THE DESERT HOTSPUR.
Buffalo Bill had not only evaded and baffled the outlaws, but had
circled around them, struck their trail, and had followed it so
closely that, from the mountain side, he had been able to look down
into the camp and behold the scenes which have been described.
He had strong field glasses, that drew the actors close to him,
apparently. He saw them so clearly that he almost fancied he could
follow the conversation. His long-range rifle lay at his side. He saw
that Nomad was there as a prisoner, and certain actions told him that
Nomad was in peril. He also fancied that Pizen Jane’s life was being
threatened.
As he looked, lowering his field glasses occasionally, he fitted to
his rifle telescopic sights, taking them from a pocket of his coat.
On all the border there was not another rifle shot like Buffalo Bill.
He was famous as a long-range sharpshooter.
Instead of looking longer through the field glasses, he looked
now through the telescopic sights of his rifle. He saw Snaky Pete
standing before the woman, who was protecting Nick Nomad with her
body. He saw the knife raised and glittering in Snaky Pete’s hand.
Then his rifle cracked, with the sights bearing on the outlaw leader;
and the bullet speeding true, he saw Snaky Pete pitch up his hands
and roll to the ground.
“Good work!” he said, patting the rifle affectionately. “That was
about as long a shot as I ever made; but I got him.”
He saw men spring for their horses, and knew they would ride out to
the point where the rifle had sounded; yet he lingered long enough to
see Snaky Pete lifted and carried aside.
“I didn’t kill him,” he said. “The distance was too great, and I
didn’t strike a vital spot; but he’ll remember it for some time, I’ve
no doubt, and maybe it will teach him better manners.”
He removed the telescopic sight and stowed it away and placed the
field glasses in their case.
Taking up his rifle, he made his way down the hill, keeping out of
view of the horsemen who were now riding hard in his direction.
Some distance below, in a growth of aspens, his horse had been
concealed. Mounting, he rode down the slope. Then, swinging round the
projecting base of the hill, he shaped his course across the open
country. His horse was speedy, and it was seemingly untiring.
Though the outlaws saw him soon, and gave hot chase, he steadily drew
away from them, and in an hour he had lost sight even of the foremost.
That night, as darkness fell, the great scout was before the gate
at Fort Thompson, where a company of cavalry was stationed. He was
challenged; then he was admitted and conducted to the headquarters of
Major Clendenning, the commander.
Cody’s horse was in a white lather of sweat from its long run; and
the scout’s clothing was powdered with white dust, and dust streaked
his face to a grayish tinge. He showed every indication of long and
hard riding.
Clendenning sprang up, with outstretched hand, when the noted scout
was brought before him.
Buffalo Bill had saluted, but he now took the extended hand of the
officer.
“In the name of Heaven, Cody, where have you come from?” cried the
major. “I thought you were over about the Sepulcher Mountains.”
“So I was, major,” was his answer, “but now I am here. I rode from
there since this morning.”
Major Clendenning’s amazement showed in his face.
“You had a change of horses, no doubt, and you must be nearly dead!
Let me get you some wine!”
“I had only one horse. He is pretty well exhausted, but will be all
right after a rest. I need another, which I hope you can let me have.”
“Swallow the wine, Cody, and then I’ll hear your story. Straight from
the Sepulcher Mountains since morning!”
Buffalo Bill drank the wine, and then began to tell his story.
“Nomad is a prisoner,” was one of his statements, “and so is a woman
from Cinnabar who calls herself Pizen Jane. I’m not just certain
of her, but she bravely stood up before Nomad when that outlaw
threatened him.”
“She and Nomad will both be slain, if they have not been already,”
said Clendenning.
“It may be. I’m hoping otherwise. But I saw I could do no more then
than I had done, and that if I expected to aid them I must have
assistance. So I rode here to get it.”
“You shall have it, Cody.”
“I want twenty good men, well armed and provisioned. We’ll not be
able to get back there as quickly as I came from there; but we can go
as fast as possible. I shall rescue Nomad and root out that devil’s
nest. If he has been killed, there will be some desperadoes of the
Sepulcher Mountains who will pay for it with their lives.”
“You can start as early in the morning, Cody, as you like, and you
shall have the men,” said Clendenning; “I’ll give the orders right
now.”
He turned to the door.
“Stop, major; I want those men right now, without a moment’s delay.”
Clendenning turned back in surprise.
“But you’ll have to rest, Cody; you can’t go back without proper
rest.”
“I’m fit to start back this minute, Major Clendenning. It will be a
favor if you detail the men who are to go with me, and have them get
ready instantly. I should like to have you order an extra horse for
me, and while preparations are being made I’ll eat a bite, and then
go right back.”
Clendenning, amazed at the scout’s orders, proceeded, however, to
carry them out.
Twenty picked men were soon saddling horses, looking to their rifles,
packing rations, and getting ready for a hard and swift ride to the
Sepulcher Mountains.
Buffalo Bill swallowed some food hastily, ordered his saddle
pouches to be filled with more; and then dropped down on a lounge
in the major’s headquarters for a few winks of sleep. He had hardly
stretched himself on the lounge before he was sleeping soundly.
He slept less than half an hour, during which time the preparations
for his departure were being hurried; then he awoke, seemingly much
refreshed and ready for any task.
It was this astonishing ability to fall asleep anywhere and at any
time, and to awake after a brief slumber apparently as refreshed as
if he had slept through a whole night, that in part made Buffalo Bill
the wonder he was on a border trail.
He now brushed his clothing, ate more food, and then issued from the
major’s headquarters.
“Men,” he said, speaking to the troopers who greeted him, and who
were about ready to follow him, “we’ll have a hard night’s work of
it, and a part of to-morrow may be consumed if the outlaws have
changed their location; but I know you, each of you--men of the
gallant old Seventh Cavalry!--and I thank you in advance for the
success I know you will achieve. If Nick Nomad has been killed by
Snaky Pete’s desperadoes, then desperado blood will flow before we
see this fort again.”
They cheered him to the echo. Not a man there but felt proud to
follow this gallant scout, whose reputation was so closely linked
with that of the famous Seventh Cavalry.
Members of that noted regiment had died with Custer on the
battlefield of the Little Bighorn, when a handful of men were
overwhelmed and swept out of existence by a horde of Indian braves,
the flower of the Sioux nation. On almost every battlefield of the
West in which Uncle Sam’s troopers were hurled against Indians or
outlaws, the gallant Seventh had had representatives.
The troopers cheered again, saluting the flag, as they passed in the
night out through the heavy double gates of the fort.
Major Clendenning accompanied them beyond the limits of the fort and
its grounds.
“Men,” he said, as he was about to turn back, “I have a new name
for our famous scout. Hotspur usually refers to a man impetuous of
temper; but it might mean, also, I think, a man who as a horseman
rode with a spur so hot that in nine hours he covered the distance
between the Sepulcher Mountains and Fort Thompson. So I give you a
new name for him--Buffalo Bill, the Desert Hotspur.”
He lifted his hat to the scout; and again the troopers cheered, their
loud cheering rolling across the level lands in a way that, if it
could have been heard by them, would have startled the desperadoes
under Snaky Pete.
Then the troopers, with Buffalo Bill riding swiftly at their head,
to set the pace for them, galloped away through the night and the
darkness, the thundering of the hoofs of the horses reaching into the
barracks at the fort.