An Indian Story.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
Chapter XXII.
nly a few of the Apache braves went across the river. Many Bears did not go, and those who did came back almost immediately. Murray soon saw very clearly that nothing more could be done in behalf of peace.
"Send Warning come with braves?" inquired Many Bears, when at last his whole force was gathered, impatient to be led away.
"No; we two will stay and help take care of camp. Pale-faces make big peace with Lipans not long ago. Bad for us to strike them."
The chief could understand that. An Indian of any tribe is held to be bound by the treaties made by his people. Murray did not lose anything, therefore, in the good opinion of his new friends by refusing to accompany them. The only reply of Many Bears was:
"Ugh! Good. Stay with camp. Lodge ready. Lipans never get near camp. All safe."
Many Bears was thinking of Murray's assertion that his enemies would surely come to attack him, and he did not intend to let them get by him in the dark. They came pretty near it, though, widely as the Apaches spread themselves, and keenly as they kept up their look-out. To-la-go-to-de's grand "circuit" would have succeeded, and he would have dashed in upon the unprotected camp, if it had not been for a mere dwarf of a young brave who had stolen that opportunity to go on his "first war-path." He had done so without permission from his elders, and so kept well away from them for fear some old warrior or chief might send him back to camp in disgrace. Boy as he was, however, his ears were of the best, and he knew the sound of the feet of many horses. He listened for a moment, and then he knew by the sudden silence that they had halted.
This was the moment that the spies of Two Knives came racing up to announce the suspicious change of direction on the part of the miners, and the chief was considering the matter.
"Not go back to camp?"
"No," said one of the Lipan braves, pointing toward the south. "All pale-faces go that way."
"Ugh! Good. Pale-face chief very cunning. Not want to run against Apaches. Go way around. Get there before we do. We ride."
The Apache boy had not waited for them to start again. He had promptly wheeled his pony, and dashed away through the darkness with the news. He had not far to go before he fell in with a squad of his own people, and his work was done. Older and wiser braves than himself, with eyes and ears as keen as his own, rode forward to keep watch of the advancing Lipans, while the others lashed their ponies and darted away to spread the warning.
Many Bears had no notion of fighting so terrible an enemy with less than his whole force, and he was in no hurry to begin. Orders were sent for everybody to fall back without allowing themselves to be seen, and the Lipans were allowed to come right along, with the mistaken idea that they were about to make a surprise. They moved in two long scattered ranks, one about a hundred yards in advance of the other, when suddenly old To-la-go-to-de himself rose in his saddle, and sent back a low warning cry.
He had seen shadowy forms flitting along in the gloom around him, and he was not sure but he had heard the beat of hoofs upon the sod. In half a minute after, he had uttered the warning cry which so suddenly halted his warriors, he was quite sure he heard such sounds, and a great many others.
First came a scattering but hot and rapid crash of rifle firing; then a fierce chorus of whoops and yells; then, before the two ranks of Lipans could join in one body, a wild rush of shouting horsemen dashed in between them. There was a twanging of bows, a clatter of lances, and more firing, with greater danger of somebody getting hit than there had been at first. Then in a moment Two Knives found his little band assailed on all sides at once by superior numbers. The orders of Many Bears were that the rear rank of his foes should only be kept at bay at first, so that he could centre nearly all his force upon the foremost squad. The latter contained a bare two dozen of chosen warriors, and their courage and skill were of little use in such a wild hurly-burly. To-la-go-to-de and three more warriors even suffered the disgrace of being knocked from their ponies, tied up, and led away toward the Apache village as prisoners.
The rear rank of the Lipans had made a brave charge, and it had taught them all they needed to know. The battle was lost, and their only remaining hope was in the speed of their horses. They turned from that fruitless charge as one man, and rode swiftly away—swiftly, but not wildly, for they were veterans, and they kept well together. A few of the Apaches followed in pursuit, but the Lipans were well mounted. The approach of night favored them, and in the darkness the main body made its way to the shelter of the mountain pass in safety.
Even before the Apaches had 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.
"Now, Steve," said Murray, "you stay here awhile. I can do some things better if I'm alone."
"All right;" and Steve threw himself down on the blanket he had spread upon the grass.
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 one of them, and face to face with a very stout and dark-complexioned squaw. But 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. The two girls within the tent were not worth considering.
Murray had used his eyes to some purpose when he had watched Dolores at her cooking, 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 happens 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 can not 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 walked away.
He had not gone far, however, when his footsteps were checked by the sound of war-whoops from the throats of the triumphant braves on their return to the camp.
"That's the whoop for prisoners," he exclaimed. "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.
They were the great To-la-go-to-de and his three chiefs, none 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 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 could happen to the captives. 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.
THE ESCAPE OF TO-LA-GO-TO-DE AND HIS CHIEFS.
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 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 of fleet steeds to choose from, and it was but a few minutes before Two Knives and his friends were on their way 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 sprang into his saddle, and led the way at a fierce gallop.