Not one of the persons who had "wondered what had become of those
miners" had so much as guessed at the exact truth, although Murray had
come nearer to it than anybody else.
That sunrise found them, as they thought, once for all safe within the
boundary of the "foreign country," where no one would ask them any ugly
questions about the stolen gold they had brought there.
In fact, the first thing they did, after finishing their hearty
breakfast of fresh beef, was to "unpack themselves." Every man wanted
to know if he had lost anything on the way, and to make as good a guess
as he could how much his load was worth. Then it seemed as if they all
spoke together when they tried to express their regret at having been
compelled to leave any of their treasure behind.
"No use to think of going back for it now, boys. Some day we'll take
another look at that mine, but there won't be a thing worth going for
in that wagon."
"What do ye mean to do next, Cap?" asked Bill.
"I told you before. Give our horses a chance to feed, and then push
right on. We can afford to use 'em all up now. Three days of hard
riding'll carry us out of harm's way."
"And then we can go jest whar we please."
There was a wonderful deal of comfort in that for men who had been
"running away" so long as they had, and over so very rough a country.
Their hard, rude, weather-beaten faces began to put on an expression of
peace and quiet, and even of good-nature, and they gave their weary
horses a longer rest than they had at first intended. After that,
however, the sharp, stern summons of Captain Skinner called them to
"mount and ride" once more, and they were all ready to obey. It was a
wild region through which they were going, but at more than one place
they passed the ruins of old houses and other traces of former attempts
at settlement and cultivation.
"There were good ranches hereaway in the old times," said Captain
Skinner, "and there was some mining done, but it was too near the
Apache range, and there were too many revolutions. It won't be settled
up till there's a new state of things. The Apaches'll take care of
that."
All their troubles, they thought, were behind them, and they cared very
little for those of the country they had gotten into--less than they
might have done if they had imagined how nearly those very troubles
might yet concern themselves.
It was impossible, however, not to think and talk about the Apaches,
and to "wonder how the Lipans came out of their attack on that village."
Captain Skinner's comment was, "I don't reckon a great many of 'em came
out at all. The chances were against them. Old Two Knives made a
mistake for once, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd had to pay for it."
Well, so he had, but not so heavily as the Captain imagined.
At that very moment he was leading through the homeward pass just about
half of his original war-party--all that "had come out of the attack on
that village."
The village itself was in a high state of fermentation that morning.
There was mourning in some of the lodges over braves who had fallen in
that brief, sharp battle with the Lipans, but there were only five of
these in all, so great had been the advantage of superior numbers in
the fight, and of holding the ground of it afterward.
The bitterest disgrace of To-la-go-to-de and his warriors had been
their failure to carry off the bodies of their friends who had fallen.
At least twenty of the Apaches had been more or less wounded, and every
man of them was as proud of it as if he had been "promoted." A scar
received in battle is a badge of honor to an Indian warrior, and he is
apt to make a show of it on every fair opportunity.
There was no need, therefore, of throwing away any pity on those who
had been cut by the lances or "barked" by the bullets of the Lipans.
Red Wolf himself had concealed a smart score of a lance-thrust along
his left side, for fear he might be forbidden going on that second
war-path. Even now he refused to consider it as amounting to anything,
and his sister's face glowed with family pride as she said to Rita,
"Red Wolf is a true Apache. He's a warrior already. He will be a
great chief some day. The Knotted Cord is white. He has no scars. He
has never been on a war-path."
She was speaking in her brother's hearing, and Steve was at no great
distance at that very moment, talking, in a low, earnest tone, with
Murray.
Rita replied, "He is young. Send Warning is a warrior--" But Red Wolf
broke in, very honestly, with,
"Knotted Cord is my brother. Only his skin is white. Not his heart.
He is a warrior. He has been on war-paths. He has seen the Lipans,
the Comanches, the Pawnees, the Mexicans. He is not a boy."
Ni-ha-be's little "pet" was blown away by that, and she looked once
more admiringly at the strong and handsome young pale-face. If he had
only been so fortunate as to be born an Apache, what might not have
been expected of him!
