The Lone Ranch, Mayne Reid [black male authors .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
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“I can go no farther, Walt; not if all the devils of hell were at my heels. I’ve done my best. If they come after you keep on, and leave me.”
“Niver, Frank Hamersley, niver! Walt Wilder ain’t the man to sep’rate from a kumrade, and leave him in a fix that way. If ye must pull up, so do this child. An’ I see ye must; thar’s no behelp for it.”
“I cannot go a step farther.”
“Enuf! But don’t let’s stan’ to be seen miles off. Squat’s the word. Down on yer belly, like a toad under a harrer. Thar’s jest a resemblance o’ kiver, hyar ’mong these tussocks o’ buffler-grass; an’ this child ain’t the most inconspicerousest objeck on the plain. Let’s squat on our breast-ribs, an’ lay close as pancakes.”
Whilst speaking he throws himself to the earth, flat on his face.
Hamersley, already tottering, drops down by his side; as he does so, leaving the plain, as far as the eye can reach, without salient object to intercept the vision—any more than might be seen on the surface of a sleeping ocean.
It is in favour of the fugitives that the day has now well declined. But they do not remain long in their recumbent position before the sun, sinking behind the western horizon, gives them an opportunity of once more getting upon their feet.
They do so, glad to escape from a posture whose restraint is exceedingly irksome. They have suffered from the hot atmosphere rising like caloric from the parched plain. But now that the sun had gone down, a cool breeze begins to play over its surface, fanning them to fresh energy. Besides, the night closing over them—the moon not yet up—has removed the necessity for keeping any longer in concealment, and they proceed onward without fear. Hamersley feels as if fresh blood had been infused into his veins; and he is ready to spring to his feet at the same time as his comrade.
“Frank! d’ye think ye kin go a little furrer now?” is the interrogatory put by the hunter.
“Yes, Walt; miles further,” is the response. “I feel as if I could walk across the grandest spread of prairie.”
“Good!” ejaculates the guide. “I’m glad to hear you talk that way. If we kin but git a wheen o’ miles atween us an’ them yelpin’ savages, we may hev a chance o’ salvation yit. The wust o’ the thing air, that we don’t know which way to go. It’s a toss up ’tween ’em. If we turn back torst the Canadyen, we may meet ’em agin, an’ right in the teeth. Westart lies the settlement o’ the Del Nort; but we mout come on the same Injuns by goin’ that direckshun. I’m not sartin they’re Tenawas. Southart this Staked Plain hain’t no endin’ till ye git down to the Grand River below its big bend, an’ that ain’t to be thort o’. By strikin’ east, a little southart, we mout reach the head sources o’ the Loozyany Red; an’ oncest on a stream o’ runnin’ water, this child kin generally navigate down it, provided he hev a rifle, powder, an’ a bullet or two in his pouch. Thank the Almighty Lord, we’ve stuck to your gun through the thick an’ the thin o’t. Ef we hedn’t we mout jest as well lie down agin’ an’ make a die at oncest.”
“Go which way you please, Walt; you know best. I am ready to follow you; and I think I shall be able.”
“Wal, at anyhow, we’d best be movin’ off from hyar. If ye can’t go a great ways under kiver o’ the night, I reck’n we kin put enough o’ parairia atween us an’ these Injuns to make sure agin thar spyin’ us in the mornin’. So let’s start south-eastart, an’ try for the sources o’ the Red. Thur’s that ole beauty o’ the North Star that’s been my friend an’ guide many’s the good time. Thar it is, makin’ the handle o’ the Plough, or the Great Bar, as I’ve heern that colleckshin o’ stars freekwently called. We’ve only to keep it on our left, a leetle torst the back o’ the shoulder, an’ then we’re boun’ to bring out on some o’ the head-forks o’ the Red—if we kin only last long enough to reach ’em. Darn it! thar’s no danger; an’ anyhow, thar’s no help for’t but try. Come along!”
So speaking, the guide started forward—not in full stride, but timing his pace to suit the feeble steps of his disabled comrade.
Guiding their course by the stars the fugitives continue on—no longer going in a run, nor even in a very rapid walk. Despite the resolution with which he endeavours to nerve himself, the wounded man is still too weak to make much progress, and he advances but laggingly. His companion does not urge him to quicken his pace. The experienced prairie man knows it will be better to go slowly than get broken down by straining forward too eagerly. There is no sign or sound of Indian, either behind or before them. The stillness of the desert is around them—its silence only interrupted by the “whip-whip” of the night-hawk’s wings, and at intervals its soft note answering to the shriller cry of the kid-deer plover that rises screaming before their feet. These, with the constant skirr of the ground-crickets and the prolonged whine of the coyote, are the only sounds that salute them as they glide on—none of which are of a kind to cause alarm.
There appears no great reason for making haste now. They have all the night before them, and, ere daylight can discover them, they will be sure to find some place of concealment.
