AN ALARMING MESSAGE.
As the scout rode his mustang up to the tree whereon the buffalo skin
was fastened, he read the following words:
"To Tom Hardynge:--The stage which left Santa Fe on the 10th inst.,
is due at Fort Havens between the 20th and 25th, _but it will never
reach there_. It has an escort of a dozen mounted soldiers, but
they can't save it. The Apaches have arranged to attack it near
Devil's Pass, which you know is about a hundred miles northeast
from this point, among the mountains. You can't do anything to help
it; but Ned Chadmund is with it, and his father, the colonel,
offers you and me a thousand dollars apiece to save _him_. I leave
to day--Thursday--for the pass, and you must follow the minute your
eyes see this. I will be on the lookout for you. Remember there
isn't an hour to spare.
"Dick Morris."
Colonel Chadmund was the commandant at Fort Havens, whither he was
hastening with his news from the Indian country. His family dwelt in
Santa Fe, and his only child, a bright boy, about a dozen years of age,
had been permitted to start to join his father in accordance with a
promise made him a long time before. The escort with which he had been
provided would have been ample under ordinary circumstances, and in
fact, was larger than was generally customary; but it was not
sufficient.
Dick Morris held a position then known as "hunter to the fort" at the
post under the command of Colonel Chadmund. It was similar to that which
the renowned Kit Carson filled for a number of years in the old days at
Bent's Fort. The man was selected on account of his skill in the use of
the rifle, and his knowledge of the habits of the game, his duty being
simply to supply the command with all the fresh food possible--a
position which, it will at once be understood, was no sinecure,
involving constant activity and many long, rapid journeys.
Dick was as skillful and shrewd a man as could be found in the whole
Southwest. Tom Hardynge, his friend and companion in many a perilous
adventure, understood what it all meant the instant he had finished
reading the writing upon the buffalo skin. By some means--probably
through the Indian runners encountered while hunting his game--he had
learned the particulars of the expedition that had been arranged to
attack and massacre the escort. Very probably these swarthy wretches
were mainly incited to the deed by the knowledge that the son of Colonel
Chadmund was to be with the party. It was under the direction of this
vigilant officer that the marauding Indians of the border had received
such a number of severe blows. They were excited to the highest point of
exasperation, and would seize upon any means of revenge at their
command.
Alarmed by the danger which threatened his beloved child, the colonel
had sent Dick Morris to the rescue at once. He would have sent a hundred
men from his fort, had he believed it possible that they could do any
good, but it was clearly out of the question for them to reach Devil's
Pass until nearly twenty-four hours after the stage was due there. It
was one of those cases wherein all depended upon shrewdness and
strategy, and where nothing was to be gained by mere force of arms. The
expectation was that the Apaches would hold the boy at an enormous
ransom, or probably as a hostage for the safety of such of their
blood-stained chiefs as were in the hands of the Americans. This will
explain the haste of the hunter, and his anxiety to have the
companionship of Tom, who had tramped so many hundred miles through the
Indian country.
Ten minutes after reading the dispatch Tom had fastened on the
accoutrements of his mustang and was galloping away to the northeast on
the trail of his friend. He did not pause even to hunt a little game,
after having been so long without food. He was accustomed to privation
and hardship, and, if it were required, was good for twenty-four hours
longer without permitting a particle of food to pass his lips.
He was leaving the treacherous Gila far to the south. It may be said
that his course along this stream, on his return from the Apache
country, was like the base of a triangle, while he was now following the
hypothenuse. This latter route was preferable in every sense to that
which he had been using for the last few days. The country itself was
more varied, better watered and abounded with vegetation, its only
drawback being the ever-present danger from the marauding redskins.
Another advantage that belonged to the traveler over this path was that
it was really a path--so clearly defined that a stranger could follow it
without trouble. It was, in fact, the trail between Fort Havens and
Santa Fe, over which, at certain intervals, messengers were regularly
dispatched back and forth.
The money with which the soldiers at Fort Havens and several other posts
were paid came down by express from Sante Fe over this road, in charge
of a proper escort, and the coach which started from that city with
little Ned Chadmund carried also one hundred thousand dollars in crisp,
crackling greenbacks stowed away in the bottom of the vehicle.
Consequently it will be seen that the Apaches, who understood very well
the value of these printed slips, had every inciting cause to organize
an overwhelming expedition against the coach and its escort.
The day is waning, but his steed was fresh and fleet, and had enjoyed
such a long rest, that it would be a mercy to him to put him through his
best paces. Tom did not hesitate to do it. The glossy black animal gave
a neigh of delight as he felt the familiar hand of his master upon the
bridle, and he stretched away like one of the Arabian coursers of the
desert, fleet as the wind and capable of keeping up the tremendous rate
of speed for hours at a time.
The greater portion of this journey led through the wildest mountain
scenery, and the afternoon was scarcely half gone when a striking change
in the surface was observable. Instead of that long, dreary expanse of
endless prairie, the hunter was forced to make long detours to escape
the obstructions constantly interposing in the way. Now it was around
some pile of rocks, then winding among a mass of hills, then over a
level plain for some distance, but with the scenery steadily increasing
in ruggedness at every mile traversed. Far ahead could be discerned the
chain of mountains, their peaks looking blue and misty in the distance.
It was among these that the trail wound its way--one portion, in the
very heart of the mountains, being known as Devil's Pass, from its wild
and dangerous character; and, as the scout strained his eye in the
direction and contemplated the blue waving line against the sky, he
almost fancied he could see the smoke from the rifles of the vengeful
Apaches.
"Shouldn't wonder if they are at it this very minute," he muttered, as
he glanced down at the ground in front of him.
All the afternoon, as he sped along, he saw constantly in front of him
the footprints of another mustang, such as are made by an animal when
under full speed. So they were, as he knew very well. Dick Morris had
been over the same trail a few hours before, at scarcely less speed than
his own.
Every time Tom came in sight of an elevation he looked hastily at it in
the hope of catching sight of some signal from his friend. In such a
desperate enterprise as this he felt the need of companionship,
especially of such a tried and daring man as Dick Morris. But the sun
gradually went down in the western sky without bringing him the coveted
sight, and he began to believe that he would not be overtaken before
reaching Devil's Pass, which he hoped to reach on the morrow. Then, as
the sun disappeared and darkness crept over mountain and prairie, Tom
turned the head of his animal in the direction of a clump of trees where
he knew there was an abundance of grass and water, and where, in all
probability, something in the way of food could be had for himself. The
mustang needed rest and refreshment, and the rider required them
scarcely less.