Lone Pine: The Story of a Lost Mine

With his rifle raised nearly to his shoulder, Stephens put his head round the angle of the boulder, to see an Indian standing almost within arm's length of him with his back against the rock, angrily striking with his gun at the dog, who was baying furiously as he sprang from side to side to avoid the blows. Stephens had no time to look around to see where the other redskin was, for at sight of him the Navajo, disregarding the dog, raised his rifle and fired, and the Winchester cracked almost in the same instant. So close were the two to one another that the burst of flame and powder smoke from the Indian's piece momentarily blinded the American.

"I must be done for now," was the despairing thought that flashed through his mind in the utter helplessness of loss of sight; yet he felt no wound, and blind as he was he instinctively threw in a fresh cartridge for a second shot. Then his smarting eyes began to recover themselves; hope came back; he was not blinded; he found himself able to see again, though with difficulty; and there at his feet was the body of the Navajo and the dog worrying him. He flung himself on the pair to protect, if need be, his ever faithful ally, but need was none. His bullet had gone home, and the Navajo was sped. He dragged the infuriated bulldog from his prey.

"Luck's all," said he, dashing the water from his eyes. "I don't know how I came to plug him so squarely; I never even saw the sights; I thought I was a goner that journey, sure."

He looked around with restored vision to try if he could descry the last of the gang, but there was no sign of him visible; it seemed as if the pair must either have separated somehow before he and Faro came up to their hiding-place, or else the survivor had fled on his companion's fall.

"And that's lucky for me, too," said Stephens, "for he could just have socked it into me as he liked when I was blinded with all that powder smoke."

"Come on then, Faro," he continued, patting the dog, and encouraging him to take up the trail again. "One more, and our job's done. Hie on, old man, he can't be far away."

With eager pride the dog began questing anew for the scent, nosing inquisitively to right and to left, and Stephens, as before, followed him warily. They did not have to go far before the dog's stiffening bristles showed that the enemy was near. Three great detached masses of stone, fallen together haphazard, so bore against each other as to leave underneath a low, dark, cavernous recess, and into the mouth of this the dog dashed without a pause. The fierce sounds of conflict that instantly followed proved that it was the hiding-place of the hunted man.

For one anxious moment Stephens doubted whether to shoot or no, but standing outside in the bright light he could see nothing clear in the dark recess, and to shoot at random into it was to hazard killing his own friend. Then there came a loud howl from Faro, and unhesitatingly he drew his knife, dropped on all-fours, and laying the rifle aside threw himself head first into the cave, and in the darkness grappled for his foe. His left hand, thrust forward, seized an arm of the other, and swiftly in reply came the sharp, cold pang of a knife drawn across the back of it, and the warm gush of blood following the cut. As he felt the wound, his right hand instinctively let go of his own knife and seized the wrist of the hand wielding the blade that had cut him, the redskin frantically striving to get the hand free to deal him a fatal stab.

The two men had clinched for the death-grapple, and in their furious struggles they dashed one another against the sides and roof of the narrow cave. Dear life hung in the balance, and both knew it well. Stephens's left hand had no grip left in it, but he could use the arm to bear down his opponent, while his strong right hand held on like a vice to the wrist it had seized, and kept the deadly blade from being plunged into him. Mute as wolves they battled for the mastery; the sweat poured off them like rain, and their breath came in short, hard pants. Then with joy Stephens felt that his right hand was overpowering his enemy's and with all his might he dashed the Indian's hand and the knife it held so violently against the rough rock wall that the blade snapped short off at the haft. One despairing effort the active red man made to twist himself clear, but in the narrow space his litheness was of no avail, and by sheer strength Stephens got him under and turned him on his face. A short moment they paused, exhausted and breathless, when suddenly the American released the other's wrist and clutched him by the throat. Writhe as he might the Indian could not throw him off, nor relax that fatal grip that was choking the very life out of him. Gradually he ceased to struggle, and Stephens knew now that victory was his; with a final effort he raised himself on one knee on the red man's back, and quickly shifting the grip of his right hand from the throat to the top of the head, with a sharp, hard jerk and backward wrench he broke his neck. A convulsive quiver ran through his enemy's limbs, and then died away. The last of the renegade gang was dead.

Bruised, battered, and bleeding, the victor dragged himself from out the cave that had so nearly been his tomb. The fight was finished, he had no enemies left, and he lay there weak and unstrung, his head resting on his blood-stained hands. "Why can't men be brothers?" he said. "But they would have it. They began. I didn't want to kill them. I wonder is Rocky dead? They're all good Indians now, anyway."

A dead Indian is reckoned a good Indian throughout the West. He can be trusted not to do any mischief.

His strength returning, he drew out the body of Faro from the cave, and felt him all over; he had been dashed senseless against the wall of the cave and three of his ribs were injured, but his heart still beat; he was not completely done for.

"Worth a whole herd of dead dogs yet," said his master, gently rubbing the brindled back which at first he had feared was broken. "A blacktail buck has used you up as bad before now." He fondled his head, and the dog, coming to, made a feeble attempt to lick his hand. "We'll find a way to tote you home, never fear, old man," he continued; "and it's odd if we can't scare up a nurse to fix you good when we get back."

He examined his own body; he was scraped and skinned by the rough rocks, and his shirt was torn half off him in the last struggle with the Indian; but except for the one severe knife-gash, which he carefully bound up, he had no serious wound.

He looked for his mare. She was grazing peacefully where he had left her, with her bridle trailing, as a hunter's horse should do. He looked away beyond her, far across the burning plain.

"I've played this hand alone," said he; "but I'm thinking it's getting about time for those San Remo folks to chip in."

And then in the distance, through the shimmering mirage that wavered before the eye, he saw a little cloud of dust arise like a travelling whirlwind.

He watched it; it was not one of nature's whirlwinds, for it came straight on up the trail, fast and steady. Men made that whirlwind, and soon they were near enough to be distinguished.

It was Don Andrés and a strong band of Mexicans riding like the Old Harry to the rescue.

"But I played it alone, for all that," he said.

CHAPTER XXIX

PEACE WITH HONOUR

When the death-shriek of Mahletonkwa startled the dwellers in the Casa Sanchez, the sound was so strange, so unearthly, that they sprang to their feet in terror. What new ill had fallen upon the village! That could be no human cry. It seemed to their terrified imaginations that some evil spirit from the other world had come to add a crowning horror to their troubles.

"It is the devil," they murmured, crossing themselves with trembling prayers – "the devil has come to carry away el defunto. Que los Santos nos ayuden."

But when the blood-curdling shriek was followed by a succession of rapid pistol-shots and the cries of those who fell before the American's unerring aim, they knew that it was a conflict of a more earthly sort. The men snatched up their arms and dashed out of the house, ready for attack or defence, and were followed to the door by the trembling women, while Stephens's dog darted away on his master's trail.

This last alarm was too much for Manuelita. Her nerves were still quivering from the terrors of her own captivity, and now fears for her deliverer overwhelmed her. She knew the American was at the store, – he was surely killed; the blow that had threatened them had fallen at last, not on the family but on their friend. She tried to run, but her trembling limbs refused to bear her, and she sank to the ground in a passion of sobs; brave she could be for her own danger, but not for him, not for the man who had just left her, whose eyes had told her a secret she hardly let herself guess.

She raised her head and heard the shuffling of feet, and the sound of subdued voices came nearer to her. In the doorway appeared her father, anxious and flurried. "Hasten, sister," he called in a loud half-whisper to her aunt, "hasten and make a bed in the room across the patio for a wounded man. The Navajos are on the war-path, and an American has been hurt."

"Who is it?" asked his sister, answering him in the same excited half-whisper, as the ominous shuffling steps of Rocky's bearers reached the outside of the door and paused. "Is he dying? Quick there, Juana, run and bring bedding; fly!"

Manuelita's heart seemed to stop beating as she listened for the answer.

"I know not who he is. They say he is a friend of Don Estevan's. He had but just arrived from Santa Fé. There is a doctor of the American soldiers with him. Mahletonkwa stabbed him in the lung."

Manuelita tried to ask, "And what of Don Estevan?" but her dry lips refused to speak the words. Her father answered the unspoken question.

"Don Estevan is like a raging lion. He has killed Mahletonkwa and half his band already, and he is chasing the rest. Ah, what a fighter! They say he fired off his pistol like lightning, and left the savages lying all around like dead dogs in a heap as if a thunderbolt from heaven had struck them. Ah, what a fighter! The young men are all galloping after to help him."

