The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  For the twentieth time he stood up and listened. The soft, musical murmur of the Rio Pecos was heard, as it flowed by on his right, and now and then the gentlest possible breath of night-wind disturbed the branches overhead; but nothing else caught his notice. To prevent the feeling of utter loneliness from gaining possession of him, Fred occasionally emitted a low, soft, tremulous whistle, which was instantly responded to from the direction of Mickey. It was the old familiar signal which they had used many a time when off on their little hunting expeditions, and either, hearing it, could not mistake its source. But this grew wearisome at last, and he leaned back against a tree, looking out upon the moonlit valley beyond, where nothing as yet had caught his eye that looked in the least suspicious, and where everything still appeared as silent as a graveyard.

  “I don’t believe there are any Indians within fifty miles,” he muttered, impatiently; “and yet we must have three or four men on the look-out till morning. Well, I s’pose it’s the only safe thing to do, and I’m bound to stick it out till one o’clock. It must be near midnight now, and if Mickey should come around here, an hour from now, and find me asleep, I never would hear the last of it.”

  He felt very much like sitting down upon the ground, but he knew if he did that he would be sure to fall asleep, while, as long as he kept his feet, he was sure to retain his senses. When disposed to become too drowsy, a sudden giving away at the knees recalled him so vigorously, that it was a considerable time before the drowsiness crept over him again.

  Thus the night advanced, until all at once, Fred aroused himself as if a sharp pin had been thrust in him.

  “By George! I heard something then!” he exclaimed, in an excited undertone, looking sharply about him; “but I don’t know where it came from.”

  His impression was that it came from some point directly before him out on the open space; but the most rigid scrutiny failed to reveal the cause. There was the level stretch of grass, unbroken by stone or shrub, but nothing that could be tortured into the remotest resemblance to a human figure.

  “It can’t be there,” he muttered; “or if it was, it do n’t amount—”

  His senses were aroused to the highest pitch, and he was all attention.

  Just as the thoughts were running through his head, he caught the slightest possible rustle from some point behind him. He turned his head like lightning, and looked and listened. He could dimly discern the open moonlit space to which reference has already been made; but the intervening trees and undergrowth prevented anything like a satisfactory view.

  “There’s where it seemed to come from,” he said, to himself; “and yet I do n’t see how an Indian could have got there without our finding it out. Maybe it was n’t anything, after all.”

  He waited and listened awhile longer, but no more. Anxious to learn what it all meant, he began a cautious movement toward the open space, for the purpose of finding out.

  CHAPTER IV

  Facing Lone Wolf

  Fred’s few weeks spent in crossing the plains on his way to the valley of the Rio Pecos had taught him much of the ways of the Indians, and he knew that if any of the scamps were in his immediate neighborhood, it would be almost impossible for him to stir from his position by the tree without betraying himself. The lad half suspected that the sound was made by some wild animal that was stealing through the wood, or what was more likely, that it was no more than a falling leaf; but, whatever it was, he was determined to learn if the thing were among the possibilities.

  A veteran Comanche, himself, could not have picked his way through the undergrowth any better than did he; and, when at last he stood upon the edge of the open space and looked around, he was morally certain that no other creature was aware of his movement. Nor was he aware of the action of the other party, if there was really such a one, which had been the means of bringing him thither. If some wild animal or wild Indian were lurking in the vicinity, he knew how to remain invisible.

  “I’ll stay here a little while—”

  Fred at that moment was looking at the cottonwood tree, which, it will be remembered, had been felled directly across the opening, when, to his speechless terror, the figure of an Indian warrior suddenly rose upright from behind it, and stood as motionless as a statue. His action indicated that he was not aware that any one was standing so near him. He had probably crept up to the log behind which he crouched, until, believing he was not in danger of being seen, he arose to his feet and assumed the attitude of one who was using his eyes and ears to their utmost extent.

  He was of ordinary stature, without any blanket, his long, black hair hanging loosely down upon his shoulders, his scarred and ugly countenance daubed and smeared with different colored paint, his chest bare, and ornamented in the same fashion, a knife at his girdle, and a long, formidable rifle in his hand—such were the noticeable characteristics, to a superficial observer, of Lone Wolf, the Apache chief—for the Indian confronting Fred Munson was really he, and no one else.

  The lad suspected the identity of the red-skin, although, having never seen him, it amounted only to a suspicion. No matter who he was, however, he was prepared for him.

  The Apache showed his usual cunning. He was evidently attempting to steal upon the sentinels, and, having risen to his feet, he remained motionless and upright, listening for any sign that might betray any motion of the individuals whom he was seeking to slay, as does the assassin at night.

  “He must have been after me, for he is right behind where I stood,” thought the boy, as he grasped his rifle more firmly than ever, resolved to fire upon the wretch the moment he attempted to advance.

  Lone Wolf stood but a minute in the position described, when, seemingly, he was satisfied that the way was clear, and, throwing one moccasin on the trunk, he climbed over as silently as a shadow, and stood again holt upright upon the other side. This brought the Indian and boy within ten feet of each other, and still the advantage was all upon the side of the latter, who stood in such deep shadow that he was not only invisible, but his presence was unsuspected.

