DELAWARE TOM;
                                  OR,
                           THE TRAITOR GUIDE.


                            BY HARRY HAZARD,
                 AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
                        No. 38. The Heart Eater,
                       No. 43. The White Outlaw,
                         No. 54. Arkansas Jack,
                         No. 66. Rattling Dick.


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

       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
                           FRANK STARR & CO.,
       In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




                                CONTENTS


  I An Altercation                                                     9
  II The Storm-Cloud Breaks                                           19
  III A Wild Race                                                     30
  IV The Forlorn Hope                                                 34
  V Delaware Tom                                                      43
  VI Tom Maxwell Turns Indian                                         50
  VII A Tangled Trail                                                 59
  VIII Savage Tactics                                                 68
  IX Bound to the Stake                                               77
  X The Winding Trail                                                 83
  XI Reunited                                                         88
  XII Dog Eat Dog                                                     96




                             DELAWARE TOM;
                                  OR,
                           THE TRAITOR GUIDE




                               CHAPTER I.
                            AN ALTERCATION.


Mid-afternoon of an oppressively hot and sultry day, in the year ’54.

We call the reader’s attention to a scene, that, if not romantic, is at
least attractive and interesting; a wagon-train of emigrants, as is
attested by the quantity of driven stock—horses, cattle and sheep. The
presence of women and children is still further evidence.

It moved slowly and drearily along over the vast, almost barren stretch
of level plain, as though the nearly spent day had been one of hard and
unremitting toil. The horses or mules, their heads hanging down, with
drooping ears and tails, their hides damp with sweat and covered with
the fine sand cast upon the air by the trampling hoofs, or the slowly
revolving wheels, scarcely heed the stinging lash or the impatient
exclamation of their drivers.

The loose stock move dejectedly along, cured of their morning propensity
of running from the trail to snatch a mouthful of grass, or nip the tops
of a bush, while more than one of the boys, whose duty it is to keep
them within proper limits, dozes in their hard saddles.

But there are three persons who appear full of life and free from the
general weariness of mind and body. There: one of them a woman—a girl;
the others men.

The first, who rode at several hundred yards in advance, if closely
scrutinized, proves to be an old man, who has numbered his half-century,
or perhaps nearly a decade more. A close scrutiny, we say, for his
figure was as erect and vigorous, his motions as free and supple, the
fire of his keen gray eye as clear and penetrating as a generation
since.

His hair and long flowing beard were gray, although the thickly clinging
dust effectually disguised this. From his position, his arms, his
actions, it was plain he acted as guide to the wagon-train.

The next figure, about half-way between this man and the foremost wagon,
was also a man, and merits a brief description at our hands for more
than one reason.

In stature he was about the mean hight, of a rather slight figure, but
with a muscular and active development, clothed in a plain and well-worn
suit of gray. His dusky, olive complexion, black hair and eyes like a
sloe, had given him the sobriquet of “Dusky Dick,” a name that was
already famous throughout the West.

Although not much, if any beyond his third decade, Richard Rouzee, or
“Dusky Dick,” had followed the calling of a guide for a number of years,
and gained the repute of being peculiarly unfortunate, having lost
one-half the trains he had acted as pilot for, and rarely escaped
without at least one fierce and desperate struggle.

More than one dark rumor had been put in circulation, and some more
boldly declared that he was in league with the red-skins, and only acted
as guide, the more surely to compass his purpose. But this was only
conjecture, and could not be substantiated by any valid proof.

The third person, who rode at some little distance to the right, so as
to escape the annoying dust, was a young woman of more than common grace
and beauty, although the latter quality was somewhat obscured by the
long, weary day’s travel.

Rather above the medium hight, of a superbly rounded and developed form,
that was admirably displayed by her neatly-fitting riding-habit of
black, she sat her horse with the ease and grace of an accomplished
_equestrienne_, although he chafed and fretted at the restraint of a
tightly-drawn rein, caracoling and prancing in proud strength and
spirit.

It was a clear-cut profile and beautiful complexion that Dusky Dick
beheld from the corner of his dark, sinister eye, that glared with a
fire of unusual admiration. But this his slouched hat concealed, and his
smooth, beardless face gave no outward sign of the dark and troubled
thoughts that filled his brain.

Then he pricked his half-wild mustang viciously with his spur, and
darted suddenly up beside the lady, who uttered a half-suppressed
exclamation of annoyance, and made no attempt to conceal the expression
of dislike and impatience that clouded her usually sunny features.

“It has been a wearisome day, Miss Clara,” began the guide, speaking in
a low and remarkably musical voice although his eyes flashed as he
noticed her evident aversion. “But we are almost at the end of our day’s
journey. See—that long dark line yonder, a little to the left, is our
stopping-place, beside a clear and beautiful stream. I know the spot,
well.”

“So we camp there? Well, I am glad of it, for more than one reason,”
replied the lady, in an impatient tone.

“And may I ask why so?”

“Do you wish to know the truth?” asked Clara, with a slight emphasis.

“Certainly; the truth will be doubly pleasant, coming from such winsome
lips,” Dusky Dick returned, with a half-mocking bow and smile.

“Well then, the main reason is that once there, you will have other
things to attend to, and will not have so much leisure to annoy others
by impertinent and unwelcome attentions,” curtly replied Clara, urging
her high-mettled horse ahead, as if desirous of escaping the company of
the swarthy guide.

“And another reason is—that a certain baby-face, Buenos Ayres by name,
will not be long in feeding his horses, and then, of course, will hasten
to pay his respects to the belle of the wagon-train,” sneered Dusky
Dick, keeping close to Clara, whether she rode fast or slow.

“Mr. Rouzee,” at length exclaimed Clara, her eyes flashing angrily, and
her cheeks flushing, “your place as guide is yonder, along with Tom
Maxwell, and not out here. If I appear rude, you force me to be so.”

“A guide’s place depends greatly upon circumstances, Miss Calhoun; and
just now I prefer this position.”

“Then occupy it alone; I will go back to the wagon,” she added, reining
in her horse.

“Stay, Miss Clara,” cried Rouzee, his black eyes glittering. “Keep your
place, but mark me, the time will come—and soon too—when you will repent
these haughty airs, and solicit as a favor, what you now affect to
scorn. I tell you that the time is not far distant when you will crouch
at my feet—when you will hang around me for a word—a smile; when you
will call me _master_. Do you hear?”

“And I tell you, sir, that when we camp to-night, you will have to
answer to the charge of being drunk while upon duty,” haughtily retorted
Clara, her eyes flashing. “Will you go, sir, or must I appeal to my
father?”

The guide did not reply, but plunging his long, cruel spurs into the
flanks of his mustang, he dashed rapidly up alongside of the old
borderer, Tom Maxwell, who received him with a cold, half-suspicious
start. Evidently there was little love lost between the two men.

Just before sunset, the long line of trees was reached, that bordered
upon a small stream, and preparations were immediately begun for
encamping, while Dusky Dick and Tom Maxwell galloped off to hunt for
“sign.”

The mules and horses were ungeared and turned loose, after being
hoppled, and the wagons were formed into a rude sort of corral, one line
covering the joints in the other. All was bustle and apparent confusion,
although each person knew his duty and busied himself about that alone.

Fires were built, and over them stooped the women, preparing supper for
the different messes; while the children brought wood and water, or else
rolled and tumbled over each other with merry shouts, in their play,
little recking what the morrow might bring forth.

To one of these fires, a little apart from the remainder, we now turn.
Over it was bending the form of an old negro woman, whose wrinkled
features and gorgeous red and orange head-gear, looked weird and wild
through the flame-tinted smoke.

A little to one side of this sat three persons, or rather half reclining
against the moss-covered roots of the gigantic oak tree, idly watching
the motions of “Aunt Medora,” as she turned the hissing bacon, or the
nicely browning “hoe-cake.” One of these was Clara Calhoun; the others
were men.

The eldest one—tall, portly and of a soldierly bearing—was her father,
the leader or captain of the wagon-train. Of perhaps fifty years in age,
his muscular frame gave no evidence of decay, and the fire of youth
still seemed to shine in his large dark eyes. The heavy, grizzled
mustache and beard, gave a somewhat stern cast to his features, that
were massive and regular, and his voice, used to command, enhanced this
idea; but at heart he was kind and gentle.

The other was a young man, between his fifth and sixth _lustrum_, with a
handsome, manly face and form; with a calm, steadfast look in his gray
eye that instinctively commanded one’s respect, and told that he could
be depended upon in any emergency, however dangerous or trying.

His garments were plain and almost poor, but there was an air of
conscious independence and freedom in his bearing and demeanor, that
attracted one, despite himself.

“Father, do you know that I think you made a great mistake in hiring
this Dusky Dick, or whatever may be his name, to act as guide?”

“Why so, Clara?” asked her parent, with an air of surprise.

“Well, you may laugh at me, or call me visionary, but I shudder whenever
he comes near me. I believe he is a traitor, and that he has some deep
purpose of his own that means danger to us all. If you ask my reasons, I
can only say what I have; I only feel that he’s not what he seems, and I
shall never rest easy until we are well rid of him.”

“I don’t like him overly well, myself,” slowly replied Calhoun, “but
still, I think he is honest and trustworthy.”

“Then why does he not attend to his business, instead of intruding where
he can’t help but see his presence is unwelcome?” warmly cried Clara.

“Why, daughter, what do you mean? What has he been doing?”

“Just this. I can’t stir a step from the wagons, but what he is at my
side, with his disagreeable smile and worse compliments. At first I did
not appear to mind them, but of late he has grown still more impudent,
and the worse I rebuff him, the more he persists, until now, unless it
is put a stop to, I will feel obliged to keep within the wagon all the
time.”

“You never spoke of this before, Clara,” uttered Calhoun, slowly. “If he
has troubled you so much, why not have told me?”

“Because I thought he would desist, and then there would be no trouble.
But to-day he grossly insulted me.”

“Stay, Buenos,” commanded the major, placing a hand upon the young man’s
arm, as he made a motion of anger—“let me settle this. He insulted you,
Clara?”

“Yes. He told me that the time was not far distant when I would crouch
at his feet, and be glad to call him _master_!” exclaimed the maiden,
her eyes flashing.

“But what led to this?”

“I hardly remember, but I told him he had other duties to perform, that
would become him better than forcing his company upon those to whom it
was unwelcome. I had tried to leave him by riding faster, to one side,
or by falling back; but he kept close beside me.”

Major Calhoun arose and glanced around upon the animated scene. The two
guides had returned, and were awaiting supper, meanwhile smoking their
pipes.

“Tom Maxwell, come here for a moment,” called the leader, and the tall
guide sprung nimbly to his feet and approached the group, doffing the
dirty felt hat, with an almost reverential bow to Clara.

“Maxwell, my man, I wish to ask your advice, and I trust you will be
plain and candid, in your reply,” began Calhoun.

“Maje, I’m Tom Maxwell, an’ you’ve hearn tell o’ me afore now; but did
you ever hear ’at I lied, or made a prac_tyce_ o’ any sech a dirty,
sneakin’ business? The truth is a mighty broad an plain trail, boss, to
them which is clear in the sight, an’ my ol’ mother l’arnt me to squint
true ’long that trail, tellin’ me—‘Now, sonny, jest foller your nose,
an’ go ahead!’ An’ ever sence then, I’ve did so, on’y, mayhap, steppin’
a lettle to one side in the matter o’ a red-skin, or sech like; but I
al’ays tuck it up jest whar I left it. I’ll tell you the truth ef it
bu’sts me—go on!”

Calhoun appeared used to the somewhat rambling style of the old guide,
and resumed:

“We were just talking about this Dusky Dick, as you call him; what is
your opinion of him, Tom?”

“H-u-m! As a guide, or a man?”

“Well—both.”

“Ya—as,” drawled Maxwell, smoking rapidly. “Fust, as a guide. He’s quick
an’ sharp-witted, knows a buffler-chip from a ant-hill; he is dead shore
on a trail or fer sign; a bully shot, rider, an’ all that; kin tell you,
or mark down like a printed map, every river, crick an’ waterhole that
is atween here an’ Salt Lake. Or to sum it up, as the lawyers o’ St.
Louey ’d say, he knows every feet o’ the trail, kin tell whar to ixpect
Injuns, or not to ixpect ’em, ekil to anybody what lives an’ breathes.”

“You praise him up very highly, Tom,” remarked Buenos Ayres.

“Do I, then? That’s jest as folks thinks. But honest, I don’t know a
single man ’at I’d ruther hev along ’th me, ’n this very Dusky Dick,
_pervidin’_, mind ye, thet he hed some strong intrust in the train’s
gittin’ through right side up, all hunky. But ef so be he hed a spite
ag’inst anybody, then I’d ruther hev the devil hisself fer a chum,” he
said, earnestly.

“Well, as a man,” added Major Calhoun.

“Wal, fust; he shoots off his mouth too durned much; he’d talk the ha’r
off ’m a buffler bull’s hump, an’ not more’n hafe try. He’s wuss ’n old
Daddy Lapyear, the preacherman which used to keep camp meetin’ nigh to
whar I lived when a little shaver; an’ more’n that couldn’t be said.
Look at his eyes—look at his face—look at his motion; look at him all
over, well. The hull outfit sais _snake_, jest as plain as geese-goose;
an’ the wust kind o’ sarpint, too—the ongainly, sneakin’ copperhead.

“Ef he tuck a dislike to a feller, would he come right out flatfooted
an’ tell him so? Nary time—not muchly! He’d lay low an’ bite ’em in the
heel. He’s pizon, I tell ye, pizon from head to toe, an’ sartin death.
Ef he gives you a black look, jest putt your heel on his head an’ squash
it. But look to your boots, fust. Gi’ me a match, youngster.”

Calhoun then repeat the threats of Dusky Dick, he had that day addressed
to Clara, and then awaited Tom’s reply, in some anxiety of mind.

“An’ he said _that_—_he_ did?” slowly returned Maxwell, his brow
knitting, as he puffed furiously at his relighted pipe.

“Those words, or to the same effect.”

“Wal then, thar’s snags ahead, boss, you kin jest bet your high old
ocean ware!” exclaimed Tom. “What’re you goin’ to do ’bout it?”

“I don’t know, just yet. That is what I asked your opinion for.”

“Wal then, ef he said them words, he _meant_ somethin’. He ain’t the
sort o’ feller to shoot his mouth off at nothin’, when he’s mad, jest
fer the fun o’ hearin’ hisself talk. Look here—do you know ’at he’s lost
_four_ trains in the last two years? an’ that one more jest got through
by stud-hoss luck, a’ter two days’ hard fightin’? I don’t say ’at he’s
in cahoot ’th the reds, not a-tall; but ef I hed a spite ag’in’ this
’ere train, an’ wanted to git it wiped out, I’d jest go to Mister Dusky
Dick, _Es_quire, an’ say—_whar’s the brigynees, Dick?”_ significantly
replied Tom, tapping one horny finger against the other palm.

“Then what do you advise, Maxwell?” somewhat anxiously asked Major
Calhoun, deeply impressed by the earnest words of the veteran guide.

“What do I ’vise? Now thar you’ve _got_ me, as Joe Nerr said to the
whale when he sucked him in. What _d’you_ think?”

“I thought some of discharging him,” was the thoughtful reply.

“The very wust thing you could do! ’Cause why. Ef he _is_ a runnygade,
thet is jest what he’d choose hisself, an’ then he’d hold high, low,
jack in his hand, ’th a fa’r show o’ ketchin’ the game, to boot. No,
sir! You must keep him, an’ say nothin’ to make him ’spicious, an’
then—_watch ’im_. You’ll watch—the young feller, _he’ll_ watch, an’
_I’ll_ watch, an’ it’s hard but what we kin manidge to keep him in
trim.”

“’S—st!” cautioned Ayres, rising erect, with hand upon his ready
revolver. “So, Mr. Dusky Dick, this is a specimen of your manners, is
it? Eavesdropping!” he added, as the form of the guide stepped out from
behind the tree beneath which the party were sitting.

“Should the _criminal_ be absent when he is being tried?” sneered
Rouzee, with a slight emphasis on the word italicized. “I was passing
by—I heard my name coupled with treachery—and so I paused.”

“Jest so—I was hungry—I saw a fat goose—I stole it, said the fox!”
murmured Tom, carelessly hitching his belt around. “I told you he was a
snake!”

“And what did you hear?” demanded Calhoun, arising.

“I heard myself accused of treachery—of being a renegade, and in
collusion with the Indians. If not in so many words, at least plainly
enough to be understood,” said Dusky Dick, deliberately.

“Well then—what is your answer?”

“What can it be! You are dissatisfied with me, and condemn me unheard. I
will not serve any man who does not trust me fully. Tom Maxwell, yonder,
knows the route quite as well as I do, and is capable of acting alone. I
will bid you good-by, now.”

“You mean to leave us?”

“Yes.”

“If you heard so much, Mr. Rouzee, as you say, surely you heard
Maxwell’s last words?” coldly added Major Calhoun. “We prefer not to
part with you; at least, not until we have reached a safer portion of
the country than this is.”

“True as preachin’!” softly interjected the old guide.

“Do you mean to detain me against my will?” said Dusky Dick, stepping
back a pace.

“If necessary—yes.”

“By force?”

“By force, if you compel us to adopt harsh measures,” impatiently
exclaimed the major.

“Now look here, Mr. Calhoun,” began Rouzee, in a firm tone. “I’m a free
man, and not bound to you in any way. I have honestly performed my part
of the contract, thus far, and if I choose to leave you now, all you can
do is to retain my wages. Do this if you will, but I’ll not stay with
you any longer.”

“Ef I hed a jass-ack what wouldn’t go, d’y’ think I’d wallop ’im?—bet
your monkey-musek I _would_!” gently whistled Tom Maxwell, eying Dusky
Dick with a benignant smile from beneath his battered slouch hat.

“You are but one—we are three—or if but one word is spoken aloud,
fifty.”

“And I am Dusky Dick!” cried the guide, in a defiant tone. “You have
heard of me before now, but you will _know_ me, if you persist in this
outrage. I tell you that I _will_ go, and there is but one thing that
can stop me—_death_!” and as he spoke, he leaped back so as to place the
trio in front of him, and drawing a brace of revolvers, he cocked them
with a clear, significant click.

“That long-legged beauty yonder told you that I could shoot true, and
for once he told the truth. You may keep me here, but it will not be
while I can draw trigger or sight along a barrel. Stop!” he added,
sternly, as the three men made a motion toward advancing. “The first
weapon drawn, or the first step toward me, will be the death-warrant of
Miss Clara yonder! Before God, I will shoot her, if I am molested!”

They saw that he was in terrible earnest, and instinctively shrunk back.

“Shell I take him, maje—shell I take him?” hoarsely whispered the old
guide, his form crouching and trembling with anger, at the rebel’s
audacity.

“No—no, don’t stir, Tom—for your life, don’t!” cried Calhoun, fearfully.
“The devil will shoot her if you do! Go, then, if you wish it, but if
you harm one of the party, I will hunt you down like a dog! Go, while
you can,” he added, bitterly.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Dusky Dick, “you are very generous, Major Calhoun, and
I congratulate you upon the facility with which you reverse your
decision. I _will_ go, but you may expect me again, very soon. I love
Miss Clara too greatly to abandon her so abruptly, for good.”

“Shoot him, father!” cried Clara, as she sprung up behind the huge
tree-trunk. “Never mind me—don’t let him brave you so!”

The three men abruptly turned around at this sudden interruption, and
then as they saw that the maiden’s maneuver placed her in comparative
safety, they quickly drew their weapons; but the guide had vanished, and
his taunting laugh of defiance echoed back through the woods.

“After him, Tom—Buenos! and shoot him like a wolf, if you find him!”
shouted Calhoun, as the three men dashed through the timber, in the
direction from whence had come the insolent laugh.

But their efforts at Dusky Dick’s capture were all in vain, although the
majority of the now fully aroused campers set out in pursuit of the
fugitive; and one by one they returned to their now cold supper, silent
and filled with a dim foreboding of impending peril.

“It’s a bad job, maje, a pesky bad job,” quoth Tom Maxwell, as he helped
himself to a fresh supply of the rude but wholesome viands; “an’ I’m
dub’ous that it hain’t all over yit. He never shed ’a’ got away—never!
But who under the sun would ’a’ thunk he’d ’a’ p’inted them pistils at
Miss Clary? The dratted sarpint! Burnin’s too good for sech as _he_ is!
Lord—Lord! what’s this world a-comin’ to, when sech pesky critters is
made?”

Double guards were posted that night, and an unusually strict watch was
kept, but the long night passed by without further event worthy of
record, and as the sun arose, it shined down upon the party slowly
trailing along their weary way.




                              CHAPTER II.
                        THE STORM-CLOUD BREAKS.


The next day and the next passed by without any event other than such
usually attendant upon an emigrant’s daily toil along the almost endless
trail, and the majority of the party were inclined to laugh at the
parting words of Dusky Dick, as mere vaporings, proceeding from chagrin.

