The Mine with the Iron Door

AS consciousness returned to Marta, her first sensation was that of physical comfort. She thought that she was in her own bed at home, awakening from a dream. Slowly she opened her eyes. Instead of her own familiar room she saw the rough, unhewn rafters, the log walls, and the rude furnishings of an apartment that was strange.

Wonderingly, without moving, she looked at the unfamiliar details—at the fireplace of uncut rocks with a generous fire blazing on the hearth—the lighted lamp on the table—the rough board cupboard in the far corner—the cooking utensils hanging beside the fireplace—and at the skins of mountain lion and lynx and fox and wolf and bear that hung upon the walls. It all seemed real enough, and yet she felt that it must be a part of her dream. She would awaken presently she thought—how curious—how real it was.

She put a hand and arm out from under the covers and touched, not the familiar blankets of her own bed, but a fur robe. The effect was as if she had come in contact with an electric wire. In the same instant she saw the sleeve of her jacket, and realized that she was not in her own bed at all, but was lying fully dressed on a rude couch—that her clothing was still wet from a storm that was not a dream storm, and that everything else was as real.

But where was she? Who had brought her to this strange place? Fully awake now, the girl made a more careful survey of the room, and this time saw hanging on a peg in the log wall near the fireplace a bow with a sheaf of arrows, and on the floor beneath a pair of moccasins.

“Natachee!”

With a shudder, as if from a sudden chill, Marta threw back the fur robe and sat up. She was not frightened. It is doubtful if Marta had ever in her life known real fear. But there was something about the Indian that always, as she had expressed it, “gave her the creeps.”

Swiftly her mind reviewed the hours that had passed since she left her home to go to Oracle. Her good-by to Edwards, her happiness as she rode over the familiar trail, her meeting with the Wheeler children and their parents, the incident at the store, her troubled thoughts as she started homeward, and then, the crushing shame—the horror of the things that the Lizard had made known to her. Of her actual movements after the Lizard left her, she remembered almost nothing clearly. That part of her experience remained to her still as a dream. But that one dominant necessity which had driven her into the storm and the night; that stood clear in all its naked and hideous reality. She could not, with the burning certainty of her shame, she could not see Saint Jimmy nor Hugh Edwards again.

Rising, she went to the fireplace and stood before the blaze to dry her still damp clothing. She was calmer now. The wild uncontrolled storm of her emotions had passed. With her physical exhaustion had come a sort of relief from her emotional strain. She could think now. As she stood looking down into the fire she told herself, with a degree of calmness, that she must think. She must plan—she must decide—what should she do?

She was standing there, with her eyes fixed on the blazing logs in the fireplace, when she became aware that she was not alone. As clearly as if she had seen it, she felt a presence in the room. She turned to look over her shoulder. Natachee stood just inside the closed door of the cabin. He had entered, opening and closing the heavy door without a sound.

As she whirled to face him, the Indian bowed with grave courtesy.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Hillgrove, I did not mean to startle you but I thought you might be sleeping.”

There was nothing either in the Indian’s face or in his manner to alarm her. Save for his savage dress he might have been any well-bred college or university man. Nor did the girl in the least fear him. She only felt that curious creepy feeling that she always experienced in his presence.

As if to put her more at ease, Natachee went to bring a rustic chair from the other end of the room, saying in a matter-of-fact tone:

“I have been out taking care of your little horse. He will be comfortable for the night, I think.” He placed the chair before the fire and drew back. “Won’t you be seated? You can dry your boots so much better.”

Marta sat down and, holding her wet feet to the blaze, looked again into the ruddy flames. The Indian, standing at the other side of the room, waited, motionless as a graven image, for her to speak.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

At her words, or rather at her air of utter hopelessness, a flash of cruel satisfaction gleamed for an instant in the somber eyes of the red man.

But Marta did not see.

“It is nothing,” said the Indian and his deep voice gave no hint of the fire that had, for the instant, blazed in his dark impassive countenance. “It is a pleasure to be of any service.” And then with a smile which again the girl did not see, he added, “I was caught in the storm myself.”

Without raising her eyes Marta said wearily, as if it did not in the least matter:

“It was you who found me and brought me here?”

“I was on my way home from the cañon below when I chanced to catch a glimpse of you and your horse against the sky. Naturally I was curious to know who it was that rode in these unfrequented mountains through such a storm and at such an hour. I managed to follow you and so found your horse. Then I found you and brought you here.”

When the girl was silent he continued:

“My poor little hut is not much, I know, but it is a shelter at least, and I assure you you are as welcome as if it were the home of your dreams.”

