CHAPTER XIII.

THE ABDUCTION.

Chief Harmon of the Vigilants was not wholly content to abandon the trail of the cowboys, just here.

He indulged in quite an argument with Frank Reade, Jr.

His remarks were not without logic.

“Why, only look at the sense of the thing,” he declared, “It is by no means possible that the soldiers are going to have an easy time with Cliff and his men. They may turn the tables on them yet. I tell you it was a premature thing for that colonel to do, to set us adrift so quickly.”

“Yet he ought to know his own strength,” said Frank.

“I don’t believe he does.”

“I cannot but feel that he is doing the right thing.”

“I don’t feel that way.”

“Well, in case of defeat the stigma will not fall upon you.”

“Ah, but that is not the idea. We must not let Cliff defeat them. If he does, he will defeat us.”

“What do you propose?”

“I am not going back home yet. We will make a camp down here on Willow Creek. When we learn for a fact that Cliff has been done up, then we will go home. Until then we are on duty.”

Frank saw that Harmon was right. He extended his hand and said:

“I agree with you.”

“I knew ye would,” replied the Vigilant leader. “We can do this upon our own responsibility. You are to wait for Clark at a point below here, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. That point is on Willow Creek. We will accompany you there.”

It was nightfall before Willow Creek was reached.

In a convenient spot camp was made. The darkness became most intense in the vicinity.

Camp-fires were made and guards posted.

The fires in the furnace of the Steam Man were banked, and the occupants descended and mixed with the Vigilants.

The men gathered around the fires, and told stories and cracked jokes.

Walter Barrows, the young Vigilant who was so deeply in love with Bessie Rodman, had waited upon her at the wagon step, and together they took a lover-like walk down the bank of the creek.

Nobody saw them go, and it is doubtful if any one would have sought to restrain them.

But they were committing unwittingly an act of great risk and folly.

For unknown to any in the camp a coterie of dusky savages lurked in the tall prairie grass about.

Barney and Pomp were entertaining the camp with some of their Munchhausen stories.

The plainsmen roared with laughter until their sides ached.

Both were comical mokes and were continually playing roots upon each other. Barney had just worked a gag upon Pomp when suddenly the distant crack of a pistol was heard.

Instantly every man in the camp was upon his feet.

The most intense of excitement reigned. All was confusion.

Then one of the guards came rushing in.

“There’s a hull lot of Apaches down yonder,” he cried, “ther grass is full of ‘em and I reckon they’ve surrounded the camp.”

“Steady all!” thundered Harmon, the Vigilant leader. “Who fired that pistol shot?”

“I don’t know,” replied the guard.

“Is anybody outside the line?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Walter Barrows and the young lady passed me not an hour ago. They went on down the creek.”

“My soul!” gasped Harmon, with white face, “that was Barrows pistol without doubt. He an’ the gal have certainly fallen into the grip of ther Injuns. We must make lively work to save ‘em.”

Frank Reade, Jr., had listened to this report with a sensation of horror.

Barney and Pomp had at once desisted in their fun-making, and Barney proceeded to open the Steam Man’s furnace.

The crack of rifles now sounded all around the camp.

The savages, without doubt, were drawing their line closer, and meant if possible to exterminate the little band of Vigilants.

But a line of defense was then thrown out, and the skulking savages were held at bay.

But a desultory and very unsatisfactory species of warfare was kept up in the darkness.

It was impossible to tell how to move or where.

The enemy fired from all directions and practically at random.

Many of the Vigilants were wounded, and Captain Harmon was angry.

“Confound an Injun!” he muttered, in disgust. “They have sich a sneakin’ way of fighting. They allus attack one after dark, an’ hain’t got the pluck to come out in the open an’ fight.”

Everybody was bound to acknowledge the logic of this.

But the savages kept up the same mode of attack until Frank Reade, Jr., made a diversion.

Barney had succeeded in getting up steam once more in the Steam Man, and now Frank Reade, Jr., approached Harmon.

“Give me five men,” he declared, “and I will whip the foe for you.”

“Five men!” gasped Harmon. “Why, they’re ten to one out there.”

“I don’t care if they are.”

“But——”

“Will you give me the men?”

“Oh yes, but——”

“There’s no time for questions, Captain Harmon. Leave it all to me.”

“All right, Mr. Reade.”

By Harmon’s orders five of The Vigilants joined Frank Reade.

He led them aboard the steam wagon. Then he closed the door and seized the reins which connected with the throttle.

The Steam Man gave a shriek loud enough to perforate the ear drums of any one in the vicinity.

Then it dashed out upon the prairie.

The effect may be imagined.

The monster with fiery eyes and all flame and smoke, with clanking thunderous tread plunging into the midst of the foe, was an apparition well to be feared.

Right into the midst of the savages the Steam Man ran.

