Bob Hampton of Placer
BOB HAMPTON OF PLACER
by
RANDALL PARRISH
Author of "When Wilderness Was King," "My Lady of the North," "HistoricIllinois," Etc.
Illustrated by Arthur I. Keller
[Frontispiece: "I Read It in your Face," He Insisted. "It Told ofLove."]
Eighth EditionChicagoA. C. McClurg & Co.1907CopyrightA. C. McClurg & Co.1906Entered at Stationers' Hall, LondonAll rights reservedPublished, September 22, 1906 Second Edition October 1, 1906 Third Edition October 15, 1906 Fourth Edition November 1, 1906 Fifth Edition November 15, 1906 Sixth Edition December 1, 1906 Seventh Edition January 5, 1907 Eighth Edition January 9, 1907
CONTENTS
PART I
FROM OUT THE CANYON
CHAPTER
I HAMPTON, OF PLACER II OLD GILLIS'S GIRL III BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH IV ON THE NAKED PLAIN V A NEW PROPOSITION VI "TO BE OR NOT TO BE" VII "I'VE COME HERE TO LIVE" VIII A LAST REVOLT IX AT THE OCCIDENTAL
PART II
WHAT OCCURRED IN GLENCAID
I THE ARRIVAL OF MISS SPENCER II BECOMING ACQUAINTED III UNDER ORDERS IV SILENT MURPHY V IN HONOR OF MISS SPENCER VI THE LIEUTENANT MEETS MISS SPENCER VII AN UNUSUAL GIRL VIII THE REAPPEARANCE OF AN OLD FRIEND IX THE VERGE OF A QUARREL X A SLIGHT INTERRUPTION XI THE DOOR OPENS, AND CLOSES AGAIN XII THE COHORTS OF JUDGE LYNCH XIII "SHE LOVES ME, SHE LOVES ME NOT" XIV PLUCKED FROM THE BURNING XV THE DOOR CLOSES XVI THE RESCUE OF MISS SPENCER XVII THE PARTING HOUR
PART III
ON THE LITTLE BIG HORN
I MR. HAMPTON RESOLVES II THE TRAIL OF SILENT MURPHY III THE HAUNTING OF A CRIME IV THE VERGE OF CONFESSION V ALONE WITH THE INSANE VI ON THE LITTLE BIG HORN VII THE FIGHT IN THE VALLEY VIII THE OLD REGIMENT IX THE LAST STAND X THE CURTAIN FALLS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"I Read It in your Face," He Insisted. "It Told of Love" . . . . . ._Frontispiece_
They Advanced Slowly, the Supported Blankets Swaying Gently to theMeasured Tread
"Mr. Slavin Appears to have Lost his Previous Sense of Humor," HeRemarked, Calmly
Together They Bore Him, now Unconscious, Slowly down below the FirstFire-Line
BOB HAMPTON OF PLACER
_PART I_
FROM OUT THE CANYON
CHAPTER I
HAMPTON, OF PLACER
It was not an uncommon tragedy of the West. If slightest chronicle ofit survive, it must be discovered among the musty and nearly forgottenrecords of the Eighteenth Regiment of Infantry, yet it is extremelyprobable that even there the details were never written down.Sufficient if, following certain names on that long regimental roll,there should be duly entered those cabalistic symbols signifying to theinitiated, "Killed in action." After all, that tells the story. Inthose old-time Indian days of continuous foray and skirmish such briefreturns, concise and unheroic, were commonplace enough.
Yet the tale is worth telling now, when such days are past and gone.There were sixteen of them when, like so many hunted rabbits, they werefirst securely trapped among the frowning rocks, and forcedrelentlessly backward from off the narrow trail until the precipitouscanyon walls finally halted their disorganized flight, and from sheernecessity compelled a rally in hopeless battle. Sixteen,--teninfantrymen from old Fort Bethune, under command of Syd. Wyman, agray-headed sergeant of thirty years' continuous service in theregulars, two cow-punchers from the "X L" ranch, a stranger who hadjoined them uninvited at the ford over the Bear Water, together withold Gillis the post-trader, and his silent chit of a girl.
