When at length the ponies were brought to a halt, Rube was dragged to the ground and left there, lying on his back, with his cramped arms beneath him. He heard the muffled sounds of barking dogs and chattering squaws, and he judged that he had been brought into the Indians' encampment.
Presently he was turned over and his arms were set free, the tight bandage was taken from his eyes.
He sat up and gazed about him wonderingly, with dim sight and aching forehead.
For the first time in his life he was in an Indian village, surrounded by wigwams, all of them similar to Kiddie's teepee, only that his was cleaner and better made, and decorated with more care.
The village was pitched in the midst of a green valley, through which ran a narrow creek, bordered with willows. Horses and cattle grazed on the neighbouring slopes, and an enclosed cornfield and well-beaten trails showed that the Indians lived here permanently.
Near to where he sat were two lodges larger than the rest. They were decorated with many painted devices and trophies of the chase, and in front of each of them was a high totem pole from which grim-looking scalp locks and skulls and bones were suspended. He conjectured that one of these tents would be the chief's wigwam and the other the Medicine Lodge.
None of the Redskins took much notice of him, passing him with a mere glance, or making a remark in a tongue which he did not understand.
A young squaw approached, carrying water. Rube signed to her, asking for a drink. She stopped and stooped to give him one. He then made further easily understood signs to show that he was very hungry. She spoke to him, but he shook his head.
"Wish you c'd speak plain English," he said.
Then the squaw also began to talk in the sign language, and Rube gathered that she did not dare to bring food to a prisoner. Nevertheless, a little later she went past him and dropped within his reach, as if by chance, a fragment of dry buffalo meat, which he ate hungrily.
He was left alone for a long time. But he knew that he was being watched, and that it would be worse than useless for him to attempt to escape.
He saw the young Indian boys at their games of skill, or engaged in competitions with the bow and arrow, horse racing, mounting and dismounting while their bare-backed ponies were at the gallop, throwing the lariat, wrestling and running, and thus training to become braves and warriors.
At about mid-day two of the scouts who had been among his captors came up to him and signed to him to follow them. They led him across a foot-worn patch of grass towards the entrance of the Medicine Lodge, where they came to a halt, standing on guard over him.
Rube wondered what was going to happen; but, watching, he began to understand that the chief warriors and medicine men were within the lodge, and that some sort of court of justice was being held. He further gathered from the picture-writing on the lodge that these Redskins were of the Crow nation, and that the tribal name of their chief was Falling Water.
When at length he was marched into the lodge he saw the councillors seated on the floor in a half-circle round a small fire. All of them wore feathered war bonnets and had their faces painted.
Falling Water himself, a grim, wizen-featured old man, sat in the middle, smoking a tobacco pipe that was shaped like a tomahawk and adorned with coloured beads and feathers. He looked at Rube long and steadily, and then spoke to one of the scouts inquiringly.
Rube could only understand the answer by the gestures and signs that accompanied it. From these and what followed he was able to make up a coherent outline of the offence of which he was being accused.
It appeared that a picket of scouts had been out on the mountains watching for enemy spies. They had captured this one in the very act of spying upon them. He had been making signals, sending messages and answering messages by sounds made with his lips. He carried a gun, and was ready to use it upon them if they had not been too quick for them. And he was disguised. It was clear that he was an Indian—one of their Sioux enemies—who had tried to make himself look like a Paleface. Moreover, he wore the totem sign of his chief, who was the enemy of Falling Water.
Rube was perplexed in his effort to understand this part of the scout's evidence.
He was not surprised that he had been mistaken for a full-blooded Indian. Was not his mother an Indian? And had not both he and Kiddie when they started on their camping trip dressed themselves in fringed buckskins and designedly made themselves look as much as possible like Indians?
He supposed that the scouts picketed on the heights had heard Kiddie's whistle from afar and his own feeble attempt to respond. What puzzled him most was the spokesman's declaration that he wore the totem sign of his chief. For so he understood the scout's gestures.
Falling Water was apparently dissatisfied, for he closely questioned the witness, whose answer, partly in the Crow tongue and partly in pantomime, threw a flood of light upon Rube's perplexity.
Plucking a feather from his own headdress, the scout pinched the quill and bent it over, holding it in position on Rube's head.
This, then, was the totem sign of his supposed chief. And he, Rube Carter, was believed by these Crow Indians to be a spy of their enemy Broken Feather!
He did not know that one of the medicine men had questioned him in the tongue of the Sioux, which, if he were indeed one of Broken Feather's tribe, he ought to have understood. His failure to answer was taken for stubbornness, a sure evidence of his guilt.
Falling Water spoke, holding up a cautioning finger to impose attention to his words. Rube guessed by his serious judicial manner that he was passing a sentence of punishment upon him.
