TOM MAXWELL TURNS INDIAN.
Major Calhoun and Tom Maxwell “listened with all their ears,” for a
sound they fervently hoped would never come—the wild yells of
exultation, telling that their messenger had been captured by the
Indians, and the dissipation of their last hope.
And thus they remained for several minutes, without a sound to greet
their hearing, save the usual ones of the night. But then, just as they
were congratulating themselves upon the complete success of the venture,
their blood was fairly curdled and their hearts wrung by a startling
alarm.
From some distance came the noise, then arose a wild tumult and outcry,
as of human voices, the owners of which were engaged in a bitter
struggle for life and death. And then from the prairie around the
beleaguered train, there sounded the shrill cries and signals of the
aroused warriors, followed by the rapid tread of several horses in full
gallop, all tending toward the point below, where had first sounded the
alarm.
“My God! Tom, the boy is lost!” groaned Calhoun, agonizedly, as he sunk
back and covered his face with his hands.
“I’m feared he is, boss, but look up. Don’t give way now, jest when we
need our wits the wust. What’s did is did, an’ cain’t be ondid, nuther.
Think o’ the rest—o’ Miss Clary—an’ ’member ef we go under, so’ll she,
’thout a doubt. Ha! look—they’re comin’!” he added, suddenly, as several
figures appeared in view upon the prairie beyond. “Look out, boys—gi’
the pesky imps a lettle thunder, jest to let ’em know what they’ve got
to ixpect herea’ter!”
As he yelled these words, Maxwell discharged his rifle at a prominent
Indian, who suddenly paused in his onward career, tottered for a moment,
then fell heavily forward upon his face. And along the line of
smoke-begrimed wagons there was another flash, like those which had
preceded it, with a like deadly effect.
But the one volley was all that was needed, for then the savages
appeared to melt away and disappear from view. This had evidently been
no concerted assault, but the red-skins had rushed forward, alarmed by
the tumult below, no doubt fearing their intended prey were attempting
to escape by way of the river.
When the temporary confusion had in a measure subsided, the two men
listened anxiously for some sound from below, to tell them of the
probable fate of their messenger, but all was still. The event had
evidently decided, in one way or another, during the brief assault.
And they naturally dreaded the worst. The first yells told them that
Buenos Ayres had been discovered, and had been engaged in a
death-struggle with the enemy. He could scarcely have escaped.
“Now we are indeed lost,” bitterly uttered Calhoun, to the old guide.
“It looks dub’ous—durned dub’ous, I must say. But then mebbe ’tain’t so
bad as it looks. We may fool ’em yit. It’s my turn, now,” added Tom,
with a sudden increase of confidence.
“What? you would not be foolish enough to attempt that? They will be
watching the river so close after this that a fish could scarcely pass
their lines. It would be suicide, man!”
“Jest so; ef I tried it—which I don’t ’tend doin’. No sir, I ain’t sech
a fool—_yit!_”
“Then what do you intend doing?”
“Walkin’ out thar an’ j’inin’ them imps,” coolly returned Maxwell.
“This is no time for fooling, Tom. Our situation is far too serious to
admit of that. Such a move would be even worse than the other.”
“Not much. Anyhow, I’m goin’ to try it. They cain’t do much more’n kill
a feller, anyhow, an’ ef we stay here they’re bound to do it, shore. So
what matter? I’m goin’ out thar, an’ they hain’t a-goin to hurt me,
nuther,” confidently added the scout.
“But how—what do you mean?” asked Calhoun, seeing that his companion was
undoubtedly in earnest in what he said.
“I’m goin’ to turn Injun fer a bit, jest to see how that pesky Dusky
Dick must feel. But don’t talk. Watch the perayrie cluss—watch fer both
on us, fer I cain’t do my shar’ now.”
The old scout left the side of the puzzled soldier, and glided toward a
pile of dead savages, who had been carelessly heaped together, after the
second assault, so as to clear the way. These comprised all those who
had fallen inside the corral.
