Even before the Apaches set out to find their Lipan enemies Murray and Steve made their way across the ford, and were guided by a bright-eyed boy to the lodge which had been set apart for them. That one had been given them at all was a mark of great respect; and this lodge belonged to Many Bear himself, which added to the honor done them.
"Now, Steve," said Murray, "you stay here awhile. I can do some things better if I'm alone."
"All right. But there's no danger of my going to sleep while you're gone."
"Pretty wide awake, eh? Well, it's an exciting time all around."
"It is for me, Murray. I feel as if I had made a good start on my way home."
"I guess you have. Your path is beginning to look pretty clear."
"I've escaped from the Lipans."
"But not yet from the Apaches. I can't say how soon I'll be back again now, but you'd better not leave the lodge."
Steve threw himself down on the blanket he had spread upon the grass, and his thoughts came to him in a perfect crowd.
Sleep—for a boy like him, who had been for three years a prisoner, and was now getting free! He might as well have gone to sleep on his horse, if he had been out there among the warriors on the prairie.
Murray walked away from the lodge very slowly.
"It's not a bad place for a camp," he said to himself, "but that side of it is all bushes, and they have corralled all their loose ponies right in there. Old Many Bears will make some changes when he comes to see it. The squaws laid it out this time."
The lodges of the chief were not far apart from each other, and Murray had not gone twenty steps before he found himself in front of them and face to face with a very stout and dark-complexioned squaw. If she had been a warrior in the most hideous war-paint she could not have expected a man like Send Warning to be startled so at meeting her.
Perhaps she did not notice the tremor which went over him from head to foot, or that his voice was a little husky when he spoke to her. At all events she answered him promptly enough, for at that moment there was nobody in sight or hearing for whose approval or disapproval Mother Dolores cared a button.
She did not so much as give a thought to the youthful occupants of the lodge behind her.
If Ni-ha-be and Rita were not asleep they should be, and they were mere girls anyhow.
Ni-ha-be had not closed her black eyes for a moment, and Rita had only refrained from talking because of the presence of Dolores.
"I am glad she's gone, Rita. It's too bad we are shut up here, where we can't know a word of all that's going on."
"There will be noise enough when the chief and the warriors come."
"Or if the camp is attacked. My bow and arrows are ready."
"I don't believe we are in any danger. Hark! Ni-ha-be, don't speak."
"Somebody is talking with Dolores."
"Hark!"
They listened more and more eagerly, and they even crept to the outer edge of the lodge and gently raised the bottom of the deer-skin covering.
"Ni-ha-be, it is Send Warning."
Murray and Dolores were talking in Mexican Spanish. He was not saying anything about the Lipans, or anything else that seemed to Ni-ha-be very interesting. Neither did Rita understand why it should all be so much so to her, or why her heart should beat and her cheeks burn as she listened.
Murray had used his eyes to some purpose when he had watched Dolores at her cookery, and his first words had made her his very good friend.
"Squaw of great chief. Squaw great cook. Know how."
"Is Send Warning hungry?"
"Not now. Eat enough. Great chief and warriors go after Lipans. Pale-faces stay in camp."
"They will all eat a heap when they come back. Bring Lipan scalps, too."
"The Lipans are enemies of the Apaches. The Mexicans are friends."
"The Mexicans!" exclaimed Dolores.
"Yes. Great chief marry Mexican squaw. Handsome. Good cook."
"I am an Apache!"
"Yes, Apache now. Mexican long ago. Forget all about it. All about Santa Maria—"
"No, no; the talking leaf remembers that." And the poor woman nervously snatched from her bosom the leaf of the magazine on which was printed the picture of the Virgin and Child, and held it out to Murray.
He could but dimly see what it was, but he guessed right, for he said instantly,
"You remember that, do you? I suppose you never knew how to read. Not many of 'em do down there. The Apaches came one day and carried you off. Horses, mules, cattle, good cook—killed all the rest."
"How do you know?" suddenly interrupted Dolores. "I remember all that. Don't want to, but I can't help it. Same thing happen a great many times. Apaches are great warriors. Many Bears is a great chief. Bring back heap of prisoners every time."
She was telling Murray what he wanted to know, but he saw that he must ask his questions carefully, for, as he said to himself, "I never saw a woman so completely Indianized. She is more of an Apache than a Mexican now."
He talked and Dolores answered him, and all the while the two girls heard every word.
Ni-ha-be would have liked to make comments every now and then, and it was quite a trial to be compelled to keep so still, but Rita would not have spoken on any account. It seemed to her as if Dolores were telling all that to her instead of to Send Warning. She found herself thinking almost aloud about him.
"What a kind, sweet voice he has! He cannot speak Apache. I know he is good."
In another moment she again came near betraying herself, for the words were on her very lips before she could stop them and still them down to an excited whisper.
"He is not talking even Mexican now. It is the tongue of the talking leaves, and I can hear what he says."
More than that, for she soon found that she could repeat them over and over to herself, and knew what they meant.
Murray had talked to Dolores as long as was permitted by Indian ideas of propriety, and it was just as he was turning away from her that he said to himself, aloud and in English, "I am not mistaken. She is the same woman. Who would have thought she could forget so? I am on the right track now." And then he had walked pretty swiftly for a short distance, in a way that made Dolores wonder if he were not taken with some sharp and sudden pain. Then he stopped suddenly, and muttered,
"I don't care to see Steve just now. It is too bitter. I'll go down to the corral and see how our horses are getting along. We may need to have them in good condition to-morrow."
