A CUNNING VILLAIN’S PLAY.
“Yes, the white maiden is dead,” repeated the Navaho. “Did not Raven
Feather so say to his brother?”
Buffalo Bill was speechless. The news was so astounding that for the
moment he was incapable of sustaining his assumed character. As he stood
staring at the Navaho, there emerged from a tepee a few rods below him a
squat, grotesque figure, carrying a torch. He was followed by three
squaws, who set up a combined wail as they came into the open air.
The distraction was opportune for the greatly disturbed king of scouts.
It served to divert the attention of the Navaho.
“What is the matter?” asked Buffalo Bill.
The answer was that the medicine man was on his way to the tepee of the
dead maiden to exorcise the evil spirits which were struggling with the
maiden’s soul. Raven Feather had loved the white maiden, and, as she
could not become his squaw on this earth, he wished her to become his
spirit bride.
“I must be present,” said the disguised scout. “It would be Raven
Feather’s wish if he were awake.”
“Raven Feather must be present himself,” replied the Navaho. “Black
Bison, the medicine man, cannot drive away the evil spirits without the
presence of the chief.”
The situation was again becoming serious. The Navaho would suspect the
cheat if means were not immediately taken to hoodwink him. Buffalo Bill
thought rapidly.
“I will go to the medicine man,” he said gravely, “and tell him that
Raven Feather, overcome by his great sorrow, is sleeping. The mind of
the chief was distracted when he talked with Crow-killer. Raven Feather
forgot that Crow-killer did not know that the white maiden had died; he
forgot, also, that he had promised to assist Black Bison.”
It was lucky for the disguised scout that the Navaho was of a low order
of intelligence. The explanation was accepted, and Buffalo Bill,
immensely relieved, strode toward the tepee into which the medicine man
and the squaws had just entered.
On the way he passed a number of braves, who were gazing curiously at
the tepee of the proposed incantation.
The false Crow-killer did not speak to any one of them, but he did not
fail to note with relief that they looked at him without surprise.
At the door of the tepee he halted. The bearskin flap had been pushed
aside and secured so that a clear view of the interior could be
obtained.
Upon a pile of skins in a corner lay the body of Myra Wilton. Buffalo
Bill could see the face, and a chill came over his spirits. This, then,
was the end of his quest; this the termination of Carl Henson’s romance.
At the feet of the body stood the dwarf medicine man, and squatted on
the floor in front of the body were the squaws.
The medicine man was muttering some strange words, when the disguised
scout uttered a low hiss. The muttering quickly ceased, and Black Bison
looked up with a start. He saw the tall, muscular figure in the doorway,
and took note of the beckoning finger. In an instant he was at the side
of the false Crow-killer.
Lowering his head and speaking hoarsely, and just above a whisper, the
scout informed the medicine man that Raven Feather was ill and could not
come to the tepee of death. But could not the chief’s brother,
Crow-killer, take the place of the chief? Crow-killer was sure that the
substitution could be made with success; only, for Crow-killer had had a
message from the Great Spirit, the squaws must be sent away.
Black Bison was filled with wonder. What had the Great Spirit said to
Crow-killer?
“He had said,” solemnly announced the disguised scout, “that the
presence and assistance of Crow-killer would be more potent than even
the presence and assistance of Raven Feather and the squaws. Why?
Because Crow-killer had just returned from an expedition which had
resulted in the killing of that dreaded enemy of the Navahos, Buffalo
Bill. The scalp of the great white warrior was now reposing under the
head of Raven Feather, and when the chief awoke he would find all his
troubles gone.”
The medicine man was deeply impressed. He turned, issued a curt order,
and the three squaws arose and toddled out of the tepee.
When they had gone from sight, Buffalo Bill entered the tepee and let
down the door flap. He had resolved upon a course that was not in his
mind when he entered the Indian village. If he could not rescue Myra
Wilton alive, he would carry her away dead. The poor girl should not
become the victim of an Indian burial.
He walked slowly to the side of Black Bison, and then suddenly gripped
the dwarf by the throat and forced him to the floor. The head of the
medicine man struck the torch that he had brought, and which had been
stuck in a hole in the ground, and it fell over, sputtered, and went
out.
