by Zane Grey
“Men, stop arguing,” ordered Bowden. “What can we do?”
“Only one thing. Make Tanner’s Swale,” returned Anderson, tersely. “It’s about five miles. Water there, an’ good cover. We can make a stand. I reckon we’ve time.”
“Anderson, I’m goin’ back with my men,” spoke up Stover, dry-lipped. “Any of you feliars want——”
“You’re what?” shouted Anderson, jumping as if stung.
“I’m goin’ back. Come on, Bill—Zeke,” Stover rejoined, making a stride.
Anderson spun him round like a top. “—— —— —— ——! You got us into this mess. An’ you reckon you’ll leave us, huh?”
“Thet’s what I said.”
“Stover, I’m curious aboot you,” replied Anderson, slowly. “I ain’t so damn shore thet you’re what you say you are.”
“No matter now, we’re turning back. Go on an’ git scalped!”
“Man, you ain’t goin’ back!”
“By Gawd, I am!”
“Not a step…. An’ if you knowed the West you wouldn’t say thet. Else you’re a renegade pardner of them Injuns!”
“Aw hell!” snorted Stover, ashen of face. “Lemme by!”
“You ain’t gettin’ by,” returned the scout, low and hard.
“Out of my way, man!”
“Fellars, give us room,” ordered Anderson.
The circle split on each side, leaving a wide space for the two men. Bowden uttered a feeble protest. Some other freighter called out: “It ain’t no time for us to fight amongst——”
“Anderson, I’ll bore you,” roared Stover, suddenly crooking his right arm. That move spurred the scout into action too swift for the eye. Spurt of red and bellow of gun accompanied it. Stover’s wrench for his gun ceased as quickly and he fell forward suddenly.
“Thar!” rasped out Anderson, fire-eyed and violent, as he wheeled to leap at Stover’s two teamsters. “Drive your wagons out hyar ahaid. Rustle. Or so help me——”
The two men rushed back without a word and leaped upon their wagons.
“Search him, Smith,” ordered Anderson. “Rest of you file out of hyar. We got time to make the Swale.”
Bowden staggered to his own wagon to find Cynthia with her white face covered by her hands.
“Oh, Uncle! How—awful!” she cried.
“Cynthia!—you—saw?” rejoined Bowden, huskily.
“I couldn’t—help it.”
“Damn these crude Westerners!… Girl, I suspect we’ll see worse. Brace up…. We’ve got to fight!”
He climbed aboard and drew his niece within the canvas shelter. Cynthia dropped her hands from a pale but composed face.
“We should have listened to Anderson,” she said, gravely, dark troubled eyes upon her uncle.
The wagon lurched and rolled on. Anderson had resumed his seat and whip. There were wagons ahead and alongside. Gruff shouts and curses attested to the hurry of the teamsters. It was a slight downgrade over hard road. Soon the wagons were rolling and careening. Bowden peered out. The gray bluff rose against the blue sky. He could see the long line of Indian riders. What was this that he had so foolhardily rushed into? Stories of Indian atrocities returned to fill him with dread and remorse. He had eventually needed a sight of hostile savages to bring reality home to him. The wagon jolted over rough places. Dust rose in yellow clouds. Far ahead over the barren prairie a black patch of timber marked the end of the open country. A gap showed between two sharp-flanked ridges. The gray promontory loomed higher.
The sun set a strange sinister red. Bowden’s wagon train had reached the coveted swale and had drawn the fifty-three wagons, two abreast, into a circle in the thick timber. High banks surrounded the swale, reaching above the tops of the trees. A stream ran through the middle of this oval hollow. Oxen and horses had been turned loose down the swale. Grass and willows grew abundantly. Owing to a boxing of the gulch below, the stock could not be driven out at that end. A stampede was here most difficult to effect. A well-armed determined group of men could withstand any ordinary Indian attack. Time and again this swale had resounded to the boom of freighters’ guns and the war-cries of infuriated Indians.
Dusk that followed the sunset had likewise a deep red glow.
“Cook an’ eat an’ drink,” had been Anderson’s order. “For tomorrow ye die! Haw! Haw!… But we might be too busy when mawnin’ comes—if we ever see daylight again.”
