by Zane Grey
It seemed to Clint that an age passed. Then he was transfixed to hear an owl hoot — who — who — whowho! right out of the wagon to which Jack had led him and his father. From the creek below came an answering call.
Couch hit Belmet on the back and cursed under his breath. “You men hear thet?”
“You bet,” replied Belmet. “What’ll we do? Wish we had a cannon.”
“Redskins again,” said another, resignedly.
“Nary redskin,” replied the old frontiersman. “No Injun is as crazy as thet.”
Couch advised his men to crawl under the wagons so they could command the prairie. Clint saw a tiny flare of flame like a lighted match down by the creek bank. Others saw it, too.
“Where in tarnation are them scoutin’ parties?” growled Couch. “We can’t move around much.”
“Listen!” burst out Clint, quivering. “I hear horses comin’... Must be Injuns. Jack smells somethin’.”
“Ahuh. I see the horses.... Men, too.... Don’t act like Injuns,” said Couch.
“They ain’t Injuns,” rejoined the old frontiersman. Next Clint heard heavy thuds up by the wagon that Jack had led them to investigate.
“Listen!” whispered Couch, hoarsely. “I’m a horned sinner if some gang ain’t robbin’ the wagon!”
A coyote wailed out a lonely cry, the genuineness of which Clint would have vouched for. The dark objects out on the plain worked closer, making to the right of the watching party. They halted perhaps fifty feet outside of the wagon in question. Severed men, like shadows, left the horses and moved in toward the wagon train.
Jack tore loose from Clint and dashed back under the wagon to the inside of the corral. Clint crawled after him. Just then on the outside of the caravan a man yelled, “HANDS UP!”
Immediately the sound of hard angry voices and a violent tussle rent the air. Then a rush of feet. Clint rose and ran after Jack, just discernible in the starlight. Before Clint reached him a man leaped down from the wagon. Jack jumped at the man and they went down together. Clint, rushing up, saw them sprawling on the ground. He caught the gleam of a blade. Whereupon Clint promptly hit the fellow on the head with the rifle butt. That stunned him. The dog let go. Then Belmet arrived, panting and excited, and grasping the situation he sat astride the fallen man and tied his hands and feet.
“Watch him, Clint, while I see what’s goin’ on outside.”
The robber did not come to, or else he feigned unconsciousness, for he never moved.
It developed presently that one of the three scouting parties had stolen up on the wagon which was being looted, and were lying in the grass when the other three robbers came up with eight horses. They were captured, not without a fight, but no shot was fired.
By this time day was not far distant. The east was light and the pale gray brightened. Fires were built, and preparations for breakfast begun.
As soon as it grew clear daylight Couch called, gruffly:
“Twenty volunteers to string up these robbers!”
Clint seemed irresistibly propelled to follow them down to the creek, where under a huge, spreading, black-walnut tree they halted with their prisoners.
“You fellars anythin’ to say?” queried Couch, surveying the four robbers.
“Nope. You ketched us,” replied one of them, laconically.
“Reckon I’d like a smoke,” spoke up another. Some one gave him a cigarette, which he lighted and puffed with satisfaction.
Clint was chained to the spot in horror. This summary justice was not only the law of the freighters; it was frontier law, from which there could be no appeal. The four robbers knew it; they accepted it, and for all Clint could tell they were not even disturbed. If such marvelous courage could only have been expended in a good cause! Clint had never seen such rough, ragged, iron-visaged men anywhere on the frontier. They looked their characters.
The executioners had thrown noosed ropes over a great branch of the walnut and stood waiting, silent, hard-eyed, looking neither at one another nor at the robbers.
One of the four cursed the one smoking. “ —— — ! You’re holdin’ this up!”
The smoker flipped away the cigarette half smoked.
“Wal, Pickens, if you’re in such an all-fired hurry, let her rip!”
In the speech and the coarse laugh following spoke all the wild lawless and terrible spirit of the frontier of 1857.
The robbers were forced in line, the nooses dropped over their necks.
“Five men to a rope!” ordered Couch, sternly. “Haul!”
