– all urged them on; and the attack was renewed with greater earnestness than ever.
Throughout every scene in the strife Frank Hamersley had comported himself with a courage that made his men feel less fear of death, and less regret to die by his side. Fighting like a lion, he had been here, and there, and everywhere. He had done his full share of slaving.
It was all in vain. Though standing in the midst of thick smoke, unseeing and unseen, he knew that most of his faithful men had fallen. He was admonished of this by their less frequent responses to his cries of encouragement, telling him the struggle was close upon its termination. No wonder his fury was fast giving place to despair. But it was no craven fear, nor any thought of escape. His determination not to be taken alive was strong as ever.
His hand still firmly clasped his bowie-knife, its blade dripping with the blood of more than one enemy; for into the body of more than one had he plunged it. He clutched it with the determination still farther to kill – to take yet another life before parting with his own.
It was hopeless, useless slaughter; but it was sweet. Almost insane with anger, he thought it sweet.
Three dusky antagonists lay dead at his feet, and he was rushing across the corral in search of a fourth. A giant figure loomed up before him, looking more gigantic from the magnifying effect of the smoke. It was not that of a savage; it was Walt Wilder.
“Dead beat!” hoarsely and hurriedly muttered the guide. “We must go under, Frank. We’re boun’ to go under, if we don’t – ”
“Don’t what, Walt?”
“Git away from hyar.”
“Impossible.”
“No. Thar’s still a chance, I think – for us two anyways. There ain’t many o’ the others left, an’ ef thar war, we can’t do ’em any good now. Our stayin’ ’ud be no use – no use dyin’ along wi’ ’em; while ef we get clar, we mout live to revenge ’em. Don’t ye see our two horses are still safe? Thar they air, cowerin’ clost in agin one o’ the waggons. ’Tain’t much kit? I admit; still thar’s a shadder. Come, Frank, and let’s try it.”
Hamersley hesitated. It was at thought of deserting even the last of his faithful followers, who had sacrificed, or were still sacrificing, their lives in his service. But, as the guide had truly said what good could he do them by staying and getting killed? And he might survive to avenge them!
The last reflection would have decided him! But Wilder had not waited for him to determine. While speaking the urgent words, he laid his huge hand upon Hamersley’s shoulder and half led, half dragged him in the direction of the horses. “Keep hold o’ yur rifle, though it air empty,” hurriedly counselled the guide. “If we shed get away, it will be needed. We mout as well go under hyar as be upon the pararira without a gun. Now mount!”
Almost mechanically the young Kentuckian climbed upon the back of the horse nearest to him – his own. The guide had not yet mounted his; but, as could be seen through the smoke, was leaning against the wheel of one of the waggons. In an instant after Hamersley perceived that the vehicle was in motion, and could hear a slight grating noise as the tire turned in the sand. The great Conestoga, with its load had yielded to the strength of the Colossus.
In another instant he had sprung upon his horse’s back and riding close to Hamersley, muttered in his ear, “Now I’ve opened a crack atween two o’ the wehicles. Let’s cut out through it. We kin keep in the kiver o’ the smoke as far as it’ll screen us. You foller, an’ see that ye don’t lose sight o’ me. If we must go under in the eend, let it be out on the open plain, an’ not shut up hyar like badgers in a barr’l. Follow me clost, Frank. Now or niver!”
Almost mechanically the young Kentuckian yielded obedience; and in ten seconds after the two horsemen had cleared the waggon clump, with the shouting crowd that encircled it and were going at full gallop across the sand-strewn plain.
Chapter Nine.
Quarrelling over Scalps
Nearly simultaneous with the departure of the two horsemen came the closing scene of the conflict. Indeed it ended on the instant of their riding off. For of their comrades left behind there was not one upon his feet – not one able to fire another shot, or strike another blow. All lay dead, or wounded, among the waggons; some of the dead, as the wounded, clasping the handle of a knife whose blade reeked with blood, or a pistol from whose muzzle the smoke was still oozing.
But soon among the whites there were no wounded, for the hovering host, having closed in from all sides, leaped from their horses, swarmed over the barrier between, tomahawking the last that showed signs of life, or thrusting them with their long lances, and pinning them to the sand. Through the body of every white man at least a half-dozen spear-blades were passed, while a like number of savages stood exultingly over, or danced triumphantly around it.
And now ensued a scene that might be symbolised only among wild beasts or fiends in the infernal regions. It was a contest for possession of the scalps of those who had fallen – each of the victors claiming one. Some stood with bared blades ready to peel them off, while others held out hands and weapons to prevent it. From the lips of the competitors came shouts and expostulations, while their eyes flashed fire, and their arms rose and fell in furious gesticulations.
Amidst their demoniac jargon could be heard a voice louder than all, thundering forth a command. It was to desist from their threatening strife and extinguish the flames that still flared up over the waggons. He who spoke was the one with the red cross upon his breast, its bars of bright vermilion gleaming like fire against the sombre background of his skin. He was the chief of the Tenawa Comanches – the Horned Lizard – as Wilder had justly conjectured.
And as their chief he was instantly obeyed. The wranglers, one and all, promptly suspended their disputes; and flinging their weapons aside, at once set to carrying out his orders.
Seizing upon the shovels, late dropped from the hands of their now lifeless antagonists, and plying them to better purpose, they soon smothered the flame, and the smoke too, till only a thin drift stole up through the sand thrown thickly over it.
Meanwhile a man, in appearance somewhat differing from the rest, was seen moving among them.
Indian in garb and guise, savage in his accoutrements, as the colour of his skin, he nevertheless, showed features more resembling races that are civilised. His countenance was of a cast apparently Caucasian, its lineaments unlike those of the American aboriginal; above all, unlike in his having a heavy beard, growing well forward upon his cheeks, and bushing down below the chin.
True, that among the Comanche Indians bearded men are occasionally met with —mestizos, the descendants of renegade whites. But none paraded as he, who now appeared stalking around the ruined caravan. And there was another individual by his side, who had also hair upon his cheeks, though thinner and more straggling; while the speech passing between the two was not the guttural tongue of the Tenawa Comanches, but pure Mexican Spanish.
Both were on foot, having dismounted; he with the heavy beard leading, the other keeping after as if in attendance.
The former flitted from one to another of those who lay slain; in turn stooping over each corpse, and scrutinising it – to some giving but a cursory glance, to others more careful examination – then leaving each with an air of disappointment, and a corresponding exclamation.
At length, after going the complete round of the dead, he faced towards his satellite, saying, —
“Por dios!
