The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  If such a ride were made along the right slope, the person must be in plain sight of the Indians; if along the crest, he would be visible to those on the right and left, and, if along the left slope, the cowboys could see him while he would not be perceived by the red men themselves, unless they were on the watch.

  These facts were apparent to Avon at the first sweeping glance he cast to the eastward. He wondered that they escaped the notice of his friends, but this was probably due to their attention being diverted for the time by the cattle, and because, too, of their disposition to wait the report of Gleeson before deciding upon their course of action.

  The thought instantly came to Avon that if the cowboys would make a sudden break along the base of the slope to the left, they could reach the rear of the Comanches, always provided the latter had taken no precautions against such a flank movement. The plan of campaign was so inviting that he could hardly believe it had been overlooked by the red men. At any rate, before urging his friends to adopt it, he decided to make a little investigation on his own account, especially as he believed sufficient time was at command.

  Riding, therefore, to the bottom of the slope, he spurred Thunderbolt to a sharp gait, and quickly covered the intervening space, which was hardly a fourth of a mile. His mustang showed no ill effects from the slight wounds received during the sharp scrimmage some time before.

  Avon was well aware of the risk he ran, for, if the Comanches were maintaining guard, they could readily pick him off before he could withdraw or adopt the least precaution, but he did not hesitate. When the ground became more broken, he urged his pony a short way among the hills, and then dismounted. He did this, because he wished to hold his line of retreat open. The way behind him was clear, whereas, if he took his horse further, the course would become so obstructed that he could not mount and dash out upon the plain if it became necessary.

  He expected to make a long and tedious search, with the probable result of failure, so far as helping his relative was concerned, and with the certainty of great danger to himself, but events moved along with a rush, before he could anticipate them.

  Convinced that he was to the rear of the main party, he advanced with the utmost care. The hills were no more than a hundred feet high at their greatest elevation, and were broken by gullies, ravines, and trails that appeared to have been partly made by the feet of animals, greatly helped by the washing of the severe storms which often sweep over that section.

  The youth had penetrated barely a hundred yards from the point where he left his mustang, and was picking his way cautiously forward, when he was startled by hearing voices. The words were too low for him to distinguish them, but he instantly stopped with his Winchester ready for use. A collision seemed unavoidable, since there was no means of concealing himself except by turning about and running back, and that could hardly avail him.

  The next minute he was face to face with Shackaye, the young Comanche that was the cause of all the trouble. The fellow was as much startled as he, and stopping short, partly raised his gun, as if to defend himself.

  Before, however, either could speak or make any movements, Avon was astounded to catch sight of his uncle, Captain Shirril, walking slowly and evidently in pain, close behind him along the narrow path. The instant he descried his nephew, he raised his hand as a signal for him to do nothing.

  “It’s all right,” he said, in a guarded voice; “Shackaye is our friend, though he hasn’t been until now.”

  “How is this?” asked the youth, motionless and undecided whether to advance or retreat.

  The broad face of the dusky youth expanded with a slight grin, and he replied:

  “Shackaye fall on ground––Baby shoot steer––Shackaye tell warriors Baby dead––leaving him alone––bringing way captain––den Shackaye show captain way home––must hurry––Comanche come!”

  “Have you a horse with you?” asked Captain Shirril, crowding forward, impatient to improve the precious moments.

  “Yes; follow me.”

  The prisoner had been deprived of all his weapons, and was suffering from the severe hurts received, but he roused himself and moved forward at a brisk walk, Avon taking the lead, with the young Indian close behind him and the captain at his heels.

  Very few minutes were required to pass over the intervening space, but while doing so Captain Shirril made clear several facts which needed explanation. To these may be added others that came to light afterward.

  As has been intimated elsewhere, the suspicions of Gleeson regarding Shackaye were correct. He had joined the cattlemen for the purpose of helping Wygwind and his band to despoil them. He was unable to do this at the time the cabin was attacked, and therefore kept in the background until the present opportunity presented itself. The intention of the Comanches, as first formed, was to stampede the animals on some favorable night, and thus secure possession of a large number; but there was great risk in the attempt, since the cowboys were watchful, and the cattle being branded, it would have been almost impossible for the thieves to dispose of them, even if able to run them beyond reach of their owners. The Great Cattle Trail is about a hundred yards in width, with smaller paths weaving in and out along the edges, all so distinctly marked that no one can go astray, unless the path is temporarily obliterated by snow. The diversion of a considerable number of cattle would leave footprints that could be readily followed, and Captain Dohm Shirril was not the man to submit to such despoilment, so long as there remained the possibility of preventing it.

  The Comanches, however, in the vicinity of the herd kept track of all its movements. The cunning Shackaye succeeded in holding occasional communication with them, and learned of their change of plan. It was decided to make the captain prisoner on the first opportunity, and hold him for ransom.

  Since it was his practice to take his nephew with him on almost every excursion he made from camp, Shackaye conceived it necessary to the success of the plot that Avon should be put out of the way. It has been shown that he made the attempt on the preceding night and came within a hair of success. It was characteristic of his race that the atrocious crime was undertaken by him as a matter of course.

