Charlie to the Rescue

“You’re too hard on some of them, father,” said Mary, in a voice the softness of which seemed appropriate to the beauty of her face.

“Always the way wi’ you wenches,” observed the father. “Some o’ the villains are good-lookin’, others are ugly; so, the first are not so bad as the second—eh, lass?”

Mary laughed. She was accustomed to her fathers somewhat rough but not ill-natured rebuffs.

“Perhaps I may be prejudiced, father,” she returned; “but apart from that, surely you would never compare Buck Tom with Jake the Flint, though they do belong to the same band.”

“You are right, my lass,” rejoined her father. “They do say that Buck Tom is a gentleman, and often keeps back his boys from devilry—though he can’t always manage that, an’ no wonder, for Jake the Flint is the cruellest monster ’tween this an’ Texas if all that’s said of him be true.”

“I wish my comrade was well out o’ their clutches,” said Dick, with a look of anxiety; “an’ it makes me feel very small to be sittin’ here enjoyin’ myself when I might be ridin’ on to help him if he should need help.”

“Don’t worry yourself on that score,” said the host. “You couldn’t find your way without a guide though I was to give ye the best horse in my stable—which I’d do slick off if it was of any use. There’s not one o’ my boys on the ranch just now, but there’ll be four or five of ’em in to-morrow by daylight an’ I promise you the first that comes in. They all know the country for three hundred miles around—every inch—an’ you may ride my best horse till you drop him if ye can. There, now, wash down your victuals an’ give us a yarn, or a song.”

“I’m quite sure,” added Mary, by way of encouragement, “that with one of the outlaws for an old friend, Mr Brooke will be quite safe among them.”

“But he’s not an outlaw, Miss Mary,” broke in Darvall. “Leastwise we have the best reason for believin’ that he’s detained among them against his will. Hows’ever, it’s of no use cryin’ over spilt milk. I’m bound to lay at anchor in this port till mornin’, so, as I can’t get up steam for a song in the circumstances, here goes for a yarn.”

The yarn to which our handsome seaman treated his audience was nothing more than an account of one of his numerous experiences on the ocean, but he had such a pleasant, earnest, truth-like, and confidential way of relating it and, withal, interlarded his speech with so many little touches of humour, that the audience became fascinated, and sat in open-eyed forgetfulness of all else. Buttercup, in particular, became so engrossed as to forget herself as well as her duties, and stood behind her master in an expectant attitude, glaring at the story-teller, with bated breath, profound sympathy, and extreme readiness to appreciate every joke whether good or bad.

In the midst of one of the most telling of his anecdotes the speaker was suddenly arrested by the quick tramp of a galloping horse, the rider of which, judging from the sound, seemed to be in hot haste.

All eyes were turned inquiringly on the master of the ranch. That cool individual, rising with quiet yet rapid action, reached down a magazine repeating rifle that hung ready loaded above the door of the room.

Observing this, Dick Darvall drew a revolver from his coat-pocket and followed his host to the outer door of the house. Mary accompanied them, and Buttercup retired to the back kitchen as being her appropriate stronghold.

They had hardly reached and flung open the door when Bluefire came foaming and smoking into the yard with Crux the cow-boy on his back.

“Wall, Roaring Bull,” cried Crux, leaping off his horse and coming forward as quietly as if there were nothing the matter. “I’m glad to see you OK, for the Cheyenne Reds are on the war-path, an’ makin’ tracks for your ranch. But as they’ve not got here yet, they won’t likely attack till the moon goes down. Is there any chuck goin’? I’m half starved.”

“Ay, Crux, lots o’ chuck here. Come in an’ let’s hear all about it. Where got ye the news?”

“Hunky Ben sent me. He wasn’t thinkin’ o’ you at first but when a boy came in wi’ the news that a crowd o’ the reds had gone round by Pine Hollow—just as he was fixin’ to pull out for Quester Creek to rouse up the cavalry—he asked me to come on here an’ warn you.”

While he was speaking the cow-boy sat down to supper with the air of a man who meant business, while the host and his sailor guest went to look after the defences of the place.

“I’m glad you are here, Dick Darvall,” said the former, “for it’s a bad job to be obliged to fight without help agin a crowd o’ yellin’ Reds. My boys won’t be back till sun-up, an’ by that time the game may be played out.”

