There was nothing to cause apprehension on the part of the cowboys in camp, when they heard the report of a single rifle from beyond the ridge over which Captain Shirril, Avon Burnet, and the young Comanche Shackaye had ridden in pursuit of the cattle that went astray the night before. One of the party might have found a chance to bring down something in the nature of game, which is liable to be encountered at every part of the Great Cattle Trail, from the outskirts of the capital of Texas to its termination in the State of Kansas.

But when, soon after, the shots came thick and fast, it was apparent that something unusual was going on.

“There’s mischief afoot!” called out Gleeson, “and that Comanche is at the bottom of it. Come, boys!”

There was not an instant’s hesitation on the part of any member of the company. The cattle that were quietly browsing on the succulent grass were left to wander off or stampede themselves, or do whatever they chose, while the cowboys, including Nunez, the Mexican, swung into their saddles and sped away on a dead run toward the ridge.

Before they reached it the missing cattle came up from the other side and appeared on the crest. The advent of the steer that had suffered so severely at the hands of Avon Burnet imparted a mild panic to the others, so that the whole lot were on a trot. The horsemen were in too great haste to turn aside, and the animals, therefore, swerved to the right and continued their brisk gait in the direction of the main herd.

As has been said, every mustang was running at the highest speed, but the impetuous Gleeson maintained his place in front, and thundered up the slope as if his own life were at stake. Before he struck the crest, he rose in his box-stirrups and peered over at the plain beyond.

“Just what I expected!” he exclaimed, “and that Shackaye has done it!”

It was not necessary to explain, for, before he could have done so, his comrades caught sight of the stirring scene which thrilled their leader. Captain Shirril and his nephew were standing off a party of dusky assailants, who were pressing them hard. The two mustangs were plainly seen, while the flashes of the Winchesters from behind them told the story as eloquently as if the cowboys were actual participants in the affray.

Not another word was uttered by the latter, but pressing their spurs deep into the flanks of their horses they sent them with arrowy haste straight toward the spot. They had hardly reached the base of the slope when they held their breath, for they saw the crisis had come. The red men were closing around the two combatants as if they realized that whatever was to be accomplished must be done within the succeeding few seconds.

Half the distance was passed, when the Comanches were observed scurrying toward a mass of hills hardly a half-mile distant. They 279 rode so closely that the cowboys failed to note the momentous fact that they bore a prisoner with them.

In such emergencies a party of American Indians generally manage to carry off their dead and wounded, but the haste was too urgent in this case. The stark figures were left stretched on the prairies where they had fallen, and a number of animals also lay motionless near. The wounded were taken care of, but the dead were left to bury the dead.

The cowboys discharged a score of shots at the Comanches, but the distance was too great to accomplish anything, and, seeing that it was impossible to overtake them before they reached the shelter of the wooded hills, Gleeson led the party toward the spot where they believed their friends needed instant care.

The prostrate horses, and a partial glimpse of a figure lying between them, caused the rescuers to believe that the captain and his nephew were either slain outright or badly hurt.

The approaching mustangs kept up their run until they were thrown on their haunches 280 with such suddenness that the shock seemed to fling the riders from their saddles. They leaped forward, and vigorous arms quickly lifted the body of the captain’s horse from off young Burnet, who opened his eyes and looked up with that faint wildness which showed he had no conception of the situation.

“Where’s the captain?”

This was the question that was asked by several, as all glared around for their leader. Before anyone attempted an answer, others examined the nephew and found he was without a wound. He had swooned under the sudden pressure of the horse shot by his uncle, but he quickly recovered, and, after being assisted to his feet and shaking himself together, everything came back to him. Turning to Thunderbolt he ordered him to rise, and the animal obeyed. He had received a couple of flesh-wounds, which stung him for the moment without incapacitating him for effective service.

Then, in as few words as possible, Avon told his story. He remembered that his uncle was 281 wounded before his horse was killed, and it was self-evident to everyone that the poor man had been carried off by the Comanches.

“Did you see Shackaye among ’em?” asked Gleeson, his face like a thunder-cloud.

“He was not with those who attacked us; I could not have failed to see him if he had been.”

“But what became of him? He started off with you, and you must have parted somewhere on the road.”

Young Burnet now told about Shackaye’s encounter with the steer which came near slaying him. Avon’s pursuit of the other troublesome animal withdrew all attention from him, and there was no certainty of the manner of his disappearance, which, to say the least, was extraordinary.

But the absence of Captain Shirril forbade that the cowboys should waste time in idleness. Instinctively every eye was turned toward the hills to the eastward among which the Comanches had vanished with their captive.

“They haven’t had time to go far,” said 282 Zach Collis, “and if we ride hard we shall soon run ’em down.”

