“Only about twelve hundred––that is, I had twelve hundred, when I started from the ranch two days ago, but we lost nearly a hundred yesterday.”
“How was that?” asked the captain, as they reached the provision wagon, and paused while the cook made their meal ready.
“A confounded lot of Comanches cut out some of our cattle, and, despite all we could do, got off with them.”
“They have been hanging round us, but didn’t do anything. Seems to me, colonel, you shouldn’t have allowed that.”
“That’s what makes me so mad,” was the bluff response of the guest. “It was just after crossing the creek to the southwest, which doesn’t lie in your way. A lot of the beasts took fright at something, and away they went on a bee line for Arizona. I thought a couple of the boys would be able to bring them back, and I sent them off, while the other four looked after the main herd. Thank you,” said the colonel, as he took the hot coffee from the hand of his host.
“Well, I judge from what you said, they didn’t bring back the hoofs,” observed the captain, interested in the narrative of his friend.
“No, by George, it was worse than that. Three or four hours after the stampede, one of the men came in sight, riding like mad. There were no cattle with him, and he was alone. I saw that one of his hands was bleeding badly, and he had a woful story to tell. He said he and the other fellow were working like the mischief to turn the animals back, and had almost succeeded, when the first they knew a dozen whooping Comanches were right upon them.
“It was bang, bang, shoot, cut, yell, and whoop her up again, with no thought of doing anything but save themselves. The other chap fought like a Trojan, but his horse was killed and he went down with half the fiends on him, fighting as long as the breath remained in his body.
“The one who came back with the news was pretty badly cut up and had the closest kind of a call, but his horse was better than any of the others and he managed to escape.”
“Of course it was idle to think of getting your cattle after that,” remarked the captain.
“I was so infuriated that I gathered the rest of the men, intending to take the trail, but by the time I was ready, I became cooler, and saw it would never do. Haven’t you been troubled with the redskins?”
“Not in the manner that you have, but they stirred things up for us last night.”
Thereupon, Captain Shirril gave an account of his own experience in his cabin. His friend listened attentively to his story, for it was interesting. He remarked, at its conclusion, that the Indians had been more troublesome that spring than he had ever known them. Twice, within the preceding month, they attempted to steal a number of his cattle, but failed in each instance, with the loss of several of their warriors.
“And in my opinion we are likely to have more trouble before we get through the Indian country,” added the colonel.
“I think so, too; it will be well for us to get not too far from each other, for we ought to be in shape to give mutual support.”
“Of course; there must be other droves on the march, and we ought to get a twist on them that will make them squeal.”
The supper being finished, the two leading cattlemen sat down under the shelter of the covered wagon and smoked their pipes. They had been old army officers, though Colonel Sclevinger fought on the Union side in the war. The singular feature (and yet it was not so singular either), was that they had come in contact more than once during that period. It fell to the lot of the colonel to take the captain prisoner. He treated the brave Texan with so much consideration that a strong friendship was formed, which remained uninterrupted to the present time.
It was by Captain Shirril’s invitation that Colonel Sclevinger came to Texas on the return of peace. The Northern man felt an interest in the ranch business, but followed the counsel of the Texan, who warned him against going blindly into it. He took pains to give him points, and, when the proper time arrived, helped him to that extent that the gentleman avoided the disastrous blunders committed by those who fancy the ranch business offers a straight avenue to wealth, without any preliminary training in its many difficulties.
Enough has been told to explain the friendship between the two men. The colonel intended to make only a brief call, but he so enjoyed the company of his old friend that he sat a long time in the wagon, smoking and exchanging reminiscences of the war times, which theme must ever be deeply entertaining to those who were actors in that tremendous epoch of our nation’s history.
Finally the visitor bade his friend good-night, and, mounting his horse, galloped off in the night.
Avon Burnet had listened to a part of the conversation, for he was always interested in what this occasional visitor to their cabin had to say, but he could not remain as long as he wished. It was arranged that he should assume his place in helping to watch the herd, Ballyhoo Gleeson being one of those sharing the duty with him.
So it was that the youth rode out in the dismal rainy night to make a “full hand” at the calling of a cattleman.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A SHOT FROM THE DARKNESS.
It was singular that Avon Burnet’s most humiliating experience overtook him on his first night in helping to watch his uncle’s herd of cattle, while following the Great Cattle Trail toward Kansas.
The starting point was so far north in Texas that the first day carried them close to the Indian Nation, through whose territory they expected to tramp for several days.
The night, as has been explained, was raw, with a fine, misty rain and a cutting wind. The youth was seated on his fleet-footed and intelligent Thunderbolt, with his back to the wind, after the fashion not only of all cowboys, under such circumstances, but of the animals themselves, who sometimes drift many miles before a driving storm.
He had his thick army blanket gathered about his body and shoulders, and, though the night was dismal and his situation far from pleasant, it still lacked the discomfort of many hours spent on the vast plains of the Lone Star State.
