CHAPTER IV.

CHARLEY SHAFER’S RIDE.

“Dash me, boys, if we ain’t in sight of the old place already,” cried Frontier Shack, abruptly terminating a silence which had lasted for many minutes, during which time Tecumseh had borne his riders rapidly from the scene of the trapper’s victory. “Things look remarkably quiet about the shanty, and I guess we’ll find everything in apple pie order--just as I left ’em yesterday.”

The horse knew that he was near the trapper’s home, for he gave a shrill, joyous neigh, and sprung forward with new zeal.

Daylight now flooded the plains once more, every vestige of darkness had disappeared, and the scene that stretched before the young hunters’ vision filled their souls with rapture, and caused them to forget that they were riding over dangerous ground--that this fair land was still inhabited by the fierce aborigine of America.

They were on rising ground, and the beautiful valley of the Platte lay at their very feet. The water shone like silver in the strong light that preceded the rising of the sun, and the islands that dotted the stream--the cotton-wooded islands--resembled rich gems in a magnificent setting. Far beyond the stream a black mass, imbued with life, moved westward, like some giant cloud creeping along the horizon’s bar.

That living blackness was a herd of buffalo. The young hunters had encountered the emperors of the plains before, but not in such numbers; and they could not repress an exclamation of wonderment when they gazed upon the mighty bisonic legion.

“Yes, them’s buffler,” said Shackelford, “and they’re all brown fellars, too.”

The boys exchanged looks and curious smiles.

“So you think there are no white ones in that herd?”

The frontiersman laughed.

“Nary a white one,” he said; “but look yonder--up-stream I mean. D’ye see thet conical island?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I live there.”

“I see no house.”

“Ye’ll see it d’rectly. The cottonwoods hide it now.”

“How long have you dwelt yonder?”

“Nigh onto six years. I was with the ’Paches awhile, but we hed a slight difficulty, so I came north, and squatted on Pawnee territory. Tecumseh and I hev enjoyed life splendidly here.”

“Unmolested by the Indians?”

“Well--no. If it hadn’t been fur thet Tom Kyle, I’d hev been scalped long ago. The red greasers caught me when I first squatted here; but thet white devil happened to hev a streak of mercy on then, and he made ’em let me go. Then he gave me liberty to trap on the Loup, and its branches, so long as I behaved myself. But I haven’t done thet of late. Tecumseh and Shack have helped more’n one emigrant out of a scrape, and I’ve been looking for Tom Kyle every day for two months. It’s human natur’ to help a suffering fellar human; and I’ve killed nigh onto as many Pawnees as beaver within the last thirty days. But the safety jig is up now, I feel it in my bones. Tom Kyle won’t keep off much longer, and he is a reg’lar thunderbolt, he is, by Joshua!”

By this time the river had been reached, and a small hut was visible on the island, that lay in the center of the glittering water.

“Every thing’s snug,” said the trapper, when a great mastiff bounded from the cottonwoods and waded a short distance into the stream. “If any thing was wrong, ye wouldn’t see Massasoit there.”

The next moment the steed had plunged into the water, which scarcely touched his flanks, and after a brief spell the trio found themselves on the island.

“This river beats all for quicksands,” said Shackelford; “but Tecumseh understands ’em. If he’d hev stopped for one moment the infernal sand would hev caught ’im, and then good-by, Tecumseh. I shot a prowling Pawnee in this river about four years ago, and the sand took him and his horse down, down, and he never come up again, dash me! if he did.”

It was a relief to the white buffalo hunters to find themselves under a roof once more. Everywhere they saw the fruits of the trapper’s industry. A large quantity of valuable pelts was stored away in the cabin, and the larder was well stocked with meat, and firearms also abounded.

The hut was divided into two apartments on the ground, and a rough unfinished dormitory lay above. One of these rooms served as Tecumseh’s stable on stormy nights, or when horse-stealers infested the neighborhood; and then Frontier Shack lay at the threshold, guarding the noble horse he loved, while Massasoit slept in the hollow trunk of a tree just beyond the cabin door.

The sun scaled the horizon and added a myriad of new beauties to the Platte, while the western trapper and his new-found companions discussed the contents of the cabin’s larder, with zest mingled with merriment.

The frontiersman was in the midst of an exciting narration of life in the Apache country, when a sharp bark from Massasoit saluted the trio’s ears.

Frontier Shack sprung to his feet and griped his rifle.

“Wild horses!” he exclaimed, as handing the weapon to Charley Shafer, he jerked the Spanish saddle from its pins, beside the door.

“Boys, select a rifle from the corner, and be quick about it! Mebbe you can get good horses now, and God knows we’ll need ’em when we go after the girls.”

The next moment the youths were well armed, and Tecumseh stood before the cabin equipped for a battle with his wild brethren.

“They’re coming up the river,” said the trapper as he drew the boys to a place behind the saddle. “I believe it’s the lost band.”

“The lost band?”

“Yes; the wild horses don’t belong to this latitude,” he answered; “but, somehow or other, a gang hev been cavorting around here for several months, and I b’lieve thet they’re actually lost. I’ve tried to crease a black stallion among ’em, fur several weeks; but they won’t let me get within range. Now, p’raps--dash me! I’ll get Blackey this time.”

A word drove Tecumseh into the water, and amid the thundering of the wild cavalcade, the bank was gained.

“Something is chasing ’em!” said Frontier Shack, listening to the noise of the unshod hoofs which momentarily grew louder. “Mebbe it’s Pawnees, and they’ll cheat us out of a horse if they can.”

The thunder of the curbless steeds seemed to shake the ground beneath Tecumseh’s feet, and it was with difficulty that Shackelford could restrain his horse from rushing forward. With arched neck, flashing eyes, and distended nostrils the iron-gray stood on the river’s bank, trembling from head to fetlocks with intense excitement.

