Adventure/Red Toll

by Hugh Pendexter

Red Toll

by Hugh Pendexter
A Tale of the Old Santa Fe Trail

Author of “The Magic Arrow,” “Yancey of the Rangers,” etc.

THE CLOSE of the Revolutionary War found many venturesome spirits unwilling to return to the humdrum of farm and mercantile life. Early in 1800 adventurers exploring the Southwest learned that Mexicans in Santa Fé were eager to pay two and three dollars a yard for cheap cotton cloths. When this information had filtered back East thrifty New Englanders, restless Southerners and bold frontiersmen were quick to try their luck as merchants. The enormous profits taken by those who eluded the wild-riding Comanche, fierce Apache, blood-thirsty Kiowa, and numerous other plains tribes resulted in the introduction of Pittsburgh-made wagons to the old Santa Fé Trail in 1824.

Some three centuries before this Coronado, Cabeca de Vaca, and the survivors of the ill-fated De Soto expedition had tramped the Indian highway in rusty mail, lured on by legends of golden cities. Although conquistador gave way for American merchants the bait remained the same, Mexican silver being substituted for gold. Trapper, trader, missionary, hunter, soldier and colonist, in the order named, began fulfilling the destiny of the new continent by blazing the way for steam-propelled commerce.

The first wagons, “prairie schooners,” had a capacity of a ton and a half, each being drawn by eight mules or as many oxen. They were a marvelous improvement over the old pack-mule trains and quickened trade to an amazing degree. They were soon doubled in capacity and required ten or twelve mules or oxen to haul them. And as the vehicles increased in size and numbers so did the Indians increase the ferocity of their opposition, till the trail was fringed with raw scalps. The red man's lust for plunder was succeeded by the conviction the influx of traders meant an end to the buffalo.

The Old Trail was loyal to the red man. From Missouri up the Arkansas and beyond the Great Bend as far as the Cimarron Crossing it was a broad and obvious route, easily followed by the unsophisticated so far as any topographical disadvantages were concerned. In the mad rush for Mexican silver many amateurs at the frontier game accepted the first half of the trail as an earnest for the whole, and set forth without proper guides.

Once the Cimarron Crossing was reached, however, the dusty ribbon of travel vanished and in its place were innumerable buffalo trails radiating in all directions from the river. Ordinarily the tenderfeet and greenhorns sought to push on, and thus the trail frequently became a trap, with red toll accumulating in many savage tepees. Nor were ignorant Easterners the only victims.

It is recorded that veteran trappers from the Rocky Mountains, egotistical in having surmounted the obstacles of the upper Platte and Yellowstone, laughed at the suggestion of danger and voted the monotonous plains country a child's playground. Often such men became lost beyond the sparkling Crossing.

WHEN “Silent” Leroux drifted into Fort Larned to secure a job as posthunter he made a favorable impression by the respect he paid, the trail.

Famed for years of travel through the inaccessible portions of the West he was one of a few of a vanished race who did not treat the trail contemptuously. He studied it from all angles and never was deceived by superficial appearances.

It might have been a strange, fierce animal found alive in one of his traps from his cautious manner of approaching its various phases.

From 110-Mile Creek to Pawnee Rock, to the Cimarron Crossing, and thence to the Purgatory River country and Bent's Fort, he examined it in detail. By patience and wariness he learned the trap before it could close upon him.

He was typically American, although the veneer of civilization was long since sloughed off. He used to declare that he “thought in Injun.” His nickname resulted from no inherent trait of taciturnity. When young and callow he was one of the first white men to penetrate the wonders of the Yellowstone region. He was loquacious enough in those days and zestfully informed a trappers' camp and hunters' bivouac about the mud volcanoes, steaming geysers, boiling springs and petrified forests.

It naturally followed he was ridiculed unmercifully. As he was not enough of a philosopher to ignore such treatment and wait contentedly for Time to substantiate his stories he changed into an exceedingly close-mouthed man; hence his sobriquet.

As a hunter he was worthy to precede Kit Carson, prince of frontiersmen, whom Fate already was grooming to tread these same scenes.

The post commander early observed that in addition to supplying sufficient meat for the fort and passing trains he never came in from the hunt without some laconic, correct report as to the movements of the various tribes. His value as a scout soon overshadowed his work as a hunter.

