The Quest of the Four - A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista

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Title: The Quest of the Four - A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista
Author: Altsheler, Joseph A. (Joseph Alexander), 1862-1919
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Quest of the Four - A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista" ***

[Illustration: Cover]

[Illustration: "The man spoke in a sharp whisper: ’You are John
Bedford?’" Page 303]

_The_
QUEST OF THE FOUR

_A STORY OF THE COMANCHES AND
BUENA VISTA_

JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER

AUTHOR OF "THE LAST OF THE CHIEFS,"
"THE YOUNG TRAILERS," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON: MCMXX

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I.--The Meeting of the Four
II.--The March of the Train
III.--At the Ford
IV.--On Watch
V.--The Comanche Village
VI.--The Medicine Lodge
VII.--The Great Sleep
VIII.--New Enemies
IX.--The Fiery Circle
X.--Phil’s Letter
XI.--With the Army
XII.--The Pass of Angostura
XIII.--A Wind of the Desert
XIV.--Buena Vista
XV.--The Woman at the Well
XVI.--The Castle of Montevideo
XVII.--The Thread, the Key, and the Dagger
XVIII.--The Hut in the Cove
XIX.--Arenberg’s Quest
XX.--The Silver Cup
XXI.--The Note of a Melody
XXII.--Breakstone’s Quest

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"The man spoke in a sharp whisper: ’You are John Bedford?’" . . .
_Frontispiece_

"Putting his blanket beneath him, he lay before one of the fires"

"A black, snakelike loop fell over Bill Breakstone’s head"

"The third boy from the rear stopped and listened"

THE QUEST OF THE FOUR

CHAPTER I

THE MEETING OF THE FOUR

A tall boy, dreaming dreams, was walking across the Place d’Armes in New
Orleans. It was a brilliant day in early spring, and a dazzling
sunlight fell over the city, gilding the wood or stone of the houses,
and turning the muddy current of the Mississippi into shimmering gold.
Under such a perfect blue sky, and bathed in such showers of shining
beams, New Orleans, a city of great and varied life, looked quaint,
picturesque, and beautiful.

But the boy, at that moment, thought little of the houses or people
about him. His mind roamed into the vast Southwest, over mountains,
plains, and deserts that his feet had never trod, and he sought, almost
with the power of evocation, to produce regions that he had never seen,
but which he had often heard described. He had forgotten no detail of
the stories, but, despite them, the cloud of mystery and romance
remained, calling to him all the more strongly because he had come upon
a quest the most vital of his life, a quest that must lead him into the
great unknown land.

He was not a native of New Orleans or Louisiana. Any one could have told
at a glance that the blue eyes, fair hair, and extreme whiteness of skin
did not belong to the Gulf coast. His build was that of the
Anglo-Saxon. The height, the breadth of shoulder and chest, and the
whole figure, muscled very powerfully for one so young, indicated birth
in a clime farther North--Kentucky or Virginia, perhaps. His dress,
neat and clean, showed that he was one who respected himself.

Phil Bedford passed out of the Place d’Armes, and presently came to the
levee which ran far along the great river, and which was seething with
life. New Orleans was then approaching the zenith of its glory. Many,
not foreseeing the power of the railroad, thought that the city, seated
near the mouth of the longest river of the world, into which scores of
other navigable streams drained, was destined to become the first city
of America. The whole valley of the Mississippi, unequalled in extent
and richness, must find its market here, and beyond lay the vast domain,
once Spain’s, for which New Orleans would be the port of entry.

Romance, too, had seized the place. The Alamo and San Jacinto lay but a
few years behind. All the states resounded with the great story of the
Texan struggle for liberty. Everybody talked of Houston and Crockett
and Bowie and the others, and from this city most of the expeditions had
gone. New Orleans was the chief fountain from which flowed fresh
streams of men who steadily pushed the great Southwestern frontier
farther and farther into the Spanish lands.

It seemed to Phil, looking through his own fresh, young eyes, that it
was a happy crowd along the levee. The basis of the city was France and
Spain, with an American superstructure, but all the materials had been
bound into a solid fabric by their great and united defense against the
British in 1815. Now other people came, too, called by the spirit of
trade or adventure. Every nation of Europe was there, and the states,
also, sent their share. They came fast on the steamers which trailed
their black smoke down the yellow river.

The strong youth had been sad, when he came that morning from the dingy
little room in which he slept, and he had been sad when he was walking
across the Place d’Armes, but the scene was too bright and animated to
leave one so young in such a state of mind. He bought a cup of hot
coffee from one of the colored women who was selling it from immense
cans, drank it, exchanged a cheerful word or two of badinage, and, as he
turned away, he ran into a round man, short, rosy, and portly. Phil
sprang back, exclaiming:

"Your pardon, sir! It was an accident! All my fault!"

"No harm done where none iss meant," replied the stranger, speaking
excellent English, although with a German accent. It was obvious, even
without the accent, that he was of German birth. The Fatherland was
written all over his rotund figure, but he was dressed in the fashion of
the Southwest--light suit, light shoes, and a straw hat.

It was a time when chance meetings led to long friendships. On the
border, a stranger spoke to another stranger if he felt like it. One
could ask questions if he chose. Partnerships were formed on the spur
of the moment in the vast army that was made up of the children of
adventure, formality was a commodity little in demand. The German
looked rather inquiringly at the boy.

"From farther North, iss it not so?" he asked. "Answer or be silent.
Either iss your right."

Bill laughed. He liked the man’s quaint manner and friendly tone, and
he replied promptly:

"I was born in Kentucky, my name is Philip Bedford, and I am alone in
New Orleans."

"Then," said the German, "you must be here for some expedition. This
iss where they start. It iss so. I can see it in your face. Come, my
young friend, no harm iss done where none iss meant."

Phil had taken no offense. He had merely started a little at the shrewd
guess. He replied frankly:

"I’m thinking of the West, Texas and maybe New Mexico, or even beyond
that--California."

"It iss a long journey to take alone," said the German, "two thousand,
three thousand miles, and not one mile of safe road. Indians, Mexicans,
buffaloes, bears, deserts, mountains, all things to keep you from
getting across."

"But I mean to go," paid Phil firmly.

The German looked at him searchingly. His interest in Phil seemed to
increase.

"Something calls you," he said.

Phil was silent.

"No harm iss done where none iss meant," the German. "You have told me
who you are, Mr. Philip Bedford, and where you come from. It iss right
that I tell you as much about myself. My name iss Hans Arenberg, and I
am a Texan."

Phil looked at him, his eyes full of unbelief, and the German laughed a
little.

"It iss so," he said. "You do not think I look like a Texan, but I am
one by way of Germany. I--I live at New Braunfels."

Arenberg’s voice broke suddenly, and then Phil remembered vaguely--New
Braunfels, a settlement of German immigrants in Texas, raided by
Comanches, the men killed, and the women carried off! It was one of
those terrible incidents of the border, so numerous that the new fast
crowded the old out of place.

"You come from New Braunfels! You are one of the survivors of the
massacre!" he exclaimed.

"It iss so," said the German, his eyes growing sober, "and I, too, wish
to go far into the West. I, too, seek something, young Mr. Philip
Bedford, and my road would lie much where yours leads."

The two looked at each other with inquiry that shaded into
understanding. Arenberg was the first to speak.

"Yes, we could go together," he said. "I trust you, and you trust me.
But two are not strong enough. The chances are a thousand to one that
neither of us would find what he iss seeking. The Mexicans wish revenge
on the Texans, the Comanches raid to the outskirts of San Antonio.
Pouf! Our lives would not be worth that! It must be a strong party of
many men!"

"I believe you are right," said Phil, "but I wish to go. I wish to go
very much."

"So do I," said Arenberg. "It iss the same with both of us, but suppose
we wait. Where do you live?"

Phil no longer hesitated to confide in this chance acquaintance, and he
replied that he was staying in a house near the Convent of the Ursuline
Nuns, where a little room sheltered him and his few belongings.

"Suppose," said Arenberg, "that I join you there, and we save our
expenses. In union there iss strength. If you do not like my suggestion
say so. No harm iss done where none iss meant."

"On the contrary, I do like it," said Phil heartily. "It seems to me
that we can help each other."

"Then come," said Arenberg. "We will go first to my place, where I will
pay my own bill, take away what I have, and then we will join forces at
yours, iss it not so?"

Arenberg was staying at one of the inns that abounded in New Orleans,
and it took him only a half hour to pack and move, carrying his baggage
in his hand. Phil’s room was in a large, rambling old house, built of
cypress wood, with verandas all about it. There an American widow kept
boarders, and she had plenty of them, as New Orleans was overflowing
with strangers. The room was small and bare, but it was large enough,
as Phil’s baggage, too, was limited. A cot was put in for Arenberg, and
the two were at home.

The day was now drawing to a close, and the two ate supper with a
strange company in the large dining-room of the boarding house. Phil, a
close observer, noted that six languages were spoken around that more or
less hospitable board. He understood only his own, and a little French
and Spanish, but the difference in sound and intonation enabled him to
note the others. One of the men who sat opposite him was a big fellow
with glistening gold rings in his ears, evidently a West Indian of
somewhat doubtful color, but he was quiet, and ate dextrously and
skillfully with his knife. A sallow young Mexican with curling black
mustaches complained incessantly about his food, and a thin New
Englander spoke at times of the great opportunities for capital in the
Southwest.

Phil and Arenberg, who sat side by side, said little, but both watched
all the other guests with interested eyes. The one who held Phil’s gaze
the longest was a smoothly shaven young man on the other side of the
table. It was the difference between him and the others that aroused
Phil’s curiosity. He sat very erect, with his square shoulders thrown
back, and he never spoke, except to accept or reject the food passed by
colored girls. His eyes were blue, and his face, cut clear and strong,
betokened perception and resolve. Phil believed that he could like him,
but his attention by and by wandered elsewhere.

Philip Bedford had not felt so nearly content for many days. The making
of a new friend was a source of strength to the boy, and he felt that he
had taken a step forward in his great search. Fresh confidence flowed
like good wine into his veins. He had friendly feelings toward all
those around the table, and the room itself became picturesque. He ate
of strange dishes, French or Spanish, and liked them, careless what they
were. A mild breeze came through the open windows, and the outlines of
buildings were softened in the dusk. Within the room itself six candles
in tall candlesticks, placed at regular intervals on the table, cast a
sufficient light. Two young colored women in red calico dresses, and
with red turbans on their heads, kept off the flies and mosquitoes with
gorgeous fans of peacock feathers, which they waved gently over the
heads of the guests. Phil became deeply conscious of the South, of its
glow and its romance.

The guests, having a sufficiency of food, left the table one by one.
The young man with the smooth face was among the first to go. Phil
noticed him again and admired his figure--tall, slender, and beautifully
erect. He walked with ease and grace, and his dress of plain brown was
uncommonly neat and well fitting. "I should like to know that man," was
Phil’s thought.

After dinner the boy and Arenberg sat on the veranda in the dusk, and
talked in low voices of their plans. They deemed it better to keep their
intentions to themselves. Many expeditions were fitting out in New
Orleans. Some were within the law, and some were not. Wise men talked
little of what was nearest to their hearts.

"If we go into the West--and we are going," said Phil, "we shall need
weapons--rifles, pistols."

"Time enough for that," said Arenberg. "If we have the money, we can
arm ourselves in a day. Weapons are a chief article of commerce in New
Orleans."

An hour later they went up to their room and to bed. Phil carried his
money on his person, and most of his other belongings were in a stout
leather bag or valise, which was fastened with a brass lock. It was
necessary for him to open the bag to obtain some clean linen, and as
Arenberg’s back was turned he took out, also, a small paper, yellow and
worn. He opened it for the thousandth time, choked a sigh, and put it
back. As he relocked the bag and turned, he noticed that Arenberg also
had been looking at something. It seemed to be a photograph, and the
German, after returning it to his own bag, gazed absently out of the
window. His face, which at other times was obviously made for smiles
and cheeriness, was heavy with grief. A flood of sympathy rushed over
Philip Bedford. "I wonder what it is he seeks out there," the boy
thought as he looked unconsciously toward the West. But he had too much
delicacy of mind to say anything, and presently Arenberg was himself
again, speaking hopefully of their plans as they prepared for bed.

Phil slept soundly, except for one interval. Then he dreamed a dream,
and it was uncommonly vivid. He saw Hans Arenberg rise from his cot,
take from his bag the small object which was undoubtedly a photograph,
go to the window, where the moonlight fell, and look at it long and
earnestly. Presently his chest heaved, and tears ran down either cheek.
Then his head fell forward, and he dropped the photograph to his breast.
He stood in that stricken attitude for at least five minutes, then he
put the photograph back in the bag, and returned to his cot. In the
morning Phil’s recollection of the dream was very vivid, but Arenberg
was cheery and bright.

The boy and the man ate breakfast together in the dining-room, a
breakfast of oranges--Phil had never seen an orange until he came to New
Orleans--cakes and butter and coffee. Only a few of the diners of the
evening before were present when they went into the room, but among them
was the young man with the shaven face and the firm chin. Phil liked
him even better in the morning light. His seemed the kindly face of a
man with a strong and decided character. Their eyes met, and the
stranger smiled and nodded. Phil smiled and nodded back. After
breakfast Phil and Arenberg went out upon the veranda. The man was
already there, smoking a cigarette.

"Fine morning," he observed easily. "One could not ask anything better
than these early spring days in New Orleans. In the North we are still
in the grasp of snow and ice."

Phil and Arenberg also sat down, as the way was now opened for
conversation.

"Then you are from the North, I suppose," said Phil.

"Yes," replied the stranger, "from the State of New York, but I am
traveling now, as you see. My name is Middleton, George Middleton."

He paused, meditatively blew a whiff of smoke from the little Spanish
cigarrito, and added:

"I’m not for long in New Orleans. I’m thinking of a journey in the
West."

"Nobody goes there unless he has a very good reason for going. Iss it
not so? No harm iss done where none iss meant," said Arenberg, in a
tone half of apology and half of inquiry.

Middleton laughed and took another puff at his cigarrito.

"Certainly no harm has been done," he replied. "You are right, also, in
saying that no one goes into the West unless he has an excellent reason.
I have such a reason. I want to look for something there."

Phil and the German exchanged glances. They, too, wished to look for
something there. So! Here was a third man seeking to embark upon the
great journey. But it was no business of theirs what he sought, however
curious they might feel about it. Phil took another look at Middleton.
Surely his was a good face, a face to inspire trust and courage.

"We wish to go across Texas and New Mexico, also," he said, "but we’ve
been delaying until we could form a party."

"You’ve two at least," said Middleton, "and you now have the chance to
make it three. Why not do so?"

"We will," said Arenberg. "It iss a case where three are company, and
two are not so much. Our firm is now Middleton, Bedford, Arenberg &
Co."

"Do not put me first," said Middleton. "We must all be on exactly the
same plane. But I hope, friends, that you trust me as much as I trust
you. I think I know truth and honesty when I see them."

"We do!" said Phil and Arenberg together and emphatically.

The three shook hands, and that single act bound them into a solemn
compact to stand by one another through all things. They did not waste
words. Then the three went into the town, walking about among the inns
and on the levee to hear the gossip of New Orleans, and to learn what
chance there was of a large party going into the West. On the way
Middleton told them of some things that he had learned. He was not
sure, but a large wagon train might start soon for Santa Fé, in the far
Mexican land of New Mexico. It was to be a trading expedition, carrying
much cloth, metal goods, and other articles of value to this, the
greatest of Mexico’s outlying posts.

"It will be a numerous train," said Middleton, "perhaps too numerous, as
it may arouse the suspicion of the Mexicans. The relations of the
States and Mexico are none too good. There is trouble over Texas, and
who can tell what will happen a thousand miles in the depths of the
wilderness?"

"Nobody," said Arenberg. "Who should know better than I?"

He spoke with such sudden emphasis that Middleton opened his mouth as if
he would ask a question, but changed his mind and was silent.

"Then it is your opinion, Mr. Middleton," said Phil, "that we should
join this train?"

"If nothing better offers. All such expeditions are loosely organized.
If we should wish to leave it we can do so."

"It iss well to keep it in mind," said Arenberg. "No harm can be done
where none iss meant."

They entered a large inn kept by a Frenchman. Many men were sitting
about drinking or smoking. Middleton ordered lemonade for the three,
and they sat at a small table in the corner, observing the life of the
place. Phil’s attention was presently attracted to another small table
near them, at which a single man sat. His gaze would not have lingered
there, had it not been for this man’s peculiar appearance. His age
might have been thirty-five, more or less, and his figure was powerful.
His face was burned almost black by a sun that could not have been
anything but ardent, but his features and his blue eyes showed him to be
American of a fair race. His clothes were poor, and he looked
depressed. Yet the stranger was not without a certain distinction, an
air as of one who did not belong there in an inn. Something in the blue
eyes told of wild freedom and great spaces. He interested Phil more than
anybody else in the room. He felt that here was another man whom he
could like.

The talk about them drifted quite naturally upon the subject of the
West, what Texas was going to do, what Mexico was going to do, the great
trail toward the Pacific, and the prospect of trouble between the United
States and Mexico. The shabby man raised his head and showed interest.
His eyes began to glow. He was not more than three feet away, and Phil,
prompted by a sort of instinct, spoke to him.

"It seems that all eyes turn toward the West now," he said.

"Yes," replied the stranger, "and they’re right. It’s out there that
the great things lie."

He moved his hand with a slight but significant gesture toward the
setting sun.

"I’ve been there once," he said, "and I want to go back."

"A man takes his life in his hands when he travels that way," said Phil.

"I know," replied the stranger, "but I’m willing to risk it. I must go
back there. I want to look for something, something very particular."

Phil started. Here was a fourth who sought some darling wish of his
heart in that far mysterious West. He felt a strange influence. It
seemed to him a sign, or rather a command that must be obeyed. He
glanced at Middleton and Arenberg, who had been listening, and,
understanding him perfectly, they nodded.

"We three are going into the West, also, on errands of our own," said
Phil. "Why not join us? Three are good, but four are better."

"It iss a fair proposition," added Arenberg. "No harm iss done where
none iss meant."

"We make the offer," said Middleton, "because on such a journey one
needs friends. If you do not think you can trust us, as our
acquaintance is so short, say so."

The man examined them keenly, one by one. Phil, looking with equal
keenness at him, saw that, despite shabbiness of dress and despondency
of manner, he was not a common man. In truth, as he looked, the
depression seemed to be passing away. The stranger raised his head,
threw back his shoulders, and the blue eyes began to glow.

"You look all right to me," he said. "A man has got to make friends,
and if you trust me I don’t see why I can’t trust you. Besides, I’m
terribly anxious to go back out there, and my reason is mighty good."

"Then shall we consider it a bargain?" said Middleton.

"You may count me one of the band as long as you will have me," said the
stranger with hearty emphasis, "and I suppose I oughtn’t to come in as
an unknown. My name is Breakstone, William Breakstone, though I am
always called Bill Breakstone by those who know me. Bill Breakstone
seems to run off smoother."

He smiled in the most ingratiating manner. The sudden acquisition of
friends seemed to have clothed him about with sunlight. All the others
felt that they had made no mistake.

"I’m a rover," said Bill Breakstone in round, cheerful tones. "I’ve
been roaming all my life, though I’m bound to say it hasn’t been to much
purpose. As you see me now, I haven’t got nearly enough to buy either a
rifle or a horse for this big trip on which you’re asking me to go, and
on which I’m wanting to go terrible bad."

"Never mind, Mr. Breakstone--" began Middleton, but he was interrupted.

"I’m Breakstone or Bill to those that feed with me," said the new man,
"and I’m Mr. Breakstone to those that don’t like me or suspect me."

"All right," said Middleton with a laugh, "it’s Breakstone for the
present. By and by we may call you Bill. I was going to tell you,
Breakstone, that we four go in together. We furnish you what you need,
and later on you pay us back if you can. It’s the usual thing in the
West."

"You’re right, my lord," said Bill Breakstone, "and I accept. It gives
me pleasure to be enrolled in your most gallant company, and, by my
troth, I will serve you right well."

Middleton looked at him in amazement, and Bill Breakstone broke into a
mellow, infectious laugh.

"I don’t talk that way all the time," he said. "It merely bursts out in
spots. You may not believe it, when you look at me, but I studied for
the stage once, and I’ve been an actor. Now and then the old scraps
come to the end of my tongue. All’s well that end’s well, and may that
be the fate of our expedition."

"Come," said Middleton, after telling his own name and that of his
friends to Breakstone, "we’ll go to our quarters and make a place for
you. Phil and Arenberg are in a room together, and you shall share
mine."

"Lead on!" said Bill Breakstone.

The four left the inn. Bill Breakstone was as poor as he described
himself to be. He owned only the worn suit of clothes in which he
stood, a pistol, and a pair of saddle bags, seeming to contain some
linen, of which he took good care.

"Prithee, young sir," he said to Phil, "I would fain guard well the
little that I have, because if I lose the little that I have, then what
I have shall be nothing. Do I argue well, Sir Ivanhoe?"

"It’s conclusive," said Phil. He took greatly to this man who had
become in an hour the life of their little band, a constant source of
cheerful patter that invigorated them all. Middleton bought him a new
suit of clothes, gave him some money, which he promised earnestly to
return a hundredfold, and then they went forth to inquire further into
the matter of the trading expedition for Santa Fé. But their attention
was diverted by the arrival of a large steamboat that had come all the
way from Pittsburgh loaded with passengers. A particular group among
the arrivals soon became the center of their interest.

The members of the group were Mexicans, and they were evidently people
of distinction, or, at least, position. The first among them was
middle-aged, fat, and yellow, and dressed in garments much brighter in
color than Americans wear. Indeed, as a wind somewhat chill swept over
the river, he threw around his shoulders a red serape with a magnificent
border of gold fringe. But a young man who walked by his side made no
acknowledgment to the wind. It was he whom Phil watched most. Some
people inspire us at once with hostility, and Phil had this feeling
about the stranger, who bore himself in a manner that had more than a
tinge of sneering arrogance.

The young man was obviously of the Spanish race, although his blood
might run back to Northern Spain, as he was tall and very strongly
built, and his complexion inclined to fairness, but Phil believed him to
be of Mexican birth, as he showed the shade of change that the New World
always made in the old. He wore the uniform of a captain in the Mexican
army. Mexican uniforms were not popular in the States, but he bore
himself as if he preferred the hostility of the crowd to its friendship.
His insolent gaze met Phil’s for an instant, and the boy gave it back
with interest. For a few moments these two who had never met before,
who did not know the names of each other, and who might never meet
again, stared with immediate hostility. Eye plumbed the depths of eye,
but it was the Mexican who looked away first, although he let his lips
curl slightly into a gesture with which he meant to convey contempt.

Middleton had observed this silent drama of a few moments, and he said
quietly:

"You do not know, Philip, who these men are?"

"No," replied the boy, "but I should like to know."

"The stout, elderly man is Don August Xavier Hernando Zucorra y Palite,
who is at the head of a special Mexican embassy that has been at
Washington to treat with our government about the boundary of Texas--you
know there has been trouble between the States and Mexico over the Texan
boundary--and the younger is Pedro de Armijo, his nephew, and the
nephew, also, of Armijo, the governor of New Mexico, where we are
planning to go."

"I fancied from his manner," said Bill Breakstone, "that young Armijo
was the President of Old Mexico and New Mexico both. I have called you
Sir Knight, and My Lord Phil, but our young Mexican is both His Grace
and His Royal Highness. By my halidome, we are indeed proud and far
above that vile herd, the populace."

"Well, he will not bother us," said Arenberg. "If you run after trouble
you will find it coming to meet you."

Middleton watched the Mexicans with uncommon interest until they passed
out of sight. Arenberg, a shrewd and penetrating man himself, said:

"You are interested in them, Mr. Middleton?"

"I am," replied Middleton frankly, "and I know, too, that the errand of
Zucorra to Washington has been a failure. The relations of the United
States and Mexico are no better."

"But that won’t keep us from going across to the Pacific, will it, Cap?"
said Bill Breakstone briskly. "You don’t mind if I call you Cap, do you,
Mr. Middleton? You are, in a way, our leader, because you are most fit,
and the title seems to suit you."

"Call me Cap if you wish," replied Middleton, "but we are all on equal
terms. Now, as we have seen the Mexicans, and, as there is nothing more
here to attract us, we might go on up the levee."

"Prithee, we will suit the deed to the word," said Bill Breakstone, "but
do not run into that drunken Indian there, Phil. I would not have thy
garments soiled by contact with this degraded specimen of a race once
proud and noble."

Phil turned a little to one side to avoid the Indian of whom Breakstone
spoke. The levee was littered with freight, and the red man huddled
against a hogshead of tobacco from far Kentucky. His dress was partly
savage and partly civilized, and he was sodden with dirt and drink.
But, as Breakstone spoke, he raised his head and flashed him a look from
fiery, glowing eyes. Then his head sank back, but the single glance
made Breakstone shiver.

"I felt as if I had received a bullet," he said. "Now what did the
noble savage mean by giving me such a look? He must have understood what
I said. Ah, well, it mattereth not. He looked like a Comanche. It has
been wisely said, let the cobbler stick to his last, and there is no
last in New Orleans for Mr. Cobbler Comanche."

"You didn’t suppose he understood you," said Arenberg, "and no harm iss
done where none iss meant."

Phil looked back at the Comanche, but there was nothing heroic about
him. He was huddled lower than ever against the tobacco hogshead.
Certainly there was no suggestion of the dauntless warrior, of the wild
horseman. Phil felt a curious little thrill of disappointment.

He looked in the same place the next day for the Comanche, but he did
not see him, and then, in the excitement of great preparations, he
forgot the Indian. The New Mexico expedition was about to become a fact,
and the little band of four were promptly received as members. On all
such perilous trips strong and well-armed men were welcome.

The outfit would embrace about sixty wagons and two hundred men, and the
goods they carried would be of great value. Phil and his comrades paid
for the right to put their extra supplies in one of the wagons, and then
they equipped themselves with great care. They bought four good horses,
four fine rifles, made by the famous Dickson, of Louisville, four
double-barreled pistols of long range, knives and hatchets, a large
quantity of ammunition, an extra suit apiece of stout deerskin, four
small pocket compasses, and many other things which seem trifles in a
town, but which are important in the wilderness.

It took them but a few days to make their purchases, but it was at least
three weeks before the train started. The Mexicans, meanwhile, had
stayed about a week at the chief hotel, and then had left on a steamer
for their own country. Phil heard that there had been much talk about
the high-handed manner of young Armijo, and that he had been extremely
disagreeable to all about him. The older man, Zucorra, who was milder
and more diplomatic, had sought to restrain him, but with no success.
It was a relief when they were gone.

The boy, still curious about the Comanche, looked for him once more on
the levee. More hogsheads of tobacco and sugar were there, but the
Indian was not leaning against any of them. At last he found him in one
of the inns or taverns frequented by sailors and roustabouts, a rough
place at any time, and crowded then with men from the ships and boats.
The Indian was sitting in a corner, huddled down in a chair, in much the
same attitude of sloth and indifference that he had shown when leaning
against the hogshead. Phil saw that when he stood up he would be a tall
man, and his figure, if it were not flabby, would be powerful.

Phil was intensely interested. The Indian had always appealed to his
romantic imagination, and, now that he saw one of the race close at
hand, he wished to learn more. He sat down near the man, and, not
knowing what else to say, remarked that it was a fine day. The Comanche
raised his head a little, and bent upon Phil a look like that he had
given to Breakstone. It was a piercing glance, full of anger and
hatred. Then the glowing eyes were veiled, and his head dropped back on
his arms. He did not utter a word in reply.

The innkeeper, who had noticed the brief incident, laughed.

"Don’t you try to get up a conversation with Black Panther, my boy," he
said. "He ain’t what you would call a pow’ful talker."

"No, I suppose he wouldn’t talk anybody to death," said Phil. "What is
he?"

"He’s a tame Comanche, an’ he’s been loafing around New Orleans for two
or three months--learnin’ the white man’s vices, ’specially the drinkin’
of fire water, which he keeps first on the list. You can see what it’s
done for him--taken all the pith right out of him, same as you would
take it out of a length of elder to make a pop gun. I reckon New Orleans
ain’t no place for an Indian. Hello, what’s the matter with Black
Panther?"

The Indian uttered a short, savage exclamation that startled every one
in the place, and sprang to his feet. His long coal black hair was
thrown back from his face, and he seemed to be alive in every fiber.
The eyes were like two points of fire.

"Black Panther was a great warrior and a chief," he said. "He has been
a dog in the white man’s town, and he has burned his brain with fire
water until it is like that of a little child. But he will be a great
warrior and a chief again. Now, I go."

He gathered a tattered old blanket around his shoulders, and, holding
himself erect, stalked in savage dignity out of the place.

"Now, what in thunder did he mean?" exclaimed the astonished innkeeper.

"I think he meant just what he said," replied Phil. "He is going away
from New Orleans. He certainly looked it."

So far as he knew, the assertion was true, because, as long as he
remained in the city, he neither saw nor heard anything further of the
Comanche. But the time for his own departure was soon at hand, and in
the excitement of it he forgot all about the Comanche.

CHAPTER II

THE MARCH OF THE TRAIN

The train made an imposing appearance with its sixty wagons and its
horsemen, numerous and well armed. It was commanded by a middle-aged
trader of experience, Thomas Woodfall, who had already made several
trips to Santa Fé, and the hopes of all were high. They carried, among
other things, goods that the señoras and señoritas of Santa Fé would be
eager to buy, and much gain might be obtained. But every one of the
four who rode so closely together thought most in his heart of that for
which he sought, and in no instance was the object of search the same.

But they were cheerful. Whatever were past griefs or whatever might be
those to come, the present was propitious and fair. The Southern spring
was not yet advanced far enough to drive the cool tang out of the air by
daylight, while at night fires were needed. It rained but little, and
they marched steadily on through crisp sunshine.

"I trust that the good Sir Roland is pleased," said Bill Breakstone to
Phil. "Fresh air in the lungs of youth produces exhilaration."

"It’s fine," said Phil, with emphasis.

"But we may yet come to our Pass of Roncesvalles. Bethink you of that,
Sir Roland. They say that it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, and
I say that it’s a good wind that blows nobody ill. The rain will rain,
the snow will snow, the wind will blow, and what will poor rabbit do
then?"

"Get into his little nest, cover himself up warm and dry, and wait until
it passes," replied Phil.

"Right, Master Philip. Go up to the head of the class," said Bill
Breakstone in his usual joyous tones--Phil always thought that Bill had
the cheeriest voice in the world--"I’m glad to see you taking thought
for the future. Now our good friend Hans, here, would not have made
such an apt reply."

"Perhaps not, and I do not mind your saying so, Herr Bill Breakstone,"
said Arenberg, smiling broadly. "No harm iss done where none iss meant."

"A fit answer from a loyal representative of the Hohenstauffens, the
Hohenzollerns, and the Katzenellenbogens," chanted Bill Breakstone.

"Ah, Herr Breakstone, it iss that you are one happy man," said Arenberg.
"I wonder that you go to find something, when you have the joy of living
anywhere."

"But I do go to find something," said Breakstone, suddenly becoming
grave. Phil noticed that he puckered up his eyes and gazed far into the
West, as if he would see already that for which he sought.

They traveled for several days among plantations in a low damp country,
and then they passed suddenly beyond the line of cultivation into a
drier region of low hills and small prairies. Phil was pleased with the
change. If they were going into the wilderness, he was anxious to reach
it as soon as possible, and this, beyond a doubt, was the edge of the
unknown. The first night that he heard the scream of a panther in the
woods he felt that they were leaving all civilization behind, and that,
save for the train, the world of men was blotted out.

Yet it was very pleasant as long as the weather remained dry, and the
early spring was certainly doing its best. It was a succession of crisp
days and cool nights, and Phil liked the steady advance by day through
new lands, and the rest in the evening, when they built fires for the
cooking and to fend off the chill. They usually drew the wagons up in a
circle in one of the little prairies, and then went to the forest near
by for wood that belonged to whomsoever took it. Phil and Bill
Breakstone were always active in this work.

"It gives me an appetite for supper," said Breakstone. "I would have you
to know, Sir Philip of the Forest, that sitting long hours on a horse
which carries me luxuriously along, the horse doing all the work and I
doing none, tends to laziness and fat. I need this exercise to put me
in proper trim for the luscious repast that awaits us."

"I don’t need anything to whet my appetite," replied Phil, as he
laughed. "To tell you the truth, Bill, I’m always hungry."

"Do not grieve or have fears for the larder, Sir Philip of the Hungry
Countenance. There is an abundance of food in the wagons, and we also
shall soon be in a good game country. Unless my eye and hand have lost
their cunning, a fat deer shall speedily be roasting over the coals."

The four kept close together, and they usually gathered around the fire
at which Thomas Woodfall, the leader, sat. Woodfall had shown a decided
respect and liking for Middleton, and, following the custom which
Breakstone had established, always addressed him as Cap, short for
Captain. Phil and Breakstone had been particularly active gathering
wood that evening, and it had been Phil’s task and pleasure, when it was
all put in a heap, to light it. Now he was watching the little flames
grow into big ones, and the yellow light turn to blazing red. He
listened, also, as the flames hissed a little before the wind, and the
dry boughs snapped and crackled under the fiery torch. Middleton
regarded him with kindly approval.

"A good boy," he said to Woodfall. "A lad with fine instincts and a
brave spirit."

"And a mighty handy one, too," said Woodfall. "I’ve noticed how he
works. He’s as big and strong as a man, and I never saw anybody else
who was just prized down like a hogshead of tobacco, crowded full of
zeal."

"I think it likely he will need it all before our journey is over," said
Middleton.

"It’s probable," repeated Woodfall, "but I’ll ask you, Cap, not to speak
it. It may be that this expedition was begun at the wrong time. I had
heard, and the owners had heard, that the troubles with Mexico were
quieting down, but it seems that, instead of doing so, they are getting
livelier."

"I shall certainly say nothing about it to our people here," replied
Middleton. "Cheerful hearts are the best, and we may have trouble with
neither Mexicans nor Indians."

Phil himself was not thinking at that moment of either yellow or red
foes. His fire had grown into a mighty pyramid, and, as the dead wood
burned fast, it soon sank down into a great mass of glowing coals. Then
he, Breakstone, and Arenberg boiled coffee in big iron pots, and cooked
bread and many slices of bacon. The night was cool and nipping, but the
coals threw out an abundance of heat. A delicious aroma arose and
spread far. Everybody came forward with tin cup and tin plate, and
helped himself. Phil took his filled plate in one hand, his filled cup
in the other, and sat down on a fallen log with Breakstone and Arenberg.

"In my time, and as an ornament to the stage," said Bill Breakstone, "I
have eaten some bountiful repasts. I have feasted as a prince, a duke,
or some other lordling. I have been the wrestler in the Forest of Arden
with _Rosalind_ and _Celia_. I have had my head deep in the mug of
sack, as _Sir John Falstaff_, but most of those magnificent repasts
depended largely upon the imagination. Here I am neither prince nor
duke, but the food is real, and the air is so good that one might even
bite a chip with a certain pleasure. Excuse me, Sir Philip of the
Forest, while I even drain the coffee-cup."

He took it all down at one draught, and a beatific glow overspread his
face. Arenberg regarded him with admiration.

"Ach, Mein Herr Breakstone, but you are one cheerful man!" he said.
"You never do any harm, because none iss meant. When you drink the
coffee you make me think of the German in the old country drinking beer,
and you like it as well."

"I snatch the joys of the flying day, or, rather, night, and think not
of the ills of the morrow," replied Breakstone. "Somebody somewhere
said something like that, and, whoever he was, he was a good talker.
To-morrow, Phil, I think I may get a chance to show you how to shoot a
deer."

"I hope so," said Phil eagerly. He, too, was luxuriating, and he was
fully as cheerful as Bill Breakstone. The great beds of coal threw a
warm, luminous glow over all the circle enveloped by the wagons.
Everybody ate and felt good. The pleasant hum of pleasant talk arose.
Outside the wagons the tethered horses cropped the short young grass,
and they, too, were content. Not far away the forest of magnolia,
poplar, and many kinds of oak rustled before the slight wind, and the
note that came from it was also of content.

Phil, after he had eaten and drunk all that he wished, and it was much,
lay on the ground with his back against the log and listened to the
talk. He heard wonderful tales of adventure in the West Indies and on
the South American coast, of fights in Mexico and Texas, when the little
bands of Texans won their independence, of encounters with raiding
Comanches, and of strange stone ruins left by vanished races in the
deserts of the Far West. He was fascinated as he listened. The spirit
of romance was developed strongly within him. It was, indeed, a most
adventurous search upon which he was embarked, and this spirit, strong,
enduring, hardened to meet all things, was what he needed most.

As the fires died down, and the warmth decreased, he wrapped his blanket
around himself, and now and then dozed a little. But he still felt very
content. It seemed to him that it was uncommon fortune to have joined
such an expedition, and it was a good omen. He must succeed in his
great search.

"Well, Sir Roland, what is it?" said Bill Breakstone at last. "Do you
want to sleep in the wagon or on the ground here? The good Knight
Orlando, who for the present is myself, means to choose the ground."

"No stuffy wagon for me on a night like this," rejoined Phil sleepily.
"I am going to sleep just where I lie."

He settled back more comfortably, put his arm under his head, and in a
few moments was in the deep, dreamless sleep of youth and health. Bill
Breakstone quickly followed him to that pleasant land of Nowhere. Then
Arenberg and the Captain were soon entering the same region. The fires
sank lower and lower, the sound of breathing from many men arose, the
horses outside became quiet, and peace settled over the wilderness camp.

Phil slept far into the night, he never knew how far, but he believed it
was about half way between midnight and morning. When he awoke it was
very dark, and there was no noise but that of the breathing men and the
rustling wind. Just why he, a sound sleeper, had awakened at that time
he could not say. But he had eaten largely, and he was conscious of
thirst, a thirst that could be quenched easily at a little spring in the
wood.

The boy rose, letting his blanket drop to the ground, and glanced over
the sleeping camp. Despite the darkness, he saw the forms of recumbent
men, and some coals that yet glimmered faintly. Around them was the
dark circling line of the wagons. No regular watch was kept as they
were yet far from dangerous country, and, passing between two of the
wagons, Phil went toward the spring, which was about three hundred yards
away.

It was a nice cold spring, rising at the base of a rock, and running
away in a tiny stream among the poplars. Phil knelt and drank, and then
sat upon an upthrust root. The desire for sleep had left him, and his
mind turned upon his great search. He took the paper from the inside
pocket of his coat, unfolded it, and smoothed it out with his fingers.
It was too dark for him to read it, but he held it there a little while,
then folded it up again, and returned it to its resting place. He was
about to rise again and return to the camp, but something moved in the
thicket. It might have been a lizard, or it might have been the wind,
but he was sure it was neither. The sound was wholly out of harmony
with the note of the night.

Phil remained sitting on the upthrust root, but leaned against the trunk
to which the root belonged. His figure blended darkly against the bark.
Only an eye of uncommon acuteness would note him. The slight stirring,
so much out of tune with all the wilderness noises, came again, and,
despite his strength and will, both of which were great, Phil felt ice
pass along his spine, and his hair rose slightly. That uncanny hour at
which evil deeds happen held him in its spell. But he did not move,
except for the slipping of his hand to the pistol in his belt, and he
waited.

Slowly a dark face formed itself in the bushes, and beneath it was the
faint outline of a human figure. The face was malignant and cruel, a
reddish copper in color, with a sharp, strong chin, high cheek-bones,
and black glowing eyes. These eyes were bent in a fierce gaze upon the
circle of wagons. They did not turn in Phil’s direction at all, but the
face held him fascinated.

It seemed to Phil that he had seen that countenance before, and as he
gazed he remembered. It was surely that of Black Panther, the Comanche,
but what a startling change. The crouching, fuddled lump of a man in
tattered clothes, whom he had seen in New Orleans, had been transformed
when the breath of the wilderness poured into his lungs. He fitted
thoroughly into this dark and weird scene, and the hair on Phil’s head
rose a little more. Then the head, and the figure with it, suddenly
melted away and were gone. There was no strange stirring in the
thicket, nothing that was not in accord with the night.

The ice left Phil’s spine, the hair lay down peacefully once more on his
head, and his hand moved away from the pistol at his belt. It was like
a dream in the dark, the sudden appearance of that Medusa head in the
bushes, and he was impressed with all the weight of conviction that it
was an omen of bad days to come. The wind whispered it, and the quiver
in his blood answered. But the men in the train might laugh at him if
he told that he had merely seen an Indian’s face in the bushes. The
thing itself would be slight enough in the telling, and he did not wish
to be ridiculed as a boy whose fears had painted a picture of that which
was not. But he walked warily back, and he was glad enough when he
repassed between two of the wagons, and resumed his old place.
Middleton, Arenberg, and Bill Breakstone all slept soundly, and Phil,
wrapped in his blanket, sought to imitate them. But he could not. He
lay there thinking until the low band of scarlet in the east
foreshadowed the day. He rose and looked once more over the camp. The
last coal had died, and the dark forms, wrapped in their blankets,
looked chill and cold. But the red dawn was advancing, and warmth came
with it. One by one the men awoke. The horses stirred. Phil stood up
and stretched his arms. Middleton, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg awoke.
They had slept soundly and pleasantly all through the night.

"’Tis a fine couch, this Mother Earth," said Bill Breakstone, "finer
than cloth of gold, if it be not raining or snowing, or the winds be not
nipping. Then, in such event, I should take the cloth of gold, with a
snug tent over it."

"I have slept well, and I awake strong and refreshed," said Arenberg
simply. "It iss all I ask of a night."

"I have not slept well," said Phil, "at least I did not during the
latter part of the night."

There was a certain significance in his tone, and the others looked at
him. Only they were near, and Phil said in a low tone:

"I awoke in the night, and I was restless. I walked down to the spring
for a drink, and I saw a face in the bushes, the face of a man who was
watching us."

"Ah!" said Middleton, a single monosyllable, long drawn. But his tone
expressed interest, not surprise. He looked at the boy as if he expected
to hear more.

"I saw the face clearly," continued Phil. "It was changed, wonderfully
changed in expression, but I knew it. I could not be mistaken. It was
that Comanche, called Black Panther, whom we saw in New Orleans. He was
dirty and degraded there, but he did not seem so last night."

"I am glad that you told this, Phil," said Middleton. "It was a lucky
chance that awakened you and sent you to the spring."

"Once I thought I would not speak of it at all," said the boy. "I was
afraid they would say it was only a dream or a creation of my fancy."

"I’m sure that you really saw it," said Middleton, "and I will speak
with Mr. Woodfall. The time has come when we must be cautious."

The camp was now wholly awake, and the men began to light the fires
anew, and take their breakfasts. Middleton talked with Mr. Woodfall,
and, as the latter kept it no secret, the news soon spread throughout
the train. Philip Bedford, prowling about in the dark, had seen an
Indian in the woods near by, an Indian who seemed to be watching them.

The news was variously received, because there were many kinds of men in
this train. Some took it seriously; others were disposed to laugh, and
to hint, as Phil had feared, that it was fancy or a dream; and others
cared nothing about it. What was a single wandering warrior to them?
But the leader compelled a more careful advance. Scouts were sent
ahead, and others rode on the flanks. Phil and his comrades shared in
this duty, and that very day he and Bill Breakstone and Arenberg were
among those who rode ahead.

It was not an easy duty, because they were now in thick forest, with
much swampy ground about. Dark funereal cypresses abounded in the
marshy soil, and gloomy moss hung from the live oaks. A deer sprang up,
and Phil pulled down his rifle, but Breakstone would not let him shoot.

"Not now, Phil," he said. "We must not shoot at chance game when we are
scouting. My talk may not sound like it, but I know something of
wilderness life. One can never be too cautious, whether on the plains or
in the woods. Things may happen. Wait for them. As the poet saith,
’One crowded hour of glorious life is worth a world without a name.’"

"Say that again," said Arenberg.

"One crowded hour of glorious life is worth a world without a name."

"It sounds good. It iss good. I will remember it," said the German.

But as two or three days passed with no sign of trouble, the face that
Phil had seen in the bushes was forgotten or ignored. It was a
light-hearted crowd, used to wild life and adventure, and these men,
drawn from different parts of the globe, occupied with to-day, took
little thought of to-morrow’s dangers. The weather remained beautiful.
Days and nights were dry, and they were again on good firm earth, which
made the way of the wagons easy. Phil, instructed by Bill Breakstone,
stalked and shot a deer, a fine, fat buck, which gave a slice for
everybody in the train, and which brought him compliments. In fact, he
was already a general favorite, and he did not mind when they jested now
and then about the face in the bushes, and told him that he was a seer
of visions. He was rapidly becoming an adept in the forest life, to
which he took naturally, and in Bill Breakstone he had no mean tutor.
Breakstone soon showed that he was a scout and trailer of the first
quality, although he did not explain why he had spent so many years in
the wilds.

"It’s partly gift, and partly training, Sir Philip of the Youthful
Countenance and of the Good Blue Eye," he said. "If you just teach
yourself to see everything and to hear everything about you, and never
forget it, you’ve got most of the lesson. And you, Phil, with good
eyes, good ears, a quick mind, and a willing heart, ought to come fast
toward the head of the class."

Phil flushed with pleasure. In the task that he had set for himself he
greatly needed forest lore, and it was a keen satisfaction to know that
he was acquiring it. He redoubled his efforts. He always noted
carefully the country through which they passed, the configuration of
the earth, and the various kinds of trees and bushes. At night he would
often ask Bill Breakstone to question him, and from his superior
knowledge and longer training to point out a mistake whenever he might
make it. Bill was a severe teacher, and he criticised freely whenever
Phil was wrong. But he admitted that his pupil was making progress.
Arenberg was smoking his pipe at one of their sittings, and, taking it
out of his mouth, he remarked:

"No harm iss done where none iss meant. Now what I wish to ask you,
Herr Breakstone, and you, young Herr Philip, would you remember all your
lessons if you were on foot on the prairie, unarmed, and a wild Comanche
warrior were riding at you, ready to run his lance through you?"

"I don’t know," replied Phil frankly, "but I hope such a time will never
come."

"That’s the rub," said Arenberg meditatively. "It iss good to know all
the rules, to do all you can before, but it iss better to think fast,
and act right when the great emergency comes. It iss only then that you
are of the first class. I say so, and I say so because I know."

Only Phil noticed the faint tone of sadness with which his words ended,
and he glanced quickly at the German. But Arenberg’s face expressed
nothing. Once more he was pulling calmly at his pipe. Bill Breakstone
gave his words hearty indorsement.

"You’re right," he said. "The Grand Duke of Germany speaks the truth.
I’ve embodied that piece of wisdom in a little poem, which I will quote
to you:

"You may lead a horse to the water,
But you cannot make him drink.
You may stuff a man with knowledge,
But you cannot make him think.

"Part of that is borrowed, and part of it is original, but, combining
the two parts, I think it is a little masterpiece."

Arenberg took out his pipe again, and regarded Bill Breakstone with
admiration.

"It iss one great man, this Herr Bill Breakstone," he said. "He makes
poetry and tells the truth at the same time."

"Thanks, most puissant lord," said Breakstone, "and now, the lesson
being over, Phil, I think we might all of us go to sleep and knit up a
few raveled sleeves of care."

"We might take to the wagon," said Middleton. "If I’m any judge of
weather, Phil, the beautiful spell that we’ve had is coming to an end."

"You’re right, Cap," said Breakstone. "I noticed that when the sun set
to-day it looked redder than usual through a cloud of mist, and that
means rain. Therefore, Orlando deserts his little Forest of Arden, and
betakes himself to the shelter of the curved canvas."

Phil deemed it wise to imitate him, and the four found places in the
large wagon among their goods, where they had the shelter of the canvas
roof, although the cover was open at either end to allow the clean sweep
of the air. Phil, as usual, slept well. Five minutes was about all he
needed for the preparatory stage, and to-night was no exception. But he
awoke again in the middle of the night. Now he knew full well the
cause. Low thunder was rumbling far off at the edge of the earth, and a
stroke of lightning made him wink his sleepy eyes. Then came a rush of
cold air, and after it the rain. The big drops rattled on the curving
canvas roof, but they could not penetrate the thick cloth. Phil raised
himself a little, and looked out at the open ends, but he saw only
darkness.

Meanwhile the rain increased and beat harder upon the roof, which shed
it like shingles. Phil drew his blanket up to his chin, rested his head
and shoulders a little more easily against a bag of meal, and never had
a greater sense of luxury in his life. The beat of the rain on the
canvas was like the patter of the rain on the roof of the old home, when
he was a little boy and lay snug under the eaves. He had the same
pleasant sense of warmth and shelter now. The storm might beat about
him, but it could not touch him. He heard the even breathing of his
comrades, who had not awakened. He heard the low thunder still
grumbling far off in the south-west, and the lightning came again at
intervals, but he sank gently back to slumber.

When he awoke the next morning the rain was still falling, and the whole
world was a sodden gray. The air, too, was full of raw chill, despite
the southern latitude, and Phil shivered. It was his first impulse to
draw the blanket more tightly, but he resolutely put the impulse down.
He threw the blanket aside, slipped on his coat and boots, the only
apparel that he had removed for the night’s rest, and sprang out into
the rain, leaving his comrade still asleep.

