Kitabı oku: «The Mountain Divide», sayfa 6
The activity in that direction was not reassuring. The Indians, too, apparently had noticed the smoke of No. 11 trailing on the horizon. A conference followed, illustrated by frequent pointing and violent gesticulating to indicate the coming train. Then with a sudden resolve the whole party rode rapidly out of the hills and down toward the railroad.
Bucks’s heart misgave him as he watched. But the cotton-woods growing along the river hid the Indians from his eyes and he could not surmise what they were doing. The information all went to the despatcher, however, who, more experienced, scented serious mischief when Bucks’s bulletins now came in.
“Watch close,” he wired. “It looks as if they were going to attack the train.”
The operator’s anxiety rose with the intimation. He ran out of doors and down the track, but he could neither hear nor see a thing except the slow-moving train with the smoke puffing from the awkward, diamond-stack locomotive moving peacefully toward the cotton-woods that fringed the eastern shore of Goose Creek. The very silence seemed ominous. Bucks knew the Indians were hidden somewhere in the cotton-woods and felt that they could mean nothing but mischief. He ran back to his key and reported.
“They will surely attack No. 11,” he wired. “I will run across the bridge and warn them.”
“Where are the Indians?” demanded the despatcher.
“In the timber across the creek. I am starting.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” returned the despatcher, with an expression of Western force and brevity. “They will lift your hair before you get half-way to the train. Stick to your key as long as you can. If they start to cross the creek, leg it for the ranch. Do you get me?”
Bucks, considerably flurried, answered that he did, and the despatcher with renewed emphasis reiterated his sharp inquiry. “Do you understand, young fellow? If they start to cross the creek, leg it for the ranch or you’ll lose your hair.”
Bucks strained his eyes looking for a sign of movement across the bridge. The cotton-woods swayed gently in the light breeze, but revealed nothing of what they hid.
The freight train continued to crawl lazily along, its crews quite unconscious of any impending fate. Bucks, smothering with excitement and apprehension, saw the engine round the curve that led to the trestle approach of the bridge. Then the trees hid the train from his sight.
“What are they doing?” demanded the despatcher, growing apprehensive himself. An appalling crash from the woods electrified Bucks, and the key rattled fast.
“They have wrecked the train,” he wired without an instant’s hesitation. “I can hear the crash of cars falling from the trestle.”
Before he could finish his message he heard also the screech of an engine whistle. The next instant the locomotive dashed out of the woods upon the bridge at full speed and with cries of disappointment and rage the savages rode out to the very bank of the creek and into the water after it. Bucks saw the sudden engine and thought at first that the train had escaped. The next moment he knew it had not. The engine was light: evidently it had passed in safety the trap laid for its destruction, but the cars following had left the rails.
If confirmation of this conclusion had been needed, it came when he ran out upon the platform as the engine approached. Bucks waved vigorous signals at it, but the ponderous machine came faster instead of slower as it neared the station, and, with Bucks vainly trying to attract the attention of the engineman or fireman, the locomotive thundered past at forty miles an hour.
He caught one glimpse through the tender gangway as the engine dashed by and saw both men in the cab crouching in front of the furnace door to escape the fancied bullets of the savages. Bucks shouted, but knew he had been neither seen nor heard, and, as the engine raced into the west, his best chance of escape from an unpleasant situation had disappeared almost before he realized it.
Each detail was faithfully reported to the despatcher, who answered at once.
“Relief train,” he wired, “now making up with a hundred men. Hold on as long as you can, but take no chances. What are they doing? Can you see or hear them?”
“They are yelling so you could hear them a mile.”
“Scout around a little,” directed the despatcher, “but don’t get caught.”
Bucks scouted around the room a little, but did not venture this time farther than the windows. He was growing very nervous. And the Indians, unrestrained in their triumph, displayed themselves everywhere without concealment. Helpless to aid, Bucks was compelled to stand and see a fleeing white man, the brakeman of the doomed train, running for his life, cut down by the pursuers and scalped before his eyes.
The horror and savagery of it sank deeply into the boy’s heart and only the realization of his utter inability to help kept him quiet. Tears of fury coursed down his cheeks as he saw in the distance the murdered man lying motionless on the sand beside the track, and with shaking fingers he reported the death to Medicine Bend.
“The relief train has started,” answered the despatcher, “with Stanley, Scott, Sublette, Dancing, and a hundred men.”
