CHAPTER VIII.

MELTON’S SCOUT—A BUSH FIGHT.

Tom Bantry had been a flatboatman since he was old enough to hold a pole, and now for the first time paused to consider how far he had gone down the road of sin. He was conscious of many evil deeds already performed, but the stain of blood was not upon his soul, and although pledged to his vile companion he could not stand by tamely and witness the murder of so good a man as Samuel Wescott. But his good intentions had come to naught, and the brave man was dead.

The flatboatman rose and looked about him, a wicked light coming over his dark face. “They taught me evil, them cusses did,” he muttered. “I’d the making of a man in me, but they sp’iled me, and now they’ve killed as good a man as ever walked the earth. I’ll remember that ag’inst ye, old man Garrett.”

He was literally worn out, and dropped down upon the grass and slept until morning. He woke at last and started up refreshed, only to find a party of white men were upon the opposite bank, and with his paint upon him, Tom knew that it would be far from safe to meet them, and he skulked away, keeping under cover of the bushes, and then made a circuit through the bushes, designing to cross their path and ascertain who they were. As he crept forward with that intention, he heard a slight rustling in the bushes in front, and the long, snake-like head of Napope appeared above the bushes, signaling him to fall back. He did so, involuntarily dropping his hand upon his knife, which he had not lost in the last night’s struggle in the stream, when he remembered that Napope regarded all his party as friends and that he still wore the garb of an Indian. He dropped back and the next moment Napope joined him.

“The white dogs come,” he said, in a fierce tone, “and the heart of a chief is big in his bosom. They shall die without knowledge.”

“Who are they?” demanded Tom.

“They are white and they are not the friends of Jackwood the son of Red-Bird. Where is your gun, my brother?”

“I lost it last night,” replied Tom, a little embarrassed. “Let me look out and see what white men come.”

He advanced to the edge of the woods and looked out, and could detect a white party moving hastily across the plain. Foremost among them was a man whom he had known well some years before, Cooney Joe, and behind him came Captain Melton and his gallant men, and it flashed through the mind of Tom Bantry that they were in pursuit of Dick Garrett. His heart stood still, for a backward glance showed him fifty stout Sacs, armed to the teeth, lying under the bushes waiting for the coming of the hated white men. Twenty-four hours ago Tom Bantry would have delighted in this, but now he was changed, and racked his brains for ways and means to acquaint them with the ambush before them, without destruction to himself.

Napope waved his hand, and, as if by magic, every warrior disappeared, and a stillness like that of death fell upon the scene. The whites came in rapidly, unsuspicious of danger, and passed through the first bushes, when they were surprised to hear a sudden crash and a yell of surprise and anger. The crash came from Tom Bantry, who had managed to fall down with a great noise, at the same time giving the yell which startled the white rangers.

“Tree, boys!” yelled Cooney Joe. “Tree and fight. Injins thar, by the big horn spoon.”

The men who followed Cooney Joe were Indian-fighters of the first class, and the order had scarcely been given when every man was sheltered by a tree and had his rifle ready for action. This was not done a moment too soon, for the feathers of the savages began to show above the bushes, and several shots were fired, until a commanding voice shouted to the warriors to hold their fire.

“What do the white men seek?” cried Napope. “They have been beaten once; must we beat them again?”

“That’s Napope,” cried Cooney Joe. “I know the old cuss, and he kin fight, if he is an Injin; but we’ll lick him out of his moccasins. Say, Injin, you’d better clear the way; you ain’t got the major to fight now.”

“Napope does not seek the scalps of the white men,” cried the Indian. “If they bring the scalps to him, he will take them, but he does not thirst for blood. Let Captain Melton turn back and cross the river.”

“The path must be clear for me to pass through,” replied Melton. “The hatchet has been dug up and its edge turned against women and children, and the good white man, Wescott, with his daughter, has been carried away, and we think the Sacs know where they are.”

“The Sacs do not know,” replied Napope, proudly. “Does the white man take us for Menomonies or Chippewas? The Sacs are men and not dogs; they do not fight against women and children.”

“Napope is a brave man, and will not lie to save his life,” said Melton. “Let us pass on safely, and then there shall be no blood shed, for we seek only those who have stolen the brave man Wescott and his child.”

“My brother must turn back,” replied the chief. “There is no path over the Indian country for white soldiers until peace is made; but if the good white man and his child are here, they shall be made welcome, and no harm shall come to them if Napope can give them aid. But Melton must take his warriors and go back to his people.”

“We will not turn back,” replied Melton, angrily, “unless we take the friends we seek with us. Let Napope clear the way, or we will try to go on without his leave.”

