Through Apache Land

CHAPTER XXXVI.

A DESPERATE SCHEME

The two scouts carefully descended until they reached the spot where the dead Apache lay. They moved as noiselessly as shadows until they stood directly by the inanimate form. Then, while Tom Hardynge began adjusting his outer garments, Dick Morris stooped over and drew forth the blanket which was crumpled beneath the dead warrior.

The Apaches and Comanches and different tribes of the southwest nearly always carry their blankets with them when traveling, and when this particular Indian essayed his perilous reconnaissance on a sultry summer night that garment was flung over his shoulders. These savages as a rule, do not wear their hair done up in the defiant scalp-lock form seen among their more northern kindred. It hangs loosely about their heads and shoulders, being ornamented with stained feathers, the hair itself frequently daubed with brilliant paint.

Tom gathered the blanket about him precisely as did the warrior, and then, his own cap being thrown aside, the feathers were stuck in among the tresses with all the skill of the veteran warrior. As he wore leggings the same as the redskin, his tout ensemble was complete. Beneath his blanket he carried his rifle, pistol and knife, and even took the tomahawk from the girdle of the fallen brave, and managed to stow that about his clothing. Even now the two comrades spoke not a word. They merely shook hands in a silent, cordial grasp, and almost immediately became invisible to each other. Dick remained where he was for several minutes, listening and looking, and then, hearing nothing, moved back toward his former position, muttering as he went:

"If anybody can get through 'em, Tom's the boy – but it's a powerful desprit scheme – a powerful desprit one!"

Reaching the top, he crawled again to the margin, and stretched out with his head partly over. Eye-sight was of no avail now, and he depended upon hearing alone, believing that by that means he would be able to learn the success or failure of the maneuver. But not until nearly an hour had passed did he begin to feel anything like a real hope that his comrade had succeeded.

In the meantime, Tom was doing his best. It was no easy task for him to pass safely through the Apache lines in the guise of an Indian. The redskins would be on the lookout for the return of their scout, and the ordeal through which he would have to pass would be a much more severe one than usual. But he was accustomed to desperate schemes, and ready for any sort of encounter. If discovered immediately, he meant to dash back again up the rocks; but if he could get any distance away, he would make a determined effort to elude his enemies altogether.

Following out his plan with the deliberation of a veteran, he stole slowly downward, consuming fully half an hour before he reached the base of Hurricane Hill. When, at length, he stood upon hard ground below, he was taken somewhat back by seeing no one near him.

"That's queer," he said; "what's become of the skunks?"

He had scarcely uttered the words when a tall form suddenly appeared at his side, coming up as if he had risen from the very ground.

"Do the hunters sleep?"

This question was asked in pure Apache, and Tom, somewhat distrustful of his own ability in that line, managed to muffle his blanket up in front of his mouth as he replied in the same tongue:

"They sleep not."

"Where is their scalps, Mau-tau-ke?"

"On their heads."

The warrior was no more than ten feet distant, and from the moment the scout detected him he began edging away, the Indian naturally following along while these words were being uttered, so as to keep within easy ear-shot. Upon hearing the second reply to his question, he paused, and Tom, dreading a betrayal, grasped the handle of his knife under his cloak, and was ready to use it on the instant. But the Indian remained standing, while Tom, still moving away in his indifferent manner, soon passed beyond his view.

"I guess he's stopped to think," was the conclusion of the scout, as he looked back in the gloom, "and it'll be some time before he's through."

But the trouble now remained as to how he should pass through the Apache lines beyond. If the redskins had any suspicion of any such movement, or if the warrior whom he had just left were suspicious, serious trouble was at hand.

The hunter sauntered aimlessly along, using his eyes and ears, and a walk of something over a hundred yards brought him up against a number of figures that were stretched out and sitting upon the ground, with several standing near at hand.