"It's a pity none o' you c'n understand plain, straight-forward English," he protested. "I c'd explain in a jiffy."
"Eh?" cried the medicine man who had addressed him in the Sioux, "you c'n speak English yourself, can you, young 'un?"
Rube looked across at him in astonishment. Surely he was not an Indian, speaking like this! He was an old, old man with a wrinkled face, white hair, and a matted white beard and dim blue eyes. In dress and manner, however, he was very little different from his companions.
"It's the only language that I c'n speak," said Rube.
"Barrin' your own," winked the medicine man. "But you're not the only one of your tribe that can speak English. Broken Feather himself's a dab hand at it, so I hear. A clever scoundrel is Broken Feather. Togged you out like a Paleface and sent you into this reservation to spy around and find out how many braves and warriors we've got, how many war-horses we possess, and how far it's safe for him to come out on the war-trail against us. Well, young 'un, you're caught at it, and you've got to take the consequences, which is as much as to say that you're going to be tortured to death. You asked for plain English, and now you've got it. Quit!"
"But you haven't let me explain," Rube objected hotly.
The old man closed his dim blue eyes and drew his red blanket closer about his shoulders.
"No explanations needed," he grunted.
At a sign from the chief, the scouts dragged Rube forcibly away, and again tied his hands.
They took him into an empty teepee and there bound his legs together and mounted a guard outside so that he could not possibly escape.
No food and no drink were given to him during the rest of the long, weary, monotonous day. He watched a shaft of sunlight moving slowly across the earthen floor of the wigwam until it became a thin streak and then faded.
At dusk a new guard entered—two powerful young Indians with grotesquely painted faces. They loosened the bonds about his legs, but did so only that he might walk as they led him out into a lane broken through a dense crowd of excited braves and squaws and curious children, waiting to witness his torture.
He saw Falling Water with his medicine men and principal warriors in their full war-paint seated in a group in the midst of an open circle of the expectant people. Drums were being beaten, weird Indian songs were being chanted, braves wearing hideous masks were dancing round a blazing fire.
In the middle of the wide ring was the charred stump of a tree, and to this Rube was led. When he came closer, he saw a procession of youths march up, each carrying a large load of faggots. Following them came Indians armed with spears, scalping-knives, bows and arrows, and formidable clubs.
Rube began to feel exceedingly limp. He was trembling from head to foot, though as yet he only guessed at the ominous meaning of these preparations.
Suddenly he was seized from behind and thrust bodily towards the grim execution tree. He struggled, but was overpowered. A blow on the head made his brain reel, and all the strength of his resistance went out of him.
When he came to himself again he found that he was bound by ropes to the tree, and that flames were licking at his feet and legs, while by the light of the fire and through the mist of smoke he saw hideous figures of red men dancing round him, menacing him with their spears and knives and tomahawks.
The fire nipped his shins, the ropes were cutting into his flesh, the sparks and smoke were choking him.
"Kiddie! Kiddie!" he cried aloud in his anguish of body and mind.
And then, from immediately behind him, there came a calm, steady voice—
"All right, Rube; all right. I'm here."
Never, never, though he should live to be a hundred, could Rube Carter forget those magical, unexpected words, coming to him as they did in the most awful moment of his young life!
He did not ask himself just then how it had been possible for Kiddie to find him and to penetrate the crowd of excited Indians unnoticed and unhindered. All that he thought of was that Kiddie was here to rescue him from the torturing death from which there had seemed to be no faintest hope of escape.
But even yet escape had not been achieved.
The rising flames were scorching his legs, the flying sparks were stinging his face and neck, the resinous smoke of the pine wood was stifling him, and the madly-gesticulating Redskins were prodding at him with their long spears and striking at him with their tomahawks to see how nearly they could hit him without yet touching him. They prolonged the process of cruelty to increase his mental suffering; but the delay gave Kiddie his chance.
"Cut the rope, Kiddie—cut the rope!" Rube cried, not knowing that Kiddie's sharp knife had already done its work.
Hardly had he spoken, when a strong arm was flung round him, and he was lifted bodily backward beyond reach of the flames and the menacing weapons of torture. His brain reeled as the supporting arm was withdrawn; he stumbled and sank to the ground.
In his stupor he heard a wild yell from the Redskins robbed of their victim. His eyes nipped painfully, but by the light of the leaping flames he could distinguish Kiddie standing at bay above him, with a revolver in each outstretched hand swinging threateningly from side to side as the Indians made a rush towards him.
Believing that Kiddie's life was now in imminent peril, Rube managed to scramble to his knees. He felt instinctively for his gun, forgetting that it had been taken from him.
But Kiddie was not shooting. Were his pistols empty? Rube wondered. He saw the crowd of Redskins fall back with lowered weapons and sullen looks and hoarse grunts of disappointment.
