There had been a very good reason why neither Steve Harrison nor Murray
came back with the Lipan braves who were sent to bring home the game.
They had been preparing to do so when they were summoned into the
presence of To-la-go-to-de.
"No Tongue is a great hunter," said the dark-browed leader, as they
came forward. "Cougar, big-horn, deer, all good. Apache heap better."
"That's what I came for."
"Go find them. Eat a heap. Take Yellow Head. Go all night."
"Any warriors go with me?"
"No. Maybe Apache dog see you. See pale-faces and not think of
Lipans. Dress Yellow Head. Wash off paint."
It was a genuine stroke of Indian war cunning. The two pale-faces were
to act as scouts in the advance. If the Apaches should happen to see
them their presence would not suggest the dangerous nearness of a band
of hostile Indians.
It may be the wise old chief added, to himself, that if both of them
were killed on their perilous errand, the loss to his tribe would be of
less consequence than that of two full-blooded Lipans. His pride of
race would prevent his admitting that he had no brave in his band who
was as well fitted to follow and find Apaches as was No Tongue.
"Now, Steve, we must eat all we know how, and then I'll fix you."
It had not harmed the young hunter in the opinion of his red friends
that he had been unable to conceal his delight at the prospect before
him.
"Young brave," they said, with approving nods. "Glad all over. Make
good warrior some day."
He was indeed "glad all over," but Murray cautioned him by a look, and
he said nothing.
He was almost too glad to eat, but his appetite came back to him while
he and Murray were cooking. He had eaten nothing since morning, and
mountain air is a very hungry sort of air.
"That's right, my boy. There's no saying when you may get your next
square meal. There's hard work before you and me, and plenty of it."
The next thing that came to Steve was a surprise.
Murray had never worn paint or adopted any more of Indian ways than he
could help, but it was a wonder how soon he made himself look like a
white man.
There was more in the pack on his spare pony than Steve had imagined.
A few minutes' work with a pair of small scissors made a remarkable
change in his hair and beard, and then the long locks of Yellow Head
himself had to suffer.
"Go and scrub off every spot of paint, while I'm rigging my
hunting-shirt and leggings. You won't know me when you come back."
That was saying a little too much, but To-la-go-to-de himself expressed
his admiration. He had seen wilder looking white men, by the hundred,
among the border-settlements. No eyes in the world would suspect No
Tongue of being a Lipan.
The transformation in Steve's appearance was shortly even greater, for
Murray was able to furnish him with a "check" shirt and black silk
neckerchief.
"Buckskin trousers'll have to do, my boy. No boots in camp, but I can
knock the wrinkles out of this head-piece for you."
It was a black felt hat, and not very badly worn. Murray himself
always wore one, but the supply had not been good enough for a long
time to allow Steve to do the same.
"Now, Steve, I'm going to make old Two Knives give you the best mount
in camp--good as mine."
Such a war-party never carries any slow horses with it, but there were
some better than others, and the chief was as anxious as Steve that his
"scouts" should be well mounted. Otherwise they might not be able to
get back to him with any information they might pick up.
"Plenty of ammunition, Steve. Never mind any other kind of baggage,
except some jerked meat. We may have to live on that."
There was no need for To-la-go-to-de to urge them. Not a minute was
thrown away in their rapid preparations, and then the whole band turned
out to see them ride away.
"I tell you what, Steve," said Murray, "we're not dressed in the latest
fashion, but I haven't felt so much like a white man for years. I'll
act like one, too."
There was a flash of pain in his eyes as he said that. Could it be he
had ever done anything unworthy of his race and training?
Perhaps, for he had ridden on a great many warpaths with the fierce and
merciless Lipans.
The latter would not follow till morning, and would move less rapidly
than their two scouts, but their progress was not likely to be at all
slow.
Steve Harrison rode on by the side of his friend for some distance
without saying a word.
"What's the matter, Steve?"
"Murray, I don't mean ever to go back to the Lipans."
"Not unless it's necessary."
"It won't be necessary."
"Can't say, Steve. All this country's full of Apaches. We may get a
sight of 'em any minute. I don't much care how soon we do, either."
"I'm not Indian enough for some things, Murray."
"Couldn't you fight Apaches?"
"I suppose I could, if they came to fight me. But I don't want to kill
anybody. I thought you said you were feeling more like a white man."
"Steve, I don't know how I'd feel if I had a white shirt on, and a suit
of civilized clothes. I'm a good deal of a savage yet, as it is."
"I never saw anything very savage about you."
"I'm on the war-path now, Steve, after my old enemies. Let's make as
good time as we can before dark. After that we'll have to go carefully
till the moon's up."
They were advancing a good deal more rapidly than the Apaches had been
able to do over that same pass, hindered by their long train of tired
pack-ponies and their women and children.
It was not a difficult trail to follow, for the lodge pole ends,
dragging on the ground, had so deeply marked it that a man like Murray
could have found it in the dark.
That was precisely what he did, after the sun sunk behind the western
mountains, and the deep shadows crept up from the ravines and covered
everything.
After the moon arose it was easier work, and Steve thought he had never
seen anything more beautiful than was the moonlight on the quartz
cliffs, and the forests, and the little lakes in the deep valleys, and
on the foaming streams which came tumbling down the mountain sides from
the regions of perpetual snow above.
