A DESPERATE VENTURE.
Even while Buffalo Bill was talking with the disguised leader of the
Redskin Rovers, old Nick Nomad was rapidly working out a plan for
the release of the prisoners. Nebuchadnezzar had escaped from the
Indians, and had carried with him his saddle and the saddle pouches.
The first thing for Nomad to do was to get hold of Nebuchadnezzar.
Nomad’s wild yells as he fled, followed by his shrill whistles, were,
as Buffalo Bill knew, intended for the ears of that wise old horse,
for Nomad had trained Nebuchadnezzar to come in answer to those
signals.
As he ran in the direction in which “Nebby” had disappeared, and
whistled at intervals, even though the Indians were pursuing him in
the darkness, the result was that the horse came in his direction.
Hence, Nomad had run less than half a mile from the Indian camp when
he encountered his faithful steed.
“Waugh!” was his whispered exclamation, expressing the most intense
satisfaction. “Talk about hosses not havin’ sense! Nebby, you’ve got
more sense than half the humans I know.”
He walked straight up to the old beast; and then mounting he rode
away as quietly as he could.
As soon as he felt secure from the redskin pursuit he rode in a wide
circuit until he was on the opposite side of the camp, when he again
approached it. Then, coming in sight of the fire, he halted.
“Nebby,” he said, as he slid out of the saddle, “I dunno if you’ve
been robbed by them red skunks er not; but we’ll see.”
He opened the saddle pouches, and began to explore them.
“Waugh! They tuck all the things in sight!” he chuckled, in a way
that did not show displeasure. “But, Nebby----” He ran his fingers
into a secret pocket in one of the pouches, and brought out a small
flat package. “They never found this hyar, and it’s ther truck I’m
wantin’.”
He dropped to the ground and opened the package carefully. Meanwhile,
the old horse stood with bowed head and heaving sides. But for those
heaving sides he seemed to be asleep.
When the flat package lay open in Nomad’s hands, its contents shone
with a dull gleam of fire, like the sulphur light seen when, in the
dark, the head of a match is rubbed on the damp palm of a hand.
“Nebby, they didn’t find this hyar truck!” Nomad chuckled. “Do you
’member ther time, Nebby, when we skeered them t’other Injuns outer
one fit inter fifty with truck like this hyar? It was phosphorus
pizen fer kyotes. Waal, mebbe it’s a trick thet we kin play ag’in.”
Having made sure that the fiery stuff, which was a phosphorous paste,
was all there and in good condition, old Nomad led the horse down
into a low swale between hills, that he might be out of view of the
Redskin Rovers. There, removing his shirt, he carefully painted on
his body and face certain stripes, in imitation of the bones of a
skeleton. The paste was not enough in quantity to use all over his
body, so he left his legs minus this weird decoration; but the upper
part of his body, and particularly the ribs, seemed to stand out in
lines of fire. He also painted his face with it, to give it as nearly
as he could the semblance of a fiery skull.
“Skeers yer, does it, Nebby?” he chuckled, when the old horse showed
a dislike of it and tried to back away. “Waal, ef I kin skeer you
with it, mebbe I kin some frighten them redskins, dod-rot ’em!
Somethin’s got ter be done, Nebby.”
He replaced his coat, tied his shirt behind the saddle, made a
mask of his old handkerchief to hide his face; and then, with his
battered old hat pulled well down over his eyes, he mounted, and was
ready for his desperate venture. He now rode cautiously toward the
Indian encampment, keeping as much as possible in low ground, that a
premature revelation of his presence might not occur.
When he was nigh to the camp he stopped, and from the crest of a
low ridge took a look at it. He saw Buffalo Bill sitting with back
against the tree, talking with the painted white man; and observed
the positions of the other prisoners, and of their captors.
Having these things well fixed in his mind, he mounted Nebuchadnezzar
again and rode slowly forward.
So softly did the old beast pick his way along in obedience to his
rider’s commands, that Nomad was near the camp fire in a little
while, and still remained undiscovered. Then he stiffened in the
saddle, and a series of wild yells pierced the air.
It was like the sudden outburst of a chorusing band of wolves; for
the old man had the power of making his yells peculiarly bewildering,
and as if coming from many different points of the compass. As
he yelled, he cast aside the concealing coat and pushed back the
concealing cap, thus revealing to the astonished redskins the sight
of a skeleton horseman, apparently seated on nothing but air, for the
body of the old horse was at first indistinguishable in the darkness.
As he thus displayed his skeleton lines, Nomad’s revolver began
to pop; and, still yelling lustily, he rode with indescribable
recklessness straight at the camp fire.
It was enough! The superstitious and frightened Indians scudded like
rats when Nomad made that dash. They threw aside whatever at the
moment they were holding, whether weapons, food, or blankets, and
dashed in absurd panic down the hill, running like mad.
The moment for action on the part of Buffalo Bill had come.
He had not known what form old Nomad’s interference in his behalf
would take, but he had fully expected that Nomad would make an effort
of some kind; and for that effort he was prepared and had waited.
He pulled his hands free now, for the cords hung but loosely on his
wrists, and with the knife that was in his boot leg he cut the cords
that held his ankles.
The disguised white man had sprung to his feet when Nomad made his
mad charge.
The next motion of the scout brought out the hidden pistol from his
hunting shirt, and with it he took a shot at the painted figure of
the renegade, toppling him over with a bullet through his shoulder.
Then Buffalo Bill leaped to the assistance of the other prisoners;
and with a speed that defied description he cut them free.
“Move lively!” he whispered. “That’s Nomad. Run, while the redskins
are frightened! This way!”
He jumped from the vicinity of the camp fire, and led in the flight
that followed, striking straight out into the darkness.
Old Nomad, shining like fire and yelling like a band of coyotes, his
revolver spouting fire and lead, and old Nebuchadnezzar snorting
like a wild horse, charged straight across and through the camp,
scattering everything.
Not an Indian stayed to oppose the daring trapper; all were in flight
toward the river.
If the disguised white man who was their leader suspected that this
was a shrewd trick, and the character of it, he was in no condition
to make it known, or to rally his demoralized followers; for, with
that bullet in his shoulder, he had fallen to the ground, and lay
stunned and groaning.