During one part of the journey Steve Harrison and Murray had found the ledge along the mountain side pretty rough travelling, but their horses were used to picking their way along bad roads, and after a while they succeeded in getting out on to the comparatively smooth slope of the pine-forest.
"Our only risk now is that we may meet some of their hunters up here after game. We'll push right on."
"I'll fight if it can't be helped, Murray, but I'd a good deal rather not meet anybody."
"Well, so had I. Our business, just now, is scouting, not killing."
"I'll scout all day," said Steve.
"We must find a hiding-place for the horses, and creep down into the valley on foot. I'll show you some new tricks to-day."
The trees were large and the forest open, and no proper place was found for the concealment of such large animals, until they made their way at last to the very edge of the pass, at the point where it left the rugged cliffs of the "gap" and entered the more gentle slope of the forest.
"This'll do, Steve. I could hide a company in here; and no one squad need know where the next one was lying."
That was true enough, but it was of more importance to them that day than any one would have expected.
They tethered their horses between two rocks, where the thickly woven vines overhead made almost a dark stable for them.
"Now, Steve, a good look up and down, and we're off."
Between them and what could be called "the road" were many yards of tangled growth, and before they had gotten through it Steve felt his arm gripped hard.
"Listen! Horses coming! Lie still."
A minute more and they were both willing to lie as still as mice, for that was the very cover chosen by Bill and his two comrades in which to wait for their intended prisoners.
They and their horses were hardly twenty feet from Steve and Murray, and every loud word they said was distinctly heard.
Moreover, Murray and his young friend were on higher ground, and they, too, could look down the pass, and see who was coming.
"Two young squaws," whispered Murray. "The foolish young things are coming right into the trap."
"Can't we help 'em?"
"They're Apache squaws, Steve."
"I don't care. I'm white!"
"So am I. Tell you what, Steve—Ha! I declare!"
"What's the matter, Murray?"
"One of 'em's white! Sure's you live. They sha'n't touch a hair of their heads!"
"White or red?" whispered Steve, and he was not speaking of the color of Ni-ha-be's hair or of Rita's.
The expression of Murray's face astonished Steve. It was ghastly white, under all its tan and sunburn, and the wrinkles seemed twice as deep as usual, while the fire in his sunken eyes was fairly blazing. It was likely to be a bad time for anybody to cross the temper of "No Tongue," and Steve felt that his own blood was getting a little warm.
"There's an Indian coming."
"Apache. After the squaws. Don't you hear his whoop? I suppose they'll shoot him first thing, but they won't send a bullet at the girls. They're a bad crowd. Worse than Apache Indians."
"I don't consider them white men."
"Not inside, they ain't. I'd rather be a Lipan!"
The two merry, laughing girls rode by, in happy ignorance of the danger that was lurking in the thicket, and Red Wolf galloped swiftly on to join them.
Then the three miners, with Bill at their head, sprung out of their cover.
"Look out, boys. Don't use your rifles. Thar must be plenty more within hearin'."
"We'll have to kill the brave."
"Of course. Git close to him, though. No noise. I'd like not to give him a chance to so much as whoop."
They never dreamed of looking behind to see if any one were following them out of the cover, but it would have been better for them to have done so.
"They've start enough now," growled Murray. "Come on, Steve. Step like a cat. We must take them unawares. Have your tie-up ready."
The buckskin thongs which hang from the belt or shoulder or knee of an Indian warrior are not all put there for ornament. They are for use in tying things, and they are terribly strong. No human hand can break one, and they are always there and ready, only needing to be cut off.
Steve's face was almost as pale as Murray's in his excitement. He had looked in the bright faces of the two "young squaws" as they rode by, and it seemed to him as if he could fight those three miners all alone.
They saw Red Wolf join his sisters; they heard the startled cries of Rita and Ni-ha-be, the demand for their surrender, and Red Wolf's reply.
"Now, Steve, quick! Do just as I tell you!"
Twang went Ni-ha-be's bow at that instant, and the man next to Bill was raising his rifle to fire, when his arms were suddenly seized by a grasp of iron and jerked behind him.
"Right at the elbows, Steve. Draw the loop hard. Quick!"
As the next of the miners turned in his tracks he was astonished by a blow between the eyes that laid him flat, and saw a powerful-looking old man, of his own race, levelling a carbine at him saying,
"Give it up, boys. Don't one of ye lift a hand."
Bill could not lift his, with the arrow in his arm. The man Steve had tied could not move his elbows. The man on the ground was ruefully looking into the barrel of Murray's rifle. Besides, here was Red Wolf, springing forward, with his lance in one hand and his revolver in the other, while Rita held his horse, and Ni-ha-be sat upon her own, with her second arrow on the string.
