Among the number of persons who had wondered "what had become of those
miners," no one had so much as guessed at the exact truth, although
Murray had come nearer to it than anybody else.
That sunrise found them, as they thought, once for all, safe within the
boundary of the "foreign country," where no one would ask them any ugly
questions about the stolen gold they had brought there. In fact, the
first thing they did after finishing their hearty breakfast of fresh
beef was to "unpack themselves." Every man was anxious to know if he had
lost anything on the way. It seemed as if they all spoke together when
they tried to express their regret at having been compelled to leave any
of their treasure behind.
"No use to think of going back for it now, boys. Some day we'll take
another look at that mine, but there won't be a thing worth going for in
that wagon."
"What do ye mean to do next, Cap?" asked Bill.
"I told you before. Give our horses a chance to feed, and then push
right on. We can afford to use 'em all up now. Three days of hard
riding'll carry us out of harm's way."
"And then we can go jest whar we please."
There was a wonderful deal of comfort in that for men who had been
"running away" so long as they had, and over so very rough a country.
It was not long before the stern summons of Captain Skinner called them
to mount once more, and they were all ready to obey. All their troubles,
they thought, were behind them, and they cared very little for those of
the country they had gotten into. It was impossible, however, not to
think and talk about the Apaches, and to "wonder how the Lipans came out
of their attack on that village."
Captain Skinner's comment was: "I don't reckon a great many of 'em came
out at all. The chances were against them. Old Two Knives made a mistake
for once, and I shouldn't wonder he'd had to pay for it."
Well, so he had, but not so heavily as the Captain imagined. At that
very moment he was leading through the homeward pass just about half of
his original war party, all that "had come out of the attack on that
village."
The village itself was in a high state of fermentation that morning.
There was mourning in some of the lodges over braves who had fallen in
that brief, sharp battle with the Lipans, but there were only five of
these in all, so great had been the advantage of superior numbers in the
fight, and of holding the ground of it afterward.
The bitterest disgrace of To-la-go-to-de and his warriors had been their
failure to carry off the bodies of their friends who had fallen.
At least twenty of the Apaches had been more or less wounded, and every
man of them was as proud of it as a school-boy who has been "promoted."
A scar received in battle is a badge of honor to an Indian warrior, and
he is apt to make a show of it on every fair opportunity.
There was no need, therefore, of throwing away any pity on those who had
been cut by the lances or "barked" by the bullets of the Lipans. Red
Wolf himself had concealed a smart scar of a lance thrust along his left
side, for fear he might be forbidden to go on that second war-path. Even
now he refused to consider it as amounting to anything, and his sister's
face glowed with family pride as she said to Rita:
"Red Wolf is a true Apache. He is a warrior already. He will be a great
chief some day. Knotted Cord is white. He has no scars. He has never
been on a war-path."
She was speaking in her brother's hearing, and Steve was at no great
distance, at that very moment, talking in a low, earnest tone with
Murray.
Their conversation could not be overheard by their friends, but it must
have been of more than a little importance, to judge by the expressions
that came and went upon their faces. Dolores was busy at the camp fire,
as usual, with her frying-pan, and they were looking at her.
"How old do you think she is, Steve?"
"It's hard to guess, Murray. Maybe she's forty-five."
"She is not much above thirty. The Mexican women grow old sooner than
white ones. She was not much above twenty when she cooked for my miners
on the Santa Rita mine."
"Do you feel perfectly sure about that?"
"I've watched her. There's no doubt left in my mind. Still, I may ask
her a few more questions. Then there is one thing more I want to make
sure of."
"Will it keep us here long?"
"It may keep me, Steve."
"Then it will keep me, Murray. You will need me if you have anything on
hand. I am anxious enough to get off, but I will not leave you behind.
I'll stay and help."
Murray held out his hand. "It's a fact, Steve. I may need all the help
you can give."
"Take care. Here comes Many Bears himself and two of his cunningest old
councillors."
"More advice wanted," thought Murray; but it was not asked for so soon
as he expected. Many Bears had something very heavy on his mind that
morning, and in order to get rid of it he had to tell the whole story of
the buffalo hunt his band had made away beyond the mountains, and into
the country claimed by the Lipans. That was the way they came to be
followed so closely by Two Knives and his warriors.
