AT THE FORTY THIEVES MINE.
The blanket was fluttering from the top of a big pile of boulders
lying at the foot of the cañon wall. As the scout left the bottom of
the slope and emerged from the chaparral on his way down the cañon,
the blanket suddenly disappeared.
“Wah-coo-tah has seen me coming,” he thought, “and has taken away the
blanket.”
In this he was correct, for when he had drawn up Bear Paw abreast
of the pile of boulders, Wah-coo-tah rode out into the trail. She
scanned the trail carefully in both directions, and then urged her
cayuse alongside of Bear Paw.
“What have you discovered, Wah-coo-tah?” asked Buffalo Bill.
“Wild Bill ride to Forty Thieves Mine last night with Lawless,” said
the girl.
“Did he go there of his own free will, or was he taken by force?”
“No _sabe_ Pa-e-has-ka.”
“Did Wild Bill leave the mine?”
“No _sabe_. Mebbyso him no leave mine. If him leave, then him come
back Sun Dance--and him no come back.”
“Where did you discover this?”
“Me ride down trail, see two Yellow Eyes, Coomby and Clancy, riding
up trail. Me hide in bushes while Yellow Eyes pass. When they pass,
they talk. Me hear um. From what they say me know Wild Bill ride to
Forty Thieves Mine last night with Fire-hand.”
This information of Wah-coo-tah’s was of immense importance. It was a
lucky bit of gossip that had come the girl’s way while she was hiding
in the bushes to let Coomby and Clancy pass.
If Wild Bill had gone to the mine with Lawless of his own free will,
he would have taken his horse. Force had been used to compel Hickok
to go to the mine, Buffalo Bill was sure of it.
“Are Seth Coomby and Clancy friends of Fire-hand?” asked the scout.
“Ai. They come many times to Fire-hand’s lodge among the Cheyennes.
Me know um. Pa-e-has-ka see um Big Thunder?” inquired the girl, an
anxious light coming into her eyes.
“No,” answered the scout. “That Ponca is the least of my worries.”
“Him ride up gulch while Wah-coo-tah wait behind rocks. Me take down
blanket while he go. Me sure he go to Sun Dance, find Pa-e-has-ka.”
“He wasn’t in Sun Dance. Will you go with me to the mine,
Wah-coo-tah?”
“Me stay here, watch for Ponca.”
“That is useless, Wah-coo-tah. I don’t like to leave you here alone,
with the Ponca and your father both loose in the gulch.”
“Me keep away from um,” said the girl, a soft light creeping into her
large eyes as she looked at the scout.
“I will see you again?”
“Ai. Me help um Pa-e-has-ka find Wild Bill.”
“Have you seen anything of Fire-hand, or my pard, Nomad, since you
left Sun Dance following my talk with you this afternoon?”
“No see um. Me see only Coomby and Clancy, and Big Thunder.”
“Well, if you’re determined to stay here, Wah-coo-tah,” said the
scout, “we’ll have to separate. My pard, Nomad, is missing now, as
well as Wild Bill. This Forty Thieves Mine looks like a good place to
go to hunt for them--for Wild Bill, at least. Take care of yourself,
girl. Pa-e-has-ka is your friend, and will stand by you, don’t forget
that.”
Again the soft light came into the girl’s eyes. The scout, with a
rattle of his spurs, darted down the cañon. Looking back as he rode,
he saw Wah-coo-tah taking up her station behind the rocks.
Buffalo Bill, who had a calculating eye for distance, measured the
miles as he rode. One, two, three, four, five he counted. As a proof
of the accuracy of his count, the word “five” had hardly dropped from
his lips before he saw, a little way ahead of him, the ore-dump of
the Forty Thieves.
Drawing down to a more cautious pace, he swept his eyes over the
surroundings. There was no sign of any living thing in that part of
the cañon.
He went bushwhacking in the scrub, and found places where horses had
been recently tethered, but there were no horses in the vicinity
of the ore-dump now aside from Bear Paw. If there were no horses
around, it seemed to follow, naturally, that there could be no one
in the mine. The scout, however, was determined to find that out by
observation. He would pay a visit to the workings and see for himself.
