THE CAVE NEAR THE PASS.
Tonio Pass was a gap through one spur of the Chiricahuas. Old Nomad
retraced his way to it easily, and on the journey no Apaches, locoed
or otherwise, were encountered.
Descending into the pass by means of the blind gully, already
mentioned, Nomad brought the scout and the girl to a spur of rocks
which interposed itself between them and the cave.
“We’ll have to scout and see how many Apaches have been left with
Bascomb,” counseled the scout, during the brief halt behind the spur.
“I don’t believe Geronimo would leave more than two or three, at the
most. With so many troopers in the field against him, the wily old
chief will find himself short-handed in the matter of bucks. Should
there be no more than two or three at the cave, our work of getting
in will be easy.”
“Want me ter go ahead an’ see how things lie in ther cave?” asked
Nomad. “I’m dryer’n ther desert o’ Sahary an’ plumb anxious ter git
at some water, ef thar’s any thar.”
“Go ahead, Nick,” said Buffalo Bill. “Dell and I will wait here. If
you get into trouble, a couple of shots will bring us.”
“Thet’s me,” answered the old trapper, crawling around the edge of
the spur.
Pausing with the mouth of the cave in sight, Nomad inspected the
surroundings carefully. Evidently there were no redskins on guard
at the entrance, for he got up and hastened noiselessly and swiftly
forward.
Both the scout and the girl watched the trapper from around the edge
of the boulders.
The mouth of the tunnel was narrow and high, almost like a gash in
the granite wall. Boulders lay strewn about it, and there was a
chance that some of those boulders screened one or more of the guard
Geronimo had left with Bascomb.
This latter possibility, however, did not pan out, and Nomad reached
the cavern entrance unmolested.
Halting there for a moment, he suddenly dashed into the cave, his
aim being to put himself in the darkness of the interior before the
savages could get a shot at him, in case there happened to be any
savages there.
No shot was fired, and from this Buffalo Bill augured hopefully.
“Nick doesn’t seem to be having any trouble at all, Dell,” said he to
the girl. “It would be hard luck if Bascomb had been taken away by
the reds.”
“What would you do in that case, Buffalo Bill?” Dell asked.
“Find the trail again, and follow it.”
“Suppose it led you into Mexico?”
“Then I’d go there. I shall not halt my pursuit of Bascomb until I
have laid the scoundrel by the heels. He has made trouble enough. In
some manner he has wormed himself into the good graces of Geronimo,
and so long as Bascomb is at large he will help the old chief in his
villainy. So far as Geronimo himself is concerned, the military can
take care of him, and I will not mix up in the game; but Bascomb I
intend to get myself. I feel a sort of personal obligation in _his_
case.”
“Then you will quit the trail and go away from this part of the
country as soon as you capture Bascomb?”
There was a touch of sadness in Dell’s voice.
“Yes; duty, probably, will call Nick and myself to other places, and,
of course, where duty calls we have to go.”
“Then, I reckon, you’ll be losing your girl pard.”
“And mighty sorry I’ll be for that. In a fight, or in any sort
of trouble, Dell, I couldn’t ask for a better side partner than
yourself. Ah,” the scout finished, “there’s Nomad again. He has come
out of the cave.”
Nomad, standing in the entrance to the cave, shouted to his pards
behind the spur.
“Come on, Buffler, you an’ Dell. I reckon we got hyar too late; thar
ain’t er single red erbout ther place.”
An exclamation of disappointment escaped the scout’s lips.
“Tough luck, Dell,” said he, as he started around the spur. “There’s
no telling, now, where this trail of Bascomb’s will lead us, nor how
long it will take to get to the end of it. The fellow, I reckon, was
not so badly wounded in that ambush as Cayuse thought.”
The scout and the girl were soon at Nomad’s side.
“How big a cave is it, Nick?” asked the scout.
“No more’n twenty-five paces one way, Buffler. I walked cl’ar through
ter ther end wall an’ back ergin. Not hevin’ no matches I couldn’t
light up; but ef thar had ben Injuns in ther place, I’d shore hev
heerd from ’em. Got any fire-sticks yerself?”
“Yes.”
“Then ye mout scratch a few an’ look ther cut-out over more keerful
than what I did. Mebbyso ther reds left a can o’ water, er a piece o’
jerked meat behind ’em. I’m hopin’ they did, kase I’m gittin’ dryer
an’ dryer right erlong. I kin stand et ter be hungry--pullin’ up yer
belt a hole’ll fix thet--but when ye’re thirsty, somethin’ takes holt
o’ yer throat fit ter strangle ye.”
Buffalo Bill, with Dell and Nomad at his heels, entered the cave. It
widened out quickly, a few feet from the entrance.
