Murray's hunt was a short one, for that grassy tableland, with its cool streams and its shady trees, seemed to be a favorite pasture-ground for the mountain-deer. It is not likely they were often annoyed by hunters of any kind, and they were comparatively easy to approach. Besides, it was not necessary for a marksman like Murray to get so very near.
"A fine fat doe," said Steve, when his friend threw down his game in front of the fire.
"Now for a cooking time," replied Murray; "and then we must have a good nap."
"I'll do a little eating, too, while I'm cooking."
Neither of them neglected that duty, but Murray took the two plump hind-quarters of the doe and roasted them whole. How?—with no stove, no oven, no kitchen tools of any sort or description?
Two forked sticks were set firmly in the ground on either side, in front of the fire, and a strong stick laid across from fork to fork at about four feet from the ground; then a leg of venison, hung to this cross-piece by a thong of raw deer-skin, was turned around and around until the thong would twist no tighter. When it was let go the weight of the meat kept it from untwisting too fast; but it turned around in the opposite direction for ever so long, and it was roasting all the while.
It was precisely what our own great-grandmothers used to call a "roasting-jack," and all it required was somebody to wind it up when it ran down, so that the meat could be evenly done all over.
Meantime the broiling and eating of smaller pieces went right on, and neither Steve nor his friend seemed to have lost their appetite by their long ride and hard work.
"Now, Steve, lie down. Sleep all you can."
"Sha'n't you take a rest?"
"Don't need much. Young eyes call for more sleep than old ones. Lie right down and never mind me. I'll call you when your time comes."
Steve was used to paying the old man a pretty good kind of obedience, and he was glad enough to obey him now. He was quickly asleep under a spreading tree, while Murray sat down before the fire, as if to "mind the roast." There was something more important than venison for him to think of, however. He had taken off his hat, and his white head was bare. With the strong light of the camp-fire shining upon his weather-beaten face he would have made a good subject for a painter. He was thinking deeply—so deeply that at last he thought aloud:
"I am a white man. I've been an Indian long enough. Yes, I think I'll try it. That would be better than killing all the Apaches between this and the California line."
He did not explain what it was he meant to try, or why it would be so much better than killing Apaches; but the stern expression on his face grew milder and milder, until it almost seemed as if he were smiling, and even Steve Harrison had never seen him do that.
The venison roasts were wound up, twisted tight again and again, and at last they were taken off.
"They'll do. I'll give 'em an hour to cool, and then we must be off. I'll pack the rest of the meat raw, but we haven't left much of it."
To much to throw away for men who were not sure of their regular meals, and were very sure of getting hungry.
The hour went by, and then Steve felt himself rudely shaken by the shoulder.
"You can't have it," grumbled Steve. "That gold's ours. I killed it myself, and we're roasting it now."
"Dreaming, are you? Wake up, Steve; it's time we were moving. We've a long night ride before us."
"How late is it?"
"No watch. Can't say exactly; but I reckon we can reach the valley by sunrise, and not overwork our horses. They're both in good condition."
The great heavy carriage and road horses used in the "settlements" would not have been in anything like as good condition as were those two wiry, tough, swift-footed mustangs, after all they had been through. They were ready now for another long pull; but they were likely to stand it better in the cool night hours than under the hot sun.
In a few minutes more the two friends were in the saddle. There was no more that they could do just then for the safety of the Buckhorn Mine; but they had not ridden far before Murray suddenly exclaimed,
"I'm going to do a queer thing, Steve Harrison!"
"You won't go back to the Lipans?"
"Queerer than that. I'm going to ride straight in among that band of Apaches!"
"What for?"
"I can't exactly say as yet. Will you go with me?"
"Anywhere. I'll feel safer about not getting into the hands of the Lipans again."
"They never did you any hurt."
"I should say they did. It's hurt enough to stay among them for three long years."
"Think of what you've learned by it, my boy. And now you've found a gold-mine."
"And it isn't worth ten cents to me. Nobody'd give me a new hat for it."
"You will need one by the time you get to the settlements. We must try and look out for that. The main thing for us to-night is to see that we don't get into bad company."
"Either Lipans or miners. I believe one is about as bad as the other."
They had plenty to talk about but some parts of the pass they were following were densely dark, and they had to feel their way a foot at a time like a pair of blind men. It was slower work than riding over the same ground by day, and Murray turned out nearly right in his calculation of the time they would reach the valley. It was just as the light of the rising sun grew strong and bright that he and Steve stood on the slope at the lower edge of the forest, taking turns at looking through the spy-glass at the white tilts of the two wagons of the miners.
"They've roused up early for something," said Murray.
"Looks as if they were setting out on a hunt or a scout."
"So it does. There they go. Steve, we must ride after those fellows."
"What for?"
"To stop 'em. They'll only run their heads against the Apaches, and leave their camp to be plundered by the Lipans."
"They're in a trap, Murray."
"Come on, Steve!"
