CHAPTER V.A SLIP OF THE MEMORY.
Colonel Crockett was also equally thoughtful. He felt that a mistake had been made through his agency, and that the gravest consequences might be the result.
"Them b'ars have always got me into trouble," he muttered, impatiently. "I s'pose if I git into a fight with a greaser and a b'ar comes along, I'll leave him and put for the b'ar."
He had easily found the trail of the brute, and kept it without trouble. The way back seemed much longer than when he was pursuing the beast with so much zeal; but he traveled very fast, and reached the open prairie before the sun had set.
In one hand he carried his long, reliable rifle, and over the other was hung the huge shaggy hide of the black bear. Its size and character made it too valuable for him to leave until it could become dried, and so he took it to make sure of having so valuable an article.
Reaching the edge of the prairie, he found that his mustang had managed to disengage his bridle and was cropping the grass near at hand. Crockett was on the point of emerging from the woods, when his quick eye detected something out upon the plain.
Scarcely a half-mile distant, and almost precisely upon the spot where he had left his companions to pursue their buffaloes, he saw fully a hundred mounted Comanche Indians.
"By hokey-pokey!" muttered the hunter, as he stood and watched the sight, "that means business, sure enough!"
The band of red-skins seemed to be holding a sort of council. They were gathered in a large circle, the heads of their horses pointed inward, while a dozen or two on foot stood in the center, apparently debating together upon some proposed scheme, while their devoted followers were waiting until their leaders were ready to give their orders.
Colonel Crockett stood almost fascinated at the sight. The Comanches were fine-looking men, gayly dressed in bright colors, all mounted on magnificent horses, and, as is well known, they are among the finest horsemen in the world. Sitting as motionless as carved figures, they would have formed a capital scene for a painter.
The question that naturally occurred to the hunter was whether these made up the entire force of Comanches that were marching against Brownston. If they did, the town being forewarned, certainly had little to fear from them; but the settlers who dwelt in the surrounding country were as powerless to resist this band, as though all the red-skins west of the Rio Grande should descend upon them.
Crockett felt that time was important, and that he endangered the safety of others by waiting; but, he was so anxious to watch their movements that he determined to wait awhile at least, and try to discover their intentions.
His experience among the Creek Indians had given him a good knowledge of Indian character and ways, and he was not long in understanding that was a sort of council—those in the center of the large circle, having all to say in the matter.
Crockett first carefully approached his own mustang, and securing him, sprung upon his back, and then held himself in readiness to flee in case the red-skins should turn their faces toward him.
Some fifteen minutes passed in this painful suspense, when a simultaneous shout arose from the group, and they were seen turning their horses about, and brandishing their weapons about their heads.
The conclusion had been reached!
The Comanches were now ready to march!
And just at this moment, Colonel Crockett became aware that the faces of the Indians were turned toward him, and their horses were galloping at full speed directly at the point in the wood where he stood.
"Be sure you're right, then go ahead," growled Crockett, as he wheeled his mustang about, "and I think it's right for me to kick gravel."
The proximity of the trees was such that, as I have shown before, the hunter dismounted and continued the pursuit on foot; but now, under the influence of fear, his mustang seemed to shoot in and out among the trees like a swallow in its flight.
"I wonder if they see'd me," muttered Crockett, as he ducked his head to avoid being swept off his horse or having his head swept off his shoulders. "I don't think they did, or they wouldn't have sent so many after me. Howsumever, maybe they've heard that I am a member of Congress."
Unconsciously Crockett had turned the head of his horse toward the path, for which he ought to have searched, and his horse suddenly plunged into it, and wheeled off to the right, and followed it at the same headlong speed.
This made traveling a great deal easier, and the mustang plunged along at a really swift gait, his rider every now and then casting his head around, in the expectation of catching a glimpse of those fearless dogs yelping upon his track.
"If they can ride through this wood any faster than me," exclaimed Crockett, as a limb knocked his coon-skin cap from his head, "then I'd like to stop and see them."
He kept up this break-neck pace for some time longer, and hearing nothing of his enemies, he paused and listened. The sound of a leaf that rustled through some branches overhead and fluttered down upon his shoulder was all that reached his ear, besides the hurried breathing of his animal.
"Sartinly if they war coming I'd hear them," he concluded, after listening for a few minutes, and every thing was still as the grave.
