by Grey, Zane
Whity and Specks needed no guidance now, no urging, no help. They were on the homeward stretch. With steady clip-clop they trotted, clicking off the miles. Whity was lame and Specks had a clanging shoe, but these were small matters.
Milly sank down overwhelmed with joy. On the Fort Elliott road!
The Llano Estacado showed no longer the deceiving purple of distance. It showed gray and drab, shadowy clefts, rock wall and canyons. She forced herself to eat and drink, though the dried meat and bread were hard to swallow. She must brace up. Many were the buffalo-hunters who traveled this road. Surely before the hour was gone she would see a white wagon on the horizon. Milly lifted her head to gaze backward, toward the south, and then forward toward the north. The prairie was still a lonely land. Yet how different!
She rested, she thought, she gazed the hours away; and something came back to her.
Afternoon waned and sunset came; and with the fading of rosy and golden light the horses snorted their scent of water. Milly was stronger. Hope had wonderfully revived her. And she called to the horses.
Another horizon line reached! It was the crest of one of the prairie slopes. Long had it been unattainable, hiding while it beckoned onward. A green-mantled stream crossed just below.
Milly's aching and exhausted heart throbbed to sudden recognition.
She had camped here. She knew those cottonwoods. And strong sweet wine of renewed life fired her veins.
Whity and Specks remembered. This was the cold sweet water from the uplands, well loved by the buffalo. They snorted and lifted dusty, shaggy hoofs, to plod on and stop. Milly looked down on the green bank where Catlee had voiced his sympathy.
Another sunset, one of gold and red out of purple clouds, burned over the prairie-land. The sloping shadows crept along the distant valleys; the grassy undulating expanse shone with dusky fire. And a winding river, like a bright thread, lost itself in the far dim reaches.
Milly Fayre drove Whity and Specks across the cattle-dotted pasture which flanked the river banks outside of Sprague's Post.
Horses mingled with the cattle. Between the road and the cottonwoods camps sent up their curling columns of blue smoke.
Tents gleamed rosily in the sunset glow. Dogs ran out to herald the coming of another team. Curious buffalo-hunters, on the way south, dropped out to halt Milly. Natives of the Post strolled across from the store to question the traveler from the buffalo fields.
"Howdy, sonny!" greeted a white-haired old Westerner, with keen blue eyes flashing over weary horses, and wagon with its single occupant. "All by yourself?"
"Yes," replied Milly, amazed to hear her husky voice.
Men crowded closer, kindly, interested, beginning to wonder.
"Whar you from?" queried the old man.
"Pease River," replied Milly.
"Aw, say now, sonny, you're--" Then he checked his query and came closer, to lay a hand on the smoking horse nearest to him. The rugged faces, some bronzed, some with the paleness that was not long of the prairie, were lifted to Milly. They seemed beautiful, so full of life, kindness, interrogation. They dimmed in Milly's sight, through her tears.
"Yes, Pease River," she replied, hurriedly and low. "My outfit fought--killed one another. . . . Comanches swam the river. . . .
I drove Whity and Specks through the brakes. . . . The Indians chased us. . . . We ran into stampeded buffalo. . . . Driven all day--surrounded--dust and roar. . . . Oh, it was terrible! . . .
But they slowed up--they carried us all day--forty miles. . . .
Since then I've camped and driven--camped and driven, days, days, days, I don't--know--how--many!"
A silence ensued after Milly's long poignant speech. Then the old Westerner scratched his beard in perplexity.
"Sonny, air you jest foolin' us or jest out of your haid? You shore look fagged out."
"It's--gospel--truth," panted Milly.
"My boy," began the kindly interrogator, with graver voice, and again his keen gaze swept over grimy horses and travel-worn wagon.
"Boy!" exclaimed Milly, as spiritedly as her huskiness would permit. "I'm no boy! . . . I'm a girl--Milly Fayre."
Chapter XVI
Tom raised himself as high as he dared and studied what he could see of the field in the direction of the bluff. A man might trust himself boldly to that jumble of rocks. Accordingly he crawled on hands and knees to the end of this stone-like corral, and there, stretching on his left side, with left hand extended and right dragging his rifle, he crawled as swiftly and noiselessly as possible. He peered only ahead of him. There was no use to look at the aisles between the rocks at the right and left, because he had to pass these openings, and looking was not going to help him.
