THE WILD RANGE RIDERS.
The men whom old Nick Nomad gathered about him in the town were a
wild-looking lot, yet typical of the border, particularly in the old
days when Nomad was younger and was noted as one of the most fiery of
the frontier Indian fighters.
Luck favored him, for there had come into the town of Crystal Spring,
at the base of the mountains, a band of old-time bordermen, hunters,
trappers, and wild-horse catchers, with whom he was personally
acquainted.
It had been Nomad’s intention to pick up a company of men in the
town, merchants, clerks, school teachers, stage drivers, bartenders,
gamblers, anything he could get, even though he had small faith in
the fighting spirit of a company thus collected.
But that intention was set aside when he saw Lawler and his wild
range riders; and when they enrolled under him, as they did as soon
as they understood his need and heard his appeal, the confidence of
the old trapper rose many degrees.
“Waugh!” he said, seizing the hand of Bill Lawler himself, and
shaking it as if it were a pump handle. “This hyar makes me think er
ther time me an’ a lot of the boyees give ther Snake River Injuns
sech a hustle. Lawler, ’twar Providence, and no mistake, thet sent
you hyar now.”
He had fought Indians with Lawler, and had trapped and hunted with
him; and this was true of many of the men who had come into Crystal
Spring with Lawler.
As has been said, they were a wild-looking lot, as they gathered
round old Nick Nomad and heard his story; and they declared their
intention of “wiping out” the Blackfeet, if that were necessary.
Among their arms, old-fashioned firearms prevailed, together with
fringed hunting garments and beaver-skin caps. They carried hatchets
and knives, after the Indian fashion, and the horses they rode were
small, wiry Indian ponies.
Some of them had been drinking in the saloons, before the old trapper
arrived and made his call for volunteers, and these hilarious ones
were for riding straight to the Blackfoot village and sweeping it out
of existence with fire and pistol.
“No!” said Nomad. “We goes fust thing ter Buffler, and then we does
what he says. And I thinks we can’t git ter him any too quick ter
please him.”
Night was at hand by the time Nomad had guided these wild range
riders to the point where he had left Cody and Pawnee Bill.
Neither was there, and he had hardly expected that either would be.
Nevertheless, the fact of their absence made it impossible for Nomad
and his company of Indian fighters to push on during the darkness.
They did not wish to overrun the scouts, who were supposed to be
in advance, and Nomad was anxious to halt there, for the coming of
Buffalo Bill.
The range riders sprawled themselves for the night along the edge of
the hills, with the cañon river roaring noisily below them.
No fires were built and no lights were shown. Guards were stationed.
They were in the Blackfoot country now, and a night surprise was a
thing to be watched against. Through the night sentries kept sharp
watch; but the night passed without excitement or incident of any
kind.
When morning dawned, with no enemy in sight, many of the range riders
clamored to be led to the Indian village, which they desired to
attack in their wild Bedouin fashion. But old Nomad had been with
Buffalo Bill too much to believe that he would approve of a thing of
that kind, and he held back the eager rangers.
“Waugh! I’ll take a look round,” he said, “and see what’s ter be
seen, and mebbe diskiver what’s best ter be did. I’m lookin’ fer
Buffler now ever’ minute. Ef he don’t come, then we’ll move on down
ther stream, and try ter hit his trail and foller it.”
He rode away in the gray dawn on Nebuchadnezzar, promising to be back
soon.
“I ain’t got no use fer Injuns no more’n they have,” was his thought,
“and I’m agreein’ with ’em that ther only good Injun is a dead
Injun; but, jes’ ther same, I knows thet Buffler would git hotter’n
a limekiln ef I should let them wild men charge ther Blackfeet, as
they want ter do. Ef Buffler’s fell inter ther hands of ther cusses,
why, then thet’s diff’runt; thet puts ther responsibility and their
commandin’ onter me. I reckons ef thet _has_ happened, we’ll be
obleeged ter charge ther reds, and wipe ’em out, ’specially if
they’ve done any wickedness ter Buffler.”
He passed on down the cañon trail a long distance, looking carefully
about, and searching for “sign.”
He saw pony hoofs and moccasin tracks, but they had been made early
the day before, he judged, which indicated that the men and horses
that had made them were not near.
Yet old Nomad was mistaking and underrating Blackfoot cunning in
that; for, as he passed on, scanning the ground and glancing his
keen, old eyes along the hills, a number of Blackfeet were watching
him.
They were under the leadership of Crazy Snake, as cunning a rascal as
had ever crept, serpentlike, through the defiles of those hills.
There was nothing crazy about old Crazy Snake but his name. He
was shrewd, cunning, remarkably clear-headed for an Indian, and,
altogether, a dangerous redskin. The name had been given him because
of his ferocity in a certain battle, when, surrounded by an attacking
party of Cree Indians, he had fought his way through and escaped,
after killing and wounding many of them; he had fought as if he were
a crazy snake, and that was his name ever after.
