by Zane Grey
He stood an instant gazing down, as if he had buried the best of his life. Then he laughed, grim and hard. “There’s my gold! If any man lives through this, he can have it!”
Bill Horn divined that he would never live through it. He who had slaved for gold and had risked all for it cared no more. Gripping his rifle, he turned to await the inevitable.
Moments of awful suspense passed. Nothing but the sodden beating of hearts came to the ears of the fugitives—ears that strained to hear the stealthy approach of the red foe—ears that throbbed prayerfully for the tramp of troopers’ horses. But only silence ensued—a horrible silence, more nerve-racking than the sight of swift sure death.
Then out of the gray gloom burst jets of red flame, and rifles cracked, and the air suddenly filled with hideous clamor. The men began to shoot at gliding shadows, grayer than the gloom, and every shot brought a volley in return. Smoke mingled with the gloom. In the slight intervals between rifle shots there were swift rustling sounds and sharp thuds from arrows. Then a shrill strife of sound became continuous, from all around, and closed in upon the doomed caravan. It swelled and rolled away, and again there was silence.
Chapter Five
Neale had not been wrong when he told the engineers that once they had a line surveyed across the gorge and faced the steep slopes of the other side, their troubles would be magnified. They found themselves deeper in the Black Hills, a range of mountains that had given General Lodge great difficulty upon former exploring trips, and over which a pass had not yet been discovered. The old St. Vrain and Laramie Trail wound along the base of these slopes and through the valleys. But that trail was not possible for a railroad. A pass must be found—a pass that would give a grade of ninety feet to the mile. These mountains had short slopes and they were high.
It turned out that the line as surveyed through ravines and across the gorge had to be abandoned. The line would have to go over the hills. To that end the camp was moved east again to the first slopes of the Black Hills; from there the engineers began to climb. They reached the base of the mountains where they appeared to be halted for good and all. The second line, as far as it went, overlooked the Laramie Trail, which fact was proof that the old trail finders had as keen eyes as engineers.
With a large band of hostile Sioux watching their movements, the engineer corps found it necessary to have the troops close at hand all the time. The surveyors climbed the ridges while the soldiers kept them in sight from below. Day after day this futile search for a pass went on. Many of the ridges promised well, only to end in impassable cliffs or breaks or ascents too steep. There were many slopes and they all looked alike. It took hard riding and hard climbing. The chief and his staff were in despair. Must their great project fail because of a few miles of steep ascent? They would not give up.
The vicinity of Cheyenne Pass seemed to offer encouragement. Camp was made in the valley on a creek. From here observations were taken. One morning the chief with his subordinates and a scout ascended the creek, and then the pass to the summit. Again the old St. Vrain and Laramie Trail lay in sight. And again the troops rode along it with the engineers above.
The chief with his men rode on and up farther than usual and farther than they ought to have gone unattended.
Once the scout halted and gazed intently across the valley. “Smoke signals over thar,” he said.
The engineers looked long, but none of them saw any smoke. They moved on. But the scout called them back.
“Thet bunch of redskins has split on us. Fust thing we’ll run into some of them.”
It was Neale’s hawk eye that first sighted Indians. “Look! Look!” he cried, in great excitement, as he pointed with shaking finger.
Down a grassy slope of a ridge Indians were riding, evidently to head off the engineers, to get between them and the troops.
“Wal, we’re in fer it now,” declared the scout. “We can’t git back the way we come up.”
The chief gazed coolly at the Indians, and then at the long ridge sloping away from the summit. He had been in tight places before.
“Ride!” was his order.
“Let’s fight!” cried Neale.
The band of eight men was well mounted and well armed, and, if imperative, could have held off the Sioux for a time. But General Lodge and the scout headed across a little valley and up a higher ridge, from which they expected to sight the troops. They rode hard and climbed fast, but it took a quarter of an hour to gain the ridge top. Sure enough, the troops were in sight, but far away. And the Sioux were cutting across to get in front.
