THE SCOUT’S LETTER.
“Golightly!” exclaimed McGowan, when the riders had drawn rein in
front of the office and the Irishman had dismounted, “what does this
mean? Where’s the buckboard and the horses?”
While Golightly, stamping the ground wrathfully and shaking his
fists, was telling of the theft of the rig and of the bear-trap,
Nomad had been introducing the scout to Dell Dauntless.
“It’s an honor,” said the girl, leaning down from her saddle and
grasping the scout’s hand firmly, “to meet a veteran of the plains
like Buffalo Bill.”
“Thank you,” smiled the scout, and turned somewhat abruptly to Nomad.
“Why are you back at the mine, old pard?” he asked. “I thought you
were in Phœnix, by this time, waiting for Cayuse and me.”
“Would er been, Buffler, of important things hadn’t happened,” said
Nomad. “Wouldn’t expect me ter keep cl’ar o’ ther mine when fireworks
is due ter be set off, would ye? Miss McGowan hes been run away with,
an’ we’re hyar ter tell ye erbout et.”
“We are already informed on that point, Nick. But how did you happen
to discover it?”
“Already informed?” repeated Dell. “How, may I ask?”
Turning back to the girl, the scout silently handed her the message,
at the same time pointing to where the arrow lay on the ground.
“This was fired into camp with an arrow, eh?” murmured the girl,
passing her eyes swiftly over the communication received from the
scout.
When she had done with the reading, she laid the note on the horn of
her saddle and brought her gauntleted fist down on it sharply.
“This proves it!” she declared.
“Proves what?” queried the scout.
“Why, the guess I had already made that Bernritter and Bascomb were
back of Dell’s abduction.”
“Listen to Golightly, Buffalo Bill,” spoke up McGowan. “We’re getting
down to cases in this matter. Go on, Golightly,” he added to the
Irishman, “and tell Buffalo Bill what you have just told me.”
Golightly, with many “begorrys” and “bedads,” and a wrathful twist
of his brogue, repeated to the scout what he had just told the
mine-owner.
Dell followed the recital with a narration of her own experiences.
Thus the method of the abduction was cleared up, and the scout and
McGowan were given clear understanding of all the details.
Thereupon Dell explained about the letter which she had brought from
Phœnix for Buffalo Bill, and placed it in his hand.
The scout tore open the envelope and was soon deep in the letter’s
contents. His face expressed surprise and wonder as he read.
“Here’s something,” said he, folding up the letter and placing it in
his pocket, “something that makes it necessary for me to take the
field against Bascomb, no matter what your decision regarding Bascomb
and Bernritter may be, McGowan.”
“What is it?” inquired the mine-owner.
“My letter is from the commandant at Fort Apache, and asks me to use
my utmost endeavors to capture a deserter from the army. The man’s
name is Slocum, but he was last seen in Phœnix, where he was using
the name of Bascomb.”
“Jumpin’ taranches!” crooned old Nomad. “How these hyar trails o’
trouble does cross each other, sometimes!”
“Slocum, otherwise Bascomb,” proceeded the scout, “was a mutinous
soldier. He was under arrest at Fort Apache, some weeks ago, for
insubordination. In some manner he got hold of a revolver, shot his
guard, and took to the hills. From the description of the fellow
contained in the letter, there is no doubt in my mind but that the
rascal with Bernritter is the same man.”
McGowan looked perturbed.
“If you have to take the field against Bascomb,” said he, “then it
will be impossible for me to promise him and Bernritter immunity,
and place the writing, with a five-pound bar of bullion, by the old
shaft. Your activity would be construed as a breach of confidence on
my own part. Can’t you put this off, Buffalo Bill, until my daughter
is safely in my hands?”
Dell Dauntless whirled on McGowan with fiercy eyes.
“Mr. McGowan!” she cried. “Can it be possible that you are
scared?--and that you intend to carry out the demands of two bluffing
rascals like Bascomb and Bernritter?”
“I am anxious only for my daughter’s safety.”
