and this endurance has descended to the women sprung from them as well as to their sons.
Stephens aired for her benefit the only wraps he had to offer her, the blankets that had been under and over the saddle; but he went to a clump of young pines growing near, and with his hunting-knife hewed off a quantity of the small shoots from the ends of the boughs.
"You'll never guess in a month of Sundays, señorita, what we call these on the frontier," said he, as he proceeded to arrange them in neat layers, to make for her an elastic couch. "Give it up? We call them 'Colorado feathers,' and they're no slouches in the way of feathers neither. Besides, they say the smell of turpentine's mighty wholesome. The doctors in Denver recommend camping out to the consumptives who come out for their health, just that they may get the benefit of them. Spruce makes the best, and it's the most aromatic."
"Here, you get out, Faro," he apostrophised his dog, who had as usual promptly taken possession of the blankets as soon as they were spread down, "you get out of that, that's not your place;" and he pushed him off.
"Oh, don't hurt him!" cried the girl; "he likes it; let him stay."
"Well, all right, then, señorita," he said, pleased that his pet should find favour, "if you don't mind having him there, he'll lie at your feet and keep them warm; and now you'd better lie down and rest yourself all you can, for we aint home yet, and you can bet it's a 'rocky road to Dublin' through this sierra that we've got to go to-morrow"; and with these words he turned away to the fire.
"But," cried she, looking at the provision he had made for her, "you have kept no blanket for yourself; you must take one or you will freeze." His generosity distressed her.
"No fear," he returned without looking at her, while he deliberately settled himself down beside the fire and lit his pipe with a coal, "no fear, señorita. I'm calculating to keep guard anyhow, and there's lots of firewood here. That's the beauty of a mountain camp."
"No, thank you, Mahletonkwa," this was spoken to the chief, who at this juncture came and offered him a blanket, being anxious to conciliate the man whom he now depended on for so much, "not for me, thank you; muchas gratias; I'm all right. I'm going to keep this fire warm, and watch the 'Guardias' circle round the North Star." The "Warders," two bright stars of the Little Bear, act as the hour-hand of a clock which has the Pole for its centre, and by them a frontiersman on night-herd knows when his watch begins and ends.
The Indians, suspicious as ever of a possible attack, kept aloof from the fire, and lay down to sleep at a little distance outside the ring of light. Stephens established himself on the windward side of the fire, and set up the skin of the buck he had shot as a windbreak behind his back against the chill night air of the sierra.
Tired as he was with his long day's walk on foot, he lay there, warming first one side and then the other, and replenishing the fire at intervals, while he listened to the well-known sounds that from time to time broke the silence of the hours of watch—the sough of the night wind in the pines, like waves beating upon a far-off shore; the strange, nocturnal love-call of an unseen bird; the long-drawn, melancholy howl of a night-wandering wolf, seeking his meat abroad; and once his ears thrilled at the agonising death-cry of a creature that felt the sudden grip of the remorseless fangs of the beast of prey.
"Beasts of prey," he mused, "yes, that's just what we humans are too, the most of us, and we take our turn to be victims. Killers and killed. Well, if anybody's to blame for it, I suppose it's the nature of man."
Going back in his mind over the events of the day, he recalled the fierce desire to shed blood that had possessed him when he left the cacique and his fellows and set out to handle these Navajos alone. It seemed as if that much-angered man with the tense-strung nerves was some other than he. Now, peace was made, the captive was safe; and as he looked at the girl sleeping there unharmed, dreaming, it might well be, of her safe return home on the morrow, he felt a sort of mechanical wonder at the rage that had then filled his heart. He thought, too, of the shots that had been fired at him by the Navajo,—he had not cared to inquire which one it was,—and in imagination he felt the hot lead splash on his cheek again. He had been mighty near the jumping-off place that time, sure. And yet it had been all about nothing, so to speak. It had been a sort of mistake. He had wanted peace, really, and so had they; yet how near they had come to turning that little oasis into a slaughter-house. Fate was a queer thing. He looked up at the velvet black of the sky overhead and the endless procession of the stars. The moon had gone, but Jupiter still blazed in the western heavens. What did it all mean, and what was one put here for, anyway? He confessed to himself that he did not know; that he had no theory of life; he lived from day to day, doing the work that lay next him, and doing it with his might; but in the watches of the night he brooded now—not for the first time—over the old problem, "Was life worth living, and if so, why?" To that question he was not sure that he had any answer to give. Perhaps the secret might lie in caring for somebody very much, and at present he cared for nobody—very much—so far as he knew. Suppose that Navajo bullet had found its billet in his brain, thus it seemed to him in these morbid imaginings of the weary night watch, he would be sleeping now the last sleep of all, like that other victim in the cañon over yonder; and what was there in that that he should mind it? Perhaps it would have been better so—perhaps, yes, perhaps.
When the triumphant cacique rode off with the daughter he had recaptured on the banks of the Rio Grande, he left Felipe stretched upon the ground, breathless from his last desperate rush and half stupefied with despair. The angry voice of the cacique sounded farther and farther off; the hoof-beats of the horses died away in the distance. Felipe lifted his head from the sand; he was alone under the wide sky by the great river. The monotonous rush of the water seemed to intensify the stillness; the sun blazed down out of the blue sky; everything was at peace except the despairing, rebellious heart of the boy alone in the desert. How could everything go on so quietly when such a wicked thing had just been done? Why did not the cacique's horse stumble and fall and kill him as he deserved? Why was life so full of injustice and cruelty?
Poor Felipe! The first time that it is brought home to us that the scheme of events has not been arranged for our personal satisfaction, nay, that it may involve our extreme personal misery, is a hard trial—too hard sometimes for a philosopher; how much more so for a poor, untaught Indian boy.
"Cruel, savage, barbarous," he groaned, as he thought of the blows that had rained down upon the shrinking form of his sweetheart. "Poor little thing! Poor little Josefa! I can do nothing for you now; I had best go and drown myself—there is nothing left to live for."
He got up and walked deliberately towards the river.
But before he reached the brink he had had time to reflect. "Nothing left to live for?" he thought. "Yes, there is. I could kill Salvador first. I could get my father's gun and do it. I don't care if they do hang me afterwards."
He knelt down on the river-bank, and bending his head over the water he dipped his left hand in, and by a quick throwing movement of the wrist tossed a continuous stream of water into his mouth in the wonderful Indian fashion which gives quite the effect of a dog lapping. As he quenched his burning thirst, and felt the cool, refreshing dash of the water against his face, his spirit rose.
"I'll go straight back," he said to himself, with a dangerous expression on his set face. "I don't need any rest. I'll be there before the sun's much past noon, and he'll be dead before night."
He washed the blood from his right arm and examined the wound. The bullet had struck him between the elbow and shoulder and had passed out again without touching the bone. The second shot had missed him. He tore some strips from his shirt, and bound it up as well as he could with his left hand aided by his teeth.
