A MIRACULOUS ESCAPE.
On the “reach” above the fissure in which Cimarron Jack’s band was
concealed, danced and whooped the entire band of Apaches, eager for
white blood, and, as prospects appeared, in good chances of getting it.
Conspicuous among the painted pack stalked Red-Knife, the renegade, to
and fro, cogitating and framing a feasible plan for extermination.
It needed not a very subtle brain or a very bold man to ferret out
the whites from their present position, and well he knew it. While
many plans, ideas and means gratuitously presented themselves to
his scheming head, but one was accepted--at once the most feasible,
the easiest executed, and the one attended with the least danger--a
surround.
Conjectured, planned, advocated--done; so he thought, in his inordinate
self-esteem. He did not for a moment consider that the noted “squaw
from the bitter river” was thoroughly versed in savage warfare--that
he had a vast store of experience to draw from--that he was crafty and
brave as a lion. In his vast conceit, he entirely ignored the fact, and
went directly on with putting his plan into execution.
The whites were in an isolated fissure about fifteen feet in depth by
twenty wide and one hundred long, in the shape of a horse-shoe, the
party being ensconced under the bank at the “caulk” in the concavity.
Here they were safe for the present, but a small ravine opening from
the fissure, rendered their situation precarious. This ravine played
an important part in the tragedy, for whose acts the actors were now
preparing earnestly.
Where it entered the “horse-shoe” fissure, it was narrow, being only
about three feet in width, but in a hundred yards it ran under sandy
banks, and widened out to forty feet or more. These sandy banks were
crumbling and projecting, overhanging the ravine (more properly a
“draw”), they presented an unstable footing.
Red-Knife noticed this “draw,” and at once, without consulting his
chiefs, whom he ignored, commenced operations. Detaching a party of
three to take charge of the distant draft-horses, he divided his party
of twenty into two portions. One of these he directed to creep along
the shadow of a projecting bluff until they had made half the circuit
of the horse-shoe; the other, commanded in person by himself, was to
enter the “draw,” keeping in shadow as much as possible. Halting in
the draw, they were to give a preconcerted signal, then both parties
were to prosecute a cross-fire with what arms they possessed. Such
a position would completely command the horse-shoe fissure with its
hidden occupants.
“Boys,” observed Cimarron Jack, sitting on a mud-bowlder, “this is
lovely; but the thorough-bred from Tartary don’t scare worth a cent. It
takes mighty fine working to face the grizzly domesticator--it does,
for a fact.”
“Oh, quit yer durned, disgustin’ braggin’! It makes me feel ashamed of
the hull human race,” growled Simpson.
Cimarron Jack went on, with a sly twinkle at the guide:
“In addition to my noble and manly qualities, I have the coveted and
rare faculty of insnaring women. Educated at college, of good looks,
as you can see, engaging manners, I cast rough rowdies like this knave
of a guide into the shade. That, you see, makes ’em hot--red-hot; and
when I give, as is my custom, a brief and extremely modest synopsis of
my talents, they call it, in their vulgar way, ‘braggin’.’ I’m the cock
of the walk--hooray! I’m the scorpion and centipede chewer--the wildcat
educator--hooray!”
“Faugh! it’s downright sickening. Durned ef I kain’t lick any man that
brags so!” declared the guide, with real rising choler. “An’ ef he
don’t like it he kin lump it--thet’s Simpson, the guide.”
“Dry up; what’s that?” whispered Jack. “Look out, boys--there’s
something forming. Look along that bluff yonder--I think I see
something moving there.”
The half-earnest wrangle was ceased, and shading his eyes, the guide
peered, as if endeavoring to pierce the drapery of shadow under the
bluff; but if Jack saw any thing, there was no repetition of the
object. Taking his eyes from the bluff, Cimarron Jack turned round,
then uttered a suppressed cry.
“What is it?” sharply demanded the guide, instantly on the alert.
“Whew! look there--look yonder!”
They followed the direction of his pointing finger with their gaze.
