CIMARRON JACK.
As the first gray streaks of dawn slanted across the eastern horizon, the little camp on the Gila was astir, and the members were bustling about. Anxious faces they were; their movements were hurried and nervous; and the general aspect of the camp was one of alarm and anxiety.
There is evidently a great commotion in camp; ever and anon the men scan the surrounding horizon; and one and all wear the same anxious look; what is the matter?
The question is answered almost as soon as asked, as a cry arises from one of the watchers. The others start to their feet (they are at present bolting a hasty breakfast) and following their companion’s gaze see a horseman coming along the river bank. He is quite near, having been coming under the bank, and consequently unseen by them.
“Simpson! the guide!” shout one or two voices; then two others add, with a groan, “and alone.”
“And alone!” cry the rest, gloomily.
The guide was coming slowly, his mustang lagging with drooping head, as if just freed from a hard, long ride. The guide, too, though generally reserved, was moody, and wore a sort of apologetic, shame-faced air.
Joel Wheeler and young Carpenter sprung to meet him.
“Have you seen her?” asked Mr. Wheeler, though knowing the question was a superfluous one. The guide shook his head.
“Nor any trace of her?” hastily added Carpenter. Simpson slowly shook his head again.
“Not at all—no sign?”
“Nary mark, sign, trail, trace—nary nuthin’. Blast the luck!” he added, in sudden ire; “I’ve done rode over every squar’ inch of this kentry sence last night, fur miles around. She ain’t nowhar ’round hyar, that’s sartain shure.”
It was only too evident the guide spoke truthfully. His fatigued, travel-worn steed, panting deeply, and his own wearied air, showed he had ridden far and swiftly.
“Yer see’d no one, then?” asked Burt Scranton.
“Who sed I never see’d no one?” hastily retorted Simpson.
“You did.”
“I didn’t!”
“What did you say, then?”
“Thet I hedn’t see’d the lady—and I hevn’t.”
“You have seen some one, then?” asked Carpenter.
“Yes, I hev.”
“Whom?”
The guide brought his fist down on his knees:
“A sperrit.”
“A spirit? Nonsense! Where?”
“Up hyar, a piece—in a kentry called the Land of Silence.”
“Ah! the Land of Silence,” and Burt slowly shook his head. “I’ve heerd on that place.”
The Canadians looked incredulous and grinned. Seeing them in the act, the guide, nettled, burst out:
“Yes, and yer may jist bet yer hides I don’t want ter see it ag’in, now. By thunder! ef I warn’t skeered I never was, and every one of ye’s heerd of Simpson, the guide—every one of ye know ’t I ain’t no coward, neither.”
“What did it look like?” asked Kit Duncan.
The guide slowly dismounted, and flinging his arm over his saddle, said:
“It war the ghost of the Trailer.”
“The Trailer!” echoed Burt.
“Yes, the Trailer. Jest the same as he allus war, in his peaked hat and black feather, jest the same as ever he war, armed ter kill, he rode his old black hoss right by me, not ten feet off. Gee-whittaker! I ked hev touched him.”
“Did he speak?” asked Louis Robidoux, in a quizzical manner.
“Thet’s the wust of it. When he got clos’t ter me, he turned his face too-ward me. Gee-crymini! how white his face war.”
“What did he say?”
“‘You air ridin’ late, Tim Simpson.’”
“Is that all?”
“Gee-whiz! ain’t thet enough?”
“Why didn’t you shoot him?”
“I war too skeered—I know’d ’twar no mortal man.”
“How did you know?”
“Cuss yer! a woman’s nuthin’ ter yer on the ke-westion. How did I know? Wal, the Trailer’s got a grudge ag’in’ me, an’ ef he’d been a man don’t yer see he’d ’a’ plugged me afore I see’d him? He war a fee-rocious man, thet Trailer, and ef he war alive when I met him, he’d ’a’ sure plugged me. He didn’t, and thet shows he’s dead. Durn it! I know he’s dead; Pedro Felipe killed him in the Land of Silence, over a year ago. I see’d his skeleton onc’t.”
“Halloa!” exclaimed Burt, suddenly. “Look thar!” and he pointed down the river. All eyes followed the direction.