It was a time for quick judgment. The scout said they could not get down over the ridge and the chief decided they would follow along it. So they did. The going got to be hard and rough. One by one the men dismounted to lead their horses. Neale, who rode a mettlesome bay, could scarcely keep up.
“Take mine!” called Larry Red King as he turned to Neale.
“Red, I’ll handle this stupid beast or . . .”
“Wal, you ain’t handlin’ him,” interrupted King. “Hosses is my job, you know.” Red took the bridle from Neale and in one moment the balky horse recognized a master arm.
“By heaven, we’ve got to hurry!” called Neale.
It did seem that the Indians would head them off at least. Neale and King labored over the rocky ground as best they could and by dint of hard effort came up with their party. The Indians were quartering the other ridge, riding as if on level ground. The ridge grew rougher. Baxter’s horse slipped and lamed his right foreleg. Henney’s saddle turned, which accident lost valuable time. All the men drew their rifles. And at every dip of ground they expected to come to a break that would make a stand inevitable.
From one point on the ridge they had a good view of the troops.
“Signal!” ordered the chief.
They yelled and shot and waved hats and scarves. No use—the soldiers kept moving in at snail’s pace far below.
“On . . . down the ridge!” was the order.
“Wal, General, thet way looks bad to me,” objected the scout.
King shoved his lean brown hand between them. There was a flame in his flashing blue glance as it swept the slowly descending ridge.
“Judgin’ the lay of land is my job,” he said in his cool way. “We’ll git down heah or not at all.”
Neale was sore, lame, and angry as well. He kept gazing across at the Sioux. “Let’s stop . . . and fight,” he panted. “We can . . . whip . . . that bunch.”
“We may have to fight, but not yet,” replied the chief. “Come on.”
They scrambled on over rocky places, up and down steep banks. Here and there were stretches where it was possible to ride, and over these they made better time. The Indians fell out of sight under the side of the ridge and this fact was disquieting, for no one could tell how soon they would show up again or where. This spurred the men to sterner efforts.
Meanwhile the sun was setting and the predicament of the engineers grew more serious. A shout from Neale, who held up the rear, warned all that the Indians had come up on the ridge behind them and now were in straightaway pursuit. Thereupon General Lodge ordered his men to face about with rifles ready. This move checked the Sioux. They halted out of range.
“They’re waitin’ fer dark to set in,” said the scout.
“Come on! We’ll get away yet,” said the chief grimly.
They went on, and darkness began to fall about them. This increased both difficulty and danger. On the other hand it enabled them to try to signal the troops with fire. One of them would hurry ahead and build a signal fire while the others held back to check the Indians if they appeared. And at length their signals were answered by the troops. Thus encouraged, the little band of desperate men plunged on down the slope, and just when night set in black—an hour that would have precipitated the Indian attack—the troops met the engineers on the slope. The Indians faded away into the gloom without firing a shot. There was a general rejoicing. Neale, h
owever, complained that he would rather have fought them.
“Wal, I shore was achin’ fer trouble,” drawled his faithful ally, King.
The flagman Casey removed his black pipe to remark: “All thet cloimb without a foight!”
General Lodge’s first word to Colonel Dillon of the troops was evidently inspired by Casey’s remark.
“Colonel, did you have steep work getting up to us?”
“Yes, indeed, straight up out of the valley,” was the rejoinder.
But General Lodge did not go back to camp by this short cut down the valley. He kept along the ridge and it led for miles slowly down to the plain. There in the starlight he faced his assistants with singular fire and earnestness.
“Men, we’ve had a bad scare and a hard jaunt, but we’ve found our pass over the Black Hills. Tomorrow we’ll run a line up that long ridge. We’ll name it Sherman Pass . . . Thanks to those red devils!”
* * * * *
On the following morning Neale was awakened from a heavy dreamless sleep by a hard dig in the ribs.
“Neale . . . air you daid?” Larry Red King was saying. “Wake up! An’ listen to thet.”
