THE HUNTER HERCULES,
OR,
THE CHAMPION RIDER OF THE PLAINS.

A ROMANCE OF THE PRAIRIES.

BY HARRY ST. GEORGE.

NEW YORK.
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CONTENTS

[I The Young Hunter’s First Prize] 9 [II The Knight and the “Ladie Fair.”] 11 [III The Comanches’ Prize] 14 [IV The Two Wizards] 18 [V Two Queer Men] 22 [VI The Circus-Rider Magician] 27 [VII A Trial of Speed for Scalps] 31 [VIII The Manitou Must be Obeyed] 35 [IX The White Wizard Drugs the Guard] 39 [X A Wild Race for Life] 44 [XI Muzzle to Muzzle, and Who Will Win?] 48 [XII Chased by the Flames] 52 [XIII Fighting Fire with Fire] 57 [XIV A Brilliant Exploit With an Umbrella] 61 [XV Why Ralph Was Called the “Hunter Hercules.”] 66 [XVI Donna Iola Meets the Trailers] 70 [XVII A Stern Chase is Generally a Long One] 74 [XVIII Red Buffalo Meets His Fate] 77 [XIX Hilt to Hilt and Face to Face] 82 [XX Winding up the Tale] 86

THE HUNTER HERCULES;
OR,
THE CHAMPION RIDER OF THE PLAINS.

CHAPTER I.
THE YOUNG HUNTER’S FIRST PRIZE.

It was a beautiful scene. Not a cloud marred the vast blue dome of heaven. Autumn reigned supreme in the Lone Star State, where brave Houston fought, and valiant Bowie fell at the Alamo. Near the Comanche ground on the far north-western border of the State we would bring the reader on this bright, cheerful morning in October.

The prairie which, a month or two before, had presented a beautiful aspect of flowers and green grass, had been literally baked to a rich brown color, and now, moved by the breeze that was blowing the long, dry grass, looked for all the world like the waves of the ocean or an inland sea.

Riding leisurely across the prairie was a young man of about twenty-two or three. He wore a complete suit of fine buck-skin, which, it was plainly apparent, had been made by a “regular” tailor, for it bore none of the marks which almost always distinguish the clothes of the old trapper.

The suit was beautifully made and ornamented, and truly became the fine form of the owner. The head-covering of the young equestrian was a large felt, which kept the sun from his face and might prove almost as effective as an umbrella, in case of a shower.

The face underneath the hat was a resolute one.

The eyes were gray and piercing; the nose, rather large and slightly inclined to the Roman, but was perfect for all that; the cheek-bones high and the mouth firm.

On his upper lip, the rider sported a fine mustache, and taken altogether, he was a very “good-looking fellow.”

The form of the young hunter was not large, but there appeared to be a vast amount of strength in that well-knit frame.

The horse upon which he was seated was a large bay, the exquisite shape of whose limbs proved that it was a good runner. The horse had indeed been selected on account of its speed, and could show a clean pair of heels to ninety-nine out of a hundred of its fellows.

The arms of the young man consisted of a light rifle which he carried across the pommel of his saddle, a pair of revolvers in his belt, and, keeping them company, was a sharp, two-edged hunting knife. Although a stranger on the plains of the Great West, Chauncy Branrare was no novice in the art of hunting. He could bring down a deer as well as the most experienced hunter. His hand was steady and his eye quick and sure.

He was the only son of a wealthy citizen of New York, and had made this trip to the South-west in a spirit of adventure. Chauncy had traveled over Europe; had hunted in Asia, Africa and South America, and was now to satisfy his love of the wild excitements of the chase by a season in the South-west.

Chauncy had intended to secure an old hunter for a guide, who was an old friend of his father’s. Many years before, the two had fought in the Mexican war, side by side, and the hunter’s life had been saved by his comrade in arms, which made them good friends. After the war Chauncy’s father returned to his home in the North, and several times received scrawling letters from the old hunter, but the two had never seen each other since their parting.

Disappointed in meeting the old Texan, Chauncy had started out alone, determined that he would not wait in the little border town for the old ranger’s return.

He had a mission to accomplish if possible, for he had not come out for the hunting alone. An uncle had died and left two-thirds of his estate, which was large, to an adopted son and the other third to Chauncy. This adopted son having had a quarrel with the uncle had gone “out West.” No one had heard of him for years, and it was not an unlikely thing for him to be dead.

Mr. Branrare was to institute a search for him, and if he was not found at the end of a year, then the former was to assume possession of the fortune bequeathed to the missing man.

The horse of the young man was approaching one of the numerous “mottes” of trees which spot the prairies of Texas. Suddenly he started and looked around.

It was a sound which, in any place, would have awakened all that was chivalrous in his nature. It was a cry for help, and it was a woman’s voice!

It came from the trees, not once but twice—thrice, and without hesitation the young hunter dashed his spurs into the sides of his horse, when, like a flash, the noble animal darted forward and in a moment reached the trees.

Throwing himself from his horse, Chauncy rushed in among the undergrowth rifle in hand. He reached the edge of a small glade with a few bounds, and a thrilling sight was before him.

On the limb of a tree opposite to him was a large panther flattened out for a leap. Not five yards from the tree was a young girl, her face blanched with terror!

