A MIRACULOUS ESCAPE.
On the “reach” above the fissure in which Cimarron Jack’s band was concealed, danced and whooped the entire band of Apaches, eager for white blood, and, as prospects appeared, in good chances of getting it. Conspicuous among the painted pack stalked Red-Knife, the renegade, to and fro, cogitating and framing a feasible plan for extermination.
It needed not a very subtle brain or a very bold man to ferret out the whites from their present position, and well he knew it. While many plans, ideas and means gratuitously presented themselves to his scheming head, but one was accepted—at once the most feasible, the easiest executed, and the one attended with the least danger—a surround.
Conjectured, planned, advocated—done; so he thought, in his inordinate self-esteem. He did not for a moment consider that the noted “squaw from the bitter river” was thoroughly versed in savage warfare—that he had a vast store of experience to draw from—that he was crafty and brave as a lion. In his vast conceit, he entirely ignored the fact, and went directly on with putting his plan into execution.
The whites were in an isolated fissure about fifteen feet in depth by twenty wide and one hundred long, in the shape of a horse-shoe, the party being ensconced under the bank at the “caulk” in the concavity. Here they were safe for the present, but a small ravine opening from the fissure, rendered their situation precarious. This ravine played an important part in the tragedy, for whose acts the actors were now preparing earnestly.
Where it entered the “horse-shoe” fissure, it was narrow, being only about three feet in width, but in a hundred yards it ran under sandy banks, and widened out to forty feet or more. These sandy banks were crumbling and projecting, overhanging the ravine (more properly a “draw”), they presented an unstable footing.
Red-Knife noticed this “draw,” and at once, without consulting his chiefs, whom he ignored, commenced operations. Detaching a party of three to take charge of the distant draft-horses, he divided his party of twenty into two portions. One of these he directed to creep along the shadow of a projecting bluff until they had made half the circuit of the horse-shoe; the other, commanded in person by himself, was to enter the “draw,” keeping in shadow as much as possible. Halting in the draw, they were to give a preconcerted signal, then both parties were to prosecute a cross-fire with what arms they possessed. Such a position would completely command the horse-shoe fissure with its hidden occupants.
“Boys,” observed Cimarron Jack, sitting on a mud-bowlder, “this is lovely; but the thorough-bred from Tartary don’t scare worth a cent. It takes mighty fine working to face the grizzly domesticator—it does, for a fact.”
“Oh, quit yer durned, disgustin’ braggin’! It makes me feel ashamed of the hull human race,” growled Simpson.
Cimarron Jack went on, with a sly twinkle at the guide:
“In addition to my noble and manly qualities, I have the coveted and rare faculty of insnaring women. Educated at college, of good looks, as you can see, engaging manners, I cast rough rowdies like this knave of a guide into the shade. That, you see, makes ’em hot—red-hot; and when I give, as is my custom, a brief and extremely modest synopsis of my talents, they call it, in their vulgar way, ‘braggin’.’ I’m the cock of the walk—hooray! I’m the scorpion and centipede chewer—the wildcat educator—hooray!”
“Faugh! it’s downright sickening. Durned ef I kain’t lick any man that brags so!” declared the guide, with real rising choler. “An’ ef he don’t like it he kin lump it—thet’s Simpson, the guide.”
“Dry up; what’s that?” whispered Jack. “Look out, boys—there’s something forming. Look along that bluff yonder—I think I see something moving there.”
The half-earnest wrangle was ceased, and shading his eyes, the guide peered, as if endeavoring to pierce the drapery of shadow under the bluff; but if Jack saw any thing, there was no repetition of the object. Taking his eyes from the bluff, Cimarron Jack turned round, then uttered a suppressed cry.
“What is it?” sharply demanded the guide, instantly on the alert.
“Whew! look there—look yonder!”
