THE FORLORN HOPE.
“Do you think that Dusky Dick is with them, Maxwell?”
“I would sw’ar it, boss, ef that wasn’t ag’in my natur’,” promptly
replied the old borderer, as he seated himself beside his loop-hole, and
coolly began cutting a plug of tobacco into bits, to fill the pipe that
he held in his mouth, as he spoke. “But I tell you he’s _thar_. I didn’t
see him when those galoots was a’ter old Ebenezer, but they was in a
crowd, an’ I didn’t hev time to look good. But I kin _smell_ him, now.”
“Smell him!” echoed Calhoun, somewhat astonished at the positive tone of
the old guide.
“Yas, sir,” quoth Tom, cramming the tobacco into the pipe-bowl. “You
know thar _is_ sech a thing as _smell_, don’t ye? Wal, then, one thing
smells like somethin’ else, an’ then ag’in another _don’t_. See?”
selecting a match from a small pocket-safe.
“You won’t risk a light here, now, Tom?”
“No danger, boss, fer as you’ll see, when _I_ make a light, thar hain’t
a smich o’ light to be see’d; that is, onless you look whar it is, an’
then you won’t see it, nuther,” laying his old slouched hat upon the
ground, over the handle of his knife.
Then he lay down, protruding his pipe-bowl beneath the hat, and striking
a match, ignited the pipe without betraying a light larger than that of
a glow-worm.
“You see, some things kin be did ’s well ’s others, ef so be you know
jest how to do it. But as I was sayin’, I kin smell that pesky varmint,
Dusky Dick. Dif’rent folks is dif’rent, you know, but then they’re all
alike, too, a’ter all. Now then thar’s Miss Clary; she smells jest like
a gre’t big bnn’le o’ posies, figur’tively speakin’, in course. Then
thar’s you—sorter like a persimming. Ef a feller bites you at the wrong
time, why he’d a heap ruther squat down bar’-legged onto a big ho’nets’
nest than to do it ag’in. But ef the sign is right, then it’s jest like
b’iled honey, unly more so. Then ag’in, furder an’ more so, thar’s Jack
Wilson. _He_ smells jest like a bottle o’ pepper-sass. A lettle is
mighty good, but ef you gits too much, why you’re boun’ to sneeze an’ go
a-milkin’. So Dusky Dick smells like a copperhead or a rattler. I tell
you he’s _thar_, all ready for bitin’, for _I smells ’im_!” earnestly
declared Maxwell, smoking vigorously.
“Look out yonder, Tom, where that little ridge of sand ends,” suddenly
whispered Calhoun, touching the old guide upon the shoulder. “What is
that long, dark thing?”
After a moment’s scrutiny of the suspicious-looking object, Maxwell
replied:
“It looks su’thin’ like a chunk cut out o’ a black cloud, don’t it?
Reckon ’tain’t, though, come to think. Would be a Injun ef ’twasn’t
somethin’ else. ’Sides, it’s too big an’ too long an’ too much so all
over, for a red. ’Tain’t a canoe, nuther, ’cause thar hain’t no water
thar. I’d go out an’ ax its name, on’y I’m ’feered it’d rare up an’
onsettle my supper,” slowly drawled the old guide, evidently talking
from mere force of habit, without heeding what he said.
“It surely moves—see! It’s closer now than when I first noticed it!”
anxiously added Calhoun, nervously handling his rifle.
“Easy—easy, boss, or you’ll skeer the durned thing so bad it’ll run off,
right spang-a-diddle through us,” continued Tom, the while keenly eying
the nondescript. “It _does_ move, by ge-mently! but I don’t see no legs,
an’ it ain’t no sarpint, ’less it’s swallered its own head an’ tail.
Mebbe it’s a whale?”
One of the emigrants now came up beside them, and called their attention
to a similar object at a little distance to the left, that had puzzled
the others in the same manner.