Up the draw, and in its widest part, were nearly a dozen Apaches, or
rather parts of them, moving rapidly about. They were visible from
their waists upward, and their arms were tossing as if violently
excited. The light of the yellow moon made this a most grotesque
spectacle, but an utterly incomprehensible one to the whites, who
watched them eagerly. It appeared as if a dozen Apaches had been
deprived of their legs at the loins, and had been cast into the draw
and were tossing their arms in agony. Part of them were upright, part
bending their necks forward, while others were bent backward; and all
were gesticulating violently.
It was strange, but they were all facing the west, at right angles to
the course of the draw. Though wildly gesturing, and, as it seemed,
struggling, they preserved the utmost silence, frequently gazing toward
the whites, as if fearful of attracting their notice.
“What can it mean?” asked Sam, utterly confounded. “What does it all
mean?”
“I think I know,” replied Jack, after a moment’s sober scrutiny; “don’t
you, Simpson?”
“Yes--think so.”
“What is it?” and Robidoux’s face wore a look of the most intense
surprise.
“By Jupiter--hooray! it is, it is! look, they are sinking.”
It was even so! Each and all were only visible from the breast upward,
now, and their rifles, still clasped tightly, were thrown about in wild
and vehement motions; the guide uttered a sharp exclamation.
“Quicksanded--quicksanded! see--the draw is darker than at t’other
places. It’s the black sand--quicksand--hooray!”
“Great Heaven!” ejaculated Carpenter. “They are sinking into a
quicksand--hurrah!”
“They war makin’ a serround and got cotched--hooray!” shouted the
guide; then the voice of Cimarron Jack rung out:
“Give it to ’em boys--give it to ’em! aim steady till I count three,
and then--one!”
Up went the guns, each man taking a struggling, sinking savage.
“Two!”
A steady dead aim.
“Three!”
Crash--shriek! and then a cloud of dense, sluggish smoke obscured the
river. They had no more than lowered their rifles when a shrill yell
arose behind them, and a rush of feet was heard. Cimarron Jack dropped
his rifle and drew his knife and revolver, facing round.
“Draw, boys--draw! barkers and knives. A surround! here comes t’other
gang behind us--draw quick and don’t faze!”
They drew, each a knife and revolver, and faced round, fearing nothing
from the helpless band behind, some of whom must be dead. They did so
just in time.
From under the projecting bluff darted nine stalwart Apaches, knives
and tomahawks in hand. They had seen their comrades’ utter helplessness
and discomfiture, and looking over the smoke of the volley, had seen
four shot and instantly killed. Burning with rage and chagrin, they
were coming, fifty yards away, with determined faces gleaming hideously
through the red war-paint.
As they rapidly drew near, Jack cried:
“Work those pistols lively, boys--shoot a thousand times a minute.”
They obeyed. Crack--crack! went the pistols, and, though excited, the
aim was tolerably correct, and two Indians went down, one killed,
another disabled. Seven still came on, though warily, facing the
revolvers of the whites, Colt’s great invention doing deadly work at a
short distance. They were running at a dog-trot, dodging and darting
from side to side to prevent any aim being taken; in another moment
they were fighting hand to hand.
It was a short, deadly struggle, briefly terminated. Jack, Simpson, and
Burt fell to the ground when their respective antagonists were nigh,
avoiding the tomahawks which flew over their heads. Then as an Apache
towered over each, they rose suddenly, and throwing their entire
weight and muscle into the act, plunged their knives into the savage
breasts; the red-skins fell without a groan.
It was a perilous, nice operation, and few would have dared attempt
it; but knowing if they kept their nerve and temper they would prove
victorious, they accepted the chances, as we have seen, with the
highest success. Calculating nicely, each had about an interval of _two
seconds_ to work in--the interval between the Apaches’ arrival and his
downward knife-thrust.
Gigantic, fiery Jack stayed not to enjoy a second and sure thrust, but
withdrawing his long knife, hastily glanced around. Back under the bank
was a man fighting desperately with two Apaches--fighting warily, yet
strongly, and in silence.
It was Carpenter, cutting, thrusting, and dodging. Jack needed but
a glance to satisfy him Carpenter would soon prove a victim to the
superior prowess of the Apaches, and with a wild hurrah sprung forward,
just as Burt and the guide were disengaging themselves from the dead
bodies of their antagonists. But, he was stopped suddenly.
