The Red Mustang

Chapter XXXV.

HAND TO HAND BY FIRELIGHT

Colonel Evans and Captain Moore were vexed more deeply than they could have told by the escape of Ping. How it had been accomplished was a mystery. It was of no use whatever to lay the blame upon the Chiricahuas, or to ask them any questions. Each had been able to render a seemingly good account of himself, and each had taken the occasion to declare his undying enmity to Kah-go-mish and all his band. They did not tell how much better they felt, now that Ping's part of the "bad medicine" which threatened them had galloped away.

As for Tah-nu-nu, she had never before known what it was to feel lonesome. So long as Ping had been in the camp she had been able to keep up her spirits, but now even her pride almost broke down, and if she had not been the daughter of a great chief she could have cried about it all.

One of the two securities for Cal's safe return having disappeared, there was sure to be greater care taken of the other. Sam Herrick had probably never said "Colorado!" more emphatically than he did when he added: "Well, now, I'd like to see that gal git away. She won't!"

Cal should have had still greater security held for him by his friends instead of less, for the events of the previous night had by no means ended when the squaw and pack-mule part of the Apache encampment succeeded in getting out into the open desert.

The Mexican commander had made all his plans with caution as well as with skill, and their nature had been but imperfectly reported to Kah-go-mish. That chief knew that his assailants were drawing near the camp, through the woods, on foot, in three detachments. He knew that each body of soldiers was too strong for him to face, and that all had been cavalry before they dismounted. He was sure, therefore, that away in the rear of all must be a drove of several hundreds of horses. What he did not calculate upon was the strength and vigilance of the detachment left in charge of those horses.

When, therefore, the Apache camp was abandoned, and all its treasures of quadrupeds and stores had been hurried out of harm's way, Kah-go-mish did not go with his family and household goods. He and a score of his best warriors rode away upon an errand worthy of so great a commander. They made a wide circuit, along the edge of the plain, entered the deep forest once more, dismounted, tied their horses, and pushed rapidly forward on foot. They were in the rear of the attacking columns, and were very near to the rear-guard and its drove when the Mexicans dashed in upon the camp.

Creeping from tree to tree, nearer and nearer, the chief and his chosen braves reached the right spot and were entirely ready for the dash which they also had prepared at the moment when they heard the rattling volleys, the shouts, and the bugle-calls.

Small fires had been kindled by the Mexican rear-guard, and there were torches here and there, but these were not enough. The darkness was still sufficient to conceal from the creeping Apaches the fact that the Mexican commander had left a hundred men to guard his precious quadrupeds. He had stationed them well, also, and they were on the alert for Indians.

Loud rang the war-whoops of Kah-go-mish and his daring followers, and their rifles cracked rapidly for a half-minute before they sprang out of their cover. Not many bullets could be expected to reach a human mark by firelight and torchlight. Very few soldiers were touched, but quite a number of horses received wounds which made them give tenfold effect to the panic and fright produced by the yells and rifle-reports. Neighing, kicking, screaming, the entire drove broke loose as the Apaches dashed in among them, and the shadowy woods around were full of trampling hoofs.

As a military manœuvre, the plan of Kah-go-mish had thus far been a complete success, for he wanted only a stampede, and had no idea of capturing any of those horses. There, however, his success ended. The drove was scattered, so that there could be no immediate pursuit of him and his, but the Mexican militia had not been stampeded. They stood their ground like brave fellows, and closed in at once upon the whooping red-men.

Bitter was the wrath of Kah-go-mish, for he found himself outnumbered several times. Half of his own warriors had instantly disappeared among the trees, as was their duty. The other half went down around him, man by man, whooping, firing swift and deadly shots, but well aware that for once their trusted leader had led them into a death-trap.

There came a lurid moment when he stood alone, in front of one of the blazing heaps of light-wood, surrounded on all sides by men who had drawn their sabres because they could not use firearms for fear of hitting one another.

Calm and ringing was the whoop of defiance with which he stood at bay, a revolver in one hand and a bowie-knife in the other.

"Kah-go-mish is a great chief!" he shouted.

Another whoop sprang to his lips, but it was not completed. There were flashes of steel blades in the shadows around him, and he fell heavily upon the grass.

