"HE HAS MADE HIS LAST SCOUT."
The perplexing question was settled by Brinton Kingsland's pony
taking his bit in his mouth and speeding towards the camp of the
supply train, as if driven by a hurricane.
The youth could not but feel conscience-smitten at this apparent
desertion of a comrade in dire extremity, but there was no help for
it. Besides, Jackson was right when he urged Brinton to lose no time
in saving himself, since it was out of his power to help the
imperilled scout.
The pursuing hostiles had now approached near enough to make their
shots effective. The whistling bullets warned Brinton of his danger,
so he threw himself forward on the neck of his pony, who rushed ahead
with arrowy swiftness.
The clatter of hoofs made young Kingsland glance to his left: there
was Billberry, the scout's steed, with neck outstretched, going madly
on.
He had been touched by one of the flying bullets, and in his panic
forgot the weak leg that already had delayed him to a fatal extent.
His desperate burst of speed brought him alongside of Jack, whose
rider, to his amazement, saw him shoot ahead at a pace which none of
his kind could surpass, and none there could equal.
But his bridle-reins and stirrup-straps were flying in the gale
caused by his own tremendous swiftness. Brave Nick Jackson had been
shot from the back, and was fighting his last fight.
Brinton Kingsland tugged at the rein of Jack, and shouted a savage
command in the same breath, The pony would not stop, but, slackening
his speed, described a circle, which brought him round with his head
toward the pursuers.
Pierced by one of the balls of the bucks, the scout fell from his
saddle, but, recovering himself with wonderful dexterity, turned
about, and with levelled Winchester bravely faced his foes.
The shots were rapid on both sides, and those of Jackson did much
execution. But his fate was sealed from the first, and none knew it
better than he.
"I can't stand that!" muttered young Kingsland, the moment he
succeeded in facing Jack the other way; "I have already played the
coward, though, heaven knows, I couldn't help it."
Something of his daring seemed to tingle in the veins of his pony;
for, now that he was urged to return, he headed straight for the
group of combatants, and shot forward at full speed.
Meanwhile the members of the supply train were not idle. They had
descried the coming of two horsemen from afar, and were quick to
recognise them as friends.
Had there been any doubt, it vanished at sight of the pursuing
Indians behind them. Three were in the saddle in an instant, and
scurrying away to the relief of the solitary man fighting for his
life.
Brinton was not aware they were at his heels. He mistook the sound
of their horses' hoofs for that of Jackson's animal, who, he
supposed, had turned, and was rushing into the heart of the peril, as
his kind will do when forced out of a burning building.
The first warning the youth received of the true state of affairs was
when the approaching horsemen fired from behind him at the group
crowding around and pressing the scout so sorely. But the hostiles
were quicker than he to see their peril. They wheeled hastily, and,
flinging themselves over the necks of their ponies, skurried in the
direction of the Cheyenne.
It is the custom of the American Indians to carry off their dead and
wounded. The latter probably looked after themselves in this
instance, but in their haste the two that had fallen by the hand of
Nick Jackson were left stretched on the ground.
An extraordinary incident now took place. In the furious struggle
one of the hostiles had become dismounted. Disregarding the fate of
his companions, or probably seeing that the brave scout had become so
weakened that the peril no longer existed, he leaped from the back of
his pony and dashed forward to give the white man his
finishing-stroke. Before he could do this, the relief party were so
close that he did not dare to tarry. He turned to remount his pony,
but the animal had become panic-stricken in the flurry--it may have
been that he was struck by a bullet--and was galloping off, as if for
his own life. Furthermore, he made straight for the camp of the
supply train, so that his capture was impossible.
But there were two other animals that had lost their riders, and, if
he could secure one of these, he might yet save himself.
They, however, were galloping among the others riding for life toward
the Big Cheyenne. The bucks, with less chivalry than the youth had
shown in similar circumstances, gave no heed to the peril of their
dismounted comrade, but sped across the prairie at the utmost speed
of which they were capable.
Among them was possibly one who, seeing that the whites, instead of
keeping up the pursuit, had halted around the fallen scout, gave a
little thought to their comrade. This friend would not turn back
himself, nor did any of the others do so, but with the palm of his
hand the former smote one of the riderless ponies across the eyes and
shouted a command in his ear. The horse checked himself with a cry
of pain, reared, shook his head, and then, dropping out of the group
running close together, wheeled and trotted toward the dismounted
Indian.
The latter gave a thrilling exhibition of running. He saw that his
only hope lay in reaching one of the ponies of his comrades that had
basely deserted him, since to undertake to recapture his own animal
must take him into the camp of his enemies. He therefore exerted
himself to the utmost to overtake the party before the whites could
overtake him.
Had there been none interested besides the three members of the
supply train, all would have gone well with the buck, for, as we have
said, they gathered around the fallen scout and gave their whole
attention to him. But there was another, who resolved that this
miscreant should pay for his unpardonable barbarity to a brave and
fallen enemy. That one was Brinton Kingsland.
Quick to grasp the situation, after finding himself too late to help
poor Jackson, he noted the solitary Indian, and believing him to be
the one who had laid the scout low (though if he had not struck the
actual blow, he was equally guilty), he compressed his lips and
muttered--
"I'll teach you a lesson, you assassin!"
