The Treasure Trail

by Marah Ellis Ryan

  Two men rode into view in the bend of the arroya. A cartridge belt across each shoulder, and one around each waist, was the most important part of their equipment.

  “Buenos dias, señors,” said one politely, while his little black eyes roved quickly over the group. “Is there still water to be found in the well here? Dios! it is the heat of hell down there in the valley.”

  “At your service, señor, is water fresh drawn,” said Rhodes, and turned to the girl, “Oija, Tulita!––water for the gentlemen. You ride far, señor?”

  “From Soledad wells.”

  “Yes, I know the brand,” remarked Rhodes.

  “This is a good season in which to avoid too much knowledge, or too good a memory, señor,” observed the man who had not spoken. “Many herds will change hands without markets before tranquility is over in Mexico.”

  “I believe you, señor, and we who have nothing will be the lucky ones,” agreed Rhodes, regarding the man with a new interest. He was not handsome, but there was a something quick and untamed in his keen, black eyes, and though the mouth had cruel hard lines, his tone was certainly friendly, yet dominating.

  “What have you here?” he asked with a gesture toward Miguel.

  “My Indian who tried to save his women from slavers, and was left for dead,” stated Rhodes frankly.

  “And this?”

  He pointed to the girl filling again the water bottles.

  “She is mine, señor. We go to our own homes.”

  “Hum! you should be enlisted in the fights and become capitan, but these would drop by the trail if you left them. Well, another time perhaps, señor! For the water many thanks. Adios!” and with wave of the hand they clattered down the arroya.

  “Queer,” muttered Rhodes, “did you catch that second chap signal to the gun man in the cactus? He craw-fished back over the mesa and faded away.”

  “They didn’t come for water alone––some scouten’ party trailin’ every sign found,” decided Pike. “I’ll bet they had us circled before the two showed themselves. Wonder who they are after?”

  “Anyway they didn’t think us worth while gathering in, which is a comfort. That second fellow looks like someone I’ve crossed trails with, but I can’t place him.”

  “They’ll place you all right, all right!” prophesied Pike darkly, “you and your interesting family won’t need a brand.”

  Rhodes stared at him a moment and then grinned.

  “Right you are, Cap. Wouldn’t it be pie for the gossips to slice up for home consumption?”

  He kept on grinning as he looked at the poor bit of human flotsam whom he had dubbed “the owl” because of her silence and her eyes. She aroused Miguel without words, watching him keenly for faintest sign of recovery. The food and sleep had refreshed him in body, but the mind was far away. To the girl he gave no notice, and after a long bewildered stare at Rhodes he smiled in a deprecating way.

  “Your pardon, Don José, that I outsleep the camp,” he muttered haltingly. “It is a much sickness of the head to me.”

  “For that reason must you ride slowly today,” stated Rhodes with quick comprehension of the groping mind, though the “Don José” puzzled him, and at first chance he loitered behind with the girl and questioned her.

  “How makes itself that I must know all the people in the world before I was here on earth?” she asked morosely? “Me he does not know, Don José is of Soledad and is of your tallness, so–––”

  “Know you the man who came for water at the cañon well?” he asked, and she looked at him quickly and away.

  “The name of the man was not spoke by him, also he said a true word of brands on herds––these days.”

  “In these days?” reflected Rhodes, amazed at the ungirlish logic. “You know what he meant when he said that?”

  “We try that we know––all we, for the Deliverer is he named, and by that name only he is spoke in the prayers we make.”

  Rhodes stared at her, incredulous, yet wondering if the dusty vaquero looking rider of brief words could be the man who was called outlaw, heathen, and bandit by Calendria, and “Deliverer” by these people of bondage.

  “You think that is true;––he will be the deliverer?”

  “I not so much think, I am only remembering what the fathers say and the mothers. Their word is that he will be the man, if––if–––”

  “Well, if what?” he asked as she crossed herself, and dropped her head.

  “I am not wanting to say that thing. It is a scare on the heart when it is said.”

