THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL
Like a hunted wolf, sore-distressed and savage, the defeated White Chief
was hidden with two of his followers in the tangled depths of Mystery
Grove. He had heard, with murder in his heart, the cowboys beating about
the brush in search of him and his scattered band. Luckily for them,
none came within range of his revolver. The noise of the conflict had
died down, the search around him had ceased, and the sun was nearly up
before they found the moment to dare to skulk out of their risky retreat
and make the attempt to thread the willowy trail up Sage Creek, which
Nixon had followed a few hours before with such high hopes of glorious
revenge.
It was a dangerous gauntlet to run; but it was more dangerous to stay
till day should come to light the recesses of the grove. At any rate, he
chose to take chances of capture in the open. Luck seemed to favor him.
No signs of his pursuers were to be seen. He was chuckling savagely to
himself in the thought that he would give them the slip and have his day
yet, when a cowboy, or rather a cow-girl, as his second sharper glance
told him, suddenly appeared just above him on the flat.
It was Alta Morgan. On returning from her brave ride to sound the
warning, she had chosen the open way on the eastern side of the creek.
The two saw and recognized each other simultaneously. Alta checked the
scream of terror that leaped to her lips, and cut Eagle sharply with her
quirt as she whirled his head to spring away from danger. She was so
dazed she hardly knew which way to fly till Fred’s words flashed through
her mind,--“If you sight danger, go to Uncle Dave’s.” Straight as an
arrow she headed Eagle for the hills.
“Ha!” gloated the White Injun, spurring his horse after her, his fear of
discovery and death completely swept aside by the wicked thought that
now focused all his hate and energy. He would capture and carry off the
proud little puss whose spite had caused all his trouble. A thousand
devilish thoughts surged through his hate-fired brain as he spurred and
lashed his struggling horse in his mad effort to overtake her.
It was a race for life. Eagle, seeming to sense it, strained every nerve
to carry his mistress out of her terrible danger; but the exhausting
work he had already done that morning had unnerved his steely muscles,
and for the life of him he could not keep Bud’s cayuse from gradually
closing the gap between them.
They had gained the steeper hills. Both horses had to slacken speed as
they raced up the slope.
“On, Eagle, on!” called the terror-dazed girl, leaning over his neck in
eagerness and patting it nervously. The little horse responded to that
caressing touch with a new burst of speed. Up the trail he flew, gaining
somewhat on his pursuers.
But the brave little horse could not maintain his lead. The White Injun
gradually drew closer and finally overtook the fleeing girl; then
grabbing her reins, he brought Eagle to a standstill. Alta, in a frenzy
of anger and fear, lashed the brute’s clutching hand and leering face;
but he clung on in spite of the stinging whip until his two lagging
bucks caught up.
“Grab her arms and tie ’em tight,” he commanded; “then bind her to the
saddle.” The savages obeyed.
“Let me go, you beast!” screamed the girl.
“When I’m done with you.”
“Oh, you devil!” She struggled frantically to free herself from the
torturing thongs, but seeing that it was useless, she suddenly checked
and held herself with queenly self-control.
“We’ll see who’s boss this time, my fine lady,” Bud mocked at her; “I
told you once that it was dangerous business to play with fire. Come
on.” He jerked Eagle’s reins as he spoke and headed hurriedly toward the
south, making his trail through the cover of the scattering groves. The
two Indians followed closely behind, nervously looking about from time
to time for pursuers.
But there were no friends to dash to her rescue. Uncle Dave, however,
keeping anxious watch that morning, had seen it all from the hills above
them. The sight fired his old heart; but he was too far away to lift an
arm in her defense. The best he could do was to keep general track of
the trail they were taking, and when they finally disappeared beyond the
canyon a mile or so to the south, he started out afoot to rouse the
ranchers. Half-way down Sage Creek, he met Fred, on a fresh horse and
leading old Buck, galloping toward his cabin.
“Have you seen Alta?” was his first anxious word.
“Yes, boy, that white Injun has captured her.”
