Chapter XVIII: Red Buffalo Meets His Fate

The fugitives were slowly but surely losing ground, and so they urged their horses to the utmost. For the next mile they managed to keep up the distance between them and their pursuers.

At a word from Red Buffalo the Comanches slid onto their spare horses, and _then_ the gain was plainly seen by both parties.

And now, away ahead the old hunter spies trees, and his object is to reach these if possible. There a stand can be made with a little chance of success, whereas, out on the open plain, they would be sure in the end to go under, though there would be a terrible struggle made before that could happen.

Again and again the three who rode mustangs kicked their heels into the sides of their small but game steeds, and the latter exerted every muscle and sinew to increase their speed.

Barry Le Clare could have easily distanced the Comanches on his noble white horse, Snow Cloud, but he was as brave a man as the sun ever shone upon. Never would he leave a comrade in danger. No, rather than do that he would suffer a dozen deaths.

His nature was a noble one, and when a man with his will resolved to do any thing, that thing was surely done.

He knew that it was his duty to stay by his comrades, and die with them if necessary, and his mind was made up to do it.

To tell the truth, he had no idea of running away.

The race was coming to a termination, for the whites were being overtaken, hand over hand. The trees were some distance off, and Ralph saw that the Indians would be up with them before they could reach the “motte” of timber beyond.

He resolves, however, to get as near to the trees as possible, and then to make a stand. It would then be “hilt to hilt.” What would be the issue? Were the four whites doomed to a horrible death?

The next fifteen minutes would decide their fate.

It looked very much as though they would never see another day, for ten to one, nay twelve to one, was more than enough to lay them out. The Indians now saw what the whites were aiming for, and they increased their speed so as to come up with them before the trees were reached. Both the horses that the Comanches led, and those that they rode were tired now, and had the fugitives only had fresh ones to mount they could have easily ridden away.

But the three mustangs were even more tired than those of the Indians, and at length Ralph saw that they must make a stand.

They were within a hundred yards of the trees, but the leading Comanches were up to them.

A word to his comrades sufficed to let them know his intentions, and then like a flash the whole four suddenly stopped in their wild career. Their rifles were discharged without lifting them to their shoulders.

There was no time to do this. Every second was precious to the whites, and every one must be used in diminishing the number of their foes. Every one of the rifle-bullets proved to hold a life in it.

Three warriors (the nearest to them) received the balls in their breasts, and with wild screams that were heard above the howls and yells of their comrades, they threw up their arms wildly above their heads, and letting their weapons drop to the ground, they slipped from their horses, and followed after them.

Giving his rifle a whirl around his head, the old hunter let it fly at one of his enemies. The Indian saw it coming and quickly dodged. He thus escaped a hard blow, but although the heavy rifle missed the one it was aimed at, yet it did its work.

An Indian behind the one aimed at, received it full in his breast, and he fell backward from his horse, pulling a comrade with him.

As the hunter threw his gun, the right arm of Monsieur Tierney was extended, and a faint crack was heard by his comrades.

The Indians heard nothing but they saw a little cloud of smoke, and also saw a comrade fall heavily from his horse.

Again the tiny revolver sounds the death-warrant of an Indian, and by this time the others had their pistols out.

Crack! crack! crack! they went, sounding high and clear above the noise of the combat. Again the deadly revolvers flashed out fire, smoke, and lead. Again the Indians recoiled before this deadly fire.

Then with a yell of rage that rolled hoarsely along the plain, they dashed forward, and the fight became a general hand-to-hand struggle.

The cracking of the revolvers scared the Indians for a time, but at length these gave out. As they did so, the whites threw them at their foes, knocking several from their saddles with these missiles.

The ones knocked over got upon their feet again, but one and all had badly damaged faces.

And now the combat was hand to hand, hilt to hilt.

Which of the two parties will prove victorious, and which will come out of the small end of the horn.

The knives of the three men were out, and in full play.

The little naturalist was using his heavy umbrella with great effect. This was a novel weapon to the Indians, and they are generally afraid of any thing new, even though it is not deadly.

