COMANCHE HONOR.
With the departure of Captain Shields and his party, Lightning Jo and Egbert Rodman set about the task of trailing the missing maiden, if such a proceeding lay within the range of human possibility.
There was something strange and mysterious in this failure upon the part of all to discover any traces of her or her horse. Had both or either of them been dead, this scarcely could have been the case. Every member of the party, excepting herself, had been accounted for, and was either buried in the quiet grave among the hills or else was within the stockade of Fort Adams, beyond the reach of the Comanches in the South-west.
“Where can she be?”
This was the question that the two men put to each other and to themselves a score of times in as many minutes, and to which no satisfactory answer could be given. All was conjecture, and even that was of the most vague nature.
Lightning Jo had very little to say, but he was in deep thought as he moved morbidly about, with his eyes upon the ground, seeking out some clue by which he might take up the hunt for Lizzie, with some slight probability at least of success.
There were two facts which were constantly recurring to Egbert Rodman, and which caused him an apprehension positively tormenting. The Terror of the Prairie had been seen by himself and Lightning Jo but a few hours before, at no great distance from where they were standing at that moment, and he could not avoid connecting this with the disappearance of the maiden. Precisely in what way, it was hard for him to define, but he was convinced beyond a doubt that the two bore some relation to each other.
Furthermore, the declaration of Lightning Jo that the appearance of this nondescript boded coming calamity might be said to have been verified in the present instance; for quickly on the heels of its vanishment came the knowledge of the disappearance of Lizzie and the presence of Comanches in these hills, proving the closeness of the connection between the two. The loss of the maiden to whom his heart clung with such yearning devotion was certainly the greatest calamity that had as yet befallen young Rodman, and he involuntarily shuddered as he recalled that awful ride down the canon, followed as it had been in the case of Lizzie by some after experience, that was all the more appalling to her friends, inasmuch as they knew nothing positive of its nature and could only indulge in the wildest conjecture.
The only thing that afforded any thing like relief or consolation to the lover was the fact that he had the companionship and assistance of Lightning Jo in this search. Whatever was possible to be done for her rescue and safety by mortal man would be done by this wonderful scout, who was already busy making ready, and fully satisfying himself before he fairly started to work in the matter.
Every thing indicated that the two men could not remain long in these hills—for, aside from the fact that the demands of hunger could not be postponed for a much longer period, the probability began to present itself, that the girl was also gone from the vicinity.
“Do you not think it likely,” inquired Egbert, when his comrade paused for a moment, “that when she emerged from the basin, as she did do, that she has managed to reach some hiding-place among the rocks, where she still remains—perhaps asleep?”
This possibility seemed to have been entertained already by the scout, who instantly shook his head in the negative.
“If she’d have done that, some of the boys would have come across her hoss, for he would have managed to get himself into the company of the other mustangs, and would have been seen by them, in looking for the others.”
“But there are our own animals yet; we have seen nothing of them.”
“But the boys did; they told me they see’d ’em both, and I’ll have my critter in sight in less’n two minutes; see if I don’t.”
As he spoke, he uttered a low, quavering whistle, not very loud, but sufficiently so to be heard a distance of several hundred yards. Then pausing a moment he repeated the signal in precisely the same manner, and added, in his way:
“That animal will be here, if he’s got forty Comanches trying to hold him.”
“I only wish I could recover mine so easily,” laughed Egbert, as the scout composedly sat down upon a large stone to await the coming of his faithful mustang, “but I am afraid Mahomet must go to the mountain in my case.”
“When I parted company with mine last night, the understanding was that he was to go off and hunt a little something to eat on his own hook, and he expected to be told when I wanted him.”
“And knowing that he will obey like an obedient child.”
“Exactly—there he comes this minute,” replied Jo, as the tread of some animal was heard but a short distance away.
“Look out, Jo, that it is nothing else,” warned Egbert, stepping back, so as to give the scout free room for whatever might come.