Halting well within the opening, the scout struck a match. The glow
of light was feeble, and pierced the gloom for only a few feet in
advance. Holding the light in front of him, he passed on into the
darkness.
Perhaps he was half-way to the rear wall when a cry from Dell brought
the scout to an abrupt stop.
“What is it, Dell?” he asked, letting the burned match fall from his
fingers.
“There’s some one lying on the floor,” said Dell, “off here to the
right.”
“White man er ’Pache?” spoke up Nomad.
“I couldn’t see. Come back this way, Buffalo Bill, and strike another
match.”
The scout followed the suggestion. What was found, a moment later,
startled all of them.
A man was, indeed, lying on the floor, just as Dell had said, and he
was a white man. His rough clothing was ragged and torn, and there
was a clotted smear on the breast of his faded blue shirt. His head
was thrown back, his arms were flung out stiffly from his shoulders,
and there was a glassy stare--the stare of death--in his eyes.
“Bascomb!” muttered Nomad.
“Yes,” said the scout, “it is Bascomb, and he has paid the penalty of
his misdeeds with his life. The wound he received in that ambush was
mortal. Once more, pards, Geronimo has overplayed his hand. It may
be that the chief collected his renegades and left the reservation
for the sole purpose of laying that ambush and taking Bascomb away
from the soldiers; but, in the attempt, Bascomb stopped a bullet.
Instead of rescuing the deserter, Geronimo killed him.”
“Justice reaches an evil-doer in many ways,” remarked Dell.
“Right you are, Dell. And it is just as well, I take it, that Bascomb
should fall by the guns of his red allies as to spring a trap in some
Federal prison. He shot a guard when he escaped from Fort Apache, but
the guard was not killed. Bascomb could not have been hung for that;
but, unless I am far wide of my trail, he _could_ have been swung
up for this last bit of treachery. Undoubtedly he had knowledge of
Geronimo’s plans, and, having that, was virtually a confederate and
jointly responsible with Geronimo for the lives of the escort.”
The scout turned to his trapper pard.
“Search through the fellow’s pockets, Nick,” said he. “There may be
something of importance there that the military will be glad to get
hold of.”
Nomad made the search, but did not find a single article of personal
property.
“Ther ’Paches hev gone through his pockets ahead o’ us,” said Nomad.
“But hyar’s somethin’, Buffler.”
Nomad picked up a canteen from Bascomb’s side, and shook it. The
canteen was nearly full. There was also a canvas bag within reach of
Bascomb’s hand which was found to contain jerked venison, and a few
corn-cakes.
“How d’ye account fer ther water an’ ther chuck, Buffler?”
inquired Nomad. “Think ther ’Paches left ’em hyar so’st Bascomb’s
sperrit could hev somethin’ ter live on while goin’ ter ther happy
huntin’-grounds?”
“No,” reflected the scout. “More than likely, Nick, the Apaches saw
that Bascomb could not live. After stripping him of what few articles
he had upon his person, the reds abandoned him--left him in this hole
in the hill to die alone. The water and food were left beside him to
keep the spark of life in his body as long as possible.”
“Waal, no loss without some gain,” growled the trapper. “We kin use
ther water and ther grub mighty handy. Hev a drink, Dell?”
At first the girl drew back from the offered canteen with an
expression of horror on her face; then, shrugging her shoulders and
making a virtue of necessity, she swallowed some of the water.
“Good girl!” exclaimed the scout. “The water and food are here,
and we might just as well drink and eat as to leave it to the
desert-rats.”
The scout likewise drank, and Nomad helped himself last. Then,
returning to the daylight in front of the cavern, they parceled out
the jerked venison and the corn-cakes and made a hasty meal.
“What next, Buffler?” asked Nomad, priming his pipe and borrowing a
match from the scout. “Ef we’re at ther end o’ Bascomb’s trail, I
reckons we’re close ter ther end o’ our own; hey?”
“Yes,” said Buffalo Bill. “It remains for us to find Little Cayuse
now, and then recover Bear Paw, Silver Heels, and Navi. The horses, I
have no doubt, will be found picketed in the valley, unless they were
interfered with by some of the Apaches who visited the valley and
drank from the pool after we did.”
“They interfered with ther critters, all right,” averred Nomad. “Did
ye ever hear of an Apache, runnin’ across three good horses with no
one ter watch ’em, thet didn’t git his lead-ropes on _muy pronto_?
Ten ter one, pards, yere mounts aire some’r’s on ther way ter Mexico
with Geronimo--as lost ter ye as ole Kick-an’-Bite-’Em is ter me,
which same I left at ther place o’ ther ambush.”
“You overlook one thing, Nick,” said the scout.
“What is et? I’m allers overlookin’ things, Buffler, but what’s ther
pertic’l’r thing in this case o’ ther hosses?”