At this the girl threw up her head with a start. Staring at him with wide questioning eyes she said wonderingly:

“The home of my dreams? What do you know of my dreams?”

Natachee bowed his head.

“I beg your pardon. My choice of words was unfortunate but unintentional, I assure you. And yet,” he finished with quiet dignity, “it would be difficult for any one to imagine a woman like you being without a dream home.”

With a shudder the girl turned back to the fire.

Again that gleam of savage pleasure flashed in the eyes of the Indian.

“But I am forgetting,” he said, “you have had nothing to eat since noon and it is now past midnight. This is a poor sort of hospitality indeed.”

As he spoke he went to the cupboard and began putting dishes and food on the table.

The girl watched him curiously—his every movement was so sure, so complete and positive. There was no show of haste and yet every motion was as quick as the movements of a deer. He gave the impression of tremendous strength and energy, yet his touch was as light as the hand of a child, and his step as noiseless as the step of that great cat, the cougar. Indeed, as he went to and fro between the table, the cupboard and the fireplace, Marta thought of a mountain lion.

“And how do you know that I have had nothing to eat since noon?” she asked presently.

Without looking up from the venison steak he was preparing, he answered:

“You went to Oracle early in the afternoon—you did not stop at the Wheeler ranch on your way back—you did not go to Saint Jimmy’s—you did not go to Hugh Edwards’—you did not go home.”

The girl’s cheeks flushed as she persisted:

“But how do you know? Have you some supernatural gift that enables you to see what people are doing no matter where you are?”

Natachee laughed.

“My gifts are only the gifts of an Indian, Miss Hillgrove; I see with the eyes of a red man, that is all.”

The girl looked again into the fire.

“I wish you did have the gift of second sight,” she said, speaking half to herself.

The Indian flashed a look at her that would have startled her had she seen it.

“Why?”

“Because,” she answered slowly, “because then perhaps you could tell me something that I want very much to know.”

The Indian, who was behind her, smiled.

“Dinner is served,” he said.

“Really I—I don’t think I can eat a thing,” she faltered, looking up at him.

“I know,” he returned gravely, “but perhaps if you try—“ he placed a chair for her and stood expectantly.

And Marta felt herself compelled to obey his unspoken will. Perhaps because of the strange effect of the Indian’s personality upon her, or perhaps because she sought relief from the pain of thoughts which she could not express, the girl encouraged the red man to talk of his life in the mountains. And Natachee, as if courteously willing to serve her purpose, followed her conversational leadings with no mention of her own life in the Cañada del Oro or of her friends. Over their simple meal, of which Marta managed to partake because she felt she must, he told her of his hunting experiences and drew from his seemingly inexhaustible store of desert and mountain lore many strange and interesting things. Nor was there, in anything that he said or in his way of speaking, the slightest hint of his Indian nature.

As they left the table, and Marta resumed her seat before the fire, she said:

“But I do not understand how a man educated as you are can be satisfied to live like—“ she hesitated.

“Like an Indian?” he finished for her.

“Well, yes.”

There was a long moment of silence before he replied with a marked change in his voice:

“I live like an Indian because I am an Indian. Because if I would I could not be anything else.”

As he spoke he came to the other side of the fireplace and seated himself on the floor and the act had for the girl the odd effect of a deliberate renunciation of the civilization which she, in her chair, seemed for the moment to personify. It was as if in answering her question he had cast off the habit of his white man’s schooling; had thrown aside mask and cloak and placed before her his true self. As he sat there, in the picturesque garb of his savage fathers, with the ruddy light of the fire playing on his bronze, impassive countenance and glinting in the somber depths of his steady eyes, the young white woman looking down upon him could detect no trace of the white man’s training.

“And yet,” she said, “this cabin—this room—does not look like any Indian’s home that I ever saw.”

He answered with the native imagery of a red man:

“The cougar that has been taught to jump through a hoop at the crack of his trainer’s whip is still a cougar. The eagle in a white man’s cage never acquires the spirit of a dove.”

“But I should think that with your education you would live among your people and teach them.”

Gazing steadfastly into the fire he answered grimly:

“And what would you have me teach my people?”

“Why, teach them what you have learned—teach them how to live.”

The Indian looked at her, and the girl saw something in his countenance that made her feel, all at once, very weak and helpless. She was embarrassed as if caught in some petty meanness. In her confusion she began to stammer an apology but the red man raised his hand.

“You, a white woman, shall hear an Indian. I, Natachee, will speak.