But the distance was not less than a couple of miles, and the miners had prepared beforehand for that "early start." It was all against the will of Captain Skinner, and the bad temper he was in only made him start more promptly, and ride faster.
"Tell ye what, boys," he said to the rest, as they galloped on behind him, "I'll give ye all the scouting you want this morning."
At that very moment Murray was saying, "No, Steve, we won't waste any time going to the camp. There's only three men left there. We must catch those fellows and send them back. What are they going so fast for? Why, it'll be a regular race!"
It was very much like one after a little. True, Steve and Murray were riding a good deal more rapidly than the miners; but it takes a great deal of swift running to catch up with men who have more than two miles the start of you, even if you travel two miles to their one, and the "chasers" in this case were not doing nearly so much as that.
"We'll catch 'em, Murray."
"If we don't it'll be a bad race for them. I kind o' feel as if the lives of those men were the prize we're riding for. We mustn't let our horses get blown. If we do, it's good-bye to that crowd ahead of us."
Mile after mile went by, and the excitement of it grew to be something terrible.
"The Apaches can't be far ahead of 'em now, Murray."
"Hark! Hear that?"
"A rifle shot—a whoop!"
"They are pulling up."
"They'd better. I'm afraid we're too late, Murray."
"On, on, Steve! Maybe there's time yet."
Captain Skinner had already seen and heard enough to make him halt his men, and he was gathering them rapidly into close order, when a long, ringing shout behind him drew his anxious eyes from the dangerous-looking "signs" now gathering in his front.
Signs? Yes, danger signs. Wild, dark, painted horsemen riding hither and thither and nearer and nearer, growing more and more numerous every moment. Those were the signs that Many Bears and his warriors meant to stand between any approaching enemy and the camp of their squaws and children. That was a quite a distance yet, but the Apaches did not mean to let any peril come very near it.
The shout was from Murray.
"Don't shoot!"
And in a few seconds more the old man was reining in his panting mustang among the startled and gloomy-faced miners.
"Where did you drop from?" was the cool, steady question of Skinner.
"Never you mind. Is Bill here?"
"He and his two mates are on guard at the camp. I know ye now; you're them two mining fellers. You met Bill and—"
"Yes, I met Bill; but there's no time for talk now. You take your men straight back to camp. It's the only show you've got left."
"Reckon we can beat off a few beggarly Apaches."
"Don't talk. Ride for your camp. If you get there before the Lipans do, take your wagons into the pass, and stay there till they get by. Don't strike a blow at them; they'd be too much for ye."
"Lipans? Going for our camp? Boys, 'bout face! Ride for your lives!"
For so small a man he had a great deal of voice, and his command was instantly obeyed; but he paused long enough to ask of Steve and Murray, "What about you two?"
"Us? We'll stay and keep the Apaches from chasing you."
"Won't they scalp you?"
"Not a bit. But there's one thing you may do. If by any chance you have a talk with the Lipans, you may tell them just where you saw us last. Tell the chief for me that No Tongue and Yellow Head are all right, only their horses are tired, following your trail and the Apaches."
"Hope I won't meet him! You're the queerest pair I ever saw. But I wish the boys had let me foller out the word you sent in by Bill."
"Too late now. Ride out of this the best gait your horse knows."
That too was good advice, and Captain Skinner took it; while the old man sat quietly in his saddle, with Steve Harrison at his side, as if they two were quite enough to stem the torrent of fierce, whooping Apaches which was now sweeping down upon them across the plain.
"Our lives are worth about as much as our title to that mine," said Steve; and it was no shame to him that he felt his young heart beat pretty rapidly.
"Sling your rifle behind you on the saddle; fold your arms; sit still. I'll do the talking."
The storm of dark horsemen was headed by Many Bears in person, and it was barely two minutes more before he was reining in his pony in front of the two "pale-face Lipans."
"How!" said Murray, quite heartily, holding out his right hand, with the open palm up, while he put his left upon his breast.
"How!" replied the chief, with a little hesitation; but a dozen voices around him were shouting,
"Send Warning!"
"Knotted Cord!"
"Pale-face friends of Apaches!"
And it was plain that the description given of them by Red Wolf and the girls had been accurate enough for their instant recognition.
"Other pale-faces run away. Why you stay?"
"Don't know them. Strangers. Run away from Apache chief. Chief must not follow."
"Why not follow?"
"Run against Lipans. Have big fight. Lose many warriors. All for nothing. Better go back."
"Send Warning is a good friend. Do what he say. You come?"
"Yes—we come. Trust friend."
Steve listened in silent wonder. He had never heard Murray speak a word about the Apaches that was not full of distrust of their good faith as well as hate of their ferocity, yet here he was treating them with the most absolute confidence. Steve felt quite sure he would have hesitated, for his own part, to meet a band of Lipans in that way. He did not understand Indian character as well as Murray, in spite of his three years among them. A man who came to them conferring benefits, and betraying no doubt of their good faith, was as safe among them as if he had been one of their own people.
