A VENGEFUL INDIAN.
A line of brush extended from the mouth of the tunnel to the base of the
mountain. The distance was about fifty feet, and in the brush somewhere
Black-face Ned and his prisoners were concealed.
Were there three prisoners or two? Buffalo Bill believed that both
Colonel Hayden and his daughter were with the leader of the outlaws, and
he feared that Alkali Pete was also a prisoner. The lanky plainsman had
not been killed, that was certain, for if he had been shot to death, his
body would have been found either in the tunnel or the cellar of the
castle.
The king of scouts was about to give Bat Wason an unwelcome surprise,
when he saw the little outlaw drop to his knees and begin to crawl
toward the brush by the tunnel’s mouth. Before the movement was made, a
noise resembling the chirping of a cricket had issued from the brush.
Occupied with thoughts of the probable situation of his friends the
captives, the king of scouts had not at the moment placed sinister
construction upon the chirping. But when Wason started for the tunnel
the scout scented danger.
It was time to act. With a heavy stone in his hand, he sprang from
behind the bowlder and threw the stone at Wason’s head. The aim was
true, and the outlaw, flattened on the ground, gave a few convulsive
twitches, and then lay still.
At the mouth of the tunnel, trying to peer through the brush, crouched
Thunder Cloud, the chief of the Apaches.
The fall of the outlaw had been attended with little noise, and Wason
had died without a groan.
But the chirp of the cricket had not been answered, and Thunder Cloud
was in doubt as to the situation outside the tunnel.
While the Indian waited for developments, Buffalo Bill, who had
possessed himself of the victim’s weapons, was once more behind the
bowlder, his countenance expressive of perplexity and indecision. He
dared not chirp in answer, for it was probable that a chirp was not the
proper response to the signal. The foe was too wily to adopt a mode of
communication that under any circumstances could be turned to advantage
by an enemy.
Soon was heard a second chirp. Quickly following the noise came the
warning, sibilant rattle of a snake.
The king of scouts turned his head quickly, and saw that the snake was
within a few feet of the bowlder. Instead of using a revolver, he
retreated and came into the open beside the line of brush.
At that moment Thunder Cloud showed his head beyond the brush that
masked the mouth of the tunnel. His eyes fell on Buffalo Bill, and the
head would have been withdrawn if something terrible had not occurred.
The rattlesnake, crawling swiftly from the bowlder to the brush, struck
without warning, and the deadly fangs were embedded in the Indian’s
cheek.
With a shriek of wild affright he leaped to his feet, the white foe no
longer in his mind, and, flinging the reptile from him, began to chant
the death song of his tribe.
The king of scouts looked coldly on for a moment, and then his humanity
getting the better of his aversion, he stepped forward, removed without
resistance the weapons of the sufferer, and then said sternly: “Flatten
out on the ground, and I’ll try to save you.”
Thunder Cloud waved the scout off. “No, the hour has come. Thunder Cloud
must go to join his fathers in the land of the Great Spirit.”
“Perhaps, but I’ll see about that.”
With these words he tripped the chief, and then sat upon him. With a
knife he cut a slit in the cheek where the snake had operated, and,
applying his mouth to the wound, sucked out the greater part of the
poison.
Then from his pocket he produced a small oilskin package, which, on
being opened, disclosed a wad of dried leaves having an aromatic flavor.
The leaves were moistened with whisky and then applied to the poisoned
cheek.
Thunder Cloud, now passive, followed the operation with staring eyes.
After the leaves had been bound in place, Buffalo Bill offered his
whisky flask to the Indian. “Drink,” he commanded; “drink the whole of
it. The combined treatment I have been giving you will bring you out all
right. I know what I am talking about, for I have cured myself more than
once. In these snake-infested hills I always carry with me the antidote
for the poison.”
Thunder Cloud, in faith and gratitude, drank until not a drop of the
liquor was left in the flask.
As he lay on the ground in a half-unconscious condition, the king of
scouts stole away to find Black-face Ned and the white prisoners.
