AN OLD FRIEND REAPPEARS.
The two old-time partners and fellow scouts and Indian fighters grasped
hands, Wild Bill’s knife having quickly cut the thongs that had held the
prisoner’s wrists. After the handclasp, the king of scouts was given the
use of his feet.
Before entering upon an explanation, Wild Bill issued an order to three
of his Indians and they immediately set out to find Thunder Cloud and
convey him to the cliff.
“Now,” said Wild Bill, after the Comanches had departed, “I’ll try to
satisfy your curiosity.”
Buffalo Bill, seated on the couch of skins and smoking a fine cigar,
nodded. “You are in a curious position,” he said. “I can’t imagine how
you got into it.”
“Accident, Cody, put me where I am. I had been hunting over on the
Continental Divide when, unluckily, I provided myself with a badly
sprained ankle. I couldn’t travel, and I believe I would have starved to
death if one of the Yelping Crew had not seen and come to my rescue. The
band was far away from their stamping ground—they had been out hunting
like myself—and so I was brought here. Their chief was dead, and there
was no one in the band capable of leading them. Some of them knew me by
reputation, and when I was well enough to get about, what do you think?
I was asked to become the chief, pro tem.”
“Pro tem?” repeated Buffalo Bill. “Why not permanently?”
“Because there was a Comanche in the line of succession. The fellow was
in Mexico, and a messenger had been sent there to notify him that he
could be chief of the Yelpers if he cared to undertake the job.”
“You accepted—your position here shows that, Hickok. But what induced
you to do so?”
“A desire to assist the United States government. The Apaches are giving
trouble again, and the soldier boys are having hard work to find them.
Now, my Yelpers know all the Apaches’ holes, and they are the sworn
enemies of the Apaches. Already we have had one brush with the enemy,
and it was a win-out.”
“Why have you not descended on Black-face Ned and his gang?”
“For the very good reason that none of the gang were in this
neighborhood until two days ago. We are now preparing to light down on
the murderous outfit and wipe it off the face of the earth.”
Buffalo Bill, having heard Wild Bill’s explanation, astonished the tall
border fighter by telling him of the abduction of pretty Sybil Hayden
and the events of the past twenty-four hours.
“We must move just as soon as my Yelpers get back with Thunder Cloud,”
said Wild Bill resolutely. “I’ll make Thunder Cloud tell me where the
outlaws are, and if we don’t give them a hot surprise, I’ll resign my
job and go to herding squirrels.”
Before the expiration of an hour the three Comanches returned. The
Apache chief was not with them. They had found the camp of Buffalo Bill,
but it was deserted.
“Rescued by Black-face Ned,” was Buffalo Bill’s sour comment. “I half
expected it.”
In answer to questions put by Wild Bill, the spokesman of the trio
stated that two white men had gone away from the camp with Thunder
Cloud. The trail had been followed for a mile. There it ended on the
sandy shore of the creek.
“Took to the water,” said Wild Bill understandingly. “Never mind. We’ll
find them, for I have trailers who can match any Hualapi that ever ate
rattlesnakes.”
“Better send out your trailers at once,” suggested Buffalo Bill. “If
Black-face Ned’s force is small, he is on the retreat. The Apaches have
probably told him about their enemies, the Yelping Crew; and he won’t
likely desire to try conclusions with you.”
“All right.”
The trailers were dispatched on their mission, and pending their return
the two scouts had a talk with the captured outlaws.
Flag-pole Jack was almost stupefied with amazement when Wild Bill, with
face exposed, entered the room, followed by the released king of scouts.
But Shorty Sands showed no surprise. Neither did he seem pleased.
“I shore tumbled to your game,” he said to Wild Bill, “when you failed
to wipe out Cody when he was whar he couldn’t play a hand.”
“How many men has Black-face Ned at his command?” demanded Wild Bill,
with his eyes on Flag-pole Jack.
“Ernuff ter wipe out your measly outfit, you kin bet yer boots on that,”
was the surly answer.
“Then he must have a mob of Apaches with him?”
“He’s got Thunder Cloud’s band, an’ thar’s more’n fifty of ther reds.”
“You lie, Jack,” put in Buffalo Bill sternly. “If the Indians were with
Ned early this morning, one of them, a brave, would have been detailed
to scout my camp. As it was, Thunder Cloud was the scout. That’s not the
office for a chief, and you know it.”
The outlaw grinned, and Shorty Sands laughed outright.
“What do you find that is funny about this business?” said the king of
scouts, with a frown.
