THE PISTOL AND THE KNIFE.
When Baltimore Bob discovered that Mouseh, or Captain Jack, was ready for the conflict to which he had been dared, a nervous twitching came to his lips, and he exhibited signs of shirking the duel.
The Modoc chieftain noticed these ill-concealed symptoms of cowardice, and hastily glanced at his chiefs, with a faint smile, for be it known that, since the day when the notorious Ben Wright massacred his forefathers, twenty years prior to the date of our romance, a laugh had never rippled over his lips.
“Mouseh,” said Bob, “tell me why you threw my foe a pistol. He gave me a bullet once. I carry it yet among my ribs, and I owe him an ounce or so of lead.”
The big, insulting voice had dwindled into one of milder tone. Baltimore, when confronted by such a man as Captain Jack—whose course in this affair was just—was a coward, as all bullies are.
“I will not see a white man shot down like a dog,” was the reply. “He is your prisoner. I gave him to you in the other cave, because you have spied well for me, and I knew not how else to reward you than by giving you the life of the man you hate. But he shall not die like the helpless cur. I threw him the pistol he holds that he might have an equal chance with you.”
The ochered renegade was silent for a minute.
“But you hate me for something else, Mouseh. I know it. You have let your hate crop out more times than one in the last five years.”
Slowly the Modoc chief unbuttoned the stolen coat that covered his brawny breast, and drew from the inner pocket a dirty, dingy paper.
He stepped nearer the white Modoc as he unfolded the sheet, and at last held the document before his eyes.
The printing on the sheet read thus:
“FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD.
“HEAD-QUARTERS; FORT CROOK, LASSEN CO., CAL.,
“May 21st, 1868.
“By command of the General commanding this military district, I offer five hundred dollars reward for the living body of Rafer Todd, fourth corporal Company K, —th regiment U. S. Cavalry, who, after basely shooting Sergeant Grosvenor, deserted the service during the night of the 3d inst. He is suspected of having joined the troublesome Modocs, near Klamath Lake. One-half of the above reward will be paid for his dead body.”
The hand-bill bore the signature of the officer in command at Fort Crook, and, on the whole, was a document sufficient to pale the cheeks of the murderer and deserter.
“I hate you because you treacherously slew your brother blue-coat, and ran away from the flag of your country,” said Captain Jack, when he was satisfied that Rafe Todd had mastered the “reward.” “You owe Mouseh your life. You did me a service when you came from the big fork—a service which I never forgot, and when a scout put this paper in my hands and begged that I would tell my braves of your crime, I hid it in my bosom and kept my mouth shut. Ah, if they had known that gold could be had for your scalp, you would not be standing here to-day. During this war, you have done much for me—I acknowledge it, while I hate you from the bottom of my heart. Here your life is safe. My chiefs shall not touch you. Do you want to fight Mouseh now?”
The question, so abruptly put, startled the deserter.
“No,” he said. “I would live to repay you for saving me.”
“Then we drop our pistols,” and the Modoc returned his weapon to his belt.
“Your hand, Mouseh,” said Rafe Todd, stepping forward. “If we were never friends, let us be such now.”
But Captain Jack, drawing himself to his full hight, shrunk from the proffered hand.
“Did Mouseh ever take that hand?” he asked.
“No,” said the deserter, abashed.
“’Tis well; he said he would never touch it. He never will.”
The painted white bit his nether lip till it bled, and with the fire of anger consuming his heart, wheeled suddenly upon Evan Harris.
“Now you know who Baltimore Bob is!” he cried. “Presently you shall see what he can do.”
“Presently?” echoed the young ranger. “I would see now.”
“Curse you, you shall!”
“You’ll fight me, then?”
“Yes!”
“I’m heartily glad of it. I don’t know how you escaped death that night—enough that I behold you alive. If I held no enmity against you, I would call you to account for the brutality you have just flung upon yon fair girl.”
“Ha! ha! ’Van Harris,” laughed Rafe Todd. “So you still appear ’Reesa South’s champion.”
“I do. Had I possessed a weapon when you flung her against the wall, your life would have paid the penalty of that act.”
“No more!” cried the deserter. “If you open your lips again, I’ll shoot you before you have time to shut them. I’m going to give you a show for life. Now drop your arm, as I have dropped mine. Hooker Jim will count three, and when he has uttered the third numeral, we fire.”
