Then I looked ahead, where some fifty riders had come into view on the northward bluffs: Indians, and nobody had to tell me they was Cheyenne. Little Gus saw them the next minute and begun to burble happily, clapping his small hands, and as I was giving him back to his Ma, they rode down upon us.
Well, we shortly gained the crest of the slope, moving thence onto the rolling prairie, and started to run through the clear winter’s afternoon, the chill air streaming through the side curtains. I fetched out my pistol, but the range was still too great. The idiot riding guard up top, however, immediately went all to pieces and commenced to discharge his shotgun to no purpose, for the closest Indian was not within the quarter-mile, and when they finally come in near enough for the scatter-weapon, he had run out of shells.
Now the reason for a shotgun was that except by chance no man would ever hit a target with rifle or revolver from a moving stagecoach, for not only was he being flung about but so was his target. You can get some idea of the situation by throwing a dried pea at a jumping grasshopper while you are running at top speed. The only advantage was that the Indians did not find it no easier to pick off anybody in a coach. So long as we kept rolling the day was far from lost. Our animals wasn’t fresh, but on the other hand that in itself meant the next station, where they would be changed, was within five-six mile.
But I hadn’t reckoned on our fellow passengers. There was three, one a breezy type of drummer who had been with us since Colorado City and all along had been trying to peddle stuff to everybody else. He had a trunk strapped up top, but carried a little case on his lap and it is amazing the junk he could produce from it. Then there was a solid-built rancher of about fifty, who kept trying to get a conversation going on Chivington’s victory and “whether it really had taken care of the Indian problem.” Finally, at the last station a right mean-looking customer had got on without a word for nobody, and shoving the drummer out of the back right corner, sunk into it and shifted the butt of the big Colt’s in his waistband so that he could take it after anybody who breathed in his direction. I tell you I wouldn’t have suffered the son of a bitch to have dealt with me like that, but then he hadn’t, so I never did nothing, for I wasn’t related to the drummer.
Now we was under attack, though, I was grateful for the presence of this mean fellow. What with that panicky guard on top and the drummer who was unarmed and that rancher, by the name of Perch, who suggested we should stop and try to buy off the Cheyenne—for it turned out he had bought some land once from the friendly Osage and believed on that basis that every Indian had his price—in view of such companions, I took a quick liking to the other man, who I am going to call Black for the color of his big mustache, because I never did find out his name. He was real cool, just set there facing forward, never even looking back at our pursuers, in fact, but his pistol butt, shiny from use, stuck up ready when it’d be needed.
This latter appeared to be the case sooner than I had figured. We run for maybe half a mile along open prairie, keeping our distance, but then the Cheyenne ponies commenced rapidly to gain. I was facing backwards, in the front left corner of the coach, and when the leading Indian got within a hundred yards I leaned out and fired at him, for while there had been no point to wasting shell like the guard had, it was wise now that the range had shortened to let them know we was capable.
I come nowhere near that brave, but he swerved and rode to the other side of the coach. I says to Black: “You try him now, partner.” But he responded in no fashion, just kept looking ahead real mean. And I thought, if we get out of this I’m going to see about you, boy, but there wasn’t no time for suchlike now, so I let it go, and anyway the little drummer was jerking at my sleeve.
He says: “I got a combination gun oil and solvent right here what will take the lead fouling out’n any barrel.” He pulls a little bottle from his case of wares and tells me to go ahead, take a sample cleaning with it free of charge, and if I liked it he would make me a good price on a pint.
You see what use my companions proved. I struck the bottle from his hand and the cork come out, with the contents spilling on Perch’s boots, where I swear it immediately ate through the end of his toe, being pure acid I reckon, and he quick had to pull off the left one and pitch it out the window.