Flag-pole Jack looked at his companion. Sands nodded, and then the tall
outlaw replied: “You ain’t on to the sitivation, Cody. I’ll put you in
line. When Black-face Ned struck the hole of his old pards, me’n Shorty
an’ Bat Wason—you ain’t seen Bat yet, but yer likely ter meet up with
him afore long—thar wa’n’t no Injuns thar. They was camped five miles
beyond. See? Well, yesterday Thunder Cloud, all by his lonesome,
meanders inter ther hole. He sees ther gal what Ned is a-herdin’, an’ he
corrals her name. Jumpin’ Jiminetty, but you orter seen him when he
heerd it war ‘Hayden.’ The kunnel was onto his black list, you wanter
understand. Right away he ’lowed that Hayden war not fur away. ‘In
course,’ said he, ‘he’ll follow you, Ned, an’ I wonder that you ain’t
had scouts out a-safeguardin’ your retreat.’
“Ned sniffed, an’ said he wasn’t worryin’ any erbout a pursuit by ther
kunnel. But Thunder Cloud stuck to his guns. He induced Wason ter trot
to ther Apache camp an’ tell ther reds ter hike up ter Ned’s hole, an’
yarly this mornin’, afore the Indians appeared, ther chief lit out fer
ther desert. Now, yer have it,” concluded the speaker. “Ther Injuns aire
with Ned now, an’ Thunder Cloud at ther head of ’em with blood in his
eye.”
Buffalo Bill was disturbed by this statement. His eyes sought Wild
Bill’s. The same thought was in the mind of each.
Without a word, Wild Bill turned, left the room, and, going to one of
the cliff openings, looked out into the ravine.
Buffalo Bill was at his side when he said: “If that scoundrel told the
truth, and I think he did, Black-face Ned will not run away. He will
hunt us.”
As he spoke, there came the report of several shots. The firing was
about half a mile away down the ravine toward the cañon.
“My scouts have bumped against a scouting party from the enemy,”
remarked Wild Bill. “I’ll wait five minutes, and if I don’t see my
Indians, I’ll start out with all my force.”
“Bad plan,” replied Buffalo Bill, with a shake of the head. “You might
fall into a trap. Better get the lay of the land before starting. I have
another, and I think a more sensible, scheme. I’ll go out alone. The
bushes are thick in the ravine, and I have been on the plains and in the
mountains long enough to know how to work. I shan’t try to get on the
trail to the cañon, for that would bring me into the zone of danger. No,
I’ll take to the high ground, and try to spy out the location of the
enemy without exposing myself as your Comanches must have done.”
Wild Bill tried to dissuade his old partner from undertaking the work,
but Buffalo Bill was determined, and at last Wild Bill gave in.
“But you’ll understand this,” the latter said, with lips set in grim
determination: “If you fail to show up in an hour, out I go and all my
Yelpers with me.”
Five minutes went by, and there was no sign of the Comanche scouts.
There had been no more firing, and the king of scouts concluded that the
Comanches had either been killed or taken prisoners.
Wild Bill saw his comrade go down the shaft to the ground entrance, and
there was a cloud on his brow when he turned from the windlass and spoke
to the Comanches who had been taking in the scene with puzzled
countenances.
Not far from the cave entrance to the cliff habitations the ravine
narrowed so that passage along it was beset with danger. The banks were
steep and high, and climbing would be slow and difficult work.
Buffalo Bill was too wise to attempt a journey through this narrow pass.
Instead, he went up the hill where the ravine was wide, and did not stop
until he had reached the summit.
Here the trees were few and scattered, and to go on with an approach to
safety he must flatten himself on the ground and work forward like a
snake.
He was making good progress, and was approaching ground where huge
bowlders took the place of trees, when his quick ear caught the sound of
a muffled groan in front of him, and not far away. In an instant he was
concealed behind a large rock.
The groan was repeated, and the scout, peering round the rock, saw an
Indian crawl into view not ten yards away. His face was contorted with
pain, and when he stopped and began to nurse one of his ankles, an
explanation of the groaning seemed to be afforded.
Seemed to be, for Buffalo Bill was not quite satisfied as to the
genuineness of the Indian’s sufferings. Perhaps the Indian, who was an
Apache, had seen the king of scouts and had resolved upon a ruse to make
victory over the white enemy an easy one.
So Buffalo Bill waited, and he smiled when, after a few moments, the
Apache stretched himself at full length upon the summit and let out a
groan that could have been heard a quarter of a mile away.
The king of scouts, still smiling, picked up a stone of good size, and,
watching his chance, flung it with all his force at the Indian’s head.