But not so with all. Tom Maxwell did not take this view of it, nor did
the major or Buenos Ayres, and a steady, unremitting watch was kept up,
both night and day, while great precautions were used in selecting the
nightly encampment.

Toward night of the second day succeeding the departure of Rouzee, the
veteran guide paused until the wagon driven by young Ayres, in which
also sat Major Calhoun, came up beside him.

“What’s up now, Max?”

“Nothin’, maje, as I knows on,” replied Tom. “But look yonder—d’ y’ see
them ’ar trees, jest beyon’ that peint o’ risin’ ground?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, that’s the place to camp to-night. Plenty of wood, water an’
grass.”

“Well?” queried the leader, seeing that something lay beyond the guide’s
words.

“I don’t know, boss, but what you’ll laugh at me, an’ think I mought be
in better biziness, but—” hesitated Tom, a little nervously.

“Why should I, Tom? I certainly should not if you are in earnest. But
what’s the matter?”

“Jest this: you hain’t forgot what Dusky Dick said, nor hain’t I
n’ither. It’s be’n a-runnin in my mind all day, an’ I can’t help
thinkin’ that thar’s so’thin’ in it. You know he said that we’d see him
ag’in, an’ his eyes said, jest as plain as a nigger’s heel, that if we
did, it would not be _alone_.”

“Then you think—?”

“I reckon; leastways I ’spect so. Ef you ax _what_, why I’ll bet a
buffler’ hump ag’in’ a turkey buzzard, that we’ll ’ither see or hear
so’thin’ o’ Mr. Dusky Dick, afore another sun. I feel it all over me.”

“What are you going to do?” somewhat impatiently asked Major Calhoun.

“First, I’m goin’ to scout ’round ontel dusk. I know the lay right well
around here, an’ it’s jist the out-doin’est place you ever did see, for
’bushments and Injun deviltries. It’s a plain shoot for the river thar,
an’ you won’t need me for that.”

“Well, don’t be gone long, nor run any more risk than is absolutely
necessary, Maxwell,” earnestly added Calhoun; “for you are our only
dependence, now. I don’t believe there is one of us all that has the
slightest idea of where we are, or the road necessary to take, in order
to reach safety.”

“Maje,” slowly said the old guide, “I’m a rough old coon, what ain’t o’
much a’count one way nor t’other; I hain’t got no kin, nor ’lations
livin,’ as I knows on. I never hed a wife—leastways, nobody ’cept it
mought be a squaw, now an’ then, for a week or so, an’ I never hed a
child who could call me pap; but for all that, I know how you must feel
when you look at Miss Clary, an’ think ’at she’s in danger.

“I ain’t o’ much a’count, as I said, for I’m old an’ most wored out, but
still I’d fou’t as hard as the best, for the few drops o’ blood in my
karkidge, an’ I say sooner than let _her_ get hurt, even to her
teentiest finger, why I’d be shot, burnt, cut to pieces an’ then
swallered hole! I would, by ge-mently!”

“I believe you, Tom, but I hope there’ll be no call for your doing all
that,” laughed Calhoun.

“Wall, jist follow your nose, an’ stop yonder ontil I git back,” and
then loosening the tightly drawn rein against which his half-wild
mustang was chafing, the grizzled old guide sped swiftly away from the
wagon-train.

Once beyond sight of the trail, Maxwell proceeded more slowly and with
greater precaution. Veering to the right, so as to embrace as much
ground as possible in his contemplated _detour_, he closely scrutinized
the ground for sign, while keeping a wary look-out upon either hand and
in front, not caring to run blindfold into an ambush should there in
reality prove to be enemies in his vicinity.

He was proceeding thus, when his horse suddenly gave a snort and stood
still in his track. Quickly raising his eyes from the ground, the old
guide sent a keen glance around him, and then uttered a long, low
whistle, as he perceived the evident cause of his animal’s alarm.

Just debouching from the hills, or rather from behind them, was a large
body of horsemen, and though at nearly a mile’s distance, he had no
hesitation in pronouncing them to be Indians, from the long spears and
various trappings, together with their peculiar style of riding. They
were to the right, and at the same time a little in his front, being
nearly in a direct line with himself and the place where the emigrants
intended to camp for the night.

They had evidently observed him, and had paused, as if in irresolution,
thus allowing Maxwell a moment for deliberation.

They might be friendly, but he did not believe it, and felt little
inclined to cultivate their close acquaintance. Still he did not like to
run, for he well knew the truth of the old adage—a fleeing form invites
pursuit—and that should he flee, the rogues would assuredly chase him.

Then were they hostile, as he more than suspected, the emigrants would
undoubtedly be the sufferers, as they had not yet had time to encamp and
corral the wagons, in order of defense. Outnumbered and taken by
surprise, they would be massacred without mercy.

Tom Maxwell did not believe that their exact position was known by the
Indians, from the unguarded movements of the latter, and resolved to
draw them away, if possible, or at least detain them until the emigrants
would be better prepared for the meeting.

“Come, Ebenezer,” he muttered, drawing up the reins and settling himself
firmly in the deep saddle; “you hain’t any much tired as yit, an’ kin
hold your own with these scalawags, for a bit, anyhow. Now you jest git
up an’ _git_!”

As he spoke, Maxwell urged the sturdy mustang onward, uttering a wild
yell and bending low down.

As if decided upon their course by the old man’s action, the Indians
dashed after him, _in silence_. The look of anxiety upon Maxwell’s face
deepened, as he noted this fact, for it served to confirm his already
strong suspicions.

He knew that only some great and powerful motive could induce an Indian
to suppress the vindictive, exultant yell usual when their foe and an
anticipated victim is before them; and what could that motive be, unless
it was a desire not to alarm the company of emigrants whom he had been
guiding? More than ever he believed that Dusky Dick was connected with
this new phase, and if so, he would need to be doubly wary and
foresighted.

Instead of riding direct toward the camp, Maxwell pursued a course that
would carry him past it, at about a mile’s distance, with a considerable
ridge intervening, intending to draw the savages entirely away from the
wagon-train, if possible, but at any risk to protract the race until a
more favorable moment.

His thorough knowledge of the surrounding country now stood him in good
stead. The hills loomed up before him, and the valley he was now in
appeared to extend clear through beyond the high ground, but in reality,
it ended in a _cul de sac_, from which escape would be almost
impossible.

Veering a little to the right, he dashed on, with an occasional glance
back at his pursuers. He was gratified to see that he at any rate had
maintained his vantage-ground, and, barring an accident, he felt
confident of baffling pursuit until the shades of night afforded him
secure cover.

Maxwell knew that by rounding the now near hill, he would find a clear
route to the plains beyond, whose small _mottes_ of timber were
scattered at short intervals. Close along the further side of these
hills, the river ran; then making an abrupt turn, flowed through the
level ground.

Maxwell was much attached to “Ebenezer,” his horse, but when it was
placed against the welfare of the train, and that of Clara Calhoun, for
whom he had taken a deep and fervent liking, he did not hesitate. He
resolved to abandon the mustang, and trust to good fortune to recover
him again.

Still, at nearly a mile in advance of his pursuers, the guide rounded
the hill, and reached the river side. Dismounting, he struck the horse a
sharp blow, and thus turned him loose. True to his plans, Ebenezer
dashed madly away up the river, toward the nearest clump of timber, with
a wild snort of alarm and pain.

Running along a few yards in an opposite direction, Maxwell crouched
down in a rocky hollow, with a fast-beating heart and an anxious face.
He knew that, was his ruse discovered too soon, his life would be
forfeited, beyond all doubt. True, he still held his rifle and
revolvers, but what would his one arm avail against those of over
three-score savages?

He saw the mustang disappear behind the _motte_, at full speed, and
hoped that his pursuers had not yet gained a position from whence they
could note the absence of its rider. If they had not, then he felt that
he was safe.

Then the enemy spurred swiftly by, following keenly upon the plain
trail, without a pause or single glance around the point. Then they,
too, passed behind the timber island.

Chuckling heartily, Tom arose and entering the water, ran lightly along
its edge, until he came to a small log, lying upon the shore. Rolling
this into the water, the guide secured his rifle upon it, and then
entering the swift current, swam rapidly down-stream, pushing the float
before him, thus keeping his gun and powder dry.

As he came in view of the wagon-train, he uttered a loud, clear shout,
and leaving the water, ran lightly toward the camp, which was all
confusion.

“What is it, Tom? Where’s your horse?” excitedly asked the major, as he
met the old scout.

“Boun’ for Salt Lake, takin’ a wheen o’ pesky red-skins to visit ol’
Brigham!”

“What do you mean?”

“Jest what I say. But we hain’t got no time to talk now—thar’s work to
be did. Dusky Dick an’ a wheen o’ red imps is on the rampage, red-hot
fer ha’r, an’ ’ll pay us a visit afore sun-up to-morry.”

“How do you know?” anxiously queried Calhoun.

“’Ca’se I see’d ’em. Don’t jabber—_work!_” impatiently added Tom, as he
entered the little corral.

He glanced around, anxiously taking in every detail, and then added, in
a voice of disgust:

“What on airth was you fellers a-thinkin’ about, anyhow? Don’t you see
you’d orter bin out yander, away from the river? They kin swim down in
the dark, an’ take us in the r’ar, now. But it’s too late to mend _that_
now, so do as I do. They’ll be here in less’n a-nour now, fer they’ll
know we’re on the look-out, soon’s they find Ebenezer.”

The corral had been formed close to the river-bank, in a half-circle,
and in the usual manner; that is, in two rows of wagons, the one
covering the joints in the other. By Tom Maxwell’s directions, the
wheels were let down in holes hastily dug, so that the axles rested upon
the prairie, and the openings were still further barricaded by articles
taken from the wagons.

The fires were extinguished and the women and children stowed away in as
perfect security as could be obtained, in the inner tier of vehicles.
But while doing so, a startling discovery was made.

There was one missing—Clara Calhoun was in no place to be found! A few
minutes’ quest showed them that she was not within the corral!

And then Maxwell found that his horse was also missing from the others.
In an agony of apprehension, Calhoun hastened to and fro, eagerly
questioning each one as to when they had last noticed her.

All he could learn was simply this: Clara had been riding, as usual, and
at some little distance to one side of the train, just before Tom
Maxwell started out on his reconnoissance. During the confusion anent
the encamping, she had been lost sight of. No one could say more than
this.

“What can we do, Tom?” anxiously asked Calhoun, to the gloomy guide.

“Not much, onless she comes in o’ herself. The reds is snoopin’ ’round,
an’ ’ll be most sartin to gobble up any as goes out to hunt fer her. But
I’ll resk it, anyhow, fer a bit. Keep the boys to work, an’ don’t git
fooled, ’fore I come back.”

Then the old guide left the corral and hastened along the back trail,
soon disappearing amid the fast-gathering shadows. And thus an hour
passed by, when the whistle of Maxwell was heard, followed in a few
moments by himself; but he was _alone_.

“Where is she, Tom?”

“The good Lord on’y knows, boss. Leastways, _I_ don’t. Didn’t see hide
nor ha’r o’ her. But the reds is a-comin’.”

“Do they know where we are?”

“Reckon so; but ef not, they’ll soon find us.”

“If they _do_ find us, how do you think it’ll end, Maxwell?” queried an
emigrant, in a tone of anxiety.

“I kin tell better a’ter it’s over, fri’nd,” dryly replied Tom, with a
significant shrug. “But ef they don’t git no more to help ’em, why we
stand a fa’r show. They’re on’y three to one.”

“_Only!_ And isn’t that enough, for conscience sake?”

“Fri’nd, where a feller is fightin’ fer his wife an’ lettle ones, he’s
ekil to _four_, what’s on’y themselves,” and then silence once more
reigned throughout the corral, at least so far as conversation was
concerned.

But as may be imagined, the suspense and misgiving of the father, with
others, was terrible, when they thought of what might have befallen the
missing maiden. It was well that the welfare of the train helped to
divide their thoughts. Without some such duty, their thoughts would have
been doubly distracting.

It was plain that nothing more could be done, until after the threatened
peril had passed. Until then, they could only hope and pray that no
serious evil might befall the wanderer.

Thus far, nothing had been seen or heard of the savages, and a number of
the emigrants half-believed that the old guide had been deceived, and
that the party of red-skins had been peaceable ones, who had no designs
upon the train.

The sky was clear and unclouded, and the full moon had already arisen.
Whether this last fact was a blessing or otherwise, was an open question
to the emigrants, for if it served to betray the enemy in case they
attempted a surprise, it would likewise furnish sufficient light by
which the death-dealing bullet, or the scarcely less to be dreaded
arrow, could be directed with almost the certainty of one at midday.

As an off-set to the error in corraling the wagons upon the river-bank,
there were no trees or bushes within short gunshot of the encampment,
while the plain was level and smooth almost as a floor, so that, for
over an hundred yards, the savages would be forced to advance right in
the teeth of their enemy.

Old Tom Maxwell was regarded by all as a sort of leader, and each word
he spoke was earnestly listened to, and every hint or direction promptly
obeyed, without a murmur or a protest.

It was some two hours or more, after the moon had arisen, that the first
sign of the enemy’s presence was observed, and only the well-trained eye
of the old guide could at first discern the suspicious object. He
quickly glided from man to man, whispering to each:

“Thar’s a red out yon’, snoopin’ ’round, to diskiver ef so be we’re on
the look-out. Now don’t spile it all, but take it cool an’ do jest as I
say. Ef he on’y keeps to the outside, why let ’im go, but ef he a’tempts
to enter, then wipe him out as quickly as you know how. Don’t make no
n’ise, nor don’t let him make none, nyther.”

As he returned to his post, old Tom saw that the spy had drawn
considerably nearer, until the paint-bedaubed face could be distinctly
seen, as the moon’s bright rays streamed full upon the cautiously
uplifted head.

The eyes of the veteran scout began to glisten, and his hands nervously
clutched at his rifle, as though eager to put a final period to the
night-prowling of the painted demon, but then his habitual coolness
returned, and he calmly awaited the denouement.

The spy gradually drew nearer to the double row of wagons, and paused
close beside the outer line, just in front of Maxwell. He uttered a low
grunt as of disgust, as he found that the beds were almost upon a level
with the ground, and that he could not pass beneath them, as he
evidently intended.

Then he turned aside and slowly began skirting the corral. Although it
was a trying ordeal, the emigrants obeyed their leader’s orders to the
very letter, even suspending their breath as the spy gently stole along
the line.

Apparently this worthy became fully convinced that the emigrants were
soundly sleeping in false security, for he at length began to climb over
the barricade. Perhaps he was after plunder, or mayhap he was a young
brave, burning to distinguish himself and to win a name among his
people, by taking the first scalp.

But if so, he was doomed never to realize his dream, for as he leaped
lightly to the ground, a pair of strong hands were instantly twined
around his throat, effectually checking all outcry, while another of the
emigrants plunged a keen knife deep into the broad, swelling chest. One
faint, gurgling groan, a convulsive quiver, and the spirit of the
red-man fled from the ghastly wound and took up the trail to the happy
hunting-grounds.

Tom Maxwell glided quickly to the scene of death, and bent eagerly over
the corpse, scanning its features closely by the clear moonlight.

“It’s a dratted ’Rapahoe, boys, but I don’t know him. You did it up
slick, but it’s on’y jest a beginnin’; they’ll send out another, when he
don’t come back on time, to l’arn what’s up. So hunker down an’ wait.
Don’t one o’ you fire, though, ontel I give the word.”

Perhaps another half-hour slowly dragged its weary length along, before
any thing more occurred to break this painful suspense, and then another
dusky form was observed coming from much the same direction as that
followed by the ill-fated spy. They all knew that the crisis was now
close at hand, and every nerve was steeled, and though many a heart beat
faster than usual, there was none that fluttered with fear.

The second spy had advanced to within a dozen yards of the corral, when
one of the eagerly watching emigrants fell forward, and accidentally
touched the trigger of his cocked rifle. The sharp report rung out upon
the still night-air, sounding to the startled men like the roar of
artillery.

At the same moment the spy arose to his feet and turned to flee,
uttering a wild whoop of alarm. But it was his last cry upon earth, for
the quick eye of Maxwell directed the unerring rifle, and at the red
skin’s second leap, the quick report rung out, and the second victim of
the list that was yet to follow, died without a groan.

Like an accompaniment to the double shot, there came a blood-curdling
chorus of yells and whoops, and a horde of dusky fiends were seen to
spring up as if from the bowels of the earth, upon the level plain
beyond.

“Look out, boys! here they come!” yelled old Tom, as he sprung to his
feet and began rapidly reloading his rifle. “Take it cool, but gi’e them
h—l. It’s fer life, now!”

As the dusky fiends swarmed close to the barricade, a blinding flash
rose along the line, and at such near quarters, the effect was deadly in
the extreme. Shrill cries of agony were blended with yells of rage, as a
number of assailants fell, dead or dying, before the scathing volley.

The savages paused, as if in stupor, and then as the terrible
quick-repeating revolvers began to play upon their crowded ranks, their
ardor suddenly cooled, and as if by magic they disappeared, leaving
their fallen as they lay, upon the field. A wild exultant shout followed
them, for it seemed as if the repulse was complete.

“Save your breath, boys,” said the veteran guide, with a silent but
joyous laugh; “fer you’ll need it, every smich, afore day. This is on’y
the primin’, an’ the rail airnest work is yit to come. Fodder up an’
look out fer breakers!”

“Then you think they’ll make another attack?” anxiously queried Major
Calhoun, who stood beside Maxwell, reloading his weapons with the
rapidity of an expert.

“Bet Ebenezer ag’in’ a jack-rabbit—which is long odds—that they will.
They didn’t know we was ready for ’em, but they’ve l’arnt a lesson now,
an’ they never need more’n one o’ thet kind to open thar eyes.”

This was probably the reason of the strange recklessness and want of
caution that the Indians had exhibited, for such is not their usual
nature. They most likely believed that the shots had been fired by an
alarmed sentinel, and then made their quick rush, hoping to overpower
the startled and bewildered emigrants before they were well awakened and
aware of the real facts.

And then, when greeted in such a deadly manner, they perceived the error
they had fallen into, fleeing in confusion and momentary dismay. But as
the old guide had predicted, the worst was yet to come, and the savages
would be doubly desperate now, from the heavy loss they had experienced.

Their approaches now would be all the more to be dreaded, because they
would be conducted with all caution and subtleness.

During the entire assault and repulse, the savages had scarce fired a
dozen shots, and not one of the emigrants was harmed, so well were they
sheltered. But one of the horses, who had all been tethered at either
end of the barricade, near the banks of the river, had been struck by a
random bullet, and killed.

As it alarmed the others, by Maxwell’s direction, the body was pushed
over the bank into the river. And then each man returned to his post,
while those detailed to watch the water side, retained their position.




                              CHAPTER III.
                              A WILD RACE.


Meanwhile, where was the missing maiden, Clara Calhoun? Let us glance
back and learn.

The information gleaned by Major Calhoun from the emigrants was correct,
so far as it went. Clara had been riding, as usual, and when she had
learned the spot chosen for the encampment, which she could already
locate by the neighboring grove of trees, she resolved to enjoy a little
gallop ere night fell, and by this means she would also avoid much of
the disagreeable noise and confusion attendant upon halting.

So she bore abruptly to the right, and with loosened rein dashed merrily
away, the proud mustang tossing his head gladly, at this unusual
relaxation. But Clara’s little ride was destined to be carried out upon
a scale of far greater importance than she had anticipated, and ere it
was ended, she was fated to undergo a season of peculiar trial.

From before her horse’s feet there sprung up a rabbit—one of that
overgrown breed popularly known as “jack-rabbits,” which, if not often
palmed off on greenhorns as full grown mules, as Westerners frequently
assert, are sufficiently large to astonish those used only to the more
diminutive species common to “the States”—and dashed away over the short
grass, clearing fully half a score yards at each jump.

Clara’s eyes sparkled, and bending forward she spoke to her horse in a
low tone, gently touching his flanks with her switch. The game creature
bounded forward with a wild snort, while the maiden laughed long and
loudly at this unique race.

The jack-rabbit, like his more diminutive brother of the States,
invariably resorts to one ruse, in order to escape an enemy. It will
flee for a considerable distance in a direct line, but then will
“double,” and return by a _detour_ to near the starting-point.

And this one was not an exception to the general rule. For fully a mile
it leaped ahead, with astonishing speed, leaving Clara far behind, and
then doubled.

But Clara did not detect this last move, and urged her horse on at full
speed. Then, however, having lost sight of the animal, she drew rein and
turned as if to retrace her steps.

She glanced around, but the point toward which she believed was the
camping-ground was bare and like that upon either hand. Not a tree was
to be seen. The plain was nearly level, but she was now in a slight
depression, that was from right to left, like the trough between two
huge waves.

“Come,” she said, us she twitched the reins and turned the mustang’s
head toward the crest, “we must hurry, or we’ll be too late for supper.
It’s almost sundown.”

