Lone Pine: The Story of a Lost Mine

by A. M. Chisholm

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  ELEVEN TO ONE

  At sight of Rocky bleeding at his feet, something seemed suddenly tosnap in Stephens's brain, and the secret rage that had been consuminghim for days blazed out. This was open war at last, and the Navajosthemselves had begun it. It was their own choice.

  "So now then," said he, "they shall have it."

  Almost before Mahletonkwa could draw his dripping blade from hisvictim's body, the American's strong grasp seized him and swung himviolently round. Stephens's right hand gripped the hilt of his greathunting-knife, and with it he dealt the red man one terrible stroke aswith a sword. All the strength of his arm and all the wrath of his soulwent into that mighty sweep of the blade, and he felt the keen edgeshear right through bone and muscle as it clove the doomed man's breastasunder and split his heart in twain. The dying yell of the Indian rentthe air with so piercing a sound that the women in the Sanchez house,three furlongs off, heard it, and sprang trembling to their feet. Withboth his hands the American raised his stricken foe aloft and flung himclear away, a corpse before he touched ground.

  It was all over in five seconds; but Stephens knew it could not endthere. This was no final blow in a single combat, it was rather thefirst in one where the odds were still ten to one against him.Mahletonkwa's followers were swiftly unslinging their guns, save fourwho had sprung to their horses, whether to fight or fly he could nottell. Like a flash the American's ready six-shooter was out from hisbelt. Notalinkwa was nearest him, his gun already at his shoulder; butthe too careful Indian paused a moment on his aim to make sure, and thatpause was fatal. As the American's pistol came up level the hammer fell,and Notalinkwa, shot through the heart, pitched heavily forward, and laythere prone on the brown earth, biting it convulsively in the strongdeath-agony.

  With the rapidity of lightning the deadly weapon spoke again, and again,and again, and as each jet of smoke and flame leapt from the muzzle,each bullet, true to its mark, laid an enemy low. If Stephens thought atall during those breathless seconds in which he sent foe after foe tohis last account, it was but to say to himself, "Quick, now, quick! Bequick, but sure!"

  Navajo rifle-balls whistled by him, but he felt no fear; there was noroom for that, for his whole soul now was bent upon one passionatepurpose,--to kill, kill, kill.

  As the fourth Navajo dropped to his fourth shot, he saw the rest run,and gave one wild shout of triumph, and even as his voice rang out hisfifth barrel went off, and down dropped yet another of the gang. Itseemed as though he could not miss a single shot to-day.

  "Oh, Doctor," he cried, "oh, Doctor! quick here, Rocky's hurt!" but hedid not turn his head as he shouted to him to help his wounded friend.

  The four Indians who had already mounted were off and away, andKaniache, the last of those who had turned to fight when Mahletonkwa wasslain, had now lost heart and was springing to horse to follow them.What chance was there to fight against a man like this, on whom noNavajo rifle-balls seemed to have any effect, but whose own unerringbullets slew a victim at each shot? He was no mere man, but an avengingfury.

  Alas for Kaniache! the resolve to fly came too late. As he reached thesaddle Stephens raised his six-shooter for the last time, and theforesight came into the V-notch of the hammer just below the red man'sshoulder blade as he turned to flee. The last of the six cartridgesspoke, once more the jet of flame and smoke leaped from the muzzle, andKaniache dropped forward on the neck of his steed, clutching blindly anddesperately at the mane. The horse bounded forward after the others thathad fled before him, his rider's hot blood pouring down his withers, anddropping on to his knees at every stride. Then the desperate clutchrelaxed, and the death-stricken Kaniache pitched heavily to the ground,and with loose rein the riderless steed galloped wildly across theplain.

  "Hurrah," shouted Stephens again as he darted to his mare, "hurrah! Run,you dogs, run!"

  The sweetest moment in a man's life is when he looks in the eyes of hismistress and knows that his love is returned; the proudest is when hesees in front of him his foes, but sees nothing but their backs. And toStephens both these things came in one hour.