The aim was a true one. The stone struck the Apache on the ear, and he
jumped to his feet as if he had been on springs.
For one short moment he looked toward the rock where Buffalo Bill was
hidden, and then hastily retreated to the shelter of another rock a few
feet from where he had fallen.
The king of scouts could have shot the Indian while he was standing, but
for many reasons he had not used his revolver. A shot might bring on a
force of Apaches, who were probably close at hand. But Buffalo Bill
resolved that the Indian should not leave the summit to report what he
had encountered.
Assured that stereotyped devices to deceive the Apache would not work,
the king of scouts determined upon a course of flanking.
With the large rock as a screen, he backed away until he reached a cut
in the ground that extended diagonally for several hundred yards.
Crawling in a direction that would bring him sidewise to the rear of the
rock behind which the Apache was concealed, he reached the end of the
cut, and then cautiously lifted his head and looked toward the Indian’s
place of shelter.
To his surprise and annoyance the Indian was not there.
Soon a light broke in upon his understanding. The Apache was as wise as
he, and had tried the same game.
Back along the cut the king of scouts hurried, and was nearly at the
point from which he had entered the depression when he saw the Indian’s
head projected from behind a mesquite bush that grew on one side of the
cut.
Quick as a flash, Buffalo Bill was out of the cut and behind the rock
that shortly before had sheltered him.
The Apache had not had time to fire, and the king of scouts, immensely
relieved at the circumstances, looked out to find that the Indian had
withdrawn from a position of danger, and was nowhere to be seen. But it
was apparent to Buffalo Bill that the cunning enemy was behind one of
the bowlders near the cut.
The situation in one sense was to the liking of the famous Indian
fighter. He was anxious at this time to avoid a commotion that would
bring down upon him a mob of savages, for a fight then and there, even
if it resulted in the scout’s escape, might prevent a descent upon the
camp of Black-face Ned and his Indian allies.
If the Apache could be captured or put out of the way without noise, the
scout might pursue his journey under favorable auspices. And the Indian
must be rendered powerless for harm, the king of scouts resolved, and so
he welcomed the approaching battle of wits.
For some time no move was made by either white or red man. One thing was
in Buffalo Bill’s favor: The Apache could not leave his hiding place to
reach either the cut or the rocks on the other side of the scout without
being observed.
On the other hand, Buffalo Bill could go forward toward the destination
he had set out to make without exposing himself. He resolved to do this
in the hope that he would be able to bring the Apache out of cover and
to a point from which an attack could safely be made.
Without noise, he backed to the rock originally used by the Apache, and
from that to another, and so on until he had placed himself a quarter of
mile beyond the Apache’s station.
Here in a hollow, between two bowlders whence he could command a view of
the country in all directions, he waited for what was to come.
For ten minutes he waited in vain. Then he saw the Indian crawl out of
the cut and throw himself on the ground and listen for sounds.
Hearing nothing and evidently puzzled, he crept to the rock that had
been his hiding place after Buffalo Bill had thrown the stone, and a low
exclamation escaped him as his eyes fell upon the scout’s prints in the
sand.
Now he proceeded with the utmost circumspection to follow the trail the
white enemy had left.
Buffalo Bill knew the Indian was coming, and smiled, for before taking
his position between the bowlders he had been shrewd enough to cover his
trail. He had left the prints of hands and feet in the sand up to a
point of a few yards to the right of the two bowlders. The prints
terminated at the side of a single bowlder that stood in front of a
stunted tree.
The tree was provided with a few live limbs, one of which hung over the
hollow between the two bowlders. Buffalo Bill had used this limb to
reach the hollow, and he was well satisfied with the ruse when he saw
the Apache halt near the bowlders by the tree and look curiously at the
plain trail in the sand.
A moment he stood in full view, and then walked straight for the hollow
that concealed the enemy.
The king of scouts had not been expecting a move of this kind, but he
made no attempt to retreat. He believed that the Indian was unaware of
his presence in the hollow, and, therefore, resolved to give the foe the
surprise of his life.
The Apache, a tall, fine specimen of his tribe, was within a few feet of
the hollow when Buffalo Bill jumped up, gave a spring, and had the
redskin by the throat before that surprised aborigine had time to
realize what had happened. And now ensued a struggle that called into
play all of Buffalo Bill’s resources of mind and muscle.
The Apache was powerful, supple, and as slippery as an eel. He had his
adversary about the waist, and, in spite of the terrible pressure about
his windpipe, his grasp tightened until the king of scouts thought that
his ribs would collapse.
