Custer's Last Shot; or, The Boy Trailer of the Little HornTravers, J. M., Col.
General
Custer's Last Shot; or, The Boy Trailer of the Little Horn
Travers, J. M., Col.
Custer, George A. (George Armstrong), 1839-1876 -- Fiction; Dime novels; Little Bighorn, Battle of the, Mont., 1876 -- Fiction
"Cuss the thing," he muttered at length. "Bolly Wherrit, ye're
growing inter yer second childhood; thar's eggscitin' times comin'
off now, and hyar ye lie tied neck and heel. Didn't I hyar what them
infernal renegades talked 'bout jest then. Custer, my pet, a-comin',
tearin', whoopin' at this hyar town wid his cavalry. Lordy, won't the
yaller-har'd rooster clean 'em out; don't I know him though. Wonder ef
Major Burt air along. Why didn't I wait fur Pandy. T'ole man tole me
I'd get inter trouble, but consarn the luck, in course a woman's at the
head o' it. Cud I stand it wen that purty face, runnin' over wid tears,
war raised ter mine, an' she a pleadin'? No, sir, fool or not, I'd run
through fire fur a woman, 'cause I kain't never furget my mother. That
gal is in this hyar village. 'Cause why? Sumfin tells me so, and I've
hed that feeling afore. Beside, ain't ole Sittin' Bull hyar, and cudn't
I swar I heerd the voice o' that white devil she tole me about, Pedro
Sanchez she called him, right aside this lodge. Bolly Wherrit, thar's
no good talking, ef ye don't get outen this place in an hour, ye'll
never leave it alive, fur when Custer sails in he never backs out, and
the reds hev a failing fur braining their prisoners, 'specially men
folks. Now do ye set ter work, and show these red whalps that a border
man air sumpin like a bolt o' lightning."
From the manner in which Bolly set to work, it would be supposed that
he had been making efforts at freeing his arms for some time back, and
had only stopped to rest while holding this one-sided conversation with
himself.
Somehow or other he had found a piece of a broken bottle, and had been
sawing away at the cord securing his hands with this, one end being
thrust into the ground, and held upright in the proper position.
Although his wrists and hands were badly lacerated by this rough
method, the ranger possessed the grit to persevere.
Ten minutes after his soliloquy his hands separated. Bolly gave a
sigh of relief, held the bloody members up for inspection, and then,
without an instant's delay, seized upon the sharp-edged glass.
It had taken him hours to free his arms, as he was unable to see,
and his position, while working, exceedingly uncomfortable; the cord
securing his feet he severed in a few minutes.
Something like a chuckle escaped his lips as he stood upright. There
was a mighty stretching of those cramped and tired limbs, and then
Bolly was ready for business.
An ardent desire had seized upon him to take part in the attack which
brave Custer was sure to make.
Fastening the cords around his ankles in a way that looked very secure,
but which was treacherous, the ranger lay down upon the ground.
With his hand he quietly raised one of the skins composing the lodge
and peeped out.
The opening thus formed was not over a couple of inches in length, but
his keen eyes could see everything that was passing.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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