strange, rock-ribbed groove in the desert, the dry bed of some
long-lost stream. When first met it seemed to be cutting directly
across their line of march, now it had turned southward, and, for
several miles ahead, south or west of south was its general course.
The light was now broad and clear, though the sun had not yet peeped
across the mountain range to their left. The pace was rapid, Drummond
frequently urging his men to the trot or canter. Out to the front four
or five hundred yards, often lost to view in the windings of the way,
Sergeant Lee with a single trooper rode in the advance, but not once
had he signalled a discovery worth recording. Both wagon and
hoof-tracks here pursued a common road. It was evident that some
horsemen had found it necessary to ride alongside. It was evident,
too, that the outlaws were travelling at full speed, as though anxious
to reach some familiar lair before turning to face their expected
pursuers. Every one in the gang, from Pasqual down to their humblest
packer, well knew that it could not be long before cavalry in strong
force would come trotting in chase. The squadron at Stoneman would
surely be on the march by the coming sunset. As for "C" troop, they
had little to fear. Pasqual laughed with savage glee as he thought how
he had lured them in scattered detachments far up to the Gila or over
to the Christobal. No need to fear the coming of the late escort of
the paymaster. By this time those not dead, drugged, or drunk were
worn out with fatigue. Over the body of his bandit brother, the
swarthy Ramon, he had fiercely rejoiced that seven to one he had
avenged his death, and Pasqual counted on the fingers of his brown and
bloody hand the number of the victims of the night. Donovan and his
fellow-trooper killed on the open plain. The paymaster and his clerk,
Mullan and the other soldier, dead in their tracks and burned to ashes
by this time, and, best of all, "that pig of a sergeant," as Moreno
called him, that hound and murderer, Feeny,--he who had slain
Ramon,--bound, gagged, and left to miserable death by torture. Indeed,
as he was jolted along in the ambulance, groaning and cursing by
turns, Pasqual wondered why he had not insisted that Harvey, too,
should be given the _coup de grace_ before their start. It was an
unpardonable omission. Never mind! There in the brand-new Concord that
came clattering along there was booty that outrivalled all. There was
wealth far exceeding the stacks of treasury notes,--old Harvey's
daughters,--old Harvey's daughters. It was with mad, feverish joy that
when at last the sun came pouring in a flood of light over the desert
of the Cababi he listened to the report of a trusted subordinate.
"I could see every mile of the road with my glasses, _capitan_, from
the cliff top yonder--every mile from Moreno's to where we struck the
cañon. There isn't a sign of dust,--there isn't a sign of pursuing
party."
"_Bueno!_ Then we rest when we reach the cave. This is even better
than I hoped."
But there were two elements in the problem Capitan Pasqual had failed
to consider,--Lieutenant Drummond's scout in the Christobal,
Cochises's band of Chiricahuas in the Santa Maria. Who could have
foreseen that the little troop, finishing its duties at the northern
end of the range and about turning south to re-scout the Santa Maria,
had ridden out upon the plain, summoned by the beacon at Picacho Pass,
and less than two hours after their hurried start from the burning
ruins at Moreno's were speeding on their trail? The best field-glasses
ever stolen from the paternal government could not reveal to the
fleeing outlaw that, only two or three miles back in the dim recesses
of the crooked gorge, the blue-coats were following in hot pursuit.
Who could have dreamed that a band of Apaches, cut off from their
native wilds by detachments from Bowie, Lowell, and Crittenden, and
forced to make a wide _détour_ to the southwest, had sought refuge in
the very gorge of the Cababi whither Pasqual with all speed was urging
his men?
"We rest when we reach the cave."
Ah, even the torment of his wound could not have wrung from the robber
chief this longed-for order had he dreamed what was coming at his
back.
"How are the girls getting on?" he asked of his hot and wearied aide.
"Are they tranquil now?"
"They have to be," was the grim reply. "The little one dare not open
her eyes, and Sanchez has his knife at the elder's throat."
And the sunrise had brought with it new inspiration,--new purpose to
those who came trotting to the rescue. Just as the cliffs on the
western side were tipped and fringed with rose and gold, Sergeant Lee,
riding rapidly far ahead from point to point, always carefully peering
around each bend before signalling "come on," was seen suddenly to
halt and throw himself from his horse. The next instant he stood
erect, waving some white object high in air. Spurring forward,
Drummond joined him.