Crazy Snake was now just back from the trip he had made a number of
miles to the northward, having made a headlong ride for the purpose
of getting help from the Blackfoot village that lay at the big sink
of the Powder River. He had secured the warriors he had gone for,
and they were with him, and he was now on his way to the lower
village--his own village--where he meant to make a mighty resistance,
if the white men came there to attack him.
When he saw, in the trail below, the old trapper jogging along on his
old horse, Nebuchadnezzar, he knew from Nomad’s manner that he was
searching for some trail, or for Indian “sign.”
Crazy Snake knew, too, that this old trapper was the friend and pard
of the wonderful Long Hair, so feared by all the Western Indians.
When he had determined the direction that Nomad would take, Crazy
Snake slipped away with several of his best warriors, and hastened
to put himself and them in front of the trapper, in an endeavor to
ambush him.
Nomad, however, turned around, as if he smelled the trap that was
laid for him; and, after jogging along a short distance, disappeared
from sight of the Blackfeet.
He had struck a trail that excited his curiosity. It was the plain
trail of a white man, and the white man seemed to be wounded, or
suffering. The tracks wavered here and there.
“Got an Injun arrer in him, I’m guessin’,” was Nomad’s opinion.
“’Tain’t Buffler’s trail, ner Pawnee’s; and I dunno who it kin be.
But whoever he aire, he aire white; and I’ll see what’s the meanin’
of it.”
The trail was fresh and plain, and he followed it rapidly.
It did not take him long to come in sight of a small hut half hidden
under a projecting ledge. The door was open, and the wavering trail
led through the grass straight up to it.
“Some fool miner’s camped down hyar, and didn’t know thet ther
cussed Blackfeet aire threatenin’ all white men’s ha’r!” was Nomad’s
conclusion, as he left the trail, dismounted, and then approached the
house carefully from the rear, looking into the hut through the one
small rear window.
A man lay on the floor by the door, seeming to have fallen there
through sheer weakness.
Nomad immediately went around to the door.
“Hello!” he said, stepping within. “Got some Injun lead in ye?” His
tone changed to astonishment. “Bill Givens!” he cried. “Waugh! Ole
pard, what’s ther meanin’ o’ this?”
The meaning of it was that Bill Givens, an old acquaintance of
Nomad’s, was ill of measles, and in a dangerous condition. He had got
home, and tried to get into the house and on his bed, but had fallen
on the floor.
Nomad knew what the trouble was as soon as he looked in Givens’
splotched and fevered face; but he had no fear of measles; and,
picking Givens up, he put him on the narrow bed, and then tried to do
something for him to make him comfortable.
“Been ground-hoggin’ out hyar by yerself, eh? Tryin’ ter git some of
the yaller gold thet everybody ’lows these hyar hills aire sloppin’
over with, eh? Waugh! You’d ought to ’a’ got out o’ this ’fore ther
measles hit ye, fer ther Blackfeet aire thick as flies round hyar,
and aire likely ter make trouble.”
He was puzzled as to what he should do.
When he had worked over Givens a while, and had poured some hot water
down his throat, water heated in the tiny fireplace, Givens came, in
a measure, to himself.
He knew that Blackfeet were around in that locality, and now, seeing
and recognizing his old trapper pard, he begged Nomad to take him
down to the town, or at least away from the cabin so surrounded by
Indian perils.
“It’s resky, but not so resky as you stayin’ hyar, even if somebody
stayed hyar with ye, Givens,” said Nomad. “I reckon I kin help ye
stick ter ther back of my ole hoss, and we’ll git ye back to whar
ther rangers aire waitin’, and then have some of ’em stay by ye, er
git ye to ther town. I never deserts an ole pard, Givens, and I’ll
not desert you.”
Nomad got Nebuchadnezzar, and with some difficulty helped the sick
man to mount to the horse’s back. Then he took the rein, and, with
Givens swaying weakly in the saddle, he set out with him, striking
the backward trail and hurrying on toward the camp of the rangers.
Meanwhile, Crazy Snake had not been inactive; he had drawn his cordon
of Blackfeet warriors and descended into the trail.
Suddenly rifle shots rang out and bowstrings twanged.
Givens fell, with a bullet in his brain, tumbling heavily to the
ground.
Bullets cut through Nomad’s clothing, and an arrow struck and stuck
in his beaver-skin cap, its feathered end projecting from the fur,
forming a strange-looking plume.
Nomad tried to turn Nebuchadnezzar around in the trail, but the
Blackfoot rush was made too quickly; and, though he went down
fighting, he was subdued, and made a prisoner, being beaten to the
earth before he submitted.
Nebuchadnezzar pawed and squealed, rushed on the Blackfeet with
his greenish teeth clicking and snapping, and lunged out with his
twinkling heels; but Nebuchadnezzar, too, was made a prisoner.
Nomad’s effort to aid a needy friend had made him a prisoner of the
Blackfeet.