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KIDDIE THE SCOUT
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "That's the way of it," he said.]
KIDDIE THE SCOUT
by
ROBERT LEIGHTON
Author of
"Kiddie of the Camp,"
"Gildersley's Tenderfoot,"
"Cooee,"
"Rattlesnake Ranch," etc.
Illustrated by Frank R. Grey
London
C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.
18 Henrietta Street, W.C. 2
1920
_TO_
_BERNARD EVERETT, Esq._
_My dear Everett,--It was you who suggested this continuation of the
story of Kiddie, and it is my pleasure to inscribe the volume with your
name._
_R. L._
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I THE MYSTERIOUS SNIPER
II THE UNIFORM OF THE PLAINS
III A DANGEROUS ENEMY
IV BROKEN FEATHER'S WAY
V BLAZING THE TRAIL
VI JIM THURSTON'S SUBSTITUTE
VII RUBE CARTER'S VISITOR
VIII KIDDIE'S LUCK
IX KIDDIE'S "SELFISHNESS"
X THE GUARDIAN OF THE HONEYCOMB
XI LESSONS IN TRACKING
XII A MOONLIGHT VISITOR
XIII A MATTER OF BUSINESS
XIV LONE WOLF CAÑON
XV THE CRY OF THE JAY
XVI THE SIGN OF THE BROKEN FEATHER
XVII THE RUSE OF THE BUFFALO TRAIL
XVIII THE BATTLE OF POISON SPIDER CREEK
XIX KIDDIE'S ANSWER
XX FOUL PLAY
XXI THE CLUE OF YELLOW WORSTED
XXII RUBE CARTER'S THEORY--AND KIDDIE'S
XXIII EVIDENCE FOR THE PROSECUTION
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"THAT'S THE WAY OF IT," HE SAID . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
KIDDIE SAW THE MUSTANG REAR ON ITS HIND LEGS
RUBE TURNED SHARPLY ROUND AND LOOKED UP AT THE INTRUDER
"FRIZZLE ME IF IT AIN'T KIDDIE OF THE CAMP!" CRIED KEARNEY
"I'VE GOT HIM, SURE; HE AIN'T GOIN' TER WRIGGLE AWAY"
KIDDIE REACHED FOR THE SQUARE OF PAPER
"LOOKS TO ME LIKE SHERIFF BLAGG," SAID KIDDIE
HE SPOKE TO THE CROWS IN THEIR OWN TONGUE
CHAPTER I
THE MYSTERIOUS SNIPER
"A pity Kiddie ain't here along of us, to help. He'd sure tell us if
thar's Injuns prowlin' around. My old eyes ain't just what they used
ter be for spottin' a crawlin' Redskin from afar. Now, Kiddie had eyes
like spy-glasses, hadn't he, Isa? As for his sense of hearin'--well, I
allow he c'd 'most hear the grass a-growin'."
Old Man Birkenshaw was peering searchingly through the dim light of the
early dawn, expecting at any moment to see the feathered head of a
stealthy Indian warrior moving among the deep shadows. From where he
lay on the dewy grass beside the crowded horse-corral, with his
repeating rifle across his arm, he searched into the darkness of the
larch woods and down the misty slopes to the thick line of bushes
bordering the hidden creek.
"Yes," he went on, speaking in a cautious undertone, "Kiddie was a
marvel."
"That's so," agreed the man stationed next to him, "a marvel for
scoutin', he was. Like a cat, too."
"A cat?"
"Yes," Isa Blagg nodded, "allus fell on his feet, didn't he? He allus
came out on top. I never knew such a one fer turnin' up right on the
spot whenever there was danger hangin' around."
"Wonder where he is now?" sighed Gideon Birkenshaw.
"Why, away in England, of course," drawled Isa. "In England without a
doubt, occupyin' that thar comfortable seat of his in the House of
Lords, wearin' a gold coronet an' a gold watch an' chain, an' a robe
trimmed round with ermine skins; livin' in the grand style with all
them high an' mighty aristocratic friends of his; never givin' a
thought ter this yer camp here in the wilds of Wyoming, or to Laramie
Peak, or to you, or to me."
