Buffalo Bill Entrapped
OR,
A CLOSE CALL
BY
Colonel Prentiss Ingraham
Author of the celebrated “Buffalo Bill” stories published in the BORDER
STORIES. For other titles see catalogue.
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79–89 Seventh Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1915
By STREET & SMITH
Buffalo Bill Entrapped
(Printed in the United States of America)
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY
(BUFFALO BILL).
It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and
Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody,
used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of
the _New York Weekly_. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New
York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these
old-timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel
Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo
Bill for Street & Smith.
Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before
he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and
two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than
a wilderness.
When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas “Border
War,” young Bill assumed the difficult rôle of family breadwinner.
During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the
arduous life of a pony-express rider. Cody volunteered his services as
government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with
Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the
Seventh Kansas Cavalry.
During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis,
Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true
romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6,
1866.
In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat
to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was
in this period that he received the sobriquet “Buffalo Bill.”
In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody served as scout and
guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was
General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of
the command.
After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody
joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of
scouts.
Colonel Cody’s fame had reached the East long before, and a great many
New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including
such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and J.
G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody was
accustomed to arrange Wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends
invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the
metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business.
Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his
“Wild West” show, which later developed and expanded into “A Congress of
the Roughriders of the World,” first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In
time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of
this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the
performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the
Marquis of Lorne, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales,
now King of England.
At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at
the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the
development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long
afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National
Guard.
Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10,
1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the
development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in
horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His
life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage,
and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American
life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into
the Great Beyond.
BUFFALO BILL ENTRAPPED.
CHAPTER I.
IN A TIGHT PLACE.
One June night in the early seventies, the sole occupant of a lonely
cabin high up in the Rockies had a bad dream. Pursued by a legion of
monsters, he found himself on the verge of a bottomless pit. While he
choked with terror, a terrific noise as of the bursting of a bomb
dissipated the horrible illusion to which his brain had been subjected,
and he awoke gasping and wild-eyed. His face was covered with a cold
perspiration, and for some moments he was incapable of movement. With
the return of his wits came sounds that he could distinguish. They
brought him to his feet instantly. Not far away had come a succession of
pistol and rifle shots.
As he hurriedly dressed, a bright light streamed in at the window. The
room was brilliantly lighted up, and the man could hear the crackling of
timbers, and knew that the cabin of his nearest neighbor was in flames.
Opening the door, he stepped out into the open air. The sky for a great
distance presented a lurid spectacle.
Looking toward the lower end of the small flat upon which he was
located, he saw, as he expected, a cabin on fire.
The crack! crack! of a rifle greeted his ears as he was on the point of
starting for the cabin. What did all these shots mean? Was the fire the
work of an incendiary, and had murder been added to arson?
Bart Angell, hunter, scout, and Indian fighter, as brave a man as ever
stood six feet two without boots, compressed his lips tightly, and into
his sharp, homely, honest face there crept an expression of grim
resolution. Rifle in hand, he started on a run for the burning cabin,
and was about halfway to the spot when he caught sight of a man, a
stranger, running from the fire and toward the brush at the outlet of a
ravine.
Crack! went Angell’s rifle, and the runner, with an unearthly scream,
fell to the ground.
The cabin was in ruins as the scout passed it to reach the form of the
man he had shot.
He was near the victim, who was lying on his face, when he heard a faint
voice calling him from the bushes on his right. He stopped, said loudly,
“Who’s that?” and, receiving no answer, walked quickly toward the place
whence the voice had come.
The light was still strong enough for Angell to see about him, and he
was near the bushes when he saw a section of the buckskin habiliments of
a man who was lying on the ground.
“That you, Bart?” asked a faint voice, as the scout reached the bushes.
“Great Cæsar’s ghost!” ejaculated Angell, as his eyes rested on the face
of the prostrate man in buckskin. “Buffalo Bill!”
The king of scouts tried to rise, but the effort was a failure. “I—I am
all right, Bart,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. “Lost blood that
I need in my business, that’s all.”
Angell quickly made an examination of Buffalo Bill’s hurt. He had been
shot in the side, and it was impossible then to tell how serious was the
injury. But after the wound had been washed and bandaged and a generous
stimulant had been administered, the king of scouts diagnosed his case,
and, as it proved, correctly.
