Books: In the Pecos Country
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Lieutenant R.H. Jayne >> In the Pecos Country
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This Apache convention did not prolong its session. Lone Wolf seemed
to permit his warriors to talk until he became weary, when he said a
few words, and the talk ended. During the discussion, numbers had
continued to come in, until there were over a hundred gathered
together. The moon was shining from a clear sky overhead, and the
group gathered on the open prairie, where the members thereof were in
readiness to dash in any direction, in case of an attack. With the
words of Lone Wolf came the adjournment of the convention. The talk
ceased instantly, as if by magic, and the heads of the horses were
turned toward the north.
The Indians were about to leave the neighborhood where they had been
so roughly used by the whites. A number had already gone, bearing
with them the dead and wounded, and the remainder were about to
depart--that is, for a time, until their forces could be marshaled
into a body that would sweep New Boston from the face of the earth.
Such was the decree of Lone Wolf. Was he to permit a party of white
men to plant a settlement in the very heart of his country? Was he to
allow his hunting grounds to be appropriated in this fashion? Was he
to submit quietly to the encroachments of those who had never so much
as asked his consent? Not so long as he could summon an army of the
best warriors of the Southwest to his command. If his present company
had been too small, then he would double and treble it. At all
events, the power would be provided to accomplish his purpose.
The horsemen speedily arranged themselves; the head of all turned in a
northerly direction. It took some minutes for them to arrange
themselves, but they were about ready to receive the command of their
chief, when the report of a rifle broke upon the stillness. An
Indian, with a spasmodic shriek, threw up his arms and rolled
backward, and then from his steed, which snorted and reared, as if it,
too, had suffered some injury.
This warrior was directly in the rear of Lone Wolf, and had been so
fairly in line with him that there could be no doubt that the bullet
had really been intended for the chief. The point from whence it came
could not be mistaken.
Over half of the war-party saw the flash of the gun, off to their
right, in the direction of the settlement, and those who chanced not
to see it were quickly informed of the spot by the appearance of a
horse, looking as if he had sprung from the ground itself. No rider
was visible; but, of course, he was there, as he had just demonstrated
by means of his shot. That there might be no doubt of his identity,
he uttered a loud yell, like that with which one Indian defies
another, and called out in the Apache tongue:
"Sut Simpson sends the shot for the heart of Lone Wolf, who is a dog
and a coward."
This was the favorite taunt of the hunter when he sought to draw out
his old enemy. Some of the numerous scars which he received were the
direct result of his daring defiance, and he was hopeful that the
challenge would accomplish something in the present case. Nor was he
disappointed.
CHAPTER X
TWO OLD ENEMIES
Lone Wolf recognized the taunt of his old enemy, and his black eye lit
up with a gleam of fire and passion. He would not turn his back upon
his white foe, who had just sent a bullet in quest of his heart. He
would accept the gage of battle, and end his personal warfare of
years. But, like all Indians, the chieftain was the personification
of treachery, without a particle of chivalry or manhood, and when he
resolved upon his attempt to destroy the frontiersman, it was without
any regard for the fairness of the means which he should employ.
He handed the boy to one of the warriors sitting near him, as, of
course, he could do nothing when impeded by his presence, although he
had proved very convenient some time before, in the way of a shield.
Then he said something to a dozen or so of the warriors immediately
around him. The main body remained comparatively motionless, while
the chief rode out in advance and headed toward his antagonist, his
horse upon a slow walk, and moving with great caution.
Sut Simpson was not to be caught napping. No one understood the
sneaking character of Lone Wolf better than did he. He had had it
back and forth with him too many times not to be able to read the
fellow through and through.
While the leader was coming forward in this cautious manner, he saw
several other horsemen in motion. Their direction was not the same as
their leader. They appeared to be riding further back upon the
prairie, as though they had been sent upon some errand to a distant
point. But Sut knew what it meant. They meant to steal away until
they were out of sight, when they would come around behind him. There
were enough to surround him completely and to cut off his escape in
any direction.
Sut saw all this and was not surprised thereat. He believed that he
was too old a bird to be caught with such chaff. The manner in which
he could defeat the purpose of Lone Wolf was by direct fight, or by
forcing him into a combat which would anticipate the intention of the
Apache. He preferred the latter course, and he made the effort in the
common Indian way, by uttering a taunt, still using the Apache tongue.