As the message came, Bucks heard shooting farther up the creek and this continued at intervals for some moments. It was sickening to hear, for it meant, Bucks surmised, that another trainman was being murdered.
Meantime the Indians that he could see were smashing into the wrecked merchandise cars and dragging the loot out upon the open prairie. Hats, clothing, tobacco, provisions, camp supplies of every sort, and musical instruments, millinery, boots, and blankets were among the plunder. The wearing apparel was tumbled out of the broken cases and, arrayed in whatever they could seize, the Indians paraded on their horses up and down the east bank of the creek in fantastic show.
Some wore women’s hats, some crinoline hoop-skirts over their shoulders; others brandished boots and shirts, and one glistening brave swung a banjo at arm’s-length over his flying horse’s head. Another party of the despoilers discovered a shipment of silks and satins. These they dragged in bolts from the packing-cases and, tying one end of a bolt of silk to their ponies’ tails, they raced, yelling, in circles around the prairie with the parti-colored silks streaming behind, the bolts bobbing and jerking along the ground like rioting garlands of a crazy May-pole dance. And, having exhausted their ingenuity and robed themselves in this wise in all manner of plunder, they set fire to the wrecked train, singing and dancing in high glee as the flames rose crackling above the trees.
Bucks, with clenched hands, watched and prayed for the arrival of the speeding relief train. The moments passed with leaden feet and the train had many miles to come. The despatcher continued his encouraging messages, but did not cease his words of caution, and, as the wreckage burned, Bucks perceived the Indians were riding in great numbers up the creek. Too late he realized what it meant. They were looking for the ford and were about to cross to his side.
CHAPTER XI
He lost no time in sending a final word to the despatcher before he started for safety, and his call was sounding when he ran back to the key.
“Stanley’s train has passed Chimney Butte,” said the despatcher. “Soon be with you.”
Words over the wire never sounded better to the frightened boy than those words.
“The Indians are crossing the creek,” Bucks answered. “Am off for the ranch.”
He closed the circuit and ran out on the platform. The warriors had found the ford and the horses of the head braves were already leading a file across. Bucks threw one hurried look at them; then, summoning his strength for an endurance run, he started, with the station building between him and the enemy, for the ranch.
He had hardly got under way when, as he reached higher ground, he saw to his consternation a party of Indians in the bottom land between him and safety.
He was cut off. Hoping that he had not been seen, he threw himself flat on the ground and, turning about, crawled, behind a slight ridge that afforded concealment, stealthily back toward the station. The Indians up the creek had crossed, but were riding away from the station and toward the ranch, evidently bent on attacking it next. The flames from the burning train rose high above the creek. There seemed no place to escape to and Bucks, creeping through the sedge grass, got back to his key and called the despatcher.
“Cut off from the ranch by a second party of Indians. Will wait here for the train–where is it?”
A moment passed before the answer came. “Less than ten miles from you. Passed Driftwood Station at ten-forty.”
Bucks looked at his clock. Driftwood was ten miles west. The hands stood at ten-forty-eight. Surely, he concluded, they will be here by eleven o’clock. Could he hold the station for twelve minutes? Even a show of force he knew would halt the Indians for an interval.
He hastily pushed such packages of freight as lay in the store-room up to the various windows, as slight barricades behind which he could hide to shoot, and with much effort got the largest packing-case against the platform door so they could not rush him from the creek side. For the twentieth time he looked over his revolver, placed a little store of cartridges behind each shelter, and peered again out of the windows. To his horror he perceived that the two parties had joined and were riding in a great half-circle down on the station. Evidently the Indians were coming after him before they attacked the ranch. He reported to the despatcher, and an answer came instantly. “Stanley should be within five miles. How close are they?”
“Less than half a mile.”
“Have you got a gun?”
Bucks wired, “Yes.”
“Can you use it?”
“Expect I’ll have to.”
“Shoot the minute they get within range. Never mind whether you hit anybody, bang away. What are they doing?”
Bucks ran around the room to look. “Closing in,” he answered briefly.
“Can’t you see the train?”
Bucks fixed his eyes upon the western horizon. He never had tried so hard in his life to see anything. Yet the sunshine reflected no sign of a friendly smoke.
“Nothing in sight,” he answered; “I can’t hold out much longer.”
