Part 18

Bob’s run was only to Latham, sixty miles down the Platte. Here he descended, in lordly fashion, from his seat――and out of the coach must issue the passengers, much to their disgust. The mails from the west had been piling up for six weeks, and were of more importance than people. Forty-one sacks were stored aboard by the station agent, until the coach was heaped to the roof, and the big boot was overflowing. The coach now carried a ton of mail――and Ben, Davy and the driver.

Express messengers rode an entire division, such as between Atchison and Denver, between Denver and Salt Lake, and between Salt Lake and Placerville of California. So Ben continued on, with Dave as his guest. The new driver was “Long Slim”――another odd character. “Long Slim” was six feet three inches tall, and so thin that he claimed when he stood sideways he wouldn’t cast a shadow. He was much different from dandy Bob Hodge; for he wore cowhide boots, a blue army overcoat, and a buffalo fur cap.

Long Slim drove to Bijou Station, and here another driver took charge. Stage drivers drove forty or fifty miles, or from “home” station to “home” station. In between, about every ten miles, were the “swing” stations, where the teams were changed. Meals were served at the home stations.

The change of drivers was interesting, and really made little difference to Dave, for none of them talked much; and as the coach rolled further eastward into the Indian country the talk was less and less. At the swing stations the teams were always standing, harnessed and waiting. The driver grandly tossed down the lines and yawned; the old team was whisked out in a jiffy, the new team trotted into place without being told, the station men handed up the lines to the box, and away went the stage again.

At the home stations the driver――“Long Slim,” or “Deacon,” or “Dad,” or “Mizzou,” or whatever he was called, followed his lines to the ground, said (if he chose): “All quiet so far, Hank,” and strolled into the station. If he mentioned a drink of water, half the station force rushed to get it for him. He was a king, was the driver on the Overland Stage!

At Bijou Station, six soldiers of the Colorado cavalry picked up the stage and escorted it, riding three on a side, for about 100 miles. At least they were there when Davy peeked out of the boot under the driver’s seat, where he slept, curled in a ball, very comfortably, while the coach rocked and swayed through the night.

The Seventh Iowa Cavalry next took the stage, galloping and trotting beside it down the trail along the Platte River.

The stage stations and the ranches looked as if they had been having a tough time. Most of the ranch buildings were in ruins and abandoned; many of the stage stations had been burned, and the station men were living in dug-outs, some of which were merely holes in the ground, roofed over with a pile of dirt loop-holed for rifles. Meals at the home stations were $1.50, cooked by the station agents’ brave wives or by the men themselves. Some of the meals were very poor, too――and some astonishingly good.

All went well with the stage until between Cottonwood and Fort Kearney the driver, who was known as “Waupsie,” pointed to the south with his whip.

“There they are,” he said quietly; and instantly flung out his lash.

The silken snapper cracked like a pistol shot, and out launched the team. Down from a low row of sandy buttes half a mile to the south and ahead were speeding a bevy of dark dots. Davy’s heart skipped a beat. The dots were making for the trail, as if to cut off the coach. They were Indians, sure.

“What’ll we do, Waupsie?” asked Ben, coolly. “Beat ’em in?”

“We’ll do the best we can. Six miles to go is all,” answered Waupsie, in grim manner. And he yelled to the cavalrymen: “You’ll have to ride faster than that, boys.”

The corporal in charge of the squad had spoken gruffly. Three before, three behind, the soldiers were rising and falling in their stirrups and urging on their horses. The grade was slightly down hill, and it was evident that the cavalry horses were no match for the stage team――six splendid blacks, grain fed and long-legged. Soon the coach gradually drew even with the leading soldiers and began to pass them in spite of their efforts.

“Can’t wait,” yelled Waupsie, “Goodby. Fact is,” he remarked, half to himself, “I can’t hold ’em. Drat their skins!”

The whoops of the Indians were plainly heard; the breeze was from the south, and as if smelling the red enemy the stage horses were wild with fear. Braced, Waupsie sawed on the lines; his foot pressed the brake hard, but he might as well have saved his strength.

Waupsie had no time or opportunity to use a gun; his business was to drive. Ben cocked his shot-gun lying across his knees.

“Get in the boot, Dave,” he bade.