Not many of the men were yet up, and Phil went at once into the forest
in search of fallen wood, which was always abundant. It was not a
pleasant task. For the first time he felt the work hard and
disagreeable. Mists and vapors were rising from the wet earth, and the
sun did not show. The rain came down steadily, and it was cold to the
touch. It soaked through the boy’s clothing, but he stuck to his task,
and brought in the dead wood by the armful. At the third load he met
Bill Breakstone, who hailed him cheerily.

"Well, you do make me ashamed of myself, Sir Knight of the Dripping
Forest," he said. "When we awoke and found you already up and at work,
we concluded that it was time for us to imitate so good an example.
Ugh, how cold this rain is, and we five hundred miles from an umbrella!"

Phil was compelled to laugh, and then the laugh made him feel better.
But it was a morning that might well oppress the bravest. The wet wood
was lighted with extreme difficulty, and then it smoked greatly under
the rain. It was hard to do the cooking, and breakfast was not
satisfying. But Phil refused to make any complaint. With the rain in
his face, he spoke cheerfully of sunshine and warm dry plains.

"We ought to strike the plains of Texas to-morrow or the next day," said
Bill Breakstone. "I’ve been through this region before, and I don’t
think I’m mistaken. Then we’ll get out of this. If it’s a long lane
that has no turning, it’s one just as long that has no end."

They started late, and deep depression hung over the train. The men no
longer sang or made jokes at the expense of one another, but crouched
upon their horses or the wagon seats, and maintained a sullen silence.
Phil was on horseback, but he dried himself at one of the fires, and
with the blanket wrapped around his body he was now fairly well
protected. It was hard to maintain a pleasant face, but he did it, and
Middleton, whom all now usually called Cap, looked his approval.

They advanced very slowly through thickets and across email streams,
with mists and vapors so dense that they could see but little ahead.
They did not make more than seven or eight miles that day, and, wet and
miserable, they camped for the night. The guard was still maintained,
and Phil was on duty that night until twelve. When midnight came he
crawled into the wagon, depressed and thoroughly exhausted. But he
slept well, and the next morning the rain was over. The mists and
vapors were gone, and a beautiful sun was shining. All of Phil’s good
spirits came back as he sprang out of the wagon and looked at the drying
earth.

The whole camp was transformed. The cooking fires burned ruddily and
with a merry crackle. The men sang their little songs and made their
little jokes. They told one another joyously that they would be out of
the forest soon and upon the open prairies. They would be in
Texas--Texas, that wonderful land of mystery and charm; Texas, already
famous for the Alamo and San Jacinto. The fact that this Texas was
filled with dangers took nothing from the glow at their hearts. Phil
shared in the general enthusiasm, and cried with the others, "Ho for
Texas!"

Arenberg’s face became very grave.

"Do not be carried away with the high feelings that run to the head," he
said. "No harm iss done where none iss meant, but it iss a long road
across Texas, and there iss no mile of it which does not have its
dangers. Who should know better than I?"

"You speak the truth," said Middleton. "I often think of that Comanche,
Black Panther, whose face Phil saw in the thicket."

"You are right to speak of it," said Bill Breakstone. "I have been in
the West. I have spent years there. I have been in places that no
other white man has ever seen, and just when you think this West, beyond
the white man’s frontier, is most peaceful, then it is most dangerous.
_Hamlet_, Prince of Denmark, was a dreamy kind of fellow, but when the
time came he was a holy terror."

Phil was impressed, but in a little while it seemed to him that it could
scarcely be so. The threat contained in Black Panther’s face was fading
fast from his mind, and danger seemed to him very far. His exuberance
of spirit was heightened by the easy journey that they now had through a
forest without any undergrowth. The wagons rolled easily over short,
young grass, and the thick boughs of the trees overhead protected them
from the sun.

"Do you know the country, Bill?" asked Middleton.

"I think so," replied Breakstone. "Unless I’m mightily mistaken, and I
don’t think I am, this forest ends in four or five miles. Then we come
right out on the genuine Texas plain, rolling straight; away for
hundreds of miles. I think I’ll take Phil here and ride forward and see
if I’m not right. Come, Phil!"

The two galloped away straight toward the West, and, as the forest
offered no difficulties, they were not compelled to check their speed.
But in less than an hour Breakstone, who was in advance, pulled his
horse back sharply, and Phil did the same.

"Look, Phil!" exclaimed Breakstone, making a wide sweep with his hands,
while face and eyes were glowing, "See, it is Texas!"

Phil looked. None could have been more eager than he was. The hill
seemed to drop down before them sheer, like a cliff, but beyond lay a
great gray-green waving sea, an expanse of earth that passed under the
horizon, and that seemed to have no limit. It was treeless, and the
young grass had touched the gray of winter with fresh green.

"The great plains!" exclaimed Phil. He felt an intense thrill. He had
at last reached the edge of this vast region of mystery, and to-morrow
they would enter it.

"Yes, the great plains," said Bill Breakstone. "And down here, I think,
is where our wagons will have to pass." He turned to the left and
followed a gentle slope that led to the edge of the plains. Thus, by an
easy descent, they left the forest, but when they turned back Phil’s eye
was caught by a glittering object:

"Look, Bill!" he exclaimed. "See the arrow! What does it mean?"

An arrow with a deeply feathered shaft had been planted deep in an oak
tree. Evidently it had been fired from a bow by some one standing on
the plain, and it was equally evident that a powerful hand had drawn the
string. It stood out straight and stark as if it would stay there
forever. Bill Breakstone rode up to it and examined it critically.

"It’s a Comanche arrow, Phil," he said, "and, between you and me, I
think it means something:

"An arrow I see
Stuck in a tree,
But what it does mean
Has not yet been seen--

"Especially when it’s coupled with the fact that you saw Black Panther’s
face in the thicket. I may have an imaginative mind, Sir Philip of the
Forest, soon to be Sir Philip of the Plain, but this arrow I take to be
our first warning. It tells us to turn back, and it may have been fired
by Black Panther himself, late Knight of the Levee and of Strong Drink."

"Will we turn back?" asked Phil somewhat anxiously.

Bill Breakstone laughed scornfully.

"Do you think a crowd like ours would turn back for a sign?" he asked.
"Why, Phil, that arrow, if it is meant as a threat, is the very thing to
draw them on. It would make them anxious to go ahead and meet those who
say they must stop. If they were not that kind of men, they wouldn’t be
here."

"I suppose so," said Phil. "I, for one, would not want to turn back."

He rode up to the tree, took the arrow by the shaft, and pulled with all
his might. He was a strong youth, but he could not loosen it. Unless
broken off, it was to stay there, a sign that a Comanche warning had
been given.

"I knew you couldn’t move it," said Bill Breakstone. "The Indians have
short bows, and you wouldn’t think they could get so much power with
them, but they do. It’s no uncommon thing for a buck at close range to
send an arrow clear through a big bull buffalo, and it takes powerful
speed to do that."

They rode back, met the advancing line of wagons, and told what they had
seen, to which the men themselves, as they came to the edge of the
prairie, were able to bear witness. Yet they were not greatly
impressed. Those who believed that it meant a challenge gayly accepted
it as Breakstone had predicted.

"Let the Comanches attack, if they will," they said, shaking their
rifles. Even the face of the quiet Middleton kindled.

"It’s a good spirit our men show," he said to the three who were his
chosen comrades, "but I knew that they would never turn back because of
an Indian threat."

The train advanced slowly down into the plain, and then began its march
across the vast, grayish-green expanse. The traveling was very easy
here, and they made seven or eight miles over the rolling earth before
they stopped at sunset. Phil, looking back, could still see the dark
line of the hilly country and the forest, but before him the prairie
rolled away, more than ever, as the twilight came, like an unknown sea.

The camp was beside a shallow stream running between low banks. They
built their fires of cottonwood and stunted oaks that grew on either
side, and then Phil saw the darkness suddenly fall like the fall of a
great blanket over the plains. With the night came a low, moaning sound
which Bill Breakstone told him was merely the wind blowing a thousand
miles without a break.

Phil took his turn at guard duty the latter half of that night, walking
about at some distance from the camp, now and then meeting his comrades
on the same duty, and exchanging a word or two. It was very dark, and
the other sentinels were not in the best of humor, thinking there was
little need for such a watch, and Phil by and by confined himself
strictly to his own territory.

Although his eyes grew used to the darkness, it was so heavy that they
could not penetrate it far, and he extended his beat a little farther
from the camp. He thought once that he heard a light sound, as of
footsteps, perhaps those of a horse, and in order to be certain,
remembering an old method, he lay down and put his ear to the ground.
Then he was quite sure that he heard a sound very much like the tread of
hoofs, but in a moment or two it ceased. He rose, shaking his head
doubtfully, and advanced a little farther. He neither saw nor heard
anything more, and he became convinced that the footsteps had been those
of some wild animal. Perhaps a lone buffalo, an outlaw from the herd,
had been wandering about, and had turned away when the human odor met
his nostrils.

He returned toward the camp, and something cold passed his face. There
was a slight whistling sound directly in his ear, and he sprang to one
side, as if he had narrowly missed the fangs of a rattlesnake. He heard
almost in the same instant a slight, thudding sound directly in front of
him, and he knew instinctively what had made it. He ran forward, and
there was an arrow sticking half its length in the ground. The impulse
of caution succeeded that of curiosity. Remembering Bill Breakstone’s
teachings, he threw himself flat upon the ground, letting his figure
blend with the darkness, and lay there, perfectly still. But no other
arrow came. Nothing stirred. He could not make out among the shadows
anything that resembled a human figure, although his eyes were good and
were now trained to the work of a sentinel. Once when he put his ear to
the earth he thought he heard the faint beat of retreating hoofs, but
the sound was so brief and so far away that he was not sure.

Phil felt shivers, more after he lay down than when the arrow passed his
cheek. It was the first time that a deadly weapon or missile had passed
so close to him, fired perhaps with the intent of slaying him, and no
boy could pass through such an experience without quivers and an icy
feeling along the spine.

But when he lay still awhile and could not detect the presence of any
enemy, he rose and examined the arrow again. There was enough light for
him to see that the feathered shaft was exactly like that of the arrow
they had found in the tree.

He pulled the weapon out of the ground and examined it with care. It
had a triangular head of iron, with extremely sharp edges, and he
shuddered again. If it had struck him, it would have gone through him
as Bill Breakstone said the Comanche arrows sometimes went entirely
through the body of a buffalo.

He took the arrow at once to the camp, and showed it to the men who were
on guard there, telling how this feathered messenger--and he could not
doubt that it was a messenger--had come. Woodfall and Middleton were
awakened, and both looked serious. It could not be any play of fancy on
the part of an imaginative boy. Here was the arrow to speak for itself.

"It must have been the deed of a daring Comanche," said Middleton with
conviction. "Perhaps he did not intend to kill Phil, and I am sure that
this arrow, like the first, was intended as a threat."

"Then it’s wasted, just as others will be," said Woodfall. "My men do
not fear Comanches."

"I know that," said Middleton. "It is a strong train, but we must
realize, Mr. Woodfall, that the Comanches are numerous and powerful. We
must make every preparation, all must stay close by the train, and there
must be a strict night watch."

He spoke in a tone of authority, but it fitted so well upon him, and
seemed so natural that Woodfall did not resent it. On the contrary, he
nodded, and then added his emphatic acquiescence in words.

"You are surely right," he said. "We must tighten up everything."

This little conference was held beside some coals of a cooking fire that
had not yet died, and Phil was permitted to stand by and listen, as it
was he who had brought in the significant arrow. The coals did not give
much light, and the men were half in shadow, but the boy was impressed
anew by the decision and firmness shown by Middleton. He seemed to have
an absolutely clear mind, and to know exactly what he wanted. Phil
wondered once more what a man of that type might be seeking in the vast
and vague West.

"I’ll double the guard," said Woodfall, "and no man shall go out of
sight of the train. Now, Bedford, my boy, you might go to sleep, as you
have done your part of a night’s work."

Phil lay down, and, despite the arrow so vivid in memory, he slept until
day.

CHAPTER III

AT THE FORD

As Phil had foreseen, his latest story of warning found universal
credence in the camp, as the arrow was here, visible to all, and it was
passed from hand to hand. He was compelled to tell many times how it
had whizzed by his face, and how he had found it afterward sticking in
the earth. All the fighting qualities of the train rose. Many hoped
that the Comanches would make good the threat, because threat it must
be, and attack. The Indians would get all they wanted and plenty more.

"The Comanche arrow has been shot,
For us it has no terror;
He can attack our train or not,
If he does, it’s his error,"

chanted Bill Breakstone in a mellow voice, and a dozen men took up the
refrain: "He can attack our train or not, if he does, it’s his error."

The drivers cracked their whips, the wagons, in a double line, moved
slowly on over the gray-green plains. A strong band of scouts preceded
it, and another, equally as strong, formed the rear-guard. Horsemen
armed with rifle and pistol rode on either flank. The sun shone, and a
crisp wind blew. Mellow snatches of song floated away over the swells.
All was courage and confidence. Deeper and deeper they went into the
great plains, and the line of hills and forest behind them became dimmer
and dimmer. They saw both buffalo and antelope grazing, a mile or two
away, and there was much grumbling because Woodfall would not let any of
the marksmen go in pursuit. Here was game and fresh meat to be had for
the taking, they said, but Woodfall, at the urgent insistence of
Middleton, was inflexible. Men who wandered from the main body even a
short distance might never come back again. It had happened too often
on former expeditions.

"Our leader’s right.
A luckless wight
Trusting his might
Might find a fight,
And then good night,"

chanted Bill Breakstone, and he added triumphantly:

"That’s surely good poetry, Phil! Five lines all rhyming together, when
most poets have trouble to make two rhyme. But, as I have said before,
these plains that look so quiet and lonely have their dangers. We must
pass by the buffalo, the deer, and the antelope, unless we go after them
in strong parties. Ah, look there! What is that?"

The head of the train was just topping a swell, and beyond the dip that
followed was another swell, rather higher than usual, and upon the
utmost crest of the second swell sat an Indian on his horse, Indian and
horse alike motionless, but facing the train with a fixed gaze. The
Indian was large, with powerful shoulders and chest, and with an erect
head and an eagle beak. He was of a bright copper color. His lips were
thin, his eyes black, and he had no beard. His long back hair fell down
on his back and was ornamented with silver coins and beads. He wore
deerskin leggins and moccasins, sewed with beads, and a blue cloth
around his loins. The rest of his body was naked and the great muscles
could be seen.

The warrior carried in his right hand a bow about one half the length of
the old English long bow, made of the tough bois d’arc or osage orange,
strengthened and reinforced with sinews of deer wrapped firmly about it.
The cord of the bow was also of deer sinews. Over his shoulder was a
quiver filled with arrows about twenty inches in length, feathered and
with barbs of triangular iron. On his left arm he carried a circular
shield made of two thicknesses of hard, undressed buffalo hide,
separated by an inch of space tightly packed with hair. His shield was
fastened by two bands in such a manner that it would not interfere with
the use of the arm, and it was so hard that it would often turn a rifle
shot. Hanging at his horse’s mane was a war club which had been made by
bending a withe around a hard stone, weighing about two pounds, and with
a groove in it. Its handle of wood, about fourteen inches in length,
was bound with buffalo hide.

Apparently the warrior carried no firearms, using only the ancient
weapons of his tribe. His horse was a magnificent coal black, far
larger than the ordinary Indian pony, and he stood with his neck arched
as if he were proud of his owner. The Indian’s gaze and manner were
haughty and defiant. It was obvious to every one, and a low murmur ran
among the men of the train. Phil recognized the warrior instantly. It
was Black Panther, no longer the sodden haunter of the levee in the
white man’s town, but a great chief on his native plains. Phil looked
at Middleton, who nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I know him. He has, of course, been watching us, and
knows every mile of our march. Unless I am greatly mistaken, Phil, this
is the third warning."

Woodfall had ridden up by the side of Middleton, and the latter said
that Black Panther would probably speak with them.

"Then," said Woodfall, "you and I, Mr. Middleton, will ride forward and
see what he has to say."

Phil begged to be allowed to go, too, and they consented. Woodfall
hoisted a piece of white cloth on the end of his rifle, and the Indian
raised his shield in a gesture of understanding. Then the three rode
forward. The whole of the wagon train was massed on the swell behind
them, and scores of eyes were watching intently for every detail that
might happen.

The Indian, after the affirmative gesture with the shield, did not move,
but he sat erect and motionless like a great bronze equestrian statue.
The blazing sunlight beat down upon horse and man. Every line of the
warrior’s face was revealed--the high cheek-bone, the massive jaw, the
pointed chin, and, as Phil drew nearer, the expression of hate and
defiance that was the dominant note of his countenance. Truly, this
Black Panther of the slums had undergone a prairie change, a wonderful
change that was complete.

Woodfall, Middleton, and Phil rode slowly up the second swell, and
approached the chief, for such they could not doubt now that he was.
Still he did not move, but sat upon his horse, gravely regarding them.
Phil was quite sure that Black Panther remembered him, but he was not
sure that he would admit it.

"You wish to speak with us," said Middleton, who in such a moment
naturally assumed the position of leader.

"To give you a message," replied Black Panther in good English. "I have
given you two messages already, and this is the third."

"The arrows," said Middleton.

"Yes, the Comanche arrows," continued the chief. "I thought that the
white men would read the signs, and perhaps they did."

"What do you wish of us?" said Middleton. "What is this message which
you say you now deliver for the third time?"

The chief drew himself up with a magnificent gesture, and, turning a
little, moved his shield arm with a wide sweeping gesture toward the
West.

"I say, and I say it in behalf of the great Comanche nation, ’Go back.’
The country upon which you come belongs to the Comanches. It is ours,
and the buffalo and the deer and the antelope are ours. I say to you
turn back with your wagons and your men."

The words were arrogant and menacing to the last degree. A spark leaped
up in Middleton’s eye, but he restrained himself.

"We are but peaceful traders going to Santa Fé," he said.

"Peaceful traders to-day, seizers of the land to-morrow," said the
Comanche chief. "Go back. The way over the Comanche country is
closed."

"The plains are vast," said Middleton mildly. "One can ride hundreds of
miles, and yet not come to the end. Many parts of them have never felt
the hoof of a Comanche pony. The plains do not belong to the Comanches
or to anybody else."

"They are ours," repeated the chief. "We tell you to go back. The
third warning is the last."

"If we still come on, what would you do?" said Middleton.

"It is war," replied Black Panther. "You will not reach Santa Fé, and
you will not go back to New Orleans. The Comanches will welcome you to
their plains with the arrows from their bows and the bullets from their
rifles."

"Be it so," said Middleton, continuing his calm, even tone. "We have
not come so far merely to turn back. The Comanche welcome of bullets and
arrows may greet us, but we are strong men, and for any welcome that may
be given to us we shall always repay. Is it not so, Mr. Woodfall?"

Woodfall nodded.

"Give that answer to your tribe," said Middleton, speaking in firm
tones, and looking the chief squarely in the eyes. "We have started to
Santa Fé, and there we go. The Comanche nation has not enough warriors
to turn us back."

A spark of fire seemed to leap from the chief’s eye, but he made no
other demonstration.

"I have given you the third and last warning," he said. "Now I go."

He raised the shield in a sort of salute, and, without a word, turned
and rode away. The three sat on their horses, looking at him. When he
had gone about two hundred yards he paused a moment, fitted an arrow to
his bow, shot it almost straight up into the air, and then, uttering a
long fierce whoop, galloped away over the plain.

The Indian’s cry was sinister, ominous of great dangers, and its meaning
sank deeply on Phil’s heart. A peculiar shiver ran down his backbone,
and the little pulses in his temples began to beat. He did not doubt
for a moment that the warning of the Comanche was black with storm. He
watched the sinister figure becoming smaller and smaller, until it
turned into a dark blur, then a dot, and then was seen no more in the
vast, gray-green expanse.

The incident seemed to have sunk deep into the minds of the other two,
also, and they rode gravely and in silence back to the train, which was
now drawn up in one great group on the crest of the swell. The men,
keen borderers most of them, had divined the significance of what they
saw, but they crowded around the three for more definite information.
Woodfall told them briefly. He knew their temper, but he thought it best
to put the question and to put it fairly.

"Men," he said, "we are undoubtedly threatened with an attack. The
Comanches are numerous, brave, and cunning. I will not conceal from you
those facts. A fight with them will mean loss to us, and, even if we win
that fight, as I am sure we will, they will attack again. Now, if any
want to turn back, let them do so. All who wish to go back, say ’I’."

He paused. There was a dead silence throughout the train. The corners
of Woodfall’s lips curved a little into a slow smile.

"Those who wish to go on, Comanche or no Comanche, say ’Yes,’" he cried.

A single "Yes" was thundered out from scores of throats, and many of the
more enthusiastic raised their rifles and shook them.

"I thought so," said Woodfall quietly, and then he added in a louder
voice: "Forward!"

Fifty whips cracked like so many rifle shots. The wagons creaked and
moved forward again, and by their side rode the armed horsemen. They
descended the slope, rose to the crest of the next swell, where the
Comanche horseman had stood, and then passed on, over wave after wave
into the unbroken gray-green expanse of the West. There was nothing
before them but the plains, with a bunch of buffalo grazing far off to
the right, and a herd of antelope grazing far off to the left. The
ominous spell that the Indian had cast seemed to have vanished with him
so far as the great majority of the men were concerned. But Phil and
his immediate comrades did not forget.

"The words of that Indian, as you have delivered them to me, linger in
my mind, young Sir Philip of the Plains," said Bill Breakstone, "but I
am glad he took the trouble to give us a warning. A stitch in time may
save the lives of nine good men.

"Give me the word
That harm you mean,
Then my good sword
I take, I ween.

"At least that poem is short and to the point, Sir Philip. And now I
think me that to-morrow about the noon hour, if we should maintain our
present pace, we cross a river known variously to the different Indian
tribes, but muddy, deep, and flowing between high banks. The crossing
will be difficult, and I ought to tell Woodfall about it."

"By all means," said Middleton, "and I can tell you, Breakstone, that I
already wish we were safely on the other side of that river."

They camped that night in the open plain. There was a good moonlight,
but the watch was doubled, the most experienced frontiersmen being
posted as sentinels. Yet the watchers saw nothing. They continuously
made wide circles about the camp, but the footprint of neither man nor
horse was to be seen. The day dawned, cold and gray with lowering
skies, and, before the obscure sun was an hour above the plain, the
train resumed its march, Woodfall, Middleton, Breakstone, Phil, and
Arenberg riding in a little group at the head.

"How far on do you say is this river?" asked Woodfall.

"We should strike it about noon," replied Breakstone, repeating his
statement of the day before. "It is narrow and deep, and everywhere
that I have seen it the banks are high, but we ought to find somewhere a
slope for a crossing."

"Is it wooded?" asked Middleton.

"Yes, there are cottonwoods, scrub oaks, bushes, and tall grass along
either bank."

"I’m sorry for that," said Woodfall.

Phil knew perfectly well what they meant, but he kept, silent, although
his heart began to throb. The other three also fell silent, and under
the gray, lowering sky the spirits of the train seemed to sink. The men
ceased to joke with one another, and no songs were sung. Phil heard
only the tread of the horses and the creak of the wagons.

An hour or two later they saw a dim black line cutting across the plain.

"The trees along the banks of the river," said Bill Breakstone.

"And they are still two or three miles away," said Woodfall.

The leader rode among his men and spoke with them. The train moved
forward at the same speed, drawing itself like a great serpent over the
plain, but there was a closing up of the ranks. The wagons moved more
closely together, and every driver had a rifle under his feet. The
horsemen rode toward the head of the train, held their rifles across the
pommels of their saddles, and loosened the pistols in their holsters.
Phil was conscious of a deep, suppressed excitement, an intensity of
expectation, attached to the dark line of trees that now rose steadily
higher and higher out of the plain.

An old buffalo hunter in the train now recalled the river, also, and,
after studying the lay of the land carefully, said that they would find
a ford about two miles north of the point toward which the head of the
train was directed. The course was changed at once, and they advanced
toward the northwest.

"Do you think anything is going to happen, Bill?" asked Phil, speaking
for the first time.

"Do you feel kind of tingly in your blood?" asked Breakstone, not
replying directly.

"I tingle all over," said Phil frankly.

"I’m tingling a bit myself," said Breakstone, "and I’ve spent a good
many years in the wilderness. Yes, Phil, I think something is going to
happen, and I think you and me and the Cap and Arenberg ought to stick
together."

"That is well spoken," said Middleton. "We are chosen comrades, and we
must stand by one another. See how the trees are drawing nearer."

The black line now stood up level with the earth, and the trees became
detached from one another. They could also see the thick undergrowth
hiding the river, which seemed to flow in a deep gash across the plain.
Middleton took from his saddlebags a pair of strong glasses, and, as
they rode on, examined the double line of trees with the minutest
scrutiny. Then he lowered the glasses, shaking his head.

"I can’t make out anything," he said. "Nothing moves that I can see.
There is no sign of human life."

"The Comanche iss cunning," said Arenberg. "Harm iss done where harm
iss meant, but I for one am willing to meet him."

The mild German spoke in such a tone of passion that Phil was startled
and looked at him. Arenberg’s blue eyes shone with a sort of blue fire,
and he was unconsciously pressing his horse ahead of the others. It was
evident, even to one as young as Phil, that he was stirred to his utmost
depths. The boy leaned over and whispered to Breakstone:

"He must have some special cause to hate the Comanches. You know he was
in that massacre at New Braunfels."

"That’s so," said Breakstone,

"When you feel the savage knife,
You remember it all your life."

"These mild men like Arenberg are terrible when they are stirred up,
Phil. ’Still waters run deep,’ which sounds to me rather Irish, because
if they are still they don’t run at all. But it’s good all the same,
and, between you and me, Phil, I’d give a lot if we were on the other
side of this river, which has no name in the geographies, which rises I
don’t know where, which empties into I don’t know what, and which
belongs to I don’t know whom. But, be that as it may, lay on, Macduff,
and I won’t be the first to cry ’Hold, enough!’"

The train took another curve to the northward, approaching the ford, of
which the old scouts told. The swells dipped down, indicating a point
at which the banks of the river were low, but they could still see the
double line of trees lining either shore, and the masses of bushes and
weeds that extended along the stream. But nothing stirred them. No
wind blew. The boughs of the cottonwoods, live oaks, and willows hung
lifeless under the somber sky. There was still no sign of human
presence or of anything that lived.

But the men of the train did not relax their caution. They were
approaching now up a sort of shallow trough containing a dry sandy bed,
down which water evidently flowed during the wet season into the river.
It, also, for the last half mile before it reached the main stream, had
trees and bushes on either shore. Middleton suggested that they beat up
this narrow strip of forest, lest they walk straight into an ambush.
Woodfall thought the idea good, and twenty men scouted the thickets.
They found nothing, and many in the train began to feel incredulous.
That Comanche had been a mere boaster. He was probably still galloping
away over the prairie, putting as much distance as he could between
himself and the Santa Fé train. But Middleton yet distrusted. He
seemed now to be in every sense the leader of the train, and he did it
so quietly and with such indirection that Woodfall took him to be an
assistant, and felt no offense. At his prompting, strong bodies of
skirmishers were thrown forward on either bank of the dry creek bed, and
now, increasing their pace somewhat, they rapidly drew near the river.

It still seemed to Phil that nothing could happen. It was true that the
skies were gray and somber, but there was no suggestion of an active and
hostile presence, and now the river was only a hundred yards away. From
his horse’s back he could see the surface of the stream--narrow, muddy,
and apparently deep. But on the hither shore there was a gradual slope
to its waters, and another of the same kind on the farther bank seemed
to lead up among the trees.

"It ain’t so deep as it looks," said an old frontiersman. "’Bout four
feet, I should say. It’ll just ’bout hit the bottoms o’ our wagon
beds."

The stream itself was not more than twenty yards wide. One could pass
it in a few minutes, if nothing was thrown across the way, and Phil now
began to feel that the unspoken alarm was false. But just when the
feeling became a conviction and the wagons were not more than twenty
yards from the river, he saw something gleaming in the brush on the far
shore. It was the dyed feather of an eagle, and it made a blood red
spot against the green bushes. Looking closely Phil saw beneath the
feather the light copper face of an Indian, and then he knew that the
Comanches were there.

Scarcely a second after he saw the coppery face, a hurricane of arrows
whistled from the covert on the far shore. The short shafts of the
Comanches filled the air. Mingled with them was the sharp crashing of
rifles, and bullets and arrows whistled together. Then came the long
yell of the Comanches, from scores of throats, high pitched, fierce,
defiant, like the scream of a savage beast about to leap upon its prey.
In spite of all his resolution, Phil felt that strong shiver in every
nerve from head to heel. Some of the shafts were buried to the feather
in the bodies of the horses and mules, and a terrible tumult arose as
the animals uttered their screaming neigh and fought and kicked in pain
and terror. Nor did the men escape. One, pierced through the throat by
a deadly barb, fell lifeless from his horse. Another was stricken in
the breast, and a dozen were wounded by either arrows or bullets.

The train was thrown into confusion, and the drivers pulled back on
their lines. Sure death seemed to hover in front of them. The greatest
danger arose from the wounded and frightened horses, which plunged and
struggled and tried to break from their harness, but the hands on the
lines were strong, and gradually they were reduced to order. The
wagons, also, were driven back a little, and then the triumphant
Comanches sent forth their war whoop again and again. The short shafts
once more flew in showers, mingled as before with the whistling of the
bullets, but most of the missiles, both arrows and bullets, fell short.
Now the Comanches appeared thickly among the bushes, chiefly on foot,
their horses left at the edge of the timber, and began to make derisive
gestures.

It seemed to Phil that the crossing of the river was impossible in the
face of such a fierce and numerous foe, but Middleton and Woodfall had
been conferring, and suddenly the Cap, to use his more familiar name
among the men, whirled off to the south at the head of a hundred
horsemen. He waved his hand to his three partners, and they galloped
with the band.

"There must be another crossing, not as good as this, but still a
crossing," said Bill Breakstone. "If at first you don’t succeed, then
try, try again."

This flanking movement was hidden from the Comanches on the other shore
by the belt of timber on the side of the train, and the horsemen
galloped along rapidly in search of a declivity. Phil’s heart was
thumping, and specks floated before his eyes, but he was well among the
foremost, and he rode with them, stride for stride. Behind him he heard
the crackle of rifle shots, the shouts of the Comanches, and the defiant
replies of the white men.

"Keep a good hold on your rifle, Phil!" shouted Bill Breakstone in his
ear. "If the gods whisper truly to me, we will be in the water soon,
and, by my faith, you’ll need it."

The Captain uttered a shout of joy. They had come to a place where the
bank sloped down to the river and the opposite shore was capable of
ascent by horses.

"Into the river, men, into the river!" he shouted. "The horses may have
to swim, but we can cross it! We must cross it before the main Indian
force comes up!"

The whole troop galloped into the water. Middleton shouted to them to
keep their rifles dry, and every man held his above his head or on his
shoulder. The muddy water splashed in Phil’s face, but he kept by the
side of Breakstone, and in a few moments both their horses were
swimming.

"Let the horse have his head, Phil," said Breakstone. "He’ll make for
the nearest land, and you can use both your hands for the work that we
now have to do."

Phil dropped the rein, and the horse swam steadily. They were now about
the middle of the stream, which was wider here than at the ford. Two or
three brown faces suddenly appeared in the brash on the bank in front of
them, and the savage cry arose. Comanche skirmishers had discovered the
flank movement, but the white troop was already more than half way
across. Bullets were fired at the swimming men and horses. Some struck
in flesh, but others dashed up jets of yellow foam.

"On! On!" cried Middleton. "We must gain the bank!"

"On! On!" cried Phil, borne on by excitement. "We must gain the bank!"

He was carried away so much by the fire and movement of the moment that
he did not feel fear. His blood was tingling in every vein. Myriads of
red specks danced before him. The yellow water splashed all about him,
but he did not notice it. An arrow whizzed by his cheek, and two
bullets struck near, but he continued to urge his horse, which, gallant
animal, was already doing his best. Some of the white men, even from
the unsteady position of a swimming horse’s back, had begun to fire at
the Indians in the brush. Phil heard Bill Breakstone utter a deep sigh
of satisfaction as he lowered the muzzle of his rifle.

"Got one," said Bill. "It’s good to be zealous, but that Comanche ought
to have known more than to run square against a rifle bullet."

The feet of Phil’s horse touched earth, and he began to wade.
Everything now depended upon an instant or two. If they could gallop up
the declivity before the Comanches could arrive in force they would
secure a great advantage. But the Comanches were coming rapidly, and
the fire from their bows and rifles increased. The white men, now that
their position was steadier, also fired more rapidly. Phil sent a
bullet at a bronze figure that he saw darting about in the undergrowth,
but he could not tell whether or not he had hit.

"On!" shouted Middleton. "Give them no chance! Rush the slope!"

They were out of the river now, and in among the bushes and weeds. But
they did not stop there. Dripping with the yellow water, streaked
sometimes with red, they rode straight at the Comanches, shouting and
firing with both rifles and pistols. The Indian skirmishers gave way,
and, jumping upon their ponies, galloped down the stream to the main
ford. The white men uttered a cry of exultation. They were now on the
western bank, and the flank movement was a complete success.

"Follow them!" shouted Middleton. "We must press home the attack upon
the main body!"

Ahead of them the Comanches, bent low on their mustangs, were galloping
over the plain. Behind came the white men, hot with the fire of battle
and urging on their horses. Phil, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg rode
knee to knee, the boy between. He was wet from head to foot with
splashed water, but he did not know it. A bullet had touched the tip of
one ear, covering it with blood, but he did not know that, either.
There was no cruelty in his nature, but just now it thrilled with
battle. He sought a shot at the flying Comanches, but they were too far
away.

"Hold your fire,"’ said Bill Breakstone. "The battle is not over yet by
any means. A job that’s half finished isn’t finished at all."

They heard now the shots at the ford above them and a tremendous
shouting. Evidently the two forces were firing at each other across the
stream, and the wagons did not yet dare the passage. A few moments
later they saw the smoke of the rifles and brown figures darting about
the thickets.

"Now, boys!" shouted Middleton. "All together! A great cheer!"

A mighty shout was poured forth from three score throats, and Middleton
waved his felt hat about his head. From the eastern bank came an
answering cry, and the signal was complete. Woodfall and the others
with the train knew that their comrades were across, and now was the
time for them to force the passage. Phil saw the white tops of the
wagons shake. Then the wagons themselves rolled slowly forward into the
water, with horsemen in front of them and on the flanks, firing at the
Indians on the bank. The Comanches sent a shower of bullets and arrows
upon the advancing line, but in another instant they were compelled to
turn and defend themselves. Middleton and his victorious troop were
thundering down upon them.

The attack upon their flank came so swiftly that the Comanches were
taken by surprise. As their own skirmishers fled, the white force
galloped in upon their heels. Yet these bold warriors, kings of the
plains, victors in many a battle over other tribes and Mexicans, fought
with a courage and tenacity worthy of their race and traditions. They
were marshaled, too, by a chief who had returned to his own, the great
Black Panther, and by able assistants.

Middleton’s daring men met a storm of arrows am bullets, but they
charged on, although some saddles were emptied. They were at the edge
of the timber now, the mounted white men poured in a deadly fire. The
sound of the shots became a steady, incessant crackle Puffs of smoke
arose, and, uniting, formed a canopy of vapor. The odor of gunpowder
spread and filled the nostrils of the combatants. Shots, the trampling
of hoofs, the cries of the wounded and dying rung upon the drums of
their ears.

It was a terrific medley, seemingly all confusion, but really fought
with order by skilled leaders. Black Panther had one half of his
warriors to face the wagons and horsemen in the river and the other half
faced south to beat off Middleton’s troop, if it could. He himself
passed from one to another, encouraging them by every art that he knew,
and they were many.

But it was Middleton’s men who gave the deathblow. They struck so hard
and so often that it was continually necessary for Black Panther to send
more of his warriors to the defense of his flank. The firing upon the
wagons and horsemen in the river slackened, and they rushed forward.
The horsemen gained the bank, and, at the same time, Middleton’s men
charged with greater fire than ever. Then the horsemen from the ford
rushed up the ascent and joined in the attack. Compressed between the
two arms of a vise, the Comanches, despite every effort of Black Panther
and his chiefs, gave way. Yet they did not break into any panic.
Springing on their horses, they retired slowly, sending back flights of
arrows and bullets, and now and then uttering the defiant war whoop.

Meanwhile, the last of the wagons emerged from the river, and was
dragged up the ascent. Although the Comanches might yet shout in the
distance, the crossing was won, and everybody in the train felt a mighty
sense of relief.

CHAPTER IV

ON WATCH

The wagons drew up in a great square on the open plain, but just at the
edge of the timber, and the men, breathless, perspiring, but victorious,
dropped from their horses. The Comanches still galloped to and fro and
shouted in the distance, but they kept well out of rifle shot, and Phil,
although it was his first battle, knew that they would not attack again,
at least not for the present. They had been driven out of an extremely
strong position, ground of their own choosing, and nothing remained to
them but to retire.

The boy stood by the side of his horse, holding the bridle in one hand
and the rifle in the other. He was still trembling from the excitement
of forcing the ford and the battle among the trees, but the reddish mist
before his eyes was gradually clearing away. He let the bridle rein
drop, and put his hand to his face. It came away damp and sticky. He
looked at it in an incurious way to see if he were wounded, but it was
only dust and the smoke of burned gunpowder, kneaded together by
perspiration. Then he felt cautiously of his body. No bullet or arrow
had entered.

"Unhurt, Phil?" boomed out the voice of Bill Breakstone beside him. "So
am I, and so is Middleton. Arenberg got a scratch, but he’s forgotten it
already. But, I trow, Sir Philip of the River, that was indeed a combat
while it lasted!

"The Comanches shot
With spirit hot,
But now, they’re not.

"You can’t say anything against that poem, Phil; it’s short and to the
point. It’s true that the Comanches are not entirely gone, but they
might as well be. Let ’em shout out there in the plain as much as they
choose, they’re going to keep out of rifle range. And I congratulate
you, Phil, on the way you bore yourself through your first ’baptism of
fire.’"

"I thank you, Bill," said Phil, "but the fact is, I don’t know just how
I bore myself. It’s been more like a dream than anything else."

"That’s likely to happen to a man the first time under fire, and the
second time, too, but here we are on the right side of the river and
ready for a breathing spell."

Phil threw the reins over his horse’s neck, knowing that the latter
would not leave the camp, and set to work, helping to put everything in
order, ready for fight or rest, whichever the Comanches chose to make
it. The wagons were already in a hollow square, and the wounded, at
least twenty in number, laid comfortably in the wagons, were receiving
the rude but effective treatment of the border. Seven or eight had been
killed, and three or four bodies had been lost in the current of the
stream. They were now digging graves for the others. Little was known
of the slain. They were wandering, restless spirits, and they may or
may not have been buried under their own names. They had fallen in an
unknown land beside an unknown river, but their comrades gave all due
honor as they put them beneath the earth. Middleton said a few words
over the body of each, while others stood by with their hats off. Then
they smoothed out the soil above them as completely as possible, in
order that their graves might be lost. They took this precaution lest
the Comanches come after they had gone, take up the bodies, and mutilate
them.

When the solemn task was done, the men turned away to other duties.
They were not discouraged; on the contrary, their spirits were sanguine.
The gloom of the burial was quickly dispelled, and these wild spirits,
their fighting blood fully up, were more than half willing for the
Comanches to give them a new battle. It was such as these, really
loving adventure and danger more than profit, who steadily pushed
forward the southwestern frontier in the face of obstacles seemingly
insuperable.

Their position at the edge of the wood, with the strong fortification of
the wagons, was excellent, and Middleton and Woodfall, after a short
consultation, decided to remain there until morning, for the sake of the
wounded men and for rest for all. Phil worked in the timber, gathering
up fallen fuel for fires, which were built in the center of the hollow
square, and he found the work a relief. Such a familiar task steadied
his nerves. Gradually the little pulses ceased to beat so hard, and his
head grew cool. When enough dead wood had been brought in, he took
another look at the western horizon. Comanches could still be seen
there, but they no longer galloped about and shouted. A half dozen sat
motionless on their ponies, apparently looking at the white camp, their
figures, horse and rider, outlined in black tracery against the
blood-red western sun. Phil had a feeling that, although beaten at the
ford, they were not beaten for good and all, and that the spirit of
Black Panther, far from being crushed, would be influenced to new
passions and new attack. But, as he looked, the Comanche horsemen
seemed to ride directly into the low sun and disappear. The hard work
that had kept him up now over, he felt limp, and sank down near one of
the fires.

"Here, Phil, drink this," said Bill Breakstone, handing him a cup of hot
coffee. "It has been a pretty hard day on the nerves, and you need a
stimulant."

Phil swallowed it all, almost at a draught--never had coffee tasted
better--and his strength came back rapidly. Breakstone, also, drank a
cup and sat down beside the boy.

"Here comes Arenberg," he said in a low tone to Phil. "That German was a
very demon to-day. He got right into the front of the charge, and after
his rifle was empty he clubbed it and brought down one of the
Comanches."

Phil looked up. Arenberg’s face was still set in a stern, pitiless
mask, but when his eyes caught the boy’s he relaxed.

"It iss a good day well spent," he said, throwing himself down by the
side of the two. "We never could have forced the ford if we had not
made that flank movement. Harm wass meant by both sides and harm wass
done. But it iss over now. How does the young Herr Philip feel?"

"Pretty good now," replied Phil, "but I’ve had my ups and downs, I can
tell you. A little while ago I felt as if there were no backbone in me
at all."

Food was now cooked, and, after eating, the three relapsed into silence.
Presently Middleton, also, joined them, and told them that very thorough
preparations had been made to guard against a surprise. Sentinels on
horseback were already far out on the plain, riding a watchful round
which would be continued all through the night.

"It is easy to guard against surprise on that side," said Middleton,
"but snipers may creep down the river bank in the timber. We must keep
our best watch there."

"I’ll go on duty," said Philip promptly.

"Not yet," replied Middleton. "You may be needed late in the night, in
which case we’ll call on you, but our most experienced borderers don’t
think the Comanches will come back."

"You can never trust them," said Arenberg earnestly.

"We don’t mean to," said Middleton. "Now, Phil, I’d advise you to wrap
yourself in your blanket and go to sleep. On a campaign it’s always
advisable to sleep when you’re off duty, because you never know when you
will get the chance again."

It seemed to Phil that it was impossible to sleep, after so much
excitement and danger, but he knew that Middleton was speaking wise
words, and he resolved to try. There were yet hours of daylight, but,
putting his blanket beneath him, he lay before one of the fires with his
arm under his head and closed his eyes. He would open them now and then
to see the yellow flames, the figures of the men moving back and forth,
and the circle of wagons beyond. He could not make himself feel sleepy,
but he knew that his nerves were relaxing. Physically he felt a
soothing languor, and with it came a mental satisfaction. He had helped
to win his first battle, and, like the older and seasoned men around
him, the victory encouraged him to bid further defiance to the Comanches
or anything else that threatened.

[Illustration: "Putting his blanket beneath him, he lay before one of
the fires"]

These reflections were so grateful that he found himself able to keep
his eyes shut longer. It was not so much of an effort to pull the
eyelids down, and when, at intervals steadily growing more distant, he
opened his eyes, it was to find the fires and figures of the men
becoming dim, while the circling line of the wagons beyond was quite
lost. At last the eyelids stayed down of their own accord, and he
floated away into a sleep that was deep, sweet, and refreshing.

Others in the camp slept, also, some in the wagons and some on the
ground, with saddles for pillows. Those whose duty it was to watch paid
no attention to them, but beat up the brush incessantly, and kept up
their endless circles on the plains. The somber clouds that had
obscured the morning floated away, driven back by a late afternoon sun
of uncommon splendor. The gray-green plains turned to a brilliant red
and gold; the willows, cottonwoods, and oaks seemed sheathed in gold,
every bough and twig; the muddy river took on rich gleaming tints, and
then suddenly the sun was gone, leaving all in darkness, save for the
smoldering fires.

Phil slept soundly hour after hour. He was so exhausted physically and
mentally that the relaxation was complete. No dream good or bad came to
trouble him, and Breakstone, who observed his peaceful face, said to
Middleton:

"Talk about knitting up the raveled sleeve of care. That boy is knitting
up both sleeves at the same time, and he is knitting them fast."

"He is a good lad," said Middleton, "and a brave one, too. It was his
first battle, but he certainly bore himself well. Now I wonder what
search is bringing him out here into the wilderness."

"And I guess he, too, often wonders the same about us."

"Just as I have wondered it about you, and as you have wondered it about
me."

"But we find it best--every one of us--to keep our search to ourselves
for the present."

"It is surely best."

The two men looked at each other rather significantly, and then talked
of other things.

Phil was awakened at midnight to take his turn at the watch. The night,
as it is so often on the plains of Texas, even in summer, was cold, and
he shivered a little when he drew himself out of his warm blankets. The
fires were nearly out, leaving only a few coals that did not warm, and
few figures were moving except outside the circle. His body told Phil
that he would much rather sleep on, but his mind told him with greater
force that he must go ahead and do his duty with a willing heart, a
steady hand, and a quick eye. So he shook himself thoroughly, and was
ready for action. His orders were to go in the timber a little to the
northward and watch for snipers. Three others were going with him, but
they were to separate and take regular beats.

Phil shouldered his rifle and marched with his comrades. They passed
outside the circles of wagons, and stood for a few moments on the bare
plain. Afar off they saw their own mounted sentinels who watched to the
westward, riding back and forth. The moon was cold, and a chill wind
swept over the swells, moaning dismally. Phil shivered and was glad
that he had a watch on foot in the timber. His comrades were willing to
hasten with him to that shelter, and there they arranged their beats.
The belt of timber was about a hundred yards wide, with a considerable
undergrowth of bushes and tall weeds. They cut the hundred yards into
about four equal spaces, and Phil took the quarter next to the river.
He walked steadily back and forth over the twenty-five yards, and at the
western end of his beat he regularly met the next sentinel, a young
Mississippian named Welby, whom Phil liked. They exchanged a few words
now and then, but, save their low tones, the monotonous moaning of the
wind among the trees, and an occasional sigh made by the current of the
river, which here flowed rather swiftly, there was no sound. On the
opposite bank the trees and bushes reared themselves, a wall of dark
green.

The chill of the night grew, but the steady walking back and forth had
increased the circulation and warmed the blood in Phil’s veins, and he
did not feel it. His long sleep, too, had brought back all his strength,
and he was full of courage and zeal. He had suffered a reaction after
the battle, but now the second reaction came. The young victor,
refreshed in mind and body, feared nothing. Neither was he lonely nor
awed by the vast darkness of night in the wilderness. The words that he
spoke with Welby every few minutes were enough to keep him in touch with
the human race, and he really felt content with himself and the world.
He had done his duty under fire, and now he was doing his duty again.

He paused a little longer every time he came to the river, and forcing
his mind now to note every detail, he was impressed by the change that
the stream had undergone. There was a fine full moon, and the muddy
torrent of the day was turned into silver, sparkling more brightly where
the bubbles formed and broke. The stream, swollen doubtless by rains
about its source, flowed rapidly with a slight swishing noise. Phil
looked up and down it, having a straight sweep of several hundred yards
either way. Now and then the silver of its surface was broken by pieces
of floating debris, brought doubtless from some far point. He watched
these fragments as they passed, a bough, a weed, or a stump, or the
entire trunk of a tree, wrenched by a swollen current from some caving
bank. He was glad that he had the watch next to the river, because it
was more interesting. The river was a live thing, changing in color,
and moving swiftly. Its surface, with the objects that at times swept
by on it, was a panorama of varied interest.

Besides Welby he saw no living creature. The camp was hidden from him
completely by the trees and bushes, and they were so quiet within the
circle of the wagons that no sound came from them. An hour passed. It
became two, then three. Vaporous clouds floated by the moon. The
silver light on the river waned. The current became dark yellow again,
but flowing as ever with that soft, swishing sound. The change affected
Phil. The weird quality of the wilderness, clothed in dark, made itself
felt. He was glad when he met Welby, and they lingered a few seconds
longer, talking a little. He came back once more to the river, now
flowing in a torrent almost black between its high banks.

He took his usual long survey of the river, both up and down stream.
Phil was resolved to do his full duty, and already he had some
experience, allied with faculties naturally keen. He examined the
opposite bank with questioning eyes. At first it had seemed a solid
wall of dark green, but attention and the habit of the darkness now
enabled him to separate it into individual trees and bushes. Comanches
ambushed there could easily shoot across the narrow stream and pick off
a white sentinel, but he had always kept himself well back in his own
bushes, where he could see and yet be hidden.

His gaze turned to the river. Darker substances, drift from far banks,
still floated on its surface. The wind had died. The branches of the
trees did not move at all, and, in the absence of all other sound, the
slight swishing made by the flowing of the river grew louder. His
wandering eyes fastened on a small stump that was coming from the curve
above, and that floated easily on the surface. Its motion was so
regular that his glance stayed, and he watched it with interested eyes.
It was an independent sort of stump, less at the mercy of the current
than the others had been. It came on, bearing in toward the western
bank, and Phil judged that if it kept its present course it would strike
the shore beneath him.

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

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 bubbles from his naked body. In his right hand he held a
long knife. The face was sinister, savage, and terrible beyond
expression. Another of the stumps was just rising from the stream, but
Phil fired instantly at the first face, and then sprang back, shouting,
"The Comanches." He did not run. He merely sheltered himself behind a
tree, and began to reload rapidly. Welby came running through the
bushes, and then the others, drawn by the shout. In a 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 of every one of them.