The ground is favourable to pedestrianism in the darkness. The surface, hard-baked by the sun, is level as a set flagstone, and in most places so smooth that a carriage could run upon it as on the drive of a park. Well for them it is so. Had the path been a rugged one the wounded man would not go far before giving out. Even as it is, the toil soon begins to tell on his wasted strength. His veins are almost emptied of blood.
Nor do they proceed a very great distance before again coming to a halt; though far enough to feel sure that, standing erect, they cannot be descried by any one who may have ascended the cliff at the place where they took departure from it.
But they have also reached that which offers them a chance of concealment—in short, a forest. It is a forest not discernible at more than a mile’s distance, for the trees that compose it are “shin oaks,” the tallest rising to the height of only eighteen inches above the surface of the ground. Eighteen inches is enough to conceal the body of a man lying in a prostrate attitude; and as the Lilliputian trees grow thick as jimson weeds, the cover will be a secure one. Unless the pursuers should stray so close as to tread upon them, there will be no danger of their being seen. Further reflection has by this time satisfied them that the Indians are not upon the upper plain. It is not likely, after the pains they had taken to smoke them in the cave and afterwards shut them up. Besides, the distribution of the spoils would be an attraction sure to draw them back to the waggons, and speedily.
Becoming satisfied that there is no longer a likelihood of their being pursued across the plain, Wilder proposes that they again make stop; this time to obtain sleep, which in their anxiety during their previous spell of rest they did not attempt. He makes the proposal out of consideration for his comrade, who for some time, as he can see, has evidently been hard pressed to keep up with him.
“We kin lie by till sun-up,” says Walt; “an’ then, if we see any sign o’ pursoot, kin stay hyar till the sun goes down agin. These shin oaks will gie us kiver enuf. Squatted, there’ll be no chance o’ thar diskiverin’ us, unless they stumble right atop o’ us.” His companion is not in the mood to make objection, and the two lay themselves along the earth. The miniature forest not only gives them the protection of a screen but a soft bed, as the tiny trunks and leaf-laden branches become pressed down beneath their bodies.
They remain awake only long enough to give Hamersley’s wound such dressing as the circumstances permit, and then both sink into slumber.
With the young prairie merchant it is neither deep nor profound. Horrid visions float before his rapt senses—scenes of red carnage—causing him ever and anon to awake with a start, once or twice with a cry that wakes his companion.
Otherwise Walt Wilder would have slept as soundly as if reposing on the couch of a log cabin a thousand miles removed from any scene of danger. It is no new thing for him to go to sleep with the yell of savages sounding in his ears. For a period of over twenty years he has daily, as nightly, stretched his huge form along mountain slope or level prairie, and often with far more danger of having his “hair raised” before rising erect again. For ten years he belonged to the “Texas Rangers”—that strange organisation that has existed ever since Stephen Austin first planted his colony in the land of the “Lone Star.” If on this night the ex-Ranger is more than usually restless, it is from anxiety about his comrade, coupled with the state of his nervous system, stirred to feverish excitement by the terrible conflict through which they have just passed. Notwithstanding all, he slumbers in long spells, at times snoring like an alligator.
At no time does the ex-Ranger stand in need of much sleep, even after the most protracted toil. Six hours is his usual daily or nocturnal dose; and as the grey dawn begins to glimmer over the tops of the shin oaks, he springs to his feet, shakes the dew from his shoulders like a startled stag, and then stoops down to examine the condition of his wounded comrade.
“Don’t ye git up yit, Frank,” he says. “We mustn’t start till we hev a clar view all roun’, an’ be sure there’s neery redskin in sight. Then we kin take the sun a leetle on our left side, an’ make tracks to the south-eastart. How is’t wi’ ye?”
“I feel weak as water. Still I fancy I can travel a little farther.”
“Wall, we’ll go slow. Ef there’s none o’ the skunks arter us, we kin take our time. Durn me! I’m still a wonderin’ what Injuns they war; I’m a’most sartint thar the Tenawa Kimanch—a band o’ the Buffler-eaters an’ the wust lot on all the parairia. Many’s the fight we rangers used to hev wi’ ’em, and many’s the one o’ ’em this child hev rubbed out. Ef I only hed my rifle hyar—durn the luck hevin’ to desart that gun—I ked show you nine nicks on her timmer as stan’ for nine Tenawa Kimanch. Ef’t be them, we’ve got to keep well to the southart. Thar range lays most in the Canadyen, or round the head o’ Big Wichitu, an’ they mout cross a corner o’ the Staked Plain on thar way home. Tharfer we must go southart a good bit, and try for the north fork o’ the Brazos. Ef we meet Indian thar, they’d be Southern Kimanch—not nigh sech feeroshus varmints as them. Do you know, Frank, I’ve been hevin’ a dream ’bout them Injuns as attacked us?”
“A dream! So have I. It is not strange for either of us to dream of them. What was yours, Walt?”
“Kewrus enuf mine war, though it warn’t all a dreem. I reck’n I war more ’n half awake when I tuk to
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