When “Texas” Charlie, chief of scouts, leaped from his exhausted pony and reported the finding of a brother scout killed at Ash Creek the commander sent for Leroux.

As the old man slouched in the commander hurriedly began:

“Texas Charlie just arrived with bad news, Silent. Two Birds, one of our Crow scouts, has been wiped out on Ash Creek. Those —— Kiowa you reported as moving north of the Republican Fork to hunt buffalo on the Platte swung back.”

It was customary to blame the Kiowa on general principles, as they were the most bloodthirsty and cruel of all the plains Indians. In proportion to their numbers they probably killed more whites than any other one tribe.

Silent thoughtfully twisted his wisp of gray beard and frowned.

“Th' Kiowy was movin' north o' th' Republican Fork,” he slowly insisted. “They've patched up a peace with th' Pawnee. Goin' to hunt together, them two. I reckon I know what I know. If they done f'r Two Birds it's th' work of a few young bucks keen to git their feathers.”

“Kiowas did it,” declared the commander, pulling something from his pocket. “Of course you couldn't know they would swing back after crossing the Fork. But swing back they did.”

“—— it! Don't I know Injuns?” broke in Silent, with the independent scout's disregard for rank. “Reckon I knowed Injuns afore ye was born. I say it could be th' work of only a handful o' young braves. It wouldn't take th' whole Kiowy nation to wipe out a Crow scout.”

The commander heard him patiently, and quietly replied—

“This tells the whole story.”

He handed over a fragment of deerskin, cut from a hunting shirt. It contained a picture-writing done in black.

“Texas found it near where Two Birds was killed,” added the commander.

Silent stared incredulously at the picture message and beheld:

illustration

The old hunter was an expert in the sign-language of the plains, an indispensable aid to interpreting the drawings made by Indians to convey a message. There was no attempt at artistic skill in the picture; simply an effort to announce a fact. It was as readily comprehensible to him as though he had been an eye-witness of the tragedy.

“Two Birds surprised at th' crick an' didn't have time to run for it,” Silent read aloud. “Th' up 'n' down line is th' bank behind which he hid. Keeps low an' sees a big number o' Kiowy comin'. They don't know he's there yet. There was a whalin' big bunch of 'em, as showed by th' hoof-tracks. He don't know whether he'll git clear or be wiped out. So he makes this report hopin' ye'll git it and larn th' Kiowy is on th' war-path in big numbers.

“Th' two birds over his head 'dentifies him; but to make sure he stripes off his ha'r to show th' Crow custom o' usin' red-clay. To leave no doubt 'bout they bein' Kiowy he makes th' reg'lar picter f'r that tribe—a man wavin' both hands foolishlike.”

And he mechanically gave the sign-language designation of the Kiowa by raising his right hand level with his head and revolving it, to signify “rattle brained,” or “crazy.” Thus the gesture would be interpreted by every plains Indian from Mexico to Canada.

“The poor devil made it all plain enough,” said the commander. “I want you and Texas to follow and learn their direction.”

Silent grunted wrathfully and complained:

“I snum! that gits me. There ain't no doubt but what there was a big band of 'em; an' yet I was sure they was off f'r a buf'ler hunt. Yep; th' whole dad b'ilin' of 'em must have swung back.”

“A blind man could see that,” tersely remarked the commander. “After Texas has had a sleep you two must locate the band. They must be taught a lesson. Too many of our scouts are being wiped out. The men are beginning to get nervous.”

“Th' Crow makes six inside a month,” mused Silent. “There was Cayuse at th' Cimarron, Big an' Little Rusty at Pawnee Forks near where this happened, th' breed at th' Walnut, an' Little Irish at th' Rock (Pawnee).”

“Lean Wolf is behind it,” fumed the commander. “He's made his brags he'll wipe out all our scouts. I'll give two hundred dollars for his scalp—if he has to be taken dead.”

“I opine that's th' way he'd have to be took,” muttered the old hunter, his faded gray eyes twinkling. “Leastways some one in his neighborhood would have to lose a scalp if I ever met up with him. I'll be ready when Texas is.”

