A refusal to go out with the hunters was a strange thing to come from Red Wolf. No other young brave in that band of Apaches had a better reputation for killing deer and buffaloes. It was a common saying among the older squaws that when he came to have a lodge of his own "there would always be plenty of meat in it."
He was not, therefore, a "lazy Indian," and it was something he had on his mind that kept him in the camp that day. It had also made him beckon to Ni-ha-be, and look very hard after Rita when she hurried away toward the bushes with her three magazines of "talking leaves." Red Wolf was curious.
He hardly liked to say as much to a squaw, even such a young squaw as Ni-ha-be, and his own sister, but he had some questions to ask her, nevertheless.
He might have asked some of them of his father, but the great war-chief of that band of Apaches was now busily watching Dolores and her saucepan, and everybody knew better than to speak to him just before supper.
Ni-ha-be saw at a glance what was the matter with her haughty brother, and she was glad enough to tell him all there was to know of how and where the talking leaves had been found.
"Did they speak to you?"
"No. But I saw pictures."
"Pictures of what?"
"Mountains; big lodges; trees; braves; pale-face squaws; pappooses; white men's bears; and pictures that lied—not like anything."
"Ugh! Bad medicine. Talk too much. So blue-coat soldier throw them away."
"They talk to Rita."
"What say to her?"
"I don't know. She'll tell me. She'll tell you if you ask her."
"Ugh! No. Red Wolf is a warrior. Not want any squaw talk about pictures. You ask Rita some things."
"What things?"
"Make the talking leaves tell where all blue-coat soldiers go. All that camped here. Know then whether we follow 'em."
"Maybe they won't tell."
"Burn some. The rest talk then. White man's leaves not want to tell about white man. Rita must make them talk. Old braves in camp say they know. Many times the talking leaves tell the pale-faces all about Indians. Tell where go. Tell what do. Tell how to find and kill. Bad medicine."
The "old braves" of many an Indian band have puzzled their heads over the white man's way of learning things and sending messages to a distance, and Red Wolf's ideas had nothing unusual in them. If the talking leaves could say anything at all, they could be made to tell a chief and his warriors the precise things they wanted to know.
Ni-ha-be's talk with her brother lasted until he pointed to the camp-fire, where Many Bears was resting after his first attack upon the results of Mother Dolores's cooking.
"Great chief eat. Good time talk to him. Go now."
There was no intentional lack of politeness in the sharp, overbearing tone of Red Wolf. It was only the ordinary manner of a warrior speaking to a squaw. It would therefore have been very absurd for Ni-ha-be to get out of temper about it; but her manner and the toss of her head as she turned away was decidedly wanting in the submissive meekness to be expected of her age and sex.
"It won't be long before I have a lodge of my own," she said, positively. "I'll have Rita come and live with me. Red Wolf shall not make her burn the talking leaves. Maybe she can make them talk to me. My eyes are better than hers. She's nothing but a pale-face, if she did get brought into my father's lodge."
A proud-spirited maiden was Ni-ha-be, and one who wanted a little more of "her own way" than she could have under the iron rule of her great father and the watchful eyes of Mother Dolores.
"I'll go to the bushes and see Rita. Our supper won't be ready yet for a good while."
It would be at least an hour, but Ni-ha-be had never seen a clock in her life, and knew nothing at all about "hours." There is no word for such a thing in the Apache language.
She was as light of foot as an antelope, and her moccasins hardly made a sound upon the grass as she parted the bushes and looked in upon Rita's hiding-place.
"Weeping? The talking leaves have been scolding her! I will burn them! They shall not say things to make her cry!"
In a moment more her arms were around the neck of her adopted sister. It was plain enough that the two girls loved each other dearly.
"Rita, what is the matter? Have they said strong words to you?"
"No, Ni-ha-be; good words, all of them. Only I cannot understand them all."
"Tell me some. See if I can understand them. I am the daughter of a great chief."
Ni-ha-be did not know how very little help the wealth of a girl's father can give her in a quarrel with her school-books. But just such ideas as hers have filled the silly heads of countless young white people of both sexes.
"I can tell you some of it."
"Tell me what made you cry."
"I can't find my father. He is not here. Not in any of them."
"You don't need him now. He was only a pale-face. Many Bears is a great chief. He is your father now."
Something seemed to tell Rita that she would not be wise to arouse her friend's national jealousy. It was better to turn to some of the pictures and try to explain them. Very funny explanations she gave, too, but she at least knew more than Ni-ha-be, and the latter listened seriously enough.
"Rita, was there ever such a mule as that?—one that could carry a pack under his skin?"
It was Rita's turn now to be proud, for that was one of the pictures she had been able to understand. She had even read enough to be able to tell Ni-ha-be a good deal about a camel.
