Buffalo Bill, Peacemaker OR, ON A TROUBLESOME TRAIL

BY

Colonel Prentiss Ingraham

Author of the celebrated “Buffalo Bill” stories published in the Border Stories. For other titles see catalogue.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1910

By STREET & SMITH

Buffalo Bill, Peacemaker

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.

IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL).

It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody, used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of the New York Weekly. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these old-timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo Bill for Street & Smith.

Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than a wilderness.

When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas “Border War,” young Bill assumed the difficult rôle of family breadwinner. During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the arduous life of a pony-express rider. Cody volunteered his services as government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the Seventh Kansas Cavalry.

During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis, Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6, 1866.

In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was in this period that he received the sobriquet “Buffalo Bill.”

In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody[2] served as scout and guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of the command.

After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of scouts.

Colonel Cody’s fame had reached the East long before, and a great many New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and J. G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody was accustomed to arrange wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business.

Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his “Wild West” show, which later developed and expanded into “A Congress of the Rough Riders of the World,” first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the Marquis of Lorne, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales, now King of England.

At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National Guard.

Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10, 1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage, and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into the Great Beyond.

[5]

BUFFALO BILL, PEACEMAKER.

CHAPTER I. THE PRISONER IN THE DUGOUT.

Fate was in a very capricious mood when Buffalo Bill and his pards carried their activities into the Lone Star State. They galloped over the plains and plunged full tilt into one of the most surprising misplays ever made by that arrant gamester—Chance.

There was a triangle of blunders, and it so happened that there was a pard in each corner, ready to take advantage of what came his way and turn misfortune into fortune for Cattleman Perry, his daughter Hattie, and a worthy cowboy of the name of Dunbar. The powerful clique of cattle barons were beaten at their own game of freeze out—and for this they had the scout and his pards to thank.

Buffalo Bill dropped into his corner of the complication on the wide grazing grounds, en route to the town of Hackamore, where he was to join Wild Bill, old Nomad, the trapper, who had shared many dangers with the scout, Baron von Schuitzenhauser, his Dutch pard, and Little Cayuse, his Indian trailer. And when it is said that he “dropped” into the complication, the statement is to be taken literally.

It was a night, a night made brilliant by moon and stars. The scout was two days from Portales, New Mexico,[6] having diverged from the trail taken by his pards in order to halt for half a day in the town of Texico.

Buffalo Bill was off the trail, a plainsman having shown him a short cut that was to save many miles of saddle work. As Bear Paw forged ahead at a slow, steady gallop, the scout rocked gently in his saddle, half dozing.

He did not see the stovepipe that rose out of the ground in front of him, nor did he see the little ridgelike lifting of the earth adjacent to the stovepipe.

Bear Paw saw the pipe, however, and to evade it attempted to cross the small elevation. Intelligent horse though he was, how was he to know that elevation was not solid earth?

The black charger was in for a surprise. It was sprung with demoralizing suddenness.

Two strides carried Bear Paw over the high point of the ridge; a third stride brought a crash under his rear hoofs, and the after part of his body slumped downward.

A startled yell, seemingly coming out of the very earth, smote on the scout’s ears.

Caught at a disadvantage by the accident, Buffalo Bill was thrown backward out of his saddle and clear of the struggling horse.

Bear Paw’s front hoofs were on solid ground and, with a prodigious effort, he saved himself from sinking and clambered to safety beyond the deceptive ridge. But the scout dropped through the breach, grabbed at a log rafter, missed it, and fell in a huddle for a distance of ten feet.

He brought up on all fours, jarred through and through and blinking in a cloud of dust and a flood of[7] lamplight. A clutter of dirt and broken poles lay around him.

The transformation from an easy gallop over the cool, open plain to this underground hole with its light and dust, had been so abrupt that the scout was taken at a loss.

But he was not the only one taken at a loss. In front of him, as the flurry of dust was wafted aside, he saw a strapping figure in hickory shirt, homespun trousers and cowhide boots—a figure topped with a mop of red hair, under which was a lean, leathery face.

The face of the figure was blank. Two washed-out blue eyes stared at the scout; and the scout, on hands and knees, stared back.

“Who in blazes are ye?” demanded the red-headed man, all at once finding his voice.

“A stranger and a traveler,” answered the scout, the ludicrous nature of the situation gradually appealing to him. “A man who—er—a-tchoo!”

“What d’ye mean by knockin’ a hole in the roof an’ slammin’ in on me like this?” went on the other, coming out of his surprise with a manner distinctly hostile.

The scout picked himself up slowly, felt of his bruises, and gave vent to a grewsome laugh.

“If you think, amigo, that I meant to knock a hole in your roof,” said he, “you’ve another guess coming. If I had planned to pay you a visit I wouldn’t have gone about it like this, would I?”