"He is not wounded himself?" They were already in the room across the patio preparing it for the wounded man, and it was the voice of Manuelita that asked this question. Her tongue had found speech at last.

"Well, it is not known precisely," said Don Nepomuceno. "He started off after them like fury, and so did the two young Sandovals, and then there was more firing out on the plain, but it is not certain as yet what happened there. The doctor of the American soldiers wished to place the wounded Americano with us at once, and I did not wait. Ah, here they are, bringing him through the court. This way, Señor el Doctor. Here is the room for him. Is he much hurt?"

"Pretty bad," replied the doctor in Spanish, which he knew that Rocky, who was still conscious, did not understand. "But we shall see. With proper nursing there should be a good chance for him yet."

With gentle hands Rocky was laid upon the couch arranged for him, and attended to by the doctor and the women-folk, while Don Nepomuceno, in his eagerness to be of service, succeeded only in getting in everybody's way and making a wholly unnecessary fuss.

"Run, Juana, run. Bring a bowl with water for the doctor; cold water, mind you – hot, did you say, Doctor? – hot water, then, Juana, hot from the fire. And a towel, a clean towel, child – two towels; and be quick, quick! How slow you are!"

Rap, rap, rap, came loud, imperative knocks upon the outer door of the house, which had been made fast again after the limp form of Rocky had been brought inside. Don Nepomuceno flew to open it himself.

"Hush, hush! Who is there? Eh? What? Another man hurt? Ave Maria purisima, I hope it is not Don Estevan." His fingers fumbled with the bolts in his haste to unbar. "No, you say, not him. Who is it, then? One of the Sandovals shot with an arrow. And you wish for the doctor of the American soldiers to come and cure him? Come in, then, come in," – the door opened as he spoke, – "come in and speak to the doctor yourself. Poor young Sandoval; an arrow right through his shoulder, you say. And Don Estevan was not hit? Oh, he killed the Indian that shot young Sandoval, did he? Ah, what a lion of a man! What a fighter indeed!" and bursting with this fresh piece of news he ran across the patio to tell the doctor that his services were in request for another patient.

"It looks to me," said Doctor Benton to himself, as, after doing all he could for Rocky's comfort, he hurried with the messenger towards the house where young Sandoval was lying, "at this rate, it looks to me as if I was going to get more surgical practice in San Remo in a day than I'm likely to see at Fort Wingate in a month."

* * * * * * *

The slow hours passed, and the hot midday sun blazed down on the village; even the dogs retreated indoors to find a cool corner, and the hens retired from scratching on the dust-heaps; the place seemed asleep, save where a few anxious watchers kept their faces steadily turned towards the mirage that flickered over the plain, towards the horizon beyond which the young men had disappeared. The shaded room where Manuelita sat by Rocky's couch was cool and silent and restful, but there was no rest in the girl's dark eyes; their liquid depths burnt with a dark fire, and the scarlet spot on her cheeks, and the feverish start she gave at the slightest sound outside the door showed that she was not the impassive and self-controlled sick-nurse that Doctor Benton fondly imagined he had discovered, by some Heaven-sent miracle, in this remote corner of New Mexico. But whatever inward fire burnt in her eyes and fevered her cheeks, her hand never faltered in its task of fanning the sick man, and her ear noted his slightest breath. Yet, with the curious double consciousness that comes to us when the nerves are tense with strain, she was all the time far away – riding, riding, riding at speed over the dusty levels of the Agua Negra valley, up through the pine-clad gorges of the sierra, seeking everywhere for the form of a tall, fair-haired man – no, Madre de Dios, not for his corpse, not for that! ah, no! some instinct would tell her, some kindly angel would whisper to her, if that were true. But no, that could not be. He was alive, he was dealing death with that terrible rifle of his to the foe; like an avenging whirlwind he was sweeping from the face of the earth those savages who had carried her off, who had tried to murder her brother, who had murdered that poor solitary prospector, – ay, and who could say how many more? Merciful saints, what had they all not suffered from them! And now a deliverer had been sent to them by Heaven, a very St. Jago, like their own fair-haired saint, with his bright armour, in the chapel.

