Fort Riley was fifteen miles west. Progress was slow, on the crowded road, and at six o'clock the "Pike's Peak Limited" was glad to draw aside out of the dust and camp for the night near to a wagon labeled "Litening Express." The owner was a heavy, round-faced German, with a family of buxom wife, and of six girls ranging from big to little. He had a chicken coop, a large cook stove set up for the evening meal, a feather mattress, and an enormous bale of gunny-sacks that formed a seat for him while he watched the supper-getting.
Harry and Terry called easy greeting, and pretty soon he strolled over.
"Iss dat a wild boof'lo?" he queried.
"He was wild once, but he's tame now."
"You are de boys who made dot man loose his whiskey, mebbe."
"I guess we are," laughed Harry. It was astonishing, the speed with which news traveled among the overlanders.
"Dot was a goot t'ing. How far you say to dose gold mines, already?"
"'Bout six hundred miles. What are you doing with all those sacks?"
"I t'ink I poot my gold in dem, an' bring it back home."
"That'll be quite a load, won't it?" smiled Harry. "You know gold weighs mighty heavy."
"I haf a goot team," replied the German, not at all worried. "I fill my sacks, an' poot dem in my wagon, an' I come home in time for winter, an' den I am rich. I will be one of de richest men in Illinois. Mebbe next year I do it over."
"A very fine plan," remarked Harry, gravely. And the German returned to his own fire, much satisfied.
"Jiminy! Is that the way?" blurted Terry, suddenly excited again. "We ought to've brought sacks."
"We've a sack of oats and a sack of flour, and I wouldn't trade 'em for his sacks of gold—yet," retorted Harry.
This night the flickering camp-fires of the other gold-seekers twinkled all along the road. Fiddles were tuned up, to play "Monkey Musk," "My Old Kentucky Home," "Yankee Doodle," and other tunes, and voices joined in. What with the playing and singing, the barking of dogs and the noises from cattle, sleep was difficult except for persons as tired as were the "boys from the Big Blue."
At Fort Riley, which was a new army post, with massive stone buildings, near the juncture of the Smoky Hill River from the west and the Republican River from the north, here forming the Kansas River, the number of outfits lessened. Some struck north, some took a short cut south for the Santa Fe Trail at the Arkansas River.
At Junction City, beyond, the last of the white settlements, the route of the remaining "Pike's Peak Pilgrims" again split. The main portion of the travelers seemed to favor the new trail straight westward, up along the Smoky Hill River, and on they toiled, to "get rich in a hurry." It was the common report that the Smoky Hill River could be followed clear to the mountains, but this, as Harry and Terry afterward heard, proved untrue.
Another portion turned off southward, for the Santa Fe Trail again. A good government road led down to it. Only a few had decided upon attempting the newest trail of all: that to the northwest, for the Republican by way of the divide between the Solomon River on the left and the Republican, far on the right.
"We're on our way," tersely remarked Harry, as the "Pike's Peak Limited" left Junction City for the unknown. "It's liable to be lonesome, till the stages come."
However, several wagons had preceded; and this first night camp was made at a creek, and close to another party also camped.
"Whar you boys from?" That was the first question.
"Do you calkilate to get thar with a buffalo and a yaller mule?" That was the second question.
"How'll you swap dogs?" That was the third question.
And—"Do you figger on diggin' out your pound of gold a day?" was the fourth question. For Eastern papers had asserted that this was the regular output of the Pike's Peak country: a pound of gold a day to each miner!
"Half a pound a day will suit us," responded Harry.
"Dearie me!" sighed the woman—a nice, motherly woman, the sight of whom imbued Terry with a little sense of homesickness. "We all count on a pound a day for one hundred days, so as to buy a farm back in Missouri. Maybe, if the children and I dig, we can raise it to two pounds a day. That'll be two hundred pounds, which is a right smart amount of money."
Junction City having been put behind, now there was not even a cabin to be seen. The high plain between the valley of the Solomon on the south and the valley of the Republican on the north stretched wide and unoccupied save by the squads of antelope, the scant trees marking the creek courses, and the scattered white-canvased wagons ambling on.
It was a go-as-you-please march. Outfits wandered aside, seeking better trail or better camping-spot. Occasionally one had broken down, and was halted for repairs or rest. Already the chosen route was dotted with cast-off articles, abandoned to lighten the loads. Bedsteads, trunks, mattresses, chairs—and Harry, pointing, cried:
"There's the 'Lightning Express' stove!"
For the German's heavy cook-stove reposed, by itself, on the prairie—and odd enough it looked, too.
"Wish we'd come to his feather tick, some evening," quoth Terry.
Fuel, even buffalo chips (which were the dried deposits left by the buffalo, and burned hotly) were scarce. The "Limited" aimed to camp each evening at a creek, if possible, where trees might be found; but most of the dead wood had been used by other travelers, or by Indians, and the green willow and ash smudged. The sage and greasewood burned well, but burned out very quickly.
Duke and Jenny footed steadily, making their twelve and fifteen miles a day, up and down, into draws and out again, and the "Limited" seemed to be gradually forging ahead. For a time, each night camp might be established (a very simple matter) in company with other pilgrims; and the spectacle of the half-buffalo and the yellow mule pulling in, or already waiting, invariably excited the one conversation.
"How far to Pike's Peak, strangers?"
"Five hundred miles or so, yet, I guess," would answer Harry, politely.
"It's an awful long trail, this way, ain't it? How far to the Republican?"
"That I can't say."
Then the outfits would exchange travel notes and personal history.
But the trail was petering out, as Harry expressed, more and more, as the creeks were being headed, and anxious gold-seekers swerved aside looking for the Republican Valley and better water.
About noon one day a giant, solitary tree waited before. Several wagon-tracks led for it, and Duke and Jenny followed of their own accord. It was a big cottonwood, with half the bark stripped from its trunk by lightning.
"A store of good wood, there," remarked Harry. "Wonder why nobody's chopped it down."
"It's got a sign on it," exclaimed Terry. "See?" And—"'Pike's Peak Post Office,'" he read, aloud.
The sign was plain; and presently the reason of the sign was plain. On the white surface of the peeled trunk was scrawled a number of names and other words.
"Pike's Peak or Bust!"
Underneath: "Busted! No wood, no water, no gold. Boston Party."
Also:
"Keep to the north."
"Climb this tree and you won't see anything."
"The jumping-off place."
"The Peoria wagon. All well."
"Bound for the Peak, are you?"
"'Litening Express'!" announced Harry. "Our German friend is still ahead."
"'Mr. Ike Chubbers'!" spelled out Terry, with difficulty. "Aw, shucks! He's this far already."
"Yes, and there he went!" laughed Harry, gleefully. "Those are sure his tracks. He's sampling his barrel."
And by token of a weaving, wobbling, sort of drunken pair of wagon-wheel tracks that made a wide swing for the north, Pine Knot Ike evidently had continued in a new direction.
"He's hunting the Republican," agreed Terry. "Hope we don't run into him."
"Nope," declared Harry. "Once is enough. Hurrah!" he uttered. And he read: "'Stage line here. Sol Judy.'"
"That's so." And Terry peered. "But I don't see the line. Wonder which way he went. There's a double arrow, pointing both ways. Wonder if it's his. Wonder when he wrote here. If somebody hadn't written on top of him with charcoal, a fellow might tell."
