CHAPTER XII.

WHITE THUNDER ON THE RAMPAGE.

When Bolly Wherrit left the great Indian camp behind him, and headed for the distant hills, he had no intention of leaving the vicinity.

An object had attracted him hither, which, though backed by a golden reward, had something else behind it as an invigorator that proved far more potent with the old ranger than the money involved.

His own words had proclaimed that the cause of his hastening north, leaving his chum Pandy Ellis in the thick of some business that concerned them both, was a beautiful woman's tears.

Bolly always was weak as regarded the other sex, and knowing this reverence of his, which can hardly be called a failing, it has been a continual wonder to me why the ranger never married, especially as he must have been a fine-looking fellow in his younger days, judging from the grand old face he possesses at the present writing.

I strongly suspect, however, that in his youth Bolly had loved and been deceived, and although he never ceased caring for the ladies, he regarded them with suspicion when he came to the point.

As he rode along Bolly was engaged in various conjectures, the main subject of which was the rescue of Adele, for the reader must know by this time that this was the object that had sent Bolly from New Orleans to this northern province in such haste.

The sun was sinking down in the western sky, and the shadows were growing very long, when Bolly reached the hills.

A stream of water, so cold that one could almost believe it an ice spring, murmured among the stone, and pursued its tortuous way through the neighboring ravine, heading for the Little Horn, where its waters were quickly engulfed by the larger stream.

At this Bolly came to a halt, and allowed Black Bess to drink all that she wished, dismounting first to quench his own thirst.

The ranger did not attempt to climb the hills, as it would have proven a difficult task, and one which there was no necessity for, as he intended doing some work before morning came on.

Longer grew the shadows, and more gloomy the ravines between the elevations, as the prairie ranger galloped slowly along the foot of the range.

Night at length closed around him; the peaks were dimly outlined against the sky in which the stars began to appear.

In the west the infant moon looked like a silver bond of promise to the good welfare of man, and smiled upon the earth as if in pity at its forlorn and unlighted condition.

All of these things Bolly noticed with the air of a man whose mind is preoccupied, and whose thoughts have no range beyond a certain point.

Now that quite a distance separated him from the huge Sioux village, the usual sounds that accompany a night upon the plains came to his ears, and it really seemed as though the wolves howled and the coyotes barked louder than ever on this particular occasion.

Perhaps with their more than human instinct, these beasts of carrion knew of the feast for their hungry maws, that the setting sun had shone upon, and which was not yet ready for them because of the many moving figures in that terrible ravine of death.

A whippoorwill sending forth his plaintive cry near by, and the shrill scream of a night hawk from a neighboring tree, aroused Bolly from the stupor as it might almost be called, into which he had unconsciously fallen.

For the first time he noticed that Black Bess had carried him into the midst of a forest that lay at the foot of the hills.

As he made this discovery, the distant murmur of running water came to his ears, which could not be made by a creek.

Undoubtedly it was the river that he was nearing, and as this was just what he desired, Bolly let his sable steed continue her own course.

Five minutes later he brought the animal to a halt.

Before him rolled the Little Horn with its shady banks, the starlight glinting from the tiny waves that the adverse wind gave rise to.

Long and earnestly Bolly looked at the water.

He had built his schemes upon the river, and being in a contemplative mood, he was wondering whether the morning would see him successful or the reverse.

From this serious state he was abruptly aroused by a sound that to ears of experience like his bespoke danger.

Only a twig snapped by some incautious foot, but it had a world of meaning to the ranger.

As if it affected him like electricity, Bolly slid from the back of Black Bess, and crouched on that side of the horse nearest to the seat of danger.

The rifle he held was laid gently upon the ground, and in its stead he quickly laid hold of the formidable knife taken from the Indian who had been placed over his prison as a guard.

Although these movements were accomplished with all the noiseless powers of a tiger, Bolly was not unobserved.

Two pair of gleaming eyes had noted his descent from the horse, and hardly had the ranger laid hold of his knife than he was called upon to use it.

A form arose lightly in the air, and passing over the bushes like a bird, landed close beside him.

Following this came a second, and as this man landed he gave a fierce shout, the pent-up air of his jump forcing itself through his teeth with the shrill force of a steam-whistle.

There was no such thing as taking Bolly Wherrit unawares. A man who had earned the name of White Thunder and Never Sleep among the northern tribes might be surprised, as he was not possessed of a second sight to divine ambuscades, but his enemies always found him ready.

The first man who leaped went to immediate death, for, as he braced himself to recover from the force of his jump, the ranger gave one spring and plunged his knife forward. It entered the broad red chest with a sickening thud, and when Bolly pulled it out again, a perfect deluge of blood followed.

Sickening as was the sight of this tottering man, actually turning pale from loss of blood, we soldiers have to witness far more terrible things, such as would make a civilian faint with horror.

The old ranger had seen worse in his day, when dear comrades were roasted before his eyes at the stake, and besides he had no time to waste in heroics.

His second foeman aimed a vicious blow at his head with a tomahawk that glittered like steel or silver as it flew by.

This intended death-blow Bolly avoided by a dip of the head, and in another instant the two were locked in a close embrace.

The Indian had managed to lay hold of his knife, so that the combatants were equally well armed.

Before a dozen seconds had passed Bolly discovered that he had no puny antagonist with whom to combat, for the fellow seemed to possess muscles of iron, and even by exerting all his strength, the ranger failed to raise him from the ground to dash him down, as he had done many a man before.

They were in such a situation that if either attempted to use his knife, the other would have the advantage for an instant, and even this short time might prove disastrous to all cherished hopes of victory.

An idea came into Bolly's head which told him that the advantage really lay in his favor, for while fully the Indian's equal in strength, he also possessed some knowledge of scientific wrestling, against which the brave could oppose nothing in the same line.

The chance soon presented itself, and was promptly seized upon.

By an adroit fling of his foot, and a corresponding whirl with his arms, the ranger completely demolished his sturdy but ignorant foeman.

Falling underneath, the Indian knew that his chances of escape were slight, indeed, unless he managed to hold the ranger down, and dropping his knife, he attempted to accomplish this by clasping Bolly around the chest.

Unfortunately, however, for him, his hands failed to meet, and he could not put forth his full amount of strength.

Our old friend broke loose from the death clasp.

A cry of alarm burst from the doomed man's lips when he saw the red blade uplifted, but the outstretched arms were dashed aside, and the knife descended.

"That fur Tom Garny, blast yer hide," he muttered, and his foe was dead.

As the ranger was shaking himself to see that no material damage had befallen him through his recent struggle, the reports of several guns, followed by savage shouts, came from the bluffs across the river and further up. It proceeded from besieged Reno and his foes, but Bolly did not know this.

"Ah! sum o' ye over yonder I reckon. Wonder what became o' Custer, for it must hev been him, az no wun else'd rush inter danger like that. Sounds mighty bad; they hain't kerried the town, an' I'm afraid the yaller-haired chief hez either gone under or else had ter retreat, a thing I never knew him ter do, long az I've been acquainted--ha! what in blazes! Bolly Wherrit, down ye imp. Bess, silence now, old girl. Byes, do yer juty now, fur thar's sumpin' a comin' this way that needs lookin' arter."

The ranger sank out of sight as if he had been shot.