Securing Bear Paw in the depths of a thicket, where he could not be
easily seen by any chance passer along the trail, the scout left the
bushes warily and made his way to the ore-dump.
The ox-hide bucket was on the platform at the top of the dump, and on
the slope of the little elevation lay a pick.
The Forty Thieves may have been a played-out proposition, but some
sort of work had been prosecuted there very recently.
Making as little noise as possible, the scout climbed the ore-dump to
the platform and knelt down on the planks.
He looked into the cavernous depths of the shaft, and listened
intently. He could neither see nor hear anything.
Buffalo Bill had been perhaps half an hour looking about through the
thickets for signs of men and horses, so that, from the time he had
separated from Wah-coo-tah farther up the cañon, until he reached the
top of the ore-dump, something like an hour and a half had passed.
At least one of the scout’s enemies had been making the most of this
hour and a half.
As the scout slowly climbed the side of the ore-dump, his every
movement was watched by a pair of glittering eyes in the bushes. The
owner of the eyes had not been in the thicket when the scout had done
his bushwhacking, but had glided to the copse when the scout left his
horse and pushed into the open.
As the scout knelt on the platform, his back was toward the gleaming,
malevolent eyes.
Big Thunder--for the man in the thicket was the Ponca--thought that
the hour for his revenge had struck. Slowly his rifle arose to his
shoulder, he drew a bead on the form that topped the ore-dump, and
one long finger caressed the rifle’s trigger.
The finger, however, did not press the trigger. At the critical
moment, Big Thunder lowered the rifle, and laid it carefully down
beside him.
There might be other white men in the vicinity, and the sound of
the rifle-shot would be heard. In that case, Big Thunder would have
difficulty in escaping after he had secured his revenge.
Starting to a crouching posture, the Ponca rested his right hand
on the hilt of his skinning-knife. He would use the knife, coming
upon the kneeling form of the scout before he was aware that danger
threatened.
With the noiseless tread of a puma the savage left his concealment.
The shadow of a cloud does not cross the ground more silently than
did the moccasined feet of the vengeful Ponca. Like a specter of
ill omen he gained the foot of the ore-dump, and began climbing it
without displacing a stone, or a thimbleful of sand.
Yet, as it happened, the Ponca was not unseen, even though the scout
was oblivious of his presence. Another Indian, with a tread as
silent, emerged from the bushes.
It was Wah-coo-tah.
She looked about her quickly, saw the Ponca mounting the ore-dump,
taking up the pick as he went, and hastened breathlessly toward the
shaft.
Wah-coo-tah was unarmed. Big Thunder had seen to that when he took
the girl from the lodge of her people.
So, as Wah-coo-tah glided toward the shaft, she armed herself with a
stone.
Big Thunder, coming close to the scout, suddenly swung the pick high
in air. The scout, intent on probing whatever mystery lay at the
bottom of the Forty Thieves shaft, seemed unconscious of everything
that was going forward at the surface.
“Pa-e-has-ka!” screamed the Indian girl, as she flung the stone.
That wild cry of Wah-coo-tah’s broke the thrall of silence that had
hovered over the tragic scene. The scout looked upward, saw the
Ponca’s gleaming eyes and the raised pick, and saw the stone strike
the Ponca’s uplifted arm.
The pick fell, but was deflected by the stone, and its point bit
murderously into the stout planks of the platform.
Another instant and the scout had come to hand-grips with his red
foe. Cody had had no time to draw knife or revolver, but the Ponca
had succeeded in getting his own blade half-out of its scabbard
before the white man closed with him.
A look into Big Thunder’s eyes convinced the scout that he would
fight to the death, that he had come there either to kill or be
killed.
The struggle was, at the beginning, for the possession of the Ponca’s
half-drawn knife.
The oiled body of the savage slipped and wriggled in the scout’s
hands, now pressing him closer, now dragging away, and every instant
the redskin’s hand plucked steadily and resolutely at the knife.
Wah-coo-tah, excited and apprehensive, came to the top of the
ore-dump, dodging this way and that to keep out of the way of the
combatants, and seeking to be of service to Pa-e-has-ka.