Up shot the four men, the smallest of them fully six feet off the ground, the others about half that distance. Their hands were tied behind their backs, but their legs were free. The instant they were in the air a horrible change in face and body manifested itself. The instinct of the flesh to survive was the last and strongest. Their mouths opened wide, their tongues stuck out, their eyes rolled hellishly, and their faces turned livid. They began to kick and twist, to double up and turn halfway round. They drew up their legs until their knees touched their bodies, then kicked out frightfully. Facial expression and contortions augmented terribly with each second.
Clint uttered a loud cry and covered his eyes with his hands to shut out the awful sight. He sat there, head bowed, and his abdomen quaking with a sickness within. When he looked again the robbers were limp and quiet, and he never would have recognized their black visages.
“Men, we’ll let ’em hang fer the good of the frontier,” said Couch, and forthwith he produced a piece of paper which he fastened to the leg of the one called Pickens. Upon it had been written:
FREIGHT ROBBERS. We HUNG THEM. Jim COUCH CARAVAN.
Upon the return to camp Clint heard Couch say to his men: “A good job thet. Pickens was a murderer. I’ve run into his outfit before.”
The caravan traveled on to Fort Bent, arriving there that day late. Couch reported the execution.
Twenty soldiers under a sergeant were dispatched to bury the robbers.
Before that memorable day ended Couch sent for Clint.
“Lad, you an’ Jack had a hand in savin’ us again,” he said, patting Clint’s shoulder. “Leastways you saved us from bein’ robbed.... Now here’s the outfit of the robbers. You can have first pick.”
“Aw, Captain, I — I don’t want anythin’,” replied Clint.
“Shore you do. It’s your right. Ask any of the men. Kit Carson will tell you thet. We’ll divide this outfit, an’ you get first whack.”
Thus importuned, Clint forced his attention upon the possessions left by Pickens and his allies. There were eight horses, several of them unusually fine animals, an equal number of riding saddles, pack saddles, bed rolls and saddle blankets, canteens, bags and bridles; also eight pistols, four rifles, a number of knives, lassoes, and other articles useful to frontiersmen.
“How much can I pick?” asked Clint, uncertain of himself.
“Haw! Haw!” roared the old frontiersman. “Take the boss up, Buff, an’ grab it all.”
“Wal, choose what you want best, but don’t be a hawg,” answered Couch.
Still Clint could not arrive at a quick decision; whereupon Tom stepped out and said:
“I know what Buff’d like best.”
“Now what?”
“A horse. He has always wanted one.”
“Well, thet’s fine. Come on, Buff. Pick a hoss, a saddle, a blanket, a bridle, an’ by gum, one of the pistols.” Clint came out of his trance and pointed out the horse that really had been the cause of his tongue-tied state — a thoroughbred dark-bay mare, clean-limbed and beautifully built.
“Thet one! Ahuh, you son-of-a-gun,” ejaculated Couch. “I guess mebbe you can’t pick the best hoss. I shore wanted thet mare myself.”
The laugh went round the circle, and Couch continued: “All right, she’s yours, Buff. What’ll you call her?”
Clint studied over this problem a minute, then with a catch in his breath he replied, “Maybell.”
“Fine an’ dandy. Thet’s a pretty handle. An’ now, Buff, the question is can you ride her? She looks like a real hoss, boy. Remember, robbers can’t afford to ride anythin’ but fast hosses. Hadn’t you better trade Maybell to me for one of the others?”
“Oh, I — I’ll ride her or bust,” replied Clint, hurriedly.
“Jim,” went on Couch to Clint’s father, “you pick his saddle an’ outfit. An’ I reckon you’d better straddle the mare first.”
Clint was no stranger to saddle horses, but he had never seen so spirited and racy an animal as Maybell, even at the country fairs back in Illinois. When saddle, bridle, blanket, rope were chosen and placed on the horse for his edification he was an exultant boy. Lastly Couch picked out a silver-mounted pistol and a bag of ammunition to go with it, and stuck them in the saddlebag.
“Buff, more power to you an’ Jack,” he said, heartily. “Hope I can have you with me long.”
