NEW YORK HARRY.
The gray light of morning was revealing the camp of the United States troops when the sentry before General Alvin Gillem’s head-quarters halted a stalwart Indian who, with aboriginal boldness, was stalking toward the door.
“What blue-coat stop Indian for?” demanded the red-man.
“For the simple reason that you have no business with the General.”
“Indian much talk with gold-star chief. He lookin’ for Klamath.”
“But I shall not disturb him on your account,” said the sentry. “You can loiter about the camp till sunrise.”
The Klamath did not move, but burst into a hearty cachinnation, decidedly English.
“So you thought I was an Indian, Tom Baird,” he said. “Well now, that’s a rich joke. Can’t you tell old Kit South from a Klamath?”
“Kit South it is, upon my honor!” exclaimed the sentry. “Here, give me your hand; but don’t tell the boys how you sold me.”
The scout took the extended hand, and shook it heartily while he laughed.
“I reckon, Tom, you’ll let me see Gillem now,” he said, and as the sentry moved toward the tent, the curtains parted and a head was thrust forth.
“Well, well, Kit,” said the voice of Gillem. “You do make an excellent Klamath. What’s the news from Arrow-Head? But, come in, and we’ll talk matters over while I dress.”
Tom Baird stepped aside, and the ranger entered the General’s tent.
Kit threw himself upon a blanket and burst into a fit of laughter.
“’Reesa’s in a bad fix, and Cohoon’s in a worser,” he said; “but I must laugh when I think how readily Jack swallowed our story about Arrow-Head. You see, General, he had been itching to b’lieve such a thing for so long, that he took right to the tale we brought. But once thar, we stood on the edge of perdition, and I had to do a deed that went ag’in’ my grain.”
Gillem dropped his boot-straps, and looked up at the scout.
“While we war talkin’ to Jack, in pops an Indian boy, and he war goin’ to tell who we war; but I don’t know how he knew the truth unless he see’d us fix up. But I sp’iled his story before he got started. I just caught him up, and I guess I let a spoonful o’ blood out’n his breast. I didn’t want to kill the little fellow; he looked as innocent as a lamb, but I hed to do it to save my own skin.”
“I hope you may be forgiven for that blow,” said the soldier, with a smile.
“I hup so, too, General; but what riles me, the red devils hev still got ’Reesa—Baltimore Bob, in particular.”
“That fellow again?” queried Gillem. “He must be a demon, Kit.”
“That’s just what he is. When a white man turns Injun, Satan registers a new devil on his books.”
“A white man, Kit? You don’t mean that—”
“Yes, I do. Baltimore Bob is a white chap called Rafe Todd,” and then the scout detailed a history of the renegade’s crime, and subsequent desertion. “You see, I knowed nothing of this when he came about our parts,” he continued, “and he began cutting around ’Reesa. But, she wouldn’t have any thing to do with him, for she was rather soft on a fellow named Harris,” and there was a merry twinkle in the father’s eye while he spoke the last sentence. “Finally, he insulted ’Reesa and I wanted to cowhide him. By Jehu! I would have skinned ’im alive, I guess; ’Van took it up, and one night they fought a duel with rifles along Lost River. ’Van hit the fellow somewhere, and he tumbled over the bank into the water. We saw him floating down-stream, dead, as we thought. But he isn’t dead. ’Van saw Jack unmask him the other day, and after that the white devil shot ’Van in the head.”
“Is Harris dead?”
“No; I brought him off from the last fight, and he’s in Cap. Jackson’s tent now, nigh about as well as anybody. When Bob, or Rafe Todd, found that he wasn’t dead, he put him into the clutches of their Curly-headed Doctor, with eye-orders to get him out o’ the way. The medicine fool tried it, but ’Van took care of an advantage, and knocked the doctor down. Then he broke an’ run, got into the river, was strangled, and Cohoon got him out when he was nigh about gone. I guess we’ll never see Cohoon ag’in. They’ll make short shrift of the brave red fellow. Where’s Artena and Donald?”