"We give it up," said Bill. "But what are you fellers up to? I see. You're the two miners, and you're down on us because we jumped your claim to that thar gold ledge."
"Wall, Bill," grumbled one of his comrades, "I don't blame 'em for that; but they needn't ha' took sides with redskins."
Red Wolf lowered his lance and stuck his pistol in his belt. "Your prisoners. Not mine," he said to Murray. "Glad to meet friend. Come in good time."
He spoke in Mexican Spanish, but Murray understood him, and so did the miners.
"Hear him, Bill! He knows them two fellers. That's why they ain't afraid to prospect away down here."
He had made a bit of a mistake, but Murray answered, short and sharp,
"Young brave take friend's advice. Jump on horse. Take young squaws back to camp. Tell chief to ride hard. Kill pony. Get away fast."
"Who shall I tell him you are?"
"Say you don't know. Tell him I'm an enemy. Killed you. Killed young squaws. Going to kill him."
There was a sort of grim humor in Murray's face as he said that. Not only Red Wolf, but the two girls, understood it, and the latter would have given a good deal to be able to tell the "white head," as they called him, and his handsome young friend, how thankful they both were.
Steve had not said a word, but he was narrowly watching the three miners for any signs of an effort to get loose. He and Murray might have been able to upset the two unwounded men in a fair fight, but it was just as likely to be the other way.
"It's that other one, Steve. He's watching his chance. That's it. Draw it hard. Now he won't be cutting any capers."
The expression of the miner's eyes promised the unfriendliest kind of "capers" if he should ever get an opportunity to cut them.
"It's no use, boys," said Bill. "Mister, will you jest cut this arrer, close to my arm, so's I can pull it out?"
"I will in a minute. It's as good as a tie of deer-skin jest now. Watch 'em, Steve!"
He walked forward a few steps as he spoke, and looked long and hard into the face of Rita.
"Too bad! too bad! They'd better have killed her, like they did mine. It's awful to think of a white girl growing up to be a squaw. Ride for your camp, young man. I'll take care of these three."
"I will send out warriors to help you. You shall see them all burnt and cut to pieces."
"Oh, Rita!" whispered Ni-ha-be; "they ought to be burnt."
Rita was gazing at the face of old Murray, and did not say a word in reply.
"Come," said Red Wolf; "the great chief is waiting for us."
And then he added to Murray and Steve,
"The lodges of the Apaches are open to their friends. You will come?"
"Steve, you had better say yes. It may be a lift for you."
"I will come some day," said Steve, quickly. "I don't know when."
"The white head must come too. He has the heart of an Apache, and his hand is strong for his friends. We must go now."
He looked at the three miners for a moment, as if he disliked leaving them behind, and then he bounded upon his pony, and the two girls followed him swiftly down the pass.
"Was he not handsome, Rita?"
Ni-ha-be was thinking of Steve Harrison, but Rita replied,
"Oh, very handsome! His hair is white, and his face is wrinkled, but he is so good. He is a great warrior, too. The bad pale-face went down before him like a small boy."
"His hair is not white, it is brown as the hair of a young buffalo. His face is not wrinkled. He is a young brave. He will be a chief."
"Oh, that other one! I hardly looked at him. I hope they will come. I want to see them again."
Red Wolf rode too fast for them to say much, and he did not pause until he reached the very presence of Many Bears and his counsellors.
There were already signs, in all directions, that the camp was beginning to break up, as well as tokens of impatience on the face of the chief.
"Where go?" he said, angrily. "Why do young squaws ride away when they are wanted?"
Ni-ha-be was about to answer, but Red Wolf had his own story to tell first, and he sternly bade her to hold her tongue till he had made his report. It was eagerly listened to.
Pale-face enemies so near! Who could they be? White friends, too, ready to fight for them against other white men, and send them warning of danger! That was more remarkable yet.
A trusty chief and a dozen braves were instantly ordered to dash into the pass, bring back the three prisoners, and learn all they could of the "white head" and his young companion.
Perhaps Steve Harrison would hardly have felt proud of the names which was given him on the instant. The only feat the Apaches knew of his performing was the thorough manner in which, according to Red Wolf, he had tied up those two miners; and so for lack of any other name they spoke of him as the "Knotted Cord." It was not long before Murray himself was known in that council by a long word, terribly hard to pronounce for any but an Apache, but that might be translated "Send Warning." He had actually earned a "good name" among his old enemies.