“The bullet did not go straight into my anatomy, Bart. That’s a cinch.”
He felt along his side. “It struck a rib, glanced and shot upward. I can
feel it under the skin near the armpit.”
“Then I’ll purceed ter seperate it from yer person, old son,” remarked
Angell, and with his hunting knife he deftly performed this bit of
surgery.
The operation over, he said: “I’ve shore got ter ask yer ter excuse me
fer a few minutes. Thar’s a measly rickaroon at the edge of ther flat
that is claimin’ my attention.”
“Come to remember, I did hear your Peter Erastus speak just before I
called to you, Bart. Did you bring down your man?”
The homely scout snorted. “Do I know how ter shoot? Buffalo, I’m ashamed
on ye.”
With these words he walked away, and was soon bending over the form of
his victim. The man was not dead, but the end was not far off.
Angell raised the victim’s head and gazed sharply into the pale face.
The man was an utter stranger. He had a large mouth, a retreating chin,
and little eyes set close together. Upon his face was a stubby, reddish
growth of hair.
The eyes opened after some whisky had been poured down the man’s throat.
“Got me fer keeps,” was the hoarse remark, the little eyes blinking
furiously.
“Yer shore goin’ ter peter,” replied Angell gravely; “an’, bein’ ez that
aire so, it’s up ter you ter tell ther truth. Why d’ye fire ther cabin
an’ shoot Buffalo Bill, an’ whatever hev become of Matt Holmes, who
lived in ther cabin?”
“I never shot no one,” said the dying man. “I sot ther cabin on fire,
an’ that’s all I did. I aimed ter do ther killin’, but it war done—war
done—by——” The voice ceased, and a few seconds later Bart Angell was
looking at the face of a dead man.
With a sour face, the slayer left the body and returned to the king of
scouts.
“I didn’t git thar in time fer a satisfactory auntymottim, as them aire
crowner fellers would say,” he announced. “Ther skunk went up ther flume
without tellin’ all he knowed about ther fire an’ ther shootin’.
But”—his countenance lighting up—“mebbe you kin fill in ther blanks.”
“Who was the man you killed?” inquired Buffalo Bill eagerly.
“Hanged ef I know. Some ornery cuss that looks as ef he war three parts
idjut.”
“Is he well dressed and a good looker in the face?”
“Not by a jugful. He aire as homely as a hedge fence, and he wears the
clothes of a scarecrow.”
“Then the villain who is responsible for this night’s work has escaped.”
“Do ye know him?”
“No, I don’t know him, but”—and there was a world of determination in
the tone—“I am going to know him, and——”
He paused, and his eyes flashed ominously.
There was silence for a while, and then Angell said:
“It’s mighty queer ter find you here, Buffalo. I didn’t know you war in
this yer neck o’ woods. When did ye come, an’ what’s all this business
about? War you visitin’ Matt Holmes when ther cabin war sot afire?”
“I was, and I have a pretty long story to tell, Bart. Suppose we defer
explanations until I get to your shack and have rested a bit.”
“That proposition is shore all right,” replied Angell. “Ye can’t walk,
but I’ll tote ye along ther trail ’thout any trouble.”
“There is no hurry, Bart. Before we leave, I want to make sure that Matt
Holmes is dead.”
“Ther galoot I laid out allowed ther war killin’ done,” said Angell,
“an’ so I reckon that Holmes war murdered. Whar’ll I look fer him?”
“I saw him go out the front door and start for the brush.”
“Then I’ll shore do some projeckin’ in ther brush.”
Angell went away, and soon returned with the statement that he had found
the dead body of the owner of the cabin. The murdered man had been
discovered at the mouth of the ravine. He had been shot a number of
times. One bullet had penetrated the brain.
Buffalo Bill sighed. “I would have prevented the murder if the fiend had
not surprised us. I was shot just before Holmes made for the door.”
As he spoke, the king of scouts noticed that Angell had his hand behind
his back. “Found something, Bart?” he said quietly. “Trot it out.”
Angell brought to view a white handkerchief. He had found it near the
body of the murdered man.