The horse corral was just beyond the line of bushes at the back of the lodges of Many Bears, and contained a good deal of wealth in the form of ponies and mules. Those of Murray and Steve were tethered to young trees, but with long lariats, so that they were feeding.
There was no one to watch Murray's movements. Only a brave of high rank would have presumed to go with him, and none of these were left in camp.
Steve Harrison, sitting alone in the lodge, staring out of the door at the smouldering camp-fires, and listening to the neighing of many horses and the barking of many dogs, wondered why his friend did not return, as the time went by, but could not guess at a reason. At last other sounds, distant but growing nearer, began to break in among those that belonged to the camp.
"Hear them whoop!" exclaimed Steve. "It isn't a fight, for there is no firing. Nothing but yells."
A great abundance of noise, to be sure, and it was rapidly coming toward the ford.
"The Lipans must have been beaten," said Steve, for he now saw that the Apache horsemen were crossing the river, and that every squaw and child in the village was pouring out to welcome them. "Squaws can do more whooping than the braves know how to. But I wonder what's become of Murray!"
It was but a few minutes before Red Wolf rode up to tell him the news, and ask him to come and take a look at the prisoners. It flashed across Steve's mind that it would not do for him.
"Lipans! They must not see me." And then he said aloud to Red Wolf, "I must wait for Send Warning. He may tell me I must not look upon them. He is my chief."
"Ugh! Good. Knotted Cord wait. Red Wolf go. Back soon."
As for Murray, he had not failed to hear the noise made by the triumphant braves on their return, and he had understood it better than Steve, for he exclaimed,
"That's the whoop for prisoners. If they bring in any, I must not let them see me here. I never hated Apaches more in my life. It won't do to lose my friends. Here they come."
He crept to the edge of the bushes and lay still. There would be a council called at once, he knew, and he would be sent for; but he was determined to wait and see what was done with the prisoners.
"That's one thing they will consult over. Hullo!"
He sunk down again in the bushes, for a squad of Apache warriors was approaching, bringing with them four men securely bound.
They were the great To-la-go-to-de and his three chiefs, neither of them hurt to speak of; but they were all that were left of the foremost rank of the Lipans in that brief, terrible combat.
Other braves kept back the swarming mob of squaws and children, while the four distinguished captives were almost carried into one of the lodges at the border of the bushes.
Here more thongs of strong deer-skin were tightened upon their helpless limbs, a strong guard of armed braves was stationed in front of the lodge, and the Lipans were left in the dark to such thoughts as might come to them.
Not an Apache among their guards dreamed that anything more dangerous than thoughts could or would come. And yet, within two minutes from the time he was spread upon his back and left alone, old Two Knives heard inside the lodge a low, warning hiss.
His companions also heard it, but neither of them was so unwise as to answer by a sound.
The hiss was repeated, and now it was close to the chief's ear.
"Friend come. No Tongue is here. Great chief must be snake. Creep through hole in back of lodge. Find plenty horse. Ride fast. Get to pass. Never forget friend. No Tongue come some time."
Even while he was whispering the sharp edge of Murray's knife was busy with the thongs, and in a moment more all four of the prisoners were free—free to lie silently while their friend repeated to each in turn his advice as to what they were to do next.
Their nerves had not been shaken by their defeat, and when Murray slipped away again through the slit he had cut in the lodge cover, he was followed by four forms that made their way every bit as quietly as so many snakes could have done.
What puzzled To-la-go-to-de and his friends was that when they ventured to rise upon their feet, out in the dark among the horses, No Tongue was not with them.
"Ugh! Gone!"
"Cunning snake. Stay and strike Apaches. Then come."
"Good friend. Big warrior."
They could not quite understand the matter, but of one thing they were sure: No Tongue had penetrated the Apache camp in the most daring manner, and had set them free at the risk of his own life.
He had disappeared now, but they felt abundantly able to look out for themselves.
Even the ordinary watchers of the corral had left their stations to join the shouting crowd in camp, who were boasting of their victory, and the escaping Lipans could do about as they pleased.
They could find no weapons, but there were saddles and bridles, and scores and scores of fleet steeds to choose from, and it was but a few minutes before Two Knives and his friends were leading their selections through the darkness toward the river. They did not hunt for any ford. Horses and men alike knew how to swim. Once safely across, there was a great temptation to give a whoop, but the chief forbade it.
"No. Keep still. No Tongue is on the trail of the Apaches. Noise bad for him."
With that he sprung into his saddle, and led the way at a fierce gallop. If their horses should not fall with them and break their necks they would soon be beyond pursuit. It was a somewhat reckless thing to do, considering how many squads of Apaches were on that prairie, but they had no weapons, not so much as a knife, among them, and speed seemed to be their only hope.
All the ordinary rules and regulations for the government of an Indian village were knocked in pieces by the arrival of such an event as the victory over the Lipans.
Even Mother Dolores could not reasonably have forbidden Ni-ha-be and Rita from hurrying out of their lodge to join in the general rejoicing. In fact, Dolores had left them to their own devices a full minute before they made their appearance.