“Captured her! My God! Which way did he go?”
“To’rds the south, beyond the canyon.”
“The demon! He’ll murder her or worse. He must be stopped.” Fred turned
his horse to dash away in the direction Uncle Dave had given.
“Hold on, boy, you’d better get help.”
“No, we mustn’t lose time; I’m going now.”
“Then I’ll go with you.” The old man climbed on to Buck as he spoke, and
followed Fred’s wild lead. “Take it easy, boy,” he cautioned; “you’ll
make better time.”
Fred checked his speed somewhat, but could not hold down his throbbing
heart.
Bud Nixon, meanwhile, was pushing on as fast as he could with his
helpless, worn-out captive to overtake the band of Indians then hurrying
through the southeastern pass. It was not till about dusk that he caught
up with them camped temporarily in a secluded side canyon.
The savages were in a flurry of excitement. News of the fight had
already been brought by Flying Arrow and other stragglers. Squaws and
papooses were running about crying and wailing despite the efforts of
the bucks to hold down their noise. The appearance of Ankanamp with his
white prisoner brought consternation to the camp.
Alta was quickly lifted from her horse and carried into a tepee standing
somewhat apart from the rest of the lodges. Her arms were untied, but
she was left there closely guarded, at Bud’s order, by two squaws, while
he and the other leaders held a council in Old Copperhead’s wigwam.
The Indians were in an ugly temper over their defeat, and naturally they
laid the blame for it upon the one who had led them. Ankanamp was
received, therefore, for the first time with sullen silence. He had
staked too much on this last throw and had lost, bringing danger and
terror to the tribe. This was enough to make the hot-headed braves ready
to kill the White Chief.
Old Copperhead had already been put to the test to hold his followers
from doing harm to Ankanamp as he appeared. And now he came bringing a
white girl captive. Pursuit to the death would be sure to follow in the
wake of that dastardly trick. The Indians all knew what that meant; but
to their credit they held down their anger to listen to their chiefs.
There was little time, however, for talk. A quick decision and action
were demanded. Whether to flee or to make a stand and fight was the
question; for they knew that the whites would soon trail them to this
lair.
The old chief counseled sending the squaws and papooses on that night,
leaving the warriors to guard their retreat. Nixon urged an ambush.
“They are sure to follow us,” he said, “but we kin beat ’em back and get
revenge.”
“Yes, cow-men follow all right,” said Flying Arrow; “they trail Injun
night and day till they git white squaw. Why you bring white squaw
here?” he demanded, turning savagely on Nixon.
“That’s my business,” retorted the bully.
“Make Injuns heap trouble,” said Old Copperhead.
“Why you bring white girl here?” again demanded Flying Arrow.
“She’s my squaw.”
“You lie!” hissed the Indian.
“Well, I’m going to make her mine.”
“What you do with Laughing Eyes?”
“None of your damned business!”
“You promise Indian girl to make her your squaw.”
“You lie!”
“No, you lie,--she tell me. Now you keep promise and let white squaw go.
Then all well.” The young chief’s words were calm and clear.
“What! marry an Injun? I’ll see you in hell first.”
“You no too proud to use Injun girl. Now you make Laughing Eyes your
squaw, or me kill you!” A savage fire blazed in the young chief’s eyes.
Bud cowered under his glance. The other Indians stood like statues
watching them.
Then Old Copperhead said firmly: “Flying Arrow right. You marry Injun
girl. Let white girl free. You do this. All well. You no do it. You
die.”
“Well, have your way then,” said the cowardly cur, playing for time;
“we’ll settle the job to-morrow.”
This promise made, the council turned again to the main issue, and soon
decided on a plan of action. They were to follow their old chief’s
advice. About midnight the squaws and papooses under his lead were to
make a forced march, while the bucks stayed behind to guard the trail.
The white girl was not to be harmed, but taken back in the morning to
the mouth of the pass and set free.
All might have gone as planned, if Bud had not broken faith with the
Indians. Flying Arrow, fearing treachery on his part, kept catlike watch
of the White Chief’s movements.
