WORSE YET.
The guide, lifting the torch, looked round on a small band of vaguely-frightened, nervous men. Why should they be frightened—why nervous? Nearly all were accustomed to hob-nob with Nature in her strangest and most incomprehensible moods—were accustomed to sudden surprises and alarms, and all were endowed with at least ordinary courage and “nerve.”
The secret of this alarm was this—they all had heard that a once feared and malignant robber, who had been dead a year, was roaming nocturnally about the Land of Silence. Knowing him to be dead, they were satisfied it was his ghost. All men have at least a small amount of superstition innate—these were no exception. The guide had recounted his strange meeting with the robber, and had been implicitly believed, as his manner when relating it was not that of one who would joke or falsely speak. Having never seen him they were affected by the guide’s mistrust and vague fear, and by the sudden, strange, and real disappearance of Kissie. They never doubted she had been an occupant of the cave—was not her mustang just without? Then if she had not, Pedro never would have voluntarily shown himself if he had wished to keep her concealed. It was only too plain she had been there and had disappeared.
They would have been more alarmed had they seen what Pedro had seen—had they known what he knew; it was better they did not—far better.
Darkness reigned over the Land of Silence; the hill with its adjacent horses and wagons—with its inner, half-scared occupants, lay still as the cool breeze swept over it; only the mustang on the prairie quietly browsing made a faint noise as she cropped the short and wiry bunch-grass here and there—all was quiet in the vast desert, as the night waxed on toward midnight.
Nine o’clock. Now Pedro was sitting up, supported by the faithful guide, and plied and harassed with questions he chose not to answer. He told of Kissie’s appearance at the cave, of his conversation with her, of the way in which she had occupied herself during the time she had been with him, of the last he saw of her, where she was and what she was doing; but why he came, when he arrived, what he tarried for, and what he had seen, he refused to tell. He was firm and decided, though his nerves were shaken considerably.
Mr. Wheeler was overwhelmed and in a semi-stupor, and Carpenter was alarmed for his health. After being so near his loved daughter, after almost touching her and being within ear-shot, the shock of the sudden disappearance had unmanned him, and he had sunk into a state of imbecility.
Carpenter, loving Kissie and grieving for her, was more in a state to appreciate his sufferings than any one else, and did his best to comfort him, being assisted in a rude manner by the faithful Burt Scranton. But if he heard their words of comfort he did not reply—sitting motionless he grieved alone. The night wore on.
Ten o’clock. The group was gloomy and quiet, each one sitting or lying on the ground, some smoking, others chewing, and all reserved and moody. No watch outside had been set, as they were all strangely stupefied by the recent strange events. The horses attached to the wagons were quiet, the deserted saddle-horses were lying down, and the mustang out on the plain began to show very distinctly—the moon was rising.
Between eleven and twelve o’clock there was a slight movement outside among the horses, and a succession of stampings ensued; but it was soon quieted, involuntarily, and was still again.
Cimarron Jack, growing weary of the dead calm in the cell-like chamber, rose to his feet and started toward the door. As he did so, a clamor arose outside. A mare screamed viciously, stamping; a shrill “nicker” came from a horse, and there was at the same moment a sound of rushing and galloping hoofs.
He sprung to the trap and peered out, then yelled shortly.
Swarming round among the stationary train were over a score of running, twisting, gliding Indians, overrunning the wagon, busily engaged in unhitching the draft-horses, while more were galloping over the plain striving to lariat the saddle horses, which had taken fright and galloped away. They were busy as bees, and were swarming round like them. Thirty running, robbing Indians make a larger show than fifty whites, they are so much more agile and quick.
Selecting a burly knave close by, who was trying to burst a stout tobacco caddy, he took a long, deliberate aim and fired, then drawing his Colt’s six-shooter, commenced firing rapidly, yelling like a demon.
The large Indian fell dead on his breast, with a gurgling groan; and the precise and correctly aimed revolver wounded two more, who dropped, then rose and staggered away.
Like magic, the work of plunder ceased. Individually dropping their occupations, the savages sharply looked round for the cause of the sudden and fatal volley, but as Jack had slunk back into the cave they saw nothing. Then they became wildly alarmed, all their hereditary superstitions crowding one upon another, and began to retreat.