The king of scouts took the handkerchief and examined it carefully.
In one corner was a Chinese laundry mark.
“I am not a detective, Bart,” said Buffalo Bill, as he scrutinized the
mark, “or I might trace this wipe to its owner.”
“It would be a hard job”—with a shake of the head—“fer ther nearest
chink joint is in Denver. Hold yer horses,” he added suddenly. “I’m
clean off my base. Thar’s one in Taos. It shore opened up six months
ago. I war in ther town when ther chink piked in from Austin. I’ll bet a
quirt ther rag came from Taos.”
Buffalo Bill put the handkerchief into his breast pocket. “I’ll try Taos
if I don’t make the riffle in these mountains. The evidence I want may
be on the body of the man you killed. Go back again and search the
pockets. Bring everything here.”
Angell went away for the second time, and when he returned he brought a
purse containing a few dollars in silver, a knife, a revolver, a plug of
tobacco, and a match box with the initials “T. D.” engraved upon an
oval.
The king of scouts was disappointed. The match box was the only clew to
the identity of the dead man, and even it might prove valueless. The
initials might belong to somebody else. The box might have been found or
stolen.
“Do you know any one whose name will fit these initials?” he asked.
“Lemme think,” replied Angell, as he stroked his chin. “It’s more’n
likely that it stands fer Tom. As fer ‘D’—jumpin’ Jehosophat! Ther
galoot is Tom Darke; Lanky Tom, that ther sheriff of Santa Fe was achin’
ter catch when I war down that way three months ago. I seen ther bills
describin’ ther critter, an’ thar’s no mistook about it.”
“I reckon you’re right,” returned Buffalo Bill quietly. “I remember the
case. Darke was implicated in a dastardly murder. He was the tool, not
the principal. Jared Holmes, a merchant of Santa Fe, was assassinated at
his home. It was after dark, and he was sitting in front of an open
window. A shot was fired from without, and the bullet entered his brain.
A man answering the description of Tom Darke was seen running away from
the house; there was other circumstantial evidence connecting him with
the crime, and so the officers tried to overhaul him.”
Bart Angell nodded. “Tom war a tinhorn gambler, and ther sheriff told me
that, onct whilst how-come-ye-so, Tom let out ter a feller he war
drinkin’ with that he war workin’ fer a boss that war shore comin’ in
fer all kinds of money.”
Buffalo Bill’s face was grave. “Do you know,” he said, “that Jared
Holmes was the brother of Matt Holmes, whose dead body lies out there in
the brush? The motive that prompted the killing of Jared was the same
that prompted the taking off of Matt. But I won’t go into details now.
Help me to get to your cabin, and after a while I’ll talk more.”
But there was no revelation that night. The king of scouts was in a
fainting condition when Angell’s cabin was reached. A second dressing to
his wound was given, and he was put to bed. Next morning he awoke with
mind clear and only a slight physical weakness.
After breakfast, he said: “I realize that you are anxious to know
exactly what happened at the cabin of Holmes, and I believe you will
work better after I have relieved your curiosity. By this you will
understand that there is work for you to do. The bodies down on the flat
must be buried. We are many hundreds of miles from a town and a coroner,
and so we must act as if we represented the government of the
Territory.”
Angell went outside, and presently appeared with a pick and shovel.
Resting the implements against the wall, he said as he came forward to
sit on a stool by Buffalo Bill’s bunk: “Go ahead. You aire ther judge
an’ I’m ther sheriff.”
“I was in Hayes City a few weeks ago,” the king of scouts began, “and
was figuring on going up to Laramie for a spell to look after my
interests near the place, when an old army friend, Major Kent, met me
and asked a service. A young woman, daughter of a West Point classmate,
was in town, and it was her desire to proceed at once to the cabin of
Matt Holmes, in these hills. The matter was important, and she needed a
guide and protector. Would I act in that double capacity? I did not give
an answer until I had taken a look at the young woman. Then I
capitulated. I have seen many pretty women, Bart, but none prettier than
Myra Wilton. And, best of all, she is as good as she is pretty. I would
have been a brute if I had not consented to take charge of her and see
her safely to her destination.
