Prev Next

He rose and straightened himself up to his full height, and stretched out his arms as a relief after sitting so still. "I might as well take a look round, though," he said, "and see if that horse is all right. I don't know his tricks, and he might tangle himself up in his picket-rope." He strolled out to where he had fastened him, and made sure that he was all right. As he turned to come back again, he saw something on the ground that caught the fire-light and shone like a jewel. He stooped to pick it up. It was an obsidian arrowhead.

"Volcanic glass," said the miner,--expert as he was in minerals,--critically turning it over and over in his fingers, "and most beautifully chipped. This is a piece of real high-class ancient Indian work. Now, I wonder if that arrow belonged to one of those old Aztec pueblo folks, or if it was one shot at them by some wild Indian. The wild Indians were enemies of the house-people then, same as now."

His imagination took fire as he looked at this relic of ancient strife.

The long procession of the centuries unrolled itself before his mind's eye, and he beheld the secular struggle for life of tribe against tribe.

Those old pueblo builders, cultivators of corn, house-folk, had always been at odds with their nomad brethren, the hunters of the wild wood and the plains; yet generation after generation, they had gone on being born, growing up, marrying, and begetting a new generation to succeed them, and passing away either in battle for their little community or peacefully by their own hearth. This fire-blackened, clay-plastered angle of the wall, to what unending succession of house-mothers and house-fathers did it not speak? He looked at it with a sort of reverence. The flickering light of the flames, rekindled by him, alien successor as he was of those ancient folk, lit up every detail of the surface. In places the clay daubed on there so many centuries ago looked as fresh as if it had been done last year. Here and there he could see the very finger-marks of the woman who had plastered it; for among the Indians this was ever the task of the women, as he knew very well. Yes, and, by George! there in one spot, low down, was the handprint of a tiny child in the plaster; the little one had been playing beside its mother, and had stuck its hand against the wall while the clay was wet. A strange emotion struck through him at the sight. It was as if the little hand had reached out to him across the years and touched his own. The fire he had kindled on this cold hearth seemed like a sort of altar flame, in memory of the love that had once made this little abode a sacred place.

Like a flash it came across his mind that this was what he had blindly sacrificed during all these long years of his wanderings--the joys of home; the sweet domesticities of wife and child. He knew them not; aloof, solitary, self-contained, he had coldly held himself outside the circle of all that was best in life. Why? To what end? For the sake of phantom gold; for the sake of a visionary fortune which he might never touch; for the sake of being able to build, some distant day, a fancied home away back there in the States. It was all a dream. Ten of the best years of his life had gone in the vain effort. Ten more might go as easily and as futilely. And then! OLD AGE! He saw it all now; and now it was no imaginary shadow-wife--dim, vague, and unsubstantial--that his heart went out to; it was she, the real, living, breathing creature of flesh and blood that he had played with and talked to; that he had rescued in her trouble, and restored to her parents; she whose sweet eyes met his with a certain demand. With a rush it came over him that she was what he needed; that he wanted to make her happy, and that he must do it by making her his own. He was amazed at his own blindness and hardness of heart. Was he too late? Could he have missed his chance? No, no; not that! But he would lose no time. He knew now what he must say to her, and the quicker he did it the better. With a joyful sense of anticipation he saw himself already at her side, pouring into her ear the tale of his loneliness and his love. He sprang to his feet at the thought, eager to start. As he rose to his full height there was a deafening bang close to his right ear, a blinding flash, and the burning breath of gunpowder scorched his cheek. Some murderer had fired at him from a yard off!

CHAPTER XXVI

THE SNAKE'S VERDICT

In that desperate moment Stephens felt that he was respited as by a miracle. The bullet had missed him. He dropped his right hand on to the wall over which the weapon had been fired, and clearing it with a mighty bound, lit right on top of someone recocking a discharged pistol. His eyes, dazzled by the fire glare, saw nothing, but he grappled him by the feel on the instant; with one powerful twist of his body he whirled his opponent off his legs and flung him to the ground, going down with him himself and falling heavily upon him. The Indian--he knew him for an Indian as he grappled with him by the blanket he wore--felt like a child in his grip. He seized him by the throat with the left hand and choked him, his right holding the left arm of the other and pinning him to the ground. What he had to fear now was that the free right arm would deal him some deadly blow with knife or pistol, and he tightened his grasp on the muscular throat to choke the life out of him. Then he suddenly realised that his foe was mastered, and he lifted his weight partly off his chest, still, however, kneeling on him with one knee and bearing him down with his hands.

And now his eyes were growing accustomed to the dark, and he could distinguish the features of the man under him. "By George!" he cried, "but it's Felipe. Why, you murderous young cub, what devilment are you up to now?"

But the Indian youth lay helpless under his knee, gasping, and made no answer. That strangling grasp on his throat had nearly finished him off.

