[2] Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 101, October 4.
"Did you say, Murray, there were any higher mountains higher than these?"
"Higher'n these? Why, Steve, the mountains we crossed, away back there
just this side of the Texas border, were twice as high, some of then."
"These are big enough. Are there any higher mountains in the world than
ours? Did you ever see any?"
"I've seen some of them. I've heard it said the tallest are in India.
South America can beat us. I've seen the Andes."
"I don't want to see anything that looks worse to climb than this range
right ahead of us."
"Where the Apaches got through, Steve, we can. They're only a hunting
party, too."
"More warriors than we have."
"Only Apaches, Steve. Ours are Lipans. There's a big difference in that,
I tell you."
"The Lipans are your friends."
"Yours too, and you must let them think you are their friend, strong.
The Apaches are everybody's enemies--mine, yours--only fit to be killed
off."
"You've killed some of 'em."
"Not so many as I mean to kill. That's one thing I'm on this trip for.
Old Two-Knives would almost have given it up if it hadn't been for me."
"I don't feel that way about the Lipans, if they did capture me. All I
want of them is to get away, and go back to the settlements."
"Maybe your folks won't know you when you come."
Steve looked down at his fine muscular form from limb to limb, while the
stern, wrinkled face of his companion almost put on a smile.
"I'd have to wash, that's a fact."
"Get off your war-paint. Put on some white men's clothing. Cut your
hair."
"They'd know me then."
"You've grown a head taller since you was captured, and they've made a
Lipan of you all over but in two places."
"What are they?"
"Your eyes and hair. They're as light as mine were when I was of your
age."
"I'm not a Lipan inside, Murray, nor any other kind of Indian. It would
take more than three years to do that."
"I've been among 'em seven. But then I never would paint."
The sun and the wind had painted him darkly enough, and if his hair had
once been "light," it was now as white as the tops of the mountains he
and Steve had been looking at.
Behind them, on a barren, sandy level, through which ran a narrow stream
of ice-cold water, about threescore of wild-looking human beings were
dismounted, almost in a circle, each holding the end of a long "lariat"
of strong hide, at the other end of which was a horse.
Some seemed to have two and even three horses, as if they were on an
errand which might use up one and call for another. That was quite
likely, for Lipan warriors are terribly hard riders. Those who had now
but one horse had probably worn out their first mount, and turned him
adrift by the way-side, to be picked up, Indian fashion, on the way
home. When a plains Indian leaves a horse in that way, and does not find
him again, he tries his best to find some other man's horse to take his
place.
More than sixty Indian warriors, all in their war-paint, armed to the
teeth with knives, revolvers, repeating rifles, of the best and latest
patterns, and each carrying a long steel-headed Mexican lance. Not a bow
or arrow or war-club among them. All such weapons belong to the old, old
times, or to poor miserable second-rate Indians who can not buy anything
better. The fierce and haughty Lipans and Comanches, and other warlike
tribes, insist on being armed as well as the United States troops, and
even better.
What could a cavalryman do with a lance? About as much as an Indian with
a sword, for that is one weapon the red men could never learn the use of
from King Philip's day to this.
[Illustration: THE COUNCIL OF WAR.]
It was luncheon-time with that Lipan war party, and they were hard at
work on their supplies of dried venison and cold roast buffalo meat.
Their halt would not be a long one in a spot where there was no grass
for their horses; but they could hold a council while they were eating,
and they could listen to a speech from the short, broad, ugly-looking
old chief, who now stood in the middle of the circle.
"To-la-go-to-de will not go back now till he has struck the Apaches. He
has come too far. The squaws of his village would laugh at him if he
rode through the mountains and came back to them with empty hands."
That was the substance of his address, put again and again, in different
shapes, and it seemed to meet the approval of his listeners. There is
nothing a Lipan brave is really afraid of except ridicule, and the dread
of being laughed at was the strongest argument their leader could have
used to spur them forward. Once, indeed, he made another sharp hit by
pointing to the spot where Murray and Steve were standing.
"No Tongue has the heart of a Lipan. He says if we go back he will go on
alone. He will take the Yellow Head with him. They will not be laughed
at when they come back. Will the Lipans let their squaws tell them they
are cowards, and dare not follow an old pale-face and a boy?"
A deep, half-angry "ugh" went around the circle.
To-la-go-to-de had won over all the grumblers in his audience, and need
not have talked any more.
He might have stopped right there, and proceeded to eat another slice of
buffalo meat; but when an Indian once learns to be an orator, he would
rather talk than eat any day. In fact, they are such talkers at home and
among themselves that Murray had earned the queer name given him by the
chief in no other way than by his habitual silence. He rarely spoke to
anybody, and so he was "No Tongue."