The girls had many questions to ask concerning the events of the night
before, and Red Wolf was in an accommodating frame of mind that
morning. It was right, too, in his opinion, that the squaws of his
family should be able to boast among the other squaws of the mighty
doings of their father and brother. That was the way the reputations
of warriors were to be made and kept up, aided now and then by the good
things they might see fit to say about themselves.
In all that there is just this difference between red men and white,
and it would soon disappear with civilization.
That is, when a great white "brave" of any kind does a thing he is
proud of he manages to have the story of it printed in the newspapers,
so that all his boasting is done for him by somebody else.
The Indian "brave" is compelled to be his own newspaper, and tell his
own story of himself. That is all, and it sometimes makes the poor red
man appear to be the vainer of the two, which is a great injustice.
The conversation between Steve and Murray could not be overheard by
their friends, but it must have been of more than a little importance,
to judge by the expression that came and went upon their faces. No
Indian warrior's face would have betrayed his feelings in such a manner.
Dolores was busy at the camp-fires, as usual, with her frying-pan, and
they were looking at her.
"How old do you think she is, Steve?"
"It's hard to guess, Murray. Maybe she's forty-five."
"She is not much above thirty. The Mexican women grow old sooner than
white ones. She was not much above twenty when she cooked for my
miners on the Santa Rita mine."
"Do you feel perfectly sure about that?"
"I've watched her. There is no doubt left in my mind. Still, I may
ask her a few more questions. Then there is one thing more I want to
make sure of."
"Will it keep us here long?"
"It may keep me, Steve."
"Then it will keep me, Murray. You will need me if you have anything
on hand. I am anxious enough to get off, but I will not leave you
behind. I'll stay and help."
Murray held out his hand.
"It's a fact, Steve. I may need all the help you can give."
"Take care! Here comes Many Bears himself, and two of his cunningest
councillors."
It did not require much guessing on Steve's part to know that, for the
"cunning" of those old Indians was written all over their dark,
wrinkled faces.
"More advice wanted," thought Murray, but it was not asked for so soon
as he expected.
The first words of Many Bears were complimentary, of course. His
pale-face friend had been very wise. All he had said had been good,
even to the not permitting the young men to follow the Lipans into the
mountains. Warriors had told the chief that Send Warning and Knotted
Cord had picked up something in the camp of the pale-faces. The
Apaches were glad. Their friends were welcome to what they had found.
Murray interrupted him there by promptly holding out one of the little
buckskin bags.
"Great chief take it."
"No. No want it. Send Warning keep it, and tell Apaches what better
do next."
"Go to better hunting-ground. Bad place for camp."
"Will the Lipans come again?"
"Not till after next snow. Got enough now. Come then."
All that and more came in as a sort of preface to what Many Bears
really wanted to say. He had something very heavy on his mind that
morning, and in order to get rid of it he had to tell the whole story
of the buffalo-hunt his band had made away beyond the mountains into
the country claimed by the Lipans. That was the way they came to be
followed so closely by Two Knives and his warriors.
Murray and Steve listened closely, for the chief spoke in very good
Mexican Spanish most of the time, and they both understood him. Then
came the story of the return through the pass, and it wound up with the
finding of the talking leaves by Rita.
"Send Warning knows the rest."
"No," said Murray, "I have not seen the talking leaves."
"Great medicine. Tell Apache chief about miners. Tell about old
fight. Tell about blue-coat soldiers come, and where go. Tell about
big talk, and treaty, and presents. Many Bears want to hear more."
"Ask young squaw."
"Can't hear all. Send Warning listen. Say what he hears."
"All right. Bring young squaw."
"No need of squaw. Bring talking leaves."
"No," persisted Murray. "Young squaw find. All her medicine. Must
hold leaves for Send Warning to read."
"Ugh! Good. Many Bears not care. Dolores bring Rita. Tell her to
bring leaves."
Ni-ha-be and Rita were near enough to hear, and the latter at once
darted into the lodge for her treasures, while her adopted sister
looked after her with a good deal of envy in her eyes.
"She is a pale-face. It is too bad."
Rita was gone but a moment, and her whole body seemed to glow and
tremble with excitement as she held out the three magazines to Murray.