  “I’d rather be prepared for the scare if it strikes me,” he announced, and after a thoughtful silence while she padded along beside him, she lowered her voice as though to hide her words from the evil fates.

  “Then will I tell it you:––a knife in the back is what they fear for him, or poison in his cup. He is hated by strong haters, also he makes them know fear. I hearing all that in the patio at Palomitas, and old Tio Polonio is often saying all saviors are crucified. How you think?”

  Rhodes replied vaguely as to the wisdom of Tio Polonio, for the girl was giving him the point of view of the peon, longing for freedom, yet fatalistic as the desert born ever are. And she had known the rebel leader, Ramon Rotil, all the time!

  He had no doubt but that she was right. Her statement explained the familiar appearance of the man he had not met before, though he had seen pictures in newspapers or magazines. Then he fell to wondering what Ramon Rotil was doing in a territory so far from the troops, and–––

  “Don José is one of the strong men who are hating him much,” confided the child. “Also Don José comes not north alone ever anymore, always the soldiers are his guard. Tio Polonio tells things of these soldiers.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “They are killing boys like rabbits in Canannea,––pacifico boys who could grow to Calendrista soldiers. Such is done by the guard of Don José and all the friends of the Deliverer are killed with a quickness. That is how the men of Don José Perez please him most, and in the south there are great generals who work also with him, and his hand is made strong, also heavy, and that is what Tio Polonio is telling us often.”

  When they reached the mouth of the little cañon of the Yaqui well where the trails divide, Pike shook hands and climbed into the saddle of Pardner.

  “It’s the first time I ever took the easy way out, and left the fight alone to a chum,––but I’ll do it, Bub, because you could not make a quick get-away with me tagging along. Things look murkier in this territory every minute. You’ll either have the time of your life, or a headstone early in the game. Billie and I will put it up though we won’t know where you’re planted. I don’t like it, but the minutes and water for the trail are both precious. Come out quick as you can. So long!”

  Pardner, refreshed by cooling drink and an hour’s standing in wet mud of the well drainage, stepped off briskly toward the north, while Rhodes lifted Tula to the back of the pack mule, and Miguel unheeding all plans or changes, drooped with closed eyes on the back of the little burro. The manager of the reorganized gold-search syndicate strode along in the blinding glare of the high sun, herding them ahead of him, and as Pike turned for a last look backward at a bend of the trail, the words of the old darkey chant came to him on the desert air:

  Oh, there was a frog lived in the spring!

  Chapter 10

  A MEXICAN EAGLET

  The silver wheel of the moon was rolling into the west when the Indian girl urged the mule forward, and caught the bridle of the burro.

  “What is it, Tula?” asked Rhodes, “we are doing well on the trail to Mesa Blanca; why stop here?”

  “Look,” she said. “See you anything? Know you this place in the road?”

  He looked over the sand dunes and scrubby desert growths stretching far and misty under the moon, and, then to the rugged gray range of the mountain spur rising to the south. They were skirting the very edge of it where it rose abruptly from th
e plain; a very great gray upthrust of granite wall beside them was like a gray blade slanted out of the plain. He had noticed it as one of the landmarks on the road to Mesa Blanca, and on its face were a few curious scratchings or peckings, one a rude sun symbol, and others of stars and waves of water. He recalled remarking to Pike that it must have been a prayer place for some of the old tribes.

  “Yes, I know the place, when we reach this big rock it means that we are nearing the border of the ranch, this rock wall tells me that. We can be at Palomitas before noon.”

  “No,” she said, and got down from the mule, “not to Palomitas now. Here we carry the food, and here we hide the saddles, and the mule go free. The burro we take, nothing else.”

  “Where is a place to hide saddles here?” and he made gesture toward the great granite plane glistening in the moonlight.

  “A place is found,” she returned, “it is better we ride off the trail at this place.”

  She did so, circling back the way they had come until they were opposite a more broken part of the mountain side, then she began deftly to help unsaddle.

  “Break no brush and make all tracks like an Apache on the trail,” she said.