Rita and Ni-ha-be were saved any farther scolding. There was no time for that now, and the chief was more than ever anxious to ask questions of the "talking leaves," now he was sure of the neighborhood of danger.
Rita was puzzled.
"Ask about the bad pale-faces. Who are they?"
She took her three magazines from the folds of her antelope-skin tunic with trembling hands, for she was dimly beginning to understand that they could not tell her of things which were to be. It seemed to her, in that moment, that she could not read or remember a single word of English.
The one she opened first was not one which contained the pictures of the cavalry; but Rita's face instantly brightened, and she handed it to her father. There were five or six pages, one after the other, each of which contained a picture, large or small, of men engaged in mining for gold among the Western sierras.
The chief gravely turned the leaves till he came to a sketch that drew from him a sharp and sullen "Ugh!"
He had hit it, and there could be no mistake.
There were the sturdy miners, with rifles instead of picks, making a gallant charge upon an attacking party of Indians.
"No need to talk. Great chief see for himself. No lie. I remember. Kill some of them. Rest got away. Now they come to strike the Apaches. Ugh!"
That was a "fancy sketch" by some Eastern artist; but it must have been nearly true to life when an Apache chief could say he had been one of the very crowd of Indians who were being shot at in the picture.
"That do now. Talk more by-and-by. Big fight come."
The part of that band which could not fight was hurried forward at the best speed that could be made, while Many Bears rapidly transformed his buffalo-hunters into "warriors." All that was needed was to give them a chance to paint themselves in sufficiently hideous manner for the "war-path," and deal out to them a double allowance of cartridges for their rifles.
When that was done they made a formidable-looking array, and the last chance of the Lipans or any other enemies for "surprising" them was gone.
Then they rode slowly on after their women and children, and the braves came back from the pass to report to Many Bears that Send Warning, Knotted Cord, and their three prisoners had gone no one could guess whither.
For a moment Murray and Steve stood looking after the retreating forms of Red Wolf and his sisters.
"I say," exclaimed Bill, "you're a pretty pair of white men! Do you mean to turn us three over to them Apaches?"
"Who are you, anyway? Tell me a straight story, and I'll make up my mind."
"Well, there's no use tryin' to cover our tracks, I s'pose. We belong to the outfit that set up thar own marks on your ledge thar, last night. It wasn't any more our blame than any of the rest."
Murray nodded to Steve, as much as to say, "Keep still. We're learning something. Let him talk." But he replied to Bill,
"There's too many of your crowd for us to tackle. Where are the rest of you?"
"All coming down this way. We was sent ahead to scout."
"So you thought you'd make your outfit safe by picking a quarrel with the Apaches."
"Now, stranger, you've got me thar. 'Twas a fool thing to do."
"Well, I'll tell you what we'll do. You three stand up and swear you bear no malice or ill-will to me and my mate, and you and your crowd'll do us no harm, and I'll let you go."
"How about the mine?"
"Never mind about the mine. If your Captain and the rest are as big fools as you three, there won't any of you come back to meddle with the mine. The Apaches'll look out for that. There'll be worse than they are behind you, too."
He was speaking of the Lipans, but Bill's face grew longer as he listened, and so did the faces of his two friends.
"You know about that, do ye?"
"I know enough to warn you."
"Well, all I kin say is, we've got that dust, bars, nuggets, and all, and we fit hard for it, and we're gwine to keep it."
"What can you do with it here?"
"Here? We're gwine to Mexico. It'll take a good while to spend a pile like that. It took the Chinese a year and a half to stack it up."
"Well, if you don't start back up the pass pretty soon, you won't have any chance. Do you think you can keep your word with us?"
"Reckon we kin, with white men like you. So'll all the rest, when we tell 'em it don't cover the mine. You take your own chances on that."
"We do."
"Then we've no ill-will about this little scrimmage. Mebbe you did us a good turn."
"You may say that. Tell your mates I warn 'em to let the Indians alone down here. There's too many of 'em."
"Tell you what, now, old man, there's something about you that ain't so bad, arter all."
That was the remark of the first miner Murray set loose, but the second added,
"You've got a hard fist of your own, though. My head rings yet."
"It'd ring worse if it had been cracked by an Apache war-club. You and your mates travel!"
They plunged into the thicket for their horses, and when they came out again Murray and Steve had disappeared.
"Gone, have they?" said Bill. "And we don't know any more about 'em than we did before. What'll Captain Skinner say?"
"What'll we say to him? That's what beats me. And to the boys? I don't keer to tell 'em we was whipped in a minute and tied up by an old man, a boy, two girl squaws, and a redskin."