"Take one, Steve. You haven't forgotten your reading, have you?"
"Send Warning hear leaves," said Many Bears, anxiously. "The Knotted
Cord is young."
"He is white. He can hear. The great chief will listen."
"Ugh!" muttered Ni-ha-be, looking on from a little distance, but Rita
looked at Steve, with a bright smile on her face.
"There, Murray," said Steve, "the chief was right. There's a picture
of cavalry. All the others he spoke of are here. Here is the picture
of the big talk and the treaty."
"Here is the mining fight--" and just there Murray paused as if he
could say no more, and the Indians looked at him in undisguised
astonishment. His breast was heaving, his lips were quivering, and the
hands that held the magazines were trembling as if their owner had an
ague fit.
"What find?" exclaimed Many Bears. "Is it bad medicine?"
It was some seconds before Murray could trust himself to speak, but he
was thinking very fast.
"The talking leaves have told Many Bears the truth. Now Send Warning
is troubled in his mind."
All could see that, and it made them not a little anxious.
"What want? What do?"
"Go into lodge with young squaw. Knotted Cord stay and talk with
Apache chief. Nobody come into lodge. Take a little time. Then tell
what hear."
It was an unusual request, but there could be no objection, in view of
the fact that there was "great medicine" to be looked into. An Indian
conjurer always requires the absence of all observers for the
performance of his most important juggling. It was at once decided by
the chief that Send Warning should have his way.
Rita listened, pale and serious, while Ni-ha-be looked on in jealous
amazement.
"I am an Apache girl? Why can he not teach me to hear the talking
leaves?"
No doubt he could have done so if she would have given him plenty of
time, and been willing to begin with A B C, as Rita had done long years
before.
How should all that ABC business have come back to Rita as it did, when
she found herself alone in her lodge with that white-headed old
pale-face warrior?
She thought she had never before seen so kind and good a face, and she
wondered that it did not seem so very old, after all, now it was so
near.
"I will sit down, Rita, my dear. Sit down too. You are too tall now
to stand up."
Not a human eye was looking upon them, but Rita had suddenly covered
her face with her hands.
"Speak," she said, earnestly; "I remember better when I do not see."
She was talking English, just as he had done, only more slowly, and
almost as if it hurt her.
"I will read the first word, dear. Then you may spell it. M-i-n-e,
mine. That means a gold-mine, like ours, dear. Spell it, Rita, my
darling."
"Our mine? Darling? Oh, if I could see my father!"
Murray sprung to his feet as if he were a boy. His mouth opened and
closed as if he were keeping back a great shout, and the tears came
pouring down over his cheeks.
"Rita! Rita! My dear little daughter! Here I am!"
"Father!"
His arms were around her now, and he was kissing her almost frantically.
Slowly she opened her eyes. "I know it is you when you speak, and when
my eyes are shut. When I open them you are very old. My father was
young and handsome. His hair was not white."
"Rita, darling, it has been just as white as it is now ever since the
morning after I came home and found that the Apaches had carried you
away. They killed your mother, and I heard that they had killed you
too. I have been an old man ever since, but I think I shall grow young
again now."
Time was precious. They could only spare enough for a few hurried
questions and answers, and Murray glanced rapidly over the pages of the
three magazines.
"Let me take them," he said. "I would like to read them carefully. I
shall know what to say to the chief. You must not let anybody know I
am your father--not till the right time comes."
"Oh, why not?"
"Because the Apaches would know then that I am their enemy, and have
good reason to be. Even if they did not kill me at once, they would
not trust me, and I want them to do that. It is my only hope of
carrying you away with me. Stay here in the lodge till you are sure
your face will not betray you."
She had been crying more copiously than her father, and that would have
been a thing to be explained to Ni-ha-be and Dolores. Rita therefore
remained in the lodge while Murray, with a great effort, recovered his
usual calm self-control, and walked slowly and dignifiedly out. He
needed to put on all the dignity he was master of, for his heart was
thump-thumping against his ribs, and his brain was in a whirl as to
when and how he should be able to claim and carry on the great treasure
he had found.
Treasure! The Buckhorn Mine, piled mountain high with twenty-dollar
pieces, was nothing to it.