That last shot told the story. The shot had seriously weakened the bear, and his mighty strength was fast oozing away. His struggles grew less vigorous, though they continued up to the last moment. Jack Dudley had become aware of what was going on, and, stopping in his flight, shouted:
“Shoot him, Fred, before he can climb out!”
Fred attempted to do so, but discovered he had no more cartridges at command. Since the bear at best could not harm the younger, he ran forward to the side of the canyon, just behind the beast. Jack had paused, so that both were looking at the grizzly, whose huge head and massive shoulders protruded above the edge of the canyon. While they looked the head dropped from sight, followed by the forefeet, whose claws scratched over the flinty surface as they slipped backward.
Knowing what had occurred, Jack and Fred ran to the edge and looked down. They were in time to see the mountainous bulk tumbling into the vast chasm. The body maintained a horizontal posture, as in life, until it struck a projecting point which sent it bounding against the other side, where the impact added to the tendency of the first blow, and the body turned over and over, like an immense log rolling down hill. Despite the gloom of the abyss the sun was shining so brightly, and was in such a favorable position, that everything was seen with distinctness.
Peering downward, the awed and grateful boys saw the black mass suddenly strike the foamy waters and send the spray flying in all directions. It disappeared for a moment and then popped up like a rubber-ball, and went dancing down the current toward the break in the walls which they had visited a brief while before.
Still silent and watching, they observed it dancing up and down with the violence of the stream until its motion was arrested by striking an obstruction, which held it motionless. There it stayed for the remaining minutes spent in peering into the abyss.
Jack and Fred looked up and across the canyon at the same instant. They were directly opposite, and hardly twelve feet apart. The elder took off his hat and called:
“Are you ready?”
“Yes,” said Fred, removing his head-gear.
“All together!”
And then they swung their hats and hurrahed with the vim which, all things considered, was justified by events. They were happy and grateful, and neither forgot to thank, with all the fervency of his nature, the One who had delivered them in safety from the very jaws of death. No matter what other dangers might come to them, there could be none narrower or more striking than that through which they had just passed.
“Do you intend to stay on that side of the canyon?” asked Fred.
“I don’t know that there is any choice between our places, but if you feel lonely I’ll come over to your help.”
“I thought you might want to pick up the gun you threw away.”
Jack looked at each of his hands in turn and laughed.
“Do you know I had forgotten all about that? I don’t remember having thrown it aside.”
“I saw you do it, and it was a lucky thing you did.”
The two walked beside the canyon until they came to a straight place, where Jack easily made the leap and joined his friend. Then they set out to recover the Winchester, which, as matters stood, was almost beyond value to them.
“I can’t recall the spot where I dropped it,” remarked Jack, allowing his companion to take the lead.
“I do; you and I were doing such tall running then, and for some minutes afterward, that we covered more ground than would be supposed. That’s the spot, just ahead.”
He indicated an open space, thirty or forty feet in width, lying between a ridge of boulders, over which it was astonishing how the fugitive had managed to make such good progress.
“We shall find it right there—”
Fred checked his words, for at that moment they came upon the spot he had in mind and both swept their gaze over it. Their dismay may be imagined when they saw nothing of the Winchester.
“You must be mistaken as to the place,” said Jack.
“I can’t be; it was just after you had leaped down from that low boulder that you gave your right arm a swing and away the gun went.”
“Did you notice where it landed?”
“I can put my hand on the very spot.”
“Do so.”
Fred led the way a few paces and said:
“It was there, and nowhere else.”
Jack bent over and carefully studied the earth.
“My gracious! you are right; that dent in the ground was made by the stock of my gun, and it couldn’t have gone its own length further.”
The space was clear for several yards, and they would have discerned a small coin lying anywhere on it, but nothing suggesting a weapon was in sight.
A momentary consternation took possession of them. Only one conclusion was possible: some person had taken the Winchester.
“Do you suppose it was Hank, who wanted to have some fun with us?” asked Fred.
Jack shook his head.
“At any other time I might believe it, but Hank isn’t one to look for fun when the lives of two persons are in danger. It wasn’t he.”
“Who, then, could it be?”
Again Jack shook his head.
“You know there are a number of Indians hunting in this neighborhood. Some of them may have been near us, and, hearing our cries and the reports of our guns, started to find out what it meant. Coming upon my Winchester, they carried it off.”
This was the most reasonable explanation they could think of, but it did not lessen their disappointment at the loss of the indispensable weapon.
“I won’t stand it!” exclaimed Jack, whose indignation was rising; “the man who took that gun must give it back!”
It was impossible to know in what direction to look for the pilferer, but the youth’s long strides led him toward the break in the walls of the canyon where they had seen the three Indians earlier in the forenoon. Whether it was reasonable to expect to find them, or rather the thief, there, would be hard to say, but Jack did find the one for whom he was looking.
Half the intervening distance was passed, when he turned his head and said in an excited undertone to his companion:
“He’s just ahead, and as sure as I live the thief is Motoza!”
