ON THE EVE OF EXECUTION.
New York Harry, as the reader knows, recognized the trio that dropped
through the opening to the bank of the underground river.
They were Kit South, Evan Harris, and the indomitable chief of the Warm
Spring Indians, McKay.
When last the reader encountered the latter, he was leaping into the
river after shooting the red villain who was attempting to murder Kit
and Cohoon, disguised as Klamath runners, and asleep in Jack’s cave.
Fortunately, the balls of the savage did not injure him, and his strong
arms stemmed the current, which was not so powerful as those of several
other streams running through the lava-beds.
But he was borne far down-stream before he reached the opposite bank,
and after dragging himself in the water, he lay exhausted upon the
wet stones for several hours. Many times he caught the glimmer of
torches that sought to reveal him to his foes; but their light did not
penetrate the gloom that enveloped him, and so he escaped discovery.
He felt that his first shot had proved fatal, and congratulated himself
that he had rid the world of one hateful excrescence--Baltimore Bob.
For in the person of the would-be assassin who bent over Cohoon, he
recognized the white deserter; but was not aware that Rafe Todd and
Baltimore Bob were identical.
Bob would have a motive for slaying the spies. No doubt he had
penetrated their disguises, but could not convince Jack of their true
character. Therefore he would slay them himself, and after the deed he
would convince Mouseh that two spies had paid the penalty attached to
such a venture as theirs.
“I’m not going back to camp till I see what has become of Artena,”
muttered McKay, with determination. “I’m satisfied that the girl
wouldn’t leave me of her own accord, and I don’t see how an Indian
could take her off ’thout ’sturbin’ me. But I know what I can do. I
can get out o’ this and hunt one o’ the boys up, and lead him back to
Gillem with the news. I’ll do it.”
An examination of his revolvers proved that the waterproof cartridges
had sustained their reputation in his battle with the waves; but he had
been obliged to drop his carbine, in order to save his own life.
A great many tortuous windings brought him to daylight, but when his
eyes greeted it, he paused and shook his head.
He dared not leave the lava-caves and search for his scouts during the
day--so he accepted the situation and waited for darkness.
It came at last, and the captain of the scouts gained the outer crust
of the lava beds, and inaugurated the search for his men. Even under
the cover of darkness this service was extremely hazardous; but he
possessed information which must be conveyed to the Union General
before the next advance. At length the chief found one of his men, who
was at once relieved from duty and dispatched to the camp with the
important intelligence.
“I may await your return here, I may not,” he said to the messenger,
before dismissing him. “Something might turn up to call me away, so, if
you find me missing on your return, don’t be alarmed.”
He took up the scout’s position, and a few minutes later was startled
by a shot to his right.
“That means something,” he murmured, and as he vacated his spot, for
the purpose of inquiring into the noise, he was startled again by two
more pistol discharges in rapid succession.
These were the shots that consummated New York Harry’s treachery.
The last shot told the half-breed that they were not signals, for a
death-cry reached his ears, and rapidly, but with caution, he neared
the fatal spot.
He found the scalped bodies of the hoodwinked scouts, and was turning
away, when a peculiar but not unfamiliar sound caused a halt.
Somebody else had been attracted thither by the three death-shots.
Who could it be but Indians?
Noiselessly the scout crawled behind a rock, and with ready weapons
awaited the new-comers, for there seemed to be two.
The stars shone dimly upon the Lava-Beds, yet he could distinguish
objects at the distance of several paces, and when the foremost of the
new-comers came in sight, the scout, seeing at once that he was not a
Warm Spring Indian, drew back with his knife, but did not strike.
The voice of the foremost man addressing his companion saved the lives
of both.
Then McKay spoke in a whisper:
“Kit?”
The figures paused, and the next minute the chief had joined his
rangers.
“The boys ar’ dead,” said Kit South. “I told Thatcher to watch that
Indian; but Harry war too much for them. I just want to git a hold on
him now. Sam and I war in ‘the war’ together under Canby, and Jehu! now
I want to kill the greaser who played traitor, and then shot him.”
A brief conversation--in which the parties exchanged personal
narratives--followed, and they resolved to return to the lava caves,
and free Cohoon and the two women from the Indians’ power.
“So my dream won’t come true,” said Kit South, dejectedly, “for you say
you killed Rafe. Well, I’m glad on it, now. Do you think he and New
York Harry ar’ the same, eh ’Van?”
’Van Harris smiled, but did not reply. The argument was against him now,
and the scout saw that he did not like to acknowledge it.
“Well,” continued Kit, “I’ll consider Harry Rafe Todd when I catch him,
and treat the red devil accordingly.”
The trio vacated the spot, and in due time found themselves beside the
underground torrent, and within ten feet of the very man they were
hunting--the very girl, too.