“How do you know that Annie will be returned to you, even if you
should give up what Bascomb and Bernritter demand?”
“I--I don’t; but I don’t feel like taking any chances.”
“Tush! Annie McGowan is my best friend, and I would face any danger
for her. I would think of her safety, too, but I wouldn’t fall in
with the schemes of these lawless scoundrels. I shall not return to
the Double D Ranch until Annie is safe at the Three-ply--but you take
my advice and give Buffalo Bill and me a free hand in this matter.
Being Annie’s father, it is only natural that you should be so
worried you can’t get the proper perspective of this business. Leave
it to others. You’ll help, Buffalo Bill?” she asked, facing the scout.
“Of course,” was the scout’s reply.
“Nomad said you would,” said the girl.
“Orders from Fort Apache make it necessary for me to do my best to
capture Bascomb; but, before I had received the orders, I had already
promised McGowan my aid.”
“What’s the first thing to be done?” queried McGowan anxiously.
A Chinaman stepped out of the door of the chuck-shanty just then,
and began pounding a gong. A long whistle came from the mill, and
instantly the roar of the stamps ceased. Night-shift miners and
day-shift mill men came running from bunk-house and mill.
“The first thing,” laughed the scout, “is to eat a good dinner.”
“I can’t eat,” said McGowan. “Isn’t there something we can do, at
once?”
“I’m formulating a plan,” the scout answered; “but the time we spend
on our dinner will not be lost, nor affect one iota our chances for
effecting the rescue of your daughter. If you’re in on this deal,
Miss Dauntless,” he added to the girl, “you had better put out that
white pinto while we’re in the chuck-shanty. Do the same with your
horse, Nick,” he finished.
The horses were taken to the corral, and McGowan, Buffalo Bill,
Nomad, and Dell Dauntless went to the mine-owner’s table in the
dining-room. Golightly joined the miners and mill men at their own
table.
It was a silent meal that was eaten at McGowan’s table. The
mine-owner, his mind on his daughter, ate little; the scout and the
girl were thoughtful, and Nomad, furtively watching his pard’s face,
held his peace to let his pard’s mind finish its planning.
“Well?” queried McGowan impatiently, when they had reassembled in
front of the office, “what is your plan, Buffalo Bill?”
“Write out your agreement to drop proceedings against Bascomb and
Bernritter, McGowan,” returned the scout, “and have ready your
five-pound bar of bullion.”
“You’re going to fall in with the scoundrelly plan, then?” cried Dell
disappointedly.
“I am merely going to _seem_ to do so,” the scout answered. “About
eleven o’clock to-night Nomad will take the agreement and the bullion
and go to the deserted shaft. He will place both on the ore-dump;
then he will draw away, hide himself, and see what happens. Whoever
comes for what he leaves, he will follow. In this manner it may be
possible to discover the rendezvous of Bascomb and Bernritter and
their red allies.”
“My agreement will hold, Buffalo Bill, if I sign it,” said McGowan.
“_Your_ agreement may hold, but _I_ have made no agreement. Bascomb
is a deserter. As such, your agreement will not be binding upon me.
Then, too, unless your daughter is released, your agreement will not
be binding upon you, McGowan.”
“I see, I see,” murmured the mine-owner.
“Meanwhile,” pursued the scout, with an anxious look at the hills,
“I shall go and try to discover what Little Cayuse is doing. Miss
Dauntless, while I’m at the corral making ready, will you go to the
chuck-shanty and get a day’s rations for me?”
“I’ll get a day’s rations for each of us,” answered Dell, “for I’m
going to ride with you. When you make your own horse ready, Buffalo
Bill, get mine under saddle, too, will you?”
The scout studied the girl with fresh interest.
“It is only right to tell you, Miss Dauntless,” said he, “that the
Apaches are probably in the hills with Bascomb and Bernritter;
also three white scoundrels who have joined issue with them. The
danger----”
“You don’t know me,” laughed the girl. “Will you let me go?”
“Very well, if you feel that you want to.”
