*CHAPTER X*
_*In the Enemy's Camp*_
In a little fold of the hills we made our camp, somewhere about two inthe morning, I should think.
Donoghue rolled off his horse at a word from Apache Kid, and stoodyawning and grunting, but Apache Kid had his partner's blankets undonein a twinkling and bade him lie down and go to sleep. Then he hobbledthe horses and, sitting down on his own blanket-roll, which he had notundone:
"Could you eat anything?" said he.
"Eat!" I ejaculated.
"Well, sleep, then?" he said.
"Aye, I could sleep," said I. "I should like to sleep never to awaken."
"As bad as that?" said he.
"Look here," said I. "I 've just been thinking that I----" and Istopped.
Something was creeping stealthily along the ridge of the cup in which wesat, and the horses were all snorting, drowning the sound of Donoghue'sdeep breathing.
"It's only a coyote," said Apache Kid, looking up in the direction of mygaze. "You look tired, my boy," he added in a kindlier voice. "Well,if these fellows are going to sit round us, I suppose I 'd better make afire; but I did n't want to. We 'll make a small one. You know whatthe Indians say: 'Indian make small fire and lie close; white man makebig fire and lie heap way off. White man dam fool!' And there is somesense in it. We don't want to light a beacon to-night, anyway."
So saying, he rose and cried "Shoo!" to the skulking brutes that wentround and round our hollow, showing lean and long against the sky.
I watched him going dim and shadowy along the hill-front, wherecontorted bushes waved their arms now and then in the night wind. Hetook a small axe with him, from the pouch of his saddle, and I heard theclear "ping" of it now and then after he himself was one with thebushes. And there I sat with my weary thoughts beside the snoring manand the horses huddling close behind me, as though for my company, andthe prowl, prowl of the coyotes round and round me. Then suddenly theselatter scattered again and Apache Kid returned, like a walking treebeside the pale sky, and made up a fire and besought me to lie down,which I had no sooner done than I fell asleep, for I was very weary.
Now and then I woke and heard far-off cries,--of wildcats, Isuppose,--and saw the stars twinkling in the heavens and the littleparcel of fire flickering at my feet; but the glow of Apache Kid'scigarette reassured me each time, and though once I thought of askinghim if he himself did not want to sleep, so heavy with sleep was I thatI sank again into oblivion ere the thought was fairly formed.
So it was morning at last, when I came again broad awake, and Apache Kidwas sitting over the fire with the frying-pan in hand. Indeed, thefirst thing I saw on waking was the flip he gave to the pan that sentthe pancake--or flapjack, as it is called--twirling in the air. And ashe caught it neatly on the undone side and put the pan again on theblaze (that the morning sunlight made a feeble yellow) I gathered thathe was catechising Donoghue, who sat opposite him staring at him veryhard across the fire.
"No," Larry was saying, "I got a horse all right, and gave out at thestable that I was going to the Placer Camp, and struck south rightenough and went into the bit where we were to meet and sat there waitingyou, and not a soul came nigh hand all the derned time."
"How do you know, when you acknowledge you were as drunk as drunk?"
"How do I know?" said Donoghue. "Why, drunk or sober, I never loseanything more than my speech."
"True," said Apache. "But you 're a disgusting sight when you aretrying to talk and----"
"Well, well; let that drop," said Donoghue. "I was sober enough to letthe wind out of that fellow that held up you two."
"Thanks to you," said Apache Kid. "Which reminds me that there may beothers on the track of us; though how these fellows followed so quickI----"
"O, pshaw!" said Donoghue. "You must have come away careless from BakerCity. I saw the stage comin' in from where I was layin', and I saw themtwo fellows comin' up half an hour after."
"O!" said Apache Kid, paying no heed to the charge of a carelessdeparture. "And anybody else suspicious-looking?"
Donoghue shook his head. But the meal was now ready, and I do not knowwhen I enjoyed a meal as I did that flapjack and the bacon and the bigcanful of tea made with water from a creek half a mile along the hill,as Apache Kid told me, so that I knew he had been busy before I awoke.I felt a little easier at the heart now than on the night before, andless inclined to renounce my agreement and return. But suddenly, as wewere saddling up again, the thought of those dead men came into my head;and though of a certainty they had been evil men, yet the thought thatthese two with me had taken human lives gave me a "grew," as the Scotssay.
I turned about and looked at my companions.
"Would you be annoyed if I suggested turning back?" I asked, comingright to the point.