  The Indian was not gazing in the direction of the lad, but seemed to turn his attention more to the left, toward the spot where Mickey O’Rooney, the Irishman, was stationed. In ignoring the proximity of a boy, it cannot be said that he acted unreasonably.

  Lone Wolf remained like a carven statue for a few seconds longer, and then began a cautious movement forward. In the moonlight, Fred could observe the motion of the foot, and the gradual advance of the body. He felt that it would not do to defer any longer his intention of obstructing him. If permitted to go on in this manner, he might kill Mickey O’Rooney, and bring down a whole host of red-skins upon the sleeping settlers, cutting them off to a man.

  Fred had his rifle to his shoulder, and pointed toward the Indian. Suddenly stepping forward, he placed himself in the moonlight, and, with the muzzle of his piece almost at the breast of the chief, he said:

  “Another step forward, and I’ll bore you through!”

  The lad did not stop to consider whether it was likely that the Indian understood the English tongue; but, as it happened, Lone Wolf could use it almost as if to the manner born; and it would have required no profound linguistic knowledge upon the part of anyone to have comprehended the meaning of the young hero. It was one of those situations in which gesture told the meaning more plainly than mere words could have done. But if ever there was an astonished aborigine, Lone Wolf was the same.

  It was not often that such a wily warrior as he was caught napping, but he was completely outwitted on the present occasion. When he saw the muzzle of the rifle pointed straight at his breast, he knew what it meant, even though the weapon was in the hands of a boy. It meant that any attempt on his part to raise his gun or draw his tomahawk or knife, would be met by the discharge of the threatening weapon, and his own passage from time into eternity. So he stared at the lad a moment, and then demanded in good English:

  “What does my brother want?”


  “I want you to leave, just as quickly as you know how, and never show yourself here again.”

  “Lone Wolf’s wigwam is many miles away,” supplied the Indian, pointing northward, “and he is on his way there now.”

  Fred started a little at this terrible chieftain’s name; but he held his gun pointed steadily towards him, determined to fire the instant he attempted the least hostile movement, for his own salvation depended upon such a prompt check-mating of his enemy.

  An Indian is always ready to make the best of his situation, and Lone Wolf saw that he was fairly caught. Still, he acted cautiously, in the hope of throwing the young hero off his guard, so as to permit him to crush him as suddenly as if by a panther’s spring.

  “If your wigwam is there, it is time you were home,” said Fred. “We are on the lookout for such customers as you, and if any of the others see you they won’t let you off so easy as I do. So the best thing is for you to leave.”

  Lone Wolf made no direct reply to this, except to take a step toward the side of the lad, as if it were involuntary, and intended to further the convenience of conversation; but Fred suspected his purpose, and warned him back.

  “Lone Wolf, if you want to carry your life away with you, you will go at once. I do n’t want to shoot you, but if you come any nearer or wait any longer, I’ll fire. I’m tired of holding this gun, and it may go off itself.”

  The Apache chief made no answer, but, with his eyes fixed upon the lad, took a step backward, as an earnest of his intention of obeying. Reaching the log, he hastily clambered over it and speedily vanished like a phantom in the gloom of the wood beyond, leaving the boy master of the field.

  CHAPTER V

  The Apaches Are Coming

  As soon as Lone Wolf was out of sight, young Munson stepped back in the shadow of the wood, and quickly placed himself behind the trunk of a large tree. He had learned the nature of the Indian race too well for him to give this precious specimen any chance to circumvent him. Had he remained standing in the moonlight opening, after the Apache entered the wood, the latter could not have had a better opportunity to pick him off without danger to himself. Had he meditated any such purpose, when he wheeled to fire the shot there would have been no target visible.

  The strained ear of the lad could not detect the slightest rustling that might betray the where-abouts of the dreaded chief, and Fred knew better than to expect any such advantage as that which just permitted to pass through his hands. But what would Lone Wolf do? This was the all-important question. Would he sneak off through the wood and out of the valley, and would he be seen and heard no more that night? or would he return to revenge himself for the injury to his pride? Was he alone in the grove, or were there a half dozen brother-demons sulking among the undergrowth, like so many rattlesnakes, except that they did not give any warning before striking their blow? Had any of them visited Mickey or Thompson, and was a general attack about to be made upon the settlement? Such questions as these surged through the mind of Fred, as he stood leaning against the tree, rifle in hand, listening, looking, and thinking.

  Suddenly he gave utterance to a low whistle, which he was accustomed to use as a signal in communicating with Mickey. It was almost instantly answered, in a way which indicated that the Irishman was approaching. A minute later the two were together. The lad hastily related his stirring adventure with the great Apache war-chief, and, as may be imagined, Mickey was dumfounded.

  “It’s meself that has n’t seen or heard the least sign of one of the spalpeens since the set of sun, and they’ve been about us all the time.”

  “How was it they got here without being seen?”

  “There be plenty ways of doing the same. They’ve found out that we were watching this pint, and so they slipped round and came the other way.”

  “Do you think they will attack us tonight?”

  “I’m thinkin’ they’re only making observations, as me uncle obsarved, when he was cotched in the house of Larry O’Mulligan, and they’ll be down on us some time, when everything is ready.”

