by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER FIVE: BUDDY RUNS TRUE TO TYPE
One never could predict with any certainty how long Indians would dancebefore they actually took the trail of murder and pillage. So muchdepended upon the Medicine, so much on signs and portents. It was evenpossible that they might, for some mysterious reason unknown to theirwhite neighbors, decide at the last moment to bide their time. TheTomahawk outfit worked from dawn until dark, and combed the foothillsof the Snowies hurriedly, riding into the most frequented, grassy basinsand wide canyons where the grass was lush and sweet and the mountainstreams rushed noisily over rocks. As fast as the cattle were gatheredthey were pushed hastily toward the Platte, And though the men rodewarily with rifles as handy as their ropes, they rode in peace.
Buddy, proud of his job, counting himself as good a man as any of them,became a small riding demon after rebellious saddle horses, herding themaway from thick undergrowth that might, for all he knew, hold Indianswaiting a chance to scalp him, driving the REMUDA close to the cabinswhen night fell, because no man could be spared for night herding,sleeping lightly as a cat beside a mouse hole. He did not say much,perhaps because everyone was too busy to talk, himself included.
Men rode in at night dog-weary, pulled their saddles and hurried stifflyto the cabin where Step-and-a-Half was showing his true worth as a cookwho could keep the coffee-pot boiling and yet be ready to pack up andgo at the first rifle-shot. They would bolt down enormous quantities ofbannock and boiled beef, swallow their coffee hot enough to scald a hog,and stretch themselves out immediately to sleep.
Buddy would be up and on his horse in the clear starlight before dawn,with a cup of coffee swallowed to hearten him for the chilly ride afterthe remuda. Even with the warmth of the coffee his teeth would chatterjust at first, and he would ride with his thin shoulders lifted and ahand in a pocket. He could not sing or whistle to keep himself company.He must ride in silence until he had counted every dark, moving shapeand knew that the herd was complete, then ease them quietly to camp.
On the fourth morning he rode anxiously up the valley, fearing that thehorses had been stolen in the night, yet hoping they had merely strayedup the creek to find fresh pastures. A light breeze that carried thekeen edge of frost made his nose tingle. His horse trotted steadilyforward, as keen on the trail as Buddy himself; keener, for he would besure to give warning of danger. So they rounded a bend in the creek andcame upon the scattered fringe of the remuda cropping steadily at themeadow grass there.
Bud circled them, glancing now and then at the ridge beyond the valley.It seemed somehow unnatural--lower, with the stars showing along itswooded crest in a row, as if there were no peaks. Then quite suddenly heknew that the ridge was the same, and that the stars he saw were little,breakfast camp-fires. His heart gave a jump when he realized how manylittle fires there were, and knew that the dance was over. The Indianshad left the reservation and had crossed the ridge yesterday, and hadcamped there to wait for the dawn.
While he gathered his horses together he guessed how old Colorou hadplanned to catch the Tomahawk riders when they left camp and scattered,two by two, on "Circle." He had held his band well out of sight andsound of the Big Creek cabin, and if the horses had not strayed up thecreek in the night he would have caught the white men off their guard.
Buddy looked often over his shoulder while he drove the horses down thecreek. It seemed stranger than luck, that he had been compelled to rideso far on this particular morning; as if mother's steadfast faith inprayer and the guardianship of angels was justified by actual facts.Still, Buddy was too hard-headed to assume easily that angels had driventhe horses up the creek so that he would have to ride up there anddiscover the Indian fires. If angels could do that, why hadn't theystopped Colorou from going on the warpath? It would have been simpler,in Buddy's opinion.
He did not mention the angel problem to his father, however. Bob Birniewas eating breakfast with his men when Buddy rode up to the cabin andtold the news. The boys did not say anything much, but they may havetaken bigger bites by way of filling their stomachs in less time thanusual.
"I'll go see for myself," said Bob Birnie. "You boys saddle up andbe ready to start. If it's Indians, we'll head for Laramie and driveeverything before us as we go. But the lad may be wrong." He took thereins from Buddy, mounted, and rode away, his booted feet hanging farbelow Buddy's short stirrups.
Speedily he was back, and the scowl on his face told plainly enough thatBuddy had not been mistaken.
"They're coming off the ridge already," he announced grimly. "I heardtheir horses among the rocks up there. They think to come down on us atsunrise. There'll be too many for us to hold off, I'm thinking. Get ye afresh horse, Buddy, and drive the horses down the creek fast as ye can."
