THE RANGER’S SHOT.
The intrepid chief of the Warm Spring Indians saw that he had missed
the disguised scouts by losing his way among the Lava-Beds, and now
he blessed the darkness that led him astray, for had he gained the
objective point uppermost in his mind, he would, in all probability,
have driven the knife or bullet into the hearts of the spies.
He and Artena trembled for the safety of their friends after the
recognition, and concluded to remain where they were and await events.
Donald could hardly resist the temptation to drop Captain Jack, the
head and heart of the bloody Modoc war, and twice Artena preserved that
red worthy’s life by touching the ranger’s arm as it unconsciously
raised the weapon of death.
“Don’t, Donald,” she whispered, the last time. “Remember our friends
are in peril.”
Then his thoughts would recur to the peril of his friends, and the
hammer would drop lightly upon the cartridge again.
After Wiaquil--or Cohoon--assured Jack that he and his friend would
remain, a general hand-shaking took place.
Captain Jack was profuse in his marks of good-will, and his chiefs
appeared pleased with the messengers and their message.
The last savage to take the runner’s hands was that worthy called by
his brethren, Baltimore Bob, but known to the reader under his true
name of Rafe Todd.
During the pledging of friendship he had stood aloof, with his dark
eyes fastened with suspicious glare upon the twain, and when he did
move forward it was by some sudden impulse.
“Bob,” whispered Artena to Donald McKay, “does he see beneath the
paint?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been watching him for a long time,” was the
ranger’s reply. “I half believe that he suspects something. There! see
how he looks into Cohoon’s eyes. We must watch him now; he suspects; I
know it!”
Rafe Todd turned suddenly from the runners and strode toward ’Reesa
South, who was supporting her lover’s head in her lap, unconscious of
what was transpiring around her. She knew that strange Indians had
entered the cave, for, through the red ranks that stood between her and
the new-comers, she had caught glimpses of them.
But her whole attention was centered upon the young ranger, and no
eyes save hers had noticed the slight movements that told of returning
life.
“’Reesa,” said Rafe Todd, and the scout’s daughter started at her name.
“After the excitement of the past few hours you need rest. Come with
me. There is a spot near where you will find a soft bed, and I know you
will enjoy a slumber.”
He spoke kinder than was his wont, and, stooping, gently touched her
arm, as he finished.
“I do not want rest,” she answered, involuntarily shrinking from his
touch. “See, Rafe Todd, he is not dead.”
The white Indian started.
“’Reesa, you must be mistaken,” he said. “He is as dead as Canby.”
“Touch his pulse.”
She lifted Evan Harris right hand, and Rafe Todd tremblingly sought the
pulses.
“Well well,” he said, “he is not dead,” and then he turned to the
Indians.
“Miwah,” he called, and a giant Indian, known to readers of the Modoc
war as the Curly-Headed Doctor, came forward.
“The pale fellow is not dead,” continued the deserter, addressing the
medicine-man of his adopted people. “If you can get him up again, do
so. He may be of service to us.”
As he spoke he gave Miwah a look, which said: “See that you kill him,”
and then turned to ’Reesa again.
“Now, girl,” he said, “you will seek your chamber. I pledge my word of
honor that if the spark of life in him can be fanned into a flame, it
shall be done.”
The scout’s daughter smiled; the thought of Rafe Todd possessing honor
was quite enough to provoke a smile; but she did not say any thing, and
rose to her feet.
“We have visitors,” said the deserter, in a low voice, as he led the
white girl--his blood-bought captive--toward the Klamaths. “They’re
Klamaths,” and here his lips curled with a sneer of contempt, “and I
was surprised to see them. Look! are they not fine-looking fellows,
’Reesa?”
The Indians, knowing that the deserter was conducting the girl to a
smaller compartment, made way, and presently the twain found themselves
face to face with the runners.
On the part of one runner--Wiaquil--the same immobility of countenance
remained; but his companion started slightly when his eyes fell upon
our white heroine.
Rafe Todd caught the dark eyes that shot from ’Reesa’s face to his, and
quickened his gait.
But Coquil suddenly stepped forward and clutched ’Reesa’s arm.
“Girl pretty,” he said, in the Klamath tongue. “Who she be?”
“She’s mine,” said the deserter, meeting the scout’s look of feigned
inquisitiveness with a bold glance. “She belongs to Baltimore Bob.”
“What’ll Bob take for her?”
“Won’t sell her,” said the white Indian, jerking the girl’s arm from
the red hand, and starting forward again.
“Did Mouseh give pale girl to Bob?” asked the runner, turning to the
Modoc chief.
“Yes.”
“She make good Klamath squaw. Coquil got no one to warm his lodge. He
like to buy pale girl, for he got heaps yellow stones.”
“Bob won’t sell his pale squaw for all the gold in California,”
returned Jack. “So Coquil must go back squawless to the clear lake.”
The messenger smiled, and stepped to the side of his companion, to whom
he said a few words in a tone that failed to reach the ears of the
watchers on the river bank.
To his communication Wiaquil replied, and looked up at Jack.
