Before long, Murray came back with the results of his hunting expedition.
"A fine fat doe," said Steve, when his friend threw down his game in
front of the fire.
"Now for a cooking time," replied Murray, "and then we must have a good
nap."
"I'll do a little eating, too, while I'm cooking."
Neither of them neglected that duty, but Murray took the two plump
hind-quarters of the doe and roasted them whole.
How?--with no stove, no oven, no kitchen tools of any sort or
description?
Two forked sticks were set firmly in the ground on either side, in front
of the fire, and a strong stick laid across from fork to fork at about
four feet from the ground. Then a leg of venison, hung to this
cross-piece by a thong of raw deer-skin, was turned round and round
until the thong would twist no tighter. When it was let go, the weight
of the meat kept it from untwisting too fast.
This was precisely what our great-grandmothers used to call a
"roasting-jack," and all it required was that somebody should wind it up
when it ran down, so that the meat would be evenly done all over.
Meantime the broiling and eating of smaller pieces went right on. Their
long ride and hard work had given Steve and Murray both good appetites.
"Now, Steve, lie down. Sleep all you can."
"Sha'n't you take a rest?"
"Don't need much. Young eyes call for more sleep than old ones. Never
mind me. I'll call you when the time comes."
Steve was used to obeying Murray, and was glad enough to do so now. He
was quickly asleep under a spreading tree, while Murray sat down before
the fire, as if to "mind the roast."
There was something more important than venison for him to think of,
however. He had taken off his hat, and his white head was bare. With the
strong light of the camp fire shining upon his weather-beaten face, he
would have made a good subject for a painter.
He was thinking deeply, so deeply that at last he thought aloud:
"I am a white man. I've been an Indian long enough. Yes, I think I'll
try it. That would be better than killing all the Apaches between this
and the California line."
He did not explain what it was he meant to try, but the stern expression
on his face grew milder and milder, until it almost seemed as if he were
smiling. Even Steve Harrison had never seen him do that.
The venison roasts were wound up, twisted tight again and again, and at
last they were taken off.
"They'll do. I'll give 'em an hour to cool, and then we must be off."
The hour went by, and then Steve felt himself rudely shaken by the
shoulder.
"You can't have it," grumbled Steve. "That gold's ours. I killed it
myself, and we're roasting it now."
"Dreaming, are you? Wake up, Steve. It's time we were moving. We've a
long night ride before us."
"How late is it?"
"No watch; can't say exactly. But I reckon we can reach the valley by
sunrise, and not overwork our horses. They're both in good condition."
The two wiry, swift-footed mustangs, in spite of all they had been
through, were ready now for another long pull, but they were likely to
stand it better in the cool night hours than under the hot sun. In a few
minutes more the two friends were in the saddle.
They had not ridden far before Murray suddenly exclaimed,
"I'm going to do a queer thing, Steve Harrison."
"You won't go back to the Lipans?"
"Queerer than that. I'm going to ride straight in among that band of
Apaches."
"What for?"
"I can't exactly say as yet. Will you go with me?"
"Anywhere."
It turned out that Murray was nearly right in his calculation of the
time they would reach the valley. It was just as the light of the
rising sun grew strong and bright that he and Steve stood on the slope
at the lower edge of the forest, and looking through the spy-glass saw
the white tilts of the two wagons of the miners.
"They've roused up early," said Murray.
"Looks as if they were setting out on a hunt or a scout."
"So it does. There they go. Steve, we must ride after those fellows."
"What for?"
"To stop 'em. They'll only run their heads against the Apaches, and
leave their camp to be plundered by the Lipans."
"They're in a trap, Murray."
"Come on, Steve!"
But the distance was not less than a couple of miles, and the miners had
prepared beforehand for that "early start." It was all against the will
of Captain Skinner, and the bad temper he was in only made him start
more promptly and ride faster.
"Tell ye what, boys," he said to the rest, as they galloped on behind
him, "I'll give ye all the scouting you want this morning."
At that moment Murray was saying, "We must catch those fellows and send
them back. What are they going so fast for? Why, it'll be a regular
race."
It was very much like one after a little. Steve and Murray rode rapidly,
but it takes a great deal of swift running to catch up with men who have
more than two miles the start.
"We'll catch 'em, Murray."
"If we don't, it'll be a bad race for them. I kind o' feel as if the
lives of those men were the prize we're riding for."
Mile after mile went by, and the excitement of it grew to be something
terrible.
"The Apaches can't be far ahead of 'em now, Murray."
