The Talking Leaves: An Indian Story, William O. Stoddard [best novels for beginners TXT] 📗

something higher and nobler, and she was not at all ashamed of the thought that they belonged to her own people. Then it had come to her, with a great rush of joy in her heart, that she could speak her own language—a little of it. She could even hear many words from the mysterious talking leaves of the pale-faces, and no Apache girl could do that—not even Ni-ha-be herself, for all her wonderfully good eyes.

Then there came to the camp the great excitement caused by finding out the escape of the Lipan prisoners, and quickly after that had come the departure of the force sent out to recapture them.

Rita and Ni-ha-be had been standing side by side, watching all that was done.

"Send Warning is going on the war-path now, Ni-ha-be."

"So are Red Wolf and Knotted Cord. Young braves are worth more than wrinkled old men."

"The great chief himself is wrinkled a little."

"He is a great brave. He must be angry by this time. He will send for Dolores."

They did not know how earnestly that important woman had been using her own eyes all that time. She had seen as much as had either of them, and she was close to them at that moment.

"Young squaws go back to lodge right away. See? All squaws go in a hurry."

A few sharp words from one of the old men had started them, and they were indeed hurrying. They knew there was a good deal of bad temper up in the village just then, and there was no telling who might be made to suffer for it. The last squaw to get home would be very likely to meet a cross husband, and Indian husbands are not pleasant company when anything has made them cross.

The two girls hurried with the rest, and Dolores had very little to say to them.

It was now Ni-ha-be's turn to notice something of a change. Not in herself, but in Dolores. She had been accustomed to feel that whatever difference was made between Rita and herself was in her own favor. She felt that it was right it should be so, much as she loved her adopted sister, for after all it was a great advantage to be every bit an Apache. She was often sorry for Rita, but she could not help her having been born white.

Now, however, although it required all her keenness to detect it, there seemed to be something of unusual respect in the voice and manner of Dolores whenever she spoke to Rita. A touch of special kindness came with it. Not a sign of harshness showed itself all the way to the lodge, although Dolores had one or two pretty sharp things to say to Ni-ha-be. The Mexican darkness of the chief's "great cook" had helped everybody to almost forget her origin, but the thought of it came slowly into Ni-ha-be's mind.

"She read one of the talking leaves herself. It made her shut her eyes and kneel down. Send Warning talked with her. She is as bad as Rita. She is not an Apache at heart."

That was hardly fair to Mother Dolores, for it was only too true that, as Murray said of her, "she was completely Indianized." Even now she was not thinking of herself as a pale-face, or longing to be anything else than the "cook squaw" of the mighty war-chief Many Bears. No; she was not thinking of herself, but a great cloud was gathering in her mind, and she felt that it all belonged in some way to Rita.

She did not speak of it, but she felt a good deal more comfortable after the two girls were safe behind the skin cover of their own lodge.

"Great chief not go on war-path. Better not see young squaws just now. He will send for the talking leaves in the morning. Send Warning will read them to him. He did not look so old to-night. He was a very handsome man when he was young. So long ago!"

Ni-ha-be had been right about her father's appetite, for it was only a few minutes before he came stalking toward the camp-fire for some venison-steak, and Dolores had been wise enough to have it on the coals, so as not to keep him waiting.

He never dreamed of telling her, nor she of asking him, anything about the events of the night or the plans of the warriors, but all the while that steak was broiling she was thinking of Send Warning rather than of Many Bears, and wondering if there would be another fight with the Lipans before sunrise. That was the very question asked of Murray by the chief in command of their squad half an hour or so later.

"What do I think? Well, I think the Lipans are not fools."

"What mean by that?"

"Fools stay and get killed. Cunning men ride hard and get away."

The Apaches rode a little faster after that, and were joined by so many other small parties of warriors that they were quite a respectable force by the time they reached the neighborhood of the camp. It was nearly sunrise then, and the braves who had been watching the camp faithfully reported all that had occurred. They told of the sudden whooping nearly two hours earlier, and Murray at once remarked, "Apache chief knows what that means?"

"He is not very wise. Send Warning tell him."

"It meant that their great chief and the three braves with him had come back to them. Send warrior up toward pass. If I am wrong, the Lipans are there now; if I am right, they are gone."

The warrior scout was sent in a twinkling, for Indian sagacity understood the keenness of Murray's guess, and it was not long before the news came back that not a sign of an enemy could be discovered among the rocks.

It was a disappointment. The daring invaders had escaped, for there would be no use in following them. The whole Apache nation could hardly have forced the narrow places of that pass against so strong a party of good rifle-men. Neither was there any certainty but what the pale-face miners might be in there somewhere, ready to deal destruction on any Apache who should be so unwise as to ride into such a rocky trap.

The sun arose while they were talking about it, and the Apache braves were already searching the camp for anything which might have been left.

They were not without some success, for the first wagon had not burnt very well, and the Lipans had neither time nor heart to take everything out of it.

"Come, Steve. The miners made their last camp over yonder. I can see a wagon-wheel sticking up."

A quick gallop brought them to all that was left of that second wagon. It had burnt better than the other, but had not been completely consumed.

"Nothing left in it."

"If there had been, the Apaches would be here now instead of over yonder. I declare!"

He sprung from his pony, and rushed toward the one hind-wheel which was still upheld by what was left of its broken axle, and by a part of the wagon bottom.

"What is it, Murray?"

"Wait a moment."

Steve too was on foot, just as the old man gave that wheel a jerk that dragged it several feet from its place.

"Look there, Steve!"

"Buckskin bags—some of them half burnt. What is that, Murray, in the ashes? Is it gold?"

"More than that, Steve. It's gold coin—twenty-dollar gold pieces. Stow away as many of those little bags as you can before any Apaches come. It's our plunder."

"They're coming. But how is it ours?"

He was picking up several of the little bags, and putting them inside his hunting-shirt when he asked that question.

"Because we're on this war-path, and have found it. The Apaches would rather have ponies; but they may take what we leave, if they want it."

"Doesn't it belong to those miners? Won't they come for it?"

"They would not find it if they did come, but they never will. They'll trust the Apaches and Lipans too well for that. Besides, it never was theirs. They stole every cent of it."

"Do you suppose we can ever find the owners?"

"Never. It would be an utter impossibility. What we are picking up is ours, by all the laws of the mountains and all the rules of Indian war."

They did not open a single one of the little buckskin bags, but Murray threw down one that would not "chink" and picked up another.

"Coin is better than dust or nuggets, Steve, and we must not take it all. Only what we can stow away quickly. It's just what we are going to need. It will pay the expenses of your trip to the settlements, and take care of you after you get there."

His face was burning hot while he spoke, and his eyes were flashing with sudden and fierce excitement. Could it be possible that he was so terribly fond of money?

Steve wondered and stared, but the Apache young men were crowding around them now, and Murray nodded to him to fall back.

"Mount at once, Steve. Don't seem to claim anything or to interfere. Let them sift the ashes if they want to."

"Seems to me we must have the best part of it."

"That's likely. I think we have as much as we shall need. No. I don't know how much I may need before I get through. Money is a good thing to have sometimes."

Murray was hardly himself that morning, and yet he met the Apache leader coolly enough.

"What do now? Send Warning advise friend."

"Ride back to village. Not lose time. Young men finish plunder. Old men not stay. Great chief want to see us."

That last word was enough and the warrior wheeled his horse westward. His parting orders were few, but they would bring back every Apache from that "war-path" as soon as the search for plunder should be completed.

"It's all right, Steve," said Murray, as they rode along side by side. "If we had stayed there too long some of them might have been curious how much we had picked up. They won't say a word after we are in camp. If an Indian once gets his plunder safe into his own lodge nobody questions his title to it. That is, if it has been taken from an enemy."

CHAPTER XXVII

Not one of the persons who had "wondered what had become of those miners" had so much as guessed at the exact truth, although Murray had come nearer to it than anybody else.

That sunrise found them, as they thought, once for all safe within the boundary of the "foreign country," where no one would ask them any ugly questions about the stolen gold they had brought there.

In fact, the first thing they did, after finishing their hearty breakfast of fresh beef, was to "unpack themselves." Every man wanted to know if he had lost anything on the way, and to make as good a guess as he could how much his load was worth. Then it seemed as if they all spoke together when they tried to express their regret at having been compelled to leave any of their treasure behind.

"No use to think of going back for it now, boys. Some day we'll take another look at that mine, but there won't be a thing worth going for in that wagon."

"What do ye mean to do next, Cap?" asked Bill.

"I told you before. Give our horses a chance to feed, and then push right on. We can afford to use 'em all up now. Three days of hard riding'll carry us out of harm's way."

"And then we can go jest whar we please."

There was a wonderful deal of comfort in that for men who had been "running away" so long as they had, and over so very rough a country. Their hard, rude, weather-beaten faces began to put on an expression of peace and quiet, and even of good-nature, and they gave their weary horses a longer rest than they had at first intended. After that, however, the sharp, stern summons of Captain Skinner called them to "mount and ride" once more, and they were all ready to obey. It was a wild region through which they were going, but at more than one place they passed the ruins