THE STORM-CLOUD BREAKS.
The next day and the next passed by without any event other than such
usually attendant upon an emigrant’s daily toil along the almost endless
trail, and the majority of the party were inclined to laugh at the
parting words of Dusky Dick, as mere vaporings, proceeding from chagrin.
But not so with all. Tom Maxwell did not take this view of it, nor did
the major or Buenos Ayres, and a steady, unremitting watch was kept up,
both night and day, while great precautions were used in selecting the
nightly encampment.
Toward night of the second day succeeding the departure of Rouzee, the
veteran guide paused until the wagon driven by young Ayres, in which
also sat Major Calhoun, came up beside him.
“What’s up now, Max?”
“Nothin’, maje, as I knows on,” replied Tom. “But look yonder—d’ y’ see
them ’ar trees, jest beyon’ that peint o’ risin’ ground?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, that’s the place to camp to-night. Plenty of wood, water an’
grass.”
“Well?” queried the leader, seeing that something lay beyond the guide’s
words.
“I don’t know, boss, but what you’ll laugh at me, an’ think I mought be
in better biziness, but—” hesitated Tom, a little nervously.
“Why should I, Tom? I certainly should not if you are in earnest. But
what’s the matter?”
“Jest this: you hain’t forgot what Dusky Dick said, nor hain’t I
n’ither. It’s be’n a-runnin in my mind all day, an’ I can’t help
thinkin’ that thar’s so’thin’ in it. You know he said that we’d see him
ag’in, an’ his eyes said, jest as plain as a nigger’s heel, that if we
did, it would not be _alone_.”
“Then you think—?”
“I reckon; leastways I ’spect so. Ef you ax _what_, why I’ll bet a
buffler’ hump ag’in’ a turkey buzzard, that we’ll ’ither see or hear
so’thin’ o’ Mr. Dusky Dick, afore another sun. I feel it all over me.”
“What are you going to do?” somewhat impatiently asked Major Calhoun.
“First, I’m goin’ to scout ’round ontel dusk. I know the lay right well
around here, an’ it’s jist the out-doin’est place you ever did see, for
’bushments and Injun deviltries. It’s a plain shoot for the river thar,
an’ you won’t need me for that.”
“Well, don’t be gone long, nor run any more risk than is absolutely
necessary, Maxwell,” earnestly added Calhoun; “for you are our only
dependence, now. I don’t believe there is one of us all that has the
slightest idea of where we are, or the road necessary to take, in order
to reach safety.”
“Maje,” slowly said the old guide, “I’m a rough old coon, what ain’t o’
much a’count one way nor t’other; I hain’t got no kin, nor ’lations
livin,’ as I knows on. I never hed a wife—leastways, nobody ’cept it
mought be a squaw, now an’ then, for a week or so, an’ I never hed a
child who could call me pap; but for all that, I know how you must feel
when you look at Miss Clary, an’ think ’at she’s in danger.
“I ain’t o’ much a’count, as I said, for I’m old an’ most wored out, but
still I’d fou’t as hard as the best, for the few drops o’ blood in my
karkidge, an’ I say sooner than let _her_ get hurt, even to her
teentiest finger, why I’d be shot, burnt, cut to pieces an’ then
swallered hole! I would, by ge-mently!”
“I believe you, Tom, but I hope there’ll be no call for your doing all
that,” laughed Calhoun.
“Wall, jist follow your nose, an’ stop yonder ontil I git back,” and
then loosening the tightly drawn rein against which his half-wild
mustang was chafing, the grizzled old guide sped swiftly away from the
wagon-train.
Once beyond sight of the trail, Maxwell proceeded more slowly and with
greater precaution. Veering to the right, so as to embrace as much
ground as possible in his contemplated _detour_, he closely scrutinized
the ground for sign, while keeping a wary look-out upon either hand and
in front, not caring to run blindfold into an ambush should there in
reality prove to be enemies in his vicinity.
