THE FEAR OF THE HILLS
Wunpost romped off down the canyon, holding the hair up like a
scalp-lock--which it was, except for the scalp. Manuel Apache, with the
pride of his kind, had knotted it up in a purple silk handkerchief; and
he had yelled louder when he found it was gone than he had when he was
caught in the trap. He had, in fact, acted extremely unreasonable,
considering all that had been done for him; and Wunpost had been obliged
to throw down on him with his six-shooter and order him off up the
canyon. It was taking a big chance to allow him to live at all and, not
to tempt him too far along the lines of reprisal, Wunpost left the
Apache afoot. His gaunted pony was feeding hobbled, down the canyon, and
Wunpost took off the rawhide thongs and hung them about his neck, after
which he drove him on with his mules. But even at that he was taking a
chance, or so at least it seemed, for the look in the Apache's eye as he
had limped off up the gulch reminded Wunpost of a broken-backed
rattlesnake.
He was a bad Indian and a bad actor--one of these men that throw
butcher-knives--and yet Wunpost had tamed him and set him afoot and come
off with his back-hair, as promised. He was a Government scout, the pick
of the Apaches, and he had matched his desert craft against Wunpost's;
but that craft, while it was good, was not good enough, and he had
walked right into a bear-trap. Not the trap in the trail--he had gone
around that--but the one in the rocks, with the step-diverting bush
pulled down. Wunpost had gauged it to a nicety and this big chief of the
Apaches had lost out in the duel of wits. He had lost his horse and he
had lost his hair; and that pain in his heel would be a warning for some
time not to follow after Wunpost, the desert-man.
There were others, of course, who claimed to be desert-men and to know
Death Valley like a book; but it was self-evident to Wunpost as he rode
back with his trophies that he was the king of them all. He had taken on
Lynch and his desert-bred Shoshone and led them the devil's own chase;
and now he had taken on Manuel, the big chief of the Apaches, and left
him afoot in the rocks. But one thing he had learned from this
snakey-eyed man-killer--he would better get rid of his money. For there
were others still in the hills who might pot him for it any time--and
besides, it was a useless risk. He was taking chances enough without
making it an object for every miscreant in the country to shoot him.
He camped that noon at Surveyor's Well, to give his mules a good feed of
grass, and as he sat out in the open the two ravens came by, but now he
laughed at their croaks. Even if the eagles came by he would not lose
his nerve again, for he was fighting against men that he knew.
Pisen-face Lynch and his gang were no better than he was--they left a
track and followed the trails--and after he had announced that his money
was all banked they would have no inducement to kill him. The
inducements, in fact, would be all the other way; because the man that
killed him would be fully as foolish as the one that killed the goose
for her egg. He alone was the repository of that great and golden
secret, the whereabouts of the Sockdolager Mine; and if they killed him
out of spite neither Eells nor any of his man-hunters would ever see the
color of its ore.
Wunpost stretched his arms and laughed, but as he was saddling up his
mules he saw a smoke, rising up from the mouth of Tank Canyon. It was
not in the Canyon but high up on a point and he knew it was Manuel
Apache. He was signaling across the Valley to his boss in the Panamints
that he was in distress and needed help, but no answering smoke rose up
from Tucki Mountain to show where Wunpost's enemies lay hid. The
Panamints stood out clean in the brilliant November light and each
purple canyon seemed to invite him to its shelter, so sweetly did they
lie in the sun. And yet, as that thin smoke bellied up and was smothered
back again in the smoke-talk that the Apaches know so well, Wunpost
wondered if its message was only a call for help--it might be a warning
to Lynch. Or it might be a signal to still other Apaches who were
watching his coming from the heights, and as Wunpost looked again his
hand sought out the Indian's scalp-lock and he regarded it almost
regretfully.
Why had he envenomed that ruthless savage by lifting his scalp-lock, the
token of his warrior's pride; when by treating him generously he might
have won his good will and thus have one less enemy in the hills?
Perhaps Wilhelmina had been right--it was to make good on a boast which
might much better have never been uttered. He had bet her his mine and
everything he had, a thing quite unnecessary to do; and then to make
good he had deprived this Indian of his hair, which alone might put him
back on his trail. He might get another horse and take up once more that
relentless and murderous pursuit; and this time, like Lynch, he would be
out for blood and not for the money there was in it.
