AT THE BEND OF THE TRAIL
By OTIS T. MERRILL
“WELL, hurry back, boy. You’re rather green, you know, to be going out alone.” The captain winked at Sergeant Mills as Tom Ray turned towards his horse.
There had been no fighting as yet, and Tom was rather disappointed, for, to tell the truth, it was love of adventure rather than patriotism that had induced him to join the little squad of cavalry then journeying through the heart of the Apache country. They had encamped in the little valley of the Salt River, in Arizona. The land was dry and parched. Even the hardy cactus was taking on a leathery hue.
To Tom it was a monotonous view—the yellow earth: that everlasting Giant Cactus; and occasionally the tall, bleached form of a dead tree, reaching its arms despairingly upward from the dearth of life below.
With some little impatience he urged the pony into a gallop. In an hour he must be at the fork of the Salt to receive Custer’s dispatches. Everybody had wondered why Tom Ray, the only one in the party who had never heard an Indian war-whoop, should have been chosen for the work. It was a case of eloquence. Tom pleaded, and the captain—who wasn’t much afraid of Indians himself—forgot his military caution and consented.
The first two miles of the journey lay back along their own trail to the point where a long depression in the plain marked the bed of some old river. From there he must turn sharp to the right and make for the foot of the lone gray butte, about whose base wound the west branch of the Salt. He had started early, and it was not yet four o’clock when he reached the crossing of the low ground. He paused for a moment and looked about him.
A large shadow rolled along the ground before him and caught his eye. From overhead came the shrill cry of an eagle—the same bird who, in spite of numerous rifle balls, had aroused the admiration of the whole party on the previous day, by its mad swoops in their direction.
Tom cast a reluctant glance at the distant cottonwood and the huge pile of sticks saddled in its crotch. The old egg-collecting instinct welled up strongly within him, but he held the mustang’s head resolutely away. In his mind he already pictured the impatience of the old scout at the fork and, hardly daring to take a second look at the nest, he again brought the little pony to a full gallop.
Cris Wood had been a bearer of government dispatches ever since the thriving settlement of Hopkins’ Bend could boast of a telegraph wire. His greeting for the “youngster,” as he termed Tom Ray, was that of an old friend:—
“What have you been waiting for, t’ give the Indians a chance to scalp me?”
Tom laughed as he looked at the scant fringe of gray beneath the rough, worn hat.
“I guess they wouldn’t be paid for their trouble,” he answered, as he took the well-handled dispatches from the old scout.
“No, not by me,” retorted the latter, grimly. “But, anyway, there’s only one lot of Indians around, and they’re way over at the crossing,” referring to a point on Tom’s return journey.
“All right,” responded Tom, amused at the scout’s time-honored attempt to play on his nerves. “If I see them, I’ll give them the chase of their lives.”
“You’ll be the front party, most likely, though.”
A few more courtesies were tossed freely from one to the other, together with what little news had fallen in the way of both before they parted.
Half an hour later, as the return road before him sank gently to the lower ground, Tom’s eyes were again drawn instinctively to the tall cottonwood. Though still distant, he could already see the watchful eagle silhouetted from its topmost point. The sun was yet high—he might as well have a look at the nest. With this Tom drew the horse’s head in the direction of the great cottonwood.
The boy’s approach to the lofty tree was greatly resented by the pair of golden eagles who had chosen it as a site for their home. A little ball of cottony down showed itself over the side of the rude structure. There was at least one eaglet, and Tom knew then that it would be with no small danger to himself if he chose to investigate. Then there came to him the misty recollection of the tame eagle which Jack Warren, one of the cowboys, had brought into camp. With this bit of memory his hesitation vanished.
The tree was bare and barked. Its lower branches had long since rotted and now lay on the ground crumbling. Rough knots remained, however, here and there, and by grasping these Tom was able to make the ascent. The old birds whirled round the tree in giant spirals. First one and then the other would suddenly swerve from the circle and sweep past the boy’s head so close that he would involuntarily throw up his arm in defence.
