A PICNIC PARTY
The discovery of Felipe seemed quite a godsend to Backus as he wended
his way through the Indian lands back to San Remo. Had he had a pistol
on him when Stephens struck him that morning he would have shot him, or
tried to shoot him, then and there. But now that his fit of passion had
gone by, he determined to pay the prospector out in his own way and at
his own time. Looking at the matter in cooler blood he could see that he
would let himself in for a lot of trouble if he killed Stephens with his
own hand. In the first place, there would be a trial, and lawyers to be
paid, and that would come expensive, very expensive; and, secondly,
Stephens had friends capable of going on the war-path. These confounded
redskin allies of his seemed so unaccountably devoted to him that they
might take it into their heads to perforate anyone who harmed him in a
highly unpleasant manner, to judge not only by Tito's talk, but by the
action of this stubborn old squaw, who had flatly told him at last that
he shouldn't even set eyes on Stephens's girl in his absence. And now
here was just what he wanted, an instrument prepared to his hand. With a
little judicious spurring, a little help on the sly, Felipe would be
quite ready to stick a knife in Stephens's back some night, or blow the
top of his head off, and he, Backus, would stand entirely clear--ay,
need not even lose the trade of the pueblo. Really it seemed quite
providential. The only question that occurred to him was, whether Felipe
would come down to see him, which would be most convenient, or whether
he would have to go back to the pueblo to hunt for him. "But there's
small fear of that," said he, as his horse splashed through the Santiago
River before entering San Remo; "that sore arm of his'll bring him
along, if not to-night, then to-morrow, certain."
* * * * *
Mr. Backus was exceedingly accurate in his diagnosis of Felipe's frame
of mind, as well as of the condition of his arm. The young Indian obeyed
him implicitly in the matter of going home, taking food, and lying down
to obtain a good rest. He rose again later in the afternoon, and went
for the second time to Reyna's house, only to find that for him there
was to be no admission. Reyna was perfectly clear that until Stephens
came back and settled what was to be done, the less the young people saw
of each other the better it would be for all concerned. She was very
friendly, rather amusing, and perfectly inexorable. As to the health of
her patient, all Felipe could learn was that she was getting along
nicely, thank you, and was in absolute need of rest, and would be so for
a day or two longer,--until Stephens came back in fact. At present she
would not even go out of doors.
All which did but root more firmly in Felipe's mind the conviction that
Josefa was destined for Stephens, and that this was why the door was
barred against him. Nursing his wrath, he turned away to meet Tito. For
the second time he tried to borrow Tito's pistol, which that discreet
young man entirely declined to let him have so long as he continued in
his present frame of mind.
"You can't want it to defend yourself, Felipe," he said very decidedly,
"for the cacique isn't here."
"Yes," said the boy sullenly, "but he'll be back in two or three days,
and I'm not going to have him shooting at me again, and I not have
anything to shoot back with."
"Pooh!" said Tito, "don't you fret yourself. He's not going to bother
you any more, you may be sure. Take it easy; that's all past and gone."
But Felipe declined to take it easy. Finding Tito's mind was quite made
up, he went back to his mother's house, and announced his intention of
going down to San Remo to get his arm dressed by the storekeeper. He
took his blanket with him, and added, as he started, that if Backus
would let him sleep down there, he wasn't coming back till the morrow,
or even later. He reached the store at dark, and found Mr. Backus at
home.
"Come right in," said the Texan, as the boy with his blanket wrapped
round him appeared in the doorway of the house after knocking, "come
right in and set down. I was expecting you." He placed him in the light
of a kerosene lamp, undid the arm, and dressed the wound again with some
stinging stuff out of a bottle that made it smart. But the sharp throb
of the wound gave no such stab to Felipe as the inquiry, casually
dropped, "Wal', have you called on Mrs. Stephens to pay your respects
yet?"
The boy confessed his vain attempt.
"Hah!" said the Texan, "so they're keeping her locked up tight, eh?
Well, well; that's rather tough on you. But I don't wonder at it, now
that Mr. Stephens and the cacique are in cahoots together. Of course
they don't want anybody smelling around there when they are off and out
of the way. No, they've got her there and they mean to keep her. But I
know what I'd do if a man stole my gal away from me and shut her up."
"What would you do?" inquired Felipe, with averted eyes. He had his head
turned to one side, and was looking down at the hole in his arm which
Backus was dressing.
"Me!" said Backus, "I'd fill the hound's hide so full of holes that it
wouldn't hold shucks. That's what I'd do. And I'd lay for him, too, and
get him when he wasn't expecting it. A man like that, as would steal
another man's gal away from him, don't deserve any more show than a mad
dog."
"I haven't got a pistol,"--Felipe's voice trembled a little as he said
this,--"but I could buy one, perhaps, if it wasn't too dear, if I knew
of one for sale."