"Anyway, we won't turn off yet," declared Harry. "And if we stand here 'wondering' we won't get anywhere at all. He said to keep northwest by the high ground. Maybe that wagon track ahead is the Lightning Express. We'll keep going. Gwan, Duke! Jenny!"
"Sort of wish we'd gone by the Smoky Hill, don't you?" ventured Terry. "We'd had more company."
"When we strike the Republican we'll find plenty company," asserted Harry. "Thisisgetting rather lonesome, I must confess."
Not a moving object was in sight. The "Pike's Peak Post Office" tree stood here all by itself, as if waiting for the stages. And yet, Terry well knew (unless the sights at Manhattan had been a dream), north and south of them thousands of people were trooping, trooping westward in long, human rivers of creaking wagons.
He and Harry gave a last look behind and on either side, searching the brushy expanse for other outfits; then they left the friendly cottonwood and headed westward again, in the tracks of the wagon before. But suddenly Harry stopped.
"Pshaw! We forgot." And he limped hastily back to the tree. With his pencil he wrote on it. Of course! Terry returned to see.
"The Pike's Peak Limited. April 20, 1859. All well," announced this latest inscription.
"Somebody will read it," quoth Harry. "It'll show we got this far ourselves." And they returned, better satisfied, to the cart.
"There's one thing sure," continued Harry: "The less company we have, the more fuel and forage we'll find. We're getting into the buffalo country, too. See?"
For the surface of the ground was cut deeply by narrow trails like cattle trails, but made by buffalo wending probably from water to water. Some of the trails had been freshly trodden.
"That means we'll have to look sharp after Duke and Jenny," warned Terry.
They proceeded.
"Well, here come a party," remarked Harry. "But they're going the wrong way."
"Maybe it's some of the stage line surveyors."
The party, of three men, two of them horseback and one of them muleback, drew on at trot and rapid walk. The men were bearded, roughly dressed, and well armed with revolvers and rifles. Meeting the Pike's Peak Limited, they halted. So Harry and Terry halted.
"Howdy?"
"Howdy yourselves. Where you bound?"
"For the land of gold," cheerfully answered Harry.
"Land o' nothin'!" rebuffed the spokesman of the party. "Turn back, turn back, 'fore you starve to death."
"Why? Are you from the Pike's Peak mines?"
"We're from the Cherry Creek diggin's, young feller, but we didn't see any mines there nor nowheres else. It's all a fake, and we're on our way to tell the people so and save 'em their bacon."
"Aren't you bringing any gold?" exclaimed Terry. "Have you been there long?"
"Long! Gold!" And he turned his pocket inside out. "That's the size of your elephant. We've been there since last November, sonny, and the gold is in your eye. That Pike's Peak craze is the biggest hoax ever invented. It's just a scheme of a few rascals to sell off town lots. They want to get people to come out yonder; and gold is the only thing that'll persuade 'em into the barrenest, porest country on the face of the 'arth. We've been thar, so we know. We couldn't get out, in the winter; but everybody's leavin' now, to tell the folks along all the trails to face back and go home."
Terry felt a sinking of the heart. Harry also seemed to sober.
"What gold is it that's been sent out of there, then?" he asked.
"Californy gold! Fetched through from Californy. Never was taken out of that Pike's Peak country at all. Californy gold, used to fool the people with, back in the States."
"But my father brought home two hundred dollars in gold, and he found it there somewhere, himself—near Pike's Peak," argued Terry, with sudden thought. "We've already got a mine!"
"He did, did he? Waal, if he did he was lucky, and he was luckier to get out with it. Thar may be a little gold—thar's gold to be washed from 'most any mountain stream, but you can't eat gold. Yon country's a freezin' country and a starvation country and an Injun country, fit for neither civilized man nor beast. The government'll need to step in and forbid people goin' to it. The hull of it ain't wuth an east Kansas acre."
"All right. Much obliged," said Harry. "So long."
"Goin' on?"
"We'll try a piece farther," said Harry. "How's the trail ahead? Did you see any stage line stakes?"
"Stage line stakes! What you dreamin' of? That stage idee is another hoax. You'll find that out, together with a few other things. But if you'reseton bein' a pair of young fools,goon. We haven't more time to waste with you."
And forthwith the party spurred on its eastward way.
"Look out for Injuns," called one, over his shoulder.
"Humph!" mused Harry. "Doesn't sound very encouraging, but we can't believe everything we hear, for and against, both. If we did, we'd never knowwhatto do. A fellow has to act on his own hook, sometimes, until he can judge by his own experience, where he can't depend on the experience of others. That party may have secret reasons for talking so." He eyed Terry. "Shall we go on, clear through? I don't think a few discouragements will turn the wheel-barrow man back."
"I don't, either!" declared Terry, bracing. "Let's go on."
"Duke! Jenny! Hep with you!" responded Harry. "Hurrah for the Pike's Peak Limited, and maybe the Lightning Express, too! But no German with a wife and six girls and a feather bed shall beat this outfit. We're liable to come on a stake, any time. And the next will be only a few miles, and the next another few miles, and at that rate we'll hit the Republican River smack."
But to Terry, surveying the monotonous, empty landscape, single stakes planted maybe days' journeys apart seemed rather small landmarks.
In mid-afternoon they did indeed overtake the "Litening Express." It was halted beside a small, stagnant water-hole, as if making early camp. The wife and the six girls were sitting around, in disconsolate manner, and the German himself was soaking his naked feet in the water.
"What's the matter here?" hailed the cheerful Harry. "Broken down? You're pointing the wrong way."
For that was so. The one wagon track beyond had doubled, and the wagon, from which the team had been unspanned, was heading east instead of west.
"Yah," stolidly answered the German. "We go back. Dere iss no elephant. Now we go back again home quick. We haf met some men who haf told us."
"Oh, pshaw!" uttered Harry. "You're half-way. Better go the rest of the way and see for yourself. You mustn't let a few wild rumors stop you."
"Don't you intend to fill your sacks?" added Terry.
"Dere iss no gold, so dey say; an' notting else," insisted the German.
"Once you believed there was, and now you believe there isn't," laughed Harry. "You might as well believe the first as the second, as far as you know."
"And there is gold, because we've got a mine," encouraged Terry.
"Nein." And the German shook his head. "I set out to fill my sacks; dose men say I cannot fill dem. So I go home. I t'ink you better go home, too. You camp here with us, an' I fix my feet, an' we haf a goot supper, an' den in mornin' we travel togedder."
"Nope, we're bound through," replied Harry. "This is no time of day for us to camp." And Terry was relieved to hear him say so, for the stagnant pool, with the German's feet in it, did not look very inviting. "What did you find ahead?"
"Notting an' nobody," grumbled the German. "All joost like dis." And he swept his arm around to indicate the bare stretch of plains. "Purty soon you see where I turn to go home, an' den you be all by yourself. I do not like it. I like peoples. So I go home."
"You didn't see any stake, did you?" queried Terry.
"What stake?"
"To mark the stage line."
"What for would dey poot any stage line where dey ain't peoples?" demanded the German.
"All right: how'll you sell your mining tools?" asked Harry, with alert mind. "You've no use for them."
