THE BARON AND TOLTEC TOM.
Schnitzenhauser, a prisoner in the town of the mysterious Toltecs, to
which he had been taken hastily, was met there by a white man, who
visited him in the little prison into which he had been thrown.
It was a marvelous prison—a gem of marble and gold; Schnitzenhauser had
never even dreamed of anything like it, and he had been carefully
inspecting it. The bars across the narrow window seemed to be of pure
gold, though, as they were so hard and strong, some alloy must have been
used. The lock and the key of the door, also, seemed to be gold.
The German was wondering if he could not in some manner wrench those
gold bars away, and, on getting out, carry them off with him, for he
hoped to escape, and it was a sudden lust for gold which had brought him
into his present peril.
While the German was testing the gold bars by feeling of them and
licking them with his tongue, the door was opened, and the white man
mentioned came in.
Red-feathered Indians were visible behind the white man as the door
swung open, but he closed the door with a jerk, and none of the Indians
offered to enter.
“Howdy!” he said, looking at the German.
“Yaw,”, said the German, staring in surprise, yet pleased to know that a
white man was in this place. “I vass pooty goot, bud I don’t like diss
chail pitzness. How you vass yourselluf, heh?”
“Set down there, and let’s have a talk,” said the white man, motioning
to a bearskin rug on the floor, while he dropped down against the
opposite wall.
The baron clattered obediently across the stone floor with his heavy
wooden shoes and dropped heavily down on the bearskin; astonishment was
growing in his round face.
“You vass a vite Inchun, heh?” he asked.
“No, I’m a prisoner, like you.”
The baron twisted his head round with a comical jerk and stared hard at
the white man.
“You ton’d loogk id, mine frient,” he declared. “A brisoner ton’d can
come unt vent vhen he likes—nein! He is putt indo a blace like diss.
Yaw, I dinks me dat iss so, unt dhe troot. You vass come here like a
vree mans yet already.”
The white man, who was none other than Tom Conover, did not laugh at
this sally; his face had a serious, grave look.
“It would take a good deal of explainin’,” he said, “to make you
understand all about it—how I came to be here.”
“Bud nod so mooch, py chinks, to dell how I come to pe here!”
“You were captured by the Indians out on the plain there.”
“You pet you!”
“What was you out there for?”
“Vhat vass you here for? Dell me; unt mebbe I opens oop.”
“I’m goin’ to try to get you out of this.”
The German came to his feet with a clatter.
“Chumpin’ raddlesniks!” he cried, his eyes opening wide. “You vass nod
makin’ shokes uff me?”
“Certainly not,” said Conover, with the utmost seriousness. “I’m sorry
you fell into the hands of these Indians, and I’ll try to get you away.”
The baron clattered across the stone floor and stretched out his hand.
“I shake you der hant py for dat,” he cried; “unt vhen he meeds me, I
tell Puffalo Pill I have meed vun vite Inchun vat iss a shendelmans.”
“You know him?” cried Conover, amazed.
“Do I know heem? Veil, I dhinks me so I do. I haf his bard peen yit
already. Unt I know Vilt Pill, unt old Nomat, unt all dem odder vellers
vat drail rount mit heem. I know heem petter as I know eenpoty.”
He was shaking Conover’s hand vigorously.
“How does it happen?”
“Vat? Vy, he know I vass a courageous Cherman, unt so he make me hiss
bard.”
“You wasn’t with him, out there?”
“Nein! I vass py my lonesome selluf; I strike straighdt indo dis gountry
on mine own hooks. You see dose?” He withdrew his hand and hammered on
the bars of the window. “Das vass der glimmer vat I voller—I am drawed
here py der shine uff golt. I git der—vat you gall id?—der golt fever.”
“So you knew there was gold here? How did you find that out?”
“I tidn’t knowed id, but I guessed id. I vill exblanation do you.
Fairst, I vass brosbecting in dese moundains. I t’ink me as eferypoty
iss afrait do come in here, den nopoty hass peen in here. You see dose
boint? Yaw. So I came, mitout peing told py eenpoty.”
“It was a foolish thing to do.”
“Meppy so. Now it loogks id. Bud I ain’d deat yit. Uff I peen kilt soon
py dese Inchuns I gan’t hellup id; unt maype, as you say, you vill gid
me oudt uff here. So I make diss exblanation. I come hunding der golt
for; unt look dere!”
He hammered the gold bars again, clattering about noisily with the
wooden shoes.
Noticing that the white man glanced at the shoes, he said:
“Der likes uff heem I vear vhen I vass a poy, in der olt gountry. So I
dhinks, vhen I blan diss drip, vooden shoon is maype petter as leadher
vuns; maype der sand don’t purn t’rough der vood so pad as t’rough der
leadher. Unt I vass righd; id don’t. In dese I valk all tay t’rough der
hot desert uff der sands, unt I ton’d feel id.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Conover admitted. “But I should think they’d
be so clumsy you couldn’t get along at all.”