The Mexican commander was as much astonished by the sounds of battle behind him as he had been by the deserted condition of the camp he had intended to surprise. He ordered his three detachments to wheel at once, but they were impeded by the part of the stampeded drove which rushed in their direction. There were shouts and exclamations all along the line as the frightened animals broke through, but the officers held their men well in hand and pushed steadily forward. It was all a riddle until they marched out at the line of corral camp-fires. There were the rear-guard, drawn up in perfect order, except a few who were out in the woods gathering horses, and a few who were wounded, and a few more who would never mount again.

Explanations were promptly made, and the officer commanding the rear-guard was warmly commended.

"The Apache chief fell," he said. "Kah-go-mish."

"What?" exclaimed the commander. "Kah-go-mish? That is enough. It was worth what it cost."

An hour or so later all that was left, a dozen out of the score who had ridden with the chief, caught up with their band. They came in silence until they were very near. The entire train halted, and a sort of shudder seemed to run through it. Not so should a war-party have returned, under the leadership of Kah-go-mish. There should have been a well-known voice, sounding its accustomed whoop of triumph. Instead of it another voice arose, long drawn and mournfully. It was the death-whoop of the Apaches, and it was answered by a woman's involuntary wail, for Wah-wah-o-be knew that the signal had been given for Kah-go-mish.

Crooked Nose had not been with the chief's party, but had ridden by Cal as a special keeper. The instant he heard the death-whoop he turned to his charge and said, in a not unfriendly manner: "Pull stick got bad manitou. Ugh! All Apache heap mad. Heap kill. Great chief gone dead. All paleface die. Heap bad medicine."

Chapter XXXVI.

HOW CAL WAS LEFT ALL ALONE

All that Crooked Nose had said about the grief and wrath of the Apaches over the loss of Kah-go-mish was true, but Cal seemed for a few hours to be almost forgotten.

"Tan-tan-e-o-tan is a great chief," said the warrior upon whom the direction of affairs appeared as a matter of course to fall.

He was the short, intoed, bow-legged brave who had been accustomed to command in the now dead leader's absence, and he had never yet told anybody how much he envied and hated Kah-go-mish. His first duty was to get away from the Mexicans without losing any more braves or horses, and there was no time for mourning. He then saw before him an immediate path to safety if not to glory, and he determined to follow it. He did not know that he had determined to carry out the great plan of Kah-go-mish.

Very faint and difficult to find or follow was the trail left upon the sun-baked, wind-swept gravel of the plains by the dejected Mescalero cavalcade. It was several hours before Tan-tan-e-o-tan and his warriors deemed it safe to turn again towards the line of forest and find a new camp-ground.

They knew that they were in no immediate danger, for the Mexican cavalry could undertake no pursuit that night. Even when morning came a large part of the horses Kah-go-mish had stampeded were yet roving through the woods. Scouting parties were sent out in all directions, however, and a courier was hurried away with the news of the destruction of the dangerous chief and of the eight warriors who had fallen with him. Unlucky Colonel Romero, two days' journey westward, was at the same hour penning a sad despatch announcing the loss of his mules and supplies.

Tah-nu-nu once more awoke as a prisoner in the hands of the pale-faces, and the first thought which came to her was that Ping was gone and that she was alone. A remarkably good breakfast was provided for her, and while she was eating it she heard Captain Moore say, with emphasis: "You are right, Colonel Evans. Your best plan is to strike for home by the shortest road. You won't hear one word more about Cal before you get there. What Kah-go-mish means is plain. He wants to keep as many of your horses as he can and trade your boy for his girl. He can't stay in Mexico. You'll hear from him at Santa Lucia. My trip is ended and I'm willing to push as fast as ever you wish."

Tah-nu-nu asked the Chiricahuas about it soon afterwards, and then she knew that she was to be taken to the lodge of the long cowboy chief, and kept there until Kah-go-mish should come and pay ponies for her. It was an awful thing for an Indian girl to think of, but there was no help for it, and she mounted her pony, sure of being well guarded. It was Sam Herrick's turn or Bill's, to ride by her side whenever the colonel was not there. The Chiricahuas were not needed any more, considering what had become of The-boy-whose-ear-pushed-away-a-piece-of-lead.

They did not, indeed, know what had become of him. Perhaps the old Chiricahua guessed that he had been hidden among the "heap rock" bowlders and crags at one time, and knew why Tah-nu-nu did not join him. Even for the dusky scouts all was guess-work beyond that.