It also occurred to Steve that this was hardly what Murray had been sent out for by To-la-go-to-de, but his devotion to the interests of that chief was not strong enough to make him care much.
Whatever might be Murray's intentions, Steve was clear enough that his own would never carry him back to make any sort of report of their "scouting."
The Apaches wheeled toward the west, and Send Warning and Knotted Cord rode on at the side of Many Bears.
If To-la-go-to-de and his Lipans had moved forward just a little earlier that morning, they might have been in time to witness the departure of Captain Skinner and his men on their ill-advised expedition. As it was, they were astonished enough by what they saw.
"Pale-faces."
"Big wagons."
"Much horse. Much mule."
"No Tongue leave that behind him for Lipans to take, and go on after Apaches."
They believed they had solved one of their puzzles; but a good deal harder one was the question, "Who are those pale-faces, and where do they come from?" No such party had ever been known or heard of in that vicinity, and To-la-go-to-de instantly came to the decision that this one should never be heard of again.
"Not many," he said. "Ride straight down valley and eat 'em up. Plenty plunder. Carry back big present for squaw to look at."
His eager warriors answered him with whoops and yells of approval, and he led them swiftly down all that was left of the pass and out into the valley.
It looked as if Murray had been altogether right when he sent word to Captain Skinner by Bill that there was "danger behind him." Bill himself was thinking of it at that very moment, and saying to one of his mates, "I'd about as lief see the sheriff and his posse, all the way from Denver."
"Well, yes, I'd a good deal ruther be arrested than scalped any day."
"Thar's a big swarm of 'em. No use for us to fight. I can't even lift my rifle."
"Try a little friendship. Maybe old Skinner'll tell ye you've been showin' good-sense agin."
"May save our scalps, boys; but I don't reckon it'll save us much of anything else."
"They're comin' right down onto us. If Skinner and all the boys were here, we could stop 'em, though."
If To-la-go-to-de's keen eyes had told him there were two dozen sharp-shooting white men in that camp, instead of three, he and his Lipans would never have dreamed of charging in as they now did.
It was not a very ceremonious or friendly way of making a morning call. There was a good deal too much noise about it. Too much clattering of lances and too many fierce, exulting war-whoops.
"Our time's come, Bill."
"It is if we anger them. Keep a steady eye, boys. Say 'How!'"
Those three miners were men of great courage, and their nerves must have been in the best of order, for they steadily walked out to the border of the camp and met the Lipans as if they had invited them to breakfast and were expecting them to come. There was just this difference, however, between their greeting of the Lipans and Murray's encounter with the Apaches: Bill and his two friends had sent no act of kindness and good-will ahead of them, while Murray and Steve were already firmly established, and well known as "friends of the Apaches, ready to fight for friends."
It was a very wide difference, but the three miners had acted wisely. The Lipan warriors in front of them lowered their lances, and the chief himself responded grimly to their "How!" But he did not offer to shake hands with them, and he did not check his braves in their rush through the camp and all over it.
"Don't tell 'em too much, Bill. The Captain and the boys won't be gone long. We can't warn 'em nuther."
That was just before old Two Knives gathered all the English he knew to question his prisoners. He saw at a glance that the men before him were only a part of a large party. The fires and the signs left of the breakfast which had been eaten were quite enough for that, not to speak of the size of the outfit.
"How many?" he asked.
Bill held up both hands, with the fingers spread, twice, and then one hand.
"Ugh! How hurt arm?"
"Fight with Apaches."
"Ugh! Good. Where gone? All pale-face braves?"
"Hunt Apaches. Out there."
"Ugh? Hope find 'em. Kill half. Lipans kill rest. Kill pale-face too. Put down gun. Prisoner this time. Shut mouth."
Bill had never in his life seen an uglier expression on the face of a man than was worn by that of the Lipan chief at that moment.
There was no use in resistance. Silently the three miners permitted themselves to be deprived of all their weapons; but the "stripping" stopped there. A brave who reached out his hand for the battered hat on the head of Bill was checked by To-la-go-to-de.
"Ugh! No want him. Let pale-face wear him. Take off scalp too, by-and-by."
There was nothing very cheering in that, but Bill's head did feel a little safer with the hat on.
"Tell ye what, boys," he afterward said to his mates, "when that redskin's hand teched the brim of that hat it felt as if the hull top o' my head was comin' loose."
It did not take those sixty Lipans long to find out all there was to be found in that camp. Their first and keenest interest was in the horses and mules, and the quality and number of these drew from them shouts of approval. The mules alone were worth any number of mustang ponies in a trade either with other Indians or with the border pale-faces.
Their first attempt at ransacking the wagons was sternly checked by old Two Knives.
"Maybe pale-faces got fire-water. To-la-go-to-de not want braves drunk now. Big fight maybe."
Every brave among them knew the good-sense of that, but they felt better satisfied a little later. The chief himself superintended a careful inspection of the wagons by two of his oldest sub-chiefs.