“He stayed long enough to bury Two Birds; then rode without a break here. It's his nerves more than anything. He thinks every scout is being dogged. But as soon as he can sit a saddle he'll go with you.”

Silent returned to studying the picture. Finally he asked:

“Why two of us? We'd cover more ground by splittin' up.”

The commander laughed harshly, saying:

“You haven't any Indian in your blood. Texas' grandmother was a Cheyenne. His father was a white trader at Bent's. He's superstitious. Says he won't take a trail alone again till after Lean Wolf has been killed.

“Wal, Texas don't show his Injun blood any, an' a man don't have to be a breed to feel that a-way,” drawled Silent. “Reckon I'll feel better f'r havin' a good man by my side. It'll git on my nerves if any more of us is killed. I'll be ridin' out a bit. Be back time Charlie's fit to climb a saddle.”

THE post commander was in a rare rage when the old hunter rode in after an absence of nearly two days. But the high scout mortality forced him to swallow his wrath. He greeted:

“Now that you've finally returned I suppose you will have to take a rest. First one man, then another.”

“Oh, I'm all hunky,” mildly assured Silent. “Thought I'd scared up some new signs, but they sort o' petered out. I'm fit's a fiddle. Where's Texas?”

“Inside, trying to drown his blue devils with whisky,” growled the commander. “You've stayed away too long to follow up the Ash Creek trail. Tried to get Texas to go out alone yesterday, but he refused. Now, new work has turned up. A big train is due to arrive at the Cimarron Crossing any day. You two must get there and give warning that the Kiowa are out in force.”

“If some one else can go I reckon Texas an' me can still pick up th' Ash Creek trail,” penitently replied Silent.

“There's no one else to go—all the rest are out. The train must be warned. Besides, the band that killed Two Birds is probably down the trail by this time, laying for the train.”

“We'll warn 'em, all right,” assured Silent. “I'll take a snack with Texas, then we'll make th' Cimarron hell-flukin'.”

He found Texas Charlie seated at a rough table in the mess-room with a plate of untouched venison before him and the bottle half empty. It was obvious the scout's nerves were demoralized. Silent saluted him with a cheerful grin and poured himself a drink. Texas, slim and wiry and showing no trace of his Cheyenne blood except in his small black eyes, returned the amiable glance with a scowl and reached for the bottle. A breed brought in a platter of meat which the hunter attacked hungrily.

As Silent made no offer to talk Texas finally demanded—

“Scouting?”

“Yep; didn't find nothin'. Reckon Lean Wolf an' his braves is pretty far north by this time.”

“And I reckon you're very much mistaken,” sullenly retorted Texas. “I feel it in my bones he's near, ready to strike. I'll be number seven.” The last with a faint shudder-and a lunge for the bottle.

“Dod rot it!” angrily exclaimed Silent. “Can't I read signs? Don't I know a thing or two 'bout this game? Think ye know it all jest 'cause ye can talk book English? I tell ye Lean Wolf's off to hunt with th' Pawnee. He sent 'em a peace talk an' a pipe more'n a month ago. I know that.”

“I'm not casting any reflections on your knowledge,” stiffly replied Texas. “But Lean Wolf's band wiped out Two Birds, the sixth of our scouts since the sending of the calumet to the Pawnee. The hunting trip to the Platte is a ruse; or as you say, 'all in your eye.'”

“Hold on a minute!” gasped Silent, suspending his eating to gaze in admiration at the slim and dapper figure. “Jest lem'me corral some o' that language. Is it halter-broke?”

Flashing his white teeth in a shadow of a smile, Texas apologized:

“I can't help it. I was educated in the best schools in St. Louis from the age of eight to twenty-one.”

“I swow! Ye didn't hear much Injun in St. Looey,” remarked Silent.

Texas' face took on a deeper bronze. He never spoke of his ancestry.

“I was bred to speak only English,” he curtly replied. “If I'd gone East instead of returning to this cursed country—and yet I wouldn't have fitted in there. Well, I'm here—the bottle's here. We'll drink to the trail.”

“Don't ye git touchy, Texas, at what an ol' man says. Reckon I talk lots o' foolishness every time I open my yap. Jest keep on spiffin' good English. I hanker to hear it. Makes me think how I mighter larned to talk it if I'd stayed where I belonged in place o' chasin' out here to larn th' sign-language of a parcel o' red beggars.”

