CHAPTER XXXI.

THE BOY BUGLER WINS.

“What’s ther verdict, Willie--aire yer comin’ erlong, er be ye goin’ ter stay ’th yer paw an’ maw?” asked old Nomad, who sat with the boy and Skibo.

“I don’t know, yet; Mr. Cody an’ Mr. Avery are talkin’ with dad and ma, now. I’m all ready--got my rifle cleaned an’ loaded, an’ my bugle in my saddlebag. Whee! I hope I go,” sighed the youngster.

“I hopes yer does, kid, ’cause yer kind o’ livens us ole fellers up when times git dull, an’ ther redskins fergit ter ’tend ter bus’ness.”

“Yah, yah! Dat’s what Ah reckons--dis yere kid go toot-toot on de boogie an’ de sabage he gits his moggins goin’ fer de tall timber on de lively. Ah specks Mars’ Billyum don’ hab no mo’ do but jes’ go ’long nachally an’ pick up de skins o’ dem dar red debils--coz why? Coz dey run plumb outen ’em tryin’ fer git ’way f’m dat tooter.”

“You’re makin’ fun of me now, Skibo.”

“No, no! ’Deed Ah ain’t, Billie boy. Ah’s jes’ nachally tickled coz Mars’ Billyum he tell yo’ fadder an’ yo’ mudder yo’s better off ’f yo’ goes ’long--yah! Ah’s jes’ tickled ’s de hoss Hide-rack’d be ’f ’e had fo’ mo’ laigs ter kick wiv; dat’s what Ah is, Billie boy.”

“See hyar, Skibo, ye needn’t go ter hingin’ on Hide-rack’s repertation. ’Taint none ter brag on much, but sech as he has, he’s goin’ ter keep, ef he does play tit-tat-too on er nigger’s trouserloons now an’ ergin.”

“Yah, yah! Mistah Nomad; Ah baigs yeh parding ’f Ah stepped on dat dar Hide-rack’s feelin’s spectatiously an’ superditiously, coz Ah specs his ripertution’s mos’ ’bout ’s bad as it kin be now, fer a fac’--dat’s what Ah t’ink, anyhow.”

“Pa-e-has-ka come; soon see. Make-up-noise,” offered the Piute boy, who had come up and was listening to the usual verbal firing between Buffalo Bill’s pards.

Wild Bill, who had also sauntered along, remained quiet, puffing away at his pipe, but now he hailed the scout, who was coming from the bungalow, with:

“What is the word, Cody--does the boy go?”

The scout nodded with a smile and said to the lad:

“Run in and cheer them up, boy, and we’ll be off.”

Little Buffalo Bill had secured the scout’s permission--if his parents were willing--to accompany him on his new mission.

Buffalo Bill did not urge them to let the boy go, but he assured them he would do his best for the lad’s comfort and safety, if they permitted him to accompany the pards.

And at last they had consented, with tears and heartaches, to grant the boy’s pleadings.

The horses were saddled and Mr. Avery led out his best, a gritty, bay mare that could run “like a prairie fire,” he said, for the boy.

All was in readiness when the lad bolted out of the door, bounded into the saddle, and dashed away without turning to right or left.

The scout and his pards waved adieu and rode off leisurely.

“Let the boy alone,” said Buffalo Bill, “and when he feels himself he will fall back with the rest of us.”

The scout’s orders had read:

“Report at Fort Phil Kearney after seeing Sitting Bull.”

That was all, and the scout wondered why the dispatch had been so brief and devoid of detail. He had read and reread the order, and pondered over it. There was only one logical conclusion, and that was that some matter concerning the army was to be investigated and the officials in Washington did not fully trust some of the hands through which this order must pass to reach him.

It was probably one hundred and fifty miles to Fort Kearney, and the scout hoped General Sheridan himself would be there. Although his order did not refer to it, Buffalo Bill expected to find full instructions at the fort. The scout was more or less curious to know, and the Laramie man speculated much, but old Nomad could hardly wait.

“D’ye know, Buffler, I didn’t like ther look o’ that chap thet brung ther paper talk. I don’t blame Uncle Sammy for not trustin’ him ’th any news wuth mentionin’; I wouldn’t trust ’im ’s fur as I c’d throw Hide-rack by ther tail, which same ’s a middlin’ short distance.”

“Ah specs Nomad’s been usin’ ’is dreamer some mo’,” observed Skibo.

“Looky hyar, Skibo, this ’ere haint none o’ yore funeral, so yer better stay out. What yer gittin’ at, anyways?”

“Nuffin much, Nomad, on’y yo’ wa’n’t present, nohow, w’en de ossifer fotch de cumflaboration f’m yo’ Uncle Samwell.”

Old Nomad looked foolish for a moment and then he said:

“By the picked-tailed honey bees I warn’t, wor I? Must er been thet measly red hoss thief thet gut erway ’th Hide-rack I’s thinkin’ ’bout.”

“Mebbeso Nomad thinkum ’bout ‘ketchumnappin’,’” suggested Cayuse.

The scout laughed and Hickok and Skibo asked for information. They hadn’t heard the joke. Nomad galloped on ahead and the scout told of the trapper’s attempt to fool Price and Bloody Ike in the cañon, by tearing out a shirt sleeve and filling it with sand to throw in the darkness for them to shoot at.

“Did they shoot at it?” asked Hickok.

“No, they threw some sort of a torch that Ike fixed up, and which lighted up the whole place so that Nomad had to skedaddle.”

The pards laughed so heartily that Nomad looked around and shook his fist at them, and then put spurs to Hide-rack and came up with the boy.