"He won't find a drap of any kind of liquor," growled Bill. "But I wish thar was some, and I could pisen it for him. They're a bad lot."
"Thar's too many on 'em for the boys to handle, I'm afraid."
"Captain Skinner's jest the man to try it and find out. Thar'll be a hot time, thar will!"
Two Knives probably had some such idea in his head, for his next orders, when carried out, left Bill and his two mates firmly bound to separate trees, so that no braves need be compelled to waste their precious time as "guards" over them.
The camp was now no longer the camp of the miners, it was that of the Lipans, and everything in it was their property, by all the laws of Indian warfare. There was yet to be at some future time, of course, a fair division of the plunder, but the "transfer" had been fully made and it was too late for anybody else to interfere.
It takes a great deal of civilization to make a South-western Indian, of any tribe, understand the white man's idea that his horse is still his own after it has been fairly stolen. To the Indian's mind, the theft gives the thief even a better title than he could acquire by paying money, and the biggest brave of any band is almost sure to be its most successful and renowned horse-thief.
The Lipans were specially well pleased over their morning's work, for they had won all that plunder without the loss of a single warrior.
The fate of the three prisoners was a matter to be thought over. To-la-go-to-de was by no means sure he had no farther use for them. He could wait till his braves should return from the examination he had ordered of the plain below the valley. It was less than an hour before they came back, and in a remarkable hurry, with the news of the approach of the main body of the pale-faces.
Old Two Knives merely nodded his head. His captives had told him the truth. But that number of white men would not be likely to attack at once so strong a band as his own. A full company of regular cavalry would hardly have been enough to scare him, for the Lipans are second to no other in their fighting qualities, and these were picked and chosen warriors.
"Pale-face come. Laugh at him."
Captain Skinner and his men saw nothing to laugh at when they rode near enough to understand the condition of affairs in their camp.
The blow had fallen upon them so suddenly that, for some moments after they halted on the plain, half a mile away, not a man could say a word.
"It's our fault, Cap. We ort to have follered your advice."
"Ort not to have left the camp."
"You was right."
"It's too late for that kind of talk, boys. The question for us is, what had we best do? Anybody got anything to say?"
There was another moment of glum, sulky silence, and then a perfect storm of angry outcries.
"Charge in on 'em!"
"Kill every soul of 'em."
"Fight right away."
"We won't lose all that's in them wagons."
"That'll do, boys. I know you've got all the grit for a fight," said Captain Skinner, "but suppose they're too much for us, and wipe us all out, what then?"
"Then that's what it'll have to be, Cap. We're ready."
"All right, boys. But no matter what comes, not a man of you must run. Not for a yard."
"We'll stand by ye, Cap."
"Most likely thar ain't no use talkin' of Bill and the boys."
"Not much, I reckon. They had no kind of show."
There was no time to do any mourning for their comrades, but the way in which that line of white horsemen now rode forward made the Lipans open their eyes in astonishment.
"Keep about a rod apart," said the Captain. "Walk your horses. Don't fire a shot unless you've got a good aim at something. We'll draw them nigh enough to teach 'em a thing or two."
For once even old Two Knives, with all his cunning, was led into making a mistake. He was unwise enough to try and scare those miners, when there was not a man among them who knew how to be afraid, and they had all agreed to be killed rather than not whip those Lipans and get back what was in the wagons.
It was a bad mistake for those Indians to make even a threat of a charge, when it brought them in a pretty compact mass, just as they were about to wheel, instead of "charging," less than two hundred yards from the steady line of pale-faces.
"Now, boys, save every shot."
It was not a volley. The rifles cracked rapidly, one after another, but all were fired in a very few seconds and the Lipans recoiled in dismay, firing wildly as they went, and carrying off their dead and wounded.
"Keep it up, boys. Steady. Take a pony if you can't hit a redskin."
The "rally" of the Lipans was quickly made, and their own firing grew hotter, but it had little of the cool accuracy that Captain Skinner insisted on from his own men. All the while, too, he was moving steadily forward, and To-la-go-to-de began to understand what kind of men he had to deal with.
A sharp, deep-throated order to three of his braves was rapidly obeyed, and in a few minutes more the miners heard their Captain's voice, excitedly,
"Halt! They've brought out the boys. They've stopped firing."
It was precisely so. There were Bill and his two mates, on foot, with their arms tied behind them, and before each stood a Lipan, with his lance levelled, ready to strike.
"That's plain, boys. They've got their lesson. Don't want any more. Want a talk. They'll kill those three if we don't hold up."
"We've only lost two, Cap, and we've laid out more'n a dozen of them."
"Save the boys!"
"No fault of their'n."
"Have a talk, Cap."
"We'll have to give up something if we do. They'll never give us back the outfit."
"You know what we want. We're close to the border now."
"All right. I'll ride out. I reckon their chief'll come to meet me."
The meaning of the Lipans had been plain enough. The sudden firing of the miners upon their superior force had had all the effect of a surprise.