“It would be easier to number the drops of water that fell in the storm to-night than to tell the years of these mountains that look down upon the Cañada del Oro and the desert beyond. They have seen the ages pass as the cloud shadows that race across their foothills when the spring winds blow. Before the beginnings of what you white people call history they had watched many races of men rise to the fullness of their strength and pride, and fall as the flowers of the thistle poppies fall in the desert dust. In the time appointed the Indians came.

“From the peaks of these mountains Natachee the Indian can see far. From the place where the sun rises in the east, to the mountains behind which he goes down in the west, and from the farthest range that lies like a soft blue shadow in the north, to that line in the south where the desert and the sky become one, this land was the homeland of my Indian fathers. Since the God of all life placed us here it has been our home. What has the Indian to-day?

“Was there a place where the tall pines grew and the winter snows lingered long into the dry season to feed the streams where the wild creatures drink—‘I want those trees, they are mine,’ said the white man. And he cut them down and sold them for gold, and the naked mountains held no snows to feed the creeks; and the meadows that God made became barren wastes—lifeless. Was there a spring of water—‘It is mine,’ cried the white man, and he built a fence around it and made a law to punish any thirsty creature that might dare to drink without paying him. In this homeland of my fathers the wild life was as the grass on the mesas. The Indian took what he needed. It was here for all. The white man saw the antelopes in the foothills, the deer on the mountain slopes, the bear in the cañon, the sheep among the peaks, and he shouted: ‘They are mine—all mine.’ And every man in his white madness, for fear some brother would destroy one more wild thing than he himself could count among his spoils, killed and killed and killed; and only the buzzards profited by the slaughter. But I, Natachee, an Indian, here in this homeland of my fathers, because I dared to kill the deer from which we had our meat this evening, am a violator of the white man’s laws, and subject to the white man’s punishment.

“You tell me that I should teach my people how to live? By that you mean that I should teach them the ways of the white people? Is it the duty of one who has been robbed of all that was his to accept the thief as his schoolmaster and spiritual guide? Would you say that one who had been tricked and cheated out of his birthright must adopt the principles and customs of the trickster? Could you expect one who had been humiliated and shamed and broken to set up the author of his degradation as his ideal and pattern?

“The schools of the white people taught me nothing that would cause the white people to permit me ever to make a place for myself among them as their equal. No education can ever, in the eyes of the white man, make a white man of an Indian. All kinds of animals are educated for the circus ring, and the show bench, and the vaudeville stage. If they prove clever enough you applaud them. You reward them for amusing you. You educate the Indian. If he be clever enough you give him a place in your social circus so long as he amuses you. But do you permit him to become one of you in your homes, your professions, your law-making, your business—no—he is no more one of you than the performing bear is one of you. Do you think that I, Natachee, do not know these things? Do you think my people do not know that, when one of their boys is put in the white man’s schools, he grows up to be something that is neither a white man nor an Indian? It is because they do know, that they look upon me, Natachee, as an outcast of the tribe. Would the outcast, without place or people in the world, teach others the things that made him an outcast?

“The only thing that an Indian can teach an Indian is to die. In the day of their strength and pride my fathers in these mountains saw the smoke from the first camp fire made by a white man in the Cañada del Oro. It was a signal smoke—but no Indian then could read its meaning. We know now that it meant the time had come when the Indians, too, must go into the shadows, even as the many races that had passed before them. But my people shall not be unavenged—as the red man is going, the white man too shall go.

“The strength of the Indian was the red strength of the mountains and deserts and forests and streams. The Indian is dying because the white man stole his red strength and turned it into a white man’s strength, which is yellow gold. But the white man’s yellow strength is his weakness. In the golden flower of his greatness are the seeds of his decay. For gold, your people destroy the forests—tear down the mountains—dry up or poison the streams—lay waste the grass lands and bring death to all life. For gold they would rob, degrade, enslave and kill every race that is not of white blood. For gold they rob, degrade, enslave and kill their own white brothers. Even the natural mating love of their men and women they have made into a thing to buy and sell for gold. In this lust for gold their children are begotten, and born to live for gold, and of gold to perish. The very diseases that rot the white man’s bones, wither his flesh, dim his eyes and turn his blood to water are diseases which he buys with his gold. And the only heaven that his religious teachers can conceive for his celestial happiness is a place where he may forever wear a crown of gold, make music upon a harp of gold, and walk upon streets of gold. It was this gold, which is both the white man’s strength and his weakness, that brought your race like a pestilence upon my people. By this same gold for which the Indian peoples have been destroyed shall the Indians be revenged; for by this gold shall the destroyers themselves, in their turn, be destroyed.