Sixteen--but that was three days before, and in the meanwhile not a fewof those speeding Sioux bullets had found softer billet than thelimestone rocks. Six of the soldiers, four already dead, two dying,lay outstretched in ghastly silence where they fell. "Red" Watt, ofthe "X L," would no more ride the range across the sun-kissed prairie,while the stern old sergeant, still grim of jaw but growing dim of eye,bore his right arm in a rudely improvised sling made from acartridge-belt, and crept about sorely racked with pain, dragging ashattered limb behind him. Then the taciturn Gillis gave suddenutterance to a sobbing cry, and a burst of red spurted across his whitebeard as he reeled backward, knocking the girl prostrate when he fell.Eight remained, one helpless, one a mere lass of fifteen. It was themorning of the third day.
The beginning of the affair had burst upon them so suddenly that no twoin that stricken company would have told the same tale. None amongthem had anticipated trouble; there were no rumors of Indian war alongthe border, while every recognized hostile within the territory hadbeen duly reported as north of the Bear Water; not the vaguestcomplaint had drifted into military headquarters for a month or more.In all the fancied security of unquestioned peace these chancetravellers had slowly toiled along the steep trail leading toward thefoothills, beneath the hot rays of the afternoon sun, their thoughtsafar, their steps lagging and careless. Gillis and the girl, as wellas the two cattle-herders, were on horseback; the remainder soberlytrudged forward on foot, with guns slung to their shoulders. Wyman wassomewhat in advance, walking beside the stranger, the latter a man ofuncertain age, smoothly shaven, quietly dressed in garments bespeakingan Eastern tailor, a bit grizzled of hair along the temples, andpossessing a pair of cool gray eyes. He had introduced himself by thename of Hampton, but had volunteered no further information, nor was itcustomary in that country to question impertinently. The others of thelittle party straggled along as best suited themselves, all semblanceto the ordinary discipline of the service having been abandoned.
Hampton, through the medium of easy conversation, early discovered inthe sergeant an intelligent mind, possessing some knowledge ofliterature. They had been discussing books with rare enthusiasm, andthe former had drawn from the concealment of an inner pocket adiminutive copy of "The Merchant of Venice," from which he was readingaloud a disputed passage, when the faint trail they followed suddenlydipped into the yawning mouth of a black canyon. It was a narrow,gloomy, contracted gorge, a mere gash between those towering hillsshadowing its depths on either hand. A swift mountain stream, noisyand clear as crystal, dashed from rock to rock close beside the morenorthern wall, while the ill-defined pathway, strewn with bowlders andguarded by underbrush, clung to the opposite side, where low scrubtrees partially obscured the view.
All was silent as death when they entered. Not so much as the flap ofa wing or the stir of a leaf roused suspicion, yet they had barelyadvanced a short hundred paces when those apparently bare rocks infront flamed red, the narrow defile echoed to wild screeches and becameinstantly crowded with weird, leaping figures. It was like a plungefrom heaven into hell. Blaine and Endicott sank at the first fire;Watt, his face picturing startled surprise, reeled from his saddle,clutching at the air, his horse dashing madly forward and dragging him,head downward, among the sharp rocks; while Wyman's stricken armdripped blood. Indeed, under that sudden shock, he fell, and wasbarely rescued by the prompt action of the man beside him. Droppingthe opened book, and firing madly to left and right with a revolverwhich appeared to spring into his hand as by magic, the latter coollydragged the fainting soldier across the more exposed space, until thetwo found partial security among a mass of loosened rocks littering thebase of the precipice. The others who survived that first scorchingdischarge also raced toward this same shelter, impelled thereto by theunerring instinct of border fighting, and flinging themselves flatbehind protecting bowlders, began responding to the hot fire rainedupon them.
