As soon as Lone Wolf was out of sight, young Munson stepped back in the
shadow of the wood, and quickly placed himself behind the trunk of a
large tree. He had learned the nature of the Indian race too well for
him to give this precious specimen any chance to circumvent him. Had he
remained standing in the moonlight opening, after the Apache entered the
wood, the latter could not have had a better opportunity to pick him off
without danger to himself. Had he meditated any such purpose, when he
wheeled to fire the shot there would have been no target visible.
The strained ear of the lad could not detect the slightest rustling that
might betray the where-abouts of the dreaded chief, and Fred knew better
than to expect any such advantage as that which just permitted to
pass through his hands. But what would Lone Wolf do? This was the
all-important question. Would he sneak off through the wood and out of
the valley, and would he be seen and heard no more that night? or would
he return to revenge himself for the injury to his pride? Was he alone
in the grove, or were there a half dozen brother-demons sulking among
the undergrowth, like so many rattlesnakes, except that they did not
give any warning before striking their blow? Had any of them visited
Mickey or Thompson, and was a general attack about to be made upon the
settlement? Such questions as these surged through the mind of Fred, as
he stood leaning against the tree, rifle in hand, listening, looking,
and thinking.
Suddenly he gave utterance to a low whistle, which he was accustomed to
use as a signal in communicating with Mickey. It was almost instantly
answered, in a way which indicated that the Irishman was approaching. A
minute later the two were together. The lad hastily related his stirring
adventure with the great Apache war-chief, and, as may be imagined,
Mickey was dumfounded.
“It's meself that has n't seen or heard the least sign of one of the
spalpeens since the set of sun, and they've been about us all the time.”
“How was it they got here without being seen?”
“There be plenty ways of doing the same. They've found out that we were
watching this pint, and so they slipped round and came the other way.”
“Do you think they will attack us to-night?”
“I'm thinkin' they're only making observations, as me uncle obsarved,
when he was cotched in the house of Larry O'Mulligan, and they'll be
down on us some time, when everything is ready.”
“It seems to me it is a poor time to make observations--in the night.”
“The red-skin is like an owl,” replied Mickey. “He can see much better
at night than he can by day; but there's Thompson; let us see whether
some of the spalpeens haven't made a call upon him in the darkness.
Be aisy now, in stepping over the leaves, for an Injin hears with his
fingers and toes as well as his ears.”
The Hibernian led the way, each advancing with all the caution at his
command, and using such stealth and deliberation in their movements
that some ten or fifteen minutes were consumed in passing over the
intervening space. At last, however, the spot was reached where they had
bidden good-bye to their friend, earlier in the evening.
“Here's about the place,” said Mickey, looking about him; “but I does
n't observe the gintleman, by the token of which he must have strayed
away. Hilloa!”
He repeated the call in a low, cautious voice, but still loud enough
to be heard a dozen yards or more from where he stood; but no response
came, and, although neither of the two gave any expression to it, yet
they were sensible of a growing fear that this absence or silence of
their friend had a most serious meaning.
“Yonder he is now,” suddenly exclaimed Fred. “He's a great sentinel,
too, for he's sound asleep.”
The stalwart figure of Thompson was seen seated upon the ground, with
his back against a tree, and his chin on his breast, like one sunk in a
deep slumber. The sentinel had seated himself on the edge of the grove,
where all the trees and undergrowth were behind, and the open space in
front of him. At the time of doing so, no doubt his figure was enveloped
in the shadow, but since then the moon had climbed so high in the sky
that its rays fell upon his entire person, and the instant the two
chanced to glance in that direction, they saw him with startling
distinctness.
“Begorrah! if that does n't bate the mischief!” exclaimed Mickey,
impatiently, as he looked at his unconscious friend. “I thought he was
the gintleman that had traveled, and knew all about these copper-colored
spalpeens. S'pose we' all done the same, Lone Wolf and his Apaches would
have had all our skulp-locks hanging at their goordles by this time. I
say, Thompson, ain't you ashamed of yourself to be wastin' your time in
this fashion?”
As he spoke, he stooped down, and seizing the arm of the man, shook it
quite hard several times, but without waking him.