"A lady's handkerchief, lieutenant," he quietly said. "They seem to
have halted here a moment: you can tell by the hoof-prints. One of
their number rode over towards that high point yonder and rejoined
them here. I don't believe they are more than half an hour ahead."
Drummond reverently took the dainty kerchief, hurriedly searched for
an initial or a name, and found the letters "R. H." in monogram in one
corner.
"Push on, then, Lee! Here, one more of you,--you, Bennet, join the
sergeant. Look alive now, but do not let yourselves be seen from the
front."
Then as they hastened away he stowed the filmy trifle in the pocket of
his blouse, and, drawing his Colt from the holster, closely inspected
its loaded chambers. Only a boy, barely twenty-three, yet rich in
soldierly experience already was Drummond. He had entered the Point
when just seventeen. His father's death, occurring immediately before
the memorable summer of their first class camp, had thrown him
perforce into the society of the so-called bachelor club, and he was
graduated in the June of the following year with a heart as whole as
his physique was fine. But there were some cares to cloud his young
life in the army,--a sister whose needs were many and whose means were
few. He found that rigid economy and self-denial were to be his
portion from the start, and was not sorry that his assignment took him
to the far-away land of Arizona, where, as his new captain wrote him,
"you can live like a prince on bacon and _frijoles_, dress like a
cow-boy on next to nothing or like an Apache _in_ next to nothing,
spend all your days and none of your money in mountain scouting, and
come out of it all in two or three years rich in health and strength
and experience and infinitely better off financially than you could
ever have been anywhere else. Leave whiskey and poker alone and you're
all right."
He _had_ left whiskey and poker alone, severely alone. He had sought
every opportunity for field service; had shown indomitable push,
pluck, and skill in pursuit of Apaches and cool courage in action. He
had been able to send even more than was needed, or that he had hoped,
to his sister's guardian, and was proud and happy in the consciousness
of a duty well done. There were no young girls in the scattered
garrisons of those days, no feminine attractions to unsettle his peace
of mind. The few women who accompanied their lords to such exile as
Arizona were discreet matrons, to whom he was courtesy itself on the
few occasions when they met, but only once had he been brought under
the influence of girlish eyes or of girlish society, and that was on
the memorable trip to San Francisco during the previous year when he
had had the great good fortune to be summoned as a witness before a
general court-martial convened at the Presidio. He had been presented
to the Harvey sisters by the captain of the "Newbern" and would fain
have shown them some attention, but there had been much rough weather
in the Gulf which kept the girls below, and not until after passing
Cape San Lucas and they were steaming up the sunny Pacific did he see
either of them again. Then one glorious day the trolling-lines were
out astern, the elders were amidship playing "horse billiards," and
"Tuck," the genial purser, was devoting himself to Paquita, when
Drummond heard a scream of excitement and delight, and saw the younger
sister bracing her tiny, slender feet and hanging on to a line with
all her strength. In an instant he was at her side, and together, hand
over hand, they finally succeeded in pulling aboard a beautiful
dolphin, and landed him, leaping, flapping, splashing madly about, in
the midst of the merry party on the deck. It was the first time Ruth
had seen the gorgeous hues of this celebrated fish, and her excitement
and pleasure over being heralded as its captor were most natural. From
that time on she had pinned her girlish faith to the coat-sleeve of
the tall, reserved young cavalryman. To him she was a child, even
younger by a year than the little sister he had left, and of whom he
soon began to tell her. To her he was a young knight-errant, the hero
of a budding maiden's shyest, sweetest, fondest fancy, and ere long
the idol of the dreams and thoughts she dared not whisper even to
herself. Paquita, with the wisdom of elder sisterhood, more than half
believed she read the younger's heart, but wisely held her peace. No
wonder the little maid had so suddenly been silenced by the
announcement at the pass that that very night she might again see the
soldier boy to whom, in the absence of all others, her heart had been
so constant. No wonder the ride forward to Moreno's was one of
thrilling excitement and shy delight and anticipation; no wonder her
reason, her very life, seemed wrecked in the tragic fate that there
befell them.
