by Charles King
CHAPTER XIV.
RAY'S RIDE FOR LIFE
Darkness has settled down in the shadowy Wyoming valley. By the light ofa tiny fire under the bank some twenty forms can be seen stretched uponthe sand,--they are wounded soldiers. A little distance away are nineothers, shrouded in blankets: they are the dead. Huddled in confused andcowering group are a few score horses, many of them sprawled upon thesand motionless; others occasionally struggle to rise or plunge about intheir misery. Crouching among the timber, vigilant but weary, dispersedin big, irregular circle around the beleaguered bivouac, some sixtysoldiers are still on the active list. All around them, vigilant andvengeful, lurk the Cheyennes. Every now and then the bark as of a coyoteis heard,--a yelping, querulous cry,--and it is answered far across thevalley or down the stream. There is no moon; the darkness is intense,though the starlight is clear, and the air so still that the gallopinghoofs of the Cheyenne ponies far out on the prairie sound close at hand.
"That's what makes it hard," says Ray, who is bending over the prostrateform of Captain Wayne. "If it were storming or blowing, or something todeaden the hoof-beats, I could make it easier; but it's the onlychance."
The only chance of what?
When the sun went down upon Wayne's timber citadel, and the finalaccount of stock was taken for the day, it was found that withone-fourth of the command, men and horses, killed and wounded there wereleft not more than three hundred cartridges, all told, to enable somesixty men to hold out until relief could come against an enemyencircling them on every side, and who had only to send over to theneighboring reservation--forty miles away--and get all the cartridgesthey wanted. Mr. ---- would let their friends have them to kill buffalo,though Mr. ---- and their friends knew there wasn't a buffalo leftwithin four hundred miles.
They _could_ cut through, of course, and race up the valley to find the--th, but they would have to leave the wounded and the dismountedbehind,--to death by torture,--so that ended the matter. Only one thingremained. In some way--by some means--word must be carried to theregiment. The chances were ten to one against the couriers slipping out.Up and down the valley, out on the prairie on both sides of the stream,the Cheyennes kept vigilant watch. They had their hated enemies in adeath-grip, and only waited the coming of other warriors and moreammunition to finish them--as the Sioux had finished Custer. _They_knew, though the besieged did not, that, the very evening before, the--th had marched away westward, and were far from their comrades. Allthey had to do was to prevent any one's escaping to give warning of thecondition of things in Wayne's command. All, therefore, were on thealert, and of this there was constant indication. The man or men whomade the attempt would have to run the gauntlet. The one remaining scoutwho had been employed for such work refused the attempt as simplymadness. He had lived too long among the Indians to dare it, yet Wayneand Ray and Dana and Hunter, and the whole command, for that matter,knew that some one _must_ try it. Who was it to be?
There was no long discussion. Wayne called the sulking scout a damnedcoward, which consoled him somewhat, but didn't help matters. Ray hadbeen around the rifle-pits taking observations. Presently he returned,leading Dandy up near the fire,--the one sheltered light that waspermitted.
"Looks fine as silk, don't he?" he said, smoothing his pet's glossy neckand shoulder, for Ray's groom had no article of religion which tookprecedence over the duty he owed the lieutenant's horse, and no soonerwas the sun down than he had been grooming him as though still ingarrison. "Give him all the oats you can steal, Hogan; some of the menmust have a hatful left."
Wayne looked up startled.
"Ray, I can't let you go!"
"There's no helping it. Some one _must_ go, and who can you send?"
Even there the captain noted the grammatical eccentricity. What wassurprising was that even there he made no comment thereon. He wassilent. Ray had spoken truth. There was no one whom he could order torisk death in breaking his way out since the scout had said 'twasuseless. There were brave men there who would gladly try it had they anyskill in such matters, but that was lacking. "If any man in the commandcould 'make it,' that man was Ray." He was cool, daring, keen; he wastheir best and lightest rider, and no one so well know the country orbetter knew the Cheyennes. Wayne even wished that Ray might volunteer.There was only this about it,--the men would lose much of their gritwith him away. They swore by him, and felt safe when he was there tolead or encourage. But the matter was settled by Ray himself. He wasalready stripping for the race.
