KISSIE FINDS A FRIEND.
Pedro sat behind the closed entrance, lowering savagely through the
glimmering chinks, and almost beside himself with astonishment, vague
fear, and wonder. He had recovered his gun and was clutching it, ready
to fire at the smallest rustle above; his precious treasure formed a
costly seat, on which he squatted; afraid of the cave, afraid of the
darkness, the ghost, his own horse, and even of himself.
Do not infer from this that Pedro was a coward. On the contrary, he
was brave--a bolder man never drew breath. He was far-famed for his
bravery. But, “put yourself in his place,” and cease to wonder at his
alarm.
An hour passed, during which he fancied he heard a slight noise
overhead. But if there was one, it was slight, scarcely discernible.
He began to regain his habitual equanimity, and to try and laugh down
his fears. But the latter was no easy task. To see the perfect form of
a man he had shot through the heart a year ago--to see him mounted on
the same steed he had dropped him from--to see his wicked, gleaming eye
fixed upon him in deadly, unrelenting hate--and above all, to meet him
at _this_ place, in the country noted for its specters, was enough,
as he strongly declared, “to scare the Old Nick out of ten years’
wickedness.”
Plucking up courage, he advanced to open the trap and peer out. Just
then he heard a footfall above--he drew back again, seized with fear.
The footfall became two, then three, then grew into a succession
of patters. He knew the sound--it was a horse. He did not stop to
conjecture--he did not hesitate or draw a timid breath; but angry at
himself for being alarmed, boldly threw open the trap, and with ready
rifle, peered out.
His eyes fell upon a fair young girl coming directly toward him on a
sorrel mustang, the latter apparently wandering aimlessly at an easy
amble. Her eyes were fixed on the distant plain beyond the hillock, and
were wandering, as if she saw nothing to attract her attention.
“It is strange she does not see it!” observed Pedro--“very strange. But
stay! the hillock is higher than its head, and so she does not perceive
it. But she will--she will.”
But she did not, and came on directly toward the entrance. Suddenly,
when quite close, the mustang snorted, tossed her head, and shied away
from something in front of her.
“Ah!” he muttered, “then it was no optical illusion--it is, in truth, a
spirit.”
But he was deceived. If the mustang saw the form behind the hill, the
lady did not, and being higher than her steed had a better opportunity
for discovering it.
“Be quiet, Dimple!” commanded the lady. “It is only some large
burrow--it is nothing to alarm you. Be quiet, I say!”
Pedro stared. From where she was now (the mustang having darted to a
point which allowed a full view of the hillock) she could have easily
seen the form had he been there. But she did not, and of course he
was not in sight--the pony was alarmed at the yawning entrance, which
showed gloomily against the yellow hillock.
Pedro’s fears were over. Wondering why a lady--a white and beautiful
American lady--should be alone on this wild, sterile plain, he resolved
to make himself known. Perhaps she was in distress--mayhap she had just
escaped from captivity and needed assistance.
Gallantry was one of his predominating traits.
Casting aside his weapons, and wearing an easy, good-natured air,
which became him, he stepped carelessly out in full view. Lifting his
sombrero, he said, with an assuring smile:
“Senorita, your servant.”
Snort! The mustang was twenty yards away in five seconds, and the lady,
unseated, was on the ground, wildly alarmed, but not injured; the timid
mustang had thrown her in its sudden fright.
She arose and fled toward her mustang, but the treacherous animal
galloped away, and halting a hundred yards distant, tossed her head and
regarded the strange man wildly. Seeing she could not recover her steed
in her present state of mind, she turned to Pedro, doubting and fearing
him. He saw she mistrusted him, and again raising his sombrero, again
bowed low.
“Fear not, senorita--fear not; I am a friend.”
“A friend? Who are you?”
“Pedro Felipe, senorita. Do you need assistance?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I am in great trouble. I am lost from my friends. I was
chased by Indians last night. I am very hungry and tired; I have not
tasted food since yesterday at noon.”
Pedro, eying her admiringly, noticed her sweet face was pale and worn.
Ever ready to assist a fellow-creature, he started toward the entrance.
“Enter, senorita, enter. But stay,” he added, in a low tone; “do you
see any thing on the other side of the hill?”
“No, sir--nothing. No one is visible.”
“It is well. Senorita, if you will come in here you will find food,
such as it is. There are blankets, also, if you need rest.”
But she hung back. She feared to enter that strange, yawning hole with
this man, even if he did look and act like an honest man.
“My pony, Dimple,” she said, hesitatingly. “I am afraid she will go
astray.”
“Never fear, senorita--I will bring her back to you, if she does.”
“But--but--”
“Ah I perceive, senorita--you wrong me. I have been too long a
companion and servant of my kind master in Mexico--Senor Martinez--to
harm a lady. I--”
“Why! are you the Pedro that lives at that grand old place? Why, our
farm was quite close to it! My father is Mr. Wheeler.”
“Ah! then I am fortunate in having an opportunity to serve you. Your
party is on their way north, is it not?”
“Yes, sir. Do you know any of them?”
