ENVIRONED BY PERILS.
Buffalo Bill could see a portion of the building from his coign of
vantage, but this portion was the rear. The door, that opened into a
walled inclosure of several acres, was open, and this circumstance led
the scout to believe that the castle was vacant.
After the lapse of fifteen minutes, Buffalo Bill began a cautious
descent of the ridge. He reached safely the wall surrounding the castle,
and there paused and again listened for sounds.
Hearing nothing, he stole round to the front. The wall gate here was not
locked, and he walked into the inclosure, and did not stop until he came
to the heavy door, which, like the door at the rear, was open.
Now it was that the fearless king of scouts did some responsible
thinking. It was certainly strange that the front gate should be
unlocked, and that both doors of the castle should be open. Had they
been left open by design?
He looked up at the window. There were two at the front, and each was
small and heavily barred. The bars were close together, so that it would
be impossible for an enemy to shoot any person on the ground.
After some moments Buffalo Bill retreated to a position outside the
gate. He was not yet ready to enter the castle.
In the valley, which was not half a mile in length, the utmost silence
reigned. The scout went to the edge of the grove of trees that screened
the castle, and gazed down the valley. There was not a human being in
sight. On the face of things, the Indians and the outlaws had departed.
It was reasonable to suppose that Thunder Cloud and his band had gone to
give battle to the Yelping Crew, and yet the scout was in doubt on the
point.
He returned to the castle, and once more stood just without the open
doorway. While he was debating with himself as to his course of action,
the sound of a moan fell upon his ears. The sound came from within the
castle.
The scout pricked up his ears, but he did not move. The moan was
repeated, and Buffalo Bill thought he heard the voice of a woman
speaking soothingly to some one in need of comfort. Instantly the
conviction came to him that he was listening to the voice of Sybil
Hayden, and that the moans had been uttered by her father.
But with the conviction there came no sense of security. It was not
probable that Black-face Ned had gone off leaving his prisoners without
a guard.
He was hesitating over his situation, when a voice that was unmistakably
that of a man said roughly: “Shut up, or I’ll smash your head.”
The king of scouts cast discretion to the winds when following the
threat came the scream of a woman.
He sprang to the doorway, and crossed the threshold to fall into the
trap that had been laid for him.
From behind the door two men leaped out, and heavy clubs descended upon
the scout’s head. The blows dazed, but did not send him to the stone
floor. There was not time to draw a pistol, but he made good use of his
hands.
He closed with the ruffians who had so brutally assaulted him, and so
quick were his movements that one was on the floor with an aching head
before he could realize that he had caught a Tartar.
The other outlaw dropped his club when the thoroughly aroused and
desperate king of scouts made the fight one at close quarters.
He was a powerful fellow, and received the fist jabs that Buffalo Bill
contributed without losing his ground. In return, he sent in one
stem-winder that lifted Buffalo Bill off his feet.
The fight was going on fiercely, when a voice at the lower end of the
long, broad hall shouted encouragingly: “Go in and win, Pigeon. I’m
bettin’ on you. Give him one under the ear. You’ve got him going. One
more good punch will lay him out.”
Here Black-face Ned—for the speaker was the abductor of pretty Sybil
Hayden—spoke with undue confidence. Buffalo Bill, recovering from the
blow that approximated a knock-out, now fought with more wariness. He
perceived that his antagonist was an experienced pugilist, and he
resolved to give evidence that he himself was no novice in the manly
art.
An opportunity to make his mark came when the outlaw, believing from
Buffalo Bill’s wabbling that the scout was about ready to fall, made a
furious rush, with the intention of mixing things. In an instant the
king of scouts changed his tactics. He side-stepped, ducked, and then
struck. The blow caught the outlaw on the point of the chin, and he went
down, and stayed there. Coincident with the knock-out blow, Buffalo Bill
whirled to confront Black-face Ned. Too late to save himself. A revolver
cracked, and the brave scout put his hand to his heart, and then
staggered and fell at the feet of the unconscious pugilist.
His hands and ankles were being secured when he opened his eyes.
“Alive, are you?” said Black-face Ned, in surprise. “I thought my shot a
finisher, but I wanted to make sure of you, so I gave you the cords.”
“If I am not mistaken,” replied Buffalo Bill quietly, “your bullet
struck a steel plate that covers my heart. The shock dazed me.
