"I wanted to tell you, Rocky, about my friends at this house where I'm taking you," began Stephens hurriedly, in a low voice; "I don't want you to make any error: there's a girl there that I think--" But his ex-partner, who had already opened the paper, interrupted him with the greatest excitement.
"Why, burn my skin!" he exclaimed, "do you know what you've got hold of here? You've got some of that same ore they've gone crazy over up at Mohawk. Didn't you spot the horn silver in it? If you've got a good lode of this stuff, by thunder, you've got a soft thing! Is it a good vein?
If it's three or four foot wide you'll just have the world by the tail."
"That so?" said his friend, "you don't say! I guess I must have stumbled on to that hidden mine of the Indians I've been hunting for, at last.
But that'll keep."
Rocky, remembering his old friend's former ardour in prospecting, was amazed at the cool way in which he took the news that he had made this highly valuable strike.
"Look at here, Rocky; the thing I was really aiming to say to you,"
continued Stephens, his colour rising as he spoke, "was about that young lady,"--at this Rocky's lips curved into a knowing smile and his eyes twinkled;--"don't laugh, old man, I'm dead in earnest over this thing, and I think a heap of her. She's a lady, mind you, right down to the ground."
"Why, to be sure, she must be," cut in Rocky, with portentous seriousness, though his eyes danced with merriment; "she wouldn't be your style no other way. You always was high-toned, Jack; I'll say that for you."
"That's all right," returned Stephens, colouring more furiously than ever; he knew he was blushing, though the experience was entirely strange to him, and he was dreadfully ashamed of not being able to help it. "But indeed I'm not joking, Rocky. Her family's not very rich, but they're kind of way-up people, I want you to understand, old Spanish blood and that sort of thing; not any of the low-down, half-caste Indian stock, you know."
"That so?" said Rocky, keenly; "wal', I'm glad to hear it. I thought Mexicans was all one quality straight through--leastways, all I ever seen were." Rocky's knowledge of the race was limited to the bull-whackers of the big waggon-trains on the freighting roads, and Mexican stock was considerably below par by his estimate.
"That's where you got off wrong," said Stephens eagerly, "for there's a few families here in New Mexico that's just as good as anybody, if it comes to that--Bacas and Armijos and--and Sanchez--" he hesitated a little.
"Say," cut in Rocky, "look at yonder! Who are them ducks a-coming up the road? They 're riding as if all blazes was loose. Some of the First Families of New Mexico, eh?" Rocky was sarcastic. He knew Indians when he saw them.
"By George!" exclaimed Stephens in considerable excitement, "it's those accursed Navajos back here again."
Out of a whirling cloud of red dust and flying horsehoofs emerged the well-known figures of Mahletonkwa, Notalinkwa, and the rest of the gang.
They reined up before the shut door of the store, and most of them sprang off their horses.
"They've not gone back to their reservation," said Stephens indignantly.
"We'd ought to have had the soldiers here by now, and put them right back. I'm all for doing things by law and order, me, and it's the soldiers' business anyway. But it's getting to be time something was done. It's an infamous shame they should be allowed to fly around like this and bulldoze everybody; and, what's more, I'm getting tired of it."
The Indians were talking and laughing in a loud, excited manner, and Mahletonkwa began to pound on the closed door of the store with his fist.
"That's a sockdologer," said Rocky, "him knocking at the door I mean, with the eagle-feathers in his head-dress." Mahletonkwa was a big man physically; his stature would have been remarkable even in a crowd of Western men, perhaps the tallest men, on an average, of any on the face of the globe. "Say, do you mean to tell me that these are wild Indians, and you leave 'em around here loose?"
"They're worse than wild Indians just now," said Stephens, whose eyes were beginning to glow like hot coals; "they're Indians with liquor enough in them to make 'em crazy for more, and ready for any devilment."
"Say, Mahletonkwa," he called out, raising his voice and advancing a step, "quit that hammering, will you! There's trouble in the house, and you mustn't disturb them."
The Indian took no more notice of him than a striking clock might have done, but went on pounding with loud, continuous blows on the resounding wood.
"Stop it, will you!" cried Stephens, springing forward; "don't you hear me? There's a dead man in there, I tell you, and a poor woman mourning."
"I want more whiskey," said Mahletonkwa excitedly, and he beat the door with both hands.
The next moment Stephens had him by the shoulders and whirled him around, and with a push sent him staggering half a dozen yards from the house.
The Indian recovered himself, wheeled sharp round, and with a yell of rage drew his knife and bounded upon Stephens. He, too, drew his to defend himself, but as he did so Rocky sprang between them, pulling his Derringer. Alas! the Indian's knife was quicker than the pistol; he grappled Rocky instead of Stephens, and stabbed him in the breast. Down went Rocky with a crash upon the ground, the pistol dropping unfired from his nerveless fingers, and the blood poured from his mouth.
CHAPTER XXVIII
ELEVEN TO ONE
At sight of Rocky bleeding at his feet, something seemed suddenly to snap in Stephens's brain, and the secret rage that had been consuming him for days blazed out. This was open war at last, and the Navajos themselves had begun it. It was their own choice.
"So now then," said he, "they shall have it."
Almost before Mahletonkwa could draw his dripping blade from his victim's body, the American's strong grasp seized him and swung him violently round. Stephens's right hand gripped the hilt of his great hunting-knife, and with it he dealt the red man one terrible stroke as with a sword. All the strength of his arm and all the wrath of his soul went into that mighty sweep of the blade, and he felt the keen edge shear right through bone and muscle as it clove the doomed man's breast asunder and split his heart in twain. The dying yell of the Indian rent the air with so piercing a sound that the women in the Sanchez house, three furlongs off, heard it, and sprang trembling to their feet. With both his hands the American raised his stricken foe aloft and flung him clear away, a corpse before he touched ground.
It was all over in five seconds; but Stephens knew it could not end there. This was no final blow in a single combat, it was rather the first in one where the odds were still ten to one against him.
Mahletonkwa's followers were swiftly unslinging their guns, save four who had sprung to their horses, whether to fight or fly he could not tell. Like a flash the American's ready six-shooter was out from his belt. Notalinkwa was nearest him, his gun already at his shoulder; but the too careful Indian paused a moment on his aim to make sure, and that pause was fatal. As the American's pistol came up level the hammer fell, and Notalinkwa, shot through the heart, pitched heavily forward, and lay there prone on the brown earth, biting it convulsively in the strong death-agony.
With the rapidity of lightning the deadly weapon spoke again, and again, and again, and as each jet of smoke and flame leapt from the muzzle, each bullet, true to its mark, laid an enemy low. If Stephens thought at all during those breathless seconds in which he sent foe after foe to his last account, it was but to say to himself, "Quick, now, quick! Be quick, but sure!"
Navajo rifle-balls whistled by him, but he felt no fear; there was no room for that, for his whole soul now was bent upon one passionate purpose,--to kill, kill, kill.
As the fourth Navajo dropped to his fourth shot, he saw the rest run, and gave one wild shout of triumph, and even as his voice rang out his fifth barrel went off, and down dropped yet another of the gang. It seemed as though he could not miss a single shot to-day.
"Oh, Doctor," he cried, "oh, Doctor! quick here, Rocky's hurt!" but he did not turn his head as he shouted to him to help his wounded friend.
The four Indians who had already mounted were off and away, and Kaniache, the last of those who had turned to fight when Mahletonkwa was slain, had now lost heart and was springing to horse to follow them.
What chance was there to fight against a man like this, on whom no Navajo rifle-balls seemed to have any effect, but whose own unerring bullets slew a victim at each shot? He was no mere man, but an avenging fury.
Alas for Kaniache! the resolve to fly came too late. As he reached the saddle Stephens raised his six-shooter for the last time, and the foresight came into the V-notch of the hammer just below the red man's shoulder blade as he turned to flee. The last of the six cartridges spoke, once more the jet of flame and smoke leaped from the muzzle, and Kaniache dropped forward on the neck of his steed, clutching blindly and desperately at the mane. The horse bounded forward after the others that had fled before him, his rider's hot blood pouring down his withers, and dropping on to his knees at every stride. Then the desperate clutch relaxed, and the death-stricken Kaniache pitched heavily to the ground, and with loose rein the riderless steed galloped wildly across the plain.
"Hurrah," shouted Stephens again as he darted to his mare, "hurrah! Run, you dogs, run!"
The sweetest moment in a man's life is when he looks in the eyes of his mistress and knows that his love is returned; the proudest is when he sees in front of him his foes, but sees nothing but their backs. And to Stephens both these things came in one hour.
He raised the rein, and Morgana bounded forward in pursuit. His eye glancing around fell upon the figure of Doctor Benton just leaping from the stage waggon, pistol in hand. He had heard the rapid shots before he heard Stephens's shout, and his first impulse had been to catch up his weapon and take his share in the fighting. But so quick had been the deadly work that there was no one for him to turn loose on save the dead or dying redskins who bestrewed the ground, and he paused as if undecided what to do.
Stephens settled the question for him.
"Hurry up, there, Doc," he shouted over his shoulder to him, "hurry up, or Rocky'll be dead." And looking back he saw the army surgeon run across to where the prostrate white man lay.
Seeing this, he was satisfied skilled hands would do all that was possible to save his old partner. For himself there was only one course, to go on right to the bitter end as he had begun, and avenge on the whole murderous gang the wanton knife-stroke of their chief,--ay, and more, to avenge upon them, too, the terrors of Manuelita, and the murder of that lonely wanderer in the mountains whom he and the whole lot of them had so foully done to death beside the Lone Pine. For all that long account, vengeance should be taken to the very last drop.
He looked ahead: the four fugitives were galloping a quarter of a mile in front of him, making not for the sierra, but for the more open valley of the Agua Negra. He was clearing the last of the San Remo houses now, and as he did so he heard the thunder of horsehoofs on his right, and two well-mounted Mexicans dashed forth from the corrals to join in the pursuit. They were the same young men who the day before had ridden in ahead of Don Nepomuceno's party to rejoin their sweethearts. They had heard the firing begin, had seen the fray, and mounted in hot haste to play their part.
"_Bueno!_" he shouted when he saw them, "_bueno_, boys! Wade in. We'll give 'em a dose of it between us."
The Mexicans cheered back to him, and plied their quirts; Morgana was going at three quarters racing speed, but they sent their horses along from the start as if they were running a quarter-mile dash. The house from which they came was a little to one side of the Indians' line of flight, and they made for their line at such an angle that they gained a decided advantage both on them and on the American, and were enabled to cut ahead of the latter. The fugitives, hearing the shouts, and looking back and becoming aware of these new pursuers, at once began to flog, but the rearmost Navajo's horse could not answer to the whip, and the tremendous pace at which the Mexicans had started carried them right up to within fifty yards of him.
Out came their revolvers, bang, bang, bang! they went at him, and again, bang, bang, bang! But such wild firing as this over the heads of galloping horses is random work at best, and the Navajo went on scathless.
"_Esperate! Esperate!_" sang out Stephens from behind. "You're wasting your ammunition. Wait till you're closer, boys." But in spite of his wiser counsels he still heard them firing away, bang, bang, bang!