He moved with caution, for, though he knew that the leader of the
outlaws was not in a condition to oppose physical force against his
enemy, yet the villain could use a pistol, and a shot could be made
effective from ambush.
But the line of brush was without an enemy or a friend. Black-face Ned,
wounded and weak as he was, had disappeared, and with him had gone
Colonel Hayden, Sybil, and probably Alkali Pete.
The king of scouts looked up the mountainside, but saw no sign of a
human being. Yet it was to be believed that the persons he was seeking
were concealed behind one of the many huge rocks that strewed the steep
incline.
He whistled, and, receiving no answer, shouted in a voice that could be
heard far up the mountain.
Still no answer. “Pshaw!” he said to himself, in disgust, “of course the
prisoners are gagged. They could not answer if they wanted to.”
After a short debate with himself he returned to the Indian.
Thunder Cloud was sitting up, and, though his face was flushed, Buffalo
Bill knew by the state of his eyes that the danger point had been
passed.
“You are out of the woods,” he said kindly, as he came and stood by
Thunder Cloud’s side. “In a little while you will be able to walk. But
you won’t be in shape for work for several days.”
The Indian’s head was lowered. He was looking fixedly at the ground. The
king of scouts waited for the redskin to speak. Several moments passed
before Thunder Cloud raised his head and looked his rescuer full in the
face. “Thunder Cloud owes his life to the great white warrior. Thunder
Cloud must pay the debt.”
Buffalo Bill said nothing in reply. But there was smiling appreciation
in his expression.
“Thunder Cloud is no more the enemy of the great white warrior,
Pa-e-has-ka,” the Apache chief slowly continued.
“Glad to hear it,” replied the king of scouts earnestly. “This deadly
enmity business isn’t what it is cracked up to be.”
“Thunder Cloud asks humbly what must he do to show his gratitude?”
“Well,” said Buffalo Bill, “there are a number of things you can do.
First, trot out some information. What made you go into the tunnel?”
“Thunder Cloud went to find out what had become of his friend Black-face
Ned.”
“You knew, of course, that there had been a fight in the cellar. What
became of the white man who was attacked by Ned and Bat Wason?”
“He is a prisoner in the castle.”
This intelligence was unexpected. Buffalo Bill’s face clouded.
“Was he captured outside the castle?” he asked.
“Yes, he ran into the arms of Thunder Cloud’s braves at the front.”
“Didn’t he make a fight?”
“No, he was running for the door when my braves came out of the grove.
They fell upon him before he could turn his head. There were shots
fired.”
“After the capture you went to the cellar and found that Black-face Ned
and the prisoners had gone, eh?”
“The prisoners had not gone. They were in the room where lies the dead
body of the white man they called Pigeon-toed Ike.”
The king of scouts stared at the Indian in amazement. “They did not go
off with Black-face Ned and Bat Wason?” he said, incredulity struggling
with surprise. “How did that happen?”
Thunder Cloud shook his head. “Can guess why, but don’t know for sure,”
he replied.
“Well, give a guess.”
“Black-face Ned and his friend were scared. They wanted to get away, and
they thought they couldn’t go fast if they took the prisoners with them.
The prisoners might hang back, and they could not be carried.”
“I see,” returned Buffalo Bill, with a nod. “So they hoisted the colonel
and his daughter into the castle room where I was confined, and then lit
out through the tunnel. This action must have been taken just after the
appearance of Alkali Pete. Pete must have been shot at, and not knowing
how many enemies were in the cellar, he ran around to the front,
expecting, probably, that some one would come out of the front door.”
“He expected the great white warrior to open the door,” said Thunder
Cloud. “He told me so.”
“I don’t see how he figured out that I would come that way when I was at
the rear, for he had seen me. However, there will be an explanation when
we meet.”
This was said calmly, and the Apache chief could not withhold an
admiring grunt.
“Good, big, brave Buffalo Bill.”
The king of scouts appeared not to have heard the compliment. He was
staring hard at the ground. Suddenly he glanced suspiciously toward the
mouth of the tunnel. “I am forgetting how I stand,” said he quickly.
