The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista. Altsheler Joseph Alexander

donehis duty under fire, and now he was doing his dutyagain.

      He paused a little longer every time he came to theriver, and forcing his mind now to note every detail, hewas impressed by the change that the stream hadundergone. There was a fine full moon, and the muddytorrent of the day was turned into silver, sparkling morebrightly where the bubbles formed and broke. Thestream, swollen doubtless by rains about its source, flowedrapidly with a slight swishing noise. Phil looked upand down it, having a straight sweep of several hundredyards either way. Now and then the silver of its surfacewas broken by pieces of floating debris, brought doubtlessfrom some far point. He watched these fragmentsas they passed, a bough, a weed, or a stump, or the entiretrunk of a tree, wrenched by a swollen current from somecaving bank. He was glad that he had the watch next tothe river, because it was more interesting. The river wasa live thing, changing in color, and moving swiftly. Itssurface, with the objects that at times swept by on it, was a panorama of varied interest.

      Besides Welby he saw no living creature. The campwas hidden from him completely by the trees and bushes, and they were so quiet within the circle of the wagonsthat no sound came from them. An hour passed. Itbecame two, then three. Vaporous clouds floated by themoon. The silver light on the river waned. The currentbecame dark yellow again, but flowing as ever with thatsoft, swishing sound. The change affected Phil. Theweird quality of the wilderness, clothed in dark, madeitself felt. He was glad when he met Welby, and theylingered a few seconds longer, talking a little. He cameback once more to the river, now flowing in a torrentalmost black between its high banks.

      He took his usual long survey of the river, both upand down stream. Phil was resolved to do his full duty, and already he had some experience, allied with facultiesnaturally keen. He examined the opposite bank withquestioning eyes. At first it had seemed a solid wall ofdark green, but attention and the habit of the darknessnow enabled him to separate it into individual trees andbushes. Comanches ambushed there could easily shootacross the narrow stream and pick off a white sentinel, but he had always kept himself well back in his ownbushes, where he could see and yet be hidden.

      His gaze turned to the river. Darker substances, driftfrom far banks, still floated on its surface. The windhad died. The branches of the trees did not move at all, and, in the absence of all other sound, the slight swishingmade by the flowing of the river grew louder. Hiswandering eyes fastened on a small stump that was comingfrom the curve above, and that floated easily on thesurface. Its motion was so regular that his glance stayed, and he watched it with interested eyes. It was anindependent sort of stump, less at the mercy of the currentthan the others had been. It came on, bearing in towardthe western bank, and Phil judged that if it kept itspresent course it would strike the shore beneath him.

      The black stump was certainly interesting. He lookedfarther. Four feet behind it was floating another stumpof about the same size, and preserving the same direction, which was a diagonal line with the current. That was acoincidence. Yet farther was a third stump, showing allthe characteristics of the other two. That was remarkable.And lo! when a fourth, and then a fifth, and thena sixth came, a floating line, black and silent, it was aprodigy.

      The first black stump struck lightly against the bank.Then a Comanche warrior, immersed hitherto to the chin, rose from the stream. The water ran in black bubblesfrom his naked body. In his right hand he held a longknife. The face was sinister, savage, and terrible beyondexpression. Another of the stumps was just rising fromthe stream, but Phil fired instantly at the first face, andthen sprang back, shouting, "The Comanches." He didnot run. He merely sheltered himself behind a tree, andbegan to reload rapidly. Welby came running throughthe bushes, and then the others, drawn by the shout. Ina minute the timber was filled with armed men.

      "What is it? What is it? What did you shoot at?"they cried, although the same thought was in the minds ofevery one of them.

      "The Comanches!" replied Phil. "They came swimmingin a line down the river. Their heads looked likeblack stumps on the water! I fired at the first themoment he rose from the stream! I think it was their planto ambush and kill the sentinels!"

      Bill Breakstone was among those who had come, andhe cried:

      "Then we must beat them off at once! We must notgive them a chance to get a footing on the bank!"

      They rushed forward, Phil with them, his rifle nowreloaded, and gazed down at the river. They heard nonoise, but that slight swishing sound made by thecurrent, and the surface of the stream was bare. The riverflowed as if no foreign body had ever vexed its current.Fifty pairs of eyes used to the wilderness studiedthe stream and the thickets. They saw nothing. Fiftypairs of ears trained to hear the approach of dangerlistened. They heard nothing but the faint swishingsound that never ceased. A murmur not pleasant toPhil, arose.

      "I've no doubt it was a stump, a real stump," one ofthe older men said.

      A deep flush overspread Phil's face.

      "I saw a Comanche with long black hair rise from thewater," he said.

      The man who had spoken grinned a little, but theexpression of his face showed that doubt had solidified intocertainty.

      "A case of nerves," he said, "but I don't blame youso much, bein' only a boy."

      Phil felt his blood grow hot, but he tried to restrainhis temper.

      "I certainly saw a Comanche," he said, "and therewere others behind him!"

      "Then what's become of all this terrible attack?"!asked the man ironically.

      "Come! Come!" said Woodfall. "We can't havesuch talk. The boy may have made a mistake, but theincident showed that he was watching well, just what wewant our sentinels to do."

      Phil flushed again. Woodfall's tone was kindly, buthe was hurt by the implication of possible doubt andmistake. Yet Woodfall and the others had ample excusefor such doubts. There was not the remotest sign of anenemy. Could he really have been mistaken? Could ithave been something like a waking dream? Could hisnerves have been so upset that they made his eyes seethat which was not? He stared for a full minute at theempty face of the river, and then a voice called:

      "Oh, you men, come down here! I've something toshow you!"

      It was Bill Breakstone, who had slipped away fromthem and gone down the bank. His voice came from apoint at least a hundred yards down the stream, and themen in a group followed the sound of it, descending theslope with the aid of weeds and bushes. Bill wasstanding at the edge of a little cove which the water hadhollowed out of the soft soil, and something dark lay at hisfeet.

      "I dragged this out of the water," he said. "It wasfloating along, when an eddy brought it into this cove."

      They looked down, and Phil shut off a cry with hisclosed teeth. The body, a Comanche warrior, entirelynaked, lay upon its back. There was a bullet hole in thecenter of the forehead. The features, even in death, wereexactly those that the boy had seen rising from the water, sinister, savage, terrible beyond expression. Phil felt acold horror creeping through all his bones, but it was thelook of this dead face more than the fact that he hadkilled a man. He shuddered to think what so muchmalignant cruelty could have done had it gained the chance.

      "Well, men," said Bill Breakstone quietly, "was thestory our young friend here told such stuff as dreams aremade on, or did it really happen?"

      "The boy told the truth, and he was watching well,"said a half dozen together.

      The old frontiersman who had so plainly expressedhis disbelief in Phil-Gard was his name-extended hishand and said to the lad:

      "I take it all back. You've saved us from an ambushthat would have cost us a lot of men. I was a fool.Shake hands."

      Phil, with a great leap of pride, took the profferedhand and shook it heartily.

      "I don't blame you, Mr. Gard," he said. "Thingscertainly looked against me."

      "The Comanches naturally took to flight when theirleader was killed," said Woodfall. "They could notcarry through such an attempt without surprise, but goodeyes stopped them."

      Phil's heart leaped again with pride, but he saidnothing. They climbed back up the slope, and the guardin the timber was tripled for the short time until day.Phil was told that, as he had already done so much, hemight go off duty now.

      He