The wild cheers that greeted the recognition of the daring gantlet
runner came in frenzied roars, the piping voices of children, the
treble notes of women, and the deep bass of the men mingling in a
swelling chorus that rose higher and higher.
The Border King, as he had been called, heard the sound. He understood
that it was in his welcome, and he fairly stood up in his stirrups and
waved his sombrero, while the horses dashed on at the same mad pace.
Buffalo Bill, or William F. Cody, as was his real name, was the chief
of scouts at this very fort, and he was a hero--almost a god--in the
eyes of the soldiers and his brother scouts.
A week before he had started for Denver with important despatches, but
had returned in a few hours to report signs of a large band of Indians
on the move. He had warned Major Baldwin that Oak Heart and his braves
might be intending a concerted attack upon Fort Advance; but duty
called Buffalo Bill to the trail again, and he had hurried away on his
Denver mission.
That the danger he had dreaded was real, the surrounding of the fort
several days later by the Sioux proved. Scouts had been sent for aid,
but too late. None had gotten through the belt of redskins, and that
belt was tightening each hour. The ammunition was low, and the awful
end was not far off if help from some quarter did not appear.
Even the appearance of Buffalo Bill inspired the beleaguered whites
with hope. It seemed an almost hopeless attempt to reach the fort, for
the red warriors were closing in upon him. Yet he rode on unshakenly.
Down the ridge he sped, and out upon the plain. He was seemingly coming
from the sunshine of life into the valley of death’s shadow!
Why did he do it? Why did he risk his life so recklessly when only
forty miles away he could have obtained help from the military post?
There was some reason behind his daring act, and some cause for his
delaying his effort by dragging the packhorse, now wounded, with him.
All in the fort knew what this hero of the border had done to win fame
among the mighty men of the frontier. He was chief and king among them.
Yet what could he do now to help the besieged in the fortress, even
did he reach the gate? That was the question!
But hope revived, nevertheless, in every heart. Even the commandant,
Major Frank Baldwin, began to look more hopeful as the scout drew
closer to the fort. He had known Buffalo Bill long and well, and he
knew of what marvels he was capable!
Buffalo Bill had been born in a cabin home on the banks of the
Mississippi River in the State of Iowa, and from his eighth year he
had been a pioneer--an advance agent of civilization. At that age
his father had removed to Kansas, and as a boy Billie Cody saw and
took part in the bloody struggles in Kansas between the supporters
of slavery and those who believed that the soil of Kansas should be
unsmirched by that terrible traffic in human lives.
Cody’s father, indeed, lost his life because of his belief in freedom,
and the boy was obliged to help support the family at a tender age. He
went to Leavenworth, and there hired out to Alex Majors, who of that
day was the chief of the overland freighters into the far West.
The boy was eleven years old--an age when most youngsters think only of
their play and of their stomachs. But Billie Cody had seen his father
shot down; he had nursed him and hidden him from his foes, and from
the dying pioneer had received a sacred charge. That was the care of
his mother and sister. It was necessary for him to earn a man’s wage,
not a boy’s. And to get it he must do a man’s work. He was a splendid
rider, even then--one of those horsemen who seem a part of the animal
he bestrode, like the Centaurs of which Greek mythology tells us.
Alex Majors needed a messenger to ride from train to train along the
wagon-trail, and he entrusted young Cody with the job.
It was one that might have put to the test the bravery of a seasoned
plainsman. Indians and wild beasts were both very plentiful. There
were hundreds of dangers to threaten the lone boy as he rode swiftly
over the trails. Yet even then he began to make his mark. He had
several encounters with the Indians during his first season. As he says
himself, the first redskin he ever saw stole from him, and he had to
force the scoundrel--boy though he was--to give up the property at the
point of the rifle. This incident, perhaps, gave the youth a certain
daring in approaching the reds which often stood him well in after
adventures. And the reds learned to respect and fear Billie Cody. He
allowed his hair to grow long, to show the Indians that he was not
afraid to wear a “scalp-lock”--practically daring any of his red foes
to come and take it!
So from that early day he had been active on the border. All knew
him--red as well as white. He had been an Indian fighter from his
eleventh year, the hero of hundreds of daring deeds, thrilling
adventures, and narrow escapes. He was as gentle as a woman with the
weak, the feeble, or with those who claimed his protection; but he was
as savage in battle as a mountain lion, and had well earned the title
bestowed upon him by his admiring friends--the Border King. His coming
to the fort now--if he could make it safely--was worth in itself a
company of reenforcements, for it put heart into all the besieged.
