CHAPTER XX.
THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAIL.
Had Jeffries Mayberry and Rob Blake possessed the wonderfully sensitiveintuition of the Indian agent's beautiful horse, they might have beenable to feel, as they set out from the shanty in the clearing, that theywere being followed and observed by more than one pair of cruel, beadyeyes. Not being endowed with any such faculties, however, they followedthe trail without any misgivings.
The Indian agent, fortunately, had the good sense to accept theuneasiness of his steed as a sign of nearby danger. He had, for thatreason, altered his previous determination to leave Rob behind in thehut till he returned with the soldiers from Fort Miles. And it was wellthat he did so, as we shall see.
Hardly had the ring of Ranger's hoofs died out than a dozen dusky formsslid from the brush into the clearing and looked cautiously about.Seeing no cause for alarm, they entered the shanty and stripped it ofeverything they considered valuable. The Moquis, for such they were,then returned to the spot where they had tethered their ponies, and tookthe trail after Mayberry and his young companion. It was the scent ofthe ponies that had aroused Ranger's uneasiness, although the Indians,with their customary caution, had, as has been said, tethered them somelittle distance from the shanty.
All that night, as Mr. Mayberry and his young companion rode steadilyforward toward Red Flat, the objective point at which the Indian agenthad determined to aim, the redskins stealthily dogged their tracks.Never by so much as an incautious move, however, did they betray theirpresence. Red Flat had been chosen as their destination by Mr. Mayberryon account of the superior attractions in point of distance it offeredto the other station of Sentinel Peak. It was out of his way, it istrue, but he determined to tax Ranger with the extra miles rather thanexpose Rob to peril, or keep him separated from his friends longer thanneedful.
It was early dawn when they clattered into Red Flat, a small settlementwith the essential store and post office. Its communication with theoutside world consisted of the telephone and a stage which once a daytrundled through. To the chagrin of the two travelers, however, thestore in which the 'phone was located had been locked up during itsowner's absence, and it was necessary to await his return before theycould use the instrument. This opportunity, as we know, did not occurbefore the afternoon. In the meantime, Rob had hired a pony from theblacksmith of the place, and started off for the Harkness ranch.
He had not been gone ten minutes when Ben Starkey, the storekeeper,drove into town. He had been off on a distant pasture, rounding up somesheep, which had kept him away till that time.
"Hullo, Mr. Mayberry," he hailed, as he saw the Indian agent. "Whatbrings you here? Come to buy a plow, or a shotgun to manage those'babies' of yours?"
"Neither," smiled the agent; "but if you will open up the store, Ben,I'd like to telephone."
"All right. Want to use the talk box, eh?" chattered the storekeeper, ashe unfastened sundry locks and bolts. "There you are. Now talk your headoff."
Presently, as we know, Mr. Mayberry was communicating the news of Rob'sastonishing rescue to Mr. Harkness. He also told him something that hehad not confided to Rob, and that was that he intended to hold thesoldiers in reserve and go by himself to the valley in which the snakedance was to be held, and, as he expressed it, "reason with the Moquis."
Now, there is little doubt that, had Black Cloud been in supreme controlof the tribe at that time, Mr. Mayberry, with his knowledge of the redmen, and the many little kindnesses he had done them, might have beenable to "reason with them." But, as has been said, conditions in thetribe were not normal. The unscrupulous Diamond Snake, who was asambitious as he was senseless, had determined on giving the snake dance,and equally determined that the logic of the little circle who stillkept their heads and counseled saner measures should not prevail.Unfortunately, the wisest counsel is not invariably the most acceptable,and so it proved in the case of the rival chiefs. Black Cloud was evenspoken of as "timid" by some of the young bucks. This, however, wasbehind his back, as none dared to fling such a taunt in the face of theveteran.
In counsel, Black Cloud, supported by three or four of the elderIndians, had pleaded the many years of comfort Mr. Mayberry had providedfor them. If they did nothing to thwart his wishes, he reasoned, thegood times would continue. If they deliberately rebelled, however, noone knew what would happen.
This sage advice had been jeered down by Diamond Snake's followers. Theancient lore of the tribe had been quoted, the spirits of theirancestors invoked, and Black Cloud denounced as a traitor to thetraditions of the Moquis. A similar situation has often prevailed inthe counsels of the white men, who vaunt themselves so much the redman's superiors. It was simply the case of one leader bowing to the willof the populace, the other sternly stemming the tide, bidding defianceto the element which he knows stands for what is wrong and foolish.