Otherwise, I don’t believe I am hurt at all.”
“That’s all right,” returned the outlaw leader composedly. “There’ll be
a chance to have some fun with you before giving you a real, Simon-pure
send off.”
The king of scouts made no reply to this statement. After a moment he
asked: “Were you looking for me to appear?”
“Sure. When Thunder Cloud told me you were here, I believed you wouldn’t
rest until you had found the castle.”
Buffalo Bill thought of the story told by Greathead, the Apache.
“I was informed a while ago by one of your allies that you had left the
castle,” he said. “He must have lied to me.”
“No, he didn’t lie. I did quit, but I did not go far. The leaving was a
ruse to fool you.”
“Fool me? Did you count on my overcoming Greathead?”
“No, for Greathead was sent out to round up that long-legged fool they
call Alkali Pete. But all the Apaches were told about my going, and I
was betting that you’d get the information from one or more of them.”
“I didn’t meet any of them,” said Buffalo Bill sadly. “They went toward
the cliff dwellings, I suppose.”
“You’ve hit it, and I am looking for an early return and a couple of
dozen scalps.”
“What, you don’t expect them to scale the cliff, do you?”
“They won’t have to,” returned Black-face Ned quietly. “The Comanches
will come out on the level ground and permit themselves to be shot
down.”
The king of scouts did not know what to make of this speech. The outlaw
appeared to be in earnest, and yet the statement seemed preposterous.
“They would be fools to come out of their stronghold,” he remarked.
“Think so? What if I tell you that the Comanche they have selected as
the chief will call them out?”
“Explain—I fail to understand.”
The leader of the outlaws laughed. “Didn’t know we had captured their
chief, eh? Well, we did corral the fellow. He has been in Mexico, and
Thunder Cloud nailed him last night. Here is the proposition: The
Apaches and the Comanches have been pulling hair for a long time.
Thunder Cloud catches this Black Wing and gives him to understand that
the Apaches are tired of war, and want to patch up a peace with the
Comanches. See? ‘Now, says Thunder Cloud,’ using the words I put into
his mouth, ‘if you will use your influence, all this killing and
scalping will come to an end, and we’ll fix on a fair division of the
country so that each tribe will have ample territory of its own.’
“Black Wing agreed to use his influence, and he went off a while ago
with Thunder Cloud and the Apache braves. Of course, Black Wing’s
counsel will prevail, and, of course, when the Comanches come out into
the open to cement the treaty they will get it where the chicken got the
ax.”
Buffalo Bill heard the explanation, and was not uneasy in mind. He knew
something that Black-face Ned did not know, and that was the presence
among the Comanches of Wild Bill.
When the outlaw who had been floored by the king of scouts had recovered
his senses, he assisted Black-face Ned in carrying the prisoner to a
room in the rear. It was provided with a few modern conveniences, among
them a table and a chair. There was no bed, but a roll of Navaho
blankets in a corner contained a suggestion that promised a sufficiency
of restful comfort.
The leader of the outlaws, a pleased expression on his dark and not
unhandsome face, directed his man to spread the blankets, and when they
were in position the king of scouts was deposited upon them.
The one window in the room, without glass—a square hole in a thick,
stone wall—was barred like the windows at the front of the structure.
Buffalo Bill was gazing at the window, when Black-face Ned said, with an
evil smile: “No chance of escape, William. You are as secure as if you
were in a dungeon.”
The speaker was walking toward the door, when the prisoner asked
quickly: “Where are your other prisoners, Colonel Hayden and his
daughter?”
“In another room. Would you like to see them?”—showing his teeth
maliciously.
“Yes, of course.”
“I am extremely sorry that I cannot take you to them. But I will be
pleased to convey a message. Shall I say that you are here, and that you
are so busily engaged in making your will that you cannot come to them?”
Buffalo Bill glared at the villain, but vouchsafed no answer.
The two outlaws went out, the door was barred, and the king of scouts
was left to his reflections, which were far from pleasant ones.
He did not doubt that his death had been decreed. The reputation of
Black-face Ned was such that the scout had no hope that leniency would
enter into any of the villain’s calculations.
Shortly after noon, the outlaw, who had had the disastrous encounter
with the prisoner, and who had been addressed as Pigeon, entered the
room with a tray of eatables.