Nearer and nearer, though still unseen, came the wild army, and it was evident that they would pass the base of the rise that hid them from the trio’s vision.

“Quiet, Tecumseh!” hoarsely commanded Frontier Shack.

“What’s got into ye to-day? Ye’ve heard wild horses afore. I creased ye once, and now, mebbe, yer thinking of old times. Be still! I say! Now they’re passing the round hill,” he said, addressing the boys, and the next moment, cocking the rifle he carried, the trapper ordered his steed forward.

Tecumseh obeyed with a snort.

The top of the rise was gained, and the magnificent sight at his base burst upon the trio’s gaze.

Three hundred wild horses, black, white, iron-gray, and piebald, were sweeping along in the glory of majestic beauty and strength. Uncurbed by bit, and unbled by spurs, each looked like a monarch, as with head erect, and flecked with foam, he rushed westward toward the land of the setting sun.

“There’s my horse!” cried the trapper, “there’s the black, and on the edge of the band, too. I’ll crease him now. Be ready with your rifle, George, for we must have two horses to-day; and when I drop the black, poke the gun over my shoulder.”

Frontier Shack had creased more than one wild horse, and for six years he had not fractured a single vertebra.

_Creasing_ a wild horse consists in shooting him through the upper crease of the neck, above the cervical vertebrae, when, the ball cutting a principal nerve, he falls as suddenly as if shot in the brain, and remains senseless for a few moments, during which he is secured with a rope. He is easily tamed after this, and the wound heals without leaving any physical injury.

For the first time the “lost band” was passing within rifle-shot of the trapper, and with a countenance flushed with mingled pride and triumph, he raised the rifle.

His eyes were riveted upon the coal-black stallion; he seemed to see, to think of nothing else, and the two youths watched the doomed horse with an interest truly indescribable.

All at once their ears were saluted with a sharp report--they saw the black horse stop, shake like a storm-tossed reed from head to foot, and then drop to the ground!

“Dash me if I hevn’t dropped ’im at last!” cried Shackelford. “No--no! I don’t want your rifle, George; the black can carry double well enough. He’s as strong as a lion. Tecumseh!”

As the iron-gray shot forward toward the prostrate horse, the trapper unloosed the coil of rope that hung at the saddle-bow, and presently he leaped to the ground beside his victim.

“Now, Blackey!” he cried, in tones of triumph, but the next moment a wild cry of horror followed.

He had scarcely touched the ground when Tecumseh, finding himself masterless, reared on his haunches, then bounded forward with an unearthly snort.

George Long dropped from his perch and fell at the trapper’s feet, while Charley Shafer clung to the reins with the grim tenacity of despair.

The “lost band” was yet in sight, and Tecumseh seemed to fly toward them on the pinions of the wind.

He tried to unhorse his young rider; but the youth griped the gray mane with his teeth and incircled the strong neck with his arms. His hat and rifle had fallen to the ground at the outset of his wild ride, and the horror-stricken spectators knew that he did not possess a single weapon--not even a knife.

Tecumseh was beyond rifle-shot before the trapper recovered from his fright, and George Long covered his face with his hands to hide his young comrade’s doom from his sight!

“Curse that horse!” grated Frontier Shack, breaking the unearthly silence. “He never had the devil in him afore like he hes to-day. Them horses made ’im think what he was once, and now he’s gone back to his old life.”

“And Charley--poor Charley--is riding to his death.”

Frontier Shack shook his head dolefully, as he gazed at the horse and his despairing rider, now a dark speck in the distance.

“I wouldn’t give that for the boy’s chances,” and he snapped his fingers at his side. “If Tecumseh catches the lost horses, may God help Charley then. God help him, anyhow!”

George Long repeated the prayer away down among the deepest and holiest shrines of his terror-frozen heart.

The next moment the runaway and his victim disappeared!

A snort from the black steed startled the couple, and with ready rope the trapper sprung forward. But, before he could secure his dearly-won prize, George Long touched his arm, and uttered a wild shriek.

“My God! Indians!”

In an instant Frontier Shack was on his feet.

His hurried look north-eastward showed him a line of dark forms between him and the horizon.

“Pawnees, by Joshua!”

The savages were distinctly visible, and the rider of the foremost horse could be easily recognized from the spot where the couple stood.

“Tom Kyle wants me,” said the Westerner, gritting his teeth. “The upper Pawnees hev told ’im about the fracas last night. We’re in for it now, and blood hes got to flow!”

He snatched the rifle which had fallen from the ill-fated boy’s hands, and then sprung to the black horse.

“They shan’t have Blackey!” he ejaculated, striking the animal’s rump with his open hand, and the next moment the horse was flying over the plains, free once more, but marked for life.

“Now for the river, boy!”

A wild yell broke from the Pawnees’ throats, as our friends sprung toward the stream, and the red-skins were seen urging their horses into a faster gait.

But they could not overtake the trapper and his protege, and at the brink of the river they halted, afraid to trust their jaded steeds to the mercies of the ingulfing sands.

“Poor Tecumseh!” sighed Frontier Shack, as he closed the cabin door and barricaded it firmly. “I feel like one who has lost his best friend. That horse was the only true friend Ote Shackelford ever had, and if he gits out o’ this scrape, he’s going to hunt Tecumseh till he finds him, dead or alive!”

George Long saw the trapper’s lips meet with terrible determination behind the last word, and his mind was called from the contemplation of Charley Shafer’s fate by the report of a score of rifles and the thud of bullets, as they buried themselves in the cottonwood logs.

“Fort Shackelford is attacked,” said the trapper, with a grim smile, “and the odds are somewhat enormous--two hundred against two.”