trick. Clar as I kin see, that big chief wi’ the red cross on his ribs, air him they call the Horned Lizard; an’ ef it be, thar ain’t a cunniner coon on all this contynent. He’s sharp enough to contrive some tight trap for us. The dose we’ve gin the skunks may keep ’em off for a while – not long, I reck’n. Darnation! Thar’s five o’ our fellows wiped out already. It looks ugly, an’ like enuf we’ve all got to go under.”
“Don’t you think our best way will be to make a dash for it, and try to cut through them. If we stay here they’ll starve us out. We haven’t water enough in the waggons to give us a drink apiece.”
“I know all that, an’ hev thort o’ ’t. But you forget about our hosses. Thar’s only two left alive – yours and myen. All the rest air shot or stampedoed. Thurfor, but two o’ us would stand a chance o’ gettin’ clar, an’ it slim enough.”
“You are right, Walt; I did not think of that I won’t forsake the men, even if assured of my own safety – never!”
“Nobody as knows you, Frank Hamersley, need be tolt that.”
“Boys!” cries out Hamersley, in a voice that can be heard all through the corral; “I needn’t tell you that we’re in a fix, and a bad one. There’s no help for us but to fight it out. And if we must die, let us die together.”
A response from eight voices coming from different sides – for those watching the movements of the enemy are posted round the enclosure – tells there is not a craven among them. Though only teamsters, they are truly courageous men – most of them natives of Kentucky and Tennessee.
“In any case,” continues the owner of the caravan, “we must hold our ground till night. In the darkness there may be some chance of our being able to steal past them.”
These words have scarce passed the lips of the young prairie merchant, when their effect is counteracted by an exclamation. It comes from Walt Wilder, who has been acting as guide to the party.
“Dog-goned!” he cries; “not the shadder o’ a chance. They ain’t goin’ to give us till night. I knewed the Horned Lizard ’ud be after some trick.”
“What?” inquire several voices.
“Look whar that lot’s stannin’ out yonder. Can’t ye guess what they’re at, Frank Hamersley?”
“No. I only see that they have bows in their hands.”
“An’ arrers, too. Don’t you obsarve them wroppin’ somethin’ round the heads o’ the arrers – looks like bits o’ rags? Aye, rags it air, sopped in spittles and powder. They’re agoin’ to set the waggons afire! They air, by God!”
Chapter Seven.
Fiery Messengers
The teamsters, each of whom is watching the post assigned to him, despite the danger, already extreme, see fresh cause of alarm in Wilder’s words. Some slight hope had hitherto upheld them. Under the protection of the waggons they might sustain a siege, so long as their ammunition lasts; and before it gave out some chance, though they cannot think what, might turn up in their favour. It was a mere reflection founded on probabilities still unscrutinised – the last tenacious struggle before hope gives way to utter and palpable despair. Hamersley’s words had for an instant cheered them; for the thought of the Indians setting fire to the waggons had not occurred to any of the party. It was a thing unknown to their experience; and, at such a distance, might be supposed impossible.
But, as they now look around them, and note the canvas tilts, and light timbers, dry as chips from long exposure to the hot prairie sun; the piles of dry goods – woollen blankets, cotton, and silk stuffs – intended for the stores of Chihuahua, some of which they have hastily pulled from their places to form protecting barricades – when they see all this, and then the preparations the Indians are engaged in making, no wonder that they feel dismay on Walt Wilder shouting out, “They’re agoin’ to set the waggons afire!”
The announcement, although carrying alarm, conveys no counsel. Even their guide, with a life-long experience on the prairies, is at a loss how they ought to act in this unexpected emergency. In the waggons water there is none – at least not enough to drown out a conflagration such as that threatened; and from the way the assailants are gesturing the traders can predict that ere long, a shower of fiery shafts will be sent into their midst. None of them but have knowledge sufficient to admonish them of what is intended. Even if they had never set foot upon a prairie, their school stories and legends of early life would tell them. They have all read, or heard, of arrows with tinder tied around their barbs, on fire and spitting sparks, or brightly ablaze.
If any are ignorant of this sort of missile, or the mode of dispatching it on its mischievous errand, their ignorance is not destined longer to continue. Almost as soon as Wilder has given utterance to the warning words, half a score of the savages can be seen springing to the backs of their horses, each bearing a bow with a bunch of the prepared arrows. And before a single preventive step can be taken by the besieged traders, or any counsel exchanged between them, the pyrotechnic display has commenced.
The bowmen gallop in circles around the besieged enclosure, their bodies concealed behind those of their horses – only a leg and an arm seen, or now and then a face for an instant, soon withdrawn. Not exactly in circles but in spiral rings – at each turn drawing closer and nearer, till the true distance is attained for casting the inflammatory shafts.
“Stand to your guns, men!” is the hurried command of the guide, backed by a kind of encouragement from the proprietor of the caravan.
“Now, boys!” adds the guide, “ye’ve got to look out for squalls. Keep two an’ two of ye thegither. While one brings down the hoss, t’ other take care o’ the rider as he gits unkivered. Make sure afore ye pull trigger, an’ don’t waste so much as the snappin’ o’ a cap. Thar goes the first o’ the fire works!”
As Wilder speaks, a spark is seen to shoot out from one of the circling cavaliers, which rising rocket-like into the air, comes in parabolic curve towards the corral.
It falls short some twenty yards and lies smoking and sputtering in the sand.
“They han’t got thar range yit,” cries the guide; “but this child hez got his – leastwise for that skunk on the clay-bank mustang. So hyar goes to rub him off o’ the list o’ fire shooters.”
And simultaneous with the last word is heard the crack of Wilder’s rifle.
The young prairie merchant by his side, supposing him to have aimed only at the Indian’s horse, has raised his own gun, ready to take the rider as soon as uncovered.
“No need, Frank,” shouts the guide, restraining him. “Walt Wilder don’t waste two charges o’ powder that way. Keep yur bullet for the karkidge o’ the next as comes ’ithin range. Look yonder! I know’d I’d fetch him out o’ his stirrups – tight as he’s tried to cling to ’em. Thar he goes to grass!”
Hamersley, as the others on the same side of the corral, were under the belief that the shot had been a miss; for the Indian at whom it was aimed still stuck to his horse, and was carried for some distance on in curving career. Nor did the animal show any sign of having been hit. But the rider did. While engaged in the effort of sending his arrow, the savage had exposed his face, one arm, and part of the other. Ere he could withdraw them, Walt’s bullet had struck the arm that supported him, breaking the bone close to the elbow-joint. He has clung on with the tenacity of a shot squirrel, knowing that to let go will be certain death to him. But, despite all his