Cimarron Jack strove to organize his men, in order to make a sudden onslaught, which would be more efficacious than a volley from the hill, as the savages would be frightened out of their wits at seeing them rise from the ground. But surprised, the “green” ones clustered together like sheep, paying no attention to his oaths and orders, and before he could begin to reassure them, the savages had mounted their mustangs, and with the stolen draft-horses, went away like the wind, a large and scared band of thirty, headed by the malevolent chief, Red-Knife.
“Give ’em a volley before they get away!” he cried, leveling his reloaded rifle and firing. The guide, Sam and Burt followed his example, but only one shot took effect—a retreating savage rolled from his mustang, which sprung away riderless. The others were too surprised to fire.
Jack started out into the plain.
“Jerusalem! look at ’em skedaddling off with every cussed draft horse. Whew! mount as quick as you can, boys, and after ’em. Lively, now!”
The moonlight revealed an exciting scene. Away toward the south-east, riding like the wind, were seven and twenty Apaches, fleeing from some unknown terror, with a dozen draft-horses led after them. Two reeled in their saddles, one growing faint and scarcely able to cling to his mustang; the other, though weak from loss of blood, still managed to preserve his balance, though clumsily; they were the victims of Cimarron Jack’s proficiency with fire-arms. One mustang was riderless—the one from which the last savage had been shot; and he galloped along with his mounted companions, his side streaked with blood.
Behind were several men out on the plain by the hillock, coaxing their runaway steeds to them. It was a tedious, long task, as they had been frightened in good earnest.
Finally, Simpson succeeded in lariating his mustang, and then mounting, soon collected the rest. Then the majority of the horsemen rode away in pursuit, leaving the rest to search in the cave for the lost girl.
The pursuers were Jack, Simpson, Carpenter, Burt and Louis Robidoux; the remainder were Mr. Wheeler, Duncan, Napoleon Robidoux and the half stupefied and almost useless Pedro.
The latter party watched the others till they were lost in the far distance. Then they turned toward the cave.
“We are in for it,” remarked Robidoux, in a low tone, to Duncan. “What if more of these mean Indians should come? We’d be the only ones fit to fight ’em. Look at the master and the Mexican—they are both entirely useless. One is half-dead about some strange affair, while the other is almost in a trance with grief.”
Duncan broke out vehemently:
“They went away and never told me whether they’d be back to breakfast. Now, blast the luck! if I cook up a lot of grub for the whole party, and they ain’t here to eat it, the things’ll all spile, and then I’ll catch thunder for being extravagant and wasteful. And if I don’t cook for the lot, they’ll be sure to come back, and then there’ll be a fuss ’cause breakfast ain’t ready.”
“Oh, never mind the breakfast; there are other things more important than that, just now.”
The cook stared at him aghast.
“Other things more im-port-ant to look after! Oh, every hair of my head! Oh, my boot-heels! Oh, if I didn’t get breakfast to-morrow, what a swearing, red hot mess there’d be—every man a-cussing me. You never was a camp cook—you don’t know what it is.”
“It’s the softest job in the train.”
“Say that again and I’ll knock you down! Great Cæsar! if I wanted to have the sweetest revenge on an enemy, I’d condemn him to cook all his life for a camp. He’d go crazy—every hair in his head would turn gray in a few months. Heavens! what torments! Talk about your referees—talk about your President of the United States—your umpires—your settlers of disputes—there’s not so thankless a job in the world as that of a camp cook. It is always, cook, do this—cook, do that; cook, when’s dinner going to be ready? There ain’t enough biscuits, cook—why didn’t ye make more? You never make the coffee strong enough, cook—why don’t ye make it stronger? Cook, go fetch some drinking water! just as if I war a slave. No wonder I’m cross; who ever saw a camp cook that wasn’t? Nobody.
“And then if a meal ain’t ready to a second, how I’m sworn at and cursed. Cook, what makes you always behind? you are never on time. Then when it is ready, then comes the music—a regular dirge to me. One grumbling rascal says the meat ain’t cooked; another swears ’cause thar’s gnats in the coffee—just as if I could go round catching bugs like a boy with a butterfly net. And if a feller is in a civilized country and has butter, then it melts until you have to soak your bread in it to get any one. They cuss me for that too, and say I’m lazy and stingy because I won’t tote an ice-chest round. These fellers are the worst I ever did see. Bimeby they’ll be wanting ice cream, jelly, chocolate, oranges, mattresses to sleep on, and a waiter for every one. They’ll be wanting linen shirts, kid gloves, and a boot black bimeby—I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they should beg for ottomans, easy-chairs and musketo-bars—not a bit. Oh, curse the day I was fool enough to join as camp cook! Oh, every hair of my head!”
