The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Cave in the Mountain, by Lieut. R. H.
Jayne

The Cave in the Mountain

A Sequel to In the Pecos Country

by

Lieut. R. H. Jayne

Author of Lost in the Wilderness, Through
Apache Land, In the Pecos Country, etc.

New York

The Mershon Company

1894

Contents.

Chapter.

1. A Strange Guide


2. Alone in the Gloom


3. Strange Experiences


4. Sunlight and Hope


5. Mining and Countermining


6. A Daring Exploit


7. Fishing for a Friend


8. Fishing for a Prize


9. Groping in Darkness


10. “Here We are Again!”


11. Through the Mountains


12. Through the Mountains—Continued


13. In the Nick of Time


14. Between Two Fires


15. On the Defensive


16. Friend or Enemy?


17. Fortunate Diversion


18. An Old Acquaintance


19. How it was Done


20. Sut’s Camp-Fire


21. Safety and Sleep


22. Two Old Acquaintances


23. Border Chivalry


24. Night Visitors


25. Hunting a Steed


26. Lone Wolf’s Tactics


27. The End

The Cave in the Mountain.

Chapter I.

A Strange Guide.

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Contents

“Well, if he doesn’t beat any one I ever heard
of!”

Mickey O’Rooney and Fred Munson were stretched on the
Apache blanket, carefully watching the eyes of the wild beast
whenever they showed themselves, and had been talking in guarded
tones. The Irishman had been silent for several minutes, when the
lad asked him a question and received no answer. When the thing was
repeated several times, he crawled over to his friend, and, as he
expected, found him sound asleep.

This was not entirely involuntary upon the part of Mickey. He
had shown himself, on more than one occasion, to be a faithful
sentinel, when serious danger threatened; but he believed that
there was nothing to be feared on the present occasion, and, as he
was sorely in need of sleep, he concluded to indulge while the
opportunity was given him.

“Sleep away, old fellow,” said Fred. “You seem
to want it so bad that I won’t wake you up again.”

The boy’s curiosity having been thoroughly aroused, all
tendency to slumber upon his part had departed, and he determined
that if there was any way by which he could profit any by that
wolf, he would do it.

“He may hang around here for a day or two,” he
mused, as he heard the faint tappings upon the sand,
“thinking all the time that he’ll get a chance to make
a meal off of us. So he will, if we don’t keep a bright
look-out. It seems to me that he might be driven out.”

The more he reflected upon this suggestion of his own, the more
reasonable did it become. His plan was to drive out the wolf, to
compel him to show up, as a card player might say. Considering the
dread which all wild animals have of fire, the plan was simple, and
would have occurred to anyone.

“The camp-fire seems to be all out, but there must be some
embers under the ashes. Mickey threw down his torch somewhere near
here.”

Carefully raking off the ashes with a stick, he found plenty of
coals beneath. These were brought together, and some of the twigs
laid over, the heat causing them at once to burst into a crackling
flame. This speedily radiated enough light for his purpose, which
was simply to find one of those “fat” pieces of pine,
which make the best kind of torches. A few minutes search brought
forth the one he needed, and then, shoving his revolver down in his
belt, he was ready.

The light revealed the large beautiful Apache blanket, stretched
out upon the ground, while the Irishman lay half upon it and half
upon the earth, sleeping as soundly as if in his bed at home.
Beyond him and in every direction was the blackness of night. But,
looking to his right, he discovered the two eyes staring at him and
glowing like balls of fire.

The animal was evidently puzzled at the sight before him. Fred
dreaded a shot from the Indians above, and, as soon as he had his
torch ready and had taken all his bearings, he drew the ashes over
the spluttering flame. Save for the torch, all was again wrapped in
impenetrable gloom.

The glowing orbs were still discernible, and, holding the
smoking torch above his head, Fred began moving slowly toward them.
The animal did not stir until the lad was within twenty feet, when
the latter concluded that it would be a good thing for him, also,
to take a rest.

“Wonder if he’s been trained not to be afraid of
torches,” mused the little fellow. “I hope he
hasn’t, and I hope too there won’t be any trouble in
scaring him.”

The lad dreaded another possibility,—that his torch might
be suddenly extinguished. If that should go out, leaving them in
utter darkness, the wolf would immediately rise to a superior
plane, and speedily demonstrate who was master of the
situation.

Fred swung the torch several times around his head, until it was
fanned into a bright flame, after which he resumed his advance upon
his foe. At the very first step the beast vanished. He had wheeled
about and made off in a twinkling.

The lad pressed onward at the same deliberate gait, watching
carefully for the reappearance of the guiding orbs. It was not long
before they were observed a dozen yards or so further on. The wolf
was manifestly retreating. He had no fancy for that terrible torch
bearing down on him, and he was falling back by forced marches.
This being precisely what Fred desired, he was greatly
encouraged.

“He is making his way out, and after awhile he will reach
the place, and away he’ll go. If he’s a wolf or fox,
the hole may be so small that Mickey can’t squeeze through,
but I think I can follow one of the animals anywhere.”

After going some distance further, Fred noticed that the animal
was not proceeding in a straight line. He would appear on his
right, where he would stare at the advancing torch until it was
quite close, when he would scamper off to the left, and go through
the same performance.

“He knows the route better than I do, so I won’t try
to disturb him,” reflected the boy as he followed up his
advantage, with high hopes of discovering the secret which was so
important to himself and friend. “I won’t crowd him too
hard, either, for I may scare him off the track and
fail.”

The wolf was evidently a prey to curiosity—the same
propensity which has caused the death of many bipeds and
quadrupeds. The action of the torch puzzled him, no doubt. He had
seen fire before, and probably had been burnt—so he knew
enough to give it a wide berth; but it is doubtful whether he ever
saw a flaring torch held over the head of a boy and solemnly
bearing down upon him.

Fred’s absorbing interest in the whole affair made him
wholly unmindful of the distance he was traveling. He had already
advanced several hundred yards, and had no idea that he was so far
away from his slumbering friend. The fact was that the singular
cave was only one among a thousand similar ones found among the
wilds of the West and Southwest. Its breadth was not great, but the
distance which it ran back into the mountains was amazing.

The wolf was leading the lad a long distance from the camp, and,
what was more important (and which fact, unfortunately, Fred had
failed to notice), the route was anything but a direct one. It
could not have been more sinuous or winding. The course of the
cavern, in reality, was as winding as that of the ravine in which
he had effected his escape from the Apaches, and from which it
seemed he had irrevocably strayed. Had he attempted to make his
return, he would have found it impossible to rejoin Mickey
O’Rooney, unless the two should call and signal to each
other.

However, the attention of the lad was taken up so entirely with
the task he had laid hold of, and which seemed in such a fair way
of accomplishment, that he took no note of his danger. The wolf was
leading him forward as the ignis fatuus lures the wearied
traveler through swamps and thickets to renewed disappointment.

“He has some way of reaching the outer world which the
Indians haven’t been able to find. Of course not; for, if
they knew, they would have been in here long ago. They
wouldn’t stay fooling around that opening, where
they’re likely to get a shot from Mickey when they
ain’t expecting it. Now, if the wolf will only behave
himself, all will come out all right.”

Fearful of being caught with an extinguished torch, the lad kept
up the practice of swinging it rapidly round his head every few
minutes. When he ceased each performance, the flame was so bright
that he was able to penetrate the darkness much further upon every
hand.

On one or two of these occasions he caught a glimpse of the
creature as it bounded away into the darkness. In shape and action
it was so much like the mountain wolves which had besieged him some
nights before that all doubts were removed. He knew it was one of
those terrible animals beyond question.

“Wonder how it is he’s alone? It wasn’t long
after I saw that old fellow the other night, when there was about
fifty of them under the tree. One of them is enough for me, if he
doesn’t give us the slip. Maybe he has come in to find out
how the land lies, and is going back to report to the
rest.”

Fred could not help reflecting every few minutes on the terrible
situation in which he would be should his torch fail, and the other
bring a pack of ravenous creatures about him. They would make
exceedingly short work of a dozen like him.

“It seems good for hours yet,” he said as he held it
before him, and examined it for the twentieth time.

The stick was a piece of a limb about as thick as his arm, and
fully a yard in length. It felt as heavy as lignum vitae,
and, by looking at the end held in his hand and that which was
burning, it could be seen that it was literally surcharged with
resin—so much so that, after being cut, it had overflowed,
and was sticky on the outside. No doubt this, with others, had been
gathered for that express purpose, and there was no reason to doubt
its capacity.

As Fred advanced he caught occasional glimpses of the jagged
overhanging rocks, which in some places were wet, the water
dripping down upon him as he passed. The fact, too, that more than
once both sides of the cave were visible at the same time, told him
that the dimensions of their prison were altogether different from
what he had supposed.

“There must be an end of this somewhere,” he
muttered, beginning to suspect that he had gone quite a distance,
“and I’m getting tired of this tramping. I hope the
wolf hasn’t gone beyond the door he came in by, and I hope he
has nearly reached it, for it will take me some time before I can
find my way back to Mick.”

Chapter II.

Alone in the Gloom.

Return to Table of
Contents

Before Fred could complete the sentence his foot struck an
obstruction and he was precipitated headlong over and down a chasm
which had escaped his notice. He fell with such violence that he
was knocked senseless.

When he recovered he was in darkness, his torch having been
extinguished. The smell of the burning resin recalled him to
himself, and it required but a moment for him to remember the
accident which had befallen him. For a time he scarcely dared to
stir, fearing that he might pitch headlong over some precipice. He
felt of his face and hands, but could detect nothing like blood.
The boy had received quite a number of severe bruises, however, and
when he ventured to stir there were sharp, stinging pains in his
shoulders, neck and legs.

“Thank God I am alive!” was his fervent ejaculation,
after he had taken his inventory. “But I don’t know
where I am or how I can get back again. I wonder what has become of
the torch.”

He could find nothing of his flambeau, although he was confident
that it was near at hand. Fred believed that he had fallen about
twenty feet, striking upon his chest and shoulders. At this
juncture, he thought of the wolf which had drawn him into the
mishap, and he turned his head so suddenly to look for him that the
sharp pain in his neck caused him to cry out. But nothing of the
beast was to be seen.

“Maybe he went over here ahead of me, and got
killed,” he thought; “but I don’t think that can
be, for a wolf is a good deal spryer than a boy can be, and he
wouldn’t have tumbled down as I did.”

Fred recollected that he had several matches about him, and he
carefully struck one upon the rock beside him. The tiny flame
showed that he had stumbled into a rocky pit. It was a dozen feet
in length, some three or four in width, and, when he stood erect,
his head was level with the surface of the ground above. In
consequence, it would be a very easy matter for him to climb out
whenever he chose to do so; but above all things he was desirous of
regaining his torch. Just as the match between his fingers burned
out, he caught sight of it, lying a short distance away.

“It’s queer what became of that wolf,” he said
to himself, as he recovered the precious fagot and painfully
climbed up out of the pit. “Maybe he thought I was killed,
and went off to tell the rest of his friends, so that they can all
have a feast over me. I must fire up the torch as soon as I can,
for I’m likely to need it.”

This did not prove a very difficult matter, on account of the
fatness of the torch, which ignited readily, and quickly spread
into the same thick, smoking flame as before. But Fred noted that
it was about half burned up, and he could not expect it to hold out
many hours longer, as it had already done good service.

“I wish I could see the wolf again,” he said to
himself, looking longingly around in the darkness, “for I
believe he entered the cave somewhere near here, and it was a great
pity that I had the accident just at the moment I was about to
learn all about it.”

He moved carefully about the cave, and soon found that he had
reached the furtherest limit. Less than twenty feet away it
terminated, the jagged walls shutting down, and offering an
impassable barrier to any further progress in that direction.

All that he could do, after completing his search, was to turn
back in quest of his friend Mickey. The belief that he was in the
immediate neighborhood of the outlet delayed the lad’s return
until he could assure himself that it was impossible to find that
for which he was hunting, and which had been the means of his
wandering so far away from camp.

Fred occupied fully an hour in the search. Here and there he
observed scratches upon the surface of the rocks in some places. He
was confident that they had been made by the feet of the wolves;
but in spite of these encouraging signs, he was baffled in his main
purpose, and how the visitor made his way in and out of the cave
remained an impenetrable mystery.

“Too bad, too bad!” he muttered, with a great sigh.
“I shall have to give it up, after all. I only wish Mickey
was here to help me. I will call to him, so that he will be sure to
hear.”

As has been intimated in another place, the two friends had a
code of signals understood by both. When they were separated by
quite a distance, and one wished to draw the other to him, he had a
way of placing two of his fingers against his tongue, and emitting
a shrill screech which might well be taken for the scream of a
locomotive whistle, so loud and piercing was its character.

When the lad uttered his signal, he was startled by the result.
A hundred echoes were awakened within the cavern, and the uproar
fairly deafened him. It seemed to him that ten thousand little imps
were perched all around the cavern, with their fingers thrust in
their mouths, waiting for him to start the tumult, when they joined
in, with an effect that was overwhelming and overpowering.

“Good gracious!” he gasped, “I never heard
anything like that. I thought all the rocks were going to tumble
down upon my head, and I believe some must have been
loosened.”

He looked apprehensively at the dark, jagged points overhead.
But they were as grim and motionless as they had been during the
many long years that had rolled over them.

“Mickey must have heard that, if he is anywhere within
twenty miles,” he concluded.

But, if such was the case, he sent back no answering signal, as
was his invariable custom, when that of his friend reached him.
Fred listened long and attentively, but caught no reply.

“I guess I’ll have to try it again,” he added,
with a mingled laugh and shudder. “I think these walls can
stand a little more such serenading.”

He threw his whole soul in the effort, and the screeching
whistle that he sent out was frightful, followed, as it was, by the
innumerable echoes. It seemed as if the walls took up the wave of
sound as if it were a foot-ball and hurled it back and forth, from
side to side, and up and down, in furious sport. The dread of
losing his torch alone prevented the lad from throwing it down and
clapping his hands to his ears, to shut out the horrid din. Some of
the distant echoes, coming in after the others were exhausted, gave
an odd, dropping character to the volleys of sound.

Had the expected reply of Mickey been the same as the call to
him, the lad would have been deceived thereby, for the echoes, as
will be understood, were precisely the same as answering whistles,
uttered in the same manner. But Fred understood that, if the
Irishman heard him, he would reply with a series of short signals,
such as are heard on some railroads when danger is detected. But
none such came, and he knew, therefore, that the ears which he
intended to reach were not reached at all.

“I don’t understand that,” he mused,
perplexedly, “unless he’s asleep yet. When I left him,
it didn’t seem as though he’d wake up in a week.
Perhaps he can hear me better if I shout.”

A similar racket was produced when the boy strained his lungs,
but his straining ear could detect no other result. It never once
occurred to Fred that he and his friend were separated by such a
distance that they could not communicate by sound or signal. And
yet such was the case, he having traveled much further than he
suspected.

Having been forced to the disheartening conclusion that it was
impossible to find the outlet by which the wolf had escaped, Fred
had but one course left. That was, to find his way back to the
camp-fire in the shortest time and by the best means at his
command. If the mountain would not go to Mohammed, then Mohammed
would have to go to the mountain.

The lad began to feel that a great deal of responsibility was on
his shoulders. The remembrance of Mickey O’Rooney going to
sleep was alarming to him. He looked upon him as one regards a
sentinel who sinks into slumber when upon duty. Knowing the cunning
of the redskins, Fred feared that they would discover the fact, and
descend into the cave in such numbers that escape would be out of
the question.

And then again, suppose that their enemies did not disturb them,
what was to be their fate? The venison in the possession of the
Irishman could not last a great deal longer, and, when that was
gone, no means of obtaining food would be left. What were the two
prisoners then to do?

Mickey had hinted to Fred what his intention was, but the lad
felt very little faith in its success. It appeared like throwing
life away to make such a foolhardy attempt to reach the outside as
diving into a stream of water from which there was no withdrawal,
and the length of whose flow beneath the rock could only be
conjectured, with all the chances against success. But Fred
recalled in what a marked manner Providence had favored him in the
past, and he could but feel a strong faith that He would still hold
him in his remembrance. “I wouldn’t have believed I
could go through all that I have had in the last few days; and yet
God remembered me, and I am sure He will not forget me so long as I
try to do His will.”

On the eve of starting he fancied he heard a slight rustling on
his right, and he paused, hoping that the wolf would show himself
again; but he could not discern anything, and concluded that it was
the dropping of a stone or fragment of earth. The lad was further
pleased to find, upon examination, that the revolver in his
possession was uninjured by his fall. In short, the only one that
had received any injuries was himself, and his were not of a
serious character, being simply bruises, the effects of which would
wear off in a short time.

“I hate to leave here without seeing that wolf,” he
said, as he stood hesitating, with his torch in hand. “He may
be sneaking somewhere among these rocks, popping in and out
whenever he has a chance; and if I could only get another sight of
him, I would stick to him till he told me his secret.”

He awaited awhile longer, but the hope was an illusive one, and
he finally started on his return to camp.

Chapter III.

Strange Experiences.

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Contents

Young Munson was destined to learn ultimately that he had
undertaken an impossible task. The hunter, in the flush and
excitement attending the pursuit of game, can form no correct idea
of the distance passed, and so he, in attempting to run the shadowy
wolf to earth, had traveled twice as far as he supposed. The case
is altogether different when the hunter starts to return. It is
then that the furlongs become miles, and the wearied pursuer feels
disgusted with the enthusiasm which led him so far away from
headquarters.

When the lad was certain that he had labored far enough on the
back track to take him fully to the camp-fire, he really had not
gone more than one-half the distance. Worse than this, he saw, from
the nature of the ground, that he was “off soundings.”
Several times he was forced to leap over openings, or rents,
similar to that into which he had stumbled, and the broadening out
of the cave made it out of his power to confine his path to
anything like reasonable limits. The appearance of unexpected
obstructions directly in his way compelled numerous detours, with
the inevitable result of disarranging the line he intended to
pursue, and causing his course to be a zigzag one of the most
marked character.

There were no landmarks to afford him the least guidance. In
short, he was like the ill-fated steamer caught on a dangerous
coast by an impenetrable fog, where no observations can be made,
and the captain is compelled to “go it blind.” He was
forcibly reminded of this difficulty by unexpectedly finding
himself face to face with the side of the cavern. When he thought
that he was pursuing the right direction, here was evidence that he
was at least going at right angles, and, to all intents and
purposes, he might as well have been going in exactly the opposite
course.

“Well, things are getting mixed,” he exclaimed, more
amused than frightened at this discovery. “I never tramped
over such a place before, and if I ever get out of this, I’ll
never try it again.”

But there was little cause for mirth, and when he had struggled
an hour longer, something like despair began to creep into his
heart. Worse than all, he became aware that his torch was nearly
exhausted, and, under the most favorable circumstances, could not
last more than an hour longer.

While toiling in this manner, he had continued to signal to
Mickey in his usual manner, but with no other result than that of
awakening the same deafening din of echoes. By this time he was
utterly worn out. He had been traveling for hours, or, rather,
working, for nearly every step was absolute labor, so precipitous
was the ground and so frequent were his detours. He had
accomplished nothing. When he expected to find himself in the
immediate vicinity of the campfire, there were no signs of it, and
the loudest shout he could make to his friend brought no reply.

This fact filled the mind of Fred with a hundred misgivings. He
had given up the belief that it was possible for Mickey to remain
asleep all this time. He was sure the night had passed, and, great
as was the capacity of the Irishman in the way of slumber, he could
not remain unconscious all the time. And then nothing seemed more
probable than that he was placed for ever beyond the power of
response. If a dozen Indians quietly let themselves down through
the opening during the darkness of the night, they could easily
discover the sleeping figure, and dispatch him before he could make
any kind of resistance.

It was this fear of the Indians being in the cave that made the
lad apprehensive every time he gave utterance to his signals. He
believed they were as likely to reach the ears of the Apaches as
those of Mickey, and his faith of the extraordinary shrewdness of
those people was such that he did not doubt but that, by some means
or other, they would learn the true signal with which to reply. As
yet, however, no such attempt had been made, so far as his ears
informed him, but his misgivings were none the less on that
account. What was the use of their taking the trouble to answer
when he was walking directly into their hands? There was a
cowering, shrinking sensation from his own noise, caused by the
expectation that a half-dozen crouching figures would leap up and
swoop down upon him.

The darkness remained impenetrable, and, as Fred toiled forward,
he was continually recalling the words of Byron, which he had read
frequently when at school, and had learned to recite for his
father. He found himself repeating them, and there was no doubt
that he realized more vividly than do boys generally of his age the
meaning of the author:

Such fancies as these were not calculated to make him feel
particularly comfortable while carrying the torch. Such a person in
such a situation makes an especially inviting target of himself,
and, although Fred dreaded to see it burn itself out, when the
chances were that he was likely to be in sore need of the same, yet
he had wrought himself up to such a pitch that he more than once
meditated extinguishing it altogether, with the purpose of putting
himself on an equality with those of his enemies who might be
prowling in the night around him.

“I wonder whether Mickey would be more likely to hear my
pistol than a shout or whistle?” he said, as he drew the
weapon from his belt and held it up to inspect it in the light of
the flaring torch. “It seems to be all right, although
there’s no telling how long since it has been loaded. Here
goes.”

With this, he pointed the muzzle toward the cavern and pulled
the trigger.

The response was as prompt as though he had charged the chamber
but a short time before, proving not only that the weapon was of
the best quality, but that the ammunition was equally so, and the
slight moisture that characterized the atmosphere of the cave had
not been sufficient to injure the charge. It seemed as if he had
fired a cannon, the echoes rolling, doubling, and repeating on
themselves in the most bewildering and terrifying fashion.

Fred could not understand how it was that such a pandemonium of
sound could escape filling the subterranean world from one end to
the other, and so he sat down on a ledge of rock to listen for some
reply from his friend.

It was several seconds before the trickeries of nature, in the
way of echoes, terminated and matters settled down to their natural
quiet. And then, when quiet came again, it was like that of a
tomb—deep, profound, and impressive. The bent and listening
ear could detect nothing that could be supposed to resemble the
noise of the cascade, which had excited his wonder when he was
stretched out upon the ground directly above it.

“This must be about forty miles round,” he said to
himself, when he had waited for the reply until convinced that it
was not forthcoming, “and I have strayed away
altogether.”

The luxury of rest was so great, after his long, wearying toil,
that he concluded that he might as well spend a half hour in that
fashion as in any other. The echoes and pains of his bruises had
departed,—or, more properly, perhaps they were consolidated
with the aches and pains following upon the overtaxing of his
limbs.

“Oh, dear! How tired I am!” he sighed, as he
stretched out his limbs. “It seems to me that I won’t
be able to walk again for a week. I must rest awhile.”

His fatigue was so great that he was not conscious of any desire
for food or rest.

“Maybe I will need that torch more after a time than I do
now,” he added, as he looked listlessly at it. “It
seems good for a half hour yet, and I don’t want it.”
With this he thrust the burning end in the sand at his feet, and
held it there until it was entirely extinguished, and he was
wrapped again in the same impenetrable darkness. So far as
possible, he had become accustomed to this dreadful state of
affairs. He had been viewing and breathing the atmospheric
blackness for many hours, although it may be doubted whether one
who had spent so much of his life in the sunshine could ever become
accustomed to the total deprivation of it.

Fred had assumed an easy position, where he could lay his head
back, and, straightening out his legs, he made up his mind to enjoy
the rest which he needed so badly. When a lad is thoroughly and
completely tired, it is difficult for him to think of anything
else; and although, while walking, the fugitive was tormented by
all manner of wild fancies and fears, yet when his efforts ceased,
something like a reaction followed, and he sighed for rest, content
to wait until he should be forced to face the difficulties
again.

When he closed his eyes all sorts of lights danced before him,
and strange, indescribable noises filled the air. It seemed that
impish figures were frolicking all around, sometimes grinning in
his face, and then skurrying far away through the aisles of the
gloom. At last he slept. The slumber was sweet and dreamless,
carrying him through the entire night, and affording him the very
rest and refreshment which he so sorely needed.

This sleep was nearly completed when Fred was aroused by some
animal licking his face. He arose with a start of exclamation and
terror, and the animal growled and darted back several feet. A pair
of gleaming eyes flashed in the darkness—the same pair which
he had seen before. The wolf had come back to him.

Fred drew his revolver with the purpose of giving him a shot,
when he reflected that it would be wisdom not to kill the animal
until he was forced to do it in self defense. So he shoved the
weapon back in its place, where it could be seized at a
moment’s warning, and sat still. In a few moments the wolf
ventured softly up to him, and preparing to begin his feast. The
boy, yielding to a strange whim, threw out his arms and made a grab
at him.

The affrighted creature made a leap to escape the embrace, and
Fred grasped his tail with both hands. This made the wolf wild with
terror, and away he leaped. The boy hung on, running with might and
main in his efforts to keep up. The brute, not knowing what he had
in tow, was only intent upon getting away, and he plunged ahead as
furiously as if a blazing torch was tied to his tail. Fred was
fully imbued with the “spirit of the occasion,” and
resolved not to part company with his guide, unless the caudal
appendage should detach itself from its owner. The wolf was
naturally much more fleet of foot, but his efforts of speed only
increased that of the lad, who, still clinging to his support,
labored with might and main.

Away, away they went!

Now he was down on his knees; then clambering up again; then
banging against the rocks—still onward, until he found
himself flat on his face, still holding to his support, while the
wolf was clutching and clawing to get away. They were in such a
narrow passage way that Fred could not rise. Unclasping one hand,
he held on with the other, while he worked along after him. For a
long time this savage scratching, struggling and toiling continued,
and then, all at once, Fred was dazzled by the overpowering flood
of light.

He had escaped from the cave in the mountain, and was in the
outside world again.

Chapter IV.

Sunlight and Hope.

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Contents

By clinging to the tail of the terrified wolf, Fred Munson had
been assisted, dragged, and pulled from the Cimmerian gloom of the
mountain cave into the glorious sunlight again. When the glare of
light burst upon him, he let go of the queer aid to freedom, and
the mystified animal skurried away with increased speed.

For a time the lad was so dazed and bewildered that he scarcely
comprehended his good fortune. His eyes had been totally
unaccustomed to light for so long a time that the retina was
overpowered by the sudden flood of it and required time to
accommodate itself to the new order of things. A few minutes were
sufficient. And then, when he looked about and saw that he was
indeed outside of the cave which had been such an appalling prison
to him, Fred was fairly wild with joy.

It was all he could do to restrain himself from shouting,
whooping and hurrahing at the top of his voice. It was only the
recollection that there were a number of Apaches near at hand that
sufficed to keep his voice toned down. But he danced and swung his
arms, and threw himself here and there in a way that would have
made a spectator certain that he was hilariously crazy. Not until
he was thoroughly used up did he consent to pause and take a
breathing spell. Then he gasped out, as well as he could, during
his hurried breathing:

“Thank the good Lord! I knew He would not forget me. He
let me hunt around for a while, long enough to make me feel I
couldn’t do anything, and then He stepped in. The wolf came.
I didn’t think I could make anything out of him, but I
grabbed his tail. I held on and here I am. Thank the good Lord
again.”

When able to control himself still further, Fred made a survey
of his surroundings. In the first place, he observed that the
forenoon was only fairly under way, the sun having risen just high
enough to be visible. The sky was clear of clouds and the day
promised to be a beautiful one, without being oppressively
warm.

“It is strange that I could not find the opening when the
wolf scampered straight to it.”

However, he did not stop to puzzle over the matter. It was
sufficient to know and feel that he was back again in the busy,
bustling world, saved from being buried in a living tomb.

An examination of the point where he had debouched from these
Plutonian regions showed Fred that he was considerably below the
general regions of the earth. He was in a sort of valley,
surrounded by rocks and boulders, and the opening through which he
had scrambled was situated sidewise, so that at a distance of ten
feet it could not be seen. This accounted for the fact that none of
the Indians knew any other means of ingress and egress excepting
the opening in the roof of the cave. It was almost impossible to
discover, except by accident or long continued and systematic
search.

Fred’s next thought was regarding Mickey O’Rooney,
and he questioned himself as to the best means of reaching him, and
assisting him to the same remarkably good fortune which had
attended himself. The immediate suggestion, naturally, was to
re-enter the cave and, after hunting up his old friend, conduct
Mickey to the outer world, but it required only brief deliberation
to convince him of the utter folly of such an attempt. In the first
place, should he re-enter the cave, he would be lost again, not
knowing in what direction to turn to find his friend and entirely
unable to communicate with him by signal, as had been their custom
when separated and looking for each other. Should he venture away
from the tunnel to renew his search, it was scarcely possible that
he could find his way back again. He would not only lose Mickey,
but he would lose himself, with not the remotest chance of finding
his way into the outer world again. So it was clearly apparent
that, having been delivered from prison, it would not do for him to
go back under any circumstances. He must remain where he was, and
whatever assistance he could render his friend, must be given from
the outside. How was this to be done?

To begin with, he felt the necessity of getting out of the
circumscribing valley and of taking his bearings. He wished to
learn where the opening through which he had fallen was situated.
It was no difficult matter to work his way upward until he found
himself up on a level with the main plateau. There, his view,
although broken and interrupted in many directions, was quite
extended in others, and his eye roamed over a large extent of that
broken section of the country. He was utterly unable to recognize
anything he saw, but he was confident that he was no great distance
from the spot for which he was searching. It was only through the
entrance that he could hold communication with Mickey, whenever the
way should be left clear for him to do so. But he was fully mindful
of the necessity for caution in every movement.

It was not to be supposed that the Apaches, having struck what
might be called a gold-mine, intended to abandon it at the very
time the richest of results were promised. And so, after long
deliberation, the boy decided upon the direction in which the
opening lay, and he made toward a small peak from which, in case
his calculations were correct, he knew he would see it. Strange to
say, his reckoning was correct in this instance; and when he
stealthily made his way to the elevation and looked down over the
slope, he saw the clump of bushes covering the
“skylight,” not more than a hundred yards distant.

He saw something else, which was not quite so pleasant. Six
Apache warriors were guarding the same entrance.

“I wonder if they think Mickey expects to make a jump up
through there!” was the thought which came to Fred, as he
peered down upon the savages, and counted them over several times.
“I don’t see what they are to gain by waiting there,
unless they mean to go down pretty soon.”

He could not be too careful in the vicinity of such characters,
and, stretching out flat upon his face, he peeped over the top,
taking the precaution first to remove his cap, and then to permit
no more of his head than was indispensable to appear above the
surface. The six redskins were lounging in as many different lazy
attitudes. One seemed sound asleep, with his face turned to the
ground, and looking like a warrior that had fallen from some
balloon, and, striking on his stomach, lay just as he was flattened
out. Another was half-sitting and half-reclining, smoking a pipe
with a very long stem. His face was directly toward Fred, who
noticed that his eyes were cast downward, as though he were gazing
into the bowl of his pipe, while Fred could plainly see the ugly
lips, as they parted at intervals and emitted their pulls in a
fashion as indolent as that of some wealthy Turk. A third was
seated a little further off, examining his rifle, which he had
probably injured in some way, and which occupied his attention to
the exclusion of everything else.

The bushes surrounding the opening had been torn away, although
it was difficult to conceive what the Indians expected to
accomplish by such an act, as it only served to make them plainer
targets to the Irishman, whenever he chose to crack away from
below.

The remaining trio of Apaches were occupied in some way with the
cavern. They were stretched out upon the ground, with their heads
close to the orifice, down which they seemed to be peering, and
doing something, the nature of which the lad could not even
guess.

“That don’t look as though they had caught
Mickey,” he muttered, with a feeling of inexpressible relief;
“for, if they had, they wouldn’t be loafing around
there.”

Nothing of their horses could be seen, although he knew they
must have a number of them somewhere in the neighborhood. An Apache
or Comanche without his mustang would be like a soldier in battle
without weapons.

“I’d like to find them,” thought Fred,
lowering his head, and looking back of him. “I’d take
one and start all the others away, and then there would be
fun.”

