THE WAR-WHOOP OF OLD ELI.
The afternoon sun lay scorching hot upon the arid plain. Heat waves
moved in the air like the billows of a phantom sea. To the west were
barren mountain-peaks and the nearer foot-hills; to the east the
unbroken plain lay level to the horizon.
Behind the body of his dead horse lay a sorely wounded man, with his dog
crouching close at his side. The dog's dry tongue lolled from the
animal's mouth; at times the poor creature whined and sought to lick the
hand of its master; anon he growled fiercely, the hair bristling on his
neck, and started up in a savage manner.
"Down, Boxer, down!" the man would order, in a voice ever growing
weaker. "You can't help. The red devils will get you with a bullet.
Down, sir!"
At which the dog would sink back, whine again and draw his filelike
tongue along the hand or cheek of his master.
"Heavens!" muttered the man. "For a swallow of water. I'd give the last
ounce in the saddle-bags if I could finish one or two more of those
murderous curs before I cash in!"
His almost nerveless hands grasped the barrel of his rifle, and he
looked away toward the spot where six horsemen had drawn up in a little
cluster just beyond bullet-reach.
They were Indians, mounted on tough ponies, and some of them armed with
modern weapons. Two or three carried lances, on which the glaring sun
glinted.
They had hunted him down; they had killed the horse beneath him and
wounded him unto death. The bullet was through his body, and the sands
of life were ebbing fast. He had reached the end of his trail, and the
red fiends out there on the baking plain knew they had only to wait a
while and then ride forward unmolested and strip off his scalp. Yet,
being far from their reservation, the savages were impatient at the
delay. Their hearts were vengeful within them, for in the chase he had
slain two of their number.
One of them, an impetuous young buck, was for making haste in finishing
the paleface. He motioned toward the declining sun and suggested that
the wounded man might try to crawl away with the coming of darkness.
Besides, they had far to go, and it was a waste of time to wait for the
paleface to die. Likely he was so far gone that he could not shoot to
defend himself, and there would be little trouble in getting near enough
to despatch him.
The impetuous spirit of this savage prevailed, and soon the redskins
began riding around and around man and horse and dog, spreading out into
a circle with great gaps and slowly closing in, now and then uttering a
challenging yell. As they closed in they flung themselves over upon the
sides of their ponies opposite the wounded man, so that their horses
seemed riderless. Occasionally a shot was fired from beneath the neck of
a racing pony.
The dying man gathered himself a little and watched them. A puff of
white smoke leaped out before a pony and was quickly left behind to
dissolve and fade in the heated air. A bullet threw up a bit of dust
within three feet of the white man. The dog bristled and growled.
Another bullet clipped a stalk from a cactus plant five feet away.
"They're within shooting distance," whispered the doomed wretch. "Wonder
if I've got nerve enough to drop a pony."
He rested his rifle on the body of the dead horse and waited. Out on the
plain the racing ponies began to swim in a haze. He could see them
indistinctly, and he brushed a hand across his eyes.
"I'm going fast, Boxer," he muttered to the dog. "My sight is failing!
I'm burning inside! And I know you're choking yourself, poor dog! It's a
hard way to pipe out."
The dog whined sympathetically and pressed closer. A bullet whistled
past the head of the man. He tightened his grip on his rifle, sought to
take aim, and finally fired.
His bullet went wide of the target he sought, and a yell of derision
floated to his ears through the hot air.
"No use!" he muttered huskily. "I'm done for! It's the finish! They can
close right in and wipe me out!"
The savages seemed to know it, and they were drawing nearer.
Of a sudden out from the depths of a long barranca, a mighty fissure in
the plain, produced in former ages by a convulsion of nature, or marking
the course of a river--out from one end that rose to the surface of the
plain not far from the circling savages, came a horse and rider. As the
rider rose into view he began shooting with a magazine rifle, and his
first bullet caused a redskin to lose his hold and tumble end over end
in the dirt, while the pony galloped on.
The following Indian stooped and seemed to catch up his wounded comrade
as he swept past.