With a magnificent effort, in which his greased arm and head slipped
through the scout’s gripping fingers, Big Thunder managed to get the
knife from its sheath.
“Get away, Wah-coo-tah!” panted the scout.
The girl drew back a pace, stooping to pick up another stone, and, if
she got a chance to hurl it without striking the scout.
Once, twice, three times the murderous weapon rose in the air, but
the scout evaded each blow by hurling himself to the right and left
at the critical moment when the blade fell.
Wonderful indeed was it to note the agility of the white man,
bending, twisting, side-stepping with all the grace and swiftness of
a panther.
The scout sought to draw a revolver, but the Ponca watched his hands
and pressed him closely whenever his fingers came close to the
hand-grip of one of the Colts.
Suddenly the combatants broke apart, seemingly by tacit agreement.
Quick as a dart, Big Thunder whirled sideways, and launched a
sweeping blow at Wah-coo-tah.
Buffalo Bill detected the movement at his beginning. The moment’s
grace afforded him would have been sufficient to allow him to draw
the revolver he had been trying to get hold of, but he would not have
had time to draw the revolver and shoot before the girl would have
stopped the swinging knife.
Without making a try at his revolver, he reached out with both hands,
caught the girl’s arm, and jerked her roughly from her feet.
Wah-coo-tah fell on the edge of the ore-dump and rolled down its
steep side, while the Ponca’s knife flashed through the sunlight over
the spot where she had stood a second before.
The scout leaped to the farther edge of the platform, his right hand
flying to his belt.
Undaunted by his failure to strike the girl, Big Thunder was alert on
the instant and ready to balk the scout’s attempt to get his revolver.
Between him and the scout yawned the hole in the platform. The Ponca
sprang across it, but his moccasined feet tripped on the ox-hide
bucket, and his leap fell short.
The toes of his moccasins caught the edge of the opening, he reeled
there for a fraction of a second, seeking to recover his balance,
then lurched backward, striking his spine and head against the
opposite side of the opening.
For the space of a breath the scout saw him, doubled up in the square
hole, every muscle gone limp, and arms and hands helpless to save
him; then the form disappeared downward, and could be heard striking
and bounding against the rocky walls of the shaft. Finally there came
a sudden crash from far below, then death-like silence.
Buffalo Bill sank down on the platform, limp and breathless.
Wah-coo-tah stole upward to him, knelt at his side, and peered
curiously down into the shaft.
“Him dead,” she breathed; “Ponca him killed. Pa-e-has-ka save
Wah-coo-tah again.”
“It’s about a stand-off, Wah-coo-tah,” said the scout. “If it hadn’t
been for you the Ponca would have sunk that pick into my back. But I
hadn’t much to do with his falling into that hole. That was more of a
happenchance than anything else. He stumbled against the bucket.”
“Him bad Ponca,” said the girl, with visible satisfaction. “Heap
good thing he fall into hole. He no fall into hole, then he ketch
Wah-coo-tah, mebbyso, and some time kill Pa-e-has-ka. Me heap glad.”
“You saw him riding up the cañon?”
“Ai. Me know he come. Him pass rocks trailing Pa-e-has-ka’s horse.
Then me follow.”
“He was mighty quiet about it,” muttered the scout. “I reckon that’s
the first time a redskin ever caught me napping, but I was so wrapped
up in that shaft that I hadn’t sense for anything else. The Ponca
left his horse down the gulch, I suppose, and stole up on me?”
“All same,” said the girl. “When he leave um cayuse, me leave um
cayuse, too. When he crawl through chaparral, me crawl through
chaparral, too. Then me come out, watch um Ponca while he lift
pick. Right off, me throw um rock and give yell. Pa-e-has-ka great
warrior!” finished the girl, admiration in her eyes.
“That fight was nothing to brag about, Wah-coo-tah,” answered the
scout deprecatingly. “I think I should have got the red in the end,
but, as it turned out, an accident brought the fight to a close.
There was more reason in your hiding out and watching for the Ponca
than I had imagined.”
“Me know um Ponca,” said the girl.
The scout, having regained his breath, again knelt by the opening,
and looked and listened. All was silent as before.