“D’ee think the Redskins ’ll attack us to-night then?” asked the sailor as he assisted to close the gates of the yard.

“Ay, that they will, lad. They know the value o’ time better than most men, and, when they see their chance, are not slow to take advantage of it. As Crux said, they won’t attack while the moon shines, so we have plenty of time to git ready for them. I wish I hadn’t sent off my boys, but as bad luck would have it a bunch o’ my steers have drifted down south, an’ I can’t afford to lose them—so, you see, there’s not a man left in the place but you an’ me an’ Crux to defend poor Mary.”

For the first time in his life Dick Darvall felt a distinct tendency to rejoice over the fact that he was a young and powerful man! To live and, if need be, die for Mary was worth living for!

“Are you well supplied with arms an’ ammunition?” he asked.

“That am I, and we’ll need it all,” answered the host as he led Dick round to the back of the yard where another gate required fastening.

“I don’t see that it matters much,” said Dick in a questioning tone, “whether you shut the gates or not. With so few to defend the place the house will be our only chance.”

“When you’ve fought as much wi’ Reds as I have, Dick, you’ll larn that delay, even for five minutes, counts for a good deal.”

“Well, there’s somethin’ in that. It minds me o’ what one o’ my shipmates, who had bin in the London fire brigade, once said. ‘Dick,’ said he, ‘never putt off what you’ve got to do. Sometimes I’ve bin at a fire where the loss of only two minutes caused the destruction of a store worth ten thousand pound, more or less. We all but saved it as it was—so near were we, that if we had bin one minute sooner I do believe we’d have saved it.

“‘But when we was makin’ for that fire full sail, a deaf old apple-woman came athwart our bows an got such a fright that she went flop down right in front of us. To steer clear of her we’d got to sheer off so that we all but ran into a big van, and, what wi’ our lights an’ the yellin’, the horses o’ the van took fright and backed into us as we flew past, so that we a’most went down by the starn. One way or another we lost two minutes, as I’ve said, an’ the owners o’ that store lost about ten thousand pounds—more or less.’”

“That was a big pile, Dick,” observed the ranchman, as they turned from the gate towards the house, “not easy to replace.”

“True—my shipmate never seemed to be quite sure whether it was more or less that was lost, but he thought the Insurance offices must have found it out by that time. It’s a pity there’s only three of us, for that will leave one side o’ the house undefended.”

“All right Dick; you don’t trouble your head about that for Buttercup fights like a black tiger. She’s a’most as good as a man—only she can’t manage to aim, so it’s no use givin’ her a rifle. She’s game enough to fire it, but the more she tries to hit, the more she’s sure to miss. However she’s got a way of her own that sarves well enough to defend her side o’ the house. She always takes charge o’ the front. My Mary can’t fight, but she’s a heroine at loadin’—an’ that’s somethin’ when you’re hard pressed! Come, now, I’ll show ye the shootin’ irons an’ our plan of campaign.”

Roaring Bull led the way back to the room, or central hall, where they had supped, and here they found that the débris of their feast had already been cleared away, and that arms of various kinds, with ammunition, covered the board.

“Hospitable alike to friend and foe,” said Jackson gaily. “Here, you see, Mary has spread supper for the Reds!”

Darvall made no response to this pleasantry, for he observed that poor Mary’s pretty face was very pale, and that it wore an expression of mingled sadness and anxiety.

“You won’t be exposed to danger, I hope,” said Dick, in a low earnest tone, while Jackson was loudly discussing with Crux the merits of one of the repeating rifles—of which there were half-a-dozen on the table.

“Oh no! It is not that,” returned the girl sadly. “I am troubled to think that, however the fight goes, some souls, perhaps many, will be sent to their account unprepared. For myself, I shall be safe enough as long as we are able to hold the house, and it may be that God will send us help before long.”

“You may be quite sure,” returned Dick, with suppressed emotion, “that no Redskin shall cross this threshold as long as we three men have a spark o’ life left.”

A sweet though pitiful smile lighted up Mary’s pale face for a moment, as she replied that she was quite sure of that, in a tone which caused Darvall’s heart to expand, so that his ribs seemed unable to contain it, while he experienced a sensation of being stronger than Samson and bigger than Goliath!