"It don't tell well, that's a fact."
It was the truth, however, and the three miners rode away up the pass in a decidedly uncomfortable frame of mind.
Murray had beckoned Steve to follow him, and they had slipped away among the rocks and bushes, but not too far to see what became of the three miners.
"They might have kept their word, Steve, and they might not. We were at their mercy, standing out there. They could have shot us from the cover."
"Oh, they are white men—not Indians. They never would do such a thing as that!"
"Wouldn't they! Didn't you hear him confess that they were trying to steal your mine? And didn't he say they were robbers, running away with stolen gold? Murderers, too? That's the kind of white men that stir up nine-tenths of all the troubles with the Indians. Let alone the Apaches: that tribe never did keep a treaty."
"The one we saw to-day looked like a Lipan."
"So he did, and he stood right up for the girls. He's a brave fellow. And, Steve, one of those young squaws was no more an Indian than you or I be. It makes my heart sore and sick to think of it. A fine young girl like that, with such an awful life before her!"
"The other one was bright and pretty, too, and she can use her bow and arrows."
"Full-blooded Indian. As full of fight as a wild-cat, and twice as dangerous."
"Now, Murray, what do you think we'd better do?"
"Do? I wish I could say. My head's all in a whirl somehow. I want a chance to do some thinking."
"Time enough for that."
"Not if we keep right on after the Apaches. I'll tell you what, Steve, my mind won't be easy till I've had another look at the ledge. I want to know what they've done."
"The Buckhorn Mine? I'd like to see it, too."
"Then we'll let their outfit go by us, and ride straight back to it. Might as well save time and follow those fellows up the pass. Plenty of hiding-places."
It was a bold thing to do, but they did it, and they were lying safely in a deep ravine that led out of the pass, a few hours later, when the "mining outfit" slowly trundled on its downward way.
Long before that, however, Bill and his two friends had made their report to Captain Skinner.
They had a well made up story to tell him, but it was not very easy for him to believe it.
"Met the two mining fellers, did ye? And they're friends with the 'Paches. Wouldn't let 'em do ye any harm. How many redskins was there?"
"Three. We never fired a shot at 'em nor struck a blow, but one of thar squaws fired an arrer through my arm."
"It's the onlikeliest yarn I ever listened to."
"Thar's the hole in my arm."
"Not that. It isn't queer an Apache wanted to shoot ye. I can believe that. But that you had sense enough not to fire first at a redskin. You never had so much before in all your life."
"Here we are, safe—all three."
"That's pretty good proof. If there'd been a fight they'd ha' been too much for you, with two white men like them to help. Well, we'll go right on down. It's our only show."
"That isn't all, Cap."
"What more is there?"
"The old fellow told me to warn you that thar was danger comin' behind us. He seems to know all about us and about what we did to the ledge."
"We're followed, are we? What did he say about the mine?"
"Said he'd take his chances about that. We agreed to be friends if we met him and his mate again."
"You did? Now, Bill, you've shown good-sense again. What's the matter with you to-day? I never heard of such a thing? It's like finding that mine just where I didn't expect to."
Bill's two associates said nothing. They were quite willing he should do the talking, so long as he did not tell how they had been knocked down and tied up. But one of them had to pucker up his mouth for a sort of silent whistle when he heard Captain Skinner praise them for their wisdom in keeping the peace with the Apaches.
Perhaps all three of them, too, were thinking of what they should say if the exact truth about that morning's work should ever leak out.
Danger behind them. They did not know exactly what, but their consciences told them what it ought to be. That made it grow bigger and bigger the longer they thought of it.
Danger before them in the shape of wandering Apaches; but they had expected to meet that sort of thing, and were ready for it. Only they hoped to dodge it in some way, and to get safely across the border into Mexico with their stolen treasure.
They had at least made sure of their wonderful mine, and that was something. Sooner or later they would all come back and claim it again, and dig fortunes out of it. The two miners would not be able to prove anything. There was no danger from them.
Perhaps not; and yet, as soon as they had fairly disappeared down the pass, below the spot where Steve and Murray were hiding, the latter exclaimed, "Now, Steve, we won't rest our horses till we get there."
They would be quite likely to need rest by that time, for the old man seemed to be in a tremendous hurry.
Steve would hardly have believed anything could excite the veteran to such a pitch, if it had not been that he felt so much of the "gold-fever" in his own veins. It seemed to him as if he were really thirsty for another look at that wonderful ledge.
