The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  They might shoot him down, wheel and dash for the woods from which they had emerged but a short time before; but they would be liable to pursuit, and, when a white borderer takes to the trail, he can be as persistent as the red man himself, though, as I have said, had they been eager to shoot the boy, they would not have been stopped by that knowledge. But they saw that he had his loaded rifle leveled at them: each Winnebago probably imagined he would be the special target. Their guns were still in their hands and no doubt the moment any one attempted to raise his weapon the white boy would fire.

  The distance was so short that there could be no miss. It followed therefore that the cost of an assault upon the lad would be the death of one of the Winnebagos, and none of the three could know that he would not be the victim.

  The cost was more than they were willing to pay, for it must be borne in mind that not only was the death of one of their number considered assured, but it was not at all unlikely that such a daring youngster would be able to do something with the gun at his feet before succumbing.

  But it is not to be supposed that three mounted Indians would deliberately ride away from a single youth through fear alone,—that is, not until they had tried to circumvent him by strategy. And so it came to pass that within the same minute that Fred raised his rifle, the Winnebago who sat in the middle waved his hand toward him as a sign of comity. At the same time he called out: “Yenghese! Long Knife! Friend—friend—friend!”

  But Fred knew too much to be deceived. He was the master of more vigorous English, and, without lowering his gun, he called out:

  “Keep off or I’ll fire! If you ride another step, I’ll let daylight through you!”

  As if to add emphasis to his words, he gently swayed his rifle from right to left, so that it covered each warrior in turn. There was an involuntary ducking of the heads, and the Indians, seeing that nothing was to be done without large risk, opened out—two riding to the right and one to the left. Thus they passed by Fred without lessening the space between him and them.

  After all, this was the most trying moment to the youth, for it diverted his attention in the most exasperating manner. The three horsemen were in his field of vision, but it was hard to keep watch upon each. He suspected the maneuver was for the purpose of taking him off his guard, but it is doubtful whether such was the case, for there was something in the grim pose of the youthful hunter which warned them that it was unsafe to trifle with him.

  When the horsemen were opposite each other and on a line with Fred, he suddenly wheeled with great quickness and held his piece still leveled so that he could shift it from one to the other the moment needed. On their part, the Winnebagos watched him with cat-like vigilance, keeping their heads turned until they came together a hundred feet beyond, and between him and the wood which he had just left. There they stopped, their position such that the sides of their animals were turned toward the lad, whom they continued to view with an interest that it is safe to say they had never felt in any other of his race.

  It was tiresome to hold his heavy rifle leveled, but Fred stuck to it, for he knew how much depended on the next minute or two.

  It looked for a time as though the Winnebagos had decided not to leave without a demonstration, but finally they moved off with their backs toward Fred, and their horses on a walk.

  “How nicely I could pick one of them off,” said he to himself, as the broad shoulders, with the black hair streaming over them, moved gently up and down with the motion of the animals, and ranged themselves beside each other like three dusky targets. “I could hit him or him or him” he added, shifting his aim from one to the other in turn, “and it’s because they know it that they are afraid to risk a shot. If one of them had made a motion to take aim, I would have let fly, and I wouldn’t have missed either. Then I would have done something with Terry’s gun.”

  These thoughts had hardly found expression, when the middle Winnebago suddenly turned on his horse, raised his gun and discharged it at Fred Linden. The instant he did so, he and his two companions threw themselves forward on their animals and dashed off on a dead run for the wood.

  Had the warrior been less hurried, it is probable he would have struck the astonished youth, who plainly heard the pinge of the bullet as it almost touched his ear. His own arms were beginning to ache because of their constrained position, but he took as careful aim as possible and fired at the savage who fired at him.

  More than that, he hit him. A screeching yawp broke the stillness, the warrior half straightened up on his steed, seemed to sway, and would have fallen had not one of his companions caught his shoulder and supported him for a minute or two. The horses were brought down to a walk, and finally came to a standstill, though they halted at a point beyond rifle shot.

  “I hope I finished him,” muttered Fred Linden, with a snap of his eyes; “they are seeking my life, and, if I could have my way, I would tumble every one of them off his horse.”

  Never was the value of two rifles shown more strikingly than at this time. The moment his gun was discharged—had he possessed no other—Fred would have been helpless, and the Winnebagos would have been upon him before he could reload his piece; for that was in the days of flint-locks, when the charge had to be rammed down and the powder poured into the pan before the weapon was ready for use. It may be said, however, that under such circumstances he would not have fired.

  But before the horsemen could wheel about, they would have found the youth standing at “present arms” precisely as before, and the situation unchanged, except that one of their own number had been disabled, and to that extent (which was considerable) the gain was on the side of the lad.

  There could be little doubt that the stricken Winnebago was hit hard, though after some attention from his companions, he was able to sit his horse. The three warriors seemed to have lost all interest in Fred, for a few minutes later they rode off at a walk, without, so far as he could judge, once bestowing a look upon him.

  It struck him as singular that after his stratagem, by which he believed he gave the impression that he had a party of friends on the margin of the wood, that the Winnebagos should guide their horses to the very point. After all, it began to look as though he was not so successful in that respect as he imagined, and that it was his own courageous demeanor that for the time had saved his life.

  “I am glad they have ridden off in that direction,” said the youth to himself, as he saw them carefully enter the wood, where they were lost from sight; “for if they had ridden the other way they would have bothered me in my hunt for Terry.”

  CHAPTER XXX

  Terry Finishes His Ride

  That ride of Terry Clark on the back of the buffalo bull was one which he could never forget had he wished to do so, which of course he did not. The first thrill, when the beast dashed off on a dead run, and the wind began blowing by the ears of the lad, was that of pleasure. He was having an exciting ride, and, as good fortune would have it, the animal was bearing him straight along the trail toward the camp in the Ozarks.

  “If the baste will show enough consideration for me,” thought the lad, “to kape up his coorse for twinty miles or so, he will give me a good lift toward raichin’ the folks, though sorry I am that I haven’t Fred alongside or rather behind me.”

  The bull being on a run, his progress consisted of a series of quick jumps, which jarred the rider so much that had he not kept a good grip upon the shaggy mane, he would have been unseated. The hair of the animal was so long that he was able to make his hold secure, though he had a constant fear that he would stumble, in which case the rider was sure to take a tremendous header that was likely to break his neck.

  Terry could feel the throb, as it may be called, of the engine. His position was such that his heels touched the body close to the shoulders of the bull. At that point there was an alternate swelling and sinking of the muscles, as the animal alighted on his feet and leaped away again, which Terry felt as plainly as if he had held his open ha
nd on the shoulder. Then, too, the bull had a peculiar sidelong motion, as though some of his muscles occasionally got out of “gear,” and the action of the hind legs did not “dovetail,” so to speak, with that of the fore legs.

  Nothing escaped the eye of Terry during those exciting minutes. He thought the head of the bull was held unusually low, but he noticed the short, thick horns, curving outward and then coming over until they ended within a few inches of each other, and he was sure that amid the dusty frontispiece of the immense area of skull bone he could see where his useless bullet had struck and glanced off; once or twice he caught a whiff of the breath of the buffalo, redolent with the not unpleasant odor of grass, and now and then he could hear his fierce snort. It seemed to Terry that the animal turned his head partly to one side as if to get a view of the strange creature on his back. Doubtless such was the fact, and, after each sight, it seemed that he bounded away with more terror than before.

  Brief as was the time taken by the bull in galloping across the prairie, it allowed Terry to see every thing. As soon as he felt sure of retaining his seat, he glanced at the other animals, all of which were galloping in the same direction as the bull. Some of them were so fleet that they passed him, but he retained his place near the middle of the herd.

  The buffalo, or properly the bison, is a stupid animal, but a peculiar fact about the small drove amid which Terry Clark was riding was that a number noticed him and in their way tried to push him off. They would dash up beside the bull with head lowered, and rub their horns against him in the effort to reach the rider and unseat him.

  “The only way in which ye can do that,” said Terry, when he saw what they were trying to do, “is to climb up and take a saat behind me. Thin, if ye’ll lock yer arms about me nick ye may persuade me to stip down, but ye can’t do much while on the ground.”

  The buffaloes were too dull of intellect to realize their helplessness in this respect, and they continued crowding close to the bull until they must have caused him some discomfort. This crowding was of such a marked character that, as you will remember, it was noticed by Fred Linden as far off as he stood.

  Once or twice the rider had one of his feet slightly jammed, but he was able to lift it out of danger without imperiling his position. The dust caused by the hoofs of the animals did not rise until his steed had passed beyond, so that he suffered nothing therefrom and every thing in front was in plain view. The speed of the beast, however, caused some inconvenience, for the wind made him blink, and it was only by half closing his eyes that he could peer out between the lids and see clearly.

  Before the other side of the prairie was reached, Terry Clark began asking himself the natural and important question,—How is this to end?

  The same theories that I have mentioned as occurring to Fred Linden passed through his brain also. If the bull should dash among the trees at that headlong pace, the rider could not retain his place for more than a minute or two; if he was wounded enough to cause him to give out and fall to the ground, he would be trampled upon by those behind and Terry of course would share his fate.

  Brief as was the time given for thought, the youth considered a half dozen plans. He glanced over his shoulder and was alarmed to see how many animals were in the rear of him. He asked himself whether he could not slip backward, grasp the swinging tail, and dropping to the ground, keep his feet while he held fast to the caudal appendage, and pulling the other way, act as a brake upon the progress of the animal until all the others had passed on. Then he would “release brakes,” and allow the bull to continue his career as suited himself.

  But he was compelled to admit that the plan was not feasible. The bull was going at such a pace that the rider would be sure to lose his balance the moment he struck the ground, and, though he might still hold fast to the tail and retard the progress of the beast, he was sure of getting in the way of his heels.

  “If his tail was a little longer,” reflected Terry, “I would try the same, but I’m afeard I would git mixed up with his hind hoofs and things wouldn’t be agraaable.”