He drew his belt tighter to keep off hunger, and drank again before facing the long leagues of waterless desert between him and Santiago. He looked at the rolling river and at the farther shore where he had so longed to be. "Rio maldito!" he cried. "Accursed stream, what happiness you have robbed me of! what misery you have wrought us! Why could you not wait only one day longer?" He turned away, set his face towards the pueblo, and began his weary journey.
He soon found the weight of his arm grow more and more painful as his pulse beat faster with movement, and he had to carry it across his body, supporting it with the other. But he pushed on with a steady, untiring gait, showing the marvellous power of his race to bear pain and fatigue and hunger and thirst. On all the Western frontier there is no white man that is not proud to be credited with "Indian endurance."
Curiously enough, he felt no fear. The cacique's threat to kill him did not affect his purpose in the slightest. He had recoiled from instant death when the pistol cracked in his face, but that was only instinctive, defenceless as he was against a man with firearms. He felt no shame at having done so. It did not seem to him cowardly to avoid being killed if he could. But he did not flinch for a moment when he thought of returning to the pueblo. No doubt Salvador would try to carry out his threat. "Well," thought he, "I must be beforehand with him. If I can't hold my father's gun with this sore arm, I must get Tito's pistol; Tito is my friend; he will not be afraid to let me have it."
The sun rose high in the heavens and beat down upon him as he toiled along, parching him with thirst. He was travelling the same trail back to Santiago that he had traversed the night before. The tracks of the horses going and returning were plainly visible. But what a change for him! A few hours before he had ridden that way feeling every inch a man, with his sweetheart in his arms and the happiness of a lifetime within his grasp; and now—As the thought stung him he pulled himself together and forced his weary feet to carry him on faster.
But anger had made him overestimate his own powers, in declaring that he would be back, and the cacique dead, before night. His strength gave out, and he had to lie down time and again to recover force enough to go on at all. Night overtook him, and he was compelled to stop and light a fire under the lee of a cedar bush, and rest himself in the warmth of it till dawn. Then he set forward, once more, slowly and stiffly, but ever pressing onwards, with his face turned towards the village that was his home, the village where his sweetheart must now be lying at the mercy of her pitiless father. What might not he have done to her ere this! That torturing thought goaded him to renewed efforts.
When he reached the edge of the mesa he was crossing, he looked down into the sandy valley that separated him from the next one; and there right below him, coming at brisk pace, was a mounted Indian. He instantly crouched down to watch if the new-comer were friend or foe; but in a minute he sprang from his concealment. It was Tito,—Tito on the mule of the American.
With a joyful cry he ran to meet him. Tito knew him and shouted back in welcome. "Why, Felipe!" he cried, "I was looking for your body, and here you are alive. Jump up and I'll take you right back. But you're wounded," he added, seeing his arm bound up. "Is it bad? Let me help you up," and he jumped off to help his friend to mount to the saddle.
"Salvador gave me a shot," answered Felipe as he got on with Tito's help; "but it's not very bad."
Tito turned the mule's head round towards Santiago, and jumping on behind struck out for home. The tough little mule made light of the double burden, and rejoicing in the prospect of going back to his beloved mare set off briskly.
"Now tell me all about it," said Tito eagerly.
"Tell me first," answered Felipe, "where is Salvador? What has he done with Josefa?"
"Salvador is made prisoner by the Americano," replied Tito, "for killing you. They think you're dead over there, and they've given Josefa to Sooshiuamo, hoping to keep him from taking the cacique to Santa Fé. He asked for her." Felipe's heart gave a sudden bound. He knew of course that there were white men in many of the Indian tribes with half-breed families, but he had never thought of Don Estevan as that sort of man.
"Valgame Dios!" he cried. "What does he want her for?"
"Who knows?" replied Tito guardedly. "Perhaps he wants someone to cook for him and to take care of the house when he is away. It was he that stopped the cacique from beating her."
"Valgame Dios!" said Felipe again. He hardly heard the rest of Tito's story. He was filled with new fears. Was everyone against him? Was the Americano, of all men in the world, to be the one to supplant him? He remained silent a while, but his suspicions were too strong to be entirely concealed.
"How did he ask for her?" he inquired. "Tell me, Tito."
"He said the pueblo had agreed to give him anything he wanted for blasting the rock," answered Tito; "and he said that he wanted her. So Salvador gave her to him. They all told Salvador to do it, for they thought then he wouldn't take him to Santa Fé. They all agreed to it. Sooshiuamo has put her with Reyna. She's there now."
"Tito," said Felipe very earnestly, "will you lend me your pistol?"
"What for?" said Tito.
Felipe hesitated. Two conflicting plans of vengeance were struggling within him. Then he answered, "The cacique said he'd kill me if I came back. If he has a pistol, I ought to have one. It wasn't fair there by the river."
"Nonsense," said Tito; "he's not going to kill you. Didn't Sooshiuamo make him a prisoner because he thought he had? Why, he was going to take him to Santa Fé to be hanged for it. The cacique was frightened, I can tell you. He won't touch you now, Felipe. Sooshiuamo won't let him."
"Oh, I'm sick of hearing of Sooshiuamo," broke in Felipe impatiently. "Why won't you lend it to me, Tito? You used to."
"That was to go after wild cows," said Tito. "Now I don't know what you want."
"I want to defend myself," said Felipe in a hurt tone.
"But there's no need to," said Tito. "Never mind what Salvador said. He was angry then. He is frightened now. Don't you mind him. It'll be all right. I'm taking you straight back to Sooshiuamo, just as he told me. He'll manage it."
It was easy to see who was Tito's hero now.
They came to the edge of the last mesa and looked down upon the Santiago Valley. Tito jumped off to ease the mule, who cleverly picked his way down the steep, rocky escarpment. At the bottom he sprang on again, and they cantered in the last league over the lowlands.
Felipe resigned himself to fate. "If he wrongs her, I'll have his heart's blood," he thought, but the imaginary "he" was not the cacique.
They reached the corrals, and they heard the cry raised of "Tito's coming! Tito's here!" They pushed on through the crowd to the American's house, and Tito, proud of his success, sprang off before the door.
"See, Sooshiuamo, I have brought him," he shouted out joyfully, thinking he was there, as he aided his friend to dismount. "Here's Felipe. He's not dead, but he has a bullet wound."
He pulled the latch-string, but the door refused to open. It was locked.
"I reckon you must shout a bit louder if you want Mr. Sooshiuamo, as you fellers call him," remarked a man who lounged against the wall near Reyna's door, which was only a few yards from Stephens's. "He aint to home just now."
"Why, where is he?" cried the boys in concert.
"Gone off with the cacique," answered Backus, for it was he; "mebbe he thought change of air would be wholesome after all that rumpus they're bin having this morning"; he laughed an evil laugh.