Davy started to slide under, but stopped ashamed. In a rush the Indians, whooping and frantically brandishing bows and lances, charged the trail, cutting in behind, and racing on both sides before. The cavalry squad were now far in the rear.

With a thud an arrow landed full in the coach side; another quivered in the flank of the off wheel horse――and he leaped prodigiously.

“Steady! Steady, boys!” besought Waupsie.

The arrows were hissing and thudding. The painted Indians looked like demons. Ben flung up his gun, took hasty aim, and at the report the nearest Indian on the left (a particularly determined fellow) swerved away, reeling in his saddle pad. Red spots could be seen on his side where the buck-shot had struck. At the rear the cavalrymen were shooting vainly, and suddenly Waupsie gave an exclamation.

“Take these lines, quick!” he said. “Confound it!”

An arrow had pinned his right arm to his side. He jerked at it and could not budge it, and Ben grabbed the lines.

“You take my gun, Dave,” he ordered. “Don’t shoot unless you have to; and then shoot the ponies. Fight ’em off.”

Dave promptly seized the gun from Ben’s lap, and at once he saw the reason in the last order. The Indians were racing on either side; whenever he raised the gun to aim every Indian on that side ducked to the opposite flank of his horse, and left only a moccasin sole in sight. That was a small mark at which to aim from a jolting coach. Dave aimed and aimed again; whenever he paused, up bobbed the Indians; when he pointed the gun at them, down they ducked; and all the time they were shooting from underneath their ponies’ necks or from the saddle.

“That’s right. Fight ’em off, Davy. It’s as good as emptying your gun,” panted Ben, hanging hard to the lines. Waupsie was plying the whip――now and then to drop it and level his revolver.

“Fight ’em off, Davy!”

A sharp shock almost paralyzed Dave’s right arm, and through shoulder and arm surged a red-hot pain. He nearly dropped the gun. He glanced at his shoulder and saw a flush of crimson dyeing his shirt. But no arrow was sticking there as he had feared. It was only a gash. All right.

“Hurt, Dave?” queried Ben.

“No, not much,” said Davy, firmly.

“We’ll make it,” uttered Waupsie. “Got to. Fight ’em off, boys!”

The sandy plain flowed past; another horse had been wounded and the coach was fairly bristling with shafts. But the gallant team never slackened their furious pace, and suddenly with a final chorus of whoops and a last volley, the Indians turned and raced away; for yonder, around the turn, appeared the home station.

“Humph!” muttered Waupsie. “Those Injuns are just on a lark. Now I’ll get quit of this arrow.”

The cavalry squad did not arrive until after the coach had left; another squad escorted it to Fort Kearney, and by the time Atchison was reached, two days afterward, Dave’s shoulder was beginning to heal.

“It doesn’t hurt much, really, Ben,” he insisted; but he was proud of his wound. The scar he carries to-day and other scars besides.

From Atchison he and Ben went down to Leavenworth. On the street at Leavenworth a hand clapped him on his shoulder (fortunately his well shoulder), and looking up he looked into the face of Billy Cody.

XXIV

BUFFALO BILL IS CHAMPION

It was not “Little Billy Cody” now――the slender boy whose boots had seemed too large for him even when he was riding Pony Express. It was “Scout Cody”――a man with wide, piercing brown eyes, long wavy yellow hair, a silky light-brown moustache, a pair of broad shoulders above a wiry waist, and an alert, springy step. But he was “Billy Cody” after all.

He and Wild Bill Hickok had been serving together with the Union army in Missouri and Arkansas; and now he was at Leavenworth on a furlough from detached duty at St. Louis.

He could give Davy only a half hour; Davy heard some of his adventures and learned also that “Mother Cody” had gone (what a brave, sweet woman she had been!), and that the Cody home in Salt Creek Valley had been broken up. Truly, the West was undergoing great changes.

Greater changes still occurred in the next three years. Dave entered West Point in June of the next summer, 1865, and for the succeeding two years he studied hard. When he was given his furlough he spent part of it with General Brown, who, luckily, was stationed at Fort Leavenworth.

The two years at the Military Academy had formed a different boy of Dave. The strict discipline had taught him how to make the most of his time, and the constant drill exercises had straightened him up and trained all his muscles as well as his mind. He felt quite like a man as he shook hands with the general and met his approving eye.

