THE DEFENSE OF RED MESA
As the Mexican rifles whipped and sang in the crags sheep after sheep
staggered and fell. Hano’s eyes blazed with indignation. At least six
of these white-clad Mexicanos were up there and three of the sheep
were killed, a noble ram and two ewes, but still the slaughter went on
unceasingly. That band of big horns and a few others like it around
Pinacate were almost the sole meat supply of Hano’s tribe. A few each
year had been plenty to keep them all in meat. _One_ ram would have
been more than enough to feed all this band of white men all they could
carry away, yet nothing less than the slaughter of them all--brutal,
thoughtless, insensate killing for the mere pleasure of shooting seemed
their purpose. Higher and higher the Mexican hunters climbed, following
the doomed sheep up to the ridges. Once over them and----
With a great bitter cry of rage at the sickening insatiate greed of
it, Hano rose to his feet, snatched Niltci’s rifle from his hands and
emptied it in rapid shots. He sent bullets whistling among the hunters
up in the crags, then shot down horses among that group closely packed
in the Pass below them. Dashing down the empty weapon with a curse
of rage, he bounded down through the mesquite and was lost to sight.
Niltci, himself overwhelmed with indignant sympathy over this useless
slaughter of wild life, had not interfered with Hano and he now picked
up the rifle and reloaded it.
“Good hunch, Injun! Shootin’ them hosses is our best bet arter all!”
muttered Big John to himself raising the meat gun to his shoulder. He
aimed full at the serapé-clad rider who sat his horse, yelling up at
the hunters above and signaling urgently to them to return.
“Greaser, I could kill you now, an’ end all this to onct,” he muttered,
“but ontil you shoots at me fust, I cayn’t do it.” He lowered the
sights a trifle and pulled trigger. Instantly the horse which the
Mexican rode collapsed and fell kicking on the sands. Vasquez jumped
free.
“_Gringoes! Enemigos! Tira! Tira!_” he yelled, shaking his fists and
pointing wildly.
Big John went on shooting, picking off horse after horse. Niltci’s
rifle was thundering in his ears, for the indignant Navaho had turned
_his_ fire on the sheep slaughterers now scrambling madly down the
hill. A wild commotion had broken out in the confused knot of horses
and men that were left of the cavalcade. Presently a band of five of
them mounted and rode swiftly toward their position. Then down below a
single war whoop rang out and Big John saw a lone Indian rider dash out
into the Pass. It was Hano, making his sacrifice of leading as many as
possible of the enemy after him away into the desert. A fusillade of
shots greeted him; then the rapid clatter of hoofs as the whole band
swept by, Hano far in the lead on Sid’s pony. Big John dropped the
foremost horse as they passed below him; the rest swept by quirting
their mounts furiously as Hano disappeared over a swale in the sand
dunes.
“Now we got to settle with Mister Vasquez!” exclaimed Big John grimly.
“Thar’s still half a dozen of them with him, against the two of us up
yonder.”
But Niltci did not hear for he had crept up to a better position. He
had seen nothing of Hano’s race as he was too hotly engaged with the
Mexicans on the hillside.
Big John peered out of his rocky lair, looking for “that ornery
Vasquez.” A glimpse of him showed high among the rocks; then his rifle
barked and the bullet spanged the rocks near by. The other Mexicans
were now well concealed in the crags and the crack of their rifles
and the whine and smash of Mausers about Big John’s position told him
that the battle was on in dead earnest. For a time the fight remained
stationary, both sides so well concealed that no quickness of sight
could register a direct hit. Then a shot rang out, much nearer to the
left.
“Bad business, Niltci,” called out Big John, “they’re working down this
way an’ hev got us cornered on this little knoll. We gotto do a sneak
around this point and git above them somehow.”
Niltci had already foreseen the danger, for he was now creeping
snakelike through the rocks around the right flank of the knoll.
Big John grunted whimsically as he followed after: “Gosh dern it, I
ain’t even goin’ to _act_ civilized, pronto, if these hyar doin’s keeps
up! I don’t like that party in the barber-pole poncho, none, an’ I’ll
get careless and drill daylight through him ef I don’t watch myself!”
he soliloquized.
Then he came out on the right flank of the knoll, where all that vast
interior angle of the mountain range burst at once into full view. For
a moment he peered out and just stared! A huge black apron of lava
fell out of the high lap of the mountains and spread far and wide down
the slope until lost in the sands. But, dominating the gap where this
lava flowed out, he saw two immense red walls, cast up like opening
trap doors of granite. From his position the whole formation could be
grasped in its entirety and its resemblance to a mesa struck Big John
at once.
