Poor Fred Munson struggled with the vigor of desperation to escape
the clutches of the Indian, who swooped down upon him in the fashion
described, but it was in vain; and he scarcely heard the thunder of the
horses' hoofs and saw the figure of the rushing mustang, when he was
snatched up by the muscular and far-reaching Apache, and borne away amid
the shower of bullets, which hurtled as harmlessly about the red rider
and his steed as if the two bore charmed lives.
The daring warrior who performed this remarkable feat had no sooner
secured the boy than he righted himself on the back of his horse,
sitting bolt upright, while, almost at the same instant, the dead run
was toned down to a moderate walk. Turning his head, the Apache emitted
several tantalizing whoops, intended to irritate the whites into firing.
Although he was within easy rifle-shot, no one essayed to fire, and he
knew none would do so. Not even that skillful marksman, Sut Simpson,
dared make the trial, for the painted body of the sinewy red-skin was
covered by that of the boy, whom he held in front of him, and he who
fired at the wretch was much more likely to kill the lad so cunningly
held in his arms. Thus it was that the captor made off with his prize,
and no one was able to check him, although the hearts of the whites
were burning with rage and with the desire to shoot the Apache who had
baffled them so utterly.
Fred was still struggling, in the frantic hope of twisting himself
loose from the grasp of the redskin, when the latter spoke in his harsh,
guttural voice:
“Stop, or I'll kill.”
This was said in the best of English, and the boy was astonished, as
may well be supposed, at the linguistic accomplishment of the Indian. At
first he imagined that it was a white man painted and disguised, but
one searching glance not only removed that impression, but revealed the
identity of his captor. It was Lone Wolf, whom he had baffled the night
before in the wood.
“It's all up with me now,” was the thought of Fred, when this
intelligence flashed upon him. “He will never forgive me for the way I
stopped him last night. How sorry I am that I didn't shoot him when I
had such a good chance!”
For one minute he thought of appealing to his mercy, but a brief
reflection convinced him that that was worse than useless, and he
abandoned the idea as absurd. He was old enough to know that Indians are
merciless.
It will be remembered that night was closing in when Fred was captured
and a few minutes later, when he turned his head back toward New Boston,
he was unable to distinguish a single house.
The mustang bearing captor and prisoner dropped into an easy gallop,
passing entirely out of the valley and a short distance over the
prairie, where, when he halted, he found himself amid some thirty or
forty mounted Apaches. Here a halt was made and the red-skins engaged in
a consultation, which, as a matter of course, was conducted in their own
language, and, consequently, was unintelligible to the lad, who was as
deeply interested as any of them in the proceedings.
The scene was a strange one, and was so firmly impressed upon his memory
that he was sure he could not forget it if he lived a hundred years.
The Indians he saw now for the first time with their animals perfectly
motionless. They were grouped around their chief in an irregular circle,
and in the gathering darkness, with their long, coarse, black hair
dangling over their shoulders; their low, scarcely perceptible
foreheads; broad, misshapen, painted faces and their hideous figures,
they formed as unearthly a scene as can be conjured up. Several
persisted in talking at the same moment, and they indulged liberally in
gesture, so that it was very apparent that something exciting was before
the convention.
What it was, Fred could not conjecture satisfactorily to himself. He
could not believe that he himself was regarded of sufficient importance
to cause any such discussion, and from what he had heard of the
war-chief, it did not seem probable that he would allow any such wrangle
over a prisoner which he had in his own possession. It surely was
over some other matter, probably concerning the action of the Apaches,
regarding which he had invited discussion; but whatever it was, Fred
could only content himself with looking and listening.
The lad felt that he was as helpless as an infant, and, now that he had
been given time to collect his senses, he stopped making any further
effort to escape from his captor. Knowing the uncontrollable temper of
the Indians, he resolved not to provoke an outburst by any action of his
own. The wonder with him was, that the chief did not kill him the minute
he found that he was in his power. They had not shown any desire to
make prisoners, when it was so much more easy to rid themselves of their
captives by a blow from the tomahawk or the thrust of the knife.
