CHAPTER XVII.PURSUED BY BLACKFEET.
“Whoa, Nebby, consarn ye! Don’t lose yer head, now, er mighty quick you won’t have no head to lose.”
Old Nick Nomad, the trapper and famous border scout, twisted around in his saddle, jerking at his horse’s bridle, and stared back along the way he had come after leaving the outlaw stronghold.
Nomad was a small, dried-up specimen of a man, dressed in border costume of ancient fashion, even to the beaver-skin cap. He held in his right hand a long rifle. His old horse, ungainly as himself, yet possessed of as many surprising qualities, stepped about, in spite of the jerking rein, and showed every indication of nervousness and fright.
“You’re skittisher’n a two-year-old, and ain’t got any more sense, when you smells Injuns,” Nick grumbled. “Stand still, now; they’re comin’ erlong, I know, but they ain’t nigh enough ter bite ye!”
Old Nebuchadnezzar had made a rapid run since the Blackfeet were sighted, more than two miles back. The homely, shaggy-haired beast had been too fleet for the Blackfeet ponies. His sides were heaving now, and sweat trickled down his legs, dripping to the ground. Yet he was ready to go on; and so much did he fear Indians that he would have run until he fell, if Nomad had but given him rein and urged him a little.
Nomad was trying to determine whether the Blackfeetwere coming on, following his trail, or whether they had left the trail and were trying to cut him off at some narrow pass. They were more familiar with this part of the country than he was, and he knew in that they possessed a decided advantage.
After a time of quiet, the Blackfeet had once more become troublesome, under Crazy Snake, whose hatred of the whites had flared forth with sudden fury.
Nomad had, for two days, returned to the old life he loved best of all—trapping by the headwaters of the mountain streams, leading a carefree existence in the open and under the blue sky.
Then, on the last day—the day on which he was to arrive at the fort—trouble and peril had descended on him when he had least expected it.
His traps were stolen or destroyed, his little hut was broken open and robbed, and then Paul Davis, his old-time border partner, who had encountered him in the neighborhood of the outlaws’ stronghold, was slain, while returning one afternoon to the hut from a hunt.
Nomad found Davis’ body in the trail that led down from the higher mountains, and on Davis’ breast a bloody arrow, slashed there with a scalping knife.
The scalp had been torn from Davis’ head, thus proving that the work had been done by Blackfeet, while the bloody arrow showed that this was another “vengeance” blow struck by the chief, Crazy Snake.
Old Nomad was not fool enough to linger there longer. He buried the body of his old friend, protecting it from wolves by a heap of stones placed onthe grave. Then he cached his pelts, picked his few belongings, mounted old Nebuchadnezzar, and set his face toward Fort Thompson.
But he was not to escape so easily.
He had not gone far when he discovered that Blackfeet were dogging his trail, for the apparent purpose of surprising him in camp, or while he slept. He was sure these Blackfeet were led by Crazy Snake, who had marked him for another victim.
As Nomad sat staring along the backward way, a herd of elk came in sight, swinging down the trail he had been following. He instantly guided Nebuchadnezzar out of the trail, and let the elk go plunging by, for they seemed to be frightened, and were running at high speed.
“Good enough!” the old man grunted. “I think I kin puzzle them red devils a bit now.”
Sure that wherever the Blackfeet were they did not now see him, Nomad dismounted, and, removing a blanket he carried in a roll behind his saddle, he tore it into stripsand wrapped them round the hoofsof his horse, so that he would leave no trail.
A trailless route would make it troublesome for even the keen-eyed Blackfeet to follow him.
Descending the mountain now by a zigzag path, and making, besides, several changes in his course, Nomad succeeded in reaching lower ground. Here he mounted Nebuchadnezzar again, and rode off in a new direction; but several times changed his course, in his efforts to baffle the Blackfeet.
While he was thus riding on, he was astonished byhearing his name spoken. He reined in and faced about, staring in surprise.
