GIVE AND TAKE.
Cimarron Jack, with these words, turned his back to the sulky Canadian,
and carefully reconnoitered the position of the Indians. The chief’s
band still remained drawn up in line, facing them like soldiers on a
dress-parade; the other was not in sight.
“This won’t do,” remarked Jack. “We must keep an eye on those devils
who rode round back of us. First thing we know the whole gang will come
whooping on us. That ’ll never do--we must keep them off.”
“But how are we going to do that?” inquired the Canadian.
Jack became nettled.
“Why, peep over the top of the hill, to be sure.”
“But they will shoot us--Red-Knife’s band.”
“Oh, they will try? I know I’m the crack shot of these plains, and _I_
can’t hit a man three quarters of a mile off with a carbine that won’t
kill at three hundred yards. They darsn’t come within half a mile to
shoot, so we are safe from that quarter. There’s no time to be lost;
those red fools may be crawling up the other side of the hill for all
we know.”
So saying, he coolly left the wagons, and deliberately walked up the
hillside. He was greeted with a volley from Red-Knife’s band, but the
bullets fell far short; the short Mexican carbines were useless at long
range.
He slackened his pace as he drew near the summit, and dropping on
all-fours, crept up to the top, and peered quickly but cautiously over.
Then, with a short oath, he rose to his feet, and with a surprised look
gazed over the plain.
“What is it, Jack?” demanded the guide.
“Tear my ten-ton heart out if there’s an Apache in sight on this side.”
“That so?”
“It’s a fact. Come up here and see, if you don’t believe it.”
The guide grasped his rifle and started toward the summit. The rest
followed.
“Stay back, every one!” commanded Jack. “Two’s enough up here. You stay
back and keep the renegade at a distance.”
They obeyed, and Simpson mounted the hill and stood beside Jack.
“Tho’t yer said yer kedn’t see nuthin’?” remarked the former.
“So I did, and you can’t either.”
“Kin, too.”
“Where?”
“Yonder. See thet black speck movin’ ’long toward the east, a hundred
yards ter the right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an Apashe’s top-knot, an’ he’s skulkin’ along an arroyo.”
“Simpson, you always did have sharp eyes.”
The guide received the compliment quietly, and resumed:
“Arroyo bends ter the right jest thar, an’ every one o’ them red devils
is a-crawlin’ round ter sneak in ter us. Call the men hyar an’ giv’ ’em
a volley when they come in sight. We kin pick off the lot.”
The men were called just in time. Just as the savages rounded the
bend and arrived in full view each man chose a savage and all fired
simultaneously. They were all good shots, and the effect was marked.
Five of the seven Apaches threw up their arms and with loud cries
reeled and fell dead. The other two went back into the arroyo like
rabbits.
“Well done!” cried Jack. “Hallo! look out--there comes Red-Knife. Pull
your revolvers and don’t shoot too quick. Get under cover lively now.”
They rushed down the hill again, and crept behind the wagons. Red-Knife
had seen the fatal volley and defeat of his men and was frenzied with
rage. At the head of the whooping, screeching pack he rode, intent
upon a sudden charge while they were exposed.
“Load your guns, men!” cried Jack. “Don’t be in a hurry--there’s plenty
of time. Hurrah! we are the cocks of the walk, the men that can’t be
beat.”
The two parties were equally matched now, the savages only numbering
one more than the whites. But this did not deter Red-Knife from making
a charge. He had lived long with the whites and had partially avoided
his savage style of warfare for that of the white men.
On the yelling pack dashed, screaming hideously and rending the air
with their shrill whoops. The men behind the wagons lay quiet, and
having all reloaded, sighted across their long rifles, coolly. Now that
they were staring dread danger in the face, the cook, Kit Duncan, was
cool and determined, having thrown aside the nervous apprehension with
which he had been afflicted at the approach of the savages. He had
killed his man, too, in the arroyo, and Jack regained confidence in him.
Suddenly the approaching pack divided, part going to the right, and
part to the left, swerving by, beyond sure rifle aim. Never apparently
noticing their enemies, they rode on at a keen run until they had half
completed the circuit of the camp.
