Steve Harrison found his position a little awkward during the time
spent by Murray with Rita in the lodge. The chiefs had too much
dignity to seem to consult with so young a brave especially as he had
not even one of the talking leaves to listen to. He knew that not only
Dolores and Ni-ha-be, but half a dozen other squaws, old and young,
were staring at him, and he could not understand a word of the
low-voiced remarks they made. He was very glad, therefore, when his
friend once more appeared, and he saw by the light on his face that he
had no unpleasant news to bring.
"What find?" asked Many Bears. "Send Warning and Rita hear something?"
"Hear a little. Send Warning will take the leaves to his own lodge and
hear more."
"What say now? Hear about big talk with blue-coat pale-faces?"
"Tell you what I think."
"The chief is listening."
"Break up village. Move west right away. More news come soon. Hear
about treaty when you see the lodges of your own people. No time to
lose."
That advice agreed so exactly with the notions of Many Bears that he
was ready to accept it at once. He turned to his two councillors
triumphantly.
"What did I tell you? It is wisdom. We will go. Tell the braves to
get ready. Tell all the squaws to pack up. Send on hunting braves.
Good many. Kill plenty meat."
There was no opposition. The only objection that could reasonably be
raised was that so sudden a departure gave no opportunity for a grand
celebration of their victory over the Lipans. They could attend to
that some other time, and there was no doubt but what all the whooping
and boasting in the band would keep safely till it should be called for.
"Come, Steve," said Murray. "We want an hour by ourselves."
They were quickly inside their own lodge, and were sure there were no
listeners.
"Steve!"
"What is it, Murray?"
"That little girl is my own daughter!"
"I've suspected it. And this was the very band of Apaches that broke
up your home and your mine."
"Yes, and it is a wonder they have not recognized me. If Apaches of
some other band were to join them, some of them might remember me.
They have seen me in more than one of their fights with the Lipans."
"It would be all over with us then."
"Of course it would. I am dressed differently, to be sure. I can
change a little more. Must crop my hair and beard closer. They know
me for a long-bearded old man. I must turn myself into a short-haired
young one."
"Can't you dye your hair?"
"Not till we get to the settlements. There are no barbers among the
Apaches."
"How will we ever get her away, Murray?"
"Oh, my girl! My poor, dear little girl! I dare not think about my
wife. No wonder my hair is white. Steve, I must not let her live and
die among these wild people. They have been kind to her, she says; and
I do not hate them so much now I know that, but she shall not be an
Indian."
He was getting feverishly excited, and Steve replied,
"Now, Murray, of course we will get her away. Haven't you some plan?"
"Only to draw the whole band nearer the frontier, or nearer to some
fort or other."
"That's good. We should have a shorter distance to run, if we should
escape."
"Now, Steve, I'm all upset and unstrung. That's the reason I came in
here. I've got to get my wits about me again, or I can't plan
anything."
"Sit down and read."
"Read? Do you suppose I could do that just now? Why, Steve, I've
found my little daughter!"
"So you have. I don't wonder you're excited. I am myself. Here, give
me a magazine. I'd like to find out how much of my reading will come
back."
Murray handed him one, and Steve sat down. He had been fond of books
in the days before he was captured by the Lipans. He had not forgotten
his reading at all, and it came back to him in a way that made his
heart jump. But that was after he had made a great effort, and driven
away the faces of Rita and Ni-ha-be.
Both of them would somehow come between his eyes and the paper of those
printed pages at first. Both of them were such nice, pretty,
well-behaved girls, and yet one of them was white, the daughter of his
friend Murray, and the other was only a poor little squaw of the
Apaches.
How the black eyes of Ni-ha-be would have snapped if she could have
read the thoughts of Knotted Cord at that moment! She would never
again have regarded him as a handsome young brave, almost good enough
to be an Apache.
Murray, too, picked up a magazine and sat down.
"It will do for a sort of medicine," he muttered. "I may learn
something from it, too. The world has changed a great deal since I
have had newspapers or magazines to read. There may be some new
nations in it, for all I know, and there surely must be a new lot of
kings and queens and presidents, and all that sort of thing."
It was that thought which made him turn over a little carelessly all
the illustrated articles and the stories, till he came to the "news of
the month" among the leaves at the end.
There he began actually to read, and read closely, for it was all very
new to him, although it was several months since it had been printed
there.
There was a great deal of it, for the editor had condensed everything
into the fewest words possible, and more than once Murray's eyes opened
wider or his mouth puckered up as if for a whistle. The world had been
moving fast while he had been among the Lipans.
"And Rita," he muttered, "she knows nothing at all about any of it. I
don't know that I am sorry. She will have all the pleasure of learning
all she needs to know, and she won't have anything to unlearn. I wish
I could forget some things as completely as she seems to have done. I
hope a good many of them will never come back to her at all."