While the armed men in the screened wagon poured destructive volleys into the midst of the red foe.

Pen cannot adequately describe the situation.

For a moment the Apaches held their ground. Then, with wild, baffled yells they fled before the conqueror.

In less than twenty minutes the vicinity had been practically cleared of savages.

They retreated to a point below where their ponies were corralled.

Mounting, they dashed away to the westward. The Steam Man pursued until finding a creek, they escaped for good.

Then the Steam Man returned to camp.

But although the foe had been repulsed, matters were still bad enough.

Walter Barrows and Bessie Rodman were missing.

That they were captives was a forlorn hope. That they had been murdered was a dreadful fear.

Delay was almost fatal in this case. Without loss of time a good trailer was put upon the trail of the lovers.

Daylight was breaking in the east, and this enabled him to easily follow the trail.

Along the banks of the creek it ran for nearly a fifth of a mile.

Then the trailer paused.

Here without doubt was the spot where Barrows had been attacked by the Apaches.

There were footprints and marks of a struggle. A rifle, with broken stock, was picked up,

“It is Barrows’ gun,” said one of the Vigilants.

Blood was found upon the ground, but no trace of the bodies.

“They have been taken away as captives,” declared Harmon, positively. “There is no doubt of that.”

“Or thrown into the creek,” suggested one of the Vigilants.

Investigation for a moment gave the pursuers a thrill of horror.

There were footprints down to the water’s edge, and the marks of some heavy body dragged thither.

In the shallow water, protected by reeds, was a body.

For a moment all expected to recognize Barrows. But all drew a breath of relief.

It was not him.

The body was that of one of the Apaches. Doubtless it was one shot by Barrows, and his body had been thrown into this place to escape the notice of the white pursuers.

“That’s an Injun trick,” declared Harmon, positively. “I’m mighty well satisfied that the captives are alive.”

“I hope you are right,” said one man.

“Ditto!” said another.

“Then let us take the trail,” cried Frank Reade, Jr. “If possible, we must rescue them.”

The question was settled at once. All sprung to saddle, and the trail, which was quite plain, was followed.

Across the prairies went the Steam Man, with the Vigilants behind.

Of course their horses could not compete with the Man on a level stretch, but Frank did not try to run away from them.

The Indians bore away to a southwesterly course, and soon a range of hills became visible above the horizon.

Harmon made them out as the Black Bear range.

“If they get into those hills with the captives,” he declared, “we’ll have mighty hard work diggin’ ‘em out.”

“Why?” asked one of his men.

“Bekase, there’s more holes and out of the way dens there than you could shake a stick at.”

Barney and Pomp crouched down in the wagon, and kept their rifles in readiness for business.

Frank Reade, Jr., watched the plain ahead with eager eye, but though the trail was plain there was yet no signs of overtaking the red foe.

As they drew nearer the hills it became almost a certainty that the savages had sought refuge there.

A long stretch of plain intervened to the hills.

This was easily to be inspected with a glass, and Frank did so. There was no sign whatever of the Indians.

All hope was thus given up of overtaking the redskins before reaching the hills.

It seemed a certainty that they had reached their caves, and the only alternative left was to scour them thoroughly.

But when quite near an entrance between high hills, suddenly the pursuers topped a rise in the prairie and were rewarded with a startling sight.

Just below, in a depression, was the band of savages, seemingly engaged in making camp.

A small creek ran through this depression,

As is well known, Indians always encamp upon the banks of a stream. Yet it was a surprise to the pursuers that they should venture to camp in this open spot.

At sight of their foes the astonished redskins were thrown into a tumult.

Instantly a mad retreat was begun for the mountains.

A wild cheer pealed from the lips of the vigilants.

Harman settled himself in his saddle and shouted:

“Forward, all! Charge!”

With a yell the Vigilants put spurs to their horses and made for the Indian encampment.

Frank Reade, Jr., started the Steam Man on a circuit to head off the savages.

But as he did so Pomp clutched his arm.

“Hi dar, Marse Frank!” cried the darky. “Does yo’ see dat little party ober dar making fo’ de hills?”

Frank did see them.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Well, dat am Missy Bessie an’ her lover jes’ as suah as yo’ am bo’n, Marse Frank, an’ dar am half a dozen Injuns jes’ holding onto de bridles ob der hosses. I makes it out, sah, dat dey fink dey kin reach de hills afo’ de Steam Man, sah.”

“By Jupiter, you’re right, Pomp!” cried Frank, with inspiration. “But we’ll try and spoil that little game.”

“Dat’s right, Marse Frank!” cried the darkey. “I jes’ fink de Man kin obertake dem hosses suah enuff.”

Frank seized the reins and pulled open the throttle.

As the Steam Man went forward with his mighty stride Frank opened the whistle valve and let out a mighty shriek of such loudness that the echoes were repeated a hundred fold in the recesses of the hills.