“By thunder!” shouted Simpson. “Climb inter the wagons, boys--they air
goin’ ter fire criss-cross.”
“A cross-fire!” ejaculated Jack. “Pile into the wagons, boys--lively
now.”
He was already half-way into the nearest wagon. The men stopped not to
reflect--they knew that under a cross-fire they would soon be cut to
pieces, and helter-skelter they scrambled, each into the nearest wagon.
As it happened, the guide and Sam were in the same wagon with Cimarron
Jack. In the next, and center one, were the remainder, huddled in the
bottom, to escape the bullets which would easily pierce the canvas
cap-tents.
“Blast it! the horses will git shot--every blamed one of ’em,” declared
Simpson, in disgust. “They’ve got a fair, square aim at ’em--rot their
red hides. Cuss an Injun, anyhow. Thar’s no knowin’ what they’ll do,
nor when they’ll do it.”
A rejoinder was made in the shape of a bullet which “sung” through the
wagon-cover just above his head; he dodged, and growled, “Lucky we
ain’t outside now.”
“It is, indeed,” rejoined Sam; “very fortunate. We should have thought
of this contingency.”
It was a singular oversight. In the manner in which the wagons were
placed, a sort of lane was formed by them and the supporting knoll.
The savages, at opposite sides, could bring to bear a heavy cross fire
through the lane; they were doing it now, hence the whites’ alarm.
For a few moments a perfect hailstorm of bullets rattled against the
wagons, but no one was struck; then they ceased to bury themselves in
the woodwork.
“They’ve emptied their barrels,” Jack said, with a contemptuous smile.
“The more fools they--now just stick your heads out, boys, and pepper
’em while they can’t return it!” he added, in a loud voice.
“Le’s both go fur Red-Knife,” whispered the guide.
“Ay: we can’t both miss him.”
Hastily throwing up the wagon-cover, they took a quick aim and fired.
However, the wily savage saw the movement, and slipping behind his
mustang, eluded the bullets, which, close together, whistled through
the air where his body had been but a moment before. A shrill yell of
derision came from his lips as he peered over the steed’s back at the
foiled scouts. Jack swore roundly.
Sam had also fired at a tall savage, but had been foiled in the same
manner. The ones in the other wagon, however, had succeeded in bringing
one dusky devil to the dust. Now they were exactly equal.
They durst not peep from the wagons lest they might prove a good mark
for an Apache rifle. However, Simpson soon bethought himself of a
simple plan by which they might easily reduce their enemies’ number.
Drawing his knife he cut a slit in the canvas wagon-cover, then two
more for his companions; then called out to the occupants of the other
wagon to do the same. Now they could protrude their rifles, and with
a good aim and a simultaneous volley might lessen their enemies by
one-half.
The plan would have been successful had not the chief suddenly
suspected something. Making a signal, he began to move away. However,
he was a little too dilatory. Just as he was getting into long
rifle-range, the guide and his companions discharged their pieces, the
others doing the same at the other band.
One bullet whistled by the renegade’s head and lodged in that of a
short, malicious warrior who rolled from his horse, dead. Anther struck
Red-Knife in the leg, they could tell, as he twitched it suddenly, then
clapped his hand upon it. A yell from the other band caused them to
look toward it. A gaunt, tall savage started up in his saddle, gazed
wildly round for a moment, then his mustang galloped away, riderless;
two savages the less.
It was now high noon, and the sun’s rays poured down like molten
lead on the white covers of the wagons. Outside, the horses, who
were unharmed, (the Indians having thought to secure them alive)
protruded their tongues and nickered low and pleadingly for a taste of
the water-butt. The men, too, mauger the warm and tepid water, were
suffering with the intense heat. The very air seemed as if a hurricane
from a baker’s oven was brewing. The wood-work was blistered and
parched; and still the sun shone redly, still the men sweltered and
watched, still the savages, drawn up in line, watched the wagons under
the knoll.
