by Zane Grey
“Whew!” whistled Hatcher. “If this road-agent outfit had ketched us with our pants down, as they’re plannin’, they’d shore give us a spankin’. I reckon we’ll owe a lot to your informant before this trip’s over. . . . Buff, the pace is gettin’ too hot. I don’t mind redskins by themselves so much. But when they’re set on by men of our own color an’ inflamed by rum, wal, excuse me. If we get through safe I’ll let it be my last caravan.”
“Jim, you don’t say!” ejaculated Clint, in surprise.
“Cleanin’ out these robber gangs is a job for the army, not for freighters. General Custer is havin’ his hands full with these southern tribes. If he tackles the Sioux he’ll get a damn good lickin’. An’ who’s goin’ to do for these desperadoes like Blackstone, an’ Bent, an’ Broom Field, an’ Clanger, an’ Lord knows how many others thet are comin’ on strong. It’s new, this road-agent game. An’ it’s profitable.”
“You’re right, Jim,” said Clint, ponderingly. “Buell told me Blackstone had stacks of gold. Where’d he get it?”
“Buff, I’ve a hunch some of these train bosses pick up some extra money by packin’ stolen furs to Kansas City. I know one I wouldn’t trust. For thet metter, Jim Blackstone was a freighter. He drove for me in ’fifty-eight. In the early ’sixties he was a train boss.”
“I know him. Uncle Jim Couch never had any use for Blackstone.”
“Wal, neither have I. An’ I’ll gamble there’s not a man in our outfit who wouldn’t grin to see a noose go round his neck. Fact is, Buff, the men have taken this news damn serious. They see what we freighters are up against. Injuns is bad enough. If we should happen to have a little fight or two before we get to Point of Rocks, the outfit will be sore as rattlesnakes.”
Fifteen miles out of camp next morning a small detachment of soldiers waited for the big caravan to come up. Clint rode at the head of the mile half-circle of wagons—the road took a bend there—and Hatcher brought up the rear.
Clint recognized the sergeant who rode up to his wagon. His name was McMillan.
“Hello, Belmet!” he said. “We’ve had a bad go with some Pawnees. I split my men up the river, sent them one way while we went another. We’ve had a scrimmage. I’m worried about Nelson and the ten soldiers who went with him. . . . Get down and come over here to the river with me.”
Clint took his glass and strode beside the sergeant. Hatcher came galloping across the level from the road. A few hundred yards on, a line of brush and scrubby trees marked the crest of a considerable declivity. McMillan and Hatcher dismounted. A big basin opened out, with a stream meandering through bottomlands of willow and cottonwood.
“Belmet, take a squint through your glass at that bunch of horses,” directed the sergeant, pointing. “Lost my glass.”
Far down along the river, perhaps a mile or more distant, a troop of horses were being driven by mounted Indians. Clint leveled his glass and almost instantly exclaimed:
“Pawnees drivin’ a bunch of U. S. Army horses. I see the brand.”
Sergeant McMillan cursed vehemently. “— — —! Let me look! . . . Yes. U. S. brand, all right, and they’re our horses. . . . Belmet, will you help me round up that bunch of Pawnees?”
“I reckon. What do you say, Jim?” replied Clint, turning to Hatcher.
“Say? Why, I shore say yes. How many men do you need, Sergeant?”
“Each of you get me ten picked men, mounted, and we’ll soon corral them.”
They returned to the wagon-train, where it was difficult to decide on the men, because they all wanted to go. Finally Jim Hatcher selected his ten men, and said he would stay behind with the caravan. Clint picked ten, and in a very few minutes all the detachments were on the brink of the hill, peeping through the foliage at the Pawnees.
“Belmet, you go down here and follow them,” directed McMillan. “I’ll ride around with my men and cut in ahead of them. When they see us they’ll fight or turn back. In case of a fight you ride up quick. But if they turn back you head them off. Don’t let any of them get away. We’ve been after this bunch for weeks. They’ve been murdering settlers up the valley.”
“How much time do you need to get in front of them?” asked Clint.
“You go right ahead and never mind us.”
