The Project Gutenberg eBook of Buffalo Bill's Pursuit, by Colonel Prentiss Ingraham This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title:Buffalo Bill's Pursuit The Heavy Hand of Justice Author: Colonel Prentiss Ingraham Release Date: February 02, 2021 [eBook #64447] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: David Edwards, Susan Carr and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUFFALO BILL'S PURSUIT *** Buffalo Bill’s Pursuit OR, The Heavy Hand of Justice BY Colonel Prentiss Ingraham Author of the celebrated “Buffalo Bill” stories published in the Border Stories. For other titles see catalogue. Colophon STREET & SMITH CORPORATION PUBLISHERS 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York Copyright 1907 By STREET & SMITH Buffalo Bill’s Pursuit (Printed in the United States of America) All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian. CONTENTS PAGE IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY 1 I. THE VOICE FROM THE TREE. 5 II. PIZEN JANE, OF CINNABAR. 13 III. CHASED BY WOLVES. 20 IV. A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 32 V. THE CAPTURE. 39 VI. ABANDONED. 49 VII. TAUNTS AND JEERS. 53 VIII. CLOSING IN. 62 IX. A DEFIANT PRISONER. 67 X. MOTHER AND SON. 72 XI. THE DESERT HOTSPUR. 78 XII. IN THE OUTLAW STRONGHOLD. 84 XIII. PEERLESS AS A SCOUT. 89 XIV. THE LIVING BARRICADE. 96 XV. THE GALLANT TROOPERS. 101 XVI. A WOMAN’S VENGEANCE. 104 XVII. PURSUED BY BLACKFEET. 109 XVIII. THE BLACKFOOT TRAILERS. 118 XIX. THE TRAGEDY OF THE CABIN. 123 XX. AN AMAZING DISAPPEARANCE. 129 XXI. THE PRISONER. 137 XXII. WIND FLOWER. 146 XXIII. THE FLIGHT OF THE FUGITIVES. 154 XXIV. THE SCOUTS’ PURSUIT. 167 XXV. AGAIN A PRISONER. 176 XXVI. THE WILD RANGE RIDERS. 181 XXVII. AGAIN ON THE TRAIL. 189 XXVIII. THE CAPTURE OF THE MEDICINE MAN. 194 XXIX. THE COMING OF THE MEDICINE MAN. 201 XXX. THE DEFEAT OF THE BLACKFEET. 210 XXXI. RINGED IN BY FIRE. 215 XXXII. THE GIRL AND THE EMERALDS. 222 XXXIII. THE EAVESDROPPER. 228 XXXIV. THE MUSTANG CATCHERS. 235 XXXV. THE ATTACK ON THE STAGE. 243 XXXVI. DISAPPOINTED ROAD AGENTS. 251 XXXVII. SETTING A TRAP. 256 XXXVIII. A CAPTURE AND AN ESCAPE. 260 XXXIX. THE EMERALDS GONE. 270 XL. CODY AND NOMAD. 275 XLI. THE OUTLAWS TRICKED. 283 XLII. A ROUGH DIPLOMAT. 288 XLIII. A WHIRLWIND CHASE. 293 XLIV. LAWLESS STRATEGY. 298 XLV. A SNEAKING COWARD. 305 XLVI. THE CAPTURE OF THE THIEF. 311 XLVII. AT BAY—AT PEACE. 316 IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL). It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody, used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of the New York Weekly. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these old- timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo Bill for Street & Smith. Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than a wilderness. When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas “Border War,” young Bill assumed the difficult rôle of family breadwinner. During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the arduous life of a pony- express rider. Cody volunteered his services as government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the Seventh Kansas Cavalry. During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis, Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6, 1866. In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was in this period that he received the sobriquet “Buffalo Bill.” In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody served as scout and guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of the command. After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of scouts. Colonel Cody’s fame had reached the East long before, and a great many New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and J. G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody was accustomed to arrange wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business. Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his “Wild West” show, which later developed and expanded into “A Congress of the Rough Riders of the World,” first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the Marquis of Lorne, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales, now King of England. At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National Guard. Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10, 1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage, and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into the Great Beyond. [Pg 1] [2] BUFFALO BILL’S PURSUIT. CHAPTER I. THE VOICE FROM THE TREE. Buffalo Bill drew rein and looked around. He was in a narrow and lonely trail that ran close by the Cinnabar River. The country was gullied and cut by small cañons. Several hundred feet below him the river roared in its narrow, rock-bound bed. On the sloping side of this cañon was a number of trees, some of them of large size; and trees of the same kind bordered the trail. The scout, having drawn rein, sat quite still in his saddle, listening. All he heard now was the roar of the stream, the soughing of the wind in the trees, and the restless champing of his spirited horse. “Help!” A sudden cry of distress sounded near him, and once more Buffalo Bill stared around. The call seemed to have come out of the sky, or to have floated from the mist that rose above the tumbling water of the river. “Can my ears have fooled me?” was his thought. “Hello!” he called. “What is it?” A faint mumbling seemed to come in answer to this, but he could not locate the sound nor distinguish the words. He rode up and down the trail, looking over into the cañon and along its timbered slope; he let his eyes wander over the rocky hillsides opposite the cañon. “The wind is fooling me!” was his thought. Yet he was not satisfied to let it go at that; so he dismounted, tied his horse, and swung down the incline of the cañon for a number of yards, and there reaching a shelf of rock, he bent over the river and listened. Then he heard it again—a cry for help. This time it seemed to be above him, almost over his head; and it sounded so startlingly clear that he could have fancied that the lips that made it were at his elbow. “Yes,” he said, starting up and staring around. “Where are you? I see no one.” The call rose louder and clearer, so clear that it was absolutely startling. Apparently, the one making the cry had, for the first time, become aware that the call for help had reached human ears. “Here I am, right here! Help! I’m right here—in this tree!” Buffalo Bill rose to his feet and stared hard at the tree before him. It was within six yards of him, higher up toward the level where lay the trail; and the voice had seemed to come from the heart of it. Yet he could see no hole in the tree. It was a large, stubby oak, wide branching and low; its thick boughs extended along the cañon slope, forming there a massy shade. “Yes!” he said, jumping toward it. “In the tree? Where?” The voice seemed now to gurgle, and again the answer was so indistinct that Buffalo Bill climbed up to the tree, and walked around it, determined to find an opening, if there was one. “In the tree?” he asked. “In this tree?” He kicked on it and hammered on it with his knuckles. “Yes!” the voice now screamed, seeming to be right before him. “I’m—fast—in—this—consarned—tree! Help! H- e-l-p! H-e-l-p!” “Yes!” said the scout again, shouting the word. “How did you get in? And how can I reach you?” “I—fell—in! Help! H-e-l-p! H-e-l-p!” “Fell in? How? When——” “Fell in at the top, you fool! Help! H-e-l-p! H-e-l-p!” The voice had a strange, quavering sound, high-keyed and singular. “Fell in from the top!” The scout looked at the thick top of the tree. “Well, this must be investigated!” He began to climb the tree, using his lariat to aid him, looping it around the tree and around his body, thus assisting himself materially in making the ascent. He climbed rapidly in this way, and was soon in the lower branches. The voice continued to call, sometimes sounding loud and clear, and then almost falling, or seeming to fall, to shrill whispers. [5] [6] [7] He fancied these changes were due to the wind that roared through the top of the tree, carrying the sound first one way and then another. In a very short time he was in the matted top of the oak, hanging over the cañon. Then, to his amazement, he saw before him a large hole, such as a bear might have used. The calls were coming from this hole. He looked into it, but the hole was black as pitch, and he could see nothing. However, the words of the person down in it seemed now to be shot at him as if from the muzzle of a gun. “Help! H-e-l-p! H-e-l-p! I’m in the tree; and I——” “Yes—yes! I’m here to help you. How far down are you? I can’t see you.” “Something’s stoppin’ up the hole now; it’s a bear mebbe! Help! H-e-l-p!” “I am shutting the light out, I suppose. I want to help you. If I lower my lariat can you get hold of it? Then perhaps I can pull you out, or assist you to get out.” The calls changed in their character; the person in the tree had become aware that some one was at the opening, and that this some one was proffering assistance. “Drap yer rope, then!” the voice shrieked. “I kin climb it, mebbe.” The scout lowered the noose end of his lariat into the hole. “Just place the noose under your arms,” he instructed, “and I can help you out.” He felt the rope jerked, and then the voice shouted: “All O. K. down here; now h’ist away. You’re a stranger, but a friend in need; and a friend in need is wuth a dozen angels any day o’ the week!” Buffalo Bill began to haul on the rope, and was instantly aware that the individual in the tree was ascending. There was much scratching, sputtering, and fussing, and many singular