HIDE-RACK’S ADVENTURES.
As the sun sank behind the gray haze of the mountain peaks that backed
the purple of the foothills of the Great Continental Divide, two men
stole down to a roily creek and sought something floatable on which to
cross.
This pair, pitiable in haggard faces and half-clad forms, and
staggering with the weakness which long journeyings and hunger had
wrought, furtively studied the narrow radius of the crooked gash the
creek made in the plain. That they feared pursuit any observer would
have said; that hope was low and endurance on its last legs was evident.
Crouching there, their hollow eyes eagerly seeking means of placing
this slight barrier between them and their expected pursuers, they saw
a lone Indian paddling his canoe up the creek.
They crouched among the willows and waited.
“Shall I knock him over?” asked one, fingering his rifle trigger
suggestively.
“Not yet; let’s try to hire him to put us over, or, better still, take
us far down the stream.”
“Good! and perhaps he can procure food for us.”
The Indian was hailed and came ashore for parley. He was a trapper,
a probable outcast from some tribe, and was ready for barter. Yes,
he would take them down the creek. “Food heap plenty--much fish and
prairie dog.”
The Indian didn’t want money--he had been swindled--but he wanted
rifle “heap bad.” So they struck a bargain. He was to paddle them down
as far as the Big Horn and there deliver to them the canoe for one of
their rifles.
The Indian had plenty of pemmican and was willing to trade for powder
and ball. The trade was eagerly made, and the half-starved men fell to.
“Even biltong tastes good if a man is hungry enough,” said one, as they
rode down the sluggish current.
“Yes, it does, Ike, but I’m tired of this dodging and starving
existence. I think I’ll give in and take my medicine.”
“A blamed fool you are, if you do, Price. We have just got over the
bunch. We have something to eat and a canoe. In the canoe we can paddle
up the Big Horn nights and hide along the shore days, until we are out
of the territory, where we are known. Then, if we can’t put up some
sort of a yarn that will give us a start we are not as sharp as our
friends have always counted us.”
The Indian shot a glance of intelligence at the pair, but said nothing.
Where the creek poured into the Big Horn a sharp turn to the right was
made after the Indian had been landed, and Price and Ike began the
tedious journey up the wildly picturesque river, knowing little of what
it promised other than that it found its source hundreds of miles to
the southwest, flowed northeasterly, and by following southward they
would have a blazed trail toward settlements where their names had
never been heard.
If this precious pair had known much that they later found out they
would as soon have paddled their canoe over Niagara Falls as up the Big
Horn River.
That night they paddled until well toward morning, when, worn and
weary, they sought the bank and found shelter for the day.
An hour later red hands parted the willows and a pair of black eyes
peered through at the sleeping men.
The bushes sprung back into place noiselessly and a satisfied “Ugh!”
escaped the red man’s lips as he hurried away.
Late in the afternoon two large canoes came up the river and four men
pulled them up beside the one which had been carefully hidden there
in the morning. The occupants of the last canoes were Buffalo Bill,
White-man-runs-him, Hickok, and Skibo.
The Indian took the lead and a moment later the fugitives were aroused
to find themselves once more prisoners. They were disarmed, securely
bound, and loaded, one in each canoe, and the long run down the Big
Horn begun.
The remainder of Buffalo Bill’s party, with all the horses, had headed
back to the Yellowstone, where the scout hoped to join them in the
next few days. His plans were to run down the Big Horn to the junction
of the Yellowstone, where he had information that a detachment of U.
S. Cavalry, on a scouting expedition, were encamped. If he was lucky
enough to find them there he would turn over his prisoners to them
and then pull up the Yellowstone to join his pards. He hoped, too, to
receive orders in possession of the cavalry officers from headquarters,
and to forward his report of Sitting Bull’s answer.
Fortune favored and he arrived the night before the cavalry orders were
to return to the spot near the present Miles City, where Fort Keogh was
established.
As he had expected, he received orders that sent him once more into the
far country, and his mission, though of a far different nature, led to
a series of adventures rivaling any in his experience.
The officer in command of the detachment was glad to receive the
prisoner Price, who had once slipped through the army’s fingers, and
that Bloody Ike would receive just deserts, after a civil trial, there
could be no doubt.
But this particular detachment could not well foresee rapidly
approaching events, which not only robbed it of its prisoners, but
several of its officers and men of their freedom.
Buffalo Bill’s present order, to offer Sitting Bull and his chiefs
one more chance, had been obeyed, and his report was on its way to
Washington.
Before the scout took up his next work, he determined to return to
Bozeman, and on the way to pay a visit to the Averys and Coreys, and
see that the boy, “Little Buffalo Bill,” was safe with his parents.
* * * * *
Old Nomad, Cayuse, Avery, and young Corey expected to make the trip
to Avery’s ranch in three days, but in a set-to with a small band
of Indians, the trapper was knocked from the saddle by a bullet and
Hide-rack galloped away with three Indians in pursuit.
The trapper was not seriously injured, the bullet just grazing along
the scalp, but he felt deeply the loss of his famous horse. Nomad
determined to recover the horse, if possible. He ordered the party
into camp immediately, in a rock-bound gully, which could be easily
defended, and then, on Bear Paw, set out alone to recover his horse.
It was late in the afternoon when the trapper parted from his comrades,
and he promised to be back before daylight the following morning,
whether he recovered Hide-rack or not.
The trail of the Indians was easy to follow until dark, and soon after
the trapper saw a camp fire and guessed that the Indians had camped. He
approached cautiously and saw that the reds had built their camp fire
in the mouth of a little blind cañon, into which they had succeeded in
heading Hide-rack.
Apparently the horse had given them so much trouble to capture him that
they had turned their ponies in to make his acquaintance and perhaps
soothe his ruffled temper.
But Hide-rack had evidently decided to form no new acquaintance. As
Nomad reached a position from which he could command a view of the
pocket, his “horse pard” was just in the act of making an impression on
the ponies. The impression they got was of a vicious pair of heels that
seemed shooting out in all directions at once.
The Indians, fearing for the legs if not the lives of their ponies,
rushed in to take a hand.
Then old Nomad broke loose with a wild:
“Yip-yip-yar-r-r! Hide-rack, give it to ’em, ole hoss! Don’t let no
dirty redskin put a hand onto ye! Soak ’em, ole pard!”
And Hide-rack, in response to his master’s voice, did “soak ’em.” He
rushed at the Indians like a mad thing, biting, striking, and kicking.
Before they could get out of the way the horse laid out two of the red
men and was pursuing the third, who ran like a deer straight through
the camp fire, with the vengeful Hide-rack only one jump behind.
The savage dodged among the rocks and escaped, while Hide-rack capered
up to Bear Paw with a whinny of delight.
“Ye kicked ther tarnal stuffin’ outen um, didn’t ye, ole pard?” yelled
Nomad in high glee, as he cantered back across the plain.
It was the fourth day when Nomad’s party reached Avery’s ranch and
found all well, and no Indians had been seen for several days.
Two days later Buffalo Bill, Hickok, and Skibo arrived, to rest a bit
before continuing their labors.