"Oh," cried Tito, "I suppose he's done as he said he would, taken him to Santa Fé for killing Felipe. But why couldn't he wait a little? Here I've brought him back Felipe no more dead than I am."
"No, nor he aint taken him to Santa Fé, neither," rejoined the Texan, with a malicious pleasure in mystifying the boys. He had gone straight to the cacique's house in his dripping garments after his fall into the ditch, and had waited there, meditating revenge, while they were being dried for him, during which interval he had obtained a full account of all that had taken place, including the fact that Josefa had been transferred to the prospector and was now under his protection at Reyna's. He had just walked over to Reyna's, in the hope of interviewing the girl, when the mule with the two boys on his back came in sight.
"All that gas of his about Santa Fé was nothing but a blind," he went on; "what he wanted was to get Miss Josefa for himself. And he's done it, too." He noted the flash in Felipe's eyes as he said this. "Yes, he's got her bottled up tight, inside here." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the house against which he was leaning.
"But that's only to save her from her father," exclaimed Tito hotly. "He was thrashing her like fury, and Sooshiuamo stopped him and took her away from him." Tito did not feel quite sure himself what Stephens's ultimate object might have been,—Americans were such very unaccountable people anyhow,—but he was not going to have this other American saying things about the man who was his particular hero at the moment, without sticking up for him.
"Jes' so," rejoined the Texan, "he's got her away from her daddy, and he's got her for himself. That's the size of it exactly."
Felipe said nothing, but the rage and despair which had taken possession of his heart made him perfectly convinced that the base innuendo of the Texan was only the simple truth. Tito made another effort to withstand the sinister meaning of the words.
"But he hasn't taken her to live with him," he said. "She's not in his house; it's locked up."
"Yes," said Backus, "for a very good reason. He's gone off hunting Navajos, and he's too jealous of her to leave her there by herself. So he's stowed her away, nice and handy, with his most particular friend next door. See? Why, it's as clear as mud."
"What's he gone hunting Navajos for, though?" asked the puzzled young Indian.
"What, don't you know?" said the Texan. "Oh, I suppose the news came after you'd started. Well, there's a pretty kettle of fish. The Navajos have bagged Miss Sanchez, and run her off Lord knows where, and Mr. Sooshiuamo, instead of taking his newly made father-in-law off to jail, is using him as a smell-dog to run their trail. He and Miss Josefa's daddy are as thick as thieves now. Aint it so, what I've said?" and he appealed to the other Indians standing round for confirmation.
The incredulous Tito appealed to them, too; but the Texan had stated the fact correctly enough; and as for the interpretation he put on them, well, that was a matter where everyone must judge for himself. Opinions varied as to that, but the general verdict was in Backus's favour.
Felipe threw up his unwounded arm in adjuration. "If he takes her from me," he cried, "my curse upon him from the bottom of my heart."
"You seem to take it hard, young man," said Backus eyeing him keenly. "Say, though, you're looking rather dilapidated. What's wrong with you anyway?"
"He's got a bullet in his arm," answered Tito for him.
"Then why the mischief couldn't you say so before, you plumb idiot?" exclaimed the Texan, who instantly divined that here was a chance to make friends with the youth who would now and henceforward be Stephens's bitterest enemy. "Come in here, young 'un, and let me look at it," he said, addressing Felipe; "it's a pity if I don't know a thing or two about gunshot wounds." He knocked at Reyna's door, and when she appeared he said apologetically, "Won't you let me bring in a wounded man who wants seeing to?"
Reyna did not want either him or Felipe, seeing that she had already one invalid in the house, in the shape of Josefa, whom she was nursing in an inner room, and she particularly objected to any complications with Felipe in Stephens's absence. But to be hospitable is a cardinal virtue of the race, and she admitted them in spite of the difficulties she felt. After all, Josefa was safely stowed away out of sight and hearing.
The Texan placed the boy on the ground close to the light, and with the rude skill of the frontier undid the makeshift bandage. The wound was naturally somewhat inflamed; he cleansed it with water and clean rags supplied by Reyna, and did it up again for the patient. "There aint no bullet in that," he said, "or I'm a Dutchman. But you're liable to have an ugly arm, if you don't look after it properly. Now you listen to me. You go right home to your mammy, and have a bite to eat, and lie down and keep quiet. Keep plumb still, d'you mark me, and don't go talking. Rest's what you're wanting this minute. But I can't dress your wound properly here, for I haven't the right stuff with me. I've got some rare good stuff at the store, though, that works like a charm. Now, you come down to me there, this evening when you're rested, and I'll fix it for you good. You do jes' as I tell you, and I'll make a well man of you yet. Sabe?" He helped the boy to his feet and led him to the door.
"But I want to see Josefa," said the boy, addressing Reyna; "I've got something to say to her. Where is she?"
"You'd better go right along and lie down," said Backus, disregarding the interruption; "you aint fit to talk to her now, nor she aint fit to talk to you."
"Let me see her," cried the boy passionately. "I must."
"Hush!" said the old squaw severely, "she's asleep. You'll disturb her. Do what the kind gentleman says, and go home."
Backus had said not a word to a soul as to his fracas with Stephens, nor had it been observed by any of the Pueblo people, so that Reyna had no idea of his hostility to Stephens, to whom she was devoted. Had she known of it she would not have called him "kind gentleman," nor even let him inside her door. Now, however, she backed him in starting Felipe for home under Tito's charge, the Texan reiterating his injunctions to keep quiet when he got there. Then he turned quickly to the mistress of the house. "And how's the other invalid getting on? How's the new Mrs. Stephens?"
"She does very well, now," said the squaw cautiously.
"Don't you think I'd better prescribe for her?" asked the Texan; "I'm a boss doctor, me, for wounds and bruises"; in saying which he did but speak the truth. "Come on, let's have a look at her."
"She's resting now," said the squaw. "Better she try to go to sleep."
"Oh, pshaw!" said the storekeeper; "it'll do her all the good in the world to see me. Come along, old lady, trot her out."
But though Mr. Backus had had reason for his boast when he declared that he had had a good deal of experience of Indians, and that too of different sorts, he found now that he knew precious little of Pueblo Indians, and next to nothing of the nature of the Pueblo squaw. This stout, jolly, comfortable-looking old lady (not so very old, either), whom he had imagined he could order about by virtue of his position as one of the superior sex as well as of the superior race, proved to have a decided will of her own. It was her house he was in, her very own, and, what was more, she was mistress in it, and did not for one moment mean to abdicate. She had no notion of being told to do this or that by anybody so long as she was inside her own door, and this she let him know. She was a woman of the Turquoise clan, and the Turquoise women owned that block of buildings, and their motto was, "What's mine's my own."