"Lone Wolf is a coward and a dog! He is afraid of the white hunter!
He stays by his warriors, that they may hold his head when his heart
grows faint at sight of his pale-face foe."
Anyone who understands the temper of an Indian will see that such a
taunt as this was of the most exasperating nature. It rankled deeply
in the heart of Lone Wolf, who would have given a dozen of his best
warriors for the chance of burying his tomahawk in the skull of his
foe; but he was too cunning to be misled by his desire for revenge.
He, too, indulged in a little of the taunting business himself; and,
as the hunter had honored him by speaking in the Apache language, he
"threw himself," so to speak, in English.
"The white hunter is afraid of Lone Wolf. He dreads his
scalping-knife. His heart trembles, and he knows not where to hide
himself."
"He does not hide from Lone Wolf, for he has hunted days and nights to
find him, and when Lone Wolf saw him coming, he ran among his warriors
and hid."
"He is not among them now," retorted Lone Wolf; "while he seeks Sut
Simpson, the brave hunter moves away."
Such was really the case. Judged from a superficial standpoint, the
greatest show of courage was made by the Apache, whose horse was
moving forward at a slow, cautious pace, while the mustang of Sut
Simpson kept up a continued and equally guarded retreat, so that the
distance between the two taunting enemies remained about the same.
The hunter had a manifest purpose in this, which was simply to draw
his foe far enough away from his support to gain a chance for a sudden
dash at him before he could elude him. At the same time he did not
forget the dozen horsemen that had stolen out so cautiously from the
rear, and he knew that "if it were done, then 'twere well it were done
quickly," as Macbeth so aptly puts it.
Sut carefully measured the intervening space with his eye, but Lone
Wolf was still too near his reserve. The two men were eying each
other like cats, and, although he taunted so loudly, yet no one would
have been readier than the Apache to flee if he believed that he was
in greater peril than his antagonist.
"Why does not Lone Wolf move faster?" asked Sut, hoping to spur him
into doing so.
"Why does not the hunter wait for him?" asked the chief, very
appropriately, in return.
The scout thought that if he could draw the savage a few yards further
he would have him just where he wanted him. Feeling how precious the
passing time was, he galloped his mustang a rod or so and then came to
a sudden abrupt halt.
"Here I'll await you, you old copper-skinned hoodlum!" he called out,
in unmistakable English.
Lone Wolf did not check his speed; nor, on the other hand, did he
hasten it. Let alone, he was sure to reach the proper point in due
time; but the trouble was that Sut had no time to spare. The dozen
horsemen who were making their circuit must have accomplished
considerable of it already, and would soon be closing in around him.
The hunter had been caught in just such predicaments many a time
before, and had managed to pull through without material injury; but
no brave man who was possessed of ordinary sense would willingly allow
himself to be drawn into such a trap. The Apaches were as good riders
as he, and a shot that would disable his horse would play mischief
with the rider. He wished to avoid any such snarl, and so he dallied
and trifled with his adversary in the hope of trolling him along to a
point where he could hold him, while the Indian continued his advance
like one whose only purpose was to hold his man until the other
warriors could close in behind him. The moment speedily came when it
would not have been best to wait a second longer.
Wheeling his horse with the suddenness of lightning, Simpson charged
at full speed straight at Lone Wolf. The latter was surprised by the
movement, but he was not thrown off his guard, nor did he seek to fall
back on his reserves. It would be time enough to do that when he
should become convinced of its necessity; besides which, he had only
to keep the hunter engaged for a brief time in order to give his
horsemen the chance to entrap him.
Bearing in mind the deceitful character of the chief, Sut waited until
he was within a short distance, when he wheeled and let drive with a
couple chambers of his revolver. Lone Wolf went over the side of his
mustang so suddenly that the hunter believed he had been killed; but,
as he checked himself before reaching the ground, he saw his mistake,
and knew that the savage's "reply" would be forthcoming on the
instant. Accordingly, Sut followed suit and interposed the body of
his mustang like a flash between himself and the red-skin.
He was not a wink too soon. Just as he went over he caught the flash,
and heard the report of a pistol. The chief had fired from beneath
the neck of his steed, with his revolver--for Lone Wolf carried his
revolver, like any other gentleman of the plains.