The river bank opposite Chateau Island was chosen for the next camp. This was always a favorite place for travelers.
At sundown a troop of dragoons rode down the dry trail from Santa Fé, and reported a fight between Jim Waters’ caravan and a band of Comanches under Chief White Bear. The soldiers had happened along just in the nick of time. The Comanches had ambushed the trail in broad daylight, and rushed on the caravan before Waters could get the cannon into play. The ambush was at Apache Canyon, which spot Clint had shivered through often enough to remember.
When the dragoons, who were trailing the Comanches, rode upon the scene of the battle, Waters had five men dead and eight seriously wounded. Waters had a bad wound in his shoulder. His caravan halted at Fort Aubry to recuperate. Clint could not help wondering when Jim Waters’ turn would finally come. He was the boldest of freighters and took reckless chances.
Couch was glad of an escort for the remainder of the drive to Westport. He had expected a good long rest there, but did not get it. Colonel Danbury signed him to a contract to freight government supplies to all the forts west as far as Taos. If the freighters were delayed at any post longer than two days for unloading, the government agreed to supply hay for horse feed.
Couch’s freighters went the limit so far as loads were concerned, putting on all the wagons would carry. They were paid by the hundredweight. It was the heaviest and most valuable wagon-train Couch had ever started out with; and the whole troop of soldiers furnished by the government was most welcome.
Near Wagon Mound a band of Comanches rode down on the stock like a flock of screeching hawks and stampeded the animals, driving them three miles before the soldiers could overtake them. There was no fight.
At Apache Canyon a band of Indians was lying in hiding. But the scouts were not to be waylaid, and the Utes sneaked off like coyotes in the sage.
The caravan labored on to Lamy, Santa Fé, and ended the successful drive at Taos. This was an opportunity Clint had long anticipated, and to his delight he found Kit Carson at home. The scout welcomed him with surprise and open arms.
“Buff Belmet!” he exclaimed. “You great big husky plainsman! Growed up like a weed! — I sure am glad to see you.”
Carson insisted that Clint stay at his house, where he was introduced to two other famous scouts of the frontier — Jim Baker and John Hobbs. These frontiersmen had a wealth of experience to draw from and they liked to talk.
“Wal, thet reminds me,” said Jim Baker, reminiscently, nodding his shaggy head. “Reckon it was in ‘fifty-two, wasn’t it, Kit, when Hatcher was agent here? Taos was the best fort on the frontier then. Five companies of soldiers at the fort under Major Greer. My old pard Denver was there. Wal, Hatcher rode over to the fort an’ told Greer there was fifteen young warriors all painted up, trailin’ their war bonnets, an’ he was sure they was up to some devilment. Greer sent me an’ Denver out to find out.
“We packed five days’ grub, plenty of ammunition, an’ hit their trail. They was goin’ south at a pretty good clip, toward the only white settler near, an’ he lived fifty miles an’ more down on the Red River. Name was Lya Banks. You remember him, Kit. We used to call him Old Ly here at Taos. He was a squaw man, married Injun style to a Kiowa, but he was a good friend to all the whites in the valley. We rode fast on the trail of thet bunch, an’ when we got near to Banks’ place we saw smoke. We thought it was the Injuns’ camp. Howsomever, when we went close we saw it was too much smoke. Injuns don’t burn much wood.
“Wal, shore the fire was old Ly’s place. We hid our horses in the timber an’ stole up. The house an’ shed was all burned down. No Injuns in sight. So we went up. There was the burned remains of a couple of people, but we couldn’t identify them. Reckoned, though, thet one was poor Ly.
“We took the Injuns’ trail again, an’ late in the day saw smoke comin’ from a grove of cottonwoods. We did the sneak trick an’ soon was spyin’ on them red devils at supper. They had a big bunch of horses an’ some cattle. We counted them. Fifteen Kiowas. They was shore the bunch we was after. We watched them a while, then went back to our hosses.
“‘Denver, them redskins are raidin’,’ says I. ‘They’re goin’ on down the river to murder other settlers. What’ll we do about it?’
“‘Wed,’ says Denver, ‘they ain’t a-goin’ to murder no more settlers.’
