Red Mesa

AS the Mexican rifles whipped and sang in the crags sheep after sheep staggered and fell. Hano’s eyes blazed with indignation. At least six of these white-clad Mexicanos were up there and three of the sheep were killed, a noble ram and two ewes, but still the slaughter went on unceasingly. That band of big horns and a few others like it around Pinacate were almost the sole meat supply of Hano’s tribe. A few each year had been plenty to keep them all in meat. One ram would have been more than enough to feed all this band of white men all they could carry away, yet nothing less than the slaughter of them all—brutal, thoughtless, insensate killing for the mere pleasure of shooting seemed their purpose. Higher and higher the Mexican hunters climbed, following the doomed sheep up to the ridges. Once over them and——

With a great bitter cry of rage at the sickening insatiate greed of it, Hano rose to his feet, snatched Niltci’s rifle from his hands and emptied it in rapid shots. He sent bullets whistling among the hunters up in the crags, then shot down horses among that group closely packed in the Pass below them. Dashing down the empty weapon with a curse of rage, he bounded down through the mesquite and was lost to sight. Niltci, himself overwhelmed with indignant sympathy over this useless slaughter of wild life, had not interfered with Hano and he now picked up the rifle and reloaded it.

“Good hunch, Injun! Shootin’ them hosses is our best bet arter all!” muttered Big John to himself raising the meat gun to his shoulder. He aimed full at the serapé-clad rider who sat his horse, yelling up at the hunters above and signaling urgently to them to return.

“Greaser, I could kill you now, an’ end all this to onct,” he muttered, “but ontil you shoots at me fust, I cayn’t do it.” He lowered the sights a trifle and pulled trigger. Instantly the horse which the Mexican rode collapsed and fell kicking on the sands. Vasquez jumped free.

“Gringoes! Enemigos! Tira! Tira!” he yelled, shaking his fists and pointing wildly.

Big John went on shooting, picking off horse after horse. Niltci’s rifle was thundering in his ears, for the indignant Navaho had turned his fire on the sheep slaughterers now scrambling madly down the hill. A wild commotion had broken out in the confused knot of horses and men that were left of the cavalcade. Presently a band of five of them mounted and rode swiftly toward their position. Then down below a single war whoop rang out and Big John saw a lone Indian rider dash out into the Pass. It was Hano, making his sacrifice of leading as many as possible of the enemy after him away into the desert. A fusillade of shots greeted him; then the rapid clatter of hoofs as the whole band swept by, Hano far in the lead on Sid’s pony. Big John dropped the foremost horse as they passed below him; the rest swept by quirting their mounts furiously as Hano disappeared over a swale in the sand dunes.

“Now we got to settle with Mister Vasquez!” exclaimed Big John grimly. “Thar’s still half a dozen of them with him, against the two of us up yonder.”

But Niltci did not hear for he had crept up to a better position. He had seen nothing of Hano’s race as he was too hotly engaged with the Mexicans on the hillside.

Big John peered out of his rocky lair, looking for “that ornery Vasquez.” A glimpse of him showed high among the rocks; then his rifle barked and the bullet spanged the rocks near by. The other Mexicans were now well concealed in the crags and the crack of their rifles and the whine and smash of Mausers about Big John’s position told him that the battle was on in dead earnest. For a time the fight remained stationary, both sides so well concealed that no quickness of sight could register a direct hit. Then a shot rang out, much nearer to the left.

“Bad business, Niltci,” called out Big John, “they’re working down this way an’ hev got us cornered on this little knoll. We gotto do a sneak around this point and git above them somehow.”

Niltci had already foreseen the danger, for he was now creeping snakelike through the rocks around the right flank of the knoll.

Big John grunted whimsically as he followed after: “Gosh dern it, I ain’t even goin’ to act civilized, pronto, if these hyar doin’s keeps up! I don’t like that party in the barber-pole poncho, none, an’ I’ll get careless and drill daylight through him ef I don’t watch myself!” he soliloquized.

Then he came out on the right flank of the knoll, where all that vast interior angle of the mountain range burst at once into full view. For a moment he peered out and just stared! A huge black apron of lava fell out of the high lap of the mountains and spread far and wide down the slope until lost in the sands. But, dominating the gap where this lava flowed out, he saw two immense red walls, cast up like opening trap doors of granite. From his position the whole formation could be grasped in its entirety and its resemblance to a mesa struck Big John at once.