The lad had it in his power to take an important step toward his
return to his friends. Nothing was more likely than that a little
search through the immediate neighborhood would discover the
mustangs of his enemies, which, as a matter of course, were
unguarded, the owners anticipating no trouble from any such source.
Mounted upon the fleetest of prairie rangers, it would not require
long to reach the open country, when he could speed away
homeward.

But to do this required the abandonment of his friend, Mickey
O’Rooney, who would not have been within the cavern at that
minute but for his efforts to rescue him from the same prison. It
was hard to tell in what way the lad expected to benefit him by
staying, and yet nothing would have persuaded him to do
otherwise.

“I may get a chance to do something for him, and if I
should be gone and never see him again, I should blame myself
forever. So I’ll wait here and watch.”

The three redskins on the edge of the opening remained occupied
with something, but the curiosity of the lad continued unsatisfied
until one of them raised up and moved backward several steps. Then
Fred saw that he had a lasso in his hand, and was drawing it up
from the cave. He pulled it up with one hand, while he caught and
looped it with the other, until he had nearly a score of the coils
in his grasp. This could not have been the cord which held the
blanket when the shot of Mickey O’Rooney cut it and let the
bundle drop, for that was much smaller, while this was sufficient
to bear a weight of several hundred pounds, it having been used to
lasso the fleet-footed and powerful mustangs of the prairies.

“They’ve been fishing with it,” concluded the
youngster; “but I don’t believe that Mickey would bite.
What are they going to do now?”

After drawing up the rope, the whole half dozen Apaches seemed
to become very attentive. They gathered in a group and began
discussing matters in their earnest fashion, gesticulating and
grunting so loud that Fred distinctly heard them from where he lay.
This discussion, however, speedily resulted in action.

Another of the blankets already described was very artistically
doubled and folded into the resemblance of a man, and then the
lasso was attached to it. The Apaches experimented with it for
several minutes before putting it to the test, but at last
everything was satisfactory, and it was launched. The aborigines
seemed to comprehend what the trouble was with the other, and they
avoided repeating the error.

When they began cautiously lowering the bundle, the six gathered
as close to the margin as was prudent to await the result. Their
interest was intense, for they had mapped out their programme, and
much depended upon the result of this venture. But among the half
dozen there was no one who was more nervously interested than Fred
Munson, who felt that the fate of Mickey O’Rooney was
trembling in the balance.

Chapter V.

Mining and Countermining

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Contents

Fred expected every moment to catch the dull crack of the rifle
from the subterranean regions as a signal that Mickey
O’Rooney had neither closed his eyes to the impending peril,
nor had given way to despair at the trying position in which he was
placed. But the stillness remained unbroken, while the lasso was
steadily paid out by the dusky hands of the swarthy warrior, whose
motions were closely watched by the others.

Lower and lower it descended as the coils lying at his knees
were steadily unwound, until the disturbed lad was certain the
bottom of the cavern was nearly reached, and still all was silent
as the tomb.

“I’m sure I would hear his gun if he fired
it,” he said, worried and distressed by what was taking place
before his eyes; “and if I did not, I could tell by the way
they acted whenever he pulled trigger. What can he be
doing?”

The lad thought it possible that his friend was absent in some
distant part of the cave hunting for him, and was, therefore,
totally unaware of the flank movement that was under way. It could
not be that he was still asleep; he had no fears on that score. It
might be, too, that the Irishman had arrived at the conclusion that
the situation had grown so desperate as to warrant him in the
dernier resorte he had fixed upon. If such was the case,
then, as Mickey himself might have said, “the jig was
up.”

Two or three coils still remained upon the ground when the
Apache stopped lowering the lasso, and, looking in the faces of his
companions, said something.

“It has either reached the bottom of the cave, or else
Mickey has fired at it,” said Fred, who became more excited
than ever.

He had caught no sound resembling a shot, and he concluded that
it must be the former, as was really the case. In a few seconds the
Indian began drawing up the lasso again, and a short time
thereafter the roll of blanket was brought to the surface. It was
carefully examined by all the group. The dirt on it proved that it
had rested on the bottom of the cave, but there were no marks to
show that it had received any attention at the hands of any one
there.

There were grunts of pleasure, as this fact was gathered by the
redskins. The experiments had been satisfactory and they were
prepared to venture upon the more dangerous and decisive
one—the one which they intended should bring matters to a
focus.

Fred was in doubt what this plan was to be until he saw the
blanket unfolded and as carefully wrapped around the form of one of
the Apaches, encasing him from head to foot. Great pains were taken
to hide his head and feet from view, the warrior lying upon his
back, and suffering himself to be “done up” with as
much thoroughness as if he were a choice sample of dry-goods.
Viewed from a disinterested stand-point, the wonder was how he was
to breathe in such wrappings.

“They have tried the blanket, and finding that was not
disturbed, they’re going to send down one of their number,
thinking that if Mickey does see it he’ll believe it is the
same blanket, and won’t fire at it, because he didn’t
fire at the other.”

It looked very venturesome upon the part of the warrior thus to
enter the lion’s den. But while, as a rule, the Indians of
the Southwest are treacherous and cowardly, there are occasional
instances in which they show an intrepidity equal to that of the
most daring white scouts.

When everything was arranged to the satisfaction of all, three
of the most stalwart Apaches braced themselves, with the lasso
grasped between them, while a fourth carefully piloted the body
over the edge of the opening, and began slowly lowering it to the
bottom.

The bravest man, placed in the position of the enwrapped redskin
could not have avoided some tremor, when he knew that he was
hanging in midair, in plain view of the rifleman who had separated
the thong which supported the blanket in the first attempt. The
Indian must have experienced strange emotions; but if he did, he
gave no evidence. He remained as passive as a log, his purpose
being to imitate the appearance of the first bundle.

“Now, if Mickey let’s that go down without sending a
bullet through it, he hasn’t got one half the sense that I
think he has.”

Fred was hasty and impatient at the seeming success which marked
everything that the red-skins undertook. He looked and listened for
some evidence that the Irishman was “there;” but no
dull, subterranean report told him of the fatal rifle-shot, while
the three Apaches continued steadily lowering their comrade with as
much coolness and deliberation as if not the slightest particle of
danger threatened. Minute after minute passed, and the lad was in
deep despair. It could not be, he was compelled to think, that
Mickey O’Rooney was anywhere in the vicinity. He must be a
long distance away, searching for his young friend, not knowing,
and, perhaps, not caring about the Apaches. He might consider that,
within the darkness of the cave, they all had an equal advantage,
and he could hold his own against each and every one. There was no
denying that the defender had a vast advantage over those who might
come into his “castle,” provided he was really aware of
their movements, but it was this doubt that caused the boy his
uneasiness.

“He must be near the bottom,” he concluded, when
this paying-out process had continued some minutes longer, and he
thought he saw very little of the lasso left.

Such was the fact. Only a few seconds more passed, when there
was a general loosening up on the part of the redskins, as in the
case of men who have just finished a laborious job. They looked
into each others faces, and there were guttural exclamations, as if
they were congratulating themselves upon what had been
accomplished.

“And, now, what next?” asked the disgusted watcher.
“Good luck seems to go with everything they undertake, and I
suppose they’ll bring Mickey up by the heels.”

But such was not the sequel, and probably not the expectation of
the Apaches. They had succeeded in planting a man in the breach,
and their purpose was to follow him, as they speedily proved. The
behavior of the group around the opening showed that the Indians
were holding communication with their ally below, probably by a
system of signals with the lasso, such as the man in the
diving-bell employs when below the surface. These, too, must have
been satisfactory, for, in a very brief time thereafter, the
decisive operations were taken up and continued.

There was considerable of the lasso still left above
ground—more than Fred imagined—and this was secured
about a jutting point in a rock near at hand. It was fixed so
immovably that it could not fail. “I wonder if they mean to
roll that thing in upon Mickey’s head, or what is
it?”

They speedily showed what their intentions were. In less than a
minute after the lasso was fastened, one of the Apaches caught hold
of it and slid down through the opening so rapidly, that it looked
as if he had lost his hold and dropped out of sight. A second did
precisely the same thing; then a third, fourth and fifth, until
only one warrior was left above ground.

“Oh! I hope he’ll go,” whispered Fred to
himself; “and then I can do something big.”

But the Apaches had evidently concluded that it would be an
imprudent arrangement not to leave any of their friends on
guard—not because they expected any interference from outside
parties, but to provide against accident. If the lasso should fail
them at a critical moment, they would be in a bad predicament, cut
off from all means of getting out, as the skylight was the only
avenue known to them, while, if a comrade remained above, all such
danger would be escaped. Their purpose had been to send the five
warriors down into the cave to attend to the case of the parties
there.

The redskins were now down below and the whole thing was put in
shape for operations to begin. All that remained was to find their
man, and Fred could not tell what the prospects of success were in
that direction; but he was almost ready to believe that they were
all that the Indians could ask. The sixth Apache, who remained
visible, took matters very comfortably. He stretched himself flat
upon the ground, with his head hanging almost in the opening, so
that he could catch every sound that came up from below. It was
plain that he expected to be called upon to render important
service, and he did not intend to let a signal escape him.

The hour that succeeded made little change in the situation. The
action of this redskin showed that he occasionally received and
sent messages—most probably by the subterranean
telegraph—but he shifted his position very little. While he
was thus engaged, Fred Munson was intently occupied with another
scheme, and he had speedily wrought himself into a high pitch of
excitement.

“I believe I can do it,” he muttered, more than
once, as he revolved the desperate scheme in his mind; but,
whatever his plan was, he waited in the hope that fortune would
appear more propitious.

When the Apache had sat thus for some time, he changed his
position. He had been lying with his side toward the lad, but now
he sat up, with his back to him, and as close to the edge of the
opening as was prudent, while he held the lasso in his hand, like
the fisherman on the bank of a stream, who patiently waits and is
sensitive to the slightest nibbling at the other end of his
line.

He had scarcely settled himself in this position when Fred
Munson changed his own. Rising from the ground where he had lain so
long, he stepped over the ridge, and advanced directly toward the
redskin, who harbored no suspicion that there was any of his race
in his neighborhood. The plan the lad had resolved upon required
nerve, resolution and quickness. He stepped as lightly as was
consistent with speed until he had passed half the distance, when
he began to slacken his gait and to proceed with greater caution
than ever.

All depended upon his ability to keep from being heard or
detected. Of course, he had no wish to engage in a fight with one
of these fierce warriors, but he was prepared, even for that. His
hand rested upon the hilt of his revolver, so that he could whip it
out at an instant’s warning and discharge it, as he meant to
do if necessary.

It was while he was yet some distance from the redskin that Fred
felt that his position was one of frightful peril. His foe had his
rifle within easy reach, and, if he turned too soon, he could pick
off his young assailant before he should arrive within striking
distance,—but each moment raised the hopes of the lad.

Chapter VI.

A Daring Exploit.

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Contents

A veteran Comanche warrior could not have advanced with greater
skill than did young Munson approach the unconscious Apache. The
warriors who had taken this little business in hand seemed to have
cleared away the treacherous ground surrounding the opening, so
that it was not likely to give way beneath their weight, even when
they advanced close to the edge. The single redskin who remained
seemed to have shifted his position more for the purpose of
relieving himself from his cramped posture than anything else.

He was standing erect, about a foot away from the edge, with the
lasso in both hands, looking down into the cavern of gloom below,
listening and watching, with the sense of touch also on the alert.
His blanket and rifle lay at one side, out of the way, but where
they could be reached at a single leap, if necessary. The end of
the lasso was still fastened to the rock, but the savage held it
loosely, so that the slightest twitch upon it would become known to
him on the instant.

It is not often that an Indian can be taken off the guard. Years
of danger have made the senses of the savages preternaturally
acute, and they are as distant as the timid antelope of the plains.
But, for all that, there was a boy within a dozen yards of a
swarthy warrior whose senses were on the alert, and yet had failed
to detect his proximity.

Fred gazed upon him with the fixed intensity of the jungle tiger
stealing upon his prey. With his right hand resting upon the hilt
of his revolver, he never removed his eyes from the muscular figure
of the Apache, bending over the entrance to the cavern.

“Shall I shoot, or push him over?”

“SHALL I SHOOT OR PUSH HIM OVER?”

This was the question the lad kept revolving in his mind, as he
advanced step by step. With the pistol he could bury two or three
balls in the body of the redskin before he could suspect where they
came from, and thus completely clear the path before him. But there
were doubts in the way. The revolver might miss fire, in which case
all hope would be gone. In a hand-to-hand tussle the Apache would
be more than a match for a dozen such lads. True, the weapon had
not failed when he pulled the trigger in the cave, but there was no
certainty that it would not do so when he most needed it.

Then, too, he felt a natural repugnance against stealing upon a
foe in this fashion, and shooting him in the back. It had a
cowardly look, even when certain that the threatened party would
have done precisely the same thing, had the opportunity come in his
way.

“I will push him over, if he don’t make me shoot
him.”

But to do this necessitated a much closer approach. He must
literally be within “striking distance.” Could he place
himself there without discovery? If the redskin were asleep, or if
his mind was occupied with something of a different nature, or if
there were some extraneous noise, the case would be different. The
blowing of the wind, the murmur of a waterfall (such as Fred had
heard when lying upon the ground in the same spot) would have been
a most fortunate diversion. But there was nothing of the kind.
There was a dead calm, not a breath of air stirring, and the day
was hot.

Fred had approached within twenty feet, and still the Apache did
not stir. How vivid and indelibly his appearance was impressed upon
the vision of the boy! He could never forget it. The redskin,
although of powerful build, was anything but pleasing in
appearance, even when viewed from the rear.

His blanket being thrown aside, he was naked, with the exception
of a breech-cloth. His feet were of large size, encased in shabby
moccasins, while frowsy leggins dangled between the knee and ankle.
His body, from the breech-cloth to the shoulders, was splashed and
daubed with a half dozen kinds of paint, while his black, thin hair
straggled about his shoulders and was smeared in the same fashion.
Like most of the Indians of the Southwest, he wore no scalp-lock,
but allowed his hair to hang like a woman’s, not even
permitting it to be gathered with a band, nor ornamenting it with
the customary stained eagle-feathers. His arms were also bare, with
the exception of the wrists, around which were tied bracelets,
which, no doubt, he considered very attractive. The boy could fancy
what a repulsive face he possessed.

Step by step, inch by inch, the young hero made his way, his
eyes fixed upon the savage with a burning intensity, until it
seemed that he would burn him through and through. And the Apache
heard him not, although they were no more than ten feet apart.

“He will hear the thumping of my heart,” was the
constant fear of the boy.

Slowly lifting one foot, he put in on the ground as softly as if
it were held in a slipper of eiderdown. He was treading upon a thin
growth of grass, interspersed plentifully with gravel, but he never
once looked to see what he was stepping upon. Indeed, he could not
remove his eyes from the one central figure of his thoughts and
vision.

One obstruction, no matter how slight—the turning of a
pebble, a slip, even the most trivial, and the Apache would turn
like lightning, and be upon him in a flash. Two more steps were
taken, and only eight feet separated the lad and the Indian, and
still the latter remained all unconscious of what was going on.
Fred’s heart was throbbing violently, but he retained control
of himself. He felt that the critical moment was close at hand. A
slight advance more, and the attempt was to be made.

He grasped the handle of the revolver more firmly than ever, but
he raised his foot for another step, feeling that the distance was
still too great. At this juncture the Indian moved!

He stepped one pace backward directly toward the boy, and he
looked up and away. But not behind him. The glance was a mere
casual one. He had heard nothing, and he expected to see nothing,
when he looked off in the manner mentioned.

The Apache remained standing in this attitude for a minute. Then
he stepped forward and resumed his former position on the edge of
the opening, still clinging to the lasso, as if in constant
expectation of some signal.

During this little episode Fred remained as motionless as if
cast in bronze. His eyes were still centred upon the Indian, and he
partially drew his revolver from the girdle he wore about his body,
with the expectation of using it. But when his foe gave his
attention to the cave below, the lad softly shoved the weapon back
in its place, and again raised his foot.

The movement was slow and painful, but it was accomplished
successfully. Only a single step more remained to place him where
he wanted to be. That taken, and one bound was all that he needed
to make. Finally, and for the last time during the advance, the
right foot ascended from the ground, was poised for a few seconds
in the air, and then came down with the same care as before. But it
touched a loose pebble which turned with the lightest imaginable
noise.

As quick as a flash the Apache raised his head, looked in front,
and then darted his vision from left to right, when his keen eyes
detected something crouching behind him.

At the very instant of the discovery, Fred concentrated all his
energies in one effort, and bounded forward like a catapult. The
distance was precisely what it should have been, and, as he threw
out his hands, he struck the Indian squarely in the back with the
whole momentum of the body. In fact, the daring boy nearly overdid
the matter. He not only came near driving the Apache to the other
side of the opening, but he came equally near plunging himself down
it. As it was, the victim, taken completely off his guard, was
thrown against the other side, where his wonderful dexterity
enabled him to throw out his hands and check his downward
descent.

Fred, after his narrow escape from going down into the cave,
scrambled back to his place, and saw the Indian struggling upon the
opposite side, with a good prospect of saving himself. “That
won’t do,” was his thought, as he ran round the opening
so as to bring himself directly before him. “I don’t
want you up here.”

Thrusting his pistol almost against his painted forehead, he
fairly shouted:

“Get down—let go, or I’ll shoot!”

Whether the Apache possessed much knowledge of the English
tongue can only be conjectured, but the gestures accompanying the
command were so expressive that he could not fail to take in the
whole meaning. The Indian, no doubt, considered it preferable to
drop down into the pit rather than run against the bullet. At any
rate, he released his hold, and down he went.

As he drooped into the gloom he made a clutch at the lasso,
doubtless for the purpose of creeping up unawares upon the lad,
who, by a strange providence, had so suddenly become his master.
But the Indian, although a pretty good athlete, had not practiced
that sort of thing, and he failed altogether, going down to join
his comrades much the same as if he had dropped from a balloon.

Fred proved himself equal to the emergency. The moment he saw
that he was relieved from the presence of his enemy, he darted back
to the other side of the opening, caught hold of the lasso, and
hurriedly drew it up out of reach of those below.

“There! they can’t come crawling up that when I
ain’t thinking,” he said, when the end of the thong was
in his hand.

He coiled the whole thing up at his feet, and then, with a
feeling of relief and pleasure which cannot be described, he looked
about to see whether he was alone. Alone he was, and master of the
situation. Where there had been six daring Apache warriors a
half-hour before, not one was now visible. All were in the cave.
Five had gone willingly, while it looked very much as if the sixth
had not been so willing. At any rate, they were all beyond the
power of injuring Fred Munson, who, after considering over the
matter, concluded that he had done a pretty good thing.

Chapter VII.

Fishing for a Friend.

Return to Table of
Contents

“I think I dumped that Apache down there just as nicely as
any one could have done it,” said Fred, as he sat upon the
ground. “It must have taken him by surprise when I banged
into his back that way. I’d like to know whether he fell on
his head or feet. He hadn’t much time to get ready for the
fall, and so maybe it wasn’t just as he wanted it. I
don’t think it was, either, with Mickey or me. Such things
ain’t generally in this part of the world. Maybe some of the
others were standing around, and this fellow went down on their
heads. If he did, it must have shaken all their dinners up.
That’s a pretty good way to fall down there, and although I
didn’t get hurt much, I wouldn’t want to try it
again.”

Fred had had remarkable success, but there was a question as to
what he was going to do with it. He was on the outside of the
cavern, with the means at command for assisting Mickey to the
surface, but, the Indians being down below, it was not clear how
this was to be done, as they were likely to take a hand in the
matter.

As preliminary to any elaborate attempts in that direction, it
was necessary that he should apprise him of his presence, and
establish some sort of communication with him. This, under the
circumstances, was exceedingly difficult, as it was not likely that
the Irishman would suspect that his young friend had succeeded in
reaching the outside until he had received strong proof of it. Very
fortunately, however, the couple possessed a code of signals which
were easily understood, if they were only heard.

“I will try him on our old call,” said Fred, as he
crept as close to the edge as he deemed safe, and emitted a whistle
that must have extended far within the cave.

“If he hears that, he will understand it,” he added,
turning his ear, so that he could catch any response; but the dim,
soothing murmur of the cascade was the only sound that came up from
the cavernous depths.

“He must be there—he must be there, and he will come
back, so he will catch the signal sooner or later.”

There was one aspect of the business which had not yet occurred
to Fred, and which was likely to inure to the benefit of Mickey
O’Rooney, the gentleman who just then stood in need of
everything that came along in that line. The Apaches were skillful
and wise enough to learn from the trail which had first told them
the story, that a boy and man had been caught in the cavern, and it
was very evident that they all believed that there was no other
avenue of escape except that by which they had entered. At the same
time, their knowledge of the peculiarities of their own country
must have convinced them that it was possible that other openings,
of which they knew nothing, might exist, and might become known to
the prisoners.

The last Indian who went down must have known that the lad who
assisted him was one of the parties for whom they were yearning,
and his presence was proof that he had made the fortunate discovery
which was denied the natives of the territory. If the lad had
emerged by that means into the outer world, the natural supposition
would be that his companion had done the same, and that, therefore,
neither of the fugitives were below, the inevitable conclusion
being that the tables had been completely turned upon them. Such
was certain to be the conclusion of the Apaches, and it remained
for Mickey O’Rooney to use ordinary prudence and keep himself
out of the way of the redskins, to secure a chance of further
outwitting them by a bold piece of generalship.

Fred repeated his whistle four or five times, with an interval
of ten minutes, when his hopes were raised to the highest pitch by
hearing it answered. In his excitement he thrust his head far over
the opening, gave the signal again to prevent mistakes, and
listened.

A full minute elapsed, when the reply came, sounding faint and
far away. It showed that Mickey was at a considerable distance from
the opening, and that he heard and understood the situation. To
make matters still more certain, the lad now shouted at the top of
his voice, holding both hands so as to inclose his mouth like a
tunnel.

“Mickey, I’m up here with a lasso! Nobody else is
here! Whenever you can get the chance, get hold of the lasso, and
climb up! I will let it down after a while!”

It cannot be said that this was a very wise proceeding upon the
part of the lad; for it was likely that some one of the half dozen
Apaches understood English well enough to comprehend what he said.
To clinch the business, Fred yelled a few more words.

“If you understand me, Mickey, whistle!”

The words were no more than fairly uttered when the desired
response was made, faintly, but, nevertheless, distinctly.

“That’s good,” concluded the delighted lad.
“Now all I have to do is to wait for him to get the chance,
and he will come up the lasso, and then we’ll be done with
the cave.”

This, certainly, was all that he had to do, but, at the same
time, this amounted to a good deal.

“Now, if I let this rope down,” added the lad, as he
thought the matter over, “one of those Apaches will try to
climb up it, and I will have to cut it, and that will leave it in
his hands, and then what will become of Mickey?”

He debated a long time as to the best plan of overcoming this
serious difficulty; but none presented itself, and he concluded
that it was an inevitable contingency, which he must prepare
himself to defeat, at all hazards.

Fred had been so absorbed with the business which had succeeded
admirably up to this hour, that he scarcely noted the passage of
time. He was not a little amazed when he came to look at the sun
and to note, from its position, that the afternoon was considerably
advanced, and that night was much nearer than he supposed. Nearly
twenty-four hours had elapsed since he had tasted food, and,
although he felt somewhat faint, he was not troubled with hunger.
He made up his mind to make no effort to obtain food until he
should succeed in bringing the Irishman from his prison—as he
hoped to do before the night should pass away. But he was thirsty,
and, believing that he could quench his thirst without going very
far, and without jeopardizing the safety of his friend, he started
off on a little hunt for water.

“That stream runs out of the cave not very far from here,
and, if I can find that, it will be just what I want.”

Fixing in his mind the direction of the stream, he started off,
taking an almost opposite direction from that which led to the
ridge, where he had lain so long watching the movements of the
Apaches. This led him directly behind a mass of boulders and rocks,
tossed irregularly together, and surrounded by a peculiar growth of
stunted vegetation, with rich, succulent grass beyond.

Fred was hurrying along, with no thought of seeing anything
unusual, when he was startled by coming directly upon a half dozen
mustangs, all bound to the limbs or trunks of trees with strong
lariats, while they were lazily cropping the grass where they had
been left undisturbed for several hours. They were all fine-looking
animals, every one of them—not one having saddle or bridle,
and nothing, indeed, excepting the long thong, which, like the
lasso, was made of bull’s hide, and which prevented them from
straying beyond their appointed limits. There could be no doubt
that the animals belonged to the little party taking an airing in
the cave, and the eyes of the lad sparkled as they rested upon
them.

“Oh! if Mickey were only here!” he exclaimed to
himself; “we couldn’t want anything nicer. We would
just pick out two of the best here, stampede the others, and then
gallop toward home as fast as we could, and we’d be there
inside of two or three days; but I must wait, and so must
he.”

The place selected by the Indians for their horses could not
have been better chosen. In addition to the rich pasture, a rivulet
of clear, cold water flowed by, within reach of each and all, so
that all their wants were supplied in the best manner possible.

Every one of the mustangs raised their heads and looked up at
the stranger, and one or two gave a faint whinney, as if to inquire
the business of such a character with them.

“I don’t believe any of you can go like my Hurricane
that I had to leave at home; but I can’t have him, and I
would be mighty glad to take one of you—that is, if Mickey
could go along, for I don’t intend to leave him, so long as I
know he’s alive. You seem pretty well fixed, so I’ll
let you alone till we get a chance to turn you to account, and you
can eat and get yourself in good condition.”

He took a good long draught of the refreshing water, and then
made a little survey of his surroundings.

“I should like to know whether those six Indians were all
looking for me. Maybe Lone Wolf has found out that I gave
the three the slip, and he sent a half-dozen fresh ones to look me
up. They were all strangers to me, and I am sure I never saw them
before. Lone Wolf seems to want me very bad, and if these
don’t bring me back pretty soon, he may send somebody after
them.”

A careful survey of all the suspicious points failed to show him
anything alarming, and he made his way back to the mouth of the
cavern, where he sat down to await the moment for him to lower the
lasso that he hoped was to give Mickey O’Rooney a chance for
his life. It seemed to him that it would not be safe to attempt it
until the sun went down. His theory was that the Apaches would not
remain directly beneath the opening all the time, but that there
would be a chance for the Irishman to creep up without detection.
He would be looking for the lasso, and in the darkness might be
able to ascend it without discovery.

The lad hoped that all the redskins had reached the conclusion
that both he and the man were outside; and, finding that it was out
of the question for them to escape by the opening, which was at
such a distance over their heads, had scattered to search for some
other egress. It was not impossible that such was the case, and if
it were, it placed the situation in a light by no means
discouraging.

It was hardly dark when Fred Munson carefully shoved the end of
the rope over the edge of the opening, and let it descend slowly,
gently and noiselessly to the bottom, permitting it to pass through
his hands in such a way that he could tell the instant it was
disturbed. When he knew that it had struck, he waited for a
“bite.”

To his astonishment, it came within the next five minutes. He
was startled by feeling a decided pull repeated several times.

The situation was so delicately critical that it would not do to
speak nor whisper, nor even to utter their whistle, no matter how
cautiously made. So, by way of reply, Fred gave the lasso, several
responsive jerks, intended to signify that everything was ready,
and his friend might come ahead.

A moment later the lariat was jerked from his hand, showing that
a heavy weight had suddenly fastened upon it, and the man was
making his way upward from the cave.

Chapter VIII.

Fishing for a Prize.

Return to Table of
Contents

It is no easy task, even for a trained athlete, to climb forty
or fifty feet of rope. The majority of men, if put to the test of
making their way out of that cave by shinning up the long lariat
suspended from the opening above, would have failed altogether.

Remembering how well his hearing had served him under somewhat
similar circumstances, young Munson, watching so anxiously for the
appearance of his friend, pressed his ear against the tough,
untanned rope and listened. He could hear the scraping of the hands
and the friction of the limbs against the rope, working steadily
and in such a manner as to show that the man was succeeding well in
the excelsior business and was sure to reach the top in time, if
his strength held out.

“I guess that’s Mickey O’Rooney climbing
up,” muttered the boy, “and yet I can’t tell till
I get a sight of him. It may be an Apache, and I’d better get
ready, for I don’t mean to have any of them creeping up on
me.”

Fred did not wish to cut the rope, as that would have ended the
operations, so he concluded to resort to his weapon. There were two
or three chambers of the revolver undischarged and he did not
believe that it would be necessary to use them. The simple
presentation of the muzzle had accomplished his purpose some hours
before, and there was little doubt that it would do the same thing
again.

The sky was absolutely free from clouds, and the moon, near her
full, shed such a light over the scene that the lad almost dreaded
the result.

While all remained profoundly dark in the cave, at the moment
the man reached the surface and was brought into relief against the
sky beyond, he would be distinctly visible to any one who might be
looking upward, and half a dozen rifles pointed and fired at that
juncture could scarcely fail of fatal results. The lad’s
misgivings increased as the man neared the top. When he again
applied his ear to the lariat, he could understand that the fellow
was working hard, and could only be a few feet below him.

“There’s nothing like being ready,” he
concluded, as he straightened up, and, rising to his feet, stood,
pistol in hand, ready for the issue.

He stepped back several feet, where his vision was entirely
unobstructed.

“If it’s an Indian, he won’t have a chance of
showing anything more than his head, and if he don’t take
that out of the way in a hurry, I’ll let a ray of moonlight
through it.”

He stood thus, as rigid as a statue, fully appreciating the
difficulties of his position and the fatal consequences of allowing
himself to be outwitted.

“Mickey, is that you?” he asked, in a cautions
whisper, a moment later.

As he asked the question he noticed that work upon the rope
instantly ceased.

“It’s Mickey,” he said to himself, “but
he doesn’t think it safe to speak.”

Then to him: “All right old boy, come ahead, and you may
do the speaking after you land. Come ahead—you’re near
the top.”

Again the toiling climber resumed his labor, and he was within a
foot or two of the opening. One more hitch and he would emerge into
the moonlight.

“Come old fellow, give me your hand,” he added;
“you’ve had pretty hard work.”

Just then the bronzed face of an Apache Indian, smeared with
paint and contorted with eager passion, slowly rose in the
moonlight. The exhausted warrior, feeling that the critical moment
was at hand, when all depended upon prompt and decisive work, made
furious efforts to clamber out of the cavern before the lad who
held the key of the situation could prevent.

Although Fred had contemplated this issue, and had prepared for
it, yet he had become so thoroughly imbued with the belief that it
was Mickey O’Rooney who was toiling upward that he was almost
entirely thrown off his guard. Because of this, the cunning Apache
would have secured his foothold and clambered out upon the daring
lad, but for one thing. He had done, tremendous work in climbing a
rope for such a distance, and his strength was nearly gone when he
reached the open air.

Before he could reap the reward of all this labor, Fred
recovered. Whipping out his revolver as before, he shoved it
directly into his face, and said: “You ain’t wanted
here, and you’d better leave mighty quick!”

The warrior made a clutch at the weapon so close to him, but his
exhaustion caused a miscalculation, and he failed altogether. He
was supporting himself at this moment by one hand, and he acted as
if the single effort to secure the pistol was to decide the whole
thing. He failed in that, and gave up.

Instead of letting go and going to the bottom in one plunge, he
began sliding downward, his head vanishing from sight almost as
suddenly as if the lasso had been cut. It is generally easier to go
down than up hill, and the work of twenty minutes was undone in a
twinkling. A rattling descendo, and the Apache was down
the rope again, standing at the bottom of the cave, and Fred was
again master of the situation.

“Goodness!” exclaimed the lad, when he realized this
gratifying state of affairs, “I had no idea that that was an
Indian; but I ought to have suspected it when I called to him and
he didn’t make any answer. That stops that little sort of
thing; but I don’t know when Mickey is going to get a chance
at the rope.”

The lad was disheartened by this great disappointment, for it
looked very much as if the redskins would guard all approaches to
the lower end of the lasso, and his friend be shut out from all
participation in the chance that he was so confident was placed at
his disposal.

“I don’t know what they can do with the rope,”
thought the lad, as he carefully took it in hand, “but then
it’s no use to them, and I may as well keep it out of their
reach while I can.”

He gently pulled it, to test whether it was free.