The astonished storekeeper found he had to swallow the fact that Josefa was invisible to him for the present, and he was sharp enough to see that it would do him not the slightest good to bluster. So he kept a civil tongue in his head, thanked Reyna profusely for allowing him to dress Felipe's wound in her house, and promised to call again soon. Then he went off to the cacique's stable and got his own horse, which was waiting for him there, and rode slowly home revolving fresh schemes of revenge.
The discovery of Felipe seemed quite a godsend to Backus as he wended his way through the Indian lands back to San Remo. Had he had a pistol on him when Stephens struck him that morning he would have shot him, or tried to shoot him, then and there. But now that his fit of passion had gone by, he determined to pay the prospector out in his own way and at his own time. Looking at the matter in cooler blood he could see that he would let himself in for a lot of trouble if he killed Stephens with his own hand. In the first place, there would be a trial, and lawyers to be paid, and that would come expensive, very expensive; and, secondly, Stephens had friends capable of going on the war-path. These confounded redskin allies of his seemed so unaccountably devoted to him that they might take it into their heads to perforate anyone who harmed him in a highly unpleasant manner, to judge not only by Tito's talk, but by the action of this stubborn old squaw, who had flatly told him at last that he shouldn't even set eyes on Stephens's girl in his absence. And now here was just what he wanted, an instrument prepared to his hand. With a little judicious spurring, a little help on the sly, Felipe would be quite ready to stick a knife in Stephens's back some night, or blow the top of his head off, and he, Backus, would stand entirely clear—ay, need not even lose the trade of the pueblo. Really it seemed quite providential. The only question that occurred to him was, whether Felipe would come down to see him, which would be most convenient, or whether he would have to go back to the pueblo to hunt for him. "But there's small fear of that," said he, as his horse splashed through the Santiago River before entering San Remo; "that sore arm of his'll bring him along, if not to-night, then to-morrow, certain."
* * * * * * *
Mr. Backus was exceedingly accurate in his diagnosis of Felipe's frame of mind, as well as of the condition of his arm. The young Indian obeyed him implicitly in the matter of going home, taking food, and lying down to obtain a good rest. He rose again later in the afternoon, and went for the second time to Reyna's house, only to find that for him there was to be no admission. Reyna was perfectly clear that until Stephens came back and settled what was to be done, the less the young people saw of each other the better it would be for all concerned. She was very friendly, rather amusing, and perfectly inexorable. As to the health of her patient, all Felipe could learn was that she was getting along nicely, thank you, and was in absolute need of rest, and would be so for a day or two longer,—until Stephens came back in fact. At present she would not even go out of doors.
All which did but root more firmly in Felipe's mind the conviction that Josefa was destined for Stephens, and that this was why the door was barred against him. Nursing his wrath, he turned away to meet Tito. For the second time he tried to borrow Tito's pistol, which that discreet young man entirely declined to let him have so long as he continued in his present frame of mind.
"You can't want it to defend yourself, Felipe," he said very decidedly, "for the cacique isn't here."
"Yes," said the boy sullenly, "but he'll be back in two or three days, and I'm not going to have him shooting at me again, and I not have anything to shoot back with."
"Pooh!" said Tito, "don't you fret yourself. He's not going to bother you any more, you may be sure. Take it easy; that's all past and gone."
But Felipe declined to take it easy. Finding Tito's mind was quite made up, he went back to his mother's house, and announced his intention of going down to San Remo to get his arm dressed by the storekeeper. He took his blanket with him, and added, as he started, that if Backus would let him sleep down there, he wasn't coming back till the morrow, or even later. He reached the store at dark, and found Mr. Backus at home.
"Come right in," said the Texan, as the boy with his blanket wrapped round him appeared in the doorway of the house after knocking, "come right in and set down. I was expecting you." He placed him in the light of a kerosene lamp, undid the arm, and dressed the wound again with some stinging stuff out of a bottle that made it smart. But the sharp throb of the wound gave no such stab to Felipe as the inquiry, casually dropped, "Wal', have you called on Mrs. Stephens to pay your respects yet?"
The boy confessed his vain attempt.
"Hah!" said the Texan, "so they're keeping her locked up tight, eh? Well, well; that's rather tough on you. But I don't wonder at it, now that Mr. Stephens and the cacique are in cahoots together. Of course they don't want anybody smelling around there when they are off and out of the way. No, they've got her there and they mean to keep her. But I know what I'd do if a man stole my gal away from me and shut her up."
"What would you do?" inquired Felipe, with averted eyes. He had his head turned to one side, and was looking down at the hole in his arm which Backus was dressing.
"Me!" said Backus, "I'd fill the hound's hide so full of holes that it wouldn't hold shucks. That's what I'd do. And I'd lay for him, too, and get him when he wasn't expecting it. A man like that, as would steal another man's gal away from him, don't deserve any more show than a mad dog."
"I haven't got a pistol,"—Felipe's voice trembled a little as he said this,—"but I could buy one, perhaps, if it wasn't too dear, if I knew of one for sale."
"A knife's surer than a pistol," said the Texan cautiously; "though I allow a feller that's only got his left arm to use is rather at a disadvantage with a knife. So he is with a pistol, unless he practises shooting left-handed. However, if he gets up close, and takes his man from behind when he aint looking out for it, he can't hardly miss, and he hadn't ought to need a second shot."
"Do you know of anyone that's got a pistol for sale?" said the boy earnestly.
"Wal', yes," said the Texan, "I do happen to know of a very good pistol that's for sale. In fact, a man left it with me to be disposed of." Mr. Backus did not deal in firearms, but second-hand ones sometimes came in his way as part payment of a debt. "I could sell it for him, and afford to take a very reasonable price for it. It's a first-class weapon." He finished tying up the wounded arm, and released his patient.
"Thank you, señor, a thousand thanks for all your kindness," said Felipe, rising. "May I see the pistol?"
The storekeeper took a key from his pocket, unlocked a chest, and produced a heavy, old-fashioned, muzzle-loading Colt's revolver in a leather holster. He drew it out; it was well smeared with grease. He pulled the hammer to half-cock, and spun the cylinder round, click, click, click, with his finger.
"She's not new," he remarked; "but she goes like clockwork, and she'll throw a conical ball through four inches of pine wood. I've tried her at a mark, too, and she'll hit the size of a silver dollar at ten yards every pop, if you're man enough to hold her steady." He handed it over to Felipe, who examined it with great care. Though he had never owned a weapon of his own, he knew how to handle one. They did not read or write in the pueblo, but they had compulsory education for all that; every boy learned two necessary things, the use of weapons and the use of tools. And they never required any salaried attendance officer to drive them to school. The boy drew back the hammer with his left thumb, holding the barrel with his stiff right hand, and squinted down the sights.