Buddy uncoiled his rope and ran with his mouth full to do as he wastold. He did not think he was scared, exactly, but he made three throwsto get the horse he wanted, blaming the poor light for his ill luck;and then found himself in possession of a tall, uneasy brown that DickGrimes had broken and sometimes rode. Buddy would have turned him looseand caught another, but the horses had sensed the suppressed excitementof the men and were circling and snorting in the half light of dawn; soBuddy led out the brown, pulled the saddle from the sweaty horse thathad twice made the trip up the creek, and heaved it hastily on thebrown's back. Dick Grimes called to him, to know if he wanted any help,and Buddy yelled, "No!"
"Here they come--damn 'em--turn the bunch loose and ride!" called BobBirnie as a shrill, yelling war-whoop, like the yapping of many coyotes,sounded from the cottonwoods that bordered the creek. "Yuh all right,Buddy?"
"Yeah--I'm a-comin'," shrilled Buddy, hastily looping the latigo. Justthen the sharp staccato of rifle-shots mingled with the whooping of theIndians. Buddy was reaching for the saddle horn when the brown horseducked and jerked loose. Before Buddy realized what was happening thebrown horse, the herd and all the riders were pounding away down thevalley, the men firing back at the cottonwoods.
In the dust and clamor of their departure Buddy stood perfectly stillfor a minute, trying to grasp the full significance of his calamity.Step-and-a-Half had packed hastily and departed ahead of them all. Hisfather and the cowboys were watching the cottonwood grove many rods toBuddy's right and well in the background, and they would not glance hisway. Even if they did they would not see him, and if they saw him itwould be madness to ride back--though there was not a man among them whowould not have wheeled in his tracks and returned for Buddy in the veryface of Colorou and his band.
From the cottonwoods came the pound of galloping hoofs. "AngelsNOTHING!" Cried Buddy in deep disgust and scuttled for the cabin.
The cabin, he knew as he ran, was just then the worst place in theworld for a boy who wanted very much to go on living. Through its gapingdoorway he saw a few odds and ends of food lying on the table, but hedared not stop long enough to get them. The Indians were thundering downto the corral, and as he rounded the cabin's corner he glanced backand saw the foremost riders whipping their horses on the trail of thefleeing white men. But some, he knew, would stop. Even the prospect offresh scalps could not hold the greedy ones from prowling around a whiteman's dwelling place. There might be tobacco or whiskey left behind,or something with color or a shine to it. Buddy knew well the ways ofIndians.
He made for the creek, thinking at first to hide somewhere in the brushalong the bank. Then, fearing the brightening light of day and the widespace he must cross to reach the first fringe of brush, he stopped at adugout cellar that had been built into the creek bank above high-watermark. There was a pole-and-dirt roof, and because the dirt sifted downbetween the poles whenever the wind blew--which was always--the placehad been crudely sealed inside with split poles overlapping one another.The ceiling was more or less flat; the roof had a slight slope. In themiddle of the tiny attic thus formed Buddy managed to worm his bodythrough a hole in the gable next to the creek.
He wriggled back to the end next the cabin and lay there very flat andvery quiet,
peeping out through a half-inch crack, too wise in the waysof silence to hold his breath until he must heave a sigh to relievehis lungs. It was hard to breathe naturally and easily after that swiftdash, but somehow he did it. An Indian had swerved and ridden behind thecabin, and was leaning and peering in all directions to see if anyonehad remained. Perhaps he suspected an ambush; Buddy was absolutelycertain that the fellow was looking for him, personally, and that he hadseen, Buddy run toward the creek.
It was not a pleasant thought, and the fact that he knew that buckIndian by name, and had once traded him a jackknife for a beautifullytanned wolf skin for his mother, did not make it pleasanter.Hides-the-face would not let past friendliness stand in the way of akilling.
Presently Hides-the-face dismounted and tied his horse to a corner logof the cabin, and went inside with the others to see what he could findthat could be eaten or carried off. Buddy saw fresh smoke issue from thestone chimney, and guessed that Step-and-a-Half had left something thatcould be cooked. It became evident, in the course of an hour or so, thathis presence was absolutely unsuspected, and Buddy began to watch themmore composedly, silently promising especial forms of punishment to thisone and that one whom he knew. Most of them had been to the ranch manytimes, and he could have called to a dozen of them by name. They had satin his father's cabin or stood immobile just within the door, and hadlistened while his mother played and sang for them. She had fed themcakes--Buddy remembered the good things which mother had given thesedespicable ones who were looting and gobbling and destroying like adrove of hogs turned loose in a garden, and the thought of her wastedkindness turned him sick with rage. Mother had believed in theirfriendliness. Buddy wished that mother could see them setting fireto the low, log stable and the corral, and swarming in and out of thecabin.