"The Comanches!" replied Phil. "They came swimming in a line down the
river. Their heads looked like black stumps on the water! I fired at
the first the moment he rose from the stream! I think it was their plan
to ambush and kill the sentinels!"

Bill Breakstone was among those who had come, and he cried:

"Then we must beat them off at once! We must not give them a chance to
get a footing on the bank!"

They rushed forward, Phil with them, his rifle now reloaded, and gazed
down at the river. They heard no noise, but that slight swishing sound
made by the current, and the surface of the stream was bare. The river
flowed as if no foreign body had ever vexed its current. Fifty pairs of
eyes used to the wilderness studied the stream and the thickets. They
saw nothing. Fifty pairs of ears trained to hear the approach of danger
listened. They heard nothing but the faint swishing sound that never
ceased. A murmur not pleasant to Phil, arose.

"I’ve no doubt it was a stump, a real stump," one of the older men said.

A deep flush overspread Phil’s face.

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

The man who had spoken grinned a little, but the expression of his face
showed that doubt had solidified into certainty.

"A case of nerves," he said, "but I don’t blame you so much, bein’ only
a boy."

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

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

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

"Come! Come!" said Woodfall. "We can’t have such talk. The boy may
have made a mistake, but the incident showed that he was watching well,
just what we want our sentinels to do."

Phil flushed again. Woodfall’s tone was kindly, but he was hurt by the
implication of possible doubt and mistake. Yet Woodfall and the others
had ample excuse for such doubts. There was not the remotest sign of an
enemy. Could he really have been mistaken? Could it have been
something like a waking dream? Could his nerves have been so upset that
they made his eyes see that which was not? He stared for a full minute
at the empty face of the river, and then a voice called:

"Oh, you men, come down here! I’ve something to show you!"

It was Bill Breakstone, who had slipped away from them and gone down the
bank. His voice came from a point at least a hundred yards down the
stream, and the men in a group followed the sound of it, descending the
slope with the aid of weeds and bushes. Bill was standing at the edge
of a little cove which the water had hollowed out of the soft soil, and
something dark lay at his feet.

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

They looked down, and Phil shut off a cry with his closed teeth. The
body, a Comanche warrior, entirely naked, lay upon its back. There was
a bullet hole in the center of the forehead. The features, even in
death, were exactly those that the boy had seen rising from the water,
sinister, savage, terrible beyond expression. Phil felt a cold horror
creeping through all his bones, but it was the look of this dead face
more than the fact that he had killed a man. He shuddered to think what
so much malignant cruelty could have done had it gained the chance.

"Well, men," said Bill Breakstone quietly, "was the story our young
friend here told such stuff as dreams are made 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 expressed his disbelief in
Phil--Gard was his name--extended his hand and said to the lad:

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

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

"I don’t blame you, Mr. Gard," he said. "Things certainly looked
against me."

"The Comanches naturally took to flight when their leader was killed,"
said Woodfall. "They could not carry through such an attempt without
surprise, but good eyes stopped them."

Phil’s heart leaped again with pride, but he said nothing. They climbed
back up the slope, and the guard in the timber was tripled for the short
time until day. Phil was told that, as he had already done so much, he
might go off duty now.

He was glad enough to seek rest, and so rapidly was he becoming used to
danger that he lay down calmly before one of the fires and went to sleep
again. He awoke two or three hours later to a crisp fresh morning, and
to the news that the train would promptly resume its advance, whether or
not Comanches tried to bar the way. With the intoxicating odor of
victory still in their nostrils, the hardy frontiersmen were as willing
as ever for another combat. But the enemy had disappeared completely.
A brilliant sun rose over the gray-green swells, disclosing nothing but
a herd of antelope that grazed far to the right.

"The antelope mean that no Comanches are near," said Arenberg. "The
warriors will now wait patiently and a long time for a good opportunity.
Sometimes much harm iss done where much iss intended."

"That is so," chanted Bill Breakstone.

"Over the plains we go,
Our rifles clear the way.
The Indians would say no.
Our band they cannot stay.

"As I have often remarked before, Phil, my poetry may be defective in
meter and some other small technicalities, but it comes to the point.
That, I believe, was the characteristic of Shakespeare, also. I agree,
too, with Arenberg, that the Comanches will not trouble us again for
some time. So, I pray thee, be of good cheer, Sir Philip of the Merry
Countenance, Knight of the Battle beside the Unknown River, Slayer of
Comanches in the Dark, Guardian of the Public Weal, et cetera, et
cetera."

"I am cheerful," said Phil, to whom Breakstone was always a tonic, "and
I believe that we can beat off the Comanches any time and every time."

"Jump on your horse," said Breakstone, a little later; "we’re all
ready."

Phil leaped into the saddle with one bound. The train moved forward,
and he and Breakstone joined Middleton and Arenberg at its head.
Middleton had powerful glasses, and he swept the plain far ahead, and to
right and left. His gaze finally settled on a point to the south-west.
The others followed his look with great interest, but the naked eye
could see nothing but the rolling gray-green plains and the dim blue
horizon beyond. Middleton looked so long that at last Bill Breakstone
asked:

"What do you see?"

"I do not see anything that I can really call living," replied
Middleton, "but I do see a knoll or slight elevation on the plain--what
would be called farther north a butte--and on that knoll is a black
blur, shapeless and unnamable at this distance."

"Does the black blur move?" asked Bill Breakstone.

"I cannot tell. It is too far even for that, but from it comes a beam
of brilliant light that shifts here and there over the plain. Take a
look, Bill."

Breakstone eagerly put the glasses to his eyes, and turned them upon the
knoll.

"Ah, I see it!" he exclaimed. "It’s like a ball of light! There it
goes to the right! There it goes to the left! Now it falls in our
direction! What in the name of Shakespeare’s thirty-five or forty plays
is it, Cap?"

"Let me have the glasses, I want another look," replied Middleton.

His second look was a long one taken in silence. At last he replied:

"It’s a signal, lads. I’ve seen the Comanches talk to one another in
this way before. A Comanche chief is sitting on his horse on top of
that knoll. He holds a rounded piece of looking-glass in the hollow of
his hand, and he turns it in such a way that he catches the very
concentrated essence of the sun’s rays, throwing a beam a tremendous
distance. The beam, like molten gold, now strikes the grass on top of a
swell off toward the north. It’s a secret just how they do it, for not
yet has any white man learned the system of signals which they make with
such a glass. Ah!"

The "Ah!" came forth, so deep, so long drawn, and so full of meaning
that Phil, Arenberg, and Bill Breakstone exclaimed together:

"What is it?"

"I would not have known that the black blur on top of the knoll was a
chief on horseback if I had not been on the Texas plains before,"
replied Middleton, "but now I can make out the figures of horse and man,
as he is riding around and around in a circle and riding very rapidly."

"What does that mean?" asked Phil.

"It means danger, not to us, but to the Comanches. The warrior is
probably signaling to a band of his tribe who are meditating attack upon
us that we are too strong."

"Then it must be some fresh band," said Bill Breakstone, "because the
one that had the little encounter with us yesterday knew that already."

"I take it that you’re right," said Middleton, smiling and closing the
glasses. "The second band won’t molest us--not to-day."

"That seems to be a very effective way of signaling," remarked Phil.

"On the plains, yes," said Middleton. "It is astonishing how far such a
vivid beam of light will carry, as the crest of the knoll was too high
for it to be intercepted by the swells."

Middleton told Woodfall what they had seen. The leader’s chin stiffened
a little more, and the wagons went on at the same pace, trailing their
brown length across the prairie.

About ten o’clock the march became difficult, as they entered a town,
but such a town! Its inhabitants were prairie dogs, queer little
animals, which darted down into their burrows at the approach of the
horsemen and wagons, often sharing the home with a rattlesnake. But the
horsemen were now compelled to proceed with exceeding care, as the
horses’ feet often sank deep down in the dens. Stumbles were frequent
and there were several falls. Wagon wheels, also, sank, and the advance
became so difficult that Woodfall halted the train and sent Phil and
some others to find a way around the town.

They rode five or six miles to the south, and still the singular town
stretched away, apparently endless. Then they came back and rode five
or six miles to the north with the same result. Acting upon the advice
of Middleton, Woodfall, after hearing these reports, decided to go
straight on through the town. It was known that such towns had been
found twenty-five miles long, and this might be as large. So they went
directly ahead. The riders dismounted and led their horses. Three
times Phil killed coiling rattlesnakes with the butt of his rifle, but
he did not seek to molest any of the prairie dogs.

They moved very slowly, and it was three hours before they crossed the
prairie dog town, leaving behind them some destruction, but not more
than they could help.

"Well, Sir Philip of the Prairie Dogs, what name are you going to give
to the populous community through which we have just passed?" asked
Breakstone.

"I suppose Canine Center will do as well as any other," replied Phil.

"A wise selection, my gay youth," replied Bill Breakstone. "But these
animals, properly speaking, are not dogs, they are more like rats. I’m
glad we’ve passed ’em. It isn’t pleasant to have your horse put his
foot in one of their dens and shoot you over his head. The good hard
plain for me."

He cantered forward, and Phil cantered with him, raising his head and
breathing the pure air that blew over such vast reaches of clean earth.
He felt the blood leaping in his veins again from mere physical
happiness. He began to whistle gayly, and then to sing "Open thy
lattice, love," a song just coming into favor, written by the man who
became yet more famous with "Old Kentucky Home" and "Suwanee River."
Phil had a fine, fresh, youthful voice, and Breakstone listened to him
as he sang through two verses. Then he held up his hand, and Phil
stopped.

"What’s the trouble?" asked the boy.

"I don’t object to your song, Phil, and I don’t object to your singing,
but it won’t be a good time for love to open the lattice; it will be
better to close it tight. Don’t you feel a change in the air, Phil?
Just turn your face to the northwest, and you’ll notice it."

Phil obeyed, and it seemed to him now that the air striking upon his
cheek was colder, but he imagined that it was due to the increasing
strength of the wind.

"I do not care if the wind is a little cold," he said. "I like it."

"The wind is cold,
And you are bold;
The sky turns gray
You’re not so gay;
And by and by
For sun you’ll sigh,"

chanted Bill Breakstone, and then he added:

"See that gray mist forming in a circle about the sun, and look at that
vapor off there in the northwest. By George, how fast it spreads! The
whole sky is becoming overcast! Unroll your blanket, Phil, and have it
ready to wrap around you I The whole train must stop and prepare!"

Bill Breakstone turned to give his warning, but others, too, had noticed
the signals of danger. The command stop was given. The wagons were
drawn rapidly into circle, and just as when the danger was Indians,
instead of that which now threatened, all the horses and mules were put
inside the circle. But now all the men, also, took their station
inside, none remaining outside as guard. The wind meanwhile rose fast,
and the temperature fell with startling rapidity. The edge of the blast
seemed to be ice itself. Phil, who was helping with the corral of
wagons, felt as if it cut him to the bone. He fully appreciated Bill
Breakstone’s advice about the blanket. The day also was swiftly turning
dark. The sun was quite gone out. Heavy clouds and masses of vapor
formed an impenetrable veil over all the sky. Now, besides the cold,
Phil felt his face struck by fine particles that stung. It was the sand
picked up by the wind, perhaps hundreds of miles away, and hurled upon
them in an enveloping storm.

Phil pulled down his cap-brim and also sheltered his eyes as much as he
could with his left arm.

"It’s the Norther," cried Breakstone. "Listen to it!"

The wind was now shrieking and howling over the plains with a voice that
was truly human, only it was like the shout of ten thousand human beings
combined. But it was a voice full of malice and cruelty, and Phil was
glad of the companionship of his kind.

The cold was now becoming intense, and he rapidly drew the blanket about
his body. Then he suddenly bent his head lower and completely covered
his eyes with his arm. It was hailing fiercely. Showers of white
pellets, large enough to be dangerous, pounded him, and, as the darkness
had now increased to that of night, he groped for shelter. Bill
Breakstone seized him by the arm and cried:

"Jump into the wagon there, Phil! And I’ll jump after you!"

Phil obeyed with the quickness of necessity, and Breakstone came in on
top of him. Middleton and Arenberg were already there.

"Welcome to our wagon," said Arenberg, as Phil and Breakstone
disentangled themselves. "You landed on one of my feet, Phil, and you
landed on the other, Bill, but no harm iss done where none iss meant."

Phil cowered down and drew his blanket more closely around him, while
the hail beat fiercely on the arched canvas cover, and the cold wind
shrieked and moaned more wildly than ever. He peeped out at the front
of the wagon and beheld a scene indescribable in its wild and chilling
grandeur. The darkness endured. The hail was driven in an almost
horizontal line like a sheet of sleet. The wagons showed but dimly in
all this dusk. The animals, fortunately, had been tethered close to the
wagons, where they were, in a measure, protected, but many of them
reared and neighed in terror and suffering. One look satisfied Phil, and
he drew back well under cover.

"How often does this sort of thing happen in Texas?" he asked Arenberg.

"Not so often," replied the German, "and this Norther, I think, is the
worst I ever saw. The cold wind certainly blows like der Teufel. These
storms must start on the great mountains far, far to the north, and I
think they get stronger as they come. Iss it not so, Herr Breakstone?"

"Your words sound true to me, Sir Hans of the Beer Barrel," replied
Breakstone. "I’ve seen a few Northers in my time, and I’ve felt ’em,
but this seems to me to be about the most grown-up, all-around, healthy
and frisky specimen of the kind that I ever met."

Phil thought that the Norther would blow itself out in an hour or two,
but he was mistaken. Several hours passed and the wind was as strong
and as cold as ever. The four ate some cold food that was in the wagon,
and then settled back into their places. No attempt would be made to
cook that day. But Phil grew so warm and snug in his blanket among the
baggage, and the beating of the rain on the stout canvas cover was so
soothing, that he fell asleep after awhile. He did not know how long he
slept, because when he awoke it was still dark, the wind was still
shrieking, and the other three, as he could tell by their regular
breathing, were asleep, also. He felt so good that he stretched himself
a little, turned on the other side, and went to sleep again.

CHAPTER V

THE COMANCHE VILLAGE

The Norther did not blow itself out until noon of the next day. Then it
ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun. The wind stopped its
shrieking and howling so suddenly that the silence, after so long a
period of noise, was for awhile impressive. The clouds fell apart as if
cut down the middle by a saber, and the sun poured through the rift.

It was like a fairy transformation scene. The rift widened so fast that
soon all the clouds were gone beyond the horizon. The sky was a solid
blue, shot through with the gold of the warm sun. The hail melted, and
the ground dried. It was spring again, and the world was beautiful.
Phil saw, felt, and admired. Bill Breakstone burst into song:

"The Norther came,
The Norther went.
It suits its name,
Its rage is spent.

"From the looks of things now," he continued, "you wouldn’t think it had
been whistling and groaning around us for about twenty-four hours,
trying to shoot us to death with showers of hail, but I’d have you to
know, Sir Philip of the Untimely Cold and the Hateful Storm, that I have
recorded it upon the tablets of my memory. I wouldn’t like to meet such
a Norther when I was alone on the plains, on foot, and clad in sandals,
a linen suit, and a straw hat."

"Nor I," said Phil with emphasis.

Now they lighted fires of buffalo chips which were abundant everywhere,
and ate the first warm food that they had had since the day before at
noon. Then they advanced four or five miles and encamped on the banks
of a creek, a small stream of water flowing in a broad, sandy bed. Phil
and some of the others scouted in a wide circle for Comanches, but saw
no signs, and, as he had slept so late that day, the boy remained awake
most of the night. There was a good moonlight, and he saw dusky
slinking forms on the plain.

"Coyotes," said Bill Breakstone. "At least, most of them are, though I
think from their size that two or three of those figures out there must
be timber wolves. If I’m right about ’em, it means that we’re not far
from a belt of forest country."

"I hope you’re right," said Phil. "I’m getting tired of plains now, and
I’d like to see trees and hills again, and also water that runs faster
and that’s less muddy than these sluggish and sandy creeks."

Bill Breakstone threw back his head and laughed with unction.

"That’s the way with fellows who were born in the hills," he said.
"Wherever you go, sooner or later you’ll pine for ’em again. I’m one of
that lot, too."

"Yes, it’s so," admitted Phil. "I like the great plains, the vastness,
the mystery, and the wonderful air which must be the purest in the
world, that’s always blowing over them, but for a real snug, homey
feeling give me a little valley in the hills, with a brook of
green-white water about six inches deep running down it, and plenty of
fine trees--oak, beech, hickory, elm, walnut, and chestnut--growing on
the slopes and tops of the hills."

"A pretty picture, Sir Philip of the Brook, the Hill, the Valley, and
the Tree," said Bill Breakstone, "and maybe we will see it soon. As I
told you, timber wolves indicate trees not far off."

But the chief event that day was buffaloes and not timber. They ran
into a vast herd, traveling north with the spring, and killed with ease
all they wanted. The bodies were cut up, and the wagons were filled
with fresh meat. There was a momentary quandary about the hides, which
they wished to save, a process that required immediate curing, but they
were unwilling to stop for that purpose on the plain. Two of the scouts
came in at sundown with news that the timber was only three or four
miles ahead, and the whole train pushed forward, reaching it shortly
after nightfall.

The wagons stopped just within the edge of the timber, but Phil,
Breakstone, Arenberg, and Middleton rode on, the night being so clear
and bright that they could see almost as well as by day. The first
range of hills was low, but beyond lay others, rising perhaps two
hundred feet above the level of the plain. The timber on all the hills
and the valleys between was dense and heavy, embracing many varieties of
hard wood, elm, hackberry, overcup, ash, pecan, and wild china. There
were also the bushes and vines of the blackberry, gooseberry, raspberry,
currant, and of a small fox grape, plentiful throughout the mountains of
Texas. The fox grape grew on a little bush like that of the currant,
and growing in abundance was another bush, from two to six feet in
height, that would produce wild plums in the autumn.

"It’s a good country, a fine country," said Bill Breakstone. "A man
could live all the year around on the food that he would find in this
region, buffalo and antelope on the plains, deer and maybe beaver in
here, and all sorts of wild fruits."

Phil nodded. He was reveling in the hills and timber. The moonlight
fell in a vast sheet of silver, but the foliage remained a solid mass of
dark green beneath it. A tremulous little wind blew, and the soft sound
of fresh young leaves rubbing together came pleasantly. A faint noise
like a sigh told of a tiny stream somewhere trickling over the pebbles.
Phil opened his eyes as wide as he could and drew in great gulps of the
scented air. Big bronze birds, roused by the tread of the horsemen,
rose from a bough, and flew away among the trees. They were wild
turkeys, but the lad and his comrades were not seeking game just then.
Bill Breakstone, who was in advance, stopped suddenly.

"Come here, Sir Philip of the Hilly Forest," he cried, "and see what
uncle has found for his little boy."

Phil rode up by his side and uttered a little gasp of admiration. As he
sat on his horse, he looked into a ravine about two hundred feet deep.
Down the center of the ravine dashed a little mountain river of
absolutely clear water. It was not more than twenty feet wide, but very
deep. As Breakstone said, "it ran on its side," but it ran along with
much murmur and splash and laughter of waters. Often as the swift
current struck the stony sides of the ravine it threw up little cascades
of foam like snow. The banks themselves, although of stone, were
covered most of the way with clustering vines and short green bushes.
The crest of the farther bank was wooded so heavily with great trees
that they were like a wall. Farther down, the stream descended with
increased swiftness, and a steady murmuring noise that came to them
indicated a waterfall. The brilliant moonlight bathed the river, the
hills, and the forest, and the great silence brooded over them all.
Middleton and Arenberg also came, and the four side by side on their
horses sat for awhile, saying nothing, but rejoicing in a scene so vivid
and splendid to them, after coming from the monotony of the great
plains.

"I’d like to drop off my horse after a hot day’s ride," said Bill
Breakstone, "and have some of that river run over me. Wouldn’t that be
a shower-bath for a tired and dusty man!"

"It’s likely to be ice-cold," said Middleton.

"Why so?" asked Phil.

"Because it rises somewhere high up. There must be mountains to the
northward, and probably it is fed most of the year by melting snows. I
think Bill would have enough of his bath very quickly."

"If I get a chance, and there is any way to get down to that stream, I
may try it to-morrow," said Bill threateningly.

"Meanwhile, we’ll ride back and tell what we’ve seen," said Middleton.

"Isn’t there any danger of Indian ambush in the timber?" asked Phil.

"I don’t think so," replied Middleton. "The Comanches are horse
Indians, and keep entirely to the plains. The other tribes are too much
afraid of the Comanches to remain near them, and in consequence the edge
of a hilly stretch such as this is likely to be deserted."

They rode back to the wagons and found that the cooking fires were
already lighted, and their cheerful blaze was gleaming among the trees.
Everybody else, also, was delighted at being in the timber, where clear
water flowed past, and most of the wounded were able to get out of the
wagons and sit on the grass with their comrades. Woodfall decided that
it was a good place in which to spend a few days for rest, repairs, and
the hunting of game, as they wanted other fresh meat besides that of the
buffalo.

The next morning they began to cure the buffalo hides that they had
already obtained. A smooth piece of ground, exposed all day to the rays
of the sun, was chosen. Upon this the skin was stretched and pegged
down. Then every particle of the flesh was scraped off. After that, it
was left about three days under the rays of the sun, and then it was
cured. Twenty-five skins were saved in this manner, and, also, by the
same method of drying in the sun, they jerked great quantities of the
buffalo meat.

But Middleton, Arenberg, Breakstone, and Phil turned hunters for the
time. They found that the hill region was very extensive, timbered
heavily, and abundant in game. They hunted wholly on foot, and found
several places where the ravine opened out, at which they could cross
the little river by walking, although the water rose to their waists.

They had great luck with the game, shooting a half dozen splendid
black-tailed deer, a score of wild turkeys, and many partridges, quail,
and grouse. Bill Breakstone, according to his promise, bathed in the
river, and he did it more than once. He was also joined by his
comrades, and, as Middleton had predicted, they found the water
ice-cold. No one could stand it more than five minutes, but the effect
was invigorating.

A great deal of work was done at the camp. The axles of wagons were
greased, canvas ripped by wind or hail was sewed up again, clothing was
patched, and the wounded basked in sun or shade. Two of these had died,
but the rest were now nearly well. All except two or three would be fit
to resume their duties when they started again.

Woodfall, knowing the benefit of a complete rest, still lingered, and
Phil and his friends had much time for exploration. They combined this
duty with that of the scouting, and penetrated deep into the hills,
watching for any Comanches who might stray in there, or for the mountain
tribes. Once they came upon several abandoned lodges, made partly of
skins and partly of brush, but they were falling in ruins, and Bill
Breakstone reckoned they were at least two years old.

"Wichitas, Wacos, Kechies, and Quapaws live around in the hills and
mountains," he said, "and this, I take it, was a little camp of Kechies,
from the looks of the lodges. Two or three groups of them may be
lingering yet in this region, but we haven’t much to fear from them."

Woodfall, intending at first to make the stay only four or five days,
decided now to protract it to ten or twelve. The journey to Santa Fé
was one of tremendous length and hardship. Moreover, a buffalo hunter,
straying in, told them that the Comanches were very active all over the
Texas plains. Hence the Santa Fé train would need all its strength, and
Woodfall was anxious that every one of the wounded should be in fighting
condition when they left the timber. Therefore the delay.

Phil was glad of the added stay in the hills. He was developing great
skill as a hunter and a trailer, and he and his comrades wandered
farther and farther every day into the broken forest region toward the
north. Oftenest he and Bill Breakstone were together. Despite the
difference in years, they had become brothers of the wilderness. In
their scoutings they found available pathways for horses over the hills
and among the great trees, and, starting, one morning, they rode far to
the north, covering thirty or forty miles. Phil was interested in some
high mountains which showed a dim blue ahead, and Breakstone was
carefully examining the rock formations. But as night came on they
found that the hills were dropping down, and the mountains seemed to be
about as blue and as far ahead as ever.

"I should judge from these signs," said Breakstone, "that there is a
valley or narrow plain ahead, between us and the mountains. But we’ll
look into that to-morrow. It isn’t good to be riding around in the dark
over hills and through thickets."

They found a little grassy open space, where they tethered their horses,
leaving them to graze as long as they wished, and, lighting no fire,
they ate jerked buffalo meat. Then they crept into snug coverts under
the bushes, wrapped their blankets about them, and fell asleep. Phil
opened his eyes at daylight to find Breakstone already awake. The
horses were grazing contentedly. The trees and bushes were already
tipped with fire by the gorgeous Texas sun.

"Sir Philip of the Bushes," said Bill Breakstone, "you just lie here and
chew up a buffalo or two, while I go ahead and take a look. As I said
last night, these hills certainly drop down into a plain, and I want to
see that plain."

"All right," said Phil, "I’ll stay where I am. It’s so snug in this
blanket on a cool morning that I don’t care to move anyhow, and I can
eat my breakfast lying down."

He drew out a freshly jerked strip of buffalo meat, and another very
tender portion of a black-tailed deer that he himself had shot, and fell
to it. Bill Breakstone, his rifle held conveniently at his side, slid
away among the bushes. Phil ate contentedly. The sun rose higher. The
morning was absolutely still. The horses seemed to have had enough
grass, and lay down placidly on their sides. It occurred to Phil that
he, too, had eaten enough, and he put the remainder of the food back in
his hunter’s knapsack. Then he began to get drowsy again. It was so
very still. He thought once of rising and walking about, but he
remembered Breakstone’s advice to lie still, and, against his will, he
kept it. Then his drowsiness increased, and, before he was aware of it
he was asleep again.

When Phil awoke the second time, he threw off his blanket and sprang to
his feet in surprise. The sun was high up in the blue arch. It must be
at least ten o’clock in the morning, and Bill Breakstone had not come
back. The horses were on their feet and were grazing again. They were
proof that nothing had disturbed the glade. But Bill Breakstone was not
there. Nor had he come back and gone away again. If he had done so, he
would have awakened the boy. He had been absent three or four hours,
and Phil was alarmed.

The boy stood up, holding his hand on the hammer of his rifle. This
beautiful day, with its blue skies above and its green forest below,
oppressed him. It was so still, so silent, and Bill Breakstone had
vanished so utterly, just as if he had been turned into thin air by the
wave of a magician’s wand! The boy was alone in the wilderness for the
first time. Moreover, he felt the presence of danger, and the queer
little shiver which often comes at such moments ran through his blood.
But the shiver passed, and his courage rose. He had no thought of going
back to the camp to report that Bill Breakstone was missing. No, he
would find him himself. That was his duty to his comrade.

The boy waited a little longer, standing there in the shade with his
rifle ready, and eyes and ears intent. He stood thus for a quarter of
an hour, scarcely moving. The brilliant sunshine poured down upon him,
bringing out every line of the strong young figure, illuminating the
face which was thrown a little forward, as the blue eyes, gazing
intently through the undergrowth, sought some evidence of a hostile
presence. Finally the eyes turned to the horses which were grazing
calmly in the full circle of their long lariats. Phil decided that such
calm on their part signified the absence of any enemy. If either man or
beast came near they would raise their heads.

Then Phil moved forward through the bushes, putting into use all his new
skill and caution. The bushes closed softly behind him, and he entered
a slope covered with great trees without undergrowth. His eyes could
range forward several hundred yards, but he saw nothing. He advanced
for a few minutes, steadily descending, and he was tempted to shout his
loudest or fire off his rifle as a signal to the derelict Bill
Breakstone that it was time for him to come back. But he resisted both
temptations, and soon he was glad that he had done so. The slope was
very gradual, and he traveled a full two miles before he came to the
edge of the woods and saw before him the plain that Bill Breakstone had
predicted. He took one look, and then, springing back, sank down in the
covert of the bushes.

Before Phil lay a fairly level plain about a mile in width and of
unknown length, as in either direction it parsed out of sight among the
hills. In the center of it was a shallow but wide creek which perhaps
flowed into the nameless river. The valley was very fertile, as the
grass was already rich and high, despite the earliness of spring.

At the widest point of the valley stood a large Indian village, two
hundred lodges at least, and Phil could not doubt that it was a village
of the Comanches. Hundreds of ponies, grazing in the meadows to the
north, and guarded by boys, proved that they were horse Indians, and no
other tribe dared to ride where the Comanches roamed.

Phil could see far in the dazzling sunlight, and all the normal
activities of human life, that is, of wild life, seemed to prevail in
the Comanche village. Evidently the warriors had been on a great
buffalo hunt. Perhaps they had struck at another point the same herd
into which the train had run. Over a wide space buffalo hides were
pegged down. Old squaws were scraping the flesh from some with little
knives, while others, already cleaned, were drying in the sun. Vast
quantities of buffalo meat were being jerked on temporary platforms.
Little Indian boys and girls carried in their hand bones of buffalo or
deer, from which they ate whenever they felt hungry. Everywhere it was
a scene of savage plenty and enjoyment, although signs of industry were
not wholly lacking, even among the warriors. Many of these, sitting on
the grass, were cleaning their rifles or making new bows and arrows.
Now and then one would make a test, sending into the air an arrow which
some little boy was glad to run after and bring back. At another point
a number of boys were practicing at a target with small bows and
blunt-headed arrows. Two warriors on their ponies came up the valley,
each carrying before him the body of a black-tailed deer. They were
received with shouts, but soon disappeared with their spoils among the
lodges, which were made universally of the skin of the buffalo. Down at
the end of the village some warriors, naked to the breech cloth, danced
monotonously back and forth, while an old man blew an equally monotonous
tune on a whistle made of the bone of an eagle.

Phil, lying close in his covert, watched with absorbed eyes, and with
mind and vision alike quick and keen, he took in every detail. The
warriors were tall men, with intelligent faces, aquiline noses, thin
lips, black eyes and hair, and but little beard. The hair grew very
long, as they never cut it, and in many cases it was ornamented with
bright beads and little pieces of silver. They wore deerskin leggins or
moccasins, and a cloth of some bright color, bought from American
Mexican traders, wrapped around the loins. The body from the loin cloth
upward was naked, but in winter was covered with a buffalo robe. The
women were physically very much inferior to the men. They were short
and with crooked legs. Moreover, they wore their hair cut close, being
compelled to do so by tribal law, the long-haired Comanche men and the
short-haired Comanche women thus reversing the custom of civilization.
Both men and women wore amulets. The Comanches, like most Indian
tribes, were great believers in dreams, and the amulets were supposed to
protect them from such as were bad.

Phil’s roving eye lighted upon a small frame structure built of slight
poles, the only one in the village not of hides. Such a building was
always to be found in every Comanche village, but he did not know until
later that it was a combined medicine lodge and vapor bath house. It was
spherical in shape, and securely covered with buffalo hides. When a
warrior fell seriously ill, he was seated in this lodge, beside several
heated stone ovens, on which water was thrown in profusion. Then, while
a dense, hot vapor arose, the shaman, or medicine man, practiced
incantations, while men outside made music on whistles or the Indian
drums. The hot bath was often effective, but the Comanche ascribed at
least a part of the cure to the medicine man’s incantations. Young
Comanche men, also, often took a vapor bath before going on the war
path, thinking that it had power to protect them from wounds.

Then Philip saw to the right a far larger building than that of the
vapor bath, although it was made of dressed skins with just enough poles
to support it. This was the medicine lodge of the Comanche village, a
building used for important purposes, some of which Phil was to learn
soon.

The boy did not doubt that his comrade had been taken, and, unless
killed, was even now a captive in the Comanche village. He might be
held in that huge medicine lodge, and the boy’s resolution strengthened
to the temper of steel. He could not go back to the train without Bill
Breakstone; so he would rescue him. He did not yet have any idea how,
but he would find a way. There were depths of courage in his nature of
which he himself did not know, and springing from this courage was the
belief that he would succeed.

While he yet lay in the covert he saw a band of Indians, about a dozen
in number, riding up the valley. They were apparently visitors, but they
were welcomed with loud cries. The leader of the band, a large man with
brilliant feathers in his hair, replied with a shout. I Then a horseman
rode forth to meet him. Even at the distance Phil recognized the
horseman as Black Panther. He, too, was arrayed in his finest, and, as a
great crowd gathered, the two chiefs slowly approached each other. When
their horses were side by side, Black Panther leaned over in his saddle,
put his head on the other’s shoulder, clasped his arms around his chest,
and gave him a tremendous squeeze. The stranger returned the salute in
kind, and then the two, amid great shouts of approval, rode among the
lodges, disappearing from Phil’s sight.

Phil watched awhile longer, but he saw nothing except the ordinary life
of the village. Then he went back to the glen in which the horses were
tethered. They were still grazing, and Bill Breakstone had not
returned. Phil led them down to a little brook, let them drink, and
then, after some thought, took off the lariats, coiled them around the
saddles, and turned the animals loose. He believed they would stay in
the glen or near it, as the pasturage was good, and the water plentiful,
and that they could be found when needed.

Having attended to the horses, he returned to the edge of the forest and
sat himself down to think out the plan of his great adventure.

It was his intention to enter the Comanche village without detection,
and, hard as such a task seemed to him, it was even harder in reality.
No race more wary than the Comanches ever lived. Besides the boys who
habitually watched the ponies, they had regular details of warriors as
herdsmen. Other details served as sentries about the village, and the
adjacent heights were always occupied by scouts. All these guards were
maintained night and day. Phil could see some of them now patrolling,
and, knowing that any attempt of his would be impossible in the
daylight, he waited patiently for night. He had with him enough food to
last for a day or two, and, choosing a place in the dense covert, he lay
down. He called up now all the wilderness lore of Breakstone, Arenberg,
Middleton, and the others in the train. He knew that he must restrain
all impulsiveness until the appointed time, and that he must lie without
motion lest the keen eyes of wandering warriors should see the bushes
above him moving in a direction other than that of the wind. He also
laid his rifle parallel with his body, in the position in which it could
be used most quickly, and loaded the pistol. It was hardest of all to
lie perfectly still. He wished to turn over, to crawl to a new place,
and his bones fairly ached, but he restrained himself. Naturally a youth
of strength and determination, his mind took the mastery over his body,
and held it fast and motionless among the bushes.

It was well that he controlled himself so completely. Indians came near
the edge of the woods, and once some boys passed, driving a herd of
ponies. But he crouched a little closer, and they went on. The day was
fearfully long. The high sun poured down a shower of vertical beams
that reached him even in the shelter of the bushes. The perspiration
stood out on his brow, and his collar clung to his neck. He envied the
freedom of the Comanches in the villages and the easy way in which they
went about the pleasure of savage life. More warriors, evidently
hunters, came in. Some bore portions of the buffalo, and others were
loaded with wild turkeys.

In these hard hours the boy learned much. He had passed safely through
battle. But there one was borne up by the thrill and excitement of the
charge, the firing and shouting and the comradeship of his fellows.
Here he was alone, silent and waiting. Enduring such as that, his will
achieved new powers. A single day saw the mental growth of a year or
two.

The sun passed the zenith and crept slowly down the western heavens.
Welcome shadows appeared in the east, and the far lodges of the
Comanches grew misty. Phil thought now that the village would sink into
quiet, but he noticed instead a great bustle, and many people going
about. Squaws bore torches which made a bright core of flame in the
increasing dusk, and Phil was quite sure now that something unusual was
going to occur. It seemed to him that the whole population of the
village was gathering about the great medicine lodge. It must be the
beginning of some important ceremony, and the time to enter the Comanche
village was propitious. He inferred that on such an occasion the guard
would be relaxed, at least in part, and as he heard the sound of
hundreds of voices chanting monotonously he prepared for his great
adventure.

The twilight faded, and the night came in its place, thick and dark.
The sound of many voices, some singing, some talking, came clearly
through the crisp, dry air. The core of light before the medicine lodge
increased, and, by its radiance, he saw dusky figures hastening toward
it to join the great group gathered there.

Phil took off his cap and hid it in the bushes. He would be bareheaded
like the Comanches, wishing to look as much like them as possible.
Fortunately his hair had grown somewhat long, and his face was deeply
tanned. Once he thought of stripping to the waist in Comanche fashion,
but his body, protected from the sun, was white, and he would be
detected instantly.

He spent a little time flexing and stretching his muscles, because, when
he first rose to his feet, he could scarcely stand, and the blood,
choked up in the arteries and veins, tingled for lack of circulation.
But the stiffness and pain soon departed, and he felt stronger than ever
before in his life. Then he started.

He advanced boldly into the plain, bent very low, stopping at times to
look and listen, and, also, to rest himself. More than once he lay flat
upon the ground and allowed his muscles to relax. Once he saw upon his
right two Indian warriors standing upon a knoll. They were a part of
the night guard, and their figures were outlined duskily against the
dusky sky. Their faces were not disclosed. But Phil knew that they
were watching--watching with all the effectiveness of eye and ear for
which the Indian is famous. At this point he crawled, and, in his
crawling, he was so nearly flat upon his stomach that his advance was
more like a serpent’s than that of anything else.

He left the patrol behind, and then he saw another on his left, and much
nearer to him, two more warriors, who did not occupy any knoll, but who
merely walked back and forth on the flat plain. They were between him
and the great fire, and he saw them very distinctly, tall men of light
copper color, with high cheek-bones and long black hair. Both were
armed with rifles, of which the Comanches were beginning to obtain a
supply, and their faces in the glow of the firelight seemed very savage
and very cruel to Phil. Now he flattened himself out entirely, and
moved forward in a slow series of writhings, until he had passed them.
There was an icy rim around his heart until he left these two behind,
but when they were gone in the darkness his courage leaped up anew.

He now reached the eastern end of the village and crept among the
lodges. They were all deserted. Their occupants had gone to witness
the ceremony that was now at hand, whatever it might be. Not a woman,
not a child was left. Phil stood up straight, and it was an immense
relief to him to do so. It was a relief to the spirit as well as the
body. He felt like a human being again, and not some creeping animal, a
human being who stands upon his two feet, a human being who has a brain
with which he thinks before he acts. It was strange, but this mere
physical change gave him a further supply of courage and hope, as if he
had already achieved his victory.

He passed between two lodges and saw a gleam beyond. It was the surface
of the wide but shallow creek, showing through the dusk. The banks were
five or six feet high, and there was a broad bed of sand extending on
either side of the water.

Phil glanced up the stream, and saw that it flowed very close to the
medicine lodge. An idea sprang up at once in his alert brain. Here was
his line of approach. He dropped softly down the bank, taking his chance
of quicksand, but finding instead that it was fairly firm to the feet.
Then, hugging the bank, he advanced with noiseless tread toward the
medicine lodge. Chance and his own quick mind served him well. His
feet did not sink more than a few inches in the sand, and the bank
continued at its uniform height of about six feet. He continued slowly,
pausing on occasion to listen, because he could see nothing in the
village. But occasional stray beams from the fires, passing over his
head, fell upon the creek, lingering there for a moment or two in a red
glow. Above him on the bank, but some distance back, the fires seemed to
grow, and the monotonous beat of the singing grew louder. Phil knew
that he was now very near the medicine lodge, and he paused a little
longer than usual, leaning hard against the sandy bank with a sort of
involuntary impulse, as if he would press his body into it to escape
observation.

He looked up and saw two or three boughs projecting over the bank. Then
the medicine lodge was some distance away, perhaps fifteen or twenty
yards, and, therefore, the adventure would increase in peril! Another
glance at the boughs reassured him. Perhaps there was a little grove
between the creek and the medicine lodge, and it would afford him
hiding! The largest of the boughs, amply able to support his weight,
was not more than three or four feet above the bank, and, climbing
cautiously the sandy slope, he grasped it and drew himself up. Then he
slid along it until he came to the crotch of the tree, where he
crouched, holding his rifle in one hand.

He was right in his surmise about the grove, although it was narrower
than he had supposed, not more than seven or eight yards across at the
utmost. But the trees were oak, heavy-limbed and heavy-trunked, and
they grew close together. Nevertheless, the light from some of the
fires showed through them, and at one side loomed the dark mass of the
medicine lodge. As nearly as he could see, it was built directly
against some of the trees. He crawled from his tree to the one next to
it, and then to a third. There he stopped, and a violent fit of
shuddering seized him. The trees were occupied already.

On boughs so near that he could touch them rested a platform of poles
about eight feet long and four feet wide. The poles were tied tightly
together with rawhide thongs, and over them were spread leaves, grass,
and small boughs. Upon these couches rested two long figures wrapped
tightly in buffalo hide. They were the bodies of the dead. Farther on
were other platforms and other bodies. Phil knew what the dark objects
were. He had read and heard too much about Indian life to be mistaken,
and, despite his power of will over self, he shuddered again and again.
He surmised that these might be temporary burial platforms, as they were
usually put in isolated places away from the village, but here they
were, and now it occurred to him that their presence would be to his
advantage. Superstition is strong among the Comanches, and they would
not walk under the trees that supported the burial platforms on their
boughs.

He advanced from bough to bough until he came directly against the skin
walls of the great medicine lodge. There he lay along a strong and
horizontal bough with his body pressed close to the wall, and a human
eye ten feet away would not have seen him. Just above Phil’s head was a
place where two of the buffalo hides had not been sewn closely together,
and the light from within shone out. He raised his head, widened the
place with his knife, and looked down into the medicine lodge.

The boy beheld an extraordinary scene. From the roof of the lodge hung
a joss or image, with the profile of a man, rudely carved from a split
log. One side of the face was painted white, and the other black.
Beneath it was a circular space about twenty feet in diameter, roped off
and surrounded by a great crowd of people. Old squaws held aloft
torches of pine or other wood that cast a ruddy light over eager and
intense faces.

A great medicine dance was about to be held; and now the shaman, or
chief medicine man, an old, dark Indian named Okapa, who for the present
took precedence over both Black Panther and his visitor, who was the
great chief Santana, was preparing to begin. Phil could see Okapa
clearly as he stood alone in the center of the cleared circular space,
carrying in his hands a short, carved stick, like a baton. It is hard
to judge an Indian’s age, but Phil Bedford believed that this man must
be at least seventy. Nevertheless, despite his deeply lined and seamed
face, he was erect and strong. But it was, a cruel face, with thin,
compressed lips, a large hooked nose, and jet black eyes that smoldered
with dark fire. It was a face to inspire fear, and it was all the more
ominous when the light of many torches fell upon it, tinting it a deeper
and darker red.

Okapa raised his hand. Save for the tense breathing of the multitude
there was silence in the lodge. Phil, forgetful of all danger, pressed
more closely against the buffalo skin to see.

CHAPTER VI

THE MEDICINE LODGE

Okapa uttered a name. A young warrior, bare to the waist, stepped
forward, entering the circular space within the ropes. He called a
second name, and a second warrior responded in like manner, then a third
and fourth, and so on until his list was complete with twelve. These
were to be the dancers. One was chosen for every one hundred
persons--men, women, and children--in the band. Therefore, this village
had a population of twelve hundred.

The dancers, all young men, stood close together, awaiting the signal.
They had been taking strange compounds, like drugs, that the Indians
make from plants, and their eyes were shining with wild light. Their
bodies already moved in short, convulsive jerks. Any dancer who did not
respond to his name would have been disgraced for life.

After a few moments Okapa called six more names, with a short delay
after every one. Six powerful warriors, fully armed with rifle,
tomahawk, and knife, responded, and took their position beside the
ropes, but outside the ring. They were the guard, and the guard was
always half the number of the dancers.

Now the breathing of the multitude became more intense and heavy, like a
great murmur, and Okapa handed to every one of the dancers a small
whistle made of wood or bone, in the lower end of which was fastened a
single tail feather of the chaparral cock or road runner, known to the
Indians as the medicine bird. The dancers put the little whistles in
their mouths, then the shaman arranged them in a circle facing the
center. The crowd in the medicine lodge now pressed forward, uttering
short gasps of excitement, but the guards kept them back from the ropes.

To the boy at the slit between the buffalo skins it was wild, unreal,
and fantastic beyond degree, some strange, mysterious ceremony out of an
old world that had passed. He saw the bare chests of the warriors rising
and falling, the women as eager as the men, a great mass of light
coppery faces, all intense and bent forward to see better. He knew that
the air in the medicine lodge was heavy, and that its fumes were
exciting, like those of gunpowder. Parallel with the dancers, and
exactly in the center of their circle, hung the hideously carved and
painted joss or wooden image. The twelve looked fixedly at it.

The shaman, standing on one side but within the circle, uttered a short,
sharp cry. Instantly the twelve dancers began to blow shrilly and
continuously upon their whistles, and they moved slowly in a circle
around and around toward the right, their eyes always fixed upon the
joss. The multitude broke into a wild chant, keeping time to the
whistles, and around and around the dancers went. The shaman, stark
naked, his whole body painted in symbols and hieroglyphics, never ceased
to watch them. To Philip’s eyes he became at once the figure of
Mephistopheles.

It was difficult for Phil afterward to account for the influence this
scene had over him. He was not within the medicine lodge. Where he lay
outside the fresh cool air of the night blew over him. But he was
unconscious of it. He saw only the savage phantasmagoria within, and by
and by he began to have some touch of the feeling that animated the
dancers and the crowd. An hour, two hours went by. Not one of the men
had ceased for an instant to blow upon his whistle, nor to move slowly
around and around the wooden image, always to the right. The dance,
like the music, was monotonous, merely a sort of leaping motion, but no
warrior staggered. He kept his even place in the living circle, and on
and on they went. Perspiration appeared on their faces and gleamed on
their naked bodies. Their eyes, wild and fanatical, showed souls
steeped in superstition and the intoxication of the dance.

Many of those in the crowd shared in the fierce paroxysm of the hour,
and pressed forward upon the ropes, as if to join the dancers, but the
armed guard thrust them back. The dancers, their eyes fixed on the
joss, continued, apparently intending to go around the circle forever.
The air in the lodge, heavy with dust and the odors of oil and paint and
human beings, would have been intolerable to one just coming from the
outside, but it only excited those within all the more.

Phil’s muscles stiffened as he lay on the bough, but his position
against one of the wooden scantlings that held the buffalo skins in
place was easy, and he did not stir. His eyes were always at the slit
and he became oppressed with a strange curiosity. How long could the
men maintain the dancing and singing? He was conscious that quite a
long time had passed, three or four hours, but there was yet no
faltering. Nor did the chant of the crowd cease. Their song, as Phil
learned later, ran something like this:

"The Comanche goes forth to war,
His arrow and bow he takes,
The shaman’s blessing is on his head.
His eye is keen and his arm is strong;
He rides the plain like the wind;
His spirit is hot as the touch of fire.
The foeman fights but his strength fails;
His scalp hangs at the Comanche’s belt."

There were four or five verses of this, but as soon as they were all
sung, the singers went back to the beginning and sang them again and
again in endless repetition, while the twelve little whistles shrilled
out their piercing accompaniment. The wind began to blow outside, but
Phil did not feel it. Heavy clouds and vapors were drifting past, but
he did not notice them, either. Would this incantation, for now it was
nothing else, go on forever? Certainly the shaman, naked and hideously
painted, presided with undiminished zest at this dance of the imps. He
moved now and then about the circle of dancers, noting them sharply, his
eye ready for any sign of wavering, whether of the spirit or the body.

Phil observed presently some shifting in the crowd of spectators, and
then a new face appeared in the copper-colored mass. It was the face of
a white man, and with a little start the boy recognized it as that of
Bill Breakstone. It may seem singular, but he felt a certain joy at
seeing him there. He had felt sure all the while that Breakstone was a
prisoner, and now he had found him. Certainly he was in the midst of
enemies. Nevertheless, the boy had gone a step forward in his search.

Breakstone was not bound--there was no need of it, a single white man in
such a crowd--and Phil thought he could see pallor showing through his
tan, but the captive bore himself bravely. Evidently he was brought
forward as a trophy, as the chant was broken for a moment or two, and a
great shout went up when he approached, except from the dancers, who
circled on and on, blowing their whistles, without ceasing. Okapa
walked over to Breakstone and brandished a tomahawk before his face,
making the sharp blade whistle in front of his nose and then beside
either cheek. Phil held his breath, but Bill Breakstone folded his arms
and stood immovable, looking the ferocious shaman squarely in the face.
It was at once the best thing and the hardest thing to do, never to
flinch while a razor edge of steel flashed so close to one’s face that
it felt cold as it passed.

Two or three minutes of such amusement satisfied the shaman, and, going
back inside the ropes, he turned his attention again to the dancers. It
was now much past midnight, and the slenderest and youngest of the
warriors was beginning to show some signs of weakness. The shaman
watched him keenly. He would last a long time yet, and if he gave up it
would not occur until he fell unconscious. Then he would be dragged
out, water would be thrown over him, and, when he recovered, he would be
compelled to resume dancing if the shaman ordered it. Sometimes the
dancers died of exhaustion. It was well to be in the good graces of the
shaman.

But Phil was now watching Bill Breakstone, who was pressing back in the
crowd, getting as far as possible from the ropes that enclosed the
dancers. Once or twice he saw Breakstone’s face, and it seemed to him
that he read there an intention, a summoning of his faculties and
resolution for some great attempt. The mind of a man at such a time
could hold only one purpose, and that would be the desire to escape.
Yet he could not escape single-handed, despite the absorption of the
Comanches in the medicine dance. There was only one door to the great
lodge, and it was guarded. But Phil was there. He felt that the hand of
Providence itself had sent him at this critical moment, and that Bill
Breakstone, with his help, might escape.

