Rube turned sharply round and looked up at the intruder.
Rube turned sharply round and looked up at the intruder.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Where did you blow in from, I'd like ter know? An' what 're you doin' here, anyway? You aware as you're trespassin'?"
He stood confronting a tall, handsome young Indian, who was dressed in fringed buckskins with a red shirt, and a close-fitting cap of beaver fur. There was a finely-plaited leather belt about his waist, from which was suspended a holster containing a heavy revolver. His moccasins, of white deerskin, were gaily decorated with an intricate design in beads and coloured silks and little bits of looking-glass. They were so dainty, it seemed almost that their wearer wanted to draw special attention to his feet. Rube, however, stared inquisitively into the stranger's ruddy brown face, noticing how closely together his piercing black eyes were set and how sharp and thin was his nose. He was an unusually handsome person.
"Injuns ain't supposed ter come out from their reservations," the boy continued. "Anyhow, you've got no business trespassin' on this yer property. You'd best quit. You're not lost, I suppose? You knows your way home?"
"Ugh!" the Indian grunted, taking a step nearer and glancing curiously at the plan.
"Dessay you've got no savee fer what I'm tellin' you," Rube went on, signing a dismissal, "but I can't help that. You gotter quit, see? Go away. Make yerself scarce. Vamoose."
"Oh, I quite understand," said the Indian, speaking, to Rube's surprise, in very good English. "Your words are clear as the sunlight. It is only their meaning that I do not seize. You speak of trespass. I am not a trespasser. For long, long years—many generations—my people have had their hunting grounds, have put up their lodges, and lived and died in these same forest glades. They have trapped the beaver in this same creek, taken fish from this same lake, and followed the buffalo on yonder prairie. Who shall stop me if I lay my line of traps where my people so long ago laid theirs?"
Rube shrugged his shoulders.
"I ain't figurin' ter discuss ancient hist'ry with you, mister," he said. "I'm not denyin' that Redskins hunted on these yer lands centuries 'fore the white man happened along. But that ain't got nothin' t' do wi' you an' me to-day. You're trespassin' on private property, an' you gotter quit, see? An' if you've bin layin' traps around you kin just lift 'em an' take 'em along with you. This yer forest, that thar lake, an' all the land as far's you kin see belongs ter Lord St. Olave. And he don't allow no trespassers mouchin' around."
"Lord St. Olave?" The Indian pronounced the name with peculiar distinctness. "Otherwise Kiddie," he added, resting a foot on the log, but carefully avoiding the bear cub. "I have heard of him."
"Yes, an' seen him, too," rejoined Rube.
"Seen him? When?" questioned the Indian.
"Why," answered Rube, "you saw him pretty plain, I guess, the time he dropped his lariat over your arms in One Tree Gulch. I suppose you thinks I don't know you, eh? You're Broken Feather; that's who you are. Broken Feather, the boss chief of the Injun village over thar. An' now, what you want? What you doin' around here? Spyin' out the lie o' the land fer future raids?"
"Surely I am at liberty to take interest in a neighbour's building operations," returned the chief. He leant closer over the working bench and gazed down at the architect's plan with renewed curiosity. "This, I suppose, is the front entrance," he said.
He touched the paper at a particular part of the design, but quickly drew his arm back. Rube heard him draw a deep breath, as if he were in pain.
"Say, what's up?" the boy asked. "You took bad in th' inside?"
Instead of answering, Broken Feather turned sharply round. Abe Harum was approaching, followed at some distance by Rube Carter's mother, who carried a basket of food for the workers.
The Indian waited coolly, taking out a tobacco bag and a packet of cigarette papers. Rube thought it curious that he did not make a cigarette, but hesitatingly returned the material to his pocket, as if on deliberation he had decided not to smoke.
"I see you got a visitor, Rube," said Abe, as he strode up. "How do, Broken Feather! You still coveting that Arab mare?—wantin' to buy her, since you couldn't steal her? Well, she ain't for sale."
"I was hoping to see Lord St. Olave," announced the chief. "I come to pay a friendly call upon him. Why not?"