“She looks jest like Thunder Mountain up near Zuñi to me,” he muttered
wonderingly, “only she’s red. _Red Mesa_, by gum!” he exploded, as the
conviction smote upon him. “An’ that pesky Sid’s been and gone an’
found it! Thar’s whar he is, now, with them Apaches, I’ll bet my hoss!
Wouldn’t that knock ye dead?”
Silent, majestic, imposing, Red Mesa shimmered in the morning sun, high
above all. That it held the secret of Sid’s disappearance and explained
the mystery of these Apaches was a conclusion that Big John jumped to
instinctively.
And then a shrill squall of triumph rang out high on the mountain side
above him! Big John crawled to a better outlook and gazed upward.
Exposed on a ragged pinnacle, Vasquez stood waving a rifle triumphantly
over his head and screaming in Spanish unintelligibly. That he had seen
Red Mesa, too, and was calling to himself all his guerrillas there was
no doubt at all!
Big John raised his rifle carefully, its tall front sight rising high
above the rear bar. “Four hundred, five hundred; no, more’n six hundred
yards!” he muttered. “It’ll be some stretch for the ole meat gun, but,
greaser, you’ve looked at this parteekler scenery all you’re entitled
to!”
He held the bead steady, resting his elbow on a rock. Gradually his
muscles cramped in a rigid pose while the tiny dot up there in the
crags hovered motionless over the tip of his front sight.
“Sho! greaser,” said Big John, lowering the rifle. “Y’ain’t done
nawthin’ yit what I orter kill ye fer! Yore int’rested, jist now--it’s
our chanct to make a run for it an’ git between you an’ th’ home plate,
I’m thinkin’. Siddy boy, I aims to reach ye this trip!”
He crept rapidly down to where Niltci lay concealed and touched him
on the shoulder. Together they wormed swiftly down the mountain and
reached the sands. Here the high flanks concealed them from the view
of those above. After one sharp glance around by Niltci, both ran at
full speed along the base. Up and up at a gentle slant for some half
a mile the sand drift led them, until they had arrived at the foot of
the lava flow where it dipped down below the sands. Along its vitrified
surface they sped--and then Big John stopped and gripped Niltci’s arm,
breathing heavily. Above them on the lava slope an apparition had
appeared. A man crouched in a sort of cave mouth up there, and he bore
a rifle in his hands. He waved energetically to Big John to get under
cover at once.
“Ef that ain’t Sid you can call me a tin-horn gent!” gasped Big John.
“_Whoopee, Sid!_ Keep down!--_Look out_, watch yourself!” he yelled out
alarmedly.
His outcry was fatal. A rifle whanged out up in the cliffs above and
instantly came the sharp thud of a bullet. Big John coughed, groaned in
the inflectionless cry of the unconscious, and tumbled in a heap on the
rocks. Niltci gave one swift glance upward at the man in the serapé
who had fired, then grabbed Big John and dragged his huge shape under
the shelter of a crag. Sid had disappeared as if struck flat, but the
whip of his army carbine rang out sharply. A volley of shots replied,
coming from all over the hillside. Bullets struck the lava apron and
went whining off into space; more of them plunged down around Niltci’s
position.
Bits of granite flew in a sharp dust about him. The place was utterly
untenable. Niltci looked for a better lair, noted a little hollow in
the crags and then jumped out and exposed himself to draw their fire
for an instant. He heard shot after shot whipping out from where Sid
lay, felt the terrific smash of Mausers all around him, then he picked
up Big John and raced with him for cover. A sharp touch seared his arm.
He felt it grow paralyzed in spite of him and it let the cowman drop
violently against the rough scoriated boulders. A groan came from Big
John, showing that he still lived, then the Navaho flung himself into
the lair and rolled the great limp body in after him.
But this could not last! It was as hot a corner as man ever got into.
Sooner or later flankers from the guerrillas above would find a
position from which it could be fired into, and then nothing could
save them. Niltci raised his voice in a low Navaho’s death chant,
watching the rocks above him from a crevice in his lair, rifle poised
for instant use. He needed help badly. Finally he sent out the word for
it in a ringing call that would be understood by the Apaches, if any
were near. It would be upon their honor to respond.
An occasional desultory shot now came from Sid, up there on the lava
apron. Above on the mountain was silence, sinister, and foreboding.
The Mexicans were creeping carefully, silently downward toward him.
Presently there would be a rush of overwhelming numbers--then death!
Niltci waited, finger on trigger, eyes alert. A slight sound and the
rolling of a stone came from somewhere above, but he could see nothing
without exposing himself to he knew not what danger. It had been Big
John who had rescued _him_ from his own kinsmen, during those fanatical
disturbances caused by the Black Panther of the Navaho, and Niltci
would never desert him now! Coolly, resignedly, he awaited that final
rush that would be the end of them both.
