THE SENTINEL.
Ned then understood why the two scouts had taken pains to fill their
canteens at the brook during the day, and why, also, they so religiously
preserved the little lunch still remaining in their possession. It was
to guard against just such a contingency.
As the sun approached the horizon, the lad seated himself upon a rocky
protuberance and looked off over the surrounding country. To the west,
the blue, misty outlines of a moderately high range of mountains shut
off all further view.
"Just beyond that," he said to himself, as he fixed his eyes upon the
elevation, "Tom tells me is Fort Havens, where father is waiting for me.
If he only knew we were here, he might come to our relief. Wouldn't he
scatter the redskins down there? But I don't know how he will find it
out. Oh! if we were only among those mountains, it wouldn't take us long
to go the rest of the way. I suppose the fort can be seen from their
top."
To the south, a stratum of yellow vapor stretched for forty degrees
along the horizon. There were no buffaloes there, but there had been,
and it was the evidence of their passage. To the north, the view was
broken by ridges, patches of wood, and curious irregularities of
surface, but there was no sign of life among all, nor could it be
detected except by peering over the edge of Hurricane Hill down upon the
assembled besiegers below. He noticed that Tom Hardynge, shading his
eyes with his hand, was gazing off with a fixed intensity in the
direction of the mountains which intervened between them and Fort
Havens. He said nothing, but there was a significance in his persistency
which aroused the curiosity of the lad in no small degree. Could it be
that his keen vision detected something tangible toward the setting sun,
which was hidden from view by the mountain range? Or was it the mere
searching for something upon which to hang his hopes?
Dick Morris was very differently occupied, acting, indeed, as if unaware
that anyone else was upon the hill-top besides himself. Crawling to the
edge, he was stretched out flat upon his face, his hat removed, while he
peered stealthily downward upon the crowd below. Probably, he, too, was
searching for something or somebody. There was so much meaning in his
actions that the interest of the lad centered upon him, and he watched
every motion.
The hunter fidgeted around for a few minutes, as if his posture was not
exactly comfortable, and then hastily projecting his gun over the
margin, he took a quick aim and fired, and then flinging the weapon
aside, looked down again to see the result. All at once, he sprang to
his feet, and stamped back toward the center of the plateau, in a
terrific rage.
"Ain't it awful!" he exclaimed, adding a forcible expletive. "Did I ever
make a bigger mistake?"
"What do you mean, Dick?"
"Hit the wrong skunk."
"How is that?" asked Tom, turning toward him.
"I've been figuring around for half an hour so as to draw a bead on Lone
Wolf, and just as I pulled the trigger, I found I'd hit the wrong one.
It's trying to one's feelings to be disappointed that way."
"I don't b'leve you'll get a chance at him," said Tom, as he seated
himself and resumed his patient scrutiny of the western horizon.
However the scout was not quite in despair, and, reloading his piece, he
returned to his position and resumed his watch. But the mistake he had
made operated against him in every way. It apprised the Apaches of their
danger from this sort of sharp-shooting, and the whole force fell back,
while Lone Wolf, who was shrewd enough to know that his life was in
special demand, made sure that he was out of range of those fatal
rifles. Besides this, it was rapidly growing dark, and before Dick could
gain any kind of a chance at all, the light was too dim to afford him
the indispensable aim.
The hunters showed a business-like manner of doing things. As soon as it
was fairly dark, Dick Morris gave up his hunt for Lone Wolf, and,
remarking that there would be no fun until the morrow, rolled over and
away from the margin, and was sound asleep within ten minutes.
"You'd better do the same," said Tom to the lad, as he left him alone,
and moved down the incline to the position he intended to occupy while
acting as sentinel during the first portion of the night.
Ned remained up a considerable time, when, as there seemed to be nothing
going on of an alarming nature, he concluded to step out and do the
same, if he could control his nerves enough to do so. He was both hungry
and thirsty, but not to a very great degree, and as his companions said
nothing about eating or drinking, he made up his mind to wait until the
morrow. It was about an hour before he became entirely unconscious, but
when he shut his eyes they were not opened until morning.
Before that time, however, Tom Hardynge became involved in a little
difficulty. The point where he located was about half way between the
base and top of Hurricane Hill. Here the path made such an abrupt bend
that it was easy to conceal himself, and still keep a sharp watch upon
any one coming from below. It was the hunter's belief that an attempt
would be made by the Apaches to steal upon them before morning; for,
while their enemies were ready to wait three or four days, or as long as
was necessary, yet it was to be expected that they would prefer to force
matters to a conclusion as speedily as possible. If they could crowd up
to the top of the hill and overwhelm the fugitives, they were willing to
incur the risk of losing several lives that they might do so.
Accordingly, when he assumed his position it was with the expectation
that there would be something on the carpet before long.
Nor was he disappointed. For two hours not the slightest sound reached
his ears, and then a pebble softly rattled down the incline below him.
There might have been no human agency in this slight occurrence, as the
loose _debris_ was likely to do the same thing at any moment, but Tom
believed that it was caused by the moccasin of an Apache stealing
upward. He stealthily peeped around the edge of the rock, but nothing
was to be seen. There was a moon in the sky, but its position was such
that the path was thrown in shadow, and he could not have detected a man
a dozen feet distant.
Fifteen minutes more passed and then the scout became certain that an
Indian was stealing up the path toward him. It was a wonder how the
thing could be done, without sending streams of gravel and pebbles
rattling to the bottom. Hardynge straightened up, still peering around
in the gloom.
The moments wore away and still he was able to detect that soft, faint
gliding, as if a rattlesnake were getting into a position to strike its
prey. By and by--yes, he could now make out the crouching figure
approaching through the darkness and he drew back lest he should be
seen. Nearer and nearer it drew, while he remained as motionless as the
solid rock beside him. Finally, after great delay it stood opposite.
At the very instant it was passing the hand of Tom Hardynge shot
straight out with lightning-like quickness and force, and the knife
clutched in his iron-like grasp did its duty well. No outcry proclaimed
the deed. There was only a gasp and all was over. The moment it was done
the hunter straightened up and listened.
"Mebbe there's another behind him."
But the most patient, careful listening failed to detect anything, and,
leaving the body lying where it had fallen, he went noiselessly to the
top where Dick was sleeping. A gentle touch aroused the latter and he
instantly rose to his feet. A few words told him all that had happened
and then the two hurriedly discussed the scheme which had occurred to
Hardynge a short time before. Two minutes only were needed for them to
reach a conclusion.
"I'll do it," muttered Tom, as they arose and began picking their way
down the path.