“Good gracious, boss,” exclaimed Tom, in a vexed tone, “thar’s jest the
biggest set o’ fools ’round these diggin’s as was ever got together in
one heap, I jest bet my pile! _They_ was fools for thinkin’ they could
fool us with them, an’ we was bigger fools for gittin’ fooled by them
dratted fool logs! It’s the beatin’est foolery ’at I _ever_ knowed!”
These words explained the mystery, and the others were as greatly
surprised as had been the old scout, that they had not penetrated the
ruse sooner.
The Indians had procured a number of logs, and were now busied in
rolling them up toward the corral, evidently hoping to thus gain a
position from whence they could securely pick off the defenders of the
wagon-train at their own leisure.
“What is to be done, now, Tom?” and the major could not entirely conceal
his uneasiness as he spoke.
“Why, jest kill a dozen o’ them loggerheads, an’ then the others’ll take
the hint an’ leave.”
“But how?”
“Shoot ’em, in course. You don’t s’pose they’ll let you git cluss enough
to do any thin’ else, do ye?”
“But they’re hid behind the logs.”
“Ef they keeps hid all the time, they won’t do overly much damage
a-shootin’, shore. No, _sir_! When a feller shoots, his head hes got to
be as high as the bar’l, an’ ef _it’s_ atop o’ the log, why don’t you
see? his head must be thar too, in course, onless he’s cross-eyed an’
kin shoot roun’ the corner,” argued Tom.
“Then you mean to—?”
“I reckon. We’ll try it, anyhow, jest for beans. You feller, go an’ send
Wilson an’ Texas Joe here, quicker!”
In a few moments the two men designated were at hand, and then Maxwell
directed them what to do. The logs were now within fifty yards of the
outer wagons, and were still drawing yet nearer, though slowly.
“Hunker down here, boys, an’ see that you’re well kivered. Ready? Now
one o’ you fire to’rds that log afore us. Don’t make no differ’ whether
you aim at it or that big star yonder, jest so you shoot; an’ then dodge
down, quick.”
The gun was discharged as directed, at one of the stationary logs, and
instantly there came a return shot, evidently aimed at this flash, for
the bullet plowed up the dirt in close proximity to the men.
Then like an echo the rifle of the guide spoke, and was blended with a
wild yell of death-agony, that told it had not been discharged in vain,
while a dark figure sprung high up into the air, and falling, lay
motionless upon the ground, out in the open moonlight.
“See, boss,” exultantly cried Maxwell, rolling quickly aside from his
loop-hole in time to avoid a return shot. “I told you ’at something
could be did ’s well ’s others, an’ now you see they kin, an’ better,
too!”
A chorus of vindictive hoots and cries announced that the enemy were any
thing but pleased at the working of their scheme, and then a general
volley was fired from behind the logs.
This time a cry uprose from the interior of the corral, and then the
word was passed around that one of the men was killed. At this
calamity—the first one of any importance—a heavy gloom settled over the
spirits of the defenders, for they knew not but that ere the morning’s
sun should arise, they would all have met the same dread fate.
But their attention was speedily diverted from this sad thought, and
their every energy required to avert the threatened doom. The cry went
up that another onset was at hand.
With the never-failing yells and screeches, the foe sprung up from
behind their coverts, and swarmed forward like so many phantoms of
death; and then the air was filled with the hissing bullets and hurtling
arrows.
As before, a dazzling line of flame shot along the entire length of the
barricade, and so deadly was its effect that the desperate onslaught was
momentarily checked. Only momentarily, though, and then there came a
simultaneous shock against the outer row of wagons, as the assailants
gained this shelter.
Then the enemies were separated by only a few feet, and for a few
fast-fleeting seconds there was a pause. It was broken, however, by a
shot from the corral, and as an Indian uttered the death-shriek, his
companions strove desperately to scale the barricade.
Did they reveal their persons to the keen eyes of the besieged, a bullet
was speedily sent upon its deadly mission; did they essay to crawl
beneath or over the wagons, they were met by pistol-shots, knife thrusts
or clubbed rifles.