They turned their horses out to feed on the sweet, fresh grass at last, and pushed forward on foot to the mine.
"They've done it, Steve!"
"I see they have. Our title's all gone!"
He spoke mournfully and angrily; but Murray replied,
"Gone? Why, my boy, those rascals have only been doing our work for us."
"For us? How's that?"
"It was ours. They've set up our monuments, and dug our shafts, and put in a blast for us. They haven't taken anything away from us. I'll show you."
He had taken from a pocket of his buckskins a small, narrow chisel as he spoke, and now he picked up a round stone to serve as a hammer.
"I'm going to make a record, Steve. I'll tell you what to do about it as I go along."
Captain Skinner's miners had been hard workers, but Steve had never seen anybody ply a chisel as Murray did. He was not trying to make pretty letters, but they were all deeply cut and clearly legible.
On the largest stone of the central monument, and on the side monuments, and then on the face of the cliff near the ledge, he cut the name of the mine, "The Buckhorn," and below that on the cliff and one monument he cut the date of discovery and Steve Harrison's name.
"Put on yours too, Murray."
"Well, if you say so. It may be safer. Only I turn all my rights over to you. I'll do it on paper if I ever get a chance."
"I only want my share."
All the while he was chiselling so skilfully and swiftly Murray was explaining to Steve how he was to act when he reached the settlements, and how he should make a legal record of his ownership of that property.
"You must be careful to describe all these marks exactly; the ruins, too, the cañon, the lay of the land, the points of the compass—everything. After all, it may be you'll never be able to work it. But you're young, and there's no telling. The first thing for you to do is to get out of the scrape you're in now."
Steve felt as if there were no longer any doubt of that.
During the busy hours spent on the ledge by their masters the two horses had been feeding and resting, and both Murray and Steve felt like following their example.
"Start a fire, Steve; it'll be perfectly safe. I'll try for a deer, and we'll cook enough to carry us for two days."
The advance of To-la-go-to-de and his Lipans that day had been a slow one. It grew slower and more cautious as hour after hour and mile after mile of rugged mountain riding went by without any word from the two pale-face scouts.
The chief himself grew uneasy, and he would have sent another party in search of No Tongue and the Yellow Head but for fear of defeating the very object he had in view.
They, he thought, would surely return or send him some word before nightfall; but the sun was nearly setting when at last he went into camp with his discontented warriors on the very spot where Steve and Murray had made their own halt before daylight.
Then, indeed, he could wait no longer, and several braves were ordered out on foot, with others on horseback, a little behind them, to explore what was left of the pass and see what they could find. They could have done more for their chief and themselves if the night had not been a somewhat cloudy one, and not a brave of them ventured to descend into the valley.
If they had done so they might have discovered two very important facts. The first was that the Apache hunting village had left it, bag and baggage, no one could guess whither. The second, and quite as important a discovery, would have been that the camping-ground abandoned by the Apaches had been promptly occupied by a strong party of pale-faces.
All the scouts could really do was to bring back word that the pass was clear of enemies to the border of the valley.
That was an anxious night, therefore, for To-la-go-to-de, and it would hardly have been less so if he had known all about the doings of No Tongue and Yellow Head during the day—about their capture and release of the three miners, and their return to their mine.
The morning would bring news, at all events, for To-la-go-to-de determined to dash on with all his warriors and find it for himself.
"No Tongue is wise. He is a great warrior. Sometimes wise old warrior gets knocked on the head. Then he not come back at all."
There was a possibility, as he well knew, that the Apaches themselves had something to do with the silence of his two pale-face friends; but the Lipan chief was not the man to lie awake over any such thing as that; he was not even anxious enough to dream about them after he got asleep.
Another head had been quite as busy and troubled as that of To-la-go-to-de all that day, and Captain Skinner also would have given something for a few minutes' conversation with "them two mining fellers."
He felt sure they could have given him both information and advice; but he said to himself, "Of course they won't come nigh our outfit. They know we've jumped their claim. Still, they did the friendly thing with Bill and the boys, and they sent word they didn't bear us any ill-will. That's 'cause they feel sure of their own ground. They're on good terms with the redskins. I wish I could say we were."
Well he might, considering how many of them there were in that country, and how near to him some of them were coming.
All the way down the pass the ragged little "Captain" had ridden in advance of his men, carefully scanning every rock, and bush, and tree. At last he paused at the very spot where Bill and his companions had had their little difficulty. He seemed to see some signs that needed studying, and he stooped down and picked up something—only a pair of strong thongs of buckskin, that looked as if they had been recently used in tying up something. He could make very little out of them; but he noticed the marks of horse's feet going up and out of the forest.