A rapid movement and the flinging of a body down behind some rocks
sounded above him, right close now. Sid’s rifle sang out but its bullet
was too late. Relentlessly they were closing in!
A low groan sounded below Niltci. He glanced back out of the corner of
his eye and saw that Big John’s eyes were open. His face was livid,
drawn and gray, but he was turning feebly on his side and fumbling at
the big revolver strapped to his thigh.
“Watch yoreself--Injun--I’m gyardin’--yore rear,” muttered the cowman
hoarsely.
Niltci felt better. Big John was alive and could shoot, anyhow! He
moved to a new position where he could command more of the rocks above.
White-clad figures dodged instantly out of sight behind rocks as he
appeared. They were all quite near him, not over forty yards off. All
that was needed was some signal to precipitate a concerted rush. Niltci
looked about him for help again. Only the silent lava wall and the
surety that Sid was on watch up there gave him any hope at all. Well,
it would soon come! All he hoped for was the chance of a few shots from
the repeater before one of these buzzing Mauser bullets brought final
oblivion.
And then, far above on the mountain side, sounded the rapid belling of
a hound!
_Ruler!_ Scotty was coming, and he would take them _all_ in the rear!
Niltci fingered his trigger eagerly as the musical notes floated nearer
and nearer: “Come, white boy! Come!” he sang, in urgent Navaho chanting.
A heavy repeating rifle opened up, its familiar cannonlike roars
sounding sweet in the Indian lad’s ears. That .405 could outrange
anything on the mountain, and Scotty was a dead shot!
Yells and cries broke out all around him above. Men rose bewildered
while Niltci emptied his repeater and Sid’s rifle spoke rapidly, shot
after shot from the lava. The guerrillas were breaking, running. Like
snakes they were creeping off to new points, out of reach of that heavy
.405 whose bullets split the granite where they struck!
Niltci felt that the psychological moment for attack had come. This
whole movement was bearing off to the left now, the only place where
the guerrillas could be safe from fire above and below. He leaped
forward, darting from cover to cover and firing at every sight of
a white figure among the rocks. Behind him he heard ringing Apache
war whoops, and, looking back, saw the whole lava slope covered with
buckskin-clad figures that had come from he knew not where. In a
moment more his own mountain flank had swallowed them all up. Niltci
gave a single answering cry and pressed on.
Then he stopped, his heart stricken dead with sudden alarm, for a whirl
of objurgations in Spanish raged below him and he saw a serapé-clad
figure racing along under the crags of the base, headed straight for
where Big John lay concealed! Niltci turned and flung himself down the
mountain, exposing himself recklessly. To get to the wounded Big John
before this demon could finish him--ah, might the Great Mystery lend
him wings! In three leaps he had reached the rocks above the lair. He
jumped out, rifle at shoulder, unmindful of anything but not to be too
late. Niltci got one glimpse of Vasquez, standing with rifle poised,
his eyes glaring with surprise, for instead of Sid--the boy with the
Red Mesa plaque--Big John lay facing him, lying on his side, cool
resolution shining steadfastly in his eyes, the big revolver poised in
a hand that nevertheless shook with weakness.
But before either of them could pull trigger a war bow twanged
resonantly and the swift flash of an arrow swept across Niltci’s face.
He saw Vasquez tottering, faltering, and crumpling slackly; heard the
rifle and the revolver bellow out together--and then a tall Apache
chief stood before him, breathing laboredly, his eyes flashing the wild
fire of war. Niltci held his ground and his rifle half raised. Peace or
war with this chief, the Navaho boy faced him undaunted and Niltci was
going to defend that place to the last! Below him was the little rocky
lair where lay Big John, silent, face downward.
The Apache raised his hand in the peace sign. “Navaho, thou art a
brave man! He that risks his life for a friend!” he dropped his arm
significantly as if to say that no higher test of character existed.
“Come; my young men pursue them, and none shall escape. Let us take
this white man where his wounds can be cared for, my brother.”
Just at that instant Sid came around the rocks about the lava lair. For
a moment he stood looking, first at Big John lying silent as death,
then at Niltci sitting dazedly and weak on the ground. His eyes glanced
only once at the huddled figure of Vasquez.
“Oh! oh!--Big John! Is he dead!” he cried, the sudden catch of a sob in
his voice.
He went over quickly to Big John and felt under his shirt. Then he
looked up, worried, anxious, but hope shone in his eyes. “He’s alive,
Chief! But we must act quickly, for he’s losing blood fast. Help me,
Honanta,” cried Sid urgently.