“The trail from Arrow-Head’s lodge to Mouseh’s cave is hard to travel,”
he said. “Wiaquil and his brother saw the sun and the stars, and now
they would sleep awhile that they may be refreshed for the war-path
against the blue-coats.”
Jack turned and held a short council with his chiefs, after which
a number left the cave, until the great Modoc and Hooker Jim alone
remained.
The Curly-Headed Doctor had mysteriously disappeared with his patient.
“Our brothers will rest here,” said Jack, describing a circle with his
hand. “Mouseh hopes that they may not be disturbed, for no braves
shall enter the cave while they lie here. The Modocs have departed to
watch the blue-coats, for the sun is high in the heavens now. Hooker
Jim will sleep in the mouth of yonder hole, and the lightest step will
touch his ear.”
Then the Modoc touched the hands of his guests again, and chivalrously
bade them good-night.
With a _nonchalance_ simply remarkable, the runners doffed their
blankets, and spread them on the ground; then they laid their Spencers
between their robes, and threw themselves upon the latter.
Hooker Jim looked on all the preparations for slumber with an
unsuspicious eye, and laid down in the mouth of the corridor, in whose
dark recesses Jack and his braves had disappeared.
Watchful eyes regarded the tableau revealed by the flickering fire, and
after an hour’s silence Donald McKay turned to Artena.
“They are safe now, I think,” he said. “Baltimore Bob has been
completely hoodwinked. You must go to the General now.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I will stay. You will tell him about Mouseh’s new stronghold;
how to approach it; in short, every thing you know about it. Take the
canoe. You can paddle, and you know the way from this spot.”
“Yes; but Artena would be near Cohoon when he sleeps in Jack’s cave.
Donald don’t know what he is to Artena.”
“Ah! but I do, girl,” was the ranger’s reply. “I have known it long,
too. Are you afraid to meet Jack?”
“No; he does not believe Artena a traitress.”
“Good. Now watch the boys till I find the boat.”
So Donald McKay glided from the girl’s side, and moved down the bank
toward the underground river.
He knew where he had moored the boat, and he reached the spot to find
the craft missing!
“What does this mean?” he ejaculated, inaudible. “Surely no Indian
would steal it without suspicions. It wasn’t an Indian boat. Even in
the dark a red-skin could have told that.”
The ranger was nonplused, and wandered down the shore, feeling among
the sharp rocks for the missing canoe.
But his search was fruitless; not a clue to the fate of the barque
could be discovered, and, trying to plan for the future, he turned
toward Artena.
No doubt she was alarmed about his absence, for he had been gone a long
time, and he wondered what she would say when informed of the work of
the waves, or Indians.
Donald approached the spot cautiously, and at length reached the very
place he had vacated.
But no Artena greeted his return!
He held his breath.
“Artena?”
No reply answered him.
“_Artena?_”
Silence, as before.
Then he groped about for several minutes and returned to the same old
place, admitting reluctantly that Artena, like the boat, was gone!
He could not conjecture the cause of her desertion; but he resolved to
wait awhile for her return.
He lay down on the bank in such a position that he could look upon the
spies sleeping soundly in the lion’s den, and over his head the leaden
moments passed.
All at once the ranger chief moved, and his eyes flashed upon an object
in the cave.
This object had suddenly made its appearance in the shape of a man, and
by stepping over the prostrate body of Hooker Jim.
The dim light revealed it but indistinctly to Donald McKay, yet he saw
the tomahawk clutched in the right hand, and he recognized the face.
For a moment the new-comer paused, listened, and looked.
The sleeping spies were the objects of his attention, and seemingly
satisfied with his observation, he again advanced toward them.
Simultaneously with the second advance, there was a movement of the
ranger’s right arm.
It crept over the edge of the bank, and a revolver filled the hand.
“Let him lift that hatchet over them,” grated the scout. “Just let
him do it, and I’ll bore his brain, if I lose my life for it the next
minute!”
The Indian continued to approach the scouts with the noiseless tread of
the cat.
Donald McKay could hardly believe that they slept, yet such seemed to
be the fact, and he wished he could rouse them without resorting to the
pistol, which might bring destruction upon the heads of all.
At length the savage paused over the spies, and then dropped upon his
knees beside Kit South.
For a moment he seemed to contemplate his prey, as the panther does his
before he springs from the leafy bough upon it.
How Donald McKay watched him!
Not even when he heard a voice in his rear, did he move his eyeballs.
The noise in his rear, slight as it was, told him much.
Dusky foes were gliding upon him from the gloom that slept upon the
river.
He knew it, but the knowledge did not unnerve his arm. He knew, too,
that the tomahawk would immediately follow his capture, for Captain
Jack had offered a tempting reward for his scalp--not his person, which
he did not want.
Suddenly, as if impelled by a terrible impulse, the Indian’s tomahawk
shot upward.
The next moment the cave resounded with the report of a revolver, and
the savage staggered to his feet with a howl of rage!
Donald McKay waited no longer.
He leaped up and wheeled toward the river; but found himself in the
midst of a dozen Indians!
Once, twice, thrice, he pressed his revolver against the red breasts
and pulled the trigger, then flung wide his iron arms, and dashed
forward--free again!
The flashes of pistols revealed him on the brink of the river, and the
next moment he was gone!