"That's queer," he said; "what's become of the skunks?"

He had scarcely uttered the words when a tall form suddenly appeared at his side, coming up as if he had risen from the very ground.

"Do the hunters sleep?"

This question was asked in pure Apache, and Tom, somewhat distrustful of his own ability in that line, managed to m.u.f.fle his blanket up in front of his mouth as he replied in the same tongue:

"They sleep not."

"Where is their scalps, Mau-tau-ke?"

"On their heads."

The warrior was no more than ten feet distant, and from the moment the scout detected him he began edging away, the Indian naturally following along while these words were being uttered, so as to keep within easy ear-shot. Upon hearing the second reply to his question, he paused, and Tom, dreading a betrayal, grasped the handle of his knife under his cloak, and was ready to use it on the instant. But the Indian remained standing, while Tom, still moving away in his indifferent manner, soon pa.s.sed beyond his view.

"I guess he's stopped to think," was the conclusion of the scout, as he looked back in the gloom, "and it'll be some time before he's through."

But the trouble now remained as to how he should pa.s.s through the Apache lines beyond. If the redskins had any suspicion of any such movement, or if the warrior whom he had just left were suspicious, serious trouble was at hand.

The hunter sauntered aimlessly along, using his eyes and ears, and a walk of something over a hundred yards brought him up against a number of figures that were stretched out and sitting upon the ground, with several standing near at hand.

They showed no surprise at their "brother's" approach, and he was confident that, if they didn't undertake to cross-question him too closely, he stood a good chance of getting through. As they were gathered too closely at this point he made a turn to the right, and, to his amazement, not a word was said or the least notice taken of him, as he walked directly by. That was succeeding, indeed; but Tom was not yet ready to leave the neighborhood. He wanted his horse, Thundergust, and, once astride of him, his heart would be light as a bird; but in looking around he could not discern a single horse.

It would be useless to attempt to reach Fort Havens on foot. The Apaches would detect his flight by daylight, which was only a few hours away, and they could overhaul him before he could go any distance at all. No, he must have his horse, and he began his search for him. This was a delicate task; but he prosecuted it with the same skill and _nonchalance_ that he had displayed heretofore.

He had stolen along for a short distance, when he descried some twenty horses corraled and cropping the gra.s.s, while a still larger number were lying on the ground. Was his own among them? he asked himself, as he stood looking in that direction, while he dimly discerned the figures of the warriors upon his left. Very cautiously he gave utterance to a slight whistle. There was no response, although he suspected it was heard by the redskins themselves. Then he repeated it several times, walking a little nearer the group of equines.

All at once one of their number rose from the ground with a faint whinney, and came trotting toward him. At the same time several Indians came forward from the main group, their suspicions fairly awakened by these maneuvers.

One of these suddenly broke into a run, as he descried the mustang trotting toward the warrior-like figure shrouded in his blanket. There was no doubt in his mind that something was wrong. The scout stood like a statue, as though he saw not the approach of the man or horse. The latter as if distrustful of the shape of things moved so reluctantly that the redskin beat him in reaching the goal.

"What means Mau-tau-ke?" he demanded, in a gruff voice, as he clutched his shoulder. "Is he a dog that--"

The poor Apache scarcely knew what disposed of him. It was with the suddenness of the lightning stroke, and, flinging back the dirty blanket that had enshrouded his form, the scout pointed his revolvers at the others, fired three shots, accompanied by a screech loud enough to wake the dead. Then, springing toward his mustang, he vaulted upon his back, wheeled about, and thundered away, like the whirlwind across the prairie.

This demonstration was so unexpected and so appalling that the Apaches were effectually checked for a time. Before they could recover, mount their horses, and start in pursuit, the fugitive was beyond their sight.

It was useless to pursue, at any rate, for there was no steed among them all that could overtake the flying mustang, whose hoofs were plainly heard upon the prairie, rapidly growing fainter as the distance increased. In a few minutes it had died out altogether, and, ferocious as was the hatred of the redskins toward the hunter who had outwitted and injured them so often, no one made any effort to overhaul him.

Tom Hardynge, every few seconds, let out a regular Apache war-yell, intended as exultation, taunt and defiance. He could afford it, for he had triumphed as completely as heart could covet. The magnificent Thundergust instinctively knew their destination, and the reins lay loosely upon his neck as he sped away. He was aiming for Fort Havens. It was a long distance away, and many hours must pa.s.s before its flagstaff could be detected against the far-off horizon.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

THE TWO DEFENDERS.

d.i.c.k Morris, stretched out full length upon the top of Hurricane Hill, peering down in the impenetrable gloom, understood all that had pa.s.sed.

There was no mistaking that yell of Tom Hardynge; he had heard it many a time before in the heat of conflict, and it generally meant something.

"Go it, old chap!" he shouted, swinging his hat over his head, as he saw the whole thing in his imagination. "Them 'ere pistol-barks show there's been some bitin' done. Business is business."