“And I suppose,” continued Dick, “that the troops won’t be long of coming. Is the man—what’s his name, Humpy Ben—trustworthy?”

“Trustworthy!” exclaimed the maiden, with a flush of enthusiasm; “there is not a more trustworthy man on this side of the Rocky mountains, or the other side either, I am quite sure.”

Poor Darvall’s heart seemed suddenly to find plenty of room within the ribs at that moment, and his truthful visage must have become something of an index to his state of mind; for, to his surprise, Mary laughed.

“It seems to me so funny,” she continued, “to hear any one ask if Hunky—not Humpy—Ben is to be trusted.”

“Is he, then, such a splendid young fellow!” asked the seaman, with just the slightest touch of bitterness in his tone, for he felt as if a rock something like Gibraltar had been laid on his heart.

“Well, he’s not exactly young,” answered Mary, with a peculiar expression that made her questioner feel still more uncomfortable, “yet he is scarcely middle-aged, but he certainly is the most splendid fellow on the frontier; and he saved my life once.”

“Indeed! how was that?”

“Well, it was this way. I had been paying a short visit to his wife, who lives on the other side of the—”

“Come along, Darvall,” cried Roaring Bull at that moment. “The moon’s about down, an’ we’ll have to take our stations. We shall defend the outworks first to check them a bit and put off some time, then scurry into the house and be ready for them when they try to clear the fence. Follow me. Out wi’ the lights, girls, and away to your posts.”

“I’ll hear the end of your story another time, Miss Mary,” said Dick, looking over his shoulder and following his host and Crux to the outer door.

The seaman was conscious of a faint suspicion that Mary was wrestling with another laugh as he went off to defend the outworks, but he also, happily, felt that the Rock of Gibraltar had been removed from his heart!

Chapter Eighteen.

Defence of the Ranch of Roaring Bull

Every light and every spark of fire had been extinguished in the ranch of Roaring Bull when its defenders issued from its doorway. They were armed to the teeth, and glided across the yard to the fence or stockade that enclosed the buildings, leaving the door slightly open so as to be ready for speedy retreat.

It had been arranged that, as there was a large open field without bush or tree in the rear of the ranch, they should leave that side undefended at first.

“They’ll never come into the open as long as they can crawl up through the bush,” Jackson had said, while making his final dispositions. “They’re a’most sure to come up in front thinkin’ we’re all a-bed. Now, mind—don’t stand still, boys, but walk along as ye fire, to give ’em the notion there’s more of us. An’ don’t fire at nothin’. They’d think we was in a funk. An’ when you hear me whistle get into the house as quick as a cotton-tail rabbit an’ as sly as a snake.”

After the moon went down, everything in and around the ranch was as silent as the grave, save now and then the stamp of a hoof on the floor of a shed, where a number of horses stood saddled and bridled ready to mount at a moment’s notice; for Jackson had made up his mind, if it came to the worst, to mount and make a bold dash with all his household through the midst of his foes, trusting to taking them by surprise and to his knowledge of the country for success.

For a long time, probably two hours, the three men stood at their posts motionless and silent; still there was no sign, either by sight or sound, of an enemy. The outline of the dark woods was barely visible against the black sky in front of each solitary watcher, and no moving thing could be distinguished in the open field behind either by Crux or Darvall, to each of whom the field was visible. Jackson guarded the front.

To Dick, unaccustomed as he was to such warfare, the situation was very trying, and might have told on his nerves severely if he had not been a man of iron mould; as it was, he had no nerves to speak of! But he was a man of lively imagination. More than fifty times within those two hours did he see a black form moving in the darkness that lay between him and the wood, and more than fifty times was his Winchester rifle raised to his shoulder; but as often did the caution “don’t fire at nothin’” rise to his memory.

The stockade was of peculiar construction, because its owner and maker was eccentric, and a mechanical genius. Not only were the pickets of which it was composed very strong and planted with just space between to permit of firing, but there was a planking of strong boards, waist high, all round the bottom inside, which afforded some protection to defenders by concealing them when they stooped and changed position.