Gillem shook his head.
“Their absence perplexes me. I never liked the idea of sending that girl among the Modocs. She walks into the jaws of death every time she enters the lava-caves. If the Modoc chiefs ever get a good chance at her—”
“Why, she’s gone. But it puzzles me about Mack,” said Kit. “If he got out of the river, he would have been hyar afore this, I think.”
“Something startling may detain him. Recollect, he has friends to save.”
“And I—I have a wife to avenge!” cried the scout, springing to his feet, all the anger of his nature aroused. “General, I had a dream, during the short sleep I snatched in Jackson’s tent, last night. It’s too long to tell, but it amounted to this; I killed the man who sent the red devils against my cabin—Rafe Todd. I don’t b’lieve in dreams very much; but I dreamt this one over three times in an hour, and I know thar’s something in it. If he don’t deserve—”
The sentence was suddenly shortened by the appearance of the sentry, who announced that several soldiers were conducting a Modoc prisoner to head-quarters.
Gillem glanced at Kit and smiled, as he rose to his feet.
“We’re decimating their ranks at the rate of one per week,” he said. “This war is costing Uncle Sam a neat little figure.”
“Yes,” said Lava-Bed Kit. “It costs about two millions to kill a Modoc; half that sum to give one a flesh-wound. Reg’lars can’t fight Indians in California.”
“Please don’t reflect upon the regulars, Kit,” responded Gillem. “You know I won’t argue with you on the question you have sprung; but let us take a look at the solitary captive of the whole army.”
The two men left the tent, and greeted a sturdy sergeant and two privates who had halted before it with the captive Modoc.
This fellow, they said, had entered the camp with a white rag streaming from his gun-barrel, and declared himself disgusted with the Modoc cause. He would fight no more against the Government, and wished to be released on parole. His name, he said, was New York Harry, and his rank a sub-chief under the Modoc rebel.
General Gillem relieved him of his arms, a fine Spencer rifle, a brace of silver-mounted revolvers, and a bowie-knife, and released him on his word of honor.
“I will tell my men of you,” he said, through Kit, who acted as interpreter on the occasion, “and if you attempt to pass the lines, you will be shot dead.”
The savage expressed himself fully satisfied with the restrictions, and, after delivering some important information concerning Jack, was allowed to depart.
Gillem and the scout watched the Indian a while, and then separated, after a brief conversation.
New York Harry sauntered about the camp and conversed with numerous scouts. He found his way to Colonel Mason’s head-quarters, and was soon enrolled in the United States service as a scout. A new Spencer rifle and revolver were furnished him, and he was to lead a squad of soldiers to Jack’s retreat at nightfall. He harbored a deadly hatred against the Modoc, and exhibited a fresh scar, which extended across his right cheek, as a mark of Jack’s affection for his followers.
“Well, ’Van, do you think you can go with me to the Beds, to-night?”
“I do, Kit. I am going with you,” replied the young man, who lay upon a pallet in the tent of Captain Jackson of the—th regular infantry. “I want to help snatch ’Reesa from the red cutthroats, to save Cohoon, if I can, and to settle accounts with Rafe Todd.”
“You’ve got too many irons in the fire,” said South, with smile. “Take a couple out, ’Van.”
The young ranger shook his head.
“Not for Joe, or, rather, not for ’Van Harris,” he said, returning the scout’s smile. “If I burn any of those irons, it will be my own fault, Kit. We are going alone, I suppose.”
“Yes; though there’s one fellow who’d like to go along, I’m thinking!”
“Who is he—Mack?”
“Lord bless you, no!” exclaimed the scout. “Here it’s sundown almost, and Mack hasn’t showed his face. Gillem’s gettin’ flustered about him, an’ I mus’ own that somethin’ of that nature’s troublin’ me. We’ll look for Donald, too, when we get to the Beds. But the fellow what would like to go with us is an Indian—a genuine Modoc.”
“The fellow who surrendered this morning?” asked the ranger.
“That’s the chap.”