"Friendly?" Abe stared at him in amazement. "Say, you've got some nerve t' come right here an' talk like that, mister. Lord St. Olave ain't anyways likely t' accept friendly calls from the likes o' you. Thar's too much bad blood 'tween you an' him fer that. Anyhow, he's not at home, an' won't be for a long while. So thar's no use your hangin' around."
"Won't be for a long while," Broken Feather repeated. Then with a look of cunning he added: "It will be a longer while than you think."
As he went away, treading very silently, he looked round and spoke in his own tongue, which neither Abe nor Rube could understand. He disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. When he was out of sight, Mee-Mee went up to Abe Harum.
"You no savvy what he say," she said. "I savvy heap. He say Kiddie never, never come back. He say he catch Kiddie on trail, kill him, take him scalp."
"I don't notion he came here ter say that, though," said Rube.
"What d'you reckon he come for?" asked Abe.
"Dunno," said Rube. "But I got a idea. Mother," he turned to Mee-Mee, "jus' you hustle back t' the homestead an' let the big dog loose, will yer?"
"What in thunder d'you want the dog for?" questioned Abe.
"I didn't think of it till he'd gone," returned Rube. "But jus' after you come along, he took out his tobacco pouch ter make a cigarette, but didn't make one. Before that, he stretched out his hand ter touch this yer plan, an' drew his arm back as if the paper'd burnt him. Now why? Ain't it plain? His arm was sore; he couldn't roll a cigarette. When he stretched out his hand it hurt him. It was his left hand, Abe. Kiddie made out that the man as fired that poisoned arrow was bitten in the left arm when the hound attacked him. See?"
"Yes, but what about the hob-nailed boots?" asked Abe. "I noticed that Broken Feather's wearin' moccasins. And uncommonly gay ones they are."
"Nobody c'd help noticin' 'em," argued Rube. "That's what he wanted, in case we'd heard about the boot-tracks. Ain't he just cute, puttin' us off the scent thataway?"
"That don't explain why he should come prowlin' around here," pursued Abe. "What did he want here, anyway? What's your idea?"
"This," said Rube. "Broken Feather calculated he wouldn't find Kiddie here to-day. He knew that Kiddie was ridin' with the Express. That was his chance—ter come here while Kiddie was away and ter prowl around in search of that hound—meanin' ter shoot her at sight with that heavy six-shooter that he carried. That was his errand, sure as mud."
"If that's so," resumed Abe Harum, "why do you want the hound let loose? She'll get on his track. She'll go up ter him where he's most likely lyin' in hiding. Then he'll put a bullet inter her. You'd best ha' kept her chained up, sure."
Rube shook his head.
"Broken Feather's too cunnin' ter do her any harm now that he knows he's been seen. He didn't want t' be seen. He didn't expect t' be. He happened upon me quite sudden, when he was sneakin' round ter git past where you was busy fellin' that tree. I'd seen his shadder 'fore he knew I was thar at the bench. No, Abe, he won't hurt the dog. I've a notion he's gone right away."
"Leavin' no proof that he's the man that tried ter kill Kiddie," added Abe.
"Wait till the hound comes along," said Rube; "then we shall have proof. Just wait."
When at length the deerhound came limping eagerly towards them from among the trees, her nose was lowered to the ground and her tail slashing to and fro. Rube called her, but she went on sniffing the grass, until she got on to Broken Feather's track. Then she bounded forward in pursuit of him. Rube Carter followed her down to the creek, where she stopped.
"Checked!" muttered Rube. "He's too clever for us. Not a bit o' use trying ter pick up h
is scent in runnin' water, Sheila. Never mind, you've given proof that he's the man that dealt you the cut on the shoulder."
Rube was eager to tell Kiddie of his discovery, and he sat up that night with Abe Harum, waiting for Kiddie to ride along the trail and change ponies at Birkenshaw's station.
Towards two o'clock in the morning, when the eastern bound Express was due, Abe got ready the relay pony, and led it down to the trail. Rube accompanied him. The night was very dark, a thin rain was falling, and they took shelter under the trees. Abe presently struck a match, to see his watch.
"It's time," he said. "D'ye hear him comin'?"
"No," Rube answered. "Mebbe your ticker's a bit fast."
