Golden Face: A Tale of the Wild West

“Why did you bring me away from them all this morning?” she said, speaking quickly and in a hard tone. “Did you know what was going to happen?”

The adventurer’s face went ashy white. Even she could entertain such suspicions!

“You forget, Miss Santorex. My tried and trusted friend of years is in that outfit. Should I be likely to sell his scalp, even if I sold those of your friends?”

There was a savour of contempt in the cold incisiveness of his tone that went to her heart. What is baser than the sin of ingratitude? Did she not owe her life – and more than her life – to this man already, and now to be flinging her pitiable and unworthy suspicions at him! Would she ever recover his good opinion again?

“Forgive me!” she cried. “Forgive me! I hardly knew what I was saying.” And she burst into tears. Even yet she would hardly believe but that her fellow-travellers would succeed in holding their own.

Young though the day was, the torrid rays of the sun blazed fiercely down upon the great plains. Some distance in front rose a rugged ridge, almost precipitous. The only passage through this for many miles was a narrow cañon – a mere cleft. Beyond lay miles and miles of heavily-timbered ravines, and for this welcome shelter Vipan was making. This plan he explained to his companion.

“Look! What are those?” she cried, growing suddenly eager. “Indians? No. Wild horses? I didn’t know there were any wild horses in these parts.”

Save for a scattered line of brush here and there, the great plains until they should reach the defile above referred to were treeless, and presented a succession of gentle undulations. Nearly a mile distant, seeming to emerge from one of these belts of brush, careering along in a straggling, irregular line converging obliquely with the path of the two riders, came a large herd of ponies. It almost looked as if the latter were bent on joining them.

Yseulte did not see the change in her companion’s face, so intent was she on watching the ponies.

“Get your horse into a gallop at once, but keep him well in hand,” he said. But before she could turn to him, startled, alarmed by the significance of his tone, the sudden and appalling metamorphosis which came over the scene nearly caused her to fall unnerved from her saddle. By magic, upon the back of each riderless steed there started an upright figure, and, splitting the stillness of the morning air with its loud fiendish quaver, the hideous war-whoop went up from the throats of half a hundred painted and feathered warriors, who, brandishing their weapons and keeping up one long, unbroken, and exultant yell, skimmed over the plain, sure of their prey.

“Keep quite cool, and don’t look back,” he said. “We’ve got to reach that cañon before they do – and we shall. The war-pony that can overhaul old Satanta when he’s in average working order has yet to be built.”

So far good, so far true. But the same would not precisely hold good of Yseulte’s palfrey, which steed, though showy, was not much above the average in pace or staying power.

The race was literally one for life, and the pace was terrific. To the girl it seemed like some fearful dream. Sky and earth, the great mountain rampart reared up in front, all blended together in rocking confusion during that mad race. The yells of the pursuing barbarians sounded horribly nearer, and the pursued could almost hear the whistle of their uncouth trappings as they streamed out on the breeze.

Vipan, reaching over, lashed her horse with a thong which he detached from his saddle. The animal sprang forward, but the spurt was only momentary. And the war-ponies were horribly fresh.

Nearer, nearer. The great rock walls dominating the entrance to the pass loomed up large and distinct. Again he glanced back at the pursuers. Yes, they were gaining. It was more a race than a pursuit – the goal that grim rock-bound pass. Even should the fugitives reach it, what then? Their chances would still be of the slenderest.

Ah, the horror of it! Yseulte, white to the lips, kept her seat by an effort of will, her heart melting with deadly fear. Her companion, fully determined she should never fall alive into the hands of the savages, held his pistol ready, first for them, then for her, his heart burning with bitter curses on his own blind and besotted negligence. It was too late now. They were to founder in sight of land. Ah, the bitterness of it!

Bang!

The whiz of a bullet, simultaneously with a puff of blue smoke – this time in front. Vipan ground his teeth. There was no escape, they were between two fires.

But the regular thunder of the pursuing hoofs seemed to undergo a change. What did it mean?

Bang!

Then a glance over his shoulder told him that as the second ball came whizzing into their midst, the painted warriors had swerved, throwing themselves on the further side of their horses.

Only for a moment, though. Realising that this new enemy represented but a single unit, they hurled themselves forward with redoubled ardour, yelling hideously.

“The gulch, pardner! Streak for the gulch!” sung out a stentorian voice; and sending another bullet among the on-rushing redskins, this time with effect, Smokestack Bill kicked up his horse, which had been lying prone, and in half a minute was flying side by side with his friend.

Short though this check had been, yet it had given them a momentary advantage. But, now, as they neared the mouth of the pass, it became clear to these two experienced Indian fighters that one of them must give his life for the rest.

“Take the young lady on,” said the scout. “You’re in it together, and must get out of it together. Reckon I’ll stand them back long enough for you to strike cover.”

Here was a temptation. Vipan knew well that it was so. A short ten minutes would save her – would save them both. His friend could hold the bloodthirsty savages in check for more than that. A struggle raged within him – a bitter struggle – but he conquered.

