Ellis Edward Sylvester
The Great Cattle Trail

CHAPTER XXVI.
A SHOT FROM THE DARKNESS

It was singular that Avon Burnet’s most humiliating experience overtook him on his first night in helping to watch his uncle’s herd of cattle, while following the Great Cattle Trail toward Kansas.

The starting point was so far north in Texas that the first day carried them close to the Indian Nation, through whose territory they expected to tramp for several days.

The night, as has been explained, was raw, with a fine, misty rain and a cutting wind. The youth was seated on his fleet-footed and intelligent Thunderbolt, with his back to the wind, after the fashion not only of all cowboys, under such circumstances, but of the animals themselves, who sometimes drift many miles before a driving storm.

He had his thick army blanket gathered about his body and shoulders, and, though the night was dismal and his situation far from pleasant, it still lacked the discomfort of many hours spent on the vast plains of the Lone Star State.

The young man had held his position for less than an hour when the wind changed, veering completely around, so that, instead of being in front of the herd and edging gradually from it, he was thrown behind the cattle, for they immediately faced about and began moving away from him.

The situation of the young herdsman became a delicate one at once. His proper place was in front, and to reach that point, he must ride around the animals, and not among them. One of the many singular features of herding and driving cattle is the wonderful sensitiveness shown at times by them. While there is nothing extraordinary in the wild panic often created by a thunderstorm, there are occasions when a whole herd is stampeded by a cause too trifling to be understood.

Our experience leads us to agree with many veteran cowboys that the cattle, when lying on the ground asleep, are sometimes troubled with bad dreams which cause such fright on their part that their excitement becomes contagious. Then again the electrical conditions produce a morbid uneasiness among them as well as among men, and there seem to be times when they are simply awaiting a pretext for dashing off in uncontrollable panic.

Avon Burnet’s fear was that if he rode directly after the cattle, the sound of his mustang’s hoofs would cause alarm, since it was too dark for them to identify him. A stampede is the terror of the cowmen’s life, and no labor or trouble is too great to avert it. He, therefore, checked Thunderbolt and waited a few minutes until the cattle were so far off that he could wheel and gallop around their flank without frightening them.

When he thought sufficient time had elapsed, he decided to wait a brief while longer. His dread of a stampede was so strong that he was unusually careful, but with no thought of shirking any duty, he twitched the reins of his horse, spoke sharply, and without touch of spur, was off like an arrow.

Although not an animal was visible, the rider had the contour of the herd so vividly impressed on his mind that he felt no misgiving, when he began edging his steed more to the left, and finally brought him to a stand-still, as he believed, at the very front of the collection. Indeed, his confidence would not have been greater had the sun been shining.

But when he halted and listened he failed to hear anything of them.

“I must have ridden too far ahead,” was his conclusion, as he started his horse on a walk to meet them; “but they are surely near by.”

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and then he drew rein with an exclamation of amazement, for his keen sense of hearing did not catch the first sound of the cattle.

“I have lost the herd!” he muttered in dismay, and such was the fact. His cheeks burned with chagrin at the consciousness of what at first thought seems an impossible error on the part of man or youth with any experience in attending cattle.

It was Avon’s first mishap of the kind, and he felt as though he could never face his comrades again, if they should discover the blunder, which, after all, was not so striking, when the attendant circumstances are borne in mind.

But if excuse could be accepted for his slip, there was none for inaction after its discovery. It was not to be supposed that the animals would set out to hunt him, nor that any knowledge could be gained of them by idleness. There were other men on duty, and he shouted at the top of his voice, in the hope of receiving a response, but there was none.

Slipping from his saddle, he knelt down and placed his ear to the ground. He fancied he detected faint sounds, such as are made by multitudinous hoofs on the soft, wet earth, but the noises were so slight that he could not identify the direction whence they came, and he hastily climbed into the saddle again.

He realized that he was lost, and well aware that at such times it is useless to puzzle one’s brains about the point of the compass, he dashed in the direction which seemed to be the right one. Of course, as in his recent experience, it proved to be wrong, and he now spurred toward the top of the ridge or hill, which it was easy to identify under the tread of his mustang. He was confident that this elevation would yield the key to the situation and he was not mistaken.

From the crest he observed the starlike glimmer of a lantern, and no sight, except that of the herd itself, could have been more welcome. It was the signal suspended every night from the front bow of the wagon, to guide the men whenever they needed guidance.

Confident that someone would be found at that point who could give him the important news he was seeking, Avon rode thither on a dead run. He saw no one stirring as he galloped up. The cook, who had charge of the wagon, was asleep, and the men off duty were slumbering soundly, while the chance was theirs.