“She looks jest like Thunder Mountain up near Zuñi to me,” he muttered wonderingly, “only she’s red. Red Mesa, by gum!” he exploded, as the conviction smote upon him. “An’ that pesky Sid’s been and gone an’ found it! Thar’s whar he is, now, with them Apaches, I’ll bet my hoss! Wouldn’t that knock ye dead?”

Silent, majestic, imposing, Red Mesa shimmered in the morning sun, high above all. That it held the secret of Sid’s disappearance and explained the mystery of these Apaches was a conclusion that Big John jumped to instinctively.

And then a shrill squall of triumph rang out high on the mountain side above him! Big John crawled to a better outlook and gazed upward. Exposed on a ragged pinnacle, Vasquez stood waving a rifle triumphantly over his head and screaming in Spanish unintelligibly. That he had seen Red Mesa, too, and was calling to himself all his guerrillas there was no doubt at all!

Big John raised his rifle carefully, its tall front sight rising high above the rear bar. “Four hundred, five hundred; no, more’n six hundred yards!” he muttered. “It’ll be some stretch for the ole meat gun, but, greaser, you’ve looked at this parteekler scenery all you’re entitled to!”

He held the bead steady, resting his elbow on a rock. Gradually his muscles cramped in a rigid pose while the tiny dot up there in the crags hovered motionless over the tip of his front sight.

“Sho! greaser,” said Big John, lowering the rifle. “Y’ain’t done nawthin’ yit what I orter kill ye fer! Yore int’rested, jist now—it’s our chanct to make a run for it an’ git between you an’ th’ home plate, I’m thinkin’. Siddy boy, I aims to reach ye this trip!”

He crept rapidly down to where Niltci lay concealed and touched him on the shoulder. Together they wormed swiftly down the mountain and reached the sands. Here the high flanks concealed them from the view of those above. After one sharp glance around by Niltci, both ran at full speed along the base. Up and up at a gentle slant for some half a mile the sand drift led them, until they had arrived at the foot of the lava flow where it dipped down below the sands. Along its vitrified surface they sped—and then Big John stopped and gripped Niltci’s arm, breathing heavily. Above them on the lava slope an apparition had appeared. A man crouched in a sort of cave mouth up there, and he bore a rifle in his hands. He waved energetically to Big John to get under cover at once.

“Ef that ain’t Sid you can call me a tin-horn gent!” gasped Big John. “Whoopee, Sid! Keep down!—Look out, watch yourself!” he yelled out alarmedly.

His outcry was fatal. A rifle whanged out up in the cliffs above and instantly came the sharp thud of a bullet. Big John coughed, groaned in the inflectionless cry of the unconscious, and tumbled in a heap on the rocks. Niltci gave one swift glance upward at the man in the serapé who had fired, then grabbed Big John and dragged his huge shape under the shelter of a crag. Sid had disappeared as if struck flat, but the whip of his army carbine rang out sharply. A volley of shots replied, coming from all over the hillside. Bullets struck the lava apron and went whining off into space; more of them plunged down around Niltci’s position.

Bits of granite flew in a sharp dust about him. The place was utterly untenable. Niltci looked for a better lair, noted a little hollow in the crags and then jumped out and exposed himself to draw their fire for an instant. He heard shot after shot whipping out from where Sid lay, felt the terrific smash of Mausers all around him, then he picked up Big John and raced with him for cover. A sharp touch seared his arm. He felt it grow paralyzed in spite of him and it let the cowman drop violently against the rough scoriated boulders. A groan came from Big John, showing that he still lived, then the Navaho flung himself into the lair and rolled the great limp body in after him.

But this could not last! It was as hot a corner as man ever got into. Sooner or later flankers from the guerrillas above would find a position from which it could be fired into, and then nothing could save them. Niltci raised his voice in a low Navaho’s death chant, watching the rocks above him from a crevice in his lair, rifle poised for instant use. He needed help badly. Finally he sent out the word for it in a ringing call that would be understood by the Apaches, if any were near. It would be upon their honor to respond.

An occasional desultory shot now came from Sid, up there on the lava apron. Above on the mountain was silence, sinister, and foreboding. The Mexicans were creeping carefully, silently downward toward him. Presently there would be a rush of overwhelming numbers—then death!

Niltci waited, finger on trigger, eyes alert. A slight sound and the rolling of a stone came from somewhere above, but he could see nothing without exposing himself to he knew not what danger. It had been Big John who had rescued him from his own kinsmen, during those fanatical disturbances caused by the Black Panther of the Navaho, and Niltci would never desert him now! Coolly, resignedly, he awaited that final rush that would be the end of them both.

