THE ATTACK
Slightly more than sixty miles, as the route ran, stretched between old
Fort Dodge and the ford crossing the Arkansas leading down to the
Cimarron; another sixty miles distant, across a desert of alkali and
sand, lay Devere. The main Santa Fé trail, broad and deeply rutted by
the innumerable wheels of early spring caravans, followed the general
course of the river, occasionally touching the higher level plains, but
mostly keeping close beneath the protection of the northern bluffs, or
else skirting the edge of the water. Night or day the route was easily
followed, and, in other years, the traveller was seldom for long out of
sight of toiling wagons. Now scarcely a wheel turned in all that
lonely distance.
The west-bound stage left the station at Deer Creek at four o'clock in
the afternoon with no intimation of danger ahead. Its occupants had
eaten dinner in company with those of the east-bound coach, eighteen
miles down the river at Cañon Bluff, and the in-coming driver had
reported an open road, and no unusual trouble. No Indian signs had
been observed, not even signal fires during the night, and the
conductor, who had come straight from Santa Fé, reported that troops
from Fort Union had driven the only known bunch of raiders back from
the neighborhood of the trail, and had them already safely corralled In
the mountains. This report, seemingly authentic and official, served
to relax the nerves, and the west-bound driver sang to himself as he
guided the four horses forward, while the conductor, a sawed-off gun
planted between his knees, nodded drowsily. Inside there were but
three passengers, jerking back and forth, as the wheels struck the deep
ruts of the trail, occasionally exchanging a word or two, but usually
staring gloomily forth at the monotonous scene. Miss McDonald and
Moylan occupied the back seat, some baggage wedged tightly between to
keep them more secure on the slippery cushion, while facing them, and
clinging to his support with both hands, was a pock-marked Mexican,
with rather villainous face and ornate dress, and excessively polite
manners. He had joined the little party at Dodge, smiling happily at
sight of Miss Molly's face when she unveiled, although his small
knowledge of English prevented any extended effort at conversation.
Moylan, however, after careful scrutiny, engaged him shortly in
Spanish, and later explained to the girl, in low tones, that the man
was a Santa Fé gambler known as Gonzales, with a reputation to be
hinted at but not openly discussed.
They were some six miles to the west of Deer Creek, the horses still
moving with spirit, the driver's foot on the brake, when the stage took
a sudden plunge down a sloping bank where the valley perceptibly
narrowed. To the left, beyond a flat expanse of brown, sun-scorched
grass, flowed the widely-spreading waters of the Arkansas, barely
covering the treacherous sandy bottom, and from the other side came the
more distant gleam of alkali plains; to the right arose the bluffs,
here both steep and rugged, completely shutting off the view, barren of
vegetation except for a few scattered patches of grass. Suddenly a man
rode out of a rift in the bank, directly in front, and held up his
hand. Surprised, startled, the driver instantaneously clamped on his
brake, and brought his horses to a quick stop; the conductor, nearly
flung from his seat, yanked his gun forward.
"None of that now," called out the man in saddle quickly, both hands
uplifted to show their emptiness. "This is no hold-up. I 've got
news."
He spurred his pony forward slowly, the animal seemingly barely able to
move, and swung out of the saddle beside the front wheel, staggering a
bit as though his limbs were cramped as his feet felt the ground.
"I 'm from Fort Union," he said, "Seventh Cavalry, sent through by way
of Cimarron Springs. There is hell to pay west of here; the stations
at Arkansas Crossing and Low Water were burned last night."
"The devil you say," burst out the driver hoarsely, his startled eyes
sweeping the horizon. "Injuns?"
"Sure, plenty of signs, but I have n't seen any bucks myself. As soon
as I discovered what had happened at the Crossing I struck out on to
the plateau, and came around that way to warn those fellows at Low
Water. But when I got sight of that station from off the bluffs yonder
it had been wiped out. Then I thought about this stage going west
to-day, and came on to meet you. Must have ridden a hundred an' twenty
miles since yesterday; the mustang is all in."
Moylan stuck his head out the nearest window.
"Look like they had much of a fight at the Crossing?" he asked.
"Not much; more like a night raid; two whites killed, and scalped. The
third man either was taken away, or his body got burnt in the building.
Horses all gone."
"What tribe?"
"Arapahoes, from the way they scalped; that's what made it so
serious--if those Northern Indians have broken loose there is going to
be war this time for sure."
The men on the box looked at each other questioningly.
"I don't see no use tryin' to go on, Jake, do you?" asked the driver
soberly. "Even if we do git through, thar ain't no hosses to be had."
The other shook his head, rubbing his gun-stock.
"Most likely those same red devils are layin' for us now somewhar
between yere an' Low Water; whar the trail runs in between them two big
rocks, most probable," he concluded. "Not havin' no ha'r to lose, I 'm
fer goin' back."
With an oath of relief, the driver released his brake, and skilfully
swung the leaders around, the coach groaning as it took the sharp turn.