But then, as she paused upon the ridge, a wild cry broke from her lips.
A startling sight met her gaze.

Before her, at not more than one-half mile distance, were a number of
horsemen, coming toward her at full speed. And even her untrained eyes
could tell that they were Indians; their trappings and peculiar manner
of riding, outlined upon the red sky beyond, as they crossed a slight
swell, told her that.

“My God! I am lost!” gasped Clara, for she believed that these forms
were directly between her and her friends, unknowing how the chase after
the rabbit had caused her to deviate from a true line.

But then as a shrill cry came to her ears, borne over the intervening
space by the light breeze, she wrenched her horse’s head around and
dashed down the slope at a break-neck pace. Only one thought possessed
her now: to increase the distance between her and these dusky fiends, of
whose daring she had heard so many frightful incidents.

And now the race was begun in sober earnest. It was no longer one of
mere sport; freedom, perhaps even life depended upon her retaining the
vantage-ground thus fortunately gained.

The truth may be told in a few words. These savages were but part of the
band that had pursued old Tom Maxwell, who, after discovering the
riderless horse, had suspected the ruse, and were searching for the
emigrant train. They had caught sight of Clara, just after she set off
in pursuit of the rabbit, and a band of them immediately spurred forth
to effect her capture.

There was one circumstance in Clara’s favor, though she did not think of
it then. The sun had already sunk behind the western horizon, and in a
short time more, the shades of night would hide her from her enemies,
provided she could elude their clutches for so long.

But then she knew not whither she was going. Ignorant of what lay before
her, in a strange and wild region, what hope was there for her?

Even supposing she should escape these enemies, how could she subsist in
that wide prairie, destitute of food, or even the means of procuring
any? She would only starve to death, die by slow degrees!

And thus she sped on, carefully assisting her noble horse, as he labored
on. Fortunate indeed it was for her that he was a mustang, prairie born
and bred; tough and hardy, though not remarkably fleet at a short
stretch.

But one of this race will easily tire out and even kill one of the
larger breed from the States, and yet, after a short rest and mouthful
of short grass, be as well and fresh as ever. For hours they can be
urged on at full speed, without giving way beneath the strain.

And so, though beneath the saddle well-nigh that entire day, Clara’s
horse sped on without flinching, and the maiden saw with joy that she
was nearly, if not quite, maintaining her vantage ground.

But still, of what avail? How would it all end? She was fleeing further
with each moment, from her friends, and in trying to avoid one death,
seemed but rushing upon another, scarcely less terrible.

For fully an hour the race swept on, without any great change in the
relative positions. The shades of night were now upon the prairie, and
the moon not yet having risen, all around was dark and gloomy.

Clara could see that she was nearing high ground, but as she looked to
see if she could not skirt it, the dim outlines of a long range met her
eye, extending for miles upon either hand. Though fearful of losing
ground, there was nothing for it but to dare the steep ascent.

In a few minutes more, the fugitive was at the base of a rugged hill,
and then as the shrill yells of exultation came up from the pursuers
behind her, Clara urged her laboring horse up the steep ascent.

It was hard work for the already overtasked animal, but it nobly
responded to the call, and although more than once stumbling, it
struggled on until the extreme crest was gained. But then as it dashed
down the steep declivity, the mustang’s hoof rested upon a loose stone,
and it pitched forward, head-first, flinging its rider violently to the
ground. Then arising, it still kept on, snorting wildly.

Clara felt a shock, then that she was falling—falling down what seemed
an interminable depth, and then, with a frightful shock her downward
course seemed to be checked. This; and then followed a blank.

A blank, so far as any definite sensation was concerned, and yet not
entirely one, either. For it seemed—faint and indistinct, as in a
dream—as though she was shortly afterward surrounded by phantom figures,
and a far-away hum as of human voices in consultation, was also in the
vision, if vision it was.

The figures seemed to raise her from the ground and then convey her
gently through the air for what seemed an almost interminable length of
time. Then she was placed upon the cool ground beside a murmuring
rivulet, when cool water was sprinkled over her face, while warm, soft
hands chafed her own.

Then with a feeble cry she started up and gazed wildly around her. The
phantom forms were now more substantial—the voices sounded more clearly
upon her ear, and she knew that the visionary dream had been a reality.

Then she uttered a feeble cry and sunk back, with a convulsive shudder.
Before her she beheld a hideous face, dusky, it seemed, with nodding
plumes surmounting it, that she knew could only belong to an Indian!

She felt that she was lost—that her pursuers had overtaken her, and that
now she was helpless in the power of the merciless fiends!




                              CHAPTER IV.
                           THE FORLORN HOPE.


“Do you think that Dusky Dick is with them, Maxwell?”

“I would sw’ar it, boss, ef that wasn’t ag’in my natur’,” promptly
replied the old borderer, as he seated himself beside his loop-hole, and
coolly began cutting a plug of tobacco into bits, to fill the pipe that
he held in his mouth, as he spoke. “But I tell you he’s _thar_. I didn’t
see him when those galoots was a’ter old Ebenezer, but they was in a
crowd, an’ I didn’t hev time to look good. But I kin _smell_ him, now.”

“Smell him!” echoed Calhoun, somewhat astonished at the positive tone of
the old guide.

“Yas, sir,” quoth Tom, cramming the tobacco into the pipe-bowl. “You
know thar _is_ sech a thing as _smell_, don’t ye? Wal, then, one thing
smells like somethin’ else, an’ then ag’in another _don’t_. See?”
selecting a match from a small pocket-safe.

“You won’t risk a light here, now, Tom?”

“No danger, boss, fer as you’ll see, when _I_ make a light, thar hain’t
a smich o’ light to be see’d; that is, onless you look whar it is, an’
then you won’t see it, nuther,” laying his old slouched hat upon the
ground, over the handle of his knife.

Then he lay down, protruding his pipe-bowl beneath the hat, and striking
a match, ignited the pipe without betraying a light larger than that of
a glow-worm.

“You see, some things kin be did ’s well ’s others, ef so be you know
jest how to do it. But as I was sayin’, I kin smell that pesky varmint,
Dusky Dick. Dif’rent folks is dif’rent, you know, but then they’re all
alike, too, a’ter all. Now then thar’s Miss Clary; she smells jest like
a gre’t big bnn’le o’ posies, figur’tively speakin’, in course. Then
thar’s you—sorter like a persimming. Ef a feller bites you at the wrong
time, why he’d a heap ruther squat down bar’-legged onto a big ho’nets’
nest than to do it ag’in. But ef the sign is right, then it’s jest like
b’iled honey, unly more so. Then ag’in, furder an’ more so, thar’s Jack
Wilson. _He_ smells jest like a bottle o’ pepper-sass. A lettle is
mighty good, but ef you gits too much, why you’re boun’ to sneeze an’ go
a-milkin’. So Dusky Dick smells like a copperhead or a rattler. I tell
you he’s _thar_, all ready for bitin’, for _I smells ’im_!” earnestly
declared Maxwell, smoking vigorously.

“Look out yonder, Tom, where that little ridge of sand ends,” suddenly
whispered Calhoun, touching the old guide upon the shoulder. “What is
that long, dark thing?”

After a moment’s scrutiny of the suspicious-looking object, Maxwell
replied:

“It looks su’thin’ like a chunk cut out o’ a black cloud, don’t it?
Reckon ’tain’t, though, come to think. Would be a Injun ef ’twasn’t
somethin’ else. ’Sides, it’s too big an’ too long an’ too much so all
over, for a red. ’Tain’t a canoe, nuther, ’cause thar hain’t no water
thar. I’d go out an’ ax its name, on’y I’m ’feered it’d rare up an’
onsettle my supper,” slowly drawled the old guide, evidently talking
from mere force of habit, without heeding what he said.

“It surely moves—see! It’s closer now than when I first noticed it!”
anxiously added Calhoun, nervously handling his rifle.

“Easy—easy, boss, or you’ll skeer the durned thing so bad it’ll run off,
right spang-a-diddle through us,” continued Tom, the while keenly eying
the nondescript. “It _does_ move, by ge-mently! but I don’t see no legs,
an’ it ain’t no sarpint, ’less it’s swallered its own head an’ tail.
Mebbe it’s a whale?”

One of the emigrants now came up beside them, and called their attention
to a similar object at a little distance to the left, that had puzzled
the others in the same manner.

“Good gracious, boss,” exclaimed Tom, in a vexed tone, “thar’s jest the
biggest set o’ fools ’round these diggin’s as was ever got together in
one heap, I jest bet my pile! _They_ was fools for thinkin’ they could
fool us with them, an’ we was bigger fools for gittin’ fooled by them
dratted fool logs! It’s the beatin’est foolery ’at I _ever_ knowed!”

These words explained the mystery, and the others were as greatly
surprised as had been the old scout, that they had not penetrated the
ruse sooner.

The Indians had procured a number of logs, and were now busied in
rolling them up toward the corral, evidently hoping to thus gain a
position from whence they could securely pick off the defenders of the
wagon-train at their own leisure.

“What is to be done, now, Tom?” and the major could not entirely conceal
his uneasiness as he spoke.

“Why, jest kill a dozen o’ them loggerheads, an’ then the others’ll take
the hint an’ leave.”

“But how?”

“Shoot ’em, in course. You don’t s’pose they’ll let you git cluss enough
to do any thin’ else, do ye?”

“But they’re hid behind the logs.”

“Ef they keeps hid all the time, they won’t do overly much damage
a-shootin’, shore. No, _sir_! When a feller shoots, his head hes got to
be as high as the bar’l, an’ ef _it’s_ atop o’ the log, why don’t you
see? his head must be thar too, in course, onless he’s cross-eyed an’
kin shoot roun’ the corner,” argued Tom.

“Then you mean to—?”

“I reckon. We’ll try it, anyhow, jest for beans. You feller, go an’ send
Wilson an’ Texas Joe here, quicker!”

In a few moments the two men designated were at hand, and then Maxwell
directed them what to do. The logs were now within fifty yards of the
outer wagons, and were still drawing yet nearer, though slowly.

“Hunker down here, boys, an’ see that you’re well kivered. Ready? Now
one o’ you fire to’rds that log afore us. Don’t make no differ’ whether
you aim at it or that big star yonder, jest so you shoot; an’ then dodge
down, quick.”

The gun was discharged as directed, at one of the stationary logs, and
instantly there came a return shot, evidently aimed at this flash, for
the bullet plowed up the dirt in close proximity to the men.

Then like an echo the rifle of the guide spoke, and was blended with a
wild yell of death-agony, that told it had not been discharged in vain,
while a dark figure sprung high up into the air, and falling, lay
motionless upon the ground, out in the open moonlight.

“See, boss,” exultantly cried Maxwell, rolling quickly aside from his
loop-hole in time to avoid a return shot. “I told you ’at something
could be did ’s well ’s others, an’ now you see they kin, an’ better,
too!”

A chorus of vindictive hoots and cries announced that the enemy were any
thing but pleased at the working of their scheme, and then a general
volley was fired from behind the logs.

This time a cry uprose from the interior of the corral, and then the
word was passed around that one of the men was killed. At this
calamity—the first one of any importance—a heavy gloom settled over the
spirits of the defenders, for they knew not but that ere the morning’s
sun should arise, they would all have met the same dread fate.

But their attention was speedily diverted from this sad thought, and
their every energy required to avert the threatened doom. The cry went
up that another onset was at hand.

With the never-failing yells and screeches, the foe sprung up from
behind their coverts, and swarmed forward like so many phantoms of
death; and then the air was filled with the hissing bullets and hurtling
arrows.

As before, a dazzling line of flame shot along the entire length of the
barricade, and so deadly was its effect that the desperate onslaught was
momentarily checked. Only momentarily, though, and then there came a
simultaneous shock against the outer row of wagons, as the assailants
gained this shelter.

Then the enemies were separated by only a few feet, and for a few
fast-fleeting seconds there was a pause. It was broken, however, by a
shot from the corral, and as an Indian uttered the death-shriek, his
companions strove desperately to scale the barricade.

Did they reveal their persons to the keen eyes of the besieged, a bullet
was speedily sent upon its deadly mission; did they essay to crawl
beneath or over the wagons, they were met by pistol-shots, knife thrusts
or clubbed rifles.

Nor were the defenders unscathed. More than one still and ghastly form
incumbered the interior of the corral, while here and there writhed one
in mortal agony, shrieking aloud, but with fast weakening accents, the
names of his loved ones; of those, who were even then, perchance,
praying for his safety, that he might pass that terrific ordeal
unharmed.

Although old Tom Maxwell and Major Calhoun were desperately busy, their
voices were silent. There was little need of orders then, for each man
was nobly doing his duty, and that lay plainly before him.

Then there came a loud shout from those men who were stationed close to
the extremities of the barricade, so as to overlook the water’s surface.
A cry that announced some new peril threatening their safety; a cry that
was echoed exultantly back by the demons in front, who now seemed to
redouble their efforts to scale the barrier.

Maxwell quickly gained one end of the corral, and beheld the river’s
surface above their position, as well as directly in front, close to the
water’s edge, dotted with sundry black objects that needed but one
glance to be recognized as logs, bearing the firearms of savages, who
were evidently sheltered behind them, but at the same time drawing
nearer to their anticipated prey.

Those who exposed themselves first, on going to the shore, were
instantly saluted with a deadly volley of pistol-balls, and for a brief
space, the others hesitated, as if disconcerted. They had evidently
counted upon effecting an entrance into the corral by surprise, while
the emigrants were engaged in repelling the attack of the main body, and
then overpowering their obstinate foes, but the forethought of the
veteran guide had baulked them.

Then rallying, they made a desperate rush, gaining the shore, and
several of them actually gaining the bank, entering the corral, only to
be hurled back, dead or dying, into the water. For a brief space, it was
a wild, horrible _melee_, desperate and bloody.

The report of fire-arms—the occasional ringing of steel against steel,
as two foemen met in close contest—the confused trampling to and fro—the
shrill yell, either of rage or else of death-agony—the defiant shouts
and hoarse oaths—the affrighted screams of the snorting horses—or the
wail of some terrified infant, all combined into one fearful tumult!

Then there came a long-drawn, quavering cry, and as if by magic the
savage assailants vanished, like hoar-frost before the sun’s warm
breath. But there followed no exultant shout from the emigrants.

As they glanced fearfully around upon the forms of their dead and dying
comrades, their hearts were rent with anguish and apprehension. They saw
but too plainly, that another such triumph would be almost equivalent to
a defeat.

While the majority still retained their posts, keenly vigilant, others
of the little band removed the dead into one place and ministered to the
wants of the wounded, to the best of their ability. It was a sad and
heart-rending task, but their own peril was such that they had no time
for bewailing their comrade’s sad fate, and then once more they returned
to their posts.

For nearly an hour all was silence within the little corral, and even
the sorely wounded, despite their agony, heroically suppressed their
moans of pain, lest they should tend to weaken the nerves of the
defenders still left. And the latter were far too deeply occupied with
their own thoughts upon the impending peril to feel like conversing.

But, at the end of this time, there was one who could maintain silence
no longer—the old guide, Tom Maxwell. A voluble talker, he seemed
totally at a loss while his tongue was idle, and, unlike most people, he
appeared to think better and more closely while dilating upon some
entirely foreign subject.

Upon one side of him was stationed Major Calhoun; upon the other, the
young man, Buenos Ayres. It was with them, either or both, that he
spoke.

“Wuss’n a Quaker meetin’, this is, ’specially a’ter sich lively doin’s
as was jist now. ’Pears like I’d bu’st ef I was to hold in any longer;
the words scroudge each other so’t they hain’ got room to kick in. What
d’you think o’ the sitivation, any how, boss?”

“It’s bad—very bad!” gloomily responded Calhoun.

“That’s true as gospil; but then ’tain’t quite so bad as it mought be ef
it was wuss, anyhow, which is a gre’t consolation. I thought I was once
in the wuss fix ’at ever could be hatched up, when I was in the middle
o’ a bayou, down in Texas, with a passel o’ red-skins on ’ither hand,
an’ three in a canoe, cluss ahind me. But then a corntwisted alligator
poked his nose right up from the water, against mine, which mixed things
up a little more so.

“But I div’—the canoe ran smack inside the critter’s mouth—thar was a
scrunch, an’ then mebbe thar wasn’t some splashin’! I swum in ’mongst
the reeds, while the reds was flustrated, an’ so fooled ’em. All of
which goes to prove that we ain’t cotched yit.”

“Are you sure that Dusky Dick is with these devils, to-night? I have
neither seen nor heard him.”

“Bet yer life he is. But he hain’t nobody’s fool, an’ knows well enough
that ef he should show his ugly mug, it’d bring a dozen bullets a’ter
it. Most like, he’s painted up like one o’ the rest; but he’s _thar_,
shure. I smell him, I tell ye.

“You never heerd tell o’ _two_ sech attacks as them, right tergether,
’thout somebody hed a partic’lar grudge to work out, or objeck to gain.
’Tain’t Injun nature, _it_ ain’t. Most like they’re a gang o’ outcast
an’ vaggarbonds as he’s picked up somewhars, to do his dirty work, an’
this ’ere ain’t the _fust_ time, nuther, you mark _me_. No wonder he’s
called an unlucky guide fer the _trains_,” added Maxwell, significantly;
and then he proceeded once more to fill his pipe.

“I had hoped he was not with them, for then I should not feel so uneasy
about the result. I think we can beat them off once more, anyhow, and if
they were only after plunder, their loss would soon sicken them. But if
_he_ is there, I fear the worst,” added Calhoun, thoughtfully.

“Jest so; you talk right to the spot, _you_ do—a’ter my own style. Never
did fancy them fellers what jabbered so much ’mongst sech a heep o’
words; ’t stands to reason thar must be _some_ lyin’; an’ I hate a liar
like all ge-mently—I do _so_!”

“It was a sad mistake, our leaving the regular trail,” observed young
Ayres.

“As it turns out, yes. But ’twar fer the best, then. Water’s sca’ce on
that route this dry weather. We did it fer the best. But why so?”

“Because we might hope for help from some other train. As it is, we’re
too far off for them to hear the fuss.”

“Yas; thar ears hain’t long enough. Ketch a lot o’ jack-rabbits an’
chouge ’th ’em. Mules, too. Lord, yas!”

“Why, Maxwell, what do you mean?” and Calhoun gazed anxiously at the old
scout, whose eyes appeared fixed intently upon a bright star, while a
vacant stare rested upon his countenance.

“Don’t—let him alone, major,” whispered Buenos. “He don’t know he’s
talking. I believe he sees some way to fool these devils, and is
settling the details.”

And such was indeed the case. The words of Ayers had given a hint to the
quick-witted guide, that he was not slow to take hold of. From mere
force of habit, his tongue shaped words of which he was unconscious.

“Thar! I’ve got it! We’ll fool the imps yit, by ge-mineezers! That is,
we will ef we do; an’ ef we don’t, why, we will, _any_how. No use
talkin’—we _must_ do it,” and the guide uttered a deep sigh of relief,
as he glanced, first at one, then at the other, of his companions.

“Do what? What do you mean, Tom?”

“Lis’en. I said we’d fool them imps, an’ I b’lieve we kin do it. I don’t
say we kin, _fer shore_, but I think so. A feller mustn’t—”

“But your plan—what is it?” impatiently interrupted Calhoun. “There is
no time to lose.”

“Thar’s another day a-comin’, boss,” coolly added Maxwell, his tones
telling that his mind was still busied with the details of his plan. “No
need to be in a hurry. Know’d a feller to _die_, onc’t, ’cause he was in
too big a hurry. Got lost thar—starved to death afore he could find his
way out. Thar, it’s _did_—_now_ listen.

“Fust, we’re here—_they’re_ thar, an’ somebody else is in t’other place.
We must find that t’other somebody. See?” hastily spluttered Maxwell.

“But _how_?”

“You ’member the train we left at Dutchman’s Crick—the sojer one? It
couldn’t travel much faster ’n we did, so it must be not very fur away
now, on t’other trail. We must get word to them. Now fer the _how_.

“One o’ us—a volunteer ef thar is one—ef not, I’ll try it—must drop over
thar in the drink, an’ swim down ontel he kin git out ’thout the reds
seein’ him. Then he must putt out, hot fut, an’ not stop fer nothin’
ontel he strikes t’other trail Then ef the big train hes goed by, he
must ketch up ’th it. Ef not, then he must go t’other way ontel he finds
it. That did, he’ll tell o’ our sitivation an’ bring help—twenty sojers
’ll do, ’th what we hev here. See?”

“But can the trail be found, Tom? Won’t whoever attempts it, get lost?”

“Thar’s the no’th star—he kin keep that on his right shoulder. He
_cain’t_ miss it—the trail runs from eend to eend—onless he goes t’other
way. You stay here, an’ I’ll go see what the boys say ’bout it.”

“No need of that, I will make the venture,” said Buenos, calmly.

“You—no, lad. I’d ruther go myself. It’ll be resky—no two to one a
feller’ll git through. Think o’ Miss Clary,” earnestly responded
Maxwell.