“Never mind, Keyes! it is Cody, and he will get through,” called out
Major Baldwin to Captain Keyes, as the men were mounting.
Captain Edward L. Keyes was a splendid type of cavalry officer, and
he was anxious for another brush with the redskins at close quarters.
He was disappointed, but as the man making the attempt to reach Fort
Advance was Buffalo Bill, the captain agreed with Major Baldwin that
“he would get through.”
The Border King had turned his rifle now upon the Indian guards who
were trying to head him off by blocking his way with the large herd of
half-wild ponies which had been feeding in the valley. Indian ponies
are not broken like those used by white men. They are pretty nearly
wild all their days. The red man merely teaches his mount to answer to
the pressure of his knees, and to the jerk of the single rawhide thong
that is slipped around the brute’s lower jaw. And these lessons are
further enforced by cruelty.
The odor of a white person is offensive to an Indian pony. A white man
has been known frequently to stampede a band of Indian mounts; and not
infrequently the mob of wild creatures has turned upon the unfortunate
paleface and trampled him to death under their unshod feet.
Therefore, this opposition of the ponies was no small matter. They were
a formidable barrier to Buffalo Bill’s successful arrival at the gate
of the stockade fort.
His rifle rattled forth lively, yet deadly, music, and his aim was
wonderfully true for that of a man riding at full speed. Emptying the
gun, he swung it quickly over his shoulder, and drawing the big cavalry
pistols from their holsters the daring scout began to fairly mow a
path through the herd of ponies. The slugs carried by the large-caliber
pistols were as effective as the balls from his rifle. The mob of
squealing, kicking, biting ponies broke before his charge, and swept on
ahead of him. Another cheer from the watchers in the fort signaled this
fact. The ponies were stampeding directly toward Fort Advance.
“Out and line ’em up!”
“We’ll corral the ponies if we kyan’t th’ Injuns!”
“Throw open the gates!” commanded Major Baldwin, his voice heard above
the tumult.
The command was obeyed, and Captain Keyes and his men galloped out to
meet the mob.
In vain did the Indian guards try to head off the stampede. By having
left their ponies in the valley where the grass was sweet and long,
they had been caught in this trap. Instead of capturing Buffalo Bill it
looked as though he and the other whites would capture the bulk of the
Indian ponies!
Oak Heart and the White Antelope, with a few mounted reds at their
back, thundered across the level plain and up the rise toward the fort.
But the pony herd and Buffalo Bill were well in the lead.
The king of the border turned in his saddle, and waved his sombrero in
mockery at the Indian chief. Then the ponies dashed into the gateway
and were corraled, while the scout, still leading his packhorse, swept
in behind them.
“On guard, all! The redskins will charge on foot to try and get their
ponies!” shouted the scout, as he came through the gate.
His voice rose above the turmoil and brought the delighted men to their
duty. Major Baldwin echoed Buffalo Bill’s advice, ordering everybody to
their posts.
“Be careful of the expenditure of powder and lead, men!” warned the
major, from his stand on the platform. “Remember we are running short.”
“Don’t you believe it, major!” cried the voice of the scout, as he
dismounted in the middle of the enthusiastic throng.
“What’s that, Cody?”
“Strip the packhorse. I have brought you a-plenty of ammunition until
reenforcements can be had.”
“God bless you, Cody, for those words! You have saved us,” cried Major
Baldwin, and there was a tremor in his voice as he glanced toward the
group of women and children.
He came down from the platform, and wrung the scout’s hand, as he asked:
“In the name of Heaven, Cody, where did you get ammunition? Surely, you
did not bring it all the way from Denver?”
“No, indeed. I cached this over a year ago, major,” the scout replied
cheerfully. “It will hold those red devils off until help arrives.
You’ve sent to Fort Resistence, I presume?”
“Sent, alas! But five men have died in the attempt.”
“And not one got through?” cried Buffalo Bill.
“Not one, Cody.”
Buffalo Bill’s face assumed a look of anxiety--an expression not often
seen there.
“I had called for another volunteer when you were discovered coming.
It was a splendid dash you made, Cody, and a desperate one as well.”
“Aye,” said the scout gravely. “Desperate it was, indeed. But it
must be made again. This ammunition I have brought you may last till
morning; but the reds must be taken on the flank or they’ll hold you
here till kingdom come!
“I’ll try to get through again, Major Baldwin. You must have help,”
declared the Border King sternly.