The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista. Altsheler Joseph Alexander

of treeswith the minutest scrutiny. Then he lowered the glasses, shaking his head.

      "I can't make out anything," he said. "Nothingmoves that I can see. There is no sign of human life."

      "The Comanche iss cunning," said Arenberg. "Harmiss done where harm iss meant, but I for one am willingto meet him."

      The mild German spoke in such a tone of passionthat Phil was startled and looked at him. Arenberg'sblue eyes shone with a sort of blue fire, and he wasunconsciously pressing his horse ahead of the others. Itwas evident, even to one as young as Phil, that he wasstirred to his utmost depths. The boy leaned over andwhispered to Breakstone:

      "He must have some special cause to hate theComanches. You know he was in that massacre at NewBraunfels."

      "That's so," said Breakstone,

      "When you feel the savage knife,

      You remember it all your life."

      "These mild men like Arenberg are terrible when theyare stirred up, Phil. 'Still waters run deep,' whichsounds to me rather Irish, because if they are still theydon't run at all. But it's good all the same, and, between you and me, Phil, I'd give a lot if we were on theother side of this river, which has no name in thegeographies, which rises I don't know where, which emptiesinto I don't know what, and which belongs to I don'tknow whom. But, be that as it may, lay on, Macduff, and I won't be the first to cry 'Hold, enough!'"

      The train took another curve to the northward, approaching the ford, of which the old scouts told. Theswells dipped down, indicating a point at which the banksof the river were low, but they could still see the doubleline of trees lining either shore, and the masses of bushesand weeds that extended along the stream. But nothingstirred them. No wind blew. The boughs of the cottonwoods, live oaks, and willows hung lifeless under thesomber sky. There was still no sign of human presenceor of anything that lived.

      But the men of the train did not relax their caution.They were approaching now up a sort of shallow troughcontaining a dry sandy bed, down which water evidentlyflowed during the wet season into the river. It, also, forthe last half mile before it reached the main stream, hadtrees and bushes on either shore. Middleton suggestedthat they beat up this narrow strip of forest, lest theywalk straight into an ambush. Woodfall thought theidea good, and twenty men scouted the thickets. Theyfound nothing, and many in the train began to feelincredulous. That Comanche had been a mere boaster.He was probably still galloping away over the prairie, putting as much distance as he could between himself andthe Santa Fé train. But Middleton yet distrusted. Heseemed now to be in every sense the leader of the train, and he did it so quietly and with such indirection thatWoodfall took him to be an assistant, and felt no offense.At his prompting, strong bodies of skirmishers werethrown forward on either bank of the dry creek bed, andnow, increasing their pace somewhat, they rapidly drewnear the river.

      It still seemed to Phil that nothing could happen. Itwas true that the skies were gray and somber, but therewas no suggestion of an active and hostile presence, andnow the river was only a hundred yards away. From hishorse's back he could see the surface of the stream-narrow, muddy, and apparently deep. But on the hither shorethere was a gradual slope to its waters, and another of thesame kind on the farther bank seemed to lead up amongthe trees.

      "It ain't so deep as it looks," said an oldfrontiersman. "'Bout four feet, I should say. It'll just 'bouthit the bottoms o' our wagon beds."

      The stream itself was not more than twenty yardswide. One could pass it in a few minutes, if nothingwas thrown across the way, and Phil now began to feelthat the unspoken alarm was false. But just when thefeeling became a conviction and the wagons were not morethan twenty yards from the river, he saw somethinggleaming in the brush on the far shore. It was the dyedfeather of an eagle, and it made a blood red spot againstthe green bushes. Looking closely Phil saw beneath thefeather the light copper face of an Indian, and then heknew that the Comanches were there.

