Vol. IV.] APRIL 29, 1876. [No. 48.
THE PHANTOM TRACKER;
OR,
THE PRISONER OF THE HILL CAVE.
BY FREDERICK DEWEY,
AUTHOR OF “THE DOG TRAILER,” “WILL-O’-THE WISP,” ETC.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
THE PHANTOM TRAILER;
OR,
THE PRISONER OF THE HILL CAVE.
CHAPTER I.
THE CAVE-HUNTER AND THE SHADOW.
It was a sultry, scorching day, on the banks of the river Gila--very
sultry and silent. The sun in the zenith looked whitely down, and the
yellow banks reflected its rays fiercely on the sluggishly-creeping,
warm river. Away over the flat, glistening plain reigned the utmost
silence. As far as the eye could reach it saw nothing--only dead level,
dead heat, and dead silence. Here, mile upon mile from civilization,
hundreds of miles away from any habitation, this vast wilderness
stretched away--always level, always hazy, always silent--a spectral
land.
A large catfish lazily rolled and tumbled on the surface of the river,
too hot to swim, and too stupid to move--lying there, he only, at
times, waved his fins and tumbled gently. A vulture sat on a sand-crag
just above him--a water-vulture, or, rather, a brown, dirty fish-hawk.
He was lazily watching his chance to swoop suddenly down upon the fish,
and carry him off in his talons. But it was too hot to undergo any
useless exertion, so he watched and waited for a sure chance, pluming
himself moodily.
A panting coyote sat on his house at a little distance, watching the
pair, and vaguely conscious that he was very hungry; a mule-rabbit
under an adjacent tiny shrub tremblingly watched the coyote, starting
violently at the slightest movement of the latter; and a huge yellow
serpent, long and supple, dragged his scaly body up the bluff toward
the rabbit.
The sun shone redly down now, leaving its white appearance for a
sanguinary and blood-red hue; a haze was brewing.
Suddenly the quiet was disturbed. The coyote sneaked away, with his
bristly chin upon his lank shoulder; this alarmed the rabbit, and
he, too, fled, making the most gigantic leaps; in ten seconds he had
disappeared. The snake’s eyes flashed in enraged disappointment, and
hissing spitefully, he raised his head to discover the cause of the
hasty flight.
He soon saw it. On the barren banks he could have seen a mouse at
a long distance. The object he saw was the exact reverse of that
diminutive quadruped, being a large, stalwart, swarthy man, on a large
black horse.
He appeared suddenly, riding over the crest of an adjacent hillock. He
stopped on the summit, glared keenly around, then rode down into the
river. He stopped in the river where the thirsty horse drank greedily.
Then, after dismounting and drinking deeply himself, he boldly rode up
the opposite bank.
He appeared well acquainted with the locality, for this was the only
fordable place for miles--either the river was too deep or the bottom
too soft--“quicksandy.”
Riding up the bank, he halted and sat for a moment buried in profound
thought. He was a Mexican, a giant in proportions. His visage was
that of a crafty, wily man, and his keen black eye was one that never
quailed. His dress was simple, being in the American manner, of well
dressed buck-skin. He however still clung to his _sombrero_, which,
instead of being cocked jauntily on the side of his head, was drawn
down over his eyes to shield them from the hot sun. His whole equipment
was that of a mounted ranger, and this style of dress has so often been
described as to be familiar to all.
Instead of the short carbine which a Mexican habitually carries, he
sported a long, elegant rifle--a very witch to charm a hunter’s eye.
Then he had a brace of silver-mounted revolvers, each firing five
times without reloading. Like the rifle, they were costly, and fatally
precise and true, models of expensive and beautiful workmanship.
But in his belt was that which, however captivating to the eye
_they_ might be, cast them into the shade. It was a long dagger,
double-edged, sharp as a razor, with a basket handle of rare
workmanship. This last was gold (the handle)--pure, yellow gold,
chased and milled into all manner of quaint and droll devices. It hung
jauntily in its ornamented sheath at his belt, and his hand was forever
caressing its beautiful handle.
Why should this man, forty years of age, rough, plainly dressed, riding
with the stealthy air of one who is at war--with a ragged saddle and
plain, even homely steed, have such elegant and costly weapons? They
cost a large sum, evidently, and should be the property of a prince.
While he is caressing his dagger, as the weapons and their history are
the subjects of this narrative, let us go back a year for a brief space.