"Mebbe I dig garden. But I sell dem to you for one dollar an' half—de whole lot."
"Done!" cried Harry. "And how about those sacks?"
"Dey iss goot potato sacks. But what will you gif me for dose sacks?"
"Four bits."
"Well, I guess you take dem. You t'ink to poot potatoes in dem? Nein, nein; you iss crazy. It iss as crazy as to t'ink to poot gold in dem."
When they left the German, who had resumed the soaking of his sore feet in the general pool, they were possessed of two new picks, two new spades, a cask of sauerkraut, and the bale of sacks.
"What'll we ever do with the sacks?" inquired Terry.
Harry scratched his long nose.
"Blamed if I know, yet," he admitted. "But you never can tell."
In about an hour they passed the place where the "Litening Express" had turned about. Now there was no trail at all, except the endless buffalo trails. Somewhere they had lost even the hoof-prints of the three horsemen.
They made late and solitary evening camp on the farther side of a deep creek bed, whose banks had been broken down by crossing buffalo. There was so little water that Terry had to dig a hole, in order to get a pailful for supper and breakfast. But in wandering about searching for buffalo chips in the gloaming, he shouted gladly:
"Here's a stake—a new one! It says: 'Station 11'!"
Harry limped to inspect.
"Bully!" he enthused. "We don't care where the other ten are. This shows we're on the right road. Well, Mr. Station Master, I want supper and beds for two, and a guide to the next station. What's the tariff, and what'll you trade for sauerkraut and gunny-sacks? But I wish your company'd make your stations a little bigger, for this is a powerful big country."
However, tiny as it was, the stake appealed as a human token. There were signs, also, of an old camp, near the creek; and from the stake hoof-marks led away westward, as if to the next stake.
"I suppose," reflectively drawled Harry, in the morning at breakfast, "that by the looks of things we're in for a dry march or two before we strike the creeks on the other side. Anyway, we'd better fill the water keg, sure. And I opine you're to go ahead, to keep those horse tracks, while I follow with the cart."
"Pike's Peak or Bust," responded Terry.
They started early, to push on at best speed. Duke grunted, Jenny sighed, the cart creaked, Harry whistled, Shep scouted before and on either hand, sniffing at the buffalo trails and charging the prairie dogs and little brown birds, and Terry, trudging in the advance, faithfully kept to the hoof-prints.
Perhaps the Pike's Peak pilgrims who had turned off had been wise, for the water certainly was failing. Now there were only a few shallow washes, and these were dry as a bone, showing that the top of the low prairie divide was being crossed. Still, with a full water keg, which would give several good drinks to all, and with the horse tracks to follow, and the Republican side of the divide somewhere ahead, there was no cause for worry.
Duke and Jenny stepped valiantly. Terry felt a pride in the thought that the Pike's Peak Limited was the first overland outfit on the new stage trail. He wondered if they would beat the wheel-barrow man in to the diggin's. Maybe they would! He wondered when they would sight the mountains. Tomorrow? No, scarcely tomorrow. The horizon ahead was a complete half-circle, broken by never an up-lift. In fact, 'twas hard to believe that any mountains at all lay in that direction.
At noon Harry guessed that they had covered ten miles, and he figured on covering another ten miles before evening camp. He was anxious to reach the next water. The cart was not much of a drag, and both Duke and Jenny were strong. So at the noon camp everybody had a little drink, and Duke and Jenny had a little grass, and a little doze. Shep snored. A good dog, Shep.
"It's queer how little game we've seen, except measley rabbits," observed Harry, that evening. "Only some antelope, and one old buffalo bull at a distance."
"And no Indians, either," added Terry.
"Well, expect the Indians are with the buffalo or else begging along the main trails," reasoned Harry. "But we'd better hobble both animals short, anyway, so they won't stray off looking for water."
The sun had set gloriously in a clear and golden west. While camp was being located in the open, the broad expanse of rolling plain quickly empurpled; and in the twilight Terry staked out Duke, by a rope and a strap around his fore-leg, and Jenny by a rope around her neck. When supper was finished, and the dishes scoured with twigs to save the water, the first stars had appeared in the sky.
Just before closing his eyes to sleep, Terry from his buffalo robe gazed up and sighed contentedly. It was a fine night.
The coyotes and the larger wolves seemed unusually busy. Their yaps and howls sounded frequently. Several times during the night Terry was conscious that Shep growled, and that Duke and Jenny were uneasy; he heard also a low rumble, as of distant thunder, but he was too sleepy to sit up and look about. When he did unclose his eyes, to blink for a moment, he saw that the stars were still vivid in the blue-black sky overhead.
This was the last thought—and next he awakened with a start, to pink dawn and Harry's ringing shout:
"Buffalo! Great Scott! Look at the buffalo!"
Harry was up, standing near the cart and gazing to the east. Up sprang Terry, too, and gazed. The rumble was distinct. A miracle had occurred between darkness and dawn—all the plain to the east was black with a living mass which had flowed upon it during the night.
Buffalo!
"I should say!" gasped Terry.
"Must be ten thousand of them," called Harry.
"Look out for Jenny and Duke!"
Jenny was snorting, as the morning breeze bore the reek of the vast herd to her nostrils. No, mules did not like buffalo. Duke's head was high, as he stared. Harry had partially dressed; now he hurried to quiet the team. Terry drew on his trousers and boots and hastened after.
The buffalo were grazing, and seemed to be drifting slowly this way. The hither fringe was not a quarter of a mile from the camp. Bulls bellowed and pawed and rolled, calves gamboled and breakfasted, and around the mass prowled great gray buffalo wolves, waiting their chances. All was wondrously clear in the first rays of the rising sun.
Harry led the restive Jenny to the wagon and tied her short.
"I think we'd better get right out of here," he announced, as he helped Terry and Shep drive the equally restive Duke in. "The coast ahead is clear. But if we wait for breakfast or anything, that herd's liable to be on top of us."
"Let's hustle, then," agreed Terry. "They're coming this way, sure. I heard 'em, in the night, but I didn't know what it was."
"Same here," confessed Harry, as they hustled to put Duke and Jenny to the cart, and pitch the camp stuff inside. "Funny where such a mob rose from. Reckon something set 'em traveling."
Jenny was quite ready to leave, but Duke was more reluctant. However, on started the Pike's Peak Limited again.
"We'll stop for breakfast when we're at a safer distance," quoth Harry. "Hope we reach water tonight."
Yes, the great herd was perceptibly nearer when they pulled out. But at the rate it was moving it could be left behind while it peacefully grazed. The thin brush was a-sparkle with scant dew, soon dried by the bright sun. The hoof-prints of the second horseman party showed plainly in the sod and sandy gravel. Terry acted as guide, Harry, following with the cart, urged on Duke and Jenny.
"Reckon we'll come to another stake today," called back Terry.
"Reckon we will," answered Harry.
The rumble of the herd gradually died. The sun mounted higher, and Terry was thinking upon breakfast, when a sudden hail from Harry halted him.
"Wait! Listen!"
Harry had stopped.
"Whoa!" And Duke and Jenny stopped, not at all unwillingly.
Terry stopped, poised. Another dull rumble! More buffalo? Nothing was in sight before or on either hand. The rumble came from behind—and yonder, against the sun, welled a cloud of dust.
