NEW ARRIVALS AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE.
The three rangers held their breath, and kept their eyes upon the striking tableau in the cave.
They waited for the further lifting of the knife that glittered in the scarlet hand of the Modoc brigand; then they would drive their bullets to his brain, and rescue Artena from “durance vile.”
The Indian guards had turned from their posts to witness the execution, and a fierce smile of approval played with their lips.
“Artena goes to the Great Spirit now,” said Jack, suddenly breaking the silence. “She will never—”
He was not permitted to finish the sentence, for, with a suddenness that startled every one, the Squaw Spy sprung upon him and wrested the knife from his hands.
He reeled backward with an exclamation of rage, and barely escaped the blow she aimed at his heart.
Then Artena whirled upon the guards, who tried to seize her after she had crossed the threshold of her prison!
“Catch her!” yelled Jack, as he recovered his equilibrium, and leaped forward, revolver in hand.
But the guards had anticipated his commands, and were pursuing the flying woman in the gloom, and over the loose rocks that strewed the floor of the passage.
By and by the three guards returned—empty-handed.
“Where’s Artena?” asked the chief, angrily.
“The spirits of Wonemoc land took her off.”
Captain Jack’s lips curled with a contemptuous sneer.
“Dogs that will let a woman outrun them are not fit to live!” he cried, and the next instant one of the guards dropped, with a bullet in his brain.
The others looked to their weapons; but the murderer was too quick for them; one fell before he could draw his weapon, the other with the pistol in his hand.
“Thus I deal with dogs!” cried Jack, looking down upon his victims. “The warriors shall hear that they freed Artena, and that I discovering their treason, shot them. The traitors even will applaud me; the act will help make us truer brothers.”
Then he sprung over the dead with the name of the Squaw Spy on his lips, and the cave was untenanted by the living.
He knew where more than one red warrior lay, and he was determined that Artena should not escape.
But where was the flying girl? Let us see:
Springing from the cave she ran into the arms of Donald McKay. She would have shrieked, no doubt, but the ranger’s hand closed over her mouth, and his lips touched her ear.
“’Tis Mack, girl,” he whispered, “and the boys are with him. Quick! to the left,” and a moment later the Indians darted past.
The quartette found themselves in a corridor whose floor was devoid of obstructions, and through the gloom they hurried with hasty feet.
“Hold!” suddenly cried Kit South, touching McKay’s arm.
The party halted.
“I want to know where my gal is?” said the scout. “Artena, what do you know about her?”
Then, in low whispers, the Squaw Spy related the separating of herself and Kit’s child by New York Harry.
“Where do you suppose he took her?”
“Artena does not know.”
For a moment the scout was silent.
“He does not mean to stay with Jack any longer, I’m satisfied of this,” he said, then. “I know that Indian—the sharpest of all the Modocs. He sees that Jack’s time is drawing to a close, and I’ll wager my rifle that he’s going back to his old haunts with ’Reesa—back to the Klamaths.”
“Then we must hunt him above ground,” said Evan Harris.
“Yes, and the sooner we get out o’ this the better.”
“We must cross the river, but where?”
“At the Devil’s Bridge,” answered the scout. “You won’t find an Indian within a hundred yards of the spot. Why, several years ago, I couldn’t get Cohoon to put his foot on it, and as we were compelled to cross the stream, he plunged in, and I had to risk my life to save his.”
When Kit spoke the name of the Warm Spring spy, a hand fell softly on his arm; but the owner thereof did not speak until he had finished.
“Speak gently of Cohoon,” said a voice in the darkness. “He is dead.”
“Who killed him?”
“The Modocs; they shot him full of holes as he jumped into the river.”
The gritting of teeth was heard in the corridor.
“If ever we git out o’ this, girl, we’ll pay the Indians for those shots,” said the scout; “but we’ve got to be going. This hall leads to the river—I know it by the rough walls.”
Then the march was commenced, Donald McKay in the van, and admirable progress was made until the ranger suddenly brought up against a stone wall.
“Perdition!” he hissed, turning upon his followers, “the corridor ends here.”
“Then we’re lost!”
“Yes. In the gloom, I have turned from the true trail. But, hark! we are near the river! I hear the water dashing over the rocks.”
Then every voice grew still, and the party listened to the sound of the underground river.
“There must be an outlet to the river,” said young Harris, breaking the silence. “I believe that a path leads from this cavern straightway to its brink.”
The walls of the little cavern were examined, but not a single indenture rewarded the searchers.
“We must get out of here,” McKay said, with stern determination. “We are not twenty rods from Devil’s Bridge, and once across it, we are safe. The ceiling may be perforated.”
“True! Lucky thought!” cried Kit South; and the next moment he was running his tomahawk over the roof of the cave.
“Here is a hole,” he said, suddenly; “but I can barely reach it.”
“It leads up the river—I feel it,” said Harris; “but how can we reach it?”
A way by which the hole in the ceiling could be utilized was soon found.
Kit South, supported by McKay’s herculean shoulders, clambered into the opening, and announced that he was in a corridor which led to the river.
This was joyful news indeed, and he drew the young ranger and Artena from the cavern. It then took the united strength of all to draw the immense form of McKay into the corridor, and for a moment they paused to recover breath.
A piercing shriek broke the silence, and startled every one.
“That was ’Reesa’s voice, by Heaven!” cried Kit South, springing forward; but McKay held him back.
“The black path may be full of holes,” he said, admonishingly. “Wait! we’ll light the way.”
“Then be quick about it, Mack. My gal’s in danger.”
The half-breed stripped his hunting-jacket from his burly form, and wrapped one sleeve about a knife. A lucifer match ignited the improvised torch, and, with a bright glare above his head, he started forward.
All at once Donald McKay paused on the edge of the corridor, and turned to his companions.
“Look!” he said, holding the torch in a position that enabled all to see the Devil’s Bridge.
They did look and beheld two men—Indians—struggling like demons on the rocky arch, which, every second, they threatened to desert for the blackish water.
“Let ’em fight it out,” said the ranger chief, “then we’ll cross the river.”
But the next instant a cry pealed from Artena’s lips, and her slender hand pointed forward.
“See!” she cried. “Cohoon is on the bridge! He not dead after all. See! see!”
“By my heart! she’s right,” exclaimed McKay, “and the other Indian is—”
“New York Harry! My gal is not far off either. By Heaven! Cohoon shan’t kill him; he’s for me!”
And drawing a pistol, he took as steady aim as the flickering light of the torch would allow, and fired. The traitor reeled, and being released from the encircling arms of his astonished adversary, fell forward on his face on the rocks.
“Cohoon!” said Kit, advancing toward the Indian. “Gods, we were’nt looking for you. Where’s ’Reesa?”
“There,” and he pointed to where the insensible form of the girl had been dropped by the abductor to grapple with his unseen foe.
A moment later she was in her father’s arms.
“Away!” cried Cohoon; “the Modocs rush up the river. The noise of the pistol has reached their ears.”
Artena pointed to a corridor that tended to the left, into which she led the way, and was followed by the entire party.