“Not very complimentary to the noble Indian,” observed Texas with a bitter laugh. “Six in a month! Looks as though the cards were stacked against us. And a wagon train is due at Cimarron Crossing and we must ride to give it warning—bah! There's no bite to this post whisky. My nerves still feel all unraveled.” Rising, he pushed back the bottle in disgust. “I'll be in the corral.”

Silent bolted his food and soon followed his brother scout to the horse-corral. Texas was ready to mount. The old man flung his saddle and blanket roll on a vicious pony and the two rode out on the trail.

“After giving the word, scout back on both sides of the river and look for fresh signs,” the commander called after them.

The men nodded and cantered away, a strange contrast in types. Texas was immaculate in fresh buckskin. His glossy black hair, worn long, was carefully groomed and accented the suggestion of dandyism. His weapons were inlaid with silver, after the Mexican fashion, and were the last word in efficiency.

The old hunter was shaggy and disheveled, roughly clothed, indifferently armed, and grotesquely mounted. The ax in his belt gave a touch of the primitive. A stranger to his history would never have picked him as being the one of the two who came from the East.

“About as much alike as an apple and a cactus,” commented the commander as he watched them disappear down the trail. “Contradictions at every point; and yet the two best men I've got.”

SILENT was inclined to conversation as he and his companion neared the Caches without having discovered any new signs. Texas, too, seemed to have discarded his nervous mood and spoke frankly of his life in St. Louis.

“Even now I can't make it seem real,” he morosely declared as they slowed down at the Caches. “I spent nearly all my life there, and yet it seems as though it was a dream, that I had never quit the trail.”

“Injun talk come natural to ye?” timidly asked Silent.

“I absorbed it,” sighed Texas. “I speak English according to the book, but I always feel as though I was repeating something I had memorized.”

“By jing! Reckon no one could talk it so O. K. 'less he done a mighty big heap o' mem'rizin',” admiringly cried the hunter. “Reckon I'm too old to larn it as she should be spoke.”

“It was my father's orders that I should have it hammered into me—it was.”

“Wal, I wish my father'd fixed it so it could 'a' been hammered—hi! I count a coup!” And leaping from his pony Silent held aloft a small deerskin pouch.

“Medicine bag?” curiously queried Texas.

Silent took out several fragments of black micaceous iron and made soft black marks on the back of his wrinkled hand, and corrected:

“War paint. Paint-bag.”

“If a Kiowa dropped it, it proves the hunting trip to the Platte was merely a cover for a raid along the trail,” Texas forcefully declared.

“Bead work says Kiowy,” slowly admitted the hunter after studying the pouch closely. “Represents Sci-Manzi, th' 'Mescal Woman.' I've seen it on th' sacred gourd rattles used in th' mescal ceremony; but never on a paint-bag afore.”

“Wish I were as well versed in reading their picture-writing as you are,” said Texas.

“An' I wish I could swap what I know f'r yer knack o' tossin' th' English lingo 'round. Funny world. Camp here or push on to th' Crossing?”

“Neither,” was the prompt reply. “I'll ride a half circle on this side of the river while you do the same on the other side. We'll meet five miles below here at the big patch of sage-brush. We ought to hit the trail of the war party that lost that pouch.”

“Good talk,” grunted Silent. “I knew yer nerve would come back once ye hit th' trail. S'long.” And wheeling his pony he dashed through the shallow ford and sped away in a wide detour.

Although it lacked two hours of sunset and he had no need for haste he used the quirt liberally and maintained a sharp pace. Traveling rapidly he passed the rendezvous of sage-brush and galloped a mile before turning back to the river. Then instead of riding back to the brush he crossed the stream and continued due north. Two more miles were covered in this direction; then he dismounted, and, leading his pony, turned his back to the setting sun and proceeded slowly, his head bowed low, his eyes searching the ground.

Descending a low ridge covered with a coarse scrub grass he halted and dropped on his hands and knees. The light was failing and in the hollow it was difficult to pick up signs. Lowering his head like a hound he cautiously crawled about, his pony keeping at his heels. At last he grunted contentedly and rapidly described a circle. When he had finished he sprang to his feet, displaying an agility not to be expected of his years, and vaulted into the saddle. This time he raced southwest, heading for the Crossing.