“The Apaches were locoed by drinking from the pool,” expounded the
scout. “After they finished drinking, if they did like Dell and
myself, they never once thought of the horses. In my opinion, if we
can get back to that valley pretty soon, we’ll not only find Bear
Paw, Silver Heels, and Navi, but a lot of Indian cayuses as well.”
“Tally another fer Buffler!” said Nomad. “Ther thing ter be done,
now, is ter find ther valley an’ git ther hosses. Arter thet,
properly mounted, mebbyso we kin diskiver Cayuse. I’m hopin’ thar’s
Injun cayuses in ther valley, too, kase et’s up ter me ter git
another hoss, an’ a ’Pache mustang’ll do till I kin hook up better.”
“How’ll we go to find the valley, Buffalo Bill?” asked Dell anxiously.
“Our best course, I think, is to return to that military road,” said
the scout, “and follow it to Bonita, or Bowie, providing it leads
there. In one or other of the two places, we ought to be able to
find some one who will recognize the valley and the spring from our
description, and take us----”
Buffalo Bill was interrupted. At that moment a clatter of hoofs was
heard along the pass.
“Whistlin’ whipperwills!” yelled Nomad, jumping to his feet;
“swatties, er I’m er Piegan!”
“Soldiers!” echoed Dell.
“Lieutenant Doyle and six troopers from Bonita!” added Buffalo Bill.
“Well, well, pards, here’s luck with all the trimmings.”
Racing out into the middle of the gap, Buffalo Bill mounted a boulder
and waved his hat vigorously.
“’Pon my soul if it isn’t Cody!” cried Doyle, as he and his dusty
troopers pulled to a halt. “But how’s this?” the lieutenant added,
with a look at Nomad and Dell. “You left camp with a girl pard and a
Piute pard, Buffalo Bill. You still have your girl pard, but where’s
the Piute? And who’s this other warrior, that’s new to us?”
“The other warrior,” smiled the scout, “is my old trapper pard, Nick
Nomad.”
“The deuce you say! Then he wasn’t killed in that ambush that played
havoc with Bascomb’s escort?”
“Not as anybody knows on,” spoke up Nomad. “I’m feelin’ quite chipper
jest at present.”
“So I observe,” grinned Doyle. “Where’s the boy, Cody?”
“We don’t know, Doyle,” said the scout, “but we’re going to ask you
and your men to help us find him. By the way, though, how do you
happen to be here?”
“Orders,” answered Doyle.
“From whom?”
“Captain Markham. He picked up Geronimo’s trail over in that blind
gully in Tres Alamos Gulch, and sent a runner back with a note that I
was to take six men, hike for Tonio Pass and look for Buffalo Bill.
When I found Buffalo Bill I was to report to him that Geronimo and a
part of his Chiricahua renegades are hustling for Mexico, and that
Bascomb, the deserter, is supposed to be with him. A captured Apache
told Captain Markham that the renegades who jumped the reservation
have divided into two parties--one party deserting from Geronimo and
rounding up in Pool Spring Valley. After coming here and looking for
you, we’re to make for Pool Spring and see how the land lies.”
Several parts of the lieutenant’s communication caught the scout’s
attention. The first thing concerned the deserter.
“Captain Markham is wrong about Bascomb, Doyle,” averred Buffalo Bill.
“I learn that Markham got his information pretty straight.”
“It may seem straight, but it’s mightily tangled, for all that.
Bascomb is in that cave there”--the scout waved a hand toward the
cavern entrance--“and he lies on the floor with his boots on.”
“Another surprise!” muttered Doyle. “Sure it’s Bascomb?”
“Yes.”
Doyle rose in his stirrups and looked back at his handful of troopers.
“Any of you lads know Bascomb, otherwise Slocum, the deserter from
Fort Apache, by sight?” he demanded.
“I do,” replied a grizzled trooper.
“Go into that cave, Smith,” ordered Doyle, “and report whether the
fellow you find there is Bascomb.”
Smith threw his reins to a comrade, slid down from his saddle, and
rattled into the cave. A minute later he rattled out:
“It’s him, all right, leftenant,” said Smith. “I could pick him out
from among a thousand.”
“Dead, is he?”
“As a smelt.”
Smith lurched back into his saddle.
“That’s a job the government has been saved, at all events,” remarked
Doyle. “What can we do for you, Buffalo Bill?” he added.
“Help us recover our horses,” said the scout. “That’s one thing.
After that, we’d like to have you help us find the Piute.”
“Where are your horses?”
“First off, Doyle, let me ask you if you know such a place as this.”
The scout followed with a lengthy description of the valley and the
spring where the horses had been left. Before he had fairly finished,
Doyle cut him short.
