Dakota Indians -- Wars, 1876 -- Fiction; Little Bighorn, Battle of the, Mont., 1876 -- Fiction; Western stories
"Thought not; always heard you fought with a gun. Caught no sight of
the feller after ye got up?"
"All I saw then was the crowd blocking the door-way. I knew they had
caught me lying on Slavin, with my hand grasping the knife-hilt, and,
someway, I couldn't think of anything just then but how to get out of
there into the open. I 've seen vigilantes turn loose before, and knew
what was likely to happen!"
"Sure. Recognize anybody in that first bunch?"
"Big Jim, the bartender, was the only one I knew; he had a bung-starter
in his hand."
Mason nodded thoughtfully, his mouth puckered. "It's him, and half a
dozen other fellers of the same stripe, who are kickin' up all this
fracas. The most of 'em are yonder now, an' if it wus n't fer leavin'
a prisoner unprotected, darn me if I wud n't like to mosey right down
thar an' pound a little hoss sense into thet bunch o' cattle. Thet's
'bout the only thing ye kin do fer a plum fool, so long as the law
won't let ye kill him."
They lapsed into contemplative silence, each man busied with his own
thought, and neither perceiving clearly any probable way out of the
difficulty. Hampton spoke first.
"I 'm really sorry that you got mixed up in this, Buck, for it looks to
me about nine chances out of ten against either of us getting away from
here unhurt."
"Oh, I don't know. It's bin my experience thet there's allers chances
if you only keep yer eyes skinned. Of course them fellers has got the
bulge; they kin starve us out, maybe they kin smoke us out, and they
kin sure make things onpleasant whenever they git their long-range guns
to throwin' lead permiscous. Thet's their side of the fun. Then, on
the other hand, if we kin only manage to hold 'em back till after dark
we maybe might creep away through the bush to take a hand in this
little game. Anyhow, it 's up to us to play it out to the limit.
Bless my eyes, if those lads ain't a-comin' up right now!"
A half-dozen men were starting to climb the hillside, following a dim
trail through the tangled underbrush. Looking down upon them, it was
impossible to distinguish their faces, but two among them, at least,
carried firearms. Mason stepped up on to the ore-dump where he could
see better, and watched their movements closely.
"Hi, there!" he called, his voice harsh and strident. "You fellers are
not invited to this picnic, an' there'll be somethin' doin' if you push
along any higher."
The little bunch halted instantly just without the edge of the heavy
timber, turning their faces up toward the speaker. Evidently they
expected to be hailed, but not quite so soon.
"Now, see here, Buck," answered one, taking a single step ahead of the
others, and hollowing his hand as a trumpet to speak through, "it don't
look to us fellers as if this affair was any of your funeral, nohow,
and we 've come 'long ahead of the others just on purpose to give you a
fair show to pull out of it afore the real trouble begins. _Sabe_?"
"Is thet so?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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