Bert Wilson in the Rockies

by J. W. Duffield

CHAPTER X

In Fearful Extremity

With the stealthy tread of a panther, Bert climbed over the improvised rampart, and a few seconds later his form merged into the enveloping darkness and was lost to the view of his anxious friends. They listened with straining ears for any sound of shot or struggle, but the deep silence of a prairie night remained unbroken.

Bert pursued his way swiftly, but at the same time he exercised all the knowledge that a life of adventure had given him to detect with ear or eye the presence of a lurking enemy. He had traveled several hundred yards when suddenly he heard what seemed to be a stealthy rustling, off somewhere to his right. He dropped to the ground like a flash, and, scarcely daring to breathe, peered through the velvety blackness, straining his eyes in an attempt to make out the cause of the sound.

For the space of perhaps a minute all was as still as the grave, and Bert had almost made up his mind that the noise must have been occasioned by a snake or lizard, when suddenly, within three feet of where he lay he made out the form of an Indian, a mere black splotch against the slightly lighter background of the sky. The savage did not move, and Bert knew that he had not been discovered as yet. But the dark form seemed to have no intention of going any further, and Bert came to the conclusion that the brave was one of the band that had been detailed to surround the devoted little party of whites.

Bert knew that it would be impossible for him to move without being discovered by the Indian, so he resolved on a swift, deadly attack as the only way out of the dilemma.

Gathering his muscles for the spring he suddenly launched himself like a thunderbolt at the Indian. With the same motion he drew his revolver and aimed a blow at the savage's head, for he knew that a single shot would give the alarm and frustrate all his plans.

But the wily redskin was not to be so easily caught off his guard. With a grunt of surprise he half turned to meet the attack, and the butt of Bert's revolver dealt him only a glancing blow. Before the savage had a chance to shout a warning, however, Bert had grasped him by the throat with one hand, while he rained blows from the clubbed revolver on him with the other. The Indian made a desperate attempt to loose his assailant's hold and secure the knife from his girdle, but Bert's attack was too fierce and deadly. In a few seconds the struggling form of the brave grew limp and fell to the earth.

Without giving him a moment's further notice, Bert started out over the desert at a swift run, guided by his almost instinctive sense of direction. He ran quickly and lightly with the speed and silence of a wolf, and he breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving when he realized that he was clear of the besiegers.

In a short time he reached the line of newly laid rails that marked one more stride of civilization into this far western country. He scrambled up the steep embankment, and was not long in locating a telegraph pole. He climbed this quickly and once securely seated in the crossbars made ready to send the message that meant life or death to himself and the little party back there by the over-turned stage coach, dependent on him for their very lives.