“I says I agreed with him, but how did we know they wasn’t?
“‘We’ll kill every damn one of them,’ says Denver. ‘We can do it.’
“‘Shore,’ says I, ‘but how?’
“‘Wal, we’ll wait till midnight, then sneak into their camp. We each got two Colts thet’re good for twenty shots. We can both shoot right an’ left handed. An’ we can pick ’em off as fast as they jump up.’
“I agreed, an’ Denver says he reckoned he’d take a nap. I sat ag’in’ a tree an’ watched the trail. About midnight I woke Denver. We had a look at our Colts. Then we slipped down on thet Kiowa camp an’ crawled right among them. We made no more noise than a couple of mice. I touched Denver an’ we rose to our feet, a gun in each hand. It was full moon an’ we could see them Injuns lyin’ like a row of fence pickets.
“Wal, Denver raised a gun — the signal we’d agreed on — an’ then we let out a hell of a Comanche war whoop an’ began to shoot. We stood back to back an’ just stepped round as the Kiowas leaped straight up in the air. We didn’t give them a chance to tackle us.
“But one Injun on the ground kicked my feet out from under me. They went up where my head ought to have been, an’ I fell so hard on my back thet it jarred both guns out of my hands. I’d shot eight or nine times, anyway.... Thet redskin was like a cat. He jumped on me, swipin’ at me with a knife. I warded off thet blow an’ yelled for Denver. I heard him shootin’ an’ wrastlin’. Then he was suddenly quiet. The Injun swung his knife an’ hit me in the neck, a little too high to kill me outright. I grabbed his arm, twisted it, an’ broke the bone. The knife dropped. Then I got both hands round his windpipe an’ held on. When he sagged I rolled him off me, grabbed up his knife, an’ cut his throat in one slash.
“I jumped up, lookin’ for Denver. He was gone. All the redskins there seemed dead enough. I picked up one of my Colts. It was empty. An’ in the other I found one shot left. I fired it, hopin’ to get an answer from Denver. An’ I did from way down the river.
“Thet Injun had given me a bad cut. The blood was pourin’ down inside my buckskin. I bound it up tight an’ went down the river, huntin’ for Denver. After a little I called an’ he answered. I found him lyin’ across a log, below the bank of the river, an’ I knowed he was hurt. Reckoned he’d fell off the bank on the log.
“‘Which way did they go?’ I asked Denver.
“‘Right here,’ says Denver, pointing. ‘There was only two. An’ I think one is alive yet.... I heard a noise an’, makin’ a couple of jumps, I came on thet redskin on his knees, crawlin’ with a knife. I soaked him over the head with my gun an’ used his own knife on him.’
“‘Wal,’ I says, ‘I re
ckon thet’s about all. Get up, Denver.’
“‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘My leg’s broke.’
“‘How’d you break it?’ I asked, an’ Denver told me he’d fought the two Kiowas on the bank above, an’ they’d all fell off on the log.
“Wal, I was in a pretty fix. First I took them two Injuns’ scalps, then I picked Denver up an’ packed him back to the camp, where I laid him down. I found four Injuns alive yet, so I sent them off to the Happy Huntin’- grounds, an’ then I counted thirteen. These with the two down by the river made fifteen. We had them all.
“Denver had some bad cuts, one on his face bein’ deep. I started the fire goin’, heated some water, an’ washed an’ tied Denver’s wounds. The Injuns had coffee an’ grub, so after me an’ Denver had some we felt better. I went back after our hosses. An’ then I looked for the Injuns’ stock. Found them all bunched together, an’ I herded them down into the river bottom near the camp. Next I got Denver on his hoss, makin’ a sling for his broken leg to rest in. I took the other thirteen scalps, an’ strung them all on my belt. An’ what with my own cut I shore was a bloody mess.
“Wal, I drove them cattle an’ hosses very slow back to Banks’ place. Denver stuck it out all right. I put him in a dugout, with water an’ meat. Then I drove the stock into Banks’ pasture. Some of the stock had slipped away on me, but I counted forty-seven hosses an’ ninety-three cows, steers, an’ calves.