Randall Parrish - Bob Hampton of Placer

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BOB HAMPTON OF PLACER

by

RANDALL PARRISH

Author of "When Wilderness Was King," "My Lady of the North," "Historic
Illinois," Etc.

Illustrated by Arthur I. Keller

[Frontispiece: "I Read It in your Face," He Insisted. "It Told of
Love."]

Eighth Edition
Chicago
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1907
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1906
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
All rights reserved
Published, 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 the
Measured Tread

"Mr. Slavin Appears to have Lost his Previous Sense of Humor," He
Remarked, Calmly

Together They Bore Him, now Unconscious, Slowly down below the First
Fire-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 of
it survive, it must be discovered among the musty and nearly forgotten
records of the Eighteenth Regiment of Infantry, yet it is extremely
probable 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 the
initiated, "Killed in action." After all, that tells the story. In
those old-time Indian days of continuous foray and skirmish such brief
returns, 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 were
first securely trapped among the frowning rocks, and forced
relentlessly backward from off the narrow trail until the precipitous
canyon walls finally halted their disorganized flight, and from sheer
necessity compelled a rally in hopeless battle. Sixteen,--ten
infantrymen from old Fort Bethune, under command of Syd. Wyman, a
gray-headed sergeant of thirty years' continuous service in the
regulars, two cow-punchers from the "X L" ranch, a stranger who had
joined them uninvited at the ford over the Bear Water, together with
old Gillis the post-trader, and his silent chit of a girl.

Sixteen--but that was three days before, and in the meanwhile not a few
of those speeding Sioux bullets had found softer billet than the
limestone rocks. Six of the soldiers, four already dead, two dying,
lay outstretched in ghastly silence where they fell. "Red" Watt, of
the "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 a
cartridge-belt, and crept about sorely racked with pain, dragging a
shattered limb behind him. Then the taciturn Gillis gave sudden
utterance to a sobbing cry, and a burst of red spurted across his white
beard as he reeled backward, knocking the girl prostrate when he fell.
Eight remained, one helpless, one a mere lass of fifteen. It was the
morning of the third day.

The beginning of the affair had burst upon them so suddenly that no two
in that stricken company would have told the same tale. None among
them had anticipated trouble; there were no rumors of Indian war along
the border, while every recognized hostile within the territory had
been duly reported as north of the Bear Water; not the vaguest
complaint had drifted into military headquarters for a month or more.
In all the fancied security of unquestioned peace these chance
travellers had slowly toiled along the steep trail leading toward the
foothills, beneath the hot rays of the afternoon sun, their thoughts
afar, their steps lagging and careless. Gillis and the girl, as well
as the two cattle-herders, were on horseback; the remainder soberly
trudged forward on foot, with guns slung to their shoulders. Wyman was
somewhat in advance, walking beside the stranger, the latter a man of
uncertain age, smoothly shaven, quietly dressed in garments bespeaking
an Eastern tailor, a bit grizzled of hair along the temples, and
possessing a pair of cool gray eyes. He had introduced himself by the
name of Hampton, but had volunteered no further information, nor was it
customary in that country to question impertinently. The others of the
little party straggled along as best suited themselves, all semblance
to the ordinary discipline of the service having been abandoned.

Hampton, through the medium of easy conversation, early discovered in
the sergeant an intelligent mind, possessing some knowledge of
literature. They had been discussing books with rare enthusiasm, and
the former had drawn from the concealment of an inner pocket a
diminutive copy of "The Merchant of Venice," from which he was reading
aloud a disputed passage, when the faint trail they followed suddenly
dipped into the yawning mouth of a black canyon. It was a narrow,
gloomy, contracted gorge, a mere gash between those towering hills
shadowing its depths on either hand. A swift mountain stream, noisy
and clear as crystal, dashed from rock to rock close beside the more
northern wall, while the ill-defined pathway, strewn with bowlders and
guarded by underbrush, clung to the opposite side, where low scrub
trees partially obscured the view.

All was silent as death when they entered. Not so much as the flap of
a wing or the stir of a leaf roused suspicion, yet they had barely
advanced a short hundred paces when those apparently bare rocks in
front flamed red, the narrow defile echoed to wild screeches and became
instantly crowded with weird, leaping figures. It was like a plunge
from 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 arm
dripped blood. Indeed, under that sudden shock, he fell, and was
barely rescued by the prompt action of the man beside him. Dropping
the opened book, and firing madly to left and right with a revolver
which appeared to spring into his hand as by magic, the latter coolly
dragged the fainting soldier across the more exposed space, until the
two found partial security among a mass of loosened rocks littering the
base of the precipice. The others who survived that first scorching
discharge also raced toward this same shelter, impelled thereto by the
unerring instinct of border fighting, and flinging themselves flat
behind protecting bowlders, began responding to the hot fire rained
upon them.

