OLD NOMAD FINDS EXCITEMENT.
After Buffalo Bill and Little Cayuse had left their pards and the
prisoner near the old mine in the mountains, old Nomad found time
hanging heavily on his hands. He felt just a little hurt that the scout
had not selected him for a companion on this trip instead of the Piute.
“Waugh! Ov all ther tarnation picnics yourn truly ever stacked up
erginst this is ther plumb wust--jest leanin’ up ergin er rock fer
erbout er month o’ Sundays ter see ’f ther pesky thing rises er sinks.
“I’ve been propped up here for two hull hours sence Buffler rode out
er sight, an’ I hain’t so much ez seen er bird. I’m gwine ter huntin’
rattlers round this hyar mounting, an’ see ’f I can’t stir up some
’xcitement.”
“Are you uneasy, Nomad?” asked Hickok.
“Now, lookahere, pard! D’yu ever yank er catfish out on ther sand an’
then watch ’im flop? Waal, whut d’yu think erbout his bein’ oneasy an’
lonesome?”
“Why don’t you and Skibo wrestle?”
“Huh? Who--Skibo an’ me? Say, Hick, yer jokin’. When I wrassles I want
a man ’cordin ’ter my strength, an’ science, an’ good looks. Now, thet
thar Skibo, he ain’t in my class, noways. He might wrassle with a bull
thet girted ’bout eight feet, but ’f I sh’d git holt er him I sh’d
break ’im in two.”
“Yah, yah! Mars’ Hickok, an’ den dar’d be two niggahs in de rock pile.”
“Waal, I’ll be gumdastercated!”
This exclamation caused the others to look at Nomad, who was staring,
half wildly and half happily, out across the plain. They followed his
gaze and saw three Indians on ponies just emerging from the thick
growth beyond the lift of a terrace, half a mile to the west.
Another and another followed, until fifteen were in view, riding
eastward in a leisurely manner.
“Why’n ther blue kinks o’ my curly hair, couldn’t them thar pesky reds
ha’ come this way an’ started sumthin’? Sufferin’ wild cats! How my
muscles ache, an’ how my brain itches! Say, Hick, whar d’yu s’pose them
pesky redskins air goin’?”
“I could tell better, Nomad, if I knew what brand of reds they are.”
“Waal, s’posin’ they’re Crows, whar they goin’?”
“Home.”
“S’posin’ they’re Sioux?”
“Then they have probably been into mischief or are looking for it.”
“Thet’s jest what I nachally concluded--them thar red hoss thiefs ain’t
round hyar jest ’cause they’re prowlin’, but ’cause sumbuddy wants um
hyar. Now, I figgers thet they’ve been sent for by some o’ them Bozeman
scoundrels an’ thet they’re goin’ up ’mong them buttes jest below ther
town ter wait fer dark.”
“Perhaps that’s it, Nomad,” answered the Laramie man wearily.
“I say, Hick; you’n Skibo ’r’ all right; I believe I’ll git Hide-rack
an’ sashay over thet way, an’ see what I can diskiver.”
“Well, don’t get into trouble till Cody comes back.”
“No, no! I won’t. Hick,” promised Nomad, in childish glee at being able
to get away so easily.
Nomad’s evident pleasure at the prospect of some sort of excitement
was a relief to Hickok, who, as well as he liked the veteran trapper,
tired of the latter’s fretting if in any way restrained.
Old Nomad put spurs to Hide-rack, and tore across the little plain as
though his life depended upon overtaking the party of Indians, when, in
fact, he did not intend to come in contact with them at all, or even to
have them see him. In this he blundered.
Half an hour after leaving his companions among the hills, Nomad
rounded a rift of rock and came into a little vale thickly grown with
willows. He leaned over his horse’s neck to scrutinize the signs of
the passing party of Indians as he entered the growth, and then felt
himself suddenly jerked from the saddle to land sprawling on his back,
and a couple of brawny Indians held him there and proceeded to bind
him, as Nomad expressed it--“hoof an’ tail.”
“Howlin’ heifercats!” shouted Nomad, as he struggled with his captors.
“What d’yu red mummies reckon you’d hitched onter, anyhow? Guess you
don’t know ole Nomad, du ye?”
This was grunted out disjointedly as the trapper wrenched and fought
with his captors.
“By ther great horn spoon an’ er dozen little ladles, I’ll wring ther
dirty necks ov nine er ’leven o’ yer pesky heifercats!”
Old Nomad was wasting his breath and strength, for in spite of the
terrific fight he put up the two braves gradually overpowered him, and
he was finally helpless, with hands and feet in the firmly knotted
loops of a lariat.
“Ugh!” grunted one of them. “Heap hard nut to crack.”
“Yer hain’t got ’im cracked yit, nuther, yer red loafer. I’ll be
fishin’ in ther Yallerstun when yore great gran’-childern be er chasin’
ghosts er foxes in ther happy huntin’ groun’s.”
“Big tongue; many wiggle!” said the other Indian solemnly.
Nomad strained savagely at his bonds in anger.
“I won’t stand any more o’ yer sass, ye b’iled apology fer a decent
heathen. Take off this rawhide, an’ gi’ me a chance at both o’ ye, an’
I’ll knock ye inter sixteen kinds o’ cocked hats in jest erbout ’leven
shakes ov er little lamb’s last piece o’ mutton.”
Other Indians came, and the trapper at least realized that he was a
prisoner, and that in spite of his taunting he could not draw from them
why he had been thus treated or who had ordered these indignities.
The trapper was placed under guard, and passed a weary day, while all
the Indians but the one who sat smoking with a rifle across his knees
departed.
“Don’t that beat ole split-huff hisself?” mourned Nomad, as he saw the
redskins depart. “Only that pesky cigar sign stuck up thar on er rock
ter ’muse myself with. Hey, Indian! Why don’t yer say suthin’ er do
suthin’ ter keep comp’ny from gittin’ homesick? Say, yer red-skinned
mummy, I’ll give yer the fust shot if you’ll come inter a game ov take
turns as er target.”
No answer.
“What yer say, red, do ut? Aw! Ye wooden head, why don’t ye grunt?”
Nomad subsided again. He was disgusted with himself and everybody else.
He had started out to hunt excitement, and here he was with nothing to
do and no prospect of anything happening right away. It was worse than
watching over Hickok and the prisoner--then he could smoke.
But early in the evening the Indians returned and with them a white
man. The latter kept beyond the range of Nomad’s vision in the bushes,
except for occasional glimpses as the party moved about.
After a long confab with the Indians, the white man, with a
handkerchief tied over the lower part of his face, came for a look at
the prisoner.
“Uv all ther white-faced heifercats! I’d give er nine-dollar bill ter
git er paw on ye, ye white-livered coyote. Yer too low ter ’sociate
with ther meanest redskin this side ther river Styx. Say, if you’ll
cut this hyar rope I’ll fix yer in er minyit so’s you wouldn’t know
yerself--’thout any rag tied over yer face.”
The fellow made no reply, but said loud enough so that Nomad could hear:
“No, it isn’t Buffalo Bill, but he’s one of the gang; dispose of him.”
Nomad laughed uproariously.
“Haw! haw! haw! Ther reds took me fer Buffler! Waal, thet sets me up
some ’f not more. Guess Buffler’d feel complermented. I suttinly hopes
I live long ernough ter tell that to ’im.”