It was deeply interesting, but the Apache maiden suddenly turned from the page to exclaim,
"Rita, Red Wolf says the talking leaves must tell you about the blue-coat soldiers or he will burn them up."
"I'm going to keep them."
"I won't let him touch them."
"But, Ni-ha-be, they do tell about the soldiers. Look here."
She picked up another of the magazines, and turned over a few leaves.
"There they are. All mounted and ready to march."
Sure enough, there was a fine woodcut of a party of cavalry moving out of camp with wagons.
Over went the page, and there was another picture.
Ten times as many cavalry on the march, followed by an artillery force with cannon.
"Oh, Rita! Father must see that."
"Of course he must; but that is not all."
Another leaf was turned, and there was a view of a number of Indian chiefs in council at a fort, with a strong force of both cavalry and infantry drawn up around them.
Rita had not read the printed matter on any of those pages, and did not know that it was only an illustrated description of campaigning and treaty-making on the Western plains. She was quite ready to agree with Ni-ha-be that Many Bears ought to hear at once what the talking leaves had to say about so very important a matter.
It was a good time to see him now, for he was no longer very hungry, and word had come in from the hunters that they were having good success. A fine prospect of a second supper, better than the first, was just the thing to make the mighty chief good-tempered, and he was chatting cosily with some of his "old braves" when Rita and Ni-ha-be drew near.
They beckoned to Red Wolf first.
"The talking leaves have told Rita all you wanted them to. She must speak to father."
Red Wolf's curiosity was strong enough to make him arrange for that at once, and even Many Bears himself let his face relax into a grim smile as the two girls came timidly nearer the circle of warriors.
After all, they were the pets and favorites of the chief; they were young and pretty, and so long as they did not presume to know more than warriors and counsellors they might be listened to. Besides, there were the talking leaves, and Rita's white blood, bad as it was for her, might be of some use in such a matter.
"Ugh!"
Many Bears looked at the picture of the cavalry squad with a sudden start. "No lie this time. Camp right here. Just so many blue-coats. Just so many wagons. Good. Now where go?"
Rita turned the leaf, and her Indian father was yet more deeply interested.
"Ugh! More blue-coats. Great many. No use follow. Get all killed. Big guns. Indians no like 'em. Ugh!"
If the cavalry expedition was on its way to join a larger force, it would indeed be of no use to follow it, and Many Bears was a cautious leader as well as a brave one.
Rita's news was not yet all given, however, and when the eyes of the chief fell upon the picture of the "treaty-making" he sprang to his feet.
"Ugh! Big talk come. Big presents. Other Apaches all know—all be there—all get blanket, gun, tobacco, new axe. Nobody send us word, because we off on hunt beyond the mountains. Now we know, we march right along. Rest horse, kill game, then ride. Not lose our share of presents."
Rita could not have told him his mistake; and, even if she had known it, she would have been puzzled to explain away the message of the talking leaves. Did not every brave in the band know that that first picture told the truth about the cavalry? Why, then, should they doubt the correctness of the rest of it?
No, a treaty there was to be, and presents were to come from the red man's "Great Father at Washington," and that band of Apaches must manage to be on hand, and secure all that belonged to it, and as much more as possible.
Red Wolf had nothing more to say about burning up leaves which had talked so well, and his manner toward Rita was almost respectful as he led her and Ni-ha-be away from the group of great men that was now gathering around the chief. Red Wolf was too young a brave to have any business to remain while gray heads were in council. A chief would almost as soon take advice from a squaw as from a "boy."
Mother Dolores had heard nothing of all this, but her eyes had not missed the slightest thing. She had even permitted a large slice of deer-meat to burn to a crisp, in her eager curiosity.
"What did they say to the chief?" was her first question to Rita; but Ni-ha-be answered her with,
"Ask the warriors. If we talk too much we shall get into trouble."
"You must tell me."
"Not till after supper. Rita, don't let's tell her a word unless she cooks for us, and gives us all we want. She made us get our own supper last night."
"You came late. I did not tell your father. I gave you enough. I am very good to you."
"No," said Rita, "sometimes you are cross, and we don't get enough to eat. Now you shall cook us some corn-bread and some fresh meat. I am tired of dried buffalo; it is tough."
The curiosity of Dolores was getting hotter and hotter, and she thought again of the wonderful leaf which had spoken to her. She wanted to ask Rita questions about that, too, and she had learned by experience that there was more to be obtained from her wilful young friends by coaxing than in any other way.
"I will get your supper now, while the chiefs are talking. It shall be a good supper—good enough for Many Bears. Then you shall tell me all I ask."
"Of course I will," said Rita.
A fine fat deer had been deposited near that campfire by one of the first hunters that returned, and Mother Dolores was free to cut and carve from it; but her first attempt at a supper for the girls did not succeed very well. It was not on account of any fault of hers, however, or because the venison-steak she cut and spread upon the coals, while her corn-bread was frying, did not broil beautifully.