The pony responded to the demands of his master as though his very ugliness were converted into fresh speed and endurance. It lacked an hour of midnight when the hunter splashed into the Crossing and ascended the opposite bank.

Near the river glowed smoldering campfires. His noisy crossing had attracted attention, and as he became a silhouette against the sky-line a sharp voice called out:

“Red or white? Quick, or I'll fire.”

“Gov'ment scout from Fort Larned in a hell-of-a-hustle,” bawled back the hunter. “What train's this?”

“Colonel Vrain's. Who are you? Advance, or I'll fire.”

Silent could hear men crawling from beneath the prairie schooners, their rifles rattling against the wheels. But he had no time to waste in visiting.

“I'm the Gov'ment scout from Larned,” he repeated. “I've a long ride afore me. I'm sent to warn ye that ye'll be jumped by a small band o' Kiowy at sunrise. There's 'bout thirty of 'em. Corral yer wagons an' double yer guard. How many rifles have ye?”

“'Nough to handle any thirty reds,” was the suspicious reply. “Just ride forward, or I'll plug ye.”

“Ye'll be jumped at sunrise, or a leetle before. Make yer own medicine.”

With that he turned and dashed into the stream and rode like mad along the south side of the Arkansas.

THE east was beginning to redden when he leaped from his blown pony at the cover of sage-brush. Texas quickly emerged, crying:

“Where have you been? I thought they'd got you.”

“Struck signs of a war-party an' rode on to th' Crossin' to warn th' train. It's Colonel Vrain's outfit,” wearily replied Silent as he turned his pony loose and entered the brush.

“Of all the fool moves!” gritted Texas. “Why didn't you come back here to meet me? Then both of us could have gone and stayed to help the train if it came to a fight.”

“Reckon I got nervous. Then ag'in, it was some ride from here. Didn't even know as I'd find ye here. Thought ye might 'a' struck th' same signs an' foller'd 'em up.”

“I've sweat blood waiting here alone,” growled Texas. “Believed you'd been wiped out. Then decided it would be my turn before morning.”

“Wal, it's done an' th' train's warned. I didn't go very near as I was keen to git back. Feller offered to shoot me f'r my pains—cussed tenderfeet let loose to raise Cain on th' trail!”

Texas remained standing, nervously twisting his black mustache, his eyes turned toward the Crossing. Silent dropped to the ground with a grunt of content and examined his long rifle.

“You need sleep. I'll stand guard,” snapped Texas over his shoulder.

“No more'n ye do,” reminded Silent. “Ye've been awake all night a-worryin'. Lawdy! Wish I knowed English like what ye do. I'd quit this life an' go back to th' States an' be a gen'l'man.”

Texas laughed harshly.

“You'd need something besides book English to be accepted as a gentleman,” he bitterly informed. “You'd need money, lots of it. You'd be a gentleman as long as it lasted. It wouldn't make any difference how you got it so long as you had it—there are no poor gentlemen.”

“Shucks! Ye don't say! Did ye ever try it out, Texas?”

Still facing the west the scout monotonously replied:

“So long as my father lived I had plenty of money. I was invited to places, made much of. Rich trader's son. When he died the money stopped. Very few invitations. Then again——”

“Yep; then ag'in—” softly prompted Silent.

“It was noised about I was neither white nor red—I had no folks!” gritted the scout.

“What odds could that make?” puzzled Silent.

“What odds? Why, you doddering—I forgot. You've been lost out here all your life. The plains are kinder than the East in that respect. It makes this difference, old man. If you wish to marry, people suddenly get very curious about your history and insist on knowing all about your parents—I learned my lesson once. And I came out here.”

“Ye know th' East better'n I do,” wistfully admitted Silent. “An' come to think of it I reckon I couldn't stand bein' shet up in a wooden house. Still there's times when I git mighty sick o' buf'ler an' Injuns—meanin' fightin' Injuns. So ye jumped back to th' trail an' went right to scoutin', eh?”

“I've been a Government scout for some time. Big train?”

“Not very—all tenderfeet.”