  The very chance for which Wygwind and his band were waiting came that morning when Captain Shirril, his nephew, and Shackaye set out to hunt the estray cattle. While Avon was engaged in conquering the troublesome steer, with the captain attentively watching him, Shackaye remounted his horse, from which he had been thrown, and made all haste to the hills.

  Wygwind and his warriors were ready, and indeed met him on his way thither. He took no part in the fight, but watched it from his refuge. When the last desperate struggle took place he spurred forward and joined the assailants.

  The intention of the Comanches had been to shoot down Avon, but to spare his uncle, and it was curious that the very opposite result was effected. It was impossible that Captain Shirril should escape in the mêlée, though his foes meant only to shoot down the horses and slay his companion.

  Shackaye arrived at the critical moment, when the helpless leader was being lifted upon the horse of Wygwind in front of him, and Avon lay senseless beneath the body of the mustang. The fact that Thunderbolt was still lying on the ground bleeding from his two flesh wounds led to the belief that he was mortally hurt, and no effort, therefore, was made to take him away.

  Despite the savage nature of Shackaye, a feeling of gratitude had been roused within him by the act of Avon in saving him from the enraged steer. Whether the white youth was already dead or not he did not know, but he interposed a vigorous plea that no further harm should be done him. He had performed his own part so well that his prayers had some effect, while the necessity for urgent haste in leaving before the arrival of the cowboys, who were coming over the ridge, led to the flight of the whole party of Comanches without harming a hair of his head.

  It will be readily understood that none of the warriors could hold any suspicion of Shackaye’s loyalty toward them and their interes
ts. When, therefore, the time came for the opening of the negotiations with the cowboys, the wounded and unarmed captain was left in charge of Shackaye, while the others went forward and maintained their places within reach of Wygwind and Richita, during their interview with Gleeson. This was simply prudence on their part, since they knew there was the best reason for believing the whites would instantly seize any advantage offered them.

  Captain Shirril now did an exceedingly clever thing. He saw it was useless to appeal to Shackaye’s kindly feelings toward himself, but he had noticed his vigorous efforts to save his nephew from harm, when he lay senseless under the body of the mustang. He saw that, despite the villainous nature of the youth, he entertained a strong regard for Avon, and upon that regard he wrought, by representing the sorrow that would come to him, if his uncle suffered further. He knew his heart would be broken and he could never, never recover from his woe.

  To Shackaye’s reply that the chief Wygwind meant to allow the friends of the prisoner to buy him back, Captain Shirril dwelt upon the impossibility of such a thing. He pressed his view of the case with such vigor that Shackaye, influenced alone by his gratitude to Avon, agreed to conduct the captain out of the hills, where he could make his way to camp undetected, provided the interview between Wygwind and the Texan was not ended in time for the Comanches to discover what had been done.

  It need not be said that Captain Shirril seized the opportunity thus offered, and began limping forward, behind his guide, who encountered Avon Burnet a few minutes later.

  The expectation was that Shackaye would return to camp with his two friends, since he would be assured of good treatment despite his former unfaithfulness, and especially since it was unsafe for him to remain among those to whom he could never justify his course of action. But after the captain was assisted on the back of Thunderbolt, and his nephew took his place, so as to help him in keeping his seat, the young Comanche obstinately refused.

  They tarried to urge him to save his life by such a course, but he ended the argument by abruptly turning about and hurrying along the path, where he speedily vanished.

  “There’s no use of waiting,” said the captain, starting Thunderbolt forward; “I can’t understand his obduracy.”

  “He must be afraid of our men.”

  “But he knows the danger is a thousandfold greater among his own people––hark!”

  The sharp report of a rifle rang among the hills behind them, accompanied by a wild cry of mortal pain.

  “He has paid with his life for his friendship!” whispered the captain, instantly spurring up Thunderbolt to a dead run.

  Such was the truth. Shackaye could offer no excuse for what he had done, nor did he attempt to do so. His act was discovered sooner than he anticipated, and he died at the hands of the infuriated chieftain Wygwind, before those whom he had saved were beyond reach of the sound which told of the completion of the tragedy.

  The Comanches attempted pursuit, but the start obtained by the fugitives, brief as it was, sufficed, and they had not ridden far when they met the whole band of cowboys galloping to their defence. Gleeson and his comrades would have been glad had the red men ventured out upon the plain beyond the shelter of the hills, but Wygwind and his warriors were too wise to do so.

  TWO BOYS IN WYOMING

  CHAPTER I.

  JACK AND FRED.

  You should have seen those youths, for it gives me pleasure to say that two manlier, more plucky and upright boys it would be hard to find anywhere in this broad land of ours. I have set out to tell you about their remarkable adventures in the grandest section of the West, and, before doing so, it is necessary for you to know something concerning the lads themselves.

