All the while that Murray had been sitting among the Apache chiefs and
answering their questions, and even when he and Steve mounted the
mustangs Red Wolf brought them, there had been three pairs of very keen
eyes, not to speak of any others, closely watching him.
"He is not an Apache!" exclaimed Ni-ha-be to Rita. "Why do they make a
chief of him? He is nothing but an old pale-face!"
"He is wise. He is good. The great chief listens to him. All the
warriors listen. They did as he said to-night, and so they beat the
Lipans."
"He is not a warrior. He did not go out and fight."
"All warriors do not go always. Some stay in camp. Young squaws like
you and me must not talk about chiefs."
That was good Apache teaching, and Ni-ha-be knew it, but she seemed to
have formed a strong dislike for Send Warning, and she retorted,
"He is not a chief--only a pale-face. I will talk about him as much as
I please. You like him because he is one of your own people."
Rita was silent. There was a very strange feeling in her heart just
then, and she was trying to understand it.
For long years, ever since she was a little girl, she had been taught
to think of herself as an Apache maiden, the daughter of a great chief,
and she had grown to be very proud of it. She had been even ashamed,
at times, of the fact that, in some way that she did not quite
understand, she was a pale-face also. Ni-ha-be had been apt to throw
it at her whenever there was any dispute between them, and that had
helped to keep her from forgetting it.
And, now she had seen Send Warning and Knotted Cord, she had felt that
a sort of change was coming over her. She was young, but she could see
that in some way they were the superiors of all the red warriors around
them. They were listened to and looked up to, although they were
almost strangers. To her eyes they were better-looking, something
higher and nobler, and she was not at all ashamed of the thought that
they belonged to her own people. Then it had come to her, with a great
rush of joy in her heart, that she could speak her own language--a
little of it. She could even hear many words from the mysterious
talking leaves of the pale-faces, and no Apache girl could do that--not
even Ni-ha-be herself, for all her wonderfully good eyes.
Then there came to the camp the great excitement caused by finding out
the escape of the Lipan prisoners, and quickly after that had come the
departure of the force sent out to recapture them.
Rita and Ni-ha-be had been standing side by side, watching all that was
done.
"Send Warning is going on the war-path now, Ni-ha-be."
"So are Red Wolf and Knotted Cord. Young braves are worth more than
wrinkled old men."
"The great chief himself is wrinkled a little."
"He is a great brave. He must be angry by this time. He will send for
Dolores."
They did not know how earnestly that important woman had been using her
own eyes all that time. She had seen as much as had either of them,
and she was close to them at that moment.
"Young squaws go back to lodge right away. See? All squaws go in a
hurry."
A few sharp words from one of the old men had started them, and they
were indeed hurrying. They knew there was a good deal of bad temper up
in the village just then, and there was no telling who might be made to
suffer for it. The last squaw to get home would be very likely to meet
a cross husband, and Indian husbands are not pleasant company when
anything has made them cross.
The two girls hurried with the rest, and Dolores had very little to say
to them.
It was now Ni-ha-be's turn to notice something of a change. Not in
herself, but in Dolores. She had been accustomed to feel that whatever
difference was made between Rita and herself was in her own favor. She
felt that it was right it should be so, much as she loved her adopted
sister, for after all it was a great advantage to be every bit an
Apache. She was often sorry for Rita, but she could not help her
having been born white.
Now, however, although it required all her keenness to detect it, there
seemed to be something of unusual respect in the voice and manner of
Dolores whenever she spoke to Rita. A touch of special kindness came
with it. Not a sign of harshness showed itself all the way to the
lodge, although Dolores had one or two pretty sharp things to say to
Ni-ha-be. The Mexican darkness of the chief's "great cook" had helped
everybody to almost forget her origin, but the thought of it came
slowly into Ni-ha-be's mind.
"She read one of the talking leaves herself. It made her shut her eyes
and kneel down. Send Warning talked with her. She is as bad as Rita.
She is not an Apache at heart."
That was hardly fair to Mother Dolores, for it was only too true that,
as Murray said of her, "she was completely Indianized." Even now she
was not thinking of herself as a pale-face, or longing to be anything
else than the "cook squaw" of the mighty war-chief Many Bears. No; she
was not thinking of herself, but a great cloud was gathering in her
mind, and she felt that it all belonged in some way to Rita.
She did not speak of it, but she felt a good deal more comfortable
after the two girls were safe behind the skin cover of their own lodge.
"Great chief not go on war-path. Better not see young squaws just now.
He will send for the talking leaves in the morning. Send Warning will
read them to him. He did not look so old to-night. He was a very
handsome man when he was young. So long ago!"
Ni-ha-be had been right about her father's appetite, for it was only a
few minutes before he came stalking toward the camp-fire for some
venison-steak, and Dolores had been wise enough to have it on the
coals, so as not to keep him waiting.
