Chapter XII · DOG EAT DOG.

The old guide, Tom Maxwell, gave himself up for lost. The fire blazed up brightly—the smoke blinded his eyes—the heat began to scorch his garments. His fate seemed indubitably sealed.

But such was not to be, just then. A sudden interruption came, from an utterly unlooked-for source.

The quick clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard upon the shingle that covered the base of the hill, and then a foam-flecked steed dashed up beside the blazing fire. With a hoarse cry, its rider sprung to the ground, and dashed through the group of startled savages, hurling them rudely aside to clear a passage.

Ere a hand could be raised to check him, the blazing fagots were kicked aside and the daring man stood close to Maxwell. One cut of the gleaming knife severed the rope that bound him to the stake.

But then, with a howl, the Arapahoe chief, Wapashaw, sprung forward, and hurled the man to the ground, ten feet away.

All this passed so quickly that Maxwell was still blinking to clear his eyes of smoke, unconscious that his bonds had been partially cut, as his hands were still bound behind his back.

The man sprung to his feet with a cry of defiance. And then the features of Dusky Dick were revealed. Maxwell stared at him in open-mouthed wonder.

“How dare you do this, chief?” uttered the White Snake, in a voice low and even; but oh! what deadly ire that tone contained! “You know our agreement—this brave was to be given me, unharmed.”

“Dare! Wapashaw is an Arapahoe chief. What is there he can not dare? Who shall speak hot words in his ear? Not the pale-faced coward—not the White Snake!”

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“You should know whether I am a coward or not by this time, chief. If you say I am, I say you lie. This brave is my property—who dares do him harm until I speak the word?”

“I, Wapashaw, the Arapahoe! I dare harm him! See! I defy you—I kill him before your very eyes!” yelled the savage, now thoroughly angered, as he drew his tomahawk and sprung toward the motionless form of the scout.

But like a meteor, the form of Dusky Dick glided forward, and then his small fist alighted with crushing force full between the eyes of the savage Hercules, hurling him to the ground like a shot. Instantly all was the greatest confusion.

Several braves sprung toward the renegade, with flashing weapons, but he met them boldly, with drawn revolvers. Twice did there come a sharp report—twice did the death-yell soar upward above the frightful din.

But then Wapashaw arose, and with a gesture motioned his braves back. With a gesture that Dusky Dick well understood, and was not slow to accept, he advanced to the wild duel.

Casting his pistols aside, the renegade met his foe with equal weapons. Knife slashed against knife, and the strife began that could end only in death.

As Wapashaw sprung upon him, Maxwell had naturally shrunk aside, and to his surprise he found that he was free, save his hands. That was the first knowledge he had of the timely act of Dusky Dick.

Then as the wild strife began, he made a desperate effort to burst the cords that held his hands. Straining until he thought all was in vain, the thongs suddenly parted with a sharp twang.

Unnoticed in the confusion, he darted toward the crest of the hill, that he knew overlooked the river. Down for nearly a hundred feet, this abruptly fell.

It was truly a fearful leap, but the only chance for safety. All other routes were cut off by the enemy.

Hesitating not a moment, Tom sprung boldly out over the dizzy hight, and, shooting down like a stone, entered the water with a sullen thud.

In another moment he was swimming rapidly down the 98 stream, unharmed by the frightful descent, toward the corral, unnoticed by all save those within the barricade. And this he gained in safety, where he was warmly greeted by his comrades, who had long since given him up as lost, beyond a doubt.

Under less favorable circumstances, this feat would have been impossible to execute successfully. But the attention of all upon the hill was riveted upon the savage struggle between their two leaders, Dusky Dick and Wapashaw, and they did not give one thought to their captive, supposing him to be firmly bound to the stake.

Then those who were left on guard over the wagon-train, had been confused by the sudden extinguishing of the fire, and the wild uproar that followed. Fearing their comrades had been surprised by some foe, they one and all dashed at full speed toward the spot, either not observing the leap of Tom Maxwell, or else, in the dim light, believed it to be one of the combatants.

Thus it was the old guide performed the seemingly impossible feat without interruption.

In a short time the duel ended, but, from the corral, it could not be seen which had been the victor, and then the disappearance of the captive was first noticed. The confusion was then really appalling.

Search was immediately made through the hills, the Indians believing that he had fled in that direction, as none of them coming from the plains had met him.

This search continued for a long time, when, after they had abandoned it as useless, one brave noticed the dirt displaced by the scout’s feet in springing over the precipice. That told the tale, and, fairly wild with anger, the Indians rushed down and attacked the corral, fighting with a desperate fury worthy a better cause.

But they were as bravely met. Rifle-shots answered arrow-flights, until the strife became hand-to-hand. Over the barricades swarmed the painted demons, until the interior was filled with a confused mass of writhing, struggling humanity, battling furiously, desperately.

But then came a glad sound to the ears of the overpowered whites—the loud, hearty cheer, emanating from unmistakably 99 white men’s throats. Then the thundering of many hoofs—the sharp cracking of carbines and revolvers.

Fully as well did the Arapahoes recognize those shouts; they had heard similar ones before, and they knew too well the prowess of the boys in blue, to stand and wait their close acquaintance.

There uprose the cry of retreat—and, like one man, the red-skins tore themselves free from their antagonists, and fled, on foot, on horseback, as fate favored them.

And among them the soldiers raged furiously, led by Travers, Ayres and Delaware Tom. The latter fairly outdid himself, and returned with girdle literally crowded with scalps.

There is but little more to add.

That was a glad meeting between Buenos and Calhoun, especially when the young man announced the safety of Clara. He was truly the lion of the hour, but he bore his honors with becoming meekness.

Then when the stragglers had all come in, the dead whites were collected and afforded a Christian burial. It was a melancholy sight, and not one dry eye—unless it might be those of Delaware Tom, who was not remarkable for his sensitiveness—was there in the encampment.

Taught a sad lesson by the recent events, Calhoun decided to return to the Main Trail and remain under the protection of his fellow-soldier’s command until the rest of the road was passed, and the two enjoyed many an hour, over their recollections.

Well, the train got safely to its destination, without any more serious accidents, and, in due time, Clara Calhoun was made Mrs. Buenos Ayres; and Tom Maxwell was at the wedding, and danced with “pritty.”

Dusky Dick was supposed to have been killed during his duel with Wapashaw, for he was never heard of afterward.

And thus we leave them.

THE END.

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