Clint led his men back along the river to a trail which went down. It was extremely steep, but of soft earth, where the horses slid along without danger, dust, or noise. Once down in the valley, Clint soon struck the heavy trail of the Pawnees and followed it. In less than an hour the pursuers sighted the Indians. And it grew evident that the stolen horses were hard to manage. McMillan and his soldiers appeared on the high bank in front, half a mile ahead of the Pawnees. The Indians halted, undecided what to do, but when the soldiers descended the bank and splashed into the river they turned back.
Almost at once their sharp eyes detected the freighters galloping up. They broke for the river, leaving the stolen horses. But the bank there appeared too steep, and they abandoned any idea of going over. At that juncture the soldiers appeared behind them. Then the Pawnees charged with a wild war whoop.
“Scatter, men, an’ shoot low!” yelled Clint.
The Pawnees had rifles and they came thudding on, shooting over the heads of their horses. It was a beautiful sight for the freighters, but not conducive to fine marksmanship. At the first volley only a few Pawnees pitched off their horses.
Clint felt the shock and burn of a bullet in his upper right arm. It dropped weakly and his rifle fell. Halting his horse, he leaped off and pulled his revolver with his left hand. He killed two Pawnees and wounded a third before they wheeled to the left, hoping to make into the heavy brush. But the soldiers were upon them, and the freighters also swerving on their flank. Clint saw a short sharp engagement—a running one, yet at close range; and it ended as suddenly as it had begun.
He examined his wound, and finding it nothing to concern him, except that it bled profusely, he bound it with his scarf, and then led his horse over to his men.
“Buff, I see you’re bleedin’,” observed Henry Wells. “Any bones broke?”
“No. I’m not hurt. How about you all? . . . Where’s the soldiers?”
“Gone after their horses. There’s thirty dead redskins an’ nine took prisoner. Sergeant McMillan left orders to line them up an’ shoot them.”
“Let his own men do that,” replied Clint, sharply. “How many of you men hurt?”
“Six, an’ none bad, except Heddon, who got a nasty crack in the hip. But I ain’t shore the bone is broke.”
Clint observed the nine stoical Pawnees standing stripped of weapons, under guard. They were silent, somber. All these plains savages were mystics, They had fought; they had been vanquished; they were ready to receive the fate they would have meted out to their white foes.
Clint put his arm in a sling, then he examined Heddon’s wound, which was painful but not dangerous. Some of the freighters, with ropes fastened to their pommels, were hauling the dead Indians to the river bank, where men on foot slid them over to splash sullenly and sink out of sight. Clint’s sharp eye surely detected life in more than one of them.
When this unpleasant task was ended Sergeant McMillan returned with the recovered horses. Three of his soldiers had been wounded. The comparatively little injury done the white men attested to the advantage of surprise attack.
“Say, didn’t I leave orders to shoot them nine prisoners?” demanded McMillan.
“Reckon some one said so, sergeant, but I’m not takin’ orders from you,” replied Clint, quietly. “We just helped you out.”
“You sure did, and I’m much obliged. Thought maybe I could shove the dirty job on some of your men. You all got the reputation of being a bloody lot. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“It might be deserved, Sergeant. But I reckon we shirk this job.”
“Line them Indians up!” yelled McMillan to his soldiers.
The doomed Pawnees did not need to be dragged to the edge of the river bank
. And they faced the firing squad. Clint bent lowering gaze on them. He had seen this sort of thing often; he had participated in such justice. But it always seemed so pitiful. What magnificent courage these Pawnees showed!
“Ready! Aim! FIRE!”
Some fell backward, dark blank faces terrible to see, and the rest sank down, to be shoved over by the swift soldiers.
The tension of soldiers and freighters relaxed. Some sat down; others looked to their wounds and asked for assistance; still others tended to weapons and saddles. McMillan consulted one of his men about the recovered horses.
Clint’s keen eye caught sight of three Pawnees crawling out of the shallow water across the river. One was crippled, because he had to be helped. The other two had very probably feigned death and had been thrown into the river unhurt. Clint did not betray them.
But suddenly one of the soldiers espied them and yelled: “Look!—Three redskins come to life!” And he began to shoot. Plainly his bullets went wide of their mark.