exclamations; but slowly the tree prisoner ascended. Then the scout beheld the top of a head, surmounted by a queer hat, or bonnet; so that, at that first glance, he thought he had an Indian in the loop of the lariat. However, when the neck and shoulders, and then the body of the prisoner appeared, he saw that he had drawn a woman out of the tree. The fact was amazing, and this woman was as singular a creature as he had ever seen: being a tall, raw-boned, awkward female, with a vinegary countenance, and features as homely as if they had been copied from some comic monthly. “Hello!” she sputtered, as she clutched the edge of the hole and began to draw herself out. “This here is what I calls an unfort’nit condition fer a lady to be in. B’ jings, it is! An’ I reckon I’ve et a peck o’ dirt and rotten wood, into the barg’in!” She spat pieces of wood out of her mouth, revealing a row of fanglike teeth. “And I’ve that mussed up my Sunday clo’es that I won’t be able to go to church nex’ Sunday!” At this she cackled in a strange way, as if she had uttered a good joke. With the scout’s assistance, she crawled out of the hole and dropped down in the nest of broad limbs that were matted together in front of the hole, forming there a sort of shelf of verdure. “Well, may I be switched if I was ever in sich a reedicklus situation before!” she grumbled. “I reckon you never before pulled a lady out o’ the top of a tree?” The scout was staring at her most ungallantly. “I didn’t,” he admitted. “I must beg your pardon if I was rough while hauling on that rope.” “Oh, I ain’t as light as swan’s-down!” she cackled. “I’m purty hefty; and heftier still when I git my mad up and git in a fight.” “But how did you get in such a place?” he was forced to demand. “I fell in.” “Fell in?” “You kin understand words, can’t ye? Yes, I fell in.” “But——” “Well, I clim’ up here last night, thinkin’ it’d be a safer place to spend the night in than down on the ground, with wolves howlin’ ’round, and mebbe road agents perambulatin’ along the trail. It looked like a good sort of a nest up here, and I thought I’d try it fer safety; fer I cal’lated that if a wild cat, er a panther, got into the tree, I could git down, mebbe; and I wasn’t as afeard o’ them as I was o’ the wolves I heerd howlin’. And so I clim’ up. And while mussin’ ’round here on these limbs, tryin’ to make myself comfortable, I slipped into that hole, hurtin’ my arm some; and then, fust thing I knowed, I was down in the holler of the tree inside, and couldn’t git out ag’in.” She laughed in a mirthless way. [8] [9] [10] [11] “Well, you better believe that I was scai’t some, when I found I couldn’t git out. I wiggled and I waggled, but it didn’t do no good; and there I had to stay.” She laughed again, with that singular, mirthless cackle. “Well, I was safe enough from wolves and varmints of that kind; you’d better believe I was. I didn’t hear a wolf, ner did a single wild cat er panther try to pay me a visit; but when mornin’ come I couldn’t git out. “I reckon I hollered so much that if the breath I wasted doin’ it was all collected, it’d fill the sails of the British navy. But it didn’t do a mite o’ good, seemed like, till bime-by I reckon you heerd me.” “Yes, I heard you. Your yells were enough to wake the dead!” She glanced down into the hole and shivered. “Now, if you’ll permit me, I’ll try to help you down to the ground,” he said. “Oh, law, I kin make that all right; that don’t trouble me a little bit!” To show that it did not, she swung down from the nest of branches, and then, grappling the tree as if she were a man, she slid down to the ground. The scout followed her, and soon stood beside her on the shelving slope. “Now I’ll help you up to the trail,” he said. “You must be pretty well exhausted by this time, and——” “Lawk, I don’t need no help!” She began to scramble up to the trail. The scout accompanied her, assisting her as much as she would let him; and soon they stood together in the trail. [12] CHAPTER II. PIZEN JANE, OF CINNABAR. Having arrived at a position in the trail, Buffalo Bill looked more carefully at the woman rescued from her strange prison in the hollow oak overhanging the cañon of the river. The woman looked as intently at him, with black eyes that snapped and burned. She inspected him from top to toe, critically, as if trying to size him up and determine what character of man he was. Then a sudden fiery wrath blazed in her black eyes, her lips became pinched, and then opened in one of her strange cackles. “I guess,” she snapped, “that you’re the man that’s playin’ the fake Buffler Bill trick about here. And if ye aire, then I dunno but I’d ruther been left in the tree than to have been helped by ye. Aire you him, er ain’t ye?” Buffalo Bill could not repress a smile at her manner. “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing who this fake