“How do I know who ye are, or what ye’d do?” fumed the other, far and away more savage than the scout thought the mishap warranted. “I don’t want no truck with ye, anyways. If ye didn’t allow ter pay me a visit, an’ if ye ain’t here from ch’ice, then yore next move is[8] ter git out as quick as ye come in. Them’s the stairs”—he waved a hand toward a ladder that led upward to a flat door in the roof—“an’ at the same time we says hello, we also says good-by. Start yerself.”

“I’m not inclined to stay here any longer than you want to have me,” answered the scout, “but I landed with something of a jolt. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just catch my breath before I try the stairs.”

“It ain’t all the same ter me,” barked the man. “I want ye ter go, an’ I want ye ter go ter oncet! With this ter back up the invite, I reckon ye won’t stand none on the order ter hike.”

The red-haired man made a swipe at his belt and lifted a hairy hand with a six-shooter. Buffalo Bill looked him in the eye and then coolly sat down on a two-legged stool that happened to be handy.

“I’ve heard a good deal about Texas hospitality,” said he, “but you’re giving it a hardware twist that I don’t like. And when I don’t like a thing,” he added significantly, “I’m apt to make it pretty plain.”

“Ye kain’t run in any rannikaboo on me,” snorted the red-haired person, jabbing the air with the point of his gun. “Ye say yer drappin’ in was a accident. I’m lettin’ it go at that, an’ givin’ ye a chance ter depart without any fireworks. An’ I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about the damage ye done ter the dugout, nuther. Pick up yore hat an’ scatter. I’ll count three. When I say ‘one,’ ye’ll reach fer the hat; when I say ‘two,’ ye’ll be on the stairs; an’ when I say ‘three,’ ye’ll either be through that door in the roof or I’ll drop ye in yer tracks.”

The barbarous methods of this red-haired man were utterly uncalled for. He was showing a spirit that needed taming.

[9]

Buffalo Bill dropped his eyes to the litter on the floor. His hat lay there, and from under the brim of the hat showed two inches of revolver-muzzle. One of the scout’s six-shooters had been jarred from his belt and had fallen under the sombrero.

“One!”

The word was a yelp, and the blued barrel of the Texan’s gun looked the scout full in the face.

“All right,” said Buffalo Bill cheerily.

He reached for his hat with both hands. But only one hand picked up the hat; the other caught the handle of the six-shooter.

Then something happened which the Texan had not been looking for. As the scout arose from the stool, the report of a firearm split the air. A bullet passed through the crown of the sombrero, singed the Texan’s ear and clipped a lock of his red hair.

For an instant, barely an instant, the Texan’s revolver shook uncertainly. That instant spelled opportunity for the scout. With the speed of thought he grabbed the hostile gun, jerked it away, and looked over the sights at its owner.

“Why don’t you count ‘two?’” inquired the scout pleasantly.

But the Texan had lost the count. Instead of trying to find it, and go on with it, he began to swear.

“Sit down,” ordered Buffalo Bill. “I’ve caught my breath, all right, but I want to read you a lesson in common civility, and show you how to treat a traveler who accidentally drops in on you through the roof of your dugout.”

Some one laughed. It was not the red-haired man, of course, for he was in anything but a merry mood.[10] The laughter came from behind the scout, and was the first intimation that there was any one else in the place.

The scout could not very well turn from the red-haired man and investigate.

“Who’s doing that?” he demanded.

“You git right out o’ here!” flamed the red-haired man. “This ain’t none o’ yore put-in, or——”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” cut in the scout sharply. “Who are you, behind there?”

“Nate Dunbar,” came the answer.

“If you’re a friend of this red-headed rawhide, Dunbar,” proceeded the scout, “why don’t you step up behind me and help him put me out?”

“For two reasons,” answered the voice behind. “First off, neighbor, I’m no friend of Red Steve’s. Then, again, I’m lashed and laid away on the shelf. If I was able to move, I’d take Red Steve down and choke the breath out of him.”

“Dunbar’s a hoss thief that I’ve captured,” cried Red Steve, “an’ I want ye ter go on erbout yore bizness an’ leave us alone.”

“I’m no horse thief,” said Dunbar, “and Red Steve talks crooked. He’s working for Benner, and Phelps, and the rest of those cattle barons on the Brazos. It’s tin-horn work, too, and Red has to use the double tongue.”

“I thought there was something more than just common incivility back of his treatment of me,” observed the scout, a glitter rising in the eyes that looked across the revolver sights. “Don’t you try to talk!” he said sternly to the man in front of him. “Walk around and take the ropes off Dunbar. When I count ‘one,’ you’ll begin to move; when I say ‘two,’ you’ll begin on the ropes; and[11] when I finish with ‘three,’ if Dunbar isn’t clear of his bonds, I’ll do something more than singe your ear and take a lock of your red hair. Chance, it seems, has bobbled, and dropped me into the right place at just about the right time. Now, then, one!”

There was that in the scout’s eyes and manner which caused Red Steve to start promptly toward the other side of the dugout. As he moved, the scout turned on the stool and let the revolver follow him.

