Ellis Edward Sylvester
The Great Cattle Trail

CHAPTER XIX.
DOWN THE LADDER

The colored servant Dinah never knew how near she came to being shot by her own master. Had she delayed speaking for a second, he would have discharged two more chambers of his revolver, and the distance was so slight, and her head was in such position, that there could have been no miss.

“Good Heavens!” gasped the captain, “I never dreamed that was you, Dinah.”

“But I knowed it war you. How is you gettin’ ’long?”

“I’m all right, but where is your mistress?”

“Downsta’rs tending to tings.”

“But–but do you know there’s an Indian in the house?”

“I reckons so; we didn’t know it at fust, but we found it out putty soon after he arrove; why didn’t you told us?”

“I tried to do so, but was afraid you wouldn’t hear my voice.”

“We heerd you say somefin, but couldn’t quite make out what it was.”

“But what of the Indian?” asked the captain, who was now at the scuttle with his hand on the door.

“He am all right; and if you don’t t’ink so, jes’ come down and see for you’self.”

Dinah stepped out of the way, and her master lost no time in descending through the opening into the dark room below.

“Fasten the door, for there may be more of them trying to enter.”

“I doesn’t t’ink so,” was the confident reply.

Nevertheless, Dinah reached up and fastened the hook in place, making it as secure as before.

“Is your mistress safe?” asked Captain Shirril, the moment he was within the apartment.

“Didn’t I jes’ tole you she was? Does you t’ink I would try to deceibe you?”

“But tell me how it is; this strikes me as the strangest part of the whole business.”

Standing thus, in the stillness and gloom of the upper room, the servant related in her characteristic way the extraordinary experience of herself and mistress with the dusky intruder.

As she had said, the warning which the captain shouted from the roof was heard by them, but the words were not understood.

Mrs. Shirril, however, was keen-witted enough to suspect the truth. The muffled tones showed that her husband was on the roof, while the noise of the body dropping upon the chair proved that someone had entered by that means. That being the case, the stranger of necessity must be a foe, against whose evil intentions they must prepare themselves without delay.

“One of the Indians has dropped through the scuttle,” said the startled lady.

“Anoder ob dem warmints has comed into my room, eh?” muttered the angered servant; “I’ll sarve him wuss dan the oder one.”

“You will not find the task so easy; keep at my side, make no noise, and don’t stir till I tell you.”

By this time, the embers on the hearth were so low that they gave out only a faint illumination, which extended but a foot or two into the room. The women had kept their places near the door, where, as will be remembered, they noticed a pressure, as if someone was trying to shove it open.

Light-footed as was the Comanche, his weight was too great, and his descent too sudden, for him to keep the knowledge from the women below-stairs. They stepped softly away from the door, and into the denser gloom, where they were unable to see each other, although their persons touched. In this attitude, they could do nothing for a time but listen with rapidly beating hearts.

The dusky intruder dropped so squarely on the chair that it did not overturn. He kept his place, instantly securing the scuttle against the entrance of the white man, whom he had baffled with such cleverness. Probably he had some idea of taking a shot at him, but the little manœuvring in which he indulged told him the danger was too great, and he gave over the purpose.

The stillness in the room was so profound that the women plainly heard his moccasins touch the floor, when he stepped from the chair. Then he began gliding softly about the apartment, like a burglar who is obliged to feel every inch of his way with hands and feet.

Great as was his care, he had not continued this long, when he struck the chair and overturned it.

“De willian!” muttered Dinah, “and dat’s in my abpartment too–”

“Sh!” whispered her mistress, touching her arm, “he can’t do any harm, and he must not hear us.”

Had Mrs. Shirril given permission, the servant would have hurried up the ladder and taken the fellow to task, without a moment’s delay or hesitation.

But the Comanche was better prepared for his work than they suspected. They plainly heard him scratch a match on the wall of the room, and the next moment the faintest possible glow showed through the gloom, above the open door at the head of the ladder. The redskin was taking the only effectual means at his command to learn his bearings.

With the tiny light still burning, he passed quickly from one room to another, his location being easily told by the listeners below. It took him less than a minute to gain the knowledge he wished, when the match burned out and was flung aside.

“I wonder wheder he’ll set fiah–”

A sharp pinch on Dinah’s arm warned her that she was displeasing her mistress, and she closed her mouth.

The Comanche was too wise to attempt to go down the ladder with a burning match in his hand. Had he done so, he would have committed the fatal error of the citizen who awakes in the night and sets out with lighted lamp to hunt for a burglar: all the advantage is on the side of the law-breaker.