“Begorrah, but he acts as if he had n't a week of sleep since he had
emigrated to the West. I say, Thompson, me ould boy, can't ye arouse up
and bid us good night?”
While Mickey was speaking in this jocose manner, he had again seized the
man, but this time by the shoulder. At the first shake the head of the
man fell forward, as if he were a wooden image knocked out of poise.
The singularity of the move struck Mickey, who abruptly ceased his
jests, raised the drooping head, and stooped down and peered into it.
One quick, searching glance told the terrible truth.
_“Be the howly powers, but he's dead!”_ gasped the horrified Irishman,
starting back, and then stooping still lower, and hurriedly examining
him.
“What killed him?” asked the terrified Fred, gazing upon the limp
figure.
“Lone Wolf, the haythen blackguard. See here,” added Mickey, in a stern
voice, as he wheeled about and faced his young friend, “you told me you
had your gun pinted at that spalpeen; now it's meself that wants to know
why in blazes you did n't pull the trigger?”
“He hadn't hurt me, Mickey, and I did n't know that he had been doing
anything of this kind. Would you have shot him, in my place?”
The Irishman shook his head. It looked too cowardly to send a man, even
though he were an Indian, out of the world without an instant's warning.
“Well, Thompson is done for, that's dead sure, and we'll have to give
him a dacent burial. Whisht, there! did ye not hear somethin'?”
Footsteps were heard very distinctly upon the leaves, and the two shrank
back in the shadow of the wood and awaited their approach, for they were
evidently coming that way. Something in the manner of walking betrayed
their identity, and Mickey spoke. The prompt answer showed that they
were the two men whose duty it was to relieve Thompson and the Irishman.
They came forward at once, and when they learned the truth, were, as
a matter of course, terribly shocked. They reported that the sentinels
nearer the settlement had detected moving figures during the night
skulking about the wood and valley, and the sound of horses' hoofs left
no doubt that they were Indians who had gone.
The death of Thompson, of course, was a terrible shock to the new
arrivals, but it was one of the incidents of border life, and was
accepted as such. The two took their stations unflinchingly, and Mickey
and Fred returned to the settlement, the body of the dead sentry being
allowed to lie where it was, under guard, until morning.
On the morrow the body was given decent burial, and the building of the
houses was pressed with all possible activity, and scouts or sentinels
were stationed on all the prominent lookouts.
Barnwell was confident that if no interruption came about within the
next two or three days, he could put the defenses in such shape that
they could resist the attack of any body of Indians; but an assault on
that day or the next would be a most serious affair, the issue of which
was extremely doubtful; hence the necessity of pressing everything
forward with the utmost dispatch. Fred rendered what assistance he
could, but that did not amount to much, and, as he possessed the best
eyesight, he took upon himself the duty of sentinel, taking his position
near the river, where he remained for something over an hour.
Nothing of an alarming character was seen, and, thinking his standpoint
was too depressed to give him the range of observation, he concluded to
climb one of the trees. This was quickly done, and when he found himself
in one of the topmost branches he was gratified with the result.
On his right hand, he could trace the winding course of the Rio Pecos
for several miles, the banks here and there fringed with wood and
stunted undergrowth. His attitude was such that he could see over the
tops of the trees in his rear, and observe his friends busily at work as
so many beavers, while off on the left, stretched on the prairies, with
the faint bluish outlines of mountains in the distance. All at once the
eye of the boy was arrested by the figure of a horseman in the west. He
was coming with the speed of a whirlwind, and heading straight toward
the settlement.
Fred, wondering what it could mean, watched him with an intensity of
interest that can scarcely be imagined. At first he supposed him to be a
fugitive fleeing from the Indians; but none of the latter could be
seen on the right, left or in the rear and so he concluded that that
explanation would not answer.
The speed soon brought the horseman within hail. As he neared the Rio
Pecos Valley, he rose in his stirrups, and swung his hat in an excited
manner. At that moment Fred recognized him as Sut Simpson, the scout,
whose voice rang out as startling and clear as that of a stentor.
“The Apaches are coming! The Apaches are coming! Lone Wolf will be down
on yer quicker'n lightnin'!”