“I suppose they mean to do something dreadful with me,” was the thought
of Fred, as he shudderingly looked around upon the repulsive group.
There could be but little doubt of that, and he could do nothing but ask
heaven to protect him in the terrible danger in which he was placed. At
such a time a person's mind is unusually active and a hundred schemes
agitated the mind of the young captive--schemes which, when analyzed by
the clear light of reason, were about as unsubstantial as the fabric of
a dream. Fred felt that if he was not killed immediately there was some
chance for him. A few hours, or at least a day or two, would give time
for his friends to do something. Mickey O'Rooney, upon returning to the
settlement (as he would have to do sooner or later), would not consent
to remain there as long as the fate of his young friend was in doubt.
And there was Sut Simpson, the hunter, who had taken so much pains to
come and warn the settlers of the impending attack. He had witnessed the
capture of the lad and was certain to do all he could to rescue him.
His long experience in the west, and his numerous encounters with these
Indians, had given him a knowledge which would be of great value in such
an emergency. Fred recalled too, that he had heard it stated more than
once that the Indians frequently took prisoners for the purpose
of ransom, and that he might be restored in this manner so soon as
communication could be opened between the Apaches and his friends.
It so happened, therefore, as the minutes passed, that something like
the renewal of hope came to the heart of the lad, who had reached the
conclusion that the subject under discussion did not relate to himself.
This Apache convention did not prolong its session. Lone Wolf seemed to
permit his warriors to talk until he became weary, when he said a few
words, and the talk ended. During the discussion, numbers had continued
to come in, until there were over a hundred gathered together. The moon
was shining from a clear sky overhead, and the group gathered on the
open prairie, where the members thereof were in readiness to dash in any
direction, in case of an attack. With the words of Lone Wolf came the
adjournment of the convention. The talk ceased instantly, as if by
magic, and the heads of the horses were turned toward the north.
The Indians were about to leave the neighborhood where they had been so
roughly used by the whites. A number had already gone, bearing with them
the dead and wounded, and the remainder were about to depart--that is,
for a time, until their forces could be marshaled into a body that would
sweep New Boston from the face of the earth. Such was the decree of Lone
Wolf. Was he to permit a party of white men to plant a settlement in
the very heart of his country? Was he to allow his hunting grounds to
be appropriated in this fashion? Was he to submit quietly to the
encroachments of those who had never so much as asked his consent? Not
so long as he could summon an army of the best warriors of the Southwest
to his command. If his present company had been too small, then he would
double and treble it. At all events, the power would be provided to
accomplish his purpose.
The horsemen speedily arranged themselves; the head of all turned in
a northerly direction. It took some minutes for them to arrange
themselves, but they were about ready to receive the command of their
chief, when the report of a rifle broke upon the stillness. An Indian,
with a spasmodic shriek, threw up his arms and rolled backward, and then
from his steed, which snorted and reared, as if it, too, had suffered
some injury.
This warrior was directly in the rear of Lone Wolf, and had been so
fairly in line with him that there could be no doubt that the bullet had
really been intended for the chief. The point from whence it came could
not be mistaken.
Over half of the war-party saw the flash of the gun, off to their right,
in the direction of the settlement, and those who chanced not to see it
were quickly informed of the spot by the appearance of a horse, looking
as if he had sprung from the ground itself. No rider was visible; but,
of course, he was there, as he had just demonstrated by means of his
shot. That there might be no doubt of his identity, he uttered a loud
yell, like that with which one Indian defies another, and called out in
the Apache tongue:
“Sut Simpson sends the shot for the heart of Lone Wolf, who is a dog and
a coward.”
This was the favorite taunt of the hunter when he sought to draw out his
old enemy. Some of the numerous scars which he received were the direct
result of his daring defiance, and he was hopeful that the challenge
would accomplish something in the present case. Nor was he disappointed.