Murray and Steve listened closely, for the chief spoke in very good
Mexican-Spanish most of the time, and they both understood him. Then
came the story of the return through the pass, and it wound up with the
finding of the Talking Leaves by Rita.
"Send Warning knows the rest."
"No," said Murray, "I have not seen the Talking Leaves."
"Great medicine. Tell Apache chief about miners. Tell about old fight.
Tell about blue-coat soldiers come and where go. Tell about big talk and
treaty and presents. Many Bears want to hear more."
"Ask young squaw."
"Can't hear all. Send Warning listen. Say what he hears."
"All right. Bring young squaw."
Ni-ha-be and Rita were near enough to hear, and the latter at once
darted into the lodge for her treasures. She was gone but a moment, and
her whole body seemed to glow and tremble with excitement as she held
out the three magazines to Murray.
"Take one, Steve. You haven't forgotten your reading, have you?"
"Send Warning hear leaves," said Many Bears, anxiously. "The Knotted
Cord is young."
"He is white. He can hear. The great chief will listen."
"There, Murray," said Steve, "the chief was right. There's a picture of
cavalry. All the others he spoke of are here. Here is the picture of the
big talk and the treaty."
"Here is the mining fight--" And just there Murray paused, as if he
could say no more, and the Indians looked at him in undisguised
astonishment. His breast was heaving, his lips were quivering, and the
hands that held the magazine were trembling as if their owner had an
ague fit.
"What find?" exclaimed Many Bears. "Is it bad medicine?"
It was some seconds before Murray could trust himself to speak, but he
was thinking very fast.
"The Talking Leaves have told Many Bears the truth. Now Send Warning is
troubled in his mind."
They could all see that, and it made them not a little anxious.
"What want? What do?"
"Go into lodge with young squaw. Knotted Cord stay and talk with Apache
chief. Nobody come into lodge. Take a little time. Then tell what hear."
It was an unusual request, but there could be no objection, in view of
the fact that there was "great medicine" to be looked into. An Indian
conjurer always required the absence of all observers for the
performance of his most important jugglery. It was at once decided that
Send Warning should have his way. Rita listened, pale and serious, while
Ni-ha-be looked on in jealous amazement.
"I am an Apache girl. Why can he not teach me to hear the Talking
Leaves?"
No doubt he could have done so, if she would have given him plenty of
time, and been willing to begin with A B C, as Rita had done long years
before.
How should all that A B C business have come back to her as it did when
she found herself alone in her lodge with that white-headed old
pale-face warrior?
Not a human eye was looking upon them, but Rita had suddenly covered her
face with her hands.
"Speak," she said, earnestly. "I remember better when I do not see."
She was talking English, just as he had done, only more slowly, and
almost as if it hurt her.
"I will read the first word, dear. Then you may spell it. M-i-n-e, mine.
That means a gold mine, like ours, dear. Spell it, Rita, my darling!"
"Our mine?--darling? Oh, if I could see my father!"
Murray sprang to his feet as if he were a boy. His mouth opened and
closed as if he were keeping back a great shout, and the tears came
pouring down over his cheeks.
[Illustration: "RITA, RITA, MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER!"]
"Rita! Rita! My dear little daughter! Here I am!"
"Father!"
His arms were around her now, and he was kissing her almost frantically.
Slowly she opened her eyes. "I know it is you when you speak, and when
my eyes are shut. When I open them, you are very old. My father was
young and handsome. His hair was not white."
"Rita darling, it has been just as white as it is now ever since the
morning after I came home and found that the Apaches had carried you
away. They killed your mother, and I heard that they had killed you too.
I have been an old man ever since, but I think I shall grow young again
now."
Time was precious. They could only spare enough for a few hurried
questions and answers, and Murray glanced rapidly over the pages of the
three magazines.
"Let me take them," he said. "I would like to read them carefully. I
shall know what to say to the chief. You must not let anybody know I am
your father. Not until the right time comes."
"Oh, why not?"
"Because the Apaches would know then that I am their enemy, and have
good reason to be. Even if they did not kill me at once, they would not
trust me, and I want them to do that. It is my only hope of carrying you
away with me. Stay here in the lodge until you are sure your face will
not betray you."
She had been crying more copiously than her father, and that would have
been a thing to be explained to Ni-ha-be and Dolores.