No, the temporary disappointment of Ni-ha-be and Rita was not the fault of Mother Dolores. Their mighty father was sitting where the odor of that cooking blew down upon him, and it made him hungry again before the steak was done. He called Red Wolf to help him, for the other braves were departing to their own camp-fires, and in a minute or so more there was little left of the supper intended for the two young squaws.
Dolores patiently cut and began to broil another slice, but that was Red Wolf's first supper, and it was the third slice which found its way into the lodge after all.
The strange part of it was that not even Ni-ha-be dreamed of complaining. It was according to custom.
There was plenty of time to eat supper after it came, for Dolores was compelled to look out for her own. She would not have allowed any other squaw to cook for her any more than she herself would have condescended to fry a cake for any one below the rank of her own husband and his family. Mere common braves and their squaws could take care of themselves, and it was of small consequence to Dolores whether they had anything to eat or not. There is more "aristocracy" among the wild red men than anywhere else, and they have plenty of white imitators who should know better.
There had been a very good reason why neither Steve Harrison nor Murray came back with the Lipan braves who were sent to bring home the game. They had been preparing to do so when they were summoned into the presence of To-la-go-to-de.
"No Tongue is a great hunter," said the dark-browed leader, as they came forward. "Cougar, big-horn, deer, all good. Apache heap better."
"That's what I came for."
"Go find them. Eat a heap. Take Yellow Head. Go all night."
"Any warriors go with me?"
"No. Maybe Apache dog see you. See pale-faces and not think of Lipans. Dress Yellow Head. Wash off paint."
It was a genuine stroke of Indian war cunning. The two pale-faces were to act as scouts in the advance. If the Apaches should happen to see them their presence would not suggest the dangerous nearness of a band of hostile Indians.
It may be the wise old chief added, to himself, that if both of them were killed on their perilous errand, the loss to his tribe would be of less consequence than that of two full-blooded Lipans. His pride of race would prevent his admitting that he had no brave in his band who was as well fitted to follow and find Apaches as was No Tongue.
"Now, Steve, we must eat all we know how, and then I'll fix you."
It had not harmed the young hunter in the opinion of his red friends that he had been unable to conceal his delight at the prospect before him.
"Young brave," they said, with approving nods. "Glad all over. Make good warrior some day."
He was indeed "glad all over," but Murray cautioned him by a look, and he said nothing.
He was almost too glad to eat, but his appetite came back to him while he and Murray were cooking. He had eaten nothing since morning, and mountain air is a very hungry sort of air.
"That's right, my boy. There's no saying when you may get your next square meal. There's hard work before you and me, and plenty of it."
The next thing that came to Steve was a surprise.
Murray had never worn paint or adopted any more of Indian ways than he could help, but it was a wonder how soon he made himself look like a white man.
There was more in the pack on his spare pony than Steve had imagined.
A few minutes' work with a pair of small scissors made a remarkable change in his hair and beard, and then the long locks of Yellow Head himself had to suffer.
"Go and scrub off every spot of paint, while I'm rigging my hunting-shirt and leggings. You won't know me when you come back."
That was saying a little too much, but To-la-go-to-de himself expressed his admiration. He had seen wilder looking white men, by the hundred, among the border-settlements. No eyes in the world would suspect No Tongue of being a Lipan.
The transformation in Steve's appearance was shortly even greater, for Murray was able to furnish him with a "check" shirt and black silk neckerchief.
"Buckskin trousers'll have to do, my boy. No boots in camp, but I can knock the wrinkles out of this head-piece for you."
It was a black felt hat, and not very badly worn. Murray himself always wore one, but the supply had not been good enough for a long time to allow Steve to do the same.
"Now, Steve, I'm going to make old Two Knives give you the best mount in camp—good as mine."
Such a war-party never carries any slow horses with it, but there were some better than others, and the chief was as anxious as Steve that his "scouts" should be well mounted. Otherwise they might not be able to get back to him with any information they might pick up.
"Plenty of ammunition, Steve. Never mind any other kind of baggage, except some jerked meat. We may have to live on that."
There was no need for To-la-go-to-de to urge them. Not a minute was thrown away in their rapid preparations, and then the whole band turned out to see them ride away.
"I tell you what, Steve," said Murray, "we're not dressed in the latest fashion, but I haven't felt so much like a white man for years. I'll act like one, too."
There was a flash of pain in his eyes as he said that. Could it be he had ever done anything unworthy of his race and training?
Perhaps, for he had ridden on a great many warpaths with the fierce and merciless Lipans.
The latter would not follow till morning, and would move less rapidly than their two scouts, but their progress was not likely to be at all slow.
Steve Harrison rode on by the side of his friend for some distance without saying a word.
"What's the matter, Steve?"
"Murray, I don't mean ever to go back to the Lipans."