And now as he rode swiftly in pursuit Drummond was thinking over the
incidents of that delightful voyage, and marvelling at the strange
fate that had brought the Harvey girls again into his life and under
circumstances so thrilling. Never for an instant would he doubt that
before the sun could reach meridian he should overtake and rescue them
from the hands of their cowardly captors. Never would he entertain the
thought of sustained defence on part of the outlaw band. Full of high
contempt for such cattle, he argued that no sooner were they assured
that the cavalry were close at their heels than most of their number
would scatter for their lives, leaving Pasqual to his fate, and
probably abandoning the wagons and their precious contents on the
road. A sudden dash, a surprise, would insure success. The only fear
he had was that in the excitement of attack some harm might befall
those precious lives. To avert this he gave orders to be passed back
along the column to fire no shot until they had closed with the band,
and then to be most careful to aim wide of the wagons. Every man in
the little troop well knew how much was at stake, and men, all mercy
to their beasts at other times, were now plying the cruel spur.
Five, six o'clock had come and gone. The chase was still out of sight
ahead, yet every moment seemed to bring them closer upon their heels.
At every bend of the tortuous trail the leader's eye was strained to
see the dust-cloud rising ahead. But jutting point and rolling
shoulder of bluff or hill-side ever interposed. Drummond had just
glanced at his watch for perhaps the twentieth time since daybreak and
was replacing it in his pocket when an exclamation from Sergeant
Meinecke startled him.
"Look at Lee!"
The head of column, moving at the moment at a walk to rest the panting
horses, had just turned a rocky knoll and was following the trail into
a broader reach of the cañon, which now seemed opening out to the
west. Instead of keeping in the bottom as heretofore, the wagon-track
now followed a gentle ascent and disappeared over a spur four hundred
yards ahead. Here Lee had suddenly flung himself from his horse,
thrown the reins to Patterson, and, crouching behind a bowlder, was
gazing eagerly to the front, while with hat in hand he was signalling
"Slow; keep down." Up went Drummond's gauntlet in the well-known
cavalry signal "Halt." Then, bidding Meinecke dismount the men and
reset blankets and saddles, the young officer gave "Chester" rein and
was soon kneeling by the side of his trusty subordinate.
Lee said no word at all, simply pointed ahead.
And here was a sight to make a soldier's pulses bound. Not a
quarter-mile away the rocky, desolate gorge which they had been
following since dawn opened out into a wide valley, bounded at the
west by a range of rugged heights whose sides were bearded with a dark
growth of stunted pine or cedar. On each side of their path a tall,
precipitous rock stood sentry over the entrance and framed the view of
the valley beyond. For full a mile ahead the trail swept straight
away, descending gently to the valley level, and there, just pushing
forth upon the wide expanse, with dots of horsemen on flank and front
and rear, dimly seen through the hot dust-cloud rising in their wake,
were the three wagons: the foremost, with its white canvas top, was
undoubtedly the new Concord; the second, a dingy mustard-yellow, the
battered old ambulance of the paymaster; the third and last, with no
cover at all, Moreno's buck-board. It was what was left of the
notorious Morales gang, speeding with its plunder to some refuge in
the rocky range across the farther valley.
Somewhere in the few evenings Drummond had spent in the garrisons of
Lowell, Bowie, or Stoneman, he had heard mention of a mysterious
hiding-place in the Cababi Mountains whither, when pressed by
sheriffs' posses, Pasqual Morales had been wont to flee with his
chosen followers and there bid defiance to pursuit. And now the young
soldier saw at a glance that the chase was heading along a fairly well
defined track straight for a dark, frowning gorge in the mountains
some three or four miles ahead of them. If allowed to gain that refuge
it might be possible for Morales to successfully resist attack. With
quick decision Drummond turned to the men still seated in saddle.
"Dismount where you are, you two. Reset all four saddles. We mount
again here, sergeant, and we'll take the gallop as soon as the troop
comes up."