Together they got at the wound. That Mauser had plunged downward,
smashing through the shoulder at a slant; tipped a lung, as the red
froth on Big John’s lips showed, and had come out in a jagged tear
below the big muscle on his chest. He breathed laboredly and his eyes
were still closed. Sid shook his head and there were tears in his
own eyes. To lose Big John, that faithful, devoted old friend who
had raised him and Scotty from cubdom, had been with them on a dozen
expeditions, a thousand hunts--it was unbelievable!
“I’ve seen worse. My medicine men can cure him!” said Honanta cheerily.
“We shall bring him to our village, and all will be well. My son, your
friends are _our_ friends! They have done well!”
“Thank you, Honanta,” said Sid, simply. “I have yet one more thing to
ask you to do, and then this whole business will come out all right.”
“And that is?” asked the chief, smiling.
“To come with me and meet my father,” said Sid earnestly.
“_Ai!_--I shall go with you soon! But first, where is my son, Hano?
Not yet have I heard his war cry,” replied Honanta anxiously.
Niltci turned from his guard of the place and approached the chief.
“He came to us, Apache. He led us to these mountains. Then came the
Mexicanos. We were to run them a race away into the desert with our
fast horses. But they saw sheep on the mountain. They started killing
them--ugh, but it was a slaughter sickening to see! More than many,
many white men could eat, they shot! Then rose up your son, Hano, out
of ambush and cursed them, as I too would have done. He fired my rifle
at them, killing many horses. When the shells were all gone he left us.
That is all I know.”
“Who _does_ know what became of Hano, then, Niltci?” inquired Sid
eagerly.
The Navaho pointed to the silent figure of Big John.
“Hai!” breathed Honanta’s deep voice. “He _must_ live! I _must_ know
what has happened to my son! If he died, it was as a great chief should
die, for his people. If he lives, this white man shall tell us and my
best trackers shall seek for him. Come!”
They all picked up the inanimate form of Big John and carried him
slowly along the lava apron brink. From afar came the occasional
crack of a rifle. The chase had gone a long distance to the westward.
Once they heard the bellow of Scotty’s .405 from far down beyond the
knoll. The peculiar volume of it was unmistakable, easily told from the
sharper whip of the Mausers. Sid would have liked to join him, but his
duty now was to see Big John under competent care. He had great faith
in those Apache medicine bundles. There were healing herbs in them
that the Indians alone knew; not all their “medicine” was sorcery and
meaningless medicine dances, for in the treatment of wounds they were
wonderful.
Up the steep ascent and through the sulphur-fumed reaches of the cave
tunnel they bore Big John. When he had been laid on a couch in the
medicine lodge and the old men had set to work at his wounds, Sid
called Niltci to him.
“I want to show you this Red Mesa, Niltci,” he said, “for my heart is
heavy within me. We can do no further good here.”
Together they went out into the little valley, Niltci’s cries of
pleasure over its isolation and peace as detail after detail of it was
grasped by his keen Indian mind singing in Sid’s ears. It made him
even more depressed. What would Scotty’s reaction to all this be?
Scotty, the practical, hard-headed engineer, who would no doubt hop
on this mine with a howl of delight and pooh-pooh any suggestion of
abandoning it to the Apaches as their home. The first white man who
staked out a claim here owned it. These Indians _had_ no rights. How
could he reconcile Gold with Nature in Scotty’s mind--dissuade him from
taking his civic rights, for the sake of this people?
Sid wanted to have his mind made up before they set out to join Scotty.
He watched Niltci as they came opposite the mine fissure. The Navaho
boy stopped with another exclamation of pleasure. He was an expert
silversmith himself, and he recognized the metal instantly amid the
dull copper. But in Niltci’s eyes there showed no hint of possessing
it, of taking this whole mine for himself. This metal was for all, the
gift of Mother Earth to the whole tribe, according to his training. He
would be just as welcome to set up his forge here and smelt all the
silver he wanted as the Apaches were to make arrow tips of the copper.
He told Sid this artless viewpoint as the latter questioned him,
seeking light in his perplexity.
Sid shook his head. How different from Scotty’s idea! A claim that gave
exclusive ownership; vast engineering works; ships; an organization
that would take _all_ this metal for _one_ man’s enrichment--that was
the white man’s way!
“Come, we must go find Scotty, Niltci,” said Sid despondently, leading
him away.
Honanta bid them good-by, assuring them that Big John was doing well.
Sid went down the cave tunnel feeling like a traitor. His worst problem
was still ahead of him, he thought.
But the Great Mystery had planned otherwise, in His inscrutable ways.
For, when they reached the lair where Big John had fallen, Vasquez was
gone! Honanta’s arrow had _not_ killed him; he had been simply feigning
death while they were working over Big John!