“Jackson was telling me about him to-day, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the fellow is a spy. And to think that Mason would commission him as a scout! I must say that our army officers are forgetting the lessons they learned in the rebellion.”
“It looks that way,” said Kit. “I’ve been watching the Indian nigh all day, but I’ve see’d nothing suspicious about him.”
“Well, he may be in earnest. I’d like to see him.”
“Then we’ll walk out a bit. I want you to see Davis and Gillem afore we go back to the caves. Blast the luck! I wish our plot to kidnap Jack had succeeded. I know something now. That young Oregonian who come into camp the other day was Rafe Todd.”
“He was. I learned enough from the Indians to satisfy me on that point,” said ’Van Harris. “He lay behind a rock while you and Artena conversed with Gillem, and it was he who denounced the girl as a traitress. He beat her to the cave.”
Kit South did not speak, but gritted his teeth with rage, and they left the tent.
The young ranger had completely recovered from his wound, and seemed much refreshed by his day’s rest. He belonged to McKay’s Lava-Bed Rangers; and had been of signal value to the service since the inauguration of the Modoc war. He had offered his services simultaneously with Kit South, and at once enlisted under the chieftainship of the Warm Spring hero.
Like the giant scout, he could speak the Modoc tongue without difficulty, and was well versed in the cunning toils of Indian warfare.
The scouts held brief conversations with the two Generals in Gillem’s head-quarters, and about seven o’clock took their departure.
“I’m not coming back this time without ’Reesa,” said Kit, while he held Davis’ hand.
“Nor I without a canceled account with Rafe Todd,” chimed in the young ranger.
“You can’t kill him!” said Kit, turning to the young speaker. “I told you about my dream. I b’lieve it now as firmly as I b’lieve I live. I’m going to kill that devil myself.”
“Bring him alive into camp, Kit, and we’ll hang him for killing the sergeant, at Fort Crook.”
“Never mind, Gen’ral; I’ll settle the army’s bill against him when I settle mine.”
A few minutes later the scouts left the officers, and, well disguised, hurried toward the outskirts of the camp.
“Why the Indian intends staying about to-night after all,” suddenly whispered Kit to his companion. “I thought Luke Davis, Dave Webb, and Sam Thatcher, war goin’ to the beds with him.”
“The Indian—where is he?” asked young Harris. “I want to see him.”
“There he goes, now look, quick—he’s turning—coming this way—going right toward the boys’ tent.”
The scout quickly drew his young comrade into a tent, near at hand, and, parting the curtains just the least, they watched the savage.
He was walking directly toward the Sibley, and was distinctly visible in the soft April gloaming.
His Spencer was slung on his back, and he walked rapidly, as though something on the other side of the camp demanded his attention.
Suddenly, when New York Harry had arrived opposite the tent, Evan Harris caught Kit’s arm.
“Don’t you know him?” he cried, looking up into the scout’s face, excitedly.
“Know him—yes; he’s a Modoc scoundrel.”
“He is not,” said the younger ranger. “His name is Rafe Todd.”
The old scout started at the mention of the deserter’s name, but shook his head.
“That won’t do, boy. When did you see Rafe last?”
“Yesterday.”
“Had he a scar on his face?”
“No.”
“Well, this fellow has a scar on his cheek—a tremendous scar, too, and it’s at least five days old. I think he is playing some little game, but the boys are posted, and at the first sign of treachery, they’ll put him out of the way forever. Come, we’ll go, now.”
They left the tent, but the young ranger could not take his eyes from New York Harry.
“You may reason soundly, Kit,” he said, at length, “but I will bet my life that Rafe Todd stands in that fellow’s moccasins.”
“He can’t,” said the scout, quickly and confidently. “That scar says he is not Rafe Todd, and didn’t I look him squarely in the eye when you lay about dead in Jack’s cave, and see that his face was as smooth as your’n, barring his paint? And then that Indian is a better man—physically—than the white villain.”
The youth did not reply to this argument; but his countenance told that he still adhered to his opinion regarding the identity of New York Harry.