But the Indian had seen the ladder leading from the second story to the lower floor, and the women were sure he would pay them a visit. Indeed, his errand would be futile unless he did so, for it was not to be supposed that he had come into the cabin through simple curiosity.

Mrs. Shirril had no fear of his trying to burn the structure, for, if he did so, his own situation would be as hopeless as theirs. The sounds of firing and the noise on the roof, which soon reached her ears, caused great uneasiness for her husband, but, like a pioneer’s wife, she gave her whole attention to the peril that confronted her.

Suddenly the servant touched her arm. She did not speak, but her mistress knew the meaning of the act. The Comanche had placed his foot on the upper round of the ladder and was about to descend to the lower apartments, where they were awaiting him.

“Leave him to me,” whispered Mrs. Shirril; “don’t stir or do anything.”

The cunning warrior knew the women were below, and he knew, too, that unless he used extreme caution, he would find himself in a veritable hornet’s nest. The care with which he placed his moccasins on the rounds, and gradually came down, proved this, but the hearing of the women was attuned to so fine an edge that they traced his descent step by step until he stood on the lower floor.

Having arrived there, he paused for a minute or two, as if in doubt what next to do. Evidently he was listening in the hope that the women would betray their presence by some movement, but in this he was mistaken.

During those brief moments, Mrs. Shirril was on the point, more than once, of bringing her rifle to her shoulder and shooting down the wretch who was seeking their lives; but accustomed as she was to the rough experience of the frontier, she could not nerve herself to the point of doing so. She knew the precise spot where he was standing, and, at the first direct approach, she would shoot him as if he was a rabid dog. But so long as he was motionless, she refrained.

What the Comanche would have done at the end of a few minutes it is impossible to say, had not an interruption, as surprising as it was unexpected by all parties, taken place.

CHAPTER XX.
“THE BOYS HAVE ARRIVED!”

The embers on the hearth had smouldered so low that they were mere points of light that served to make the gloom deeper and more expressive. But suddenly a half-burned stick fell apart, and a little twist of flame filled almost the entire room with light.

By its illumination the Indian was seen standing at the foot of the ladder, his rifle grasped in his left hand, his right at his hip, while his body was crouching in the attitude of intense attention, and as if he were on the point of making a leap forward.

He happened to be looking toward the fireplace; but, fortunately for the women, both were gazing straight at him. He glanced to the right and left, and, catching sight of the figures behind him, wheeled like a panther, emitting a hiss of exultation at the knowledge that he had found his victims at last.

But the first dart of his serpent-like eyes showed the white woman, as immovable as a statue, with her rifle levelled at his chest and her delicate forefinger on the trigger.

Mrs. Shirril had the drop on him!

“If you move, I will shoot you dead!” she said in a low voice, in which there was not the first tremor.

Possibly the Comanche did not understand the English tongue, but he could not mistake her meaning. He knew that on the first motion to raise his rifle, draw his knife, or take one step toward the couple, he would be slain where he stood. He, therefore, remained as motionless as she who held him at her mercy.

The tiny twist of flame on the hearth, that had served our friends so well, would soon burn itself out; it was already flickering, and, if left alone, the room would soon be in darkness again, and the situation would undergo a radical change.

“Dinah,” said her mistress, without changing her position, or raising her voice, “keep the fire burning!”

“Yes’m, I will,” she replied, shuffling hurriedly across the floor to the hearth, where she stooped down. She scorned to turn out of the way of the prisoner, lest he should fancy he was held in fear. She passed him almost close enough to touch, and showed her contempt by shaking her fist at him.

“Oh, you willian! I’d like to wring your neck for comin’ into my dispartment without axin’ permission.”

A strange flicker shot from the eyes of the warrior as they followed her for a moment, but he neither moved nor spoke, his gaze reverting again to his conqueror.

Under the deft manipulation of Dinah’s fingers, the flames shot up with more vigor than before. Then, recalling the risk that this involved, Mrs. Shirril told her to come to her side, where she would be out of range of any of their enemies who might be near the windows.

“That will burn for a considerable time,” added the lady, referring to the fire the servant had renewed, “so, if you please, you may go to the scuttle and see how the captain is getting along.”

“Wouldn’t you like to do that, missis?” asked Dinah.

“But I must watch this person.”

“I’ll do dat.”

Her mistress, however, read her meaning in her tones and manner. She was eager to get a chance at the fellow, and, if she did, even for only a few seconds, it would go hard with him.

“No; I will attend to him; do as I told you.”