But the end came in a manner that neither combatant had anticipated. In
moving about, the Apache’s foot struck a stone, and in tumbling his hold
on Buffalo Bill was relaxed. In an instant he was lying on the ground,
and the scout was sitting on his chest.
The fall had partly stunned the Indian, and he was soon placed so that
further resistance was impossible.
When ready for a renewal of hostilities, he discovered to his rage and
disgust that his hands were tied.
“If you raise your voice to call your fellows,” whispered the king of
scouts, in the Apache tongue, “I’ll kill you. Understand?”
“Heap understand,” was the hoarse reply.
“Where are your comrades?” asked the victor, with a menacing expression.
“No know.”
“Where were they when you set out to scout the summit?”
“In the cañon of the Hualapis.”
“That’s down below where I had my camp, isn’t it?”
The Apache nodded.
“Are your fellow braves and Black-face Ned’s outlaws going to attack the
Yelping Crew?”
“Maybe.”
“I see. You wish first to learn how large a force the Wolf Faces are
able to muster.”
“Thunder Cloud desires no fight with the Yelping Crew. If the chief of
the Yelpers will release the white men he has captured, Thunder Cloud
will withdraw from these hills.”
“Meaning Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Were you on your way to the cliff dwellings when you ran afoul of me?”
“No, I was afraid a white man who escaped from the castle this morning.”
Buffalo Bill received this statement with great satisfaction. Of course,
the escape was Colonel Hayden.
“Escaped from the castle,” he said. “Is that the name of the Apache
stronghold in these parts?”
The Apache shook his head. “No, the white friend of Thunder Cloud holds
the place. He calls it the castle.”
In this conversation no attempt is made to use the precise language of
the Indian. The Apache language was used, and a fair translation into
English is given.
“What is this castle? And where is it? You might as well come out with
the whole truth, for you are at my mercy, and my motto is ‘death to
liars, especially if they be Apaches.’”
The Indian was unmoved by this speech. His face was stolid as he
replied: “Greathead will not lie, because the mighty white scout will
find no one at the castle. Black-face Ned has deserted it. He has gone
to another retreat.”
“Gone without attending to the Yelping Crew? Without trying to rescue
Flag-pole Jack and Shorty Sands?” Buffalo Bill gazed incredulously at
the Indian.
“He has gone with the white maiden, but he has left behind Thunder Cloud
and the white man who is called Wason to manage the affair with the
Comanches.”
“How about my affair? Does he not know that I am in these hills?”
“No. Who was to tell him?”
“That’s right,” said the king of scouts to himself. “Jack and Sands
couldn’t, for they were captured just after they clapped eyes on me.
Hold on, though. There is Thunder Cloud. He knows I am here.” Again
addressing Greathead, he said: “Your talk won’t wash. Thunder Cloud must
have told Ned that I am here.”
“The chief did not see his white friend when he returned to the castle.
Black-face Ned had gone. He left with the white maiden shortly after
Thunder Cloud set out to scout the camp of the white maiden’s father.”
“Ah, that explains it. So the colonel escaped. When did he get away?
Before Black-face Ned took his departure for another stamping ground?”
“The white maiden’s father has not escaped,” replied the Indian calmly.
“Greathead did not say that he had done so.”
Buffalo Bill exhibited the greatest astonishment. “Not the colonel?” he
said. “Then who was the white prisoner who escaped?”
“A blame’ long-nosed idjut whose handle used ter be Allen,” said a
grunting voice behind the king of scouts.
Buffalo Bill turned and saw a tall, ungainly figure, with a long face, a
hawklike nose, and two keen, snappy eyes, and his voice rang out in a
glad cry: “Alkali Pete! Of all men in the world.”
The old plainsman, who had been in many campaigns with the king of
scouts, was so delighted at the meeting that he opened his mouth in a
grin that exposed a cavern of enormous size. This cavern was surrounded
by yellow tusks, with such an irregular alignment as would have brought
a sigh from any dentist in the land.
“Mortally s’prised ter see ther old man, aire ye?” he said, with a
chuckle. “Ther s’prise is muchal. I no more expected ter run inter ye,
Buffler, than I expected ter be persented ter ther Queen uv
Maddygoosker.”
“But what are you doing in Arizona? I thought you had settled down in
Kansas or Illinois, and was occupied in raising a family of Alkalis.”
“I hev settled down, Buffler,” replied the ungainly scout, with a sigh,
“but this year I hankered arter ther old life. I shore told my wife that
I must hev a mounting outing, or else I’d go plumb crazy. She reasoned
with me, but it wa’n’t no sorter use. I war bound ter go, an’ hyer I be,
stanch, loyal, an’ true, like a pig’s foot in mush.”