But young Burnet had scarcely checked his mustang, when the sound of someone riding his horse equally fast reached his ear, and the next instant Oscar Gleeson dashed beside him.

“Howdy, Baby, is that you?” he asked, peering at the young man dimly seen in the scant yellow rays of the lantern.

“Yes, Ballyhoo,” was the reply; “I’m in trouble.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve lost the herd.”

The Texan shook in his saddle with laughter.

“That’s me, too; the first thing I knowed they was gone. I yelled for you, but you couldn’t have heard me, and, after cantering round awhile, I struck for the wagon in quest of news.”

Avon drew a sigh of relief, and with a smile:

“I’m glad you lost them, for the boys won’t laugh at you, while they would at me.”

“I don’t think there’s anyone in that crowd that will laugh, for they all had the same experience. I know Old Bronze and Short Stop have lost a herd more than once.”

“It won’t do to stay here,” remarked Avon, “for you know there is another herd only a mile off, and if the two become mixed, it will be a big job to cut out ours to-morrow.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Gleeson, “if the cattle have gone back to the bed-ground; at any rate we’ll look for them there.”

The return to the wagon enabled the couple to obtain their bearings, and they knew the proper course to reach the spot, but the possibility of the theory being wrong caused them to separate, so as to proceed thither by routes which, while substantially parallel, were so far apart that they were out of each other’s sight and hearing, the latter being chiefly due to the direction of the wind.

Avon spurred Thunderbolt into an easy canter, the soft grass making the travel easy, though there was always the risk of his animal sinking one or more of his hoofs into a hole, with the prospect of a broken leg for the horse and a dislocated neck for his rider.

When it seemed to the latter that he had passed the intervening distance, he drew his mustang to a walk, listening and peering through the gloom with all the power at his command. There was no lighting of the darkness, the wind still blew keenly, and the fine drizzling rain continued.

No sight nor sound came to him, and, once more bringing his animal to a halt, he dismounted and pressed his ear to the ground.

This time he caught a distinct noise: it was that made by the hoofs of a horse. He was walking, and was so near that Thunderbolt pricked his ears and uttered a faint whinny of salutation. Avon instantly rose to his feet, and remounted.

Looking keenly into the wet darkness, he became aware that a horse was standing motionless but a short distance off on his left. In the gloom the outlines could be traced, but so dimly that he was uncertain whether he had a rider or not. The steed held his head well up like Thunderbolt, and appeared to be scrutinizing the youth and his animal with a curiosity equal to theirs.

There was something so impressive in the sight of the statue-like object, which emitted not the slightest sound, that young Burnet hesitated whether to advance or to await its approach. The man could not be Gleeson, and, whoever he was, it was evident that he regarded Avon with inquiring suspicion.

But unwilling to maintain the trying situation, the latter touched the neck of his mustang in a way which the animal recognized as a command to move forward very slowly. He obeyed, and had advanced but a few short steps when Avon to his astonishment perceived that the strange horse was without a rider.

“I don’t understand that,” mused the mystified young man, stopping his own animal, with several yards separating them; “he must have an owner, and what can have become of him, and why is–”

At that instant he observed a suspicious movement, seemingly from the other side of the steed. Before he could divine its nature, a rifle was discharged almost in his face and he went off his mustang like a flash.

CHAPTER XXVII.
SHACKAYE, THE COMANCHE

Avon Burnet was in the act of lifting his Winchester from across the front of his saddle, when he made the discovery that, although the strange mustang in front of him bore no rider, yet a man was on the ground directly beyond and evidently watching every movement made by himself.

This discovery could mean but one thing: the individual was an enemy, and was on the point of making a hostile movement against him. He had undoubtedly dismounted on learning of Burnet’s approach and interposed his steed between them. Despite the gloom on every hand, Avon read aright the meaning of the almost imperceptible movement on the other side of the saddle, and he slipped from the back of his mustang with a celerity which, being displayed almost at the instant of the discharge of the other weapon, looked as if it was the result of a fatal shot.

But, although the bullet so treacherously fired came near its mark, the youth was not touched. His action was in the nick of time: a second later could not have availed him.

He was incensed, as he had the best cause for being, and he resolved that the miscreant should not escape him. His rifle was snatched from its resting-place, and, stepping from behind Thunderbolt, he drew the best bead possible on his foe.

The dexterity of the latter was marvellous. It was as if, at the very instant of discharging his weapon, he had vaulted into the saddle, and, wheeling the head of his horse away, sent him scurrying straight from his intended victim.