"A knife's surer than a pistol," said the Texan cautiously; "though I
allow a feller that's only got his left arm to use is rather at a
disadvantage with a knife. So he is with a pistol, unless he practises
shooting left-handed. However, if he gets up close, and takes his man
from behind when he aint looking out for it, he can't hardly miss, and
he hadn't ought to need a second shot."
"Do you know of anyone that's got a pistol for sale?" said the boy
earnestly.
"Wal', yes," said the Texan, "I do happen to know of a very good pistol
that's for sale. In fact, a man left it with me to be disposed of." Mr.
Backus did not deal in firearms, but second-hand ones sometimes came in
his way as part payment of a debt. "I could sell it for him, and afford
to take a very reasonable price for it. It's a first-class weapon." He
finished tying up the wounded arm, and released his patient.
"Thank you, señor, a thousand thanks for all your kindness," said
Felipe, rising. "May I see the pistol?"
The storekeeper took a key from his pocket, unlocked a chest, and
produced a heavy, old-fashioned, muzzle-loading Colt's revolver in a
leather holster. He drew it out; it was well smeared with grease. He
pulled the hammer to half-cock, and spun the cylinder round, click,
click, click, with his finger.
"She's not new," he remarked; "but she goes like clockwork, and she'll
throw a conical ball through four inches of pine wood. I've tried her at
a mark, too, and she'll hit the size of a silver dollar at ten yards
every pop, if you're man enough to hold her steady." He handed it over
to Felipe, who examined it with great care. Though he had never owned a
weapon of his own, he knew how to handle one. They did not read or write
in the pueblo, but they had compulsory education for all that; every boy
learned two necessary things, the use of weapons and the use of tools.
And they never required any salaried attendance officer to drive them to
school. The boy drew back the hammer with his left thumb, holding the
barrel with his stiff right hand, and squinted down the sights.
"That's right," said Backus approvingly, "I see you know all about it.
Now that pistol cost fifteen dollars new, and I can sell it to you for
four dollars and a half, and there's a little ammunition that goes with
it, thrown in. It's as good as new, too; these Colt's pistols never
wear out, but they've got a new style now with copper cartridges, and
that's why these old-fashioned ones are cheap." It was all quite true.
Mr. Backus loved truth, it got you such a useful reputation; he never
lied except when he thought it would pay him, and then he could lie like
a gas-meter.
Felipe produced the cash, and slipped his belt through the loop of the
holster. He felt himself more a man now; from this time forward he would
go "heeled."
"No use your going back all that way to the pueblo," said the
storekeeper, "and it won't do your arm any good. I can let you sleep
here in an outhouse, and I've lots of sheepskins I've traded for that
you can spread down for a bed." The Indians despise soft mattresses, but
love to lie on skins.
For the next three days Felipe was Backus's guest. His wounded arm made
rapid progress towards recovery, and the boy spent his days either
squatting in the store with his blanket drawn round him, silently noting
all that went on, or in lounging round the corral, looking after
Backus's horse and practising aiming at a mark with his new toy. He
could not afford to waste his ammunition, but Backus showed him how to
put on old caps to save the tubes from the blow of the hammer, and by
snapping it thus he acquired a useful familiarity with his weapon.
* * * * *
For three days no tiding came to San Remo of Manuelita and her captors,
or of their pursuers. But on the fourth morning two young Mexicans came
spurring in from the westward, and reined up their weary horses before
one of the San Remo corrals. They were soon surrounded by eager
questioners, boys and women mostly, and the storekeeper and Felipe were
not long in joining the throng. The young men felt their own
importance, and dealt out their information gradually. No, there had
been nothing to call a fight, and no one was hurt, though there had been
some shots fired. Yes, the Señorita Manuelita Sanchez was all right. She
and the Americano, Don Estevan, and the Navajos were all coming home
together in one party; and Don Nepomuceno and Don Andrés with the rest
of the Mexicans were also coming home together, but by a different
route, and along with them were the Santiago trailers. The various
incidents of the expedition,--of the loss of the trail and of the
finding it again, of the renewed pursuit almost to the verge of the Lava
Beds, and of the meeting there between the party of Mexicans and the
returning Santiago trailers, who announced to them that Stephens, with
Manuelita and the Navajos, were already on their way back to San
Remo,--all these things had to be related at length and with impressive
detail. And then, their horses unsaddled and attended to, these young
men, who had been riding a good part of the night, slipped away to
contrive an interview with their sweethearts, to get quickly back to
whom they had ridden far and fast. The young men of San Remo were
neither laggards in love nor dastards in war.
"I think, mebbe, if I was you," said Backus to the young Indian, "I'd
contrive not to be here just when they arrive, but go off somewheres and
keep out of the way. If you have a notion in your head to do anything,
better not let folks see you, as it were, waiting for anyone--you
understand?"
Felipe understood perfectly. In the past three days he and Backus had
come to understand one another only too well; there was no formal
conspiracy between them; Backus was much too cautious to give himself
entirely away to any confederate, more especially to one so green and
inexperienced as this Indian boy, but each was perfectly aware of the
other's feelings towards the prospector.