Before Fred, slightly at the rear, could gain sight of the Indian, Jack broke into a lope and called:
“Hold on there, Motoza! You have something that belongs to me.”
The dusky vagrant was alone and walking at a moderate pace from the youth. Although he did not look around until hailed he must have known he was followed, but he stopped short and wheeled about with a wondering expression on his painted face.
There could be no mistake by Jack Dudley, for Motoza was carrying two Winchesters, one in either hand, and a glance enabled the youth to recognize his own property.
“Howdy, brother?” asked Motoza, with the old grin on his face.
Jack was too angry to be tactful. He continued his rapid strides, and as he drew near reached out his hand.
“Never mind how I do; give me my rifle.”
But with the fingers of Jack almost on the weapon, Motoza shifted his hand backward, so that the gun was held behind his body. He did not stir, but continued grinning.
“What do you mean?” demanded Jack, his face flushed, and his anger greater than before; “didn’t you hear me ask for my gun?”
“Whooh! brother frow way gun—me pick him up—he mine.”
“I threw it down so as to have a better chance of getting away from the grizzly bear; I intended to pick it up again. I know you are a great thief, Motoza, but you can’t steal that Winchester from me; hand it over!”
And Jack extended his hand again; but the Sioux persisted in keeping the weapon behind him, though his own was in front, where the lad might have been tempted to snatch it from his grasp.
The youth was fast losing his self-command. He had learned the character of this vagrant from Hazletine, and it was plain that he mea
nt to retain the valuable weapon, while Jack was equally determined he should not.
“I tell you for the last time to give me my gun! Do you hear?”
The demand was made in a loud voice and accompanied by a threatening step toward the Indian, who showed no fear. The grin, however, had left his face, and he recoiled a step with such a tigerish expression on his ugly countenance that his assailant ought to have been warned of his danger. Motoza, the Sioux, was ready to commit murder for the sake of retaining that which did not belong to him.
“Stop!” commanded Fred Greenwood, whom both seemed to have forgotten in the flurry of the moment.
The younger was standing a little to the rear and to one side, but his Winchester, it will be remembered, was in his hand, and was now pointed at the dusky scamp.
“Motoza, if you want to preserve that sweet countenance of yours, hand that gun to my friend before I let daylight through you!”
CHAPTER XIII.
A STRANGE OCCURRENCE.
Once more Motoza had allowed an American youth to get the drop on him, for he could not mistake the meaning of that command, nor the deeper eloquence of the pose of Fred Greenwood with his rifle at a dead level. The Sioux must have despised himself for his forgetfulness.
But he had already proven the readiness with which he accepted a situation, no matter how unwelcome. The hand that held the weapon of Jack Dudley whipped round to the front with a deft movement, which, however, was not quicker than the return of the grin to his countenance.
“Motoza friend—he not want gun of brother,” he remarked.
“You wouldn’t get it if you did want it,” said Jack, not to be mollified by this sudden change of front. Instead of accepting the hypocritical proffer, the youth was imprudent enough to add, as he felt his Winchester once more in his grasp:
“You are the meanest thief in the country, Motoza, and this must be the last time you try your hand on us.”
“Off with you!” added Fred, beginning to tire with the constraint of his position; “good-by, Motoza, and I hope we shall not meet again.”
At the moment of obeying, the Sioux glanced at the lad who had thus turned the tables on him. The expression of his face was frightful. Ferocious hate, thirst for revenge and flaming anger shone through the coat of paint and were concentrated on the younger of the youths. Fred saw it and cared not, but Jack was so alarmed that he almost wished his comrade would fire his weapon and thus shut out the fruition of the horrible threat that gleamed through that look.
It lasted, however, but an instant. Much in the same manner as in the grove, when caught at a disadvantage by Jack Dudley, the Sioux walked off and was quickly lost to view.
Neither of the boys spoke for several minutes. Then Jack asked, in an awed voice:
“Did you see his face when he turned toward you just before walking away?”
“Yes; and I have seen handsomer ones.”
“You may make light of it, Fred, but I was much nearer than you, and that expression will haunt me for many a day and night to come.”
To the astonishment of the elder, Fred began laughing, as if he found it all very amusing. Jack, in surprise, asked the cause of his mirth.
“If Motoza had only known the truth! There isn’t a cartridge either in the magazine or the chamber of my rifle, which reminds me.”
And still laughing, the younger proceeded to fill the magazine from his belt and to put his Winchester in condition for immediate use.
“We have been told many times, Jack, that the first thing to do after firing a gun is to reload, and I see how much more important it is here than at home.”
When Jack came to examine his weapon he found a half-dozen cartridges remaining in the magazine, and he, too, placed the weapon in the best form for use. They changed their position, returning to the spot where the crisis had taken place with the grizzly, for both felt some misgiving concerning the Sioux, who could not be far off.
“Jack, what about the feelings of Motoza now?”