A rapid movement and the flinging of a body down behind some rocks sounded above him, right close now. Sid’s rifle sang out but its bullet was too late. Relentlessly they were closing in!

A low groan sounded below Niltci. He glanced back out of the corner of his eye and saw that Big John’s eyes were open. His face was livid, drawn and gray, but he was turning feebly on his side and fumbling at the big revolver strapped to his thigh.

“Watch yoreself—Injun—I’m gyardin’—yore rear,” muttered the cowman hoarsely.

Niltci felt better. Big John was alive and could shoot, anyhow! He moved to a new position where he could command more of the rocks above. White-clad figures dodged instantly out of sight behind rocks as he appeared. They were all quite near him, not over forty yards off. All that was needed was some signal to precipitate a concerted rush. Niltci looked about him for help again. Only the silent lava wall and the surety that Sid was on watch up there gave him any hope at all. Well, it would soon come! All he hoped for was the chance of a few shots from the repeater before one of these buzzing Mauser bullets brought final oblivion.

And then, far above on the mountain side, sounded the rapid belling of a hound!

Ruler! Scotty was coming, and he would take them all in the rear! Niltci fingered his trigger eagerly as the musical notes floated nearer and nearer: “Come, white boy! Come!” he sang, in urgent Navaho chanting.

A heavy repeating rifle opened up, its familiar cannonlike roars sounding sweet in the Indian lad’s ears. That .405 could outrange anything on the mountain, and Scotty was a dead shot!

Yells and cries broke out all around him above. Men rose bewildered while Niltci emptied his repeater and Sid’s rifle spoke rapidly, shot after shot from the lava. The guerrillas were breaking, running. Like snakes they were creeping off to new points, out of reach of that heavy .405 whose bullets split the granite where they struck!

Niltci felt that the psychological moment for attack had come. This whole movement was bearing off to the left now, the only place where the guerrillas could be safe from fire above and below. He leaped forward, darting from cover to cover and firing at every sight of a white figure among the rocks. Behind him he heard ringing Apache war whoops, and, looking back, saw the whole lava slope covered with buckskin-clad figures that had come from he knew not where. In a moment more his own mountain flank had swallowed them all up. Niltci gave a single answering cry and pressed on.

Then he stopped, his heart stricken dead with sudden alarm, for a whirl of objurgations in Spanish raged below him and he saw a serapé-clad figure racing along under the crags of the base, headed straight for where Big John lay concealed! Niltci turned and flung himself down the mountain, exposing himself recklessly. To get to the wounded Big John before this demon could finish him—ah, might the Great Mystery lend him wings! In three leaps he had reached the rocks above the lair. He jumped out, rifle at shoulder, unmindful of anything but not to be too late. Niltci got one glimpse of Vasquez, standing with rifle poised, his eyes glaring with surprise, for instead of Sid—the boy with the Red Mesa plaque—Big John lay facing him, lying on his side, cool resolution shining steadfastly in his eyes, the big revolver poised in a hand that nevertheless shook with weakness.

But before either of them could pull trigger a war bow twanged resonantly and the swift flash of an arrow swept across Niltci’s face. He saw Vasquez tottering, faltering, and crumpling slackly; heard the rifle and the revolver bellow out together—and then a tall Apache chief stood before him, breathing laboredly, his eyes flashing the wild fire of war. Niltci held his ground and his rifle half raised. Peace or war with this chief, the Navaho boy faced him undaunted and Niltci was going to defend that place to the last! Below him was the little rocky lair where lay Big John, silent, face downward.

The Apache raised his hand in the peace sign. “Navaho, thou art a brave man! He that risks his life for a friend!” he dropped his arm significantly as if to say that no higher test of character existed. “Come; my young men pursue them, and none shall escape. Let us take this white man where his wounds can be cared for, my brother.”

Just at that instant Sid came around the rocks about the lava lair. For a moment he stood looking, first at Big John lying silent as death, then at Niltci sitting dazedly and weak on the ground. His eyes glanced only once at the huddled figure of Vasquez.

“Oh! oh!—Big John! Is he dead!” he cried, the sudden catch of a sob in his voice.

He went over quickly to Big John and felt under his shirt. Then he looked up, worried, anxious, but hope shone in his eyes. “He’s alive, Chief! But we must act quickly, for he’s losing blood fast. Help me, Honanta,” cried Sid urgently.

