CHASED BY WOLVES.
Because of the intense midsummer heat in that desert region, Buffalo
Bill did not journey far that morning, but relieved his horse of its
double burden long before noon, and took shelter from the burning sun
in the shady depths of the cañon, at a point where its sides were
scalable for man and beast.
Pizen Jane seemed impervious to the heat, and declared her anxiety to
go on. But she descended into the cañon, and there helped the scout
eat the food which remained after her famine feast of the morning.
Throughout the journey, and now, as she and the scout rested, she
asked strange questions without number, all tending to show that she
still did not believe he was the man he represented himself to be.
What her own intentions and plans were she cloaked with much
cleverness, though she talked all around the subject, drowning it in
a very sea of words.
Buffalo Bill gained the idea, however, that she had suffered some
wrong at the hands of some man, or men, or that some bitter grief and
disappointment had come to her; for the avenging, or righting, of
which she had set forth alone on this dangerous trail. In addition,
it seemed that she suspected him of being in some manner concerned in
the wrong done her, and that she had proofs of it she more than once
hinted.
“I begin to fear you are crazy, madam,” he said, at length, when she
had vexed him with her many hints of personal wrongdoing. “But please
remember that I never met you before, and know absolutely nothing of
any of the men you so veiledly speak of. I might know more, if you
would be more open in what you say.”
“And then you’d know too much, if you ain’t the reel Buffler!” she
cackled. “Pizen Jane may be homely lookin’, and no doubt she is, but
she ain’t no fool.”
They did not go on until the cool shadows of evening covered the
trail. They continued the journey far into the night, going forward
by the light of the moon.
The hour was late, when Pizen Jane gave a convulsive leap, and threw
her arms around the scout’s body, with a quick motion.
“Did ye hear that?” she asked breathless.
The scout drew rein.
“I heard nothing,” said he. “What did you----”
“There it is ag’in! Wolves, as I’m a mortal sinner! And they’re
answering each other, I’ll be bound. Jes’ listen at ’em!”
The scout could not fail to hear them now, for their howls swept out
in a wild chorus.
“Wolves?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Comin’ this way?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.”
She observed that in spite of his careless reply he touched up the
horse with the spur.
The wolves were in two bands, apparently; one band on the
mountainside, off on the left, and the other behind, in the trail,
or in the river cañon. Those on the hillside were nearest, and their
howls soon became frightful.
“Chasin’ us?” she asked.
“We’ll hope not.”
“Well, I know they aire! Ye can’t fool me. I’ve had experience. This
ain’t the fust time I’ve heerd ’em.”
She put her hand into her bosom and drew out a revolver.
“This ain’t big enough to kill many wolves with,” she remarked; “but
it’s big enough to kill me, which it’ll do if the wolves should
seem about to git me. I’d ruther die by a bullet than to have them
critters tear me into giblets. Ugh! Hear ’em yellin’!”
It was not a pleasant sound, and again the scout touched the horse up
with the spur.
The country lay more open before him, a fact of which he was glad.
The moonlight and open country lessened the danger from the wolves;
for, like all evil creatures, they loved the darkness rather than the
light.
The horse was now flying along, oblivious of its double burden. It
not only heard the wolves, but had scented them, and was frightened.
The howling drew nearer, and soon the wolves, sweeping down from the
hills, were seen running along the trail just behind the fugitives,
and off on the left, beyond revolver shot. They grew constantly
bolder and bolder, so that soon they were close upon the horse. They
seemed to recognize the helplessness of the fugitives, pitted against
so many; for the wolf gains courage from numbers, and is boldest when
in big packs.
Soon the wolves became so reckless that they dashed into the trail,
partly surrounding the horse. Then they began to leap at its nose,
and sought to strike their teeth into its legs for the purpose of
hamstringing it, after the manner in which they were accustomed to
bring down deer and other game.
The scout shot one that sprang at the horse’s head; and then dropped
another that had leaped to the horse’s haunches.
“Downed ’em, ye did!” cried Pizen Jane. “Good for you! It makes me
’most love ye, Buffler, to see you drop ’em like that.”
He made no answer save a grunt of wrath.
“Buffler,” Pizen Jane cackled, “I know you’re enj’yin’ my society,
even if the wolves is chasin’ us!”
“I should feel better if you were not here,” he answered, quite
frankly.
“Why, Buffler?”
“Because of the wolves. You have no need to ask.”
He fired at another.
It fell with a yelp, being only wounded; but immediately its
ferocious comrades sprang on it, tearing it to pieces almost
instantly, being rendered savage beyond belief by the scent of its
flowing blood.
Even the bold scout shuddered as he saw that. He had seen its like
more than once, yet it never failed to impress him with a sense of
the awful ferocity of wolves when maddened in that way, and of his
terrible peril. He knew that if his horse fell, or if either of the
riders should be thrown to the ground, a horrible death could only
result.