The Canadian, seeing he was in a fever, no further aggravated him by continuing the conversation, but glancing over the plain, said:
“There are three horses yet—no, two, that are loose. Can you throw a lariat, cook?”
“No, I can’t—and what’s more, I ain’t a-going to. I’m up every morning before daylight, cooking while you lazy fellows are snoring; then I drive team and wash dishes at the same time—I ain’t cross-eyed, and the result is I go slap into some hole, then get cussed. Then at noon you fellers roll on your lazy backs and see me cook, cook; and each one is always wanting me to cook a dish just the way some one else don’t want it done. Then it’s wash dishes and drive team again all the afternoon; a cross-eyed man could do it well enough, but I can’t. Then I’m washing dishes long after every one’s asleep at night, and am expected to turn out every morning a little after midnight and go to work, work again. No, sir; if you want the horses brought up, you can do it yourself, for I can’t and won’t.”
“All right, Duncan. You do have a hard time, that is a fact. Go in now, and get some sleep and I’ll try my hand at catching the horses.”
Duncan went inside and found Pedro and Mr. Wheeler both in a semi-stupor, from different causes, while Robidoux took a lariat and started away toward the black horse and the mustang, Dimple.
They were some two hundred yards distant, and both grazing, though differently. The moon shone brightly, and by its light he could see the black horse was quietly feeding, while the mustang was restless and kept moving away from him as if afraid of his superior size.
Silence reigned over the level plain as the Canadian walked rapidly toward them with his lariat in his hand. He looked carefully over the plain—nothing was in sight; he was alone on the plain in the Land of Silence.
He halted, as a thought struck him, hesitated a moment, then went on.
“What if I should see the ghost the guide was talking about?” he mused. “I begin to believe he did see one after the strange things that have happened to-night. That Pedro fellow they say is a brave man, but he’s scared to-night. I wonder if he saw it? I’d hate to have him ride up to me now.”
Once more he looked around on the moonlit silent plain—once more he moved on.
The black horse ceased his browsing as he drew near, and looked at him fixedly; something at that moment occurred to Robidoux.
“Pedro’s horse is in the cave,” he whispered to himself; “and all the others are gone except Dimple. It is strange—whose horse can it be?”
He went on and drew near. The mustang had moved away quite a distance, and stood snorting and tossing her mane; she was evidently affrighted—what was the matter?
She was gazing at something behind him—he turned. As he did so he uttered a sharp cry.
A form was coming toward him from the hillock—a colossal form walking rapidly. A tall hat surmounted his head, and in the band was a waving plume; a serape was over his shoulders, almost concealing his body; he was quite near, being in fact only a rod or so distant.
The Canadian knew it was not Pedro, and no man as enormous was of the party besides him except Cimarron Jack, and he was away. He trembled; could it be the guide’s ghost?
The man was almost upon him, and was advancing rapidly. Seized with sudden terror, nameless but vivid, he clasped his hands and awaited his approach. His old superstitions were fully aroused, and he felt it was a thing to be dreaded.
In five seconds he stood face to face with the whitest, ghastliest face, the blackest, keenest eye, and the most terrifying form he had ever seen. He knew now who it was, from the guide’s description.
Horror! he was facing, on this moonlight night, on this bare, lonely plain, the ghost of the Trailer!
“You are late on the plain to-night.”
They were almost the very words he had spoken to the guide. With a wild cry, and moved by his great terror, he saw the figure stalk toward the black horse, which walked to meet him.
He stopped in the entrance and stared back, then again shrieking, he sprung in and tightly closed the trap; he had seen the mustang, seized with fear, scour away over the plain, and coming toward the hillock on the stalking black horse was the terrible, strange form—the Trailer’s spirit!
Still shined the moon quietly down. There is dire trouble in the Land of Silence to-night.