PURSUED BY BLACKFEET.
“Whoa, Nebby, consarn ye! Don’t lose yer head, now, er mighty quick
you won’t have no head to lose.”
Old Nick Nomad, the trapper and famous border scout, twisted around
in his saddle, jerking at his horse’s bridle, and stared back along
the way he had come after leaving the outlaw stronghold.
Nomad was a small, dried-up specimen of a man, dressed in border
costume of ancient fashion, even to the beaver-skin cap. He held in
his right hand a long rifle. His old horse, ungainly as himself, yet
possessed of as many surprising qualities, stepped about, in spite
of the jerking rein, and showed every indication of nervousness and
fright.
“You’re skittisher’n a two-year-old, and ain’t got any more sense,
when you smells Injuns,” Nick grumbled. “Stand still, now; they’re
comin’ erlong, I know, but they ain’t nigh enough ter bite ye!”
Old Nebuchadnezzar had made a rapid run since the Blackfeet were
sighted, more than two miles back. The homely, shaggy-haired beast
had been too fleet for the Blackfeet ponies. His sides were heaving
now, and sweat trickled down his legs, dripping to the ground. Yet
he was ready to go on; and so much did he fear Indians that he would
have run until he fell, if Nomad had but given him rein and urged him
a little.
Nomad was trying to determine whether the Blackfeet were coming on,
following his trail, or whether they had left the trail and were
trying to cut him off at some narrow pass. They were more familiar
with this part of the country than he was, and he knew in that they
possessed a decided advantage.
After a time of quiet, the Blackfeet had once more become
troublesome, under Crazy Snake, whose hatred of the whites had flared
forth with sudden fury.
Nomad had, for two days, returned to the old life he loved best of
all--trapping by the headwaters of the mountain streams, leading a
carefree existence in the open and under the blue sky.
Then, on the last day--the day on which he was to arrive at the
fort--trouble and peril had descended on him when he had least
expected it.
His traps were stolen or destroyed, his little hut was broken open
and robbed, and then Paul Davis, his old-time border partner, who had
encountered him in the neighborhood of the outlaws’ stronghold, was
slain, while returning one afternoon to the hut from a hunt.
Nomad found Davis’ body in the trail that led down from the higher
mountains, and on Davis’ breast a bloody arrow, slashed there with a
scalping knife.
The scalp had been torn from Davis’ head, thus proving that the work
had been done by Blackfeet, while the bloody arrow showed that this
was another “vengeance” blow struck by the chief, Crazy Snake.
Old Nomad was not fool enough to linger there longer. He buried
the body of his old friend, protecting it from wolves by a heap of
stones placed on the grave. Then he cached his pelts, picked his few
belongings, mounted old Nebuchadnezzar, and set his face toward Fort
Thompson.
But he was not to escape so easily.
He had not gone far when he discovered that Blackfeet were dogging
his trail, for the apparent purpose of surprising him in camp, or
while he slept. He was sure these Blackfeet were led by Crazy Snake,
who had marked him for another victim.
As Nomad sat staring along the backward way, a herd of elk came in
sight, swinging down the trail he had been following. He instantly
guided Nebuchadnezzar out of the trail, and let the elk go plunging
by, for they seemed to be frightened, and were running at high speed.
“Good enough!” the old man grunted. “I think I kin puzzle them red
devils a bit now.”
Sure that wherever the Blackfeet were they did not now see him, Nomad
dismounted, and, removing a blanket he carried in a roll behind his
saddle, he tore it into strips and wrapped them round the hoofs of
his horse, so that he would leave no trail.
A trailless route would make it troublesome for even the keen-eyed
Blackfeet to follow him.
Descending the mountain now by a zigzag path, and making, besides,
several changes in his course, Nomad succeeded in reaching lower
ground. Here he mounted Nebuchadnezzar again, and rode off in a new
direction; but several times changed his course, in his efforts to
baffle the Blackfeet.
While he was thus riding on, he was astonished by hearing his name
spoken. He reined in and faced about, staring in surprise.