They showed no surprise at their "brother's" approach, and he was confident that, if they didn't undertake to cross-question him too closely, he stood a good chance of getting through. As they were gathered too closely at this point he made a turn to the right, and, to his amazement, not a word was said or the least notice taken of him, as he walked directly by. That was succeeding, indeed; but Tom was not yet ready to leave the neighborhood. He wanted his horse, Thundergust, and, once astride of him, his heart would be light as a bird; but in looking around he could not discern a single horse.

It would be useless to attempt to reach Fort Havens on foot. The Apaches would detect his flight by daylight, which was only a few hours away, and they could overhaul him before he could go any distance at all. No, he must have his horse, and he began his search for him. This was a delicate task; but he prosecuted it with the same skill and nonchalance that he had displayed heretofore.

He had stolen along for a short distance, when he descried some twenty horses corraled and cropping the grass, while a still larger number were lying on the ground. Was his own among them? he asked himself, as he stood looking in that direction, while he dimly discerned the figures of the warriors upon his left. Very cautiously he gave utterance to a slight whistle. There was no response, although he suspected it was heard by the redskins themselves. Then he repeated it several times, walking a little nearer the group of equines.

All at once one of their number rose from the ground with a faint whinney, and came trotting toward him. At the same time several Indians came forward from the main group, their suspicions fairly awakened by these maneuvers.

One of these suddenly broke into a run, as he descried the mustang trotting toward the warrior-like figure shrouded in his blanket. There was no doubt in his mind that something was wrong. The scout stood like a statue, as though he saw not the approach of the man or horse. The latter as if distrustful of the shape of things moved so reluctantly that the redskin beat him in reaching the goal.

"What means Mau-tau-ke?" he demanded, in a gruff voice, as he clutched his shoulder. "Is he a dog that – "

The poor Apache scarcely knew what disposed of him. It was with the suddenness of the lightning stroke, and, flinging back the dirty blanket that had enshrouded his form, the scout pointed his revolvers at the others, fired three shots, accompanied by a screech loud enough to wake the dead. Then, springing toward his mustang, he vaulted upon his back, wheeled about, and thundered away, like the whirlwind across the prairie.

This demonstration was so unexpected and so appalling that the Apaches were effectually checked for a time. Before they could recover, mount their horses, and start in pursuit, the fugitive was beyond their sight. It was useless to pursue, at any rate, for there was no steed among them all that could overtake the flying mustang, whose hoofs were plainly heard upon the prairie, rapidly growing fainter as the distance increased. In a few minutes it had died out altogether, and, ferocious as was the hatred of the redskins toward the hunter who had outwitted and injured them so often, no one made any effort to overhaul him.

Tom Hardynge, every few seconds, let out a regular Apache war-yell, intended as exultation, taunt and defiance. He could afford it, for he had triumphed as completely as heart could covet. The magnificent Thundergust instinctively knew their destination, and the reins lay loosely upon his neck as he sped away. He was aiming for Fort Havens. It was a long distance away, and many hours must pass before its flagstaff could be detected against the far-off horizon.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE TWO DEFENDERS

Dick Morris, stretched out full length upon the top of Hurricane Hill, peering down in the impenetrable gloom, understood all that had passed. There was no mistaking that yell of Tom Hardynge; he had heard it many a time before in the heat of conflict, and it generally meant something.

"Go it, old chap!" he shouted, swinging his hat over his head, as he saw the whole thing in his imagination. "Them 'ere pistol-barks show there's been some bitin' done. Business is business."

He noted, too, the sounds of the mustang's hoofs growing fainter and fainter, until the strained ears could detect them no longer. Tom Hardynge had safely passed through the Apache lines. It was a daring and desperate feat indeed, but it had succeeded to perfection. Nothing now remained to hinder his flight direct to Fort Havens.

"I rather think somebody's mad," exulted Dick, who was fully as proud over the exploit of his comrade as was Tom himself. "There ain't much doubt but what there'll be lively times here before long. They know there's only two of us, counting in the little chap, and they'll make a rush. Let 'em do it. If they can get up by that corner where the other fellow dropped they're welcome, that's all."