“Won’t your braves follow you here?”
“If Thunder Cloud does not return inside of an hour they will come.”
“The hour is nearly up. What’s to be done? You are on my side now, and I
am willing to receive advice.”
“My braves must not be hurt,” was the grave reply. “Thunder Cloud will
keep his word and assist the great white warrior, with the understanding
that no more blood is to be shed. Thunder Cloud will go back to the
castle, tell his braves that Black-face Ned has forsaken them, that he
wants peace with the Comanches, and that the prisoners must be taken
through the tunnel and delivered to Thunder Cloud’s friend.”
“That’s the ticket,” cried the king of scouts enthusiastically. “Chief,
you have a great head. I am proud to be your friend.”
The Indian’s swarthy face glowed with pleasure. He was rapidly
recovering from the effects of the poison and the antidote, and as
Buffalo Bill spoke he rose to his feet, and then leaned on the scout for
support.
“Think you will be able to get back through the tunnel?” anxiously
inquired the scout.
“Yes. The weakness will soon pass, and Thunder Cloud can crawl, if he
cannot walk.”
Five minutes later he was out of sight in the underground passage.
Buffalo Bill sat down on the ground, and impatiently awaited the coming
of Colonel Hayden, Sybil, and Alkali Pete.
“When they come,” he said to himself, “I’ll consider the case of
Black-face Ned. The scoundrel must be captured, and it ought to be an
easy stunt to catch him, for he can’t travel fast on account of his
wound.”
The chief had not been gone ten minutes before a series of savage yells
smote the air. They came from the direction of the castle, and the king
of scouts sprang to his feet, anger and alarm in his eyes.
A discharge of firearms followed the yells, and more yells came on the
heels of the shots.
A fight was in progress, and it was clear to the mind of Buffalo Bill
that the Apaches were being attacked by the Comanches led by Black Wing
and Wild Bill.
Doubtless the Comanches were acting under a prearranged plan. Alkali
Pete had been sent out as a scout, and the Comanches were to follow him
unless he should return and counsel a different action. He had not
returned, and the Yelping Crew were now at the castle, and yelping for
all they were worth.
The king of scouts was angry because the well-meant attack of the
Yelpers might defeat the program agreed upon between himself and Thunder
Cloud. It was not likely that the Apache chief would return with the
prisoners while the castle was being besieged by a savage enemy.
Buffalo Bill looked about him, and, observing a log lying on the ground
near the bowlder that had recently been his place of shelter, he lifted
it and placed it against the high stone wall of the castle inclosure.
He “shinnied” up the log, reached the top of the wall, and looked down
into the spacious yard of the castle.
Not an Indian could be seen.
The Apaches were doubtless in the castle, and the Comanches were at the
front, in the grove, or near there.
While the scout looked, a force of Comanches, with their fantastic
make-up, dashed around the side of the castle. They kept close to the
building, evidently aware of the safety of this proceeding. The Apaches
could fire only from the windows, and these were high up, and so netted
with bars that they were of no service unless the enemy should appear
far out in the inclosure. At the head of the Yelpers was Wild Bill. He
saw the king of scouts perched on the wall, and gave a shout of welcome.
The drop to the ground was about fifteen feet, and for a moment Buffalo
Bill had a mind to drop and join his old comrade. But a different
counsel prevailed as he saw the Yelpers approach the rear of the castle.
Climbing back to the ground outside the wall, he entered the tunnel and
hurried quickly through it. His intention was to reach, if possible, the
room in the castle where Alkali Pete had been placed, and then try to
find a way to open the back door and admit Wild Bill and his Yelping
Crew.
The chances were against him, he had to admit it, but he would make the
attempt, nevertheless.
He was halfway through the tunnel when he heard the sound of approaching
footsteps. Halting instantly, he drew his pistol and waited for what
might be a deadly encounter. There was a possibility that the on-comer
might be Thunder Cloud, but the chances were that the chief was in the
castle occupied with more serious concerns than the return of prisoners
and the keeping of a sentimental promise.