This was complicating matters so much that the hunter determined to
force conclusions without a moment's delay.
There was no use of firing at the Indian as long as he was protected
by his horse. He was to cunning to be caught napping. So, without a
particle of hesitation, Sut threw the muzzle of his rifle beneath the
neck of his steed, and fired straight at the one which was sheltering
his adversary.
The shot was fatal, and, with a frenzied leap, the animal stumbled
forward upon his neck, and fell dead in his tracks. Nimble Lone Wolf
threw himself as quick as a flash from beneath the falling body, and,
conscious of his disadvantage, started on a run for the main body of
warriors; but Sut, with extraordinary shrewdness, had anticipated this
very thing, and, assisted by the intelligence of his animal, he threw
himself ahead of him, so as to shut off the flight in that direction.
Everything now went with bewildering swiftness. The Apaches, seeing
their chief environed, rode forward to his assistance, while the
hunter, revolver in hand, blazed away at him, determined to bring him
to earth, now that he had the chance. The activity of Lone Wolf was
simply marvelous.
He darted here and there, dodged back and forth, and once or twice
actually shot beneath the belly of his adversary's mustang. His
antics were confusing, and, although Sut succeeded in wounding him, it
seemed utterly impossible to disable him.
The hunter had already discharged his rifle when he slew the horse,
and when he emptied his revolver, he was chagrined, furious, and
baffled.
"I believe you're the devil himself!" he exclaimed, ceasing his
efforts to bring him down, "and I'll let you go this time!"
He turned to flee when he saw that the Apaches were all about him.
CHAPTER XI
HOT QUARTERS
The contest of Simpson with the wonderfully supple and sinewy Apache
began and ended in a few seconds. In the most thrilling moments the
hunter did not forget his peril from outside barbarians.
The main war-party seeing the desperate straits of their leader, who
was liable to be shot down by a ball from the revolver, galloped
forward to his assistance, and, almost at the same moment the dozen
horsemen that had set,out to head him off put in appearance, all
coming from different directions, and converging toward the one point,
where the veteran borderer was suddenly transformed from an aggressor
into a deeply imperiled fugitive.
It was a time for "business" of the sternest kind, and the grizzled
hunter went at it like one who understood what it meant. Rifle and
pistol were discharged, and, therefore, useless. The former was slung
over his back, and the latter was quickly jammed into his girdle. In
a twinkling he had his huge bowie in his right hand, and, shouting to
his mustang, he headed out on the prairie, and made a dash for life
and freedom.
At such a crisis, everything depends upon the sagacity and
intelligence of the horse. It requires something more than speed--it
needs a grasp of the "situation," upon the part of the brute, and the
guidance of his action which should result therefrom. It was in this
respect that Sut Simpson possessed an advantage which can scarcely be
appreciated. He made no attempt to guide or control the creature he
bestrode; but, bending forward upon his back and clutching his
terrible weapon in his hand, he uttered a shout, which the mustang
interpreted as an appeal to do his best, and he proceeded to do so
without an instant's hesitation.
Still, it was vain to try to dodge through the converging warriors
without coming in contact with them. There were too many to permit
any such performance, but the wall was not impenetrable. Like an
arrow from the bow sped the animal, and, seeing the point toward which
he was aiming, the Apaches endeavored to close the gap. The equine
fugitive did not swerve in the least, and it looked as if he was
plunging to his own destruction.
The scout saw it all, and made no effort to change the direction he
was pursuing. He only grasped his bowie the more tightly and
compressed his lips. There was an ugly gleam in his sharp gray eye as
he braced himself for the conflict.
The nose of the mustang was almost touching the head of the other
horses, when he swerved almost at right angles, and, with a tremendous
burst of speed, shot through the nearest "opening." This threw all
his enemies, by the brilliant manœuvre, in his rear, and left
the clear prairie before him as a path in which to complete his
flight.
The space seperating Sut from his enemies was too slight for him to
reach safety by one plunge. The mustang was scarcely under way, when
he was compelled to dodge as abruptly as before, and in a trice he
made a third, which was done with cosummate skill, and yet with the
unavoidable result of bringing the scout in collision with a swarthy
warrior. Sut was expecting it, and, bursting like a thunderbolt upon
the howling red-skin, he drove the flashing bowie with such prodigious
force that, to repeat an old expression, the first thing the Apache
knew, he knew nothing.
