by Charles King
CHAPTER XIII.
AWAY TO THE RESCUE!
That night Fred Waller slept fitfully on the open prairie, with "BigJim" tethered close at hand. Saturday morning found him ten miles to theeast and ten miles further from the river than the point where hewatched the Sioux the previous evening. Hungry and worn with anxiety ashe was, the poor boy's heart sank within him when he cautiously peeredover the ridge into the valley. After an early morning ride, he saw thedust clouds near the stream, and felt that he was still cut off. Noonwas near when, far as he could see up or down, the valley was clear; andthen creeping out from his lair, he again mounted and rode straight forthe Platte. Warily he watched in every direction, but no intruders came.He was spurring over the flats only a mile from the river before thefirst sign of pursuit was made. Then, far back toward the bluffs he hadleft, Fred spied a little party of warriors coming after him full tilt.Never stopping for more than one glance he gave Jim the rein, urging himto full speed; marked, as he flashed across it only a few hundred yardsfrom the bank, the trail of a cavalry command going up the valley andwondered whose it could be; then he and Jim went crashing through thegravel at the water's edge and plunged boldly into the running stream.Deeper and deeper brave old Jim pushed in until the waters foamed abouthis broad and muscular breast; then Fred threw himself from the saddle,and keeping tight hold of the pommel and steadying his carbine with thesame hand, "Swim for it, old man!" he shouted to his gallant horse, andin another minute he and Jim were floating with the current, yet rapidlynearing the other shore. Three minutes and, dripping wet but safe, theywere scrambling up the south bank and speeding away over the boundingturf with the baffled pursuers still two miles behind.
And these were the tracks that Wallace found as he came hurrying backdownstream.
Saturday again Fred Waller and his faithful horse spent on the openprairie, for in the darkness he found it impossible to make his way. Themoon was gone by one o'clock, and her light had been all too faintbefore. But Sunday, just a little after noon, he had come in sight ofthe goal he had sought through such infinite pluck and peril--the Sidneyroad; and as he gazed at it from afar, peering at it as usual frombehind a sheltering bluff, his heart sank into his boots. He had cometoo late; there on that distant trail were the tiny columns of bluesmoke floating skyward which told of burning wagons, now in crumblingruins. Worse than that, here close at hand, over on the other side ofthe long, shallow swale, were twoscore Indian warriors in all theirbarbaric finery, excitedly watching the coming of other victims.
With a moan of anguish Fred Waller marked, a mile beyond and rapidlyapproaching them, a four-mule ambulance with a single soldier canteringalong behind.
"Oh, my God, my God!" he groaned aloud. "I am too late, after all."
But the wagon halted on the distant hills. The Indians, absorbed intheir cat-like watch, were eagerly gesticulating and excitedly pointingto some object far beyond. Several of their numbers lashed their poniesinto a tearing gallop and sped away in wide circuit to the southward,keeping the bluffs between them and the wagon. Others followed part ofthe distance. He knew the maneuver well; already they were planning thesurround. In helpless agony he watched, for he was powerless toaid--powerless even to warn. He seized his ready carbine, loosened thecartridges in his belt, and looked eagerly to Jim's girths. Then onceagain he faced the southeast, and saw, far away across the waves ofprairie, a little puff of dust and a little black dot--a rider--comingfull tilt in the wake of the wagon.
"Who can it be?" he wondered. "Can he possibly know of this ambuscade?"
All too late! A sudden flashing signal from the leader, and all at aninstant with trailing feathers, with war cry and the thunder of ahundred hoofs, the painted band has whirled across the ridge in frontand is down in the dip beyond. Every Indian has vanished from his viewand whirled into sight of the victims on the crest beyond.
In an instant, too, Fred Waller is in saddle, and spurring on to theridge which they have just left, and then once more he reins in wherehe can just peer over the crest. He notes with a cheer of joy that thecharge is checked--that the Indians have veered off and are now dashingin a great circle around the central point on the height beyond. He seesthe wild stampede and tangle of the mules, the overthrow of theambulance; the quick, cool, resolute reply of the attacked. He markswith a glow of mad delight, of reviving hope, that there is not a womanor child with the party.