Buffalo Bill is, but I assure you that I am the real Buffalo Bill,” he said. “My name is Cody, as, perhaps, you have heard, and——” She cackled again, scoffing at his declaration. “What’s the proof of it?” she demanded. “I shall not try to present any proof, other than my word.” “And if you’re the fake Buffler, yer word ain’t good furder’n a man could sling a steer by the tail. You ain’t the fake Buffler?” “No, madam, I am not.” “Why do ye call me madam, and how’d ye know I ever was married, to desarve that title? Simply because I’m oldish and have lost my good looks? You don’t know me?” “I haven’t the honor.” He touched his hat again, but a smile disturbed the gravity of his face. “Well, I’m Pizen Jane, frum Cinnabar. Never heerd o’ me?” “I never had the honor to——” “Shucks! Don’t be so perlite. Perliteness is due, mebbe, to young girls with red cheeks and yaller hair, and eyes that keeps rollin’ at the men; but it don’t b’long in talkin’ to a woman like me, that’s seen the world, and had all her beauty knocked off her long ago.” “I only meant——” “Don’t mean, then, when speakin’ to me; jes’ speak yer thoughts. I know I’m homely, and my temper ain’t any purtier than my face. I’m Pizen Jane, of Cinnabar.” He smiled. “I’m very glad to know you, and wish to assure you again that I am William F. Cody, known to many as Buffalo Bill.” “Jes’ the same, I’m goin’ to watch ye!” “That’s kind of you.” “You mean to say by that it ain’t kind o’ me, after you yankin’ me outer that hole? Well, I thank you fer that. Where you goin’?” “I was on my way from Cinnabar.” “Yisterday I was, too; but I got stuck in that hole, and that brought my journeyin’ to a close. I reckon, if you’re goin’ on, I’ll go with ye. You’ve got a hoss there.” “A very good animal.” “Glad of it; fer I’m goin’ to ride behind ye on that hoss. I don’t reckon you’ve got anything to eat?” “Yes, I have food in my saddle pouches. I will get it for you.” “I’m that hungry I could eat sawdust! Fer, ye see, I didn’t have any supper las’ night, an’ no breakfast this mornin’. If ’twasn’t so fur, I’d git down to that river and git me a drink.” “I have a water bottle, which you’re welcome to.” “Law suz, you’re a reg’lar travelin’ hotel! Well, I’m glad of it; fer I’m that hungry and dry that I can’t think straight. When I git somethin’ to eat and drink, I’ll try to see if my hat is on straight, and if my clothes sets right. Shouldn’t wonder if they don’t, sense my experience in that tree.” She continued to talk while he procured the food and the water; and then she sat down on the ground and devoured the things he gave her. While doing it she now and then looked at him, with covert glances, and now and then she [13] [14] [15] mumbled, as if talking to herself. The scout was undeniably puzzled by this woman. In his experience on the border he had encountered many strange characters. Sometimes he had found that their eccentricity was assumed as a mask and covered some hidden design, or concealed a scoundrelly and criminal past. In a few cases he had found that an assumed eccentricity concealed an officer of the law, who was masked in that way for detective work. After brushing the crumbs out of her lap in a thoughtful manner, she looked up. “Was you tellin’ me the truth when you said you was the ginuine Buffalo Bill?” “Nothing but the truth,” he answered. Her face still showed doubt. “Lemme ask ye another question er two.” “As many as you like.” “Did you ever hear of a wuthless critter named Pete Sanborn?” “I never did.” “He used to run a little hash house down at Cinnabar, only he was too lazy to run it, and his wife done the work. He liked to gamble better than he did to work, and he’d ruther pick a man’s pockets than to git money in any other way.” “A fellow to keep away from.” “Well, he was. I knowed him to my sorrow. He done things lately a good deal wuss’n any of them things. I hope vigilantes will git him, and finish him.” Her blackened and straggling teeth came together with a vindictive click. “And you never,” she went on, “heerd of a young feller called Pool Clayton? His reg’lar name was Bruce, but he played pool and billiards so much that the fellers got to callin’ him Pool; and I reckon it fit him, fer the name stuck. He’s a young man, not much more’n a boy, and I think he knowed you!” The final sentence she shot at the scout as if it were an accusation. “I never happened to meet him, so far as my knowledge goes.” “He’s a young man, and rather good lookin’; more weak than really mean, I should say; and goin’ to the dogs fast, last accounts I had of him.” “I never heard of him.” She brushed her lap again, as if there were more crumbs in it, and looked down, as if taking time to gather her thoughts, or think of more questions. Finally she rose, shaking out her skirt. “Now, if you don’t ’bject, I’d like fer ye to give me a lift on yer hoss, if he’ll kerry double. It’s