CHAPTER XI
He lost no time in sending a final word to the despatcher before hestarted for safety, and his call was sounding when he ran back to thekey.
"Stanley's train has passed Chimney Butte," said the despatcher. "Soonbe with you."
Words over the wire never sounded better to the frightened boy thanthose words.
"The Indians are crossing the creek," Bucks answered. "Am off for theranch."
He closed the circuit and ran out on the platform. The warriors hadfound the ford and the horses of the head braves were already leadinga file across. Bucks threw one hurried look at them; then, summoninghis strength for an endurance run, he started, with the stationbuilding between him and the enemy, for the ranch.
He had hardly got under way when, as he reached higher ground, he sawto his consternation a party of Indians in the bottom land between himand safety.
He was cut off. Hoping that he had not been seen, he threw himselfflat on the ground and, turning about, crawled, behind a slight ridgethat afforded concealment, stealthily back toward the station. TheIndians up the creek had crossed, but were riding away from thestation and toward the ranch, evidently bent on attacking it next. Theflames from the burning train rose high above the creek. There seemedno place to escape to and Bucks, creeping through the sedge grass, gotback to his key and called the despatcher.
"Cut off from the ranch by a second party of Indians. Will wait herefor the train--where is it?"
A moment passed before the answer came. "Less than ten miles from you.Passed Driftwood Station at ten-forty."
Bucks looked at his clock. Driftwood was ten miles west. The handsstood at ten-forty-eight. Surely, he concluded, they will be here byeleven o'clock. Could he hold the station for twelve minutes? Even ashow of force he knew would halt the Indians for an interval.
He hastily pushed such packages of freight as lay in the store-room upto the various windows, as slight barricades behind which he couldhide to shoot, and with much effort got the largest packing-caseagainst the platform door so they could not rush him from the creekside. For the twentieth time he looked over his revolver, placed alittle store of cartridges behind each shelter, and peered again outof the windows. To his horror he perceived that the two parties hadjoined and were riding in a great half-circle down on the station.Evidently the Indians were coming after him before they attacked theranch. He reported to the despatcher, and an answer came instantly."Stanley should be within five miles. How close are they?"
"Less than half a mile."
"Have you got a gun?"
Bucks wired, "Yes."
"Can you use it?"
"Expect I'll have to."
"Shoot the minute they get within range. Never mind whether you hitanybody, bang away. What are they doing?"
Bucks ran around the room to look. "Closing in," he answered briefly.
"Can't you see the train?"
Bucks fixed his eyes upon the western horizon. He never had tried sohard in his life to see anything. Yet the sunshine reflected no signof a friendly smoke.
"Nothing in sight," he answered; "I can't hold out much longer."
Hastily closing his key he ran to the south window. A dozen Indians,beating the alder bushes as they advanced, doubtless suspecting thathe lay concealed in them, were now closest. He realized that by hisvery audacity in returning to the building he had gained a fewprecious moments. But the nearest Indians had already reached openground, two hundred yards away, and through their short, yelping criesand their halting on the edge of the brake, he understood they weredebating how he had escaped and wondering whether he had gone backinto the station. He lay behind some sacks of flour watching his foesclosely. Greatly to his surprise, his panic had passed and he feltcollected. He realized that he was fighting for his life and meant tosell it as dearly as possible. And he had resolved to shoot theinstant they started toward him.
From the table he heard the despatcher's call, but he no longer daredanswer it. The Indians, with a war-whoop, urged their ponies ahead anda revolver shot rang from the station window. It was followed almostinstantly by a second and a third. The Indians ducked low on theirhorses' necks and, wheeling, made for the willows. In the quick dashfor cover one horse stumbled and threw his rider. The animal boltedand the Indian, springing to his feet, ran like a deer after hiscompanions, but he did not escape unscathed. Two shots followed himfrom the station, and the Indian, falling with a bullet in his thigh,dragged himself wounded into hiding.
A chorus of cries from far and near heralded the opening of theencounter. Enraged by the repulse, a larger number of Indians ridingin opened fire on the station and Bucks found himself target for afusillade of bullets. But protected by his barricades he was onlyfearful of a charge, for when the Indians should start to rush thestation he felt all would be over.
While he lay casting up his chances, and discharging his revolver atintervals to make a showing, the fire of the Indians slackened. This,Bucks felt, boded no good, and reckless of his store of cartridges hecontinued to blaze away whenever he could see a bush moving.
It was at this moment that he heard the despatcher calling him, and amessage followed. "If you are alive, answer me."
Bucks ran to the key. The situation was hopeless. No train was insight as he pressed his fingers on the button for the last time.
"Stopped their first advance and wounded one. They are going tocharge----"
He heard a sharp chorus outside and, feeling what it meant, sent hislast word: "Good-by." From three sides of the open ground around thebuilding the Indians were riding down upon him. Firing as fast as hecould with any accuracy, he darted from window to window, reaching thewest window last. As he looked out he saw up the valley the smoke ofthe approaching train and understood from the fury of his enemies thatthey, too, had seen it. But the sight of the train now completelyunnerved him. To lose his life with help a few moments away was anadded bitterness, and he saw that the relief train would be too lateto save him.
He fired the last cartridge in his hot revolver at the circling bravesand, as he reloaded, the Indians ran up on the platform and threwthemselves against the door. Fiendish faces peered through thewindow-panes and one Indian smashed a sash in with a war club.
Bucks realized that his reloading was useless. The cartridges were, infact, slipping through his fingers, when, dropping his revolver, hedrew Bob Scott's knife and backed up against the inner office door,just as a warrior brandishing a hatchet sprang at him.