Through Apache Land. Ellis Edward Sylvester
about as desperate as it is possible to imagine.
A few minutes later the fugitive paused again, but this time it was not necessary that he should apply his ear to the ground. The sounds of the mustangs' hoofs came to him very plainly through the midnight air, and as he looked around he half expected to see the shadowy figures of the horsemen plunging forward in the gloom toward him! Nothing was to be seen, however, of them, and, feeling that the situation was becoming desperate, he changed his course again, his purpose being simply to get by the approaching marauders without caring in what direction he went. Had he been five minutes earlier he might have succeeded, but he was just that much too late.
He was stealing forward in his cautious manner, with the sound of the horses' hoofs growing more distinct every second, when, sure enough, the figure of an Indian horseman suddenly came in sight, bearing down upon him as straight as an arrow. The very instant Tom saw it he sank down upon his face, scarcely daring to hope that his pursuer would pass him, and prepared for whatever he chose to do.
The scout turned his head so that he could watch every movement and guard against it, his hand being extended beneath his body in the most natural position possible, but grasping his loaded revolver.
It may have been that the Apache would have gone by but for the action of his mustang. These intelligent animals seem to know, in many cases, far more than their masters, and the one in question was yet some yards distant from the prostrate form, when he halted with a snort. This opened the ball, and the scout anxiously awaited the fight which seemed inevitable.
Fortunately, the Indian party had separated to such an extent that no others were in sight of the fugitive, who thus had but a single man to contend against, although there was no question but what any number of others could be summoned to the spot in a twinkling. The foeman understood the situation at a glance; that is, he knew that the man for whom he was seeking was prostrate upon the ground before him, but he had no means of judging whether he was dead, asleep, or feigning. Under these circumstances he advanced very cautiously, his mustang betraying considerable reluctance at walking up to a man stretched out at full length.
This was precisely what Hardynge desired, as every minute that matters remained in statu quo placed the friends of his adversary further away and simplified the encounter, which he considered as certain to take place.
Something like ten minutes were occupied in this stealthy advance of the horse, at the end of which time he stood so that his head was directly over the shoulders of the prostrate man, who still lay as motionless as a statue.
"Hooh!" exclaimed the rider, holding himself ready for any demonstration upon the part of the suspected white man. But the latter never stirred, although he shivered a little at the fear that the mustang might place his hoof upon him.
Tom's peculiar peril will be understood when it is stated that the Apache was master of the situation from the instant they came in sight of each other. Had the fugitive fired at him the moment he caught sight of his horse, he might have tumbled him to the ground, but it would have brought the rest of the party around him in an instant. As matters now stood, the Apache would have fired at the first movement he made, no matter how dexterous, to draw his hand from beneath his body, and so Tom bided his time.
"Hooh!"
This was repeated several times, when the warrior tried to force his mustang to step upon him; but the animal was too timid to be forced into doing such a repugnant thing, and, when angrily urged thereto, leaped clear of the body with a sniff of terror, and galloped several rods before he could be brought round and compelled to face the unknown again. This seemed to convince the Apache that the man was dead, and without any further hesitation he slid down from the back of his horse, and advanced to the figure for the purpose of scalping him.
He had just stooped down, knife in hand, when the form turned like a flash. There came a blinding flash, then a report and a cry, almost together, and Tom Hardynge seemed to leap up from the ground as if a bomb had exploded beneath him, and, dashing toward the mustang, seized his rein and vaulted upon his back before the animal really knew what had taken place.
It was a daring deed, but it succeeded to perfection. The scout had not only extinguished his foe, but had captured his horse as well. The sound of the pistol might reach the ears of other Apaches, but he cared nothing for that. He was as well mounted as they, and, with the start which he had gained, they were welcome to do all they could. In view of this, it was impossible for him to restrain his exultation, and the moment he realized that he was fairly astride of the mustang he let out a shout that might have been heard a mile away. The steed which bore him was an excellent one, and he had no fear of being overtaken by any of them. He knew in what direction to take his flight, and away he sped with his horse upon a dead run. He scarcely drew rein until daylight broke over the prairie, when he found himself pursuing a direction parallel with the river, and making good headway toward the point where he hoped his own matchless Thundergust was awaiting him.
Hardynge scarcely halted during the greater portion of the next day, except when his mustang required it, and shortly after the sun crossed the meridian he was gratified at catching sight of the rolling prairie and wooded hills where he had turned his horse loose nearly a week before. While at a distance he gave utterance to several sharp whistles, which produced the response he desired, the beautiful glossy mustang galloping forth to meet him with every appearance of delight. The creature had taken good care of himself during his absence, having feasted upon the rich, succulent grass, and was in the best possible condition.
Turning the Indian horse loose Tom bestowed no further attention upon him, but leaped upon his favorite animal and galloped away to the rocks where he had carefully concealed his saddle and riding gear and where they had lain untouched while he was gone.
Just as he dismounted, his eye rested upon a piece of dried buffalo-skin which was pinned against a tree, the inner side turned outward. The first glance told him there was something unusual, and his curiosity led him to approach and scan it closely. There was some writing scrawled upon it, which he read with little difficulty. The words were startling enough, and as the hunter finished them he exclaimed, in a frightened undertone:
"Thunderation! can it be possible?"
CHAPTER V.
AN ALARMING MESSAGE
As the scout rode his mustang up to the tree whereon the buffalo skin was fastened, he read the following words:
"To Tom Hardynge: – The stage which left Santa Fe on the 10th inst., is due at Fort Havens between the 20th and 25th, but it will never reach there. It has an escort of a dozen mounted soldiers, but they can't save it. The Apaches have arranged to attack it near Devil's Pass, which you know is about a hundred miles northeast from this point, among the mountains. You can't do anything to help it; but Ned Chadmund is with it, and his father, the colonel, offers you and me a thousand dollars apiece to save him. I leave to day – Thursday – for the pass, and you must follow the minute your eyes see this. I will be on the lookout for you. Remember there isn't an hour to spare.
"Dick Morris."
Colonel Chadmund was the commandant at Fort Havens, whither he was hastening with his news from the Indian country. His family dwelt in Santa Fe, and his only child, a bright boy, about a dozen years of age, had been permitted to start to join his father in accordance with a promise made him a long time before. The escort with which he had been provided would have been ample under ordinary circumstances, and in fact, was larger than was generally customary; but it was not sufficient.
Dick Morris held a position then known as "hunter to the fort" at the post under the command of Colonel Chadmund. It was similar to that which the renowned Kit Carson filled for a number of years in the old days at Bent's Fort. The man was selected on account of his skill in the use of the rifle, and his knowledge of the habits of the game, his duty being simply to supply the command with all the fresh food possible – a position which, it will at once be understood, was no sinecure, involving constant activity and many long, rapid journeys.
Dick was as skillful and shrewd a man as could be found in the whole Southwest. Tom Hardynge, his friend and companion in many a perilous adventure, understood what it all meant the instant he had finished reading the writing