“I do—I have. She is lost, and every moment that we let go by but adds
to the danger of our never finding her. The sooner we are free to search
for her, the better her chances are. I will not lose any time, and the
thought that I am working for her, will help me through.”

“He is right, Tom,” answered Calhoun. “He can do this as well as you
can, and besides, he can hardly fill your place here. We need some one
who is up to the dodges of the red devils, or we are lost indeed. You
must stay.”

“You’re right, but I don’t like it. Still, it may be best. I’d ruther
trust him then ary other one as would go, now Texas Joe is rubbed out.”

“Have you any further instructions to give?” asked Ayres, as he
tightened the belt around his waist.

“No—on’y take keer o’ yourself. ’Member that the life o’ the hull pack
o’ us—and mebbe that o’ Miss Clary, too—depends on your gittin’ through
all hunky. It’d be too late to try a-nother one, ef you—thunder! you
_won’t_ git rubbed out! Ef you do, durned ef I don’t jest up an’ swaller
every pesky red-skin out yender, alive, an’ then send Dusky Dick down
a’ter, to keep ’em stirred up lively. I will so!”

“Well then, I’ll go now. I wouldn’t tell the boys how it is, till you
know whether I get through safe or not.”

“Leave your rifle here—tie a ’volver on top o’ your head, so it’ll be
dry an’ ready fer use, ef you should chaince to run ag’in’ any o’ the
varmints. Swim cluss to the bank, whar it throws a shadder, an’ take
your time ontel you git a safe distance. Then let your legs went. Don’t
stop to look ef you’re goin’ to tread on ary bug or nothin’—let ’em
squ’sh ef they don’t git outen the way. Onderstand?”

“Yes. Good-by.”

“Good-by, and God bless and protect you, my boy,” uttered Calhoun,
chokingly.

“Thar—git out! You’ve filled my eyes full o’ bugs or so’thin’, a’ready.
Ef the reds come now, I couldn’t shoot a mite. Thar—now you’re gone,”
and the old guide pressed the young man’s hand warmly, while he brushed
one sleeve across his eyes, now dimmed by a suspicious moisture.

Cautiously Ayres glided along the barricade, and slipping down the
bank—here several yards high—entered the water. Then sinking low down,
and keeping within the narrow belt of dark shadow, he slowly floated
down-stream, fairly bound upon his truly perilous mission.

And with painfully-throbbing hearts the two men listened, dreading lest
there should come to their ears with each passing moment, the exultant
shout of their savage foes, announcing the discovery of the young man,
thus foiling their last hope—a truly forlorn one!




                               CHAPTER V.
                             DELAWARE TOM.


Clara uttered a wild cry, and sunk back, with a shudder. She believed
her pursuers had overtaken, and now held her captive; but in this she
was mistaken.

“Do not be alarmed, lady,” uttered a low voice, close beside the maiden.
“You are among friends here, who will protect you with their lives, if
there be any need.”

“But he—he is an Indian!” half unconsciously murmured Clara.

“True, but he is far different from those who were chasing you. He is a
true friend, and would fight in your defense quite as readily as I
would.”

“Bes’ git back little furder. Injun shoot plenty straight by dis light.
Ketch hoss—den be back, bumbye. Bes’ hide in bushes up dere, den Injun
go by—won’t see um,” interrupted a guttural voice, evidently proceeding
from the lips of the Indian alluded to.

“You’re right, Tom. They’ll be apt to follow back on their own trail, to
see where she gave them the slip. Do you think you can walk, Miss?” he
added, turning toward Clara; “or shall I carry you? There is danger in
lingering here.”

“Thank you—I will walk. If you lend me your arm I think— Ah!”

Clara rose to her feet by clinging to the strong arm of her new-found
friend, but then, with an agonized groan, she would have fallen to the
ground, had not his arms encircled her fainting form. The violent fall
had evidently injured the maiden far more severely than she had at first
believed.

“Lead the way, Delaware,” muttered the man, as he raised the girl in his
arms. “Quick!”

The Indian turned and glided along the level plat for a few yards, then
began ascending a steep incline. Up this for a considerable distance;
then he paused before a dense growth of bushes, that seemed to shoot out
from the very face of the bank.

The man bearing Clara was quickly beside his red companion, and then
they all entered the bushes, disappearing from sight.

This spot was upon a hillside, at whose base ran a clear stream of
water. Beyond this, again, was a level strip of ground, studded thickly
with little clumps of trees and undergrowth.

The three persons were ensconced within the bushes, close against the
rocks, that uprose, bare and gray, for nearly a dozen yards, sloping so
that a stone dropped from the escarpment above, would touch the ground
several yards out from the base. This cliff, however, only extended for
a short distance upon either hand; then it ran out into a steep
hillside, down which, on one hand, Clara had been cast by the stumbling
of her horse.

“How do you feel now?” asked the white man, after a moment’s rest.

“Better, though still faint and dizzy. But how— I remember falling, and
then all is blank. How did you find me, and where am I? There were some
Indians chasing me; where are they?” confusedly asked Clara, in a faint
tone.

In a few quick words the stranger explained the part he had played in
the adventure.

He was an officer of a Government train of supplies, and had started out
on a scout, together with one of their guides, an Indian named Delaware
Tom, but had become belated while following up a trail. They had
resolved to encamp for the night, when they were aroused by wild yells
and the sound of hoof-strokes.

Then they saw a woman rise the hill’s crest, and almost immediately fall
from her horse, as it stumbled. He sprung forward and caught her, while
Delaware Tom crept to the hill-top to learn what had so alarmed her.

He soon made out the figures of the pursuing savages, and then the two
scouts had hidden in the bushes, with the unconscious maiden, until the
war-party had thundered by, in hot pursuit of the riderless horse. Then
they had hastened with Clara to the creek, where they succeeded in
restoring her to consciousness, by the plentiful use of water, aided by
a stronger fluid incased in a flask carried by the captain.

And then Clara briefly detailed her portion of the adventure, adding:

“If I do not thank you for this service, it is because I can not find
words to express my feelings. I would rather die than fall into _their_
power!”

“Thanks are not needed, believe me. I am amply repaid already for the
trifle I was enabled to do, by knowing you are safe from those fiends.
But you spoke of your father—is it possible that he is my old
commandant, Major John Calhoun?”

“He served in Mexico, and his given name is John.”

“It must be the same, then! Did you never hear him speak of Harold
Travers? He saved my life at Cerro Gordo,” eagerly added the captain.

“Indeed I have; he often mentions your name. And now you repay that debt
by saving the life of his daughter. He has often wondered where you
were, and it will be a happy meeting; one that I trust will take place
very soon.”

“Bes’ not mek talk now,” interrupted Indian Tom, significantly.
“’Rapahoe he come back plenty soon. Find hoss—mad like de debble ’cause
don’t fin’ squaw, too. Hunt fo’ her heap, mebbe. Won’t git her, dough,
’less kin whip _us_.”

“You’re right, Delaware. I can hear the sound of their horses’ hoofs on
the rocks.”

“Are they coming? My God! I thought I had escaped them for good!” moaned
Clara, fearfully.

“Have no fear, Miss Calhoun,” returned Travers. “They shall not harm
you, even if they chance to discover us. There are only half a dozen in
all, and surely we two can manage them. Can’t we, Delaware?”

“Yeh, fo’ sure. Don’t know much how mek fight, ’Rapahoe. Big cowards,
dey is. Got white man ’long, dough.”

“Are you sure, Tom?”

“See um. Know um, too. Name Dusky Dick. Big decoy. White Injins—plenty
bad—more so dan oders. Play snake fo’ train, so Injin git ’em,” tersely
added the Indian.

Clara uttered a faint cry of apprehension, at the sound of his name, for
she knew that now indeed she was in danger. The threats of Dusky Dick
came back to memory with renewed force, and knowing, as he must, that
she was astray in the mountains, he would spare no pains in order to
make his words good.

“I see you know him, too; but never mind now. We must not converse any
more. See! the devils are in sight, down yonder by the creek.”

Cautiously peering through the leafy screen before them the three
fugitives could just distinguish the faint, shadowy outlines of a number
of horsemen, down in the valley. These soon crossed the creek, and then
one being left in charge of the horses, the rest—six in
number—dismounted and began quartering over the ground, like hounds
searching for a lost scent.

The soldier tightly compressed his lips, and grasped his rifle with
deadly determination. He saw that the enemy had evidently divined the
manner in which their anticipated victim had escaped them—at least in
part—and believed she was still hiding in some place in the vicinity.

It was not probable they were aware of the presence of other foes in the
neighborhood, else they would have displayed more caution. Evidently
they believed Clara had abandoned her failing horse, and sought safety
by lying in concealment.

The moonlight was too faint and uncertain for the savages to learn aught
from a trail upon the rocky ground, and that fact was in favor of the
fugitives. Still, there could be no denying that they were in imminent
peril of their lives.

The Arapahoes scattered and began a close and systematic search of the
ground, peering behind each bowlder, into every bush and cranny where a
human form might possibly have sought refuge. The six were widely
scattered, the better to compass their purpose.

Upon the movements of one of the savages in particular, was the
attention of the three friends riveted. He alone of the party was in
close proximity to the hidden prey.

He was a large, brawny warrior, and was now gliding along the hill-side,
gradually approaching the covert of our friends, carefully scrutinizing
every yard of ground as he proceeded. Presently he paused and glanced
keenly around him. Then his piercing gaze rested fairly upon the line of
bushes that screened the base of the cliff.

His tall, muscular frame, drawn rigidly erect, in all the pride of
war-paint and plumes, looked grandly terrible in the glimmering
moonlight, and even the eyes of Delaware Tom emitted a momentary gleam
of admiration as they dwelt upon the perfect figure. But then this gave
place to a glare of deadly hatred as if he recognized a bitter personal
enemy in the warrior.

The Arapahoe stood thus for a moment, and then began gliding up the
hill-side, his eyes seeming to pierce through and through the screen, so
keen was their glance. He saw that this was a good cover, and believed
or hoped that the fugitive had taken refuge there.

Travers crouched down and drew his revolver, with a stern demeanor, but
then a light touch upon his shoulder caused him to turn his head. The
Delaware made a peculiar gesture, and then hissed:

“No shoot—mek too much noise. Let Delaware tek him. Know um—he
kisch-kouch—big t’ief—me kill him heap sure. Tom’hawk mek no noise.”

“You’re right, Tom, I forgot,” muttered Travers, below his breath; and
then fearing to say more, they watched the red-skin’s progress in
perfect silence.

The Arapahoe did not pause, but kept on until he could touch the bushes
with his outstretched hand. Evidently he did not dream of danger to
himself, for he believed the fugitive maiden was alone.

Then he reached out and parted the bushes. This he did at a point some
yards to the left of where the trio were concealed, and a grunt of
disappointment broke from his lips, as he discovered nothing but bare
rocks.

Then he moved nearer, parting the bushes at each step, steadily nearing
those which concealed the three friends. His hand rested upon them, and
then they were gently pressed aside.

The Delaware was prepared for this move, and as the moonlight shot into
the aperture his uplifted hand fell, clutching the heavy tomahawk, whose
keen edge alighted fairly upon the bowed crest of the savage. The blow
was delivered with a sure aim, and was deadly in its effects.

But as the left hand of Delaware Tom shot out to clutch the throat of
the Arapahoe, to check any outcry, the stricken savage bounded back and
uttered his thrilling death-cry. This was done so quickly that it could
not be prevented.

But then, ere the lifeless body could touch the ground, it was seized by
the Delaware and pushed into the bushes. Then, for a moment, all was
still.

Only for a moment, however, for then the comrades of the slaughtered
brave took up the yell, and echoed it long and loud, as they intuitively
drew together, in wondering alarm. They well knew it was a cry from
death-stricken lips, but what had caused it, or from what direction it
had come, they knew not.

The cry had echoed through the hills, sounding from several different
points, and no two of the party could agree upon which one was the
right. A glance told them that one of their number was missing—the best
and bravest warrior among them all.

They were within fair view of the spot where the brave had met his
death, although, of course, ignorant of that fact, and had the fugitives
deemed it prudent, they could easily have sent a brace of rifle-bullets
into the little crowd. But, as long as the savages did not molest them,
Travers was willing to do likewise, now that a helpless woman was under
his protection.

Though he did not greatly fear the result of a collision with the six,
he did not deem it prudent to invite such, under the circumstances. A
random shot might work incalculable harm.

Clara shuddered convulsively as a peculiar sound met her ear, from where
Delaware Tom was crouched. She knew he was scalping the dead brave,
although she could not see the action, as the thick-matted screen of
bushes effectually shut out the light of the moon.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Delaware Tom affixed the reeking trophy to
his girdle, and then turned toward the soldier. Side by side, they
peered out upon their foes in the valley.

“Big fools plenty skeered,” chuckled Tom, as he noted the irresolute air
of the enemy. “Little more mek ’um run like de debble. S’pose shoot one,
two time, dey run way off. Git scalp, too. Kin hit ’um from dis,” he
added, eagerly fingering his rifle as though longing to begin the
affray.

“No, Tom, you mustn’t do it. It would not be safe. Were we alone, I
wouldn’t care how soon you began it, but now we have another to look out
for, besides ourselves. _She_ might get hurt.”

The Delaware did not reply, but he was evidently dissatisfied. He had
tasted blood, and it had aroused all the worst passions of his
half-tamed nature.

The savages appeared to be undecided as to the course best for them to
pursue, and for several minutes conversed earnestly together, closely
watched by their hidden foes. But then there was a decided move on the
part of the former.

One of their number moved toward the horses, and, mounting, rode rapidly
off up the valley, soon disappearing from view.

Travers and Toni exchanged glances. Right well they divined the meaning
of this move, and it evidently caused them not a little uneasiness.

“He’s gone after help,” muttered the soldier.

“Yeh. Dat’s it. S’pose we stay here, den dey ketch us all, same like
buff’lo. S’pose we don’t like dat, den we mus’ git ’way, ’fore dey gits
back ag’in. Dat right, eh?”

“Yes; we must make a move. Surely we can manage those fellows, yonder.
If we do, and can catch some of the horses, we can ride back to camp
to-night. But how shall we do it, Tom?”

“Stop—me t’ink a little. Plenty time—no hurry,” and then the Delaware
appeared deep-buried in thought.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                       TOM MAXWELL TURNS INDIAN.


Major Calhoun and Tom Maxwell “listened with all their ears,” for a
sound they fervently hoped would never come—the wild yells of
exultation, telling that their messenger had been captured by the
Indians, and the dissipation of their last hope.

And thus they remained for several minutes, without a sound to greet
their hearing, save the usual ones of the night. But then, just as they
were congratulating themselves upon the complete success of the venture,
their blood was fairly curdled and their hearts wrung by a startling
alarm.

From some distance came the noise, then arose a wild tumult and outcry,
as of human voices, the owners of which were engaged in a bitter
struggle for life and death. And then from the prairie around the
beleaguered train, there sounded the shrill cries and signals of the
aroused warriors, followed by the rapid tread of several horses in full
gallop, all tending toward the point below, where had first sounded the
alarm.

“My God! Tom, the boy is lost!” groaned Calhoun, agonizedly, as he sunk
back and covered his face with his hands.

“I’m feared he is, boss, but look up. Don’t give way now, jest when we
need our wits the wust. What’s did is did, an’ cain’t be ondid, nuther.
Think o’ the rest—o’ Miss Clary—an’ ’member ef we go under, so’ll she,
’thout a doubt. Ha! look—they’re comin’!” he added, suddenly, as several
figures appeared in view upon the prairie beyond. “Look out, boys—gi’
the pesky imps a lettle thunder, jest to let ’em know what they’ve got
to ixpect herea’ter!”

As he yelled these words, Maxwell discharged his rifle at a prominent
Indian, who suddenly paused in his onward career, tottered for a moment,
then fell heavily forward upon his face. And along the line of
smoke-begrimed wagons there was another flash, like those which had
preceded it, with a like deadly effect.

But the one volley was all that was needed, for then the savages
appeared to melt away and disappear from view. This had evidently been
no concerted assault, but the red-skins had rushed forward, alarmed by
the tumult below, no doubt fearing their intended prey were attempting
to escape by way of the river.

When the temporary confusion had in a measure subsided, the two men
listened anxiously for some sound from below, to tell them of the
probable fate of their messenger, but all was still. The event had
evidently decided, in one way or another, during the brief assault.

And they naturally dreaded the worst. The first yells told them that
Buenos Ayres had been discovered, and had been engaged in a
death-struggle with the enemy. He could scarcely have escaped.

“Now we are indeed lost,” bitterly uttered Calhoun, to the old guide.

“It looks dub’ous—durned dub’ous, I must say. But then mebbe ’tain’t so
bad as it looks. We may fool ’em yit. It’s my turn, now,” added Tom,
with a sudden increase of confidence.

“What? you would not be foolish enough to attempt that? They will be
watching the river so close after this that a fish could scarcely pass
their lines. It would be suicide, man!”

“Jest so; ef I tried it—which I don’t ’tend doin’. No sir, I ain’t sech
a fool—_yit!_”

“Then what do you intend doing?”

“Walkin’ out thar an’ j’inin’ them imps,” coolly returned Maxwell.

“This is no time for fooling, Tom. Our situation is far too serious to
admit of that. Such a move would be even worse than the other.”

“Not much. Anyhow, I’m goin’ to try it. They cain’t do much more’n kill
a feller, anyhow, an’ ef we stay here they’re bound to do it, shore. So
what matter? I’m goin’ out thar, an’ they hain’t a-goin to hurt me,
nuther,” confidently added the scout.

“But how—what do you mean?” asked Calhoun, seeing that his companion was
undoubtedly in earnest in what he said.

“I’m goin’ to turn Injun fer a bit, jest to see how that pesky Dusky
Dick must feel. But don’t talk. Watch the perayrie cluss—watch fer both
on us, fer I cain’t do my shar’ now.”

The old scout left the side of the puzzled soldier, and glided toward a
pile of dead savages, who had been carelessly heaped together, after the
second assault, so as to clear the way. These comprised all those who
had fallen inside the corral.

As he rudely turned these over with his foot, Tom uttered a grunt of
approval, and then catching one of the dead braves by the arm, he
dragged it to the spot where crouched Calhoun.

“What are you going to do with that, Tom?”

“Goin’ to skin it, fust. Then putt on the hide an’ walk out yender an’
tell those imps as how I was dead, but hev come to life ag’in,” chuckled
the old guide.

Calhoun uttered an exclamation of disgust.

“Don’t git huffy, now, boss, ’cause I speak sorter mixed-up like. You
know my way, or had orter by this time. But lis’en an’ you’ll see what I
mean. You see this ’ere carr’on is—or was, I’d orter say, mebbe, seein’
as he’s dead—a Delaware Injun. That proves what I said ’bout Dusky
Dick’s hevin’ picked up a band of runnygades to do his dirty work, fer
thar is ’Rapahoe, Cheyenne, Pawnee, an’ Delaware ’mongst them dead
critters over yon.

“Now I kin jabber a lettle o’ most all o’ them, but better Delaware, fer
as you may know, I hed one—Delaware Tom they called the cuss—fer a
pardner, well-nigh two years. So as the lad—_durn_ the luck!—hes got
rub—inter trouble I mean, an’ cain’t go fer help, why I ’termined to try
an’ sneak through them imps thar. I knowed thar was no use tryin’ to
play the runnygade as he did, fer the imps’ll be on the keen look-out
thar, an’ this was the only chaince. An’ a durned slim one, too, but
better’n stayin’ here.”

“We will try, but I fear ’tis a hopeless case. If they make another
steady rush, we must go down before it. If we do, and you get free, Tom,
promise me one thing: that you’ll not forget Clara? You’ll hunt for
her?”

“No, I won’t, nuther.”

“What!”

“Jest so. Give a fool answer fer a fool question, is my motter, al’ays.
Ain’t I a man—a _white_ man, too, ef so be you rub a lettle o’ the
outside dirt off? Then in _course_ I’ll do it—I ain’t a dog nor nothin’,
I reckon. But don’t fret. We’ll all hunt together. I’ll git you free.
See ef I don’t, now.”

As he spoke, the old guide glided toward the river, accompanied by
Calhoun. But as he hung his legs over the edge of the bank, Maxwell
suddenly added:

“Look here—ef you see or hear a feller shoot this-a-way, from out thar,
nigh to the river, don’t you shoot back, onless you aim at that big
star, yonder. Mought hurt somebody, ef you did. He’s a powerful poor
shooter, that fellow’ll be, when he minds to. Shouldn’t wonder ef he’ll
miss the hull intire train, wagons an’ all,” chuckled Tom.

“You mean you’ll fire from there?”

“Yas. Must throw dust in the red-skins’ eyes, ye see, or else they’ll
some on ’em be snoopin’ ’round to see who I be, which moughtn’t be
pleasant. Ef they see me a-shootin’ this-a-way, they’ll natur’lly s’pose
it’s one o’ themselves, slid out to play a lone hand. See?”