"They've stampeded!" he cried.
"Sounds like it. And the question is, which way are they going?"
That was speedily answered.
"Gee whillikens!" exclaimed Terry. "They're coming this way!"
A swell of the prairie had concealed all save the dust; but now atop the swell had appeared black dots, succeeded instantly by a long wave of solid black, as over and down surged the whole herd, covering the back trail and pouring on with astonishing, not to say alarming rapidity. The flanks extended widely; there was no time for escaping to one side or the other. In fact, the cart seemed to be right in the middle of the broad path.
Harry acted quickly.
"Watch the animals!" he ordered. "I'll tend to this end. Don't lose your head, Terry. We can split 'em."
He limped to the rear of the wagon. Terry ran back to Duke—and saw that Harry had jerked the shot-gun from where it was stowed, and was posted out behind the wagon. The crowded ranks of the buffalo were so close that the earth trembled. Jenny trembled, also, and Duke was pawing and staring side-ways. Shep, barking wildly, took refuge underneath the wagon.
Terry seized the whip, dropped by Harry, and threatened Duke from before.
"Steady, Duke! Jenny! Whoa! Whoa, now!"
"Steady, everybody!" yelled Harry, above the up-roar. The stampeding herd was upon them. Three or four of the fleetest cows raced past, galloping, heads low, little tails cocked, with the peculiar rolling motion of the running buffalo; and close after pressed the whole mass—a crowded frontage of thundering hoofs, shaggy heads, bulging eyes, lolling tongues, huge shoulders lunging, lion-like manes tossing, and slim, smooth hind-quarters bobbing up and down. And back from the front rank, these were all mixed together—solid!
Terry's heart beat wildly. An instant more, and——! Why, the cart outfit was only a speck in the path of this darkly rushing avalanche which would swallow them all in a jiffy and never know; would mash them flat!
He caught his breath, while trying to quiet Duke and Jenny. There was no use in running away—Harry stood braced—how small he looked—but he was plucky—and now he actually ran forward, a few steps, right against the onward plunging rank—waved his hat—shouted—and bang! bang! warned the shot-gun, belching its challenge into the buffalos' faces.
"Duke! Jenny! Whoa!" shrieked Terry, desperately—and now gladly, for another miracle had occurred. The foremost buffalo, as if suddenly aware of the cart, and the human beings, had veered aside, to right and left, avoiding Harry, and the cart, and all; and following their leaders, to right and left were veering the others, here at the middle, so that the divided herd began to stream past in a heaving, jostling current, on either hand. It had been split, by Harry; and the Pike's Peak Limited was an island.
Harry continued to yell and wave his hat and arms. He stood there fearlessly, at the split. At first the split was narrow—Terry almost could touch the shaggy forms as they lurched by. He started to yell and wave, also, and help widen the split—for it did widen—but speedily he had to quit. Duke and Jenny were nervous enough already. Jenny snorted, reared; Duke shook his head and strained from side to side.
"Duke! Whoa! Steady, boy! Back, Jenny!"
The pounding of the incessant hoofs was like the long-roll of a great drum. Thick rose the dust, but not so much from the earth as from the big hairy bodies, to which had clung dried dirt. Bulls, cows, and calves; cows, calves, and bulls—forming a stifling, living lane of constant motion.
Terry scarcely could hear himself.
"Duke! Whoa, boy! Steady, there! Whoa, Jenny!"
Would the herd never be past? Yes, yonder it was thinning—and farther beyond, the stragglers were in sight. Good!
"Duke! Be careful, Duke!" He was growing more unmanageable. Terry danced before him, and threatened. "Whoa Jenny! Whoa, Duke!" And—"Duke! Duke! DUKE! Whoa-oa! DUKE!" But no use; with shake of angry head and flirt of wickedly cocked tail Duke bolted; dragged Jenny and the cart together, knocked Terry sprawling—Terry clutched vainly at the cart, was dragged, himself, a few feet, staggered up, hatless, stumbled on the frightened Shep, and gazed after with a wail: "Oh, jiminy!"
They were away, in the dusty wake of the flying herd: Duke galloping, Jenny galloping, the cart bounding.
Harry had turned just in time to witness. His sweat-streaked face gaped, amazed, perplexed, and hardened into sudden resolution as whirling he sprang forward. But Terry was as quick. Grabbing up his hat as he went, he launched in the pursuit. Out-stripping him, Shep ran furiously, barking, and Harry kept close behind.
The cart was plainly visible, in an open place among the stragglers at the rear of the herd. Duke lumbered, Jenny lumbered, the cart lumbered, and holding to the chase lumbered in their heavy boots Terry and Harry.
Soon it was evident that a harnessed buffalo was no match for free buffalo. Duke's outfit was being left; buffalo after buffalo passed it, until presently Duke and Jenny and the cart were traveling alone. But they kept going, on a stampede of their own, imitating the insensate herd.
"Darn that Duke!" panted Terry. And he shouted: "Sic', Shep! Turn 'em! Sic', sic'! Catch 'em, boy!"
Shep darted gaily. He fairly tore through the brush. Now he had reached the cart—and now he was barking alongside the crazy team. Would he do it?Couldhe do it? Yes, he was trying to head them. He had gained the front; yapping, darting, snapping, he was crossing back and forth before Duke's nose. Down lower dropped Duke's burly head; he charged; Shep dodged, and returned.
The cart swung and tilted, and out was bounced the cask of sauerkraut.
"Hurrah!" cheered Harry.
On at a tangent lumbered Duke and Jenny—Shep was bothering them seriously—and out bounced the water keg.
"Great Scott!" gasped Harry. "Don't let's lose that keg!"
"Shep'll stop 'em! Shep'll stop 'em!" panted Terry. "Hurrah!" His throat was tight, his heart thumped tremendously, his legs were like lead, but he had hopes.
Shep knew his business of turning cattle. Now wherever the enraged and frantic Duke headed, the pesky, yapping, snapping dog was under his nose. Jenny was growing tired of being dragged hither-thither; she detested dogs, and she despised buffalo, tame or wild. Duke, at his wits' end, and tired also, stopped short; she stopped; Duke pawed and shook his locks and rumbled, keen yet for just one good chance at his tormentor—and Shep, sitting down, with tongue dripping, held the way.
There they were when, breathless, Terry and Harry arrived, to scold the runaways, to praise Shep, and to take stock of damages.
"Not a thing broken, is there?" pronounced Harry, still panting, after the hasty survey.
And that appeared to be the case. Of course, the stuff inside the cart was pretty well jumbled; but the frame and wheels seemed all right, and the harness was whole, and only Duke and Jenny themselves were the worse for wear. Their drooping heads and heaving flanks proclaimed that they had run quite far enough.
So, thought Terry, had he and Harry. He felt as though he had run a mile or more. Whew!
"All's well that ends well," asserted Harry, regaining his spirits. Nothing downed Harry. "Now, first thing to do is to get that keg of water. But I don't suppose we'll ever find the trail. The buffalo must have tramped it out—and we're away off the track, anyway. Shucks!"
"Where is the keg?" asked Terry, peering.
"There it is—that first dot. See? The gunny sacks are beyond, and the sauerkraut last. Let's turn the critters about. You bring them on and I'll go ahead. Maybe something else was jounced out."