“Then if you can't sleep we'll ride to the Crossing. Our guns will be needed.” And the scout whistled shrilly to his pony.

“Be ye crazy?” protested Silent. “My cayuse is dead beat. Ain't they got their warnin'? It's up to them—an' we never could make it in time. Th' sun's due in a few minutes. We'd only run into th' Injuns an' be scalped.”

Texas hesitated, complaining—

“But to remain here when our help is needed——”

“Hark!” broke in Silent, lifting his hand. “Hear that? Guns, by th' Etarnal!”

“They've jumped it already!” hoarsely cried the scout, striding back and forth in much agitation.

A splutter of rifle fire, coming faintly down the river, indicated the beginning of a battle. Silent's face twisted with anxiety. The rifle fire was a code he could skilfully interpret. The scattered shots evidenced a surprise attack successfully carried out. The same thought was in Texas' mind, for he muttered—

“No backbone in that shooting.”

“Hooray!” yelled the hunter, drawing his ax and brandishing it exultingly. “But there's backbone in that.” This as the rifle fire suddenly increased in volume and became marked with well-defined regularity. “That ain't no Injun shootin'. Th' red devils thought they'd worked a game an' they're hooked! Hear 'em! I must 'a' been mistook 'bout their bein' tenderfeet. There's some ol' hands in that train—firin' in squads, so's not to unload all their guns at th' same time.”

“Our help may be needed! Come along,” cried the scout, making for his pony.

Silent held him back by clutching his fringed sleeve.

“Be ye crazy?” he demanded. “It'll be all over afore we can make it. My pony's winded. Th' train's either beat 'em off an' will be rollin' along here in a few hours, or else it's wiped out. No matter who's won we'd be sure to run into th' Injuns an' lose our ha'r.”

The logic of this could not be gainsaid. Texas returned to the little opening in the heart of the brush, mumbling:

“It sounds cold-blooded, but it's common sense. It will be finished before we can make it. The fire seems to be dropping.”

Both pricked their ears. Only occasional shots were being fired. Either the Indians were retreating or finishing off the wounded. Silent's withered face became distorted with fear. Then all doubt was removed when there came a staccato volley. Waving his ax the old hunter yelled:

“That tells th' whole story! Th' —— beggars got a bellyful an' are runnin' away.' They're beat so bad th' train ain't skeered to let off all their guns at once!”

“They're whipped,” assented Texas, dropping to the ground. “But we ought to have made a try for it. Go to sleep—I'll watch till the train comes up.”

Silent stretched his arms in a yawn and rose and procured his blanket roll, surrendering—

“Reckon I will snooze a bit now th' 'citement's over. Feel sort o' peaked.” Reseating himself he fumbled with a thong of rawhide tied 'round his blanket, then paused to remark, “Say, Texas, d'ye know that picter-writin' ye found up Ash Crick way worried me a heap? Made me think I was jest a dad blamed ol' fool.”

Texas jerked up his head in surprise and demanded—

“How so?”

“Wal, it showed Two Birds had plenty o' time to make his writin' afore th' Injuns jumped him. He made it so's to give th' fort warnin' 'bout th' Kiowy if he should be wiped out.”

“Of course.”

“But if he had time to do that why'n sin didn't he make a run f'r it?”

“He was on the east side of the creek. They were between him and the fort. Probably his pony was winded.”

“That's prob'ly it,” drowsily agreed Silent, unfastening the second thong and removing his belt and placing his ax upon it. “He must 'a' been a mighty smart Injun. Smarter'n I'd reckoned on. It ain't in Injun natur' to figger things out that way. It would 'a' been more natural if he'd give a war-whoop once he saw he was cornered, start singin' his death-song an' pitch into them. But he took time to make a writin' like a white man would do who knew he was done f'r an' wanted to send a last word to th' world. I kicked him once f'r stealin' my whisky—wish I hadn't. He wa'n't no artist, but he was strong f'r gittin' in th' facts.”

“Indian picture-writing shows no knowledge of perspective. Proportion is never considered,” impatiently reminded Texas. “Better turn in, or the train will be here before you can get any rest.”