Therefore they kept as far away from the “monsieur” as they possibly could. He managed to knock at least half a dozen from their horses, however, and began to get so excited that he broke into a torrent of French words.

His tongue ran on like a machine, freshly greased, and the Indians looked with wonder upon him. They thought that all persons who talked so much were either women or cowards.

Yet here was a brave man who could beat any talker they had ever seen. At every blow he gave a shrill yell and then went to work again with both his umbrella and his tongue.

As to the knives which the other three carried, the Indians were used to them, and they pressed our friends pretty closely.

The chief, Red Buffalo, was trying hard to get at the old hunter, and the latter nothing loth, was not trying to keep out of his way. At length the two came together, and the old hunter decided that then and there he would put an end to Red Buffalo, even though he was doomed to die the next moment.

Both carried knives, and as they came together, they raised them to strike. The Indian chief had mingled a great deal with the whites, and had learned many of their customs.

Among others, he had learned how to use a knife in quite a skillful manner, and now the hunter saw that he had no mean antagonist to deal with. Blow after blow followed in quick succession, and the others all stopped fighting to witness the struggle between the two leaders.

The Indian chief knew the power of his enemy’s arm, and he took care not to get within reach of it.

If the hunter ever clasped him in his arms, he would crush the life out of him, as easily as a grizzly bear.

Red Buffalo had, many a time heard of the great strength of the renowned Hunter Hercules, and he had seen some of his exploits himself, therefore he was pretty well acquainted with the latter’s mode of squeezing his enemy to death.

The chief thought that he was a match for the hunter with his knife, but soon the other whites saw that their comrade was just fooling with the Comanche.

Clash, went the knives against each other. Steel hit upon steel, and as if he was being beaten, the hunter went back a little.

He guided his horse with his knees, and the intelligent animal knew just which way its master wished it to go.

The chief, thinking that he was about to be the victor, gave a yell of triumph, and pressed his enemy more closely.

A grim smile lit up the rugged face of the hunter.

A dozen times he could have given the “coup de grace,” but he wanted to keep up the fight as long as possible, for he wanted to give his comrades a rest.

As for himself, there was no tiring him out. His muscles were like iron, and he could outlast any two men.

Again and again the Indian sought to put his knife into the hunter’s breast, but each time he was foiled by the latter, who easily warded off the fierce blows.

Had the Indian been an experienced fighter he would never have left his breast unguarded when he lunged out so fiercely. Even the horses of the two mortal foes seemed to hate each other, for they bit and kicked at each other, and reared up in their rage. At length, Ralph resolved to end the fight.

Just then he heard a shout of warning from one of his comrades. A hasty glance over his shoulder served to show him the cause of it. Three Indians were hastening to the aid of their chief. The hunter resolved that they should come up too late. A loud, terrible hurrah pealed forth from their lips, and like a thunderbolt he came upon the chief.

The latter’s attempt to guard off the deadly blows that were rained down upon him were useless.

A heavy blow from the hunter’s knife gave him his quietus, and like a stricken hog, he gave a grunt, and fell from his horse, stone dead. The knife had cut his black heart in twain.

Another yell came from Ralph as he turned, and in a moment he was upon the three warriors, who were coming to the aid of their chief. His knife pierced the breast of one of them, and he fell from his steed with the deadly blade in his body.

The Comanches saw that the hunter was now unarmed, and they thought they could easily kill him now.

Never were men more utterly mistaken in their lives.

Seizing hold of one of them he pulled him from his horse.

Then all saw that the man had been rightly named the Hunter Hercules. With what seemed to be a slight effort to what he was capable of making, he raised the heavy Indian above his head, and after balancing him a couple of seconds, sent him forward with a velocity that man had never seen before. It seemed as though he had been shot from the mouth of a cannon. The second Indian was struck in the breast by the first, and he was knocked a dozen feet from his horse.

Barry could not help thinking what a star the hunter would make in a circus.