"That's right," said Backus approvingly, "I see you know all about it. Now that pistol cost fifteen dollars new, and I can sell it to you for four dollars and a half, and there's a little ammunition that goes with it, thrown in. It's as good as new, too; these Colt's pistols never wear out, but they've got a new style now with copper cartridges, and that's why these old-fashioned ones are cheap." It was all quite true. Mr. Backus loved truth, it got you such a useful reputation; he never lied except when he thought it would pay him, and then he could lie like a gas-meter.
Felipe produced the cash, and slipped his belt through the loop of the holster. He felt himself more a man now; from this time forward he would go "heeled."
"No use your going back all that way to the pueblo," said the storekeeper, "and it won't do your arm any good. I can let you sleep here in an outhouse, and I've lots of sheepskins I've traded for that you can spread down for a bed." The Indians despise soft mattresses, but love to lie on skins.
For the next three days Felipe was Backus's guest. His wounded arm made rapid progress towards recovery, and the boy spent his days either squatting in the store with his blanket drawn round him, silently noting all that went on, or in lounging round the corral, looking after Backus's horse and practising aiming at a mark with his new toy. He could not afford to waste his ammunition, but Backus showed him how to put on old caps to save the tubes from the blow of the hammer, and by snapping it thus he acquired a useful familiarity with his weapon.
* * * * * * *
For three days no tiding came to San Remo of Manuelita and her captors, or of their pursuers. But on the fourth morning two young Mexicans came spurring in from the westward, and reined up their weary horses before one of the San Remo corrals. They were soon surrounded by eager questioners, boys and women mostly, and the storekeeper and Felipe were not long in joining the throng. The young men felt their own importance, and dealt out their information gradually. No, there had been nothing to call a fight, and no one was hurt, though there had been some shots fired. Yes, the Señorita Manuelita Sanchez was all right. She and the Americano, Don Estevan, and the Navajos were all coming home together in one party; and Don Nepomuceno and Don Andrés with the rest of the Mexicans were also coming home together, but by a different route, and along with them were the Santiago trailers. The various incidents of the expedition,—of the loss of the trail and of the finding it again, of the renewed pursuit almost to the verge of the Lava Beds, and of the meeting there between the party of Mexicans and the returning Santiago trailers, who announced to them that Stephens, with Manuelita and the Navajos, were already on their way back to San Remo,—all these things had to be related at length and with impressive detail. And then, their horses unsaddled and attended to, these young men, who had been riding a good part of the night, slipped away to contrive an interview with their sweethearts, to get quickly back to whom they had ridden far and fast. The young men of San Remo were neither laggards in love nor dastards in war.
"I think, mebbe, if I was you," said Backus to the young Indian, "I'd contrive not to be here just when they arrive, but go off somewheres and keep out of the way. If you have a notion in your head to do anything, better not let folks see you, as it were, waiting for anyone—you understand?"
Felipe understood perfectly. In the past three days he and Backus had come to understand one another only too well; there was no formal conspiracy between them; Backus was much too cautious to give himself entirely away to any confederate, more especially to one so green and inexperienced as this Indian boy, but each was perfectly aware of the other's feelings towards the prospector.
"Why shouldn't you jes' go back to your folks for the rest of the day," continued Backus, "and let 'em know how you're getting on? Likely enough the cacique and his son-in-law" (he always alluded to Stephens now as the cacique's son-in-law) "will be going on up there too, and you might chance to hear something interesting if you lie low. You can come back down here again after dark if you like, and I'll do up your arm for you as usual."
Felipe took the hint, and was off at once. The rest and good food, for Backus treated him extremely well—it was part of his game—had quite restored his strength, and except for having to carry his right arm in a sling he felt fit for anything.
Later on in the morning arrived the main party of Mexicans, headed by Don Nepomuceno and his son. They dispersed to their different houses to dispose of their horses and be welcomed back by their families, but they did not lay aside their arms, and it was not very long before they reassembled at the Sanchez house in expectation of the arrival of the other party. The cacique and his three fellow-tribesmen of Santiago preferred not to await the return of the Navajos, but pushed on at once for their own pueblo.
But, for the waiting Mexicans, hour after hour passed and no sign of the Navajos or of Manuelita and Stephens appeared. The sun climbed high in the heavens and sank slowly to the west, and still their coming was delayed. True, their exact route was not known, but it was guessed (and correctly guessed) that it was the short cut through the sierra, and if so it was calculated that they should have arrived long before noon. The anxiety became painful. All sorts of theories to account for the delay were started. There had been a quarrel between Stephens and the Navajos; they had killed him and Manuelita, or had at least made them captives and carried them farther into the wilderness to a securer hiding-place. Or Stephens and Manuelita had made their escape from them during the night, and were now in hiding in the sierra, besieged there, perchance in some cave, and defended by the deadly rifle of the American. Many possible explanations were discussed, and many tales of Navajo treachery recalled to mind; but there was nothing to be done except wait.
Yet the cause of the delay was perfectly simple, and the result of the merest accident. When daylight came, and the sleeping band of Navajos awoke to find that four of their horses had strayed off, the owners immediately started on their trail to recover them, and till they returned Mahletonkwa declined to budge. He absolutely refused to divide his party, or to allow the American and the girl to proceed alone. Under the circumstances there was nothing to be done but wait, and Stephens determined to make the best of it. Hardy as he was, he could not but feel the strain of the efforts he had been making, followed as they were by a whole night on guard. He now left Manuelita to tend the fire and keep a daylight watch; he threw himself on the ground, wrapped in his blanket, under the shade of a bush, drew his hat over his eyes, and in two minutes was fast asleep.
It was well into the afternoon when the four Navajos rode bareback into camp with their truant steeds that had caused all this delay. Manuelita saw them arrive, and was glad to think that the hour for their final departure had come; once more she looked across where Stephens was still sleeping, and seeing that the babbling talk of the Indians, who were already saddling up, did not rouse him, she went over to where he lay and laid her hand lightly on his shoulder.
"Oh, Don Estevan," she said in her softest voice; but it was as if she had unwittingly touched the trigger of a gun. She was startled at the suddenness with which he bounded to his feet, broad awake, rifle in hand, the ominous click-clack of the lever sounding loud as he instinctively threw in a cartridge from the magazine; his flashing eyes darted one swift glance around, and then in an instant he recognised that there was no need for disquiet.
"Pshaw!" he said in half-apology, "I guess I was dreaming. Sorry if I startled you, señorita. I suppose I'm on my nerve a bit with all this trouble there's been." He looked at the sun. "By George! but it's afternoon already, and I thought I'd just lain down for a five-minutes' nap. That over there means the Navajos have come in with the lost horses, I suppose?" He indicated the busy folk a little way off, where preparations for the start were going on.
"Yes," she answered, "they have but just arrived with them. That was why I ventured to call you."
"They must have had the dickens of a chase after them; those Indian ponies are beggars to stray," he remarked, carefully working the lever so as to extract the cartridge from the chamber. "And there's nothing happened, señorita, whilst I was asleep? All's quiet along the Potomac, eh?"