Not only that, but, in accordance with the fashion of the frontier in such emergencies, he flung himself forward on the neck of his animal, so as to offer the least possible target to the other, who, if not hit hard, was certain to return the shot.

The curious feature of the proceeding was that the man, having seen the youth vanish from the back of his steed at the instant the gun was discharged, did not assume that he was killed. Possibly such was his supposition, and his hasty flight was partly due to his anxiety to place himself beyond reach of his friends, who were likely to be drawn thither by the sound of firing. His act in throwing himself upon the neck of his mustang was simply in obedience to the rule which requires the frontiersman to avail himself of every possible means of safety, even when there is seemingly no call for it.

Despite the quickness of young Burnet, he was able to bring his Winchester to a level only at the moment the steed was thundering out of sight in the darkness, but he let fly three times in rapid succession, reckless whether he struck rider or animal; but since the sound of the hoofs still came to him, he was chagrined at the conviction that he had missed both.

“But you haven’t escaped me yet,” he muttered, swinging himself into the saddle; “there is no horse in Texas or the Indian Nation that can leave me behind; now, Thunderbolt, run him down!”

But, while the fates had been kind to Avon, in that he escaped death by the narrowest conceivable chance, they seemed equally well disposed toward the object of his wrath. The boast of the pursuer as to the fleetness of his mustang was warranted, and had the circumstances continued favorable for only a few minutes, he would have brought his young rider beside the fleeing steed, where the account between the two men must have been quickly settled.

But at the very moment of starting, the forelegs of Thunderbolt sank into a hole above the knees. His activity saved him from harm, but his rider took a header over his ears, sprawling on the wet grass in front with a shock that stunned him.

By the time he could rally and remount his mustang, the other was not only beyond sight, but his listening ear could not detect the slightest sound of the flying hoofs.

“He has escaped this time,” thought Avon, as he once more resumed his place in the saddle, “but the account is still open and must be settled very soon.”

He was right, except that the account was closed not only sooner than he suspected, but in a manner of which he never dreamed.

Despite his alarming experience he had not lost his reckoning, and, facing toward the bed-ground of the herd, he had ridden but a short way, when the familiar sounds told him he was near the animals from which he was lost only a short time before.

“They are here, Baby, just as I thought.” The remark was made by Gleeson, who loomed up in the gloom as he spoke, with his mustang on a deliberate walk.

“I am glad of that, and, since no one beside you and me knows of our slip last night, we’ll keep it to ourselves.”

“I’ve no objection; but didn’t I hear a gun go off a few minutes ago? What was you shooting at?”

“It wasn’t I– someone shot at me.”

And thereupon Avon related the particulars of his encounter with the treacherous horseman. Gleeson listened and said nothing until he had finished. Then, with a characteristic exclamation, he expressed his regret that Thunderbolt should have stumbled as he did.

“Keep your eyes open,” he added. “I’ll do the same, and we’ll get the drop on him soon.”

“Why does he want to hurt me?” asked Avon, “when there has never been a word between us?”

“It’s the nature of the animal,” was the reply. “It wouldn’t have made any difference whether it was you or me, so he thought he had a sure thing of it. That’s what he’s here for.”

It was evident from these words that each of the speakers was satisfied as to the identity of the one that had fired the well-nigh fatal shot. Gleeson named him immediately.

“I warned the cap, when he hired that Comanche, that we would have trouble with him. We left Texas a little short-handed, but we could have got through well enough without him. Howsumever, Shackaye, as you remember, rode into camp one day and asked the cap to give him a job, and the cap done it.”

“I recall your words about him, and I thought they were not justified; but what made you so suspicious?”

The Texan uttered an impatient exclamation.

“In the first place he’s an Injin, and that ought to be enough. I never seen one of his race that it’s safe to trust; they’ll shoot the man that gives them a cup of water or a piece of bread. Talk about Injin gratitude! There aint any such thing.”

“What did my uncle say to your sentiments?”

“He laughed in that quiet way of his, and said maybe as I was right, but he didn’t see what we had to fear from one Injin that was in camp with us; he reckoned we could pull his teeth before he could bite enough to hurt.”

“I am sure he will think differently when he hears my story.”

“Don’t tell him or anyone else a word about it. Promise me that.”

“And why?” asked the surprised Avon.

“Well,” was the hesitating answer, “I’ve several reasons: one of them is that though you and me have fixed on the Comanche as the chap, we aint sure of it. It looks very much that way, but it may be someone else after all. We mustn’t make any mistake, and above all, don’t let Shackaye think we suspect him.”

