CHAPTER VI.

BOLLY WHERRIT'S BATTLE ON A SMALL SCALE.

When Bolly Wherrit threw himself upon the guard at his prison lodge, he was without a single weapon.

Besides this his hands and wrists were considerably lacerated by the cruel glass that had been the means of his gaining freedom, but he had no doubt regarding his ability to overcome the fellow, especially as he had the advantage of a surprise.

Finding himself so suddenly seized by the throat, the guard turned like a flash and attempted to use his arm, thinking to get the hunter in a bear's clasp, and then hold him till assistance came.

He counted without his host, however, as many folks are in the habit of doing.

Raised in the school of nature, very nearly the whole of his life being spent upon the plains in active warfare with the savage denizens thereof, it was not likely that Bolly would in his declining years lose the prompt discretion and agility that had marked his whole checkered career.

Perhaps that Indian thought a thunderbolt had seized hold of him, that is, if he took time to think at all, which is rather questionable, and in truth he would not have been far from the truth.

The way in which Bolly shook him by means of the hold upon his throat would have reminded one of a terrier and a rat.

So violent was the motion that the unlucky fellow's head was in danger of coming off, and when Bolly in the end dashed his clenched fist full in the red face, it ended the matter, for when he released his clasp the man dropped to the ground perfectly insensible.

To stoop over the fallen brave and transfer the fellow's weapon to his own person, was, for the ranger, but the work of a moment.

Quite a fine-looking rifle, of a modern pattern, a long, ugly-looking knife, a revolver and some ammunition were thus appropriated without compunction, for Bolly believed in the adage that "to the victor belong the spoils." Besides, had not this man or his friends made themselves owners of his articles of warfare without saying so much as "by your leave."

There were very few men left in the village; for one to remain idle when such deadly work was in progress at two separate points would have been a decided disgrace.

A dozen cavalrymen dashing in at the northern and western end of the village could have carried everything before them.

Not forty yards away from the prison lodge, some ten or twelve warriors were clustered, being wounded braves unable to take part in the great battle.

So interested were these worthies in what was passing before their eyes (for, standing on a little elevation, they could see the fight with Reno now drawing to an end, and the gallop to death of brave Custer and his men), that the little episode in their rear did not serve to attract their attention.

It was only when the ranger arose to his feet, after arming himself by means of the late guard's weapons, that one of the wounded braves happened to catch sight of him, and, giving the alarm to his companions, the whole of them started forward with a yell.

If they were to be deprived of a share in both of the fierce battles, why could they not get up a little affair of their own, a private entertainment, so to speak, whereby each individual participant on their side might share the excitement.

Unfortunately for them Bolly Wherrit proved too willing, and then again he wanted all the fun on his side of the house.

"Now fur sumpin rich. Calculate I kin wipe out them reds like a chalk mark. Old bruiser in front thar, take keer o' yerself."

The rifle proved to be a good one in the right hands, for as the report sounded, one of the approaching braves sprang wildly forward with a convulsive drawing up of the legs, and was met half way by death.

Then the revolver commenced its fearful work.

As man after man lay down never to rise again, Bolly burst out into a wild, reckless laugh.

When the chambers were empty, only four men stood erect, and they looked as if they wished themselves anywhere but in their present situation.

Nothing daunted by the force of numbers, Bolly sprang towards them, holding his empty rifle in one hand and the long knife in the other.

Some stern duty appeared to call these four brave fellows in as many different directions, just then; at any rate they did not wait for the arrival of White Thunder, but dashed wildly away, forgetful alike of their wounded dignity, and their late dignified wounds. A shout from the old hunter caused them to expedite matters, and Bolly laughed at the ludicrous figures they cut.

A shrill neigh close by caused him to start. It was a well-remembered sound, and the hunter quickly turned his face in the direction from whence it came.

A horse, saddled and bridled, was fastened to a stake driven into the ground in front of a tent, and Bolly saw that it was his own lost steed. The animal had recognized its master, and had given token of its love for him.

With a few bounds Bolly was at the side of Black Bess.

As his hand fell caressingly upon the noble mare's mane, the skin serving as a door to the lodge was swept suddenly aside, and the next instant Bolly found himself face to face with Blue Horse, a noted chief, and an old enemy of his.

What this individual was doing in his lodge while his comrades fought and bled will, perhaps, never be known, and does not really affect the course of my narrative.

All that I wish to be positive about is the fact that he was there, and that for almost fully sixty seconds the foes glared at each other.

"Ugh! White Thunder! Blue Horse no forget ears," grunted the chief, as he put his hand to his belt and drew a revolver.

"Remember that ole scrimmage, eh, chief? Wal, I reckon I cud give ye another leetle reminder o' this happy occasion, seein' that yer is so partic'lar 'bout it," and the ranger laughed in the Indian's face.

Blue Horse angrily raised his weapon, but considerately refrained from firing. The reason of this clemency on his part was obvious.

Bolly held his empty revolver in his hand, and this had been thrown with tremendous force against the chief's head, which, not being made of iron, gave way, and the Sioux nation had to mourn the loss of another leader.

Bolly secured the revolver of Blue Horse, and was thinking of searching the village from one end to the other in order to accomplish the strange mission that had brought him to this part of the country, when a chorus of angry yells attracted his attention.

Upon investigation these were found to proceed from a score of mounted red men who were dashing along towards him, having evidently been attracted by the cries of the four wounded warriors, who had fled after their little private amusement.

"Plague take the luck, I must git. Sich a good chance thrown away. Now, ye kin bet high on't, Bolly Wherrit's goin' ter have his own rifle back agin, an' resky that gal mighty soon. Whoa, Bess, whoa, old girl. Have they been treatin' ye bad? Away now, an' make the dust fly!"

Faithful Black Bess needed no second invitation, but darted away like an arrow shot from the bow, with Bolly swinging his rifle in the air, and shouting defiance to those who followed after.

His first thought was to make for the river and join the combatants on the other shore, but upon glancing across, such a mass of surging humanity met his gaze that Bolly was actually appalled. Besides, his pursuers were between himself and the water having come from that direction.

"Tarnal death! but it looks hot over thar. Reckon it must be Custer, for I swar no other man wud do sich a dare-devil thing. Ef they get outer thet hole, then I'll guv the general credit fur a heap o' smartness. Oh! yer imps o' Satan. 'Spect ter ketch me, hey? Wal, now we'll see what the hoss has ter say 'bout thet," muttered Bolly.

Actions often speak louder than words; if Black Bess could not talk, she certainly showed what she thought of the case by making a streak that promised to carry the ranger out of sight very shortly.

The last the score of Sioux saw of him he was waving his old hat in an affectionate farewell, and the exuberant shouts he gave utterance to came faintly across the level ground.

Bolly made at once for the hills, which he reached in a short time. Here we will leave the brave old ranger for a time, hatching up daring plans to carry out his singular mission, and return once more to that ravine of death where Custer and the last of his command fell beneath the fury of the Sioux and their renegade friends.