He was proceeding thus, when his horse suddenly gave a snort and stood
still in his track. Quickly raising his eyes from the ground, the old
guide sent a keen glance around him, and then uttered a long, low
whistle, as he perceived the evident cause of his animal’s alarm.
Just debouching from the hills, or rather from behind them, was a large
body of horsemen, and though at nearly a mile’s distance, he had no
hesitation in pronouncing them to be Indians, from the long spears and
various trappings, together with their peculiar style of riding. They
were to the right, and at the same time a little in his front, being
nearly in a direct line with himself and the place where the emigrants
intended to camp for the night.
They had evidently observed him, and had paused, as if in irresolution,
thus allowing Maxwell a moment for deliberation.
They might be friendly, but he did not believe it, and felt little
inclined to cultivate their close acquaintance. Still he did not like to
run, for he well knew the truth of the old adage—a fleeing form invites
pursuit—and that should he flee, the rogues would assuredly chase him.
Then were they hostile, as he more than suspected, the emigrants would
undoubtedly be the sufferers, as they had not yet had time to encamp and
corral the wagons, in order of defense. Outnumbered and taken by
surprise, they would be massacred without mercy.
Tom Maxwell did not believe that their exact position was known by the
Indians, from the unguarded movements of the latter, and resolved to
draw them away, if possible, or at least detain them until the emigrants
would be better prepared for the meeting.
“Come, Ebenezer,” he muttered, drawing up the reins and settling himself
firmly in the deep saddle; “you hain’t any much tired as yit, an’ kin
hold your own with these scalawags, for a bit, anyhow. Now you jest git
up an’ _git_!”
As he spoke, Maxwell urged the sturdy mustang onward, uttering a wild
yell and bending low down.
As if decided upon their course by the old man’s action, the Indians
dashed after him, _in silence_. The look of anxiety upon Maxwell’s face
deepened, as he noted this fact, for it served to confirm his already
strong suspicions.
He knew that only some great and powerful motive could induce an Indian
to suppress the vindictive, exultant yell usual when their foe and an
anticipated victim is before them; and what could that motive be, unless
it was a desire not to alarm the company of emigrants whom he had been
guiding? More than ever he believed that Dusky Dick was connected with
this new phase, and if so, he would need to be doubly wary and
foresighted.
Instead of riding direct toward the camp, Maxwell pursued a course that
would carry him past it, at about a mile’s distance, with a considerable
ridge intervening, intending to draw the savages entirely away from the
wagon-train, if possible, but at any risk to protract the race until a
more favorable moment.
His thorough knowledge of the surrounding country now stood him in good
stead. The hills loomed up before him, and the valley he was now in
appeared to extend clear through beyond the high ground, but in reality,
it ended in a _cul de sac_, from which escape would be almost
impossible.
Veering a little to the right, he dashed on, with an occasional glance
back at his pursuers. He was gratified to see that he at any rate had
maintained his vantage-ground, and, barring an accident, he felt
confident of baffling pursuit until the shades of night afforded him
secure cover.
Maxwell knew that by rounding the now near hill, he would find a clear
route to the plains beyond, whose small _mottes_ of timber were
scattered at short intervals. Close along the further side of these
hills, the river ran; then making an abrupt turn, flowed through the
level ground.
Maxwell was much attached to “Ebenezer,” his horse, but when it was
placed against the welfare of the train, and that of Clara Calhoun, for
whom he had taken a deep and fervent liking, he did not hesitate. He
resolved to abandon the mustang, and trust to good fortune to recover
him again.
Still, at nearly a mile in advance of his pursuers, the guide rounded
the hill, and reached the river side. Dismounting, he struck the horse a
sharp blow, and thus turned him loose. True to his plans, Ebenezer
dashed madly away up the river, toward the nearest clump of timber, with
a wild snort of alarm and pain.
Running along a few yards in an opposite direction, Maxwell crouched
down in a rocky hollow, with a fast-beating heart and an anxious face.