Scattered and hurried as these first volleys were, they provedsufficient to check the howling demons in the open. It has never beenIndian nature to face unprotected the aim of the white men, and thosedark figures,
which only a moment before thronged the narrow gorge,leaping crazily in the riot of apparent victory, suddenly melted fromsight, slinking down into leafy coverts beside the stream or into holesamong the rocks, like so many vanishing prairie-dogs. The fierceyelpings died faintly away in distant echoes, while the hideous roar ofconflict diminished to the occasional sharp crackling of single rifles.Now and then a sinewy brown arm might incautiously project across thegleaming surface of a rock, or a mop of coarse black hair appear abovethe edge of a gully, either incident resulting in a quick interchangeof fire. That was all; yet the experienced frontiersmen knew that eyesas keen as those of any wild animal of the jungle were watchingmurderously their slightest movement.
Wyman, now reclining in agony against the base of the overhangingcliff, directed the movements of his little command calmly and withsober military judgment. Little by little, under protection of therifles of the three civilians, the uninjured infantrymen creptcautiously about, rolling loosened bowlders forward into position,until they finally succeeded in thus erecting a rude barricade betweenthem and the enemy. The wounded who could be reached were laboriouslydrawn back within this improvised shelter, and when the black shadowsof the night finally shut down, all remaining alive were once moreclustered together, the injured lying moaning and ghastly beneath theoverhanging shelf of rock, and the girl, who possessed all the patientstoicism of frontier training, resting in silence, her widely openedeyes on those far-off stars peeping above the brink of the chasm, herhead pillowed on old Gillis's knee.
Few details of those long hours of waiting ever came forth from thatblack canyon of death. Many of the men sorely wounded, all wearied,powder-stained, faint with hunger, and parched with thirst, they simplyfought out to the bitter ending their desperate struggle againstdespair. The towering, overhanging wall at their back assuredprotection from above, but upon the opposite cliff summit, and easilywithin rifle range, the cunning foe early discovered lodgment, and fromthat safe vantage-point poured down a merciless fire, causing each manto crouch lower behind his protecting bowlder. No motion could beventured without its checking bullet, yet hour after hour the besiegedheld their ground, and with ever-ready rifles left more than onereckless brave dead among the rocks. The longed-for night came darkand early at the bottom of that narrow cleft, while hardly so much as afaint star twinkled in the little slit of sky overhead. The cunningbesiegers crept closer through the enshrouding gloom, and taunted theirentrapped victims with savage cries and threats of coming torture, butno warrior among them proved sufficiently bold to rush in and slay.Why should they? Easier, safer far, to rest secure behind theirshelters, and wait in patience until the little band had fired its lastshot. Now they skulked timorously, but then they might walk uprightand glut their fiendish lust for blood.
Twice during that long night volunteers sought vainly to pierce thoselines of savage watchers. A long wailing cry of agony from out thethick darkness told the fate of their first messenger, while Casey, ofthe "X L," crept slowly, painfully back, with an Indian bullet embeddeddeep in his shoulder. Just before the coming of dawn, Hampton, withoututtering a word, calmly turned up the collar of his tightly buttonedcoat, so as better to conceal the white collar he wore, gripped hisrevolver between his teeth, and crept like some wriggling snake amongthe black rocks and through the dense underbrush in search after water.By some miracle of divine mercy he was permitted to pass unscathed, andcame crawling back, a dozen hastily filled canteens dangling across hisshoulders. It was like nectar to those parched, feverish throats; butof food barely a mouthful apiece remained in the haversacks.
The second day dragged onward, its hours bringing no change for thebetter, no relief, no slightest ray of hope. The hot sun scorched thempitilessly, and two of the wounded died delirious. From dawn to darkthere came no slackening of the savage watchfulness which held thesurvivors helpless behind their coverts. The merest uplifting of ahead, the slightest movement of a hand, was sufficient to demonstratehow sharp were those savage eyes. No white man in the shorthalf-circle dared to waste a single shot now; all realized that theirstock of ammunition was becoming fearfully scant, yet those schemingdevils continually baited them to draw their fire.
Another long black night followed, during which, for an hour or so inturn, the weary defenders slept, tossing uneasily, and disturbed byfearful dreams. Then gray and solemn, amid the lingering shadows ofdarkness, dawned the third dread day of unequal conflict. Allunderstood that it was destined to be their last on this earth unlesshelp came. It seemed utterly hopeless to protract the struggle, yetthey held on grimly, patiently, half-delirious from hunger and thirst,gazing into each other's haggard faces, almost without recognition,every man at his post. Then it was that old Gillis received hisdeath-wound, and the solemn, fateful whisper ran from lip to lip alongthe scattered line that only five cartridges remained.