"Best put them guns out of sight now," Rube heard some one advise. He turned and saw the English-speaking medicine man standing at Kiddie's side. "You've managed all right up to now," the same voice continued. "Boy's not much harmed, by the look of him. You pulled him out just in time, though. Another minute and they'd have been at him like a pack of wolves. Hold hard while I go forward and explain to 'em."
He strode off and harangued the Indians in a loud voice of command.
"Who is he, Kiddie?" Rube was curious to know. "Who and what is he?"
"A man of the name of Simon Sprott," Kiddie told him. "Used to be a friend of Gid Birkenshaw's years ago, when Gid was a lone trapper in Colorado."
"Then he ain't a Crow Injun?"
"Well, he is and he isn't," returned Kiddie, helping the boy to his feet. "When Gid knew him at first he was just an Englishman, come out West on a trip of adventure. Then he got mussin' around with the Redskins, married a squaw, and took the blanket. They made him a chief, calling him Short Nose, and when he became too old to lead the braves on the war trail they made him a boss medicine-man. That's about all I know of him. I ran up against him when I was sneakin' into the village on your track, and it was him that put me wise about what they were doin' to you. I guess you'd a narrow squeak, eh?"
"I just had." Rube nodded. "But all the time I kinder felt as you'd turn up, somehow. I gotter 'normous faith in you, Kiddie. I was plumb certain you'd foller on my tracks, though I didn't blaze no trail."
"You blazed it quite enough for me, Rube," Kiddie averred. "I didn't fool around any, searchin' for your dead body at the foot of the cliffs in Lone Wolf Cañon. The sight of the eagles in flight and, afterwards, the signs of Injuns told me all I needed to know. Say, you didn't make an extra good witness for the defence, else you'd have made 'em understand that you weren't the enemy spy they took you for. Pity you never mentioned the name of Gideon Birkenshaw, or of Buckskin Jack, or even of your own father. Simon Sprott would sure have tumbled to your innocence."
"Dare say," acknowledged Rube. "But how in thunder was I ter know as any of 'em c'd understand English? Simon Sprott never let on that he was anythin' but a pure Injun until after I was condemned."
"You ain't hurt any, I hope?" Kiddie inquired.
"Nope. Shins are some scorched. Moccasins an' leggin's are spoilt, an' my eyes are nippin'. Oh, an' they've took my six-shooter, Kiddie. D'you reckon we c'n get it back?"
"Very likely," said Kiddie. "I'll ask Si Sprott. Here he is comin' back."
Simon Sprott approached them, smiling as Indian medicine men are not supposed to smile.
"You'll put up in my lodge until we can get your own outfit brought along," he said. "You'll both be hungry, after what you've gone through. Indian food, cooked by Indians, isn't at all bad."
He conducted them into his teepee, and Rube Carter was surprised to see how comfortably furnished it was, with a camp bed and washing-stand, a table and two or three chairs, as well as a stove, and even a shelf of books.
Simon Sprott looked at Kiddie in deliberate scrutiny.
"Friend of Gid Birkenshaw's, you tell me?" he said very slowly. "And the son of Buckskin Jack. Well, Gid and me, we was pals years and years ago, trapping up on the head waters of the Platte. Yes, and afterwards, when he'd settled down in his ranch on the Sweetwater, I seem to remember a nipper that he'd bought from an Indian and adopted. Dare say it was yourself. What was the name he'd given you? Little Cayuse, was it?"
"Quite right," answered Kiddie. "That was me, sure. And you mended my wheelbarrow and taught me how to throw the lariat."
"As for Buckskin Jack," continued Sprott, "there never was any one like him. Best all-round scout I've ever known, Red or White; and the truest gentleman. English, too, he was, and that means a lot to me—a lot it means. I'm proud to meet the son of Buckskin Jack. And if there's anything I can do for you, just name it."
"Thank you, Simon," returned Kiddie. "But you've done enough in helping me to rescue young Rube here. We'll stay the night in your camp and then get back to our canoe and home to Sweetwater Bridge."
"What's your all-fired hurry?" questioned Simon. "You'll stay as long as ever you like. It can't be as long as I should like. Stay a while for my sake. Just consider. It's years since I've heard my mother tongue spoken as you speak it, and I'm sore longing to have a chat with a friend who isn't a Crow Indian. Your young partner'd like to stay, if I know anything of boyhood. The adventure would suit him, and to-morrow the Crows are going out on a buffalo hunt. A big herd has been seen, back of Washakee Peak."
Kiddie glanced towards Rube.
"Like to go buffalo huntin', Rube?" he asked.
"Wouldn't I just!" Rube answered. "But you'll come, too, won't you?"
"Oh, yes," Kiddie agreed.
Rube was so hungry after his long fast that he considered the Indian food quite delicious, and he ate heartily.
