THE APACHE GORGE.
Lancaster the guide, in his reference to the Chevenine Hills, had
described them quite aptly. A long sweep of level country, containing
thousands of square miles, was divided by a ridge of hills, which after
making a long sweep went straight across the country. At one point in
this wild ridge, there was a pass through which the Indians traveling
north and south naturally made their way, in preference to climbing and
clambering for a quarter of a mile through and over rocks, chasms and
gorges, dangerous to horses and sometimes to men. This was the famous
“Apache Gorge.”
This famous spot was notorious to emigrants for its danger. Those who
were journeying toward the most southermost part of California generally
passed thro’ the gorge, and those who did as if wise were fully prepared
for an assault from the vigilant Apaches or Pah Utahs. Indeed many
preferred when it was possible to labor through the hills, when such a
thing was within the range of human possibility, in preference to
braving the perilous pass.
It was this point at which the trapper had aimed, and toward which he
pressed his horse to the utmost. It was scarcely past noon when he
pointed to a ridge rising in the sky, clearly defined against the blue
horizon beyond, which he informed them were the Chevenine Hills, and he
was soon able to locate precisely the “Apache Gorge.”
“There’s the spot,” he added an hour or two later, “where if the gal is
ever seen again you’ve got to lay hands on her. If the redskins get
through there with her I don’t see as there is much chance of our
getting sight of her.”
If the two parties, the Indians and whites were approaching the Apache
Gorge at the same moment, it will be seen that they must rapidly
converge. The former it was supposed, (and there was every reason for
believing it to be the fact,) were coming down the eastern, while the
latter were following the western ridge. As both had the same objective
point, as a matter of course they were rapidly nearing each other, and
must finally come together.
Whichever party reached the Gorge first, it may be said, commanded the
situation. If the Apaches had passed through, the fact in itself was
evidence of a speed which would carry them safely beyond danger. If they
had not done so, then it only remained for the whites to make their
arrangements and await their approach.
The whites now saw the keen wisdom and foresight of their guide. What
apparently seemed a rash risk on his part, it was now plain was the only
plan which offered the least success, and was the only one which in any
degree could deceive the Indians themselves. In the first place in
penetrating their destination was a fine exploit which won half the
battle, and in the next place, the course of leaving the trail and
heading off the Indians was the only plan of surprising them—and in this
lay the only hope of rescue.
Beyond a doubt, the Indians expected to be pursued. Where would they
look for their pursuers behind or in front? Had they any reason to
believe or even to suspect that there was any one among the emigrants
shrewd enough to suspect the Apache Gorge? Was it likely that one man in
a thousand, in attempting to follow an enemy would take any other course
than follow his trail? Who so audacious as to strike across the country
and seek to head him off? Seeing nothing of the whites as they neared
the pass, there was scarcely a possibility that they would expect to
find them _there_.
All this we say the party saw, and gladly acknowledged the superior
sagacity of the unlettered guide. Mr. Templeton, offering the trapper a
segar, said,
“Ward, I’ve something to tell you.”
“Wal, let’s hear it then.”
They were now within a few miles of the hills, and were riding at a more
leisurely gait.
“I have just found out that you know more in five minutes than all the
rest of us here knew in our lifetimes.”
“You mean about the prairies and Injin signs?”
“Exactly.”
“Wal, all I’ve got to say,” said the trapper with a broad grin, as he
proceeded to light his segar. “I wouldn’t have to know much to know
that; you’re the biggest set of lunkheads I think I ever came across,
always barring Fred here, who hasn’t been out in these parts a great
while, but long enough to learn and keep his mouth shet when them as
knows more are talking.”
“Well, that is a very modest way of accepting a compliment,” laughed
Templeton. “I supposed you might perhaps find it possible to say a word
or two in our favor.”
“Hoogh! wagh!” laughed Ward, shaking his whole body by the violence of
his convulsions. “If axed to pick out the biggest set of jackasses that
ever got loose, I’d hurry up powerful quick and lasso this crowd. I’d
have ’em sure.”
“I—I—trust you would not place me in that category,” said Leonidas
Swipes, fondly expecting he would except him on account of his learning
and accomplishments.
“No; I’d stand you out alone by yourself, as having more of the jackass
in you than all the rest put together.”
The loud laughter which followed this somewhat discomfited the Yankee,
who, however, made a despairing effort to recover his lost ground.