      Scarcely a second after he saw the coppery face, ahurricane of arrows whistled from the covert on the farshore. The short shafts of the Comanches filled the air.Mingled with them was the sharp crashing of rifles, andbullets and arrows whistled together. Then came thelong yell of the Comanches, from scores of throats, highpitched, fierce, defiant, like the scream of a savage beastabout to leap upon its prey. In spite of all his resolution,Phil felt that strong shiver in every nerve from headto heel. Some of the shafts were buried to the feather inthe bodies of the horses and mules, and a terrible tumultarose as the animals uttered their screaming neigh andfought and kicked in pain and terror. Nor did the menescape. One, pierced through the throat by a deadlybarb, fell lifeless from his horse. Another was strickenin the breast, and a dozen were wounded by either arrowsor bullets.

      The train was thrown into confusion, and the driverspulled back on their lines. Sure death seemed to hoverin front of them. The greatest danger arose from thewounded and frightened horses, which plunged andstruggled and tried to break from their harness, but the handson the lines were strong, and gradually they were reducedto order. The wagons, also, were driven back a little, and then the triumphant Comanches sent forth their warwhoop again and again. The short shafts once more flew inshowers, mingled as before with the whistling of thebullets, but most of the missiles, both arrows and bullets, fell short. Now the Comanches appeared thickly amongthe bushes, chiefly on foot, their horses left at the edge ofthe timber, and began to make derisive gestures.

      It seemed to Phil that the crossing of the river wasimpossible in the face of such a fierce and numerous foe, but Middleton and Woodfall had been conferring, andsuddenly the Cap, to use his more familiar name amongthe men, whirled off to the south at the head of a hundredhorsemen. He waved his hand to his three partners, and they galloped with the band.

      "There must be another crossing, not as good as this, but still a crossing," said Bill Breakstone. "If at firstyou don't succeed, then try, try again."

      This flanking movement was hidden from theComanches on the other shore by the belt of timber on theside of the train, and the horsemen galloped along rapidlyin search of a declivity. Phil's heart was thumping, andspecks floated before his eyes, but he was well among theforemost, and he rode with them, stride for stride.Behind him he heard the crackle of rifle shots, the shouts ofthe Comanches, and the defiant replies of the white men.

      "Keep a good hold on your rifle, Phil!" shouted BillBreakstone in his ear. "If the gods whisper truly to me,we will be in the water soon, and, by my faith, you'llneed it."

      The Captain uttered a shout of joy. They had cometo a place where the bank sloped down to the river andthe opposite shore was capable of ascent by horses.

      "Into the river, men, into the river!" he shouted."The horses may have to swim, but we can cross it! Wemust cross it before the main Indian force comes up!"

      The whole troop galloped into the water. Middletonshouted to them to keep their rifles dry, and every manheld his above his head or on his shoulder. The muddywater splashed in Phil's face, but he kept by the side ofBreakstone, and in a few moments both their horses wereswimming.

      "Let the horse have his head, Phil," said Breakstone."He'll make for the nearest land, and you canuse both your hands for the work that we now haveto do."

      Phil dropped the rein, and the horse swam steadily.They were now about the middle of the stream, which waswider here than at the ford. Two or three brown facessuddenly appeared in the brash on the bank in front ofthem, and the savage cry arose. Comanche skirmishershad discovered the flank movement, but the white troopwas already more than half way across. Bullets werefired at the swimming men and horses. Some struck inflesh, but others dashed up jets of yellow foam.

      "On! On!" cried Middleton. "We must gain the bank!"

      "On! On!" cried Phil, borne on by excitement."We must gain the bank!"

      He was carried away so much by the fire and movementof the moment that he did not feel fear. His bloodwas tingling in every vein. Myriads of red specksdanced before him. The yellow water splashed all abouthim, but he did not notice it. An arrow whizzed by hischeek, and two bullets struck near, but he continued tourge his horse, which, gallant animal, was already doinghis best. Some of the white men, even from the unsteadyposition of a swimming horse's back, had begun to fire atthe Indians in the brush. Phil heard Bill Breakstoneutter a deep sigh