AT FULL SPEED.
All through this singular fight, Lightning Jo had kept within reach of his mustang, which occasionally put in a kick now and then, in the hope that he might be turned to account; but the tumult and uproar became so terrific, that he finally became panic-stricken, and with a whinny of the wildest terror, he made a plunge among the scarcely-less excited animals, when his furious struggles added to the fearful uproar, which was already sufficient to drive an ordinary man out of his senses.
Lightning Jo, as we have said, knew that his friends were coming over the hills at the topmost bent of their speed; but the flight of his horse, and the rapid closing in of the Comanches, made further delay fatal, and with the promptness that was a peculiar characteristic of the man, he grasped his loaded rifle in his hands, and made his desperate struggle for freedom.
This was simply an attempt to dodge beneath the horses’ bellies out beyond them, where he knew his own fleetness could be depended on to carry him safely into the company of his own men.
And now began a most extraordinary performance, and an exhibition of Lightning Jo’s miraculous quickness of movement was given, such as would seem incredible in a description like ours. He was walled in on every hand by the swarming Comanches, but by the matchless use of his tremendous arms, he kept back the scores from entangling him in their embrace; until, all at once, he was seen to make a leap upward, directly over the shoulders of those immediately surrounding, and he shot beneath the belly of the nearest mustang like a whizzing rocket.
And, as he did so, he gave utterance to that strange yell of his, like the yelping prairie-dog, whose bark is cut short, as he plunges headlong into his hole, by the sudden whisking of his head out of sight.
The Comanches who caught the dissolving view of the scout, made a desperate struggle to capture him, and those who were still mounted, and saw him leaping beneath their animals, turned them aside, and cut, slashed and thrust at him in the most spiteful fashion, while others sprung off their horses, and did their utmost to intercept and cut him off, or to trip him to the earth, or to disable him in some way that would prevent his succeeding in his threatened escape from their clutches.
It would be a vain attempt to follow his movements in the way of description, when the eye itself was unable to do so; and, despite the astonishing celerity of the Comanches, whose nimbleness of movement is proverbial in the West, they were completely baffled in every effort they made to entrap him.
Here, there, everywhere, he was seen, shooting out sometimes from between a horse’s legs, and then was in another place before the animal could resent the shock given him—in front—in the rear—leaping to one side—backward—forward—and threw the whole troop into confusion—every now and then giving utterance to that indescribable yell, so that the red-skins were actually in chase of that—and all the time steadily approaching the outer circle of mustangs, and ever keeping in mind the proper direction for him to follow, to meet the much-needed soldiers.
And all this took place in one-tenth the time required in our references. The bewildering dodging and doubling of Lightning Jo continued until he shot from beneath the last horse, and then with a triumphant screech, he sped away like a terrified antelope.
Hitherto the efforts of the Comanches had been directed toward capturing the redoubtable scout, and they soon dashed their animals after him on a full run, in the hope of riding him down before he could reach the assistance which they knew was so close at hand.
It proved closer indeed than they suspected; for they had hardly started upon the fierce pursuit when a rattling discharge of rifles rose above the din and confusion, just as the whole company of United States cavalry thundered over the ridge, and came down upon them like the sweep of a tornado that carries every thing before it.
There were a few exchanges of shots, and then the Comanches would have excited the admiration of a troop of Centaurs by their display of horsemanship. Speeding forward like a whirlwind, the shock of the opposing bodies seemed certain to be like that of an earthquake; but, at the very instant of striking, every Indian shied off, either to the right or the left, and by a quick, rapid circle of their well trained animals, they shot away beyond reach of harm from cavalry, and skurried away over the hills and ridges, disappearing from view with the same astonishing quickness, that made successful pursuit out of the question.
Driven away in this unceremonious fashion, the Comanches were compelled to leave their dead upon the field—the wounded managing to take care of themselves, and to get out of harm’s way, ere the cavalry could swoop down upon them. The fashion of giving quarter, in the contests between the Indians and white men, has never been very popular, and at the present day, it may be considered practically obsolete, so that the Comanches displayed only ordinary discretion in “getting up and getting”—if we may be permitted to use the expressive language of the West itself, in referring to an engagement of this kind.
Accustomed as were these men to the exhibitions of the wonderful powers of Lightning Jo, they were astounded at the exhibition of their own eyes, of the deeds he had done during the few minutes that he had engaged in the encounter with the red-skins. The troop gathered around the battlefield, and were commenting in their characteristic manner upon his exploits, when the scout himself, seeing his mustang near at hand, made haste to secure him, and leaping upon his back, he lost no time in placing himself at their lead, and turning his face toward Dead Man’s Gulch, he said, in his sharp, peremptory way, when thoroughly in earnest:
“Come, boys, we have lost too much time. We must git there afore dark, if we git there at all.”
Gibbons, the messenger, placed himself beside him, and, as soon as they were fairly under way, Jo remarked to him:
“I hardly know what to make of it. Old Swico is not with them skunks, and I am disappointed. It has a bad look.”
“Why so?” inquired his comrade, who was partly prepared for the answer.
“I ain’t sartin—but it looks to me as if the business is finished down at the Gulch.”
“Then why should not the chief, released from there, be here with his men?” continued Gibbons.
“This is only a part of his men; there wa’n’t many Comanches among the hills. I think the old dog sent them off on purpose to bother us and keep us back as much as they could.”
“While Swico and the others have taken another direction?”
“Exactly, and carried the women and children with them; and if so, we might as well turn back to Fort Adams ag’in.”
But the scout, as he uttered these chilling words, set his teeth, and rode his mustang harder than ever toward Dead Man’s Gulch.