They followed the direction of his pointing finger with their gaze. Up the draw, and in its widest part, were nearly a dozen Apaches, or rather parts of them, moving rapidly about. They were visible from their waists upward, and their arms were tossing as if violently excited. The light of the yellow moon made this a most grotesque spectacle, but an utterly incomprehensible one to the whites, who watched them eagerly. It appeared as if a dozen Apaches had been deprived of their legs at the loins, and had been cast into the draw and were tossing their arms in agony. Part of them were upright, part bending their necks forward, while others were bent backward; and all were gesticulating violently.
It was strange, but they were all facing the west, at right angles to the course of the draw. Though wildly gesturing, and, as it seemed, struggling, they preserved the utmost silence, frequently gazing toward the whites, as if fearful of attracting their notice.
“What can it mean?” asked Sam, utterly confounded. “What does it all mean?”
“I think I know,” replied Jack, after a moment’s sober scrutiny; “don’t you, Simpson?”
“Yes—think so.”
“What is it?” and Robidoux’s face wore a look of the most intense surprise.
“By Jupiter—hooray! it is, it is! look, they are sinking.”
It was even so! Each and all were only visible from the breast upward, now, and their rifles, still clasped tightly, were thrown about in wild and vehement motions; the guide uttered a sharp exclamation.
“Quicksanded—quicksanded! see—the draw is darker than at t’other places. It’s the black sand—quicksand—hooray!”
“Great Heaven!” ejaculated Carpenter. “They are sinking into a quicksand—hurrah!”
“They war makin’ a serround and got cotched—hooray!” shouted the guide; then the voice of Cimarron Jack rung out:
“Give it to ’em boys—give it to ’em! aim steady till I count three, and then—one!”
Up went the guns, each man taking a struggling, sinking savage.
“Two!”
A steady dead aim.
“Three!”
Crash—shriek! and then a cloud of dense, sluggish smoke obscured the river. They had no more than lowered their rifles when a shrill yell arose behind them, and a rush of feet was heard. Cimarron Jack dropped his rifle and drew his knife and revolver, facing round.
“Draw, boys—draw! barkers and knives. A surround! here comes t’other gang behind us—draw quick and don’t faze!”
They drew, each a knife and revolver, and faced round, fearing nothing from the helpless band behind, some of whom must be dead. They did so just in time.
From under the projecting bluff darted nine stalwart Apaches, knives and tomahawks in hand. They had seen their comrades’ utter helplessness and discomfiture, and looking over the smoke of the volley, had seen four shot and instantly killed. Burning with rage and chagrin, they were coming, fifty yards away, with determined faces gleaming hideously through the red war-paint.
As they rapidly drew near, Jack cried:
“Work those pistols lively, boys—shoot a thousand times a minute.”
They obeyed. Crack—crack! went the pistols, and, though excited, the aim was tolerably correct, and two Indians went down, one killed, another disabled. Seven still came on, though warily, facing the revolvers of the whites, Colt’s great invention doing deadly work at a short distance. They were running at a dog-trot, dodging and darting from side to side to prevent any aim being taken; in another moment they were fighting hand to hand.
It was a short, deadly struggle, briefly terminated. Jack, Simpson, and Burt fell to the ground when their respective antagonists were nigh, avoiding the tomahawks which flew over their heads. Then as an Apache towered over each, they rose suddenly, and throwing their entire weight and muscle into the act, plunged their knives into the savage breasts; the red-skins fell without a groan.
It was a perilous, nice operation, and few would have dared attempt it; but knowing if they kept their nerve and temper they would prove victorious, they accepted the chances, as we have seen, with the highest success. Calculating nicely, each had about an interval of two seconds to work in—the interval between the Apaches’ arrival and his downward knife-thrust.
Gigantic, fiery Jack stayed not to enjoy a second and sure thrust, but withdrawing his long knife, hastily glanced around. Back under the bank was a man fighting desperately with two Apaches—fighting warily, yet strongly, and in silence.
It was Carpenter, cutting, thrusting, and dodging. Jack needed but a glance to satisfy him Carpenter would soon prove a victim to the superior prowess of the Apaches, and with a wild hurrah sprung forward, just as Burt and the guide were disengaging themselves from the dead bodies of their antagonists. But, he was stopped suddenly.
