CIMARRON JACK.
As the first gray streaks of dawn slanted across the eastern horizon,
the little camp on the Gila was astir, and the members were bustling
about. Anxious faces they were; their movements were hurried and
nervous; and the general aspect of the camp was one of alarm and
anxiety.
There is evidently a great commotion in camp; ever and anon the men
scan the surrounding horizon; and one and all wear the same anxious
look; what is the matter?
The question is answered almost as soon as asked, as a cry arises
from one of the watchers. The others start to their feet (they are at
present bolting a hasty breakfast) and following their companion’s gaze
see a horseman coming along the river bank. He is quite near, having
been coming under the bank, and consequently unseen by them.
“Simpson! the guide!” shout one or two voices; then two others add,
with a groan, “and alone.”
“And alone!” cry the rest, gloomily.
The guide was coming slowly, his mustang lagging with drooping head, as
if just freed from a hard, long ride. The guide, too, though generally
reserved, was moody, and wore a sort of apologetic, shame-faced air.
Joel Wheeler and young Carpenter sprung to meet him.
“Have you seen her?” asked Mr. Wheeler, though knowing the question was
a superfluous one. The guide shook his head.
“Nor any trace of her?” hastily added Carpenter. Simpson slowly shook
his head again.
“Not at all--no sign?”
“Nary mark, sign, trail, trace--nary nuthin’. Blast the luck!” he
added, in sudden ire; “I’ve done rode over every squar’ inch of this
kentry sence last night, fur miles around. She ain’t nowhar ’round
hyar, that’s sartain shure.”
It was only too evident the guide spoke truthfully. His fatigued,
travel-worn steed, panting deeply, and his own wearied air, showed he
had ridden far and swiftly.
“Yer see’d no one, then?” asked Burt Scranton.
“Who sed I never see’d no one?” hastily retorted Simpson.
“You did.”
“I didn’t!”
“What did you say, then?”
“Thet I hedn’t see’d the lady--and I hevn’t.”
“You have seen some one, then?” asked Carpenter.
“Yes, I hev.”
“Whom?”
The guide brought his fist down on his knees:
“A sperrit.”
“A spirit? Nonsense! Where?”
“Up hyar, a piece--in a kentry called the Land of Silence.”
“Ah! the Land of Silence,” and Burt slowly shook his head. “I’ve heerd
on that place.”
The Canadians looked incredulous and grinned. Seeing them in the act,
the guide, nettled, burst out:
“Yes, and yer may jist bet yer hides I don’t want ter see it ag’in,
now. By thunder! ef I warn’t skeered I never was, and every one of ye’s
heerd of Simpson, the guide--every one of ye know ’t I ain’t no coward,
neither.”
“What did it look like?” asked Kit Duncan.
The guide slowly dismounted, and flinging his arm over his saddle, said:
“It war the ghost of the Trailer.”
“The Trailer!” echoed Burt.
“Yes, the Trailer. Jest the same as he allus war, in his peaked hat and
black feather, jest the same as ever he war, armed ter kill, he rode
his old black hoss right by me, not ten feet off. Gee-whittaker! I ked
hev touched him.”
“Did he speak?” asked Louis Robidoux, in a quizzical manner.
“Thet’s the wust of it. When he got clos’t ter me, he turned his face
too-ward me. Gee-crymini! how white his face war.”
“What did he say?”
“‘You air ridin’ late, Tim Simpson.’”
“Is that all?”
“Gee-whiz! ain’t thet enough?”
“Why didn’t you shoot him?”
“I war too skeered--I know’d ’twar no mortal man.”
“How did you know?”
“Cuss yer! a woman’s nuthin’ ter yer on the ke-westion. How did I know?
Wal, the Trailer’s got a grudge ag’in’ me, an’ ef he’d been a man don’t
yer see he’d ’a’ plugged me afore I see’d him? He war a fee-rocious
man, thet Trailer, and ef he war alive when I met him, he’d ’a’ sure
plugged me. He didn’t, and thet shows he’s dead. Durn it! I _know_ he’s
dead; Pedro Felipe killed him in the Land of Silence, over a year ago.
I see’d his skeleton onc’t.”
“Halloa!” exclaimed Burt, suddenly. “Look thar!” and he pointed down
the river. All eyes followed the direction.
