A TURN IN THE TRAIL
It was Flying Arrow who had saved Fred and his old friend. The young
chief, true to his friendship for the old mountaineer, stoutly objected
to killing the captives, when the White Injun, fearing the outcome of
his cruelty, suggested that “dead men tell no tales.” Since, according
to Indian custom, a unanimous decision was necessary to put a prisoner
to death, Nixon had to content himself with his brutal scare. And now,
thinking that the escaped men would rouse the valley, he made plans
hastily to play his last trick and flee to escape the righteous wrath of
the ranchers.
A council was held that night. It was agreed that they should break camp
next morning. Old Copperhead, with the squaws and papooses, was to make
a forced march and camp in the pass to the south. With this start, they
could get into the eastern valleys before the whites were alive to their
mischief. Ankanamp and his bunch of young bucks were to make the final
raid on the ranches, lifting all the horses they could find. They would
make as clean a sweep as possible, both for profit and for the purpose
of crippling the pursuit. The raid was to begin at Morgan’s ranch,
thence north to the Bar B and other places through the valley. Their
rendezvous was to be in the pass at the southern end of the valley.
Through this they would drive with all speed till out of reach of the
whites.
The plot looked promising. It began to work smoothly. Without a mishap
and before the sun was up, the whole band had filed out of the narrow
gorge and trailed to the mouth of the canyon. Here it divided, the old
chief with his weaker chargers skirting along the foothills to the
south, Ankanamp with his marauders turning northward into the aspen
groves on the mountain side, to hide and rest till dark should come to
cover their movements. It chanced that they chose as their temporary
resting place a thick covert of trees not more than half a mile south of
Uncle Dave’s cabin. Picketing their horses out of sight within the
groves, they rolled up in their blankets and threw themselves down to
catch up the sleep they had lost the night before.
There they lay, dead to the world, when Fred, out hunting for Old
Middie, Uncle Dave’s cow, which had strayed away the night before, came
suddenly upon the sleeping Redskins. He stared a moment in surprise and
fear, then seeing that he had not disturbed the band, he turned
cautiously and stole back out of the dangerous den. When he felt safe,
he broke into a run up the slope, arriving at the cabin with little
breath to tell his tale.
When he did manage to get it out, the old mountaineer shook his head
gravely. “Them red varmints mean mischief.”
“What do you think they are up to now?” asked Fred.
“Dunno, boy, dunno; but I reckon it’s some thievin’.”
“Hadn’t I better warn the ranchers?”
“Not just yet. I think we’d better do a little scoutin’ first. I’d like
to git the lay o’ the land ’fore we make a move.” He studied a moment,
then added, “If the stockmen could ketch ’em red-handed, they’d hev a
clear cause to clean up that White Injun and his bunch. As it is, we
ain’t dead sure they’re guilty.” The old mountaineer went on with his
dinner preparations, but his face was full of thought. Finally he said,
half to himself, “It’s a risky piece o’ business, but I reckon I kin do
it.
“We’ll wait here till long ’bout dark. ’Tain’t likely they’ll be movin’
’fore that time; then we’ll saddle Old Buck and both slip down as close
as we kin git an’ be safe. I’ll leave you thar and steal in till I kin
hear what they’re talkin’ ’bout. More’n likely they’ll drop some word
thet’ll give us a hint o’ their scheme.”
“No, I’ll take that risk,” objected Fred.
“You don’t know their language, boy.”
“But, Uncle Dave, what if they catch you?”
“I reckon they’ll lift my skelp; but I ain’t caught yet, boy. An’ if
they try any more tricks on me, that White Injun’ll pay dear fer it,
’fore I’m done talkin’. But let’s hope fer somethin’ better.”
“Well, go ahead, I’m with you whatever comes.”
“I’ve been in tight places ’fore this an’ squeezed through. Now, listen,
if anything happens to me, jump on the horse and peg it fer help. If I
get what I’m after, I’ll slip back and tell ye what to do.”
An hour later the two were picking their cautious way through the groves
of the hidden nest of thieves. Within about two hundred yards of the
place, they halted, and the old mountaineer began to steal alone closer
to the den.