For two days Wyman had scarcely stirred from where he lay bolsteredagainst the rock. Sometimes he became delirious from fever, utteringincoherent phrases, or swearing in pitiful weakness. Again he wouldpartially arouse to his old sense of soldierly duty, and assumeintelligent command. Now he twisted painfully about upon his side,and, with clouded eyes, sought to discern what man was lying next him.The face was hidden so that all he could clearly distinguish was thefact that this man was not clothed as a soldier.
"Is that you, Hampton?" he questioned, his voice barely audible.
The person thus addressed, who was lying flat upon his back, gazingsilently upward at the rocky front of the cliff, turned cautiously overupon his elbow before venturing reply.
"Yes; what is it, sergeant? It looks to be a beauty of a morning wayup yonder."
There was a hearty, cheery ring to his clear voice which left thepain-racked old soldier envious.
"My God!" he growled savagely. "'T is likely to be the last any of uswill ever see. Was n't it you I heard whistling just now? One mightimagine this was to be a wedding, rather than a funeral."
"And why not, Wyman? Did n't you know they employed music at bothfunctions nowadays? Besides, it is not every man who is permitted toassist at his own obsequies--the very uniqueness of such a situationrather appeals to my sense of humor. Pretty tune, that one I waswhistling, don't you think? Picked it up on 'The Pike' in Cincinnatififteen years ago. Sorry I don't recall the words, or I'd sing themfor you."
The sergeant, his teeth clinched tightly to repress the pain rackinghim, stifled his resentment with an evident effort. "You may be lesslight-hearted when you learn that the last of our ammunition is alreadyin the guns," he remarked, stiffly.
"I suspected as much." And the speaker lifted himself on one elbow topeer down the line of recumbent figures. "To be perfectly frank withyou, sergeant, the stuff has held out considerably longer than Ibelieved it would, judging from the way those 'dough boys' of yourskept popping at every shadow in front of them. It 's a marvel to me,the mutton-heads they take into the army. Oh, now, you need n't scowlat me like that, Wyman; I 've worn the blue, and seen some servicewhere a fellow needed to be a man to sport the uniform. Besides, I 'mnot indifferent, old chap, and just so long as there remained any workworth attending to in this skirmishing affair, I did it, did n't I?But I tell you, man, there is mighty little good trying to buck againstFate, and when Luck once finally lets go of a victim, he's bound todrop straight to the bottom before he stops. That's the sum andsubstance of all my philosophy, old fellow, consequently I never kicksimply because things happen to go wrong. What's the use? They 'll gowrong just the same. Then again, my life has never been so sweet as tocause any excessive grief over the prospect of losing it. Possibly Imight prefer to pass out from this world in some other manner, butthat's merely a matter of individual taste, and just now there does n'tseem to be very much choice left me. Consequently, upheld by myacquired philosophy, and encouraged by the rectitude of my pastconduct, I 'm merely holding back one shot for myself, as a sort ofgrand finale to this fandango, and another for that little girl
outyonder."
These words were uttered slowly, the least touch of a lazy drawlapparent in the low voice, yet there was an earnest simplicitypervading the speech which somehow gave it impressiveness. The manmeant exactly what he said, beyond the possibility of a doubt. The oldsoldier, accustomed to every form of border eccentricity, gazed at himwith disapproval.
"Either you 're the coolest devil I 've met during thirty years ofsoldiering," he commented, doubtfully, "or else the craziest. Who areyou, anyhow? I half believe you might be Bob Hampton, of Placer."
The other smiled grimly. "You have the name tolerably correct, oldfellow; likewise that delightful spot so lately honored by myresidence. In brief, you have succeeded in calling the turn perfectly,so far as your limited information extends. In strict confidence Ipropose now to impart to you what has hitherto remained a profoundsecret. Upon special request of a number of influential citizens ofPlacer, including the city marshal and other officials, expressed inmass-meeting, I have decided upon deserting that sagebrush metropolisto its just fate, and plan to add the influence of my presence to thefuture development of Glencaid. I learn that the climate there is moresalubrious, more conducive to long living, the citizens of Placer beingpeculiarly excitable and careless with their fire-arms."