"Rita, there is Knotted Cord!"
"I see him."
"If he could understand me I would speak to him."
"Oh, Ni-ha-be! That would be a dreadful thing to do."
Ni-ha-be would not have done any such thing, and Rita knew it; but the chief's daughter saw no reason why she should not lead her sister pretty near the young pale-face brave as they passed him. They could see that he was smiling at them, and it was an act of politeness to smile back. Ni-ha-be laughed.
It was that, perhaps, which led Steve into a mistake. He wanted to say something, and in his haste he forgot to speak Mexican Spanish, as he ought to have done, if he expected to be understood by an Apache young lady.
"There has been a great fight. Your father has taken some prisoners."
"We know it," answered Rita, and she was almost as much startled as was Steve himself.
"What! Do you understand English?"
Ni-ha-be turned at the same moment, and looked at her in astonishment.
"Only some. A little. Not any more talk now. Come, Ni-ha-be."
"Talk Apache, so I can hear. You shall not say any more words to him. Tell me what you said. Tell me his words."
Ni-ha-be's jealous pride was touched to the quick at finding that Rita possessed still another accomplishment that she had not. It was worse than even the talking leaves, for Rita had not seemed to hear them very well. It was too bad!
Rita quickly interpreted all that had been said, but she did it in a way that told both her sister and Steve Harrison that she was a good deal excited about something.
"Come, Ni-ha-be, come."
"I will. There is Red Wolf. We must hurry."
Poor Rita! The whooping and clamor and tumult and confusion all around her confused her more than ever. She was glad there was enough of it to keep Ni-ha-be from asking her any questions; but it seemed as if she would be willing to give her favorite pony to hear a few words more in that strange tongue—the tongue she had known once, and forgotten, till the talking leaves began to speak it to her.
Pretty soon the girls were mingling with their friends and relations, crowding as closely as they dared upon the line of warriors, and striving to get a glimpse of the prisoners by the light of the camp-fires.
It was getting late, but Many Bears had work to do before he could think of calling for a luncheon or going to his lodge. He had seen his captives safely bound and put away under guard, and he now summoned his old men for a brief but very important "talk."
Murray had guessed right when he said he would be sent for, but he had not waited the arrival of any messenger. The words were hardly out of the mouth of Many Bears before a brave in the crowd responded,
"Send Warning is here."
"Where is the Knotted Cord?"
"In lodge. Wait there."
That explanation came from Red Wolf, and the Apaches knew exactly where their pale-face friends were at that particular moment, which was the precise thing Murray wanted them to feel sure of, considering what he knew was about to be found out.
All the rest of the village was full of noise, but the dignity of the older men enforced silence in the circle now gathering closely around the chief. Added to the dignity was a large amount of pride over what they had already done, and a little anxiety concerning what it would be best to do next.
Many Bears turned to Murray. "Send Warning gave good council. His head is white. He is wise. Tell Apaches now where all pale-face gone. No come."
"Send Warning can guess. The pale-faces don't like to be killed. Find too many Apaches. Run away and save scalp."
"Ugh! Good. Nobody know where they go. No use follow. Apaches take Lipan prisoners. What Send Warning say about them?"
"Keep them till to-morrow. No hurry. Something else to think of now. More fight, maybe."
The chief nodded his head, but a chorus of "Ughs!" expressed the dissent of his council. They meant to decide the fate of old Two Knives without delay.
Still, three of the older braves insisted upon arguing the case, one after the other; and by the time the last of them ceased speaking, Murray felt pretty safe about To-la-go-to-de. He said to himself, "The old fox has half an hour the start of them now. He is miles and miles away."
Just then Many Bears turned to him with, "What say now? Any words?"
"No. Never speak twice. Apaches do what think best."
"Ugh! Good. Young braves bring out Lipans. No wait. Kill them all right away."
Prisoners of such a sort were likely to be a troublesome burden to a party on the march like that of Many Bears, and the only real question before the council was, after all, in what precise manner the killing should be done.
At that moment, however, a great cry arose from the vicinity of the lodge where the Lipans had been shut up—a cry of surprise, anger, and disappointment. And then the word spread over the whole camp like wildfire,
"The Lipans are gone!"
It was almost beyond belief, and there was a general rush toward that row of lodges, and beyond them into the bushes and through the corral. It came within an ace of stampeding every pony there, and every trace of anything like a "trail" left by the feet of Two Knives and his warriors was quickly trampled out.
The only bit of a "sign" found by anybody was in the shape of more than a dozen thongs of buckskin on the ground in the lodge, all clean cut through with a sharp knife.
That told plainly how the prisoners had released themselves.
The braves who had searched and tied them were positive that not one of them retained a knife, or was left in a condition to make any use of one. They must have had help from somebody, but it was a great mystery who that somebody could be.
Suspicion might have fallen upon Murray and Steve, but it was well known that the latter had remained in his lodge, refusing even to look at the prisoners, while Send Warning had been in council with the chiefs. They believed they knew where he had been all the while, and none of them imagined that Two Knives had been set free before he had lain in that "prison lodge" three minutes.
It was a terrible mortification, but something must be done; and again Murray was asked for advice.