"Mebbe so--mebbe so," mused Gideon. "I allow it's a long, long while
since I'd a letter from him--not since that time when he sent me the
Arab mare. Seems as if he'd clean forgotten me, though I never
reckoned as Kiddie would ever forget. He ain't that sort."
"Hullo!" Isa Blagg was suddenly alert. "What's that? Listen! D'ye
hear it, Gid--a horse gallopin' along the trail--comin' this way?
Listen!"
The two men lay perfectly still and silent. From afar they could hear
the unmistakable sound of a horse's hoofs, becoming momentarily more
distinct.
"Injuns?" questioned Birkenshaw. He glanced about to assure himself
that his men were all at their appointed posts.
"No," Isa answered. "'Tain't no prairie cayuse. I c'n make out the
ring of its shoes on the hard trail. 'Tain't the Pony Express,
neither. Guess it's just one of the boys from Red Buttes comin' along
in advance to lend us a neighbourly hand. We c'n do well with another
gun, Gid--allowin' that young Rube Carter's information was correct;
allowin' that Broken Feather and his braves are sure out on a horse
raidin' stunt."
"Young Rube ain't anyways liable to be in error in a serious case like
this," Gideon assured his companion. "And if Broken Feather's shapin'
ter steal horses, why, nat'rally he'll calculate on findin' what he
covets right here--the best herd within fifty miles, ter say nothin' of
that Arab mare, which he's had his eye on for a while back. No, Young
Rube's warnin' ain't no false alarm. I'm figurin' that the Redskins
are in ambush down there among the willows. It's likely they've been
there all through the night. They'll attack before sunrise; and
they'll approach by way of the hollow yonder, where they c'n tread
quiet on the marshy ground."
"Say, that rider's wastin' no time, Gid," Isa interrupted, "Guess he's
in some hurry by the way he's poundin' along."
"We ought ter catch a view of him as he gallops over the ridge,"
reflected Gideon. "Might even be Broken Feather himself. He's cute
enough ter come along in disguise, ridin' a saddled pony that's
decently shod."
The old man raised himself on an elbow and glanced along the line of
men whom he had posted at equal intervals behind the defence of a wide
grassy bank commanding the front of the threatened horse corral. Next
to himself was Isa Blagg, then Jake Paterson and Tom Lippincott.
Between Lippincott and the man at the end station, Abe Harum, was young
Rube Carter. There were six guns in all, not counting revolvers.
Gideon beckoned to young Rube, and the boy crept cautiously towards
him, treading softly in his moccasined feet, carrying his rifle under
his arm and taking good cover.
"Crawl down towards the shack, Rube, an' get a sight of the rider
that's comin' along the trail," Gideon ordered. "Just see who he is as
he tops the risin' ground, and then get right back to your place an' be
ready ter open fire when I give the sign."
Rube was not absent very long. When he returned he passed close behind
the Boss, so silently that Gideon was not aware of his presence until a
hand was pressed on his spurred heel.
"He's a stranger, Boss," Rube reported in a whisper. "I don't
reco'nize him, nor his pony neither. It don't look as he means comin'
here to our camp, or he'd sure have turned in at the new gate."
"Didn't hear him crossin' the wooden bridge," said Gideon, "and his
mount ain't wearin' soft moccasins."
"Seems to me he's come to a halt," added Isa Blagg.
There was an anxious spell of silent, watchful waiting. No sound or
movement betrayed the presence of marauding Indians, and already the
clouds in the east had taken on the rosy tinge of daybreak.
Gideon Birkenshaw was beginning to comfort himself in the belief that
there would be no attack after all; that his horses were safe. He was
even on the point of laying aside his Winchester and bidding his men
return home with him for breakfast, when suddenly from the farther side
of the corral there came the sharply startling ring of a rifle shot.
It came from a direction in which none of his men had been stationed.
"Who fired that shot?" he cried in wondering surprise. "Whose gun was
it? Anybody know?"
Abe Harum rose to his feet, and, bending his body forward, ran swiftly
past the corral gate. Then he went down on his knees and elbows and
crept along by the stout timbers of the stockade, screened by the long
grass.
The corral was built in a circle, and there were no corners or
buttresses behind which he could conceal himself. Neither could he yet
see anything of the man who had fired the shot. What he did see, when
he had crept a few yards beyond the gate, was a crowd of Indians
gathered close against the palisade. One of them was in the act of
climbing over the sharp-pointed rails. Some seemed already to have
dropped on the inner side, for the ponies were running about the
enclosure in wild alarm.