“Same old Alkali,” laughed Buffalo Bill.
“Erbout ther same, but not quite. My feet shore got tender a bit while I
was cahootin’ with them innercent rickaroons that raise corn an’
mortgages along ther Missourah.”
“I understand. You wouldn’t have fallen into the hands of the Apaches if
you had come out here with your wits rodeoed.”
“That’s a plumb true remark, Buffler,” rejoined Alkali Pete sadly. “I
was too fresh when I hit these yer hills. I hed reckoned that ther
’Paches would let an honest white man alone. I hedn’t hearn that they
hed been puttin’ on the war paint ag’in.”
“How were you captured?”
“How?”—in deep disgust. “Why, when I war snoozin’ on ther bank of ther
crik on t’other side of those hills. Hed been huntin’, and hed killed a
b’ar an’ two deer. War powerful tired, an’ while I war sleepin’ ther
sleep that innercence only is shore acquainted with, ther ’Paches crope
up and corralled me ez easy as if I war a lost babby. Shucks! it shore
makes me dumgasted weary when I recollects how I war taken in.”
“Were there any white men among the Indians?” inquired Buffalo Bill.
“Nary a one. They war all ’Paches, an’ that old thief, Thunder Cloud,
war ther leader. Ther capture happened a month ago, an’ I war with ther
reds, moseyin’ hither an’ yon up ter a couple o’ days ago, when we
hot-footed it fer ther castle.”
“The castle? I have heard of the place, but I don’t know where it is,
and I have no idea what it looks like.”
“It’s a stone fort at the head of a valley, Buffler. Thar aire trees all
round it, an’ I reckon it war built in ther year one by ther Azticks or
ther Woodsticks, or some other tribe of flat-headed mavericks.”
Buffalo Bill slapped his thigh. “I know the place now,” he said. “I was
there years ago. No one lived there then. The plainsmen called it the
Palace of Adam.”
“Hed an idee that Adam lived thar onct, did they?”
“Perhaps. I never asked them. Come, let us talk fast. There is work to
be done. How long did you stay in the castle?”
“Didn’t stay thar a minute. The Injuns camped outside, an’ this mornin’
I shore bade ’em farewell. I played possum onto ther thievin’ outfit,
an’ believin’ I war sick ernuff ter peter, they made my cords easy ter
bear. They made ’em so easy, Buffler, that I beat ’em an’ got away.”
“Did you know when you left the Indians that Black-face Ned and his band
were in the castle, and that there were two white prisoners
there—Colonel Hayden and his daughter Sybil?”
Alkali Allen blinked his eyes. “Never knowed anything erbout outlaws or
prisoners. Ye shore hev got a story ter tell. Out with it.”
Buffalo Bill complied. He spoke hurriedly, and his tale caused the lanky
plainsman to exhibit the most intense astonishment.
“Well, I’ll be eternally obfusticated an’ fried inter goose grease ef
this don’t beat ther Dutch, an’ ther Dutch beat ther devil,” he
ejaculated. “Wild Bill hyer a cahoodlin’ with ther Comanches, an’ you,
Buffler, outer as purty a case as you ever tackled. I’ll take a hand
myself. I’m mortal glad I kem ter Arizony. Aire ye ready ter mosey? Ef
ye aire, take ther lead, an’ I’ll come a-trottin’ arter ye.”
Buffalo Bill considered the situation thoughtfully. After a few moments,
he said: “I must go on alone. I will give you a job that ought to be to
your liking. I lost one Indian this morning. I don’t wish to lose a
second one. I want you to take Greathead here to the cliffs and deliver
him over to Wild Bill. Having done that, go out and keep an eye on the
trail leading to the cliff. Maybe the Indians are already marching
against the Yelpers. I’ll scout about the castle, find out who is there,
ascertain if Greathead told the truth when he asserted that Black-face
Ned had left, and then I’ll hurry back to take part in the fight between
the Apaches and the Comanches.”
Alkali Pete nodded, and when he had gone from sight, with the Indian in
tow, the king of scouts continued his journey toward the haunt of the
enemy.
The route he took would bring him to the farther end of the valley that
held the stone fortification.
He was not obliged to use the cañon in which he had camped, and he hoped
by moving in a direction opposite to that the Apaches would have to take
to reach the cliff dwellings that he might meet with no obstructions.
Among the rocks on a ridge that overlooked the little valley he halted,
and for some minutes listened for sounds and looked for signs of life in
or about the stone structure.