He noted, too, the sounds of the mustang's hoofs growing fainter and fainter, until the strained ears could detect them no longer. Tom Hardynge had safely pa.s.sed through the Apache lines. It was a daring and desperate feat indeed, but it had succeeded to perfection. Nothing now remained to hinder his flight direct to Fort Havens.

"I rather think somebody's mad," exulted d.i.c.k, who was fully as proud over the exploit of his comrade as was Tom himself. "There ain't much doubt but what there'll be lively times here before long. They know there's only two of us, counting in the little chap, and they'll make a rush. Let 'em do it. If they can get up by that corner where the other fellow dropped they're welcome, that's all."

And with this conclusion he left the top of the hill and picked his way down the path, until he reached the spot where he had parted from his comrade. Here he stooped down with the purpose of picking up the body of the warrior and flinging it down upon the heads of those below. To his astonishment, it was gone!

He searched around for several minutes, venturing to descend some distance, but it was missing.

"I don't think he could have got up and walked away," said the hunter, as he scratched his head over the occurrence. "No, it couldn't have been that, for Tom don't strike any such blows any more than I do."

It followed, then, as a matter of course, that after the discovery of the trick, some brother Apache had stolen his way up the path and removed the body, a proceeding which d.i.c.k Morris hardly suspected until he was really compelled to believe it.

"If I'd only knowed he was coming," he growled, "how I would have lammed him; but he's come and gone, and there ain't any use in cryin' over it."

He waited and listened carefully, and once or twice a slight rattling of the gravel caused him to suspect that some of the redskins were attempting to steal upon him; but if such were the case, they must have contented themselves by not approaching within striking distance.

Finally the night wore away, and the dull light of morning began stealing over the prairie. As soon as objects could be distinguished, he returned to his position upon the top of the rock and made his observations.

Little, if any, change was discernible in the disposition of the besieging Indians. Their horses were gathered at some distance, where the gra.s.s was quite rank. The warriors had a.s.sumed all the indolent att.i.tudes which are seen in a body of men that have more time at their disposal than they know what to do with. They had shifted their position so far back that they were beyond good rifle range; for although a hunter like d.i.c.k Morris could have picked off a redskin nine times out of ten, yet he could not "pick his man." Lone Wolf had attired himself precisely as were the rest of his warriors, and at the distance it was impossible to distinguish him from them, so the scout wisely concluded to hold his fire until he could be certain of his target.

As soon as it was fairly light, d.i.c.k naturally turned his eyes off toward the southwest, in the direction of the hills, whither his comrade had fled during the night.

"He is gone," he muttered, when he had made certain that no object was to be seen. "I might have knowed that before I looked, 'cause the hoss knows how to travel, and Tom's made him do his purtiest."

"h.e.l.lo! what's the news?"

The query came from Ned Chadmund, who had aroused himself from slumber, and was standing at his side.

"Where is Tom?"

"About fifty miles off yonder, goin' like a streak of greased lightnin'

for Fort Havens."

"What?"

Whereupon d.i.c.k Morris explained. Of course the lad was astounded to think that all this had taken place while he was dreaming of home and friends, and he hardly knew whether to rejoice or to be alarmed at the shape matters had just then taken. True, Tom Hardynge was speeding away on his fleet-footed mustang for Fort Havens, but it would take a long time to reach there and return. There was something startling in the thought that a man and a boy were all that were left to oppose the advance of the force of the Apaches from below. What was to prevent their swarming upward and overwhelming them? Nothing, it may be said, but the strong arm of d.i.c.k Morris. He might have been a Hercules, and still unable to stem the tide, but for the vast advantage given him by nature in constructing Hurricane Hill. He could be approached by the enemy only in single file. d.i.c.k, however, was of the opinion that something of the kind would be attempted, for the Apaches could not but know the errand of him who had so nicely outwitted them.

"Ain't there some way of blocking up the way?" asked Ned, as they discussed the plan.

"I've been thinkin' it over, and there is," returned Morris, crossing his legs, and scratching his head in his thoughtful way. "Three years ago, me and Kit Carson had to scoot up here to get out of the reach of something like two hundred Comanches, under that prime devil Valo-Velasquiz. They shot Kit's horse, and mine dropped dead just as we reached the bottom of the hill, so we couldn't do anythin' more in the way of hoss-flesh.

"Them Comanches hated Kit and me like pison; they knowed us both, and they went for us in a way that made us dance around lively; but it was no go, and we tumbled 'em back like tenpins, but they kept things so hot that me and Kit tipped over a big rock in the path. Of course they could climb that easy enough, but it gave us so much more chance that they didn't try it often, and they fell back and tried the Apache dodge--waiting until hunger and thirst made us come down."

"How was it you got out of the trouble?"

"It was in a mighty queer way--a mighty queer way. On the next day arter the brush we had with 'em, a bigger party than ever came up, and we calc'lated things were goin' to be redhot. But as soon as the two parties jined, some kind of a rumpus took place. We could see 'em talkin' in the most excited way, and a high old quarrel was under way.