Buffalo Bill's death message or, In the face of doom
But whether it had really been meant for the eye of Bat Stevens, the man
to whom it was addressed, or whether it had been intended to fall into
the hands of some one like Klamath John, could not be determined.
And Klamath John himself was proving to be a good deal of an enigma. His
manner had evidenced the proof of the things he told, yet there was
something strange and suspicious in his refusal to show himself in the
town, and the manner in which he had sought to get into communication
with Buffalo Bill seemed queer, if nothing else.
Buffalo Bill did not again meet Klamath John for two whole days, nor did
he send him any communication. During that time, the scout tried to
verify the statements made in Red Reynard’s letter to Bat Stevens.
That Stevens, commonly called “Bat,” was one of Red Reynard’s followers,
was a thing he knew. Stevens was an all-round “bad man” of the border.
Two years before the scout had tried to lay him by the heels on a charge
of murder, but Bat had “faded away” at that time, and the scout had not
seen him since. Apparently, he was now in or near Klamath City, a town
peculiarly attractive to men of his class.
In his pursuit of information, Buffalo Bill climbed to the tops of the
high rocky ridges which overhung the cañon of Lost River, and there, at
much peril, he traced the course of that stream until he saw that in one
respect, at least, the letter spoke truly—Lost River branched as it
neared the frowning walls of the Cup.
On the second day of his exploration, the scout climbed the walls of the
Cup, where he had climbed them before, a feat so difficult that he was
compelled to use ropes.
From the tops of the walls he scanned the inside of the Cup with his
powerful binoculars.
He could discover no signs of occupancy, yet the Cup was of so vast an
extent and was so covered in places with trees, that it might have held
a whole village in its depths without any one discovering it from the
walls.
There was a stream which flowed through the center of the Cup, thus in a
measure confirming the statement of the letter, and this stream seemed
to issue somewhere under the northern walls, at about the point where
the letter said one of the forks of Lost River broke through.
The evening of this second day found Buffalo Bill again at Poplar Bend,
talking with Klamath John.
“I have come to this conclusion,” he said: “If you will go with me and
my company, we’ll get a canoe and descend the cañon of the river
together. If the canoe is wrecked and we go into the river, you’ll go
with us. See?”
“Which means that you don’t trust me?”
“As I don’t know anything about you, you can’t expect me to trust you
further than that. I’m willing to speak plainly. I can trust you so long
as you share with me equally the dangers of that trip. We may never come
back alive. But you have made me anxious to get into the Golconda Cup. I
want to find Red Reynard, and I’d like to be able to explore that big
valley, which report says has never been entered by any human being. We
may never get into it, and if we get into it, we may never get out; but
I’ve thought the thing over, and I’ll risk it with you.”
“Shake, Cody!” the young man cried, with enthusiasm. “I don’t ask
anything else. We’ll get the canoe and we’ll make the trip. I’ve only
one thing to say about it, and that is, if there’s the gold in there,
which that letter says, I want my share of it. That’s all.”
“We’ll have as much right to it as any one, if gold is there,” the scout
declared. “I’ve no objection to that. I think I shall want some of it
myself.”
“We’ll be gold hunters,” said Klamath John. “We’ll be gold hunters and
explorers in a new region. The gold is there, and we’ll find it, and
we’ll have some adventures worth talking about.”
“You speak now like Mike Flynn. He’s been saying that to me all day.”
“Is that Irishman going?”
“Yes.”
“And the negro?”
“I shall take both of them. We’ll get a canoe that will hold the four of
us, and we’ll try the cañon of Lost River.”
“When?”
“To-morrow. I’ll get the canoe this afternoon, and have it hauled to the
upper end of the cañon.”
“You won’t tell anybody what you want to do with it? Cody, we don’t want
any others in this thing. If there’s gold there, we want to have it to
ourselves. But if Red Reynard’s got a big gang down in there, we might
need a big gang to fight him with. What do you say to that, Cody?”
“We’ll have a party of four, and none others.”
“That suits me, then. I’m ready to start this minute. I’ve been waiting
for this thing ever since I found that letter. Cody, we’ll get in there
without trouble! I’m dead sure of it.”
“Won’t you go into the town with me now?”
“No. I’ll still camp out here. But I’ll be ready for you when the time
comes.”
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CHAPTER IV.
DOWN THE CAÑON.
At the upper end of the cañon of Lost River the water is smooth and the
rocky banks are low enough to permit a canoe to be launched without much
trouble.
The canoe was lowered to the water by means of ropes, and into it, when
it was anchored, was put the arms and ammunition, together with the food
supply, and other things, which the scout had decided to take. He had
provided amply, for he did not know just where he was going, what he
should meet, nor how long he should be gone.
When the four men were in the canoe it sank low in the water, yet it was
still quite buoyant, and, though a large canoe, easily handled.
Klamath John took the bow paddle and pushed the canoe away from the
rocky shore.
The canoe swung lightly along in the quiet current, but soon the water
quickened its pace and the boat began to dance on its way, still with
feathery lightness, yet at a speed that made careful paddle work
necessary.