Hastily closing his key he ran to the south window. A dozen Indians, beating the alder bushes as they advanced, doubtless suspecting that he lay concealed in them, were now closest. He realized that by his very audacity in returning to the building he had gained a few precious moments. But the nearest Indians had already reached open ground, two hundred yards away, and through their short, yelping cries and their halting on the edge of the brake, he understood they were debating how he had escaped and wondering whether he had gone back into the station. He lay behind some sacks of flour watching his foes closely. Greatly to his surprise, his panic had passed and he felt collected. He realized that he was fighting for his life and meant to sell it as dearly as possible. And he had resolved to shoot the instant they started toward him.
From the table he heard the despatcher’s call, but he no longer dared answer it. The Indians, with a war-whoop, urged their ponies ahead and a revolver shot rang from the station window. It was followed almost instantly by a second and a third. The Indians ducked low on their horses’ necks and, wheeling, made for the willows. In the quick dash for cover one horse stumbled and threw his rider. The animal bolted and the Indian, springing to his feet, ran like a deer after his companions, but he did not escape unscathed. Two shots followed him from the station, and the Indian, falling with a bullet in his thigh, dragged himself wounded into hiding.
A chorus of cries from far and near heralded the opening of the encounter. Enraged by the repulse, a larger number of Indians riding in opened fire on the station and Bucks found himself target for a fusillade of bullets. But protected by his barricades he was only fearful of a charge, for when the Indians should start to rush the station he felt all would be over.
While he lay casting up his chances, and discharging his revolver at intervals to make a showing, the fire of the Indians slackened. This, Bucks felt, boded no good, and reckless of his store of cartridges he continued to blaze away whenever he could see a bush moving.
It was at this moment that he heard the despatcher calling him, and a message followed. “If you are alive, answer me.”
Bucks ran to the key. The situation was hopeless. No train was in sight as he pressed his fingers on the button for the last time.
“Stopped their first advance and wounded one. They are going to charge–”
He heard a sharp chorus outside and, feeling what it meant, sent his last word: “Good-by.” From three sides of the open ground around the building the Indians were riding down upon him. Firing as fast as he could with any accuracy, he darted from window to window, reaching the west window last. As he looked out he saw up the valley the smoke of the approaching train and understood from the fury of his enemies that they, too, had seen it. But the sight of the train now completely unnerved him. To lose his life with help a few moments away was an added bitterness, and he saw that the relief train would be too late to save him.
He fired the last cartridge in his hot revolver at the circling braves and, as he reloaded, the Indians ran up on the platform and threw themselves against the door. Fiendish faces peered through the window-panes and one Indian smashed a sash in with a war club.
Bucks realized that his reloading was useless. The cartridges were, in fact, slipping through his fingers, when, dropping his revolver, he drew Bob Scott’s knife and backed up against the inner office door, just as a warrior brandishing a hatchet sprang at him.
CHAPTER XII
Before Bucks had time to think, a second Indian had sprung through the open window. A feeling of helpless rage swept over him at being cornered, defenceless; and, expecting every instant to be despatched with no more consideration than if he had been a rat, he stood at bay, determined not to be taken alive.
For an instant his mind worked clearly and with the rapidity of lightning. His life swept before him as if he were a drowning man. In that horrible moment he even heard his call clicking from the despatcher. Of the two Indians confronting him, half-naked and shining with war-paint, one appeared more ferocious than the other, and Bucks only wondered which would attack first.
He had not long to wait. The first brave raised a war club to brain him. As Bucks’s straining eye followed the movement, the second Indian struck the club down. Bucks understood nothing from the action. The quick, guttural words that followed, the sharp dispute, the struggle of the first savage to evade the second and brain the white boy in spite of his antagonist–a lithe, active Indian of great strength who held the enraged warrior back–all of this, Bucks, bewildered, could understand nothing of. The utmost he could surmise was that the second warrior, from his dress and manner of authority perhaps a chief, meant to take him alive for torture. He watched the contest between the two Indians until with force and threats the chief had driven the warrior outside and turned again upon him.
It was then that Bucks, desperate, hurled himself knife in hand at the chief to engage him in final combat. The Indian, though surprised, met his onset skilfully and before Bucks could realize what had occurred he had been disarmed and tossed like a child half-way across the room.
Before he could move, the chief was standing over him. “Stop!” he exclaimed, catching Bucks’s arm in a grip of steel as the latter tried to drag down his antagonist. “I am Iron Hand. Does a boy fight me?” he demanded with contempt in every word. “See your knife.” He pointed to the floor. “When I was wounded by the Cheyennes you gave me venison. You have forgotten; but the Sioux is not like the white man–Iron Hand does not forget.”