Covered with mud, dripping with water, and glowing with rage and heat,
a fierce, stalwart savage sprung before him, and he knew him in a
moment. It was Red-Knife--he had escaped from the quicksand and was now
preparing to strike, his tomahawk glinting above his head.
“Dog from the bitter river--squaw! ugh!” and down went the hatchet.
But not in Jack’s skull--the Indian scout was too electric in his
thoughts and movements to stand calmly and feel the metal crash into
his brain. Bending low, with the quickness of a serpent, he darted
under the savage’s arm just in time, but he stopped not to congratulate
himself upon his escape, but turning clasped the chief round the waist
and suddenly “tripped him up.”
The savage’s thigh passed before his face as the chief was hurled
backward. A stream of deep-red blood was spirting from a wide gash in
it--the momentum of the hatchet had been so great Red-Knife had been
unable to check it, and it had entered his thigh and severed the main
artery. The blood was spirting in a large, red stream in the air, and
he felt the warm liquid plash and fall on his back. But he whirled the
faint chief over on his back, and with a sudden, keen blow, drove the
knife into his heart. With a last dying look of malevolency the chief
scowled on his victorious enemy, then the death-rattle sounded in his
throat--he was dead, no longer a renegade.
Jack sprung up and stood on his guard, but there was no necessity.
Short as the combat had been (only _three minutes_ in duration) it
was now over, being finished as the guide drew his knife from a
convulsively twitching savage, and wiped it on his sleeve.
Save the eight prostrate savages, not an Indian was in sight. Cool,
steady, reticent Tim Simpson sheathed his knife and picked up his gun
and revolver.
“Durned spry work!”
He was not answered. To the majority of the band the thought was
overwhelming--that, where fifteen minutes since, thirty cunning Apaches
were surrounding them, _not one_ remained alive. For several minutes no
one spoke, but all gazed around on the battle scene.
The draw above was empty--the sinking savages, foiled in their bloody
purpose, had sunk to their death. Carpenter moodily gazed where they
were last visible, and murmured:
“God bless the quicksand.”
“Ay, ay!” came from the others’ lips.
Cimarron Jack sprung up at the “reach,” and looked around.
“Yonder go three--no, four devils, striking away for dear life. Durn
them! they’ve got enough of it this time, I’ll bet.”
“Hosses thar?” asked Simpson.
“One, two, three, eight--every one of ’em.”
“Le’s git out’n this, then.”
“All right--before any more come down on us. Devilish pretty work,
wasn’t it?” admiringly queried Jack, looking down on the dead bodies
below. “How’d you get away with your job, Carpenter?”
“The guide and Burt came to my assistance just as I was giving out. A
minute more and it would have been too late.”
“And you, Ruby? curse me if I don’t forgive you--you fou’t like
thunder. Two on you, wasn’t there?”
“Yes; I stabbed one and the other ran off, seeing Simpson coming for
him,” modestly replied Robidoux.
“Well, we’ve no time to talk. The red rascals are cleaned out--pick up
your weapons, boys, and mount your mustangs, and we’ll get away from
this hot place.”
They stopped not to gaze longer upon the bloody scene, but mounting
their horses, which under the bank had bravely stood, rode toward the
deserted draft-horses. They were easily collected, and then all rode
away, just as the moonlight was yielding to the paler but stronger
one of day. Elated with victory they left Dead Man’s Gulches (or that
part of them) with the ghastly bodies, soon to wither into dry skin
and bone, and under the paling moonlight rode away, bound back to the
Hillock.
Thanks to the guide’s memory and cunning, they emerged from the Gulches
at sunrise, and struck out into the yellow plain--safe and sound,
wholly uninjured, and victorious.
“Five men victorious over thirty Apaches,” cried Jack. “A
tiger-feat--Hercules couldn’t do better with Sampson and Heenan,
with fifty gorillas thrown in for variety. Three and a tiger for the
bravest, smartest, _handsomest_ men in the world. With a will, now!”
With a will they were given.