No doubt it was very interesting, and Steve looked up from his own
reading to see how completely absorbed Murray had become.
Still, it must have been a remarkable news item that could make a man
of steady nerves bound suddenly to his feet and hold that magazine out
at arm's length.
"Why, Murray," said Steve, "what can be the matter?"
"Matter? My dear boy! Read that! Rita is an heiress."
"What?"
He might well have been half afraid his friend had lost his wits, but
he took the "talking leaves" held out to him, and read the few lines to
which the finger of Murray was pointing:
"The great English estate of Cranston Hall, with a baronetcy, is
waiting for an heir. The late baronet left no children, and his only
brother, to whom the title and all descend, was last heard of in
America. He is believed to have been interested in mining in the Far
West, and the lawyers are hunting for him."
"Well," said Murray, when Steve ceased reading, "what do you think of
that?"
"I don't know exactly what to think. Your name is Murray."
"Robert Cranston Murray, as my father's was before me. It was because
he left me only my name that I left England to seek my fortune. Oh,
Steve! I must find my way back now. Rita will be the lady of Cranston
Hall!"
"Instead of the squaw of some Apache horse-stealer!"
Steve felt a little like dancing, and a good deal like tossing up his
hat and venting his feelings by a good hurrah, but the next thought was
a sober one.
"How are we ever to get them to give up Rita?"
Murray was thinking the same thought just then, and it seemed to him as
if he must go out to the door of the lodge for a little breath of fresh
air.
The chief and his councillors were nowhere to be seen, but there was
Mother Dolores by the camp-fire.
Murray tried hard to assume a calm and steady face and voice as he
strode forward and stood beside her. He spoke to her in Spanish.
"Well, Dolores, which do you like best, cooking for Mexican miners or
for the great chief?"
She dropped her stew-pan and stood looking at him for a moment, drawing
her breath hard, and then she exclaimed,
"I was right. It is Señor Murray. Ah, señor, it is so long ago! The
poor señora--"
"Don't speak of her. I know. We found her. My Rita?"
"Yes, she is your Rita. But they will kill you if you tell them. I
will keep your secret, señor. I have kept it now."
She had dimly recognized him, then, and she, too, had been in doubt
what to do or say. In answer to a few more questions she told him very
truly that she had been better off among the Apaches than before she
was captured. Less hard work, better treatment, better food, better
position, just about as much real civilization.
Poor Dolores had never known much about that or anything better than
the hard lot of a Mexican woman of the lower class among the rough
miners. It was better, she said, to be the wife of a chief and have
plenty to eat, and little hard work to do.
"But about Rita?"
"If you had your mine now, and your great droves of horses!"
"What could I do?"
"Do, Señor Murray? Why, you could buy half the young squaws in the
village, if you had husbands for them. But you are poor now. I
suppose it cannot be done."
It was no wonder he had not thought of it before. It was so strange a
thing to propose. That a father should buy his own daughter! He
turned from her and strode back to his own lodge, to hear what Steve
would say. "He's a mere boy, but sometimes he seems to have a great
deal of sense."
Steve's remark, after he had heard about Dolores and her idea, was
simply,
"That's nothing new, is it? If we can't run away with her, we can
ransom her."
"Ransom? Well, now, that's a great deal better word than buy. But our
gold coin won't do. They won't take the whole pile for her. They
don't really understand the value of it."
"They want ponies, and blankets, and all that?"
"That's it. Why, Steve, it's the queerest thing. I'm so excited I
can't think. If we can make a bargain with them they'll be glad enough
to go with us to the nearest trading-post. We can buy all we want when
we get there. You've helped me out of my scrape."
"Seems to me it was easy enough to think of that."
It may have been, but Murray felt very grateful to Steve. The latter
now put down his magazine and went to the door in his turn, for he,
too, had a large amount of thinking to do.
"Murray, they are taking down the lodges again."
"Going forward to-night, eh? I'm glad of that. I must spur old Many
Bears up to it. Don't want him to lose a day on the road."
"Nor I either. They'll move slowly enough anyhow."
"Oh, they'll find a good place to leave the village, while the chiefs
and warriors go on to be present at the treaty talk."
"Suppose there isn't any?"
"There's pretty sure to be something of the kind at this season of the
year. Anyhow, we will get them to the right place for us to buy our
ponies and blankets, and we will have Rita with us."
It was pretty hard, and he felt it in every corner of his heart, that
he could not send for her at once and tell her all about his plans for
her release. Yes, and about the beautiful home to which he meant to
take her, away beyond the great salt sea she had never seen.