The quick change from light to darkness caused the king of scouts to
slightly relax his hold on the throat of his victim. The action was
instantly taken advantage of, and Buffalo Bill, strong as he was, soon
discovered that he was opposing a very giant in strength.
There ensued a long and terrific struggle, in which not a word was
uttered. While it was progressing, the king of scouts thought he heard a
movement from the direction of the couch of skins upon which lay the
body of Myra Wilton.
Ten minutes elapsed before the end of the contest came. Sore and out of
breath, Buffalo Bill got to his feet and relighted the torch.
As its light shone upon the bed of skins, he gave vent to a cry of
amazement.
The body had disappeared.
A large slit in the skin wall back of the couch disclosed the avenue of
escape.
With a strange light in his eyes the king of scouts stepped quickly to
the wall and examined the slit. It had been made by one strong stroke.
No weak woman could have made it. Myra Wilton had not come to life, but
her body had been stolen by some enemy of the Navahos.
Out of the hole in the wall went the wondering scout, and with his sharp
eyes endeavored to pierce the darkness that surrounded him. There were
no lights in any of the other tepees. The nearest was about twenty feet
away, and standing in front of it was an Indian.
The false Crow-killer went over to the Navaho, and was pleased to find
that it was one who had spoken to him concerning the medicine man and
the incantation. The Indian did not respond when asked if any one had
preceded the questioner out of the slit in the tepee of the dead white
maiden.
The question was repeated. Now there was movement instead of oral
answer. Clutching the disguised scout by the arms, the Navaho let out a
yell that was sufficient to arouse the whole village.
A series of yells came in response, and as the king of scouts flung the
Indian to the ground he found himself in the midst of an excited mob. He
dodged a tomahawk, caught sight of the vengeful face of Raven Feather,
fired point-blank at the chief’s head, and, as the chief fell, struck
right and left with weapon and fist, and had succeeded in forcing his
way out of the crowd, when his legs were seized by the released medicine
man, who had crawled under the skin of the tepee.
As Buffalo Bill felt himself falling, a shout that was as fine wine to a
thirsty throat saluted his ears. Then ensued a fusillade that sent all
the Indians who could use their legs to a place of security.
The medicine man lay dead with a bullet in his brain as the grateful
king of scouts shook hands with Wild Bill, Bart Angell, and Carl Henson.
They had been awaiting the signal from Buffalo Bill, and the delay in
giving it had caused them to think that there had been a miscue.
Consequently they had entered the village on their own motion.
On the ground where the shooting had taken place lay seven Indians,
among them Raven Feather, the chief.
“There are not more than a dozen Navahos left,” said the king of scouts
as he looked at the slain, “and I don’t think we need anticipate any
trouble from them. They know their chief is dead, and if we give them
opportunity they will leave the village before morning.”
“I shan’t object,” remarked Wild Bill. “I have no use for them. Have
you, Cody?”
“No. We have won out in the Navaho matter. But——” He paused, and gazed
thoughtfully at the ground.
“But what?” anxiously inquired Carl Henson. “Is not Myra Wilton in the
village? Haven’t you seen her?”
The questions cost the sympathetic king of scouts a painful effort to
answer. But the truth must be told. Slowly and gravely he narrated the
story of his adventures and discoveries since his arrival in the
village.
Carl Henson uttered a groan of anguish. His form shook with emotion.
“Brace up,” said Wild Bill sullenly. “I have got an idea, and if it
doesn’t change your tune, then I don’t know hardtack from chile con
carne. Listen to me: Myra Wilton is not dead.”
Carl Henson looked up with a start of joy. “Explain,” he demanded. “What
do you know that Mr. Cody does not know?”
“Mighty little in regard to most things, young man, but a trifle more
than he does in the matter of a certain Rixton Holmes.”
“You think he stole the body, eh?” put in Buffalo Bill. “So do I.”
“Of course he is the thief. And I’ll bet a hat I know how he worked the
snap. When I was in Taos gathering the facts about the murder of Jared
Holmes, I learned that Holmes—he went under another name then—had been
seen colleaguing with Tom Darke, the man who did the actual killing.”