But they knew it not, and, guided by McKay, hurried down-stream toward
the Bloody Cave, which, within the last forty-eight hours, could lay
additional claim to the appellation.
The mission of the three men was dangerous in every sense of the term,
and their movements told that they knew this.
Ever and anon they were compelled to pause and permit Indians to flit
by like dark-robed specters; but they did not put forth a hand to take
a life, for the death-cry might prove the harbinger of their own doom.
The scouts were preparing for the coming day. Captain Jack knew that
the great guns of his white adversaries would open upon him with the
rising of the sun, and his braves were hastening to stations already
selected by his military eye.
The rescuers spoke not as they glided along, and at last they gained
the elevation from whose summit McKay and Artena had looked into Bloody
Cave.
“I thought we’d take a peep into the lion’s lair, first,” whispered
Donald to Kit, who crept at his side, young Harris having been left at
the river to watch for foes. “I think we’ll hardly--ha! the lion is at
home.”
The exclamation was called forth by the presence of Jack, alone in the
cave.
He stood erect with arms folded upon his breast, and eyes fastened on
the gallows which lately in the presence of his nation, he had traced
on the wall.
“Heavens! what a fine chance to end the Modoc war,” said Kit South, and
his hand involuntarily crept to his revolver. “But it won’t do to drop
him.”
“No,” said McKay regretfully. “We must let the greatest devil in these
parts go scot free. But if we catch him alone in one of these dark
halls we’ll end his days.”
“That we will; but look, Mack, he’s going to leave us. No, he sees some
one--there!”
The chief had turned to greet a young Indian who had just crossed the
threshold of the wide corridor.
“Now listen,” said McKay, and the scouts poked their heads forward a
degree.
“What brings Boston John to Mouseh?” questioned the Modoc chief, not
relishing the disturbance.
“Rattlesnake says that the red star has climbed the horizon,” answered
the trembling brave.
His words caused the chief to start, and a gold watch was drawn from
his bosom.
“Ha! ’tis near day!” exclaimed Jack, returning to its place of
concealment the memento of some butchered blue-coated boy. “Artena’s
time has come!”
Then he glanced once more at the pictured gallows, motioned the boy
away, and followed in his footsteps.
“He’ll guide us to Artena now,” said McKay, touching the border-man’s
arm.
“And to ’Reesa, for where Artena is there will we find my child.”
“Yes, yes. We follow Jack now, though he leads us into the jaws of
death. We can’t get around this cave and catch him on the other side;
we must run through it.”
A low whistle called Evan Harris from his duty, and the next minute the
trio flitted across the cave, and entered the corridor where Jack had
disappeared.
The danger of their undertaking was apparent now. At any moment the
hunted chief might turn upon them in the darkness, and dispatch all
three before an injury could be inflicted upon him.
But Captain Jack did not think of foes on his trail; he was intent upon
doing the deed promised at the rising of Mars--the execution of Artena.
Already a spirit of mutiny existed in the Modoc ranks. The Cottonwood
branch of the tribe, containing such warriors as Hooker Jim, Scar-faced
Charley, and Shack Nasty Jim, were loud in their expressions of
disapproval of some of Jack’s actions, chief among which was his
leniency toward Artena.
After committing her to the guardianship of Scar-face, the braves
exacted an oath from him that she should die at the rising of the
planet of war.
His appearance before the guards was greeted with guttural exclamations
of triumph, and boldly the chief crossed the threshold and startled the
Squaw Spy with his voice.
“Artena ready to die?” he asked.
The spy looked around upon the occupants of the cave, and then riveted
her eyes upon the rebel.
“Ready,” she answered, seeing no pity in his dark eyes, for no doubt he
had at last reached the conclusion that she was the spy, declared by
his warriors.
“How would she die?”
As he spoke, the Indian held forth his hands, in one of which lay a
pistol, in the other a knife.
Artena’s eyes fell to the weapons, and the death of silence filled the
cavern.
“Reesa isn’t there!” said Kit South, with a groan, at this juncture.
“Where in the name of mercy is my child?”
“We’ll find out directly, Kit,” said McKay, without moving his eyes
from the scene in the cave. “Look! the girl takes the knife!”
Sure enough, the arm of the Squaw Spy had left her side, and was
pointing to the shining blade in Jack’s right hand.
The following moment the Modoc thrust the pistol in his belt, and
stepped forward with uplifted knife.
“Shall he kill her?” whispered Kit.
“No!” and McKay’s lips closed determinedly over the little monosyllable.
“He is going to make the attempt.”
“Then the Modocs shall not boast of a chief to-morrow.”
The last speaker was Evan Harris, and his revolver, like Kit South’s
carbine, covered Captain Jack’s head.
“Hold your fire till I give the word,” said McKay, “and when you do
touch the trigger, mind that you don’t drop the gal.”