"It's the only way, I believe, sir," answered Lee, his eyes kindling,
his lips quivering with pent excitement. "Most of them will stampede,
I reckon, if we strike them in the open. But once they get among the
rocks, we'd have no chance at all."
Drummond merely nodded. Field-glasses in hand he was closely studying
the receding party, moving now at leisurely gait as though assured of
safety. His heart was beating hard, his blood was bounding in his
veins. He had had some lively brushes with the Indian foe, but no such
scrimmage as this promised to be. Never once had there been at stake
anything to compare with what lay here before his eyes. Sometimes in
boyish day-dreams he had pictured to himself adventures of this
character,--the rescue of imperilled beauty from marauding foe; but
never had he thought it possible that it would actually be his fortune
to stand first in the field, riding to the rescue of the fair
daughters of one of the oldest and most respected citizens of the
Territory. In view of their peril the paymaster's stolen funds were
not be considered. Jim Drummond hardly gave a single thought to the
recapture of the safe. So far as he could judge the forces were about
equally matched. Some saddle-horses led along after the wagons seemed
to indicate that their usual riders were, perhaps, with others of the
band, resting in the wagons themselves. Surprise now was out of the
question. He would marshal his men behind the low ridge on which he
lay, form line, then move forward at the lope. No matter how noiseless
might be the advance, or how wearied or absorbed their quarry, some
one in the outlaw gang would surely see them long before they could
come within close range. Then he felt sure that a portion at least
would stampede for the hills, and that he would not have to fight more
than ten or a dozen. His plan was at all hazards to cut out,
recapture, and hold Harvey's wagon. That, first of all; then, if
possible, the others.
And now the time had come. In eager but suppressed excitement
Meinecke and the men came trotting up the slope.
"Halt!" signalled Drummond; then "Forward into line," and presently
the lieutenant stood looking into the sun-tanned faces of less than
twenty veteran troopers, four sets of fours with two sergeants, dusty
and devil-may-care, with horses jaded, yet sniffing mischief ahead and
pricking up their ears in excitement. Drummond had been the troop
leader in scout after scout and in several lively skirmishes during
the year gone by. There was not one of his troopers whom he could not
swear by, thought he, but then the recollection of Bland's treachery
brought his teeth together with vengeful force. He found his voice a
trifle tremulous as he spoke, but his words had the brave ring the men
had learned to look for, and every one listened with bated breath.
"Our work's cut out for us here. Not more than a mile ahead now is
just the worst band of scoundrels in all the West, and in their midst
George Harvey's daughters. You all know him by reputation. They are in
the white-topped wagon, and that is the one we must and shall have.
Don't charge till I give the word. Don't waste a shot. Some of them
will scatter. Let them go! What we want is their captives." With that
he swung quickly into saddle.
"Ready now? No! don't draw pistol till you're close in on them, and
no carbines at all this time. All right. Now--steady.--Keep your
alignment. Take the pace from me. Forward!"
Up the gentle slope they rode, straining their eyes for the first
sight of the hunted quarry, opening out instinctively from the centre
so that each trooper might have fighting space. No squares of
disciplined infantry, no opposing squadrons, no fire-flashing lines
were to be met and overthrown by compact and instantaneous shock. It
was to be a _mêlée_, as each trooper well knew, in which, though
obedient to the general plan of their leader, the little detachment
would be hurled forward at the signal "Charge," and then it would be
practically a case of "every man for himself."
"I want you four fellows to stick close to me now," said Drummond,
turning in saddle and indicating the desired set with a single
gesture. "We move straight for the leading wagon. See that you don't
fire into it or near it."
And these were the last instructions as they reached the ridge, and a
hoarse murmur flew along the eager rank, a murmur that, but for
Drummond's raised and restraining hand and Sergeant Lee's prompt
"Steady there; silence!" might have burst into a cheer. And then the
leader shook loose his rein, and just touching "Chester's" glossy,
flank with the spur, bounded forward at the lope.
Out on the sandy barren, winding among the cactus plants, the weary
mule-teams with drooping heads were tugging at the traces. Bearded
men, some still with coal-blackened faces, rode drowsily alongside the
creaking wagons. In one of these, the foremost, an arm in blue flannel
suddenly thrust aside the hanging canvas curtain, and a dark, swarthy
face, grooved from ear-tip to jaw with a jagged scar, appeared at the
narrow opening.
