THE RANGER’S SHOT.
The intrepid chief of the Warm Spring Indians saw that he had missed the disguised scouts by losing his way among the Lava-Beds, and now he blessed the darkness that led him astray, for had he gained the objective point uppermost in his mind, he would, in all probability, have driven the knife or bullet into the hearts of the spies.
He and Artena trembled for the safety of their friends after the recognition, and concluded to remain where they were and await events.
Donald could hardly resist the temptation to drop Captain Jack, the head and heart of the bloody Modoc war, and twice Artena preserved that red worthy’s life by touching the ranger’s arm as it unconsciously raised the weapon of death.
“Don’t, Donald,” she whispered, the last time. “Remember our friends are in peril.”
Then his thoughts would recur to the peril of his friends, and the hammer would drop lightly upon the cartridge again.
After Wiaquil—or Cohoon—assured Jack that he and his friend would remain, a general hand-shaking took place.
Captain Jack was profuse in his marks of good-will, and his chiefs appeared pleased with the messengers and their message.
The last savage to take the runner’s hands was that worthy called by his brethren, Baltimore Bob, but known to the reader under his true name of Rafe Todd.
During the pledging of friendship he had stood aloof, with his dark eyes fastened with suspicious glare upon the twain, and when he did move forward it was by some sudden impulse.
“Bob,” whispered Artena to Donald McKay, “does he see beneath the paint?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been watching him for a long time,” was the ranger’s reply. “I half believe that he suspects something. There! see how he looks into Cohoon’s eyes. We must watch him now; he suspects; I know it!”
Rafe Todd turned suddenly from the runners and strode toward ’Reesa South, who was supporting her lover’s head in her lap, unconscious of what was transpiring around her. She knew that strange Indians had entered the cave, for, through the red ranks that stood between her and the new-comers, she had caught glimpses of them.
But her whole attention was centered upon the young ranger, and no eyes save hers had noticed the slight movements that told of returning life.
“’Reesa,” said Rafe Todd, and the scout’s daughter started at her name. “After the excitement of the past few hours you need rest. Come with me. There is a spot near where you will find a soft bed, and I know you will enjoy a slumber.”
He spoke kinder than was his wont, and, stooping, gently touched her arm, as he finished.
“I do not want rest,” she answered, involuntarily shrinking from his touch. “See, Rafe Todd, he is not dead.”
The white Indian started.
“’Reesa, you must be mistaken,” he said. “He is as dead as Canby.”
“Touch his pulse.”
She lifted Evan Harris right hand, and Rafe Todd tremblingly sought the pulses.
“Well well,” he said, “he is not dead,” and then he turned to the Indians.
“Miwah,” he called, and a giant Indian, known to readers of the Modoc war as the Curly-Headed Doctor, came forward.
“The pale fellow is not dead,” continued the deserter, addressing the medicine-man of his adopted people. “If you can get him up again, do so. He may be of service to us.”
As he spoke he gave Miwah a look, which said: “See that you kill him,” and then turned to ’Reesa again.
“Now, girl,” he said, “you will seek your chamber. I pledge my word of honor that if the spark of life in him can be fanned into a flame, it shall be done.”
The scout’s daughter smiled; the thought of Rafe Todd possessing honor was quite enough to provoke a smile; but she did not say any thing, and rose to her feet.
“We have visitors,” said the deserter, in a low voice, as he led the white girl—his blood-bought captive—toward the Klamaths. “They’re Klamaths,” and here his lips curled with a sneer of contempt, “and I was surprised to see them. Look! are they not fine-looking fellows, ’Reesa?”
The Indians, knowing that the deserter was conducting the girl to a smaller compartment, made way, and presently the twain found themselves face to face with the runners.
On the part of one runner—Wiaquil—the same immobility of countenance remained; but his companion started slightly when his eyes fell upon our white heroine.
Rafe Todd caught the dark eyes that shot from ’Reesa’s face to his, and quickened his gait.
But Coquil suddenly stepped forward and clutched ’Reesa’s arm.
“Girl pretty,” he said, in the Klamath tongue. “Who she be?”
“She’s mine,” said the deserter, meeting the scout’s look of feigned inquisitiveness with a bold glance. “She belongs to Baltimore Bob.”
“What’ll Bob take for her?”
“Won’t sell her,” said the white Indian, jerking the girl’s arm from the red hand, and starting forward again.
“Did Mouseh give pale girl to Bob?” asked the runner, turning to the Modoc chief.
“Yes.”
“She make good Klamath squaw. Coquil got no one to warm his lodge. He like to buy pale girl, for he got heaps yellow stones.”
“Bob won’t sell his pale squaw for all the gold in California,” returned Jack. “So Coquil must go back squawless to the clear lake.”
The messenger smiled, and stepped to the side of his companion, to whom he said a few words in a tone that failed to reach the ears of the watchers on the river bank.
To his communication Wiaquil replied, and looked up at Jack.
