The Boy Land Boomer Part 21

This would happen if a battle came off, for he felt sure Tucker would do exactly as he promised.

Vorlange had determined to be on hand. Secreted in a tree or elsewhere he could fire a dozen shots or so into the air, and this would arouse both cavalrymen and boomers to think that actual hostilities had already started, and then neither side would longer hold off.

"When will the boomers move?" was one of the cavalryman's questions.

"They are waiting for p.a.w.nee Brown," said the spy.

"Where is he?"

"Somewhere about the country."

"Can he be up here?"

Vorlange started.

"I--I think not.

"He's a slick one, Vorlange; remember that."

"I know it, but some men are slicker. Wait until this boom is busted and you'll never hear of p.a.w.nee Brown again."

So the talk ran on. Rasco listened with much interest, forgetting the fact that he had promised to follow p.a.w.nee Brown as soon as the stray-away horse was secured.

What he had heard surprised him greatly.

Many of the plans of the boomers, made in such secrecy, were known to the government authorities. The plan to move westward to Honnewell was known, and a pa.s.sage through to Oklahoma from that direction was, consequently, out of the question.

"The boys must know of this," thought Rasco. "I must tell Clemmer and Gilbert before I try to hunt up p.a.w.nee again, or go after Nellie. If there was a fight as Vorlange seems to think, there might be a hundred or more killed."

Having overheard all that he deemed necessary, the man of the plains started to retreat.

He had taken but a few steps when he found himself cut off from his horse.

Three additional cavalrymen were approaching from the thicket.

"Here's a horse tied up!" cried one. "Boys, whose animal is this?"

The call instantly attracted the attention of Vorlange and his companions. They turned toward the speaker, and now there remained nothing for Rasco to do but to run for it, and this he did at the top of his speed.

As long as he could he kept out of sight behind the bushes. But soon Tucker caught sight of him.

"Halt, or I'll fire!" came the command.

Tucker spoke first, and several others followed. As Rasco was now in plain view, and as each of the enemy had a firearm of some sort aimed at him, it would have been foolishness to have thus courted death, and the man of the plains halted.

"It is Jack Rasco!" cried Vorlange. "Boys, this is p.a.w.nee Brown's right-hand man!"

"I know him!" growled Tucker. "Rasco, you're in a box now and don't you forget it. You've been spying on us."

"Make him a prisoner," said another of the cavalrymen, an under officer. "If he is a spy we'll have to take him back to the fort and turn him over to the captain."

A minute later Jack Rasco found himself a close prisoner. It was destined to be some time ere he again obtained his liberty. Thus were his chances of helping p.a.w.nee Brown cut off.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A CRY FROM THE DARKNESS.

Let us return to p.a.w.nee Brown, who, totally unconscious of the fact that Yellow Elk was creeping up behind him, stood beside the body of the dead wildcat, re-loading the empty revolver.

One of the chambers of the firearm had been loaded, when something about the pistol caused the great scout to examine it more closely. As he was doing this Yellow Elk advanced to within three feet of him and raised the tomahawk for the fatal blow.

At this terrible moment it must surely have been Providence which interfered in the boomer's behalf, for, totally unconscious of his peril, he would have done absolutely nothing to save himself. He bent over the pistol more closely.

"That trigger seems to catch," he thought, and threw the weapon up and fired it over his shoulder, just to test it.

The bullet did not pa.s.s within a yard of Yellow Elk, but the movement came so unexpectedly that the Indian chief was taken completely off his guard and dropped back as though actually shot. His cry of astonishment and fear lasted longer than did the pistol report, and p.a.w.nee Brown swung around to confront him.

"Yellow Elk!" came from his lips, when whizz! the tomahawk left the redskin's hand and came swirling through the air directly for his head.

He dropped like lightning, and the keen blade sank deeply into the tree behind him.

"Wough!" grunted the Indian when he saw how he had missed his mark. Then he leveled the pistol in his left hand at p.a.w.nee Brown's head.

The great scout felt his position was still a trying one. His own shooter, though still in hand, was empty. He pointed it and started to back away to the tree behind him.

"Stop, or I kill!" commanded Yellow Elk, but instead of complying, the scout took a flying leap to a safe shelter. Seeing this, Yellow Elk also lost no time in getting behind cover.

With the pistol loaded once more the boomer felt safer. He listened intently for some movement upon the part of his enemy, but none came.

The Indian is a great hand at playing a waiting game and Yellow Elk was no exception to this rule.

"Well, if you can wait, so can I," thought p.a.w.nee Brown and settled down with eyes and ears on the alert. He thought of Nellie Winthrop and of Rasco, and wondered what had become of uncle and niece. He did not want to wait, feeling it was important to get back to the boomers' camp, but there was no help for it, and he remained where he was.

Fifteen minutes went by and no sound broke the stillness saving that of the water in the brook as it flowed down over a series of rocks. Then came the faint crack of a single dry twig over upon his left. He turned around and blazed away in that direction.

A fierce but suppressed exclamation in the Indian tongue followed, showing that Yellow Elk had been hit. How serious the Indian chief was injured there was no telling. It might be only a flesh wound, it might have been fatal and Yellow Elk might have died without further sound, and then again it might be only a ruse. Again p.a.w.nee Brown paused to listen.

Thus another quarter of an hour was wasted. It must be confessed that the great scout's nerves were strung to the topmost tension. At any moment a shot might come which would end his life. It was ten times more trying than to stand up in line of battle, for the enemy could not be seen.

Again came the crack of a twig, but very faint, showing that the sound came from a distance. There followed a faint splash, some distance up the stream. Yellow Elk was retreating.

"I reckon I hit him pretty bad," mused p.a.w.nee Brown. "But I'll go slow--it may be only a trick," and away he crawled as silently as a snail along the brook's bank.

Inside of the next half hour he had covered a territory of many yards on both sides of the brook. In one spot he had seen several drops of blood and the finger marks of a b.l.o.o.d.y hand. Yellow Elk, however, had completely disappeared.

"He is gone, and so is the trail," muttered the great scout at last. He spoke the truth. Further following of the Indian chief was just then out of the question.