“The white men will find knives and hatchets in the path,” replied the chief, grimly. “Go back as you came, and all shall be well; refuse, and you shall find that my young men carry guns.”

“I don’t like this,” whispered Cooney Joe in the ear of Melton. “They’ve got twice as many warriors as we have, and the chances are good for a fight. I never like to back out, but I don’t know but it’s the safest plan.”

“It won’t do,” said Melton. “These scoundrels will get too impudent if they are allowed their own way too much. There must be a fight, and at once, and the boys must do their best. I know them too well to think that they will back down for twice their number of Sacs.”

“What does my brother say?” cried Napope.

“Fight.” replied Melton. “We will go on.” Napope disappeared immediately, and scarcely had he done so when a bullet whizzed by the ear of the young scout as he hastily took to a tree. The fight now commenced in true Indian-fashion, the Sacs forcing the fighting and running from tree to tree to get nearer to their enemies. But they found a different party from that with which they had fought upon Sycamore Creek. Every bullet had its billet. Did an Indian show hand or foot from behind his shelter, it was at once the mark of a well-aimed ball. The men who followed Melton had lived by the rifle, and were not likely to miss their aim easily, while the Indians were notoriously bad marksmen, not having the patience to perfect themselves in the use of the rifle.

Besides, the weapons they carried were not of the best description, being those furnished by the traders against the law, and their powder was “contract,” warranted not to burn except at a slow fire. But their numbers made the position of Melton’s small force decidedly unsafe, and they began to close in upon every side, and every moment Melton expected a charge with hatchet and knife, most fearful weapons in Indian hands. But the steady valor of the scouts had inspired the savages with a respect for them, and they fought warily, losing a man now and then, and inflicting little damage upon the foe.

“They’ll charge soon, boys,” whispered Cooney Joe. “Pass the word down the line to have a charge ready for the rush. Don’t throw away a shot.”

The rifles were ready when Napope gave the order, and at his signal-yell they bounded out like tigers, flourishing their bright weapons in the air.

This was the moment for the Border Riflemen, and each picked his man and fired, and every bullet found a mark. Supposing the rifles empty, the Sacs rushed on, but they were mistaken, for up rose ten more riflemen, and the head of the assailants seemed to melt away before their fire. It was more than Indian endurance was equal to, and they again buried themselves in the bushes, in spite of the fierce orders of Napope, who, although severely wounded in the shoulder, urged the men on.

He was ably seconded by Na-she-eschuck, who was also slightly wounded.

“Well done, my lads,” cried Mellon. “Bravely done, riflemen; they have not Sycamore Creek to brag of this time, at any rate.”

Napope collected his men under cover of the bushes, but his heart was full of anger against the gallant band of scouts, whom he had expected to sweep from the path in that headlong charge. So far from doing that, over one-third of his men were placed _hors de combat_, and several more partially disabled. Aroused by the invectives of the two chiefs, they again began to advance, but more cautiously, sliding from tree to tree, with great care, and exposing themselves as little as possible in doing so. But the riflemen managed to inflict new damage upon them before they came in fair charging distance. Napope had separated his force into three parts, sending out a small party upon each flank of the white force, and Melton was compelled to detach eight men, four upon each flank, to keep off these troublesome flanking-parties. This left him but twelve men in his main force, opposed to over thirty determined warriors, eager for the blood of those who had slain so many of their friends.

“We have got ourselves into a pizen scrape, Cap,” said Cooney Joe, as he stood with his back against a tree, looking to the priming of his rifle; “but thar’s only one way to do, and that is to fight our way out. We kin lick ’em if more don’t come; _that’s_ what I’m afraid of.”

At this moment the rush was made, and as before, the whites divided their fire, so as to give the Indians two volleys before they reached the trees, and then with yells which vied with those of the Indians, they formed a line among the trees, and beat back the savages with knife, hatchet, and clubbed rifle. It was a desperate affair while it lasted, and the wild valor of the scouting party prevailed, and they were driving back the Indians step by step, when one of the men who had been sent to the right flank came running up.

“Party of Injins coming across the plain, on a run, Cap,” he reported. “I reckon we’d better git.”

“Easier said than done,” said the captain, turning aside a blow with his heavy knife. “Shoot that fellow, Ed.”

The borderer brought his rifle to his shoulder, and the savage fell, shot through the heart.

“Have the Indians on the flanks retreated, Ed?” demanded Melton, as he fired a pistol at a savage who was poising his hatchet for a throw, and the savage went down.

