A MAN HUNT IN ARIZONA.
“He does not look as if he had the intelligence of a rabbit, Cody.”
The speaker’s fine face was shadowed with grief. The tone was
despondent.
“I’ll admit that he would not likely pull a prize at a scholastic
exhibition, colonel; but he knows one thing, and he knows it well. It
may be instinct or it may be intelligence—I’ll not venture a decided
opinion on the point—but the proof is abundant that he is, par
excellence, the great and only human sleuthhound.”
Buffalo Bill, mounted on a coal-black steed, smiled on the Hualapi, who
was the subject of Colonel Hayden’s remark.
The Indian was short, squatty, and in features closely resembled the
despised Digger of northern California. The forehead was low, the nose
short and broad, the lips as thick as a negro’s, and the chin
conspicuously nonaggressive. The eyes were small, piercing, and snaky.
Fixed upon the colonel, they expressed utter disdain, for the Hualapi
could speak a fair sort of English, and he had understood the purport of
the colonel’s slurring statement.
The three men, the whites on horseback, the Indian on foot, were on the
edge of the Colorado desert. They looked upon a sky unbroken by a cloud.
The horizon stretched away until, on either side, it was lost in the
haze of quivering heat. The expanse was unmarred by tree or shrub, while
underfoot a sea of restless sand, ever shifting and ever changing,
seemed as if it sought to escape the all-pervading, deathlike monotony
and silence of the desert.
Add to this the sparse and stunted vegetation that tells of scanty water
and burning suns, and a picture is presented of the home of the Hualapi,
the human sleuthhound, who by the keenness of his vision follows the
trail of man or beast where the best bloodhound would be baffled.
Day after day the scene is the same, until the eye, weary with sweeping
the unbroken wastes, contents itself with noting the few signs of life
the desert furnishes.
Colonel Hayden tried to gather comfort from the confident assertion of
the king of scouts. But his almost hopeless look returned when he gazed
out upon the desert.
Buffalo Bill regarded the serious-faced officer with an eye of pity. The
colonel’s mind was burdened with a deep sorrow and a racking anxiety. He
was a father, and his only child, a daughter, was in the power of a
conscienceless villain.
Commander of a military post in Wyoming, he had obtained leave of
absence for the purpose of pursuing the abductor of his daughter.
Buffalo Bill, then in the government employ, had also secured leave on
the recommendation and at the urgent request of the colonel, who
believed that if any man in the West could trail the villain and rescue
the girl, the brave, fearless, and skillful king of scouts was that man.
The abduction had not the usual sordid motive. Colonel Hayden was a rich
man, but there was no question of ransom in the carrying away of Sybil
Hayden. Nor was there anything between the colonel and Edward Frams,
better known as Black-face Ned, out of which hate and revenge might have
grown. The two men were strangers. Colonel Hayden did not know that such
a person as Black-face Ned existed until the terrible news of the
abduction reached him.
Sybil was away from the post visiting a schoolmate at her mountain home
many miles from the military station when she met the villain who now
had her in his power.
He was a cowboy, and had arrived at the ranch a few days after Sybil
made her appearance there. Tall, muscularly built, with flashing black
eyes, a pale, classic face, and a heavy, drooping mustache, he was a man
who always attracted attention and compelled admiration. He was vain of
his good looks, and believed himself to be a lady-killer of the first
water. Sybil Hayden thought him interesting, but she did not admire him.
There was something about him that induced distrust. His eyes had
frequently a sinister gleam in them, and when he looked at her she saw
more than he desired she should see.
None of the other cowboys on the ranch knew him, and none of them grew
to like him. They were rough, honest fellows, and did not take kindly to
his style, which was dandified and superior. But they grudgingly
admitted that he knew his business. He was a fine rider and a dead shot,
and his bravery was unquestioned.
His story was that he had just come from northern Mexico, where for ten
years he had been the foreman of a large cattle ranch.
One day while Sybil was riding a few miles from the house she met Frams,
who was returning from a visit to the nearest town.
She gave him a cool bow, and was about to ride on, when he reined up by
her side and spoke quickly:
“I must say what I have been wanting to say for weeks, Miss Hayden. You
must hear me. I love you, and I want you for my wife.”
The girl’s indignation was greater than her surprise.
“I have nothing to say to you,” she replied coldly. She gave her pony a
light tap, but Frams caught the bridle, and the pony remained at a
standstill.
His voice was hoarse as he said: “You look upon me with contempt because
I am poor. I know your kind, and——”
“Like them.” The interruption was coolly made. Frams turned red, and his
eyes glittered savagely.
“Yes, I like your kind,” he hissed, “though I despise them, also.”
Irritated by her cool, sneering expression, he continued fiercely: “I
love you, and I want to tame you, to bring you down from your high horse
and make you sing small for your attitude toward those you consider your
inferiors.”
“You make love in a most peculiar way,” Sybil replied, with a smile that
made the villain grit his teeth. “Until to-day I was scarcely aware that
you existed. But your stupendous insolence has forced you upon my
notice. Be kind enough to remove your hand from the bridle. If you were
a gentleman, I would not have to ask twice.”
