A WHIRLWIND CHASE.
Following hard on the trail of Black John and his companions, Buffalo
Bill, Pawnee Bill, and Nick Nomad came to the point where Black
John’s men had been fooled by the Indians.
Several bodies, scalped and mutilated, told their own story.
Indian pony tracks were numerous, and all the evidences of a surprise
and a fight.
Such “signs” were easy to read by men as experienced as Buffalo Bill
and his comrades.
While examining this small battle ground, they heard a feeble shout,
and then beheld a young man ride out of a timbered gorge and come
toward them.
The man was Bruce Clayton.
His hands were still tied behind his back, and his feet were bound
together beneath the pony’s body. He was almost paralyzed from the
constriction of the cords, and the fact that he had been in that
painful position so long.
He had been unable to guide his horse, except by pressure of his
knees, when the Indian surprise and attack came, and so the animal
had chosen its own course, dashing away in wild fright.
It bore him into this gorge, and on into the midst of a growth of
brushy timber, some distance from the mouth of the gorge. There, by
voice alone, he had been able to check it.
For some reason, perhaps because they were pursuing other men, the
Indians did not follow him, and he remained there undisturbed a long
time, wondering what he ought to do, or could do. He was unable to
release himself.
By and by the horse grazed its way back to the mouth of the gorge.
Then the unhappy prisoner was able to ride forth, guiding with his
knees, and make his predicament known.
Buffalo Bill lost no time in cutting away the cords that had held
Clayton so long to the back of the pony.
The youth had to be helped from the saddle. When he began to talk,
it was seen that his mental sufferings had been as great as his
physical. He told them of the surprise by the Indians, and of what
had followed, so far as he had been able to see it. And he also told
of his own adventures and experiences.
“Lena was with that leader when I saw her last,” he said. “But I
haven’t any idea where she is now. I fear the worst.”
In spite of their desire to hasten on, the scouts remained there a
long time, a thing which gave Black John a good start.
They could not go on with Clayton until his physical condition was
improved, nor could they hope to accomplish much until they had
gained something like accurate knowledge of what had become of the
girl.
To the task of learning this last, Buffalo Bill and Pawnee bent their
utmost skill, leaving old Nomad to minister to the needs of Clayton.
The scouts had long before picked out the individual trail of the
horse ridden by Black John; but now that he had secured an Indian
pony, they were put to their wits’ ends to know what to do.
After much searching they came on a bit of evidence that was of the
utmost value. It was a piece of cloth torn by a thorny bush from
Lena’s dress. There could be no mistaking it, nor how it came to be
there.
By this thorny bush they found pony tracks, heading southward. They
studied these tracks, until they were sure they should know them when
seen anywhere; for, to the experienced eye of the plainsman, there
is as much difference between the tracks made by different ponies as
there is between the penmanship of different men.
When they had done this much, and had followed the trail some
distance, they returned to where old Nomad was caring for Bruce
Clayton.
The brief rest had done a world of good for the young man. He had
walked by the stream, and so had got the stiffness and half paralysis
out of his body and limbs. He was still “sore as a boil,” as he
expressed it, but he had had something to eat and drink; and in his
anxiety he now declared that he was himself again, and was ready to
go on, wherever the scouts went.
He was much encouraged by the report brought in by his friends, the
two scouts. He looked anxiously at the shred of cloth which they
showed, and then asked if he might have it.
“I may never see her again!” he said simply, as he put it away in his
pocket.
Bruce’s horse was also in better condition now, and was almost as
strong as the worn horses of the scout and his pards.
Buffalo Bill was anxious to push on, now that he felt sure they had
found the trail of the pony that had borne the girl away.
Whether the man who was supposed to be with her on that pony’s back
was Black John, or some one else, they, of course, did not know.
In spite of the jaded condition of the horses, the chase that
followed was really of a whirlwind character, as the previous one had
been. If their quarry were Black John, they hoped to bring him in
sight soon, and they drove their horses on without much mercy.
As has been seen, at a time when Black John began to feel safe, he
had found that these human bloodhounds were on his track and coming
up rapidly.
On gaining the valley where Black John had stopped to rest and cook
some food, the evidences of his presence there was so fresh, and the
signs of his quick flight so plain, that Buffalo Bill was sure he was
not far ahead. Moreover, as his horse was carrying double, and was
tired, as its trail showed, they began confidently to believe that
in a short time they would be able to overhaul him and force him to
surrender his fair prisoner.
“Crowd ’im, Buffler!” said Nomad, with youthful enthusiasm. “We’re
goin’ ter drive him inter a hole now mighty quick.”
The next moment he was belaboring old Nebuchadnezzar, to get greater
speed out of him.
Thus they swept along, riding hard on the trail of the fugitive.
The Indian pony took to a rocky gorge, where its hoofprints were not
easily followed; but, as it could not have left the gorge, they rode
straight on at top speed.
“Go ’long, Nebby, you ole crow bait!” said Nomad. “Hyar I’ve allus
been braggin’ on you bein’ a reg’lar bird with wings, when it come
ter runnin’, and now you’re hurtin’ my feelin’s by turnin’ inter a
snail. Go ’long!”
They came in sight of the pony they were pursuing, at a bend in the
gorge, and they almost reeled in their saddles when they saw it, so
great was their astonishment.
The pony was riderless!
“Waugh!” Nomad roared, drawing rein and staring stupidly. “Whar’s
ther man and ther gal?”
No one could answer his question.