Lone Pine: The Story of a Lost Mine

by R. B. Townshend

True, there was the other side of the question to be considered: supposing that the Navajos had not detected their presence, it was not impossible that his Pueblo friends, if their pluck was equal to their undeniable skill, might haply be successful in effecting the girl's release by some stratagem. But, after all, it was only a chance, and a slim chance at that, he thought; and, moreover, there was one point about this latter scheme which he found it hard to digest—he would himself assuredly be asked to stay behind again. He was perfectly well aware by this time that if they wanted to creep on the Navajo camp for the purpose of rescuing the girl by stealth, his Indian friends would not want to have him accompany them, on the ground that as a white man he was unable to move about with the silent, snake-like litheness of a redskin. And they would be right, from their point of view; so much he could not refuse to admit to himself in his secret heart; he could not but recognise his inferiority in this qualification, knowing as he did the red men's great gifts. But from his own point of view this would not do at all. The simple fact was that he did not trust their resolution unless he himself were actually with them to keep them up to the mark. They had just made one reconnaissance by themselves, leaving him behind, and it struck him that they had not pushed it very vigorously. One of them, Miguel, had advanced far enough to be able to count the Navajo ponies. That really was all the information they had brought back.

Now suppose they were to start out again to-night, by themselves, after her; and suppose they failed to get her out of the Indian camp, while he had remained at the rear and never even made so much as one try at it personally himself; why, he would feel bitter humiliation all his life long in consequence, and the unhappy girl would be dragged away to suffer fresh miseries in a new hiding-place. That was what really galled him. That they would kill her he did not now think, because he was convinced that the cacique was right in saying that what they were after was Don Nepomuceno's money. But that she was safe from violence in their hands he was far less certain. Whailahay's supernatural influence might not prove to be the safeguard the cacique had represented it to be; and in that case her lot might be, nay, surely would be, that of the miserable victim of the Sioux. This waiting was becoming detestable. One solution presented itself with overwhelming urgency to his mind, a solution which imperiously closed these dull debates and tedious, hesitating delays. There was one phrase of General Grant's—Grant was an Ohio man like himself, and his ideal hero,—it occurred in a summons that Grant once sent to an enemy to surrender, and it ran, "I propose to move immediately upon your works." That was the right sort of talk. That was the sort of thing he would like to say to the Navajos, and, as they wouldn't surrender, then do as Grant would have done, "advance immediately." Yes, he would propose an immediate advance to his four Pueblo companions; if they rejected his proposal then he would take his own line.

"Look here, Cacique," he said firmly, "we've had enough of this creeping and crawling around. Let's wade right in. Come on. You stick by me, and we'll go right at them, and we'll lick spots out of 'em." His eyes flashed, and his powerful frame seemed to dilate and grow as the fire of battle kindled in him. The Pueblo chief smiled on him as one might on an impatient child.

"No sense in that talk," he said with calm superiority. "Don't you see? they're eleven and we're five; as soon as you begin to shoot, they'll kill that girl quick, so that all of them may be free to fight us. Then I think they'll kill us, too. They're too many"; and he counted the whole eleven over on his fingers, and shook his head impressively and ominously.

"They'll not kill her," said Stephens, "she's worth too much to them. And as for their killing us—well, two can play at that game." He patted the Winchester fondly as he spoke. "Come on, Cacique, and show yourself a man. Five brave men can lick a dozen cowards any day. Buck up, Cacique. Why, you told me that you yourself with only one pard killed seven Navajos by catching them off their guard. Suppose now that these chaps haven't seen us, why shouldn't we do as well?"

"Ah," said the other, "but these Navajos are well posted in their stronghold. My partner and I caught ours in a trap. But if we wait maybe we might get the chance to catch these ones in a trap, too."

The American argued the point a little longer, with no effect, however, for the cacique's prudent decision remained immovable. But Stephens had hardened his heart to the sticking-point, and he refused to wait. He would go forward alone. He drew a deep breath as he turned his eyes from the black Lava Beds around, and looked at the distant hills, dotted over with dark piñon, shining in the sunlight far away, and then up at the great overarching vault of blue above. Death had no morbid attraction for him; he was a lover of life, and the air of heaven tasted good as he drew it in. But he wanted no life that was disgraced in the sight of his own soul. He had come out to rescue this girl, and he would do it or die. These red men shilly-shallied; their one idea was to employ feints and stratagems, and take no risks. They must act according to their lights; his own course was clear.

"Then, Salvador," said he, looking the cacique hard in the eyes, "since you won't come on there's only one thing left to be done, and that is for me to try the thing by myself. What will you do if I go ahead alone?"

The cacique made no direct reply, but turned hastily to his three companions, and some rapid remarks were interchanged between them. Quickly he produced a grey powder of some unknown kind from a little pouch, and he shared it out among his three fellow-tribesmen. They all of them bared their tawny breasts and rubbed it over their hearts, speaking magic words the while. The silent American gazed at them, half in wonder, half in scorn.