by Zane Grey
Clint and Tom went to school for five months. It was a happy interval for both boys. They had plenty to eat, warm clothes, and outside of school hours had a good time hunting rabbits with Jack. Nevertheless, Clint missed his mother more than when he was out on the trail. Perhaps the comfort, the leisure, and the school work brought her back closer.
He grew big and strong that winter.
Couch told Belmet, “Buff will be a buster some day.”
Card sharpers often visited the camp, where they were not welcomed, at least by the majority of the freighters. Clint painted a sign, Gamblers not Wanted, and nailed it up in a conspicuous place, after which the undesirables gave them a wide berth.
Clint’s favorite dish was rabbit cooked in a Dutch oven with potatoes and onions. He used to take a peep, lifting the iron lid so that he could see and smell the stew. This always irritated his father, who was a capital cook and who did not like to have the red coals of fire disturbed.
The months rolled around, like the rolling of the slow caravan wheels across the prairie in summer. By the middle of May Captain Couch had loaded up again for Aull & Company, with merchandise for all the trading stations across the plains. It was a large and important consignment. Reports drifted in that the Comanches and Kiowas were more troublesome than ever.
Couch secured a detachment of ninety-five soldiers under Captain Stevenson, and the long journey began. Commonplace as were these freighting departures, there was always a crowd of relatives, friends, and well-wishers gathered to see the caravan start out. It had such singular import.
Early in June they struck the old trail for Santa Fé. At Big Timbers they found evidence that a large encampment of Kiowas had wintered at this favorite spot. This was not conducive to good cheer. Those savages were somewhere on the rampage.
The mornings broke sunny and pleasant, the prairie waved away boundlessly, the long leagues rolled under the wheels, the sunsets burned gold on the grass, and the cool, clear, starry nights passed. Not an Indian was sighted on the long journey to Fort Larned.
Here the soldiers turned back for Fort Leavenworth, while Couch waited for a caravan, on the way from Fort Aubry to Santa Fé. Owing to the scarcity of soldiers and the increase of the many freighters and other wagon-trains, it was imperative that caravans depend upon one another as much as possible. Couch waited for the Aubry train, and, indeed, so long was it in arriving that ill rumor was rife.
It got in, however, the biggest and hardest crew of freighters Clint had ever seen—one hundred and five men, all experienced Indian-fighters. Their train boss had been a sergeant of artillery in the Texas invasion of 1842. His name was Jim Waters, and the long-haired old prairie-dog was a delight to Clint.
Waters had a cannon in his caravan. It had been used in many a fight with Indians, and the roar of its fame had spread from, the Missouri to the Pecos. The first thing Clint and Tom did was to go have a look at that cannon. It shone like the back of a watch ease. The boys both yearned and dreaded to see it shot.
Couch threw in with Waters. This made a caravan of one hundred and seventy-nine armed men, and, including the cannon, a most formidable body.
Jim Waters’ words to Couch passed from lip to lip: “Satock is out thar layin’ fer us, so you-all know what to expect.”
Satock was the notorious chief of the Kiowas who harassed the western border from 1855 to 1863. This year, late in 1856, had seen the rise of his activities. The country from Fort Union to Santa Fé and over the Vermigo River was crisscrossed by Satock’s bloody trail. There were records of attacks on escorted caravans and important wagon-trains, but many small bands of reckless pioneers had vanished and never were heard of again. During this period Satock’s Kiowas and the Apaches no doubt massacred many of these adventurers. Lucky was the caravan of any kind that crossed Satock’s range without a fight.
The third day out from Fort Union, at noon, a large band of mounted Kiowas appeared from over a ridge. They were not more than a mile away.
“Pull a half-circle,” yelled Waters, and that trenchant order was promptly executed.
Clint’s position was next to his father’s wagon near the center of the half-circle. Tom was with him on the seat. The horses and oxen were headed inward. The cannon was run out in front, loaded with slugs, ready for action. The gunner, Bill Hoyle, an exsoldier, stood laconically beside it, fuse in hand, with Waters, Couch, and others behind. One hundred and seventy-nine rifles were in hand, and that did not count the two held by Clint and Tom.
