AT LAST.
Yes; there lay the great Comanche chieftain, Swico-Cheque, sunk into a heavy slumber—deep and profound—and yet of that character which would have required but the slightest noise to awake.
Lightning Jo paused in his creeping, stealthy movement, and stared at the savage, his own eyes gleaming with an exultation as ferocious as would have been that of the red-skin himself, had their relative positions been changed. The murderous and outrageous crimes of which this fiend had been guilty, his relentless war upon unoffending whites, his scores of murders of weak, defenseless women, and even the nursing babe, had placed him outside the pale of human mercy, and there was not a settler or soldier in the South-west who knew of his revolting character that did not feel that he deserved to be strangled to death, or put out of the way by any means that happened to present itself.
He had on, this moment, the very hunting-shirt to which reference has been made, fringed around with a broad band of human hair, from the long, dark, flowing tresses of the innocent virgin, to the light, silvery locks of prattling childhood. And his seamed face, daubed and smirched with paint, had the horrid look of that of some sleeping gorilla that had been feasting upon its human meal.
And yet in this moment of triumph, when Jo felt that he had him at last, there came a strange feeling to the scout, which can be understood, perhaps, by his whispered exclamations to himself.
“Confound it! it will look as if I was afeard of him, when I shouldn’t like any thing better than to have a fair stand-up fight. He might keep all the knives he wanted, and I would use nothing but my fists. How I should like to play some trick upon the infernal skunk!”
Ay! at this very time, when he had every thing to make him serious and thoughtful, there came a strange reaction over Jo, and an irresistible desire to play one of his practical jokes upon the Comanche. He concluded to wake him up to witness his own demise—but to arouse him in an original fashion.
It was a delicate task; but with that skill for which the scout was noted, he drew out his flask and poured out a stream of powder, moving the flask along from a point on the ground directly beside the Comanche’s ear, for several feet away—the particles all being united, so that the connection was perfect. Then, when every thing was safe, Jo drew a lucifer from the little safe he always carried about him, and struck it upon the bottom of his foot. As it ignited he held the blaze close to the black grains, and then spoke:
“Swico, my own loved cherub—”
This was enough; these words were barely uttered, when his snaky eyes opened, just in time to see a serpentine line of fire rushing toward him, and going off in a big puff directly under his ear, in a way that scorched his face and caused him to leap to his feet, with a howl, followed by an instant rush out from among the trees. He had caught a glimpse of his old enemy through the whizzing, and he was gone like a shot.
This was unexpected by Jo, who had hoped that he would maintain his ground, and the two would have fought out their fight on the spot. He did not anticipate any such flight as this, which was made so suddenly that he had no time to interfere ere he was gone.
The scout had the intense chagrin, also, of feeling that his propensity for waggery had led into a piece of foolishness that most likely would militate against the captive Lizzie. Knowing that she had one friend, at least, so near at hand, they would be sure to adopt greater precautions, and instead of waiting to be attacked by Lightning Jo, would, most probably, attack him.
And acting upon this supposition, he backed out as speedily as possible, and resumed his circuitous approach to the camp-fire of the Comanches—the locality of which up to this time, he had been able to determine only by the smoke that rose from the opposite side of a small ridge several rods away.
But the chief, Swico-Cheque, suspecting that a large party of United States cavalry were upon his heels, concluded that the safest plan for him was to get away with as little delay as possible, to accomplish which he sent back several of his warriors to dispose of Lightning Jo, and to keep the rest in check until he could secure his retreat with his prize.
Consequently the scout had stolen along over the broken ground but a rod or two when he found himself face to face with a couple of herculean warriors, who, approaching the cluster of trees in the same cautious manner, encountered the great Indian-fighter sooner than was anticipated by either party.
“That’s good!” exclaimed Jo, “for now I will get warmed up to business. I’ll try a left-hander straight from the shoulder upon this chap, and a right upon t’other.”
The terrific blows were simultaneous with the conclusion, the startled red-skins turning back summersets upon the ground, where, with an incredible celerity, the frightful bowie-knife, which Jo whipped out from behind his neck, completed the ghastly work.