They were furiously angry over their losses, but their wise leader saw that he must give them a breathing-spell. No troops in the world could stand a fire so withering as that which came from the repeating-rifles of the desperadoes. Quite as many ponies as men had gone down, and their morning's plunder had already cost them more than it was worth. Therefore it must not be permitted to cost them any more, if they could help it by threats and talking.
There was a good deal of beauty as well as convenience in the spot which the Apache braves had chosen for their camp on the bank of the river.
Many Bears had approved of it when he came in, but he had said nothing about the beauty of it. He had only ordered two or three trusty warriors to go at once and hunt for a ford, so that he could get upon the opposite bank of the river if necessary.
It was some little time before they found one, a mile lower down, and then they and the great chief were astonished by a report brought in to him by Dolores with his supper. Some of the squaws, she said, had taken their children into the river for a bath, right there by the camp, and one of them had found a place where she could wade across and back.
It was afterward found to be a flat ledge of rock, with deep water above and below, but it was none the less a bitter pill for the pride of the warriors.
To think of squaws and children presuming to find, right there under their noses, the very thing they were hunting for up and down so anxiously! That, too, when any man's eyes, or any woman's, could now perceive a good deal of a ripple in the water on the shallow place, such as ought to have made them suspect it at once.
Ni-ha-be's own eyes had been the first to notice that ripple, and she had set a couple of bright boys at the business of exploring it.
Of course the older squaws claimed the credit, when the ford was found, but Rita remarked to her sister,
"Let Too Many Toes say she saw it first. Too much talk. She'll be beaten again if she isn't careful."
"I saw it myself."
"I don't care. You and I have done enough, yesterday and to-day. We must keep still."
Rita was right, and Ni-ha-be knew it; but it was very hard to hear Too Many Toes so loudly assert her own acuteness and quickness of vision.
"She's the ugliest squaw in the whole band. Her children are ugly and her husband is too lazy to feed them, Rita."
"Hush. Father and the chiefs are coming. Walk away."
They did not go far and they were looking back all the while. Many Bears and his councillors marched dignifiedly down to the bank, and a tall brave walked right on into the river.
Not a word was spoken while he waded across and back, the water nowhere rising much above his waist, although it ran pretty swiftly.
His next business was to explore the width of the ledge, and that was found to be at least ten feet at the narrowest.
Long before that was done, however, Ni-ha-be had been reconciled to the policy of silence.
Too Many Toes could not be silent, and she disputed so loudly with another old squaw over their claim to the glory of finding that ford, that the chief and the councillors felt that something must be done for discipline.
Many Bears nodded sharply at the husband of Too Many Toes.
"Much noise. Warriors hear too big boasting. Teach squaw."
That was enough, and in a moment more the end of a heavy hide "lariat" or horse rope was falling rapidly upon the shoulders of the two offenders, Too Many Toes getting much the larger share of the beating. Her husband had been one of the braves who had wasted so much time in finding the other ford, and he agreed with his chief that somebody ought to be punished for it.
"Serve her right," said Ni-ha-be.
There was no question but what some kind of justice had been done, and that was a fair specimen of Apache household government.
If the poor, tired-out little mule who had served as an "omnibus" for Too Many Toes and her family happened to see the use made of that lariat, perhaps it comforted him too, for she had beaten him unmercifully all the way, and he was not her mule.
At all events, the discovery of the ford made that a safer place for a camp. Orders were given not to put up any lodges or unpack any baggage until morning, and the whole band prepared for a night in the open air.
It was a complete "bivouac" but there was no hardship in it. The air was dry and warm. There was very little wind. The grass on which they could spread their blankets and buffalo-skins was deep and soft. Besides all that, and more important than anything else, they were all used to it, and would have laughed at anybody who imagined it a hardship.
Even Rita and Ni-ha-be never thought of such a thing, but after they lay down together it seemed more than usually difficult to get to sleep.
Nowhere in the world is the air more pure, and there were no clouds, nor was there yet any moon. The sky was all one blaze of stars, and the two girls could hardly help gazing at them.
"They're so bright," said Rita.
"I've seen them all before. Just as bright as they are now.
"So many of them, too."
"No more than there always is in good weather. When it rains hard it puts them out and they have to be lighted again."
"There is something about them in the talking leaves."
"What do they say?"
"I could not hear it all, but I understood some of it. The wise pale-faces look at the stars and know all their names. All the tribes of them and families."
"Tribes and families! I don't believe it. They're all one tribe, and they all shine for the Apaches." There was no denying that, and Rita had not read or understood enough to say much more.
Long after Ni-ha-be was sound asleep, however, her adopted sister was lying wide-awake, and staring at all that glory overhead.
"I remember now. It was my father told me about the stars. That's why I knew what the talking leaves meant. He was very good to me. I can see him plainer and plainer all the while."