Rita therefore remained in the lodge, while Murray with a great effort
recovered his usual calm self-control, and walked slowly and dignifiedly
out. He needed to put on all the dignity he was master of for his heart
was thump, thumping against his ribs, and his brain was in a whirl as to
when and how he should be able to claim and carry off the great treasure
he had found.
Treasure?
The Buckhorn Mine, piled mountain high with twenty-dollar pieces, was
nothing to it.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration]
"RAILWAY JACK."
About three years ago, a rather large dog of the fox-terrier variety
entered the guard's carriage of a train that was just starting from
Brighton, England, for Horsham station. He had no ticket, and did not
explain his business; but the guard seeing that he was a respectable dog
decided to let him ride free.
From that day to this the dog, who is now well known all over England by
the name of "Railway Jack," has constantly travelled on railway trains.
For the first year or two he confined himself strictly to the trains of
the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway.
This road has a great many branches, and a great many trains run over it
every day, but Jack knew the time-table perfectly, and never troubled
the ticket agents by asking them, "How can I go to such and such a
place?" or "When does the next train start?" He took lodgings in a
waste-paper basket in the station-house at Lewes station, and wherever
he went he never failed to catch the last train from Brighton to Lewes.
It was at first believed that Jack travelled in connection with some
private business of his own; that he was, for example, engaged in
organizing a "United Terriers' Society for the Destruction of Rats," or
was an agent for some "Co-operative Bone Store," that proposed to supply
dogs with the best quality of bones at less than ordinary prices. It was
soon found, however, that he was engaged in inspecting the railway.
While on the train he sat close to the window, and carefully watched to
see if there were any signs that the embankments at the side of the
track were out of order, or that the bridges needed repairs. He would
stop at a station, and inspect the switches and the signals, and would
then take the next train for some other station, where he would inspect
the eating-room and test the quality of the food. It was thus very
evident that he had appointed himself Inspector of the London, Brighton,
and South Coast Railway, and every one connected with the company
recognized him as a faithful and efficient officer.
One day a lady presented him with a collar with the inscription, "I am
Jack, the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway dog. Please give me
a drink of water. This collar was presented by Mrs. J. P. Knight,
Brockley." Jack seemed to feel that in gratitude for this present he
ought to increase his labors. He therefore made a practice of taking
frequent trips all over England to see if he could discover anything in
the management of other railways which he could recommend his own
railway company to copy. Sometimes he went as far as Scotland, and on
one occasion when he visited London, and went to the Isle of Dogs to see
if there was any good reason for its name, he lost his way, and was
absent for some weeks.
A few days after he had been found and brought back to the railway, one
of the men employed by the company died, and was buried at Hastings. On
the day of the funeral, Jack arrived by the noon train, and went to the
church, where he reverently listened to the funeral service, and then
followed the coffin to the grave. He also attended the funeral of
another railway servant at Lewes, and showed that he felt that the
company had sustained a powerful loss.
A short time ago Jack met with a serious accident, which very nearly
proved fatal. He was crossing the track late one evening at one of the
stations of his own railway, when he slipped and fell just as a train
rushed by, crushing one of his fore-legs. He was carried home to Lewes,
where chloroform was given to him, and his leg was cut off close to the
shoulder. There is no doubt that he was a little careless in crossing
the track when a train was approaching; but although he had just
returned from attending a wedding at Berwick, Scotland, it is admitted
by every one that he was perfectly sober.
Jack bore the loss of his leg very well; but a day or two afterward he
took off the bandages while his nurse was absent from the room, and very
nearly bled to death before he could receive proper attention. Since
then he has steadily improved, although his anxiety to return to duty
has made him a little feverish at times. The fact that no accident has
occurred on the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway since he was
injured has been a great consolation to him, and he feels that it is due
to the thorough way in which his work of inspection has been done.
Hereafter poor Jack will have to limp on three legs, for nobody has yet
invented artificial legs for dogs. He will, however, be able to do his
work, and will undoubtedly be more careful in avoiding danger than he
was before the accident. His photograph--the one from which the picture
in this number of YOUNG PEOPLE was taken--is considered to be an
excellent one, and though it can not be called a beautiful picture, it
is the portrait of an upright, faithful, and universally respected dog.