CHAPTER II.
THE KNIGHT AND THE “LADIE FAIR.”

A panther and its prey!

A panther and its foe!

Quickly raising his rifle the young man, with nerves as steady as steel and lips compressed with a fierce courage, took a quick aim and the hammer fell. Then a sharp, whip-like crack, and, with a scream that seemed half-human, the panther gave a leap from the tree, straight toward the girl, but, impelled by agony and a baffled purpose, the leap sent him several feet past the crouching figure of the maid.

Chauncy had expected this, and before the animal could turn he was upon it, knife in hand.

A few stabs sufficed to let out the little life that was in the panther, and then Chauncy arose to his feet.

Wiping his bloody knife upon the body of the slain creature, he put that weapon back into his belt.

Then for the first time he turned his eyes upon the maiden he had saved. A cry of surprise and admiration came from his lips as his eyes fell upon her. She was now upon her feet. Large, flashing black eyes, a pearl-like forehead, chin and nose, an exquisitely molded mouth, all framed with silky black hair which reached far below her waist!

Such was the picture before the young man.

The wild look was still in her eyes as she turned them upon her rescuer.

“I hope you have not received any hurt,” said he, advancing.

“No, sir; thanks to your timely arrival I have escaped from a fearful death. Oh, sir, you must excuse me if I do not thank you sufficiently. What I have gone through has unnerved me,” said the fair girl, in a voice which to Chauncy seemed the sweetest he had ever heard in all his life.

“Any one would have done the same,” he said.

This seems to be the regular programme on such occasions, and Chauncy followed the general rule, most probably because he knew nothing else that would be so appropriate.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but any one would not have done what you have,” replied the other.

“Then he would have been nothing but a brute. I had hardly time to aim and fire, but I am sure that had I seen your face I would never have shot the panther,” exclaimed Chauncy.

“And why not?” questioned the beautiful maiden.

“Because I could not have taken my eyes off of it! You must pardon me if I seem rude, but the truth is, I am surprised at seeing a woman out here, and a young and beautiful one at that.”

“It does not matter, sir. If you are surprised at seeing me here I must confess that I am equally surprised at your sudden appearance. I had no idea a human being, except it be Comanches, was within twenty miles of this spot, and they are as bad as the panther. You must know, then, that I was very much astonished when you fired your gun.”

Chauncy did not have to remain long in suspense, for she told her story in a very few words.

Her name was Donna Iola, and she was the daughter of an American who had married a Mexican. She had been out riding and had been captured by a band of Comanches, under the chief Red Buffalo. They had taken her north to their village, and from thence, in the night, she managed to escape on one of the mustangs.

It was the second night before. Upon reaching the grove of trees she had entered and tied her horse, while she searched around for berries or something to eat. It was then that the panther had come upon her.

Knowing that she must be hungry, the young hunter left her for awhile, but returned ere long with a brace of birds which with a true hunter’s skill he prepared for the spit. Then a fire was kindled, and in due time the savory repast was ready.

They were not long in dispatching this, and then, after a good drink of water from the cool spring, the Donna declared herself ready for her ride homeward.

Of course Chauncy had resolved to accompany her to the hacienda of her father, and the two started off, going in a southerly direction.

As they rode along, Chauncy noticed that the Donna’s horse seemed quite tired, and he decided to stop in the next clump of trees they came to.

It was nearly three hours before they reached this, and then they were amply repaid for their trouble, for in the cool, shady grove was a spring of water.

The two horses were tied to trees, and then the two young people wandered about among the trees, talking and laughing.

Had the hunter been an old hand at Indian-fighting he would never have idled the precious time away in this manner.

That the Comanches would follow up the Donna’s trail was a sure thing, and delay was dangerous.

But entirely unconscious of what they were doing, the two remained in the grove for several hours.

Dinner was eaten, and then they prepared to depart about the middle of the afternoon.

The air was rather cool now, and they enjoyed the ride very much. The horse that the Donna rode was a little refreshed by the rest, and could no doubt hold out until evening.

They had not gone a mile from the grove when Chauncy heard the sound of horses’ hoofs pounding upon the ground behind him, and turning in his saddle he saw to his extreme astonishment and chagrin, a band of Comanches coming after them.

They had tracked the Donna Iola to the grove, and were now following her.

CHAPTER III.
THE COMANCHES’ PRIZE.

Chauncy could not help wondering why he had not seen the Indians before. The truth of it, however, was, that he had not been on the look-out for them and hence did not see them.

They had come up to the grove, and when the young man first heard and saw them, were just coming out from among the trees. This was a sudden and startling interruption to the tete-a-tete he was having with the Donna Iola.

A word sufficed to explain to the Donna the cause of his pale face. Chauncy had no fear for himself. He was mounted on a fast horse and could have escaped in a trice, but he would sooner cut off his right hand than desert his fair companion.

The mustang was put to its fastest speed, and for a mile managed to keep its distance. Then the Indians began gaining, at first slowly and then more rapidly, until at length Chauncy saw that in fifteen minutes more the Comanches would overtake them. What then would be their fate?