It was a matter of course that one memory should bring back another, but they were all pretty cloudy as yet. Not bright and clear like the great stars, but misty and dim like those white streaks in the sky.
Rita gazed and gazed and thought and thought, until at last her eyelids closed heavily, and she too was asleep. Not so soundly as Ni-ha-be, for many strange dreams came to her, and all she could remember of them was the very last and latest of all.
It was just like the picture which Many Bears had spoken about the day before, only that now the miners did not look like that, and Rita in her dream actually thought she saw Many Bears himself among the Indians who were attacking them.
"He said he was there. I see him. They are coming! The squaw I saw in the book! Mother!"
And suddenly Rita found herself wide awake, and all the rest of her dream was lost to her.
Ni-ha-be too was awake.
"What is the matter, Rita?"
"Oh, a dream!"
"Ugh! I never dream. That's the talking leaves. Dreams are big lies like them. What was it?"
"The fight in the picture."
"Miners? Pale-faces? Look, Rita, the braves are mounting to ride away. It is hardly sunrise, but they are going. Did your dream say there was any danger coming to us?"
"No, it did not say."
"I don't care. The Apaches are warriors, and Many Bears is a great chief. He will not let an enemy come near his camp."
"Besides, we can cross the river."
"Yes, by my ford."
"Ni-ha-be, remember what came to Too Many Toes!"
"She talked too much—when the chief and the braves were troubled in their minds. I know better than to do that. I'll talk to you, though. It's my ford!"
Mother Dolores was already busy at the nearest camp-fire, for she had not allowed the great chief to ride away without a nice bit of something to eat. Meaner braves could go hungry or pick a cold bone as they rode along. Not so the mighty husband of Dolores, the best cook of the Apaches. She knew too well where all her importance and dignity came from, and Many Bears was particularly glad to get his hot venison-steak that morning. No orders were left behind with reference to moving the camp, but all the second-rate braves and half-grown boys were busying themselves over their weapons and ponies with as much importance in their manner as if they had been so many chiefs.
Some of them were well armed with repeating-carbines and good revolvers. Others had old and inferior guns. Many of the "boys" had nothing but bows and arrows, but they knew how to use them, and there is nothing much more effective in a close fight. Nothing except a revolver or a lance, and they all had lances.
On the whole, it was clear that Many Bears could muster quite a strong "reserve," as the soldiers call it, after all his tried and chosen warriors had ridden away with him at their head.
The fighting fever seemed to be spreading after breakfast, and the squaws too got out their bows and arrows, and so did the smaller boys. It looked as if any enemy who should ride into the camp of that band of Apaches that day would find it a sort of hornets' nest, with all the hornets, big and little, practising their stings.
Ni-ha-be and Rita were like the rest, and more than one "young brave," who had never yet been in any kind of a battle, looked enviously at the pretty young chief's daughter who could already boast of having sent an arrow through the arm of a full-grown paleface warrior, and helped defeat him and his dangerous companions.
That was a bright feather for the cap of any Indian girl, and she had been compelled to tell the story of it over and over again to the other squaws.
They came to hear it over now, for it was closely connected in their minds with the warlike preparations and the evident anxiety of their chief.
"Ugh!" scornfully remarked old Too Many Toes. "Pale-face have soft arm. Hold it up for little girl to shoot at. Then laugh at her. S'pose pale-face come here. I show 'em."
"Yes," rejoined Ni-ha-be, with a flash in her black eyes. "Pale-face look at you, see your face, run right away. Afraid you'll talk. Hear you once, then they never come again."
The laughter among the other squaws sounded as if they were not disposed to admire Too Many Toes, but she had something else to say.
"Little girl take prisoners and then let them go. Just like pale-face blue-coat. No sense. I kill every one. You see!"
"You?" said Ni-ha-be. "The only prisoner you ever took was a little rabbit of a mule. He's alive now. You couldn't even talk him to death."
"She talks too much now," added a dignified middle-aged squaw. "Get beaten again. We want to know what's coming. Warriors keep it all to themselves. Did Ni-ha-be hear of many pale-faces?"
"No. Heard Send Warning tell Red Wolf there is danger coming. Believe what he said. Great chief and all the old men believe too. Good friend. Young warrior good friend too. Come see us some day. Squaws cook big dinner."
The questioning was by no means over, but the mention of her last beating silenced Too Many Toes. Public opinion was against her, and there were a good many others who had something to say.
Rita, too, came in for her share, and it was remarkable how closely she and Ni-ha-be were able to describe every article of clothing worn by their two white friends and their three white enemies, with the color of their eyes and hair, and every noticeable thing about their arms and equipments. The girls had eyes of their own, and they had used them to good purpose. The fact is, Indians can read almost everything excepting books.
Many Bears did not seem disposed to hurry his return to his camp after his meeting with Steve and Murray.
Perhaps he was the more willing to ride slowly because it gave him an opportunity to ask a great many questions, and to consider the answers given. He did not seem very curious as to the past history of his new friends. Indian politeness compelled him to let them keep their own affairs to themselves. Besides, the account they gave sounded well.