Nor were the defenders unscathed. More than one still and ghastly form
incumbered the interior of the corral, while here and there writhed one
in mortal agony, shrieking aloud, but with fast weakening accents, the
names of his loved ones; of those, who were even then, perchance,
praying for his safety, that he might pass that terrific ordeal
unharmed.
Although old Tom Maxwell and Major Calhoun were desperately busy, their
voices were silent. There was little need of orders then, for each man
was nobly doing his duty, and that lay plainly before him.
Then there came a loud shout from those men who were stationed close to
the extremities of the barricade, so as to overlook the water’s surface.
A cry that announced some new peril threatening their safety; a cry that
was echoed exultantly back by the demons in front, who now seemed to
redouble their efforts to scale the barrier.
Maxwell quickly gained one end of the corral, and beheld the river’s
surface above their position, as well as directly in front, close to the
water’s edge, dotted with sundry black objects that needed but one
glance to be recognized as logs, bearing the firearms of savages, who
were evidently sheltered behind them, but at the same time drawing
nearer to their anticipated prey.
Those who exposed themselves first, on going to the shore, were
instantly saluted with a deadly volley of pistol-balls, and for a brief
space, the others hesitated, as if disconcerted. They had evidently
counted upon effecting an entrance into the corral by surprise, while
the emigrants were engaged in repelling the attack of the main body, and
then overpowering their obstinate foes, but the forethought of the
veteran guide had baulked them.
Then rallying, they made a desperate rush, gaining the shore, and
several of them actually gaining the bank, entering the corral, only to
be hurled back, dead or dying, into the water. For a brief space, it was
a wild, horrible _melee_, desperate and bloody.
The report of fire-arms—the occasional ringing of steel against steel,
as two foemen met in close contest—the confused trampling to and fro—the
shrill yell, either of rage or else of death-agony—the defiant shouts
and hoarse oaths—the affrighted screams of the snorting horses—or the
wail of some terrified infant, all combined into one fearful tumult!
Then there came a long-drawn, quavering cry, and as if by magic the
savage assailants vanished, like hoar-frost before the sun’s warm
breath. But there followed no exultant shout from the emigrants.
As they glanced fearfully around upon the forms of their dead and dying
comrades, their hearts were rent with anguish and apprehension. They saw
but too plainly, that another such triumph would be almost equivalent to
a defeat.
While the majority still retained their posts, keenly vigilant, others
of the little band removed the dead into one place and ministered to the
wants of the wounded, to the best of their ability. It was a sad and
heart-rending task, but their own peril was such that they had no time
for bewailing their comrade’s sad fate, and then once more they returned
to their posts.
For nearly an hour all was silence within the little corral, and even
the sorely wounded, despite their agony, heroically suppressed their
moans of pain, lest they should tend to weaken the nerves of the
defenders still left. And the latter were far too deeply occupied with
their own thoughts upon the impending peril to feel like conversing.
But, at the end of this time, there was one who could maintain silence
no longer—the old guide, Tom Maxwell. A voluble talker, he seemed
totally at a loss while his tongue was idle, and, unlike most people, he
appeared to think better and more closely while dilating upon some
entirely foreign subject.
Upon one side of him was stationed Major Calhoun; upon the other, the
young man, Buenos Ayres. It was with them, either or both, that he
spoke.
“Wuss’n a Quaker meetin’, this is, ’specially a’ter sich lively doin’s
as was jist now. ’Pears like I’d bu’st ef I was to hold in any longer;
the words scroudge each other so’t they hain’ got room to kick in. What
d’you think o’ the sitivation, any how, boss?”
“It’s bad—very bad!” gloomily responded Calhoun.
“That’s true as gospil; but then ’tain’t quite so bad as it mought be ef
it was wuss, anyhow, which is a gre’t consolation. I thought I was once
in the wuss fix ’at ever could be hatched up, when I was in the middle
o’ a bayou, down in Texas, with a passel o’ red-skins on ’ither hand,
an’ three in a canoe, cluss ahind me. But then a corntwisted alligator
poked his nose right up from the water, against mine, which mixed things
up a little more so.