There was no questioning the decision of the little lady, and Dinah, with another threatening gesture at the painted face of the savage, went by him and began climbing the ladder.

“Neber mind,” she said to herself, though her mistress overheard the words, “when I come downstairs again, I’ll cotch one ob my feet and tumble onto you, and you’ll be squashed worser dan if de house tumbled ober your head.”

The captive seemed to understand what all this meant. He had escaped thus far, but he might well fear the consequences, after the man aloft put in an appearance.

Dinah had hardly passed out of sight when the Comanche said in a low voice:

“Me go–won’t hurt.”

Although the intonation of the words was wrong, the woman knew from the glance at the door, which accompanied them, that he meant to ask permission to depart.

“Yes, you can go,” was the astonishing answer, and she nodded her head.

The Indian moved hesitatingly at first, in the direction of the entrance, keeping his gleaming eyes on the woman, as if doubtful whether she understood him.

“Go on, be quick,” she added reassuringly, though she took care that the old-fashioned weapon was not lowered or turned aside.

The voices of the servant and her master were plainly heard above, and the Comanche saw it was no time for tarrying. A couple more steps took him to the door, and, with little effort, he lifted the huge bolt from its place, pulled open the structure, and whisked out in the darkness, without so much as a “good-night” or “thank you.”

The instant he vanished, Mrs. Shirril set down her gun, darted forward, and slipped back the bolt, making the door as secure as before.

It was a strange act on her part thus releasing the red miscreant who was seeking her life, but, after all, it was characteristic of her sex.

She had little more than time to set things to rights, as may be said, when she stepped back and away from the windows, and sat down in the nearest chair. A slight reaction came over her; she felt weak, though she knew it would not amount to anything: she had been through too many perils before.

The feet and lower limbs of Captain Shirril soon appeared on the rounds of the ladder, with Dinah close behind him. In her eagerness to get at the Indian, she stooped forward, so that her big dusky face showed almost over his shoulders. She was just getting ready to fall on the warrior, when she observed that he was gone.

“Whar’s dat willian?” she demanded, glancing round the dimly lit room.

“Yes, Edna, I heard you had a guest down here.”

“He asked me to let him go, and I thought it was the best way to get rid of him,” replied the wife with a smile, for her strength was returning to her.

“Humph!” snorted the disgusted Dinah, as one of her feet came down on the floor with a bang, “I’s got my ’pinion of sich foolishness as dat.”

“Let me hear how it was, Edna,” said the husband, laughing in spite of himself.

She quickly gave the particulars, and he in turn told what he had passed through during his sojourn on the roof.

“The fellow deserved something, but, after all, I find no fault with your action. Much as I am exasperated against these Comanches for their attack, I couldn’t help feeling an admiration for this fellow, who got the better of me in the neatest style I ever had it done in all my life.”

“Is it not time we heard something from Avon?” asked the wife; “he certainly has been gone more than an hour–”

“Hark!”

The shouts, whoops, and the reports of guns and pistols suddenly broke the stillness on the outside.

Most of the voices bore a familiar sound, and there were a dash and vim about the whole business which left no doubt of its meaning.

In the firelight of the room, husband and wife looked in each other’s glowing faces, and instinctively the two uttered the same expression:

“The boys have arrived!”

CHAPTER XXI.
THROUGH THE BUSH

Oscar Gleeson the cowboy, who appeared at such a timely juncture for Avon Burnet, when he was hard pressed by his Comanche pursuer, took the young man on his mustang behind him, as the reader will recall, and set out for the camp, several miles distant.

Despite the fears of the youth for the safety of his friends in the cabin, the veteran ranchman was more concerned for the fifty-odd cattle that had chosen to stampede themselves, and were at that moment dashing over the prairie for no one could tell where.

But inasmuch as the captain had sent for help, it must be given, regardless of other matters, and the easy swing of the mustang continued until the two arrived at the fire that had been kindled in a small valley, where the provision wagon was stationed with the other animals tethered near, ready for the start that was set for an early hour the next morning.

Most of the men had stretched themselves out in the wagon to sleep, for a hard and arduous campaign was before them, in which they were likely to be compelled to keep their horses for fifteen or twenty hours at a stretch, changing them when necessary and catching snatches of slumber as chance presented.

But the unaccountable stampede of a portion of the herd had roused all, and, at the moment “Ballyhoo,” as he was known to his friends, reined up, preparations were under way for a general start after the absent ones.

“Where’s Madstone and Shackaye?” asked Gleeson, looking down in the faces of the group, dimly shown in the firelight, and noticing that two of their number were missing.