"It's exactly right," Abe assured him. "An' Kiddie's four minutes behind time. 'Tain't like Kiddie t' be late. Dessay his relay wasn't ready at Three Crossings. Keep yer ears open. Wind's comin' this way. We ought t' ha' heard him long ago."
Abe was at first merely interested in the fact of Kiddie being slightly behind schedule time. Then he became impatient, then anxious, and finally seriously alarmed.
"Suthin's happened," he declared. "Never knew Kiddie t' be late like this. Suthin's sure happened."
CHAPTER VIII
KIDDIE'S LUCK
"Say, now, d'you expect me t' ride a spick an' span, over-fed, highly decorated critter like that? My! I ain't entered for a horse show, Cully. I want a pony that can run without thinkin' of takin' prizes on points. And a dandy saddle with fancy stitchin' and finery don't help any in gettin' the mails through on time. What's the matter with the regulation Express pony—the piebald cayuse that you gave me on the last trip? That was a critter that knew how ter go, that was. What's the matter with her?"
"Gone sick," Cully answered, watching Kiddie's quick fingers unbuckling the mail bags from the saddle from which he had just dismounted. "Went sick only a hour ago. Guess she figured it was Jim Thurston's turn ter ride her. If she'd ha' known it was you an' not Jim, you may bet your socks she wouldn't ha' gone sick. But you'll find her substitute O.K. An' if anybody kin ride him, you sure can. Steve Tracy was sayin' only this mornin' as you kin git more pace an' bring yer pony in fresher 'n any rider along the hull Salt Lake Trail; an' I just guess Steve was right. Say, what's the matter wi' the saddle? Ain't you satisfied? Don't it fit the critter proper?"
Kiddie was in the act of mounting. He turned to Cully with a light laugh.
"Fits him like a glove," he answered. "I was only figuring that it's a bit too ornamental for its present purpose. I see the girth has been broken and mended—mended with a doubtful piece of string. Why wasn't it sent to the saddler t' be properly fixed up? I've half a notion ter chuck it right away and ride bare-backed. But there ain't time to fool around now. So long, Cully."
Almost before he had leapt astride and slipped his feet into the stirrups, the pony was off with a drumming of hoofs along the grassy trail, needing no urging by spur or voice, and Kiddie was so well accustomed to riding at the full gallop that, after he had thrice forded the winding creek of Three Crossings, he could with ease take out the little paper bag of biscuits and fruit that had been handed to him, and munch his evening meal.
It was rough riding over the Rattlesnake Mountains, where often the indistinct trail led him through dark and narrow defiles, or along the brink of dangerous precipices, where the ground was of loose stones, perilously insecure. The mountain torrents, swollen by recent rains, had to be crossed unhesitatingly, and without the help of bridges. But all these dangers and difficulties were familiar to him, and he passed through them unconcerned.
Once when he was riding at fullest speed through the wide valley of White Eagle Gulch, he was forced to turn aside to avoid a great straggling herd of buffaloes. He noticed that the ponderous animals were breathing heavily, and that their flanks were moist with perspiration. Those at the head of the moving herd were strong and virile, and in good condition; those towards the rear were thin and scraggy, and many of these were a long distance in the rear.
"Seems they've been having a stampede," Kiddie reflected. "The weak ones lagged behind. Looks as if they'd been chased."
Amongst the stragglers was a magnificent bull, striding slowly but proudly alone. Blood was dripping from a wound in its nearer side, and deep in the wound was an arrow, buried almost to the feathers.
"Been chased by a band of Redskins," Kiddie assured himself. And he began to look out for further signs of the possible presence of Indians.
A mile or so farther on he came upon a buffalo lying dead, but there were no other signs for many miles until he was crossing a stretch of prairie, where he saw the remains of several buffaloes that had been flayed and cut up. Nothing but the stripped bones was left.
Shortly afterwards he crossed the trail of the hunters, and he estimated that the band consisted of about fifty Indians. They had gone off with their loads of buffalo meat and hides towards the foothills, in a direction at right angles to his own.
Clearly the Redskins were not out to interfere with the Pony Express. Nevertheless, Kiddie continued to keep a watchful eye on both sides of the trail as he galloped along, and also to observe the behaviour of his mount and of the wild birds.