Several fires burned brightly and men and women moved noiselessly around them. Children huddled in a group, wide-eyed and silent, watching every move of the men. Bowden sat on a log, his head in his hands. Cynthia helped around the camp fire nearest to her wagon. Before dark the three scouts returned.
“Nary sign or sound of them Injuns,” reported one.
“Vamoosed. I reckon they didn’t see us,” said the second.
Smith, the last in, had been absent from camp since the caravan had arrived at the swale. His face was gray behind his uncut beard. His eyes had a glint.
“Step aside hyar, you fellars,” he whispered, huskily.
Those who heard him moved as one man to a point where Bowden sat upon the log.
“No sense lettin’ the wimmin an’ kids hear,” he said, clearing his throat and surveying the still faces in a halfcircle before him. “I’ve been hyar before… know the lay of land. Climbed thet hill. There’s another swale down the other side. Old stampin’-ground for redskins. But no wagons can git down there…. I heerd the devils before I seen them. Had to crawl a ways over the top—under the brush…. Hyar’s your field-glass, Mr. Bowden. I shore wish I hadn’t had it…. Wal, I’ll bet I seen three hundred ponies. Then, down in the swale, what ’peared like a thousand Injuns. Some of them was war-dancin’. But farther down, where I seen most of the Injuns—they was Kiowas—it struck me kinda strange. What’n’hell was they doin’, I says to myself? Then I remembered the glass. Fust off I spotted white men,—! An’, fellars, what do you reckon they was doin’?”
No one ventured an opinion. Anderson ordered Smith to end their suspense.
“Wal, them white men was dealin’ out likker to the Injuns!” concluded Smith, impressively.
“How’d you know it was drink?” demanded Anderson, hoarsely. “It might have been soup.”
“Shore. I thought of thet. But soup doesn’t make Injuns leapin’, boundin’, dancin’ demons.”
“Some white renegades gittin’ the redskins drunk!” ejaculated Anderson, wiping the sweat off his brow. “It’s been done before.”
“Pike, wouldn’t you reckon thet means they’ll attack us soon?” queried Smith. “Injuns usually wait till just before daybreak.”
“There’s a white man’s hand in this deal,” replied Anderson, ponderingly. “The moon’s about full an’ comin’ up now. Soon as it clears thet bluff it’ll be most as light as day. I reckon then we can expect hell to pop.”
“Anderson, we can pop some hell ourselves,” spoke up a brave man. “We got three wagon-loads of rifles an’ ammunition an——”
“Who’s got thet?” demanded the scout.
“We have—Kelly, Washburn, an’ myself. We didn’t tell Bowden what we was haulin’ when we fell in with his outfit at Council Grove.”
“Wal, fust off thet sounded awful good. But it ain’t so good. We might stand off a big force of Injuns, an’ white outlaws, too, if they fought in the way frontiersmen are used to. But any redskins even half drunk will rush us. They’ll crawl like snakes in the grass. You’ll have to kill them to stop them.”
“These rifles we’re haulin’ are the new Colt’s revolvin’ chamber. Seven shots in two minutes.”
“Ahuh. Let’s deal out aboot three of these guns an’ plenty of ammunition to each man. Put the wimmin an’ kids in the inside wagons. Then all of us, two men together, spread out all around under the wagons an’ lay down to wait. It’s a fight for your lives, men. Our only hope is to keep ’em outside the circle. Think of the little ones an’ their mothers. You never can tell. We�
�ve got one chance in a thousand.”
CHAPTER
4
SOON after Anderson’s last word the moon rose above the dark escarpment, changing the scene magically.
It was a large white full moon, somehow pitiless in its cold brilliance. From the banks above the swale the circle of canvas-covered wagons stood out like silver arcs, and the tents shone as brightly. Shadows of trees fell across them and the few patches of open grassy ground and the open pools of the brook.
Gradually all sounds ceased inside the circle. The freighters, wide awake on guard, lay behind the outside wheels of the first circle of wagons. The night was close and warm. To the east, down across the plains, dark clouds lined the horizon and pale flares of lightning shone fitfully. The horses and oxen that had gazed earlier in the evening, now no longer broke the silence. Not a leaf rustled on the trees. The song of insects died altogether. Nature herself seemed locked in suspense, prophetic of a tragedy.
Before Anderson had placed his men in pairs all around the circle Bowden had approached him, haggard and drawn.