He pushed one hand into the opening and felt for a ladder, or a rope,
but he could find neither. Wah-coo-tah, divining what he was looking
for, hurried down the side of the ore-dump and returned with some
twenty feet of rope which she had seen lying there. Silently she
offered it to the scout.
“That may help, Wah-coo-tah,” said Buffalo Bill, “but I hardly think
it is long enough. I’ll go for my riata.”
Having gone into the thicket and secured the riata from his saddle,
the scout spliced it to the twenty feet of rope found by the girl,
then lowered the spliced ropes down into the shaft, and made the
upper end fast to the platform.
“Ponca dead,” said the girl. “Why Pa-e-has-ka go down and look?”
“I’m not going down to look at the Ponca, Wah-coo-tah, but to look
for Wild Bill,” the scout answered. “You say you overheard talk
between Seth Coomby and Clancy which led you to believe Wild Bill had
come out to this mine with Lawless. Lawless returned to Sun Dance,
and it may be he left Wild Bill here. I’m going down to find out.”
“Wah-coo-tah go, too?” the girl asked.
“Wah-coo-tah stay here,” the scout answered, throwing off his
coat and hat. “Keep watch. If you see any one coming, fire two
revolver-shots so that I may know, and climb back to the ore-dump.
_Sabe?_”
“Me _sabe_, but me no got gun.”
“Take this one,” and the scout laid one of his forty-fives in the
girl’s hand.
“Me watch,” said the girl. “Pa-e-has-ka trust Wah-coo-tah.”
After a precautionary glance around, the scout lowered himself
through the opening and slid rapidly down the rope. At the lower end
of it, his foot touched against something soft and yielding. Stepping
over the object, he took a match from his pocket, and struck it
against the wall of the shaft.
The object on the shaft’s bottom was what he had supposed it to
be--the body of the Ponca. The Indian was dead.
Paying no further heed to the Ponca, the scout started along the
level, lighting his way with matches. He had not proceeded far before
he picked up a half-burned candle, and was able to continue his
investigations to better purpose.
As he continued on along the crooked drift, the gleam of the candle
sparkled on another object at his feet. He bent and picked it up,
finding it to be an empty brass shell.
“Queer place for a shell,” he muttered, “particularly for a
shotgun-shell. Who has been using a shotgun down here, and why?”
That old mine Buffalo Bill had conceived to hold a “pay-streak” for
him, but as he proceeded onward without finding any trace of Wild
Bill, he began to think that there was not so much of a pay-streak as
he had imagined.
Then, the next minute, as he drew close to the end of the level, one
of those surprises which occasionally drop across a person’s path
with results undreamed of presented itself.
Ahead of him, in the flickering glow of the candle, he saw a form
stretched out at the side of the level.
“Hickok!” he cried, running forward.
The form gave out an incoherent gurgle, and the scout fell to
his knees and flashed the candle in front of the man’s face. An
exclamation of astonishment escaped his lips.
The man was not Wild Bill, but Nomad!
The old trapper was securely roped and gagged. Although he could not
talk, his eyes, wide open and peering upward into his pard’s face,
spoke volumes.
Wedging the candle in between two stones of the hanging wall, the
scout proceeded to strip the ropes from his old pard.
The trapper’s first words were surprising.
“Let’s git out o’ hyar!” he gasped, floundering to his feet and
grabbing his pard’s arm.
“Wait a minute, Nick,” demurred the scout, “and don’t be in such a
rush. What are you afraid of?”
“This hyar is ther Forty Thieves Mine, an’ it’s ha’nted. I been
layin’ hyar in er cold sweat fer ther last two hours. Waugh! I kin
stand flesh-an’-blood enemies, but when ye come down ter ghosts an’
whiskizoos, I’m shy my ante. Let’s hustle, Buffler!”
“Nick,” said the scout sternly, “pull yourself together and try
and corral a little common sense. I came down here looking for
Wild Bill, and I find you. Sit down, and tell me how you got here.
What happened, anyway? You needn’t worry about those who captured
you coming along and taking us by surprise. Wah-coo-tah is on the
ore-dump, keeping watch for us. She’ll fire a couple of shots if
anything goes wrong.”