It was the pony that gave him the first intimation of danger, by a sudden lifting of the head and restless twitching of the erect ears. This might well have been occasioned by the near neighbourhood of some beast of prey—a lynx, a wolf, or even an ordinary coyote.
By itself, it meant little, but it was enough to make Kiddie attentive, even though he had assured himself that the Indians, or, at all events, the main body of them, had gone home to their reservation beyond the Rattlesnake Mountains. There were other signs, however.
The gorge through which he was riding was thickly wooded with willows and larch trees, and far in advance of him he saw that the birds had been disturbed. They were in agitated flight over the tree-tops. Above the thudding of his pony's hoofs he heard the raucous squawk of a jay—the most alert of sentinels. It was not at his own approach that the birds were alarmed, but something which was happening nearer to them in the woodland glades.
Kiddie was not more concerned than usual; he was not even suspicious of coming danger, nor did he alter by so much as an inch his seat in the saddle or tighten his grip on the bridle reins.
At the mouth of the gorge, however, he suddenly became apprehensive that some human enemy was lurking in ambush. He remembered the incident of the poisoned arrow. His pony had changed its stride to a less measured gallop, bounding forward at an increased pace, with head lowered, muzzle outstretched and ears thrown back.
Kiddie leant over the pony's fluttering mane, searchingly glancing from side to side and in front of him. He was going at racing speed, but his practical eyes were alert to observe every tiny sign, and none escaped him.
He could see nothing but the trees and rocks as he flashed past them; nothing to cause him serious alarm. It seemed to him that if there had been any hidden danger he had already gone beyond it. But there might still be some unsuspected peril at the far side of the projecting cliff where, as he knew, the trail made an abrupt turn.
He shifted his feet in the stirrups to secure a firmer grip of the irons. As he did so, the pony suddenly swerved. At the same instant the string with which the girth had been improperly mended broke. The whole saddle moved ominously from its true place on the animal's back.
Kiddie preserved his balanced seat only for a few difficult moments. His left foot lost its sure hold in the stirrup, and presently slipped out of it altogether. The pressure of his right foot on the other stirrup caused the saddle to move still farther. Now that the girth straps were flying loose there was nothing but the rider's weight to hold it on the pony's back.
It was at this awkward moment of personal insecurity that he became aware that many galloping horses were close behind him. He did not need to look back over his shoulder to learn that he was being hotly pursued by a band of mounted Indians.
They had been ly
ing in wait for him, well hidden among the screening trees and brushwood. They had let him gallop past, but now they had broken cover and were racing after him with menacing yells and savage cries.
They had lost some moments in getting free from the bush, and he was already well ahead of them; but their mounts had been rested, while his own pony was panting heavily, and wet with perspiration after an unbroken gallop of a dozen miles.
The Redskins gained upon him little by little.
At the turn of the trail he ventured to glance quickly round. In that quick glance he saw that there were at least six of them, led by a warrior wearing an ample war bonnet. They were therefore not members of the buffalo-hunting party, but were on the war-path.
He saw that they were armed with guns and tomahawks, not bows and arrows, and he took confidence from this circumstance, knowing that the Indian is a poor marksman with firearms when mounted, and that none could do him harm with the tomahawk unless within arm's reach of him.
Had his saddle been secure, he would have had little anxiety, but it was slipping farther and farther back. He wondered if he might get free from it altogether, and, dropping it to the ground, continue his ride bare-backed.
Then he remembered that the two mail bags were buckled to the saddle, and that it was his duty to safeguard them with his life.
He tried to ease the thing forward, and at the same time to raise it and save it from shifting perilously to the pony's right side. He believed he could manage it with an adroit upward movement of his right foot, and he made the hazardous attempt, but, unfortunately, in bending his ankle, he pushed his foot just a thought too far, and his boot went clean through the steel loop of the stirrup, high heel and spur included.
This would have been an awkward predicament in any circumstance, even if the saddle band remained unbroken, and the saddle itself firmly in position. It would have been almost impossible for him without help to get the projecting spur and the heel of the boot back again through the stirrup. But now, when the Indians were in close pursuit, only a few lengths behind him, yelling their exultant cries, holding their weapons ready, what was he to do?
Kiddie the Scout Page 6