CHAPTER VIII.

AT BAY.

When he left Ned Campbell, Albert Mestayer entered the first chamber or cell, where we a week previously to this date, found him bending over the wounded leader of the Night Hawks. Here that worthy, now recognized as a nephew of the old man, was idly lolling upon a pallet of skins, his wounds almost entirely cured.

He raised himself to a sitting posture as the old man entered, casting at him a quick, inquiring glance. Evidently the doughty leader of the Night Hawks regarded his newly-found relative with considerable respect.

“Well?” he added, as the old man approached.

“It _is_ well, so far, but we must work to keep it so. This young fellow tracked us home, and his are not the sharpest eyes on the border. Hawksley is out with the settlers. They may find this place at any hour, and then, though I could make a good fight first, my revenge would be cut short by death. You know my reasons for acting thus, because I have told you my story. Well, the time has come for you to play your part. I need your help now, because I can not leave Lola here alone. Are you ready to keep your oath?”

“Yes. Tell me what I am to do, and I will not fail for lack of trying,” was the prompt reply.

“Good! I like to hear men answer like that. But now listen. You remember what I told you about the Kiowa chief, Chigilli?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you must go from here, to him, as speedily as possible. Tell him that the time has come when he can strike the blow. Tell him that his white father asks the aid of his strong arm. Or stay—I can do better than that. See—Chigilli gave this to me. It is his totem; this border is made from sacred wampum. Give this to him and bid him follow you. Lead him and his band here. When you come I will have all in readiness for the blow. You shall have Mary Colton—though she is one of the accursed, I spare her life, because I know that as _your_ slave, her life will be worse than death.”

“You are complimentary,” muttered the outlaw, in a slightly bitter tone.

“I speak the truth. But let that pass. You must go now. You have not forgotten any of my instructions? You remember the rendezvous?”

“I forget nothing. But how am I to go? On your horse?”

“No. I may have use for him. But our young friend left his horse staked out upon the prairie above. Take it—that will be the easiest way to dispose of it, to keep it from telling troublesome tales. Ride out from the _baranca_ until you strike ground that will take and hold a trail, then round the head of the ravine. After that do not spare the brute. Horse-flesh is cheap, and Chigilli will furnish you with a remount.”

“But why—”

“For this reason. If this Ned Campbell is missed—which of course will be the case—search will be made for him. His horse’s trail will be struck here. As it leads, so will they follow, and play into our hands by meeting you half-way. In that case, you know what to do. The Kiowas are eager for scalps. Let them take all they can—only tell Chigilli that he must bring me Hawksley a _prisoner_. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now go and ride for life. By nightfall you can reach the rendezvous—by day-dawn you should be well on your road back here.”

But few more words were spoken, and James Mestayer left the strange retreat, and, after first cautiously scouring the surrounding prairie, dragged himself over the escarpment. After some little trouble, he secured the suspicious horse, and literally obeying the old man’s instructions, soon rounded the _baranca’s_ head, then galloping swiftly away toward the west.

Hour after hour throughout that long day, he urged on the big horse, plying the spurs heavily and mercilessly, with only a few brief intervals for breathing his steed. Nowhere in the world are such reckless riders as in the Texan prairies, or among the cattle-districts of Kansas. Nowhere is so little regard paid to the life of a horse.

I know of one instance where a young man, naturally generous, affectionate and kind-hearted, on a two days’ trip rode three ponies until they dropped dead under the saddle. And this with no more urgent cause than that he was eager to meet with his relatives after a nine months’ sojourn herding cattle in lower Kansas. In forty hours—two days and one night—he rode three hundred and seventy-odd miles.

As the sun set, Mestayer caught sight of the hill-range in which he knew the Kiowa chief was awaiting a message from the old man, his “white father.” With bloody heel he urged on the heavily-laboring horse, though the blood-stained froth that dropped in flakes from its mouth, told plainly that the creature’s race was well-nigh run.