The sergeant had been listening with open mouth. "The hell you say!"he finally ejaculated.
"The undented truth, every word of it. No wonder you are shocked. Afine state of affairs, isn't it, when a plain-spoken, pleasant-manneredgentleman, such as I surely am,--a university graduate, by all thegods, the nephew of a United States Senator, and acknowledged to be thegreatest exponent of scientific poker in this territory,--should beobliged to hastily change his chosen place of abode because of thethreat of an ignorant and depraved mob. Ever have a rope dangled infront of your eyes, sergeant, and a gun-barrel biting into your cheekat the same time? Accept my word for it, the experience is trying onthe nerves. Ran a perfectly square game too, and those ducks knew it;but there 's no true sporting spirit left in this territory any more.However, spilled milk is never worth sobbing over, and Fate alwayscontrives to play the final hand in any game, and stocks the cards towin. Quite probably you are familiar with Bobbie Burns, sergeant, andwill recall easily these words, 'The best-laid schemes o' mice and mengang aft agley'? Well, instead of proceeding, as originally intended,to the delightful environs of Glencaid, for a sort of a Summervacation, I have, on the impulse of the moment, decided upon crossingthe Styx. Our somewhat impulsive red friends out yonder are kindlypreparing to assist me in making a successful passage, and the citizensof Glencaid, when they learn the sorrowful news of my translation,ought to come nobly forward with some suitable memorial to my virtues.If, by any miracle of chance, you should pull through, Wyman, I wouldhold it a friendly act if you suggest the matter. A neat monument, forinstance, might suitably voice their grief; it would cost them far lessthan I should in the flesh, and would prove highly gratifying to me, aswell as those mourners left behind in Placer."
"A breath of good honest prayer would serve better than all your fun,"groaned the sergeant, soberly.
The gray eyes resting thoughtfully on the old soldier's haggard facebecame instantly grave and earnest.
"Sincerely I wish I might aid you with one," the man admitted, "but Ifear, old fellow, any prayer coming from my lips would never ascendvery far. However, I might try the comfort of a hymn, and you willremember this one, which, no doubt, you have helped to sing back inGod's country."
There was a moment's hushed pause, during which a rifle cracked sharplyout in the ravine; then the reckless fellow, his head partiallysupported against the protecting bowlder, lifted up a full, richbarytone in rendition of that hymn of Christian faith--
"Nearer, my God, to Thee! Nearer to Thee! E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me, Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee! Nearer to Thee."
Glazed and wearied eyes glanced cautiously toward the singer around theedges of protecting rocks; fingers loosened their grasp upon the riflebarrels; smoke-begrimed cheeks became moist; while lips, a momentbefore profaned by oaths, grew silent and trembling. Out in front arevengeful brave sent his bullet swirling just above the singer's head,the sharp fragments of rock dislodged falling in a shower upon hisupturned face; but the fearless rascal sang serenely on to the end,without a quaver.
"Mistake it for a death song likely," he remarked dryly, while the lastclear, lingering note, reechoed by the cliff, died reluctantly away insoftened cadence. "Beautiful old song, sergeant, and I trust hearingit again has done you good. Sang it once in a church way back in NewEngland. But what is the trouble? Did you call me for some specialreason?"
"Yes," came the almost gruff response; for Wyman, the fever stealingback upon him, felt half ashamed of his unshed tears. "That is,provided you retain sufficient sense to listen. Old Gillis was shotover an hour ago, yonder behind that big bowlder, and his girl sitsthere still holding his head in her lap. She'll get hit also unlesssomebody pulls her out of there, and she's doing no good toGillis--he's dead."
Hampton's clear-cut, expressive face became graver, all trace ofrecklessness gone from it. He lifted his head cautiously, peering overhis rock cover toward where he remembered earlier in the fight Gillishad sought refuge.