One day Jack was out on the plains hunting, riding his horse, Ranger, a large, white mustang won in a race with Stranger. He was carrying a new rifle, a Colt’s repeater, a novelty in those days and a recent present from Colonel Loring, the commandant of the fort. Suddenly there was a bullet flash, and Ranger dropped dead under the young hunter. The air was rent with wild yells, as six Indian warriors on hardy ponies galloped toward him.
Sheltering behind his dead horse Jack raised his Colt and fired, dropping an Indian. Crack! went his rifle, picking off a mustang. A third shot brought down another Indian. The redskins were not accustomed to a repeating gun and were amazed, thinking it some new magic of the pale faces. Quickly they turned their horses and rode to a short distance. As they did so, a pony of one of the dead Indians dashed up to Jack. The boy dexterously caught the mustang, and transferring the saddle and bridle from his lifeless horse to his newly acquired one, he mounted.
By this time the redskins had reopened their charge and an arrow ripped through Jack’s left arm. Urging his horse on the boy dashed over the prairie at a mad gallop, the Indians pursuing.
Jack was heading straight for a hill which he had to pass on his way to the fort, and having gained this eminence he turned and looked back to see if he could get an estimate of the number of Indians on the warpath. And when, after some hard riding, he dashed into the fort, he was able to give the com-mandant a very accurate report.
“You are a brave boy,” the colonel said. “I appoint you a scout with full pay.”
It was a short time after this that Jack, riding along a lonely path, saw a horseman approaching. Contrary to the frontier custom which demanded that a man nearing another upon a trail should come within speaking distance and pass a word before changing his course, this stranger the minute he was aware of Jack’s presence, wheeled around on his horse and rode off in another direction. Out on the plains it was the acknowledged right of every man to have an opportunity to ascertain the intent of all persons about him. To violate this was a confession of guilt or a flagrant insult.
The scout’s suspicions were aroused, and he determined to follow the man and find out what he was up to. So he turned his horse and trailed the stranger at a discreet distance. In a short time he observed that the man was making for a small town not far away, which was the popular place for loafers and gamblers. When they reached this rude frontier village the stranger went into a gambling den. After a few moments Jack followed him, and as it was considered an insult to those present to drink alone, he ordered whisky for the whole crowd.
“Set ’em up,” he said to the bartender.
Soon the scout was in conversation with the stranger whom he had trailed, and when one of the crowd suggested a game of cards, this man turned to Jack.
“Take a hand for luck, stranger?” he said.
Jack, seeing an opportunity to get some information in this way, accepted the invitation. Luck went persistently against him. However, he was soon on excellent terms with the crowd. The next day he renewed his acquaintanceship with the bunch and finally Leon Hartley, the man the scout had trailed, invited the lad to accompany him to his place in the mountains. Jack agreed, and the two set out. After a half day’s riding, which took them into the mountainous region, they reached a lonely hut.
Every day a new man added himself to the crowd of outlaws gathered in this place until there was a band of twelve brawny, well-armed bandits. Almost a week was spent in feasting, drinking, gambling, and hunting, and during this time Jack was accepted as one of the bandits. One night Hartley cautiously disclosed a plot for holding up the United States army supply wagon, which was due to arrive at the fort the following week. Then he turned to Jack, who had called himself “Dave Hunter,” and asked:
“Are you with us on this game, pardner?”
“Just try me,” Jack responded.
This conversation took place on Monday, and the attack was planned for the following Friday. All night long as Jack lay in his bunk he was planning how he could get away to the fort to warn the commandant. The next day, choosing a time when most of the men were absent hunting, Jack announced that he was getting soft from too much easy living, and that he was going out after some game. Then he mounted his horse and, taking a circuitous route, made his way to the fort.
The following morning he returned to the outlaw band, bringing in with him a fine two-year-old buck.
As the scout sprang to the ground Hartley, who was standing in front of the cabin, eyed him sharply. “Where runs the herd from which that buck was taken, Dave?” he asked.
“Up in the mountains, in a small canon to the west,” Jack replied. “Good feed in that region.”
“You seem to be quite familiar with the range,” Hartley added.
“Yes, a cow-puncher gets to know the country,” Jack answered nonchalantly.
On the appointed day a cavalcade of well-armed, mounted men rode down the mountainside, with Jack among them. Ahead rode the chief, in a showy and elegant uniform, with a waving plume and a gold star in his hat. Jack had found out that these bandits styled themselves the “Lone Star Knights,” and knew that the leader was among the most desperate and fearless men in the State. The robbers were heading for a bluff overlooking the fort road, thinking that they would be in readiness when the wagon train approached.
As the turn was made there was the sound of shots, announcing the presence of the United States soldiers, part of whom had proceeded some distance beyond the supposed point of attack to head off the provision wagon, while the remainder were stationed at the bluff, according to the scout’s suggestion. The Lone Star Knights were made of cool and determined stuff, and were not easily unnerved. The battle that ensued was fierce and desperate, for these outlaws knew neither retreat nor surrender. However, the soldiers heavily outnumbered them. One by one the bandits fell, either wounded or dead. And when the encounter was over, there was one band of outlaws less within the limits of the Lone Star State.