"Thank God!" he cries aloud, "It isn't Mrs. Charlton." He waves his hatwith exultation as he sees a pony stumbling in death upon the prairie,and his rider limping painfully away; he knows now that they aresoldiers, holding their own for at least a time, and that all depends ongetting aid for them before nightfall. Far up the valley on the otherside he had marked at noon a dust-cloud sailing slowly toward him. Itmust be the Sorrels or the Grays, hastening back to clear the Sidneyroad. Here is the thing to do: gallop back, recross the river, meet andguide them to the rescue. There is still time to get them here beforethe sun goes down--if only the besieged can hold out that long.
IN FULL FLIGHT.]
One more glance he takes at the stirring picture before him, longing todrive a shot at the nearest Indians, and as he gazes there comesstaggering, laboring into sight from around a point of bluff beyond thebeleaguered party, a horse all foam and blood, who goes plunging toearth only a few yards away from the ambulance, and rolls stiffening andquivering in his death agony; but the gray-haired old rider has leapedsafely to the ground, and his carbine flashed its instant defiance atthe yelling foe. Even at that distance there is no mistaking thewell-known form. Fred Waller's wondering eyes have recognized atonce--his father.
Now indeed he speeds away for help! Now indeed, has Jim to run for morethan life! Turning his back upon the thrilling scene, the littletrumpeter goes like a prairie gale, whirling back to the valley of thePlatte.
* * * * *
The sun is sinking behind the bluffs, and its last rays fall on abullet-riddled ambulance; on the stiffening bodies of a half dozenslaughtered animals--a horse and some mules; on a grim, determinedlittle band of soldiers--two of them sorely wounded. The red shaftsgleam on a litter of empty cartridge-shells and tinge the canvas top ofthe overturned wagon. Out on the rolling prairie several hundred yardsaway, the turf is dotted here and there by Indian ponies, the innocentvictims of this savage warfare. Such Indian braves as have fallen havelong since been picked up by their raging comrades and borne away.Despite their numbers, never once yet have the savages managed to reachthe defenders. Time and again they have swooped down in charge only tobe met by cool, well-aimed shots that tumbled some of their numbers tothe turf and sent the others veering and yelling into the old familiarcircle. At last they are trying the expedient of long-range shots fromdifferent points of the compass, hoping to kill or cripple the wholeparty by sundown. The bullets clip the turf and scatter the dust allover the ridge. There is practically no shelter, for the ground is toohard to dig. Old Sergeant Waller is prostrate with a bullet through thethigh. Colonel Gaines has bound his handkerchief tightly around his arm.The driver lies flat on his face--dead. Every now and then the othersturn longing eyes southward, hoping for some sign of infantry comingfrom the post, so many a mile away. They know well that Edwards willhave levied on every wagon in Sidney to bring them; but not a whiff ofdust-cloud do they see. One of the soldiers gives a low moan and claspshis hands to his side; and Cross mutters between his set teeth, "Fiveminutes more of this will settle it."
But what means this sudden scurry and excitement among the besiegers?Why do they crowd and clamor there at the north? What can they see overthat ridge beyond the little stream? Presently others join them. Thenmore and more. Then there are whoops of rage; a few ill-aimed,scattering shots. Three or four of the red men ride daringly, tauntinglydown, as though to resume the attack, and shout vile epithets in vilestEnglish in response to the shots with which they are greeted, and thenthey too go riding away. "Lie down, you idiots!" yells Captain Cross tothe t
wo soldiers who would spring up to cheer, but a moment more andeven the wounded wave their feeble hands and join in the triumphantshout. The ridge is cleared of every vestige of the foe. The warriorsgo speeding away eastward toward the Platte. Far out over the prairie,to the northeast, a troop of blue horsemen are driving in pursuit, and,over the neighboring crest, come a half dozen friendly forms and faces,spurring their foam-flecked horses in the race.
"Look up, sergeant! Look up, old man! Here's Fred himself. Didn't I tellyou he was no deserter?" It was Cross' voice, and it is Cross' strongarm that lifts the wondering, trembling veteran to his feet. The youngfellow has leaped from his horse and is springing toward them. Withwondrous look of relief, of inexpressible joy, of gratitude beyond allwords, of almost Heaven-born rapture mingling with the sunshine in hisold face, the sergeant stretches forth his trembling arms and criesaloud, "My boy! my boy!"