“Only Simpson, the guide. He is an old friend of mine. Many is the time
we have fled from Apaches. I started from the hacienda on the morning
you started for the north. I saw your party, several days ago, down on
the Santa Cruz river.”
“Then you will help me to find my friends?”
“Assuredly, senorita. Come in and rest. My accommodations are poor, but
they are better than none. Come in, senorita.”
No longer she feared to enter that forbidding aperture, but led by
Pedro, walked in. The mustang, seeing her mistress disappear, came
slowly toward the entrance.
“Why, what a dismal, gloomy place,” said Kissie, timidly halting in the
entrance. “What is it--who lives here?”
“It is an old outlaw den,” replied Pedro. “But no outlaws occupy it
now--its only resident is your servant.”
Much she marveled, but she did not ask any questions, as she was faint
from lack of nourishment. Pedro, for security’s sake, led her into the
second chamber, and shaking up the tattered, musty blankets, bade her
rest while he procured food, he going out for the purpose.
She reclined on the soft blankets, greatly surprised at the strange
events in which she had participated. But she did so unaccompanied by
any feelings of alarm or of grief, for now she had found a haven of
rest.
She sunk into a dreamy doze, delicious for its being indulged in
perfect safety. She had heard of the man outside--she was aware he was
a far-famed and respected scout and warrior; she knew he would protect
her. She could hear him in the next room stirring about, whistling
under his breath, and the savory odor of roasting meat floated to her
nostrils. A lingering trace of uneasiness alone remained--she knew her
friends would be alarmed about her.
This latter feeling was not strong enough to seriously alarm her, as
she conceived it an easy task for them to find her. Mingling with it
was a delicious sense of security and peace, of rest and nourishment,
and the savory smell of the adjoining cookery. Gradually these blended
into one feeling; Pedro’s whistle outside became more melodious and
softer--the dull, gloomy air of the dark apartment soothed her, and she
fell asleep.
Pedro, as he cooked his bit of venison (he had killed an antelope
when on the Gila), reflected and pondered, and his thoughts shaped
themselves into words.
“She is asleep--I can hear her breathe. It is strange, very strange,
that she did not see it. It was no mistake of mine, that I know. What,
then, was it? The Trailer’s ghost.
“Pshaw! I killed him a year ago, and saw him fall dead with my own
eyes. It can not--it can not be.
“But I saw him. Ah, that is only too certain. Sitting on his old black
horse, under that waving black plume, and in the same old dress. I saw
him--I _know_ I saw him. Pedro Felipe, there is no fighting away the
fact--you are haunted.”
He shuddered, strong man as he was, and going to the entrance, looked
out. Still the hot breeze came from the south, still the hot sun stared
down upon the yellow plain, still all was quiet. Only the mustang was
in sight, browsing at a little distance, with his head turned toward
the east.
“I must lariat that mustang,” said Pedro. “There are too many Indians
about for him to show our retreat. Yes, I will lariat him.”
Perhaps one motive for doing so was, that going out he might peer over
the hill. He dreaded a second appearance of the apparition, and though
he would not acknowledge it to himself, cordially feared it. It was not
to his discredit, however.
He took his lariat, or lasso, from his saddle, which lay on the floor,
the horse lying near. Then he stepped out, still keeping one corner of
his eye toward the summit of the hill.
Suddenly he stopped.
“What if she should awake and discover my treasure!” he thought,
trembling for its safety, though he knew she was perfectly to be
trusted.
It was lying in a corner still, in the bag. He threw the water-bucket,
a blanket and his saddle over it.
“That will suffice for the present,” he said; then casting an eye
toward the inner room, went out with his lariat.
The mustang still browsed, tail toward him. It was an excellent
opportunity for a capture, and he would profit by it. So, making a
running-noose at one end, he coiled his lariat, and taking the coil in
his hand, began to swing it over his head. At the same time he allowed
the noose full play, by this means increasing its size until it became
several feet in diameter. Such is the apparently simple manner of
throwing the lasso.
The noose became larger and wider, the amount of rope in his hand
became less; in another moment the noose would be over the animal’s
head.
It did not leave his hand. Just before he had got ready to let it fly,
a voice close by said:
“Aim well, Pedro Felipe.”
He started, dropped his rope, and stared round. He was alone--no one
had spoken. Was it imagination?--the mustang still browsed--she had not
heard it. It was a false alarm.
Again he picked up his rope. Again the voice spoke, this time harshly.
“Take care, Pedro!”
Dropping his rope, he flew to the summit and looked over the plain. No
one was in sight--no apparition, no Indian, no human being.
Then with a pale face he darted toward the entrance, with the
ejaculated words:
“The voice of the Trailer!”
The trap-door rung harshly as he slammed it to from the inside. The
mustang heard the sound, tossed his head, and galloped away a short
distance, then stopped and looked at the hillock.
It was bare--no one was in sight. Relieved of her sudden fear, she
dropped her head and grazed again. The sun slowly set over the Land of
Silence.
Who spoke?
The man with the black plume in his conical hat.