CHAPTER VI.

TOM MAXWELL TURNS INDIAN.

Major Calhoun and Tom Maxwell “listened with all their ears,” for a sound they fervently hoped would never come—the wild yells of exultation, telling that their messenger had been captured by the Indians, and the dissipation of their last hope.

And thus they remained for several minutes, without a sound to greet their hearing, save the usual ones of the night. But then, just as they were congratulating themselves upon the complete success of the venture, their blood was fairly curdled and their hearts wrung by a startling alarm.

From some distance came the noise, then arose a wild tumult and outcry, as of human voices, the owners of which were engaged in a bitter struggle for life and death. And then from the prairie around the beleaguered train, there sounded the shrill cries and signals of the aroused warriors, followed by the rapid tread of several horses in full gallop, all tending toward the point below, where had first sounded the alarm.

“My God! Tom, the boy is lost!” groaned Calhoun, agonizedly, as he sunk back and covered his face with his hands.

“I’m feared he is, boss, but look up. Don’t give way now, jest when we need our wits the wust. What’s did is did, an’ cain’t be ondid, nuther. Think o’ the rest—o’ Miss Clary—an’ ’member ef we go under, so’ll she, ’thout a doubt. Ha! look—they’re comin’!” he added, suddenly, as several figures appeared in view upon the prairie beyond. “Look out, boys—gi’ the pesky imps a lettle thunder, jest to let ’em know what they’ve got to ixpect herea’ter!”

As he yelled these words, Maxwell discharged his rifle at a prominent Indian, who suddenly paused in his onward career, tottered for a moment, then fell heavily forward upon his face. And along the line of smoke-begrimed wagons there was another flash, like those which had preceded it, with a like deadly effect.

But the one volley was all that was needed, for then the savages appeared to melt away and disappear from view. This had evidently been no concerted assault, but the red-skins had rushed forward, alarmed by the tumult below, no doubt fearing their intended prey were attempting to escape by way of the river.

When the temporary confusion had in a measure subsided, the two men listened anxiously for some sound from below, to tell them of the probable fate of their messenger, but all was still. The event had evidently decided, in one way or another, during the brief assault.

And they naturally dreaded the worst. The first yells told them that Buenos Ayres had been discovered, and had been engaged in a death-struggle with the enemy. He could scarcely have escaped.

“Now we are indeed lost,” bitterly uttered Calhoun, to the old guide.

“It looks dub’ous—durned dub’ous, I must say. But then mebbe ’tain’t so bad as it looks. We may fool ’em yit. It’s my turn, now,” added Tom, with a sudden increase of confidence.

“What? you would not be foolish enough to attempt that? They will be watching the river so close after this that a fish could scarcely pass their lines. It would be suicide, man!”

“Jest so; ef I tried it—which I don’t ’tend doin’. No sir, I ain’t sech a fool—_yit!_”

“Then what do you intend doing?”

“Walkin’ out thar an’ j’inin’ them imps,” coolly returned Maxwell.

“This is no time for fooling, Tom. Our situation is far too serious to admit of that. Such a move would be even worse than the other.”

“Not much. Anyhow, I’m goin’ to try it. They cain’t do much more’n kill a feller, anyhow, an’ ef we stay here they’re bound to do it, shore. So what matter? I’m goin’ out thar, an’ they hain’t a-goin to hurt me, nuther,” confidently added the scout.

“But how—what do you mean?” asked Calhoun, seeing that his companion was undoubtedly in earnest in what he said.

“I’m goin’ to turn Injun fer a bit, jest to see how that pesky Dusky Dick must feel. But don’t talk. Watch the perayrie cluss—watch fer both on us, fer I cain’t do my shar’ now.”

The old scout left the side of the puzzled soldier, and glided toward a pile of dead savages, who had been carelessly heaped together, after the second assault, so as to clear the way. These comprised all those who had fallen inside the corral.

As he rudely turned these over with his foot, Tom uttered a grunt of approval, and then catching one of the dead braves by the arm, he dragged it to the spot where crouched Calhoun.

“What are you going to do with that, Tom?”

“Goin’ to skin it, fust. Then putt on the hide an’ walk out yender an’ tell those imps as how I was dead, but hev come to life ag’in,” chuckled the old guide.

Calhoun uttered an exclamation of disgust.

“Don’t git huffy, now, boss, ’cause I speak sorter mixed-up like. You know my way, or had orter by this time. But lis’en an’ you’ll see what I mean. You see this ’ere carr’on is—or was, I’d orter say, mebbe, seein’ as he’s dead—a Delaware Injun. That proves what I said ’bout Dusky Dick’s hevin’ picked up a band of runnygades to do his dirty work, fer thar is ’Rapahoe, Cheyenne, Pawnee, an’ Delaware ’mongst them dead critters over yon.

“Now I kin jabber a lettle o’ most all o’ them, but better Delaware, fer as you may know, I hed one—Delaware Tom they called the cuss—fer a pardner, well-nigh two years. So as the lad—_durn_ the luck!—hes got rub—inter trouble I mean, an’ cain’t go fer help, why I ’termined to try an’ sneak through them imps thar. I knowed thar was no use tryin’ to play the runnygade as he did, fer the imps’ll be on the keen look-out thar, an’ this was the only chaince. An’ a durned slim one, too, but better’n stayin’ here.”

