THE RESCUE OF LITTLE CAYUSE.
In four hours it would be daylight, and, as the sun appeared above the
eastern hills, the Indian celebration was to have its climax in firing
the pile of dry wood that was to torture Little Cayuse.
The scout had heard the words of White-man-runs-him, and his jaws
snapped together with a grim determination to save his little pard--but
how?
In the war party were several hundred well-armed and well-mounted
warriors. In many cases their rifles were superior to those of the
white soldiery, for agents were in Canada and the East, buying the
latest long-range arms.
To endeavor to take the prisoner forcibly would be suicidal, foolhardy.
But the scout would make some attempt--that was a foregone conclusion.
Buffalo Bill left the trailer and moved about the camp. He studied it
from every point of the compass, learned the exact lay of the land in
all directions, and then went down to the junction of the stream and
river where Hickok and Nomad were snugly hidden. He told them of the
prospective fate of their little Indian pard, and a plan he had partly
perfected.
The scout hoped that within the next hour or two the enthusiasm of the
red men would wane and that many of them would go to sleep. Then it
was that he proposed to mount Bear Paw, move as far into the camp as
possible, and then charge through among the fires like a whirlwind,
snatching the tied-up Little Cayuse as he went. Once on the plain,
with Bear Paw uninjured, he would laugh at pursuit.
It was a desperate undertaking, with small chance of success, but if
any one could do it, that man was the daring Cody, the peerless rider,
and he was aware of his chances.
Hickok and Nomad were to be ready, out on the plain, leading Navi, to
check the first mad rush of pursuit, and then wheel in behind the scout
for a long run.
Every man talked as if the attempt were to be a complete success, but
in his own mind each foresaw the grim possibilities of failure.
Nomad thought a better chance of winning lay in a triple charge, two of
the riders shooting right and left among the Indians, while the third
snatched the prisoner, and made off.
Hickok had a still different plan and one that appealed strongly to the
scout. It was for a stampede of the Sioux ponies just as Buffalo Bill
was making his daring dash, and confuse the red men by an attack in two
quarters at once. This plan had the advantage, also, if successful, of
delaying pursuit.
The scout decided that all had best ride out on the plain to the
eastward and get ready for the attempt, which should be made an hour
before daylight.
Buffalo Bill made one more reconnaisance of the camp and managed to
learn the exact location of Little Cayuse, lying like a bundle of wool
in the firelight, near the tepee of Rain-in-the-face; then he went back
to his companions and everything was made ready.
This was the plan: Hickok was to remain near the pony corral, which was
on the stream below the encampment. At the signal, he would attempt
to stampede the herd across the stream and out on the plain to the
southwest. The scout and trapper were to ride out to the east of the
camp, where Cody would begin his cautious approach. At the moment he
put the spurs to Bear Paw, he would emit a wild yell, and plunge among
the fires and sleep-dazed Indians. At the same instant old Nomad would
begin a mad dash along the outside, shooting and yelling like a fiend,
also heading for the west side of the stream, where both would fall in
with Hickok. If the latter succeeded in stampeding the ponies, all the
pards would devote themselves to scattering the animals.
Well out on the plain, the three pards were quietly discussing the
situation and prospects. In two hours the darkness would begin to lift.
In one hour the attack must be made.
While they talked in low tones the quick ears of the scout detected a
sound farther out on the plain.
“Sh!” he cautioned, “some one is approaching on horseback. I heard a
horse snort.”
Passing Bear Paw’s rein to Nomad, the scout made his way quickly and
noiselessly in the direction of the supposed intruder.
Three horsemen were approaching cautiously, apparently studying the
twinkling camp fires, which could be seen in the lower valley. They
were coming directly toward him, and Buffalo Bill crouched low and
awaited. He knew that when near enough he could distinguish white from
red riders against the light of the sky.
Then “sh! sh! sh!” he hissed, and the three horses were pulled up
sharply and a voice said, in a low tone:
“Hello, there!”