He knew that, was his ruse discovered too soon, his life would be
forfeited, beyond all doubt. True, he still held his rifle and
revolvers, but what would his one arm avail against those of over
three-score savages?
He saw the mustang disappear behind the _motte_, at full speed, and
hoped that his pursuers had not yet gained a position from whence they
could note the absence of its rider. If they had not, then he felt that
he was safe.
Then the enemy spurred swiftly by, following keenly upon the plain
trail, without a pause or single glance around the point. Then they,
too, passed behind the timber island.
Chuckling heartily, Tom arose and entering the water, ran lightly along
its edge, until he came to a small log, lying upon the shore. Rolling
this into the water, the guide secured his rifle upon it, and then
entering the swift current, swam rapidly down-stream, pushing the float
before him, thus keeping his gun and powder dry.
As he came in view of the wagon-train, he uttered a loud, clear shout,
and leaving the water, ran lightly toward the camp, which was all
confusion.
“What is it, Tom? Where’s your horse?” excitedly asked the major, as he
met the old scout.
“Boun’ for Salt Lake, takin’ a wheen o’ pesky red-skins to visit ol’
Brigham!”
“What do you mean?”
“Jest what I say. But we hain’t got no time to talk now—thar’s work to
be did. Dusky Dick an’ a wheen o’ red imps is on the rampage, red-hot
fer ha’r, an’ ’ll pay us a visit afore sun-up to-morry.”
“How do you know?” anxiously queried Calhoun.
“’Ca’se I see’d ’em. Don’t jabber—_work!_” impatiently added Tom, as he
entered the little corral.
He glanced around, anxiously taking in every detail, and then added, in
a voice of disgust:
“What on airth was you fellers a-thinkin’ about, anyhow? Don’t you see
you’d orter bin out yander, away from the river? They kin swim down in
the dark, an’ take us in the r’ar, now. But it’s too late to mend _that_
now, so do as I do. They’ll be here in less’n a-nour now, fer they’ll
know we’re on the look-out, soon’s they find Ebenezer.”
The corral had been formed close to the river-bank, in a half-circle,
and in the usual manner; that is, in two rows of wagons, the one
covering the joints in the other. By Tom Maxwell’s directions, the
wheels were let down in holes hastily dug, so that the axles rested upon
the prairie, and the openings were still further barricaded by articles
taken from the wagons.
The fires were extinguished and the women and children stowed away in as
perfect security as could be obtained, in the inner tier of vehicles.
But while doing so, a startling discovery was made.
There was one missing—Clara Calhoun was in no place to be found! A few
minutes’ quest showed them that she was not within the corral!
And then Maxwell found that his horse was also missing from the others.
In an agony of apprehension, Calhoun hastened to and fro, eagerly
questioning each one as to when they had last noticed her.
All he could learn was simply this: Clara had been riding, as usual, and
at some little distance to one side of the train, just before Tom
Maxwell started out on his reconnoissance. During the confusion anent
the encamping, she had been lost sight of. No one could say more than
this.
“What can we do, Tom?” anxiously asked Calhoun, to the gloomy guide.
“Not much, onless she comes in o’ herself. The reds is snoopin’ ’round,
an’ ’ll be most sartin to gobble up any as goes out to hunt fer her. But
I’ll resk it, anyhow, fer a bit. Keep the boys to work, an’ don’t git
fooled, ’fore I come back.”
Then the old guide left the corral and hastened along the back trail,
soon disappearing amid the fast-gathering shadows. And thus an hour
passed by, when the whistle of Maxwell was heard, followed in a few
moments by himself; but he was _alone_.
“Where is she, Tom?”
“The good Lord on’y knows, boss. Leastways, _I_ don’t. Didn’t see hide
nor ha’r o’ her. But the reds is a-comin’.”
“Do they know where we are?”
“Reckon so; but ef not, they’ll soon find us.”
“If they _do_ find us, how do you think it’ll end, Maxwell?” queried an
emigrant, in a tone of anxiety.
