The Silver Canyon

by Fenn, George Manville

  “They wouldn’t have escaped you like that, would they, Beaver?” said Bart, after shaking hands once more warmly, and telling him how glad he was to see him back.

  “Escaped me?” said the Beaver, scornfully; “there is not one of my young men who would have been trifled with like that.”

  This he said in the Indian tongue, and there was a chorus of assenting ejaculations.

  “But the Apachés are blind dogs, and children,” he went on, speaking with bitter contempt. “They fight because they are so many that one encourages the other, but they are not brave, and they are not warriors. The young men of the Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth are all warriors, and laugh at the Apachés, for it takes fifty of them to fight one of my braves.”

  He held up his hand to command silence after this, and then pointed out into the plain.

  “Can you see anything, Joses?” whispered Bart.

  “Not a sign of anything but dry buffler grass and sage-brush. No; it’s of no use, Master Bart, I’ve only got four-mile eyes, and these Injun have got ten-mile eyes. Natur’s made ’em so, and it’s of no use to fight again it. ’Tis their natur to, and it arn’t our natur to, so all we can do is to use good medicine.”

  “Why, you don’t think that physic would do our eyes any good, do you, Joses?” whispered Bart.

  “Physic, no! I said medicine,” chuckled Joses.

  “Well, what’s the difference?” replied Bart.

  “Difference enough. I meant Injun’s medicine, as they call it. Didn’t the Beaver say that the master’s glass was all good medicine? He thought it was a sort of conjuring trick like their medicine-men do when they are making rain come, or are driving out spirits, as they call it. No; we can’t help our eyes being queer, my lad, but we can use medicine spy-glasses, and see farther than the Injun. Hold your tongue; he’s making signs.”

  For the Beaver had held up his hand again to command silence. Then he drew Bart towards him, and pointed outwards.

  “Apaché dogs,” he whispered. “Young chief Bart, see?”

  “No,” replied the lad, after gazing intently for some time; and then, without a word, he glided off along the narrow, rocky, well-sheltered path, and made his way to the Doctor, who, with his men, was upon the qui vive.

  “Well, Bart, what is it?” he said, eagerly.

  “The Beaver can see Apachés on the plain.”

  “A night attack, eh?” said the Doctor. “Well, we shall be ready for them. Why have you come—to give us warning?”

  “I came first for the glass,” replied Bart. “I’ll send you notice if they appear likely to attack, sir.”

  “Then I hope you will not have to send the notice, my lad,” said the Doctor, “for I don’t like fighting in the dark.”

  As he spoke he handed the glass, and Bart returned to the gallery.

  “Are they still there?” he whispered.

  “Yes; Apaché dogs,” was the reply. “Good medicine.”

  “They won’t find it so,” growled Joses, “if they come close up here, for my rifle has got to be hungry again. I’m ’bout tired of not being left peaceable and alone, and my rifle’s like me—it means to bite.”

  As he crouched there muttering and thinking of the narrow escapes they had had, Bart carefully focussed the glass, no easy task in the deep gloom that surrounded them; and after several tries he saw something which made him utter an ejaculation full of wonder.

  “What is it, my lad?” whispered Joses.

  “The young chief sees the Apaché dogs?” said the interpreter.

  “Yes,” exclaimed Bart; “the plain swarms with them.”

  “Then they’re gathering for a big attack in the morning,” said Joses. “Are they mounted?”

  “Yes, all of them. I can just make them out crossing the plain.”

  “Well, their horses are only good to run away on,” growled Joses; “they can’t ride up this mountain. Let me have a look, my lad.”

  Bart handed the glass, and Joses took a long, eager look through, at the gathering of Apaché warriors.

  “I tell you what,” he said, “we shall have to look out or they’ll drive off every head of cattle and every leg of horse. They’re as cunning as cunning, I don’t care what any one says, and some of these days we shall open our eyes and find ourselves in a pretty mess.”

  “The Apaché dogs shall not have the horses,” said the Beaver fiercely.

  “That’s right; don’t let ’em have them,” cried Joses. “I don’t want ’em to go; but here’s one thing I should like answered—How are we going to find ’em in pasture with all these wild beasts hanging about, ready to swoop down and make a stampede of it, and drive them off?”

  “The Beaver’s young men will drive the horses and cattle out,” said the Beaver, in tones of quiet confidence, “and bring them back again quite safe.”

  “If you can do that,” said Joses, “perhaps we can hold out; but it don’t seem likely that we shall get much salmon from down in the canyon yonder, which is a pity, for I’ve took to quite longing for a bit of that; and if the Apaché don’t take care, I shall have some yet.”

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty Four.

  Hard Pressed.

  Day broke, and the sun rose, displaying a sight that disheartened many of the occupants of the rock; for far out on the plain, and well beyond the reach of rifle-bullets, there was troop after troop of Indian warriors riding gently here and there, as if to exercise their horses, but doubtless in pursuance of some settled plan.

