The Quest of the Four Part 7

Phil knew perfectly well what they meant, but he kept, silent, although his heart began to throb. The other three also fell silent, and under the gray, lowering sky the spirits of the train seemed to sink. The men ceased to joke with one another, and no songs were sung. Phil heard only the tread of the horses and the creak of the wagons.

An hour or two later they saw a dim black line cutting across the plain.

"The trees along the banks of the river," said Bill Breakstone.

"And they are still two or three miles away," said Woodfall.

The leader rode among his men and spoke with them. The train moved forward at the same speed, drawing itself like a great serpent over the plain, but there was a closing up of the ranks. The wagons moved more closely together, and every driver had a rifle under his feet. The hors.e.m.e.n rode toward the head of the train, held their rifles across the pommels of their saddles, and loosened the pistols in their holsters.

Phil was conscious of a deep, suppressed excitement, an intensity of expectation, attached to the dark line of trees that now rose steadily higher and higher out of the plain.

An old buffalo hunter in the train now recalled the river, also, and, after studying the lay of the land carefully, said that they would find a ford about two miles north of the point toward which the head of the train was directed. The course was changed at once, and they advanced toward the northwest.

"Do you think anything is going to happen, Bill?" asked Phil, speaking for the first time.

"Do you feel kind of tingly in your blood?" asked Breakstone, not replying directly.

"I tingle all over," said Phil frankly.

"I'm tingling a bit myself," said Breakstone, "and I've spent a good many years in the wilderness. Yes, Phil, I think something is going to happen, and I think you and me and the Cap and Arenberg ought to stick together."

"That is well spoken," said Middleton. "We are chosen comrades, and we must stand by one another. See how the trees are drawing nearer."

The black line now stood up level with the earth, and the trees became detached from one another. They could also see the thick undergrowth hiding the river, which seemed to flow in a deep gash across the plain.

Middleton took from his saddlebags a pair of strong gla.s.ses, and, as they rode on, examined the double line of trees with the minutest scrutiny. Then he lowered the gla.s.ses, shaking his head.

"I can't make out anything," he said. "Nothing moves that I can see.

There is no sign of human life."

"The Comanche iss cunning," said Arenberg. "Harm iss done where harm iss meant, but I for one am willing to meet him."

The mild German spoke in such a tone of pa.s.sion that Phil was startled and looked at him. Arenberg's blue eyes shone with a sort of blue fire, and he was unconsciously pressing his horse ahead of the others. It was evident, even to one as young as Phil, that he was stirred to his utmost depths. The boy leaned over and whispered to Breakstone:

"He must have some special cause to hate the Comanches. You know he was in that ma.s.sacre at New Braunfels."

"That's so," said Breakstone,

"When you feel the savage knife, You remember it all your life."

"These mild men like Arenberg are terrible when they are stirred up, Phil. 'Still waters run deep,' which sounds to me rather Irish, because if they are still they don't run at all. But it's good all the same, and, between you and me, Phil, I'd give a lot if we were on the other side of this river, which has no name in the geographies, which rises I don't know where, which empties into I don't know what, and which belongs to I don't know whom. But, be that as it may, lay on, Macduff, and I won't be the first to cry 'Hold, enough!'"

The train took another curve to the northward, approaching the ford, of which the old scouts told. The swells dipped down, indicating a point at which the banks of the river were low, but they could still see the double line of trees lining either sh.o.r.e, and the ma.s.ses of bushes and weeds that extended along the stream. But nothing stirred them. No wind blew. The boughs of the cottonwoods, live oaks, and willows hung lifeless under the somber sky. There was still no sign of human presence or of anything that lived.

But the men of the train did not relax their caution. They were approaching now up a sort of shallow trough containing a dry sandy bed, down which water evidently flowed during the wet season into the river.

It, also, for the last half mile before it reached the main stream, had trees and bushes on either sh.o.r.e. Middleton suggested that they beat up this narrow strip of forest, lest they walk straight into an ambush.

Woodfall thought the idea good, and twenty men scouted the thickets.

They found nothing, and many in the train began to feel incredulous.

That Comanche had been a mere boaster. He was probably still galloping away over the prairie, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the Santa Fe train. But Middleton yet distrusted. He seemed now to be in every sense the leader of the train, and he did it so quietly and with such indirection that Woodfall took him to be an a.s.sistant, and felt no offense. At his prompting, strong bodies of skirmishers were thrown forward on either bank of the dry creek bed, and now, increasing their pace somewhat, they rapidly drew near the river.

It still seemed to Phil that nothing could happen. It was true that the skies were gray and somber, but there was no suggestion of an active and hostile presence, and now the river was only a hundred yards away. From his horse's back he could see the surface of the stream--narrow, muddy, and apparently deep. But on the hither sh.o.r.e there was a gradual slope to its waters, and another of the same kind on the farther bank seemed to lead up among the trees.

"It ain't so deep as it looks," said an old frontiersman. "'Bout four feet, I should say. It'll just 'bout hit the bottoms o' our wagon beds."

The stream itself was not more than twenty yards wide. One could pa.s.s it in a few minutes, if nothing was thrown across the way, and Phil now began to feel that the unspoken alarm was false. But just when the feeling became a conviction and the wagons were not more than twenty yards from the river, he saw something gleaming in the brush on the far sh.o.r.e. It was the dyed feather of an eagle, and it made a blood red spot against the green bushes. Looking closely Phil saw beneath the feather the light copper face of an Indian, and then he knew that the Comanches were there.