“I'm goin' to—I'm dead tired. Proportion? Wal, I reckon not. Say, d'ye notice how he made his head bigger'n th' whole flock o' hoss-tracks? He sure showed th' Injun conceit when he come to draw hisself. Th' two birds was 'nough, but he even took time to stripe off his long ha'r like th' Sioux do when they want to mean a Crow.”

“I see nothing in that to make you feel worried,” snapped Texas, tearing up little tufts of grass between his crossed legs. “Better turn in.”

“Jest what I'm goin' to do—I'll sleep like a top, too. Ye see, it fussed me up because th' picter showed there was a heap o' hossmen. He jest wanted to hammer that fact home.”

“He saw them. He knew how many he saw.”

“An' there's th' nub what fussed me. F'r jest afore he was wiped out I scouted that region some keerful an' larned Lean Wolf an' th' bulk of his men was off to j'in th' Pawnee in a big buf'ler hunt. That's what I reported back to th' fort. Th' commander must think I'm an ol' fool.”

“Any scout is apt to read signs wrong at times,” mumbled Texas.

“I'd overlook it in another, but in my own case it hurt my feelin's,” said Silent, beginning to open the blanket. “Why, I even was so upsot at my mistake I jest took a scout up th' crick arter ye arrived with th' picter.”

“You did?”

The query shot out like a bullet, the scout drawing his heels beneath him as though to rise, his gaze narrowing.

With a raucous laugh Silent gathered his feet under him and continued—

“That's what I done—an' I couldn't find nary a sign o' th' Kiowy what Two Birds marked down in his picter.”

“So? But it's only a guess that he made the drawing. I picked it up some distance from where I found him. It may have belonged to a Kiowa, who had it to use when he made up his Winter count (calendar of tribal events).”

Silent shook his head, dissenting:

“Scurcely possible, seein' as how it pictered Two Birds. Either he made it, or th' Injuns, what wiped him out, made it. But if Injuns done it th' picter would show him killed. No; th' Kiowy couldn't 'a' made it. An' yet it was made with th' same kind o' paint that I found in th' pouch at th' Caches—cur'ous.”

“Who, then, but Two Birds could have made it?” hoarsely demanded Texas.

“Lawd bless ye! I don't know, 'less it was some one who hated white folks an' their Gov'ment scouts because he, hisself, was neither white nor red,” retorted Silent as he smoothed out the blanket.

With a sharp intake of breath Texas leaned forward and glared at the blanket. For nearly a minute the two sat rigid and silent, then the scout whispered—

“Where did you get that?”

“From th' body I dug up,” gritted Silent, balancing on the balls of his feet as he met and returned the ferocious gaze. “Two trails led to th' east bank o' th' Ash. Only one quit it. Two Birds was killed in his sleep; murdered inside his blanket by some one he trusted.”

He paused and pointed at the tell-tale hole made by the mortal knife-blow. Then he loudly cried:

“Ye —— renegade, neither white nor red, ye done f'r him jest as ye done f'r th' scouts at th' Cimarron Crossing, at th' Rock, at Pawnee Forks, at th' Walnut, an' as ye'd planned to do f'r me. Ye made believe ye didn't dare take th' trail alone along o' fearin' Lean Wolf. Yer book English made ye cute, but not cute 'nough to fool th' ol' man, who knows more Injun than ye do. I knew somethin' was wrong th' minute I see that picter-writin'.

“Ye made a mistake when ye put in so many hosses. I've been watchin' ye all th' time. I follered ye yesterday. I found th' signs where ye met a small band o' Kiowy after quittin' me. I found where yer trail j'ined theirs. Ye had a pow-wow with 'em an' rigged it f'r 'em to jump th' train——”

With an animal shriek of rage the lithe body of the scout lengthened out in a murderous leap, his right hand flashing a long knife. But Silent was a second the quicker, his left hand flirting Two Birds' blanket into the breed's infuriated face while his right swung back the heavy ax.

“COLONEL VRAIN'S train jumped by thirty Kiowy at Cimarron Crossin'. Injuns licked. Lost fifteen braves—Texas Charlie wiped out near th' Caches!”

“My God! The seventh!” gasped the commander.

“Ye should thank th' Lawd,” corrected Silent, dropping from his pony. “F'r Texas makes th' last. Come inside an' I'll tell ye why it's a blessin'.”