The redskin, as he ran, grasped his Winchester in his right hand in a
trailing position. The heavy blanket was secured at the throat by
some fastening that held it in place. The lower portion streamed out
over his back, as did his long black hair, in the wind created by his
own fleetness, while his leggings doubled and twinkled so fast that
they resembled the spokes of a swiftly-revolving wheel He was,
indeed, running with astonishing speed.
"Now, Jack, do your best! There isn't any time to lose, and you are
not going to let a miserable redskin outspeed you."
The pony flung up his head, snuffed the air, stretched out his neck,
and away he went with arrowy swiftness. He knew what was wanted of
him, and was not the one to shirk his duty.
It was at this juncture that the fugitive, going like a whirlwind,
turned his head for an instant and glanced back Brinton was watching
him, and saw the scowling face glaring like a wild beast through the
thicket of flying hair.
"Great heavens! it's Wolf Ear!"
During these exciting minutes the youth had forgotten about the young
Ogalalla, until this glimpse of the well-remembered features told him
the startling truth. The shock caused him involuntarily to tighten
the rein of Jack, and the animal, obedient as he generally was,
instantly slackened his pace.
But the hesitation was for a few seconds only. Brinton felt that he
ought not to have been surprised after the events of the preceding
day and night.
"He deserves death more than any of the rest, for his knowledge has
been greater than theirs, and his excuse is less. I'll run him down
and make him prisoner."
Again he spoke sharply to Jack and twitched the rein. The noble
animal stretched away with the same graceful swiftness he had shown
from the first.
But the Ogalalla was cunning. He had seen the Indian pony as it
withdrew from the rest and came trotting toward him in a bewildered
way, as though not quite understanding what it meant; but if the
animal was perplexed, Wolf Ear was not. He read the meaning aright,
and saw that one desperate chance remained. If he could hurl himself
upon the back of that same steed before the white youth overhauled
him, the prospect was good for his ultimate escape.
Brinton comprehended everything as vividly as he, and did not spare
Jack. He aimed to interpose himself between Wolf Ear and his pony,
and thus prevent their meeting. Every nerve and muscle was strained
to accomplish that end.
Young Kingsland was already close enough to shoot down the fugitive,
and he felt he deserved to be laid low, but, as we have shown, such
was not his purpose. An indefinable dislike to slay a foe, even
though ferocious and guilty, prevented his firing the shot that would
speedily have ended it all.
The rest of the hostiles had disappeared over a swell of the plain
and were out of reach.
Why did not Wolf Ear, when he saw he could not reach his pony in
time, halt and bring his gun to bear on his fierce pursuer?
He did. The cunning fellow, almost within reach of the pony, and at
the moment when his heart was beating high with hope, saw everything
frustrated by the action of the animal. The sight of a person coming
toward him at such terrific speed, even though belonging to the race
to which he was accustomed, was too disturbing to be accepted with
serenity. He raised his head as he came to a halt, surveyed the
bounding figure, and then, with a snort of affright, wheeled and
trotted toward the river.
His speed was much less than that of the Ogalalla, but of necessity
it compelled the latter to run farther than he would have done had
the beast remained stationary, and it was just that brief interval of
enforced stay on the ground that told the Ogalalla the white youth
must reach him before he could overtake the pony.
"Surrender, Wolf Ear!" called Brinton; "you can't help yourself."
Evidently Wolf Ear held a different opinion, for he wheeled like
lightning, and levelled his rifle with the reply--
"That's the way _I_ surrender! Do you surrender!"
The action was so sudden that Brinton could not forestall him. He
was fairly caught.
It was, however, far from Brinton's thoughts to yield to this
startling command. He flung himself over the other side of the
saddle, so as to offer as little of his body as possible to the aim
of the miscreant. He was certain he would fire and shoot down his
horse, if not himself. He waited with an intensity of emotion which
cannot be described.
One minute, two minutes passed, but no report came. Then Brinton
heard the suspicious clatter of a horse's hoofs, and peeped over the
spine of Jack. He was in time to see Wolf Ear galloping off on the
hack of the pony. With inimitable dexterity he had secured the
animal during the brief interval at his command, and was now going
like the wind over the prairie, after his departed comrades.
The Ogalalla, however, was not too far away to shout back a taunt and
the words--
"Wise young man, my gun was not loaded, but it served me as well."
Then he whisked over the elevation and vanished.
There was no help for it, and the chagrined Brinton wheeled and
galloped toward the group whom he had left some distance behind on
the prairie. They were riding slowly to the camp, supporting a form
between them. Dreading the truth, Brinton held back until the others
reached the camp. Then he rode forward and asked--
"Was Nick badly hurt?"
"He is dead; he did not speak after we reached him. He was a brave
fellow, but he has made his last scout."
Brinton sighed, for he respected and loved the man who had thus died
for his country.
But another question was on his lips. He looked around the camp, and
his heart sank at his failure to see any of the loved ones whom he
was so hopeful of finding there. In a trembling voice he put the
query.
The answer was what he dreaded: they had neither seen nor did they
know anything of them.