"What do I think? Let me ask you a question. Did the Lipans go away on foot?"
"Ugh! No. Take good horse."
"Did they have any arms? Gun? lance? bow?"
"Ugh! No. Think not."
"They are cunning warriors. Did they ride out among your young men? Send Warning says they would do just what great Apache chief would do."
"Ugh! Good. Pale-face chief very wise. Lipans go all way round. Like snake. Only one thing for us to do. Catch 'em when they come to pass."
"Better ride now," said Murray. "Send Warning and Knotted Cord will ride with Apache braves. No time lose. Want fresh horse."
He afterward explained to Steve that a little seeming activity on their part was needful at that moment of excitement, lest anything unpleasant should be said about them. Besides, he had no fear of any farther collision with the Lipans. The night was too far gone for that, and he had great confidence in the courage and skill of old Two Knives.
In less than twenty minutes after he had given his advice, he and Steve Harrison, mounted on fresh mustangs chosen for them from the corral by Red Wolf himself, were riding across the ford at the head of a strong squad of Apache warriors, commanded by a chief of well-known skill and prowess.
"They will pick up plenty more on the way, Steve, but they won't have much to do."
"No danger of their catching old Two Knives?"
"Not a bit. I'll tell you all about it some other time."
"I've something to tell you, Murray. I can't keep it."
"Out with it, my boy."
"That white daughter of old Many Bears can speak English. She understood what I said and answered me."
It was dark, or Steve would have seen that the face of his friend grew as white as his hair, and then flushed and brightened with a great and sudden light.
For a moment he was silent, and then he said, in a deep, husky voice,
"Don't say any more about it to me, Steve. Not till I speak to you again. I'm in an awful state of mind to-night."
Steve had somehow made up his mind to that already, but he was saved the necessity of saying anything in reply. Red Wolf rode closer to him at the moment and said,
"Knotted Cord is young. Been on war-path before?"
"Say yes, Steve," muttered Murray.
"Yes, I'm young. Seen a good deal, though. Many war-paths."
"What tribe strike?"
"Lipans, Comanches, Mexicans. Followed some Pawnees once. They got away."
Red Wolf's whole manner told of the respect he felt for a young brave who had already been out against the fiercest warriors of the Indian country. He would have given a good many ponies to have been able to say as much for himself.
"Glad come among Apaches. Stay long time. Never go away."
That was a wonderful thing for Red Wolf to say, considering what a bitter prejudice had been taught him against everybody with a white skin. Ni-ha-be would not have believed it unless she had heard him say it.
"Can't promise," replied Steve. "Go when Send Warning say."
No comment could be made by a "young brave" on an appeal to a white-headed "chief" like Murray, and the talk slackened a little.
It would hardly have done so if they could have looked a few miles in front of them just then. The darkness would have prevented their seeing much, but if they had been near the old Lipan camp they would have seen that it was empty.
A few Apaches had taken possession of it at first, but the smouldering camp-fires and blazing wagons gave light enough to the Lipans among the rocks to enable them to send occasional bullets at whatever might be stirring there, and the place was given up as uselessly dangerous. The scattered shots which now and then came from the mouth of the pass told that the beaten warriors of To-la-go-to-de were wide-awake and ready to defend themselves, and their position was well known to be a strong one—not to be attacked without both orders and re-enforcements.
But for one thing that end of the pass would have been already vacant. The pride of the Lipans forbade their running farther without at least an effort to learn what had become of their chief. They felt that they could never look their squaws in the face again unless they could explain that point.
To be sure it was almost a hopeless case, and the Apaches would be upon them in the morning, but they waited.
Everything seemed to be growing darker, and the outlying Lipan sentinels were not in any fault that four men on horseback should get so near them undiscovered. It was very near, and the new-comers must have known there was danger in it, for one of them suddenly put his hand to his mouth and uttered a fierce, half-triumphant war-whoop. It was the well-known battle-cry of To-la-go-to-de himself, and it was answered by a storm of exulting shouts from the warriors among the rocks. Their chief had escaped!
That was true, and it was a grand thing, but he had brought back with him only three men of his "front rank."
The Apaches could hear the whooping, and the foremost of them deemed it wise to fall back a little. Whatever their enemies might be up to, they were men to be watched with prudence as well as courage.
The words of the great chief were few. There was no farther account to be made of Captain Skinner and his miners, he told them. They were cunning, and they had taken care of themselves. It had been well to plunder their camp. He himself owed his safety to their old friend No Tongue, and the Lipans must never forget him. The Yellow Head had probably been killed, and they would not see him again. They must now gather all their horses and other plunder, and push their retreat as far as possible before morning. Some other time they would come and strike the Apaches, but it was "bad medicine" for them just now.
Whatever else that may have meant, according to Indian superstition, every warrior could understand that their losses had weakened them too much to think of fighting another hard battle. It was no disgrace to make a great deal of haste under such circumstances; and so, if Red Wolf and the rest had been near enough at that hour, they would have seen Two Knives and what was left of his band riding steadily on, deeper and deeper, among the mountains.
All the while that Murray had been sitting among the Apache chiefs and answering their questions, and even when he and Steve mounted the mustangs Red Wolf brought them, there had been three pairs of very keen eyes, not to speak of any others, closely watching him.