"Send Warning and Knotted Cord find mine? Ugh! Good. Apache not want him. Friend keep him. Then other pale-face come for mine? Ugh! Bad. Drive off friend. Too many rifle. Too many big strong. You not like it. Ugh! Apaches drive 'em all away. Take every scalp. You see."
"We're in no hurry about the mine," said Murray. "Stay away now. Go back for it some day. Too many Lipans."
"They go away too. Go beyond mountains. Never come over here before. Apaches must teach 'em a lesson."
That was the great trouble in the mind of Many Bears at that moment. He wanted to travel westward as fast as possible, and yet here was a band of his tribe's worst and most ancient enemies within easy striking distance. Not to speak of Captain Skinner and his men, and the "plunder" there might be in their "outfit." He felt that it was no small thing to be a great chief, and to be compelled to decide questions of such importance.
"What you say? Send Warning tell friend what do."
"Let 'em all alone," said Murray, promptly. "Maybe Lipans fight pale-faces. Maybe not. Both get scared and go away. No good to lose warrior for nothing."
"Get scalp. Get big name. All tribe say great chief!" That was the difficulty. His pride was in the way of his good-sense.
Murray did his best in the remainder of that ride, and he might perhaps have succeeded in his peaceful advice, if it had not been for the hot temper of the younger braves and the "war spirit" they found at the camp on their arrival.
"They're a venomous lot," said Murray to Steve, as he looked around him while they were riding in. All the mixed "reserve" who could get ponies had mounted them and ridden out to meet their chief and his warriors. More than one squaw was among them ready to ply bow and arrows, or even a lance, if need should be.
"Well," replied Steve, "I reckon an arrow hurts just as much when a squaw sends it."
"They shoot best on foot."
"I don't see why. I never saw a Lipan squaw in a fight."
"I have, then. I've seen 'em sit down, put their feet on the bow, and send an arrow farther than any brave could send it drawing with his hands. Look at some of those bows. Could you bend them?"
"I never tried it sitting down. I've seen a Lipan squaw use a lance, but it was on a buffalo."
"Do you suppose that ugly old vixen yonder doesn't know how to handle the one she's carrying? They're terribly unmerciful in a fight."
"I'd hate to fall into her hands, before a fight or after one."
"After one would be the worst. Such squaws as she is are the most cruel tormentors of prisoners."
The face of Too Many Toes was again against her, for the lance-bearer was no other.
Alas for her, however!
The warrior to whom the lance belonged, and who also owned the pony she was riding, caught sight of her at that moment, and instantly galloped out from his place in the returning column. He did not listen for a moment to the shrill outcry with which he was greeted, or to her assertion of her readiness to fight the enemies of the Apaches.
The lance was wrested from her, and she was roughly unseated from the pony.
"Go get mule," said the contemptuous brave. "Put heap pappoose on him. Squaw warrior not wanted just now."
"There!" said Ni-ha-be to Rita. "Too Many Toes is in trouble again. I was watching her."
"Where are your eyes, Ni-ha-be? Don't you see who is coming?"
"Father? All the braves? Oh, Rita, there are Knotted Cord and Send Warning! They have come to visit their friends."
"I was looking at that ugly old squaw. I hope she will get beaten again."
Not this time, for she had hastened away at once on being deprived of her borrowed pony. Her offence against the laws of property of an Indian village was covered by the apparent circumstances, or it might have been worse for her.
It was no time for any squaw, old or young, to make herself noticeable, and the two girls kept themselves almost out of sight in the crowd.
They did not so much as guess how eagerly their faces were all the while sought for by the eyes of those two pale-faces.
"Do you see them, Murray?" had been the first thing Steve had said, as they were riding in.
"Not yet. Be careful, Steve. If you see them you must not speak to them. Contrary to rule."
"Not speak to them?"
"Not till the chief himself introduces you. Even after that you must not say too much."
"Well, yes. I suppose they are jealous about their squaws. Just like the Lipans."
"That's it, exactly. All Indians are. Besides, you are a young brave and a pale-face. They may not be quite so particular about a white-headed old warrior like myself."
"I'm white. I'll speak if I get a chance."
"And get kicked out of the village for it, or worse? No, my boy, you must be prudent. You haven't been asked to make yourself at home as yet."
Steve did not want to make himself at home, but he was well pleased, as he looked around him, to see how very strong was that band of Apaches. It seemed as if he had just so much more reason to feel safe about again falling into the hands of the Lipans.
True, he was among the wildest kind of wild Indians, but he was not a prisoner here, and the Apaches had no claim on him.
"They will not care whether I go or stay," he said to himself.
He had not gotten away from them yet, however, and among the first to welcome him was the haughty presence of Red Wolf.
Steve did not know that Ni-ha-be had already stirred up her brother on his account.
"Knotted Cord saved your scalp," she said to him "Now he comes to visit you, and you are too proud to speak to him. You are no better than a pale-face."