He watched for a long time. It must have been three or four o’clock in
the morning. The whistling, shrill, penetrating, now and then getting
horribly upon his nerves, still went on. The wavering warrior seemed to
have got his second wind, and around and around the warriors went, their
eyes fixed steadily upon the hideous wooden face of the joss. Phil
believed that it must be alive to them now. It was alive to him even
with its ghastly cheek of black and its ghastly cheek of white, and its
thick, red lips, grinning down at the fearful strain that was put upon
men for its sake.

Phil’s eyes again sought Breakstone. The captive had now pushed himself
back against the buffalo skin wall and stood there, as if he had reached
the end of his effort. He, too, was now watching the dancers. Phil
noted his position, with his shoulder against one of the wooden pieces
that supported the buffalo hide, and the lad now saw the way. Courage,
resolution, and endurance had brought him to the second step on the
stairway of success.

Phil sat on the bough and stretched his limbs again and again to bring
back the circulation. Then he became conscious of something that he had
not noticed before in his absorption. It was raining lightly. Drops
fell from the boughs and leaves, but his rifle, sheltered against his
coat, was dry, and the rain might serve the useful purpose of hiding the
traces of footsteps from trailers so skilled as the Comanches.

He dropped to the ground and moved softly by the side of the lodge,
which was circular in shape, until he came to the point at which he
believed Bill Breakstone rested. There was the wooden scantling, and,
unless he had made a great mistake, the shoulder of the captive was
pressed against the buffalo hide on the left of it. He deliberated a
moment or two, but he knew that he must take a risk, a big risk. No
success was possible without it, and he drew forth his hunting-knife.
Phil was proud of this hunting-knife. It was long, and large of blade,
and keen of edge. He carried it in a leather scabbard, and he had used
it but little. He put the sharp point against the buffalo hide at a
place about the height of a man, and next to the scantling on the left.
Then he pressed upon the blade, and endeavored to cut through the skin.
It was no easy task. Buffalo hide is heavy and tough, but he gradually
made a small slit, without noise, and then, resting his hand and arm,
looked through it.

Phil saw little definite, only a confused mass of heads and bodies, the
light of torches gleaming beyond them, and close by, almost against his
eyes, a thatch of hair. That hair was brown and curling slightly, such
hair as never grew on the head of an Indian. It could clothe the head
of Bill Breakstone and none other. Phil’s heart throbbed once more.
Courage and decision had won again. He put his mouth to the slit and
whispered softly:

"Bill! Bill! Don’t move! It is I, Phil Bedford!"

The thatch of brown hair, curling slightly at the ends, turned gently,
and back came the whisper, so soft that it could not have been heard
more than a foot away:

"Phil, good old Phil! You’ve come for me! I might have known it!"

"Are they still looking at the dance?"

"Yes, they can’t keep their eyes off it."

"Then now is your only chance. You must get out of this medicine lodge,
and I will help you. I’m going to cut through the buffalo hide low
down, then you must stoop and push your way out at the slash, when
they’re not looking."

"All right," said Bill Breakstone, and Phil detected the thrill of joy
in his tone. Phil stooped and bearing hard upon the knife, cut a slash
through the hide from the height of his waist to the ground.

"Now, Bill," he whispered, "when you think the time has come, press
through."

"All right," again came the answer with that leaping tone in it.

Phil put the knife back in its scabbard, and, pressing closely against
the hide beside the slash, waited. Bill did not come. A minute,
another, and a third passed. He heard the monotonous whistling, the
steady chant, and the ceaseless beat of the dancer’s feet, but
Breakstone made no sound. Once more he pressed his lips to the slit,
and said in the softest of tones:

"Are you coming, Bill?"

No answer, and again he waited interminable minutes. Then the lips of
the buffalo skin parted, and a shoulder appeared at the opening. It was
thrust farther, and a head and face, the head and face of Bill
Breakstone, followed. Then he slipped entirely out, and the tough
buffalo hide closed up behind him. Phil seized his hand, and the two
palms closed in a strong grasp.

"I had to wait until nobody was looking my way," whispered Breakstone,
"and then it was necessary to make it a kind of sleight-of-hand
performance. I slipped through so quick that any one looking could only
see the place where I had been."

Then he added in tones of irrepressible admiration:

"It was well done, it was nobly done, it was grandly done, Sir Philip of
the Night and the Knife."

"Hark to that!" said Phil, "they miss you already!"

A shout, sharp, shrill, wholly different from all the other sounds, came
from within the great medicine lodge. It was the signal of alarm. It
was not repeated, and the whistling and wailing went on, but Phil and
Breakstone knew that warriors would be out in an instant, seeking the
lost captive.

"We must run for it," whispered Breakstone, as they stood among the
trees.

"It’s too late," said Phil. Warriors with torches had already appeared
at either end of the grove, but the light did not yet reach where the
two stood in the thick darkness, with the gentle rain sifting through
the leaves upon them. Phil saw no chance to escape, because the light
of the torches reached into the river bed, and then, like lightning, the
idea came to him.

"Look over your head, Bill," he said. "You stand under an Indian
platform for the dead, and I under another! Jump up on yours and lie
down between the mummies, and I’ll do the same here. Take this pistol
for the last crisis, if it should come!"

He thrust his pistol into his companion’s hand, seized a bough, and drew
himself up. Bill Breakstone was quick of comprehension, and in an
instant he did likewise. Two bodies tightly wrapped in deerskin were
about three feet apart, and Phil, not without a shudder, lay down
between them. Bill Breakstone on his platform did the same. They were
completely hidden, but the soft rain seeped through the trees and fell
upon their faces. Phil stretched his rifle by his side and scarcely
breathed.

The medicine dance continued unbroken inside. Okapa, greatest shaman of
the Comanches, still stood in the ring watching the circling twelve.
The symbols and hieroglyphics painted on his naked body gleamed ruddily
in the light of the torches, but the war chief, Black Panther, and the
other great war chief, Santana, had gone forth with many good warriors.
The single cry had warned them. Sharp eyes had quickly detected the
slit in the wall of buffalo skin, and even the littlest Indian boy knew
that this was the door by which the captive had passed. He knew, too,
that he must have had a confederate who had helped from the outside, but
the warriors were sure that they could yet retake the captive and his
friend also.

Black Panther, Santana, and a dozen warriors, some carrying torches,
rushed into the grove. They ran by the side of the medicine lodge until
they came to the slit. There they stopped and examined it, pulling it
open widely. They noticed the powerful slash of the knife that had cut
through the tough buffalo hide four feet to the ground. Then they knelt
down and examined the ground for traces of footsteps. But the rain, the
beneficent, intervening rain, had done its work. It had pushed down the
grass with gentle insistence and flooded the ground until nothing was
left from which the keenest Comanche could derive a clue. They ran
about like dogs in the brake, seeking the scent, but they found nothing.
Warriors from the river had reported, also, that they saw nobody.

It was marvelous, incomprehensible, this sudden vanishing of the captive
and his friend, and the two chiefs were troubled. They glanced up at
the dark platforms of the dead and shivered a little. Perhaps the
spirits of those who had passed were not favorable to them. It was well
that Okapa made medicine within to avert disaster from the tribe. But
Black Panther and Santana were brave men, else they would not have been
great chiefs, and they still searched in this grove, which was more or
less sacred, examining behind every tree, prowling among the bushes, and
searching the grass again and again for footsteps.

Phil lay flat upon his back, and those moments were as vivid in his
memory years afterward as if they were passing again. Either elbow
almost touched the shrouded form of some warrior who had lived intensely
in his time. They did not inspire any terror in him now. His enemies
alive, they had become, through no will of their own, his protectors
dead. He did not dare even to turn on his side for fear of making a
noise that might be heard by the keen watchers below. He merely looked
up at the heavens, which were somber, full of drifting clouds, and
without stars or moon. The rain was gradually soaking through his
clothing, and now and then drops struck him in the eyes, but he did not
notice them.

He heard the Comanches walking about beneath him, and the guttural notes
of their words that he did not understand, but he knew that neither he
nor Bill Breakstone could expect much mercy if they were found. After
one escape they would be lucky if they met quick death and not torture
at the hands of the Comanches. He saw now and then the reflection of the
torch-lights high up on the walls of the medicine lodge, but generally
he saw only the clouds and vapors above him.

Despite the voices and footsteps, Phil felt that they would not be seen.
No one would ever think of looking in such places for him and
Breakstone. But the wait was terribly long, and the suspense was an
acute physical strain. He felt his breath growing shorter, and the
strength seemed to depart from his arms and legs. He was glad that he
was lying down, as it would have been hard to stand upon one’s feet and
wait, helpless and in silence, while one’s fate was being decided.
There was even a fear lest his breathing should turn to a gasp, and be
heard by those ruthless searchers, the Comanches. Then he fell to
calculating how long it would be until dawn. The night could not last
more than two or three hours longer, and if they were compelled to
remain there until day, the chance of being seen by the Comanches would
become tenfold greater.

He longed, also, to see or hear his comrade who lay not ten feet away,
but he dared not try the lowest of whispers. If he turned a little on
his side to see, the mummy of some famous Comanche would shut out the
view; so he remained perfectly still, which was the wisest thing to do,
and waited through interminable time. The rain still dripped through
the foliage, and by and by the wind rose, the rain increasing with it.
The wet leaves matted together, but above wind and rain came the sound
from the medicine lodge, that ceaseless whistling and beating of the
dancers’ feet. He wondered when it would stop. He did not know that
Comanche warriors had been known to go around and around in their dance
three days and three nights, without stopping for a moment, and without
food or water.

After a long silence without, he heard the Comanches moving again
through the grove, and the reflection from the flare of a torch struck
high on the wall of the medicine lodge. They had come back for a second
search! He felt for a few moments a great apprehension lest they invade
the platforms themselves, but this thought was quickly succeeded by
confidence in the invisibility of Breakstone and himself, and the
superstition of the Indians.

The tread of the Comanches and their occasional talk died away, the
lights disappeared from the creek bed, and the regions, outside the
medicine lodge and the other lodges, were left to the darkness and the
rain. Phil felt deep satisfaction, but he yet remained motionless and
silent. He longed to call to Breakstone, but he dreaded lest he might
do something rash. Bill Breakstone was older than he, and had spent
many years in the wilderness. It was for him to act first. Phil,
despite an overwhelming desire to move and to speak, held himself rigid
and voiceless. In a half hour came the soft, whispering question:

"Phil, are you there?"

It was Breakstone from the next tree, and never was sound more welcome.
He raised himself a little, and drops of rain fell from his face.

"Yes, I’m here, Bill, but I’m mighty anxious to move," he replied in the
same low tone.

"I’m tired of having my home in a graveyard, too," said Bill Breakstone,
"though I’ll own that for the time and circumstances it was about the
best home that could be found this wide world over. It won’t be more
than an hour till day, Phil, and if we make the break at all we must
make it now."

"I’m with you," said Phil. "The sooner we start, the better it will
please me."

"Better stretch yourself first about twenty times," said Bill
Breakstone. "Lying so long in one position with the rain coming down on
top of you may stiffen you up quite a lot."

Phil obeyed, flexing himself thoroughly. He sat up and gently touched
the mummy on either side of him. He had no awe, no fear of these dead
warriors. They had served him well. Then, swinging from a bough, he
dropped lightly to the ground, and he heard the soft noise of some one
alighting near him. The form of Bill Breakstone showed duskily.

"Back from the tombs," came the cheerful whisper. "Phil, you’re the
greatest boy that ever was, and you’ve done a job that the oldest and
boldest scout might envy.

"I was a captive,
The Indians had me;
Phil was adaptive,
Now they’ve lost me.

"I composed that rhyme while I was lying on the death platform up there.
I certainly had plenty of time--and now which way did you come, Phil?"

"Under the shelter of the creek bank. The woods run down to it, and it
is high enough to hide a man."

"Then that is the way we will go, and we will not linger in the going.
Let the Comanches sing and dance if they will. They can enjoy
themselves that way, but we can enjoy ourselves more by running down the
dark bed of a creek."

They slipped among the wet trees and bushes, and silently lowered
themselves down the bank into the sand of the creek bottom. There they
took a parting look at the medicine lodge. It showed through a rift in
the trees, huge and dark, and on either side of it the two saw faint
lights in the village. Above the soft swishing of the rain rose the
steady whistling sound from the lodge, which had never been broken for a
moment, not even by the escape of the prisoner and the search.

"I was never before so glad to tell a place good-by," whispered Bill
Breakstone.

"It’s time to go," said Phil. "I’ll lead the way, as I’ve been over it
once."

He walked swiftly along the sand, keeping well under cover of the bank,
and Bill Breakstone was close behind him. They heard the rain pattering
on the surface of the water, and both were wet through and through, but
joy thrilled in every vein of the two. Bill Breakstone had escaped
death and torture; Phil Bedford, a boy, had rescued him in face of the
impossible, and they certainly had full cause for rejoicing.

"How far down the creek bed do you think we ought to go?" asked
Breakstone.

"A quarter of a mile anyway," replied Phil, "and then we can cut across
the plain and enter the forest."

Everything had been so distinct and vivid that he remembered the very
place at which he had dropped down into the creek bed, when he
approached the medicine lodge, and when he came to it again, he said:
"Here we are," springing up at one bound. Breakstone promptly followed
him. Then a figure appeared in the dusk immediately in front of Phil,
the figure of a tall man, naked save the breech cloth, a great crown of
brightly colored feathers upon his head. It was a Comanche warrior,
probably the last of those returning from the fruitless search for the
captive.

The Comanche uttered the whoop of alarm, and Phil, acting solely on
impulse, struck madly with the butt of his rifle. But he struck true.
The fierce cry was suddenly cut short. The boy, with a shuddering
effect, felt something crush beneath his rifle stock. Then he and Bill
Breakstone leaped over the fallen body and ran with all their might
across the plain toward the woods.

"It was well that you hit so quick and hard," breathed Breakstone, "but
his single yell has alarmed the warriors. Look back, they are getting
ready to pursue."

Phil cast one hurried glance over his shoulder. He saw lights twinkling
among the Comanche lodges, and then he heard a long, deep, full-throated
cry, uttered by perhaps a hundred throats.

"Hark to them!" exclaimed Breakstone. "They know the direction from
which that cry came, and you and I, Phil, will have to make tracks
faster than we ever did before in our lives."

"At any rate, we’ve got a good start," said Phil.

They ran with all speed toward the woods, but behind them and in other
directions they heard presently the beat of hoofs, and both felt a
thrill of alarm.

"They are on their ponies, and they are galloping all over the plain,"
said Bill Breakstone. "Some of them are bound to find us, but you’ve
the rifle, and I’ve the pistol!"

They ran with all their might, but from two or three points the ominous
beat of hoofs came closer. They were devoutly glad now of the rain and
the shadowed moon that hid them from all eyes except those very near.
Both Phil and Breakstone stumbled at intervals, but they would recover
quickly, and continue at undiminished, speed for the woods, which were
now showing in a blacker line against the black sky.

There was a sudden swift beat of hoofs, and two warriors galloped almost
upon them. Both the warriors uttered shouts at sight of the fugitives,
and fired. But in the darkness and hurry they missed. Breakstone fired
in return, and one of the Indians fell from his pony. Phil was about to
fire at the other, but the Comanche made his pony circle so rapidly that
in the faint light he could not get any kind of aim. Then he saw
something dark shoot out from the warrior’s hand and uncoil in the air.
A black, snakelike loop fell over Bill Breakstone’s head, settled down
on his shoulders, and was suddenly drawn taut, as the mustang settled
back on his haunches. Bill Breakstone, caught in the lasso, was thrown
to the ground by the violent jerk, but with the stopping of the horse
came Phil’s chance. He fired promptly, and the Comanche fell from the
saddle. The frightened mustang ran away, just as Breakstone staggered
dizzily to his feet. Phil seized him by the arm.

[Illustration: "A black, snakelike loop fell over Bill Breakstone’s
head"]

"Come, Bill, come!" he cried. "The woods are not thirty yards away!"

"Once more unto the breach, or rather the woods!" exclaimed the
half-unconscious man. "Lead on, Prince Hal, and I follow! That’s
mixed, but I mean well!"

They ran for the protecting woods, Breakstone half supported by Phil,
and behind them they now heard many cries and the tread of many hoofs.
A long, black, snake-like object followed Bill Breakstone, trailing
through the grass and weeds. They had gone half way before Phil noticed
it. Then he snatched out his knife and severed the lasso. It fell
quivering, as if it were a live thing, and lay in a wavy line across the
grass. But the fugitives were now at the edge of the woods, and Bill
Breakstone’s senses came back to him in full.

"Well done again, Sir Philip of the Knife and the Ready Mind," he
whispered. "I now owe two lives to you. I suppose that if I were a cat
I would in the end owe you nine. But suppose we turn off here at an
angle to the right, and then farther on we’ll take another angle. I
think we’re saved. They can’t follow us on horses in these dense woods,
and in all this darkness."

They stepped lightly now, but drew their breaths in deep gasps, their
hearts throbbing painfully, and the blood pounding in their ears. But
they thanked God again for the clouds and the moonless, starless sky.
It could not be long until day, but it would be long enough to save
them.

They went nearly a quarter of a mile to the right, and then they took
another angle, all the while bearing deeper into the hills. From time
to time they heard the war cries of the Comanches coming from different
points, evidently signals to one another, but there was no sound of
footsteps near them.

"Let’s stop and rest a little," said Bill Breakstone. "These woods are
so thick and there is so much undergrowth that they cannot penetrate
here with horses, and, as they know that at least one of us is armed,
they will be a little wary about coming here on foot. They know we’d
fight like tigers to save ourselves. ’Thrice armed is he who hath his
quarrel just,’ and if a man who is trying to save his life hasn’t got a
just quarrel, I don’t know who has. Here’s a good place."

They had come to a great oak which grew by the side of a rock projecting
from a hill. The rain had been gentle, and the little alcove, formed by
the rock above and the great trunk of the tree on one side, was
sheltered and dry. Moreover, it contained many dead leaves of the
preceding autumn, which had been caught there when whirled before the
winds. It was large enough for two, and they crept into it, not
uttering but feeling deep thanks.

CHAPTER VII

THE GREAT SLEEP

When Phil drew the warm leaves about him he felt a mighty sensation of
relief, accompanied by a complete mental and physical relaxation. The
supreme tension of the spirit that had borne him up so long was gone
now, when it was needed no longer, and he uttered a deep sigh of
content. Bill Breakstone put a hand upon his shoulder.

"Phil," he said simply, "I owe you so much that I can’t ever repay it."

"Your chance will come," replied the boy. "You’ll probably do more for
me than I’ve ever done for you."

"We’ll see," said Bill Breakstone. "I’m thinking, Phil, that this is
about the best hiding place we could have found, so we’ll just lie
quiet, as we’ll see the edge of the day inside of half an hour."

The two remained perfectly still. Yet they could hear for awhile their
own strained breathing, and Phil felt his heart constrict painfully
after his long flight. But the breathing of both grew easier. In a
short while it was normal again. Then they saw a touch of gray in the
east, the rain ceased like a dissolving mist, a silver light fell over
the forest, turning presently to gold, and it was day in the east.

Some of the sunbeams entered the thick jungle of forest where they lay,
touching the leaves and grass here and there with gold, but in most
places the shadows still hovered. Phil and Breakstone looked at their
surroundings. They had left no trail in coming there, and the bushes
about them were so dense that even Indian eyes ten feet away could not
have seen them.

The sunlight was deepening. Birds in the trees began to sing. All the
beings of the wilderness, little and big, awoke to life. Trees and
grass dried swiftly under the strong fresh wind. Bill Breakstone
glanced at his youthful comrade.

"Phil," he said, "I’ll take the rifle, and you go to sleep. You’ve had
a harder time than I have, and, when you wake up, I’ll tell you how I
was captured."

"I think I’ll do it, Bill," said the boy, putting his. arm under his
head and closing his eyes. The strain was gone from his nerves now, and
sleep came readily. In three minutes he was oblivious of Comanches and
all else that the world contained. Bill Breakstone could have slept if
he had tried, but he did not try. Under a manner nearly always light
and apparently superficial he concealed a strong nature and much depth
of feeling. It seemed to him that at the last moment a hand had been
stretched out to save him from the worst of fates. It seemed to him,
also, that it must have been a sort of inspiration, the direction of a
supreme will, for Phil to have come to him at such a time. It was a
brave deed, a wonderful deed, and it had been brilliantly successful.

The light was strong, and Bill Breakstone looked down at the boy who was
a younger brother to him now. He saw that the strain upon Phil had been
great. Even while he slept his face was very white, except where
fatigue and suspense had painted it black beneath the eyes. Phil
Bedford had done more than his share, and it was now for him, Bill
Breakstone, to do the rest. He slipped the muzzle of the rifle forward
in order that it might command the mouth of the hollow, and waited. He
would have pulled more leaves and brush before the entrance, but he knew
that any disturbance of nature would attract the eye of a passing
Comanche, and he allowed everything to remain exactly as it had been.

He lay comfortably among the leaves, and for a long time he did not
stir. Phil breathed regularly and easily, and Bill saw that he would be
fully restored when he awoke. Bill himself thought neither of hunger
nor thirst, the tension was too great for that, but he never ceased to
watch the sweep of trees and brush. It was half way toward noon when he
saw some bushes about ten yards in front of him trembling slightly. He
became at once alert and suspicious. He drew himself up in the attitude
of one who is ready for instant action, slipping the muzzle of the rifle
a little farther forward.

The bushes moved again, and something came into view. Bill Breakstone
sank back, and his apprehension departed. It was a timber wolf, gray
and long. A dangerous enough beast, if a man alone and unarmed met a
group of them, but Bill, with the rifle, had no fear. The wolf sniffed
the odor of flesh, sniffed again, knew that it was the odor of human
flesh, and his blood became afraid within him. Bill Breakstone laughed
quietly, but the boy slept placidly on. The incident amused Bill, and,
therefore, it was welcome. It broke the monotony of the long quiet,
and, just when he was laughing noiselessly for the fourth time over the
wolf’s discomfiture, the bushes moved again. Bill, as before, slipped
the muzzle of his rifle farther forward and waited. A slight pungent
odor came to his nostrils. The bushes moved more than before, although
without noise, and a great yellow body came into view. The eyes were
green, the claws sharp and long, and the body lithe and powerful. It was
a splendid specimen of the southwestern puma, a great cat that could
pull down a deer. But Bill Breakstone was still unafraid. He raised
the rifle and aimed it at the puma, although he did not press the
trigger.

"I can kill you, my friend, with a single bullet," he murmured, "but the
report of that rifle would probably bring the Comanches upon us.
Therefore, I will look you down."

The puma paused in doubt and indecision, restlessly moving his tail, and
staring with his great green eyes until they met the gray eyes of the
human creature, looking down the sights of the rifle barrel. That
steady, steel-like gaze troubled the puma. He was large and powerful.
He could have struck down the man at a single blow, but the heart within
that mass of bone and muscle became afraid. The green eyes looked
fearfully into the gray ones, and at last turned aside. The great beast
turned stealthily, and slid into the thicket, at first slowly, and then
in a run, as the terror that he could not see crowded upon his heels.

Bill Breakstone had laughed several times that morning, but now he
laughed with a deep unction.

"I’m proud of myself," he murmured. "It’s something to outlook a
panther, but I don’t know that I’d have looked so straight and hard if I
hadn’t had the rifle ready, in case the eyes failed. Now I wonder who
or what will be the next invader of our premises."

His wonder lasted only until noon, when the sun was poised directly
overhead, and the open spaces were full of its rays. Then, as light as
the beasts themselves had been, two Comanches walked into full view.
Bill Breakstone was as still as ever, but his hand lay upon the trigger
of the rifle.

The Comanches were not a pleasant sight to eyes that did not wish to see
them. They were powerful men, naked save for the waist cloth, their
bodies painted with many strange symbols and figures. Although most of
their tribe were yet armed with bows and arrows, each carried a fine
rifle. Their faces were wary, cunning, and cruel. They were far more
to be dreaded than wolf or panther. Yet Bill Breakstone at that moment
felt but little fear of either. He was upheld by a great stimulus. The
boy who slept so peacefully by his side had saved him in the face of
everything, and, if the time had come, he would do as much for Phil. He
felt himself, with the rifle and pistol, a match for both warriors, and
his breathing was steady and regular.

The warriors stopped and stood in the bush, talking and pointing toward
the east. Bill Breakstone surmised that they were talking about him and
Phil, and it was likely from their pointing fingers that they believed
the fugitives had gone toward the east. As Bill watched them, his
suspense was mingled with a sort of curiosity. Would some instinct warn
them that Phil and he lay not ten yards away? The woods were vast, and
they and all their comrades could not search every spot. Would this be
one of the spots over which they must pass?

It took two minutes to decide the question, and then the warriors walked
on toward the east, their brown bodies disappearing in the foliage.
Bill drew a mighty breath that came from every crevice and cranny of his
lungs. He did not know until then how great his suspense had been. He
sank back a little and let the rifle rest softly on the leaves beside
him. He glanced at Phil. His face was less drawn now, and much of the
color had come back. While Bill awaited the crisis, his finger on the
trigger, the sleeping boy had grown stronger. Bill decided that he would
let him sleep on.

Bill Breakstone had been through much. He, too, began to feel sleepy.
The dangers of animal and man had come and passed, leaving his comrade
and him untouched. His nerves were now subdued and relaxed, and he felt
a great physical and mental peace. The day, too, was one calculated to
soothe. The air was filled with; the mildness of early spring. A
gentle wind blew, and the boughs and bushes rustled together, forming a
sound that was strangely like a song of peace.

But Bill Breakstone was a man watchful, alert, a sentinel full of
strength and resolution. He would not sleep, no, not he, not while so
much depended upon him, yet the song among the leaves was growing
sweeter and gentler all the time. He had never felt such a soothing
quiet in all his life. The complete relaxation after so much danger and
tension was at hand, and it was hard for one to watch the forest and be
troubled about foes who would no longer come. Yet he would remain awake
and keep faithful guard, and, as he murmured his resolution for the
fifth time, his drooping eyelids shut down entirely, and he slept as
soundly as the boy who lay by his side, his chest rising and falling as
he breathed long and regularly.

Phil Bedford and Bill Breakstone slept all that afternoon. It was a
mighty sleep, the great sleep following complete mental and physical
exhaustion, the sleep that comes at such times to strong, healthy
beings, in whom the co-ordination of brain, muscle, and nerve is
complete. By some unconscious method of keeping time they breathed in
perfect unison, and the gentle wind, which all the while was blowing
through the leaves, kept time with them, too. Thus the evening
shortened. Hour by hour dropped into the sandglass of time. The two,
rivals of the ancient seven of famous memory, slept on. Both the wolf
and the puma, driven by curiosity, came back. They crept a little
nearer than before, but not too near. They felt instinctively that the
mighty sleepers, mightily as they slept, could yet be awakened, and the
smell of man contained a quality that was terrifying. So they went
away, and, an hour after they were gone, the same two Comanches, naked
to the waist, painted hideously in many symbols and decorations, and
savage and cruel of countenance, came back in their places. But Bill
Breakstone and Phil lay safe in the leaves under the bank, sleeping
peacefully without dreams. So far as the Comanches were concerned, they
were a thousand miles away, and presently the two warriors disappeared
again in the depths of the forest, this time not to return.

Time went on. The two slept the great sleep so quietly that all the
normal life of the woods about them was resumed. Woodpeckers drummed
upon the sides of the hollow trees, a red bird in a flash of flame shot
among the boughs, quail scuttled in the grass, and a rabbit hopped near.
Midafternoon of a cloudless day came. The sun shot down its most
brilliant beams, the whole forest was luminous with light. The
Comanches ceased their search, confident that the fugitives were gone
now beyond their overtaking, and returned to their villages and other
enterprises, but Breakstone and Phil slept their great sleep.

Twilight came, and they were still sleeping. Neither had stirred an
inch from his place. The little animals that hopped about in the
thickets believed them dead, they were so quiet, and came nearer. Night
came on, thick and dark. An owl in a tree hooted mournfully, and an owl
in another tree a half mile away hooted a mournful answer. Phil and his
comrade did not hear, because they still lay in their great sleep, and
the doings of the world, great or small, did not concern them.

Phil awoke first. It was then about midnight, and so dark in the alcove
that he could not see. His eyes still heavy with sleep and his senses
confused, he sat up. He shook his head once or twice, and recollection
began to come back. Surely the daylight had come when he went to sleep!
And where was Bill Breakstone? He heard a regular breathing, and,
reaching out his hands, touched the figure of his comrade. Both had
slept, and no harm had come to them. That was evident because he also
touched the rifle and pistol, and they would have been the first objects
taken by a creeping enemy. But surely it could not have been a dream
about his going to sleep in the daylight! He remembered very well that
the sun was rising and that there were golden beams on the bushes. Now
it was so dark that he could see only a few faint stars in the sky, and
the bashful rim of a moon. He sat up and gave Bill Breakstone a
vigorous shake.

"Bill," he said, "wake up! It’s night, but what night I don’t know!"

Bill Breakstone yawned tremendously, stretched himself as much as the
narrow space would allow, and then slowly and with dignity sat up. He,
too, was somewhat confused, but he pretended wisdom while he was trying
to collect his senses. The two could barely see each other, and each
felt rather than saw the wonder in the other’s eyes.

"Well," said Bill Breakstone at last, "I’d have you to know, Sir Philip
of the Dream and the Snore, though I can’t prove that you’ve done either
any more than I can prove that I haven’t done both, that we’re the
genuine and true Babes in the Wood, only we’ve waked up. Here we’ve
been asleep, maybe a week, maybe a month, and the pitying little birds
have come and covered us up with leaves, and we’ve been warm and snug,
and the wild animals haven’t eaten us up, and the bad men, that is to
say the Comanches, haven’t found us. How do you feel, Phil?"

"Fine, never better in my life."

"That describes me, also, with beautiful accuracy. We’ll never know,
maybe, how long we’ve slept, whether one day, two days, or three days,
but a good spirit has been watching over us; of that I’m sure.

"Phil and Bill,
To sleep they went;
Phil and Bill
From sleep they came.
Phil and Bill,
They had no tent;
But Phil and Bill,
They are true game.
Phil and Bill,
The leaves, a bed,
Phil and Bill,
They took no ill.
That’s Phil and Bill.

"I don’t think that’s a bad poem, Phil, considering the short time I’ve
had for its composition, and you’ll observe that, with a modesty not
common among poets, I’ve put you first."

"It’s all right for the time," said Phil, "but don’t do it too often.
But, Bill, I’d trade a whole slab of poetry for an equal weight in beef
or venison. I’m beginning to feel terribly hungry."

"I’d make the trade, too," said Bill Breakstone, "and that’s not holding
poetry so cheap, either. It’s pleasant for the Babes in the Wood to
wake up again, but there’s a disadvantage; you’ve got to eat, and to eat
you’ve got to find something that can be eaten. I’m like King Richard,
’A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!’ But I wouldn’t ride that
horse; I’d eat him."

"What time o’ night would you say it is, Bill?"

Bill Breakstone attentively studied the few stars to be seen in the
extremely dusky heavens.

"I’d say it was somewhere between six o’clock in the evening and six
o’clock in the morning, with the emphasis on the ’somewhere.’ I wonder
what’s happened around in these woods since we went to sleep last week,
Phil; but I suppose we’ll never know."

Bill stood up, and with his fingers combed the leaves out of his hair.

"Phil," he said, "I’ll tell you the story of my life for the last day or
two. It doesn’t make a long narrative, but while it was happening it
was tremendously moving to me. When I left you I skipped along through
the edge of the woods and came to the plain. Then I saw the Indian
village and the Indian horses grazing on the meadows. I looked them
over pretty thoroughly, concluded I didn’t like ’em, and started back to
tell you about ’em. I thought I was mighty smart, but I wasn’t smart
enough by half."

"What happened?"

"Just as I turned around to start upon my worthy mission, three large,
unclothed Comanches laid rude hands upon me. I didn’t have much chance,
one against three, and surprise on their side, too. They soon had me by
the neck and heels, and carried me off to their village, where they gave
me the welcome due to a distinguished stranger. Black Panther was
especially effusive. He wanted to know all about me and my friends, if
any, perchance, were near by. It was the same band that had attacked
our wagon train and that was beaten off. Their scouts had warned them
that we were on the other side of the big forest, but they were afraid
to attack again. I gathered from what Black Panther said--he understands
English, and I understand some Comanche--that they believed me to be
lost, strayed, or stolen--that is, I had wandered away in some manner,
or had been left behind. The chief tried to get all sorts of information
out of me, but I didn’t have any to tell. Finding that I was born dumb,
he began to talk about punishments."

"What were they going to do to you, Bill?"

"There was a lot of lurid talk. I say ’lurid’ because I seem to
remember something about flames. Anyway, it was to be unpleasant, and I
suppose if you hadn’t come, Phil, at the right time, I shouldn’t ever
have had the great sleep that I’ve enjoyed so much, at least not that
particular kind of sleep. Phil, it looks to me as if you came when I
called, and I’m not joking, either."

"We’ll put that aside," said Phil, "and hunt something to eat."

"Yes, it’s our first duty to provision this army of two," said Bill
Breakstone, "and I think we can do it. The woods are full of game, but
we’ll have to wait till morning for a shot. As for the Indians hearing
the reports of our rifles, we must take the chance of that, but I don’t
think they’ll roam very far from the village, and we’ll spend the rest
of the night going toward the point where we left the wagon train, which
is directly away from the Comanches. Toward morning we’ll sit down by
the bank of a stream if we can find one, and wait for the game to come
to drink."

"That seems to me to be our best plan," said Phil.

Both had a good idea of direction, and, despite the darkness, they
advanced in a fairly straight line toward the point they sought. But
they found it rough traveling through the thick undergrowth, among
briers and across ravines and gulleys. Meanwhile, old King Hunger,
bristling and fearsome, seized them and rent them with his fangs. There
was no resisting. They must even suffer and stand it as best they
could.

"I think it’s at least a thousand hours until day," said Bill Breakstone
at last. "Do you know, Phil, I’ve got to the point where I’d enjoy one
of those stage banquets that I’ve often had. You don’t really eat
anything. The plates are empty, the glasses are empty, and, empty as
they all are, they’re generally whisked away before you can get a good
long look at them. But there’s something soothing and filling about
them anyway. Maybe it’s an illusion, but if an illusion is of the right
kind, it’s just the right kind of thing that you ought to have."

"An illusion may be all right for you, Bill," returned Phil, "but what
about some of those dinners you can get in New Orleans. Oyster soup,
Bill; fish fresh from the gulf, Bill; nice old Virginia ham, Bill;
stuffed Louisiana: turkey, Bill; a haunch of venison, Bill; fried
chicken, Bill; lamb chops, Bill; and a lot of other things that money
can buy in New Orleans, Bill?"

"If you weren’t my best friend, Phil, and if you hadn’t just saved my
life, I might make an attack upon you with the intent of bodily harm.
You surely make me sour with your talk about the whole provision train
that can be bought in New Orleans with money. Hear that old owl
hooting! He’s just laughing at us. I’d stop and shoot him if we had
light enough for a shot."

"Never mind the owl, Bill," said Phil. "Perhaps when we get that good
juicy deer we’re looking for we can hoot back at him, if we feel like
it."

"That’s so," said Bill, although he said it gloomily.

They advanced in silence another hour, and then Phil, who was a little
in advance, stopped suddenly. He had seen the gleam of water, and he
pointed it out to his comrade.

"A spring," said Bill Breakstone, "and it’s been trampled around the
edges by many hoofs and paws."

He stooped and tasted the water. Then he uttered a mighty sigh of
satisfaction.

"A salt spring, too," he said. "We’re in luck, Phil. I see our
breakfast coming straight toward us at this spring, walking briskly on
four legs. The wild animals always haunt such places, and if we don’t
have savory steaks before the sun is an hour high, then I’m willing to
starve to death. We must find an ambush. Here it is! Luck’s a funny
thing, Phil. It goes right against you for awhile, and nothing seems
able to break it. Then it turns right around and favors you, and no
fool thing that you do seems to change it. But I guess it evens up in
the long run."

They found a dense clump of bushes about twenty yards from the salt
spring, and sat down among them.

"There’s no wind at all," whispered Bill Breakstone, "so I don’t think
that any animal eager for his salt drink will notice us. I’ve got my
heart set on deer, Phil, and deer we must have. Now which of us shall
take the rifle and make the shot? The rifle is yours, you know, and you
have first choice."

But Phil insisted upon the older and more experienced man taking the
weapon, and Breakstone consented. Then they lay quiet, eagerly watching
every side of the spring. The darkness soon thinned away, and the
bushes and trees became luminous in the early morning light.

"Something will come soon," said Breakstone.

They waited a little longer, and then they heard a rustling among the
bushes on the far side of the spring. The bushes moved, and a
black-tailed deer, a splendid buck, stepped into the opening. He paused
to sniff the air, but nothing strange or hostile came to his nostrils.
The deadly figure, crouching in the bushes with the loaded rifle at his
cheek, might have been a thousand miles away, for all the deer knew.

Phil and Bill Breakstone might have admired the deer at another time,
but now other emotions urged them on. The deer stepped down to the
water. Breakstone looked down the sights, and Phil trembled lest he
should miss. He tried to look along the barrel himself and see what spot
Bill had picked out on the animal’s body. Then he watched the
marksman’s finger curl around the trigger and at last press hard upon
it. The flash of flame leaped forth, the report sounded startlingly
loud in the clear morning, and the deer jumped high in the air.

But when the big buck came down he ran into the forest as if he had not
been touched. Phil uttered a gasp of despair, but Bill Breakstone only
laughed.

"Don’t you fret, Phil," he said. "My heart was in my mouth, but my
bullet didn’t miss. He’s hit hard, and we’ve got nothing to do but
follow him by the plain trail he’ll leave. We’ll come to our breakfast
in less than ten minutes."

Phil soon saw that Breakstone was right. The trail on the other side of
the salt spring was plain and red, and presently they found the great
stag in a thicket, lying upon his side, stone dead, Bill Breakstone was
an adept at cleaning and dressing, and soon the ugly work was over.
They always carried matches, and Phil quickly lighted a fire of dry
sticks that burned up rapidly and that soon made a fine heap of glowing
coals.

"Now," said Breakstone, "we’ll cook and eat, then we’ll cook and eat
again, then we’ll cook and eat once more."

"And I don’t care very much whether Comanches heard the rifle shot or
not," said Phil. "It seems to me that when I eat as much as I want I
can whip the whole Comanche nation."

"I feel that way, too," said Bill Breakstone, "but the Comanches didn’t
hear. I know it in my bones. Didn’t I tell you about that streak of
luck? Luck’s coming our way now, and the streak will last for awhile."

They cut long twigs, sharpened them at the ends, and fried over the
coals strips of the deer, which gave out such a rich aroma as they
sputtered that the two could scarcely restrain themselves. Yet they did
it, they remained white men and gentlemen, and did not guzzle.

"Phil," said Bill, before he took a single bite, "I remember about that
dinner in New Orleans you were talking of so long ago. I remember about
those beautiful oysters, those splendid fish from the gulf, the gorgeous
Virginia ham, the magnificent Louisiana turkey; yes, I remember all
those magnificent fripperies and frummeries, but it seems to me if they
were all set down before us, spread on a service of golden plate, they
wouldn’t be finer than what is now awaiting us."

"Bill," said Phil with deep emphasis and unction, "you never spoke truer
words in your life."

"Then lay on, Macduff, and the first who cries ’hold, enough’--well, he
won’t be much of a trencherman."

They fell to. They did not eat greedily, but they ate long and
perseveringly. Strip after strip was fried over the coals, gave out its
savory odor, and disappeared. Phil occasionally replenished the fire,
adding to the bed of coals, but keeping down the smoke. Bill,
stretching his long body on the ground and then propping himself up on
his elbow, concluded that it was a beautiful world.

"Didn’t I tell you our luck would hold for awhile?" he repeated. "Since
we got into the woods, things have come easy. A good bed put itself
right in our way, then a deer walked up and asked to be eaten.

"The deer
It was here.
One shot--
In our pot.

"We haven’t any pot, but you can use things in a metaphorical sense in
order to get your rhyme. That’s what poetry is for."

"I’m beginning to feel satiated," said Phil.

"’Satiated’ is a good word," said Bill Breakstone, "but it isn’t used
much on the plains. Still, I’m beginning to feel that way myself, too,
and I think we’d better begin to consider the future, which is always so
much bigger than the present."

"We must find our horses."

"Of course, and after that we must find the train, which will be our
chief problem. It may be where we left it or it may have gone on,
thinking that we had been killed by some outlying party of Comanches.
But I don’t believe Middleton and Arenberg would move without us. They
may now be somewhere in these woods looking for us."

"Can you figure out the direction of the valley in which we left our
horses?"

Breakstone studied the sun attentively.

"It’s southeast from here," he replied, "and I fancy it’s not more than
three or four miles. Two likely lads like you and me ought to find it
pretty soon, and, nine chances out of ten, the horses will be there.
We’ll take some of the best portions of the deer with us, and start at
once."

They chose the choicest pieces of the meat and started, now strong of
body and light of heart. Phil’s own judgment about the direction agreed
with Breakstone’s, and in less than an hour they saw familiar ground.

"I’m a good prophet to-day," said Breakstone. "I’ve got the gift for a
few hours at least. I predicted truly about the deer, and now I am
going to predict truly about the horses. We’ll have them by the bridle
inside of half an hour."

In fifteen minutes they were in the little valley, in three minutes they
found the horses grazing peacefully, and in two more minutes they caught
them.

"We’ve done the work and with ten minutes to spare," said Bill
Breakstone, triumphantly, "and now, Phil, another wonderful change in
our fortunes has come. If a camel is the ship of the desert, then a
horse is the boat of the plains, the long boat, the jolly boat, the row
boat, and all the rest of them. Now for the wagon train!"

"Now for the wagon train!" repeated Phil.

CHAPTER VIII

NEW ENEMIES

The two were in splendid spirits. They had escaped great dangers, and
they were on horseback once more. It is true, they were somewhat short
on armament, but Breakstone took Phil’s pistol, while the latter kept
the rifle, and they were confident that they could find game enough on
the plains until they overtook the wagon train. The horses themselves
seemed glad of the companionship of their old masters, and went forward
readily and at an easy pace through the woods. They soon found the path
by which they had come, and followed it until they crossed the river and
reached the site of the camp. But the trail toward the plain lay before
them broad and easy.

"They can’t have gone long," said Breakstone. "They may have thought
that we were merely loitering behind for some purpose of our own and
would soon overtake them. A whole train isn’t going to linger about for
two fellows well mounted and well armed who are supposed to know how to
take care of themselves. But, Sir Philip of the Youthful Countenance, I
don’t think that Middleton and Arenberg would go ahead without us."

"Neither do I," said Phil with emphasis. "I as good as know that
they’re looking for us in these woods, and we’ve got to stay behind and
find them, taking the risk of Comanches."

"Wherein I do heartily agree with you, and I’m going to take a chance
right now. It is likely that the two, after fruitless searches for us,
would return here at intervals, and, in a region like this, the sound of
a shot will travel far. Fire the rifle, Phil, and it may bring them.
It’s often used as a signal. If it brings the Comanches instead, we’re
on our horses, and they’re strong and swift."

Phil fired a shot, but there was no response. He waited half an hour
and fired a second time, with the same result. After another half hour,
the third shot was fired, and, four or five minutes later, Breakstone
announced that he heard the tread of hoofs. It was a faint, distant
sound, but Phil, too, heard it, and he was confident that it was made by
hoofs. The two looked at each other, and each read the question in the
other’s eye. Who were coming in reply to the call of that third rifle
shot, red men or white?

"We’ll just draw back a little behind this clump of bushes," said
Breakstone. "We can see a long way through their tops, and not be seen
until the riders come very close. Then, if the visitors to this Forest
of Arden of ours, Sir Philip, are not those whom we wish to see, it’s up
and away with us."

They waited in strained eagerness. The sounds grew louder. It was
certain, moreover, that the riders were coming straight toward the point
at which the rifle had been fired.

"Judging from the hoof beats, how many would you say they are?" asked
Phil.

"Not many. Maybe three or four, certainly not more. But I’m hoping that
it’s two, neither more nor less."

On came the horsemen, the hoofbeats steadily growing louder. Phil rose
in his stirrups and gained a further view. He saw the top of a soft hat
and then the top of another. In a half minute the faces beneath came
into view. He knew them both, and he uttered a cry of joy.

"Middleton and Arenberg!" he exclaimed. "Here they come!"

"Our luck still holds good," said Bill Breakstone. He and Phil galloped
from behind the bushes and shouted as warm a welcome as men ever had.
They received one equally warm in return, as Middleton and the German
urged their horses forward. Then there was a mighty shaking of hands
and mutual congratulations.

"The train left yesterday morning," said Middleton, "but we couldn’t
give you up. We scouted all the way across the forest and saw the
Comanches on the other side. There was nothing to indicate anything
unusual among them, such as a sacrifice of prisoners, and we hoped that
if you had been taken by them you had escaped, and we came back here to
see, knowing that if you were able you would return to this place. We
were right in one part of our guess, because here you are."

"And mighty glad we are to be here," said Bill Breakstone, "and I want
to say to you that I, Bill Breakstone, who may not be of so much
importance to the world, but who is of vast importance to himself, would
not be here at all, or anywhere else, for that matter, if it were not
for this valiant and skillful youth, Sir Philip Bedford, Knight of the
Texas plains."

"Stop, Bill," exclaimed Phil blushing. "Don’t talk that way."

"Talk that way! Of course I will! And I’ll pile it up, too! And after
I pile it up and keep on piling it up, it won’t be the whole truth.
Cap, and you, Hans, old fellow, Phil and I were not taken together,
because Phil was never taken at all. It was I alone who sat still, shut
my eyes, and closed my ears while I let three of the ugliest Comanche
warriors that were ever born walk up, lay violent hands on me, harness
me up in all sorts of thongs and withes, and carry me off to their
village, where they would have had some red sport with me if Phil hadn’t
come, when they were all mad with a great dance, and taken me away."

Then he told the story in detail, and Phil, shy and blushing, was
compelled to receive their compliments, which were many and sincere.
But he insisted that he merely succeeded through good luck, which Bill
Breakstone warmly denied.

"Well, between the two of you, you have certainly got out of it well,"
said Middleton, "and, as we are reunited, we must plan for the next
step. We can easily overtake the train by to-morrow, but I’m of the
opinion that we’ll have to be very careful, and that we must do some
scouting, also. Arenberg and I have discovered that the Comanche
warriors are on the move again. Their whole force of warriors seemed to
be getting ready to leave the village, and they may be planning, after
all, a second attack upon the train, a night surprise, or something of
that kind. We, too, will have to be careful lest we run into them."

"Then it maybe for the good of the train that we were left back here,"
said Phil, "because we will return with a warning."

"It may be the hand of Providence," said Arenberg, "since the Comanches
did no harm where much was intended."

As both Middleton and Arenberg were firmly convinced that the plain
would be thick with Comanche scouts, making their passage by daylight
impossible, or at least extremely hazardous, they decided to remain in
the woods until nightfall. They rode a couple of miles from the camp,
tethered their horses in thick bushes, and, sitting near them, waited
placidly. Phil Breakstone, and Arenberg talked in low tones, but
Middleton sat silent. Phil noticed presently that "The Cap" was
preoccupied. Little lines of thought ran down from his eyes to the
corners of his nose.

Phil began to wonder again about the nature of Middleton’s mission.
Every one of the four was engaged upon some great quest, and none of
them knew the secret of any of the others. Nor, in the rush of events,
had they been left much time to think about such matters.

Now Phil again studied Middleton more closely. There was something in
the unaccustomed lines of his face and his thoughtful eye indicating a
belief that for him, at least, the object of the quest might be drawing
nigh. At least, it seemed so to the boy. He studied, too, Middleton’s
clean cut face, and the sharp line of his strong chin. Phil had noticed
before that this man was uncommonly neat in his personal appearance. It
was a neatness altogether beyond what one usually saw on the plains.
His clothing was always clean and in order, he carried a razor, and he
shaved every day. Nor did he ever walk with a slovenly, lounging gait.

Phil decided that something very uncommon must have sent him with the
Santa Fé train, but he would not ask; he had far too much delicacy to
pry into the secret of another, who did not pry into his own.

Middleton and Arenberg had ample food in their saddlebags and Phil and
Breakstone combined with it their stock of deer meat. Nothing disturbed
them in the thicket, and at nightfall they mounted and rode out into the
plain.

"I know something about this country before us," said Breakstone. "It
runs on in rolling swells for a march of many days, without any streams
except shallow creeks, and without any timber except the fringes of
cottonwoods along these creeks."

"And I know which way to go in order to overtake the train," said
Middleton. "Woodfall said that they would head straight west, and we
are certainly good enough plainsmen to keep our noses pointed that way."

"We are, we surely are," said Bill Breakstone, "but we must keep a good
watch for those Comanche scouts. They hide behind the swells on their
ponies, and they blend so well with the dusky earth that you’d never
notice ’em until they had passed the signal on to others that you were
coming and that it was a good time to form an ambush."

There was a fair sky, with a moon and some clear stars, and they could
see several hundred yards, but beyond that the whole horizon fused into
a dusky wall. They rode at a long, swinging pace, and the hoofs of their
horses made little noise on the new spring turf. The wind of the
plains, which seldom ceases, blew gently in their faces and brought with
it a soft crooning sound. Its note was very pleasant in the ears of
Philip Bedford. In the saddle and with his best friends again, he felt
that he could defy anything. He felt, too, and perhaps the feeling was
due to his physical well-being and recovered safety, that he, also, was
coming nearer to the object of his quest. Involuntarily he put his left
hand on his coat, where the paper which he had read so often lay
securely in a little inside pocket. He knew every word of it by heart,
but when the time came, and he was alone, he would take it out and read
it again. It was this paper that was always calling to him.