"He is not an Apache!" exclaimed Ni-ha-be to Rita. "Why do they make a chief of him? He is nothing but an old pale-face!"
"He is wise. He is good. The great chief listens to him. All the warriors listen. They did as he said to-night, and so they beat the Lipans."
"He is not a warrior. He did not go out and fight."
"All warriors do not go always. Some stay in camp. Young squaws like you and me must not talk about chiefs."
That was good Apache teaching, and Ni-ha-be knew it, but she seemed to have formed a strong dislike for Send Warning, and she retorted,
"He is not a chief—only a pale-face. I will talk about him as much as I please. You like him because he is one of your own people."
Rita was silent. There was a very strange feeling in her heart just then, and she was trying to understand it.
For long years, ever since she was a little girl, she had been taught to think of herself as an Apache maiden, the daughter of a great chief, and she had grown to be very proud of it. She had been even ashamed, at times, of the fact that, in some way that she did not quite understand, she was a pale-face also. Ni-ha-be had been apt to throw it at her whenever there was any dispute between them, and that had helped to keep her from forgetting it.
And, now she had seen Send Warning and Knotted Cord, she had felt that a sort of change was coming over her. She was young, but she could see that in some way they were the superiors of all the red warriors around them. They were listened to and looked up to, although they were almost strangers. To her eyes they were better-looking, something higher and nobler, and she was not at all ashamed of the thought that they belonged to her own people. Then it had come to her, with a great rush of joy in her heart, that she could speak her own language—a little of it. She could even hear many words from the mysterious talking leaves of the pale-faces, and no Apache girl could do that—not even Ni-ha-be herself, for all her wonderfully good eyes.
Then there came to the camp the great excitement caused by finding out the escape of the Lipan prisoners, and quickly after that had come the departure of the force sent out to recapture them.
Rita and Ni-ha-be had been standing side by side, watching all that was done.
"Send Warning is going on the war-path now, Ni-ha-be."
"So are Red Wolf and Knotted Cord. Young braves are worth more than wrinkled old men."
"The great chief himself is wrinkled a little."
"He is a great brave. He must be angry by this time. He will send for Dolores."
They did not know how earnestly that important woman had been using her own eyes all that time. She had seen as much as had either of them, and she was close to them at that moment.
"Young squaws go back to lodge right away. See? All squaws go in a hurry."
A few sharp words from one of the old men had started them, and they were indeed hurrying. They knew there was a good deal of bad temper up in the village just then, and there was no telling who might be made to suffer for it. The last squaw to get home would be very likely to meet a cross husband, and Indian husbands are not pleasant company when anything has made them cross.
The two girls hurried with the rest, and Dolores had very little to say to them.
It was now Ni-ha-be's turn to notice something of a change. Not in herself, but in Dolores. She had been accustomed to feel that whatever difference was made between Rita and herself was in her own favor. She felt that it was right it should be so, much as she loved her adopted sister, for after all it was a great advantage to be every bit an Apache. She was often sorry for Rita, but she could not help her having been born white.
Now, however, although it required all her keenness to detect it, there seemed to be something of unusual respect in the voice and manner of Dolores whenever she spoke to Rita. A touch of special kindness came with it. Not a sign of harshness showed itself all the way to the lodge, although Dolores had one or two pretty sharp things to say to Ni-ha-be. The Mexican darkness of the chief's "great cook" had helped everybody to almost forget her origin, but the thought of it came slowly into Ni-ha-be's mind.
"She read one of the talking leaves herself. It made her shut her eyes and kneel down. Send Warning talked with her. She is as bad as Rita. She is not an Apache at heart."
That was hardly fair to Mother Dolores, for it was only too true that, as Murray said of her, "she was completely Indianized." Even now she was not thinking of herself as a pale-face, or longing to be anything else than the "cook squaw" of the mighty war-chief Many Bears. No; she was not thinking of herself, but a great cloud was gathering in her mind, and she felt that it all belonged in some way to Rita.
She did not speak of it, but she felt a good deal more comfortable after the two girls were safe behind the skin cover of their own lodge.
"Great chief not go on war-path. Better not see young squaws just now. He will send for the talking leaves in the morning. Send Warning will read them to him. He did not look so old to-night. He was a very handsome man when he was young. So long ago!"
Ni-ha-be had been right about her father's appetite, for it was only a few minutes before he came stalking toward the camp-fire for some venison-steak, and Dolores had been wise enough to have it on the coals, so as not to keep him waiting.
He never dreamed of telling her, nor she of asking him, anything about the events of the night or the plans of the warriors, but all the while that steak was broiling she was thinking of Send Warning rather than of Many Bears, and wondering if there would be another fight with the Lipans before sunrise. That was the very question asked of Murray by the chief in command of their squad half an hour or so later.
"What do I think? Well, I think the Lipans are not fools."
"What mean by that?"
"Fools stay and get killed. Cunning men ride hard and get away."
The Apaches rode a little faster after that, and were joined by so many other small parties of warriors that they were quite a respectable force by the time they reached the neighborhood of the camp. It was nearly sunrise then, and the braves who had been watching the camp faithfully reported all that had occurred. They told of the sudden whooping nearly two hours earlier, and Murray at once remarked, "Apache chief knows what that means?"
"He is not very wise. Send Warning tell him."