Still holding him down, Stephens ran his eyes around to see if other foes were near. The moon was very low now, but its level rays cast sufficient light to allow him to discern that there was no enemy visible anywhere. He listened intently, but no sound came to him except the laboured breathing of the prostrate Indian. He longed for Faro. "If I'd only got you along, old man," thought he, "this young devil would never have been able to get the drop on me the way he did; and now you'd be able to tell me whether there were any more mean hounds like him laying for me. I wonder if there are any more around?" For several minutes he remained motionless like this, but there was no sign of anyone to succour the fallen man. The discharged pistol was lying on the ground within arm's length. He reached out and picked it up, his left hand and knee still firmly pressing his antagonist against the ground. He looked the revolver over; it was a good weapon, he could tell that much, but he could not recognise it. He had mended many weapons for the Santiago people during the winter, and the thought had occurred to him that he might chance to know this one, but on examination he did not remember to have ever set eyes on it before.

Felipe, under his knee, lay perfectly still, and his breathing was becoming more regular. Laying the pistol down behind him, Stephens felt for the boy's belt, and unbuckled it and dragged it from under him; it carried a knife in its sheath as well as the holster for the pistol. He put these behind him likewise, away from his prisoner's hand. Again he paused and listened for the sound of possible enemies approaching; but he could hear nothing whatever. He felt his own revolver, to make sure it was all right in its place, and he thought of his Winchester lying in its case by his saddle, the other side of the wall. If an enemy were to sneak up and grab that, he, Stephens, would be in a fix. He took his weight off his knee for a moment, so as to lighten the pressure on Felipe's body. "Who's with you, you young ruffian?" he asked.

"No one, Sooshiuamo," replied the boy. The breath was fast coming back to his lungs; he spoke audibly, but with difficulty.

"Don't call me Sooshiuamo, you wretch! Do you mean to say you're here all alone? If you lie to me now I'll kill you right here."

"Yes, sir," said Felipe, "I'm alone."

Stephens hesitated; he knew Felipe well enough to judge, by the way he spoke, that he was telling the truth; but he was much puzzled to account for this murderous attack. Various theories flitted through his brain.

He had not a single enemy in the pueblo that he knew of, the cacique perhaps excepted; but the cacique, of all men, was the most unlikely to select Felipe to do this trick. Could this attack be intended as a punishment on him for violating some old superstition of theirs, by making a fire here in the ruined pueblo? Such a thing might be ample justification for murdering him, from their point of view, as he had reason to know. Their behaviour over the blasting of the ditch was proof enough of how strongly they could feel about things that shocked their religious susceptibilities. But how could they have known of his crime when he had only found the spot an hour ago? He determined to cross-question his prisoner.

"Who set you on to murder me?" he asked.

Felipe hesitated. "Nobody," he said finally.

"Do you mean to tell me you did it on your own hook?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes, sir."

"Where d'you get that pistol?" Stephens knew he didn't own one.

"I bought it."

"Where?"

"In San Remo."

"Who sold it to you?"

"The storekeeper."

"Mr. Backus?"

"Yes, sir."

A light began to dawn upon Stephens. Backus undoubtedly had a grudge against him.

"Did he put you up to this?" he asked.

Felipe was silent.

"Answer me; mind you, your life's at stake."

"Partly he did."

"Partly, you say. What do you mean? Who else?"

"Partly myself."

"You young scallywag! What did you want to kill me for?"

Felipe hesitated, but he felt the knee of the man who had him down begin to press harder again. "Because of Josefa," he said, with evident reluctance.

"Explain yourself, you idiot. Because of Josefa? Why, it was I who saved her. Don't you know that much?"

"You took her away," said Felipe sulkily.

"Of course I did, you ninny. What would you have had me do? Leave her with her father to be beaten to death? You're a plumb idiot."

"You needn't have taken her, though, for yourself," rejoined the boy.

"Oh, you make me tired!" said Stephens; "if that's all you've got to kill me for, get up." He released the young Indian, taking care, however, to retain possession of the belt and pistol and knife. Felipe scrambled to his feet rather unsteadily.

"I've a mind to boot you all the way back to the pueblo," said Stephens disgustedly; "not for trying to blow the top of my head off, though you deserve it for missing me at only four feet away, but for being such a loony idiot as to think that. By Jimini! I haven't got language to say what I think of you. Why, you--you--you galoot! when did you ever know me go to carrying on with any of the women in the pueblo? You ought to know me better by this time."

Felipe looked abashed.

"You all but did for yourself," he went on,--"that is, if you'd only known it; and I'm not sure that you haven't now. Why, I took her over from her family thinking to give her to you, but I'm dashed if I know whether I'd ought to now. There's too many blanked fools in this world already to make it worth while to help to set more of 'em going.

However, we'll see what she's got to say about you. If she has a fancy for marrying an escaped lunatic, I suppose she'll have to have her way.

Come, I'm going back to the fire; walk through that door there and we'll go in. Here, take your belt, but I'm dashed if you're to be trusted with a loaded pistol any more than if you were a three-year-old baby." He raised the Colt above his head and rapidly discharged the five loaded chambers one after another in the air.

It was the report of those shots that attracted the attention of the storekeeper far off on the hillside. The two entered the cave-dwelling, Felipe holding himself very stiffly as he moved.

"I don't wonder you're stiff," said the American, observing him; "I must have pretty near squeezed the life out of you, and serves you right." He was still very angry.

Report error

If you found broken links, wrong episode or any other problems in a anime/cartoon, please tell us. We will try to solve them the first time.

Email:

SubmitCancel

Share