“No, no, old pard. I’m the man to stay,” he answered, slipping from his saddle, for they were now at the entrance of the pass. “Good-bye. Take her in safe.”

It was no time for talking. The pursuers, rendered tenfold more daring by the prospect of the most coveted prize of all – a white woman – were almost on their heels, the rocks re-echoing their exultant yells. Yseulte’s horse, maddened with terror and stimulated by a shower of blows from the scout, bounded forward at a tearing gallop.

“Wait, wait! We cannot leave him like this! We must turn back!” she cried, breathless, but unable to control her steed, which was stampeding as though all the Sioux in the North-West were setting fire to its tail.

“Help me! Help me to turn back!” she cried, in a perfect frenzy of despair. “We have deserted him – left him to die!”

Left alone, the bold adventurer felt no longer any hope, but in its stead he was conscious of a wild elation. His death would purchase her safety, and death was nothing in itself, but every moment gained was of paramount importance. Carefully he drew a bead on the charging warriors and fired. A pony fell. Another rapid shot. This time a human victim. This stopped their headlong rush, and still wheeling in circles they hesitated to come nearer.

He glanced around. Overhead, the slopes, almost precipitous, offered many a possible hiding-place. He might even escape – but he was not there for that. He was there to hold back the enemy – till night, if necessary.

The day wore on. The Sioux, who had drawn off to a distance, seemed in no mood to renew the attack. They were resting their ponies.

Suddenly he saw a score of them leap on horseback again and ride rapidly away. What could this mean?

A shadow fell between him and the light. There was a hurtling sound – a crash – and before he could turn or look up, the whole world was blotted out in a stunning, roaring, heaving sea of space. Then faintness, oblivion, death.

Chapter Thirty

“I would rather have died with him.”

Not till they had covered at least two miles could Yseulte Santorex regain the slightest control over her recalcitrant steed. In fact, in her fatigue and nervousness it was as much as ever she could do to keep her seat at all. At length, panting and breathless, she reined in and turned round upon the scout, who had kept close upon her pony’s heels.

“I am going back,” she cried, her great eyes flashing with anger and contempt. “I would sooner die than desert a – a friend.”

“Not to be done, miss,” was the quiet answer. “Vipan said to me the last thing – ‘Bill, on your life take her safe in.’ And on my life I will. You bet.”

Yseulte looked at him again. A thought struck her and she seemed to waver.

“See here, miss,” went on the scout. “Vipan and I have hunted and trapped and prospected together and stood off the reds a goodish number of years. We are pardners, we are, and if he entrusts me with an undertaking of this kind, I’ve got to see it through. Same thing with him. So the sooner we reach Fort Vigilance, where I’m going to take you, and you’re safe among the people there, the sooner I shall be able to double back and try what can be done for Vipan.”

“Oh, I never thought of that. Pray do not let us lose a moment.”

“So. That’s reasonable. You see, miss, it’s this way. Women are terrible dead-weights when it comes to fightin’ Indians. The varmints’ll risk more for a white woman than for all the scalps and plunder in this Territory rolled together. No. Like enough, now that you’re snug away, they’ll turn round and give up my pard as ‘bad medicine.’ I reckon there ain’t a man between Texas and the British line knows Indians better than my pardner. One day he’s fighting ’em, another day he’s smokin’ in their lodges. He knows ’em, he does.”

With this she was forced to be content.

Loyalty to his friend thus moved him to reassure her, but, as a matter of fact, the honest scout felt rather bitter towards this girl. He blamed her entirely for his comrade’s peril. He had narrowly watched that comrade of late, and accurately gauged the state of the latter’s feelings. Why had this fine lady come out there and played the fool with his comrade – the man with whom he had hunted and trapped for years – with whom he had fought shoulder to shoulder in many a fierce scrimmage with white or red enemies? They had stood by each other through thick and thin, and now this English girl had come in the way, and to satisfy her vanity had sent Vipan to his death – his death, possibly, amid the ghastly torments of the Indian stake. She would probably go home again and brag of her “conquest” with a kind of patronising pity.

In silence they kept on their way – the scout’s watchful glance ever on the alert. Suddenly his companion’s voice aroused him from the intensity of his vigilance. He started.

“Tell me,” she said. “What chance is there of rescuing your friend?”

Her tone was so calm, so self-possessed, that in spite of the deathly pallor of her face it deceived the worthy scout. He felt hard as iron towards her.

“About as much chance, I judge, as I have of being elected President,” he replied, gruffly. “And now I want you to know this – If you hadn’t troubled your dainty head about my pard, he wouldn’t be where he is now. And mind me, if it hadn’t been for him, where d’you think you’d be to-day? You’d be wishing you were dead. You’d be doin’ scavenger work in a Sioux village, leading a dog’s life at the hands of every sooty squaw in the camp – if it hadn’t been for Vipan. And now if the Lord works an almighty miracle and I get my pard clear of the red devils, maybe you won’t say overmuch to him if you meet him – won’t be over-anxious to say you’re glad to see him safe and sound again – ”