“No, they ain’t all gone yet,” replied the man, who was coolly reloading his discharged rifle. “I guess we’d better call in the men and make a rush through these red devils, before the others can come up.”

A signal whistle, well known to the “merry men” of Melton, brought in all upon the flank, and with shouts of victory, all charged upon the broken and demoralized body of Sacs. They had fought bravely, but their courage was not proof against the assault, and they broke and fled in every direction through the woods, pursued by the victorious whites, who only wanted to get deeper into the woods, to avoid the force coming up in their rear. They would not have done this had they known that it was Dick Garrett and his party, bringing as prisoner, Sadie Wescott, whom Minneoba would not leave.

Scouts from the party of Napope having discovered the coming of the disguised whites, and apprised the chief, he hurried out to meet them, and started as he saw who they held as prisoner.

“Ha!” he cried. “Then it is my brother who struck the wigwam of Wescott, and took him prisoner?”

“Yes,” said Garrett. “You see our boss, Will Jackwood, wanted this girl, and sent me to take her.”

“Where is Wescott, now?” demanded Napope.

“Well,” said Garrett, hesitating, “he’s gone under; that’s what’s the matter with _him_.”

“Let my brother speak more plainly,” said the chief. “What has become of Wescott, the good white man?”

“He has been murdered,” replied Sadie, coming forward, quickly. “Chief, you know what he was, and that he never willingly wronged the Indians. You know, too, that when the mob in the village assaulted Black-Hawk and yourself, he came to your aid and helped you to escape. He has been brutally murdered, by this base wretch, Garrett.”

“The girl lies, I reckon,” said Garrett, sullenly. “See here, chief; is it calculated in your tribe that women are any better off for having too much tongue?”

“My brother must let the Wild Rose speak,” replied Napope. “When the Sacs come hungry and thirsty into her father’s lodge, she is always ready to give them food and drink; when they are weary, and the night air is cold, there is always a warm place by the fire to spread a blanket. The child of Wescott must be allowed to speak.”

“Now look here, chief,” said Garrett, in the same ferocious tone. “’Tain’t noways likely I’m going to come down to you or any man on earth. If Wescott was killed, he was my pris’ner, and I had a right to do what I would with him. Have you any thing to say against it?”

Napope inclined his head slowly, as recognizing the justice of the remark. The life of the man was as little regarded by the Indians as by Garrett, and Napope rather liked the tone of insolence he assumed.

“Napope,” cried Sadie, “I want you to listen to me. This wicked man threw my father into the water, from the flat-boat, and he has not been seen since. Will you see a good man murdered and refuse to avenge him?”

Napope was evidently troubled, for just now he needed the assistance of Garrett and his men, and did not wish to make him angry.

“We will speak of that another time, Wild Rose. Until then, rest safely with Minneoba, the daughter of Black-Hawk, while we do the work of men. Garrett, do you know that Loud Tempest is here and he has beaten the men of Napope, and killed many?”

“Loud Tempest; do you mean Captain Melton?”

“Yes; he is here, with the white hunter Joe, and many warriors. Napope can not rest until we have his scalp.”

“Cooney Joe! Why, I give him a lick last night that ought to have settled any decent man for good.”

“He is alive, and fights like a Sac,” replied Napope. “They are in the woods and we must follow and take their scalps.”

“I’ll bet he’s arter me,” muttered Garrett. “He don’t owe me any good will for work I’ve done, and I’ve swore to have his hair. Thar’s my hand on it, Napope, and I’ll never quit you until he or I have gone under.”

Sadie had started at the name of Melton, and was conscious of a feeling of joy that he had thought enough of her safety to follow her into the Indian country, but, as she glanced over the line of ferocious faces, she was sorry that he had incurred this danger. But she followed the party until they reached the battle-field and found it strewn with the slain bodies of the Sacs who had fallen, each one pierced by the deadly bullet.

“These ain’t babies we are following,” said Garrett. “They kin fight, Melton’s scout kin, and ef we lick ’em we lick a good crowd. How many has he got with him?”

Napope extended the fingers upon both hands twice.

“Twenty? We’ve got our work cut out then, for twenty of Melton’s Mounted Rifles, with the capting and Cooney Joe to lead, are a hard crowd to manage, bet your life.”

“There was one of your men with us in this fight,” said Napope, looking about him for Tom Bantry. “But I do not see him now.”

“Who was he?” demanded Garrett, glancing over the party hastily. “Was it the one we call Tom?”

Napope nodded, and Garrett uttered an oath, and a search was commenced for him. He was not among the dead or wounded, and whether he had perished or not, Bantry was not to be found.