The scout started for the corral, and Dell hastened toward the
chuck-shanty. It was about two o’clock when they mounted, the girl on
her white cayuse, Silver Heels, and the scout on his big black horse
Bear Paw, and rode over the rim of the valley.
The inclination of the arrow, as it clung to the office door, had
given Little Cayuse his clue as to the direction from which the
Apache had done his shooting. The scout, no less than the Piute, had
taken note of the arrow’s slant, and his course across the rim of the
valley was in the exact direction taken by Cayuse.
Just over the rise, the scout and the girl found themselves in a
rocky arroyo.
“Here’s a clue left by Little Cayuse,” remarked the scout, drawing
rein in the bottom of the arroyo and sliding out of his saddle. “I
felt sure he would leave one. Just a moment, Miss Dauntless.”
“Dell, if you please,” said the girl, “unless you want me to call you
Mr. Cody. We’re not at all formal out here, as I reckon you know. I’m
Dell to all my friends.”
“Dell, then,” smiled the scout, kneeling down in front of Little
Cayuse’s clue, which consisted of a heap of white quartz from
a “blow-out” which strewed the arroyo. Six fragments of quartz
were arranged in a pile, and to one side of the pile lay two more
fragments in a line.
“That,” said the scout, “is the work of my little Piute pard. It
proves that he picked up the trail of the Apache that launched the
arrow, and that he followed him up the arroyo. Those two pieces to
one side of the heap and lying in a line, tell the direction.”
The scout climbed into his saddle again, and he and the girl
continued up the arroyo.
“Your little Piute pard must be a wonder,” said Dell.
“He is,” averred the scout. “He is not only immune from what is
called ‘fear,’ but he has also a clever brain, and never fails to use
it. I did not tell him to leave a clue as to where he had gone, or to
leave a trail for us to follow; yet we have found the clue, and you
can depend on it we will find some sort of a trail.”
“I’d like to know him,” said Dell. “Having trained with you so long,
he has probably adopted some of your methods. Ah!” she finished, her
eyes on the flinty earth of the arroyo’s bottom, “the Apache was
mounted.”
“I had already discovered that,” said the scout, “but I’d like to
have you tell me how you know the Apache was mounted. The soil is too
hard for hoof-marks.”
The girl slipped from her saddle and pointed to a stone. The stone
had been overturned, with the stained part that had been lying next
the earth now uppermost.
“A horse kicked that stone over,” said she. “No moccasined Indian
ever did it, traveling afoot.”
“Right,” said the scout; and, like Nomad’s, his first impressions of
the girl began to change.
“Besides,” smiled the girl, getting back into her saddle, “near that
heap of quartz the mesquit brush had been nibbled by a horse’s teeth.”
“That’s what proved to me that the Apache left a horse by the bushes
when he climbed up the rise and unloosed the arrow. I see you’re wise
to the trail. There’s a pleasure for me in reading such signs.”
“For me, too.”
After a few minutes of steady riding, the arroyo divided itself into
two branches. Well within the right-hand branch were three pieces of
quartz, laid in a line as the other two had been.
“What would you argue from that, Dell?” queried the scout.
“Why,” answered the girl, “I should say that Little Cayuse followed
the right-hand fork.”
“Anything else?”
“And that the Apache had been joined by another.”
“Right again. Can you shoot?”
“A little,” Dell answered diffidently. “I can throw a rope, or a
knife, too--after a fashion. I have had entire charge of the Double D
Ranch ever since my father died, three years ago.”
Her voice quivered a little, but almost instantly she put her emotion
from her.
The scout made no answer. Slowly Dell Dauntless was revealing herself
to him as a spirited and capable young woman.
As they progressed up the right-hand fork of the arroyo, the walls
grew higher and steeper, giving the defile almost the appearance of a
gulch.
They passed more fragments of quartz, the number having been added to
until, at the last, there were six pieces.
“There are more Apaches joining the one who shot the arrow,” said
Buffalo Bill, “and----”
The last word was clipped short by an incisive report, the whistle
of a bullet, a flapping of the brim of Dell’s brown sombrero, and a
little spout of sand between Silver Heels and Bear Paw.