A man mounted on a trim bay horse was seen advancing at a long,
swinging lope, quite near. He had drawn close during the dialogue,
unnoticed, and was coming boldly on, as if he feared no danger. Simpson
immediately recognized him.
“Cimarron Jack!” he cried. “Gee-menentli! hooray!”
The rider stopped and drew a revolver.
“Who is there?” he demanded, in a rich, musical voice, with a purity of
accent rarely seen on the southern plains.
“Tim Simpson, the guide!”
“Is that so? Hurrah! I’m Cimarron Jack, the tiger, and I’m a
thorough-bred from Tartary, I tell _you_.”
Belting his revolver, he struck spurs to his splendid bay, and the next
moment was heartily shaking Simpson by the hand, wrenching it violently.
“I’m an elephant, _I_ am!” he shouted, in stentorian tones, addressing
the entire party. “I’m a Feejee dancing-master, and where’s the man
that’ll say ‘boo’ to this chap? I’m the fellow who killed cock-robin!”
“You are jest in time, Jack,” said the guide. “We want yer ter help us.”
Nowhere in America do men come so quickly “to the point,” as on
the vast South-western plains. Meet a friend you have not seen for
years--he is in trouble, mayhap. You have scarcely time to greet him
before he informs you of his embarrassment, and requests your immediate
assistance. You instantly, if you are a “plainsman,” grant his
request--it is often policy to do so.
Cimarron Jack was a noted ranger and inexplicable man. While his
whole conversation was a series of boastings and vaunts, while a more
conceited man perhaps never breathed, he had one trait which was the
very opposite, paradoxical as it may appear--he believed that others
were as keen and shrewd as himself, and, when on the war-path, believed
his enemy as bold and crafty as himself--the predominating trait of the
shrewdest detectives in the world.
To describe him, his dress and manner, were a long and hard task.
Closely-knit, six feet and three inches in hight, with the arm of a
blacksmith, and the leg of a cassowary, he was a formidable enemy when
aroused, and he was a man of iron nerve. Withal, he was at times as
tender as a woman, and was always upright and honest.
Imagine a giant on a splendid bay stallion, with weapons of all sorts,
sizes and nationalities slung about him; with red, green, blue,
gray--in short, every color--feathers twisted into his clothing,
long boots, painted in different colors--looking like an insane
person--imagine this, and you are distantly acquainted with Cimarron
Jack, the ranger, hunter and Indian-fighter.
“What do you want with the king-pin of all rifle-shots? Show me a star,
and I’ll knock the twinkle out of it with a Number One buckshot.”
The party stared at him aghast. Never before had they seen such a
fantastical braggadocio. Had they never before heard of him they would
have deemed him a raving maniac, and would have given him a wide berth.
But every one who was in that country at that time--184--, had heard of
the far-famed Cimarron Jack.
“What do you want with the people’s favorite?” he demanded. “Come--the
court is impatient.”
Joel Wheeler stepped forward and said: “Sir, we are--”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me!” interrupted the ranger. “I’m Cimarron Jack, and I’m
the cock of the walk.”
“Well then, Cimarron Jack, my daughter strayed away last night and
we fear she is lost--indeed, we are positive she is. The country is
infested with Indians--”
“You can’t tell me any thing about Indians, for my education in that
direction is finished. Hurrah! three genuine cheers and a tiger for the
man that can’t be beat!”
Snatching his _sombrero_ from his head, he swung it aloft, cheering
himself lustily. Then he replaced the hat and listened gravely.
“It is only too evident that Christina is lost. Cognizant that the
country is swarming with hostile Apaches and Comanches, we are very
much alarmed. You are a noted scout and tracker--I’ve frequently heard
of you; and if you will lend us your assistance in searching for her, I
will cheerfully pay any price you may ask.”
“Count me in--just score the grizzly-tamer on the rolls. But stop!”
he added, his face becoming grave, and addressing Simpson. “Is the
beauteous maid fair to look upon?”
“Ef thar ever was an angel on airth, she’s the one,” emphatically
pronounced the guide.
“Then hurrah! blood raw, blood raw! cut your palate out and eat it--you
are just shouting I will. I’m a thorough-bred, sired by Colossus.”
“Are you willing to go, then?” demanded Carpenter.
“You’re talking I am.”