After the meal he wandered out of the lodge; but there was little for him to see except the dark shapes of the wigwams and here and there a group of silent Indians seated round their camp fire; and so he returned and took comfortable refuge between the blankets and buffalo robes provided for him by one of Simon Sprott's attendant braves.
Before he fell asleep, however, he listened to the conversation between Kiddie and their host.
"He's got spies everywhere," Simon was saying. "Yes, even among the trappers, even working among the cowboys on the ranches. Many of the cowboys themselves are in his pay, stealing horses for him from the outlying corrals, or smuggling firearms into his reservation. For, as a rule, he gets others to do his dirty work for him. Naturally, we've got scouts as well as he, and we're not ignorant of his strength or his intentions."
Rube knew by now that it was of Broken Feather that they were speaking.
"If all I've heard of him is true," said Kiddie, "he has as strong a following as any chief within a week's ride. As for his intentions, I don't pretend to have any special knowledge, excepting that he's a man who thinks a tremendous lot of himself and has the ambition to be a great military genius like Sitting Bull or Red Cloud."
"That's just the point," resumed Simon Sprott. "And to achieve his ambition, he's aiming at conquering the smaller tribes, one by one—Crows, Blackfeet, Arapahoes, Pawnees. But the Crows first of all. Any day he may lead his army on the war trail against us, here in the Falling Water Reserve."
"If you're certain of that, why not be the first to attack?" suggested Kiddie. "You could take him by surprise."
Short Nose grunted deep in his throat and shook his head.
"Unfortunately," he answered, "the Crows have no warrior capable of planning and carrying out such an enterprise. It'll be as much as we can do to defend our village when we ourselves are attacked. Now, if Buckskin Jack were here——!"
There was a long spell of silence in the lodge, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Rube had closed his heavy eyes when he again heard Kiddie's voice.
"Tell me this, Simon," said Kiddie, seeming to change the subject from warfare to hunting. "Exactly how did you learn of that herd of buffalo, back of Washakee Peak?"
Simon Sprott was meditatively puffing at his tobacco pipe; but he paused to answer—
"Word was brought in by one of our scouts."
"Did that scout see the herd with his own eyes?" Kiddie pursued.
"Well, no; I believe not," Simon answered absently. "A lone trapper on Box Elder Creek gave him the information; said it was the biggest herd seen on these hunting grounds for many summers back."
"Trapper might have been one of Broken Feather's spies," Kiddie suggested very quietly.
"Eh?" Simon Sprott looked up sharply and blew a long, slow jet of smoke from his lips.
"It's possible," he acknowledged; "quite possible, but not just likely. And why should the trapper, if he was a spy, tell the scout that the buffalo were there, and even recommend the hunt?"
"Yes, why?" Kiddie asked. "For my own part, I don't believe that there's a herd of buffalo within a hundred miles of Washakee Peak. I guess the trapper had his instructions to tell that story, just to get your warriors out on the buffalo trail, leaving your village undefended for Broken Feather to make his unopposed attack upon it in your absence."
Simon Sprott stared at Kiddie in amazement.
"That's cute," he said, "very cute indeed of you to hit upon such an idea. It's just the sort of idea that Buckskin Jack himself might have sprung out of that wonderful brain of his. I believe you're right. Broken Feather would do a cunning thing like that. It's quite in his line. Nothing more likely. In any case, the Crows are going to alter their programme. All preparations for the buffalo surround are complete. You and friend Rube there were to have had a great time. But that buffalo hunt isn't going to come off."
When Rube Carter awoke the following morning he found himself alone in the teepee, and might have believed himself to be back in Kiddie's camp on Sweetwater Lake but for the medley of sounds that came to him through the open door-flap.
He heard the neighing of horses, the barking of dogs, and the high-pitched voices of squaws and children.
He listened sleepily for a while. Just outside of the lodge a party of young braves were quarrelling for possession of a cooking-pot.
"For people who have the reputation of bein' silent, Injuns are capable of makin' a heap of noise," Rube said to himself, "I never heard such a racket in all my days."
He sat up and reached for his moccasins, and was surprised to find his lost fur cap, with the bedraggled eagle's feathers in it, lying beside them. His revolver also had been restored to him.
He was examining the injury done by the fire to his leggings and moccasins when he heard Kiddie's voice from outside raised almost to a shout of command, as if he were drilling a company of soldiers. Rube flung his blankets aside and crept across the floor to look out. What he saw astonished him greatly.
The wide open space in front of the chief's lodge was now crowded with mounted Indians, in full war paint, drawn up in regular ranks. Apart from them, and halted in a group facing them, were Falling Water and his principal warriors, all wearing their feathered war bonnets and armed with rifles, clubs, and tomahawks.
Falling Water, mounted on a fine black mustang, carried his great staff of high office, decorated with coloured beads and fringed with scalp-locks. He looked very magnificent and dignified, and younger than Rube had at first supposed him to be.