“There is nothing left for the Indian but to die. I, Natachee, have spoken.”

At his closing words Marta Hillgrove caught her breath sharply.

“Nothing left but to die? And you—have you never dreamed of—“ she could not speak her thought.

Again that quick light of savage pleasure flashed across the dark face of the red man.

“An Indian has no right to dream of love,” he answered, “for love to an Indian means children. Why should an Indian wish to have children?”

When the girl hid her face in her hands, he continued with cruel purpose:

“Is it so hard for Marta Hillgrove to understand that there might be circumstances under which it would become a duty to deny one’s self the happiness of loving? If it is there are two men who could, I am sure, make it clear to her.”

For some time the Indian sat watching the white woman as one of his ancestors might have watched an enemy undergoing the agony of torture. Then rising he said:

“Come, it is time that you were taking your rest. You have nearly reached the limit of your endurance. You will sleep there on the couch. I shall be within call. In the morning I will take you home.”

He threw more wood upon the fire and turned to leave the room.

“You are very kind,” said the girl, “but I cannot go home.”

Natachee faced her and she saw the savage triumph that for the moment burned through the mask of stolid indifference which he habitually wore.

“Kind?” he said with cruel insolence. “Kind! And why should I, Natachee, an Indian, be kind to you, a white woman? Make no mistake, Miss Hillgrove, if I do not to-night treat you as my fathers treated the women of their enemies, it is not because I am kind. It is only because it will afford me a more enduring and keener pleasure to return you to your friends down there in the Cañon of Gold.”

The girl, cowering in her chair, heard no sound when the Indian left the room.

When morning came and Natachee again appeared he was his usual stolid, courteous self. But Marta knew now what fires of bitter hatred smoldered beneath the red man’s calm exterior. He made no reference to her statement that she could not go home, nor did the girl dare to repeat what she had said. She felt that she was powerless to do other than resign herself to the will of the Indian who seemed to find a cruel satisfaction in returning her to Saint Jimmy and Hugh Edwards.

When they had eaten breakfast, Natachee brought her horse.

The cañon creek below was still a roaring torrent, impossible to cross, but the red man led her by ways known only to himself around the head of the cañon and so at last to Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton.

For the next two or three weeks Marta avoided Hugh Edwards. She saw him frequently at a distance, and when he came to spend an evening hour on the porch, but she did not go to his cabin alone and always managed that her fathers were present when she talked with him in her own home. Edwards accepted the situation understandingly, and said no word, but worked harder than ever. Neither did she spend much time with Saint Jimmy, though she went nearly every day to see Mother Burton. The girl was very gentle with the two old prospectors and with tender thoughtfulness sought to make them feel that she was their partnership girl exactly as she had been ever since she could remember. But she would not go to Oracle, so either Bob or Thad was forced to go to the store whenever it was necessary for some one to bring supplies.

Doctor Burton blamed himself bitterly for the whole affair, but the Pardners insisted that the fault was theirs.

“You can see yourself, sir,” said Bob, “that if we’d raised the gal up knowin’ all the time what she had to know some day, it couldn’t never a-struck her like this.”

And Thad added:

“The God almighty truth is that me an’ my pardner was jest too darned anxious to shirk what was plain enough our duty, and so shifted the responsibility on to you. It was a mean, low-down trick an’ no way fair to you, an’ you jest got to see it that way. We know how you feel about not tellin’ her ’cause we’re feelin’ that way a heap ourselves, but it ain’t addin’ none to our comfort to have you tryin’ to shoulder the blame what belongs to us.”

The two old men were so miserable that Saint Jimmy’s sympathy for them lessened somewhat his own suffering, and the three agreed that the only thing they could do was, as Bob said, “to blame everybody in general and nobody in perticler and make it up to the girl the best they could.”

Then came that eventful day when Sheriff Jim Burks and two of his deputies rode into the Cañada del Oro.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SHERIFF’S VISIT

“I’ll have to hear what the boss says before I commit myself,” said the sheriff. “How about it, Marta?” he called to the girl who stood in the doorway. “Are you backing the offer of these two daddies of yours?”

“You know I am, Mr. Burks,” she returned heartily. “You are always welcome here. I’ll be ready for you in a few minutes.”

While they waited Marta’s call to dinner, the men exchanged news of general interest and talked together as old friends will. And Marta, in the kitchen, could hear through the open window every word as clearly as if she had been sitting with them.