It was Donoghue who answered.
"Guess we would n't be annoyed; but you would n't get leave, you dirtyturncoat."
But Apache turned wrathfully on him.
"Turncoat?" he cried. "Do you think he wants to go down and give usaway? If you do, you 're off the scent entirely. It 's the thought ofthose dead men that has sickened him of coming."
"O, pshaw!" cried Donoghue, grinning. "Sorry I spoke, Francis. There's my fist; shake. Never mind the dead men."
We "shook," but I have to say that I did not relish the feel of thathand, somehow. He was a man, this, who lived in a different world frommine.
"Why, sure you can go back, if you like," said he. And then suddenly hecaught himself up and said: "No, no, for the love of God don't do that!Apache Kid and me don't do with being alone in the mountains."
On one point at least this man felt deeply, it would appear.
"Well," said Apache Kid to me. "That's a better tone of Donoghue's. Tobeseech a favour is always better than to threaten or to attemptcoercion and I must add my voice to his and ask you to come on with us.Though personally," he added, "had I once made a compact with anyone, Iwould carry it through to the bitter end."
"I should never have suggested this," said I, feeling reproved. "I willnot mention it again."
This was the end of my uncertainty, and we rode on through the June daytill we came to the north part of the Kettle River, gurgling andbubbling and moving in itself with sucking, oily whirlpools, andtravelled beside it a little way and then left it at the bend where itseethed black and turbid with a sound like a herd bellowing.
The creek we came to at noon was kindlier, with a song in place of acry; swift flowing it was, so that it nearly took our horses from theirfeet as we crossed it, or the nigher half of it, rather (for we campedon an islet in the midst of it and the second crossing was shallower andeasy), but, though swift as the Kettle, it made one lightsome instead ofdespondent to see. The sun shone down into its tessellated bed, all thepebbles gleaming. The rippling surface sparkled and near the islet wasdappled over with the thin shadows of the birches that stood therebalancing and swaying. And scarcely had we begun our meal when we hearda clatter midst the pebbles and a splashing in the water, and there camean old Indian woman on a tall horse, with a white star on its forehead,and pots and kettles hanging on either side of it. It came up withdripping belly out of the creek and went slapping past us in the sandand the old dame's slit of a mouth widened and her eyes brightened on usunder the glorious kerchief she wore about her head.
"How do," said my companion, and she nodded to us, passed on, and thebabe slung on her back stared at us with wide eyes.
For an hour after that they came in twos and threes, men and women, theyoung folk laughing and chatting among themselves, giving the lie againto all tales of an Indian never smiling. It was a great sight to me andI can never forget that islet in the Kettle River. Not one of thepeople stopped to talk. The men and the old women gave us "How do" anddrew themselves up erect in their saddles. The younger women smiled,showing white teeth to us in a quick flash and then looking away.
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Apache Kid was radiant. "They're a fine people, these," said he.
"Yes," said Donoghue, "when you 've got a gun and keep them at adistance."
"Nonsense," cried Apache Kid. "I 've lived among them and I know."
"Yes, lived among 'em to buy 'em whisky, I guess, so as they could getround about the law."
"No," said Apache Kid, "never bought them a single bottle all the time Iwas with them."
I could see that Donoghue believed his partner, but I could see too thathe could not comprehend this story of living with the Indians for noobvious reason. He looked at Apache Kid as men look on one they cannotunderstand, but spoke no further word.
After we left that camp, as we struck away across the valley toward thefar-off range, we saw these folk still on the other mountainside andcaught the occasional flash of the sunlight on a disk, maybe, or on amirror, or the polished heel of a rifle swinging by the saddle; and thenwe lost sight of them among the farther woods.
That picturesque sight did a deal to lighten my heart. Apache Kid, too,was mightily refreshed the rest of the afternoon, and spun many anIndian yarn which Donoghue heard without any suggestion of disbelief.But it was no picnic excursion we were out upon. We had come into thehollow of the hills. We were indeed at the end of the foothills, andacross the valley before us the mountains rose sheer, as though shuttingus into this vale. To right, the east, was a wooded hill, parallel withwhich we now rode; and to left cliffs climbed upwards with shelvingplaces here and there on their front, very rugged and savage.
Donoghue nodded in the direction of a knoll ahead of us, and said:"Shall we camp at the old spot? It's gettin' nigh sundown; anyway, Iguess we've done our forty to fifty mile already."
"Yes," said Apache Kid. "It's a good spot."