Buffalo Bill was hungry, and he ate until nothing was left on the tray
but empty dishes.
While he was eating, the king of scouts glanced at the feet of the
outlaw. The toes were turned in, and the man’s nickname was at once
explained. “What do they—your pards call you?” the scout asked.
The outlaw scowled. “They shore aim ter be funny,” he answered. “My name
is Isaac Alexander, but ther blame’ fools call me Pigeon-toed Ike.”
“Been here long?”
“No; I blew in yesterday.”
“What’s Ned going to do with me? Did he tell you?”
“He ’lowed he was goin’ ter send you pikin’ up ther flume.”
“When is the interesting event scheduled to take place?”
“Don’ ye get gay, Cody. Yer up agin’ ther real thing this clatter.”
“It looks like it,” soberly admitted the prisoner. A pause, and then he
asked: “Has Thunder Cloud’s outfit returned?”
“No, an’ Ned’s gittin’ oneasy. Maybe we’ll light out fer ther cliff if
Thunder Cloud fails ter show up inside of an hour.”
Buffalo Bill received this statement with satisfaction. But he concealed
his feeling beneath a mask of indifference.
Pigeon-toed Ike went out, and half an hour later Black-face Ned came in.
The outlaw leader was in an angry mood. Fixing his sharp eyes on his
prisoner, he said sternly: “There’s a hitch up at the cliff, and I’ll
bet you know what’s up. Tell me the truth, or I’ll kill you here and
now.”
The villain drew a bowie knife from his belt, and, walking over to the
side of Buffalo Bill, shook the weapon in the prisoner’s face.
In an instant he met with an astounding surprise.
Up went Buffalo Bill’s hands, and the knife was wrenched from the
villain’s grasp. Before a move in self-defense could be made, the knife
was buried in the outlaw’s side.
As he fell to the floor, the king of scouts arose to his feet.
Black-face Ned was gasping for breath, and his eyes reflected an
expression of mingled pain and fear.
After quickly removing his victim’s other weapons, Buffalo Bill stanched
the flow of blood and bound up the wound. This done, he secured the
villain’s wrists and ankles. “I’ll not stuff a gag in your mouth, if
you’ll promise not to cry out for help,” said the victor coldly.
The reply came in a faint voice: “I couldn’t yell if I wanted to. I—I am
dying.”
“Nonsense,” was the harsh response. “I knew what I was about when I did
the sticking. You are not hurt to speak of. I didn’t even scrape a rib,
and your heart is as whole and”—with a stern look—“as black as ever it
was. The blood-letting will do you good. It will take some of the
aguardiente poison out of your system.”
Black-face Ned breathed a sigh of relief. “I wish,” he said, “I had a
good snifter of the real thing.”
The king of scouts always carried a flask of whisky for emergencies. He
produced it, and allowed the villain to swallow a generous dose.
“Thank you,” said Black-face Ned gratefully. “You are not a bad sort,
really.”
“That so?” returned Buffalo Bill, with uplifted eyebrows. “Maybe you and
I will be great friends before we get through with our little affair.”
The wounded villain smiled sourly.
Soon he asked: “How in the dickens did you get loose? I would have sworn
that I had you tied for keeps.”
“Tied with rotten leathers, that’s what I was. Pity you did not inspect
the cords before you started to use them.”
The villain swore softly. Then his eyes sought the floor. Presently he
said: “Bend over me. I want to whisper something in your ear.”
But the king of scouts, who at the moment had heard a noise outside the
door, declined to comply with the request.
“I am onto you, Ned,” he whispered. “You want to get me where
Pigeon-toed Ike can surprise me. Not to-day. The program will be a
surprise for Ike.”
The speaker was about to walk to the door to be ready for the outlaw
when he should enter, but was stopped by an important suggestion.
He turned, and stooped over the form of his victim, bandanna in hand,
for the purpose of gagging him.
But he was prevented from accomplishing his purpose by the quick action
of Black-face Ned.
A hoarse cry, loud enough to be heard outside, issued from his lips as
Buffalo Bill was in the act of placing the gag.
The door instantly opened, and if the king of scouts had not thrown
himself to one side, a bullet would have cut short his career.
A second shot from Pigeon-toed Ike’s pistol went wild, and before he
could fire again, a bullet from the revolver, taken from the person of
the wounded outlaw, penetrated the brain of the assailant, and he fell
dead just beyond the threshold of the door.
