Through Apache Land. Ellis Edward Sylvester

the buffalo skin. By some means – probably through the Indian runners encountered while hunting his game – he had learned the particulars of the expedition that had been arranged to attack and massacre the escort. Very probably these swarthy wretches were mainly incited to the deed by the knowledge that the son of Colonel Chadmund was to be with the party. It was under the direction of this vigilant officer that the marauding Indians of the border had received such a number of severe blows. They were excited to the highest point of exasperation, and would seize upon any means of revenge at their command.

      Alarmed by the danger which threatened his beloved child, the colonel had sent Dick Morris to the rescue at once. He would have sent a hundred men from his fort, had he believed it possible that they could do any good, but it was clearly out of the question for them to reach Devil's Pass until nearly twenty-four hours after the stage was due there. It was one of those cases wherein all depended upon shrewdness and strategy, and where nothing was to be gained by mere force of arms. The expectation was that the Apaches would hold the boy at an enormous ransom, or probably as a hostage for the safety of such of their blood-stained chiefs as were in the hands of the Americans. This will explain the haste of the hunter, and his anxiety to have the companionship of Tom, who had tramped so many hundred miles through the Indian country.

      Ten minutes after reading the dispatch Tom had fastened on the accoutrements of his mustang and was galloping away to the northeast on the trail of his friend. He did not pause even to hunt a little game, after having been so long without food. He was accustomed to privation and hardship, and, if it were required, was good for twenty-four hours longer without permitting a particle of food to pass his lips.

      He was leaving the treacherous Gila far to the south. It may be said that his course along this stream, on his return from the Apache country, was like the base of a triangle, while he was now following the hypothenuse. This latter route was preferable in every sense to that which he had been using for the last few days. The country itself was more varied, better watered and abounded with vegetation, its only drawback being the ever-present danger from the marauding redskins. Another advantage that belonged to the traveler over this path was that it was really a path – so clearly defined that a stranger could follow it without trouble. It was, in fact, the trail between Fort Havens and Santa Fe, over which, at certain intervals, messengers were regularly dispatched back and forth.

      The money with which the soldiers at Fort Havens and several other posts were paid came down by express from Sante Fe over this road, in charge of a proper escort, and the coach which started from that city with little Ned Chadmund carried also one hundred thousand dollars in crisp, crackling greenbacks stowed away in the bottom of the vehicle. Consequently it will be seen that the Apaches, who understood very well the value of these printed slips, had every inciting cause to organize an overwhelming expedition against the coach and its escort.

      The day is waning, but his steed was fresh and fleet, and had enjoyed such a long rest, that it would be a mercy to him to put him through his best paces. Tom did not hesitate to do it. The glossy black animal gave a neigh of delight as he felt the familiar hand of his master upon the bridle, and he stretched away like one of the Arabian coursers of the desert, fleet as the wind and capable of keeping up the tremendous rate of speed for hours at a time.

      The greater portion of this journey led through the wildest mountain scenery, and the afternoon was scarcely half gone when a striking change in the surface was observable. Instead of that long, dreary expanse of endless prairie, the hunter was forced to make long detours to escape the obstructions constantly interposing in the way. Now it was around some pile of rocks, then winding among a mass of hills, then over a level plain for some distance, but with the scenery steadily increasing in ruggedness at every mile traversed. Far ahead could be discerned the chain of mountains, their peaks looking blue and misty in the distance. It was among these that the trail wound its way – one portion, in the very heart of the mountains, being known as Devil's Pass, from its wild and dangerous character; and, as the scout strained his eye in the direction and contemplated the blue waving line against the sky, he almost fancied he could see the smoke from the rifles of the vengeful Apaches.

      "Shouldn't wonder if they are at it this very minute," he muttered, as he glanced down at the ground in front of him.

      All the afternoon, as he sped along, he saw constantly in front of him the footprints of another mustang, such as are made by an animal when under full speed. So they were, as he knew very well. Dick Morris had been over the same trail a few hours before, at scarcely less speed than his own.

      Every time Tom came in sight of an elevation he looked hastily at it in the hope of catching sight of some signal from his friend. In such a desperate enterprise as this he felt the need of companionship, especially of such a tried and daring man as Dick Morris. But the sun gradually went down in the western sky without bringing him the coveted sight, and he began to believe that he would not be overtaken before reaching Devil's Pass, which he hoped to reach on the morrow. Then, as the sun disappeared and darkness crept over mountain and prairie, Tom turned the head of his animal in the direction of a clump of trees where he knew there was an abundance of grass and water, and where, in all probability, something in the way of food could be had for himself. The mustang needed rest and refreshment, and the rider required them scarcely less.

      CHAPTER VI.

      THE TWO SCOUTS

      The hunter was within a hundred yards or so of the clump of trees, when he suddenly checked his mustang, or rather the mustang checked himself, at the light of a camp fire, which all at once flashed out from among them.

      "That's either Dick or a lot of varmints," he muttered. "I think it's varmints, for I don't b'lieve he meant to wait there."

      However, it was a question easily settled. He slid from his horse, and, rifle in hand, stole forward in the direction of the grove, moving as silently and stealthily as a shadow, while his beast stood as if he were an equestrian statue awaiting the placing of some metallic hero upon his back. A phantom itself could not have glided forward with less noise than did he, and yet he was fully twenty yards away from his destination, with his eyes fixed upon the point of light, when he was discovered by some horse that belonged to the stranger, or strangers, which gave out a loud neigh, as a signal to his friends of the approach of danger. At that moment, Tom dropped flat upon his face, as he had done before at the approach of the Apaches, and the luxuriant grass gathered about his form in such a way that he could not be seen by anyone at a moderate distance. But close upon the heels of the neigh came a low, tremulous whistle, scarcely uttered when Tom replied in a precisely similar way, leaped to his feet and trotted toward the grove.

      "That's Dick!" he exclaimed to himself, the signals which they had used being the same that they had adopted years before, when approaching each other in a dangerous neighborhood.

      The next minute the two met and shook hands. There were many points of resemblance and difference between the two comrades. Each was in middle life, embrowned, hardened, and toughened by years of exposure and the wild life of the border; but Tom Hardynge was taller, more sinewy and active than Dick Morris, who was below the medium stature, with a stunted appearance; but he was a powerful man, wonderfully skillful in the use of the rifle, and the two friends together made the strongest possible kind of a team.

      "Ah! that's the talk," exclaimed Tom, as he snuffed the odor of the cooking meat by the camp fire. "I'm hungry enough to chaw up my moccasins. What have you there – buffalo, mule or grizzly bar?"

      "Neither one," replied the other. "I fetched down an antelope a couple of hours ago, and as I was expectin' you, I cooked enough of it for both."

      "You had to cook his hoofs and all to do that; but why don't you spread the dining table?"

      Little ceremony was indulged in at such a time. The toasting meat, brown, crisp and juicy, was served in two equal portions, each of immense size, and then, with no culinary articles but their keen hunting knives, and their incisors, almost as keen, they went at the business with the gusto of famishing wolves. Meanwhile the two mustangs were feasting upon the rich grass which grew abundantly about them, and so all members of the party were enjoying themselves to the fullest extent.

      The two hunters scarcely spoke while this piece of mastication was going on. They understood each other