by Charles King
CHAPTER XXIII
AN APACHE QUEEN
In the slant of the evening sunshine a young girl, an Indian, wascrouching among the bare rocks at the edge of a steep and ruggeddescent. One tawny little hand, shapely in spite of scratches, wasuplifted to her brows, shading her keen and restless eyes against theglare. In the other hand, the right, she held a little, circularpocket-mirror, cased in brass, and held it well down in the shade.Only the tangle of her thick, black hair and the top of her head couldbe seen from the westward side. Her slim young body was clothed in adark-blue, well-made garment, half sack, half skirt, with long, loosetrousers of the same material. There was fanciful embroidery of beadand thread about the throat. There was something un-Indian about thecut and fashion of the garments that suggested civilized and femininesupervision. The very way she wore her hair, parted and rolling back,instead of tumbling in thick, barbaric "bang" into her eyes, spoke ofother than savage teaching; and the dainty make of her moccasins; thesoft, pliant folds of the leggins that fell, Apache fashion, about herankles, all told, with their beadwork and finish, that this was nounsought girl of the tribespeople. Even the sudden gesture with which,never looking back, she cautioned some follower to keep down, spokesignificantly of rank and authority. It was a chief's daughter thatknelt peering intently over the ledge of rocks toward the blackshadows of the opposite slope. It was Natzie, child of a warriorleader revered among his people, though no longer spared to guidethem--Natzie, who eagerly, anxiously searched the length of the darkgorge for sign or signal, and warned her companion to come no further.
Over the gloomy depths, a mile away about a jutting point, three orfour buzzards were slowly circling, disturbed, yet determined. Overthe broad valley that extended for miles toward the westward range ofheights, the mantle of twilight was slowly creeping, as in hisexpressive sign language the Indian spreads his extended hands, palmsdown, drawing and smoothing imaginary blanket, the robe of night, overthe face of nature. Far to the northward, from some point along theface of the heights, a fringe of smoke was drifting in the soft breezesweeping down the valley from the farther Sierras. Wild, untrodden,undesired of man, the wilderness lay outspread--miles and miles ofgloom and desolation, save where some lofty scarp of glistening rock,jutting from among the scattered growth of dark-hued pine and cedar,caught the brilliant rays of the declining sun.
Behind the spot where Natzie knelt, the general slope was broken by anarrow ledge or platform, bowlder-strewn--from which, almostvertically, rose the rocky scarp again. Among the sturdy, stunted firtrees, bearding the rugged face, frowned a deep fissure, dark as awolf den, and, just in front of it, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, crouchedLola--Natzie's shadow. Rarely in reservation days, until after Blakelycame as agent, were they ever seen apart, and now, in these days ofexile and alarm, they were not divided. Under a spreading cedar, closeto the opening, a tiny fire glowed in a crevice of the rocks, sendingforth no betraying smoke. About it were some rude utensils, a pot ortwo, a skillet, an earthen _olla_, big enough to hold perhaps threegallons, two bowls of woven grass, close plaited, almost, as thefamous fiber of Panama. In one of these was heaped a store of_pinons_, in the other a handful or two of wild plums. Sign ofcivilization, except a battered tin teapot, there was none, yetpresently was there heard a sound that told of Anglo-Saxonpresence--the soft voice of a girl in low-toned, sweet-wordedsong--song so murmurous it might have been inaudible save in theintense stillness of that almost breathless evening--song so low thatthe Indian girl, intent in her watch at the edge of the cliff, seemednot to hear at all. It was Lola who heard and turned impatiently, ablack frown in her snapping eyes, and a lithe young Indian lad,hitherto unseen, dropped noiselessly from a perch somewhere above themand, filling a gourd at the _olla_, bent and disappeared in the narrowcrevice back of the curtain of firs. The low song ceased gradually,softly, as a mother ceases her crooning lullaby, lest the very lack ofthe love-notes stir the drowsing baby brain to sudden waking.