Presently the sheriff made known his mission in the Cañon of Gold. “You haven’t got any strangers in the neighborhood, have you?” he asked casually.

“Nope,” said Bob.

“Nary a stranger,” echoed Thad.

“That is,” amended Bob, “not that we have seen or heard of. This here Cañada del Oro is a pretty big piece of country, Jim, an’ mighty rough, as you know, an’ Thad an’ me we stick kinda close to our diggin’.”

“Natachee been ’round lately?”

“Oh, he drops in once in a while, same as always,” returned Bob. “He was here yesterday.”

“Natachee would sure know if there was any one around,” mused the officer. “There is nothing stirring in these mountains that Indian don’t see. I’m looking for a convict who escaped from the Florence penitentiary,” he continued. “The last trace we had of him he was headed this way. He came into Tucson and managed to get a sort of an outfit together and struck out for somewhere in this general direction.”

At the officer’s words old Thad rubbed his bald head meditatively. Bob bent over to pick up a bit of rock which he proceeded to examine with minute care. The girl in the kitchen caught at the table for support and, faint and trembling, with white face and horror-stricken eyes, stared through the open door toward that neighboring cabin.

Then she heard Thad say:

“We sure ain’t seen nothin’ like a convict in these parts, Jim. When did he make his break?”

“Two weeks ago,” answered the sheriff.

The color returned to the girl’s face and her trembling limbs became steady. But as she turned again toward the stove where the meal for her guests was cooking, she glanced through the open window and stood as if turned to stone.

Natachee was moving with noiseless step toward the group of men outside.

Then she heard Bob’s laugh.

“Talkin’ about the devil, sheriff, suppose you take a look behind you.”

While the officers and the Pardners were exchanging greetings with the Indian, Marta, going to the door, summoned the hungry men. They trooped into the house and Natachee, declining the invitation to join them at the table on the plea that he had eaten an early dinner, seated himself just inside the open doorway to continue his part in the general conversation.

When the sheriff had explained his mission to the Indian, Natachee, with his eyes fixed on Marta’s face, confirmed the Pardners’ opinion that no stranger had recently come into the Cañon of Gold.

“That’s good enough for me,” said the sheriff. And then to his men: “We’ll swing over into the Tortollita country this afternoon. No use wasting any more time here.”

“We can just about make it over to Dale’s ranch by dark,” returned one of the deputies.

“We ain’t due to strike no such meal as this at Dale’s,” said the other officer mournfully, “Dale’s batchin’.”

And with one accord they all smilingly expressed their appreciation of Marta’s cooking and acknowledged their gratitude for her hospitality, while the girl happily assured them again of the welcome that always awaited them in her home.

For some time following this the hard-riding officers were too busy demonstrating their approval of the dinner to engage in conversation. Natachee waited.

At last the Indian spoke casually:

“You do not always succeed in finding these escaped convicts, do you, sheriff? This is a big stretch of country to cover and it’s not so very far to the Mexican line. I should think a man would have a fairly good chance.”

“They have more than a fair chance,” returned the sheriff. “But still we get most of them. A man must have food and water, you know. If our man knows this sort of country, we can nearly always figure out about what he will do.”

He put down his knife and fork and sat back in his chair with the genial air of one who is at peace with the world.

“It’s mostly the strangers that drift in from other parts that we never get,” added one of the deputies. “You can’t tell what they’ll do, nohow. Generally they lose themselves and never show up.”

Rolling a cigarette the sheriff, in a reminiscent mood, continued:

“That’s right. There was one that got away from San Quentin over in California about six months ago, and we lost him clean. They traced him as far as Phœnix and notified me to be on the lookout, because it was reasonably sure that he was heading south, but that’s the last anybody ever heard of him. He may show up yet—if he’s not dead. We always try to keep them in mind, you know.”

The Indian, watching Marta, saw the terror that came into her eyes at the sheriff’s words. Quietly she drew away from the group and slipped into the adjoining room where she stood just inside the half-open door listening.

The eyes of the Pardners were fixed upon the officer with intense interest.

Natachee smiled.

“What did this man look like?”

The sheriff answered:

“The description sent to me says he is a man of about twenty-two or three, tall, rather slender, gray eyes, brown hair, clean shaven, good-looking, well educated, well appearing, likable sort of a chap. Haven’t seen him, have you, Natachee?”

“I might run across him somewhere, some day,” returned the Indian.

There was a sound in the adjoining room and the sheriff, who was sitting with his back toward the door, turned his head inquiringly.

Old Bob spoke quickly:

“What was he in for, Jim?”