While matters were in this state outside, Mary Jackson and Buttercup were standing at an upper window just opposite the front gate, the latter with a huge bell-mouthed blunderbuss of the last century, loaded with buckshot in her hands. Mary stood beside her sable domestic ready to direct her not as to how, but where and when, to use the ancient weapon.

“You must be very careful, Buttercup,” said Mary in a low voice, “not to fire till I tell you, and to point only where I tell you, else you’ll shoot father. And do keep your finger off the trigger! By the way, have you cocked it?”

“O missy, I forgit dat,” answered the damsel with a self-condemned look, as she corrected the error. “But don’ you fear, Missy Mary. I’s use’ to dis yar blunn’erbus. Last time I fire ’im was at a raven. Down hoed de raven, blow’d to atims, an’ down hoed me too—cause de drefful t’ing kicks like a Texas mule. But bress you, I don’ mind dat. I’s used to it!”

Buttercup gave a little sniff of grave scorn with her flat nose, as though to intimate that the ordinary ills of life were beneath her notice.

We have said that all fires had been extinguished, but this is not strictly correct, for in the room where the two maidens watched there was an iron stove so enclosed that the fire inside did not show, and as it was fed with charcoal there were neither flames nor sparks to betray its presence. On this there stood a large cast-iron pot full of water, the bubbling of which was the only sound that broke the profound stillness of the night, while the watchers scarcely breathed, so intently did they listen.

At last the patient and self-restraining Dick saw a dark object moving towards his side of the stockade, which he felt was much too real to be classed with the creatures of his imagination which had previously given him so much trouble. Without a moment’s hesitation the rifle flew to his shoulder, and the prolonged silence was broken by the sharp report, while an involuntary half-suppressed cry proved that he had not missed his mark. The dark object hastily retreated. A neighbouring cliff echoed the sounds, and two shots from his comrades told the sailor that they also were on the alert.

Instantly the night was rendered hideous by a series of wild yells and whoops, while, for a moment, the darkness gave place to a glare of light as a hundred rifles vomited their deadly contents, and the sound of many rushing feet was heard upon the open sward in front of the ranch.

The three male defenders had ducked their heads below the protecting breast-work when the volley was fired, and then, discarding all idea of further care, they skipped along their respective lines, yelling and firing the repeaters so rapidly, that, to any one ignorant of the true state of things, it must have seemed as if the place were defended by a legion of demons. To add to the hullabaloo Buttercup’s blunderbuss poured forth its contents upon a group of red warriors who were rushing towards the front gate, with such a cannon-like sound and such wonderful effect, that the rush was turned into a sudden and limping retreat. The effect indeed, was more severe even than Buttercup had intended, for a stray buckshot had actually taken a direction which had been feared, and grazed her master’s left arm! Happily the wound was very slight, and, to do the poor damsel justice, she could not see that her master was jumping from one place to another like a caged lion. Like the same animal, however, he gave her to understand what she had done, by shouting in a thunderous bass roar that fully justified his sobriquet—

“Mind your eye, Buttercup! Not so low next time!”

The immediate result of this vigorous defence was to make the Indians draw off and retire to the woods—presumably for consultation. By previous arrangement the negro girl issued from the house with three fresh repeaters in her arms, ran round to the combatants with them and returned with their almost empty rifles. These she and Mary proceeded to reload in the hall, and then returned to their post at the upper front window.

The morning was by this time pretty well advanced, and Jackson felt a little uncertain as to what he should now do. It was still rather dark; but in a very short time, he knew, dawn would spread over the east, when it would, of course, be quite impossible to defend the walls of the little fort without revealing the small number of its defenders. On the other hand, if they should retire at once the enemy might find a lodgement within, among the outbuildings, before there was light enough to prevent them by picking off the leaders; in which case the assailants would be able to apply fire to the wooden wails of the house without much risk.

“If they manage to pile up enough o’ brush to clap a light to,” he grumbled to himself in an undertone, “it’s all up wi’ us.”

The thought had barely passed through his brain, when a leaden messenger, intended to pass through it, carried his cap off his head, and the fire that had discharged it almost blinded him. Bigfoot, the chief of the savages, had wriggled himself, snake-fashion, up to the stockade unseen, and while Roaring Bull was meditating what was best to be done, he had nearly succeeded in rendering him unable to do anything at all.