So it had come about that a band of young braves engaged in hunting hadstumbled across Mr. Mayberry's hiding place, and, having discovered it,had decided that it was their duty to trail its occupant, whom they notunnaturally, perhaps, regarded as their enemy.
No such thoughts were in Jeffries Mayberry's mind, however, as he rodeslowly out of Red Flat in the early twilight. On the contrary, a smileplayed about his usually rather stern features, and his wholecountenance was relaxed in an expression which, to any one viewing him,would have said as plain as print that Jeffries Mayberry was in apleasant mood.
In fact, the crisis that he had feared seemed to the Indian agent's mindto have passed the crucial point. The cavalry from Fort Miles would beat Sentinel Peak that evening. From there it was not a long ride to thevalley in which the dance was to be held. By midnight, he felt certain,things would be in train for the peaceful return of the Moquis to theirreservation. Jeffries Mayberry was, as our readers have doubtlessdecided by this time, a man to whom the idea of bloodshed or violencewas abhorrent, but also a man who looked upon duty unflinchingly. Heregarded the Moquis more as children to be looked after, and chided, andreasoned with, than as bloodthirsty and cruel savages, in whom a thinveneer of civilization only skinned the savagery festering below. Menhad often told Jeffries Mayberry that his view of the Indian characterwas wrong, but he had always defended his views. They were shortlydestined to be put to the severest test a man's theories ever werecalled upon to bear.
The Indian agent had ridden easily down the trail some two miles or soin the direction of Sentinel Mountain, when Ranger suddenly swerved soviolently from the trail as almost to unseat him.
"Steady, boy, steady!" soothed the agent, patting the alarmed animal'sneck. "What is it?"
Ranger snorted violently and then, trembling in every limb, came to adead stop.
"Why, Ranger, I----" began Mr. Mayberry, when, with hideous yells,several dark forms rushed from the surrounding gloom. As theirsoul-chilling yell burst from those hideously painted faces, distortedwith the vilest of passions, a terrific blow was dealt the Indian agentfrom behind, and he fell forward, almost beneath the trampling hoofs ofthe maddened Ranger.
His assailants were the same Indians who had been trailing him all theprevious night, and who had lain in wait for him outside the settlement.
The taste of blood is said to transmute a hitherto peaceful sheep doginto a creature more dangerous to his flock than even a marauding wolf.In like manner, the Moquis' dash off the reservation had converted theminto a ferocity of mind which had speedily wiped off the varnishcivilization had applied so painstakingly.
While one of the Indians, seemingly the leader of the band, possessedhimself of the agent's fine rifle, another hastened to seize theplunging Ranger's bridle. But the animal, beside himself with rage andfear, reared straight upright. Angered, the Indian dealt him a blow witha heavy rawhide quirt. With a squeal of rage, Ranger struck with hisiron-shod forefeet at the redskin, and striking him on the head, toppledhim over in the road beside his master.
The fellow, however, was not badly hurt, and was soon on his feet again.Meanwhile, the o
ther red men hoisted the agent's unconscious form overthe back of one of their ponies.
Jeffries Mayberry lay as if he were dead. Blood flowed from the woundthat the weapon with which he had been struck had inflicted on the backof his head. Only the regular rising and falling of his deep, massivechest showed that he still lived.
Glancing furtively about them, the Indians, including the one who hadbeen felled by Ranger, remounted and prepared to proceed. The chief,however, on whose pony the still form of Jeffries Mayberry lay, foundhimself thus without a mount, and essayed to ride Ranger. Splendid rideras the fellow was, he met more than his match in the Indian agent'ssteed. Time and again he attempted to mount, only to be driven off byRanger, who rushed at the member of the hated race, with bared teeth andears wickedly set back.
With a laugh that acknowledged his defeat, the Indian finally gave upthe attempt, and mounted his pony, sitting far back on the animal'srump. In the glance he threw at the fiery Ranger there was an expressionof admiration and respect. There are few horses that an Indian cannotmaster.
Attempts to lead Ranger proved equally hopeless, but as he seemed to beinclined to follow his master's form, they allowed him to trail behind.And so the procession wound on, sometimes following a trail andsometimes striking off through the trackless wild. Never once did theredskins falter, but kept on as unhesitatingly as if following a beatentrack.
Occasionally, as they journeyed on, poor Ranger gave vent to a patheticwhinny, but the master he loved so well lay still and motionless on theback of the Indian pony that bore him.