UNDER A FALLEN TREE.
Cal had been all day in a chaparral without water, and he knew by
experience how very dry an alkali desert could be, whether under a hot
sun or a brilliant moon. He had seen sudden storms before, for he was a
ranch-boy, and there are wonders of electricity and rain at times upon
the plains. Up to the moment when the hurricane struck the tree-tops,
however, he had never fully understood what could be done by wind and
water and thunder and lightning, at their very best working strength,
working together. No wonder a poor cougar should be in a hurry to get
under safe cover if he had any clear idea that all this was coming.
As for the trees, the healthy ones stood up to it admirably. They had
all been through hurricanes time and again, and were, moreover,
something of a protection to each other. Any tree whose strength had at
all been sapped by internal decay, however, or which had failed to send
out roots in due proportion to its height, was in more or less danger.
Every now and then the crash of some old forest prince made Cal look up
at the trees near him to see how they were doing. Crooked Nose crouched
upon the ground in silence, not looking at anything. The trunk behind
which they were partly sheltered was apparently worthy of especial
confidence, it was so very thick and seemed so completely beyond the
power of any wind to break.
"If any tree can stand it, this will," said Cal to Crooked Nose.
"Ugh!" grunted the Indian. "Heap wind. Heap bad manitou."
The trunk of that tree fully justified Cal's confidence. It did not
snap. At that very moment, however, there was a strong hand of the
hurricane upon its broad top, and the general uproar was increased by a
groaning, tearing sound.
"It's coming! it's coming!" shouted Cal, as he made a great spring into
the gloom at its left, but Crooked Nose only lay flat upon the ground.
Ripping, tearing, splitting the earth on the windward side of the tree,
and breaking off, with reports like pistol-shots, the roots of the giant
growth gave way. Down, down, down came the grand old oak, crashing
through branches and smaller trees in the way. It left a great hollow
where its roots had been, but Cal need not have stirred one inch. If he
had been twenty feet high he could have walked under that fallen trunk
without touching it.
"Safest place there is," he said to Crooked Nose. "Hear that?"
"Ugh!" replied he. "Bad medicine!"
Bad for something, perhaps, for it was the squall of an enormous cat in
fright and trouble. It seemed as if the hurricane must have come for
that particular tree, since it began at once to die away after the
crash. The thunder ceased and the flashes grew fainter, while the small
remains of daylight came back and made the dripping forest visible. The
spirits of Crooked Nose did not at once return. He glanced at the mound,
where the lightning-splintered wreck of the dead tree had fallen. He
looked up at the oak-trunk over him, and he shivered as if from cold.
Once more the cry of the cat in trouble sounded just across the brook.
The carbine carried by Crooked Nose lay upon the ground, and Cal picked
it up. It was loaded, and its owner did not make the least objection
when Cal took the weapon, sprang across the narrow channel, and began to
search for that angry cry.
Yet again it sounded, and now it plainly came from among the branches of
the fallen tree.
"That's so," said Cal. "Must be the same fellow. Hid in these bushes and
got pinned down."
The frightened cougar had not thought of a trap, when he cowered in a
little hollow behind a rotten log. It had not been set for him by either
the oak or the hurricane, but it caught him, for a fork of one of the
heavier limbs came down over that very hollow.
Cal thought he had never seen any real scratching done until that
moment. The earth and leaves and sticks and bits of bark flew fast, as
the powerful claws tore a passage out of that captivity.
"He's fighting to get away," said Cal.
"So'd I, if I saw any use in it. I could escape, too, in such a storm as
this. If another should come, I'll try and be ready. His head and
shoulders are free--there he comes!"
Crack! and the report of the rifle was answered by a loud whoop from
Crooked Nose.
Out from his trap came the entire body of the cougar, in a convulsive
struggle, and he lay dead upon the wet leaves, an ounce ball through his
head requiring no second shot.
Whoop after whoop answered that of Crooked Nose, but Cal stood still,
wet, very wet indeed, and almost wondering how he came to kill that
tremendous wild beast.
The wrinkled, ugly face of the old Apache peered over his shoulder.
"Ugh! Heap bad manitou gone!"
Boys and braves came hurrying to the spot, and half a dozen angry
dog-soldiers were eager to know who had fired a shot within the limits
of the camp, contrary to rule.
"Crooked Nose kill cougar," was the first bit of broken English heard by
Cal.
"Ugh!" was the reply. "Pull Stick."
There was a kind of fraud at work. The Apaches believed that Pull Stick
had faced the very dangerous animal before him without any help. They
had heard the wrathful squall, but knew nothing of the trap. Even when
Cal explained it, the glory accorded to him was hardly diminished, for
there lay the cougar, claws and all. He had performed a feat precisely
equal to that of Ping.
Among the last to come was Kah-go-mish himself, and yet he did not look
like himself. The red stocking-legs on his arms were soaking wet, and he
wore no hat, while his entire visage had a look of intense dejection. It
remained there until he caught a glimpse of the cougar's body, and he
nearly repeated the exclamation of Crooked Nose: "Bad medicine gone!
Ugh! Heap good!"
Slowly Cal began to understand the meaning of several things which
Crooked Nose had told him when he pointed at the tank and the mound.
That was a place which, as all Apaches knew, was "bad medicine" for
them. They ought not to have camped there or put up lodges, and when the
hurricane came it aroused all their superstitious fears. They had been
dreadfully frightened; as much so as the poor cougar himself, and they
would have cowered in any hole just as he did.
Cal's unexpected feat, therefore, had broken a sort of evil charm of
that dangerous locality. He had used a gun, however, to which, as a
prisoner, he had no right, and there were serious questions to be
considered. He had not undertaken to escape, but he had trespassed upon
the "bad-medicine" ground. A storm had come and the bad manitou had
thrown trees at him to kill him. Then he had sent a cougar to tear him
to pieces. The bad manitou had not been strong enough, and Pull Stick
had thus far escaped, but it was all very wonderful.
Kah-go-mish beckoned Cal to follow him, and they all recrossed the
little stream and walked on to the lodge of the chief. Several other
lodges stood near it, for none of them had been blown down, but all
things wore a soaked, miserable appearance in the dull gloom now
settling down over the "bad-medicine camp." The squaws were trying to
rekindle the deluged fires, but without any success. Wah-wah-o-be, at
her own heap of wet ashes in front of the lodge, was ready to give up in
despair.
Kah-go-mish was exchanging guttural sentences with a group of
gloomy-looking, elderly warriors, when Cal took out his pocket-knife,
picked up a piece of pine wood and began to make splinters and shavings
of it. He then took from an inner pocket a case of wax-matches, and in
half a minute more he handed Wah-wah-o-be a blazing bunch of what to her
was comfort.
"Ugh!" said Kah-go-mish to his counsellors. "Pull Stick good medicine.
Heap bring fire. Friend."
That was the turning-point, and Cal had but barely escaped a much worse
fate than that of Jonah. At that very moment, however, a mounted brave
galloped in from the forest and drew rein before the chief with a sharp,
warning exclamation that was echoed by every tongue. Even Cal exclaimed
aloud: "Mexicans? Cavalry? Rancheros? What next?"