And with this conclusion he left the top of the hill and picked his way down the path, until he reached the spot where he had parted from his comrade. Here he stooped down with the purpose of picking up the body of the warrior and flinging it down upon the heads of those below. To his astonishment, it was gone!

He searched around for several minutes, venturing to descend some distance, but it was missing.

"I don't think he could have got up and walked away," said the hunter, as he scratched his head over the occurrence. "No, it couldn't have been that, for Tom don't strike any such blows any more than I do."

It followed, then, as a matter of course, that after the discovery of the trick, some brother Apache had stolen his way up the path and removed the body, a proceeding which Dick Morris hardly suspected until he was really compelled to believe it.

"If I'd only knowed he was coming," he growled, "how I would have lammed him; but he's come and gone, and there ain't any use in cryin' over it."

He waited and listened carefully, and once or twice a slight rattling of the gravel caused him to suspect that some of the redskins were attempting to steal upon him; but if such were the case, they must have contented themselves by not approaching within striking distance.

Finally the night wore away, and the dull light of morning began stealing over the prairie. As soon as objects could be distinguished, he returned to his position upon the top of the rock and made his observations.

Little, if any, change was discernible in the disposition of the besieging Indians. Their horses were gathered at some distance, where the grass was quite rank. The warriors had assumed all the indolent attitudes which are seen in a body of men that have more time at their disposal than they know what to do with. They had shifted their position so far back that they were beyond good rifle range; for although a hunter like Dick Morris could have picked off a redskin nine times out of ten, yet he could not "pick his man." Lone Wolf had attired himself precisely as were the rest of his warriors, and at the distance it was impossible to distinguish him from them, so the scout wisely concluded to hold his fire until he could be certain of his target.

As soon as it was fairly light, Dick naturally turned his eyes off toward the southwest, in the direction of the hills, whither his comrade had fled during the night.

"He is gone," he muttered, when he had made certain that no object was to be seen. "I might have knowed that before I looked, 'cause the hoss knows how to travel, and Tom's made him do his purtiest."

"Hello! what's the news?"

The query came from Ned Chadmund, who had aroused himself from slumber, and was standing at his side.

"Where is Tom?"

"About fifty miles off yonder, goin' like a streak of greased lightnin' for Fort Havens."

"What?"

Whereupon Dick Morris explained. Of course the lad was astounded to think that all this had taken place while he was dreaming of home and friends, and he hardly knew whether to rejoice or to be alarmed at the shape matters had just then taken. True, Tom Hardynge was speeding away on his fleet-footed mustang for Fort Havens, but it would take a long time to reach there and return. There was something startling in the thought that a man and a boy were all that were left to oppose the advance of the force of the Apaches from below. What was to prevent their swarming upward and overwhelming them? Nothing, it may be said, but the strong arm of Dick Morris. He might have been a Hercules, and still unable to stem the tide, but for the vast advantage given him by nature in constructing Hurricane Hill. He could be approached by the enemy only in single file. Dick, however, was of the opinion that something of the kind would be attempted, for the Apaches could not but know the errand of him who had so nicely outwitted them.

"Ain't there some way of blocking up the way?" asked Ned, as they discussed the plan.

"I've been thinkin' it over, and there is," returned Morris, crossing his legs, and scratching his head in his thoughtful way. "Three years ago, me and Kit Carson had to scoot up here to get out of the reach of something like two hundred Comanches, under that prime devil Valo-Velasquiz. They shot Kit's horse, and mine dropped dead just as we reached the bottom of the hill, so we couldn't do anythin' more in the way of hoss-flesh.

"Them Comanches hated Kit and me like pison; they knowed us both, and they went for us in a way that made us dance around lively; but it was no go, and we tumbled 'em back like tenpins, but they kept things so hot that me and Kit tipped over a big rock in the path. Of course they could climb that easy enough, but it gave us so much more chance that they didn't try it often, and they fell back and tried the Apache dodge – waiting until hunger and thirst made us come down."

"How was it you got out of the trouble?"