When Tom was about thirty feet from the ground all thought of the infuriated birds was suddenly driven from his mind. At a distance of perhaps one hundred yards stood an unusually thick clump of cactus. In the midst of this, peering intently at him, was a dark, bronzed face—that of an Apache Indian. A wave of terror swept over the boy, and in his fright he imagined he could even discern the triumphant expression upon the swarthy visage, as it sank behind the dark barrier.
Then all of a sudden he became cool. He looked for his horse. To his dismay he discovered that the animal had wandered some little distance from the tree. Then he realized his danger.
If he descended at once it would be to certain death. His only hope lay in strategy.
Immediately he again began the struggle upward. All the suppressed energy of the moment went into the grip of his hands as they took hold of the rough knots. The eagles became more demonstrative, and more than once the swish of a powerful wing caused him to duck his head. But of this he was hardly conscious. When at length he bent over the nest, under pretense of examining it, Tom’s eyes were in reality strained in an attempt to locate the enemy. He never knew whether the nest contained one or two eaglets.
His mustang and the Indian were about the same distance from the tree. But how was he to reach the animal? A too sudden descent would arouse suspicion. At length, with every nerve on edge for the trial to come, he began to work his way down. The eagles, their courage increased with apparent victory, gave even freer utterance to their rage, and their shrieks as they swooped past his head rang in the boy’s ears for many a day afterward. On a sudden thought, as if in mockery, he took up the cries of the birds, imitating them by long, piercing whistles.
Presently the sound varied, yet to such a slight degree that a listener might not have noted it. Tip, the pony, however, did seem to notice it, and at each call would lift his head impatiently and look in the direction of the tree. Finally, as if by a familiar impulse, he tossed his head in air, and walked slowly toward the well-known call.
All the while Tom had kept his face in such a direction that the Indian could not have left his ambush without being discovered. The pony was now within twenty paces of the tree. By way of distracting the Indian’s attention, the boy waved his hat and shouted to an imaginary comrade.
Then, fifteen feet from the ground, first throwing a quick glance at his steed, Tom allowed himself to drop. As he did so the dreaded war-whoop rang out from the distant clump. To his horror, an answering call came from just ahead of him. Once on the ground, he darted toward the horse. A cactus plant, which on ordinary occasions he would have given a wide berth, brushed sharply against him, yet, in his excitement, he hardly felt the pain it caused.
In the next instant he had swung into the saddle and wheeled the pony’s head toward the camp. The first glance ahead, however, revealed the supple body of an Indian half concealed by a cactus bush. There was no choice. Striking his spurs into the pony, Tom dashed forward. The Indian suddenly dropped his rifle and crouched beside a Giant Cactus. As Tom and the mustang flew past he made a panther-like leap, and throwing his arms about the boy, tried to drag him from the saddle. Turning upon him, Tom seized the lithe arms and with all his strength tried to throw the enemy from him. But the grip of the savage was like that of a wild animal, and the boy’s most vigorous efforts failed to break it.
While the Indian and boy were thus struggling, the mustang had made good some one hundred yards, in spite of the double burden. Though greatly excited, Tom thought of the six-shooter at his belt, but before he could reach it a quick movement of the savage pinned his arms to his side. The boy then worked his hand under the wiry arm which held a strangling grip on his neck. As he did so, his eyes met a sight that changed his purpose. He thought a moment of the savage clinging to him. Then, with all his strength, he wrapped his arms around the Indian and imprisoned him. The Indian was confused by the change of action, and, like a wild animal, fought to release himself, for by this time he, too, saw Sergeant Mills and three other approaching horsemen.
A party of soldiers, wondering at the boy’s delay, had ridden out from the camp, and they were not a little surprised to see Tom galloping toward them, carrying what to them was a very odd looking burden. When, upon nearer approach, this object developed into a full-grown Apache Indian, their astonishment knew no bounds, and they hastened forward, lest the prisoner, in his fierce struggles, should escape them.
Ten minutes later, the Indian, bound hand and foot, was brought before the captain, and at the same time Tom handed over the all-important dispatches. As he did so, the boy’s spirits reacted from their strained condition and his sense of humor asserted itself.
“Well, captain,” he said, “I knew that you didn’t want me to be out alone, so I brought this Indian along, just to keep me company.”