The Talking Leaves. William O. Stoddard

No. I was on a hunt in the sierras that day. When I came home it was all gone."

      "The Apaches?"

      "The mine was there, but the works were all burnt. So was the hacienda and the huts of the peons and workmen. Everything that would burn."

      "But the people!"

      "Cattle, horses, all they could drive with them, they carried away. We won't say anything about the people, Steve. My wife was among them. She was a Spanish-Mexican lady. She owned the mine and the land. We buried her before we set out after the Apaches. I've been following them ever since."

      "Were the rest all killed?"

      "All. They did not even leave me my little girl. I hadn't anything left to keep me there."

      "So you joined the Lipans?"

      "They're always at war with the Apaches. I'm pretty near to being an Indian now."

      "I won't be, then. I'll get away, somehow. I'm white, and I'm almost a man."

      "Steve, have you forgotten anything you knew the day they took you prisoner?"

      "No, I haven't. I was fifteen then, and if there's one thing I've been afraid of it was that I would forget. I've repeated things over and over and over, for fear they'd get away from me."

      "That's all right. I've had an eye on you about that. But haven't you learned something?"

      "You've taught me all about rocks and stones and ores and mining—"

      "Yes, and you can ride like a Lipan, and shoot and hunt, and there isn't a young brave in the band that can throw you in a fair wrestle."

      "That's all Indian—"

      "Is it? Well, whether it is or not, you'll need it all before long. All you know."

      "To fight Apaches?"

      "Better'n that, Steve. It's been of no use for you to try to get away toward Texas. They watch you too closely, and besides, the Comanches are most of the time between us and the settlements. They won't watch you at all out here. That's why I insisted on bringing you along."

      "Do you mean I'll have a chance to get away?"

      "I don't mean you shall go back of the mountains again, Steve. You must wait patiently, but the time'll come. I tell you what, my boy, when you find yourself crossing the Arizona deserts and mountains all alone, you'll be right glad you can ride, and shoot, and hunt, and find your own way. It's all Indian knowledge, but it's wonderfully useful when you have to take care of yourself in an Indian country."

      The dark cloud was very heavy on Murray's face yet, but an eager light was shining upon that of his young friend—the light of hope.

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      "Talking leaves?" said Ni-ha-be, as she turned over another page of the pamphlet in her lap and stared at the illustrations. "Can you hear what they say?"

      "With my eyes."

      "Then they are better than mine. I am an Apache! You was born white!"

      There was a little bit of a flash in the black eyes of the Indian maiden. She had not the least idea but that it was the finest thing in all the world to be the daughter of Many Bears, the great Apache warrior, and it did not please her to find a mere white girl, only Indian by adoption, able to see or hear more than she could.

      Rita did not reply for a moment, and a strange sort of paleness crept across her face, until Ni-ha-be exclaimed,

      "It hurts you, Rita! It is bad medicine. Throw it away."

      "No, it does not hurt—"

      "It makes you sick?"

      "No, not sick—it says too much. It will take many days to hear it all."

      "Does it speak Apache?"

      "No. Not a word."

      "Nor the tongue of the Mexican pony men?"

      "No. All it says is in the tongue of the blue-coated white men of the North."

      "Ugh!"

      Even Ni-ha-be's pretty face could express the hatred felt by her people for the only race of men they were at all afraid of.

      There were many braves in her father's band who had learned to talk Mexican-Spanish. She herself could do so very well, but neither she nor any of her friends or relatives could speak more than a few words of broken English, and she had never heard Rita use one.

      "There are many pictures."

      "Ugh! yes. That's a mountain, like those up yonder. There are lodges, too, in the valley. But nobody ever made lodges in such a shape as that."

      "Yes, or nobody could have painted a talking picture of them."

      "It tells a lie, Rita! And nobody ever saw a bear like that."

      "It isn't a bear, Ni-ha-be. The talking leaf says it's a lion."

      "What's that? A white man's bear?"

      Rita knew no more about lions than did her adopted sister, but by the time they had turned over a few more pages their curiosity was aroused to a high degree. Even Ni-ha-be wanted to hear all that the "talking leaves" might have to say in explanation of those wonderful pictures.

      It was too bad of Rita to have been "born white" and not to be able to explain the work of her own people at sight.

      "What shall we do with them, Ni-ha-be?"

      "Show them to father."

      "Why not ask Red Wolf?"

      "He would take them away and burn them. He hates the pale-faces more and more every day."

      "I don't believe he hates me."

      "Of course not. You're an Apache now. Just as much as Mother Dolores, and she's forgotten that she was ever white."

      "She isn't very white, Ni-ha-be. She's darker than almost any other woman in the tribe."

      "We won't show her the talking leaves till father says we may keep them. Then she'll be afraid to touch them. She hates me."

      "No, she doesn't. She likes me best, that's all."

      "She'd better not hate me, Rita. I'll have her beaten if she isn't good to me. I'm an Apache!"

      The black-eyed daughter of the great chief had plenty of self-will and temper. There could be no doubt of that. She sprang upon her mustang with a quick, impatient bound, and Rita followed, clinging to her prizes, wondering what would be the decision of Many Bears and his councillors as to the ownership of them.

      A few minutes of swift riding brought the two girls to the border of the camp.

      "Rita? Red Wolf!"

      "I see him—he is coming to meet us, but he does not want us to think so."

      That was a correct guess.

      The tall, hawk-nosed young warrior, who was now riding toward them, was a perfect embodiment of Indian haughtiness, and even his sister was a mere "squaw" in his eyes. As for Rita, she was not only a squaw but also not even a full-blooded Apache, and was to be looked down upon accordingly.

      He was an Indian and a warrior, and would one day be a chief like his father.

      Still, he had so far unbent his usual cold dignity as to turn his horse to meet that sisterly pair, if only to find out why they were in such a hurry.

      "What scare you?"

      "We're not scared. We've found something—pale-face sign."

      "Apache