“They started out for the cattle a little while ago,” replied one of the ranchmen, “thinking as how you might not be able to manage them.”

“I’d fetched ’em back all right,” replied Gleeson, “if it hadn’t been for some other business that turned up.”

“What’s that?”

“The reds are down at the cabin raising the mischief; a lot of ’em got after Baby here, and I had to drop one, and then take him on my hoss and bring him along with me.”

“What was he doing out at night on foot?” was the natural query of another of the cowboys.

“Wal, he was putting in the tallest kind of running, when I set eyes on him; if he had kept it up, I don’t believe I would have been able to overhaul him myself.”

This remark caused several of the grinning ranchmen to turn toward Avon, who had slipped off the horse and laughed as he made answer:

“I got into the worst scrape of my life,” he explained, “and it would have gone hard with me if Ballyhoo hadn’t turned up just as he did. The reason I was abroad was because Uncle Dohm thought it best I should come to camp after you fellows.”

“What’s the matter with him?” asked one, who, despite the brief explanation already given, could not understand how it was their leader and his family were in special danger, even if their home was surrounded by Comanches.

“The folks could stand them off for a week, or month, if they had water and provisions, if it wasn’t for one thing; the roof of the cabin is as dry as tinder, and the captain knows they intend to set fire to it. If they do, nothing can save the folks, for the building will burn down before we can get there.”

This was putting a new face on matters, and the ranchmen realized that more serious work was required of them than rounding up the strayed cattle. Captain Shirril was too brave a man to feel needless alarm, and the fact that he had sent for help was proof that there was urgent need of it.

Two of the party were gone and might not be back for several hours. That, however, was of no account, since, including young Burnet, seven were left, and not one of them would have hesitated, with his companions, to attack a party of Comanches two or three times as numerous as that which had laid siege to the captain’s cabin.

These men were fully armed with Winchester, revolvers, and knives, they had no superiors as horsemen, they were accustomed to the rough out-door life, and it may be said that all welcomed the chance of a stirring brush with the red men that had been hovering in their vicinity so long, but who took care to avoid anything in the nature of a fair stand-up fight.

There were horses for all, including Avon Burnet, and, in a very brief space of time, the men were in the saddle and heading toward the home of their leader.

It would be hard to find a company of cowboys or plainsmen whose members are not known by distinctive names, generally based on some personal peculiarity. Thus young Burnet, as we have stated, was nearly always addressed as “Baby,” because of his youth. Oscar Gleeson, one of the most skilful and famous cowmen of the Southwest, was addressed as “Ballyhoo,” for the reason that, whenever he indulged in a shout or loud call, he used that exclamation.

Hauser Files, the associate of Gleeson, once took part in a game of baseball in San Antonio, during which he received the elusive sphere on the point of his nose. He withdrew in disgust from the amusement, and was always known thereafter as Short Stop.

Gleeson and Files were between thirty and forty years of age, but Ward Burrell, from the lowlands of Arkansas, had rounded his half-century of existence, acquiring during the journey such a peculiar complexion that he was known as Old Bronze. Andy Wynwood, from the same State, was younger. One of his most stirring narratives related to the manner in which he escaped hydrophobia, after being bitten by a rabid wolf. He claimed that the only thing that saved him was the use of a madstone. Whether he was mistaken or not is not for us to say, but there was certainly no mistake about the origin of the name of Madstone, which clung to him forever afterward.

Antonio Nunez, the Mexican, was the “Greaser,” Zach Collis from New Mexico, who was also more than fifty years of age, was “Rickety,” because of a peculiarity in his gait, while George Garland was “Jersey George,” for no other reason than that he was born in the State of New Jersey.

The remaining member of Captain Shirril’s party was Shackaye, a Comanche Indian, about a year older than Avon Burnet, concerning whom we shall soon have something to say further.

Captain Shirril was right when he expressed his belief that the arrival of his friends would be in the nature of one of those wild western cyclones, which have grown quite familiar of late in the West and Southwest.

The cowboys swung along at an easy gallop, until near the cabin. They wanted to arrive without giving the Comanches more notice than was inevitable; but, when they knew their approach could be concealed no longer, they drove their spurs into the flanks of their ponies, gave utterance to their wild whoops, and went forward on a dead run.

Before this, the Indians must have suspected that matters were not progressing right. They were aware that one or more white men were in the vicinity, and as a matter of course knew of the Texan camp, only a few miles away. If the cowboys had not learned what was going on from the reports of the guns, they must soon learn it from the whites, who were not only near the building, but who managed to keep out of their clutches.

