"No," she answered; "how could I? Except, indeed, for the sun on my neck sometimes; that made me think we were going north or west a good deal,--at least it seemed as if we were."
"Exactly so; you were quite right," he said encouragingly; thinking to himself as he said so that she must have been a real plucky girl to have kept her head cool enough to allow her to observe things with so much accuracy. "Yes," he repeated, "that was exactly your course at first, between north and west. And about your food? What did you do? Had you anything to eat?"
"Nothing but raw dried meat," she answered, her pretty upper lip curving with disgust, "and it was so hard. My mouth aches with the pain of eating it. These savages don't know how to cook it properly; they chew it raw as they go along, generally; or if they stop and camp and make a fire, they have nothing to cook it in; they don't boil it or fry it; they don't always even pound it with a stone to make it soften, but just throw it on the coals till it is scorched, and then eat it so, all blackened and burned. Savages!" and again she made a face to express her contempt for their very rudimentary ideas of cookery. Once more their eyes met, and they both laughed again.
"I am afraid," said he with grave apology, "that I have been careless, too. I haven't brought along anything nice for you to eat. In fact, I have nothing but dried meat myself, not even a scrap of tortilla left, to say nothing of candy; I wish I'd only thought of it when I was starting, but the fact is, I came off in a hurry."
"Yes," she cried in a repentant voice, "and I've been talking about myself the whole time. Did you come with my father? Do you know where he is? How did you find us?"
"The Pueblo Indians knew of this place," he answered; "they led me here." He looked cautiously over his shoulder as he spoke, to see if there was any Navajo near trying to play the eavesdropper on them. "Your father and Don Andres had set out with a strong party of Mexicans before me. They started within an hour after it was known that you were gone.
But your father sent word of it all to me up at the pueblo, and I got some of the Indians to join me and started out, too. But we didn't come the same way as Don Andres's party; we picked up the trail off towards the Ojo Escondido. You see, my Indians believed that the Navajos certainly were making for this place, and, in short, they led me straight here, and that's how we seem to have got in ahead of Don Andres."
"How clever of them to guess the hiding-place!" said she. "And now, shall we go home quite quick? Perhaps we might meet my father and my brother on the way."
"I've no doubt that'll be all right now," he said confidently; "I must just fix up things with Mahletonkwa first." He paused; there was a question he could not put to her direct, and yet before treating further with the Indian he wished to feel absolutely certain whether he should deal with him as one guilty of unpardonable wrong or not. He tapped the butt of his revolver significantly with his right hand, looked her full in the face for a moment, and then with an abrupt movement he rose to his feet and turned away from her; his right hand half drew the revolver from its holster, and made a gesture as if to offer it to her behind his back, but his eyes were fixed on the group outside the cave. "Now, senorita," he said, "before I go to speak with him, tell me one thing: are you content to live? Are you content to go back in peace to your people? Or else--I guess you can understand me--here's my revolver for you; you can make an end with that, and I'll go out to those savages, and then, I swear by the wrath of God, you shall be revenged on some of them, anyhow, before I drop."
"But why?" cried she with a little shudder of surprise at him, so unexpected to her was this suggestion. "They haven't done anything bad to me. I don't want anyone to be killed. They are very ignorant, uncivilised folk, but they treated me as well as they knew. I'm sorry if I complained about the dried meat they gave me. Don't begin fighting with them, please,--not on my account. I thought you had made peace. I want to go home."
He turned and looked at her. The nave simplicity of her language reassured him completely. "All right, senorita," he said, "I'll see that you get safe home. I'll go and arrange with Mahletonkwa now. I'm glad they treated you as well as they knew how. But say," he added, stooping over her and drawing the pistol completely out, "wouldn't you like me to leave this with you, just in case of accidents? There's always a sort of feeling of comfort in having a six-shooter handy."
"No, no," said she, making a movement with her hands as if to push the unaccustomed object away from her, "I've never had one in my life to use. I shouldn't know what to do with it at all."
Half reluctantly he returned it to its case, thinking what a difference there was between a girl like this and the average Western ranch-woman.
American girls who lived on the frontier could shoot; they were more like men in that way; they were, comparatively speaking, independent; whereas this pretty creature depended solely upon him to protect her; so much the more reason, then, he argued with himself, for being cautious and diplomatic in his dealings with the Navajos now.
