THE OLD INDIAN.
Before them lay the mighty Rockies, rising range on range, till their
glittering, snow-capped summits pressed the sky. Wild and picturesque
and awe-inspiring was the scene. They were in the foot-hills, and the
country was rough and broken.
Frank had drawn rein at the mouth of what seemed to be a small valley.
He was covered with dust, and the hardy mustang he bestrode showed
signs of weariness.
Merriwell was clothed to rough it, having exchanged the garments of
the cities and towns for those more suited to the latter stages of his
search for the cabin of Juan Delores. On his head was a wide-brimmed
felt hat, and he wore a woolen shirt, with a side collar and a flowing
tie, a cartridge-belt about his waist, and leather leggings covered
his trousers nearly to his thighs. There were spurs on the heels of
his boots. His coat he had stripped off, for the day was warm to an
uncomfortable degree.
A Winchester repeating rifle was slung at the pommel of Merry’s saddle,
and a pair of long-barreled revolvers rested in the holsters on his
hips. Taken altogether, he looked like a young man who had made
preparations for almost anything he might encounter.
Bart Hodge, similarly mounted and dressed, had drawn up beside Frank.
Despite their attire, there was something in the appearance of the two
young men that marked them as belonging to “the tenderfoot breed.” In
other words, the experienced eye would have discovered at a glance that
they were Easterners.
A cool breeze came down the valley, bearing with it a pleasant odor of
wild growing things.
The faces of both lads, lately fresh from college, had been burned and
blistered by the hot suns and searing winds.
“It’s remarkable,” said Frank, “that the people at Urmiston know
Delores, know he lives somewhere in this vicinity, yet not one of them
could give us accurate directions to reach his cabin.”
“Hanged remarkable!” growled Bart. “This is the third day we have spent
in hunting for his old place, and we’ve not even found a clue to it.”
Merry nodded, frowning beneath the wide brim of his hat.
“We may have passed and repassed it,” he said. “There are plenty of
places where cabins could be hidden in these valleys.”
“That’s right. What are we to do?”
“Keep on hunting.”
“It’s rather tiresome.”
“I shall stick to it till I find the cabin of Delores, if it takes a
year!” exclaimed Frank grimly.
Bart knew he would do exactly as he said.
“Perhaps we may be disappointed when we do find it.”
“At least, I should be able to learn if my father is dead, and where he
is buried.”
“But the message----”
“I have hopes that I may learn the secret of that, also. It may be that
he did not trust it alone to that one document.”
“It’s getting late. What are we to do now? Shall we explore this valley
to-night, or wait till morning?”
Little of the valley could be seen through the narrow pass, and that
little seemed to promise that it led onward far into the hills. After a
moment Frank answered:
“We’ll ride forward and see if we can get a look into it.”
He started onward, and Bart followed, but they had proceeded only a
short distance when they were startled to see, sitting on a boulder
at one side of the pass, a strange figure. At first it was hard to
make out whether it was man or woman, but, as they drew nearer, it
straightened up and revealed, peering from the folds of a dirty red
blanket, the wrinkled and gnarled face of an old Indian. A pair of
beady black eyes were steadily regarding the two young men.
“Watch him, Merry,” cautioned Bart, in a low tone. “These
half-civilized red dogs are treacherous.”
The Indian did not stir as they approached. Beside him, leaning against
the boulder, was a handsome rifle. He did not touch the weapon.
“Hello, chief,” said Frank, addressing the old man in a manner he knew
was flattering to some redskins, as he drew up.
“How, how,” grunted the old fellow, in answer.
“Are you acquainted in this vicinity?”
“Ak-waint?” said the old man. “No savvy.”
“Are you familiar with the country?”
“Fam-mil? What him?”
“Have you been all round every place here?” asked Merry, with a sweep
of his arm, using the simplest words he could command.
“Heap been all over,” was the assurance.
“Know Juan Delores?”
“Him don’t live round here.”
The answer was prompt enough--a trifle too prompt, Frank fancied.
“Doesn’t?” said Merry. “Where does he live?”
“Heap long way off there,” and the redskin pointed to the north.
“Are you sure?”
“Heap sure.”
“How far? How many miles?”
“Two time ten.”
“Twenty?”
The old fellow grunted an affirmative.
“Do you know the way to his place?”
Another affirmative grunt.
“Can you guide us there?”
“No time.”
“We will pay you well.”
“No time.”
“I will give you fifty dollars to guide us to the cabin of Juan
Delores.”
“No time.”
“A hundred dollars.”
“No time.”
“Confound him!” growled Hodge angrily. “Money is no object to him. It’s
likely he doesn’t know the value of money. Now, if you had a quart of
whisky to offer him, Merriwell, you might get him to do the job.”
“I will give you a new blanket and a rifle,” promised Merry.