Buffalo Bill crouched just behind Klamath John, where he could watch
him. The scout dipped his paddle with ease and skill, his eyes on the
current ahead, where at intervals rocks showed. Behind him was Cudjo,
while Flynn handled a paddle in the stern.
“Whoosh!” yelled Flynn, as the rocky walls began to shoot past. “An’
it’s now that we do be goin’ some.”
“Starboard!” yelled Klamath John. “Put ’er to starboard!”
He threw his strength on the oar, and was aided by Buffalo Bill. The
canoe veered and whisked by the big rock that had seemed to leap out of
the water to meet it.
Higher and still higher rose the frowning cañon walls, until the cañon
grew dark as twilight. And still the light canoe sped ever faster, the
walls speeding by at a pace that soon became frightful. The river roared
in its narrow channel, and at times the torn water rose and flashed into
whitecaps.
The canoe soon plunged into the cañon rapids. Buffalo Bill had looked
down upon those rapids as well as he could from the tops of the walls,
and had decided that, though swift, and even dangerous, the canoe could
navigate them. But they were even swifter and wilder than he had
thought.
“She gets quieter farther down,” Klamath John shouted, by way of
encouragement. “Just hold her to it, and we’ll go through all right.”
“Whoosh!” howled Flynn. “But this is an iligant adventure. Gold hunters,
is it? By me sowl, if we git through this, we’ll be airnin’ all the gold
we’ll git.”
Yet the Irishman was now in his element. Adventure was as the breath of
his nostrils. He had chafed at the dullness of the town of Klamath. This
suited him, and he hoped for even better things beyond.
But the darky who crouched on the thwart in front of him, though he
clutched his paddle and tried to obey the commands of Buffalo Bill, was
sending up a prayer for safety, while his teeth were chattering and a
grayish shade seemed to have crept into the black of his face. Cudjo was
heartily wishing himself well out of it.
Yet if the occupants of the canoe had desired to retreat, that was now
impossible. The only thing that could be done was to hold the canoe in
the channel, as near the center as possible, and let it drive, guiding
it as skillfully as possible round rocks and other obstructions.
A half mile farther down the stream seemed to be sown with rocks. They
were everywhere, and they appeared almost to leap at the bobbing bow of
the canoe, as if bent on splitting it, and dragging it down.
But Buffalo Bill and Klamath John were practiced canoemen, and they sent
the canoe round every obstruction with such skill and good judgment that
its sides were not even grazed.
For two miles this terrific pace held. Then before them they saw where
the stream forked, split into two branches by a great rock.
A surge of green water slipped by on each side of this sharp wedge of
granite and went plunging on, to become lost soon in the mist that
blanketed the surface of the wild river.
“Which channel?” roared Klamath John, poising his paddle in hesitation.
“The right!” Buffalo Bill shouted back. “The letter said the right!”
“Aye! So it did! The right it is!”
He dipped and pulled, and the scout did the same, their efforts seconded
by the negro and the Irishman.
The wedge of granite rose right before the canoe, and it seemed the
frail shell would dash against it; then the canoe slipped past, and went
plunging down the right channel, where the waves frothed and roared and
the mist hung heavily.
The speed of the canoe became even more rapid now. It quivered and
reeled under the impact of waves that slid from one black granite wall
to the other and back again, and there were moments when it seemed that
it would be dashed into splinters against these walls.
Klamath John began to show evidences of fright, while hitherto he had
been as cool and courageous as the dauntless scout.
The mist lifted somewhat, and then, straight ahead, was beheld a black
opening, toward which the canoe sped with arrowy swiftness.
Klamath John appeared to lose his head when he saw that black hole.
“Cody, we’ve taken the wrong channel!” he yelled, and he half rose to
his feet. “We’re dead men! We made a mistake back there. We’re in Lost
River! Good heavens, we’re in Lost River!”
He dropped his paddle, which the scout caught, thus keeping it from
going overboard.
“Sit down!” the scout shouted at him. “Sit down, or you’ll have us all
into the water!”
Klamath John did not obey. He stood up, swaying about in the plunging
canoe, rendering the task of guiding it difficult, as well as
threatening it with destruction.
“Sit down!” Buffalo Bill yelled at him.
The situation was so desperate that when Klamath John did not sit down,
the scout caught him by the coat and hurled him down.
Klamath John was up again instantly, swaying about and making the canoe
lurch so violently that it was in danger of capsizing.
But a remarkable revelation had come, for as Klamath John fell the dark
mustache and imperial was torn from his face, revealing youthful and
unbearded features.
The disclosure was almost paralyzing, for Klamath John’s disguise had
been so exceedingly good and clever that until that minute even the
sharp eyes of Buffalo Bill had been deceived by it.
“Sit down!” the scout yelled again.
“We is all dead men!” Cudjo shrieked. He was staring at the beardless
face of Klamath John, the paddle had dropped from his nerveless fingers,
and he acted as if he meant to leap out of the boat.
“Shoot the divil!” Mickey Flynn yelled.
But Mickey did not forget his paddle, and for the first minute in which
that stupefying surprise lasted, the strong young Irishman did almost as
much as the scout in keeping the canoe from being hurled to destruction.
“So, you’re a fraud, eh!” the scout shouted. “Well, if we’re in Lost
River and are going to death, you’ll go with us!”