Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.) -- Fiction; Western stories
They had got two mules killed, so that there could be no driving away in
a hurry, and I saw that killing men was not a part of their war, unless
required as a means to their end. Major Pidcock had spared them this
necessity; I could see him nowhere; and with him to imitate I need not
pause to account for the members of our dismounted escort. Two soldiers,
indeed, lay on the ground, the sergeant and another, who had evidently
fired a few resisting shots; but let me say at once that these poor
fellows recovered, and I saw them often again through this adventure
that bound us together, else I could not find so much hilarity in my
retrospect. Escort wagon and ambulance stood empty and foolish on the
road, and there lay the ingenious stone all by itself, and the carbines
all by themselves foolish in the wagon, where the innocent soldiers had
left them on getting out to move the stone. Smoke loitered thin and blue
over this now exceedingly quiet scene, and I smelt it where I sat. How
secure the robbers had felt themselves, and how reckless of
identification! Mid-day, a public road within hearing of a ranch, an
escort of a dozen regulars, no masks, and the stroke perpetrated at the
top of a descent, contrary to all laws of road agency. They swarmed into
sight from their ramparts. I cannot tell what number, but several I had
never seen before and never saw again; and Mr. Adams and yellow and
black curly looked so natural that I wondered if Jenks and the Bishop
would come climbing down too. But no more old friends turned up that
day. Some went to the ambulance swift and silent, while others most
needlessly stood guard. Nothing was in sight but my seated inoffensive
form, and the only sound was, somewhere among the rocks, the voice of
the incessant negress speeding through her prayers. I saw them at the
ambulance, surrounding, passing, lifting, stepping in and out,
ferreting, then moving slowly up with their booty round the hill's brow.
Then silence; then hoofs; then silence again, except the outpouring
negress, scriptural, melodious, symbolic:
"'Oh--Lawd!
Sinner is in my way, Daniel.'"
All this while I sat on the stone. "They have done us brown," I said
aloud, and hearing my voice waked me from whatever state I had been in.
My senses bounded, and I ran to the hurt soldiers. One was very sick. I
should not have known what to do for them, but people began to arrive,
brought from several quarters by the fusillade--two in a wagon from
Cedar Springs, two or three on horses from the herds they were with in
the hills, and a very old man from somewhere, who offered no assistance
to any one, but immediately seated himself and began explaining what we
all should have done. The negress came out of her rocks, exclamatory
with pity over the wounded, and, I am bound to say, of more help to them
than any of us, kind and motherly in the midst of her ceaseless
discourse. Next arrived Major Pidcock in his duster, and took charge of
everything.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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