“Sam, you couldn’t hit a flock of barns,” shouted another soldier, and he opened fire. Several others did likewise. They might have been playing a game. The foremost Pawnee let go his hold upon his injured comrade, and bounding across the sand bar into the willows, he escaped. But the other Indian refused to leave him. Bullets splashed on the water and kicked up the sand. This valiant Pawnee had dragged his brother half out of the water when suddenly he let go. Erect a moment, he swayed back, his dark face gleaming across the river at his foes. He was killed but not conquered. He fell on the sand. The crippled Pawnee too had been hit again. His head sank on his breast; his shoulders stuck to the bank a moment; then gradually he slid down into the water out of sight.
The freighters had been held up three hours. “Good-by, Sergeant,” said Hatcher. “It’s all in the game.” And the caravan again headed eastward, making ten more miles that day, mostly down grade to Branch Creek, a spot hardly ever used by caravans. The water was bad.
Outside of that, however, the camp proved comfortable. Next morning at sunrise, Henry Wells reported to Clint.
“Smoke signals to the south, boss,” he said.
Clint took a long look with his glass, then sent for Hatcher.
“Wal, shore enough,” drawled that worthy. “Let’s have breakfast an’ skedaddle along.”
Before noon one of the scouts, who had been riding a mile or more to the fore, came galloping back.
“Injuns ridin’ up, boss,” he said.
“Where?”
“Right down the road.”
“How many?”
“Big bunch—five hundred, mebbe.”
“Comanches?”
“I couldn’t tell for sure.”
Clint turned and yelled in stentorian voice to the freighters close behind: “Indians! Runnin’ fight! Keep comin’! Pass the word back!”
Then he addressed the scout: “Ride back to Ben Ireland. Tell him an’ Copsy to have the cannon ready an’ to fire a couple of times quick, at any chance. An’ after that pick out a good bunch to shoot into.”
Clint laid his revolver on the seat beside him, lifted his two rifles to the same level, then called to his horses:
“Giddap!”
He drove on, hawk eyes on the horizon line, where the yellow road divided it. Hennesy, the driver behind him, was singing at the top of his voice. Clint peered back a moment. The gaps were closing up, horses accommodating themselves to the slower gait of the oxen. But all were moving briskly.
A long bobbing fringed line rose before the prairie. Clint had never seen the like of that and he experienced a grim thrill. Presently the level line of horsemen topped the grass to come on like the wind. Clint did not remember ever being charged by such numbers, but to his relief they were not Comanches. It appeared to be a mixed band of Arapahoes and Cheyennes. They raced forward, a beautiful shining line, and when within three hundred yards they split on each side of the trail and sheered, to come abreast of the caravan just out of accurate rifle range. Yet they began to fire on the caravan.
Presently Clint had to look back to see them. In a running fight the Indians always kept parallel with a caravan, the more daring riders cutting in here and there, and where they stopped a wagon they were likely to concentrate. Clint saw this very thing happen. Freighters began to shoot, which indicated that Indians somewhere were within range. A group of savages had cut in. Two wagons had been stopped. Clint saw one teamster fall over the seat, and the other huddle up. The next wagon behind came on, going round the two halted ones, and the rest of the caravan kept in order. There was no confusion. The freighters moved briskly; and all along the line desultory firing began, directed on both sides.
BOOM! The six-pounder! Clint liked to hear that, as did all the freighters. The cannon had been mounted on a wagon, with Ireland in charge, Copsy as assistant, and two teamsters, driving four horses. Clint did not see whether the first charge from the cannon had been effective. Probably it had not been, except to lower the courage of the wild assailants. In exactly two minutes Ireland had reloaded, as Clint well knew by a second BOOM.
The firing swept back along the caravan to Hatcher’s end. And this old frontiersman sent up the white puffs of smoke, one for each wagon. This kind of fight was less perilous for the freighters, except when the attackers grew bolder in a massed charge.
Clint had covered a mile by the time the Indians turned to charge back, closer, riding harder and faster, firing oftener, with more audacious braves darting in. The toll of falling Indians began to mount up. These freighters did not waste many shots. Sitting on their reins, they fired while their teams were moving. A yoke of oxen went down. Clint saw the teamster leap off, fire his rifle, and dash back to the next wagon, which came on around and back to the road with but little loss of time.