"It was in a mighty queer way – a mighty queer way. On the next day arter the brush we had with 'em, a bigger party than ever came up, and we calc'lated things were goin' to be redhot. But as soon as the two parties jined, some kind of a rumpus took place. We could see 'em talkin' in the most excited way, and a high old quarrel was under way. Kit Carson knowed all about Injins, but he couldn't make out what all this meant. We was in hope they'd git into a wrangle themselves, and swaller each other, and I can tell you they came mighty nigh it.

"Just as it begun to look as if it was goin' that way, one of their chiefs walked forward, swingin' a dirty rag on the end of his ramrod as a flag of truce. Kit looked at him very closely, and then exclaimed that it was Quizto, a great rival of Valo-Velasquiz. They were always at swords points, and whichever happened to have the strongest party at his back when they met, outranked the other. The beauty of it all was that Quizto was a friend all his life to Kit Carson – a regular redskin friend, who was ready to scalp all his brothers and sisters if they tried to harm him – and when he came to learn that Kit was treed, he swore that he'd burn at the stake any Injun that laid a straw in his way.

"This made a time, and, as I's tellin' you, the biggest kind of a fight. At one time it only lacked a word to set it a-goin'; but Quizto's braves stood by him, every one, and the others had to knock under.

"When Quizto come forward with his flag of truce, he called out to Kit and told him that he was at liberty to go wherever he chose without harm; but as Valo-Velasquiz would be so disappointed, he thought Carson would turn over his friend, who wasn't of much account, that they might have the pleasure of torturing him to death. That was lovely for me, and you ought to have heard Kit laugh. He told Quizto that he couldn't do that – both would go or stay together. That made another wrangle, but the friendship of the chief to Carson saved the lives of us both. He wouldn't consent that the guide should run the least risk, and they told us to come down and clear out. We expected a big fight, for Valo-Velasquiz had some ugly men with him, and he was a regular devil himself; but when we got to the bottom, there was two mustangs awaitin', and we straddled 'em, and warn't long in leavin' those parts. Old Valo-Velasquiz and a dozen of his warriors tried to sneak along after us, but we was as well mounted as they, and we rode into Santa Fe without tradin' rifle shots with any of 'em. That was a strange thing, but," added the scout, significantly, "I don't think you've got any Quizto among them skunks down there."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

HAND TO HAND

The Apaches surrounding Hurricane Hill were more closely watched through the forenoon, for Dick more than once gave it as his opinion that they would make a rush before the day was over. To protect themselves as much as possible, the rock of which the hunter had spoken was forced into the passage-way, and an unremitting guard maintained, to prevent any sudden surprise.

It was near noon, when three Apaches were seen to leap upon their mustangs, one going north, another south and the third due west.

"Spies," explained Dick. "Lone Wolf is a little anxious about what Tom may do, and he sends them out to watch. If they find out anythin' they'll manage to telegraph him in time to get ready for anythin' comin'."

"Can you see Lone Wolf among them?"

"Can't make sartin of it," returned the hunter. "He knows that if I can get a crack at him he'll go, and so he takes care not to let me have the chance. Can you see anythin' off toward the mountains in the west?"

"Nothing but that Apache horseman going away like an arrow."

"There's the p'int from which our friends will come, if they ever come at all. Keep your eye on it while I take a look below."

The scout moved down the declivity, until he reached the place where it had been barricaded, when he stationed himself behind the obstruction, quite certain that something stirring would soon take place. It was his belief that when the time came, the Apaches, at a preconcerted signal, would rush tumultuously up the steep in a determined effort to overwhelm them all. Such a movement, of course, from the very nature of things, would give timely notice of its coming. His astonishment, therefore, may be imagined when, after he had stood in his position for a few minutes, rather listlessly and looking for no immediate demonstration, he perceived a dark body suddenly pass over his head. Turning about, he saw an Indian warrior speeding like a deer up the path toward the top of Hurricane Hill, where Ned Chadmund stood, all unconscious of his coming.