Duke and Jenny were turned, after considerable shouting and shoving; Harry set off on a straight line for the keg, and Terry followed more slowly with the team and cart. It did seem rather tough luck that they had lost the horsemen's trail to the next stake; now they'd simply have to guess at direction, unless they happened to be near the stage line and a stage came.
Golly, but he was thirsty! His mouth was glued. He hoped that they all—that is, Harry and he and Shep—would get a good drink from that keg. As for Duke and Jenny, they did not deserve a drink, although doubtless they needed one. And what about something to eat?
Harry was waiting at the keg, a queer look on his perspiring, grimy face. He had set the keg on end.
"Thirsty?" he queried.
"Thirsty's no name for it," panted Terry.
"So am I. But we'll have to go easy. The bung flew out of the keg, and half the water's followed. I found the bung, but I can't find the water."
Harry evidently tried to speak lightly, but Terry read concern in his tone and face both.
"Can you stand a short drink?" encouraged Harry. "There'll be plenty on ahead somewhere."
"Sure," declared Terry, manfully, feeling thirstier than ever. "We've got a little, haven't we? And if we strike that trail maybe it'll lead us to a creek."
So they hoisted in the keg, tightly stoppered again (but it was suspiciously light), and Harry trudged ahead once more, to find the gunny sacks.
"We'll never mind the sauerkraut," he called back. "Let it stay. The lighter we travel, the better, from here to water."
Shep went with him. They dipped into a shallow, narrow draw; Terry heard Shep barking, and then Harry hallooing. And when, urging Duke and Jenny, he could see into the draw, Harry was there, at one side, beckoning and shouting to him, and at the same time examining some object on the ground.
"Haw, Duke! Haw! Hep with you!" Along the shallow draw they toiled, for he was afraid to leave the team.
Harry was kneeling, Shep was nosing and busily waving his tail. They were engaged over that object. It could not be the gunny sacks. The gunny sacks had not rolled so far from the back trail.
"Whoa-oa, Duke, Jenny! Stand, now!" And Terry trudged a few steps to join the investigation. He stopped short, astounded.
Harry and Shep had found a man—no, looked more like a boy; lying crumpled and motionless in a little saucer-shaped hollow amidst the brush.
"Say! Is he dead?" gasped Terry.
"No. Hasn't even been stepped on, I think," answered Harry. "But he needs food and water mighty bad—'specially water. Open the keg, quick."
Terry flew to the cart, wrestled with the keg until he might pour from it, and lavishly plashing a tin cup full, even to running over, flew back again.
Harry sopped his handkerchief and mopped the up-turned face of the cast-away; trickled a few drops, now and then, in between the cracked, parted lips; wet the thin wrists. Skin and lips seemed to absorb water like a dry sponge.
The unconscious refugee was small and exceedingly thin; he could not be over eighteen or nineteen at the most. He wore coarse shoes and trousers, and a flannel shirt open at the chest. Harry wet the white chest. Terry and Shep watched expectantly.
"He must be a stray from some pilgrim outfit," remarked Harry. "Got lost. Expect he tried to strike across country by himself, and had no food or water. Queer that the buffalo didn't harm him. They went right over him."
And that was so. All the brush, save in this oasis, was crushed, and the ground was stamped and furrowed by the myriad plunging hoofs. But somehow they had leaped the little hollow, or avoided it.
"Did you find him?" asked Terry.
"No; Shep found him. More water, please." And Harry passed up the emptied cup.
When Terry returned with it filled again, a change had occurred in their patient. His eyes were fluttering, and he was feebly moving his bony hands. He greedily gulped for the water, and even tried to seize the cup when Harry removed it. Some of the water flowed over his face, but some of it was swallowed.
Terry hated to see any of it wasted on the ground. He was thirsty himself; so were they all—Duke bawled hoarsely and Jenny essayed to beg, smelling water and asking for it.
The patient appeared to be attempting to speak—signed for more, more.
"A little at a time, a little at a time," repeated Harry. "You're all right. You're among friends, but you mustn't drink too much at once. Might make you sick. Another swallow? There you are."
The second cup was emptied. The patient was beginning to mutter thickly and seemed to be seeing—signed for more, more. A slight color tinged his smooth sunken cheeks.
"He's coming round," declared Harry. "Next thing is to get him out of this sun and into the cart. We can't stay here. Whew, this sun is hot! Watch him and shade him as much as you can, will you, while I fix things?"
Having fumbled inside the cart, away limped Harry, and returned lugging the bale of gunny sacks. He cut the binding with his knife, and opened the bale—spread the sacks in the cart, for a bed, and leaping out with a buffalo robe, brought it to the hollow.
"Now let's put him on this and hoist him aboard."
That was done, Terry tugging from inside the cart and Harry lifting from outside. The sacks and the buffalo robe made a very comfortable, snug bed, and wedged the sides so as to hold the patient securely.
"Water," feebly implored a voice.
"One cup full, this time," granted Harry. "Drink slowly—slowly, now."
The boy clutched the cup with both hands, and Harry with difficulty prevented his draining it at a gulp. But having drained it, he sank back with a sigh.
"Ho, hum!" And Harry paused, to sigh too, and wipe his streaming face with his handkerchief. Duke and Jenny had their heads turned, expectantly; Shep was sitting, his tongue out, his eyes eager, likewise demanding a share from the keg. "I suppose we'll all have a small drink apiece, but we've got another mouth to supply."
"We won't have enough, will we?" anxiously asked Terry. "We hardly had enough before."
This did loom as tough luck: to have been limited in water anyway, then to have lost the trail, and to have lost part of the water, and to have used half of the valuable day in getting nowhere in particular, but in being made thirstier than ever, and now to have added still another thirsty mouth to the company. Of course——
"Never mind," asserted Harry. "Everything's all right. Don't you see—if the stampede hadn't come Duke and Jenny wouldn't have run, and if they hadn't run, we might not have lost the trail, and if the things hadn't bounced out we wouldn't have back-tracked to gather them, and if we hadn't back-tracked, we would never have found the boy, and if he hadn't been found today, he'd have died, down there in that hollow. Now we'll all get through. We won't stop to eat, but Duke and Jenny will travel a little faster for a drink, and so will the rest of us. Half a cup for you, and half a cup for me, and half a pail for them, to wash the dust out of their throats, and a dozen laps for Shep. And one more cupful for our new partner, when he needs it."
"Well," said Terry, dubiously, "I don't know whether there's that much in the keg or not."
There was, and a swash left. The boy in the cart didn't understand. "Water! Water!" he kept begging, as the Pike's Peak Limited ("limited" indeed) again toiled on through the monotonous flatness, Harry guessing at the right direction and Terry trudging beside the rear wheels. That incessant cry for "water, water," grew rather annoying. The new boy already had had four cupfuls and probably'd get another! And every cupful counted now. But of course——!
"We must go on as far as we possibly can, before dark," had said Harry. "Or until we strike water, first."
When would that be? Duke and Jenny were sluggish on their feet, and frequently stumbled as they groaned along with their stringy tongues dangling. It was slow work, and hot work, and awfully thirsty work—Terry wasn't certain that he could hold out much longer without another drink.
"Do we drink again pretty soon?" he stammered.