The darkness prevented the king of scouts from seeing any object in his
front, and the person who was coming from the cellar was within touching
distance before Buffalo Bill knew it.
The tunnel was narrow, and, therefore, each must discover the presence
of the other at the time of passing, if at no other period.
Buffalo Bill reached out a hand, and catching the unknown person by the
wrists, flung him sidewise to the ground.
“Who are you?” he whispered, as he tried to hold the struggling victim
down.
“Drat yer eyes, I’m Pete,” was the gasping reply.
The king of scouts laughed softly. Then he assisted the angry plainsman
to his feet. “Had to act as if you were an enemy,” he said
apologetically. “Hope I didn’t hurt you any.”
“My wrists will shore be sore fer a week,” was the sour response. Then
he began to chuckle. “I ain’t mad, Buffler. Don’t ye go fer ter think
so. I’m mighty glad ter see ye. I war huntin’ ye.”
“And I’m glad you have found me. Did you know that Wild Bill and his
aggregation of crack-brained aborigines are in the castle yard?”
“I’m bettin’ that I do, an’ that’s why I hiked out ter see ye an’ git
ther benefit of yer vallyble advice. I war in ther room whar ye hed ther
scrimmage with Pigeon Toes, an’, guessin’ that no one war in ther
cellar, I raised ther trap, an’ hyer I be.”
“Didn’t see the colonel and his daughter, did you?”
“No. They shore must be in some part of ther shebang.”
“Well, what advice do you hanker after?” asked Buffalo Bill smilingly.
“How ter help Wild Bill an’ ther Comanches. They kain’t do anything from
ther outside, an’ they kain’t git in ther castle. Ef they expect the
’Paches ter come out an’ have a set-to in ther yard, they aire shore off
their cabesas. We gotter scheme out a way ter beat ther doors of ther
castle.”
“I was on my way to beat those doors,” said Buffalo Bill coolly. “My
idea was to enter the room that held you, and then watch a chance to
open the back door.”
“You might watch a year, Buffler, an’ never git that aire chance. I’m
gamblin’ that both doors aire guarded.”
“What’s the matter with settling the guard?”
“Ter do that ye’d hev ter pay yer respecks to a mob of ’Paches. O’
course, they aire fillin’ up ther hall.”
“Nonsense, Pete. It is more likely that the most of them are in the room
where the windows are, looking out into the inclosure. Come, let’s go
back. There is more chance of winning out, now that you are with me.”
“I’ll go ye, Buffler,” said Alkali Pete promptly. “Ye may be right. I
hope ye aire; but right er wrong, I’m at yer back until yer stummick
caves in.”
“Thank you,” responded the king of scouts heartily. “And now for it.”
The two scouts reached the cellar without trouble. The trapdoor through
which Alkali Pete had descended was open, and, climbing upon Buffalo
Bill’s broad shoulders, the lanky plainsman looked into the room. It was
vacant. The dead body of the outlaw had been removed.
“I shore don’t like ther looks o’ things,” whispered Pete to his
comrade. “Ther body war thar when I lit out fer ther tunnel, an’ it
bein’ gone sartinly shows that ther ’Paches know I hev vamosed. Mebbe
they aire waitin’ fer me ter come back, an’ mebbe thar’s a bullet
waitin’ fer ther man that crawls inter that aire room.”
“I don’t believe they expect you to come back,” replied Buffalo Bill.
“Why should they? You were a prisoner, and you escaped. Is it the usual
caper for a prisoner to voluntarily return to the room of imprisonment?”
“Ye talk mighty fine, Buffler, but all ther same, I’m plumb leery of
that aire room.”
“If you are afraid,” began the king of scouts, when his old comrade
quickly and roughly interrupted:
“Afraid nothin’,” and upon the words he crawled into the room.
No bullet came to put an end to his existence. He listened a moment, and
then stretched himself by the hole and assisted Buffalo Bill in getting
through the trap.