And Thad asked in the same breath:

“A killin’, was it?”

The officer gave his attention again to his hosts.

From where he sat the Indian, through the open kitchen door, saw Marta running toward the neighboring cabin.

The sheriff was answering the old prospectors:

“He was sent up for wrecking a big investment company in Los Angeles. You remember—the papers were full of the affair at the time.”

Hugh Edwards did not know that his neighbors were entertaining visitors. He was at work in the creek bed when the sheriff arrived and when he went up to his cabin for his noontime lunch the Pardners and their guests were on the far side of the house, so that he could not see them. He had returned to his work and was energetically wielding his pick when he heard Marta’s hurried step on the bank above. The girl came running and sliding down the steep path.

At sight of Marta’s face, Edwards dropped his pick and ran to her.

“Marta dear, what is the matter? What has happened?”

In his alarm for her he forgot himself for the moment, and would have taken her in his arms, but her first hurried words brought him back with a shock.

“The sheriff—“ she cried in a voice that trembled with fear and excitement.

Hugh Edwards stood as if stunned by a sudden blow, staring at her dully, unable to speak.

“Don’t you understand?” she said sharply. “The sheriff is here—why don’t you speak? Why don’t you say something?” She caught him by the arm and shook him. “The sheriff is here, I tell you. He is looking for a man who escaped from prison.”

Hugh Edwards drew a long shuddering breath and the girl saw him, in obedience to his first impulse, turn and start as if to run. Then, as suddenly he checked himself, and stood looking about in fearful indecision, not knowing which way to go. Another moment and he had regained control of himself.

Facing her with a steadiness which revealed the real strength of his character he said coolly:

“This is interesting, I’ll admit, but don’t you think perhaps you are a little overexcited?” he smiled reassuringly. “Suppose you tell me more.”

Calmed by his strength the girl answered:

“Sheriff Burks and two of his men are searching for a convict who escaped from the Florence penitentiary two weeks ago. They stopped at our house to inquire if we had seen any strangers in the cañon recently, and we asked them to stay for dinner of course. Natachee happened in as he always does when any one from outside comes to the cañon—and—and—while they were all eating and talking I slipped out the front door and ran over here to tell you.”

Edwards laughed.

“A convict escaped from Florence two weeks ago. Well, he certainly is not in the Cañada del Oro or Natachee would know.”

The girl looked at him pleadingly.

“I—I—am afraid Natachee does know.” She shuddered. “He—it would be just like him to bring the sheriff and his men here. Please—please—won’t you go? For my sake, won’t you?”

At this Edwards looked at her searchingly.

“Go where?” he said at last. “What do you think the Indian knows? Why should I go anywhere?”

“You—you do not understand,” the girl faltered. “You must hide somewhere, quick—Please, Hugh, they may come any minute.”

Again Edwards looked about as if, while prompted to yield to her entreaty, he was still undecided as to the best course to pursue.

“But surely you know that I did not escape from Florence two weeks ago,” he said slowly.

“I know—I know,” she cried, “but there was another.”

“Another?”

“Yes—a man who escaped from San Quentin six months ago. They followed him as far as Phœnix. He was coming this way. He was twenty-two or twenty-three years old—tall—slender—gray eyes—brown hair—well educated—Oh, Hugh—Hugh—don’t stand there looking at me like that! You must do something—you must go—quick—somewhere—anywhere where these men won’t see you.”

With a low cry of horror and despair the man leaped away, running like a startled deer up the creek. But before he had gone a hundred feet he stopped as suddenly as he had started and faced back toward the girl, holding out his arms in an unmistakable gesture of love and longing.

But Marta did not see. She had dropped to the ground, where she crouched with her face buried in her hands.

Still holding out his arms the man went slowly toward her. Then again he stopped, to stand for a moment irresolute, as one fighting with all the strength of his will against himself. And then once more he faced the other way, and stooping low, with head down, ran as if in fear for his life.

When Marta had recovered a little of her self-control she realized that she must not be seen near Edwards’ cabin by the officers, who by this time must have finished their dinner. Hurriedly she stole away down the creek, thinking that if she was seen coming up the path that led from the Pardners’ mine to the house no one would question as to where she had been.

When she had gained the top of the bank she saw her fathers just outside the kitchen door deep in a heated argument. There was no one else in sight. Catching her breath sharply, the girl hurried on until she could gain an unobstructed view of the neighboring cabin. There was no one there. With a sob of relief she almost ran the remaining distance to the Pardners, who were by now watching her expectantly, as if wondering what she would do or say.