“What of it?” broke in the agitated young man. “How could this talk in
Taos, months ago, refer to the case of Myra Wilton?”
“Easy, friend Henson,” returned Wild Bill amiably. “Give me time and
I’ll make the connection. I learned something else. Rixton Holmes was a
druggist in the early part of his career. He worked at the business in
St. Louis; had to leave the town between two days because he played a
cunning fraud on an insurance company.”
The four friends were now walking out of the village toward the point
where the horses had been stationed.
Wild Bill, without interruption, continued his statement. “The case was
a peculiar one. A woman, no matter what her station in life was, had her
life insured. She was a friend of Rixton Holmes. A month after the
issuing of the policy she died; at least, that was the opinion of the
doctor who signed the death certificate. The money was paid to Holmes,
who was named as the beneficiary. Six months later, the woman turned up
alive, and gave the snap away to the district attorney. She wanted
revenge. Holmes had agreed to whack up, and he failed to do so. There
was no original intent to cheat her, but faro got the money, and he
simply couldn’t make good with her.
“It appears that the plot was concocted by Holmes, who said he knew of a
drug that, after being taken, would produce the semblance of death,
sufficient to deceive an ordinary physician; and, by the way, it was a
very ordinary one who attended her in what was supposed to be her last
illness.”
“I begin to see,” exclaimed Henson, as Wild Bill paused and looked at
the young man with a meaning smile. “Holmes induced Myra to take the
drug, and when she was under its influence he stole into the tepee and
carried her off.”
“You’re partly right and partly wrong,” replied Wild Bill. “She took the
drug, all right, but she did not know that it came from her bitter
enemy. Holmes never saw her, and never gave the drug into her hands. I
believe she took the stuff in the belief that it came from her friends.”
Buffalo Bill now had something to say. “I am inclined to think that
Hickok is right about the drug. I now call to mind that there was a
peculiar drug-store odor about the tepee when I entered it. But Rixton
Holmes, as Hickok says, never personally induced the girl to take the
drug. There is mystery about that part of the affair that won’t likely
be solved until we rescue Miss Wilton and catch the villain who carried
her off. It was a bold thing to do. The time selected for the abduction
was the best possible. By George! I have it. Holmes followed us from the
vicinity of the flat. He must have seen us soon after he stole
Crow-killer’s pony, and, as his aim was to get the girl, he followed us
to the village, and permitted me to act as his cat’s-paw, hang him.”
“But how did he get the drug to the girl?” asked Wild Bill.
“That gets me,” was the reply. “It must have reached her some time
before my arrival in the village, for she was doing the dead act when I
got there. Of course, Holmes must have preceded me. We waited a couple
of hours, if you will remember, on the top of the hill overlooking the
valley.”
“Well,” remarked Bart Angell, as he bit off a generous chew from his
side of hardcut, “we might as well quit roominatin’ over ther case. What
we got ter do is ter git on ther track of Holmes, and that aire mighty
pronto.”
“We can do nothing until morning,” said Henson despondingly. “You can’t
trail anybody in the nighttime.”
“That’s true as a general proposition,” said Buffalo Bill, “but in this
case you’re off. The villain has a pony, and, of course, the animal was
staked near the village. We can soon learn the direction of his flight.
There are three ways of leaving the valley. One is toward the flat that
we left behind this forenoon. The second is through the cañon at the
other end of the village, a route that takes one to Colorado, and the
third is toward the east through a narrow pass, and on to the plains.”
The horses of the party were found; and the fact that they were where
they had been left, near the trail leading to the lower end of the
valley and the western hills, caused the king of scouts to believe that
Holmes had not sought to escape by way of the flat and the ravine with
the cave.
“If he had come this way,” he said, “he would certainly have spotted the
ponies and stampeded them. And I don’t think he took the trail at the
other end. He wants to reach the plains, and the way to get there is by
taking the eastern route.”
“Then let’s investigate over that way first,” suggested Wild Bill, “and
if you’re right, as I believe you are, we’ll be saving valuable time.”