With the last words barely whispered the low voice died away. TheIndian lad came forth into the light again, empty-handed; plucked atLola's gown, pointed to Natzie, for the moment forgotten, now urgentlybeckoning. Bending low, they ran to her. She was pointing across thedeep gorge that opened a way to the southward. Something far downtoward its yawning mouth had caught her eager eye, and grasping thearm of the lad with fingers that twitched and burned, she whispered inthe Apache tongue:
"They're coming."
One long look the boy gave in the direction pointed, then, backingaway from the edge, he quickly swept away a Navajo blanket that hungfrom the protruding branches of a low cedar, letting the broad lightinto the cavelike space beyond. There, on a hard couch of rock, skin,and blanket, lay a fevered form in rough scouting dress. There, withpinched cheeks, and eyes that heavily opened, dull and suffused, laythe soldier officer who had ridden forth to rescue and to save,himself now a crippled and helpless captive. Beside him, wringing outa wet handkerchief and spreading it on the burning forehead, kneltAngela. The girls who faced each other for the first time at thepool--the daughter of the Scotch-American captain--the daughter of theApache Mohave chief--were again brought into strange companionshipover the unconscious form of the soldier Blakely.
"THEN SLOWLY THEY SAW HER RAISE HER RIGHT HAND, STILLCAUTIOUSLY HOLDING THE LITTLE MIRROR"]
Resentful of the sudden glare that caused her patient to shrink andtoss complainingly, Angela glanced up almost in rebuke, but wasstilled by the look and attitude of the young savage. He stood withforefinger on his closed lips, bending excitedly toward her. He wascautioning her to make no sound, even while his very coming broughtdisturbance to her first thought--her fevered patient. Then, seeingboth rebuke and question in her big, troubled eyes, the young Indianremoved his finger and spoke two words: "Patchie come," and, rising,she followed him out to the flat in front.
Natzie at the moment was still crouching close to the edge, gazingintently over, one little brown hand nervously grasping the branch ofa stunted cedar, the other as nervously clutching the mirror. Soutterly absorbed was she that the hiss of warning, or perhaps ofhatred, with which Lola greeted the sudden coming of Angela, seemed tofall unnoted on her ears. Lola, her black eyes snapping and her lipscompressed, glanced up at the white girl almost in fury. Natzie,paying no heed whatever to what was occurring about her, kneltbreathless at her post, watching, eagerly watching. Then, slowly, theysaw her raise her right hand, still cautiously holding the littlemirror, face downward, and at sight of this the Apache boy couldscarcely control his trembling, and Lola, turning about, spoke somefurious words, in low, intense tone, that made him shrink back towardthe screen. Then the wild girl glared again at Angela, as though thesight of her were unbearable, and, with as furious a gesture, soughtto drive her, too, again to the refuge of the dark cleft, but Angelanever stirred. Paying no heed to Lola, the daughter of the soldiergazed only at the daughter of the chief, at Natzie, whose hand wasnow level with the surface of the rock. The next instant, far to thenorthwest flashed a slender beam of dazzling light, another--another.An interval of a second or two, and still another flash. Angela couldsee the tiny, nebulous dot, like will-'o-the-wisp, dancing far overamong the rocks across a gloomy gorge. She had never seen it before,but knew it at a glance. The Indian girl was signaling to some of herfather's people far over toward the great reservation, and the taleshe told was that danger menaced. Angela could not know that it toldstill more,--that danger menaced not only Natzie, daughter of onewarrior chief, and the chosen of another now among their heroicdead--it threatened those whom she was pledged to protect, evenagainst her own people.
Somewhere down that deep and frowning rift to the southwest, Indianguides were leading their brethren on the trail of these refugeesamong the upper rocks. Somewhere, far over among the uplands to thenorthwest, other tribesfolk, her own kith and kin, were lurking, andthese the Indian girl was summoning with all speed to her aid.
