CHAPTER XXIX.A DARING RUSE.
Barlow and the Cheyennes knew that they would be pursued without delay.
When a band of fiery young Indians break away from a reservation, the first thing to do is to send troopers after them, to bring them back, or whip them into subjection before they have time to do any harm.
In addition, the flight of Barlow from Fort Cimarron with the girl who had been held there on the false charge of the theft of the nugget would send pursuers after him.
All this Buffalo Bill likewise knew. And he knew, further, that one of the things pursued Indians are likely to do is to trap their pursuers.
After the scout had rejoined the young cowboy, Ben Stevens, he and Stevens drove hard after the retreating Cheyennes, watching for one of these traps.
While making this pursuit, and watching for ambuscades, the scout left telltale signs along the trail, which should direct the troopers whom he expected would soon follow. On one or two high points he planted signals, thrusting mesquite bushes up so they would attract attention, and to these mesquites tying written messages, which told all that he knew.
The retreating Cheyennes set no traps, being in too great haste. But shortly after nightfall they halted for a bit of rest, in a considerable grove of mesquite,where they cautiously built fires and cooked some food.
Buffalo Bill was not far behind them, and his keen eyes caught the gleam of their hidden camp fires. He had been over this trail before, and he had surmised that they would go into camp at this spot, and accordingly he had been making some plans.
He now took Ben Stevens’ horse, which had all the characteristics of an Indian pony, removed the saddle, and for its bridle substituted an Indian one taken from the pouches of his saddle. This Indian bridle was a very simple affair, consisting of rawhide thongs, with a rawhide to be placed through the mouth and round the lower jaw for a bit.
Behind his saddle the scout had carried an Indian blanket.
His hat and his boots and some of his clothing he concealed in a hole on the prairie, which he marked with a stick.
From the saddle pouches came also head feathers, Indian paints, and beaded moccasins. Putting on these, the scout was soon transformed, with the further aid of the Indian blanket, into a very presentable specimen of the Cheyenne Indian. His mustache and imperial could not be so well concealed, but he held the blanket up round his mouth in the Indian fashion, and these facial ornaments were not observable in the night.
Thus attired and disguised, and mounted on Stevens’ Indian pony, the scout could not have been distinguishedfrom an Indian a yard away in the darkness.
After he had made this hasty but rather remarkable transformation, Buffalo Bill held out his hand to the young cowboy.
“Good-by!” he said, squeezing Stevens’ hand. “I’m going into danger, and we may not meet again. But I’ll save the young lady, if the thing can be done; and Wild Bill, too. Look out for yourself. If you hear the whistle of the bull elk, you’ll know you’re to make the fake charge on the Cheyenne camp and stir things up to draw attention from me. And look out that they don’t capture you, while you’re hovering outside.”
He sprang to the bare back of the pony, drew the blanket closely round his shoulders, and rode silently through the darkness in the direction of the Cheyenne supper camp.
He knew the Cheyennes would be moving on again shortly.
He circled the camp, so as to approach it from the other direction; and was guided in his work by now and then seeing a flash from one of the sputtering fires where the Cheyennes were roasting their meat. They had brought down an antelope during the afternoon, and they were preparing for a feast, which never comes amiss to the stomach of an Indian.
When he was close up to the camp the scout slid to the ground, and then led his pony on, with hand held ready to catch it by the nose, if it showed signs of wanting to neigh.
Off at one side, in a grassy space where the mesquite did not grow, he discovered the Cheyenne ponies feeding. They kept close together, and he was sure from that that a herder had them in charge, though this herder he could not see.
The Cheyenne ponies fed slowly toward him. One of them snorted, and then neighed; and at that a young Indian was seen by the scout gliding among them.
The motion of the Indian set the ponies to moving, and they drifted toward the scout, and soon he was in the midst of a small group of them.
This suited him, for when they began to feed again, putting their heads to the ground, he permitted his pony to feed along with them; and he kept his body and head close down to the earth, that he might not be seen by the herder.
The feasting at the Indian camp fire lasted longer than he had thought it would; the Cheyennes had made a good ride that day, and as they ate they were planning and boasting of the red work they intended to do along the New Mexican border, after they had joined their fellow tribesmen down there and had stirred them to go on the warpath.
But at last they were ready to move again. The scout’s keen ears apprised him of the fact, when they called some questions to the pony herder, and the herder shouted back to them.
A number of young Cheyennes streamed out from the camp, and began to get their ponies and lead them toward the fires.
The time for which the scout had waited so long had come. He, too, led his pony along; and with his Indian disguise and blanket he seemed but one of the Cheyennes leading in his pony.