No one at that juncture seemed to have hold of it, and, fearful
that it would not remain so, the lad gave it a sudden jerk, which
brought it far beyond the reach of any one who might be gathered on
the sand below.

“That upsets all my calculations,” said Fred, with a
sigh. “The chance of getting out of here is poorer than ever.
I am afraid Mickey is in a scrape where there ain’t much show
of his helping himself!”

The lad remembered, however, that his friend still had one
resort—the last one—at his command. When it became
absolutely apparent that no other way was open, he would make the
plunge down the stream, and risk all in the single effort to dive
from the inside to the outside of the cave.

“I don’t want him to try that, just yet,”
added Fred, as he lay upon the ground, carefully considering the
matter; “for I think that will wind up the whole
thing.”

The boy seemed to be considering every phase of the question,
and he debated with himself for a long time whether he
couldn’t do something for his friend. He thought of going
back to the entrance by which he had escaped—thanks to the
assistance of the wolf—reenter it, without going to a
distance which would cause any danger of losing his way, and signal
to him. The great obstacle to this was that, as he could readily
see from the distance he had gone over since emerging therefrom, it
would be utterly impossible to send a signal so far, through such a
chamber of sound as the cave had proven itself to be. There
remained the same probability that the Apaches would hear it as
soon as Mickey, and they would be stupid beyond their kind if they
had not already gained a correct idea of the situation.

Still, it was possible to see how the Irishman could succeed.
Men placed in fully as desperate situations as he had pulled
through by showing nerve and readiness of resource when the
critical moment should arrive.

Mickey O’Rooney possessed originality and pluck. He had
acquired considerable experience and knowledge of Indian
“devilments” on his way across the plains, and, if the
Apaches comprehended the situation, it was not to be supposed that
he was not posted fully as well. If he could see no chance of
getting a pull at the rope, he could easily keep out of the way of
the redskins. He had no fear of meeting any of them singly, and if
he could arrange it so as to encounter them one after another, and
at his own convenience, he might clear the track in that
fashion.

As it was, therefore, Fred Munson could only await for the issue
of events. He was powerless to do anything until the sign should be
made by his friend at the other end of the rope.

For fully two hours things remained in statu quo. The
lad lay upon the ground close to the opening, listening, looking
and thinking so intently that there was no danger of his falling
asleep. The profound stillness remained unbroken during all that
time. The murmur of the cascade had a faint, distant sound, as if
it came from the ocean, many long leagues away, but there was
nothing more—not even a signal from Mickey, who, if he had
any plans, was working them with admirable secrecy. At the end of
that time the lad concluded that it would be best to lower the
lasso again.

“If he is down there, he must have a chance to get hold of
the rope, or he can’t come up here,” was the reasonable
conclusion of the lad, who passed it downward slowly and in perfect
silence.

Fully a score of theories flitted through his head as he lay
thus speculating upon the situation down below. At one time he was
sure that it was useless to attempt to help his friend in that
style. A half-dozen Apaches would not permit a single white to
climb into safety immediately before their eyes, especially when
they could cover him with their rifles if he should succeed in
giving them the slip at the start. Then it appeared anything but
reasonable to suppose that the Indians would remain directly below
him, waiting for their chance to try their fortune in the trapeze
line again. More likely they would scatter and hunt separately for
the outlet which had permitted their intended victim to gain his
safety. They could expect to gain nothing by remaining, and they
were too shrewd to do so.

When the matter presented itself in this shape, Fred was ready
to call down to Mickey, instructing him to grasp the lasso, and
ascend without further delay. Too much precious time was being
wasted. Fortunately, however, before he acted upon this theory,
enough doubts arose to prevent his carrying it out.

He had had enough experience with the rope to know how to gauge
it very well, and he lowered it until the other end was within two
or three feet of the bottom. Having placed it thus within easy
reach, he let it pass over his hand, holding it so delicately
poised that the slightest disturbance was sure to be detected. He
was in the position of the fisherman who is angling for some plump
piscatorial prize, which requires the most skillful kind of
persuasion to induce him to nibble the hook.

For a half-hour nothing touched it, and then Fred fancied that
he felt a slight jerk. He made no response, but instantly became
all attention and waited. A second later the jerk was repeated so
distinctly that there could be no mistake. The lad gave it a twitch
in reply, and then all remained still for a short time. Suddenly
the thong was snapped from his hand, and instantly became taut.

Fred applied his ear as before. Yes; some one was climbing up
the rope again.

Chapter IX.

Groping in Darkness.

Return to Table of
Contents

It is proper, at this point, to introduce some history of the
movements of Mickey O’Rooney, after the separation between
himself and his young friend. The latter, it will be remembered,
left him sleeping upon the Apache blanket, at the bottom of the
cave, while he, the lad, went off in pursuit of the wolf, which
came so near leading him to destruction, but which, in the end,
conducted him to freedom and safety.

The Irishman slept for several hours longer, as soundly as if he
lay in his own bed at home. He was sorely in need of sleep, and,
having convinced himself that there was no danger to be
apprehended, he transferred all his anxiety over to his young
friend while he sailed off into the land of dreams. When he awoke
and recalled where he was, he spoke to Fred; but, receiving no
reply, supposed he was asleep, and passed his hand about in quest
of him. After groping several minutes in vacancy, he muttered:

“Be the powers! if he hasn’t fell out of bed, as me
brother Tom used to remark to the ould gintleman, after he’d
kicked me out of the same. The fall ain’t far enough to hurt
him seriously, but these laddies have a way of getting hurt, where
a man couldn’t do it, if he tried.”

After calling and searching further, he struck a match and held
it up. A transient glimpse was gained of an area of several hundred
feet, in which, it is needless to say, he saw nothing of his young
friend.

“Be the powers! but he strayed away,” added Mickey,
somewhat impatiently. “He thought there was something that it
would pay to chase, and he’s gone off, and, of course, will
be lost.”

With a view to bringing him back, the Irishman called his name,
whistled, and, after a time, fired his gun. The echoes were not so
loud as when Fred had fired, but the racket was sufficient to make
him confident it would reach the ears of the boy, if he were not
asleep or injured.

Mickey, as will be seen, formed the right opinion of the action
of his young friend, and hoped that he would be able to work his
way back to camp, as they called it, without any mishap or
assistance from him.

“He thinks there’s another door that opens into the
sunshine, and that isn’t locked, and, if it is, he can pick
the kay. He may work away till he becomes weary, and then
he’ll be back here, and we’ll hare to contrive some
other way, or it may be that good luck will lead him to the opening
for which he sighs. Heaven grant that the same may be the
case.”

He waited, and watched, and hoped, as the hours passed by, until
he began to believe that something serious had happened to him. At
intervals he repeated his signals, but on no occasion was there
anything like a response.

It was an odd juxtaposition of events that, at the very moment
he uttered some of the calls, the despairing kid was doing the same
thing, and, although each strained his ears to the utmost, yet
neither suspected the truth.

The hours and the time passed on, until happening to look up at
the opening, Mickey saw the prepared blanket slowly descending,
just as Fred looked upon it from the ridge.

“I’m obliged to yees,” he said, in an
undertone, “but I don’t find myself in pressing naad of
the same. I have one here, but if ye insist on my taking that,
I’ll not quarrel with yees.”

He resolved that when it came down within his reach he would cut
the lasso, and take it, but before it reached the ground he had
changed his mind.

He knew what the intention of the Apaches was, but he was not
deceived for an instant.

“I’ll not do anything at all,” he muttered;
“I’ll not interfere, where it’s so difficult to
decide upon me duty, as the owld lady obsarved when the bear got
her husband down. I’ll let ’em think I’m aslaap,
and see what they’ll do.”

And thus, as the reader already knows, the rolled-up blanket was
lowered and raised again without molestation, almost grazing the
upturned face of the Irishman as it did so.

“And the next will be one of the spalpeens himself.
Begorrah! there he is this minute!”

Just as he anticipated, a short time after the blanket began its
descent, enfolding the form of one of the swarthy warriors, the
Irishman at once detecting the ruse.

His rifle was brought to his shoulder, but yielding to a whim,
which he could hardly explain, he lowered it, without firing,
resolved that he would do nothing at all, unless compelled to in
self-defense. About this time an idea began to dawn upon him that
silence and inaction upon his part might do himself more good than
the most vigorous defense.

He might shoot the first Indian, and then the others would only
keep themselves out of reach, and he would be no nearer escape than
before. On the other hand, if he studiously forced himself into the
background, they might begin to believe that he had discovered the
means of exit which was unknown to them. He had no fear of not
being able to keep out of their way, where he had such abundant
room and where no light possibly could reach the interior and
reveal his presence to a hundred searchers. If they chose to
attempt to carry torches, then he could pick them off at his own
convenience.

And so it came about that Mickey stood quietly by, and permitted
the whole five Apaches to slide down the rope like so many monkeys,
while he raised no hand in the way of protest. Not knowing how many
the party numbered, he could not conjecture how many were left when
the five had come down, and the business stopped for the time, but
he knew, as a matter of course, that they would not enter the cave
without leaving reinforcements upon the surface.

By the time the last man landed, Mickey had moved back to a
point a hundred yards away from where the group were gathered,
where he was seated upon a large rock.

“If any of ’em undertakes to flash a bull’s
eye in me face, I kin dodge down behind the same,” was the
way in which the Irishman reasoned it.

At such a time, and in such a place, the faculty of hearing was
about the only one that could be counted upon, and, sliding softly
off the rock, Mickey applied his ear to the earth. If the Apaches
were moving about, the noise made by their feet was so slight that
he could not be certain whether they were actually branching out
and groping for him, or whether they were the sounds produced by
the natural shifting of the feet of a group of men standing
together.

Matters stood thus for some time, when the last Indian suddenly
came through the opening and plumped down upon the ground below,
his start on this journey being such that he was probably
considerably shaken up by the involuntary trip.

“Ye spalpeens must be more careful in coming
down-stairs,” muttered Mickey, who supposed that the whole
thing was an accident, as in his own case.

But it was not long before he heard the voice of Fred Munson,
calling from above, and, as each word was distinctly heard, there
was no room for any misunderstanding of the situation. The Irishman
was literally dumfounded.

“Be the powers! if it isn’t the most wonderful thing
that ever happened, as Mrs. Murphy remarked when Tim came home
sober one night. That laddy, in hunting around, has struck upon
some hole that leads out, and he’s forgot, or else it was so
hard to find his way back to me, he has gone round to that place,
and now hollers down at me.

“Begorrah,” added Mickey, a moment later, “it
must be that he shoved that spalpeen overboard, and there
isn’t anybody left up there in the way of Apaches but one,
and he ain’t an Apache, but a gintleman named Fred Moonson.
Here’s to his health, and if this thing gets any more
delightful, I’ll have to give a whoop and yell, and strike up
the Tipperary jig.”

The exultant fellow had hard work to keep his spirits under
control when he fairly understood the brilliant exploit that had
been performed by his young friend.

“It is almost aqual to my gineral coorse,” he he
added; “but I must try and hold in till I can get the laddy
by himself. Then I’ll hammer him, out of pure love, as ye may
say.”

Mickey managed to contain himself, but did not attempt to reply
to the direct call which was made upon him. That, in one sense,
would have been fatal, as it would have “uncovered” his
position. The Irishman was quick-witted, and it occurred to him
that the last incident which had happened at the entrance to the
cave might be turned to good account. If he continued to remain in
the background, the Apaches were likely to conclude that he, too,
was beyond their reach.

Thus matters stood until the signal was made to him, when he
deemed it wise to make a cautious reply, merely to apprise the lad
that he was there within call, and understood the situation through
and through.

Mickey was very apprehensive when, some time after, he
discovered that one of the Indians was ascending the rope. He was
not so apprehensive when he came down again. The result of this
repulse was much more decisive than Fred had supposed. The warriors
seemed to suspect that they were throwing away time in attempting
to outwit one who held such an immense advantage over them, and who
was too wide-awake to permit them to steal a march upon him.

The delighted Irishman knew, from the sounds, that the redskins
were moving away from the spot, not with the idea of staying away
altogether, but that they might engage upon a little reconnoissance
which might possibly open the way that they were so anxiously
seeking. One of the redskins passed almost within arm’s
length of him, never suspecting, as a matter of course, that he was
brought into such proximity to a mortal enemy. Mickey only breathed
until assured that there was quite a distance between him and the
Apaches.

“Now it begins to look as though there’s a chance
for me,” he concluded; “and if me laddy will let down
the lasso, I’ll thry the bootiful experiment of shinning up
it, though I much fear me that it will be the same as a greased
pole.”

He moved with the utmost circumspection toward the spot, being
able to locate it by means of the moonlit opening overhead, and
when he was near it he halted and listened.

“I don’t obsarve that any one is loafing about here,
getting in the way of honest folks.”

Just then he ran plump against an Apache, whom he did not
suspect was so near him.

The redskin uttered a grunt of anger, no doubt suspecting that
it was one of his own friends.

As quick as lightning the Irishman drew back and struck a blow
that stretched the warrior senseless.

“I’ll tache ye to be grunting around here when a
gintleman runs again ye. Ye ought to be ashamed of
yourself.”

Mickey had already strapped his rifle to his back, and, groping
about, he felt the end of the lasso dangling in front of his face.
The same instant he grasped it and began the ascent.

Chapter X.

“Here We are Again!”

Return to Table of
Contents

Fred Munson, having been deceived once by the Apache climbing up
the rope, was not to be caught again in the same way. When he
became certain that a second person was coming up, he grasped his
pistol again, and held himself in readiness to “repel
boarders,” the very instant they appeared.

It soon became evident that this second person, whoever he was,
had a serious time in climbing up the rope. He frequently paused as
if resting, and this fact led the lad to feel more hopeful than
ever that it was his old friend drawing near.

When it became apparent that he was near the top, the curiosity
of Fred became so great that he drew himself forward, and, peering
down the black throat of the cave, asked, in a whisper:

“I say, Mickey, is that you? Speak, if it is, or give a
little whistle.”

“Be the powers, but I’m so tired I’m
spaachless, wid not even the strength to let out a
whistle.”

This established the identity of the climber beyond all
question, and the words were hardly uttered when the familiar face
of the Irishman appeared.

He was exceedingly tired, and the lad reached his hand down to
assist him out. It was at this juncture that the Apache, who had
run against the fist of Mickey O’Rooney, recovered, and
seeing his foe in the act of vanishing, gave a whoop of alarm to
his companions, caught up his rifle and fired away. The hasty aim
alone prevented a fatal result, the bullet clipping the clothing of
the Irishman.

“Fire away, ye spalpeens, for all the good it may do
ye,” called out the Irishman, who at this moment clambered
out of range and sank down upon the ground.

“Begorrah, I’m as tired as Jim O’Shaughnessey
after his friendly match with his wife,” gasped Mickey,
speaking shortly and rapidly, as best he could, while he leaned
over upon his elbow, until he could regain his strength and
wind.

It required but a short time, when he reached his hand to the
lad, and shook it for the third or fourth time, smiling at the same
time in his old jolly way, as he rose rather unsteadily upon his
pins.

“I’ll have to wait a while till the kink gets out of
me legs, before I give ye the Donnybrook jig, but I make the
engagement wid ye, and the thing is down for performance, do ye
mind that? And now, me laddy, we must thravel. Are ye
hungry?”

“Yes.”

“I have a bite saved that’ll do ye till the morrow.
When ye waltzed out the cave and left me to meself, I felt there
was no knowing how long I’d have to stay behind, so I knocked
off both eating and drinking, with the idea of getting used to
going without anything.”

As they were able to talk more understandingly, the two
explained their experiences since they had parted. They could not
fail to be interesting in both cases. When they had finished,
Mickey O’Rooney had about recovered from the terrible strain
he had undergone in clambering out the cave, barring a little ache
in his arms and legs.

“Now, me laddy, we must emigrate, as there ain’t
anything to be gained by loafing round here, as the gals used to
tell the chaps when they tried to cut me out. The first thing to
larn is whether the hoss that I lift some distance away is still
there cropping the grass. If he is, then we shall have small work
in making our way back to New Boston; but if he has emigrated ahead
of us thar, we must hunt for others.”

“There’s no need of going that far.”

“Why not?”

“Because the mustangs of the Apaches are right over yonder
behind those rocks.”

“That’s good; let’s take a look at the
same.”

They hurried over to the spot where the half dozen mustangs were
tethered. They were lying upon the ground, taking their sleep,
having finished a bounteous meal. The intelligent creatures showed
their training by throwing up their heads the instant the two came
in sight, and several gave utterance to whinneys, no doubt with the
purpose of apprising their masters of the approach of strangers.
None of them rose to their feet, however, and Mickey and Fred moved
about, inspecting them as best they could in the moonlight, with
the purpose of selecting the best.

“They’re all a fine lot, as the neighbors used to
say, after inspicting me father’s family, and it’s hard
to make up your mind which is the best, but here is one that
shtrikes me fancy. Get up wid ye.”

The steed, spoken to in this peremptory manner, leaped to his
feet, and stood in all his graceful and beautiful proportions, an
equine gem, which could not fail to command admiration.

“I think he’ll suit,” said the Irishman, after
a careful examination. “I think he can run as well as any of
’em. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, me laddy.
We’ll both mount this one, and ride till we reach the place
where I lift mine, when we’ll have one apiece.”

“But if yours isn’t there?”

“Then we’ll kaap this one betwaan us, as the gals
used to say, when they quarreled over me.”

“Hadn’t I better take one of the horses, and if we
find yours, why, we can turn one of these loose, and we shall be
all right, no matter how the things turn out?”

“It’s not a bad idaa,” assented the Irishman.
“Pick yours out, and then we’ll turn the others
loose.”

“Why will you do that?”

“What’s the use of laving them here? Them spalpeens
will find their way out of the cave before long, and then they will
strike straight for these animals, and, if they happen to get out
pretty soon, they’ll make trouble with us. We might as well
let ’em walk awhile.”

“How are they going to get out?”

“Didn’t ye lave the lasso hanging down into the
cave?”

“I declare, I never thought of that!” exclaimed the
affrighted lad. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

And he started to repair the oversight, when Mickey caught his
arm and checked him.

“Not so, me son; lave it as it is. If we should go away
and lave the spalpeens down there without the rope, they might
never find the way out, and would starve to death, and it would
always grieve me to think I had starved six Apaches to death,
instead of affording meself some enjoyment by cracking ’em
over the head wid a shillelah.”

“I should be sorry to do that,” replied Fred, who
comprehended the cruelty of leaving the poor fellows to perish, as
they were likely to do if left without the means of escape;
“but, if we leave the rope hanging there, the whole party
will be up here before we can get out of the way, and then what
shall we do?”

“Niver fear, niver fear,” said Mickey, with a wave
of his hand and a magisterial shake of the head. “The
spalpeens have got enough of climbing up there for a while.
They’ve gone off on a hunt through the cavern for the place
where you crawled out, and they’ll kaap at that till morning,
and then, if there’s no show for ’em, they’ll
come back, and begin to fool around the rope again.”

The lad had little difficulty in deciding upon his steed, which
was a coal-black mustang, lithe and willowy, and apparently of a
good disposition, although that was necessarily a matter of
conjecture, for the present. There were no saddles upon any of the
horses, and nothing but the rudest kind of bridle, consisting of a
thong of twisted bull’s hide, and reaching away to some limb
or tree, so as to give the animal plenty of grazing area. The
lariats of the other four were cut—so that, when they arose,
they would find themselves at liberty to go whither they
chose—after which the two approached their respective prizes
and prepared to mount.

Both were good riders, although, being compelled to go it
bareback, they felt some misgivings as to the result. Fred’s
mustang was rather under size, so that he was able to vault upon
him from the ground without difficulty. After patting him on the
neck and speaking soothingly to him, with a view to disarming him
of all timidity, the lad leaped lightly upon his back.

The steed showed at once that he did not like this familiarity,
and reared and plunged and shook his head in a vicious way, but he
toned down somewhat after a time, and seemed disposed to compromise
matters until he learned something about his rider.

“Ye’re going to become a good rider—that is,
in the course of twenty or thirty years,” remarked Mickey,
who had been watching his young friend closely, “if ye
practice aich day in those thirty years; but I want you to observe
my shtyle—note how complately I bring the animal
under, how docile he becomes, how mild, how gentle, how
lamblike.”

And with these rather pompous observations, he laid his hand
upon the mane of his mustang, and at one bound bestrode him,
catching the lariat after the manner of one who was determined to
have no nonsense about it.

“Now note how quick I’ll subdue him, how afeard
he’ll be, you can’t goad him into trying to throw me.
Talk about Rarey breaking that old horse Cruiser, that used to ate
his keeper every day for breakfast, he couldn’t compare wid
mesilf.”

Before Mickey had time to finish his observation, the heels of
the mustang went up almost perpendicularly in the air, and with
such suddenness that Mickey was thrown a dozen feet over his head,
alighting upon his hands and knees.

Fred was amused beyond expression at the discomfiture of his
boasting friend, who was not a little astonished at the manner in
which he had been overthrown.

“Turns up,” he said, as he gathered himself on his
feet again, “that I was a little mistook. Such accidents will
happen now and then, and it isn’t very kind for a spalpeen
like yourself to laugh at me sorrow.”

“I can’t help it, Mickey, but I’m afraid I
can’t stick to the back of this horse. He seems scared and
mad, and his back feels mighty slippery without any saddle or
blanket.”

“Maybe, if I get on wid ye, the weight of us both will
hold him down.”

The mustang which hard thrown the Irishman continued to flourish
his heels and disport himself in such a lively style, that his
spirit became contagious, and the four, who were yet upon the
ground, now came to their feet, and after some plunging and
rearing, made a rush down the slope, and were soon out of
sight.

The animal ridden by the lad showed a disposition to join them,
but the rider resisted, and managed to hold him, until at the
opportune moment, Mickey placed himself on his back, and, as he was
really a good horseman, and used vigorous means, he speedily
managed to bring him under control. Turning his head toward the
ridge, they started him forward, pausing near the mouth of the
cavern long enough to gather up one of the blankets lying there, as
it was likely to be useful at no distant time.

Chapter XI.

Through the Mountains.

Return to Table of
Contents

The moon was high in the sky, and it was near midnight.
O’Rooney, who had taken upon himself the task of guiding the
mustang, continued him on up the ridge, directly toward the spot
where Fred had lain so long watching the action of the Apaches
gathered around the opening of the cave.

The mustang walked along quite obediently, seeming to feel the
load no more than if it was only one half as great. But those
animals are like their native masters—cunning and
treacherous, ready to take advantage of their riders whenever it
happens to come in their way.

“Which is the raison I cautions ye to be riddy for a
fall,” said Mickey, after referring to some of the
peculiarities of these steeds of the Southwest. “The minute
he gits it into his head that we ain’t paying attention,
he’ll rear up on his fore-feet, and walk along that way for
half a mile. Not having any saddle, we’ll have to slide over
his neck, unless I can brace me feet agin his ears, and ride along
standing straight up.”

The constant expectation of being flung over the head of a horse
is not the most comforting sensation that one can have, and the lad
clung fast to his friend in front, determined not to go, unless in
his company. Upon reaching the top of the ridge, the horse was
reined up for a few minutes, as Mickey, like the mariner at sea,
was desirous of taking an observation, so as to prevent himself
going astray.

“Can you remember how you were placed?” asked the
lad, after he had spent several minutes in the survey; “that
is, do you know which way to go for the horse you left eating
grass?”

“I was a little puzzled at first, as me father obsarved to
the school-teacher when he said I had been a good boy, but I see
how it is now. It must have been that I got a little turned round
when I was down in the basemint of these mountains, but I see how
it is now. Right yonder,” he added, pointing toward the
Northwest, “is where I left my hoss, and there is where I
hope I’ll find him again.”

“Is the road so that we can ride the mustang all the way
there, or must we walk?”

“I remember I come right along some kind of a path, made
by animals, after leaving the beast. I s’pose it’s the
route taken by the crathurs in going to the water, for
there’s a splendid spring right there, and the path that I
was just tilling you ’bout leads straight to it.”

“Then keep the horse from throwing us off, and we’re
all right. After we find your horse, Mickey, or don’t find
him, what are we to do, then?”

“Set sail for New Boston.”

“But we can’t ride through these mountains, if we
don’t find the pass.”

“And the same is what we’re going to do, barring
that it hasn’t been lost yet.”

“Are you sure you know the way to it from where you left
your horse? I’ve been hunting for it for hours, but
couldn’t any more tell where it was than the man in the moon.
What course would you have to take to reach it?”

“Right off yonder,” replied Mickey, pointing to the
left.

“And I was sure that it was here,” said Fred,
pointing his hand in nearly an opposite direction.

“Which the same is a good raison why you’re wrong.
When you git lost, and think you’re on the right way, ye may
be sure that ye’re wrong; and after figuring the whole thing
over, and getting sartin of the right coorse, all you’ve got
to do is not to take it, and ye’re sartin of saving
yerself.”

“Then, according to that, you ought not to take the route
which you have said is the right one.”

“I’m spaking for lost spalpeens like
yoursilf,” said Mickey, severely. “I haven’t been
lost since I parted company with Soot Simpson, and, begorrah, that
minds me that we ought to saa something of him. Just look around
and obsarve whether he is standing anywhere beckoning to
us.”

Both used their eyes to the extent of their ability, but were
unable to discover anything that bore a suspicious resemblance to a
man.

So far as they could judge, they were entirely alone in this
vast solitude.

“Do you expect to meet Sut very soon?”’

“Av coorse I do; why shouldn’t I?”

“But he went another way from you altogether after Lone
Wolf.”

“That’s just it. He wint another way, and wint
wrong, and he has been gone long ’nough to find out the
same.”

“When he will turn back and follow you?”

“As soon as he finds he’s wrong, he’ll go
right, and as I wint right, he’ll be on my heels.”

“But you know both of us have strayed a good deal off the
track, and we have traveled in many places, where we haven’t
made the slightest trail. How is he going to follow us
then?”

The Irishman gave utterance to a scornful exclamation.

“I’ve been with that Soot Simpson long enough to
learn something. I’ve saan some specimens of what he kin do.
Rocks don’t make no difference to him. When he gits on the
track of a wild bird, if it don’t take extra pains to dodge
and double, he’ll foller its trail through the air. Oh,
he’s there all the time, and the wonder with me is that he
hasn’t turned up before.”

“What would he have done had he come along and found us
both in the cave, and the Apaches watching?”

“He would have tracked that wolf back to his hole, come in
and fetched us out, and then slipped up behind the six, and tumbled
them all in like so many tenpins.”

“If he’s such a wonderful man as that, it’s a
pity we couldn’t have kept him with us all the time, and if
we do run against him, we can afford to stop thinking about
Apaches, as they will be of no account.”

“Yees are right; but the trouble is to find him, as the
man said when the British Government condemned John Mitchel, and
him thousands of miles away in Ameriky. This thramping about at
night in the mountains isn’t the aisiest way to diskiver a
man, and it’s him that will have to find us, instead of we
him. But we’ll keep it up.”

If the Apache mustang which they were riding meditated any
mischief, he seemed to be of the opinion that the occasion was not
the most suitable. He walked along with great docility and care,
picking his way with a skill that was wonderful. Several times they
approached places where it seemed impossible for an equine to go
forward, but the horse scarcely hesitated, toiling onward like an
Alpine chamois, until, at last, they drew up in a small valley,
through the middle of which ran a small stream, that sparkled
brightly in the moonlight.

“Here we are,” said Mickey. “here’s the
spot where I left my cratur a couple of days ago, and where I
don’t see him just now. Use your eyes a bit, and tell me
whether you obsarve him.”

Fred was scarcely less anxious than his friend to recover the
steed, for, recalling his experience in that line, he had good
reason to mistrust Indian horses. It would be very awkward, when
they should find a party of Apaches howling and rushing down upon
them, to have the animal turn calmly about and trot back to his
former friends, carrying his two riders into captivity, or leaving
them to shift for themselves.

Nothing could be seen of the creature, but there was a fringe of
wood on the opposite side where he might be concealed, and Mickey
slid off the blanket with the intention of hunting for him.

“Don’t let this spalpeen give ye the slip,” he
cautioned the lad, as he gave the lariat into his hand; “for
if mine is gone, this is the only one we have to depend on, and we
can’t spare him.”

Fred felt a little uncomfortable when he found himself alone and
astride of the fiery steed, which pricked up his ears as though he
meditated mischief; but the horse seemed to think better of it, and
continued so quiet that the young rider ventured to transfer his
attention from him to Mickey, who was moving across the open space
in the direction of the wood upon the opposite side.

The moonlight was so clear that he could be as plainly seen,
almost, as if it were midday. As he moved along, he brought his
rifle around to the front, so that he could use it at a
moment’s need, for he could not but see the probability that,
if his horse had been lately disturbed, it was likely that those
who did so were still in the vicinity, and no place was more likely
to be used for a covert than the same patch of timber which he was
approaching.

“Be the powers! but it looks a little pokerish!” he
said to himself, slowing his gait, and surveying the wood with no
little distrust. “There might be a dozen of the spalpeens
slaaping there wid one eye open, or all sitting up and expicting
me.”

He had proceeded so far however, that it was as dangerous to
turn back as it was to go on, for if any enemies were there, they
were so close at hand that they could easily capture or shoot him
before he could reach his horse. He was scarcely moving, and doing
his utmost to penetrate the deep shadow, when, beyond all question,
he heard a movement among the trees. He paused as if he had been
shot and cocked his rifle, looking toward the point from whence
came the noise.

“Aisy there, now,” he said in a solemn voice.
“I won’t stand any of your thricks. I’m savage,
and when I’m that way I’m dangerous, so if yees are
there spake out, or else come out like a man, and tell me your
name, be the token of which mine is Mickey O’Rooney from
Ireland.”

This characteristic summons produced no response, and, feeling
the peculiar peril of his exposed position, the Irishman determined
upon changing it and securing the shelter of a tree for himself. It
was not prudent to move directly toward the spot which gave forth
the rustling sound, as that would be likely to draw out a shot from
a foe if he desired to avoid a personal encounter. Accordingly, the
Irishman made what might be termed a flank movement by turning to
the right, running rapidly several paces and then diving in among
the trees, as though he were plunging into the water for a
bath.

The few minutes occupied in making this change were those which
Mickey felt were of great danger; for, if he should reach the wood
and find himself opposed to but a single man, or even two, the
situation would not be so uneven by any means. No shots were fired,
and he drew a great sigh of relief when he gained the desired
covert.

“Now I can dodge back and forth, and work me way up to
them,” he concluded; “and when they stick their heads
out from behind the trees, I’ll whack ’em for
’em, just as we used to do at Donnybrook when the fun
began.”

He waited where he was for some time, in the expectation that
his foe would reveal himself by an attempt to draw out. But if
there is any one thing which distinguishes a scout, whether white
or red, at such a time, it is his patience. It is like that of the
Esquimaux, who will sit for sixteen hours, without stirring, beside
an airhole in the ice, waiting for a seal to appear. Mickey
O’Rooney was not burdened with overmuch patience, and acted
upon the principle of Mohammed going to the mountain. He began
picking his way through the shadows and among the trees, determined
to keep forward until the mystery was solved.

Chapter XII.

Through the Mountains—Continued.

Return to Table of
Contents

When Mickey found himself under the shelter of the trees,
something like his old confidence returned.

“As I obsarved some minutes ago, it’s mesilf
that’s not going to stand any fooling,” he added, loud
enough for the redskins to hear. “Whither ye’re there
or not, ye ought to spake, and come out and smoke the calomel of
peace, and give a spalpeen a chance to crack your head, as though
ye’re his brother; but if ye’re up to any of your
thricks, make ready to go to your hunting-grounds.”

By this time he was within a dozen feet of the spot whence came
the rustling that so disturbed him, and was staring with all his
eyes in quest of the redskins. In spite of the bright moonlight,
the Irishman could not be certain of anything he saw. There were
trees of large size, behind any of which an Indian might have
shielded himself effectually, and it was useless for Mickey to look
unless his man chose to show himself.

The Irishman had all the natural recklessness of his race, but
he had been in the Apache country long enough to learn to tone it
down, for that was the country where the most fatal attribute a man
could have was recklessness or rashness. In many instances of
conflict with Indians it is worse than cowardice.

