Part 2

Forward hammered the two squaws, with vengeful look at little Dave which bade him not to lag. The warriors had gathered in a group, out of gunshot from the fort. Cut Nose was furious. Indians hate to lose warriors; and there were three, and a pony, stretched upon the plain.

“Are you all old women?” scolded Chief Cut Nose, while Dave tried to guess at what was being shouted, and his two guardians pressed to the edge of the circle. “You let three whites, one of whom is very little, beat us? The dogs will bark at us when we go back and the squaws will whip us through the village. Everybody at home will laugh. They will say: ‘These are not Cheyennes. They are sick Osages! They are afraid to take a scalp, and when an enemy points a stick at them, they run!’ Bah! Am I a chief, and are you warriors, or are we all ghosts?”

Panting, the warriors listened. They murmured and shrugged, as the words stung.

“Those whites shoot very straight. The little one shoots the straightest of any. They must have many guns. They shoot once and without loading they shoot again,” argued Lame Buffalo.

“You talk foolish,” thundered Cut Nose. “These whites cannot keep shooting. All we need to do is to charge swift and not stop, and when we reach them their guns will be empty. Shall Cheyennes draw back and leave three brothers and a good pony lying on the prairie? These whites will go on and join their whoa-haw train, and tell how they three, from behind dead mules, fought off the whole Cheyenne nation! Or shall we send our squaws against them, to kill them! The little white boy will laugh,” and he pointed at Dave. “He will not want to be a Cheyenne; he will stay white. Cheyennes are cowards.”

Through the jostling company ran a hot murmur; but Lame Buffalo, especially scolded, almost burst.

“No!” he yelled. “Cheyennes are not cowards! I am a Cheyenne. I can kill those three whites myself. I will go alone. I ask no help.”

He whirled his pony; he burst from the dense ring, and tossing high his plumed lance, with a tremendous shout he launched himself straight for the mule fort. He did not ride alone; no, indeed! Answering his shout, and imitating his gesture, every warrior followed, vying to outstrip him. Now woe for the whites. Dave’s heart beat so as well-nigh to choke him. His eyes leaped to the fort.

The two men and the boy in the little triangle had been busy. They had rearranged the carcasses to give more protection; the arrow had been pulled from the shoulder of the wounded man; he was as alert as if he had not been hurt at all; and over the mule bodies jutted the gun muzzles, trained upon the Indian charge.

Could that tiny low triangle formed by three dead mules outlast such a yelling, tearing mob, sweeping down upon it? Could it beat back Lame Buffalo alone――that splendid feather-crowned horseman, riding like a demon, shouting like a wolf? He still led, and with every few jumps of his pony he shook his lance and whooped.

Well might those three whites in the mule triangle be afraid, at last; and who could blame the boy, there, if he, particularly, was afraid? It was a bad place for a boy. Dave watched him anxiously, and wondered.

The boy was facing toward the charge; the two men also were facing outward, to right and left of him, that they might cover the charge as it spread.

Up rose the boy’s gun; the two men seemed to be waiting upon him. He was aiming, but he would not shoot yet, would he, with the Indians so far off?

Yet, he shot! His gun muzzle puffed smoke. The squaws started, cried out, waved frantic hands――for three hundred yards from the muzzle had toppled, toppled from his pony, Lame Buffalo, smitten in mid-course! It seemed to Dave that he could hear the two white men cheering; but to the cries of the squaws were added the terrific yells of the warriors, drowning out every other sound.

Nevertheless, that was a long, long shot, for boy or man; and a _good_ shot. The charge split again; and not daring even to pick up Lame Buffalo, who was crawling painfully and pressing a hand to his side, it circled around and around the mule fort, as before.

As Lame Buffalo had said, the “little one” shot the straightest of any.

II

THE HERO OF THE MULE FORT

Cut Nose signalled his band to council again. Four warriors had fallen, and two ponies. Now at a safe distance from that venomous, spit-fire little fort, they all dismounted, except for a few scouts, and squatted for a long confab.

“Kill! Kill!” implored the two squaws.

“Shut up!” rebuked Cut Nose; and they only wailed about the dead.

On the outskirts of the council, and annoyed by the wailing of the squaws, Dave could not hear all the discussion. Cut Nose asked the sub-chiefs for their opinion what to do; and one after another spoke.

