“I’m pretty badly hurt,” said he, “but if I can call my hoss here, I think I can ride him to the fort. You’d better get that one yonder for the gal. Bless your heart! I’m glad to see you alive,” he added, with a kindly light beaming in his dark eyes. “I say, Roddy, help me down to where that red-skin lays. I want to take a look at him.”
Lightning Jo made the signal to his mustang, and then, almost carried by his friend, he was helped to where the stiffening body of Swico-Cheque lay stretched upon the earth.
“I won’t scalp him,” muttered the scout, as he looked at him, “’cause he can’t see it, but I’ll take charge of that fancy dress of his, and send it to Washington for the Peace Commissioners to look at.”
And this was done.[ [A]
A few minutes later, the mustang of Lightning Jo came trotting over the ridge, followed by the horse of Egbert. With considerable care the wounded scout was placed upon it; Lizzie mounted the Indian horse, and the three instantly started on their journey to Fort Adams, which was reached without any incident worthy of mention. The other ladies were found just preparing to start for Santa Fe under a strong escort. Egbert and Lizzie joined them, after being assured by the surgeon of the fort that the wounds of Lightning Jo were not of a serious nature, and barring accidents, he was sure soon to recover his usual strength and activity again.
Tried in the fire, as were the two lovers, the bond of love was so deepened and purified, that nothing could occur to weaken and mar it; and when, some months later, the handsome couple were united in Santa Fe—the jolliest guest of all, and the one in most general favor, was Lightning Jo, who had a story to tell the young husband and wife when he gained the first opportunity to see them alone. This story was nothing more nor less than the clearing up of the mystery of the Terror of the Prairie, as he had learned it from a Comanche prisoner brought into the fort. This noted creature and Swico-Cheque, the Comanche chief, were the same. It was a ruse of the sagacious red-skin by which he obtained any desired knowledge of a party he intended to attack. Well aware of the superstitious nature of the bordermen, he blackened his face in a fantastic manner, wrapped several thick blankets about his body. These were bullet-proof, and although he incurred great risk of being killed, and was wounded more than once, yet it was left for Egbert Rodman to fire the bullet, that killed Swico-Cheque, the Terror of the Prairie, and at the same time gained him his lovely wife.
THE END.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] A short time ago, while on a visit to the Land Office, I was shown by Mr. Wilson, the accomplished Commissioner, a singular relic of a late fight on the Plains. It was a garment taken from an Indian chief, after death. A shirt of buck-skin, made without the usual ornamentation of beads and porcupine quills, yet graced with something quite novel in the decorative way—a full, long fringe, formed of the hair of white women and children. It was a ghastly adornment—indeed, the entire garment was a very unpleasant thing to inspect. The only point in it on which the eye could rest without horror or pity, was a small round hole, beneath which the raging heart of a human wild beast came one day to a full stop.—Correspondence N. Y. Tribune.