Schnitzenhauser dissented vigorously, and danced across the floor to
show how light he was on his feet, in spite of the clumsy shoes.
“Id make a heab uff tifference uff a veller peen used to ’em,” he
asserted. “Dey vass Cherman shoes, unt I vear dhem as a poy already. It
make me feel youngk again vhen I bud dese on my feed. Yaw, dat iss so.”
“About this other matter,” said Conover. “I’m told you were following
the trail of the pony that came, in here. I didn’t see you, but that’s
what the Indians reported here.”
“You didn’t seen me?”
Conover had made a slip, probably, but he smiled.
“I might as well tell you just how it was,” he said, “and then you’ll
have a clearer understanding. A child was stolen from the town of
Skyline. You know where that is?”
“Apowet. But I ain’d neffer peen dere.”
“A certain woman stole that child from there, and set out to bring it
here. The Indians here didn’t know it—didn’t know she intended to do it,
though it so nearly concerned them.”
“Vat iss? Chilt sdealin’ iss a mean pitzness.”
“I reckon you’re right about that. But that isn’t my story. She set out
with the child, and Buffalo Bill and some of his pards——”
“Vat!” The German flounced round, staring. “Dit you say Puffalo Pill?”
“Buffalo Bill and his pards, Nomad and Hickok, set out, with another
man, to follow the trail of the person who kidnaped the child.”
“De chilt iss in vat blace?”
“It is here.”
“Donderundblitzen! Id iss here!”
“Right here in this town.”
“Den Puffalo Pill iss caming?”
“He and his pards are out in the hills beyond the town now, and the
Indians are planning to capture him.”
“Mein himmel! Iss dot de troot?”
“Yes, they’re out there, and I reckon the reds will sure bag them. I’ll
get to that directly, and give you a plan whereby maybe you can help
them, if they’re not captured before night.
“The other man who set out from Skyline with Buffalo Bill and his pards
had been in this part of the country before and knew about it, and they
took him along as a guide because of it. But one night when the whole
camp was asleep, even the guards, this woman, who had gone on with the
child, and then had turned back to see if she had been followed, entered
their camp, and awoke this man, without arousing the others.
“There was a time when this man had been the husband of that woman. She
is a white woman, not an Indian, and he had loved her; I don’t suppose I
could make you understand just how much he had loved her. And he had
been told that she was dead. He had not seen her for a long time, but he
still cared so much for her that when he heard she was dead he went on a
high old drunk, and——”
“A mighdy foony vay to show he vass sorry apowet id!”
“When he got over it, and cut out the liquor, he determined to turn his
back on the past and go far away, never to come back. Yet he didn’t; he
went with Buffalo Bill, when it seemed he could do some good; for he had
come to the decision to try to do some little good in the world
hereafter, if he could.
“I’m just telling you this so that you’ll understand something of the
way he felt when he woke up there in the camp, and saw that this very
woman, his wife, had waked him. The moon shone, and when he first saw
her face he was sure it was her spirit.
“She beckoned and put her hand on her lips; and he got up and followed
her. He couldn’t help himself—it was as if he was in a dream, and he
rather thought it was all a dream at the time. So he did just what she
motioned him to do—stepped carefully on the blanket she laid down for
him to step on, and so, using that to hide their footsteps, they went
out of the camp. The moon was shining bright.”
At intervals the staring German uttered strange German exclamations. Yet
even then he did not understand the spirit in which this confession was
being made; could not understand that Tom Conover felt the necessity of
telling this, explaining this apparent desertion of Buffalo Bill, to
some one. That the German had been a pard of the great scout was really
the thing that drew it out of him; he hoped it would reach Buffalo Bill
in that way, and that he would understand.
“I still thought I was in a dream,” he went on, “or that I walked with a
spirit. The woman had a horse, and we both mounted it and rode away
toward this place. In a notch of the hills she picked up the child,
which she had left there when she went back. And so we came on here. But
I didn’t know you followed, or that we had been seen.”
The German stared harder now.
“You—you vass diss mans?”
The flush deepened in Conover’s face and made a more vividly crimson the
deep scar that disfigured his forehead.
“I was that man!” he confessed, almost as if he stood convicted and
abashed before this German.
“Mein himmel!” The German threw up his hands.
“I don’t expect you to understand it—my feelings,” went on Conover, “I
don’t really suppose that anybody ever can; so I’ll not try to make it
plainer, but——”
The baron danced round the room in his excitement.
“Den id vass you,” he said, stopping short, “vat I vollered; you unt dem
vomans. You vass bot’ uff you riting on vun horse.”
“Yes; and you got yourself in this fix by following us.”
“Id vass der golt she hat vat I voller—der golt on her pridle unt
sattle, unt on her dress; she vas vair shinin’ mit golt unt silver. I
seen her ter tay before, ven she bass me py; but I tidn’t see no chilt.