“And where would you place yourself, if I may ask, Mr. Lancaster?”
“Where there was the least danger of seeing _you_, but, come, boys,
we’re losing time.”
Just as the sun was sinking over the western ridge of the Chevenine
Hills, the party drew rein and slowly approached the Apache Gorge. While
yet some distance, Fred Wainwright had dismounted, and entering the wood
cautiously, made his way to the dangerous spot, to reconnoitre, and to
see that no ambush threatened. Discovering nothing to excite alarm, he
appeared on a high rock, and waved his hand as a signal that all was
right. A few minutes later the horses thundered underneath the thick
trees and vegetation that wrapped the hills from peak to base, and the
wearied riders dismounted to rest and refresh themselves.
All were wearied and dusty, yet the guide said,
“It won’t do to stay here; there’s a good camping ground farther in.”
He led the way for a quarter of a mile in a westerly direction, where
they found a stream of icy cold water which issued from the mountain
side, and an abundance of rich rank grass. Here their animals were
tethered, and Lancaster told the men that they might lunch and rest
themselves, while he and Fred Wainwright would return to the Gorge and
keep watch for the Apaches. The cool shadow and the soft grass were so
welcome that the remainder of the party immediately stretched themselves
out upon the ground to enjoy the luxury of that perfect rest, when it
succeeds perfect exhaustion and weariness.
Reaching the Gorge the two hunters clambered up among the hills, until
they were elevated several hundred feet above the plain and had a view
of the surrounding country for many miles. It was yet very light, and
nothing obstructed their view except the horizon itself.
When they had reached an available spot, Fred Wainwright turned his
head, looked one moment toward the north and uttered the thrilling
words,
“_Yonder they come!_”
The trapper squinted his eyes for a moment, looked long and searchingly,
and then replied as cooly as if he had asked for a chew of tobacco.
“You’re right, that’s Charouka and his Apaches, _sartin_!”
Off to the north-east, precisely in the direction indicated by the
guide, a party of a half a dozen horsemen were seen approaching at a
sweeping gallop. To the ordinary eye they were a half a dozen horsemen
and nothing more; but the keen vision of the trapper of the Gila saw
among them the object of their search. Florence Brandon held in front of
an Apache Indian, who was no other than the famed Charouka.
The redskins were only a few miles distant, and would reach the Gorge
within half an hour at the most. As the two surveyed them a moment, the
young hunter suddenly turned to the older one.
“Suppose Ward they make no halt but pass on through?”
“What of it? They won’t go far. More likely they’ll stop here and kindle
their fires,” replied the guide, rolling his huge tobacco quid from one
side of his cheek to the other.
“Don’t you wish to let the others know what is going on?”
“No; let them be; they’re sound asleep and better off than here. We
can’t do any thing until after dark, when the time for work will be on
us. Till then why we’ll just watch.”
The Apache party rapidly approached, and as they neared the Gorge they
came down to a walk. By this time they were so near that their features
could be distinguished, and the young hunter looked upon the pale face
of the fair captive with strange emotions.
She was held by the giant Cherouka directly in front of him. One arm was
thrown around her as if to keep her from falling, while with the other
he attended to himself. Although he grasped her firmly, yet it was not
roughly. It was that grasp with which we hold the being we are unwilling
to give up, and yet which we love with all the fondness and affection
that our whole nature can summon.
Florence was seated in the usual lady-like fashion, as if she were
supported by the ordinary “side-saddle,” her long dress sweeping almost
the length of the horse’s body and shrouding her own feet, and the
moccasined limit of the wild Apache from view. Her long dark hair was
streaming over her shoulders, her face was white and deathly, and there
was a wild agonized look in her dark eyes, which ought to have moved the
hearts of the brutes which surrounded her, but which, as may well be
imagined, did not affect their sensibilities in the slightest degree.
O how the young hunter longed to raise his rifle as they came within
range and send his bullet through the brain of the treacherous Apache.
But he was too sensible a fellow to do any such thing, even if he had
forgotten that he was under the orders of his older companion.
True to the prediction of the latter, they rode a short distance through
the Gorge, and then turning a little aside, dismounted, and made their
preparations for a night encampment.
Florence was assisted gallantly to the ground, and allowed to take a
seat near a tree, removed a few feet or so from the others, while they
merely glanced at her as they moved hither and thither, Cherouka,
however scarcely moving his eyes from her.