"You've been here before?" I inquired.
My two companions looked in each other's eyes with a meaning glance.
"Yes, we 've been here before," said Donoghue, and I had the idea thatthere was something behind this. So there was; but I was not to hearit--then.
Suddenly we all three turned about at the one instant for a far-off"Yah-ah-ah-ah!" came to us.
There, behind us, we saw two riders, and they were posting along in ourtrack at great speed.
We reined up and watched them, Apache Kid drawing his Winchester acrosshis saddle pommel, and Donoghue following suit, I, for my part,slackening my revolver in the holster.
Nearer they came, bending forward their heads to the wind of theirpassage and the dust drifting behind them in two spiral clouds. Then Isaw that one was a white man with a great, fluttering beard; the otheran Indian, or half-breed. And just at the moment that I recognised thebearded man Apache Kid cried out: "Why! It's the proprietor of theHalf-Way-to-Kettle House."
"What in hell do he want up here?" said Donoghue. "Lead?"
They came down on us in the approved western fashion, with a swirl and arush, stopping short with a jerk and the horses' sides going likebellows.
"Good day, gentlemen," said the man of the beard. "Are you gentlemenaware that there's no less than seven gentlemen followin' you up,thirstin' for your money or your life-blood or something?"
"Well, sir," said Apache Kid, "it does not surprise me to hear of it."
"So," said the shaggy-bearded, whose name, by the way, was J. D.Pinkerton, for all who passed by to read above hishostel--"Half-Way-Rest Hotel--Prop.: J. D. Pinkerton," so ran the legendthere.
"So," he repeated again, and again and took the tangle from his beard."Well, I reckon from what I saw of two of you gentlemen already that youdon't jest need to be spoon-fed and put in your little cot at by-bytime, but--well, you see my daughter--she has a way o' scarin' me whenshe puts it on. And she says: 'Dad,' she says, 'if you don't go andwarn them, their blood will be on your head should anything happen tothem.' Now, I don't want no blood on my head, gentlemen. And then shesays: 'Well, if you don't go, I 'll jest have to go myself withCharlie--this is Charlie--Charlie, gentlemen--a smart boy, a good boy,great hand at tracking stolen stock and the like employ. An oldprospector had seen you, and by good luck he stopped us, and by betterluck I was polite for once and listened to his chin-chin, and so weheard where you had got off the waggon road. After that it was allchild's play to Charlie here."
"We owe you our thanks, sir," said Apache, and then the moodiness wentfrom his face, and he said in a cheerful tone: "But they may never findout what way we 've gone. You see it was a mere chance, your meetingthat prospector and being told of the point at which we left the road."
"That's so," said Mr. Pinkerton: "but still there's chances, you know."
"Oh, yes," said Apache Kid, and again: "We owe you our thanks," said he.
"Not you, not you!" said Mr. Pinkerton.
"But what sort of outfit is this that you have come to post us upabout?"
"Why, just as dirty a set of greazers as ever stole stock, and they mustsit there talkin' away about you in the dining-room after they had toldmy daughter they was through with their dinner; and my cook heard 'emfrom his pantry--told my lass--she told me--I'm tellin' you--there youhave the whole thing,--how they 're to dog you up and wait till you getto your Lost Cabin. And now we 're here. But I want to let youknow--for I 'm a proud man and would n't like any suspicions, thoughthey might be nat'ral enough for you to harbour--want just to let youknow that as for what you 're after--this yere Lost Cabin,--I don't givethat for it," and he snapped his fingers. "I 've got all a rational manwants. But we 'll chip in with you, if you think of waiting on a bit tosee if you 're followed."
"Sir," said Apache Kid, "I have to thank you again. I have to thankyou, and your daughter through you, and your cook; but I must beg of youto get back."
"Pshaw!" cried Pinkerton. "What's that for?"
"Well--this may be a bloody business, sir, if we are followed, and itwould be the saddest thing imaginable----" he broke off and askedabruptly:
"Pardon the question, sir, but is Mrs. Pinkerton alive?"
"My good wife is in her resting grave in Old Kentucky," said Pinkertonin a new voice.
"That settles it, sir," said Apache Kid. "It would be a sad thing tothink of that fine girl down at the Half-Way House as an orphan."
Pinkerton frowned.
"When you put it that way," said he, "you take all the fight out ofJ.D."