“By ther great jumpin’ jack rabbits, ef that ain’t ther queerest ever!” he grunted. “Somebody callin’ ter me hyer, at a p’int whar thar ain’t nobody!”
A pebble came rolling down the side of the hill, the suddenness with which it bounced out at him making him jump. He saw that it had come from a clump of aspens on the hillside not far away.
His ancient rifle swung around with a quick motion, and the muzzle was elevated toward the aspens.
“Hi, there! Don’t shoot,” a voice called. “Like Davy Crockett’s coon, I’ll come down.”
Then a hand appeared, pushing some leaves aside, and, following this hand, came the body of a man.
Nomad gasped his amazement when he saw the clothing and face of this man. Before him stood Buffalo Bill.
Though Nomad’s astonishment was deep, he did not forget the peril in which he was placed at that time.
“Stand whar ye aire, Buffler!” he called. “The pizen reds aire rompin’ round, and aire after my ha’r. Ole Crazy Snake is reachin’ fer me with his fangs.”
He guided his horse up to the aspens where the scout stood; the scout asking questions, which he did not then answer.
“Buffler, I’m gladder ter see ye than ef I’d found a gold mine! Got yer hoss hyar?”
“Yes; just back here in ther trees.”
“Then, fer Heaven’s sake, muffle him, and git outwith me, ’fore ther reds finds this spot,” the old trapper urged. “I’m huntin’ fer a hole ter hide in, till Crazy Snake and his Blackfeet villyuns leave this kentry; and it’ll be healthy fer you ter do ther same quick’s ye kin.”
Buffalo Bill did not know until then that Crazy Snake had actually taken to the warpath, though he had known there were rumors of war trouble, and that a number of whites had been murdered. He shook hands with old Nomad, and asked him some more questions. This time Nomad answered:
“I’ve give ’em a good start, and balled ’em some, Buffler, but they ain’t easy ter fool.”
“I know that, Nomad,” the scout answered; “but I think we can fool them.”
He retreated to where his horse was tied to an aspen; and then, taking a blanket from his roll, he made mufflers like those used by Nomad. He looked anxiously at the trail his horse had made in coming to this little grove—some of the hoofmarks deeply scored the soil. But there was no help for that now.
In a few minutes he joined Nomad, mounted, and asked:
“Were you making for the cañon down there?”
“Anywhar, Buffler, ter fool ther Blackfeet. If yer knows this kentry some I’ll let you p’int ther way, fer bur durned ef I’m any too well acquainted with it.”
Buffalo Bill took the lead.
As the two men rode along, they discussed the pursuit of the Blackfeet, and each learned the story of the other.
“I came here from the fort on a scouting trip,” said Buffalo Bill, “because the Blackfeet have killed some men and have been threatening trouble. Since I arrived, a miner was murdered and scalped on the Baldface trail, and a sheep-herder was treated the same way over in Los Cerillos Valley. Both were slain by Blackfeet; yet I didn’t know whether it was simply some single Blackfoot murderer, or was the work of Blackfeet bands of rovers. I rode out here to-day, hoping to find out something more about it.”
“And now y’ve found, Buffler! The red devils aire risin’, and they’re killin’ and scalpin’. Ole Crazy Snake’s bloody arrer will be on the breasts of a good many dead men, ef ther thing continners, I’m tellin’ ye. I thought it war time fer me ter cut sticks, and so I did. I’m glad I met ye, Buffler.”
The scout recounted many of the things that had happened during the past three days, especially the departure of young Clayton, and Nomad told of his trapping experiences.
“I cached what furs I’d got tergether,” he said, “when I was ready to slide out o’ the hills. If ther Blackfeet don’t find ’em, I’ll git ’em some time. Ther thing jes’ now is ter take keer o’ my scalp, which is a good deal more important than a beaver skin, handsome as a beaver skin looks.”
He pushed back his cap and scratched at his head, as if it itched in anticipation of a scalping knife.
They sought lower ground as they talked, and they talked in low tones.