The young man had held his position for less than an hour when the wind changed, veering completely around, so that, instead of being in front of the herd and edging gradually from it, he was thrown behind the cattle, for they immediately faced about and began moving away from him.
The situation of the young herdsman became a delicate one at once. His proper place was in front, and to reach that point, he must ride around the animals, and not among them. One of the many singular features of herding and driving cattle is the wonderful sensitiveness shown at times by them. While there is nothing extraordinary in the wild panic often created by a thunderstorm, there are occasions when a whole herd is stampeded by a cause too trifling to be understood.
Our experience leads us to agree with many veteran cowboys that the cattle, when lying on the ground asleep, are sometimes troubled with bad dreams which cause such fright on their part that their excitement becomes contagious. Then again the electrical conditions produce a morbid uneasiness among them as well as among men, and there seem to be times when they are simply awaiting a pretext for dashing off in uncontrollable panic.
Avon Burnet’s fear was that if he rode directly after the cattle, the sound of his mustang’s hoofs would cause alarm, since it was too dark for them to identify him. A stampede is the terror of the cowmen’s life, and no labor or trouble is too great to avert it. He, therefore, checked Thunderbolt and waited a few minutes until the cattle were so far off that he could wheel and gallop around their flank without frightening them.
When he thought sufficient time had elapsed, he decided to wait a brief while longer. His dread of a stampede was so strong that he was unusually careful, but with no thought of shirking any duty, he twitched the reins of his horse, spoke sharply, and without touch of spur, was off like an arrow.
Although not an animal was visible, the rider had the contour of the herd so vividly impressed on his mind that he felt no misgiving, when he began edging his steed more to the left, and finally broug
ht him to a stand-still, as he believed, at the very front of the collection. Indeed, his confidence would not have been greater had the sun been shining.
But when he halted and listened he failed to hear anything of them.
“I must have ridden too far ahead,” was his conclusion, as he started his horse on a walk to meet them; “but they are surely near by.”
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and then he drew rein with an exclamation of amazement, for his keen sense of hearing did not catch the first sound of the cattle.
“I have lost the herd!” he muttered in dismay, and such was the fact. His cheeks burned with chagrin at the consciousness of what at first thought seems an impossible error on the part of man or youth with any experience in attending cattle.
It was Avon’s first mishap of the kind, and he felt as though he could never face his comrades again, if they should discover the blunder, which, after all, was not so striking, when the attendant circumstances are borne in mind.
But if excuse could be accepted for his slip, there was none for inaction after its discovery. It was not to be supposed that the animals would set out to hunt him, nor that any knowledge could be gained of them by idleness. There were other men on duty, and he shouted at the top of his voice, in the hope of receiving a response, but there was none.
Slipping from his saddle, he knelt down and placed his ear to the ground. He fancied he detected faint sounds, such as are made by multitudinous hoofs on the soft, wet earth, but the noises were so slight that he could not identify the direction whence they came, and he hastily climbed into the saddle again.
He realized that he was lost, and well aware that at such times it is useless to puzzle one’s brains about the point of the compass, he dashed in the direction which seemed to be the right one. Of course, as in his recent experience, it proved to be wrong, and he now spurred toward the top of the ridge or hill, which it was easy to identify under the tread of his mustang. He was confident that this elevation would yield the key to the situation and he was not mistaken.
From the crest he observed the starlike glimmer of a lantern, and no sight, except that of the herd itself, could have been more welcome. It was the signal suspended every night from the front bow of the wagon, to guide the men whenever they needed guidance.
Confident that someone would be found at that point who could give him the important news he was seeking, Avon rode thither on a dead run. He saw no one stirring as he galloped up. The cook, who had charge of the wagon, was asleep, and the men off duty were slumbering soundly, while the chance was theirs.
But young Burnet had scarcely checked his mustang, when the sound of someone riding his horse equally fast reached his ear, and the next instant Oscar Gleeson dashed beside him.
“Howdy, Baby, is that you?” he asked, peering at the young man dimly seen in the scant yellow rays of the lantern.
“Yes, Ballyhoo,” was the reply; “I’m in trouble.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve lost the herd.”
The Texan shook in his saddle with laughter.
“That’s me, too; the first thing I knowed they was gone. I yelled for you, but you couldn’t have heard me, and, after cantering round awhile, I struck for the wagon in quest of news.”
Avon drew a sigh of relief, and with a smile:
“I’m glad you lost them, for the boys won’t laugh at you, while they would at me.”
“I don’t think there’s anyone in that crowd that will laugh, for they all had the same experience. I know Old Bronze and Short Stop have lost a herd more than once.”
“It won’t do to stay here,” remarked Avon, “for you know there is another herd only a mile off, and if the two become mixed, it will be a big job to cut out ours tomorrow.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Gleeson, “if the cattle have gone back to the bed-ground; at any rate we’ll look for them there.”
The return to the wagon enabled the couple to obtain their bearings, and they knew the proper course to reach the spot, but the possibility of the theory being wrong caused them to separate, so as to proceed thither by routes which, while substantially parallel, were so far apart that they were out of each other’s sight and hearing, the latter being chiefly due to the direction of the wind.