askin’ a good deal, I know, but——” “I shall be happy to let you ride on my horse, and I will walk; or you may mount behind my saddle, if that pleases you.” She laughed then, cackling out in the manner that had first attracted him. It was not musical, nor even suggestive of good humor, though the woman apparently meant that it should suggest the last. “I’m Pizen Jane, of Cinnabar,” she said again, “and I hope you won’t rue the day when you fust met me. You won’t, if you’re straight. But if you’re not reelly Buffler Bill, but the fake that mebbe ye aire, you’ll not think meetin’ me was good fer yer health.” Then she seemed to feel that this was harsh, when the things he had done for her were considered. “I reckon I’d ought to beg yer pardon,” she said apologetically. “If I say things you don’t like, fergit ’em. I’m loose- jawed, and my tongue wags sometimes like a splinter in a windstorm. But if you understood the things that’s made me what I am, you wouldn’t think it a mite strange if I was tryin’ to shoot yer head off, instead of talkin’ ca’m to you. You desarve it, if the things I’ve heerd about ye aire true.” “I hope to merit your good opinion,” said the scout, much amused by the freedom with which she “wagged” her tongue. “You’ll git it, if ye desarve it; and if ye don’t desarve it, then you’ll git what you do desarve; and don’t you fail to recklect that! Fer I’m Pizen Jane, of Cinnabar.” “It seems a strange name,” he said, bringing up his horse. “Well, I’m Pizen, to some people, ’cause I stand fer my rights and don’t let nobody tromp on me. I’m Pizen to men who don’t do right, you bet! And I’ll tell ye now, what mebbe I’d ought to keep to myself, that I’m on the warpath, and that I’m standin’ ready to shoot full of holes a certain man as soon as I meet him. Rejoice that you ain’t him.” “You don’t seem so very warlike,” said the scout, smiling at her. “I don’t mind telling you that.” “That’s a compliment, I s’pose? Well, I don’t desarve it.” She looked the horse over critically. “Aire you goin’ right [16] [17] [18] on through the mountains?” “Yes.” “It’s nigh two days’ journey!” “Yes, I know it.” “And this trail is filled with road agents, they say; road agents that lay fer everything that comes along, and shoots men as if they wasn’t more than wolves.” “Yes, it’s a dangerous trail.” “What if you’re held up?” “I shall defend myself; but I’m trusting not to be.” “I reckon I can trust ye; and if I can’t trust ye I can watch ye. Hold the hoss’ head, and I’ll sail up to his back.” The scout held the horse by the head, and with an agility that was surprising, disdaining his aid, she put a foot in the stirrup and mounted to the animal’s back, seating herself behind the saddle. “I’m spryer’n I look,” she said, “otherwise I couldn’t got into that tree where ye found me. Now, if you’ll mount, we’ll jog along, and you can tell me more about yerself while we’re goin’. I’ll say to you that Pizen Jane, of Cinnabar, is searchin’ fer somebody she hopes to find; and if she finds him, interestin’ times aire billed to foller fer all concerned. That’s why I’m on this trail; what you’re on it fur ain’t appeared yit, so fur as I know.” Buffalo Bill mounted, smiling at the woman’s naïve manner of trying to “pump” him. Then they jogged on, as quaint a pair as the trail had seen in many a day. [19] CHAPTER III. CHASED BY WOLVES. Because of the intense midsummer heat in that desert region, Buffalo Bill did not journey far that morning, but relieved his horse of its double burden long before noon, and took shelter from the burning sun in the shady depths of the cañon, at a point where its sides were scalable for man and beast. Pizen Jane seemed impervious to the heat, and declared her anxiety to go on. But she descended into the cañon, and there helped the scout eat the food which remained after her famine feast of the morning. Throughout the journey, and now, as she and the scout rested, she asked strange questions without number, all tending to show that she still did not believe he was the man he represented himself to be. What her own intentions and plans were she cloaked with much cleverness, though she talked all around the subject, drowning it in a very sea of words. Buffalo Bill gained the idea, however, that she had suffered some wrong at the hands of some man, or men, or that some bitter grief and disappointment had come to her; for the avenging, or righting, of which she had set forth alone on this dangerous trail. In addition, it seemed that she suspected him of being in some manner concerned in the wrong done her, and that she had proofs of it she more than once hinted. “I begin to fear you are crazy, madam,” he said, at length, when she had vexed him with her many hints of personal wrongdoing. “But please remember that I never met you before, and know absolutely nothing of any of the men you so veiledly speak of. I might know more, if you would be more open in what you say.” “And then you’d know too much, if you ain’t the reel Buffler!” she cackled. “Pizen Jane may be homely lookin’, and no doubt she is, but she ain’t no fool.” They did not go on until the cool shadows of evening covered the trail. They continued the journey far into the night, going forward by the light of the moon. The hour was late, when Pizen Jane gave a convulsive leap, and threw her arms around the scout’s body, with a quick motion. “Did ye hear that?” she asked breathless. The scout drew rein. “I heard nothing,” said he. “What did you——” “There it is ag’in! Wolves, as I’m a mortal sinner! And they’re answering each other, I’ll be bound. Jes’ listen at ’em!” The scout could not fail to hear them now, for their howls swept out in a wild chorus. “Wolves?” she said. “Yes.” “Comin’ this way?” “I don’t know, I’m sure.” She observed that in spite of his careless reply he touched up the horse with the spur. The wolves were in two bands, apparently; one band on the mountainside, off on the left, and the other behind, in the trail, or in the river cañon. Those on the hillside were nearest, and their howls soon became frightful. “Chasin’ us?” she asked. “We’ll hope not.” “Well, I know they aire! Ye can’t fool me. I’ve had experience. This ain’t the fust time I’ve heerd ’em.” She put her hand into her bosom and drew out a revolver. “This ain’t big enough to kill many wolves with,” she remarked; “but it’s big enough to kill me, which it’ll do if the wolves should seem about to git me. I’d ruther die by a bullet than to have them critters tear me into giblets. Ugh! Hear ’em yellin’!” It was not a pleasant sound, and again the scout touched the horse up with the spur. The country lay more open before him, a fact of which he was glad. The moonlight and open country lessened the danger from the wolves; for, like all evil creatures, they loved the darkness rather than the light. The horse was now flying along, oblivious of its double burden. It not only heard the wolves, but had scented them, and was frightened. The howling drew nearer, and soon the wolves, sweeping down from the hills, were seen running along the trail just behind the fugitives, and off on the left, beyond revolver shot. They grew constantly bolder and bolder, so that soon they were close upon the horse. They seemed to recognize the helplessness of the fugitives, pitted against so many; for [20] [21] [22] [23] the wolf gains courage from numbers, and is boldest when in big packs. Soon the wolves became so reckless that they dashed into the trail, partly surrounding the horse. Then they began to leap at its nose, and sought to strike their teeth into its legs for the purpose of hamstringing it, after the manner in which they were accustomed to bring down deer and other game. The scout shot one that sprang at the horse’s head; and then dropped another that had leaped to the horse’s haunches. “Downed ’em, ye did!” cried Pizen Jane. “Good for you! It makes me ’most love ye, Buffler, to see you drop ’em like that.” He made no answer save a grunt of wrath. “Buffler,” Pizen Jane cackled, “I know you’re enj’yin’ my society, even if the wolves is chasin’ us!” “I should feel better if you were not here,” he answered, quite frankly. “Why, Buffler?” “Because of the wolves. You have no need to ask.” He fired at another. It fell with a yelp, being only wounded; but immediately its ferocious comrades sprang on it, tearing it to pieces almost instantly, being rendered savage beyond belief by the scent of its flowing blood. Even the bold scout shuddered as he saw that. He had seen its like more than once, yet it never failed to impress him with a sense of the awful ferocity of wolves when maddened in that way, and of his terrible peril. He knew that if his horse fell, or if either of the riders should be thrown to the ground, a horrible death could only result. “Buffler,” said Pizen Jane at length, as he brought down another wolf, thus feeding it to its comrades, “I know this trail, havin’ been over it before, and you don’t know it; but there’s a ford right ahead, where the trail dips down and then crosses the river. If you can reach that ford, you can git in the water there and make a stand agin’ ’em wuth while. They’ll git us, otherwise.” She did not emit that cackling laugh now; in fact, she had begun to appreciate her horrible danger, and was speculating as to its outcome. “Thank Heaven for that!” said the scout. “Perhaps I can hold them off until the ford is reached.” He had fired every cartridge out of his revolver, and now drew another. “Can you reload this one?” he said, passing it back to her, with some cartridges. “Yes,” she said; “and shoot it, too!” She proceeded to show that she could, by bringing down a wolf that tried to leap upon the horse, close by her. The claws of the wolf struck through the thick hide of the horse just as she fired, and, contracting in a death clutch, they raked the skin open, so that blood flowed. The horse gave a jump that came nigh hurling Pizen Jane to the ground; but she threw her arms round the scout and held on like grim death. A dozen wolves had leaped on the one she shot, and were rending and devouring it; but others came on, more frantically determined than ever to pull down the horse, now, that they scented the hot blood which streamed from its flank. Buffalo Bill brought down one of the pursuing wolves, and Pizen Jane another. Though the living ones stopped to rend the dead and dying, the delay was brief enough. Yet it enabled the sorely pressed horse to gain on its fiendish foes. “The ford’s jist ahead of ye now!” Pizen Jane screamed in the ear of Buffalo Bill. In another minute he saw before him the darkly flowing waters of the river, which had emerged from its cañon bed and here flowed through a quiet landscape. Buffalo Bill spurred the frantic and terrified horse into the river until the water came up over the girth. “Draw up your feet,” he said to Pizen Jane. “I ain’t neither sugar ner salt, to be melted away by a little water,” she declared; “and I dunno but I could swim if I was driv’ to it; so don’t worry about me. Jist so we git out o’ reach o’ them screechin’ varmints, is all I ask.” The pursuing and infuriated wolves dashed up to the edge of the water. Buffalo Bill turned in the saddle and dropped one of them by a well-directed shot, and then wounded another. The ferocious survivors began to tear at the fallen wolves as soon as they were down, so that within a few minutes nothing was left of them but shining, dislocated bones. The sight was enough to make the scout and the woman shudder. Buffalo Bill urged the horse still farther out into the river, until the water stood midway of its sides. [24] [25] [26] The wolves on the shore seemed, within a few minutes, to number scores, and even hundreds. Their snapping teeth, fiery eyes, and struggling movements made the shore a writhing mass of fiendish forms. Some of them dashed into the water and began to swim out to the horse; but they were at a disadvantage in the water; for they could not there make the tremendous leaps that would carry them to the horse’s back, nor could they move quickly enough to baffle the revolver fire of the scout and Pizen Jane. Pizen Jane was reloading and firing the revolver the scout had given her, with a coolness and courage that would have befitted a man. Between them they succeeded in shooting every wolf that swam close to the horse. The dark bodies of dead wolves bobbed in the stream below the ford, where there were some eddies, that, catching them, whirled them slowly round and round. But the fate of the wolves already slain had small deterrent effect on those still living, and their numbers seemed inexhaustible. Where they came from could hardly be told; they seemed to spring out of the very ground; and they ran snapping and yelping along the banks, on both sides of the river now, while at intervals a few of the most desperate plunged in and tried to reach the horse and its riders. Generous as his supply of ammunition was, Buffalo Bill began to fear it would soon be exhausted. Suddenly, while the wolves still raved on the shores of the moonlit river, and dashed into the water in efforts to reach the horse, a wild scream was heard near by, which had on them a marvelous effect. It was the scream of a panther. The big beast had scented the flowing blood, and doubtless had come for a feast. The leaping forms of the wolves dropped out of sight with almost startling suddenness, as the lithe body of the panther came down the hillside with springing leaps. “Glory be!” cried Pizen Jane, with an almost hysterical cackle. “The painter has druv ’em off.” The “painter,” as she called the panther, came on toward the river, not at first seeing the horse midway of the stream. In another moment it would have been cracking the bones of the dead wolves, if the horse had not been startled by its coming and began to plunge in the water, making a good deal of noise. The panther stopped, throwing up its head and looking down at the horse. It was startled, and seemed too surprised for a moment to move. Then, with a quick leap, it turned aside; and in another instant it, too, was lost to sight in the darkness. “Glory be!” Pizen Jane mumbled. Buffalo Bill saw now that she was trembling, as if her nerves were exhausted. “Shall we ride out now?” he asked. Before she could answer, the sharp report of a revolver, or rifle, sounded. It was some distance away; yet the stillness which had followed the cessation of the wolf attack made it possible for sounds to carry a long distance. Following the first shot, came others in quick succession. “Some other pore critter attacked by them varmints!” Pizen