Chapter Eighty. Signal Shots
I shall not attempt to depict my emotions at that moment. My pen is unequal to the task. Think of my situation, and fancy them if you can.
Behind me, a mother murdered and basely mutilated – a near relative slain in like fashion – my home – my whole property given to the flames. Before me, a sister torn from the maternal embrace – borne ruthlessly along by savage captors – perhaps defiled by their fiendish leader. And he, too, before my eyes – the false, perfidious friend, the ravisher – the murderer! Had I not cue for indulging in the wildest emotions?
And wild they were – each moment growing wilder, as I gazed upon the object of my vengeance. They were fast rising beyond my control. My muscles seemed to swell with renewed rage – the blood coursed through my veins like streams of liquid fire.
I almost forgot the situation in which we were. But one thought was in my mind – vengeance. Its object was before me – unconscious of my presence as if he had been asleep – almost within reach of my hand; perfectly within range of my rifle.
I raised the piece to the level of those drooping plumes. I sighted their tips – I knew that the eyes were underneath them – my finger rested against the trigger.
In another instant, that form – in my eyes, hitherto heroic – would have been lifeless upon the grass; but my comrades forbade the act.
With a quick instinct, Hickman grasped the lock of my gun. Covering the nipple with his broad palm; while Weatherford clutched at and held the barrel. I was no longer master of the piece.
I was angry at the interruption, but only for an instant. A moment’s reflection convinced me they had acted right. The old hunter, putting his lips close to my ear, addressed me in an earnest whisper:
“Not yit, Geordie, not yit; for your life, don’t make a fuss! ’Twould be no use to kill him. The rest o’ the varmints ud be sartin to git off, and sartin to toat the weemen along wi’ ’em. We three aint enough to stop ’em – we’d only get scalped ourselves. We must slide back for the others; an’ then we’ll be able to surround ’em – that’s the idea, aint it, Jim?”
Weatherford, fearing to trust his voice, nodded an affirmative.
“Come, then,” added Hickman, in the same low whisper, “we musn’t lose a minute; let’s get back as rapidly as possible. Keep your backs low down – genteely, genteely;” and as he continued giving these injunctions, he faced towards the ground, extended his body to its full length, and, crawling off like an alligator, was soon lost behind the trunks of the trees.
Weatherford and I followed in similar fashion, until safe beyond the circle of the fire light, when all three of us came to a stop, and arose erect to our feet.
We stood for a moment listening backwards. We were not without anxiety lest our retreat might have disturbed the camp; but no sounds reached us save those to which we had been listening – the snore of some sleeping savage, the “crop-crop” of the browsing horses, or the stamp of a hoof upon the firm turf.
Satisfied that we had passed away unobserved, we started upon the back-track, which the hunters could now follow like a path well-known to them.
We advanced, dark as it was, almost in a run; and were progressing rapidly, when our speed was suddenly checked by the report of a gun.
Each halted as if shot. Surprise it was that stopped us; for the report came not from the Indian camp, but the opposite direction – that in which our party had been left.
But it could not be one of them who had fired. They were at too great a distance for their guns to have been heard so distinctly. Had they advanced nearer, tired of waiting for our return? Were they still advancing? If so, the shot was most imprudent; it would be certain to put the camp on the qui vive. What had they fired at? It might have been an accidental discharge – it must have been.
These conjectures were rapid as thought itself. We did not communicate them to one another; each fancied them for himself.
We had scarce time even to speak, when a second shot rang in our ears. It came from the same direction as the former, appearing almost a repetition; and had there been time to reload, we should so have judged it; but there had not been time, even for the most accomplished rifleman. Two guns, therefore, had been fired.
My companions were puzzled as well as myself. The firing was inexplicable under any other hypothesis than that some Indians had strayed from their camp and were making signals of distress.
We had no time to reflect. We could now hear behind us the camp in full alarm, and we knew it was the shots that had caused it. We heard the shouts of men, the neighing and hurried trampling of horses.
Without pausing longer, we again hurried onwards in the direction of our friends.
Further on we perceived some men on horseback. Two there appeared to be; but in the darkness we were not certain, as their forms were scarce distinguishable.
They appeared to retreat as we approached, gliding off, like ghosts, among the trees.
No doubt these were they who had fired the shots. They were just in the direction whence the reports had come, and at the proper distance.
Were they Indians or whites? Hoping they were our friends, risking the chances of their being our foes, Old Hickman hailed them.
We paused to listen. There was no reply, not even an exclamation from either. We could hear, by the hoof-strokes of their horses, that they were hurrying off in a direction altogether different from either our party or the camp.
There was something mysterious in the behaviour of these horsemen. For what purpose had they fired their guns? If to signal the camp, why had they retreated from us, as we came from it? Why, moreover, had they gone off in a direction that did not lead to it? for its position was now known to them by the noise of the alarm they had themselves occasioned. To me their behaviour was inexplicable. Hickman appeared to have found some clue to it, and the knowledge seemed to have a angular effect upon him. He exhibited signs of surprise, mingled with strong feelings of indignation.
“Devil swamp ’em! the wuthless skunks, if’t are them, an’ I’m good as sure it are. I can’t a be mistaken in the crack o’ them two guns. What say ye, Jim Weatherford? D’ye recognise ’em?”
“I war thinkin’ I’d heern them afore somewhars, but I can’t ’zactly tell whar – stay; one on ’em’s precious like the ring o’ Ned Spence’s rifle.”
“Preecious like – it are the same; and t’other’s Bill Williams’s. What on airth kin the two be arter? We left ’em long wi’ the rest, and hyar they are now – I’m sartint it’s them, gallivantin’ about through the woods, an’ firin’ off their guns to spoil everything we’ve done. They’ve sot the Indyuns off to a sartinty. Devil swamp ’em both! – what kin they be arter? – some hellnifferous game, I ’spect! By the tarnal catawampus, I’ll make both on ’em pay for this when we git thegither! Come along, quick, fellers! Let’s git the party up, or we’ll be too late. Them Indyuns’ll make track, and slope afore we git near ’em. Darn the shots! they’ve spoilt the hull bizness. Quick! come along hyar!”
Obedient to the old hunter’s directions, we hurried on after him.