HOW WOULD YOU LIKE FIRE?
The needs of human beings are very much the same the world over, but
they are satisfied in different ways. The tilted wagon from Santa Fe
brought to Santa Lucia coffee and sugar of a better quality than the
Apaches found in the packs of the Mexican army mules, but it was sugar
and coffee after all. The magazines and papers had been full of news and
information for Vic and her mother, and the escaped train-guard brought
very interesting matter to Colonel Romero. Letters came with the wagon,
but not one so interesting as was the epistle which Cal had written upon
the cactus-leaf. No story of any sort, in any of the books or pamphlets
which Vic turned over so eagerly, was likely to be more absorbingly
interesting to her or to any other reader than were to Ping and
Tah-nu-nu the tales told by the old Chiricahua under the shadow of the
mesquit bushes near the Manitou Water. He told more, that evening. Some
of them were about himself and some were about things that he had seen
among the blue-coats at the forts where he had been. They were in a good
frame of mind for listening, since the sign-language letter brought to
them by the messenger of Kah-go-mish. They knew from him that their band
was to leave no trail behind it, and that the son of the long chief of
the cowboys was as much a prisoner as they were. If they did not give up
the idea of trying to make their own escape, they felt more contented,
and could joke and laugh about their captivity.
"Ping pale-face by and by," said Tah-nu-nu, almost merrily. "Heap
blue-coat chief. Kah-go-mish make Cal big Apache brave."
Her quick ears had caught his name, but Ping more frequently spoke of
him as "Heap pony."
Before the arrival of that quiet evening hour, Cal had added somewhat to
his rapidly growing list of new experiences. He felt better after
writing the cactus-leaf letter, and he ate a fair second breakfast,
cooked for him by Wah-wah-o-be. He made her acquaintance very fast, but
Kah-go-mish had his hands full of duties belonging to his pack-mule
cargo, and he did not come again.
Quite a different sort of fellow did come, for the wrinkled-faced old
warrior was ready to burst with curiosity as to how Cal had managed to
get out of his forked-stake prison. With Wah-wah-o-be's help he managed
to say so, and Cal volunteered to show him. Several other braves went
with them to the foot of the giant cypress, and in a minute or so more
that Apache was described by all the voices around him as
"The-old-man-who-put-a-peg-into-a-gopher-hole." He already had a fine
long warrior name of his own, or the new one would have stuck to him for
the remainder of his life. As it was, he evidently regarded Cal with
more than a little admiration.
"What do now?" he said. "No more get away?"
"More eat, by and by," said Cal. "See red pony, now. Medicine pony."
There was no reason why the prisoner, under a sufficient guard, should
not be permitted such a privilege, and the wrinkled-faced brave nodded.
He dropped his long Apache names, however, both of them, and used one
which Cal discovered had been given him at the Mescalero Reservation.
"Crooked Nose go," he said. "Pull Stick see medicine pony."
The now numerous drove of quadrupeds belonging to the prosperous and
wealthy band of Kah-go-mish were no longer picketed. Free of lariats,
but attended by watchful red drovers, they had been conducted to a strip
of natural prairie at some distance from the rear of the camp where Cal
had eaten his breakfast.
They were of all sorts, good, bad and middling, horses, ponies, and
mules; and Cal was able to pick out, as he went along, quite a number
that had come all the way from the bank of Slater's Branch. He was
looking around him for one horse that was worth more than all the rest,
in his opinion, when a loud neigh sounded from behind some bushes near
him.
Very much to the surprise of Crooked Nose, the handsomest mustang he had
ever seen came out with a vigorous bound, a cavort, and a throwing up of
heels, and dashed straight towards Pull Stick, as he had several times
called Cal Evans.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "Heap pony!"
"Hurrah, Dick!" shouted Cal, and he threw his arms around the neck of
the red mustang.
One of the dog-soldier keepers of the horses came riding towards them at
that moment, however, and Crooked Nose touched Cal on the shoulder.
"Pull Stick come. Pony stay."
He added a string of Apache words that Cal could make nothing of, but
that described Dick as being now the property of
The-boy-whose-ear-pushed-away-a-piece-of-lead. He conversed for a minute
or two with the mounted Apache, and the latter pointed sternly towards
the camp. There was no such thing as disputing with a Mescalero
policeman, and Dick himself received a sharp blow from the loose end of
a lariat when he attempted to follow the only master he recognized as
having any right to him.
Cal was glad to find that his four-footed friend was in good condition,
after his pretty severe share in the adventures which began in the
chaparral. Still, it was an uncomfortable thing to think of, that the
red mustang was likely to end his days as an Apache pony instead of as
the pet of all the household at Santa Lucia.
The camp was regained, and Cal at once took note of changes. The fires
had been kindled the previous evening, in a straggling line along the
bank or a small stream of water. Tangled bushes marked the course of the
stream, and great trees leaned over it, dropping the swinging ropes of
vines from their branches to its very surface. The more distant fires
had been entirely hidden, except for the glare they made.
The band had bivouacked that first night, but now there were lodges
going up, and Cal knew what that meant.
"They mean to stay here," he said to himself. "I might as well be in
jail."
It was nearly so. The neighboring wilderness had been found to be full
of game, and the plan of Kah-go-mish called for liberal supplies of
fresh meat, in addition to what he had found upon Colonel Romero's
pack-mules. He felt sure that any Mexican force hunting after him would
look almost anywhere else, and none was likely to come for a long time.
He and his band were happy; they were safe; they could have a good time
until continued happiness and safety might require another move.
Cal and Crooked Nose were met by a summons to come before the chief, and
went to find him waiting their arrival.
"Pull Stick here! Ugh!" said Crooked Nose.
"Kah-go-mish is a great chief!" remarked the Apache commander
dignifiedly, but he had more to say. He repeated to Cal his previous
counsel against an attempt to escape, but after that he raked out some
hot coals from the smouldering camp-fire near him.
"Boy see?" he said, as he pointed at the red warning. "How boy like?
Ugh!"
Cal shuddered and nodded, but he could not find a word to say in reply.
"Look!" said the chief again, pointing to the ground a few paces away,
and Cal looked.
There lay the forked sticks which he had escaped from that very morning,
and the meaning of Kah-go-mish was very plain indeed.
"Boy, son of pale-face chief," he said. "No heap fool. Go. Ugh."
"Pull Stick come," said Crooked Nose, in a not unfriendly manner, and
Cal walked away with him, to be more minutely informed that he could do
about as he pleased, until further orders, unless he chose to do
something like trying to escape, which would make it proper for his
excellent Apache friends to stake him out again, and "make heap fire all
over Pull Stick."