Buffalo Bill had correctly sized up the fleeing villain’s program. The
tracks of a pony were found on the east less than a mile from the
village. There were deep indentations in the soil, and the king of
scouts, looking at the marks, rightly concluded that they were made by a
pony that had carried double.
“Holmes is a heavy man,” he remarked, “and Miss Wilton isn’t exactly a
lightweight.”
Sleep was out of the question. The trail was followed at night, though
the progress was necessarily slow. In the hills, where there was but one
way for a horse to take, they could make better time.
It was daylight when they halted in a cañon, through which flowed a deep
and rapid stream of water.
They had breakfast, attended to the wants of their ponies, and then rode
on.
“Do you think Miss Wilton remained long in her deathlike sleep?” asked
Carl Henson of Buffalo Bill, as the friends were riding, single file, up
the steep side of the mountain.
“If she revived before this, Holmes would have found her more
troublesome on his hands than an elephant would have been. He’ll not try
to get her out of her sleep.”
“But the sleep must some time come to an end. When will that be? Have
you any idea?”
His anxiety was so marked that Wild Bill hastened to say: “That woman in
St. Louis stayed dead twenty-four hours. It will take Holmes more than a
day to get clear of these hills. We’ll catch him before he reaches the
plains.”
Just before noon Bart Angell, who was riding ahead, and had just rounded
a sharp turn in the trail, uttered a shout that brought his companions
quickly to the spot where he had reined up.
Before him in the road lay the dead body of an Indian pony.
It was a pinto, and it had been shot in the head.
Buffalo Bill dismounted, and saw that one leg of the animal was broken.
“I understand,” he said. “The pony stepped in that hole there, broke a
leg, and was shot as an act of compassion.”
Wild Bill, the man of coolness, threw up his sombrero. “We’ve got him
now,” he exclaimed. “That’s as certain as death and taxes.”
The king of scouts did not share in his old comrade’s belief. “I don’t
know about that,” he said soberly. “Not having the pony, he will not be
obliged to keep to the trail. And it is so hard and rocky up here that
it will be no easy matter to trail him. However, we will hope for the
best.”
Half an hour later Bart Angell, who had left the trail at the request of
Buffalo Bill, to explore a ravine that debouched into the cañon upon the
high side of which they had been traveling, made a discovery that raised
the spirits of his comrades.
The footprints of two persons had been found on a short, sandy stretch,
just below the mouth of a spring.
The tracks pointed up the ravine, and it was clear that retreat was
being made in that direction.
There was no mistaking the prints. One set belonged to a man, the other
to a woman.
“You may ease your mind regarding one thing, Mr. Henson,” said Buffalo
Bill. “Miss Wilton has come to her senses. She can walk, too.”
The young man’s relief at this statement was not pronounced. “But why is
she going along with that scoundrel?” he said, with a voice that had
anger as well as surprise in it. “He isn’t dragging her along. She is
stepping freely.”
“I hope you are not hobnobbing with the green monster,” was the
response, in comical disapproval. “There is an explanation, and we are
on the way to get it.”
There was no trail that horses could follow, and so the animals were
left at the mouth of the ravine while the three scouts and Carl Henson
followed the footprints.
The following was not easy; but the scouts were experts, and though they
went slowly over the rocky ground, yet there was never a stop. Once they
came to a flat bowlder where it was evident that the girl had rested.
The king of scouts believed that Holmes and Miss Wilton were not far
off, for he had felt of the carcass of the pinto pony and found it warm.
About a mile up the ravine the pursuers came to a point where the ravine
branched. One branch took a direction at right angles with the course
they had been following. The direction was toward the west and south,
for they could see that half a mile up the branch curved toward the
cañon they had but recently left.
Buffalo Bill was both surprised and irritated when the discovery was
made that the tracks of the man and girl turned into the western branch.
A suspicion of the truth caused him to say to Wild Bill and Bart Angell:
“We may have been tricked. It looks like it. Hickok, you and Bart will
take the back track to the place where we left our ponies. Henson and I
will follow these prints. They will take us to the cañon trail, and we
can all meet inside of an hour.”
The order was instantly obeyed. Wild Bill and Angell hurried down the
ravine. They reached the spot where the ponies had been tethered to make
the alarming discovery that the animals were gone.