"Get those shoes off," he said to the farrier, who came at his bidding,and Dandy wonderingly looked up from the gunny-sack of oats in which hehad buried his nozzle. "What on earth could that blacksmith mean bytugging out his shoe-nails?" was his reflection, though, like thephilosopher he was, he gave more thought to his oats,--an unaccustomedluxury just then.
There seemed nothing to be said by anybody. Wayne rose painfully to hisfeet. Hunter stood in silence by, and a few men grouped themselvesaround the little knot of officers. Ray had taken off his belt and waspoking out the carbine-cartridges from the loops,--there were not overten. Then he drew the revolver, carefully examined the chambers to seethat all were filled; motioned with his hand to those on the ground,saying, quietly, "Pick those up. Y'all may need every one of 'em." TheBlue Grass dialect seemed cropping out the stronger for hispreoccupation. "Got any spare Colts?" he continued, turning to Wayne. "Ionly want another round." These he stowed as he got them in the smallerloops on the right side of his belt. Then he bent forward to examineDandy's hoofs again.
"Smooth them off as well as you can. Get me a little of that sticky mudthere, one of you men. There! ram that into every hole and smooth offthe surface. Make it look just as much like a pony's as you know how.They can't tell Dandy's tracks from their own then, don't you see?"
Three or four pairs of hands worked assiduously to do his bidding.Still, there was no talking. No one had anything he felt like sayingjust then.
"Who's got the time?" he asked.
Wayne looked at his watch, bending down over the fire.
"Just nine fifteen."
"All right. I must be off in ten minutes. The moon will be up ateleven."
Dandy had finished the last of his oats by this time and was gazingcontentedly about him. Ever since quite early in the day he had been inhiding down there under the bank. He had received only one triflingclip, though for half an hour at least he had been springing aroundwhere the bullets flew thickest. He was even pining for his customarygallop over the springy turf, and wondering why it had been denied himthat day.
"Only a blanket and surcingle," said Ray, to his orderly, who was comingup with the heavy saddle and bags. "We're riding to win to-night, Dandyand I, and must travel light."
He flung aside his scouting hat, knotted the silk handkerchief he tookfrom his throat so as to confine the dark hair that came tumbling almostinto his eyes, buckled the holster-belt tightly round his waist, lookeddoubtfully an instant at his spurs, but decided to keep them on. Then heturned to Wayne.
"A word with you, captain."
The others fell back a short distance, and for a moment the two stoodalone speaking in low tones. All else was silent except the feverishmoan of some poor fellow lying sorely wounded in the hollow, or theoccasional pawing and stir among the horses. In the dim light of thelittle fire the others stood watching them. They saw that Wayne wastalking earnestly, and presently extended his hand, and they heard Raysomewhat impatiently, say, "Never mind that now," and noted that atfirst he did not take the hand; but finally they came back to the groupand Ray spoke:
"Now, fellows, just listen a minute. I've got to break out on the southside. I know it better. Of course there are no end of Indians out there,but most of the crowd are in the timber above and below. There will beplenty on the watch, and it isn't possible that I can gallop out throughthem without being heard. Dandy and I have got to sneak for it untilwe're spotted, or clear of them, then away we go. I hope to work wellout towards the bluffs before th
ey catch a glimpse of me, then lie flatand go for all I'm worth to where we left the regiment. Then you bet itwon't be long before the old crowd will be coming down just a humping.I'll have 'em here by six o'clock, if, indeed, I don't find them comingahead to-night. Just you keep up your grit, and we'll do our level best,Dandy and I; won't we, old boy? Now I want to see Dana a minute and theother wounded fellows." And he went and bent down over them saying acheery word to each; and rough, suffering men held out feeble hands totake a parting grip, and looked up into his brave young face. He hadlong known how the rank and file regarded him, but had been disposed tolaugh it off. To-night as he stopped to say a cheering word to theWounded, and looked down at some pale, bearded face that had stood athis shoulder in more than one tight place in the old Apache days inArizona, and caught the same look of faith and trust in him, somethinglike a quiver hovered for a minute about his lips, and his own braveeyes grew moist. They knew he was daring death to save them, but thatwas a view of the case that did not seem to occur to him at all. At lasthe came to Dana lying there a little apart. The news that Ray was goingto "ride for them" had been whispered all through the bivouac by thistime, and Dana turned and took Ray's hand in both his own.
