The experience of Fred Munson as a prisoner among the Apaches was one
which he was not likely to forget to his dying day. From the back of the
steed where he was held a captive he gained an indistinct view of the
short, savage struggle between Lone Wolf and Sut Simpson, and more than
once he concluded that it was all over with the daring hunter, who had
ventured out with the purpose of befriending him. But when the chieftain
returned to his warriors alone and without any scalp strung to his
girdle, he knew that the fellow had pulled through all right.
Lone Wolf was so exasperated at his treatment that he hovered around for
a short time with his entire force, in the hope of balancing accounts
with his old enemy. But he soon saw, however, the utter impossibility of
that in the present shape of things, and so he summoned all his warriors
together and moved off in a northerly direction, his purpose being,
as the hunter said, to return with a force which would prove itself
invincible.
Fred expected to be handed back to the redoubtable chieftain, who, he
supposed, would subject him to the most cruel kind of treatment; but
that worthy did not seem desirous of receiving his charge back again and
permitted him to remain with his deputy. The lad did not know whether
to be pleased by this or not; for his custodian was the most repulsive
looking being he had ever seen. He was deeply pitted with smallpox, and
the enormous nose which he had once possessed had been splintered by a
blow from a tomahawk, so that in no respect at all did it resemble that
useful and ornamental organ. There was an enormous breadth, too, between
the eyes, or rather temples, the face tapering down to the chin so
rapidly that the contour from the front suggested the shape of a wedge.
An Indian almost invariably has good teeth but the mouth of the one in
question was filled with snags that projected in every direction; his
chin was excessively retreating, and, to add to it all, his countenance
was daubed with different colored paint, in such fantastic streakings
that an Adonis himself would have appeared hideous. Such was the jailer
of Fred, who heard him addressed once or twice by a name which sounded
to him as if it were Waukko.
He was, in fact, one of the most famous warriors of the Jiccarilla
Apaches, his fame depending as much upon his cruelty as upon his
prowess. There are legends in the southwest crediting Lone Wolf with
having shown some slight signs of mercy on one or two occasions, but
nothing of the kind was ever said of his lieutenant, Waukko, who brained
the innocent babe with the same demon-like enjoyment that he silenced
the pleadings of old age and blooming womanhood. Fred, as a matter of
course, knew nothing of these characteristics; but the appearance of the
redskin himself was so repulsive that he could not look at him without a
shudder of terror.
The lad sat on the blanket directly in front of Waukko, who held him
in place by passing his arm about him. Such was his position when the
entire company headed northward, and struck into a sweeping gallop.
It was comparatively early in the evening when the start was made, and
the flight was continued without interruption through the night, the
horses scarcely ever varying from that same everlasting canter.
The novelty of his situation, and the interest which Fred felt as to
what was to be done with him in the end kept him wide awake for a
time, and he indulged in all sorts of surmises and conjectures. Without
brother or sister, and with only one parent, his father, to whom he was
deeply attached, his greatest suffering was the thought of the sorrow
that would be his father's when he should come to know the dreadful fate
of his only son.
Such were his thoughts when he had no hope of ever seeing him again;
but when he reflected that Mickey O'Rooney was still absent from the
settlement, and that Sut Simpson was likely to take up the hunt, a
strong hope arose within his breast and encouraged him to believe that
he might escape from the Apaches.
“Ah, if I only had my handsome Hurricane here!” he murmured, as he
recalled the figure of his sinewy and symmetrical steed. “Once on his
back and with a clear field before me, all the Indians in the Southwest
could n't catch me. If the hunter would only think to bring him along,
it would help a good deal, but I don't suppose he will.”
Then his thoughts wandered away to his father, and the tears came to his
eyes and the sorrow lurked deep in his heart, nourished by the thought
that very likely they would never meet again, and his father's lonely
heart would be sorrowful all the rest of his life as he thought of how
his only child had been murdered by the Apaches.
The steady sinking and rising of the Indian's horse gradually became
monotonous, and, after a time, the boy's nodding head drooped, and
Waukko knew, from the pressure against his breast, that his captive was
asleep. Could he have had his way, he would have strangled the life out
of him as he lay thus unconscious, but he was carrying him for Lone
Wolf, the chief, and he dare not disobey him.
It is not often that the sleeper rests his head upon the bosom of his
enemy, yet such was the case in the present instance. The swaying,
rocking motion of the bed of Fred Munson not only lulled him to sleep,
but retained him in as sweet and dreamless slumber as though he were
resting upon his bed at home, where no thought of the treacherous Indian
ever entered his head.
The red-skin sat his steed like a statue. Lone Wolf had entrusted the
young captive to his charge, and he would hold him responsible for his
safe deliverance, that was all. He might have slept for twenty-four
hours, using his scarred and evil chest as a pillow, without protest
from him.
When at last Fred opened his eyes, it was several minutes before he
recalled his situation. It was just beginning to grow light, and when he
saw the figures of horses with their riders he remembered the scene of
the night before. When he turned his head and saw the horrid face of
Waukko, no doubt then remained of where he was. But he looked upon a far
different scene from that upon which he had closed his eyes.
Instead of being upon the broad, sweeping prairie, he was among the
mountains. They towered upon every hand, and the war party had halted
in a sort of canon or valley, where they seemed shut out from the outer
world.
“Where are we?” asked Fred, thinking it polite to open a conversation
with his guardian, with a view of conciliating him; but the red-skin did
not seem to be in a mood for conversation, or it may be that he did not
possess a very profound knowledge of the English tongue, for he made no
reply.
After a time, the lad ventured upon another modest remark, but receiving
no attention, he concluded it hardly worth his while to attempt to work
any further in that direction, and he gave over the effort.
As soon as the halt was made, Lone Wolf gave a sort of address to his
warriors, which Fred believed to be a sort of harangue, intended to
incite them to deeds of greater daring than any they had as yet shown.
The red-skins became much excited, and answered his appeals with angry
shouts, grunts and gestures. No doubt, had he chosen to lead them, they
would have rushed back to a second attack upon New Boston, without the
addition of another warrior to their number. The oratory of Lone Wolf
was not very graceful, but it was very effective. He knew how to appeal
to his followers in a way that went directly to their hearts.