“Yes—I understand.”

“Then keep my rifle. I cain’t han’le it the way I must go; ’volvers must
sarve me. But don’t let nobody tetch it. I’d be plum lost ef any thin’
was to happin to it; I would _so_!”

Then Maxwell slid down into the water, that here was but little over
knee-deep, and crouching low down he glided rapidly up the river, bound
upon a mission that could scarcely succeed, now that the enemy had their
eyes opened by a somewhat similar attempt. And once more Calhoun went
back to his post, with a heavy gloom resting upon his heart.

Tom stealthily pursued his way up-stream until he was fully a hundred
yards above the corral, when he gained the spot for which he had aimed.
This was a little depression that ran from the water’s edge, some few
yards into the level prairie.

Here he hesitated for a moment. He glanced along in the direction he had
been pursuing, and debated earnestly in his own mind whether it would
not be better for him to keep on, and by thus rounding the hill, avoid a
probable meeting with those beleaguering the corral.

But this hesitation lasted only for a moment. He saw that the
contemplated change was now impossible. That the savages had guarded
against any such attempt upon the part of their intended victims.

His keen eye caught sight of several dusky figures that he felt assured
were none other than Indians, who had been detailed to guard the stream
above. And this was not all.

He also saw enough of their movements to tell that he was discovered;
that his progress had not been so cautiously made as to escape the
prying eyes of his enemies. A quiver agitated his frame, and for a
moment his heart was sick within him.

Not with personal fear, however. There could scarcely be found one who
was more utterly reckless of his own life than this same guide. For
nearly two score years he had lived with his life in his hand. At dawn
he knew not whether he would ever again look upon the setting sun.

And all this had rendered him utterly reckless and devoid of fear, so
far as he was concerned alone. But now he had others to think of and
work for. Upon the success of this venture probably hung the lives of
the entire company of emigrants. Were he slain or captured, he believed
that ere the sun arose all would be over; that his friends would be
swept from the face of the earth.

For a moment he half resolved to spring to his feet and dash swiftly
away over the plain, trusting to his great endurance and fleetness of
foot to escape. But then this idea was as quickly discarded.

He knew that such an action would but too surely betray his identity,
and that a cry would be raised and immediate pursuit instituted.
Pursuit, too, upon horseback; fleet though he undeniably was, and long
of wind, he could not hope to cope successfully with the fiery,
half-wild mustangs, especially when bestrode by those rare jockeys, the
Prairie Indians.

Maxwell resolved upon a bold course of action; or rather fell back upon
the old plan. Its success mainly depended upon one thing.

How long had the red-skins been watching him? Had they observed his
leaving the interior of the corral? If so, then his fate was indubitably
sealed.

But had they only noted him recently—as he hoped; for he had been
careful to keep low down within the dense shadow of the bank of the
river, where the moon’s rays could not reach him—he thought he might yet
succeed in deceiving them. And upon this hope he acted.

With one glance behind him, at the dim, phantom-like figures that were
still stealthily approaching him, Maxwell emerged from the hollow, upon
the side toward the corral, and, upon his hands and knees, began
crawling quite rapidly toward the wagon-train. Then he dropped down
quite flat upon his face, casting a glance behind him as he did so.

The red-skins in pursuit had just crossed the ditch, and were crawling
after him. They had gained rapidly in the last few minutes, and their
dress, as well as weapons, could now quite plainly be seen.

Then Tom leveled his revolver toward the corral, taking care to aim
above it, so that the bullet could by no possibility inflict harm upon
any of his friends, he fired. Almost like an echo, there came a return
shot from the train, and Tom fairly chuckled with delight.

This was just what he had hoped for, though he feared Calhoun would not
risk a shot, knowing the circumstances, at least in part. But now,
nothing could be better calculated to allay any suspicions the red-skins
behind him might have entertained.

Tom glanced backward, beneath one arm. To his delight, he saw that the
Indians had paused, and were now closely hugging the ground, evidently
trying to lessen the mark their bodies presented, lest a bullet from the
corral should bury itself beneath their precious hides.

“Ef that much works so well, reckon I’ll go a leetle furder ’th it,
though it ’d jist be partic’lar ge-mineezers ef some o’ the boys should
shoot me fer a red. But I reckon the boss ’ll look out fer that. Anyhow,
I must shake off them pesky imps. Let ary one o’ them git a glimpse o’
my mug, an’ it’ll be all night ’th _this_ coon, shore!” muttered the old
guide, as he gradually worked himself still nearer the corral.

This move, though not a little hazardous to himself, had the desired
effect, and as he once more glanced back, Tom saw that his red-skinned
followers had retreated, and were hidden from view. He now fired again,
and while reloading the empty chambers, he busied himself by peering
keenly around him, to discover, if possible, some point through which he
could pass with the least delay, and consequently peril, to himself and
important mission.

He dared not dally long, for the night was rolling on apace, and he must
be miles away from this spot ere the sun arose above the eastern
hill-tops. Then, with sternly-compressed lips and finely-strung nerves,
he started anew upon his errand.

He turned, and still crouching far down, with head bowed so that the
dried grass was blended with his hair and long beard, completely hiding
his features, he glided slowly away from the corral, shaping his course
so as to carry himself to one side of the main body of Indians, as he
calculated.

Already a chuckle of delight was tickling his throat, as he saw how
finely he was progressing, for he believed that his _ruse_ would
succeed, when an incident occurred which changed his exultation to angry
apprehension.

From a dense mass of dried grass, almost directly in his path, there
uprose the figure of a stalwart savage, who had doubtless been observing
the scout’s movements. He was now so close that Maxwell could not avoid
him without exciting suspicion, which would bring with it investigation
and consequent discovery.

So he kept on in his course, that would carry him a few feet to one side
of the Indian. But the other did not seem disposed to allow his seeming
ally and brother to pass by unquestioned.

He spoke in a harsh voice that also expressed suspicion. The words were
uttered in the Arapahoe dialect, with which Tom was sufficiently
conversant to comprehend their purport. But he well knew that this
knowledge was not perfect enough to carry him through a conversation
with a native undetected, and so he replied in Delaware:

“I am wounded. The accursed pale-faces saw me as I crept up out yonder
to try and kill them, and shot me. The bullet made me sick,” he said, in
a husky tone.

“Where were you going?” demanded the other, also using the dialect.

“I was hunting the medicine-grass,” added Tom, fearing to lose any more
time, and again crawling forward.

“Stop! Let me see your hurt. I may stop the blood, and then I will find
the grass for you,” added the Arapahoe, in a kind voice, evidently
swallowing the lie, and feeling no further suspicion concerning the
identity of his seeming ally.

And, then, in the kindness of his heart, he strode forward and placed
his hand upon the disguised scout’s head. The act was a fatal one; the
fastenings of the grass head-dress became unloosened, and the mass came
off in the Indian’s hand.

A wild cry broke from the red-skin’s lips, as the bright moonlight fell
fully upon the features of the guide. There could be no possibility of
mistaking them for other than those of a white man.

But that cry was his last upon earth; for, with an angry howl of furious
rage, Tom Maxwell sprung erect, and grappled with his foe. His powerful
arms bore the savage to the ground like an infant, while his hands were
clasped tightly around his throat.

As they fell heavily to the ground, the warrior appeared to recover from
his surprise, and struggled desperately for dear life. His arms were
wound around the scout’s body with crushing pressure, and he writhed
like a wounded snake in the endeavor to turn his foe.

Tom dared not relax his grasp upon the throat of the Arapahoe, lest he
should cry out and give the alarm, to bring an overwhelming force upon
him; then his fate would be assuredly sealed. And thus he could only try
to throttle his enemy in time to flee from the spot before any other
should be alarmed by the struggle.

For several seconds this continued; but then, to his horror, Tom heard a
wild cry, and then the rapid rush of many feet, plainly coming toward
him. He knew that the savages were alarmed, and had caught sight of the
struggling foemen.

With a howl of rage, he freed one hand, and drew his knife. Then it
glowed for a brief instant in the bright moonlight before falling with a
heavy _thud_, sinking to its very haft in the broad chest of the Indian.

But still, even in the throes of death, those muscular arms held him
firmly, despite Maxwell’s efforts to break the grip. With a desperate
effort, Tom sprung to his feet, lifting with him the dead man, whose
horribly-convulsed features stared him full in the face.

Then, with a fierce curse, Tom wrenched free, and made a step forward as
if to flee. But he was too late.

The enemy were upon him, and the tall scout was cast heavily to the
ground, with a dozen hands clutching him. A brief, furious struggle, and
the savages arose, while the counterfeit Indian lay beside the body of
his dead foe, a helpless captive.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                            A TANGLED TRAIL.


Buenos Ayres had not overestimated the danger and peril that would
attend his effort to pass by the vigilant red-skin, on his journey
toward the Main Trail, in quest of help for the beleaguered emigrants.

And then, under the circumstances, he was about the last person who
should have been chosen as the forlorn hope, although he was undeniably
brave, and usually, keen-witted and far-seeing. But now these latter
qualities were in a measure overpowered by the anxiety he felt to
perform his mission with the least delay possible, in order that a
thorough and systematic search might be made for the missing maiden,
Clara Calhoun, and, to this desire, he sacrificed prudence and caution
to a degree nearly fatal.

He swam rapidly down-stream, though the water was not waist-deep, but,
in this manner he could proceed more silently than by wading. He lay low
down in the water, that he might present a less fair mark for prying
eyes to rest upon, and, hidden in the shadow, he believed that he could
succeed in passing the lines of the enemy, unseen.

In this manner he had gained the edge of the timber, before-mentioned,
that extended nearly to the verge of the river-bank. But then he suddenly
paused in his advance.

Before him lay something dark, evidently resting in or upon the water,
and at only a few yards’ distance. For a moment Buenos believed that
this was the head of a man, whose body—like his own—was covered in the
water.

But then a movement on the part of the object undeceived him. It slowly
swung around, as though under the influence of the feeble current, and
he could see that it was a log; evidently one of those upon which the
savages had descended the river, in order to gain and attack the rear of
the emigrants.

With a low laugh at his unnecessary fright, Ayres advanced, swimming
rapidly, intending to use the log in his further progress. But he
speedily saw that this action had been made too quickly for his own
safety.

His keen eyes detected a suspicious circumstance connected with the log,
and he instantly paused. From the further side of the stick he beheld an
object that had escaped his eyes before, or else had recently made its
appearance there.

There seemed to be a roundish knob or protuberance upon the side of the
log. True, this might possibly have been beneath the water until then,
and was only revealed by the rolling of the log, but Ayres felt
confident that the _log had not rolled_. He could tell that from the
quiet water.

Then it must be— So far he had reasoned, but then, quick as thought, he
ducked his head beneath the water.

A sudden movement beside the log had caused this. He beheld the round
object raise still higher, and then with an abrupt movement a dark tube
was whirled around from the top of the log, until its muzzle pointed
toward the young adventurer’s head.

The knob was the head of a savage—the tube was a rifle, and Ayres knew
that he was discovered. All this flashed athwart his mind like a
revelation of light, and, as he dove beneath the surface, his plan of
procedure was fully determined upon.

He must dispose of this enemy or die. The alarm once given, escape would
be almost impossible, and with his capture, the hopes of the emigrants
would be crushed.

Then he must silence this foe before he could fire his rifle or give the
alarm otherwise. But could he do it? That was doubtful; still, as a last
hope, he resolved to attempt the feat.

As he sunk beneath the surface, Buenos drew his knife, and then swam
with swift, strong strokes toward the spot where he knew the Indian must
be crouching. And his calculations proved correct.

His head struck violently against the half-submerged log, and springing
up he dashed the water from his blinded eyes.

The savage was taken by surprise, and evidently had not expected such a
bold move. Quite likely he had been in doubt whether the advancing
figure was that of an enemy or a friend, as the small bundle fastened
upon Ayres’ head, added to the gloom, rendered it impossible for a
glimpse to be obtained of his features. His action in throwing forward
his rifle-muzzle, had simply been one of prudence, in case it was really
an enemy who approached.

Then when the young man sprung up so suddenly before him, the log being
driven against his body with considerable violence, the savage gave vent
to a grunt of mingled surprise and bewilderment. But from this he
quickly recovered.

Buenos—his first thought being to prevent an alarm—seized upon the
rifle-barrel, and with an adroit movement, wrenched it from the grasp of
his foe, with the same gesture casting it out into deep water. Then his
left hand shot out and clutched the throat of the red-skin with a grip
strengthened by the great interests at stake.

But the Indian was a brawny fellow, and as he grappled fiercely with his
foeman, he freed his throat sufficiently to emit, loud and clear, the
thrilling war-whoop of his tribe. With a curse of bitter vexation, Ayres
wrenched his right arm free, and then dealt the savage a swift, vicious
blow with the heavy knife.

It penetrated deep, but the wound was not mortal. Once more the shrill
yell resounded through the air, awaking echoes far and wide; once again
the crimsoned steel rose and fell, with a dull, sickening _thud_.

With a wild shriek of mortal agony, the death-stricken savage sunk
backward, but still his bony fingers clutched the white man with a grip
nerved by death. And from the prairie beyond, Ayres could hear the
shrill cries of the alarmed red-skins, and then the rapid thud of
horses’ hoofs approaching the spot at a full gallop.

Then he plunged over the log, head-foremost, and sunk in the water. This
action freed him from the dead Indian, and then arising to the surface,
Buenos swam for dear life, down-stream.

But he knew that did he continue on in this course, he must be
discovered by the rapidly approaching red-skins, and so he turned toward
the bank, half resolved to enter the timber and seek safety in flight by
land. In this, however, he was disappointed.

Scarcely had he touched shore, when his quick eye detected several dusky
figures upon the bank, near the spot where he had slain the Indian. He
knew they were the dead man’s comrades; one glance told him that.

And the same glance also showed him the form of the dead Indian, his
face, horribly distorted with the last agony, upturned toward the
star-studded vault of heaven, slowly floating down with the stream,
nearing its slayer, with each passing moment. Then there uprose a wild
cry from those upon the shore, telling that they, also, had discovered
the slain man.

It now seemed as though the fate of the young man was indubitably
sealed. Escape from being discovered seemed impossible, and to be
captured now, with that terribly significant witness of his deeds lying
there before the eyes of all, meant _death_.

Several heavy splashes were heard, and Ayres saw that while some ran
along the bank toward him, others had entered the water, to drag forth
their dead comrade. And now the corpse was within a few yards of where
he crouched, while almost directly over his head he could hear the heavy
tramp of other foes.

Ayres shrunk back against the bank, where the water was still several
feet deep. He clutched his knife with desperation, resolved to sell his
life dearly, should he be discovered. But then his heart thrilled with a
gleam of joy.

In the bank beside him was a small hole or depression, that had
evidently been washed out by the action of the water. Instantly one hand
was extended to ascertain its size.

It only reached a few inches above the surface, and was over a foot in
depth, running back into the bank. Below, it was still larger, and Ayres
believed that by its aid he could still escape his foes.

All this occurred in a breath of time, and the water was still agitated
by the heavy plunges, when Buenos glided back and into the fortunately
discovered refuge. By crouching almost double, he managed to stow his
body away in the hole, with his legs doubled beneath his body.

A quick gesture daubed his face with the soft black mud, and then Buenos
awaited the result in painful surprise. For not only did his own life
depend upon it, but, in all probability, those of his friends in the
besieged corral, as well.

His head was drawn back into the hole, so that his nose was barely above
water, and his face beyond the surface of the bank. The mud had rendered
his features the color of the dirt surrounding, and only by touching
him, could the savages have discovered the difference.

Through his half-closed lids, Buenos watched the movements of the
savages, now almost directly opposite him. A shower of dirt rolled down
from above, telling that those he had noticed on shore were still near
at hand.

Then a new and startling sound came to the ears of the young adventurer.
He heard the shrill yells—the wild outcry—the rattling of rifles, all
telling of another deadly assault upon the wagon-train.

The savages in the water paused as if startled, and then hastily
grasping the body of their dead comrade, they swam rapidly ashore with
it, landing just below where crouched the young man. Words passed
between them and the others, the purport of which Ayres could only
guess, owing to his complete ignorance of the dialect.

Then the corpse was handed up the bank, and shortly afterward Buenos
heard the quick trampling of feet, as a number of Indians dashed away
toward the train. He believed they were all gone, and made a movement as
though he would have left his covert, in order to continue his journey,
without any more loss of time.

But fortunately for him, Ayres recognized the folly of such
precipitation, before it was too late. From almost directly above him,
he heard the low sound of voices, and knew by it that his enemies had
not yet given up the search for the slayer of their friend.

With wildly beating heart Buenos listened to the progress of the
struggle above; but it speedily died away, and then all was still. The
absence of the red-skins’ yells of triumph, told Ayres that his friends
had successfully repulsed the onset, and his heart lightened
considerably.

Had he only been at liberty to resume his journey, all might yet be
well. But though he could no longer hear the sound of voices, Ayres felt
assured that the red-skins were still upon the watch.

They must know that an enemy had stricken them a bitter blow near that
spot, and would reason that he could not have gotten far away, before
their arrival. That he was still hidden somewhere in close proximity to
the spot of death.

As time passed by, Buenos began to grow still more uneasy. Every moment
was valuable now, and he should even then be miles away upon his
important mission.

But what if these savages should keep up the watch until day dawned?
Then they would assuredly unearth him.

Not only would he be doomed, in such a case, but the last hope of the
besieged emigrants would be dashed to the ground. Unassisted, they must
soon succumb to the overpowering force of the red-skins.

A desperate resolve began to shape itself in the mind of our young
adventurer. He would dare all, and emerge from his covert. It could be
but death, at the most, and that risk he would rather run, than longer
endure this horrible, agonizing suspense.

Still he could hear no sound of his enemies, and as the moments passed
on, Ayres made the desperate move. Were the Indians still lying in wait
for some such movement on the part of their unknown enemy, he knew that
he was lost.

They could scarcely fail to hear him, or discover his motions. The line
of shadow was fearfully narrowed, and at but a short distance ahead,
where the belt of timber came to an end, the bright moonlight revealed
every inch of the water’s surface.

Just as he had straightened out his limbs, preparatory to emerging from
his uncomfortable hiding-place, Ayres paused. Another alarm rung out
upon the air, from beyond the wagon-train.

Then came a single shrill war-whoop, that he had so often listened to on
that eventful night, followed by wild shouts from the Indians, telling
of some important discovery. And then, from almost directly above his
head, there sounded a guttural exclamation, closely followed by the
tramp of human feet.

Ayres shuddered convulsively as he realized the extent of the peril he
had so nearly brought upon himself, by his rash action. He knew now that
the red-skins had indeed been lying in wait for him, and only for this
strange diversion, would inevitably have made the desired discovery.

Though sadly puzzled to account for the outcry—for Ayres well knew that
the latter cries were those of exultation—the young man dared not dally
longer, but slipping forth from his hiding-place, he swam rapidly
down-stream for a few yards, until near the end of the timber-belt
furthest from the corral.

Then he cautiously scaled the bank, and entered the dense undergrowth.
Pausing, he hearkened intently.

All was still in his immediate vicinity, although from near the
wagon-train he could hear an occasional rifle-shot, telling that his
friends were still upon the alert. And then he glided stealthily forward
until at the edge of the prairie.

Cautiously peering forth upon the vast, level expanse thus spread before
him, Buenos saw with delight that as far as his eye could reach, there
was not a single living form to be seen. The road appeared open before
him, and he was about to enter upon it, when a sudden recollection
caused him to pause.

The revolver was still strapped upon his head, according to the advice
given him by Tom Maxwell, but it was far from being in a condition fit
for use. The sudden dive, on seeing the savage beside the log, added to
several immersions since, had pretty thoroughly saturated it.

Not knowing at what moment he might be called upon to make use of this,
in order to preserve his life, Ayres’ first move was to draw the
bullets, and wiping the chambers dry, he carefully reloaded them. Then
fitting on the water-proof caps, he replaced it in his belt, and once
more stepped forth upon the prairie.

Had he not already lost so much time, Buenos would probably have
exercised more precaution than he was now using. But, racked with
anxiety and the dread of being too late to aid his comrades in peril,
rendered him half wild.

Crouching low down, he ran at a rapid pace out over the level prairie,
in the direction he must follow in order to strike the Main Trail, which
they had so unfortunately—as it proved—deviated from, a couple of days
previously. The moon still shone brightly, and there was great danger of
his being discovered by some of the lynx-eyed savages, who surrounded
the wagon-train.

But this, Ayres resolved to risk, rather than lose any more time,
although he knew that, in case he should be seen, there could be but one
ending to the affair.

Fortunately for him, perhaps the suspicions of the red-skins had been
lulled by the recent capture of Tom Maxwell, for they believed him to be
the one who had slain their brother below the corral, as well as the one
beside whose body he had been captured. Thus they did not dream of
another foeman being at liberty so near them.

