Bushy a romance founded on fact
buffalo, little girl?” he called to Bushy who was following the herd.
“Yes, sir!” she screamed back. “I never killed one in my life.”
“Then get on my pony; he is a regular buffalo pony. Can you ride?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I am not afraid.”
“All right. Shall I let her try?” asked the man of Mr. Sukolt.
“Yes, I’d like to have her try,” was the reply; so Bushy was lifted
quickly from Ned and seated on the back of the buffalo pony; then the
hunter jumped on Ned without as much as touching a foot to the ground,
and left Bushy alone on the trained pony.
“Just let him go his own way. Don’t fire until you ride directly upon
the flank of the buffalo!” called out the hunter, and Bushy was soon on
the keen jump after the herd.
Mr. Sukolt kept as close as he could, but the trained pony knew just
what to do. He managed to get a few buffalo circling round and round,
one after the other. Every animal had his nose down close to the
ground, and did not know that he was going round and round. Buffalo are
very short-sighted.
“Now shoot,” the pony seemed to say, because he sidled up to one of the
buffalo and half halted. Bushy took the hint and fired. The buffalo
ran as if nothing had happened. You can shoot all day at a buffalo and
unless you hit him in the right spot he doesn’t mind it; his hide is so
tough it even protects him from bullets. Without any warning the pony
dashed ahead, and when he got up directly on the flank of the great
buffalo calf, Bushy fired again, and this time down he came.[1]
[1] This buffalo was, in 1876, displayed with other animals in the
Maxwell collection, in the Colorado building, at the time of the
Centennial Exposition held at Philadelphia.
The other animals then broke ring and followed the main herd, but Bushy
was the proudest hunter in camp that night over the fact that she had
killed one of the finest specimens of buffalo that had been secured for
many a day. The head was so beautiful that Mr. Sukolt would not consent
to its being thrown away, but had the skin as well as the head saved
and sent to Denver, where a taxidermist fixed it up as if it were alive
again.
CHAPTER X
Picture to yourself a girl of eleven summers as she came one day
out of one of the shanties at Great Pine Mine; a little girl still,
dressed in coffee sacks, two making the skirt and one the blouse, which
was gathered at the waist with a yellow strap. Snatching up a rope
bridle that lay on a broken bench under the window, she ran to a horse
“picketed” twenty feet away, sprang on his back and went dashing at
break-neck speed up and down the rough road that led to the mines. An
old man approaching the camp was startled by the loud clatter of the
horse’s hoofs, and his wrinkled face turned a shade more saffron-like
when he recognized the rider. He dropped his pick and shovel, and with
long strides soon reached a bend, where, out of sight, he waited for
the horse and child.
“Fly, Ned, fly!” cried the little girl, and the horse stretched his
long limbs to cover more ground. They turned the bend and on seeing the
old man, the little girl reined up the horse so sharply that she was
nearly thrown over his head.
“Great goodness! I most went off that time, didn’t I?” she panted.
“What are you standing in the middle of the road for, anyway, Tom? And
why do you look so queer? Oh, dear, are you sick? Here, can you hold
the bridle? I’ll get you a drink from the brook in a jiffy.”
Before he could reply she was beside him winding the rope round his
hand, saying: “Hold him tight, he is skittish, you know.” She snatched
off her buckskin cap and in less than a minute brought it back full of
clear, cold water.
“Wall, I’ll swaller it since you’ve gone and got it; but I don’t want
water; nothin’s the matter with me.” He drank from the cap while Bushy
looked on approvingly. “I jes’ thought Ned was runnin’ away, and I’d
try and stop him as he turned this corner,” said Tom, striking her cap
on his knee, three or four times after he had taken the drink from it.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” and her sunburnt face clouded with a frown.
“Wall, you’ve no business ridin’ like that, anyway; I’m sure as sartin
we’ll never raise you, never! And, golly, ’tain’t cause there ain’t
enough of us to look after you, but you are so tomfoolery foolish.”
“Then, you were not sick, after all,” said Bushy, “and I’ve lost my bet
and ducked my cap, and--give it to me, you wicked old man. You will get
no more drink from me--so there!” She snatched her cap and sent such a
ripple of laughter from her cherry-red lips that the mountains on all
sides lovingly echoed it.
“What was your bet, Bushy?”
“Oh, that I could run from the camp to the mines in five minutes if
the Indians were after me.” She sprinkled him well with what water she
could shake from the cap; and then with a jerk drew it down tight on
her tangled head.
With a jolly little laugh, she sang “hitchity, hatchet, my little red
jacket, and up I go,” and, mounting the pony with one leap, turned her
quaint, oldish face toward Tom and motioned for him to hand her the
rope bridle.
“Who’d you bet with?” he asked, tying an extra knot in the old rope
before handing it to her.
“Why, with myself, of course, you funny old fellow! I couldn’t bet with
the rats, could I? And what else is there in the shanty when everybody
is at the mine? even Rover is off hunting with padre.”
“You don’t say, Bushy, that the Padre is still out? That’s bad. Shanks
brought news from the blacksmith’s that the Indians in the reservation
are ugly!”
Bushy’s face seemed to grow older; the smile disappeared, the lips
became compressed, and her hands grasped more tightly the rope that
made Ned her prisoner.
“And Padre went up Eureka Gulch, didn’t he, Tom?”