While yet the western sky was flecked with crimson, the end came, finding Mestayer prepared for it. Well knowing the symptoms, he was ready for the fall, and when the big bay fell forward heavily, the blood bursting from his nostrils, Mestayer alighted nimbly upon his feet, and without a second glance at the poor brute, he started forward with long, swinging strides that spoke well for his powers as a pedestrian.

The dark, broken hill-range was near, and at a glance the outlaw recognized the landmarks given him by his uncle, and he knew that his course had been shaped aright. Raising a hand to his mouth, he uttered a long-drawn, vibrating cry—the shrill view-hallo of the Kiowas. A few moments later there came to his ears a similar cry, only more perfectly modulated, and then a single horseman rode forth from a rocky defile that partially intersected the hills.

Despite his assurance that Chigilli was friendly, Mestayer twitched his revolver around more convenient to his hand, loosening it in the sheath. More than once he had experienced the treacherous nature of Indians, and the Kiowas were notorious for their proficiency in that respect.

The savage drew rein close beside the outlaw, and a brief but keen scrutiny followed, as though each was mentally measuring the other. Mestayer was somewhat surprised at the appearance of Chigilli. Naturally, one takes it for granted that a famous warrior must be an important person in looks as well as reality. Instead, the Kiowa chief was small—almost a dwarf, in fact; of slight, ill-shaped figure, old and wrinkled, with only one eye. But that burned brightly, and the numerous scars, together with the broad saber-slash that had destroyed his left eye, together with a portion of his nose, testified plainly that he had borne his part in more than one desperate affray.

“Who are you that sounds the Kiowa cry, yet wear the skin of a pale-face?” demanded Chigilli, in slightly accented English, his half-breed mother having taught him her father’s tongue.

For answer Mestayer produced the slip of wampum-enriched deer-skin, and handed it to the chief. Chigilli’s stern countenance instantly relaxed, and he henceforth treated the outlaw with the greatest deference and courtesy. Mestayer quickly made known the purport of his visit, and delivered, word for word, his uncle’s message.

Chigilli seemed a little vexed, but soon explained the cause. While waiting for the message from his white father, which was longer in coming than he had expected, his band had become separated, by far the larger portion being then in pursuit of a drove of buffaloes that had passed by on the run, the day before. Fearing to lose such an opportunity for securing a supply of meat for his lodges in winter, he had dispatched all but twenty of his men after the herd.

Mestayer was positive. There must be no delay; such as could not be avoided were they to send a runner to recall the hunters. He must return at once, whether Chigilli kept his pledge or not.

This decided the chief, and half an hour later he led the twenty warriors out from the rocky defile. Behind him, upon the broad, smooth surface of a rock, were depicted sundry rude signs and symbols, drawn with a finger-point covered with dampened powder. These were directions for the guidance of the buffalo-hunters, bidding them hasten after.

Mestayer found that he would not be able to regain the _baranca_ retreat by daybreak, for the east was showing light streaks when there remained still a dozen or more miles to be covered. Then came an interruption, before another mile was traversed.

Events had occurred much as the old man, Albert Mestayer, had foreseen. Zeb Ruel had rejoined the other party of trail-hunters, informing them of where and how he had left Ned Campbell. In due course of time the young man was missed, searched for, and the trail found. They followed it after the outlaws had taken it up, round the _baranca_, and out into the prairie. As night fell they went into camp, when they were joined by others of the settlers who had turned out to take part in the hunt.

It may be as well to state here the cause of the smoke-signal having been made. Following the trail of the men on foot, the party had been considerably delayed by Hawksley’s having a fit of apoplexy, in consequence of his deep emotions. As soon as his senses returned, he urged them to lose no time, but to keep on the trail, and when his strength returned, he would follow on after them. They did so, the trail ending at last in their finding the senseless body of a white man, whom they naturally took to be the abductor of Fannie. For this reason they sent up the smoke. Noticing the signal, Hawksley managed to mount his horse and ride to the spot. His disappointment at seeing a stranger was great, and brought on another and more severe fit. While it lasted, and while the attention of all was directed toward him, the outlaw breathed his last. This was the state of affairs when Zeb Ruel came in and told his story. After some discussion, it was decided to go back and take up Ned Campbell’s trail, in hopes that, should he capture the strange rider, the mystery might be elucidated.