And in the slant of that same glaring sunshine, not four miles away,toil
ing upward along a rocky slope, following the faint sign here andthere of Apache moccasin, a little command of hardy, war-worn men hadnearly reached the crest when their leader signaled backward to thelong column of files, and, obedient to the excited gestures of theyoung Hualpai guide, climbed to his side and gazed intently over.What he saw on a lofty point of rocks, well away from the tortuous"breaks" through which they had made most of their wearying marchesfrom the upper Beaver, brought the light of hope, the fire of battle,to his somber eyes. "Send Arnold up here," he shouted to the menbelow, and Arnold came, clambering past rock and bowlder until hereached the captain's side, took one look in the direction indicated,and brought his brown hand down with resounding swat on the butt ofhis rifle. "Treed 'em!" said he exultantly; then, with doubtful,backward glance along the crouching file of weary men, some sittingnow and fanning with their broad-brimmed hats, he turned again to thecaptain and anxiously inquired: "Can we make it before dark?"
"We must make it!" simply answered Stout.
And then, far over among the heights between them and the reservation,there went suddenly aloft--one, two, three--compact little puffs ofbluish smoke. Someone was answering signals flashed from the rockypoint--someone who, though far away, was promising aid.
"Let's be the first to reach them, lads," said Stout, himself awearied man. And with that they slowly rose and went stumbling upward.The prize was worth their every effort, and hope was leading on.
An hour later, with barely half the distance traversed, so steep androcky, so wild and winding, was the way, with the sun now tangent tothe distant range afar across the valley, they faintly heard a soundthat spurred them on--two shots in quick succession from unseendepths below the lofty point. And now they took the Indian jog trot.There was business ahead.
Between them and that gleaming promontory now lay a comparatively openvalley, less cumbered with bowlders than were the ridges and ravinesthrough which they had come, less obstructed, too, with stunted trees.Here was opportunity for horsemen, hitherto denied, and Stout calledon Brewster and his score of troopers, who for hours had been towingtheir tired steeds at the rear of column. "Mount and push ahead!" saidhe. "You are Wren's own men. It is fitting you should get therefirst."
"Won't the captain ride with us--now?" asked the nearest sergeant.
"Not if it robs a man of his mount," was the answer. Yet there waslonging in his eye and all men saw it. He had led them day after day,trudging afoot, because his own lads could not ride. Indeed, there hadbeen few hours when any horse could safely bear a rider. There camehalf a dozen offers now. "I'll tramp afoot if the captain 'll onlytake my horse," said more than one man.
And so the captain was with them, as with darkness settling down theyneared the great cliff towering against the southeastward sky. Thensuddenly they realized they were guided thither only just in time toraise a well-nigh fatal siege. Thundering down the mountain side a bigbowlder came tearing its way, launched from the very point that hadbeen the landmark of their eager coming, and with the downwardcrashing of the rock there burst a yell of fury.
Midway up the steep incline, among the straggling timber, two litheyoung Indians were seen bounding out of a little gully, only just intime to escape. Two or three others, farther aloft, darted around ashoulder of cliff as though scurrying out of sight. From the edge ofthe precipice the crack of a revolver was followed by a second, andthen by a scream. "Dismount!" cried Brewster, as he saw the captainthrow himself from his horse; then, leaving only two or three togather in their now excited steeds, snapping their carbines to fullcock, with blazing eyes and firm-set lips, the chosen band began theirfinal climb. "Don't bunch. Spread out right and left," were the onlycautions, and then in long, irregular line, up the mountain steep theyclambered, hope and duty still leading on, the last faint light of theNovember evening showing them their rocky way. Now, renegadoes, it isfight or flee for your lives!