The hunter, astonished as he was at the daring feat, was not thrown off his guard. He knew that the Apache was not seeking the life of the lad, but only to open the way for the rest of the warriors to follow over the barricade. They believed that in the excitement Dick would turn and dash after the redskin, leaving the way open for the whole horde to swarm to the top of the Hill. But the clear-headed Dick maintained his position, only uttering a shout of warning to Ned Chadmund, in the hope that he might be prepared and "wing" the redskin the instant he should appear in view. Then, having done this, he stood back behind the jutting rock and held his rifle ready.

Within ten seconds a second Apache scrambled over the barricade, and started at full speed up the pathway, but he had no more than fairly started, than he fell headlong to the ground, pierced through and through by the rifle fired almost in his face. Almost the same instant a second appeared, when he tumbled backward, driven thence by the revolver of the hunter, who was as cool as an iceberg. This stemmed the tide, the crowding warriors hurrying back before the lion that lay in their path. All this was the work of a very few seconds, but it was scarcely effected, when a cry from the lad on top of the rock showed that he had discovered his danger. The next instant, white-faced and scared, he came dashing down the path, shouting to the hunter:

"Oh, Dick, save me! save me! there's an Indian after me!"

The savage, however, did not follow, and Dick, as the lad rushed into his arms, shook him rather roughly, and said:

"Keep still! Why do you make such a thunderin' noise?" The lad speedily controlled himself, and then the scout placed his revolver in his hand, and said: "Stand right here, and the minute a redskin shows himself, crack him over. Can you do it?"

"Haven't I proved it?"

"Yes; but you made such a racket here that I've lost faith in you."

"Try me and see."

Adding a few hasty words, the scout left him, and hurried to the top of the hill, without pausing to approach with his usual precaution.

His expectation was to encounter the redskin at once upon reaching it, but, to his surprise, he was nowhere to be seen, and he paused somewhat bewildered.

"I wonder whether he's got scart 'cause none of the rest followed him, and jumped overboard – "

At that instant something descended like a ponderous rock, and he realized that he was in the grip of the very redskin about whom he had been meditating. The miscreant had managed to crouch behind a rocky protuberance, and then made a sudden leap upon the shoulders of the hunter. As the Apache's scheme had miscarried thus far, and instead of being backed up by the other warriors, he was left alone to fight it out, he did not pause to attempt to make him prisoner, but went into the scrimmage with the purpose of ending it as briefly as possible. As he landed upon the shoulders of Dick the latter caught the gleam of his knife, and grasped his wrist just in time. Fearful that it would be wrenched from him, the Apache managed to give his confined hand a flirt, which threw it beyond the reach of both. By a tremendous effort Dick then succeeded in flinging him over his shoulder, although the agile redskin dropped upon his feet, and instantly flew at his antagonist like a tiger.

For several minutes the struggle raged with the greatest fury; but the Apache, in a contest of this kind, was overmatched. The hunter was much the superior, and he began crowding his foe toward the margin of the rock. Divining his purpose, he resisted with the fury of desperation; but it was useless, and the two moved along toward the brink like the slow, resistless tread of fate. Neither of them spoke a word, nor was a muscle relaxed. The scout knew that the instant the struggle was detected by those below, there would be a rush up the incline such as Ned Chadmund with his loaded and cocked revolver could not withstand. The fighting, therefore, was of the hurricane order from the beginning to the close.

There was one terrific burst of strength, and then, gathering the writhing savage in his arms, Dick Morris ran to the very edge of the plateau and hurled him over.

Down, down from dizzy heights he spun, until he struck the ground far below, a shapeless, insensible mass, falling almost at the feet of the horror-bound Apaches, who thus saw the dreadful death of one of their most intrepid and powerful warriors.

Without waiting to see the last of the redskin, the scout turned and hurried down to the relief of his young charge, and to be prepared for the rush which he was confident would be made the next minute. But it was not. The redskins had learned, from dear experience, the mettle of this formidable white man, and they had no wish to encounter it again.