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LIGHTNING JO,


THE TERROR OF THE SANTA FE TRAIL.

A TALE OF THE PRESENT DAY.


BY CAPT. J. F. C. ADAMS.


NEW YORK: BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, 98 WILLIAM STREET.




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

(P. N. No. 9.)




LIGHTNING JO,

THE TERROR OF THE SANTA FE TRAIL.




CHAPTER I.

THE CRY FOR HELP.


     “TO THE COMMANDANT AT FORT ADAMS:

     “For God’s sake send us help at once. We have been fighting the
     Comanches for two days; half our men are killed and wounded, and
     we can not hold out much longer. But we have women and children
     with us, and we shall fight to the last and die game. Send help
     without an hour’s delay, or it’s all up.

     J. T. SHIELDS.”


Covered with dust, and reeking with sweat, with bloody nostril and
dilated eye, the black mustang thundered up to the gate of the fort,
staggered as if drunken, and then with a wheezing moan, shivered from
nose to hoof, and with an awful cry, like that of a dying person, his
flanks heaved and he dropped dead to the ground, his lithe, sinewy
rider leaping from the saddle, just in time to escape being crushed to
death.

Scarcely less frightful and alarming was the appearance of the
horseman, so covered with dust and grime, that no one could tell
whether he was Indian, African or Caucasian; but, whoever he was, he
showed that he was alive to the situation, by running straight through
the gate of the stockades, into the parade-ground, where, pausing in a
bewildered sort of way, he glanced hurriedly around, and then shouted:

“Where’s the commandant? Quick! some one tell me!”

Colonel Greaves chanced to be standing at that moment in converse with
a couple of his officers, and upon hearing the cry, he moved toward the
stranger with a rapid tread, but with a certain dignified deliberation
that always marked his movements. Knowing him to be the man for whom
he was searching, the messenger did not wait for him to approach,
but fairly bounded toward him, and thrusting a piece of dirty paper,
scrawled over with lead pencil, looked imploringly in his face, while
he read the words given above.

And as the colonel read, his brows knitted and his face paled. He felt
the urgency of that despairing appeal, and he saw the almost utter
impossibility of complying with it.

“When was this written?” he asked, of the dust-begrimed courier.

“At daybreak this morning,” was the prompt reply.

“How far away are your friends?”

“Forty miles as the crow flies, and I have never drawn rein since my
horse started, till he fell dead just outside the gate.”

“How many men are there in this fix?”

“There were twenty men, and a dozen women and children. When I left,
about half that number were alive, and whether any are still living,
God only knows, I don’t.”

“I hope it is not as bad as that,” said the colonel, again glancing at
the paper, and involuntarily sighing, for despite his schooling upon
the frontier, he felt keenly the anguish of this wail, that was borne
to him across the sad prairie. “Not as bad as that, I trust; for if
they have held out two days, we may hope that they are able to hold out
still longer. But how is it that _you_ succeeded in reaching us, when
they could not?”

Feeling that some explanation was expected of him, the messenger spoke
hurriedly, but as calmly as possible:

“Twenty of us were conveying a party of women and children--the
families of merchants and officers at Santa Fe--through the Indian
country, on our way to that city, when the Comanches came down on us,
in a swarm of hundreds, and finding there was no escaping a fight,
we ran our wagons in a circle, shut the women and horses inside, and
then it seemed as if hell was let loose upon us. Yelling, shouting,
screeching, charging was kept up all that day into the night. We picked
off the red devils with every shot, but the more we killed the thicker
they came, seeming to spring up from the very ground, until the prairie
was covered with them At night we had a little rest, and we thought
perhaps they would draw off and let us alone. Why they didn’t make a
charge upon our camp that night, I can not tell; but they only sent a
few stray shots, more than one of which was fatal, and at daylight the
fun began again, and never stopped till the sun went down, when there
wasn’t much of a pause then. That was yesterday, and we had it all
through the night, and since we halted the day before yesterday, there
hasn’t been a drop of water for horse, man, woman or child, so that you
can see what an awful strait they are in.”

By this time quite a group had gathered about the messenger, enchained
by the thrilling tale he told, the truth of which was so eloquently
attested by his manner and appearance.

“But you haven’t told us how _you_ got here,” reminded the colonel, as
the man paused for a moment. “_You_ have succeeded at least in insuring
your safety.”

“We made up our minds about midnight last night that something of the
kind had to be done, as it was our only hope. Two of our men tried to
steal through, crawling on hands and knees, but both were caught within
a hundred yards of the camp--one shot dead, and the other so badly
tomahawked, that he died within an hour of getting back to us. So I
told Shields to let me have his mustang, which is the fleetest creature
on the plains, and I would either get through or do as the others did.
So, just about daybreak, I crammed that slip of paper in the side of
my shoe, stretched out flat on the mustang’s back and give him the
word. Away he went like a thunderbolt, with the rifles cracking all
about my ears, and the Comanche thundering down upon me like so many
bloodhounds. I fell more than one bullet in my legs, and I knew the
horse was hurt pretty bad--it didn’t hinder his going, and the noble
fellow kept straight along till he brought me here. But you act as if
you didn’t know me.”

“Know you?” repeated the amazed colonel. “I never saw you before.”




CHAPTER II.

THE ANSWER.


The powdered, begrimed face was seen to expand into something like a
grin, and raising his hand, the courier literally scraped the dust from
his cheeks and eyebrows, and then, as he removed his hat, a general
exclamation of amazement escaped all.

“Jim Gibbons! is it you?” called out the commandant, as he recognized
a man who had been employed at his fort a year before. “I thought your
voice had a familiar sound, but then your own mother would not have
recognized you.”

“But come,” added Gibbons, moving about uneasily, “we’ll talk over
this matter some other time. I’ve brought you the message, colonel,”
he added, making a graceful military salute. “I had heard in St. Louis
that you had been sent to another command, else I would have known whom
to ask for. Now, can you help us or not?”

The officer folded his arms behind his back and walked slowly over the
parade-ground, signifying by a nod of his head, that Gibbons should do
the same.

“I _must_ help you,” he said, in a low voice; “such a call as that
can not pass unheeded. But, Jim, you see my fix. We ought to have a
full regiment to garrison this fort, and the Government allows me but
six hundred. Two hundred of these men are on a scout up toward the
mountains, and won’t be in till dark. Do you know there is some reason
to fear an attack upon the fort, from a combination of several tribes
under the direction of the infernal Comanche, Swico-Cheque?”

“Why he is at the head of the devils that have our friends walled in. I
know him too well, and have seen him a dozen times, circling around on
his horse, yelling like a thousand panthers, and tiring about a dozen
shots a minute. I have fired at him five or six times, but never grazed
him once.”

“Well, I think it is more than likely that we shall have an attack
from him. Now, you know something of life on the plains; tell me how
many men you need to bring your friends into the fort.”

“We ought to have a hundred, at the least.”

“You ought to have five hundred at the smallest calculation. I tell you
the Indians in this part of the country are among the best fighters and
hunters in the world, and if I send a hundred men out into the country,
where they are sure to come against old Swico and his band, the chances
are that they will all be served as were Colonel Fetterman’s men at
Fort Phil Kearney, a month or two ago. You know that over a hundred of
them went out, and never a one was ever seen alive again.”

“But, if I understand that matter right,” replied Gibbons, who was
becoming impatient and uneasy at the delay, “these men were entrapped
and massacred; I don’t think there is any likelihood of that in our
case. But, colonel, pardon me; I wish to know your decision, either one
way or the other, at once. If you conclude that you can not spare a
hundred men to go forty miles away to help this party, then let me have
a fresh horse. I will return, sail in and go under with the rest.”

And Gibbons attested the earnestness of what he said, by starting to
move away; but Colonel Greaves caught his arm.

“Hold on! you shall have the men you need. I have been trying ever
since I heard your story to decide whether I ought to risk the safety
of a hundred men to save one-tenth that number; but I can’t think. It
seems to me that I hear the wailing cry of those women and children
coming over the prairie, and if I should turn my back upon them, their
voices and moans would follow me ever afterward in my waking and
sleeping hours. Yes, Jim, you shall have the hundred men. I will lead
them myself, and we will make hot work in that gulch before we get
through.”

The colonel, having made his decision, did not hesitate for a moment.
Turning sharply upon his heel, he beckoned to the adjutant, and gave
him peremptory orders to make ready a hundred men for a scout into the
Indian country. They were to be armed with rifle, revolver and cavalry
swords, and to be mounted on the best horses at the fort.

As he turned about to say a few words to Gibbons, he saw the tears
making furrows down his grimy cheeks. He attempted to speak, but for a
few seconds was unable to articulate. Taking the hand of the colonel,
he finally said, in a choking voice:

“I thank you, colonel, and God grant that this may not be too late. Oh,
if you could have seen those pleading faces of the women, those cries
of the helpless children for one swallow of water, the dead bodies of
the men, that we had drawn in behind the wagons out of reach of the
red-skins, and the screeching devils all around, you would send your
whole garrison to their rescue. Where is Lightning Jo?”

“He went out with the scouting party this morning, and that is what
caused me to hesitate about sending the company to the help of your
friends. I always feel tolerably comfortable when I know that he is at
the head of the men.”

While the bustle of hurried preparation was going on within the fort,
Gibbons accompanied the colonel to his lodgings, where he washed the
dust from his person, partook of water and refreshments and explained
more in detail the particulars of the misfortune of his friends. He was
equally desirous that the wonderful scout, Lightning Jo, should lead
the partly, as he was a host of himself, and having lived from earliest
childhood in the south-west, he was as thorough an Indian as the great
chieftain, Swico-Cheque himself, and the daring Comanches held him in
greater terror than any other living personage.

But the case was one that admitted of no delay--even if it was certain
that Jo would be in at the end of an hour. Half that time might decide
the fate of the little Spartan band struggling so bravely in Dead Man’s
Gulch, and the release of the beleaguered ones was now the question
above all others.

It required but a very short time for the party to complete their
preparations. Out of the seemingly inextricable confusion of stamping
horses, and men running hither and thither, all at once appeared full
one hundred men, mounted, armed and officered precisely as they had
been directed.

An orderly stood holding the horse of Colonel Greaves, until he was
ready to mount, while another was at Gibbons’ disposal.

The next moment the two latter had leaped into their saddles, and
placing themselves at the head of the cavalcade, rode out of the
stockade upon the open prairie, which had scarcely been done, when a
new and most gratifying surprise awaited them. The march was instantly
halted, and the face of Colonel Greaves and of Gibbons lit up with
pleasure.




CHAPTER III.

LIGHTNING JO.


That which arrested the attention of the company riding out of the
stockade of Fort Adams, was the sight of another party of horsemen
coming through a range of hills about half a mile distant, one glance
only being sufficient to identify them as the scouts already referred
to as being under the guidance and leadership of the great western
celebrity, Lightning Jo.

“Now, that’s what I call lucky,” exclaimed Colonel Greaves. “Jo is the
very man of all others that we need.”

The horsemen rode down the declivity at an easy gallop, and shortly
reined up in front of the stockade, with a graceful salute, and an
action that indicated that he awaited the commands of his superior
officer.

The scouts, or hunters, had turned their time to good account, as was
shown by a number of buffalo carcasses, or rather the choice portions
of such, supported across the saddles of their animals; the appearance
of the beasts, too, indicated that many of them had been subjected to
the hardest kind of riding.

A few words explained to Lightning Jo the business about to be
undertaken, and he at once assumed his position as leader of the
company that had just prepared to start, the colonel withdrawing into
the fort again, where it was his manifest duty to remain, while the
desperate attempt to relieve the beleaguered party in Dead Man’s Gulch
was being made.

The scout did not take a fresh horse, and when pressed to do so, he
declared that his mustang was as capable of a fifty mile tramp, as he
was upon the morning he started upon the hunt from which he had just
returned.

“Come, boys! business is business,” said he, in his crisp, sharp tone,
as his steed carried him by one or two bounds to the head of the
cavalcade he was to lead. “Come, Gibbons, keep yer place alongside me,
and yer can explain as we ride along.”

And as the company of brave men gallop to the southward on their errand
of mercy, each man a hero, and all with set teeth and an unalterable
determination in their hearts to do all that mortal man could do to
save the despairing little band that had sent its wail of anguish
across the prairie, we will improve the occasion by glancing at the
remarkable man who acted as their leader.

Lightning Jo had gained his appellation from the wonderful quickness
of his movements, and his almost miraculous skill as a scout. His
celerity of movement was incredible, while his equally astonishing
strength excited the wonder of the most famous bordermen of the day.
It was a well established fact that Lightning Jo, a couple of years
before, at Fort Laramie, had been forced into a personal encounter
with a badgering pugilist, who was on his return to the States from
California, and who had the reputation of being one of the most
scientific hitters that had ever entered the prize ring, and who on the
occasion referred to was so completely polished off by Jo, that he lay
a month at the fort before he recovered from his injuries.

It was said, and there was every reason to believe it, that he was
capable of running miles with the speed of the swiftest mustang of the
prairie; that he had traversed the Llano Estacado back and forth, times
without number, on foot, passing through the very heart of the Comanche
country, without any attempt to disguise himself, or conceal his
identity in any way; and yet there was not a mark upon his person to
attest the dangers through which he had passed scathless and unharmed.

His horsemanship was perfect in its way, and no living Comanche--the
most wonderful riders on the Western Continent--had been known to
exceed, and very few to equal him. For the amusement of those gathered
at some of the posts which he had visited, he had ridden his mustang at
full speed and bare back, throwing himself from one side to the other,
and firing from beneath the neck or belly of the animal, picking up his
hat from the earth when galloping, at the same headlong rate, striking
a match upon a stone on the ground and carrying the blaze lighted in
his hand. He had thrown the lasso, with such skill, as to catch the
hoof of the plunging buffalo, and then by a flirt of the rope, flung
the kicking brute flat upon his side, as the daring rider thundered
past, and slapped his hat in the eyes of the terrified animal. He could
fling the coil with the unerring certainty of a rifle shot, and would
manipulate the rope into as many fantastical convolutions as a Chinese
conjurer.

His prowess with the rifle was equally marked, and the tales of his
achievements with his favorite weapon were so incredible in many
instances, that we would not be believed were we to repeat them. He
carried a long, murderous-looking weapon, the mountings of which were
of solid silver, and had been presented to him by one of his many
friends, whom he had been the instrument of saving.

At the home of his old mother at Santa Fe--the only living relative
he had upon earth--he had rifles, swords, guns and every manner of
weapon, of the most costly and valuable nature, that had been given
him by grateful friends. His revered parent during his absence was
literally overwhelmed with attentions and kindnesses by virtue of her
relationship to Lightning Jo, the scout and guide who had proved such a
blessing to the settlers of, and travelers through the West.

The hero was about thirty years of age, slim and tall to attenuation,
with high cheek-bones, eyes of midnight blackness that snapped fire
when he was roused, and long hair, as stiff, wiry and black as the
tail of his mustang. His countenance was swarthy, and with a little
“touching up” he might have deceived Swico himself into the belief that
he was one of his own warriors. This was the more easy as Jo spoke the
Comanche tongue with the fluency of a genuine member of that warlike
tribe; but he scorned such suggestions when made to him, declaring
that he was able to take care of himself anywhere and in any crowd, no
matter who were his friends or who were his enemies, an assertion which
no one cared to dispute in a practical way.

Looking at his profile as he rode along over the prairie at a sweeping
gallop, it would have been seen that his nose was large, thin and
sharp, the chin rather prominent, and the lips thin. The mouth was
rather large, and the upper lip shaded by a thin, silky mustache of the
same jetty hue as his eyes. The rest of his face was totally devoid of
beard, except a little furze in front of his ears. He had never used
the razor, nor did he expect to do so.

Of course he sat his horse like a centaur, and, as he rode along,
those keen, restless eyes of his wandered and roved from side to side,
almost unconsciously on his part, as he was ever on the alert for the
first appearance of danger. Such in brief were a few of the noticeable
points of the great scout, Lightning Jo, who was a leader of the party
of rescue, and who is to play such a prominent part in the thrilling
events we are about to narrate.

As he rode beside Gibbons, whose anxiety was of the most intense
character, and who could not avoid giving frequent expression to it,
the scout at length said:

“Just stop that ’ere fretting of yours, now, Gib; ’cause it don’t pay;
don’t you see we’re all stretching out on that ’ere forty miles, just
as fast as horse-flesh kin stand it? Wal, that being so, where’s the
use of fuming?”

“I know, Jo, but how can a person help it when he knows not whether his
friends are dead or alive? There is philosophy in your advice about
whining and complaining, and it reminds me of one of the members of the
party--a young lady, whose disposition had something heavenly in it.”

“Who was she?” asked the scout, in an indifferent way.

“Her name, I believe, was Manning--Lizzie Manning--”

“What!” exclaimed Lightning Jo, almost bounding from his saddle, “is
_she_ there, in that infarnal place? How in the name of Heaven did she
get there?”

“She was one of the party that left St. Louis, and of course shared our
dangers the same as all.”

“The sweetest, purtiest, best little piece of calico that has been
heard,” repeated the scout to himself. “God save _her_, for she’s worth
all the rest. Come, boys,” he called out to those behind him, “ride
your hosses as you never rid ’em afore. I’d dash through fire, water,
smoke, brimstone and blazes, to save _that_ gal!”




CHAPTER IV.

THE PARTY IN DEAD MAN’S GULCH.


Leaving Lightning Jo and his party riding at a tremendous rate over the
prairie to the rescue of the sorely beleaguered company in Dead Man’s
Gulch, we must precede him for awhile to that terrible spot, where one
of the most dreadful tragedies of the many there enacted was going on.

The party, numbering over thirty, two-thirds of whom were hardened,
bronzed hunters, had been driven tumultuously into the place by the
sudden appearance of the notorious Swico-Cheque and his band, where
they had barely time to throw their men and horses into the roughest
attitude of defense, when they were called upon to fight the screeching
Comanches, in one of the most murderous and desperate hand-to-hand
encounters in which they had ever been engaged.

Our readers have already learned, from the hurried words of Gibbons,
something of the experience of the beleaguered whites during the two
days and nights immediately following the halt, and preceding his own
departure, and it is not our purpose to weary them and harrow their
feelings by a recital of the horrible incidents of that stubborn fight.

When Jim Gibbons, hugging the neck of his mustang, dashed at full speed
through the lines of the Comanches, he left behind him ten able-bodied
men, or, more properly, ten who were still able to load, aim and fire
their rifles. More than that number lay scattered around, among the
wagons, on the ground, in every position, killed by the bullets of the
wonderful red riders and riflemen.

The wagons, as is the practice at such times, had been run together
into an irregular circle, one being placed in the center (as the safest
spot), into which the women and children were tumbled, and where, for
the time, they were safe from the bullets that were rattling like sleet
around them, and striking down their brave defenders upon every hand.

This done, the men devoted themselves to keeping back the swarming
devils, that made a perfect realization of pandemonium as they circled
about the doomed band.

In what way Dead Man’s Gulch gained its name no one can tell with any
certainty, but most probably from the number of massacres and deaths
that had taken place within its horrid precincts. It was simply a
hollow, somewhat resembling the dried-up bed of a small lake, and,
instead of being properly a gulch, was more like a basin, so that to
enter it from any direction, one was compelled to descend quite a slope.

The trail which the party were following led directly through the
center of this place, it being by far the most feasible route, in spite
of the ascent and descent, on account of the broken nature of the
country both to the north and south.

Dead Man’s Gulch, occupying an area of several acres, was strewn and
covered with bones, as if indeed it were the site of some ancient
catacomb, that had been rent in twain by some convulsion of nature.