But, in the face of Mickey’s assurance to the contrary, he
did not feel altogether easy about the Apaches he had left at the
cave. His humanity had prevented him from depriving them of means
of escape, and although he was inclined to believe that they were
not likely to climb the lasso until many hours should elapse, there
could be no certainty about it. They might do so within an hour
after the departure of the man and boy.

It was this reflection that caused Mickey to act with something
of his natural rashness. He felt that he could not afford to wait
to fight the thing out on scientific principles, so he determined,
since he was so close, to force it to an issue without delay.
Accordingly, he prepared himself to charge.

“I’ve been too kind already in giving ye
warnings,” he added, gathering himself for the effort,
“and if your indifference causes your ruin, it’s your
own fault, as the bull remarked when he come down on a butt agin
the engine.”

Compressing his lips, Mickey made his start, forcing out a few
words, as he would shoot bullets on the way.

“Nobody but a spalpeen of a coward would keep out of sight
when he saw a head coming down on him in such tempting style as
mine. I can’t understand how he could.”

In his furious hunt for antagonists, the belligerent fellow did
not think of looking upon the ground. He made the blunder of
Captain John Smith, of the Jamestown Colony, who, in retreating
from Powhatan’s warriors, became mired, with the eventual
result of making Pocahontas famous, and securing an infinite number
of namesakes of the captain himself.

Mickey O’Rooney had scarcely begun his charge when his
feet came into violent collision with a body upon the ground, and
he turned a complete somersault over it.

“Be the powers! but that’s a dirty thrick!” he
exclaimed, gathering himself up as hurriedly as possible, and
recovering very speedily from his natural bewilderment. “A
man who drops in the ring without a blow is always ruled out, and
be that token ye’re not entitled to the respect of illegant
gintlemen.”

During the utterance of these words the Irishman had carefully
returned, boiling over with indignation and fight, and at this
juncture he discovered the obstruction which had brought him to
grief.

So far as appearances went, there was no Indian nearer than the
cave. It was his own horse that had made the noise which first
alarmed him. While the equine was stretched upon the ground,
peacefully sleeping, his bumptious owner, in charging over his
body, had stumbled and fallen.

Mickey was thrown “all in a heap” for a minute or
two, when he found how the case stood, and then he laughed to
himself as he fully appreciated the situation.

“Well, well, well, I feel as chape as Jerry McConnell when
he hugged and kissed a gal for two hours, one evening, and found it
was his wife, and she felt chaaper yet, for she thought all the
time that it was Mickey O’Shaughnessy. I suppose me old
swateheart,” he added, as he stooped down and patted the head
of his horse, “that ye’ve been living so high here for
two or three days that ye’re too fat to be good for anything.
Come, up wid ye, ye old spalpeen!”

The mustang recognized the voice of his master, and obeyed as
promptly as a child, coming upon his feet with the nimbleness of a
racer, and ready to do what he was bidden. Mickey led him out into
the moonlight, when he left him standing, while he went a short
distance for the saddle and bridle, which he had concealed at the
time of leaving the spot. They were found just as he had left them,
and he returned in high feather, secured them in a twinkling upon
his animal and galloped back to where the lad was waiting.

“Ye haven’t seen or heard anything of redskins, have
ye, while I was procuring my cratur?”

“Nothing at all,” replied the lad; “but I
heard you talking pretty loud, so I suppose you must have found
several.”

“No,” answered Mickey, who did not care about
explaining the whole affair. “I’m always in the habit
of exchanging a few words wid the cratur when I maats, and such was
the case a short time since, when I met him, after being away so
long.”

“Well, Mickey, we haven’t any time to
spare.”

“Ye’re right, my laddy; all you’ve got to do
is to folly me.”

With this he headed his mustang at precisely right angles to the
course they followed in making their way to the spot; and Fred, who
expected all sorts of trouble in the way of traveling, noticed that
he was following some sort of path or trail, along which his horse
trod as easily as upon the open prairie. While this was an
advantage in one respect it had its disadvantage in another. The
presence of a trail in that part of the world implied that it was
one made and traveled by Indians, who were likely to be encountered
at any moment, and Mickey was not insensible to the peril. But, in
the present instance, there seemed to be no other means of getting
along, and thus, in one sense, they were forced into it. The
probabilities, however, were that they would soon emerge into safer
territory, where it would be possible to take some precautions
against pursuers.

For some time the two galloped along without speaking. The hoofs
of their mustangs rang upon the rocks, and rattled over the gravel,
and, in the still night, could have been heard a long distance
away. While the Irishman kept as good a lookout ahead as possible,
Fred Munson did his best to guard their rear. He kept continually
glancing over his shoulder in the expectation of seeing some of
their enemies, but nothing of the kind occurred, and before he
anticipated it, they emerged into what seemed a deep valley, with
high rocks upon both sides. Mickey drew up, and allowed his young
friend to move alongside.

“Do ye mind ever having seen this place before?” he
asked.

“I don’t remember anything about this country, and
all I ask is that we may get out of it as soon as
possible.”

“But don’t ye mind ever having been here
before?”

Thus questioned, Fred scanned his surroundings as best he could,
but there was nothing that he could identify, and he so said,
adding:

“I’m sure I’ve never been here
before.”

“And I’m sure ye have. This is the path that Lone
Wolf come along, and that ye was hunting for when ye got lost, and
fell into the basement story of the mountain.”

“Oh, this is the pass, is it?” exclaimed the
delighted lad; “then we have a clear road before us straight
to New Boston.”

“Clear of all but one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The red spalpeens; they’re always turning up when
you don’t expect ’em, and don’t want
’em.”

“How far are we away from the cave, where we left the half
dozen Apaches?”

“I don’t think it’s much more than a mile,
though it may be a mile and a half.”

“Well, that’s very good; we’ve got that much
start, and it’s worth having.”

“And there’s where ye’re mistook, as the gals
used to obsarve when anybody tried to run down my beauty. The path
that we come along, ye’ll mind, makes many turns and twists,
and the ind of it all is that it strikes the pass on the other side
of the cave, and we’ve got to ride right by the spot which we
lift.”

This was not cheering information, although, everything
considered, the two had cause to congratulate themselves upon their
extraordinary success up to this time.

The night was about gone, and, while their mustangs halted, they
observed that it was growing light in the east. They would be
forced to ride through the dangerous territory by day, so that the
risk of detection would be proportionately greater if their enemies
should be in the vicinity. Both the mustangs were fresh and
vigorous, however, having enjoyed an unusually long rest, with
plenty of food, and they were good for many hours of speed and
endurance. The one ridden by Fred had behaved in a very seemly
fashion, and there was ground for the hope that he would keep up
the line of conduct to the end. Still there could be no certainty
of what he would do in the presence of the Apaches.

“We’ll take it aisy,” said Mickey, as the two
started off at an easy gallop. “We’ll not be afther
putting ’em to a run till we have to do the same, so that
when there’s naad for their spaad, we shall have it at
command.” This prudent suggestion was carried out. Their
horses dropped into a sweeping gallop that was as easy as an
ordinary walk. The riders kept their senses awake, talking only a
little, and then in guarded voices.

As they galloped along the sun rose, and the day promised to be
as warm and pleasant as those which had preceded it. The sky was
obscured only by a few fleecy clouds, while the deep blue beyond
was as beautiful as that of Italy. Drawing near the cave in the
mountain, they pulled their horses down to a walk and carefully
guided them into the softest places, so as to make the noise of
their hoofs as slight as possible. Nothing occurred until they were
a short distance beyond the dangerous spot, when Mickey spoke.

“Do you obsarve that stream there?” he asked,
pointing to a rather deep brook which ran across the pass, and lost
itself in the rocks upon the opposite side. “Well,
that’s the water that comes through the cave over the
cascade, and that I expicted to swim out by, and I’m going to
find out what me chances were.”

Chapter XIII.

In the Nick of Time.

Return to Table of
Contents

Leaving his mustang in charge of Fred, the Irishman turned to
the right, and followed the stream into the rocks. The course was
so winding that he speedily disappeared from sight. The boy, who
was compelled to sit still and await his return, at perhaps the
most dangerous portion of the road, felt anything but comfortable
over the erratic proceeding of his friend. But, fortunately, the
latter had been gone but a short time when he reappeared, hurrying
forward as if somebody was at his heels.

“It’s all right,” he remarked, as he sprang
into the saddle, took up the reins, and started on. “I think
the Apaches are there, though I can’t be sartin; but I found
out what I wanted to l’arn.”

Then he explained that he followed up the stream to the place
where it came from beneath the rocks, which formed a part of the
wall of the cave, where a curious fact attracted his attention. In
its passage beneath the stone the tunnel widened and flattened, so
that, where it shot forth to the sunlight again, its width was some
twenty feet, and its depth only a few inches. The appearance it
presented was very much like that of the gates of a mill-pond when
they have been slightly raised to allow a discharge of water
beneath. Through the passage-way thus afforded no living person
could have forced his way; and, had Mickey O’Rooney attempted
it, nothing in the world could have saved him from drowning. The
Irishman himself realized it, and was thankful enough that he had
refrained from making the desperate attempt.

The two continued their sweeping gallop for several hours,
during which they did not catch a glimpse of Indians, but they were
alarmed by hearing the reports of guns at no great distance on the
right. The firing was irregular, sometimes several shots being
heard together, and then they were more of a dropping character.
This showed that a fight of some kind was going on, but as to its
precise nature they could only conjecture. It might be that a party
of Comanches and Apaches, or Kiowas, or hunters were enjoying a hot
time, but the two friends were glad to get out of the neighborhood
as speedily as possible. At noon they enjoyed the satisfaction of
knowing that they had made good and substantial progress on the way
home. There was an abundance of grass and water, and when the sun
was overhead they went into camp.

“I’m as hungry as a panther that has been fasting
for a month,” said Mickey, as he dismounted; “and I
haven’t got a mouthful of food lift. There ain’t any
use of a chap starving to death to accommodate anybody else, and I
don’t mane to do the same.”

Fred Munson’s hunger was scarcely less than his, but the
boy would have been willing to have undergone still more, rather
than incur the risk that was now inevitable. But Mickey saw nothing
to be gained by such a course and contended that they should give
their attention to the wants of their bodies, before they were
weakened by fasting and fatigue.

Mickey promised not to be absent long, and then started in
search of provender. Game was abundant in that part of the world,
and he was confident that much time would not be required to bring
down some toothsome dainty.

“He has an uncomfortable way of running off and leaving a
fellow alone,” muttered Fred, as he watched the vanishing
figure of his friend. “I haven’t anything but my
revolver, and only two shots left in that, and it seems to me that
this is about the worst place we could stop.”

The point where they camped was in the pass, which, at that
point, widened considerably. The right wall curved far inward in a
semi-circular shape, the opposite remaining the same, the gorge
looking as if an immense slice had been scooped out of its northern
boundary. The rocks on every hand ranged from a dozen to a hundred
feet in height, with numerous openings, through which a horseman
could easily pick his way. The tops were covered with vegetation,
the greater portion of which was vigorous and dense.

Fred found himself standing in an immense amphitheatre, as one
can imagine how the gladiators of Rome stood in the Coliseum, when
an audience of over a hundred thousand were seated and looking down
upon them. He could not but note the helpless situation a party of
men would be in if caught where he was.

“If a company of United States Cavalry should camp here,
and the Indians opened on them from the rocks above, they would
have to stand and be shot down, one after another, or else run the
gauntlet and be picked off in the same way.”

The appearance of the ground showed that the spot was a favorite
camping-site of the Indians. Fred, for a time, suspected that it
was the place where Lone Wolf and his band had spent the first
night out from New Boston; but an examination showed that it did
not correspond in many points. The remains of charred wood, of
bleaching bones and ashes proved that many a camp-fire had been
kindled. And, in all probability, every one of them had warmed the
shins and toasted the food of the red cut-throats of that
section.

The two mustangs were tethered near one side of the space where
there was grass and water, and the lad set about it to select a
proper place in which to build their camp-fire. There was no
trouble in determining this; but, when he started to gather wood,
he was surprised to discover that there was much less than he
supposed. The former tenants of the place had cleared it up pretty
thoroughly.

“There is plenty of wood over yonder,” he said to
himself, looking in the direction taken by Mickey O’Rooney;
“and where there is so much growing there must be some upon
the ground. I’ll go over and gather some, and have the fire
all ready when he comes back.”

It was quite a walk from where he stood to the side of the
semicircular widening of the pass, and as he went over it he was
surprised to find it greater than it appeared. When he picked his
way between the rocks, and began clambering among the trees and
vegetation, he concluded that he was fully two hundred yards from
where the mustangs were grazing.

However, he did not allow himself to lose any time in
speculation and wonderment, but set to work at once to gather wood
with which to kindle a fire in readiness for the return of Mickey.
There was enough around him to afford all he needed and he was
engaged in leisurely collecting an armful when he was startled by
the rattling of the leaves behind him.

The wood was dropped on the instant, and the alarmed lad wheeled
about to face his new danger. Instead of two or three Indians, as
he had anticipated, he saw an enormous grizzly bear, about a dozen
feet in the rear, coming directly toward him, with very little
doubt of his purpose.

Fred had no thought of anything of this character, and for a
time he was paralyzed with terror, unable to speak or stir. These
precious seconds were improved by the huge animal, which continued
lumbering heavily forward toward the boy. Bruin had his jaws apart
and his red tongue lolling out, while a guttural grunt was
occasionally heard, as if the beast was anticipating the crunching
of the tender flesh and bones of the lad.

Before the latter was within reach, however, he had recovered
his usual activity, and, with a bound and a yell of terror, Fred
started in the direction of the clearing, where he had left the
mustangs, and where he had intended to kindle the camp-fire. But
the enormous, bulky creature, although swinging along in his
awkward fashion, still made good speed, and gained so rapidly upon
the boy that he almost abandoned hope of escape.

At this critical moment Fred thought of his revolver, and he
whipped it out in a twinkling. Whirling about, he took quick aim
and discharged both barrels almost in the face of the brute. Then,
flinging the pistol against his leather nose, he turned back and
continued his flight at the utmost bent of his speed. Both bullets
struck the brute and wounded him, but not fatally, nor, indeed,
enough to check his advance.

WHIRLING ABOUT HE TOOK QUICK AIM.

The grizzly bear, as found in his native wilds, is killed with
extreme difficulty, and the only thing that seemed to affect the
monster in the present instance was the flash of the pistol in his
eyes. He paused, and, rearing on his hind legs, snorted, snuffed,
and pawed his nose as if the bullets were splinters which he was
seeking to displace. Then, with an angry growl, he dropped on all
fours and resumed his pursuit of the author of his confusion and
hurts. The wounds incensed the brute, and he plunged along at a
faster rate than before, gaining so rapidly that there could be no
doubt as to the result.

Being without any weapon at all, there seemed but one hope for
Fred, and that was to reach his mustang in time to mount and avail
himself of his speed. For a hundred feet or so he ran down a rapid
slope, between the trees and rocks, until he reached the camping
site, where he had a run of a couple of hundred yards across a
comparatively level plain to reach the point where his animal was
awaiting him.

In going down this wooded slope, the smaller size of the boy
gave him considerable advantage. Yet, so well did the grizzly
succeed that he reached the spot less than twenty feet in his rear,
and, heading directly for him, at once proceeded to decrease the
distance still further. This placed the question of escape by
superior speed upon the part of the lad as among the
impossibilities, and it began to look very much as if his race were
run.

At this juncture, as if all the fates had combined against him,
Fred, while glancing backward over his shoulder, stumbled and fell.
He sprang up as hastily as possible, but the loss of ground was
irreparable. As he looked back he saw that the colossal beast was
so close that it seemed that one sweep of his paw would smite the
terrified fugitive from the face of the earth.

It was a critical moment indeed, and the crack of the rifle from
the wood, which the pursuer and pursued had just left, was not a
breath of time too soon. Aimed by one who knew the vulnerable
points of such a creature, and by someone whose skill was
unsurpassed, the leaden messenger crashed its way through bone and
muscle to the seat of life. The brute, which was ready to fall upon
and devour the young fugitive, pitched heavily forward and rolled
upon the ground in the throes of death.

Fred did not realize his delivery until he had gone some
distance further and looked back and saw the black mass motionless
upon the ground. After some hesitation, he then turned and walked
distrustfully back to where it lay.

He found the beast stone-dead, a rill of blood from beneath the
fore-leg showing where some one’s bullet had done the
business. The lad recalled the sound of the gun which had reached
his ear.

“That was the best shot for me that Mickey ever
made,” he muttered, looking around for his friend.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

“Mickey must always have his fun,” added Fred after
failing to detect him. “Instead of coming out at once and
letting me know how he came to do it, he fires the lucky shot, and
then waits to see how I will act. My gracious! he is a
bouncer!”

This last remark was excited by the carcass, which he kicked,
and which shook like a mountainous mass of jelly; and as he passed
around it he gained a fair idea of the immense proportions of the
bear, in whose grasp he would have been as helpless as in that of a
royal Bengal tiger.

“Whew! but he came mighty close to me! When I fell down I
expected to feel his paws on me before I could get up. In a few
seconds more it would have been all up with me.”

Several minutes passed, and nothing was seen of the Irishman,
whereupon the lad concluded he might as well go back and gather the
wood, which would be needed at the camp-fire.

“I wonder if there’s any more of them,” he
muttered, as he began picking his way among the rocks. “If
there are, why Mickey must look out for me.”

He found the sticks just as he had thrown them down and he
proceeded to regather them, keeping a careful watch for another
dangerous visitor. All remained quiet, however, and, making his way
down the wooded slope into the open area, he looked back and found
that he was still alone. So it continued until he returned to where
the two mustangs were tethered. There he carefully adjusted the
sticks and prepared everything, after which he began to feel some
impatience at the non-appearance of his friend.

“He must see more fun in that kind of thing than I do.
There’s no telling what has become of those six Apaches we
left down in the cave. I feel sure that they’ve got above
ground again. It won’t take long for them to find their
mustangs, or some other horses, and they may be a mile away, and
there may be other parties close by. Halloa!”

Fred thought that he had no matches about his person; but he was
making a sort of aimless hunt when he found a solitary lucifer at
the bottom of his pocket. This he carefully struck against the rock
behind him, and in a few minutes the camp-fire was started and
burning merrily.

As he sat down to wait he looked toward the point where the
Irishman had vanished from sight. There he was, bearing on his
shoulders some choice sections of a young antelope he had shot,
although Fred recalled that he had not heard the report of his gun,
except when the grizzly was shot. As Mickey came along over the
same path taken by the boy, he was forced to make a detour around
the carcass of the bear. He paused to survey it, his whole manner
betraying great astonishment, as if he had never beheld anything of
the kind. He walked around the body several times, punched it with
his foot, and finally, grasping his twenty pounds of meat in his
right hand, approached the camp-fire.

Here he at once began the preparations for broiling it. The
antelope had been of goodly size and he had cut out the most
luscious portions, so as to avoid carrying back any waste material.
He had a great deal more than both could eat, it is true, but it
was a commendable custom with the Irishman to lay in a stock
against emergencies that were likely to arise.

While thus employed, it would have been impossible for Mickey to
hold his tongue.

“Begorrah, but it was queer, was the same, the way I came
to cotch this gintleman. I hunted him a little ways, when he made a
big jump, and I thought had got a long ways off, but when I came to
folly him, I found he had cornered himself among the rocks, where
there was no show of getting out, except by coming back on me. The
minute I showed mesilf, he made a rush for me arms, just as all the
purty gals in Tipperary used to do when I came along the street. An
antelope can’t do much, but I don’t care about their
coming down on me in that style, and so I pulled up and let drive.
He was right on me when I pulled trigger, and he made one big jump
that carried him clear over my head, and landed him stone dead on
the other side.”

“That was a good shot, but not as good as when you brought
down the grizzly bear at my heels.”

Mickey O’Rooney was particularly busy just then with his
culinary operations, and he stared at the lad with an expression of
comical amazement that made the young fellow laugh.

“Begorrah, why don’t ye talk sinse?” added
Mickey, impatiently. “I’ve heard Soot Simpson say that
if ye only put your shot in the right spot, ye don’t want but
one of ’em to trip the biggest grizzly that ever navigated. I
was going to obsarve that ye had been mighty lucky to send in your
two pistol-shots just where they settled the business, though I
s’pose the haythen was so close on ye whin ye fired that ye
almost shoved the weapon into his carcass.”

“I shot him, Mickey, before I fairly started to run, but
he didn’t mind it any more than if I spit in his face. It was
your own shot that did the business.”

“Me own shot!” repeated Mickey, still staring with
an astonished expression. “I never fired any shot at the
baste, and never saw him till a few minutes ago, when I was coming
this way.”

It was Fred Munson’s turn to be astonished, and he asked,
in his amazed, wondering way:

“Who, then, fired the shot that killed him? I
didn’t.”

“I thought ye did the same, for it was not
mesilf.”

The lad was more puzzled than ever. He saw that Mickey was in
earnest, and was telling him the truth, and each, in fact,
understood that he had been under a misapprehension as to
who had slain the grizzly bear.

“The beast was right on me,” continued Fred,
“and I didn’t think there was any chance for me, when I
heard the crack of a rifle from the bushes, and, looking back, saw
that the bear was down on the ground, making his last
kick.”

Mickey let the meat scorch, while he stopped to scratch his
head, as was his custom when he was in a mental fog.

“Begorrah, but that is queer, as me mither used to obsarve
when she found she had not been desaved by belaving what we childer
told her. There was somebody who was kind enough to knock over the
grizzly at the most convanient season for ye, and then he
doesn’t choose to send over his card wid his post-office
address on.”

“Who do you think it was, Mickey?”

“It must have been some red spalpeen that took pity on ye.
Who knows but it was Lone Wolf himself?”

Both looked about them in a scared, inquiring way, but could see
nothing of their unknown friend or enemy, as the case might be.

“I tell you, Mickey, that it makes me feel as if we ought
to get out of here.”

“Ye’re right, and we’ll just swally some of
this stuff, and then we’ll ’light out.”

He tossed the lad a goodly-sized piece of meat, which, if
anything, was overdone. Both ate more rapidly than was consistent
with hygiene, their eyes continually wandering over the rocks and
heights around them, in quest of their seemingly ever-present
enemies, the Apaches. It required but a few moments for them to,
complete their dinner. Mickey, in accordance with his custom,
carefully folded up what was left, and, taking a drink from the
stream which ran near at hand, they sprang upon the backs of their
mustangs, and headed westward in the direction of New Boston,
provided such a settlement was still in existence by the grace of
Lone Wolf, leader of the Apaches.

“Now,” said Mickey, whose spirits seemed to rise
when he found himself astride of his trusty mustang again,
“if we don’t have any bad luck, we ought to be out of
the mountains by dark.”

“And after that?”

“Then a good long ride across the prairie, and we’ll
be back again wid the folks.”

“How glad I am that father isn’t there, that he
staid at Fort Aubray, for when he comes along in a few weeks, he
won’t know anything about this trouble till I tell him the
whole story myself, and then it will be too late for him to
worry.”

“Yes, I’m glad it’s so, for it saams if I had
a spalpeen of a son off wid Lone Wolf, among the mountains,
I’d feel as bad as if he’d gone in swimming where the
water was over his head. And then it will be so nice to sit down
and tell the ould gintleman about it, and have him lambaste ye
’cause you wasn’t more respictful to Lone Wolf. All
them things are cheerful, and make the occasion very plisant.
Begorrah, I should like to know where that old redskin is, for Soot
Simpson tells me that he is the greatest redskin down in this part
of the world. He’s the spalpeen that robbed a government
train and made himself a big blanket out of the new greenbaeks that
he stole. Soot says that there isn’t room on his lodge-pole
for half the scalps that he has taken. Bad luck to the spalpeen, he
will peel the topknot from the head of a lovely woman, or swaat
child, such as I used to be, as quick as he would from the crown of
a man of my size. He’s an old riprobate, is the same, and
Soot says he can niver die resigned and at pace with all mankind
till he shoots him.”

“I’ll be very glad to keep out of his way, if
he’ll keep out of mine. I wonder why he didn’t kill me
when he had the chance, instead of keeping me so long.”

“I s’pose he meant to carry ye up where his little
spalpeens live, and turn ye over to them for their
amusement.”

“How could I amuse them?”

“There be a good many ways. They might have stuck little
wooden pegs in your hide, then set fire to ’em, and then
walked ye round for fireworks; or they might fill your ears with
powder, and tech it off, and then watched the iligant exprission of
your countenance. Or they might lave set ye to running up and down
between two rows of ’em, about eight or ten miles long, while
aich stood with a big shillalah in his hand, and banged ye over the
head with it as ye passed. There be a good many ways, according to
what Soot told me, but that’s enough to show ye that Lone
Wolf and his folks wouldn’t have been at a loss to find
delightful ways of giving the little childher the innocent sport
they must have.”

“I shouldn’t think they would, if that’s the
kind of fun they like,” replied the horrified boy.
“I’ve thanked the Lord hundreds of times that He helped
me get out of Lone Wolf’s clutches, and my dread is that he
may catch us before we can get out of the mountain. I don’t
believe we could find as good a chance as I did the other
night.”

“Ye’re right; that thing couldn’t happen
ag’in. Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same
place; but we’ve got good horses, and if he don’t pin
us up in the pass, I think our chance is as good as could be
asked.”

“That’s what troubles me,” said Fred, who was
galloping at his side, and who kept continually glancing from the
tops of the rocks upon the right to the tops upon the left.
“You know there are Indians all over, and I wonder that some
of them haven’t seen us already. S’pose they do, and
they’re behind us, they can signal to somebody ahead, and the
first thing we know, they’ve got us shut in on both
sides.”

“That thing may happen,” replied Mickey, who did not
appear as apprehensive as his young friend; “but I have the
best of hope that the same won’t. I don’t think Lone
Wolf knows we’re anywhere around here, and before he can find
out, I also hope we shall be beyond his raich.”

Chapter XIV.

Between Two Fires.

Return to Table of
Contents

Mickey had scarcely given utterance to this hopeful remark when
he drew up his mustang with a spasmodic jerk and exclaimed, in a
startled in a startled voice:

“Do you see that?”

As he spoke, he pointed some distance ahead, where a faint, thin
column of smoke was seen rising from the top of the rocks on the
opposite side of the canon or pass.

It will be remembered that the pass of which our two friends
availed themselves is the only one leading through the section of
the mountains which lies to the eastward of the Rio Pecos. That
part over which Fred and Mickey were riding showed numerous winding
trails, made by the hoofs of the horses, as they passed back and
forth, bearing Apaches, Comanches, Kiowas, and, very rarely, white
men. At no very distant intervals were observed human skeletons and
bones, while they were scarcely ever out of sight of the remains of
horses or wild animals; all of which told their tale of the scenes
of violence that had taken place in that highway of the
mountains.

Sometimes war-parties of the tribes mentioned encountered each
other in the gorge, and passed each other in sullen silence, or,
perchance, they dashed together like so many wild beasts, fighting
with the fury of a thousand Kilkenny cats. It was as the whim
happened to rule the leaders.

The rocks rose perpendicularly on both sides to the height of
fifty and a hundred feet, the upper contour being irregular, and
varying in every manner imaginable. Along the upper edge of the
pass grew vegetation, while here and there, along the side, some
tree managed to obtain a precarious foothold, and sprouted forth
toward the sun. The floor of the canon was of a varied
nature—rocks, boulders, grass, streams of water, gravel,
sand, and barren soil, alternating with each other and preventing
anything like an accurate description of any particular section. A
survey of this curious specimen of nature’s highway suggested
the idea that the solid mountain had been rent for many leagues by
an earthquake, which, having opened this great seam or rent, had
left it gradually to adjust itself to the changed order of things,
and to be availed of by those who were seeking a safe and speedy
transit through the almost impassable mountains.

Mickey and Fred checked their mustangs and carefully scrutinized
the line of smoke. It was several hundred yards in advance, on
their left, while they were following a trail that led close to the
right of the canon. They could distinguish nothing at all that
could give any additional information.

The fire which gave rise to the vapor had been kindled just far
enough back to cause the edge of the gorge to protrude itself in
such a way as to shut it off from the eyes of those below. Indeed,
it was not to be supposed that those who had the matter in charge
would commit any oversight which would reveal themselves or their
purpose to those from whom they desired to keep them.

“That is the same as the camp-fire which troubled the
three Apaches so much, and which was the means of my giving them
the slip.”

“It must have been started by some other war-party, so
that their ca’c’lations were upsit, and you had a
chance to get away during the muss. It was a sort of free fight,
you see, in which, instead of staying and getting your head
cracked, you stepped down and lift.”

Unable to make anything of this particular signal-fire, the two
friends carefully searched for more. Had they been able to discover
one in the rear, they would have been assured that signaling was
going on, and they would not have dared to venture forward. Here
and there along the sides of the canon were openings or crevices,
generally filled with some sort of a vegetable growth, and into
most of which quite a number of men could have taken refuge, but
which, of course, were inaccessible to their horses.

“I can’t find anything that resimbles the
same,” said Mickey, alluding to the camp-fire, “though
there may be some one that is seen by the gintlemen who are cooking
their shins by yon one.”

“Will it do to go on?”

“It won’t do to do anything else. Like enough the
spalpeen yonder has obsarved us coming, and he knows that
there’s a party behind us, and, being unable to do anything
himsilf, he starts up the fire so as to scare us, and turn us back
into the hands of the spalpeens coming in our rear. Mind, I say
that such may be the case, but I ain’t sure that it
is.”

“I shouldn’t wonder a bit, now, if that isn’t
it exactly,” said Fred, who was quite taken with the
ingenious theory of his friend. “It seems to me that the best
thing that we can do is to ride on as fast as we can.”

“We’ve got to run the risk of it being all wrong,
and fetching up in the bosom of the spalpeens; but it’s
moighty sure we don’t make anything by standing
here.”

The Irishman turned his horse as near the middle of the canon as
possible. Fred kept close to his side, his mustang behaving so
splendidly that he gave him his unreserved confidence. The average
width of the pass was about a hundred yards, so it will be
understood that if a detachment of men were caught within it they
would be compelled to fight at a fearful disadvantage.

The plan of Mickey and Fred, as they discussed it while riding
along, was to keep up the moderate gallop until close upon the
fire. They would then put their animals to the highest speed and
pass the dangerous point as speedily as possible. They felt no
little misgiving as they drew near the dangerous place, and they
continually glanced upward at the rocks overhead, expecting that a
party of Indians would suddenly make their appearance and open
fire.

The first plan was, as they drew near, to run in as close as
possible beneath the rocks on the left, in the belief that, as they
overhung so much, the Indians above could not reach them with a
shot. But before the time came to make the attempt, it was seen
that it would not do. Accordingly, Mickey, who had maintained a
line as close as possible to the centre of the canon, suddenly
sheered his mustang to the right, until he nearly grazed the wall
there. Then he put him on a dead run, Fred Munson doing the same,
with very little space between the two steeds. A few plunges
brought them directly opposite the signal-fire, and every nerve was
strained.

Both beasts were capable of magnificent speed and the still air
became like a hurricane as the horsemen cut their way through it.
Fred glanced upward at the crest of the rocks on the left and
fancied that he saw figures standing there, preparing to fire. He
hammered his heels against the ribs of his mustang and leaned
forward upon his neck, in the hope of making the aim as difficult
as possible.

Still no reports of guns were heard; and, after continuing the
terrific gait for a quarter of a mile, they gradually decreased it
until it became a moderate walk, and the riders again found
themselves side by side. Both had looked behind them a dozen times
since passing the dangerous point, but had not obtained a glimpse
of an Indian.

“I thought I saw a number just as we were opposite,”
said Fred; “but, if so, what has become of them?”

“Ye didn’t obsarve any at all, for I kipt raising me
eye that way, and they weren’t there. The whole thing is a
moighty puzzle, as our tacher used to remark when the sum
in addition became so big that he had to set down one number and
carry anither. The spalpeens must have manufactured that fire for
our benefit, and where’s the good that it has done
them?”

