THE SCOUT'S LAST SHOT.

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume XVI, Issue 172, 21 July 1881, Page 4

THE SCOUT'S LAST SHOT.

It is 10 o'clock in the morning. The honey-bees are darting over the prairie in search of the sweet flowers, butterflies float on lazy wings, and birds are singing their sweet songs. It is a scene of deepest peace. Away to the right is the Little Bear Eange of mountains— to the left the prairie ocean extends as far as the eye can reach. Ten milea ahead is a grove of cottcnwoods and a spring — behind are thirty half-naked savages on horseback. Here is a frontier scoot as the pivot on which the scenery swing?. On his way from fort to fort with dispatches his trail has been struck by a war party of Pawnees, and they have hung to it since dark last night, following it across the levels and over the swells at a slow bat never-ending gallop. They knew that he was a full hundred miles from help, and they knew that his bloody scalp would add'another to their trophies. *' You're a rubbed out man ! " said the scout, as he looked back at the dusk and saw them coming at a slow gallop over his trail. They could not have overtaken him in a dash of two miles, but in a gallop of fifty they would tire him out. At an eaßy canter of five miles an hour the mustang forged ahead through the long and weary night, changing his pace only when the rider got down and ran beside him. Two miles behind him, riding thirty abreast and covering a front of half a mile followed the implacable foe, gaining a little, losing a little, but ever conndent. nr«T- he ? \ hQ sun carae U P from We prainebednot a sa vage was msssing. rtVTX tarn f d in faiß Baddle «nd counted them looked ahead for landmarks and coolly said •— lost, but you will die game." Ibe mustang was almoet llown,

For the last half hour he had labored heavily, and had almost been held up by the bits. " The grove would have been a better ! place, but the end would have been the same," eaid the scout as he drew up and dismounted. The Indiana were two miles away. In ten minutes they would be within rifle-shot. " Good-bye, old pard — I must do it," said the scout, as he took hold of the mustang's head and drew his knife across the faithful equine's throat, : He wanted a breastwork, and here he had it. Two minutes were time enough to cut saddle and bridle to pieces, then he mounted the body of his dead friend and calmly awaited the approach of the Indians. No shout of triumph was sent across the prairie as he was brought to bay. That had been a strange chase. They had suddenly appeared on the trail without a sound, seeming to rise out of some fissure in the flower-covered prairie. Not once through the long night had the scout heard them except as he dropped from the saddle and placed his ear to the ground. But for the steady thud ! thud ! of their horses' feet he might have made himself believe that he was being pursued by shadows. " Sixteen bullets in this Winchester and six in the revolver,' soliloquised the scout as the Indians were within a mile of the spot. Did they mean to ride him down ? Each, rider bent over his horse's neck and each horse kept the pace he had for hours. "My scalp is worth, the scalp of ten Indians !" said the scout as he raised his rifle ; " but mebbe I can't get over six or seven." Straight at him rode the line of thirty redskins until he raised his rifle for a shot. Then the band divided right aud left and closed him in a circle. Not a shout from any tongue. It might have been called a still hunt. The line was out of rifle shot at first, but it gradually worked nearer and nearer and at last the report of the: scout's rifle broke the stillness of the morning. " Twenty-nine left !" Jie said as he, threw out the empty shell. j Not a shot came from the Indians in j reply. Every warrior threw himself on the opposite side of his horse, and; the hardy ponies followed the circle at ; a steady gallop. i " Twenty-eight left," said the. scout j as he fired again. ! No shout or .shot in reply, but the! circle was growing narrower. ! -"Twenty-seven left !" _ . \ Three of the horses in the ring were j galloping without riders. " Twenty six left !" The scout had fired coolly and deliberately, shooting every victim through the head. His rifle had a longer range then those of the Indians but now they were near enough to open fire in reply. "Twenty -five left!" he said as another savage fell into the grass with a wild scream of rage and pain. Five of the thirty were dead. Now a yell runs around the circle, and every horse turns his head towards the common centre and charges the scout. "Puff! 'bang"! puff! bang ! bang ! bang ! " Three horses went down, and two more riders fell backwards from their saddles. ''Twenty-three left-!" counted the scout, as he dropped the gun and levelled his revolver. They were npon him They shot at him, struck at him, an d tried to ride over him. '• Puff I bang ! " Puff ! bang " Five shots struck men or horses, and when the hammer fell for the sixth time it sent the last bullet into the brain of the scout. Nine Indians were lying dead round the pivot, three more were wounded, and five or six horses were disabled. All this for a single scalp and the glory of shooting a brave man's dead body full of arrows, cutting off head, hands, and feet, and shrieking like demons as the blood spurted far over the rich green grass. When they rode away the body was a shapeless mass. It would rest there during the day, and wben night came the wolves would come sneaking from hidden ravines to devour it to the last morsel and then fight over the bloody grass. — Detroit Free Press.