GONE—GONE!
On that same afternoon, and about sunset or a little later, Pedro was eating a frugal supper in the hollow hillock with Kissie.
Both were downcast. She, on account of her friends, was uneasy and sad, while he was still experiencing the fear of dealing with something not of this world. The mysterious voice he knew so well of old, that terrible form he had seen, still haunted him. And more; the sudden disappearance of the apparition highly alarmed him and kept his nerves strung to the highest tension, and he expected every moment to see it stalk in upon him.
But he kept his own counsel and did not further alarm and annoy his companion by relating the incident.
The supper was plain—the remnants of a venison dinner and some dried meat which Pedro carried in his haversack. The torch threw a feeble, flickering light over the gloomy apartment; an insect droned a funeral dirge close by in some cranny; the horse close by stamped and chewed his grain, and the sound of the mustang’s hoofs outside were dull and heavy; night was drawing on.
“Hist, senorita!” Pedro suddenly whispered, with uplifted hand. “Surely I heard a voice.”
They listened; all was quiet.
They were about resuming their meal when the mustang outside snorted and galloped away; something had alarmed her.
“Something is at hand,” said Pedro. “Stay here, senorita, while I peep out. Do not be alarmed—I will not leave you.”
“Oh, I pray it is my father—pray God it is,” she replied, with a lightened heart.
“Perhaps it is—I hope so, senorita. But I must go—I am sure I hear the voice again.”
Though inwardly quaking, Pedro’s exterior was cool, impassible—his features betrayed no fear. Though never doubting that if he looked out he should again see the fearful apparition, he picked up his gun and squeezing through the interior passage, stalked to the door and peeped out.
“Hello! thar’s her mustang,” he heard a strange voice say, and a moment later several men rode round the hill. He was relieved at finding they were flesh and blood, and not his ghastly enemy, and using his eyes sharply, scanned them.
They were three in number. One, a middle-aged man with a careworn expression and haggard face was drearily peering round about him. Close beside him, on a “clay-bank” horse, sat a handsome young man, speaking to him in a low tone, evidently endeavoring to cheer him. The third was a burly, stout man, on a powerful “States horse.” The reader is well aware who they are—the party of searchers.
But Pedro did not know them, and though strongly suspecting their identity, was not the man to trust to appearances or jump at conclusions. He resolved to wait and watch.
“Here comes the guide and Cimarron Jack,” remarked Carpenter, pointing over the plain. “And the wagons are at hand, too; we will soon be strongly encamped.”
Mr. Wheeler made no rejoinder save a sigh.
By the gaze of his two comrades, Pedro judged the guide and Cimarron Jack were at hand. The latter he had often heard of, but had never seen. His supposition proved correct; a rattle of wheels was heard, three white-capped wagons rounded the hill and drew up by the three horsemen, and simultaneously two men came round the opposite side, mounted, the one on a mustang and the other on a powerful deep-bay.
Though the twilight had almost given place to night, yet Pedro recognized the former of the two horsemen—the guide. His heart leaped at the sight, for joy. Many were the dangers he had faced with the weatherbeaten guide, many were the hardships they together had endured, closely-knit were the bonds of mutual like and esteem; and Pedro with joy gazed upon his companion of yore.
His first impulse was to rush out and grasp his old “pardner” by the hand; but a second thought changed his mind.
“They might become alarmed and shoot me,” he reflected. “I will make myself known.
“But stay,” he resumed. “I might as well see to my treasure—I don’t know all of those men; there might be a knave among them.”
The precious bag still lay covered with the saddle, the water-bucket and the blankets.
He had dug the gold from a hole close by. It was not refilled, and taking the bag he placed it in its former hiding-place and then threw the concealing articles over it; for the present they were safe.
Then going to the closed trap-door he placed his lips to a chink, and whispered: “Tim Simpson.”
Intending to give Kissie a glad surprise, he lowered his voice so she could not hear him from the other chamber.
“What’s wanted?” growled the guide, supposing one of his party was the speaker. He received no rejoinder. Pedro whispered again.
“Simpson—old friend.”
“Well, spit it eout!” sharply spoke the guide. “Don’t whisper, ‘Simpson,’ all day.
“Who spoke?” asked Burt.
“Dunno.”
“I heard a whisper,” said Jack.
“So did I; and I,” added several.
“Didn’t any o’ yer fellers speak ter me?”
“No—no.”
“Durned cur’ous. I heerd a whisper, sartin.”
“So did all of us,” said Sam.
Pedro spoke a trifle louder.
“Simpson, here I am—Pedro Felipe,” and he boldly emerged from the hill.
Astounded, the party started back, then leveled their guns, believing him immortal, his appearance was so sudden and unexpected. Pedro, seeing his danger, dropped prone to the earth. He was not too soon, for, staggered and alarmed, several fired at him; but his presence of mind saved his life.