Together they got at the wound. That Mauser had plunged downward, smashing through the shoulder at a slant; tipped a lung, as the red froth on Big John’s lips showed, and had come out in a jagged tear below the big muscle on his chest. He breathed laboredly and his eyes were still closed. Sid shook his head and there were tears in his own eyes. To lose Big John, that faithful, devoted old friend who had raised him and Scotty from cubdom, had been with them on a dozen expeditions, a thousand hunts—it was unbelievable!

“I’ve seen worse. My medicine men can cure him!” said Honanta cheerily. “We shall bring him to our village, and all will be well. My son, your friends are our friends! They have done well!”

“Thank you, Honanta,” said Sid, simply. “I have yet one more thing to ask you to do, and then this whole business will come out all right.”

“And that is?” asked the chief, smiling.

“To come with me and meet my father,” said Sid earnestly.

“Ai!—I shall go with you soon! But first, where is my son, Hano? Not yet have I heard his war cry,” replied Honanta anxiously.

Niltci turned from his guard of the place and approached the chief. “He came to us, Apache. He led us to these mountains. Then came the Mexicanos. We were to run them a race away into the desert with our fast horses. But they saw sheep on the mountain. They started killing them—ugh, but it was a slaughter sickening to see! More than many, many white men could eat, they shot! Then rose up your son, Hano, out of ambush and cursed them, as I too would have done. He fired my rifle at them, killing many horses. When the shells were all gone he left us. That is all I know.”

“Who does know what became of Hano, then, Niltci?” inquired Sid eagerly.

The Navaho pointed to the silent figure of Big John.

“Hai!” breathed Honanta’s deep voice. “He must live! I must know what has happened to my son! If he died, it was as a great chief should die, for his people. If he lives, this white man shall tell us and my best trackers shall seek for him. Come!”

They all picked up the inanimate form of Big John and carried him slowly along the lava apron brink. From afar came the occasional crack of a rifle. The chase had gone a long distance to the westward. Once they heard the bellow of Scotty’s .405 from far down beyond the knoll. The peculiar volume of it was unmistakable, easily told from the sharper whip of the Mausers. Sid would have liked to join him, but his duty now was to see Big John under competent care. He had great faith in those Apache medicine bundles. There were healing herbs in them that the Indians alone knew; not all their “medicine” was sorcery and meaningless medicine dances, for in the treatment of wounds they were wonderful.

Up the steep ascent and through the sulphur-fumed reaches of the cave tunnel they bore Big John. When he had been laid on a couch in the medicine lodge and the old men had set to work at his wounds, Sid called Niltci to him.

“I want to show you this Red Mesa, Niltci,” he said, “for my heart is heavy within me. We can do no further good here.”

Together they went out into the little valley, Niltci’s cries of pleasure over its isolation and peace as detail after detail of it was grasped by his keen Indian mind singing in Sid’s ears. It made him even more depressed. What would Scotty’s reaction to all this be? Scotty, the practical, hard-headed engineer, who would no doubt hop on this mine with a howl of delight and pooh-pooh any suggestion of abandoning it to the Apaches as their home. The first white man who staked out a claim here owned it. These Indians had no rights. How could he reconcile Gold with Nature in Scotty’s mind—dissuade him from taking his civic rights, for the sake of this people?

Sid wanted to have his mind made up before they set out to join Scotty. He watched Niltci as they came opposite the mine fissure. The Navaho boy stopped with another exclamation of pleasure. He was an expert silversmith himself, and he recognized the metal instantly amid the dull copper. But in Niltci’s eyes there showed no hint of possessing it, of taking this whole mine for himself. This metal was for all, the gift of Mother Earth to the whole tribe, according to his training. He would be just as welcome to set up his forge here and smelt all the silver he wanted as the Apaches were to make arrow tips of the copper. He told Sid this artless viewpoint as the latter questioned him, seeking light in his perplexity.

Sid shook his head. How different from Scotty’s idea! A claim that gave exclusive ownership; vast engineering works; ships; an organization that would take all this metal for one man’s enrichment—that was the white man’s way!

“Come, we must go find Scotty, Niltci,” said Sid despondently, leading him away.

Honanta bid them good-by, assuring them that Big John was doing well. Sid went down the cave tunnel feeling like a traitor. His worst problem was still ahead of him, he thought.

But the Great Mystery had planned otherwise, in His inscrutable ways. For, when they reached the lair where Big John had fallen, Vasquez was gone! Honanta’s arrow had not killed him; he had been simply feigning death while they were working over Big John!