One of his first questions to the general, after the greetings and polite inquiries, was about Billy Cody.

“‘Billy’ Cody, you say?” laughed the general. “Haven’t you been reading the papers?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t, general,” confessed Dave. “We don’t have much time to read the papers at the Academy, you know.”

“That’s so,” chuckled the general. “You don’t. But your friend and mine, Billy Cody, has a new name. He’s now ‘Buffalo Bill.’ He’s been supplying buffalo meat to the grading contractors on the Kansas Pacific. They need about twelve buffalo a day, and he took the job for $500 a month. It’s been a dangerous business, and he hunts alone out on the plains, with one man following in a wagon to do the butchering and load the meat, and the Indians are always trying to get Bill’s scalp. So far he’s outwitted them, and he’s been bringing in the meat so regularly that at night when he rides in the boys in the camps yell: ‘Here comes old Bill with more buffalo!’ and ‘Buffalo Bill’ he is. He’s been married, too, you know.”

“Oh, has he?” And Dave spoke impulsively. “I’d like to see him mighty well.”

“You can. The railroad’s running trains about 500 miles west from the river, nearly to Sheridan, and you’ve got here just in time to go along with us and see a big contest between Buffalo Bill and Billy Comstock, the chief of scouts at Fort Wallace there. They’re to hunt buffalo together for eight hours, and the one who kills the most wins a nice little purse of $500, gold. Billy Comstock is a fine young fellow, a great hunter and a crack shot――but I’ll back Buffalo Bill.”

So, thought Dave, loyally, would he, too.

The contest had excited great interest. An excursion for friends of the rivals and for sight-seers was to be run clear through from St. Louis. Every army officer and soldier who could leave was going from Fort Leavenworth. Leader of all was General George A. Custer, the famous “Boy General with the Golden Locks” (as during the war the newspapers had called him), who with his fighting Seventh Cavalry had arrived at Fort Leavenworth after a summer’s campaign on the plains. Of course, everybody in army circles knew about General Custer, the dashing cavalryman, with his curling yellow hair and his crimson tie. Introduced to him by General Brown, Dave blushed and stammered and felt that he must cut a very poor figure.

It seemed strange that a railroad actually was on its way across the plains. In fact, there were two railroads jutting out from the Missouri River for the farther West. Northward from Omaha the celebrated Union Pacific had built clear to Julesburg, and was hustling along to Utah at the rate of five and six miles a day. It followed the old Overland Trail up the Platte, and ate the stages as it progressed.

Here at the southward the Kansas Pacific, or “Eastern Division” of the Union Pacific, was reaching westward out of Leavenworth for Denver. It followed the Smoky Hill Fork Trail taken by the Hee-Haw Express――the memorable outfit of Dave’s and Billy’s and Mr. Baxter’s, and all, to the “Pike’s Peak Country” and the “Cherry Creek diggin’s.” Yes, it did seem strange to Dave to be riding that trail in a train of cars drawn by a snorting steam-engine and crowded with laughing, shouting people――travelling in an hour a distance that would have required from the Hee-Haw Express a day, perhaps! But the Hee-Haw Express had not been such a bad experience after all, and it had been fun as well as work.

Gracious, how Kansas had settled! The Salt Creek Valley, people said, was all taken up by farms. The railroad route from Leavenworth down to the Kansas River at Lawrence certainly passed through nothing but farms and settlements, and on up the Kansas to the Smoky Hill Fork at Junction City all the country was farms, farms, farms, punctuated by towns and cities.

Along the Smoky Hill Fork trail a number of new forts had been established, protecting the way for the railroad. First beyond Fort Riley, which Davy remembered from the time when the Hee-Haws passed it, was Fort Harker, next would come Fort Hays, and then Fort Wallace near Sheridan.

The train left Leavenworth early in the morning; the run to the end of the track would take about twenty-five hours, with stops for meals. It would appear, from the looks of the country between Lawrence and Junction City across the river from Fort Riley, that there were no more wild Indians and buffalo; but westward from Junction City things suddenly changed; and when Dave awakened from a brief doze here were the same old brown plains again, ready for the bull whacker, the stage coach, the buffalo and the Indians.

