RESCUED BY THE RED MUSTANG.
The scouting party of Mexican cavalry reported by Ping were few in
number, and were a long distance from any support. They had been willing
enough to follow the movements of a solitary Indian boy, but were not
disposed for a skirmish with the braves who now rode out of the forest
behind Tan-tan-e-o-tan. There would have been no brush at all if it had
not been for the revengeful tumult in the heart of Ping, and for the
fact that he was so splendidly armed and mounted.
The men in uniform yonder belonged to the troops who had slain
Kah-go-mish, and Ping shouted, in Apache, "I am the son of a great
chief!"
He disobeyed a warning whoop of Tan-tan-e-o-tan, for he was bent upon
riding within range, and Dick bore him swiftly onward. All the warlike
thoughts and hopes which make up the thoughts of an Indian boy were
dancing wildly around in his fevered brain. He was a warrior, facing the
ancient enemies of his race, the men who had killed his father.
Alas for Ping! Range for him was also range for the now retreating
cavalry, and his one fruitless shot was replied to by a volley.
"Zst-ping!" he exclaimed, involuntarily shouting his own nickname, as
the bullets whizzed past him, and then he felt suddenly sick and dizzy.
One ball had not gone by.
Dick obeyed the rein and wheeled towards the forest, but after that he
was left to his own guidance. Ping was not unconscious, and he clung
proudly, courageously to his rifle--Cal's repeater. He held on to the
pommel of the saddle with one hand, but he hardly knew more than that he
was riding the "heap pony"--riding, riding, riding--somewhere.
Tan-tan-e-o-tan alone followed, at a considerable distance, the wounded
son of Kah-go-mish, the other braves dashing away at once to join the
band upon its eagerly pushed retreat into the mountains.
Under the shade of the forest trees, near the waning camp-fire at which
Wah-wah-o-be had cooked his breakfast, lay poor Cal. For him,
apparently, all hope had departed, for he had vainly struggled to loosen
the forked stakes which held down his hands and his feet.
"I've no chance to pry," he groaned, "or I could do it;" but then that
is the very reason why the red-men fasten their prisoners in that
manner. Any man can pull up such a stick, if he can get a pry at it or
even a direct pull.
"I shall die of hunger and thirst and mosquito bites," he said. "It's
worse than killing one right off. It's as bad as fire could be!"
Just then he heard the sound of a horse's feet, and he drew his breath
hard as he listened. Was it one of the Apaches come to torture him?
Could it be a Mexican? It was a moment of awful expectation, and then
he exclaimed, "Dick!"
Dick had come, and he had found his way to the camp he had left, and he
had brought home his young rider, but that was all, for Ping reeled in
the saddle and then fell heavily to the earth. He was never to become a
war-chief of the Mescaleros. His first skirmish had been his last.
"Dick!" again shouted Cal, and the faithful fellow at once walked over
to where his master lay. He seemed to understand that something was
wrong with Cal, for he pawed the ground and neighed and whinnied as if
asking, "What does this mean?" Dick's eyes had an excited look, and his
ears were moving backward and forward, nervously, when again there was a
sound of coming hoofs. Cal raised his head and saw Tan-tan-e-o-tan
spring from his horse, stoop and examine poor Ping.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "Heap dead!" A whoop followed instantly--a fierce
and angry whoop.
One of Dick's pawing forefeet had been unintentionally put down close by
Cal's left hand. It was a quick thought, a lightning flash of hope,
which led Cal to grasp the hoof with all the strength he had.
Dick lifted his foot, and oh, how Cal's wrist hurt him, in the sudden,
hard wrench that followed! It was his last chance for life and he held
on, and the whoop of Tan-tan-e-o-tan was given as he saw the forked
stake jerked clean out of the ground.
Forward, with another yell, sprang the angry savage, drawing his knife
as he came, but that screech was too much for the nerves of the red
mustang. Out went his iron-shod heels, and there was a sharp thud as
one of them struck between the eyes of Tan-tan-e-o-tan.
"Hurrah for Dick!" shouted Cal, as his enemy rolled over and over upon
the ferns and leaves. "That fellow won't get up again."
Cal could now toil away with his lame hand to set the other at liberty.
After that he was glad to find his knife in his pocket, for one of his
ankle stakes refused to come up, and had to be whittled through. He
worked with feverish, frantic energy, and he barely finished his task in
time. He had only to whistle for Dick. His whole body seemed to tremble
as he hurried forward to regain the belt and rifle which Wah-wah-o-be had
so proudly given to Ping. The-boy-whose-ear-pushed-away-a-piece-of-lead
would never need them or the "heap pony" any more.
Cal did not mount, but led Dick away into the cover of the forest.
"We should be seen if I rode away now," he said to Dick.
Hardly was he well concealed behind dense bushes before, as he peered
out, he saw Wah-wah-o-be, followed closely by Crooked Nose, gallop into
the deserted camp. She had already heard that Ping was wounded, but not
how badly, and she threw herself upon the ground beside him with a great
cry. Crooked Nose bent for one moment over Tan-tan-e-o-tan, and the
Apache death-whoop rang twice, long and mournfully, through the forest.
It was followed by fierce and angry utterances, among which Cal caught
something about Mexicans, and then Crooked Nose looked sharply around
him.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "Heap Pony gone. Pull Stick gone! Big medicine. Bad
manitou."
Cal's second escape was plainly a greater mystery than the first had
been. It was as Crooked Nose declared, and he was a boy whose medicine
enabled him to get out of tight places.
Cal decided that it was time for him to get away, lest others should
come, for he did not know how fast the band was retreating. He had a
thought, too, of meeting the Mexicans who had wounded Ping. He picked
his way carefully, stealthily, among the trees, followed faithfully by
Dick, and at the outer border of the forest he mounted. No Mexicans were
in sight, nor any Indians, and he knew that beyond the broken ground
before him lay the desert. What he did not know was that his father and
all who were with him were already two days' march on their homeward
journey.
"I can find my way by the sun and by the stars," he said to himself.
"I've had my breakfast. Dick can have some grass by and by. I may kill
game on the way. Never mind if I don't. Santa Lucia is off there to the
northeast. Now, Dick, this is your business. How many miles can you put
behind you between this and sunset?"
Dick pawed the ground, but he said nothing. Cal examined his cartridges;
filled two or three empty chambers in his rifle and revolver; tightened
the girth of his saddle a little; fixed his belt right--
"Dick!" he shouted. "Now for Santa Lucia!"
Away went the red mustang, and if any Indians had followed him, they
would have lost the race.