Somewhat so had it been to Ping himself, but he had not listened to all the wise words of his father and the elders of his band for nothing. Even the stories told him by Wah-wah-o-be had been full of instruction. From one of these, concerning the feats performed by a great brave of the Apaches, he had derived lessons which had just now been of value to him. So had the uncommon size of the Reservation-collection trousers which had fallen to his share. Even after they were cut off at the knee there was room in them for another boy of his size. The pockets were so many canvas caves, and they were pretty well filled. Any boy knows that a pocket will hold a large part of his property if he keeps on putting things in, and Ping had put in everything he or Tah-nu-nu could lay their hands on. The pale-faces had his bow and arrows, but he had collected their full value. One trouser leg concealed a bowie-knife and the other a revolver. There were hooks and lines in one pocket and some cartridges, with some hard-tack. A large chunk of boiled beef was in another, and it was plain that the Chiricahuas had done something to prevent a famine to Ping from bringing upon them more of the "bad medicine" of Kah-go-mish. Unless he should meet with enemies or with too wide a desert, Ping was fairly well provided for a hunting and fishing excursion. He had never in all his life felt so proud and warrior-like as when he rode out from among the crags and wheeled his pony southward to find the trail of his people. He did not reach it that day, but when he made his lonely camp-fire at night, ate for supper some fish he had caught and the last of his chunk of beef, he would have been all over comfortable and satisfied if only Tah-nu-nu had been with him instead of being a long day's march nearer Santa Lucia.

That same night was by no means so comfortable for Cal. Tan-tan-e-o-tan had not so much as spoken to him all day long, but neither had he spoken to Wah-wah-o-be. He had seemed to grow haughtier and more gloomy from hour to hour, and had given orders as if he had been Kah-go-mish and a trifle more. The march had been through as much desert and chaparral and rocky ground as was convenient, and an early camp was made in order that the four-footed wealth of the band might have a long rest and a good feed. Tan-tan-e-o-tan declared that they would need it, since the next day's trail would be through mountain-passes.

"Good!" said Wah-wah-o-be. "Do what Kah-go-mish say. Heap bad Indian. Ugh!"

The band had lost its chief and some warriors, but it was rich in horses, ponies, and mules. Part of these were doubtful property so long as the band remained in Mexico, but might not be so much so if carried north of the boundary line. The Santa Lucia quadrupeds, on the other hand, had no Mexican claimant, but would be poor property in the United States. These facts presented serious questions, and Tan-tan-e-o-tan reflected that Pull Stick was the only person in his camp who not only knew the whole story, but would be willing to tell it if he had a chance given him. There was much talk among the leading braves that night, as well as much mourning for Kah-go-mish and the fallen warriors. No decision was reached, and Crooked Nose told Cal that every friend of Wah-wah-o-be and her children had been opposed to "Make heap fire all over Pull Stick."

Wah-wah-o-be herself was too full of grief to say anything, and Cal was left with a pretty clear idea that his case was getting darker. It was not easy to keep up much courage, but he was very weary in mind and body, and he slept as well as any fellow could, lying on the bare ground with his hands tied behind. He was untied when morning came in order to eat his breakfast, and he was busily at work upon it when a great shout at the other side of the camp was answered by a positive yell of delight from Wah-wah-o-be.

"Ping! Ping!" she screamed, and added all the syllables of his best name.

There was a grand time after that, and The-boy-whose-ear-pushed-away-a-piece-of-lead was a hero and the most important person in the entire camp. Even Tan-tan-e-o-tan considered him so until his report was made as to what the blue-coats and cowboys were doing, and Wah-wah-o-be did not give it up then. She was comforted concerning Tah-nu-nu, while Ping listened with all the trained steadiness of an Indian brave to the dark, tidings of the death of Kah-go-mish.

He listened in silence, looking at Cal, and it may be that he had in his mind a picture of the first glimpse which he and Tah-nu-nu had had of the young pale-face horseman, for his next inquiry was concerning the "heap pony."

Wah-wah-o-be sprang from the ground, where she had seated herself for her recital. She darted away; and in a few minutes more Cal saw her return.