He never dreamed of telling her, nor she of asking him, anything about
the events of the night or the plans of the warriors, but all the while
that steak was broiling she was thinking of Send Warning rather than of
Many Bears, and wondering if there would be another fight with the
Lipans before sunrise. That was the very question asked of Murray by
the chief in command of their squad half an hour or so later.
"What do I think? Well, I think the Lipans are not fools."
"What mean by that?"
"Fools stay and get killed. Cunning men ride hard and get away."
The Apaches rode a little faster after that, and were joined by so many
other small parties of warriors that they were quite a respectable
force by the time they reached the neighborhood of the camp. It was
nearly sunrise then, and the braves who had been watching the camp
faithfully reported all that had occurred. They told of the sudden
whooping nearly two hours earlier, and Murray at once remarked, "Apache
chief knows what that means?"
"He is not very wise. Send Warning tell him."
"It meant that their great chief and the three braves with him had come
back to them. Send warrior up toward pass. If I am wrong, the Lipans
are there now; if I am right, they are gone."
The warrior scout was sent in a twinkling, for Indian sagacity
understood the keenness of Murray's guess, and it was not long before
the news came back that not a sign of an enemy could be discovered
among the rocks.
It was a disappointment. The daring invaders had escaped, for there
would be no use in following them. The whole Apache nation could
hardly have forced the narrow places of that pass against so strong a
party of good rifle-men. Neither was there any certainty but what the
pale-face miners might be in there somewhere, ready to deal destruction
on any Apache who should be so unwise as to ride into such a rocky trap.
The sun arose while they were talking about it, and the Apache braves
were already searching the camp for anything which might have been left.
They were not without some success, for the first wagon had not burnt
very well, and the Lipans had neither time nor heart to take everything
out of it.
"Come, Steve. The miners made their last camp over yonder. I can see
a wagon-wheel sticking up."
A quick gallop brought them to all that was left of that second wagon.
It had burnt better than the other, but had not been completely
consumed.
"Nothing left in it."
"If there had been, the Apaches would be here now instead of over
yonder. I declare!"
He sprung from his pony, and rushed toward the one hind-wheel which was
still upheld by what was left of its broken axle, and by a part of the
wagon bottom.
"What is it, Murray?"
"Wait a moment."
Steve too was on foot, just as the old man gave that wheel a jerk that
dragged it several feet from its place.
"Look there, Steve!"
"Buckskin bags--some of them half burnt. What is that, Murray, in the
ashes? Is it gold?"
"More than that, Steve. It's gold coin--twenty-dollar gold pieces.
Stow away as many of those little bags as you can before any Apaches
come. It's our plunder."
"They're coming. But how is it ours?"
He was picking up several of the little bags, and putting them inside
his hunting-shirt when he asked that question.
"Because we're on this war-path, and have found it. The Apaches would
rather have ponies; but they may take what we leave, if they want it."
"Doesn't it belong to those miners? Won't they come for it?"
"They would not find it if they did come, but they never will. They'll
trust the Apaches and Lipans too well for that. Besides, it never was
theirs. They stole every cent of it."
"Do you suppose we can ever find the owners?"
"Never. It would be an utter impossibility. What we are picking up is
ours, by all the laws of the mountains and all the rules of Indian war."
They did not open a single one of the little buckskin bags, but Murray
threw down one that would not "chink" and picked up another.
"Coin is better than dust or nuggets, Steve, and we must not take it
all. Only what we can stow away quickly. It's just what we are going
to need. It will pay the expenses of your trip to the settlements, and
take care of you after you get there."
His face was burning hot while he spoke, and his eyes were flashing
with sudden and fierce excitement. Could it be possible that he was so
terribly fond of money?
Steve wondered and stared, but the Apache young men were crowding
around them now, and Murray nodded to him to fall back.
"Mount at once, Steve. Don't seem to claim anything or to interfere.
Let them sift the ashes if they want to."
"Seems to me we must have the best part of it."
"That's likely. I think we have as much as we shall need. No. I
don't know how much I may need before I get through. Money is a good
thing to have sometimes."
Murray was hardly himself that morning, and yet he met the Apache
leader coolly enough.
"What do now? Send Warning advise friend."
"Ride back to village. Not lose time. Young men finish plunder. Old
men not stay. Great chief want to see us."
That last word was enough and the warrior wheeled his horse westward.
His parting orders were few, but they would bring back every Apache
from that "war-path" as soon as the search for plunder should be
completed.
"It's all right, Steve," said Murray, as they rode along side by side.
"If we had stayed there too long some of them might have been curious
how much we had picked up. They won't say a word after we are in camp.
If an Indian once gets his plunder safe into his own lodge nobody
questions his title to it. That is, if it has been taken from an
enemy."