“The trail from Arrow-Head’s lodge to Mouseh’s cave is hard to travel,” he said. “Wiaquil and his brother saw the sun and the stars, and now they would sleep awhile that they may be refreshed for the war-path against the blue-coats.”
Jack turned and held a short council with his chiefs, after which a number left the cave, until the great Modoc and Hooker Jim alone remained.
The Curly-Headed Doctor had mysteriously disappeared with his patient.
“Our brothers will rest here,” said Jack, describing a circle with his hand. “Mouseh hopes that they may not be disturbed, for no braves shall enter the cave while they lie here. The Modocs have departed to watch the blue-coats, for the sun is high in the heavens now. Hooker Jim will sleep in the mouth of yonder hole, and the lightest step will touch his ear.”
Then the Modoc touched the hands of his guests again, and chivalrously bade them good-night.
With a nonchalance simply remarkable, the runners doffed their blankets, and spread them on the ground; then they laid their Spencers between their robes, and threw themselves upon the latter.
Hooker Jim looked on all the preparations for slumber with an unsuspicious eye, and laid down in the mouth of the corridor, in whose dark recesses Jack and his braves had disappeared.
Watchful eyes regarded the tableau revealed by the flickering fire, and after an hour’s silence Donald McKay turned to Artena.
“They are safe now, I think,” he said. “Baltimore Bob has been completely hoodwinked. You must go to the General now.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I will stay. You will tell him about Mouseh’s new stronghold; how to approach it; in short, every thing you know about it. Take the canoe. You can paddle, and you know the way from this spot.”
“Yes; but Artena would be near Cohoon when he sleeps in Jack’s cave. Donald don’t know what he is to Artena.”
“Ah! but I do, girl,” was the ranger’s reply. “I have known it long, too. Are you afraid to meet Jack?”
“No; he does not believe Artena a traitress.”
“Good. Now watch the boys till I find the boat.”
So Donald McKay glided from the girl’s side, and moved down the bank toward the underground river.
He knew where he had moored the boat, and he reached the spot to find the craft missing!
“What does this mean?” he ejaculated, inaudible. “Surely no Indian would steal it without suspicions. It wasn’t an Indian boat. Even in the dark a red-skin could have told that.”
The ranger was nonplused, and wandered down the shore, feeling among the sharp rocks for the missing canoe.
But his search was fruitless; not a clue to the fate of the barque could be discovered, and, trying to plan for the future, he turned toward Artena.
No doubt she was alarmed about his absence, for he had been gone a long time, and he wondered what she would say when informed of the work of the waves, or Indians.
Donald approached the spot cautiously, and at length reached the very place he had vacated.
But no Artena greeted his return!
He held his breath.
“Artena?”
No reply answered him.
“Artena?”
Silence, as before.
Then he groped about for several minutes and returned to the same old place, admitting reluctantly that Artena, like the boat, was gone!
He could not conjecture the cause of her desertion; but he resolved to wait awhile for her return.
He lay down on the bank in such a position that he could look upon the spies sleeping soundly in the lion’s den, and over his head the leaden moments passed.
All at once the ranger chief moved, and his eyes flashed upon an object in the cave.
This object had suddenly made its appearance in the shape of a man, and by stepping over the prostrate body of Hooker Jim.
The dim light revealed it but indistinctly to Donald McKay, yet he saw the tomahawk clutched in the right hand, and he recognized the face.
For a moment the new-comer paused, listened, and looked.
The sleeping spies were the objects of his attention, and seemingly satisfied with his observation, he again advanced toward them.
Simultaneously with the second advance, there was a movement of the ranger’s right arm.
It crept over the edge of the bank, and a revolver filled the hand.
“Let him lift that hatchet over them,” grated the scout. “Just let him do it, and I’ll bore his brain, if I lose my life for it the next minute!”
The Indian continued to approach the scouts with the noiseless tread of the cat.
Donald McKay could hardly believe that they slept, yet such seemed to be the fact, and he wished he could rouse them without resorting to the pistol, which might bring destruction upon the heads of all.
At length the savage paused over the spies, and then dropped upon his knees beside Kit South.
For a moment he seemed to contemplate his prey, as the panther does his before he springs from the leafy bough upon it.
How Donald McKay watched him!
Not even when he heard a voice in his rear, did he move his eyeballs.
The noise in his rear, slight as it was, told him much.
Dusky foes were gliding upon him from the gloom that slept upon the river.
He knew it, but the knowledge did not unnerve his arm. He knew, too, that the tomahawk would immediately follow his capture, for Captain Jack had offered a tempting reward for his scalp—not his person, which he did not want.
Suddenly, as if impelled by a terrible impulse, the Indian’s tomahawk shot upward.
The next moment the cave resounded with the report of a revolver, and the savage staggered to his feet with a howl of rage!
Donald McKay waited no longer.
He leaped up and wheeled toward the river; but found himself in the midst of a dozen Indians!
Once, twice, thrice, he pressed his revolver against the red breasts and pulled the trigger, then flung wide his iron arms, and dashed forward—free again!
The flashes of pistols revealed him on the brink of the river, and the next moment he was gone!