Rushing rapidly to Simpson, he sprung behind his mustang to avoid being shot, as several guns were aimed at him.
“Simpson—have you forgotten me? I am your old friend, Pedro.”
The guide recognized him and sprung from his mustang. He was too old a hunter and guide to remain surprised for any length of time.
“Gee-whiz!” he cried, scrambling about in a mad wrestle with the Mexican. “Durn yer old greaser soul! gee-mini, cry-mini! Hooray! dog-gon me ef it ain’t Pedro!”
The rifles were lowered and the horsemen stared aghast. Surprised, astounded, they sat wondering, neither stirring or speaking. Meanwhile the American and Mexican scrambled about in their wild and friendly wrestle, overwhelming each other with their joyful buffets, and light hugs. To a stranger it would have seemed a struggle of death as the guide cursed roundly and bestowed epithets without number upon his long-absent friend, many too coarse, even foul, to be presented here.
At last, from sheer inability to further continue, they relaxed their clutches, and drawing back a pace, stood looking the other over from head to foot—they were rare friends.
“Cimarron Jack,” said the guide, “here’s the sharpest, ’cutest, patientest man in the kentry. Durn yer braggin’ eyes, git off of yer hoss and greet him.”
“Pedro Felipe!” cried Jack, dismounting, “you are a greaser, but a first-class fellow I’ve heard. Shake the vice of the cock of the walk and the terror of the grizzlies. Put your hand there, you villain.”
“Cimarron Jack, I, too, have heard of you frequently, as a boasting, vaunting knave, with more tongue than strength or brains. I hope you will die with your boots on,” replied Pedro, shaking his hand cordially. That introduction would be considered formal and cold a few miles north-west—in California, where every man greets a stranger with an oath and an evident insult. However, these two men were polite and gentlemanly, and either would have regarded as an insult any more polite greeting.
“Where did you come from, Pedro?” asked Jack. “Darn me, I was scared—I was for a fact.”
“Out of the hill yonder.”
“Glory hallelujurrum! there is a hole. What in the name of Cimarron Jack the thorough-bred from Bitter Creek, were you doing in there?”
Pedro pointed to the mustang, Dimple, grazing at a distance. “Do you see that mustang?” he asked.
Mr. Wheeler sprung from his horse, followed by Sam and Burt. Rushing to Pedro he cried, seizing him by the shoulder:
“For God’s sake, where is my daughter? Tell me, sir, quickly!”
Pedro was a man of few words. In answer, he pointed quietly to the dark aperture in the hillside.
“Where? I do not see her. Sir, you joke with me.”
“No he don’t, nuther,” surlily put in the guide. “He ain’t thet kind of a man, let me tell yer.”
“Perhaps he means there is a cave in the hill,” suggested Carpenter.
“Just so, senor; she is there.”
They stopped not to parley, or to demand an explanation of his sudden appearance, albeit they were greatly surprised; but one and all dismounting, rushed to the cave entrance.
But Pedro, suddenly alarmed for his treasure’s safety, sprung before the hole. Drawing his beautiful dagger, he cried, hoarsely:
“Stand back! back! you shall not enter.”
“But we will!” shouted Carpenter, rushing at him menacingly. The guide put out his foot and dexterously tripped him.
“And, by Judas, yer won’t go in ef he sez not ter!” he growled, placing himself beside Pedro, and cocking his rifle. “Pedro’s my friend, and I’ll stan’ by him ef I hev ter desert the gang ter do it. Jest count me in, Pedro.”
“Let me go in—stand away!” cried Mr. Wheeler, wildly. “I must go in.”
The guide put him back with his hands. “Mr. Wheeler, fur the present yer ’r my boss, and a durned good one yer ’ve be’n, too; but, Pedro an’ me swore ter allus stick to one another, and I’ll stick ter him, and fight the party I’m a member of—that’s Simpson, the guide.”
“Oh, thunder, Simpson! what’s the use of keeping a man in suspense? I’m disgusted with you, for a fact.”
“Cimarron Jack, you an’ me hev run tergether considerable, but I’ll stick ter Pedro, yer may jest bet yer bottom dollar on it! He sez her shain’t go in, and I’ll back every durned thing he says. Ef yer don’t like it yer can lump it!”
Cimarron Jack grew red in the face, and his eyes sparkled. Pedro, knowing a quarrel between these two men would result in the death of one or both of them, hastily said:
“Don’t quarrel—keep cool! I am willing every one should go in—I am even anxious; but I must go in first. That is the reason I kept you back.”
“Wal, why ’n thunder don’t ye go in, then!” demanded Burt. “Thar’s no use in talkin’ all day, is thar? the old gentleman wants ter see his darter—kain’t yer let him in?”
