Lightning Jo, the Terror of the Santa Fe Trail: A Tale of the Present Day

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

Instead of clubbing his rifle and using the weapon in that shape, as almost any man would have done, Jo now had recourse to that wonderful science in which he was such an adept, demonstrating that to such a man there is no weapon at his command like the naked fist.

It was a treat to see him use his powers, and had he only possessed a rock or wall to back against, so as to prevent an insidious approach from behind, he could have kept off the Comanche nation, so long as they lunged up to him in such a blind, headlong fashion as the present.

The posture taken by Lightning Jo was according to the latest “rules of the London prize ring,” and consisted in having his arms up in front of him, the left slightly in advance, while he balanced himself upon his left foot, so poised that he was “firm on his pins,” or ready to leap backward or forward, as necessity demanded.

The foremost Comanche, who had dismounted, was almost up to Jo, when he thought somebody’s mustang had kicked him fairly in the face, and he made three back summersets before he could put the brake on. And then, just as he was getting up, he was knocked down again by a couple of his comrades going over him, and then, as those arms began working like piston-rods, and with a velocity a hundred times as great, the cracking of heads was something like the going off of a pack of Chinese crackers ignited together.

Heads were down and heels up, as the red-skins leaped from the backs of their animals and charged in upon the scout, who, as cool as when partaking of a leisurely meal, allowed every one to come just within reach of his iron knuckles, when he let drive like a cannon shot.

Finding that it was impossible to take him afoot, several of the red-skins attempted to ride him down; but there was something in his appearance as he thus acted on the defensive that prevented them from approaching too close, just as the bravest horse will recoil from the bear when he faces about.

Then, too, as it became apparent that there was no capturing the scout in front, the Indians exerted themselves to the utmost to steal around in his rear, and to fling him to the ground. This kept things lively for the time, and the way Lightning Jo spun around and danced upon his legs, striking incessantly, and occasionally putting in a terrific kick now and then, was a marvel in itself.

Now he seemed to be down and out of sight, but the next instant he popped up from some other point, and sent in a volley of blows with the same lightning-like force and skill. The Indian that clutched at him and was certain he had got him, clutched the empty air, and did get, along the head, in such a way that he ever after held him in the most vivid remembrance.

All this was thrilling and, in a certain sense, amusing; but after all, despite the extraordinary skill and quickness displayed by the scout, it could not really extricate him from the difficulty. A man has but two arms with which to guard himself, and when he is pressed from every point, with an increasing pressure, no human being can keep such a swarm at a distance. He is like the man set upon by thousands of rats.