ELEVEN TO ONE
At sight of Rocky bleeding at his feet, something seemed suddenly to
snap in Stephens's brain, and the secret rage that had been consuming
him for days blazed out. This was open war at last, and the Navajos
themselves had begun it. It was their own choice.
"So now then," said he, "they shall have it."
Almost before Mahletonkwa could draw his dripping blade from his
victim's body, the American's strong grasp seized him and swung him
violently round. Stephens's right hand gripped the hilt of his great
hunting-knife, and with it he dealt the red man one terrible stroke as
with a sword. All the strength of his arm and all the wrath of his soul
went into that mighty sweep of the blade, and he felt the keen edge
shear right through bone and muscle as it clove the doomed man's breast
asunder and split his heart in twain. The dying yell of the Indian rent
the air with so piercing a sound that the women in the Sanchez house,
three furlongs off, heard it, and sprang trembling to their feet. With
both his hands the American raised his stricken foe aloft and flung him
clear away, a corpse before he touched ground.
It was all over in five seconds; but Stephens knew it could not end
there. This was no final blow in a single combat, it was rather the
first in one where the odds were still ten to one against him.
Mahletonkwa's followers were swiftly unslinging their guns, save four
who had sprung to their horses, whether to fight or fly he could not
tell. Like a flash the American's ready six-shooter was out from his
belt. Notalinkwa was nearest him, his gun already at his shoulder; but
the too careful Indian paused a moment on his aim to make sure, and that
pause was fatal. As the American's pistol came up level the hammer fell,
and Notalinkwa, shot through the heart, pitched heavily forward, and lay
there prone on the brown earth, biting it convulsively in the strong
death-agony.
With the rapidity of lightning the deadly weapon spoke again, and again,
and again, and as each jet of smoke and flame leapt from the muzzle,
each bullet, true to its mark, laid an enemy low. If Stephens thought at
all during those breathless seconds in which he sent foe after foe to
his last account, it was but to say to himself, "Quick, now, quick! Be
quick, but sure!"
Navajo rifle-balls whistled by him, but he felt no fear; there was no
room for that, for his whole soul now was bent upon one passionate
purpose,--to kill, kill, kill.
As the fourth Navajo dropped to his fourth shot, he saw the rest run,
and gave one wild shout of triumph, and even as his voice rang out his
fifth barrel went off, and down dropped yet another of the gang. It
seemed as though he could not miss a single shot to-day.
"Oh, Doctor," he cried, "oh, Doctor! quick here, Rocky's hurt!" but he
did not turn his head as he shouted to him to help his wounded friend.
The four Indians who had already mounted were off and away, and
Kaniache, the last of those who had turned to fight when Mahletonkwa was
slain, had now lost heart and was springing to horse to follow them.
What chance was there to fight against a man like this, on whom no
Navajo rifle-balls seemed to have any effect, but whose own unerring
bullets slew a victim at each shot? He was no mere man, but an avenging
fury.
Alas for Kaniache! the resolve to fly came too late. As he reached the
saddle Stephens raised his six-shooter for the last time, and the
foresight came into the V-notch of the hammer just below the red man's
shoulder blade as he turned to flee. The last of the six cartridges
spoke, once more the jet of flame and smoke leaped from the muzzle, and
Kaniache dropped forward on the neck of his steed, clutching blindly and
desperately at the mane. The horse bounded forward after the others that
had fled before him, his rider's hot blood pouring down his withers, and
dropping on to his knees at every stride. Then the desperate clutch
relaxed, and the death-stricken Kaniache pitched heavily to the ground,
and with loose rein the riderless steed galloped wildly across the
plain.
"Hurrah," shouted Stephens again as he darted to his mare, "hurrah! Run,
you dogs, run!"
The sweetest moment in a man's life is when he looks in the eyes of his
mistress and knows that his love is returned; the proudest is when he
sees in front of him his foes, but sees nothing but their backs. And to
Stephens both these things came in one hour.