The name of the Mexican was Pedro Felipe, the old and tried servant of
a wealthy and kind master, also a Mexican. A year ago his master, Señor
Martinez, had occasion to cross a vast, sterile wilderness, lying a
hundred or more miles north of the Gila river. While on that plain, in
a remote part of it, called the Land of Silence (a ghostly, spectral
plain, considered haunted), his only daughter, a beautiful young girl,
was abducted by a robber chief, and carried away to a rendezvous--a
hollow hill in the plain. Here she was rescued by Pedro, disguised as a
black savage.
The hillock had an aperture in it, and Pedro, on hearing a noise,
looked out and saw the lieutenant of the band, a fierce man called the
“Trailer,” approaching. Knowing he must take his life or be discovered
by the whole band, he shot him dead, from off his horse.
From the Trailer’s body he took the weapons we have described, and
then left the body to be devoured by wolves and birds of prey. He was
certain that in the hillock a large treasure was secreted, but fearing
to be discovered by the band, whom he expected to arrive every hour,
he left without searching for it. But the band, he soon after learned,
disbanded without returning to the hillock, and left for Mexico.
Pedro had but one glaring fault--the love of gold. He was now on his
way to the hill in the Land of Silence, to search for the treasure, and
he felt confident of finding it. Why not? The captain and the Trailer
were dead--he had seen them both fall; the party had at the same time
disorganized; and he was certain they had never returned to seek for it.
The Trailer had been the last robber on the spot, and he himself had
killed him; so he was certain of finding the treasure untouched.
Pedro Felipe’s absorbing love of gold had brought him on this hot day
to the northern bank of the Gila, on his way to the Land of Silence in
search of it.
The sun gleamed redly through the haze as Pedro looked northward, with
his raven eye toward the spectered Land of Silence. It was an ill-fated
land. Many dark and mysterious deeds had taken place there, many deeds
of which the world would never know. Indians and hunters avoided it and
deemed it haunted by evil spirits. Well it might be; it was a ghostly,
hazy, quiet place, where the sun shone fiercely, and water was scarce.
Pedro’s experience had been strange in this land, and he was very
superstitious. But he was also brave and crafty, having the reputation
of being the best Mexican scout and Indian-fighter in his part of the
country.
So, urged on by his love of gold--his only and great fault--and by
the prospect of adventure and excitement, he was to brave, alone and
unaided, the land of specters and of death--the Land of Silence.
He turned his horse’s head to the south, and peered away over the
plain. Nothing was in sight; he was alone in the vast wilderness.
“Farewell, Mexico!” he said; “good-by to your sunny plains and pleasant
groves! May it not be long before I come back to thee, my land!
Farewell, my old master, my beautiful mistress, and her noble husband;
my old companion, Benedento--and all I hold dear. This morning I stood
on your border, sunny Mexico. To-morrow, at sunset, I will be alone,
_alone_ in the Land of Silence. Farewell, my land! I may never tread
your soil again.”
He slowly dismounted, and placing his arm affectionately round his
steed’s neck, raised his _sombrero_ reverently.
“My faithful horse, we must go; time is precious. Once more, farewell,
my land.”
He waved his hand with a graceful parting-salute, calmly, but with
a vague presentiment of coming evil. Then he remounted, turning his
horse’s head to the north; under the hot sun, blazing with blinding
heat, in the desert alone, he rode away, bound for the Land of Silence.
As he started, a vulture rose from an adjacent knoll, and wheeled
slowly above him, and croaked dismally. Was it a bad augury--the
warning of evil to come?
The vulture returned to his perch; the other animals returned to their
former places, and Pedro was riding away.
As the last wink of the setting sun gleamed out over the silent plain,
a new form appeared on the southern bank of the river. He, too, peered
sharply about him when he reached the crest of the knoll, and he was
very wary and watchful. When he had finished his scrutiny without
seeing any thing to alarm him, or arouse distrust, he rode down the
bank.
In the river his horse (a powerful black) halted to drink; but the
rider never moved. Then, when he had finished, the horse stepped up the
northern bank and galloped away toward the north.
The traveler was dressed in buck-skin; was armed to the teeth; had a
black, conical hat in which a black plume nodded and waved, and a face
in which glowed two raven eyes.
He was an ugly-looking customer--a desperado in appearance.
In the twilight soon horse and rider became blended in one blurred mass
as they receded, rapidly growing fainter to the sight, and further
away. In half an hour darkness had fallen, and they were no longer
visible from the river bank.
Who was the rider?
Ask the winds.
Where was he going?
To the Land of Silence, directly in the Mexican’s tracks.