“It begins to look as if Hank was right. I am sure the Indian doesn’t hold much friendship for either of us. He is bad clean through.”
“He may have some regard for you, but there wasn’t much tender affection in the last lingering look he gave me.”
Jack shuddered.
“I never saw anything like it. If he had had the power he would have killed you with that look. I feel like urging Hank, when we next see him, to make a change of quarters.”
“Why?”
“That we may find some section where we are not likely to meet Motoza again. I don’t understand why so many Indians are off the reservation. There must be a number of them that are friends of Motoza, and they will try some other trick on us.”
“He has tried one or two already,” replied Fred, much less impressed with the danger than his friend.
“True, we have had remarkably good fortune, but it can’t last. Motoza will learn to be more cunning next time.”
“If you feel that way, Jack, the best thing for us to do is to go home.”
“Your words are hardly worthy of you, Fred,” replied Jack, hurt at the slur.
“I ask your pardon. I know it is your friendship for me that speaks, but I cannot feel the fear that disturbs you. Suppose we drop the question till we see Hank. We will let him know everything that has taken place and rely upon him.”
This was a wise conclusion, but the fact remained that there was no expectation of seeing their guide until night, which was a number of hours distant, and, since the Indians were in the vicinity, there was plenty of time for a great many things to happen. It would seem, indeed, that the advantage was almost entirely on the side of Motoza, for, with his superior woodcraft, he could keep track of the movements of the boys without their discovering or suspecting his presence. Altogether, it looked as if a meeting with their guide could not take place too soon.
From a point perhaps a mile away came the faint report of a rifle, followed in the same second by another report. The fact suggested more than one startling supposition, but the youths were in no mood to speculate thereon, for it will be admitted that the incidents of the forenoon were sufficient to engage their thoughts.
It was a hard fact, however, that when they looked at their watches and found that it was noon, the most interesting subject that presented itself was as to how they could secure the meal which they felt was overdue.
“Let’s make a hunt in a different direction,” said Fred. “It is best to keep away from the neighborhood of those Indians, so far as we can locate them from the shots we occasionally hear, for the game isn’t likely to stay where they are.”
“Off yonder to the north appears to be a valley,” remarked Jack, after the two had studied their surroundings for some minutes through their glasses. “I can’t tell how extensive it is, for it is shut out by that mountain peak on the right, but I suppose one place is as good as another.”
Having agreed as to their course, they wasted no time. It was a long and severe tramp to the locality, for again the peculiar purity of the atmosphere misled them, and what they took to be one mile proved to be fully double that length. Finally the hungry lads reached a ridge from whose top they could look down in the valley that had first caught their attention, but which for the last hour had been excluded from their sight by the intervening obstacles.
“Now, we can’t tell whether any game is below waiting for us,” said Jack, “but we can’t lose anything by acting as if there is.”
It was a wise precaution, as speedily became apparent. As carefully as a couple of Indians they picked their way up the slope, and just before reaching the crest sank upon their knees, and, crawling a little further, peeped over the top as if they expected to discover a hostile camp within a hundred yards.
The prospect caused an involuntary exclamation of pleasure from both. The valley was two or three hundred yards in width, and, after winding past, curved out of sight behind the mountain range already referred to.
It was one emerald mass of rich grass, in which ten thousand cattle could have found abundant pasturage. No trees appeared anywhere except at the furthest bend in the valley, where a small grove stood near the middle, and seemed to surround a spring of water, which, flowing in the other direction, was not within sight of the young hunters.
What lent additional beauty to this landscape was the singular uniformity of the valley. The slope was gentle on each side, without any abrupt declivities, and there was hardly any variation in its width. The dark-green color of the incline and bottom of the valley gave the whole scene a softness that would have charmed an artist.
The young men admired the picturesque prospect, the like of which they had never before viewed, and yet it must be confessed that one feature of the landscape appealed more strongly to them than all the rest. Perhaps a half-mile away six or eight antelope were cropping the grass, unconscious of the approach of danger. They were near the small clump of trees alluded to, and may have lately drank from the water flowing therefrom. They were in a bunch, all their heads down, and had evidently taken no alarm from the occasional distant reports of guns.
“I say, Jack, there’s a splendid dinner!” whispered Fred, excitedly.
“What good will it do us, so long as it is there? I should like to have it here.”
“It ought to be easy to pick off one of those creatures; Hank told us they make fine eating.”
“That is all true, but it is also true that the antelope is one of the most timid of creatures, and the best hunter finds it hard work to get within reach of them.”
“You know how curious they are? The men at the ranch told the other night about lying down in the grass in the middle of a prairie and holding up a stick with a handkerchief at the end of it. Timid as was the antelope, it would gradually draw near to find out what the thing meant, and pay for its curiosity with its life.”
Such incidents are quite common in the West, but neither of the boys felt it safe to rely upon the stratagem. They feared that at the first attempt the antelope would take fright and make off beyond recovery, and Fred Greenwood’s proposition was adopted.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 50