With an oath, Frams let his hand fall to his side. As the girl rode on,
he shook his fist at her and said loud enough for her to hear: “Go on,
but don’t think you have done with me. A day of reckoning is coming.”
On her return to the ranch house, Sybil did not mention her meeting with
Edward Frams. She believed that the incident was closed, and that the
cowboy would in future keep his distance.
She was not ill pleased when at night Frams threw up his job, received
his money, mounted his pony, and rode away, declaring that he was going
back to Mexico.
Two nights afterward, Sybil, who slept in a room on the first floor,
with window opening on the long veranda, was awakened from a sound sleep
by a noise near her couch. Before she could cry out, a handkerchief,
saturated with chloroform, was pressed against her nostrils, and her
senses left her. When she returned to consciousness, she found herself
strapped to the back of a horse.
It was still dark, and the horse was going at a gallop along the trail
toward the mountains.
In front was another horse, and upon its back, a cruel smile upon his
dark face, was Edward Frams, the cowboy.
The next day the news of the abduction reached Colonel Hayden. Well-nigh
distracted, he reached the ranch at the earliest possible moment, and
learned that several parties were out in pursuit of the abductor.
The animal Frams bestrode had peculiar hoof marks, and several of the
cowboys at once recognized them.
A week went by and there was no report from any one of the pursuing
parties. Colonel Hayden had come too late to hope to overtake the men
who had gone on the trail of Frams, and so he remained at the ranch in
an agony of suspense.
While awaiting news, he telegraphed a description of the abductor to the
officers of all the towns, north, south, and west, and after the lapse
of several days received a letter from the Denver chief of police,
stating that the description fitted one of the most daring and
conscienceless scoundrels in the West, one whose whereabouts had been
unknown for many years.
He had been the leader of a gang of outlaws whose range of operations
extended from Mexico to Dakota. Five years before the gang had been
broken up, but Black-face Ned and three of his men had escaped and gone
south toward Mexico.
This intelligence increased Colonel Hayden’s alarm. He chafed at the
suspense, and would have taken the field himself if the members of one
of the pursuing parties had not returned ten days after setting out.
The leader reported that the trail had been followed into Colorado, and
there lost.
Soon afterward the other pursuers returned. They had failed to trace the
abductor.
Colonel Hayden obtained leave of absence from the government, had
Buffalo Bill detailed to assist him, and a month after the abduction
they stood on the edge of the Colorado desert, the king of scouts having
picked up the trail the cowboys had lost, and followed it to the desert.
Here the services of the Hualapi had been secured on the strong
recommendation of Buffalo Bill.
It was early morning when the little party, with the Indian in the lead,
took their way across the desert. An expert reader of signs, the Hualapi
was soon able to announce that the trail was but one day old. There were
many indications—among them the dew that had fallen, the dust or sand
that had drifted into the track, the condition of the occasional tufts
of dry grass which had been pressed underfoot and had partially regained
upright shape, and minute marks upon the rocks—that told a plain story
to the trailer.
After traveling slowly for a mile, the Indian stopped, straightened
himself, and looked knowingly at the king of scouts.
Buffalo Bill rode forward and asked: “What is it, Panecho?”
“Sacks on feet; heap smart trick, ugh!”
The grunt of contempt caused the scout to smile.
“Meant to fool the ordinary white man, but it doesn’t fool you, eh?”
The Indian nodded. He had been following a very faint trail made by two
horses whose feet had been muffled.
“Bimeby sacks come off,” Panecho said. “Then we go fast.”
On the trailer went, and late in the afternoon reached a spur of the
Hualapi Mountains. Ten minutes later the Indian held up his hand. He had
lost the trail.
Colonel Hayden uttered a sigh of acute disappointment. Buffalo Bill
looked at the officer, half in contempt, half in pity.
“Lost for the moment,” he said; “but Panecho will soon pick it up again,
or I’ll miss my guess.”
The Indian made a motion that the king of scouts understood. A triangle
was formed, the point where the last vestige of the trail had been seen
being in the center of the base. Moving from each of the three points,
the colonel, Buffalo Bill, and the Hualapi began a search for the
missing trail. The colonel, who had watched the Indian closely during
the ride across the desert, and whose eyes were sharpened by anxiety,
was the one who found it. The mark was small, and so faint that the
officer had to look twice to be sure of it. He did not shout his
discovery, for silence was the order of the day, but motioned with his
hand. The Indian ran up, looked at the mark, and then hurried on, to
soon find another mark.
Now the pursuit was resumed, and when an hour before dark a point was
reached, where there were evidences that the sacks had been discarded,
the colonel was in a state of hopeful excitement.
There upon the ground was the impress of a horse’s hoof. The trail now
became more distinct, and the Indian went forward with a celerity that
delighted while it astonished the colonel.
At dark a halt was made.