“I kin tell better a’ter it’s over, fri’nd,” dryly replied Tom, with a
significant shrug. “But ef they don’t git no more to help ’em, why we
stand a fa’r show. They’re on’y three to one.”
“_Only!_ And isn’t that enough, for conscience sake?”
“Fri’nd, where a feller is fightin’ fer his wife an’ lettle ones, he’s
ekil to _four_, what’s on’y themselves,” and then silence once more
reigned throughout the corral, at least so far as conversation was
concerned.
But as may be imagined, the suspense and misgiving of the father, with
others, was terrible, when they thought of what might have befallen the
missing maiden. It was well that the welfare of the train helped to
divide their thoughts. Without some such duty, their thoughts would have
been doubly distracting.
It was plain that nothing more could be done, until after the threatened
peril had passed. Until then, they could only hope and pray that no
serious evil might befall the wanderer.
Thus far, nothing had been seen or heard of the savages, and a number of
the emigrants half-believed that the old guide had been deceived, and
that the party of red-skins had been peaceable ones, who had no designs
upon the train.
The sky was clear and unclouded, and the full moon had already arisen.
Whether this last fact was a blessing or otherwise, was an open question
to the emigrants, for if it served to betray the enemy in case they
attempted a surprise, it would likewise furnish sufficient light by
which the death-dealing bullet, or the scarcely less to be dreaded
arrow, could be directed with almost the certainty of one at midday.
As an off-set to the error in corraling the wagons upon the river-bank,
there were no trees or bushes within short gunshot of the encampment,
while the plain was level and smooth almost as a floor, so that, for
over an hundred yards, the savages would be forced to advance right in
the teeth of their enemy.
Old Tom Maxwell was regarded by all as a sort of leader, and each word
he spoke was earnestly listened to, and every hint or direction promptly
obeyed, without a murmur or a protest.
It was some two hours or more, after the moon had arisen, that the first
sign of the enemy’s presence was observed, and only the well-trained eye
of the old guide could at first discern the suspicious object. He
quickly glided from man to man, whispering to each:
“Thar’s a red out yon’, snoopin’ ’round, to diskiver ef so be we’re on
the look-out. Now don’t spile it all, but take it cool an’ do jest as I
say. Ef he on’y keeps to the outside, why let ’im go, but ef he a’tempts
to enter, then wipe him out as quickly as you know how. Don’t make no
n’ise, nor don’t let him make none, nyther.”
As he returned to his post, old Tom saw that the spy had drawn
considerably nearer, until the paint-bedaubed face could be distinctly
seen, as the moon’s bright rays streamed full upon the cautiously
uplifted head.
The eyes of the veteran scout began to glisten, and his hands nervously
clutched at his rifle, as though eager to put a final period to the
night-prowling of the painted demon, but then his habitual coolness
returned, and he calmly awaited the denouement.
The spy gradually drew nearer to the double row of wagons, and paused
close beside the outer line, just in front of Maxwell. He uttered a low
grunt as of disgust, as he found that the beds were almost upon a level
with the ground, and that he could not pass beneath them, as he
evidently intended.
Then he turned aside and slowly began skirting the corral. Although it
was a trying ordeal, the emigrants obeyed their leader’s orders to the
very letter, even suspending their breath as the spy gently stole along
the line.
Apparently this worthy became fully convinced that the emigrants were
soundly sleeping in false security, for he at length began to climb over
the barricade. Perhaps he was after plunder, or mayhap he was a young
brave, burning to distinguish himself and to win a name among his
people, by taking the first scalp.
But if so, he was doomed never to realize his dream, for as he leaped
lightly to the ground, a pair of strong hands were instantly twined
around his throat, effectually checking all outcry, while another of the
emigrants plunged a keen knife deep into the broad, swelling chest. One
faint, gurgling groan, a convulsive quiver, and the spirit of the
red-man fled from the ghastly wound and took up the trail to the happy
hunting-grounds.