The shot was the signal for another onslaught. Once more the woods rang with fiendish yells and rattling volleys. Bigfoot, with the agility and strength of a gorilla, leaped up and over the stockade and sprung down into Jackson’s arms, while Darvall and Crux resumed their almost ubiquitous process of defence, and Buttercup’s weapon again thundered forth its defiance.

This time the fight was more protracted. Bigfoot’s career was indeed stopped for the time being, for Jackson not only crushed the life almost out of him by an unloving embrace, but dealt him a prize-fighter’s blow which effectually stretched him on the ground. Not a moment too soon, however, for the white man had barely got rid of the red one, when another savage managed to scale the wall. A blow from the butt of Jackson’s rifle dropped him, and then the victor fired so rapidly, and with such effect, that a second time the Reds were repulsed.

Jackson did not again indulge in meditation, but blew a shrill blast on a dog-whistle—a preconcerted signal—on hearing which his two comrades made for the house door at full speed.

Only one other of the Indians, besides the two already mentioned, had succeeded in getting over the stockade. This man was creeping up to the open door of the house, and, tomahawk in hand, had almost reached it when Dick Darvall came tearing round the corner.

“Hallo! Crux,” cried Dick, “that you?”

The fact that he received no reply was sufficient for Dick, who was too close to do more than drive the point of his rifle against the chest of the Indian, who went down as if he had been shot, while Dick sprang in and held open the door. A word from Jackson and Crux as they ran forward sufficed. They passed in and the massive door was shut and barred, while an instant later at least half-a-dozen savages ran up against it and began to thunder on it with their rifle-butts and tomahawks.

“To your windows!” shouted Jackson, as he sprang up the wooden stair-case, three steps at a time. “Fresh rifles here, Mary!”

“Yes, father,” came in a silvery and most unwarlike voice from the hall below.

Another moment and three shots rang from the three sides of the house, and of the three Indians who were at the moment in the act of clambering over the stockade, one fell inside and two out. Happily, daylight soon began to make objects distinctly visible, and the Indians were well aware that it would now be almost certain death to any one who should attempt to climb over.

It is well known that, as a rule, savages do not throw away their lives recklessly. The moment it became evident that darkness would no longer serve them, those who were in the open retired to the woods, and potted at the windows of the ranch, but, as the openings from which the besieged fired were mere loop-holes made for the purpose of defence, they had little hope of hitting them at long range except by chance. Those of the besiegers who happened to be near the stockade took shelter behind the breast-work, and awaited further orders from their chief—ignorant of the fact that he had already fallen.

From the loop-holes of the room which Jackson had selected to defend, the shed with the saddled horses was visible, so that no one could reach it without coming under the fire of his deadly weapon. There was also a window in this room opening upon the back of the house and commanding the field which we have before mentioned as being undefended while the battle was waged outside. By casting a glance now and then through this window he could see any foe who might show himself in that direction. The only part of the fort that seemed exposed to great danger now was the front door, where the half-dozen savages, with a few others who had joined them, were still battering away at the impregnable door.

Dick, who held the garret above, could not see the door, of course, nor could he by any manoeuvre manage to bring his rifle to bear on it from his loop-hole, and he dared not leave his post lest more Indians should manage to scale the front stockade.

Buttercup, in the room below, had indeed a better chance at her window, but she was too inexpert in warfare to point the blunderbuss straight down and fire with effect, especially knowing, as she did, that the sight of her arm in the act would be the signal for a prompt fusillade. But the girl was not apparently much concerned about that, or anything else. The truth is that she possessed in an eminent and enviable degree the spirit of entire trust in a leader. She was under orders, and awaited the word of command with perfect equanimity! She even smiled slightly—if such a mouth could be said to do anything slightly—when Mary left her to take fresh rifles to the defenders overhead.

At last the command came from the upper regions, in tones that caused the very savages to pause a moment and look at each other in surprise. They did not pause long, however!

“Now, Buttercup,” thundered Roaring Bull, “give it ’em—hot!”

At the word the girl calmly laid aside her weapon, lifted the big iron pot with familiar and businesslike facility, and emptied it over the window.