Unt den in der moonlighd, ven I vake me oop, I seen her vonst again, unt
a man’s mit her, unt she shine more as efer like golt mit dem
moonlighds. Unt I t’ink varefer dat golt peen so blentiful iss der blace
for me; unt I voller, unt I come here by der drail. Yaw, dat iss der
troot. Unt id vass you, unt diss golt vomans. See here!” He hammered
again the window bars. “Golt varefer you loogk; gold door latchges.
Inchins mit gold earrings unt praceleds, mit golt breastbins unt
hairbins, mit gold gollars on der necks, mit golt arrow beats unt golt
on der lance boints. It make me grazy as a loonadicks, so mooch golt
varefer I loogk.”
He stopped, almost breathless.
“But I tidn’t see no Puffalo Pills follerin’ diss vomans unt you.”
“He and his pards are out in the hills now, but they’ll be captured. I
hope they will get away, but I don’t see how they can. It’s no country
for a white man to come into.”
“Yid you vass here—huh?”
“That’s different.”
“Vy iss id tifferend?”
“I couldn’t make you understand, but it is. You see, I am the husband of
this woman. We quarreled and I left her, years ago, but she never forgot
me, and she doesn’t want me ever to go away again.”
“Unt you ain’d goin’ do?”
“That’s not the point. I came here just to tell you to cheer up; that
I’ll get you out of this to-night, unless all my plans fail. I’d like to
get you to Buffalo Bill, with a message from me, telling him to
backtrack.”
“Bud der chilt?” said the German. “He vouldn’t go mitout id. Uff you
vass his bard peen, you know dot. Puffalo Pill gids all der time vat he
hass came for.”
Conover looked troubled.
“Yes, that is so,” he admitted.
The baron faced him.
“Dell me,” he said, “vy is diss golt vomans vant der chilt? I subbose id
iss pecause she hass god none uff her own.”
“Not exactly that,” said Conover evasively.
“No?”
“She had another reason altogether.”
“Der chilt iss to pe kilt—saccerivized? I haf heart uff der ligkes uff
dat.”
“No, not at all; it will be treated well.”
The baron looked puzzled.
“I’m your vriend, eenyhow,” he said, striking Conover familiarly on the
shoulder, “uff you gan gid me oudt uff dis, unt vare Puffalo Pill iss
now. Der Inchins ton’d gid him. Nein! Puffalo Pill iss doo smardt vor
eeny Inchuns vatefer. I know him; me, Baron von Schnitzenhauser, know
Puffalo Pill petter as he knows me.”
He stood up very straight, drawing himself to his full height, with a
clatter of the wooden shoes, and hammered his breast much as he had
hammered the gold bars.
“Dot iss me!” he said. “I am a prave mans, unt so iss Puffalo Pill. You
gid me oudt uff here undo vare he is, unt I bed you ve git does chilt
mighdy quick. Likewise,” he looked covetously at the gold bars, “ve gid
so much uff diss stuff as ve can load ondo ower horses. Olt
Schnitzenhauser ain’d dead vid, huh? Nein! You pet me dot ve—dot is me
unt Puffalo Pill—vill lif yid to make dings lifely for dese Inchuns.”
He held out his hand again.
“Bud I veels sorry vor you, sure; you petter gome mit us when ve make
t’ings lively py dis town. Der lifely pitzness vill pegin yoost as soon
as I am oudt uff here unt mit Puffalo Pill. Yaw, dot iss so.”
Conover rose a bit wearily.
“This gold here is heavily alloyed,” he said; “yet it is valuable, for
there is a lot of it. Those window bars are more than three-fourths
copper.”
He had said much more than he had meant to say about himself, but the
hopelessness, even the apparent uselessness, of trying to make this
German understand him and his viewpoint was impressed on him deeply.
The German was staring at the shining window bars.
Wearily Conover turned toward the door, which had been locked from the
outside after his entrance. On the door he tapped, and the key was
turned in the lock.
“Good-by for the present,” he said, squeezing the hand of the German.
“These fellows out here don’t understand English, so you needn’t be
afraid on that score; I know them well. And be ready for to-night. I
don’t know just how it’s to be done. But I heartily hope Buffalo Bill
can keep out of the hands of the Indians here until after to-night.”
For an instant it looked as if the baron meant to flounce out behind him
and fight a way through the Indians there, but the heavy door banged in
his face and he clattered backward, almost falling to the floor.
“Ach!” he gasped. “Vat a mans! Unt Puffalo Pill is dis town py! Der
baron ain’d dead yid! But der golt is pooty much cobber, eh?”
Outside, Conover had shaken off the Indians who thronged about him, and
took his way unmolested thereafter into another part of the Indian town.
Neither he nor Schnitzenhauser had heard rifle shots and Indian yells
far beyond the town; they were too far off.