A DESPERATE HOPE.
It was not the nature of Lightning Jo to remain idle when he had any work like the present on hand, and leaping upon the back of his mustang, he told Egbert to follow.
“I’m not going to ride and make you walk,” he laughed; “we haven’t started yet, but are only making ready. Come along.”
He rode scarcely a hundred yards through the roughest part of the hills, when he dismounted in a dense mass of undergrowth, and, without fastening his mustang, said a few words to him, which would insure his remaining where he was until his return, by which time Jo was quite confident that he could secure an animal also for Egbert, as it was indispensable that he should have one at once.
When it was certain that there were Indians in the immediate vicinity, the greatest caution was necessary upon the part of our two friends, and Lightning Jo made his way through the ravines, gorges and hills, with as much circumspection as if he were reconnoitering a Comanche camp. When he halted, they were on the very summit of one of the highest peaks of this spur of mountains, which afforded them a most extensive view of the surrounding prairie.
Glancing at Jo, Egbert saw that he was looking off to the westward, with an attentive, searching look that indicated something; and, as he did not remove his gaze from that point, he imitated him, straining his vision to the utmost.
The young man had looked but a moment, when he detected a party of horsemen moving in a southwesterly direction. They were so far away that it was impossible to identify them; but there was scarcely a doubt of their being Indians, and most probably the very ones for whom Lightning Jo was searching.
“Well, you see them, do you?” was the question of Jo, as he looked around and started to move away. “I s’pose you know ’em, too?”
“I suspect that they are Indians; but I conclude that not from any certain knowledge of my own, but simply infer it.”
“Yes; they’re the Comanches that left the hills before daylight. Swico-Cheque, the biggest red devil that walks the earth, is at their head. He’s got enough of butting his head ag’in’ United States soldiers, and he’s off to recruit his health.”
“But what of her—of Lizzie?” asked Egbert, in a trembling voice, dreading to hear the answer that he was almost sure would come.
“Why, she’s with him, of course. He’ll keep her till he gets tired of her, and then he’ll have some more fringe for his hunting-shirt.”
These words were uttered in the very desperation of vengefulness, and the scout wheeled about with a spiteful air, and exclaimed:
“Stay here till I come back! If you see any of the infarnal copper-skins, bore a hole through ’em. If you see anybody, break his head! Look out for yourself! keep cautious, and rest easy till I come back. I won’t be gone long.”
And with this rather contradictory advice, Lightning Jo wheeled about, plunged down the hill, and was gone almost on the instant.
He had been gone but a short time, when the near crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and Egbert started and looked around, thinking that, perhaps, some treacherous Comanche had stolen up and sent a bullet after him; but he could see nothing, and he concluded that Lightning Jo had something to do with the discharge of the gun, as, indeed, it seemed to have a certain familiar sound.
But little time was given him for speculation when the scout himself put in an appearance.
“Come, Roddy,” said he. “I’ve found your hoss; we’re ready now; and there’s no use in waiting longer.”
“Where did you find him?” asked Egbert, not a little surprised and delighted at the unexpected news.
“There was a red-skin on him; he ain’t there now, and I guess won’t bother us more.”
Sure enough, a few rods away, the identical steed which Egbert had ridden from Dead Man’s Gulch was found secured to a bush, and, leaping upon his back, it required but a few minutes for the two comrades to reach the spot where the faithful mustang of Lightning Jo was awaiting the return of his master.
“Now, let us get out of this infernal place,” added the scout, as the two reined up their animals, side by side.
“Whither do we direct our course?” asked Egbert.
“Straight after them devils, and we’re never to stop till we cotch up with Swico, and him and me square up our accounts.”
A little care and patience, and in a few minutes the two horsemen found themselves upon the edge of the prairie, and they headed due west, straight in the path taken by Swico-Cheque and his band, and the mustangs were instantly put to a full run.
About the middle of the forenoon, when the heroic Egbert felt that he was taxing himself beyond his strength, they struck a deserted camp, where a party of United States cavalry, ranging through the country upon a scout, had spent the previous night. Here were found the remains and fragments of their meal scattered all about, and it gave to both, what they so much needed—a nourishing, substantial meal.
“Now,” said he, straightening up like a giant refreshed with new wine, “I am ready for any thing, I don’t care what it is.”
“I think you’ll get enough of it afore long,” was the significant reply of Lightning Jo, adding, “we’re close onto the copper-skins, and if I ain’t mistook more than I ever was in my life, we’ll strike their camp inside of an hour.”
This was startling news, but was singularly verified; for scarcely a half-hour had passed when the scout, who was riding a short distance in advance, ascended a small swell of the prairie and almost the instant he reached the top, wheeled his mustang about and galloped back again, motioning to Egbert to do the same.
“We’ve reached their camp,” he said, in explanation, and cautioning the bewildered man to resist every temptation to stir a foot from the spot until his return, the scout moved up the prairie-swell again. Egbert saw him crouch down like a panther about to leap upon its prey, and then he vanished from view as noiselessly as a shadow, leaving the lover to the trying task of waiting, fearing, hoping, watching, listening, and to despair. Lightning Jo passed down the opposite side of the swell, and, as was his custom in reconnoitering the camp of a foe, he made a circuitous route by a small cluster of stunted trees, which struck him as offering the very shelter he so much needed.
He had no thought of any of his foes being here, but he had scarcely approached the margin when he became certain that he was close upon one or more of them.
In his stealthy manner he insinuated himself among the trees, and the next instant was greeted with the sight of the great Comanche chieftain, Swico-Cheque, reclining upon the ground in a sound slumber!