The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  “Yes; and there was one—‘Shh! 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

  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

  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: