The Two Klamaths.
Two hours after the Indians’ departure from the cave wherein the Union shell had augmented the ranks of death, a figure let itself down through the hole in the roof, and alighted near the now dying fire.
It was the figure of an Indian, dressed in semi-barbaric garb, and he darted a look of mingled surprise and disappointment about the cavern. When his eyes fell upon the shell-stricken Modocs, six in number, he bounded to the spot, and soon six scalps hung at his leathern belt, faced with the well-known U. S. escutcheon.
He held a torch near the dead faces as though he looked for a particular one, which he did not find. For he shook his head, much chagrined at something, and abruptly turned away.
Then, holding the torch above his head, he advanced to the corridor where Kit South had fallen, and stooped over the figure that lay near the mouth.
The position of the scout had remained unchanged for two hours, and the Indian gently raised the head and put his ear to his lips.
But no signs of life seemed to reward him, until he tore the dark-gray hunting-jacket open, and placed his tawny hand over the heart.
Then a smile and a low ejaculation of joy parted his lips, and he rose quickly to his feet.
Lava-Bed Kit was not dead!
As the Indian dropped the head, a long black curl disengaged itself and fell to the ground.
This proclaimed the path of Baltimore Bob’s bullet, and the furrow plowed along the temple was rank with hardened gore.
The savage soon left the cave, but after an absence of several minutes, returned with water in his pouch.
Then he knelt over the scout and set to work to restore him to consciousness, which, after awhile, he succeeded in doing. Kit opened his eyes upon a swarthy face revealed by the torch.
“So you’ve got me yet,” were his first words, and then, putting forth his arms, he uttered a cry of horror.
“Say!” and he almost started to his feet. “Indian, I had ’Reesa in my arms when I made you stand aside! Tell me where the gal is now; tell me what you’ve done with ’Reesa, you red-livered—”
He paused suddenly, for he had recognized the Indian.
“Cohoon, is it you?”
The Indian smiled.
“Yes, Cohoon is with Kit,” he said.
“Where’s my gal?”
The Indian mournfully shook his head.
“Why, you saw me start from the cave,” said Kit.
“Cohoon did; he saw Baltimore Bob shoot Kit—”
“Stop!” cried the scout, putting forth his hand to strengthen the interruption. “Did Baltimore Bob shoot me?”
“Yes, Kit.”
The scout gritted his teeth till they cracked.
“Now look hyar, Indian. I’m going to kill that brute. Don’t you tech a hair of his head; if you do I’ll—there’s no telling what I might do to you. I swear that he’s my meat, and nobody has a better right to his life than old Kit South. Do you hear me?”
The Indian nodded.
“Then go on.”
“When Kit fell, a big shell come into cave,” continued Cohoon, “and it make big noise. Kill heap Modocs, and put fire out. Cohoon see Artena fall, and he jump down into cave, pick her up and run. He tried to pull ’Reesa from Kit, but him hold too fast, and Cohoon had to run on.”
“Then you don’t know any thing ’bout ’Reesa!” said the scout, with a sigh.
Cohoon shook his head.
“Mebbe she’s dead and mebbe she isn’t. Where are the Indians now?”
“They go down black hole there, and now stand in big cave near the hidden river. They ’fraid of shells here. Blue-coats not shelling now. Donald withdraw his braves while shells fly.”
“I know he was to report this midnight,” said Kit. “Cohoon, shall we go to camp?”
“Not till we find ’Reesa.”
“That’s so, boy; give me your hand. I don’t see General Gillem again until I know what’s become of my gal, and kill Baltimore Bob. I swear it, by hokey! I do.”
The scout soon discovered that he could walk, and when the Warm Spring Indian pointed out the effects of the shell, he suddenly turned to him:
“Look hyar, Cohoon. Let us turn ourselves into Modocs,” he said. “Hyar’s the trinkets to do it with, and plenty of paint.”
But the Warm Springer shook his head.
“Captain Jack got just fifty-six men,” he said, “and he know just who have been killed. Kit and Cohoon can’t become Modocs, but they might make good Klamaths.”
“But where’s the material?”
“There!” and as the Indian spoke he pointed to the dead Modocs.
“But, Cohoon, this isn’t the Klamaths’ war.”