"Signs are getting pretty thick. Hullo! An arrow! Cut in two, and blood on it. Bill, isn't this the spot?"
"This 'ere's the very place, Cap. We came awful nigh havin' a fight right yer."
"Glad you made out not to have any. Did those two white men and the Indians ride away in company?"
"Wal, no. The redskins rid away first, and the two fellers promised to foller 'em after a while. Then I reckon they cut off into the timber. 'Peared like they must ha' been huntin'."
"Most likely they were; and waiting for us to get away, so they could go back to their mine. Boys, I'm afraid our claim there won't be worth a great deal by the time we get back."
"We'll take care of that when we come, Cap. They said they'd take thar chances. We'll jest take ours; that's all."
Slower, more and more cautiously, the mining train again moved forward, until, from under the last of the pine-trees, Captain Skinner could look out upon the valley and see that it was empty.
How would he and his men have felt if they could have known that at that very minute Murray was chipping away with his chisel at his inscriptions upon the central monument of the great Buckhorn Mine?
"Not a redskin in sight," he remarked. "If there were any there this morning they've moved on. They're always on the move. Glad of it. We'll go straight on down. There must be plenty of ways out of a valley like that."
No doubt of it; but the first business of those wanderers, after they reached the spring and unhitched their mule-teams, was to carefully examine every hoof-mark and foot-print they could find.
The fact that there had been lodges there was proof that the Apaches were not a war-party, but there was plenty of evidence that they were numerous enough to be dangerous.
"Glad Bill didn't pick a quarrel with such a band as that," grumbled Captain Skinner. "But how did he happen to show so much sense? I never suspected him of it."
That was not very complimentary to Bill, and it was evident that the Captain's opinion of him had not changed.
"Some kind of an accident," he said. "Nobody need waste any time looking out for another one just like it."
It was getting late in the day, and a better place for a camp could not have been found.
"This'll do for to-night, won't it, Cap?" asked one of the miners.
"Of course it will. We'll try to move east from here, or south, when we leave it."
"Shall any of the boys go for game? Must be plenty of it all around."
"Game? Oh yes; plenty of it, after a hundred Apache hunters have been riding it down for nobody knows how long! The redskins leave heaps of game behind 'em, always."
The bitter sarcasm of the Captain's answer prevented any farther remarks on the subject of hunting that afternoon. They had plenty of fresh meat with them, nevertheless, and there was no reason why they should not cook and eat.
There was a reason why they could not at once be altogether pleased with their camping-ground. It was because they found the ashes of one fire still hot enough to kindle with.
"The Apaches haven't been out of this a great while," said Captain Skinner; "but the trail of their lodge-poles when they went shows that they set off to the west'ard. That isn't our direction. I don't care how far they go nor how fast."
When he came to talk with the other miners he found that they hardly felt as he did about it; neither did they like the looks of the mountain range through which the Apaches had come.
"Danger behind us or not," said one of the men. "I move we spend a day or so in huntin', and findin' out jest what's best to be done, before we light out of this. We must be getting pretty close to the Mexican line."
They were even closer than he had any idea of; but, when their evening conference ended, Captain Skinner was outvoted, and a "hunt and scout" was agreed upon for the next day.
Ni-ha-be and Rita had escaped any scolding from Many Bears; but when the story of their morning's adventure was related to Mother Dolores that plump and dignified person felt bound to make up for the chief's neglect. She scolded them in the longest and hardest words of the Apache language; and when she could not think of anything new to add she begun again, and said it all over in Mexican Spanish. By that time she was out of breath, and Ni-ha-be exclaimed,
"I don't care, Mother Dolores—I hit one of them in the arm with an arrow. It went right through. Rita missed; but she isn't an Apache."
"Two young squaws!" said Dolores, scornfully. "Where would you have been now, and Red Wolf too, if it wasn't for that old pale-face and his boy?"
"He wasn't his boy," said Rita. "He didn't look like him a bit."
"Didn't he? And what are all your talking leaves good for? Why didn't they tell you to stay in camp?"
"I didn't ask them. Besides, that isn't what they're good for."
"Not good for much, anyhow. I don't believe they can even cure the rheumatism."
Poor Dolores had never heard the story of the squaw who had a tract given her by a missionary, and who tied it on her sore foot, but that was a good deal her idea of some of the uses of printing.
"No," said Rita, "I don't believe they're good for rheumatism."
"Anyhow," said Ni-ha-be, "the whole camp is getting ready to move. Come, Rita, let's you and I ride on ahead."
