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The Great Cattle Trail, a novel by Edward Sylvester Ellis |
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Chapter 22. Thunderbolt |
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_ CHAPTER XXII. THUNDERBOLT
Then naturally his thoughts turned to his mustang Thunderbolt, that had been left in the mesquite bush with the animal belonging to his uncle. The chances were that the Comanches had captured both, but he was not without hope regarding his own pony. The steed was so intelligent that he was certain to resist the approach of a stranger at night, especially if he were an Indian. The redskins were so occupied in trying to encompass the death of the Texan and his family, besides being well supplied with their own steeds, that they were not likely to put forth much effort to capture a single animal. The youth was as eager as his companions to do his part in driving off the red men, but the chance was denied him. The spare horse which he rode, and which he put to his best pace, could not hold his own with the rest, and consequently he arrived at the rear of the procession. He glanced right and left, but caught the outlines of but one figure, whose identity he suspected, because he was standing in front of the cabin door. "Helloa, uncle, is that you?" "Yes, Avon; I see you have arrived; I hope you suffered no harm." "Matters were stirring for a time, but I am safe." At this moment, Mrs. Shirril and Dinah, recognizing the voice, opened the door, the captain inviting them to come outside. The fire was now burning so briskly on the hearth that the interior was well illuminated, so that their figures were plainly stamped against the yellow background. "There isn't anything left for you to do," said the captain, "so you may as well dismount." The firing, shouts, and yells came from a remote point in the bush, and were rapidly receding. Avon came down from his saddle, kissed his aunt, shook hands with his uncle, and spoke kindly to Dinah, who was proud of the handsome fellow. "Uncle," said he briskly, "what do you suppose, has become of your horse Jack and Thunderbolt?" "Taken off by the Comanches, or killed." "I suppose that is probable, but I shall make a search for them." Believing this could be done better on foot, he left the pony in charge of his relative and walked hastily into the bush. "I don't suppose there is much hope, but I have an idea that maybe Thunderbolt has been wounded and needs looking after. The bullets have been flying pretty thickly during the last few minutes, and for that matter," he added, pausing a few seconds to listen, "they are not through yet." On the edge of the bush he encountered a horseman, whose voice, when hailed, showed that he was "Jersey." "What's the trouble?" asked Avon, pausing to exchange words with his friend. "Aint nothing more to do," was the response; "the varmints are travelling faster than this horse can go, though he was one of their animals." "How was that?" "I got it in the neck--that is my critter did. I had one of them pretty well pinned, when he fired from under his horse's belly and my pony went down, as dead as a doornail. I came mighty nigh being mashed under him, but I dropped the other chap, for all I couldn't see him when I drew bead. I 'spose it was a chance shot, but the minute he went off his horse got so bewildered he didn't know what to do with himself. While he was trotting about, I catched him, put my bridle on him without trouble, and here I am, Baby." "Sure he isn't one of ours?" asked Avon, approaching still nearer and looking him over as well as he could in the darkness. "He is now, but he wasn't fifteen minutes ago." Knowing that he was not Thunderbolt, the youth was hopeful that it might prove Jack; but it took only a minute to learn that Jersey was right. The steed had been brought to the spot by one of the Comanches and was a fine animal, though so much time passed before the Texan secured him that he was simply prudent in not trying to follow after the red men, who were far beyond reach. Jersey laughed when Avon told him his errand, but said he would not be much surprised if he was successful, for the reasons which have been already stated. There had been hot work in the bush, for when the cattlemen charged the Comanches, they did so with all the vigor of their nature. These Indians were among the most persistent thieves in Texas, and, as the reader knows, the man who attempts to run off another's cattle or horses commits a more flagrant crime in that section of our Union than he does when he seeks the owners' lives. Avon bore to the left, leaving the principal theatre of the scrimmage, and had not reached the border of the mesquite when he almost stumbled over a fine horse that lay on its side, without a particle of life. "I wonder whether that is Thunderbolt," he said, with a feeling of dread, as he bent over to examine the body. Drawing a rubber safe from his pocket, he struck a match, and by the tiny flame looked at the head and side of the dead steed. One scrutinizing glance was enough; the body was not that of his own favorite, but of Jack, belonging to his uncle. "Poor Jack!" murmured