“Why, man,” cried the lieutenant, “you’re telling me about Pool
Spring Valley, our next port of call.”
“I had an idea to that effect,” went on Buffalo Bill. “Well,
lieutenant, that is where our mounts were left. I’m hoping they’re
there now. If you can manage to give us a lift that far, perhaps
we’ll have horses of our own during our hunt for Cayuse.”
“We can fix that, all right.”
Doyle gave orders which caused two of the troopers to double up on
one horse.
“There, Miss Dauntless,” said Doyle, “you’re to have that animal all
to yourself. Cody and Nomad will double with any two troopers they
select. Give ’em the saddles, boys,” Doyle added to his men.
With three horses carrying double burdens, and with Dell riding
alone, the detachment presently took its way out of the pass.
The scout, and the man at his saddle-cantle, rode stirrup to stirrup
with the lieutenant. While the latter pointed the way, and all eyes
watched sharply for hostiles, the shortest cut to Pool Spring Valley
was pursued, and talking went on apace.
Buffalo Bill had things to say that opened Doyle’s eyes, and were
passed back and forth among the troopers with deep interest and
curiosity.
Everything that had happened to the scout and the girl, from the time
they left Bonita to go to Tonio Pass, was gone over carefully. The
drugging of the spring, naturally, was the point that claimed most
attention.
“That was Geronimo’s work, all right,” averred Doyle. “He’s a foxy
old red, and whenever he plays a card it’s usually a trump.”
“How did he know we were going to stop at Pool Spring Valley?”
queried the scout.
“He didn’t.”
“Then why did he tamper with the water in the pool?”
“That wasn’t for your benefit, Cody, if I’ve got this thing right. As
I said, a little while back, a few of the reds have broken away from
Geronimo, and I’ll bet the old rascal was properly mad when they did
it. The mutineers were to rendezvous in Pool Spring Valley. What more
natural, then, than that Geronimo should send a trusty warrior with a
bag of dope to fix Pool Spring before the mutineers got there? Say,
I’ll gamble my pile that’s exactly what old Geronimo did. It sounds
just like him. I’m only making a guess, but I flatter myself it’s
next door to the truth.”
“Waugh!” spoke up the trapper. “I’ll bet et’s ther truth. Them reds
we seen, Buffler--the two thet was coyotin’ along ther trail, an’
thet other lot thet was tossin’ away their arms--must er been the
mutineers. They was all locoed.”
“You have made a good guess, lieutenant,” said the scout. “So far as
I am personally concerned, I am perfectly satisfied even if I never
get any other explanation. The pool was ‘fixed’ for the mutineers;
but I and my pards reached the valley in advance of the mutineers and
sampled old Geronimo’s dope and got away before the mutineers came.
They presented themselves later, and drank up all the drug we left.”
“The way you tell me the dope acts,” said Doyle, highly pleased with
himself because of his theory, “sounds sort of fishy. Don’t mistake
me,” he went on hastily; “I don’t doubt your word, in the least. It’s
only that I never heard of any weed growing around these parts that
would act on man and beast in the way you describe.”
“I presume there are medicinal herbs that would have such an effect,”
said the scout, “if properly stewed up and mixed with drinking-water.
Something had the effect, anyway, no matter whether it was herbs or
something else.”
“Of course,” said Doyle. “Anyhow, I and my men will go dry in the
valley, you can bet heavy on that. When we get to the top of this
rise, Cody, you’ll be looking down on the place,” and Doyle waved his
gloved hand to a slope in from of them.
The moment the scout and the girl had topped the crest, and had
flashed their eyes over the valley, they recognized the scene of
their weird experience.
“There are horses down there, all right,” observed Doyle; “more than
a dozen of them. But I can’t make out a single human being.”
“I can see Bear Paw and Navi,” said the scout, much gratified. “They
appear to be in the same place where they were picketed last night.”
“And there’s Silver Heels!” cried Dell, clapping her hands. “More
luck, Buffalo Bill.”
“For which,” laughed the scout, “we’re to thank Geronimo.”
“I reckon, Buffler,” put in Nomad, who had been steadily eying the
group of horses, “that I’ll pick out thet big buckskin. I never seen
a better hoss than thet among these hyar Southwestern Injuns.”
“Steady, there, boys!” called Doyle, lifting a pair of field-glasses
to his eyes. “I see some one coming this way. He’s taken one of the
horses, a pinto, and he’s galloping in our direction. ’Pon my soul,
Cody, I think it’s---- Here, take the glasses and look for yourself.”
“I don’t need the glasses, lieutenant,” returned the scout. “I know
who it is. It’s Little Cayuse. He has hung around this valley ever
since last night, knowing full well that we’d come back after our
horses.”