Scattered and hurried as these first volleys were, they proved
sufficient to check the howling demons in the open. It has never been
Indian nature to face unprotected the aim of the white men, and those
dark figures, which only a moment before thronged the narrow gorge,
leaping crazily in the riot of apparent victory, suddenly melted from
sight, slinking down into leafy coverts beside the stream or into holes
among the rocks, like so many vanishing prairie-dogs. The fierce
yelpings died faintly away in distant echoes, while the hideous roar of
conflict diminished to the occasional sharp crackling of single rifles.
Now and then a sinewy brown arm might incautiously project across the
gleaming surface of a rock, or a mop of coarse black hair appear above
the edge of a gully, either incident resulting in a quick interchange
of fire. That was all; yet the experienced frontiersmen knew that eyes
as keen as those of any wild animal of the jungle were watching
murderously their slightest movement.

Wyman, now reclining in agony against the base of the overhanging
cliff, directed the movements of his little command calmly and with
sober military judgment. Little by little, under protection of the
rifles of the three civilians, the uninjured infantrymen crept
cautiously about, rolling loosened bowlders forward into position,
until they finally succeeded in thus erecting a rude barricade between
them and the enemy. The wounded who could be reached were laboriously
drawn back within this improvised shelter, and when the black shadows
of the night finally shut down, all remaining alive were once more
clustered together, the injured lying moaning and ghastly beneath the
overhanging shelf of rock, and the girl, who possessed all the patient
stoicism of frontier training, resting in silence, her widely opened
eyes on those far-off stars peeping above the brink of the chasm, her
head pillowed on old Gillis's knee.

Few details of those long hours of waiting ever came forth from that
black canyon of death. Many of the men sorely wounded, all wearied,
powder-stained, faint with hunger, and parched with thirst, they simply
fought out to the bitter ending their desperate struggle against
despair. The towering, overhanging wall at their back assured
protection from above, but upon the opposite cliff summit, and easily
within rifle range, the cunning foe early discovered lodgment, and from
that safe vantage-point poured down a merciless fire, causing each man
to crouch lower behind his protecting bowlder. No motion could be
ventured without its checking bullet, yet hour after hour the besieged
held their ground, and with ever-ready rifles left more than one
reckless brave dead among the rocks. The longed-for night came dark
and early at the bottom of that narrow cleft, while hardly so much as a
faint star twinkled in the little slit of sky overhead. The cunning
besiegers crept closer through the enshrouding gloom, and taunted their
entrapped victims with savage cries and threats of coming torture, but
no warrior among them proved sufficiently bold to rush in and slay.
Why should they? Easier, safer far, to rest secure behind their
shelters, and wait in patience until the little band had fired its last
shot. Now they skulked timorously, but then they might walk upright
and glut their fiendish lust for blood.

Twice during that long night volunteers sought vainly to pierce those
lines of savage watchers. A long wailing cry of agony from out the
thick darkness told the fate of their first messenger, while Casey, of
the "X L," crept slowly, painfully back, with an Indian bullet embedded
deep in his shoulder. Just before the coming of dawn, Hampton, without
uttering a word, calmly turned up the collar of his tightly buttoned
coat, so as better to conceal the white collar he wore, gripped his
revolver between his teeth, and crept like some wriggling snake among
the black rocks and through the dense underbrush in search after water.
By some miracle of divine mercy he was permitted to pass unscathed, and
came crawling back, a dozen hastily filled canteens dangling across his
shoulders. It was like nectar to those parched, feverish throats; but
of food barely a mouthful apiece remained in the haversacks.

The second day dragged onward, its hours bringing no change for the
better, no relief, no slightest ray of hope. The hot sun scorched them
pitilessly, and two of the wounded died delirious. From dawn to dark
there came no slackening of the savage watchfulness which held the
survivors helpless behind their coverts. The merest uplifting of a
head, the slightest movement of a hand, was sufficient to demonstrate
how sharp were those savage eyes. No white man in the short
half-circle dared to waste a single shot now; all realized that their
stock of ammunition was becoming fearfully scant, yet those scheming
devils continually baited them to draw their fire.