This party it was that now confronted the Kiowas, under guidance of the ex-captain of Night Hawks. Mestayer was by no means pleased at the meeting, for he saw that the settlers were nearly equal in numbers to the Kiowas, and he also knew that they were much better armed, each man bearing a rifle and at least one revolver, more generally two of these terrible weapons.

As the Kiowas were nominally at peace with the whites, a collision might and probably would have been avoided, only for one thing. Jack Colton was among the trail-hunters, and he recognized the would-be murderer of his brother.

With a wild cry he plunged spurs rowel-deep into his horse’s flanks and sprung forward, leveling his rifle as he did so. It cracked—one of the savages riding close behind Mestayer, uttered a shrill death-yell, and fell to the ground, dead.

That put an end to all doubt. Sounding his war-cry, Chigilli led the charge, and the next moment the two bodies were mingled together. For several minutes the conflict raged with deadly ferocity, but the superior weapons of the settlers quickly turned the tide in their favor.

Jack Colton had singled out the outlaw guide, and nothing loth, Mestayer gratified his desire, though still feeling the effects of his wounds. Their horses came violently together just as their pistols spoke for the first time.

Rearing, Colton’s horse received the bullet between its eyes and fell, hurling Colton violently to the ground, where he lay, stunned for the moment. Mestayer discharged a second shot at him, but with unsteady aim, and a slight flesh wound was the only result; then he was forced to turn his attention to other foemen.

Chigilli gave the signal to retreat, seeing that he was over-matched. The hills were near at hand, and for them their horses’ heads were turned, in full flight.

So sudden was this movement that the settlers did not comprehend its meaning until the Kiowas had gained full two-score yards the start. But then they dashed on in hot pursuit.

No man living understands better how to extract every ounce of service from a mustang than does a Kiowa, and though riding by far the most jaded horses, they slowly increased their vantage-ground, aided by the fact that the settlers devoted much of their care to pistol practice; at best but an uncertain art while riding a galloping horse.

They realized their error and strove to remedy it, but too late. The Kiowas had gained too many yards to be overtaken, and the cunning Chigilli well knew what he was about. He was rushing for a point from which his force could easily hold the settlers in check, or at least inflict fearful slaughter in case they should try a desperate charge first.

Zeb Ruel divined their purpose first, and kept the settlers from going too far. He knew a plan worth two of that, and as the Kiowas disappeared in a narrow, defile-like cleft, the settlers drew rein.

“Quick—Fenton, you an’ Morley come ’th me,” he cried, eagerly. “Rest o’ you stay here an’ keep the imps back ef they try to run out. We’ll fix ’em—hurry.”

As he spoke he turned his horse’s head to one side and dashed rapidly up to the hill’s base, here steep and rugged. Though not exactly comprehending his purpose, the two men designated by name followed him without hesitation.

Dismounting they clambered rapidly up the hill, soon gaining the top. An exultant shout broke from Ruel’s lips as he saw that he was in time. If indeed the Kiowas contemplated escape by such means, they would find their path a gantlet of death.

The defile alluded to ended in a steep hill, up which a horse could climb, though with difficulty. This once surmounted, a broad, gentle slope led down to the prairie beyond. Ruel’s position commanded this ascent, and was within easy pistol range.

“Good! we’ve got ’em in a hole, now!” he chuckled, breathing hard with fatigue. “We kin make things hot for ’em, I reckon!”

But, though he suspected it not, he was even then, in a measure, being outwitted. Chigilli had no intention of fleeing further. With his men dismounted and well covered, he felt able to beat back the settlers should they attack him, until help should arrive, and not a score seconds before Ruel reached his station, a Kiowa crossed the ridge, sent to hurry up the other band!