And while she dreamed, and while her hand moved mechanically with the fan, her ear was still alert, and it brought its tidings. There was a murmur in the air, a movement without; the village stirred, and there were sounds far off. She heard a shout, several shouts, a shot – ah heavens, not a shot again! – yes, numbers of shots, mingled with vivas and cries of joy; it was a lively feu de joie, like that from the procession on the feast day of St. Jago himself. The shouts came nearer, they would waken her patient – oh, she must look one moment.

And, in truth, when she looked out it was a sight to see. The little plaza had fairly gone off its head with excitement; the women wrapped in their rebosos, and eager hurrying children, and grey-bearded men, too old now for work or fight, and unkempt, barefooted peons, all bustling and crowding together in one place, laughing and crying at once, and asking questions to which nobody made answer; and in the centre a party of mounted caballeros, their silver buttons and spurs glinting in the bright sunshine, shouting and firing off pistols, and yelling as if they were possessed.

"Peace, peace, amigos," the voice of Don Nepomuceno was heard crying amid the babel of tongues; "a moment's peace, I pray you. This is pure madness." But no one heeded his words.

"Viva! viva!" yelled the young men; "here he is, behold him, the guerrero Americano, the slayer of the Indians." And in the middle of them, his left arm in a sling, bloodstained, dishevelled, and in rags, sat Stephens on his mare; his brain was reeling; the intense energy that had possessed him in the hour of the fight had gone, and left him a worn and weary man.

Manuelita's heart leapt at the sight of him. He was alive and, though wounded, he was able to sit his horse; his hurts, then, could not be desperate.

"Peace, peace, amigos," reiterated Don Nepomuceno. "See you not that Don Estevan is weary to the death? Santisima Virgen! but you forget that he is wounded, too; yes, and look how the very clothes have been torn from his back. – Dismount, then, Don Estevan, and let me help you. Come inside, and you shall be attended to instantly." His eye fell upon the Indian boy beside him. "Here you, Felipe, run to the house of the Sandovals and see if the American doctor is there still, and tell him that there is yet another patient for him to attend to here. This way, Don Estevan. Excuse me, friends, you will not go till you have taken a cup of wine with me, but I must see to Don Estevan first. Ah, no noise now, for the sake of the sick man within. My house is purely a hospital now. Angels of grace! but what agitation, what events! This way, Don Estevan, if you please. Patience, friends. By your leave, I beg the silence of one little moment. Sister, sister, bring a change of clothes for Don Estevan; his are all torn to pieces in the fight; bring my best clothes, my feast-day clothes, out of the great chest in the inner room. Hurry, hurry! And water to wash the blood from him. Bring water, Juana; fly!"

Like a man in a dream Stephens got off his horse and entered the house. The Navajo bondmaid hastened in answer to her master's call and brought water to wash the blood of her kinsfolk from the hands of the American. Passively he submitted himself to her care, and to that of Don Nepomuceno, who attended to him with bustling little airs of proprietorship, as if the prospector were his own private property, his own victorious gamecock who had won the main for him and beaten everything in the pit. He was so pleased with his office and proud of his guest that he hardly noticed how unlike the American was to his alert and masterful, everyday self. The transformation effected, he joyfully ushered him into the living-room. "Dinner, sister, dinner," he called out; "a feast, we must have a feast. Andrés, some wine. Here is the key. Some of the wine of El Paso from the farthest cask. We must drink a health to-day."

But as he placed Stephens on the divan it struck him suddenly that the American looked strange. His face was white and drawn, and there was a dull, abstracted look in his eyes.

"Ah, my dear friend, you are overdone; you are worn out with your heroic deeds. One little moment only, and you shall dine."

"You are very kind," said Stephens, sinking down on the soft seat, "but I couldn't eat, thank you, – not yet."

"Ah, my poor head," cried the Mexican, "how I forget things; you are so anxious for your friend doubtless. But he is doing well, very well, I do assure you. He speaks of you; he says you are a millionaire, – that you have found the silver mine of the Indians. Oh yes, you shall see him when he wakes. My daughter is taking charge of him now. Yes, and the other wounded man, young Sandoval, is doing well too. There is no need of any anxiety. You must rest; yes, rest, and eat and drink and be merry!"

