Murray's hunt was a short one, for that grassy tableland, with its cool
streams and its shady trees, seemed to be a favorite pasture-ground for
the mountain-deer. It is not likely they were often annoyed by hunters
of any kind, and they were comparatively easy to approach. Besides, it
was not necessary for a marksman like Murray to get so very near.
"A fine fat doe," said Steve, when his friend threw down his game in
front of the fire.
"Now for a cooking time," replied Murray; "and then we must have a good
nap."
"I'll do a little eating, too, while I'm cooking."
Neither of them neglected that duty, but Murray took the two plump
hind-quarters of the doe and roasted them whole. How?--with no stove,
no oven, no kitchen tools of any sort or description?
Two forked sticks were set firmly in the ground on either side, in
front of the fire, and a strong stick laid across from fork to fork at
about four feet from the ground; then a leg of venison, hung to this
cross-piece by a thong of raw deer-skin, was turned around and around
until the thong would twist no tighter. When it was let go the weight
of the meat kept it from untwisting too fast; but it turned around in
the opposite direction for ever so long, and it was roasting all the
while.
It was precisely what our own great-grandmothers used to call a
"roasting-jack," and all it required was somebody to wind it up when it
ran down, so that the meat could be evenly done all over.
Meantime the broiling and eating of smaller pieces went right on, and
neither Steve nor his friend seemed to have lost their appetite by
their long ride and hard work.
"Now, Steve, lie down. Sleep all you can."
"Sha'n't you take a rest?"
"Don't need much. Young eyes call for more sleep than old ones. Lie
right down and never mind me. I'll call you when your time comes."
Steve was used to paying the old man a pretty good kind of obedience,
and he was glad enough to obey him now. He was quickly asleep under a
spreading tree, while Murray sat down before the fire, as if to "mind
the roast." There was something more important than venison for him to
think of, however. He had taken off his hat, and his white head was
bare. With the strong light of the camp-fire shining upon his
weather-beaten face he would have made a good subject for a painter.
He was thinking deeply--so deeply that at last he thought aloud:
"I am a white man. I've been an Indian long enough. Yes, I think I'll
try it. That would be better than killing all the Apaches between this
and the California line."
He did not explain what it was he meant to try, or why it would be so
much better than killing Apaches; but the stern expression on his face
grew milder and milder, until it almost seemed as if he were smiling,
and even Steve Harrison had never seen him do that.
The venison roasts were wound up, twisted tight again and again, and at
last they were taken off.
"They'll do. I'll give 'em an hour to cool, and then we must be off.
I'll pack the rest of the meat raw, but we haven't left much of it."
To much to throw away for men who were not sure of their regular meals,
and were very sure of getting hungry.
The hour went by, and then Steve felt himself rudely shaken by the
shoulder.
"You can't have it," grumbled Steve. "That gold's ours. I killed it
myself, and we're roasting it now."
"Dreaming, are you? Wake up, Steve; it's time we were moving. We've a
long night ride before us."
"How late is it?"
"No watch. Can't say exactly; but I reckon we can reach the valley by
sunrise, and not overwork our horses. They're both in good condition."
The great heavy carriage and road horses used in the "settlements"
would not have been in anything like as good condition as were those
two wiry, tough, swift-footed mustangs, after all they had been
through. They were ready now for another long pull; but they were
likely to stand it better in the cool night hours than under the hot
sun.
In a few minutes more the two friends were in the saddle. There was no
more that they could do just then for the safety of the Buckhorn Mine;
but they had not ridden far before Murray suddenly exclaimed,
"I'm going to do a queer thing, Steve Harrison!"
"You won't go back to the Lipans?"
"Queerer than that. I'm going to ride straight in among that band of
Apaches!"
"What for?"
"I can't exactly say as yet. Will you go with me?"
"Anywhere. I'll feel safer about not getting into the hands of the
Lipans again."
"They never did you any hurt."
"I should say they did. It's hurt enough to stay among them for three
long years."
"Think of what you've learned by it, my boy. And now you've found a
gold-mine."
"And it isn't worth ten cents to me. Nobody'd give me a new hat for
it."
"You will need one by the time you get to the settlements. We must try
and look out for that. The main thing for us to-night is to see that
we don't get into bad company."
"Either Lipans or miners. I believe one is about as bad as the other."
They had plenty to talk about but some parts of the pass they were
following were densely dark, and they had to feel their way a foot at a
time like a pair of blind men. It was slower work than riding over the
same ground by day, and Murray turned out nearly right in his
calculation of the time they would reach the valley. It was just as
the light of the rising sun grew strong and bright that he and Steve
stood on the slope at the lower edge of the forest, taking turns at
looking through the spy-glass at the white tilts of the two wagons of
the miners.
"They've roused up early for something," said Murray.
"Looks as if they were setting out on a hunt or a scout."
"So it does. There they go. Steve, we must ride after those fellows."
"What for?"
"To stop 'em. They'll only run their heads against the Apaches, and
leave their camp to be plundered by the Lipans."
"They're in a trap, Murray."
"Come on, Steve!"
But the distance was not less than a couple of miles, and the miners
had prepared beforehand for that "early start." It was all against the
will of Captain Skinner, and the bad temper he was in only made him
start more promptly, and ride faster.