If Dell Dauntless was startled she did not show it.
“A poor shot,” she commented, taking off her hat and looking at the
brim.
“It lacked only an inch of being a murderous shot,” returned Buffalo
Bill. “It came from the top of the right-hand wall, and proves that
the Apaches know what we are about and are trailing us along the rim
of the gulch. They can get at us, and it is impossible for us to get
at them. Let’s see what Silver Heels can do in a pinch.”
The scout dug in with his irons and Bear Paw flung himself up the
gulch, taking at a leap every bush or boulder that got in his way.
Dell raced along behind, Silver Heels doing nobly, and displaying
more fire and bottom than the scout had supposed him to have under
his sleek white hide.
The cayuse, like his rider, was something of a revelation to Buffalo
Bill.
The wisdom of speed in that forward movement along the gulch was
quickly apparent.
The crack of firearms began all along the top of the right-hand wall.
Both walls continued to increase in height and to draw nearer and
nearer together. The sun could not penetrate the depths of the gulch,
and the bottom lay in heavy shadow.
“So long as the Apaches hide themselves,” said Buffalo Bill, “we
can do nothing to discourage them in this attack they are making. I
am going to try a ruse to draw them down into the gulch, and within
reach of our six-shooters. It is a time-honored ruse, but it will
work nine times out of ten. At the next shot, Dell, I’m going to
tumble out of my saddle. You ride on, as though too frightened to
turn back, and catch Bear Paw. Don’t stop until you reach the darkest
part of the gulch, then round-to under the lee of a boulder, and
watch.”
“Trust me,” answered the girl.
The shot for which the scout was waiting was not long in coming. It
cracked out above and gouged into the flinty earth several feet in
advance of Buffalo Bill; nevertheless, he gave a wild cry, dropped
his reins, flung up his hands, and wilted from Bear Paw’s back.
Apparently his fall was a heavy one; but, really, it was only nicely
calculated to appear so. With hardly a jar, the scout had struck the
ground and straightened out.
It was all so well done that, for an instant, Dell’s heart flew into
her throat, and she feared that the last bullet really had reached
its mark. She would have drawn rein, in spite of her instructions,
had Buffalo Bill not called softly for her to ride on and catch Bear
Paw.
As Dell flickered on up the gulch, fierce cries of triumph floated
down from the right-hand wall. Indians on horseback showed themselves
against the sky-line--five of them--and peered downward with hands
shielding their eyes.
Well in the shadow of the gulch above, Dell captured Bear Paw,
dropped his bridle-reins over her saddle-pommel, and tossed her own
reins over Silver Heels’ head. With the reins in this position, the
white cayuse would stand as though tied to a post.
Dropping to the ground, the girl crept back down the gulch for a
little way, and watched further developments from behind a boulder.
The five Apaches, thinking the scout had been slain, were dismounting
and making a hurried descent into the gulch.
Their descent was a race, for the first man to reach the scout
would secure his scalp. And to secure the scalp of Pa-e-has-ka, the
long-haired chief, was an honor, indeed!
Slipping, sliding, jumping, the redskins drew nearer and nearer the
bottom of the gulch. One was well in the lead, and Dell, her nerves
aquiver with excitement, watched his dark form come closer and closer
to the scout.
At last, when the leading Apache was about to make the final jump to
the bottom of the gulch, and was already fingering the hilt of his
scalping-knife, Buffalo Bill regained his feet.
_Crack, crack, crack!_ rang out his revolvers.
Two of the Apaches--the one in advance and the other next behind
him--were wounded and dropped into the gulch bottom; but they were
not badly wounded. They were scared far more than hurt, and they at
once took to their heels, one going up the gulch and the other down.
Instantly a thrill of alarm shot through the scout on the girl’s
account.
Four Indians were still on the gulch wall, but they were frantically
climbing toward the top again. Leaving them to their own devices, the
scout rushed after the Apache who had gone bounding up the gulch.