Pedro sheathed his dagger, and saying:
“Certainly—come in,” sprung over the small pit in which his treasure was hidden. Then, knowing such a procedure would attract attention, he stepped aside. The men filed quickly in, leaving their horses outside unwatched, and stood blinking in the double twilight inside.
“Christina—Kissie!” cried Mr. Wheeler. “My child, where are you?”
There was silence for a moment. Pedro expected to see Kissie glide gladly from the inner chamber into her father’s arms; but she did not appear.
“Strange,” he thought. “Is it possible she is sleeping?”
“Well—where is she?” impatiently demanded Carpenter.
“She is in the inner apartment; I was thinking she would come at the sound of her father’s voice.”
“Where is the inner apartment? lead us there!” clamored the men. Pedro, leaving his treasure, reluctantly stalked toward the narrow passage. They followed eagerly, pressing close upon him. He slipped through and found the torch was extinguished.
“Ha!” he ejaculated.
“What’s up?” whispered Simpson, in his ear. “Curse this black hole—it’s dark as a pocket!”
“Where is she? now you have brought us here, where is she? Strike a light! a light! Kissie—Kissie!” cried Mr. Wheeler. They listened. No answering voice sounded, no sound was heard; deathlike stillness, and damp, thick air brooded round.
“Sirs, there is something very strange in this,” hollowly whispered Pedro. “I left her here not fifteen minutes since. The torch is where I left it—my hand is upon it; I will strike a light.”
The torch flamed redly out as Pedro, waving it aloft, peered round the chamber.
He could not see her. With the men strangely affected by some unknown influence, with their weapons drawn, he walked slowly about the narrow chamber, making the entire circuit without success.
“Senors,” and his voice, they could perceive, was hollow and quivering—“there have been ugly and strange happenings here, to-day. She is not here.”
All was silence.
“There is still the first chamber—she may be there; we may have missed her; sirs, this way.”
They followed.
In the first chamber again. The torch flickers in the breeze as they walk slowly about after it—a mysterious influence is upon all.
“Sirs—senors—she is not here.”
All is quiet and the torch flares redly. The horses outside are silent—they never stamp, the night breeze is damp, and the torch flickers and flares; all is quiet in the Land of Silence.
A hollow voice is heard; it is Pedro’s; he speaks almost in a whisper.
“Senors—sirs—let us go outside.”
He stalks away. They follow in utter silence; even the guide and the ranger are under a strange influence. They emerge into the open air.
Pedro, the guide and Cimarron Jack stood on the summit of the hill and peered round in the darkness. The twilight had given place to-night, yet they could see some distance, the atmosphere was so clear. The horses stood as if statues, motionless; the mustang was out on the plain, but she was no longer browsing; on the contrary, she at intervals tossed her head and stamped—she was uneasy.
The guide and the ranger went slowly down the hill, with subdued faces, into the throng below. Pedro remained above with his torch.
The mustang now trotted toward him, snorting and tossing her mane; he watched her, flaring the torch for a better view.
Suddenly she screamed shrilly and galloped rapidly away. At the same instant Pedro saw a form approaching. He waved the torch.
The form drew near, and he perceived it was that of a colossal horseman. He slightly stooped and held his torch aloft. He drew nearer, and strangely his horse’s feet gave out no sound. The men below were on the opposite side of the hill.
Suddenly the horseman loomed up as if by magic, and Pedro, with a wild cry, started to his feet. The horseman wheeled and was riding away at a gallop into the darkness—in thirty seconds he was invisible. Pedro for a moment stood stupefied, and no wonder, for in that colossal form, on the powerful black horse, under the conical hat with a black plume, rode the Trailer.
For a moment only he stood semi-paralyzed, then, with a wild cry, and waving his torch, he sprung down the hill. Into the aperture he went, and with trembling, eager hands tore away the coverings of his treasure.
Off came the saddle, then the water-bucket, aside went the blankets, and his arm plunged into the hole.
Standing in the entrance, they saw him rise, reel, stagger, and fall directly under his horse’s hoofs with a wild cry, and a brief, hoarsely yelled sentence. Then Pedro fainted, with the echo of his cry ringing and dying through the gloomy cavern:
“Gone—gone—all gone!”
They rushed in and lifted him up, the guide first. Taking him tenderly in his arms, he held the torch to his face; then he laid him gently down; then he shook his head slowly; then, with every muscle, feature and lineament of his face showing his earnestness, with wild eyes, with voice trembling and hollow in spite of himself, he said:
“Gentlemen, thar’s suthin’ wrong ’bout this cursed, ugly black hill; the strongest, coolest, bravest man in the world has fainted clean away—dead away!”
“And the girl—where is she?—she is gone,” muttered Cimarron Jack.
“She is gone—gone!”