While all this was happening, Fred and Uncle Dave were cautiously
following the trail of the Indians. The keen eyes of the old mountaineer
brought them at last within sight of the hidden camp. But how to get
into it and free the captive was the trying problem. All fires were out
and all voices were hushed. To break into the camp openly would be
madness; and they could expect no help for hours, when if fortune
favored them it might come. For they had sent word back by a straggling
rancher they had chanced to meet. It might be that the cowboys would
find the uncertain trail; but their help at best would come late.
Something must be done at once.
“If I could only find out whar they’re keepin’ the gal,” said Uncle
Dave, “I’d risk passin’ the word to her; but it’s hard to tell. I’m
goin’ to risk it anyway.”
“Let me go with you,” urged Fred.
“No; ’tain’t no use o’ both of us runnin’ into a trap. You kin help
better by stayin’ here with the horses while I steal down among ’em and
try to git the lay o’ things.” He handed Fred the reins, and picked his
way cautiously through the darkness toward the quiet camp.
The mental torture that Alta was enduring throughout these long hours
was terrible. Desperate to do something, yet powerless; fearing death
not half so much as the villain’s touch, she sat within the wigwam
resolved to kill herself rather than suffer dishonor. A hundred plans of
escape passed through her brain, but she dared not risk any of them.
Dreading the worst, yet praying and hoping for deliverance, she held
herself from doing anything desperate.
The night was advancing. The squaws that guarded her wigwam had ceased
their chatter, and sat dozing outside; nothing was audible except the
night noises.
Suddenly she felt a light tapping on the tent. Her heart almost stopped
beating. Then a voice whispered her name. She could have leaped for joy,
but fear held her quiet. She crept to the edge of the tent and whispered
her answer, “Yes, I’m here.”
“Keep your courage, gal; we’ll save you.”
“Oh, you will, will you,” came the gruff voice of Bud Nixon, who with
evil thought in his brain had also crept up to the girl’s tepee. “Take
that, you sneaking devil!”
A revolver shot rang out. There was a groan and a heavy fall. The old
mountaineer, struck in the back by the villain’s bullet, had pitched
forward and fallen against the tent.
The shot and Alta’s scream brought the Indians in a rush to the spot.
When Flying Arrow discovered what the White Injun had done, he leaped
like a panther at his throat and drove his knife into the murderer’s
heart.
“You kill my friend, Long Beard; you wrong Laughing Eyes; you die, you
die!”
Fred, desperate to do something to save Alta, and unable to stand the
suspense, had flung fear aside and followed Uncle Dave into the camp.
The shot and Alta’s cry brought him into the crowd in time to see the
Indian strike down the brute. But his thoughts were all for Alta and
Uncle Dave. Rushing to his old friend’s side with her, they raised his
dying head and tried to call him back to consciousness.
“Oh, Uncle Dave!” she cried, “you must not die. Speak to me.”
His eyes opened. He came back enough to realize dimly what was
happening.
“Don’t take it--too hard,” he said falteringly; “it’s only--the end--of
the--long trail.”
The young chief was bending over his old friend with them.
“Long Beard, you know me. Flying Arrow--your papoose-boy long time ago.”
“Yes, yes,” he faltered, “I--know--you;--thank God, you’re here.
You--save my white boy and girl now. You promise?” The words came with
great effort.
“Yes, me no let Injun hurt ’em--me take care of ’em.”
“There--I--feel--better. Now--we’ll camp--over--there--be
quiet--Tobe--go to--sleep.”
His last words were scarcely audible. His weary head fell back, the
gentle, gray eyes closed, and the old mountaineer rested in peace at the
end of the long trail.
Fred and Alta sat for a few moments half dazed; then suddenly realizing
that he had gone, Alta broke under the strain and sorrow into wild
expressions of her grief.
“Oh, Fred!” she cried, “he’s dead--he’s given his life to save me. How
can I ever bear to think what my troubles have cost him?”