“There is no use in charging white men behind a fort,” said Bear-Who-Walks. “We lose too many warriors, any one of whom is worth more than all the white men on the plains. It is not a good way to fight. I like to fight, man to man, in the open. If we wait long enough, we can kill those three whites when their hearts are weak with thirst and hunger.”

“They have medicine guns,” declared Yellow Hand. “They have guns that are never empty. No matter how much they shoot, they can always shoot more. The great spirit of the white people is helping them. It is some kind of magic.”

At this, Dave wanted to laugh. The two white men and the white boy were shooting with revolvers that held six loads each, and the Cheyennes could not understand. The only guns that the Indians had were two old muskets which had to be reloaded after every shot.

“We will wait,” said Cut Nose. “We have plenty of time. The whoa-haws in front will travel on, leaving these three whites. We will wait, and watch, and when they have eaten their fort and their tongues are hanging out for water, we will ride to them and scalp them before they die. That is the easiest way.”

Some of the warriors did not favor waiting; the two squaws wept and moaned and claimed that the spirits of the slain braves were unhappy because those three whites still lived. But nobody made a decisive move; they all preferred to squat and talk and rest their ponies and themselves.

Meanwhile, in the mule body triangle the two men and the boy had been busy. They did not waste any time, talking and boasting. It was to be seen that they were digging hard with their knives, and heaping the dirt on top of the mule bodies, and between them. An old warrior noted this.

“See,” he bade. “The fort is stronger than ever. But by night the wind will change and we can make the whites eat fire. That is a good plan.”

“Yes,” they agreed. “Let us wait till dark. White men behind a fort in daytime are very hard to kill. There is no hurry.”

The afternoon passed. The Indians chewed dried buffalo meat, and squads of them rode to the river and watered the horses. While lounging about they amused themselves by yelling insults at the mule fort; and now and again little charges were made, by small parties, who swooped as close as they dared, and shot a few arrows.

The two men and the boy rarely replied. They, also, waited. Their barricade was so high, that in the trench behind it they were completely sheltered.

But over them and over the field of battle constantly circled two great black buzzards. Lame Buffalo had ceased to crawl, and lay still. The squaws begged the young warriors to go out and bring him in――him and the other stricken braves. The young men only laughed and shook their heads. One did dash forward; but a bullet from the gun of the boy grazed his scalp-lock, and ducking he scurried back faster than he had gone!

That boy certainly was cool and brave and sharp-sighted. Dave was proud of him; for Dave, also, was white, and a boy.

So the afternoon wore away. Evening neared. The sun, a large red ball, sank into the flat plains. A beautiful golden twilight spread abroad, tinging the sod and the sky. The world seemed all peaceful; but here in the midst of the twilight were waiting and watching the painted Cheyennes, as eager as ever to get at those three persons in the mule fort. This twilight, Dave imagined, must be a very serious moment for the fort. The twilight warned that night was at hand.

Dusk settled, and deepened into darkness. The Sioux made no camp-fires. Davy wrapped himself in an old buffalo-robe, and guarded by the two squaws, one on either side of him, tried not to sleep. As he listened, while he gazed up at the million stars, and the plains breeze fanned across his face, he wondered what the boy in the mule fort was doing. No doubt he was listening, too, and wishing that the stars would come down and help, or else send a message to those freight wagons which were travelling on.

Davy must have dropped off to sleep, in spite of himself; because suddenly he was aroused by the squaws sitting up and jabbering. Had morning come? The plains yonder were light. No; that was fire! The Cheyennes, just as they had planned, had set the grass afire, to windward of the mule fort. While Davy, too, sat up, his heart beating wildly, the fire seemed to be sweeping right toward the fort. Behind the line of flames and smoke he could see the dark figures of the Indians fanning with blankets and robes, to make the line move faster and fiercer.

“Humph! A poor fire,” grunted one of the squaws. “Grass too short.”

“Yes. But it makes a smoke, so the men can charge up close,” answered the other.

That, then, was the scheme, if the fire itself did not amount to much. Some of the dark figures behind the line of fire fanned; others were stealing forward, into the smoke itself. The moment was exciting. The smoke was drifting across the fort; would the two men and the boy suspect that the Indians were following it in?