The man on the ground caught a swiftly passing glimpse of the young
woman's face within, and strode hurriedly forward as the coach started.
"Hold on there, pardner," he commanded sternly. "This poor bronc'
won't travel another mile. There 's plenty of room for me inside, and
I 'll turn the tired devil loose. Hold on, I say!"
The driver once again slapped on the brake, growling and reluctant, his
anxious eyes searching the trail in both directions. Hamlin quietly
uncinched his saddle, flinging it to the coach roof; the bridle
followed, and then, with a slap on the haunch of the released animal,
he strode to the stage door, thrust his Henry rifle within, and took
the vacant seat beside Gonzales. With a sudden crack of the driver's
whip the four horses leaped forward, and the coach careened on the
slope of the trail, causing the passengers to clutch wildly to keep
from being precipitated into a mass on the floor. As the traces
straightened, Miss Molly, clinging desperately to a strap, caught her
first fair glance at the newcomer. His hat was tilted back, the light
revealing lines of weariness and a coating of the gray, powdery dust of
the alkali desert, but beneath it appeared the brown, sun-scorched
skin, while the gray eyes looking straight at her, were resolute and
smiling. His rough shirt, open at the throat, might have been the
product of any sutler's counter; he wore no jacket, and the broad
yellow stripe down the leg of the faded blue trousers alone proclaimed
him a soldier. He smiled across at her, and she lowered her eyes,
while his glance wandered on toward the others.
"Don't seem to be very crowded to-day," he began, genially addressing
Moylan. "Not an extremely popular route at present, I reckon. Mining,
pardner?"
"No; post-trader at Fort Marcy."
"Oh, that's it," his eyebrows lifting slightly. "This Indian business
is a bad job for you then." His eyes fell on his seatmate. "Well, if
this is n't little Gonzales!--You 've got a good ways from home."
"Si, señor!" returned the Mexican brokenly. "I tink I not remem."
"No, I reckon not. I'm not one of your class; cards and I never did
agree. I shut up your game once down at Union; night Hassinger was
killed. Remember now, don't you?"
"Si, señor," spreading his hands. "It was mos' unfortunate."
"Would have been more so, if the boys had got hold of you--Saint Anne!
but that fellow on the box is driving some."
The thud of the horses' feet under the lash, coupled with the reckless
lurching of the coach, ended all further attempt at conversation, and
the four passengers held on grimly, and stared out of the windows, as
if expecting every instant that some accident would hurl them headlong.
The frightened driver was apparently sparing neither whip nor tongue,
the galloping teams jerking the stage after them in a mad race up the
trail. Hamlin thrust his head out of the nearest window, but a sudden
lurch hurled him back, the coach taking a sharp curve on two wheels,
and coming down level once again with a bump which brought the whole
four together. The little Mexican started to scream out a Spanish
oath, but Hamlin gripped his throat before it was half uttered, while
Moylan pressed the girl back into her seat, bracing himself to hold her
firm.
"What the devil--" he began angrily, and then the careening coach
stopped as suddenly as though it had struck the bank, again tearing
loose their handhold on the seats and flinging them headlong. They
heard the creaking clamp of the brakes, the dancing of frightened
horses, a perfect volley of oaths, the crunch of feet as men leaped
from the top to the ground; then, all at once, the stage lurched
forward, swerving sharply to the left, and struck out across the flat
directly toward the bluff.
Hamlin struggled to the nearest window, and, grasping the sill to hold
himself upright, leaned out. He caught a momentary glimpse of two men
riding swiftly up the trail; the box above was empty, the wheelers
alone remained in harness, and they were running uncontrolled.
"By God!" he muttered. "Those two damn cowards have cut loose and left
us!"
Even as the unrestrained words leaped from his lips, he realized the
only hope--the reins still dangled, caught securely in the brake lever.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, he wiggled out; Moylan, comprehending,
caught his legs, holding him steady against the mad pitching. His
fingers gripped the iron top rail, and, exerting all his strength, he
slowly pulled his body up, until he fell forward into the driver's
seat. Swift as he had been, the action was not quickly enough
conceived to avert disaster. He had the reins in his grip when the
swinging pole struck the steep side of the bluff, snapping off with a
sharp crack, and flinging down the frightened animals, the wheels,
crashing against them, as the coach came to a sudden halt. Hamlin hung
on grimly, flung forward to the footrail by the force of the shock, his
body bruised and aching. One horse lay motionless, head under,
apparently instantly killed; his mate struggled to his feet, tore
frantically loose from the traces, and went flying madly down the
slope, the broken harness dangling at its heels. The Sergeant sat up
and stared about, sweeping the blood from a slight gash out of his
eyes. Then he came to himself with a gasp--understanding instantly
what it all meant, why those men had cut loose the horses and ridden
away, why the wheelers had plunged forward in that mad run-away
race--between the bluffs and the river a swarm of Indians were lashing
their ponies, spreading out like the sticks of a fan.