The youth gave his promise, though in his mind there was no doubt of the identity of the man that had come so near shooting him from his mustang. He saw the wisdom of not allowing Shackaye to know that he was suspected.

The cattle having been located, the couple had little to do but to hold them where they were. This proved less difficult than at other times. They had the help of Burrell, or Old Bronze, in the work, and the three did little but ride back and forth, timing their course in such a way that they skirted the large body of animals, often meeting and exchanging greetings, but more often passing without seeming to see each other.

Sometimes one of the cattle would show a determination to dash away from the main body, but before he went far, a horseman was in front of him and he was forced back. The night was too chilly for sleeping, else one or more of the herders would have stretched out on the damp earth, with his bridle reins so interlocked with his arm that his horse could not wander off, or he would have fallen asleep in his saddle. When worn out with fatigue and loss of slumber, a cowboy often rides for miles totally unconscious of what is going on around him.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A MISHAP

The weather cleared toward morning, and the sun rose without a cloud obscuring its face. The halt had been made along a small tributary of the Wichita, whose upper waters flow through the country of the Kiowas, Comanches, and Apaches, that of the Cheyennes and Arapahoes lying further north.

The scene was inspiriting. The cowboys gathered around the wagon for breakfast, the cook having been thoughtful enough to protect the wood against the rain. The animals were busy cropping the grass, which was rich and succulent on all sides of the Trail, the hands for the time being bestowing only general attention on them, but everyone was ready to leap into the saddle and dash off at a instant’s call.

Captain Shirril discovered that a bunch of thirty cattle were missing, and believed they had joined his friend’s herd a mile to the southward, from which it would be necessary to separate or cut them out.

Antonio Nunez, the Mexican, and Shackaye, the Comanche (the latter of whom showed no evidence of having been engaged in questionable business during the preceding night), were similarly attired, though it would be supposed that the full-blooded Indian would have dressed in accordance with the fashion of his people. He claimed, however, to have been engaged in the cattle business before, and, when he first presented himself in camp on his wiry pony, he wore the broad-brimmed sombrero, baggy leather breeches, and red sash around his waist, which were the most noticeable features of the Mexican’s make-up.

The Comanche, however, used no spurs, his feet being shod with moccasins, and, instead of the revolver worn by the Mexicans, he carried a knife thrust in at his girdle and a breech-loading rifle, which was not repeating.

The cowboys sported the same broad-brimmed hats, which in some instances cost more than all the rest of their suits, the leggings, flannel overshirts, and gaudy handkerchiefs tied loosely around their necks.

All, as a matter of course, were expert horsemen, and were furnished with two or three excellent animals apiece, for their business is as trying upon them as upon the men.

The meal was quickly finished, and Captain Shirril, with two of his hands, set out for the camp to the rear, where he hoped to find the missing cattle. Since there was a possibility that they had strayed in other directions, three more men were despatched to make search.

It was rather curious that the captain selected as his assistants his nephew Avon and the young Comanche Shackaye. When they were riding off, Gleeson, the Texan, looked at the youth and winked, but said nothing.

Half-way to the camp, the three galloped over a ridge or swell in the prairie, when to their surprise they came upon the missing animals browsing just beyond.

“That’s lucky!” said the captain; “the job is going to be easier than I supposed. Avon, you and Shackaye ride to the left, while I will turn to the right. Look out for that ugly steer; we have had trouble with him before, and I believe he is in a bad mood now.”

The Indian grinned on hearing these words and said:

“Me no ’fraid; me rope him if he fight.”

And to show his contempt for the huge brute, he drove his mustang straight for him as he was grazing on the further side of the group. The steer raised his head, with the grass hanging from his jaws, and looked quietly at the approaching Indian. He seemed to be in doubt as to his purpose, until Shackaye, when almost upon him, swung his arm above his head and uttered a tantalizing shout, as if he wished to enrage the beast.

If such was his purpose he succeeded, for with a muttered bellow, the steer dropped his head and charged fiercely at the pony, which, to save himself, was obliged to wheel with such suddenness that the young Comanche, despite his superb horsemanship, was thrown violently to the ground directly in front of the animal.

Occasionally a cowboy is caught in the perilous situation of the young Comanche. His horse may stumble, his lasso (always called a “rope” except in California) become entangled, or he may be thrown to the ground in the path of the charging steer or bull, which is sure to be upon him before he can regain his feet and steed.

In such emergencies there is but the single thing to do: that is, to shoot the animal, and to hesitate to do so means certain death to the endangered cattleman.