  He raised the rein, and Morgana bounded forward in pursuit. His eyeglancing around fell upon the figure of Doctor Benton just leaping fromthe stage waggon, pistol in hand. He had heard the rapid shots beforehe heard Stephens's shout, and his first impulse had been to catch uphis weapon and take his share in the fighting. But so quick had been thedeadly work that there was no one for him to turn loose on save the deador dying redskins who bestrewed the ground, and he paused as ifundecided what to do.

  Stephens settled the question for him.

  "Hurry up, there, Doc," he shouted over his shoulder to him, "hurry up,or Rocky'll be dead." And looking back he saw the army surgeon runacross to where the prostrate white man lay.

  Seeing this, he was satisfied skilled hands would do all that waspossible to save his old partner. For himself there was only one course,to go on right to the bitter end as he had begun, and avenge on thewhole murderous gang the wanton knife-stroke of their chief,--ay, andmore, to avenge upon them, too, the terrors of Manuelita, and the murderof that lonely wanderer in the mountains whom he and the whole lot ofthem had so foully done to death beside the Lone Pine. For all that longaccount, vengeance should be taken to the very last drop.

  He looked ahead: the four fugitives were galloping a quarter of a milein front of him, making not for the sierra, but for the more open valleyof the Agua Negra. He was clearing the last of the San Remo houses now,and as he did so he heard the thunder of horsehoofs on his right, andtwo well-mounted Mexicans dashed forth from the corrals to join in thepursuit. They were the same young men who the day before had ridden inahead of Don Nepomuceno's party to rejoin their sweethearts. They hadheard the firing begin, had seen the fray, and mounted in hot haste toplay their part.

  "_Bueno!_" he shouted when he saw them, "_bueno_, boys! Wade in. We'llgive 'em a dose of it between us."

  The Mexicans cheered back to him, and plied their quirts; Morgana wasgoing at three quarters racing speed, but they sent their horses alongfrom the start as if they were running a quarter-mile dash. The housefrom which they came was a little to one side of the Indians' line offlight, and they made for their line at such an angle that they gained adecided advantage both on them and on the American, and were enabled tocut ahead of the latter. The fugitives, hearing the shouts, and lookingback and becoming aware of these new pursuers, at once began to flog,but the rearmost Navajo's horse could not answer to the whip, and thetremendous pace at which the Mexicans had started carried them right upto within fifty yards of him.

  Out came their revolvers, bang, bang, bang! they went at him, and again,bang, bang, bang! But such wild firing as this over the heads ofgalloping horses is random work at best, and the Navajo went onscathless.

  "_Esperate! Esperate!_" sang out Stephens from behind. "You're wastingyour ammunition. Wait till you're closer, boys." But in spite of hiswiser counsels he still heard them firing away, bang, bang, bang!

  Young blood soon gets hot in the chase; and then Stephens saw a curioussight. Bang went the leading Mexican's revolver once more, and this timethe bullet, better aimed or more lucky, found its mark. The Navajo'shorse was seen to stagger and stumble and then come down, the riderleaping nimbly off over its head; he lit on his feet like a cat, and heheld his bow and some arrows in his left hand; in the twinkling of aneye he was ready for them, and as the Mexicans rode headlong at him heslapped an arrow into the first and brought him heavily to the ground;like lightning a second arrow was fitted to the string, and he let flyagain, and the arrow buried itself to the feather in the breast of thesecond man's horse, and horse and rider both fell almost on top of him.The Navajo caught the rein of the first man's horse with which to resumehis flight, while the second Mexican was still struggling with hisfallen steed; and so marvellously quick and adroit was he that he musthave succeeded in getting away but for the American. The moment Stephenssaw the arrow-stricken hors
e roll over, he drew rein, and in half adozen strides brought his mare to a standstill. He would not jerk her onto her haunches, for he was saving her strength for what promised to bea long chase. Before she had actually stopped he was on the ground,rifle in hand, and ready to shoot. Then, as the Indian was bounding tothe saddle of the captured horse, the deadly rifle came up, and themomentary poise of the bent body, as he threw his leg over, gave to themarksman the fatal opportunity. The rifle cracked, and the conicalbullet tore clean through the Navajo's vitals and passed out at hisright breast. His dexterous manoeuvre had been all in vain, and he fellforward under the horse's feet, and his spirit took flight to join thatof his slain chief who had gone so little before him.