Another long black night followed, during which, for an hour or so in
turn, the weary defenders slept, tossing uneasily, and disturbed by
fearful dreams. Then gray and solemn, amid the lingering shadows of
darkness, dawned the third dread day of unequal conflict. All
understood that it was destined to be their last on this earth unless
help came. It seemed utterly hopeless to protract the struggle, yet
they 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 his
death-wound, and the solemn, fateful whisper ran from lip to lip along
the scattered line that only five cartridges remained.

For two days Wyman had scarcely stirred from where he lay bolstered
against the rock. Sometimes he became delirious from fever, uttering
incoherent phrases, or swearing in pitiful weakness. Again he would
partially arouse to his old sense of soldierly duty, and assume
intelligent 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 the
fact 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, gazing
silently upward at the rocky front of the cliff, turned cautiously over
upon his elbow before venturing reply.

"Yes; what is it, sergeant? It looks to be a beauty of a morning way
up yonder."

There was a hearty, cheery ring to his clear voice which left the
pain-racked old soldier envious.

"My God!" he growled savagely. "'T is likely to be the last any of us
will ever see. Was n't it you I heard whistling just now? One might
imagine this was to be a wedding, rather than a funeral."

"And why not, Wyman? Did n't you know they employed music at both
functions nowadays? Besides, it is not every man who is permitted to
assist at his own obsequies--the very uniqueness of such a situation
rather appeals to my sense of humor. Pretty tune, that one I was
whistling, don't you think? Picked it up on 'The Pike' in Cincinnati
fifteen years ago. Sorry I don't recall the words, or I'd sing them
for you."

The sergeant, his teeth clinched tightly to repress the pain racking
him, stifled his resentment with an evident effort. "You may be less
light-hearted when you learn that the last of our ammunition is already
in the guns," he remarked, stiffly.

"I suspected as much." And the speaker lifted himself on one elbow to
peer down the line of recumbent figures. "To be perfectly frank with
you, sergeant, the stuff has held out considerably longer than I
believed it would, judging from the way those 'dough boys' of yours
kept 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 scowl
at me like that, Wyman; I 've worn the blue, and seen some service
where a fellow needed to be a man to sport the uniform. Besides, I 'm
not indifferent, old chap, and just so long as there remained any work
worth 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 against
Fate, and when Luck once finally lets go of a victim, he's bound to
drop straight to the bottom before he stops. That's the sum and
substance of all my philosophy, old fellow, consequently I never kick
simply because things happen to go wrong. What's the use? They 'll go
wrong just the same. Then again, my life has never been so sweet as to
cause any excessive grief over the prospect of losing it. Possibly I
might prefer to pass out from this world in some other manner, but
that's merely a matter of individual taste, and just now there does n't
seem to be very much choice left me. Consequently, upheld by my
acquired philosophy, and encouraged by the rectitude of my past
conduct, I 'm merely holding back one shot for myself, as a sort of
grand finale to this fandango, and another for that little girl out
yonder."

These words were uttered slowly, the least touch of a lazy drawl
apparent in the low voice, yet there was an earnest simplicity
pervading the speech which somehow gave it impressiveness. The man
meant exactly what he said, beyond the possibility of a doubt. The old
soldier, accustomed to every form of border eccentricity, gazed at him
with disapproval.

"Either you 're the coolest devil I 've met during thirty years of
soldiering," he commented, doubtfully, "or else the craziest. Who are
you, anyhow? I half believe you might be Bob Hampton, of Placer."

The other smiled grimly. "You have the name tolerably correct, old
fellow; likewise that delightful spot so lately honored by my
residence. In brief, you have succeeded in calling the turn perfectly,
so far as your limited information extends. In strict confidence I
propose now to impart to you what has hitherto remained a profound
secret. Upon special request of a number of influential citizens of
Placer, including the city marshal and other officials, expressed in
mass-meeting, I have decided upon deserting that sagebrush metropolis
to its just fate, and plan to add the influence of my presence to the
future development of Glencaid. I learn that the climate there is more
salubrious, more conducive to long living, the citizens of Placer being
peculiarly 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. A
fine state of affairs, isn't it, when a plain-spoken, pleasant-mannered
gentleman, such as I surely am,--a university graduate, by all the
gods, the nephew of a United States Senator, and acknowledged to be the
greatest exponent of scientific poker in this territory,--should be
obliged to hastily change his chosen place of abode because of the
threat of an ignorant and depraved mob. Ever have a rope dangled in
front of your eyes, sergeant, and a gun-barrel biting into your cheek
at the same time? Accept my word for it, the experience is trying on
the 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 always
contrives to play the final hand in any game, and stocks the cards to
win. Quite probably you are familiar with Bobbie Burns, sergeant, and
will recall easily these words, 'The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
gang aft agley'? Well, instead of proceeding, as originally intended,
to the delightful environs of Glencaid, for a sort of a Summer
vacation, I have, on the impulse of the moment, decided upon crossing
the Styx. Our somewhat impulsive red friends out yonder are kindly
preparing to assist me in making a successful passage, and the citizens
of 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 would
hold it a friendly act if you suggest the matter. A neat monument, for
instance, might suitably voice their grief; it would cost them far less
than I should in the flesh, and would prove highly gratifying to me, as
well 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 face
became instantly grave and earnest.