“But is it best to try that?” was the question of Ward Burrell, or Old Bronze.

Gleeson, who was naturally looked upon as the leader, shook his head. “They’ll brain him the minute there’s a chance of losing him.”

“But why did they take him off and spare me?” asked the astonished Avon.

“They thought you was dead and so didn’t bother with you.”

“Why did they make him prisoner instead of doing what they had been trying so long to do––kill him?”

“He’s of more account than you; he was the chap they was after, and not you.”

“It looked for a time as though they had designs on me.”

The words of the Texan acted like a damper on the ardor of his companions, who were eager to hasten to the rescue of their captain. Had they not known that he was wounded, it is likely they would have insisted upon an instant and vigorous pursuit; but none failed 283 to see the truth of Gleeson’s utterances, though it was only a few minutes before that he was as impatient as any of them.

“Boys,” said he, observing that they were looking at him, “I think you know what all this means as well as I do. If we had ’em out on the plains where there was a fair chance, or if the cap could put in some licks for himself, it would be different; but they’re among them hills over there; they’re watching us now; we can’t make a move that they won’t know it the minute it’s started; they’ve got it on us, and just as soon as they see there’s any show of losing the cap they’ll finish him.”

“Ballyhoo is right,” remarked Wynwood, commonly known as Madstone; “they’ve got us foul.”

“That being so, there aint any use for you, pards; so go back to camp, look after the cattle, and leave things to me.”

The meaning of this proposition, which may sound strange to the reader, was that the only possible way of saving Captain Shirril was by negotiating for his release. The fact that the Comanches knew he was in charge of two 284 thousand cattle, and had made him prisoner instead of slaying him, established this truth in the minds of Oscar Gleeson and his comrades.

Furthermore, the Texan was confirmed in his belief that the act of Shackaye in joining the company before the start was the first step in an elaborate plot. It was his province to win the confidence of the captain, and to communicate, in the many secret ways so well understood by his people, with the Comanches, and to help when the time came for the important movement.

His absence at the critical period gave color to this theory. Circumstances had helped the treacherous red men, for it was as if Captain Shirril walked directly into the trap set by them.

It was a brave act on Gleeson’s part to venture alone among the hills in the hope of opening communication with the red men, when, if there was any mistake, he would be completely at their mercy. But he had uttered his decision with the air and manner of one who would brook no dispute. He 285 waved his friends off, and, wheeling about, they rode in the direction of the camp, frequently looking back at the daring fellow who realized as fully as they the delicate and perilous task he had taken upon himself.

Reaching the top of the ridge which has been referred to so often, the first glance was at the herd of cattle, which it was instantly seen required looking after. They had drifted far to the westward, and were so scattered as to need rounding-up in a general way or rather herding. Everything was favorable for good progress that day, since the stream to be crossed was small and shallow, and the sky was not only clear but the air just crisp enough to render travelling pleasant. But there was no thought of going forward until the fate of the captain was settled.

With only a brief halt the cowboys spurred their mustangs down the slope to attend to the cattle, but Avon Burnet remained on the crest, his interest lying elsewhere.

There was only a single small field glass in the company, and as it happened that was in the possession of Captain Shirril, so that the 286 youth had to depend upon his unaided vision. But the atmosphere in the Southwest is generally of crystalline clearness, and he was able to see his friend quite plainly until the hill beyond should hide him from view.

At the moment Avon turned the head of his horse toward the east, the Texan was quite close to the place where the Comanches had taken refuge with their prisoner. His horse was walking slowly, and it was evident he was on the watch for some sign from the red men who held the key to the situation. As he drew nearer his mustang moved still more deliberately, until it was hard to decide whether he was advancing at all.

Looking closely, however, he perceived that Gleeson’s progress had not ceased, and he was making some kind of signal. He had removed the handkerchief from around his neck, and was fluttering it over his head. Although its color debarred it from serving as the regulation flag of truce, there was little doubt that the meaning of its owner would be understood by whomsoever saw it.

“Ah, there they are!”

This exclamation was uttered a few minutes later, when the watcher on the crest caught sight, not of one but of two Indians, who emerged from the hills on foot. They walked directly toward the Texan, their actions proving that they appeared in answer to his signal.

Gleeson, on perceiving them, brought his steed to a stand still and awaited their coming. None could have known better than he that he was within range of the companions of these two warriors, who could shoot him from his horse in the twinkling of an eye.

“And they will do it, too,” said Avon to himself, as the thought came to him; “but I believe I shall take a hand in this business.”

And, without waiting to observe the result of the interview, the young man set out to execute an extraordinary resolution that was formed on the spur of the moment.