They rode on, crossing swell after swell, and, after the first hour, the
four did not talk. It was likely that every one was thinking of his own
secret.

They came about midnight to a prairie creek, a stream of water two or
three yards wide and a few inches deep, flowing in a bed of sand perhaps
fifteen yards across. A thin fringe of low cottonwoods and some willows
grew on either shore. They approached warily, knowing that such a place
offered a good ambush, and realizing that four would not have much
chance against a large Comanche war band.

"But I don’t think there is much danger," said Bill Breakstone. "If the
Comanches are up to mischief again, they’re not looking for stray
parties; their mind is on the train, and, by the way, the train has
passed along here. Look down, and in this moonlight you can see plainly
enough the tracks of a hundred wheels."

"The horses are confident," said Middleton, "and I think we can be so,
too."

The horses were advancing without hesitation, and it soon became evident
that nothing was concealed among the scanty lines of trees and bushes.

"Look out for quicksands," said Arenberg. "It iss not pleasant to be
swallowed up in one of them and feel that you have died such a useless
death."

"There is no danger," said Phil, whose quick eye was following the trail
of the wagons. "Here is where the train crossed, and if the wagons
didn’t sink we won’t."

The water being cold and entirely free from alkali, the horses drank
eagerly, and their riders, also, took the chance to refill their
canteens, which they always carried strapped to their saddle bows. They
also rested awhile, but, when they remounted and rode on, Middleton
noticed a light to the northward. On the plains then, no man would pass
a light without giving it particular attention, and the four sat on
their horses for some minutes studying it closely. They thought at
first that it might be a signal light of the Comanches, but, as it did
not waver, they concluded that it must be a camp fire.

"Now I’m thinking," said Bill Breakstone, "that we oughtn’t to leave a
camp fire burning away here on the plains, and we not knowing anything
about it. It won’t take us long to ride up and inspect it."

"That is a truth," said Middleton. "It is not a difficult matter for
four horsemen to overtake a wagon train, but we’ll first see what that
fire means."

"It iss our duty to do so," said the phlegmatic German.

They rode straight toward the light, and their belief that it was a camp
fire was soon confirmed. They saw the red blaze rising and quivering,
and then dusky figures passing and repassing before it.

"We’re yet too far away to tell exactly what those figures are," said
Bill Breakstone, "but I don’t see any sign of long hair or war bonnets,
and so I take it that they are not Comanches, nor any other kind of
Indians, for that matter. No warriors would build so careless a fire or
wander so carelessly about it.

"They are white men," said Middleton with conviction, as he increased
his horse’s pace. "Ah, I see now! Mexicans! Look at the shadows of
their great conical hats as they pass before the fire."

"Now I wonder what they’re doing here on Texas soil," said Bill
Breakstone.

Middleton did not answer, but Phil noticed that the look in his eyes was
singularly tense and eager. As they drew near the fire, which was a
large one, and the hoof-beats of their horses were heard, two men in
Mexican. dress, tall conical broad-brimmed hats, embroidered coats and
trousers and riding boots, bearing great spurs, came forward to meet
them. Phil saw another figure, which had been lying on a blanket by the
fire, rise and stand at attention. He instantly perceived, even then,
something familiar in the figure.

The four rode boldly forward, and Middleton called out:

"We are friends!"

The two Mexicans who were in advance, rifle in hand, stood irresolutely,
and glanced at the man behind them, who had just risen from his blanket.

"You are welcome," said this man in good English but with a strong
Mexican accent. "We are glad for anybody to share with us our camp fire
in this wilderness. Dismount, Señores."

Then Phil knew him well. It was Pedro de Armijo, the young Mexican whom
he had seen with the Mexican envoy, Zucorra, in New Orleans, one whom he
had instinctively disliked, one whom he was exceedingly astonished to
see at such a time and place. Middleton also recognized him, because he
raised his cap and said politely:

"This is a pleasant meeting. You are Captain Pedro de Armijo, who came
to our capital with His Excellency Don Augustin Xavier Hernando Zucorra
on a mission, intended to be of benefit to both our countries. My name
is Middleton, George Middleton, and these are my friends, Mr.
Breakstone, Mr. Arenberg, and Mr. Bedford."

De Armijo gave every one in turn a quick scrutinizing look, and, with
flowing compliment, bade them welcome to his fireside. It seemed that
he did not remember Middleton, but that he took for granted their former
meeting in Washington. Phil liked him none the more because of the
polite words he used. He was not one to hold prejudice because of race,
but this Mexican had a manner supercilious and conceited that inspired
resentment.

"It seems strange, Señor Middleton," said de Armijo, "that we should
meet again in such a place on these vast plains, so far from a house or
any other human beings, plains that were once Mexican, but which you now
call yours."

De Armijo glided over the last words smoothly, but the blood leaped in
Phil’s temples. Middleton apparently took no notice, but said that he
and his comrades were riding across the plains mainly on an exploring
expedition. As there was some danger from Comanches, they were
traveling partly by night, and, having seen the camp fire, they had come
to investigate it, after the custom of the wilderness.

"And, now that you have found us," said de Armijo with elaborate
courtesy, "I have reason to believe that you would run into Comanche
horsemen a little farther on. They would not harm us Mexicans, with
whom they are at peace, but for you Americans they would have little
mercy. Stay with us for the remainder of the night."

He smiled, showing his white teeth, and Middleton smiled back as he
replied:

"Your courtesy is appreciated, Captain de Armijo. We shall stay. It is
pleasant, too, to welcome a gallant Mexican officer like yourself to
American soil."

The eyes of de Armijo snapped in the firelight, and the white teeth were
bared again. Phil knew that he resented the expression "American soil."
Mexico still maintained a claim to Texas--which it could not make
good--and he felt equally confident that Middleton had used it
purposely. It seemed to him that some sort of duel was in progress
between the two, and he watched it with overwhelming curiosity. But de
Armijo quickly returned to his polite manner.

"You speak the truth," he said. "It is I who am your guest, not you who
are mine. It was Mexican soil once, and before that Spanish--three
centuries under our race--but now gone, I suppose, forever."

Middleton did not reply, but approached the fire and warmed his hands
over the blaze. The night was cold and the flames looked cheerful. The
others tethered their horses, and all except the two who had met the
Americans took their places by the fire. The Mexicans were six in
number. Only de Armijo seemed to be a man of any distinction. The
others, although stalwart and well armed, were evidently of the peon
class. Phil wondered what this little party was doing here, and the
conviction grew upon him that the meeting had something to do with
Middleton’s mission.

"I am sorry," said de Armijo, "that we do not even have a tent to offer
you, but doubtless you are accustomed to sleeping under the open sky,
and the air of these plains is dry and healthy."

"A blanket and a few coals to warm one’s feet are sufficient," said
Middleton. "We will avail ourselves of your courtesy and not keep you
awake any longer."

Both Breakstone and Arenberg glanced at Middleton, but they said
nothing, wrapping themselves in their blankets, and lying down, with
their feet to the fire. Phil did the same, but he thought it a strange
proceeding, this apparently unguarded camping with Mexicans, who at the
best were not friends, with the possibility of Comanches who were, at
all times, the bitterest and most dangerous of enemies. Yet Middleton
must have some good reason, he was not a man to do anything rash or
foolish, and Phil awaited the issue with confidence.

Phil could not sleep. The meeting had stirred him too much, and his
nerves would not relax. He lay before the fire, his feet within a yard
of the coals, and his head in the crook of his arm. Now and then he
heard a horse move or stamp his hoofs, but all the men were silent. De
Armijo, lying on a blanket and with a fine blue cavalry cloak spread
over him, seemed to be asleep, but as he was on the other side of the
fire Phil could not see his eyes. Middleton was nearer, and he saw his
chest rising and falling with the regularity of one who sleeps.

It all seemed very peaceful, very restful. Perhaps de Armijo’s
hospitality was real, and he had wronged him with his suspicions. But
reason with himself as he would, Phil could not overcome his dislike and
distrust. Something was wrong, and something was going to happen, yet
much time passed and nothing happened. De Armijo’s eyes were still
shaded by his cloak, but his long figure lay motionless. Only a few
live coals remained from the fire, and beyond a radius of twenty feet
lay the encircling rim of the darkness. At the line where light and
dark met, crouched the two peons with their rifles across their knees.
It was Phil’s opinion that they, too, slept in this sitting posture.
Surely de Armijo and his men had great confidence in their security, and
must be on the best of terms with the Comanches! If so, it might
increase the safety of the little American party, also, but the boy yet
wondered why Middleton had stopped when they were all so eager to reach
the wagon train and warn it of the new danger.

Phil stirred once or twice, but only to ease his position, and he did it
without noise. His eyes were shaded by the brim of his soft hat, but he
watched the circle about the fire, and most of all he watched de Armijo.
An interminable period of time passed, every second growing to ten times
its proper length. Phil was as wakeful as ever, but so much watching
made the figures about the fire dim and uncertain. They seemed to shift
their places, but the boy was still resolved to keep awake, although
everybody else slept through the night. His premonition was yet with
him, his heart expanded, and his pulse beat faster.

The remaining coals died one by one. The circle of light, already
small, contracted still more, became a point, and then vanished.
Everything now lay in the dark, and the figures were merely blacker
shapes against the blackness. Then, after that long waiting, with every
second and minute drawn out tenfold, Phil’s premonition came true.
Something happened.

De Armijo moved. He moved ever so slightly, but Phil saw him, and,
lying perfectly still himself, he watched him with an absorbed
attention, and a heart that had increased its beating still further. De
Armijo’s body itself had not moved, it was merely one hand that had come
slowly from under the covering of the cloak, and that now lay white
against the blue cloth. A man might move his hand thus in sleep, but it
seemed to Phil that the action was guided by a conscious mind. Intent,
he watched, and presently his reward came. The other hand also slid
from beneath the cloak, and, like its fellow, lay white against the blue
cloth. Now both hands were still, but Phil yet waited, confident that
more would come. It was all very quiet and slow, like the craft and
cunning of the Indian, but Phil was willing to match it with a patience
and craft of his own.

At last the whole figure of de Armijo stirred. Phil saw the blue cloak
tremble slightly. Then the man raised his head ever so little and
looked about the dark circle. Slowly he let the head fall back, and the
figure became still again. But the boy was not deceived. Already every
suspicion had been verified in his mind, and his premonition was proved
absolutely true.

Pedro de Armijo raised himself again, but a little higher this time, and
he did not let his head and body drop back. He looked about the circle
with a gaze that Phil knew must be sharp and scrutinizing, although it
was too dark for him to see the expression of his eyes. The Mexican
seemed satisfied with his second examination, and then, dropping softly
on his hands and knees, he crept toward Middleton. It occurred to Phil
afterward that this approach toward Middleton did not surprise him. In
reality, it was just what he had expected de Armijo to do.

The boy was uncertain about his own course, and, like one under a spell,
he waited. The dusky figure of de Armijo creeping toward Middleton had
a sinuous motion like that of a great snake, and Phil’s hand slipped
down to the hammer of his rifle, but he would not fire. He noticed that
de Armijo had drawn no weapon, and he did not believe that murder was
his intention.

Middleton did not move. He lay easily upon his right side, and Phil
judged that he was in a sound sleep. De Armijo, absorbed in his task,
did not look back. Hence he did not see the boy who rose slowly to a
sitting posture, a ready rifle in his hands.

Phil saw de Armijo reach Middleton’s side and pause there a moment or
two. He still drew no weapon, and this was further proof that murder
was not in the Mexican’s mind, but Phil believed that whatever lay
between these two was now at the edge of the crisis. He saw de Armijo
raise his hand and put it to Middleton’s breast with the evident
intention of opening his coat. So he was a thief! But the fingers
stopped there as Phil leveled his rifle and called sharply:

"Hands up, de Armijo, or I shoot!"

The startled Mexican would have thrown up his hands, but he did not have
time. They were seized in the powerful grasp of Middleton, and he was
pulled downward upon his face.

"Ah, would you, de Armijo!" cried Middleton in exultant tones. "We have
caught you! Good boy, Phil, you were watching, too!"

"All the others were up in an instant, but Breakstone and Arenberg were
too quick for the Mexicans. They covered them with their rifle muzzles
before their antagonists could raise their weapons.

"Throw down every gun and pistol!" said Breakstone sternly. "There, by
the log, and we’ll see what’s going forward!"

Sullenly the Mexicans complied, and then stood in a little huddled
group, looking at their fallen leader, whom Middleton still held upon
the ground, but who was pouring out muffled oaths from a face that was
in the dirt.

"Take his pistols, Phil," said Middleton, and the boy promptly removed
them. Then Middleton released him, and de Armijo sat up, his face black
as night, his heart raging with anger, hate, and humiliation.

"How dare you attack me in my own camp! You whom we received as
guests!" he cried.

"We did not attack you," replied Middleton calmly. He had risen to his
feet, and he towered over the Mexican like an accusing judge. "It is
you who attacked us, or me, rather, and you intended, if you did not get
what you wanted with smooth fingers, to use violence. You cannot deny
that, Captain Pedro de Armijo of the Mexican army; there were at least
two witnesses of your act, Philip Bedford and myself."

De Armijo looked down at the ground, and seemed to commune with himself
for a few moments. Then he stood at his full height, brushed the traces
of dirt from his clothes, and gave Middleton a look of uncompromising
defiance and hostility. All at once it struck Phil that this was a man
of ability and energy, one who could be a bitter and dangerous enemy.

"You are right in part, Captain Middleton," said de Armijo slowly. "I
was seeking to take the maps, letters, and instructions that you carry
inside your tunic, next, perhaps, to your very flesh. They would be
valuable possessions to us, and it was my duty, as a captain in the
Mexican army, to take them if I could, from you, a captain in the
American army."

Phil started and looked anew at Middleton. A captain in the American
army! This was why he had walked with that upright carriage! This was
why he had been so particular about his personal appearance! He began
to see a little way.

"We, too, have our channels of information," said de Armijo, "and I knew
that you had embarked upon a mission in the West to learn our movements
and forces upon the border, and our temper and disposition with regard
to great matters that are agitating both Mexico and America."

"It is true, all that you say," replied Middleton tranquilly. "I am
Captain George Middleton of the American regular troops, and, at the
request of our War Department, I undertook the hazardous mission of
which you speak."

"You will go no farther with it," said de Armijo.

"How can you keep me from it?"

"I cannot--perhaps, but events can--events have. You do not know, but I
do, Captain Middleton, that there is war between your country and mine."

"Ah!" exclaimed Middleton, and, despite the darkness, Phil saw a sudden
flush spring into his face.

"It is not only war," continued de Armijo, "but there has been a heavy
battle, two of them, in fact. Your troops met ours at Palo Alto on May
eighth, and again on the following day at Resaca de la Palma."

"Ah!" exclaimed Middleton again, the exclamation being drawn up from the
very depths of his being, while the flush on his face deepened. "And
you know, I suppose, which won?"

It was a peculiar coincidence that the moon’s rays made their way at
that moment through clouds, and a bright beam fell on the face of Pedro
de Armijo. Phil saw the Mexican’s face fall a little, despite all his
efforts at self-control. De Armijo himself felt this change in his
countenance, and, knowing what it indicated to the man who asked the
question, he replied without evasion:

"I regret to say that the fortunes of war were against the deserving.
Our brave general, Ampudia, and our gallant troops were compelled to
retire before your general, Taylor. At least, so say my hasty advices;
perhaps they are wrong."

But Phil could see that de Armijo had no such hope. The news was
correct, and the boy’s heart thrilled with joy because the first
victories had fallen to his own people.

"I would not have told you this," continued de Armijo, "had you not
caught me in an attempt to take your papers. Had it been peace, ’steal’
would have been the word, but since it is war ’steal’ turns to
enterprise and zeal. Had I not believed you ignorant that the war has
begun, and that I might make more profit out of you in our hands than as
a fugitive, or at least as one who might have escaped, I should have
opened fire upon you as you approached. Perhaps I made a mistake."

"All of us do at times," said Middleton thoughtfully.

"Well spoken," said de Armijo. He lighted a cigarette and took a few
easy puffs.

"Well, Captain Middleton," he said at length, "the problem is now yours,
not ours. You have taken it out of our hands. What are you going to do
with us?"

"It seems to me," said Captain Middleton, "that this problem, like most
others, admits of only one solution. You are our prisoners, but we
cannot hold you. Our own situation prevents it. We could kill you, but
God forbid a single thought of such a crime. We will take your arms and
let you go. You will not suffer without your arms, as your Comanche
friends are near, a fact which you know very well."

"We accept your terms," said de Armijo, "since we must, and with your
permission we will mount our horses and ride away. But it is to be
understood, Captain Middleton, and you, young Mr. Bedford, and the rest
of you, that we part as enemies and not as friends."

"As you will," said Middleton. "I recognize the fact that you have no
cause to love us, and perhaps the sooner we both depart from this spot
the better it will be for all."

"But we may meet again on the battlefield; is it not so?" said de
Armijo.

"That, I cannot tell," replied Middleton, "but it is not unlikely."

Breakstone and Arenberg still stood by the captured arms, but, without
casting a glance at either the arms or their guardians, de Armijo
signaled to his men, and they mounted and rode away.

"Adios!" he called back in Spanish, although he did not turn his face.

"Adios!" said Middleton in the same tone.

They did not move or speak until they heard the hoof-beats die away, and
then it was Bill Breakstone who first broke the silence.

"That certainly came out well," he said. "The curtain came down on a
finer finish than the first act indicated. I confess that I didn’t know
your plan, Captain--I don’t call you Cap any more--but I trusted you,
and I confess, also, that I fell asleep. It was you and Sir Philip of
the Active Mind and the Watchful Eye who did most of the work.

"It was in Tex.
We met the Mex.
They spoke so high,
But now they cry.

Or, at least, they ought to cry when they think how we turned the tables
on them. Now, Captain, I suppose we must be up and doing, for those
fellows, as you said, will go straight to the Comanches, and if we
linger here our scalps will be of less value to ourselves than to
anybody else."

"It is quite true," said Captain Middleton. "We must reach the train as
soon as possible, because the danger to it has increased with our own.
But even more important than that is the great change that must be made.
Woodfall cannot go on now, since the whole Southwest will be swept by
bands of Mexican and Indian horsemen."

"What must the train do?" asked Phil in anxiety, because this concerned
him very nearly.

"It must turn south and join the American army on the Rio Grande. Most
of the things that it carries will be of value to our troops, and
Woodfall will clear as much profit there as at Santa Fé, which is now a
city in arms against us. In this case the path of comparative safety
and honor is also the path of profit. What more could Woodfall ask?"

"He’s a brave man, and brave men are with him," said Bill Breakstone.
"You won’t have to ask him twice."

Phil’s heart had throbbed with joy at Middleton’s answer. His quest was
always in his mind. He had feared that they might turn back, but now it
suited him as well to join the American army as to go on toward Santa
Fé. The quest was a wide one. But Arenberg suppressed a sigh.

"Let’s be starting," said Middleton. "We’ll take their arms with us.
They’re of value, and Bill, moreover, is without a rifle or musket."

Breakstone, who had been examining the weapons, uttered a cry of joy.

"Here is a fine rifle," he said, "one of the best American make. I
wonder how that Mexican got it! The rest are not so good."

"Take the fine one, Bill," said Middleton, "and we will pack up the rest
and ride."

They were out of the woods in a few minutes, and again rode rapidly
toward the west. It was an easy task to pick up the great wagon trail
again, even in the dark of the night, as the grass and soil were trodden
or pressed down over a width of fully two hundred yards. The country
rolled lightly. Bill Breakstone thought that a range of hills lay
toward the north, but in the night they could not see.

"I hope that we’ll overtake Woodfall before day," said Middleton,
"because I’ve an idea that de Armijo and the little band with him are
not the only Mexicans hereabouts. He would not come so far North
without a considerable force, and I suspect that it is his intention to
capture our train, with the aid of the Comanches."

"We can beat them off," said Breakstone confidently.

"If our people are warned in time," said Middleton.

"Much harm iss meant," said Arenberg, speaking for the first time, "but
we may keep much from being done. Our most dangerous enemies before the
daylight comes are the Comanches. They have already learned from de
Armijo that we are here, and it iss like as not that they are now
between us and the train."

Middleton looked at his watch, holding it in the moon’s rays.

"It is two hours until day," he said, "and the trail is rapidly growing
fresher. We may yet get through before the ring closes. Ah, there they
are now!"

A hand’s breadth of fire suddenly leaped up in the north, and burned
there like a steady torch. Far in the east, another but fainter
appeared and burned, and a third leaped up in the south. But when they
looked back in the west they saw none.

"Fortune rides on our cruppers so far," said Middleton. "We are on the
side of the circle which yet has the open segment. Push on, my boys!"

Phil’s knees involuntarily pressed against the side of his horse, and
that strange sensation, like icy water running down the spine, came
again. Those three lights speaking to one another in the darkness and
across great distances were full of mystery and awe. But he rode
without speech, and he looked most of the time at the lights, which
remained fixed, as if what they said could not be changed.

Middleton, who was in advance, suddenly reined in his horse, and the
others, stopping, also, noticed that just in front of them a depression
ran across the plain.

"It’s an arroyo or something like it," said Bill Breakstone, "but the
wagons have crossed it anyhow."

They followed the trail to the other side and then saw that it continued
almost parallel with the broad gully.

"Why shouldn’t we take to the gully?" said Phil. "It has a smooth
bottom, it is wide enough for us, riding two abreast, and it will give
us shelter."

"A good idea," said Middleton.

They turned back into the arroyo, and found an easy road there. The
banks were several feet high, and, as the dusk still hung on the plain,
they increased their speed, counting each moment worth one man’s life.
They came soon to a place where the gully was shallower than usual, and
then they saw two or three faint lights in the plain before them,
apparently about a half mile away. Middleton raised a warning hand, and
they stopped.

"Those are the lights of the train," he said. "They undoubtedly have
scouts out, and of course they have seen the signals of the Comanches
and the Mexicans, just as we have, but they do not know as much as we
do. I think we had better go down the arroyo as far as we can, and
then, if the alarm is sounded by our enemies, gallop for it."

"It iss our choice because there iss none other," said Arenberg.

They continued, but more slowly, in order to make as little noise as
possible. They had covered more than half the distance when Phil saw a
faint line of gray on the horizon line in the east. The next moment
against the background of gray appeared a horseman, a man of olive skin,
clad in sombrero, bright jacket, embroidered trousers, and boots with
great spurs. He carried a weapon like a spear, and Phil knew at once
that he was a Mexican lancer, no doubt a sentinel.

The man saw them, and, instead of attempting to use his lance, snatched
a pistol from his belt and fired point blank. The bullet passed by
Middleton’s face, and, like a flash, Bill Breakstone replied with a
bullet from his rifle. The Mexican went down, but from three points of
the compass came cries, the shouts of the Mexicans and the long war
whoop of the Comanches.

"Forward for your lives!" cried Middleton, and, dashing out of the
arroyo, they galloped at full speed toward the wagon train.

CHAPTER IX

THE FIERY CIRCLE

The thin gray light in the east broadened into a bar as the hoofbeats of
the four thundered over the plain. From left to right came shouts, the
yells of the Indians and the fierce cries of the Mexicans.

"Bend low," cried Middleton, "and we may escape their bullets!"

Phil lay almost upon his horse’s neck, but it was an unconscious act.
He was thrilling with excitement, as the four horsemen almost clove the
morning mist, and rode on swift hoofs straight toward the wagon train.
Then came the rattling of rifles and whistling of arrows from either
side. "Ping!" the bullets sang in his ear and "Ping!" the arrows sang,
also. He remembered afterward that he wished, if he were hit at all, to
be hit by a bullet instead of an arrow; an arrow sticking in one’s flesh
would be very cumbersome and painful. But neither arrow nor bullet
struck true. Their ride was too sudden and swift, and the light too
faint to permit good aim to the Mexicans and Comanches. Yet Phil heard
confused sounds, shouted commands, and the noise of hurrying feet. He
saw dark faces appearing in the mist on either side, and he also saw the
outlines of wagons through the same mist in front. Then he saw men,
rifle in hand, who seemed to rise out of the plain in front of the
wagons. Two of the men raised their rifles and took aim at the
galloping horsemen.

"We are friends, and we bring you warning!" shouted Middleton in a
tremendous voice. "Don’t fire upon us!"

But the men and three others who appeared near them pulled the trigger.
Phil did not hear the ping of the bullets, and now he realized that they
fired not at his comrades and himself but at those who pursued. A
death-cry and yells of rage came from behind them, but in another minute
they were within the line of sentinels and were springing from their
horses, ready to take their part in the combat that they expected.

All the morning mists were driven away at that moment by the sun, as if
a veil had been lifted, and the whole plain stood out clear and distinct
under a brilliant sky. Before them were the wagons, drawn up in a
circle in the customary fashion of a camp, the horses and mules in the
center, and the men, arms in hand, forming an outer ring for the wagons.
But from the northeast and the southeast two lines were converging upon
them, and Phil’s heart kindled at the sight.

The line in the northeast was made up of red horsemen, four hundred
Comanches, naked to the waist, horribly painted, and riding knee to
knee, the redoubtable chiefs, Santana and Black Panther, at their head.
The line in the southeast was composed of Mexican cavalry, lancers
splendidly mounted, the blades of their lances and their embroidered
jackets glittering in the sun. They made their horses prance and
cavort, and many in the first rank whirled lariats in derision.

A tall figure strolled forward and welcomed Middleton and his comrades.
It was Woodfall, his face flushed somewhat, but his manner undaunted.

"I’m glad to welcome you back, Mr. Middleton," he said, "and with your
comrades, all of them alive and well. But what does this mean? Why do
those men ride to attack, when this is the soil of Texas?"

He waved his hand toward the advancing Mexican column.

"They advance against us," replied Middleton, "because this is war, war
between the United States and Mexico--we learned that last night from
one of their own officers--and there have been two heavy battles on the
Rio Grande, both victorious for us."

It was not strange that a sudden cheer burst from the men who heard
these words. Woodfall listened to it grimly, and, when it died, he
said:

"Then if these Mexicans attack, we’ll soon have a third victory to our
credit. The Indian bow and the Mexican lance can’t break through a
circle of riflemen, entrenched behind wagons--riflemen who know how to
shoot."

Again that defiant, even exultant cheer rose from the men who heard,
and, passing on like a fire in dry grass, it rolled all around the
circle of wagons. The Mexicans heard it. They detected the defiant
note in it, and, wisely, they checked their speed. The column of Indian
warriors also came more slowly. Philip Bedford, hardened in so brief a
space to danger and war, did not feel any great fear, but the scene
thrilled him like a great picture painted in living types and colors
against the background of the earth. There were the red horsemen, the
sun deepening the tints of their coppery faces and bringing out the
glowing colors of their war bonnets. To the southeast the Mexican
column, also, was a great ribbon of light lying across the plain, the
broad blades of the lances catching the sun’s rays and throwing them
back in golden beams.

"A fine show," said Woodfall, "and if those Mexicans had two or three
cannon they might wipe us out, but they haven’t, and so we’re lucky."

"I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Woodfall," said Middleton, "that I’m a
captain in the regular army, Captain Middleton, and that I’ve been
making use of your hospitality to find what forces the enemy had in
these parts, and what movements he was making. I was sent by our
government, and, as you see, I’m finding what I was sent to find."

"I thought there was something military about your cut, Captain," said
Woodfall, "and it seems to me to be a good thing that you are with us.
If we’ve helped you without knowing, then you, knowing it, can help us
now."

The hands of the two men met in the strong clasp of friendship and
trust.

"They’re about to move," said Middleton, who practically took command.
"I suggest that we go inside the circle of wagons now, and that at least
two-thirds of our men devote their attention to the lancers. The
Mexicans are brave; we must not forget that."

They went inside at once, where a few men were detailed to see that the
horses and mules did not make too great a turmoil, while the rest posted
themselves for defense. The wagons were in reality a formidable barrier
for an attacking force that did not have artillery. The majority of the
Americans lay down under the wagons between the wheels. Phil was under
one of them with Bill Breakstone on one side of him and Arenberg on the
other. Middleton was elsewhere with Woodfall.

"Much harm iss meant," said Arenberg, "and I would say to you, Philip,
although little advice iss needed by you now, not to fire too soon, and
to remember, when you take aim, to allow for the fact that they are
coming toward us at a gallop."

"That’s right," said Bill Breakstone. "Old Hans, here, knows."

"Ach," said Arenberg, uttering a sigh, "I love peace, and I never
thought to have a part in cruel Indian and Mexican battles."

It occurred to Phil that the sigh had no reference to the coming combat.
The German’s face showed sadness, but not a trace of fear. He turned
his gaze from Arenberg and fixed it upon the Mexican column which they
were facing. He thought that he saw de Armijo in the front rank among
the officers in brilliant dress, but he was not sure. The distance was
too great. He wondered whether he would shoot at him, if he saw him
later in the charge.

The sunlight was intensely bright, such as one sees only on great upland
plains, and the Mexican lancers with their horses stood out, like
carving, against the background of gold and blue. Phil saw the column
suddenly quiver, as if a single movement ran through all. The lances
were lifted a little higher, and their blades cast broader beams. A
flag fluttered in the front rank and unfolded in the slight wind.

The notes of a trumpet sounded high and clear, the Mexicans uttered a
long, fierce shout, the colors shifted and changed, like water flowing
swiftly, as the column broke into a gallop and came straight toward the
wagons, the plain thundering with the beat of their hoofs. From another
part of the compass came a second cry, higher pitched, longer drawn, and
with more of the whine of the wolf in it. Phil knew that it came from
the Comanches, who were also charging, led by Black Panther and Santana,
but he did not take his eyes from the Mexicans.

The two attacking columns began to fire scattering shots, but the
defenders of the wagons had not yet pulled a trigger, although many a
forefinger was trembling with eagerness.

"It’s pretty, but it’s a waste, a dead waste," said Bill Breakstone. "I
hate to shoot at them, because I’ve no doubt many a brave young fellow
is out there, but we’ve got to let them have it. Steady, Phil, steady!
They’re coming close now."

Suddenly they heard the loud shout, "Fire!" It was Middleton who
uttered it, and everybody obeyed. A sheet of flame seemed to spurt from
the wagons, and the air was filled with singing lead. The entire head
of the Mexican column was burnt away. The ground was strewn with the
fallen. Riderless horses, some wounded and screaming with pain,
galloped here and there. The column stopped and seemed to be wavering.
Several officers, sword in hand--and now Phil was sure that he saw de
Armijo among them--were trying to urge the lancers on. All the
Americans were reloading as fast as they could, and while the Mexicans
yet wavered, they poured in a second volley. Unable to withstand it,
the lancers broke and fled, bearing the officers away with them in their
panic.

Phil, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg crawled from under the wagon and
stood on the outside, erect again. There they contemplated for a few
moments the wreck that they and their comrades had made. From the
Indian point of attack came the sound of retiring shots, and they knew
that the Comanches had been quickly repulsed, also.

"It was one of the most foolish things I ever saw," said Bill
Breakstone, "to ride right into the mouths of long-barreled, well-aimed
rifles like ours. Their numbers didn’t help them. What say you, Sir
Philip of the Rifle and the Wagon?"

"It seems to me that you’re right," replied the boy. "I don’t think
they’ll charge again, nor will the Comanches."

"You’re right, too; they’ve had enough."

The Mexicans and Comanches, having gathered up their wounded, united and
remained in a dark cloud beyond rifle shot, apparently intending neither
to charge again nor to go away. But the defenders of the train were
cheerful. They had suffered no loss, being protected so well, and they
were willing enough to meet a second attack delivered in the same
fashion. But Middleton and Woodfall had hot coffee and tea served, and
then with strong field glasses they observed the enemy.

"I believe they are in great doubt," said Middleton. "They may think
they can starve us out, but the Mexicans will not want to wait for so
long a process; it is likely that they will prefer going southward to
join their main army."

He said these words aloud, where many could hear, but a little while
afterward he and Woodfall drew to one side and talked a long time in low
tones. Phil could tell by their faces that they were very earnest, and
he felt sure that a proposition would be made before long. He called
Breakstone’s attention to them.

"You’re right," said Bill, "they’ll have something to say soon, and it
will concern all of us. Ah, there comes the Cap--I mean the
Captain--now, and he’s going to make a speech."

Middleton sprang upon a wagon tongue, and, standing very quiet, looked
slowly around the circle of defenders, all of whom bent their eyes upon
him. They were a motley group, Americans mostly, but with a scattering
of a dozen European nationalities among them. The majority of them were
bareheaded, with necks and chests uncovered, and all were stained black
or brown with a mixture of perspiration, dust, and burnt gunpowder. The
majority of them were young, some but little older than Phil himself.
They looked very curiously at Middleton as he stood upon the wagon pole.
Already all knew that he was an officer in the regular army. In the
distance hung the dark fringe of Mexicans and Comanches, but, for the
moment, only the sentinels paid any attention to them.

"Men," cried Middleton, "you have beaten off the attack of the Mexicans
and the Comanches, and you can do it again as often as they come! I
know that, and so do you!"

He was stopped for a few seconds by a great cheer, and then he resumed:

"We can beat them off, but the road to Santa Fé has now become
impossible. Moreover, the nation with which we are at war holds Santa
Fé, and to go there would be merely to march into prison or worse. We
can’t turn back. You are not willing to go back to New Orleans, are
you?"

"Never!" they cried in one voice.

Middleton smiled. He was appealing deftly to the pride of these men,
and he had known the response before it came.

"Then if we can neither go on to Santa Fé nor turn back to New Orleans,"
he said, "we must either start to the north or to the south."

He was speaking now with the greatest fervor. His face flushed deeply,
and they hung upon his words.

"To the north lies the wilderness," he said, "stretching away for
thousands of miles to the Arctic Ocean. To the south there are plains
reaching down to a river, broad, shallow, and yellow, and somewhere
along that river armies are fighting, armies of our own people and
armies of the Mexicans with whom we are now at war. Which way shall we
go, north or south?"

"South!" was roared forth in one tremendous voice. Again Middleton
smiled. Again he had known before it came the response that would be
spoken.

"Then south it is," he said, "and we make for Taylor’s army on the Rio
Grande. You will find there a better market for what you carry in your
wagons than you would have found at Santa Fé, and you’re likely to find
something else, also, that I know you won’t shirk."

"Fighting!" roared forth that tremendous voice once more.

"Yes, fighting," said Middleton, as he sprang down from the pole and
rejoined Woodfall.

"That was clever talk," said Bill Breakstone, "but he knew his ground
before he sowed the seed. These are just the sort of lads who will be
glad to go south to Taylor, breaking their way through any Mexicans or
Indians who may get across their path.

"He said north
He said south,
What’s the choice?
We spoke forth,
It was south,
With one voice.

And now, unless I’m mightily mistaken, we’ll fare forth upon our
journey, as the knights of old would say. This is a good camp for
defense, but not for siege. It lacks water. You just watch, Phil, and
you’ll see a wrinkle or two in plains work worth knowing."

The men began to hitch the horses to the wagons, but they were
interrupted in the task by a horseman who rode forth from the Mexican
column, carrying a white handkerchief on the point of a lance. He was
joined by two Indian chiefs riding on either side of him. Phil
instantly recognized all three. The white man was Pedro de Armijo, and
the Indians were Black Panther and Santana.

"They want a big talk," said Bill Breakstone. "I fear the Greeks
bearing gifts, and also a lot of other people who smile at you while
they hold daggers behind their backs, but I suppose our side will hear
what they have to say."

Middleton and Woodfall were already mounting to ride forth, and
Middleton beckoned to Phil.

"Come, Phil," he said. "They are three, and we should be three, also.
You can call yourself the secretary of the meeting if you like."

Phil sprang eagerly upon his horse, proud of the privilege and the
honor, and rode forth with them. The Mexican and the two Comanches were
coming on slowly and gravely. Four hundred yards behind them, Mexicans
and Indians, all on horseback, were now gathered in a broad dark line,
sitting motionless and watching. Their three envoys sat on their horses
midway between the hostile forces, and the three Americans, meeting them
there, stopped face to face. De Armijo looked at Middleton and smiled
slightly, ironically. His bearing was proud, and was evidently meant to
be disdainful. One would have thought that he was a victor, receiving
an embassy about to sue for peace. Middleton returned his gaze
steadfastly, but his face expressed nothing. He looked once at Phil,
and the boy thought he saw something singular in the glance, as if he
impinged somehow upon the mind of the Mexican, but in a moment the look
of de Armijo passed.

"I have come, Captain Middleton," said the young Mexican, "to save
bloodshed, if you are willing to listen to reason. You will observe
what forces have come against you. We have here a numerous body of
Mexican cavalry, the finest in the world, and we have also the flower of
the Comanche nation, the bravest of the Indian warriors. In victory,
the Mexicans are humane and merciful, but the Indian nature is
different. Excited and impassioned, it finds vent in terrible deeds.
Therefore, as you are surrounded and cannot escape, we ask you to
surrender now, and save the lives of your men."

It was hard for Phil to restrain an exclamation at this piece of
presumption, but Middleton received it gravely. His face was still
without expression. Nevertheless, his reply was barbed.

"Your demand seems inopportune, Lieutenant de Armijo," he replied. "You
can scarcely have forgotten, since it occurred less than an hour ago,
the defeat of both your cavalry and your Comanche allies. Perhaps we
are unduly confident, but we feel that we can do so again, as often as
needed."

De Armijo frowned. He glanced at his Indian comrades. Phil wondered if
he had been deceiving them with promises of what the invincible Mexican
lancers could and would do. But the two savages made no response.
Their coppery faces did not move.

"Thus, then, is your final answer, Captain Middleton," said de Armijo.

"It is," replied Middleton. "It is not the custom for victors to
surrender. So we bid you good day, Lieutenant de Armijo."

As he spoke, he saluted and turned his horse. Woodfall and Phil saluted
and turned with him. The Mexican returned the salute with a gloved
hand, but the Indians turned stolidly without a sign. Then the two
parties rode away in opposite directions, each to its own men. Phil
dismounted at the wagons, and was met by Breakstone and Arenberg with
eager questions.

"What did that yellow Mex. want, Sir Philip of the Council?" asked
Breakstone.

"As he has just given us such a severe thrashing," replied Phil, "he
demanded our immediate and unconditional surrender. He said that if we
acceded to this demand only one-tenth of us would be shot, but he made
it a special condition that a renowned scout, sharpshooter, white
warrior, and talker, one William Breakstone, be shot first and at once,
as a terrible example, in the presence of both victor and vanquished.
Immediately after him one Hans Arenberg, a very dangerous and
blood-thirsty man, was to share the same fate. If we refused this
gentle alternative, we were all to be killed, and then scalped by the
savages."

"Of course, Sir Philip," said Bill Breakstone, "they’ve put a just value
on me, but I surmise that the jest doth leap from your nimble tongue.
Now the truth!"

"De Armijo and the Indian chiefs did really demand our surrender," said
Phil. "They said we could not escape. They talked as if they were the
victors and we the beaten."

"Now, by my troth, that is a merry jest!" exclaimed Bill Breakstone.
"When do we lay down our arms? Is it within the next five minutes, or
do we even take fifteen?"

"You can surrender if you want to, Bill," said Phil, "but nobody else
has any notion of doing so. The rest, I think, are going to march
southward at once, Mexicans or no Mexicans, Comanches or no Comanches."

"Well spoken," said Bill Breakstone, "and I will even help in the
march."

A roar that might easily have been called a shout of defiance came from
the men of the train, when the story of the council was told. Then,
with increased zeal, they fell to the work of girding up for the march
and battle. The insolent demand of de Armijo added new fire to their
courage. Cheerful voices arose, the rattle of bridle-bits, the
occasional neigh of a horse, men singing snatches of song, generally
lines from sentimental ballads, and the clink of bullets as they were
counted and dropped into their pouches. Some of these sounds were of
war, but Phil found the whole effect buoyant and encouraging. He caught
the spirit, and whistled a lilting air as he, too, worked by the side of
Bill Breakstone.

The boy soon saw the plan. Gradually the circle of wagons formed itself
into two parallel lines, the noses of the horses or mules almost
touching the rear of the wagon in front of them. Outside and on either
side, but close to the wagons, rode the armed horsemen, two formidable
lines, who, if hard pressed, could take refuge and shelter between the
parallel rows of wagons. Moreover, the wagons handled by such cool and
skillful men could be turned in a crisis, and even under fire, into a
circle again, with the animals in the center. Phil understood the
arrangement thoroughly, admired it tremendously, and was sure that the
master mind of Middleton had directed everything. He glanced at the
Mexicans and Comanches. They were still hovering in a great dark mass
about a thousand yards away, and Phil knew that they were watching every
movement of the Americans with the most intense curiosity.

Middleton and Woodfall rode to the head of the train. The loud command:
"March!" was given. Every driver cracked his whip at the same time, the
whole making a report like the sudden crash of many rifles, and the
train began to move slowly across the plain, every armed man on either
side holding his finger on the trigger of his rifle.

Phil was just behind Bill Breakstone, and both of them looked back at
the enemy. Phil wondered what the Mexicans and Comanches would do, but
he did not believe they would allow the train to depart unmolested,
despite the fact that their face had already been well burned. He saw
the hostile columns advance at about an even pace with the train, but he
judged that there was uncertainty in their ranks. The Americans bore a
certain resemblance to a modern armored train, and such men as de
Armijo, Black Panther, and Santana were wary, despite their great excess
of numbers.

The train moved forward at a slow but steady pace, but now its head was
turned almost due south instead of west. Before them rolled the plains
as usual, green with a grass not yet dried by the summer suns. Here and
there appeared strange flowering shrubs, peculiar to the Texas uplands,
but no trees broke the view. The plains rolled away until they died
under the horizon of reddish gold that seemed an interminable distance
away. There was little sound now but that of the turning wheels, the
creaking of the axles, and the hoofbeats of many scores of horses and
mules. The men were almost completely silent, and this silence, in
itself, was strange, because the very atmosphere was impregnated with
war. At any moment they might be in deadly conflict; yet they rode on,
saying nothing.

Behind them came the Mexicans and Comanches in a double column,
preserving the same distance of about a thousand yards, they, too,
riding in silence, save for their hoofbeats. The dead evidently had
been left as they fell or put in hasty graves, while the wounded were
carried on horses in the rear. Phil looked back again and again at this
singular pursuit, which, for the present, seemed no pursuit at all--at
least, not hostile. It reminded him of the silent but tenacious manner
in which wolves followed a great deer. While fearing his antlers and
sharp hoofs, they would hang on and hang on, and in the end would drag
down the quarry. Would that be the fate of the train?

"It’s pretty good country for traveling," said Bill Breakstone cheerily,
"and I don’t see that anything is interrupting us. Except that we pass
over one swell after another, the road is smooth and easy. What fine
grassy plains these are, Phil, and look! yonder are antelopes grazing to
the north of us. They’ve raised their heads to see, if they can, what
we are, and what is that crowd behind us. They’re just eaten up with
curiosity."

Phil saw the herd of antelope come nearer. They were on a swell, in
black silhouette against a red sun, and they were exaggerated to three
or four times their real size. Phil was something of a philosopher, and
he reflected that they were safe in the presence of so many men, because
the men were not seeking game, but one another. The train moved on, and
the herd of antelope dropped behind and out of sight. Still there was
no demonstration from the enemy, who yet came on, in two columns, at the
same distance of about a thousand yards, the sunlight gleaming on the
lances of both Mexicans and Comanches. It began to seem to Phil as if
they would always continue thus. Nevertheless, it was hard on the
nerves, this incessant watching, as if one were guarding against a beast
that might spring at any moment. Moreover, their force looked so large.
But Phil glanced at the long-barreled rifles that the men of the train
carried. They had proved far more than a match for muskets and lances.

"Will they attack us?" he asked Arenberg.

"Much harm iss meant," replied the German, "but they will not seek to do
it until they think they see a chance. It iss time only that will
tell."

The extraordinary march lasted all day. Neither side committed a single
hostile act, and the silence, so far as the men were concerned, was
unbroken. The distance of about a thousand yards was preserved, but the
Mexicans and Comanches were still there, and it seemed that they did not
intend to be shaken off. About sunset they came to one of the shallow
prairie streams, this time a mere brook, but with plenty of water for
their animals.

"Here we camp," said Bill Breakstone, and almost as he spoke Middleton
gave the word. One line of wagons went forward, the other stopped, the
two ends joined, and then they swung around in a circle, with the stream
flowing down the center of the enclosure. It was all done with so much
celerity and so little trouble that the Mexicans and Comanches seemed to
be taken by surprise. A few of them rode nearer, and some of the
Comanches fired arrows, but they fell far short, and the Americans paid
no attention to them.

"We’ll take a bite and a drink, Phil," said Bill Breakstone, "a bite of
cold meat and a drink of cold water."

"It iss good," said Arenberg. "That iss what we will do."

They had no fuel with which to light fires, but there were lanterns
carrying candles in the train, and these were hung on the sides of the
wagons facing the inner ring, casting a pleasant light on the men as
they passed. But Phil and his two comrades, food in hand, went outside.

"Hope it won’t come on too dark," said Breakstone. "A thick night is
what we’ve got to dread. If our friends out there mean to do anything,
they’ll try it to-night, or I’m mightily fooled."

In the east, where the enemy hung, the twilight had come already and now
both Mexicans and Comanches were blurring with the darkness. A lance
blade or two gave back a last flash of fire from the setting sun, but in
a few more instants the rays ceased to reach them, and they sank into
the night of the eastern plain.

"Feels damp, and that’s bad," said Bill Breakstone. "Clouds mean a thick
night, and a thick night means a lot of stalking and sniping by those
rascals out there. Well, well, lay on, Macduff, and it won’t be we who
will first cry, ’Hold, enough!’"

The twilight soon deepened into dark, the wind rose a little, and, as
Breakstone had feared, it brought with it shifts of rain, light showers
only, but cold and very unpleasant. Only a few of the most hardened
slept. All the others kept vigilant watch about the wagons. Phil,
Breakstone, and Arenberg remained together, and nothing happened until
nearly midnight. Then the mixed force of the enemy, creeping near,
opened fire from every side, but the American sharpshooters lying down
on the ground replied, firing at the flashes. This combat lasted nearly
half an hour, and it was more spectacular than dangerous to the
defenders.

"This is drawn out rather long and produces nothing, Sir Philip of the
Midnight, the Wilderness, and the Rain," said Bill Breakstone, "and with
our long range rifles we have the advantage. They’re merely wasting
good lead. Ah, I think I must have got that fellow! I hope it was one
of those sneaking Comanches, and, if so, he deserves it for keeping me
here on the ground in the rain, when I ought to be snoozing comfortably
in a wagon."

He had fired at a flash about a hundred yards away, and his own fire
drew shots from different points. Phil heard bullets whistling over his
head, but, as they were hugging the earth very closely, he did not feel
any great alarm over such blind shooting.

The firing increased a little presently, and now its effect upon the boy
was wholly spectacular. He watched for the points of flame as one would
for fireworks. Sometimes the flashes looked blue, sometimes yellow, and
sometimes red. At other times they showed variations and new
combinations of all three colors.

"Since one has to watch, it’s rather pretty, and it breaks the
monotony," said Bill Breakstone. "Now, I think our little display of
fireworks is ceasing."

Bill was a good prophet, because the firing quickly sank to a few
scattered shots, and then to nothing. After that, they lay in the
darkness and silence for a long time. Phil was wet and cold, and he
longed for a warm blanket and the shelter of a wagon, but he was not one
to flinch. As long as those two skilled plainsmen, Breakstone and
Arenberg, thought it necessary to remain, he would remain without a
complaint. He also expected that some other hostile movement would be
made.

At some late hour of the night the boy heard the rapid beat of many
hoofs, and then a mass of horsemen showed dimly in the dusk, dark
squadrons galloping down upon the train. But the riflemen were ready.
The train became at once a living circle of fire. A storm of bullets
beat upon the charging horsemen, and fifty yards from the barrier they
halted. There they wavered a few moments, while wounded horses screamed
with pain, then turned and galloped back as fast as they had come.

"That’s the fall of the curtain on the last act," said Bill Breakstone.
"They thought to catch us napping, to stampede our horses, or to do
something else unpleasant to us that depended on surprise."

Nevertheless, they watched all the remainder of the night, and Phil was
devoutly glad when he saw the first touch of rose in the east, the
herald of the new day. Before them the plain lay clear, except a fallen
horse near by, and there was no sign of the enemy.

"They have had enough," said Bill Breakstone. "The darkness offered them
their only chance, and now the sunrise has put them to flight.

"Night,
Fight.
Sun,
Done.

"That’s a short poem, Phil, one of the shortest that I’ve ever composed,
but it’s highly descriptive, and it’s true."

_It was_ true. Middleton and Woodfall, even when they searched the
entire circle of the horizon with powerful field glasses, could find no
trace of the enemy.