  Miguel sat silent on the burro as if asleep. He had never once roused to give heed to the words or the trail through the long ride. At times where the way was rough he would mutter thanks at the help of Kit and sink again into stupor.

  “I can’t spare that mule,” protested Kit, but she nodded her head as if that had been all thought out.

  “He will maybe not go far, there is grass and a very little spring below. Come now, I show you that hidden trail.”

  She picked up one of the packs and led the burro.

  “But we can’t pack all this at once,” decided Kit, who was beginning to feel like the working partner in a nightmare.

  “Two times,” said Tula, holding up her fingers, “I show you.”

  She led the way, nervous, silent and in haste, as though in fear of unseen enemies. Rhodes looked after her irritably. He was fagged and worn out by one of the hardest trails he had ever covered, and was in no condition to solve the curious problems of the Indian mind, but the girl had proven a good soldier of the desert, and was, for the first time, betraying anxiety, so as the burro disappeared in the blue mist, and only the faint patter of his hoofs told the way he had gone, Kit picked up the saddle and followed.

  The way was rough and there was no trail, simply stumbling between great jagged slabs hewn and tossed recklessly by some convulsion of nature. Occasionally dwarfed and stunted brush, odorous with the faint dew of night, reached out and touched his face as he followed up and up with ever the forbidding lances of granite sharp edged against the sky. From the plain below there was not even an indication that progress would be possible for any human being over the range of shattered rock, and he was surprised to turn a corner and find Tula helping Miguel from the saddle in a little nook where scant herbage grew.

  “No, not in this place we camp,” she said. “It is good only to hide saddles and rest for my father. Dawn is on the trail, and the other packs must come.”

  He would have remonstrated about a return trip, but she held up her hand.

  “It must be, if you would live,” she said. “The eyes of you have not yet seen what they are to see, it is not to be told. All hiding must be with care, or–––”

  She made swift pantomime of sighting along a gun barrel at him, and even in the shadows he could fancy the deadly half closing of her ungirlish eyes. Tula did not play gaily.

  Tired as he was, Kit grinned.

  “You win,” he said. “Let’s hit what would be the breeze if this fried land could stir one up.”

  They plodded back without further converse, secured the packs, and this time it was Rhodes who led, as there appeared no possible way but the one they had covered. Only once did he make a wrong turn and a sharp “s-st” from the girl warned him of the mistake.

  They found Miguel asleep, and Kit Rhodes would willingly have sunk down beside him and achingly striven for the same forgetfulness, but Tula relentlessly shook Miguel awake, got him on the burro, unerringly designated the food bag in the dark, and started again in the lead.

  “I reckon you’re some sort of Indian devil,” decided Kit, shouldering the bag. “No mere mortal ever made this trail or kept it open.”

  Several times the towering walls suggested the bottom of a well, and as another and another loomed up ahead, he gloomily prophesied an ultimate wall, and the need of wings.

  Then, just as the first faint light began in the eastern heavens, he was aware that the uneven trail was going down and down, zig-zagging into a ravine like a great gray bowl, and the bottom of it filled with shadows of night.

  The girl was staggering now with exhaustion though she would not confess it. Once she fell, and he lifted her thinking she was hurt, but she clung to him, shaking from weakness, but whispering, “Pronto, pronto!”

  “Sure!” he agreed, “all the swiftness the outfit can muster.”

  Curious odors came to him from the shadowy bowl, not exactly a pleasing fragrance, yet he knew it––But his mind refused to work. As the trail grew wider, and earth was under his feet instead of rock slivers and round boulders, he discovered that he was leading the burro, the grub sack over his shoulder, and with the other arm was supporting the girl, who was evidently walking with closed eyes, able to progress but not to guide herself.

  Then there was the swish-swish of grasses about their feet and poor Bunting snatched mouthfuls as all three staggered downward. The light began to grow, and somewhere in the shadowy bowl there was the most blest sound known in the desert, the gurgle of running water!

  “We hear it––but we can’t believe it––old Buntin’,” muttered Kit holding the burro from steady and stubborn attempts to break away, “and you are just loco enough to think you smell it.”