Covered with mud, dripping with water, and glowing with rage and heat, a fierce, stalwart savage sprung before him, and he knew him in a moment. It was Red-Knife—he had escaped from the quicksand and was now preparing to strike, his tomahawk glinting above his head.
“Dog from the bitter river—squaw! ugh!” and down went the hatchet.
But not in Jack’s skull—the Indian scout was too electric in his thoughts and movements to stand calmly and feel the metal crash into his brain. Bending low, with the quickness of a serpent, he darted under the savage’s arm just in time, but he stopped not to congratulate himself upon his escape, but turning clasped the chief round the waist and suddenly “tripped him up.”
The savage’s thigh passed before his face as the chief was hurled backward. A stream of deep-red blood was spirting from a wide gash in it—the momentum of the hatchet had been so great Red-Knife had been unable to check it, and it had entered his thigh and severed the main artery. The blood was spirting in a large, red stream in the air, and he felt the warm liquid plash and fall on his back. But he whirled the faint chief over on his back, and with a sudden, keen blow, drove the knife into his heart. With a last dying look of malevolency the chief scowled on his victorious enemy, then the death-rattle sounded in his throat—he was dead, no longer a renegade.
Jack sprung up and stood on his guard, but there was no necessity. Short as the combat had been (only three minutes in duration) it was now over, being finished as the guide drew his knife from a convulsively twitching savage, and wiped it on his sleeve.
Save the eight prostrate savages, not an Indian was in sight. Cool, steady, reticent Tim Simpson sheathed his knife and picked up his gun and revolver.
“Durned spry work!”
He was not answered. To the majority of the band the thought was overwhelming—that, where fifteen minutes since, thirty cunning Apaches were surrounding them, not one remained alive. For several minutes no one spoke, but all gazed around on the battle scene.
The draw above was empty—the sinking savages, foiled in their bloody purpose, had sunk to their death. Carpenter moodily gazed where they were last visible, and murmured:
“God bless the quicksand.”
“Ay, ay!” came from the others’ lips.
Cimarron Jack sprung up at the “reach,” and looked around.
“Yonder go three—no, four devils, striking away for dear life. Durn them! they’ve got enough of it this time, I’ll bet.”
“Hosses thar?” asked Simpson.
“One, two, three, eight—every one of ’em.”
“Le’s git out’n this, then.”
“All right—before any more come down on us. Devilish pretty work, wasn’t it?” admiringly queried Jack, looking down on the dead bodies below. “How’d you get away with your job, Carpenter?”
“The guide and Burt came to my assistance just as I was giving out. A minute more and it would have been too late.”
“And you, Ruby? curse me if I don’t forgive you—you fou’t like thunder. Two on you, wasn’t there?”
“Yes; I stabbed one and the other ran off, seeing Simpson coming for him,” modestly replied Robidoux.
“Well, we’ve no time to talk. The red rascals are cleaned out—pick up your weapons, boys, and mount your mustangs, and we’ll get away from this hot place.”
They stopped not to gaze longer upon the bloody scene, but mounting their horses, which under the bank had bravely stood, rode toward the deserted draft-horses. They were easily collected, and then all rode away, just as the moonlight was yielding to the paler but stronger one of day. Elated with victory they left Dead Man’s Gulches (or that part of them) with the ghastly bodies, soon to wither into dry skin and bone, and under the paling moonlight rode away, bound back to the Hillock.
Thanks to the guide’s memory and cunning, they emerged from the Gulches at sunrise, and struck out into the yellow plain—safe and sound, wholly uninjured, and victorious.
“Five men victorious over thirty Apaches,” cried Jack. “A tiger-feat—Hercules couldn’t do better with Sampson and Heenan, with fifty gorillas thrown in for variety. Three and a tiger for the bravest, smartest, handsomest men in the world. With a will, now!”
With a will they were given.