“Jack looking every way for Klamath braves. Arrow-Head promise to help Modocs; but the old chief ’fraid of blue-coats’ big guns. Cohoon lived with the Klamath Lake Indians off and on for long time, and he can paint just like ’em.”
“And hevn’t I hunted and fished with the dirty greasers, too?” cried the scout. “You just ought to hear me bladge Klamath jargon once. Why, I kin out-talk old Arrow-Head himself. Yes, we’ll turn into Klamaths right off, and we’ll tell Jack the biggest pack of lies that ever fell upon his ears.”
In less than no time the mutilated Indians were stripped, and the twain bore the garments, with the warriors’ paint-pouches to the brink of a small stream that flowed through the lavaed fissures, perhaps forty feet below the fused surface.
A lone torch enabled them to accomplish the weird metamorphosis, and after the lapse of an hour they rose to their feet, veritable Klamath Indians.
“My name’s Coquil, or the Dog that Bites,” said the painted scout, with a broad grin of humor. “What’s your handle, Cohoon?”
The savage thought a moment, then answered:
“Wiaquil.”
“The Dog that Sleeps—that’s good,” answered Kit. “Now let’s be off like a pot-leg. I’m uncommon anxious to see what kind of a Klamath I make.”
The garments which the twain had cast aside were deposited on a shelf above the bank, perhaps for future use, while those which belonged to the Modocs, and not used in the transformation, were thrown into the stream.
As the Modocs dress similar to the Klamath Lake tribes, Cohoon experienced no difficulty in finding good disguises, and they deemed themselves well hidden when they stuck their revolvers in their belts, and left the spot.
For several moments Kit and his red ally paused in the cave on their way to the trail of Jack and his band, and regaled themselves on a bit of food which Cohoon supplied from his pouch.
They conversed but little, and that in the Klamath tongue, which both spoke quite readily, and presently resumed the march.
As they entered the mouth of the corridor, which led to the Modocs’ new stronghold, a veritable giant dropped into the cavern through the same opening which had previously admitted the two spies to scenes of danger and death.
I say the new arrival was a giant.
He was six feet tall, and massively built. His skin betokened him a half-breed, and he was clad in the garments of the Western scout and Indian-fighter.
In brief, this man was Donald McKay, the head chief of the Warm Spring Indians, and an oft-repeated description of him in the daily journals have acquainted the reader with his personale, long ere this.
He saw nothing but the retreating forms of the spies, and as he struck the ground, he drew a cocked revolver from his belt.
“So the accursed Klamaths are mixing in the war, eh?” he muttered, with rising indignation, starting toward our friends. “By heavens! Captain Jack shall never hear what old Arrow-Head’s emissaries have to tell him. Two Klamaths shall never cross the California line again—not if my revolver is true to my eye.”
The fire still revealed the two spies, and the half-breed’s weapon shot upward to the level of his stern, black eye.
And the dark-brown finger was pressing the trigger that would speed the deadly lead to Kit South’s brain, when the sharp twang of a bowstring sounded behind the chief, and he staggered against the wall, with an arrow sticking in his side.
But he recovered in a moment, and started toward the Indian, who was rushing forward to complete his victory.
“I’m not dead yet!” hissed the Lava-Bed Ranger, and his voice and action caused the Indian to execute an abrupt halt.
He tried to fit another arrow to his bow; but the scout was too near, so he wheeled, with a cry of regret, and darted toward the underground river.
The next instant Donald McKay covered him with the revolver; but the shot took no effect, for the savage was zig-zaging at a terrible rate through the demi-darkness.
Hoping for another chance, the half-breed scout ran on, only to see a dark form leap from the bank, and to hear a dull plash in the water.
“Curse the arrow!” grated the Warm Spring chief, turning chagrined from his ill success. “Indeed it baffled a choice shot of mine. But I’ll catch the Klamath ambassadors yet. If I can prevent it, they shall never revive Jack’s hopes by promises of succor. I’m on the trail of Klamath beasts now; but I may fail. I don’t know. The best of hunters miss sometimes.”
A moment later the cavern was tenantless. Donald McKay was seeking the scalps of his two trusty scouts, for his sharp eyes had failed to penetrate their disguise.