"No," she answered, "nothing has happened. I think the Indians have been rather suspicious that they might be attacked; they've most of them been out in the brush all morning on the watch."
"And you've been on watch here by the camp-fire," he said, "and I've been sleeping there like a log when I might have been talking to you"; he looked in her eyes with a smile as he rallied himself for his lack of gallantry. "And you've made yourself smart for the home-coming, I see. That's right, señorita. You're not going to play the poor captive, not by no manner of means. We've just been out for a cheerful picnic party, we have, like those high-toned tenderfoot outfits that come out from the East and go to camping out in South Park with an escort of Utes to do them honour. Well, well; the pleasantest picnics have got to come to an end some time, and I see our escort under Mr. Mahletonkwa are really thinking of starting. I'd better go and catch up Morgana, and then we'll have you home in three hours. How's that for high?"
Twilight was falling as the armed band of Mexicans who had waited since noon around Don Nepomuceno's house saw through the dusk a long cavalcade approaching from the sierra, and in the front of it a lady mounted on a horse, and a man running at her side. It was Manuelita returning, accompanied by Stephens and the Navajos. There were muttered threats and sonorous Spanish curses, deep if not loud, hurled against the raiders, and pistols were loosened in their holsters, and belts drawn tighter and adjusted, as the party drew near. There were men among the Mexicans who burned to avenge the insult of the abduction, and were ready and eager for the signal to fight. All they waited for was the word to begin.
But their ardour was momentarily checked by the older and more experienced among them. The cavalcade was suffered to approach peaceably, and Don Nepomuceno running forward received his daughter in his arms. No sooner was she seen to be safe out of the hands of the enemy, than the anger of the high-spirited young Mexicans broke forth in spite of their elders, and they raised the war-cry.
At this juncture the voice of the American was heard above the tumult. "Peace! peace!" he proclaimed loudly for all to hear, "it is peace. I am responsible. A bargain has been made, and I am bound to see that Mahletonkwa and his people come to no harm at your hands. Anyone who touches them attacks me now. My honour is pledged, so take notice all."
"I do not see what right you have to bind us," cried a young Mexican, one of the two who had brought the news in the morning.
Stephens handed the mare's rein to Pedro, who came running from the house, whither Don Nepomuceno had already conducted his daughter; he held his Winchester at the ready, and ranged himself alongside of Mahletonkwa, who was in the saddle in front of his band.
"I have the right of discovery," he declared boldly. "It was I who found her with them, and made terms for her release. Those terms shall be satisfied to the last dollar in my pocket and the last cartridge in my belt. Come, my friends," and he changed his tone a little here, "let us show ourselves honourable men. Faith must be kept."
His appeal was hardly needed by the older and more experienced Mexicans, who had dealt with the wild Indians too often before this not to agree with him fully, and their influence quickly reduced the young hotheads to reason. Assurances were given that the terms he had made should be kept, and the Navajos be freed absolutely from molestation.
Don Nepomuceno hurried back from the house when he had restored Manuelita to the arms of her aunt, and embraced Stephens with effusion, calling him her saviour and deliverer.
"Come aside with me one moment, my friend," said the American, holding him by the hand, and checking, as politely as might be, the flow of thanks poured upon him, "there is something I must speak with you about at once." They moved a little apart from the spectators. "I made a bargain with Mahletonkwa," said Stephens, "to guarantee him against any injury or retaliation for what has happened, and that has already been accepted by your good friends here. We were quite in the Indians' power, you know, and of course I was obliged to promise this. But I also promised Mahletonkwa a sum of money. In fact I must tell you that I promised him silver dollars enough to weigh down the rifle he carries; that will mean two hundred or two hundred and fifty, I expect. Now, I have not got them here, but I could easily get them by going to Santa Fé, only that would take so much time; and what I wanted to ask is, who is there among the San Remo people, do you think, that could advance me the amount? I should like to settle Mahletonkwa's business right away."
"But, my dear friend," cried Don Nepomuceno, "I will pay the money, of course. Thank goodness, it is only a quarter of what he asked at first."
"But it's my debt," interrupted the American. "I made the terms on my own hook entirely."
"Impossible, dear friend," cried the Mexican, "absolutely impossible and out of the question! You touch on my honour. I am most grateful to you for having succeeded in reducing his ridiculous demand by three-fourths, but not one medio real can I suffer you to pay. I should be disgraced for ever in the eyes of myself and of my people. Thank God, the Sanchez family can still pay their scot, if they are not so rich as they were. The silver shall be forthcoming immediately. Oh, there are ways and means,"—he nodded his head mysteriously,—"you shall see. How much did you say will be needed?"
"About twelve or thirteen pounds' weight of silver," returned Stephens; "at least so I guessed when I hefted his rifle."
"Very well," said Sanchez, "if you will remain here and keep the peace—I see some of our young men are hardly to be restrained—then I will go in and bring out the scales and the money, and he shall have his price."
He went into the house, and in a few minutes Pedro appeared with three long cottonwood poles and a rope. The poles were bound together at the top so as to form a tripod higher than a man's head, and a piece of rope was left hanging down from the apex. Then he brought out a beam with a pair of large rude scales, and the middle of the beam being attached to the rope the balance was formed. By this time it was dark, and Pedro returned once more for some torches of pine, which were lit and threw their weird lights flickering over the faces of the bystanders. The lurid glare lit up the swarthy, bearded faces of the Mexicans who crowded round, and the dark, smooth cheeks and flashing eyes of the Indians, who, recognising that Stephens had power to protect them from attack, dismounted and closed up the ring.
Then from the darkness appeared Don Nepomuceno with a heavy leathern sack, and approached the scales.
"Now, then, Mahletonkwa," said Stephens, "put your rifle in one of those scales, put it on whichever side you choose, and my agreement is to put silver enough in the other to pull it down."
The Indian came forward, and stooping down placed his rifle on one side of the balance. Don Nepomuceno stepped forward with the bag of silver towards the other.
"Wait one moment, señor, if you please," said Stephens to the latter. "There is one little matter I wish to settle first. I think, Mahletonkwa," he addressed the Indian, "we agreed that I should give your rifle's weight in silver, was it not so?"
The Indian assented.
"Is your rifle loaded?"
"It is."
"And was that in the bargain?"
"It was loaded when we made the bargain," answered the Navajo.
"And is it loaded now in the same way?"
The Indian remained silent.
"I'm willing you should have the full weight of it loaded," said Stephens, "I don't make any objection to that. Will you, then, fire off the load that's in it now, and put in another here before us all, that we may see how big a load you use?"
The Indian sullenly indicated dissent.
"We wish to have everything fair," said Stephens. "Why do you refuse?"
"It is very well as it is," muttered Mahletonkwa, looking singularly disconcerted.