“Scout, if you get my niece and me safely through this night, I’ll reward you handsomely.”
“Bowden, rewards ain’t appealin’ to me none jest now—onless it’s one in heaven,” replied the plainsman, wearily.
“There’s a false bottom under my wagon—full of gold,” whispered Bowden.
“Gold!” ejaculated Anderson, in amazement, either at the fact or the incredible obtuseness of this Easterner.
“Yes, a fortune. I’ll pay——”
“To hell with you an’ your gold, Bowden,” interrupted Anderson, ruthlessly. “Gold can’t buy nothin’ hyar.”
Later, when the men were all in position, Anderson and Smith lay under the wagon outside of Bowden’s big Tullt and Co., No. 1 A. Its owner had chosen to take his stand in the second line under his own wagon, no doubt under the gold so precious to him and so useless here. In the fifty-three men there necessarily had to be one without a partner. Bowden was that man, whether by accident or design.
“Funny aboot some men,” whispered Smith in Anderson’s ear.
“Ha! Aboot as funny as death,” returned the scout. “The sooner his hair is lifted the better I’ll like it. He got us into this deal…. But, my Gawd! I feel sick aboot thet lovely niece of his’n.”
“Too bad. She’s a fine girl. But mebbe——”
“Sssch! Listen.”
A long silence ensued.
“Scout, what’d you think you heerd?” finally whispered Smith.
“Stone rattlin’ down.”
“Wal, it’s aboot time. Moon must be up a half-hour by now.”
“More’n thet. An’ I’m up a stump aboot this ambush. It ain’t runnin’ true to form.”
“Pike, hadn’t I better crawl back there an’ tell Bowden to lie still. He’s movin’ aboot.”
“I see him. An’ you can bet some sharp-eyed Kiowa will see him. Let him alone, Smith.”
“My turn to hear somethin’,” whispered Smith, tensely. “Listen…. Is thet an owl?”
From the opposite bank of the swale came the hoot of an owl.
“Uhuh. Damn nice done if it’s a Kiowa. Some of these plains Injuns can imitate any critter in natoor…. Aha! Get that. Over on this hyar side…. Smithy, you can gamble on two red owls around, anyhow.”
“Injun owls?”
“Shore.”
“Hadn’t I better crawl along the line an’ tell the men? Most of these men wouldn’t know an owl from a canary.”
“Wal, I don’t know as it’d do any good. I reckon all of them will fight, onless Bowden. He might, too, if he got mad.”
Another silence between the two frontiersmen intervened. When a faint rustle of dry grass or leaves came to strained ears, or a far-away rattling of a pebble, or indistinct nameless sounds that might have been imagination only, Smith would nudge Anderson, or that worthy would nudge his partner.
Meanwhile the moon climbed and the silver radiance intensified. Nowhere could the solitude and loneliness of the Great Plains have been more pronounced than at this seldom-visited Tanner’s Swale on the Dry Trail. The vast black shadow under the bluff seemed to harbor the devils that lay in wait upon the gold-seeker, the trapper, the pioneer, the freighter, all of the adventurous souls who braved the West.
“Wal, I wish somethin’ would start,” whispered Smith, restlessly. He could not lie still or keep silent.
Anderson, however, kept his true state to himself. He had faced hazards often, to come out unscathed in most instances. But the oppression of his heart, the cold ache in the marrow of his bones, the settled, somber, nameless proximity of a strange thing about to be—these were different from all sensation and consciousness that had ever before been his experience. He knew. He was ready. He felt grim, bitter, fierce. Better and braver men than he had bitten the dust of these plains’ trails.
“Anderson, wouldn’t you like to cut the guts out of thet renegade who must be boss of this ambush?” went on Smith, as if the longing had burst from him.
“I shore would…. Must be a Rebel. These are war times, Smith. An’ ninety out of a hundred caravans are Northerners.”
Smith gave his companion a sharp tug. “Look!” he pointed up through an opening in the tree tops. Above the black rim of the bluff and sharp against the sky showed a lean wild form.
“Injun!… But don’t waste your powder. Thet’s farther than it looks.”
“I see another… Movin’ along… There! Comin’ down…. Out of sight!”
“Shore…. Wal, it won’t be long now.”