“But I div’—the canoe ran smack inside the critter’s mouth—thar was a
scrunch, an’ then mebbe thar wasn’t some splashin’! I swum in ’mongst
the reeds, while the reds was flustrated, an’ so fooled ’em. All of
which goes to prove that we ain’t cotched yit.”
“Are you sure that Dusky Dick is with these devils, to-night? I have
neither seen nor heard him.”
“Bet yer life he is. But he hain’t nobody’s fool, an’ knows well enough
that ef he should show his ugly mug, it’d bring a dozen bullets a’ter
it. Most like, he’s painted up like one o’ the rest; but he’s _thar_,
shure. I smell him, I tell ye.
“You never heerd tell o’ _two_ sech attacks as them, right tergether,
’thout somebody hed a partic’lar grudge to work out, or objeck to gain.
’Tain’t Injun nature, _it_ ain’t. Most like they’re a gang o’ outcast
an’ vaggarbonds as he’s picked up somewhars, to do his dirty work, an’
this ’ere ain’t the _fust_ time, nuther, you mark _me_. No wonder he’s
called an unlucky guide fer the _trains_,” added Maxwell, significantly;
and then he proceeded once more to fill his pipe.
“I had hoped he was not with them, for then I should not feel so uneasy
about the result. I think we can beat them off once more, anyhow, and if
they were only after plunder, their loss would soon sicken them. But if
_he_ is there, I fear the worst,” added Calhoun, thoughtfully.
“Jest so; you talk right to the spot, _you_ do—a’ter my own style. Never
did fancy them fellers what jabbered so much ’mongst sech a heep o’
words; ’t stands to reason thar must be _some_ lyin’; an’ I hate a liar
like all ge-mently—I do _so_!”
“It was a sad mistake, our leaving the regular trail,” observed young
Ayres.
“As it turns out, yes. But ’twar fer the best, then. Water’s sca’ce on
that route this dry weather. We did it fer the best. But why so?”
“Because we might hope for help from some other train. As it is, we’re
too far off for them to hear the fuss.”
“Yas; thar ears hain’t long enough. Ketch a lot o’ jack-rabbits an’
chouge ’th ’em. Mules, too. Lord, yas!”
“Why, Maxwell, what do you mean?” and Calhoun gazed anxiously at the old
scout, whose eyes appeared fixed intently upon a bright star, while a
vacant stare rested upon his countenance.
“Don’t—let him alone, major,” whispered Buenos. “He don’t know he’s
talking. I believe he sees some way to fool these devils, and is
settling the details.”
And such was indeed the case. The words of Ayers had given a hint to the
quick-witted guide, that he was not slow to take hold of. From mere
force of habit, his tongue shaped words of which he was unconscious.
“Thar! I’ve got it! We’ll fool the imps yit, by ge-mineezers! That is,
we will ef we do; an’ ef we don’t, why, we will, _any_how. No use
talkin’—we _must_ do it,” and the guide uttered a deep sigh of relief,
as he glanced, first at one, then at the other, of his companions.
“Do what? What do you mean, Tom?”
“Lis’en. I said we’d fool them imps, an’ I b’lieve we kin do it. I don’t
say we kin, _fer shore_, but I think so. A feller mustn’t—”
“But your plan—what is it?” impatiently interrupted Calhoun. “There is
no time to lose.”
“Thar’s another day a-comin’, boss,” coolly added Maxwell, his tones
telling that his mind was still busied with the details of his plan. “No
need to be in a hurry. Know’d a feller to _die_, onc’t, ’cause he was in
too big a hurry. Got lost thar—starved to death afore he could find his
way out. Thar, it’s _did_—_now_ listen.
“Fust, we’re here—_they’re_ thar, an’ somebody else is in t’other place.