Abe levelled his rifle and fired at the Redskin now slinging a naked
leg over the spikes.
The shot missed its mark, and the Indian, balancing himself as he
gripped one of the rails, was preparing to jump within when he was
struck by a bullet fired from beyond the other Indians and between them
and the main trail.
Believing that some of the cowboys from Three Crossings had arrived,
and were already at work defending Birkenshaw's property, Abe ran back
to hasten Gideon and his mates.
He met all five of them before reaching the gate.
"Quick--quick!" he urged, "they're attacking on the far side. We been
watchin' at the wrong place, and they've sneaked past through the long
grass. Say, Gid, some of 'em have gotten inside the corral, over the
rails. They're among the ponies right now. Hear 'em? Rube--" he
added, turning to the boy, "you hang back thar outer the line of fire.
Keep an eye on the corral gate."
Shots were being fired in rapid succession now from beyond the curve of
the stockade. The Indians, assailed on both flanks, had scattered
themselves to take cover behind boulders and bushes, and from their
ambush they were aiming their arrows and firing with their repeating
rifles.
An arrow took off Birkenshaw's hat, another grazed Tom Lippincott's
cheek, but most of the Redskins were aiming down the slope in the
direction from which the most effective fire was coming into their
midst.
"Thar's a band of the boys from Three Crossings down yonder," Abe Harum
announced. "See, they're pickin' off a Injun with 'most every shot!"
"I'm figurin' as thar's no more'n one gun down there," declared Isa
Blagg with a wise headshake. "One gun alone. But the man that's
behind it, he sure knows how to shoot. I'm curious t' know just who it
c'n be. Eh? Yes, that's so; they're drawin' off. Guess they've had
about enough. They didn't catch us sleepin', as they thought to."
The Redskins were retiring into the shelter of the neighbouring pine
trees, clearly with the purpose of enticing the defenders away from the
corral. Gideon Birkenshaw, falling into the snare, was planning to
follow them up or to head them off on the farther side of the wood. He
was rallying his forces to give each man his direction when Rube Carter
ran towards him.
"Abe!--Gid!" the boy cried excitedly, "they've broke open the
gate--from the inside! They're stampeding our ponies. Come back and
stop 'em! Say, Gid, Broken Feather's gone off, mounted on your Arab
mare!"
"Eh? What's that? Mounted on Sultana, is he?" Gideon ran back,
refilling the magazine of his rifle as he went. Abe Harum, Tom
Lippincott, and the rest of them followed him.
They found the stout double gate of the corral standing wide open. The
horses had been driven out by the Indians, who moved about, hidden in
their midst. Many of the animals were already at liberty, racing in
close company in the direction taken by the Arab mare.
So dense was the pressing throng of horses at the entrance, that it was
impossible for Gideon to push his way through in an attempt to shut the
gate. Neither could he fire upon the Indians, for fear of injuring the
animals.
The Indians, indeed, were going out under the cover of the horses, and
as each brave passed the open gate he seized his chosen pony, tied an
end of his lariat about its muzzle, and mounting, bare-backed, rode off.
At length Isa Blagg succeeded in reaching the gate and closing it. He
flung the heavy bars across and secured them in their staples. Only a
score or so of the ponies remained in the corral. Over a hundred had
been driven off in the confused stampede.
When Isa returned to his companion there was not a live Redskin to be
seen. Even the wounded had been carried away.
"Seems as how we've gotten the worst of it, this time," Isa Blagg
regretted. "I'll allow that Broken Feather laid his plans real well.
You made a mistake, Gideon, in plantin' us all together beside the
gate, as if that was the only possible point of attack. Say, we
oughter been distributed in pickets, same as Buckskin Jack allus
recommended."
"We ain't none of us wounded," reflected Gideon, wiping a streak of
blood from his face. "Leastways, not wounded serious. An' that sniper
hidden in the bush yonder must ha' picked off quite a dozen of the
Injuns. I'm hopin' he'll show up, now, an' let us know who he is."
"Meantime," interposed Abe Harum, "what's goin' ter happen 'bout our
ponies? You can't afford ter lose that Arab mare, Gid. A valuable
beast, anyhow, let alone her being a present from Kiddie."