He most probably would be burned at the stake, while the Donna would become the squaw of the chief, Red Buffalo.

How could they escape?

Suddenly he thought of his horse. Not one of the Comanches could overtake the “Ranger,” as his steed was called.

One only could escape, and that one must be the Donna Iola.

The exchange of horses only took a few seconds, but during that time the Indians gained upon them considerably.

The Donna did not know what Chauncy meant by changing horses, and when he told her of his plan she refused right up and down to desert him. Chauncy knew how to bring her round, however. He told her that if both were captured there was no chance for escape, whereas if one got off that one could bring assistance and thus both would escape.

The Donna saw that this was a fact, and gave her consent to go, but she resolved to stick to Chauncy until the last moment.

The Comanches, led by Red Buffalo himself, came rushing on like a whirlwind, uttering loud yells now and then.

They felt sure that the two fugitives were as good as in their power, and why should they not?

Were they not gaining rapidly on them and was not one of the horses giving out? Red Buffalo had begun to despond about ever finding the young Donna, and now that she seemed within his grasp, he began to feel a fierce joy.

She would never escape from him again if he once got her to the Indian village. The sharp young girl had drugged the squaw in whose charge she had been given, and while the latter was sleeping had made her escape, taking some food and a horse with her. Unluckily for her (though an excellent judge of horses) she happened in the darkness to get a poor steed out of the horse-corral, and now the horse was breaking down.

At length Chauncy told the Donna that she must leave him at once if she hoped to ever escape. If the Indians got close up and she tried to make off on the bay steed, they would fire, not at her but the horse, and would in all probability wound or kill him. In either case the Donna would be captured and then there would be no chance for them, for none could know that they were prisoners in the Indian village.

The Donna could not but obey the words of the young man. A word from Chauncy sent the bay horse forward with a dash. Off he went like an arrow shot from the bow. The Donna as she left Chauncy turned in the saddle and cast a glance of sorrow and something else at the young man.

Even in this critical moment, Chauncy felt a thrill of joy run through his form, for by that look he realized that he was beloved by the beautiful young Donna.

Such a world of feeling as there was in those large black eyes.

Love and sorrow mingled with reproach. The former because she had to leave him, and the latter because he had sent her from him. Chauncy knew that it was for the best, and but for this he would have recalled the Donna to his side.

It pained him greatly to be separated from the young girl in this manner, and naturally he felt kind of mad at those who had been the cause of it.

The Indians gave vent to a yell of rage when they saw the noble bay steed dart off with his light but unwilling burden.

They urged their horses on to as fast a speed as they could, but it was no use. The Donna went five yards to their three and easily distanced them.

Chauncy took a last look at the fast receding form of the Donna and then turned his attention to the mustang.

He saw a grove of trees not far to the south-west, and heading his horse toward these he rode forward.

Chauncy was a splendid horseman, and knew all of the tricks that class of men use to keep up the speed of their horses. By sundry tricks he managed to increase the speed of his horse so much that it held its own against the better and fresher horses of the Comanches. The latter were in a bad enough humor at the escape of the Donna, and the sight of the young hunter keeping the same distance away from them infuriated them.

They thought that he was going to escape, and resolved that he never would get off alive. They would rather kill him on the spot than that this should happen.

A volley of bullets were sent after him, but none touched the hunter, although several whizzed past him in rather close proximity. His horse was not so lucky, however.

One of the bullets struck it, and the poor animal reeled and staggered for a moment before falling to the ground.

There was no need of this. The Comanches ought to have known that the speed which the hunter had got out of his horse was its last efforts, and in all probability it would have dropped down after reaching the trees.

Chauncy, with an active leap, managed to get off from the horse without getting his horse upon his legs.

He did not stop an instant after putting his feet upon terra firma, but made tracks for the trees, using all the speed he could command. The Indians dashed after him, but they were too late to catch him.

He reached the trees, and, jumping quickly behind one, turned and presented his rifle at the foe.

There was only one man, and twenty Comanches are not in the habit of stopping when this is the case.

So the Indians kept on, although they felt sure that some were rushing to their death.

Crack, went the rifle of the young hunter, and obeying the sharp and decisive summons, the Indian nearest Red Buffalo started on his way to the red-man’s “happy hunting-grounds.”

This was quick work, but the rest of the Indians did not hang back. The hunter’s rifle was empty now, and they must give him no time to load up. They did not know that Chauncy had not the least idea of loading up his gun.

Crack, crack, went the only revolver Chauncy had with him, the other being in the holster at his saddle-bow.

Again the deadly revolver sounded and still another Indian threw up his hands and fell from the back of his horse.

Chauncy was making deadly work among the foe with his single revolver. At length it was empty, and the Indians all around him on foot, they having thrown themselves from their horses.

With his discharged revolver, Chauncy gave one of the red villains a hard blow in the stomach and then he had to defend himself. Bravely and manfully did he fight against the crowd of Indians, but with all his courage he knew that there was no chance of escape. At length he was overpowered by numbers, thrown down and his hands bound behind him. His knife was red with the blood of several of the Comanches, and the wounded ones cast glances of hatred at him as their movements caused their cuts to hurt.

The Comanches then looked round upon the scene.

