THE VALLEY OF DEATH.
The wagon containing the females and the children was that which carried the provisions—the others being piled up with the luggage belonging to the different members of the party, and which they had formed into rude barricades from which they fired out, with such deadly effect, upon the Comanches, who, from the nature of the case, were unable to make any kind of approach without exposing themselves to that same unerring fire.
One of the men, at stated periods, visited the provision wagon, and brought forth lunch for his comrades, who felt no suffering in that respect—their great trial being the lack of water. But for the providential supply, secured in the manner already narrated, human endurance would not have permitted the whites to have held out longer than the beginning of this terrible, and what was destined to prove the last, day—the one following the departure of Gibbons, the messenger, for Fort Adams.
It should be made clear at this point also that, of the half-dozen women, and the same number of children, not one had husband, or father, or blood-relative among the defenders, so that, while their situation could scarcely have been more trying, it was deprived of the poignant anguish of seeing the members of their own household shot down in cold blood before their eyes.
No pen can depict the gratitude and love they felt for these men, who, it may be said, were giving up their lives to protect them; for, at the first appearance of the dreaded Comanches, every one of them could have secured their safety by dashing away at full speed, upon their fleet-footed mustangs, and leaving the helpless ones to their fate.
But of such a fashion is not the Western borderer, who will go to certain death, rather than prove false to those who have been intrusted to his care. The party had been sent to St. Louis, under an agreement to bring this little company to their homes in Santa Fe, on their return from an excursion to the Eastern States, and there was not one of them who would have dared to ride into the beautiful Mexican town with the tidings that they had perished, and he had lived to tell the tale. Far better, a thousand times, that their bones should be left to bleach upon the prairie, rather than they should live to be forever disgraced and dishonored, and to carry an accusing conscience with them for the remainder of their days.
The children, during the first twenty four hours, probably suffered the most, in their cramped, constrained position, being compelled to remain within the wagon, lest, if they exposed themselves by appearing upon the ground, they should be slain by the Comanches, who availed themselves of every opportunity to retaliate upon the whites.
After it became pretty certain that Jim Gibbons had penetrated and passed through the Comanche lines, Captain Shields prepared for a deadly charge from their enemies, and from his place in his vehicle he called to the others to make ready also.
The men thus talked with each other, while their faces were mutually invisible; but the little circle permitted the freest intercommunication. His advice was followed, and every rifle loaded and kept ready to be discharged at an instant’s warning.
It was terribly annoying to feel, at a juncture like this, that they must husband their fire on account of the failing supply of ammunition, and at the same time manage the business in such a way that the Comanches themselves should not be permitted to discover the appalling truth.
“Don’t fire too often,” called the captain, in his cautious way, “and when you do make sure that you let daylight through one of the red devils. I think they will open on us in some way, and very soon, too.”
It seemed strange that the uproar and tumult which had marked the flight of Gibbons should be succeeded in its turn by such a profound silence as now rested upon the gulch. From the place where our friends crouched not a single Comanche could be seen, nor could their location be detected by the slightest sound.
From far away on the prairie came the faint sound of a rifle—but in the immediate vicinity all was still.
Captain Shields was of the opinion that Swico, the chief, had gathered his warriors around him, just outside the gulch, and was holding a consultation as to what was the best to be done, as it was now as good as certain that, before the dawn of another day, a heavy force of cavalry would be down upon them.
There were some who really believed that the Comanches would now draw off and disappear altogether from the place where they had suffered such a terrible repulse; but for this very reason, the experienced frontiersman, Captain Shields, was certain that the contrary would prove to be the case. The incitement of revenge would prompt them rather to make the most desperate charges and the most furious assaults upon the little Spartan band.
And while the old hunter lay upon his face in the wagon, stealthily peering out, and listening for the first approach of his foes, he coolly calculated the chances of the day.
“Six of us left, and we average three rifles apiece—to say nothing of revolvers that are scattered all among the boys. We can load and fire these, perhaps four or five times apiece—not oftener, certainly—that is, if we can only get the opportunity to load and fire them. After that— Well, everybody has got to die some time.”
At this, he stealthily moved around, and peered out at the wagon containing the helpless ones, and he muttered:
“All seems to be quiet there, and I guess none of them have been reached by these bullets whizzing all about them, which may be either good or bad fortune.”
Then as he resumed his position of guard, he cleared his vision with his hand, and added:
“It’s mighty rough on them. We men are always expecting such things, and are sort of ready for it; but for helpless women and children— Helloa! what in the name of Heaven can that be?”