A slight examination would have shown that these bones were those of
horses and human beings, telling in most eloquent language to the
beleaguered whites that the fate which threatened them was that which
had overtaken many a one before them.

Dead Man’s Gulch indeed was a favorite point of the Comanches, who were
always roving the prairies in search of such bands as these, and it was
consequently well known and dreaded by all who were compelled to make
the journey; and the scene to which we now direct the attention of the
reader was, as we have shown, a repetition of what had been enacted
there time and again without number.

The first day’s fight was especially destructive upon the horses, it
being found almost impossible to shelter them from the aim of the
Comanches. As a consequence, the second morning found but few of these
indispensable requisites in a journey of this kind. Those that had
escaped, however, were secured and sheltered in such a way as to keep
them from the other bullets that endeavored to seek them out.

Captain Shields, a sturdy borderer, and a man who had crossed the
plains a score of times, suspected from the first that the only
possible hope for his company was for some one to get through the
Comanche lines to Fort Adams, and that was the reason why he so
carefully protected the two or three remaining mustangs from death.

This, as a matter of course, was the last desperate resort, and was
only to be attempted when it was absolutely certain that nothing else
could avail.

His first hope was that by a determined and deadly resistance he could
convince the red-skins that it would not pay to keep up the contest,
for the warlike Comanches have the reputation of possessing discretion
as well as bravery; but, in the present case, they certainly were
warranted in concluding they had the game in their own hands, and,
despite the murderous replies of the whites, they refused to be driven
away, and kept up a dropping fire, circling round and round the hills
above, and preventing any attempts of the whites to move out.

For some time Captain Shields and his men fired from behind their
horses and wagons, but they soon improved on this, and taking their
positions in the wagons themselves, found that they were quite well
able to pick off their assailants, while they were tolerably well
protected from the return fire, the red-skins being compelled to fire
more at random.

And lying in this posture, they were compelled to see the remaining
horses shot down, excepting the single one upon which Jim Gibbons made
his escape.

And thus the fight--of itself one of the most bitter and sanguinary
among the thousand and one of the West--raged, and as it raged there
were exhibited some of the most daring performances upon both sides,
and among them all was no loftier nor higher-souled courage than that
of our heroine--the young and beautiful Lizzie Manning of Santa Fe.




CHAPTER V.

THE PARTY OF RESCUE.


The sun was past the meridian, when the hundred men, under the command
of Lightning Jo, left Fort Adams and struck off in almost a due
southerly direction.

It required sharp riding to reach Dead Man’s Gulch by nightfall; but
all had strong hopes of doing so, as it was summertime, and a goodly
number of hours yet remained at their command, while their mustangs
were toughened and fleet, and they were now put to the full test of
their endurance.

Lightning Jo knew very well the location of the fatal gulch, and
although he did not say as much, yet he had very little hope of
reaching it in time to be of any earthly use to the poor wretches
cramped up there and fighting so desperately for life.

Swico could not fail to know the meaning of the flight of Gibbons
through his lines. He must know that he was making all haste to Fort
Adams for succor, and that, if he did not speedily complete the awful
business he had taken in hand, without much longer delay, the chances
were that he would be disputed and compelled to fight a third party.

The prairie continued quite level, with dry grass that did not prevent
a cloud of dust arising from the hoofs of the horses. The plain
was broken here and there by ridges and hills, some of the latter
of considerable elevation. Between these the rescuing parties were
compelled frequently to pass, some of them being so close together that
the thought of an ambuscade was instantly suggested to the mind of
every one.

But Jo was not the man to go it blind into any contrivance that the
red-skins might set to entrap him, and his practiced eye made certain
that all was right before he exposed his brave men to such danger.

He was rather expecting some flank movement upon the part of his old
enemy, but he was disposed to believe that, whatever plan he adopted,
he would not “try it on” until the whites reached the vicinity of Dead
Man’s Gulch.

“Mebbe he’s got things fixed to tumble us in there too,” he thought to
himself; “and mebbe ef he has, he’ll find his flint will miss fire.”

The company galloped steadily forward until something like
three-fourths of the distance was passed, and the sun was low in the
west. They were riding along at the same rattling pace, all on the
alert for signs of their enemies, and they were just “rising” a swell
of moderate elevation, flanked on both sides by still higher hills,
when the peremptory voice of Lightning Jo was heard, ordering a halt.

The command was obeyed with extraordinary precision, and every man knew
as if by instinct that trouble was at hand. Naturally enough their
eyes were turned toward the hills, as if expecting to see a band of
Comanches swarming down upon them, and in imagination they heard the
bloodcurdling yells, as they poured tumultuously over the elevations,
exulting in the work of death at their hands.

But all was still, nor could they detect any thing to warrant fear,
although the manner of Lightning Jo indicated clearly that such was the
case.

He did not keep them long in suspense.

“Some of the Comanches are there,” remarked Lightning Jo, in his
offhand manner; “whether old Swico himself is among ’em or not, I can’t
say till I go forward and find out. Keep your guns and pistols ready,
for there may be a thousand of ’em down on ye afore ye know it.”

And with this parting salutation, or rather warning, the scout started
his horse on a gallop, straight toward the rise, as though he purposed
to ride directly between the hills already mentioned. But seemingly on
the very point of entering, he turned his mustang sharply to one side,
and instead of passing between, circled around the hill upon his right.

All this time he sat as erect and proud in his saddle as though he
were approaching the stockade of the fort, which he had made his
head-quarters for so many years.

The cavalrymen, as a matter of course, scrutinized his movements with
the intensest interest.

“How easy for a stray shot to tumble him out of his saddle!” was the
reflection of nearly every one watching the daring soldier.

This action of Lightning Jo speedily carried him over a portion of the
ridge, and out of sight of the horsemen, who could only surmise what
was going on beyond.

But the sharp, pistol-like crack of a rifle, within five minutes of
the time he had vanished from view, proved that the fears of Lightning
Joe were well founded, and that the drama had already opened in dead
earnest.

Indeed it had. The scout had detected all-convincing signs of the
presence of his old enemies upon the hill, and the simple artifice
of turning aside, at the last moment, had given him the advantage of
flanking his foes, and coming upon them from altogether an unexpected
quarter.

As he passed over the ridge, Jo saw about twenty Comanche Indians
sitting quietly upon their horses, and in a position that indicated
that they were composedly expecting the appearance of their prey from
another quarter. Instead of turning to flee, the scout saluted them
in his customary manner by bringing up his rifle, and boring a hole
through the skull of one of the astonished red-skins, before the rest
really suspected what was going on.

“Tahoo--oo!” called out Jo, as he witnessed the success of his shot,
and he followed it up with another yell that was peculiarly his own,
and which was so impossible of imitation that he was known by it from
Arizona to Mexico.

The Comanches were not men of wood to sit still upon their animals, and
remain targets for one of the most skillful riflemen living.

Identifying their assailant by means of his yell, they instantly
scattered, as if a bombshell had landed among them, and they scampered
down the other side of an adjoining hill, and out of sight of Jo,
carrying their fallen comrade with them.

This, it would seem, ought to have satisfied the scout, but it did not.
He suspected that a larger party of Indians was in the neighborhood,
and determined to make sure before returning to his men.

The actions of the Comanches seemed to indicate that they were about
making an attempt to surround him, and he made ready to guard against
it.

“Let ’em surround me! I feel wolfish to-day, and I think it’ll do me
good to let off some of my extra steam among ’em.”

He gazed furtively over his shoulder, nevertheless, for he had no wish
to be taken off his guard, in such a desperate encounter as this was
certain to prove, in case a collision occurred.

His mustang stepped very carefully, with his head raised and his ears
pricked, for he fully felt the delicacy of the situation, and knew that
at any moment they were liable to be enveloped by a horde of their
enemies.

The sagacity of the horse was the first to give notice of the approach
of danger. He was stepping stealthily along, his senses on the alert,
when he suddenly paused, with a slight whinny.

At the same instant, Lightning Jo caught a peculiar sound, as if made
by the grating of a horse’s hoof upon the gravel, and he turned his
head with the quickness of lightning.

There they were, sure enough!




CHAPTER VI.

LIGHTNING JO IN A SCRIMMAGE.


Yes; Lightning Jo found that the Comanches were coming, and at a rather
rapid rate, too. There was no flinging himself over the side of his
mustang and making him a shield against the blows of the red-skins, for
the latter were on every side of him. The fact was they had recognized
that peculiar yell of his, and hastily laid their plans to make him
prisoner.

But Jo wasn’t made a prisoner yet, by a long shot, and finding that he
was at a disadvantage on the back of his steed, he quietly slipped off;
looping his rifle by a contrivance of his own to his side, he whipped
out a couple of revolvers, one in either hand, and the fun began on the
instant.

It wasn’t the way of Jo to await the opening of a game like this, but
to open it himself, and the instant he could cock the handy little
weapons, he began popping away right and left, the astounded Comanches
going down like ten-pins before the savage “bull-dogs,” who had a way
of biting every time they gave utterance to a bark. But there were but
ten such “bites” available, and carefully as the scout husbanded his
ammunition, the barrels were speedily emptied without any sensible
diminution of his peril.

There was no one Comanche, nor no single half-dozen of them, that
would have believed it possible to secure possession of Lightning Jo,
and so they went into the scrimmage in such overwhelming numbers that
escape upon his part looked impossible. By the time the barrels of his
revolvers were emptied there were fully fifty Indians surrounding him.
Nearly, if not quite all of them, were mounted, and they were not the
men to show mercy to such a character as Lightning Jo, who had worked
more mischief against the tribe than any dozen frontiersmen with whom
they had exchanged shots.

Had this indomitable scout been alone upon the prairie his lighting
would undoubtedly have been of the most terrific nature, and he would
have died, like Colonel Crockett at the Alamo, with an “army of dead”
about him; but with all of Jo’s wonderful prowess, he saw that the
assistance of his friends was needed, and without any hesitation he
gave utterance to his “call,” which reached the ears of his listening
cavalrymen, who were equally prompt in responding to the cry.

But the time that must elapse between the call and the arrival of
reinforcements, short as it was, was all sufficient for the Comanches
to encompass the death of a dozen antagonists, unless they were checked
by a most stubborn and skillful resistance.

And just that resistance and that fight now took place.

Instead of clubbing his rifle and using the weapon in that shape, as
almost any man would have done, Jo now had recourse to that wonderful
science in which he was such an adept, demonstrating that to such a man
there is no weapon at his command like the naked fist.

It was a treat to see him use his powers, and had he only possessed a
rock or wall to back against, so as to prevent an insidious approach
from behind, he could have kept off the Comanche nation, so long as
they lunged up to him in such a blind, headlong fashion as the present.

The posture taken by Lightning Jo was according to the latest “rules of
the London prize ring,” and consisted in having his arms up in front of
him, the left slightly in advance, while he balanced himself upon his
left foot, so poised that he was “firm on his pins,” or ready to leap
backward or forward, as necessity demanded.

The foremost Comanche, who had dismounted, was almost up to Jo, when he
thought somebody’s mustang had kicked him fairly in the face, and he
made three back summersets before he could put the brake on. And then,
just as he was getting up, he was knocked down again by a couple of his
comrades going over him, and then, as those arms began working like
piston-rods, and with a velocity a hundred times as great, the cracking
of heads was something like the going off of a pack of Chinese crackers
ignited together.

Heads were down and heels up, as the red-skins leaped from the backs
of their animals and charged in upon the scout, who, as cool as when
partaking of a leisurely meal, allowed every one to come just within
reach of his iron knuckles, when he let drive like a cannon shot.

Finding that it was impossible to take him afoot, several of the
red-skins attempted to ride him down; but there was something in his
appearance as he thus acted on the defensive that prevented them from
approaching too close, just as the bravest horse will recoil from the
bear when he faces about.

Then, too, as it became apparent that there was no capturing the scout
in front, the Indians exerted themselves to the utmost to steal around
in his rear, and to fling him to the ground. This kept things lively
for the time, and the way Lightning Jo spun around and danced upon his
legs, striking incessantly, and occasionally putting in a terrific kick
now and then, was a marvel in itself.

Now he seemed to be down and out of sight, but the next instant he
popped up from some other point, and sent in a volley of blows with the
same lightning-like force and skill. The Indian that clutched at him
and was certain he had got him, clutched the empty air, and did get,
along the head, in such a way that he ever after held him in the most
vivid remembrance.

All this was thrilling and, in a certain sense, amusing; but after all,
despite the extraordinary skill and quickness displayed by the scout,
it could not really extricate him from the difficulty. A man has but
two arms with which to guard himself, and when he is pressed from every
point, with an increasing pressure, no human being can keep such a
swarm at a distance. He is like the man set upon by thousands of rats.

Furthermore, although Jo knew that his friends were making all haste to
his rescue, yet he saw things could not remain as they were even until
then.

He therefore determined to make a desperate attempt to break through
the surrounding lines.




CHAPTER VII.

THE ANGEL OF THE PRAIRIE.


In the awful sufferings to which communities and companies are
sometimes doomed, it is often found that the most delicate and refined
females display the greatest fortitude and the truest heroism. When
the terrible calamity came upon Captain Shields and his party, it
was generally supposed that the first to succumb, from sheer terror
alone, would be the frail, blue-eyed, laughing Lizzie Manning, whose
gentleness of heart, and mirthful ways, had won the affections of all,
before the journey from St. Louis was fairly begun.

There was a blanching of the damask cheek, a faint scream of fear,
when the half naked Comanches suddenly burst forth to view, and sent
in their first volley, and she scrambled nimbly into the “fort,” as
the refuge wagon was termed, thoughtful enough, however, to be the
very last one to enter. By the time she had taken her place upon the
straw-covered floor upon the bottom, her courage had returned to her,
or more properly speaking, she rose to the situation, and displayed
a lofty courage and a rare good sense that excited the wonder and
compelled the admiration of all.

By her aid, the screaming, terrified children were speedily quieted,
and the scarcely less frantic mothers were made to realize that
their own safety lay in retaining their self possession, and keeping
themselves and their children out of range of the rifle-balls that
were clipping the canvas covering of the wagon, and burying themselves
in the planking all about them. By this means something like order
was obtained in the crowded little party, and they had nothing to
do but to watch furtively the fighting going on all around them, to
look at the horrid Comanches circling back and forth, with wonderful
contortions upon their horses, to see their frightful grimaces, and the
flash of their rifles almost in their very faces, as they seemed to be
rushing down as if about to overwhelm and crush the little party out of
existence.

It was a thrilling sight that they looked upon, as they saw these
Indians pitching headlong from their saddles; but their hearts were
wrung with anguish as they saw more than one of their own number
fall, some at full length beneath the wagons, and others among the
floundering horses, where their deaths were frequently hastened by the
hoofs of the frantic animals.

Suddenly Lizzie Manning sprung from the wagon, and heedless of the
hurtling bullets, started to run across the open space inclosed by
the irregular circle of wagons. She had taken but a few steps, when a
young man dashed out from the rear of one of the lumbering wagons, and
excitedly waved her back.

“For Heaven’s sake, Lizzie, back this instant!” he called out, walking
rapidly toward her in his anxiety; “it is sure death to advance. Wait
not a second!”

She paused, as if the voice had a familiar sound, and stared in a
bewildered way at the speaker, a fine, manly-looking young fellow,
whose hair was blown about his face, and whose pale countenance and
flashing eyes showed that he appreciated the danger, and had the
courage not to flinch before it.

Only for a moment did the young maiden pause, and then (only a few
feet separating them, as he had continued advancing from the first) she
pointed to the prostrate figure of a man beneath the wagons.

“There is Harrison, who has been so kind to me, ever since we
started--he fell just now, and stretched out his arms for help. I must
go to him.”

“He is past all help,” said the man, solemnly, “and you will only lose
your own life if you venture near him, for he took one of the most
dangerous posts of all.”

“Nevertheless, he may be alive, and I may be of help to him.”

And as she spoke, the maiden hurried on to where the prostrate and now
silent figure of one of her defenders lay. The distance was short, but
as Egbert Rodman had declared, it was encompassed with death; and for
one moment he meditated seizing the arm of the girl, and compelling
her by main force to return to the shelter of the wagon; but something
in her manner and appearance restrained him; and, forgetful of his own
peril, he gazed with an awed feeling, as he would have watched the
tread of an angel upon this sinful earth of ours.

With a somewhat rapid tread, but without any undue haste, and certainly
without any fear, Lizzie advanced straight to the wagon where the
poor fellow lay, flat upon his back, and directly between the wheels,
motionless and with one knee drawn up, as if asleep.

Kneeling down she took the hand still warm in her own, and with the
other brushed back the dank hair from the forehead of the man, and
asked, in that wonderfully sweet voice of hers:

“Oh, Mr. Harrison, is there nothing I can do for you?”

He opened his eyes, and looked at her with a dim wildness, his face
ashy pale, and then something like a smile lit up his ghastly features,
as he pointed to his breast.

“My wife--my babe--darling Nelly--”

She understood him, and drew from his breast-pocket a photograph of his
wife--with a rosy-cheeked, smiling cherub of a little girl, laughing
beside her knee.

“Tell them--my last thoughts--my last prayers were of them--” he
stammered.

“I will--I will,” said the girl. “Is there nothing more I can do--?”

He made an effort to speak, but the words were choked in their
utterance, and with his eyes fixed upon hers, he died without a
struggle.

But that one soulful, grateful look of those dark eyes, as they faded
out in death, amply repaid the brave-hearted Lizzie Manning for the
noble deed she had done, and she rose to her feet, glad that she had
heeded the mute call of the dying man, who could have scarcely hoped,
at such a time and under such circumstances, any heed would have
been paid to it, unless it were the mocking taunts of the merciless
Comanches.




CHAPTER VIII.

A DARING DEED.


In the mean time, the battle was raging with infernal hotness. All
of Captain Shields’ party were unerring marksmen, and they were so
accustomed to the most desperate contests with the red-skins, that
despite the terrible strait in which they were placed, they preserved
their coolness and equipoise like true veterans, and loaded and fired
with such rapid sureness, that to this alone may be attributed the
severe check, which kept the Comanches from making an overwhelming
charge, that would have carried every thing before them.

The first night passed with little disturbance, as we have already
shown, and the second day the battle was renewed and kept up with
scarcely an intermission until nightfall.

This day, especially the latter portion, was very warm, and the
suffering of the little band was terrible--so much so that many of
the living envied the dead, who had been so speedily released from
their distress. The thirst felt by all was a perpetual torment, from
which there was scarcely the slightest relief. Many of the men,
despite the great danger, dug into the ground, until the damp soil was
reached, which they scooped up and placed in their mouths as a slight
assuagement of their anguish.

The females stood the trial like martyrs, for their own greatest
suffering was that of seeing the half-dozen moaning children piteously
begging for water, when there was none to give them.

The history of the world has proven that men will run any risk, no
matter what, for the sake of satisfying the maddening thirst, that
threatens to drive them raving wild; and, it was this that was the
cause of one of the most daring deeds ever recorded, upon the part of
young Egbert Rodman.

The Comanches could not but be aware of this fearful distress of the
whites, and with a fiendish malignity, characteristic of the Indian
race, just at nightfall, when the Dead Man’s Gulch was bathed in mellow
twilight, one of the red-skins was seen to leap off his mustang and
walk toward the encampment, with a large tin canteen in his hand--a
relic undoubtedly of some massacre of United States soldiers.

There was a lull in the firing at this moment, and the whites, at a
loss to understand the meaning of the proceeding, stealthily peered out
from their coverts in the wagons, to learn what new trick was on the
_tapis_.

It looked as if he were going to summon them to surrender, or call for
a parley, as he walked straight forward until he was within a hundred
feet of the nearest wagon, when he paused and held up the canteen
before him, contorting his face into the most grotesque grimaces, and
shaking the vessel in front and over his head.