Trusting to luck and daring he went on, somehow conscious of a grim exultance in the moment. Fear had left him. At the outset he had a few thoughts of himself--that he could only die once, and if he had to do so now it would be for his comrades. Milly Fayre's dark haunting eyes crossed his memory, a stabbing, regretful pain; and for her he would have embraced any peril. Some way these Comanches had been the cause of Milly's flight, if they had not caught her.
To them he owed loss of her. And he wanted to kill some of them.
But all he asked was luck and strength enough to get back with the water. After those few flashing thoughts all his senses were fixed on the physical task ahead of him. He had to go swiftly and noiselessly, without rest. His efforts were supreme, sustained.
Coming back he would adhere to Pilchuck's advice, but on the way out he could not take it, except in the matter of laying a line of small stones as he progressed.
After the first ten or a dozen rods were behind him there came an easing of a terrible strain. His comrades behind him were shooting now something like a volley, which action he knew was Pilchuck's way of diverting possible discovery from him. The Indians were shooting more, too; and he began to draw considerably away from the cross-fire. He heard no more bullets whiz over his head. As it was impossible to crawl in a straight line, owing to rocks impeding his progress, he deviated from the course set by Pilchuck. This entailed a necessity of lifting himself every few moments so that he could peep over the rocks to keep the direction of the bluff.
These wary brief actions were fraught with suspense. They exposed him perilously, but were absolutely imperative.
Bolder he grew. He was going to succeed in this venture. The sustained exertion threatened collapse, yet he still had strength to go on. A few more rods might safely earn rest! The burning sun beat down pitilessly. Tom's tongue hung out, dripping a white froth. His heart expanded as if trying to burst bands of steel.
Despite the sternest passion of will he could not help the low gasping intake of air or the panting expulsion. A listening Indian within fifty yards could have heard him. But he kept on. His wet hand and wrist gathered a grimy covering of dust. His rifle grew slippery from sweat from his other hand. Rocks obstructing his advance, the narrow defiles he had to squeeze through, the hard sharp edges tearing his shirt, the smell of the hot earth, the glaring sun--all seemed obstacles that put the fact of Indians in the background.
Again Tom lost his direction. He was coming to a zone more open, and surely not far from the bluff that was his objective point.
Usually he had chosen a high and large stone from which to peep.
At this juncture not one of such size was available. Low down along the side of a flat stone he peered out. All he could see was a rather wide space, not thickly studded with rocks. But from that angle the bluff was not in sight.
Almost spent from his long crawl, with both muscle and will about played out, he raised himself to locate the bluff. Not on the right side! Dropping down, he crawled the few feet to the left end of this rock, and kneeling sidewise he raised himself again to look over.
Something like a sharp puff of wind whipped by. He heard a hiss.
Then he felt a shock, solid, terrific, followed by a tearing burning pain across his back. Almost th
e same instant came the bursting crack of a rifle. Swift as light Tom's sight took in the open ahead. A half-naked Indian, red skinned, snake-like, stood with smoking rifle, a wild and savage expectation on his dark face.
Tom fell flat behind the rock, all the power of his mind in supreme and flashing conflict against the stunning surprise. It galvanized him. One second he gripped his rifle hard, cocked it, while his muscles gathered and strung for a mighty effort.
Tom leaped up and shot in the same action. It seemed he did not see the Indian clearly until after the discharge of the rifle. The Indian's gun was leveled. But it flew aside, strangely, as if propelled. And on the same instant there was a metallic crack.
Tom's bullet had struck the breach of the Indian's gun and had glanced.
The Indian gasped and staggered. He seemed to push his gun away from him. It fell to the ground. Blood gushed from his mouth. He had been mortally wounded. His dark face was terrible to look upon. He was swaying, yet he snatched out a knife and made at Tom.
A black flame of hate burned from his eyes.
For a second Tom stood transfixed. The Indian came lurching with the knife. Then Tom jumped just in time to avoid its sweep.
Horror gave place to fury. He had no time to reload, so he whirled his rifle, making a club of it. But he missed the Indian, and such was the force of the blow he had aimed that he nearly lost his balance. As it was he righted himself to find the Indian lunging down with the knife.