“We will try, but I fear ’tis a hopeless case. If they make another steady rush, we must go down before it. If we do, and you get free, Tom, promise me one thing: that you’ll not forget Clara? You’ll hunt for her?”

“No, I won’t, nuther.”

“What!”

“Jest so. Give a fool answer fer a fool question, is my motter, al’ays. Ain’t I a man—a _white_ man, too, ef so be you rub a lettle o’ the outside dirt off? Then in _course_ I’ll do it—I ain’t a dog nor nothin’, I reckon. But don’t fret. We’ll all hunt together. I’ll git you free. See ef I don’t, now.”

As he spoke, the old guide glided toward the river, accompanied by Calhoun. But as he hung his legs over the edge of the bank, Maxwell suddenly added:

“Look here—ef you see or hear a feller shoot this-a-way, from out thar, nigh to the river, don’t you shoot back, onless you aim at that big star, yonder. Mought hurt somebody, ef you did. He’s a powerful poor shooter, that fellow’ll be, when he minds to. Shouldn’t wonder ef he’ll miss the hull intire train, wagons an’ all,” chuckled Tom.

“You mean you’ll fire from there?”

“Yas. Must throw dust in the red-skins’ eyes, ye see, or else they’ll some on ’em be snoopin’ ’round to see who I be, which moughtn’t be pleasant. Ef they see me a-shootin’ this-a-way, they’ll natur’lly s’pose it’s one o’ themselves, slid out to play a lone hand. See?”

“Yes—I understand.”

“Then keep my rifle. I cain’t han’le it the way I must go; ’volvers must sarve me. But don’t let nobody tetch it. I’d be plum lost ef any thin’ was to happin to it; I would _so_!”

Then Maxwell slid down into the water, that here was but little over knee-deep, and crouching low down he glided rapidly up the river, bound upon a mission that could scarcely succeed, now that the enemy had their eyes opened by a somewhat similar attempt. And once more Calhoun went back to his post, with a heavy gloom resting upon his heart.

Tom stealthily pursued his way up-stream until he was fully a hundred yards above the corral, when he gained the spot for which he had aimed. This was a little depression that ran from the water’s edge, some few yards into the level prairie.

Here he hesitated for a moment. He glanced along in the direction he had been pursuing, and debated earnestly in his own mind whether it would not be better for him to keep on, and by thus rounding the hill, avoid a probable meeting with those beleaguering the corral.

But this hesitation lasted only for a moment. He saw that the contemplated change was now impossible. That the savages had guarded against any such attempt upon the part of their intended victims.

His keen eye caught sight of several dusky figures that he felt assured were none other than Indians, who had been detailed to guard the stream above. And this was not all.

He also saw enough of their movements to tell that he was discovered; that his progress had not been so cautiously made as to escape the prying eyes of his enemies. A quiver agitated his frame, and for a moment his heart was sick within him.

Not with personal fear, however. There could scarcely be found one who was more utterly reckless of his own life than this same guide. For nearly two score years he had lived with his life in his hand. At dawn he knew not whether he would ever again look upon the setting sun.

And all this had rendered him utterly reckless and devoid of fear, so far as he was concerned alone. But now he had others to think of and work for. Upon the success of this venture probably hung the lives of the entire company of emigrants. Were he slain or captured, he believed that ere the sun arose all would be over; that his friends would be swept from the face of the earth.

For a moment he half resolved to spring to his feet and dash swiftly away over the plain, trusting to his great endurance and fleetness of foot to escape. But then this idea was as quickly discarded.

He knew that such an action would but too surely betray his identity, and that a cry would be raised and immediate pursuit instituted. Pursuit, too, upon horseback; fleet though he undeniably was, and long of wind, he could not hope to cope successfully with the fiery, half-wild mustangs, especially when bestrode by those rare jockeys, the Prairie Indians.

Maxwell resolved upon a bold course of action; or rather fell back upon the old plan. Its success mainly depended upon one thing.

How long had the red-skins been watching him? Had they observed his leaving the interior of the corral? If so, then his fate was indubitably sealed.

But had they only noted him recently—as he hoped; for he had been careful to keep low down within the dense shadow of the bank of the river, where the moon’s rays could not reach him—he thought he might yet succeed in deceiving them. And upon this hope he acted.

With one glance behind him, at the dim, phantom-like figures that were still stealthily approaching him, Maxwell emerged from the hollow, upon the side toward the corral, and, upon his hands and knees, began crawling quite rapidly toward the wagon-train. Then he dropped down quite flat upon his face, casting a glance behind him as he did so.

The red-skins in pursuit had just crossed the ditch, and were crawling after him. They had gained rapidly in the last few minutes, and their dress, as well as weapons, could now quite plainly be seen.

Then Tom leveled his revolver toward the corral, taking care to aim above it, so that the bullet could by no possibility inflict harm upon any of his friends, he fired. Almost like an echo, there came a return shot from the train, and Tom fairly chuckled with delight.