“Ain’t there any more?” he growled, glaring like a wild beast thirsting for prey. “By heavens, if they don’t come to me, I’ll go to them!”
And he was striding directly toward the camp of the Comanches, but, ere he could advance half-way, who should leap into view but young Egbert Rodman, his face white and scared, and panting from excitement and the great exertions he had made to find his companion.
“Oh, Jo! there’s something wrong!” he gasped; “the Comanches are fooling us both, and we shall not get Lizzie after all.”
“What’s up? What’s the matter?” demanded the scout, his muscles all aquiver.
“They are retreating; I heard the tramp of their horses’ feet on the other side the ridge, and, oh, heavens! Jo, I heard the moans of a woman—it must have been Lizzie—and that set my brain on fire, and scarcely knowing what I did I left both the horses and rushed to the ridge—but they were gone; I could see nothing of them, and then I turned to hunt for you. In God’s name, can we do nothing?”
Scarcely giving his companion time to finish his words, and vouchsafing no reply, Lightning Jo shot over the hill like an arrow, straight in the path of the fleeing Comanches. He did not pause to leap upon the back of his own mustang; he had no time for that.
Down the hollow, between the ridges, he shot like a thunderbolt. His practiced eye saw on the ground around him the prints of the horses’ flying feet, and he knew that he was on the right track. Still he saw nothing of them—but look! Six horsemen on a full gallop were seen thundering over the ridge in a direction at right-angles to the one he was pursuing—fleeing as they supposed from three times their number, but in reality from a single man.
The excited scout could not avoid giving out his wild, peculiar yell, as he recognized among the half-dozen the chieftain Swico, and saw that he held in his black arms the beautiful Lizzie Manning.
The Comanches heard that strange yell, and identified it. Only one living man could give utterance to that frightful cry, and once heard it could never be forgotten. They glanced over their shoulders and saw the single man bearing down upon them; but they continued their headlong flight, and the next moment were shut out, for the time, from view by the interposing ridge over which they had just passed.
No doubt they believed that the single scout, rushing down upon them at such terrific speed, had a whole company upon his heels, and they could not pause, just then, for the delightful privilege of killing such a noted enemy as he.
Lightning Jo kept on down the hollow, following a course at right-angles to the one taken by the Comanches, until he reached the point where they had gone over, when he bounded up the declivity, expecting to come up with them the next minute.
As he did so he was met by the discharge of two rifles—one of the bullets striking him in the fleshy part of the thigh; but although the sting instantly warned him of what had taken place, he did not pause or even look down to see how serious was the wound, but he made straight for the Indians, who were now in full view again.
But hold! what meant that which he now saw? Instead of six, there were but five Comanches, and a glance sufficed to show that the missing one was Swico-Cheque, with the maid.
By what means had he disappeared in such a sudden and mysterious manner?
The moment Lightning Jo became aware of the state of things he paused. His experienced eye told him that the Comanche must have made another turn, the instant he passed over the ridge, leaving his comrades and taking a course precisely opposite to that of the scout, so that indeed the two actually met, with the back of the ridge shutting out each from the view of the other.
One sweep of his eagle eye was sufficient to tell Jo this, and he made straight for the stunted trees, somewhat similar to those in which he had first met him, certain that Swico was either among them, or fleeing beyond.
The correctness of this conclusion was verified the next moment, by a glimpse of the red devil, with his horse still under full speed, fleeing up the hollow beyond the clump of trees, apparently with every prospect of making good his escape.
Jo was through the clump of trees in an instant, and then, as he found himself gaining rapidly, he gave out his panther-like yell. The Comanche, who was no more than a hundred yards distant, managed to turn in his saddle, and pointed his rifle at the scout, who did the same.
But the treacherous red-skin, with a cowardice peculiarly his own, forced the form of Lizzie Manning directly in front of him, like a shield, and succeeded in screening himself in such a way that Jo found he was as likely to strike the one as the other.
