WHO SPEAKS?
When at the mysterious shot and death of one of their number, the
Apaches fled down the hillock, they scuttled for the wagons as offering
the best concealment. However, their doing so was to their loss,
diminishing their number by two. Duncan, incensed at the ruthless waste
of his flour, and in perfect keeping with his disposition, had lain in
watchful wait for an opportunity to present itself whereby he could
revenge his loss. An opportunity occurred as they fled toward the
wagons. One savage, with a scarlet diamond on his broad back, offering
a fair aim, he took advantage of it and fired. At the same time, Pedro,
ever ready to embrace any opportunity, fired also.
Both shots were successful. Duncan’s Apache threw his arms aloft,
and with a yell, plunged headlong; the other sunk to the ground,
with a sharp cry of pain, then crawled slowly away, dragging himself
painfully. But he was summarily stopped by Duncan, who emptied one of
his cylinders at him. This was sufficient; with a last expiring scowl
back upon his foes, he settled prone upon the sand, and his soul went
to the happy hunting-grounds.
“There have been strange happenings here lately,” gloomily remarked
Pedro, ramming down a bullet. “Who shot just now--tell me that?”
“Who can?” replied Mr. Wheeler. “Oh, God! if one misfortune were not
enough to bear without a mystery, deep and black, to drive one to
torments. Where is my child?” and he buried his face in his hands.
“And where is my gold--my precious, yellow treasure?” fiercely demanded
Pedro.
“What misfortune can compare with mine? what agony as great to bear?
how--”
Seeing his companion’s eyes fixed interrogatively upon him, he stopped
short, conscious he had been unduly excited and heedless. Turning
sharply to his peeping-place, he said:
“Senors, we have lessened their number; of them there remains but six.
One or two more killed or disabled would entirely free us, I think,
from their annoying company. Come, senors, look sharp!”
Duncan and Robidoux exchanged significant glances but said nothing,
only quietly taking their places at the entrance, leaving Mr. Wheeler
stricken again by his gloomy spirits.
And now faint streaks of daylight slanted across the eastern horizon,
and the yellow moonlight paled before the approach of the predominating
daylight. Perched upon the hubs of the wagon-wheels the sullen Apaches
grunted and growled at their constant defeats, not daring to return to
the hill, and too wary to expose any part of their bodies. The whites
watched and waited with the eyes of a lynx and the patience of a cat,
but to no avail--both parties were afraid to show themselves.
“Hark!” suddenly cried Mr. Wheeler, springing into the center of the
cave. “What is it--who speaks?”
“No one spoke, senor,” said Pedro, calmly laying his hand on his
shoulder; “you are nervous and excited, senor--lie down and quiet
yourself.”
“Don’t talk to me of rest and peace--withdraw your hand! _She_
spoke--my daughter--and I will never rest until I have found her.”
In the gloomy light, his eyes shone with at once the sorrow and anger
of a wounded stag; and knowing to resist him would be to endanger his
present health, Pedro considerately withdrew his hand. As he did so
Duncan whispered:
“I’ll swear I heard her voice, just then--every hair of my head, I did.”
“I too imagined I heard a soft voice, but undoubtedly it was the band
outside,” continued the Canadian. “Hark--there it is again!”
All listened. Certainly some one spoke in a soft, effeminate voice,
though so faintly that it was impossible to distinguish the words.
All listened as though petrified, so intense was the interest--Pedro
alive with hope for his gold, and the others, more especially Mr.
Wheeler, for his lost child. But there was no repetition of the voice,
and after listening for some time they returned to the entrance
gloomily.
A sudden movement took place among the Apaches. Their mustangs were
grassing out on the plain some five hundred yards distant, being some
half a mile from the sorrel mustang which avoided them. Starting
suddenly from the wagon-wheels they darted away rapidly toward their
steeds, keeping the wagons between them and the hillock, making it
impossible for the whites to aim, even tolerably.
“Every hair of my sorrel head! my boot-heels! what in Jupiter do them
fellows mean? they’re getting away from us like mad. Skunk after ’em, I
reckon.”
Pedro’s face lightened as he said, “There is some one approaching,
possibly the party. Certainly it is some one hostile to them, or--”
He stopped short as a thought flashed over him. Could it be possible
they had seen the apparition--that he had appeared to them? no--the
idea was rejected as soon as conceived. Not knowing the Trailer, at
least that he had been killed once, they would have promptly shot at
him, which they had not done. No--it was something else.
It was not a ruse to draw them from their concealment, as every one
of the six savages was now scampering hastily for their steeds. They
had all retreated--every one; and confident of no harm, Pedro stepped
boldly out into the daylight and the open plain.
Down in this country, twilights are brief, and even now the sun was
winking over the horizon. Looking round, his gaze fell upon a small
collection of objects, directly against the sun, a league or more
distant.
“Horsemen--whites.”
The Canadian and his companions came out.
“Horsemen, did you say?”
“Yes, senor--white horsemen.”
“Ah, I see--toward the east, against the sun. Coming this way too, are
they not?”
“Exactly, senor.”
“How do you know they are white horsemen?--there are many of them.”
“Because they ride together. Indians scatter loosely or ride by twos.
These are coming together and are leading horses.”
“Every hair on my sorrel-top but you’ve got sharp eyes!” admiringly
spoke the cook.
“Experience, senor--experience. Any Mexican boy could tell you the
color of those coming horsemen. But look over the plain; see the brave
Apaches scamper toward the south-west, whipping their tardy mustangs.
They are gone, and we need fear them no more--they will not come back
for the present. We will meet our friends--for it is they.”
Of course Pedro was right--he always was; and when the returning and
elated party drew up before the hillock, the savages had disappeared.
They had scarcely dismounted when Mr. Wheeler appeared from within. The
old gentleman was greatly excited, and begged them to come at once into
the cave.
“What’s up?” cried Jack, springing toward the entrance. The old man,
in broken tones, said he distinctly heard his daughter’s voice in the
hill, mingled with a deep, harsh one--the voice of a man.
“There must be another chamber!” Pedro shouted.
“There are shovels in the wagons; get them and come on!” echoed Sam.
The shovels were quickly brought, and the whole party, wildly excited,
sprung into the cave.
“Now listen!” whispered Mr. Wheeler.
They did so, and distinctly heard a female voice, in pleading tones, at
one end of the first chamber.
“There _is_ another chamber, and here it is,” cried Jack. “Shovel
away--work and dig! Simpson, you and Scranton go outside and see no one
escapes. She’s in a third chamber, and we’ll find her--hurrah!”
“Hurrah! we’ll find her!” chorused the wild men, commencing to dig
furiously.