  Jack Dudley was in his seventeenth year. His father was a prosperous merchant, who intended his only son for the legal profession. Jack was bright and studious, and a leader in his class at the Orphion Academy; and this leadership was not confined to his studies, for he was a fine athlete and an ardent lover of outdoor sports. If you witnessed the game between the eleven of the Orphion Academy and the Oakdale Football Club, which decided the championship by a single point in favor of the former, you were thrilled by the sight of the half-back, who, at a critical point in the contest, burst through the group which thronged about him, and, with a clear field in front, made a superb run of fifty yards, never pausing until he stooped behind the goal-posts and made a touchdown. Then, amid the cheers of the delighted thousands, he walked back on the field, and while one of the players lay down on the ground, with the spheroid delicately poised before his face, the same youth who made the touchdown smote the ball mightily with his sturdy right foot and sent it sailing between the goal-posts as accurately as an arrow launched from a bow.

  That exploit, as I have said, won the championship for the Orphions, and the boy who did it was Jack Dudley. In the latter half of the game, almost precisely the same opening presented itself again for the great half-back, but he had no more than fairly started when he met an obstruction in his path. The gritty opponent tackled him like a tiger, and down they went, rolling over in the dirt, with a fierce violence that made more than one timid spectator fear that both were seriously injured. As if that were not enough, the converging players pounced upon them. There was a mass of struggling, writhing youths, with Jack underneath, and all piling on top of him. The last arrival, seeing little chance for effective work, took a running leap, and, landing on the apex of the pyramid, whirling about while in the air so as to alight on his back, kicked up his feet and strove to made himself as heavy as he could.

  The only object this young man seemed to have was to batter down the score of players and flatten out Jack Dudley, far below at the bottom; but when, with the help of the referee, the mass was disentangled, and Jack, with his mop-like hair, his soiled uniform, and his grimy face, struggled to his feet and pantingly waited for the signal from his captain, he was just as good as ever. It takes a great deal to hurt a rugged youth, who has no bad habits and is in sturdy training.

  The active lad who had downed Jack when going at full speed, and nipped in the bud his brilliant attempt, was Fred Greenwood, only a few months younger. He was full-back for the Oakdales and their best player. Furthermore, he was the closest friend of Jack Dudley. In the game it was war to the knife between them, but in the very crisis of the terrific struggle neither had a harsh thought or a spark of jealousy of the other. Fred led the cheering of the opposing eleven when Jack kicked such a beautiful goal, but gritted his teeth and muttered:

  “You did well, my fine fellow, but just try it again—that’s all!”

  And Jack did try it again, as I have explained, and, tackling him low, Fred downed him. While the two were apparently suffocating under the mountain, Fred spat out a mouthful of dirt and said:

  “I got you that time, Jack.”

  “It has that look, but—”

  Jack meant to finish his sentence, but at that moment the mountain on top sagged forward and jammed his head so deeply into the earth that his voice was too muffled to be clear. Besides, it was not really important that the sentence should be rounded out, since other matters engaged his attention. The two friends went through the game without a scratch, except that Jack’s face was skinned along the right cheek, one eye was blackened, both legs were bruised, and half his body was black and blue, and it was hard work for him to walk for a week afterward. The condition of Fred, and indeed of nearly every member of the two elevens, was much the same.

  But what of it? Does a football-player mind a little thing like that? Rather is he not proud of his scars and bruises, which attest his skill and devotion to his own club? And then Jack had the proud exultation of knowing that it was he who really won the championship for his side. As for Fred, it is true he was disappointed over the loss of the deciding game, but it was by an exceedingly narrow margin; and he and his fellow-players, as they had their hair cut so as to make them resemble civilized beings, said, with flashing eyes and a significant shake o
f the head:

  “Wait till next year, and things will be different.”

  Fred Greenwood was the son of a physician of large practice, whose expectation was that his son would follow the same profession, though the plans of the parents were in a somewhat hazy shape, owing to the youth of the boy. As I have already said, he and Jack Dudley had been comrades or chums almost from infancy. They were strong, active, clear-brained lads, who had not yet learned to smoke cigarettes or cigars, and gave no cause to fear that they would ever do so. It is not necessary to state that neither knew the taste of beer or alcoholic drinks, nor did they wish to learn. They understood too well the baleful effects of such indulgences to be in danger of ruining their bodies and souls, as too many other youths are doing at this very time.

  Doctor Greenwood had been the family physician of the Dudleys for many years. The heads of the families were college mates at Harvard, and continued their intimacy after the marriage of each, so that it was quite natural that their sons should become fond of each other. The fathers were sensible men, and so long as their boys’ fondness for athletic sports did not interfere with their studies the gentlemen encouraged them, and, when possible, were present at the contests between the representatives of the schools.

  When Jack Dudley was presented with a shotgun and allowed to make an excursion down the Jersey coast Fred was his companion, and the two had rare sport in shooting duck and wild fowl. They became quite expert for boys, and before the hunting season set in did considerable fishing in the surrounding waters, and both learned to be skilful swimmers and boatmen.

  Mr. Dudley was wealthier than his professional friend, though the large practice of the physician placed him in comfortable circumstances. In one of his many business transactions Mr. Dudley found that he had to choose between losing a considerable sum of money and accepting a half-ownership in a ranch in the new State of Wyoming. There seemed little choice between the two horns of the dilemma, for he saw no prospect of ever getting any money out of the Western land, but he accepted the ownership, the other half of which was divided among three gentlemen, one of whom lived in Cheyenne, and the others in Chicago.