With the revolver griped firmly at his side, Rafe Todd retreated three paces and paused.
“Begin,” he commanded, glancing at the savage, whose name he had just mentioned.
In his guttural, the chief began:
“One—two—th—”
The last numeral was but forming on the red lips when the renegade’s weapon shot up, and was discharged!
With a wild cry, Evan Harris reeled, and then fell heavily to the ground.
If he was dead—and as motionless as a corpse he lay—it was the foulest of murders.
“Bob take quick aim,” said Jack, audibly, with his eyes riveted upon the young ranger.
“Mebbe you think I took advantage? He was slow in raising, that is all, and the result is his fault.”
Hooker Jim now said that Rafe Todd did not fire until he had distinctly pronounced the last numeral, and, as the victim was one of their enemies, the chiefs who knew that he lied, did not dispute his asseverations.
“This score settled, now what do we do?” said the duelist, turning to Jack. “Must I take the secret trail that leads to the white tents? I am ready to do Mouseh any service he requests.”
“We stay here to-night,” said the chief, “and you will stay with us. Take care of your motherless fawn,” and he glanced at ’Reesa South, who began to show signs of returning consciousness.
The renegade turned and raised her from the ground.
“I know you,” she said, feebly. “You are Rafe Todd.”
“A name which, in your eyes, is a synonym for Satan,” he said, with a smile. “Girl, I am not merciless; I love you truly—”
“This is no place to talk of love, Rafe Todd,” she interrupted him. “And besides, you know I would never listen to such words from your lips. I hate the deserter and detest the renegade.”
The words seemed to pierce his heart.
“Then you love ’Van Harris?”
“I do.”
“Then go and tell him so.”
As he spoke, he pointed to the prostrate rival, and the smile on his lips was the incarnation of deviltry.
She followed his hand, and, with a shriek started from his arms.
“Go and tell him that you love him,” repeated the villain, pleased with the pain he was causing the pure heart before him. “He won’t blush to hear the sweet confession now.”
For a moment she stood like a statue before the deserter, and then started toward the man who loved her truly.
But, midway, she suddenly paused.
“This is your work, Rafe Todd,” she cried. “I know you shot him, and so certain as my name is Theresa, I’ll pay you for this deed, if he’s dead.”
He laughed derisively in her face, and, still laughing, looked at the Indians, whose faces were stern, for they had watched the scene, with their sympathies on the side of the girl.
’Reesa dropped beside her lover, and had just lifted one of the hands, when, with one accord, the savages sprung toward the mouth of the corridor, from which several hours before they had emerged into the cave.
The cause of their sudden action and the ejaculations of delight which filled the cavern, was revealed by two Klamath Indians, who had suddenly made their appearance.
“Back!” shouted Captain Jack, when he had hastily pressed the new-comers’ hands. “Give the runners breathing-space! We will hear the better what Arrow-Head has said.”
The Indians, eager to hear the message which the two runners seemed anxious to deliver, drew back, and paused between ’Reesa and the fire, thus effectually screening her from the eyes of the new arrivals.
“Who does Arrow-Head send to Mouseh, and what does he say?” asked Jack, breaking the silence that followed the forming of the red ranks.
“He sends Coquil and Wiaquil,” answered one of the Klamaths, in his native language, which is almost as intelligible to the Modoc as his own. “He says that he can not send his braves to Mouseh until the moon puts on a new dress of silver.”
Without a smile, but with delight in his eyes, the Modoc glanced at his warriors and chiefs.
“The moon shoots her silver arrows upon the earth after two sleeps. Arrow-Head’s braves will be here soon.”
A low murmur of satisfaction pervaded the red listeners’ ranks.
As he finished, Captain Jack turned to the runners again; but ere he could address them, an athletic young Indian, not yet seventeen, leaped over the heads of the warriors who stood behind their chief, and confronted the twain, with a cry of triumph!
The savages, knowing that something remarkable was about to occur, crowded forward, and Jack commanded them to halt.
The boy had not yet spoken; he was waiting for breath, for his leap had, for the moment, deprived him of that necessary of life.
Alas! for him, he never regained it!
For the spokesman of the Klamath runners suddenly darted upon him and clutched his fair-skinned throat.
Then, with ease, he lifted the youth from the ground, and, in full view of the Modoc nation, drove a hunting-knife to his heart!