"I don't think we'd better, do you?" answered Harry, as if trying to speak cheerfully. "We've got to save some for Duke and Jenny, and our passenger. We can't get him through without them to haul him."
"Tha' so," agreed Terry, his mouth gluey. "Thasso."
"Yesh, thasso," encouraged Harry. "You an' I awright. We unnerstan'. They don't."
"Water! Water!" babbled the passenger. His voice was the clearest of any.
Trudge, trudge, creak, creak, over the dry plain, on for that quivering horizon which might contain water but never drew nearer. They did not know where they were going; they probably had passed another of the stage station stakes; bushy black Shep was lagging, Duke and Jenny stumbled, Harry limped doggedly, the passenger pleaded ever more faintly and piteously until Harry, halting abruptly, without a word grimly gave him half a dozen swallows; and when they resumed, Terry had decided that he'd rather have a drink, himself, than all the gold of Pike's Peak.
However, Harry took none; and so he didn't ask for one.
The sun was low, streaming into their faces, and dazzling and blinding. Soon it would set; soon they must stop; one spot would be as good as another, if they didn't come to water—and just how he was to get through a dry night, following a dry day, Terry could not imagine—did not like to imagine, anyway.
That keg, when Harry had tilted it to give those few swallows to the passenger, had sounded alarmingly emptier than before. Water evaporated mighty fast on these plains.
Turning a moment, to shut the sun from his tortured eyes, now Terry saw something, quartering behind, on the right, which was the north. What? Antelope? No; too much dust. Antelope didn't raise such dust. Buffalo, then? More buffalo? Or Indians! No—and a wild hope surged into his heart and strengthened his voice, as he cried, to Harry:
"Harry! Hurrah! There's somebody else—another outfit!"
Harry, who had been plodding on, stopped to gaze; and instantly the exhausted Duke and Jenny stopped.
"Freighters," decided Harry. "Great Scott! Hurrah! Or maybe some of the stage-line people. We'll have to head 'em off and make 'em see us. Come on. Hurrah! Duke! Jenny! Gwan! Water! Water! Barrels of it—gallons of it!"
Duke and Jenny seemed to appreciate—they started gallantly.
"Gee—gee with you, Duke!" bade Harry, hobbling.
"Do you think theywillhave water?" panted Terry.
"Of course. But we'll have to catch 'em. Duke! Jenny! Hep!"
The dust cloud yonder had resolved itself into quite a large outfit, traveling briskly. There was a herd of animals—mules or horses; and two wagons following, drawn each by four span; and several men afoot, and others horseback.
"They'll have to camp pretty soon. We'll come into 'em, if we keep going," encouraged Harry. And he added, suddenly: "Look at Jenny! She smells water. And so does Duke!"
For both Duke and Jenny were alertly stretching out—sniffing, tugging, trying to increase their pace. They almost trotted. Could they really smell water in barrels, away off there—or did they guess? At any rate, the two routes were drawing together.
The sun sank below the horizon, and a pleasant coolness flowed over the landscape. Now in the twilight the freighter outfit had halted, and bunched. Going to make camp? No—there it started again. Pshaw! But no—some of it had remained: not the wagons, but several of the loose stock, and two men, and a heap of stuff.
"Hurrah!" gasped Harry. "That's enough. Enough for us."
Duke and Jenny were trying to break into a gallop, and their owners had hard work to keep up. The party at the camp had seen them coming, and were pausing in their camp-making to stare. Now at a staggering lope and trot the Pike's Peak Limited fairly charged in—would have run right over the camp had not the two men there rushed out and waved their arms and shouted.
The camp was on the edge of a muddy creek course. That was what ailed Duke and Jenny; only by main force could they be held back.
"What's the matter? Plumb crazed?" scolded one of the men.
"Their critters are plumb crazed, don't you see?" reproved the other. "Unhook 'em and let 'em go, or they'll drag cart and all in."
Harry hustled, Terry hustled, the men helped—and on sprang Duke and Jenny, into the mud, into the water, to drink, and gulp, and drink again, and stand there, belly deep, soaking. Terry yearned mightily to join them, but Harry was more polite.
"Whar you from? You look nigh tuckered out, yourselves," accused one of the men.
"So we are," gasped Harry. "We're down to our last drop—we've a man aboard the cart who's worse off still—picked him up this morning. But I can't talk till I have a drink."
"Never mind the creek; it's too roily. We've a barrel full." And the other man promptly passed over a brimming dipper. Harry took it; his hand trembled.
"You first, Terry," he said.
Terry shook his head.
"We'll take turns," he proposed. "You drink and then I'll drink."
Ah, but that water, warmish and brackish, was good! Together they emptied the dipper, and at once emptied another—and by this time the two men had lifted the boy from the cart and were attending to him, also. He was too weak to talk, but he seemed to know, and smiled when he likewise had drained a dipper.
"Give him a little broth, later," grunted one of the men. "He had a narrow squeak, I reckon. Mustn't overfeed him. We'll stew him some buff'ler meat. 'Xpec' you fellers are hungry, yourselves, by this time."
"Haven't eaten all day," laughed Harry, in spirits again. "But where are we? We're looking for the stage line, and the Republican."
"You aren't near the Republican yet, by a long shot. But this is a stage station, all right. Fust stages will be through tomorrow and after that two at a time every day, till the trail's well broken. We're part of the supply outfit. It drops some of us off every so far along the line, ahead of the stages, so we'll have meals and lodgin' and a change of mules ready. You needn't do much unpackin'; we've grub enough, and you can bunk with us and put that sick boy in the tent."
"Yes, and the stages'll take him on tomorrow," spoke the other man. "You'll have to lie by, anyhow. You can't start your critters out till after they've rested a bit. That's a great team you've got—a buffalo and a mule! Where you from?"
"The Big Blue," answered Terry.
"Oh! You're the boys from the Big Blue, are you? You're the ones who spilled Chubbers' whiskey."
So even they knew!
The station agent and his helper were a hospitable pair. Harry volunteered to attend to the cooking while they straightened the camp a little, for the night. The supply wagon had dumped off a tent, a stove, a barrel for water, a bale of hay, bedding, sacks and boxes of provisions, several bunches of fire-wood, etc. The tent was erected, the rescued boy placed inside and given a little broth. He immediately went to sleep.
This was Station Twelve—a dinner station for the stages. The next station, Number Thirteen, about twenty-five miles farther on, was a night station. The stations would average about twenty-five miles apart, through this region, to the diggin's. Farther east, in the settlements, the stations were closer. One hundred stages and a thousand mules would be put on the run, at a cost of $800 a day. The company, Jones & Russell of Leavenworth, already had spent $300,000. The fare from Leavenworth to the mountains was $100 gold, and shorter trips were twenty-five cents a mile. Time to the mountains, twelve days—maybe less when the trail was well broken, and if the Indians didn't bother.
"Two stages travelin' together will hold off the Injuns," remarked the station agent.
"Heigh-ho!" drowsily yawned Harry, after dusk, from his blankets. "All's well that ends well—but I was getting a trifle worried."
He and Terry had decided to wait for the stages, and to let Duke and Jenny rest during at least half that next day. The fact is, they were willing to rest, themselves.