A man mounted on a trim bay horse was seen advancing at a long, swinging lope, quite near. He had drawn close during the dialogue, unnoticed, and was coming boldly on, as if he feared no danger. Simpson immediately recognized him.
“Cimarron Jack!” he cried. “Gee-menentli! hooray!”
The rider stopped and drew a revolver.
“Who is there?” he demanded, in a rich, musical voice, with a purity of accent rarely seen on the southern plains.
“Tim Simpson, the guide!”
“Is that so? Hurrah! I’m Cimarron Jack, the tiger, and I’m a thorough-bred from Tartary, I tell you.”
Belting his revolver, he struck spurs to his splendid bay, and the next moment was heartily shaking Simpson by the hand, wrenching it violently.
“I’m an elephant, I am!” he shouted, in stentorian tones, addressing the entire party. “I’m a Feejee dancing-master, and where’s the man that’ll say ‘boo’ to this chap? I’m the fellow who killed cock-robin!”
“You are jest in time, Jack,” said the guide. “We want yer ter help us.”
Nowhere in America do men come so quickly “to the point,” as on the vast South-western plains. Meet a friend you have not seen for years—he is in trouble, mayhap. You have scarcely time to greet him before he informs you of his embarrassment, and requests your immediate assistance. You instantly, if you are a “plainsman,” grant his request—it is often policy to do so.
Cimarron Jack was a noted ranger and inexplicable man. While his whole conversation was a series of boastings and vaunts, while a more conceited man perhaps never breathed, he had one trait which was the very opposite, paradoxical as it may appear—he believed that others were as keen and shrewd as himself, and, when on the war-path, believed his enemy as bold and crafty as himself—the predominating trait of the shrewdest detectives in the world.
To describe him, his dress and manner, were a long and hard task. Closely-knit, six feet and three inches in hight, with the arm of a blacksmith, and the leg of a cassowary, he was a formidable enemy when aroused, and he was a man of iron nerve. Withal, he was at times as tender as a woman, and was always upright and honest.
Imagine a giant on a splendid bay stallion, with weapons of all sorts, sizes and nationalities slung about him; with red, green, blue, gray—in short, every color—feathers twisted into his clothing, long boots, painted in different colors—looking like an insane person—imagine this, and you are distantly acquainted with Cimarron Jack, the ranger, hunter and Indian-fighter.
“What do you want with the king-pin of all rifle-shots? Show me a star, and I’ll knock the twinkle out of it with a Number One buckshot.”
The party stared at him aghast. Never before had they seen such a fantastical braggadocio. Had they never before heard of him they would have deemed him a raving maniac, and would have given him a wide berth. But every one who was in that country at that time—184—, had heard of the far-famed Cimarron Jack.
“What do you want with the people’s favorite?” he demanded. “Come—the court is impatient.”
Joel Wheeler stepped forward and said: “Sir, we are—”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me!” interrupted the ranger. “I’m Cimarron Jack, and I’m the cock of the walk.”
“Well then, Cimarron Jack, my daughter strayed away last night and we fear she is lost—indeed, we are positive she is. The country is infested with Indians—”
“You can’t tell me any thing about Indians, for my education in that direction is finished. Hurrah! three genuine cheers and a tiger for the man that can’t be beat!”
Snatching his sombrero from his head, he swung it aloft, cheering himself lustily. Then he replaced the hat and listened gravely.
“It is only too evident that Christina is lost. Cognizant that the country is swarming with hostile Apaches and Comanches, we are very much alarmed. You are a noted scout and tracker—I’ve frequently heard of you; and if you will lend us your assistance in searching for her, I will cheerfully pay any price you may ask.”
“Count me in—just score the grizzly-tamer on the rolls. But stop!” he added, his face becoming grave, and addressing Simpson. “Is the beauteous maid fair to look upon?”
“Ef thar ever was an angel on airth, she’s the one,” emphatically pronounced the guide.
“Then hurrah! blood raw, blood raw! cut your palate out and eat it—you are just shouting I will. I’m a thorough-bred, sired by Colossus.”
“Are you willing to go, then?” demanded Carpenter.
“You’re talking I am.”