"Not unless it's necessary."
"It won't be necessary."
"Can't say, Steve. All this country's full of Apaches. We may get a sight of 'em any minute. I don't much care how soon we do, either."
"I'm not Indian enough for some things, Murray."
"Couldn't you fight Apaches?"
"I suppose I could, if they came to fight me. But I don't want to kill anybody. I thought you said you were feeling more like a white man."
"Steve, I don't know how I'd feel if I had a white shirt on, and a suit of civilized clothes. I'm a good deal of a savage yet, as it is."
"I never saw anything very savage about you."
"I'm on the war-path now, Steve, after my old enemies. Let's make as good time as we can before dark. After that we'll have to go carefully till the moon's up."
They were advancing a good deal more rapidly than the Apaches had been able to do over that same pass, hindered by their long train of tired pack-ponies and their women and children.
It was not a difficult trail to follow, for the lodge pole ends, dragging on the ground, had so deeply marked it that a man like Murray could have found it in the dark.
That was precisely what he did, after the sun sunk behind the western mountains, and the deep shadows crept up from the ravines and covered everything.
After the moon arose it was easier work, and Steve thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than was the moonlight on the quartz cliffs, and the forests, and the little lakes in the deep valleys, and on the foaming streams which came tumbling down the mountain sides from the regions of perpetual snow above.
Perhaps he was right, for hardly anybody has ever seen anything more beautiful in its way than such a moonlight view as that.
There was no time to stop and gaze, for Murray pushed on as fast as possible without using up their tough and wiry mustangs.
"We may need all the legs they've got to-morrow, Steve. We must find grass and water for them before daybreak."
It was a good three hours before sunrise, and the moon had again left them in darkness, when they almost groped their way down a steep declivity into a small hollow.
"Can't say how much there is of it, Steve, but this'll do. The Apache ponies have been cropping this very grass within twenty-four hours. Look at that."
"I can't see it very well."
"Feel of it, then. Don't you understand such a sign as that?"
"It's only a tuft of grass."
"Yes, but I found it ready pulled off, and it hasn't had time to more than wilt a little. The man that pulled it was here yesterday."
Murray did not know it, but no man had pulled that grass. It was a bunch Ni-ha-be had gathered for her pony, and then had thrown at Rita. Still, the guess about the time of it was nearly right, and that was a good enough place to rest in until daylight.
"No cooking this morning, I suppose," remarked Steve, when Murray shook him out of the nice nap he had snatched, wrapped in his "serape," or Mexican blanket. "No breakfast, eh?"
"You don't know what tales a smoke might tell, or to whom it might tell 'em. Cold meat'll have to do for this time, and glad to get it. After that, Steve, you'll do the most dangerous riding ever you did."
"Why, are they so near?"
"Can't be many miles. Our first hunt, though, will be for a place to hide our horses in."
"Why not leave 'em here?"
"I thought of that, but we may need 'em."
Their morning ride was a longer one than Murray imagined, but before noon he was able to say,
"The backbone of the pass is miles behind us, Steve. All the rest of the way'll be down hill, or kind of up and down."
"Up and down" it was, but they had barely advanced another half-mile before Steve exclaimed,
"There they are, Murray!"
"There they are! What a valley it is, too! But, Steve, they don't mean to stay there."
"A spy-glass? I didn't know you had one! How do you tell that they won't stay?"
"The glass? It's a double one. Some army officer owned it once, I suppose. I got it of old Two Knives himself. Nobody knows how it came to him. Look through it."
Steve had seen such things before, but had known very little about them. He did not even know how very good a glass that was with which he was now peering down upon the camp of the Apaches.
"See the lodge-poles lying there—in a dozen places?"
"They've put up some lodges."
"If they meant to stay they'd put up the others. No use for us to go back. The Lipans are coming along fast enough so long as the Apaches are on the move."
"But how can we get any farther? We can't ride right through them."
"I should say not; nor over them either. But if we can get into that pine-forest over there on the north slope, without being seen, we can ride around them."
"I'll risk it, Murray."
"So will I, Steve. I'd never let you try a thing like that alone."
"I could do it."
"Perhaps. And you'll have a good many things of that kind to do before you reach the settlements; but I guess I'll go with you this time."
"You'd better go with me all the way."
Murray said nothing, but he sprung from his horse, and Steve imitated him.
Men on foot were not so likely to be seen from the Apache camp.
There was nothing in or about that camp which Murray did not carefully study through his glass, and it showed him what was going on more clearly and perfectly than even the wonderfully keen black eyes of Ni-ha-be had shown it all to her, from almost the same spot, the day before.
"It's a hunting-camp, Steve, but it's a very strong party."
"Too strong for our Lipans?"
"I don't know about that. If we could surprise them by night we might do something with them."