Five men were dead, while others were wounded more or less, and as they wanted to get away from this spot as soon as possible, the dead were buried, and then mounting Chauncy on one of the slain warriors’ horses, the whole band set off.

CHAPTER IV.
THE TWO WIZARDS.

Chauncy swept the prairie with his eyes in the direction the Donna had gone, but she was not in sight. A feeling of joy went through him, for he knew that she had escaped.

The Indians made straight for their village, but had not gone many miles before darkness came on.

The moon did not rise until late, but when she did, it was to light up the earth almost as well as the sun would have done. The Indians halted and ate their supper when it was dark and let their horses rest for several hours.

When the moon put in an appearance in the East, they mounted their horses and set out for the village.

Hour after hour passed away and it was nearly daybreak before they at length reached the village of the Comanches.

The tired horses knew by instinct that they were near home, and they whinnied their approbation and delight.

The Comanches themselves were not less glad, for they had been absent two days and two nights, and the greater part of that time had been spent in riding.

The village was quiet when they reached it, but it did not remain so long. Horses neighed, dogs barked, warriors yelled, pappooses screamed and women did any thing and every thing.

The prisoner was immediately thrust into a lodge and a guard set over him. Chauncy had had no sleep that night, and yet he could not shut his eyes now. So restless was he that he could not lay down, but with scheming brain he walked across his narrow prison, time after time.

Many plans for his escape suggested themselves, but he could do nothing with his hands tied behind him, and, notwithstanding all of his desperate efforts, he could not get them loose.

Then his mind turned to the Donna.

He wondered if she would get any aid. Chauncy knew that her father the Don was a property owner, and that he had peons and vaqueroes under him. The Donna had told him that her father had undoubtedly come after her with his men.

She might meet them on her way and bring them to his rescue. And again the chances were about equal that she might miss them, and even if she did get them, would they attack the Indian village on account of a man whom they had never seen?

Chauncy had heard his father speak of the Mexicans so often and in such disparaging terms that the young man had come to think them all first-class cowards.

He did not know that, though taken as a class, they are cowards, yet among them are many brave men.

Every nation has its defects, and in some this one is greater than in others. The young man managed to think of a good deal in the short time that intervened between his being thrust into the lodge and daybreak.

The Comanches did not know that in the grove about half a mile from the village, a man mounted on a beautiful snow-white horse, was watching them as they entered the village with their prisoner. The man was not a bad-looking fellow, and was about thirty years old. The horse would have excited the envy of any man, especially a Comanche, who can judge horses so well.

Faultless in the shape and symmetry of its limbs, with a full, broad chest, arched neck, perfect head, large eyes, long mane and tail, the animal presented a splendid sight to the beholder.

There was no saddle on its back, only a broad band of dark-blue cloth, about four inches wide.

The bridle was a strong and beautiful one, silver-mounted and evidently worth a good deal of money.

On the horse, back of the band, was a bundle of what seemed to be clothes. The man carried a rifle in his hand, and in his belt were two revolvers, the accouterments to the former being in their places.

The man was muttering to himself as he watched the Indians go past.

“The poor fellow,” said he, “he’s doomed to the stake. I came out here for adventures and fun, and now I have a chance for both and to do a good deed at the same time. As sure as my name is Barry Le Clare, the champion bareback rider, jumper, et cetera, I’ll do it. What d’ye say, Snow Cloud, shall we put up our posters announcing that we will give an exhibition free to-morrow?” turning as he spoke, to his horse. The intelligent animal seemed to understand every word that was spoken, and gave a low whinny as it rubbed its velvety muzzle against the cheek of its master.

His words explained the strange appearance of the horse, and also the bundle on its back. The man had been a circus actor all his life, and having made lots of money and saved it too, he had with his celebrated horse left the circus life and come out West to enjoy himself. He could not bear a saddle even if the horse would have one on, which it certainly would not, having an antipathy against them. Just at break of day, while Barry, as we must call him, was still cogitating, leaning on his beautiful steed, he heard more yells in the village and knew that one or more new prisoners had been brought in. Who they were he knew not, for he could not see them, as they had entered the village from the opposite side.

He resolved, however, to try and save them all, and after making this resolve he left his horse’s side, taking the bundle from his back, and began to change his clothes.

Fifteen minutes passed away and then a horseman emerged from the grove of trees and began to ride toward the village.

He was at once discovered by the Comanches and the whole village was soon staring at him.

And indeed he did present a curious sight.

He was attired in regular circus costume, tights of flesh-colored stuff being on his body and limbs, and the blue cloth covered with spangles about his loins. He wore a jaunty cap, and his curly black hair was put back behind his ears.

The white horse was the same as before, only it carried no bundle.

The clothes of the circus-rider had been left in the woods, together with his rifle, revolvers and knife.

On his feet, in place of the fashionable boots he had on before, were a pair of pumps, such as the bareback riders use.

The Indians were greatly astonished at this sight.

As the horseman came nearer and nearer they thought he looked like a maniac, and yet again the smile which, notwithstanding all his efforts to repress it, came to his face when he saw the startled looks of the Indians, went far to convince them that he was sane. He rode slowly into the village until he came to the center.