"Sincerely I wish I might aid you with one," the man admitted, "but I
fear, old fellow, any prayer coming from my lips would never ascend
very far. However, I might try the comfort of a hymn, and you will
remember this one, which, no doubt, you have helped to sing back in
God's country."

There was a moment's hushed pause, during which a rifle cracked sharply
out in the ravine; then the reckless fellow, his head partially
supported against the protecting bowlder, lifted up a full, rich
barytone 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 the
edges of protecting rocks; fingers loosened their grasp upon the rifle
barrels; smoke-begrimed cheeks became moist; while lips, a moment
before profaned by oaths, grew silent and trembling. Out in front a
revengeful brave sent his bullet swirling just above the singer's head,
the sharp fragments of rock dislodged falling in a shower upon his
upturned 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 last
clear, lingering note, reechoed by the cliff, died reluctantly away in
softened cadence. "Beautiful old song, sergeant, and I trust hearing
it again has done you good. Sang it once in a church way back in New
England. But what is the trouble? Did you call me for some special
reason?"

"Yes," came the almost gruff response; for Wyman, the fever stealing
back upon him, felt half ashamed of his unshed tears. "That is,
provided you retain sufficient sense to listen. Old Gillis was shot
over an hour ago, yonder behind that big bowlder, and his girl sits
there still holding his head in her lap. She'll get hit also unless
somebody pulls her out of there, and she's doing no good to
Gillis--he's dead."

Hampton's clear-cut, expressive face became graver, all trace of
recklessness gone from it. He lifted his head cautiously, peering over
his rock cover toward where he remembered earlier in the fight Gillis
had sought refuge.

CHAPTER II

OLD GILLIS'S GIRL

Excepting for a vague knowledge that Gillis had had a girl with him,
together with the half-formed determination that if worse came to worst
she must never be permitted to fall alive into the hands of the lustful
Sioux, Mr. Hampton had scarcely so much as noted her presence. Of late
years he had not felt greatly interested in the sex, and his
inclination, since uniting his shattered fortunes with this little
company, had been to avoid coming into personal contact with this
particular specimen. Practically, therefore, he now observed her for
the first time. Previously she had passed within range of his vision
simply as the merest shadow; now she began to appeal faintly to him as
a personality, uninteresting enough, of course, yet a living human
being, whom it had oddly become his manifest duty to succor and
protect. The never wholly eradicated instincts of one born and bred a
gentleman, although heavily overlaid by the habits acquired in many a
rough year passed along the border, brought vividly before him the
requirements of the situation. Undoubtedly death was destined to be
the early portion of them all; nevertheless she deserved every
opportunity for life that remained, and with the ending of hope--well,
there are worse fates upon the frontier than the unexpected plunge of a
bullet through a benumbed brain.

Guided by the unerring instinct of an old Indian fighter, Gillis,
during that first mad retreat, had discovered temporary shelter behind
one of the largest bowlders. It was a trifle in advance of those later
rolled into position by the soldiers, but was of a size and shape which
should have afforded ample protection for two, and doubtless would have
done so had it not been for the firing from the cliff opposite. Even
then it was a deflected bullet, glancing from off the polished surface
of the rock, which found lodgment in the sturdy old fighter's brain.
The girl had caught him as he fell, had wasted all her treasured store
of water in a vain effort to cleanse the blood from his features, and
now sat there, pillowing his head upon her knee, although the old man
was stone dead with the first touch of the ball. That had occurred
fully an hour before, but she continued in the same posture, a grave,
pathetic figure, her face sobered and careworn beyond her years, her
eyes dry and staring, one brown hand grasping unconsciously the old
man's useless rifle. She would scarcely have been esteemed attractive
even under much happier circumstances and assisted by dress, yet there
was something in the independent poise of her head, the steady
fixedness of her posture, which served to interest Hampton as he now
watched her curiously.

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