Wild Bill looked at his comrade, and then each began to use language
that, while most expressive, would not look well in print.
The ebullition over, Angell ran to the cañon trail and looked along the
route eastward. “There they are!” he shouted in wrath. “See ’em, Hickok?
Most to ther summit, an’ a-goin’ it fer keeps.”
Wild Bill used his eyes and fiercely bit at his mustache. “Each on a
pony,” he muttered. “No coercion? Going away like two elopers. Bart,
this business beats me to a frazzle. Got an opinion that is of any
value?”
“No, but I shore got a request ter make,” was the response, in deep
disgust. “Will you hev ther kindness as ter be so kind as ter take a
squint among ther big trees yereabout an’ find a knot hole. I shore
desires ter crawl inter it an’ haul ther hole in arter me.”
Wild Bill fell to whistling. A smile came to his lips. “I am waiting for
Cody to come up. It will be worth something to note the expression of
his classic mug when he sees what a mess we have made of it.”
It was not long before the king of scouts and Carl Henson put in an
appearance. There was no need to look toward the spot where the ponies
had been nor to ask questions. The faces of Wild Bill and Bart Angell
told the whole crushing story.
For a moment Buffalo Bill gazed at them without speaking. Then he broke
into a laugh. “Boys,” he said, “it is certainly rough. But the battle is
not yet lost. Luck can’t stay always with that slick, double-dyed
villain. We are all candidates for bed, but the bed has not been made
that will take any of us in to-day. It’s sprint, and as this is no time
for a confab, here goes.”
Up the hill he went, making surprising time for a man of his weight. It
may be said that his wound had healed rapidly, and that for twenty-four
hours it had given him no concern.
Wild Bill was the fleetest runner. Tall, thin, and wiry, with the
strength of a giant and the suppleness of a panther, he fairly flew over
the ground.
Carl Henson was a good second. The young man was on his mettle. Besides,
he had the greatest interest at stake.
For hours the fugitives were lost sight of, but in the middle afternoon
they were seen to descend a hill ending in one of the rockiest sections
of the Canadian Mountains.
With his field glasses Buffalo Bill noticed that Holmes and the girl
were walking their ponies, and that from time to time the villain, who
was in the lead, turned and shook his fist at the girl.
Arrived at the foot of the hill, no attempt to increase the speed of the
ponies was made.
“I tell you what, boys,” said the king of scouts, in pleasant
excitement, “things are moving our way.”
“What do you mean?” interrogated Henson eagerly.
“Why, can’t you guess? We wouldn’t have come in sight of Holmes if the
ponies had not been walked for a long distance. What has happened? Just
this: Miss Wilton has caught on to the situation. She has refused to
obey orders and ride hard. Holmes is mad clear through, but can do
nothing. He has probably threatened to shoot her if she does not go with
him, but he can’t induce her to bring her pony out of a walk.”
Carl Henson was so greatly excited over what Buffalo Bill had said that
he started along the trail with the speed of a race horse.
If he kept on in his course, a few minutes would bring him into view
from the rocky basin through which Holmes and Myra Wilton were riding.
Buffalo Bill shouted: “Come back, or you will spoil all!” Henson heard,
but he did not lessen his speed.
The king of scouts started after him. The pursuit would have been
fruitless if Henson, running with his head in the air and his mind on
the girl he loved, had not stumbled over a large stone and pitched
forward on his face. The king of scouts picked the young man up to hear
him say: “Let me alone. I am a match for a dozen fellows like that one
down there.”
“If you don’t do as I say,” replied Buffalo Bill severely, “you may lose
the girl and be balked of your revenge. Holmes is a man without scruple.
Rather than see Myra Wilton restored to her friends, he will kill her
even if his own life pays the forfeit. We must go slow. The game is ours
if we work it right. Leave the direction of affairs to me.”
“All right,” said Henson humbly. “I’ll not break loose again.”
Soon after this conversation Holmes and his captive halted, and the
ponies were hobbled.
Buffalo Bill was waiting for the darkness. He might, with his force,
descend immediately upon the villain, but he feared that once the
rescuers were seen, Miss Wilton’s life would be in jeopardy.