Painted for war they were, with red stripes across their foreheads,ribs outlined in red which, when they loosened their blankets as thesun warmed them, gave them a fantastic likeness to the skeletons Buddywished they were; red stripes on their arms, the number showing theirrank in the tribe; open-seated, buckskin breeches to their knees wherethey met the tightly wrapped leggings; moccasins laced snugly at theankle--they were picturesque enough to any eyes but Buddy's. He saw theghoulish greed in their eyes, heard it in their voices when they shoutedto one another; and he hated them even more than he feared them.
Much that they said he understood. They were cursing the Tomahawkoutfit, chiefly because the men had not waited there to be surprised andkilled. They cursed his father in particular, and were half sorry thatthey had not ridden on in pursuit with the others. They hoped no whiteman would ride alive to Laramie. It made cheerful listening to Buddy,flat on his stomach in the roof of the dugout!
After a while, when the cabin had been gutted of everything it containedsave the crude table and benches, a few Indians brought burning brandsfrom the stable and set it afire. They were very busy inside and out,making sure that the flames took hold properly. Then, when the dry logsbegan to blaze and flames licked the edges of the roof, they stood backand watched it.
Buddy saw Hides-the-face glance speculatively toward the dugout, andslipped his hand back where he could reach his six-shooter. He feltpretty certain that they meant to demolish the dugout next, and heknew exactly what he meant to do. He had heard men at the posts talk of"selling their lives dearly ", and that is what he intended to do.
He was not going to be in too much of a hurry; he would wait until theyactually began on the dugout--and when they were on the bank within afew feet of him, and he saw that there was no getting away from death,he meant to shoot five Indians, and himself last of all.
Tentatively he felt of his temple where he meant to place the muzzleof the gun when there was just one bullet left. It was so nice andsmooth--he wondered if God would really help him out, if he said OurFather with a pure heart and with faith, as his mother said one mustpray. He was slightly doubtful of both conditions, when he came to thinkof it seriously. This spring he had felt grown-up enough to swear alittle at the horses, sometimes--and he was not sure that shooting theIndian that time would not be counted a crime by God, who loved allHis creatures. Mother always stuck to it that Injuns were God'screatures--which brought Buddy squarely against the incredibleassumption that God must love them. He did not in the least mean to beirreverent, but when he watched those painted bucks his opinion of Godchanged slightly. He decided that he himself was neither pure nor fullof faith, and that he would not pray just yet. He would let God go aheadand do as He pleased about it; except that Buddy would never let thoseIndians get him alive, no matter what God expected.
Hides-the-face walked over toward the dugout. Buddy crooked his left armand laid the gun barrel across it to get a "dead rest" and leave nothingto chance. Hides-the-face stared at the dugout, moved to one side--andthe muzzle of the gun followed, keeping its aim directly at the leftedge of his breastbone as outlined with the red paint. Hides-the-facecraned, stepped into the path down the bank and passed out of range.Buddy gritted his teeth malevolently and waited, his ears strainedto catch and interpret the meaning of every soft sound made byHides-the-face's moccasins.
Hides-the-face cautiously pushed open the door of the cellar and lookedin, standing for interminable minutes, as is the leisurely way ofIndians when there is no great need of haste. Ruddy cautiously loweredhis face and peered down like a mouse from the thatch, but he could nothandily bring his gun to bear upon Hides-the-face, who presently turnedback and went up the path, his shoulder-muscles moving snakishly underhis brown skin as he climbed the bank.
Hides-the-face returned to the others and announced that there was aplace where they could camp. Buddy could not hear all that he said, andHides-the-face had his back turned so that not all of his signs wereintelligible; but he gathered that these particular Indians had chosenor had been ordered to wait here for three suns, and that the cellarappealed to Hides-the-face as a shelter in case it stormed.