As Ayres glanced back over his shoulder, a shudder crept over his frame,
for he now realized the full extent of the great peril he was daring.
Behind him he could quite plainly distinguish the dark corral, and still
nearer, the numerous figures, dusky and phantom-like, moving restlessly
hither and yon, that he knew were none other than savages.

It seemed as though they could not fail of seeing him, and as he once
more sped on at an accelerated speed, Buenos listened with painful
intentness, expecting each moment to hear the shrill war-cry peal forth,
telling that the bloodthirsty demons were upon his trail.

But then he crossed the slight rise, and the fear-inspiring sight was
hidden from his view. Then breathing more freely, he took the pole-star
for his guide, and dashed on at break-neck speed, every nerve strained to
its utmost tension, and his heart wildly throbbing with renewed hope of
success.

For well-nigh an hour he maintained this killing pace, but then Nature
forced him to slacken his gait, and proceed with more prudence. His eyes
were roving upon every side of him, trying to recall some landmark,
though he well knew he was yet far from the Main Trail—the object of his
quest.

He crossed a slight swell and trotted down the opposite slope, into a
sort of valley, if it may be called such. Then he began ascending the
next rise.

Suddenly he paused. A suspicious sound saluted his hearing; the
_thud_—_thud_—of a horse’s hoofs beating upon the hard turf in a full
gallop.

And this, too, he soon found was approaching him, for the trampling grew
louder and more distinct. But it was not coming from the direction of
the corral, though this was Ayres’ first thought. Instead it was coming
from directly in his front.

Buenos glanced hurriedly around for some cover within which to ensconce
himself, but no such sight rewarded his search. There was not a bush or
bunch of grass to be seen, within reach.

And at that moment the figure of a horse and rider loomed up, clear and
distinct, upon the ridge, almost directly before the young man. As by an
impulse, Buenos dropped flat to the ground, and drew his revolver, ready
for use in case he was discovered.

Then the horseman came thundering on, seemingly about to ride directly
over the prostrate form. A collision appeared inevitable, and Buenos,
with tightly-compressed lips, cocked his pistol.

On thundered the horse, and was within a score of yards of the young
man, when, with a wild snort, it turned to one side, then dashed on with
accelerated speed, in its passage flinging a tiny shower of dust and
sand over Ayres. A hoarse cry broke from the lips of its rider, as he
swayed in his seat, but he did not appear to notice the cause of his
animal’s affright, for he did not once glance around or backward, but
rose the swell and disappeared beyond its crest with the same mad,
reckless gallop.

Ayres rose with a cry of astonishment, as the man vanished from sight. A
puzzled look rested upon his face.

In the brief glance he had obtained of the rider’s features, he knew
that it was a white man but wonder had checked the cry of greeting, he
would otherwise have uttered. Buenos did not know that the mad rider was
none other than Dusky Dick, the traitor guide and black-hearted
renegade; but such was indeed the case.

Had he known it, Ayres would have sent a revolver bullet hissing after
the villain, on the instant, instead of now gazing at the little cloud
of dust that was all there was left to indicate the swift passage. But
then Buenos once more returned his way, with quickened steps.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                            SAVAGE TACTICS.


“Look, Tom!” abruptly muttered Travers, gently touching the shoulder of
his ruminating companion. “The red rascals are moving!”

The Delaware turned his keen eyes toward the valley and gazed for a
moment in silence. Then he answered, in a slightly vexed tone:

“Yeh, dey go hide, now. Skeered plenty bad, dey is. Don’t know what to
mek ’cause Kisch-kouch git killed. T’ink spirits here, mebbe. Go
hide—den watch plenty sharp. Dat’s it.”

“But that will not do, Tom,” added Travers, vexedly. “They will keep us
here all night, then. If we venture to move, they’ll pick us off, one
after the other. I wish we had fired at them as they stood out there—but
it’s too late now.”

“Yeh—see—dey hide now. Ought to shoot _den_—now _can’t_. Shoot—kill one,
two, den oders run ’way off, like de debble. Cap’n he say _no_—see now
dat Delaware was right,” tersely replied the savage.

“But what shall we do? That fellow has gone for help, no doubt, and when
he comes back they’ll soon make this place too hot for us. As it is,
those devils can hold us here as long as they feel like it. We can’t
move without bringing out a rifle-bullet. Come, find some way, Tom,”
impatiently added Travers, who evidently relied far more upon the
cunning and resources of his companion in times of difficulty like this,
than upon his own powers.

“Me do it. Skeer Arapahoe _bad_, dis time. Git scalp, too, ef don’t look
out. No fun, dough, skeer _dem_—git skeered too easy—den run plenty
fast. Got long legs, dem Arapahoes,” chuckled Tom, as he drew his knife
from the belt at his waist.

“What do you intend doing, Delaware?”

“Keep eyes open wide, den mebbe so you see,” grunted the savage, who
evidently felt his importance in no small degree.

With his knife he cut several scrubby bushes, and then bound them around
his head and shoulders, but in such a manner that they would not
interfere materially with his sight. This accomplished to his
satisfaction, he turned toward Travers, who was now dividing his
attention between his companion and the valley below, where the
red-skins were hidden.

“Now you open ear—me tell. Injuns down dere—you here—me go some oder
place. Den me shoot Arapahoe—de oders dey jump up, all same like
rabbit—don’t know where me be—den _you_ shoot—kill ’noder. Den me holler
_loud_—_you_ holler—_dey_ holler an’ run like de debble, ’way off. See?”
hurriedly explained Tom.

“You mean to crawl around them?”

“Yeh—dat’s it.”

“Then shoot one—”

“You shoot ’noder—den dey run ’way off.”

“I believe they would,” thoughtfully said Travers. “But it will be
dangerous for you. Can you get down without their seeing you? If they
do, you’re a dead man sure!”

“No—dey shoot, but can’t hit Delaware. _Can’t_ hit—don’t know _how_
shoot, dem Arapahoe. Hit hill, mebbe, not’ing else,” laughed Tom, a low,
gleesome laugh, full of joy at the prospect of outwitting his hereditary
foes.

“I know you think an Arapahoe is fit for nothing but crow-bait, Tom, but
you may get fooled. Some of them are brave and cunning warriors—”

“No—no, Arapahoe squaw—all squaw!” angrily hissed the Delaware.

“Well, have it your own way. But be careful. Don’t be foolhardy, man,
and throw away your life uselessly. Better go now; it’s growing late and
there’s no time to lose.”

The Delaware turned away without a word, and passing his companion, he
disappeared among the bushes beyond. Though he affected to laugh at the
danger of his venture, nevertheless it was a perilous one, and one, too,
that would require not a little caution and skill to carry out
successfully.

As stated, the line of bushes fringed the base of the cliff, and then
ran out, leaving the hillside bare and devoid of cover, except a few
small bowlders and patches of stunted grass. For nearly fifty yards this
stretch lay beneath the full vision of the warriors hidden below.

But Delaware Tom felt assured that he could accomplish the feat, and
truly, he, if any one, could do so. Those who were with Kearney in
California can bear me out in this assertion.

Aided by the leafy screen upon his head, and the bowlders scattered
around, he hoped to pass over this open space unobserved, and this once
done, he would have the best of cover for his further operations. As for
the rest of the programme, he considered that the same as settled.

He knew that most, if not all the six Indians were Arapahoes, and as
seen, he looked upon them with supreme contempt. He believed that at his
shot, they would act much as he had said, and the way be easily cleared
for his friend’s departure for the camp.

When he gained the end of the bushes, Tom paused and peered keenly out
upon the valley below. But even his sharp eyes could not detect the
presence of a foe, save in the riderless horses that were feeding on the
bank of the creek.

Still, he knew pretty well where the savages were hidden, and acted
accordingly. Now he was forced to “crawfish,” or in other words, to
crawl backward, as his head and shoulders were the only parts of his
person concealed by the bush.

By so doing he calculated upon reaching a little gully that ran down to
the creek, unobserved, as the bush would seem to stand still, from where
the Indians were hidden, for to gain this ditch, Tom would be forced to
back directly from their position. All this had been foreseen by the
Delaware and calculated upon when he spoke so confidently of success in
his bold ruse.

Slowly and carefully he proceeded—or receded—crouching low down, keeping
the leafy head-dress as steady as possible under the circumstances. His
eyes were riveted upon the spot where he believed the Arapahoes to be
hidden, his muscles in readiness to avoid a shot, should such be
threatened, by a sudden spring.

But that shot did not come, and it was plain that the savages either did
not notice, or else believed the bush to be a natural one. It would have
required a long and careful scrutiny from the point where they were
lying hid, to tell that the bush moved, for Tom was retreating in an
almost direct line from them. Besides, the moonlight was deceitful and
favored the working of the ruse.

Then Tom gained the edge of the gully, and gently backed over it,
alighting upon his feet in the soft dirt and _debris_ that covered the
bottom. He listened intently for a moment, but all was still.

A glow of grim delight swept athwart his features at this, for he knew
that the enemy were still ignorant of the plan on foot to circumvent
them. The Delaware, now that the most difficult portion of his task was
accomplished, felt no doubt but the rest would end as happily.

With the friendly twigs still upon his head, he turned and glided down
the gully, after unslinging the rifle from his back, and carefully
inspecting the cap. From seeing the enemy disappear, Tom had formed a
pretty accurate idea of where they were hid.

He knew that they had not recrossed the creek, and consequently they
only had an oblong circle of some two score yards diameter, in which to
conceal themselves. Inside this, then, Tom knew he must find his game.

Gliding along, crouching so that his head was below the level of the
bank, the Delaware soon gained the bank of the creek, and pausing, he
peered cautiously toward the suspected spot. A low grunt of disgust
broke from his lips, as he saw that a little ridge hid the Indians from
his view, while standing in the gully.

Then his eyes roved around, restlessly. A brief moment sufficed to form
his plans.

Removing the revolver from his girdle, he entered the stream, and then
holding the weapon above the water, he glided slowly along toward the
enemy, hidden, as before, by the bank. As many minutes sufficed to carry
him over the few yards necessary to traverse, and then, confident that
he had gained a point whence he could spot the red-skins, Tom prepared
for action.

The revolver he cautiously shoved upon the edge of the bank, beside a
small bowlder, and then followed it with the muzzle of his rifle. But
then, with a sudden recollection, he paused.

Along the bank, for a number of yards, there was not a bush or shrub of
any kind to be seen. Although he affected to despise the Arapahoes as
warriors, the Delaware knew right well that the sudden appearance of a
bush where none had grown before, could scarcely escape their keen eyes;
and, under the peculiar circumstances, its appearance would most
probably be greeted with a rifle-ball.

So he noiselessly untied the thongs that secured the leafy head dress in
place, suffering it to drop into the water, and float away with the
gentle current. Then he slowly raised his eyes to a level with the bank.

For a full minute nothing suspicious rewarded his gaze; but Tom was by
far too cunning a scout and warrior to risk the success of his plans by
a precipitate movement. Then his eyes slowly roved over each inch of the
ground, again and again.

The wisdom of this caution was soon apparent. Beside a goodly-sized
bowlder, the Delaware now discovered a portion of a red-skin’s body,
though at first it had appeared part and parcel of the stone.

This was enough. Tom knew that sufficient was revealed to bury a bullet
in, so that it would touch the seat of life, and that by waiting for a
better target, he might spoil all.

Slowly and deliberately, as if aiming at a target of wood, the rifle
drew upon the unsuspecting savage, and the black eye of the Delaware
flashed along the dark tube with a deadly glare. And then his finger
tightened upon the trigger.

The whip-like crack rung out with startling clearness; but it was
blended with a horrible yell of agony, as the stricken savage writhed
upon the ground in his death-throes. Delaware Tom seldom found it
necessary to fire twice at the same object.

As the sounds broke the air, the horses, that had been quietly cropping
the rich grass, snorted with affright, and after turning their heads
wildly, sprung off a few yards; then stood with trembling limbs, eying
the strange scene.

As Tom had anticipated, the unexpected shot had so startled the
red-skins that they sprung up from their coverts and glared wildly
around in search of their hidden foe. Cries of wondering fear broke from
their lips.

Then a spout of flame shot forth from the line of bushes upon the
hillside, and a second messenger of death sped upon its way; another of
the savages reeled wildly, and then fell to the ground, the hot
life-blood gurgling from his chest.

Delaware Tom snatched his revolver and discharged it, uttering a wild
yell—the war-whoop that had more than once carried terror and confusion
into the hearts of his foemen. Though this shot did not seem to have
taken effect, the bold fellow sprung forth from the water, and pealing
forth his yell, sprung toward the surviving Arapahoes, firing as he
came.

Simultaneously, there echoed back a hoarse cheer from the hillside, and
Travers sprung into view, his revolver echoing back the quick reports
from that in the hands of the Delaware.

As yet the Arapahoes had not burned a grain of powder, so greatly were
they confused by this sudden and deadly onset. The two men dashing
toward them, with rapidly detonating pistols, were magnified ten-fold,
and, as with one accord, the survivors turned and fled from the spot of
death, with wild screeches of dismay and terror.

“Hurrah, Tom! spot them—they’re ours!” shouted Travers, wild with
excitement, as his revolver sent a bullet crashing into the brain of a
third red-skin. “Don’t let one get away!”

Loud and clear came the answering yell of the Delaware, as he sprung
forward in hot pursuit of the fleeing foe. _He_ only thought that his
enemies were before him, and his heart was filled with ferocious hatred.

The foremost Arapahoe reached the horses, and it seemed as though the
secondary object of the two scouts would be defeated, after all; but the
frantic haste of the savage favored them, unexpectedly. In his terror,
he made a quick grasp at the trailing halter; but his foot slipping upon
the damp grass, he fell to the ground, even as his fingers tightened
upon the plaited rope.

The sudden jerk added to the mustang’s affright, and caused him to rear
violently back, half-raising the Indian to his feet; but then the hand
slipped from the smooth rope, and thus freed, the terrified horse turned
with a shrill scream and dashed madly up the valley, followed by its
companions.

A faint cry broke from the lips of the Arapahoes, at this new
misfortune, but they dared not pause. Close behind them they could hear
the heavy tramp of their enemies, and then came two more shots.

Without pausing a moment, the savages dashed on, while the one whose
haste had wrought them such harm, scrambled to his feet. But no sooner
was he up, than he was down again.

Delaware Tom, with a shrill scream of frantic fury, pounced upon his
back, hurling the red-skin violently forward, his face plowing up the
decayed grass and soft dirt. Half-senseless from the shock, he offered
but feeble resistance to his powerful enemy.

Delaware Tom dug his knees violently into the back of the Arapahoe,
while one hand clutched his neck with the force of a vise. Then the
empty revolver was upraised, for a moment remaining motionless to gather
momentum; then the heavy, brass-bound butt fell with a sickening _thud_
full upon the bared head of the ill-fated savage.

Another yell broke from Tom’s lips, as he dashed the clotted blood and
brains from his eyes, and sprung to his feet, glaring ferociously around
in search of another victim. But the carnage was over.

The two surviving Arapahoes had vanished among the shadows, and Travers
was returning from the pursuit. But Tom darted forward, his eyes glowing
with a diabolical fire.

“Stop, Tom,” cried the soldier, as he grasped his comrade, “where are
you going? They’ve got clear off by now. You couldn’t find them in the
dark, anyhow.”

“Let go—me kill Arapahoe debble!” snarled the Delaware, struggling
fiercely in the powerful grasp of the captain.

“No, they’re gone. Don’t be a fool, man. There’s four scalps, if you
want them. That’s enough for once. Do you hear?”

The savage suddenly ceased his struggles, though with a ill-grace. But
then his face brightened as he glanced back upon the ghastly forms of
the fallen red-skins.

“Come, help me catch their horses, first, Tom,” said Travers. “If we
don’t mind they’ll give us the slip altogether.”

Without a word the Delaware followed his companion up the valley, where
they could hear the frightened horses, still snorting wildly. The
soldier began to fear they would experience not a little trouble in
effecting their capture.

But both he and the Delaware were old hands among the horses, and Tom
set out to gain the further side of the animals, in order to prevent
their flight. This was quickly accomplished, and then, while Travers
stood still, the Delaware slowly advanced toward the trembling group.

They permitted his approach without a motion, save to huddle closer
together, until nearly within arm’s length, but then they dashed off
toward the soldier. Travers stood still with outstretched hand, and,
after a few minutes’ delay, one of them came close enough for him to
secure the halter.

Then it was an easy task to collect the others, which once accomplished,
the two men returned down the valley where had taken place the deadly
surprise. The four dead forms presented a ghastly sight, and even
Travers could not repress a shudder, as he recalled the frightful scene.

“Take their scalps, if you will, Tom,” he said, as the Delaware drew his
knife. “But be quick about it. And then tumble their bodies into the
creek, before we call the lady. The sight would be horrible enough to
kill her.”

“Squaw no so soft like dat,” laughed the Delaware, as he shook the first
trophy to free it from the gouts of blood, before securing it to his
girdle. “Stan’ big heap, dey kin. No kill ’um so easy, like dat.”

“Hurry up—don’t be so long, Tom. There’s a long trail before us, and not
much time to lose. It’s nearly daylight now.”

But the Delaware seemed to find a peculiar pleasure in his revolting
task, and took his own time about it. This was the reward of his tedious
exercise of Indian tactics.

But then the job was completed by dragging the mutilated dead to the
stream, and casting them in, when the current quickly swept them away.
As the last corpse disappeared, Travers raised his voice and bade Clara
come down; that all danger was past.

But there came no reply. Again he called, louder than before. Still the
silence, save in the echoes of his own voice among the hills.

Travers wondered at this, though he did not think of any serious wrong.
He believed that Clara, frightened by the wild struggle, had not yet
recovered sufficiently to recognize his voice.

“Here, Tom, hold the horses, and I will go up after her,” said Travers,
a little impatiently. “She’s afraid to come down alone.”

Muttering at the foolish squeamishness of the white squaw, the Delaware
did as bade, and then the soldier lightly bounded up the steep hillside.
As he neared the line of bushes, Travers called again:

“Miss Calhoun—Clara, come out. It is all over, and the road is free for
us. Come.”

Still no answer, save in the echoes of his own voice as before. A
strange fear seized upon the strong-hearted soldier.

Why this continued silence? Why did not the maiden answer him? Could it
be, that, frightened at the scene of death and bloodshed, she had
fainted?

Believing this the true solution of the dead stillness, he sprung
forward and parted the bushes. A wild cry broke from his lips.

The covert was empty—unoccupied, save by the still and lifeless form of
the Arapahoe, who had fallen by the strong hand of Delaware Tom. Where
was Clara?

“What fo’ you mek holler like dat? Where squaw?” called out the Delaware
from below.

“My God! Tom, she’s gone! She is not here!” gasped Travers, in wondering
alarm.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                          BOUND TO THE STAKE.


The situation of old Tom Maxwell, was not one to be envied. Lying
helplessly bound, surrounded by a score of yelling, exultant red-skins,
who showered kicks and cuffs upon him with merciless celerity.

Taken in the very act of slaying one of their comrades, he could expect
but little mercy at their hands; indeed he felt some surprise that they
spared his life even for those few moments.

Suddenly a tall, powerful form strode through the corral, rudely
elbowing the braves aside, all resistance ceasing as they caught sight
of the one who handled them so unceremoniously. Evidently the new-comer
was one high in rank among them, judging from the deference with which
he was regarded.

Waving back the red-skins, he stood over the form of the captive scout,
gazing keenly at his upturned features. A quick and powerful change
passed over his face, and a hoarse cry broke from his lips, while one
hand nervously clutched the tomahawk that hung at his side.

“Ugh! Three Scalps!” he uttered in his native tongue; and even then
there seemed to be a tinge of respectful admiration in his voice.

“Yas, so they call me in your lingo, ’Rapahoe,” coolly returned Maxwell,
as he gazed fixedly at the face of the savage. “I s’pose you know how
you arn’t the name, don’t ye?”

“Yeh, me know. Big warrior, _you_. Kill heap Arapahoe. Won’t kill no
more, dough. Git kill _self_, bumbye. How like _dat_, eh?” added the
Indian, with a leer of ferocious joy upon his features, as he crouched
over the captive pale-face.

“Don’t know, chief, ontel a’ter I’ve tried it a time or two. Reckon I’d
like it fust rate, soon’s I git kinder used to it a bit. But you’re
jokin’, ain’t ye, now?”

“Jokin’—wha’ dat?”

“Foolin’—makin’ b’lieve—sorter throwin’ dust in a feller’s eyes, like,
ye know, so to speak. What fer do you want to kill me? I hain’t done
nothin’ much, onless it is killin’ a few dozen ’Rapahoes, fer which
you’d orter thank me, ’stead o’ holdin’ any grudge,” and the reckless
old scout chuckled grimly.

“You kill Arapahoe—Arapahoes kill _you_. Kill Cagoula here, kill oder
brave ober dere. You die fo’ dat.”