"Well then, senorita," he said, "you'd better stay here a few minutes longer while I go back and speak to Mahletonkwa. I guess it won't take us long to fix things."
He took her hand in his and held it for a moment. It lay there in his firm clasp with a confidingness that thrilled through him; the sensation came on him as a new discovery. "Why, this was what hands were meant for, to clasp each other." The ten long years of the unnatural divorce from womankind in which he had lived seemed to roll away as a dream. He had forgotten what a girl's hand was like; a quick impulse came on him to raise it to his lips, to clasp her in his arms and console her, only to be as quickly checked again. It would not be the fair thing; here she was relying entirely upon him for protection; it was for him to guard her, and to do no more. Anything else must wait--must wait till she was once more in safety, completely mistress of herself again. But the flood of new ideas for the future sped through his mind with lightning rapidity. In moments of danger and excitement the wheels of thought turn at a rate that seems incredible afterwards.
For one last, long minute he stood there, his hand locked in hers, looking into the deep, dark wells of her eyes. Of what joy had not his desolate past robbed him? Oh, why had he been blind to his chances all this winter, when he might have looked in her eyes like this any day; now he had found what made life worth living--and found it, perhaps, too late! Was it too late? He would see about that. With a final pressure of her gentle fingers, each one of which he seemed to feel separately pressing his in response, he turned away and strode out of the cave towards the group of Navajos in the meadow.
And who shall say what were the girl's feelings, left thus alone in the cave while her fate was being decided by the men sitting out there in the sun? Hope lifted her heart high,--hope after despair, like the blue sky after a thunderstorm, unimaginably bright, the hope of recovered freedom, of return to the longed-for hearth, of the embraces of her father and the dear ones at home. But there were fears too: after all, might not her deliverer fail yet? he had reached her,--could he rescue her? would he, single-handed, be able to prevail over these savages? Was there nothing she might do, weak woman as she was, to help him?
Instinctively her fingers felt within her dress for the beads she wore, and fast flowed her prayers for his success; when she paused and looked anxiously out she saw him seated on the ground, the rifle in his lap, the Indians in their own style squatting round, and all faces grave with serious debate. It was her fate they were discussing, but it was his, too. In the intense sunlight she could mark the hard-set lines of his face; he was stubborn with the Indians about something or other; they wanted something he would not give? Why would he not give it. "Oh, give way to them," she could have cried to him. "Do let them have it--do.
Only make peace, and let us return together"; peace, peace, peace, that was what she yearned for, peace and freedom! But she spoke no word, she knew that she must leave it to him, and once more she fell to her prayers.
CHAPTER XXI
DRIVING A BARGAIN
And why was this debate between the American and the Navajos so stubborn and tedious?
When two shrewd men are each determined to drive the best bargain he can, and neither trusts the other, the diplomacy between a frontiersman and a redskin may be as lengthy as if it were between rival ambassadors of contending empires. In their secret hearts both Stephens and Mahletonkwa were anxious to come to an understanding, but each thought it politic to simulate comparative indifference, and not to give any advantage to his opponent by betraying undue eagerness.
Stephens demanded at the outset the immediate restoration of the captive to her father, safe and sound. Granted that, he was willing to promise fair compensation for the Navajo who had been slain, and amnesty for the subsequent outrage of carrying off the girl; and also he was ready in person to guarantee these terms. He could offer no less, much as he longed to see her abductors punished, because it was obvious that, as long as they were not secure from retaliation, they would prefer to keep possession of her to the last possible moment, and take their punishment fighting.
To this first demand Mahletonkwa signified his willingness to agree, but only on conditions. Stephens's offer was an amnesty and fair compensation. That was precisely what he wanted. Fair compensation, plus an amnesty. But the question arose, what was fair compensation? and here for a time they split. Stephens maintained that Don Nepomuceno's offer of a hundred and twenty-five dollars cash, was fair. Mahletonkwa would not hear of it. His dead brother was worth a great deal more than that.
He had asked a thousand dollars for him, and a thousand dollars he intended to have. Apart from that he had no use for the captive.
"Pay the bill, and take the girl," that was the sum and substance of his argument; "and if her father won't pay, will you?"
