CHAPTER XII.A DESPERATE VENTURE.
Even while Buffalo Bill was talking with the disguised leader of the Redskin Rovers, old Nick Nomad was rapidly working out a plan for the release of the prisoners. Nebuchadnezzar had escaped from the Indians, and had carried with him his saddle and the saddle pouches. The first thing for Nomad to do was to get hold of Nebuchadnezzar.
Nomad’s wild yells as he fled, followed by his shrill whistles, were, as Buffalo Bill knew, intended for the ears of that wise old horse, for Nomad had trained Nebuchadnezzar to come in answer to those signals.
As he ran in the direction in which “Nebby” had disappeared, and whistled at intervals, even though the Indians were pursuing him in the darkness, the result was that the horse came in his direction. Hence, Nomad had run less than half a mile from the Indian camp when he encountered his faithful steed.
“Waugh!” was his whispered exclamation, expressing the most intense satisfaction. “Talk about hosses not havin’ sense! Nebby, you’ve got more sense than half the humans I know.”
He walked straight up to the old beast; and then mounting he rode away as quietly as he could.
As soon as he felt secure from the redskin pursuit he rode in a wide circuit until he was on the opposite side of the camp, when he again approached it. Then, coming in sight of the fire, he halted.
“Nebby,” he said, as he slid out of the saddle, “I dunno if you’ve been robbed by them red skunks er not; but we’ll see.”
He opened the saddle pouches, and began to explore them.
“Waugh! They tuck all the things in sight!” he chuckled, in a way that did not show displeasure. “But, Nebby——” He ran his fingers into a secret pocket in one of the pouches, and brought out a small flat package. “They never found this hyar, and it’s ther truck I’m wantin’.”
He dropped to the ground and opened the package carefully. Meanwhile, the old horse stood with bowed head and heaving sides. But for those heaving sides he seemed to be asleep.
When the flat package lay open in Nomad’s hands, its contents shone with a dull gleam of fire, like the sulphur light seen when, in the dark, the head of a match is rubbed on the damp palm of a hand.
“Nebby, they didn’t find this hyar truck!” Nomad chuckled. “Do you ’member ther time, Nebby, when we skeered them t’other Injuns outer one fit inter fifty with truck like this hyar? It was phosphorus pizen fer kyotes. Waal, mebbe it’s a trick thet we kin play ag’in.”
Having made sure that the fiery stuff, which was a phosphorous paste, was all there and in good condition, old Nomad led the horse down into a low swale between hills, that he might be out of view of the Redskin Rovers. There, removing his shirt, he carefully painted on his body and face certain stripes, inimitation of the bones of a skeleton. The paste was not enough in quantity to use all over his body, so he left his legs minus this weird decoration; but the upper part of his body, and particularly the ribs, seemed to stand out in lines of fire. He also painted his face with it, to give it as nearly as he could the semblance of a fiery skull.
“Skeers yer, does it, Nebby?” he chuckled, when the old horse showed a dislike of it and tried to back away. “Waal, ef I kin skeer you with it, mebbe I kin some frighten them redskins, dod-rot ’em! Somethin’s got ter be done, Nebby.”
He replaced his coat, tied his shirt behind the saddle, made a mask of his old handkerchief to hide his face; and then, with his battered old hat pulled well down over his eyes, he mounted, and was ready for his desperate venture. He now rode cautiously toward the Indian encampment, keeping as much as possible in low ground, that a premature revelation of his presence might not occur.
When he was nigh to the camp he stopped, and from the crest of a low ridge took a look at it. He saw Buffalo Bill sitting with back against the tree, talking with the painted white man; and observed the positions of the other prisoners, and of their captors.
Having these things well fixed in his mind, he mounted Nebuchadnezzar again and rode slowly forward.
So softly did the old beast pick his way along in obedience to his rider’s commands, that Nomad was near the camp fire in a little while, and still remainedundiscovered. Then he stiffened in the saddle, and a series of wild yells pierced the air.
It was like the sudden outburst of a chorusing band of wolves; for the old man had the power of making his yells peculiarly bewildering, and as if coming from many different points of the compass. As he yelled, he cast aside the concealing coat and pushed back the concealing cap, thus revealing to the astonished redskins the sight of a skeleton horseman, apparently seated on nothing but air, for the body of the old horse was at first indistinguishable in the darkness.
As he thus displayed his skeleton lines, Nomad’s revolver began to pop; and, still yelling lustily, he rode with indescribable recklessness straight at the camp fire.
It was enough! The superstitious and frightened Indians scudded like rats when Nomad made that dash. They threw aside whatever at the moment they were holding, whether weapons, food, or blankets, and dashed in absurd panic down the hill, running like mad.
The moment for action on the part of Buffalo Bill had come.
He had not knownwhat form old Nomad’s interference in his behalf would take, but he had fully expected that Nomad would make an effort of some kind; and for that effort he was prepared and had waited.
He pulled his hands free now, for the cords hung but loosely on his wrists, and with the knife that was in his boot leg he cut the cords that held his ankles.
The disguised white man had sprung to his feet when Nomad made his mad charge.
The next motion of the scout brought out the hidden pistol from his hunting shirt, and with it he took a shot at the painted figure of the renegade, toppling him over with a bullet through his shoulder. Then Buffalo Bill leaped to the assistance of the other prisoners; and with a speed that defied description he cut them free.
“Move lively!” he whispered. “That’s Nomad. Run, while the redskins are frightened! This way!”
He jumped from the vicinity of the camp fire, and led in the flight that followed, striking straight out into the darkness.
Old Nomad, shining like fire and yelling like a band of coyotes, his revolver spouting fire and lead, and old Nebuchadnezzar snorting like a wild horse, charged straight across and through the camp, scattering everything.
Not an Indian stayed to oppose the daring trapper; all were in flight toward the river.
If the disguised white man who was their leader suspected that this was a shrewd trick, and the character of it, he was in no condition to make it known, or to rally his demoralized followers; for, with that bullet in his shoulder, he had fallen to the ground, and lay stunned and groaning.