The Quest of the Four Part 8

"Hold your fire,"' said Bill Breakstone. "The battle is not over yet by any means. A job that's half finished isn't finished at all."

They heard now the shots at the ford above them and a tremendous shouting. Evidently the two forces were firing at each other across the stream, and the wagons did not yet dare the pa.s.sage. A few moments later they saw the smoke of the rifles and brown figures darting about the thickets.

"Now, boys!" shouted Middleton. "All together! A great cheer!"

A mighty shout was poured forth from three score throats, and Middleton waved his felt hat about his head. From the eastern bank came an answering cry, and the signal was complete. Woodfall and the others with the train knew that their comrades were across, and now was the time for them to force the pa.s.sage. Phil saw the white tops of the wagons shake. Then the wagons themselves rolled slowly forward into the water, with hors.e.m.e.n in front of them and on the flanks, firing at the Indians on the bank. The Comanches sent a shower of bullets and arrows upon the advancing line, but in another instant they were compelled to turn and defend themselves. Middleton and his victorious troop were thundering down upon them.

The attack upon their flank came so swiftly that the Comanches were taken by surprise. As their own skirmishers fled, the white force galloped in upon their heels. Yet these bold warriors, kings of the plains, victors in many a battle over other tribes and Mexicans, fought with a courage and tenacity worthy of their race and traditions. They were marshaled, too, by a chief who had returned to his own, the great Black Panther, and by able a.s.sistants.

Middleton's daring men met a storm of arrows am bullets, but they charged on, although some saddles were emptied. They were at the edge of the timber now, the mounted white men poured in a deadly fire. The sound of the shots became a steady, incessant crackle Puffs of smoke arose, and, uniting, formed a canopy of vapor. The odor of gunpowder spread and filled the nostrils of the combatants. Shots, the trampling of hoofs, the cries of the wounded and dying rung upon the drums of their ears.

It was a terrific medley, seemingly all confusion, but really fought with order by skilled leaders. Black Panther had one half of his warriors to face the wagons and hors.e.m.e.n in the river and the other half faced south to beat off Middleton's troop, if it could. He himself pa.s.sed from one to another, encouraging them by every art that he knew, and they were many.

But it was Middleton's men who gave the deathblow. They struck so hard and so often that it was continually necessary for Black Panther to send more of his warriors to the defense of his flank. The firing upon the wagons and hors.e.m.e.n in the river slackened, and they rushed forward.

The hors.e.m.e.n gained the bank, and, at the same time, Middleton's men charged with greater fire than ever. Then the hors.e.m.e.n from the ford rushed up the ascent and joined in the attack. Compressed between the two arms of a vise, the Comanches, despite every effort of Black Panther and his chiefs, gave way. Yet they did not break into any panic.

Springing on their horses, they retired slowly, sending back flights of arrows and bullets, and now and then uttering the defiant war whoop.

Meanwhile, the last of the wagons emerged from the river, and was dragged up the ascent. Although the Comanches might yet shout in the distance, the crossing was won, and everybody in the train felt a mighty sense of relief.

CHAPTER IV

ON WATCH

The wagons drew up in a great square on the open plain, but just at the edge of the timber, and the men, breathless, perspiring, but victorious, dropped from their horses. The Comanches still galloped to and fro and shouted in the distance, but they kept well out of rifle shot, and Phil, although it was his first battle, knew that they would not attack again, at least not for the present. They had been driven out of an extremely strong position, ground of their own choosing, and nothing remained to them but to retire.

The boy stood by the side of his horse, holding the bridle in one hand and the rifle in the other. He was still trembling from the excitement of forcing the ford and the battle among the trees, but the reddish mist before his eyes was gradually clearing away. He let the bridle rein drop, and put his hand to his face. It came away damp and sticky. He looked at it in an incurious way to see if he were wounded, but it was only dust and the smoke of burned gunpowder, kneaded together by perspiration. Then he felt cautiously of his body. No bullet or arrow had entered.

"Unhurt, Phil?" boomed out the voice of Bill Breakstone beside him. "So am I, and so is Middleton. Arenberg got a scratch, but he's forgotten it already. But, I trow, Sir Philip of the River, that was indeed a combat while it lasted!

"The Comanches shot With spirit hot, But now, they're not.

"You can't say anything against that poem, Phil; it's short and to the point. It's true that the Comanches are not entirely gone, but they might as well be. Let 'em shout out there in the plain as much as they choose, they're going to keep out of rifle range. And I congratulate you, Phil, on the way you bore yourself through your first 'baptism of fire.'"

"I thank you, Bill," said Phil, "but the fact is, I don't know just how I bore myself. It's been more like a dream than anything else."

"That's likely to happen to a man the first time under fire, and the second time, too, but here we are on the right side of the river and ready for a breathing spell."

Phil threw the reins over his horse's neck, knowing that the latter would not leave the camp, and set to work, helping to put everything in order, ready for fight or rest, whichever the Comanches chose to make it. The wagons were already in a hollow square, and the wounded, at least twenty in number, laid comfortably in the wagons, were receiving the rude but effective treatment of the border. Seven or eight had been killed, and three or four bodies had been lost in the current of the stream. They were now digging graves for the others. Little was known of the slain. They were wandering, restless spirits, and they may or may not have been buried under their own names. They had fallen in an unknown land beside an unknown river, but their comrades gave all due honor as they put them beneath the earth. Middleton said a few words over the body of each, while others stood by with their hats off. Then they smoothed out the soil above them as completely as possible, in order that their graves might be lost. They took this precaution lest the Comanches come after they had gone, take up the bodies, and mutilate them.