And this was only one of the courageous acts which Jack had to his credit as a scout. Upon another occasion as he roamed the plains he found a large emigrant train corralled upon the prairie, while near by was a huge force of Indians who had attacked it. The scout knew that single-handed he could offer no help, and that the only plan was to ride to the fort for aid. Looking at his watch he saw that it was two o’clock, and he estimated that he could get to the fort and back with the soldiers before nightfall. Digging the spurs into his steed he raced madly over the prairie and gave the alarm.
“Boots and saddles” was sounded, and soon afterward the troopers were galloping to the rescue of the unfortunate emigrants. As they neared the spot darkness was creeping over the prairie. The emigrants were still corraled, while encamped around them were several hundred Comanche warriors.
The troopers were divided into two companies of sixty men each, and prepared to attack the Indians from two sides, so as to drive them in the range of the rifles of the emigrants. The Indians had formed themselves into four parties, prepared to charge from as many directions. However, as they advanced, they were startled by a ringing cheer, and the squadron of cavalry charged upon them. Before they had recovered from this surprise the second squadron appeared. The redskins were caught between two rifle fires and fled directly under the shots of the emigrants who had rallied and were taking an active part in the battle.
Jack Omohundro was in the thick of the firing and was among the troopers who were pushing the fleeing Indians hard, bringing down both ponies and redskins. In the skirmish, however, Jack being far in the lead, was separated from his companions. As he turned to join the soldiers he found himself face to face with a small band of fleeing Indians. So Jack was captured by the Comanche braves and taken by them to their village. There he was led to a tepee and made a prisoner. As he sat in his tent, surrounded by braves, squaws, and children, he was prepare
d to face the worst. Doubtless the Indians, after untold tortures, would kill him. In saving the emigrants it seemed that he was to lose his own life.
Suddenly into the tent stalked a man, dressed in the blankets, beads, and feathers of a chief. Looking at him closely, Jack saw that he was a white man, and his face seemed strangely familiar. As he was trying to remember where he had seen the man before, this renegade white chief ordered all the Indians to leave. Then he turned to Jack and said:
“We meet again, pardner. And this time I reckon I kin square off that little debt I owe you.”
At his words, Jack remembered where he had seen the man previously. He was the chap whom he had pulled out of the bog in the Virginia marsh several years before.
“Well, I am lucky to find you here. But how in blazes do you happen to be living with this Indian tribe?”
“Oh, I like the life. And I’ll fix things fer you.”
The renegade chief then introduced Jack to the Indians as his young brother, White Wolf. And the redskins, who seemed to be under the spell of their adopted white chief, christened him “Young Killer.” For six weeks Jack dwelt among them. Then one night he said good-by to his rescuer, who provided him with a swift pony, and rode away across the prairie. Two days later he showed up at the fort, much to the joy of the soldiers, who thought that he had surely met death at the hands of the Comanches.
One day there drifted to the fort a party of gold seekers bound for New Mexico. As they were unfamiliar with the country they were looking for a guide, and Jack Omohundro offered his services. It was while on this trip that the scout met for the first time Bill Cody, who later became his lifelong friend. As he was guiding the party over the old Santa Fe trail they were corralled by a band of Comanches. For thirty hours the redskins held the siege and Jack thought that the scalps of the whole bunch were destined to ornament the belts of the savages. Suddenly, however, just as the Indians were preparing to rush upon the gold seekers, there was the sound of cheering, and the welcome notes of the bugle of the United States cavalry, as the mounted soldiers charged into the enemy ranks.
After the Comanches had been routed, Jack got into conversation with the famous scout, Buffalo Bill.
“I was riding along,” said Cody, “when I saw what a devil of a fix you were in. So I rode back for the soldiers, and, well, I reckon those redskins are mourning yet over losing your scalps.”
After some days of traveling Jack guided his party into Santa Fe county, the heart of New Mexico. As they crossed the Mexican Alps the surface of the country presented a panorama of mountains, mesas, and valleys, with streams rushing down the high mountain shoulders, and falling into deep gorges and widening valleys, where the water sparkled in the sunlight like silver ribbons. To the west was the Rio Grande, and in the dreamy distance could be seen high, snow-topped peaks.
This section was the first part of the United States where mining was pursued by the white man. Two hundred years before gold was discovered in California, yellow nuggets were picked up in Santa Fe county by the Indians. The New Placers at Golden were rediscovered by white men in 1839. And now a herder from Sonora straying into the Oritz Mountains in search of stray sheep, had found rocks rich in gold. The news had spread around, causing many bands of gold seekers to swarm to the place.
Jack, however, soon tired of the monotony of working in the mines and determined to go to Santa Fe for some recreation. And it was upon this expedition that he won the name of “Texas Jack,” by which he was known ever after. As lie rode into Santa Fe one hot afternoon, he thought he had never seen a quainter or more picturesque town than this which the intrepid Spanish explorers had founded as early as 1605, calling it the City of the Holy Faith of St. Francis. It was said to be situated on the site of an ancient Indian pueblo, and nestled at the base of a snow-clad mountain.