"It meant that their great chief and the three braves with him had come back to them. Send warrior up toward pass. If I am wrong, the Lipans are there now; if I am right, they are gone."
The warrior scout was sent in a twinkling, for Indian sagacity understood the keenness of Murray's guess, and it was not long before the news came back that not a sign of an enemy could be discovered among the rocks.
It was a disappointment. The daring invaders had escaped, for there would be no use in following them. The whole Apache nation could hardly have forced the narrow places of that pass against so strong a party of good rifle-men. Neither was there any certainty but what the pale-face miners might be in there somewhere, ready to deal destruction on any Apache who should be so unwise as to ride into such a rocky trap.
The sun arose while they were talking about it, and the Apache braves were already searching the camp for anything which might have been left.
They were not without some success, for the first wagon had not burnt very well, and the Lipans had neither time nor heart to take everything out of it.
"Come, Steve. The miners made their last camp over yonder. I can see a wagon-wheel sticking up."
A quick gallop brought them to all that was left of that second wagon. It had burnt better than the other, but had not been completely consumed.
"Nothing left in it."
"If there had been, the Apaches would be here now instead of over yonder. I declare!"
He sprung from his pony, and rushed toward the one hind-wheel which was still upheld by what was left of its broken axle, and by a part of the wagon bottom.
"What is it, Murray?"
"Wait a moment."
Steve too was on foot, just as the old man gave that wheel a jerk that dragged it several feet from its place.
"Look there, Steve!"
"Buckskin bags—some of them half burnt. What is that, Murray, in the ashes? Is it gold?"
"More than that, Steve. It's gold coin—twenty-dollar gold pieces. Stow away as many of those little bags as you can before any Apaches come. It's our plunder."
"They're coming. But how is it ours?"
He was picking up several of the little bags, and putting them inside his hunting-shirt when he asked that question.
"Because we're on this war-path, and have found it. The Apaches would rather have ponies; but they may take what we leave, if they want it."
"Doesn't it belong to those miners? Won't they come for it?"
"They would not find it if they did come, but they never will. They'll trust the Apaches and Lipans too well for that. Besides, it never was theirs. They stole every cent of it."
"Do you suppose we can ever find the owners?"
"Never. It would be an utter impossibility. What we are picking up is ours, by all the laws of the mountains and all the rules of Indian war."
They did not open a single one of the little buckskin bags, but Murray threw down one that would not "chink" and picked up another.
"Coin is better than dust or nuggets, Steve, and we must not take it all. Only what we can stow away quickly. It's just what we are going to need. It will pay the expenses of your trip to the settlements, and take care of you after you get there."
His face was burning hot while he spoke, and his eyes were flashing with sudden and fierce excitement. Could it be possible that he was so terribly fond of money?
Steve wondered and stared, but the Apache young men were crowding around them now, and Murray nodded to him to fall back.
"Mount at once, Steve. Don't seem to claim anything or to interfere. Let them sift the ashes if they want to."
"Seems to me we must have the best part of it."
"That's likely. I think we have as much as we shall need. No. I don't know how much I may need before I get through. Money is a good thing to have sometimes."
Murray was hardly himself that morning, and yet he met the Apache leader coolly enough.
"What do now? Send Warning advise friend."
"Ride back to village. Not lose time. Young men finish plunder. Old men not stay. Great chief want to see us."
That last word was enough and the warrior wheeled his horse westward. His parting orders were few, but they would bring back every Apache from that "war-path" as soon as the search for plunder should be completed.
"It's all right, Steve," said Murray, as they rode along side by side. "If we had stayed there too long some of them might have been curious how much we had picked up. They won't say a word after we are in camp. If an Indian once gets his plunder safe into his own lodge nobody questions his title to it. That is, if it has been taken from an enemy."
Not one of the persons who had "wondered what had become of those miners" had so much as guessed at the exact truth, although Murray had come nearer to it than anybody else.
That sunrise found them, as they thought, once for all safe within the boundary of the "foreign country," where no one would ask them any ugly questions about the stolen gold they had brought there.
In fact, the first thing they did, after finishing their hearty breakfast of fresh beef, was to "unpack themselves." Every man wanted to know if he had lost anything on the way, and to make as good a guess as he could how much his load was worth. Then it seemed as if they all spoke together when they tried to express their regret at having been compelled to leave any of their treasure behind.
"No use to think of going back for it now, boys. Some day we'll take another look at that mine, but there won't be a thing worth going for in that wagon."
"What do ye mean to do next, Cap?" asked Bill.
"I told you before. Give our horses a chance to feed, and then push right on. We can afford to use 'em all up now. Three days of hard riding'll carry us out of harm's way."
"And then we can go jest whar we please."
There was a wonderful deal of comfort in that for men who had been "running away" so long as they had, and over so very rough a country. Their hard, rude, weather-beaten faces began to put on an expression of peace and quiet, and even of good-nature, and they gave their weary horses a longer rest than they had at first intended. After that, however, the sharp, stern summons of Captain Skinner called them to "mount and ride" once more, and they were all ready to obey. It was a wild region through which they were going, but at more than one place they passed the ruins of old houses and other traces of former attempts at settlement and cultivation.