When the solemn task was done, the men turned away to other duties.

They were not discouraged; on the contrary, their spirits were sanguine.

The gloom of the burial was quickly dispelled, and these wild spirits, their fighting blood fully up, were more than half willing for the Comanches to give them a new battle. It was such as these, really loving adventure and danger more than profit, who steadily pushed forward the southwestern frontier in the face of obstacles seemingly insuperable.

Their position at the edge of the wood, with the strong fortification of the wagons, was excellent, and Middleton and Woodfall, after a short consultation, decided to remain there until morning, for the sake of the wounded men and for rest for all. Phil worked in the timber, gathering up fallen fuel for fires, which were built in the center of the hollow square, and he found the work a relief. Such a familiar task steadied his nerves. Gradually the little pulses ceased to beat so hard, and his head grew cool. When enough dead wood had been brought in, he took another look at the western horizon. Comanches could still be seen there, but they no longer galloped about and shouted. A half dozen sat motionless on their ponies, apparently looking at the white camp, their figures, horse and rider, outlined in black tracery against the blood-red western sun. Phil had a feeling that, although beaten at the ford, they were not beaten for good and all, and that the spirit of Black Panther, far from being crushed, would be influenced to new pa.s.sions and new attack. But, as he looked, the Comanche hors.e.m.e.n seemed to ride directly into the low sun and disappear. The hard work that had kept him up now over, he felt limp, and sank down near one of the fires.

"Here, Phil, drink this," said Bill Breakstone, handing him a cup of hot coffee. "It has been a pretty hard day on the nerves, and you need a stimulant."

Phil swallowed it all, almost at a draught--never had coffee tasted better--and his strength came back rapidly. Breakstone, also, drank a cup and sat down beside the boy.

"Here comes Arenberg," he said in a low tone to Phil. "That German was a very demon to-day. He got right into the front of the charge, and after his rifle was empty he clubbed it and brought down one of the Comanches."

Phil looked up. Arenberg's face was still set in a stern, pitiless mask, but when his eyes caught the boy's he relaxed.

"It iss a good day well spent," he said, throwing himself down by the side of the two. "We never could have forced the ford if we had not made that flank movement. Harm wa.s.s meant by both sides and harm wa.s.s done. But it iss over now. How does the young Herr Philip feel?"

"Pretty good now," replied Phil, "but I've had my ups and downs, I can tell you. A little while ago I felt as if there were no backbone in me at all."

Food was now cooked, and, after eating, the three relapsed into silence.

Presently Middleton, also, joined them, and told them that very thorough preparations had been made to guard against a surprise. Sentinels on horseback were already far out on the plain, riding a watchful round which would be continued all through the night.

"It is easy to guard against surprise on that side," said Middleton, "but snipers may creep down the river bank in the timber. We must keep our best watch there."

"I'll go on duty," said Philip promptly.

"Not yet," replied Middleton. "You may be needed late in the night, in which case we'll call on you, but our most experienced borderers don't think the Comanches will come back."

"You can never trust them," said Arenberg earnestly.

"We don't mean to," said Middleton. "Now, Phil, I'd advise you to wrap yourself in your blanket and go to sleep. On a campaign it's always advisable to sleep when you're off duty, because you never know when you will get the chance again."

It seemed to Phil that it was impossible to sleep, after so much excitement and danger, but he knew that Middleton was speaking wise words, and he resolved to try. There were yet hours of daylight, but, putting his blanket beneath him, he lay before one of the fires with his arm under his head and closed his eyes. He would open them now and then to see the yellow flames, the figures of the men moving back and forth, and the circle of wagons beyond. He could not make himself feel sleepy, but he knew that his nerves were relaxing. Physically he felt a soothing languor, and with it came a mental satisfaction. He had helped to win his first battle, and, like the older and seasoned men around him, the victory encouraged him to bid further defiance to the Comanches or anything else that threatened.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Putting his blanket beneath him, he lay before one of the fires"]

These reflections were so grateful that he found himself able to keep his eyes shut longer. It was not so much of an effort to pull the eyelids down, and when, at intervals steadily growing more distant, he opened his eyes, it was to find the fires and figures of the men becoming dim, while the circling line of the wagons beyond was quite lost. At last the eyelids stayed down of their own accord, and he floated away into a sleep that was deep, sweet, and refres.h.i.+ng.

Others in the camp slept, also, some in the wagons and some on the ground, with saddles for pillows. Those whose duty it was to watch paid no attention to them, but beat up the brush incessantly, and kept up their endless circles on the plains. The somber clouds that had obscured the morning floated away, driven back by a late afternoon sun of uncommon splendor. The gray-green plains turned to a brilliant red and gold; the willows, cottonwoods, and oaks seemed sheathed in gold, every bough and twig; the muddy river took on rich gleaming tints, and then suddenly the sun was gone, leaving all in darkness, save for the smoldering fires.

Phil slept soundly hour after hour. He was so exhausted physically and mentally that the relaxation was complete. No dream good or bad came to trouble him, and Breakstone, who observed his peaceful face, said to Middleton:

"Talk about knitting up the raveled sleeve of care. That boy is knitting up both sleeves at the same time, and he is knitting them fast."

"He is a good lad," said Middleton, "and a brave one, too. It was his first battle, but he certainly bore himself well. Now I wonder what search is bringing him out here into the wilderness."

"And I guess he, too, often wonders the same about us."

"Just as I have wondered it about you, and as you have wondered it about me."

"But we find it best--every one of us--to keep our search to ourselves for the present."

"It is surely best."

The two men looked at each other rather significantly, and then talked of other things.