Scarcely a second after he saw the coppery face, a hurricane of arrows whistled from the covert on the far sh.o.r.e. The short shafts of the Comanches filled the air. Mingled with them was the sharp cras.h.i.+ng of rifles, and bullets and arrows whistled together. Then came the long yell of the Comanches, from scores of throats, high pitched, fierce, defiant, like the scream of a savage beast about to leap upon its prey.

In spite of all his resolution, Phil felt that strong s.h.i.+ver in every nerve from head to heel. Some of the shafts were buried to the feather in the bodies of the horses and mules, and a terrible tumult arose as the animals uttered their screaming neigh and fought and kicked in pain and terror. Nor did the men escape. One, pierced through the throat by a deadly barb, fell lifeless from his horse. Another was stricken in the breast, and a dozen were wounded by either arrows or bullets.

The train was thrown into confusion, and the drivers pulled back on their lines. Sure death seemed to hover in front of them. The greatest danger arose from the wounded and frightened horses, which plunged and struggled and tried to break from their harness, but the hands on the lines were strong, and gradually they were reduced to order. The wagons, also, were driven back a little, and then the triumphant Comanches sent forth their war whoop again and again. The short shafts once more flew in showers, mingled as before with the whistling of the bullets, but most of the missiles, both arrows and bullets, fell short.

Now the Comanches appeared thickly among the bushes, chiefly on foot, their horses left at the edge of the timber, and began to make derisive gestures.

It seemed to Phil that the crossing of the river was impossible in the face of such a fierce and numerous foe, but Middleton and Woodfall had been conferring, and suddenly the Cap, to use his more familiar name among the men, whirled off to the south at the head of a hundred hors.e.m.e.n. He waved his hand to his three partners, and they galloped with the band.

"There must be another crossing, not as good as this, but still a crossing," said Bill Breakstone. "If at first you don't succeed, then try, try again."

This flanking movement was hidden from the Comanches on the other sh.o.r.e by the belt of timber on the side of the train, and the hors.e.m.e.n galloped along rapidly in search of a declivity. Phil's heart was thumping, and specks floated before his eyes, but he was well among the foremost, and he rode with them, stride for stride. Behind him he heard the crackle of rifle shots, the shouts of the Comanches, and the defiant replies of the white men.

"Keep a good hold on your rifle, Phil!" shouted Bill Breakstone in his ear. "If the G.o.ds whisper truly to me, we will be in the water soon, and, by my faith, you'll need it."

The Captain uttered a shout of joy. They had come to a place where the bank sloped down to the river and the opposite sh.o.r.e was capable of ascent by horses.

"Into the river, men, into the river!" he shouted. "The horses may have to swim, but we can cross it! We must cross it before the main Indian force comes up!"

The whole troop galloped into the water. Middleton shouted to them to keep their rifles dry, and every man held his above his head or on his shoulder. The muddy water splashed in Phil's face, but he kept by the side of Breakstone, and in a few moments both their horses were swimming.

"Let the horse have his head, Phil," said Breakstone. "He'll make for the nearest land, and you can use both your hands for the work that we now have to do."

Phil dropped the rein, and the horse swam steadily. They were now about the middle of the stream, which was wider here than at the ford. Two or three brown faces suddenly appeared in the brash on the bank in front of them, and the savage cry arose. Comanche skirmishers had discovered the flank movement, but the white troop was already more than half way across. Bullets were fired at the swimming men and horses. Some struck in flesh, but others dashed up jets of yellow foam.

"On! On!" cried Middleton. "We must gain the bank!"

"On! On!" cried Phil, borne on by excitement. "We must gain the bank!"

He was carried away so much by the fire and movement of the moment that he did not feel fear. His blood was tingling in every vein. Myriads of red specks danced before him. The yellow water splashed all about him, but he did not notice it. An arrow whizzed by his cheek, and two bullets struck near, but he continued to urge his horse, which, gallant animal, was already doing his best. Some of the white men, even from the unsteady position of a swimming horse's back, had begun to fire at the Indians in the brush. Phil heard Bill Breakstone utter a deep sigh of satisfaction as he lowered the muzzle of his rifle.

"Got one," said Bill. "It's good to be zealous, but that Comanche ought to have known more than to run square against a rifle bullet."

The feet of Phil's horse touched earth, and he began to wade.

Everything now depended upon an instant or two. If they could gallop up the declivity before the Comanches could arrive in force they would secure a great advantage. But the Comanches were coming rapidly, and the fire from their bows and rifles increased. The white men, now that their position was steadier, also fired more rapidly. Phil sent a bullet at a bronze figure that he saw darting about in the undergrowth, but he could not tell whether or not he had hit.

"On!" shouted Middleton. "Give them no chance! Rush the slope!"

They were out of the river now, and in among the bushes and weeds. But they did not stop there. Dripping with the yellow water, streaked sometimes with red, they rode straight at the Comanches, shouting and firing with both rifles and pistols. The Indian skirmishers gave way, and, jumping upon their ponies, galloped down the stream to the main ford. The white men uttered a cry of exultation. They were now on the western bank, and the flank movement was a complete success.

"Follow them!" shouted Middleton. "We must press home the attack upon the main body!"

Ahead of them the Comanches, bent low on their mustangs, were galloping over the plain. Behind came the white men, hot with the fire of battle and urging on their horses. Phil, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg rode knee to knee, the boy between. He was wet from head to foot with splashed water, but he did not know it. A bullet had touched the tip of one ear, covering it with blood, but he did not know that, either.

There was no cruelty in his nature, but just now it thrilled with battle. He sought a shot at the flying Comanches, but they were too far away.