“Can’t it be that it was for something else?
Can’t it be that they took us for Indians, or perhaps they
haven’t seen us at all, and don’t know that we’ve
passed?”

“It does seem as if something of the kind might be, and
yet that don’t sthrike me as the Injin style of doing
business.”

They continued their moderate pace for quite a distance further,
continually looking back toward the camp-fire, the smoke from which
continued to ascend with the same distinct regularity as before,
but nothing resembling a warrior was detected. Finally a curve in
the gorge shut out the troublesome signal, and they were left to
continue their way and conjecture as much as they chose as to the
explanation of what had taken place.

A little later, and when the afternoon was about half gone, they
reached a portion of the pass which was remarkably straight, so
that the eye took in a half mile of it, from the beginning to the
point where another turn intervened. The two friends were galloping
over this exact section and speculating as to how soon they would
strike the open prairie, when all their calculations were knocked
topsy-turvy. A party of horsemen charged around the bend in front,
all riding at a sweeping gallop directly toward the alarmed Mickey
and Fred, who instantly halted and surveyed them. A second glance
showed them to be Indians, undoubtedly Apaches, and very probably
Lone Wolf himself and some of his warriors.

“We must turn back,” said the Irishman, wheeling his
horse about and striking him into a rapid gait. “We’ve
got to have a dead run for it, and I think we can win. Holy saints
presarve us!”

This ejaculation was caused by seeing, at that moment, another
party of horsemen appear directly in their front, as they turned on
the back trail. Thus they were shut in on both sides, and fairly
caught between two fires.

Chapter XV.

On the Defensive.

Return to Table of
Contents

At the moment of reining up their mustangs, the fugitives were
about equidistant between the two fires, and it was just as
dangerous to advance as to retreat. For one second the Irishman
meditated a desperate charge, in the hope of breaking through the
company that first appeared in his path, and, had he been alone, or
accompanied by a man, he would have done so. But, slight as was his
own prospect of escape, he knew there was absolutely none for the
boy in such a desperate effort, and he determined that it should
not be made.

“Can’t we make a dash straight through them?”
asked Fred, reading the thought of Mickey, as he glanced from one
to the other, and noted the fearfully rapid approach of the
redskins.

“It can’t be done,” replied the Irishman.
“There is only one thing left for us.”

“What is that?”

“Do as I do. Yonder is an opening that may serve us for
awhile.”

As he spoke, he slipped off his steed, leaving him to work his
own will. Fred did not hesitate a moment, for there was not a
moment to spare.

As he sprang to the ground, he pulled the beautiful Apache
blanket from the back of the mustang that had served him so well.
Dragging that with him, the two hurried to the right, making for a
wooded crevice between the rocks, which seemingly offered a chance
for them to climb to the surface above, if, in the order of things,
they should gain the opportunity to do so. Mickey O’Rooney,
as a matter of course, took the lead and in a twinkling he was
among the gnarled and twisted saplings, the interlacing vines, and
the rolling stones and rattling gravel. As soon as he had secured a
foothold, he reached out his hand to help his young friend.

“Never mind me. I can keep along behind you. Go as fast as
you can.”

“Let me have the blanket,” said Mickey, drawing it
from his grasp. “Now come ahead, for we have got to go it
like monkeys.”

He turned and bent to his task with the recklessness of despair,
for, even in that dreadful crisis, he thought more of the little
fellow than he did of himself. If he could have been assured of his
safety, he would have been ready to wheel about and meet his score
or more of foes, and fight them single-handed, as Leonidas and his
band did at Thermopylæ. But the fate of the two was linked
together, and, sink or swim, it must be fulfilled in company.

The narrow, wooded ravine, in which they had taken enforced
refuge, was only three or four feet in width, the bottom sloping
irregularly upward, at an angle of forty five degrees. So long as
this continued, so long could they maintain their laboring ascent
to the top. Mickey had strong hopes that, with the advantage of the
start, they might reach that point far enough in advance of their
pursuers to secure some other concealment that would serve them
till nightfall, when they could steal out and try their chances
again.

The saplings growing at every inclination afforded them much
assistance, as they were able to seize hold with one or both hands,
and thus help themselves along. But the vines in many places were
of a peculiar running nature and they frequently caught their feet
and stumbled; but they were instantly up and at it again. All at
once Mickey, who was scarcely an arm’s length in advance,
halted so abruptly that Fred ran plump against him.

“Why don’t you go on?” asked the panting
lad.

“I can’t. Here’s the end.”

So it was, indeed. While pressing forward with undiminished
effort, the Irishman found himself suddenly confronted with a
solid, perpendicular wall of rock. The narrow chasm, or fissure,
terminated.

It was like a fugitive, his heart beating high with hope,
checked in his flight by the obtrusion of the Great Chinese Wall
across his path. Mickey looked upward. As he stood, he could, with
outstretched arms, touch the wall on his right and left, and kick
the one in front—the only open route being in the rear, which
was commanded by the Apache party. As he did so, he saw, through
the interstices of the interweaving, straggling branches, the
clear, blue sky, with the edge of the fissure fully forty feet
above his head. His first hope was that some of the saplings around
him were lofty enough to permit him to use them as a ladder; but
the tallest did not approach within a half dozen yards of the top.
They were shut in on every hand.

“We can’t run any further,” said the Irishman,
after a hasty glance at the situation. “We are cotched as
fairly as ever was a mouse in a trap, and it now remains for us to
peg away, and go under doing the best we can. Have ye your
pistol?”

“Yes; I picked it up again, after throwing it in the face
of the grizzly, but it isn’t loaded.”

“Then it ain’t of much account, as me mither used to
say in her affectionate references to me father; but if one of the
spalpeens happen to come onto ye too suddent like, ye might scare
him by shoving that into his eyes. I’ve got the powder for
the same, but the bullets won’t fit it, so I’ll have to
do the shooting.”

They were at bay and the Irishman was right in his declaration
that they could do nothing but fight it out as best they might. The
question of further flight was settled by the trap in which they
were caught.

They paused, expecting to hear the tramp of the Indians behind
them, but, as it continued quiet, Mickey ventured upon a more
critical inspection of their fortress, as it may be termed. He
found little which has not already been mentioned, except the fact
that the wall on their left sloped inward, as it ascended, to such
a degree that the width at the top was several feet less than at
the bottom. This was an important advantage, for, in case they were
attacked from above, it was in their power to place themselves
beyond the immediate reach of a whole war party by any means at
their command.

“Do ye hear anything?” asked Mickey, bending his
head to listen.

They were silent a few minutes, during which the occasional
tramp of a horse’s hoof was noted. Beyond a doubt, the entire
war-party of Apaches were at the mouth of the fissure and probably
a number had already entered it.

“They haven’t tried to rush in pell-mell,
head-over-heels,” added Mickey, after they had stood thus a
short time; but they are sneaking along, just as they always do
when they’re on the thrack of a gintleman.”

“How soon do you think they will be here?” asked
Fred, who had recovered his breath, and who began to feel something
like a renewal of hope, faint though it might be, at the continued
silence of their foes.

“Can’t say, me laddy; but they may come any minute,
and we must keep eyes and ears open, and be ready to do the last
act in style. Don’t ye mind that we’re very much in the
same fix that we was when cotched in the cave, barring that
we’re worse off here than we were there? If some one should
let a lasso down from the top, we might climb up just as we did
there; but that’s one of the things that ain’t likely
to happen.”

“Suppose we creep back a ways to see what the Indians are
doing,” ventured Fred, who was puzzled at the silence of
their enemies, which had now continued for some time.

“No need of doing that just yet. They’ll let us know
what they’re at and what they mane—whisht!”

At that juncture the Irishman detected a movement among the wood
and undergrowth of the ravine, and his rifle was at his shoulder
like a flash. Fred understood, or, rather, suspected, the cause of
the trouble, though he saw nothing. Only a few seconds elapsed when
the trigger was pulled. The sharp crack of the weapon had scarcely
broke the stillness when the shriek of a warrior was heard only a
few feet away, followed by a threshing of the vines and vegetation,
as the comrades of the slain brave caught and hurriedly dragged him
back toward the greater ravine beyond.

“That’ll taich ’em to be more respictful in
the traitment of gintlemen,” remarked Mickey, who had
recovered something of his natural recklessness, and was reloading
his gun with as much sangfroid as though he had just
dropped an antelope, and wished to be ready for another that was
expected along the same path.

Fred had detected the rustling movement among the shrubbery made
by the redskin in stealing upon them, but he saw nothing of the
savage himself, and was not a little startled when his friend fired
so quickly, and the result was so manifest.

If the victim of this rather hastily fired shot was unable to
appreciate the lesson from its having a too personal application to
himself, his companions appreciated it fully. It taught them that
the way of pursuit was not open and undisputed by any means, and
the few who were hurrying forward rather rashly were not only
checked, but forced backward. Matters, for the moment, were brought
to a stand still.

“They’ll be back again,” added Mickey, after
reloading his piece, “and, as they mean to have our topknots,
as the hunters say, we’ll wipe out as many as we kin before
they git them. And now, me laddy, will ye allow me to make a
suggestion?”

“What is it?”

“That ye kaap a little more out of raich. If one of the
spalpeens craap up, and shoots ye dead, ye’ll be sorry ye
didn’t take me advice, when ye come to think the matter over
coolly. Here’s a sort of boulder which seems to have cared in
from above. Do ye squaze in behind that.”

“And what will you do?” asked Fred, acting upon his
advice.

“Being as there isn’t room to squaze in wid ye,
I’ll take my stand a little out here, where I can secure the
protection of a similar piece of masonry, and where the spalpeens
can’t git by me without giving the countersign and showing a
pass.”

The lad did not specially like this arrangement, as it really
retired him, but their quarters were so cramped that they had to
dispose of themselves as best they could. He was obliged to feel
that practically he was of no account, as his only pistol had
become useless hours before. Accordingly, he forced himself in
behind the boulder pointed out, and found that his position was
safe against any treacherous shot from the front.

He was uneasy, however, about the open space above him, for it
struck him that it would be so easy for any of their foes to roll
the rocks down upon their heads. When he came to examine the
situation more critically, he was not a little relieved to find
that he was protected by the sloping wall, already mentioned. A
heavy stone heaved over the opening above might really weigh a ton,
and come crashing downward with terrific force, but no skill could,
at the start, cause its course to be such as to injure the lad. He
therefore concluded that his friend Mickey was not unwise in
placing him in such a refuge.

Chapter XVI.

Friend or Enemy?

Return to Table of
Contents

It can scarcely be said that either of the fugitives had any
definite hope of escape, for neither was able to see how the thing
was possible. Mickey knew that occasionally, in the affairs of the
world, seemingly providential interferences had occurred, but he
looked for nothing of the kind. He considered that there would be a
siege, lasting perhaps several days, then a desperate hand-to-hand
struggle, and then.

The summary manner in which the Irishman disposed of the first
Apache who showed himself brought matters to a standstill. In this
condition they probably would have remained but for the Irishman
himself, who saw nothing to be gained by inaction. Turning his
head, he whispered to Fred:

“Do ye kape quiet, me laddy, till my return. I am going to
take a look around.”

The boy offered no objection, for he knew it would not be
heeded, and Mickey moved away. It required the greatest care to
pick his way down the fissure, as the stones and gravel were liable
to turn under his feet and betray his approach, and it was much
easier to go forward than backward.

The fissure which had afforded this temporary refuge was about
fifty feet in length, and the vegetation was so thick that at
almost any portion the view was no greater than three or four
yards. Mickey was in constant expectation of encountering some of
the Apaches at every step he took, and, in accordance with his
principle of hitting a head wherever he saw it, he held his rifle
so as to fire on the very instant the coppery face presented itself
to view. But he saw none, and as he advanced he began to believe
that the place was entirely free of the Apaches, who, if prudent,
would quietly wait on the outside until their prey dropped into
their hands.

It was not to be supposed that they would leave any opening on
the outside by which the most forlorn chance could be obtained, and
Mickey had no thought of any such thing. If he had, it would have
been dissipated by the evidence of his own ears. He could hear
distinctly their peculiar grunting voices, the tramp of their
mustangs, and the evidence which a score of Indian warriors might
be expected to give of their presence, when they had no reason for
concealment.

“It may be that the spalpeens mean to make a rush upon
me,” he muttered, as he halted near the end of the fissure,
“in which case I shall have a delightful employment in
cracking their pates as they come up and take their
turn.”

He remained where he was a few minutes longer, and, seeing no
prospect of learning anything additional, he resumed his advance
until he reached a point where it was only necessary to draw the
branches slightly apart to gain a view of the main ravine. And this
he proceeded to do in the gentlest and most cautious manner
possible.

The view was satisfactory, as it showed him that the Apaches
were gathered at the entrance to the fissure and were taking
matters very coolly and philosophically. Several were on horses,
and a number on foot. Among the mustangs moving about, the Irishman
recognized his own, astride of which was a dirty-looking Apache,
with a wide mouth and broken nose.

“Ye ould spalpeen,” muttered the indignant Irishman,
“if it wasn’t for fear of spoiling your wonderful
booty, I’d turn you somersets off that hoss of mine, which I
shall have to whitewash after getting him back, on account of your
contact wid the same.”

Mickey was strongly tempted to send a bullet after the
tantalizing horse-thief, but he thought he could wait awhile. He
was extremely cautious in making his stealthy view, only moving
enough leaves to permit the service of his eyes and he had not
enjoyed this prospect long before he believed that he had been
detected.

Of the twenty-odd members comprising the Apache party, about a
dozen were constantly in view, the others being too far to the
right or left to be seen. The group was an irregular and straggling
one, the most interesting portion being five or six, who stood
close together, exactly at the base of the fissure, talking with
each other. It was impossible that there should be more than one
subject of discussion; and the dispute, as Mickey suspected, was as
to the precise method of disposing of the job which had been placed
in their hands.

Some, evidently, favored a daring charge directly up the narrow
ravine, with its short, fierce encounter and sure victory. Others
had a different plan, and their gestures led the eavesdropper to
suspect that they advocated reaching them from the roof, while it
was apparent that there were those who insisted upon waiting until
the fruit should become ripe enough to fall into their laps without
shaking. There could be little doubt that the Apaches preferred to
take both prisoners, instead of shooting or tomahawking them in a
fight. They were under the inspiration of Lone Wolf, who believed
that a live man was much more valuable than a dead one.

While Mickey was watching this group with an interest which may
be imagined, he noticed that a short, thick, greasy, filthy warrior
was looking directly toward him, with a steadiness which caused the
Irishman to suspect that his presence was known. The Indian, like
all of them, was as homely as he could be. He, too, had gone
through an attack of smallpox, which had left his broad face so
deeply pitted that it could be noticed through the vari-colored
paint which was daubed thereon. There was scarcely any forehead,
the black, piercing eyes were far apart, and when Mickey saw them
turned toward him, he felt anything but comfortable under their
fire.

“I wonder whether he would keep mum if I should tip him
the wink?” thought Mickey, who suffered the leaves in front
of his face to close until there was just the smallest space
through which he could watch his man.

The latter acted very much as if he suspected the proximity of
the Irishman, even if he was not assured of it. He continued
looking directly at the point where the eyes of the white man
peered out upon him, and by-and-by he raised his arm and pointed in
the same direction, saying something at the same time to a couple
of the warriors near him.

“Be the powers, if that doesn’t mane me, as
me friend Larry O’Toole said when the judge axed for the
biggest rascal in coort. I’ll have to retire.”

At this juncture a strange occurrence took place. Mickey
O’Rooney was looking straight at the man, when he saw him
fling up his arms, yell and pitch forward to the ground, while the
group instantly scattered, as if a bombshell had dropped at their
feet.

Just a second previous to this strange death, Mickey heard the
report of a rifle, showing that the warrior had been shot by some
one at quite a distance from the spot, which shot, at the game
time, caused a temporary panic among the others.

“Well, well, now, if that doesn’t bate
everything!” exclaimed the amazed Irishman. “Just as I
was thinking of raising my gun to give that spalpeen his
walking-papers, up steps some gintleman and saves me the trouble;
but who was the gintleman? is the question.”

The inexplicable occurrence naturally recalled Fred
Munson’s adventure with the grizzly bear. When he needed
assistance most sorely, the shot was fired that saved his life.
Could it be that the same party had interfered in the present
instance? There was plenty of ground for speculation, and the
Irishman was disposed to believe that the diversion came from some
small party of Kiowas or Comanches, who had a special enmity
against this company of Apaches, and who, being too weak to attack
them, took this means of revenging themselves.

It was unsafe, however, to count upon the well-aimed shot as
meant in the interest of the whites, although the one that brought
down the grizzly bear could not have been meant for anything else
than a direct help to the imperiled lad. The Southwest has been
noted for what are termed “triangular fights.” A party
of Americans have been driven at bay by an overwhelming number of
Mexicans or greasers, who have suddenly found themselves attacked
by a party of howling Comanches. The latter have scattered the
Mexicans like chaff, the Americans acting the part of spectators
until the rout was complete, when the Comanches turned about and
sailed into the Americans. The Kiowas, Comanches, Apaches, Mexicans
and Americans afforded just the elements for a complication of
guerilla warfare, in which matters frequently became mixed to a
wonderful degree.

The hand that had fired this shot against a mortal foe of Mickey
O’Rooney might be turned against him the next hour. Who could
tell?

“If that gintleman begins the serenade from the other
side, it’s me bounden duty to kaap it up from this,”
concluded the Irishman, as he cocked his rifle and awaited his
chance.

It was not long in coming. Only a few minutes had passed after
the shot, when a couple of Apaches walked rapidly to view, and,
approaching the remains of their comrade, stooped down to carry him
away.

Mickey allowed them to get fairly started, when he blazed away
at the foremost, and had the satisfaction of seeing the rear Apache
not only deprived of his assistance, but his duty suddenly doubled.
The warrior, however, stuck pluckily to the work, and dragged both
out of view without any assistance from those who were ready to
rush to his help.

These two, or rather three, rifle shots produced the strongest
kind of effect upon the Apaches. They could not well fail to do so,
for they were not only fired with unerring aim, but they came from
such diverse points as to show the redskins that instead of having
their enemies cooped up in this narrow ravine, they had, in one
sense, placed themselves between two fires.

Hurriedly reloading his rifle, Mickey waited several minutes,
determined to fire the instant he got the chance, with the purpose
of enhancing the demoralization of the wretches. But they had
received enough to teach them caution, and as the minutes passed,
they failed to expose themselves. They had taken to shelter
somewhere, and were not yet ready to uncover.

“When Mickey had waited a considerable time, he concluded
to rejoin Fred Munson, who, no doubt, was anxious over the result
of his reconnoissance. When he returned he found him seated upon
the boulder, instead of behind it. The Irishman hastily explained
what had taken place, and added:

“I don’t know what they will do next, but
we’ve give the spalpeens a dose that will kaap them in the
background for a while.”

“No, it won’t, either,” was the significant
response.

“What do you maan, me laddy?”

“I mean that the Apaches, or some of them, anyway, have
changed their base. I’ve heard something overhead that makes
me sure they’re up there, getting up some kind of
deviltry.”

Chapter XVII.

A Fortunate Diversion.

Return to Table of
Contents

Mickey O’Rooney had not thought of the
“opening” over their heads since the firing of his
rifle-shot, and he now started and looked upward, as if fearful
that he had committed a fatal oversight. But he saw or heard
nothing to excite alarm.

“Where are they?” he asked, in a whisper.

“They’re up there. I’ve seen them peep down
more than once.”

“What were they paaping for?”

“I suppose to find out where we were.”

“Be the powers, but I showed them where I was when I fired
me gun!”

“That maybe; but you didn’t stay there, and perhaps
they were looking for me.”

“Did they find ye?”

“I don’t think they did. You know I was in behind
the boulder, with my head thrown back, so that it was easy for me
to look up, and there wasn’t enough branches and leaves over
my head to shut out my view; so I lay there looking up, watching
and listening, when I saw an Indian peep over the top there, as
though he was looking for us.”

“Did ye see more than one?”

“I am sure there were two, and I think three.”

“They didn’t ax ye any question?”

“I didn’t hear any.”

“What d’ye s’pose they mean to try?”

“I thought they meant to find out where we are hiding, and
then roll stones down on us. They can do that, you know, without
our getting a chance to stop them.”

“If we squaze in under that same place,” said
Mickey, indicating the inward slope of the rock, they can’t
hit us; but I don’t believe that such is their
intention.”

“What do you suppose it to be?”

“That’s hard to say; but these varmints ain’t
ready to shoot us jist yet. Leastaways, they don’t want to do
so, until they’re sure there ain’t anything else lift
for ’em to’do.”

“They wish to make us prisoners?”

“That’s it, exactly.”

“Well, if they are willing to wait, they’ll be sure
to have us, for there isn’t any water here for us to drink,
and we can’t get along without that.”

The Irishman suddenly slapped his chest and side, as though he
missed something from the pocket.

“And be the powers!” he exclaimed, “I’ve
lost that mate, and there must have been enough to last us a wake
or two.”

“How could you have lost that?” asked Fred, who was
much disappointed.

“It must have slid out when we were riding so hard, or
else when we lift our horses.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t lost somewhere among these
trees, where we can get it again?”

But he was confident that such was not the case, and he was not
disposed to mourn the loss a great deal. They could do longer
without food than they could without drink, and he was of the
opinion that this problem would be solved before they were likely
to perish from the want of either.

“Did ye get a fair look at any of the spalpeens that was
so ill-mannered as to paap down on ye?”

“Yes; and there was one—’Sh! there he is
now!”

The two peered upward through the leaves, and saw the head and
shoulders of an Apache, who was looking down into the ravine. He
was not directly above them, but a dozen feet off to the left. He
seemed to be trying to locate the party that had fired two such
fatal shots, and therefore could not have known where he was.

The face of the Indian could be seen very distinctly, and it was
one with more individual character than any Mickey had as yet
noticed. It was not handsome nor very homely, but that of a man in
the prime of life, with a prominent nose—a regular contour of
countenance for an Indian. The face was painted, as was the long
black hair which dangled about his shoulders. His eye was a
powerful black one, which flitted restlessly, as he keenly searched
the ravine below.

Not seeing that which he wished, he arose to his feet, and
walked slowly along and away from where the fugitives were
crouching. That is, his face was turned toward the main ravine or
pass, while he stepped upon the very edge of the fissure, moving
with a certain deliberation and dignity, as he searched the space
below for the man and boy whom he was so anxious to secure.

“I wonder if he ain’t the leader?” said
Mickey, in a whisper. “I never saw better shtyle than
that.”

“I should think he was the leader. Don’t you know
him?”

“How should I know him? I never traveled much in Injun
society. Are ye and him acquainted?”

“He’s Lone Wolf—their great
war-chief.”

“Ye don’t say so?” exclaimed the astonished
Irishman, staring at him. “He’s just the spalpeen I
loaded me gun for, and here goes!”

Softly raising the hammer of his rifle, he lifted the weapon to
his shoulder; but before he could make his aim certain, the red
scamp stepped aside and vanished from view.

“Now, that’s enough to break a man’s
heart!” wailed the chagrined Mickey. “Why wasn’t
the spalpeen thoughtful and kind enough to wait until I could have
made sartin of him? But sorra and disappointment await us all, as
Barney Mulligan said when his friend wouldn’t fight him.
Maybe he’ll show himsilf agin.”

Whether or not Lone Wolf learned of the precise location of the
parties for whom he was searching can only be conjectured; but
during the ten minutes that Mickey held his weapon ready to shoot
him at sight, he took good care to keep altogether invisible.

The Irishman was still looking for his reappearance, when
another singular occurrence took place. There was a whoop, or
rather howl, followed by a fall of a warrior, who was so near the
edge of the narrow ravine that when he came down, a portion of his
body was seen by those below. The dull and rather distant report of
a gun told the curious story.

The same rifle that had picked off one of the Apaches at the
mouth of the fissure had done the same thing in the case of one at
the top. The aim in both instances was unerring.

“Freddy, me lad,” said Mickey, a moment later,
“whin we rushed in here wid the spalpeens snapping at our
heels, I hadn’t any more hope that we’d ever get clear
of ’em than the man who was transported to Botany Bay had of
cutting out Prince Albert in Queen Victoria’s
graces.”

“Have you any more hope now?”

“I have; we’ve got a friend on the outside, and
he’s doing us good sarvice, as he has already proved. If Lone
Wolf wasn’t among that crowd, I don’t belave they would
stay after what has took place; there’s nothing to scare an
Injun like them things which he don’t understand.”

“I should think that that rifle-shot is proof enough that
somebody is firing into them.”

“Be the powers, but ye know little of Injin devilments, as
I’ve larned ’em from Soot Simpson. How do ye know but
that’s a thrick to make these Apaches belave that
there’s but a single Kiowa over there popping at them, when
there may be half a hundred waiting for the chance to clean them
out?”

“Maybe that is Sut himself; you know you have been
expecting him.”

“It can’t be him,” replied Mickey, with a
shake of his head. “He would have showed himself long ago,
when he could be sure of helping us. There must be some redskins
over there that have put up a job on Lone Wolf and his
scamps.”

“Whoever it is, whether one or a dozen, they are helping
us mightily.”

“So it looks, though they don’t mean it for that,
and after driving these spalpeens away, they may come over to clean
us out themselves.”

Nothing was heard of the redskins above for a considerable time
after the shot mentioned. Then the body was suddenly whisked out of
sight. It is a principle with Indians to bring away their dead from
any fight in which they may have fallen. At the imminent risk of
losing his own life a warrior had stolen up and drawn away the
remains of his former comrade.

The mysterious shots seemed to come from the other side of the
ravine, and they naturally had a very demoralizing effect upon the
party. Lone Wolf was not only brave, but sagacious and prudent. He
was not the chief to allow his warriors to stand idly and permit
themselves to be picked off one by one by an unseen enemy. But for
the latter, he would have descended into the fissure, and, with
several of his most reliable braves, captured and secured Mickey
and his companion at all hazards. But what assurance could he have
that after he and his men had entered the little ravine, a whole
party of Kiowas would not swarm in, overwhelm them, and make off
with their horses? So the leader concluded for the time being to
remain outside, where his line of retreat would be open, while he
could arrange his plans for disposing of the whites at his
leisure.

Lone Wolf dispatched two of his most skillful scouts, one to the
right, the other to the left, with orders to get to the rear of the
enemy, no matter how long a detour was necessary. In case they were
unable to extinguish them, they were to signal or return for
assistance. After sending off his trusty messengers, Lone Wolf
concluded to hold back until their return, keeping himself and his
braves pretty well concealed, but guarding against the capture of
their horses in the ravine below, or the escape of the two
fugitives, who might attempt to take advantage of the
diversion.

At the end of an hour, nothing had been seen or heard of the
Apache scouts sent out, and the chief dispatched another to learn
what was going on, and what was the cause of the trouble. During
this hour not a rifle-shot was detected by the waiting, listening
ears. Another half hour passed away, and the third man sent out by
Lone Wolf came back alone, and with astounding tidings.

He had found both of the warriors lying within a few yards of
each other, stone dead. He sought for some explanation of the
strange occurrence, but found none, and returned with the news to
his leader.

The latter was about as furious as a wild Indian could be,
without exploding. Lone Wolf had his own theory of the thing, and
he inquired particularly as to the manner in which the fatal wounds
seemed to have been inflicted. When they were described, all doubt
was removed from the mind of the chieftain.

He knew where the fatal shots came from, and he determined that
there was no better time to “square accounts.” Calling
the larger portion of his company about him, he started backward
and away from the ravine, his purpose being to reach the rear of
his enemy by a long detour.

Chapter XVIII.

An Old Acquaintance.

Return to Table of
Contents

All this was grist for Mickey and Fred. The long silence and
inaction—so far as these two were concerned—of the
Apaches convinced the fugitives that some important interruption
was going on, and that it could not fail to operate in the most
direct way in their favor. It was well into the afternoon when the
collision occurred between them and the Apaches, and enough time
had already passed to bring the night quite close at hand. An hour
or so more, and darkness would be upon them.

“I don’t belave the spalpeens have found put just
the precise spot where we’ve stowed away,” said Mickey,
in his cautious undertone, to his companion, “for I’ve
no evidence that such is the case.”

“They may take it into their heads to come into the
fissure again, and then where are we?”

“Right here, every time. We couldn’t get a better
spot, unless it might be at the mouth.”

“Don’t you think we had better go there?”
asked the lad, who could not feel the assurance of his friend.

“I see nothing to be gained by the same, as Tim
O’Loony said when some one told him that honesty was the best
policy. If we start to return there, they’ll find out where
we are, and begin to roll stones on us. I don’t want to go
along, dodging rocks as big as a house, wid an occasional
rifle-shot thrown in, by way of variety.”

“Don’t you fear they will creep in and try to
surprise us?”

“Not before dark, and then we can shift our
position.”

“Do you believe there is any hope at all for us in the way
of getting out?”

The Irishman was careful not to arouse too strong hopes in the
breast of the lad, and he tried to be guarded in his reply:

“An hour ago I would have sworn if there war a half-dozen
of us in here, there was no show of our getting away wid our
top-knots, for the raison that there is but one hole through which
we could sneak, and there’s twenty of ’em sitting round
there, and watching for us; but I faal that there is some ground
for hope.”

“What reason for your saying there is hope? Isn’t it
just as hard to get out the front without being seen?”

“It might be just now; but there’s no telling what
them ither spalpeens mane to do arter the sun goes down.
S’pose they get Lone Wolf and his men in such a big fight
that they’d have their hands full, what’s to hinder our
sneaking out the back-door during the rumpus, hunting up our
mustangs, or somebody else’s, and resooming our journey to
New Boston, which these spalpeens were so impertinent as to
interrupt a short time since?”

Fred Munson felt that this was about as rose-colored a view as
could be taken, and indeed a great deal rosier than the situation
warranted—at least, in his opinion.

“Mickey, if that isn’t counting chickens before
they’re hatched, I don’t know what is! While
you’re supposing things, suppose these Indians don’t do
all that, where’s going to come our chance of creeping out
without their knowing it?”

Mickey scratched his head in his puzzled way, and replied:

“I’m sorry to obsarve that ye persist in axing
knotty questions, as I reproved me landlord for doing in the ould
country, when he found me digging praities in his patch.
There’s a good many ways in which we may get a chance to
craap out, and I’m bound to say there be a good many more by
which we can’t; but the good Lord has been so good to us,
that I can’t help belaving He won’t let us drop jist
yet, though He may think that the best thing for us both will be to
let the varmints come in and scalp us.”

There was a good deal of hope in the Irishman, and a certain
contagion marked it, which Fred Munson felt, but he could not
entertain as much of it as did his older and more experienced
friend. Still, he was ready to make any attempt which offered the
least chance of flight. He was hungry and thirsty, and there was no
way of supplying the wants, and he dreaded the night of suffering
to be succeeded by the still more tormenting day.

It was very warm in the ravine, where not a stir of air could
reach them. If they suffered themselves to be cooped up there
through the night, they would be certain to continue there during
the following day, for it was not to be expected by the wildest
enthusiast that any way of escape presented itself under the broad
sunlight. The following night must find them more weakened in every
respect; for the chewing of leaves, while it might afford temporary
relief, could not be expected to amount to much in a run of
twenty-four hours. Clearly, if anything at all was to be done or
attempted, it should not be deferred beyond the evening, which was
now so close at hand.

But the objection again came up that whatever Mickey and Fred
decided on, hinged upon the action of parties with whom they had
nothing to do, and with whom, as a matter of course, it was
impossible to communicate. If the Kiowas, as they were suspected to
be, should choose to draw off and have nothing further to do with
the business, the situation of the fugitives must become as
despairing and hopeless as in the first case.

There perhaps was some reason for the declaration of Mickey that
the strangers (their allies for the time being) were a great deal
more likely to perform their mission before the sun should rise
again. Consequently, the next few hours were likely to settle the
question one way or the other.

“Do you know whether any of the Apaches are still up
there?” asked Fred.

“Yes; there be one or two. I’ve seen ’em since
we’ve been talking, but they’re a good deal more
careful of showing their ugly faces. They paap over now and then,
and dodge back agin, before I can get a chance to pop
away.”