"Tell ye what, boys," he said to the rest, as they galloped on behind
him, "I'll give ye all the scouting you want this morning."
At that very moment Murray was saying, "No, Steve, we won't waste any
time going to the camp. There's only three men left there. We must
catch those fellows and send them back. What are they going so fast
for? Why, it'll be a regular race!"
It was very much like one after a little. True, Steve and Murray were
riding a good deal more rapidly than the miners; but it takes a great
deal of swift running to catch up with men who have more than two miles
the start of you, even if you travel two miles to their one, and the
"chasers" in this case were not doing nearly so much as that.
"We'll catch 'em, Murray."
"If we don't it'll be a bad race for them. I kind o' feel as if the
lives of those men were the prize we're riding for. We mustn't let our
horses get blown. If we do, it's good-bye to that crowd ahead of us."
Mile after mile went by, and the excitement of it grew to be something
terrible.
"The Apaches can't be far ahead of 'em now, Murray."
"Hark! Hear that?"
"A rifle shot--a whoop!"
"They are pulling up."
"They'd better. I'm afraid we're too late, Murray."
"On, on, Steve! Maybe there's time yet."
Captain Skinner had already seen and heard enough to make him halt his
men, and he was gathering them rapidly into close order, when a long,
ringing shout behind him drew his anxious eyes from the
dangerous-looking "signs" now gathering in his front.
Signs? Yes, danger signs. Wild, dark, painted horsemen riding hither
and thither and nearer and nearer, growing more and more numerous every
moment. Those were the signs that Many Bears and his warriors meant to
stand between any approaching enemy and the camp of their squaws and
children. That was a quite a distance yet, but the Apaches did not
mean to let any peril come very near it.
The shout was from Murray.
"Don't shoot!"
And in a few seconds more the old man was reining in his panting
mustang among the startled and gloomy-faced miners.
"Where did you drop from?" was the cool, steady question of Skinner.
"Never you mind. Is Bill here?"
"He and his two mates are on guard at the camp. I know ye now; you're
them two mining fellers. You met Bill and--"
"Yes, I met Bill; but there's no time for talk now. You take your men
straight back to camp. It's the only show you've got left."
"Reckon we can beat off a few beggarly Apaches."
"Don't talk. Ride for your camp. If you get there before the Lipans
do, take your wagons into the pass, and stay there till they get by.
Don't strike a blow at them; they'd be too much for ye."
"Lipans? Going for our camp? Boys, 'bout face! Ride for your lives!"
For so small a man he had a great deal of voice, and his command was
instantly obeyed; but he paused long enough to ask of Steve and Murray,
"What about you two?"
"Us? We'll stay and keep the Apaches from chasing you."
"Won't they scalp you?"
"Not a bit. But there's one thing you may do. If by any chance you
have a talk with the Lipans, you may tell them just where you saw us
last. Tell the chief for me that No Tongue and Yellow Head are all
right, only their horses are tired, following your trail and the
Apaches."
"Hope I won't meet him! You're the queerest pair I ever saw. But I
wish the boys had let me foller out the word you sent in by Bill."
"Too late now. Ride out of this the best gait your horse knows."
That too was good advice, and Captain Skinner took it; while the old
man sat quietly in his saddle, with Steve Harrison at his side, as if
they two were quite enough to stem the torrent of fierce, whooping
Apaches which was now sweeping down upon them across the plain.
"Our lives are worth about as much as our title to that mine," said
Steve; and it was no shame to him that he felt his young heart beat
pretty rapidly.
"Sling your rifle behind you on the saddle; fold your arms; sit still.
I'll do the talking."
The storm of dark horsemen was headed by Many Bears in person, and it
was barely two minutes more before he was reining in his pony in front
of the two "pale-face Lipans."
"How!" said Murray, quite heartily, holding out his right hand, with
the open palm up, while he put his left upon his breast.
"How!" replied the chief, with a little hesitation; but a dozen voices
around him were shouting,
"Send Warning!"
"Knotted Cord!"
"Pale-face friends of Apaches!"
And it was plain that the description given of them by Red Wolf and the
girls had been accurate enough for their instant recognition.
"Other pale-faces run away. Why you stay?"
"Don't know them. Strangers. Run away from Apache chief. Chief must
not follow."
"Why not follow?"
"Run against Lipans. Have big fight. Lose many warriors. All for
nothing. Better go back."
"Send Warning is a good friend. Do what he say. You come?"
"Yes--we come. Trust friend."
Steve listened in silent wonder. He had never heard Murray speak a
word about the Apaches that was not full of distrust of their good
faith as well as hate of their ferocity, yet here he was treating them
with the most absolute confidence. Steve felt quite sure he would have
hesitated, for his own part, to meet a band of Lipans in that way. He
did not understand Indian character as well as Murray, in spite of his
three years among them. A man who came to them conferring benefits,
and betraying no doubt of their good faith, was as safe among them as
if he had been one of their own people.
It also occurred to Steve that this was hardly what Murray had been
sent out for by To-la-go-to-de, but his devotion to the interests of
that chief was not strong enough to make him care much.
Whatever might be Murray's intentions, Steve was clear enough that his
own would never carry him back to make any sort of report of their
"scouting."
The Apaches wheeled toward the west, and Send Warning and Knotted Cord
rode on at the side of Many Bears.