“By ther great jumpin’ jack rabbits, ef that ain’t ther queerest
ever!” he grunted. “Somebody callin’ ter me hyer, at a p’int whar
thar ain’t nobody!”
A pebble came rolling down the side of the hill, the suddenness with
which it bounced out at him making him jump. He saw that it had come
from a clump of aspens on the hillside not far away.
His ancient rifle swung around with a quick motion, and the muzzle
was elevated toward the aspens.
“Hi, there! Don’t shoot,” a voice called. “Like Davy Crockett’s coon,
I’ll come down.”
Then a hand appeared, pushing some leaves aside, and, following this
hand, came the body of a man.
Nomad gasped his amazement when he saw the clothing and face of this
man. Before him stood Buffalo Bill.
Though Nomad’s astonishment was deep, he did not forget the peril in
which he was placed at that time.
“Stand whar ye aire, Buffler!” he called. “The pizen reds aire
rompin’ round, and aire after my ha’r. Ole Crazy Snake is reachin’
fer me with his fangs.”
He guided his horse up to the aspens where the scout stood; the scout
asking questions, which he did not then answer.
“Buffler, I’m gladder ter see ye than ef I’d found a gold mine! Got
yer hoss hyar?”
“Yes; just back here in ther trees.”
“Then, fer Heaven’s sake, muffle him, and git out with me, ’fore
ther reds finds this spot,” the old trapper urged. “I’m huntin’ fer a
hole ter hide in, till Crazy Snake and his Blackfeet villyuns leave
this kentry; and it’ll be healthy fer you ter do ther same quick’s ye
kin.”
Buffalo Bill did not know until then that Crazy Snake had actually
taken to the warpath, though he had known there were rumors of war
trouble, and that a number of whites had been murdered. He shook
hands with old Nomad, and asked him some more questions. This time
Nomad answered:
“I’ve give ’em a good start, and balled ’em some, Buffler, but they
ain’t easy ter fool.”
“I know that, Nomad,” the scout answered; “but I think we can fool
them.”
He retreated to where his horse was tied to an aspen; and then,
taking a blanket from his roll, he made mufflers like those used by
Nomad. He looked anxiously at the trail his horse had made in coming
to this little grove--some of the hoofmarks deeply scored the soil.
But there was no help for that now.
In a few minutes he joined Nomad, mounted, and asked:
“Were you making for the cañon down there?”
“Anywhar, Buffler, ter fool ther Blackfeet. If yer knows this kentry
some I’ll let you p’int ther way, fer bur durned ef I’m any too well
acquainted with it.”
Buffalo Bill took the lead.
As the two men rode along, they discussed the pursuit of the
Blackfeet, and each learned the story of the other.
“I came here from the fort on a scouting trip,” said Buffalo Bill,
“because the Blackfeet have killed some men and have been threatening
trouble. Since I arrived, a miner was murdered and scalped on the
Baldface trail, and a sheep-herder was treated the same way over in
Los Cerillos Valley. Both were slain by Blackfeet; yet I didn’t know
whether it was simply some single Blackfoot murderer, or was the work
of Blackfeet bands of rovers. I rode out here to-day, hoping to find
out something more about it.”
“And now y’ve found, Buffler! The red devils aire risin’, and they’re
killin’ and scalpin’. Ole Crazy Snake’s bloody arrer will be on
the breasts of a good many dead men, ef ther thing continners, I’m
tellin’ ye. I thought it war time fer me ter cut sticks, and so I
did. I’m glad I met ye, Buffler.”
The scout recounted many of the things that had happened during the
past three days, especially the departure of young Clayton, and Nomad
told of his trapping experiences.
“I cached what furs I’d got tergether,” he said, “when I was ready
to slide out o’ the hills. If ther Blackfeet don’t find ’em, I’ll
git ’em some time. Ther thing jes’ now is ter take keer o’ my scalp,
which is a good deal more important than a beaver skin, handsome as a
beaver skin looks.”
He pushed back his cap and scratched at his head, as if it itched in
anticipation of a scalping knife.
They sought lower ground as they talked, and they talked in low
tones.