Here he stopped his horse and sat upon him, looking around him at the crowd of dusky faces that were upturned in wonder.

At length the chief, Red Buffalo, came up, and not knowing whether the new-comer was a crazy man whom he must respect, or some pale-face making fun of him and his warriors whom he must capture, he asked him what he meant by coming into the village.

“What has come upon the Comanches, that they recognize not the agent of the Manitou? I am the White Wizard, and am in communication with the Great Manitou,” said the other, in deep tones.

The Indians were about to believe this, and it would have been an easy thing for them to do so, as the curious garb of the rider made them feel sure that he was no common man, but at this instant the magician of the village, a tall, bony man, dressed in skins and having a terribly ugly face, stepped out.

“The pale-face lies. He is an impostor. None but Muchanaigo can hold communication with the Manitou. Last night I had a dream: I dreamt that a lying pale-face came into the village to try and rescue the prisoners, and he was burned at the stake with them. Warriors, seize the coward. It is Muchanaigo that speaks. He must be obeyed or a curse will fall upon the Comanches.”

With a yell the warriors sprung forward to obey the Wizard.

“Hold,” cried a voice, which seemed to come from the blue sky above. “Let not a warrior lay a hand upon the White Wizard. He who but touches him dies by the lightning. Beware. Let Muchanaigo kneel or he will be taken away by the wind and cast into the den of snakes which is kept for false wizards.”

Horror-stricken the Red Wizard fell upon his knees. Here was one who was greater than himself, and to whom he must bend his knee. Many of the Indians followed his example, for they thought that when their Wizard was scared, it was time for them to be humble.

CHAPTER V.
TWO QUEER MEN.

Chauncy heard a commotion in the village shortly after daybreak. Soon the door of the lodge was opened and a couple of men who had their hands tied behind them just as he did, were thrust in.

They did not see Chauncy, who was standing in a corner of the lodge. They had just come in from the light, and could not see in the dim room for several moments. Chauncy could see them plainly, however, and he saw that there was a slight difference in size between the two men. One was about six feet three, while the other could not be over five feet at the most.

The first was a trapper, being dressed in tanned buckskin, while the second man was clothed in a suit of broadcloth.

Who were these two men, who seemed so entirely opposite?

Chauncy did not ask the question. There was no need of it, for as the little man entered the lodge, urged on by the foot of the Indian guard, he immediately staggered and fell on his back. Struggling to his feet he turned his back to that of his comrade.

“Sacré,” cried the little man, in unmistakably French accents. “It is von shame to throw a citizen of la belle France about in that vay. I s’all complain to de Emperor an’ he will adjust de difficulty. If you please, monsieur, I would be much obliged if you give my back von leetle scratch. It feels itchy.”

“Why, you frog-eating Parley Voo. D’ye think I’m a scratchin’-post? I didn’t hire out fur that. Ye ought to know Ralph Bison better nor that. Go an’ scratch yer pesky back ag’in’ the side o’ the lodge,” exclaimed the other, in a sour tone.

“Diable, your advice is good, monsieur, and I s’all follow out von glorious idea. I may rub a hole through the vall an’ we s’all escape,” and the little Frenchman was about to do what he said, despite the laughter of his comrade, when the voice of Chauncy made one straighten his face and the other forget the itch in his back.

“So this is Ralph Bison, is it?” asked the young hunter.

“Yas, I’m the feller ye mention, commonly called,” said the trapper, recovering from his surprise at being addressed, when he thought he and the Frenchman were alone.

“Well,” said Chauncy, “I wanted to get you to go out on the plains with me, but I found you had gone off with a naturalist, and I suppose monsieur must be the gentleman;” with a bow in that direction.

“Parbleu, but you are quite right, monsieur. I am sure it is von happy meeting. I’m from France, and am Monsieur Tierney.”

“And I am Chauncy Branrare, of New York,” said the other.

“What’s that, boyee? Air ye any relation to Capten Branrare that fit in the Mexican war?” questioned the trapper.

“He is my father. He told me to hunt you up, Ralph, and though I expected to see you before I went East again, yet I assure you I had no expectation that we would meet thus.”

“Yer hand, boyee. So ye are the cap’s son. Come over ter the light. Dang it if you don’t look just like him now. But how in the mischief did ye come hyar? Reds caught ye a-nappin’, I guess.”

“Not much,” returned our hero, and he then proceeded to tell his story.

The hunter’s eyes opened wide when he learned that Chauncy had killed five of the Comanches before he was captured.

“Yer hand ag’in, boyee. Ye beat yer daddy. Why I only knocked over three, and the Frenchy nearly killed one wid his umbrella afore they got us,” said Ralph.

“Oh, mine poor umbrella. It is von shame for the noble red-men to take it from me. I have been to Africa, and half-vay around de vorld, an’ de umbrella vas vith me alvays. I s’all certainly complain ven I get home,” said Monsieur Tierney.

“But ye’ll never git home, Parley Voo. The reds intend ter roast ye an’ have some fun out o’ ye,” said Ralph.

“Mon Dieu, but de red-men vill not do dat. Dey vill no hurt a poor Frenchman. Begar, I vill send von complaint to de Emperor, an’ den I vill get avay. Now vat you think, monsieur?”