CHAPTER X

PHIL’S LETTER

Now began the great march. The whole train was filled with an
extraordinary animation. South to Taylor! South to the Rio Grande!
South to join the forlorn hope against the Mexican masses! It appealed
to them more than Santa Fé had ever appealed. Wild spirits, thrilling
with the love of adventure and the hope of battle, they had before them
the story of Texas and its gallant and victorious stand against
overwhelming numbers. They knew every detail of that desperate and
successful struggle, and they felt that they could do as well. Indeed,
among them were some who had been mere boys at San Jacinto, and they
began to talk of Sam Houston and that glorious war, of Goliad and of the
Alamo, when the last man fell.

But while they talked they worked. In their zeal and enthusiasm they
forgot that not one man in ten had closed his eyes the night before,
and, a half hour after the brief breakfast was finished, they started
again. It was a long journey, but they were prepared for it, and they
moved steadily onward all through the day. Two or three times single
horsemen were seen through the field glasses, but they were so far away
none could tell whether they were Indians or Mexicans. Middleton,
however, was firmly convinced that they would not be attacked again, at
least not by the same forces which had been making so much trouble for
them.

"There isn’t much profit in hunting us," he said, "we are too difficult
game, and the hunter has suffered more damage than the hunted.
Moreover, de Armijo will want to join the main Mexican army near the Rio
Grande. More glory is to be won there, and, if I mistake not, he is an
exceedingly ambitious man. But the Comanches will leave so formidable a
foe to snap up wandering hunters or small parties."

Middleton’s theory seemed probable, but they did not relax the watch.
That night half the men stood guard until midnight, and the other half
until morning. The whole night passed in complete peace. There was not
a single shot at the sentinels. The only sounds they heard were the
lonesome howls of coyotes far out on the plain. Phil, Breakstone, and
Arenberg were in the first watch, and they walked back and forth
together in a little segment of the circle about thirty yards from the
wagons. They talked more than usual, as they shared in the general
belief that there would be no further attack, at least, not yet.

The night, in truth, was in sharp contrast with the one that had
preceded it. There was no rain and no wind, the sky was just a peaceful
blue, cut by the white belt of the Milky Way, and with the great stars
dancing in myriad pools of light. Strife and battle seemed far away and
forgotten.

"It will take us a long time to reach General Taylor on the Rio Grande
or beyond, where he iss likely to be," said Arenberg.

"A couple of months, maybe," said Breakstone.

"And then," continued Arenberg, "we do not know how long we will have to
stay there. We do not know what great battles we will have to fight,
and if we live through it all it may be a year, two years, until we can
come back into the North."

"Not so long as that, I think," replied Breakstone.

Phil noticed Arenberg’s melancholy tone, and once more he wondered what
this man’s quest might be. Evidently it did not lie to the south, for to
him alone the turning from the old course had caused pain. He could not
keep from showing sympathy.

"I feel that all of us will come back sooner or later, Mr. Arenberg," he
said, "and we will go on in the way we chose first, and to success."

The German put his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulder.

"There are no prophets in these days," he said, "but now and then there
iss a prophecy that comes true, and it may be that our God puts it in
the mouth of a boy like you, instead of that of an older man. You
strengthen my weak faith, Philip."

His tone was so solemn and heartfelt that the other two were silent.
Surely the motive that drew Arenberg into the wilderness was a most
powerful one! They could not doubt it. They walked without saying more
until it was twelve when Bill Breakstone dropped his rifle from his
shoulder with a great sigh of relief.

"It’s just occurred to me that I haven’t slept a wink for thirty-six
hours," he said, "and I’m going to make up for lost time as soon as I
can."

"Me, too," said Phil.

"Much sleep iss meant by me, also," said Arenberg.

Phil concluded to sleep in a wagon that night, and, in order to enjoy
the full luxury of rest, he undressed for the first time in several
days. Then he found a soft place in some bags of meal, covered himself
with a blanket, and shut his eyes.

He had a wonderful sense of safety and comfort. After so much hardship
and danger, this was like a king’s bed, and the royal guards were
outside to keep away harm. It was extraordinary how some sacks of flour
and an army blanket could lull one’s senses into golden ease.

He heard a few noises outside, a sentinel exchanging a word with
another, the stamp of a restless horse’s hoof, and then, for the last
time, the long, lonesome howl of the coyote. A minute after that he was
asleep. When he awoke the next day he felt that he was moving. He
heard the cracking of whips and the sound of many voices. He sprang up,
lifted the edge of the wagon cover, and looked out. There was the whole
train, moving along at its steady, even pace, and a yellow sun, at least
four hours high, was sailing peacefully in blue heavens. Phil, ashamed
of himself, hurried on his clothes and sprang out of his wagon at the
rear. The first man he saw was Bill Breakstone, who was walking instead
of riding.

"Bill," he exclaimed indignantly, "here I’ve been sleeping all the
morning, while the rest of you fellows have been up and doing!"

"Don’t you worry yourself, Sir Philip of the Wagon and the Great Sleep,"
replied Bill Breakstone grinning. "A good wilderness rover rests when he
can, and doesn’t rest when he can’t. Now you could rest, and it was the
right thing for you to do. I haven’t been up myself more than half an
hour, while Captain Middleton and Arenberg are still asleep. Now, my
merry young sir, I hope that will satisfy you."

"It does," replied Phil, his conscience satisfied, "and between you and
me, Bill, it seems to me that we have come out of our troubles so far
mighty well."

"We have," replied Bill Breakstone emphatically. "The curtain has gone
down on act one, with honest and deserving fellows like you and myself
on top. Act two hasn’t begun yet, but meanwhile the winds blow softly,
the air is pure, and we’ll enjoy ourselves."

"Have you seen anything of our Comanche and Mexican friends?"

"Not a peep. We’re marching in looser order now, because if they came
we’d have ample time to form in battle array after we saw them."

But no enemy appeared that day nor the next day, and they rode south for
many days in peace. Although eager to reach the Rio Grande as soon as
possible, they were too wise to hurry the animals. The steady, measured
pace was never broken, and they took full rest at night. They stopped
sometimes to kill game and replenish their supplies of food. They found
plenty of buffalo, and the most skillful of the hunters also secured all
the antelope that they wished. Now and then they crossed a river that
contained fish, and they added to their stores from these, also.

They were now far into the summer, but the grass was still green,
although the heat at times was great, and rain fell but seldom. The
character of the vegetation changed as they went south. Bill Breakstone
defined it as an increase of thorns. The cactus stood up in strange
shapes on the plain, but along the banks of the creeks they found many
berries that were good to the taste. Four weeks after the turn to the
south they met two messengers coming from the direction of Santa Fé and
bound for the mouth of the Rio Grande. They were American soldiers in
civilian dress whom Middleton knew, and with whom it had evidently been
a part of his plan to communicate. He received from them important
news, over which he pondered long, but, some time after the two men had
disappeared under the horizon to the eastward, he spoke of it to Phil,
Breakstone, and Arenberg.

"They have heard much," he said, "but it comes largely through Mexican
channels. It is said that an American force from one of the Western
States is moving on Santa Fé, and that it is likely to fall into our
hands. It is said, also, that Taylor’s advance into Mexico has been
stopped, and that another army under Scott is to go by sea to Vera Cruz,
and thence attempt to capture the City of Mexico. I don’t know! I
don’t know what it all means! Can it be possible that Taylor has been
beaten and driven back? But we shall see!"

"I know Taylor can’t have been beaten," said Phil; "but I’ll be mighty
glad when we reach the Rio Grande and find out for sure everything that
is going on."

"That’s so," said Bill Breakstone.

"News is contrary,
But we’ll go;
Our views vary,
But we’ll know.

Although we’ll have to wait a long time about it, as Texas runs on
forever."

The tenor of the messages soon spread through the train, and increased
the desire to push on; yet neither Middleton nor Woodfall deemed it wise
to give the animals too great a task for fear of breaking them down.
Instead, they resolutely maintained their even pace, and bearing now to
the eastward, still sought that Great River of the North which is
greater in history and political importance than it is in water.

The time, despite the anxieties that they all shared, was not unpleasant
to Phil. He enjoyed the free life of the wilderness and the vast
plains. He saw how men were knitted together by common hardship and
common danger. He knew every man and liked them all; hence, all liked
him. He could never meet one of them in after life without a throb of
emotion, a sense of great fellowship, and a sudden vivid picture of
those days rising before him. He also learned many things that were of
value. He knew how to mend any part of a wagon, he understood the
troubles of horses, and he could handle a mule with a tact and skill
that were almost uncanny.

"I suppose that mules, being by nature contrary animals, _like_ Phil,"
said Bill Breakstone. "I’ve always behaved decently toward them, but I
never knew one yet to like me."

"You want to treat a mule not like an animal but like a human being,"
said Arenberg. "They know more than most men, anyhow. It iss all in
the way you approach them. I know how it ought to be done, although I
can’t always do it."

Many such talks beguiled the way. Meanwhile Phil could fairly feel
himself growing in size and strength, and he longed like the others for
the sight of Taylor and his army. The idea of taking part in a great
war thrilled him, and it might also help him in his search. Meanwhile,
the summer waned, and they were still in Texas. It seemed that they
might ride on forever and yet not reach that famous Rio Grande. The
grass turned brown on the plains, the nights grew cooler, and two
northers chilled them to the bone. Several times they saw Comanches
hovering like tiny black figures against the horizon, but they never
came near enough for a rifle shot. Twice they met hunters and scouts who
confirmed the earlier news obtained from the two messengers from the
westward. Taylor, beyond a doubt, had halted a hundred and fifty or two
hundred miles beyond the Rio Grande. There was even a rumor that he had
been captured. This might or might not be true, but there was no doubt
of the fact that an advance on the City of Mexico, due southward by
land, was no longer intended. The report that Scott was to lead the army
by way of Vera Cruz was confirmed. Middleton was troubled greatly, as
Phil could see.

"I don’t like the looks of this," he confided to his three most intimate
associates, who, of course, were Phil, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg.
"I can’t believe that Taylor has been taken--he isn’t that kind of a
man--but this stripping him of his forces to strengthen Scott will leave
him almost unarmed before a powerful enemy."

Phil saw the cogency of his reasoning. Deeply patriotic, his private
motives could not rule him wholly in the face of such an emergency. He
longed with a most intense longing now for a sight of the Rio Grande. A
great battle often hung in such an even balance that a few men might
turn the scale. The brave and resolute two hundred with the train were
a force not to be despised, even where thousands were gathered. The
leaders, also felt the impulse. Despite caution and calculation, the
speed of the train was increased. They started a little earlier every
morning, and they stopped a little later every evening. Yet there were
delays. Once they had a smart skirmish with Mexican guerillas, and once
a Comanche force, which did little but distant firing, held them three
days. Then a large number of their animals, spent by the long march,
fell sick, and they were compelled to delay again.

The summer waned and passed. The grass was quite dead above ground,
although the roots flourished below. The cactus increased in quantity.
Often it pointed long melancholy arms southward as if to indicate that
misfortune lay that way. The great silence settled about them again.
There were no Indians, no Mexicans, no scouts, no hunters. Phil’s
thoughts reverted to his original quest. One day as he sat in the wagon
he took the worn paper from the inside pocket of his waistcoat and read
it for the thousandth time. He was about to hold it up and put it back
in its resting place, when Bill Breakstone, seeking an hour or so of
rest, sprang into the wagon, also. It was Phil’s first impulse to
thrust the paper quickly out of sight, and Bill Breakstone, with innate
delicacy, pretended not to see, merely settling himself, with a cheerful
word or two, into a comfortable seat. But Phil’s second thought was the
exact opposite. He withheld his hand and opened the worn and soiled
paper.

"This is a letter, Bill," he said, "and you’ve seen it."

"At a distance," replied Bill Breakstone with assumed carelessness.
"Too far for me to read a word of it. Love letter of yours, Phil?
You’re rather young for that sort of thing. Still, I suppose I’ll have
to call you Sir Philip of the Lost Lady and the Broken Heart."

"It’s not that," said Phil. "This letter tells why I came into the
Southwest. Somehow, I’ve wanted to keep it to myself, but I don’t now.
Will you read it, Bill? It’s hard to make out some of the words, but if
you look close you can tell."

He reached out the worn piece of paper.

"Not unless you feel that you really want me to read it," said
Breakstone.

"I really want you to do so," said Phil.

Breakstone took the paper in his hands and smoothed it out. Then he
held it up to the light, because the writing was faded and indistinct,
and deciphered:

"I’m here, Phil, in this stone prison--it must be some sort of an old
Spanish castle, I think, in the Mexican mountains. We were blindfolded
and we traveled for days, so I can’t tell you where I am. But I do know
that we went upward and upward, and, when my shoes wore out, rocks sharp
like steel cut into my feet. We also crossed many deep gulleys and
ravines. I think we went through a pass. Then we came down into ground
more nearly level. My feet were bleeding. We passed through a town and
we stopped by a well. Then a woman gave me a cup of water. My throat
was parched with dust. I knew it was a woman by her voice and her words
of pity, spoken in Mexican. Then we came here. I have been shut up in a
cell. I don’t know how long, because I’ve lost count of time. But I’m
here, Phil, between four narrow walls, with a narrow window that looks
out on a mountainside, where I can see scrub pines and the thorny
cactus. You’re growing up now, Phil, and you may be able to come with
friends for me. There’s one here that’s kind to me, the old woman who
brings me my food, and she’s loaned me a pencil and paper to write this.
I’ve written the letter, and she’s going to smuggle it away somehow
northward into Texas, and then it may be passed on to you. I’m hoping,
Phil, that it will reach you, wherever you are. If it does I know that
you will try to come. JOHN BEDFORD."

"Look on the other side," said Phil.

Bill Breakstone turned it over and read the inscription:

"_To Philip Bedford, Esquire,_
"_Paris,_
"_Kentucky._"

Tears stood in the boy’s eyes, and his hands were trembling. Breakstone
waited quietly.

"As you see," said Phil, when he felt that his voice was steady, "the
letter came. It’s my brother, John, who wrote it. A man riding across
the country from Frankfort gave it to me in Paris last year. A
flatboatman had brought it up the Kentucky River from its mouth at the
Ohio, and when he came to Frankfort he asked if anybody would take it to
Paris. A dozen were ready to do it. The flatboatman--his name was
Simmons, a mountaineer--knew nothing about the letter. He said it had
been given to him at the mouth of the Ohio by a man on a steamer from
New Orleans. The other man said it had been dropped in front of him on
his table at an inn in New Orleans by a fellow who looked like a
Mexican. He thought at first it was just a scrap of paper, but when he
read it and looked around for the man, he was gone. He resolved to send
the letter on to me if he could, but he doesn’t know how many hands it
had passed through before it reached him. But it’s John’s handwriting.
I could never mistake it."

The boy’s voice trembled now, and the tears rose in his eyes again.
Breakstone looked at the paper, turning it over and over.

"The old woman that your brother writes about was faithful," he said at
last. "Likely a dozen men or women had it before it was dropped on that
table in New Orleans. What was your brother doing in Texas, Phil?"

"He was older than I, and he went to Texas to help in the fighting
against Mexico. You know there were raids on both sides long after San
Jacinto. You remember the Mier expedition of the Texans, and there were
others like it. John and his comrades were taken in one of these, but I
don’t know exactly which. I have written letters to all the Texas
officials, but none of them know anything."

"And of course you started at once," said Bill Breakstone.

"Of course. There was nothing to keep me. We were only two, and I sold
what we had, came down the Kentucky into the Ohio, and then down the
Mississippi to New Orleans, where I met you and the others. I had an
idea that John had been carried westward, and that I might learn
something about him at Santa Fé, or at least that Santa Fé might be a
good point from which to undertake a search. It’s all guesswork anyway,
that is, mostly, but when de Armijo told us that war had come I wasn’t
altogether sorry, because I knew that would take us down into Mexico,
where I would have a better chance to look for John. What do you think
of it, Bill?"

"Let me look at the letter again," said Breakstone.

Phil handed it back to him, and he read and reread it, turned it over
and over again, looked at the inscription, "To Philip Bedford, Paris,
Kentucky," and then tried to see writing where none was.

"It’s the old business of a needle in a haystack, Phil," he said.
"We’re bound to confess that. We don’t know where this letter was
written nor when. Your brother, as he says, had lost count of time, but
he might have made a stagger at a date."

"If he had put down any," said Phil, "it was rubbed out before it
reached me. But I don’t think it likely that he even made a guess. Do
you know, Bill, I’m afraid that maybe, being shut up in a place like
that, it might, after a long time--well, touch his head just a little.
To be shut up in a cell all by yourself for a year, maybe two years, or
even more, is a terrible thing, they say."

"Don’t think that! Don’t think it!" said Bill Breakstone hastily. "The
letter doesn’t sound as if it were written by one who was getting just a
little bit out of tune. Besides, I’m thinking it’s a wonderful thing
that letter got to you."

"I’ve thought of that often, myself," exclaimed Phil, a sudden light
shining in his eyes. "This is a message, a call for help. It comes out
of nowhere, so to speak, out of a hidden stone castle or prison, and in
some way it reaches me, for whom it was intended. It seems to me that
the chances were a million to one against its coming, but it came. It
came! That’s the wonderful, the unforgettable thing! It’s an omen,
Bill, an omen and a sign. If this little paper with the few words on it
came to me through stone walls and over thousands of miles, well, I can
go back with it to the one who sent it!"

His face was transfigured, and for the time absolute confidence shone in
his eyes. Bill Breakstone, a man of sympathetic heart, caught the
enthusiasm.

"We’ll find him, Phil! We’ll find him," he exclaimed.

Philip Bedford, so long silent about this which lay nearest to his
heart, felt that a torrent of words was rushing to his lips.

"I can’t tell you, Bill," he said, "how I felt when that letter was
handed to me. Jim Harrington, a farmer who knew us, brought it over
from Frankfort. He was on his horse when he met me coming down the
street, and he leaned over and handed it to me. Of course he had read
it, as it wasn’t in an envelope, and he sat there on his horse looking
at me, while I read it, although I didn’t know that until afterward.

"Bill, I was so glad I couldn’t speak for awhile. We hadn’t heard from
John in two or three years, and we were all sure that he was dead.
After I read the letter through, I just stood there, holding it out in
my hand and looking at it. Then I remember coming back to earth, when
Jim Harrington leaned over to me from his saddle and said: ’Phil, is it
genuine?’

"’It’s real,’ I replied, ’I’d know his handwriting anywhere in the
world.’

"’What are you going to do, Phil?’ he asked.

"’I’m going to start for Mexico to-morrow,’ I said.

"’It’s a powerful risky undertaking,’ he said.

"’I’m going to start for Mexico to-morrow,’ I said again.

"Then from his height on the horse he put his hand on my head for a
moment and said: ’I knew you’d go, Phil. I know the breed. I was in
the War of 1812 with your father, when we were boys together. You’re
only a boy yourself, but you go to Mexico, and I believe you’ll find
John.’

"So you see, Bill, even at the very start there was one who believed
that I would succeed."

"The signs do point that way," admitted Bill Breakstone. "Every fact is
against you, but feeling isn’t. I’ve lived long enough, Phil, to know
that the impossible happens sometimes, particularly when a fellow is
striving all his might and main to make it happen. What kind of a fellow
was this brother of yours, Phil?"

"The finest in the world," replied Phil. "He raised me, Bill, as they
say up there in Kentucky. He is four years older than I am, and we were
left orphans, young. He taught me about everything I know, helped me at
school, and then, when I got big enough, we made traps together, and in
the fall and winter caught rabbits. Then I had a little gun, and he
showed me how to shoot squirrels. We went fishing in the Kentucky
often, and he taught me to ride, too. He was big and strong. Although
only a boy himself, he could throw anybody in all the towns about there,
but he was so good-natured about it that the men he threw liked him.
Then we began to hear about Texas. Everybody was talking about Texas.
Many were going there, too. It seemed to us the most wonderful country
on earth. John caught the fever. He was going to make fortunes for
both of us. I don’t know how, but he meant to do it. I wasn’t big
enough to go with him, but he would send for me later. He went down the
river to New Orleans. I had a letter from him there, and another from
San Antonio, but nothing ever came after that until this dirty, greasy
little piece of paper dropped out of the skies. It was four years
between."

"Four years between!" repeated Bill Breakstone, "and we don’t know what
has happened in all that time. But it seems to me, Phil, that you’re
right. If this little piece of paper has come straight out of the dark
thousands of miles to you, then it’s going to be a guide to us back to
the place where it started, because, Phil, I’m going to help you in
this. I’ve got a secret errand of my own, and I’m not going to tell it
to you just yet, but it can wait. I’m going to see you through, Phil,
and we’re going to find that brother John of yours, if we have to rip
open every prison in Mexico."

His own eyes were bright now with the light of enthusiasm, and he held
out his hand, which Phil seized. The fingers of the two were compressed
in a strong clasp.

"It’s mighty good of you, Bill," said the boy, "to help me, because this
isn’t going to be any easy search."

"It won’t be any search at all for awhile," said Bill Breakstone,
"because a great war is shoving in between. We are approaching the Rio
Grande now, Phil."

The summer was now gone, and they were well into autumn. The train had
come a great distance, more miles than any of them could tell. Cool
winds blew across the Texas uplands, and the nights were often sharp
with cold. Then the fires of cottonwood, dry cactus, or buffalo chips
were very welcome, and it was pleasant to sit before them and speculate
upon what awaited them on the other side of the Rio Grande. They had
passed beyond the domain of the Comanches, and they were skirting along
the edge of a country that contained scattered houses of adobe or log
cabins--Mexicans in the former, and Americans in the latter. These were
not combatants, but they were full of news and gossip.

There had been a revolution or something like it in Mexico. The report
of the American successes, at the beginning, was true. Taylor had
defeated greatly superior numbers along the Rio Grande, and, after a
severe battle, had taken Monterey by storm. Then the Mexicans, wild
with rage, partly at their own leaders, had turned out Paredes, their
president, and the famous Santa Anna had seized the power. Santa Anna,
full of energy and Latin eloquence, was arousing the Mexican nation
against invasion, and great numbers were gathering to repel the little
American armies that had marched across the vast wilderness to the
Mexican border. This news made Middleton very serious, particularly
that about Santa Anna.

"He’s been called a charlatan, a trickster, cruel, unscrupulous, and
many other things not good," he said one evening as they sat about a
fire, "and probably all the charges are true, but at the same time he is
a man of great ability. He has intuition, the power to divine the plans
of an opponent, something almost Napoleonic, and he also has fire and
energy. He will be a very dangerous man to us. He hates us all the
more because the Texans took him at San Jacinto. If I remember rightly,
two boys looking for stray mules found him hiding in the grass the day
after the battle, and brought him in a prisoner. Such a man as he is not
likely to forget such a humiliation as that."

"I have seen him with my own eyes," said Arenberg. "He iss a cruel man
but an able one. Much harm iss meant, and much may be done."

That ended the German’s comment, and, taking his pipe, he smoked and
listened. But his face, lighted up by the flames, was sad. It was
habitually sad, although Phil believed that the man was by nature cheery
and optimistic. But Arenberg still kept his secret.

They learned, also, that there had been an armistice between the
Americans and the Mexicans, but that Santa Anna had used all the time
for preparations. Then the negotiations were broken off, and the war
was to pass into a newer and fiercer phase. Taylor was at Saltillo,
about two hundred miles beyond the line, but Scott, who had been on the
Rio Grande some time earlier, had taken most of his good officers and
troops for the invasion by way of Vera Cruz, and Taylor, with his small
remaining force, was expected to stand on the defensive, even to retreat
to the Rio Grande. Instead of that, he had advanced boldly into the
mountains. Politics, it was said, had intervened, and Taylor was to be
shelved. Middleton, usually reserved, commented on this to Phil,
Breakstone, and Arenberg, who, he knew, would not repeat his words.

"I’ve no doubt that this news is true," he said, "and it must be a
bitter blow to old Rough and Ready--that’s what we call Taylor in the
army. He’s served all his life with zeal and efficiency, and now he’s
to be put aside, after beginning a successful and glorious campaign.
It’s a great wrong that they’re doing to Zachary Taylor."

"But we’re going to join him anyhow, are we not?" asked Phil.

"Yes, that’s our objective. I should have to do so, because my original
instructions were to report to him, and they have not been changed.
And, with Santa Anna leading the Mexicans, what our Government expects
to happen at one place may happen at another."

The train itself was now in splendid condition. All the wounded men had
fully recovered. The sick horses and mules were well again. The
weather had been good, game was plentiful, their diet was varied and
excellent, and there was no illness. Moreover, their zeal increased as
they drew near the seat of war, and the reports, some true, some false,
and all lurid, came thick and fast. It was hard to keep some of them
from leaving the train and going on ahead, but Middleton and Woodfall,
by strenuous efforts, held them in hand.

They shifted back now toward the east, and came at last to the Rio
Grande. Phil was riding ahead of the train, when he caught the first
view of it--low banks, an immense channel, mostly of sand, with water,
looking yellow and dangerous, flowing here and there in two or three
streams. The banks were fringed but sparsely with trees, and beyond lay
Mexico, the Mexico of Cortez and the Aztecs, the Mexico of gold and
romance, and the Mexico of the lost one whom he had come so far to find.

It was one of the most momentous events in Philip Bedford’s life, this
view of Mexico, to which he had come over such a long trail. It was not
beautiful, there across the Rio Grande; it was bare, dark, and dusty,
with rolling hills and the suggestion of mountains far off to the right.
The scant foliage was deep in autumn brown. Human life there was none.
Nothing stirred in the vast expanse of desolation. The train was so far
behind him that he did not hear the rumbling of the wagon wheels, and he
sat there, horse and rider alike motionless, gazing into the misty
depths of this Mexico which held so much of mystery and which attracted
and repelled at the same time. Question after question throbbed through
his mind. Would the Americans succeed in penetrating the mountains that
lay beyond? And if so, in what direction was he to go? Which way
should he look! It seemed so vast, so inscrutable, that he was
appalled. For the first time since he had left that little Paris in
Kentucky he felt despair. Such a search as his was hopeless, doomed in
the beginning. His face turned gray, his chin sank upon his chest, but
then Bill Breakstone rode up beside him, and his loud, cheery voice
sounded in his ear.

"Well, here we are at last, Phil," he exclaimed. "We’ve ridden all the
way across Texas, and it must have been a hundred thousand miles. Now
we stand, or rather sit, on the shores of the Rio Grande.

"Behold the river!
But I don’t quiver.
They call it grand.
It’s mostly sand.

It’s no Mississippi, Phil, but it’s a hard stream for an outfit like
ours to cross. I’m glad that Taylor has already cleared the way. You
remember what a fight we had with the Comanches back at the crossing of
that other and smaller river."

"I do," said Phil, "but there is nothing here to oppose us, and
doubtless we can make the crossing in peace."

CHAPTER XI

WITH THE ARMY

The crossing of the Rio Grande was a formidable task, and the train
could never have accomplished it in the face of a foe, even small in
numbers, but no Mexicans were present, and they went about their task
unhindered. One of the streams was too deep to be forded, but they cut
down the larger trees and constructed a strong raft, which they managed
to steer over with long poles. The reluctant horses and mules were
forced upon it, and thus the train was carried in safety over the deep
water. Nor was the task then ended. It usually took six horses and ten
or twelve men to drag a wagon through the sand and carry it up the bank
to the solid earth beyond, the way having been carefully examined in
advance in order to avoid quicksand.

It took three days to build the raft and complete the passage. Phil had
never worked so hard in his life before. He pushed at wagon wheels and
pulled at the bridles of mules and horses until every bone in him ached,
and he felt as if he never could get his strength again. But the train
was safely across, without the loss of a weapon or an animal. They were
in Mexico, and they did not deceive themselves about the greatness and
danger of the task that lay before them. Phil felt the curious effect
which the passage over the border from one country to another usually
has on people, especially the young. It seemed to him that in passing
that strip of muddy river he had come upon a new soil, and into a new
climate--into a new world, in fact. Yet the Texas shore, in reality,
looked exactly like the Mexican, and was like it.

"Well, Phil," said Bill Breakstone, "here we are in Mexico. I’m covered
with mud, so are you, and so is Arenberg. I think it’s Texas and Mexico
mud mixed, so suppose we go down, find a clear place in the water, and
get rid of it."

They found a cool little pool, an eddy or backwater, where the water
standing over white sand was fairly clear, and the three, stripping,
sprang in. The water was deep, and Bill plunged and dived and
spluttered with great delight. Phil and Arenberg were not so noisy, but
they found the bath an equal pleasure. It was an overwhelming luxury to
get the sand out of their eyes and ears and hair, and to feel the cool
water on bodies hot with the ache and grime of three days’ hard work.

"You’d better make the best of it, Phil," said Breakstone. "The part of
Mexico that we are going into isn’t very strong on water, and maybe you
won’t get another bath for a year."

"I’m doing it," said the boy.

"And don’t you mind the fact," said Bill Breakstone, "that the
alligators of the Rio Grande, famous for their size and appetite, like
to lie around in lovely cool pools like this and bite the bare legs of
careless boys who come down to bathe."

Phil felt something grasp his right leg and pull hard. He uttered a
yell, and then, putting his hand on Breakstone’s brown head, which was
rising to the surface, convulsively thrust him back under. But
Breakstone came up three yards away, pushed the hair out of his eyes,
and laughed.

"I’m the only alligator that’s in the stream," he said, "but I did give
you a scare for a moment. You are bound to admit that, Sir Philip, Duke
of Texas and Prince of Mexico."

"I admit it readily," replied Phil, and, noticing that Breakstone was
now looking the other way, he dived quietly and ran his finger nails
sharply along his comrade’s bare calf. Breakstone leaped almost wholly
out of the water and cried:

"Great Heavens, a shark is eating me up!"

Phil came up and said quietly:

"There are no sharks in the Rio Grande, Mr. William Breakstone. You
never find sharks up a river hundreds of miles from the ocean. Now, I
did give you a scare for a moment, you will admit that, will you not,
Sir William of the Shout, the Shark, and the Fright?"

"I admit it, of course, and now we are even," said Breakstone. "Give me
your hand on it."

Phil promptly reached out his hand, and Breakstone, seizing it, dragged
him under. But Phil, although surprised, pulled down on Breakstone’s
hand with all his might, and Breakstone went under with him. Both came
up spluttering, laughing, and enjoying themselves hugely, while Arenberg
swam calmly to a safe distance.

"You are a big boy, Herr Bill Breakstone," he said. "You will never grow
up."

"I don’t want to," replied Bill Breakstone calmly. "When it makes me
happy all through and through just to be swimming around in a pool of
nice cool water, what’s the use of growing up? Answer me that, Hans
Arenberg."

"I can’t," replied the German. "It isn’t in me to give an answer to
such a question."

"I suppose we’ve got to go out at last, dress again, and go back to
work," said Breakstone lugubriously. "It’s a hard world for us men,
Phil."

"One iss not a fish, and, being not a fish," said Arenberg, "one must go
out on dry land some time or other to rest, and the some time has now
come."

They swam to land, but Bill Breakstone began to plead.

"Let’s lie here on the sand and luxuriate for a space, Sir Philip of the
Rio Grande and Count Hans of the Llano Estacado, which is Spanish for
the Staked Plain, which I have seen more than once," said Bill
Breakstone. "The sand is white, it is clean, and it has been waiting a
long time for us to lie upon it, close our eyes, and forget everything
except that we are happy."

"It iss a good idea," said Arenberg. "There are times when it iss well
to be lazy, only most men think it iss all the time."

They stretched themselves out on the white sand and let the warm sun
play upon them, permeating their bodies and soothing and relaxing every
muscle. Phil had not felt so peaceful in a long time. It had relieved
him to tell the secret of his quest to Breakstone, who, with his
permission, had told it in turn to Middleton and Arenberg, and now that
he was really in Mexico with strong friends around him he felt that the
first great step had been accomplished. The warm sun felt exceedingly
good, his eyes were closed, and a pleasant darkness veiled them, a faint
murmur, the flowing of the river, came to his ears, and he floated away
with the current.

"Here! here! Sir Philip of the Sleepy Head, wake up. It isn’t your
first duty to go to sleep when you arrive in Mexico! Besides, it’s time
we were back at the camp, or they’ll think Santa Anna has got us
already! Also, you need more clothes than you’ve got on just now!"

Phil sprang up embarrassed, but he saw Arenberg looking sheepish, also.

"You had good company, Sir Philip of the Sleepy Head," exclaimed
Breakstone joyously. "Count Hans, of the Snore was traveling with you
into that unknown land to which millions have gone and returned, and of
which not one can tell anything."

"It iss so," said Arenberg. "I confess my weakness."

They dressed rapidly, and, refreshed and young again, ran back to the
train. The twilight was now coming, and the wagons were drawn up in the
usual circular formation, with the animals in the middle, and, outside
the circle, were burning several fires of dry cactus and cottonwood,
around which men were cooking.

"Just in time for supper," said Bill Breakstone. "I was a great rover
when I was a boy, but my mother said I took care never to get out of
sound of the dinner-bell. It may be funny, but my appetite is just as
good in Mexico as it was in Texas."

They ate strips of bacon, venison, and jerked buffalo, with a great
appetite. They drank coffee and felt themselves becoming giants in
strength. The twilight passed, and a brilliant moon came out, flooding
the plain with silvery light. Then they saw a horseman coming toward
them, riding directly through the silver flood, black, gigantic, and
sinister.

"Now what under the sun can that be?" exclaimed Bill Breakstone.

"You should say what under the moon. It iss more correct," said
Arenberg. "I can tell you, also, that it iss a white man, although the
figure looks black here--I know by the shape. It iss also an American
officer in uniform. I know it because I saw just then a gleam of
moonlight on his epaulets. He iss coming to inspect us."

The approach of the stranger aroused, of course, the deepest curiosity
in everybody, and in a few moments a crowd gathered to gaze at this man
who came on with such steadiness and assurance. His figure, still
magnified by the moon, out of which he seemed to be riding, showed now
in perfect outline. He carried no rifle, but they could see the hilt of
a sword on his thigh. He wore a military cap, and the least experienced
could no longer doubt that he was an army officer.

"He knows that we are friends," said Middleton, "or he would not come on
so boldly. Unless I mistake much, he sits his horse like a regular
officer of the United States cavalry. That seat was learned only at
West Point."

The stranger rode out of the magnifying rays. His horse and himself
shrank to their real size. He came straight to the group, leaped to the
ground, and, holding the bridle in one hand, lifted his cap with the
other in salute. Middleton sprang forward.

"Edgeworth," he exclaimed, "when you came near I thought it was you, but
I scarcely dared to hope."

The officer, tall and striking of appearance, with penetrating gray
eyes, seized Middleton’s hand.

"And it is you, Middleton," he said. "What a meeting for two who have
not seen each other since they were at West Point together."

"But it’s where we both want to be," said Middleton.

"That is so," said Edgeworth with emphasis, "but I had heard, George,
that you were sent on an errand of uncommon danger, and I had feared--I
will not hesitate to say it to you now--that you would never come back."

Middleton laughed. He was obviously delighted with this meeting of the
comrade of his cadetship. Then he introduced Woodfall and the others,
after which he asked:

"How did you know we were friends, Tom? You came on as if you were
riding to a garden-party."

"A scout brought news of you," he replied. "We have a small force about
twenty miles ahead, and I rode back to meet you, and see what was here."

"We have some good men," said Woodfall, "and they are willing to fight.
We’ve come a good many hundreds of miles for that purpose."

"I believe you," said Edgeworth, running his trained eyes over the
crowd. "A finer body of men I never saw, and we need you, every one of
you."

"What news?" asked Middleton eagerly.

"Much of it, and all bad. Our government has mixed the situation badly.
We’ve been steadily strengthening Scott, and, in the same proportion,
we’ve been weakening Taylor. There are rumors, I don’t know how
authentic--perhaps you have heard them--that Santa Anna is coming north
with a great force to destroy us. Taylor is expected to retreat
rapidly, but he hasn’t done it. You know old Rough and Ready, George."

"I hope to Heaven he won’t retreat!" exclaimed Middleton.

"He hasn’t. So far he has advanced," said Edgeworth. "But I ride back
with you in the morning, boys, and I think great things are going to
happen before long. Besides the men with you, Middleton, we’ve use for
everything you’ve got in the wagons. You won’t suffer, Mr. Woodfall."

The train moved the next morning an hour earlier than usual. Wheels
were turning before daylight. Hearts were beating high, and they pushed
on at great speed now, for wagons, until past sunset. In the middle of
the day it was hot, in the evening chill winds blew down from the crests
of distant mountains, but at all times, morning, noon, and evening, they
marched in a cloud of dust, much of it impregnated with alkali. It
annoyed Phil and his comrades terribly, sifting into nose, mouth, ears,
and eyes, putting a bitter taste on the palate, and making them long for
the sweet waters of the pool in which they had bathed so luxuriously.

The next day was the same; more dust, more alkali, and the deadly
monotony of a treeless and sandy plain. But that night it was extremely
cold. They were approaching the mountains, the spurs of the Sierra
Madre, and the winds were sharp with the touch of ice and snow. Winter,
also, had come, and in the night ice formed in the infrequent rivulets
on the plain. Now and then they passed little Mexican villages, mostly
of the adobe huts, with dirt and children strewed about in great
quantities. The children were friendly enough, but the women scowled,
and the men were away. Phil did not find the villages picturesque or
attractive in any sense, and he was disappointed.

"I hope this isn’t the best Mexico has to show," he said.

"It isn’t very inviting," said Bill Breakstone, "you wouldn’t look
around here for a Forest of Arden or a Vale of Vallombrosa, but this is
only the introduction to Mexico. Monterey, which General Taylor took,
is a fine city, and so are others farther down. I’ve seen a lot of them
myself. Don’t you worry, Phil, you’ll find enough to interest you
before you get through."

They also picked up some wandering scouts and hunters, who joined them
in their march. Several of these brought news. Taylor was at Saltillo,
and his force was small. The Mexicans were raiding to the very
outskirts of the city, and they looked upon Taylor’s army as already
destroyed. The American force of about four thousand five hundred men
contained less than five hundred regular troops. The others, although
good material, were raw volunteers, very few of whom had been under
fire.

Phil saw Middleton and Edgeworth talking together very anxiously, and he
knew that they were full of apprehensions. It seemed as if Fate itself
were playing into the hands of Santa Anna. Occasionally they saw bands
of Mexican guerillas hovering on the horizon, but they did not bother
with them, keeping straight on for Taylor and Saltillo. The cold still
increased, both day and night, and the winds that came from the peaks of
the Sierra Madre, now plainly in view, cut to the bone. Phil was glad
to take to the wagons for sleep, and to wrap himself in double blankets.
It was now well into December, but in two more days they expected to
reach Taylor at Saltillo.

The last day of the march came, and every heart in the train beat high
with expectancy. Even the army officers, Middleton and Edgeworth,
trained to suppression of their emotions, could not restrain their
eagerness, and they, with Woodfall and others, rode on ahead of the
train. Phil, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg were in this little group,
but the three were at the rear.

"Phil, you were right when you called it a strange looking land," said
Bill Breakstone, "and I’m of the opinion that we’re going to see strange
things in it. Our military friends look none too happy, and as I’ve
eyes and ears of my own I know we’re likely to have lively times after
Christmas. Did you know that Christmas was not far away, Phil?"

"No, I had forgotten all about it," replied Phil, "but, since you
mention it, I remember that it is December. Ah, what is that shining in
the sun straight ahead of us, Bill?"

He pointed with his finger and showed the faintest red tint under the
horizon.

"That," replied Breakstone, "is a red tile roof on a house in Saltillo,
and you’re the first to see the town. Good eye, my boy. Now, the others
have seen it, also! Look how they quicken the steps of their horses!"

They broke into a gallop as they came into a shallow, pleasant valley,
with green grass, the Northern palms, clear, flowing water, and many a
neat stone house with its piazzas and patios. The domes of several fine
churches rose into view, and then men in uniforms, rifle in hand, stood
across the road. Phil knew their faces; these men were never bred in
Mexico. Brown they were with the wind and sun of many days, but the
features beneath the brown were those of the Anglo-Saxons, the Americans
of the North, his own people.

"Halt!" came the sharp order from the commander of the patrol.

Middleton replied for them all, but, as Phil rode past, he leaned over
and said to the bronzed leader of the patrol:

"I’m here, Jim Harrington. I told you in Paris that I was coming to
Mexico. It’s a long road, and you’re ahead of me, but I’m here."

The leader, a thick-set, powerful man of fifty-five, looked up in
amazement. At first he had not recognized Phil under his tan and layer
of dust, but now he knew his voice.

"Phil Bedford, by all that’s wonderful!" he exclaimed. "I didn’t think
that you and I would ever meet in Mexico, but when the call came I
couldn’t keep away!"

Then he lowered his tone and asked:

"Any news of John?"

Phil shook his head sadly.

"Not a thing," he replied, "but I’m going to find him!"

"I believe you will," said Harrington, "but your search is going to be
delayed, Phil. You’ll have to wait for something else that none of us
will ever forget. But, Phil, you’ve landed among friends. Lots of the
boys that you used to know in Paris and around there are here."

As Phil rode on, the truth of Harrington’s words was confirmed. Tan and
dust did not keep strong, hearty voices from hailing him.

"Hey, you, Phil Bedford, where did you come from?"

"Is that old Phil Bedford? Did he drop from the clouds?"

"Here, Phil, shake hands with an old friend!"

He saw more than a score of familiar faces. A number of these soldiers
were almost as young as himself, and two or three of them were related
to him by blood. He had a great sensation of home, an overpowering
feeling of delight. Despite strangeness and distance, old friends and
kindred were around him. But old friends did not make him forget his
new friends, or think any less of them. He introduced Middleton, Bill
Breakstone, and Arenberg. Middleton was compelled to hurry to General
Taylor with his report, but the other two remained and affiliated
thoroughly.

"You camp with us," said Dick Grayson, a distant cousin of Phil’s.
"We’ve got a fine place over here, just back of the plaza. Lots of
Kentuckians here, Phil--in fact, more from our state than any other.
The rest are mostly from Illinois, Indiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, and
Louisiana. We haven’t got many regulars, but we’ve got mighty good
artillery, and we’re ready to give a good account of ourselves against
anybody. You ought to see old Rough and Ready. He’s as grim as you
please. Just as soon bite a ten-penny nail in two as not. Mad clean
through, and I don’t blame him, because he’s been robbed to strengthen
Scott."

Phil and his comrades went readily with Grayson. The wagon train was
already scattering through the encampment, the volunteers taking their
places here and there, while Woodfall and his associates were arranging
for the sale of their available supplies. Phil, Breakstone, and
Arenberg owned their horses, and, leading them with the bridles over
their arms, they walked along with their new friends. Phil noticed that
the town was well built in the Mexican style, with many handsome houses
and signs of prosperity. The American invaders had harmed nothing, but
their encampment was spread throughout the city.

The group walked by a green little park in which a small fountain was
playing. A young Mexican in sombrero, gaudy jacket and trousers sat on
a stone bench and idly thrummed a guitar. Several thick-set Mexican
women, balancing on their heads heavy jars of water, passed placidly by.
A small train of burros loaded with wool walked down another street.
There was nothing save the presence of the soldiers to tell of war. It
all looked like play. Phil spoke of the peaceful appearance of
everything to Dick Grayson. Grayson shrugged his shoulders.

"You cannot tell a thing by its looks in this country," he said.
"Mexicans seem nearly always to be asleep, but, as a rule, they are not.
You don’t see many men about, and it means that they are off with the
guerillas, or that they’ve gone south to join Santa Anna. We haven’t
done any harm here. We’ve treated the people in Saltillo a good deal
better than their own rulers often treat them, and we’re friendly with
the inhabitants, but Mexicans are bound to stand with Mexicans, just as
Americans stand with Americans. It’s natural, and I don’t blame ’em for
it."

"I’d wager that many a message is carried off to the enemy by these
stolid looking women," said Bill Breakstone.

Yet the town itself showed little hostility. Nevertheless, Phil could
not keep from feeling that it was thoroughly the enemy of the invader,
as was natural. As Bill Breakstone truly said, information concerning
the Americans was certainly sent to the Mexican leaders. Everything that
the Americans might do in the town would quickly become known to the
enemy, while a veil always hung before the Mexican troops and
preparations. Nevertheless, the life of the city, save for the
reduction in the number of its adult inhabitants, went on as usual.

Some of the officers occupied houses, but all the men and younger
officers were in tents, either in the open places of the town or on the
outskirts. Phil, Arenberg, and Breakstone spent that night with Dick
Grayson and others in a little park, where about twenty tents stood.
These were to be their regular quarters for the present, and, as
Middleton had foreseen, the reinforcement was welcomed eagerly. They
ate an abundant supper, and, the night being cold, afire was built
within the ring of the tents. Here they sat and talked. Besides Dick
Grayson, there were "Tobe" Wentworth, Elijah Jones, Sam Parsons, and
other old friends of Phil.

As they sat before the cheerful blaze and put their blankets over their
backs to shield themselves from the bitter mountain winds, they
discussed the war and, after the manner of young troopers, settled it,
every one in his own way and to his own perfect satisfaction. "Tobe"
Wentworth was not an educated youth, but he was a great talker.

"I could a-planned this war," he said, "an’ carried it right out without
a break to a finish."

"Why didn’t you do it, then?" asked Dick Grayson.

"I did think o’ writin’ to Washin’ton once," said Tobe calmly, "an’
tellin’ them how it ought to be done, but I reckoned them old fellows
would be mighty set in their ways an’ wouldn’t take it right. Old men
don’t like to be told by us youngsters that they don’t know much."

"I’ve got a plan, too," said an Indiana youth named Forsythe.

"What is it?" asked Wentworth scornfully.

"It’s a secret. I ain’t ever goin’ to tell it to anybody," said
Forsythe. "I’ve drawed up my will, an’ I’ve provided that when I die
it’s to be buried with me, still unread, folded right over my heart."

All laughed, but "Tobe" rejoined:

"Sech modesty is becomin’ in Hoosiers, all the more so because it’s the
first time I ever knowed one of them to display it."

"Did you ever hear about that gentleman from Injiany that went out in
the Kentucky Mountains once, drivin’ a fine buggy?" asked Forsythe. "He
noticed some big boys runnin’ along behind him. He didn’t think much of
it at first, but they kept right behind him mile after mile, but sayin’
nothin’ an’ offerin’ no harm. At last his curiosity got the better of
him, an’ he leaned back and asked: ’Boys, why are you followin’ me this
way?’ Then the biggest of them boys, a long, lean fellow, bare-footed
and with only one suspender, up and answers: ’Why, stranger, we reckoned
we’d run behind an’ see how long it would take for your hind wheels to
ketch up with your front wheels.’"

"Tobe" Wentworth sat calm and unsmiling until the laughter died. Then
he said:

"Any of you fellers know how the people of Injiany got the name of
Hoosiers? No? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s so wild and rough over there,
an’ them people are so teetotally ignorant an’ so full of curiosity
that, whenever a gentleman from Kentucky crosses the Ohio and goes along
one of their rough roads, up they pop everywhere, and call out to him:
’Who’s yer?’ meaning ’Who are you?’ and that started the word Hoosier,
which all over the world to-day means the people from Injiany."

When the second laugh died, Bill Breakstone rubbed his hands together.

"I see that I’ve fallen upon a merry crowd," he said, "and it is well.
The spirit of youth is always delightful, and it leads to the doing of
great things."

"You talk like an actor," said Dick Grayson, not as a criticism, but in
tones of admiration.

"I talk like an actor," replied Bill Breakstone with majesty, "because I
am one."

"You don’t say so! You don’t mean it!" exclaimed a dozen voices at
once.

"I am, or, rather, was," replied Bill with dignity, "although I will
admit that I am now engaged in other pursuits."

Most of them still looked at him doubtfully, and Bill, his honor at
stake, became the subject of a sudden inspiration.

"I see that some of you suspect my veracity, which is natural under the
circumstances," he said. "Now, I said I was an actor, and I’ll prove
that I’m an actor by acting."

"You don’t mean it!" they cried again.

"I will," said Bill Breakstone firmly. "Moreover, I will act from a
play by the greatest of all writers. Throw the wood together there and
let the blaze spring up. I want you to see me."

A dozen willing hands tossed together the logs which sent up a swift,
high flame. The whole circle was lighted brightly, and Bill Breakstone
stood up. Phil had never taken seriously his assertion that he had been
an actor, but now he suddenly changed his opinion. He stood for a few
moments in the full blaze of the light, a tall, slender figure, his face
lean and shaven smoothly. His expression changed absolutely. He seemed
wholly unconscious of the young soldiers about him, of the palms, or of
the stone or adobe houses of the town.

Then, in a tone of martial fervor he began to recite scraps from
Shakespeare dealing with war and battle, Macbeth’s defiance to Macduff,
Richard on the battlefield, and other of the old familiar passages. But
they were new to most of those about him, and Breakstone himself, as he
afterward said, was stirred that night by an uncommon fire and spirit.
Something greater than he, perhaps the effect of time and place, seemed
to have laid hold of him. The fire and spirit were communicated to his
audience, which rapidly increased in numbers, although he did not see
it, so deeply was he filled with his own words, carrying him far back
into other lands among the scenes that he described. The applause rose
again and again, and always he was urged to go on. As he recited for
the sixth time, a thick-set, strong figure appeared at the edge of the
throng, and men at once made way for it. The figure was that of a man
with gray hair, and with a deep line down either cheek. Breakstone’s
passing glance caught the face and divined in an instant his identity.
The applause, the demand for more, rose again, and after a little
hesitation the actor began:

"’My people are with sickness much encumbered
My numbers lessened, and these few I have,
Almost no better than so many French;
Who, when they were in health, I tell the herald,
I thought upon one pair of English legs
Did walk three Frenchmen, yet
Forgive me, God,
That I do brag thus. This poor air of France
Hath blown that voice in me. I must repent,
Go, therefore, tell thy master here I am;
My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk,
My army but a weak and sickly guard--’"

He paused a moment, but the man with the gray hair and lined cheeks
still stood in an attitude of deep attention, and, skipping some of the
lines, he continued:

"’If we may pass we will; if we be hindered
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolor; and so, Montjoy, fare you well,
The sum of all our answer is but this:
We would not seek a battle as we are;
Nor as we are, we say we will not shun it,
So tell your master.’"