“Buffler,” said Pizen Jane at length, as he brought down another
wolf, thus feeding it to its comrades, “I know this trail, havin’
been over it before, and you don’t know it; but there’s a ford right
ahead, where the trail dips down and then crosses the river. If you
can reach that ford, you can git in the water there and make a stand
agin’ ’em wuth while. They’ll git us, otherwise.”
She did not emit that cackling laugh now; in fact, she had begun to
appreciate her horrible danger, and was speculating as to its outcome.
“Thank Heaven for that!” said the scout. “Perhaps I can hold them off
until the ford is reached.”
He had fired every cartridge out of his revolver, and now drew
another.
“Can you reload this one?” he said, passing it back to her, with some
cartridges.
“Yes,” she said; “and shoot it, too!”
She proceeded to show that she could, by bringing down a wolf that
tried to leap upon the horse, close by her. The claws of the wolf
struck through the thick hide of the horse just as she fired, and,
contracting in a death clutch, they raked the skin open, so that
blood flowed.
The horse gave a jump that came nigh hurling Pizen Jane to the
ground; but she threw her arms round the scout and held on like grim
death.
A dozen wolves had leaped on the one she shot, and were rending and
devouring it; but others came on, more frantically determined than
ever to pull down the horse, now, that they scented the hot blood
which streamed from its flank.
Buffalo Bill brought down one of the pursuing wolves, and Pizen Jane
another.
Though the living ones stopped to rend the dead and dying, the delay
was brief enough.
Yet it enabled the sorely pressed horse to gain on its fiendish foes.
“The ford’s jist ahead of ye now!” Pizen Jane screamed in the ear of
Buffalo Bill.
In another minute he saw before him the darkly flowing waters of the
river, which had emerged from its cañon bed and here flowed through a
quiet landscape.
Buffalo Bill spurred the frantic and terrified horse into the river
until the water came up over the girth.
“Draw up your feet,” he said to Pizen Jane.
“I ain’t neither sugar ner salt, to be melted away by a little
water,” she declared; “and I dunno but I could swim if I was driv’
to it; so don’t worry about me. Jist so we git out o’ reach o’ them
screechin’ varmints, is all I ask.”
The pursuing and infuriated wolves dashed up to the edge of the water.
Buffalo Bill turned in the saddle and dropped one of them by a
well-directed shot, and then wounded another.
The ferocious survivors began to tear at the fallen wolves as soon
as they were down, so that within a few minutes nothing was left of
them but shining, dislocated bones. The sight was enough to make the
scout and the woman shudder.
Buffalo Bill urged the horse still farther out into the river, until
the water stood midway of its sides.
The wolves on the shore seemed, within a few minutes, to number
scores, and even hundreds. Their snapping teeth, fiery eyes, and
struggling movements made the shore a writhing mass of fiendish
forms. Some of them dashed into the water and began to swim out to
the horse; but they were at a disadvantage in the water; for they
could not there make the tremendous leaps that would carry them to
the horse’s back, nor could they move quickly enough to baffle the
revolver fire of the scout and Pizen Jane.
Pizen Jane was reloading and firing the revolver the scout had given
her, with a coolness and courage that would have befitted a man.
Between them they succeeded in shooting every wolf that swam close to
the horse.
The dark bodies of dead wolves bobbed in the stream below the ford,
where there were some eddies, that, catching them, whirled them
slowly round and round.
But the fate of the wolves already slain had small deterrent effect
on those still living, and their numbers seemed inexhaustible. Where
they came from could hardly be told; they seemed to spring out of the
very ground; and they ran snapping and yelping along the banks, on
both sides of the river now, while at intervals a few of the most
desperate plunged in and tried to reach the horse and its riders.
Generous as his supply of ammunition was, Buffalo Bill began to fear
it would soon be exhausted.
Suddenly, while the wolves still raved on the shores of the moonlit
river, and dashed into the water in efforts to reach the horse, a
wild scream was heard near by, which had on them a marvelous effect.
It was the scream of a panther. The big beast had scented the flowing
blood, and doubtless had come for a feast.
The leaping forms of the wolves dropped out of sight with almost
startling suddenness, as the lithe body of the panther came down the
hillside with springing leaps.
“Glory be!” cried Pizen Jane, with an almost hysterical cackle. “The
painter has druv ’em off.”
The “painter,” as she called the panther, came on toward the river,
not at first seeing the horse midway of the stream. In another moment
it would have been cracking the bones of the dead wolves, if the
horse had not been startled by its coming and began to plunge in the
water, making a good deal of noise.
The panther stopped, throwing up its head and looking down at the
horse. It was startled, and seemed too surprised for a moment to
move. Then, with a quick leap, it turned aside; and in another
instant it, too, was lost to sight in the darkness.
“Glory be!” Pizen Jane mumbled.
Buffalo Bill saw now that she was trembling, as if her nerves were
exhausted.
“Shall we ride out now?” he asked.
