CHAPTER XXI
A LOCK OF HAIR
It is no disgrace to flee the unknown, for Nature has made that aninstinct; but the will to overcome conquers even this last of fears andsteels a man's nerves to face anything. The heroes of antiquity settheir lances against dragons and creatures that belched forth flame andsmoke--brave Perseus slew the Gorgon, and Jason the brass-hooved bulls,and St. George and many another slew his "worm." But the dragons are alldead or driven to the depths of the sea, whence they rise up to chillmen's blood; and those who conquer now fight only their memory, passeddown in our fear of the unknown. And Perseus and Jason had gods andsorceresses to protect them, but Wunpost turned back alone.
He entered Tank Canyon just as the sun sank in the west; and there atits entrance he found horse-tracks, showing dimly among the rocks. Hisenemy had been there, a day or two before, but he too had feared theunknown. He had gazed into that narrow passageway and turned away, towait at Surveyor's Well for his coming. And Wunpost had come, but theeagles had saved him to give battle once more on his own ground. TankCanyon was his stronghold, inaccessible from behind, cut off from thesides by high walls; and the evil one who pursued him must now brave itsdark depths or play an Indian game and wait.
Wunpost threw off his packs and left his mules to fret while he ran backto plant the huge traps. They were not the largest size that would breaka man's leg, but yet large enough to hold their victim firm against allthe force he could exert. Their jaws spread a good foot and two powerfulsprings lurked beneath to give them a jump; and once the blow was strucknothing could pry those teeth apart but the clamps, which were operatedby screws. A man caught in such a trap would be doomed to certain deathif no one came to his aid and Wunpost's lips curled ferociously as herose up from his knees and regarded his cunning handiwork. His trapswere set not far apart, in the two holes he had dug before, and coveredwith the greatest care; but one was in the trail, where a man wouldnaturally step, and the other was out in the rocks. A bush, pulledcarelessly down, stuck out from the bank like a fragile but compellinghand; and Wunpost knew that the prowler would step around it byinstinct, which would throw him into the trap.
The night was black in Tank Canyon and only a pathway of stars showedthe edge of the boxed-in walls; it was black and very silent, for not amouse was abroad, and yet Wunpost and his dog could not sleep. A dozentimes before midnight Good Luck leapt up growling and bestrode hismaster's form, and at last he rushed out barking, his voice rising to ayell as he paused and listened through the silence. Wunpost lay in bedand waited, then rose cautiously up and peered from the mouth of thecave. A pale moon was shining on the jagged rocks above and there was agrayness that foretold the dawn, but the bottom of Tank Canyon was stilldark as a pocket and he went back to wait for the day. Good Luck cameback whining, and a growl rumbled in his throat--then he leapt up againand Wunpost felt his own hair rise, for a wail had come through thenight. He slapped Good Luck into silence and listened again--and itcame, a wild, animal-like cry. Yet it was the voice of a man and Wunpostsprang to his feet all a-tremble to gaze on his catch.
"I've got him!" he chuckled and drew on his boots; then tied up the dogand slipped out into the night.
The dawn had come when he rose up from behind a boulder and strained hiseyes in the uncertain light, and where the trap had been there was now arocking form which let out hoarse grunts of pain. It rose up suddenlyand as the head came in view Wunpost saw that his pursuer was an Indian.His hair was long and cut off straight above the shoulders in theold-time Indian silhouette; but this buck was no Shoshone, for they havegiven up the breech-clout and he wore a cloth about his hips.
"H'lo!" he hailed and Wunpost ducked back for he did not trust hisguest. He was the man, beyond a doubt, who had shot him from the ridge;and such a man would shoot again. So he dropped down and lay silent,listening to the rattle of the huge chain and the vicious clash of thetrap, and the Indian burst out scolding.
"Whassa mala!" he gritted, "my foot get caught in trap. You comefixum--fixum quick!"
Wunpost rose up slowly and peered out through a crack and he caught thegleam of a gun.
"You throw away that gun!" he returned from behind the boulder and atlast he heard it clatter among the rocks. "Now your pistol!" he ordered,but the Indian burst out angrily in his guttural native tongue. What hesaid could only be guessed from his scolding tone of voice; but after asullen pause he dropped back into English, this time complaining andinsolently defiant.
"You shut up!" commanded Wunpost suddenly rising above his rock andcovering the Indian with his gun, "and throw away that pistol or I'llkill you!"
The Indian reared up and faced him, then reached inside his waistbandand threw a wicked gun into the dirt. He was grinding his teeth withpain, like a gopher in a trap, and his brows were drawn down in a fiercescowl; but Wunpost only laughed as he advanced upon him slowly, his gunheld ready to shoot.
"Don't like it, eh?" he taunted, "well, I didn't like _this_ whenyou up and shot me through the leg."
He slapped his leg and the Indian seemed to understand--or perhaps hemisunderstood; his hand leapt like a flash to a butcher knife in hismoccasin-leg and Wunpost jumped as it went past his ribs. Then a silencefell, in which the fate of a human life hung on the remnant of what somepeople call pity, and Wunpost's trigger-finger relaxed. But it was notpity, it was just an age-old feeling against shooting a man in a trap.Or perhaps it was pride and the white man's instinct not to foul hisclean hands with butcher's blood. Wunpost wanted to kill him but hestepped back instead and looked him in the eye.