the youth with a thrill of sympathy, "you have been on many a stirring campaign, but you will go on no more. I wonder how it was you met your death." It looked as if the mustang had been stricken by a stray shot, that may have been fired by a friend, for it was not to be supposed that a Comanche would have killed him purposely, when he would have been a valuable prize. The bridle and saddle were in the cabin, so that the owner had simply lost one of his horses, his supply of extra ones being sufficient to replace him without trouble. "I am afraid there is little chance of finding Thunderbolt alive," added the youth, as he resumed his search. He made his way through the bush with the utmost care, for, although the Indians had been sharply repulsed, he was aware of the custom of those people, when any of their number are killed or wounded. The survivors put forth every exertion to take them away with them, having the horror of their race against any falling into the hands of their enemies. It was more than likely that when the sun rose not a body would be anywhere in sight. Even the warrior who had run him so hard, only to succumb to the rifle of Ballyhoo Gleeson, would not be forgotten by his former comrades. Advancing with the utmost caution, he heard a rustling in the bush in front. Quite sure that it was caused by his enemies, he stood a minute or two listening, uncertain whether to advance or withdraw. But he found the parties were receding, and he ventured to steal forward in order to gain a closer sight of them. A short walk took him to the edge of the mesquite, where the additional light offered a partial view of a strange scene. Two able-bodied warriors were supporting a third between them. The wounded one was able to walk slowly with help, but it was apparent that he was badly hurt, for he leaned heavily upon his support, who stopped at intervals to give him rest. Finally the party halted, and one of them emitted a tremulous but sharp whistle. The signal was for a couple of their own horses, which loomed to sight in the gloom, as they advanced in obedience to the command. Fearful of being discovered, if he left the bush, Avon kept in the shadow and watched the party. His view was indistinct, but it was easy to see that the two warriors were lifting their wounded companion upon the back of one of the mustangs. When this was done a Comanche took his seat behind him, so as to hold him in place by passing an arm around his waist. Those people had no need of saddles, their accoutrement consisting of the single thong fastened around the head of the animal, and by which he could be guided at the will of his master. Indeed, many of the Comanches ride without any such aid at all, their intelligent animals being obedient to their voices, and seeming to comprehend their wishes as if by intuition. Soon after the mustangs and their riders faded from view in the gloom, the horses on a moderate walk. They would have proven easy victims to a couple of the cattlemen, had they appeared at this moment, but, much as the fiery ranchmen despised and hated this tribe, it may be doubted whether there was one of their number who would have taken advantage of such an opportunity. The Texans were ready to fight at all times, but there is a chivalry in their composition which prevents their taking an unfair advantage of a foe. They would have allowed the trio to ride away unmolested, which is just what the Comanches would not have done, had their situations been reversed. Avon Burnet was considering whether it was worth while to push his search further, when, to his surprise, an exclamation broke upon his ear, in the form of a vigorous "_Oofh!_" as nearly as it can be put in letters. He knew it came from the lips of an Indian, who was not far off, though in a different direction from that taken by the warriors and their wounded comrade. It was more to the south, though the penetrating glance he cast in that direction failed to reveal the individual. But it was heard again, and now, when he looked, he was able to catch the dim outlines of a horse, walking slowly toward him. "What's the matter with the Comanches to-night?" the puzzled youth asked himself; "they seem to be up to all manner of tricks." As the horseman gradually became more distinct, he saw that the rider was in an odd quandary. He was striving to turn the animal in the opposite direction, but he would not obey. He flung up his head, sometimes reared angrily, and, though he maintained a walk, kept pushing straight on toward the bush, despite the savage attempts of the rider to make him wheel about. A suspicion flashed through the mind of Avon. The man was an Indian beyond question, and the horse could not be his own, for, if it were, he would have obeyed him without urging. It must be one of the Texan horses that he was trying to steal. The youth uttered the familiar signal by which he was able at all times to bring Thunderbolt to his side, when he was within hearing. The mustang replied with a glad whinny, and broke into a trot straight for his master. It was indeed his prized animal, with a Comanche warrior on his back. _ |
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