This was just what he had hoped for, though he feared Calhoun would not risk a shot, knowing the circumstances, at least in part. But now, nothing could be better calculated to allay any suspicions the red-skins behind him might have entertained.

Tom glanced backward, beneath one arm. To his delight, he saw that the Indians had paused, and were now closely hugging the ground, evidently trying to lessen the mark their bodies presented, lest a bullet from the corral should bury itself beneath their precious hides.

“Ef that much works so well, reckon I’ll go a leetle furder ’th it, though it ’d jist be partic’lar ge-mineezers ef some o’ the boys should shoot me fer a red. But I reckon the boss ’ll look out fer that. Anyhow, I must shake off them pesky imps. Let ary one o’ them git a glimpse o’ my mug, an’ it’ll be all night ’th _this_ coon, shore!” muttered the old guide, as he gradually worked himself still nearer the corral.

This move, though not a little hazardous to himself, had the desired effect, and as he once more glanced back, Tom saw that his red-skinned followers had retreated, and were hidden from view. He now fired again, and while reloading the empty chambers, he busied himself by peering keenly around him, to discover, if possible, some point through which he could pass with the least delay, and consequently peril, to himself and important mission.

He dared not dally long, for the night was rolling on apace, and he must be miles away from this spot ere the sun arose above the eastern hill-tops. Then, with sternly-compressed lips and finely-strung nerves, he started anew upon his errand.

He turned, and still crouching far down, with head bowed so that the dried grass was blended with his hair and long beard, completely hiding his features, he glided slowly away from the corral, shaping his course so as to carry himself to one side of the main body of Indians, as he calculated.

Already a chuckle of delight was tickling his throat, as he saw how finely he was progressing, for he believed that his _ruse_ would succeed, when an incident occurred which changed his exultation to angry apprehension.

From a dense mass of dried grass, almost directly in his path, there uprose the figure of a stalwart savage, who had doubtless been observing the scout’s movements. He was now so close that Maxwell could not avoid him without exciting suspicion, which would bring with it investigation and consequent discovery.

So he kept on in his course, that would carry him a few feet to one side of the Indian. But the other did not seem disposed to allow his seeming ally and brother to pass by unquestioned.

He spoke in a harsh voice that also expressed suspicion. The words were uttered in the Arapahoe dialect, with which Tom was sufficiently conversant to comprehend their purport. But he well knew that this knowledge was not perfect enough to carry him through a conversation with a native undetected, and so he replied in Delaware:

“I am wounded. The accursed pale-faces saw me as I crept up out yonder to try and kill them, and shot me. The bullet made me sick,” he said, in a husky tone.

“Where were you going?” demanded the other, also using the dialect.

“I was hunting the medicine-grass,” added Tom, fearing to lose any more time, and again crawling forward.

“Stop! Let me see your hurt. I may stop the blood, and then I will find the grass for you,” added the Arapahoe, in a kind voice, evidently swallowing the lie, and feeling no further suspicion concerning the identity of his seeming ally.

And, then, in the kindness of his heart, he strode forward and placed his hand upon the disguised scout’s head. The act was a fatal one; the fastenings of the grass head-dress became unloosened, and the mass came off in the Indian’s hand.

A wild cry broke from the red-skin’s lips, as the bright moonlight fell fully upon the features of the guide. There could be no possibility of mistaking them for other than those of a white man.

But that cry was his last upon earth; for, with an angry howl of furious rage, Tom Maxwell sprung erect, and grappled with his foe. His powerful arms bore the savage to the ground like an infant, while his hands were clasped tightly around his throat.

As they fell heavily to the ground, the warrior appeared to recover from his surprise, and struggled desperately for dear life. His arms were wound around the scout’s body with crushing pressure, and he writhed like a wounded snake in the endeavor to turn his foe.

Tom dared not relax his grasp upon the throat of the Arapahoe, lest he should cry out and give the alarm, to bring an overwhelming force upon him; then his fate would be assuredly sealed. And thus he could only try to throttle his enemy in time to flee from the spot before any other should be alarmed by the struggle.

For several seconds this continued; but then, to his horror, Tom heard a wild cry, and then the rapid rush of many feet, plainly coming toward him. He knew that the savages were alarmed, and had caught sight of the struggling foemen.

With a howl of rage, he freed one hand, and drew his knife. Then it glowed for a brief instant in the bright moonlight before falling with a heavy _thud_, sinking to its very haft in the broad chest of the Indian.

But still, even in the throes of death, those muscular arms held him firmly, despite Maxwell’s efforts to break the grip. With a desperate effort, Tom sprung to his feet, lifting with him the dead man, whose horribly-convulsed features stared him full in the face.

Then, with a fierce curse, Tom wrenched free, and made a step forward as if to flee. But he was too late.

The enemy were upon him, and the tall scout was cast heavily to the ground, with a dozen hands clutching him. A brief, furious struggle, and the savages arose, while the counterfeit Indian lay beside the body of his dead foe, a helpless captive.