In the valley a cavalry command was encamped, some hours after
the battle in which Lieutenant Dick Danforth and his men had been
overwhelmed by Oak Heart’s ambuscade.
It was just sunset, but twilight among the mountains is sometimes four
hours long--a man might see to read fine print at nine o’clock.
The command had ridden hard and were a-wearied, so the party had
bivouacked early, the guide reporting that the ridge before them
afforded no good camping-ground. The horses were soon lariated out, and
scores of camp-fires were kindled along the banks of the stream, while
the cheerful rattle of dishes and the smell of cooking sharpened the
appetites of the troopers.
Leaving his servant to prepare his frugal meal, the commander of the
soldiers strode up the hillside toward the summit of the ridge, the
better to view the valley and its boundaries while daylight lingered.
“Be careful, captain, for I look for Injuns hereabouts,” called the
guide, who was Texas Jack.
“All right, Jack. I’ll signal if I see any signs of the red scamps,”
returned the fearless officer, as he strode on up the ascent.
Once or twice he turned to enjoy the scene of beauty spreading below
him--the lovely valley, the winding stream, the picturesque bivouac of
the troopers, and the distant blue hills, on which the light was fading
rapidly. At length he reached the point from which he could view a
part of the country through which the morrow’s trail would lead them.
Below him, on that side of the ridge, all was shadow now, for the ridge
shut off the last glow of the golden western sky; but the summits of
the hills and ridges were still bathed in the departing sun’s radiance.
The scene so impressed him that, quite unconsciously, the officer spoke
aloud:
“No wonder that poor Lo loves this land so well that he’s willing to
fight for it. It is a pity it must ever be settled, and cut up into
farms and homesteads--and possibly, town lots! The life of the free
savage is the best, after all!”
“Well said, captain! But I’ve got the drop on you!”
The officer started as the voice fell upon his ears, and, dropping his
hand upon his sword-hilt, turned to face the speaker. Before him, and
not six paces distant, having just stepped from a dense thicket, was an
apparition which, at first sight, the officer scarce realized was human!
And yet, no other shape was near, and from the lips of the strange
being that confronted him had fallen the threatening words he had heard.
“Who and what are you?” cried the officer sternly, his eyes beholding a
being of gigantic size, clad in the skins of beasts, so that at first
sight he appeared more like a grizzly bear reared upon its hind legs!
About the waist of the giant was a red fox-skin belt, in which were
slung two revolvers and a large knife; upon his head was a panther-skin
cap, the tail hanging down the man’s back, and on his feet were
moccasins of black bearskin. Hair black as night fell to his waist;
beard of the same hue matted and unkempt; and a dark, haggard face,
out of which glittered the wildest eyes it had ever been the officer’s
fortune to see.
To finish this terrifying picture, the strange being held a rifle at
his shoulder, and that rifle was aimed now at the military officer’s
heart!
“You ask who and what I am?” repeated the creature, in a deep voice.
“I do,” said the soldier, measuring him with the eye of a hawk.
He had instantly seen that he was in the presence of a maniac--a person
utterly irresponsible for his acts. Whether he was to be cajoled out
of his present murderous condition of mind, the soldier did not know.
But he was watching for some wavering of the rifle which might tell him
that the fellow was off his guard, and that there might be a chance to
spring under his guard and seize him.
“You are a bold man to question me, captain!” said the giant sternly.
“I know it; but I’ve an overpowering curiosity to find out,” and the
captain dropped his hand carelessly upon the butt of the pistol he
carried at his hip.
“Hands up!” exclaimed the fellow, seeing the movement. “Hands up, or
you are a dead man!”
Hoping that he might yet parley with the maniac, the officer obeyed. It
were better, perhaps, had he drawn his gun and risked a shot. The giant
looked at him with wicked, glowing eyes.
“I will tell you who I am, officer,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am a
_madman_!”
The last word he fairly shrieked; yet not for a second did he forget
his victim, nor did his hand tremble. The rifle still transfixed the
helpless officer.
But the officer was a kindly man, and although he believed himself in
peril of his life still, the brave man ever has pity for those touched
in the head. He said quietly:
“My poor man, lower your weapon and come with me down to yonder camp.
Those are Uncle Sam’s troops down there. They will take care of you.”
“Ha!” cried the maniac furiously. “I need no one to care for me. I can
care for myself. You’d much better be thinking of help for yourself,
captain.”
“Well, then I’ll go along and look for that help,” said the officer
easily.
“Don’t move!”
“But, my dear fellow----”
“Hold! Address no words of kindness to me, for they are thrown away
upon one whose duty it is to slay.”
“But it surely isn’t your duty to kill _me_!”
“Aye--you, too.”
“But what have I done to you?”
“It matters not. Mankind has done enough to me. I am appointed to slay,
and slay I will!”
“It’s nice to know your duty so clearly,” said the officer easily. “But
aren’t you liable to make a mistake?”
“No! Never a mistake. Once I might have made a mistake. That was when I
believed I was called of God to kill the redskins only. I know better
now.”
“Well!” murmured the officer, hoping to catch the madman off his guard,
if only for a moment.
“I saw the error of my ways,” cried the madman. “I beheld my sins. I
had neglected the full measure of my duty.”
“So killing redskins didn’t satisfy you, eh?”
“Why should I kill the savages alone? I saw white men quite as
brutal--aye, more brutal--than the red. I saw them commit the same
atrocities. I saw white rangers rip the scalps from the head of their
dead foes; I saw the soldiers storm the Indian encampments and kill
the squaws and the papoose at the breast! Aye! how much better are the
whites than the red men?”