“Two days sufficed for preparations, and one fine morning, mounted on
ponies, we set out across the plains for the mountains. It was not long
before I had her full confidence. She told me something that both
surprised and vexed me. She had journeyed from her home in Pennsylvania
on the say-so of a letter written by a man who was an utter stranger to
her. The letter was from Santa Fe, and was signed ‘James Loftus,’ and
set forth that, as the attorney of Matt Holmes, her uncle, it was his
duty to inform her that her uncle had but a few months to live. He had
met with an accident while out hunting, and was now waiting for the end
to come. His brother Jared was dead, and she was his only living
relative. There was something of the utmost importance, relating to his
possessions, which he desired to communicate to her. He dared not trust
to the post, for he had an enemy who possessed satanic craft. Therefore,
he asked that she come to him, and at once. She could find a guide in
Hayes City. The journey was not a hard one, and he hoped to see her
before a month had passed.
“I know all the law sharps in Santa Fe, or in the Territory, for that
matter, and no one of them answers to the name of Loftus. The statement
that Holmes had an enemy also made me regard the letter as shady. But I
did not voice my suspicions for fear of alarming Miss Wilton. I would
guide her to Holmes’ place, and see to it that she met with no harm. I
know now that I made a mistake. Better for her had we turned back and
never attempted to cross the mountains.”
“What! Did ye lose her?” queried Angell, with marked concern written on
his homely face.
“Yes, I lost her,” replied Buffalo Bill despondingly. “We were within
half a mile of her uncle’s cabin, and I had begun to think that my
suspicions were groundless, when I heard shots coming from the direction
of the cabin. I spurred on ahead, and did not look behind me until I was
in sight of the cabin. Then I turned. Miss Wilton was not in sight.
Supposing that she had failed to make good time and would soon show
herself, I waited.
“Soon a shout from the cabin made me turn and face the door. There stood
Matt Holmes, as well as ever. I had known him for years, and when he
shouted, ‘Look out, Cody, or they’ll get you,’ I ducked my head, and
thus escaped a bullet fired from the brush.
“The next moment I was on the ground. I got to the cabin, and as soon as
I entered, Holmes closed the door. ‘My enemy has found me,’ he
explained, ‘and we are goin’ to have a picnic.’
“Hurriedly I informed him that his niece was outside, and that she had
come in response to the instructions of a lying letter. The statement
was no sooner made than we heard a woman’s scream. I was about to dash
for the door, when a bullet fired from behind—the back door must have
been open—brought me to the floor. As I fell I heard other shots, saw
Holmes rush out of doors, and then I fainted. I came to my senses to
find the cabin on fire.
“How I got outside in time to prevent cremation I do not know. But I
managed it somehow, and in the brush fainted again. I was opening my
eyes when you came, Bart. Now you know all I have to tell. The enemy of
Matt Holmes has won the first moves in the diabolical game he is
playing. He has committed two murders, and he has carried off Myra
Wilton.”
“I shore hope he ar’n’t aimin’ to murder her,” said Angell, with a white
face.
“It is not likely,” was the confident response. “He has other designs.
She is too pretty to kill.” As he spoke a frown came to his brow, and he
bit his lip viciously. “Confound this wound of mine. I won’t be able to
get about and do business for hours.”
“But yer humble sarvint ain’t in ther same fix,” responded Angell
quickly. “I am shore on deck, an’, what’s more, I’m pinin’ ter git on
ther trail of ther pizen hounds that’s moseyed off with ther gal.”
“Good!” said the king of scouts, his face clearing instantly. “Start as
soon as you like. I am able to look out for myself.”
Ten minutes later Bart Angell was on the flat with pick and shovel. The
duty of burial performed, he set out up the ravine which had brought
Buffalo Bill and Myra Wilton to the flat.
He had been gone an hour when a tall man, with face covered by a black
mask, stole up to the cabin that held the king of scouts.
Through the small window on the side, he peered in and saw Buffalo Bill
propped up on the bunk and calmly smoking a pipe.
The door was open, and a few minutes later the man appeared in front of
it. In his hand was a revolver, and the king of scouts looked up to gaze
into the muzzle of the weapon.
A moment of silence followed:
Then Buffalo Bill spoke coolly: “Looks as if you had the drop.”