THE BOY BUGLER WINS.
“What’s ther verdict, Willie--aire yer comin’ erlong, er be ye goin’
ter stay ’th yer paw an’ maw?” asked old Nomad, who sat with the boy
and Skibo.
“I don’t know, yet; Mr. Cody an’ Mr. Avery are talkin’ with dad and ma,
now. I’m all ready--got my rifle cleaned an’ loaded, an’ my bugle in my
saddlebag. Whee! I hope I go,” sighed the youngster.
“I hopes yer does, kid, ’cause yer kind o’ livens us ole fellers up
when times git dull, an’ ther redskins fergit ter ’tend ter bus’ness.”
“Yah, yah! Dat’s what Ah reckons--dis yere kid go toot-toot on de
boogie an’ de sabage he gits his moggins goin’ fer de tall timber on de
lively. Ah specks Mars’ Billyum don’ hab no mo’ do but jes’ go ’long
nachally an’ pick up de skins o’ dem dar red debils--coz why? Coz dey
run plumb outen ’em tryin’ fer git ’way f’m dat tooter.”
“You’re makin’ fun of me now, Skibo.”
“No, no! ’Deed Ah ain’t, Billie boy. Ah’s jes’ nachally tickled coz
Mars’ Billyum he tell yo’ fadder an’ yo’ mudder yo’s better off ’f yo’
goes ’long--yah! Ah’s jes’ tickled ’s de hoss Hide-rack’d be ’f ’e had
fo’ mo’ laigs ter kick wiv; dat’s what Ah is, Billie boy.”
“See hyar, Skibo, ye needn’t go ter hingin’ on Hide-rack’s repertation.
’Taint none ter brag on much, but sech as he has, he’s goin’ ter keep,
ef he does play tit-tat-too on er nigger’s trouserloons now an’ ergin.”
“Yah, yah! Mistah Nomad; Ah baigs yeh parding ’f Ah stepped on dat dar
Hide-rack’s feelin’s spectatiously an’ superditiously, coz Ah specs his
ripertution’s mos’ ’bout ’s bad as it kin be now, fer a fac’--dat’s
what Ah t’ink, anyhow.”
“Pa-e-has-ka come; soon see. Make-up-noise,” offered the Piute boy,
who had come up and was listening to the usual verbal firing between
Buffalo Bill’s pards.
Wild Bill, who had also sauntered along, remained quiet, puffing away
at his pipe, but now he hailed the scout, who was coming from the
bungalow, with:
“What is the word, Cody--does the boy go?”
The scout nodded with a smile and said to the lad:
“Run in and cheer them up, boy, and we’ll be off.”
Little Buffalo Bill had secured the scout’s permission--if his parents
were willing--to accompany him on his new mission.
Buffalo Bill did not urge them to let the boy go, but he assured
them he would do his best for the lad’s comfort and safety, if they
permitted him to accompany the pards.
And at last they had consented, with tears and heartaches, to grant the
boy’s pleadings.
The horses were saddled and Mr. Avery led out his best, a gritty, bay
mare that could run “like a prairie fire,” he said, for the boy.
All was in readiness when the lad bolted out of the door, bounded into
the saddle, and dashed away without turning to right or left.
The scout and his pards waved adieu and rode off leisurely.
“Let the boy alone,” said Buffalo Bill, “and when he feels himself he
will fall back with the rest of us.”
The scout’s orders had read:
“Report at Fort Phil Kearney after seeing Sitting Bull.”
That was all, and the scout wondered why the dispatch had been so brief
and devoid of detail. He had read and reread the order, and pondered
over it. There was only one logical conclusion, and that was that some
matter concerning the army was to be investigated and the officials in
Washington did not fully trust some of the hands through which this
order must pass to reach him.
It was probably one hundred and fifty miles to Fort Kearney, and the
scout hoped General Sheridan himself would be there. Although his order
did not refer to it, Buffalo Bill expected to find full instructions at
the fort. The scout was more or less curious to know, and the Laramie
man speculated much, but old Nomad could hardly wait.
“D’ye know, Buffler, I didn’t like ther look o’ that chap thet brung
ther paper talk. I don’t blame Uncle Sammy for not trustin’ him ’th
any news wuth mentionin’; I wouldn’t trust ’im ’s fur as I c’d throw
Hide-rack by ther tail, which same ’s a middlin’ short distance.”
“Ah specs Nomad’s been usin’ ’is dreamer some mo’,” observed Skibo.
“Looky hyar, Skibo, this ’ere haint none o’ yore funeral, so yer better
stay out. What yer gittin’ at, anyways?”
“Nuffin much, Nomad, on’y yo’ wa’n’t present, nohow, w’en de ossifer
fotch de cumflaboration f’m yo’ Uncle Samwell.”
Old Nomad looked foolish for a moment and then he said:
“By the picked-tailed honey bees I warn’t, wor I? Must er been thet
measly red hoss thief thet gut erway ’th Hide-rack I’s thinkin’ ’bout.”
“Mebbeso Nomad thinkum ’bout ‘ketchumnappin’,’” suggested Cayuse.
The scout laughed and Hickok and Skibo asked for information. They
hadn’t heard the joke. Nomad galloped on ahead and the scout told of
the trapper’s attempt to fool Price and Bloody Ike in the cañon, by
tearing out a shirt sleeve and filling it with sand to throw in the
darkness for them to shoot at.
“Did they shoot at it?” asked Hickok.
“No, they threw some sort of a torch that Ike fixed up, and which
lighted up the whole place so that Nomad had to skedaddle.”
The pards laughed so heartily that Nomad looked around and shook his
fist at them, and then put spurs to Hide-rack and came up with the boy.