Nomad, after casting a wild look around him, into the dark, hunched
up on the floor of the level, close to Buffalo Bill.
“Et ain’t nothin’ human I’m afeared of, Buffler,” he declared,
“but spooks an’ whiskizoos sartinly gits onter my narves. Waugh! I
wouldn’t stay alone in this hyar pizen mine ef ye was ter pay me fer
et. When ye found me I was tied up an’ couldn’t git erway, an’ I’m
tellin’ ye I come mighty nigh kickin’ ther bucket jest on account o’
bein’ skeered. Br-r-r! Keep right alongside er me, Buffler.”
“What happened to you?” demanded the scout curtly.
Nomad rubbed his eyes, took another look around, and then replied.
“I come out o’ our room when ye went ter tork with Wah-coo-tah, and
thet feller Smith was sneakin’ off inter ther bresh alongside the
hotel. I hadn’t no idee what he was up ter, but his actions was
mighty suspicious, so I made up my mind I’d foller him and see what
was ther matter with him. He----”
Nomad gave another gasp and grabbed at his pard’s arm.
“D’ye hyer anythin,’ Buffler?” he demanded.
“Not a thing,” returned the scout. “Why, Nick, I never saw your
nerves in such shape before. Forget about the spooks; at least, until
you tell me what I want to know.”
The old trapper gulped, calmed himself with an effort, and went on.
“Waal, as I was er sayin’, Smith acted mighty quare. He slid through
ther bushes ter ther slope leadin’ down inter ther cañon, an’ then
he went down ther cañon, keepin’ in ther bushes all ther way. I was
right arter him all ther time, kase I’d made up my mind ter keep ter
ther trailin’ so long as he acted suspicious thet away.
“I reckon we must hev tramped two er three miles, hanging ter ther
scrub all ther way, an’ never once showin’ ourselves in ther trail.
Then”--and Nomad’s voice dropped wonderingly--“somethin’ happened
ter me. Et come from behind, an’ I ain’t yet shore in my mind as ter
what et was. Everythin’ got black in front er my eyes, an’ I didn’t
remember nothin’ more till I come to in this place, roped an’ gagged
like ye found me.
“Thar was two er three men around me, an’ one of ’em was Smith, ther
feller I was trailin’. Thet feller ain’t no Easterner, Buffler, ye
kin take my word fer thet.”
“Wah-coo-tah opened my eyes regarding J. Algernon Smith, Nick,”
returned the scout. “The fellow’s a fake. His name is not Smith, but
Lawless.”
“What!” cried Nomad. “Cap’n Lawless?”
“The same; and he is supposed to own this mine. Captain Lawless, too,
is Wah-coo-tah’s father.”
“Wuss an’ wuss!” muttered Nomad, falling back against the wall. “This
hyar is sartinly a day fer surprises. Ther gang, with Lawless at
ther head, is workin’ some game. When they left me, Lawless told the
fellers with him thet Bingham was expected on this arternoon’s stage
from Montegordo, although who Bingham is, or why they’re expectin’
him, is too many fer me. Lawless said Bingham wouldn’t come ter
ther Forty Thieves ontil ter-morrer, even ef he did git in on this
arternoon’s stage, an’ thet they could come back hyar an’ take keer
o’ me ter-night. Then they hiked out, an’, I reckon, pulled up ther
ladders arter ’em.”
The scout mused for a moment.
“You were trailing Lawless,” said he, “and some one of Lawless’ men
must have been trailing you. When the fellow behind you got the
opportunity, he let drive at the back of your head.”
“Thet’s ther way o’ et. But how did ye know I was hyar, Buffler?”
“I didn’t know. I came here looking for Wild Bill, for I was told
that he had come here, yesterday afternoon, with Lawless.”
“Who told ye thet?”
“Wah-coo-tah.”
Thereupon the scout, as hurriedly as he could, without neglecting any
of the important details, informed his old pard of events that had
recently taken place.
Just as the scout finished his recital, Nomad gave a smothered yell,
and leaped as though he had been thrown from a catapult.
“Thar et is ergin,” he gasped huskily. “Hyer et, Buffler?”
The scout listened.
What he heard was a muffled sound, as of a groan, echoing dully along
the underground passage.