“APACHES!”
The pursuing band wound away over the plain, now, at four hours from sunrise, invisible from the banks of the Gila.
They were, as has been said, divided into two separate parties. That of Cimarron Jack was in advance, the riders urging on their steeds at a swift amble. The wagons behind under charge of Burt Scranton, rattled along merrily, drawn by horses kept at a slow trot.
“I say,” said Jack, as they trotted on, “we are nearly into the Land of Silence, now, ain’t we?”
This remark was addressed to the guide. He nodded.
“And now we’ve got to look out for Apaches.”
“No ’Patchies hyar.”
“Yes, there are.”
“I know better. Never come inter this kentry. Too dry.”
“Well, there are Apaches prowling about now—that I know to be a fact.”
“Know more’n I do, then.”
“You bet I do. Hooray! three cheers for the man who can clean out a whole jail-full of prize-fighters; a tiger for the stoutest, smartest man in the world. I can thrash a jungle-full of gorillas, myself. I tell you. I’m the man that can’t be fazed, myself; and I’m the cock of the walk.”
“I’m sick of thet durned braggin’,” growled Simpson. “Heerd northin’ else sence I fust see’d yer.”
“And you are liable to continue hearing it, too.”
“Durn me ef I kain’t stop it.”
“Yes you can—with a big copper.”
“Well, I kin.”
“Le’s see you try it.”
“Hark!” suddenly cried Carpenter. “Was not that a gun-shot?”
The friendly disputants ceased their strife, and halting and turning in their saddles, listened long and earnestly. The train was not in sight, having descended into a sort of dry slough which ran across the plain.
“False alarm,” declared Simpson, turning to continue the trail. But Cimarron Jack disagreed with him.
“Tim, I saw Apache Jack up by Comanche Rock day before yesterday, and he warned me of a band of Apaches who were out on a maraud, down in this direction. What he says is gospel.”
“Durned ef it ain’t! I giv’ in,” said Simpson. His confidence in Apache Jack was unlimited.
“The old boy was looking rather fazed,” continued Jack. “He told me he had only just given them the slip, after a run of thirty miles.”
“Hark!” sharply commanded Mr. Wheeler. “I’m sure I heard a gun behind.”
“I thought I did, too,” said Sam.
A puff of white smoke arose from the crest of a small knoll, half a league behind; then a man was seen to spring on the summit and wave his hat frantically.
The eagle eye and electric brain of Cimarron Jack took in the situation at once. He struck his steel spurs sharply into the blood-bay’s flanks.
“Come on!” he shouted, galloping toward the gesticulating man. “There’s something wrong with the train. Come on! follow the tiger-cat!”
They followed, pell-mell, plying the spur. As if cognizant of the importance of speed, the horses bent their heads and fairly flew; while their riders kept their eyes upon the man on the knoll.
Suddenly he disappeared and a new object came in sight. Afar off on the plain, beyond the invisible train, came a man on a galloping animal. He was followed by another and more, all shooting out from behind a distant ridge.
“’Patchees!” yelled Simpson. “They air a-makin’ fur the train!”
The guide was right. The train was halted behind the knoll, and the Apaches were galloping toward it. They had evidently been following the trail, as they were coming from the south-east.
“Hurry!” cried Sam. “We will have to fly to save the train.” And as he spoke he bent over his “clay-bank’s” neck as if to accelerate his speed.
The knoll was quite near now, being not more than three hundred yards distant. The coming savages were at least a mile away. The whites had the start.
A minute more and they dashed up in a body to the knoll.
It was as they had expected; the train was grouped behind it, every one being in hapless confusion with the exception of Burt, who was loudly swearing at the utter disregard of his orders by the two Robidoux.
Duncan was scuttling about among his tin dishes and kettles in his wagon, trying to find his favorite weapon—a dull butcher-knife, with a blade like a hand-saw. The utmost confusion prevailed.
However, the arrival of the main body in some degree quieted the teamsters and restored order.
Suddenly the coming Apaches, now about a half-mile distant, drew up their mustangs, and grouping, stared keenly at the train. They had seen the horsemen suddenly arrive to sustain the small band they were swooping down upon.
Cimarron Jack was in his element. Taking, with the characteristic promptness of a veteran Indian-fighter, advantage of their hesitation, he sprung from his horse.
“Now, fly ’round!” he commanded. “Stir your stumps, you fellows!” pointing to the Canadians. “You, Louis, drive your team ahead ten feet!”
The man obeyed, quieted by the magnetic influence which Jack always possessed when in danger.
“Now, Duncan—blast your nervous, excitable hide! drive alongside Louis!”
But Duncan paid no attention, searching, in an agony of haste, for his lost knife.
Burt promptly performed his task. The other Canadian, with more coolness than the other drivers, seeing what was desired, waited for no orders, but drove his wagon in a line with the others.
“Now all hands get to work and unhitch the horses. Don’t be in a hurry; buckles can’t be managed without coolness and deliberation.”
The men went to work with dispatch, yet coolly, and in a few moments the horses were detached from the wagons.
“Now, you drivers take the horses aside, and the rest of us will draw the wagons together.”
The Canadians did as commanded, and the remainder drew the wagons together; then the horses were tied firmly to the wheels on the side next the knoll. Now they were in quite a snug and secure fort, with a barricade of wagons in front, and a small hill behind.
After this short but highly necessary work was finished, Cimarron Jack looked closely at his rifle, desiring the others to do the same. He carefully reloaded his “Colt’s six-shooters,” and laid them before him on the wheel-hub.
“Now, boys,” he said, “we are in tolerable circumstances for the present, but there is no knowing how long we will remain so. Rot those cussed devils out there! there’s an army of ’em!”
“Fifteen,” corrected Simpson.
“Fifteen to seven. Oh, that ain’t as bad as it might be.”
“What a large fellow that is, yonder, to one side,” observed Carpenter, indicating a powerful, stalwart savage, prominent among the rest.
“Cheyenne,” remarked the guide, taking a huge bite from a “plug o’ Navy,” which he always carried.
“Comanche!” corrected Jack. “He’s no Apache—he isn’t built like one. Tear my lion’s heart out, but I believe I know him,” he suddenly added.
“Durned ef I don’t, too!” declared Simpson, watching him narrowly.
“It’s Red-Knife, the renegade.”
“K’rect!”
“Who is he?” inquired Mr. Wheeler.
“Red-Knife, the Comanche renegade—a notorious, murdering old rat!” replied Jack. “He’s the worst Indian on the plains, and ‘give up’ is something he does not know. Kicked out of his own tribe he joined the Apaches, and since has gained a reputation for cruelty and cunning far above any of the others.”
“We are in danger, then.”
“Danger! Well, I should remark. But look yonder—what in the name of Cimarron Jack, the cock of the walk, does that painted devil mean?”
All eyes were turned at once toward the savages. Before stationary, they were now prancing and capering about, spreading like a bird’s wing, then folding again, ever prancing and curveting. Only the chief, Red-Knife, remained at rest. After seeing his brother Ishmaelites wheel and curve about him for some time, he dismounted, cast his weapons on the ground and slowly stalked toward the barricade.
“He’s a fool!” whispered Burt to Sam, as he drew within rifle-range. “Fust thing he’ll know, he’ll find hisself dead, if ever Simpson or t’other draws bead on him.”
“He’s going to palaver,” remarked Jack.
The savage drew quite close, until he halted within long pistol-range. Then, spreading his arms and throwing back his head, he cried out:
“Are the pale-faces women, that they seek to hide? Are they coyotes, that they burrow when danger comes? Are they fools, that they know not that Red-Knife is the chief of the plains—that he is not to be foiled?”