Perhaps a hundred yards farther up the jagged face the leaders cameupon an incline so steep that, like the Tontos above them, they wereforced to edge around to the southward, whither their comradesfollowed. Presently, issuing from the shelter of the pines, they cameupon a bare and bowlder-dotted patch to cross which brought themplainly into view of the heights above, and almost instantly underfire. Shot after shot, to which they could make no reply, spat andflattened on the rocks about them, but, dodging and duckinginstinctively, they pressed swiftly on. Once more within the partialshelter of the pines across the open, they again resumed the climb,coming suddenly upon a sight that fairly spurred them. There, feetupward among the bowlders, stiff and swollen in death, lay all thatthe lynxes had left of a cavalry horse. Close at hand was the batteredtroop saddle. Caught in the bushes a few rods above was the foldedblanket, and, lodged in a crevice, still higher, lay the felt-coveredcanteen, stenciled with the number and letter of Wren's own troop. Itwas the horse of the orderly, Horn--the horse on which the Bugologisthad ridden away in search of Angela Wren. It was all the rescuersneeded to tell them they were now on the trail of both, and now thecarbines barked in earnest at every flitting glimpse of the foe,sending the wary Tontos skipping and scurrying southward. And, atlast, breathless, panting, well-nigh exhausted, the active leadersfound themselves halting at a narrow, twisting little game trail,winding diagonally up the slope, with that gray scarp of granitejutting from the mountain side barely one hundred yards farther; and,waving from its crest, swung by unseen hands, some white, flutteringobject, faintly seen in the gathering dusk, beckoned them on. The lastshots fired at the last Indians seen gleamed red in the autumngloaming. They, the rescuers, had reached their tryst only just asnight and darkness shrouded the westward valley. The last man up hadto grope his way, and long before that last man reached the ledge thecheering word was passed from the foremost climber: "Both here, boys,and safe!"
An hour later brought old Heartburn to the scene, scrambling up withthe other footmen, and speedily was he kneeling by the feveredofficer's side. The troopers had been sent back to their horses. OnlyStout, the doctor, Wales Arnold, and one or two sergeants remained atthe ledge, with rescued Angela, the barely conscious patient, andtheir protectors, the Indian girls. Already the boy had been hurriedoff with a dispatch to Sandy, and now dull, apathetic, and sullen,Lola sat shrouded in her blanket, while Arnold, with the little Apachedialect he knew, was striving to get from Natzie some explanation ofher daring and devotion.
Between tears and laughter, Angela told her story. It was much as theyhad conjectured. Mad with anxiety on her father's account, she said,she had determined to reach him and nurse him. She felt sure that,with so many troops out between the post and the scene of action,there was less danger of her being caught by Indians than of beingturned back by her own people. She had purposely dashed by the ranch,fearing opposition, had purposely kept behind Colonel Byrne's partyuntil she found a way of slipping round and past them where she couldfeel sure of speedily regaining the trail. She had encountered neitherfriend nor foe until, just as she would have ridden away from theWillow Tanks, she was suddenly confronted by Natzie, Lola, and twoyoung Apaches. Natzie eagerly gesticulated, exclaiming, "Apaches,Apaches," and pointing ahead up the trail, and, though she couldspeak no English, convincing Angela that she was in desperate danger.The others were scowling and hateful, but completely under Natzie'scontrol, and between them they hustled her pony into a ravine leadingto the north and led him along for hours, Angela, powerless toprevent, riding helplessly on. At last they made her dismount, andthen came a long, fearful climb afoot, up the steepest trail she hadever known, until it brought her here. And here, she could not tellhow many nights afterwards--it seemed weeks, so had the days and hoursdragged--here, while she slept at last the sleep of exhaustion, theyhad brought Mr. Blakely. He lay there in raging fever when she wasawakened that very morning by Natzie's crying in her ear some wordsthat sounded like: _"Hermano viene_! _Hermano viene_!"
"THEY HUSTLED HER PONY INTO A RAVINE"]
Stout had listened with absorbing interest an
d to the very last word.Then, as one who heard at length full explanation of what he haddeemed incredible, his hand went out and clutched that of Arnold,while his deep eyes, full of infinite pity, turned to where poorNatzie crouched, watching silently and in utter self-forgetfulness thedoctor's ministrations.
"Wales," he muttered, "that settles the whole business. Whatever youdo,--don't let that poor girl know that--they"--and now he warilyglanced toward Angela--"they--are _not_ brother and sister."