He sat down amid roars of applause and universal approval. Did they not
know? Mexicans were boasting already that Taylor would have to
surrender to Santa Anna without a battle. Bill Breakstone stole a
glance toward the place where the gray-haired man had stood, but he was
gone now.

"Did you know that old Rough and Ready himself was listening to you
there toward the last?" asked Grayson.

"Is that so?" replied Breakstone. "Well, I’m not ashamed of anything
that I said, and now, if I’ve entertained you boys a little, I’d like to
rest awhile. You don’t know how hard that kind of work is, whether your
work be good or bad."

Rest he certainly should have. They had found too great a treasure,
these fighting men in a far land, to let him be spoiled by overwork, and
they brought him an abundance of refreshment, also.

Breakstone drank a cup of light wine made in Saltillo, as he lay back
luxuriously on a pallet in one of the tents. He felt that he had reason
to be satisfied with himself, and perhaps, he, playing the actor, had
seized an opportunity, and had made it do what might be an important
service in a great campaign.

"What was the last piece that you recited?" asked Grayson. "Somehow it
seemed to fit in with our own situation here."

"That," replied Breakstone, "was a speech from King Henry V. He is in
France with a small army, and the French have sent to him to demand his
surrender. He makes the reply that I have just quoted to you."

There was a thoughtful silence, although they had known his meaning
already, and presently Phil and his comrades, making themselves
comfortable in their tents, went to sleep. They were formally enrolled
among the Kentucky volunteers the next day, and began their duties,
which consisted chiefly of patrolling. Phil was among the sentinels
stationed the next night on the outskirts of the city.

CHAPTER XII

THE PASS OF ANGOSTURA

It was almost midwinter now in Mexico, and here, in the northern part of
the republic, on the great plateau, it was cold. Phil more than once
had seen the snow flying, and far away it lay in white sheets on the
peaks of the Sierra Madre. He had obtained a heavy blanket coat or
overcoat from the stores, and he was glad enough now to pull it closely
around him and turn its collar up about his neck, as he walked back and
forth in the chilly blasts. At each end of his beat he met another
sentinel, a young Kentuckian like himself, and, for the sake of company,
they would exchange a friendly word or two before they parted.

The night was dark, and, with the icy winds cutting him, Phil, after the
other sentinel had turned away, felt more lonesome in this far strange
land than he had ever been before in his life. Everything about him was
unfriendly, the hard volcanic soil upon which he trod, the shapeless
figures of the adobe huts on the outskirts of the town, and the moaning
winds from the Sierra Madre, which seemed to be more hostile and
penetrating than those of his own country. It was largely imagination,
the effect of his position, but it contained something of reality, also.
It certainly was not fancy alone that peopled the country about with
enemies. An invader is seldom loved, and it was not fancy at all that
created the night and the cold.

Phil’s beat was at the edge of open country, and he could see a little
distance upon a plain. He thought, at times, that shadowy figures with
soundless tread passed there, but he was never sure. He spoke about it
to the sentinel on his right, and then to the sentinel on his left. Each
in turn watched with him, but then the shadows did not pass, and he
concluded that his fancy was playing him tricks. Yet he was troubled,
and he resolved to watch with the utmost vigilance. His beat covered a
path leading into the town, while to right and left of him was very
difficult country. It occurred to him that anybody who wanted to pass
would come his way, and he was resolved that nobody should pass. He
examined every shadow, even if it might be that of a tree moved by the
wind, and he listened to every sound, although it might be made by some
strange Mexican animal.

Thus the time passed, and the fleeting shadows resolved themselves into
a figure that had substance and that remained. It took the shape of a
man in conical hat and long Mexican serape. He also carried a large
basket on one arm, and he approached with an appearance of timidity and
hesitation. Phil stepped forward at once, held up his rifle, and
called: "Halt!" The man obeyed promptly and pointed to the basket,
saying something in Spanish. When Phil looked, he pulled back the cover
and disclosed eggs and dressed chickens.

"To sell to the soldiers?" asked the boy.

The man nodded. Phil could not see his face, which was hidden by the
broad brim of his hat and the folds of his serape, drawn up around his
chin, evidently to fend off the cold. His surmise was likely enough.
The Americans had made a good market at Saltillo, and the peons were
ready to sell. But he did not like the hour or the man’s stealthy
approach.

"No come in," he said, trying to use the simplest words of his language
to a foreigner. "Orders! Orders must be obeyed!"

The man pointed again to his basket, as if, being in doubt, he would
urge the value of a welcome.

"No come in," repeated Phil. "Go back," and he pointed toward the woods
from which the Mexican had come.

The man hesitated, but he did not go. He turned again toward Phil, and
at that moment the wind lifted a segment of his wide hat-brim. Phil
sprang back in amazement. Despite the dark, he recognized the features
of de Armijo, who could have come there for no good, who must have come
as a spy or worse.

"De Armijo!" he cried, and sprang for him. But the Mexican was as quick
as lightning. He leaped backward, dropped his basket, and the long
blade of a knife flashed in the air. It cut through the sleeve of
Phil’s coat, and the sharp point, with a touch like fire, ran along his
arm. It was well for him that he had put on the heavy blanket coat that
night, or the blade would have grated on the bone.

The pain did not keep Phil from throwing up his rifle, and de Armijo,
seeing that his stroke had not disabled the boy, wheeled and ran. Phil
fired instantly, and saw de Armijo stagger a little. But in a moment
the Mexican recovered himself and quickly disappeared in the darkness,
although Phil rushed after him. He would have followed across the
plain, but he knew it was his duty to go no farther, and he came back to
meet the other sentinels, who were running toward him at the sound of
the shot. Phil quickly explained what had occurred, telling the
identity of the man, and adding that he was crafty and dangerous.

"A Mexican officer," said one of them. "No doubt he was trying to enter
the town in order to get more complete information about us and our
plans than they have yet obtained. He would have remained hidden by day
in some house, and he would have slipped out again at night when he had
learned all that he wanted. You did a good job, Bedford, when you
stopped him."

"You did more than stop him," said another, who had brought a small
lantern. "You nicked him before he got away. See, here’s a drop of
blood, and here’s another, and there’s another."

They followed the trail of the drops, but it did not lead far.
Evidently the effusion of blood had not been great. Then one of the
men, glancing at Phil rather curiously, said:

"He seems to have touched you up, Bedford. Do you know that a little
stream of blood is running down your left sleeve?"

Phil was not conscious until then that something moist and warm was
dripping upon his hand. In the excitement of the moment he had
forgotten all about the slash of the knife, but, now that he remembered
it, he felt a sudden weakness. But he hid it from the others, and it
passed in a minute or so.

The chief of the patrol ordered him to go back and report to an officer,
and this officer happened to be Middleton, who was sitting with
Edgeworth in one of the open camps before a small fire. Phil’s arm
meanwhile had been bound up, although he found that the cut was not
deep, and would not incapacitate him. Phil saluted in the new military
style that he was acquiring, and of which he was very proud, and said,
in reply to Middleton’s look of inquiry:

"I have the honor to report, sir, that a spy, a Mexican officer, tried
to pass our lines at the point where I was stationed. He was disguised
as a peon, coming to sell provisions in our camp. When I stopped him he
slashed at me with his knife, although the wound he inflicted was but
slight, and I, in return, fired at him as he ran. I hit him, as drops of
blood on the ground showed, although I think his wound, like mine, was
slight."

Captain Middleton smiled.

"Come, Phil," he said, "you’ve done a good deed, so hop down off your
high horse, and tell it in your old, easy way. Remember that we are
still comrades of the plains."

Phil smiled, too. The official manner was rather hard and stiff, and it
was easier to do as Middleton suggested.

"Captain," he said, "I recognized the man, and it was one that we’ve met
more than once. It was de Armijo."

"Ah, de Armijo!" exclaimed the Captain. "He was trying to spy upon us.
He is high in the Mexican councils, and his coming here means much. It
is lucky, Phil, that you were the one to stop him, and that you
recognized him. But he did not love you much before, and he will not
love you any more, since you have spilled some of his blood with a
bullet."

"I know it," replied Phil confidently, "but I feel able to take care of
myself as far as de Armijo is concerned."

"You go to your tent and sleep," said Middleton, "and I’ll put another
man in your place. You must not get too much stiffness and soreness in
that arm of yours. You will be likely to need it soon--also, every other
arm that you have."

Phil, not loth, returned to his tent, which he shared with Breakstone
and two or three others. Bill awoke, and, after listening to a
narrative of the occurrence, dressed and rebound the arm carefully.

"I agree with the Captain that things are coming to a head," he said.
"When you see a storm bird like de Armijo around, the storm itself can’t
be far behind. I’m glad he didn’t get a good whack at you, Phil, but,
as it is, you’re so young and so healthy, and your blood is so pure that
it won’t give you any trouble. I’ll dress it again to-morrow, and in a
few days it will be well."

Bill Breakstone’s prediction was a good one. In three or four days
Phil’s wound was entirely healed, and two or three days later he could
use his arm as well as ever. The boy, meanwhile, was getting better
acquainted with the troops, and, like his comrades, was becoming
thoroughly a member of the little army. It was reduced now, by the
steady drains to strengthen Scott, to 4,610 men, of whom less than five
hundred were regular troops. But the volunteers, nearly all from the
west and south, little trained though they might be, were young, hardy,
used to life in the open air, and full of zeal. They had all the fire
and courage of youth, and they did not fear any number of Mexicans.

But the New Year had come, January in its turn had passed, and the news
drifting in from a thousand sources, like dust from the desert, grew
more alarming. The army organized by Santa Anna at San Luis Potosi was
the largest that had ever been gathered in Mexico, with powerful
artillery and a numerous cavalry. Santa Anna himself was at his best,
drilling, planning, and filling his officers with his own enthusiasm.
In Saltillo itself the people grew bolder. They openly said that it was
time for the Americans to run if they would save themselves from the
invincible Mexican commander and president. It seemed to many of the
Americans even that it would be wise to retreat all the way to the Rio
Grande, but the old general, his heart full of bitterness, gave no such
order. He had begun the campaign in victorious fashion, and then he had
been ordered to stop. He had asked to be allowed to serve as second to
Scott in the great campaign that would go forward from Vera Cruz, and
that had been refused. Then he had asked that more of his troops,
especially the regulars, be left to him, and that, too, had been
refused. He was expected to yield the ground that he had gained, and
retreat in the face of an overwhelming enemy.

Phil saw General Taylor many times in those days. Any one could see him
as he passed about the city and camp, a gray, silent man, with little
military form, a product of the West and the frontier, to which Phil
himself belonged. It was for that reason, perhaps, that Phil could
enter so thoroughly into the feelings of the general, a simple,
straightforward soldier who believed himself the victim of politics, a
man who felt within him not the facility for easy and graceful speech
and manners, but the rugged power to do great things. He was very
gentle and kind to his men in these days. The soldier who had spent a
lifetime on the frontier, fighting Indians and dealing with the roughest
of his kind, was now more like the head of a great family, a band
knitted all the more closely together because they were in a foreign
land confronted by a great danger.

Phil was picking up Spanish fast, and his youth, perhaps, caused the
people about the city to make more hints, or maybe threats, to him than
they would have made to an older man. Santa Anna had with him the whole
might of Mexico. He would be before Saltillo in three days, in two
days, to-morrow perhaps. The very air seemed to the boy to be charged
with gunpowder, and he had his moments of despondency. But he had been
through too much danger already to despair, and he allowed no one to
think that at any time he was apprehensive.

Bill Breakstone was, for the present, the best man in the army. No
other made acquaintances so fast, no other had such a wonderful flow of
cheering words, and he was--or had been--an actor. To many of these
youths who had never seen a play he must certainly have been the
greatest actor in the world. Nor was he like a prima donna, to be
coaxed, and then to refuse four times out of five. He recited nearly
every evening in front of his tent, and he did more than any other man
to keep the army in good heart. General Taylor and his second, General
Wool, said nothing, but the younger officers commented openly and
favorably. Thus the last days of January went by, and they were deep
into February. The menacing reports still came out of the south, and
now it was known definitely that Washington expected Taylor to fall
back. Gloom overspread the young volunteers. They had not fought their
way so far merely to go back, but orders were orders, and they must be
obeyed.

Early in the evening Bill Breakstone was reciting again in front of his
tent, and at least two hundred stood about listening. This time he was
reciting with great fire and vigor his favorite: "Once more unto the
breach, dear friends," and, when he had said it once, there was a
vigorous call for it again. Obligingly he began the repetition, but
when he was midway in it Middleton strode into the circle and held up
his hand. His attitude was so tense, and his air and manner showed so
much suppressed excitement that every one turned at once from Breakstone
to him. Breakstone himself stopped so short that his mouth was left
wide open, and he, too, gazed at Middleton.

"My lads," said Middleton, "an order, an important order has just been
issued by the commander-in-chief. You are to prepare at once for
breaking camp, and you are to march at daylight in the morning."

Some one uttered a groan, and a bold voice spoke up:

"Do we retreat all the way to the Rio Grande, or do we hide somewhere on
the way?"

The speaker could not be seen from the place where Middleton stood, nor
would the comrades around him have betrayed him. But Middleton looked
in the direction of the voice, and his figure seemed to swell. Phil,
who was standing near, thought he saw his eyes flicker with light.

"My lads," said Middleton, and his voice was full and thrilling, "we do
not retreat all the way to the Rio Grande, nor do we hide on the way.
We do not retreat at all. We march forward, southward, through the
mountains to meet the enemy."

A cheer, sudden, tremendous, and straight from the heart, burst forth,
and it was joined with other cheers that came from other points in the
camp.

"Now make it three times three for old Rough and Ready!" cried Phil in
his enthusiasm, and they did it with zeal and powerful vocal organs.
Middleton smiled and walked on. Immediately everything was haste and
excitement. The men began to pack. Arms and ammunition were made ready
for the march. Youth looked forward only to victory, thinking little of
the risks and dangers. Breakstone smiled to himself and said under his
breath the words:

"We would not seek a battle as we are,
Nor as we are, we say we will not shun it.
So tell your master.

"Old Rough and Ready perhaps does not seek a battle, but he is willing
to go forward and meet it. Ah! these brave boys! these brave boys!"

Then he turned to Phil and Arenberg, who were among his tent-mates.

"We three must stick together through everything," he said. "We’ve lost
Middleton for the time, because he’s got to return to his duties as an
officer."

"What you say iss good," said Arenberg.

"It’s a bargain," said Phil.

They looked to the horses--they were in the cavalry--and at midnight
went to sleep. But they were up before dawn, still full of energy and
enthusiasm. As the sun cast its first rays on the cold peaks of the
Sierra Madre, they mounted, fully armed and equipped, and marched out of
Saltillo, although Taylor left a strong guard in the city, wishing to
preserve it as a base.

Phil rode knee to knee with Arenberg and Breakstone, and the thrill that
he had felt the night before, when Middleton told the news, he felt
again this morning. Horse, foot, and artillery, they were only between
four and five thousand men, but the whole seemed a great army to the
boy. He had never seen so many men under arms before. Breakstone saw
his eye kindling.

"They are stained by travel and tanned by weather, but it’s fine crowd,
just as you think it is, Sir Philip of Saltillo. Don’t you agree with
me, Hans, Duke of the Sierra Madre?"

"It can fight," said Arenberg briefly.

"And that’s what it has come out to do."

Phil saw the people of Saltillo watching them as the army left the
suburbs and moved on toward the mountains. But the spectators seemed to
be silent. Even the children had little to say. Phil wondered what
they thought in their hearts. He did not doubt that most of them were
sure that this army, or what was left of it, would come back prisoners
of Santa Anna. He was glad when they left them behind, and henceforth
he looked toward the mountains, which upreared cold peaks in the chilly
sunshine of winter. But the air was dazzlingly clear and crisp. Pure
and fresh, it filled all on that high plateau with life, and Phil’s mood
was one that expected only the best.

"We are not going to ride straight over those mountains, are we?" he
said to Bill Breakstone.

"No," replied Bill, "we feel pretty nearly good enough for anything, but
we will not try any such high jumping as that. There’s a pass. You
can’t see it from here, because it’s a sort of knife-cut going down deep
into the mountains, and they call it the Pass of Angostura. We’ll be
there soon."

There was much noise as the army began its march, friend calling to
friend, the exchange of joke and comment, wagon drivers and cannon
drivers shouting to their horses, and the clanking of arms. But they
soon settled down into a steady sound, all noises fusing into one made
by an army that continued to march but that had ceased to talk.

Phil studied the mountains as they came nearer. They were dark and
somber. Their outlines were jagged, and they had but little forest or
verdure. The peaks seemed to him volcanic, presenting a multitude of
sharp edges.

As the sun rose higher, the day grew somewhat warmer, but it was still
full of chill. The horses blew smoke from their nostrils. Scouts
coming out of the passes met them and repeated that Santa Anna was now
advancing from San Luis Potosi. Nor had rumor exaggerated his forces.
He outnumbered the American army at least five to one, and his front was
covered by a great body of cavalry under General Minon, one of the best
Mexican leaders.

This news quickly traveled through the columns, and Phil and his friends
were among the first to hear it. Breakstone gazed anxiously at the
peaks.

"They don’t know just how far Santa Anna has come," he said, "but it’s
mighty important for us going to the south to get through that pass
before he, coming to the north, can get through it."

"We’ll make it," said Phil, with the sanguine faith of youth. "I don’t
believe that Santa Anna is yet near enough to dispute the pass with us."

"Likely you are right, Sir Philip of the Brave Heart and the Cheerful
Countenance," replied Bill Breakstone. "But we shall soon see for
certain. In another hour we will enter the defiles."

Phil said nothing, but rode on with his comrades. The city had now
dropped behind them and was far out of sight. On their flanks rode
scouts who would be skirmishers if need be. They marched on a level and
good road, and about six miles from Saltillo they passed a hacienda and
tiny village.

"What village is that?" asked Phil of some one.

"Buena Vista," was the reply.

Phil heard it almost without noticing, although it was a reply to his
own question. Yet it was a name that he was destined soon to recall and
never to forget. How often for years and years afterward that name came
back to him at night, syllable by syllable and letter by letter! Now he
rode on, taking no thought of it, and the little village and hacienda
lay behind him, sleeping peacefully in the sun. His attention was for
the mountains, because they were now entering the defile, the pass of
Angostura, which cuts through the spur thrown out by the Sierra Madre.
This is lofty, and the way narrowed fast. Nor did the sunlight fall so
plentifully there, and the winds grew colder as they whistled through
the pass. After the brilliant opalescent air of the plain, they seemed
to be riding in a sort of twilight, and Phil felt his spirits droop.
Deeper and deeper they went into the cut. Above him loomed the
mountains, dark and menacing. Shrub and dwarfed plants clung here and
there in the crannies, but the range was bare, and often it was
distorted into strange shapes, sometimes like that of the human
countenance. The sky showed in a ribbon above, but it had turned gray,
and was somber and depressing. Behind came the long line of the army,
the wheels of the artillery clanking over the stones.

Once or twice Phil thought he saw figures in sombreros and serapes far
up the mountainside, watching them. Mexicans, no doubt, ready to report
to Santa Anna the advance of the American army. He expected that some
stray shots might be fired down into the pass by these spies or
guerillas, but evidently they had other business than merely to annoy,
and no bullets came.

Phil’s horse stumbled, and the boy saved him from a fall with a quick
pull. Arenberg’s horse stumbled, also, and Phil noticed that his own
was now walking gingerly over a path of solid but dark stone, corrugated
and broken into sharp edges. Well might a horse, even one steel-shod,
be careful here! Phil knew it was volcanic rock, lava that had flowed
down ages ago from the crests of the peaks about them, once volcanoes
but extinct long since.

His horse stumbled again, but recovered himself quickly. It certainly
was dangerous rock, sometimes sharp almost like a knifeblade, and the
shoes of the infantry would be cut badly. Cut badly! A sudden thought
sprang up in his brain and refused to be dislodged. It was one of those
lightning ideas, based on little things, that carry conviction with them
through their very force and swiftness. His free hand went up to the
breast of his coat and clutched the spot beneath which his brother’s
letter lay. He had read a hundred times the words of the captive,
telling how his feet had beer cut by the sharp stone. Lava might be
found at many places in Mexico, but it was along these trails in
Northern Mexico that the fighting bands of Mexicans and Texans passed.
He reasoned with himself for a few moments, saying that he was foolish,
and hoping that he was not, but the idea remained in his head, and he
knew that it was fixed there. He leaned over and said, in a husky
whisper to Bill Breakstone:

"Bill, have you noticed it! The rock! The lava! How it cuts! How it
would quickly slice the sole from the shoe of a captive who had marched
far! Bill! Bill, I say, have you noticed it?"

Bill Breakstone looked in astonishment at his young comrade, but he was
a man of uncommonly quick perceptions, and in a moment he comprehended.

"I understand," he said. "Your brother’s letter and the passage in
which he tells of his shoes being cut by the sharp stone while he was
led along blindfolded. He may have passed along this very road, Phil.
It may be. It may be. I won’t say you are wrong."

"What if we are near him now!" continued Phil. "I’ve often heard you
quote those lines, Bill, saying there are more things in heaven and
earth than we dream of in our philosophy. I told you before that if the
letter could reach me so far away in Kentucky it could also bring mo to
the place where it was written! I believed it then, Bill, and I believe
it now. What if John is here in these mountains, within forty or fifty
miles of us, or maybe twenty!"

"Steady, boy, steady!" said Bill Breakstone soothingly. "Your guess may
be right. God knows I’m not the one to deny it, but we’ve got to fight
a battle first. At least, I think so, and for the present we must put
our minds on it."

Phil was silent, but his idea possessed him. Often we dwell upon things
so long and we seek so hard to have them happen in a certain way that
the slightest indication becomes proof. He could not think now of
Taylor or Santa Anna, or of a coming battle, but only of his brother
between four narrow stone walls, sitting at a narrow window that looked
out upon a bleak mountainside. His horse no longer felt the guiding hand
upon the bridle rein, but guided himself. Breakstone noticed that the
boy’s mind was far away, and, his heart full of sympathy, he said
nothing for a long time.

They passed after awhile into a narrow valley, down the center of which
ran a dry arroyo, fully twenty feet deep, with perpendicular banks. The
rest of the valley was crisscrossed with countless gullies worn by
winter storms and floods, and the army was compelled to march in a
slender file in the bed of the arroyo. Here many of the cavalrymen
dismounted and led their horses. The cannon wheels clanked louder than
ever.

"I’ll be glad when we’re through this," said Bill Breakstone. "Seems to
me the place was built for a trap, and it’s mighty lucky for us that
there’s nobody here to spring it. Look out, Phil, you’d better watch
your horse now! Some of these turnings are pretty rough, and you don’t
want a thousand pounds or so of horseflesh tumbling down upon you."

Phil came back from his visions and devoted himself to the task before
them, one that required the full attention of every man. An entire
battery became stuck in a gully that intersected the arroyo. He and
other cavalrymen hitched their horses to the guns and helped pull them
out. The whole army was now stumbling and struggling over the fearful
ground. Every effort was made to save artillery and horses alike from
injury. But as they approached its lower end the Pass of Angostura
became still more difficult. The gullies increased in number, and many
of the deep intersecting ravines ran far back into the mountains. A
swarm of sure-footed skirmishers on either flank could have done great
damage here to the Americans, but the peaks and the lava slopes on
either side presented only silence and desolation.

It was a long journey, difficult in the extreme, and attended by
thousands of falls, cuts, and bruises, but the army came through the
Pass of Angostura at last, marching out upon a series of promontories or
ridges, each about a mile long and perhaps a third of a mile across.
From these the exhausted troops looked back at the frowning mountains
and the deep defile through which they had come.

"That was certainly a job," said Bill Breakstone.

"Yes," said Middleton, who stood near, "but what a place for a defense,
the plateau and these promontories running out from it, and all the
ravine and gullies behind!"

It is a matter of chronicle that at least fifty officers were saying the
same words at almost the same time, and even Phil, without military
training, could see the truth of it. Taylor pushed on to Agua Neva,
arriving there in the evening. But the next morning the reports of
Santa Anna’s advance in overwhelming force became so numerous that he
fell back with the main army to the mouth of the Pass of Angostura,
leaving Marshall with his brave Kentuckians as a rear guard at Agua
Neva, and with instructions to make the utmost resistance if they were
attacked.

The next night came on somber and cold. It was the evening of February
21, 1847, and the next day would be the birthday of the great
Washington, a fact not forgotten by these young volunteers so far from
the states in which they were born. This was a land totally unlike
their own. Cold black peaks showed in the growing twilight. Around
them were the gullies, the ravines, and the arroyos, with the sheets of
the ancient black lava. It was like a region that belonged in the far
beginning of time.

A great force under Wool, the second in command, was throwing up
intrenchments of earth and rock and fortifying the heads of the ravines.
Lieutenant Washington, with five heavy guns, was planted in the roadway,
or rather trail, in front of all. Other guns were placed on the plateau
and promontories, and behind guns and parapets the army went into camp
for the night.

"This doesn’t look much like Kentucky and the Bluegrass, does it, Phil?"
said Grayson, as they drank their coffee.

Phil glanced at the mountains, the crests of which were now hidden in
the darkness, and listened to the cold wind moaning through the narrow
pass by which they had come. Then he replied:

"It doesn’t, by a long sight, and I can tell you that I’m mighty glad
I’ve lots of company here. If I were alone, I’d feel that the ghosts of
the old Aztecs and Toltecs were surrounding me in the darkness. It’s
good to see the fires."

Many fires had been lighted, mostly in the ravines, where they were
sheltered from the wind, but Phil had no doubt that the scouts of Santa
Anna saw points of light at the mouth of the pass. After his supper he
stood upon one of the promontories and strove to pierce the darkness to
the south. But he could see nothing. The night hung an opaque veil
over the lower country.

CHAPTER XIII

A WIND OF THE DESERT

Although many of the soldiers, the more hardened, had lain down to
sleep, Phil did not feel that he could close his eyes. Too many deep
emotions stirred his soul. He felt that he was at the verge of a great
event, one in which he was to take a part to the full extent of his
strength and courage, and there, too, was the sign of the lava, always
coming back, always persisting. He might reason with himself and call
himself foolish, but he could not dispossess his mind of the idea that
it was an omen to show him that he was upon the trail by which that
letter had come so vast a distance to him in the little town of Paris.

Every nerve in the boy was astir. He walked back and forth on one of
the promontories, looking at the mountains which now in the darkness had
become black and full of threats, and trying in vain to soothe and quiet
himself so he could lie down like the others and take the rest and
forgetfulness that all men need before going into battle. While he was
there, Middleton called to him:

"Come, Phil," he said, reverting to his old manner of comradeship, "you
ride with us to-night."

"Ride to-night!" replied Phil. "Where?"

"To the south, to meet Santa Anna. I am ordered to take thirty men and
keep going until I come into touch with the enemy. I am to have thirty
men of my choice, and you, Breakstone, and Arenberg were the first three
that I named. You don’t have to go unless you wish."

"But I wish!" exclaimed Phil earnestly. "Don’t think I’m unwilling,
Captain! Don’t think it!"

Middleton laughed.

"I don’t," he said. "I knew that you would be keen for it. Saddle your
horse and look to your arms. We ride in five minutes."

Phil was ready in three, and the thirty troopers rode silently down one
of the ravines and into the lower country. Phil looked back and saw the
fires of the camp, mere red, yellow, and pink dots of flame. The
mountains themselves were fused into a solid mass of black. The troop,
arrow headed in shape, with Middleton at the point of the shaft, and
Phil, Breakstone, and Arenberg close behind him, rode in silence save
for the beat of their horses’ hoofs. The wind here did not moan like
that in the pass, but it seemed to Phil to be colder, and it had an edge
of fine particles that stung his cheeks and eyes.

The night was bright enough to allow of fairly swift riding, and the
ground was no longer cut and gullied as at the mouth of the pass. Hence
the troopers were not compelled to devote their whole attention to their
horses and they could watch the country for sign of an enemy. But they
did not yet see any such sign. Phil knew that they were on the road,
leading southward to Santa Anna, and he felt sure that if they kept upon
it they must soon come upon the Mexican army. Yet the silence and
desolation were complete here. The pass had been weird and somber to
the full, but there they had thousands of comrades, and the fires in the
ravines had been cheering. Now the unlit darkness was all about them,
and it still had that surcharged quality that it had borne for Phil when
in the pass. Nor did the fine dust cease to sting his face.

"What is it, Bill?" he asked. "Where does it come from, this dust?"

"It’s a wind of the desert that stings us, Phil," replied Breakstone.
"It comes vast distances, and I think, too, that it brings some of the
fine dust ground off the surface of the lava. Its effect is curious.
It’s like burnt gunpowder in the nostrils. It seems to heat the inside,
too."

"It makes me feel that way," said Phil, "and it seems to be always
urging us on."

"An irritant, as it were," said Breakstone, "but I don’t think we need
it. The event itself is enough to keep us all on edge. Feel cold,
Phil?"

"No, I’ve got a pair of buckskin gauntlets. Fine thing for riding on
nights like this."

"So have I. But the night is cold, though. Now we’re always thinking
of warm weather in Mexico, but we never find a country what we expect it
to be. Ah, we’re leaving the road. The Captain must think there is
something not far ahead."

They turned at a sharp angle from the road, and entered a thin forest.
Phil looked back toward the mouth of the pass from which they had come.
Everything there was behind an impenetrable black veil. The last point
of fire had died, and the mountains themselves were hidden. But he took
only a single backward look. The wind of the desert was still stinging
his face, and it seemed to arouse him to uncommon fire and energy. His
whole attention was concentrated upon their task, and he was eager to
distinguish himself in some way. But he neither heard nor saw anything
unusual.

They proceeded slowly through the forest, seeking to prevent all but the
least possible noise, and came presently to a field in which Indian corn
seemed to have grown. But it was bare now, save for the dead stalks
that lay upon the ground, and here the troop spread out, riding almost
in a single line.

It was Phil, keen of eye and watchful, who first saw a dim red tint
under the far southern horizon, and he at once called Middleton’s
attention. The Captain halted them instantly, and his gaze followed the
line of Phil’s pointing finger.

"It is Santa Anna’s army," he said, "and you, Phil, have the honor of
locating it first. The dim band of light which you pointed out is made
by their camp fires, which are many. We need not try to conceal that
fact from ourselves."

"We take a nearer view, do we not, Captain?" asked Bill Breakstone.

"Of course," replied Middleton, "but be cautious, all of you. It is
important to see, but it is equally important to get back to General
Taylor with the tale our eyes may tell."

They rode forward again in a long and silent line. Phil’s heart began to
throb. The desert wind was still stinging his face with the fine
impalpable dust that seemed to excite every nerve. As they advanced,
the red tint on the southern horizon broadened and deepened. It was
apparent that it stretched far to east and west.

"It iss a great army, and it means much harm," said Arenberg softly,
more to himself than to anybody else.

Nearer and nearer rode the bold horsemen, stopping often to watch for
the Mexican lancers who would surely be in advance of the army, beating
up the country, despite the darkness, but they did not yet see any.
They rode on so far that they heard the occasional sound of a trumpet in
the Mexican camp, and the fires no longer presented a solid line.

"Captain," asked Bill Breakstone, "what do you think the sound of those
trumpets means at an hour like this?"

"I’m not sure, Bill," replied Middleton, "but it must signify some
movement. The Mexicans, like many other people, love color and parade
and sound, but they would scarcely be indulging in such things at
midnight just for their own sakes. It is some plan. Santa Anna is a
man of great energy and initiative. But we must discover what it is.
That is what we came for."

The advance was renewed, although they went slowly, guarding as well as
they could against the least possible sound from their horses. They
were now so near that they could see figures passing before the fires,
and the dark outline of tents. They also heard the hum of many voices,
the tread of hoofs by hundreds, and the jingling of many, spurs and
bridle bits. Phil watched almost breathless, and the desert wind still
blew on his face, stirring him with its fine, impalpable powder, and
adding new fire to the fire that already burned in his veins. And Phil
saw that Middleton shared in this excited interest. The officer’s gloved
hand on his bridle rein quivered with eagerness.

"Yet a little nearer, my lads," he whispered. "We must risk everything
to find out what Santa Anna is intending at so late an hour."

Screened by a narrow thicket of strange, cactuslike plants, they rode so
close that they could see between the leaves and thorns directly into
the camp. Here they sat on motionless horses, but Phil heard a deep
"Ah!" pass between Middleton’s closed teeth. The boy himself had
experience and judgment enough to know now what was going forward. All
this jingling of bits and spurs meant the gathering of the Mexican
cavalry. The Mexican camp fires burned along a front that seemed
interminable, and also scores of torches were held aloft to guide in the
work that was now being done.

Phil saw the Mexican horsemen wheel out by hundreds, until there was a
great compact body of perhaps two thousand men, gaudily dressed, well
mounted, and riding splendidly. Many carried rifles or muskets, but
there were at least a thousand lancers, the blades of their long weapons
gleaming in the firelight. Officers in gorgeous uniforms were at their
head. Presently the trumpet blew again, and the great force of cavalry
under General Minon began to move.

"An advance at midnight," breathed Middleton, but Phil heard him. "And
there go infantry behind them. It is an attack in force. I have it! I
have it! They are going toward Agua Neva. Santa Anna thinks that our
whole army is there, and probably he believes he can get in our rear and
cut us off. Then he’ll compress us between his vast numbers as if we
were in the jaws of a vise."

Then he added, in a slightly louder tone:

"Come, my lads, we ride to Agua Neva, but we must be as careful as ever.
We know now what our task is, and we will do it."

They turned and rode away. Fortune was with them. No horse neighed.
Perhaps the sound of their hoofs might have been heard now, had it not
been for the great Mexican column marching toward Agua Neva, where the
rear guard under Marshall was hurrying the stores, that had been left
there, northward to Taylor. Middleton swung his little troop to one
side, until they were well beyond the hearing of Minon’s cavalry.

"There can no longer be any doubt that they are heading for Agua Neva,"
he said, "and we must beat them there, no matter what happens. Ride,
boys, ride!"

They broke into a gallop, sweeping in a long line across some open
fields, riding straight for a few points of light behind which they knew
was Agua Neva. They were now well ahead of the great column, and
Middleton took the chance of meeting any stray band of Mexican scouts
and skirmishers. They did meet such a band, but it was small, and, when
the Mexican hail was answered with a shout in a foreign tongue, it
quickly scattered and gave the Americans free passage. A few shots were
fired, but nobody in Middleton’s troop was touched, and none in the
other. Without breaking line the Americans rode on. The lights grew
clearer and increased in number. In a few moments they clattered down
on Agua Neva, and ready sentinels, rifle in hand, halted them.

"Friends!" cried Middleton. "I am Captain Middleton, with scouts from
General Taylor. I must see your commander at once!"

But Marshall was there as he spoke, and Middleton exclaimed in short
words, surcharged with emphasis and earnestness:

"Santa Anna is coming down upon you! We have seen his cavalry marching,
and the infantry are behind them! They will soon be here! They must
think that our whole army is in Agua Neva, and evidently they intend to
surround it."

"All right," said Marshall calmly. "Most of the wagons are already on
the way to the pass. We cover their retreat, and the General told us to
hold on here as long as we could. We mean to do it. Are you with us,
Captain?"

"Certainly," replied Captain Middleton briefly. "You can depend on us to
the last."

"Minon’s cavalry must be coming now," said Marshall. "It seems to me
that I hear the tread of many horsemen."

"It is they," said Middleton. Marshall’s men and his then fell back
toward the little town. They were only a few hundred in number, but
they had no idea of retreating without a fight. They were posted behind
some stone walls, hedges, and a few scattered houses. The last of the
wagons loaded with stores were rumbling away northward toward the Pass
of Angostura.

Phil sat on his horse behind a stone wall, and all was silence along the
line. The wind still blew, and stung his face with the dust of the
desert. His heart throbbed and throbbed. He saw Middleton open his
watch, hold it close to his face in order that he might see the hands in
the moonlight, and then shut it with a little snap.

"Midnight exactly," he said, "and here they come!"

The heavy tread of many men was now in their ears, and the lances
gleamed in the moonlight, as the great Mexican force swung into the open
space about the little town. They came on swiftly and full of ardor,
but a sheet of fire blazed in their faces. The long rifles of the
Americans were well aimed, despite the night--they could scarcely miss
such a mass--and horses and riders went down together.

While they were still in confusion, Marshall’s little force loaded and
fired again. A terrible uproar ensued. Men groaned or shouted, horses
neighed with fright or screamed with pain. Many of them ran riderless
between the combatants. Phil heard the Mexican officers shouting orders
and many strange curses. Smoke arose and permeated the night air
already charged with the dust of the desert. The Mexicans fired almost
at random in the darkness, but they were many, and the bullets flying in
showers were bound to strike somebody. Two or three Americans dropped
slain from their horses, or, on foot, died where they were struck,
behind the walls. The Mexicans in a vast half circle still advanced.
Marshall and Middleton conferred briefly.

"How many men have you?" asked Marshall.

"Thirty."

"I have about fifty more cavalrymen. Take them and charge with all your
might. They may think in the darkness that you have a thousand."

"Come!" said Middleton to his men, and he and the eighty rode out into
the open. They paused there only an instant, because the great half
circle of the Mexicans was still advancing. Phil, in the moonlight, saw
the enemy very distinctly, the lances and escopetas, the tall conical
hats with wide brims, and the dark faces under them. Then, at the
command of Middleton, they fired their rifles and galloped straight at
the foe.

Phil could never give any details of that wild moment. He was conscious
of a sudden surge of the blood, the thudding of hoofs, the blades of
lances almost in his face, fierce, dark eyes glaring into his own, and
then they struck. The impact was accompanied by the flashing of sabers,
the falling of men and horses, shouts and groans, while the smoke from
the firing to the right and left of them drifted in their faces.

Phil felt a shock as his horse struck that of a Mexican lancer. The
lance-blade flashed past his face, and it felt cold on his cheek as it
passed, but it did not touch him. The Mexican’s horse went down before
the impact of his, and he saw that the whole troop, although a few
saddles were emptied, had crashed through the Mexican line. They had cut
it apart like a knife through cheese. While the Mexicans were yet
reeling from the shock, Middleton, a born cavalry leader, wheeled his
men about, and they charged back through the Mexican line at another
point. The second passage was easier than the first, because Minon’s men
had been thrown into disorder, yet it was not made without wounds. Phil
was slightly grazed in the side by a bullet, and a lance had torn his
coat on his shoulder. If the cloth had not given way he would have been
thrown from the saddle. As it was, he nearly dropped his rifle, but he
managed to retain both seat and weapon.

"All right!" shouted a voice in his ear. It was that of Breakstone, who
was watching over him like a father.

"All right," returned Phil confidently, and then they were back with
Marshall’s men, all but a dozen, who would ride no more.

"Good work," said Marshall to Middleton. "That startled them. They
will ride back a little, and our riflemen, too, are doing almost as good
work in the moonlight as they could in the sunlight."

The blood was pounding so heavily in Phil’s ears after the double charge
that he did not realize until then that the heavy firing had never
ceased. The little American force reloaded and pulled the trigger so
quickly that the volume of their firing gave the effect of numbers three
or four times that of the real. The darkness, too, helped the illusion,
and the Southerners and Westerners replied to the shouts of the Mexicans
with resounding cheers of their own. An officer galloped up, and Phil
heard him shout to Marshall above the crash of the firing:

"The last of the wagons is beyond the range of fire!"

"Good," said Marshall. "Now we, too, must fall back. The moment they
discover how few we are they can wrap us in a coil that we cannot break.
But we’ll fight them while they follow us."

The little force was drawn in skillfully, and the horsemen on either
flank began to retire from Agua Neva. The Mexicans, urged by Minon,
Torrejon, Ampudia, and Santa Anna himself, pushed hard against the
retiring force, seeking either to capture or destroy it. More than once
they threatened to enfold it with their long columns, but here the
horsemen, spreading out, held them off, and the long range rifles of the
Americans were weapons that the Mexicans dreaded. As on many another
battlefield, the Westerners and Southerners, trained from their boyhood
to marksmanship, fired with terrible accuracy. The moonlight, now that
their eyes had grown used to it, was enough for them. Their firing, as
the slow retreat northward toward the Pass of Angostura went on, never
ceased, and their path was marked by a long trail of their fallen foes.
Santa Anna and his generals sought in vain to flank them, but the
darkness was against the greater force. It was not easy to combine and
make use of numbers when only moonlight served. Regiments were likely
to fire into one another, but the small compact body of the Americans
kept easily in touch, and they retreated practically in one great hollow
square blazing with fire on every side. "Hold on as long as you can,"
Taylor had said to Marshall, but Marshall, in the face of twenty to one,
held on longer than any one had dreamed.

Santa Anna had expected to get his great cavalry force in the rear of
Taylor at Agua Neva, but at midnight, finding Taylor not there and only
a small detachment left, he had hoped to capture or destroy that in a
few minutes. Instead, half his army was fighting a most desperate rear
guard action with a few hundred men, and every second Marshall saved was
precious to the commander back there at the Pass of Angostura.

Phil was grazed by another bullet, and his horse was stung once.
Arenberg was slightly wounded, but Breakstone was untouched, and the
three still kept close together. The boy could not take note of the
passage of time. It seemed to him that they had been fighting for hours
as they gave way slowly before the huge mass of the Mexican army. Great
clouds of smoke from the firing had turned the moonlight to a darker
quality. Now and then it drifted in such quantities that the moon was
wholly obscured, and then it was to the advantage of the Americans, who
could fire from their hollow square in every direction, and be sure that
they hit no friend.

They had now left the town far behind and were well on the way to the
Pass. Phil noticed that the fire of the Mexicans was slackening.
Evidently Santa Anna had begun to believe that it would not pay to
follow up any longer a rear guard that stung so hard and so often. This
certainly was the belief of Bill Breakstone.

"The pursuit is dying," he said, "not because they don’t want us, but
because our price is too high.

It is not right
To fight at night
Unless you know
Right well your foe.
The darkness cumbers
Him with numbers;
The few steal away,
And are gone at day.

"My verse is a little ragged this time, Phil, but it is made in the heat
of action, and it at least tells a true tale. See how their fire is
sinking! The flashes stop to the right, they stop to the left, and they
will soon stop in the center. It’s a great night, Phil, for Marshall
and his men. They were ordered to do big things, and they’ve filled the
order twice over. And we came into it, too, Phil, don’t forget that!
There, they’ve stopped entirely, as I told you they would!"

The firing along Santa Anna’s front ceased abruptly, and as the retreat
continued slowly the columns of the Mexican army were lost in the
darkness. No lance heads glittered, and the bugles no longer called the
men to action. Bill Breakstone had spoken truly. Santa Anna found the
rear guard too tough for him to handle in the darkness, and stopped for
the rest of the night. When assured of this, Marshall ordered his
little force to halt, while they took stock of the wounded and dressed
their hurts as best they could at such a hurried moment. Then they
resumed their march for the pass, with the wagons that they had defended
so well lumbering on ahead.

After the exertion of so much physical or mental energy the men rode or
walked in silence. Phil was surprised to find that his hands and face
were wet with perspiration, and he knew then that his face must be black
with burnt gunpowder. But he felt cold presently, as the chill night
wind penetrated a body relaxed after so great an effort. Then he took
the blanket roll from his saddle and wrapped it around him. Breakstone
and Arenberg had already done the same. Looking back, Phil saw a few
lights twinkling where the Mexicans had lighted their new camp fires,
but no sound came from that point. Yet, as of old, the desert wind blew,
and the fine dust borne on its edge stung his face, and brought to his
nostrils an odor like that of battle. Under its influence he was still
ready for combat. He gloried in the achievement of this little division
in which he had a part, and it gave him strength and courage for the
greater struggle, by far, that was coming. Breakstone shared in his
pleasure, and talked lightly in his usual fashion, but Arenberg was
sober and very thoughtful.

"Well, we burnt old Santa Anna’s face for him, if we did do it in the
dark," said Bill, "and we can do it in daylight, too."

"But did you see his numbers?" said Arenberg. "Remember how vast was his
camp, and with what a great force he attacked us at Agua Neva. Ach, I
fear me for the boys who are so far from their home, the lads of
Kentucky and Illinois and the others!"

"Don’t be downhearted, Hans, old boy," said Breakstone with genuine
feeling. "I know you have things on your mind--though I don’t ask you
what they are--that keep you from being cheerful, but don’t forget that
we’ve the habit of victory. Our boys are Bonaparte’s soldiers in the
campaign of Italy, they don’t mean to be beaten, and they don’t get
beaten. And you can put that in your pipe, too, and smoke it, Sir
Philip of the Horse Battle and the Night Retreat. Look, we’re
approaching the Pass. See the lights come out one by one. Don’t the
lights of a friend look good?"

Phil agreed with him. It was a satisfying thing to come safely out of a
battle in which they had done what they had wanted to do, and return to
their own army. It was now nearly morning, but the troops still marched,
while the last wagons rumbled on ahead. Scouts came forward to hail
them and to greet them warmly when they found that they were friends.
There was exultation, too, when they heard the news of the fine fight
that the little division had given to Santa Anna. Lieutenant
Washington, who was in charge of the division that commanded the road,
met Middleton and Marshall a hundred yards from the mouths of his guns,
and Phil heard them talking. General Taylor had not yet returned from
Saltillo, where he had gone to strengthen and fortify the division at
that place, as he greatly feared a flank movement of Santa Anna around
the mountain to seize the town and cut him off.

Wool, meanwhile, was in command, and he listened to the reports of
Marshall and Middleton, commending them highly for the splendid
resistance that they had offered to overwhelming numbers. Phil gathered
from their tone, although it was only confirmation of a fact that he
knew already, that their little force was in desperate case, indeed.
Never before had the omens seemed so dark for an American army. For in
a desolate and gloomy country, with every inhabitant an enemy and spy
upon them, with an army outnumbering them five to one approaching, brave
men might well despair.

It struck Phil with sudden force that the odds could be too great after
all, and that he might never finish his quest. In another hour or two
he might see his last sunrise. He shook himself fiercely, told himself
that he was foolish and weak, and then rode toward the pass. They
tethered their horses on the edge of the plateau, and at the advice of
Middleton all sought sleep.

But the boy’s nerves were yet keyed too highly for relaxation. His
weary body was resting, but his heart still throbbed. He saw the
sentinels walking back and forth. He saw the dark shapes of cannon
posted on the promontories, and above them the mountains darker and yet
more somber. Several fires still burned in the ravines, and the
officers sat about them talking, but most of the army slept. As Phil lay
on the earth he heard the wind moaning behind him as it swept up the
pass, but it still touched his face with the fine impalpable dust that
stung like hot sand, and that seemed to him to be an omen and a presage.
He lay a long time staring into the blackness in the direction in which
Santa Anna’s army now lay, where he and his comrades had fought such a
good fight at midnight. He saw nothing there with his real eye, but
with his mind’s eye he beheld the vast preparations, the advance of the
horsemen, and the flashing of thousands of lances in the brilliant
light.

When the morning sun was showing over the ridges and peaks of the Sierra
Madre, and pouring its light into the nooks and crannies of the ravines,
he fell asleep.

CHAPTER XIV

BUENA VISTA

Phil did not sleep long, only an hour perhaps, and then it was
Breakstone’s arm on his shoulder that awakened him. He had laid down
fully clothed, and he sprang at once to his feet. His nerves, too, had
been so thoroughly keyed for action that every faculty responded at once
to the call, and he was never more wide awake in his life. Quickly he
looked about him and saw that it was a most brilliant morning. The sun
was swinging upward with a splendor that he had not before seen in these
gorges of the Sierra Madre. The mountains were bathed in light. The
bare ridges and peaks stood out like carving, and the sunbeams danced
along the black lava.

"It is Washington’s Birthday, and the sun is doing him honor," said
Breakstone. "But look there, Phil."

He pointed a long straight finger into the south.

"See that tiny cloud of dust," he said, "there where rock and sky meet.
I’ll wager everything against nothing that it was raised by the hoofs of
Minon’s cavalry. Santa Anna and his whole army are surely advancing.
Watch it grow."

Phil looked with eager eyes, and he saw everything that Bill Breakstone
had predicted come to pass. The cloud of dust, so small at first that
he could scarcely see it, grew in height, and began to spread in a
yellow line along the whole horizon. By and by it grew so high that the
wind lifted the upper part of it and sent it whirling off in spirals and
coils. Then through the dust they saw flashes, the steel of weapons
giving back the rays of the sun like a mirror.

The American scouts and sentinels had been drawn in--no need for them
now--and the whole army was crouched at the mouth of the pass. Almost
every soldier could watch Santa Anna unroll before them the vast and
glittering panorama of his army. But Taylor himself did not see this
first appearance. He had not come from Saltillo, and Wool, the second
in command, waited, troubled and uneasy.