This redskin had a wound in his left arm, but he still clung to the
hilt of the knife.
Dell saw him coming, covering the ground with great leaps. If he ever
reached the horses, the girl knew that he would make way with one,
or both, of them--and this was something that must not be allowed to
happen.
Fearlessly the girl sprang out from behind her boulder and planted
herself between the Apache and the horses.
Undaunted by the sight, the savage kept on, flourishing his knife and
yelling furiously.
“Shoot!” cried Buffalo Bill.
He feared to let loose a bullet himself, for he, and the Indian, and
the girl, were in a direct line with each other. Had he fired, and
had the redskin dodged at the exact moment, the bullet might have
struck Dell.
But there was no need for the scout to use his weapons.
Hardly had the command to fire left his lips when the gulch took up
the echoes of the girl’s revolver.
The Apache was caught in the air; and when he fell, he came down
sprawling--wounded a second time, and harmless to do the girl any
injury.
“Well done!” cried the scout. “Dell Dauntless, you’re a plucky girl.”
“That wasn’t so much,” Dell answered deprecatingly. “He had only a
knife, and you had already wounded him at that.”
“His first wound did not interfere very much with his ability to
attack you. I only shot to wound.”
“That was the way with me.”
“These Apaches are the tools of Bascomb and Bernritter. They ought to
be rounded up and driven back to their reservation. Why Apache got
such a bad heart?” the scout asked, halting beside the wounded Indian.
The Apache made no response, other than to try and sink his teeth
into the scout’s leg. The scout stepped back quickly.
“Look out for him, Buffalo Bill!” exclaimed Dell. “He’s as venomous
as a tiger-cat.”
Dell’s bullet had struck the Apache in the thigh, making walking
impossible.
“We can’t bother with him,” said the scout. “There are four more
reds around here, and they’ll probably happen along and take care of
him. We’ll mount and keep on until we find Little Cayuse. I can’t
understand what’s become of the boy. The Apache he was following was
joined by four others; if he still continued to follow the Apaches,
he ought to be somewhere in this vicinity.”
“I should think,” hazarded Dell, “we ought to have met him before
this.”
“We ought to, and there must be some good reason why we haven’t.
We’ll try and discover the reason.”
The darkness of the gulch rendered difficult the task of looking
for the stones Cayuse had been piling at irregular intervals.
Nevertheless, the scout scanned every step of the way carefully, but
without result.
Meanwhile, as they rode, Dell kept a sharp watch for Indians. She saw
none, so it was evident that the taste the Apaches had had of the
scout’s resourcefulness had been sufficient to discourage them in
their sniping tactics.
As the scout spurred on, his alarm for Little Cayuse increased.
“He’s plenty able to take care of himself,” the scout said to the
girl, “but any one, I don’t care how wary and cautious, is apt to be
caught napping, or taken at a disadvantage.”
“He’s an Indian, and only a boy. It doesn’t seem to me that the
Apaches would be very hard on him even if they did capture him.”
“He’s a Piute, Dell, and the Piutes and Apaches haven’t any use for
each other. Then, apart from their tribal hostility, I suppose the
Apaches are smarting to play even for what happened at the Three-ply
Mine the other day. They lost a couple of warriors during that fight.
They know Cayuse is a pard of mine, and that it was owing to myself
and my pards that the fight went against them. The fact that Cayuse
is a boy wouldn’t cause the Apaches to have any mercy on him.”
The gulch walls widened by degrees as they continued on. This allowed
more sunlight to come into the defile and made the surroundings
plainer.
“The Apaches must have doubled back on their trail,” Dell suggested,
“or else Cayuse never followed them this far.”
“It’s about an even chance whether the Apaches have doubled back,
or whether something went wrong with Cayuse farther down the gulch.
If we don’t pick up another clue pretty soon, we’ll about face and
double back on our own trail.”
At that moment the scout’s attention was attracted to another defile
opening into the left wall of the one they were following.