Fred watched him make his way stealthily into the brush and disappear.
Then he listened and listened with straining ears for hours, it seemed,
to catch the sound of his returning step, but he heard only the gentle
chatter of the leaves, the squeaking of the wood mice, and the far-away
call of the coyote, remarkably clear in the dangerous stillness of the
night. Once he fancied he caught the sound of voices. He held his breath
to hear, but the breeze swept away the sound. It may not have been
fancy, however, for while the boy kept anxious watch, Nixon was giving
his band of dusky followers their final instructions for the raid.
Another pair of eager ears caught not all, but enough of the plot that
was being rehearsed that night in the shadow of the trees, to unravel
the main thread of it. The old mountaineer, after a full hour of trying
toil, had wormed his way within a few rods from the band, and there he
lay, intent to catch every syllable of the rough English that Bud was
using to instruct his followers. Flying Arrow interpreted the White
Chief’s words into the Indian tongue to make sure they understood.
The old mountaineer stayed long enough to get clear the plot--almost too
long indeed; for one Indian, leaving the band to look after his horse,
walked within a step of the hidden listener. For a moment he feared
discovery; but the Redskin went his way and returned none the wiser.
Seizing his opportunity, the trapper turned and crept away, inch by
inch, out of his dangerous place.
To Fred the time dragged into an age as he stood in the quiet darkness
of the aspen grove. The moon had climbed high into the sky before the
welcome sound of the soft returning step came. When it did, his tense
feelings relaxed into sudden, half-painful relief.
“Oh, I’m glad you’re safe!”
“Quiet, boy,” responded Uncle Dave; “now, listen; they’ve planned a
horse stealin’ raid. They’ll begin at Morgan’s ranch, then swing to the
Bar B and on down the valley to the north. Jump on this horse and set
out quiet but brisk to warn the settlers. Strike for Morgan’s first.
They’ll git there long ’fore daybreak, I reckon. That won’t give the
ranchers much time, but mebbe you kin gether enough agin they git there
to scare ’em off. Here, swap weapons with me. That scatter gun o’ yours
won’t be much use in an Injun fight.”
“But you may need it,” objected Fred.
“No, they’re not after me; I’ll be safe in my cabin. Now, go, and the
Lord bless ye.”
Fred grasped the rough hand and pressed it, then leaped on the horse.
“Sh!” warned Uncle Dave, “they’re stirrin’. You’ll hev to move mighty
cautious, but move.”
At the word Fred started again, this time to wind his way carefully
through the grove. He kept well within the shadow of the trees till the
willowy way of the creek offered another stretch of hidden trail, which
he threaded cautiously for half a mile or more, then he struck across
the open flat, urging Old Buck to his utmost.
Fear was swept aside. His only desire was to reach the ranch in time to
upset the White Injun’s plot. The glad thought that he was doing signal
service for the settlers and for Alta--service that might lift the cloud
from his name--never crossed him. Old Buck, seeming to catch the
feelings of his rider, rushed on; but his flying feet were too slow for
Fred’s eager thoughts. The dark forms of the big stacks and sheds seemed
miles away, but they neared at last, and finally he dashed up to them,
leaped from his horse and ran to the door. His excitement was expressed
in the hurried rap he gave.
The old Colonel, half roused by the galloping hoofs, was brought to a
sitting posture by the sharp knock.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
“Fred Benton.”
Alta, wakened too, heard the name with a strange joy.
“What’s up?”
“Indians are raiding the valley.”
“Devil you say!” exclaimed the Colonel, jumping up and into his
trousers, and hurrying to the door.
“They’ll be here any minute,” said Fred.
Aunt ‘Liza gave a hysterical scream. Alta, trembling with excitement,
ran to comfort her.
“How do you know that?” demanded the Colonel.
“No time to tell now, get ready.”
“Go wake the boys”--Fred was on his way before the Colonel had finished
the sentence.
Bill and Pete were in a sound sleep, but the word “Injuns” cleared their
dazed senses quickly enough.
“How big a band is it?” asked the Colonel, coming up with his rifle.
“About twenty bucks, with a white devil at their head.”