The day wore on. Vultures wheeled above, now drawn hither by the sounds
of strife; coyotes skulked and sniffed the air at a safe distance; and
still the sun shone down hotly upon the two hostile bands.
Suddenly the savages rode back to their former position, and clustering
together, gesticulated energetically. The whites could not hear, but
knew they were engaged in a discussion.
Only a few moments they talked and gestured, then they turned their
mustangs’ heads to the south-west.
Dismounting from his mustang, Red-Knife stalked toward the whites for a
few rods; then he cried:
“The Red-Knife is a brave--he seeks not to war with dogs and cowards.
The sounds of war come from the south; there will the Comanche go to
war with braves--he leaves pale-face dogs to their own cowardly deeds.
The Red-Knife has spoken.”
Cimarron Jack sprung out of the wagon into the open plain. The chief
recognized him.
“Dog from the bitter river!” he cried, with an insulting gesture;
“coward of a coyote, squaw, sneak, the Red-Knife laughs at you.”
“I’m Cimarron Jack, the grizzly-tamer! I’m the man that killed
cock-robin! I’m the jumping wild-cat from Bitter Creek! I’m the man
that can run faster ’n a jack-rabbit, swear more than a camp-cook,
neigh more than an elephant, and kill thieving Indians like the
small-pox. I’m the Grand Mogul of Tartary, and I’m the cock of the
walk.”
The chief turned, stalked back to his steed, mounted, and rode away
with his band toward the south; clustered together, riding swiftly.
The men came out from the wagons, and, standing on the plain, watched
the Indians as they swiftly receded, wondering.
It was no sham, no strategy; they were actually going; and, in the
course of an hour, were lost in the distance.
“I say, Simpson, what does all this mean?” inquired Mr. Wheeler.
“Dunno!”
“Haven’t you any idea?” asked Sam.
“No.”
“I have--a pretty sure one,” replied Jack.
“What is it?”
“You know Apache Jack told me the other day, at Comanche Creek, that
thirty Apaches chased him thirty miles or more?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he said Red-Knife was the chief of the band. Now the skunk had
only fourteen here besides himself--fifteen in all. That shows there
has been a division for some reason or other. Now he’s bound south
to fetch the bulk of the band to help him. He will be back in twenty
hours, depend upon it--then look out.”
“I think you are wrong,” said Burt Scranton. “If Red-Knife was goin’
ter fetch the rest of his gang, he’d leave some one hyar ter keep an
eye on us.”
“Jest whar _you’re_ wrong,” declared Simpson. “We leave a big trail
behind us--I tell _you_. It’ll be mighty easy fur him ter foller it.
He takes his hull gang ter make us b’lieve he’s gone fur good--the old
badger. But I b’lieve we kin outwit him yet.”
“How?” was the general question.
“Jest this ’ere way: ’bout ten miles north is a bigger hill nor this--a
hill kivered with loose rocks. Thar’s a devilish peart place ter make
a stand thar--and it’s only three miles from the sweetest water yer
ever tasted--Alkali Creek. It’s what them fellers that think they know
so much when they don’t know nuthin’--book-writers--call a subter-rain
again stream.”
“Subterranean,” corrected Sam. “Alkali Creek does not, by its name,
give any great promise.”
“Wal, thar’s good water thar; it ain’t very cold, but it’s sweet, an’
that’s the main thing.”
“I believe we would make a strike by going,” added Cimarron Jack. “I
know the hill--it is a strange place. Men have been seen to ride up
to it, and suddenly disappear, and all efforts to find them have been
useless. However, for a year there’s been nothing wrong about it, and
I, for one, move we go as quick as we can. The sun is only three or
four hours high, and time is scarce. Besides we may find the young Miss
there.”
Mr. Wheeler groaned, and Carpenter looked gloomy, but they both agreed
with Jack. Of course, the rest were bound to follow them.
The hasty resolve was soon put in execution. The horses were watered
from the butt, and attached to the wagons; the drivers mounted their
saddles, and the horsemen trotted away, past the ghastly red bodies,
past the coyotes, under the wheeling vultures, bound for the Hillock.