“Where are they? Have they gone?” she cried as she came up to them.

The two men looked at each other questioningly.

“Go ahead, you old fool, she’s your gal, ain’t she?” said Bob. “What’s the use in your standin’ there lookin’ at me like that, I ain’t done nothin’.”

“Holy Cats!” ejaculated Thad. “Can’t a man even look at you without you goin’ mad? I ain’t a-worryin’ none about what you’ve done or about what anybody’s done, if it comes to that. It’s what you’re likely to do that’s got me layin’ awake nights.”

He turned to the girl and in a very different tone said:

“Sure they’re gone. Jim figgered that if the man they wanted was in the Cañada del Oro, Natachee would a-seen him and so, as long as the Indian hadn’t seen nobody strange in these parts, they’ve pulled out for the Tortollitas. Jim said to tell you good-by an’ that they’d sure enjoyed your cookin’.”

To the utter amazement of the two old prospectors their partnership girl burst into a joyous ringing laugh, and throwing her arms around each leathery wrinkled old neck in turn she kissed them and ran into the house.

Bob looked at Thad—Thad looked at Bob—together they looked toward the kitchen door through which their girl had disappeared.

“Holy Cats!” murmured Thad softly, as he rubbed his bald head. “Now what in seven states of blessedness do you make of that?”

“She must know,” said Bob. “She must a-heard what Jim said—she ain’t a plumb fool if she is your gal.” He shook his head. “I give it up. Listen to that, will you?”

Marta, busy with her after-dinner kitchen work, was singing.

“One thing is certain sure,” said Thad softly, “whatever trouble the boy may have got himself into, it’s a dead immortal cinch that he ain’t in no way different now from what he was before Jim Burks happened to eat dinner with us, an’ that blamed Indian began askin’ fool questions about what ain’t none of his business.”

“That’s fair enough,” returned Bob. “We didn’t never take to Hugh for what some judge, that we never saw or heard tell of, said he was or wasn’t. We threw in with him for what he is. An’ if we’re such a pair of boneheads as to be livin’ with him like we have all this time without findin’ out more about what he really is than any judge that ever sat on a bench—well—we ought to be sentenced ourselves, that’s what I’m sayin’.”

Thad rubbed his bald head.

“At that,” he said mournfully, “it wouldn’t be the first time by several, that we’d ought to a-been sentenced, would it? If young Edwards was to go to pryin’ into our records—huh—I’ll bet he wouldn’t feel proud of his neighbors no matter what he’s done hisself.”

Old Bob grinned cheerfully.

“You’ve said it, Pardner, by smoke!—if he was to know, the youngster would be hittin’ it out of this Cañada del Oro so fast you wouldn’t see Mount Lemmon for dust. Come to think of it, it’s generally a healthy proposition not to know too much about your neighbors—the ones that you like, I mean. What is it the good book says: ‘Where ignorance is bliss a man’s a darned fool to poke around tryin’ to find out things?’ As for my gal, it’s plain to be seen that she’s plumb tickled at the way it’s all turnin’ out an’——“

“Your gal!” shrilled Thad. “Your gal!—there you go again. Holy Cats! Have you got to be allus tryin’ to gouge me out of my rights? Can’t you never give me a fair break?”

“Excuse me, Pardner, I forgot. As I was about to say, in my opinion you’d better let that gal of yourn work her own way out of this. It’s easy to see that she’s in too deep for us, an’ considerin’ everything—considerin’ everything, I say—it might not turn out so bad after all.”

To which Thad replied:

“However it looks an’ however it turns out, my gal knows a heap more about it than us two old sand rats ever could. We’re bankin’ on the boy, an’ we’re trustin’ the gal, an’ we’re mindin’ our own business, you bet!”

To which Bob responded fervently:

“You bet!”

CHAPTER XVIII

AN INDIAN’S ADVICE

A hand touched his shoulder. With a cry he leaped to his feet, and like a wild animal caught in a trap whirled to fight.

Natachee made the peace sign. The Indian was smiling as he had smiled that night when Marta was in his cabin.

The white man’s nerves were on edge. He glared at the Indian angrily.

“What do you mean sneaking up on a man like that?” he demanded. “You’ll get yourself killed for that trick some day.”

Natachee laughed, and there was a touch of scorn in his voice as he returned:

“Not by you, Hugh Edwards.”

“And why not by me?” demanded the other, goaded by the Indian’s tone and by the slight emphasis which the red man placed on his name.