In this strait it only remained for the scout to attempt to escape the bullet, and he made a lightning-like leap to one side; marvelous as was his quickness, it could not equal that of a rifle-ball, and he was struck.
“You shan’t escape me yet,” hissed Jo, as he dashed in with the purpose of drawing the Comanche from his horse, and finishing him with his knife.
With superhuman energy he passed fully one-half the intervening distance, ere the startled Swico could urge his steed forward again, and then he dropped like a shot to the earth.
Even then he would not yield—but with an amazing power of will, rolled over on his face, and rose on his uninjured knee. In this position he raised his rifle again; but the malignant Comanche had his eye upon him, and the same instant the fainting form of the girl was whirled around in his front, and the infuriated scout, who, for an instant, had meditated shooting both, finding himself baffled at every point, dropped back again in despair.
“No use; I may as well go under,” he muttered, giving up entirely.
The exulting Comanche, still fearful of the wounded man’s rifle, rode on, intending to return at his leisure and scalp the man who had been so long such an effective foe.
But his career was at an end. He was still looking at the prostrate form of the scout, when the near crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and the great Comanche chieftain, Swico-Cheque, rolled from his mustang, shot through the heart!
In his fall he dragged Lizzie Manning with him, and he would have slain her in his dying moments, had he not been killed as instantly as if stricken by a bolt from heaven.
The maiden, rallying to a sense of her terrible position, tore herself loose, and the next moment was caught in the arms of Egbert Rodman.
“Thank God! thank God!” he exclaimed, as he pressed her to his heart; “saved at last!”
She joined her murmurs of thanksgiving with his, and then with a noble sympathy characteristic of her, she raised her head, and said:
“Poor Jo is hurt; and I’m afraid he is killed! Let us go to him.”
The two hurried down the hollow where the scout lay as motionless as if dead; but he roused up when he saw them.
“I’m pretty badly hurt,” said he, “but if I can call my hoss here, I think I can ride him to the fort. You’d better get that one yonder for the gal. Bless your heart! I’m glad to see you alive,” he added, with a kindly light beaming in his dark eyes. “I say, Roddy, help me down to where that red-skin lays. I want to take a look at him.”
Lightning Jo made the signal to his mustang, and then, almost carried by his friend, he was helped to where the stiffening body of Swico-Cheque lay stretched upon the earth.
“I won’t scalp him,” muttered the scout, as he looked at him, “’cause he can’t see it, but I’ll take charge of that fancy dress of his, and send it to Washington for the Peace Commissioners to look at.”
A few minutes later, the mustang of Lightning Jo came trotting over the ridge, followed by the horse of Egbert. With considerable care the wounded scout was placed upon it; Lizzie mounted the Indian horse, and the three instantly started on their journey to Fort Adams, which was reached without any incident worthy of mention. The other ladies were found just preparing to start for Santa Fe under a strong escort. Egbert and Lizzie joined them, after being assured by the surgeon of the fort that the wounds of Lightning Jo were not of a serious nature, and barring accidents, he was sure soon to recover his usual strength and activity again.
Tried in the fire, as were the two lovers, the bond of love was so deepened and purified, that nothing could occur to weaken and mar it; and when, some months later, the handsome couple were united in Santa Fe—the jolliest guest of all, and the one in most general favor, was Lightning Jo, who had a story to tell the young husband and wife when he gained the first opportunity to see them alone. This story was nothing more nor less than the clearing up of the mystery of the Terror of the Prairie, as he had learned it from a Comanche prisoner brought into the fort. This noted creature and Swico-Cheque, the Comanche chief, were the same. It was a ruse of the sagacious red-skin by which he obtained any desired knowledge of a party he intended to attack. Well aware of the superstitious nature of the bordermen, he blackened his face in a fantastic manner, wrapped several thick blankets about his body. These were bullet-proof, and although he incurred great risk of being killed, and was wounded more than once, yet it was left for Egbert Rodman to fire the bullet, that killed Swico-Cheque, the Terror of the Prairie, and at the same time gained him his lovely wife.
THE END.