  Stephens leaped into the saddle again, and galloped up. The unwoundedMexican had freed himself unhurt from his prostrate mount, and was nowtrying to draw the arrow from his friend.

  "Go on, you," he cried to Stephens as the latter checked his speed, "goon, you, and kill _los demonios_, kill them all." The American took himat his word, and away darted Morgana again in her stretching gallop.There were only three redskins left now, and they were some distanceahead, but the gallant little Morgan mare pressed steadily after them.The foam flakes began to fly from her bit, but she was full of spiritand going strong. He glanced down at his waist and saw the bright coppertops of the row of unused cartridges that encircled it. Stephens was oneof those men who grow cold as they grow hot. His brain was like moltenmetal under a crust of ice. Shifting reins and rifle into one hand, hecomposedly felt the belt all round with the other; there was but onevacant loop, and this assured him that there were thirty-nine more therein reserve.

  "Seven Indians in seven shots," said he cynically; "that must comepretty near making a record. Well, if I can only keep up that lick now!"His relentless eye measured the gap between him and his flying foes.With joy he noted that it was decreasing, for his whole soul longed toclose with them and slay, slay, slay.

  This blood thirst in him was a new thing. He had been in battles before,but he had never felt like this. The strained nerve, the hot fever ofstrife, the passionate will to win, none of these sensations were new tohim, though he had not known them since the day of Apache Canyon. Butwhen Coloradans and Texans met in conflict he had not felt as he didnow. He had had no race feeling against foes whom he looked upon asWestern men like himself. He had no personal wrongs to avenge upon them;all he wanted was to send them back to where they came from; to stopthem from conquering the Rocky Mountain country and breaking up theUnion; in short, he only wanted to hammer them back into brotherhood.This was a different thing; now there was a fire burning in his veinsthat would not be satisfied till the last one of his enemies lay dead athis feet. It was not merely victory he wanted, but vengeance. Theshedders of the innocent blood, that cried against them from the ground,should be utterly wiped out from the face of the earth. He would notleave one of them alive.

  And ever the game little Morgan mare strode bravely along, and now hisheart leaped to perceive that the Indians were losing more and morerapidly the advantage they had gained at the start. By this time therewas distinctly less than a quarter of a mile between him and them.

  "Good for you, Pedro," he cried, as he noted the gain the mare wasmaking; "you didn't stint her feed last night. Don Nepomuceno's cornsticks by your ribs, little lady"; and at the sound of her master'svoice Morgana pricked her ears and strode out more bravely than ever. Hehad not touched her yet with the spur.

  Overnight Mahletonkwa and his gang had betaken themselves some littledistance down the Santiago River to enjoy themselves in their own waywith the illicit whiskey they had procured from the storekeeper, andthere they had turned their ponies loose to graze. There was rich greengrass in the moist swales along the river-bed, and their steeds hadfeasted on it. The young April grass tells its tale in a long gallop,and Stephens began to see that their horses were already in distress. Hegave his bridle-rein a shake, and touched Morgana with the spur; rightgallantly she responded, and the gap now diminished fast. He wasoverhauling them hand over hand. He turned his head and looked back; hecould see for miles behind him, but there was no one in sight. No doubtas soon as they could get together there would be many Mexican friendswho would take up his trail and follow it, eager to help, but that couldnot be for some time yet. Once more it was his lot to play a lone hand.

  And still the gap grew less; the Indians looked back oftener andoftener, and their whips were plied mercilessly all the time. Only abare hundred yards separated him from them now.

  Stephens kept his eye glued to them, expecting them every instant tojump off and receive him with a volley. That certainly seemed to be thebest game for them to play, as their horses were so nearly done. Thequestion was, would they try it? If they did, he too must leap off andshoot as quick as they. The Winchester, he thought, would give the threeof them shot for shot and something over.

  But to stand up to it and give and take shot for shot was not theIndians' style of doing business. They had no spirit left in them toface this terrible man in the open; just here, however, the trailapproached a spot more suitable to their methods of fighting. A bold andlofty butte, a landmark known far and wide as the Cerro Chato, roseabruptly a little to one side of the trail, and the Navajos suddenlyswung off to the right and made for it, hoping to gain the shelter ofthe broken masses of rock that were strewn about its base, and from thatvantage-ground defy their merciless pursuer.