“We’ll need help.”
“Yes, and the rest of the ranchers ought to be warned. I should be on my
way, but I hate to leave because they’ll strike here first.”
“How do you know?”
“Uncle Dave overheard their plan.”
“Why can’t I go rouse the ranchers?” asked Alta, as she ran out to grasp
and cling to Fred’s hand.
“It’s too risky, little gal,” objected her uncle; “you stay in out of
harm’s reach.”
“Not when I can be of help.” Alta’s tone was decisive. “Get Eagle quick,
Bill.”
“Alta will make a better messenger on that pony than I,” suggested Fred,
“and she’ll be in less danger on the road than here.”
The old Colonel reluctantly acquiesced and Alta sprang to her saddle.
“Go to the Bar B first,” said Fred; “then strike for the ranches north
and east; watch out for danger as you return. If you sight trouble,
strike for Uncle Dave’s cabin.”
Alta was up and away in a second.
“Take care of Aunt ‘Liza,” she called back, as she dashed down the road.
“Now get your guns, boys, and let’s make ready. Pete, you and Bill take
care o’ the house; this boy and I will guard the stables. If you sight
Injuns, give ’em hell.”
The men took their stations as directed.
For half an hour or more the Colonel and Fred wailed, straining their
eyes in an effort to see the brush forms take the shape of prowling
Injuns, but no signs of such life appeared. The old Colonel began to
wonder whether he had not been made the butt of an Injun scare, when
suddenly his sharp eye caught sight of a dark object worming through the
brush toward the corral. He cocked his rifle carefully. The creeping
object checked dead still at the sound; then it began to crawl again.
And now another form came into view. The Colonel waited till the
skulking savage was within a few rods of the bars, then he took aim and
fired.
The Indian, fatally struck, gave a piteous death yell, staggered half
up, and pitched forward. The cry brought half a dozen forms out of the
brush. Fred fired at one of them as they fled for the thick willows.
This shock at their plot all but created a panic among the band. Only
their fury to avenge their comrade, and the desperate determination of
Bud Nixon to wreak vengeance on his foes, held them to their plan. At
another time the White Injun would have played the skulking coward, but
now his blood was up, and he was reckless of the end.
To divert attention, part of the band under Flying Arrow was sent to
attack the house. The savages set up a fearful yelling and shouting as
they circled about it. The ruse was successful, so far as uncovering the
corral was concerned. Colonel Morgan and Fred, concluding that the house
was in danger, hurried to defend it while Nixon struck for the corral to
capture the horses. The rifles were cracking and the savages yelling
when a wild shout broke through the din, and close upon it came the
thumping hoofs of the Bar B horses.
Hearing that challenging shout, the savages about the house fled again
for the willows, leaving Bud and his braves entangled among the stacks
and stables. Daylight was just beginning to break.
“There goes a red devil,” yelled Jim, spurring his horse after a dark
form, scurrying for the willows.
“There’s another,” shouted Dick, catching sight of Bud Nixon, just
emerging from the stable door with the Colonel’s finest saddle horse.
“Watch me drop him!” He blazed away at the White Injun as he spoke. Bud
heard and recognized the voice. His blood boiled. If it was the last act
of his life, he’d have revenge now. He whipped out his revolver and
fired. Dick’s horse leaped sidewise. Bud blazed away again and Dick
reeled and fell. Bud ran for his own horse, leaped on it, and dashed
away to dive into the thicket of brush and trees, just in time to
escape the charging cowboys. A rattle of revolver shots followed him.
Fred, running back to protect the stock, saw the whole encounter. He
hurried to help his stricken companion. Dick lay limp and unconscious,
an ugly wound through his left shoulder. Fred turned heartsick as he
tried to call his old friend back to life. Several others rode up and
helped him carry Dick into the house. While some one was dressing his
wound, he regained consciousness. He was seriously but not fatally hurt.
Bill was left to help Aunt ‘Liza nurse him, and the rest dashed away to
run down the daring thieves, who, scattered and leaderless, were hidden
or fleeing in every direction--all but three,--they had tasted quickly
the wrath of the ranchers.