“Because,” said Natachee coolly, “you are not the killing kind, and because if you should, in a moment of wild madness, attempt such a thing, I—“ he paused, then with an abrupt change in his tone and manner said: “I am sorry that I startled you. It was unpardonably rude, I’ll admit, and you have every reason for being angry. I did not stop to think.”

“It is nothing,” returned Edwards. “I was a fool to fly up over such a thing. I—I’m a bit upset just now, that’s all. Forget it.”

He resumed his seat on the rock. The Indian seated himself on the ground near-by.

Edwards was thinking: Marta had said that Natachee had come to the house while the officers were there. How much of the sheriff’s talk had the Indian heard? How much had he guessed? What was he doing here?

Almost as if to answer the white man’s thoughts the Indian said casually:

“I happened in at the Pardners’ place a while ago and found Sheriff Burks and two deputies there. I am going to Tucson to-morrow and dropped in to see if I could do any errand for them or for Miss Hillgrove. Then I called at your place to offer a like service but you were not at home. I happened to see you sitting on the rock here as I came up the cañon.”

The Indian did not explain how, before the officers were out of sight, he had made his way with the noiseless speed of a fox to a point where from behind rocks and bushes he had witnessed the close of the interview between Marta and Edwards; and how, after the girl had returned to her home, he had trailed the white man. Neither did he explain that he had had no thought of going to Tucson when, from the mountain side, he saw Sheriff Burks and his men ride up to the Pardners’ place.

“Thank you,” said Edwards, “there is nothing you can do for me in Tucson.”

Natachee waited several moments before he spoke again, and the uncomfortable thought flashed into Edwards’ mind that the Indian seemed particularly pleased that he, the white man, had nothing to say. Edwards, in an agony of suspense, wondering, fearing, perplexed, baffled, dared not speak.

At last the Indian said softly:

“The sheriff and his men have gone away. They are satisfied that the man they are looking for is not here. I assured them that there was no stranger in the Cañada del Oro.”

“They are gone?” said Edwards doubtfully, as if he feared the Indian were playing him some cruel trick.

“For this time,” Natachee said gravely.

“You—you—think they will come again?”

The Indian looked away and answered with odd deliberation:

“Who can say? There is always that possibility. Any day—any hour they may come. But if, in spite of what I told Sheriff Burks, the man wanted by him is in the Cañada del Oro, my advice to that man would be that he stay right where he is.”

Hugh Edwards hesitated. He felt that the Indian was playing some kind of a game—a game which the red man seemed rather to enjoy but which left the white man very much in the dark.

“You don’t think then that he—that the man could get away, out of this part of the country, I mean?” he said at last.

“The sheriff and his deputies will be watching every place but the Cañada del Oro,” returned the Indian. “Because they are just now satisfied that their man is not here, this is the one safe place for him. And if they should by any chance return——“

“What,” cried Edwards eagerly, “what if the officers should return?”

Still without looking at his companion Natachee answered:

“There are places in the Cañada del Oro where a man, if he knew these mountains as I know them, could hide from all the sheriffs in Arizona.”

Haltingly, but with trembling eagerness, Hugh Edwards asked the inevitable question.

“And would you, Natachee, help such a man under such circumstances?”

“I might.”

At this noncommittal answer Hugh Edwards moved uneasily.

“Do you know,” he said at last, “I have fancied sometimes that you, being an Indian, hated all white people bitterly.”

Natachee made no reply.

Edwards continued, as one feeling his way over dangerous ground:

“And yet you seem to enjoy the company of Saint Jimmy.”

The Indian rose to his feet and stood looking down upon the white man and something in his face—a shadow of a cruel smile, a gleam of savage light in his dark eyes—something—made Edwards rise and draw back a step.

“I do enjoy the company of Doctor Burton,” said the red man. “He is suffering. He is dying slowly. He is in torment. I am Natachee the Indian, why should I not enjoy the company of any white man who is like your Saint Jimmy or who can be made to suffer in any way?” For a moment he paused, then in a voice that made his words almost a command, he added: “I will return from Tucson in three days. In the meantime if it should be necessary for you to go into the upper part of this cañon, find my hut if you can and make yourself at home. You will be very welcome. If you should not find my place—if you should get yourself lost, for instance, have no fear, I will find you. But if I were you I would not leave my cabin and my friends down yonder unless it were absolutely necessary.”

Without waiting for a reply the Indian turned, and climbing the steep bank of the creek with amazing ease and quickness, disappeared.

Hugh Edwards went slowly back to his cabin.

Marta, who was watching, saw him coming and ran joyously to meet him.

CHAPTER XIX

ON EQUAL TERMS