  Stephens divined their object the moment they turned for the butte; healso changed his course, and he now spurred freely and spoke to the mareand encouraged her with his voice. The staunch Morgan blood answered tothe call; there was a spurt still left in her, and she fairly raced themfor the rocks. But though she was doing all she knew, the Indians gotthere first. They sprang to earth, and as they did so Stephens did thesame, scarce fifty yards behind them. They darted for hiding to thecleft of rocks; two got there, but one was too late; just as he reachedhis goal the leaden messenger outwent him, and he felt the cripplingblow; it caught him in the thigh as he ran, and the broken limb gave wayunder him; still, on his hands and knees, he dragged himself desperatelyforward almost into the longed-for haven of refuge, but another bullet,pumped up from the magazine, followed all too swiftly on the first, andbroke his spine, and a third gave the merciful _coup-de-grace_ and puthim out of his pain.

  "There's something mighty persuasive about a Winchester," jeeredStephens, hastily throwing in another cartridge as he rushed forward,and casting just one glance at the body as he passed. The persuasiverepeating rifle had pumped lead to some purpose into White Antelope.Never again would he see the rich valleys of the Chusca Mountains whereso often he had roamed with his tribe; no more would he tend his flock,like the patriarch of old, and lead from pasture to water, and fromwater to pasture the spotted and ringstreaked herd of many-horned sheepwhose innocent faces he knew so well. Here, under the Cerro Chato,coyotes and eagle-hawks would pick his bones, and the little booth ofboughs where his squaw and his papooses waited for him--the little booththat to each wandering son of the desert stands for home--would neversee him more.

  War is cruel work. The renegade Navajo band had brought this onthemselves, and richly deserved what they got, yet, take it all round,retribution, however just, is a butcherly job.

  "Two more left, and I'm bound to rub it in," said Stephens, plunging inamongst the rocks lest the pair who had already found cover should takeadvantage of his exposed position outside.

  Above them the butte rose abruptly to a height of two or three hundredfeet, but the face of it was so much broken down that the fallenfragments had made a slope half way up it, while the largest detachedblocks had rolled in numbers to the very bottom and lay confusedlyheaped together or loosely scattered around.

  "It's pretty near as good a place for these sons of guns as the LavaBeds," he said; "only, thank my stars, there aren't so many of them now.Yet, I've got to go to work mighty cautious here, or else I'll givemyself away for good and all." He wiped hi
s streaming face as hecrouched behind a rock for a minute or two to recover his breath anddecide on the next move.

  "Git 'em!" he went on, "I've got to git 'em, as the boy said; andthere's no two ways about it. But how am I going to git 'em? that's thenext question. If I stand straight up and try to walk right on to them,they're simply bound to have the deadwood on me. There'd be no show atall for me in that game. I've got to try and play it more their ownstyle."

  Very cautiously, foot by foot, surveying the ground on every side ateach change of position, he began to move around. Dead silence reigned,broken here by no war-whoops as in the Lava Beds; the desperate red menwere biding their time; hid in the rocks they knew their advantage, andreckoned at last to turn the tables on their pursuer with a vengeance.

  The hot sun blazed down on him as the American patiently crept from theshelter of one rock to another, but neither sign nor sound of hisenemies could he detect. Out on the plain he could see that his mare hadjoined the horses abandoned by the Indians, and was making friends withthem. They were getting over the effects of their gallop already, andwere beginning to try a nibble at the grass.

  "Make friends with them as much as you like, little lady," said he,apostrophising the mare; "it's all right for you, though I can't--atleast not yet. There's eleven thousand peaceable Navajos living on theirreservation that I'm quite ready to be friends with, but this band ofcutthroats has got to be wiped clean out. 'Hit hard when you do hit,'was old Grant's motto every time, and I reckon he knew pretty well whathe was about."

  On he moved again, warily searching each hole and cranny where the greatrocks had fallen against each other and formed shelters.