But it was the rider at the chief's side—a rider astride of a lank, piebald prairie pony—who arrested Rube's closest attention. There were but two feathers in his simple war bonnet, which was partly hidden by his blue-and-white blanket. His back was towards Rube, who could not see his face or know if it was painted with vermilion, but by his seat on horseback and the way he held himself Rube instantly knew that it was Kiddie.
Kiddie was giving commands to the Crows in their own language. Clearly he had been placed in authority over them as their general and field-marshal—he who, hardly twelve hours before, had crept secretly into their camp, an unknown trespasser!
Rube Carter marvelled at the strangeness of the situation, though not for an instant did he doubt Kiddie's fitness and ability. In Rube's estimation there was nothing great and honourable that Kiddie was incapable of doing.
Rube wanted to go up to Kiddie now and ask him how this transformation had all come about; but he did not dare. Instead, he stood watching Kiddie riding slowly along the files, inspecting them, followed by Falling Water, Short Nose, and the principal warriors.
It was not until after Rube had washed and made himself tidy that he had a chance of speaking with Kiddie. They were then at breakfast, or what passed for breakfast in the Indian encampment. As a matter of fact, it was an enormous feast that was served to them, of buffalo steak, beaver tail, prairie chicken, stewed berries, and great quantities of rich new milk, with all the other luxuries that the attentive Crows could lavish upon them.
"Looks as if they'd bin turnin' you into a boss war chief, Kiddie," Rube began. "Some sudden on their part, ain't it?"
"Well, yes," returned Kiddie, "it's certainly sudden, seeing that I'm just a stranger among 'em. But you see, it's this way. After you'd gone to sleep last night, one of Falling Water's scouts came in, reportin' that the story of the herd of buffalos was all a made-up affair. He'd been on a big scout round about the Broken Feather Agency, and he was able to prove that Broken Feather and his warriors and braves were busy gettin' ready to come out on the war-path against the Crows. The expedition's timed to start so as to be right here while the Crows are out huntin' imaginary buffaloes."
"Just your own idea," commented Rube, "the same idea to a tick! And so the Crows are fixin' up things to be ready for the defence, I conclude?"
"Not exactly that," Kiddie corrected. "They're goin' ter strike the first blow by makin' a surprise attack on the Sioux. They're not figurin' to wait until Broken Feather makes the assault."
"But then," Rube objected, "didn't Short Nose—otherwise Simon Sprott—say last night that the Crows hadn't a warrior capable of undertakin' such an expedition?"
"Seems he's changed his mind," said Kiddie.
Rube scratched the back of his ear, which was his habit when thinking deeply.
"Somethin' new, eh, t' get a English nobleman ter lead a band of painted Redskins on the war-path?" he said. "Though I reckon you c'n do it if anyone can. 'Tain't as if you was a tenderfoot at the business."
"Feel inclined to come along with us, Rube?" Kiddie casually inquired. "You c'n keep in the rear, you know."
"I shall keep right back in the rear if that's where you are goin' t' be yourself, Kiddie," returned Rube. "I'm figurin' t' be alongside o' you wherever you are. When d' we make a start?"
"As soon as you're ready," Kiddie intimated, "for I see you're determined to be with us. I oughtn't to allow you; but I think you may be of use, and if you come through it all right it will be a great experience for you. I've found a good pony for you and an apology for a saddle. Your own rifle would have been handy if you'd brought it. The Crows have none light enough. Don't neglect to take cartridges for your six-shooter. And if the battle comes off, don't expect me t' be looking after you all the time."
"I understand," Rube acquiesced. "You've gotter concentrate on defeatin' Broken Feather, and you mustn't be worried thinkin' of my safety. Well, all right. I shall not interfere with you any."
Rube was certainly determined to be present in the expected battle. He considered it a more than ample substitute for the mythical buffalo hunt.
He did not speak with Kiddie again for many hours. But he saw him frequently, riding at the head of the long procession of mounted Indians.
The Crows were divided into three armies—the first commanded by Kiddie, the second by Falling Water, and the third by Short Nose. They rode in single file, with scouts in front and rear and on either flank. Towards noon there was a halt on the banks of Poison Spider Creek, and the march had not yet been renewed when Kiddie sent Rube out alone to scout for possible signs of the enemy outposts.
Rube had not gone many miles in advance when on crossing the ridge of a range of foothills he looked down upon the wide rolling prairie beyond and saw a vast, well-ordered army of the Sioux, moving very quickly and in numbers far surpassing the forces of the Crows, whom it was evident they had come out to meet.
Making a rapid calculation of their strength, Rube rode back at top speed and reported his significant discovery to Kiddie.