“Easy, Avery,” said the scout, moving up to the side of the latter’s
horse. “It’s a big war party of Indians and they are all alive. Who
have you here?”
“‘Little Buffalo Bill’ and a big coon, who calls himself Skibo, and
says he is your pard.”
“Good!” exclaimed the scout. “I am glad to see you all. He shook hands
with the delighted colored man, and the no less pleased boy, William F.
Corey.
“I am heartily glad to see all of you, but you have arrived at a time
when you ought to be miles away, especially if your horses are tired.”
“They are fresh,” declared Avery, “for we rested five hours since dark
and came to investigate this firelight. I expected ’twas Indians, but I
hoped it might be you.”
“How did you happen to come?” asked the scout.
“Why, the negro came along, desperately anxious to connect with you,
and wouldn’t give me no peace till I agreed to try to follow your
trail. Then the lad wouldn’t give me no peace till I agreed to let him
come along--so here we are, an’ I’ve done my part in findin’ ye.”
“It’s one chance in ten thousand that you ever found us. But time
flies, and our plans are to be carried out, anyway.”
He briefly explained the situation and the plan of rescue.
“Can’t I help?” asked the boy eagerly, “I brought my bugle.”
“Can you blow the call?” asked the scout, seized with a new idea.
“Yes, sir; uncle says I can do it as well as an army bugler.”
“Good! my boy, you shall perform the lion’s share. I will revise my
plan. Hickok shall proceed as arranged before. I will creep down the
brook to the edge of the encampment. The bugler shall be posted out
from the northeast side, Avery to remain with the bugler and give off
commands in a loud voice. Nomad and Skibo are to go to the southeast
side near the river, and when the bugle sounds they must shout loud
commands to imaginary soldiers and gallop along the front with all the
clatter possible. While this is going on Hickok will start the horses,
and I will rush into camp and release Cayuse. In the excitement of
expectant attack the ruse will work without a shot.”
The scout now felt so certain of victory that he was almost jubilant.
Over it all was the glamour of the gamble with death, which the war
horse feels in battle. Every man of the party was on the raw edge of
foolhardy daring. They would rescue the faithful little Indian pard if
they had to fight Sitting Bull’s entire force of braves.
The critical moment came at last, and to the boy from Avery’s ranch had
been allotted the honor of opening the ball.
“Could this youngster perform his part?” that was the question the
scout asked himself.
Most lads would have been unable to blow out a candle at such a tense
moment, and Buffalo Bill realized the tremendous nervous strain upon
one so young, but he knew the metal of this lad was of far different
quality from that of the average boy.
The scout had crept down until barely thirty feet separated him from
the dying embers of the nearest fire. About it were grouped a score
of braves, some smoking and wearing out the hours of darkness, others
asleep with heads curled on crooked arm.
Near the tepee of the chief the fire also had sunk to a few glowing
coals, but the scout could make out the form of Little Cayuse, and a
couple of guards near him.
On the lower side of the field, braves were setting a post and bringing
fuel for the torture pyre.
The scout tightened his belt, and looked to his revolvers. He was ready.
Then the still air of the early morning quavered in the clear,
far-sounding notes of the bugle, and across the plain rang the
“Forwar-r-d! March!” in stentorian tones. Again, far to the southward
of the bugle call came other hoarse commands and the sound of galloping
horses.
The Indians sprang up and darted hither and thither in consternation.
Everything was in confusion.
Some of the braves kicked out every ember of fire, for that would make
targets of the red men to the white soldiers beyond.
At the same moment pandemonium broke loose among the ponies. There were
yelps, barks and screams, and the jumping, snorting and squealing of
frightened mustangs. Away they scurried, and the dazed braves offered
little resistance.
Buffalo Bill bounded in among the Indians, and, in the darkness and
their demoralized state, they knew not but that he was one of them. He
found Cayuse, cut the Piute’s bonds, and lifted the boy to his feet,
when he heard a startled grunt at his elbow.