"How much farther have we got to go, Domingo?"
"Only across this stretch, two--three miles, perhaps."
"Well, I want to know exactly. The sun is getting blazing hot and
these girls can't hold out longer. Tell Pasqual I say there is more
danger of his killing them with exhaustion than there is of their
making way with themselves. Say the little one's about dead now. Here,
take this canteen and get some fresher water out of the barrel under
the wagon."
The fellow hailed as Domingo leaned to the right, took the
canteen-strap, and then reined in his foaming broncho.
"Hold your team one minute, Jake," was the order to the driver, and,
nothing loath, the mules stopped short in their tracks. Pasqual's
ambulance was a few rods behind, and, to save time, Domingo dismounted
and, placing the canteen under the spigot, drew it full of water,
rewarded himself with a long pull, handed it up to the waiting hand
above, and swung again in the saddle just as the second ambulance
closing on the first came also to a willing halt, and the lead mules
of the buck-board, whereon lay two wounded bandits, attended by
Moreno's womenfolk, bumped their noses against the projecting boot.
"Some cool water, for God's sake!" gasped one of the prostrate men,
and a comrade rode to the leading wagon to beg a little from Harvey's
well-filled barrel. One or two men threw themselves from the saddle to
the sands for brief rest. The dust-cloud slowly settled earthwards in
their wake. Mules, horses, and men blinked sleepily, wearily. There
hung in the heavy air a dull, low rumble as of thunder in the far-off
mountains. There seemed a faint quiver and tremor of the soil. Was
there distant earthquake?
Suddenly a wild yell, a scream from Moreno's buck-board, a
half-stifled shriek from the white-covered wagon. The man in blue
leaped forth and made a mad dash for the nearest riderless horse.
Whips cracked and bit and stung. The maddened mules flew at their
collars and tore away, the wagons bounding after them, and Pasqual
Morales, thrusting forth his head to learn the cause of all the panic,
grabbed the revolver at his belt with one fierce curse.
"_Carajo!_"
VIII.
Whatever might have been his other moral attributes, Pasqual Morales
had borne a name for desperate courage that seemed justified in this
supreme moment of surprise and stampede. What he saw as he leaned out
of the bounding vehicle was certainly enough to disgust a bandit and
demoralize many a leader. Scattering like chaff before the gale his
followers were scudding out across the desert, every man for himself,
as though the very devil were in pursuit of each individual member of
the gang. Eight or ten at least, spurring, lashing their horses to the
top of their speed, were already far beyond reach of his voice. Close
at hand, however, six or seven of the fellows, desperadoes of the
first water, had unslung their Henry rifles and, blazing away for all
they were worth, showed evidence of a determination to die game.
Behind them, screaming at the tops of their shrill, strident voices,
Señora Moreno and her daughter were clinging stoutly to the iron rail
of their seats as the buck-board was whirled and dashed across the
plain. Already both the wounded men had been flung helplessly out
upon the sands, and, even as he looked, the off fore wheel struck a
stout cactus stump; flew into fragments; the tire rolled off in one
direction, and Moreno's luckless family shot, comet-like, into space
and fetched up shrieking in the midst of a plentiful crop of thorns
and spines. The husband and father, gazing upon the incident from over
his shoulder and afar, blessed the saints for their beneficence in
having landed his loved ones on soft soil instead of among the jagged
rocks across the plain. But for himself the sooner he reached the
rocks the better. A tall Gringo, who cast aside a dark-blue blouse as
he rode, stooping low over his horse's neck, seemed bent on racing the
late ranch-owner to the goal where both would be, and there was none
to dispute with them the doubtful honor. Even those who had stampeded
at the first yell of alarm were now reining back in broad, sweeping
circle, unslinging the ready rifle and pouring in a long-range fire on
the distant rank of cavalry, just bursting into the triumph of the
charge. Here, there, and everywhere across the plain little puffs of
blue-white smoke were shooting up, telling of the leaden missiles
hurled at the charging line. But on like the wind came the troopers in
blue, never pausing to fire a shot, their leader at racing speed.