Wunpost sighed and cinched his packs and hit out across the flats for
the mouth of Emigrant Wash. But the thought that other Apaches might be
in Lynch's employ quite poisoned Wunpost's flowing cup of happiness, and
as he drew near the gap which led off to Emigrant Springs he stopped and
looked up at the mountains. They were high, he knew, and his mules were
tired, but something told him not to go through that gap. It was a
narrow passageway through the hills, not forty feet wide, and all along
its sides there were caves in the cliffs where a hundred men could hide.
And why should Manuel Apache be making fancy smoke-talks if no one but
white men were there? Why not make a straight smoke, the way a white man
would, and let it go at that? Wunpost shook his head sagely and turned
away from the gap--he had had enough excitement for that trip.
Bone Canyon, for which he headed, was still far away and the sun was
getting low; but Wunpost knew, even if others did not, that there was a
water-hole well up towards the summit. A cloudburst had sluiced the
canyon from top to bottom and spread out a great fan of dirt; but in the
earlier days an Indian trail had wound up it, passing by the hidden
spring. And if he could water his mules there he could rim out up above
and camp on a broad, level flat. Wunpost jogged along fast, for he had
left the pony at Surveyor's Well, and as he rode towards the
canyon-mouth he kept his eyes on the ridges to guard against a possible
surprise. For if Lynch and his Indians were watching from the gap they
would notice his turning off to the left, and in that case a good runner
might cut across to Bone Canyon before he could get through the pass.
But the mountain side was empty and as the dusk was gathering he passed
through the portals of Bone Canyon.
Like all desert canyons it boxed in at its mouth, opening out later in a
broad valley behind; his road was the sand-wash, the path of the last
cloudburst, now packed hard and set like stone. In the middle of the
sand-wash a little channel had been dug by the last of the sluicing
water; above the wash there rose another cut-bank where the cloudburst
before it had taken out an even greater slice; and then on both sides
there rose high bluffs of conglomerate which some father of all the
cloudbursts had formed. Wunpost was riding in the lead now on his
fast-walking mule, the two pack-animals following wearily along behind;
in his nest on the front pack Good Luck was more than half sleeping,
Wunpost himself was tempted to nod--and then, from the west bluff, there
was a spit of fire and Wunpost found himself on the ground.
Across his breast and under his arm there was a streak that burned like
fire, his mules were milling and bashing their packs; and as they turned
both ways and ran he rolled over into the channel, with his rifle still
clutched in one hand. Those days of steady practise had not been in
vain, for as he went off his mule he had snatched at his saddle-gun and
dragged it from its scabbard. And now he lay and waited, listening to
the running of his mules and the frenzied barking of his dog; and it
came to him vaguely that several shots had been fired, and some from the
east bank of the wash. But the man who had hit him had fired from the
west and Wunpost crept down the wash and looked up.
A trickle of blood was running down his left arm from the bullet wound
which had just missed his heart, but his whole body was tingling with a
strength which could move mountains and he was consumed with a passion
for revenge. For the second time he had been ambushed and shot by this
gang of cold-blooded murderers, and he had no doubt that their motive
was the same as that to which the Indian had confessed. They had dogged
his steps to kill him for his money--Pisen-face Lynch, or whoever it
was--but their shooting was poor and as he rose beside a bush Wunpost
took a chance from the east. The man he was looking for had shot from
the west and he ran his eyes along the bluff.
Nothing stirred for a minute and then a round rock suddenly moved and
altered its shape. He thrust out his rifle and drew down on it
carefully, but the dusk put a blur on his sights. His foresight was
beginning to loom, his hindsight was not clean, and he knew that would
make him shoot high. He waited, all a-tremble, the sweat running off his
face and mingling with the blood from his arm; and then the man rose up,
head and shoulders against the sky, and he knew his would-be murderer
was Lynch. Wunpost held his gun against the light until the sights were
lined up fine, then swung back for a snap-shot at Lynch; and as the
rifle belched and kicked he caught a flash of a tumbling form and
clutching hands thrown up wildly against the sky. Then he stooped down
and ran, helter-skelter down the wash, regardless of what might be in
his way; and as he plunged around a curve he stampeded a pack-mule which
had run that far and stopped.
It was the smallest of his mules, and the wildest as well, Old Walker
and his mate having gone off up the canyon in a panic which would take
them to the ranch; but it was a mule and, being packed, it could not run
far down hill so Wunpost walked up on it and caught it. Far out in the
open, where no enemy could slip up on him, he halted and made a saddle
of the pack, and as he mounted to go he turned to Tucki Mountain and
called down a curse on Lynch. Then he rode back down the trail that led
to Death Valley, for the fear of the hills had come back.