“I know his footstep,” was the response to this, accompanied at the same time by a precautionary movement, consisting in the guide raising the hammer of his rifle and bringing it to the front, where he could discharge it, if necessary, with the quickness of lightning, posing himself at the same time upon one foot, so as to be prepared to leap forward or backward as the case might be.
This precaution had scarcely been taken, when the mustang of Lightning Jo put in an appearance, accompanied by a Comanche Indian, who, sitting astride of the sagacious beast, was in blissful ignorance of whither he was being carried.
His position was the quiet one of ease and self-possession, showing that he had no thought of any impending danger. From this fancied security he was awakened by the sight of Lightning Jo, standing scarcely a dozen feet away, with his rifle pointed full at his breast.
The mustang at a word from his master stopped short, and thus the red-skin was brought face to face with the man, whom he recognized on the instant as the most deadly foe of the Comanche race.
“Get off that hoss, you old galoot! he belongs to me. Slide mighty quick or I’ll slide you!”
The substance of this was uttered in the Comanche tongue, so as to make sure of its being understood, and the action of the red-skin demonstrated that he had no difficulty in comprehending it on the instant; for he slid off the back of the mustang as suddenly and nimbly as if it had all at once become red-hot beneath him.
The savage held a long, beautiful rifle in his hand, and he was evidently on the alert, either for a chance to use it or to dodge away from his captor.
Had the circumstances been any different, the marvelous quickness of the copper-skin doubtless would have enabled him to accomplish his treacherous wish; but neither he nor any living Indian could play it on Lightning Jo. If he thought he could, let him try it—that was all.
The scout wasn’t particular whether he made the attempt or not, as there could be but one result; but the moment the Comanche’s feet touched ground, he ordered him to approach within a half-dozen feet, and then drop his rifle to the earth. The red-skin showed some reluctance in obeying this; but when he caught the glitter of the dark eye fixed upon him, he changed his mind and carried out the command with an amusing alacrity.
“Where are the rest of you devils?” was the first rather pointed inquiry, uttered also in the Comanche tongue, and with the muzzle of the rifle pointed threateningly at the breast of the savage, who replied, with a gesture peculiarly his own:
“There are but a few among the hills—no more than so many (holding up the fingers of one hand); they are hunting for food; they will soon take their departure to join their brother-hunters far to the south.”
“It would be a thundering sight better if they’d all join each other down below,” was the conclusion of Jo, who continued his cross-examination:
“Have any gone away in the night? Did any of the Comanches depart before daybreak?”
“No; there were none here.”
The slight hesitancy, a certain peculiarity that accompanied this reply, convinced Jo, on the instant, that the Indian was telling a downright falsehood, and that, after all, he was gaining a slight clue to the trail of the missing maiden.
His conclusion was that there were a few Indians among the hills, but that the greater majority had left before daybreak. Precisely why they had done so was more than he could understand; but their departure unquestionably had something to do with the disappearance of Lizzie Manning.
Jo was rather abrupt in his questioning, for the next was the pointed demand:
“Tell me where the great chief, Swico-Cheque, is; I want to raise his hair.”
The look that crossed the coppery face of the savage said as plainly as words could have done, that he would have been extremely delighted to see the scout attempt such a thing.
“I don’t know where he is,” he replied, without any embarrassment in his manner; “he went away before the light came.”
There it was! the incautious Indian had let it out after all. Swico-Cheque had taken his departure with the band that went off in the stillness of the night.
The red-skin seemed entirely unaware of the slip he had made, and awaited the further questioning of his captor as the heroic martyr awaits the creeping up of the consuming blaze.
“I don’t know as I want any thing more of you,” remarked the scout, “so I guess you can travel. It would be hardly the thing to scalp you after I look you prisoner, though I’m sure you deserve it.”
This order was unexpected and surprising to the Indian, who stared a moment, as if uncertain that he had heard aright.
“Come, ’light out of this, old greaser!” added Jo, the next instant.
This was all-sufficient. The Comanche stooped down, and picking up his rifle, turned about with a certain dignity and walked slowly away, disdaining to run, although no doubt anxious to get out of that immediate neighborhood with as little delay as possible.