Right here the American saw it was essential to make a stand. If he weakly yielded to this preposterous claim, Mahletonkwa would be sure to conclude that he was scared into acquiescence and could have no soldiers or Indian scouts in any force to back him up. That being so, most likely the Navajo would raise his terms, and ask perhaps double, treble, quadruple,--anything he pleased in short,--till the whole affair became a farce! No, Mahletonkwa's thousand-dollar demand was almost certainly a bluff. Then why shouldn't he try a bluff, too?
"I can't do it, Mahletonkwa," said he with an air of finality, but speaking more in sorrow than in anger, as one who sees good business slipping through his fingers. "I'd like to come to terms first-rate, but I can't meet you there. You're too stiff in your figures. It's not a deal."
He thought of the girl sitting there all alone in the cave, and his kindly heart longed to say, "What's a thousand dollars, more or less?
Hang it all, here, take it! or rather, take my word for it, and let's be off home." But prudence whispered, No.
Mahletonkwa calmly repeated his demand. He, too, thought it wisest to play the part of the close-fisted trader, and show no hurry to make a bargain.
"Well, look here then, Mahletonkwa and Navajos all," said the American, appealing directly to the cupidity of the followers as well as of the chief. "It's a big thing I've offered you on my own hook already in this matter of the amnesty. It's a big thing for me to say I'll stand between you and Uncle Sam" (he did not say Uncle Sam, but the Great Father at Washington); "but I stick by that, and I'll do it. And I've offered you payment for the dead man, same as Don Nepomuceno, a hundred and twenty-five dollars; and you say it aint enough. Now, I can't meet you the whole way, but I'll raise my offer a bit, and you can take it or leave it. It's my last word." He rose to the level of the part he was playing, and threw himself into it with all the sincerity he was master of. "You see that rifle"--he pointed to the long, heavy, muzzle-loading hunter's rifle that lay beside Mahletonkwa's right knee--"well, I'll give you the weight of that rifle in silver dollars. Me, looking as I do, I'll see that you get them. There's my word upon it. This is my personal offer to compensate you for your dead brother. You shall have silver dollars enough to weigh down that rifle on the scales. I don't know how many that'll take, but it's bound to be a right big pile. Now understand me, you chaps, we'll take a balance, a fair and square balance, and put the rifle in one scale and pour silver dollars into the other till the rifle kicks the beam. _Sabe?_"
The sons of the desert looked one at another, and curious excited sounds came from their lips, and significant gestures were made. Some of them had actually seen scales used to weigh out the rations at Fort Defiance, and they quite understood what they were for, and made the thing clear to the less instructed among them. The American saw that his offer had created an impression, and he did his best to rub it in.
"You'll find it pay you to accept, Mahletonkwa," he said. "You'll be able to fix things in grand style with all that silver. Here, let's have a look at that rifle of yours, and let me heft it." He put out his hand cautiously--no objection was offered; he laid it on the piece--still no objection; he raised the rifle slowly on both palms, dandling it, as it were, up and down. "Why, it's a real heavy gun. It don't weigh less than twelve or thirteen pounds, I reckon. I tell you that'll come to no end of a lot of silver; all silver dollars, mind you; and it'll take hundreds of them, you bet, to weigh down this gun." He turned his eyes from one to the other of the redskins, and they seemed to understand him as he laid it down again beside the chief.
It was clear that his way of putting it had a great effect on the Navajos. To tell the truth, most of Mahletonkwa's followers had by this time begun to tire of their recent escapade. They had sallied out from their own country under his leadership, at the summons of Ankitona, the headman of their clan, to obtain the redress for the death of a member of their clan called for by their peculiar religion. But so far they had not taken much by their move. They had not as yet got any compensation; they had carried off a Mexican girl; and now they were beginning to feel that in doing so they had decidedly risked putting their heads in a noose. They began to believe they were in danger of being surrounded by United States soldiers, here in the Lava Beds, and were likely to have an extremely unpleasant time of it ere long unless they succeeded in escaping to a new hiding-place. The cool confidence shown by this solitary man coming forward so boldly to treat with them convinced them that he must have a strong force behind him. And now he was making an offer of a complete amnesty, plus a heap of silver dollars. First one and then another began to urge Mahletonkwa to close the bargain. He was a chief, of course, and upon him, as such, rested the responsibility of making decisions; but a Navajo chief is practically very much in the hands of his followers. When actually under fire they may obey him well enough, but when it comes to questions of policy, if the greater number are dissatisfied with his schemes or his methods, they simply leave him, and he finds himself deserted. He has no power to coerce them. Call this anarchy, if you will, or call it liberty, it is at all events the very opposite of despotism. No Navajo chief can play the despot; and Mahletonkwa, conscious that his authority was slipping from him, acceded to the terms, which indeed gave him nearly all he wanted.