Not only that, but the red men had already lost several of their best warriors, and having been repeatedly baffled in their attempts to fire the building, were considering a withdrawal, at the moment they were joined by their comrade, who received such unmerited mercy from Mrs. Shirril.

The shouts, firing of guns, and tramp of the horses settled the question off-hand. There was an instant scattering to their own steeds, upon whose backs they vaulted, and then, turning their heads toward the mesquite bush, they sent them flying away at breakneck speed.

But the Texans were not to be disappointed of their entertainment in that style. Catching a glimpse of the scurrying horsemen, they were after them like so many thunderbolts, firing their pistols and rifles, even when there was no chance of hitting anything. There was no time to aim, and they took the chances of so much powder accomplishing something, when burned with ardor and eagerness.

Thus it came about that, within a minute after the arrival of our friends, they were out of sight again in the brush, doing their utmost to teach the marauders a lesson that would keep them forever away from that neighborhood.

“Ballyhoo” fixed his eye on one of the red men, who seemed to be at the rear. He was in fact the very fellow whose life had been spared by Mrs. Shirril. Arriving on the ground at the last moment, he was obliged to run several rods before reaching his horse; but he did it quickly, and, turning his head toward the bush, dashed after his companions and was almost upon their heels.

“You’re my game!” exclaimed Gleeson, banging away with his revolver at him, but, so far as he could see, without effect.

The mesquite bush was not vigorous enough to offer much obstruction to the mustangs, though it was much more objectionable than the open plain. The horses could plunge through it, almost as if it were so much tall grass, besides which it gave something of shelter to the Comanches, who were now fleeing for their lives.

Flinging themselves forward on the necks of their steeds, who were as fleet as those of their pursuers, with the brush swaying on all sides, they became such bad targets that only chance or wonderful skill could tumble them to the earth.

Gleeson was so close to the savage he had singled out as his special target, and his own steed coursed so swiftly through the bush, that it looked as if he would down his man. The fugitive was hardly visible, as he stretched forward, not upon his horse’s neck, but along the further side and almost under it. About the only part of his person within reach was his foot, the toes of which were curved over the spine of his animal, and his left arm, which clasped the neck from below.

It was useless, therefore, for the Texan to try any sort of aim, and when he discharged his pistol now and then, until the chambers were emptied, it was with the same hope as before, that by accident one of the missiles would reach home.

But this little amusement was not to be entirely on the side of the pursuer. Suddenly there was a flash beneath the neck of the mustang, a resounding report, and the bullet grazed the temple of the enthusiastic cowboy.

“Well done, old fellow,” he muttered, shoving his smaller weapon in his holster, and bringing his Winchester round in front; “it makes things more lively when they are not one-sided.”

He bent forward, and, sighting as best he could, fired. A whinnying scream rang out in the confusion, and the mustang plunged forward on his knees and rolled over on his side, stone dead because of the bullet that had bored its way through his brain.

Such a mishap would have been fatal to the majority of riders, but the wonderful activity of the Comanche saved him from harm because of the fall of his animal. He struck the ground on his feet, and showed a tremendous burst of speed, as he took up the interrupted flight of his horse, keeping straight on, without darting to the right or left.

“I’ve got you now,” exclaimed the exultant Texan, holding the nose of his animal toward him.

Astonishing as was the fleetness of the Comanche, it could not equal that of the intelligent mustang, that knew what was needed from him. He wanted no guidance from his rider, who was therefore left free to manipulate his Winchester as best he could with the brush whipping about him.

All at once the gun was brought to his shoulder, but, before it was fired, the Indian dropped his head, dodged to one side, and vanished as if by magic.

Where he had gone was a mystery to the Texan, whose steed checked himself so suddenly that the rider was nearly thrown from his saddle.

There was so much noise and confusion that Gleeson could not hear clearly, but something caused him to turn his head, under the impression that he detected a movement near at hand.

He was just in time to catch a glimpse of the Comanche, darting through the bush in a direction almost the opposite of that which he had been following so long.

“How the mischief did you get there?” was the astonished exclamation of the Texan, as he again brought his rifle to a level.

At the moment of doing so, he comprehended how it all came about. The Comanche had darted directly under the mustang, doing so with a quickness and skill that baffled the eye of his foe. Few, even of his own people, could have performed the exploit which he executed with perfection.

Ballyhoo Gleeson lowered his gun.

“You can go! I’ll be hanged if you don’t deserve to get away after that trick!”