We must find that t’other somebody. See?” hastily spluttered Maxwell.
“But _how_?”
“You ’member the train we left at Dutchman’s Crick—the sojer one? It
couldn’t travel much faster ’n we did, so it must be not very fur away
now, on t’other trail. We must get word to them. Now fer the _how_.
“One o’ us—a volunteer ef thar is one—ef not, I’ll try it—must drop over
thar in the drink, an’ swim down ontel he kin git out ’thout the reds
seein’ him. Then he must putt out, hot fut, an’ not stop fer nothin’
ontel he strikes t’other trail Then ef the big train hes goed by, he
must ketch up ’th it. Ef not, then he must go t’other way ontel he finds
it. That did, he’ll tell o’ our sitivation an’ bring help—twenty sojers
’ll do, ’th what we hev here. See?”
“But can the trail be found, Tom? Won’t whoever attempts it, get lost?”
“Thar’s the no’th star—he kin keep that on his right shoulder. He
_cain’t_ miss it—the trail runs from eend to eend—onless he goes t’other
way. You stay here, an’ I’ll go see what the boys say ’bout it.”
“No need of that, I will make the venture,” said Buenos, calmly.
“You—no, lad. I’d ruther go myself. It’ll be resky—no two to one a
feller’ll git through. Think o’ Miss Clary,” earnestly responded
Maxwell.
“I do—I have. She is lost, and every moment that we let go by but adds
to the danger of our never finding her. The sooner we are free to search
for her, the better her chances are. I will not lose any time, and the
thought that I am working for her, will help me through.”
“He is right, Tom,” answered Calhoun. “He can do this as well as you
can, and besides, he can hardly fill your place here. We need some one
who is up to the dodges of the red devils, or we are lost indeed. You
must stay.”
“You’re right, but I don’t like it. Still, it may be best. I’d ruther
trust him then ary other one as would go, now Texas Joe is rubbed out.”
“Have you any further instructions to give?” asked Ayres, as he
tightened the belt around his waist.
“No—on’y take keer o’ yourself. ’Member that the life o’ the hull pack
o’ us—and mebbe that o’ Miss Clary, too—depends on your gittin’ through
all hunky. It’d be too late to try a-nother one, ef you—thunder! you
_won’t_ git rubbed out! Ef you do, durned ef I don’t jest up an’ swaller
every pesky red-skin out yender, alive, an’ then send Dusky Dick down
a’ter, to keep ’em stirred up lively. I will so!”
“Well then, I’ll go now. I wouldn’t tell the boys how it is, till you
know whether I get through safe or not.”
“Leave your rifle here—tie a ’volver on top o’ your head, so it’ll be
dry an’ ready fer use, ef you should chaince to run ag’in’ any o’ the
varmints. Swim cluss to the bank, whar it throws a shadder, an’ take
your time ontel you git a safe distance. Then let your legs went. Don’t
stop to look ef you’re goin’ to tread on ary bug or nothin’—let ’em
squ’sh ef they don’t git outen the way. Onderstand?”
“Yes. Good-by.”
“Good-by, and God bless and protect you, my boy,” uttered Calhoun,
chokingly.
“Thar—git out! You’ve filled my eyes full o’ bugs or so’thin’, a’ready.
Ef the reds come now, I couldn’t shoot a mite. Thar—now you’re gone,”
and the old guide pressed the young man’s hand warmly, while he brushed
one sleeve across his eyes, now dimmed by a suspicious moisture.
Cautiously Ayres glided along the barricade, and slipping down the
bank—here several yards high—entered the water. Then sinking low down,
and keeping within the narrow belt of dark shadow, he slowly floated
down-stream, fairly bound upon his truly perilous mission.
And with painfully-throbbing hearts the two men listened, dreading lest
there should come to their ears with each passing moment, the exultant
shout of their savage foes, announcing the discovery of the young man,
thus foiling their last hope—a truly forlorn one!