The stillness at this moment was so profound, that more than one
distinctly heard the gurgle of water in the vessel, and, if any doubt
remained of the red-skin’s purpose, it was dissipated by his calling
out, in broken English:

“Yengese--come--muchee drink--hab muchee drink--”

These words were scarcely uttered, when _crack, crack_ went two rifles
almost simultaneously, and the foolhardy wretch made a scrambling leap,
and his taunting words ended in a wild howl, as he fell prostrate
across the can, that he had brandished so tormentingly in the faces of
the sufferers.

It is strange that such a dog should not have known the risk he ran in
making such a taunt.

The Indian had scarcely fallen when several of his comrades started
down the declivity to bring away his body. At the same moment, Egbert
Rodman, who was in one of the wagons, sprung out, and was seen to run
at full speed in the direction of the fallen man.

“Come back! come back! or you’re a dead man!” shouted Captain Shields,
divining his purpose on the instant.

But the young man’s lips were set, and he was determined upon
possessing that canteen, if it were within the range of human
possibility. He saw a horde of Comanches swarming down the gulch on a
full run, screeching like demons, and evidently certain of securing the
daring Yengee, whose torturing thirst had stolen away his senses.

But Egbert was not to be deterred by any such appalling danger as this.
Now that he had undertaken the desperate task, nothing but death should
turn him aside!

In far less time than it requires to be narrated, he had sped over the
intervening ground, and was at the prostrate figure. He was fleet of
foot, and he ran as he never ran before, reaching it, however, only a
few seconds in advance of the rescuing Comanches, one of whom actually
fired and missed him, when scarcely a rod in advance.

One tremendous jerk of his arm, and Egbert threw the dead Indian off
the canteen, and catching it up in his hand, he turned about and
started at the same headlong speed for the encampment, clinging to the
vessel as if it was his own life; but the Comanches were all about
him, and it looked as if it was all up, when he whipped out his only
weapon--his revolver, and blazed away right and left in their very
faces. At the same instant the whites opened fire, and made such havoc,
that in the confusion Egbert made a dash, and sped like a reindeer for
the wagons, and leaped in behind them with the canteen and the water
and himself intact.

Then a shout went up from within the little band, and making his way
to the central wagon, Egbert first furnished the moaning children
with several swallows of the delicious--(oh, how delicious!) fluid,
no argument inducing Lizzie Manning to take a drop, until all her
companions had first done so.

Then the brave fellow made his way from man to man, every one
partaking of the soul-reviving cold water, whose delicious taste could
not have been approached by the “nectar of the gods.”

All drank moderately, for they knew that Egbert was to come last, and
nothing could induce one to cut his allowance short; and so he let
several swallows gurgle down his parched throat, when he carried the
remainder to the women’s wagon, and placing it in the hands of Lizzie,
said:

“Keep it for the poor suffering little ones and for yourselves! We are
hardy men, and can stand thirst better than they, and know how to chew
our bullets, when we have nothing else!”

With many a fervent blessing upon the noble fellow’s head, the canteen
was accepted and preserved as he requested.




CHAPTER IX.

THE LOVERS.


The second night the moon, that rode high on the sky, enabled the
little party of white men in Dead Man’s Gulch to detect the Comanches
as they prowled about, and our friends proved their vigilance by
picking off every one who thus exposed himself to their deadly rifles.

For the first half of the night little rest was obtained by either
side--the spitting shots continuing with a rapidity, and in such
numbers, as sometimes to resemble platoon firing--but, shortly past
the turn of night, the Comanches seemed to grow weary of the incessant
din, and being a fair target for the whites so long as they remained on
the hill, where they were brought in fair relief against the sky, they
assumed safer positions, and for a long time perfect silence remained.

By this time, despite the respite afforded by the captured canteen,
the condition of the party was as desperate as it could be. Although
the whites had been very careful in exposing themselves to the aim
of the Comanches, yet so deadly had it been that there were now only
ten men left, including Gibbons. Shortly after midnight two of these
made the attempt to steal through the environing lines, and both lost
their lives, in the manner recorded elsewhere. This left but eight
able-bodied men to continue the defense, and Gibbons began arranging
his flight with Shields, they keeping it a secret from the rest, as
it was feared that there would be a strife as to who should go, every
one being anxious to get out of such a hell as Dead Man’s Gulch by any
means, so long as a suitable pretext could be found.

But one horse was left unharmed. The others were dead, stretched in
different places around the open space, and, under the warm sun, an
odor of the most offensive character was beginning to rise from them.
Worse still, there were men here and there, and some of them in wagons,
to whom the right of sepulture could not be given; and they lay, with
dark, discolored faces, staring up to the sky, happier than were those
who were left behind to struggle and fight on, only to die at last a
still more dreadful death then had come to them.

All was still, and in the large wagons, devoted to the shelter of the
women and children, the latter were sound asleep, as were most of the
former. Lizzie Manning had endeavored to inspire hope in the despairing
ones around her, and was now sitting, with folded hands, upon a
blanket, her shawl gathered over her shoulders, and in that attitude
was awaiting sleep, when she heard a faint footstep near her, and
turning her head, descried the figure of Egbert Rodman advancing, with
a hesitating step, in that direction, his actions indicating that he
felt considerable doubt as to the propriety of that which he was doing.

Believing that he was seeking an opportunity to say something to her,
Lizzie spoke to him in a low, reassuring voice.

“Well, Egbert, is it I that you wish to see? If so, come nearer, where
your voice will not be so likely to be heard.”

“I was wondering whether you were asleep or not,” he replied, making
his way to the rear of the wagon, where her face could be seen looking
encouragingly out upon him. “There is no fighting going on at present;
it won’t do for one to go to sleep, and I was thinking that possibly
you might be awake, and with no ability to close your eyes in
slumber. But, if you have, don’t fail to say so, and I will wait until
to-morrow, or until there is a more favorable opportunity.”

“You need not leave, Egbert,” said she. “I did not sleep a single
minute last night, nor can I do so to-night. I am glad that you have
come, that we may have a chat with each other, without disturbing any
one else. Somehow or other, I feel a strong conviction that this is the
last night that will be spent in the gulch.”

Egbert had thought the same for hours, but he had kept his premonitions
to himself, and it cut him to the heart when the gentle and ordinarily
light-hearted girl spoke of it in such positive and hopeless tones.

Yet nothing was to be gained by denying the existence of such a
desperate strait.

“It does look so, indeed,” he replied, in a low voice, as he leaned
against the wagon in such a posture that his head was brought close
to hers. “It is not likely that any diversion will be created in our
favor, and we can not keep up a successful resistance much longer. _Our
numbers are getting too small._”

“I hope they will end this struggle by firing into and killing us all
together,” returned Lizzie, in her sad, sweet tones, and her heart
gave a great throb as she reflected upon the fate of falling into the
hands of these tiger-like Comanches. “Do you not think they will do so,
Egbert?”

He could not answer in the affirmative, so he did the best thing
possible, making answer:

“You know that we shall keep up the fighting as long as any of us are
left. When our men become so scarce, or are nearly all gone, the women
can take their places, and thus compel the death which I know would be
welcome to all.”

“Well, Egbert,” said she, in tones of Christian resignation, “it is
only a step between this and the other life. Father and mother and
sisters and brothers will mourn when they learn of the death that
Lizzie died, but then she has only gone on before--just ahead of them.”

“Yes,” replied the young lover, who felt soothed, albeit saddened, by
the words of the sweet girl. Reaching up his hand, he took hers, and
with a solemn, sacred feeling, said:

“I suppose, Lizzie, now that we stand in the presence of death, you
will permit me to declare how I loved you the first time I saw you in
St. Louis, and how that love has increased and deepened with every hour
since, until I feel now, like the romantic cavaliers of old, that it
is sweet to stand here, and to die, knowing that I die defending your
honor and your life. Lizzie, my own dearest one, you have all my heart.
None who have seen you can fail to respect your sweetness of character,
and the veriest slave was never held a more helpless captive by his
task-master than I am by you. It would be idle for me to expect any
thing like a similar emotion upon your part, but I am sure you will not
be offended at what I have said. Tell me that.”

“No; I am not--”

Egbert fell her hand tremble in his own, and a strange yearning came
over him to hear what she had checked herself in saying. Could it
be that she felt in any degree the same emotion that penetrated his
whole being? No, impossible; and yet what meant this trembling, this
agitation, this excitement?

But she said not the words he was so anxious to hear, and they talked
awhile longer upon the desperate situation, and then, kissing the dear
hand that he had fondled and held imprisoned in his own, he bade her
good-night, and returned to his post of duty.




CHAPTER X.

AT FULL SPEED.


All through this singular fight, Lightning Jo had kept within reach of
his mustang, which occasionally put in a kick now and then, in the hope
that he might be turned to account; but the tumult and uproar became so
terrific, that he finally became panic-stricken, and with a whinny of
the wildest terror, he made a plunge among the scarcely-less excited
animals, when his furious struggles added to the fearful uproar, which
was already sufficient to drive an ordinary man out of his senses.

Lightning Jo, as we have said, knew that his friends were coming over
the hills at the topmost bent of their speed; but the flight of his
horse, and the rapid closing in of the Comanches, made further delay
fatal, and with the promptness that was a peculiar characteristic
of the man, he grasped his loaded rifle in his hands, and made his
desperate struggle for freedom.

This was simply an attempt to dodge beneath the horses’ bellies out
beyond them, where he knew his own fleetness could be depended on to
carry him safely into the company of his own men.

And now began a most extraordinary performance, and an exhibition of
Lightning Jo’s miraculous quickness of movement was given, such as
would seem incredible in a description like ours. He was walled in
on every hand by the swarming Comanches, but by the matchless use of
his tremendous arms, he kept back the scores from entangling him in
their embrace; until, all at once, he was seen to make a leap upward,
directly over the shoulders of those immediately surrounding, and he
shot beneath the belly of the nearest mustang like a whizzing rocket.

And, as he did so, he gave utterance to that strange yell of his,
like the yelping prairie-dog, whose bark is cut short, as he plunges
headlong into his hole, by the sudden whisking of his head out of sight.

The Comanches who caught the dissolving view of the scout, made a
desperate struggle to capture him, and those who were still mounted,
and saw him leaping beneath their animals, turned them aside, and cut,
slashed and thrust at him in the most spiteful fashion, while others
sprung off their horses, and did their utmost to intercept and cut
him off, or to trip him to the earth, or to disable him in some way
that would prevent his succeeding in his threatened escape from their
clutches.

It would be a vain attempt to follow his movements in the way of
description, when the eye itself was unable to do so; and, despite the
astonishing celerity of the Comanches, whose nimbleness of movement is
proverbial in the West, they were completely baffled in every effort
they made to entrap him.

Here, there, everywhere, he was seen, shooting out sometimes from
between a horse’s legs, and then was in another place before the animal
could resent the shock given him--in front--in the rear--leaping
to one side--backward--forward--and threw the whole troop into
confusion--every now and then giving utterance to that indescribable
yell, so that the red-skins were actually in chase of _that_--and all
the time steadily approaching the outer circle of mustangs, and ever
keeping in mind the proper direction for him to follow, to meet the
much-needed soldiers.

And all this took place in one-tenth the time required in our
references. The bewildering dodging and doubling of Lightning Jo
continued until he shot from beneath the last horse, and then with a
triumphant screech, he sped away like a terrified antelope.

Hitherto the efforts of the Comanches had been directed toward
capturing the redoubtable scout, and they soon dashed their animals
after him on a full run, in the hope of riding him down before he could
reach the assistance which they knew was so close at hand.

It proved closer indeed than they suspected; for they had hardly
started upon the fierce pursuit when a rattling discharge of rifles
rose above the din and confusion, just as the whole company of United
States cavalry thundered over the ridge, and came down upon them like
the sweep of a tornado that carries every thing before it.

There were a few exchanges of shots, and then the Comanches would
have excited the admiration of a troop of Centaurs by their display
of horsemanship. Speeding forward like a whirlwind, the shock of the
opposing bodies seemed certain to be like that of an earthquake; but,
at the very instant of striking, every Indian shied off, either to the
right or the left, and by a quick, rapid circle of their well trained
animals, they shot away beyond reach of harm from cavalry, and skurried
away over the hills and ridges, disappearing from view with the same
astonishing quickness, that made successful pursuit out of the question.

Driven away in this unceremonious fashion, the Comanches were
compelled to leave their dead upon the field--the wounded managing
to take care of themselves, and to get out of harm’s way, ere the
cavalry could swoop down upon them. The fashion of giving quarter, in
the contests between the Indians and white men, has never been very
popular, and at the present day, it may be considered practically
obsolete, so that the Comanches displayed only ordinary discretion in
“getting up and getting”--if we may be permitted to use the expressive
language of the West itself, in referring to an engagement of this kind.

Accustomed as were these men to the exhibitions of the wonderful powers
of Lightning Jo, they were astounded at the exhibition of their own
eyes, of the deeds he had done during the few minutes that he had
engaged in the encounter with the red-skins. The troop gathered around
the battlefield, and were commenting in their characteristic manner
upon his exploits, when the scout himself, seeing his mustang near at
hand, made haste to secure him, and leaping upon his back, he lost no
time in placing himself at their lead, and turning his face toward Dead
Man’s Gulch, he said, in his sharp, peremptory way, when thoroughly in
earnest:

“Come, boys, we have lost too much time. We must git there afore dark,
if we git there at all.”

Gibbons, the messenger, placed himself beside him, and, as soon as they
were fairly under way, Jo remarked to him:

“I hardly know what to make of it. Old Swico is not with them skunks,
and I am disappointed. It has a bad look.”

“Why so?” inquired his comrade, who was partly prepared for the answer.

“I ain’t sartin--but it looks to me as if the _business is finished
down at the Gulch_.”

“Then why should not the chief, released from there, be here with his
men?” continued Gibbons.

“This is only a part of his men; there wa’n’t many Comanches among the
hills. I think the old dog sent them off on purpose to bother us and
keep us back as much as they could.”

“While Swico and the others have taken another direction?”

“Exactly, and carried the women and children with them; and if so, we
might as well turn back to Fort Adams ag’in.”

But the scout, as he uttered these chilling words, set his teeth, and
rode his mustang harder than ever toward Dead Man’s Gulch.




CHAPTER XI.

THE VALLEY OF DEATH.


The wagon containing the females and the children was that which
carried the provisions--the others being piled up with the luggage
belonging to the different members of the party, and which they had
formed into rude barricades from which they fired out, with such deadly
effect, upon the Comanches, who, from the nature of the case, were
unable to make any kind of approach without exposing themselves to that
same unerring fire.

One of the men, at stated periods, visited the provision wagon, and
brought forth lunch for his comrades, who felt no suffering in _that_
respect--their great trial being the lack of water. But for the
providential supply, secured in the manner already narrated, human
endurance would not have permitted the whites to have held out longer
than the beginning of this terrible, and what was destined to prove the
last, day--the one following the departure of Gibbons, the messenger,
for Fort Adams.

It should be made clear at this point also that, of the half-dozen
women, and the same number of children, not one had husband, or father,
or blood-relative among the defenders, so that, while their situation
could scarcely have been more trying, it was deprived of the poignant
anguish of seeing the members of their own household shot down in cold
blood before their eyes.

No pen can depict the gratitude and love they felt for these men, who,
it may be said, were giving up their lives to protect them; for, at
the first appearance of the dreaded Comanches, every one of them could
have secured their safety by dashing away at full speed, upon their
fleet-footed mustangs, and leaving the helpless ones to their fate.

But of such a fashion is not the Western borderer, who will go to
certain death, rather than prove false to those who have been intrusted
to his care. The party had been sent to St. Louis, under an agreement
to bring this little company to their homes in Santa Fe, on their
return from an excursion to the Eastern States, and there was not one
of them who would have dared to ride into the beautiful Mexican town
with the tidings that they had perished, and he had lived to tell the
tale. Far better, a thousand times, that their bones should be left to
bleach upon the prairie, rather than they should live to be forever
disgraced and dishonored, and to carry an accusing conscience with them
for the remainder of their days.

The children, during the first twenty four hours, probably suffered
the most, in their cramped, constrained position, being compelled to
remain within the wagon, lest, if they exposed themselves by appearing
upon the ground, they should be slain by the Comanches, who availed
themselves of every opportunity to retaliate upon the whites.

After it became pretty certain that Jim Gibbons had penetrated and
passed through the Comanche lines, Captain Shields prepared for a
deadly charge from their enemies, and from his place in his vehicle he
called to the others to make ready also.

The men thus talked with each other, while their faces were
mutually invisible; but the little circle permitted the freest
intercommunication. His advice was followed, and every rifle loaded and
kept ready to be discharged at an instant’s warning.

It was terribly annoying to feel, at a juncture like this, that they
must husband their fire on account of the failing supply of ammunition,
and at the same time manage the business in such a way that the
Comanches themselves should not be permitted to discover the appalling
truth.

“Don’t fire too often,” called the captain, in his cautious way, “and
when you do make sure that you let daylight through one of the red
devils. I think they will open on us in some way, and very soon, too.”

It seemed strange that the uproar and tumult which had marked the
flight of Gibbons should be succeeded in its turn by such a profound
silence as now rested upon the gulch. From the place where our friends
crouched not a single Comanche could be seen, nor could their location
be detected by the slightest sound.

From far away on the prairie came the faint sound of a rifle--but in
the immediate vicinity all was still.

Captain Shields was of the opinion that Swico, the chief, had gathered
his warriors around him, just outside the gulch, and was holding a
consultation as to what was the best to be done, as it was now as good
as certain that, before the dawn of another day, a heavy force of
cavalry would be down upon them.

There were some who really believed that the Comanches would now draw
off and disappear altogether from the place where they had suffered
such a terrible repulse; but for this very reason, the experienced
frontiersman, Captain Shields, was certain that the contrary would
prove to be the case. The incitement of revenge would prompt them
rather to make the most desperate charges and the most furious assaults
upon the little Spartan band.

And while the old hunter lay upon his face in the wagon, stealthily
peering out, and listening for the first approach of his foes, he
coolly calculated the chances of the day.

“Six of us left, and we average three rifles apiece--to say nothing of
revolvers that are scattered all among the boys. We can load and fire
these, perhaps four or five times apiece--not oftener, certainly--that
is, if we can only get the opportunity to load and fire them. After
that-- Well, everybody has got to die some time.”

At this, he stealthily moved around, and peered out at the wagon
containing the helpless ones, and he muttered:

“All seems to be quiet there, and I guess none of them have been
reached by these bullets whizzing all about them, which may be either
good or bad fortune.”

Then as he resumed his position of guard, he cleared his vision with
his hand, and added:

“It’s mighty rough on them. We men are always expecting such things,
and are sort of ready for it; but for helpless women and children--
Helloa! what in the name of Heaven can that be?”




CHAPTER XII.

“WHAT IS IT?”


Captain Shields might well give utterance to this exclamation, for just
then his eyes were greeted with the most singular sight he had ever
seen in all his life. He rubbed his eyes and stared, and finally turned
to young Egbert Rodman, who just then crawled into the wagon.

“If I was a drinking man,” said he, “I would swear that I had the
jim-jams sure. Look out the wagon, Rodman, and tell me whether you see
any thing unusual, or different from what we have been accustomed to
look upon for the last day or two.”

The young man did as requested, and the exclamation that escaped him
convinced the somewhat nervous officer that his head was still level,
and his brain was playing no fantastic freak with him.

The sight which greeted their eyes, and so excited their wonder, came
first in the shape of a horse, which, walking slowly forward, steadily
loomed up to view, until it stood directly on the border of the gulch,
where, at a hundred yards distant, and with the clear sunlight bathing
him, every outline was distinctly visible.