“I think yer a durned fool, thet’s what I think. We are lookin’ death in the face now, an’ things look bad fur us.

“What’s all that row about, boyee? Thar’s somethin’ up,” said the hunter, as he walked over to the window.

Upon looking out he could at first see nothing, but soon the circus-rider, mounted on his snow-white horse, and followed by the Indians, came in sight.

Ralph knew not what to make of it, and he called his comrades to his side. The three looked out of the small barred aperture, and Chauncy saw at a glance what the man was.

The Frenchman understood him when he mentioned what the rider was, but Ralph had to have it explained to him.

But what was the man doing here?

He did not seem to be a captive, neither did he seem to belong to the village. It was an enigma that none of the trio could solve.

That the man had some purpose in coming to the village was certain, for no man would be foolish enough to go in among his enemies, unless he had some object in view.

They could not hear the words that were uttered, but they saw the warriors as they started forward, and then saw them fall upon their knees around the mysterious rider and his white steed.

Who he was they could not guess, neither could they think of any reason that would make the Indians afraid of him.

The Red Wizard soon got up and went off, followed by the pale-face and his horse. The Indians gave way for them, and dared not go within five feet of the stranger, for fear they should accidentally touch him, and they remembered what the Manitou had said respecting their touching him.

They did not want to be killed by a thunderbolt, and hence they kept away from the White Wizard.

The latter by using his ventriloquist powers had completely subdued the magician, and the latter now feared him greatly.

The Comanches were afraid of their Wizard, for they had seen the inside of his hut, and they knew that it contained such things as skeletons, snakes, reptiles, and many other horrible things.

Therefore when a person appeared who could make the Red Wizard bow to him, it was but natural that they should fear him.

Barry Le Clare was shown to the large medicine-lodge, and he entered, taking his horse with him.

The Red Wizard waited at the door of the cave in the hope of seeing the pale-face hold communication with the Manitou, but a keen glance from the sharp eyes of the latter scared him, and thinking that the latter might call down the curse of the Manitou upon him, he hurried off.

The Indians had resolved to show the White Wizard a fine sight that morning. This would be the burning of the three prisoners.

Soon after the pale-face had disappeared in the medicine-tent, a loud howling arose in the village.

The French naturalist carried a little case with him, in which to put the rare things that he found.

The Comanches had taken this, and a huge green umbrella made of the strongest silk, from monsieur when he was captured.

After the Wizard had gone, one Indian, more curious than his brethren, opened the case and began tasting what was in the little vials. Soon he began to feel a little sick, and a crowd gathered around. He got worse every ten seconds, and at length, swollen up terribly, he lay upon the ground, dead.

It was then that the howls echoed through the village.

Not one of the Indians would touch either the box or the umbrella after this. Even the magician was afraid of them, for he said that even the touch of a bottle was poison.

Barry came out to see what the noise was, and he increased his popularity with the Indians by tasting a dozen bottles.

He could read the names on them, which the Indians could not.

One of the Indians thought he could do the same, and signified as much. By a sleight of hand Barry changed the bottles, and the man thought he had the same one the pale-face had just tasted.

It proved to be an emetic, and the fellow soon amused the rest of the Indians by his working face and heaving stomach.

The pale-face shut up the case and took it into the medicine-lodge, where he had left his horse.

Soon after, the three prisoners were brought out to be tried before the council, and to be doomed to the stake.

CHAPTER VI.
THE CIRCUS-RIDER MAGICIAN.

The large council-lodge was filled with Comanche chiefs.

Red Buffalo being at the head of the tribe, and the most renowned Indian present, was given the post of honor.

The White Wizard was ushered into the lodge, dressed as a circus-rider, and given a seat near the head chief and medicine man. Soon after the three captives were brought in, with their hands still bound behind them. Their eyes rested with wonder upon Barry, for they did not know what to make of him.

A sly wink which he managed to give them unperceived by the reds, told them that, whoever he was, Barry was a friend to them.

One of the chiefs, an old man, opened the council, and with a short, fiery speech, set the blood rushing through the veins of the Comanches like fire.

A tall, wiry fellow jumped up when the old chief had finished, and spoke for some time upon the cruelty of the whites and their evident desire to exterminate the Indians.

Several more followed, and then Red Buffalo arose from his seat, letting his blanket fall from his shoulders to the ground as he did so. This chief was well known upon the border, as had also been his father, Spotted Wolf, and the prisoner and chiefs leaned forward and listened to his words.

The speech of Red Buffalo was short, but being to the point, its pithiness made up for its briefness.

“Chiefs and warriors of the Comanches: the great Manitou has placed three pale-faces in our hands. Shall we torture them or let them go?

“It is the will of the Great Spirit that the prisoners should be tortured by being burned at the stake. A singing-bird whispers it in the ear of Red Buffalo. The prairie-wind brings the word ‘torture’ with it. Shall the pale-faces go free when eight warriors fell beneath their arms? No; the Manitou wills that they should die, and the Great Medicine-man shall decide upon their fate. Three moons ago Red Buffalo had a father and brother. Where now is the chief Spotted Wolf and the Snake-head? Both have gone to the happy hunting-grounds, sent on their long journey by the bullets of the pale-face trappers. Let the medicine-man speak.”