[12]

CHAPTER II. THE GAME OF “FREEZE OUT.”

On the plains of northwest Texas, in an early day, the dugout was a popular institution. No wind could shake such a house, and no earthquake could topple it over. In most structures, a man begins at the bottom and builds to the top, but in a dwelling like that under consideration a man begins at the top and works downward.

The usual underground house measured about fifteen by twenty feet, and was from seven to ten feet in height. Some three feet from the floor the walls were abruptly widened out, thus giving a shelf in the earthen wall. This shelf extended around the whole room, and was three feet in width—or more or less according to the fancy of the owner.

The shelf took the place of chairs, of dining table and of bunks. A few three-legged stools might be added, if the one who occupied the underground house had the wood and the time necessary to make them.

A fireplace was usually cut in the solid dirt wall and, with an ordinary posthole augur, a chimney was bored down to it. A joint of stovepipe, extending upward from the top of the hole, gave the fireplace a chance to breathe.

The construction of the roof was as simple as that of the rest of the house.

A log was laid lengthwise across the top of the dugout, in the direction of its greatest length. This was the ridgepole. Smaller logs were then placed with[13] one end on this and the other on the ground. Poles covered the rafters, hay covered the poles, and a layer of earth covered the hay. A door was contrived in the slant of roof from the ridgepole. Stairs communicating with the door were sometimes cut in the solid earth, and sometimes—as in the case of Red Steve’s dugout—the only stairway was a stepladder.

In a cattle country, where cowboys go galloping recklessly over the range, or where longhorns occasionally stampede, it stands the dugout dweller in hand to make his roof exceptionally strong. Either Red Steve had failed to make his roof of the proper strength, or else age had weakened it.

This was not the scout’s first visit to such a house, but it was the first time he had ever dropped bodily into a dugout and into the curious tangle he had found in this one.

A tin lamp stood on the earthen shelf. Red Steve, covered by the scout’s revolver, moved sullenly to the shelf at the end of the dugout. There, somewhat in the shadow, lay the form of a cowboy. The scout could not see much of him, but he knew very well that he would see more of him later.

“Two!” called Buffalo Bill. “That’s your cue to begin the untying, Red Steve.”

“This ain’t goin’ ter be the end of this,” snarled the red-haired Texan. “Ye ain’t got no bizness buttin’ in on me an’ makin’ me let this feller go. Some big men over on the Brazos’ll call ye ter time fer it.”

“I’ll foot any bill the big men over on the Brazos present,” returned the scout. “Meanwhile, you heard what I said a minute ago, Red Steve. Carry out your orders and there’ll be no trouble.”

[14]

“But ye don’t understand! This here galoot is a villain from the spurs up, so——”

“I can’t see much of him, but if he’s more of a villain than you’ve shown yourself to be, I’ll be more surprised than I was when I dropped through your roof. I said ‘two’ all of a minute ago,” the scout finished significantly.

Swearing under his breath, Red Steve went roughly to work at the ropes on the prisoner’s hands.

“He’s trying to tear my arms off, I reckon,” growled Nate Dunbar.

Bang!

Steve’s weapon spoke hoarsely from the scout’s hand. A bullet “plunked” into the earth wall over the shelf, fanning close to Steve’s face.

“I haven’t counted ‘three,’ yet,” said the scout, “so that’s only a warning. Be a little more careful, Steve.”

The red-haired man, by that time, was firmly convinced that his unwelcome visitor had not been talking for effect. In a few moments he had removed the ropes. Dunbar got off the shelf and stamped his feet and thrashed his arms to get his blood back into normal circulation.

As he came out farther into the lamplight, Buffalo Bill saw that he was an athletic young fellow, of about twenty-one or two. He wore the high-heeled boots of a cowboy, “chaps” were buckled about his waist, and a blue flannel shirt covered his broad shoulders. His face was frank and pleasing, not to say handsome.

“You don’t know much about me, pardner,” he remarked to Buffalo Bill, “but I can show a clean record.”

“I’ll gamble on that, amigo,” said the scout. “Just from the looks of you, Dunbar, I’m positive I haven’t[15] made any mistake. How did you happen to fall into Red Steve’s clutches?”

“It was a put-up job,” was the answer. “Steve’s working for the cattlemen over on the Brazos, and they were paying him to keep me here until they figured out what to do with me.”

“Are you a rancher?”

“I’m a cattleman, and I’ve an interest in Dick Perry’s bunch of steers.”

“Who’s Dick Perry?”

“He’s the man the other cattlemen are trying to freeze out.”

A scowl came over Dunbar’s face and his eye flashed ominously.

“Why are the cattle barons trying to freeze him out?” asked the scout, conscious of a deep interest in the young cowboy and his fortunes.

“It’s all on account of Hattie.”

“Hattie?”

“Yes, Hattie Perry, Dick’s girl.”

“Ah! We’re running into romance, I reckon.”

The scowl faded from Dunbar’s face and a flush ran through his bronzed cheeks.