"I'm figurin' out just how I'm to get her back," nodded Gideon. "I
shall have her back, though I have to organize a special raid into
their reservation' and enlist the help of the military from Fort
Laramie. Rube," he called, "just slip down to the trail. Thar's a
squad of the boys from Red Buttes just arrived. Tell 'em to come right
here. Tell 'em as I'm plannin' to foller up them Redskins and round up
my ponies before they're corralled."
There were seventeen frontiersmen in the squad, all of them
disappointed in being too late to help in defending Birkenshaw's
ponies, but all of them eager to join in the pursuit of Broken Feather
and his braves.
Gideon yielded the leadership to Nick Undrell, a man of blemished
reputation, a drunkard, a desperate gambler, and a convicted thief, but
a magnificent horseman, a capable scout, and the hero of many an Indian
fight.
Nick knew where the Indian village was situated, and which way Broken
Feather was most likely to take.
"They're plumb sure ter pass through One Tree Gulch," he declared. "We
c'n overtake them in the defile, goin' by way of Poison Spider Creek
and the old Buffalo Trail, droppin' on 'em when they least expect us."
They saw no sign of the Indians for several miles; not even on the wide
expanse of Laramie Plain. Here, however, Nick Undrell pointed to the
dusty ground where the track of a horse crossed his path obliquely.
"See that, Mr. Birkenshaw?" he said, glancing along the distinct line
of hoof marks. "That rider, whoever he is, wasn't dawdlin' none.
Looks as if ho was makin' fer the far side of White Bull Ridge, which
ain't a thousand miles from Broken Feather's village. Anybody you
know? Ridin' a big horse, he is, shod by a town blacksmith. Might
have started from the neighbourhood of your camp just about the time
you stopped shootin'."
"Don't know nothin' about him," returned Gideon. "He ain't one of our
lot, anyhow. Push along, Nick. I'm frettin' considerable about my
Arab mare. Wouldn't have exchanged her fer any hoss as ever chewed
grass."
"No, and I'm figurin' as Broken Feather won't be a whole lot eager to
part with her, now he's gotten a cinch on her," rejoined Nick.
"Gid!" Abe Harum called from behind, "thar's dust risin' from the mouth
of One Tree Gulch. If we puts on a hustle we shall drop on 'em 'fore
they gets out on the open prairie."
They spurred their ponies to the gallop. They raced at top speed into
the gulch, caring nothing for the clatter of hoofs, knowing that there
could be no escape for the mounted Redskins up the steep hillsides.
Midway along the defile, where it widened beyond a projecting spur of
cliff, they saw the Indians driving the stolen herd of horses before
them, urging them with yells and stinging quirts.
Nick Undrell divided his forces into two companies, giving them
instructions to ride forward, one on either flank of the enemy, with
the endeavour to head them off. Nick himself, with Abe Harum, was to
remain in the rear, as support, while Isa Blagg and Gideon Birkenshaw
were, if possible, to work their way round to the captured ponies and
cut them off from the Indians, to be rounded-up after the expected
fight.
Gideon so far succeeded in his object as to get in advance of the
Redskin rearguard. By riding obliquely down the slope towards them, he
might now hope to place himself between them and his ponies.
He spurred his horse, holding his revolver ready for instant use. But
as he rode forward he caught sight of Broken Feather, mounted on the
Arab mare, and impulsively he resolved to recapture Sultana at all
risks. He drew rein. On the instant his obedient pony swerved.
As it did so, Gideon, glancing forward to the farther mouth of the
gulch, saw a strange horseman approaching at a full gallop. He came
like a wild gust of wind, leaning over in his seat and slinging his
supple lariat above his flapping hat as he came. He wore the usual red
shirt and blue scarf of the frontiersman, and he was mounted on a
splendid bay horse, that was less like a prairie mustang than a
well-trained cavalry charger.
Watching him in astonishment, Gideon saw that he had singled out the
Indian chief, and was riding down upon him. He saw the lariat shoot
out from the uplifted hand like a wriggling snake. The wide loop
opened like a wheel, grew suddenly tense and smaller. Then it dropped
clean over Broken Feather's head and shoulders, and in an instant the
chief's two arms were pinioned to his sides.