  “It seems to me it is a poor time to make observations—in the night.”

  “The red-skin is like an owl,” replied Mickey. “He can see much better at night than he can by day; but there’s Thompson; let us see whether some of the spalpeens haven’t made a call upon him in the darkness. Be aisy now, in stepping over the leaves, for an Injin hears with his fingers and toes as well as his ears.”

  The Hibernian led the way, each advancing with all the caution at his command, and using such stealth and deliberation in their movements that some ten or fifteen minutes were consumed in passing over the intervening space. At last, however, the spot was reached where they had bidden good-bye to their friend, earlier in the evening.

  “Here’s about the place,” said Mickey, looking about him; “but I does n’t observe the gintleman, by the token of which he must have strayed away. Hilloa!”

  He repeated the call in a low, cautious voice, but still loud enough to be heard a dozen yards or more from where he stood; but no response came, and, although neither of the two gave any expression to it, yet they were sensible of a growing fear that this absence or silence of their friend had a most serious meaning.

  “Yonder he is now,” suddenly exclaimed Fred. “He’s a great sentinel, too, for he’s sound asleep.”

  The stalwart figure of Thompson was seen seated upon the ground, with his back against a tree, and his chin on his breast, like one sunk in a deep slumber. The sentinel had seated himself on the edge of the grove, where all the trees and undergrowth were behind, and the open space in front of him. At the time of doing so, no doubt his figure was enveloped in the shadow, but since then the moon had climbed so high in the sky that its rays fell upon his entire person, and the instant the two chanced to glance in that direction, they saw him with startling distinctness.

  “Begorrah! if that does n’t bate the mischief!” exclaimed Mickey, impatiently, as he looked at his unconscious friend. “I thought he was the gintleman that had traveled, and knew all about these copper-colored spalpeens. S’pose we’ all done the same, Lone Wolf and his Apaches would have had all our skulp-locks hanging at their goordles by this time. I say, Thompson, ain’t you ashamed of yourself to be wastin’ your time in this fashion?”

  As he spoke, he stooped down, and seizing the arm of the man, shook it quite hard several times, but without waking him.

  “Begorrah, but he acts as if he had n’t a week of sleep since he had emigrated to the West. I say, Thompson, me ould boy, can’t ye arouse up and bid us good night?”

  While Mickey was speaking in this jocose manner, he had again seized the man, but this time by the shoulder. At the first shake the head of the man fell forward, as if he were a wooden image knocked out of poise.

  The singularity of the move struck Mickey, who abruptly ceased his jests, raised the drooping head, and stooped down and peered into it. One quick, searching glance told the terrible truth.

  “Be the howly powers, but he’s dead!” gasped the horrified Irishman, starting back, and then stooping still lower, and hurriedly examining him.

  “What killed him?” asked the terrified Fred, gazing upon the limp figure.

  “Lone Wolf, the haythen blackguard. See here,” added Mickey, in a stern voice, as he wheeled about and faced his young friend, “you told me you had your gun pinted at that spalpeen; now it’s meself that wants to know why in blazes you did n’t pull the trigger?”

  “He hadn’t hurt me, Mickey, and I did n’t know that he had been doing anything of this kind. Would you have shot him, in my place?”

  The Irishman shook his head. It looked too cowardly to send a man, even though he were an Indian, out of the world without an instant’s warning.

  “Well, Thompson is done for, that’s dead sure, and we’ll have to give him a dacent burial. Whisht, there! did ye not hear somethin’?”

  Footsteps were heard very distinctly upon the leaves, and the two shran
k back in the shadow of the wood and awaited their approach, for they were evidently coming that way. Something in the manner of walking betrayed their identity, and Mickey spoke. The prompt answer showed that they were the two men whose duty it was to relieve Thompson and the Irishman. They came forward at once, and when they learned the truth, were, as a matter of course, terribly shocked. They reported that the sentinels nearer the settlement had detected moving figures during the night skulking about the wood and valley, and the sound of horses’ hoofs left no doubt that they were Indians who had gone.

  The death of Thompson, of course, was a terrible shock to the new arrivals, but it was one of the incidents of border life, and was accepted as such. The two took their stations unflinchingly, and Mickey and Fred returned to the settlement, the body of the dead sentry being allowed to lie where it was, under guard, until morning.

  On the morrow the body was given decent burial, and the building of the houses was pressed with all possible activity, and scouts or sentinels were stationed on all the prominent lookouts.

  Barnwell was confident that if no interruption came about within the next two or three days, he could put the defenses in such shape that they could resist the attack of any body of Indians; but an assault on that day or the next would be a most serious affair, the issue of which was extremely doubtful; hence the necessity of pressing everything forward with the utmost dispatch. Fred rendered what assistance he could, but that did not amount to much, and, as he possessed the best eyesight, he took upon himself the duty of sentinel, taking his position near the river, where he remained for something over an hour.

  Nothing of an alarming character was seen, and, thinking his standpoint was too depressed to give him the range of observation, he concluded to climb one of the trees. This was quickly done, and when he found himself in one of the topmost branches he was gratified with the result.