Buddy did not know whether to rejoice at the news or to mourn. Theywould not destroy the dugout, so he need not shoot himself, which was ofcourse a relief. Still, three suns meant three days and nights, and theprospect of lying there on his stomach, afraid to move for that lengthof time, almost amounted to the same thing in the end. He did notbelieve that he could hold out that long, though of course he would trypretty hard.
All that day Buddy lay watching through the crack, determined to takeany chance that came his way. None came. The Indians loitered in theshade, and some slept. But always two or three remained awake; andalthough they sat apparently ready to doze off at any minute, Buddy knewthem too well to hope for such good luck. Two Indians rode in towardevening dragging a calf that had been overlooked in the roundup; andhaving improvidently burned the cabin, the meat was cooked over theembers which still smouldered in places where knots in the logs madeslow fuel.
Buddy watched them hungrily, wondering how long it took to starve.
When it was growing dark he tried to keep in mind the exact positionsof the Indians, and to discover whether a guard would be placed overthe camp, or whether they felt safe enough to sleep without a sentinel.Hides-the-face he had long ago decided was in charge of the party, andHides-the-face was seemingly concerned only with gorging himself onthe half-roasted meat. Buddy hoped he would choke himself, butHides-the-face was very good at gulping half-chewed hunks and finishedwithout disaster.
Then he grunted something to someone in the dark, and there was movementin the group. Buddy ground his growing "second" teeth together, clenchedhis fist and said "Damn it!" three times in a silent crescendo of ragebecause he could neither see nor hear what took place; and immediatelyhe repented his profanity, remembering that God could hear him.In Buddy's opinion, you never could be sure about God; He bestowedmysterious mercies and strange punishments, and His ways were pastfinding out. Buddy tipped his palms together and repeated all theprayers his mother had taught him and then, with a flash of memory,finished with "Oh, God, please!" just as mother had done long ago on
thedry drive. After that he meditated uncomfortably for a few minutesand added in a faint whisper, "Oh, shucks! You don't want to pay anyattention to a fellow cussing a little when he's mad. I could easy makethat up if you helped me out some way."
Buddy believed afterwards that God yielded to persuasion and decided togive him a chance. For not more than five minutes passed when a far-offmurmur grew to an indefinable roar, and the wind whooped down off theSnowies so fiercely that even the dugout quivered a little and rattleddirt down on Buddy through the poles just over his head.
At first this seemed an unlucky circumstance, for the Indians came downinto the dugout for shelter, and now Buddy was afraid to breathe inthe quiet intervals between the gusts. Just below him he could hear theoccasional mutters of laconic sentences and grunted answers as the buckssettled themselves for the night, and he had a short, panicky spell offearing that the poles would give way beneath him and drop him in uponthem.
After a while--it seemed hours to Buddy--the wind settled down to asteady gale. The Indians, so far as he could determine, were all asleepin the cellar. And Buddy, setting his teeth hard together, began toslide slowly backward toward the opening through which he had crawledinto the roof. When he had crawled in he had not noticed the springinessof the poles, but now his imagination tormented him with the sensationof sagging and swaying. When his feet pushed through the opening he hadto grit his teeth to hold himself steady. It seemed as if someone werereaching up in the dark to catch him by the legs and pull him out.Nothing happened, however, and after a little he inched backward untilhe hung with his elbows hooked desperately inside the opening, his headand shoulders within and protesting with every nerve against leaving theshelter.
Buddy said afterwards that he guessed he'd have hung there untildaylight, only he was afraid it was about time to change guard, andsomebody might catch him. But he said he was scared to let go and drop,because it must have been pretty crowded in the cellar, and he knewthe door was open, and some buck might be roosting outside handy to bestepped on. But he knew he had to do something, because if he ever wentto sleep up in that place he'd snore, maybe; and anyway, he said, he'drather run himself to death than starve to death. So he dropped.
It was two days after that when Buddy shuffled into a mining camp onthe ridge just north of Douglas Pass. He was still on his feet, butthey dragged like an old man's. He had walked twenty-five miles in twonights, going carefully, in fear of Indians. The first five miles he hadwaded along the shore of the creek, he said, in case they might pick uphis tracks at the dugout and try to follow him. He had hidden himselflike a rabbit in the brush through the day, and he had not dared shootany meat, wherefore he had not eaten anything.
"I ain't as hungry as I was at first," He grinned tremulously. "But Iguess I better--eat. I don' want--to lose the--habit--" Then he wentslack and a man swearing to hide his pity picked him up in his arms andcarried him into the tent.