“Wal, boys, it’s Satock all right,” announced Waters, grimly. “I shore know the old — — — —!”
Clint estimated there were more than a hundred Indians, perhaps considerably more, because they rode in a compact mass, naked and red, feathers flying and weapons glinting, their savage faces gleaming in the sunlight.
“Boys, they’re wantin’ to parley,” said Waters. “Reckon it’s jest a trick to see how we’re loaded. But no fear of attack now.”
Clint heard that to his immense relief, and the explosion, almost the gasp, that Tom gave vent to was very eloquent. Clint stole a quick glance at Tom, and he was not so scared himself that he could not laugh.
The band of Kiowas halted at about sixty yards, just outside the limit Waters said he would allow them. Then four riders came on again. The leader Was a lean, sinewy Indian, naked except for moccasins and breech-clout. He carried a rifle across his saddle. His horse was a ragged, fiery mustang, fittingly wild for such a master.
The four rode up within thirty paces, then halted. Clint saw the swarthy lineaments of the savage chieftain—a dark, crafty, evil visage, record of terrible deeds. If he had ever been a noble red man the time was far past. Hate of the whites breathed from every line of him. He raised a hand with superb gesture.
“Me Satock,” he announced.
“Shore. We saw you first,” replied Waters, with biting humor.
“We friends white men.”
“Wal, if you’re friends let us go on.”
“Want some eat.”
“Satock, we can’t stop now to feed you Injuns. We must go on,” returned Waters, testily.
Satock slipped off his mustang. He was as slippery as an eel. Again he held up his hand, and gave his rifle to one of his companions. He stepped forward without the slightest hesitation, his gleaming, burning, gloomy eyes taking in the cannon, the watching men.
“Me Satock. Me big chief. Me good friend. Me want sugar,” he said.
“Somebody give him some sugar,” ordered Waters.
Couch went to the nearest supply wagon, and after some tearing in packs, assisted by the teamster, he returned with a small bag of sugar, which he placed in the outstretched hand of the chief. Now Satock did not smile, nor accept the sugar with thanks. He simply snatched it.
“Me want coffee,” he said, in his deep guttural voice.
At Couch’s call the teamster fetched a sack of coffee, which was likewise turned over to the savage.
“Me want tobac,” said Satock, in precisely the same tone.
That, too, was given to the chief, who received it as if it was his due.
“Thet’s all, Satock,” rejoined Waters, no longer conciliatory. “Get on your hoss an’ go.”
Satock strode back to his horse. It was noticeable that he mounted in a single agile action, without letting go of the three bags. He received his rifle from his companion, and still kept possession of the sugar, coffee, and tobacco. This fact did not in the least detract from his savage dignity.
They rode back to their band, and then, keeping the same distance away they made a complete circle of the caravan.
Curses were not wanting from the angry Couch and others of the frontiersmen, but Waters kept silent until Satock, with his warriors, disappeared over the ridge of waving grass.
“Thet damn rascal is up to something’,” declared Waters. “We’ll go on to the Pecos. Look sharp, every man-jack of you.”
By four o’clock that afternoon the carav
an was in camp on the Pecos River. As small a circle as possible, with the wagons drawn up close, was placed out in the open. Everybody worked. Firewood in large quantities was brought up from the river bottom. The stock was grazed under guard and driven into the circle before dark. The cannon was set pointing from the gap in the circle. A number of cooking fires blazed brightly, and after supper a big camp fire was built in the center, around which stood and sat and lay most of the men.
Clint heard Jim Waters say: “We haven’t seen the last of Satock. You can shore gamble on thet an’ be a winner. I’ve been on the frontier for twenty years. There’s a red devil in all these tribes, but I reckon Satock has got them skinned. He’s as mean as ——! . . . We’ll have to put on double guard. Now, Couch, how about your outfit?”
“You’re boss, Jim,” replied Couch. “I’ll answer for my outfit takin’ orders an’ doin’ their duty.”
“All right, Captain,” returned Waters, consulting his watch. “You take forty men for the first guard. Have Bill Hoyle relieve you in three hours. I’ll relieve Bill at two o’clock. An’ thet’ll fetch us to daylight. . . . Then, I’m no calamity howler, but I know these Kiowas, an’ we’ve got to be on guard every minute of our watch—or we’ll never reach Santa Fé with our scalps on.”