Like a flash Tom's left hand caught the descending wrist and gripped it. Then he tried to swing the rifle with his right. But the Indian intercepted the blow and held the rifle.
Thus on the moment both were rendered helpless to force the issue.
They held each other grimly.
"No--weyno!" gasped the Indian, thickly.
"Comanche! You're--no good--yourself!" panted Tom.
It was a deadlock. Tom exerted himself to the utmost to hold that quivering blade back from his body. He saw the advantage was on his side. Blood poured from a wound in the Indian's throat. The nearness of it, the terrible nature of the moment, the unabatable ferocity and courage of his red adversary were almost too much for Tom. He all but sank under the strain.
Then came a sudden shuddering convulsion on the part of the Indian, a last supreme effort. It was so great that it broke Tom's hold.
But even as the Indian wrenched free his strength failed. The corded strung muscles suddenly relaxed. His working, fiercely malignant visage as suddenly set somberly. He dropped the knife.
He swayed and fell.
Tom bent over him. The Indian gazed upward, conscious. Then the hate in his dark eyes gave way to a blankness. He was dead. Tom stared, slowly realizing.
In a moment more he was alive to the situation. He had conquered here. But he was not yet out of danger. Still, if any Indians had seen this encounter they would have shot him before this.
Crouching down, Tom peered round until he had again located his objective point. Then he ran as fast as his spent strength permitted and soon reached the red bluff. But he did not locate the hiding place of the horses until Jake Devine saw him and called. Tom staggered round the bluff and into the pocket where the horses were concealed.
Devine came rattling down from a ledge where evidently he had been watching. Then Al Thorndyke, the other guard, appeared from the opposite quarter. They ran to Tom.
"Say, you're all bloody!" declared Jake, aghast.
"Tom, I seen thet fight," added Thorndyke, sharply. "But I couldn't shoot fer fear of hittin' you."
"I'm hit--I don't know--how bad," panted Tom. "But it can't--be very bad. . . . Hurry, boys. I came after water. Tie me up.
I've got to rustle back."
"We'll shore go with you," said Devine.
They tore Tom's shirt off. It was wringing wet and as red as a flag.
"Reckon you sweat a heap," put in Thorndyke, encouragingly.
Tom winced as one of them ran a finger in the wound on his back.
"Nothin' bad. Long deep cut," said Devine. "Fetch water, Al."
The two men washed Tom's wound and bandaged it tightly with a scarf.
"I've got to take some canteens back," declared Tom.
"I'll go. You stay with Al," replied Devine.
"Wal, I ain't a-goin' to stay. I've got to git in thet fight," asserted Thorndyke.
"Listen to the shootin'," exclaimed Devine.
Tom heard a rattling volley of Creedmoors, punctuated by the sharper, lighter cracking of Winchesters. It was certainly an exciting sound.
"But I wasn't told to fetch you," protested Tom.
"Thet don't make no difference. What's the use of us hidin' here?
If the Comanches found us we couldn't hold the horses. We'd just be goners. Out there we can git in the fight."
Devine's logic was unanswerable. So Tom made no further objection.
The three men took two canteens each, and their rifles, and hurried forth.
Tom led the way. It was easy walking, but when he reached the point where he thought it needful to stoop, the hard work commenced. The heavy canteens swung round and hung from his neck.
He reached the spot where he had fought the Comanche, and here he crouched down. Devine and Thorndyke came up with him. The Indian lay stark--his eyes wide open--his hands spread.
"Fellars, I'll fetch thet Indian's gun an' belt," said Devine, practically.
Tom wondered how Devine could pack these in addition to the load he already carried. But the stocky little man appeared equal to the occasion. Soon Tom lay flat to crawl like a snake. It was well that he had laid a trail. Tom kept the lead, ten feet in front of Thorndyke, who was a like distance ahead of Devine. Tom had to stop every little while to rest. His lungs appeared to stand the test, but his muscles were weak. Still he knew he could make the distance. The long drink of water he had taken had revived him.
Whenever Tom halted to rest he would listen to the shooting. His followers would creep up to him and make some comment. They were eager to join the fray.
"Tom, I reckon you're tuckered out," whispered Thorndyke, on the last of these occasions. "But do your damndest. For we're shore needed."