He raised the rein, and Morgana bounded forward in pursuit. His eye
glancing around fell upon the figure of Doctor Benton just leaping from
the stage waggon, pistol in hand. He had heard the rapid shots before
he heard Stephens's shout, and his first impulse had been to catch up
his weapon and take his share in the fighting. But so quick had been the
deadly work that there was no one for him to turn loose on save the dead
or dying redskins who bestrewed the ground, and he paused as if
undecided what to do.
Stephens settled the question for him.
"Hurry up, there, Doc," he shouted over his shoulder to him, "hurry up,
or Rocky'll be dead." And looking back he saw the army surgeon run
across to where the prostrate white man lay.
Seeing this, he was satisfied skilled hands would do all that was
possible to save his old partner. For himself there was only one course,
to go on right to the bitter end as he had begun, and avenge on the
whole murderous gang the wanton knife-stroke of their chief,--ay, and
more, to avenge upon them, too, the terrors of Manuelita, and the murder
of that lonely wanderer in the mountains whom he and the whole lot of
them had so foully done to death beside the Lone Pine. For all that long
account, vengeance should be taken to the very last drop.
He looked ahead: the four fugitives were galloping a quarter of a mile
in front of him, making not for the sierra, but for the more open valley
of the Agua Negra. He was clearing the last of the San Remo houses now,
and as he did so he heard the thunder of horsehoofs on his right, and
two well-mounted Mexicans dashed forth from the corrals to join in the
pursuit. They were the same young men who the day before had ridden in
ahead of Don Nepomuceno's party to rejoin their sweethearts. They had
heard the firing begin, had seen the fray, and mounted in hot haste to
play their part.
"_Bueno!_" he shouted when he saw them, "_bueno_, boys! Wade in. We'll
give 'em a dose of it between us."
The Mexicans cheered back to him, and plied their quirts; Morgana was
going at three quarters racing speed, but they sent their horses along
from the start as if they were running a quarter-mile dash. The house
from which they came was a little to one side of the Indians' line of
flight, and they made for their line at such an angle that they gained a
decided advantage both on them and on the American, and were enabled to
cut ahead of the latter. The fugitives, hearing the shouts, and looking
back and becoming aware of these new pursuers, at once began to flog,
but the rearmost Navajo's horse could not answer to the whip, and the
tremendous pace at which the Mexicans had started carried them right up
to within fifty yards of him.
Out came their revolvers, bang, bang, bang! they went at him, and again,
bang, bang, bang! But such wild firing as this over the heads of
galloping horses is random work at best, and the Navajo went on
scathless.
"_Esperate! Esperate!_" sang out Stephens from behind. "You're wasting
your ammunition. Wait till you're closer, boys." But in spite of his
wiser counsels he still heard them firing away, bang, bang, bang!
Young blood soon gets hot in the chase; and then Stephens saw a curious
sight. Bang went the leading Mexican's revolver once more, and this time
the bullet, better aimed or more lucky, found its mark. The Navajo's
horse was seen to stagger and stumble and then come down, the rider
leaping nimbly off over its head; he lit on his feet like a cat, and he
held his bow and some arrows in his left hand; in the twinkling of an
eye he was ready for them, and as the Mexicans rode headlong at him he
slapped an arrow into the first and brought him heavily to the ground;
like lightning a second arrow was fitted to the string, and he let fly
again, and the arrow buried itself to the feather in the breast of the
second man's horse, and horse and rider both fell almost on top of him.
The Navajo caught the rein of the first man's horse with which to resume
his flight, while the second Mexican was still struggling with his
fallen steed; and so marvellously quick and adroit was he that he must
have succeeded in getting away but for the American. The moment Stephens
saw the arrow-stricken horse roll over, he drew rein, and in half a
dozen strides brought his mare to a standstill. He would not jerk her on
to her haunches, for he was saving her strength for what promised to be
a long chase. Before she had actually stopped he was on the ground,
rifle in hand, and ready to shoot. Then, as the Indian was bounding to
the saddle of the captured horse, the deadly rifle came up, and the
momentary poise of the bent body, as he threw his leg over, gave to the
marksman the fatal opportunity. The rifle cracked, and the conical
bullet tore clean through the Navajo's vitals and passed out at his
right breast. His dexterous manoeuvre had been all in vain, and he fell
forward under the horse's feet, and his spirit took flight to join that
of his slain chief who had gone so little before him.