“There, don’t blame yourself, dear,” said Fred, taking her in his arms.
“It was a sweet sacrifice for him, Alta; he loved you.”
“I loved him, too,” she sobbed; “and I love you, for being so brave and
good to me.”
“Alta, do you really mean it?” He drew her close to his throbbing heart.
“Mean it, Fred? why I have always loved you, only I never knew how much
till now.”
“Sweetheart!” he raised her troubled face to his. The rest was told in
their sweet first kiss. Thoughts of danger and death were momentarily
swept aside by the rush of joy that filled their hearts. Out of pain and
suffering, their love had suddenly leaped into glad life. They had found
each other. A new strength had come to their blended souls; and with it
came a sweet comfort, as they sat there hand in hand through the
stillness, keeping watch over their old friend, endeared to them now by
memories that could never die.
The Indians did nothing to molest them, but made hurried preparations to
steal away as they had planned. Silently the dusky forms glided here and
there among the tepees; then group after group disappeared along the
trail to the eastward until all were gone but Flying Arrow and half a
dozen young braves.
When morning broke to light the scene, Bud Nixon still lay where he had
fallen, and by his side the Indian girl whom he had wronged sat in
silent sorrow.
“Come, sister,” said the young chief in gentle Indian tongue, “I’ll take
care of you.” He raised her tenderly and led her away, while other
Indians, lifting up her White Chief’s body, carried it along the canyon
trail; another brave followed these, leading Ankanamp’s horse.
They buried him in a crevice among the lava rocks. Over this rough grave
they piled stones and sticks to keep bird or beast from molesting it.
His horse they killed and buried by him, that he might have something to
carry him to the Happy Hunting Grounds. The sorrow-stricken girl begged
to be killed too, but they forced her to leave with them.
This done, Flying Arrow returned to take a parting look at his old
friend. He gazed in silence for a moment. Then turning to Fred and Alta
he said,
“Now go, get friends, carry Long Beard home. Injun no hurt you any more.
Good-by.”
“Good-by, brave!” responded Alta with feeling.
“Good-by,” said Fred, reaching out his hand; “we’ll not forget your
kindness.”
The young chief took the proffered hand, turned quickly, sprang upon his
horse and disappeared along the trail through the pines. He was hardly
out of sight when hoof beats were heard down the canyon, and a few
moments later Colonel Morgan with Cap Hanks, Dan, Jim, Pat and several
other ranchers came upon the scene.
The Colonel leaped from his horse to take his “little squirrel” in his
arms, and to hold her there while they listened to Fred’s sad story.
Touched to tears, the group of rugged men stood in silence till Colonel
Morgan said quietly, “Let’s make a litter, boys, and carry his body
home.”
The next day a crowd of ranch folk from all over the valley gathered to
pay their last humble tribute to the old mountaineer. They buried him on
Sunset Cliff, just above his cabin. An elder made a few remarks, telling
the story of the old man’s noble self-sacrifice, read the Shepherd
Psalm, and offered a simple prayer. To mark the spot, a cairn of rough
stones was piled above the grave.
After the crowd had dispersed, Fred and Alta lingered to cover the cairn
and grave with autumn leaves. The sun was just setting when they
finished their loving work and took the trail toward the Morgan ranch;
for the Colonel would listen to no other plan than that Fred should stay
there as long as he remained in the valley.
As they climbed the hill above the cabin, they turned to take a parting
look. The old mountaineer’s home stood in the shadows, deserted, but the
last rays of the sun lingered on the cliff, the newly-made grave, and
the sheltering pines above it.
“Isn’t that a beautiful spot in which to lay his dear old body to rest?”
said Fred.
“Yes,” responded Alta, “I shall always feel better to think of him
sleeping where the sunlight loves to linger.”
They stayed a few moments gazing in silence on the picture of light and
peace. Then with hearts strangely lifted out of the gloom that had
depressed them, they turned in the sunset afterglow to ride slowly home
together.
THE END
PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY
& SONS COMPANY, AT THE
LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO