by Zane Grey
“Yes, but it’d have been better to wait longer, till you got the right men.”
“Too late now. I’ll make the best of it, an’ try to hold my temper.”
“Good. Let’s turn in,” replied Follonsbee, and rose to go toward the tents.
Jett spread the fire and followed him. Soon the camp appeared dark and deserted.
Molly crouched there under the big elm until she was sure Jett had crawled into his bed, and then swiftly and noiselessly she covered the ground to her own tent. In the interest of this colloquy among the men she had forgotten her fright. That, in her opinion, had been strange talk for honest hunters. While she was revolving in mind the eventful disclosures of the day, sleep overtook her.
* * * * *
Days passed. They flew by, it seemed to Molly. The idle hours that fell to her lot were yet not many or long enough for these ravenous hide hunters. She watched in the daytime and listened at night, yet the curiosity of what she feared did not come.
Her meetings with Tom Doan continued regularly as the third nights rolled around, without hitch or mishap, and in them Molly seemed to grow into the fullness of a woman’s feeling. They talked of their love, of their marriage, and their plans for a home. There was little else to talk about except the buffalo, and the status of Jett and his men. Molly always suffered a pang when Tom, forgetting her love of all animals, raved about how many buffalo he had killed and skinned. Once she got blood on her hand from one of his boots, which she had inadvertently touched, and she was so sick and disgusted over it that she spoke sharply. Almost they quarreled. As for the truth concerning Jett, all Molly’s observation and Tom’s inquiry could not satisfy them as to what was the actual truth.
More days went fleeting by, ushering in hot July, more hide hunters along the river breaks, and, what seemed incredible, more buffalo.
“They’re massin’ up an’ makin’ ready for a hell of a stampede one of these days,” declared Jett in his booming voice.
One night Molly was awakened by an unusual sound. Horses were snorting and stamping in camp. She peeped out. A wagon with ten teams hitched to it stood just beyond the waning campfire. Jett’s burly form held the driver’s seat. Follonsbee, rifle in hand, was in the act of climbing beside him; Pruitt stood on the ground, evidently intent on Jett’s low earnest voice. Molly could not distinguish what was said. Jett drove away into the gloom of the woods. Where could he be going at this hour of the night? Molly could only conclude that he was driving out for another load of hides. Perhaps Jett had made trips before, unbeknownst to her.
Next day disclosed the odd fact that Jett had not returned. Pruitt and Catlee evidently pursued the hunting as heretofore, and did not commit themselves to any more in Molly’s presence. Sunset and suppertime found Jett still absent. On the following morning, however, Molly learned that he had returned in the night and was asleep in his tent. She repaired to her own quarters and remained there till noon, when she saw him ride away.
That afternoon Molly wandered around, as usual, with apparently no object in view, and eventually approached the glade where Jett kept his hides. She hated to go near it because of the unpleasant odor, the immeasurable flies, and the sickening evidence of slaughtered buffalo.
The glade had been cleared farther on the side toward the stream, and everywhere were buffalo hides, hundreds and hundreds of them, part of them pegged out to dry, the others in piles shaded by cut branches. Molly, because of her former reluctance to visit this place, had no record in her mind of quantity of hides, so she could not tell whether or not there had been a sudden and suspicious addition.
The day after that Jett loaded two wagons with hides, and, with Catlee driving one of them, they set off for a freighting station. They were gone five days, during which Molly had the most peaceful time since she had left the settlements. Twice she was with Tom, and they made the best of their opportunity. Mrs. Jett, during this period, was for her almost amiable. Follonsbee and Pruitt worked about as before.
When Jett returned, his presence, or something connected with it, seemed to spur his men to renewed efforts. Early and late they were toiling at this game. Tom Doan had told her that the great drive of buffalo was on. Molly, however, had not needed this information. She could see and hear.