Thus admonished, Tom did not rest again, though he crawled less violently, trying to husband what strength he had left. The return had not been so exciting, and for that reason was harder work. It was different. Nothing but bullets could have stopped him.
They had crawled close to where Pilchuck and his men were shooting, and therefore within the zone of the Indians' fire, when a bullet kicked up the dust in front of Tom. He hesitated. Then a bullet clipped the crown of his hat. This spurred him to a spasmodic scrambling forward to cover behind a bowlder. From there Tom squirmed round to look back. Jake Devine was kneeling with leveled rifle, which on the instant belched fire and smoke. Jake dropped down and crawled forward. His face was black and his eyes blazed.
"Thet redskin is feed fer lizards," he said, grimly. "Go on, Tom."
Tom recalled the fact that Devine was a frontiersman, used to fighting Indians. So he crawled on, inspired by a sense of such companionship. Bullets now began to sing and hum overhead, and to spang from the rocks. Jake prodded Tom's feet.
"Tom, you're slower'n molasses," said Jake, "Reckon you don't mind this sort of thing. But, by golly! I'm scared. An' Al is hangin' on to my boots."
Sometimes Jake would give Tom a shove, rooting his face in the dust. "Crawl, you belly-whopper!" he whispered, gayly. And then he would call back to Thorndyke. "Come on, Al. Dy'e you want to git plugged all to yourself?"
At last Tom and his comrades reached the smoky place that marked Pilchuck's position.
"I ain't hankerin' fer this part of the job," said Devine.
"Suppose they take us fer redskins."
But Pilchuck was too wise a leader to allow blunders of that nature. He was on the lookout, and his grimy, sweaty, stern face relaxed at sight of Tom.
"Shore was good work, Tom," he said. "It's next door
to hell here.
Hurry to Ory an' Roberts."
Tom hurried to where the young man lay, under a sunshade Roberts had rigged up with his shirt and a stick. Roberts gave Tom a husky greeting. Manifestly his voice was almost gone.
Ory's face was pale and clammy. When Tom lifted his head he opened his eyes and tried to speak. But he could not.
"Ory, here's water," said Tom, and held a canteen to the boy's pale lips.
Never until that moment had Tom appreciated the preciousness of water. He watched Ory drink, and had his reward in the wan smile of gratitude. "Much obliged, Tom," whispered Ory, and lay back with a strange look. Then he shut his eyes and appeared to relax.
Tom did not like the uneasy impression he received on the moment, but in the excitement he did not think any more about it.
Roberts handed the canteen to the other wounded fellow and watched him drink. Then he slaked his own thirst.
"Say!" he ejaculated, with a deep breath. "Thet shore was all I needed."
The white-headed old plainsman crawled over for his share.
"Son, them canteens will lick Nigger Horse," he said.
"What! Are we fighting that chief?" queried Tom, in amaze.
"Accordin' to Pilchuck we're doin' jest that," responded the plainsman, cheerfully. "Old Nigger an' a thousand of his redskins, more or less."
Then Tom crawled to the vantage point behind the rock he had used before, and gave himself up to this phase of the fight. It did not take longer than a moment to realize what Pilchuck had meant.
There was scarcely a second without its boom of Creedmoor or crack of Winchester. A little cloud of white smoke hung above every bowlder. Tom exercised the utmost vigilance in the matter of exposing himself to the Indians' fire. He was almost spent, and suffering excruciating pain from his wound. How infernally hot the sun burned down! His rifle and the stones were as fire to his hands. But as he began to peer out for an Indian to shoot at, and worked back into the fight, he forgot his pangs, and then what had seemed the intolerable conditions.
Tom grew intensely absorbed in his own little part in this battle.
With the smell of gunpowder and smoke clogging his nostrils, with the thunder of the Creedmoors behind him, with the circling rattle of the Winchesters out there in the hot haze of the sun, he gave them but vague attention. He applied himself to an intent watchfulness, and a swift aim and shot at every moving thing in the direction he covered. It grew to be a grim duel between him and Indians he knew saw him. Like him they had to expose themselves somewhat to get in a shot. But as it was imperative to be swift their aim was necessarily erring. Nevertheless, bullets spat the dust from Tom's rock, sometimes within a few inches of his head.