But it was not the horse, but that which was upon it, that so excited
the wonder and speculations of those who saw him. Close scrutiny gave
it the appearance of an animal standing upon all-fours upon the back of
the horse, like Barnum’s trained goat Alexis. It was, however, three
times the size of that sagacious creature, and an Indian blanket was
thrown over it, so that little more than the general outlines could be
discerned.

This enveloping blanket reached to the neck of the “what is it?”
leaving the head entirely exposed. This was round, and bullet-shaped,
and moved in that restless, nervous way peculiar to animals. It seemed
as black as coal, and resembled the head of one of those giant gorillas
which Du Chaillu ran against in the wilds of Central Africa.

A strange chill crept over the two men, as they felt that this animal
was looking steadily down upon the encampment, as if meditating a
charge upon it, and only waiting to select the most vulnerable point.

The steed supporting this nondescript stood neither directly facing
nor broadside toward the whites--but in such a position that their
view could not have been better. The horse remained as stationary and
motionless as if he were an image carved in bronze.

No other living creature being in sight, the eyes of the little band
of defenders in Dead Man’s Gulch were speedily fixed upon this strange
phenomenon, and its movements were watched with an intensity of
interest which it would be hard to describe.

“It is some Comanche deviltry,” was the remark of Egbert Rodman, after
he had surveyed the object for several minutes. “They have grown tired
of running against our bullets, and are about to try some other means.”

“But what sort of means is that?” asked the captain, who beyond
question was a little nervous over what he saw.

“That is rather hard to tell, until we have some more developments;
but you know that the red-skins, from their earliest history, have
been noted for their ingenious tricks, by which they have outwitted
their foes, and you may depend upon it that this is one of their
contrivances, although I must say that I do not see the necessity for
any such labored attempts as that, when they have every thing their own
way; and, if they would only make a united and determined charge, we
should all go under to a dead certainly.”

Captain Shields, however, like many of the bravest men, was
superstitious, and he was inclined to believe that there was something
supernatural in the appearance of this thing, and, although he
hesitated to say so, yet he looked upon it as having a most direful
significance concerning himself and his friends.

Still the horse remained perfectly motionless, and the quadruped, with
the blanket thrown over his back, was steadily gazing down upon them,
from his perch upon the back of another quadruped.

The profound stillness that then reigned over the prairie and in Dead
Man’s Gulch was rather deepened by the sound of the faintest, most
distant report of a gun that seemed to have come from some point miles
and miles away, in the direction of Fort Adams, proving plainly that
the pursuit of the flying messenger was not yet given over.

Egbert Rodman concluded that there was a very easy and speedy way
of settling the business of convincing the awed captain that there
was nothing possessed by this curious animal that was not the common
possession of his race. As he stood, partly turned toward him, he could
not have desired a better target for a carefully aimed rifle, and he
determined to tumble him from the back of the horse, and thus put a
speedy end to that bugbear of the captain’s.

Without saying a word as to his intentions, he carefully thrust the
muzzle of his rifle through the aperture in the canvas of the wagon,
and sighted at about where he supposed the seat of life to be. He held
his aim only long enough to make certain, and then pulled the trigger
and looked out to see the “what is it?” pitch to the ground, and reveal
his particular identity in his death-struggles before their eyes.

But what did he see? The creature, standing in precisely the same
posture, and looking steadily down upon them, as unmoved as though such
a thing as a gun had never been invented.

But Egbert, although very much astounded, was not yet prepared to admit
that the nondescript was impregnable against a good Springfield rifle,
even if those about him were under a superstitious spell.

And so, with the same steadiness of eye and nerve, he reached out and
took a second rifle from beside him, and shoved this through the “port
hole.”

The same unexceptionable target remained, and he resolved that this
time there should be no failure. He was a good marksman, and he made
certain aim, while more than one breathlessly watched the result.

The same as before! Not a sign of the thing being harmed in the least!

“Shoot no more!” said Captain Shields, in an awed voice, “there is
nothing mortal about it! It is sent to warn us of what is so close at
hand!”




CHAPTER XIII.

“THE COMANCHES ARE COMING.”


When Egbert Rodman fired and missed the second time at the apparition
at the top of the gulch, his emotions were certainly of the most
uncomfortable kind.

He was now certain that in both instances he had hit it fairly and
plumbly in the very point aimed at, and it was equally certain that he
had not harmed it in any way.

The mustang did not stir an inch, nor did any movement upon the part of
its strange rider indicate that he or it was sensible of the slightest
disturbance from the two bullets that had been aimed at its life.
Clearly then it was useless to waste any more precious ammunition upon
it, when it was simply throwing it away.

Still Egbert was too intelligent and well educated to share fully the
belief of Captain Shields, although he could not avoid a cold chill, as
he proceeded to load his two discharged pieces, for, to say the least,
it was inexplicable, and no man can feel at ease when face to face with
a danger which proves to be invulnerable against effort upon his part.

With the exception of Egbert, the other men believed the same as did
their captain, and the vim and spirit that had marked their courageous
defense up to this point, now deserted them, as the sad, despairing
conviction imparted itself to each, that all hope was now gone, and
they had but to wait the coming of inevitable doom.

The mustang with the moveless apparition upon it deepened the spell of
terror that rested upon the whites, by starting down the hill in the
direction of the encampment. He walked with a slow, deliberate tread,
like a war-horse stepping at the funeral of his master, and it may be
said that the blood of the staring bordermen froze in terror at the
sight.

Undoubtedly their senses would so far have left them, that they either
would have dashed out of the gulch, or cowered down in terror behind
their barricades, like children frightened at the approach of some
hobgoblin.

But this last great calamity was spared them; for, while yet at a
considerable distance, the mustang came to a sudden and dead halt,
paused a moment, and then, with a snort of alarm, turned about and
dashed away at headlong speed.

The mustang was gone so speedily that there were many who were not
aware of the manner in which he had made his exit, and were ready to
believe that he had vanished like a vision of the night, a proceeding
in perfect keeping with their idea of the phenomenon itself.

The hours dragged wearily by until noon came and passed, and not a
sign of an Indian had been seen, nor had the frightful apparition
reappeared. When the survivors saw that the sun had really crossed the
meridian, there were several who began to feel the faintest revival
of hope, while one or two were inclined to believe that the Comanches
had withdrawn in a body and would be seen no more, discouraged by
the desperate resistance they had encountered, and the escape of the
messenger, and the probable coming of a body of cavalry from Fort Adams.

While Egbert Rodman could not share in this belief, yet, to relieve
the suspense which oppressed all, he determined to pass outside the
encampment and learn whether or not there was any foundation for such
belief.

Of course, great risk was incurred by doing this, but all had become
used to risks, and he leaped from the wagon and ran at quite a rapid
rate up the hill, the entire group watching him with an interest
scarcely less than that with which they had scrutinized the approach of
the apparition.

The relaxation in the vigilance of the Indians had been taken advantage
of by the whites, especially by the women and children, the latter of
whom, with the innocence of their age, were running back and forth and
frolicking, with as much gayety as if playing upon the green at home,
with no thought of death in their minds.

“That chap will never get any sense in his head till it is put there by
a bullet,” remarked Captain Shields, as he stood attentively watching
his young friend, secretly admiring, in spite of his words, the
intrepidity which he had displayed from the first.

“Why did you permit him to go?”

“Good heavens! I didn’t permit it; the first thing I knew, I seen him
jump out of the wagon and start up the hill. Didn’t I try to stop him
when he was after the red devil with his canteen, and what good did it
do?”

“It seems to me that it would be so easy for him to run directly to his
death.”

“So it would, and for that matter, it would be powerful easy for any of
us to do the same; but he’s about to the top of the gulch,” added the
captain, turning away to watch his progress.

Such was the case, and every voice was now hushed, and every eye was
fixed upon Rodman, as he slackened his gait, and, stooping down, made
his way as stealthily to the top of the declivity as the most veteran
scout could have done.

When he should reach there and look around, all knew that he would give
a signal which, indeed, would be that of life or death to them.

They marked him as he crept on his hands and knees to the very top, and
then, removing his cap, peered over. Then he rose partly to his feet
and turned his head in different directions, and just as the trembling
whites were beginning to take heart again, he suddenly wheeled about,
and came running down the gulch like a madman, waving his hand and
shouting something to his friends which was incomprehensible from his
very excitement.

“Back to the wagon, every one of you!” commanded Captain Shields,
turning to the women. “Don’t wait a second! That means that the
Comanches are coming! To your stations, boys, and let us die like men!”




CHAPTER XIV.

THE LAST DAY IN DEAD MAN’S GULCH.


Only a few seconds and Egbert Rodman was in the middle of the
encampment, breathless and wild.

“The whole horde of Indians are coming back!” he called out, as soon as
he could frame the words. “They are but a short distance away and will
be here in the next minute!”

The words had scarcely been uttered when the borders of the gulch were
swarming with yelling Comanches. The women had barely time to scramble
under shelter, when the red-skins were upon them.

“Fire, as you can load and aim!” called out Captain Shields, while yet
his men were leaping to their places. “Don’t wait, but let them have
it! We may as well die fighting like men!”

Crack! crack! barked the rifles of the scouts, in a regular fusillade
among the horsemen, the fatal results being instantly seen, in the
Comanches here and there dropping from the backs of their mustangs.

This destructive fire accomplished the best thing possible, in that it
prevented the wholesale charge that was so much to be dreaded; as it
could not fail to be deadly fatal almost on the instant.

The incessant sleet of bullets sent into the ranks of the red-skins
created an unexpected confusion, and just as our friends had reached
the last round of their ammunition, they fell back out of range, and
dismounting, crept to the edge of the gulch and began firing down upon
the encampment, just as the scouts themselves would have done had the
position been reversed.

Despite the exaggerated assertion of the startled Egbert, as he dashed
into the camp, Captain Shields became well satisfied from the glimpse
he had gained, that the Comanche force was divided, and he was now
fighting against only a portion of those against whom he had been
pitted before, the others, as he rightly suspected, having followed
on in the pursuit of the flying messenger, and with the purpose of
entrapping and ambuscading the cavalry that would be sent, in all
probability, to the rescue of the little band of whites.

But there was little consolation to be derived from this discovery,
as there were certainly over a hundred Comanches at hand, and they
unquestionably had the power, when they should choose to put it forth,
to crush out of existence himself and every one of his brave men. One
single determined charge, a few minutes’ appalling conflict around the
wagons, and then not a man need be left to tell the awful tale of the
last appalling massacre of Dead Man’s Gulch.

The red-skins kept up the cautious policy of lying flat upon their
faces, just over the edge of the ravine, and aiming deliberately down
into the encampment. By this time the canvas of the wagons was riddled,
and knowing pretty well at what points to aim, the greatest caution was
necessary upon the part of the scouts to escape the bullets that were
flying all about them.

Fully a dozen of these merciless wretches directed their exclusive
attention to the wagon which they knew contained the helpless members
of the party, and such a steady fire was kept up on it that the canvas
in a few minutes looked like a sieve, pierced in every part by bullets,
many of which imbedded themselves in the impenetrable planks of which
the wagon-body was composed.

This was the first time since the opening of this dreadful siege that
such a demonstration was made, and the unrelenting malignity which
characterized it, excited the wonder of the scouts, who believed that
the Comanches were so infuriated at the losses already suffered, that
some of the survivors who may have lost their closest relatives, were
bent upon exterminating every one, man, woman and child, without
awaiting what might be considered the inevitable capture of the females.

But provision had been made against this very thing from the first.
The sides of the vehicle, behind the canvas, had been walled up with
packages and bundles, in such a skillful fashion, that so long as the
little party could be made to keep between them and near the center
of the wagon-body, they were as impervious to the rifle-shots as if
incased in an ironclad of the navy.

This steady stream of fire from the boundary of the gulch continued
until the greater portion of the day had passed. So long as it
continued without any concentration upon the part of the Comanches,
Captain Shields was satisfied, for nothing short of a cannonade could
demolish the barricades that had withstood such a terrific fire for so
many hours.

With the sole purpose of preventing any _coup d’état_ upon the part of
the red-skins, the intrepid captain called to his men to send a shot
among them now and then, taking care, however, that in every case the
rifleman discharged his gun at a fair target.

These opportunities, fortunately for our friends, were few, and they
were thus saved the fatal revelation that could have had but one
terrible result upon the part of the valiant defenders.

Captain Shields was thus kept so incessantly employed, both in body
and mind, that he had little time in which to think of the apparition,
and the ominous warning which he fervently believed it foreshadowed;
but, now and then, in the heat of the conflict, it came to him with its
dreadful depression of spirits, and made him sigh and wish that the
“last minute” would come and the agony end.

This fearful fire continued until darkness descended upon the prairie,
and when the light failed, a lull came so sudden as to cause a ringing
and peculiar lightness of the head that almost drove away the senses of
those that remained.

Captain Shields waited a few minutes, and finding a possibility of
this quiet lasting for a short time, he determined to make the round,
and exchange a few words with his friends. He was alone in the wagon
which he had chosen for his sentry-box, and stealing cautiously out, he
hurried across the clearing to that containing the women and children.
He found them stunned, paralyzed and nearly dead from the awful ordeal
through which they had passed, but a little inquiry proved them all
untouched by the bullets that had been sent so inhumanly after them.

Then he made the rounds of the other vehicles, and a blood-chilling
discovery awaited him. Out of the five defenders besides himself, only
one, Egbert Rodman, remained alive, the other four having been struck
and killed by the balls of the Comanches!

“What is the use?” said the stunned officer as he took the hand of the
young man and helped him out upon the green sward; “we two are the only
ones left, and I have fired my last round of ammunition, even to my
pistols.”

“So have I,” returned Egbert; “we may as well go to the women and die
defending them. The last moment is at hand.”

“It is here!” said Captain Shields, in a clear voice. “Look! there they
come!”

As he spoke, he pointed up the sides of the gulch, where, in the dim
light of the early night, the horsemen were seen gathering for the
final charge. The next moment it came!




CHAPTER XV.

THE RESCUE.


The next moment a strange, wild yell broke the stillness, or rather
sounded above the thunder of the horses’ hoofs, and the two men,
standing sullenly by the wagon in the center of the encampment, and
awaiting their doom, like those who, having done all that was possible,
could now do nothing else.

Again that indescribable yell rung out over the prairie, and Captain
Shields straightened himself like a flash, and gave a gasp of amazement
if not terror.

“Did you hear that, Egbert?” he demanded, clutching the arm of the
half-stupefied man at his side. “By heavens! they are not Indians, but
Lightning Jo and his men from Fort Adams!”

The next minute the clearing within the encampment was filled by a
score of men, who, leaping from their horses, and leaving them outside
of the circle of wagons, came rushing in upon the little party from
every direction.

“Helloa! here, where are you?” shouted the famous scout, “this ain’t a
game of hide and seek. Come out and show yourselves.”

This was uttered in a cheery, hearty way, but mingled with the voice
could have been detected a tone of awe and dread, like one who in
reality was afraid to hear the same answer which he had demanded.

“Here we are,” replied Captain Shields, as he and Rodman walked forward
to meet their deliverers.

“But the rest of you--where are they? Speak quick, old fellow,” added
Jo, taking the hand of the two, both of whom were his acquaintances;
“we are in a hurry, and want to hear all that is to be heard.”

“There they are,” returned Egbert, pointing to the wagons; “some are
beneath them, and some are within them, but every one is dead!”

“What!” exclaimed Lightning Jo; “you had women and children with
you--they are not all gone? I heard that Lizzie Manning, the sweetest
little girl in Santa Fe, or anywhere else, was with you. Where is
_she_?”

“Oh, she is all right,” returned Captain Shields, who had misunderstood
the full import of the question; “they are unharmed.”

But by this time Gibbons, who knew just where to look for them, called
out that they were safe, and he and many of the soldiers gathered about
the wagon to congratulate and give them what assistance was in their
power.

Their kindnesses were needed, for during the latter portion of this
day all had suffered the most agonizing thirst, the scant supply which
had been furnished them so unexpectedly lasting them but a short time,
and then seeming to intensify that intolerable craving that drives the
strongest man mad, until all were overcome by a sort of stupor, in
which they were sensible only of dull, yearning pain, that could not be
quieted.

Expecting as much, the soldiers were prepared, and more than one
canteen of cool, refreshing, delicious and reviving water was offered
to the suffering women and children, and almost instantly new life was
imparted to all, and they awoke to a realizing sense of their position,
and to the fact that they had been rescued.

“Are you there, Lizzie?” asked Lightning Jo, crowding forward, and
peering among the group, who were dismounting from the vehicle that had
proven such a friendly shelter and fort to them. “Helloa! I see you!
Thank the good Lord! I was very much afeard I’d be too late to save
your sweet self.”

And taking the half-fainting girl in his long, brawny arms, he pressed
her to his heart and kissed her cheek, just as affectionately and
gratefully as he would have done had she been his only daughter
restored to life.

And poor Lizzie, now that she saw that the awful danger had passed,
could not prevent her woman’s nature from asserting itself. Resting her
head upon the bosom of the brave-hearted scout, she could only sob in
the utter abandonment of feeling. She knew that so long as Lightning Jo
stood near her there was nothing to be feared from any mortal danger
that walked this earth; and the tense point to which her mind had
been strung for so long a time, now fully reacted, and she became as
weak and helpless as the youngest of the children, who were beginning
to awake from their stupor. And so, without attempting to speak, she
simply sobbed, and allowed her friend to support her in his arms.

The rest of the cavalry were not idle. They made a circuit of the
wagons, and, as they learned the dreadful truth, something like a
heart-sickness and awe quieted their boisterous voices, and they
conversed in low tones, some muttering curses against the red scourges
of the plains, while others expressed their sympathy for the brave men
who had perished before relief came.

The life of the soldiers on the frontier is such as to accustom them to
the most revolting evidences of the cruelty of the Indians; but there
were thoughts that were suggested to the cavalry, by the sight in Dead
Man’s Gulch, such as did not often come to them.

The long-continued and heroic defense of the little party, the torment
of thirst, the vain attacks of the ferocious Comanches, the unflinching
bravery of men and women, the steady dropping of the scouts until only
ten were left, the total giving out of the ammunition, and then the
sullen despair, in which the last defenders awaited the last charge:
these pictures came to the minds of the cavalrymen in more vivid colors
than they can to the reader who has seen nothing of the wild, daring
life of the frontier.

Gibbons quickly told his story to his friends. After the diversion
created by Lightning Jo’s scrimmage with the Comanches among the hills,
he and his men had put their horses to the full run, and reached the
neighborhood of Dead Man’s Gulch just as the lull in the conflict
occurred. It was their purpose to charge down upon the red-skins, and
give them a taste of vengeance, such as they had not yet encountered;
but the cautious Swico had his scouts out, and the approach of the
cavalry was signaled to him while they were yet a long way off.

In the hope of still accomplishing something, the majority of the
cavalry started in pursuit of the Comanches, while Lightning Jo and a
score of his friends hurried on to Dead Man’s Gulch, where the chief
interest now lay.

The horses of the soldiers were already exhausted, and they were
speedily compelled to return, after having exchanged a few shots with
the band of Swico-Cheque, as they skurried away in the darkness.




CHAPTER XVI.

HOMEWARD BOUND.


There were too many horrors hanging around Dead Man’s Gulch for the
whites to spend any more time there than was necessary. Several of the
wagons were overturned upon each other, and then fired, and by the aid
of this huge bonfire, which sent a glow out upon the prairie for miles,
like the rays of the Eddystone light-house over the ocean, they set
about their work of mercy.