Two causes prevented Shackaye from appealing to this last and only recourse. His fall was so violent that he was slightly dazed, though he did not lose sight of his peril, but he made the mistake of attempting to climb to his feet and darting aside, when the time at command was insufficient to take him beyond reach of the savage steer.

His rifle remained in place on the front of his saddle, so that it was beyond his reach, while, as I have stated elsewhere, he carried no pistol. He was, therefore, without firearms.

Captain Shirril was fully two hundred yards away, but he saw the imminence of the danger, and, bringing his gun to a level, fired at the steer, calling at the same moment to his nephew to shoot it. The captain’s bullet struck the beast, but without producing any effect, unless to add to his rage.

It took Avon but a second or two to raise his Winchester to his shoulder and aim at the animal, which was near at hand.

“If I was sure that was you last night,” he thought, “I would let the steer do his duty, but maybe you are innocent, so here goes!”

It was no special feat of marksmanship to send a rifle-ball through the heart of the charging brute, but he was so close to the Comanche when he received the shot that he would have tumbled over him, had not Shackaye managed to roll aside in time to avoid the huge mass, which ploughed along the ground, as if fired from an enormous gun.

The occurrence alarmed the other cattle, and they started off at such a pace that the instant attention of the captain and his nephew was required. Paying no further heed to the unhorsed Shackaye, Avon sent his mustang after the flying animals, the captain doing the same from his direction.

The hardest of riding was required to round them up and turn their faces toward the main herd, and it was not long before Avon found himself pitted against a steer fully as ugly as that which he had been obliged to shoot a few minutes before. All the others were finally forced into the right course, and this obstinate animal was disposed to join them, but after trotting for a short distance, he seemed to tire of being good, and, wheeling about, charged like a runaway engine at the youthful horseman who was harrying him so hard.

In such crises a great deal depends on the intelligence of the horse. Thunderbolt sprang aside with the nimbleness of a monkey, and Avon received just enough warning to hold his place in the saddle. The steer attempted to keep up his pursuit, turning with remarkable quickness for such a large animal, but the dexterity of Thunderbolt was still greater, and he easily evaded the sharp horns which came near him more than once. Finally, as if he saw the uselessness of his pursuit, the steer headed in the opposite direction from that which he ought to have taken, and sped away with all the fleetness he possessed.

Avon saw his uncle galloping to his help.

“Leave him to me!” called the nephew; “I’ll conquer him.”

Captain Shirril drew up, and, from his perch in the saddle, watched the result of the curious contest.

Avon had his rope ready to fling over the horns of the fugitive, but before doing so, he resorted to another artifice, which few persons of his years can carry out successfully. It is not only difficult, but it is vastly more dangerous, in the event of the animal showing fight, as the steer had already done.

It was necessary to force Thunderbolt close beside the fugitive, and, despite the courage of the mustang, it was only natural that he should feel some reluctance against doing this. Those horns possessed prodigious length and sharpness, and had already been turned upon him; but he was obedient, and urged by the pricking of the spur and the words of his master, he edged still nearer, though it need not be said that he kept an eye to windward. It was well he did so.

Young Burnet was in the act of leaning forward to attempt the dangerous and difficult feat, when the steer again dropped his head, with one side lower than the other, as such animals do when assailing a foe sideways, and charged upon the mustang.

Nine horses out of ten would have been fatally impaled by the suddenness of the assault, for there was no time for him to wheel; but with a dexterity that seemed incredible, he instantly rose on his hind feet and bounded clean over the steer. The wonder of the exploit was how the horse gathered himself and applied his strength with such astonishing quickness, but he did it like a trained gymnast, his rider maintaining his seat without difficulty and feeling a thrill of admiration at the amazing skill of his steed.

If a dumb animal can ever show surprise, the steer displayed it at the action of the mustang. Having made his lunge with his horns, he must have become aware that, instead of piercing flesh and blood, they clove vacancy only. With his head aloft, and snorting with anger, he stared where the horse and rider were a moment before, but where now they were not.

He looked to the right and left, as if unable to comprehend what had become of them. Captain Shirril was seated motionless on his steed, several hundred yards distant, and, if the steer decided for a moment in his own mind that he was the individual he was looking for, he must have been puzzled to know how it was his horse traveled so far in such an amazingly brief space of time.

The sound of hoofs caused the animal to look on the other side of him, where, sure enough, only a short distance off was the identical offender, calmly surveying him as if plotting further mischief.

Instantly the head of the steer dropped again, and he was in the act of charging with the same impetuosity as before, when he changed his mind, and, instead of becoming a pursuer, resumed the character of a fugitive.