The Wave of Flame.

Evening Post, Volume LXVII, Issue LXVII, 30 January 1904, Page 10

The Wave of Flame.

It was in 1871. Wo wore in tho midst of a hostile Indian country, on the plains, and had lost our company. To movo except by night was foolhardy, and we lay concealed nil day at the bottom of a little arroya that opened into tho waterless channel of a prairio creek. The blue-stem grass was six or eight feet high, and we felt comparatively saio ; yet, to feel safer we maintained a watch all day, turn about. A little after sundown, Blake awoko me. When 1 opened my eyes his hand was over my moutj*. 1 raised my eyebrows interrogative^'. Ho bout down and whispered so cautiously and intensely that his words seemed a hiss. "Listen !" I sut up and turned lny ears tov/ard this direction and that, 'lhero was no sound but the stealing of the wind. I shook my Jieud, but he cocked his own auu raised a hand with asseverativo, cautioning iingur extended. Then I heard. "Screech owl," 1 whispered. The heavy dusk did not hide his look of disgust. "Teh ! Blncklest, likely, from tho call ; they're a woodsy tribe. Sh ! " 1 hud caught the sound as quickly as he — a sound as of a. steady breeze stirring prairie grass. "Coming this way?" I M'hispered. Ho nodded, and add«d: "A'ot loss than thirty ponies make that ruitlo. Thoy are three hundred yards olf, and coming slow." Wo stole toward the eastern bank of tho arroya— swiftly, for we knew tho slight sound of our movemonts would bo drowned by theirs. We were almost at tho bank when, suddenly, tho rustling ceasod. Wo dropped in our .places. Again tho owl call was given ; wo waited, breathless, to hear if it wore returned, and whence There was nothing but a half-dozen' p't-p't-p't's and a quick rubbing of somobody' against tho dry rods of tho bluo-stem. A wolf was slipping away from us and tho uppiomhiug troop. Ho rnado straight east, and Mo knew then that tho Indians must bo almost we&t of us. They began to move again, and tho sound of tbojr horses in tho grass came to us like the hissing of foam upon a wind-blown beach. We ran, stoopingi although we could scarcely see each other. They were close upon Us, and we must pus* out of their lino of advance at once — to tho right, too, so as not to bo to tho windward of their horses ; for already they were so near that we wondered a pony did not catch our scent and by a

suspicious snort betray our presence, and when they passed they would bo nearer yet. Above the rustling and crackling of our impeluous progresss, we could hear the advance of that iuvisiblo cavalcade. The hoof-beats of the hoises became distinguishable. There was a government horse in the troop, for now there could be hen id tho low click of a loosened shoe. 1 imagined that I heard even tho tinkling of tin ornaments, but I knew it could not be; the war diess of the Indian makes no noite louder than the dry sound of rubbing feathers. > Suddenly there was a snort from a dozen ponies. That moment the advancing crackle ceased ana übsolute stLlness dropped. Before the alarm of tho horses was haif sounded, we were flat on the ground. We waited. Not a sound from the savages ; the arroya, the whole prairie, might have been an Indian burial ground, so dtep, so absolute, the silence. Cuutioualy Blake reached out and touched* me. Then ho began to creep forward inch by inch. 1 followed. ]sot a around from the troop, nnd the noise we made would not have alarmed a fox ten feet away. Minute dragged after minute, slow, heavy, intensely still. Inch Dy inch we felt our way. Perhaps we had moved four yards before wo heard a sound. Quick as our hearts we stopped. It was nothing but a pony's snee/ing— -the horses, at least, were where thoy had been. We lay a moment still, and weie about to move again, when I heard could I be mistaken? — not mme — close beside me, yet not Blake's — the breathing of a man. I laid my bund on Blake's leg and held him. 1 was right. The Indians had sent out scouts, and one of these, with the alertness, cunning and stealth that were his by birth and training, had guessed our whereabouts, circled round us, and stolen upon us unheard, while we were covering a poor twelve feet. He was creeping closer, he was almost on us. What to do? Tho impulse came to givo tho screech-owl cry. I gave it, repeated it, gaveitugnin. We heard the horses begin to movo. I raised to my knees, pistol in handtoo late. There was the quick rushing of the Indian through the grass, his shout of notice to his comrades, and down toward us tho troop was sweeping, so close already that the clubbing of empty rifle cases against the flanks *nd shoulders of the ponies, was d.stinct and steady. Wo ran— ran — ran — but louder and louder came the continuous swish and breaking of the stiff grass and the muffled beating of the many hoofs, clearer the click of that loose snoe, more distinct the clubbing of tho rifle cases. But Blake, who never had failed yet, failed no moro now. There came in our faces a sudden flaw — the wind had veered, as it often does upon open plains. It was strong annd heavy. "Down!" he cried, und down into the tangled forest of grass we went. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, I saw a light in his hand, a burning match. He plunged it into the thick grass, and the blaze, snapping viciously, singeing his beard and eyebrows leaped up far above our hoads. Another puff of wind, an increasing one, a driving gust, caught the flame and whipped it twenty feet— and with a deep-drawn sigh, a mad, crackling laugh, n hellish groanin<* of fierce delight, the unloosened demon of fire rushed back toward our terrified pursuers. In one moment of lluid flame,. the great wave of fervent death rolled over them, and on— -its roar still distinguishable when it hnd sweut miles awny, iv lurid foam still beating tho awful sky when day began to dawn. —Robert W. Keal, in Everybody's.