“Would you try and shoot them if you had the
chance?”

“Not just yet, for it would show ’em where we are,
and they would be likely to bother us.”

The two carried out this policy of keeping their precise
location from the Indians so long as it was possible, which would
have been a very short time, but for the terror inspired among the
Apaches from the shots across the pass. Mickey had no suspicion
that Lone Wolf and his best warriors were absent on a hunt for the
annoying cause of these shots. Had he known it, he might have been
tempted upon a reconnoissance of his own before sunset, and so it
was well, perhaps, that he remained in ignorance.

Within the next hour night descended, and the ravine, excluding
the rays of the moon, became so dark that Mickey believed it safe
to venture out of their niche and approach the pass, into which
they had no idea of entering until the ground had been thoroughly
reconnoitered.

“The spalpeens will be listening,” whispered Mickey,
as they crept out, “and so ye naadn’t indulge in any
whistling, or hurrahing, or dancing jigs on the way to our
destination.”

Fred appreciated their common peril too well to allow any
betrayal through his remissness. Favored by the darkness, they
crept carefully along over the rocks and boulders, and through the
vines and vegetation, until they were so close that the man
halted.

“Do ye mind and kaap as still as a dead man, for
we’re so close now that it won’t do to go any closer
till we know what the spalpeens are doing.”

The two occupied this position for some time, during which
nothing caught their ears to betray the presence of men or animals.
Feeling the great value of time, Mickey was on the point of
creeping forth, when he became aware that there was somebody moving
near him. The sound was very slight, but the proof was all the more
positive on that account; for it is only by such means that the
professional scout judges of the proceedings of a foe near him.

His first dread was that the individual was in the rear, having
entered the fissure while they were at the opposite end, and then
allowed them to pass by him. But when the faint rustling caught his
ear again there could be no doubt that it was in front of him.

“One of the spalpeens—and maybe Lone Wolf
himself—coming in to larn about our health,” was his
conclusion, though the situation was too critical to allow him to
communicate with the lad behind him.

Reaching his hand back, he touched his arm, as a warning for the
most perfect silence.

The boulder against which he was partly resting was no more
quiet and motionless than Fred, who had nerved himself to meet the
worst or best fortune. A few minutes more listening satisfied
Mickey that the redskin was not a dozen feet in front, and that a
particularly large boulder, which was partly revealed by some stray
moonlight that made its way through the limbs and branches, was
sheltering the scout. Not only that, but he became convinced that
the Indian was moving around the left side of the rock, hugging it
and keeping so close to the ground that the faintest shadowy
resemblance of a human figure could not be detected.

It was at this juncture that the Irishman determined upon a
performance perfectly characteristic and amusing in its
originality. Carefully drawing his knife from his pocket, he
managed to cut a switch, some five or six feet in length, the end
of which was slightly split. He next took one of his matches, and
struck it against the rock, holding and nursing the flame so far
down behind it that not the slightest sign of it could be seen from
the outside. Before the match had cleared itself of the brimstone,
Mickey secured the other end of the stick in his hand. His next
proceeding was to raise this stick, move it around in front, and
then suddenly extend it at arms length. This brought the burning
match into the dense shadow alongside the rock, and directly over
the head of the amazed scout. The Hibernian character of the act
was, that while it revealed to him his man, it also, although in a
less degree, betrayed the location of Mickey himself, whose
delighted astonishment may be imagined, when, instead of discerning
a crouching, painted Apache, he recognized the familiar figure of
Sut Simpson, the scout.

“What in thunder are ye driving at?” growled the no
less astonished Sut, as the flame was almost brought against his
face. “Do yer take me for a kag of powder, and do ye want to
touch me off?”

“No, but I was thinking that that long, red nose of yourn
was so full of whiskey that it would burn, and I wanted to make
sartin.”

Chapter XIX.

How it was Done.

Return to Table of
Contents

From the very depths of despair, Mickey O’Rooney and Fred
Munson were lifted to the most buoyant heights of hope.

“I always took yer for a hoodlum,” growled the
scout; “but you’ve just showed yerself a bigger one
than I s’posed. Yer orter fetched a lantern with yer, so as
to use nights in walking round the country, and looking for
folks.”

“Begorrah, if that isn’t the idaa!” responded
the Irishman, with mock enthusiasm; “only I was considering
wouldn’t it be as well to call out the name of me friends. Ye
know what a swate voice I have. When I used to thry and sing in
choorch, the ould gintleman always lambasted me for filing the saw
on Sunday. But why don’t ye craap forward and extend me yer
paw, as the bear said to the man?”

Sut, however, did not move, but retained his crouching position
beside the large boulder, speaking in the lowest and most guarded
voice:

“It won’t do; we haven’t any time to fool away
yerabouts. Is that younker wid yer?”

“Right at me heels, as me uncle concluded when the bulldog
nabbed him.”

“Come ahead, then. Shoot me! but this ain’t a
healthy place to loaf in just now. The ’Paches are too plenty
and too close. We must light out.”

“Sha’n’t I shtrike anither match to
light us out by?”

“Hold your tongue, will you? Creep right along behind me,
without making any noise at all, and don’t rise to your feet
till yer see me do it, and don’t open your meat-traps to
speak till I axes yer a question, if it isn’t till a month
from now. Do yer understand me?”

Mickey replied that he had a general idea of his meaning, and he
might as well go ahead with the circus. Fred had caught the
whispered conversation, and, of course, knew what it meant. As
Mickey turned round to see where he was, he found him at his
elbow.

“Sh! Come ahead, now. We’re going to creep straight
across the pass till we reach t’other side, when we’ll
go down that some ways, and I’ll tell yer the
rest.”

A second or two afterward the long, wiry frame of the scout
emerged from the dense shadow at the side of the boulder, and crept
forward in the direction of the middle of the main ravine or pass.
Close behind him followed Mickey and Fred, the trio forming a
curious procession as they carefully picked their way across the
moonlit gorge, the grass for most of the distance being so dense
that they were pretty well screened from view.

The directions of the scout were carefully obeyed to the letter,
for, indeed, there could have been no excuse for disregarding them.
He understood perfectly the nature of the task he had undertaken,
and the risk he ran was entirely for the benefit of his
friends.

One of the first and most important requisites of a scout is
patience, without which he is sure to commit all manner of errors.
In the present case, it seemed to Fred that much valuable time
could be saved if they would simply rise to their feet and make a
dash straight across the ravine. Even Mickey was of the same
opinion, at least to the extent of varying the pace so as to go
slowly part of the time and rapidly the rest, as the ground became
unfavorable or favorable. But it was very clear that Sut Simpson
held very different views.

A piece of machinery could not have advanced with a more regular
movement than did he—a movement that was excessively trying
to an impatient person who could not understand his reason for it.
Mickey could see that he turned his head from side to side, and was
using his eyes and ears to the extent of their ability. At the end
of some fifteen or twenty minutes the base of the perpendicular
wall on the opposite side was reached, and, greatly to the relief
of his companions, he arose to his feet, they following suit.

“Begorrah, but that’s a swate relief, as me Aunt
Bridget obsarved, when her ould man.”

A turn of the head, and an impatient gesture from the scout,
silenced Mickey before he had time to complete the remark. He
subsided instantly, and began a debate with himself as to whether
he ought not to apologize for his forgetfulness, but he concluded
to wait.

The long, lank figure of Sut Simpson looked as if it was a
shadow slowly stealing along the dark face of the rock, followed by
that of Mickey and the lad. They were as silent as phantoms, each
walking as tenderly and carefully as though he was a burglar
breaking into the house of some sleeping merchant, whose slumbers
were as light as down. Mickey had no doubt that this was continued
twice as long as necessary, although he conscientiously strove to
carry out the wishes of the scout in that respect. He stumbled once
or twice, but that was because of the treacherous nature of the
ground.

They must have journeyed fully a quarter of a mile in this
fashion before Sut held up in the least. During all this time, so
far as Mickey could judge, nothing had been seen or heard of the
Apaches, who, supposedly, would have guarded the outlet, in which
the two had taken refuge, with a closeness that could not have
permitted such an escape; but not one had been encountered.

It was a most extraordinary occurrence all through, and Mickey
found it hard to understand how one man, skilled and brave though
he was, could perform such a herculean task, for there could be no
doubt that to him, under Providence, belonged the exclusive credit.
Of course it was Sut who had fired the shot that saved Fred from a
terrible death by the grizzly bear, and his well aimed and
opportune shots had done the fugitives inestimable service when
they were crouching in the fissure and despairing of all hope. But
there must have been something back of all this. The scout must
have possessed a greater power, which had not become manifest to
his friends as yet.

“Now yer can walk with more ease,” he said, as he
dropped back beside his companions; “but, at the same time,
don’t talk too loud. Let us all keep as much in the shadder
as we kin, for there may be other varmints around, and
there’s no telling when you’re likely to run agin
’em.”

“But where are the spalpeens that shut us up in that split
in the rocks?”

“They’re all behind us, every varmint of them, and
thar they’re likely to stay for awhile; but, Mickey, I want
yer to tell me what happened arter we parted among these mountains,
and took different routes far the younker here.”

The Irishman related his experience in as brief a manner as
possible, the scout listening with a great deal of interest, and
asking a question or two.

“The luck was yer’s,” he said, when the
narrator concluded, “of gettin’ on the right track,
while I got on the wrong.”

Mickey scratched his head in his old quizzical way.

“The same luck befell the spalpeens and mesilf. I first
got on their thrack, and then they got on mine, so we’ll call
that square, as Mike Harrigan did when he went back the second
night and took the other goat so as to make a pair.”

“That was nigh onto a bad fix when yer pitched into that
cave, and couldn’t find the way out till the wolf showed the
younker; but it wasn’t so bad as yer think, ’cause
I’d been sure to find yer war thar. I know the way in and out
of it, and I could have got into it and fetched you out, but yer
war lucky ’nough not to need me.”

“How was it that ye were so long turning up arter we
separated?”

“Wal, Lone Wolf and his braves rode so fast that it was a
good while afore I cotched up, and found that he hadn’t the
younker with him. Then, in course, I turned back and found that yer
had flopped so much, off and on yer trail, that there was a good
deal of trouble to keep track of yer.”

“Where did ye first catch the light of Mickey
O’Rooney’s illegant and expressive
countenance?”

“I saw yer stop to camp this morning a good ways up the
pass, whar yer cooked yer piece of antelope meat, and swallowed
enough to last yer for a week.”

“It was you that shot the grizzly bear just as he was
going to kill me?” inquired Fred, with a pleased look in the
scarred face of the scout, who smiled in turn as he answered:

“I have a ’spicion it war me and nobody
else.”

“Why didn’t ye come forward and introduce
yerself?” inquired Mickey, “it was all a mistake to
think that we felt too proud to notice ye, even if ye ain’t
as good-looking as meself.”

“Wal, I thought I’d watch yer awhile, believing I
could do yer more service than by jining in, as was showed by what
took place arterwards. Whar would yer have been if I’d got
shet up in that trap with yer? Lone Wolf would’ve had our
ha’r long ago.”

“But how did ye manage to fool the pack into giving us a
chance to craap out?”

“That was easy enough when yer understand it.”

“I thought it would come aisier to a man who understood
how to do it than it did to one who didn’t know anything
about it.”

“Arter picking off one or two of the varmints, that made
Lone Wolf mad, and he sent out a couple of his warriors to wipe me
out. He didn’t think I knowed his game, but I did, and when
they got round to where I was I just slid ’em under afore
they knowed what the matter was. When he sent a third varmint arter
them, and he went back and told the chief that the first two had
gone to the eternal hunting grounds, he was so all-fired mad that
he left only a half dozen to watch the hole where you was to come
out, while he took the rest and come arter me.”

“I know a good many of Lone Wolf’s signals,”
added the scout, with a chuckle, “and arter he had been on
this side for a while, I dipped down into the pass, and signaled
for the rest of ’em to come. They come, every one of
’em, and then I went for you, not certain whether yer war
mashed or not. We got away in good time to save ourselves running
agin ’em.”

Chapter XX.

Sut’s Camp-Fire.

Return to Table of
Contents

“But where are Lone Wolf and his warriors?” asked
Fred.

“Back yonder somewhere,” replied the scout,
indifferently. “They came over into the woods this side the
pass to look for the Kiowas that have been picking off thar
warriors. It’ll take ’em some time to find the
varmints, I reckon.”

“It’s mesilf that would like to ax a
conundrum,” said Mickey, “provided that none of the
gintlemin prisent object to the same.”

Sut gave the Irishman to understand that he was always pleased
to hear any inquiry from him, if he asked it respectfully.

“The question is this: How long are we to kape thramping
along in this shtyle? Is it to be for one wake or two, or for a
month? The raison of me making this respictful inquiry is that the
laddy and mesilf have become accustomed to riding upon horses, and
it goes rather rough to make the change, as Jimmy O’Brien
said when he broke through the ice and was forced to take a wash,
arter having done without the same thing for several
months.”

This gentle intimation from Mickey that he preferred to ride was
promptly answered by the scout to the effect that his own mustang
was some distance away in the wood, but he was unable to locate
either of theirs, which they abandoned at the time they took such
hurried refuge in the narrow ravine.

“But what become of all the craturs?” persisted
Mickey, who was anything but satisfied at this plodding along.
“Lone Wolf and his spalpeens did not ride away upon their
horses.”

“No, but yer may skulp me if any of ’em are big
enough fools to leave their animals where there seems to be any
danger of other folks layin’ hands on ’em. When the
rest of his band come over arter him, as they s’posed in
answer to their signal, they took mighty good care not to leave
their hosses where thar war any chance for the Kiowas to put their
claws onto ’em. They rode off up the pass till they could
reach a place whar the brutes could climb up and jine thar
owners.”

“Then I’m to consider the question settled,”
responded Mickey, “and we’re to tramp all the way to
New Bosting, ef the place is still standing. Av coorse we can do
the same, which I take to be three or four thousand miles, provided
we have the time to do it and ain’t disturbed.”

Sut, after permitting his friend to hold this opinion for a
time, corrected it in his own way.

“Thar ain’t no use of tryin’ to reach home on
foot, any more than thar is of climbing up that wall with yer toes.
Arter we strike camp, we’ll stop long enough to eat two or
three bufflers, and rest, and while yer at that sort of biz,
I’ll ’light out, and scare up something in the way of
hoss flish. Thar’s plenty of it in this part of the world,
and a man needn’t hunt long to find it. Are ye satisfied
Mickey?”

The Irishman could not feel otherwise, and he expressed his
profound obligations to the scout for the invaluable services he
had already rendered them.

“Lone Wolf knows me,” said Sut, making a rather
sudden turn in the conversation. “Me and him have had some
tough scrimmages years ago, as I was tellin’ that ar
Barnwell, or Big Fowl, rather, that has had the charge of starting
the place called New Boston. I’ve got ’nough scars to
remember him by, and he carries a few that he got from me. I have a
style of sliding his warriors under, when I run a-foul of
’em, that Lone Wolf understands, and he’s larned long
ago who it was that wiped out them two varmints that he sent out to
look around arter me. Halloa! here we air!”

As he spoke, he reached a break in the continuity of the wall to
which they had been clinging. The opening was somewhat similar to
that into which Mickey and Fred had been driven in such a hurry,
except that it was broader and the slope seemed more gradual.

Simpson turned abruptly to the left, and they began clambering
upward. It took a considerable time to reach the level, and when
they did so the scout led them back to the edge of the pass, which
wound along fifty or a hundred feet below them.

“Thar’s whar we’ve come from,” said he,
as they looked down in the moonlit gorge; “and while
that’s mighty handy at times, yet it’s a bad place to
get cotched in, as yer found out for yerselves.”

“No one will dispoot ye, Soot, especially when Lone Wolf
and a score of spalpeens appears in front of ye, and whin ye turn
about to lave, ye find him and a dozen more in your rear. That was
a smart thrick was the same; but if he hadn’t showed himsilf
in both places at the same time, we would have stood a chance of
giving him the slip, as we had good horses under us.”

“Can’t always be sartin of that. Them varmints have
ways of telegraphing ahead of ye to some of thar friends, so that
ye’r’ll run heels over head into some trap, onless yer
understands thar devilments and tricky ways.”

“When we were in camp,” said Fred, “we saw the
smoke of a little fire near by. Was it yours?”

“It war,” replied Sut, with a curious solemnity.
“I kindled that fire, and nussed it.”

“Well, it bothered us a good deal. We didn’t know
what to make of it, Mickey and I.”

“It bothered the varmints a good deal more, which war what
it war intended for. I meant it far a Kiowa signal-fire, and if it
hadn’t been started ’bout that time, you’d had
some other grizzly b’ars down on ye in the shape of
’Paches.”

“But it didn’t help us all the way through; they
came down on us a little while afterward.”

“That war accident,” said Sut. “the purest
kind of accident—one of them things that is like to happen,
and which we don’t look for—a kinder of surprise
like.”

“As me father obsarved when he found we had twins in the
family,” interrupted Mickey.

“The chances are ten to one that thing couldn’t
happen ag’in; but luck, just then, war t’other way.
Lone Wolf and his men war on their way home, and had no more idea
of meeting yer folks than he had of axing me to come down and act
as bridesmaid for his darter, when she gits married.”

“Do ye s’pose he knowed us, Soot?” asked the
Irishman.

“It isn’t likely that he did at first, but the sight
of the younker must have made him ’spicious, and arter he
rammed you into the rocks, I guess he knowed pretty well how things
stood, and he war bound to have both of yer.”

“What made him want me so bad?” asked Fred.
“I never understood how that was.”

The tall scout, standing on the edge of the broad, deep ravine,
looked down at the handsome face of the boy, to whom he felt
attracted by a stronger affection than either he or the Irishman
suspected.

“Bless your soul, my younker, that ere Lone Wolf that they
call such a great chief (and I may as well own up and say that he
is), is heavy on ransoms and he ain’t the only chief
that’s in that line. That skunk runs off with men, women and
boys, and his rule is not to give ’em up ag’in till he
gits a good round price. He calculated on making a good thing off
you, and I rather think he would.”

“Does he always give up those, then, that their friends
want to ransom?”

“Not by any means; it’s altogether as the notion
takes him. He sports more skulps and topknots than any of his
brother-chiefs, and he never lets his stock run low. As them other
varmints creep up onto him, he shoots ahead by scooping in more
topknots, and thar’s no use of thar trying to butt
ag’in him. He’s ’way ahead of ’em, and
there he’s bound to stay, and they can’t help
it.”

“Then he might have used me the same way, after all the
pains he took to get me.”

“Jest as like as not. He is as ugly as the devil himself.
Two years ago he stole a good-looking gal up near Santa Fe. He had
a chance for the biggest kind of ransom; but the poor gal had long,
golden hair, and the skunk wanted it for an ornament, and he took
it, too, and thinks more of it than any out of his hundred and
more. Arter getting yer home among his people, and arter he’d
found out thar’s a good show fur a big ransom from yer
father, jest as like as not he’d make up his mind that the
best thing he could do would be to knock ye on ther head and raise
yer ha’r, and he’d do it, too.”

“Well, thank heaven, none of us are in his hands now, and
I pray that he may never get us.”

The three were still standing as close to the edge of the ravine
as was prudent, so that the moonlight fell about them. They were
enabled to see quite a long distance up and down the pass, the
uncertain light, however, causing objects to assume a fantastic
contour, which would have made an inexperienced person uncertain
whether he was looking down upon animate or inanimate objects. They
were on the point of moving away, when Fred Munson exclaimed, with
some excitement:

“The country seems to be full of camp-fires or
signal-fires. Yonder is one just started!”

He pointed up the ravine, and to the other side, where an
unusually bright star seemed to be rising over the solitude beyond.
It was about a quarter of a mile away, and its brightness such as
to show its nature.

“Yes, that’s one of ’em,” said the
scout, in a tone which showed that he had no particular interest in
it.

“Can ye rade what the same manes?” asked Mickey, who
was gradually accumulating a wonderful faith in the woodcraft of
the scout.

But the latter laughed. It would have been the height of
absurdity for him to have pretended that he could make anything of
the meaning of a simple fire burning at night. It was only when
actual signals were made that he could tell what they were intended
for.

“It’s some of the ’Paches, I s’pose.
Lone Wolf is in trouble, but I don’t know as we’ve got
anything to do with it. The night is getting along, and we ought to
be back to camp by this time.”

Without waiting longer, he turned about and moved back into the
wood, followed by his two friends.

It seemed strange to both of the latter that he could have left
his mustang so far away from the place where his self-imposed
duties had called him to bring to naught the cunning of his great
enemy, the principal war-chief of the Apaches. But the truth was,
the camps of the scout and the redskins were not so widely
separated as Mickey and Fred believed. He had selected the best
site possible, and took a roundabout course in going to or from it,
as he had more means given him of concealing his trail. There were
places where the soil was so rocky and stony that the foot left not
the slightest imprint of its passage.

They had gone but a short distance from the ravine when they
encountered one of the very stretches so valuable to persons in
their predicament. No grass or vegetation of any kind impeded their
way, and it was like walking over a hard, uncarpeted floor. Making
their way across this, they struck into a wood that was denser than
any they had encountered thus far. There their progress was slow,
but they continued steadily forward, talking but little, and then
in guarded tones. About the hour of midnight the camp of Sut
Simpson was reached.

Chapter XXI.

Safety and Sleep.

Return to Table of
Contents

There was nothing especially noticeable in the site which the
scout had selected for his camp fire. His principal object had been
secrecy and he had obtained it beyond all peradventure. The place
was more like a cavern than anything else, except that it was open
at the top, but it was walled in on the four sides, so there was
barely room for the three to enter. As the scout explained, he was
perfectly familiar with that section of the country, and he lost no
time in hunting out the spot. He had his horse with him at the time
the Apaches drove Mickey and Fred in among the rocks, and he staid
until pretty certain they could keep the Apaches at bay until dark,
when he made his way to a level spot inclosed by rocks. There he
kindled a fire, cooked some antelope and left his mustang to graze
and browse near by, while he returned to the assistance of his
friends.

“Where did ye shoot that uncleope, or antelope?”
asked Mickey.

“I didn’t shoot him at all; he’s the one you
fetched down. Yer left enough for me, so I didn’t run the
risk of firing my gun when the varmints were so close by, so I
sliced out a hunk or two from the carcass, and fetched it
along.”

“Ye haven’t got any of it about ye?”

“Not enough for yer folks—no more than three or four
pounds.”

“Be the powers but ye’re right. That’s
’nough to stay our stomach, as me sick aunt remarked after
swallowing her twenty-third dumpling.”

At the moment the party walked in among the rocks the smoldering
embers of the camp-fire were plainly seen. They needed but a little
stirring to break forth into flame again, so as to light up the
interior, which was about a dozen feet square, with a height of a
dozen feet, more or less. When the Irishman signified that
something in the way of food would be acceptable, the scout
produced it from among the leaves near at hand, and it was devoured
with the heartiest kind of appetite. They had drank all the water
they needed, and the three assumed easy, lounging attitudes, Mickey
lighting his pipe and enjoying himself immensely.

“This is what I call comfortable,” he remarked,
“as me friend Patsey McFadden observed when the row began at
the fair and the whacks came from every quarter. I enjoy it;
it’s refining, it’s soothing; it makes a man glad that
he’s alive.”

“What do you think of it?” asked the scout, turning
to Fred, who was reclining upon the heavy Apache blanket, with the
appearance of one who was upon the verge of sleep.

“I feel very grateful to you,” said he, rousing up,
“and I am more contented than I have been in a long time; but
I’m afraid all the time that Lone Wolf or some of his braves
might find where we are.”

Sut smiled in a pitying way, as he replied:

“Don’t ye s’pose I’m old ’nough to
fix all that? Haven’t I larned ’nough of the
’Paches and thar devilments to keep ’em back? Wall, I
rather guess I have.”

As the night remained so warm that no comfort at all was derived
from the fire, it was agreed that it should be left to burn out
gradually. It had been kindled originally by Sut for the purpose of
cooking his meat, and he had renewed it that his friends might see
exactly where they were, and, at the same time, look into each
other’s faces.

“Let me ax ye,” said Mickey, puffing away at his
pipe, “whether, whin we start for home, we’re going to
take the pass, which seems as full of the spalpeens as me head is
of grand ideas?”

“I can’t be sartin of that,” replied Sut,
thoughtfully. “We can strike the prairie by going off here in
another course; but it will take a long time, and the road is
harder to travel. I like the pass a good deal the best, and unless
the varmints seem too thick, we’ll take it.”

“If we could get a good, fair start in the pass, we could
kape ahead of ’em all the way till we struck the open
prairie, when it would be illigant to sail away and watch them
falling behind, like a snail trying to catch a hare.”

The scout pointed to the lad, and, turning his head, Mickey saw
that he was sound asleep. The poor fellow was so wearied and worn
that he could not resist the approach “tired nature’s
sweet restorer,” which carried him off so speedily into the
land of dreams.

“I’m glad to obsarve it,” said the Irishman,
“for the poor chap needs it. He’s too young to be in
this sort of business, but he couldn’t prevint the
soorcumstances, and we must help him out of the scrape as best we
can.”

“I’m with yer,” responded the scout.
“He’s one of the most likely youngsters I’ve ever
met, and I’ll risk a good deal to fetch him along. I’m
in hopes that we’re purty well out of the woods, though we
may have some trouble afore we get cl’ar of Lone Wolf and the
rest.”

“As soon as we get the critters to ride, I s’pose we
kin be off.”

“That’s all, and that won’t take me long.
I’m used to finding horses that the varmints are fools
’nough to say are thars. One day last spring, I war over near
the staked plain all alone, when I got cotched in one of them awful
nor’easters, and I never came so near freezin’ to death
in all my life. Them sort of winds go right to the marrer of yer
bones, and it takes yer a week to thaw out. Wall, sir, while I war
tryin’ to start a fire, a couple of Comanches managed to slip
up and steal my mustang. I didn’t find it out till three or
four hours arter, and then I war mad. I couldn’t stand no
such loss, so I took the trail, and started off on a deer-trot
arter ’em. Wall, sir, I chased them infernal varmints close
on to twenty miles afore I run ’em to earth. Then I found
’em down into a deep holler, where I come nigh tumblin’
heels over head right in atween ’em afore I knowed who they
war. Yer see it war a piece of the meanest kind of business on thar
part, ’cause they each had a mustang, and I hadn’t any,
and they war leadin’ mine.

“I laid low for them varmints till night, when I mounted
my critter, and struck off over the country leadin’ thar two
beasts with me. I expected they’d foller, of course, for the
two animals that I captured were such beauties as you don’t
meet every day, so I kept ’em on the go purty steady for two
days and nights, when I struck into the chapparal, tethered all
three horses, tumbled over onto the ground, and put in four hours
of straight solid sleep, such as makes a new man of a feller. Wall,
sir, would you believe it? When I woke up and went to mount my
hoss, he wasn’t thar. Them same three skunks had managed to
keep so close onto the trail, that, afore I woke, they slipped up,
took all three of the animals, and were miles away when I opened my
eyes.

“Wall, yer may skulp me if I wasn’t mad, and I
couldn’t help laughin’, too, to think how nice they had
come it over me. As the game had begun atween us, I took the trail
and follered it for half a week. Yer see, them skunks didn’t
mean that I shouldn’t get the best of ’em agin. They
rode fast, and kept it up as long as thar horses could stand it, by
which time they had every reason to think they war a hundred miles
ahead of me, and so they went in for a good rest, intending when
they had got that to keep up thar flight till they reached thar
village up near the headwaters of the Canadian. Of course thar
wouldn’t have been any show for me if I hadn’t had a
streak of luck. I know that country like a book, and I war purty
sartin of the trail them thieves meant to take, so I started to cut
across and head ’em off. I hadn’t gone far when I come
upon the camp of a Comanche war-party, numberin’ a hundred. I
hadn’t any trouble in picking out an animal that suited, and
then yer see I war all right, and, for fear I might get off the
track, I come back and took up the trail again, and I kept it so
hot that when they went into camp I warn’t more than two
miles away; I didn’t want to come any closer, for if
they’d found out that I war so near, they wouldn’t have
give me any kind of chance at all.

“I waited till it was dark, and thar wasn’t a bit of
moon that night, when I sneaked into camp and got thar three
animals agin, and heading for Port Severn, I made up my mind to
keep the thing going without giving ’em the slightest chance
to pull up. The weather had toned down so that it was comfortable
to travel, and arter I got out of hearin’ of the camp, I just
swung my hat, and kicked and laughed to think how cheap them
varmints would feel when they’d come to wake up in the
morning, and find out how nice the white man had got ahead of
’em. Yer see, it war just a question as to which of us war
the smartest. We weren’t going for each other’s
hair—though we’d done that any other time—but for
each other’s hosses, and I’d stole thars twice to thar
stealin’ mine once, and I still held ’em, so I had good
reason to crow over ’em. Wal, sir, I made up my mind that
they warn’t going to come any shenanigan over me, and I
struck the shortest line for Fort Severn. I rode through that very
pass in which you come so near getting cotched, and in fact, the
place whar I got the hosses warn’t ten miles from that big
cave.

“I had plain sailin’ all the way into the fort, and
everything went along well. I had only to ride on my critter, when
the others galloped along like so many dogs. Yer see, I meant
business, and I kept a watch for them varmints all the time. When I
stopped for food or rest, I made sartin that they warn’t
anywhar in sight, and during the three or four days that followed I
never slept an hour together. I managed to snatch a few minutes
slumber while riding my mustang on a full gallop, but when I
stopped to give the animals time to rest, I kept watch, for I felt
as though it would break my heart to be outwitted again. I made the
best kind of time, and my last camp was within a dozen miles of
Fort Severn. I was purty well used up by that time, and making sure
that the varmints warn’t anywhar within a day’s ride, I
put in a good two hours sleep. Well I never rightly understood
it,” added Sut, with a sigh, “and I’m allers
ashamed to tell it, but when I went out to mount my mustang, the
whole four war gone, and the moccasin tracks on the ground showed
who had took ’em. I can’t understand to this day how
them varmints kept so close behind me, and how they war ready when
the chance came into their way; but they war, and they beat me as
fairly as the thing was ever done in this world.”

“Didn’t ye try to folly them?”

“No; I thought I might as well give up. I sneaked into the
fort and tried to keep the thing from ’em, but I
couldn’t tell a straight story, and they found out how it was
at last, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever hear the last of
it.”

A short time afterward, the two laid down and slept.

Chapter XXII.

Two Old Acquaintances.

Return to Table of
Contents

All three of the little party needed rest, and none of them
opened their eyes until morning. As a simple precaution the scout
smothered the fire entirely, by scraping the ashes over the embers.
Not a ray of moonlight could reach them, and they were wrapped in
the most impenetrable darkness.

As might be expected, Sut Simpson was the first to open his
eyes, and by the time the sun was up all three were stirring.
Enough meat remained over from the feast of the night before to
furnish them with a substantial breakfast, and cool, refreshing
water was at hand for drink and ablution. When the preliminaries
had been completed, Sut went out to learn whether any of the
Apaches were threateningly near. He wished, too, to prepare his
horse for a ride to a point a dozen miles away, close to the margin
of the prairie, where he intended to establish himself until he
could procure the two animals that were needed by his companions.
He had not been gone ten minutes when he came back in great
excitement.

“My mustang is stole, or may I be skulped!” and then
he added a general wail: “Them redskins are getting to be the
greatest hoss-thieves in the world. I don’t know what’s
to become of us if they’re going to keep on in that
way.”

Mickey laughed heartily, for he recalled the narrative of the
night before. In the game for horse flesh it looked very much as if
the Apaches could be Sut’s tutors.

“May I respectfully inquire where you got that crathur, in
the first place?”

“Why, I bought him of the varmints.”

“How mooch did you pay?”

“Wall,” laughed Sut, in turn, “I haven’t
paid anything yet.”

“I suppose they’ve sint in their account till
they’re tired. Finding yer doesn’t pay any attention,
they’ve come to take him back again.”

“Are you sure that it was done by the Indians?”
asked Fred, a little frightened at learning that they had been so
close while he slept.

