A BORDER BATTLE.
The “brigade” had hailed with pleasure the return of their captain, for
they had been in trouble. Men who had wandered away from the camp had
been seen no more, until their lifeless bodies were found in some dark
ravine, or on the prairie, scalped and gory. Fate seemed to be against
them, and nothing they could do to detect the murderers was of any
avail. The brow of the Beaver Captain clouded as he heard the names of
those who had fallen, four or five of his best men.
“This won’t do, boys,” he said. “Where is Boston Dick?”
“Dead!” replied one of the men. “Shot down and skulped up in the North
gulch.”
“Is Reddy here?” demanded the captain, with a sort of groan.
“Reddy’s handed in his checks, too,” replied the same man. “Tell you
what it is, Cap, the boys’ll spile ef they don’t git a chance at them
cusses mighty soon.”
“They shall have a chance,” was the stern reply. “I’ll teach the
cowardly hounds what it is to murder my men in cold blood. Where is
Massy?”
“Right side up, Cap,” replied the man called Massy, a light, active
borderer in buck-skins and beaver cap. “What can I do?”
“I want a trailer—one who will track these dogs to their den. Will you
do it?”
“I kin try, Cap; but ef I go under, jest send word to my wife that I did
my duty, and git my pay fur her. Kin I take out Pat Dada with me?”
“Just as you like. Have you got fresh sign to follow anywhere?”
“Yes; I’ve got the trail they left when Boston Dick went under, last
night.”
“That’s enough; now boys, listen to me. There must be no straggling
until we find out where these fellows hive. They think to drive us out
of the Indian country, but if they do they must fight for it. What do
you say?”
A ringing cheer was the only reply, and the men broke up into knots,
canvassing the chances of meeting with the murderers soon. The brigade
altogether numbered about seventy men, far less in number than the band
of Velveteens, but every man was a dead shot, brave as a lion, and knew
the country by heart. Like all trapper bands they were composed of a
sprinkling of all nationalities—chiefly, however, of American birth.
From the gray-haired mountaineer of sixty years to beardless boys
scarcely twenty, but upon whose youthful faces the wild life of the
border had set its mark. Massy and Pat Dada stole out of the camp, and
as night came on Dave set his guards and took precautions which the
others had neglected, and which had resulted so fatally. He felt
tolerable certain that the calamities which had fallen upon them could
be laid only to the blame of Velveteens and Rafe Norris, but was not
sure.
Scarcely had the sun gone down, when the moon rolled up in the sky and
shed a mellow radiance on the scene. Dave made the circuit of the
pickets about the edge of the strip of timber in which the camp was
made, when he noticed, out upon the plain, a sort of wavering which
rested on the grass and seemed to move slowly up. These black spots
whatever they were puzzled him extremely, and he called the attention of
the guard to them.
“I’ve hed my eye on those spots for the last ten minnits,” replied the
man, “and I’ll be cussed if I can make ’em out. What was that?”
Both had caught the gleam of some metallic substance in the moonlight.
Dave uttered a low exclamation, and caught the guard by the arm.
“There they come, by heaven! Stand firm now, and don’t fire unless they
make a rush.”
Dave was right, for those dark shadows creeping up so slowly were the
forms of their enemies gathering for a rush upon the camp. They were
crawling along the short prairie grass, shading themselves as much as
possible behind the hummocks, and getting as near as was safe to the
line of woods before the rush was made. Velveteens was there, crouching
upon the sod, and nursing in his heart the most bitter hatred of all who
were dear to Myrtle. There, too, crouched the two men who had been
flogged by the borderers, crouching like tigers ready for the spring,
each man with a rifle in his grasp and his revolvers in the belt. Mixed
with these were their red allies, the Modoc Sioux, eager for scalps, and
caring but little from whom those scalps were taken. It seemed
impossible that the trappers could withstand the rush of this powerful
body.
Hark! They are gathering for the rush now, and weapons are tightly
grasped as the whispered word of command goes down the line. The signal
will be a shot from a rifle, and Velveteens is to give it. Rising slowly
to his knees, he brought the deadly rifle to his shoulder, and pointed
it at the motionless form of the guard who was talking with Dave
Farrell, but, as the rifle came to a level, the man glided suddenly
behind a tree, and Velveteens lowered the weapon in surprise.
“Lucky fur ye, my man,” he muttered. “Thar; come on!”
The rifle cracked, and the bullet was buried in the tree behind which
the guard was stationed, and the band rushed forward like leaping
grayhounds. But, the rifle-shot seemed to be a signal to the others, and
the whole front of the strip of woods is in a blaze, so rapid is the
discharge of rifles about it. The trappers have not been caught napping,
and the tables are turned upon the assailants who go down, man by man,
fearfully decimated by the deadly fire. Prairie men do not waste
bullets. They take deadly aim, and generally speaking the man drops at
whom the ball is sped, and when the band of outlaws reached the woods,
nearly one third of their number were beyond the reach of human aid.
They stood in the moonlight, exposed to that dreadful fire, while the
trappers were covered by trees. No wonder the British crew were rent
asunder as if by an earthquake, and scattered both ways, leaving the
front of the trappers clear.
“Whoop!” yelled one of the hunters. “Give ’em Hail Columby, boys, and
durn the odds.”
Half a dozen men leaped out to follow the discomfited assailants,
unheeding the stern orders of Dave Farrell. They had scarcely showed
themselves when four of them went down, for, although so many had
fallen, the enemy was not yet beaten, but had paused for breath before a
new attack, shuttered by the band in the timber on either flank.
“Spread out there on the left and cover the corral,” cried Dave.
“They’ll stampede the horses next.”