"Then will you put the ramrod into the bore and let us see how big a load you have got in it?" persisted the American. "Or would you prefer that I should do it for you?"
He put out his hand as if to take the rifle for the purpose, but the Navajo sulkily caught it up himself. He spoke not a single word, and maintained an impassive face as he picked out a little tuft of rag that was wedged inside the muzzle of the gun, and, tilting the barrel slightly forward, allowed sixty or seventy small round bullets to run out one after the other, plop, plop, plop, into the scale.
A roar of scornful laughter went up from the Mexicans at this demonstration of the American's 'cuteness and the Indian's baffled cunning.
Mahletonkwa deliberately swept the bullets back into his pouch, and replaced the rifle in the scale.
"Thank you," said Stephens, with quiet sarcasm; "now I think we can begin. Don Nepomuceno, will you pour in the silver?"
The bag was untied, and from the mouth of it a stream of big white round coins rattled into the opposite scale. Bigger and bigger grew the heap; the flickering torchlight played on dollars from Mexico and dollars that bore the image and superscription of many an old Spanish king who reigned before Mexico was a republic, on coins stamped in the United States Mint, and on five-franc pieces that displayed the head of Louis Napoleon—pieces that had come over with the French army that for a while had supported the rickety throne of ill-fated Maximilian. And now the stream ran slower and slower, and the rifle began to lift; the Mexican stopped pouring, and taking a handful from the bag tossed them on to the pile one at a time. Gradually the rifle rose, the beam turned, the silver scale descended; yet one more dollar was thrown in and it touched the earth. The tale was complete.
"There's your silver, Mahletonkwa," said the American; "your rifle kicks the beam. Are you satisfied now?"
"I am satisfied," said the Navajo; "it is enough." He took a sack from one of his men and poured the glittering stream into it.
"Basta!" said Stephens. "Then it is settled. You acknowledge that my tongue is not double. I have done what I said I would do."
"And now," he went on, addressing the bystanders, "I have only one word more to say to you. Let bygones be bygones. The señorita has been brought back safe and unharmed, and the matter is over and done with. Let no man molest these people in any way for it, now or at any future time. If any man among you does so, he makes himself my enemy, for I am surety to the Indians in this. If he touches them, he must walk over my dead body. And to you, Navajos, I have one more word to say,"—he had caught sight while he was speaking of the sinister face of Backus among the crowd,—"be advised and go straight back to your own country. Don't hang about here; and above all don't touch whiskey. Take my advice and let the sun of to-morrow find you ten leagues from San Remo—and sober. I have spoken."
He turned away, and in company with Don Nepomuceno and his son retired to the house, while the Indians remounted their horses and filed off in the moonlight, and the assembly gradually dispersed.
Inside the house Stephens found Manuelita in the sitting-room, with various female friends and relations who had gathered to see the heroine of such an adventure and to hear her story. Her shining eyes and flushed cheeks made her look more bewitching than ever, but he saw how overstrained were her nerves, and he longed to turn out the cackling crowd and carry her off far away to some peaceful retreat where no fear or grief should ever dare to come near her again. But no sooner had he shown himself in the room than a stout old lady who had been Manuelita's nurse in childhood arose and fell upon his neck and kissed him heartily.
"Blessings on you!" she cried, with tearful loquacity, "and may the Madre de Dios and all the blessed saints be with you and reward you for your goodness." She clasped him to her heart. "You are a hero," she said, "a perfect hero! you have brought us back my dear child safe and unharmed from the clutches of those anathematised Indians, whom may the devil fly away with!"
Poor Stephens felt weak; he was helplessly taken aback.
And then a second old lady, the mother of Pedro the peon it was this time, who had been devoted to Manuelita for years, felt it incumbent on her also to demonstrate her gratitude to the deliverer of her darling, and she too bore down on him, and precipitated herself upon his shoulder to mingle her tears, her kisses, and her blessings with the other's.
Stephens's feelings were indescribable.
"'It never rains but it pours,'" he thought. "It's ten years since I've been kissed by a woman, and now I'm hugged by two at once." He endeavoured to extricate himself with becoming gratitude from these entangling embraces, that he might advance to receive the thanks of Don Nepomuceno's sister and her relations. Their expressions of gratitude and admiration were not less ardent than those which had already been showered upon him, but to his immense relief they took a more decorous form. He acknowledged their compliments and their thanks as gracefully as he could, longing all the time to escape from this ordeal and get away as quickly as possible in order to take in hand the matter of the burial of the dead prospector.
As soon as he could decently do so, he took the first opportunity again to call Don Nepomuceno apart. "I want to get you to lend me a spade," he said; "it will save me the journey of going back to the pueblo for one. I have a little trip to make up into the sierra to-night"; and he explained to the Mexican how he had discovered almost by chance where the bones of the nameless victim of the Navajos were lying.
Don Nepomuceno urged him to put it off. "Mañana, por la mañana; porque ahora es tarde"—"Leave it till to-morrow; it is too late now," he said. "Rest to-night; there is no hurry."
"There's a good moon," said Stephens, "and I don't want to delay about it. It's all in a day's work anyhow. But can you lend me the spade, for if not I must go home after one?"
"But certainly, my dear friend, assuredly I can. Everything I have is at your service. Let me lend you a horse too, for your mare has done her work; leave her here with me to eat corn, and to-morrow she will be fresh."
Stephens very willingly availed himself of this offer, and half an hour later the sharp eyes of Felipe, watching hungrily for his enemy, saw the figure he knew so well riding away quietly from Don Nepomuceno's house in the direction of the sierra, and he detected by the light of the moon that he carried an unusual burden in the shape of a spade across the saddle in front of him. Here in the open the boy did not see his chance to make a sudden attack and take him by surprise at close quarters as he had planned, and being puzzled by the sight of the spade, and full of wonder as to what his errand could be, he ran full speed to the storekeeper's house to inform him of it.
As he arrived there, he saw another mysterious horseman ride away from the corral at the back of the house into the night, and had he been able to get close enough to him he might have seen that he, too, bore a burden, for the rider was no other than the Navajo chief himself, and the burden that he bore consisted of several bottles of Mr. Backus's fiery whiskey, while a round number of what had lately been a part of Don Nepomuceno's precious hoard of dollars were now lining the interior of the storekeeper's wallet.
Stephens's counsel had been disregarded. The Spaniards have a riddling proverb which asks, "What is the cheapest thing on earth?" and the answer is, "Good advice." In the eyes of the Navajo the advice to let whiskey alone was very cheap indeed. The morrow's sun would find him neither ten leagues from San Remo nor sober.
Felipe encountered Backus at his own door, and hastily recounted to him how he had just seen the prospector ride off in the direction of the sierra with a spade across his saddle.