"I'm no Lipan, Murray. None of those people down there ever did me any harm. Did they ever do you any? I don't mean any other Apaches; I'm just speaking of that camp."
"Well, no, I'm not sure about that. I don't know that I've any special grudge against this lot."
"Seems to me it's a good deal like an Indian to kill one man for what another man did. I'm only a boy, and I've been among the Lipans three years, but I've made up my mind to stay white."
Steve spoke with a good deal of energy, and his robust form seemed to stand up straighter.
"You're right, Steve; don't you do a thing that isn't fit for your color. I won't say anything more about myself just now."
If anybody had been listening to those two that morning, or indeed at any other time, he might have noticed something curious about the way Steve Harrison talked. It was not to be wondered at that a veteran like Murray should be slow of speech, and it suited well with his white hair and his wrinkles.
There was a good reason for it. Except when talking with Murray, Steve had not heard a word of English for three years.
Yes, there had been one other exception. When, ever he had found himself all alone he had talked to himself, asking and answering questions, and listening to his own pronunciation of the words.
"I shall get among white men some day," he thought, "and it would be a dreadful thing to be white myself and not talk white. Anyhow, I've learned Mexican Spanish since I've been out here, and I'll be glad enough to forget all I know of Indian talk."
He did not know it, but some things he said sounded ten years older and wiser just for his manner of saying them. Besides, he had had to think a great deal, and to keep most of his thoughts to himself. Not a great many boys do that.
"Come on, Steve. That ledge isn't badly broken. Horses can follow it, and it heads away right into the pine-forest. We must try it."
"We can get almost down into the valley without being seen."
"Yes, and we can find out if any good gap opens out of the valley to the northward."
Captain Skinner and his miners were quickly at the head of that ravine again, but the gold ledge stopped them all as if it had been a high fence.
"Cap," said the man called Bill, "of course them two fellers lit onto this mine. They couldn't ha' helped it. But they haven't done a stroke of work on it. Reckon we kin set up marks of our own."
"'Twont pay."
"We can't leave a claim like this."
Every man of the party was of the same opinion, and Captain Skinner said,
"Go ahead, boys. Only I can tell you one thing. We're going to move out of this, through that western gap, before daylight to-morrow morning. We're too near those red-skins down there to suit me. There's no telling how many there may be of them."
The men sprung to their work with a will. The first thing they did was to set up a "discovery monument" right in the middle of the ledge, at the head of the chasm.
Large flat stones were laid down, others carefully set upon them, and so up and up, till a pretty well shaped, four-sided pyramid had been made, six feet square and as many high.
Then two more, nearly as large, were set up at the ends of the ledge, where the gold vein disappeared in the high cliffs.
Seven strong men can do a great deal in a short time when they are in a hurry and all understand exactly what to do.
"Now we'll go for supper, and send out the rest."
"Must have a shaft begun and a blast fired."
The miners have a law of their own among themselves that a man who finds a mine must do some work on it and set up "marks," or else his claim to it is of no value.
These miners only paid no attention to another "law," that a man like Steve Harrison, for instance, is entitled to all the time required to do his work and set up his monuments. One part of the law is just as good as another.
The return to camp was quickly made, and there was news to tell all around, for the hunters not only brought in game but also the information that they "reckoned an army train could be hauled down that gap to the westward. It's almost as good as a road."
"We'll try it to-morrow," said the Captain.
He went out with all the men he could spare from camp as soon as supper was eaten, and they carried with them pickaxes, crow-bars, mining drills, and shovels. All the tools were pretty well worn, but they would answer for the work in hand.
It was getting dark when they reached the ledge; but that was of less consequence after two huge bonfires had been built near the central monument, and heaped with fragments of fallen pine-trees. Then the work began.
"Gangs of three," said Captain Skinner—"one on each side. We'll have two shafts started. Bill, drill your blast right there."
The shafts would not have been needed for a long time in actually working out ore from a ledge like that, but two such holes would make a very deep mark that could not be wiped out, and the "blast" would make another.
It was hard work, but as fast as the men who were prying and picking loosened a piece of quartz, it was lifted away by their comrades, and it was a wonder how those two shafts did go down.
All the while Bill was tapping away with his hammer and drill on the spot pointed out to him, and was making a hole in the rock about the size of a gun-barrel.
"Two feet, Cap," he shouted at last. "That's as far as I can go with this drill, and it's the longest there is in camp."
"That'll do. Charge it. Our job's 'most done."
The night was cool, but the miners had kept themselves warm enough. They were not sorry to quit when their hard-faced little Captain ordered them out of the two holes; but it was odd to see such great, brawny fellows obeying in that way a man who looked almost like a dwarf beside them.
"Got her charged, Bill?"
"All right, Cap."
"Stand back, boys. Touch yer fuse, Bill."