The line of fire seemed almost at the low mound which contained the three whites; the smoke drifted thick and fast; the figures of the Indians stole forward. Abruptly, from the dim mound spurted a jet of flame, and sounded a hollow “Bang!” Another jet spurted, with another “Bang!” And――“Bang! Bang! Bangity-bang-bang!” Hurrah! That fort was not being fooled; no, indeed. It was ready for anything. It knew what was behind the smoke, and had only been waiting.

“Kill! Kill!” shrieked the two squaws, enraged again. But the warriors gave up, as soon as they found that their smoke scheme had not worked. They shot their bullets and a few arrows, and lay low. Soon the fire and the smoke had passed beyond the mule fort. Some of the braves returned to the camp; the others continued to sneak about, on guard over the fort. Silence reigned.

“We might as well go to sleep,” said one squaw to the other. “Nothing will happen until morning.”

“Lie down, white red-head,” bade the second squaw, roughly, to Dave. “To-morrow we will have three more whites, and that will mean lots of fun.”

Davy obeyed. It was warmer lying down than sitting up. Thankful that the three whites were still unbeaten, and too smart for the Cheyennes, he fell asleep. When again he wakened, it really was morning. The sky was pink, and stars pale, the brush showed plainly. But he had no time to meditate, or invite another “forty winks.” The squaws had sprung to their feet; the air was full of clangor and shouting and shooting; the Indians were making a charge, the little fort was holding them off.

It was the angriest charge yet, all in the chill, pink dawn flooding high sky and broad plain. However, it didn’t work. The two men and the boy were just as ready as ever, and the charge split. Cut Nose waved his hand and motioned. The circle of galloping horsemen spread wider, and dismounting, the riders, holding to their ponies’ neck-ropes, sat down to wait like a circle of crows watching a corn-field.

The two squaws were disgusted. They grumbled, as they prepared breakfast; and under their scowls Davy felt afraid. He wondered what the Indians would do next.

Plainly enough, they did not intend to make any more charges. The sun rose high and higher. His beams were hot, so that the plain simmered. Without shade in that little open enclosure formed by the mule carcasses, the three whites would soon be very uncomfortable. One was a boy and one was wounded. Circling and waiting, the two black buzzards had been joined by a third. Forming a wide ring of squatting warriors and dozing ponies, the Indians also waited. The air was still; scarcely a sound was to be heard, save as now and then the squaws with Davy murmured one to the other, or a warrior made a short remark.

What was to be the end? The grim siege was worse than the charges. The sun had climbed well toward the noon mark, and Davy felt heart-sick for those three prisoners in the mule fort, when, on a sudden, a new thing happened. First, a warrior, on his right, up-leaped, to stand gazing westward, listening. Another warrior stood――and another, and another. Cut Nose himself was on his feet; ponies were pricking their ears; the two squaws, bounding to their feet, likewise looked and listened.

Davy strained his ears. Hark! Distant shooting? Flat, faint reports of firearms seemed to drift through the stillness. No! Hurrah, hurrah! Those reports were the cracking of teamsters’ bull-whips. A wagon train was coming! Another wagon train, from the west! See――above that ridge there, only half a mile away, a wagon already had appeared: first the team of several span of oxen, then the white top of the big vehicle itself, and the driver trudging, and several outriding horsemen flanking on either side.

Team after team, wagon after wagon, mounted the ridge, and flowed over and down. It was a large train, and a grand sight; only, it was not a grand sight for the Indians. But in the mule fort the two white men and the boy had jumped up and were waving their hats and cheering. Davy wanted to join, and wave and cheer.

To their ponies’ backs were vaulting all the Indians. The two squaws, panic-stricken, rushed to the safety of their saddles. They seemed to forget little Dave. Cut Nose had dashed to the front, his men were rallying around him. Evidently they were debating whether to fight or run. Louder sounded the smart cracks of the bull-whips; the wagon train was coming right ahead, lined out for the very spot. The Indians had short shift for planning. The two squaws, having hastily gathered their belongings, galloped for the council. Davy started to follow, but lagged, and paused. His own pony was making off, dragging his neck rope, to catch up with the other ponies. Davy wisely let him go.

