A MESSAGE FROM STELLA.
Dick had some difficulty in keeping his seat on the pony's back, for he
could not hold on to the cantle of the saddle, and Spraddle wabbled
dreadfully, as he stumbled among the bowlders in the coulee.
But before long they were out on the prairie again, and Dick observed
that they were headed toward the mountains.
They had several miles to go to reach the mountains, and it was just
getting dusk when they entered upon a broad and beautiful valley, which,
as it ran east and west, was flooded with the light from the setting
sun.
Here the Indian turned in the saddle and looked at Dick with a
malevolent smile.
"Turn white boy loose," he grunted.
Dick twisted around, and the Indian untied the cord that bound his
wrists.
"White boy try to run away, I kill um," said the Indian, showing his
teeth in a horrible look of ferocity that chilled Dick to the bone.
"All right," he said; "I'll not try to run away again."
"Kill um if do," growled the Indian, hissing, at the pony, which is the
Indian way of making a pony go forward, and means the same as a white
man's "Get up!"
Dick was dreadfully hungry, but he said nothing, clinging to the cantle
of the saddle with both hands, for the pony was now loping.
They had gone up the valley for several miles, when suddenly the Indian
turned aside down a dark and narrow defile, still at a lope.
Even Dick realized the danger of this, for the floor of the defile was
covered with large, loose stones, over which Spraddle was continually
stumbling, for he had come a long way and was tired, besides the added
weight of the Indian was more than he was accustomed to carry.
It had grown very dark, and Dick could not see the pony's ears when he
twisted around to look past the Indian.
He knew that it was to be a moonlight night, but the moon was not up
yet, and would not be for an hour or more. In fact, it was doubtful if
the light of the moon would penetrate to the bottom of the defile until
it was high in the heavens, so deep was the defile and so steep its
walls.
Dick had given up wondering and worrying, and had forced himself to be
content with his situation, as he knew that he could not better it any.
Suddenly he became aware that the Indian was asleep, for he was drooping
in the saddle, and was breathing deeply and steadily.
Now, thought Dick, was the time to escape, if any. He tried to slip from
the pony's back, but in an instant the Indian was awake, and, reaching
around, grasped Dick's wrist, twisting it until the boy gave a sharp cry
of pain.
The Indian slipped from the back of the pony, and again bound Dick's
wrists behind him, and with a grunt climbed into the saddle and urged
Spraddle on, slapping him across the face with the end of the rein.
"Don't you do that," cried Dick, who never abused Spraddle himself, and
couldn't stand it to see any one else, particularly a dirty Indian, beat
his pet.
"White boy shut up, or Pokopokowo beat him plenty," growled the Indian.
"If you dare beat me, Ted Strong will fix you when he gets you," said
Dick hotly.
But the Indian only laughed, and continued to beat poor Spraddle over
the face, to the pain and anger of Dick, who, however, realized that he
was absolutely helpless.
But Pokopokowo was soon to be paid for his cruelty, and by poor Spraddle
himself.
Spraddle, stung by the blows, was stumbling along at a good pace over
the bowlders that lay in his way, with the Indian urging him faster all
the time.
Suddenly there was a great heave. Spraddle went down, almost turning a
somersault, as his tired feet struck a larger bowlder than he had
encountered before.
The Indian, who was dozing again, shot over his head as if from a
catapult, and Dick went sprawling forward over the saddle onto the neck
of the pony.
Fortunately, the pony righted itself in time to save Dick from a hard
fall, and he stayed on Spraddle's back, talking to him gently.
At the sound of Dick's voice the pony became quiet, and Dick half
sprawled, half fell to the ground. The boy was in a pretty bad fix, for
the Indian had tied his hands securely. He thought of ways by which he
might cut the cord, but it seemed hopeless. He had heard somewhere of
bound men releasing themselves by wearing their bonds asunder against
the rough edge of a rock, and determined to try it for himself.
If he could only get his hands free, he might escape yet. Backing up to
the wall of the cañon, he felt with his hands for a rock, and soon knew
that he was against one. As he sawed his hands back and forth, he was
listening for some sound from the Indian, but heard none.
Could it be that the fall had killed Pokopokowo?