“Got blanket an’ rifle,” said the old Indian.
“I will give you a good horse.”
“Got heap good horse.”
“What haven’t you got that you want?”
“No want nothin’.”
“Will you tell us how to get to the cabin of Delores?”
“Go there two time ten mile, find stream, go up him to spring, take
trail from spring; it make you come to where Juan he live.”
Merriwell was not at all satisfied with these directions. There was
something in the manner of the old redskin that seemed to arouse his
suspicions and make him feel that he was being deceived. Of a sudden
Frank asked:
“Who lives in this valley?”
The old man shook his head.
“No know,” he said. “Wolf, bear, mebbe.”
“That’s not what I mean. Is there a white man who lives in this valley?”
Again a shake of the head.
“Wolf, bear, that all. No; big mount’n-lion--him there. Him kill
hunter--one, two, t’ree, four hunter--what come for him. Him vely bad
lion--heap bad.”
Frank was watching the man closely.
“That’s just what I’m looking for!” he exclaimed, as if delighted. “I
want to shoot a mountain-lion.”
“You no can shoot him. Big hunter try--no do it. Him kill you heap
quick, you go in there.”
“He is trying to frighten us so we’ll not go into the valley,” thought
Frank. Aloud he said:
“That’s all right; I’ll take chances. I reckon the two of us will be
too much for Mr. Lion.”
“White boy much foolish,” declared the old redskin grimly. “Make big
supper for lion. Lion him like white man for supper.”
“And I’ll have the pelt of that lion just as sure as I live,” said
Merry, as if in sudden determination. “Come on, Bart!”
The old Indian rose quickly as they were about to start forward.
“Stop!” he cried. “Ole Joe Crowfoot him tell you truth. If you go
in there you never come back some more. Ole Joe Crowfoot him good
Injun--him like white man heap much. No want to see um hurt. Tell um to
stay back.”
The old savage seemed deeply in earnest now, but that earnestness was
something that added to Frank’s suspicions and made him all the more
determined to go on.
“That’s all right,” said Merry, with a grim smile. “It’s kind of you to
take so much interest in us, but we’re going after your heap bad lion,
and we’ll have his pelt.”
“Night come soon,” said the Indian, with a motion toward the range on
range of mountains rising to the westward. “Then lion him crouch and
spring. Him git you quick.”
“We’ll see. If you wait round here long enough we’ll show you the pelt
of your bad lion when we come back.”
“No come back,” declared Old Joe Crowfoot, solemnly. “No see you some
more. By-by.”
An expression of deep sadness and regret was on his wrinkled old face
as he uttered the words. Merry laughed lightly, and they rode past him
and headed onward into the valley.
“He was very anxious to stop us,” said Hodge.
“That’s right,” nodded Frank. “He was altogether too anxious. As soon
as I tumbled to that I decided to take a look into the valley. Do you
know, we stumbled on the entrance to this valley by accident. I fancy
we might search a week for it, if we were to go away now, without
finding it.”
“I was thinking of that,” said Bart. “It might puzzle us to find it
again. Perhaps that old duffer was counting on that. Those red dogs are
treacherous, and----”
They heard a sharp cry behind them. Whirling in the saddle, Frank saw
the old Indian standing with the butt of his rifle pressed against his
shoulder.
The muzzle on the rifle was turned directly toward Frank, and plainly
the redskin was on the point of pressing the trigger.
Frank knew he was in deadly peril, and he would have attempted to fling
himself from the saddle but for something else he saw.
On a mass of jagged rocks behind the Indian and about twenty feet above
his head had appeared a boy. Not over thirteen years of age was the
lad, whose curly, dark hair fell upon his shoulders. He was dressed
in fanciful garments, like those worn by a young Mexican lad, and the
bright colors of his clothes made him a picturesque figure.
Plainly it was from his lips that the cry had issued.
In his hand the boy held a stone as large as a man’s fist, and even as
Merry turned he hurled the stone. Straight through the air whizzed the
missile, striking the barrel of the old Indian’s rifle.
Smoke belched from the muzzle of the weapon and the crags flung back
the sound of the report, but the bullet flew wild.
Frank Merriwell’s life had been saved by the stone thrown by the
strange boy.
With an exclamation of rage, Hodge snatched up his rifle and reined his
mount round to take a shot at the redskin, who had wheeled instantly
and was clambering up the rocks toward the boy, as if bent on murder.
“Soak him, Merry!” panted Bart.
Frank’s first impulse was to shoot, but he quickly saw that he was in
no further danger just then, and he had no desire to shed human blood
unless compelled to do so.
Bart’s rifle rose, but Merry thrust the muzzle aside just as the weapon
spoke, and the bullet flattened on the rocks.
“Why did you do that?” roared Hodge, in amazement and anger. “Can’t you
see! That red devil is going to murder the kid!”