“What other? You ain’t goin’ to blame a feller fer what ain’t his fault,
be ye? Ef I tuck a notion to shoot out here at a bunch o’ grass, an’ one
o’ your durned copper-skins runs ag’inst the bullet, be I to blame? But
I didn’t do it—you cain’t prove ’at I killed any other skunk ’cept this
’ere one.”

“Kin too, me tell. Kill ’noder brave down dere—in water—stick one wid
knife. Den run ’way like de debble,” angrily added the chief.

“When—where was that?” asked Maxwell, a sudden hope springing up in his
breast at the last words of the Indian.

“S’pose you tek good hoss—ride like debble—mek hair all wet on hoss.
_Dat_ long, mebbe,” tersely replied the Arapahoe.

Maxwell’s form quivered with a new-born hope. He knew that the time
metaphorically stated by the chief, would be about that which had
transpired since the alarm had arose, so closely following the desperate
venture of Buenos Ayres. Could it be that he had been deceived—that the
young man had indeed eluded the vigilance of his enemies, and was still
at liberty?

For some moments Tom dared not trust himself to speak. He dreaded lest
the swarthy Hercules should suspect the truth from his tones.

“You mean the feller who tried to stop me down thar? In the water?” he
said, at a venture.

“Yeh.”

“You fellers didn’t see me, then, as I swum back up the river?”

“No. You do dat way?” eagerly asked the chief.

“In course. You hunted fer me, didn’t you? Ef I’d ’a’ stayed thar you’d
’a’ found me, wouldn’t ye?”

“Yeh, me see now. Injun he big fool dat time, but got you now. Keep you,
too. Tek scalp bumbye. How you like burn at stake, eh? Laugh plenty
loud, den, eh? T’ink so?” and the chief chuckled diabolically.

“Me—burn _me_? Git out—you’re crazy, Injun. _Cain’t_ do that. Won’t
burn; ’d putt the fire all out. I’m all frozen water, _I_ be. Tell you
what I’ll do. Bet ye my hat ’at I kin stan’ fire longer ’thout sizzlin’
’n _you_ kin. Thar now, what sez ye?”

The savage laughed a little at the sublime impudence of his captive, but
then turned away and entered into conversation with several of the more
prominent braves.

Maxwell had an object in view in thus chaffing with his captor. He felt
assured now that Buenos Ayres had indeed succeeded in passing the cordon
in safety, and that he was even then far away in search of help.

Thus, every moment of time gained was invaluable to his comrades. If he
could delay an attack until daylight, he believed that the train would
be saved, as the Indians would scarcely brave an assault in broad
daytime, knowing the great loss they must suffer in such a case.

Hoping to learn something definite regarding the red-skins’ plans, Tom
keenly strained his ears to catch the words of those who were collected
around the chief, at but a few yards from where stood the captive scout.
His partial knowledge of the dialect stood him in good stead here.

He heard his own name—or the _sobriquet_ given him for a deed of
peculiar daring some years before, Three Scalps—coupled together with
the emigrant train; and then another name met his ear. That of Dusky
Dick.

His suspicious, then, were only too true. This desperate attack was
indeed the work of the Traitor Guide. These savages were under his
orders; then where was he?

But soon other interests riveted his attention upon the savages, once
more. They were debating upon _him_—settling the mode and time of _his
death_.

Despite his hardihood and great bravery, the old guide shuddered as he
caught the words of the chief. To die—and by such a death—was horrible!

“His hands are red with the blood of the Arapahoe—he must _die_! But he
is a great brave—his name is Three Scalps. Do you know how he gained
that name? Listen! Four Arapahoe braves attacked him upon the prairie
and shot his horse: he was alone. They were good braves and skillful
warriors, but they were no match for him. He killed and took the scalps
of three—the other fled, with a bullet through his breast. He gained the
lodges of his people, and told his story; then he died. We called the
white warrior Three Scalps.

“He is a great brave, but he must die. He has fallen into our power at
last—but the death of a man awaits him. He shall die by fire—the wolves
must not pick his bones. Wapashaw has spoken!”

“The chief is wise,” slowly uttered one of the elder braves. “But does
he not forget? What will the white chief say? He bade us capture this
man and keep him so that he might slay him with his own hand.”

“Wapashaw is a chief. Who shall say he does wrong? Not a pale-face, with
blood like water. Is the White Snake greater than a chief of the
Arapahoes? No! He does not dare speak hot words to Wapashaw. He knows
that my arm is strong and my tomahawk sharp. Three Scalps must die—I
have said it!” sternly added the chief, as he turned away.

Where was Dusky Dick? Why did he not put in an appearance, now that one
of his bitterest enemies was helplessly a captive? This fact puzzled Tom
not a little. But then he thought of the imminent peril that threatened
himself.

“Durned consolin’, that is—I guess _not_!” muttered Tom, disgustedly.
“S’pose I’d orter feel proud, but I don’t—not a mite. B’lieve I’d ruther
they’d think I was a pesky coward, ef so be they’d think I wasn’t wuth
sizzlin’. Ugh! it makes the sweat come, jest to think on it! What’ll it
be _then_, though? Oh, Lord!”

He watched the movements of the savages with anxious eyes. Although as
brave as most men, there was something fearful in contemplating this
mode of being sent out of the world.

“Wonder ef it’ll hurt _much_. Bet it will; know it, ’most. Ef
’twouldn’t, I wouldn’t keer so much. Wish to ge-mineezers ’at I’d
stayed in the corral,” grumbled Tom, as he tugged desperately upon his
bonds.

But this effort was in vain. The hide-thongs had been applied by too
careful a hand, for him to slip them from his wrists, and the tough
cords only sunk deeper into the yielding flesh, with each succeeding
effort.

It was quite evident that whatever scruples a few of the elder braves
might have entertained as to the advisability of such a decided course,
were quickly overruled by the stern-willed chief, Wapashaw, and then the
necessary preparations for the feast were speedily under way. A score of
savages dashed away toward the timber belt, with drawn hatchets, and
then came the quick, heavy strokes, telling that wood was being
collected.

Maxwell noted their movements with naturally troubled feelings. He saw
his fate was sealed beyond a doubt, unless he could effect an escape.

But this seemed impossible. Alone, he was helpless as an infant. There
was nothing for it but to watch and wait.

In a short time the savages returned from the timber-belt, bearing huge
back-loads of dried wood, which, at a word from Wapashaw, they carried
over to the hill, near whose top it was heaped. There was a double
meaning in this selection of the spot for the sacrifice.

Of a necessity, there must be a number of braves left around the corral
to guard against another messenger venturing forth, and these would wish
to witness the sport. Did it take place upon the hillside, they could do
so as well as those within the corral.

The hill, too, was beyond reach of rifle-shot, and so the bright light
could not serve to guide an avenging bullet. For these reasons had the
hill been selected by the astute chief of the Arapahoes.

Then the form of the old guide was lifted from the ground by several
brawny warriors, and borne toward the rudely-improvised stake. Tom’s
heart sunk anew, for he hoped to be able to break away from his captors,
during the walk to the hill. But Wapashaw knew too well the nature of
the man he had to deal with, to run any unnecessary risks.

Maxwell uttered a bitter curse of rage as he realized this. But a savage
leer upon the countenance of Wapashaw revealed the delight his chagrin
gave the rascal, and Tom smothered his emotion, until he gave no outward
sign of feeling his position, though his teeth were firmly clenched and
his breath came hard and strong.

In a few minutes the hill was gained, and the old scout was placed with
his back against the firmly-planted stake. Not until a strong lariat was
twined around both his body and the post, were his feet freed from their
bonds, his hands still remaining tied.

“Ugh!” grunted Wapashaw, as he stood ordering the proceeding, addressing
Maxwell. “Three Scalps no ’feared _now_? Holler plenty loud, by-’m-by,
when fire burns. T’ink so?”

“Not much, chief. You’ll only git fooled ef you ’xpect _me_ to holler.
Fire cain’t burn me—_it_ cain’t. I’m proof ag’in’ lead an’ steel, too.
Didn’t know that afore, did ye? Why you mought stan’ thar an’ shoot your
rifle plum ag’in’ my face, an’ the bullit ’d jest bounce back ag’in,
like it hed hit a rock. Your hatchet ’ed break jest like a piece o’ ice,
ef you was to hit me, _hard_. It would _so_!” earnestly responded Tom.
“S’pose you try it an’ see, now, jest fer fun.”

Wapashaw gazed steadily at the old guide for a moment, but then a grim
smile swept athwart his countenance. He divined the motive that actuated
his captive, but was far from willing to gratify him.

“S’pose you t’ink Arapahoe chief he big fool, talk like dat? S’pose
shoot—hit ’um wid tom’hawk, den ’um go _dead, quick_. Den no git burn.
Three Scalps brave, plenty cunning, but so Wapashaw. No git fooled _dis_
time,” and the chief chuckled sardonically.

“Ah, _git_ out! Think ye’re _some_, don’t ye? Durned smart, you be—whar
the hide’s rubbed off. Fool nothin’—cain’t spile a rotten aigg, you
durned gumphead, you,” retorted Tom, with an angry glare in his eyes.

He had indeed strove to induce the chief to end all at one blow, by his
boasting, for he had racked his brain in vain to devise some other mode
of escaping the horrible death. Feeling assured that his time to die was
at hand, he wished it over at once.

Though Maxwell spoke boldly enough, there was a dull, heavy sinking at
his heart, as he noted the preparations for his torture. He knew that
mortal man could never endure that fearful trial, without giving
utterance to his agony.

He knew that death would come, but it would be lingering; before
oblivion, he must suffer ten thousand deaths. That is what he desired to
escape.

The dried fagots were piled around at a few yards’ distance from the
stake, so that death should not too quickly claim its victim. Time must
be given them to do ample honor to the great bravery and prowess that
Three Scalps had so frequently displayed, greatly to their harm.

Tom could look down upon the corral, though it was but faintly outlined
in the dim light, for the moon had sunk low down, and daybreak was close
at hand. He knew that his comrades must be cognizant of his capture,
whether they also knew of his threatened doom or no.

But he could expect no assistance from them. They would have enough to
do in guarding themselves, and the dear, helpless ones depending upon
their strong arms for safety.

Then Wapashaw took a torch that had been hastily kindled by one of the
warriors, and holding it to the dry kindlings, the pile of fagots was
soon in a blaze, shooting up from a dozen different points. And around
the funeral pyre danced the yelling and screeching red-skins, apparently
half frantic with demoniac joy.




                               CHAPTER X.
                           THE WINDING TRAIL.


At this wild cry from Captain Travers, Delaware Tom abandoned the horses
they had secured after so much trouble and danger, and darted up the
hill-side toward the spot where such a startling discovery had been made
by the soldier. It did not seem possible, and the Indian evidently
believed that Travers had made some mistake in the spot.

But then he also saw that Clara was gone from the place where she had
been left but a few short minutes before. Gone—where? Why had she fled?
Or had some enemy spirited her away?

These were the questions that poured from the lips of the soldier, as
his comrade gained his side. For a time Tom made no reply, and bent low
down over the ground, as if trying to read the truth by some sign left
there.

“She gone—dat all we know now,” grunted the Delaware, as he rose erect.
“Don’t know how—mebbe tell bumbye, when light comes ’g’in.”

“Do you think that any one has carried her off, Tom?” asked Travers,
agitatedly.

“Mebbe so—mebbe not so. Don’t know not’ing, me say. Too much dark—can’t
see. She gone, dat all me kin tell now,” persisted the Delaware,
doggedly.

Travers glanced anxiously up at the heavens. The moon had rolled on,
until the cliff above their heads shut off the light from the hill-side.

All there was dim and indistinct; light enough to distinguish forms, but
not sufficiently so to trace out a trail, especially when left upon the
rocky ground by so light a foot as that of the missing maiden. As Tom
had said, the truth could not be learned until the day had dawned.

Fortunately, this period was not far distant. A couple of hours, at
most, and the sun would make its appearance.

But in that length of time, what might not happen? If the maiden was in
the hands of an enemy, she would be conveyed far beyond their reach
before they could strike the trail.

And then there was danger to themselves, too, as well. The messenger who
had been dispatched for help, hours before, by the Arapahoes, might
return at any moment, bringing a force that they could not hope to cope
with successfully. Or the two savages who had fled the massacre of their
comrades might chance upon friends, and gathering courage from that
fact, return to avenge the slaughter of their brethren.

All these thoughts agitated the minds of the two men, as they stood
gazing gloomily upon each other. That they were puzzled was plain;
equally plain was it that not for even a moment did either think of
abandoning to her fate the maiden who had so strangely been thrown upon
their protection, and for whom they had already dared so much.

“What must we do now, Tom?” muttered Travers, speaking mechanically; not
that he hoped to gain any thing by the reply.

“Do not’ing now—bumbye do _somefin_. When light come ag’in, we take
trail—foller up till fin’ squaw.”

“But do you think we can?”

“Know so—almost. Got eye plenty sharp, Tom. Foller trail in water, ef
try _hard_. Me foller trail—Cap’n ride hoss. Den we git her—go back
camp—laugh like de debble, ’cause skeered when squaw git lost.”

“But she may have been carried off?” suggested the soldier, taking the
gloomy side of the question as the true one.

“No—don’t t’ink _dat_. Injun grab her, squaw holler _so_ loud—squeal all
some like pant’er. Den we hear, sure. No holler loud—den Injun no take.
She git skeered, mebbe, ’cause ’um kill Arapahoe. Don’t know much when
skeered. No see straight—t’ink mebbe a _frien’_ git kill—not bad Injun.
Den ’fraid dey git her, too, so run ’way off, plenty fast. Me t’ink
_dat_,” succinctly stated Tom, with the argumentative air of a lawyer
summing up his case.

“Do you think so?” eagerly cried Travers. “Then she may be hidden
somewhere near here. Surely she could not run far, she was so weak from
her fall. If you call, she may hear and answer.”

“You holler, if you like. Me go git horses ’g’in. Don’t like much walk,
when kin ride. Plenty better, _dat_,” grinned the Delaware, who begun
descending the hillside toward the captured animals, who had stood still
on being left.

Travers acted upon this supposition, making the hills echo with the
sound of his voice calling aloud the maiden’s name as clearly as
possible. But there came back no answering call.

If the Delaware’s supposition as to Clara’s voluntary flight was true,
then she must have run to a great distance, or she could not have failed
hearing the cries. At length the soldier ceased in despair. There was
nothing for it but to await the coming day before proceeding further.

Tom secured the horses to a bush, and then taking a philosophical view
of the matter, comfortably seated himself in a mossy nook, lighting his
pipe and smoking with the gusto of an epicure. But Travers could not
content himself thus.

Though he had known the maiden but a few brief hours, as time is usually
computed, that seemed most like a year of ordinary time, so full of
adventure had it been. The bright eyes and sweet face of Clara Calhoun,
had made a vivid impression upon his heart, and he felt this suspense
very keenly.

No doubt he would have laughed to scorn the idea of his being in love
with her, had it suggested itself, but truly, the feeling he now
experienced was not unlike the first dawning of that subtle sentiment
called _love_. Honestly, the gallant captain was in greater danger then,
than he had ever been before in the whole course of his eventful life,
had he but known it.

Travers, in his anxiety to be doing something, scaled the hill and kept
a close look out, to guard against being taken by surprise, in case the
Arapahoe’s messenger should return. But Tom sunk into a peaceful doze
beside his rock, no doubt living over again in his dreams the glorious
sport he had so lately had, in outwitting and putting to rout his foes,
the Arapahoes.

But all things must have an end, and that eventful night was no
exception to the general rule. With the first golden rays of the rising
sun gilding the eastern hill-tops, Travers descended to where Delaware
Tom was awaiting his coming.

Their preparations for the coming campaign were necessarily very brief.
A long draught from the creek, constituted all their breakfast for the
nonce, as the last bit of food had passed their lips on the preceding
night.

Then while the soldier secured the horses for marching, Tom quartered
the ground adjoining the covert, where still lay the slaughtered
Kisch-kouch, searching for the trail of the missing maiden. In a few
minutes his glad cry echoed forth, and Travers knew that the quest had
been successful.

As he hastened to the spot, his eyes, though keen, were at fault, though
Tom declared the trail was remarkably plain—that Clara had passed over
the ground at a rapid pace, though _alone_. A joyous cry burst from the
captain’s lips at this welcome announcement, for now he did not doubt of
being successful in finding the girl in a very short time.

It also confirmed the supposition of the Delaware, that she had taken
affright at the wild tumult attending the surprise, and perhaps had
fancied her friends were being overpowered. But now Tom stood upon his
dignity as chief trailer, and motioned Travers back, to act as
rear-guard.

The trail led down the hillside for some little distance, then crossed
the ridge and descended into the level prairie beyond. Now even Travers
could easily note the dainty footprints upon the dew-dampened ground.

He also saw with pleasure, that its course was one heading almost
directly toward the camping-ground of his own train, so that they were
in reality losing but very little time. This he rejoiced in, for he knew
that his men would be uneasy at his long absence, as they had not
intended stopping out over night.

For several miles the trail continued, not in a direct line, but zig-zag
hither and yon, as if the girl had become confused and wandered
aimlessly in a roundabout manner. And while Tom traced this out, step by
step, Travers, seated upon a horse, gazed keenly around in every
direction, hoping to thus gain sight of the wanderer, sooner than
otherwise.

And his search proved successful, for, just as Tom uttered a cry of
surprise, Travers caught sight of a human form, upon the swell of a
hill, perhaps a mile away. Then the figure abruptly disappeared from
view.

“Ugh! look dere!” muttered Tom, as he came to an abrupt stop.

Travers followed the direction indicated by the outstretched finger. The
trail they were following suddenly became _a double one_!




                              CHAPTER XI.
                               REUNITED.


It was well-nigh daydawn, and Buenos Ayres trudged wearily on, foot-sore
and almost exhausted by his severe toil. His mind was filled with doubt
and fear.

He believed that he had more than covered the distance mentioned by Tom
Maxwell, as intervening between the corral and the Main Trail, but yet
he had not observed any trace of it. Could it be possible that he had
crossed the Trail, unknowingly? He feared greatly that he had done so.

“It will not do to turn back on an uncertainty,” he muttered, as he
paused to glance around him once more. “And yet, a mistake, now, would
be awful! If I only knew the country better!”

But then once more he pressed on, keeping as direct a course as lay in
his power. And as he gained the next ridge he again paused, hoping from
its summit to discover the desired landmark.

But if he did not see what he sought, another object met his gaze. One
that caused his heart to leap to his very throat, while his brain grew
dizzy with a wild, delirious hope.

Upon a crest to his left, Ayres beheld a human form, that, in the grim,
gray light, was indistinct and phantom-like. But still he believed that
he could discern the flowing drapery of a woman!

Ayres had learned a lesson by that night’s events, and still uncertain
that the distant figure was not that of an enemy, he sunk down into the
tall grass, and then peered keenly toward the spot where the vision had
appeared. And, as he awaited, he saw that it was approaching, and was
indeed a woman.

How his heart leaped, then! A woman—might it not be his lost love, who
had so strangely disappeared from their midst?

And yet, how could it be? Clara had ridden away on her horse; this woman
was on foot, many miles from the spot where he had last seen his friend.

Though the coming sun gilded the eastern horizon, the swale in which the
woman now was, still gloomy, and only with the greatest difficulty could
Ayres discern her shape at all. But then she began ascending the hill,
almost directly toward him.

Trembling in every fiber of his being, the young man awaited the result,
fearful lest his new-born hope should be dashed to the ground, after
all. It did not seem possible that this could be Clara.

But then a glad cry—a cry so full of joy and heartfelt exultation—broke
from his lips. The light fell full upon the features of her who
approached, and Ayres knew that he beheld his lost love, Clara Calhoun!

She evidently heard the cry, for she paused and half-turned as if to
flee. Then he sprung up, calling aloud her name, as he darted toward her
trembling figure.

She stood as if petrified, then, with a glad cry, sunk to the ground,
laughing and weeping at the same time. Her overtasked powers now seemed
to give way before this unexpected happiness, and she sunk into a
deathlike swoon, as her lover clasped her to his broad breast, covering
her pale and haggard face with passionate kisses.

For a moment Buenos acted like one demented, but then as he found she
did not return his caresses, a great fear assailed him; he feared she
was dead. And indeed, her looks favored this supposition.

So pale and ghastly, lying against his heart like one utterly devoid of
life. But this great sorrow was spared the young man.

Soon, beneath the fervid pressure of his lips, the color and warmth came
back to her face, and then her eyes opened. The wild, hunted look
quickly disappeared from them, and with a low, glad cry her arms wound
around his neck.

“Thank God! you have found me, Buenos!” she murmured, faintly.

“But where have you been, darling? Why did you leave us so strangely?”

Whereupon Clara briefly detailed her adventures of the past night,
adding:

“I saw them all together, shouting and screaming, shooting at each
other, and it frightened me terribly. What could these two men, though
so brave, do against six great Indians? I believed they must both be
killed, and then as I thought of how the savages would hunt for and find
me, it seemed as though I would go crazy! I would rather die than fall
into their hands, and yet I knew that they would capture me if I should
stay there until it was all over.