The lone horseman rode straight at them in a reckless manner, working
his repeater.
A pony was wounded, another plunged forward into the dirt. In another
moment the redskins wheeled and were in full flight, astounded and
demoralized by the attack, two of the horses carrying double, while
another left drops of blood upon the ground.
The daring paleface uttered a strange war-whoop of triumph: "Brekekek
Co-ax, Co-ax, Yale!"
Never before had those Indians heard such a singular cry from the lips
of a white man. It seemed to fill them with a mad desire to get away, to
flee at top speed. It struck terror into their hearts, as many a time
the same slogan has struck fear to the hearts of those battling against
Old Eli on some athletic field. They urged their ponies forward, and
away they went, scurrying into the distance, with bullets singing around
them.
The man behind the dead horse lifted himself and strained his bedimmed
eyes, seeing the youthful rider shoot past in pursuit of the savages.
The dog rose, planting his forefeet on the horse's body, and barked
madly.
When he was satisfied that the Indians were in full retreat, with little
thought of turning or offering resistance, Frank Merriwell, for it was
he who had dashed out of the barranca, drew up and turned about,
galloping back toward the man he had dared so much to save.
But he had come too late.
As Merry rode near the dying man had fallen back beside his dead horse.
Over him stood the dog, covered with dust, its eyes glaring redly, its
teeth disclosed, ready to defend the body of its master. As Frank drew
up the dog snarled fiercely.
Merry saw at a glance that the situation of the dog's master was serious
in the extreme. He dismounted and stepped forward, leaving his horse,
knowing well the animal would stand. As he approached the dog grew
fiercer of aspect, and he saw the creature meant to leap straight at his
throat.
"Good dog!" he said, stopping. "Fine dog! Come, sir--come! Ah-ha, fine
fellow!"
But all his attempts to win the confidence of the dog were failures.
"The man is dying," he muttered. "Perhaps I might save him if I could
get to him now. Must I shoot that dog? I hate to do it, for the creature
seems very intelligent."
At this moment the man stirred a little and seemed to realize what was
happening. He lifted his head a little and saw the dismounted horseman
and the threatening dog.
"Down, Boxer; down, sir!" he commanded. "Be quiet!"
His voice rose scarcely above a whisper, but the dog reluctantly obeyed,
still keeping his eyes on Frank, who now stepped up at once.
"You're badly wounded, sir," he said. "Let me see if I can do anything
for you."
"Give me water--for the love of Heaven, water!" was the harshly
whispered imploration.
In a twinkling Frank sprang to his horse and brought back a canteen that
was well filled. This he held to the lips of the wretched man, while the
crouching dog watched every move with his red eyes.
That water, warm though it was, brought back a little life to the
sinking man.
"God bless you!" he murmured gratefully.
The dog whined.
"Can't you give Boxer a little?" asked the dog's master. "He's suffering
as much as I am."
Frank quickly removed from his saddle-bags a deep tin plate, on which
some of the water was poured, and this the dog greedily licked up,
wagging his tail in thankfulness.
"Poor old Boxer!" sighed the doomed man.
"Now, sir," said the youth, "let me examine your wound and find out what
I can do for you."
"No use," was the declaration. "I'm done for. It's through the lung, and
I've bled enough to finish two men. The blood is all out of me."
But the young man insisted on looking and did what he could to check the
flow of blood.
The doomed man shook his head a little.
"No use," he repeated. "I'm going now--I feel it. But you have done all
you could for Old Bens, and you won't lose nothing by it. What's your
name?"
"Frank Merriwell."
"Well, Pard Merriwell, you sure went for those red devils right hot. I
allowed at first that you must have four or five friends with ye."
"I'm alone."
"And it was great grit for you to charge the red skunks that way.
However did you happen to do it?"
"I saw what was going on from the high land to the west with the aid of
a powerful glass. I knew they had a white man trapped here. I struck the
barranca and managed to get down into it, so I was able to ride close
without being seen and charge up from this end, where it rises to the
level of the plain. That is all."