After assuring himself that Black-face Ned was secure against escape,
the king of scouts hurried from the room.
There might be another outlaw—Bat Wason—to deal with, for it was
probable that Wason had been placed as guard over Sybil Hayden and her
father.
In the hope that the pistol shots had not been heard in that part of the
building where the two prisoners were confined, Buffalo Bill hastened to
the hall, and then looked questioningly at one of the two doors that met
his eyes.
Before the nearer one he listened for sounds. All was silence within.
Stealing softly to the other, he again played the listener. No sound
came from the room. He tried the door, and it readily opened. The place
was empty, but he saw something that brought a cloud to his brow. In the
middle of the room was an opening. There was a trap, and the door, a
square, thin block of stone, had been removed, and was lying by the side
of the hole.
Buffalo Bill did not stop for investigation, but with an apprehensive
expression hurried back to the room where he left the dead outlaw and
Black-face Ned.
He was not surprised, though he was intensely chagrined to find that his
prisoner was not there.
No open trap in the room was visible, but the king of scouts believed
that Black-face Ned had escaped by means of a trap that let him into the
cellar.
He made a quick search, and soon was rewarded with the discovery, under
the blankets, of a door similar to the one in the other room.
He was standing before the door, debating whether or not to raise the
trap and descend, when loud yells from without brought him to a
realization of a new danger.
Hastening to the front door, he saw nothing but the grove of trees that
shielded the castle. But the yells continued, and he knew that the
Indians were close to the grove. No hope of escape, then, from the
front.
He ran around to the rear of the castle, and was alarmed to discover
that the wall door had been closed and locked. He could not climb the
wall, for it was too high, and there were no footholds.
In desperation he turned to the door of the castle. It was still open,
and he entered, and then quickly shut and barred it. This done, he
rushed to the front, and shut and barred the door at that point.
He was now entrenched in the castle unless—unless there were enemies in
the cellar.
But they should not come out of either of the traps if he could help it.
Into the room where the first trap had been discovered he went, and,
quickly replacing the stone door so that it masked the hole, he piled
upon it all the furniture that the room contained. One piece was a
cooking stove, whose newness showed that it had been brought recently to
the castle.
Having worked without interruption, he was beginning to congratulate
himself upon his success, when a disturbing thought brought a sigh from
his lips.
He was stopping one hole, he might stop another, and still a third
outlet from the cellar might be left open. That outlet must open into
the inclosure.
There was not time to go out and search for it, so with a grave face he
hurried to the room that had been his prison, and contented himself with
barring the door.
A few minutes later, through one of the windows in front, he saw Thunder
Cloud and his Apaches emerge from the grove of trees, and saw a
diminutive, thin-faced white man, whom he took to be Bat Wason, come
from around the building and greet the Apache chief.
The conversation, carried on in the Indian tongue, was overheard by the
listener. The translation follows:
“Why is the chief back?” asked Wason.
“Because Black Wing is a deceiver.”
“How’s that?”
“He promised to get the Comanches out of the holes so that a treaty of
peace could be made, and instead he has put on the war paint and defies
the Apaches.”
“Did you try to rout the Yelpers from their holes?”
Thunder Cloud hung his head. “We fired at the cliff,” he said
shamefacedly, “and the Comanches fired back and killed four of my
braves. Then we retreated to seek the wise counsel of Thunder Cloud’s
friend and ally, Black-face Ned.”
“You’ll find him in the cellar. He is flat on his back.”
The Apache chief gazed at the speaker in startled inquiry. “Has he met
with an accident?” he asked.
“Yes. An enemy, the most dangerous man in the West, nearly killed him.”
“The great white warrior, Pa-e-has-ka?”
Bat Wason nodded. Thunder Cloud shivered. “Where is he now, this dreaded
foe of the Apaches?”
“In the castle. If you like, you may go in and lay him out.”
The Indian looked puzzled. The little outlaw grinned, and then explained
the situation.
“I was in the cellar and got Ned out of a hole. Buffalo Bill had gone
from the room where I found Ned, but I didn’t care about hunting him up.
He is inside, though, and has the run of the castle above stairs, and
thinks the game is in his own hands. Fool! The provisions are
downstairs, and if we can’t kill him any other way, we will starve him
to death.”
