing
his duty, and had suffered no pain. They had that consolation as they
talked of him in low, awed tones. His body could not be sent home. It
could not be carried with them. So they buried him in a grave dug just
inside the line of wagons.
The last level beams of the setting sun streamed full on the spot as the
chief-engineer read the solemn burial service, and each member of the
expedition, stepping forward with uncovered head, dropped a handful of
earth into the open grave. Then it was filled, and its mound was beaten
to the level of the surrounding surface. After that, mules and horses
were led back and forth over it, until there was no longer any chance of
its recognition, or disturbance by Indians or prowling beasts.
None of the wounded suffered from severe injuries; and, though the
bodies of the wagons were splintered in many places, and their canvas
covers gaped with rents, no damage had been sustained that could not be
repaired.