The order did not come too soon, for the party who moved to the left in
obedience found themselves face to face with forty or fifty Indians
creeping up toward the corral. A hand-to-hand struggle began, and as
both sides were reinforced, a battle royal began between the corral and
the prairie. In these wood battles the hand and eye must be trained to
take in every incident and change in the scene, for it is impossible to
say from what point a blow may come. The weapons are deadly, the
revolver, knife and hatchet playing the principal part. Neither party
would give way an inch now, and it was impossible to say who would
conquer, when a shrill, peculiar whistle was heard high above the
tumult. Instantly the assailants gave way, and were seen scattered about
the prairie in headlong flight, leaving their dead and wounded gasping
upon the sod. The trappers would have followed, but Dave would not
permit it.
“Enough has been done, boys,” he cried. “We have given them a lesson
which they will not soon forget, and I doubt if they will try their
powers on us again. But, what made them give up so suddenly? They seemed
to be holding us well when they broke away.”
“It was nip and tuck,” replied one of the men. “Durned ef I understand
it.”
“I heerd a whistle,” replied another. “Thet’s all I know about it, and
they quit on that.”
“I heard the signal too,” said Dave. “Two or three of you fellows run
out and see what they are doing.”
Volunteers were plenty, and picking their way carefully through the dead
and dying, they saw that the marauders were already in the saddle and
headed for the foot-hills. The horse-guards had kept the animals well
together, and they were not impeded in their flight. But, hardly had
they disappeared when the scouts saw another line of horsemen streaming
out from a distant pass, heading toward the timber, and they came back
to report.
“A large force, boys?” demanded Dave.
“Nigh a hunderd, Cap.”
“Load up again, boys,” said the Beaver Captain, “for we may have another
tussle. Keep out of sight, and let every bullet find a mark. Be steady.”
Just issued from a fierce struggle, and while some of their friends lay
dead at their feet, these men cheerfully prepared for a new battle. The
long line of horsemen came on in Indian fashion, until about three
hundred yards from the timber, when they halted, and two men rode out
toward the camp, evidently with peaceful intent. As they came nearer,
Dave recognized Old Pegs and Whirlwind.
“It’s all right, boys,” he cried; “lay down your guns and get torches.
Some of our poor fellows need our aid.”
While the men were making preparations he slipped out to meet the
new-comers.
“Don’t tell me I ain’t in time, Dave,” growled Old Pegs, “acause I’d be
like enuff ter hit ye. Them cusses bin at you, eh?”
“They gave us a benefit, just now. If you want fun, Whirlwind, you may
overtake them before they get very deep into the foot-hills.”
“Which way?” cried Whirlwind, his nostrils dilating. “Whirlwind will
go.”
“Set some scouts on them if you can’t bring them to a fight, for we want
to know where they go. The country has got to be cleared of this scum,
somehow.”
Whirlwind made no reply, but calling to his men they went off like the
wind in the direction taken by the outlaws. Old Pegs looked after them
wistfully.
“I’d like ter go with ’em, Dave, only if they ketch them critters I’m
afraid Whirlwind will find himself in the position of the man that
caught the Tartar. Lost some of yer boys?”
“Yes, too many, I am afraid,” replied Dave. “Let us join them and see
what the loss really is.”
A careful search revealed the fact that five of his men had been killed
and twice that number wounded. Of the assailants twelve were killed and
five mortally wounded left upon the ground. The burial service was
brief, each rough man bidding good-by to his friend in his rough way as
they were laid beneath the sod, friend and foe together in a trench
which was hastily thrown up by the men, who knew their duty well.
“Whirlwind has caught his Tartar, I reckon,” said Dave, as the sound of
rifles came up on the wind. “What a dressing those fellows will give the
Blackfeet!”
The firing receded, growing fainter and fainter in the distance, and
they began to think that the Blackfeet were driving the enemy before
them.
“Dave,” said Old Pegs, “I’ve bin thinking ’bout my gal and made up my
mind. I’d hate to lose her but I won’t keep her here no more and she’s
got ter go to the fort.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied Dave, eagerly. “What made you
come to that conclusion?”
Old Pegs related the adventure with Velveteens and Anatole.
“And you see, boy, this yer mout happen any day. Now give me ten men and
I’ll go up to-morrow and git her and we’ll send her home with the
brigade.”
The plan suited Dave well, and early next morning the old hunter with
ten men rode up to his cabin home, searching every pass before they
entered it. The ride was a long one and it was ten o’clock when Old Pegs
dismounted at his door and went in.
The room was empty, but that did not seem to trouble him, for, after
calling Myrtle’s name once or twice, he pushed aside the curtains of the
recess in which she slept and went in. A sort of clicking sound was
heard directly after, and he was not seen for ten minutes, when the
noise was again repeated and he sprung out into the empty room with a
wild look on his face.
“She’s gone!” he screamed. “Who hez robbed me of my child?”
“Hyar’s a bit of paper, old man,” said one of the trappers. “We found it
on a split stick near the door.”
Old Pegs cast it from him with a roar of anger.
“D’ye think I kin read now? Whar’s Myrtle; thet’s what I want ter know.”
“I can read,” said one of the scouts, picking up the paper. “Shall I,
old man?”
Old Pegs nodded with a savage look on his face, and the young man read
the paper.
“This is to certify, that having come to the conclusion that the man
known as Old Pegs is not lawfully the guardian of his lovely
daughter—so called—therefore I, Rafe Norris, assume the guardianship,
with the intention of making her my wife.
Rafe Norris.”
The old man took up the letter and looked at it grimly. “I’ll wad it
round a bullet, one day,” he muttered. “God help him, when we meet
ag’in. He’ll git this paper back.”