  The Doctor inspected them carefully through his glass, to try and estimate their numbers, and he quite came to the conclusion that they intended to invest the rock fortress, and if they could make no impression in one way, to try and starve out its occupants.

  “We must make sure, once for all, Bart, that we have no weak points—no spot by which these Indian wretches can ascend and take us in the rear. Suppose you take the Beaver and two of his men with you, ascend the mountain, and make a careful inspection.”

  “But that would hardly be so satisfactory, sir, as if we went all round the base first to make sure that there is no way up from the plain.”

  “No, I know that,” replied the Doctor; “but that is too dangerous a task.”

  “I’m beginning to like dangerous tasks now, sir,” said Bart; “they are so exciting.”

  “Well, go then,” said the Doctor; “but you must be mounted, or you will have no chance of retreat; and of course you will all keep a sharp look-out in case the Indians swoop down.”

  Bart promised, and went at once to the Beaver and Joses.

  “I’m to come too, ain’t I?” said the latter.

  “No, you are to help keep guard,” was the reply; and very sulkily Joses resumed his place, while the Beaver descended with Bart and four of his men to enter the rock stable and obtain their horses, the rest having to remain fasting while their companions were mounted and ridden out; the Indian ponies in particular resenting the indignity of being shut up again behind the stones by turning round and kicking vehemently.

  The Apachés were so far distant that Bart was in hopes that they would not see the reconnaissance that was being made, as he rode out at the head of his little Indian party, after fully explaining to the Beaver that which they were to do.

  His first step was to inspect the part of the mountain on the side that was nearest to the chimney, and the chasm into which they had descended to see the silver on their first coming.

  This was the shortest portion by far, and it had the advantage of a good deal of cover in the shape of detached rocks, which sheltered them from the eyes of those upon the plain; but all the same, the Beaver posted two of his men as scouts in good places for observing the movements of the foe and giving warning should they approach; the plan being to take refuge beneath the gallery, where they would be covered by the rifles of Joses and their friends.

  It was not at all a difficult task to satisfy the most exacting that ascent from the plain anywhe
re from the gallery to the precipice at the edge of the canyon was utterly impossible; and after carefully examining every crack and rift that ran upwards, the little party cantered back, said a few words to Joses, and then prepared for their more risky task, that of examining the mountain round by its northern and more open side, for there was no cover here, and their path would be more fully in view of any watchful eye upon the plain.

  They drew up by the gateway, and had a few minutes’ conversation with the Doctor, who said at parting:

  “You can soon satisfy yourself, Bart; but give a good look up as you come back, in case you may have missed anything in going.”

  “I’ll be careful,” said Bart eagerly.

  “Mind that scouts are left. I should leave at least three at different points on the road. They can give you warning at once. Then gallop back as if you were in a race. We shall be ready to cover you with our rifles if they come on. Now lose no time. Go!”

  Bart touched Black Boy with his heels, and went off at a canter, but checked his speed instantly, so that he might the more easily gaze up at the mountain-side, while, thoroughly intent upon his task, the Beaver left scouts at intervals, each man backing close in to the rock, and sitting there like a statue watching the plain.

  No Indians were in sight as far as Bart could see, and he rode slowly on, inspecting every opening in the face of the mountain, and so intent upon his task that he left the care of his person to the chief, whose watchful eyes were everywhere, now pointing out rifts in the rock, now searching the plain.

  It was a much longer distance, and the importance of the task and its risk gave a piquancy to the ride that made the blood dance through Bart’s veins. He could not help a little shudder running through him from time to time, though it was almost more of a thrill, and he could not have told, had he been asked, whether it was a thrill of dread or of pleasure. Perhaps there may have been more of the former, for he kept glancing over his right shoulder from time to time to see if a body of Indians might be sweeping at full gallop over the plain.

  Half the distance was ridden over, and this gave confidence to the adventurer, who rode more steadily on, and spared no pains to make sure of there being no possibility of the Indians reaching the top from that side.

  On went Bart, and three-fourths of the way were passed with nothing overhead but towering perpendicular rocks, impossible for anything but a fly to scale. The Indians had been left one after the other as scouting sentries, and at last, when no one was in company with the young adventurer but the Beaver, the edge of the canyon on this side was well in sight, and only a few hundred yards of the rock remained to be inspected.

  “We will do this, at all events,” said Bart, pressing his cob’s sides with his heels; and he cantered on, for the face of the mountain was now so perpendicular and smooth that there was no difficulty in determining its safety at a glance.

  Only about three hundred yards more and then there was the canyon, presenting a barrier of rock so steep, as well as so much higher, that there was nothing to fear on that side. Only these three hundred yards to examine, and the dangerous enterprise was almost as good as done, for every step taken by the horses then would be one nearer to safety. Bart had ridden on, leaving the Beaver, who had drawn rein, looking back at the plain, when suddenly there was a warning cry, and the lad looked over his shoulder to see the Beaver signalling to him.

  “A minute won’t make much difference,” thought Bart excitedly, and instead of turning, he pressed his horse’s flanks and galloped on to finish his task, rejoicing in the fact as he reached the canyon edge that he had seen every yard of the mountain-side, and that it was even more perpendicular than near the gateway.