That was a slow-match that stuck out of the hole he had drilled in the rock, and it led down to the charge of powder he had skilfully rammed in at the bottom.
"We can hardly afford to waste so much powder," the Captain had muttered, "but it won't do for me to cross 'em too much on such a thing."
Back they went for a hundred yards, while the fuse burnt its slow, sputtering way down through the "tamping" Bill had rammed around it.
They had not long to wait. The blazing fires lit up the whole ledge and the bordering cliffs, and the miners could see distinctly everything that happened on it. Suddenly there came a puff of smoke from the drill-hole. Then the rock outside of it, toward the chasm, rose a little, and a great fragment of it tumbled over down the ledge, while a dull, thunderous burst of sound startled the silence of the night, and awaked all the echoes of the cliffs and the cañon.
No such sound had ever before been heard there, by night or by day, since the world was made; but Captain Skinner and his miners were not thinking of things like that.
"That'll do, boys," he said. "There'll be powder-marks on that rock for twenty years. Our claim's good now, if any of us ever come back to make it."
The men thought of how rich a mine it was, and each one promised himself that he would come back, whether the rest did or not.
It is not easy to tire out fellows as tough as they were, but Captain Skinner was a "fair boss," as they all knew, and the men who stood sentinel around his camp that night were not the men who toiled so hard on the mine.
"He doesn't seem to need any sleep himself," remarked one of them to Bill, as they were routed out of their blankets an hour before daylight the next morning.
"You'll have to eat your breakfast on horseback, you three," he said to them. "Strike right for the gap, and if you come across anything that doesn't look right, you can send one of you back to let me know. Sharp, now! We won't be long in following."
Their horses were quickly saddled, and away they rode, each man doing his best, as he went, with a huge piece of cold roast venison. The Captain had remarked to them, "That'll do ye. Your coffee'll be just as hot as ours."
That meant that the cold water of one mountain stream was just about as pleasant to drink as that of another.
Bill and his two comrades were not the men to grumble over a piece of necessary duty like that, and they knew it was "their turn."
The sun was well up before they reached the head of the gap, and a glance showed them that it was all the hunters had prophesied of it. It was, in fact, a sort of natural highway from that table-land down to the valleys and plains of Arizona.
"This'll do first-rate," said Bill: "only I'd like to know what thar is at the lower eend of it."
"That's what we're gwine to look for. If ever we come back to work that mine, Bill, what ranches we can lay out on that level beyond the ruins!"
"Best kind. Raise 'most anything up thar."
No doubt of it; but now for some hours their minds and eyes were busier with the pass before them than with either mines or farming.
"Not a sign yet, Bill, and we're getting well down. See them pines?"
"Off to the left? Hullo! Put for the pines, boys! We'll nab those two! See 'em?"
"Coming right along up. All we've got to do is to 'bush our horses, and let 'em git past us."
"Only two squaws."
The three miners dashed on a minute or so till they could turn aside among the thick-growing cover of the forest.
They rode in a little distance, till they were sure they could not be seen from the pass; then they dismounted, tethered their horses, and slipped cautiously back to crouch among some dense bushes among the rocks within a few yards of the path by which any one coming up the gap must needs ride.
"We'll get 'em."
"Learn all we want to."
"Hullo, Bill, I can see 'em. That ain't all; thar's some kind of a brave not fur behind 'em."
"I see. Only one. Well, we kin take him too."
"Take him! Bah! knock him on the head. I don't exactly like to fire a gun just here."
"Old Skinner'd kill ye if ye gave that kind of warnin' to a crowd of redskins."
"Mebbe there isn't any."
"You don't know. Safe not to make too much noise, anyhow."
They might have fired every cartridge they had and not been heard by the Apaches in the valley; but there was no one to tell them so. At the same time they felt perfectly safe to talk, for they were sure there were no human ears near enough to hear them—so sure that they talked aloud and recklessly.
Perhaps it would have been as well for them to have imitated Captain Skinner, who hardly ever talked at all.
As it was, they had nothing to do but to wait, for their intended captives were evidently in no sort of hurry, and were laughing merrily as they loitered along the ravine below, picking berries here and a flower there, and making a capital frolic of their morning ride.
Laughing, talking, thoughtless of all danger, and yet they were riding on into the most terrible kind of a "trap."
How could any help reach them, if once they should go beyond those treacherous rocks and bushes?
In such a country as that, full of sudden changes from mountain and table-land to valleys and plains, pretty large bodies of men might have been quite near each other without knowing it. Unless, indeed, they should send out sharp-eyed scouts to find out about their neighbors, as did the miners under Captain Skinner, and the Lipans of To-la-go-to-de.
Neither of these "main bodies" remained in camp an hour longer than was necessary, but even after they left their respective camps they moved onward with some caution, half expecting at any moment to see one of their scouts come riding back with important news.