"You rattlesnake-eyed dastard!" he hissed between his teeth and theIndian began to beg. Wunpost listened to him coldly, his eyes bulgingwith rage, and then he backed off and sat down.
"Who you working for?" he asked and as the Indian turned glum he rolleda cigarette and waited. The jaws of the steel-trap had caught him by theheel, stabbing their teeth through into the flesh, and in spite of hisstoicism the Indian rocked back and forth and his little eyes glintedwith the agony. Yet he would not talk and Wunpost went off and left him,after gathering up his guns and the knife. There was something aboutthat butcher-knife and the way it was flung which roused all the evil inWunpost's heart and he meditated darkly whether to let the Indian go orgive him his just deserts. But first he intended to wring a confessionfrom him, and he left him to rattle his chain.
Wunpost cooked a hasty breakfast and fed and saddled his mules and then,as the Indian began to shout for help, he walked down and glanced at himinquiringly.
"You let me go!" ordered the Indian, drawing himself up arrogantly andshaking the coarse hair from his eyes, and Wunpost laughed disdainfully.
"Who are you?" he demanded, "and what you doing over here? I know thembuckskin _tewas_--you're an Apache!"
"_Si_--Apache!" agreed the Indian. "I come over here--hunt sheep.What for you settum trap?"
"Settum trap--ketch you," answered Wunpost succinctly. "You badInjun--maybeso I kill you. Who hired you to come over here and kill me?"
Again the sullen silence, the stubborn turn of the head, the sufferingcompression of the lips; and Wunpost went back to his camp. The Indianwas an Apache, he had known it from the start by his _tewas_ andthe cut of his hair; for no Indian in California wears high-toppedbuckskin moccasins with a little canoe-prow on the toe. That was amountain-Apache device, that little disc of rawhide, to protect thewearer's toes from rocks and cactus, and someone had imported this buck.Of course, it was Lynch but it was different to make him _say_so--but Wunpost knew how an Apache would go about it. He would light alittle fire under his fellow-man and see if that wouldn't help. Howeverthere are ways which answer just as well, and Wunpost packed and mountedand rode down past the trap. Or at least he tried to, but his mules wereso frightened that it took all his strength to haze them past. As forGood Luck, he flew at the Indian in a fury of barking and was nearlystruck dead by a rock. The Apache was fighting mad, until Wunpost cameback and tamed him; and then Wunpost spoke straight
out.
"Here, you!" he said, "you savvy coyote? You want him come eat you up?Well, _talk_ then, you dastard; or I'll go off and leave you. Comethrough now--who brought you over here?"
The Apache looked up at him from under his banged hair and his evil eyesroved fearfully about.
"Big fat man," he lied and Wunpost smiled grimly--he would tell thislater to Eells.
"Nope," he said and shook his head warningly at which the Indian seemedto meditate his plight.
"Big tall man," he amended and Wunpost nodded.
"Sure," he said. "What name you callum?"
"Callum Lynchie," admitted the Apache with a sickly grin, "she come SanCarlos--busca scout."
"Oh, _busca_ scout, eh?" repeated Wunpost. "What for wantum scout?Plenty Shooshonnie scout, over here."
"Hah! Shooshonnie no good!" spat the Apache contemptuously. "Me_scout_--me work for Government! Injun scout--you savvy? Followtracks for soldier. Me Manuel Apache--big chief!"
"Yes, big chief!" scoffed Wunpost, "but you ain't no scout, Manuel, oryou wouldn't be caught here in this trap. Now listen, Mr. Injun--youwant to go home? You want to go see your squaw? Well, s'pose I let youloose, what you think you're going to do--follow me up and shoot me forLynch?"
"No! No shootum for Lynchie!" denied the Apache vigorously."Lynchie--she say, _busca_ mine! _Busca_ gol' mine, savvy--but'nother man she say, you ketchum plenty money--in pants."
"O-ho!" exclaimed Wunpost as the idea suddenly dawned on him and oncemore he experienced a twinge of regret. This time it was for theoccasion when he had shown scornful Blackwater that seven thousanddollars in bills. And he had with him now--in his pants, as the Indiansaid--no less than thirty thousand dollars in one roll. And all becausehe had lost his faith in banks.
"You shoot me--get money?" he inquired, slapping his leg; and ManuelApache grinned guiltily. He was caught now, and ashamed, but not ofattempting murder--he was ashamed of having been caught.
"Trap hurt!" he complained, drawing up his wrinkled face and rattlinghis chain impatiently, and Wunpost nodded gravely.
"All right," he said, "I'll turn you loose. A man that will flash hisroll like I did in Blackwater--he _deserves_ to get shot in theleg."
He took his rope from the saddle and noosed the Indian about both arms,after which he stretched him out as he would a fighting wildcat andloosened the springs with his clamps.
"What you do?" he inquired, "if I let you go?"
"Go home!" snarled Manuel, "Lynchie no good--me no likum. Me yourfriend--no shootum--go home!"
"Well, you'd better," warned Wunpost, "because next time I'll kill you.Oh, by grab, I nearly forgot!"
He whipped out the butcher-knife which the Apache had flung at him andcropped off a lock of his hair. It was something he had promisedWilhelmina.
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