''Bring Me His Ears'' by Clarence E. Mulford (story reading txt) 📖

woman to go riding with you in a country as broken as this, and as over-run with Indians!" He took a step forward, seething with rage, and ran his eyes over the speechless tenderfeet. "Git back to camp, all of you! Miss Cooper goes with us!" Poised, tense, and enraged he watched them go and did not know that Hank had run to the little hilltop for the double-barreled rifle until the old hunter returned with it, loaded its two barrels, capped them and threw the weapon under his arm. At that moment a burst of firing sounded from the north and Hank cocked his head.

"Sounds like them Colt rifles," he remarked, and then kicked himself figuratively, for at his words, his two companions, almost in each other's arms, started, stiffened, and stepped apart. Seeing that the damage already was done, Hank placidly continued. "Is thar another passel o' Texans loose 'round hyar, or has our friends hit th' trail already?"

"Yes," said Tom, quivering like a leaf.

Patience closed her eyes. "Yes," she sighed.

Hank scratched his head and frowned, very much puzzled. "Shucks! thar ain't no doubt 'bout it, a-tall. Course it is—an' I'm a danged old fool!"

"You're one of the four best men I ever knew," said Patience, resting her hand on his arm.

Hank felt of the disgraceful, stubby beard on his face, scowled at his blackened hands, and furtively brushed at a bloodstain on his shirt. Then he wheeled abruptly and strode off to look over the victims of the little affray. When he turned again he saw Patience and Tom going toward camp, Patience on her horse and Tom striding at her side. Fixing the strap to his own rifle he slung the weapon over his shoulder and, with the double-barreled weapon balanced expertly in his hands, slowly followed after to act as a badly needed protector to them both.

Back in camp Tom handed Patience into her uncle's care, looked at her in a way she would remember to the end of her days, and hastened on to report to the captain of the caravan. When he reached Woodson he found Hank there before him, laughingly recounting the fight. As Tom came up Hank stepped back and slipped away, heading straight for the excited group of tenderfeet at the other end of the encampment, and roughly pushed in among them.

"Look hyar, ye sick pups," he blurted. "My pardner dassn't thrash any o' ye, or he'll mebby lose his gal. Anybody hyar wantin' ter take advantage o' an old man? Huh! Then open yer dumb ears ter this: If I ketch airy one o' ye hangin' 'round Cooper's waggins, or even sayin' 'how-de-do' to that gal, I'll git ye if I has ter chase ye all the way back ter Missoury!" He spat at the doctor's feet, turned his back and rambled over to where his trade goods were piled. On the way he met Zeb, who scowled at him.

Hank pulled some black mops out of his pocket, showed them, and shoved them back again.

"Hell!" said Zeb, enviously. "Whar ye git 'em?"

"Found one on a currant bush," chuckled Hank, and went on again.

Zeb placed his fists on his hips and scowled in earnest. "I didn't know what that shootin' war, with all th' hunters runnin' 'round. Dang him! He allus did have more luck ner brains!"

Up at the captain's wagon Woodson nodded as his companion finished speaking. "I reckon ye kin have 'most anythin' in this hyar camp, Boyd. Two bars o' lead off'n th' cannon carriages, an' a keg o' powder? Shore, I'll put th' powder in Cooper's little waggin, an' ye kin help yerself ter th' lead when ye git th' time."

CHAPTER XVI

THE PASSING OF PEDRO

After supper that night Hank and Tom sat around their fire and soon were joined by Pedro, who paid them effusive compliments about their defeat of the Arapahoes. They squirmed under his heavy flattery and finally, in desperation, spoke of the secret trail to Taos. His face beamed in the firelight and he leaned eagerly forward.

"You have decide?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Tom. "Whar we goin' ter meet, and what time?"

"Ah?" breathed Pedro. "To that have I geeve mucho thought. Eet should be ear-rly, so we be far away by thee coming of thee sun. Ees eet not so?"

"Naw," growled Hank. "Folks air not sleepin' sound enough then. Nobody's goin' ter foller us. Thar'll be lots o' 'em leavin' camp at night from now on, tryin' ter beat each other ter th' customs fellers. Two hours afore dawn is time enough. But we got lots o' time ter figger that; we won't be ter th' Upper Spring fer two more days. Time enough then ter talk about it."

"But, eet ees tonight!" exclaimed Pedro. "Madre de Dios! You teenk I mean near thee Upper Spreeng? No! No!"

"Mebby not; but that's whar we mean," said Tom. "Think we're goin' pokin' along through this Injun country fer two nights an' a day by ourselves? Th' caravan gits ter Willer Bar tomorrow night, an' camps at th' Upper Spring, or Cold Spring, th' next night. That puts us near fifty miles further on in th' protection of th' caravan."

"No! No!" argued Pedro in despair. "Eet ees too mucho reesk!"

"Of what?" demanded Tom, in surprise.

"Eet may be that Armijo send soldats to meet thee tr-rain, lak other times. Señores, eet mus' be tonight! Tonight eet mus' be!" He looked around suddenly. "But where ar-re thee cargas, thee packs? I do not see them. What ees eet you do?"

"We put 'em outside th' corral," chuckled Tom knowingly, "so folks will git used ter seeing 'em thar. Tomorrow night we'll do th' same, an' do it ag'in at th' Upper Spring. Somebody shore would see us if we had ter pack 'em here an' sneak 'em through th' camp. Ye should tell yer friends ter put thar packs outside th' waggins, too. How we goin' ter git through th' guards around th' camp?"

"By my fr-riends," answered Pedro. "But eet may be too late at Cold Spreeng!" he expostulated. "Eef thee soldats ar-re there—ah, señores! Eet ees ver' bad, Cold Spreeng!"

"We ain't botherin' 'bout that," said Tom reassuringly. "Hank kin scout on ahead o' us, an' if thar camped up thar we kin drop out o' th' train behind any bend on th' way, an' take ter th' brush."

Pedro begged and pleaded, but to no avail. He still was arguing when his two companions rolled up in their blankets and settled down to go to sleep. Sadly he walked away, hiding his anger until well out of their sight, and then hastened to his own fire and sent three of his compatriots to watch the sleeping pair. They had their watch for nothing, and while they doggedly kept their eyes on the two plainsmen, Uncle Joe and his two wagoners were busy on the other side of the camp, stowing merchandise in the wagons and making false packs. This they found easy to do without calling upon many buffalo rugs, for the goods had been packed in light boxes, over which had been thrown skins and canvas. By taking out the contents of the boxes and putting the containers back into their original wrappings the shapes of the packs did not change. The pigs of lead, a keg of powder and bundles of stones were wrapped in pieces of old skins to give weight to the packs to keep them from flopping at every step of the mules. They did not start to work until Zeb Houghton and Jim Ogden returned from their tour of guard duty and took up another kind of guard duty near the wagons; and long before daylight awakened the encampment the work was done and no one the wiser. Alonzo Webb and Enoch Birdsall had taken care of the packs belonging to Ogden and Houghton and everything was in shape for quick action.

On the march again after an early breakfast the caravan plodded along the trail to reach Willow Bar in good time for the next night camp. As the wagons rolled along the road following the course of the Cimarron, Uncle Joe and Patience dropped back to the rear guard, where Hank Marshall scowled at Jim Ogden, but refrained from open hostilities. Hank was glad to see them and entertained them mile after mile with accounts of his life and experiences in the great West. At times his imagination set a hard pace for his vocabulary, but the latter managed to keep up. The men exchanged tobacco off and on and no one gave a second thought to what they were doing. When Uncle Joe and Patience rode forward again as the train drew near to the noon camping place, Uncle Joe was poorer and lighter by the loss of a goodly sum in minted gold, while Hank was richer and heavier. The balance was obtainable in Santa Fe in the warehouse of a mutual friend.

The wagons hardly had left the noon camp when a heavy rain storm burst upon them, with a blast of cold air that quickly turned the rain into driving sheets of hail. These storms were common along the Cimarron and at times raged for two or three days. The animals became frantic with fear and pain, and the train was a scene of great confusion from one end to the other. Alternate downpours of rain, sleet, and heavy hailstones continued all the rest of the day and the encampment at Willow Bar was one of sullenness and discontent. The wind rose during the early part of the night and sent the rain driving into the wagons through every crack and crevice, and the flapping and slapping and booming of wagon covers, added to the fury of the wind and the swish of the downpour, filled the night with a tumult of noise. The guards around the camp either crawled under skins or crept back to their wagons, not able to see three feet in the blackness.

Tom and Hank had taken refuge under a great Pittsburg wagon owned by Haviland and had fastened buffalo rugs to its sides to shed some of the rain. As soon as darkness set in and Pedro's spies found that they could not see an arm's length from them and were drenched and half frozen by the steady downpour, they fled from their posts and sought refuge from the storm. It took very little to convince them that the men they were to watch would stay where they were until dawn or later, and they did not let Pedro know of their deflection.

"Nine, ten, eleven," muttered the first of two men leading packmules as they felt their way from wagon to wagon. "This oughter be Haviland's, Zeb. Yep, I kin feel thar skin walls." He bent down and raised the lower edge of a skin. "Hank! Tom!"

"All right, Jim," came the low answer, and the two partners, bundled in skins until they looked like nothing human, crawled from their snug shelter and stood up, their one and constant thought being for the covers of the hammers of their heavy rifles. Hank pushed ahead and the night swallowed up the little party.

Uncle Joe raised himself on one elbow and peered through a small opening in the canvas at the rear end of his first huge wagon, and got a faceful of cold rain before he could close the opening again. He had done this a dozen times since dark. Muttering sleepily he rolled up in his blankets and rugs and dozed again, squirming down into the warm bed as vague thoughts sped through his mind of what his friends were going to face.

Suddenly the soft whinny of a horse sounded squarely under him, and he bounced from the blankets and crept to