Avon spurred Thunderbolt into an easy canter, the soft grass making the travel easy, though there was always the risk of his animal sinking one or more of his hoofs into a hole, with the prospect of a broken leg for the horse and a dislocated neck for his rider.
When it seemed to the latter that he had passed the intervening distance, he drew his mustang to a walk, listening and peering through the gloom with all the power at his command. There was no lighting of the darkness, the wind still blew keenly, and the fine drizzling rain continued.
No sight nor sound came to him, and, once more bringing his animal to a halt, he dismounted and pressed his ear to the ground.
This time he caught a distinct noise: it was that made by the hoofs of a horse. He was walking, and was so near that Thunderbolt pricked his ears and uttered a faint whinny of salutation. Avon instantly rose to his feet, and remounted.
Looking keenly into the wet darkness, he became aware that a horse was standing motionless but a short distance off on his left. In the gloom the outlines could be traced, but so dimly that he was uncertain whether he had a rider or not. The steed held his head well up like Thunderbolt, and appeared to be scrutinizing the youth and his animal with a curiosity equal to theirs.
There was something so impressive in the sight of the statue-like object, which emitted not the slightest sound, that young Burnet hesitated whether to advance or to await its approach. The man could not be Gleeson, and, whoever he was, it was evident that he regarded Avon with inquiring suspicion.
But unwilling to maintain the trying situation, the latter touched the neck of his mustang in a way which the animal recognized as a command to move forward very slowly. He obeyed, and had advanced but a few short steps when Avon to his astonishment perceived that the strange horse was without a rider.
“I don’t understand that,” mused the mystified young man, stopping his own animal, with several yards separating them; “he must have an owner, and what can have become of him, and why is–––”
At that instant he observed a suspicious movement, seemingly from the other side of the steed. Before he could divine its nature, a rifle was discharged almost in his face and he went off his mustang like a flash.
CHAPTER XXVII.
SHACKAYE, THE COMANCHE.
Avon Burnet was in the act of lifting his Winchester from across the front of his saddle, when he made the discovery that, although the strange mustang in front of him bore no rider, yet a man was on the ground directly beyond and evidently watching every movement made by himself.
This discovery could mean but one thing: the individual was an enemy, and was on the point of making a hostile movement against him. He had undoubtedly dismounted on learning of Burnet’s approach and interposed his steed between them. Despite the gloom on every hand, Avon read aright the meaning of the almost imperceptible movement on the other side of the saddle, and he slipped from the back of his mustang with a celerity which, being displayed almost at the instant of the discharge of the other weapon, looked as if it was the result of a fatal shot.
But, although the bullet so treacherously fired came near its mark, the youth was not touched. His action was in the nick of time: a second later could not have availed him.
He was incensed, as he had the best cause for being, and he resolved that the miscreant should not escape him. His rifle was snatched from its resting-place, and, stepping from behind Thunderbolt, he drew the best bead possible on his foe.
The dexterity of the latter was marvellous. It was as if, at the very instant of discharging his weapon, he had vaulted into the saddle, and, wheeling the head of his horse away, sent him scurrying straight from his intended victim.
Not only tha
t, but, in accordance with the fashion of the frontier in such emergencies, he flung himself forward on the neck of his animal, so as to offer the least possible target to the other, who, if not hit hard, was certain to return the shot.
The curious feature of the proceeding was that the man, having seen the youth vanish from the back of his steed at the instant the gun was discharged, did not assume that he was killed. Possibly such was his supposition, and his hasty flight was partly due to his anxiety to place himself beyond reach of his friends, who were likely to be drawn thither by the sound of firing. His act in throwing himself upon the neck of his mustang was simply in obedience to the rule which requires the frontiersman to avail himself of every possible means of safety, even when there is seemingly no call for it.
Despite the quickness of young Burnet, he was able to bring his Winchester to a level only at the moment the steed was thundering out of sight in the darkness, but he let fly three times in rapid succession, reckless whether he struck rider or animal; but since the sound of the hoofs still came to him, he was chagrined at the conviction that he had missed both.
“But you haven’t escaped me yet,” he muttered, swinging himself into the saddle; “there is no horse in Texas or the Indian Nation that can leave me behind; now, Thunderbolt, run him down!”
But, while the fates had been kind to Avon, in that he escaped death by the narrowest conceivable chance, they seemed equally well disposed toward the object of his wrath. The boast of the pursuer as to the fleetness of his mustang was warranted, and had the circumstances continued favorable for only a few minutes, he would have brought his young rider beside the fleeing steed, where the account between the two men must have been quickly settled.
But at the very moment of starting, the forelegs of Thunderbolt sank into a hole above the knees. His activity saved him from harm, but his rider took a header over his ears, sprawling on the wet grass in front with a shock that stunned him.
By the time he could rally and remount his mustang, the other was not only beyond sight, but his listening ear could not detect the slightest sound of the flying hoofs.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 34