“Nomad, it’s providential that I met you,” the scout told his old friend.
“I dunno about it, Buffler,” said Nomad, with a grin. “If I’d gone straight ahead ’thout tryin’ to break my trail, ole Crazy Snake’s band would have follered me hot-footed. And so they wouldn’t never had a chance ter see you hyar an’ put you in danger. Now they may; fer they’ll pick up thet trail o’ mine, if mortual man kin do it.”
With the scout in the lead, they entered the cañon.
On the rocks just by the water they removed the mufflers from the hoofs of the horses. The animals were then ridden into the water, the rocky bank there holding no trail; and down the stream they rode, keeping in the water. They went on in this way nearly a mile, and then began to follow up a tributary stream.
As the scout rode along, his keen eyes searching either shore, he saw a grove of trees. There were a number of these groves in the lower part of the cañon, whose floor was of soil in places, rather than rock.
“If we can get under cover of those trees without making any tracks doing it, we can probably lie safe there,” he remarked, while Nomad looked at the grove.
“Ole Nebby, hyar, kin do ’most anything, Buffler, but he ain’t learnt to fly yit. And, without flyin’, I don’t see how you’re goin’ ter git inter the midst of them trees and leave no sign. Fer thar’s soil hyar, and not rock.”
“But the grass, you’ll notice, come right down to the water,” said the scout, “and is a thick, firm turf.”
“Go ahead, Buffler; I’m follerin’ ye. Mebbe we kinmake it by mufflering ther hoofs of ther hosses. But we can’t muffler ’em very well hyar in ther water, and when we rides out of ther stream with their hoofs bare they’re shore goin’ ter make some tracks.”
Buffalo Bill rode toward the shore.
When close to the grass, but still in the water, he rose to his horse’s back. Standing in the saddle, with the remaining blanket from his roll held in his hands, he threw the blanket so that it fell on the grass at the water’s edge. It fell, folded, as he had wanted it to; and, with a quick jump, he leaped to it from the saddle. By this clever plan, he kept his boots from cutting into the turf and soil.
“You’ve got a blanket, in addition to the scraps you cut the other one into,” he said. “Throw me your blanket.”
Nomad threw the blanket to him, and the scout spread it out beside the one on which he was standing.
He kept his feet off the ground, while he arranged both blankets in the form of a carpet, which touched the very rim of the water. Then he spoke to his well-trained horse, and the obedient animal walked from the water out upon the carpet of blankets. There the scout put on the animal’s hoofs the mufflers, and then commanded it to walk on, ordering it to stop when it had gone far enough.
“Now, Nomad,” he called, “ride old Nebby out upon this carpet, and when we’ve put the mufflers on him I think the trick will be nearly done.”
Nick Nomad complied, dismounting beside his horseon the blankets. The mufflers were put upon the hoofs of Nebuchadnezzar. Then the old man rode him on.
Buffalo Bill called his horse back to him, climbed into the saddle, stooped from the saddle, and picked the blankets from the ground, and called the trapper’s attention to the apparent success of the ruse.
The blankets and the muffled hoofs had prevented the showing of a single hoofmark by the margin of the stream. More than that, they had absorbed the water which ran from the legs of the horses, sucking it up as a sponge would, and holding it; so that not even water remained on the grass there to draw the attention of any eagle-eyed Blackfoot.
The scout and the trapper now rode their muffled horses into the thick grove, where they were completely hidden from view of any one passing along the cañon stream, or on either of its banks.
“Buffler,” said Nomad, filled with delight at the cleverness of his old pard, “ef I’d had head enough I might have thought o’ thet myself; but I didn’t. But I allow thet it’s ther cutest trick I ever saw played ter try ter fool Injuns. Whar’d yer learn it?”
“I thought of it myself just now. I don’t know that any one ever tried it before. And that’s what makes it valuable. If we used some trick that is familiar the Blackfeet would probably be expecting it, and so would not be fooled by it. They’ll not be expecting this trick, I hope.”