Jane interpreted. “Yes.” “I hope they don’t git him, if he’s honest and hon’rable; I hope he’s nigh to the water, and can git into it, as we did.” The scout was listening for a repetition of the shots. “I hope a painter will come ’long to his ’sistance, as it did to ours.” The shots did not sound again. “They’ve killed him, er he’s druv ’em away, er mebbe the painter skeered ’em. I’m swearin’ by painters, frum this time on!” Pizen Jane’s tongue would wag, no matter what happened. “If I thought we could aid him, and he needed aid now, I’d try to go to his help,” said the generous scout. “But we don’t know where he is!” “He’s out in that direction, somewhere.” “And he may be a road agent, or even an Injun. More likely to be, than an honest man.” “Very true; yet I shouldn’t want any human being to be torn alive by wolves.” “It’d serve some of ’em right,” avowed Pizen Jane, with a grimness that was not pleasant. “Some on ’em that I know of, and am lookin’ fer, ought to be chopped into giblets. If the wolves should kill ’em, it’d save me the crime of murder when I meet ’em.” When the shots did not come again, and nothing occurred to indicate who the man was, or what had happened to him, the scout abandoned his desire to go to his aid. He feared the return of the wolves; and so he kept his horse in the stream, though the beast was soon shaking from [27] [28] [29] the chill of the cold water. “It’s a tarnal queer thing, Buffler, ther way that animiles do,” averred the woman, dropping into a mood of philosophy. “The wolves warn’t afeared of us, even when we laid ’em out on the shore like chopped corn, though they was skeered o’ that painter; and the painter that wasn’t afeared of the wolves, was afeared of us. Varmints aire that queer there’s no knowin’ what to expect of ’em.” For nearly an hour the scout kept his shivering horse in the stream; but when it was seen that the wolves were not likely to return soon he rode out of the water. On the shore he went into camp, and there he built a fire. The fire would help to keep the wolves at bay; and also it was needed to enable him and Pizen Jane to dry their wet clothing. He screened the fire as well as he could; yet he knew it might be seen; and he was in a land where he could expect to meet enemies in human shape as terrible as the wolves and as little given to mercy. To guard against surprise, he for a time stood in the darkness beyond the rim of the firelight, watching there, while the woman by the fire dried and warmed herself. Far away he heard wolves howling, and they may have been some of those who had pursued him; but the man who had fired the shots did not make himself known. The stars and the moon swung their slow way westward, and the night grew late. At last the scout returned to the fire, fed it with wood, and sat down. Pizen Jane had fallen asleep, but his return aroused her, and she raised herself on her elbow. “Buffler,” she said, smoothing back her tangled hair, “what aire ye goin’ to do now?” “In what way?” he asked. “When?” “Why, to-morrer?” “I hardly know.” “Well, I know you’re lookin’ fer road agents!” “You seem to think you are a mind reader,” he declared, with a laugh. “I am. I kin read yer mind same’s my own.” “What am I thinking of?” “That you wish Pizen Jane was in purgatory, er some other furrin country!” He laughed again, and she laughed with him. “Hardly that, of course.” “You’re wishin’ I wasn’t with you?” “Your society is very pleasant,” was his gallant statement; “but you will admit that this is hardly the sort of country where a woman can feel safe.” “And that’s why I’m goin’ to hang to ye. You can’t git rid of me. I’ll cling to ye like the bark on a tree, and you can’t help it. Fer, ye see, you’re huntin’ road agents, and so am I. And if you find ’em, and I’m with ye, why, I’ll find ’em, too. And that’s what I want.” He smiled into the firelight. “I thought you were of the opinion that I was a fake, and you meant to cling to me for the purpose of finding out?” “Well, that is one reason,” she admitted, with blunt frankness. “If you ain’t the reel Buffler Bill, why, I want to know that, too. And then I’ll be makin’ things mighty int’restin’ fer ye.” She laughed again, sliding from her stern grimness and threatening into laughing good humor. “I’ll watch a while, if ye want to sleep,” she said. “I’ve had my forty winks, and can git along now till morning.” The scout felt sure that he could trust this woman not to harm him in his sleep. She still mystified him, and he could not yet fathom her purpose in being there; for he did not credit her with all the motives she professed. However, he trusted her, and so after a while he lay down for a time, leaving Pizen Jane on guard by the dying camp fire. The horse was picketed on its lariat a few yards away, and was certain to give an alarm if wolves or other wild animals approached. [30] [31]