The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  “There doesn’t seem to be any wind blowing, but if we try to steal down the side of the valley we are sure to frighten them off. Now, if you will stay here, Jack, I’ll pick my way round to the other side, so that the herd will be between us. Then I’ll do my best to get near enough for a shot; if I fail, they will run for this point and come within range of you. Between us two, one is certain to get a shot at them.”

  “It’s putting a big lot of work on you, Fred,” said the chivalrous Jack.

  “It won’t be half as hard to bear as the hunger I’ll feel in the course of an hour or two if we don’t get one of them.”

  The plan was so simple that no explanation was necessary. Jack Dudley had only to remain extended on the ground where he was, with his Winchester ready, and keep an eye on the little herd, which could not observe him unless he was unusually careless. He could easily judge of Fred’s success or failure by watching the animals, and it would seem that success was almost certain for one of the young hunters. The only thing to be feared was that Fred would betray himself before reaching the other side of the game that was so tempting to both.

  The comrades looked at their watches at the moment of separating, and found it was precisely one o’clock. Fred gave himself an hour to reach a point from which to start on his return, though it was possible that double that time would be required. Before the interval had expired Jack had his glass to his eyes, and was studying the valley below.

  As the antelope cropped the rich grass they occasionally took a step in the direction of the watcher; but the largest one, evidently the leader, changed his course so as to work back toward the little grove of trees, the others following. Now and then the leader raised his head and looked around, as if suspecting danger, though his fears were not confirmed. At longer intervals other members of the herd did the same, but it was evident that they neither saw nor scented anything amiss.

  Jack’s constant fear was that Fred would betray himself through some accident. His course would bring him nearer the game and the risk was considerable; but as the minutes passed without anything of that nature taking place, his hope increased.

  “More than likely Fred himself will get the shot instead of me. It makes no difference, so that we don’t lose our supper; for,” he added, dismally, “the dinner is already gone.”

  When another half-hour had passed, he was sure his chum was on the other side of the herd.

  “There must be a break pretty soon. Suppose that instead of coming toward me,” added Jack, giving expression to a dread that had not occurred to him until then, “they dash off into the mountains on either side. Then we shall be doomed to starvation!”

  He thought that with the aid of his glass he would be able to follow Fred as he stole down the side of the valley, since the position of the spectator was much more elevated than that of the antelope. It would require sharp scrutiny even with the aid of the instrument to do this, and, look as keenly as he might, he could discover nothing that suggested anything of that nature.

  When three o’clock went by without any evidence of alarm among the animals browsing in the middle of the valley, Jack Dudley began to wonder what it could mean.

  “Fred was sure that a single hour was enough to place himself on the further side of them, and double that time has passed. He ought to be well down the slope, but I can see nothing of him.”

  One fact, however, was apparent: the antelope were steadily though slowly working toward the ridge on which the young man lay. At the rate they were advancing it would not be long before it would be safe to try a shot.

  This progress could not be laid to any alarm coming from the other side. If the animals received fright they would be off with the speed of the wind, instead of inching along in the fashion they were now following.

  “It begins to look as if I am to secure the meal, after all,” thought Jack, forgetting his slight uneasiness for his friend in his growing excitement.

  The following minute gave proof of the timidity of the American antelope. With all the care possible, the youth extended his gun in front of him over the slope, but the herd took the alarm on the instant, though it seemed impossible that they should have seen or heard anything. The leader raised his head, and whirling to one side, started at a swift gallop toward the other end of the valley, the rest of the animals being hardly a second behind him.

  The peculiar panic and stampede of the creatures gave Jack Dudley the best possible target, though the shot was a long one. He did not aim at the leader, but at a smaller animal that immediately followed him. The bullet pierced the heart of the antelope, which made a frenzied leap high in air, staggered a few paces, and dropped to the ground without a particle of life.

  “Hurrah!” exclaimed the delighted Jack, springing up and dashing down the side of the valley toward his prize; “I beat you, after all, Fred!”

  Not doubting that his comrade would speedily appear, Jack gave no further thought to him, but continued running until he reached the prize. He had learned the art so rapidly that it took but a few minutes to cut all he could need for himself and friend. Then he hurried to the little grove near by, washed and dressed the food, which seemed to be juicy and tender, and started a fire for the purpose of broiling it.

  He had not paused in his work up to this point, but now he stopped with the first real thrill of alarm for his friend.

  “Four o’clock!” he exclaimed to himself; “what can have become of him?”

  He walked to the edge of the trees and looked out, anxiously peering in different directions, but nothing was seen of his friend. Knowing Fred’s waggish nature, Jack hoped that he was indulging in some jest, but he could not quite convince himself that such was the fact. The hunger of Fred would have prevented his postponing the meal one moment longer than was necessary.

  When an abundance of food was browned and crisped and ready the appetite of Jack Dudley was less than it was two hours before, the cause being his growing alarm over the unaccountable absence of Fred.

