Buffalo Bill's death message or, In the face of doom
to this point brought him through the air without ever touching hoof to
the ground? Mahomet had a wondrous horse called Alborak that carried him
in such fashion. The American scout is no doubt greater than Mahomet!”
The villains laughed again at what they conceived the wit of Gomez.
“I knew you would not believe it,” said the scout.
“The señor denies that he killed Ramon Periguez, and that he stole the
dagger from the hacienda?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is useless to talk with him.”
“Why did you and Periguez follow me?” the scout asked.
“We wished to look in your kind face again,” said Gomez.
“Periguez tried to poison my wine at the supper table, and he smuggled
himself and some assassins into my room to slay me, after the poisoning
attempt had failed. I escaped by the window, and was pursued and shot
at, and you and he followed me even to this place. Why?”
“Had the señor forgotten the Moroccan prince?” said Gomez, with an
uplifting of his black eyebrows and a shrugging of his shoulders. “That
is the answer. The señor may ponder over it in the few minutes that are
yet left to him.”
“You mean to kill me?”
“Horse thieves and murderers are hanged in this country. It is the
unwritten law of the land. We shall but deal out justice to the señor.
His head was too hard for any bullet; but I doubt if his neck is too
strong to break under the jerk of the rope. As to that, we shall see.
The señor may console himself by reflecting that the method is quick and
must be well-nigh painless. I have even been told that men who have been
hanged, yet who were not killed by the hanging, have declared that they
saw enchanting visions while they danced on nothing at the lariat’s end.
May the señor’s dying visions be filled with ravishing delights.”
Gomez, as well as the rascals who heard him, must have fancied himself a
clever wit.
One of the horses was brought up, and to its back the scout was lifted.
There he was lashed to the saddle with another lariat, in a most
uncomfortable position. When the horse was led forward the motion gave
him excruciating pain.
Yet no lamenting moan, no word of complaint, came from the lips of the
heroic scout. And dark as was his outlook, he did not permit himself to
despair; not because he believed there was a chance of escape, but only
for the reason that throughout his life of marvelous adventure he had
always acted on that principle. Hope was a quality so buoyant that he
could not afford to let it slip out of his heart even though death
stared him in the face.
The scout’s horse, which Gomez and his villains had seen before the
scout was fired upon, was now secured. Then the scout was conducted down
by the high cliff wall, to where a tree offered its wide-spreading
branches for the rope’s end. Under the tree the scout was lifted from
the back of the horse and a lariat was prepared quickly as a hangman’s
noose.
“If the señor has any messages to send to his friends we will hear
them,” said Gomez, standing before him with a mocking smile. “We can
communicate them to his wonderfully winged horse and instruct that
sagacious and marvelous beast to fly straight to his friends with them.
Now is the señor’s time to speak. In another minute he will be beyond
speaking, or the need of it.”
The end of the long lariat was thrown over the low limb of the tree, and
two of the rascals pulled it down, fastening it temporarily to the tree
trunk.
Then Buffalo Bill, still bound and as helpless as a log, was lifted to
his feet and placed beneath the tree, the noose of the rope being drawn
around his neck and pulled tight.
Seizing the other end of the rope and removing it from around the body
of the tree, the three rascals began to haul upon it.
The noose clutched round the scout’s neck with a jerk, and he was
dragged from his feet.
“We have friends in Satan’s kingdom, señor!” Gomez shouted. “When you
meet them give them our kind regards.”
They swung down on the rope again, and the scout’s body was hoisted
between the earth and the sky.
---------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXXV.
ENOS SPALDING.
A revolver cracked in the thick boughs of the scrubby oak above the
heads of the men who were thus bent on murdering Buffalo Bill, and Gomez
fell back with a cry, clutching frantically at his breast.
Before he struck the ground the revolver cracked again, and another of
the three men fell. The third dropped the rope and turned to run.
Buffalo Bill’s feet struck the ground with a thump as the lariat was
thus released, and then he toppled over, falling as heavily as either of
the two men who had been dropped by the revolver.
A third time the revolver cracked, and the rascal who was running
uttered a cry, but sped on, moving his heels with marvelous speed.
A chuckling laugh sounded in the top of the oak. Then there was a
rustling of the thick branches, a scraping sound, and a few moments
later a pair of long legs came sliding down the trunk of the tree,
followed by a long, lank, muscular body, and then by a small head that
was covered by a shock of coarse hair and a huge flapping hat.
When this queer figure struck the ground with its big feet and then
straightened up, a tall, slim man was revealed, a man of elderly aspect,
whose shrewd face was twisting with excitement and whose blue eyes
snapped and burned. He wore a billy-goat beard, and his whole appearance
stamped him unmistakably as a “down-East Reub.”
So tall was he that he seemed to have squeezed himself into the clothing
of a boy, the sleeves and the tail of his coat and the legs of his
trousers were so short. The short sleeves revealed a pair of red, bony
wrists, while the stump legs of the trousers showed a vista of
bright-red stockings of coarse yarn. The shoes were big and hobnailed.
“By chaowder!” he grunted, “I reckon I didn’t do that shooting none too
soon. I hate tew pull a deadly weepon on any human critter, but ’twan’t
never in the Spalding blood to allaow what ain’t a square deal ’tween
man and man. And this feller was an American, whilst t’others was yaller
Mexicans, and that’s got tew be caounted in, by gum! An American has got
tew stand up fer another American every time. But, I vum! I dunno but I
was too slow, fer seems ter me he’s stun-dead. One of them Mexicans is
still kickin’, and he’s got a gun, tew! I’ll jes have tew relieve him of
that, fust thing.”