  So that plan was abandoned.

  “If he goes in among the trees, I’ll lean forward on me face until he knocks out his brains—that is, if he has any—whin I’ll dismount.”

  That was all well enough if the bull should happen to follow the programme, but the prospect of his doing so was too remote to afford much comfort to the youth.

  “I guess I’ll kaap erict like a gintleman,” he concluded, “and as soon as a chance comes for me to jump off, I’ll go.”

  Terry had no thought but that the buffaloes would dash among the trees and continue their flight in the same headlong fashion, as long as they could; but, to his amazement, the head of the drove suddenly swerved to the left and the bull followed.

  “Be the powers, but this will never do,” was his conclusion; “this perarie may raach all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, and the bull doesn’t act as if he meant to stop before he raaches there; I’m goin’ to make other arrangements.”

  He kept his seat until the drove had gone several hundred yards with unabated speed. So far as he could judge, the bull was holding his own with the rest: whatever wound he had received was of no account, so far as its immediate effect was seen. The others continued crowding up as before, but Terry did not mind them. He yelled and shook his head in the hope of frightening them off so as to give him the room he wished in order to make his venture, but they did not mind him. The odd crackling of their hoofs, the rattling of their horns as they struck together, and their occasional bellowing, made a din amid which no shout that he could raise would gain any consideration whatever.

  “There’s one thing sartin,” said Terry, compressing his lips and showing by his action that he had made up his mind to end the business one way or the other. “I’m tired of this crowd, and I ain’t goin’ to spind any more time with it.”

  Between him and the wood were seven or eight buffaloes, crowding close in their idiotic fashion, as though to push off the rider. Terry recalled the day, early in spring, when he ran rapidly across the creek near his home, by stepping upon the surging masses of ice, one after the other, and leaping off again before they had time to respond to his weight. He resolved to try something of the kind.

  Holding fast to the wiry mane with his hands, he drew his feet up under him, balanced himself a moment, then straightened up, and, turning quickly, stepped upon the back of the bull that was immediately alongside. Before that creature could know what had been done, the pressure was removed and the weight of the lad was borne by a cow which was his next neighbor.

  Terry Clark ran as nimbly as a monkey across the backs of the intervening buffaloes, until his foot rested on the one nearest the wood. A slight slip at the moment of stepping upon his back disconcerted him so that he could not recover himself. His intention was to land on the ground with his face in the same direction he was going. Then, even if he could not keep his feet, he could run with such speed that his fall would not hurt him; but unfortunately as he struck the ground he faced the other way, and before he could check himself, he went over backward with such force that he was knocked senseless.

  After all, the fall may be considered a fortunate one, for he was not seriously hurt and soon recovered himself. He had received a severe shock, but in a short time he sat up and stared about him. Recalling what had taken place, he looked in the direction of the herd of buffaloes. None of them was in sight, but a dark heap a short distance away showed where the bull on which he had ridden had given out and fallen to the ground. He was wounded more seriously than at first seemed to be the case. Had Terry stayed on his back a few brief minutes longer, he would have gone down with him and been trampled to death by the hoofs of those in the rear.

  “I think I’m all here, as me cousin used to remark after he had enj’yed himself at Donnybrook Fair,” said Terry, rising carefully to his feet, swinging his arms and kicking out his legs. He had been violently jarred, and he was alarmed by a dizzin
ess that caused him to sit down again. But he recovered quickly, and soon was as well as ever. He turned to the left and passed among the trees, where, despite the coolness of the day, he felt the relief of the shade thus afforded him.

  “I s’pose Fred will be jealous whin he finds out what a foine ride I have had,” he added, his old sense of humor coming back; “but all he has to do is to catch a buffalo bull and git on his back: but I don’t think he’ll forgit the same right away.”

  Looking over the prairie, he saw the figure of his friend walking in almost a direct line toward him, though he was so far off that he was not distinctly visible, partly because of the dust which still lingered in the air.

  Fred’s encounter with the Winnebago horsemen had taken place and ended while Terry lay senseless on the ground, so that the latter had no suspicion of the exciting occurrence.

  Terry ought to have walked out on the plain, swung his hat and cheered his friend; but that would have been contrary to his nature. He kept out of sight among the trees, until Fred was quite close, when he broke into vigorous whistling.

  Fred heard the familiar sound, stopped short, looked about him and then burst into laughter as he saw his comrade. The next moment they ran together, shook hands and mutually congratulated each other, as you will admit they had full warrant in doing.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  The Devil’s Punch Bowl

  It was a thrilling story which Terry Clark had to tell about his ride on the back of the buffalo, but, after all, it was not so stirring as the experience which befell Fred Linden, and the Irish lad declared that it surpassed his own in every respect.

  “Thim Winnebagos are gittin’ altogether too plintiful,” said he; “whin they come on horseback as will as on foot, there must be more than we can take care of, though you managed the three as well as I could have done the same mesilf. And so ye hit one of ’em whin ye touched off yer gun, did ye?”