Neale heard the clear ringing notes of a bugle call. He rolled out of his blankets. “What’s up, Red?” he cried, reaching for his boots.
“Wal, I reckon them Injuns,” drawled King.
It was just daylight. They found camp astir—troopers running for horses, saddles, guns.
“Red, you get our horses and I’ll see what’s up!” cried Neale.
The cowboy lumbered away, hitching at his belt. Neale ran forward into camp. He encountered Lieutenant Leslie, whom he knew well, and who told him a scout had come in with news of a threatened raid, and Colonel Dillon had ordered out a detachment of troopers
“I’m going!” shouted Neale. “Where’s that scout?” Neale soon descried a buckskin-clad figure and he made toward it. The man, evidently a trapper or hunter, had a long brown rifle, and he had a powder horn and bullet pouch slung over his shoulder. There was a knife in his belt. Neale liked this type of Westerner, having met a good many since his advent beyond the Missouri. He went directly up to the man.
“My name’s Neale,” he said. “Can I be of any help?”
Then he encountered penetrating gray eyes.
“My name’s Slingerland,” replied the other, and he offered his hand. “Are you an officer?”
“No. I’m a surveyor. But I can ride and shoot. I’ve a cowboy with me . . . a Texan. He’ll go. What’s happened?”
“Wal, I ain’t sure yet. But I fear the wust. I got wind of some Sioux thet was trailin’ some prairie schooners up in the hills. I warned the boss . . . told him to break camp an’ run. Then I came fer the troops. But the troops had changed camp an’ I jest found them. Reckon we’ll be too late.”
“Was it a caravan?” inquired Neale, intensely interested.
“Six wagons. Only a few men. Two wimmen. An’ one girl.”
“Girl!” exclaimed Neale.
“Yes. I reckon she was about sixteen. A pretty girl with big soft eyes. I offered to take her up behind me on my hoss. An’ they all wanted her to come. But she wouldn’t . . . I hate to think . . .”
Slingerland did not finish his thought aloud. Just then King rode up leading Neale’s horse. Slingerland eyed the lithe cowboy.
“Howdy,” drawled King. He did not seem curious or eager, and his cool easy reckless air was a sharp contrast to Neale’s fiery daring.
“Red, you got the rifles, I see,” said Neale.
“Shore, an’ I rustled some biscuits.”
In a few moments the troops were mounted and ready. Slingerland led them up the valley at a rapid trot and soon started to climb. When he reached the top, he worked up for a mile, and then, crossing over, went down into another valley. Up and down he led, over ridge after ridge, until a point was reached where the St. Vrain and Laramie Trail could be seen in the valley below. From here he led along the top of the ridge, and, just as the sun rose over the hills, he pointed down to the spot where the caravan had been encamped when he had warned them. Soon he descended into this valley. There in the trail were fresh tracks of horses.
“We ain’t fur behind, but I reckon fur enough to be too late,” he said. And he clenched a big fist.
On this level trail he led at a gallop with the troops behind in a clattering roar. They made short work of that valley. Then rougher ground hindered speedy advance.
Presently Slingerland sighted something that made him start. It proved to be a charred skeleton of a prairie schooner. The oxen were nowhere to be seen. And not far beyond blankets and camp utensils littered the trail. Still farther on, the broad wheel tracks sheered off the road, where the hurried drivers had missed the way in the dark. This was open undulating ground, rock-strewn and overgrown with brush. A ledge of rock, a few scraggy trees, and more black charred remains of wagons marked the final scene of the massacre.
Neale was the first man who dismounted and King was the second. They had outstripped the more cautious troopers.
“My Gawd,” breathed Larry.
Neale gripped his rifle with fierce hands and strode forward between two of the burned wagons. Naked mutilated bodies, bloody and ghastly, lay in horrible positions. They had been scalped.
Slingerland rode up with the troops, and all dismounted, cursing and muttering.