On his feet, the king of scouts made for the window. The yard, or,
rather, that portion within his range of vision, was clear of Indians.
Where had Wild Bill and the Yelping Crew gone? And everywhere was
silence. Within the house there were no sounds.
“Pete,” whispered the scout, “are we living in a land of enchantment?
Fifteen minutes ago the air was filled with yells and gun reports. Now
all is as still as the grave.”
“But ther Injuns kain’t hev left ther castle?” said Alkali Pete, as he
vigorously worked his tobacco-filled jaws. “Mebbe they aire all in ther
front room. This aire castle is stone, an’ sound don’t travel wuth a
cent.”
“I am going to find out what the silence means,” returned Buffalo Bill
resolutely. So saying, he went to the door and tried to open it. The
effort was vain. The door was barred from the outside.
“Better work back through the tunnel, hedn’t we?” suggested the lanky
plainsman.
The king of scouts nodded. The trapdoor was open, and Buffalo Bill was
kneeling by it, preparing to descend when the door of the room opened,
and Thunder Cloud walked in.
His countenance was grave, and he was shaking his head as he came
forward and held out his hand to Buffalo Bill, who, upon the opening of
the door, had quickly arisen to his feet.
“I expected to find you here,” the chief said, in the Apache tongue. “I
believed you would come when you found that I was placed so I could not
immediately keep my promise.”
“Where are your braves?” asked the king of scouts.
“They have gone to the cliff where the Comanches have their home.”
“What?”—regarding the Indian in amazement. “Gone where the Comanches are
not?”
Thunder Cloud gravely inclined his head.
“Say,” put in Alkali Pete. “Ye aire shore puzzlin’ us, chief. Ye kain’t
ram that aire nonsense down our throats. What aire yer leetle game?”
Thunder Cloud scowled at the speaker. He was not in a mood for
pleasantry, and he was offended at Alkali Pete’s tone.
“The chief is all right,” said Buffalo Bill, with a warning glance at
his comrade. “He will explain why the braves have left the castle.”
Thunder Cloud bowed slightly, and the scowl departed.
“My braves have gone to the cliff,” he said, “because that was the wise
thing to do. Black Wing, who should be chief of the Yelping Crew, has
gone with them, and soon there will be peace instead of war between the
Apaches and the Comanches.”
The king of scouts tried to guess the riddle the chief was attempting to
explain, but it was beyond him. He looked at Alkali Pete, and caught a
wink that expressed contemptuous incredulity.
Thunder Cloud imperturbably went on: “The great white warrior fails to
understand. He does not know that Black Wing, who came from Mexico to be
the chief of the Yelping Crew, was unable, when he reached the cliff
to-day, to induce the Comanches to come out and treat with Thunder
Cloud.”
“The Yelpers did not want peace, then?” said Buffalo Bill.
“They were under the spell of the white man who has been acting as their
chief, and they would not listen to Black Wing, though he is a Comanche,
and had been sent for to become their chief.”
“Good thing they didn’t, for they would have been led to a massacre. But
who is this white man who possesses more power than Black Wing?”
inquired the king of scouts innocently.
Thunder Cloud frowned. “The great white warrior must not speak with a
forked tongue. He knows who the white man is, for he was with the
Comanches this morning.”
“Yes, I do know,” replied Buffalo Bill quickly. “I wanted to learn
whether or not you knew him.”
“No, Thunder Cloud does not know the name of the white man. He has never
seen the white man’s face, and Black Wing was not taken into the white
man’s confidence.”
The Apache chief paused, expecting that the king of scouts would
volunteer the information that Black Wing had failed to obtain. But
Buffalo Bill maintained a severe silence.
The revelation of the identity of the acting chief of the Yelping Crew
came from Alkali Pete. Buffalo Bill was looking out of the window when
the lanky plainsman spoke. “Did ye ever hear uv a man by ther name uv
Wild Bill?” he asked. “He’s shore ther hombre.”
Thunder Cloud started, and it was plain that the announcement
unpleasantly affected him.