Now Cut Nose raised his hand; and turning, quickened his pony to a furious gallop. Shrill pealed his war-whoop; whooping and lashing, after him pelted every warrior, with the two squaws racing behind. Straight for the little fort they charged. The three whites had dropped low, to receive them. And――look, listen――from the wagon train welled answering yell, and on, across the plain, for the fort, spurred a dozen and more riders shaking their guns and shouting.

Davy dived to cover of a greasewood bush, and lay low. But the Cheyennes did not stop to get him. They kept on; at the little fort they split, as before, and shooting and yelping they passed on either side of it. The three whites received them with a volley and sent a volley or two after them as they thudded away. And that was the end of the siege.

Davy did not dare to stand and show himself. To be sure, the Cheyennes, both men and squaws, were racing away, as hard as they could ride; but even yet they might send back after him. So he lay and peeped. However, in the mule fort the two men and the boy had risen upright, again to wave and cheer. Waving and cheering, the mounted men from the wagon train came galloping on, and presently the three in the fort stepped outside. Arrived, the foremost riders from the train hastily flung themselves from their saddles, and there was apparently a great shaking of hands and exchange of greetings. With volleys renewed, from their whip lashes, the teams also were hastening for the scene. The Cheyennes already were almost out of sight. So Davy stood, and trudged forward.

He had half a mile to walk, through the low brush. The first of the wagons beat him to the fort. When he drew near, the lead wagon had halted, and the others were trundling in one after the other. The men were crowding about their three comrades who had been rescued, and for a few moments nobody seemed to notice ragged little red-headed Dave, toiling on as fast as he could.

It was a large train. There were twenty-five wagons, with their teamsters, and about two hundred extra men, some mounted on mules and horses. However, most of the men were afoot. The wagons were tremendous big things, with flaring canvas tops on, or else with the canvas stripped, leaving only the naked hoops of the frame-work. Each wagon was drawn by twelve panting bullocks, yoked in pairs, or spans.

The majority of the men were dressed alike, in flat, broad-brimmed plains hats, blue or red flannel shirts, and rough trousers belted at the waist and tucked into high, heavy boots. The teamsters were armed in hand with their whips, of short stock and long lash and snapper which cracked like a pistol shot. Those cracks could be heard half a mile. The extra men carried mainly large bore muskets, called (as Davy knew) Mississippi yagers; and all had knives and pistols, thrust into waist-band and belt. Whiskered and unshaven and tanned and dusty, it was a regular rough-and-ready crowd.

However, of course the three defenders of the mule fort took the chief attention. They were the two men (the shoulder of one was rudely bandaged with a blue bandanna handkerchief) and the boy. Even the boy wore freighter plains costume, of broad hat and flannel shirt and trousers tucked into boots; and he held a yager in his hand, and had a butcher knife and two big Colt’s revolvers stuck in his belt. He and the two men looked pretty well tired out, but they stood fast and answered all kinds of questions.

The mule fort showed how hot had been the battle, for the mule bodies fairly bristled with arrows. Arrows were everywhere on the ground about.

The freighters had crowded close, and everybody was talking and laughing at once. Davy stood unnoted on the outskirts, gazing and listening――until on a sudden he was espied by a tall, lank teamster with long dusty whiskers.

“Hello, thar!” the man called, loudly. “Whar’d you come from, Red? Lookee, boys! Reckon we’ve picked up a trav’ler. Whoopee! Come hyar, son. Give us an account of yoreself.”

One after another, they all looked. Davy flushed and fidgeted and felt much embarrassed. The tall whiskered freighter strode forward and grasped him by the ragged shirt-sleeve.

“What’s yore name?”

“David Scott.”

“Whar’d you come from?”

“The Indians had me. They killed my uncle and aunt and made me go along.”

“Whar was that?”

“Back on the Overland Trail. We were with a wagon train and got separated.”

“How long ago?”

“Two weeks, I think.”

“What Injuns?”

“Those――――” and Davy pointed in the direction taken by the Cut Nose band.

“I want to know!” The teamster gaped wide in astonishment, and from the crowd came a chorus of exclamations. “How’d you get away?”

“When you scared them off I hid behind a bush. Two squaws had me, and they didn’t wait.”

“You mean to say you war with those same pesky Injuns who war attackin’ this fort hyar?”

“Yes, sir. But I didn’t do any of the fighting.”