Colonel Dillon ordered a search for anything to identify the dead. There was nothing. All had been burned or taken away. Of the camp implements, mostly destroyed, there were two shovels left, one with a burned handle. These were used by the troopers to dig graves.
Neale had at first been sickened by the ghastly spectacle. He walked aside a little way and sat down upon a rock. His face was wet with clammy sweat. A gnawing rage seemed to affect him in the pit of his stomach. This was his first experience with the fiendish work of the savages. A whirl of thoughts filled his mind. Suddenly he fancied he heard a low moan. He started violently.
“Well, I’m hearing things,” he muttered soberly. It made him so nervous that he got up and walked back to where the troopers were digging. He saw the body of a woman lowered into a grave and the sight reminded him of what Slingerland had said. He saw the scout searching around and he went over to him. “Have you found the girl?” he asked.
“Not yet. I reckon the devils made off with her. They’d take her, if she happened to be alive.”
“God! I hope she’s dead.”
“Wal, son, so does Al Slingerland.”
More searching failed to find the body of the girl. She was given up as lost.
“I’ll find out if she was took captive,” said Slingerland. “This Sioux band has been friendly with me.”
“Man, they’re on the warpath,” rejoined Dillon.
“Wal, I’ve traded with them same Sioux when they was on the warpath . . . This massacre sure is awful, an’ the Sioux will hev to be exterminated. But they hev their wrongs. An’ Injuns is Injuns.”
Slingerland’s talk was not appreciated by his listeners.
Slabs of rock were laid upon the graves. Then the troopers rode away.
Neale and Slingerland and King were the last to mount. And it was at this moment that Neale either remembered the strange low moan or heard it again. He reined in his horse. “I’m going back!” he called.
“What fer?” Slingerland rejoined.
King wheeled his mount and trotted back to Neale.
“Red, I’m not satisfied,” said Neale, and told his friend what he thought he had heard.
“Boy, you’re out of yur haid!” expostulated King.
“Maybe I am. But I’m going back. Are you coming?”
“Shore,” replied King, with his easy good nature.
Slingerland sat his horse and watched while he waited. The dust cloud that marked the troops drew farther away.
Neale dismounted, threw his bridle, and looked searchingly around. But King, always more comfortable on horseback than on land
, kept his saddle. Suddenly Neale felt inexplicably drawn. Still he heard nothing except the wind in the few scraggy trees. All the ground in and around the scene of the massacre had been gone over; there was no need to go over it again. Neale had no tangible thing upon which to base his strange feeling. Yet, absurd or not, he refused to admit it was fancy or emotion. He knew he had extremes of emotion. But this matter was different. Some voice had called him. He swore it. If he did not make sure, he would always be haunted. So with clear, deliberate eyes he surveyed the scene. Then he strode for the ledge of rock.
Tufts of sage grew close at its base. He advanced among them. The surface of the rock was uneven—and low down a crack showed. At that instant a slow sobbing gasping intake of breath electrified Neale.
“Red . . . come here!” he yelled in a voice that made the cowboy jump.
Neale dropped to his knees and parted the tufts of sage. Lower down the crack opened up. On the ground just inside that crack he saw the gleam of a mass of chestnut hair. His first flashing thought then, before he even considered possible life saved, was that here was a scalp the red devils did not get.
Then King was kneeling beside him—bending forward. “It’s a girl!” he ejaculated.
“Yes . . . the one Slingerland told me about . . . the girl with big eyes,” replied Neale. He put a hand softly on her head. It was warm. Her hair felt silky and the touch sent a quiver over him. Probably she was dying.
Slingerland came riding up. “Wal, boys, what hev you found?” he asked curiously.
“That girl,” replied Neale.
This reply brought Slingerland sliding out of his saddle.
Neale hesitated a moment, then, reaching into the aperture, he got his hands under the girl’s arms and carefully drew her out upon the grass. She lay face down, her hair a tumbled mass, her body inert. Neale’s quick eyes searched for bloodstains, but found none.