“Nomad, it’s providential that I met you,” the scout told his old
friend.
“I dunno about it, Buffler,” said Nomad, with a grin. “If I’d gone
straight ahead ’thout tryin’ to break my trail, ole Crazy Snake’s
band would have follered me hot-footed. And so they wouldn’t never
had a chance ter see you hyar an’ put you in danger. Now they may;
fer they’ll pick up thet trail o’ mine, if mortual man kin do it.”
With the scout in the lead, they entered the cañon.
On the rocks just by the water they removed the mufflers from the
hoofs of the horses. The animals were then ridden into the water, the
rocky bank there holding no trail; and down the stream they rode,
keeping in the water. They went on in this way nearly a mile, and
then began to follow up a tributary stream.
As the scout rode along, his keen eyes searching either shore, he saw
a grove of trees. There were a number of these groves in the lower
part of the cañon, whose floor was of soil in places, rather than
rock.
“If we can get under cover of those trees without making any tracks
doing it, we can probably lie safe there,” he remarked, while Nomad
looked at the grove.
“Ole Nebby, hyar, kin do ’most anything, Buffler, but he ain’t learnt
to fly yit. And, without flyin’, I don’t see how you’re goin’ ter
git inter the midst of them trees and leave no sign. Fer thar’s soil
hyar, and not rock.”
“But the grass, you’ll notice, come right down to the water,” said
the scout, “and is a thick, firm turf.”
“Go ahead, Buffler; I’m follerin’ ye. Mebbe we kin make it by
mufflering ther hoofs of ther hosses. But we can’t muffler ’em very
well hyar in ther water, and when we rides out of ther stream with
their hoofs bare they’re shore goin’ ter make some tracks.”
Buffalo Bill rode toward the shore.
When close to the grass, but still in the water, he rose to his
horse’s back. Standing in the saddle, with the remaining blanket from
his roll held in his hands, he threw the blanket so that it fell on
the grass at the water’s edge. It fell, folded, as he had wanted it
to; and, with a quick jump, he leaped to it from the saddle. By this
clever plan, he kept his boots from cutting into the turf and soil.
“You’ve got a blanket, in addition to the scraps you cut the other
one into,” he said. “Throw me your blanket.”
Nomad threw the blanket to him, and the scout spread it out beside
the one on which he was standing.
He kept his feet off the ground, while he arranged both blankets in
the form of a carpet, which touched the very rim of the water. Then
he spoke to his well-trained horse, and the obedient animal walked
from the water out upon the carpet of blankets. There the scout put
on the animal’s hoofs the mufflers, and then commanded it to walk on,
ordering it to stop when it had gone far enough.
“Now, Nomad,” he called, “ride old Nebby out upon this carpet, and
when we’ve put the mufflers on him I think the trick will be nearly
done.”
Nick Nomad complied, dismounting beside his horse on the blankets.
The mufflers were put upon the hoofs of Nebuchadnezzar. Then the old
man rode him on.
Buffalo Bill called his horse back to him, climbed into the saddle,
stooped from the saddle, and picked the blankets from the ground, and
called the trapper’s attention to the apparent success of the ruse.
The blankets and the muffled hoofs had prevented the showing of a
single hoofmark by the margin of the stream. More than that, they had
absorbed the water which ran from the legs of the horses, sucking it
up as a sponge would, and holding it; so that not even water remained
on the grass there to draw the attention of any eagle-eyed Blackfoot.
The scout and the trapper now rode their muffled horses into the
thick grove, where they were completely hidden from view of any one
passing along the cañon stream, or on either of its banks.
“Buffler,” said Nomad, filled with delight at the cleverness of
his old pard, “ef I’d had head enough I might have thought o’ thet
myself; but I didn’t. But I allow thet it’s ther cutest trick I ever
saw played ter try ter fool Injuns. Whar’d yer learn it?”
“I thought of it myself just now. I don’t know that any one ever
tried it before. And that’s what makes it valuable. If we used some
trick that is familiar the Blackfeet would probably be expecting
it, and so would not be fooled by it. They’ll not be expecting this
trick, I hope.”