To his joy, he felt the cord part, and his hands were free. At that
moment there came a flood of light into the defile, for the moon had
risen overhead.
Lying on the floor of the defile, lay the Indian, with a deep gash
across his forehead, where it had struck a sharp rock. His ugly face was
covered with blood, making it additionally hideous.
By the side of the Indian lay Dick's precious rifle, and he stooped to
pick it up. As he did so, something glistened beside it, and Dick picked
it up.
It was the little, round mirror that the Indian had worn around his
neck. Dick pocketed it for proof of his adventure when he should again
reach camp, and, picking up his rifle, climbed upon Spraddle's back,
turned him around, and drove down the defile.
When he reached the open valley it was as bright as day, and under his
coaxing and kind words the tired little pony, relieved of the Indian's
weight, picked up his feet and set forth at a brisk pace into the west,
in which direction Dick knew the cow camp lay.
It was almost daylight when Bill McCall, the cook, roused from his
blankets to begin the preparations for breakfast. He leaped to his feet
and listened.
Not far away he heard the sound of the pony's footsteps approaching.
Bill was an old cow-puncher, and he knew instantly that the pony was
tired, and that he was under saddle, and also that the saddle was
occupied.
The footsteps came nearer, and just as they were close to the camp
daylight came on with a rush, as it does on the plains, and Bill gave a
great shout of joy which brought every puncher in camp scrambling out of
his blankets, for there rode in a very tired little boy on a very tired
little, pony.
The boy was pale and tired from hunger and his long hours in the saddle,
and it was all the pony could do to stagger in.
"It's little Dick," shouted Bud. "Well, jumpin' sand hills, whar
you-all been all night? Takin' a leetle pleasure pasear?"
"Oh, Bud, I'm so tired and hungry," said Dick, as Bud lifted him from
the saddle.
"Here you, Bill, git busy in a hurry. This kid ain't hed nothin' ter eat
in a week. He's 'most starved. Bile yer coffee double-quick, an' git up
a mess o' bacon an' flapjacks pretty dern pronto, if yer don't want me
ter git inter yer wool."
Bud was rubbing the cold and chafed wrists of the boy beside the fire,
which one of the boys had replenished. The boys surrounded little Dick
with many inquiries, but Bud shooed them away.
"Don't yer answer a bloomin' question until yer gits yer system packed
with cooky's best grub. I reckon, now, yer could eat erbout eighteen o'
them twelve-inch flapjacks what Bill makes, an' drink somethin' like a
gallon o' ther fust coffee what comes out o' ther pot."
Little Dick smiled, as he watched with glistening eyes the rapid
movements of Bill McCall as he hustled over his fire, the air redolent
with the odors of coffee and bacon and griddle cakes, so that his mouth
fairly watered.
When Bill shouted breakfast, Ted and Bud sat Dick down and loaded his
plate with good things, which he caused to disappear in a hurry.
But after a while he was stuffed like a Christmas turkey, and put his
tin plate away with a sigh, and absolutely cleaned.
"Now," said Ted, when he saw this good sign, "where have you been all
day and all night? We've been scared about you. Thought we had lost you,
too."
Dick went ahead with his story from the very beginning, and told of the
downfall of Pokopokowo, and his escape, and of his all-night ride into
the west, to accidentally stumble, at daylight, into camp.
The boys listened in amazement to this record of courage on the part of
its youngest member, and some seemed to doubt the Indian part of it.
"Sho, yer dreamin', kid," said Sol Flatbush, the cow-puncher. "Thar
ain't no Injuns like that in this yere part o' ther country. Why, an
Injun wouldn't dare carry off a kid like that."
"You don't believe it, eh?" exclaimed Dick hotly.
"I believe yer," said Bud soothingly, for the boy was very nervous from
being up all night and his hard ride, which would have taxed the
energies of a grown man. "Don't yer mind what thet ole pelican says. He
ain't got no more sense than a last year's bird's nest, nohow."
"The Indian had this around his neck," said Dick, "and when he fell it
came loose from his neck, and I picked it up, for I thought some one
might think I wasn't telling the truth. Now, I'm tired, and I can't keep
my eyes open."