No daylight hour now without its trampling thunder! Somewhere on one side of the river or other, a part of the great herd was always in motion. Dust blew thick over the sky, sometimes obscuring the sun. And an unfavorable breeze, which fortunately occurred but seldom, brought a stench that Molly could not endure. By day the guns banged east, north, south, west, as if a battle were raging. Crippled buffalo limped by the camp, with red tongues hanging out, making for the breaks of the river, to hide and die. By night the howl of coyotes was sleep-preventing and the long-drawn deep wild bay of wolves filled Molly with a haunting fear.
Chapter Eight
One day in July a band of soldiers rode into Hudnall’s camp. The officer in charge got off his horse and appeared to be a lithe, erect man of forty, with a stern bronzed face.
“Who’s the owner of this outfit?” he inquired.
Hudnall strode forward. “I am. Clark Hudnall’s my name.”
“Glad to meet you,” replied the officer. “I’m Captain Singleton of the Fourth Cavalry, stationed at Fort Elliott. This is my scout, Ellsworth. We’ve been detailed to escort buffalo hunters to the fort or one of the freighting posts. The Indians are raiding.”
“But I don’t want to go to the fort,” protested Hudnall obstinately.
“You’ll stay here at your own risk,” warned Singleton.
“We never expected anything else,” returned Hudnall bluntly. “If you want to know . . . you’re the first soldiers we’ve seen.”
“Have you women with you?” inquired the officer.
“Yes. My wife an’ daughter, an’ my son’s wife.”
“Didn’t you know any better than to fetch women out here in this Indian country?” went on Singleton severely.
“We heard bad rumors, sir, but didn’t believe them, an’ I may say we’ve had no trouble so far.”
“You’ve been lucky. Did you know Huggins?”
“Can’t say I do . . . by name,” rejoined Hudnall reflectively.
“Huggins had the outfit several miles below here. One helper at least with him, maybe more. Their camp was raided, burned . . . hides stolen. No trace of Huggins or his helper.”
“Indians?” queried Hudnall sharply.
“Very likely. We’ve found no trace of Huggins or his man. They might have escaped to some other outfit or to a freighting post. But that’s doubtful. West of here twenty miles or more a band of Comanches attacked some hunters, and were driven off. Unless you buffalo men camp together some of you are going to be killed.”
“We’ll fight,” declared Hudnall determinedly.
“But you must take your women to a place of safety,” insisted the officer.
Hudnall called his wife and daughter. They came forward from their quarters, accompanied by Burn Hudnall’s wife. Evidently they had heard something of the conversation; fear was manifest in their faces.
“Ladies, pray do not be frightened,” said the officer courteously. “There’s no need for that right now. We’re here to escort you to a place where you will be safe while your menfolk are hunting. It is not safe for you here. Any day Indians might ride down on you when you were alone in camp.”
Despite Singleton’s courtesy and assurance the women were alarmed, and, gathering around Hudnall, they began to talk excitedly.
“Captain, you an’ your men make yourselves at home while we talk this over,” said Hudnall.
Pilchuck and Tom Doan, just in from skinning buffalo, stood near during this conversation. Tom welcomed sight of the soldiers, and he intended to inform Captain Singleton of the two women in Jett’s camp.
“Say, Ellsworth,” said Pilchuck to the soldier scout, “if this Huggins outfit was killed by Indians, they’d not have disap
peared. Comanches don’t bother to bury or hide white men they’ve killed.”
Ellsworth leaned close to Pilchuck. “Reckon it doesn’t look like redskin work to me, either.”
Pilchuck swore under his breath, and was evidently about to enter into earnest consultation with the soldier scout when Hudnall called over him and Tom. They held a brief council. It was decided that Burn Hudnall and Pilchuck, with the additions to the outfit, Dunn and Tacks, would remain in camp, while Hudnall, Stronghurl, and Tom, accompanied by the women, would go with the soldiers. Hudnall did not consider it needful to send them all the way to Fort Elliott; the nearest freighting post, Sprague’s, some three days’ journey, would be safe and far enough. Hudnall intended to take advantage of this opportunity and freight out his buffalo hides, of which he had a large number.
“Reckon it may work out best, after all,” he averred, brightening. “I’ll run no risk losing the hides, an’ then we’ll soon be in need of supplies, ’specially cartridges.”
How dense he seemed to the imperative side of the issue—safety for the women! But he was not a frontiersman. He was brave, though foolhardy.
“We’ll pack an’ leave early tomorrow,” he informed Singleton.
“We’ll catch up with you, perhaps before you get to the military road,” said the officer.
“I don’t know that road, an’, with Pilchuck stayin’ here, I might lose my way,” returned Hudnall, in perplexity.
“The military road runs from Fort Elliott to Fort Hodge. You’ll strike it about eighteen miles northwest.”
“Reckon you can’t miss it,” added Pilchuck. “An’ there’s water aplenty.”
Hudnall invited Captain Singleton and his soldiers to have supper there, which invitation was accepted, much to Tom Doan’s satisfaction. He wanted to think over what was best to say to Captain Singleton about the Jett outfit.
There was indeed bustle and rush around the Hudnall camp that afternoon, part of which work was preparation of a hearty supper. It was cooked ahead and eaten long before sunset. Afterward Tom found occasion to approach the officer.
“Captain, may I have a . . . a word with you . . . about something very important?” he inquired frankly, despite a certain embarrassment he could not help.
“Certainly, young man, what can I do for you?” he replied, with keen gray eyes on Tom.
As they withdrew a little aside, Tom lost his hesitation, and briefly told who he was, what he was doing in Hudnall’s outfit, and thus quickly reached the point.
“Captain, please let what I tell you be confidential,” he went on earnestly. “It’s about a girl with the Jett outfit. She’s Jett’s step-daughter. They’re camped below the bluff at the mouth of White Creek, several miles below.”
“Jett outfit,” mused the officer. “I’ve heard that name. I know where his camp is . . . down in the woods. Hidden.”
“Yes. Well, I . . . I’m in love with this girl, Molly Fayre . . . engaged to her. We expect to be married when she’s eighteen. And I’m afraid for her . . . afraid of Jett more than the Indians. So is Molly. He’ll not like this idea of sending his women to the fort or anywhere from him. You see, he’s got a wife, too . . . no relation to Molly . . . and he has then to do the camp work. He’s a hog for this hide hunting. Then there are two hard nuts with him, Follonsbee and Pruitt. It’s not an outfit like ours, Captain, or ’most any along the river. I can’t honestly bring anything bad against Jett, unless it’s that he’s a brute and is after Molly. I know that. She won’t admit it, but I can feel how she feels. She ought to be taken safely to the fort or wherever our women go . . . and please, Captain, don’t fail to bring her. If you ask her, you’ll find out quick that she knows what’s best for her.”
“Suppose you ride down there with us,” suggested Singleton. “I’d like to, but I’d better not,” replied Tom. “Jett knows nothing of me yet. Molly thinks it best he doesn’t know until she’s free. He might harm her. And if he ever lays a hand on her, I’ll kill him.”
“What’d you say your name is?” inquired the officer.
“Tom Doan.”
“All right, Tom, I’m for you and Molly. Here’s my hand on it.”
“Then you’ll fetch her along?” queried Tom, trying to contain himself as he gripped the hand of this fine and soldierly man.
“If she’s still there.”
“I saw her last night. We’ve been meeting secretly. She’s there.”
“Then you will see her tomorrow again, for we’ll catch you on the road,” replied the officer with a smile.
“We can never thank you enough,” returned Tom with emotion.
It was indeed with a thankful heart that he saw Singleton and his soldiers, leading their pack horses, ride off down the river. After that Tom worked as never before, and not only got all his work done but considerable of the others. The Hudnall outfit went to bed late and got up early. By the time the July sun was blazing over the prairie the three heavily laden wagons were moving toward the northwest. Tom had the biggest load of hides in his wagon. The women rode on the drivers’ seats with Hudnall and his son.
The route lay along the swell of the slope as it gently dipped to the river, then up on the level prairie and northwest toward the far escarpment of the Staked Plains, a sharp gray landmark at the horizon. Tom followed fairly good wagon tracks until they all appeared to converge in one well-trodden road. Here for hours good time was made. Tom did not mind the heat or the flies or the dust. Over and over again he had counted the earnings Hudnall owed him, and the sum staggered him. Hundreds of dollars! But splendid as that was, it shrank into insignificance at the good fortune of having Molly safely away from Jett and the Indians.
