A DESPERATE SCHEME.
The two scouts carefully descended until they reached the spot where the
dead Apache lay. They moved as noiselessly as shadows until they stood
directly by the inanimate form. Then, while Tom Hardynge began adjusting
his outer garments, Dick Morris stooped over and drew forth the blanket
which was crumpled beneath the dead warrior.
The Apaches and Comanches and different tribes of the southwest nearly
always carry their blankets with them when traveling, and when this
particular Indian essayed his perilous reconnaissance on a sultry summer
night that garment was flung over his shoulders. These savages as a
rule, do not wear their hair done up in the defiant scalp-lock form seen
among their more northern kindred. It hangs loosely about their heads
and shoulders, being ornamented with stained feathers, the hair itself
frequently daubed with brilliant paint.
Tom gathered the blanket about him precisely as did the warrior, and
then, his own cap being thrown aside, the feathers were stuck in among
the tresses with all the skill of the veteran warrior. As he wore
leggings the same as the redskin, his _tout ensemble_ was complete.
Beneath his blanket he carried his rifle, pistol and knife, and even
took the tomahawk from the girdle of the fallen brave, and managed to
stow that about his clothing. Even now the two comrades spoke not a
word. They merely shook hands in a silent, cordial grasp, and almost
immediately became invisible to each other. Dick remained where he was
for several minutes, listening and looking, and then, hearing nothing,
moved back toward his former position, muttering as he went:
"If anybody can get through 'em, Tom's the boy--but it's a powerful
desprit scheme--a powerful desprit one!"
Reaching the top, he crawled again to the margin, and stretched out with
his head partly over. Eye-sight was of no avail now, and he depended
upon hearing alone, believing that by that means he would be able to
learn the success or failure of the maneuver. But not until nearly an
hour had passed did he begin to feel anything like a real hope that his
comrade had succeeded.
In the meantime, Tom was doing his best. It was no easy task for him to
pass safely through the Apache lines in the guise of an Indian. The
redskins would be on the lookout for the return of their scout, and the
ordeal through which he would have to pass would be a much more severe
one than usual. But he was accustomed to desperate schemes, and ready
for any sort of encounter. If discovered immediately, he meant to dash
back again up the rocks; but if he could get any distance away, he would
make a determined effort to elude his enemies altogether.
Following out his plan with the deliberation of a veteran, he stole
slowly downward, consuming fully half an hour before he reached the base
of Hurricane Hill. When, at length, he stood upon hard ground below, he
was taken somewhat back by seeing no one near him.
"That's queer," he said; "what's become of the skunks?"
He had scarcely uttered the words when a tall form suddenly appeared at
his side, coming up as if he had risen from the very ground.
"Do the hunters sleep?"
This question was asked in pure Apache, and Tom, somewhat distrustful of
his own ability in that line, managed to muffle his blanket up in front
of his mouth as he replied in the same tongue:
"They sleep not."
"Where is their scalps, Mau-tau-ke?"
"On their heads."
The warrior was no more than ten feet distant, and from the moment the
scout detected him he began edging away, the Indian naturally following
along while these words were being uttered, so as to keep within easy
ear-shot. Upon hearing the second reply to his question, he paused, and
Tom, dreading a betrayal, grasped the handle of his knife under his
cloak, and was ready to use it on the instant. But the Indian remained
standing, while Tom, still moving away in his indifferent manner, soon
passed beyond his view.
"I guess he's stopped to think," was the conclusion of the scout, as he
looked back in the gloom, "and it'll be some time before he's through."
But the trouble now remained as to how he should pass through the Apache
lines beyond. If the redskins had any suspicion of any such movement, or
if the warrior whom he had just left were suspicious, serious trouble
was at hand.
The hunter sauntered aimlessly along, using his eyes and ears, and a
walk of something over a hundred yards brought him up against a number
of figures that were stretched out and sitting upon the ground, with
several standing near at hand.
They showed no surprise at their "brother's" approach, and he was
confident that, if they didn't undertake to cross-question him too
closely, he stood a good chance of getting through. As they were
gathered too closely at this point he made a turn to the right, and, to
his amazement, not a word was said or the least notice taken of him, as
he walked directly by. That was succeeding, indeed; but Tom was not yet
ready to leave the neighborhood. He wanted his horse, Thundergust, and,
once astride of him, his heart would be light as a bird; but in looking
around he could not discern a single horse.
It would be useless to attempt to reach Fort Havens on foot. The Apaches
would detect his flight by daylight, which was only a few hours away,
and they could overhaul him before he could go any distance at all. No,
he must have his horse, and he began his search for him. This was a
delicate task; but he prosecuted it with the same skill and
_nonchalance_ that he had displayed heretofore.
He had stolen along for a short distance, when he descried some twenty
horses corraled and cropping the grass, while a still larger number were
lying on the ground. Was his own among them? he asked himself, as he
stood looking in that direction, while he dimly discerned the figures of
the warriors upon his left. Very cautiously he gave utterance to a
slight whistle. There was no response, although he suspected it was
heard by the redskins themselves. Then he repeated it several times,
walking a little nearer the group of equines.
All at once one of their number rose from the ground with a faint
whinney, and came trotting toward him. At the same time several Indians
came forward from the main group, their suspicions fairly awakened by
these maneuvers.
One of these suddenly broke into a run, as he descried the mustang
trotting toward the warrior-like figure shrouded in his blanket. There
was no doubt in his mind that something was wrong. The scout stood like
a statue, as though he saw not the approach of the man or horse. The
latter as if distrustful of the shape of things moved so reluctantly
that the redskin beat him in reaching the goal.
"What means Mau-tau-ke?" he demanded, in a gruff voice, as he clutched
his shoulder. "Is he a dog that--"
The poor Apache scarcely knew what disposed of him. It was with the
suddenness of the lightning stroke, and, flinging back the dirty blanket
that had enshrouded his form, the scout pointed his revolvers at the
others, fired three shots, accompanied by a screech loud enough to wake
the dead. Then, springing toward his mustang, he vaulted upon his back,
wheeled about, and thundered away, like the whirlwind across the
prairie.
This demonstration was so unexpected and so appalling that the Apaches
were effectually checked for a time. Before they could recover, mount
their horses, and start in pursuit, the fugitive was beyond their sight.
It was useless to pursue, at any rate, for there was no steed among them
all that could overtake the flying mustang, whose hoofs were plainly
heard upon the prairie, rapidly growing fainter as the distance
increased. In a few minutes it had died out altogether, and, ferocious
as was the hatred of the redskins toward the hunter who had outwitted
and injured them so often, no one made any effort to overhaul him.
Tom Hardynge, every few seconds, let out a regular Apache war-yell,
intended as exultation, taunt and defiance. He could afford it, for he
had triumphed as completely as heart could covet. The magnificent
Thundergust instinctively knew their destination, and the reins lay
loosely upon his neck as he sped away. He was aiming for Fort Havens. It
was a long distance away, and many hours must pass before its flagstaff
could be detected against the far-off horizon.