It was a narrow break in the lavalike crust of the earth, and,
inasmuch as its trend was due east and west, the sun penetrated it to
the bottom.
It is doubtful whether the scout would have paid much attention to
the defile had the sunlight not rested upon some object which flashed
in his eyes.
The wide-awake Dell caught the flash as quickly as did the scout.
“Is that a piece of ore with mica in it, Buffalo Bill?” she queried,
pulling up her horse.
“It may be,” was the scout’s response. “But we’ll take a look at the
thing and make sure of it before we pass on.”
Together they rode over to the mouth of the smaller gulch.
The flashing object was not a piece of iron pyrites, but a short,
double-edged knife.
With an exclamation, the scout hung down from his saddle and picked
it up.
On the flat handle was a very crude drawing of a horse, burned into
the horn.
“This belongs to Cayuse,” said the scout. “That picture on the handle
is the way he signs his name.”
“Then he lost the knife?” queried the girl.
“Cayuse never loses anything so long as he is master of his own
actions. I incline to the opinion that the Apaches laid a trap for
him and sprung it about here. The ground shows signs of a struggle.
During the struggle Cayuse’s knife dropped from its sheath, and when
he was carried off his captors failed to see it. There seems to be no
doubt, Dell, but that the boy is in the hands of the Apaches.”
“Then there must be more Indians than those who attacked us. They
could not have had Cayuse with them while they were following us on
the gulch wall and shooting down.”
“He may have been with them, or they may have left him somewhere,
or----”
The scout broke off his words, while his face tightened in sharp
lines.
“Or?” asked Dell.
“Or,” the scout finished, in a low tone, “they have already taken
vengeance on him for their defeat at the mine.”
Thrusting the boy’s knife through his belt, Buffalo Bill dismounted,
and looked carefully over the ground where the struggle resulting in
the boy’s capture had taken place.
Owing to the nature of the soil, the signs were none too plain--a
misplaced stone here and there and a few indentations which might
have been considered only the natural results of wind and weather but
for the disturbed stones.
Walking up the smaller defile a little way, the scout saw enough to
convince him that the Apaches, with their prisoner, had ascended the
branch.
Coming back to the waiting girl, he mounted.
“The Apaches, after the capture,” he announced, “went up the defile.
They were on foot.”
“This was a good place for an ambush,” said Dell, turning in her
saddle and looking back as they rode onward. “The Indians could have
hidden behind boulders on both sides of the defile and sprung out on
Little Cayuse as he passed.”
“It wouldn’t be like the boy to let himself get caught in such a
trap. Still, it’s possible. You can trap a fox if you go about it
right.”
“I’d like to know who those three white men are who are helping
Bascomb and Bernritter.”
“Ruffians, I reckon, whom Bascomb managed to pick up. There are
plenty of scoundrels loose in this part of the country who would help
at anything if they got paid for it. The desert is full of white
Arabs, as ready to slit a man’s throat as they are to eat a meal. You
ought to know that, Dell.”
“I do, of course, and I haven’t any doubt but that it was easy for
Bascomb and Bernritter to find men to help them in their villainy.
Don’t you think, too, that they have spies in the Three-ply camp?
Some one who found out Golightly was to leave, early this morning, to
meet Annie at the Phœnix station?”
“Possibly. It has not been so very long, however, since Bernritter
was a trusted superintendent at the camp. He must have known when
Miss McGowan was expected. Armed with this knowledge, he and Bascomb
laid their plans to capture the girl. They set their three masked men
to watching the trail for the horses and the buckboard; and, even if
McGowan himself had gone to meet the girl, instead of Golightly, the
plan would have been carried out just as it was.”
This smaller defile, which the scout and the girl were ascending, had
many angles and turns.
As the scout finished speaking, they rode around one of the turns
and came upon a sight which brought them to an abrupt halt.
Horror rose in the girl’s eyes, and a gasp escaped her lips. She
looked at the scout. His face wore an ominous frown.
Leaping out of the saddle, he hurried forward without a word.
Dell likewise dismounted and hastened after him.