"God speed you, old boy! If you make it all safe, get word to motherthat I didn't do so badly in my first square tussel, will you?"
"If I make it, you'll be writing it yourself this time to-morrow night.Even if I don't make it, don't you worry, lad. The colonel and Stannardain't the fellows to let us shift for ourselves with the country full ofCheyennes. They'll be down here in two days, anyhow. Good-by, Dana; keepyour grip and we'll larrup 'em yet."
Then he turned back to Wayne, Hunter, and the doctor.
"One thing occurs to me, Hunter. You and six or eight men take yourcarbines and go up-stream with a dozen horses until you come to therifle-pits. Be all ready. If I get clear through you won't hear any row,but if they sight or hear me before I get through, then, of course,there will be the biggest kind of an excitement, and you'll hear theshooting. The moment it begins give a yell; fire your guns; go whoopingup the stream with the horses as though the whole crowd were trying tocut out that way, _but get right back_. The excitement will distractthem and help me. Now, good-by, and good luck to you, crowd."
"Ray, will you have a nip before you try it? You must be nearly used upafter this day's work." And Wayne held out his flask to him.
"No. I had some hot coffee just ten minutes ago, and I feel like afour-year-old. I'm riding new colors; didn't you know it? By Jove!" headded, suddenly, "this is my first run under the Preakness blue." Eventhere and then he thought too quickly to speak her name. "Now, then,some of you crawl out to the south edge of the timber with me, and lieflat on the prairie and keep me in sight as long as you can." He tookone more look at his revolver. "I'm drawing to a bob-tail. If I fail,I'll bluff; if I fill, I'll knock spots out of any threes in theCheyenne outfit."
Three minutes more and the watchers at the edge of the timber have seenhim, leading Dandy by the bridle, slowly, stealthily, creeping out intothe darkness; a moment the forms of man and horse are outlined againstthe stars: then, are swallowed up in the night. Hunter and the sergeantswith him grasp their carbines and lie prone upon the turf, watching,waiting.
In the bivouac is the stillness of death. Ten soldiers--carbine inhand--mounted on their unsaddled steeds are waiting in the darkness atthe upper rifle-pits for Hunter's signal. If he shout, every man is toyell and break for the front. Otherwise, all is to remain quiet. Back atthe watch-fire under the bank Wayne is squatting, watch in one hand,pistol in the other. Near by lie the wounded, still as their comradesjust beyond,--the dead. All around among the trees and in the sand-pitsup- and down-stream, fourscore men are listening to the beating of theirown hearts. In the distance, once in a while, is heard the yelp ofcoyote or the neigh of Indian pony. In the distance, too, are the gleamsof Indian fires, but they are far beyond the positions occupied by thebesieging warriors. Darkness shrouds them. Far aloft the stars aretwinkling through the cool and breezeless air. With wind, or storm, ortempest, the gallant fellow whom all hearts are following would havesomething to favor, something to aid; but in this almost cruel stillnessnothing under God can help him,--nothing but darkness and his own bravespirit.
"If I get through this scrape in safety," mutters Wayne between his setteeth, "the --th shall never hear the last of this work of Ray's."
"If I get through this night," mutters Ray to himself, far out on theprairie now, where he can hear tramping hoofs and guttural voices, "itwill be the best run ever made for the Sanford blue, though I do makeit."