  “I can’t understand it,” he repeated for the twentieth time; “some accident must have befallen him. Can it be Motoza has had anything to do with it?”

  It was the first time that Jack had expressed this fear in words, but it was by no means the first time he had felt it. Rather curiously, from the moment his friend passed out of sight, several hours before, the vague misgiving began to shape itself in his mind. He fought it off and succeeded in repressing it for a time, but he could do so no longer.

  “Fred didn’t seem to give any meaning to that awful look of the Sioux when he started to walk away, but I saw what it meant, though I never dreamed the blow would fall so soon.”

  His heart was depressed almost beyond bearing, and the anguish was deepened by the fact that he could see no way of helping his friend. The only thing possible was to follow as nearly as he could the course taken by Fred, but there was no certainty of that. He knew he had turned to the right when he left the crest of the ridge, after which there had been no glimpse of him.

  “But he made for a point over yonder,” reflected Jack, “and there I’ll search for him.”

  This was exceedingly indefinite, but it was better than standing idle. The antelope had long since vanished, and there was no need of care in his progress—rather otherwise, since he desired to attract the notice of his friend. Jack broke into a loping trot, emitting the familiar signal so often used by both, calling his name, and even firing his rifle in air; but there came back no response, and his fears deepened.

  Jack was in the mood to be unjust.

  “I don’t understand Hank Hazletine’s action. He sets out to take us on a hunt among the mountains, and then goes off and leaves us alone. Why doesn’t he stay with us? If he had done that, this never could have happened. Fred and I can generally take care of ourselves, but we are not used to this plagued country, which I wish neither he nor I had ever set foot in.”

  CHAPTER XIV.

  MISSING.

  The mi
nute quickly arrived when Jack Dudley could no longer doubt that a great misfortune had befallen his comrade, Fred Greenwood.

  In the anguish of anxiety Jack’s imagination pictured many mishaps that might account for the disappearance. He must have heard the report of the elder’s Winchester, and, since Fred’s attention was centred upon the herd of antelope, he could not fail to know that his friend had secured one of them for their evening meal. The only thing to prevent his hastening to join Jack must have been his inability to do so. There was the remote possibility that his accident had been of a nature that involved no one else—such, for instance, as sudden illness, though Jack had never known anything like that to overtake his friend.

  All that the youth could do was to attempt to follow the route that Fred had taken when he set out to place himself on the other side of the game. It was guesswork to trace his footsteps, but the elder youth made the effort. When he had progressed half the distance, however, he paused, convinced that his labor was utterly useless. He called to Fred, repeated their familiar signals and fired several charges in air, with no more response than at first.

  “He has been either killed or carried off by a party of Indians,” was the conclusion that forced itself upon him.

  And with this conviction came the certainty that it was out of the power of Jack Dudley to do anything for his friend. He might tramp back and forth for nights and days, but with no success, for Fred Greenwood was gone—whither?

  Had Jack been skilled in woodcraft, possibly he might have discovered some signs along the valley that would have enlightened him, but he was untrained in the ways of red men and was not equal to the task. A dog that knew how to track a person would have been of immeasurable value, but such a canine was not to be had.

  One memory clung tormentingly to the searcher. It was the demoniac face of Motoza, the Sioux, when Fred Greenwood compelled him to return the Winchester of Jack. There could be but one interpretation of that expression, and it boded the worst for the missing youth.

  “Motoza feels no affection for me, but his hatred of Fred is so intense that he is bent on revenging himself; yet I did not think he would strike so soon.”

  The afternoon was drawing to a close, and Jack was fully two miles from camp. If he wished to reach their rendezvous before night he had no time to waste. The problem was now in the shape that Hank Hazletine’s help was indispensable. If anyone could assist Fred Greenwood, the guide was the man.

  “He promised to meet us this evening, and if I wait I shall lose my way.”

  Accordingly the lad faced in the direction of the plateau and pressed forward with energy. In his haste he kept the former landmarks in view, and his previous experience had given him a certain familiarity with the region which prevented his going astray. Once more he leaped the canyon, without pausing longer than to glance into its depths as he swung over it. He saw nothing of the bulky carcass of the grizzly bear that had fallen a victim to the marksmanship of himself and friend, and just as night was shutting in he reached the edge of the small plateau where the ponies were contentedly grazing.

  In one respect better fortune than he anticipated awaited him. Instead of being compelled to pass the intolerable hours in waiting for the coming of the guide, he saw he had already reached the spot. A fire was burning at the mouth of the cavern, and the sinewy figure of the veteran was observed as he moved to and fro before it. Detecting the approach of Jack, he stood erect and silently watched him as he drew near.

  A person as agitated as Jack Dudley finds it hard to conceal his feelings. Something in the action and the expression of his white face as he came near enough to be seen distinctly gave the hunter the knowledge that matters had gone amiss with the boy. True to his word, Hank had brought no food back to camp. He had eaten his evening meal before going thither, leaving his young friends to provide for their own wants.

  “Where’s the younker?” was his question, before Jack halted.