"_Bueno_, Sooshiuamo", said he, using Stephens's Indian name in a friendly way, "I accept your offer, and there shall be peace between us.
But you must agree to stay with us when we come out from the Lava Beds, and you must go with us all the way to San Remo for the money, and you must prevent any trouble with the soldiers or with the Mexicans if they try to hurt us. You promise that?"
"Yes," said Stephens slowly, weighing every word of the Indian's speech, "I'll promise that. I'll see you safe to the settlement and pay you the money with my own hands. And if we meet any Americans or Mexicans who are after you, I'll explain that it is peace, and they are not to attack. I'll guarantee that much."
"Then," said the Indian, "it is peace between us; peace is made and sure."
"Peace it is," said Stephens, rising; "and now by your leave I'll go and tell the senorita, and then go and tell my men."
He hurried back to the cave where he had left her, and found her on her knees. He had laughed at the orisons offered up by the Santiago people before blasting the acequia; he did not laugh at hers.
She sprang up at his approach.
"We've fixed it all right," he said, "so don't you fret, senorita. I was real sorry to have to keep you so long in suspense, but I couldn't well help it. I'll explain all that to you later. But peace is made, and we're going back to San Remo together, you and me, along with the Navajos, and we'll start right away. But I've got to go over to where I left my party yonder in the Lave Beds, and explain the whole arrangement to them. Otherwise there might be considerable of a fuss. Now, don't you fret," he took her hand again to reassure her, "you'll be all right, and I won't be gone many minutes. You're sure, now, you won't get scared?"
"If you say you will come back," she answered, "I know you will come back, and I will try to be brave till you do."
With one glad pressure of her hand and one more long look into her eyes he turned away and left her. She watched his active steps as he hastened across the oasis and sprang up the broken lava rocks beyond. On the summit he turned and looked back in her direction, and waved his hand as a signal to her that all was well. Five minutes later he bounded down into the grassy opening where his mare was feeding with the four horses of the Pueblos. The cacique and the three others ran to meet him.
"How have you succeeded?" exclaimed the cacique. "Who was that shooting?
Have you shot any of them?"
"Not me," replied Stephens. "I've been making peace, I have. I found Mahletonkwa had just as lief trade as fight, and a bit more so. 'Ditto,'
says I to that, and just talked peace talk to him, and we made things square. Cacique, you were plumb right about Whailahay; they haven't harmed the girl. I've fixed it up with them about compensation for their dear departed, and we 're all going back to San Remo together, to take her home and get the silver for them. See?"
The cacique looked rather disconcerted. "I don't want to join company with these Navajos out here," he said decidedly.
"Oh, I didn't mean you," rejoined the American; "I quite understand that you might feel a delicacy in obtruding yourself on them out here in No-man's-land. They might have heard of that little affair of the seven Navajos in the sweat-house, eh? and this might seem a good time and place to pay off old scores?" His spirits had gone up with a bound, and he found it impossible not to chaff the cacique a little. "No, Cacique; you brought me here upon their trail just like a smell-dog, as I wanted you to do, and I've managed the rest of the business myself. Now, what I want you to do is to take their back trail and meet Don Nepomuceno and his party--they're sure to have found it again by now and to be following it up--and you tell them how I've fixed things, and say the senorita's all right and we'll meet them in San Remo. Stop, I'll write it down here on a scrap of paper and you can take it to them; that'll be best." He produced a pencil and a small note-book, tore out a leaf and hastily wrote on it his message to the Mexican. "There, Cacique," said he handing it to him, "give that to Don Nepomuceno when you see him, and tell him the whole show. I'd like to have you wait and meet us at San Remo if you get back there before us. _Hasta luego._"