“What shall we call the boy for short?” asked the scout.
“‘Make-um-noise’ plenty short for him,” said Cayuse.
“‘Billie,’” said Skibo, “then we hab Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill, an’
Billie.”
“We are getting too many Bills and not enough receipts,” said the scout.
“Why not call him ‘Tootsie,’ in honor of his profession?” asked the
Laramie man.
“Good!” was the chorus, and “Tootsie, the boy bugler,” stuck to the boy
from that day.
At noon the party halted the horses to graze an hour, and all the
others found that “Tootsie” had regained his usual demeanor and was the
life of the party. His new name amused him, but he accepted it with
good grace, and sang, after pulling his bugle from his saddle horn:
When Indians get funny just give ’em a toot
And send ’em a-whoopin’ an’ crazy;
But when you want noises, why call the galoot
Called “Corey,” and “Billie,” and “Tootsie.”
Tootsie waved his bugle, danced a jig, and wound up with a
toot-toot-ta-tar-rum.
“Thet’s ther stuff, Tootsie, wake us up, er I may git ter dreamin’
ergin.”
That night they camped at the mouth of a little ravine which offered
water and tender grass for the horses.
It was a beautiful night, and the scout, when the moon arose, was
tempted to “stretch his legs a bit,” after a long day in the saddle,
and look about the country.
Tootsie asked permission to accompany him and the request was promptly
granted.
They set out, keeping a southerly course along the bank of the ravine
until they came out on a flat-topped and vertical-sided butte of
considerable height.
In the hazy light they could not see far, but the soft evening breezes
from the almost limitless plains came sweet and pure and dream-inducing.
Standing well out on the cliff, the scout noticed that under the side
of a neighboring butte of like formation, one hundred rods away, a
party of Indians were holding some sort of a ceremony. He had no doubt
they were warriors and offering some sacrifice to propitiate the Great
Spirit because of their intended exploit, or to win protection in
expected battles to come.
The scout told Tootsie of his surmise, and the boy was filled with a
desire to get near enough to hear and see the ceremonies. So they made
their way through a difficult gulch and scaled the butte beyond which
the chanting of the red men now could be heard.
There were twoscore of the braves, and a part of the services consisted
of prancing in file around a pot of water which was sending up a great
volume of steam from where it hung over a bright fire.
Occasionally a rock was pulled from the fire with sticks and dropped
into the pot to increase the volume of steam; then the Indians would
caper around the pot, chanting loudly, waving their arms, and now and
then darting up to brush hands and arms through the ascending steam.
“I’d like to see what they would do, if I blowed a good blast on my
bugle,” said Tootsie.
“You might wish you hadn’t tried it, before it was over,” said the
scout.
“Couldn’t we keep out of sight and mystify them?”
“They would probably go back up the gully where they could climb the
cliff and come up to investigate.”
“What do you suppose they would do if a tall white figure stood out
here in the moonlight and waved its arms and I blowed the bugle at the
same time?”
“They would shoot at the tall white figure,” laughed the scout.
“Suppose the ghost kept right on waving its arms and blowing the bugle?”
“Then I think you’d have them stampeded.”
“Will you let me try it?”
“Where is your ‘tall white figure?’”
The boy pulled from under his blouse a roll of white. The goods was
plain cotton, and inside was a jointed arrangement of hollow reeds with
strings running through them. These he adjusted skillfully and lifted
the figure erect. By pulling strings at the bottom the arms waved
weirdly in the moonlight.
The scout was amused and decided not to interfere with the boy’s plans.
Tootsie found a desirable position where he could approach the very
edge of the cliff, and, lying flat, peep down at the Indians, and at
the same time operate his dummy and blow the bugle.
Buffalo Bill found a similar position almost directly over the heads of
the Indians.
Tootsie stood his figure on the edge of the cliff as though it were
dancing on air, and then gave a triumphant bugle call.
The Indians below scattered instantly, seizing arms of all sort before
they looked for the cause.
Another “tar-ta-ta-tar--ta-ta-tar!” and they looked up and saw the
strange human form swaying in the moonlight.
Slowly the arms began to rise, and when they were wide extended there
came a loud, strong blast, sinking away into a faint imitation that
sounded like an echo.
The Indians were irresolute. They hardly knew whether to attribute the
strange scene to supernatural demonstration or trickery. They held
brief council and then one stepped back, and taking deliberate aim,
fired.
He was answered by a defiant blast and wild waving of the arms, as the
figure danced along the edge of the rock for a few feet and back.
The Indians moved away in awe at the spectacle. But they mustered
courage enough to fire again, and once more came the strong blast of
the bugle and the dancing and waving of arms.
Then came a volley from a score of rifles, and some of the bullets
found the framework of Tootsie’s image and the thing crumpled
pitifully upon the rock above his head.
But Tootsie was equal to the occasion, for he sent forth a weird,
plaintive wail that died away in a moan and then kept up a series of
nerve-rasping cries and wails.
At the same time Buffalo Bill dropped a rock over the brink, which,
descending with great good luck, landed fairly in the kettle of water,
sending hot water and steam in all directions, breaking the kettle
and extinguishing the fire, with much hissing and popping, all in one
operation.
The Indians could not see the rock descending, but they saw the dying
figure on the brink of the precipice and the demolition of their
offering, as if by magic.
Then they fled, vaulting upon their ponies and urging the animals away
across the plain with quirt and heel.
When Buffalo Bill could speak, from laughing, he said:
“The sound of a bugle will give those fellows nervous prostration for
a long time to come. And the mysterious ‘bad medicine’ will be handed
from party to party and tribe to tribe for generations, and whenever an
Indian passes these buttes he will offer some present to propitiate the
spirits.”