“Well, just tell the men to hitch up the horses, Burt.”
Scranton turned to execute the order, and Mr. Wheeler called a
consultation of the principal men, Cimarron Jack, Carpenter and
Simpson, to decide upon the most feasible plan for recovering Kissie.
He was much alarmed. Although for years accustomed to Kissie’s vagaries
and erratic wanderings, he was now alarmed in good earnest. She had
often ridden away from the train on some expedition, but she had always
returned punctually. But now they were in a country overrun with
hostile, ferocious Indians, who were capable of any fiendish deed, and
quite unscrupulous enough to execute it.
But there were other dangers near by, if not quite as potent. Here in
this hot, vast plain water was scarce, though the country was “cut up”
by creeks. These, however, were entirely dry nine months in the year,
and this season was uncommonly dry. Then, too, savage and large beasts
roamed the plain. The large gray wolf hunted in packs, ready when
hungry to follow and run down a human being; the grizzly often came
down from his cave in the mountains to prey upon the animals in the
plain; and many other animals, quite as ferocious and cunning, roamed
the illimitable waste.
Should she avoid all these dangers; should she elude the fierce Apache,
the gray wolf and grizzly bear; should she be fortunate enough to
discover water, a thing scarcely possible, there was another danger to
be dreaded--hunger.
She was not armed, and procuring food on the barren plain, without
the necessary weapons, was impossible. She could procure no food from
the herbage--it was scant, dry and short. She was undoubtedly in a
desperate predicament.
Mr. Wheeler revolved these several contingencies in his mind, and grew
sad and moody. Carpenter noticed his dejection, and though anxious and
sad himself, endeavored to cheer him.
“Come, cheer up,” he said, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “The case
may not be so desperate after all. While there is life there is hope,
you know.”
“Sam, I know you can sympathize with me--you are the only one who can
appreciate my agony, for it is positive agony. To think of the dear
child, heaven knows where, suffering and heart-sick, almost distracts
me. Sam, I fear the worst.”
“Come, sir, come; you must not talk like that. She only rode away after
a rabbit--she, mayhap, has become confused, perhaps lost. But the
sorrel mustang is sagacious, and doubtless ere this is scenting back
toward us. I know he will come back if she will give him his head.”
“A thing she will not think of doing,” replied Mr. Wheeler. “If she is
lost, she is lost, indeed--there is no end to this vast plain.”
“But she must have left a trail, and with two such famous men as
Cimarron Jack and Simpson, we can surely trail her. Those two men are
prodigies, sir--they are famous even among their fellow-countrymen.
Cheer up, sir--see, they are ready to start. Shall I saddle your horse,
sir?”
“If you will, Sam. I am so perplexed I am fit for nothing.”
“I will do it, sir. Take my word for it, sir, we will soon find her.”
“God grant it!” was the fervent reply.
The result of the council was this: the guide, Cimarron Jack, Mr.
Wheeler, and Sam, were to ride toward the north-west, if possible on
Kissie’s trail. Burt Scranton and the teamster would follow with the
wagons. The trailing party would proceed moderately, while the wagons
would move at a much faster rate than usual to keep in sight. This was
done to avoid being separated by Indians, should they meet with any.
This arrangement (Cimarron Jack’s suggestion) afterward proved a wise
one. But more anon.
“Are you ready?” said Jack, vaulting into his saddle. “If you are,
follow the man who can thrash his weight in wild-cats with a ton of
grizzlies thrown in too to make the skirmish interesting.”
“Yer ain’t quit yer bragging yet, I see,” remarked the guide.
“Bragging! _me_ brag? d’ye mean it? whiz! I’ll cut your palate out and
eat it--yes, I will, you know that yourself. Blood raw, blood raw! I’m
the man that never says ‘boo’ to a lame chicken.”
“Hyar’s her trail,” observed the guide.
Jack vaulted backward to the ground, examined it, swore an oath or two,
lit his pipe, boasted a little, then remounted and rode off on the
faint, very dim trail, with the wagons rumbling after; the search had
commenced.
The guide ever and anon raised his head and peered off into the
northern, purple-tinted distance, as if half afraid of seeing some
disagreeable object. However, he held his peace and relapsed into his
usual, but for some time, abandoned taciturnity. Must the truth be
spoken? The guide was alarmed.