  “O Hank! I do not know what has happened; I fear we shall never see Fred again!”

  And, unable to restrain his grief that had been pent up so long, Jack broke down and sobbed like a child. The veteran showed a delicacy that would hardly have been expected from him. He knew it would do Jack good to yield to his sorrow for a brief while, for he would soon become cooler and more self-possessed. Accordingly the hunter remained silent until the youth mastered his emotions, when he laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder and said:

  “Now, set down here beside me and let me know all about it.”

  Jack appreciated his consideration, and taking the seat to which he was invited, he told, in a choking voice, the story of the incident beside the little valley, when Fred Greenwood, in high spirits, walked away and vanished as if the earth had opened and swallowed him. Jack did not break down again, for he was resolved to be manly and brave. He would not think of his young friend as wholly lost, nor allow himself to consider the awful possibility of returning home with the message that Fred would never be seen again. Jack felt it was time for action, not for lamentation.

  Hazletine was grave and thoughtful, but the youth had hardly finished his narrative when he said:

  “You haven’t told me all.”

  “I do not think of anything I have omitted.”

  “Your story begins with the first sight of the antelope; what happened afore that?”

  “A good deal; I did not think you would care to hear it.”

  “I want every word.”

  So it was that Jack began with their departure in the morning from camp, and made clear every occurrence down to the start for the valley where the great misfortune overtook them. He realized, while describing the meeting with Motoza, the important bearing that it had upon the disappearance of Fred Greenwood.

  When the story was completed the guide emitted a low whistle, followed by an exclamation of so vigorous a character that it startled Jack. Hank sprang excitedly to his feet and strode back and forth until able to control his feelings. Then with a voice and expression of scornful contempt, he asked:

  “What do you think of Motoza’s love for you and Fred?”

  “I admit that you were right and we were wrong about him; I feared for Fred, not for myself, and you see he has not tried to harm me.”

  “That ain’t ’cause he loves you like the brother he calls hisself, but ’cause he hates Fred more’n he does you. If he hadn’t had such a good chance to grab the other younker, he would have grabbed you.”

  “Then you have no doubt that Motoza is the cause of it all?”

  “No more doubt than that you’re a setting on that stone there.”

  “I can’t understand it; Fred is not the one to let a single Indian make him prisoner, when one is as well armed as the other.”

  “Who said there was only one of the imps?”

  The abrupt question meant a good deal. It had already been proven that a number of other Indians were in the vicinity; but Jack had not thought of associating them with the vagrant Sioux in his hostility to the young hunters, although there was scarcely a doubt that Motoza had had one helper or more in his designs against Fred Greenwood. This put a new face on the matter, and Hazletine discussed the question more freely.

  “There must be a half-dozen varmints or so in the mountains; they’ve sneaked off the reservation and are hunting here without permission from the folks that have ’em in charge. It ain’t likely they started out with any other idee than to have a little frolic of their own, meaning to go back when they was through; but, as I remarked afore, when an Injin sees a good chance to raise the mischief with just as good a chance of not being found out, he’s pretty sartin to do it. Wal, things took such a queer shape when you younkers and Motoza seen each other that all the ugliness in him has come out, and that’s what’s urging him now.”

  “It seems to me, Hank, that if he meant to punish Fred for humiliating him, the method was simple.”

  “How?”

  “By shooting him from ambush; he cou
ld do it without being seen, and I can think of no way by which the guilt could be brought home to him.”

  “You’re off there. Motoza knows that you and me are in these parts, and that we’re the friends of the younker; what had took place afore, with what I’d swear to, would hang Motoza, and he knows it.”

  This declaration was not quite clear to Jack, but it sounded as if the guide was willing to so modify his testimony in court as to insure the conviction of the Sioux in case he followed the plan named by the youth.

  The veteran would have considered it right, under the circumstances, to do such a thing.

  “Since the fear of our testimony restrained him, why did he not seek to remove us in the same manner, when he has had more than one opportunity?”

  “And there you’re off again. Motoza wouldn’t have had any trouble in wiping out two young tenderfeet like you, but he’d likely run agin a snag when he tried it on me!”

  The hunter shut his lips and shook his head with eloquent earnestness.

  “S’pose he’d done such a thing,” he added, angrily; “don’t you see that when the Government larned, as it would be sure to larn, that three persons had been killed near the reservation by some of the Injins, there would be the biggest kind of excitement? It would put its best officers at work, and never let up till everything was brought to light. You see that, Motoza not being the only Injin in these parts when the thing was done, the officers would have some of the other varmints to work on, and they’d got the whole story from ’em, which would mean the hanging of the Sioux.”

  Jack saw the force of his friend’s words. Even in this wild region, where one would naturally suppose he was beyond reach of the law, the man who committed a grave crime faced a serious risk. Certainly there was much less danger in “removing” one person than three.

  “As it is, Motoza has placed himself in a bad position, but it would have been tenfold worse had he shot you and me.”

  Hank nodded his head, but qualified his assent: