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

of old houses and other traces of former attempts at settlement and cultivation.

"There were good ranches hereaway in the old times," said Captain Skinner, "and there was some mining done, but it was too near the Apache range, and there were too many revolutions. It won't be settled up till there's a new state of things. The Apaches'll take care of that."

All their troubles, they thought, were behind them, and they cared very little for those of the country they had gotten into—less than they might have done if they had imagined how nearly those very troubles might yet concern themselves.

It was impossible, however, not to think and talk about the Apaches, and to "wonder how the Lipans came out of their attack on that village."

Captain Skinner's comment was, "I don't reckon a great many of 'em came out at all. The chances were against them. Old Two Knives made a mistake for once, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd had to pay for it."

Well, so he had, but not so heavily as the Captain imagined.

At that very moment he was leading through the homeward pass just about half of his original war-party—all that "had come out of the attack on that village."

The village itself was in a high state of fermentation that morning. There was mourning in some of the lodges over braves who had fallen in that brief, sharp battle with the Lipans, but there were only five of these in all, so great had been the advantage of superior numbers in the fight, and of holding the ground of it afterward.

The bitterest disgrace of To-la-go-to-de and his warriors had been their failure to carry off the bodies of their friends who had fallen. At least twenty of the Apaches had been more or less wounded, and every man of them was as proud of it as if he had been "promoted." A scar received in battle is a badge of honor to an Indian warrior, and he is apt to make a show of it on every fair opportunity.

There was no need, therefore, of throwing away any pity on those who had been cut by the lances or "barked" by the bullets of the Lipans. Red Wolf himself had concealed a smart score of a lance-thrust along his left side, for fear he might be forbidden going on that second war-path. Even now he refused to consider it as amounting to anything, and his sister's face glowed with family pride as she said to Rita,

"Red Wolf is a true Apache. He's a warrior already. He will be a great chief some day. The Knotted Cord is white. He has no scars. He has never been on a war-path."

She was speaking in her brother's hearing, and Steve was at no great distance at that very moment, talking, in a low, earnest tone, with Murray.

Rita replied, "He is young. Send Warning is a warrior—" But Red Wolf broke in, very honestly, with,

"Knotted Cord is my brother. Only his skin is white. Not his heart. He is a warrior. He has been on war-paths. He has seen the Lipans, the Comanches, the Pawnees, the Mexicans. He is not a boy."

Ni-ha-be's little "pet" was blown away by that, and she looked once more admiringly at the strong and handsome young pale-face. If he had only been so fortunate as to be born an Apache, what might not have been expected of him!

The girls had many questions to ask concerning the events of the night before, and Red Wolf was in an accommodating frame of mind that morning. It was right, too, in his opinion, that the squaws of his family should be able to boast among the other squaws of the mighty doings of their father and brother. That was the way the reputations of warriors were to be made and kept up, aided now and then by the good things they might see fit to say about themselves.

In all that there is just this difference between red men and white, and it would soon disappear with civilization.

That is, when a great white "brave" of any kind does a thing he is proud of he manages to have the story of it printed in the newspapers, so that all his boasting is done for him by somebody else.

The Indian "brave" is compelled to be his own newspaper, and tell his own story of himself. That is all, and it sometimes makes the poor red man appear to be the vainer of the two, which is a great injustice.

The conversation between Steve and Murray could not be overheard by their friends, but it must have been of more than a little importance, to judge by the expression that came and went upon their faces. No Indian warrior's face would have betrayed his feelings in such a manner.

Dolores was busy at the camp-fires, as usual, with her frying-pan, and they were looking at her.

"How old do you think she is, Steve?"

"It's hard to guess, Murray. Maybe she's forty-five."

"She is not much above thirty. The Mexican women grow old sooner than white ones. She was not much above twenty when she cooked for my miners on the Santa Rita mine."

"Do you feel perfectly sure about that?"

"I've watched her. There is no doubt left in my mind. Still, I may ask her a few more questions. Then there is one thing more I want to make sure of."

"Will it keep us here long?"

"It may keep me, Steve."

"Then it will keep me, Murray. You will need me if you have anything on hand. I am anxious enough to get off, but I will not leave you behind. I'll stay and help."

Murray held out his hand.

"It's a fact, Steve. I may need all the help you can give."

"Take care! Here comes Many Bears himself, and two of his cunningest councillors."

It did not require much guessing on Steve's part to know that, for the "cunning" of those old Indians was written all over their dark, wrinkled faces.

"More advice wanted," thought Murray, but it was not asked for so soon as he expected.

The first words of Many Bears were complimentary, of course. His pale-face friend had been very wise. All he had said had been good, even to the not permitting the young men to follow the Lipans into the mountains. Warriors had told the chief that Send Warning and Knotted Cord had picked up something in the camp of the pale-faces. The Apaches were glad. Their friends were welcome to what they had found. Murray interrupted him there by promptly holding out one of the little buckskin bags.