"No you won't, not either of you. You'll stay near me now. If the great chief wants you again, I must have you where I can find you."
The girls looked at one another, but there was no wisdom in a rebellion. They had offended quite enough for one day.
"Ni-ha-be," said Rita, "we can keep close together. They won't go fast, and we can look at the leaves all the way."
On an ordinary march a good many of the squaws would have had to go on foot and carry their pappooses, and perhaps heavy loads besides; but the orders of Many Bears prevented that this time. The poorest brave in camp had a pony provided for his wife and children, and as many more as were needed for all his baggage, for the chief was in a hurry, and there was to be no straggling. His orders were to push on as fast as possible until the squad of braves who had ridden ahead should find a safe spot to camp in—one that could be more easily defended than the exposed level they were leaving.
The idea of coming danger, too, was going around among the squaws themselves, and they were in as great a hurry as Many Bears. They did not know exactly what to be afraid of, but they did not feel any better on that account, with such a swarm of little copper-colored children to take care of.
Some ponies had more to carry and some had less, but there was one poor little, long-eared, patient-looking mule who had more than his share. There was no saddle on him, but where a saddle might have been sat a very fat and dreadfully homely squaw, with a pappoose on her back, his round head popping out, as if all he wanted was to look at the country as they went along.
The squaw rode her mule after the fashion of her people, and that was just as if she had been a brave instead of a squaw. But no brave in all the band would have allowed a twelve-year-old boy to climb up in front of him, as she did, or let his younger brother and sister cling on behind her; so that the little mule was turned into a sort of four-footed omnibus.
It did seem, too, as if there were more and more wretched-looking dogs following after that forlorn mule than behind the ponies of any chief's family in the whole band.
"Look, Rita," said Ni-ha-be—"look at old Too Many Toes and her mule!"
That squaw had a name of her own, as well as anybody, but it had not been given her for her beauty.
"Isn't she homely?" said Rita. "I wonder where the rest of her children are?"
"I guess she's divided them around among her relations. There's enough of them to load another mule. Her husband'll never be rich enough to buy ponies. He's lazy."
"He doesn't beat her?"
"He's too lazy for that. And he's afraid of her. I don't believe he's an Apache. Think of a brave afraid of his own squaw!"
There was something very bad in that, according to all Indian notions; but Rita only said,
"What would that mule do if she wanted him to run?"
Just then the shrill voice of Mother Dolores behind them shouted,
"I'm coming. They wanted to make me help them pack!"
The pride of the best cook in the band was seriously offended. As if all such hard work did not properly belong to ugly and ignorant squaws who had not education enough to fry corn-bread for the great chief! She knew her dignity better than that, and she meant to assert it. Perhaps if Many Bears himself had been close at hand, Dolores might have been more willing to work, but there was no opportunity for any appeal to him, and she took her own way.
She was all the more willing that her two charges should ride on to the very head of the little column, and even keep away a short distance to the right of it. They were perfectly safe within whooping distance if they were wanted, and none of the other squaws of Many Bears would dare to leave their ponies and baggage to come and scold. That was worth something.
Silent and submissive as are all Indian women in the presence of braves or of white men, they make up for it all in the use they make of their tongues among themselves. They can talk wonderfully fast and say as many sharp things as may be necessary.
"Now, Rita, see if you can make the leaves tell you anything about Knotted Cord."
"He isn't in them; nor Send Warning either."
"Look. They must be there."
Neither Steve Harrison nor Murray were to be found in the pages of those three magazines; Rita felt sure of that; but she turned the pages carefully as she and Ni-ha-be rode on side by side at a very slow walk.
She came to something else, however, in the back part of one of them which almost drove from her mind the face and form of Send Warning. Ni-ha-be forgot the brown hair and handsome face of the Knotted Cord.
"Oh, so many squaws!"
"All of them so tall, too. I wonder if pale-face squaws ever grow as tall as that? Look at the things on their heads."
"See!" exclaimed Rita. "All clothes! No squaws in them."
"Great chief. Ever so many squaws. Lose part of them. Keep their blankets."
Rita could not quite explain the matter, but she knew better than that.
The series of pictures which so excited and puzzled the two Indian maidens was nothing in the world but what the publishers of that magazine called "A Fashion Plate Supplement."
There was enough there, indeed, to have puzzled anybody. Gradually they began to understand it a little, and their wonder grew accordingly.
"Are they not ugly?" said Ni-ha-be. "Think of being compelled to wear such things. I suppose, if they won't put them on, they get beaten. Ugh! All black things."