As he rudely turned these over with his foot, Tom uttered a grunt of
approval, and then catching one of the dead braves by the arm, he
dragged it to the spot where crouched Calhoun.
“What are you going to do with that, Tom?”
“Goin’ to skin it, fust. Then putt on the hide an’ walk out yender an’
tell those imps as how I was dead, but hev come to life ag’in,” chuckled
the old guide.
Calhoun uttered an exclamation of disgust.
“Don’t git huffy, now, boss, ’cause I speak sorter mixed-up like. You
know my way, or had orter by this time. But lis’en an’ you’ll see what I
mean. You see this ’ere carr’on is—or was, I’d orter say, mebbe, seein’
as he’s dead—a Delaware Injun. That proves what I said ’bout Dusky
Dick’s hevin’ picked up a band of runnygades to do his dirty work, fer
thar is ’Rapahoe, Cheyenne, Pawnee, an’ Delaware ’mongst them dead
critters over yon.
“Now I kin jabber a lettle o’ most all o’ them, but better Delaware, fer
as you may know, I hed one—Delaware Tom they called the cuss—fer a
pardner, well-nigh two years. So as the lad—_durn_ the luck!—hes got
rub—inter trouble I mean, an’ cain’t go fer help, why I ’termined to try
an’ sneak through them imps thar. I knowed thar was no use tryin’ to
play the runnygade as he did, fer the imps’ll be on the keen look-out
thar, an’ this was the only chaince. An’ a durned slim one, too, but
better’n stayin’ here.”
“We will try, but I fear ’tis a hopeless case. If they make another
steady rush, we must go down before it. If we do, and you get free, Tom,
promise me one thing: that you’ll not forget Clara? You’ll hunt for
her?”
“No, I won’t, nuther.”
“What!”
“Jest so. Give a fool answer fer a fool question, is my motter, al’ays.
Ain’t I a man—a _white_ man, too, ef so be you rub a lettle o’ the
outside dirt off? Then in _course_ I’ll do it—I ain’t a dog nor nothin’,
I reckon. But don’t fret. We’ll all hunt together. I’ll git you free.
See ef I don’t, now.”
As he spoke, the old guide glided toward the river, accompanied by
Calhoun. But as he hung his legs over the edge of the bank, Maxwell
suddenly added:
“Look here—ef you see or hear a feller shoot this-a-way, from out thar,
nigh to the river, don’t you shoot back, onless you aim at that big
star, yonder. Mought hurt somebody, ef you did. He’s a powerful poor
shooter, that fellow’ll be, when he minds to. Shouldn’t wonder ef he’ll
miss the hull intire train, wagons an’ all,” chuckled Tom.
“You mean you’ll fire from there?”
“Yas. Must throw dust in the red-skins’ eyes, ye see, or else they’ll
some on ’em be snoopin’ ’round to see who I be, which moughtn’t be
pleasant. Ef they see me a-shootin’ this-a-way, they’ll natur’lly s’pose
it’s one o’ themselves, slid out to play a lone hand. See?”
“Yes—I understand.”
“Then keep my rifle. I cain’t han’le it the way I must go; ’volvers must
sarve me. But don’t let nobody tetch it. I’d be plum lost ef any thin’
was to happin to it; I would _so_!”
Then Maxwell slid down into the water, that here was but little over
knee-deep, and crouching low down he glided rapidly up the river, bound
upon a mission that could scarcely succeed, now that the enemy had their
eyes opened by a somewhat similar attempt. And once more Calhoun went
back to his post, with a heavy gloom resting upon his heart.
Tom stealthily pursued his way up-stream until he was fully a hundred
yards above the corral, when he gained the spot for which he had aimed.
This was a little depression that ran from the water’s edge, some few
yards into the level prairie.
Here he hesitated for a moment. He glanced along in the direction he had
been pursuing, and debated earnestly in his own mind whether it would
not be better for him to keep on, and by thus rounding the hill, avoid a
probable meeting with those beleaguering the corral.
