BLACK BILL’S LONE HAND.
After going a couple of miles the black scouts returned to Sergeant
Buck and his men, and they all pushed on once more, flanking the
Indian village.
They came to a small stream running down from the mountains, and this
the chief followed up until it was seen to come out of a cañon.
Here was a good camping place, so a fire was built in a crevice of
the rocks, supper was gotten, and the scouts turned in for the night,
well tired out after their hard day’s work.
Up with the light, they were determined to press on before having
breakfast, and fortunate for them it was, as they had not gone half
a mile, and were just nearing the mouth of the cañon they had camped
in, when Buffalo Bill, who was well in the advance, was seen to come
to a sudden stop.
The scouts halted, also. They saw their chief step cautiously back
into a thicket, then move to the right and there stand gazing at what
had attracted his attention and halted him so suddenly.
After a moment he motioned them to approach.
They did so, and, gaining a point of observation, beheld, not a
quarter of a mile distant, a band of half a hundred Indians just
going into camp. They had picketed their ponies, and were gathering
wood with the intention of having breakfast there.
“Those fellows are on a rapid march, and evidently belong to the
village up the river, and are going home.
“I judge they have come from across the Big Horn, and have struck the
trail of their village and now have halted for rest and food.
“Pards, we cannot get out of this cañon until they have passed on,
for we can’t scale those cliffs, not being birds, and you know this
stream tumbles over a precipice at the head of this trap.
“Corporal, you remain here with me, and we’ll see what we can
discover more about that band, while the rest of you return up the
cañon and take it easy.”
Buffalo Bill and Corporal Milk then remained in hiding, watching the
redskins, while the remainder of the band returned up the cañon,
which at its entrance was a quarter of a mile in width, but narrowed
to a few feet at its end, and there the creek tumbled over a cliff
into a waterfall.
The Indians, the scouts saw, were some threescore in number, and
their ponies stood with heads lowered as though they had been very
hard ridden.
Several fires had been built, and the smell of broiling venison
floated up the cañon, while the redskins could be seen gathered about
the fire, eating heartily.
There was a thicket near that hid half of their camping place, but
Buffalo Bill quickly ran his field glass over the band, and at last
said:
“Those redskins have been up to some deviltry, I am certain.
“They have no plunder or scalps, but they have not been on a hunt, or
they would have their game with them.
“Then, too, there is so much game in this country they would not have
to go after it.”
“They’ve been on a war trail near some of the forts, sir, and look as
though they had been worsted in a fight,” said the corporal.
“Yes, that is about it. Doubtless they have been in the neighborhood
of Fetterman, as they came up the right bank of the Big Horn.”
“Do you observe any wounded among them, sir?”
“Yes, now I am looking for wounded I see a number who appear to have
been used rather severely in a fight. I see that they appear in
no hurry now, having crossed the Big Horn and struck the trail of
their village; but their arrival there will cause wailing instead of
rejoicing---- Holy smoke! Look there!”
Buffalo Bill pointed toward the other side of the cañon, where,
quietly walking out upon the plain, was no less a personage than
the giant negro, Black Bill. He had come out of the cañon, and was
walking deliberately down toward the Indian camp, the latter not yet
having discovered him.
“Blast that darky! He will ruin us!” cried Corporal Milk, as he
looked toward the spot where Buffalo Bill had pointed and discovered
Black Bill going deliberately toward the Indian camp.
“He will be killed if we don’t save him. Run, corporal, and call the
boys!” cried Buffalo Bill.
He was about to obey, when the sergeant came running up, and not far
behind him were the other scouts.
“Do you see that nigger, chief?”
“Yes.”
“He’s mad, or a traitor. He was there with us up the cañon, and said
he could scare the reds to death. Then he got up and walked away, and
soon after we discovered that he had gone toward the other side of
the cañon. We followed, and you see what he has done!”
“Yes; perhaps he has got us into a hole from which there is no
escape. Stand ready, men, to see what the outcome will be.”
The men were all ready for a fight or a race, as it might turn out
for them.
Every eye was upon the negro, who was now too far off to recall. He
was walking calmly along, straight toward the Indian camp, and they,
strange to say, had not yet discovered him.
They were still broiling venison steak on the end of sticks and
eating it in a way that showed their hunger by no means satiated.
Feeling secure where they were, confident that they would not be
pursued that far into their country, and not knowing that their
village could not be over half a day’s journey ahead of them, they
were taking matters coolly, to recover from the strain they had
evidently been under for some time.
Still the giant negro guide walked on, while the scouts could only
stand ready for action, watch him, and wait for the finale. He
appeared not in the least disturbed as he moved toward the Indian
camp.
But suddenly there was heard a wild, almost unearthly cry.
It was of terror and ferocity commingled, and it was echoed by half a
hundred throats, while it brought every brave to his feet.
There was one glance of wild eyes toward the negro, gigantic in form,
black as ink, and gliding rather than seeming to walk toward them,
and with yells of fright they sprang for their ponies.
There was not a moment of hesitation, and their cries told the story
of their stampede and terror, for loud was heard in their own tongue:
“The black spirit! The evil spirit of the Big Horn!”
Leaping upon their ponies, here and there two braves upon the back of
one horse, leaving their camp outfits, saddles and all, they started
off as fast as they could mount.
They could be seen lashing their ponies furiously, and looking back
in terror, and were all soon spread out as they sped up the valley.
Then Black Bill was seen by the amazed and watching scouts to start
in a run after them.
This added to their flight and terror, and the blows falling upon the
worn-out ponies could be distinctly heard by the wondering scouts.
The scouts could hardly restrain from a cheer, but Buffalo Bill said:
“Remember, boys, we are scouts of silence on this trail.”
Not an Indian was now visible, the last one having turned a bend in
the valley that shut them out of sight.
The negro, however, still kept on after them.
Then he, too, turned the bend and disappeared.
Still Buffalo Bill gave no order to move.
For some time they waited, but Black Bill did not reappear.
The Indian camp remained as they had left it.
If there was a badly wounded redskin there he was not visible.
The fires still burned, and several Indian ponies were grazing near,
but no human being could be seen.
At last an exclamation came from several of the scouts together.
The guide was returning down the valley, but was yet a mile away.