“Thar ain’t a bit of doubt. I’ve looked the
ground over, and thar’s the trail, as plain as the nose on
your face.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“And they did it during the night?”

“No,” replied the scout, displaying his wonderful
woodcraft. “The varmints come yesterday arternoon, or just at
dusk, arter I’d took supper and left.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’d be a fool if I couldn’t tell by the look
of the trail how long ago it war made.”

It seemed impossible that such was the fact, and yet, young as
was Fred, he had heard of such things, and the scout spoke after
the manner of one who meant what he said.

“Begorra, but it’s meself that has it!”
exclaimed Mickey, with a sudden lighting up of the countenance;
“they’re the same two spalpeens that took your hoss
down by the Staked Plain, and then follyed ye up and did the same
thing over again, just as ye was going into Fort Severn.”

But the scout shook his head.

“The varmints don’t know much about pity, but
that’s too rough a thing even for a Comanche to repeat.
I’ve a s’picion that Lone Wolf had a hand in that, and
I’m going for him. Come along.”

And the indignant Sut strode out of camp, followed by his
friends. He was not the man to submit to such a loss, and they saw
that he was in deadly earnest. He neither spoke nor looked behind
him for the next quarter of an hour, nor were his friends able to
tell what direction he was following, for he changed so often,
winding in and out among the trees, that they could form no
conjecture as to the general course taken.

They saw that he was following a trail, for he continually
looked down at the ground in front of him, and then glanced to the
right and left, occasionally inclining his head, as though he was
listening for something which he expected to hear. He appeared to
be altogether unconscious of the fact that he had companions at all
and they sought to imitate his stealthy, cat-like movement, without
venturing to speak. After traveling the distance mentioned, and
while they were moving along in the same cautious way, the scout
suddenly wheeled on his knee, and faced them.

“See yer,” said he; “it won’t do for you
to travel any further.”

“What’s up?” asked Mickey.

“Why, the trail’s getting too hot. I ain’t fur
from them horses.”

“Well, doesn’t ye want us to stand by and obsarve
the shtyle in which you are going to scoop them in?”

Simpson shook his head.

“Ye are both too green to try this kind of business. I
never could get a chance at them varmints if I took yer along. All
you’ve got to do is to stay yer till I get back. That
won’t be long.”

“Suppose you don’t get back at all?” asked
Fred, anxiously.

“Then yer needn’t wait.”

“But ain’t it probable that some of the Apaches will
visit us?”

The scout was quite confident that the contingency would not
occur; but, as long as they were in that part of the world, so long
were they in danger of the redskins. It was never prudent to lay
aside habits of caution; but he did not believe they were liable to
molestation at that time. He charged them to keep quiet and always
on the alert, and to expect his return within a couple of hours,
although he might be delayed until noon. They were not to feel any
apprehension unless the entire day should pass without his coming.
Still, even that would be possible, he said, without implying
anything more than that he had encountered unexpected difficulties
in regaining his horse. They were still to wait for him until the
morrow, and if he continued absent they were at liberty to conclude
that the time had come for him to “pass in his checks.”
and they were to make the effort to reach home the best way they
could. With this understanding they separated.

At the time Sut left his friends the trail was exceedingly
“hot,” as he expressed it, and he was confident that
within the next half hour he could force matters to an issue. The
scout was of the opinion that a couple of Apaches had accidently
struck his trail, or happened directly upon his norse while he was
grazing, and, without suspecting his ownership, aad taken him away.
The trail led toward the Apache camp, although by a winding course,
and that was not far away. He was desirous of coming up with the
marauders before they joined in with the others. In that case he
would consider himself fully equal to the task of getting even with
them; but it was not likely that they would go into camp when they
were so close to the main body.

Shortly after, to his great surprise, he came upon his mustang,
tied by a long lariat to the limb of a tree, and contentedly
grazing upon the grass, which was quite abundant. There was not the
sign of an Indian visible.

“Skulp me! if that ain’t a purty way to manage such
things!” he exclaimed, astonished at the shape the matter had
taken. “Them varmints couldn’t have knowed that Sut
Simpson owned that hoss, or they’d have tied him up tighter
than that, and they’d had somebody down yer to watch him; but
they war a couple of greenys, that’s mighty sartin.
It’s a wonder they didn’t fetch out some of thar
mustangs, and leave ’em whar I could lay my hands onto
’em. But I rather think I’ve got my own hoss this time,
as easy as a chap need expect to get anything in this
world.”

There was something so curious in the fact of the horse being
left alone that Sut was a little suspicious, and decided to
reconnoitre thoroughly before venturing further. He was partly
hidden behind a large tree and had been so cautious and noiseless
in his movements that his mustang, which was one of the quickest to
detect the approach of any one, was unaware of his presence.

Sut was on the point of going forward, when a movement in the
wood, on the other side of where the animal was grazing, attracted
his attention, and he paused. At the same instant his steed lifted
his head. There could be no doubt as to the cause, for within the
next minute the figure of an Indian stepped forward toward the
animal, and proceeded to examine him with a care and minuteness
which showed that he expected to identify his ownership.

The eyes of Simpson lit up, and an expression of exultation
crossed his countenance, not merely because the redskin before him
was in his power, but because he recognized him as no one else but
Lone Wolf, the Apache war-chief.

It looked as if the horse-thieves had approached the vicinity of
camp with their plunder, and then, securing him to the branch of
the tree, had gone in and reported what they had done. Lone Wolf,
suspecting, perhaps, that it was the property of his enemy, Sut
Simpson, had stolen out quietly and alone to satisfy himself. He
knew all the “trade-marks” of the hunter so well that
he could not be deceived. This was the theory which instantly
occurred to Sut, who muttered to himself:

“Oh, it’s mine, and I’m
here, though you don’t think it, and we’ll
soon shake hands over it!”

The scout speedily assured himself that Lone Wolf was
alone—that he had no half-dozen “retainers” who
would immediately precipitate themselves upon him the instant a row
should begin. Lone Wolf had no rifle with him, but carried his huge
knife at his girdle—one of the most formidable instruments
ever seen.

As he walked slowly about the mustang, scrutinizing him very
carefully, he brought himself within a yard or two of where Sut
Simpson crouched. The latter waited until he was the nearest, when
he stepped forward, with his drawn knife in hand, and, placing
himself directly in front of the astounded war-chief, said:

“Now, Lone Wolf, we’ll make our accounts
square!”

Chapter XXIII.

Border Chivalry.

Return to Table of
Contents

As the scout uttered these words, the Apache whirled like
lightning and drew his knife. His swarthy, painted face glowed with
passion, and his black eyes twinkled with a deadly light. Seeing
that he had no weapon but the knife, Sut Simpson, with a certain
rude chivalry that did him credit, left his rifle leaning against
the tree, while he advanced with a weapon corresponding to that of
his enemy, so that both stood upon the same footing.

“Lone Wolf is glad to meet the white dog that he has
hunted so long,” said the chieftain, speaking English like a
native.

With a sardonic grin Sut replied:

“That’s played out, old
Pockared”—alluding to the chieftain’s pitted
face. “I’m just as mad at yer as I kin be, without yer
getting up any fancy didoes to upset my nerves. I’ve come for
yer this time, and the best thing yer kin do is to proceed to
business.”

They were facing each other with drawn knives—almost toe
to toe, and each waiting for the other to lead off. It would have
been hard to tell which stood the best chance of winning.

Lone Wolf suddenly sprang forward like a panther, and made a
vicious lunge with his knife, Sut easily avoiding it by leaping
back, when, in turn, he made a similar attempt upon his adversary,
who escaped in precisely the same manner. But the scout noticed an
unaccountable thing. Lone Wolf had dropped his knife!

True, he picked it up like a flash, and put himself on guard,
but how it was that a veteran like him could have made such a slip
was totally inexplainable to his foe. But the explanation came the
next moment, when the chief, without removing his eyes from those
of the white man, cautiously changed the knife to his left hand.
His right arm was injured in some way, so that it was unreliable.
He had shown this, first by dropping the weapon while attempting to
use it, and he showed it again by shifting it to his left hand,
thus placing himself at a frightful disadvantage.

Sut saw no wound, yet there could be no doubt of the truth, and
his feelings changed on the instant. He felt himself the meanest of
men to attempt to overcome an almost helpless foe.

“Lone Wolf,” said he, still looking him straight in
the eyes, “why don’t yer hold yer knife in the hand
that yer generally do?”

“Lone Wolf can slay the dog of a white man with which hand
he may choose.”

“Yer haven’t been able to do it with both hands
during all these years that you’ve been tryin’, when
yer’ve had yer whole tribe to help yer; but don’t make
a fool of yerself, Lone Wolf. Are your right arm hurt?”

“Lone Wolf will fight the white dog with his strong
arm.”

“No, yer don’t—that’s played out,”
growled the scout, shoving his knife back in his girdle. “I
don’t love yer ’any more than I love the devil, and I
felt happy to think that I had got a chance at last to git square
with yer; but when I lift the top-knot of Lone Wolf and slide him
under, he’s got to have the same chance that I have. I
don’t believe you’d act that way toward me; but, then,
you’re a redskin, and that makes the difference. Lone Wolf,
we’ll adjourn the fight till you’re yerself
agin.”

And, deliberately turning away, the scout vaulted upon the back
of the mustang, cutting the lariat that held him by a sweep of the
knife.

“I s’pose you’ll own I’ve got some claim
on this beast; so good-by.”

“I S’POSE YOU’LL OWN I’VE GOT SOME CLAIM
ON THIS BEAST.”

And, without turning to look at him again, he rode deliberately
away.

The Apache stood like a statute staring at him until he was
hidden from view by the intervening trees. Then he turned and
walked slowly in the opposite direction, no doubt with strange
thoughts in his brain.

“I don’t know how that scamp will take it,”
muttered Sut, as he rode along. “He’s one of the
ugliest dogs that ever wore a painted face; and if he could catch
me with a broken arm or head, he wouldn’t want anything
better than to chop me up into mincemeat; but, as I told the old
varmint himself, he’s an Injin and I ain’t, and
that’s what’s the matter.”

The wood was too dense and the ground too uneven to permit him
to ride at a faster gait than a walk, but long before the appointed
hour was up, he rejoined his friends, who were as surprised as
pleased at his prompt reappearance.

“But where are the bastes that ye promised to furnish
us?” inquired Mickey, who had very little relish for the
prospect of walking any portion of the distance homeward.

“That’s what I’ll have for yer before the sun
goes down,” was the confident reply. “I’ll get
you one hoss, anyway, which, maybe, is just as good as two, for the
weight of the younker don’t make no difference, and we kin
git along with one beast better than two.”

“I submit to your suparior judgment,” said the
Irishman, deferentially, “and would suggist that the sooner
the same quadruped is procured the better all round. I hope the
thing won’t be delayed, as me aunt obsarved when the joodge
sintenced her husband to be hung.”

Sut explained that his plan was to ride some distance further,
to a spot which he had in mind, where they would be safer against
being trailed. There, consequently, they could wait with more
security while he went for the much-needed horse. Time was
precious, and no one realized it more than Sut Simpson. He turned
the head of his mustang toward the left, and, after he had started,
leaped to the ground and walked ahead, acting the part of a guide
for the horse as well as for his friends.

The surface over which they journeyed was of the roughest
nature. The fact of it was, the scout was working the party out
toward the open prairie, without availing himself of the
pass—an undertaking which would have been almost impossible
to any one else. At the same time, by picking his way over the
rocky surface, and using all means possible to conceal their trail,
he hoped to baffle any pursuit that might be attempted.

Lone Wolf was not the redskin to allow such a formidable enemy
as Sut Simpson to walk away unmolested, even though he had received
an unexpected piece of magnanimity at his hands. He had learned
that it was he who had played such havoc among his warriors the day
before, who had deceived them by cunningly uttered signals, and had
drawn away the redskins sufficiently to permit his two intended
victims to walk out of his clutches. It had been a series of
unparalleled exploits, the results of which would have exasperated
the mildest tempered Indian ever known.

These thoughts were constantly in the mind of the scout as he
picked out the path for his equine and human companions. He took
unusual pains, for a great deal depended upon his success in hiding
the trail as much as possible. Perhaps it is not correct to say
that the Apaches could be thrown entirely off the scent, if they
should set themselves to work to run the fugitives under cover.
None knew this better than Sut himself, but he knew also that the
thing could be partially done, and a partial success could be made
a perfect one. That is, by adopting all the artifices at his
command, the work of trailing could be rendered so difficult that
it would be greatly delayed—so that it would require hours
for the Apaches to unearth the hiding-place. And Sut meant to
accomplish his self-imposed task during those few hours, so as to
rejoin his friends, and resume their flight before the sharp-witted
pursuers could overhaul them.

The journey, therefore, was made one of the most difficult
imaginable. The mustang was unshod, and yet he clambered up steep
places, and over rocks, and through gravelly gullies, where the
ordinary horse would have been powerless. The animal seemed to
enter into the spirit of the occasion and his performances again
and again excited the wonder and admiration of Mickey and Fred. The
creature had undergone the severest kind of training at the hands
of an unsurpassed veteran of the frontier.

This laborious journeying continued for a couple of hours,
during which it seemed to the man and lad that they passed over
several miles of the roughest traveling they had ever witnessed.
The mustang had fallen several times, but he sprang up again like a
dog and showed no signs of injury or fatigue. Finally Sut made a
halt, just as Mickey was on the point of protesting, and, turning
about, so as to face his companions, he smiled in his peculiar way
as he spoke.

“You’ve stood it pretty well for greenhorns, and now
I’m going to give yer a good rest.”

“Do you maan to go into camp for a week or a month, or
until the warm season is over?”

“I’m going to leave yer here, while I go for some
hoss flesh, and it’ll take longer time than
before.”

But the Irishman insisted that he should be allowed to accompany
the scout upon this dangerous expedition.

“For the raison that ye are going to pick out this animal
for me,” he added, “how do I know but what
ye’ll pick out some ring-boned, spavined critter that trots
sideways, and is blind in both eyes?”

Fred, who dreaded the long spell of dreary waiting which seemed
before him, asked that he might make one of the company; but Sut
would not consent, and he objected to both. He finally compromised
by agreeing to take the Irishman, but insisted that the lad should
stay behind with his mustang.

“A younker like you couldn’t do us a bit of
good,” added Sut, by way of explanation, “and like as
not yer’d get us into the worst kind of difficulty. Better
stay whar you be, rest and be ready to mount your new animal as
soon as we’re back, and scoot away for New Boston.”

“How soon will you be back?” he asked, feeling that
he ought to make no objection to the decision.

The forenoon was about half gone, and the scout looked up at the
sky, removed his coon-skin cap, and thoughtfully wrinkled his
brows, as though he were solving some important mental problem.

“Yer may skulp me, younker, but it’s a mighty hard
thing to tell. Now I got back with my own animile a good deal
sooner than I expected, but that same thing ain’t likely to
happen agin. More likely it’ll be t’other way, and we
may be gone all day, and p’raps all night.”

“And what am I to do all that time?”

“Wait; that’ll be easy enough, arter such a rough
tramp as I’ve given yer.”

“But suppose some of the Indians come here; I
haven’t got any gun or pistol, so what shall I do?”

“The hoss thar will let you know when any of the varmints
come sneaking round, and he’ll do it, too, afore they know
whar yer be, so you’ll have time to dig out. I ain’t
much in the way of using a knife,” added the scout. “I
depends on me gun for a long range, and when I gets into close
quarters, I throw this yer (tapping the handle of his knife), round
careless like; but I’ve got a little plaything yer that has
stood me well, once or twice, and if it’s any help to yer,
why, yer are welcome to it. It was give to me by an officer down at
Fort Massachusetts.”

As he spoke, the scout drew a small revolver, beautifully
mounted and ornamented with silver, which he handed to the lad,
who, as may be supposed, was delighted with the weapon.

“Just the thing, exactly,” he said, as he turned it
over in his hand. “There are five barrels.”

“And every one is loaded,” added the scout.
“The pill which it gives a redskin ain’t very big, but
it’s sure, and it’ll hunt for him a good ways off; so
the dog is apt to bite better than you expect.”

Sut told him that he expected to return by nightfall, and
possible before, but they might be kept away until morning. Under
any circumstances, whether successful or not, they would be back
within twenty-four hours, for they could better afford to wait and
repeat the attempt than to stay away longer than that. The reason
for this decision was that if any of the Apaches should attempt to
trail them, and there was every reason to believe that they would,
they would not need more than twenty-four hours to track them to
this hiding place. It was especially necessary that a collision
with them should be avoided as long as possible, for the whites had
everything to gain by such a course. As time was valuable, Sut did
not delay the departure, and, as he and Mickey gave the lad a
cheery good-by, they turned off to the right, and a minute later
disappeared from view.

“Here I am alone again,” he said to himself,
“excepting the horse, and I’ve got a loaded revolver.
Sut don’t think those Apaches can get here before to-morrow
morning, and he knows more than I do about it, so I hope he’s
right. We’ve got thus far on our way home, and it would be a
pity if we should fail.”

As he looked around, he saw nothing in the place or surroundings
which would have commended it to him. There was water in the shape
of a trickling stream, and that was plenty everywhere, but there
was scarcely a spear of grass visible. The vegetation was stunted
and unthrifty in appearance. There were stones and rocks
everywhere, with nothing that could serve as a shelter in case of
storm. He searched for a considerable distance around, but was
unable to find even a shelving rock, beneath which he might creep
and gather himself up if one of those terrific tempests peculiar to
this region should happen to strike him. Nor did there seem to be
any suitable refuge if the Apaches should attack him before he
could retreat.

He might crouch down behind some of the boulders and rocks, but
the make-up of the surface around him was so similar that three red
skins could surround him with perfect ease and without any danger
to themselves. Fred therefore made up his mind that he was in about
as uncomfortable a situation as a fugitive could well be.

Chapter XXIV.

Night Visitors.

Return to Table of
Contents

As young Munson expected to remain where he was for the rest of
the day, and perhaps through the succeeding night, and knew that he
was in great danger, he made it his business to acquaint himself
thoroughly with his position and with all the approaches thereto.
The first natural supposition was that the Apaches, in following
the fugitives to the spot, would, from the force of circumstances,
keep to the trail, that being their only guide.

This trail, for the last two hundred yards, led up a slope to
where he was stationed upon what might have been called a landing
in the ascent of the mountain. At the bottom of this two hundred
yards or so was an irregular plateau, beyond which the trail was
lost.

“If the Apaches should show themselves before dark,”
he concluded, as he looked over the ground, “there is where
they will be seen, and that’s the spot I must watch so long
as I can see it.”

Fred was able to hide himself from view for the time being, but
there was no way in which he could conceal the horse. He was sure
to be the first object that would attract the eye of the redskins
from below, revealing to them the precise position of the
fugitives. This reflection disturbed the lad a good deal, until he
succeeded in convincing himself that, after all, it was fortunate
that it was so.

The redskins, detecting the mustang among the rocks, would
believe that the three whites were there on the defensive. No
matter if their force were a half dozen times as great, they would
make the attack with a great deal of caution, and would probably
manoeuvre around until dark, in the expectation of a desperate
fight—all of which Fred hoped would give him a good chance of
stealing out and escaping them.

This, as a matter of course, was based upon the idea that Sut
Simpson, the veteran scout, had committed a serious error in
believing that the pursuit would be slow. And such a mistake he had
indeed made, as the lad discovered in due time.

The afternoon wore slowly away, and sunset was close at hand,
when Fred was lying upon his face, peering over the upper edge of a
rock at the plateau below. The fact of it was, his eyes had been
roaming over the same place so long, that the stare had become a
dreary, aimless one. He was suddenly aroused, however, to the most
intense attention by the discovery of an Apache warrior, who
drifted very serenely into the field of vision as if he were part
of a moving panorama upon which the lad was gazing.

The boy had been waiting so long for his appearance that he
uttered an exclamation, and half arose to his feet in his
excitement. But he quickly settled back again, and, with an
interest which it would be hard to describe, watched every movement
of the redskin, as the tiger watches the approach of its
victim.

The indian stalked up the other side of the plateau, walking
slowly, looking right and left, in front and rear, and down at the
ground, his manner showing that he was engaged in trailing the
party, using all the care and skill of which he was the master.
Reaching the middle of the plateau, he stopped, looked about, and
made a gesture to some one behind him. A moment later, a second
indian appeared, and then a third, the trio meeting near the centre
of the irregular plot, where they immediately began a
conversation.

Each of the three was liberal with his gestures, and now and
then Fred could catch the sound of their voices. What it was that
could so deeply interest them at such a time, he was at a loss to
conjecture, but there could be no doubt that it related to the
party they were pursuing.

“That must be all there are of them,” he reflected,
after several minutes had passed, without any other Apaches
becoming visible; “but it seems to me it is a small force to
chase us with. I’ve always understood that the Indians wanted
double the number of their enemies, whenever they are going to
attack them, but I suppose they’ve got some plan that I
can’t understand.”

They had been talking but a short time, when Fred understood
from their actions that they had detected the mustang above them on
the mountain side. They looked up several times, and pointed and
gesticulated in the same earnest fashion. It suddenly occurred to
the lad that he might play a good point on the redskins, with the
idea of delaying any offensive movement they might have under
discussion. Pointing his revolver over the rock in front of him, he
pulled the trigger.

The report was as sharp and loud almost as that of a rifle, but
the parties against whom it it was aimed were in no more danger
than if they had been in the city of Newark. The report had no
sooner reached the ears of the Apaches than they scattered as
wildly as if they had heard the whizz of a dozen bullets by their
faces. Fred chuckled over the success of his ruse and made sure to
keep himself hid from view.

“That will make them think that we’re holding a
sharp look-out for them, and they’ll be careful before they
make an attack upon us.”

It seemed strange to him that the Apaches, who must know of the
presence of Sut Simpson, who was equal to half a dozen men in such
a situation, should have sent forward only three of their warriors
to trail him.

“It may be,” he thought, after a while, “that
these men know how to follow a trail faster than the others, and
they have gone on ahead, while the others are coming after them. I
should think Lone Wolf would do anything in the world to catch Sut,
who has done him so much injury.”

Night was drawing on apace, darkness being due in less than an
hour. Fred was naturally perplexed and alarmed, for he could not
help feeling that he was in a most perilous position, regarding
which he should have had more advice from the scout before his
departure. The only thing that seemed prudent for him to do was to
wait until dark and then quietly steel out and shift his position.
It looked very much as if he could take care of himself for the
night, at least, but he did not see how he could take care of the
mustang, which had already changed hands so often, and which was so
necessary to their safety.

“Sut said he expected to be home by dark, and I wish
he’d come,” was the thought that passed through his
mind over and over again as he looked into the gathering darkness
and listened for the sound of his friends.

But the stillness remained unbroken and the shadows deepened,
until he saw that the night was fully come, and he could move about
without danger of being fired upon from a distance. The moon was
late in rising, so that the gloom was deep enough to hide one
person from another, when the distance was extremely slight.
Although aware of this, Fred was afraid of some flank movement upon
the part of the Apaches, before he could get out of their reach.
The suspicion that there were two men besides would make the
redskins very cautious in their movements, but a little manoeuvring
on their part might reveal the truth, in which case the situation
of the lad would be critical in the extreme.

Fred had nerved himself to the task of stealing around the
corner of a large rock and off into the darkness, when he was
startled by a quick, sudden stamp of the horse. There might have
been nothing in this; but, recalling what the scout had said about
the skill of the animal as a sentinel, he had no doubt but that it
meant that he had scented danger and that the redskins were close
at hand. Scarcely pausing to reflect upon the advisability of the
step, the lad began crawling in the direction of the animal, not
more then twenty feet away.

Before he had passed half the distance he was certain that a
redskin was at some deviltry, for the horse stamped and snorted,
and showed such excitement, that Fred forgot his own danger, and,
springing to his feet, ran rapidly toward the animal. Just as he
reached him, he saw that an Indian had him by the bridle, and was
trying to draw him along, the mustang resisting, but still yielding
a step at a time. In a short time, if the thief was not disturbed,
he would have gotten him beyond the possibility of rescue, he
seeming more anxious to secure the steed than the scalp of its
owner. With never a thought of the consequences, Fred raised his
revolver and blazed away with both barrels, aiming as best he could
straight at the marauding Apache, who, with a howl of rage and
terror, dropped the bridle of the mustang and bounded away among
the rocks.

“There! I guess when you want to borrow a horse again,
you’ll ask the owner.”

The lad was reminded of his imprudence by the flash of a rifle
almost in his face, and the whizz of the bullet which grazed his
cheek. But he still had two loaded chambers in his revolver, and he
wheeled for the purpose of sending one of them at least, into the
warrior that had made an attempt upon his life. At this critical
juncture the mustang displayed an intelligence that was
wonderful.

The Apache who was stealing upon him was near the steed, which,
without any preliminary warning, let out both his heels, knocking
the unsuspecting wretch fully a dozen feet and stretching him,
badly wounded, upon the ground.

“I wonder how many more there are?” exclaimed the
lad, looking about him, and expecting to see others rushing forward
from the gloom.

But the repulse for the time being was effectual and the way was
clear.

“I guess I’d better get out of here,” was the
thought of Fred, “for it ain’t likely they will leave
me alone very long when they’ve found out that I’m the
only one left.”

With revolver in hand he moved hurriedly backward among the
rocks, and, after going a few rods, halted and looked for his
pursuers, whom he believed to be close behind him. There was
something coming, but a moment’s listening satisfied him that
it was his mustang, which seemed to comprehend the exigency fully
as well as he did himself.

“I don’t know about that,” he reflected.
“They can follow him better then they can me, and he
can’t sneak along like I can. If they catch him,
they’ll be pretty sure to catch me.”

He started to flee, not from the Indians only, but from the
mustang as well. But the speed of the latter was greater than his
own, and, after several attempts to dodge him, he gave it up.

“If you can travel so well,” reflected Fred,
“you might as well carry me on your back.”

Saying this he leaped upon the animal’s back and gave him
free rein. The animal was going it on his own hook and he plunged
and labored along for some minutes longer, over the rockiest sort
of surface, until he halted of his own accord. The instant he did
so Fred leaped to the ground, paused and listened for his pursuers.
Nothing but the hurried breathing of the mustang could be heard.
The latter held his head well up, with ears thrown forward, in the
attitude of attention. But minute after minute passed and the
stillness remained unbroken. It looked indeed as if the fugitive
horse and boy had found rest for the time, and, so long as the
darkness continued, there was no necessity for further flight.

Chapter XXV.

Hunting a Steed.

Return to Table of
Contents

Leaving Fred Munson to watch for the approach of the Indians, it
becomes necessary to follow Mickey O’Rooney and Sut Simpson
on their hunt for a horse with which to continue their flight from
the mountains and across the prairies. It cannot be said that the
scout, in starting upon this expedition, had any particular plan in
view. As he remarked, Indians were around them, and, wherever
Indians were found, it was safe to look for the best kind of
horses. Wherever the best opportunity offered, there he intended to
strike. With this view, the first position of their expedition was
in the nature of a survey, by which they intended to locate the
field in which to operate.

The Irishman could not fail to see the necessity of caution and
silence, and, leaving his more experienced companion to take the
lead, he followed him closely, without speaking or halting. The way
continued rough and broken, being very difficult to travel at
times; but after they had tramped a considerable distance, Mickey
noticed that they were going down hill at quite a rapid rate, and
finally they reached the lowermost level, where the scout faced
him.

“Do yer know whar yer be?” he asked, in a
significant tone.

“Know whar I be?” repeated the Irishman, in
amazement. “How should I know, as the spalpeens always said
arter I knocked them down at the fair? What means of information
have I?”

“You’ve been over this spot afore,” continued
the scout, enjoying the perplexity of his friend.

The latter scratched his head and looked about him with a more
puzzled expression than ever.

“The only place that it risimbles in my mind, is a hilly
portion in the north of Ireland. Do you maan to say we’ve
arrived thar?”

“This is the pass which you tramped up and down, and whar
you got into trouble.”

“It don’t look like any part that I ever obsarved;
but why do you have such a hankering for this ravine, in which we
haven’t been used very well?”

“Yer’s whar the Injuns be, and yer’s whar we
must look for hosses—sh!”

Mickey heard not the slightest sound, but he imitated the action
of the scout and dodged down in some undergrowth, which was dense
enough to hide them from the view of any one who did not fairly
trample upon them. They had crouched but a minute or two in this
position, when Mickey fancied he heard the tramp of a single horse,
approaching on a slow walk. He dared not raise his head to look,
although he noticed that the shoulders of the scout in front of him
were slowly rising, as he peered stealthily forward.

The experiences of the last few days had been remarkable in more
than one respect. The two men had set out to secure a horse,
neither deeming it probable that the one which was desired above
all others could be obtained; and yet, while they were crouching in
the bushes, the very animal—the one which had been ridden by
Mickey O’Rooney—walked slowly forth to view, on his way
up the ravine or pass. The most noticeable feature of the scene was
that he was bestrode by an Indian warrior, whose head was bent in a
meditative mood. The redskin, so far as could be seen, was without
a companion, the steed walking at the slowest possible gait and
approaching a point which was no more than a dozen feet away.

The instant Mickey caught sight of the warrior and recognized
his own horse, there was a slight movement on the part of the
scout. The Irishman narrowly escaped uttering an exclamation of
surprise and delight as he identified his property, but he checked
himself in time to notice that Sut was stealthily bringing his gun
around to the front, with the unmistakable purpose of shooting the
Apache. The heart of the Irishman revolted at such a proceeding.
There seemed something so cowardly in thus killing an adversary
without giving him an opportunity to defend himself that he could
not consent to it. Reaching forward, he twitched the sleeve of Sut,
who turned his head in surprise.

“What is it ye’re driving at, me laddy?”

“Sh!—him!” he whispered, in return, darting
his head toward the slowly approaching horseman, winking and
blinking so significantly that it was easy to supply the words
which were omitted.

“But why don’t ye go out and tell him what ye
intend, so that he can inform his friends, and bid them all
good-bye? It ain’t the thing to pop a man over in that style,
without giving him a chance to meditate on the chances of his life,
so be aisy wid him, Soot.”

“BE AISY WID HIM, SOOT.”

The scout seemed at a loss to understand the meaning of his
companion, whose waggery and drollery cropped out at such
unexpected times that no one knew when to expect it. The Indian was
approaching and was already close at hand. Keen-eared, and with
their senses always about them, Apaches are likely to detect the
slightest disturbance. The scout glanced at the horseman, and then
at Mickey, who was in earnest.

“It’s the only way to git the hoss, you lunkhead, so
will yer keep yer meat-trap shet?”

“I don’t want a horse if we’ve got to murder a
man to git the same.”

“But the only way out here to treat an Injin is to shoot
him the minute yer see him—that’s sensible.”

“I don’t want ye to do it,” said Mickey, so
pleadingly that the scout could not refuse.

“Wal, keep still and don’t interfere, and I promise
yer I won’t slide him under, onless he gits in the way, and
won’t git out.”

“All right,” responded Mickey, not exactly sure that
he understood him, but willing to trust one who was not without his
rude traits of manhood.

All this took place in a few seconds, during which the Apache
horseman had approached, and another moment’s delay would
have given him a good chance of escape by flight. As noiselessly as
a shadow the scout arose from his knees to a stooping position,
took a couple of long, silent strides forward, and then
straightened up, directly in front of the startled horse, and still
more startled rider. The former snorted, and partly reared up, but
seemed to understand, as if by an instinct, that the stranger was
more entitled to claim him than the one upon his back. Another step
forward and the scout held the bridle in his left hand, while he
addressed the astounded Apache in his own tongue, a liberal
translation being as follows:

“Let my brother, the dog of an Apache, slide off that
animile, and vamoose the ranch, or I’ll lift his ha’r
quicker’n lightning.”

The savage deemed it advisable to “slide.” He
carried a knife at his girdle, and held a rifle in his grasp, but
the scout had come upon him so suddenly that he felt he was master
of the situation. So without attempting to argue the matter with
him, he dropped to the ground, and began retreating up the ravine,
with his face toward his conquerer, as if he mistrusted
treachery.