But this hesitation lasted only for a moment. He saw that the
contemplated change was now impossible. That the savages had guarded
against any such attempt upon the part of their intended victims.
His keen eye caught sight of several dusky figures that he felt assured
were none other than Indians, who had been detailed to guard the stream
above. And this was not all.
He also saw enough of their movements to tell that he was discovered;
that his progress had not been so cautiously made as to escape the
prying eyes of his enemies. A quiver agitated his frame, and for a
moment his heart was sick within him.
Not with personal fear, however. There could scarcely be found one who
was more utterly reckless of his own life than this same guide. For
nearly two score years he had lived with his life in his hand. At dawn
he knew not whether he would ever again look upon the setting sun.
And all this had rendered him utterly reckless and devoid of fear, so
far as he was concerned alone. But now he had others to think of and
work for. Upon the success of this venture probably hung the lives of
the entire company of emigrants. Were he slain or captured, he believed
that ere the sun arose all would be over; that his friends would be
swept from the face of the earth.
For a moment he half resolved to spring to his feet and dash swiftly
away over the plain, trusting to his great endurance and fleetness of
foot to escape. But then this idea was as quickly discarded.
He knew that such an action would but too surely betray his identity,
and that a cry would be raised and immediate pursuit instituted.
Pursuit, too, upon horseback; fleet though he undeniably was, and long
of wind, he could not hope to cope successfully with the fiery,
half-wild mustangs, especially when bestrode by those rare jockeys, the
Prairie Indians.
Maxwell resolved upon a bold course of action; or rather fell back upon
the old plan. Its success mainly depended upon one thing.
How long had the red-skins been watching him? Had they observed his
leaving the interior of the corral? If so, then his fate was indubitably
sealed.
But had they only noted him recently—as he hoped; for he had been
careful to keep low down within the dense shadow of the bank of the
river, where the moon’s rays could not reach him—he thought he might yet
succeed in deceiving them. And upon this hope he acted.
With one glance behind him, at the dim, phantom-like figures that were
still stealthily approaching him, Maxwell emerged from the hollow, upon
the side toward the corral, and, upon his hands and knees, began
crawling quite rapidly toward the wagon-train. Then he dropped down
quite flat upon his face, casting a glance behind him as he did so.
The red-skins in pursuit had just crossed the ditch, and were crawling
after him. They had gained rapidly in the last few minutes, and their
dress, as well as weapons, could now quite plainly be seen.
Then Tom leveled his revolver toward the corral, taking care to aim
above it, so that the bullet could by no possibility inflict harm upon
any of his friends, he fired. Almost like an echo, there came a return
shot from the train, and Tom fairly chuckled with delight.
This was just what he had hoped for, though he feared Calhoun would not
risk a shot, knowing the circumstances, at least in part. But now,
nothing could be better calculated to allay any suspicions the red-skins
behind him might have entertained.
Tom glanced backward, beneath one arm. To his delight, he saw that the
Indians had paused, and were now closely hugging the ground, evidently
trying to lessen the mark their bodies presented, lest a bullet from the
corral should bury itself beneath their precious hides.
“Ef that much works so well, reckon I’ll go a leetle furder ’th it,
though it ’d jist be partic’lar ge-mineezers ef some o’ the boys should
shoot me fer a red. But I reckon the boss ’ll look out fer that. Anyhow,
I must shake off them pesky imps. Let ary one o’ them git a glimpse o’
my mug, an’ it’ll be all night ’th _this_ coon, shore!” muttered the old
guide, as he gradually worked himself still nearer the corral.
This move, though not a little hazardous to himself, had the desired
effect, and as he once more glanced back, Tom saw that his red-skinned
followers had retreated, and were hidden from view. He now fired again,
and while reloading the empty chambers, he busied himself by peering
keenly around him, to discover, if possible, some point through which he
could pass with the least delay, and consequently peril, to himself and
important mission.