“And having seen all this bloody warfare, you wish to add to the sum
total of horror by killing everybody you come across, do you, old
fellow?”
“You are all alike to me. I kill. That is the way I obtain ammunition
and arms. The arms and cartridges you carry are mine!”
“Oh, I’ll give them to you right now, if you want them,” exclaimed the
captain eagerly. “You won’t have to kill me to get them. Really, it
isn’t necessary. I’ll do the polite and hand them over.”
To himself he thought:
“And I’ll hand you something that will do you a lot of good the first
chance I get!”
But the madman was not to be fooled so easily.
“Nay, nay! Your bullets would not fly true for me were you alive,”
declared the giant. “I am the Mad Hunter. Have you heard of me?”
“I have heard of such a character,” admitted the captain.
“I am he, and if you know of me you must know that I show mercy to
none--not even to one wearing the uniform you do. No, no! I spare
neither my own race--for I was white once, before I became like the
beasts that perish--nor the redskin. All fall before me.”
The man spoke with intensity; yet not a motion gave the officer hope
of his chance to spring on him. The man’s nerves were of steel; he
held the rifle as though it and his own body were of stone; yet the
glittering eyes showed his victim that if he dropped his hands a bullet
would end his career on the instant.
“But, you know, _I_ haven’t harmed you, my poor man,” said the officer.
“All mankind are my foes,” said the Mad Hunter, in his strong monotone,
and without moving. “Come! the night draws near, and I have yet to
travel many miles to my cave in the mountains.”
“Don’t let me detain you, old man,” said the officer. “Won’t it do just
as well another day?”
“Come! prepare to die. If you have prayers to say, repeat them quickly.
It is growing dark.”
Now, the officer didn’t care how dark it got before the madman fired.
Indeed, he would have been glad if it suddenly became pitch-dark--so
dark that he might dodge away and escape the sinister weapon which held
its “bead” on his breast. He gave up all hope of “talking the fellow
out of it.” The madman meant to kill him, and unless some miracle
averted the fate, he would very quickly be a dead man!
The madman was a giant in build and strength. He remembered now having
heard the scouts tell many strange stories of the Mad Hunter about the
camp-fire. For years he had been tracking about the Rockies, appearing
unexpectedly in first one locality and then another; sometimes
committing atrocious murders of inoffensive people. But usually his
presence was noted by the scouts by the dead bodies of Indians,
their bodies mutilated by a cross gashed with the madman’s knife over
their hearts. He put this insignia upon every redskin he killed, so
that even the savages--who feared him as some spirit and altogether
supernatural--knew who to lay the death of their friends to when the
Mad Hunter was about.
Whether the giant had a habit of marking his white victims in the
same way, the captain did not know; but it was a suggestion that did
not tranquilize his nerves. To cope with the giant he knew would be
impossible. He was a tall and strong man himself; but the maniac could
have handled three men like the officer with ease. A movement toward
his revolver or sword would be a signal for his death. Yet the officer
could not stand here helplessly and allow the maniac to shoot him down!
In full view below him were the camp-fires of his men. The valley had
grown dark now, but surely they could see him clearly standing here on
the summit of the ridge. His body must loom big against the sky-line.
Yet it was plain they did not see the giant with him.
_He_ stood in the shadow of the thicket where he had hidden at the
officer’s approach. It was behind him, and made him invisible to the
men in the valley. To call for aid would bring the end more quickly. So
he waited in silence, hoping against hope that some mad freak of the
maniac’s mind and humor might work for his salvation.
If the Mad Hunter kept his word, the officer had but a few minutes to
live. He looked all about the vicinity, hoping he might see some chance
of help. It was a desperate--a really hopeless thought. Who or what
could save him now?
Suddenly his eyes became fixed upon the spur of a hill that jutted out
across a shallow valley. The lingering rays of the sun touched the
hill-spur redly. It seemed much nearer to him than it really was, and
along its brink came a horse and rider!
The officer gasped; then held his breath, and did not change the mask
of his face. He had learned long since to hide emotion; but this was a
terrible situation, and he had almost lost his nerve.
The horseman had evidently been about to descend into the valley,
when his glance fell upon the two men standing like statues upon the
opposite ridge. _He_ could see the giant huntsman, if the soldiers in
the other valley could not. He saw at once the attitude of both men and
understood. He drew rein, and the officer at the same moment recognized
him. Unconsciously his lips parted, and the name of the rider came from
the officer in a quick gasp:
“Buffalo Bill!”
The keen ear of the mad hercules caught the name, and, turning like
a panther at bay, he saw the scout on the distant spur. As he moved,
the officer’s hands dropped, and he seized the revolver from his belt.
Throwing it forward, he pulled the trigger as the madman wheeled again
toward him.
But the hammer fell without exploding the cartridge. The madman laughed
aloud.
“No, no!” he shouted. “The bullet is not cast that will kill the Mad
Hunter! The cartridge is not made that will injure me!”
The officer found his pistol-hammer jammed. He could not cock the
weapon again. With a wild shriek the maniac dropped his rifle, and,
drawing his knife, flung himself at his victim, intending evidently to
kill him with those slashes across the breast which usually marked his
dead.
But in that awful moment the doomed man’s eyes turned upon the distant
spur, and he beheld the rifle rise to the horseman’s shoulder.
Desperate as was the chance, Buffalo Bill intending risking a shot to
save him. He flung himself backward, as the madman came on, leaving the
field clear for the scout to fire.