Nearly five minutes have passed, and the silence has been unbroken byshot or shout. The suspense is becoming unbearable in the bivouac, whereevery man is listening, hardly daring to draw breath. At last Hunter,rising to his knees, which are all a tremble with excitement, mutters toSergeant Roach, who is still crouching beside him,--
"By Heaven! I believe he'll slip through without being seen."
Hardly has he spoken when far, far out to the southwest two brightflashes leap through the darkness. Before the report can reach themthere comes another, not so brilliant. Then, the ringing bang, bang oftwo rifles, the answering crack of a revolver.
"Quick, men. _Go!_" yells Hunter, and darts headlong through the timberback to the stream. There is a sudden burst of shots and yells andsoldier cheers; a mighty crash and sputter and thunder of hoofs up thestream-bed; a foot dash, yelling like demons, of the men at the west endin support of the mounted charge in the bed of the stream. For a minuteor two the welkin rings with shouts, shots (mainly those of the startledIndians), then there is as sudden a rush back to cover, without a man orhorse hurt or missing. In the excitement and darkness the Cheyennescould only fire wild, but now the night air resounds with taunts andyells and triumphant war-whoops. For full five minutes there is ajubilee over the belief that they have penned in the white soldiersafter their dash for liberty. Then, little by little, the yells andtaunts subside. Something has happened to create discussion in theCheyenne camps, for the crouching soldiers can hear the liveliest kindof a pow-wow far up-stream. What does it mean? Has Ray slipped through,or--have they caught him?
Despite pain and weakness, Wayne hobbles out to where Sergeant Roach isstill watching and asks for tidings.
"I can't be sure, captain; one thing's certain, the lieutenant rode likea gale. I could follow the shots a full half-mile up the valley, wherethey seemed to grow thicker, and then stop all of a sudden in the midstof the row that was made down here. They've either given it up and havea big party out in chase, or else they've got him. God knows which. Ifthey've got him, there'll be a scalp-dance over there in a few minutes,curse them!" And the sergeant choked.
Wayne watched some ten minutes without avail. Nothing further was seenor heard that night to indicate what had happened to Ray except once.Far up the valley he saw a couple of flashes among the bluffs, so didRoach, and that gave him hope that Dandy had carried his master insafety that far at least.
He crept back to the bank and cheered the wounded with the news of whathe had seen. Then another word came in ere long. An old sergeant hadcrawled out to the front, and could hear something of the shouting andtalking of the Indians. He could understand few words only, though hehad lived among the Cheyennes nearly five years. They can barelyunderstand one another in the dark, and use incessant gesticulation tointerpret their own speech; but the sergeant gathered that they wereupbraiding somebody for not guarding a _coulee_, and inferred that someone had slipped past their pickets or they wouldn't be making such arow.
That the Cheyennes did not propose to let the besieged derive muchcomfort from their hopes was soon apparent. Out from the timber up thestream came sonorous voices shouting taunt and challenge, intermingledwith the vilest expletives they had picked up from their cowboyneighbors, and all the frontier slang in the Cheyenne vocabulary.
"Hullo! sogers; come out some more times. We no shoot. Stay there: wecome plenty
quick. Hullo! white chief, come fight fair; soger heap'fraid! Come, have scalp-dance plenty quick. Catch white soldier; eathim heart bime by."
"Ah, go to your grandmother, the ould witch in hell, yemusthard-sthriped convict!" sings out some irrepressible Paddy in reply,and Wayne, who is disposed to serious thoughts, would order silence, butit occurs to him that Mulligan's crude sallies have a tendency to keepthe men lively.
"I can't believe they've got him," he whispers to the doctor. "If theyhad they would soon recognize him as an officer and come bawling outtheir triumph at bagging a chief. His watch, his shoes, his spurs, hisunderclothing, would all betray that he was an officer, though he hasn'ta vestige of uniform. Pray God he is safe!"