The Red Wizard looked around the council-lodge with his terrible eyes until they fell upon the prisoners.

Here they rested, and a horrible grin came upon his face, as he slowly arose to his feet and spoke:

“My brothers have spoken well. The death of the pale-faces has been sealed. Muchanaigo had a dream last night. The Manitou spoke to him and said the pale-faces must die unless there came a man who could outride the Comanches. If such came, then all but the young man were to go free. But where is the man?

“Where, chiefs and warriors, is the man that is to outride the ‘children of the plains?’ Let him be found.”

The medicine-man liked to speak about his dreams, for the superstitious Indians believed them, and what is more, thought him all the greater on account of them. The cunning Wizard always liked to put in that he had spoken to the Manitou, and this made the Comanches respect him more.

He had taken a dislike to Chauncy, probably because one of the men slain by the young man was a grand-son of his, and he left him out purposely when he mentioned that should a man come who could outride the “prairie kings,” the prisoners would be saved. He had not the least idea in the world that the man spoken of would appear, or that when he did come, he could even equal the Comanches at riding. He was somewhat surprised, therefore, when Barry got up and said he was the man. The circus-rider made a very fine speech, telling about a dream he had had, and how the Manitou had chosen him to ride with the Comanches.

The medicine-man was greatly astonished at this.

He had no idea in the world that the man he spoke of would appear, and yet he pretended that he knew he was coming.

The medicine-man of a tribe of Indians is generally some sharp fellow, who knows a few tricks which, though plain enough to a white man, he easily manages to gull the red-men completely with.

The Red Wizard, on this occasion, was greatly surprised when Barry got up and spoke, offering to ride against the best Comanche in the village, and a smile came to his lips.

He was glad, now, that the white man had offered to ride.

Now he should have one triumph over his rival, for the latter would be sure to get beat.

There was no chance for him at all. The Comanches live on the backs of their horses; but it did not occur to the mind of the red-man that Barry Le Clare had been reared on a horse—had been a celebrated rider at the early age of fifteen.

The red-skin felt sure of a victory over his fellow-wizard.

He would show the Comanches that the latter was not unconquerable. So when Barry seated himself again, the Red Wizard arose, and said that the Manitou had spoken the truth, the man had made his appearance, and now the next thing for the Comanches to do, was to watch the trial of skill.

This was accepted with yells of applause by the Comanches.

They knew that they were reckoned the best riders of the plains, and that they had no equals among the red-men.

What then had they to fear from a white man who had lived in the cities and towns all his life?

The council was broken up, and the whole village hurried over to the plain just beyond the village.

The three prisoners guarded by several warriors were brought along to witness the performance. The man selected by the Comanches to compete with the White Wizard was a medium-sized, athletic fellow, with long arms and supple joints.

He had a very fast and strong mustang, and it was a pretty large one, too. He was stripped, except a piece of cloth around his loins, and as he sprung upon his steed a shout arose from his admiring comrades. They had seen him ride before, and as he was the champion of the village, they expected to see the pale-face beaten all to nothing. The horse was an iron-gray, and was quite celebrated on the plains on account of its speed.

The man that owned and rode it knew it well, and would have bet his bottom dollar (if he ever had one) that he would come out of a trial of skill or a race with the pale-face first best.

The three prisoners watched the white man, and they felt their courage rise when they saw the smile on his firm countenance.

The man knew his own powers.

Had he looked scared, the whites would have given up all hope, for they knew that if the Indian frightened him there would be no chance for him to win.

But the confident and “devil-may-care” look upon his face reassured them, and they had confidence in him.

The white looked to the girdle which was around his horse, and as the Indian had no bridle on his horse, Barry took his off.

The Indian was to show lead, now.

He was mounted on his horse, and at a signal from the head chief he dashed out upon the plain.

The mane of his horse was long, and had been plaited.

One of these plaits served to rest his arm in, and he performed all sorts of tricks, sliding around his horse and coming up on the other side, and picking up things from the ground.

At length he put on the bridle and went through the last thing on his programme. This consisted of standing up on the horse bare-back, holding on with the bridle and jumping up and down. The Comanche did all of these things with a great deal of skill, and when he rode into the crowd he was greeted by a chorus of savage yells. The Indians were delighted.

Of course the pale-face could do nothing like this.

Imagine their surprise and chagrin when they saw him dash out and go through the same thing as easily as the Indian had done, and with extremely aggravating nonchalance.

It was now his turn to lead.

The medicine-man was not beaten yet.

If his man could equal the White Wizard when the latter led, the prisoners would not be free after all. And even if the white man did beat his red rival, the Red Wizard did not intend to give them up. He was sharp enough for that. He would have another dream.

CHAPTER VII.
A TRIAL OF SPEED FOR SCALPS.

Barry got a score of Indians, and soon a complete circus-ring was made, all but the sawdust.

The lassoes were stretched around the ring, and then Barry walked his horse into the ring.

The bridle was still on him, and leaping upon his back the circus-rider sat down and rode around the ring several times.

The horse seemed delighted. For years he had been accustomed to performing in the ring, and now that he found himself in his old place again he was glad.