"It was nerve, young man, and plenty of it! My name is Benson Clark. I'm
a miner. Been over in the Mazatzals. Struck it rich, young pard--struck
it rich. There was no one but me and old Boxer, my dog. I took out a
heap of dust, and I opine I located a quartz claim that certainly is
worth a hundred thousand dollars, or I'm away off. Been a miner all my
life. Grub-staked it from the Canadian line to Mexico. Have managed to
live, but this is my first strike. No one staked me this time, so it's
all mine. But see, pard, what black luck and those red devils have done
for me! I'm finished, and I'll never live to enjoy a dollar of my
wealth. Pretty tough, eh?"
"Pretty tough," admitted Frank Merriwell; "but brace up. Who can
tell----"
"I can. Bens Clark is at the end of his trail. Young man, I want you to
see me properly planted. You'll find enough in the saddle-bags here and
in the belt around my waist to pay you for your trouble."
"I want no pay, sir."
"Well, I reckon you may as well have it, as I have neither kith nor kin
in the wide world, and most of my friends have cashed in ahead of me, so
I'm left all alone--me and Boxer."
The dying man lifted his hand with a great effort and caressed the dog.
The animal whined and snuggled nearer, fixing his eyes on his master's
face with an expression of devotion and anxiety that was quite touching
to see.
"Good old Boxer!" sighed the man, with deep feeling. "You'll miss me,
boy, and you're the only one in all the wide world. What will become of
you, Boxer?"
Again the dog whined a little, touching the bloodless cheek of the man
with its tongue.
"I'll do what I can for your dog, sir," said Frank Merriwell.
"What do you mean? Will you take Boxer and care for him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do it! You'll never be sorry. You'll find him the most faithful,
devoted, and intelligent of dumb animals. Truly, he knows almost as much
as a man--more than lots of men. It's a shame he can't talk! He knows
what I say to him almost always. I've almost fancied he might be taught
to talk; but that's ridiculous, I know. Take him, Frank Merriwell, treat
him well, and you'll never regret it."
The dog seemed listening. He looked from one to the other in a peculiar
manner, and then, as if realizing what had passed and that he was soon
to part with his master forever, he uttered a whining howl that was
doleful and pathetic.
"Poor old Boxer--good boy!" said Benson Clark. "I've got to go, boy."
The dog crept close, and the dying man weakly folded the animal in his
arms.
Frank Merriwell turned away. The sunlight was so bright and strong on
the plain that it seemed to cause him to brush a hand over his eyes. He
stood looking far off for some moments, but was given a start by hearing
a weak call from the man.
"I'm going!" breathed Clark huskily. "Here--in my pocket here you will
find a rude chart that may lead you to my rich mines in the Mazatzals.
Feel in my pocket for the leather case. That's it. Take it--keep it.
It's yours. The mines are yours--if you can find them. Boxer is yours.
Be good to him. Poor old Boxer!"
He closed his eyes and lay so still that Frank fancied the end had come.
But it was not yet. After a little he slowly opened his eyes and looked
at Merry. Immediately Frank knelt beside him, with uncovered head.
The dying man then looked at the dog.
"Boxer," he said faintly, "I'm going off on my long trail, and we'll
never meet up again this side of the happy hunting-grounds. Good-by, old
dog! This is your new master. Stick to him like glue, old boy. Fight for
him--die for him, if you have to. I opine you understand what I mean."
A strange sound came from the throat of the dog--a sound that was almost
like a human sob. If ever a dog sobbed that one did. Agony and sorrow
was depicted in his attitude and the look in its red eyes.
The miner took the dog's paw and placed it in Frank Merriwell's hand,
his body lying between them.
"I make you pards," said Benson Clark.
Then he whispered to Frank:
"Can't you pray? I've clean forgot all the prayers I ever knew. But I
feel that I need a prayer said for me now, for I'm going up before the
judgment bar. Pray, partner--pray to the Great Judge that He will be
easy with me."
So Frank Merriwell prayed, and that prayer fell upon the heart of the
dying man with such soothing balm that all fear and dread left him, and
he passed into the great unknown with a peaceful smile on his
weather-worn face.