The Pike's Peak Rush Part 14

The buffalo before and on either side grazed peacefully; but about three o'clock that afternoon a commotion was evident behind. The buffalo were scampering, and afar on the trail appeared a little cloud of dust.

"Can't be another stage already, can it?" questioned Harry.

"Injuns!" exclaimed Terry. "But they wouldn't be raising dust, would they? Or maybe they're chasing a stage!"

Harry paled slightly.

"We'll soon see. But they won't get this outfit without a heap of trouble. We're going through to the diggin's."

However, it wasn't a stage. It was a light open wagon, drawn by two horses at a furious pace. Anybody might have thought that the horses were running away, except for the fact that a man on the seat was using the whip.

"Great snakes!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Harry. "We'll have to clear the track. Gee, Duke! Jenny! Gee! Gee-up! Whoa-oa!"

He turned out just in time. The on-comers were in a tearing hurry. The horses, red-nostriled, staring-eyed, lathered and dust-caked, looked like chariot racers in full career--two men were on the seat, one driving, the other plying the whip, and both constantly gazing backward.

They wore visored caps and belted blouses and knee trousers--revolvers, knives, field-gla.s.ses; up and down in the wagon jolted a ma.s.s of camp stuff, and guns, and provisions. This much Terry saw during the last minute in which the equipage arrived, dashed half-way past, and there was pulled short with a suddenness which set the two horses on their haunches.

"Injuns!" cried the two men, over their shoulders. "Cut loose for your lives!"

One was a blond, pinky-skinned man, the other was not so fair; but the faces of both were faded to a dead, dusty white by fear. Their eyes were curiously poppy.

"Where? How many?" demanded Harry and Terry, in the same breath.

"Chasing us! Five hundred of 'em! Raiding the stage line! Plundering the stations! Killing the emigrants! Burning the settlements! Cut loose!

Ride for your lives!" answered the two men, in a sort of duet.

"Five hundred are quite a parcel to be chasing two men," drawled Harry.

"Where'll we ride to, and how?" Mighty cool Harry was, in the midst of alarm, thought Terry. "All right," continued Harry, briskly. "One of us'll get on this mule and you can take the other in your wagon and----"

"No, no! No room!" they protested. "We've a load. We can't wait. Cut loose. You'll catch us. Ride for your lives. How far to the next station?"

"'Bout ten miles," drawled Harry.

"Gid-dap!" Down swished the lash, forward sprang the horses. "There they come!" yelled both men. "We're all dead----" and away they tore again, leaning forward on the seat, shaking the lines and plying the whip, and constantly looking back up the trail.

"Jiminy!" gasped Terry. "They said five hundred. What are we to do? We can't fight off as many as that. You--you can have Jenny," and he choked. "I'll ride Duke. Hurry!"

But Harry appeared to be in no especial hurry. He scratched his long nose reflectively, and surveyed the trail behind.

"Don't see 'em, do you?" he invited. "'Five hundred of them'--'raiding the stage line'--'plundering the stations'--'killing the emigrants'--'burning the settlements'!" He was mimicking the two fugitives. "Five hundred fiddlesticks! That's too many Indians at one time. Besides, there aren't any settlements 'round here to burn, except at the mountains, and those two lunatics haven't been to the mountains yet. And if we 'cut loose' and 'rode for our lives,' where'd we ride to?

Might better save our strength and dig a hole."

"Don't you believe them, then?"

"No. You can't believe cowards. I don't blame them any for running away from five hundred Indians, but it was right mean to run away from _us_.

So I sized up that a husky outfit who'd leave a lame man and a boy to escape on a mule and a buffalo while they went ahead with a good team and wagon couldn't be depended on in talk or action either. Why, they had guns enough there to fight a week! Guess they were on a hunting trip across, and are nervous. G'lang, Duke! Jenny! Let's keep going."

"There are Indians coming, just the same," presently informed Terry, who could not help but peep behind.

"Two--three--five," p.r.o.nounced Harry. "They're the five hundred whittled down to fact. We needn't pay any attention to the four hundred and ninety-five others yet. You watch Jenny, and Shep and I'll watch these fellows."

The Indians, five of them, were rapidly approaching at a lope, down the stage trail. When they were within two hundred yards Harry, uttering a sudden "Whoa!" fell back to the rear of the wagon and, grabbing the shot-gun, faced about, and raised his hand as sign for them to stay their distance. They slackened in a jiffy, but one rode ahead, to talk.

They were armed with bows and lances; half clothed in blankets and moccasins; appeared very dirty but seemed good-natured. The old fellow who rode ahead was a stout, grinning Indian--chief, evidently, by the feather in his greasy hair.

"How?" he grunted, from his ambling spotted pony. "No shoot. 'Rapaho. No hurt um white man. Chase um. Heap fun. See wagon men? Heap fun."

"Keep back," warned Harry, over the barrel of the shot-gun. "No fun here. We don't run."

"There's Thunder Horse, Harry!" hissed Terry, who, guarding the team, had an eye also upon the Indians.

The stout spokesman on the spotted pony was really quite good-looking; three of the others were not much worse; but the fifth in the squad was entirely different--his hair was cut short on the one side and left long on the other, instead of being in two braids, and his naturally ugly face was pitted with small-pox scars. His blanket was the dirtiest of all the blankets, his features the greasiest, his mouth the coa.r.s.est; and now as he also tried to smile, his blood-shot eyes glared fiercely.

Thunder Horse, the Kiowa, he was, again: the outlaw Indian whom Terry had first encountered among the Delawares on the emigrant trail into Kansas, a year ago, and who had been an enemy ever since. He was a drunken rascal, was Thunder Horse; nothing seemed too mean for him to try. He even had stolen George and Virgie Stanton; but Terry had helped them to get away.

Terry recognized Thunder Horse--and Thunder Horse evidently had recognized Terry, and Shep, too. Terry had pelted him with eggs, and Shep had nipped him in the calf. So Thunder Horse smiled at Harry and scowled at Terry and Shep.

"Which one?" asked Harry, aside. "The ugly one?"

"Yes. Look out for _him_. You'd better."

"All good. Like um white boy. White boy give 'Rapaho shoog, coff,"

wheedled the chief, advancing; and now another of the Arapahoes rode forward.

"Him Little Raven; big chief," he said, speaking English very clearly.

"Me Left Hand. Little Raven talk not much English. I talk for him. Where you going?"

"To the mines, of course."

"You see two men in wagon?"

"Yes."

"We no harm them. They run, then we yell and they run faster. Little Raven want to ask if you give him a little sugar and coffee."

"Haven't any to spare."

"Give him a little sugar, little coffee, little bread, and mebbe he show you where heap gold in the mountains."

"No, no," refused Harry. "Stand back, all of you," for the other Indians were edging toward the wagon, from either side. Jenny smelled them, and had grown restive---trembled, snorted, and Shep maintained a constant growling from underneath the wagon.

"All right." And Left Hand spoke gutturally for the information of Little Raven, who nodded. "Brave boys. Not foolish and run. Good-bye."

Little Raven insisted on shaking hands with Harry and with Terry.

"G'bye," he grunted. "Heap boy. No run," when suddenly Terry cried, past him, to a figure on horseback:

"Get out o' there!"

During the leave-taking Thunder Horse had sidled in with the others, and pressing along the wagon, behind Harry (who had considerable to watch with one pair of eyes and one gun), was stealthily thrusting his arm in under the edge of the canvas hood.