Perhaps he was right, for hardly anybody has ever seen anything more
beautiful in its way than such a moonlight view as that.
There was no time to stop and gaze, for Murray pushed on as fast as
possible without using up their tough and wiry mustangs.
"We may need all the legs they've got to-morrow, Steve. We must find
grass and water for them before daybreak."
It was a good three hours before sunrise, and the moon had again left
them in darkness, when they almost groped their way down a steep
declivity into a small hollow.
"Can't say how much there is of it, Steve, but this'll do. The Apache
ponies have been cropping this very grass within twenty-four hours.
Look at that."
"I can't see it very well."
"Feel of it, then. Don't you understand such a sign as that?"
"It's only a tuft of grass."
"Yes, but I found it ready pulled off, and it hasn't had time to more
than wilt a little. The man that pulled it was here yesterday."
Murray did not know it, but no man had pulled that grass. It was a
bunch Ni-ha-be had gathered for her pony, and then had thrown at Rita.
Still, the guess about the time of it was nearly right, and that was a
good enough place to rest in until daylight.
"No cooking this morning, I suppose," remarked Steve, when Murray shook
him out of the nice nap he had snatched, wrapped in his "serape," or
Mexican blanket. "No breakfast, eh?"
"You don't know what tales a smoke might tell, or to whom it might tell
'em. Cold meat'll have to do for this time, and glad to get it. After
that, Steve, you'll do the most dangerous riding ever you did."
"Why, are they so near?"
"Can't be many miles. Our first hunt, though, will be for a place to
hide our horses in."
"Why not leave 'em here?"
"I thought of that, but we may need 'em."
Their morning ride was a longer one than Murray imagined, but before
noon he was able to say,
"The backbone of the pass is miles behind us, Steve. All the rest of
the way'll be down hill, or kind of up and down."
"Up and down" it was, but they had barely advanced another half-mile
before Steve exclaimed,
"There they are, Murray!"
"There they are! What a valley it is, too! But, Steve, they don't
mean to stay there."
"A spy-glass? I didn't know you had one! How do you tell that they
won't stay?"
"The glass? It's a double one. Some army officer owned it once, I
suppose. I got it of old Two Knives himself. Nobody knows how it came
to him. Look through it."
Steve had seen such things before, but had known very little about
them. He did not even know how very good a glass that was with which
he was now peering down upon the camp of the Apaches.
"See the lodge-poles lying there--in a dozen places?"
"They've put up some lodges."
"If they meant to stay they'd put up the others. No use for us to go
back. The Lipans are coming along fast enough so long as the Apaches
are on the move."
"But how can we get any farther? We can't ride right through them."
"I should say not; nor over them either. But if we can get into that
pine-forest over there on the north slope, without being seen, we can
ride around them."
"I'll risk it, Murray."
"So will I, Steve. I'd never let you try a thing like that alone."
"I could do it."
"Perhaps. And you'll have a good many things of that kind to do before
you reach the settlements; but I guess I'll go with you this time."
"You'd better go with me all the way."
Murray said nothing, but he sprung from his horse, and Steve imitated
him.
Men on foot were not so likely to be seen from the Apache camp.
There was nothing in or about that camp which Murray did not carefully
study through his glass, and it showed him what was going on more
clearly and perfectly than even the wonderfully keen black eyes of
Ni-ha-be had shown it all to her, from almost the same spot, the day
before.
"It's a hunting-camp, Steve, but it's a very strong party."
"Too strong for our Lipans?"
"I don't know about that. If we could surprise them by night we might
do something with them."
"I'm no Lipan, Murray. None of those people down there ever did me any
harm. Did they ever do you any? I don't mean any other Apaches; I'm
just speaking of that camp."
"Well, no, I'm not sure about that. I don't know that I've any special
grudge against this lot."
"Seems to me it's a good deal like an Indian to kill one man for what
another man did. I'm only a boy, and I've been among the Lipans three
years, but I've made up my mind to stay white."
Steve spoke with a good deal of energy, and his robust form seemed to
stand up straighter.
"You're right, Steve; don't you do a thing that isn't fit for your
color. I won't say anything more about myself just now."
If anybody had been listening to those two that morning, or indeed at
any other time, he might have noticed something curious about the way
Steve Harrison talked. It was not to be wondered at that a veteran
like Murray should be slow of speech, and it suited well with his white
hair and his wrinkles.
There was a good reason for it. Except when talking with Murray, Steve
had not heard a word of English for three years.
Yes, there had been one other exception. When, ever he had found
himself all alone he had talked to himself, asking and answering
questions, and listening to his own pronunciation of the words.
"I shall get among white men some day," he thought, "and it would be a
dreadful thing to be white myself and not talk white. Anyhow, I've
learned Mexican Spanish since I've been out here, and I'll be glad
enough to forget all I know of Indian talk."
He did not know it, but some things he said sounded ten years older and
wiser just for his manner of saying them. Besides, he had had to think
a great deal, and to keep most of his thoughts to himself. Not a great
many boys do that.
"Come on, Steve. That ledge isn't badly broken. Horses can follow it,
and it heads away right into the pine-forest. We must try it."
"We can get almost down into the valley without being seen."
"Yes, and we can find out if any good gap opens out of the valley to
the northward."