“Reckon we’d better be peerin’—— ——sharp on the ground.”
“Ahuh. I’d say. An’ up in the trees, too. But thet bright moon makes black shadows.’
An instant later Anderson heard a slight sound outside and to the right. That was the belt of cover which not only protected the freighters but also the besiegers. It was grass, brush, logs, and moonlit patches alternating with dense shade. Under the wagons, too, were both bright and dark spots, one of the latter of which the two freighters occupied. Bowden like a hyena in a cage, prowled on hands and knees under his wagon.
Anderson heard a slightly sliddery sound. He lay flat on his stomach, rifle extended. Suddenly a red dash belched out of the shade, CRASH! A heavy report of a buffalo gun almost cracked his ear-drum. But swift as thought he aimed a rifle length back of where that red flash had emerged and shot. Then Anderson flattened himself in the slight depression where he lay. Simultaneously with this action pealed out a mortal cry. Bowden began to flop and thump around under his wagon like a beheaded turkey. A low scream of terror and anguish broke from Bowden’s wagon. Bowden ceased his violent commotion. Then followed a singular rattle of boot heels against the wagon wheel. It mounted high, then stopped.
Terrible moments ensued. The scout expected a roar of rifles, a hideous bursting of war-cries. But absolute silence prevailed. Smith, on his left side, squirmed closer till he touched him.
“Gawd Almighty!… Thet Bowden should be first!…
“Keep your head down,” whispered Anderson, fiercely. “Listen!”
Some kind of sound caught the scout’s sensitive ear. He located it near the spot at which he had fired. It resembled a convulsive shuddering contact of something with the earth. He had almost recognized its nature when a hollow gulp, followed by a sound he knew—the death rattle in the throat—made certain the fact that his bullet had found the life of one of the ambushers.
Anderson felt a deadly certainty that this insupportable silence could not last. Bowden’s train was surrounded, no doubt, by circle on circle of savages, backed up by crafty sharp-shooting white men on the banks. Still that silence did last. What was holding the horde of Indians from their onslaught?
“Bang! Bang! Bang!” Shots from ambush opened the engagement Anderson had expected. He heard the whistle and thud of heavy lead bullets. One passed closely over his head, the others struck under the wagon. Th
en the whizz of arrows and the peculiar quivering thud of their impact on wood. Bang! Bang! Bang! These shots from back in the timber indicated that whoever fired them was behind cover. Flares of light showed, but no red spurts of flame. Anderson withheld his fire. “—— ——shootin’ low!” hissed Smith. “Thet arrer skinned my ear. …Aha! There go the Colts.”
A volley burst from the other side of the circle, and intermingled with it were slighter reports. The battle had begun, Anderson both saw and smelled burnt powder. Down the line ahead of him a freighter opened up. Red flares showed against the black shadow. From high on the bluff pealed down a prolonged yell, unmistakably an Indian war-cry, hideous, piercing, wonderful in its potency. It inflamed Anderson to the point of rushing out to kill, kill, kill and hasten the ghastly end he realized. But he gritted his teeth and shot low, back of a red flash. From his left then, beyond his partner, came the crack of pistols, the boom of rifles, a hollow yell that did not issue from the throat of a white man, and answering musket-shots. This flurry quieted down.
The next quarter for Anderson to hear from was the corner of circle that Dietrich and Walling had charge of. Beginning with a single report, followed by another, then several, this engagement welled to a solid roar of gun-shots. Anderson’s fears were thus confirmed. The train was surrounded and had been attacked on four sides.
“Pull thet arrer out of my shoulder,” whispered Smith. “Right side——stickin’ in my collar-bone—— ——that redskin!”
The scout laid down his rifle and, careful to keep flat, he felt around to get hold of his comrade. Indeed there was an arrow in him, and deep at that. When Anderson wrenched it out Smith groaned.
“I’d better bind thet up” whispered Anderson, feeling for his scarf.
“Hell! Sooner the better!”
“You’re shore bleedin’ like a stuck pig, man.” Anderson got the scarf inside Smith’s coat and under his arm. He then pulled it tight and knotted it above the shoulder.
“Zip… Reckon thet one took a lock of my har. Wal, the less in my scalp for some murderin’ Kiowa.”
“Kill thet—!” whispered Smith. “He’s crawlin’ up. …There!”