The chief himself had a name of which he was enormously proud, for he
had won it on a battle-field. His horse had been killed under him in a
battle with the Comanches when he was yet a young warrior, and he had
fought on foot with a knife in each hand.
From that day forward he was To-la-go-to-de, or "the chief that fights
with two knives." Any name he may have been known by before that was at
once dropped and forgotten.
It is a noteworthy custom, but the English have something almost exactly
like it. A man in England may be plain Mr. Smith or Mr. Disraeli for
ever so many years, and then all of a sudden he becomes Lord So-and-So,
and nobody ever speaks of him again by the name he carried when he was a
mere "young brave." It is a great mistake to suppose the red men are
altogether different from the white.
As for Steve, his hair was nearer chestnut than yellow, but it had given
him his Indian name--one that would stick to him until, like
To-la-go-to-de, he should distinguish himself in battle, and win a "war
name" of his own.
He and Murray, however they might be regarded as members of the tribe
and of that war party, had no rights in the "council." Only born Lipans
could take part in that, except by special invitation.
It happened, on the present occasion, that they were both glad of it,
for "No Tongue" had more than usual to say, and "Yellow Head" was very
anxious to listen to him.
"That peak yonder would be an awful climb, Steve."
"I should say it would."
"But if you and I were up there, I'll tell you what we could do. We
could look north and east into New Mexico, north and west into Arizona,
and south, every way, into Mexico itself."
"Are we so near the border?"
"I think we are."
Something like a thunder-cloud seemed to be gathering on Murray's face,
and the deep furrows grew deeper, in great rigid lines and curves, while
his steel-blue eyes lighted up with a fire that made them unpleasant to
look upon.
"You lived in Mexico once?"
"Did I? Did I ever tell you that?"
"Not exactly. I only guessed it from things you've dropped."
"I'll tell you now, then. I did live in Mexico. Down yonder in
Chi-hua-hua."
"She-waw-waw?" said Steve, trying to follow the old man's rapid
pronunciation of the strange musical name.
"Down there, more than a hundred miles south of the border. I thought we
were safe. The mine was a good one. The hacienda was the prettiest place
I could make of it. I thought I should never leave it. But the Apaches
came one day--"
He stopped a moment, and seemed to be looking at the tops of the western
mountains.
"Did you have a fight with them?" asked Steve.
"Fight? No. I was on a hunt in the Sierras that day. When I came home it
was all gone."
"The Apaches?"
"The mine was there, but the works were all burned. So was the hacienda
and the huts of the peons and workmen--everything that would burn."
"But the people?"
"Cattle, horses--all they could drive with them they carried away. We
won't say anything about the people, Steve. My wife was among them. She
was a Spanish-Mexican lady. She owned the mine and the land. We buried
her before we set out after the Apaches. I've been following them ever
since."
"Were the rest all killed?"
"All. They did not even leave me my little girl. I hadn't anything left
to keep me there."
"So you joined the Lipans?"
"They're always at war with the Apaches. I'm pretty near to being an
Indian now."
"I won't be one, then. I'll get away somehow. I'm white, and I'm almost
a man."
"Steve, have you forgotten anything you knew the day they took you
prisoner?"
"No, I haven't. I was fifteen then, and if there's one thing I've been
afraid of it was that I would forget. I've repeated things over and over
and over for fear they'd get away from me."
"That's all right. I've had an eye on you about that. But haven't you
learned something?"
"You've taught me all about rocks and stones and ores and mining--"
"Yes, and you can ride like a Lipan, and shoot and hunt, and there isn't
a young brave in the band that can throw you in a fair wrestle."
"That's all Indian--"
"Is it? Well, whether it is or not, you'll need it all before long."
"To fight Apaches?"
"Better'n that, Steve. It's been of no use for you to try to get away
toward Texas. They watch you too closely; and besides, the Comanches are
most of the time between us and the settlements. They won't watch you at
all out here. That's why I insisted on bringing you along."
"Do you mean I'll have a chance to get away?"
"I don't mean you shall go back of the mountains again, Steve. You must
wait patiently, but the time'll come. I tell you what, my boy, when you
find yourself crossing the Arizona deserts and mountains all alone
you'll be right glad you can ride and shoot and hunt and find your own
way. It's all Indian knowledge, but it's wonderfully useful when you
have to take care of yourself in an Indian country."
The dark cloud was very heavy on Murray's face yet, but an eager light
was shining upon that of his young friend--the light of hope.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]