The wounded man lay on his back, glaring at the Yankee. He had been shot
in the shoulder. It was a stunning sort of wound, which had knocked him
out temporarily, though he was probably not fatally injured. But the
other man was dead, and that man was Gomez.
Running his long fingers over the clothing of the wounded man, the
Yankee deftly extracted a murderous knife and a revolver.
“I reckon yeou’re a reg’lar walkin’ ars’nel! What else ye got on ye, in
the way of weepons?”
He found nothing else, but from one of the pockets he brought up a slip
of paper written in Spanish.
The Yankee stared at it, and then deliberately bringing from his pocket
a pair of heavy spectacles he set them on his nose and tried to read the
writing.
“Them hen tracks is tew much fer me!” he admitted, as he tucked the
paper away for future reference.
When he had satisfied himself that the wounded man was now weaponless,
he turned his attention to Buffalo Bill, who was again unconscious,
because the noose cut so sharply into his neck. The Yankee loosened and
cast off the noose.
“Looks like I was a bit tew slow with that shootin’!” he said. “I
hesitated tew long, I reckon. But I didn’t want tew do anything unless I
seen I jes’ had to. I ain’t got any stummick fer killin’ men, even if
they aire Mexicans and aire deserving of death.”
He began to work the scout’s arms up and down, and then, bending over,
he blew into his face.
“If I had any worter!” As he spoke he noticed Buffalo Bill’s flask lying
on the ground, with his field glasses, which the scoundrels had
appropriated. He picked up the flask, opened it, and took a sniff.
“Whisky, by heck! And they tuck it frum _him_. I vum, ef this critter
ain’t a drinkin’ man, and he looked tew me like a plum’ straightforward
critter! Looks is deceivin’.”
He not only sniffed the whisky, but tasted it.
“Fiery as all git-aout, by gosh! Wonder what the Temperance Society
daown at Spalding’s Corners would say ef they should see me tastin’ and
handlin’ the vile stuff? They’d call me a backslider, by heck! But I
ain’t goin’ tew use it on myself, and I reckon it’s use is allowable,
anyhow, as a medicine. Waal, here goes!”
He pried the jaws of the scout apart, and poured some of the whisky down
his throat.
“Makes ye choke, does it? Waal, that’s a sign yeou’re livin’, anyhaow.”
Again he began to move the arms up and down and breathe into the scout’s
face and nostrils.
The color returned to the pallid features, the breathing strengthened,
and the scout was again on the road to consciousness.
The Yankee inspected the cut made by the bullet in the scout’s head.
“That bullet come darn near gittin’ ye, didn’t it? I reckon yeou’re born
tew be draowned in the sea; fer bullets and ropes don’t finish ye. Ef a
man’s born tew be draowned he can’t be killed by hangin’.”
When Buffalo Bill opened his eyes he saw the thin face of the Yankee
close by his own, and heard the Yankee’s harsh yet kindly voice:
“Comin’ raound, be ye? Waal, yeou’ve been a tarnal long time doin’ it.
And every minute we stay here is a resk. One man got away, and it’s my
opinion others like him aire raound here a-plenty. He’ll find ’em, and
come back.” He heard a sound, and glanced around. “Hello! That critter
over there’s movin’!”
The wounded Mexican was trying to crawl to the body of Gomez, to get the
revolver which the Yankee had not removed. The Yankee swung around and
cocked his own weapon.
“Don’t dew it!” he warned. “I’ve killed one man a’ready, and I don’t
want tew haf to kill another.”
The Mexican dropped limply back upon the grass.
“That’s right, jes’ lay there, will ye! And don’t tempt me tew shoot ye.
I don’t want to.”
He turned again to Buffalo Bill, but glanced now and then at the wounded
Mexican.
“I should like to know your name,” said the scout, “you have saved my
life.”
“Me? Waal, call me Enos Spalding, and you’ll git clost to it. It was jes
luck I was up that tree. Feelin’ better, ain’t ye?”
“I think so, very much better.”
“Take another swig o’ this devil’s fire. I don’t believe in whisky,
except as a medicine. It su’prised me tew find yeou had been kerryin’
this flask. But it come in paowerful handy.”
“Yes, that’s why I carried it.”
“Yeou expected to be shot and hung, and tew have need of it?”
“In this wild land one never knows when he may have need for a
stimulant.”
“That’s right, I reckon, jedgin’ by what I seen to-day. I don’t reckon
yeou could set on a hoss, could ye?”
Buffalo Bill tried to lift himself. His head felt dizzy, and a blackness
swam before his eyes when he raised his head.
“Yes, I can sit on a horse,” he said courageously.
“I ain’t wantin’ tew hurry ye any, but one o’ them devils got away, and
I reckon there’s more of his kind raound here. He may come back with
’em. So, the sooner we git tew movin’ the better.”
“You’re right,” said the scout. “Just help me a little.”
“When they skun aout they left their hosses. Your’n is here, tew, I
think. It’s lucky fer both of us; we can have two hosses apiece, and I
didn’t have even one. Mine got away frum me yistidday, and I’ve been
hossless and afoot ever sense. Jes lay back a minute while I bring ’em
up.”
Buffalo Bill lay back on the grass, weak and exhausted, and the Yankee