In one of the wagons were placed all the bodies of those who had
fallen, and the other was fitted up in the most comfortable manner for
the women and children. To these several of the cavalry attached their
horses, and making sure that every thing that could be of any possible
use to the Comanches was burned, the rescuing party started out of the
ravine, which was ever afterward to cause a shudder whenever memory
recalled the awful experiences to which they were there doomed.

The moon had only fairly risen when the procession slowly wended its
way out from the gulch, and off across the prairie, in the direction
of Fort Adams. They were indeed what they looked to be, a funeral
procession, and another vivid comment upon the terrible errors which
have governed the associations of the white and red-men from the very
first meeting, nearly four hundred years ago.

The dragging of the two heavily-laden wagons across the prairie could
but be a tedious and wearisome task, and in all probability would not
be completed until the second day after starting. Of course there was
a possibility that Swico would return to the attack, if a suitable
occasion should offer, but it was not deemed necessary that the entire
one hundred men should remain to escort them into the fort.

And so when the eighty rode back from the fruitless pursuit of the main
body of Indians, the arrangements were made for dividing the company,
it being well known that Colonel Greaves could ill afford to spare so
many men, and would be pleased if such a course could be carried out
without any ill results flowing therefrom.

But, first of all, the steeds and their riders needed rest after the
tremendous charge over the prairie, and less than a mile from Dead
Man’s Gulch, where a sparkling stream of cold water wandered through a
grove of trees, the camp was made for the night, the sentinels being
stationed at every point, and such precautions made, as to cause every
one to feel perfectly safe against any disturbance from the malignant
red-skins, who had too much discretion to rush in where they knew they
would be only too gladly received by the cavalry.

Several fires were kindled in the grove, and food cooked, the
camping-ground being one of the most pleasant that could possibly have
been chosen, as there was an abundance of rich grass for their animals,
and every thing that could be needed by their riders.

At one of these fires, a little apart from the rest, were three
persons, engaged in the most pleasant converse. The long, lank figure,
stretched lazily upon the ground, supporting himself upon his elbow,
was Lightning Jo, at his ease, with his nature all “unbent” and his
humorous self at the surface. As he talked, his black eyes sparkled,
and his handsome white teeth were constantly exposed as he asked some
question, or made some reply to Egbert Rodman and Lizzie Manning, who
were seated upon the opposite side of the fire, rather closer together
than was absolutely necessary, chatting with each other and with the
scout, who kept “chaffing” them so continuously that they had little
opportunity for any private conference of their own.

“You may as well wait, younkers,” said Jo. “I don’t object to you
squeezing each other’s hands, jest as you tried a minute ago, when you
thought I warn’t looking; but you needn’t try to talk to each other
when I’m about. So wait, I tell yer, till some other time, for you
ain’t going to get rid of me till you bunk up for the night.”

“No one wants to get rid of you,” retorted Lizzie, as a blush suffused
her face, and her eyes sparkled in the firelight. “What do we care for
you? I have no wish for any private talk with Egbert.”

“Of course not; nor he with you; any fool can see that in both your
looks, ’specially in his. But that’s always the way. I had an aunt
once that always was interfering when any young dunces got to fooling
round. She had a son, that she thought all the world of. He had learned
the shoemaker’s trade, and when he was about forty or forty-five, he
got tender on a cross-eyed girl, with red hair, that lived near him,
and he went for her. My aunt didn’t like it a bit, and done all she
could to break it up. She said if her boy would wait till he got to be
a man, she wouldn’t object, if he would pick out a young lady for her
worth instead of for her beauty, as he had done. She done every thing
to torment the poor feller, giving him medicine to make him sick when
he had a special appointment with her, sewing big patches all over his
coat, so that he was ashamed to wear it, and locking him in his room
and giving him a good strapping when he got sassy and gave her any of
his lip.

“Cousin Josh didn’t mind that much, as he said the old woman had been
a little peculiar ever since he had been ’quainted with her; but there
was one thing that he couldn’t get used to, and that was her way of
bouncing down upon him and his senorita, just as they were beginning
to act like you two folks, and thought nobody wasn’t looking on. Three
times, Josh told me, he had got down on his knees and clasped his hands
and shut his eyes, and was making his proposal to his lady, and was
just in the sweetest part, when he opened his eyes and saw his mother
standing afore him with a sweet smile upon her countenance, and more
than once, when he reached out his arm to put around the young lady’s
waist, it went over the old woman’s neck, who was alistening near, and
who cuffed his ears for being such a fool.

“Josh stood it as long as he could, but finally he got even with her.”

“In what way?” inquired Egbert.

“He got a big skyrocket made, and fastened it to the old lady’s dress,
and got a little boy to touch off the fuse. The last seen of my aunt
she was whizzing and bobbing through the air, until she went out of
sight. As she never came down ag’in, Josh wasn’t bothered any more, and
he went on with his courtship and at last got married and lived happy,
as such a good boy deserved to be.”




CHAPTER XVII.

ON THE BRINK.


The sentinels on duty at the grove detected more than once through the
night the Comanches prowling around the encampment; but they evidently
saw enough to convince them that it wouldn’t pay to disturb the
sleepers, and so they slept on, on, till the bright summer sun pierced
the camp, and all was active again. Then, as the preparations were made
for resuming the journey to Fort Adams, and a careful reconnaissance
of the surrounding prairie was made, not a shadow of a red-skin could
be seen.

“I was in hopes that I could get a crack at Swico,” remarked Lightning
Jo, as he rode at the head of the company, with Egbert Rodman and
Lizzie Manning by his side, he insisting upon her keeping him company
when no danger was thereby incurred, as he declared there was no
telling when such an opportunity would be given him again, and, as a
matter of course, she was only too happy to comply with his wishes.

“I was saying that I had hopes of getting even with Swico, and he and
me have an account that must be squared one of these days, but I wasn’t
given the chance to draw a bead on his shadow. Howsumever, we’ll get
square one of these days, as my uncle used to remark when he cheated me
out of my last cent, and then kicked me out doors when I asked him for
a trifle. They’ve got some purty big devils among the Comanches, but I
think Swico goes ahead of ’em all. Do you know what sort of ornament
he has made for himself, and which he thinks more of than any thing he
ever had?”

The two replied that they had never heard mention of it.

“He wears a shirt of buck-skin, made without the usual ornaments of
beads and porcupine-quills, but hung with a full, long fringe _formed
from the hair of white women and children_! You needn’t look so
horrified,” the scout hastened to add, as he noted the expression upon
the faces of his friends. “I’ve sent word to Swico that him and me
could never square accounts till I got hold of that same thing, and I
never can get hold of it till I wipe the owner out, so you can see how
_that_ thing has got to be settled atween us.”

“And if you hadn’t come to Dead Man’s Gulch as you did, that fringe
would have been ornamented with _my_ tresses,” said Lizzie, looking
with an awed, grateful look at her preserver.

“I s’pose,” was the matter-of-fact reply; “the old scamp was expecting
me, and I wonder that he waited. But he sloped when some of his scouts
sent him word that we was coming. Howsumever, what’s the use of
talking? I don’t see as you’ve got any reason to think any thing about
him.”

“Where do you suppose this Comanche chief and his band are now?”
inquired Egbert.

“Off over the prairie somewhere, looking for more women and children.
That’s his _forte_, as they say down in Santa Fe, and I rather reckon
that there are plenty more in the same boat with him.”

The subject, at the present time, seemed distasteful to Lightning
Jo. The fight was over, and he considered all danger at an end, and
despite the bier, with its awful load, that followed in the rear of the
cavalcade, he seemed to feel a certain buoyancy of spirits that was
constantly struggling for expression in his words and manner.

The morning was clear and bracing, and but for the lumbering wagons the
whole party would have been bounding forward at a rate that would have
carried them to Fort Adams within the next few hours.

No interruption occurred until noon, when a halt was made for dinner,
the cavalry being provided with sufficient rations to make it
unnecessary to use the rifle in quest of game.

By the middle of the afternoon, they were within a dozen miles of the
fort; and, as there had been no signs of Indians visible since starting
in the morning, it was concluded to be no violation of prudence for
the main body to gallop on to their destination, leaving the wagons to
follow at their leisure, it being confidently expected that they would
come into the stockade shortly after nightfall.

Lightning Jo and a dozen of the best men, including Gibbons, Captain
Shields and Rodman, remained with the smaller party. All were mounted,
fully armed and provided with an abundance of ammunition, so that no
one felt any misgiving as to the result of this proceeding, which at
first sight might seem imprudent in the highest degree. In case any
formidable body of Indians should put in an appearance, and it was
deemed best to avoid a fight, the wagons could be abandoned, and the
women and children taken upon the horses with the men, and the flight
would be as rapid and sure as could be desired.

Nothing but the sternest necessity could induce Lightning Jo and his
party to abandon their dead friends to mutilation and outrage at the
hands of the Comanches; but they deemed that necessity so remote as
scarcely to require a thought, and so they separated, and the main body
rapidly vanished from view.

A few miles further on, the prairie was broken up in ridges and hills
of such size as to merit the name of mountains, and Jo declared that
several miles could be saved by passing through these. He had done so
several times, and knew of a pass through which the wagons could be
drawn with as much ease as upon the open plain.

Before entering this, however, he displayed his usual caution by
galloping ahead and making a reconnaissance, from which he returned
with the announcement that nothing in the shape of Indians was to be
feared.

“There seems to be a heavy storm coming,” he added, as he glanced up at
the darkening sky, “but we can stand that in the mountains as well as
upon the prairies; so let’s go ahead.”

As the little company rode into the ravine, and marked the ominous
gathering of the elements, more than one was sensible of a singular
depression of spirits--a strange, chilling foreboding such as sometimes
comes over us when standing beneath some impending calamity.

And indeed, had Lightning Jo suspected the appalling danger which was
already gathering over his brave band, he would have gone a thousand
miles before venturing a rod into that ravine!




CHAPTER XVIII.

SHUT IN.


The little party of horsemen had scarcely begun their passage through
the hills, when it became evident that they were to encounter the
storm of which Lightning Jo had spoken. The warm air became of chilly
coldness, and blew in fitful gusts against their faces, the sky was
rapidly overcast by dark, sweeping clouds, and the rumbling thunder
approached nigher and nigher, rolling up from the horizon like the
“chariot-wheels over the court of heaven,” while the forked lightning
darted in and out from the inky masses, like streams of blood. A few
screeching birds went skurrying away in a cloud of dust, and the
appearance of every thing left no doubt of the elemental tumult that
was on the eve of breaking forth.

“We’re going to catch it, you bet,” remarked Jo, as he looked up at the
marshaling of Nature’s forces, clapping his hands to the top of his
head, as if fearful that his cap would be whirled out of sight by the
tornado-like gust of wind, “but it would be worse out on the perarie
than down here.”

He had to shout to make himself heard, although the lovers, Egbert and
Lizzie, were riding close to him.

The former shouted back the return in the question:

“Can we not find shelter before the storm comes? We shall all be
drenched to the skin, if we are exposed to the deluge for the space of
five minutes.”

“Certainly, we can find shelter, and that’s just what I’m going for
this minute. We’ll make it afore the deluge comes. If we’d been on the
perarie we’d had to hold our hair on, and we’d have got such a basting
that it would have taken a lifetime to git over it.”

“Couldn’t we have found shelter in the wagons?” yelled Egbert.

Jo’s face could be seen to expand in a grin, as he made answer in the
same vociferous tone:

“Shelter in the wagons? I’ve seen that tried afore--when the covering
was slathered to ribbons in the wink of an eye and the wagons went
rolling over and over like a log, going down the side of a mountain
till they went out of sight, and when we rid our hosses ’long over that
same route, we made our camp-fires with bits of wagon for the next
fifty miles. I reckon you haven’t had a storm sin’ you left St. Louey?”

“Certainly nothing like _that_,” was the answer of Rodman, who thought
the scout was drawing things with rather a “long bow.” “We had several
storms, such as struck us all as being very severe.”

“S’pose you thought so; but they were the gentlest of zephyrs alongside
of some that I’ve butted ag’in’. I came over the plains with a party
in ’48, when I was purty young, and took my first degree in perarie
storms then. We were ’bout a hundred miles out of St. Louey, when we
butted ag’in’ a dead head-wind, that got so strong that we see’d purty
soon we shouldn’t be able to stand. When I see’d how things was going,
and that my hoss was a-slipping backward, I jumped off my hoss, and
laid down flat on my face and held onto the ground; but it wa’n’t no
use. I see’d my animal going end over end over the plain, looking like
a dough-nut turning summersets, and, finding I was blowing loose, I
crawled into the wagon in the tallest kind of a hurry.”

“And there you were safe,” remarked Egbert, knowing that something
stunning was at hand.

“Yes, I rather think we was,” he answered, ironically. “When I crawled
into the ox-wagon, I found all the rest war there, and the old
shebang was already going backward, and gaining every second like a
steam-engine. You see the wind was dead ahead, and the cover of the
wagon acted like a sail, and it warn’t long afore we was a going over
the perarie at a rate that you never dreamed of. You can just bet
things hummed. I looked out of the side of the coach, and see’d the
wagon-wheels going round so fast that you couldn’t see any thing but
the hubs, and they had a misty sort of look, from buzzing round in such
style. Some of the women got a little nervous, and said they preferred
to ride at a little slower gait, and axed me, if it was all the same to
me, if I wouldn’t shut off a little steam. All I could do was to put on
the brakes, and the minute I done that, I see’d a flash and they was
gone!--jist like a pinch of powder--burned up by the friction.

“So I told the folks to compose themselves, as I reckoned we war in for
it, and we’d all go to pieces together. Well, now, that shebang kept
going faster and faster. I jist tell you things buzzed for awhile. I
looked out the tail of the wagon (we war going tail foremost) and see’d
ourselves going right straight for Devil’s Humps--which you know is
two mountain peaks, something like a quarter of a mile apart. Thinking
every thing was up, I jist scrooched down in the wagon and watched to
see ourselves go. I s’pose you will think I’m exaggerating, when I tell
you we went right up the first mountain-peak, which was half a mile
high, as quick as a wink, but there the wagon struck a rock, turned
summersets; but it was going so fast that it shot right across from one
peak to another, and happening to light right side up, we kept straight
on for St. Louey. That ’ere jump from one mount to another rather mixed
us up, and some of the women complained of being jarred a little.

“Howsumever, we got straightened up after a bit, and then begun to
watch things. I knowed there was fun ahead, when I see’d a thundering
big drove of cattle right in our path. They tried to get out of
our way, but they couldn’t, and we went right through them like a
cannon-shot, and when I looked back I see’d a regular tunnel through
the drove of bufflers knocked to flinders. You see there was several
purty good-sized streams in our way, and when we buzzed through them,
some of us got our clothes a little moist, but we had to let things go,
and, to make a long story short, we never held in until we reached St.
Louey, where we shot straight through the biggest hotel, and into an
old lady’s cellar afore we stopped.

“Of course we was a little shook up, but that was nothing to what we
met next day--”

Lightning Jo suddenly paused, in the very middle of the sentence, and
his companions saw his face blanch, and his eyes flash, as though he
had caught sight of some new and appalling danger.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE TERROR OF THE PRAIRIE.


There was no need of Lightning Jo telling what it was that so startled
him, for following the direction of his own gaze, every eye saw it on
the instant.

On the upper margin of the precipitous chasm or canon, through which
they were making their way, at a point about a hundred feet above
and directly over them, was the apparition which had so startled
Captain Shields when in Dead Man’s Gulch. The mustang was standing as
motionless as then, and the same quadrupedal nondescript was perched
upon his back, its black head turned a little to one side, while it was
evidently gazing down upon them with a fixed, intense stare.

“The devil will be to pay now,” growled Jo, just loud enough to be
heard in the roaring wind; “but it’s too late to put back, and we’ll
press ahead.”

And resolutely compressing his lips, he drove his mustang to the head
of the cavalcade and forced him into a gallop along the canon, the
others, of course, following his example.

Neither Egbert nor Lizzie had made the least reference to this
apparition, while in converse with the scout, for the reason that
each knew he bore the reputation of being a practical man, and would
only laugh and tell them that it was a “spook,” that their fright and
sufferings caused to appear to their own minds--an explanation which
both were inclined to accept up to this point.

But Jo had scarcely started ahead, when several large drops of rain
pattering here and there in the gorge, warned them that the threatened
deluge was at hand. The winding of the canon, at the point over which
they were now hurrying, was such that there was comparatively little
about them, although it moaned and sobbed over their heads like the
desolate wailing of lost spirits.

“Hurry up, Jo!” yelled Gibbons, from directly in the rear of the
lovers, “or we shall be drenched!”

No need of shouting to the scout, who at that moment made a dash a
little to one side, and then wheeling his steed squarely about, halted
and motioned to the others to join him on the instant.

The shelter was reached.

The horse of the scout stood on the same level with the bottom of
the canon; but, the rocky side of the latter, instead of sloping
perpendicularly upward, inclined far out over their heads, so that
the upper margin projected fully twenty feet further over than did
the base, thus giving them the very protection for which they were so
hastily seeking.

The party lost no time in arranging themselves beneath this roof, and
in a few minutes the two wagons came lumbering up, the horses forced
to a much more rapid gait then they had yet attempted.

They had barely time to reach the spot, when the bullet-like drops
that had been pattering faster and faster, suddenly and prodigiously
increased, and the storm broke forth.

The scene was fearfully sublime--and such as our pen scarcely dare
attempt to depict. The rain came down in such blinding torrents that
the top of the gorge was shut out from the view of the whites, and
a dim, watery twilight gloom enveloped them all. The thunder, that
had been somewhat diminishing for the last few minutes, now burst
forth in rattling, tremendous discharges, as if heaven and earth were
coming together--while the vivid, intense lightning seemed to be
everywhere--rending rocks and trees, and playing along the canon in its
arrowy flight, setting the whole air aflame.

All stood awed and hushed--no one daring to break the stillness, and
scarcely moving during this war of the elements. It seemed as if it
were blasphemy for man to seek to speak or interpose during the moments
when nature herself was speaking in such trumpet-like tones.

But the storm was as short as it was violent; and, as the booming
thunder retreated and gradually died away, in sullen reverberations,
the fall of rain slackened, and just as the afternoon was drawing to a
close, the last drop fell.

The appearance of the mustang and its strange rider seemed to have
produced a remarkable effect upon Lightning Jo, who had lost all his
vivacity and humor, and was thoughtful and silent.

“Are we to remain here all night or go forward?” asked Egbert, walking
to where Jo stood, leaning against the rocks, with arms folded and
moody brow.

“Go forward,” he replied, almost savagely, as he raised himself. “What
do we want to stay here for?”

“I see it is nearly dark, and Fort Adams is still a number of miles
away. We shall not be able to reach there until far into the night.
Why not encamp where we are and finish the journey leisurely in the
morning? There seems to be no particular danger.”

“I tell you there _is_ danger,” was the fierce reply of the scout; “did
you see that _Thing_ on the mustang?”

“Yes; and I have seen it before.”

“And so have I, and I can tell yer it means something. When that comes
’round, there’s the worst kind of deviltry close on to its heels; you
can bet on _that_.”

“Then we are not yet through with the Indians, after believing we were
perfectly clear of them.”

“I didn’t say _that_--but what I mean is that some deviltry is brewing;
we’re right in the middle of these hills, and the best thing we can do
is to get ahead while we can.”

“Hush!” exclaimed Lizzie Manning, in an awed voice; “what is the
meaning of _that_?”




CHAPTER XX.

A FEARFUL RIDE.


A dull, increasing roar, like the moaning of the Indian Sea, when the
cyclone is being born, struck the ears of the whites, all of whom
paused in their conversation and listened, wondering what it meant.

