CHAPTER XXI.LONG ODDS.
The Brazos River, along this part of its course, flowed through bluffy country. Here and there the low bluffs gave way to show the river, sparkling in between.
The old corral came distinctly into view at about the time a wave of stampeding cattle rolled down toward the plain out of the mouth of one of the gullies in the bluffs.
Buffalo Bill shifted his eyes from the log walls of the corral to the rushing tide of steers.
“There goes the stampede!” shouted Wild Bill. “We’re not a minute too soon!”
“Where’s Perry?” demanded the frantic Dunbar, sweeping his eyes over the level country in the vicinity of the corral.
“If you want to locate Perry,” answered the scout, “watch the cattle. The scoundrels who started that stampede must have got them headed in the way they want them to go.”
The thump of hoofs and the click of knocking horns could be heard distinctly, while the gully began to smoke from the dust kicked up by the racing steers.
“I can’t see Perry,” cried Dunbar; “that confounded dust blurs everything. Let’s head off the cattle, if we can! Perhaps we can get them to milling!”
Everything considered, this seemed to be the best course. It was doubtful whether the frenzied longhorns would keep to the course marked out for them by RedSteve and his men, and in this very doubt lay a chance for Perry.
Uncertainty, however, hedged in every move the scout and his two companions could make. Had they known definitely just where Perry was, they could have planned their efforts in his behalf more intelligently.
The three riders scattered, Dunbar riding to nag at the herd’s flank close in toward the bluffs. Wild Bill made a dead set at the rolling, dusty tide nearer the corral. The scout, on the other hand, pointed Bear Paw in a direction that would cut the wide path along which the steers were running at a hundred yards or more in advance of the leaders.
As the scout rode, he not only watched the steers, but kept on the alert for some sign of Red Steve and the scoundrels with him.
The dust had become a dense cloud, and screened most of the frenzied herd. From the depths of the cloud came the clickety-clack of striking horns and the rumble of hoofs.
Suddenly the scout grew rigid in his saddle. The next moment he had lifted himself high in his stirrups, and was peering ahead at the object that had flashed before his eyes.
The dust whirled and eddied about the object so that, for a few moments, the scout was not sure of what he saw. When Bear Paw had brought him closer, every doubt faded.
Perry was before him, and directly in the course of the charging steers!
Four stakes had been planted in the earth, so as to form a square. In the centre of the square lay Perry,flat on his back, arms and legs stretched out. Each wrist and each ankle was fastened to a stake.
The cattleman’s torture, as he lay helpless between the stakes, hearing the stampeding herd draw closer and closer, must have been intense.
What was there the scout could do? While Bear Paw continued to race on, Buffalo Bill once more lifted himself in his stirrups and shouted for Wild Bill and Dunbar.
The dust was so thick he could not see either of the men, and the noise was so great his voice could not travel far.
If anything was done for Perry, it must be the scout alone who did it.
There was but one move open to him. This was to fling himself forward and get between the approaching steers and the helpless man roped to the stakes.
Just what could be accomplished by this move was problematical. There was absolutely no other way, however, by which even possible aid could be given to Perry.
It was a time when seconds counted. Half a minute brought the scout in the position he had settled upon, and he pulled Bear Paw to a sharp halt. He was between the rancher and the moving dust cloud—the cloud from whose forward edge pushed the foam-flecked nostrils and the wide horns of the charging leaders.
Turning half around in his saddle so as to face the steer, the scout lifted the gun from the saddle horn.
Could quick work with the rifle save Perry, or would that rushing tide of steers overwhelm Buffalo Bill and the unfortunate cattle baron?
Even as this momentous problem flashed through the scout’s brain the rifle was at his shoulder.
Sping!
The hoarse roar of the gun echoed suddenly against the background of noise caused by the steers.
One of the animals pitched forward.
Swiftly the scout worked the breech mechanism and forced a fresh cartridge into place.
Sping!
Another steer went down.
He picked the animals off the edge of the herd, so that those behind had to swerve farther and farther to the right in order to find clear ground.
Sping! coughed the rifle; clatter, clatter, sping!
Six shots emptied the magazine, but the last two bullets dropped steers in such a way that those behind tumbled over the slain, so that there was a horrible tangle of living and struggling animals, rolling and floundering on the plain.
