An Indian Story.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
Chapter XXV.
mong the number of persons who had wondered "what had become of those miners," no one 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 was anxious to know if he had lost anything on the way. 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.
It was not long before the stern summons of Captain Skinner called them to mount once more, and they were all ready to obey. All their troubles, they thought, were behind them, and they cared very little for those of the country they had gotten into. 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 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 a school-boy who has 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 scar of a lance thrust along his left side, for fear he might be forbidden to go 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 is a warrior already. He will be a great chief some day. 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.
Their conversation could not be overheard by their friends, but it must have been of more than a little importance, to judge by the expressions that came and went upon their faces. Dolores was busy at the camp fire, 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's 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 old councillors."
"More advice wanted," thought Murray; but it was not asked for so soon as he expected. Many Bears 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, and 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."
Ni-ha-be and Rita were near enough to hear, and the latter at once darted into the lodge for her treasures. She 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."
"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 magazine 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."
They could all 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 required the absence of all observers for the performance of his most important jugglery. It was at once decided 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 A B C business have come back to her as it did when she found herself alone in her lodge with that white-headed old pale-face warrior?
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 sprang 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!"
"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 until 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 until 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 off the great treasure he had found.
Treasure?
The Buckhorn Mine, piled mountain high with twenty-dollar pieces, was nothing to it.