LEAVING THE BAD-MEDICINE CAMP.
The camp in the chaparral at Cold Spring was astir before daylight that
next morning. Every soul seemed to want a look at the Manitou Water, as
well as a drink of it, immediately upon waking. Tongue after tongue
declared, in English, Spanish, or Apache: "Just as it was before, only
it runs a little stronger." That is, the avalanche had raised the level
of the water in the mountain reservoir and the pressure was greater.
Every season must have witnessed very much the same changes in the
conduct of Cold Spring, but, as a rule, without any human eyes to take
note of them. The sage-hens, the jackass rabbits and the antelopes had
kept no record.
Cal's father was a sad-hearted man when he mounted his big black horse.
He was turning his face homeward without Cal, and he almost forgot that
he had come in search of stolen horses.
Ping and Tah-nu-nu were given their own ponies, and were as ready for a
start as was anybody else. As they reached the path-opening by which
they were to go away, they turned and took a long look at the Manitou
Water. It flowed on steadily, without a jump of any sort.
"Ugh!" said Ping. "Manitou sleep."
Colonel Evans and his cowboys, Captain Moore and his cavalry, all did
the same thing, but not one of them made the same remark. The three
remaining Chiricahua scouts also looked, and the old brave who had told
stories to Ping and Tah-nu-nu shook his head, saying something about
Kah-go-mish and bad medicine. He was thinking of the fourth Chiricahua
who had been the first man of that expedition to drink of the bubbling
snow-water.
"Have you any idea when or where we shall get our next news of Cal?"
asked Captain Moore, as he rode along at the head of his column.
"No," said Colonel Evans, "but you can count upon one thing, they will
try to steal away Ping and Tah-nu-nu. Every movement must be watched.
Kah-go-mish and his band are far enough away by this time."
The keenest calculations are sometimes at fault. A sharp gallop of three
or four hours across the desert might have brought a rider from the
chaparral very near the camp of the Apaches. If the palefaces, moreover,
knew nothing of the movements or plans of the chief, he did not propose
to be equally ignorant of their own. Hardly were they well away from the
spring before something began to stir under the bushes behind the great
cactus on the western side of the open. Then a human head became
visible, and in a minute more a tall Apache warrior was stalking around
the spring as if he were trying to find anything which the pale-faces
might have left behind them. He was in no manner disposed to talk to
himself, and his inspection was soon completed. After that, a half-mile
of walking through the chaparral brought him to a bush where one of the
stolen Evans horses was tied. He mounted and rode away, and when he
left the chaparral he did not take the trail which the band had before
followed, but struck off across the desert in a southeasterly direction.
If he had any intention of going back to the "bad-medicine camp-ground,"
he was making a mistake, because the lodges of Kah-go-mish were no
longer there. The Apache scout who came hurrying in, after the hurricane
was over and just before sunset the previous evening, had been very near
to not getting in at all. He had been all but intercepted by a strong
column of Mexican horsemen. The storm had helped him to escape from
them, but beyond all doubt he would be followed.
"Kah-go-mish is a great chief!" loudly exclaimed the Mescalero
statesman, and he added his own explanation of this new peril. These
were not the Mexicans who had lost the pack-mules; not the command of
Colonel Romero. They were probably the very force which had made a
target of him as he stood so heroically upon the bowlder, and into whose
camp he had afterwards so daringly ventured after horses and plunder.
He knew that they were numerous, and he had no thought of fighting them.
It was too late and too dark, he said, to begin any march that evening,
but every lodge must come down, every pack must be made ready, and the
band must move before daylight.
Cal had no idea how narrow had been his own escape from the cruel
results of Indian superstition, but he had overheard enough to
understand the present flurry and the packing. He sat down, not far from
one of the rekindled camp-fires, and watched the proceedings. It made
him feel bluer than ever to know that civilized soldiers were so very
near. He saw his cougar brought in and skinned, and he ate a piece of
the broiled meat cooked for him by Wah-wah-o-be. The moon arose and
looked down through the tree-tops, but Cal did not feel like sleeping,
although his wet clothing had ceased to steam, and he felt almost dry.
The lodges were all down at last, and everything seemed quiet, when
there came to Cal's ears precisely the same boding hoot that had sounded
among the cypress branches above him when he was staked out.
"Must be the biggest kind of an owl," he muttered, but instantly he
heard just such a sound again very near him.
He turned to look for the second owl, and there he stood, with one hand
at his mouth, for this owl was Kah-go-mish, and he was distributing news
and orders among his band.
There were rapid movements in all directions after that hooting.
Pack-mules were led in. Squaws toiled hard and warriors worked like so
many squaws. The horses of Kah-go-mish were led to the spot where his
lodge had been, and one of them, bridled but without any saddle, was
assigned to Cal with orders to mount at once. He had hardly done so
before he heard near him a whinny that he knew.
"Dick," he said, "old fellow! Don't I wish I were on your back!"
His own saddle was there, and his own rifle and some other weapons were
strapped to it. Other property was securely fastened upon them, and for
that journey, at least, the red mustang had been turned into a
pack-pony. He seemed to almost feel humiliated and downcast, but was
otherwise in his usual condition, so far as his master could see.
Hoot! Hoot! Hoot! came the owl cries from the forest westward, and the
braves in charge of the shadowy train began to urge it forward.
"Pull Stick, look!"
It was the voice of Crooked Nose, and he was tapping his carbine
meaningly.
Cal nodded, but did not speak, for he understood the warning. His life
was hanging by a thread, and he was in need of all the caution he
possessed.
Every camp-fire was heaped high with fuel before it was left behind, and
the forest was all the darker by contrast. The Apaches managed to pick
their way, with the aid of torches. It did not seem to Cal that they had
ridden far before the trees grew thinner, and there was more moonlight.
Then there were no trees; a little farther on and there were no bushes;
all was plain enough then, for the bare desert was reached, and Cal knew
by the stars that the band was heading in an easterly direction well out
from the line of timber.
Hardly had he said to himself, "Kah-go-mish got away in time, anyhow,"
before he heard a muffled tumult in the forest behind him. Every animal
in the train was pushed more rapidly.
"Mexicans!" exclaimed Wah-wah-o-be. "Find fire. No find Kah-go-mish.
Ugh!"
A sharp rattle of distant musketry offered her a sort of angry reply,
but it only drew a laugh from Wah-wah-o-be.
The great chief she admired had been compelled to hurry up his plans,
but he had not been caught in the surprise skilfully prepared for him by
the Mexican commander. That officer had acted with energy and good
judgment. He had determined to attack the Apaches in their camp at
night, and he had not wasted an hour. He had deserved success, but he
had not won it. The Apache owls had defeated him.
As the silent Mexican columns worked their slow way through the forest,
they had remarked upon the uncommon number and wakefulness of those
night-birds. They were in three divisions, dismounted for better work in
the woods, and each division met its own owls, or seemed to. They saw
the glare of the camp-fires and moved more slowly, with greater caution,
in excellent order, until they had all but surrounded the bad-medicine
camp-ground. A bugle-note gave them a signal for a simultaneous shout,
and they shouted. Another bade them fire a volley towards the
camp-fires, and they fired it. A third bugle sounded the charge, and the
Mexicans dashed in magnificently. If there had been any Apaches there,
not an Indian could have escaped, or at least not a pony or a lodge.
"Kah-go-mish has gone!" roared the disappointed officer, and his entire
command agreed with him, but not a soul of them all could guess in what
direction, by any light that the chief had left behind him.
As for Cal Evans, he had received an important lesson concerning the
ways and wiles of Indian warfare, and his own escape seemed more
impossible than before.