The train was jammed with all kinds of people from St. Louis, Kansas City, Leavenworth, Lawrence, Topeka――everybody having a good time. In the last car were Mrs. Cody and little daughter Arta. Davy had a glimpse of her――a handsome woman with glowing dark eyes. Buffalo Bill had met her during the war, in St. Louis, and they had been married two years now. She and little Arta and General Custer were the main attraction on the whole train.

The train was a travelling arsenal. At the front end of Davy’s car was a stand containing twenty-five breech-loading rifles and a large chest of cartridges, with the lid opened. The conductor (who, people said, was an old Indian fighter) wore two revolvers at his waist, and carried his rifle from car to car. Almost every man was armed with some sort of a gun, and all the passengers and train crew were constantly on the lookout for “Injuns” and buffalo. As the train roared onward further into the plains, its snorty, busy little engine sounded five short whistles. Out from the windows down the line of coaches were thrust heads. Men who had no gun made a rush for the stand of arms, and grabbed rifles and cartridges.

“Buffalo! Buffalo!”

“Where? Quick!”

“There they go!”

“Where? Oh, I see them!”

“Mercy, what monsters!”

There were people aboard who actually never had seen a buffalo.

“What beards!”

“Are those really buffalo?”

“Shoot!”

“Conductor! Stop the train!”

Bang! Bangity-bang! Bang! Bang! Everybody who could get a glimpse poked his gun out of a window and fired. Two big buffalo bulls were racing the train; heads down, tails up, trying to cross in front of it. The rain of bullets had not touched them. One crossed; but the other suddenly whirled on the track and charged the engine. The cow-catcher lifted him high――Davy had sight of his great shaggy shape turning a somersault in the air, and funny enough he looked, too, with mane and tail flying. He landed with a thump; people laughed so that they forgot to shoot again until too late; and gazing back Davy was glad to witness him scramble to his feet, shake himself, and glare after the train and bellow defiance.

It struck Dave as rather of a shame to pepper the buffalo from the windows of a moving train――which, he heard, sometimes did not even stop to make use of the meat, but left the carcasses lying for the wolves. Dusk soon settled, so that there was little more shooting. With a stop for water and supper, on through the darkness rumbled the train. The passengers slept in their seats――an uncomfortable way, but they did not mind. Judging from the looks of Forts Harker and Hays, which were merely log cabins with sod roofs, the cars were the best place.

The talk among the passengers was mainly of buffalo and of the Indians (who had been fighting the advance of the railroad through their hunting-grounds), and of the match between Buffalo Bill Cody and Scout Will Comstock.

As for Will Comstock, the people said that he was a young fellow with the figure of a mere boy and the face of a girl――but that no braver scout ever rode the plains. However, Billy Cody seemed to have the majority. He had been making a great record since the war. He had driven stage for a little while on the Overland Trail; then he had married; and soon he was scouting again for the army on the Smoky Hill Trail. He had guided General Custer on a dangerous trip out of Fort Harker, and had been guide and dispatch bearer out of Fort Hays, and nobody except Wild Bill (who was a scout on this line, too) was thought to be quite his equal.

Almost as famous as Buffalo Bill were his buffalo horse, Brigham, and his rifle, Lucretia; against these three Billy Comstock, good as he was, did not stand much show.

It was a jolly excursion crowd this: soldiers and civilians, city people and country people, residents and tourists, men, women and some children, all packed tight and bent on seeing the “big match” advertised to take place between Buffalo Bill Cody and Will Comstock, the other famous scout.

Early in the morning the tracks ended about twenty miles this side of Sheridan. And here, on the open prairie, were gathered an astonishing amount of vehicles, animals and horsemen. The spot looked like a land opening――or a picnic. Davy recognized Billy Cody at once.

With a group of army officers, scouts in buckskin, and other horsemen, Billy was sitting on his horse at the edge of the mass of carriages. The train-load of excursionists fairly burst from the cars, even climbing out through the windows, and made a rush for the vehicles. Davy forged ahead for Billy Cody. Billy had left his horse and when Davy saw him next he was gallantly escorting his wife and little daughter to an army ambulance; as he came back Dave caught him.

“Hello, Billy.”

