Tonio, Son of the Sierras. Charles King

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СКАЧАТЬ jealous and afraid. If he had felt this earlier in the day the feeling was intensified now, for though he had seemed to some of the officers, to Archer and his family, especially to Lilian, far the more accomplished and attractive of the two, the entrance of that disturbing rattler on the scene had destroyed the equilibrium of affairs. Willett had had no experience with the venomous little reptile, Harris had had much, and Harris's utter sang froid, and cool, commanding words had averted what might have been a tragedy. One start, one sudden move of the girl at that critical moment might well have been fatal. The snake, alarmed and angered by previous stir and by Willett's approaches, was actually coiled for the spring. The tiny fangs would have fastened in a flash on that slender, unprotected ankle, and the rest could only be conjectured.

      And so, it was in no judicial mood that Willett began his questioning. Accustomed as he was to the hang-dog, dissolute specimens of degenerate red men he had seen in the Columbia country and the lava beds, he hardly knew what to make of 'Tonio, this ascetic of the mountains, clear eyed, trained to a fineness almost unhuman, all wire and sinew, an Indian withal who looked him straight and fearless in the eye, and held himself as proudly as ever did chieftain of the Aztecs or the Sioux. Summoned from the camp fire to this unsought council, finding himself confronted by strangers, missing his own friend and commander, and instinctively scenting accusation, 'Tonio stood and faced his judges without so much as a tremor.

      For a moment Willett sat and studied him. "Siwashes" of Puget's Sound, Klickatats of the Columbia, and scowling, beetle-browed Modocs of upper Nevada he had often met, and their shifting eyes dropped before the keen gaze of the dominant soldier, but this son of the Sierras never so much as suffered the twitch of a muscle, the droop of an eyelash. In the language of the "greaser" cargador, whose border vernacular had suffered through long contact with that of the gringo, "'Tonio didn't scare worth a damn, even when the lieutenant tried bulldozing," but that may merely have been the expression of civilian jealousy of military methods. Being in the pay and under the protection of the United States, 'Tonio could be called on for explanation at any time, only—there were two ways of calling.

      "Tell him," said Willett, "the chief-of-chiefs believes the Apache Mohaves are hiding in the Mogollon—many of them—bucks, squaws and children, and he was sent to find them and to bring them to the reservation. Why did he fail?"

      Muñoz, as nearly as he could, put the question, but none too confidently.

      "Because my people were driven beyond sound of 'Tonio's voice," was the calm reply, the eyes for the officer, the words for the man, and Muñoz again translated.

      "How so? Was not word sent them by Arahawa?"

      "Arahawa said the white brother would come with food and presents to lead them home. What they saw was guns and scouts and soldiers. Therefore, they were afraid and fled. Soldiers with guns catch no Mohaves who fear. Therefore was it useless, and I tired."

      "Could you have caught them and persuaded them had you gone alone?" And Willett asked as he had been instructed at headquarters.

      "Caught? Yes! Persuaded? No! They say white soldiers killed Comes Flying, brother to Chief Lone Pine."

      "How does he know Comes Flying was killed? We heard it only the night I reached Prescott. No one has told it—here." And now the officer's eyes were glittering. The adjutant shifted uneasily in his chair. This was news to him. Comes Flying stood second only to Lone Pine in the tribe, yet Camp Almy had not heard it. 'Tonio had told it not even to Harris.

      "The mountain eagle is 'Tonio's friend; the bear, the lynx, the birds are his brothers."

      "Then you knew the Apache Mohaves were in the Verde Valley—and in Dead Man's Cañon as late as last week—that they had raided Stoner's Ranch?"

      "They were not there, nor did they raid Stoner's Ranch! My people stayed not even on the East Fork. They fled deep in the Mogollon."

      Willett gave vent to impatient "Pish!" The Indians he had known all lied, of course, but looked it. This man looked him full in the face, even as he lied, and looked the truth.

      "I'll show you why we know you lie," said he impulsively, but the adjutant held up a warning hand, saying, "Listen!"

      Through the open doorway, barred against unauthorized intruder by the single soldier, standing beyond earshot upon the level of the parade, there came the prolonged cry of a sentry at the upper end of the garrison. Number Three had repeated, but Number Four was impatient, imperative, and the yell came again: "Corporal of the Guard, Number Four!"

      "That means something," said the adjutant, springing to his feet. "I'll be back in a minute if it doesn't," and away he went, swift-speeding under the flagstaff, and Muñoz followed straight to the base of the staff, where the trumpeter of the guard and three or four men from the barracks were already gathered, their own surreptitious, blanket-shrouded game for the moment forgotten. They were staring through the moonlight straight away to the northeastward chain of heights, rocky and precipitous, that spanned the valley in that direction, and suddenly two of them gave tongue:

      "There it is again! Didn't I tell you?"

      Far away among the pines at the crest a tiny blaze shot into the skies, brilliant even in the moonshine. "Signal fire, sure!" said three voices at once. "Signal fire, sure!" echoed other voices, as more men came running forth from the barracks to join the watchers on the parade. "Signal fire, sure, and right up over the Bennett Ranch—where the general was to-day!"

      "My God, I wonder have they jumped it! Yonder comes the corporal—back—running!"

      Back, indeed, and running and straight for the doctor's, where he could be heard banging at the open door. So away went the trumpeter, full tilt for tidings, and others, impatient, followed. Instead of coming back the trumpeter kept on, running still harder toward the brow of the hill and the post of Number Four. It was the corporal who called to his halting and anxious fellows:

      "It's Bennett's Ranch! His dago's in with the news—mos' dead down there on Number Four; says they've killed the whole family—'Patchie Mohaves!"

      There was awed silence one moment. Then a deep voice broke it, and all eyes turned on the speaker. 'Tonio.

      "Apache Mohave? No! No!!"

CHAPTER V.

       Table of Contents

      Bennett's "dago," when halted by Number Four, was as limp a specimen of humanity as that drowsy young trooper had seen in all his soldier days. Bennett's dago was no stranger to the post, having occasionally come thither on errands for his employer, and semi-occasionally appeared without such semblance of authority, but, whether his mission was for master or man, it had never hitherto failed to lead to the store and monte. Small as was the garrison, and few as were the neighboring ranches, there was generally business enough to support two card rooms, one for officers and the "gente fino"—the trader, his partner, the chief packer, forage master, and an occasional rancher or prospector; the other, a big one, and often a riotous, for the soldiery, scouts, packers and riffraff of the frontier, and for this establishment Bennett's dago had an indescribable fascination. Here he had met and differed with Muñoz, the two coming to a knife duel, promptly suppressed by the gun butts of the guard. None the less was Muñoz called into requisition as interpreter, for between peril, exhaustion and defective English the "dago" could only splutter an unintelligible jargon that might have been Sicilian, Maltese, or Calabrian, but could not be Spanish. Bennett, it seems, СКАЧАТЬ