“Our blessing go wid ye,” said Mickey, rising to his
feet, and waving his hand toward the alarmed Apache; “we
don’t want to harm ye, and ye may go in pace. There,
Soot,” he added, as he came up beside him, “we showed
that spalpeen marcy whin he scarcely had the right to expict it,
and he will appreciate the same.”

“Ye’re right,” grunted the scout.
“He’ll show ye how he’ll appreciate it the minute
he gets a chance to draw bead onto yer; but ye’ve larned that
thar are plenty of varmints in this section, and if we’re
going to get away with this hoss thar ain’t no time to lose.
Up with yer thar and take the bridle.”

Mickey did as he requested, not exactly understanding what the
intention was.

“What is to be done?” he asked, as the head of the
animal was turned back over the route that he had just traveled.
“Am I to ride alone, while ye walk beside me?”

“That’s the idea for the present, so as to save the
strength of the horse. A half mile or so up the pass is a trail
which leads down inter it. The mustang can go over that like a
streak of greased lightning, and thar’s whar we’ll
leave the pass, and make off through the woods and mountains, till
we can jine in with the younker and go it without
trouble.”

A few words of hurried consultation completed the plans. As they
were very likely to encounter danger, it was agreed that the scout
should go ahead of the horseman, keeping some distance in advance,
and carefully reconnoitering the way before him with a view of
detecting anything amiss in time to notify his friend, and prevent
his running into it. There might come a chance where it would not
be prudent for Sut Simpson to press forward, but where, if the
intervening distance was short, Mickey might be able to make a dash
for the opening in the pass and escape with his mustang. The
Apache, being unhorsed in the manner described, had fled in the
opposite direction from that which they intended to follow. Of
course he could get around in front, and signal those who were
there of what was coming, provided the two whites were tardy in
their movements, which they didn’t propose to be.

It required only a few minutes to effect a perfect
understanding, when the scout went a hundred yards or so ahead,
moving forward at an ordinary walk, scanning the ravine right, left
and in front, and on the watch for the first sign of danger. He had
previously so located and described the opening by which they
expected to leave the pass, that Mickey was sure he would recognize
it the instant they came in sight of it. This was a rather curious
method of procedure, but it was continued for a time, and the
avenue alluded to was nearly in sight when Sut Simpson, who was a
little further than usual in advance, suddenly stopped and raised
his hand as a signal for his friend to stop.

Mickey did so at once, holding the mustang in check, while he
watched the scout with the vigilance of a cat. Sut never once
looked behind him, but his long form gradually sank down in the
grass, until little more than his broad shoulders and a coon-skin
cap were visible. The pass at that place was anything but straight,
so that the view of Mickey was much less than that of the scout;
and, had it been otherwise, it is not likely that the former would
have been able to read the signs which were as legible to the
latter as the printed pages of a book.

“Begorrah, but that’s onplisant!” muttered the
Irishman to himself, “We must be moighty close onto the door,
when some of the spalpeens stick up their heads and object to our
going out. Be the powers! but they may object, for all I care.
I’m going to make a run for it!”

At this juncture the figure of the scout was seen approaching in
the same guarded manner.

“Well, Soot, me laddy, what do ye make of it?”

“Thar’s a party of the varmints just beyont the
place we meant to ride out.”

“Well, what of that? You can lave the pass somewhere along
here, where there seem plenty of places that ye can climb out,
while I make a dash out of that, and we’ll meet agin after we
get clear of the spalpeens.”

“Thar’s a mighty risk about it, and yer be likelier
to get shot than to be missed.”

“That’s all right,” responded Mickey.
“I’m reddy to take the chances in that kind of
business. Lead on, and we’ll try it. It’ll soon be
dark, and I’m getting tired of this fooling.”

Sut liked that kind of talk. There was a business ring about it,
and he responded:

“I’ll go ahead, and when it’s time to stop
I’ll make yer the signal. Keep watch of my
motions.”

Ten minutes later they had reached a spot so near the opening
that Mickey easily recognized it. He compressed his lips and his
eyes flashed with a stern determination as he surveyed it. The
scout was still in the advance, proceeding in the same careful
manner, all his wits about him, when he again paused, and motioned
for the Irishman to stop. The latter saw and recognized the
gesture, but he declined to obey it. He permitted his mustang to
walk on until he had reached the spot where Sut was crouching,
making the most furious kind of motions, and telling him to stay
where he was.

“Why didn’t yer stop when I tell yer, blast
ye?” he demanded angrily.

“Is that the place where ye expected to go out?”
asked Mickey, without noticing the question, as he pointed off to
the spot which he had fixed upon as the one for which they were
searching.

“Of course it is; but what of it? You can’t do
anything thar.”

“I’ll show ye, me laddy; I’m going there as
sure as me name’s Mickey O’Rooney, and me.”

“Yer ain’t going to try any such thing; if yer do,
I’ll bore yer.”

But the Irishman had already given the word to his horse. The
latter bounded forward, passing by the dumbfounded hunter, who
raised his rifle, angered enough to tumble the reckless fellow from
the saddle. But, of course, he could not do that, and he stared in
a sort of a wondering amazement at the course of the Irishman. The
latter, instead of seeking to conceal his identity, seemed to take
every means to make it known. He put the mustang on a dead run, sat
bolt upright on his back, and Sut even fancied that he could see
that his cap was set a little to one side, so as to give himself a
saucy, defiant air to whomsoever might look upon him.

“Skulp me! if he ain’t a good rider!”
exclaimed the scout, anxious to assist him in the trouble with
which he was certain to environ himself. “But he is riding to
his death. Thar! what next? He’s crazy.”

This exclamation was caused by seeing Mickey lift his cap and
swing it about his head, emitting at the same time a number of
yells such as no Apache among them all could have surpassed.

“Whoop! whoop! ye bloody spalpeens! it’s meself,
Mickey O’Rooney, that’s on the war-path, and do ye kape
out of the way, or there’ll be some heads broken.”

Could madness further go? Instead of trying to avoid an
encounter with the Apaches, the belligerent Irishman seemed
actually to be seeking it. And there was no danger of his being
disappointed. Certain of this, Sut Simpson hurried on after him,
for the purpose of giving what assistance he could in the desperate
encounter soon to take place.

Mickey was still yelling in his defiant way, with the long, lank
figure of the scout trotting along in the rear, when one, two,
three, fully a half dozen Apaches sprang from the ground ahead of
the Irishman, and, as if they divined his purpose, all began
converging toward the opening which was the goal of the fugitive.
But it would have made no difference to the latter if a score had
appeared across his path. He hammered the ribs of his mustang with
his heels, urging him to the highest possible speed of which he was
capable. Then he replaced his cap, added an extra yell or two,
raised his rifle and sighted best as he could at the nearest
Indian. When he pulled the trigger, he missed the mark probably
twenty feet, for it was a kind of business to which Mickey was
unaccustomed.

The Apaches threw themselves across his path, in the hope of
checking the mustang so as to secure the capture of the rider; but
the animal abated not a tittle, and strained every nerve to carry
his owner through the terrible gauntlet. One of the redskins,
fearful that the fugitive was going to escape in spite of all they
could do, raised his gun, with the purpose of tumbling him to the
ground. Before he could do anything, he dropped his gun, threw up
his arms with a howl, and tumbled over backward. Sut Simpson was
near enough at hand to send in the shot that wound up his
career.

By this time, something like a sober second thought came to
Mickey, who saw that his horse comprehended what was expected of
him, and needing do further direction or urging. He realized,
furthermore, that he had, by the impetuous movement of the animal,
thrown all his foes in the rear, and they being unmounted, and
anxious to check his flight, were certain to give him the contents
of their rifles. Accordingly he threw himself forward upon the neck
of the steed, scarcely a second before the crack of the rifles were
heard in every direction. The hurtling bullets passed fearfully
near, and more than once Mickey believed he was struck. But his
horse kept on with unabated speed, and a minute after thundered up
the slope, and he and his rider were beyond the reach of all their
bullets.

Chapter XXVI.

Lone Wolf’s Tactics.

Return to Table of
Contents

Mickey O’Rooney gave a yell of defiance as he vanished
from view, horse and rider unharmed by the scattering shots which
followed them, even after they were lost to sight. It was well and
bravely done, and yet it would have failed altogether but for the
wonderful cunning and shrewd courage of Simpson, who had kept close
to the heels of the flying horse. It was when the crisis
came—when the Apaches were closing around the fugitive, and
it seemed inevitable that he should reap the natural reward of his
own foolhardiness that Sut had acted. When the warriors were
confident of their success, he discharged his rifle with marvelous
quickness, and with a more important result than the mere tumbling
over of his man.

There was a momentary check, a sudden stoppage, lasting but a
few seconds, when the foe rallied and made for the fugitive. But
that brief interval of time was precisely what was needed, and it
secured the safety of Mickey and his steed. It mattered not that
Sut Simpson as good as threw away his life by his chivalrous act.
He knew that full well, while awaiting the opportunity, as much as
he did when he raised his faithful weapon and discharged it into
the group.

The moment the piece was fired he knew that his mission was
accomplished, and he began a retreat, moving stealthily and rapidly
backward, for the purpose of getting beyond the range of the
redskins before they should fairly recover from the escape of the
horseman. But events were proceeding rather too rapidly. Before he
could cover any appreciable distance, the baffled wretches turned
upon him and it was flight or fight, or, more likely, both.

The Apaches were brave, they knew the character of the dreaded
scout and they were not desirous of rushing, one after another, to
their doom. Sut was certain that, if he should turn and run, the
howling horde would be at his heels. The instant there should
appear any possibility of his escape, they would all open upon him,
and it was impossible that any such good fortune should attend him
as had marked the flight of Mickey. It was his purpose, therefore,
to keep up his retreat with his face to his foe, forcing all to
maintain their distance, until he could reach the side of the
ravine, where, possibly, a sudden desperate effort might enable him
to outwit the redskins.

The scout had not yet been given time in which to reload his
piece, but the uncertainty whether it contained another charge
prevented them from making an impetuous rush upon him. Besides,
they knew that he carried a formidable knife, and, like every
border character, he was a professor of the art of using it. All at
once it occurred to Sut that he might thin out his assailants by
the use of his revolver. If he could drop three or four, or more,
and then follow it up with a savage onslaught, he believed he could
open the way. He felt for the weapon, and was terribly disappointed
to find it gone.

He recalled that he had given it to Fred Munson when he was left
alone with the mustang. So, as he had nothing but his knife, he
placed his hand upon the haft, glaring defiantly at his enemies,
while he continued walking slowly backward, and gradually edging
toward the side of the grove. But Apaches were plenty in that
latitude, and the business had scarcely opened when three or four
warriors commenced a stealthy approach upon the scout from the
rear. He glanced hastily over his shoulder several times, while
slowly retreating, to guard against this very danger; but the
Indians, seeing the point for which the fugitive was making,
ensconced themselves near it and waited.

At the moment Sut placed his hand upon the knife, he was within
twenty feet of the three Indians crouching in the grass, with no
suspicion of their proximity. One of them arose to his feet,
quietly swung a coiled lasso about his head (the distance being so
slight that no great effort was necessary), and then with great
dexterity dropped it over the head of the unsuspicious scout,
inclosing his arms, when he jerked it taut with the suddenness of
lightning.

A few seconds only were necessary for Sut to free himself, but
ere those seconds could be taken advantage of, he was drawn over
backward. The entire party sprang upon him and seized his gun and
knife.

“Skulp me, if this don’t look as though I’d
made a slip of it this time!” muttered Sut, as he bounded
like lightning to his feet. “When yer varmints undertake a
job of this kind, yer show that yer ain’t no slouches, but
have a good knowledge of the business.”

As if anxious to deserve the complimentary opinion of their
distinguished prisoner, they coiled the lasso again and again about
him, until he was fastened by a dozen rounds and was no more able
to contend against his captors then if he were an infant.

As all the warriors recognized the prisoner, their delight was
something extraordinary. They danced about him in the most
grotesque and frantic manner, screeching, yelling, and indulging in
all sorts of tantalizing gestures and signs at Simpson, who was
unable to resist them or help himself.

There was a certain dignity in the carriage of Sut under these
trying circumstances. Instead of replying by taunts to the taunts
of his enemies, he maintained silence, permitting them to wag on to
their heart’s content.

It was wonderful how rapidly the tidings of the capture spread.
The hootings and yellings that marked the rejoicings of the party
were heard by those who were further away, and they signaled it to
the warriors beyond. The redskins came from every direction, and,
within half an hour from the time Sut Simpson was lassoed, there
must have been nearly a hundred Apaches gathered around him. These
all continued their frantic rejoicings, while, as before, the
prisoner remained silent.

His eyes were wandering over the company in search of Lone Wolf,
their great leader; but that redoubtable chieftain was nowhere to
be seen. Sut was certain that he was somewhere near at hand, and
must know of all that had happened on this spot.

Did Simpson expect anything like mercy from the Apaches? Not a
whit of it. He had fought them too long, had inflicted too much
injury, and understood them too thoroughly to look for anything of
the kind. Besides, even if he was innocent of having ever harmed a
redskin, he would not have received the slightest indulgence at
their hands. The Apaches are like all the rest of their species, in
their inherent opposition to mercy on general principles.

The afternoon was well spent, and, as a means of occupying his
mind until his case was disposed of, he set himself speculating as
to what their precise intentions were. Being quite familiar with
the Apache tongue, he caught the meaning of many of their
expressions; but for a considerable time these were confined to
mere exultations over his capture. The excitement was too great for
anything like deliberation, or concerted council.

“It may be the skunks are waitin’ fur Lone
Wolf,” he muttered, as he stood with his arms bound to his
side. “They wouldn’t dare to do much without axing him,
though I ’spose they might a skulp any man wharever they got
the chance, without stopping to ax questions. Helloa! thar he
comes!”

This exclamation was caused by the sudden turning of heads, and
a sort of hush that fell upon the group for the moment, close to
the approach of someone on horseback. It was already so close to
dusk that he could not be identified until he came closer, when Sut
was surprised to find that it was not the chieftain, after all. It
was a man altogether different in appearance, probably a
subordinate chief, who had performed some daring deed which had won
him the admiration of his comrades. The indications, too, were that
he brought interesting news about something.

“That varmint has been away somewhar,” concluded
Sut, carefully noting everything, “and they expect him to
tell something worth hearin’, and I guess they’re about
kerrect, so I’ll see what I kin do in the way of listening
myself.”

The scout was right in his supposition. The Indian was the
avant courier of a party three or four times as great as
that which had gathered about him in the ravine. His companions had
separated and gone in other directions, while he, learning the
course taken by his chief, Lone Wolf, had hastened to report
directly to him.

Sut Simpson suspected what all this meant. He saw a number of
scalps hanging at the girdle of the Apache, and he had not listened
long when his fears where more than confirmed. The embryo town of
New Boston, planted in the valley of the Rio Pecos, was no more.
Repulsed bloodily at the first, Lone Wolf had gathered together the
best of his warriors, placed them under one of his youngest and
most daring chiefs, and sent them forth with orders to clean out
the settlement that had been planted so defiantly in the heart of
their country. And now this chief had returned to say that the work
had been completed, precisely as commanded.

“I knowed it war coming,” muttered the scout.
“I told that Barnwell that Lone Wolf would bounce him afore
he knowed what the the matter was, and I urged ’em to make
for Fort Severn, which war only fifty miles away, and save their
top-knots. He did not say so, but I could see he thought I war a
big fool, and now he’s found out who the fool was. Wonder
whether any of the poor cusses got away? Thar couldn’t have
been much chance. ’Twon’t do to ax this rooster, cause
he wouldn’t be likely to answer me, and, if he did, he would
be sartin’ to tell me a lot of lies.”

The young chief having communicated his good tidings, and
exchanged congratulations with those about him, started his mustang
forward, heading him directly up the ravine or pass. This brought
him within arm’s length of the scout, who was standing mute
and motionless. The redskin drew up his horse and stared fixedly at
him, as if, for the moment, uncertain of his identity.

“I’m Sut Simpson, the man that has slain so many
Apache warriors that he cannot number them,” said the scout,
with a view of helping the Indian to recognize him.

There was no real braggadocio about this. As Sut could not hide
his personality, the best plan for him was to make an open avowal,
backed up by a rather high-sounding vaunt. This was more pleasing
to the Indians, who were addicted to the most extravagant kind of
expression.

Rather curiously, the young chief made no reply. The observation
of the prisoner seemed to have settled all doubts that were in his
mind, and perhaps he was desirous of seeing Lone Wolf without any
further delay. His steed struck into a rapid gallop, and speedily
vanished in the gloom, leaving the captive with the howling
hundred.

Sut was brave, but there was a certain feeling of disappointment
that began to make itself felt. Although he would not have admitted
it, yet the termination of the recent meeting with Lone Wolf, had
led him to hope, not that the chieftain would liberate him, but
that he would give him some kind of a show for his life—an
opportunity, no matter how desperate, in which he might make a
fight for his existence. He had spared Lone Wolf when he was at his
mercy, refusing to fight the chief because he was so disabled that
his defeat was assured. It would seem that the chief, in return,
might offer the scout a chance to fight some of the best warriors;
and such probably would have been the case with any set of people
except the American Indians. The absence of Lone Wolf impressed Sut
very unfavorably. He believed the chief meant to remain away until
after his important prisoner was killed.

By the time night was descended, the wild rejoicing in a great
measure ceased. One of the Apaches started a fire, and the others
lent their assistance. A roaring, crackling flame lit up a large
area of the ravine, revealing the figure of every savage, as well
as that of the scout, who, having grown weary of continual
standing, seated himself upon the ground. Had Sut possessed the use
of his arms, he would have made an effort to get away at this time.
A short run would have carried him to the place which he had in
mind at the time he began his retreat. Without the aid of his
hands, however, he was certain to be entrapped again, so he
concluded to remain where he was, with the hope that something more
inviting would present itself.

The frontiersman never despairs; and, although it was difficult
to figure out the basis of much hope in the present case, yet Sut
held on, and determined to do so to the end. He made several
cautious tests of his bonds, but the lariat of buffalo-hide was
wound around his arms so continuously, and tied so well, that the
strength of twenty men could not have broken it. The exploit of
cutting them by abrasion against a sharp stone (which he had once
done), could not be accomplished in the present instance, for the
reason that there was no suitable stone at hand, and he was under
too strict surveillance. And so it only remained for him to wait
and hope, and hold himself in readiness.

When the fire had crackled and flamed for a while, the Apaches
clustered in groups upon the ground, where they smoked and talked
incessantly. They seemed to be paying no attention to their
prisoner, and yet they took pains to group themselves around him in
such a way that if he should attempt flight he would be forced into
collision with some of them. Sut was surprised that as yet no
indignity had been offered him. As the Apaches had every reason to
hate him with the very intensity of hatred, it would have been in
keeping with their character to have made his lot as uncomfortable
as possible.

“It’ll come by-and-bye,” he sighed, as the
cramped position of his arms pained him. “I don’t know
what they’re waitin’ fur. Mebbe they want to get up
such a high old time with me that they’re writin’ out a
programme, and have sent to New Orleans fur a band of music.
Thar’s nothing like doing these things up in style, and I
s’pose Lone Wolf means to honor me in that way.”

At a late hour, the moon arose, and the light penetrated the
ravine, where the strange, motley crowd congregated. The fire still
burned, and no one showed any disposition to sleep. By way of
relief, the scout lay over upon his side, and was looking up at the
clear moon-lit sky when he heard the tramp of horses, and
immediately rose up again.

He saw the chieftain, whom he had observed a few hours before,
as he came in with his news of the destruction of New Boston,
accompanied by two others, all mounted. They rode up in such a
position that they surrounded the captive, who was suddenly lifted
by a couple of Apaches, and placed astride of the mustang in front
of the young chief. The next minute the quartette moved off.

“Skulp me! if I know what this means!” muttered Sut,
who felt uneasy over the new turn of affairs. “Things are
getting sort of mixed just now.”

He hoped that he would learn something of the purpose of the
three redskins from their conversation as they rode along; but
unfortunately for that hope, they did not exchange a word. When
they had ridden a fourth of a mile, Sut caught the flash of a knife
in the chieftain’s hand. The next instant, it moved swiftly
along his back, and the lariat was cut in many pieces. The arms of
the scout were freed, although for some minutes they were so
benumbed that he could scarcely move them.

What did all this mean? Fully another quarter of a mile was
ridden in silence, when the three halted, and Sut felt that the
critical moment had arrived. The chief dismounted from the horse,
leaving the scout seated thereon. One of the others reached over
and handed him his own gun, while the third passed him back his
long knife.

“Wall, if I’m to fight all three of yer, sail
in!” called out Sut, gathering himself for a charge from
them.

They made no reply. The chief vaulted upon one of the other
horses, behind the warrior, and, as he did so, a fourth figure
advanced and leaped upon the other, so that there were two Indians
upon each mustang. The scout scrutinized the new comer, as well as
he could in the moonlight.

Yes, there was no mistake about his identity. It was Lone Wolf,
who remained as silent as the others.

The heads of the mustangs were turned down the ravine again, and
they struck into a gallop, the sound of their hoofs coming back
fainter and more faintly, until they died in the night. Sut Simpson
was free, and free without a fight, as he realized, when he gave
his horse the word, and he dropped into an easy gait in a direction
opposite to that taken by the Apaches.

Chapter XXVII.

The End.

Return to Table of
Contents

“Wall, that ere little matter was settled without any hard
words,” muttered the scout, as he rode up the ravine.
“It ain’t the way Lone Wolf generally manages them
things, but that affair me and him had, when I took my hoss away
from him, I s’pose had something to do with it.”

The scout had considerable cause to feel grateful and pleased
over the turn of events. He had his horse and gun, and it now only
remained for him to rejoin his companions. He had already passed
the point where Mickey O’Rooney had left the ravine, and he
felt the impropriety of turning back and presuming upon any further
indulgence of the Apaches.

Accordingly, he slackened the speed of his mustang until he
reached an avenue of escape. He was forced to go quite a distance
before finding one, but he did, at last, and turned his horse into
it.

“I don’t know whether that ar Irishman can find the
way back to whar we left the younker, but I suppose he’ll
try, so I’ll aim at the same p’int.”

The night was pretty well gone, and his mustang had struggled
nobly until he showed signs of weariness, and the scout concluded
to wait until daylight before pushing his hunt any further. They
were miles away from the Apache camp, and he had no fears of
disturbance from that quarter. So he drew rein in a secluded spot,
and sprang to the ground.

At the very moment of doing so, his horse gave a whinny, which
was instantly responded to by a whinny from another horse, less
than a hundred feet away.

“That’s qua’ar,” muttered the scout, as
he grasped his rifle. “Whar thar’s a hoss in these
parts, thar’s generally a man, and whar thar’s a man,
you kin set him down as an Injun. And as this can’t be Lone
Wolf, I’ll find out who he is.”

His own mustang being a strayer, he managed to tie him to a
small, scrubby bush, after which he moved forward, with caution and
stealth, in the direction whence came the whinny that had arrested
his attention. His purpose was to prevent the other animal
discovering his approach—an exceedingly difficult task, as
the mustangs of the Southwest are among the very best sentinels
that are known, frequently detecting the approach of danger when
their masters fail to do so. However, Sut succeeded in getting so
close, that he could plainly detect the outlines of the animal,
which was standing motionless, with head erect, and his nose turned
in the direction of the other mustang, as though he were all
attention, and on the look-out for danger.

The scout paused to study the matter, for he did not understand
the precise situation of things. The mustang which he saw might be
only one of a dozen others, whose owners were near at hand, with
possible several searching for him. The conclusion was inevitable
that it was necessary for him to reconnoitre a little further
before allowing his own position to be uncovered.

Before he could advance any further, he caught sight of a man,
who moved silently forward between him and the horse, where he
could be seen with greater distinctness. He held his rifle in hand,
and seemed disturbed at the action of his horse, which was clearly
an admonition for him to be on his guard.

The scout studied him for a minute, and then cautiously raised
the hammer of his rifle. Guarded as was the movement, the faint
click caught the ear of the other, who started, and was on the
point of leaping back, when Sut called out:

“Stop, or I’ll bore a hole through yer!”

The figure did not move.

“Come forward and surrender.”

The form remained like a statue.

“Throw down that gun or I’ll shoot.”

This brought a response, which came in the shape of a well-known
voice:

“Not while I have the spirit of a man left, as me uncle
obsarved when his wife commanded him to come down from a tree that
she might pummel him. How are ye, old boy?”

The scout had suspected the identity of his friend from the
first, and had made the attempt to frighten him from the innate
love of the thing. The two grasped hands cordially and were
rejoiced beyond measure at this fortunate meeting.

Mickey explained that he had not been scratched by a bullet, nor
had his horse suffered injury. It was a most singular escape
indeed. But no more singular than that of the scout himself, who
had received mercy at the hands of Lone Wolf, who had never been
known to be guilty of such a weakness. It had been a providential
deliverance all around, and the men could not be otherwise than in
the best sprits.

“The next thing is to hunt up the younker,” said the
scout, as they sat upon the the ground discussing incidents of the
past few days. “I’m a little troubled about him,
’cause we’ve been away longer than we expected, and
some of the varmints may have got on his trail.”

“How far from this place do ye reckon him to
be?”

“That’s powerful hard to tell, but it can’t be
much less than a mile, and that’s a good ways in such a hilly
country as this. Yer can’t git over it faster than yer kin
run.”

“But ye know the way thar, as I understand ye to
remark?”

The scout signified that he would have no more trouble in
reaching it then in making his way across a room. They decided,
though, that the best thing they could do was to wait where they
were until daylight, and then take up the hunt. They remained
talking and smoking for an hour or two longer, neither closing
their eyes in slumber, although the occasion was improved to its
utmost by their animals. The scout was capable of losing a couple
of nights’ rest without being materially effected thereby,
while Mickey’s experience almost enabled him to do the
same.

As soon as it was fairly light the two were on the move, Sut
leading the course in the direction of the spot where they had left
Fred Munson the day before, and which he had vacated very suddenly.
They were picking their way along as best they could, when they
struck a small stream, when the scout paused so suddenly that his
comrade inquired the cause.

“That’s quar, powerful quar,” he said looking
down at the ground and speaking as if to himself.

“One horse has been ’long har, and I think it war
mine, and that he had that younker on his back.”

“Which way was the young spalpeen traveling?”

The scout indicated the course, and then added, in an excited
undertone:

“It looks to me as if he got scared out and had to leave,
and it ain’t no ways likely that anything would have scared
him short of Injuns—so it’s time we j’ined
him.”

The Irishman was decidedly of the same opinion, and the trail
was at once taken.

“Be the powers! do you mind that?” demanded Mickey,
in an excited voice.

“Mind what?” asked the scout, somewhat startled at
his manner.

“Jes’ look yonder, will ye?”

As he spoke, he pointed up the slope ahead of them. There, but a
comparatively short distance away, was Fred Munson, in plain sight,
seated upon the back of his mustang, apparently scrutinizing the
two horsemen, as if in doubt as to their identity. The parties
recognized each other at the same moment, and Fred waved his hat,
which salutation was returned by his friends. The scout motioned to
him to ride down to where he and Mickey were waiting.

“He’s off the trail altogether, and if he keeps on
that course, he’ll fetch up in New Orleans, or
Galveston,” he added, by way of explanation.

The lad lost no time in rejoining them, and the trio formed a
joyous party. Not one was injured, each had a good swift horse, and
a weapon of some kind, and was far better equipped for a homeward
journey than they had dared to hope.

“Thar’s only one thing to make a slight
delay,” said the Irishman, after pretty much everything had
been explained.

His friends looked to him for an explanation.

“I resaved notice from me family physician in London this
mornin’, that it was dangerous when in this part of the world
to travel on an empty stomach.”

All three felt the need of food and Sut considered the spot
where they were as good for camping purposes as any they were
likely to find. So they dismounted, and while Mickey and Fred
busied themselves in gathering wood, and preparing the fire, the
scout went off in search of game.

“Do ye mind,” called out Mickey, “that ye
mustn’t return till ye bring something wid ye? I’m so
hungry that I’m not particular. A biled Apache will answer,
if ye can’t find anything else.”

“If he gets anything,” said Fred, “we must
make away with all we can, and try to eat enough to last us two or
three days.”

“That’s what I always do at each meal,”
promptly replied his friend. “Thar’s nothing like being
prepared for emergencies, as me cousin, Butt O’Norghoghon,
remarked when he presented the gal he was coortin’ with a set
of teeth and a whig, which she didn’t naad any more than does
me hoss out thar.”

The scout returned before he was expected, and with a
superabundance of food, which was cooked and fully enjoyed, and as
speedily as possible they were mounted and on the road again. The
traveling was exceedingly difficult, and although they struck the
main pass near noon, and put their horses to their best speed, yet
it was dark when they succeeded in clearing themselves of the
mountains and reached the edge of the prairies, which stretched
away almost unbrokenly for hundreds of miles. They saw Indians
several times but did not exchange shots during the day. It was not
a general rule with Sut Simpson to avoid an encounter with
redskins, but he did it on the present occasion on account of his
companions, and especially for the lad’s sake. A safe place
for the encampment was selected, the mustangs so placed that they
would be certain to detect the approach of any enemies during the
night, and all laid down to slumber.

Providence, that had so kindly watched over them through all
their perils, did not forget them when they lay stretched helpless
upon the ground.

The night passed away without molestation, and, making a
breakfast from the cooked meat that they had preserved, they struck
out upon the prairie in the direction of New Boston.

They had scarcely started, when a party of Indians, probably
Comanches, saw them and gave chase. The pursuers were well mounted,
and, for a time, the danger was critical, as they numbered fully
twenty; but the mustangs of the fugitives were also fleet of foot,
and, at last, they carried them beyond all danger from that
source.

As the friends galloped along at an easy pace, Sut Simpson
struck them with horror by telling them the story of the massacre,
which he had heard discussed among the Apaches when he was a
prisoner. All were anxious to learn the extent of the horrible
tale, and they pressed their steeds to the utmost.

The site of the town was reached late in the afternoon, when it
was speedily seen that the young chief had told the truth. New
Boston was among the things of the past, having actually died while
in the struggles of birth. The unfinished houses had been burned to
the ground, the stock run off, and most of the inhabitants
massacred. The fight had been a desperate one, but when Lone Wolf
sent his warriors a second time they were resistless, and carried
everything before them.

“If any of ’em got away, they’ve reached Fort
Severn,” said the scout, who was impressed by the evidences
of the terrible scenes that had been enacted here, within a
comparatively few hours; “but I don’t think
thar’s much chance.”

The remains of those who had fallen on the spot were so
mutilated, and in many cases partly burned, that they could not be
recognized. Among the wreck and ruin of matter were discovered a
number of shovels. The three set themselves to dig a trench, into
which all these remains were placed and carefully covered over with
earth.

“We’ll take a shovel along,” said Sut, as he
threw one over his shoulder, and sprang upon his horse.
“We’ll be likely to find need for it afore we reach the
fort.”

This prediction was verified. As they rode along they constantly
came upon bodies of men and women, whose horses had given out, or
who had been shot while fleeing for life. In every case the poor
fugitives had been scalped and mutilated. They were gathered up and
tenderly buried, with no headstone to mark their remains, there to
sleep until the last trump shall sound.

Fort Severn was reached in the afternoon of the second day.
There were found, just six men and two women, the fleetness of
whose steeds had enabled them to win in the race for life. All the
others had fallen, among them Caleb Barnwell, the leader of the
Quixotic scheme, and the founder of the town which died with him.
The valley of the Rio Pecos was not prepared for any settlement
unless one organized upon a scale calculated to overawe all
combinations of the Apaches, Commanches, and Kiowas.

From Fort Severn, Mickey O’Rooney and Fred Munson, under
the escort, or rather guidance, of Sut Simpson, made their way
overland to Fort Aubray, where Mr. Munson, the father of Fred, was
found. The latter thanked heaven for the sickness which had
detained him and could not fully express his gratitude for the
wonderful preservation of Mickey and his son. Sut Simpson, the
scout, was well paid for his services, and, bidding them good-bye,
he went to his field of duty in the southwest, while Mr. Munson,
Mickey and Fred were glad enough to return east.