“The sworn enemy of the Apaches, the white devil who shoots to kill.
Yes, Thunder Cloud has heard of him.” He ceased speaking, and looked
sadly, reproachfully at Buffalo Bill.
The king of scouts met the look serenely. “Are you at last earnestly
desirous of making peace with the Comanches?” he asked.
The chief nodded. “Thunder Cloud has done forever with Black-face Ned,
and he now desires to live in peace with both white man and red man. Did
not Thunder Cloud say as much when he left the great white warrior at
the mouth of the tunnel?”
“Yes, you did, chief, and I accept your statement. Peace you shall have.
Wild Bill is a friend of mine, and if I can get speech with him, I’ll
soon bring him round to my way of thinking. But you haven’t yet told me
how Black Wing purposes to act.”
“He will gain the cliff stronghold, and there wait for the coming of the
Comanches.”
“Where are the Comanches now?”
“They are at the back of the castle, crouching against the wall near the
door, and waiting for the door to open, or——”
“Or what?” as Thunder Cloud paused.
“Or for some signal from the great white warrior, Pa-e-has-ka.”
“Don’t they know that the Apaches have gone?”
“No. When the Comanches stole around to the rear, my braves quietly went
out the front door, and were in the grove before Wild Bill could place
watchers at each side of the castle.”
“I see. Hickok would not have counted on such a move on the part of the
enemy, and so failed to take precautions against a sudden evacuation of
the castle. Well, when the Yelpers return to their home, if they do
return without an understanding between me and Wild Bill, they will find
Black Wing and your braves in possession of the cliff. Then what?”
“Black Wing will again urge the Comanches to sign a treaty of peace. He
will have the whip hand, as you Americans say, and the Comanches may
listen this time and agree to accept Black Wing’s suggestion. And again
they may not, for that devil, Wild Bill, may again bend them to his
will.”
Buffalo Bill’s face was sober. “It’s up to me to act,” he said, with
decision. “But before I make an attempt to get speech with Wild Bill, I
wish to see Colonel Hayden and his daughter. Bring them here, if you
please.”
“Thunder Cloud will bring the white maiden, but the great white warrior
cannot see the white maiden’s father.”
This was said with compressed lips and a ferocious expression.
The king of scouts involuntarily clenched his hands. He tried to speak
without betraying his feelings.
“Does Thunder Cloud forget what he promised? Did he not say that he
would release all the prisoners?”
The Apache chief replied, with lowering brows: “He did so promise, but
he forgot when he spoke that one of the prisoners had already been
condemned to death. Would Thunder Cloud be willing to forget that
Colonel Hayden said ‘yes’ to the order that sent Thunder Cloud in
disgrace from the white soldiers’ camp? Thunder Cloud would be a dog if
he did not take his revenge upon the white colonel.”
There was a stir in the cellar. Alkali Pete, who was standing nearest
the open trap, heard it, but the noise did not reach the ears of the
Apache chief.
The lanky plainsman, controlling his excitement with an effort, flashed
a warning glance at Buffalo Bill.
The king of scouts interpreted the meaning of the glance, and,
therefore, made this response to the chief’s ultimatum: “Bring the girl
to me.”
Thunder Cloud glued his keen eyes to the scout’s, as if he would read
what was beyond them. But he made nothing from the searching scrutiny.
Buffalo Bill was placidly smiling.
With a grunt, the Indian turned and walked toward the door. When he was
gone, Alkali Pete stooped by the trap, and called out in a whisper:
“Aire ye thar, Hickok?”
“Yes,” was the quick answer. “Come down, won’t you, and pass the word to
Cody, if he is up there with you.”
The lanky plainsman raised his head and told Buffalo Bill what had been
said.
“Go down,” was the reply, “and tell Hickok that I’ll follow presently.
The chief will return in a minute, and I must be here when he comes in.”
Alkali Pete, without hesitation, lowered himself to the cellar. There
was a heavy thud as he struck the ground, and at the same moment Thunder
Cloud opened the door and pushed Sybil Hayden into the room.