Hudnall made a noon stop at a shady crossing of a little stream. Here the horses were watered and fed, and the travelers partook of a light meal. When the journey was resumed, Tom could no longer resist the desire to look back along the road in the hope he might see the soldiers coming. Really he did not expect them before camp that night, yet he was unable to keep from looking back.
All through this morning’s travel they had skirted the ragged edge of the buffalo herd. Long, however, had they passed out of hearing of the guns of the hunters. Then early in the afternoon they ran into a large herd coming from the north. It was not a grazing herd, nor could it be called a stampeding herd, but the movement was steady and quite rapid. Hudnall drove way off the road to try to get around the leaders; this move, however, resulted in the three wagons being caught and hemmed in, with a stream of buffalo passing on both sides.
Tom believed it was a rather ticklish situation. The herd did not appear to be more than a mile wide, but the end toward the north was not in sight. The wagons were halted to wait until the herd had passed. The buffalo split around the wagons, probably fifty yards on each side, and they loped along lumberingly, not in any sense frightened. They raised dust enough to make the halt very uncomfortable, and noise enough to make it necessary to shout in order to be heard.
Tom’s dissatisfaction had to do solely with the fact that Hudnall had gotten far enough off the road to miss the soldiers, if they came up presently. Hudnall, however, did not mind the halt, the discomfort, the loss of time, or the probable risk, should the buffalo become frightened.
To Tom’s utter amaze, Hudnall presently took up his gun and, picking out bulls running somewhat away from the massed herd, he dropped four in as many shots. At that side the herd swerved away some rods, the inside ranks pressing closer toward the middle, but they did not stampede. Then Burn Hudnall, not to be outdone by his father, dropped three buffalo on his side. The shooting served only to widen the oval that encompassed the wagons. Then the intrepid and indefatigable hunters proceeded to skin those slain buffalo, regardless of the trampling mass passing so closely by.
Tom, contrary to his usual disposition, did not offer to help, and, when Hudnall yelled something unintelligible, he waved his hand at the herd.
It required two hours for this herd to
pass the wagons, and another hour for the Hudnalls to complete skinning the seven they had shot. The women complained of the hot sun and the flies and the enforced wait. Tom spent a good deal of that last hour standing on top of the huge pile of hides on his wagon, scanning the horizon in the direction of the Red River camps.
“Hey, Tom, you might have helped along,” said Hudnall as he threw the wet hides up on his wagon.
“You might have been run down yourself,” retorted Tom.
“Father, I think Tom’s scared of the Indians the soldier talked about,” remarked Sally Hudnall, a little maliciously. She had never quite forgiven Tom for being impervious to her charms.
“Tom afraid? Nope, I can’t savvy that,” replied her father, in his hearty way.
“Well, he’s looking back all the time,” said Sally with conviction.
Her tone, more than the content of her words, brought to Tom’s mind a thought that, when the soldiers did come along with Molly, there might result an embarrassing situation. What was he to say in explanation of his acquaintance with Molly? A moment’s reflection convinced him that no explanation was necessary, nor need the Hudnalls know just yet of his engagement to her. Still, Molly had not been consulted; she would be overjoyed to see him and to meet the Hudnalls, and she was young, impulsive. How would she act? Tom told himself that he did not care in the least what she said or did, but all the same an unusual situation for him seemed impending.
As Hudnall led off toward the road, Tom allowed Burn to fall in second place, leaving him to take up the rear, and from this position he could look back to his satisfaction.
Soon they were in the road again, and late in the afternoon turned into the military road Captain Singleton had indicated. Here the horses could travel, mostly at a trot. Tom had craned his neck sidewise so many times, looking backward, that he had put a crick in it, all to no avail. The soldiers did not put in an appearance. Tom began to worry. Suppose Jett had gotten wind of their coming and had moved camp! Might not the Comanches have raided Jett the same as Huggins! Tom had rather a bad hour along the military road.