“Well, just tell the men to hitch up the horses, Burt.”
Scranton turned to execute the order, and Mr. Wheeler called a consultation of the principal men, Cimarron Jack, Carpenter and Simpson, to decide upon the most feasible plan for recovering Kissie. He was much alarmed. Although for years accustomed to Kissie’s vagaries and erratic wanderings, he was now alarmed in good earnest. She had often ridden away from the train on some expedition, but she had always returned punctually. But now they were in a country overrun with hostile, ferocious Indians, who were capable of any fiendish deed, and quite unscrupulous enough to execute it.
But there were other dangers near by, if not quite as potent. Here in this hot, vast plain water was scarce, though the country was “cut up” by creeks. These, however, were entirely dry nine months in the year, and this season was uncommonly dry. Then, too, savage and large beasts roamed the plain. The large gray wolf hunted in packs, ready when hungry to follow and run down a human being; the grizzly often came down from his cave in the mountains to prey upon the animals in the plain; and many other animals, quite as ferocious and cunning, roamed the illimitable waste.
Should she avoid all these dangers; should she elude the fierce Apache, the gray wolf and grizzly bear; should she be fortunate enough to discover water, a thing scarcely possible, there was another danger to be dreaded—hunger.
She was not armed, and procuring food on the barren plain, without the necessary weapons, was impossible. She could procure no food from the herbage—it was scant, dry and short. She was undoubtedly in a desperate predicament.
Mr. Wheeler revolved these several contingencies in his mind, and grew sad and moody. Carpenter noticed his dejection, and though anxious and sad himself, endeavored to cheer him.
“Come, cheer up,” he said, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “The case may not be so desperate after all. While there is life there is hope, you know.”
“Sam, I know you can sympathize with me—you are the only one who can appreciate my agony, for it is positive agony. To think of the dear child, heaven knows where, suffering and heart-sick, almost distracts me. Sam, I fear the worst.”
“Come, sir, come; you must not talk like that. She only rode away after a rabbit—she, mayhap, has become confused, perhaps lost. But the sorrel mustang is sagacious, and doubtless ere this is scenting back toward us. I know he will come back if she will give him his head.”
“A thing she will not think of doing,” replied Mr. Wheeler. “If she is lost, she is lost, indeed—there is no end to this vast plain.”
“But she must have left a trail, and with two such famous men as Cimarron Jack and Simpson, we can surely trail her. Those two men are prodigies, sir—they are famous even among their fellow-countrymen. Cheer up, sir—see, they are ready to start. Shall I saddle your horse, sir?”
“If you will, Sam. I am so perplexed I am fit for nothing.”
“I will do it, sir. Take my word for it, sir, we will soon find her.”
“God grant it!” was the fervent reply.
The result of the council was this: the guide, Cimarron Jack, Mr. Wheeler, and Sam, were to ride toward the north-west, if possible on Kissie’s trail. Burt Scranton and the teamster would follow with the wagons. The trailing party would proceed moderately, while the wagons would move at a much faster rate than usual to keep in sight. This was done to avoid being separated by Indians, should they meet with any. This arrangement (Cimarron Jack’s suggestion) afterward proved a wise one. But more anon.
“Are you ready?” said Jack, vaulting into his saddle. “If you are, follow the man who can thrash his weight in wild-cats with a ton of grizzlies thrown in too to make the skirmish interesting.”
“Yer ain’t quit yer bragging yet, I see,” remarked the guide.
“Bragging! me brag? d’ye mean it? whiz! I’ll cut your palate out and eat it—yes, I will, you know that yourself. Blood raw, blood raw! I’m the man that never says ‘boo’ to a lame chicken.”
“Hyar’s her trail,” observed the guide.
Jack vaulted backward to the ground, examined it, swore an oath or two, lit his pipe, boasted a little, then remounted and rode off on the faint, very dim trail, with the wagons rumbling after; the search had commenced.
The guide ever and anon raised his head and peered off into the northern, purple-tinted distance, as if half afraid of seeing some disagreeable object. However, he held his peace and relapsed into his usual, but for some time, abandoned taciturnity. Must the truth be spoken? The guide was alarmed.