When the Cheyennes mounted and were ready to move on with their prisoners, the scout was mounted and in their midst, and they did not know that a rider had been added to their number; they could not have told that without making a count, and they did not think to do that; in truth, they did not once suspect that an enemy was in their midst, or near.
As the Cheyennes thus rode forth again in the darkness, heading still toward the Southwest, Buffalo Bill rode with them, silent and watchful.
He understood the Cheyenne tongue, as he did most of the Indian languages and dialects of the border, and he was ready with answers, if questioned by any one. But he was not questioned.
By careful work he located the prisoners, and by work as careful he edged his pony by degrees toward them, nearer and nearer.
Wild Bill did not dream that his old border pard was within miles, and he was rather startled when a gruff Indian voice ordered him in Cheyenne to sit up straighter, and then the Indian who gave the order bent toward him and whispered, in the voice of Buffalo Bill:
“It is I, Cody; I’m one of them, you know! But mum’s the word. I’ll get you and the young lady out of this. Stevens is outside, keeping shady, but hangingto the flanks of this party, and stands ready to help me when I summon him.”
Wild Bill gulped with astonishment. His heart jumped into his throat, he was so amazed. He was familiar with the daring and cleverness of Buffalo Bill, but he had not expected this. It came almost as a shock.
“Can I tell the girl?” he whispered.
“If you find chance; but be careful. There you are! Take this.”
The supposed Indian, lifting himself, for he had apparently been examining the bonds of the white man, spoke again to him in harsh, guttural words of reproof.
In reality, Buffalo Bill had slipped a keen knife through those cords, and Wild Bill sat on the back of his pony, free, the cords dropping unnoticed to the ground as the pony moved on.
Then the knife itself was thrust into Wild Bill’s hands. Following this came a loaded revolver—a weapon which the Western dead shot knew as well how to use as any man on the wild frontier.
The possession of those weapons made another man of Wild Bill. With a good revolver in his hand, and a knife ready, he was ready to fight his weight in wild cats at any time; and that meant, in the Western style of speech, that he was afraid of nothing on earth.
That suspicion might not be attracted to him, Buffalo Bill now drew his pony back, while Wild Bill spoke to the girl.
“A fine evening,” he said, in his musical voice. “This is an evening when one likes to see friends. It would not surprise me if friends were near. The stars up there look friendly, and the mist we have been having is clearing away.”
He spoke in English, enigmatically, that no Cheyenne understanding English might comprehend, hoping that the girl would know what he meant, or at least get ready for an emergency. Then he carelessly pushed his hand against her arm, extending the knife given him by the scout.
“If one only had weapons!” he said, with meaning.
She felt the pressure of the knife against her arm.
Because she had been with the Wolf Soldier, who was a friend of Red Wing, the girl had not been tied. The Wolf Soldier, otherwise Barlow, rode not far off; and he, like the girl, was not tied.
Though astonished and startled, the girl grasped the knife.
“The stars are friendly,” she said, being quick of comprehension. She did not know how it had been done, but she knew that Wild Bill’s hands were free, and that he had given her his knife.
“If one of the stars should fall, I should not be surprised,” he said. “In fact, I’m always prepared not to be surprised at anything.”
“It seems to me you’re finding your tongue, Hickok!” Barlow grumbled.
“As I’m not addressing my interesting remarks to you, I do not know that they call for an answer from you,” Wild Bill retorted.
“You’re still believing that nonsense, that I’m in with these redskins?” said Barlow, who was chagrined by Wild Bill’s curt reply.
“I don’t waste my breath on renegades,” said Wild Bill scornfully.
Red Wing, hearing the words, began to edge near, and Wild Bill dropped the unprofitable discussion.
“Does the Wolf Soldier want the white scout lashed with a whip?” Red Wing asked, as if he longed to do that lashing.
Barlow wanted to say “Yes;” but he knew it was not then politic to do so.
“He is a fool!” he said. “His words are but wind, Red Wing, and I do not hear them.”
“Yes, he is a fool!” Red Wing agreed.
“Aye, that he is, Red Wing! I wonder that the ears of the jackass do not grow on his head. They would fit him.”
Buffalo Bill was hearing all this, for he was riding not three yards from the speakers; yet never was he suspected, for the Indian blankets and his disguise concealed him effectively.
Then the unexpected happened. A genuine bull elk whistled out in front.
It was the signal Ben Stevens had been awaiting—the whistle of a bull elk, from Buffalo Bill, and he thought this came from the scout. Thereupon he charged wildly on the flank, firing his revolvers, and yelling in his most startling fashion.