The white men had heavy wagons to prevent them from moving rapidly, but their road toward the "western gap," and even through it, would be almost a straight line compared to the long, rugged, round-about pass over which Murray and Steve Harrison had followed the trail of the Apaches.
"Motion" was decidedly the order of the day, even for the Apaches. To be sure, there had been no known reason why they should bestir themselves so early in the morning; but their chief himself had given orders the night before, right after supper, that no more lodges should be set up, and that all things should be in condition for a march.
He needed yet to make up his mind precisely in what direction the march should be, and Rita's "talking leaves" had not given him a single hint about that.
The fact that they had not was a trouble to him, but it was a little too much to expect of a chief and warrior that he should seem to go for counsel to a mere squaw, and a very young one—a squaw of the pale-faces at that. So Rita and Ni-ha-be had not been molested in their lodge all the evening, and a grand talk they had of it all by themselves, with Mother Dolores to listen.
Dolores had listened, but the girls had been surprised by the fact that she asked almost no questions at all—not even about the cavalry pictures.
She did not explain to them that her mind was all the while too completely filled with the thought of the one picture which had spoken to her, and made her shut her eyes and kneel down. There could not possibly be any other which could do more than that, although it was a great thing that Many Bears should have given them any attention.
Ni-ha-be had slept as soundly as usual that night, and Rita had "made believe" do so, until her adopted sister ceased even to whisper to her, and she could hear the loud breathing of Mother Dolores on the opposite side of the lodge.
Then she opened her eyes in the darkness, and tried to recall all she had seen in the three marvellous magazines, page by page.
How it all did come back to her! Some of the words, too, that she had not understood begun to have a meaning to her.
"They are talking now," she said to herself. "They are almost all talking. They are helping me remember. I'm sure that was my mother—my white mother. But where is my white father? He was not there at all. I must look for him again tomorrow. We must ride off away from the camp, where nobody can see us, and we can talk as much as we please."
"We" meant herself and Ni-ha-be, of course, but it also meant her three prizes. She had brought them to bed with her on her soft buffalo-skin, and she was hugging them closely now. It seemed to her as if they were alive, and had come to tell her almost anything she could think to ask.
Then it was all so still, and she was so tired with her journey and her excitement, that she fell asleep at last, to dream of more people and stranger things than had ever come to her mind before, sleeping or waking.
When morning came there was no need for Rita to propose a ride on horseback. Ni-ha-be spoke of it first, and for the self-same reason; but there was nothing unusual about it, for they almost lived in the saddle, like genuine daughters of the great Apache nation.
That, too, was why nobody paid them any attention when, an hour or so after their late breakfast, they were seen to scold a couple of wild-looking boys into bringing up their horses for them. The chief's two favorites were entitled to that much of service, and were apt to insist upon it.
For a while the very delight of galloping up and down the valley on such swift and beautiful animals as they were riding almost drove out of their minds the thought of talking leaves; but when, a little later, Many Bears slowly arose from a long fit of thinking, there in front of his lodge, and said to Red Wolf, "Call Rita," Rita was nowhere to be seen.
"Find her. Tell her to come and bring me the white men's medicine, talking leaves."
Red Wolf sprang upon the nearest horse—and there were several standing ready for sudden errands—and dashed away in search of his truant sisters.
Mother Dolores could tell him nothing, but his loud, half-angry questionings drew together a knot of squaws and children, two or three of whom were ready to point toward the north-eastern slope of the valley, where it crept up through the pine-forest into the mountains, and tell him he would have to hunt in that direction.
He was ready for it, of course; but he reined in his mustang in front of his father long enough to tell him the cause of the delay.
"Bring them back. They are as wild as rabbits. They will lose their scalps some day."
The chief did not smile when he said that. He was beginning to feel uneasy about the position of his affairs, and he could hardly have told why. He said to himself, "Bad medicine. Can't see him. Great chief smell him."
And then he gave sharp orders to his young braves to have all the ponies caught and brought in from the pastures below, and to the squaws to have all their packs ready and their lodges taken down.
"Big talk come," he said again to himself. "Maybe big fight. Don't know. Must be ready. Somebody catch the great chief asleep if he doesn't look out."
Nobody had ever done that yet, for Many Bears had even a greater name for his cunning than for his fighting.
Red Wolf was well mounted, and he darted away at full speed. His father was not a man to forgive a slow messenger any more than a slow cook.
"I understand," he muttered. "Squaws not stay in valley. Go among trees and rocks. Bears catch 'em some day. Eat 'em all up. Not afraid of anything."
So he was really anxious about them, and afraid they would run into danger?
Certainly.
The red man's family affection does not always show itself in the same way with ours, but there is plenty of it. All the more in the case of a young brave like Red Wolf, with every reason to be proud as well as fond of his sister.
And of Rita?
He was thinking of her now, and wondering if she had learned anything more about the cavalry from her talking leaves.