The pursuers were now at the mouth of a narrow pass. Nothing could be
done until next morning, for Buffalo Bill knew that to try to follow the
trail by lantern light would not only be slow and vexatious work, but
might be attended with grave danger. If Black-face Ned was near at hand,
and he might be, the light would give him opportunity to pot every one
of the pursuers.
Camp was made, and after a cold supper the two white men and the Hualapi
found soft places, and stretched themselves out for a few hours’
much-needed rest. Buffalo Bill was up before daybreak. He roused the
Indian, and then turned to walk toward the spot—the lee of a
bowlder—where the colonel had lain, and was amazed to discover that the
soldier had gone.
Both the king of scouts and the Hualapi were light sleepers, and it
seemed strange that the colonel should have departed without awakening
either of them. Not far away from the camp was a small creek, and, in
the hope that the colonel had gone to the water for a drink, Buffalo
Bill went down the sloping bank, and soon stood on the water’s edge. It
was now light enough for the scout to see for some distance about him.
There was no sign of Colonel Hayden anywhere.
As the king of scouts stood and wondered, the Hualapi came to his side.
“Him heap make sneak,” said the Indian, with many nods. “Go away, think
he catch bad man asleep.”
“He must have crawled off noiselessly, so as not to disturb us,” replied
Bill irritably. “I shall have to give him a sharp lecture when he comes
back.”
“Him heap fool, may spoil game,” said the Indian.
The words had scarcely left the Hualapi’s mouth before there came a
sharp report, and a rifle bullet ended the speaker’s career.
Quick upon the shot Buffalo Bill dropped to the ground. The move saved
the scout’s life, for a second report had followed the first.
Buffalo Bill had dropped near the trunk of a large cottonwood. He was
behind it in a twinkling, and with pistol in hand—he had left his rifle
at the camp—awaited the next move of the assassin.
Five minutes passed and not a sound broke the stillness. The enemy must
be still on the spot whence the shots had been fired. If he had moved,
the king of scouts must have assuredly have heard him.
“He is waiting for full daylight,” was the scout’s conclusion. “Well, so
am I.”
Back of Buffalo Bill was the creek, and across the creek was a wall of
rock that rose sheer to a height of one hundred feet. There was,
therefore, no danger of an attack from behind.
But one side of the scout’s place of shelter was exposed, that which
looked toward the camp. The other side was a mass of high, thick brush.
At the expiration of ten minutes, the silence having continued unbroken,
Buffalo Bill stooped, picked up a three-foot section of the dead branch
of a tree, and then removed his sombrero. Placing the hat at an end of
the stick, he thrust it a few inches beyond the cottonwood in the
direction of camp. No shot followed. Either the ruse was guessed, or the
enemy had changed his position.
The situation was a ticklish one. If the scout stepped out into the open
space he might become a target for a murderous bullet, while if he
crawled into the brush he might encounter a similar danger.
Where had the enemy gone? Buffalo Bill tried to put himself in the
unknown’s place. After a few moments’ thought, he said to himself: “He
has probably sneaked noiselessly to a point nearer the camp. He has seen
the rifle, and he believes that I will, after a time, return there. I
will return, but not in the way he expects.”
There was but the space of a few yards between the tree and the creek,
which carried a deep and swiftly running body of water.
Buffalo Bill flattened himself, crawled in safety to the water, and then
softly entered it. Keeping his head as low as was possible, he allowed
the strong current to carry him a quarter of a mile. Then he swam to
shore, mounted the bank, and halted at the trail.
Full daylight had come, and the scout could almost see the camp from
where he stood.
The way thither was along a rock-bordered path, with here and there a
tree.
Buffalo Bill looked at the trail, shook his head, and then turned his
eyes up the bank of the cañon.
Here the trees were more numerous, and there were many bowlders, and a
few flat places where the mesquite flourished.
The king of scouts, without hesitation, went up the bank, and by
stooping and crawling managed to reach a spot above and not twenty yards
from the camp without having been seen.
He could see the rifles, and knew by this that the enemy had not as yet
entered the camp.
But the scout did not move from his place of concealment. He had a
shrewd idea of the situation, and was not surprised when, after a short
time, he heard a noise in the brush below him and close to the camp.
Presently a tall, muscular Indian stepped into the open and moved toward
the rifles.
Buffalo Bill, who had expected to see Black-face Ned, was astonished and
puzzled when the redskin, an Apache, stepped into view.
A bullet from the scout’s pistol would have laid the Indian low, but
Buffalo Bill did not desire to fire the shot if the action could with
safety be avoided.
“I’ll capture him, if I can, and make him tell me what brought him here,
and why he killed the Hualapi.”
With this thought in his mind, Buffalo Bill watched the Apache until he
saw the Indian stoop to gather up the rifles. Then he rushed down the
bank with such speed that he was close to the Apache when that
astonished aborigine raised his head.
The next moment the scout’s fist shot out with catapultic power, and the
Indian measured his length on the ground.
Blows were rained on the victim’s head until he was reduced to a state
of insensibility.