This unexpected news that the enemy were out of their reservation and making a forced march towards Falling Water's encampment caused an entire change of plan. The coming conflict was not to be a mere surprise attack on Broken Feather's village, but a pitched battle in the open. Kiddie, however, was equal to the occasion.
Rube Carter, who was the only person in Falling Water's army who had actually seen the approaching enemy, and who knew beyond a doubt how greatly the Sioux outnumbered the Crows, had the impression that Kiddie must now decide either to beat a hasty retreat, and thus avoid the battle, or else advance and suffer an inevitable defeat.
There was a hurried council of war, in which Kiddie appeared to hold the ruling influence; but Rube did not know the result of the conference. Neither did he pretend to have an opinion of his own, as to what the Crows had best do. He was satisfied to watch Kiddie. But it was with relief that he presently saw all three of Falling Water's divisions retiring over the level prairie ground, which they had recently quitted, beside Poison Spider Creek.
He supposed that they were returning to defend their wigwams. But they were not making for the fording place by which they had previously crossed the creek.
When the creek was reached there was a halt, and a large section of the army disappeared into ambush, while the remainder rearranged their ranks and examined their ponies and their weapons.
Rube was perplexed. Were they going to engage the enemy after all?
Scouts who had been sent out returned with the report that the enemy was quickly advancing through a gap in the foothills. They would soon appear in sight.
Leaving his reserves in ambush, Kiddie now led his own division slowly forward across the plain, the armies of Falling Water and Short Nose forming his right and left wings, well in his rear.
He had covered hardly half the distance between the creek and the near foothills when the Sioux appeared, emerging like a huge serpent through the gap. They were riding in single file, across the Crows' line of march, clearly with the purpose of surrounding them and cutting them off from the ford. They continued in a straight, unbending column, but were still beyond range, when suddenly the Crows halted, turned right about face, and retired once again in the direction of the creek, apparently unwilling to engage so formidable an enemy.
For the first time in his experience Rube Carter suspected Kiddie of cowardice, or at least of indecision. If he were not meaning to fight, why had he not retreated earlier, while there was time to escape?
To the Sioux, as well as to Rube Carter, it must have appeared that Falling Water was owning himself defeated before even a blow had been struck.
Kiddie, however, was but following out his own plan of campaign. He was manoeuvring his forces for position. While appearing to be in retreat, he was keeping his divisions in perfect order, and at the same time alluring the Sioux towards that part of the plain which he had chosen for his battle ground. His reserves had already secured possession of the ford, and they were ready to join in the battle if their support should be needed.
The crucial moment came when the leading warriors of the Sioux' long column were level with the rear of Kiddie's division.
Then, as by a pre-arranged plan of action, the Crows wheeled round to a new position, the three divisions joining and forming an unbroken semi-circle confronting the Sioux, and completely heading them off from the ford to which they had been advancing.
So quickly and so accurately was the manoeuvre performed, that the Sioux might well have been astounded. The result of it was that the Crows had concentrated the whole of their strength against less than half the forces of their enemy, whose files from the centre back to the rear were wholly out of action.
Urging their ponies to the full gallop, the Crows charged down upon the Sioux like a hurricane, assailing them with bullets and arrows as they swept into close contact.
The Sioux were not prepared for this sudden change of front, but they made the best of the situation by a quick turn, which brought them face to face with the attacking hordes, while the rear of their long column, issuing from the gap in the hills, broke off from the centre, with the purpose of surrounding the Crows' third division.
Falling Water's army might thus have been adroitly caught between two fires, had it not been for Kiddie's forethought in sending his reserves to the support of his right wing. It accordingly followed that, while numerically the inferior force, the Crows continued to hold the great advantage they had gained by concentrating their strength upon a weak point at the most fitting moment.
Rube Carter saw but little of the battle. He was not called upon to engage in the actual fighting. Instead, he acted as a messenger, or dispatch rider.
Just as the turning movement was being made, Kiddie sent him to the rear to order the reserves to break cover, and advance across the plain to the support of Short Nose. This order he delivered by means of signs and gestures, which were well understood and very promptly obeyed.
Rube then rode back to a spot where Kiddie had told him to wait, and it was from here that he watched as much as could be seen of the progress of the battle.
When the two conflicting sides were apart, he could realize the meaning of all they did. He saw the Crows advancing to surround the van of their enemy; he saw the Sioux turn sharply to confront them. And then, with a loud thudding of horses' hoofs, the two contending armies rushed one at the other in a rising cloud of prairie dust.
There was a crackle of rifle fire, mingled with thrilling war-cries and wild, barbaric yells. Arrows flew from side to side, making a visible arch between.
As the rifle fire lessened at close quarters the yells and shouts grew louder and fiercer. And now Rube lost all power of distinguishing one side from the other, for it was all one vast mass of horses and men, swaying this way and that in wild confusion.