"Then I must even beg you to be gone, sir, before there is any chance ofpursuit by these men," said Apache Kid. "If we come back alive, we mayall call and thank you again, and Miss Pinkerton too. I beg of you togo and take care of meeting them on the way."
"Well, boys, luck to you all, then," and round he wheeled and away witha swirl of leather while the half-breed laid the quirt, that swung athis wrist, to his lean pony's flanks and, with a nod to us, shot afterMr. Pinkerton.
We watched them till they had almost crested the rise and there suddenlythey stopped, wheeled, and next moment had dismounted.
"What's wrong?" said Donoghue. "Something wrong there."
"It looks as if the chance Pinkerton spoke of was against us after all,"said Apache Kid, quietly.
We were not left long in doubt, for a puff of smoke rose near thebackbone of the rise and a flash of a rifle and then seven mounted menswept down on these two.
We saw the half-breed tug at his horse's head; saw the brute sink downto its knees, saw the half-breed fling himself on his belly behind it,and then his rifle flashed.
The seven riders spread out as they charged down on the two and at theflash of the rifle we saw one of them fall from the saddle and his horserear and wheel, then spin round and dash madly across the valley,dragging the fallen rider by a stirrup for quite a way, with a hideousbumping and rebounding.
But it was on the two dismounted men on the hill-front that my attentionwas concentrated, and round them the remaining six of their assailantswere now circling.
"Come on!" cried Apache Kid.
He dropped the reins of our pack-horse to the ground and remarked: "She'll
not go far with the rein like that and the pack on her."
Next moment we three were tituping along the valley in the direction ofthe two held-up men.
Apache Kid was a little ahead of me, Donoghue a length behind, butDonoghue's mount would not suffer us to go in that order long. With asnort it bore Donoghue abreast of me and I clapped my heels to theflanks of my beast. Next moment we were all in line, with the windwhistling in our ears. The six men who seemed to be parleying withPinkerton and the half-breed, suddenly catching sight of us in ourcharge, I suppose, wheeled about and went at a wild gallop, with dirtflying from their horses' hoofs, slanting across the hill.
And then I had an exhibition of Donoghue's madness.
He cried out an oath, the most terrible I ever heard, and, "Come on,boys," he shouted to us.
"Yes, let's settle it to-day," came Apache's voice.
"Right now!" cried Donoghue, and away we went after the fugitives.
I saw the reason for this action at once; for to put an end to these mennow would be the only sure way to make certain of an undisputed tenancyof the Lost Cabin. Indeed, their very flight in itself was enough tosuggest not so much that they were afraid of us (for Pinkerton had giventhem the name of fearless scoundrels) as that they did not want anencounter yet--that their time had not yet come. But for Pinkerton,they might have followed up quietly the whole way to our goal. Thanksto him, we knew of them following. This, though not their time tofight, was our time.
Suddenly I saw Donoghue, who was ahead, rear his horse clean back on toits haunches and next moment he was down on a knee beside it, and, justas I came level with him, his rifle spoke and in a voice scarcely humanhe cried, "Got 'im! Got 'im! The son of a dog!"
And sure enough, there was a riderless horse among the six and a man allasprawl in the sunshine before us.
But at that the flying men wheeled together and all five of them were ontheir feet before Apache Kid and I could draw rein. I heard a riflesnap again behind me, whether Apache Kid's or Donoghue's I did not know,and then, thought I, "If I stop here, I 'm done for; I 've got to keepgoing."
The same thought must have been in Apache Kid's mind for I heard thequick patter of his pony as it came level with me. He passed me and heand I--I now a length behind him--came level with the five men clusteredthere behind their horses and the horse of the fallen man, Apache cryingto me:
"Try a flying shot at them."
He fired at that, and a yell rose in the group and I saw one man falland then I up with my revolver and let fly at one of the fellows who waslooking at me along his gun-barrel.
And just at that moment it struck me, in the midst of all the flutteringexcitement, that they let Apache Kid go by without a shot. But right onmy shot my horse went down--his foot in a badger hole--and thoughafterwards I found that I had slain the horse that the fellow who wasaiming at me was using as a bastion, I knew nothing of that then--for Ismashed forward on my head.
The last thing I heard was the snort of pain that my horse gave, and thefirst thing, when I awakened, that I was aware of was that I was lyingon my back looking up at the glaring sky, a great throbbing going on inmy head.
My hands were tied together behind my back and my ankles also trussed upin a similar manner.
I was in the wrong camp. I had fallen somehow into the hands of ourenemies.