“By thunder! That name sounds familiar, Dave! Well, I’m certainly glad to see you.”

They gripped hands. As Buffalo Bill, Billy looked older than he had as Scout Cody, even, during the war. His face had been bronzed deeper by hard plains riding, day and night, and on his firm chin he wore a little goatee. His suit of Indian tanned buckskin was beaded and fringed, and fitted him to perfection. A fine figure of a man he was, too; every inch of him.

There was little time to exchange greetings or words. Everything was confusion――and the day would soon pass.

“Go in and win, Billy.”

“You bet I will, Dave.”

And with that Billy strode hastily back to his horse――brushing by the many hands held out to stay him a moment.

The match was to last from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon if buffalo could be found. Slim and active, and as picturesque as Buffalo Bill himself, General Custer, from horseback, announced in a loud voice that the spectators were to follow the hunters until the herd was sighted and then must stay behind so as not to alarm the buffalo, until the shooting had begun. After that they might go as near as they pleased.

Buffalo Bill and Scout Comstock led away; behind them rode the horsemen, chiefly scouts and army officers. A large bunch of cavalry mounts had been sent out from Fort Wallace, near Sheridan, for the visitor officers, and Davy (who was almost an officer) was accorded the courtesy of one. So he was well fixed. Trailing the horsemen came the excursionists in army ambulances and old coaches and spring wagons and even buggies――raked and scraped from far and near.

Thus they all proceeded across the rolling prairie. The scene resembled a picnic more than ever.

Buffalo Bill, the talk said, was riding Brigham, his favorite buffalo runner――and a scrubby looking horse Brigham was, too, for a hunter and a racer. Billy’s gun was a heavy, long-barrelled single-shot――a breech-loading Springfield army gun of fifty calibre.

Will Comstock was apparently much better mounted and better armed. His horse was a strong, active, spirited black, and his gun was a Henry repeating carbine. He himself seemed a young fellow to be chief of scouts at Fort Wallace; his face was smooth and fair, his eyes roundly blue, and his waist was as small as a girl’s.

Suddenly Buffalo Bill raised his hand; and at the instant a hum of excitement welled from the crowd. There were some buffalo――there, about a mile ahead on the right, a good-sized herd, peacefully grazing. Away sped Buffalo Bill and Scout Comstock and two other horsemen, to get to the windward. The two other horsemen were the referees, one to accompany each hunter and keep tab on him.

The rest of the crowd followed slowly, so as to give the hunters plenty of time to begin.

On and on spurred the group of four. They swerved for the buffalo herd; and separating, as if by agreement, into pairs, dashed into the herd that way――Buffalo Bill and his referee on the right, Scout Comstock and his referee on the left. As soon as the first shot echoed back across the prairie, the cry went up: “They’re in! They’re in!” and wildly excited, straight for the field broke the eager spectators.

The wagons jounced and bounded, the horses and mules snorted, women screamed, men shouted――and better equipped than those other excursionists, on horseback amidst his army friends Davy forged to the front.

When they arrived the contest was well under way. Scout Comstock had ridden almost out of sight, pelting along and shooting into the rear of his bunch. He had left a trail of dead buffalo, as if he had made every shot count. Buffalo Bill, however, was right here, working by a different system. Evidently he had hastened to the head of his bunch first, and turned them――until now he had them all actually running in a small circle. He was riding around the outside at an easy lope on Brigham, and steadily firing, oftentimes without raising his gun from across the saddle horn.

Brigham’s bridle lines were hanging loose. He needed no guiding. He knew just what was to be done. He loped to the side of a buffalo and stayed there a moment until the gun went “Bang!” Then, even before the buffalo had fallen, he loped on to another, put his master in good position, and at the report of the rifle continued to the next!

“A wonderful horse! A wonderful horse!” ejaculated General Brown. “Why, teach that horse to shoot and he wouldn’t need a rider. Bill could sit and look on!”

“He nurses the buffalo together and all Bill has to do is to load and fire. He scarcely needs to aim,” said another officer.

Presently Buffalo Bill had shot down every buffalo in the bunch; there were thirty-eight, dead as doornails. When Bill Comstock returned, his horse blown, from chasing his bunch as far as he could, his referee reported twenty-three as that count.