"There were good ranches hereaway in the old times," said Captain Skinner, "and there was some mining done, but it was too near the Apache range, and there were too many revolutions. It won't be settled up till there's a new state of things. The Apaches'll take care of that."
All their troubles, they thought, were behind them, and they cared very little for those of the country they had gotten into—less than they might have done if they had imagined how nearly those very troubles might yet concern themselves.
It was impossible, however, not to think and talk about the Apaches, and to "wonder how the Lipans came out of their attack on that village."
Captain Skinner's comment was, "I don't reckon a great many of 'em came out at all. The chances were against them. Old Two Knives made a mistake for once, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd had to pay for it."
Well, so he had, but not so heavily as the Captain imagined.
At that very moment he was leading through the homeward pass just about half of his original war-party—all that "had come out of the attack on that village."
The village itself was in a high state of fermentation that morning. There was mourning in some of the lodges over braves who had fallen in that brief, sharp battle with the Lipans, but there were only five of these in all, so great had been the advantage of superior numbers in the fight, and of holding the ground of it afterward.
The bitterest disgrace of To-la-go-to-de and his warriors had been their failure to carry off the bodies of their friends who had fallen. At least twenty of the Apaches had been more or less wounded, and every man of them was as proud of it as if he had been "promoted." A scar received in battle is a badge of honor to an Indian warrior, and he is apt to make a show of it on every fair opportunity.
There was no need, therefore, of throwing away any pity on those who had been cut by the lances or "barked" by the bullets of the Lipans. Red Wolf himself had concealed a smart score of a lance-thrust along his left side, for fear he might be forbidden going on that second war-path. Even now he refused to consider it as amounting to anything, and his sister's face glowed with family pride as she said to Rita,
"Red Wolf is a true Apache. He's a warrior already. He will be a great chief some day. The Knotted Cord is white. He has no scars. He has never been on a war-path."
She was speaking in her brother's hearing, and Steve was at no great distance at that very moment, talking, in a low, earnest tone, with Murray.
Rita replied, "He is young. Send Warning is a warrior—" But Red Wolf broke in, very honestly, with,
"Knotted Cord is my brother. Only his skin is white. Not his heart. He is a warrior. He has been on war-paths. He has seen the Lipans, the Comanches, the Pawnees, the Mexicans. He is not a boy."
Ni-ha-be's little "pet" was blown away by that, and she looked once more admiringly at the strong and handsome young pale-face. If he had only been so fortunate as to be born an Apache, what might not have been expected of him!
The girls had many questions to ask concerning the events of the night before, and Red Wolf was in an accommodating frame of mind that morning. It was right, too, in his opinion, that the squaws of his family should be able to boast among the other squaws of the mighty doings of their father and brother. That was the way the reputations of warriors were to be made and kept up, aided now and then by the good things they might see fit to say about themselves.
In all that there is just this difference between red men and white, and it would soon disappear with civilization.
That is, when a great white "brave" of any kind does a thing he is proud of he manages to have the story of it printed in the newspapers, so that all his boasting is done for him by somebody else.
The Indian "brave" is compelled to be his own newspaper, and tell his own story of himself. That is all, and it sometimes makes the poor red man appear to be the vainer of the two, which is a great injustice.
The conversation between Steve and Murray could not be overheard by their friends, but it must have been of more than a little importance, to judge by the expression that came and went upon their faces. No Indian warrior's face would have betrayed his feelings in such a manner.
Dolores was busy at the camp-fires, as usual, with her frying-pan, and they were looking at her.
"How old do you think she is, Steve?"
"It's hard to guess, Murray. Maybe she's forty-five."
"She is not much above thirty. The Mexican women grow old sooner than white ones. She was not much above twenty when she cooked for my miners on the Santa Rita mine."
"Do you feel perfectly sure about that?"
"I've watched her. There is no doubt left in my mind. Still, I may ask her a few more questions. Then there is one thing more I want to make sure of."
"Will it keep us here long?"
"It may keep me, Steve."
"Then it will keep me, Murray. You will need me if you have anything on hand. I am anxious enough to get off, but I will not leave you behind. I'll stay and help."
Murray held out his hand.
"It's a fact, Steve. I may need all the help you can give."
"Take care! Here comes Many Bears himself, and two of his cunningest councillors."
It did not require much guessing on Steve's part to know that, for the "cunning" of those old Indians was written all over their dark, wrinkled faces.
"More advice wanted," thought Murray, but it was not asked for so soon as he expected.
The first words of Many Bears were complimentary, of course. His pale-face friend had been very wise. All he had said had been good, even to the not permitting the young men to follow the Lipans into the mountains. Warriors had told the chief that Send Warning and Knotted Cord had picked up something in the camp of the pale-faces. The Apaches were glad. Their friends were welcome to what they had found. Murray interrupted him there by promptly holding out one of the little buckskin bags.
"Great chief take it."
"No. No want it. Send Warning keep it, and tell Apaches what better do next."
"Go to better hunting-ground. Bad place for camp."
"Will the Lipans come again?"
"Not till after next snow. Got enough now. Come then."
All that and more came in as a sort of preface to what Many Bears really wanted to say. He had something very heavy on his mind that morning, and in order to get rid of it he had to tell the whole story of the buffalo-hunt his band had made away beyond the mountains into the country claimed by the Lipans. That was the way they came to be followed so closely by Two Knives and his warriors.