  “Now for back at a gallop,” said Bart, who was thrilling with excitement; and turning his steed right on the very edge of the canyon, he prepared to start back, when, to his horror, he saw a party of dismounted Indians rise up as it were from the canyon about a hundred yards away, the place evidently where they had made their way down on the occasion of the attack during the salmon-fishing. With a fierce yell they made for the young horseman, but as Black Boy bounded forward they stopped short. A score of bullets came whizzing about Bart’s ears, and as the reports of the pieces echoed from the face of the mountain, the cob reared right up and fell over backwards, Bart saving himself by a nimble spring on one side, and fortunately retaining his hold of the bridle as the cob scrambled up.

  Just then, as the Indians came yelling on, and Bart in his confusion felt that he must either use rifle or knife, he could not tell which, there was a rush of hoofs, a quick check, and a hand gripped him by the collar.

  For a moment he turned to defend himself, but as he did so he saw that it was a friend, and his hand closed upon the Indian pony’s mane, for it was the Beaver come to his help; and spurring hard, he cantered off with Bart, half running, half lifted at every plunge as the pony made towards where their first friend was waiting rifle in hand.

  “Let me try—draw him in,” panted Bart, gripping his own pony’s mane hard as it raced on close beside the Beaver’s; and with a hand upon each, he gave a bound and a swing and landed in his saddle, just as the Apachés halted to fire another volley.

  Black Boy did not rear up this time, and Bart now saw the reason of the last evolution, feeling thankful that the poor beast had not been more badly hit. His hurt was painful enough, no doubt, the rifle-ball having cut one of his ears right through, making it bleed profusely.

  But there was no time to think of the pony’s hurts while bullets were whistling about them from behind; and now Bart could see the cause of the Beaver’s alarm signal, and bitterly regretted that he had not responded and turned at once, the few minutes he had spent in continuing his inspection having been a waste of time sufficient to place all of them in deadly peril.

  For there far out on the plain was a very large body of the Apachés coming on at full gallop, having evidently espied them at last, and they were riding now so as to cut them off from their friends, and drive them back into the corner formed by the mountain and the canyon, a spot where escape would have been impossible even without the presence of a second hostile party of Indians to make assurance doubly sure.

  “Ride! ride!” the Beaver said hoarsely; and in his excitement his English was wonderfully clear and good. “Don’t mind the dogs behind; they cannot hit us as we go.”

  All the same, though, as Bart listened to their yells and the reports of their rifles, he shuddered, and thought of the consequences of one bullet taking effect on horse or man.

  Every moment, though, as they rode on, the cries of the Apachés behind sounded more faint, but the danger in front grew more deadly.

  They picked up first one Indian of their party, and then another, the brave fellows sitting motionless in their saddles like groups cut in bronze, waiting for their chief to join them, even though the great body of enemies was tearing down towards them over the plain. Then as the Beaver reached them, a guttural cry of satisfaction left their lips, and they galloped on behind their leader without so much as giving a look at the dismounted Indians who still came running on.

  A tremendous race! Well it was that the little horses had been well fed and also well-rested for some time past, or they would never have been able to keep on at such a headlong speed, tearing up the earth at every bound, and spurning it behind them as they snorted and shook their great straggling manes, determined apparently to win in this race for life or death, and save their riders from the peril in which they were placed.

  Another Indian of their scouts reached, and their party increased to five, while two more were ahead waiting patiently for them to come.

  The wind whistled by their ears; the ponies seemed to have become part of them, and every nerve was now strained to the utmost; but Bart began to despair, the Apachés were getting to be so near. They were well-mounted, too, and it was such a distance yet before the gateway could be reached, where the first prospect of a few friendly shots could be e
xpected to help them to escape from a horrible death. Mercy, Bart knew, there would certainly be none, and in spite of all their efforts, it seemed as if they must lose the race.

  How far away the next sentry seemed! Try how they would, he seemed to be no nearer, and in very few minutes more Bart knew that the Indians would be right upon them.

  Involuntarily he cocked his rifle and threw it to the left as if getting ready to fire, but the Beaver uttered an angry cry.

  “No, no; ride, ride,” he said; and Bart felt that he was right, for to fire at that vast body would have been madness. What good would it do him to bring down one or even a dozen among the hundreds coming on, all thirsting for their blood?

  In response Bart gripped his pony more tightly, rising slightly in the stirrups, and the next moment they were passing their scout like a flash, and he had wheeled his pony and was after them.

  One more scout to reach, and then a race of a few hundred yards, and rifles would begin to play upon their pursuers; but would they ever reach that next scout?

  It seemed impossible; but the ponies tore on, and Bart began in his excitement to wonder what would be done if one should stumble and fall. Would the others stop and defend him, or would they gallop away to save their own lives? Then he asked himself what he would do if the Beaver were to go down, and he hoped that he would be brave enough to try and save so good a man.