It seemed to Rube that even the horses were fighting, for they were rearing and plunging, kicking and biting, as they forced themselves through the crowd. Many of them fell, many were riderless. Some of them had two or even three Indians mounted on their backs, wielding their clubs and tomahawks.
Through the dust and powder-smoke Rube could see that the ground was thickly strewn with killed and wounded horses and men. There were wide gaps in what had been the ranks, but no order was kept, and the combatants broke off into dense groups. Here and there a chief or important warrior would draw off his section, rallying and forming them into line for a new attack, again to become mixed up in a grand scrimmage.
Rube could distinguish the chiefs by their feathered war bonnets, and amongst them he thought he recognized the young chief Broken Feather riding to and fro in the rear of his warriors as if urging them to new movements or increased effort.
Kiddie was not so easily to be distinguished, as he wore only a very simple head-dress, but Rube, knowing him by his piebald prairie pony, saw him once or twice in the forefront of the battle, and again leading a retirement to take up a fresh position on the field where the fighting was most severe.
Then for a long time there was no sign of Kiddie, and Rube began to fear that he had been killed or seriously wounded. So much did this fear oppress him that he resolved to risk his own safety by riding forward to make a search. He knew that Kiddie's main object in posting him here where he waited was to keep him out of danger. But what if Kiddie himself were in danger, or badly wounded, and needed help?
Rube Carter had often said that what he wanted more than anything else was to be of vital help to Kiddie in some situation of great peril, and the idea that such a situation was now at hand so took possession of him that caution and obedience alike were put aside. With the impulsive recklessness of boyhood, he started off to search for Kiddie in the very midst of the fighting. He had only the very vaguest notion of where Kiddie might be. He was aiming at getting to the place where he had last seen him riding at the head of a large company of the Crows to encounter an equally large company of the Sioux. The fighting at this point had now ceased, and the ground was covered with dead and dying horses and fallen warriors.
Rube did not reflect that his mount was a trained Indian war-horse, accustomed to the excitement of battle, and when he tugged and pulled at the halter rein to make the pony stop and let him dismount to go on foot amongst the wounded, the animal tossed its mane and galloped on and on to join a troop of its fellows charging across the battle front.
All Rube's efforts to keep out of the actual fighting were useless. Wholly against his will he was carried into it. Arrows and spears were flying about his head; bullets hummed past him; he saw tomahawks raised aloft to strike at him.
Suddenly the horse immediately in front of him staggered and rolled over. Rube's own mount reared and swerved to clear the obstacle. His knees lost their grip, and he was thrown to the ground.
The long halter rope, wound round his wrist, almost wrenched out his arm. He was dragged for a little distance, but his hand was open, and the loops of the lariat uncoiled themselves as the horse plunged onward, leaving him behind.
The fighting continued round about him for a while, but the Crows pressed their enemies back and back until none remained excepting those who had lost their horses; and these, instead of following the battle on foot, went among the killed and wounded collecting scalp locks.
Some of the braves seized riderless ponies, leapt on their backs, and galloped off to join the throng. Rube also looked round in search of a pony that might carry him back to the rear. There was one not many yards away, tugging at the halter that held it.
Rube rose to his knees, only to realize that in his fall he had injured his hip, and could not even crawl. How, then, could he hope to mount a strange horse without help?
He was still on his knees, trying to rise to his feet, when something like the sting of a whip struck his right cheek and ear. He put up his hand to his face, and drew it away wet and stained. The warm crimson moisture trickled down his neck, and dripped from his chin. He opened and shut his mouth.
"Gee!" he exclaimed ruefully. "Seems I'm wounded. Jaw ain't put outer gear, though. Might ha' bin worse—heaps worse."
"Lie down flat, Rube! Lie down flat!"
It was Kiddie's voice. Rube instinctively obeyed the command, without even looking round to see where the voice had come from. But as he prostrated himself, he glanced forward and saw quite near to him a young Sioux chief mounted on a fine black horse, and wearing a magnificent feathered war-bonnet.
It was Broken Feather.
The chief was aiming with his revolver at a mark beyond where Rube lay. He pressed the trigger; but the chambers were empty, the cartridges all spent; and when no shot followed, he gripped the gun by its muzzle end, flung back his arm, and threw the weapon from him with all his force.
Rube had turned his head to look back over his shoulder, and now, just at the moment when the weapon was thrown, he saw Kiddie stretch out his hand and adroitly catch it, as he might have caught a cricket ball. Kiddie, still riding the same lank, piebald prairie pony; still unhurt in the battle; still cool and self-contained.
"So it's you—you—that have been leading these Crows against me?" snarled Broken Feather, with an angry scowl.
"Well," returned Kiddie, dropping the chief's revolver and drawing back his hand under his blanket; "you may take it that way if you choose. It seems I'm here. Anyhow, I guess you're pretty well beaten this time."