Stephens leaped into the saddle again, and galloped up. The unwounded
Mexican had freed himself unhurt from his prostrate mount, and was now
trying to draw the arrow from his friend.
"Go on, you," he cried to Stephens as the latter checked his speed, "go
on, you, and kill _los demonios_, kill them all." The American took him
at his word, and away darted Morgana again in her stretching gallop.
There were only three redskins left now, and they were some distance
ahead, but the gallant little Morgan mare pressed steadily after them.
The foam flakes began to fly from her bit, but she was full of spirit
and going strong. He glanced down at his waist and saw the bright copper
tops of the row of unused cartridges that encircled it. Stephens was one
of those men who grow cold as they grow hot. His brain was like molten
metal under a crust of ice. Shifting reins and rifle into one hand, he
composedly felt the belt all round with the other; there was but one
vacant loop, and this assured him that there were thirty-nine more there
in reserve.
"Seven Indians in seven shots," said he cynically; "that must come
pretty near making a record. Well, if I can only keep up that lick now!"
His relentless eye measured the gap between him and his flying foes.
With joy he noted that it was decreasing, for his whole soul longed to
close with them and slay, slay, slay.
This blood thirst in him was a new thing. He had been in battles before,
but he had never felt like this. The strained nerve, the hot fever of
strife, the passionate will to win, none of these sensations were new to
him, though he had not known them since the day of Apache Cañon. But
when Coloradans and Texans met in conflict he had not felt as he did
now. He had had no race feeling against foes whom he looked upon as
Western men like himself. He had no personal wrongs to avenge upon them;
all he wanted was to send them back to where they came from; to stop
them from conquering the Rocky Mountain country and breaking up the
Union; in short, he only wanted to hammer them back into brotherhood.
This was a different thing; now there was a fire burning in his veins
that would not be satisfied till the last one of his enemies lay dead at
his feet. It was not merely victory he wanted, but vengeance. The
shedders of the innocent blood, that cried against them from the ground,
should be utterly wiped out from the face of the earth. He would not
leave one of them alive.
And ever the game little Morgan mare strode bravely along, and now his
heart leaped to perceive that the Indians were losing more and more
rapidly the advantage they had gained at the start. By this time there
was distinctly less than a quarter of a mile between him and them.
"Good for you, Pedro," he cried, as he noted the gain the mare was
making; "you didn't stint her feed last night. Don Nepomuceno's corn
sticks by your ribs, little lady"; and at the sound of her master's
voice Morgana pricked her ears and strode out more bravely than ever. He
had not touched her yet with the spur.
Overnight Mahletonkwa and his gang had betaken themselves some little
distance down the Santiago River to enjoy themselves in their own way
with the illicit whiskey they had procured from the storekeeper, and
there they had turned their ponies loose to graze. There was rich green
grass in the moist swales along the river-bed, and their steeds had
feasted on it. The young April grass tells its tale in a long gallop,
and Stephens began to see that their horses were already in distress. He
gave his bridle-rein a shake, and touched Morgana with the spur; right
gallantly she responded, and the gap now diminished fast. He was
overhauling them hand over hand. He turned his head and looked back; he
could see for miles behind him, but there was no one in sight. No doubt
as soon as they could get together there would be many Mexican friends
who would take up his trail and follow it, eager to help, but that could
not be for some time yet. Once more it was his lot to play a lone hand.
And still the gap grew less; the Indians looked back oftener and
oftener, and their whips were plied mercilessly all the time. Only a
bare hundred yards separated him from them now.
Stephens kept his eye glued to them, expecting them every instant to
jump off and receive him with a volley. That certainly seemed to be the
best game for them to play, as their horses were so nearly done. The
question was, would they try it? If they did, he too must leap off and
shoot as quick as they. The Winchester, he thought, would give the three
of them shot for shot and something over.
But to stand up to it and give and take shot for shot was not the
Indians' style of doing business. They had no spirit left in them to
face this terrible man in the open; just here, however, the trail
approached a spot more suitable to their methods of fighting. A bold and
lofty butte, a landmark known far and wide as the Cerro Chato, rose
abruptly a little to one side of the trail, and the Navajos suddenly
swung off to the right and made for it, hoping to gain the shelter of
the broken masses of rock that were strewn about its base, and from that
vantage-ground defy their merciless pursuer.