“So I turned and fled, not knowing whither I went, but only thinking to
escape from these dreadful savages. I ran on until I fell from weakness,
but then, as I fancied I could hear them coming after me, I arose and
kept on, only knowing that I was running away from _them_. I did not
know where I was, nor whither I was going, and I believe that I must
have died had not you found me, dear Buenos,” she added, with a
hysterical sob.

“Poor Clara—how you must have suffered!” murmured Ayres, pressing his
lips to her brow.

“Indeed I have—more than words can tell. But I knew you would come for
me—I felt sure you would not leave me to die here all alone. Poor
father—how he must have suffered from my thoughtlessness!”

“My God! I forgot—and here I have lost over an hour!” exclaimed Buenos,
springing to his feet in dismay at his remissness.

“What—what is it, Buenos?” inquired Clara, in vague alarm.

“The train—I was sent for help. The Indians, under Dusky Dick, attacked
it last night, and I fear my thoughtlessness will be their ruin,”
agitatedly added Ayres.

“_He_ was with those after me,” shuddered Clara. “But help—where can you
find it here? We are alone—God only knows where!”

“There was a government train close behind us, when we left the Main
Trail, and I was searching for them, but—”

“He belonged to one—Captain Travers, I mean. It can not be far away from
here. Ah, if we can only find it!” hastily cried Clara.

“Do you know in what direction? Did you hear him say where it was?”

“No—or if I did, I forgot. I was so badly frightened, you know.”

“We must find it—I must. But you—my poor darling—you are too tired to
walk so far and fast.”

“No—I am strong now, since _you_ have come. I can walk, oh, so far;
never fear. Besides, it is for father—and our friends. And I could not
stay here—I should die of fear. _They_ would catch me, I know!”

“Well, we must try it. Remember that your father’s life may depend upon
your own, Clara, and bear up if you can. It will be hard—I wish I could
spare you—but there is no help for it.”

The sun was now quite high above the hills, for young Ayres had lost a
good hour by listening to Clara’s story, and now they pressed on at a
fair pace, though ignorant whether they were pursuing the right course
or were going widely astray.

But they were destined to meet with another interruption, right
speedily. They had just gained the next ridge when Clara suddenly
uttered a little cry of affright.

“Ah! Buenos—look there—the Indians! My God! we are lost!” she gasped,
as, with outstretched hand, she guided the gaze of her companion toward
the ridge they had just left but a few moments before.

One quick glance satisfied Buenos of the correctness of her fears. He
saw a little group of horsemen, that he believed were mounted Indians.

“Quick! stoop down Clara! They have not seen us yet, and if we hide they
may pass by without noticing our trail. Follow me—quick!” Ayres hissed,
as, crouching low down, he half-led, half-dragged his companion down the
hill-side, making toward a small clump of timber growing in the bottom
of the vale.

Toward this they ran at full speed, and had barely gained its shelter
when the horsemen reached the ridge they had just left. A wild cry came
to the ears of the fugitives, and then they saw the horsemen dash
furiously toward their refuge.

“Keep behind me, Clara,” muttered Ayres, as he closely examined the
condition of his revolver. “They will not find us tame victims. They
must pay a price for our lives.”

“There are only two—perhaps they are—”

“See the other horses—four of them? They must have riders, who are
hiding behind their bodies. Look, they stop! I’ll—”

“No—no; don’t shoot, Buenos,” cried Clara, as she seized the
already-leveled revolver. “See, they are friends—Captain Travers and the
Delaware, who saved me from the Indians!”

“Are you sure, Clara?” doubtfully replied Ayres; but then a cry from one
of the men settled this doubt, most agreeably.

“Miss Calhoun, you know us; we are friends. Who is that with you? If an
enemy, we will rescue you from him.”

Clara and Buenos stepped forth from the cover, and then there ensued a
warm greeting between the quartette, for even the Delaware appeared
overjoyed at beholding the pale-faced squaw, once more.

“Buenos, tell this gentleman—I know he will help us,” eagerly uttered
Clara, thinking first of her father’s peril.

In a few brief words Ayres stated the position of affairs at the
emigrant train, as he had left it, and implored assistance. The captain,
though experiencing a momentary sensation something akin to jealousy, at
seeing how confidingly Clara clung to the young man—was greatly excited,
and promptly offered his aid in the matter.

“Certainly I will. My old commander in danger! Good Lord! how strange!
Quick—help the lady to mount; there’s plenty of horses, fortunately. The
camp is only about two miles away, now. We’ll get there almost before
you know it; and then for these red-skinned devils. No offense, I hope,
Delaware?”

“No—me all white man, now. Cuss Injins all want, plenty bad, you
like—all but Delaware,” grunted Tom.

Buenos quickly lifted Clara upon one of the horses, and then, following
suit, the quartette were speedily dashing over the prairie, under the
guidance of Delaware Tom, with the two extra horses following closely in
their wake.

The spirits of the two lovers rose with every long leap of their
mettlesome horses, though Buenos Ayres could not repress certain
misgivings as he thought on the length of time that had transpired since
he left the emigrant party. Could they have held out through the long,
fearful night?

He feared they could not have done so; something seemed to tell him that
the rescuing party would arrive only in time to bestow upon his late
comrades a Christian burial. And beneath his breath he swore a deep and
fearful vengeance, should such indeed be the case.

They had ridden but a short distance, when Delaware Tom uttered a low
whoop, and pointed before them, though he did not slacken his pace. Thus
directed, the eyes of all noted the presence of a small body of
horsemen, just rising the second ridge from them, who had evidently
caught sight of the quartette, at the same time, for they suddenly drew
rein.

“Don’t stop—they’re friends,” cried Travers. “I can tell my boys as far
as eye can reach. They’re out after me, I don’t doubt; we stayed so much
longer than expected.”

At about the same time, the soldiers evidently made the same discovery,
for they gave their horses free rein and dashed forward, with loud
cheers. A smile rested upon the captain’s lips, at this. One could
easily see that he was a beloved leader, and proud of his boys in blue.

“Well Morris,” he said, as the leader of the dozen men saluted, “glad to
see you. How’s all at the camp?”

“All well, sir, but very anxious because you stayed out so long. I made
bold to take a few of the boys and ride out to see if we could be of any
use,” respectfully replied the sergeant, curiously eying the horses and
the two extra riders.

“There’s work cut out for you, and hot work, too, if I mistake not. But
I know that _that_ is no drawback,” laughed Travers, as the party again
broke into a rapid gallop.

“Indeed it ain’t, cap’n. Injuns—if I may ask?”

“Yes. They’ve attacked the train this lady and gentleman belong to—the
one that passed us at Dutchman’s.”

In a few minutes more the party had reached the camping-ground of the
government train, where now was all excitement, for the news quickly
spread, and was greeted with loud, hearty cheers, for ’twas not every
day that the boys got a pleasure ride, and a brush with the Indians to
wind up with. The only fear they had, was that, as some must remain
behind to guard the train, they might be the unlucky ones.

“Boys,” said Travers, riding out a little from the rest, “how many of
you wish to take a skurry after the Indians this morning?”

With loud cheers, every man, soldiers, teamsters and all, flocked
forward, each striving to be foremost. A glad smile played around their
leader’s lips.

“Good! though it’s only what I expected from you. But you can’t all go.
Sergeant Morris?”

“Here, sir.”

“Pick out thirty men, and see that they’re ready in ten minutes. Never
mind rations; take only arms and plenty of ammunition.”

“Yes, sir. Half the time’ll do.”

“Now, Miss Calhoun, if you will come with us, I will see you more
comfortably placed than on that horse. The sutler’s family is with us,
and will see that you have all that you require.”

“Thank you, captain, but it is needless; I am going to my father, with
the rest of you,” firmly replied the maiden.

“But think—how we must ride, to do any good, and then there will
probably be hard fighting at the end of it,” he urged, perplexedly.

“I have thought. Father is in trouble—perhaps dead or badly wounded, and
I not there! I _must_ go!”

“Clara,” said Buenos, riding to her side, “listen to me. You are nearly
sick now, with what you have passed through. Such a trial as this will
be, would prove your death. You would die before you got half-way. You
must stay here—for _my_ sake, if not your own.”

“No—I will go!”

“Clara, you _must_ not. Don’t oblige me to use compulsion, but I know
that you could never stand the ride. You must stay. I will either come
or send you word, as soon as it is all over.”

With a hysterical sob, the maiden gave way, and allowed the captain to
lead her to the wagon set apart for the family of the sutler. Leaving
her in charge of the worthy wife, he hastened back to the men, who were
now in readiness.

From the description of the spot, as given by Ayres, Delaware Tom
declared that he knew it well, and could guide the party directly there,
as the crow flies. And then they set off upon their mission, at a pace
that satisfied even Ayres, urgent as was his haste.

“Keep up, boys,” shouted Travers. “We’re riding for life or death, now,
and if your horses can’t stand the pace, follow on the best you can. You
may be in at the death, anyhow.”

They numbered some thirty-five, all told, and not one felt a doubt as to
how the affair would turn out, _provided_ the emigrants were still
holding out, when they arrived. But Buenos had grave fears upon this
point.

And still on they thundered, no longer in a compact body, but strung out
at short intervals, as the better or more speedy horses took the front.
At their head rode Ayres, Travers, and Delaware Tom, the former mounted
upon one of the captured mustangs; a noble brute.

On until the head grew dizzy with the swift motion; until the foam
dropped from the horses’ lips and flecked their counters; until their
glossy coats were darkened with sweat, together with the dust cast up by
the trampling hoofs.

It was a wild, fearful ride, and the brains of the men seemed
intoxicated, so wildly did they whirl. Even their horses seemed to catch
the infection, for they thundered on as if mad, snorting and fretting,
with eyeballs wildly staring, fiery and bloodshot.

Then Delaware Tom abruptly jerked his horse up, casting him upon his
haunches. A motion of his hand checked the others.

Soaring to their ears, borne upon the light air, came the
confusedly-mingled sounds of rifle-shots, shrill yells and hoarse
shouts, from beyond the swell of the prairie. The cause was but too
evident.

The savages were desperately attacking the emigrant train. Then all was
not yet over—they might still be in time!

“Wait until all come up—then one steady charge, and they’re ours!”
whispered Travers to the impetuous Ayres.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                              DOG EAT DOG.


The old guide, Tom Maxwell, gave himself up for lost. The fire blazed up
brightly—the smoke blinded his eyes—the heat began to scorch his
garments. His fate seemed indubitably sealed.

But such was not to be, just then. A sudden interruption came, from an
utterly unlooked-for source.

The quick clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard upon the shingle that
covered the base of the hill, and then a foam-flecked steed dashed up
beside the blazing fire. With a hoarse cry, its rider sprung to the
ground, and dashed through the group of startled savages, hurling them
rudely aside to clear a passage.

Ere a hand could be raised to check him, the blazing fagots were kicked
aside and the daring man stood close to Maxwell. One cut of the gleaming
knife severed the rope that bound him to the stake.

But then, with a howl, the Arapahoe chief, Wapashaw, sprung forward, and
hurled the man to the ground, ten feet away.

All this passed so quickly that Maxwell was still blinking to clear his
eyes of smoke, unconscious that his bonds had been partially cut, as his
hands were still bound behind his back.

The man sprung to his feet with a cry of defiance. And then the features
of Dusky Dick were revealed. Maxwell stared at him in open-mouthed
wonder.

“How dare you do this, chief?” uttered the White Snake, in a voice low
and even; but oh! what deadly ire that tone contained! “You know our
agreement—this brave was to be given me, unharmed.”

“Dare! Wapashaw is an Arapahoe chief. What is there he can not dare? Who
shall speak hot words in his ear? Not the pale-faced coward—not the
White Snake!”

“You should know whether I am a coward or not by this time, chief. If
you say I am, _I_ say you _lie_. This brave is _my_ property—who dares
do him harm until I speak the word?”

“_I_, Wapashaw, the Arapahoe! _I_ dare harm him! See! I defy you—I kill
him before your very eyes!” yelled the savage, now thoroughly angered,
as he drew his tomahawk and sprung toward the motionless form of the
scout.

But like a meteor, the form of Dusky Dick glided forward, and then his
small fist alighted with crushing force full between the eyes of the
savage Hercules, hurling him to the ground like a shot. Instantly all
was the greatest confusion.

Several braves sprung toward the renegade, with flashing weapons, but he
met them boldly, with drawn revolvers. Twice did there come a sharp
report—twice did the death-yell soar upward above the frightful din.

But then Wapashaw arose, and with a gesture motioned his braves back.
With a gesture that Dusky Dick well understood, and was not slow to
accept, he advanced to the wild duel.

Casting his pistols aside, the renegade met his foe with equal weapons.
Knife slashed against knife, and the strife began that could end only in
death.

As Wapashaw sprung upon him, Maxwell had naturally shrunk aside, and to
his surprise he found that he was free, save his hands. That was the
first knowledge he had of the timely act of Dusky Dick.

Then as the wild strife began, he made a desperate effort to burst the
cords that held his hands. Straining until he thought all was in vain,
the thongs suddenly parted with a sharp twang.

Unnoticed in the confusion, he darted toward the crest of the hill, that
he knew overlooked the river. Down for nearly a hundred feet, this
abruptly fell.

It was truly a fearful leap, but the only chance for safety. All other
routes were cut off by the enemy.

Hesitating not a moment, Tom sprung boldly out over the dizzy hight,
and, shooting down like a stone, entered the water with a sullen thud.

In another moment he was swimming rapidly down the stream, unharmed by
the frightful descent, toward the corral, unnoticed by all save those
within the barricade. And this he gained in safety, where he was warmly
greeted by his comrades, who had long since given him up as lost, beyond
a doubt.

Under less favorable circumstances, this feat would have been impossible
to execute successfully. But the attention of all upon the hill was
riveted upon the savage struggle between their two leaders, Dusky Dick
and Wapashaw, and they did not give one thought to their captive,
supposing him to be firmly bound to the stake.

Then those who were left on guard over the wagon-train, had been
confused by the sudden extinguishing of the fire, and the wild uproar
that followed. Fearing their comrades had been surprised by some foe,
they one and all dashed at full speed toward the spot, either not
observing the leap of Tom Maxwell, or else, in the dim light, believed
it to be one of the combatants.

Thus it was the old guide performed the seemingly impossible feat
without interruption.

In a short time the duel ended, but, from the corral, it could not be
seen which had been the victor, and then the disappearance of the
captive was first noticed. The confusion was then really appalling.

Search was immediately made through the hills, the Indians believing
that he had fled in that direction, as none of them coming from the
plains had met him.

This search continued for a long time, when, after they had abandoned it
as useless, one brave noticed the dirt displaced by the scout’s feet in
springing over the precipice. That told the tale, and, fairly wild with
anger, the Indians rushed down and attacked the corral, fighting with a
desperate fury worthy a better cause.

But they were as bravely met. Rifle-shots answered arrow-flights, until
the strife became hand-to-hand. Over the barricades swarmed the painted
demons, until the interior was filled with a confused mass of writhing,
struggling humanity, battling furiously, desperately.

But then came a glad sound to the ears of the overpowered whites—the
loud, hearty cheer, emanating from unmistakably white men’s throats.
Then the thundering of many hoofs—the sharp cracking of carbines and
revolvers.

Fully as well did the Arapahoes recognize those shouts; they had heard
similar ones before, and they knew too well the prowess of the boys in
blue, to stand and wait their close acquaintance.

There uprose the cry of retreat—and, like one man, the red-skins tore
themselves free from their antagonists, and fled, on foot, on horseback,
as fate favored them.

And among them the soldiers raged furiously, led by Travers, Ayres and
Delaware Tom. The latter fairly outdid himself, and returned with girdle
literally crowded with scalps.

There is but little more to add.

That was a glad meeting between Buenos and Calhoun, especially when the
young man announced the safety of Clara. He was truly the lion of the
hour, but he bore his honors with becoming meekness.

Then when the stragglers had all come in, the dead whites were collected
and afforded a Christian burial. It was a melancholy sight, and not one
dry eye—unless it might be those of Delaware Tom, who was not remarkable
for his sensitiveness—was there in the encampment.

Taught a sad lesson by the recent events, Calhoun decided to return to
the Main Trail and remain under the protection of his fellow-soldier’s
command until the rest of the road was passed, and the two enjoyed many
an hour, over their recollections.

Well, the train got safely to its destination, without any more serious
accidents, and, in due time, Clara Calhoun was made Mrs. Buenos Ayres;
and Tom Maxwell was at the wedding, and danced with “pritty.”

Dusky Dick was supposed to have been killed during his duel with
Wapashaw, for he was never heard of afterward.

And thus we leave them.


                                THE END.




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  5—Nat Wolfe. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
  6—The White Tracker. By Edward S. Ellis.
  7—The Outlaw’s Wife. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
  8—The Tall Trapper. By Albert W. Aiken.
  9—Lightning Jo. By Capt. Adams.
  10—The Island Pirate. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
  11—The Boy Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
  12—Bess, the Trapper. By E. S. Ellis.
  13—The French Spy. By W. J. Hamilton.
  14—Long Shot. By Capt. Comstock.
  15—The Gunmaker. By James L. Bowen.
  16—Red Hand. By A. G. Piper.
  17—Ben, the Trapper. By Lewis W. Carson.
  18—Wild Raven. By Oll Coomes.
  19—The Specter Chief. By Seelin Robins.
  20—The B’ar-Killer. By Capt. Comstock.
  21—Wild Nat. By Wm. R. Eyster.
  22—Indian Jo. By Lewis W. Carson.
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  24—The One-Eyed Trapper. By Capt. Comstock.
  25—Godbold, the Spy. By N. C. Iron.
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  30—Eagle Eye. By W. J. Hamilton.
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  36—The Boy Pioneer. By Edward S. Ellis.
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  39—Wetzel, the Scout. By Boynton Belknap.
  40—The Huge Hunter. By Ed. S. Ellis.
  41—Wild Nat, the Trapper. By Paul Prescott.
  42—Lynx-cap. By Paul Bibbs.
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  44—The Dog Trailer. By Frederick Dewey.
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  62—The Luckless Trapper. By Wm. R. Eyster.
  63—The Florida Scout. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  64—The Island Trapper. By Chas. Howard.
  65—Wolf-Cap. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  66—Rattling Dick. By Harry Hazard.
  67—Sharp-Eye. By Major Max Martine.
  68—Iron-Hand. By Frederick Forest.
  69—The Yellow Hunter. By Chas. Howard.
  70—The Phantom Rider. By Maro O. Rolfe.
  71—Delaware Tom. By Harry Hazard.
  72—Silver Rifle. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  73—The Skeleton Scout. By Maj. L. W. Carson.
  74—Little Rifle. By Capt. “Bruin” Adams.
  75—The Wood Witch. By Edwin Emerson.
  76—Old Ruff, the Trapper. By “Bruin” Adams.
  77—The Scarlet Shoulders. By Harry Hazard.
  78—The Border Rifleman. By L. W. Carson.
  79—Outlaw Jack. By Harry Hazard.
  80—Tiger-Tail, the Seminole. By R. Ringwood.
  81—Death-Dealer. By Arthur L. Meserve.
  82—Kenton, the Ranger. By Chas. Howard.
  83—The Specter Horseman. By Frank Dewey.
  84—The Three Trappers. By Seelin Robbins.
  85—Kaleolah. By T. Benton Shields, U.S.N.
  86—The Hunter Hercules. By Harry St. George.
  87—Phil Hunter. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  88—The Indian Scout. By Harry Hazard.
  89—The Girl Avenger. By Chas. Howard.
  90—The Red Hermitess. By Paul Bibbs.
  91—Star-Face, the Slayer.
  92—The Antelope Boy. By Geo. L. Aiken.
  93—The Phantom Hunter. By E. Emerson.
  94—Tom Pintle, the Pilot. By M. Klapp.
  95—The Red Wizard. By Ned Hunter.
  96—The Rival Trappers. By L. W. Carson.
  97—The Squaw Spy. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  98—Dusky Dick. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  99—Colonel Crockett. By Chas. E. Lasalle.
  100—Old Bear Paw. By Major Max Martine.
  101—Redlaw. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  102—Wild Rube. By W. J. Hamilton.
  103—The Indian Hunters. By J. L. Bowen.
  104—Scarred Eagle. By Andrew Dearborn.
  105—Nick Doyle. By P. Hamilton Myers.
  106—The Indian Spy. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  107—Job Dean. By Ingoldsby North.
  108—The Wood King. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  109—The Scalped Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
  110—Nick, the Scout. By W. J. Hamilton.
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  117—Abdiel, the Avenger. By Ed. Willett.
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  129—The Child Spy. By George Gleason.
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                          Transcriber’s Notes


—Silently corrected a few typos.

—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
  is public-domain in the country of publication.

—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
  _underscores_.

—Created a Table of Contents based on the chapter headings.