The horses showed signs of restlessness and fear, but they were held
sternly in check, while the riders bent all their faculties into that
of hearing; and by a common instinct, every eye was turned toward
Lightning Jo, as if inquiring of him an explanation of the strange
sound.

What the scout thought can only be conjectured; but there was a scared
look upon his face that gave all the most gloomy forebodings, and they
awaited his words and actions with an intensity of anxiety that can
scarcely be described.

The roar, which now drowned every other sound, was like that made by
the approaching train, and it had that awful element of terror which
comes over one when he feels that a peril is bearing swiftly down upon
him from which there is no escape.

“Onto your hosses, every one of you! Cut ’em loose from the wagons, and
don’t wait a minute!”

The voice of Lightning Jo rung out like a trumpet and was obeyed on
the instant, while by another imperious command of his, the women and
children were taken upon the backs of the animals in front of the
hunters.

Quickly as all this was done, it was not a moment too soon. In reply to
the questioning looks of his friends, the scout pointed up the ravine
in the direction whence they had come.

At first sight, there seemed to be a mass of discolored snow spinning
down the canon; but the next moment all knew that it was the foam
and spray of water, rushing down upon them with the impetuosity of a
Niagara.

“Hold fast!” called out Jo; “but there’s no use trying to fight it!”

Even while the words were in his mouth, the appalling torrent came upon
them!

There was a blinding dash of spray and mist, and then every horse, with
its rider, was carried as quick as a flash off his feet, and shot down
the canon like a meteor.

Egbert Rodman, the moment he realized the nature of the danger, reached
forward and caught the hand of Lizzie Manning, intending to place her
upon the horse, in front of him, as many of the other scouts had done;
but ere he could accomplish the transfer, the shock was upon them,
and in the stunning, bewildering crash, he was only sensible of going
forward with tremendous velocity, down the canon, among his friends,
who were all impelled onward by the same resistless force, that made
them, for the time, like bits of driftwood heaped in the vortex of the
great maelstrom.

“Lizzie! where are you?” he called out, in his agony, groping blindly
about him in the tornado of mist, and driftwood, and water; “reach out
your hand that I may save you!”

He heard something like an answering cry; but in the rush and whirl, he
could not tell the direction nor the point whence it came; and had he
known that only a half-dozen feet separated them, it was no more in his
power to pass the chasm than it was for him to turn and make headway
against the _chute_ that was carrying every thing before it with an
inconceivable velocity.

It would be impossible to describe the appalling scene in the canon.
Those who lived to tell of it, in after years, shuddered at its
recollection and declared that its terror was greater than any through
which they had ever passed. The little group who sat waiting and
conversing upon their horses had scarcely been caught up and shot
forward, when the gloom of the approaching night deepened to that of
the most intense, inky blackness, so that no man, speaking literally,
could have seen his hand before his face.

It would have made no difference had it been high noon, so far as the
question of helping themselves was concerned, although it might have
lessened in some degree that shuddering, shivering dread that possessed
all, under the expectation every moment of being dashed to fragments
against the projecting rocks, or crushed by the _debris_ that was
carried tumultuously forward in the rush and whirl of the waters.

“_Stick to your hosses, and take things easy!_”

The voice of Lightning Jo seemed to come from a point a thousand
yards away--whether above or below could not be told by the sound;
but all knew that he was somewhere in the torrent, and there was
something reassuring in the sound of his ringing voice in this general
pandemonium of disaster and death. It encouraged more than one
despairing and helpless, and they clung the more tightly and took some
courage and hope.

“Jo, can you hear my voice?” called out Egbert Rodman, with the whole
strength of his lungs.

“I reckon so,” came back the instant answer.

“Tell me, then, whether you have Lizzie with you, or whether you know
where she is.”

“No; can’t tell; thought you and her were together. We’ll fetch up
somewhere purty soon--daylight will come in the course of a week--and
then we’ll hunt for each other. No use till then--so you keep your
mouth shet, and look out that you don’t get your head cracked.”

These seemed heartless words to Egbert; but they were really dictated
by prudence and common sense, and he acted upon the advice, so far as
it concerned the questioning of the scout.

The mustang of our young friend was swimming as well as he could down
the _chute_, striving only to keep himself afloat. His body was beneath
the water, his nose and head only appearing above. Up to this time
Egbert had maintained his place upon his back, himself sinking of
course to the armpits; but when he heard the warning words of Lightning
Jo, he understood how the projecting point of some jagged rock might
pass over his animal’s head, and crush his own.

Accordingly he quietly slipped back over the animal’s haunches, and
submerging himself to his ears, held on to the tail of the animal, in a
position of greater safety--if such a thing as safety can be named in
reference to the party caught by the torrent in the canon.

Egbert had scarcely adopted this precautionary measure, when he had
reason to thank Lightning Jo for the timely warning.

Something grazed the top of his head, like the whiz of a cannon-ball,
proving with what amazing velocity he was shooting down the canon.

“How can any one get out of this horrible place alive?” was the
question he asked, as he realized the narrowness of his escape. “We
must all be shattered to pieces before going much further. Ah!--”

Just then a wild cry rung out above the din and roar of the waters--the
cry of a strong man in his last agony. Driven as if by a columbiad
against some flinty projection, he had only time to make the shriek as
the breath was driven from his body.

As this spinning downward through the chasm continued for several
moments, Egbert endeavored to collect his senses and to think more
clearly upon his terrible position.

He was morally certain that a number of the party had already lost
their lives, and a twinge of anguish shot through his heart as he
reflected upon the females and the tender children exposed to this
perilous war of elements. And then, too, the wagon containing the
remains of those who had fought so gallantly in Dead Man’s Gulch--what
a ghastly fate had overtaken them! It seemed, indeed, as if nature
had joined with man in heaping unimagined horrors upon the heads of
the weak and defenseless, and that nothing remained but to await
shudderingly the fate that could not be postponed much longer.

But amid the rack and turmoil and swirl of the canon, the thought of
his beloved Lizzie Manning would present itself, and he could not help
wondering, doubting, fearing and hoping all in the same breath.

Was she living and had she survived the ordeal uninjured up to this
time? Or had her gentle nature succumbed at the first shock? She had
proven herself a heroine in Dead Man’s Gulch, and was she equal to
this? If still living, how much longer could she bear the strain upon
her system?

But ere Egbert Rodman could conjecture any replies to these questions,
he was called upon to make a still more desperate fight for his own
life.

His mustang, encountering some obstruction, made such a sudden, furious
plunge, that his tail was drawn from the loose grasp of Egbert, who,
aiming to renew it, clutched vaguely in the darkness and was unable to
reach his faithful animal. He could hear him floundering and neighing
close at hand, but there was no use of attempting to reach him, and he
called to the horse, in the hope that he would succeed in making his
way to him; but he was disappointed in this also, for the noise of the
struggles speedily ceased, and he concluded that the faithful animal
was dead.

Rather curiously the young man had clung to his rifle ever since he
was caught by the water tornado, and now that he was somewhat cooler
and more collected, he resolved that nothing but “death should them
part.” It was troublesome to swim with it grasped in one hand, but he
was quite able to do it, where the current possessed such extraordinary
velocity, and he moved forward with little effort on his part.

All this passed in a tenth part of the time taken by us in writing it,
and Egbert Rodman had scarcely gained a connected idea of what was
going on, when he made the discovery that the channel through which he
had been dashed was widening and considerably decreasing. The deafening
crash that had been in his ears from the moment he was carried off
his feet, now sunk to a dull noise, proving that he had emerged from
the canon, and was floating over what might be termed a lake--caused,
undoubtedly, by the widening of the pass through which Lightning Jo had
attempted to guide the little party, with its two wagons.

With this discovery of the comparative calmness of the water, came,
for the first time, something like returning hope to Egbert Rodman,
who, feeling confident that there must be a tenable foothold at no
great distance, began swimming forward regularly, so as to avoid being
carried around in a circle.

Of course such a basin as this must have an outlet as well as an inlet,
and it was his purpose to prevent himself being carried away into
another similar canon, from which it was hardly possible to make such
an escape over again.

This required severe effort, but happily it was accomplished sooner
than was expected. While swimming vigorously forward, his feet touched
bottom, and although scarcely able to maintain his foothold, yet by
using arms and legs and grasping some branches that brushed his face,
he succeeded in drawing himself out upon land, and found himself free
from the flood.

“Saved at last, and thank God for it!” was his fervent ejaculation.
“But what of the rest?--what of the women and children? and
Lizzie--where can she be?”

All was of inky darkness about him, and he hardly dared to move for
fear of plunging himself into some inextricable pitfall. Only by
feeling every foot of the way as he advanced, did he manage to get away
from the immediate neighborhood of the din and rush of waters.

Sinking down upon his knees, he crept along for some distance in this
manner, until, as near as he could judge, he was in a sort of valley or
ravine, much broader than the one in which he and his friends had been
overwhelmed by the flood, and which seemed to have escaped the rush of
water that had been driven through that.

Finding that it remained comparatively level, he finally rose to his
feet again and advanced with more speed, but at the same time, with the
caution due such a critical situation.

The wind was still blowing with a desolate, wailing sound, but the rain
had ceased entirely; and the night, pitchy dark and cold, could not
have been more desolate and cheerless.

“Halloa!” suddenly exclaimed the astonished Egbert, “yonder is a light
as sure as the world! Who can be camping out to-night? Be he friend or
foe, I must find out.”

With this resolution he started toward the star-like beacon.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE LONELY CAMP-FIRE.


The twinkling light of a camp-fire at such a time as this, and in
such a place, was enough to make any one cautious, and Egbert Rodman
approached it as stealthily as a Comanche would have done himself.

He was somewhat surprised when yet some distance away to observe that
there was a single person sitting near it, in the attitude either of
deep meditation or intense listening.

“There must be others close at hand, or else he is not aware of the
danger he runs,” muttered the young man, as he continued his advance.
“Strange, but there is something about him that reminds me of Lightning
Jo; and,” he added, the next moment, “Lightning Jo it is; helloa! old
fellow, how came you here?”

And forgetful of all else for the time, except his delight in seeing
the true and tried comrade, Egbert Rodman rushed forward to give him
appropriate greeting.

He saw at once that something was the matter with the scout. He was
sitting upon a large stone, with his rifle between his knees, and
supporting his chin, was looking absently into the fire, like one whose
thoughts were entirely removed from his present surroundings. He merely
looked up at the spontaneous greeting of the young friend from whom he
had become separated some time before, and staring at him for a moment,
again lowered his gaze without saying a word or shifting his position.

But, if he was in a sullen, thoughtful mood, Egbert was not, nor did he
intend to keep any prolonged silence in deference to such a whim. He
believed he understood the scout well enough to know how to approach
him, and in a cheery manner, free from any rude familiarity, he placed
himself beside him, and touching his shoulder, said:

“Come, Jo, don’t sit idle here. You seem to be depressed; but rally,
and tell me what the matter is.”

The scout seemed to appreciate the consideration shown him, and
straightening up, he heaved a great sigh, looked fixedly at his young
friend again, but still refused to speak. Egbert was determined to
press the matter.

“What is it that troubles you, Jo? Come, out with it; what are you
thinking about?”

“_Little Lizzie Manning!_” was the reply of the scout, in a voice that
was sepulchral in its solemnity.

The shaft of a Comanche’s poisoned arrow, driven to the heart of Egbert
Rodman, could not have startled him more than did this reply. He gave
a gasp as if of pain, and almost fell to the earth, before he could
compose himself sufficiently to sit down and collect his thoughts. When
he did so, he looked across from the opposite side of the camp-fire,
and asked, pleadingly:

“What about her, Jo? Is she living or dead? Can you tell me what has
become of her? Don’t keep me in suspense!”

“You didn’t seem in quite so much suspense a little while ago,” he
remarked, somewhat resentfully; and then, as if regretting the words,
he hastened to add, in a more considerate voice:

“That’s just the trouble, Roddy; you know when the fresh came, we
hadn’t any time to look after each other, but we went spinning down the
kenyon as if Old Nick was arter us. I heerd you yell, and of course you
heerd my answer, but there wasn’t much to be seen then, and so we each
kept on sailing on our own hook.”

“But Lizzie! Did you hear nothing of her?” inquired the breathless
lover.

“Yes; I did hear her,” replied Jo, with another sigh; “some time arter
that I heerd her call out somebody’s name.”

“Whose was it?” asked Egbert, with a painful throb of his heart, and a
staring, eager look that brought a wan smile to the face of Jo for the
instant, but passing instantly as he made answer:

“As near as I could make out, it was your’n. In course you didn’t
hear it, but as I did, I called back to her, and she know’d me on the
instant. I axed her how she was fixed, and she said she was on the
back of her horse, but had no idea where she was going, or how it was
possible for her to get out of this scrape. You can understand that it
wasn’t very easy to gabble at such a time, with the roar of the kenyon
in your ears. I told her to hang on to her hoss, no matter where he
went, and there was a chance of her getting through somewhere. At the
same time I didn’t think there was much chance of any one ever coming
out of that place alive. I could tell by the sound of the gal’s voice
that she wasn’t very far away, and I worked as never a poor wretch
worked before to get to her. I tired my hoss out, and when we got down
to that ’ere lake, or whatever you’re a mind to call it, I struck out
fer myself. The minute I left the mustang, I sung out to her, but I
didn’t hear any answer. I yelled ag’in and ag’in, but it warn’t no use,
and I swum ashore and made up my mind--well, no--confound it,” added
the scout, fretfully, “I haven’t made up my mind, either, that the
little gal has been drowned, and we ain’t never more to hear her sweet
voice. That’s what I’ve been feeling, and what I was thinking about
when you come sneaking up so sly that you thought nobody could hear
you.”

“You think, then, that there is a possibility that she may have
escaped, after all?”

“Well, there’s the trouble,” returned Lightning Jo, with something of
his old familiar look. “When I set to thinking about it, I can’t see
any way under heaven by which she could have come out alive, and I
s’pose I couldn’t have seen any way how you folks were ever to get out
of Dead Man’s Gulch, if I could have knowed how things were there. It
is mighty hard, and you feel it, too, if you thought half as much of
that little gal as I do.”

Poor Egbert was inexpressibly shocked at this remark, and looked
reprovingly at the scout. He made no reply and assumed a thoughtful
attitude upon the other side of the small camp-fire; but just then the
scout roused up.

“Confound it! what’s the use! I ain’t going to make a fool of myself!
This will never do!”

And stretching and yawning, he suddenly raised his voice, and emitted
his peculiar yell, that rung among and through the rocks, gorges and
ravines with a power that must have carried it a long distance over the
prairie.

“What in the name of heaven do you mean by that?” asked the astonished
Rodman, suspecting that he was out of his head.

“Some of the poor dogs may have managed to crawl out as did you, and
that’ll tell them where to look for me. What do you s’pose I kindled
this fire for?”

“To dry your clothes and keep the chill off.”

“Not a bit of it; the night ain’t cold, and there’s nothing in damp
clothes that you or I need mind. If it hadn’t been fur these sticks
burning, you’d never have found your way here, and it may do the same
for others. No, Roddy,” said Jo, in a more natural voice, “we’ve got
nothin’ to do but to wait where we are till morning. Then we’ll take
our reckoning, and make a search for the gal.”

“And never give up till we find her, dead or alive,” added Egbert, in a
low, earnest voice.

“That’s the style. I’m with you there. I s’pose you feel a little
hungry and tired?”

“I have hardly had time to think of such a thing as hunger, while
I have become sensible of the weariness only after seating myself
here--wondering all the time how it was you managed to have such a fire
in so short a time.”

“No trouble ’bout that; you see I come down ahead of all the rest, and
I wa’n’t in the basin two seconds afore I paddled out. I’ve been in
these hills so often before that I know ’em purty well, but there was a
little too much darkness for me to make out where I was. I pitched over
a half-dozen precipices something less than a mile high, and finally
lit here. It wa’n’t any trouble to start a fire, as this rain was a
quick and not a soaking one. Falling right on the top of things, it
floated off, and I found all the dried leaves I wanted; and after they
was started the rest was easy enough.”

It came out further, that overwhelmingly sudden as was the flood that
overtook them in the canon, it had not found Lightning Jo unprepared.
His rifle was securely “corked” at the muzzle, so as to keep out the
water, and his ammunition and a quantity of matches were all preserved
in waterproof casings, so that, barring the saturation of his garments,
he came out of the terrible bath as well as he went in.

True he had parted from his horse, but that cost him scarcely a
thought. The mustang was so well trained that if he succeeded in
escaping with his own life, he would manage to find his master with
little difficulty; and, in case he had perished, there was no dearth
of animals in the West, and there was little fear of Lightning Jo
suffering long for such a part of his outfit as a horse.

As Egbert saw his companion heap more fuel on the fire, he could not
avoid the thought that he was incurring great risk thereby, as both of
them were rendered the best of targets for any skulking foe.

There were trees growing around, most of them of a stunted nature--but
the light of the fire could be seen for quite a distance through the
hills. The night-wind soughed with a dull, desolate wailing, through
the branches, and the roar of the canon sounded distant and faint,
growing less every hour, and proving that it was being emptied as
rapidly as it was filled.

Finally Egbert Rodman could not forbear asking the question:

“Is there nothing to be feared in the shape of Indians, Jo?”

“No; there’s none here, except--except that _Thing_ that you saw on
his hoss. Didn’t I tell you that his coming was to give us notice that
something else was coming, and it was on us afore we knowed it. It’s
always so.”

“Then you have seen it before?” asked Egbert, who was rather curious to
hear what the scout had to say about the creature, which certainly had
caused him no little wonderment since he had first set eyes upon it.

“I should think I had,” was the reply, in a hurried voice. “It’s
five years since I first heard of it, though Kit Carson did tell me
something about some such thing as that being seen in the Apache
country more than ten years ago. But the chap that told me was the only
one that was left out of an emigrant party of over twenty. He said it
come up to their camp one night just as the sun was setting, and arter
looking at them for a few minutes rode away at a gallop, and it wa’n’t
two hours afore the red-skins was down upon ’em.”

“Is its appearance always the same?”

“I b’l’eve it is, but I ain’t sart’in. Leastways, I could never see any
thing different. It always had the blanket thrown over it, and its head
was as black as a stack of black cats. The first time I run ag’in’ it
was down in the Staked Plain, where a party of us were arter a lot of
Comanches that had made a raid on one of the settlements near the Texan
frontier. I remember there was a kind of a drizzling rain falling and
we was smoking our pipes, with our blankets drawn up round our chins,
when the critter rode down on us, and stopped jist as he did with you.
There was four of us that blazed away at him, each one aiming at the
spot where his heart would have been had he been like other animals;
and, when his horse turned about and galloped away with him, without
his showing the least oneasiness, you can make up your mind that we was
slightly surprised. There was several of us that heard of the Terror
of the Prairie, as he is called by some, and we concluded that this
was the gentleman, and that a row was sure to take place; so we made
ready for ’em, and we had one of the tallest scrimmages that night that
any of us ever got mixed up in; but you see we was used to that sort
of business, and it wasn’t good policy for the Terror to come down on
us and tell us to make ready. We was a little too much ready, and the
red-skins got a little more than they counted on. We riddled a dozen
of ’em, and got away without losing a man or a hoss, though most of us
have got scars that were made in that muss.”

“Wal,” added Jo, “I won’t take time to tell all I know ’bout that
critter, which ain’t much, ’cept in the way he has played the mischief
round the country. I s’pose when he took a look at you down in the
gulch, it meant that he and his folks was coming to visit you, and we
got there just ahead of ’em.”

“Captain Shields seemed to know nothing about him, at least he told
nothing of what you have just described.”