His head began to nod, and his eyes closed.
Bud picked him up and carried him to a pair of blankets which had been
spread on the shady side of Mrs. Graham's tent, and laid him down and
left him dead to the world.
Dick had placed the little, round looking-glass in Ted's hand.
As he took it, Ted uttered an exclamation.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I believe this is the little glass Stella used
to carry in her pocket. Why, what is this?"
Ted was holding the little mirror up to the sky, apparently in an
endeavor to look through it.
"What is it?" asked Bud, approaching the fire.
"Dick has brought back Stella's little pocket mirror," said Ted. "I'd
know it anywhere. But the back has been torn off it."
"Tooken off ther neck o' an Injun?" said Bud, dropping his usual jolly
manner. "I thought yer said thar wa'n't no bad Injuns eround yere, Sol
Flatbush. What d'yer make o' that?"
Sol Flatbush got a little pale.
"Thar ain't none," he said. "All ther Injuns on the reservation is
peaceable. They knows they couldn't do no monkey business with all them
sojers at Fort Sill."
"Yet here's a kid run off with by an Injun, and he brings back a pocket
mirror what belonged to Stella Fosdick. Sol Flatbush, ye've got ter give
a better defense o' ther Injuns than that."
"What hev I got ter do with ther Injuns?" asked Flatbush defiantly.
"Search me. But ye've made a wrong diagnosis, an' I don't like yer brand
o' talk none. I think myself thet yer too friendly ter ther redskins."
"What d'ye mean?" cried Flatbush, springing to his feet.
"I mean thet I don't trust yer none. I think ye're a skunk, an' I don't
like ter see yer face eround this yere camp. How much do this outfit owe
yer?"
"Three months' wage," answered the cow-puncher sourly.
Bud went down into his leather pouch and extracted a roll of bills, and
skinned off several.
"Thar it is. Skidoo! An' don't try ter mingle with this outfit none
hereafter. Thar'll be a new foreman o' ther night herd what ain't got so
many friends in this yere locality."
"What d'yer mean by that?" Flatbush's hand sprang to his side.
But Bud was quicker, and in the flash of an eye had the muzzle of his
six-shooter under the nose of the night foreman, who shrank from it.
"I mean thet yer a crook, an' I'll give yer jest three minutes ter rope
yer hoss an' git."
Flatbush turned and hurried to the remuda, caught and saddled his horse,
and rode out of camp.
"I've had my eye on that maverick fer quite some time," said Bud,
turning to the boys after he had watched Flatbush fade into the
distance. "I've suspected him o' turnin' off our cattle every night. I
haven't caught him at it, or thar wouldn't've been no necessity o'
chasin' him out. He'd've gone feet foremost."
"What do you think of it, Bud?" asked Ted, handing the little mirror
over to the golden-haired puncher.
Bud took it in his hand, and looked at it a long time.
"It shore is Stella's," he said. "I reckernize it by this leetle dent on
ther side o' it."
He was holding it in the palm of his hand, looking down at it intently.
"Hello, what's this?" Bud held the mirror against the sleeve of his blue
shirt.
"Pipin' pelicans," he muttered, "if thar ain't some kind o' a pitcher on
it."
Ted went to his side and looked at the mirror.
"I believe you're right," he said. "Let me look at it."
"What do you make of it?" asked Bud.
All the boys crowded around, watching Ted eagerly.
"This is evidently intended for the picture of a stone wall," said Ted,
"and that wavy line behind it is meant for mountains."
"What's that?" asked Bud, pointing to the picture.
"I guess it is meant for a hole in the stone wall," said Ted.
"Wow!" said Bud. "That's as easy as livin' on a farm. Don't yer see? It
is a message from the Hole in the Wall."
"By Jove, you're right. The Hole in the Wall in the Wichita Mountains."
"What is that right below it?"
"It looks like a star. It is a star."
"It is Stella's signature," said Ben. "Stella is the Latin for star.
Don't you see, she has sent this message out from the Hole in the Wall,
where she is a prisoner? It's as plain as day to me."
"You're right," shouted Ted. "Into your saddles, boys; we're off to the
Hole in the Wall at once."