The winding, irregular streets were lined with low, flat-roofed adobe houses, and in the center of the town was the famous plaza after the Mexican style. On one side of the plaza was the long palacio, or Governor’s palace, with a portico extending the entire length of one side of the square. Jack, examining the palace with interest, was startled by the singular ornamentation of the portico, which consisted of festoons of Indian ears, for which he was informed the government had paid a bounty.
The citizens were dark-skinned, indolent-looking Spaniards and Indians. Following the crowd, Jack soon found himself at the entrance of a building from which sounds of music drifted.
“What’s going on in there?” he asked a loafer.
“A fandango,” the man replied.
Jack wanted to see what a Mexican dance was like, so he paid the fee and entered. The place was full of men and dark-eyed señoritas who were gayly tripping over the floor to the staccato beat of Spanish music. After watching the dancers for some time and noticing that the place seemed to be run on rather a democratic plan, the scout went up to a girl and asked her for a dance.
She smiled and nodded, and the pair joined the throng on the floor. Several times after this Jack returned to his first partner, and they danced together. After the last waltz, however, the cowboy scout was approached by a tall man in the costume of a miner, who said in a loud, insulting voice:
“Look here, señior, you’re too all-fired attentive to my señorita. I want it stopped.”
Coolly Jack looked the man in the eyes. “It is as the señorita wishes,” he said with a bow to the girl.
The man glared at him. “It is as I wish,” he said emphatically.
“This is no time or place to pick a quarrel,” Jack replied. “But I’d like to know your name, in case we meet again.”
“My name is Kit—Kansas Kit,” the miner replied. “And yours?”
“Mine is Jack.”
“What’s the handle?”
“Omohundro.”
“Omohundro—what a name!” the man laughed.
“Well, it’s my own, and I’m not ashamed of it,” Jack answered evenly. “Nor do I dodge the law under the name of my State,” be added meaningly.
The man’s face darkened with anger. “And what State do you hail from?” he asked.
“It might be Kansas, but it happens to be Texas,” Jack answered.
“Well, I haven’t anything against the State,” the man replied, “but as you’ve had so much to say about my name. I’ll give you a twin one of your own. I christen you Texas Jack.”
As the bully spoke he raised an uncorked bottle of wine and broke it over Jack’s head. The boy fell to the floor unconscious, the red liquid streaming over his hair and face.
When the cowboy recovered consciousness he found himself in his room at the hotel. Dazedly he sat up, feeling of his bandaged head. Then in a flash he remembered what had happened, and determined to go in search of his enemy. But when he went to the stable to get his horse he found that the animal, together with his saddle and bridle, had disappeared.
“Kansas Kit rode your horse away a while ago,” an attendant informed him. “He said if you wanted to see him, he could be found over at Monte Hall.”
“Who is Kansas Kit?” Jack inquired. “He seems to run this town.”
“Don’t you know who he is?” the man asked in reply. “Why, everybody in Santa Fe is afraid of him. He’s killed dozens of men. I wouldn’t like to mix up with him, stranger. You’d better consider yourself lucky to get away in good health and let him keep your horse.”
“Over my corpse,” Jack replied, as he strode out of the stable.
The cowboy found Monte Hall full of men, and the air thick with smoke. Here games of monte, faro, and dice were being played by conglomerate collections of frontier characters. Men from the mines sat at tables with tradesmen, while soldiers, plainsmen, and desperadoes could be found in the assembly. As Jack entered he looked around, trying to spot Kansas Kit.
�
��Hello, Texas Jack. How do you feel after your baptism?” a voice inquired.
Turning, Jack saw Kansas Kit sitting at a table with three other men. Jack went up to him immediately, and looked him straight in the eyes. “Where is my house?” he asked.
“He’s where I put him,” Kansas Kit replied. “And what have you got to say about it?”
“That you are a coward and a thief,” replied Jack coolly.
At his words the bully rose to his feet, his face purpling with anger. “Are you looking for some windows in your skull?” he asked, in a menacing tone, reaching for his shooting iron.
“I’m looking for my horse,” Jack replied firmly. “And I mean to have him.”
“Then you can play for him,” Kansas Kit replied.
“I don’t play cards,” Jack answered.
“Then you’ll have to fight for him,” the bully continued.
“That suits me,” said the cowboy. “I don’t mind unraveling some cartridges.”
A quarrel in Santa Fe usually meant shooting, and by this time all the men in the room had left their tables and gathered around Kansas Kit and Jack. Looking over the sea of strange faces, Jack wondered if any one would come to his aid. As if in answer to the thought, a man in the uniform of a captain came forward.
“I’m Captain Kenon of the United States Army,” he said. “I like fair play, and will see that this bully doesn’t take advantage of you.”
“Thank you,” Jack replied.
“Can you shoot?” the captain asked.
“Yes. I draw quick and shoot straight,” answered the cowboy.
The two men were stood against the wall across the room from each other, the crowd forming a human lane between them.
The Third Western Megapack Page 49