“No, o’ course you didn’t. Wall, I’m jiggered!” And the whiskered freighter seemed overwhelmed with amazement. But he rallied, as a thought struck him. “Come along hyar. I’ll interduce ye to another boy.” And by the sleeve he led Davy forward, through the staring crowd. “Hyar, now; I want to interduce ye to a reg’lar rip-snorter, not much older’n you are. Red, shake hands with little Billy Cody, the hero of the mule fort.”

III

WITH THE WAGON TRAIN

“Little Billy Cody” was the boy who had been with the two men in the mule fort. Surrounded by the staring crowd Davy felt rather timid and did not know exactly what to do. But Billy Cody promptly put out his hand, Davy extended his, and Billy gripped it warmly.

“Hello,” he said, gruffly. “Where do you hail from?”

“I was out there, with the Indians, while you were fighting,” explained Davy.

“Didn’t we give it to ’em!” asserted Billy Cody. “They thought they had us; but they didn’t.”

“I saw you shoot Lame Buffalo,” said Davy, eagerly. “I guess you killed him.”

“He shore did,” declared the wounded man. “When little Billy draws bead on anything, it’s a goner.”

“Well, I had to do it,” said Billy Cody. “Lew told me to.”

“So I did,” uttered the second of the two men. “It was time those Injuns knew what they were up against, when they tackled us and Billy. That one shot licked ’em.”

“Hurrah for little Billy!” cheered the crowd, good-natured; and Billy fidgeted, embarrassed, although anybody could see that he was rather proud.

He was a good-looking boy, although now his face was burned and grimy, and his clothing rough. He stood a little taller than Davy, but he was slender and wiry. He had brown hair and dark brown eyes and regular features; and under his grime and tan his skin was smooth. He was dressed just like the men, and carried himself like a man; but the muzzle of the long heavy yager extended above his hat-brim. Evidently his two companions thought highly of him, and so did the men of the wagon train.

“Some of you tend to Woods’ shoulder; then if you’ll hustle a little grub we’ll be ready for it,” quoth the man called Lew. “Those mule carcasses served a good purpose but they weren’t very appetizing.”

“First of all, I want a drink,” announced the man called Woods.

Prompt hands passed forward canteens, and Billy and the two men took long, hearty swigs of water.

“Arrow wasn’t pizened, was it?” queried several voices, of Mr. Woods.

“No. Lew looked at it, and said not. So he put a hunk o’ tobacco on it, and we haven’t paid much more attention to it,” answered Mr. Woods. “But it’s powerful sore.”

“Here; I’ll fix it up,” proffered a quiet man, who had not been saying much. Now noticing him, Davy thought that he was the finest figure in the whole party. This man was young (he could not have been more than twenty, but this pioneer life turned youths into men early) and was splendidly built. He stood a straight six feet, with slim waist and broad shoulders and flat back; his hair was long and light yellow, and his wavy moustache also was light yellow. His eyes were wide and steel gray, his nose hawk-like, his chin square and firm. His clothes fitted him well, and were worn with an easy grace. About his strong neck was loosely knotted a red silk handkerchief.

“All right, Bill,” responded Mr. Woods, sitting down. “’Twon’t need much, except a little washing.”

Bill calmly proceeded to inspect the arrow wound in the shoulder. Other men were hastily producing food from the wagons.

“Here, Red,” they bade, to Davy; and sitting in the half circle with Mr. Lew and Billy Cody, Davy gladly ate. It seemed good to be with white people again.

“How long did the Injuns have you?” asked Billy.

“About two weeks.”

“They were Cheyennes, weren’t they. Who was their chief?”

“Cut Nose. He was head chief. But Lame Buffalo and Bear-Who-Walks were chiefs, too.”

“That Cut Nose is a mean Injun,” pronounced Billy, wagging his big hat. “But he didn’t catch _us_――not with Lew Simpson bossing our job. I thought we were wiped out, sure, till Lew told us to kill our mules quick and get behind ’em. That was a great scheme.”

“It shore was,” agreed all the men around, wagging their heads, too, while they listened. “Injuns hate to charge folks they can’t see well.”

“Weren’t you afraid?” asked Davy. He liked this Billy Cody, who acted so like a man and yet was only a boy.

“He afraid? Billy Cody afraid?” laughed the listeners. “You don’t know Billy yet.”