Before she could answer, the sharp report of a revolver, or rifle,
sounded. It was some distance away; yet the stillness which had
followed the cessation of the wolf attack made it possible for sounds
to carry a long distance. Following the first shot, came others in
quick succession.
“Some other pore critter attacked by them varmints!” Pizen Jane
interpreted.
“Yes.”
“I hope they don’t git him, if he’s honest and hon’rable; I hope he’s
nigh to the water, and can git into it, as we did.”
The scout was listening for a repetition of the shots.
“I hope a painter will come ’long to his ’sistance, as it did to
ours.”
The shots did not sound again.
“They’ve killed him, er he’s druv ’em away, er mebbe the painter
skeered ’em. I’m swearin’ by painters, frum this time on!”
Pizen Jane’s tongue would wag, no matter what happened.
“If I thought we could aid him, and he needed aid now, I’d try to go
to his help,” said the generous scout.
“But we don’t know where he is!”
“He’s out in that direction, somewhere.”
“And he may be a road agent, or even an Injun. More likely to be,
than an honest man.”
“Very true; yet I shouldn’t want any human being to be torn alive by
wolves.”
“It’d serve some of ’em right,” avowed Pizen Jane, with a grimness
that was not pleasant. “Some on ’em that I know of, and am lookin’
fer, ought to be chopped into giblets. If the wolves should kill ’em,
it’d save me the crime of murder when I meet ’em.”
When the shots did not come again, and nothing occurred to indicate
who the man was, or what had happened to him, the scout abandoned his
desire to go to his aid.
He feared the return of the wolves; and so he kept his horse in the
stream, though the beast was soon shaking from the chill of the cold
water.
“It’s a tarnal queer thing, Buffler, ther way that animiles do,”
averred the woman, dropping into a mood of philosophy. “The wolves
warn’t afeared of us, even when we laid ’em out on the shore like
chopped corn, though they was skeered o’ that painter; and the
painter that wasn’t afeared of the wolves, was afeared of us.
Varmints aire that queer there’s no knowin’ what to expect of ’em.”
For nearly an hour the scout kept his shivering horse in the stream;
but when it was seen that the wolves were not likely to return soon
he rode out of the water.
On the shore he went into camp, and there he built a fire. The fire
would help to keep the wolves at bay; and also it was needed to
enable him and Pizen Jane to dry their wet clothing.
He screened the fire as well as he could; yet he knew it might be
seen; and he was in a land where he could expect to meet enemies in
human shape as terrible as the wolves and as little given to mercy.
To guard against surprise, he for a time stood in the darkness
beyond the rim of the firelight, watching there, while the woman by
the fire dried and warmed herself.
Far away he heard wolves howling, and they may have been some of
those who had pursued him; but the man who had fired the shots did
not make himself known.
The stars and the moon swung their slow way westward, and the night
grew late. At last the scout returned to the fire, fed it with wood,
and sat down.
Pizen Jane had fallen asleep, but his return aroused her, and she
raised herself on her elbow.
“Buffler,” she said, smoothing back her tangled hair, “what aire ye
goin’ to do now?”
“In what way?” he asked. “When?”
“Why, to-morrer?”
“I hardly know.”
“Well, I know you’re lookin’ fer road agents!”
“You seem to think you are a mind reader,” he declared, with a laugh.
“I am. I kin read yer mind same’s my own.”
“What am I thinking of?”
“That you wish Pizen Jane was in purgatory, er some other furrin
country!”
He laughed again, and she laughed with him.
“Hardly that, of course.”
“You’re wishin’ I wasn’t with you?”
“Your society is very pleasant,” was his gallant statement; “but you
will admit that this is hardly the sort of country where a woman can
feel safe.”
“And that’s why I’m goin’ to hang to ye. You can’t git rid of me.
I’ll cling to ye like the bark on a tree, and you can’t help it. Fer,
ye see, you’re huntin’ road agents, and so am I. And if you find ’em,
and I’m with ye, why, I’ll find ’em, too. And that’s what I want.”
He smiled into the firelight.
“I thought you were of the opinion that I was a fake, and you meant
to cling to me for the purpose of finding out?”
“Well, that is one reason,” she admitted, with blunt frankness. “If
you ain’t the reel Buffler Bill, why, I want to know that, too. And
then I’ll be makin’ things mighty int’restin’ fer ye.”
She laughed again, sliding from her stern grimness and threatening
into laughing good humor.
“I’ll watch a while, if ye want to sleep,” she said. “I’ve had my
forty winks, and can git along now till morning.”
The scout felt sure that he could trust this woman not to harm him
in his sleep. She still mystified him, and he could not yet fathom
her purpose in being there; for he did not credit her with all the
motives she professed. However, he trusted her, and so after a while
he lay down for a time, leaving Pizen Jane on guard by the dying camp
fire.
The horse was picketed on its lariat a few yards away, and was
certain to give an alarm if wolves or other wild animals approached.