"Great chief take it."

"No. No want it. Send Warning keep it, and tell Apaches what better do next."

"Go to better hunting-ground. Bad place for camp."

"Will the Lipans come again?"

"Not till after next snow. Got enough now. Come then."

All that and more came in as a sort of preface to what Many Bears really wanted to say. He had something very heavy on his mind that morning, and in order to get rid of it he had to tell the whole story of the buffalo-hunt his band had made away beyond the mountains into the country claimed by the Lipans. That was the way they came to be followed so closely by Two Knives and his warriors.

Murray and Steve listened closely, for the chief spoke in very good Mexican Spanish most of the time, and they both understood him. Then came the story of the return through the pass, and it wound up with the finding of the talking leaves by Rita.

"Send Warning knows the rest."

"No," said Murray, "I have not seen the talking leaves."

"Great medicine. Tell Apache chief about miners. Tell about old fight. Tell about blue-coat soldiers come, and where go. Tell about big talk, and treaty, and presents. Many Bears want to hear more."

"Ask young squaw."

"Can't hear all. Send Warning listen. Say what he hears."

"All right. Bring young squaw."

"No need of squaw. Bring talking leaves."

"No," persisted Murray. "Young squaw find. All her medicine. Must hold leaves for Send Warning to read."

"Ugh! Good. Many Bears not care. Dolores bring Rita. Tell her to bring leaves."

Ni-ha-be and Rita were near enough to hear, and the latter at once darted into the lodge for her treasures, while her adopted sister looked after her with a good deal of envy in her eyes.

"She is a pale-face. It is too bad."

Rita was gone but a moment, and her whole body seemed to glow and tremble with excitement as she held out the three magazines to Murray.

"Take one, Steve. You haven't forgotten your reading, have you?"

"Send Warning hear leaves," said Many Bears, anxiously. "The Knotted Cord is young."

"He is white. He can hear. The great chief will listen."

"Ugh!" muttered Ni-ha-be, looking on from a little distance, but Rita looked at Steve, with a bright smile on her face.

"There, Murray," said Steve, "the chief was right. There's a picture of cavalry. All the others he spoke of are here. Here is the picture of the big talk and the treaty."

"Here is the mining fight—" and just there Murray paused as if he could say no more, and the Indians looked at him in undisguised astonishment. His breast was heaving, his lips were quivering, and the hands that held the magazines were trembling as if their owner had an ague fit.

"What find?" exclaimed Many Bears. "Is it bad medicine?"

It was some seconds before Murray could trust himself to speak, but he was thinking very fast.

"The talking leaves have told Many Bears the truth. Now Send Warning is troubled in his mind."

All could see that, and it made them not a little anxious.

"What want? What do?"

"Go into lodge with young squaw. Knotted Cord stay and talk with Apache chief. Nobody come into lodge. Take a little time. Then tell what hear."

It was an unusual request, but there could be no objection, in view of the fact that there was "great medicine" to be looked into. An Indian conjurer always requires the absence of all observers for the performance of his most important juggling. It was at once decided by the chief that Send Warning should have his way.

Rita listened, pale and serious, while Ni-ha-be looked on in jealous amazement.

"I am an Apache girl? Why can he not teach me to hear the talking leaves?"

No doubt he could have done so if she would have given him plenty of time, and been willing to begin with A B C, as Rita had done long years before.

How should all that ABC business have come back to Rita as it did, when she found herself alone in her lodge with that white-headed old pale-face warrior?

She thought she had never before seen so kind and good a face, and she wondered that it did not seem so very old, after all, now it was so near.

"I will sit down, Rita, my dear. Sit down too. You are too tall now to stand up."

Not a human eye was looking upon them, but Rita had suddenly covered her face with her hands.

"Speak," she said, earnestly; "I remember better when I do not see."

She was talking English, just as he had done, only more slowly, and almost as if it hurt her.

"I will read the first word, dear. Then you may spell it. M-i-n-e, mine. That means a gold-mine, like ours, dear. Spell it, Rita, my darling."

"Our mine? Darling? Oh, if I could see my father!"

Murray sprung to his feet as if he were a boy. His mouth opened and closed as if he were keeping back a great shout, and the tears came pouring down over his cheeks.

"Rita! Rita! My dear little daughter! Here I am!"

"Father!"

His arms were around her now, and he was kissing her almost frantically.

Slowly she opened her eyes. "I know it is you when you speak, and when my eyes are shut. When I open them you are very old. My father was young and handsome. His hair was not white."

"Rita, darling, it has been just as white as it is now ever since the morning after I came home and found that the Apaches had carried you away. They killed