Stephens divined their object the moment they turned for the butte; he
also changed his course, and he now spurred freely and spoke to the mare
and encouraged her with his voice. The staunch Morgan blood answered to
the call; there was a spurt still left in her, and she fairly raced them
for the rocks. But though she was doing all she knew, the Indians got
there first. They sprang to earth, and as they did so Stephens did the
same, scarce fifty yards behind them. They darted for hiding to the
cleft of rocks; two got there, but one was too late; just as he reached
his goal the leaden messenger outwent him, and he felt the crippling
blow; it caught him in the thigh as he ran, and the broken limb gave way
under him; still, on his hands and knees, he dragged himself desperately
forward almost into the longed-for haven of refuge, but another bullet,
pumped up from the magazine, followed all too swiftly on the first, and
broke his spine, and a third gave the merciful _coup-de-grâce_ and put
him out of his pain.
"There's something mighty persuasive about a Winchester," jeered
Stephens, hastily throwing in another cartridge as he rushed forward,
and casting just one glance at the body as he passed. The persuasive
repeating rifle had pumped lead to some purpose into White Antelope.
Never again would he see the rich valleys of the Chusca Mountains where
so often he had roamed with his tribe; no more would he tend his flock,
like the patriarch of old, and lead from pasture to water, and from
water to pasture the spotted and ringstreaked herd of many-horned sheep
whose innocent faces he knew so well. Here, under the Cerro Chato,
coyotes and eagle-hawks would pick his bones, and the little booth of
boughs where his squaw and his papooses waited for him--the little booth
that to each wandering son of the desert stands for home--would never
see him more.
War is cruel work. The renegade Navajo band had brought this on
themselves, and richly deserved what they got, yet, take it all round,
retribution, however just, is a butcherly job.
"Two more left, and I'm bound to rub it in," said Stephens, plunging in
amongst the rocks lest the pair who had already found cover should take
advantage of his exposed position outside.
Above them the butte rose abruptly to a height of two or three hundred
feet, but the face of it was so much broken down that the fallen
fragments had made a slope half way up it, while the largest detached
blocks had rolled in numbers to the very bottom and lay confusedly
heaped together or loosely scattered around.
"It's pretty near as good a place for these sons of guns as the Lava
Beds," he said; "only, thank my stars, there aren't so many of them now.
Yet, I've got to go to work mighty cautious here, or else I'll give
myself away for good and all." He wiped his streaming face as he
crouched behind a rock for a minute or two to recover his breath and
decide on the next move.
"Git 'em!" he went on, "I've got to git 'em, as the boy said; and
there's no two ways about it. But how am I going to git 'em? that's the
next question. If I stand straight up and try to walk right on to them,
they're simply bound to have the deadwood on me. There'd be no show at
all for me in that game. I've got to try and play it more their own
style."
Very cautiously, foot by foot, surveying the ground on every side at
each change of position, he began to move around. Dead silence reigned,
broken here by no war-whoops as in the Lava Beds; the desperate red men
were biding their time; hid in the rocks they knew their advantage, and
reckoned at last to turn the tables on their pursuer with a vengeance.
The hot sun blazed down on him as the American patiently crept from the
shelter of one rock to another, but neither sign nor sound of his
enemies could he detect. Out on the plain he could see that his mare had
joined the horses abandoned by the Indians, and was making friends with
them. They were getting over the effects of their gallop already, and
were beginning to try a nibble at the grass.
"Make friends with them as much as you like, little lady," said he,
apostrophising the mare; "it's all right for you, though I can't--at
least not yet. There's eleven thousand peaceable Navajos living on their
reservation that I'm quite ready to be friends with, but this band of
cutthroats has got to be wiped clean out. 'Hit hard when you do hit,'
was old Grant's motto every time, and I reckon he knew pretty well what
he was about."
On he moved again, warily searching each hole and cranny where the great
rocks had fallen against each other and formed shelters.