A fusillade of shots and a babel of yelling from outside interrupted his words. The chief paid no attention to the uproar. “Your soldiers are here. The building is on fire, but you are safe. I am Iron Hand.”
So saying, and before Bucks could find his tongue, the chief strode to the rear window, with one blow of his arm smashed out the whole sash, and springing lightly through the crashing glass, disappeared.
Bucks, panting with confusion, sprang to his feet. Smoke already poured in from the freight room, and the crackling of flames and the sounds of the fighting outside reminded Bucks of Iron Hand’s words. He ran to the door.
The train had pulled up within a hundred feet of the station and the railroad men in the coaches were pouring a fire upon the Indians, under the cover of which scouts were unloading, down a hastily improvised chute, their horses, together with those of such troopers as had been gathered hurriedly.
Bucks ran back into the office and opening his wooden chest threw into it what he could of his effects and tried to drag it from the burning building out upon the platform. As he struggled with the unwieldy box, two men ran up from the train toward him, staring at him as if he had been a ghost. He recognized Stanley and Dancing.
“Are you hurt?” cried Stanley hastening to his side.
“No,” exclaimed Bucks, his head still swimming, “but everything will be burned.”
“How in the name of God, boy, have you escaped?” demanded Stanley, as he clenched Bucks’s shoulder in his hand. Dancing seized the cumbersome chest and dragged it out of danger. The Indians, jeering, as they retreated, at the railroad men, made no attempt to continue the attack, but rode away content with the destruction of the train and the station.
Stanley, assured of Bucks’s safety, though he wasted no time in waiting for an explanation of it, directed the men to save what they could out of the station–it was too late to save the building–and hurried away to see to the unloading of the horses.
Bill Dancing succeeded in rescuing the telegraph instruments and with Bucks’s help he got the wires rigged upon a cracker-box outside where the operator could report the story to the now desperate despatcher. The scouts and troopers were already in the saddle and, leading the way for the men, gave chase across the bottoms to the Indians.
Bob Scott, riding past Bucks reined up for a moment. “Got pretty warm for you, Bucks–eh? How did you get through?”
Bucks jumped toward him. “Bob!” he exclaimed, grasping his arm. “It was Iron Hand.”
“Iron Hand!” echoed Bob, lifting his eyebrows. “Brulés, then. It will be a long chase. What did he say?”
“Why, we talked pretty fast,” stammered Bucks. “He spoke about the venison but never said a blamed word about my fixing his arm.”
Bob laughed as he struck his horse and galloped on to pass the news to Stanley. A detail was left to clear the cotton-woods across the creek and guard the railroad men against possible attack while clearing the wreck. The body of the unfortunate brakeman was brought across the bridge and laid in the baggage car and a tent was pitched to serve as a temporary station for Bucks.
While this was being done, Bob Scott, who had ridden farthest up the creek, appeared leading his horse and talking to a white man who was walking beside him. He had found the conductor of the wrecked train, Pat Francis, who, young though he was, had escaped the Indians long enough to reach a cave in the creek bank and whose rifle shots Bucks had heard, while Francis was holding the Sioux at bay during the fight. The plucky conductor, who was covered with dust, was greeted with acclamations.
“He claims,” volunteered Scott, speaking to Stanley, “he could have stood them off all day.”
Francis’s eyes fell regretfully on the dead brakeman. “If that boy had minded what I said and come with me he would have been alive now.”
The wrecking train, with a gang of men from Medicine Bend, arrived late in the afternoon, and at supper-time a courier rode in from Stanley’s scouting party with despatches for General Park. Stanley reported the chase futile. As Bob Scott had predicted, the Brulés had burned the ranch and craftily scattered the moment they reached the sand-hills. Instead of a single trail to follow, Stanley found fifty. Only his determination to give the Indians a punishment that they would remember held the pursuing party together, and three days afterward he fought a battle with the wily raiders, surprised in a canyon on the Frenchman River, which, though indecisive, gave Iron Hand’s band a wholesome respect for the stubborn engineer.
The train service under the attacks of the Indians thus repeated, fell into serious demoralization, and an armed guard of regular soldiers rode all trains for months after the Goose Creek attack. Bucks was given a guard for his own lonely and exposed position in the person of Bob Scott, the man of all men the young operator would have wished for. And at intervals he read from his favorite novel to the scout, who still questioned whether it was a true story.