“Shields was in that party down on the Staked Plain, and got two
bullets in him, that he carries to this day: so I reckon he does know
something, arter all.”

“And he is somewhere in our neighborhood, unless he has taken a sudden
departure.”

“Yes,” added Lightning Jo, in a husky whisper, and with a wild, scared
look; “and he ain’t fifty feet from where you’re setting this minute.”




CHAPTER XXII.

THOSE WHO ESCAPED.


At this startling announcement Egbert Rodman sprung to his feet, with
a bound that carried him entirely over the fire, striking Lightning Jo
with such sudden violence as to throw him backward almost flat upon the
ground.

“What in thunder is the matter?” exclaimed the scout, laughing outright
as he regained his seat; “did he prick you?”

The young man was not looking at Jo, but backward in the gloom,
in which he discerned the unmistakable outlines of the terrible
nondescript, known as the Terror of the Prairie. It was but a glance
that he gained; for, while he looked, it began silently retreating
into the gloom, like a phantom born and sent forth by the night, and
returning again to its natural element.

Like a flash, Egbert raised his gun, pointed toward the point where
it had vanished, and pulled the trigger; but the percussion exploded
without firing the charge that had been wetted, during its rush through
the swollen canon.

“Never mind,” remarked Jo, with a laugh, “it done jist as much good as
if you had fired it; so rest easy on that score.”

“You needn’t tell me that,” was the dogged return of Egbert, “every
living creature has some vulnerable point, and that is no exception.”

“All right; if you want to make yourself famous jist find the spot,
and pop in a bullet there. Howsumever there always are some folks that
think they know more nor others, and p’r’aps they do, and then p’r’aps
ag’in they don’t.”

Egbert felt a little irritated at the taunting words of the
scout--which irritation was doubtless increased by the keen sense he
had of the rather ridiculous figure he had just made; but there was
no use of showing any resentment toward Lightning Jo; and, resuming
his seat, he began withdrawing the damaged charge from his gun. When
sufficiently composed, he asked the rather singular question:

“How many times do you suppose you have fired at this thing, Jo?”

“I don’t know exactly; the first shot told me that it warn’t any use;
but I s’pose I’ve let fly at him a half-dozen times more nor less, and
I’ve seen five times as many balls sent after him by others. What do
you want to know that for?”

“In all these cases did you aim at any particular portion of the
animal--his head or his body?”

“We always p’inted our bull-dogs at the spot where his heart would be
reached--that is, providing he had any to reach.”

“That proves beyond a doubt that the Terror can not be killed in that
manner. How is it that you never aimed at his head?”

Lightning Jo seemed to be surprised at this question, and stared rather
wonderingly at Egbert, before he replied:

“Hanged if I know what the reason is. You know it’s the custom among
us chaps to aim at the heart instead of the head, the same as we do in
a buffalo, ’cause you’re surer of wiping out the critter there than
anywhere else. There’s more than one critter that walks the airth
that wouldn’t mind a volley in the head, more than they would so many
raindrops.”

“Very well then; the next time you or I shoot at him we’ll send the
bullet into his head, and then, if he don’t mind that, I’ll be inclined
to think there is something strange about it.”

“You will, eh?” replied Jo, with a grunt; “that’s very kind in you, and
I hope you won’t forget it.”

“As you say the appearance of the Prairie Terror is always a sure omen
of coming disaster, what, in your opinion, does its coming foretell in
the present instance? What additional calamity is about to overtake us?”

“We’ll l’arn that afore long; there ain’t any use trying to find out.
All I care to find out is what has become of Lizzie, and as soon as
the first streak of daylight comes I’m going to find out whether she’s
in the land of the living or not.”

The heart of Egbert said “_amen_” to this, and his prayer was that the
long, desolate night might hurry by, and the opportunity come for them
to do something together for unraveling the fate of the maiden, for
whom both entertained the strongest affection.

Egbert, at the advice of the scout, attempted to sleep--but he had too
much on his mind to succeed in doing so. His draggling garments did not
give him special discomfort, as the night was only moderately cool and
Jo kept the fire burning quite vigorously.

But between his sad forebodings of the fate of Lizzie, whom he seemed
to love with a devotion such as had never permeated his being before,
and the haunting fear of another visit from the Terror of the Prairie,
there was little likelihood of his falling asleep.

The strange tales that the scout had told him of this remarkable
creature, and of his extraordinary meetings with him, produced their
effect upon Egbert, who, although of a practical nature, with an
intelligent mind, was not without a certain imagination, peculiar to
those of his age, which made him susceptible to the influences of the
time and the place and his surroundings.

The roar of the rushing canon had died out entirely, and probably
that very part over which the whites, men, women and animals, had
been carried with such tremendous velocity, was now almost entirely
dry again. Through the matted, overhanging branches Egbert caught the
glimmer of several stars, showing that the storm had cleared away
entirely. There was no moon, however, and, in the valley in which
they had encamped, the darkness was so profound as to be absolutely
impenetrable beyond the circle illuminated by the camp-fire.

Young Rodman found the suspense so intolerable, that he proposed that
they should leave this spot and wander among the hills until daylight.
He believed that they would encounter some of the survivors, and
possibly might learn something regarding Lizzie, who might be in need
of the very assistance that would thus be afforded her.

But Lightning Jo had made up his mind to remain where he was, and no
persuasion could induce him to change his location. He declared that he
could accomplish nothing by stumbling around in the dark, while Egbert
would be pretty certain to break his neck in some of the pitfalls that
were to be encountered at every step.

And without attempting to depict the dismal expedients which the
wretched lover resorted to, to while away the unspeakably dreary hours,
we now hasten forward to the moment when the unmistakable light of
morning stole through the hills, and Lightning Jo, springing to his
feet, declared that the moment had come when the terrible suspense was
to end, and they were soon to learn the worst that had happened to the
party and to the one dear one--Lizzie Manning.

The first point toward which the two directed their steps was the
canon, through which they had had their memorable passage. This was
but a short distance away, and, upon being reached, it was found as
they had anticipated, entirely clear of running water. Here and there
were muddy, stagnant pools collected in the hollows and cavities, but
nothing of any living person, or animal, or _debris_ of wagons, was
discerned.

“Had we not better descend and follow the canon to the outlet?” asked
Egbert. “We shall not miss any thing then on the way.”

Lightning Jo acted upon the suggestion, and after a little searching
for a safe means of descent, the bottom was reached, and they pursued
their way in silence, agitated by strange emotions, as they recalled
the memorable experience of a few nights before.

They walked side by side, neither breaking the impressive stillness by
a word, but carefully scanning every foot of ground passed in quest of
some remnant of those who had been their companions in the terrible
descent.

Suddenly the scout pointed to a wagon-wheel that was driven in between
two jutting points of rocks, where it had been immovably fixed by the
tremendous momentum.

Both scanned it a few minutes, and, seeing nothing more, passed on for
fully a quarter of a mile, when the basin to which reference has been
made was reached, and here a great surprise awaited them.

It being quite shallow, the water had been carried away by several
outlets, and not a man had been borne beyond. Fragments of the wagons
were scattered in every direction, and at one side of the dry lake were
to be seen Captain Shields, Gibbons and a number of the men covering
up a large grave, while seated around were several women with their
children, as miserable and desolate-looking objects as could possibly
be imagined.

Not having dared to hope that so many could have escaped, the two
paused in mute silence and stared at them, their looks after the first
startling shock being directed in anxious quest of _the one_--Lizzie
Manning--a look that was unrewarded by a sight of the beautiful maiden,
for whom both were ready to do and dare any thing.

Still hoping that she might be somewhere in the vicinity, they hurried
forward and put the all-important question.

Sad to say, no living person had seen her or knew aught regarding her.

And then their own sad story was told. All, of course, had been hurried
irresistibly into this basin--some bruised, and almost senseless. Three
of the men were killed, and also a mother and her two children. The
ghastly cargo of the wagon, containing the remains of those who had
fallen in the fight in Dead Man’s Gulch, was also there. The soldiers,
who had charge of the women and children, clung bravely to them, and
the shallowness of the water enabling the horses to touch bottom almost
immediately, they were not long in floundering out upon dry land, where
the miserable group huddled together until the coming of day should
enable them to see where they were, and to do what was possible for
themselves.

When the dawn of light showed them the dreadful number of inanimate
bodies, their first proceeding was to give them a decent burial, as it
was out of the question to think of taking them to Fort Adams after the
destruction of the wagons. And so, from the contents of the wagons,
lying everywhere, they gathered up a half-dozen shovels, and as many
men went to work with such a vigor and skill that in a few minutes a
large, shallow grave was dug, and into this all were tenderly placed
and covered up from mortal sight, all shedding tears of the deepest
sorrow over the terrible death that had been decreed by inexorable fate.

While they were thus employed, others were absent among the hills in
quest of the mustangs, and Jo and Egbert had exchanged but a few words
with their friends, when they began coming in with the animals, that
were all browsing at no great distance.

Their purpose was to mount the horses as speedily as possible, and
to make all haste to Fort Adams. The women and children were in a
deplorable condition and needed care and a rest of several days before
continuing their journey to Santa Fe.

When this proposal was mentioned to Lightning Jo, he indorsed it at
once, telling them to lose not a moment. They had not a particle of
eatable food in their possession, and it was extremely difficult to
procure any in these hills, which, rather singularly, were known to
have been for years almost entirely devoid of game of any description.
Consequently, as nothing at all was to be gained by remaining here, the
dictate of prudence was that they should depart at the very moment they
could make ready.

As a matter of course, Lizzie Manning was among the first that was
missed by the group that huddled on the banks of the basin, and so
great was the concern regarding her that during the darkness Captain
Shields and two of the men groped around the neighborhood in quest of
her, calling her name and searching along the shore of the basin for
hours. The search was made more extended and thorough, when they had
the daylight at their command, but it resulted in an entire failure.
Not the least trace was gained, either of her or of the horse which she
was known to be riding.

One of the men who had helped to bring in the mustangs took occasion to
tell Lightning Jo, in a confidential way, that he had detected signs of
Indians, and he believed there was quite a number among the hills, and
that it was impossible that they should know nothing of the presence of
the whites so near them.

This information surprised the scout and caused him no little
uneasiness. He questioned the soldier closely, and became convinced
that he was right, and that the whole company were in great danger of
attack. Under these circumstances, he took it in hand himself, and told
them all of the urgency of haste in reaching their destination.

Scarcely fifteen minutes had passed when every man was upon his
mustang, and the females, with their offspring, were distributed among
them. Lightning Jo and Egbert Rodman placed themselves at their head,
and the scout cautiously led the way through another narrow pass for
something like a quarter of a mile, when they reached the open prairie
once more.

“And now go,” he added, “and never pause or look back until you ride
into the stockade of Fort Adams.”

And his advice was taken and followed almost to the letter; but, even
then it is impossible to imagine whether they would have succeeded in
reaching the shelter after all without being harassed by the Comanches,
but for the fact that ere they had gone three miles they met a party
of rescue sent out by Colonel Cleaves, who had become alarmed at their
failure to come in during the night. Under the escort of this powerful
company of cavalry, the journey was completed in safety, and we now bid
them good-by at the friendly fort and turn our attention to those in
whom we have a more immediate interest.




CHAPTER XXIII.

COMANCHE HONOR.


With the departure of Captain Shields and his party, Lightning Jo and
Egbert Rodman set about the task of trailing the missing maiden, if
such a proceeding lay within the range of human possibility.

There was something strange and mysterious in this failure upon the
part of all to discover any traces of her or her horse. Had both or
either of them been dead, this scarcely could have been the case. Every
member of the party, excepting herself, had been accounted for, and
was either buried in the quiet grave among the hills or else was within
the stockade of Fort Adams, beyond the reach of the Comanches in the
South-west.

“Where can she be?”

This was the question that the two men put to each other and to
themselves a score of times in as many minutes, and to which no
satisfactory answer could be given. All was conjecture, and even that
was of the most vague nature.

Lightning Jo had very little to say, but he was in deep thought as he
moved morbidly about, with his eyes upon the ground, seeking out some
clue by which he might take up the hunt for Lizzie, with some slight
probability at least of success.

There were two facts which were constantly recurring to Egbert Rodman,
and which caused him an apprehension positively tormenting. The Terror
of the Prairie had been seen by himself and Lightning Jo but a few
hours before, at no great distance from where they were standing
at that moment, and he could not avoid connecting this with the
disappearance of the maiden. Precisely in what way, it was hard for him
to define, but he was convinced beyond a doubt that the two bore some
relation to each other.

Furthermore, the declaration of Lightning Jo that the appearance of
this nondescript boded coming calamity might be said to have been
verified in the present instance; for quickly on the heels of its
vanishment came the knowledge of the disappearance of Lizzie and the
presence of Comanches in these hills, proving the closeness of the
connection between the two. The loss of the maiden to whom his heart
clung with such yearning devotion was certainly the greatest calamity
that had as yet befallen young Rodman, and he involuntarily shuddered
as he recalled that awful ride down the canon, followed as it had been
in the case of Lizzie by some after experience, that was all the more
appalling to her friends, inasmuch as they knew nothing positive of its
nature and could only indulge in the wildest conjecture.

The only thing that afforded any thing like relief or consolation to
the lover was the fact that he had the companionship and assistance of
Lightning Jo in this search. Whatever was possible to be done for her
rescue and safety by mortal man would be done by this wonderful scout,
who was already busy making ready, and fully satisfying himself before
he fairly started to work in the matter.

Every thing indicated that the two men could not remain long in these
hills--for, aside from the fact that the demands of hunger could not be
postponed for a much longer period, the probability began to present
itself, that the girl was also gone from the vicinity.

“Do you not think it likely,” inquired Egbert, when his comrade paused
for a moment, “that when she emerged from the basin, as she did do,
that she has managed to reach some hiding-place among the rocks, where
she still remains--perhaps asleep?”

This possibility seemed to have been entertained already by the scout,
who instantly shook his head in the negative.

“If she’d have done that, some of the boys would have come across her
hoss, for he would have managed to get himself into the company of the
other mustangs, and would have been seen by them, in looking for the
others.”

“But there are our own animals yet; we have seen nothing of them.”

“But the boys did; they told me they see’d ’em both, and I’ll have my
critter in sight in less’n two minutes; see if I don’t.”

As he spoke, he uttered a low, quavering whistle, not very loud, but
sufficiently so to be heard a distance of several hundred yards. Then
pausing a moment he repeated the signal in precisely the same manner,
and added, in his way:

“That animal will be here, if he’s got forty Comanches trying to hold
him.”

“I only wish I could recover mine so easily,” laughed Egbert, as the
scout composedly sat down upon a large stone to await the coming of his
faithful mustang, “but I am afraid Mahomet must go to the mountain in
my case.”

“When I parted company with mine last night, the understanding was that
he was to go off and hunt a little something to eat on his own hook,
and he expected to be told when I wanted him.”

“And knowing that he will obey like an obedient child.”

“Exactly--there he comes this minute,” replied Jo, as the tread of some
animal was heard but a short distance away.

“Look out, Jo, that it is nothing else,” warned Egbert, stepping back,
so as to give the scout free room for whatever might come.

“I know his footstep,” was the response to this, accompanied at the
same time by a precautionary movement, consisting in the guide raising
the hammer of his rifle and bringing it to the front, where he could
discharge it, if necessary, with the quickness of lightning, posing
himself at the same time upon one foot, so as to be prepared to leap
forward or backward as the case might be.

This precaution had scarcely been taken, when the mustang of Lightning
Jo put in an appearance, accompanied by a Comanche Indian, who, sitting
astride of the sagacious beast, was in blissful ignorance of whither he
was being carried.

His position was the quiet one of ease and self-possession, showing
that he had no thought of any impending danger. From this fancied
security he was awakened by the sight of Lightning Jo, standing
scarcely a dozen feet away, with his rifle pointed full at his breast.

The mustang at a word from his master stopped short, and thus the
red-skin was brought face to face with the man, whom he recognized on
the instant as the most deadly foe of the Comanche race.

“Get off that hoss, you old galoot! he belongs to me. Slide mighty
quick or I’ll slide you!”

The substance of this was uttered in the Comanche tongue, so as to
make sure of its being understood, and the action of the red-skin
demonstrated that he had no difficulty in comprehending it on the
instant; for he slid off the back of the mustang as suddenly and nimbly
as if it had all at once become red-hot beneath him.

The savage held a long, beautiful rifle in his hand, and he was
evidently on the alert, either for a chance to use it or to dodge away
from his captor.

Had the circumstances been any different, the marvelous quickness of
the copper-skin doubtless would have enabled him to accomplish his
treacherous wish; but neither he nor any living Indian could play it
on Lightning Jo. If he thought he could, let him try it--that was all.

The scout wasn’t particular whether he made the attempt or not, as
there could be but one result; but the moment the Comanche’s feet
touched ground, he ordered him to approach within a half-dozen feet,
and then drop his rifle to the earth. The red-skin showed some
reluctance in obeying this; but when he caught the glitter of the dark
eye fixed upon him, he changed his mind and carried out the command
with an amusing alacrity.

“Where are the rest of you devils?” was the first rather pointed
inquiry, uttered also in the Comanche tongue, and with the muzzle
of the rifle pointed threateningly at the breast of the savage, who
replied, with a gesture peculiarly his own:

“There are but a few among the hills--no more than so many (holding up
the fingers of one hand); they are hunting for food; they will soon
take their departure to join their brother-hunters far to the south.”

“It would be a thundering sight better if they’d all join each
other down below,” was the conclusion of Jo, who continued his
cross-examination:

“Have any gone away in the night? Did any of the Comanches depart
before daybreak?”

“No; there were none here.”

The slight hesitancy, a certain peculiarity that accompanied this
reply, convinced Jo, on the instant, that the Indian was telling a
downright falsehood, and that, after all, he was gaining a slight clue
to the trail of the missing maiden.

His conclusion was that there were a few Indians among the hills, but
that the greater majority had left before daybreak. Precisely why they
had done so was more than he could understand; but their departure
unquestionably had something to do with the disappearance of Lizzie
Manning.

Jo was rather abrupt in his questioning, for the next was the pointed
demand:

“Tell me where the great chief, Swico-Cheque, is; I want to raise his
hair.”

The look that crossed the coppery face of the savage said as plainly as
words could have done, that he would have been extremely delighted to
see the scout attempt such a thing.

“I don’t know where he is,” he replied, without any embarrassment in
his manner; “he went away before the light came.”

There it was! the incautious Indian had let it out after all.
Swico-Cheque had taken his departure with the band that went off in the
stillness of the night.

The red-skin seemed entirely unaware of the slip he had made, and
awaited the further questioning of his captor as the heroic martyr
awaits the creeping up of the consuming blaze.

“I don’t know as I want any thing more of you,” remarked the scout, “so
I guess you can travel. It would be hardly the thing to scalp you after
I look you prisoner, though I’m sure you deserve it.”

This order was unexpected and surprising to the Indian, who stared a
moment, as if uncertain that he had heard aright.

“Come, ’light out of this, old greaser!” added Jo, the next instant.

This was all-sufficient. The Comanche stooped down, and picking up
his rifle, turned about with a certain dignity and walked slowly
away, disdaining to run, although no doubt anxious to get out of that
immediate neighborhood with as little delay as possible.




CHAPTER XXIV.

A DESPERATE HOPE.


It was not the nature of Lightning Jo to remain idle when he had
any work like the present on hand, and leaping upon the back of his
mustang, he told Egbert to follow.

“I’m not going to ride and make you walk,” he laughed; “we haven’t
started yet, but are only making ready. Come along.”