Suddenly, as he paused a moment in his advance, listening, there came to
his ears from far away a welcome, well-known sound. It was the voice of
a dog giving tongue on the trail.
"Faro, by all the powers!" he cried. "Why, he must have heard the
shooting at the store and come a-running to see what was up, and then
not finding me there he's taken the trail of the mare."
Straining his eyes he discerned a dark spot advancing over the plain;
nearer it came and nearer, and then was heard a joyful bark of
recognition as the dog rushed up to the head of the grazing mare and
greeted her vociferously. But soon, not finding with her the master whom
he loved best of all, he left her, and questing round he came upon his
trail where Stephens had dismounted to shoot, and again he eagerly gave
tongue and came running towards the rocks. But at the body of White
Antelope he checked.
"Now," said Stephens, standing with his back against a rock, with his
rifle cocked and ready, "if those sons of guns lay themselves out to
shoot him they're bound to give me a chance to spot where they are, and
I'll see if I can't give them what for."
Keeping his eye on the alert for any move of theirs, he gave a sharp
whistle. But the hidden red men, though they both heard him and saw the
dog, would not take the risk of exposing themselves to his deadly aim,
and in another minute the excited bulldog was leaping up and fawning on
the master to whom he was devoted, as if to reproach him for having left
his most faithful ally behind.
Stephens patted and encouraged him, making him understand that there was
game afoot, and, warily as if stalking a deer, took him back to where
White Antelope lay stiff and stark. As he smelt the blood again Faro
growled and his bristles rose; his master encouraged him till the dog
knew what he meant; the game they were after was not deer--it was men.
He took up the scent of the two Navajos who had escaped into the rocks,
and followed it with his hackles erect. In and out among the labyrinth
of tumbled rocks he led the way, and Stephens kept up with him as best
he could without exposing himself too recklessly. The trail grew hotter
and hotter, till on a sudden Faro turned sharply aside and dashed out of
sight behind a huge boulder; instantly there followed his loud, angry
bark, and a half-stifled cry of human rage.
With his rifle raised nearly to his shoulder, Stephens put his head
round the angle of the boulder, to see an Indian standing almost within
arm's length of him with his back against the rock, angrily striking
with his gun at the dog, who was baying furiously as he sprang from side
to side to avoid the blows. Stephens had no time to look around to see
where the other redskin was, for at sight of him the Navajo,
disregarding the dog, raised his rifle and fired, and the Winchester
cracked almost in the same instant. So close were the two to one another
that the burst of flame and powder smoke from the Indian's piece
momentarily blinded the American.
"I must be done for now," was the despairing thought that flashed
through his mind in the utter helplessness of loss of sight; yet he felt
no wound, and blind as he was he instinctively threw in a fresh
cartridge for a second shot. Then his smarting eyes began to recover
themselves; hope came back; he was not blinded; he found himself able to
see again, though with difficulty; and there at his feet was the body of
the Navajo and the dog worrying him. He flung himself on the pair to
protect, if need be, his ever faithful ally, but need was none. His
bullet had gone home, and the Navajo was sped. He dragged the infuriated
bulldog from his prey.
"Luck's all," said he, dashing the water from his eyes. "I don't know
how I came to plug him so squarely; I never even saw the sights; I
thought I was a goner that journey, sure."
He looked around with restored vision to try if he could descry the last
of the gang, but there was no sign of him visible; it seemed as if the
pair must either have separated somehow before he and Faro came up to
their hiding-place, or else the survivor had fled on his companion's
fall.
"And that's lucky for me, too," said Stephens, "for he could just have
socked it into me as he liked when I was blinded with all that powder
smoke."
"Come on then, Faro," he continued, patting the dog, and encouraging him
to take up the trail again. "One more, and our job's done. Hie on, old
man, he can't be far away."
With eager pride the dog began questing anew for the scent, nosing
inquisitively to right and to left, and Stephens, as before, followed
him warily. They did not have to go far before the dog's stiffening
bristles showed that the enemy was near. Three great detached masses of
stone, fallen together haphazard, so bore against each other as to leave
underneath a low, dark, cavernous recess, and into the mouth of this the
dog dashed without a pause. The fierce sounds of conflict that instantly
followed proved that it was the hiding-place of the hunted man.