It did seem that the Indian meant the boy harm, and Merry shouted:
“If you put a hand on that boy I’ll bore you!”
At the same time he held his own rifle ready for instant use.
Old Joe Crowfoot seemed either not to hear or to be too enraged to
heed. Like a mountain-goat, he raced upward over the rocks and hastened
straight toward the boy. But, what was strangest of all, the boy made
no effort to escape, nor did he seem at all frightened. Instead, he
seemed to stand and await the approach of the Indian.
Frank and Bart were surprised by this, but they were still more
surprised by what followed. The Indian reached the boy and quickly
clutched him. Then, with a swift swing, the strange old redskin swept
the lad round behind him and up to his back. The arms of the boy
immediately clasped about the Indian’s neck, while his legs twined
round the old fellow’s body, and there he hung pickapack fashion.
Scarcely had Old Joe Crowfoot paused in his upward race. When Frank and
Bart had confronted him at the mouth of the valley both had fancied
him old and rather feeble, but now he seemed to have the strength of
a youth and the agility of a mountain-goat. Having swung the boy to
his back, he continued to clamber upward over the rocks as if quite
unimpeded by his burden.
“Well,” gasped Hodge, “if that doesn’t beat the old boy himself!”
Merry was no less amazed. To both it had seemed that the old Indian
meditated doing the boy harm as he clambered toward him, but the
youngster had betrayed no fear, although his hand flung the missile
that destroyed Old Joe’s aim and saved Frank Merriwell’s life.
“He’s running off with the boy!” palpitated Bart.
“And the boy is perfectly willing,” said Merry.
“But the kid threw the stone at the old duffer.”
“For which I am very thankful, as it is certain the old duffer meant to
perforate me.”
Then they sat there on their horses and watched till the old Indian and
his remarkable burden disappeared amid the rocks. Just before vanishing
from view, Old Joe Crowfoot paused, turned and looked down on the boys.
Then he made a gesture that seemed to be one of warning. The boy, still
clinging to the back of his peculiar companion, took off his wide hat
and waved it gaily. A moment later they were gone.
Frank and Bart sat there, staring upward and remaining silent for some
moments. At last Merriwell said:
“Well, that little affair is over. Let’s move along and see what will
happen next.”
“I don’t understand it,” muttered Hodge, in disappointed perplexity.
“Nor do I,” confessed Frank cheerfully.
“It’s strange.”
“Mighty strange.”
“A white boy and an Indian.”
“Companions beyond a doubt.”
“Yet the boy threw a stone at the Indian.”
“I believe he threw the stone to hit the Indian’s rifle, a feat he
accomplished. I do not think he intended to hit the Indian. Anyhow, I
owe him my life, and I am grateful.”
For a few minutes longer they remained there, discussing what had
happened, and then Merry again led the way into the valley. As they
advanced it slowly broadened before them. The valley was eight or ten
miles in length, and a stream ran through it, disappearing into a
narrow gorge. Near the head of the valley was a pretty little lake,
with timber about it. In the valley were to be seen a few grazing
cattle, yet from their position the boys could see no ranch-house.
“But I’m certain somebody lives here,” said Frank. “The sight of the
cattle convinces me of that.”
They soon found that it was no easy matter to ride down into the valley
from that point, but they discovered a dimly defined trail, which they
ventured to follow. Fortunately the hardy little mustangs were steady
and sure of foot, for there were points where it seemed that no horse
could go down without falling.
The little beasts squatted on their haunches more than once and
literally slid along till they could recover themselves.
Bart had his teeth set, and no word came from his lips, as he was ready
and determined to follow wherever Merriwell led. No accident happened,
and the level of the valley was reached. Then they headed toward the
lake at the upper end.
The sun was dropping behind the western peaks when they entered a strip
of timber that lay across their path in the vicinity of the lake.
The cattle they had passed gave them little notice, convincing them
that they were accustomed to the presence and sight of mounted riders.
The timber was open, yet they were unable to ride through it at a
swift pace, as they had not entered on a regular trail. When they had
proceeded a considerable distance they came at last upon a path. In the
deepening gloom it was not easy to make out if it was a horse-trail or
a foot-path.
As they reached this path, Frank suddenly pulled up, uttering a soft
word of warning.
“Stop, Hodge!” he said. “I thought I heard something.”
Bart stopped promptly, and they sat there, motionless and listening. At
first they heard no sound save the breathing of their mounts. Bart was
about to speak, when Merry lifted his hand.
Straining their ears, they distinctly made out the sound of swift
footsteps, which were approaching. Hodge gripped the butt of a revolver
and drew it from its holster. A moment later the silence of the gloomy
timber was broken by a sound that sent the blood leaping to their
hearts.
“Help! Oh, oh--help!”
It was the cry of a child in great fear and distress.