Tom Maxwell glided quickly to the scene of death, and bent eagerly over
the corpse, scanning its features closely by the clear moonlight.
“It’s a dratted ’Rapahoe, boys, but I don’t know him. You did it up
slick, but it’s on’y jest a beginnin’; they’ll send out another, when he
don’t come back on time, to l’arn what’s up. So hunker down an’ wait.
Don’t one o’ you fire, though, ontel I give the word.”
Perhaps another half-hour slowly dragged its weary length along, before
any thing more occurred to break this painful suspense, and then another
dusky form was observed coming from much the same direction as that
followed by the ill-fated spy. They all knew that the crisis was now
close at hand, and every nerve was steeled, and though many a heart beat
faster than usual, there was none that fluttered with fear.
The second spy had advanced to within a dozen yards of the corral, when
one of the eagerly watching emigrants fell forward, and accidentally
touched the trigger of his cocked rifle. The sharp report rung out upon
the still night-air, sounding to the startled men like the roar of
artillery.
At the same moment the spy arose to his feet and turned to flee,
uttering a wild whoop of alarm. But it was his last cry upon earth, for
the quick eye of Maxwell directed the unerring rifle, and at the red
skin’s second leap, the quick report rung out, and the second victim of
the list that was yet to follow, died without a groan.
Like an accompaniment to the double shot, there came a blood-curdling
chorus of yells and whoops, and a horde of dusky fiends were seen to
spring up as if from the bowels of the earth, upon the level plain
beyond.
“Look out, boys! here they come!” yelled old Tom, as he sprung to his
feet and began rapidly reloading his rifle. “Take it cool, but gi’e them
h—l. It’s fer life, now!”
As the dusky fiends swarmed close to the barricade, a blinding flash
rose along the line, and at such near quarters, the effect was deadly in
the extreme. Shrill cries of agony were blended with yells of rage, as a
number of assailants fell, dead or dying, before the scathing volley.
The savages paused, as if in stupor, and then as the terrible
quick-repeating revolvers began to play upon their crowded ranks, their
ardor suddenly cooled, and as if by magic they disappeared, leaving
their fallen as they lay, upon the field. A wild exultant shout followed
them, for it seemed as if the repulse was complete.
“Save your breath, boys,” said the veteran guide, with a silent but
joyous laugh; “fer you’ll need it, every smich, afore day. This is on’y
the primin’, an’ the rail airnest work is yit to come. Fodder up an’
look out fer breakers!”
“Then you think they’ll make another attack?” anxiously queried Major
Calhoun, who stood beside Maxwell, reloading his weapons with the
rapidity of an expert.
“Bet Ebenezer ag’in’ a jack-rabbit—which is long odds—that they will.
They didn’t know we was ready for ’em, but they’ve l’arnt a lesson now,
an’ they never need more’n one o’ thet kind to open thar eyes.”
This was probably the reason of the strange recklessness and want of
caution that the Indians had exhibited, for such is not their usual
nature. They most likely believed that the shots had been fired by an
alarmed sentinel, and then made their quick rush, hoping to overpower
the startled and bewildered emigrants before they were well awakened and
aware of the real facts.
And then, when greeted in such a deadly manner, they perceived the error
they had fallen into, fleeing in confusion and momentary dismay. But as
the old guide had predicted, the worst was yet to come, and the savages
would be doubly desperate now, from the heavy loss they had experienced.
Their approaches now would be all the more to be dreaded, because they
would be conducted with all caution and subtleness.
During the entire assault and repulse, the savages had scarce fired a
dozen shots, and not one of the emigrants was harmed, so well were they
sheltered. But one of the horses, who had all been tethered at either
end of the barricade, near the banks of the river, had been struck by a
random bullet, and killed.
As it alarmed the others, by Maxwell’s direction, the body was pushed
over the bank into the river. And then each man returned to his post,
while those detailed to watch the water side, retained their position.