Stephens seemed to rouse himself with a great effort. "Don Nepomuceno," he spoke with a dull, thick, voice, "I don't think I can stay now. I had ought to go right back to the pueblo. There's some more business I have; there's a girl there, the cacique's daughter – "

"Ah, what need to remember her!" cried the Mexican with a sudden flash of irritation. "Of course I have heard – but what do mere Indians matter? Between ourselves, what does all that amount to? Nothing, absolutely nothing." He snapped his fingers with contempt, as if to brush it all away.

"Yes, but look here, Don Nepomuceno, business is business. I've undertaken to run her show, and I'm bound to see it through. I took her away from her father because he was half-murdering her, and I want to see her safe married to this cub of mine here, – what's his name? I shall forget my own next, – oh yes, Felipe, that's it, of course – to see her married to Felipe. I'd better get it done right away, else I might forget, you know"; he looked around vaguely with an incoherent half-laugh, checked himself with an effort, and collected himself again. "If there was a padre handy, how about doing it here? – " He broke off confusedly.

Don Nepomuceno looked puzzled.

"But why trouble over these matters now? Any time will do for those Indians. But if you wish it, certainly I will send to the pueblo. You cannot go; you are overwearied. You want this girl to come here? But no; I have a better plan. The padre is here in San Remo to-day, as it happens; let us send him there, and you shall be troubled no further by her."

Even Stephens's dulled brain could not but notice something odd in the Mexican's tone. "Oh, Lord," he groaned internally, "they all give me the name of it!"

"See here, Don Nepomuceno. I guess that Backus has been talking some about me. He's dead, but I've got to say it – he was a darned liar, anyway; and he knew nothing about this business but what he invented for himself. She's not my girl. I'm not that sort of a man." He stopped abruptly.

"Assuredly not," assented the Mexican with eager courtesy. "You say so, and that is enough for us; though, indeed, we are ourselves not always so scrupulous in these matters."

"Felipe bolted with her," said the brain-weary man, going over past events almost mechanically; "her father took her from him; I took her from her father, and I've promised to give her over to Felipe. He's a plumb idiot, but if she likes him that's her lookout. My business is to see them married and make it all square. When I take any business in hand, I can't rest till I get it done. I'll take you to witness, Don Nepomuceno; I'll give them ten cows and calves on the shares to set 'em up in housekeeping."

"But certainly," exclaimed Don Nepomuceno, "your kindness is admirable. It is a deed of charity! It was but last time his Grace the Archbishop of Santa Fé was dining with my cousin that he spoke of the admirable goodness of Doña Mariana Chavez in giving dowers to poor maidens. And now you will be so rich with the profits of your mine that you may dower all the Indian maidens in the pueblo if you like. In truth, such a deed must be pleasing to the saints; it will fill our padre with admiration to hear of such a truly virtuous action, 'worthy of one of the pillars of our holy Church!'"

"Much more like the heavy father at the end of a play!" muttered Stephens perversely. "'Bless you, my children,' and down comes the curtain. I reckon I'm a bit young to play the part. Hang it all! I wish the old gentleman would stop."

Don Nepomuceno turned to the peon. "Here, Pedro, hasten; ride to the pueblo, and take the old woman along and fetch the girl, – Josefa, you say? – yes; go, then, and fetch her and tell her she is to be married at once. Say that those are the orders of the Americano. But first you can tell Rufino to go and find the padre – bid him hasten as dinner is served," he rubbed his hands exultingly as his sister and Juana brought in the long-desired feast, and Andrés appeared with an old flagon which he had filled with El Paso wine. Don Nepomuceno poured some into a glass and offered it to Stephens. "Drink, my friend, drink; you need it, and we will all drink a cup in your honour."

Stephens took the glass and looked with a grim smile at his own hand which held it. The hand was shaking like an old man's. "I guess I've about wore myself plumb out," he said. "You'd best let me go off to my own place and rest. I'm not good company just now."

"No, no, you mustn't go," cried the Mexican; "you shall rest in my house. We have more rooms than one. And behold, here is the American doctor now. In a good hour you come, Señor el Doctor. Sit you down, my friends, and eat. Sister, you and Andrés will entertain them while the doctor and I take care of Don Estevan." And he took his unresisting guest apart into a quiet room where Doctor Benton might examine his wounded hand. Gently the rude bandages were undone, and Manuelita was summoned from her post beside Rocky, who was now sleeping peacefully, to wait on a new patient.