Broken Feather had seized the haft of his tomahawk, and was holding his bridle rein ready to make a desperate charge forward to a hand to hand encounter.
But Kiddie had foreseen his intention.
"Steady, there, steady!" he cried, quickly withdrawing his hand and levelling his fully-loaded six-shooter at a point between Broken Feather's eyes. "Put up your hands! You can't get at me before my bullet reaches you, see?"
For many moments Broken Feather stared at the shining ring of steel in front of Kiddie's steadily held hand. He saw Kiddie's finger twitching against the trigger, and knew for a certainty that Kiddie would not hesitate to shoot if his command were disobeyed.
"Put up your hands," Kiddie reiterated.
Broken Feather's tomahawk was now hanging by its thong from his wrist. Slowly and very reluctantly he raised his two empty hands above his head.
"Right," Kiddie nodded, lowering his weapon, but still keeping it turned in the same direction. "You've saved your precious life. And now you'd best call off your warriors before there's any more blood spilt. D'you understand? Put an end to this needless battle, and quit right away, with what's left of your army. You're tryin' to fly a bit too high, my man. But you're not made big enough. Give up tryin'. Go back to your reservation, and try to live a decent, honourable life of peace and usefulness."
Broken Feather drew down his hands, and folded his arms across his chest, sitting very upright astride of his horse.
"I have not asked advice from you, Lord St. Olave," he said.
"It isn't advice I'm giving you," returned Kiddie. "It's a command. Draw off your warriors right now, and quit, while you have the chance."
He again raised his weapon, and urged his pony a few steps nearer. But Broken Feather did not wait. Seizing his bridle, he pulled his mustang round and galloped away.
Kiddie then advanced to where Rube Carter was lying. He dismounted.
"Why did you let him off like that, Kiddie?" Rube asked, one hand up to his wounded cheek. "You might have shot him easy. Why don't you go after him?"
"What?" said Kiddie, going down on his knees; "and leave you here, without help? Not likely. My! you do look pretty, with all that blood about your face. Take away your hand, and let's have a look at where you're hurt. What's become of your pony?"
"Dunno," Rube answered feebly. "I was thrown, an' he ran off on his own. I've hurt my hip some. Don't think I c'n walk. Wound on my cheek ain't much, is it, Kiddie?"
"Nothing serious," Kiddie told him, taking out his pocket case. "A strip or two of stickin' plaster 'll fix it up till we get home. Bullet went very near your eye, though. Say, how d'you happen to be here? I expected to find you away back there, where I told you to wait. Got tired of waitin', I guess."
"Don't blame me, Kiddie; I didn't think you really wanted me ter stop thar. An' when the fightin' was at its worst, I got anxious about you; figured as you might be badly wounded an' needin' help, or—or even that you might be killed. So I came along ter search for you, see?"
"Yes, Rube, I see," nodded Kiddie. "And instead of you finding me, it was I who found you, eh? Well, I'm real sorry to disappoint you, but it can't be helped."
"No; but it's allus the same," Rube regretted. "It's allus you that helps me. How many times have you saved my life since we come out on this yer trip? I never get half a chance to save yours. Never!"
"Keep your face still, can't you?" ordered Kiddie. "How d'you expect me ter fix up this cut on your cheek if you keep on waggin' your jaw?"
He was not long over the operation of getting a pad of lint on the wound and binding a rough bandage round Rube's head. Then he stood up.
"Now let me give you a leg up on to my pony," he said.
"What about yourself?" objected Rube. "Ain't yer goin' to do any more fightin'? The battle ain't finished yet."
"Fightin'?" repeated Kiddie. "Oh, no; not now. I'm going to take you back to the rear. Besides, it wouldn't be at all gentlemanly if I were to continue fightin' after having told Broken Feather that he must put an end to it all."
He stopped and lifted Rube bodily from the ground, planting him securely astride the piebald pony, which he led away across ground that was thickly strewn with dead and wounded Indians and horses. Rube's injured hip was exceedingly painful; every movement of the pony gave him a new twinge; but he bore the pain stoically, not wishing to let Kiddie know how much he was hurt.
Near the fording place they came to a halt. Rube was left lying on a blanket while Kiddie, re-mounting the piebald, rode back to the battlefield to put a stop to all scalping and mutilating and looting, to attend to the wounded, and to draw off the Crows as Broken Feather had drawn off the Sioux.
Amongst the dead and wounded Crows he discovered Simon Sprott kneeling at the side of the chief Falling Water, whose body had been pierced by a dozen arrows.
"Poor old Falling Water's done in, Little Cayuse," Simon announced. "He's gone right away to the Happy Hunting Grounds. But I guess he'd a big thought for you just before he started on the Long Trail. Asked me to thank you for leading the Crows to victory, he did."