It was, for all the world, just as if he had been a young white man from "one of the first families." He galloped onward, keenly eying the fringes of the forest and the broken bases of the ledges, until he came to the broad opening below the gap, and here he suddenly stopped and sprung to the ground at a place where the green sod was soft and deeply marked with the prints of horses' hoofs.
"The blue-coat horsemen came out into the valley here. Their tracks are old. Ugh! Those are fresh. Ni-ha-be and Rita."
He was on his horse again in an instant, galloping up the not very steep slope of the pass.
The two girls had been in no hurry, and it was not long before Red Wolf came in sight of them.
He put his hand to his mouth and gave a long, peculiar whoop that meant: "I am after you. Come back!"
They understood it well enough, and Rita might have obeyed at once if she had been left to herself; but there was more than a little mischief behind the black eyes of Ni-ha-be.
"Let him catch us. He won't do anything worse than scold. I'm not afraid of Red Wolf."
Rita was, just a little, but she rode on beside her sister without turning her head.
"We shall not read any out of the leaves this morning."
"Read? What is that?"
"Just the same as a warrior when he finds the trail of a deer. Just like the trail of the blue-coat cavalry. Father and the gray-heads read it."
"Is that the way the leaves talk to you? I guessed it was. It is all signs, like tracks in the mud."
Rita had used the only Apache word she could think of that came at all near to meaning what she wanted, but there was no word for "book," or for any kind of book.
Again they heard the shout of Red Wolf behind them. It was nearer now, and a little angry.
"He is coming, Ni-ha-be. Don't let us ride fast."
"He is saying ugly things. But we will laugh at him, and tell him he cannot whoop loud enough to be heard."
Red Wolf was proud of his powerful voice, and that would be a sure way to tease him.
"Rita! The great chief is angry! He calls for you!"
He was close upon them by this time, and they reined in their horses. Teasing Red Wolf was one thing, but disobeying Many Bears was quite another.
They had seen squaws beaten for smaller offences than that.
"We have done wrong, Ni-ha-be."
"Oh, not much. We can ride back as fast as our ponies can carry us. Turn and meet him."
It had been a very little bit of a "runaway" on the part of the two girls, but it threatened to have serious consequences.
There was no time even for Red Wolf to scold them before the consequences began to come.
They had ridden just to the end of the spot where the rocks and bushes at the roadside were so thick-set and made so perfect a cover for anybody hiding among them.
"Look, Red Wolf! look!"
"Oh, who are they? Enemies!"
The young brave pulled in his mustang so sharply that he almost tumbled him over, and turned his head.
"Pale-faces! How came they here?"
He could hardly have been more astonished if one of the granite bowlders near him had stood up and said, "Good-morning." So far as he could have guessed, the nearest white man was many hundreds of miles away, and his nation was at peace with them for the time; but here were three of the hated race standing in the road to cut oft his retreat and that of his sisters.
Three tall, brawny, evil-looking pale-faces, with rifles in their hands, and the foremost of them was levelling his gun straight at Red Wolf, and shouting, "Surrender, you red-skinned coyote, or I'll put a pill into ye."
An Indian brave, like the son of Many Bears, might deem it an honor to be named after the large, dangerous "wolf" he had killed in single fight with only his knife, but to be called a coyote, a miserable prairie wolf, jackal, was a bitter insult, and that was what it was meant for. He had left his carbine in the camp, but his long lance was in his hand, and his knife and revolver were in his belt.
What could one young brave do against three such powerful and well-armed white men?
"Ni-ha-be!" exclaimed Rita.
"I am an Apache girl! I can fight! You are a pale-face!"
Rita was stung to her very heart by her sister's scornful reply, for she had also brought her bow and arrows. They never stirred from camp without them, and squaws were not permitted to carry firearms.
Ni-ha-be had an arrow already on the string, and Rita followed her example like a flash.
"Red Wolf is a warrior. He is not a coyote. He will show the pale-faces—"
Twang!
The sound of Ni-ha-be's bow-string cut Red Wolf's haughty reply in two in the middle, and it was well for the miner "Bill" that he was quick in dodging. As it was, he dropped his rifle, for there was an arrow through his right arm above the elbow, and Ni-ha-be was fitting another.
Twang!
But the man at whom Rita aimed her arrow was an old Indian fighter, and he parried it easily.
"Red Wolf, your pistol!"
"Boys," exclaimed Bill, "they're a lot of young wild-cats! We'll jest have to shoot. Pick on the redskin, quick, and knock over the two girls before they make a hole into ye."
The two parties were hardly twenty yards apart, and all this had happened in a few seconds; but just then Red Wolf was exclaiming,
"Two more!"
And Rita said, excitedly,
"Stop, Ni-ha-be! See! They are fighting other. These two are friends. Don't shoot!"