Buffalo Bill heard, and smiled. There was enough in his wallet to last
him three days, and much might be done in that time.
The Apaches and Wason disappeared around the side of the building, and
the scout left the front and hastened to the kitchen.
Here were utensils for cooking, but there was nothing eatable in the
room. But there was a bucket of water, the diminutive outlaw in his
haste having forgotten to take it away. There was a spring in the
inclosure, and Buffalo Bill, finding neither sink nor pump, concluded
that the water came from the spring, and that the spring was the sole
source of supply for the building.
He could see the spring from the kitchen window, and was gratified to
find that it was far enough away to permit a line shot from the window.
Here he resolved to take his stand. He would keep an eye on that spring
until there should be serious menace from another part of the castle.
Half an hour passed and no one had come into the inclosure. Apaches were
camped in the grove in front of the castle, and presumably the two
outlaws and their prisoners were in the cellar.
Buffalo Bill was looking beyond the spring, when he saw the head of
Alkali Pete show itself at the top of the wall. A moment later appeared
the shoulders, and soon the lanky plainsman was astride of the wall.
The king of scouts found himself in an unpleasant dilemma. If he shouted
a warning, the Apaches might pursue and kill Alkali Pete, and also spoil
any plan of rescue the homely scout had prepared.
It was evident that Alkali Pete believed that the king of scouts had met
with disaster, and it was also evident that he knew the Apaches were at
the castle, and that the outlaws were somewhere inside.
Pete must therefore know what he was doing. But it was with grave
apprehension that Buffalo Bill saw his old comrade descend from the wall
and steal quickly to the side of the building. Would he look toward the
window? Yes, his eyes were uplifted, and his ears caught these words,
delivered in a thrilling whisper: “Be careful, Pete, the Indians are in
front and the white fiends are in the cellar.”
The lanky plainsman hesitated a moment, and then, indicating the rear
with a jerk of his finger, stole around the building.
Buffalo Bill experienced relief when his comrade passed from view. All
might be well if the outlet from the cellar should not prove to be near
the back door of the castle.
He was at this door, expecting to open it and admit Alkali Pete, when a
pistol shot rang out, and he knew that his one fear had been realized.
The homely scout had passed the cellar outlet, had been seen by Bat
Wason, and—the king of scouts ceased to speculate, for another shot was
heard, followed by a scream of agony.
Regardless of danger to himself, Buffalo Bill rushed out of doors as
Thunder Cloud and his Apaches appeared at the side of the castle.
Alkali Pete was not in sight, but there was the opening into the cellar,
and through it the king of scouts rushed just in time to escape a
fusillade of bullets from the guns of the Indians.
Once inside, he closed and secured the door. A shot made him drop to his
knees. It was dark in the cellar, and he feared that he might have
jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
Working himself sinuously around the underground apartment, he listened
intently, so as to get the location of his enemy.
To his surprise, all was still about him. He waited a few moments, and
then deliberately lighted a match. The flame showed him an empty cellar.
The trapdoor in the ceiling was closed, and he was positive that no one
had escaped to the room above while he had been in the cellar.
Where, then, was the person who had fired the shot that had whizzed by
his head?
He lighted another match, and, walking forward, began a close
investigation of the ground. A low exclamation burst from his lips when,
in a corner, he beheld an open hole. A third match showed it was the
entrance of an underground tunnel, which probably terminated outside of
the castle inclosure.
By the tunnel the enemy had gone, and by the tunnel had gone, also,
Alkali Pete and the prisoners.
Without stopping to reflect, Buffalo Bill went into the hole. He did not
strike any matches, but crept forward slowly and cautiously.
The way was not obstructed, and, after five minutes’ progress, he
reached the mouth, which was screened by bushes.
Voices not far away made him pause.
“He’ll shore strike ther tunnel, an’ we’ll get him when he projecks his
snoot outer ther mouth,” said Bat Wason.
“Then go at once and take a position so you can plug him when he
appears,” was the reply of Black-face Ned.
Now it was that Buffalo Bill acted with celerity. He was out of the
tunnel, and hidden behind a bowlder a few feet away from the brush when
Bat Wason showed his face.
The diminutive outlaw squatted on the ground within a rod of the brush,
his body concealed by a rock, and waited, revolver in lap, for the king
of scouts to appear.