He rode scarcely a hundred yards through the roughest part of the
hills, when he dismounted in a dense mass of undergrowth, and, without
fastening his mustang, said a few words to him, which would insure his
remaining where he was until his return, by which time Jo was quite
confident that he could secure an animal also for Egbert, as it was
indispensable that he should have one at once.

When it was certain that there were Indians in the immediate vicinity,
the greatest caution was necessary upon the part of our two friends,
and Lightning Jo made his way through the ravines, gorges and hills,
with as much circumspection as if he were reconnoitering a Comanche
camp. When he halted, they were on the very summit of one of the
highest peaks of this spur of mountains, which afforded them a most
extensive view of the surrounding prairie.

Glancing at Jo, Egbert saw that he was looking off to the westward,
with an attentive, searching look that indicated something; and, as he
did not remove his gaze from that point, he imitated him, straining his
vision to the utmost.

The young man had looked but a moment, when he detected a party of
horsemen moving in a southwesterly direction. They were so far away
that it was impossible to identify them; but there was scarcely a
doubt of their being Indians, and most probably the very ones for whom
Lightning Jo was searching.

“Well, you see them, do you?” was the question of Jo, as he looked
around and started to move away. “I s’pose you know ’em, too?”

“I suspect that they are Indians; but I conclude that not from any
certain knowledge of my own, but simply infer it.”

“Yes; they’re the Comanches that left the hills before daylight.
Swico-Cheque, the biggest red devil that walks the earth, is at
their head. He’s got enough of butting his head ag’in’ United States
soldiers, and he’s off to recruit his health.”

“But what of her--of Lizzie?” asked Egbert, in a trembling voice,
dreading to hear the answer that he was almost sure would come.

“Why, she’s with him, of course. He’ll keep her till he gets tired of
her, and then he’ll have some more fringe for his hunting-shirt.”

These words were uttered in the very desperation of vengefulness, and
the scout wheeled about with a spiteful air, and exclaimed:

“Stay here till I come back! If you see any of the infarnal
copper-skins, bore a hole through ’em. If you see anybody, break his
head! Look out for yourself! keep cautious, and rest easy till I come
back. I won’t be gone long.”

And with this rather contradictory advice, Lightning Jo wheeled about,
plunged down the hill, and was gone almost on the instant.

He had been gone but a short time, when the near crack of a rifle broke
the stillness, and Egbert started and looked around, thinking that,
perhaps, some treacherous Comanche had stolen up and sent a bullet
after him; but he could see nothing, and he concluded that Lightning
Jo had something to do with the discharge of the gun, as, indeed, it
seemed to have a certain familiar sound.

But little time was given him for speculation when the scout himself
put in an appearance.

“Come, Roddy,” said he. “I’ve found your hoss; we’re ready now; and
there’s no use in waiting longer.”

“Where did you find him?” asked Egbert, not a little surprised and
delighted at the unexpected news.

“There was a red-skin on him; he ain’t there now, and I guess won’t
bother us more.”

Sure enough, a few rods away, the identical steed which Egbert had
ridden from Dead Man’s Gulch was found secured to a bush, and, leaping
upon his back, it required but a few minutes for the two comrades to
reach the spot where the faithful mustang of Lightning Jo was awaiting
the return of his master.

“Now, let us get out of this infernal place,” added the scout, as the
two reined up their animals, side by side.

“Whither do we direct our course?” asked Egbert.

“Straight after them devils, and we’re never to stop till we cotch up
with Swico, and him and me square up our accounts.”

A little care and patience, and in a few minutes the two horsemen found
themselves upon the edge of the prairie, and they headed due west,
straight in the path taken by Swico-Cheque and his band, and the
mustangs were instantly put to a full run.

About the middle of the forenoon, when the heroic Egbert felt that he
was taxing himself beyond his strength, they struck a deserted camp,
where a party of United States cavalry, ranging through the country
upon a scout, had spent the previous night. Here were found the remains
and fragments of their meal scattered all about, and it gave to both,
what they so much needed--a nourishing, substantial meal.

“Now,” said he, straightening up like a giant refreshed with new wine,
“I am ready for any thing, I don’t care what it is.”

“I think you’ll get enough of it afore long,” was the significant reply
of Lightning Jo, adding, “we’re close onto the copper-skins, and if I
ain’t mistook more than I ever was in my life, we’ll strike their camp
inside of an hour.”

This was startling news, but was singularly verified; for scarcely a
half-hour had passed when the scout, who was riding a short distance in
advance, ascended a small swell of the prairie and almost the instant
he reached the top, wheeled his mustang about and galloped back again,
motioning to Egbert to do the same.

“We’ve reached their camp,” he said, in explanation, and cautioning
the bewildered man to resist every temptation to stir a foot from the
spot until his return, the scout moved up the prairie-swell again.
Egbert saw him crouch down like a panther about to leap upon its prey,
and then he vanished from view as noiselessly as a shadow, leaving
the lover to the trying task of waiting, fearing, hoping, watching,
listening, and to despair. Lightning Jo passed down the opposite side
of the swell, and, as was his custom in reconnoitering the camp of a
foe, he made a circuitous route by a small cluster of stunted trees,
which struck him as offering the very shelter he so much needed.

He had no thought of any of his foes being here, but he had scarcely
approached the margin when he became certain that he was close upon one
or more of them.

In his stealthy manner he insinuated himself among the trees, and
the next instant was greeted with the sight of the great Comanche
chieftain, Swico-Cheque, reclining upon the ground in a sound slumber!




CHAPTER XXV.

AT LAST.


Yes; there lay the great Comanche chieftain, Swico-Cheque, sunk into a
heavy slumber--deep and profound--and yet of that character which would
have required but the slightest noise to awake.

Lightning Jo paused in his creeping, stealthy movement, and stared
at the savage, his own eyes gleaming with an exultation as ferocious
as would have been that of the red-skin himself, had their relative
positions been changed. The murderous and outrageous crimes of which
this fiend had been guilty, his relentless war upon unoffending whites,
his scores of murders of weak, defenseless women, and even the nursing
babe, had placed him outside the pale of human mercy, and there was
not a settler or soldier in the South-west who knew of his revolting
character that did not feel that he deserved to be strangled to death,
or put out of the way by any means that happened to present itself.

He had on, this moment, the very hunting-shirt to which reference has
been made, fringed around with a broad band of human hair, from the
long, dark, flowing tresses of the innocent virgin, to the light,
silvery locks of prattling childhood. And his seamed face, daubed and
smirched with paint, had the horrid look of that of some sleeping
gorilla that had been feasting upon its human meal.

And yet in this moment of triumph, when Jo felt that he had him
at last, there came a strange feeling to the scout, which can be
understood, perhaps, by his whispered exclamations to himself.

“Confound it! it will look as if I was afeard of him, when I shouldn’t
like any thing better than to have a fair stand-up fight. He might keep
all the knives he wanted, and I would use nothing but my fists. How I
should like to play some trick upon the infernal skunk!”

Ay! at this very time, when he had every thing to make him serious and
thoughtful, there came a strange reaction over Jo, and an irresistible
desire to play one of his practical jokes upon the Comanche. He
concluded to wake him up to witness his own demise--but to arouse him
in an original fashion.

It was a delicate task; but with that skill for which the scout was
noted, he drew out his flask and poured out a stream of powder,
moving the flask along from a point on the ground directly beside the
Comanche’s ear, for several feet away--the particles all being united,
so that the connection was perfect. Then, when every thing was safe, Jo
drew a lucifer from the little safe he always carried about him, and
struck it upon the bottom of his foot. As it ignited he held the blaze
close to the black grains, and then spoke:

“Swico, my own loved cherub--”

This was enough; these words were barely uttered, when his snaky eyes
opened, just in time to see a serpentine line of fire rushing toward
him, and going off in a big puff directly under his ear, in a way that
scorched his face and caused him to leap to his feet, with a howl,
followed by an instant rush out from among the trees. He had caught a
glimpse of his old enemy through the whizzing, and he was gone like a
shot.

This was unexpected by Jo, who had hoped that he would maintain his
ground, and the two would have fought out their fight on the spot. He
did not anticipate any such flight as this, which was made so suddenly
that he had no time to interfere ere he was gone.

The scout had the intense chagrin, also, of feeling that his propensity
for waggery had led into a piece of foolishness that most likely
would militate against the captive Lizzie. Knowing that she had one
friend, at least, so near at hand, they would be sure to adopt greater
precautions, and instead of waiting to be attacked by Lightning Jo,
would, most probably, attack him.

And acting upon this supposition, he backed out as speedily as
possible, and resumed his circuitous approach to the camp-fire of the
Comanches--the locality of which up to this time, he had been able to
determine only by the smoke that rose from the opposite side of a small
ridge several rods away.

But the chief, Swico-Cheque, suspecting that a large party of United
States cavalry were upon his heels, concluded that the safest plan for
him was to get away with as little delay as possible, to accomplish
which he sent back several of his warriors to dispose of Lightning Jo,
and to keep the rest in check until he could secure his retreat with
his prize.

Consequently the scout had stolen along over the broken ground but
a rod or two when he found himself face to face with a couple of
herculean warriors, who, approaching the cluster of trees in the same
cautious manner, encountered the great Indian-fighter sooner than was
anticipated by either party.

“That’s good!” exclaimed Jo, “for now I will get warmed up to business.
I’ll try a left-hander straight from the shoulder upon this chap, and a
right upon t’other.”

The terrific blows were simultaneous with the conclusion, the startled
red-skins turning back summersets upon the ground, where, with an
incredible celerity, the frightful bowie-knife, which Jo whipped out
from behind his neck, completed the ghastly work.

“Ain’t there any more?” he growled, glaring like a wild beast thirsting
for prey. “By heavens, if they don’t come to me, I’ll go to them!”

And he was striding directly toward the camp of the Comanches, but, ere
he could advance half-way, who should leap into view but young Egbert
Rodman, his face white and scared, and panting from excitement and the
great exertions he had made to find his companion.

“Oh, Jo! there’s something wrong!” he gasped; “the Comanches are
fooling us both, and we shall not get Lizzie after all.”

“What’s up? What’s the matter?” demanded the scout, his muscles all
aquiver.

“They are retreating; I heard the tramp of their horses’ feet on the
other side the ridge, and, oh, heavens! Jo, I heard the moans of a
woman--it must have been Lizzie--and that set my brain on fire, and
scarcely knowing what I did I left both the horses and rushed to the
ridge--but they were gone; I could see nothing of them, and then I
turned to hunt for you. In God’s name, can we do nothing?”

Scarcely giving his companion time to finish his words, and vouchsafing
no reply, Lightning Jo shot over the hill like an arrow, straight in
the path of the fleeing Comanches. He did not pause to leap upon the
back of his own mustang; he had no time for that.

Down the hollow, between the ridges, he shot like a thunderbolt. His
practiced eye saw on the ground around him the prints of the horses’
flying feet, and he knew that he was on the right track. Still he saw
nothing of them--but look! Six horsemen on a full gallop were seen
thundering over the ridge in a direction at right-angles to the one he
was pursuing--fleeing as they supposed from three times their number,
but in reality from a single man.

The excited scout could not avoid giving out his wild, peculiar yell,
as he recognized among the half-dozen the chieftain Swico, and saw that
he held in his black arms the beautiful Lizzie Manning.

The Comanches heard that strange yell, and identified it. Only one
living man could give utterance to that frightful cry, and once heard
it could never be forgotten. They glanced over their shoulders and
saw the single man bearing down upon them; but they continued their
headlong flight, and the next moment were shut out, for the time, from
view by the interposing ridge over which they had just passed.

No doubt they believed that the single scout, rushing down upon them at
such terrific speed, had a whole company upon his heels, and they could
not pause, just then, for the delightful privilege of killing such a
noted enemy as he.

Lightning Jo kept on down the hollow, following a course at
right-angles to the one taken by the Comanches, until he reached the
point where they had gone over, when he bounded up the declivity,
expecting to come up with them the next minute.

As he did so he was met by the discharge of two rifles--one of the
bullets striking him in the fleshy part of the thigh; but although the
sting instantly warned him of what had taken place, he did not pause or
even look down to see how serious was the wound, but he made straight
for the Indians, who were now in full view again.

But hold! what meant that which he now saw? Instead of six, there were
but five Comanches, and a glance sufficed to show that the missing one
was Swico-Cheque, with the maid.

By what means had he disappeared in such a sudden and mysterious manner?

The moment Lightning Jo became aware of the state of things he paused.
His experienced eye told him that the Comanche must have made another
turn, the instant he passed over the ridge, leaving his comrades and
taking a course precisely opposite to that of the scout, so that indeed
the two actually met, with the back of the ridge shutting out each from
the view of the other.

One sweep of his eagle eye was sufficient to tell Jo this, and he made
straight for the stunted trees, somewhat similar to those in which he
had first met him, certain that Swico was either among them, or fleeing
beyond.

The correctness of this conclusion was verified the next moment, by
a glimpse of the red devil, with his horse still under full speed,
fleeing up the hollow beyond the clump of trees, apparently with every
prospect of making good his escape.

Jo was through the clump of trees in an instant, and then, as he
found himself gaining rapidly, he gave out his panther-like yell. The
Comanche, who was no more than a hundred yards distant, managed to turn
in his saddle, and pointed his rifle at the scout, who did the same.

But the treacherous red-skin, with a cowardice peculiarly his own,
forced the form of Lizzie Manning directly in front of him, like a
shield, and succeeded in screening himself in such a way that Jo found
he was as likely to strike the one as the other.

In this strait it only remained for the scout to attempt to escape the
bullet, and he made a lightning-like leap to one side; marvelous as
was his quickness, it could not equal that of a rifle-ball, and he was
struck.

“You shan’t escape me yet,” hissed Jo, as he dashed in with the purpose
of drawing the Comanche from his horse, and finishing him with his
knife.

With superhuman energy he passed fully one-half the intervening
distance, ere the startled Swico could urge his steed forward again,
and then he dropped like a shot to the earth.

Even then he would not yield--but with an amazing power of will, rolled
over on his face, and rose on his uninjured knee. In this position he
raised his rifle again; but the malignant Comanche had his eye upon
him, and the same instant the fainting form of the girl was whirled
around in his front, and the infuriated scout, who, for an instant,
had meditated shooting both, finding himself baffled at every point,
dropped back again in despair.

“No use; I may as well go under,” he muttered, giving up entirely.

The exulting Comanche, still fearful of the wounded man’s rifle, rode
on, intending to return at his leisure and scalp the man who had been
so long such an effective foe.

But his career was at an end. He was still looking at the prostrate
form of the scout, when the near crack of a rifle broke the stillness,
and the great Comanche chieftain, Swico-Cheque, rolled from his
mustang, shot through the heart!

In his fall he dragged Lizzie Manning with him, and he would have slain
her in his dying moments, had he not been killed as instantly as if
stricken by a bolt from heaven.

The maiden, rallying to a sense of her terrible position, tore herself
loose, and the next moment was caught in the arms of Egbert Rodman.

“Thank God! thank God!” he exclaimed, as he pressed her to his heart;
“saved at last!”

She joined her murmurs of thanksgiving with his, and then with a noble
sympathy characteristic of her, she raised her head, and said:

“Poor Jo is hurt; and I’m afraid he is killed! Let us go to him.”

The two hurried down the hollow where the scout lay as motionless as if
dead; but he roused up when he saw them.

“I’m pretty badly hurt,” said he, “but if I can call my hoss here, I
think I can ride him to the fort. You’d better get that one yonder for
the gal. Bless your heart! I’m glad to see you alive,” he added, with a
kindly light beaming in his dark eyes. “I say, Roddy, help me down to
where that red-skin lays. I want to take a look at him.”

Lightning Jo made the signal to his mustang, and then, almost
carried by his friend, he was helped to where the stiffening body of
Swico-Cheque lay stretched upon the earth.

“I won’t scalp him,” muttered the scout, as he looked at him, “’cause
he can’t see it, but I’ll take charge of that fancy dress of his, and
send it to Washington for the Peace Commissioners to look at.”

And this was done.[A]

A few minutes later, the mustang of Lightning Jo came trotting over
the ridge, followed by the horse of Egbert. With considerable care the
wounded scout was placed upon it; Lizzie mounted the Indian horse,
and the three instantly started on their journey to Fort Adams, which
was reached without any incident worthy of mention. The other ladies
were found just preparing to start for Santa Fe under a strong escort.
Egbert and Lizzie joined them, after being assured by the surgeon of
the fort that the wounds of Lightning Jo were not of a serious nature,
and barring accidents, he was sure soon to recover his usual strength
and activity again.

Tried in the fire, as were the two lovers, the bond of love was so
deepened and purified, that nothing could occur to weaken and mar it;
and when, some months later, the handsome couple were united in Santa
Fe--the jolliest guest of all, and the one in most general favor, was
Lightning Jo, who had a story to tell the young husband and wife when
he gained the first opportunity to see them alone. This story was
nothing more nor less than the clearing up of the mystery of the Terror
of the Prairie, as he had learned it from a Comanche prisoner brought
into the fort. This noted creature and Swico-Cheque, the Comanche
chief, were the same. It was a ruse of the sagacious red-skin by which
he obtained any desired knowledge of a party he intended to attack.
Well aware of the superstitious nature of the bordermen, he blackened
his face in a fantastic manner, wrapped several thick blankets about
his body. These were bullet-proof, and although he incurred great risk
of being killed, and was wounded more than once, yet it was left for
Egbert Rodman to fire the bullet, that killed Swico-Cheque, the Terror
of the Prairie, and at the same time gained him his lovely wife.


THE END.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] A short time ago, while on a visit to the Land Office, I was shown
by Mr. Wilson, the accomplished Commissioner, a singular relic of a
late fight on the Plains. It was a garment taken from an Indian chief,
after death. A shirt of buck-skin, made without the usual ornamentation
of beads and porcupine quills, yet graced with something quite novel in
the decorative way--a full, long fringe, _formed of the hair of white
women and children_. It was a ghastly adornment--indeed, the entire
garment was a very unpleasant thing to inspect. The only point in it
on which the eye could rest without horror or pity, was a small round
hole, beneath which the raging heart of a human wild beast came one day
to a full stop.--_Correspondence N. Y. Tribune._




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NOW READY, AND IN PRESS.


     +No. 1+--+Hawkeye Harry, the Young Trapper Ranger.+ By Oll Coomes.
     Ready.

     +No. 2+--+Dead Shot; or, The White Vulture.+ A Romance of the
     Yellowstone. By Albert W. Aiken. Ready.

     +No. 3+--+The Boy Miners; or, The Enchanted Island.+ A Tale of the
     Mohave Country. By Edward S. Ellis. Ready.

     +No. 4+--+Blue Dick; or, The Yellow Chief’s Vengeance.+ A Romance
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     +No. 5+--+Nat Wolfe; or, The Gold Hunters.+ A Romance of Pike’s
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     +No. 6+--+The White Tracker; or, The Panther of the Plains.+ By
     the author of “The Boy Miners.” Ready.

     +No. 7+--+The Outlaw’s Wife; or, The Valley Ranche.+ A Tale of
     California Life. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. Ready.

     +No. 8+--+The Tall Trapper; or, The Flower of the Blackfeet.+ By
     Albert W. Aiken. Ready.

     +No. 9+--+Lightning Jo, the Terror of the Santa Fe Trail.+ By
     Capt. J. F. C. Adams. Ready.

     +No. 10+--+The Island Pirate.+ A Tale of the Mississippi. By Capt.
     Mayne Reid. Ready Nov. 10th.

     +No. 11+--+The Boy Ranger; or, The Heiress of the Golden Horn.+ By
     Oll Coomes. Ready Nov. 24th.

     +No. 12+--+Bess, the Trapper.+ A Tale of the Far South-west. By
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