“What shall we call the boy for short?” asked the scout.

“‘Make-um-noise’ plenty short for him,” said Cayuse.

“‘Billie,’” said Skibo, “then we hab Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill, an’ Billie.”

“We are getting too many Bills and not enough receipts,” said the scout.

“Why not call him ‘Tootsie,’ in honor of his profession?” asked the Laramie man.

“Good!” was the chorus, and “Tootsie, the boy bugler,” stuck to the boy from that day.

At noon the party halted the horses to graze an hour, and all the others found that “Tootsie” had regained his usual demeanor and was the life of the party. His new name amused him, but he accepted it with good grace, and sang, after pulling his bugle from his saddle horn:

When Indians get funny just give ’em a toot And send ’em a-whoopin’ an’ crazy; But when you want noises, why call the galoot Called “Corey,” and “Billie,” and “Tootsie.”

Tootsie waved his bugle, danced a jig, and wound up with a toot-toot-ta-tar-rum.

“Thet’s ther stuff, Tootsie, wake us up, er I may git ter dreamin’ ergin.”

That night they camped at the mouth of a little ravine which offered water and tender grass for the horses.

It was a beautiful night, and the scout, when the moon arose, was tempted to “stretch his legs a bit,” after a long day in the saddle, and look about the country.

Tootsie asked permission to accompany him and the request was promptly granted.

They set out, keeping a southerly course along the bank of the ravine until they came out on a flat-topped and vertical-sided butte of considerable height.

In the hazy light they could not see far, but the soft evening breezes from the almost limitless plains came sweet and pure and dream-inducing.

Standing well out on the cliff, the scout noticed that under the side of a neighboring butte of like formation, one hundred rods away, a party of Indians were holding some sort of a ceremony. He had no doubt they were warriors and offering some sacrifice to propitiate the Great Spirit because of their intended exploit, or to win protection in expected battles to come.

The scout told Tootsie of his surmise, and the boy was filled with a desire to get near enough to hear and see the ceremonies. So they made their way through a difficult gulch and scaled the butte beyond which the chanting of the red men now could be heard.

There were twoscore of the braves, and a part of the services consisted of prancing in file around a pot of water which was sending up a great volume of steam from where it hung over a bright fire.

Occasionally a rock was pulled from the fire with sticks and dropped into the pot to increase the volume of steam; then the Indians would caper around the pot, chanting loudly, waving their arms, and now and then darting up to brush hands and arms through the ascending steam.

“I’d like to see what they would do, if I blowed a good blast on my bugle,” said Tootsie.

“You might wish you hadn’t tried it, before it was over,” said the scout.

“Couldn’t we keep out of sight and mystify them?”

“They would probably go back up the gully where they could climb the cliff and come up to investigate.”

“What do you suppose they would do if a tall white figure stood out here in the moonlight and waved its arms and I blowed the bugle at the same time?”

“They would shoot at the tall white figure,” laughed the scout.

“Suppose the ghost kept right on waving its arms and blowing the bugle?”

“Then I think you’d have them stampeded.”

“Will you let me try it?”

“Where is your ‘tall white figure?’”

The boy pulled from under his blouse a roll of white. The goods was plain cotton, and inside was a jointed arrangement of hollow reeds with strings running through them. These he adjusted skillfully and lifted the figure erect. By pulling strings at the bottom the arms waved weirdly in the moonlight.

The scout was amused and decided not to interfere with the boy’s plans.

Tootsie found a desirable position where he could approach the very edge of the cliff, and, lying flat, peep down at the Indians, and at the same time operate his dummy and blow the bugle.

Buffalo Bill found a similar position almost directly over the heads of the Indians.

Tootsie stood his figure on the edge of the cliff as though it were dancing on air, and then gave a triumphant bugle call.

The Indians below scattered instantly, seizing arms of all sort before they looked for the cause.

Another “tar-ta-ta-tar--ta-ta-tar!” and they looked up and saw the strange human form swaying in the moonlight.

Slowly the arms began to rise, and when they were wide extended there came a loud, strong blast, sinking away into a faint imitation that sounded like an echo.

The Indians were irresolute. They hardly knew whether to attribute the strange scene to supernatural demonstration or trickery. They held brief council and then one stepped back, and taking deliberate aim, fired.

He was answered by a defiant blast and wild waving of the arms, as the figure danced along the edge of the rock for a few feet and back.

The Indians moved away in awe at the spectacle. But they mustered courage enough to fire again, and once more came the strong blast of the bugle and the dancing and waving of arms.

Then came a volley from a score of rifles, and some of the bullets found the framework of Tootsie’s image and the thing crumpled pitifully upon the rock above his head.

But Tootsie was equal to the occasion, for he sent forth a weird, plaintive wail that died away in a moan and then kept up a series of nerve-rasping cries and wails.

At the same time Buffalo Bill dropped a rock over the brink, which, descending with great good luck, landed fairly in the kettle of water, sending hot water and steam in all directions, breaking the kettle and extinguishing the fire, with much hissing and popping, all in one operation.

The Indians could not see the rock descending, but they saw the dying figure on the brink of the precipice and the demolition of their offering, as if by magic.

Then they fled, vaulting upon their ponies and urging the animals away across the plain with quirt and heel.

When Buffalo Bill could speak, from laughing, he said:

“The sound of a bugle will give those fellows nervous prostration for a long time to come. And the mysterious ‘bad medicine’ will be handed from party to party and tribe to tribe for generations, and whenever an Indian passes these buttes he will offer some present to propitiate the spirits.”