“That’s so, but then, chick, don’t fret; he is good enough for a dozen
redskins any day. You might, though, as long as you are on Ned, go to
the mine and talk with Shanks about it. I’ll bet you that mountain
sheep’s head I brought in last week that you will find the Padre with
me when you get back.” She was already on her way and had time only to
call out, “All right!” as she disappeared in the ravine.
“I’ve lost the sheep’s head, sure as sartin,” mumbled the old man,
stooping for his tools. “The padre has heard about the Indians and is
layin’ low to come in under cover of dark. He won’t run a risk--for the
chick’s sake. Poor chicken without any mother!”
He swung the heavy pick and shovel on his shoulder, tucked a chunk of
tobacco in his left cheek, then shambled off, shaking his head and
grumbling.
“Halloa!” shouted Shanks, as Bushy approached the mine. “You always
come in the nick of time. Here is Rover with a note from the Padre
pinned on his shaggy coat, saying”----
“Oh, please, Shanks, let me read it!” and not waiting for him to hand
her the paper, she leaned over, deftly slipped it out of his fingers,
and read:
STONE GULCH.--Spott has hurt her foot and limps dreadfully. Got a
bear; trying to bring it home for Thanksgiving dinner. I walk. Send
Bushy on Ned up Stone Path to meet me.
PADRE.
“All right, I’ll go. Show it to Tom,” said Bushy, returning the note.
“Could you strap your tool-bag on Ned for me?” She dismounted and they
both tried to make a saddle out of the bag. “What’s the matter? Won’t
it go round?”
Shanks was looking in despair at his strap, which lacked a foot of
encircling Ned’s plump body. “Here’s my belt; that will just fix it.
Good, good! Now I’d just like to see a redskin catch me!”
“But, Bushy, I really think that you had better let me go. I heard
something to-day about”----
“Oh, yes; I know. The Indians. Tom told me. But don’t you see if there
should be any trouble, father and I could both ride Ned, and if you go,
both being so big, one of you would be left, sure.”
“That’s all true, little wise-head. Off with you then. Wait! Let me fix
you up with my belt and revolver. I don’t suppose there’s an Indian
within fifteen miles of here, but if you see one, and he even looks
cross-eyed at you, pop him over.”
Lightly jumping on Ned, riding astride--as she always did when on a
dangerous mission--and pulling down her cap, she called: “Rover! here,
Rover; I want you. Good-by, Shanks. We are off for the Padre!” Rover
set up a barking loud and joyous. Ned stood on his hind legs for a
moment; then the three went flying up Stone Path to render greater
assistance than any of them thought.
Bushy had gone about three miles and had arrived at the point where the
path she had been following led into the main road at right angles,
when she noticed that Rover began to show great uneasiness, and Ned
snorted and tossed his head as he always did when he scented danger.
She drew her rein, slipped quickly down, threw herself at full length
on the ground, and, placing her ear close to the sod, listened.
“By jiminy!” she exclaimed, “some one is coming in both directions.”
Again she listened. “Ah! one horse limps; that must be Spott. Now who
can be coming from the other direction? A redskin, I’ll bet my head!”
She jumped up quickly; and quietly led Ned behind a huge bowlder and
wound the bridle around a snag that grew in a crevice. “Poor Ned,” she
said, “how you do tremble! You are just as scared of the Indians as I
am.” She snapped her fingers at Rover, who whined and crouched at
her feet. Then she drew and cocked her revolver.
“I wonder if I have done the right thing in hiding here,” thought
Bushy. “Will they meet near here or pass beyond. Good gracious, how
fast that horse is coming! Will father never get here! It is an Indian!
Whizeration!” she exclaimed, as she ducked behind the bowlder. A Navajo
rode into sight, bristling all over with weapons. He had two sets of
bows and arrows, one revolver, two bowie-knives, and a tomahawk. He
bent over and looked anxiously ahead, as if expecting to meet some one.
“Oh, if he looks behind we are dead, that’s sure!” thought Bushy.
Just then Spott limped into sight. Bushy saw at a glance that her
father was not prepared for the Indian. She reeled, and you would have
felt certain she was going to fall; but, clutching her revolver, her
face taking on that same queer, old expression, she glided out, where
she could take good aim at the Indian.
Mr. Sukolt, expecting Bushy, and knowing nothing of the Indian trouble
had not thought it strange to hear a horse coming. At the sight of the
Indian he jerked Spott sideways, just in time to escape an arrow. At
the same moment came a report from Bushy’s revolver. The Indian reeled
and fell head first off the pony, but, like a rubber ball, was up
with a bound, and, giving a blood-curdling yell, raised his tomahawk
and sprang at Bushy. She fired again, but missed him--the shot taking
effect in the breast of poor Spott, who had wheeled herself in direct
line of the firing.
Bushy saw Spott fall, and, fearing that her father was hurt, she
screamed, “Padre, Padre! what have I done?” Then she was thrown flat on
the ground, face downward, by Rover, who, till then, had not left her
heels. At her cry, he sprang upon her back, over her head, and clinched
his big white teeth in the throat of the Indian, just as the savage was
about to strike Bushy’s head with his tomahawk. The struggle between
man and beast lasted only a second, for the butt of Mr. Sukolt’s
revolver, which he brought down with all his force on the skull of the
redskin, would have knocked the latter senseless had not the bullet
fired by Bushy already done its work. The fellow fell dead with Rover
still clinging to his throat.