"Why shouldn't you jes' go back to your folks for the rest of the day,"
continued Backus, "and let 'em know how you're getting on? Likely enough
the cacique and his son-in-law" (he always alluded to Stephens now as
the cacique's son-in-law) "will be going on up there too, and you might
chance to hear something interesting if you lie low. You can come back
down here again after dark if you like, and I'll do up your arm for you
as usual."
Felipe took the hint, and was off at once. The rest and good food, for
Backus treated him extremely well--it was part of his game--had quite
restored his strength, and except for having to carry his right arm in a
sling he felt fit for anything.
Later on in the morning arrived the main party of Mexicans, headed by
Don Nepomuceno and his son. They dispersed to their different houses to
dispose of their horses and be welcomed back by their families, but they
did not lay aside their arms, and it was not very long before they
reassembled at the Sanchez house in expectation of the arrival of the
other party. The cacique and his three fellow-tribesmen of Santiago
preferred not to await the return of the Navajos, but pushed on at once
for their own pueblo.
But, for the waiting Mexicans, hour after hour passed and no sign of the
Navajos or of Manuelita and Stephens appeared. The sun climbed high in
the heavens and sank slowly to the west, and still their coming was
delayed. True, their exact route was not known, but it was guessed (and
correctly guessed) that it was the short cut through the sierra, and if
so it was calculated that they should have arrived long before noon. The
anxiety became painful. All sorts of theories to account for the delay
were started. There had been a quarrel between Stephens and the Navajos;
they had killed him and Manuelita, or had at least made them captives
and carried them farther into the wilderness to a securer hiding-place.
Or Stephens and Manuelita had made their escape from them during the
night, and were now in hiding in the sierra, besieged there, perchance
in some cave, and defended by the deadly rifle of the American. Many
possible explanations were discussed, and many tales of Navajo treachery
recalled to mind; but there was nothing to be done except wait.
Yet the cause of the delay was perfectly simple, and the result of the
merest accident. When daylight came, and the sleeping band of Navajos
awoke to find that four of their horses had strayed off, the owners
immediately started on their trail to recover them, and till they
returned Mahletonkwa declined to budge. He absolutely refused to divide
his party, or to allow the American and the girl to proceed alone. Under
the circumstances there was nothing to be done but wait, and Stephens
determined to make the best of it. Hardy as he was, he could not but
feel the strain of the efforts he had been making, followed as they were
by a whole night on guard. He now left Manuelita to tend the fire and
keep a daylight watch; he threw himself on the ground, wrapped in his
blanket, under the shade of a bush, drew his hat over his eyes, and in
two minutes was fast asleep.
It was well into the afternoon when the four Navajos rode bareback into
camp with their truant steeds that had caused all this delay. Manuelita
saw them arrive, and was glad to think that the hour for their final
departure had come; once more she looked across where Stephens was still
sleeping, and seeing that the babbling talk of the Indians, who were
already saddling up, did not rouse him, she went over to where he lay
and laid her hand lightly on his shoulder.
"Oh, Don Estevan," she said in her softest voice; but it was as if she
had unwittingly touched the trigger of a gun. She was startled at the
suddenness with which he bounded to his feet, broad awake, rifle in
hand, the ominous click-clack of the lever sounding loud as he
instinctively threw in a cartridge from the magazine; his flashing eyes
darted one swift glance around, and then in an instant he recognised
that there was no need for disquiet.
"Pshaw!" he said in half-apology, "I guess I was dreaming. Sorry if I
startled you, señorita. I suppose I'm on my nerve a bit with all this
trouble there's been." He looked at the sun. "By George! but it's
afternoon already, and I thought I'd just lain down for a five-minutes'
nap. That over there means the Navajos have come in with the lost
horses, I suppose?" He indicated the busy folk a little way off, where
preparations for the start were going on.
"Yes," she answered, "they have but just arrived with them. That was why
I ventured to call you."
"They must have had the dickens of a chase after them; those Indian
ponies are beggars to stray," he remarked, carefully working the lever
so as to extract the cartridge from the chamber. "And there's nothing
happened, señorita, whilst I was asleep? All's quiet along the Potomac,
eh?"
"No," she answered, "nothing has happened. I think the Indians have
been rather suspicious that they might be attacked; they've most of them
been out in the brush all morning on the watch."
"And you've been on watch here by the camp-fire," he said, "and I've
been sleeping there like a log when I might have been talking to you";
he looked in her eyes with a smile as he rallied himself for his lack of
gallantry. "And you've made yourself smart for the home-coming, I see.
That's right, señorita. You're not going to play the poor captive, not
by no manner of means. We've just been out for a cheerful picnic party,
we have, like those high-toned tenderfoot outfits that come out from the
East and go to camping out in South Park with an escort of Utes to do
them honour. Well, well; the pleasantest picnics have got to come to an
end some time, and I see our escort under Mr. Mahletonkwa are really
thinking of starting. I'd better go and catch up Morgana, and then we'll
have you home in three hours. How's that for high?"