Well might Ping's delight break through his grief, for with one bound he was upon the back of the red mustang. Cal's belt, with its pistol and cartridge case, his repeating rifle, his elegant knife, even his Panama hat, were duly delivered to The-boy-whose-ear-pushed-away-a-piece-of-lead. Saddle and bridle and all, Ping had taken the place of Pull Stick as the master of the swiftest, toughest, best mustang in all southern New Mexico – just now in old Mexico.

Part of Ping's news had been that he had seen and been seen by a party of Mexican cavalry. There were not many of them, apparently, but he was now summoned to pilot some braves who were to ride out and take a distant look at them. Proud was he, and a proud squaw was Wah-wah-o-be when he rode away upon the red mustang.

It was a dark hour for Cal. The preparations for breaking camp went swiftly on. They had been nearly completed when Ping appeared, and now every pony and mule and horse was soon in motion. No pony was brought for Cal. Instead thereof came Tan-tan-e-o-tan, with a grim scowl upon his face. He was accompanied by a pair of Apaches as merciless as himself, and they had plainly determined to put away the one witness whose memory and tongue were dangerous to them. They did not see fit to use lead or steel or fire, but Cal was more securely staked out this time. No twig was driven into a gopher hole, and he was told, "Pull Stick get away now. Ugh! Medicine gone."

Their task accomplished, they remounted and rode away, leaving their victim alone and helpless in the shadowy forest.

Chapter XXXVII.

RESCUED BY THE RED MUSTANG

The scouting party of Mexican cavalry reported by Ping were few in number, and were a long distance from any support. They had been willing enough to follow the movements of a solitary Indian boy, but were not disposed for a skirmish with the braves who now rode out of the forest behind Tan-tan-e-o-tan. There would have been no brush at all if it had not been for the revengeful tumult in the heart of Ping, and for the fact that he was so splendidly armed and mounted.

The men in uniform yonder belonged to the troops who had slain Kah-go-mish, and Ping shouted, in Apache, "I am the son of a great chief!"

He disobeyed a warning whoop of Tan-tan-e-o-tan, for he was bent upon riding within range, and Dick bore him swiftly onward. All the warlike thoughts and hopes which make up the thoughts of an Indian boy were dancing wildly around in his fevered brain. He was a warrior, facing the ancient enemies of his race, the men who had killed his father.

Alas for Ping! Range for him was also range for the now retreating cavalry, and his one fruitless shot was replied to by a volley.

"Zst-ping!" he exclaimed, involuntarily shouting his own nickname, as the bullets whizzed past him, and then he felt suddenly sick and dizzy. One ball had not gone by.

Dick obeyed the rein and wheeled towards the forest, but after that he was left to his own guidance. Ping was not unconscious, and he clung proudly, courageously to his rifle – Cal's repeater. He held on to the pommel of the saddle with one hand, but he hardly knew more than that he was riding the "heap pony" – riding, riding, riding – somewhere.

Tan-tan-e-o-tan alone followed, at a considerable distance, the wounded son of Kah-go-mish, the other braves dashing away at once to join the band upon its eagerly pushed retreat into the mountains.

Under the shade of the forest trees, near the waning camp-fire at which Wah-wah-o-be had cooked his breakfast, lay poor Cal. For him, apparently, all hope had departed, for he had vainly struggled to loosen the forked stakes which held down his hands and his feet.

"I've no chance to pry," he groaned, "or I could do it;" but then that is the very reason why the red-men fasten their prisoners in that manner. Any man can pull up such a stick, if he can get a pry at it or even a direct pull.

"I shall die of hunger and thirst and mosquito bites," he said. "It's worse than killing one right off. It's as bad as fire could be!"

Just then he heard the sound of a horse's feet, and he drew his breath hard as he listened. Was it one of the Apaches come to torture him? Could it be a Mexican? It was a moment of awful expectation, and then he exclaimed, "Dick!"

Dick had come, and he had found his way to the camp he had left, and he had brought home his young rider, but that was all, for Ping reeled in the saddle and then fell heavily to the earth. He was never to become a war-chief of the Mescaleros. His first skirmish had been his last.