Belmet was one of the chosen for the first watch. Clint remained up with him, sitting by the bright fire, watching, listening, and keeping his dog Jack close beside him.
Hoyle and his men came on at midnight. Clint went to bed with his father. They were soon asleep. Some time later Clint awoke with a queer feeling. He reached over to put a hand on Jack. But Jack was gone. Clint sat up. As the bed had been made in the open and the night was clear, Clint could look all around. No Jack in sight!
Clint shook his father.
“Paw, I’m afraid somethin’s wrong,” whispered Clint.
“What makes you think that, Clint?” queried Belmet, anxiously.
“Jack is gone. I’ll look for him.”
“Don’t go outside the corral.”
Whereupon Clint searched around among the tents and beds, and then round the camp fire. None of the men on guard had seen Jack.
“Mr. Waters, my dog would not leave me,” said Clint, earnestly, to the frontiersman. “Somethin’s wrong. Jack could smell an Indian a mile.”
“Thet’s good. We’ll watch all the sharper,” replied Waters. “You go back to bed and try to get some sleep.”
Clint did not take this kindly advice. He wanted his dog. He knew that Jack had never left him unless something was wrong, and he felt certain that was the case now. Accordingly, he searched among the stock. Not finding Jack there, Clint returned to his wagon and crawled under it out into the prairie grass. A bright moon shone. Clint called his dog, and he whistled. Something moved in the tall grass. Clint dropped flat, suddenly stricken with terror. Then he heard a whine. Jack came searching for him. Clint **at up and patted the dog. His hair stood up and he growled.
As Clint crawled back under the wagon some one stuck a gun in his back.
“It’s the lad an’ his dog, boss,” said the man.
Waters reprimanded Clint sharply for the risk he had taken.
“But I was huntin’ Jack,” replied Clint. “He was out there growlin’. I tell you, Mr. Waters, Jack can smell an Indian.”
“Couch, damn if I don’t think there’s truth in the boy. Listen to thet dog! . . . Wal, we’ll play it for a hunch, anyway.”
Waters had all the men called. The fire was extinguished and every one of the caravan became a guard. Most of the men were armed with a Colt’s revolving rifle, a new weapon capable of firing seven shots in two minutes.
“Boys,” said Waters, “if you have to shoot, don’t waste ammunition. Make every shot count. If Satock an’ his redskins tackle us, it’s either them or us. An’ I’d a heap sight it’d be them. Now spread out an’ watch.”
Clint went with his father and lay down just inside their wagon. He tied Jack on a string. Presently Jack grew restless and pulled and growled.
“Paw, they’re comin’ sure. Jack knows,” whispered Clint.
Belmet got up and went to tell Waters. This caused Waters to stand up on the hub of a wagon wheel and search the prairie with his field-glass. The moonlight made the night almost as day.
“Injuns comin’ all right,” announced Waters. “Good fer thet dog! . . . Couch, step up an’ take a look.”
Couch replaced Waters on the wheel and held the glass for several moments of suspense.
“About two hundred, more or less,” he said, presently turning to Waters. “They’re comin’ low an’ easy, guessin’ to surprise us.”
“Wal, they’ll get the surprise,” returned Waters, “Couch, send a man along the wagon line thet way, an’ you go the other. Tell the men to expect an attack in short order, but to lie low an’ not shoot till they hear me yell.”
“How about the cannon?” asked Couch.
“Hoyle has charge of thet. He’ll not fire it unless the redskins break inside the circle. . . . I’ll have another look through the glass. Lucky it’s moonlight.”
Presently Clint, who raised his head to look, could not see a man, except his father beside him. They were all under the wagons, hiding, watching.
Not long after that several Indians appeared, cautiously approaching the caravan. Evidently they were reconnoitering to see if there was an opportunity to attack. Soon they vanished as silently as they had come.
After that every succeeding moment was fraught with greater suspense and fright for Clint. He had difficulty in keeping Jack quiet.