With a springy step he cantered around the ring, and the Indians could not help admiring the shape of both man and beast, and the beautiful appearance of the latter.

With a piece of chalk Barry whitened the bottoms of his pumps, and then leaped to his feet. A chirrup from his lips sent the white steed off at a rapid pace, and holding on to the bridle, Barry jumped up and down after the manner of a countryman who is supposed to be going to market.

The spirits of the Indians arose. Their man could do that.

The Indian came into the ring and Barry went out. The red-skin went through the same thing, and was greeted with shouts of approval by his dusky comrades.

The latter now began to think that the pale-face was no wizard at all, but just a good rider, so when Barry again entered the ring, seated on his horse, they greeted him with groans.

The rider smiled, however. He knew that in a few minutes the tune of the Indians would be wonderfully changed.

Again he rode around the ring, standing erect on his feet, and the Comanches began to think that this was all he could do, and they felt happy, accordingly.

They saw the rider lean over his horse and whisper a word in its ear. Then he rose up again and the white steed went around the ring like a flash. Suddenly the bridle dropped from the hand of the rider, and he stood up alone without any support.

Ah, here was something worth looking at.

The Comanches love to watch good riding, and would doubtless patronize a circus should one visit them.

Even though they knew that the rider was liberating the two prisoners, yet their admiration was unbounded.

Their eyes opened with surprise, and they were speechless when the rider went around the ring like lightning, with nothing to support him. He stood with his arms folded across his breast, and a smile of triumph upon his face.

But this was nothing. The best was yet to come.

At a word from his rider the white horse slackened his speed, and came to a regular gallop, such as the circus horses alone know how to bring out.

Then if the reader could have seen the eyes of the Comanches as they watched the rider, they would not have wondered that they took him to be a wizard.

Barry stood with his back to the horse’s head, and suddenly sprung up into the air, turning over and making a complete somersault. He touched the back of the horse, and again he went up. The Indians saw at once that their man could never do this, and yet the Comanche was pluck.

As Barry Le Clare rode out of the ring, he rode in and made the attempt. He succeeded very well in the first part, although he had to swing his arms pretty wildly to balance himself, but when he came to the jumping, he made a complete failure.

Instead of coming down upon the back of his horse, which acted well for the first time in the ring, he came plump upon the ground, and rolled over and over.

A shout of laughter arose from the dusky throng, and the discomfited Comanche arose to his feet in a savage manner.

Striding up to Barry he asked him if he wanted to race.

The latter replied that he didn’t care if he did.

“Me make bet wid pale-face. Gray horse beat, me win, white ’un beat, pale-face win,” said the Comanche.

“Show your money, old man. How much on it?” exclaimed Barry.

“Have no money, all gone.”

“Then how’re you going to bet?”

“Me bet scalp for scalp. Ef pale-face win, he take the scalp of the Red Bear. Ef Indian win, he scalp pale-face,” was the rejoinder, and by the look that Red Bear gave his rival, all knew that he would have no hesitation in scalping the victorious rider, should his horse win the race.

For a moment the rider looked at his horse, and then at the fleet mustang of his foe. The proposition so unexpected, staggered him a little at first, but he quickly replied:

“All right, Red Bear. Onto your horse. Do your best if you would not be beaten, though heaven knows I wouldn’t scalp you. But no Indian can ever cow Barry Le Clare.”

Delighted at this chance to redeem his reputation, the Indian leaped upon the back of his horse, and then the preliminaries were arranged. A dozen men on horseback rode out to a spot about a mile from the village, and here a stake was put into the ground.

The dozen men stayed here to see that the race was conducted on a fair principle. The two racers were to start from a stake which had been driven into the ground near the village, and were to round the stake where the dozen warriors were waiting, and then come back to the first stake.

At a signal, the two started off, and for the first quarter of a mile both kept together. Then the Indian began to draw slowly but surely ahead. The Comanches felt some satisfaction when they saw that this was a fact, but they were not confident yet.

They knew a great deal about horses, and they saw that the white steed was as fast a runner as the gray one, if his rider chose to put him down to it.

They began to think, however, as the Indian still kept drawing ahead, that the white steed was not as good as they had taken it to be, and their spirits rose.

When the Indian rounded the half-way pole, and came onto the back stretch five lengths ahead of his rival, a yell broke from them.

They thought that perhaps after all the Indian might win, and that from the look of things it seemed very much as though the gray would win the race.

The Indian himself felt sure of it. He was certain that the white steed was doing its best, and that he could at least win by five lengths. And then he would have the pleasure of scalping the White Wizard.

He felt so sure of this that he yelled with joy.

Half the last half was done, and still he was five lengths ahead.

Suddenly a low whistle came from the lips of the pale-face.

It is a signal, and obeying it, the white steed quickly increased his speed. Like an arrow shot from the bow, the horse darted forward, gaining rapidly on the other.

The Indian began kicking and pounding his horse, yelling like a demon all the while, but it was no use.

The animal was running at its greatest speed, and nothing could increase it. The pale-face passed him before the last quarter was reached, and came up to the home-stake six lengths ahead.

A shout from the prisoners welcomed the victor.