FRASER HEARS A CALL
As each man of the rescuing party splashed out upon the sandy beach
before Shanty Town, he headed for the open level. There was no waiting
for commands, no attempt at order; only the sound of laboured breathing,
of frantic urging, of the plying of heel and fist. Butchery threatened,
and a wasted moment might be the one that could have stayed the knife.
Crossing the Bend, the company was strung to a long, bedrabbled line. It
was slow going. Already the horses had stood hard usage--the detour with
Matthews, the return, and the severely trying swim. Fraser, given the
lead, still kept it, dinging hoarse persuasion into "Buckskin's"
flattened ears.
So far, the troopers had kept silent through fear for the girls'
safety--fear that the hostages, if aware of pursuit, would wreak instant
death. But now, as their lieutenant advanced to the shack, the men
behind, while trying their utmost to gain, sent forward yell upon yell
to startle the Indians into dropping their captives and seeking cover.
No whoops replied, but from the doorway, unheard, the voice of a man,
"Oliver--Oliver!--here!"
As the line swung up, and by, in a circle, Fraser, weapon in hand, was
down and pressing forward.
He found Lounsbury, seated on the sill, from which he rose unsteadily.
"Lounsbury! Lounsbury!"
"Quick--the coulee! They went that way--Give me a lift!"
His hand was wet. Fraser caught him about the waist.
"Oh, you're wounded!"
"Yes,--glancing blow. But I tied it up."
"Lounsbury? Wounded?" It was Oliver.
"Up the coulee, Captain! Give me a horse."
The captain turned, shouting orders. The other tried to follow, Fraser
supporting him.
"Here, somebody, a horse for Lounsbury."
A third man dismounted--Jamieson. He put a rope in Fraser's hand.
"Take my horse," he said. "I'll stay. Ride like the devil, Lounsbury,
and soak 'em one for me!"
They helped the storekeeper mount. The command had gone. He and Fraser
followed.
Half the troopers were travelling the farther brink, half the near. The
two caught up with the latter detachment.
Progress was slow. The men were tired from the fire-fighting. The horses
were all but blown.
Nevertheless, not a moment's halt was taken until, after six wearisome
miles, the troopers came opposite the cottonwoods where the Indian dead
were lashed.
By now the darkness had lifted considerably, and a scout, who was riding
the southern side, advised a hunt for tracks.
No tracks were found on the near brink. The horses moved forward again,
Oliver and Fraser waiting behind to hear from the opposite side.
"Anything over there?" called the captain, and they fell silent for the
reply.
All at once, as they waited, Fraser began peering down into the coulee.
"What's that?" he whispered. "What's that? Hark!"
"What?"
Just then came a shout: "No tracks, Captain."
Oliver kicked his boots into his horse's side. "Come on, come on," he
said, and went hurrying after his men.
"But, Captain----" Fraser was holding back. "There was a cry. I
heard----"
"Come on, Fraser." Oliver's horse broke into a trot.
"Captain!"
A third time Oliver called sharply. Behind he heard the cayuse
following.
Farther along, however, he turned to address his lieutenant--and saw
that "Buckskin" carried no rider.