At the moment of making the thrust, a painted warrior riding on the
opposite side struck a terrific blow with his tomahawk, but the
dextrous flirt of the hunter's head permitted the weapon to whizz by
and graze his cheek. The time was to short for him to do any work
with the knife in the other hand, quick as was Simpson in his
movements; so the tomahawk had scarcely descended upon its harmless
mission when he sent out his left hand straight from his shoulder,
like the plunge of a piston rod.
It struck the astonished warrior straight in his face with
irresistible force and his head went down and his heels up so suddenly
that he was knocked completely off his horse--a thing which, it may be
safely said, does not occur with an Apache or Comache once in a
thousand times, unless it be a bullet that tumbles him to the ground.
This opened the way again and the magnificent mustang settled down to
the work of life and death.
Sut saw that it was impossible for any of the horsemen to throw
themselves across his track, and so he flung himself forward upon his
matchless steed and said a few words encouragingly in the hope that it
might add a particle to his speed; but that was impossible, as the
noble creature was doing his very utmost.
The pursuing Apaches seemed to cling to the hope of capturing the
daring scout, for they thundered away in pursuit, while he as steadily
drew away from them. Suddenly came the crack of rifles, but Sut
noticed that most of them came from a point in advance, and he raised
his head enough to learn what it meant.
The mustang (whether by design or accident cannot be stated) had sped
continually in the direction of New Boston, and was dashing down
toward that point. The pioneers were on the alert, and the instant
they could distinguish pursuers from pursued, they opened on the
former, with the result of tumbling several from the backs of their
steeds. This so disorganized the hot pursuit that in the flurry of
the moment the scout shot in among the group of alarmed horses, sprang
from his back, and was soon among his friends, from whom he had been
seperated less than half an hour.
Lone Wolf seemed meditating a charge down the valley, and once or
twice a formidable number of his warriors were observed gathering upon
the slope; but the moment they were discovered such a galling fire was
poured in among them that they quickly scampered out of range. The
chief, beyond question, was infuriated by the manner in which he had
been baffled, and this fury tempted him, perhaps, to a rash deed or
two; but he speedily regained his shrewdness and drew his warriors
off.
A careful reconnaisance, made an hour later, failed to show a single
Apache. The entire body had departed.
The special errand of Sut in venturing out was to effect the recapture
of the lad. The chance of success was very desperate, but upon that
alone the scout had based his hopes. Had the opportunity been
tempting, the Apaches would have done all they could to head off any
effort in that direction, but it is often by a sudden dash, when
apparently there is no hope, that the most brilliant successes are
made. But the issue in the present case had been a complete failure,
and Sut chafed greatly under the reflection, for everything connected
with it was mortifying to him.
In the first place, he had been completely outwitted from beginning to
end by his old enemy, Lone Wolf. That chieftain, whom he detested
with the very intensity of hatred, had snatched up the boy under his
very nose, and made off with him. The shot that had been fired to
bring the war-chief to earth failed in its purpose, and while the
hunter was forcing him into a corner he awoke to the fact that he was
there himself, and it was only by a hair's breadth that he succeeded
in saving his bacon.
"But Sut Simpson don't give up the job just yet," said he, the next
morning, in discussing the situation with Barnwell and the leading
pioneers. ''That younker has got himself in a scrape, through no
fault of his own, and onless he gets a lift there's no show for his
pullin' out of it."
"Mickey O'Rooney is still absent, and he may be able to help you."
But Sut shook his head. He saw no prospect of any appreciable
assistance from that quarter.
"He's a good fellow, and I like him; but he'll have all he can do to
take care of himself. When a chap undertakes to go it alone in these
parts, he must never wink both eyes at the same time."
"Suppose the Irishman has been killed?" ventured one of the men, who
was somewhat shaken up by the events of the night before. "It seems
to me that it is very probable."
"You're right," replied Sut, as if he were discussing the question of
stock. "Very likely he's gone under. We've all got to come to it
sooner or later, and what's the odds if one's a little ahead of the
other?"
By this time the speaker was astride his mustang, which was as fresh
and eager as though he had not been subjected to the tremendous strain
of the night before. The little party of pioneers had come to look
upon the scout as indispensable to their safety. His timely warning
of the coming of the Apaches had saved them from a frightful massacre,
and he now gave them some parting advice, which could not be
disregarded.