"Be after him then, man," cried the storekeeper; "there's your chance, if you haven't lost it. He's gone after something with that spade, you bet. Keep him in sight, and don't ever let your eye be off him till he begins to use it, and when he's busy at work with it, there's your opportunity. Or if you like to risk a fuss, show yourself boldly, and go up to him and mebbe he won't suspect what you mean to do. But don't miss your chance."
Felipe was gone like a shot.
No sooner had the boy disappeared than Backus began to regret it. He had been rather flustered, before Felipe came up to him, by his interview with the Navajo chief, for Mahletonkwa had begun by taxing Backus with not having kept Stephens from sending for the soldiers, by making away with his letters to the governor and the general, and he had retorted by declaring that he had done so, that no soldiers were coming, and that if Mahletonkwa had allowed himself to be bluffed he had only himself to thank for his idiocy. But they did not waste much time in disputing, for Mahletonkwa's visit to him had not been to quarrel but to obtain liquor, while Backus's strongest desire was to become the possessor of a goodly lot of those shining dollars of Don Nepomuceno that had attracted his cupidity.
Now, however, on thinking over what Felipe had reported, a possible explanation of the spade flashed upon him. Suppose Stephens had got the secret of the mine from the Navajos! He had remarked the vigour and determination with which the prospector had placed himself apparently on the side of the Navajos as against the Mexicans when they arrived. Probably this was a return for their having shown him the mine, which, moreover, would account for the unaccountable delay of the party in arriving that afternoon.
The idea of the prospector having stolen a march on him like this, in the matter of the mine, irritated him intensely; he knew so little practically of mining that he thought it quite possible that Stephens had started off thus in the night with a spade to dig up silver out of an old mine, as a man might dig up the coins of a buried hoard. Filled with this idea, he took a sudden resolution to follow Felipe and see what took place, and, if there was any secret worth getting hold of, to do his best to make himself master of it.
He hastily belted on his revolver, caught up an overcoat, as he recognised that he might have to lie in wait for an indefinite time, and the night air in the sierra was chill, and started forth on Felipe's track. He knew the direction; and assuming that Stephens had taken the trail for the sierra, according to the information Felipe had brought, he decided to take the same line.
There were plough-lands across on this side of the Santiago River also, and the trail led through a part of these. Where it crossed the ditch that supplied them with water he found the ground wet on the farther bank, and fresh hoof-prints of a horse in the soft earth. Someone had crossed there on horseback not more than fifteen or twenty minutes before; yes, and there, close alongside, was the sharp-toed, inward-curved print of an Indian moccasin. Stephens and Felipe were both ahead of him.
It was only in a place like this, where the soft earth retained a deep impression, that he could pretend to recognise their tracks by the light of the moon, but the fact that he had judged so accurately the course they were steering gave him confidence as he pressed forward, still following the line. And now the foot of the sierra was reached, and the trail plunged abruptly into broken and rugged defiles. Onward he pushed without halting, encouraged again and again by detecting at intervals the tracks of the horse going ahead. At last, however, there came a long interval, when he no longer saw the tracks. For a while he tried to persuade himself that it was only a chance that had caused him to fail to notice them, but he came finally to where the trail crossed a little creek, and the ground was soft and the trees were open enough to let the moonlight fall clearly on the spot. The sign of the Indian horses that had crossed it coming to San Remo during the afternoon was evident, but the footprints of the horse he was following in the other direction were not there. It was undeniable that he must have quitted the trail.
"Now, whereabouts did the son of a gun leave it?" asked Backus of himself; "and how far back was it that I got a squint of his track last?" He pulled out a cold lunch, that he had brought along in his pocket, put on his overcoat, and sat down to take a rest and think things over. If Stephens had simply turned off and camped near the trail, he might have missed him by very little. Perhaps Felipe had been able to keep him in sight, and had stuck to him.
He started to take the back track, keeping a sharp watch out for likely places for a rider to turn out on one side or other of the trail. There were plenty of them, but he found no sign in any of those that he examined. And he had the exasperating sense, that trying to hit off a lost trail by moonlight was as futile a job as a man ever undertook. By daylight a master of woodcraft may assure himself that he has not walked over a hoofprint for which he is searching without seeing it, but the best trailer that ever stepped can miss a thing by moonlight that by day would be as plain to him as a printed book.
"A fool's errand," he said to himself, "that's what I'm on. Here I might be comfortably at home and snug in bed, and instead of that I'm lost up here in the sierra away along after midnight, and nary chance of finding what I come out after." He was thoroughly out of temper by this time, and his language was according. "Mine! d—n the mine! I believe the whole thing is a holy fraud, and if anyone ever again catches me out in the dark, on top of a rugged range of hills hunting for a mine that never existed, I'll give him leave to cut me into slices and fry me like so much bacon." He sat down to rest a moment before deciding finally whether to make any further effort, or just chuck and make the best of his way home.
At this moment, faint but distinct, came the sound of a shot fired somewhere in the mountain off to the south. Backus sprang to his feet instantly, shaking himself free from his despondency like a cloak.
"By the jumping Jemini!" he ejaculated, "there they are, I'll wager. Felipe must have managed to stick to the trail. Good for him! I wonder if he's managed to plug him? I'll just take a scout round that way and see if I can spot anything."
The moon was beginning to sink in the west, but there was light enough for him to pick his way through the trees and rocks in the direction of the shot. Suddenly he heard five shots in quick succession. They were nearer and clearer than before. But they were followed by absolute silence. Again and again he paused to listen, but no sounds greeted his ear save those that belonged to the woods at night, till at last, after scrambling up a rocky ridge, he became aware of a reflected light shining at the foot of a cliff. That meant a camp-fire. Hist! was that somebody talking? If Felipe had killed his man properly, there was no one for him to talk to. He advanced a step or two cautiously, and paused again. He fancied he could hear a voice; he would put his ear to the ground and see if he could not hear better so; he stooped, and sank on all fours as if he was after a deer, bending his head towards the earth, and as he did so he received a hard blow on his face, and a smart pang shot through his cheek, and at the same moment his ears were assailed by an angry, buzzing rattle.
"My God!" he cried, "I'm stung by a snake!" He threw up his hand to his wounded cheek and staggered to his feet, while the snake, having delivered his blow, slithered away to his home in the rocks. The agony of the poison began to dart through his veins. He struggled blindly forward towards the light, which now seemed ever so far away; he stopped and drew out his knife, with the idea of cutting out the venom, but it was right in his cheek; had it been in a finger he might have chopped it off, but he could not slash away half his own face. He flung the knife wildly from him and reeled forward again, knocking against the trees as he went like a blinded wolf. He had been struck by a big rattler with a full dose of venom in him after his winter's rest. His knees grew weak, and tottered under him; he fell, and struggled up again, only to fall once more; fearful pains ran through him, and his body seemed too big for his skin.
"Help," he cried, in a spent and broken voice; "help me! oh, help!" and he pitched forward and lay prone on his face, writhing and digging his nails into the ground.