Murray and Steve listened closely, for the chief spoke in very good Mexican Spanish most of the time, and they both understood him. Then came the story of the return through the pass, and it wound up with the finding of the talking leaves by Rita.
"Send Warning knows the rest."
"No," said Murray, "I have not seen the talking leaves."
"Great medicine. Tell Apache chief about miners. Tell about old fight. Tell about blue-coat soldiers come, and where go. Tell about big talk, and treaty, and presents. Many Bears want to hear more."
"Ask young squaw."
"Can't hear all. Send Warning listen. Say what he hears."
"All right. Bring young squaw."
"No need of squaw. Bring talking leaves."
"No," persisted Murray. "Young squaw find. All her medicine. Must hold leaves for Send Warning to read."
"Ugh! Good. Many Bears not care. Dolores bring Rita. Tell her to bring leaves."
Ni-ha-be and Rita were near enough to hear, and the latter at once darted into the lodge for her treasures, while her adopted sister looked after her with a good deal of envy in her eyes.
"She is a pale-face. It is too bad."
Rita was gone but a moment, and her whole body seemed to glow and tremble with excitement as she held out the three magazines to Murray.
"Take one, Steve. You haven't forgotten your reading, have you?"
"Send Warning hear leaves," said Many Bears, anxiously. "The Knotted Cord is young."
"He is white. He can hear. The great chief will listen."
"Ugh!" muttered Ni-ha-be, looking on from a little distance, but Rita looked at Steve, with a bright smile on her face.
"There, Murray," said Steve, "the chief was right. There's a picture of cavalry. All the others he spoke of are here. Here is the picture of the big talk and the treaty."
"Here is the mining fight—" and just there Murray paused as if he could say no more, and the Indians looked at him in undisguised astonishment. His breast was heaving, his lips were quivering, and the hands that held the magazines were trembling as if their owner had an ague fit.
"What find?" exclaimed Many Bears. "Is it bad medicine?"
It was some seconds before Murray could trust himself to speak, but he was thinking very fast.
"The talking leaves have told Many Bears the truth. Now Send Warning is troubled in his mind."
All could see that, and it made them not a little anxious.
"What want? What do?"
"Go into lodge with young squaw. Knotted Cord stay and talk with Apache chief. Nobody come into lodge. Take a little time. Then tell what hear."
It was an unusual request, but there could be no objection, in view of the fact that there was "great medicine" to be looked into. An Indian conjurer always requires the absence of all observers for the performance of his most important juggling. It was at once decided by the chief that Send Warning should have his way.
Rita listened, pale and serious, while Ni-ha-be looked on in jealous amazement.
"I am an Apache girl? Why can he not teach me to hear the talking leaves?"
No doubt he could have done so if she would have given him plenty of time, and been willing to begin with A B C, as Rita had done long years before.
How should all that ABC business have come back to Rita as it did, when she found herself alone in her lodge with that white-headed old pale-face warrior?
She thought she had never before seen so kind and good a face, and she wondered that it did not seem so very old, after all, now it was so near.
"I will sit down, Rita, my dear. Sit down too. You are too tall now to stand up."
Not a human eye was looking upon them, but Rita had suddenly covered her face with her hands.
"Speak," she said, earnestly; "I remember better when I do not see."
She was talking English, just as he had done, only more slowly, and almost as if it hurt her.
"I will read the first word, dear. Then you may spell it. M-i-n-e, mine. That means a gold-mine, like ours, dear. Spell it, Rita, my darling."
"Our mine? Darling? Oh, if I could see my father!"
Murray sprung to his feet as if he were a boy. His mouth opened and closed as if he were keeping back a great shout, and the tears came pouring down over his cheeks.
"Rita! Rita! My dear little daughter! Here I am!"
"Father!"
His arms were around her now, and he was kissing her almost frantically.
Slowly she opened her eyes. "I know it is you when you speak, and when my eyes are shut. When I open them you are very old. My father was young and handsome. His hair was not white."
"Rita, darling, it has been just as white as it is now ever since the morning after I came home and found that the Apaches had carried you away. They killed your mother, and I heard that they had killed you too. I have been an old man ever since, but I think I shall grow young again now."
Time was precious. They could only spare enough for a few hurried questions and answers, and Murray glanced rapidly over the pages of the three magazines.
"Let me take them," he said. "I would like to read them carefully. I shall know what to say to the chief. You must not let anybody know I am your father—not till the right time comes."
"Oh, why not?"
"Because the Apaches would know then that I am their enemy, and have good reason to be. Even if they did not kill me at once, they would not trust me, and I want them to do that. It is my only hope of carrying you away with me. Stay here in the lodge till you are sure your face will not betray you."
She had been crying more copiously than her father, and that would have been a thing to be explained to Ni-ha-be and Dolores. Rita therefore remained in the lodge while Murray, with a great effort, recovered his usual calm self-control, and walked slowly and dignifiedly out. He needed to put on all the dignity he was master of, for his heart was thump-thumping against his ribs, and his brain was in a whirl as to when and how he should be able to claim and carry on the great treasure he had found.
Treasure! The Buckhorn Mine, piled mountain high with twenty-dollar pieces, was nothing to it.