"No. Only black in the pictures. Many colors. It says so; 'red,' 'yellow'—all colors."
That was better, and Ni-ha-be could pity the poor white squaws a little less. Rita allowed her to take that magazine into her own keeping; but mile after mile went by, and all she found in it worth studying was that wonderful array of dresses, with and without occupants. She had never dreamed of such things before, and her bright young face grew almost troubled in its expression.
Oh, how she did long just then for a look at a real pale-face woman, gotten up and ornamented like one of those pictured on the pages before her! She was learning a great deal—more than she had any idea of.
But Rita had learned a great deal more; for the faces and the dresses had joined themselves in her mind with ever so many things that came floating up from her memory—things she had forgotten for so long a time that they would never have come back to her at all if something like this had not stirred them up.
Just now, while Ni-ha-be had the fashion plates, Rita was busy with the illustrations of "gold-mining" which had so aroused the mind of Many Bears.
Not that she knew or cared anything about mines or ores or miners, but that some of those pictures also seemed to her to have a familiar look.
"Did I ever see anything like that?" she murmured to herself. "The great chief says he did. It is not a lie. Maybe it will come back to me some day. I don't care for any more pictures now; I'll try and read some words."
That was harder work; but there were strange, new thoughts beginning to come to Rita.
"You have not spoken to me," said Dolores at last. "Do the leaves talk all the while?"
"Look at these," said Ni-ha-be. "They are better than the one you cut out. There's only one squaw in that, and a pappoose. Here are ever so many. And look at the funny little children. How those things must hurt them! The pale-faces are cruel to their families."
Dolores look earnestly enough at the fashion plates. With all her ignorance she had seen enough in her day to understand more of them than the girls could. Once, long ago, when the band of Many Bears had been near one of the frontier "military posts," where United States troops were encamped, she had seen the beautiful "white squaws" of the officers, in their wonderful dresses and ornaments, and she knew that some of these were much like them. She could even help Ni-ha-be to understand it.
Rita had been silent a very long time. All the while the train had travelled nearly five miles. Now she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, Ni-ha-be! Dolores!" And when they turned to look at her her face was perfectly radiant with triumph and pleasure.
"What is it? Have you found either of them?"
"I can do it! I have done it!"
"What have you done?"
"It is a story talk. Big lie about it all, such as the Apache braves tell at the camp-fire when they are too lazy to hunt. I have read it all."
"Is it a good talk?"
"Let me tell it. I can say it all in Apache words."
That was not the easiest thing in the world to do. It would have been impossible, if the short story which Rita had found had not been of the simplest kind—only about hunters following chamois in the Alps and tumbling into snow-drifts, and being found and helped by great, wise, benevolent St. Bernard dogs.
There were mountains in sight of the girls now that helped make it real, and among them were big-horn antelopes as wild as the chamois, and with very much the same habits. There were snow-drifts up there, too, for they could see the white peaks glisten in the sinking sun. It was all better than the talk of the braves around the winter camp-fires; and, besides, there were the pictures of the dogs and of the chamois. Neither Ni-ha-be nor Dolores uttered a word until Rita had rapidly translated that "story talk" from beginning to end.
"Oh, Rita! are there any more talks like that?"
"Maybe. I don't know. Most of them are very long. Big words, too—more than I can hear."
"Let me see it."
The pictures of the great, shaggy dogs and of the chamois were easy enough to understand. Ni-ha-be knew that she could see a real "big-horn" at a greater distance than Rita. But how was it that not one word came to her of all the "story talk" Rita had translated from those little black "signs" on those two pages of the magazine? It was quite enough to try the patience of a daughter of a great chief, but Dolores said,
"Never mind, Ni-ha-be; if the talking leaves could speak Apache you and I could hear the stories and tell them to Rita?"
That was a little comforting, but Ni-ha-be knew there were no illustrated monthly magazines printed by any of her people, and she grew more and more jealous of her adopted sister.
"Anyhow," she said, "you must hear them all and tell them to us. If any of the words are too big for you, you can leave them out."
Perhaps she could have done that, but what would then have become of the stories and other things?
Rita's prizes promised to be a source of a good deal of annoyance to her, as well as pleasure and profit. They did one thing for all three that day—they made the afternoon's ride across the grassy rolls of the plain seem very short indeed.
Only a few warriors were to be seen when the order to halt was given; but they had picked out a capital place for a camp—a thick grove of large trees on the bank of a deep, swift river. There were many scattered rocks on one side of the grove, and it was just the spot Many Bears had wanted. It was what army officers would call "a very strong position, and easily defended."