He spoke in the Spanish tongue with a good tone and accent. Long intercourse with the Mexicans had improved his tongue.
He received no answer; he went on.
“Are the pale-faces dumb, that they do not reply? Ugh! they are dogs.”
“He thinks we are greasers—he does, by Cimarron Jack, the god of war! Well, let him discover his mistake—he will do so before long,” remarked Jack.
“Le’s pepper him, Jack,” said the guide.
“No; let him talk. If he thinks we are Mexicans he will charge—then we will give him a little lead to digest.”
“Will the pale faces surrender?” cried the chief. “Will they yield?”
“Oh, yer jist go back ter yer daubed fools, and quit yer gab!” cried the guide.
The savage understood English slightly, and after some reflection, deciphered the command. He started back a pace or so, somewhat taken aback by finding he was taunting Americans. Then he resumed, swaggering:
“Come out from your hiding-place, women! Come like men into the plain and talk to Red-Knife. He is a brave—he has taken many scalps; the whites are dogs and are cowards.”
“I’ll put a stopper to his mouth!” declared Jack, bending and creeping through the wagons. Then, standing in full view before the chief, he cried, brandishing his rifle:
“Get back to your howling crew, you Comanche renegade dog! Get back, or I’ll send you in a hurry.”
He spoke in the chief’s own tongue, and he recognized Jack. Knowing his deadly precision with the rifle, well acquainted with his reckless daring and warlike proclivities, he prepared to retreat to his companions. But he could not resist the temptation of another taunt.
“Squaw from the bitter river” (Cimarron Fork), “dog from a dog’s country, coyote with a forked tongue—Red-Knife will dance with his warriors and his braves around your fire-stake. The squaws shall spit upon him, the pappooses will pierce his flesh with darts, and the coyotes will tear his flesh.”
He turned and fled, dodging and darting from side to side to avoid Jack’s bullet, which he knew would speed after him. It did.
Enraged, Cimarron Jack leveled his rifle and glanced over the sights. The gun belched its smoke and fire, the chief dodged at the very moment, and the bullet razed the black feather which nodded on his painted head, and sped harmlessly on.
The guide, Sam, and Burt also fired, but their bullets were wild—the chief’s erratic and rapid motion rendered it almost impossible to strike him. Running like a deer, he speedily regained his mustang and his band, and mounting, spoke several hasty words to his clustered braves, gesticulating wildly.
The next moment they separated—one band of seven starting away toward the north, while the other, with the chief, rode west a few yards, and drawing as near as they dared, halted, facing the whites.
“Now it has come right down to business, and we’ll have to look sharp,” growled Jack.
“Why so—what is wrong?” simply inquired Louis Robidoux.
Jack glanced scornfully over him from head to foot.
“Have you any eyes in your head?” he asked, with curling lip. “If you have, just use ’em. Can’t you see they are going to make a surround?”
Under his yellow hair, the Canadian’s face flushed, and he scowled at Jack.
“Use me more respectfully, or you may rue it,” he growled.
“Dry up! You had better be a trifle more respectful yourself, or you will rue it. I am Cimarron Jack, the fellow who teaches grizzlies how to wrestle, collar-and-elbow; I am the fellow who can hold a kicking mule by the off-hind-foot with my thumb and little finger. I tell you, the man in the moon doesn’t dare to make faces at me of a still night. He knows I can shoot mighty straight, he does.”
“Quit yer braggin’ and mind yer eye,” admonished the guide, surlily. “It’s no time ter brag, now.”
“Yes, Cimarron Jack; pray do not breed discord at this critical moment,” said Mr. Wheeler. “See, the hill now hides the savages from our view—the band that rode away.”
“Who’s breeding discord, I’d like to know? I don’t let any mule-whacker say boo, to me, I tell you. However, young bantam,” turning to the driver, “you and I see more of each other, mind that. For the present, there is too much to look after to fool with you.”