Toward noon the station men paused in their tasks, to gaze more and more frequently into the east.
"Thar they come," quietly informed one; and now all gazed, expectant.
"Right on time."
Upon the surface of the vast plains to the south of east had appeared a dot. It rapidly enlarged, and resolved into two dots, one behind the other. They were coming—they were coming: the first stagecoaches, sure enough; each drawn by four mules, driver on seat, other people on seat and roof, heads protruding from windows, mules at a gallop.
"Yes, sir-ee! On time to the minute."
Swaying and lurching and dust-enveloped, with creak of leather and sudden grind of brake-shoes, the leading stage slackened at the station, stopped abruptly, and setting the brake more securely the driver tossed his lines to the ground and in leisurely fashion descended. He was in slouch hat, white shirt-sleeves (or whitish, rather), yellow kid gloves and shiny boots. Somewhat of a dandy, he.
Another man swung down from the seat, after him; so did the passengers atop the coach, and those within piled out. The second coach arrived in like fashion.
The first coach was painted red, the second green; and both were gilt striped and bore, in gilt letters, the announcement: "Leavenworth and Pike's Peak Express Company."
The station-agent's assistant bustled to unhitch the mules and put in fresh ones. The station agent served the dinner, of cold boiled buffalo meat, bread and coffee. The passengers ate out of doors, sitting on the boxes and a nail-keg.
One of the passengers who had ridden on top of the coach was a busy, inquiring man with a full brown beard and a blue eye and a long linen duster. After he had eaten he walked over to Harry and Terry.
"I'm Henry Villard, from the CincinnatiCommercial," he said, genially. "The station agent tells me that you boys have had quite an exciting experience on this new trail. Buffalo stampede, and a rescue, and all that. I'd like to hear about it and send it to my paper. It ought to make a good story."
The man who had occupied the seat with the driver also came over.
"A buffalo, a mule and a two-wheeled cart, eh?" he commented. "Well, I guess you'll make it, if you've got so far. But there are five thousand other pilgrims behind us, some with worse outfits than yours, and all pushing on by this same trail, to find the 'elephant.'"
Journalist Villard took notes; he even interviewed the boy in the tent. The boy was now able to talk. He said that his name was Archie Smith. He and two others had started from Ohio, to walk to the diggin's. They had tried to cut across north from the Smoky Hill trail and had got lost—and the last he remembered he was wandering alone, so weak from hunger and thirst that he had fallen down.
The man who had spoken of the five thousand pilgrims behind (his name was Beverly D. Williams, and he was the stage-line superintendent, on his initial tour of inspection), helped Archie into the red coach.
"All aboard!" summoned the drivers, climbing to their seats. The passengers hastily took their places. As the red coach started with a jump, from the window Archie waved his hand at Harry and Terry, and called again:
"Thanks. I owe you a lot. I'll see you at the mines. Don't forget. I'll see you at the mines."
With a jump the green coach started also. And away rolled, tugged by their galloping mules, the first stages for Pike's Peak, bearing Journalist Henry Villard of the CincinnatiCommercialand Superintendent Williams, and those passengers who, like Mr. Villard, were bent on discovering just how true the "elephant" stories were.
The Pike's Peak Limited prepared to follow.
"Five thousand pilgrims! Did you hear that? All coming along behind!" exclaimed Terry, as he and Harry "hooked" the now rested Duke and Jenny to the cart. "These are new ones. He didn't say anything about the other trails."
"We heard how they were, before we left," reminded Harry. "And we saw a right smart smattering of folks at Manhattan, remember. Oh, I don't think we'll be lonesome."
"All you've got to do now is to follow the stage tracks," directed the station agent. "You'll come to stations every so often. But you'd best keep your water keg filled. There's no knowin' what'll happen on these plains."
"Yes, sir," concurred his helper. "And keep your weather eye peeled for Injuns. Don't let 'em bamboozle you or if they don't take your scalps they'll steal you blind. When Injuns come in, hang tight to your scatter-gun."
"Haven't seen any, so far," remarked Harry.
"No; but you can't tell. In my opinion that buff'lo stampede was caused by Injuns—like as not that was why the buff'lo drifted down on you in the fust place. And if you hadn't got out when you did, in a hurry, you'd have had more trouble, plenty."
The stages had long since disappeared in the west, but the tracks were plain. Tomorrow there would be other stages, and the next day others, and so on, had said the station men; and before the Limited had even sighted the mountains some of these same stages would be met coming back. That made travel at a walk seem rather slow, especially when gold was waiting only to be found.
A second pair of stages passed them, with a swirl of dust and a cheer, late the next afternoon, but they found them spending the night at Station Thirteen, on the bank of another creek. Here they also camped.
"Twenty-five miles again," sighed Harry, satisfied. "We'll get there."
Duke and Jenny had indeed footed sturdily. The hurrying stages seemed to be an inspiration to them. They felt that they, also, were now going somewhere.
The coaches had been full. There were two women, who slept in the station tent. The men passengers slept on the ground, under a canopy of gunny sacking stretched over stakes. For their own comfort the station employees were digging a cave in the side of an arroyo or dry wash, where they might house themselves and cook, in bad weather. Could fight off the Indians from it, too, they said.
The talk among the passengers was mainly of buffalo, Indians and the other sights along the trail. The Indians had been bothering the timid pilgrims considerably, with begging and stealing, but had not bothered the stages.
"We'll take no chances, though," declared the stage-driver. "Never let an Injun think you're afraid of him—that's the secret. Once start to give in, and you're lost. Most of these pilgrims never've had experience with the plains Injuns. They try to please 'em and buy their good-will by giving 'em something for nothing, and the Injuns don't understand. Giving something for nothing isn't Injun way. It amounts to being afraid. Why, we passed at least half a dozen outfits who'd been so good to the Injuns that they didn't have a critter left—every head driven off, some in broad daylight, and there the wagons were sitting. One wagon had said at first 'Pike's Peak or Bust,' and now it said, 'Busted, by Thunder!'"
"Must have been Kiowas or Cheyennes. The 'Rapahoes aren't ranging so far east, are they?" suggested the station agent.
"Oh, they're all ranging everywhere, now, following the buffalo and begging from the pilgrims," quoth the driver. "Kiowas, Cheyennes and 'Rapahoes—they're in cahoots. But I hear tell that the main band of the 'Rapahoes under old Little Raven are sticking 'round Cherry Creek, camped there on their winter grounds, along with the whites, instead of chasing the buffalo. It's easier."
The Pike's Peak Limited pulled out early, bent on making time and not be overtaken by those five thousand rivals who were still coming. In about an hour and a half the stages passed at a gallop, while the drivers saluted with a flourish of whips. And the Limited proceeded to plod after.
Buffalo had become quite abundant. They were constantly in sight—large bunches and small; but Duke seemed to have had his fill of rampaging, and paid little attention to his kin-people. However, as Harry remarked, where there were buffalo, there likely were Indians.
"If any do come in on us," he said, "I'll grab the gun and you tend to Jenny. If there's one thing a mule hates worse than buffalo, it's Injun—and Jenny's powerful sensitive, poor thing."
"Maybe we ought to mount guard tonight," proposed Terry. "I'll sit up and then you sit up." Mounting guard for fear of Indian attack would be another fine story to tell to George Stanton.