For one anxious moment Stephens doubted whether to shoot or no, but
standing outside in the bright light he could see nothing clear in the
dark recess, and to shoot at random into it was to hazard killing his
own friend. Then there came a loud howl from Faro, and unhesitatingly he
drew his knife, dropped on all-fours, and laying the rifle aside threw
himself head first into the cave, and in the darkness grappled for his
foe. His left hand, thrust forward, seized an arm of the other, and
swiftly in reply came the sharp, cold pang of a knife drawn across the
back of it, and the warm gush of blood following the cut. As he felt the
wound, his right hand instinctively let go of his own knife and seized
the wrist of the hand wielding the blade that had cut him, the redskin
frantically striving to get the hand free to deal him a fatal stab.
The two men had clinched for the death-grapple, and in their furious
struggles they dashed one another against the sides and roof of the
narrow cave. Dear life hung in the balance, and both knew it well.
Stephens's left hand had no grip left in it, but he could use the arm to
bear down his opponent, while his strong right hand held on like a vice
to the wrist it had seized, and kept the deadly blade from being plunged
into him. Mute as wolves they battled for the mastery; the sweat poured
off them like rain, and their breath came in short, hard pants. Then
with joy Stephens felt that his right hand was overpowering his enemy's
and with all his might he dashed the Indian's hand and the knife it held
so violently against the rough rock wall that the blade snapped short
off at the haft. One despairing effort the active red man made to twist
himself clear, but in the narrow space his litheness was of no avail,
and by sheer strength Stephens got him under and turned him on his face.
A short moment they paused, exhausted and breathless, when suddenly the
American released the other's wrist and clutched him by the throat.
Writhe as he might the Indian could not throw him off, nor relax that
fatal grip that was choking the very life out of him. Gradually he
ceased to struggle, and Stephens knew now that victory was his; with a
final effort he raised himself on one knee on the red man's back, and
quickly shifting the grip of his right hand from the throat to the top
of the head, with a sharp, hard jerk and backward wrench he broke his
neck. A convulsive quiver ran through his enemy's limbs, and then died
away. The last of the renegade gang was dead.
Bruised, battered, and bleeding, the victor dragged himself from out the
cave that had so nearly been his tomb. The fight was finished, he had
no enemies left, and he lay there weak and unstrung, his head resting on
his blood-stained hands. "Why can't men be brothers?" he said. "But they
would have it. They began. I didn't want to kill them. I wonder is Rocky
dead? They're all good Indians now, anyway."
A dead Indian is reckoned a good Indian throughout the West. He can be
trusted not to do any mischief.
His strength returning, he drew out the body of Faro from the cave, and
felt him all over; he had been dashed senseless against the wall of the
cave and three of his ribs were injured, but his heart still beat; he
was not completely done for.
"Worth a whole herd of dead dogs yet," said his master, gently rubbing
the brindled back which at first he had feared was broken. "A blacktail
buck has used you up as bad before now." He fondled his head, and the
dog, coming to, made a feeble attempt to lick his hand. "We'll find a
way to tote you home, never fear, old man," he continued; "and it's odd
if we can't scare up a nurse to fix you good when we get back."
He examined his own body; he was scraped and skinned by the rough rocks,
and his shirt was torn half off him in the last struggle with the
Indian; but except for the one severe knife-gash, which he carefully
bound up, he had no serious wound.
He looked for his mare. She was grazing peacefully where he had left
her, with her bridle trailing, as a hunter's horse should do. He looked
away beyond her, far across the burning plain.
"I've played this hand alone," said he; "but I'm thinking it's getting
about time for those San Remo folks to chip in."
And then in the distance, through the shimmering mirage that wavered
before the eye, he saw a little cloud of dust arise like a travelling
whirlwind.
He watched it; it was not one of nature's whirlwinds, for it came
straight on up the trail, fast and steady. Men made that whirlwind, and
soon they were near enough to be distinguished.
It was Don Andrés and a strong band of Mexicans riding like the Old
Harry to the rescue.
"But I played it alone, for all that," he said.