  Suddenly, as he paused a moment in his advance, listening, there came tohis ears from far away a welcome, well-known sound. It was the voice ofa dog giving tongue on the trail.

  "Faro, by all the powers!" he cried. "Why, he must have heard theshooting at the store and come a-running to see what was up, and thennot finding me there he's taken the trail of the mare."

  Straining his eyes he discerned a dark spot advancing over the plain;nearer it came and nearer, and then was heard a joyful bark ofrecognition as the dog rushed up to the head of the grazing mare andgreeted her vociferously. But soon, not finding with her the master whomhe loved best of all, he left her, and questing round he came upon histrail where Stephens had dismounted to shoot, and again he eagerly gavetongue and came running towards the rocks. But at the body of WhiteAntelope he checked.

  "Now," said Stephens, standing with his back against a rock, with hisrifle cocked and ready, "if those sons of guns lay themselves out toshoot him they're bound to give me a chance to spot where they are, andI'll see if I can't give them what for."

  Keeping his eye on the alert for any move of theirs, he gave a sharpwhistle. But the hidden red men, though they both heard him and saw thedog, would not take the risk of exposing themselves to his deadly aim,and in another minute the excited bulldog was leaping up and fawning onthe master to whom he was devoted, as if to reproach him for having lefthis most faithful ally behind.

  Stephens patted and encouraged him, making him understand that there wasgame afoot, and, warily as if stalking a deer, took him back to whereWhite Antelope lay stiff and stark. As he smelt the blood again Farogrowled and his bristles rose; his master encouraged him till the dogknew what he meant; the game they were after was not deer--it was men.He took up the scent of the two Navajos who had escaped into the rocks,and followed it with his hackles erect. In and out among the labyrinthof tumbled rocks he led the way, and Stephens kept up with him as besthe could without exposing himself too recklessly. The trail grew hotterand hotter, till on a sudden Faro turned sharply aside and dashed out ofsight behind a huge boulder; instantly there followed his loud, angrybark, and a half-stifled cry of human rage.

  With his rifle raised nearly to his shoulder, Stephens put his headround the angle of the boulder, to see an Indian standing almost withinarm's length of him with his back against the rock, angrily strikingwith his gun at the dog, who was baying furiously as he sprang from sideto side to avoid the blows. Stephens had no time to look around to seewhere the other redskin was, for at sight of him the Navajo,disregarding the dog, raised his rifle and fired, and the Winchestercracked almost in the same instant. So close were the two to one anotherthat the burst of flame and powder smoke from the Indian's piecemomentarily blinded the American.

  "I must be done for now," was the despairing thought that flashedthrough his mind in the utter helplessness of loss of sight; yet he feltno wound, and blind as he was he instinctively threw in a freshcartridge for a second shot. Then his smarting eyes began to recoverthemselves; hope came back; he was not blinded; he found himself able tosee again, though with difficulty; and there at his feet was the body ofthe Navajo and the dog worrying him. He flung himself on the pair toprotect, if need be, his ever faithful ally, but need was none. Hisbullet had gone home, and the Navajo was sped. He dragged the infuriatedbulldog from his prey.

  "Luck's all," said he, dashing the water from his eyes. "I don't knowhow I came to plug him so squarely; I never even saw the sights; Ithought I was a goner that journey, sure."

  He looked around with restored vision to try if he could descry the lastof the gang, but there was no sign of him visible; it seemed as if thepair must either have separated somehow before he and Faro came up totheir hiding-place, or else the survivor had fled on his companion'sfall.

  "And that's lucky for me, too," said Stephens, "for he could just havesocked it into me as he liked when I was blinded with all that powdersmoke."

  "Come on then, Faro," he continued, patting the dog, and encouraging himto take up the trail again. "One more, and our job's done. Hie on, oldman, he can't be far away."

  With eager pride the dog began questing anew for the scent, nosinginquisitively to right and to left, and Stephens, as before, followedhim warily. They did not have to go far before the dog's stiffeningbristles showed that the enemy was near. Three great detached masses ofstone, fallen together haphazard, so bore against each other as to leaveunderneath a low, dark, cavernous recess, and into the mouth of this thedog dashed without a pause. The fierce sounds of conflict that instantlyfollowed proved that it was the hiding-place of the hunted man.