"Red Wolf is young. He must wait for his turn. The old men would push him back."
"No, they won't. They will keep Send Warning to talk to them. Knotted Cord is young. His head is brown, not white."
There was something in that, and Red Wolf did not wait till the formal reception of the two white visitors was attended to. He said to his father,
"Knotted Cord is mine. He must eat my venison."
"Ugh! Young braves. Been in same fight. Good. Dolores cook deer-meat for him. Old warrior stay with chiefs. Ugh!"
It was precisely as Ni-ha-be had expected, and Red Wolf was the proudest young brave in camp when he held out his hand to Steve and found it grasped so very heartily.
Steve was glad to see him, and showed it, and so did Murray. The latter, indeed, won the heart of Many Bears by saying of his son, in the presence of the warriors standing by, "Brave young man. Stand right up and fight. Make a great war-chief some day. I like him."
Such testimony from a man who had given proof of his own prowess, and who was, as their keen eyes told them, himself a great warrior, did wonders for the fame of Red Wolf. It was almost as much as if he had taken and brought home a scalp.
"Young men go," said Many Bears. "Send Warning stay with gray heads."
Steve walked away at his new friend's side, both of them a little puzzled what to do or say, until Steve asked a question in Mexican Spanish.
The ice was broken. Red Wolf understood that tongue as well as Steve did.
"You are my brother. You are not a pale-face."
Steve was not altogether ignorant of Indian manners, and of their bitter prejudices, and he replied,
"Brother? Yes. All right. I am an Apache now. Fight for tribe. Fight for brother."
That was precisely what he had already done, so that it was more than a mere profession; but the reply of Red Wolf had a great deal of frankness in it.
"Red Wolf is an Apache. His father is a great chief. He hates pale-faces. Glad his brother has come to be an Apache. Eat with him now. Show him foolish young squaw that ran away and got caught. Squaw know very little."
They had walked along for some distance, and when Red Wolf said that he was very near his own campfire. He had not intended it for any ears but those of Steve Harrison, and his pride forbade his noticing the ripple of laughter which immediately followed it. Not even when he heard Ni-ha-be say, in her own dialect,
"Did you hear him, Rita? He was one of the braves who went to find the ford. They forgot to ask the squaws where to look for it."
Steve heard the rippling laugh, but he did not understand the words. Could they be making fun of him? His cheeks burnt red-hot at the thought of it, for he turned his head just long enough to see that those two pairs of bright and searching eyes were looking straight at him. They dropped instantly, but not before they had seen the quick flush rise to his face.
"Ni-ha-be," whispered Rita, "he will think we are rude."
"Ni-ha-be—Rita," said Red Wolf at that moment, "tell Dolores she must cook for the Knotted Cord. The chief says so. Bring blanket. Bring water. Be quick."
Dolores was near enough to hear, and she was perfectly willing. It was a post of honor to cook for a guest of Many Bears. The girls, too, were ready to bring gourds of drinking water, blankets to sit down upon, or do anything else which could properly be asked of two young Apache ladies of their high rank.
"Rita," said Ni-ha-be, while they were dipping their water-gourds in the river, "he is as handsome as an Apache."
"He is not nearly so good-looking as Send Warning. He is a mere boy."
"Can he see to talk with the talking leaves? His eyes are very good."
"I don't know; I will find out. Send Warning is a wise man—I am sure he is. They will talk to him. He is old, and the snow is on his head."
"Father says the snow is bad on a head sometimes. Every thing dies under it. Head good for nothing."
The two girls were getting up a good deal of partiality concerning their white friends and visitors, but they both stood gravely and silently enough before Red Wolf and the Knotted Cord when they brought them the water.
"Young squaws thank you for help," said Red Wolf. "Both very glad. Very young. Very foolish. Daughters of great chief himself."
Steve almost forgot Murray's caution, for he frankly held out his hand, saying,
"I'm glad Murray and I were on hand to help them. They're too nice to be killed. Glad to see them both well."
Mother Dolores was looking on, and was deeply scandalized by the terrible boldness of Ni-ha-be, for that young lady actually took the hand Steve held out and shook it, for all the world as if she had been a brave. Such a thing was unheard of, and what made it worse was the fact that Rita instantly followed her sister's example.
Red Wolf hardly knew what to say, but he was pretty well used to seeing Ni-ha-be have her own way. He was pleased that they had stopped short of so grave an offence as speaking.
"Rita will go. She will bring the talking leaves by-and-by. Red Wolf has a question to ask of his brother. Ni-ha-be go too."
Steve would have been glad of a longer call upon the daughters of the great chief, but they quietly walked away, as became them, not even laughing until they were at some distance.
Then it was Ni-ha-be who laughed, for Rita was thinking about the talking leaves, and wishing with all her heart that she could manage to ask some questions of her own concerning them.
"If he could not answer me, I am sure Send Warning could. He is old, and he is wise, and I know he is good."