  Then suddenly their feet struck rock again, not jagged or slippery fragments, but solid paving, and a whiff of faint mist drifted across his face in the gray of the first dawn, and the burro craned his neck forward at the very edge of a black rock basin where warm vapor struck the nostrils like a soporific.

  The girl roused herself at a wordless exclamation from Rhodes, and began automatically helping Miguel from the saddle, and stripping him to the breechcloth.

  Kit’s amazement startled him out of his lethargy of exhaustion. It was light enough now to see that her eyes were bloodshot, and her movements quick with a final desperation.

  “There!” she said and motioned towards a shelving place in the rock, “there––medicine––all quick!”

  She half lifted the staggering, unconscious Indian, and Kit, perceiving her intention, helped her with Miguel to the shallow edge of the basin where she rolled him over until he was submerged to the shoulder in the shallow bath, cupping her hands she scooped water and drenched his face.

  “Why,––it’s warm!” muttered Kit.

  “Medicine,” said Tula, and staggered away.

  How Rhodes shed his own garments and slipped into the basin beside Miguel he never knew, only he knew he had found an early substitute for heaven. It was warm sulphur water,––tonic, refreshing and infinitely soothing to every sore muscle and every frazzled nerve. He ducked his head in it, tossed some more over the head and shoulders of the sleeping Indian, and then, submerged to his arms, he promptly drifted into slumber himself.

  He wakened to the sound of Baby Bunting pawing around the grub pack. Hunger was his next conviction, for the heavenly rest in the medicine bath had taken every vestige of weariness away. He felt lethargic from the sulphur fumes, and more sleep was an enticing thought, yet he put it from him and got into his clothes after the use of a handkerchief as a bath towel. Miguel still slept and Kit bent over him in some concern, for the sleep appeared curiously deep and still, the breath coming lightly, yet he did not waken when lifted out of the water and covered with a poncho in the shade of a great yucca.


  “I reckon it’s some dope in these hot springs,” decided Kit. “I feel top heavy myself, and won’t trouble him till I’ve rustled some grub and have something to offer. Well, Buntin’, we are all here but the daughter of the Glen,” he said, rescuing the grub sack, “and if she was a dream and you inveigled me here by your own diabolical powers, I’ve a hunch this is our graveyard; we’ll never see the world and its vanities again!”

  A bit of the blue and scarlet on a bush above caught his eye. It was the belt of Tula, and he went upwards vaguely disturbed that he had drifted into ease without question of her welfare.

  He found her emerging from a smaller rock basin, her one garment dripping a wet trail as she came towards him. There was no smile in her greeting, but a look of content, of achievement.

  “My father,” she said, “he is–––”

  “Sleeping beyond belief! good medicine sleep, I hope.”

  She nodded her head comprehendingly, for she had done the impossible and had triumphed. She looked at the sack of food he held.

  “There is one place for fire, and other water is there. Come, it is to you.”

  She struck off across the sun-bathed little grass plot to a jumble of rock where a cool spring emerged, ran only a few rods, and sank again out of sight. The shattered rock was as a sponge, so completely was the water sucked downward again. Marks of burro’s hoofs were there.

  “Baby Buntin’ been prospecting while we wallowed in the dope bath,” said Kit.

  “Maybe so, maybe not,” uttered the Indian child, if such she could be called after the super-woman initiative of that forbidding trail. She was down on her knees peering at the tracks in the one little wet spot below the spring.

  “Two,” she said enigmatically. “That is good, much good. It will be meat.”

  Then she saw him pulling dry grasses and breaking branches of scrub growth for a fire, and she stood up and motioned him to follow. They were in a narrow, deep ravine separated from the main one by the miniature plain of lush grass, a green cradle of rest in the heart of the gray hills. She went as directly upward as the broken rock would permit, and suddenly he followed her into a blackened cave formed by a great granite slab thrusting itself upwards and enduring through the ages when the broken rock had shattered down to form an opposite wall. And the cloud bursts of the desert had swept through, and washed the sands clear, leaving a high black roof slanting upwards to the summit.