A long wait followed. The Kiowas were in no hurry. An owl hooted down in the river bottom. It might have been a signal. Next came the whistle of a night hawk. No doubt every listening man on guard heard that lonely, suspense-breaking cry. Following it, Clint saw a line of Indians rise out of the grass and come on in order, crouching and slow.
Clint lay stiff and cold against the wheel of the wagon, with his rifle at a rest on a spoke. The palms of his hands were slippery with sweat. He heard his father whisper, but could not distinguish what. Closer stole the Kiowas. They gleamed in the moonlight. Every second Clint expected to hear their hellish yell as they charged.
But instead of that the silence was split by Waters’ stentorian roar:
“Fire!”
The hundred and seventy-nine Colts roared as one gun. But Clint had forgotten to either aim or** shoot his.
Chapter Seven
THEN the white men reversed the action of their rifles, making ready for another volley. No blood-curdling yell! No rush of agile plumed savages! When the smoke drifted away from before the waiting defenders of the caravan, fleet vanishing forms, like shadows, could be discerned in the moonlight. They disappeared without having fired a gun or shot an arrow.
Waters and his allies crawled out from under the wagons, and a large knot of them collected round him and Couch.
Clint Belmet, dazed, and with palpitating heart followed his father.
“Haw! Haw! We shore didn’t need our cannon,” roared Waters.
“What you make of it, Jim?” asked Couch, more anxious than elated.
“Kiowas, all right. They got the surprise of their lives. Sneaked off like coyotes.”
“They might be hidin’ out there in the grass,” suggested an old frontiersman.
“Not much. Them as are out there now are good Injuns . . . Boys, spread along the line an’ search for bodies. But don’t go far.”
Careful search of a belt of grass all along the line and for a hundred paces out failed to discover one single dead Indian.
“Packed their dead an’ crippled with them. Injuns will always do thet,” averred Couch.
“Wal, I’ll be doggoned!” ejaculated Jim Waters. “I’d have gambled on layin’ out jest one hundred an’ seventy-nine.”
“You’d have lost your bet, boss,” interposed the old frontiersman. “Shootin’ by moonlight is turrible deceivin’. Things look cl
ose an’ clear, but they ain’t.”
“Shore. But all the same we must have plugged a few,” replied Waters, stubbornly. “Anyway, we’ll watch an’ wait till daylight. Build some fires, boys.”
Clint Belmet, shivering around the camp fire his father built, was a pretty sober boy. He realized that he was just recovering from a trance no less than panic. And shame swiftly followed his other feelings. Even Jack seemed to be looking at him askance. Clint was inordinately proud of his dog. Had not Waters just a few moments since passed the camp fire to say, “Clint, thet dog of yours saved our scalps.”
While Clint was sitting there toasting his shins, who should come up but Tom Sidel, gun in hand, stalking as Clint most certainly had never seen him stalk before.
“Hullo, Buff! I was looking for you all over. Wasn’t it great?” he burst out, dropping the butt of the rifle on the ground and standing as the hunters Were wont to stand in leisure moments.
“Wasn’t what great?” queried Clint, bewildered.
“Why, the Injuns slippin’ up on us.”
“Humph! Not so I noticed it.”
“The way we chased them first off! Say, I heard our boss say it was the best stand-off he’d ever been in.”
“We was only lucky,” responded Clint, pessimistically.
“Don’t say was when you should say were,” protested Tom. “Buff, it wasn’t all luck.”
“Tom Sidel, if it hadn’t been for my dog Jack, your gory scalp would be hangin’ on a Kiowa’s saddle right this minute.”
“I ain’t so damn sure,” replied Tom, who was slow to realize antagonism in the boy he revered.
“Don’t swear,” complained Clint, irritably. “That’s worse than bad grammar.”
But Tom was not to be talked or frowned down. “Buff, I’ll bet you plugged one,” he said, in a tense whisper, leaning down.
“Plugged one what?” demanded Clint.
“One of them d-dinged Kiowas. Mebbe old Satock himself. It’d just be your luck, an’ then you’d be more famous than ever.”
“Me famous? . . . Faugh!” exploded Clint. Nevertheless, Tom’s indestructible faith in his idol had begun to operate on Clint’s mood.