BOOM! Benny Ireland’s cannon roared. A knot of Indians, closing in on the halted wagon, wavered as if struck by heavy wind, and then disintegrated. Riderless mustangs with flying manes ran wild out across the prairie.
The screeching, terrific din of Indian yells, which drowned all save the report of the cannon, gained on the head of the caravan. Clint drove while peering back. Suddenly he thrust the knotted reins under his leg and jerked up one of the rifles. The eighth team behind him was down, a yoke of oxen, and the teamster had disappeared. Then the ninth wagon, trying to clear the eighth, halted, with dead horses and running drivers. The Indians concentrated here, whirled their mounts, rode to and fro.
Clint pulled his team to a stop. Then he began to shoot, now on one side, then on the other. His action halted the head of the caravan. The seven drivers between him and the two teams down followed his example with deadly rifle-fire. The dozen or more teamsters beyond likewise poured a heavy volley into the collecting riders. On each side of the train now the Indians grew bolder and fiercer, insane in their blood lust, daring to the point of destruction. A few more teams down and they would have the caravan order broken.
Clint downed a horse or an Indian for every one of his seven shots, and that with his arm in a sling. He reloaded, although he had the other rifle beside him. He would keep one ready for close quarters. When he looked up again, the Indians had bunched on each side opposite the breach in the caravan. The cannon wagon was off the road, coming at a gallop, the four horses extended, one teamster driving, the other shooting, Copsy also shooting, and Benny Ireland holding on to the cannon. The Indians, frantic at their opportunity, swelled in number at that point. They were about to risk riding through the breach to surround Clint and the other seven wagons.
Fifty yards from the larger group, on the right side of the caravan, Ireland’s wagon halted. Clint saw a red belching flame, a leaping tongue of smoke. BOOM! the cannon thundered, and like grain before a reaper Indians and horses went down. Clint whooped, as no doubt all the freighters were whooping. All the savages remaining on the right side of the caravan fled as if from a prairie fire. Those on the left side sheered off, but kept riding and shooting. Their golden c
hance was gone. The freighters behind came up fast, driving two abreast, expecting the order to form a circle. But Clint did not give it, and by the time Hatcher arrived the Indians had circled around to join their fleeing comrades. Far out on the prairie they halted in a dark mass, wild and savage, evidently to consult. But they did not renew the attack.
Swift grimy hands cut out the dead teams and hitched their wagons to the rear of others. The dead freighters were lifted up and covered. Six killed and four wounded. Benny Ireland had a hole through his forearm.
“Hey, boss, shure wasn’t thet last shot a hummer?” he shouted.
Fifty-three Indians and almost as many mustangs had gone down to that terrific charge of slugs.
“Irish, you’re shore thar with your pepper-pot,” shouted a bloody-armed teamster as he took up the reins. Many were the calls vented upon Ireland.
“Drive on!” yelled Belmet.
Once more the caravan leaders moved, and the wagons behind fell in line, and soon the whole cavalcade was in action, stretching along the yellow road. The wheels rolled, the harness creaked, the oxen wagged, the horses settled down, and the freighters drove on toward the vacant, purple, beckoning horizon.
Chapter Nineteen
BUFFALO impeded progress. The straggling ribbons of the immense herd moving north blocked by the caravan, cut it into several sections, surrounded it, and at last brought it to a standstill.
The freighters were not slow to take advantage of their opportunity. Rump steak, their favorite meat, would be the order of the supper that evening, if they were able to move on to camp. By the middle of the afternoon the herd thinned out.
Clint Belmet never tired of watching buffalo. The breath-taking sight of his first buffalo bull, the freezing of his very marrow when Dick Curtis whispered to him to shoot the monster, the tremendous kick that knocked him flat, and then the thrill when he saw the huge black woolly beast down—these youthful impressions had not deadened through the years, and they recurred whenever he saw buffalo. The rumble of thundering hoofs! The prairie-wide pall of dust! Buffalo now as numerous as the grasses of the plains, would some day be only a memory. Clint saw that.