He dared not dally long, for the night was rolling on apace, and he must
be miles away from this spot ere the sun arose above the eastern
hill-tops. Then, with sternly-compressed lips and finely-strung nerves,
he started anew upon his errand.
He turned, and still crouching far down, with head bowed so that the
dried grass was blended with his hair and long beard, completely hiding
his features, he glided slowly away from the corral, shaping his course
so as to carry himself to one side of the main body of Indians, as he
calculated.
Already a chuckle of delight was tickling his throat, as he saw how
finely he was progressing, for he believed that his _ruse_ would
succeed, when an incident occurred which changed his exultation to angry
apprehension.
From a dense mass of dried grass, almost directly in his path, there
uprose the figure of a stalwart savage, who had doubtless been observing
the scout’s movements. He was now so close that Maxwell could not avoid
him without exciting suspicion, which would bring with it investigation
and consequent discovery.
So he kept on in his course, that would carry him a few feet to one side
of the Indian. But the other did not seem disposed to allow his seeming
ally and brother to pass by unquestioned.
He spoke in a harsh voice that also expressed suspicion. The words were
uttered in the Arapahoe dialect, with which Tom was sufficiently
conversant to comprehend their purport. But he well knew that this
knowledge was not perfect enough to carry him through a conversation
with a native undetected, and so he replied in Delaware:
“I am wounded. The accursed pale-faces saw me as I crept up out yonder
to try and kill them, and shot me. The bullet made me sick,” he said, in
a husky tone.
“Where were you going?” demanded the other, also using the dialect.
“I was hunting the medicine-grass,” added Tom, fearing to lose any more
time, and again crawling forward.
“Stop! Let me see your hurt. I may stop the blood, and then I will find
the grass for you,” added the Arapahoe, in a kind voice, evidently
swallowing the lie, and feeling no further suspicion concerning the
identity of his seeming ally.
And, then, in the kindness of his heart, he strode forward and placed
his hand upon the disguised scout’s head. The act was a fatal one; the
fastenings of the grass head-dress became unloosened, and the mass came
off in the Indian’s hand.
A wild cry broke from the red-skin’s lips, as the bright moonlight fell
fully upon the features of the guide. There could be no possibility of
mistaking them for other than those of a white man.
But that cry was his last upon earth; for, with an angry howl of furious
rage, Tom Maxwell sprung erect, and grappled with his foe. His powerful
arms bore the savage to the ground like an infant, while his hands were
clasped tightly around his throat.
As they fell heavily to the ground, the warrior appeared to recover from
his surprise, and struggled desperately for dear life. His arms were
wound around the scout’s body with crushing pressure, and he writhed
like a wounded snake in the endeavor to turn his foe.
Tom dared not relax his grasp upon the throat of the Arapahoe, lest he
should cry out and give the alarm, to bring an overwhelming force upon
him; then his fate would be assuredly sealed. And thus he could only try
to throttle his enemy in time to flee from the spot before any other
should be alarmed by the struggle.
For several seconds this continued; but then, to his horror, Tom heard a
wild cry, and then the rapid rush of many feet, plainly coming toward
him. He knew that the savages were alarmed, and had caught sight of the
struggling foemen.
With a howl of rage, he freed one hand, and drew his knife. Then it
glowed for a brief instant in the bright moonlight before falling with a
heavy _thud_, sinking to its very haft in the broad chest of the Indian.
But still, even in the throes of death, those muscular arms held him
firmly, despite Maxwell’s efforts to break the grip. With a desperate
effort, Tom sprung to his feet, lifting with him the dead man, whose
horribly-convulsed features stared him full in the face.
Then, with a fierce curse, Tom wrenched free, and made a step forward as
if to flee. But he was too late.
The enemy were upon him, and the tall scout was cast heavily to the
ground, with a dozen hands clutching him. A brief, furious struggle, and
the savages arose, while the counterfeit Indian lay beside the body of
his dead foe, a helpless captive.