Dismounting from his mustang, he knelt down and placed his ear upon the ground. Had there been horsemen anywhere in the neighborhood, the tramp of their feet would have been heard, but to his surprise Crockett heard nothing at all.
"There's one thing sartin," said he, "them Comanches ain't on my trail, so I'll give the hoss a little rest."
With which he drew his animal down to a moderate walk.
By this time it was growing dark, and despite the speed with which Crockett had ridden, he was yet a great deal behindhand, on account of waiting to watch the movements of the red-skins. He ought to have been at the rendezvous long before this.
All through the tumultuous excitement Crockett had clung to his bear-skin with almost the tenacity that he grasped his rifle. He had done it almost unconsciously, even after his cap was swept from his head.
He was on the point of starting ahead again when his quick ear detected something suspicious. The sound was very slight, but such as it was, it convinced him that there was some one coming along the path.
Not knowing what it meant, the hunter drew his horse aside out of the path, and then waited and watched. The obscurity was so great that he could not see very distinctly, but in the gloom he discovered two men, who passed by on a rapid run. He could see that they were Indians, and that they were moving very fast.
What struck Crockett as singular was that these red-skins were pursuing the opposite direction from him. Either they must have passed by the rendezvous toward which he was hurrying, or they had gone dangerously near it.
"What does it mean?" the Tennessean asked himself, beginning to feel a little puzzled at the action of the red-skins; "these are queer critters—these Comanches—they don't do business like the Creeks and Choctaws. Now how did them two rapscallions get round on t'other side of me? They couldn't have passed me in the path, for I was riding too blamed fast."
He returned to the path again, and, as his horse walked along, he thought seriously upon the situation of himself and friends.
Suddenly he started.
Could it be that there was another band of Comanches on the other side of Hans Bungslager's cabin? Or were these scouts who were scouring through the country in search of victims, and having discovered the flight of the fugitives, had they made all haste to the main body that the whites might be cut off before there was a chance of escape?
The more he reflected upon what he had seen, the more serious alarm did he feel. It was not for himself that he feared, but it looked to him as though the gentle Katrina Duncan was in greater danger than she or her friends imagined.
He continued riding forward, his horse on a moderate walk, until in the moonlight he caught the glimmer of water ahead, and he knew that he was drawing near the rendezvous.
Feeling it his duty to be suspicious on all occasions, he dismounted again, and fastening his horse beside the path, crept stealthily forward and looked about him. The creek was broad and deep, but he saw no person or boat visible.
Where was Sebastian? was the question he asked himself, as he looked furtively about. "Can it be that those two Comanches have slain him, and his dead body is somewhere at hand?"
He stood irresolute a moment, debating whether to begin the search or not, when a low, cautiously-uttered whistle reached his ear. Suspecting that it was a signal from some Indian to another, he stepped further back in the shadow, and cocked his rifle, determined to shoot the first red-skin that showed himself.
The whistle was repeated, and finally Crockett ventured to answer it. He had scarcely done so when a figure appeared in the path before him whom he at once recognized as Sebastian, the Texan.
The two met and clasped hands in the moonlight like old friends.
"Where are they?" was the first whispered question of Crockett.
"I do not know; I have seen and heard nothing of them since I left there this afternoon."
"How long have you been here?"
"Over an hour. What kept you?"
The hunter gave a concise account of what I have already made known to my readers, and then asked him his experience.
"I reached here as quick as I could, after leaving you," replied the young Texan, "but the boat I expected to find here was gone, so I went down the creek about a mile, where I found it caught in some bushes."
"How did it get there?"
"It must have got loose and drifted down there; I remember the prow only rested against the bank, and it might have done it very easily."
"Have you seen any of the Comanches?"
"Not one," replied Sebastian.
"That's blamed queer," muttered Crockett; "there's a strange look about things that don't suit. What can keep Bungslager?"
"He may be in trouble—"
"Hello! there he comes!" interrupted Crockett, as he saw the pursy form of the Dutchman emerge from the wood, leading his horse that was heavily loaded with his domestic utensils and food.
The two men stood until he advanced to where they were, and then with a blanched face Sebastian asked the question:
"Where is Katrina?"
Hans Bungslager turned about and looked at the back of his horse a moment, as if in a maze of perplexity, and then exclaimed:
"Doonder and blitzen! I Forgot her!"