"You cleaned 'em out this time," said he, as he sat on his mustang,
hesitating a few minutes, until several of the sentinels that had been
sent out could come in with their reports; "you cleaned them out this
time," he repeated, "but don't you think on that account they'll stay
away. As I observed to you some time ago, I know something 'bout that
varmint, and he'll be back agin, and you kin bet your bottom dollar on
it. He'll fetch a pile of the dogs at his back, and he'll clean out
this place so complete that a fortnight from now a microscope won't be
able to tell where the town of New Boston stood."
"And you urge us to give over the attempt to make a settlement here?"
remarked Barnwell, with his old cynical smile.
"For the present I do; I don't ax you to give it up forever, mind, but
only to wait some fifty or seventy-five years, till I get a chance to
wipe out Lone Wolf, and things become sorter quieted down like. It's
better to get out of bed than it is to be kicked out, and you must
take your choice."
"But we are here, and why should we not stay?"
"The best reason is 'cause you can't. I don't know as there's any
better. It's only fifty miles to Fort Severn, and you can make it
easy in two or three days with your teams and baggage. You've
traveled the plains long 'nough to understand how the thing is done."
At this juncture the three men who had been sent out in different
directions on a reconnoissance came in with their report. One of them
had climbed the very tree in which Fred Munson had taken refuge. This
gave him an extended view of the surrounding country. One of the
others had devoted himself to a careful examination of the river,
while the third scanned the prairie in another direction. The result
in every case was the failure to detect any signs of the Apaches.
Sut Simpson waved his friends a good-by and galloped up the slope,
where he took the trail of the Indians and at once set off in quest of
his young friend, who was a captive in their hands.
CHAPTER XII
THE YOUNG CAPTIVE
The experience of Fred Munson as a prisoner among the Apaches was one
which he was not likely to forget to his dying day. From the back of
the steed where he was held a captive he gained an indistinct view of
the short, savage struggle between Lone Wolf and Sut Simpson, and more
than once he concluded that it was all over with the daring hunter,
who had ventured out with the purpose of befriending him. But when
the chieftain returned to his warriors alone and without any scalp
strung to his girdle, he knew that the fellow had pulled through all
right.
Lone Wolf was so exasperated at his treatment that he hovered around
for a short time with his entire force, in the hope of balancing
accounts with his old enemy. But he soon saw, however, the utter
impossibility of that in the present shape of things, and so he
summoned all his warriors together and moved off in a northerly
direction, his purpose being, as the hunter said, to return with a
force which would prove itself invincible.
Fred expected to be handed back to the redoubtable chieftain, who, he
supposed, would subject him to the most cruel kind of treatment; but
that worthy did not seem desirous of receiving his charge back again
and permitted him to remain with his deputy. The lad did not know
whether to be pleased by this or not; for his custodian was the most
repulsive looking being he had ever seen. He was deeply pitted with
smallpox, and the enormous nose which he had once possessed had been
splintered by a blow from a tomahawk, so that in no respect at all did
it resemble that useful and ornamental organ. There was an enormous
breadth, too, between the eyes, or rather temples, the face tapering
down to the chin so rapidly that the contour from the front suggested
the shape of a wedge.
An Indian almost invariably has good teeth but the mouth of the one in
question was filled with snags that projected in every direction; his
chin was excessively retreating, and, to add to it all, his
countenance was daubed with different colored paint, in such fantastic
streakings that an Adonis himself would have appeared hideous. Such
was the jailer of Fred, who heard him addressed once or twice by a
name which sounded to him as if it were Waukko.
He was, in fact, one of the most famous warriors of the Jiccarilla
Apaches, his fame depending as much upon his cruelty as upon his
prowess. There are legends in the southwest crediting Lone Wolf with
having shown some slight signs of mercy on one or two occasions, but
nothing of the kind was ever said of his lieutenant, Waukko, who
brained the innocent babe with the same demon-like enjoyment that he
silenced the pleadings of old age and blooming womanhood. Fred, as a
matter of course, knew nothing of these characteristics; but the
appearance of the redskin himself was so repulsive that he could not
look at him without a shudder of terror.
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