"Not yet," decided Harry. "We'll stake Jenny in close, and she's awake all night anyway. At least, with her grunts and groans she sounds like it."
"I suppose Shep would make a racket, too."
"W-well," mused Harry, "I believe I'd rather trust to Jenny's ears and nose than to Shep's—there's moreofthem."
The buffalo before and on either side grazed peacefully; but about three o'clock that afternoon a commotion was evident behind. The buffalo were scampering, and afar on the trail appeared a little cloud of dust.
"Can't be another stage already, can it?" questioned Harry.
"Injuns!" exclaimed Terry. "But they wouldn't be raising dust, would they? Or maybe they're chasing a stage!"
Harry paled slightly.
"We'll soon see. But they won't get this outfit without a heap of trouble. We're going through to the diggin's."
However, it wasn't a stage. It was a light open wagon, drawn by two horses at a furious pace. Anybody might have thought that the horses were running away, except for the fact that a man on the seat was using the whip.
"Great snakes!" ejaculated Harry. "We'll have to clear the track. Gee, Duke! Jenny! Gee! Gee-up! Whoa-oa!"
He turned out just in time. The on-comers were in a tearing hurry. The horses, red-nostriled, staring-eyed, lathered and dust-caked, looked like chariot racers in full career—two men were on the seat, one driving, the other plying the whip, and both constantly gazing backward. They wore visored caps and belted blouses and knee trousers—revolvers, knives, field-glasses; up and down in the wagon jolted a mass of camp stuff, and guns, and provisions. This much Terry saw during the last minute in which the equipage arrived, dashed half-way past, and there was pulled short with a suddenness which set the two horses on their haunches.
"Injuns!" cried the two men, over their shoulders. "Cut loose for your lives!"
One was a blond, pinky-skinned man, the other was not so fair; but the faces of both were faded to a dead, dusty white by fear. Their eyes were curiously poppy.
"Where? How many?" demanded Harry and Terry, in the same breath.
"Chasing us! Five hundred of 'em! Raiding the stage line! Plundering the stations! Killing the emigrants! Burning the settlements! Cut loose! Ride for your lives!" answered the two men, in a sort of duet.
"Five hundred are quite a parcel to be chasing two men," drawled Harry. "Where'll we ride to, and how?" Mighty cool Harry was, in the midst of alarm, thought Terry. "All right," continued Harry, briskly. "One of us'll get on this mule and you can take the other in your wagon and——"
"No, no! No room!" they protested. "We've a load. We can't wait. Cut loose. You'll catch us. Ride for your lives. How far to the next station?"
"'Bout ten miles," drawled Harry.
"Gid-dap!" Down swished the lash, forward sprang the horses. "There they come!" yelled both men. "We're all dead——" and away they tore again, leaning forward on the seat, shaking the lines and plying the whip, and constantly looking back up the trail.
"Jiminy!" gasped Terry. "They said five hundred. What are we to do? We can't fight off as many as that. You—you can have Jenny," and he choked. "I'll ride Duke. Hurry!"
But Harry appeared to be in no especial hurry. He scratched his long nose reflectively, and surveyed the trail behind.
"Don't see 'em, do you?" he invited. "'Five hundred of them'—'raiding the stage line'—'plundering the stations'—'killing the emigrants'—'burning the settlements'!" He was mimicking the two fugitives. "Five hundred fiddlesticks! That's too many Indians at one time. Besides, there aren't any settlements 'round here to burn, except at the mountains, and those two lunatics haven't been to the mountains yet. And if we 'cut loose' and 'rode for our lives,' where'd we ride to? Might better save our strength and dig a hole."
"Don't you believe them, then?"
"No. You can't believe cowards. I don't blame them any for running away from five hundred Indians, but it was right mean to run away fromus. So I sized up that a husky outfit who'd leave a lame man and a boy to escape on a mule and a buffalo while they went ahead with a good team and wagon couldn't be depended on in talk or action either. Why, they had guns enough there to fight a week! Guess they were on a hunting trip across, and are nervous. G'lang, Duke! Jenny! Let's keep going."
"There are Indians coming, just the same," presently informed Terry, who could not help but peep behind.
"Two—three—five," pronounced Harry. "They're the five hundred whittled down to fact. We needn't pay any attention to the four hundred and ninety-five others yet. You watch Jenny, and Shep and I'll watch these fellows."
The Indians, five of them, were rapidly approaching at a lope, down the stage trail. When they were within two hundred yards Harry, uttering a sudden "Whoa!" fell back to the rear of the wagon and, grabbing the shot-gun, faced about, and raised his hand as sign for them to stay their distance. They slackened in a jiffy, but one rode ahead, to talk.
They were armed with bows and lances; half clothed in blankets and moccasins; appeared very dirty but seemed good-natured. The old fellow who rode ahead was a stout, grinning Indian—chief, evidently, by the feather in his greasy hair.
"How?" he grunted, from his ambling spotted pony. "No shoot. 'Rapaho. No hurt um white man. Chase um. Heap fun. See wagon men? Heap fun."
"Keep back," warned Harry, over the barrel of the shot-gun. "No fun here. We don't run."
"There's Thunder Horse, Harry!" hissed Terry, who, guarding the team, had an eye also upon the Indians.
The stout spokesman on the spotted pony was really quite good-looking; three of the others were not much worse; but the fifth in the squad was entirely different—his hair was cut short on the one side and left long on the other, instead of being in two braids, and his naturally ugly face was pitted with small-pox scars. His blanket was the dirtiest of all the blankets, his features the greasiest, his mouth the coarsest; and now as he also tried to smile, his blood-shot eyes glared fiercely.
Thunder Horse, the Kiowa, he was, again: the outlaw Indian whom Terry had first encountered among the Delawares on the emigrant trail into Kansas, a year ago, and who had been an enemy ever since. He was a drunken rascal, was Thunder Horse; nothing seemed too mean for him to try. He even had stolen George and Virgie Stanton; but Terry had helped them to get away.
Terry recognized Thunder Horse—and Thunder Horse evidently had recognized Terry, and Shep, too. Terry had pelted him with eggs, and Shep had nipped him in the calf. So Thunder Horse smiled at Harry and scowled at Terry and Shep.
"Which one?" asked Harry, aside. "The ugly one?"
"Yes. Look out forhim. You'd better."
"All good. Like um white boy. White boy give 'Rapaho shoog, coff," wheedled the chief, advancing; and now another of the Arapahoes rode forward.
"Him Little Raven; big chief," he said, speaking English very clearly. "Me Left Hand. Little Raven talk not much English. I talk for him. Where you going?"
"To the mines, of course."
"You see two men in wagon?"
"Yes."
"We no harm them. They run, then we yell and they run faster. Little Raven want to ask if you give him a little sugar and coffee."
"Haven't any to spare."
"Give him a little sugar, little coffee, little bread, and mebbe he show you where heap gold in the mountains."
"No, no," refused Harry. "Stand back, all of you," for the other Indians were edging toward the wagon, from either side. Jenny smelled them, and had grown restive—-trembled, snorted, and Shep maintained a constant growling from underneath the wagon.
"All right." And Left Hand spoke gutturally for the information of Little Raven, who nodded. "Brave boys. Not foolish and run. Good-bye."