"Dick!" again shouted Cal, and the faithful fellow at once walked over to where his master lay. He seemed to understand that something was wrong with Cal, for he pawed the ground and neighed and whinnied as if asking, "What does this mean?" Dick's eyes had an excited look, and his ears were moving backward and forward, nervously, when again there was a sound of coming hoofs. Cal raised his head and saw Tan-tan-e-o-tan spring from his horse, stoop and examine poor Ping.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "Heap dead!" A whoop followed instantly – a fierce and angry whoop.

One of Dick's pawing forefeet had been unintentionally put down close by Cal's left hand. It was a quick thought, a lightning flash of hope, which led Cal to grasp the hoof with all the strength he had.

Dick lifted his foot, and oh, how Cal's wrist hurt him, in the sudden, hard wrench that followed! It was his last chance for life and he held on, and the whoop of Tan-tan-e-o-tan was given as he saw the forked stake jerked clean out of the ground.

Forward, with another yell, sprang the angry savage, drawing his knife as he came, but that screech was too much for the nerves of the red mustang. Out went his iron-shod heels, and there was a sharp thud as one of them struck between the eyes of Tan-tan-e-o-tan.

"Hurrah for Dick!" shouted Cal, as his enemy rolled over and over upon the ferns and leaves. "That fellow won't get up again."

Cal could now toil away with his lame hand to set the other at liberty. After that he was glad to find his knife in his pocket, for one of his ankle stakes refused to come up, and had to be whittled through. He worked with feverish, frantic energy, and he barely finished his task in time. He had only to whistle for Dick. His whole body seemed to tremble as he hurried forward to regain the belt and rifle which Wah-wah-o-be had so proudly given to Ping. The-boy-whose-ear-pushed-away-a-piece-of-lead would never need them or the "heap pony" any more.

Cal did not mount, but led Dick away into the cover of the forest.

"We should be seen if I rode away now," he said to Dick.

Hardly was he well concealed behind dense bushes before, as he peered out, he saw Wah-wah-o-be, followed closely by Crooked Nose, gallop into the deserted camp. She had already heard that Ping was wounded, but not how badly, and she threw herself upon the ground beside him with a great cry. Crooked Nose bent for one moment over Tan-tan-e-o-tan, and the Apache death-whoop rang twice, long and mournfully, through the forest. It was followed by fierce and angry utterances, among which Cal caught something about Mexicans, and then Crooked Nose looked sharply around him.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "Heap Pony gone. Pull Stick gone! Big medicine. Bad manitou."

Cal's second escape was plainly a greater mystery than the first had been. It was as Crooked Nose declared, and he was a boy whose medicine enabled him to get out of tight places.

Cal decided that it was time for him to get away, lest others should come, for he did not know how fast the band was retreating. He had a thought, too, of meeting the Mexicans who had wounded Ping. He picked his way carefully, stealthily, among the trees, followed faithfully by Dick, and at the outer border of the forest he mounted. No Mexicans were in sight, nor any Indians, and he knew that beyond the broken ground before him lay the desert. What he did not know was that his father and all who were with him were already two days' march on their homeward journey.

"I can find my way by the sun and by the stars," he said to himself. "I've had my breakfast. Dick can have some grass by and by. I may kill game on the way. Never mind if I don't. Santa Lucia is off there to the northeast. Now, Dick, this is your business. How many miles can you put behind you between this and sunset?"

Dick pawed the ground, but he said nothing. Cal examined his cartridges; filled two or three empty chambers in his rifle and revolver; tightened the girth of his saddle a little; fixed his belt right —

"Dick!" he shouted. "Now for Santa Lucia!"

Away went the red mustang, and if any Indians had followed him, they would have lost the race.

Chapter XXXVIII.

HOW THEY ALL REACHED SANTA LUCIA

A band of Indians who are in a great hurry travel rapidly, even if now and then they leave a worn-out pony behind them. They are also pretty sure to take short cuts and to save distances, and that was more than Cal Evans was able to do.

The Chiricahua scouts with Captain Moore knew every inch of the country, and did not permit the cavalry and cowboys to do any needless travelling.

Late in the forenoon of the third day after Ping's first and last ride upon the "heap pony," all was serenely quiet at Santa Lucia. It was too quiet, altogether, because its inmates were in such blue anxiety that they did not feel like doing anything. Reading was impossible, and any effort at conversation did but repeat the regret that there was no news from Cal or his father. The failure of everything else accounted for the fact that at this hour Vic and her mother were upon the roof, sweeping the horizon with the field-glass.