But the main part of the herd had been deflected. Sitting breathless in his saddle, the king of scouts saw the edge of the rushing herd just graze the stakes. Loose earth was thrown at him and Perry by the flying hoofs, and a choking fog rolled around and over them.
In three or four minutes the last of the steers had passed. Six had been left on the plain, and to those six Buffalo Bill and Perry owed their lives.
Wild Bill and Dunbar, now that the dust had settled somewhat so they could see, put spurs to their horses and dashed toward the scout.
“What were you killing Circle-B steers for, pard?” asked Wild Bill, his voice husky with the dust.
“To turn the herd so it would go around Perry,” answered the scout.
“Perry?” echoed Dunbar.
The scout backed Bear Paw one side and waved his hand toward the stakes, and the man bound between them.
A bellow of anger broke from the Laramie man, to be taken up and re-echoed by Dunbar.
Throwing himself from his saddle, the young rancher jerked a knife from his pocket and slashed the ropes that held Perry in his torturing position.
For some time Perry could not move or speak, so worn out and spent was he from the ordeal through which he had passed. At last he succeeded in rising to a sitting posture and turned his bloodshot eyes on the scout.
“Cody,” said he huskily, “you fought against long odds, and you won out with the narrowest kind of a margin. If you hadn’t turned those steers by a few feet, just where and when you did, you and I would both have been done for.”
“A miss is as good as a mile,” laughed the scout. “There wasn’t time to cut the ropes and ride away with you, so I had to stand my ground and fall back on the rifle. Red Steve pegged you out, like that?”
“I don’t know who it was. The scoundrels wore white caps drawn over their heads. They got hold of me by a trick—a trick that would have worked successfully ninety-nine times out of a hundred. A man came to the house and asked for me. When I went out, he said that Nate had been arrested for stealing diamonds, that Buffalo Bill had gone to Hackamore, and that I was wanted there. I wasn’t to tell my daughter, nor any of Buffalo Bill’s pards. I could understand about not telling Hattie, but why I was not to tell the scout’s pards was a mystery. I see now that Red Steve was afraid, if old Nomad, the baron and Little Cayuse knew where I was going,they might try to dissuade me, or to let some one else go. I hadn’t got far from the house along the trail when the white-capped men made an attack. The attack was unexpected, and I was taken at a disadvantage. They bound me and carried me to the old corral. There I was left till morning, when they brought me here and staked me out.
“I hadn’t an idea what they were intending to do; but, when I heard the rumble of racing hoofs, I surmised what the fiends were about. They were planning to have those cattle race over me and trample my life out! This must have been some of Lige Benner’s doing. But how did you three manage to learn of my predicament?”
“If you feel able to ride, Perry,” said the scout, “we can talk that over on the way back to the ranch. What became of your horse?”
“He got away during the fight I had with the White Caps on the trail. I presume he went back to the ranch. Hattie is probably doing a lot of worrying, and the quicker Nate and I reach the ranch house, the better it will be.”
“Dunbar and I might do a little riding and see if we can’t locate Red Steve, or some of his men,” suggested Wild Bill.
“No use,” said the scout. “Those scoundrels are on their way back to the Circle-B ranch by now. We will leave them alone till some other time. Our trails will cross again, pard, and when they do——”
The scout finished with a grim frown and a shrug of the shoulders.
“When our trails cross again,” said Wild Bill, “we’ll remember Ace Hawkins. I’ve marked Red Steve for my own private kybosh. Take notice, everybody!”
Perry got up behind Dunbar, and on the way to the Star-A ranch the events that had led up to the stampede and the rescue of Perry were recounted for the rancher’s benefit.
When the recital was done, Perry was silent for some time.
“I wonder,” he finally muttered, “when Nate and I will reach the end of this hostility? How much longer will Benner keep up his evil work?”
“I think you’ve seen the last of it, Perry,” said Wild Bill. “When he learns how his latest plans have failed, all around, he’ll probably take a vacation in some other part of the State and stay there till the last of the trouble blows over.”
“And he tried to rob Dunbar of his good name, and me of my life,” exclaimed Perry, “just to satisfy his desire for vengeance!”
“He was hit pretty hard, during that other set-to we had with him,” said Wild Bill, “and it’s hard for Lige Benner to forget.”
“He’s got something else to forget now,” commented Dunbar grimly.