"Hark! Hear that?"
"A rifle-shot! A whoop!"
"They are pulling up."
"They'd better. I'm afraid we're too late, Murray."
"On--on, Steve! Maybe there's time yet."
Captain Skinner had already seen and heard enough to make him halt, and
he was gathering his men rapidly into close order, when a long, ringing
shout behind him drew his anxious eyes from the dangerous-looking
"signs" now gathering in his front.
Signs?
Yes, danger signs. Wild, dark, painted horsemen, riding hither and
thither and nearer and nearer, growing more and more numerous every
moment.
These were the signs that Many Bears and his warriors meant to stand
between any approaching enemy and the camp of their squaws and children.
The shout was from Murray.
"Don't shoot!"
In a few seconds more the old man was reining in his panting mustang
among the startled and gloomy-faced miners.
"Where did you drop from?" was the cool, steady question of Skinner.
"Never you mind. Is Bill here?"
"He and his two mates are on guard at the camp. I know ye now. You're
them two mining fellers. You met Bill and--"
"Yes, I met Bill, but there's no time for talk now. You take your men
straight back to camp. It's the only show you've got left."
"Reckon we can beat off a few beggarly Apaches."
"Don't talk. Ride for your camp. If you get there before the Lipans do,
take your wagons into the pass, and stay there till they get by. Don't
strike a blow at them. They'd be too much for ye."
"Lipans? Going for our camp? Boys, 'bout face! Ride for your lives!"
For so small a man he had a great deal of voice, and his command was
instantly obeyed, but he paused long enough to ask of Steve and Murray,
"What about you two?"
"Us? We'll stay and keep the Apaches from chasing you."
"Won't they scalp you?"
"Not a bit. But there's one thing you may do. If by any chance you have
a talk with the Lipans, you tell them where you saw us last. Tell the
chief from me that No Tongue and Yellow Head are all right, only their
horses are tired following your trail and the Apaches."
"Hope I won't meet him. You're the queerest pair I ever saw; but I wish
the boys had let me follow out the word you sent in by Bill."
"Too late now. Ride out of this the best gait your horse knows."
This was good advice, and Captain Skinner took it.
Meanwhile the old man sat quietly in his saddle, with Steve Harrison at
his side, as if they two were quite enough to stem the torrent of fierce
whooping Apaches, sweeping down upon them across the plain.
"Our lives are worth about as much as our title to that mine," said
Steve; and it was no shame to him that he felt his young heart beat
pretty rapidly.
"Sling your rifle behind you on the saddle. Fold your arms. Sit still.
I'll do the talking."
[Illustration: "THE STORM OF DARK HORSEMEN WAS HEADED BY MANY BEARS IN
PERSON."]
The storm of dark horsemen was headed by Many Bears in person, and it
was barely two minutes more before he was reining in his pony in front
of the two "pale-face Lipans."
"How!" said Murray, quite heartily, holding out his right hand, with the
open palm up, while he put his left upon his breast.
"How!" replied the chief, with a little hesitation, but a dozen voices
around him were shouting,
"Send Warning!"
"Knotted Cord!"
"Pale-face friends of Apaches!"
It was plain that the description given of them by Red Wolf and the
girls had been quite accurate enough for their instant recognition.
"Other pale-faces run away. Why you stay?"
"Don't know them. Strangers. Run away from Apache chief. Chief must not
follow."
"Why not follow?"
"Run against Lipans. Have big fight. Lose many warriors. All for
nothing. Better go back."
"Send Warning is a good friend. Do what he say. You come?"
"Yes. We come. Trust friend."
Steve listened in silent wonder. He had never heard Murray speak a word
about the Apaches that was not full of distrust of their good faith as
well as hate of their ferocity. Yet here he was treating them with
absolute confidence. Steve felt quite sure he would have hesitated, for
his own part, to meet a band of Lipans in that way.
He did not understand Indian character as well as Murray, in spite of
his three years among them. A man who came to them conferring benefits,
and betraying no doubt of their good faith, was as safe among them as if
he had been one of their own people.
It also occurred to Steve that this was hardly what Murray had been sent
out for by To-la-go-to-de, but his devotion to the interests of that
chief was not strong enough to make him care much.
Whatever might be Murray's intentions, Steve had firmly decided that as
far as he himself was concerned there would be no going back to give any
report of the "scouting."
The Apaches wheeled toward the west, and Send Warning and Knotted Cord
rode on at the side of Many Bears.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]