Like a flash the scout wheeled and sprang sidewise, in time to avoid a
vicious drive from a knife. He whipped out his own blade, and steel met
steel. The Indian was Buffalo Bill’s own height and a powerful fellow,
agile as a cat, and skilled in the use of the weapon in hand.
The tumult about them and the gloom prevented instant discovery by the
braves at hand. One buck came near enough to see the struggle and
sprang at the scout with a tomahawk, but he met a club from Little
Cayuse, who was now on his feet, that stretched him out.
Like tigers the scout and his antagonist lunged and parried, the steely
muscles of the scout pressing the other back, yet neither sure of
himself, because of the darkness.
In avoiding a terrific thrust, the scout stepped back, caught the red
man’s blade on his own, and as the brave came on of his own momentum,
almost into Buffalo Bill’s arms, the latter shot a quick blow with his
left fist that caught the red on the point of the chin, and the battle
was over.
“This way, Cayuse,” said the scout, as he bounded over the fallen
Indian. But before he had covered ten feet he sprang almost into the
arms of three or four warriors coming that way. It was too late to turn
back, and like a battering-ram the scout shot ahead. His arms worked
like piston rods, and the surprised Indians fell before the onslaught.
“Come on, Cayuse,” he called, and darted out the way he had come.
Cayuse was at his heels as they came to the brook.
A little farther up they found Bear Paw and Navi tethered, and a moment
later Avery and the boy, followed by Hickok and old Nomad, galloped up.
The scout remembered the lone pony hitched in the bushes near by, and
released the animal, which followed them as they raced away after
Hickok.
Wild Bill was having the time of his life, out on the plains, with the
herd of Indian ponies darting like mad things before him.
“When ther redskins wake up they’ll wonder whar we come from an’ whar
we went,” chortled old Nomad. “On’y one trouble w’th that, Buffler,
’twarn’t long ernuff. Ef we c’d er hed ’bout twenty-four hours jes’ ez
excitin’ mebbe the’d been some sassifaction in et.”
“Golly! Mars’ Billyum, Ah reckon dey t’ought de reg’lars am right at de
back doh, w’en dey hear dis gemman swell out ’is chist an’ sing out:
‘Git inter line, dar, yer goor fer nuffin’ brack possum eaters!’ Dat’s
what Ah said.”
“Now, boys,” said Buffalo Bill, after they had come up with Hickok,
“don’t fool yourselves with the notion that it is all over but the
shouting, for it isn’t. It is almost daylight, and we are on the open
plain with three hundred throughly aroused red men on our trail as soon
as it is light enough to see. It is up to us to put as much distance
between ourselves and the Indians as possible before light. To the west
lies a heavy range of hills, which we ought to make in three hours’
hard riding. Are you all good for it?”
“Ay,” came the chorus.
When the sun arose the scout’s party had passed quite a range of hills,
and if the Indians were in pursuit they were nowhere visible.
“Ef the’s ary game I like ter play at, et’s er hide-an’-whoop scramble
with ther reds,” piped up Nomad.
“Plenty whoop,” suggested Cayuse; “some hide, more fight. Pa-e-has-ka
all same catamount--everywhere and nowhere, hit like grizzly, kick all
same Hide-rack, Injun think um heap bad medicine.”
“Did yer hev er beauty fight er gittin’ ther papoose, Buffler?” asked
Nomad.
“Oh, there were one or two got in the way, but they were so scared they
couldn’t fight,” answered the scout modestly.
“Shore; ther pesky varmints wor so scairt they prob’ly laid down an’
stuck up their feet ter be tied--thet’s jes’ like them air Sioux,”
sarcastically snapped the trapper, because the scout made so little of
his exploit.
To turn the conversation, Cody said:
“Here’s a good place to make an attack and I move we make it--on our
haversacks.”
“Hooray!” sang Hickok, “I second the motion.”