Will you follow Ray and see? Curiosity is what lures the fleetest deerto death, and a more dangerous path than that which Ray has taken onerarely follows. Will you try it, reader?--just you and I? Come on, then.We'll see what our Kentucky boy "got in the draw," as he would put it.
Ray's footfall is soft as a kitten's as he creeps out upon the prairie;Dandy stepping gingerly after him, wondering but obedient. For over ahundred yards he goes, until both up- and down-stream he can almost seethe faint fires of the Indians in the timber. Farther out he can hearhoof-beats and voices, so he edges along westward until he comessuddenly to a depression, a little winding "cooley" across the prairie,through which in the early spring the snows are carried off from someravine among the bluffs. Into this he noiselessly feels his way andDandy follows. He creeps along to his left and finds that its generalcourse is from the southwest. He knows well that the best way to watchfor objects in the darkness is to lie flat on low ground so thateverything approaching may be thrown against the sky. His plainscrafttells him that by keeping in the water-course he will be less apt to beseen, but will surely come across some lurking Indians. That heexpects. The thing is to get as far through them as possible beforebeing seen or heard, then mount and away. After another two minutes'creeping he peers over the western bank. Now the fires up-stream can beseen in the timber, and dim, shadowy forms pass and repass. Then closeat hand come voices and hoof-beats. Dandy pricks up his ears and wantsto neigh, but Ray grips his nostrils like a vice, and Dandy desists. Atrapid lope, within twenty yards, a party of half a dozen warriors gobounding past on their way down the valley, and no sooner have theycrossed the gulley than he rises and rapidly pushes on up the dry sandybed. Thank heaven! there are no stones. A minute more and he is crawlingagain, for the hoof-beats no longer drown the faint sound of Dandy'smovements. A few seconds more and right in front of him, not a stone'sthrow away, he hears the deep tones of Indian voices in conversation.Whoever they may be they are in the "cooley" and watching the prairie.They can see nothing of him, nor he of them. Pass them in theten-foot-wide ravine he cannot. He must go back a short distance, make asweep to the east so as not to go between those watchers and the guidingfires, then trust to luck. Turning stealthily he brings Dandy around,leads back down the ravine for some thirty yards, then turns to hishorse, pats him gently one minute, "Do your prettiest for your colors,my boy," he whispers; springs lightly, noiselessly to his back, and atcautious walk comes up on the level prairie, with the timber behind himthree hundred yards away. Southward he can see the dim outline of thebluffs. Westward--once that little _arroya_ is crossed, he knows theprairie to be level and unimpeded, fit for a race; but he needs to makea _detour_ to pass the Indians guarding it, get way beyond them, crossit to the west far behind them, and then look out for stray parties.Dandy ambles lightly along, eager for fun and little appreciating thedanger. Ray bends down on his neck, intent with eye and ear. He feelsthat he has got well out east of the Indian picket unchallenged, whensuddenly voices and hoofs come bounding up the valley from below. Hemust cross their front, reach the ravine before them, and strike theprairie beyond. "Go, Dandy!" he mutters with gentle pressure of leg, andthe sorrel bounds lightly away, circling southwestward under the guidingrein. Another minute and he is at the _arroya_ and cautiouslydescending, then scrambling up the west bank, and then from the darknesscomes savage challenge, a sputter of pony hoofs. Ray bends low and givesDandy one vigorous prod with the spur, and with muttered prayer andclinched teeth and fists he leaps into the wildest race for his life.
Bang! bang! go two shots close behind him. Crack! goes his pistol at adusky form closing in on his right. Then come yells, shots, the uproarof hoofs, the distant cheer and charge at camp, a breathless dash forand close along under the bluffs where his form is best concealed, awhirl to the left into the first ravine that shows itself, and despiteshots and shouts and nimble ponies and vengeful foes, the Sanford colorsare riding far to the front, and all the racers of the reservationscannot overhaul them.