  For one anxious moment Stephens doubted whether to shoot or no, butstanding outside in the bright light he could see nothing clear in thedark recess, and to shoot at random into it was to hazard killing hisown friend. Then there came a loud howl from Faro, and unhesitatingly hedrew his knife, dropped on all-fours, and laying the rifle aside threwhimself head first into the cave, and in the darkness grappled for hisfoe. His left hand, thrust forward, seized an arm of the other, andswiftly in reply came the sharp, cold pang of a knife drawn across theback of it, and the warm gush of blood following the cut. As he felt thewound, his right hand instinctively let go of his own knife and seizedthe wrist of the hand wielding the blade that had cut him, the redskinfrantically striving to get the hand free to deal him a fatal stab.

  The two men had clinched for the death-grapple, and in their furiousstruggles they dashed one another against the sides and roof of thenarrow cave. Dear life hung in the balance, and both knew it well.Stephens's left hand had no grip left in it, but he could use the arm tobear down his opponent, while his strong right hand held on like a viceto the wrist it had seized, and kept the deadly blade from being plungedinto him. Mute as wolves they battled for the mastery; the sweat pouredoff them like rain, and their breath came in short, hard pants. Thenwith joy Stephens felt that his right hand was overpowering his enemy'sand with all his might he dashed the Indian's hand and the knife it heldso violently against the rough rock wall that the blade snapped shortoff at the haft. One despairing effort the active red man made to twisthimself clear, but in the narrow space his litheness was of no avail,and by sheer strength Stephens got him under and turned him on his face.A short moment they paused, exhausted and breathless, when suddenly theAmerican released the other'
s wrist and clutched him by the throat.Writhe as he might the Indian could not throw him off, nor relax thatfatal grip that was choking the very life out of him. Gradually heceased to struggle, and Stephens knew now that victory was his; with afinal effort he raised himself on one knee on the red man's back, andquickly shifting the grip of his right hand from the throat to the topof the head, with a sharp, hard jerk and backward wrench he broke hisneck. A convulsive quiver ran through his enemy's limbs, and then diedaway. The last of the renegade gang was dead.

  Bruised, battered, and bleeding, the victor dragged himself from out thecave that had so nearly been his tomb. The fight was finished, he hadno enemies left, and he lay there weak and unstrung, his head resting onhis blood-stained hands. "Why can't men be brothers?" he said. "But theywould have it. They began. I didn't want to kill them. I wonder is Rockydead? They're all good Indians now, anyway."

  A dead Indian is reckoned a good Indian throughout the West. He can betrusted not to do any mischief.

  His strength returning, he drew out the body of Faro from the cave, andfelt him all over; he had been dashed senseless against the wall of thecave and three of his ribs were injured, but his heart still beat; hewas not completely done for.

  "Worth a whole herd of dead dogs yet," said his master, gently rubbingthe brindled back which at first he had feared was broken. "A blacktailbuck has used you up as bad before now." He fondled his head, and thedog, coming to, made a feeble attempt to lick his hand. "We'll find away to tote you home, never fear, old man," he continued; "and it's oddif we can't scare up a nurse to fix you good when we get back."

  He examined his own body; he was scraped and skinned by the rough rocks,and his shirt was torn half off him in the last struggle with theIndian; but except for the one severe knife-gash, which he carefullybound up, he had no serious wound.

  He looked for his mare. She was grazing peacefully where he had lefther, with her bridle trailing, as a hunter's horse should do. He lookedaway beyond her, far across the burning plain.

  "I've played this hand alone," said he; "but I'm thinking it's gettingabout time for those San Remo folks to chip in."

  And then in the distance, through the shimmering mirage that waveredbefore the eye, he saw a little cloud of dust arise like a travellingwhirlwind.

  He watched it; it was not one of nature's whirlwinds, for it camestraight on up the trail, fast and steady. Men made that whirlwind, andsoon they were near enough to be distinguished.

  It was Don Andres and a strong band of Mexicans riding like the OldHarry to the rescue.

  "But I played it alone, for all that," he said.