Phil was still dismounted, and he stood with his friends on one of the
promontories watching the most thrilling of all dramas unfold itself,
the drama in which victory or defeat, life or death are the stakes. It
was at best a bare and sterile country, and now, in the finish of the
winter, the scanty vegetation itself was dead. The dust from the dead
earth and the dust from the surface of the lava, ground off by iron-shod
hoofs, rose in clouds that always increased, and that seemed to thicken
as well as to rise and broaden. To Philip’s mind occurred the likeness
of a vast simoon, coming, though slowly, toward the American lines. But
he knew that the heart of the simoon was a great army which considered
victory absolutely sure.

"Looks as if Santa Anna had a million down there in the dust," said
Breakstone. "Dost thou remember, Sir Philip of the Mountain, the
Ravine, and the Lava, that passage in Macbeth in which Birnam Wood doth
come to Dunsinane? It is in my mind now because the dust of New Leon
seems coming to the Pass of Angostura."

"They are at least as well hid as Macduff’s army was by the wood," said
Phil. "That huge cloud seems to roll over the ground, and we can’t see
anything in it but the flashes of light on the weapons."

They waited awhile longer in silence. The whole American army was
watching. All the preparations had been made, and soldiers and officers
now had little to do but bide the time. Presently the great wall of
dust split apart, then a sudden shift of wind lifted it high, and
whirled it over the plain. As if revealed by the sudden lifting of a
curtain, the whole magnificent army of Santa Anna stood forth,
stretching along a front of two miles, and more than twenty thousand
strong. A deep breath, more like a murmur, rose from the soldiers in
the pass. They had known long before that they were far outnumbered. The
officers had never concealed from them this fact, but here was the
actual and visible presence.

"Five to one," said Bill Breakstone, softly and under his breath.

"But they haven’t beaten us," said Phil.

The Mexican army now halted, the cavalry of Minon in front and on the
flanks, and, seen from the pass, it was certainly an array of which
Mexico could be proud. Everything stained or worn was hidden. Only the
splendor and glory appeared. The watchers saw the bright uniforms, the
generals riding here and there, the numerous batteries, and the
brilliant flags waving. Evidently they were making a camp, as if they
held the rat in their trap, and would take their time about settling his
fate. The sound of bugles, and then of a band playing military airs,
came up, and to those in the pass these sounds were like a taunt.
Arenberg, a man of few words, uttered a low guttural sound like a growl.

"They are too sure," he said. "It iss never well to be too sure."

"That’s the talk, Old Dutch," said Breakstone. "First catch your army."

They waited awhile longer, watching, and then they heard a cheer behind
them in the pass. It was General Taylor, returning from Saltillo and
riding hard. He emerged upon the plateau and sat there on his horse,
overlooking the plain, and the great curve of Santa Anna’s army. Phil
was near enough to see his face, and he watched him intently.

There was nothing romantic about old Zachary Taylor. He had neither
youth nor distinction of appearance. He was lined and seamed by forty
years of service, mostly in the backwoods, and the white hair was thick
around his temples. Nor was anything splendid about his uniform. It was
dusty and stained by time and use. But within that rugged old frame
beat the heart of a lion. He had not retreated when he heard the rumors
that Santa Anna was coming, and he would not retreat now that Santa Anna
was here with five to his one. Perhaps he recognized that in his
sixty-two years of life his one moment for greatness had come, and he
would make the most of it for himself and his country.

Long the general sat there on his horse, looking down into the plain,
and the more important officers clustered in a group a short distance
behind him. The brightness of the day increased. It seemed bound to
make itself worthy of the great anniversary. The colors of the sunlight
shifted and changed on the ridges and peaks, and the thin, luminous air
seemed to bring Santa Anna’s army nearer. A breeze sprang up presently,
and it felt crisp and fresh on the faces of the soldiers. It also blew
out the folds of a large and beautiful American flag, which had been
hoisted on one of the promontories, and as the fluttering and vivid
colors glowed in the sun’s rays, a cry of defiance, not loud, but
suppressed and rolling, passed through the army.

"Santa Anna will not come to any picnic," said Bill Breakstone.

"He means much harm, and he will suffer much," said Arenberg.

"Our army is not frightened," said Breakstone. "I have been among the
troops, and they are cheerful, even confident."

Phil saw that the officers had been watching something intently with
their glasses, and now he was able to see it himself with the naked eye.

"A messenger with a white flag is coming from Santa Anna," he announced.
"Now what can he want?"

"He can want only one thing," said Breakstone; "but we’ll wait and let
him tell it himself."

The herald, holding his white flag aloft, rode straight toward the
American army. When within three hundred yards of the American line he
was met by skirmishers, who brought him forward.

"Don’t you see something familiar in that figure and face, Phil?" asked
Bill Breakstone.

"Yes, I know him," replied Phil. "I thought I knew him when he rode
over the first ridge, but there can be no doubt now. It is our old
friend de Armijo."

"It is he," said Breakstone, "and it is a safe thing to say that no man
was ever more stuffed with pride, vanity, and conceit than he is now.
Let’s press forward and see him as he passes. Maybe, too, we can hear
what he and General Taylor say."

De Armijo rode up the ravine at the edge of which Phil and his comrades
stood. He saw them, and his look was not one of friendship.

"Good morning, Señor de Armijo," said the irreverent Bill Breakstone,
"have you come to announce the surrender of Santa Anna’s army?"

The Mexican glared, but he made no answer, riding on in silence toward
General Taylor. He was magnificently mounted, his uniform was heavy
with gold lace, and a small gold-hilted sword hung at his side.
Evidently the nephew of the governor of New Mexico was not ashamed of
himself. It was also evident that the wound Phil had given him was very
slight. An officer met de Armijo, and they saluted each other with
punctilious courtesy. The Mexican produced a note which was handed to
General Taylor.

Old Rough and Ready did not dismount, but rested the note on his
saddle-horn and read it. This note, signed by General Antonio Lopez de
Santa Anna, President of the Mexican Republic and Commander-in-Chief of
its armies, was written in rounded sentences. It stated that the
American army was surrounded by twenty thousand men and could not
possibly escape. Hence Santa Anna demanded General Taylor’s immediate
and unconditional surrender. "I will treat you well," he added in
generous conclusion.

Phil thought that he could see the white hair around old Rough and
Ready’s temples fairly bristle with defiance. He did see him lean over
and say to de Armijo: "Tell him to come and take me." But the next
instant he called to Middleton and dictated to him a short answer, more
polite but of the same tenor. He looked over it once, folded it, and
handed it to de Armijo.

"Take that to your master."

De Armijo saluted with all the pride and haughtiness of his race. He
would have liked well a few minutes to look about and take note of the
enemy’s army for his general, but they had brought him up a narrow
ravine, and they allowed him no chance. Now Middleton rode back with
him that the Americans might not be lacking in courtesy, and Phil and
his comrades again stood by as they passed. De Armijo merely gave them
a malignant glance, but as he entered the plain that low rolling sound,
almost like a roar, burst forth again from the army. Nearly every
soldier had divined the nature of the errand, and nearly every one also
had divined the nature, of old Rough and Ready’s reply.

Phil watched de Armijo and Middleton riding onward under the white flag
toward the gorgeous tent where Santa Anna and his generals were
gathered. He saw Middleton disappear and, after awhile, come riding
back again. All these demands and refusals, ridings and returns took
time, and the two armies meanwhile rested on their arms. The afternoon
came, and the sun still blazed on on a scene of peace. For awhile it
reminded Phil in many of its aspects of a vast spectacle, a panorama.
Then he saw clouds of dust rise on both the east and west wings of the
Mexican army. Horsemen moved in columns, fluid sunlight shifting and
changing in colors flowing over lances and escopetas. He also saw
horses drawing cannon forward, and the bronze and steel of the guns
glittered.

A little after noon a heavy force of cavalry, led by Ampudia, moved
forward toward an advanced knoll held by some of Taylor’s pickets. Phil
thought it was the herald of the battle, but the pickets retired after a
few shots, and the Mexicans took the knoll, making no attempt to pursue
the pickets who fell back quietly on the main army.

Then the silence was resumed, although they could see much motion in the
Mexican army, the constant movement of horsemen and the shifting of
regiments and guns. A multitude of brilliant flags carried here and
there fluttered in the wind. But the American army remained motionless,
and the soldiers, when they talked, talked mostly in low tones.

"Phil, you didn’t eat any breakfast," said Bill Breakstone, "and if I
didn’t remind you of it, you would skip dinner. A soldier fights best
on a full stomach, and as they’re serving out coffee and bacon and other
good things now’s your time."

"To tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought of it," said the boy.

"Well, think of it, Sir Philip of the Spectacle and the Panorama. It
isn’t often that you’ll have a chance to sit on a front seat in an open
air theater like this, and see deploying before you an army of twenty
thousand men, meaning business."

Phil ate and drank mechanically almost, although the food gave him new
strength without his being conscious of it, and he still watched. The
long afternoon waned, the sun passed the zenith, and the colors still
shifted and changed on the bare peaks and ridges, but, save for the
seizing of the lone knoll, the army of Santa Anna did not yet advance,
although in its place it was still fluid with motion, like the colors of
a kaleidoscope. It seemed to Phil that Bill Breakstone’s theatrical
allusions applied with peculiar force. Apparently they were setting the
scenes down below, this color here, this color there, so many flags at
this point, and so many at that point, bands and trumpets to the right,
and bands and trumpets to the left. It was a spectacle full of life,
color, and movement, but the boy grew very impatient. Great armies did
not march forward for that purpose, and for that purpose alone.

"Why don’t they attack?" he exclaimed.

"Having the rat in the trap, I suppose that Santa Anna means to play
with it a little," replied Bill Breakstone. "There’s nothing like
playing with a delicious mouse a little while before you eat it."

"Did you ever see anything more hateful than the manner of that fellow
de Armijo?" asked Phil. "He bore himself as if we were already in their
hands."

"Doubtless he thought so," said Breakstone, "and it is equally likely
that his thought is also the thought of Santa Anna, Minon, Torrejon,
Pacheco, Lombardini, and all the rest. But states of mind are queer
things, Phil. You can change your mind, it may change itself, or others
may change it for you. Any one of these things can happen to Santa Anna
or to your genial young friend, de Armijo."

"It iss well to be patient," said Arenberg.

The sun went on down the heavens. The light came more obliquely, but it
was as brilliant as ever. In two more hours the sun would be gone
behind the mountains, when Phil, still watching the Mexican army, saw a
flash of fire near the center of the line. A shell rose, flashed
through the air, and burst on the plateau held by the Americans. Phil,
despite himself, uttered a shout, and so did many other youthful
soldiers. They thought the battle would now begin. A battery of
Mexican howitzers also opened fire, and the smoke rolled toward the
north. The Mexican general, Mejia, on the American right, began to press
in, and Ampudia, on the left, threatened with great force. But there
was not yet any reply from the American line. Old Rough and Ready rode
along the whole battle front, saw that all was in order, and at times
surveyed the Mexican advance through powerful glasses.

But the Mexican movements were still very slow, and Phil fairly quivered
with impatience. If they were going to fight, he was anxious for the
fighting to begin, and to have it over. Up from the plain came the
calls of many bugles, the distant playing of bands, and the beat of
drums, broken now and then by the irregular discharges of the cannon and
the crackling of rifle shots.

But it was not yet a battle, and the sun was very low, threatening to
disappear soon behind the mountains. Its parting rays lighted up the
plateau, the ravines and promontories, and the pass with a vivid red
light. Phil saw the general turn his horse away from the edge of the
plateau, as if convinced that there would be no battle, and then
suddenly turn him back again, as a great burst of cannon and rifle fire
came from the left. Ampudia, having attained a spur of the mountain,
was making a fierce attack, pushing forward both horse and foot and
trying to get around the American flank. The firing for a little while
was rapid. The rifle flashes ran in a continuous blaze along both
lines, and the boom of the cannon came back in hollow echoes from the
gorges of the Sierra Madre. The black smoke floated in coils and eddies
along the ridges and peaks.

Phil and his comrades had nothing to do with this combat except to sit
still and listen.

"They are merely feeling for a position," said Bill Breakstone. "They
want a good place from which they can crash down on our left flank in
the morning, but I don’t think they’ll get it."

Already the sun was gone in the east, and its rays were dying on the
mountains. Then the night itself came down, with the rush of the south,
and the firing from both cannon and rifles ceased. Ampudia had failed
to secure the coveted position, but presently the two armies, face to
face in the darkness, lay down to rest, save for the thick lines of
pickets almost within rifle shot of one another. Once more the night
was heavy with chill, but Phil did not feel it now. He and his comrades
looked to their horses and secured places for rest. The General, still
deeply anxious about his rear guard at Saltillo and fearing a flanking
movement by Santa Anna, around the mountain, rode back once more to the
town, under the escort of Jefferson Davis, leaving the army, as before,
under command of Wool. In this emergency an officer past three score
showed all the physical energy and endurance of a young man, spending
two days and two nights in the saddle.

Phil slept several hours, but he awoke after midnight, and did not go to
sleep again. He, Arenberg, and Breakstone were under the immediate
command of Middleton, who allowed them much latitude, and they used it
for purposes of scouting. They crept through gullies and ravines and
along the edges of the ridges, the darkness and the stone projections
giving them shelter. They passed beyond the outermost American pickets,
and then stopped, crouching among some bushes. All three had heard at
the same time low voices of command, the clank of heavy wheels, and the
rasping of hoofs over stones. The three also divined the cause, but
Breakstone alone spoke of it in a whisper:

"They are dragging artillery up the side of the mountain in order that
they may rake us to-morrow. That Santa Anna calls himself the Napoleon
of Mexico, and he’s got some of the quality of the real Napoleon."

By raising up a little they could see the men and horses with the guns,
and they crept back to their own camp with the news. The American force
was too small to attempt any checking movement in the darkness, and that
night Santa Anna dragged five whole batteries up the mountainside.

It was about 4 o’clock in the morning when the three returned from their
scout, and they sat down in one of the ravines about a small fire of
smoldering coals. Some of the Kentuckians were with them, including
Grayson, and now and then a brisk word of the coming day was said. In
those cold dark hours, when vitality was at its lowest, they were not as
confident as they had been. The numbers of the Mexicans weighed upon
them, and Phil had not liked the sight of all those cannon taken up the
side of the mountain. Their talk ceased entirely after awhile, and they
sat motionless with their blankets wrapped around their bodies, because
the blasts were very chill now in the Pass of Angostura. The moaning of
the wind through the gorges was a familiar sound, but to-night it got
upon one’s nerves.

Those last few hours were five times their rightful length, but all
things come to an end, and Phil saw in the east the first narrow band of
silver that betokened the dawn. Day, like night, in that southern
region came fast. The sun shot above the mountain rim, its splendor
came again in a flood, and up rose the two armies.

There was no delay now. On the left the heavy brigades of Ampudia
opened fire at once with cannon, muskets, and rifles. They pressed
forward, and at that point the American front, also, blazed with fire.

"It’s here, Phil," cried Breakstone. "This is the battle at last!"

Cool as he usually was, he had lost his calm now, and his eyes glowed
with excitement. The rosy face of Arenberg was also flushed a deeper
hue than usual.

"They come!" he exclaimed.

The whole Mexican army seemed to lift itself up and advance in a vast
enfolding curve, but Ampudia still pressed the hardest, endeavoring to
crush in the American left, and the five batteries that had been taken
up the mountainside in the night poured in a heavy fire. In five
minutes a great cloud of smoke from the cannon, rifles, and muskets
floated over the field. The Mexicans advanced with courage and
confidence. At dawn Santa Anna had made a great address, riding up and
down the lines, and they deemed victory a matter of certainty.

Phil, Breakstone, and Arenberg had left their horses in the rear, and at
this moment Middleton appeared also dismounted.

"Stay with the Kentuckians there," he said, pointing to the ravine.
"They will need every man. You can be cavalrymen later if the chance
comes."

The three at once fell into line with Grayson and the others who had
welcomed them to their camp, and they saw the truth of Middleton’s
words. Ampudia had accumulated a great force on the ridge above the
plateau, during the night, and now they were coming down in heavy masses
upon the thin lines of the Kentuckians.

"It’s not just five to one. It’s eight to one," muttered Bill
Breakstone, as he looked at the long and deep columns which they were so
soon to meet.

Phil felt his muscles quivering again, while a red light danced before
his eyes. But it was not fear. The time for that had passed. The
Kentuckians in the front rank kneeled down, with their hands on the
triggers of their rifles. Clouds of dust and smoke floated over them
and stung their eyes, and the deepening roar of the battle swelled from
right and left. Phil knew that this great force of Mexicans was coming
forward to crush them in order that another large division might pass
along the plateau and flank the American army. He was good enough
soldier to know that if they succeeded the trap would indeed close down
so firmly upon the defenders that they could not burst from it.

The boy never took his eyes from the advancing Mexican column. He saw,
or thought he saw, the dark faces, the glowing eyes, and he was quite
sure that he heard the heavy tread of the approaching thousands. Some
one gave the order to fire, and, with a mechanical impulse, he pulled
the trigger. All the Kentuckians fired together, aiming with their
usual coolness and precision, and the front rank of the Mexican advance
was blown away. The Mexicans wavered, the Americans reloaded and fired
again with the same deadly precision, and then from their right came the
flash of cannon fire, sending the shells and heavy balls into the thick
ranks of Ampudia’s men. The hesitation of the Mexicans turned into
retreat, and, hurrying back, they sought refuge along the slopes of the
mountains, while the Kentuckians uttered a derisive shout.

"Draw an extra breath or two, Phil," said Bill Breakstone, "because you
won’t have another chance for some time. We’ve driven back the flank,
but the main army of the Mexicans will be on us in a few minutes."

Phil did as he was bid. He was glad to see those Mexicans gone from
their front, and, for the moment at least, he felt the thrill of
victory. Yet, while there was rest for him, at that instant the battle
was going on all about him. He seemed to hear somewhere the distant
notes of a band playing, cheering the soldiers on to death. Now and then
came the call of a bugle, shrill and piercing, and the rifles crashed
incessantly. The air quivered with the roar of the cannon, and the
echoes came rolling back from the gorges.

Now that he was really in the great battle, Phil felt an abnormal
calmness. His heart ceased to beat so fast, and his blood cooled a
little. He saw that the main army of the Mexicans was advancing in
three columns. Two of these columns, one under Lombardini, and the
other under Pacheco, came straight toward the little plateau by the side
of the pass, upon which most of the American army now stood. The front
of each column was a mass of lancers, and rumbling batteries of
twelve-pounders came behind. The third column advanced toward the pass.

It was now about nine o’clock in the morning. General Taylor had not
yet arrived from Saltillo, but General Wool, his second, had thrown the
whole American force in a line across the plateau and the pass, where,
less than forty-five hundred in number, it awaited the full impact of
twenty thousand Mexican troops. The moment was more than critical. It
was terrible. It required stout hearts among the young volunteers, not
trained regulars at all, as they watched the Mexican masses heave
forward. Lucky it was for them that they had been born in new countries,
where every boy, as a matter of course, learned the use of the rifle.
And it was lucky, too, that the battery of O’Brien, a most daring and
skillful officer, was on their flank to help them.

"Have you drawn those easy breaths yet, Phil?" asked Breakstone.

"Yes."

"Good, because the chance is gone now. Hark, there go our cannon!
Look, how the balls are smashing into them!"

The American battery opened at a range of only two hundred yards, and
the balls and shells tore through the Mexican lines, but the Mexicans
are no cowards, and they were well led that day. Their ranks closed up,
and they marched past the fallen, their flags still flying, coming with
steady step toward the plateau. Now their own artillery opened, and
their numerous guns swept the plateau with a perfect hurricane of shot
and shell. The volunteers began to fall fast. The Mexican gunners were
doing deadly work, and the Kentuckians where Phil stood raised their
rifles again.

"Fire, Phil! Fire as fast as you can reload and pull trigger. It’s now
or never!"

Phil again did as he was bid, and the others did the same, but this was
a far more formidable attack than the one that they had driven back
earlier. The Mexicans never ceased to come. The fire from their cannon
grew heavier and more deadly, and the lancers were already charging upon
the front lines, thrusting with their long weapons. It was only inborn
courage and tenacity that saved them now. Phil saw the glittering
squadrons wheeling down upon them.

"Kneel and fire as they come close," shouted Middleton, "and receive
them on the bayonet!"

It seemed to Phil that the lances were almost in their faces before they
fired. He saw the foam on the nostrils of the horses, their great,
bloodshot eyes, and their necks wet with sweat. He saw the faces of the
riders wet, too, with sweat, but glowing with triumph, and he saw them,
also, brandishing the long lances with the glittering steel shafts.
Then the rifles crashed so close together that they were blended in one
volley, and the lancers who did not fall reeled. But they quickly came
on again to ride directly upon a hedge of bayonets which hurled them
back. Once more the triumphant shout of the Kentuckians rose, but it
was quickly followed by a groan. At different points the volunteers
from another state, daunted by their great losses and the overwhelming
numbers that continually pressed upon them, were giving way. Their
retreat became a panic, and the helpful battery was left uncovered. The
brave O’Brien was compelled to unlimber and retreat with his guns. The
flying regiment ran into another that was coming up and carried it along
in its panic of the moment.

Phil and his comrades had full cause for the groan that they uttered.
The day seemed lost. The column of Lombardini was on the southern edge
of the plateau and was pressing forward in masses that seemed
irresistible. The lancers had recovered themselves and were slaying the
fugitives, while the Mexican cannon also hailed shot and shell upon
them.

Burning tears rose to Phil’s eyes--he could not help it, he was only a
boy--and he turned appealingly to the faithful Breakstone.

"Shall we, too, have to retreat?" he shouted.

"Not yet! Not yet, I hope!" Breakstone shouted back. "No, we don’t
retreat at all! See the brave Illinois boys turning the current!"

An entire Illinois regiment had thrown itself in the path of pursuers
and pursued, and two fresh cannon began to cut through the Mexican
masses. The fugitives were protected and saved from wholesale
slaughter, but Bill Breakstone claimed too much. It was impossible for
a single regiment and two guns to withstand so many thousands crowded at
that point, and the Illinois lads did retreat. But they retreated
slowly and in perfect order, sending volley after volley into the
advancing masses. Nor did they go far. They halted soon in a good
position and stood there, firing steadily into the Mexican columns. Yet
they seemed lost. The Mexicans in vast numbers were pouring down upon
the plateau, and the Illinois men were now attacked in the flank as well
as in the front.

"Time for us to be doing something," said Breakstone, and at that moment
the order came. The Kentuckians, also, retreated, turning, as fast as
they reloaded, to fire a volley, aiming particularly at the lancers,
whose weapons were so terrible at close quarters. Phil looked more than
once through all the fire and smoke for de Armijo, but he didn’t see him
until the battle was a full hour old. Then it was only a passing
glimpse, and he knew that his shot had missed--he had fired without
remorse, as he now regarded de Armijo as so much venom. After the single
shot the columns of smoke floated in between, and he saw him no more.

Phil knew that the battle was at a most critical stage, that it was even
worse, that all the chances now favored the Mexicans. An inexperienced
boy even could not doubt it. The charge of the lancers had driven back
a small detachment of mounted volunteers, the American riflemen posted
on the slopes of the mountain were forced out of their positions, and
the great columns of infantry were still pressing on the left, cutting
their way to the rear of the army.

It seemed to Phil that they were completely surrounded, and, in fact,
they nearly were, but the men of Illinois and Kentucky redoubled their
efforts. The barrels of their rifles grew hot with so much firing. The
mingled reek of dust and sweat, of smoke and burned gunpowder, stung
their nostrils and filled their eyes, half blinding them. The shell and
grape and bullets of the Mexicans now reached the Kentuckians, too.
Phil, as the smoke lifted now and then, saw many a comrade go down. He,
Arenberg, and Breakstone were all wounded slightly, though they were not
conscious then of their hurts.

Worse came. The great enclosing circle of the Mexicans drove them into
a mass. The regiment that had broken in panic could not yet be rallied,
although their officers strove like brave men to get them back in line,
and, like brave men, died trying. Phil saw officers falling all around
him, although Middleton was still erect, sword in hand, encouraging the
men to fight on.

"It can’t be that we are beaten! It can’t be!" cried the boy in
despair.

"No," said Breakstone, "it’s not a beating, but it’s a darned fine
imitation. Come on, boys! Come on, all of you! We’ll drive them back
yet!"

Phil felt some one strike against him in the smoke. It was Dick Grayson,
of Paris.

"Looks hot, Phil!" said that ingenuous youth. There was a tremendous
discharge of artillery, and Grayson went down. But he promptly sprang
up.

"It is hot," he shouted, "hotter than I thought. But I’m not hurt. It
was only the wind from a cannon-ball. Look out, here come the lancers
again, and our rifles are unloaded!"

The long glittering line of lancers appeared through the smoke, and Phil
thought that their day was done. It seemed to him that he could not
resist any more, but, at that moment a mighty crash of artillery came
from the pass. The third column of Mexicans had just come within range
of Washington’s guns, and the gunners, restrained hitherto, were pouring
shot and shell, grape and canister, as fast as they could fire, into the
Mexican mass. The column was hurled back by the sudden and terrific
impact, and, breaking, it fled in a panic. The Mexicans on the plateau
were affected by the flight of their comrades, and they, too, lancers
and all, wavered. The Illinois troops came pouring back. With them were
more Kentuckians and Bragg’s battery, and then Sherman’s battery, too.
Never were cannon better served than were the American guns on that day.
When the guns began to thunder in front of them and between them and the
enemy, the fugitives were rallied and were brought back into the battle.

Both batteries were now cutting down the Mexicans at the foot of the
mountain, but Breakstone, cool as always, pointed to the columns of
Ampudia’s infantry, which were still pressing hard on the flank, seeking
to reach the rear of the American army.

"If they get there we are lost," he said.

"There is dust behind us now," exclaimed Phil. "See that column of it
coming fast!"

"Good God, can they have got there already!" cried Breakstone, despair
breaking at last through his armor of courage.

The cloud of dust rose like a tower and came fast. Then a shout of joy
burst from the Americans. Through that cloud of dust showed the red
face and white hair of Old Rough and Ready, their commander, returning
from Saltillo, and with him were Davis’s Mississippians and May’s
mounted men. Wool galloped forward to meet his chief, who rode upon the
plateau and looked at the whole wide curve of the battle as much as the
dust and smoke would allow.

"The battle is lost," said Wool.

"That is for me to say," said Taylor.

Yet it seemed that Wool, a brave and resolute leader, was right. A
great percentage of the American army was already killed or wounded.
Many of its best officers had fallen, and everywhere the Mexicans
continually pressed forward in columns that grew heavier and heavier.
Santa Anna worthily proved that day that, whatever he may have been
otherwise he possessed devouring energy, great courage, and a spark of
military genius. And the generals around him, Lombardini, Pacheco,
Villamil, Torrejon, Ampudia, Minon, Juvera, Andrade, and the rest were
full of the Latin fire which has triumphed more than once over the cold
courage and order of the North.

The crisis was visible to every one. Ampudia and his infantry passing
to the rear of the American army must be stopped. Davis gathered his
Mississippians and hurled them upon Ampudia’s men, who outnumbered them
five to one. They fired, then rushed down one slope of a ravine that
separated them from the enemy, and up the other slope directly into the
ranks of the Mexicans; firing another volley almost face to face. So
great was their impact that the head of the Mexican column was
shattered, and the whole of it was driven back. Ampudia’s men, by
regiments, sought shelter along the slopes of the mountain.

The battle was saved for the moment, but for the moment only. Few
battles have swung in the balance oftener than this combat at Buena
Vista, when it seemed as if the weight of a hair might decide it.

"We can breathe again, Phil," cried Breakstone. "They haven’t flanked us
there, but I don’t think we’ll have time for more than two breaths."

The battle, just in front of them, paused for an instant or two, but it
went on with undiminished fury elsewhere. While Phil let his heated
rifle cool, he watched this terrible conflict at the mouth of the grim
pass, a combat that swung to and fro and that refused to be decided in
favor of either. But, as he rested, all his courage came back anew.
The little army, the boy volunteers, had already achieved the
impossible. For hours they had held off the best of the Mexican troops,
five to their one. More than once they had been near to the verge, but
nobody could say that they had been beaten.

Phil’s feeling of awe came again, as he looked at the great stage
picture, set with all the terrible effects of reality. The smoke rose
always, banking up against the sides of the mountain, but dotted with
red and pink spots, the flame from the rifles of the sharpshooters who
lurked among the crags. From the mouth of the pass came a steady
roaring where the cannon of Washington were fired so fast. The smoke
banked up there, too, but it was split continually by the flash of the
great guns. Out of the smoke came the unbroken crash of rifles,
resembling, but on a much larger scale, the ripping of a heavy cloth.
Now and then both sides shouted and cheered.

Bill Breakstone was a shrewd judge of a battle that day. The crisis had
passed, but in a few minutes a new crisis came. For in their rear began
another fierce conflict. Torrejon’s splendid brigade of lancers made
its way around the mountain and fell upon the small force of Arkansas
and Kentucky volunteers under Yell and Marshall at the hacienda of Buena
Vista. Yell was killed almost instantly, many other men went down, but
the volunteers held fast. Some, their horses slain or wounded, reached
the roofs of houses, and with their long rifles emptied saddle after
saddle among the lancers. It was a confused and terrible struggle, but,
in an instant or two, American dragoons came to the rescue. The lancers
gave way and fled, bearing with them their leader, the brave Torrejon,
who was wounded badly. Again the army was saved by courage and quick
action. If Torrejon and his men had been able to hold Buena Vista, the
American force would have been destroyed.

Phil knew nothing of the conflict at Buena Vista itself until the day
was done, because he was soon in the very thickest of it again himself.
He and his comrades stood among the decimated squares on the plateau,
where the battle had shifted for a moment, and where the smoke was
rising. Looking over the field, littered with men and horses, it seemed
that half of his countrymen had fallen. Everywhere lay the dead, and
the wounded crawled painfully to the rear. Yet the unhurt could give
little aid to the hurt, because the Mexican battle front seemed as
massive and formidable as ever.

"Load, Phil, load!" whispered Bill Breakstone. "See, they’re coming
again!"

Masses of lancers were gathering anew on the plateau, among them many of
Torrejon’s men, who had come back from the other side of the mountain,
and the lifting smoke enabled Phil and his comrades to see them clearly.
The defenders--they were not many now--were more closely packed. The
men of the West and South were mingled together, but with desperate
energy the officers soon drew them out in a line facing the lancers.
Sherman with his cannon also joined them. In the shifting fortunes of
the day, another critical moment came. If the charge of the lancers
passed over their line, the Americans were beaten.

The battle elsewhere sank and died for the time. All looked toward the
two forces on the plateau, the heavy squadrons of cavalry advancing, and
the thin line of infantry silent and waiting. The Mexican bugles ceased
to sound, and the firing stopped. Phil and the men with him in the
front rank knelt again. Arenberg, as usual, was on one side of him, and
Breakstone on the other. Middleton was not far away. Phil glanced up
and down the American line and, as he saw how few they were, his heart,
after a period of high courage, sank like a plummet in a pool. It did
not seem possible to stop the horsemen. Then his courage rose again.
They had done a half dozen wonders that day, they could do another half
dozen.

It was one of the most vivid moments of Phil’s life, fairly burnt into
his soul. The smoke, lifting higher and higher, disclosed more and more
of the field, with its dead and dying everywhere. The mountains were
coming out of the mists and vapors, and showing their bare crags and
peaks. There was no sound but the hoofbeats of the horsemen and an
occasional cry from the wounded, but Phil did not even hear these.
There was to him only an awful and ominous silence, as the heavy columns
drew nearer and nearer and he saw the menacing faces and ready weapons.
The blood quivered in his veins, but he did not give back. Nor did the
others, most of whom were boys not much older than he.

"I think this will tell the tale," whispered Bill Breakstone. "Look how
steady our lads are! Veteran regulars could not bear themselves better
in the face of five to one."

Nearer and nearer came the lancers. Something in the aspect of the
steady troops that awaited the shock must have daunted them, because
already on that day they had shown themselves brave men more than once.
The hoofbeats ceased, their line stopped and wavered, and at that
instant the American rifles fired, pouring forth a stream of lead, a
deadly volley.

Phil saw the blaze from a long line of muzzles, the puff of rifle smoke,
and then as it lifted he tried to shut his eyes but could not. The
whole front of the Mexican column was destroyed. Men and horses lay in
a heap, and other riderless horses galloped wildly over the plateau. The
second line of the lancers stood for a moment, but when the cannon,
following up the rifles, hurled shot and shell among them, they, too,
broke and fled, while the bullets from the reloaded rifles pelted them
and drove them to greater speed.

A shout arose from the scanty ranks of the defense. Another critical
moment had passed, and for the first time fortune shifted to the
American side. Now the defenders followed up their advantage. They
pressed forward, pushing the Mexicans before them, attacking them on two
sides and driving them against the base of the mountain.

The whole battle now surged back toward the direction whence Santa Anna
had come. The scanty division of the Americans, after so long a
defense, a defense that seemed again and again to be hopeless, massed
themselves anew and attacked the Mexican army with redoubled vigor.
Phil felt the song of victory singing in his ears, the blood leaped in
his veins, and a great new store of strength came from somewhere, as he,
with Breakstone and Arenberg yet on either side of him, marched forward
now, not backward.

The great division of Ampudia which had threatened to surround the
American force was now penned in at the foot of the mountain. This
single division alone greatly outnumbered the whole American army, but
panic and terror were in its ranks. The Southern and Western riflemen
were advancing on three sides, sending in showers of bullets that could
not miss. Nine cannon, manned by gunners as good as the world could
furnish, cut down rank after rank.

Earlier in the day Phil would have thrilled with horror at the scene
before him, but in such a long and furious battle his faculties had
become blunted. It was nothing to see men fall, dead or wounded. The
struggle for life at the expense of another’s life, the most terrible
phase of war, had now come. His only conscious thought at that moment
was to destroy the mass of Mexicans pressed against the mountain, and he
loaded and fired with a zeal and rapidity not inferior to that of
anybody.

The Mexican mass seemed to shrink and draw in upon itself. The officers
encouraged the men to return the terrible fire that was cutting them
down. Some did so, but it was too feeble a reply to check Taylor’s
advance. Santa Anna, farther down, saw the terrible emergency. Vain,
bombastic, and treacherous, he was, nevertheless, a great general, and
now the spark of genius hidden in such a shell blazed up. In the height
of the battle, and with five thousand of his best men being cut to
pieces before him, a singular expedient occurred to him. He knew the
character of the general opposed to him; he knew that Taylor was
merciful and humane, and suddenly he sent forward a messenger under a
white flag. Taylor, amazed, nevertheless received the messenger and
ordered the firing on the trapped Mexicans to cease. He was still more
amazed when he read the Mexican commander’s note. Santa Anna wished to
know in rhetorical phraseology what General Taylor wanted. While Taylor
was considering and preparing the reply to so strange a question at such
a time, and the messenger was riding back with it, Ampudia’s whole
division escaped from the trap up the base of the mountain. Then the
Mexicans at the other points instantly reopened fire. It was a singular
and treacherous expedient, but it succeeded.

A cry of rage rose from Phil’s company, and it was uttered by others
everywhere. The boy had seen the herald under the white flag, and, all
the rest, too, had wondered at the nature of the message he brought. He
did not yet know what was in Santa Anna’s note, but he knew that a
successful trick had been played. The blood in his veins seemed to turn
to its hottest. His pulses were beating the double quick, and he felt
relief only when Taylor, enraged at Santa Anna’s ruse, ordered the
Kentucky and Illinois men to pursue Ampudia’s fleeing division.

Forward they went, scarcely a thousand, because very many comrades had
fallen around them that day, but they had never been more eager for the
charge. The smoke thinned out before them and they advanced swiftly
with leveled rifles. They reached the southern edge of the plateau, and
then they recoiled in horror. Santa Anna had not only saved a division
by a trick, but he had used the same opportunity to draw in his columns
and mass the heaviest force that had yet converged upon a single point.
Ten thousand men appeared over the uneven ground and approached the
single thousand. To face such numbers advancing with great guns was
impossible. Again it seemed that the day, after a brilliant success, was
lost.

The Americans at once turned and rushed into a gorge for shelter and
defense.

The side of the gorge was so steep that Phil slipped and rolled to the
bottom. But he quickly sprang up, unconscious of his bruises.
Breakstone and Arenberg, with pale faces, were at his side. The gorge
was not as much of a shelter and defense as it had seemed. It was
instead a trap, the worst into which they had come that day. From the
cliffs on both sides of the gorge the Mexicans sent down a continuous
rain of bullets and shell. Santa Anna, exulting in his success, urged
them on and, his seconds, Ampudia, Pacheco, Lombardini and the others,
ran from point to point, encouraging their troops and crying that the
battle was now won.

The Americans fired upward at their enemies, but they were pressed
together in great confusion. Men and officers went down so fast that it
looked to Phil like hay falling before the scythe. Here fell the brave
Colonel Clay, the son of the great Henry Clay, and with him McKee and
Hardin and many other gallant sons of Kentucky and Illinois.

A great horror seized Phil. Penned in that awful gorge, with that
continuous shower of steel and lead from above, he felt as if he were
choking. He and others rushed for the mouth of the gorge, but the wary
Santa Anna had closed it with a great body of lancers, who were now
advancing to assist in the complete destruction of the Americans.

The defenders reeled back, and Santa Anna, thinking the time had come to
deliver the final blow, sent the Mexican infantry in thousands down the
sides of the gorge, where they attacked with the bayonet the few
hundreds that yet fought. Phil was quite sure that no hope was left.
Before, at every critical moment there had always been a slender chance
of some kind or other, but now he could see absolutely none. A million
red motes danced before him, and he struck almost blindly with his
clubbed rifle at a Mexican who was trying to bayonet him.

But from a point above, not yet taken by the Mexicans, the brave O’Brien
and Thomas, as brave, were still firing their cannon and sending the
shot and shell into the Mexican masses, where they were not mingled with
the Americans. But they themselves were exposed to a deadly fire. One
by one their gunners fell. They were compelled to fall back step by
step. Not enough men were left to load and fire the pieces. Soon all
the gunners were killed or wounded except O’Brien himself. Presently he,
too, was wounded, and the guns were silent. Now, truly, it seemed that
the last moment had come!

Phil, when he struck with his clubbed rifle, knew that he hit something,
because the Mexican with the eager bayonet was no longer there. He saw
Breakstone and Arenberg yet beside him, both wounded, but both erect and
defiant. He saw Grayson a little distance away, still alive, and
farther on a little group of Kentuckians and Illinoisans, fighting to
the last. He had an instant’s vision of the whole awful gorge, filled
with men driven on by the rage of battle, the dead and wounded strewed
all about, the smoke hovering above like a roof, and the masses of
Mexicans who completely encircled them now closing in for the final
blow.

It was all a real panorama, passing in an instant, and then from above,
and at a new point, came the crash of great guns, the shot and shell
striking among the Mexicans, not among the Americans. Not even at this,
the last crisis, when the battle seemed lost beyond redemption, had
fortune, or rather courage and energy, failed. Bragg, coming on a run
with his battery, suddenly opened at short range, and with awful effect,
into the Mexican masses. In another minute Sherman arrived with his
guns, and close behind, coming as fast as breath would allow, were
infantry with the rifle, and, to make the surprise complete,
Washington’s guns suddenly appeared on the right and began to sweep away
the lancers who held the mouth of the gorge.

Never had fortune made a quicker and more complete change. The Mexicans
who had suddenly trapped the Kentuckians and Illinoisans had been
entrapped themselves with equal suddenness.

The fire now rose to the greatest height of the day. They had been
fighting on the plateau, in the ravines, on the slopes, and through the
pass for hours. Vast quantities of smoke still hung about and lay like
a blanket against the side of the mountain. The sun was far down the
western slope.

The Kentucky and Illinois men drew themselves into a close body near the
upper end of the gorge. There they fired as fast as exhaustion would
allow, but salvation was coming from above, and now they knew it.
Closer and closer crept the American artillery. Heavier and heavier
grew its fire. The riflemen, also, sent in the bullets like hail.
Taylor himself, a half dozen bullets through his clothing, stood on the
brink directing the attack. The gorge where the Mexicans stood was
swept by a storm of death. Santa Anna, from the other side, watched in
dismay. Lancers and infantry alike, unable to stand such a sleet,
rushed for the mouth of the gorge. Few of the lancers, who made the
larger target, escaped, and the infantry suffered almost as much.

The gorge was cleared, and the Americans held the plateau. Everywhere
the Mexicans fell back, leaving the whole field in possession of the
little force that had fought so long and so fiercely to hold it. The
Mexican bugle sounded again, but now it was the command to retire. The
sun dipped down behind the mountains, and the shadows began to gather in
the Pass of Angostura. The impossible had happened. Mexico’s finest
army, five to one, led by her greatest general, had broken in vain
against the farmer lads of the South and West, and the little band of
regulars. The victory was won over the greatest odds ever faced by
Americans in a pitched battle.

CHAPTER XV

THE WOMAN AT THE WELL

Phil was still in a daze. He and those around him, exhausted by such
long and desperate efforts, such a continuous roar in their ears, and
such a variation of intense emotions from the highest to the lowest,
were scarcely conscious that the battle was over. They knew, indeed,
that night was falling on the mountains and the pass, that the Mexicans
had withdrawn from the field, that their flags and lances were fading in
the twilight, but it was all, for a little while, dim and vague to them.
The night and the silence coming together contained a great awe. Phil
felt the blood pounding in his ears, and he looked around with wonder.
It was Breakstone who first came to himself.

"We’ve won! We’ve won!" he cried. "As sure as there is a sun behind
those mountains, we’ve beat all Mexico!"

Then Phil, too, saw, and he had to believe.

"The victory is ours!" he cried.

"It is ours, but harm has been done," said Arenberg in a low voice.
Then he sank forward softly on his face. Phil and Breakstone quickly
raised him up. He had fainted from loss of blood, but as his wounds
were only of the flesh he was soon revived. Breakstone had three slight
wounds of his own, and these were bound up, also. Phil, meanwhile, was
hunting in the gorge for other friends. Grayson was alive and well, but
some that he had known were gone. He was weak, mind and body alike,
with the relaxation from the long battle and all those terrible
emotions, but he helped with the wounded. Below them lay the army of
Santa Anna, its lights shining again in the darkness, and, for all Phil
knew, it might attack again on the morrow, but he gave little attention
to it now. His whole concern was for his comrades. The victory had
been won, but they had been compelled to purchase it at a great price.
The losses were heavy. Twenty-eight officers of rank were among the
killed, regiments were decimated, and even the unhurt were so exhausted
that they could scarcely stand.

Phil sat down at the edge of the gorge. He was yet faint and dizzy. It
seemed to him that he would never be able to exert himself again.
Everything swam before him in a sort of confused glare. He was
conscious that his clothing was stained red in two or three places, but
when he looked, in a mechanical way, at the wounds, he saw they were
scratches, closed already by the processes of nature. Then his
attention wandered again to the field. He was full of the joy of
victory, but it was a vague, uncertain feeling, not attaching itself to
any particular thing.

The twilight had already sunk into the night, and the black wind, heavy
with chill, moaned in the Pass of Angostura. It was a veritable dirge
for the dead. Phil felt it all through his relaxed frame, and shivered
both with cold and with awe. Smoke and vapor from so much firing still
floated about the plateau, the pass, and the slopes, but there was a
burning touch on his face which he knew did not come from any of them.
It was the dust of the desert again stinging him after the battle as it
had done before it. He obeyed its call, summoned anew all his strength,
both of body and mind, and climbed out of the gorge, where friend and
foe still lay in hundreds, mingled and peaceful in death.

He found more light and cheer on the plateau and in the pass. Here the
unhurt and those hurt slightly were building fires, and they had begun
to cook food and boil coffee. Phil suddenly perceived that he was
hungry. He had not tasted food since morning. He joined one of the
groups, ate and drank, and more vigor returned. Then he thought of the
horse which he had left tethered in an alcove, and which he had not used
at all that day. The horse was there unharmed, although a large
cannon-ball lay near his feet. It was evidently a spent ball which had
rolled down the side of the mountain, as it was not buried at all.

The horse recognized Phil and neighed. Phil put his hand upon his mane
and stroked it. He was very glad that this comrade of his had escaped
unhurt. He wondered in a dim way what his terror must have been tied in
one place, while the battle raged all day about him. "Poor old horse,"
he said, stroking his mane again. Then he led him away, gave him food
and water, and returned to his comrades and the field. He knew that his
duty lay there, as the Mexican army was still at hand. Many thought that
it would attack again in the morning, and disposition for defense must
be made. He did not see either Breakstone or Arenberg, but he met
Middleton, to whom he reported.

"Scout down at the mouth of the pass and along the mountain slopes,
Phil," he said, and the boy, replenishing his ammunition, obeyed. It
was not quite dark, and the wind was exceedingly cold. The mercury that
night went below the freezing point, and the sufferings of the wounded
were intense. Phil kept well among the ravines and crags. He believed
that the Mexican lancers would be prowling in front of their camp, and
he would not have much chance if he were attacked by a group of them.
Moreover, he was tired of fighting. He did not wish to hurt anybody.
Never had his soul inclined more fervently to peace.

He passed again into the gorge which had witnessed the climax and
deadliest part of the battle. Here he saw dark-robed figures passing
back and forth among the wounded. He looked more closely and saw that
they were Mexican nuns from a convent near Buena Vista, helping the
wounded, Americans and Mexicans alike. Something rose in his throat, but
he went on, crossing the pass and climbing the slopes of the Sierra
Madre. Here there was yet smoke lingering in the nooks and crannies, but
all the riflemen seemed to have gone.

He climbed higher. The wind there was very cold, but the moonlight was
brighter. He saw the peaks and ridges of the Sierra Madre, like a
confused sea, and he looked down upon the two camps, the small American
one on the plateau and in the pass and the larger, still far larger,
Mexican one below. He could trace it by the lights in the Mexican camp,
forming a great half circle, and he would have given much to know what
was going on there. If Santa Anna and his men possessed the courage and
tenacity of the defenders, they would attack again on the morrow.

He moved forward a little to get a better view, and then sank down
behind an outcropping of rock. A Mexican, a tall man, rifle on
shoulder, was passing. He, too, was looking down at the two camps, and
Phil believed that he was a scout like himself. The Mexican, not
suspecting the presence of an enemy, was only a dozen feet away, and
Phil could easily have shot him without danger to himself, but every
impulse was against the deed. He could not fire from ambush, and he had
seen enough of death. The Mexican was going toward his own camp, and
presently, he went on, disappearing behind a curve of the mountain, and
leaving Phil without a shadow of remorse. But he soon followed,
creeping on down the mountainside toward the camp of Santa Anna.

The rocks and gullies enabled him to come so near that he could see
within the range of light. He beheld figures as they passed now and
then, dark shadows before the blaze, but the camp of Santa Anna did not
show the life and animation that he had witnessed in it when he spied
upon it once before. No bugles were blowing, no bodies of lancers, with
the firelight shining on glittering steel, rode forth to prepare for the
morrow and victory. Everything was slack and relaxed. He even saw men
lying in hundreds upon the ground, fast asleep from exhaustion. As far
as he could determine, no scouting parties of large size were abroad,
and he inferred from what he saw that the Mexican army was worn out.

He could not go among those men, but the general effect produced upon
him at the distance was of gloom and despair among them. An army
preparing for battle in the morning would be awake and active. The
longer he looked, the greater became his own hope and confidence, and
then he slowly made his way back to his own camp with his report.
Lights still burned there, but it was very silent. After he passed the
ring of sentinels he saw nothing but men stretched out, almost as still
as the dead around them. They slept deeply, heavily, a sleep so intense
that a blow would not arouse. Many had lain down where they were
standing when the battle ceased, and would lie there in dreamless
slumber until the next morning. Phil stepped over them, and near one of
the fires he saw Breakstone and Arenberg, each with his head on his arm,
deep in slumber.

He made his report to Middleton, describing with vivid detail everything
that he had seen.

"It agrees with the reports of the other scouts," said Middleton. "I
think the enemy is so shattered that he cannot move upon us again, and
now, Phil, you must rest. It will be midnight in an hour, and you have
passed through much."

"It was a great battle!" said Phil, with a look of pride.

"And a great victory!" said Middleton, he, too, although older, feeling
that flash of pride.

Phil was glad enough now to seek sleep. The nervous excitement that
kept him awake and alert was all gone. He remembered the fire beside
which Bill Breakstone and Arenberg slept, and made his way back there.
Neither had moved a particle. They still lay with their heads on their
elbows, and they drew long, deep breaths with such steadiness and
regularity that apparently they had made up their minds to sleep for
years to come. Four other men lay near them in the same happy
condition.

"Six," said Phil. "Well, the fable tells of the Seven Sleepers, so I
might as well complete the number."

He chose the best place that was left, secured his blanket from his
saddlebow, wrapped himself thoroughly in it, and lay down with his feet
to the fire. How glorious it felt! It was certainly very cold in the
Pass of Angostura. Ice was forming, and the wind cut, but there was the
fire at his feet and the thick blanket around him. His body felt warm
through and through, and the hard earth was like down after such a day.
Now victory came, too, with its pleasantest aroma. Lying there under
the stars, he could realize, in its great sense, all that they had done.
And he had borne his manly part in it. He was a boy, and he had reason
for pride.

Phil stared up for a little while at the cold stars which danced in the
sky, myriads of miles away, but after awhile his glance turned again
toward the earth. The other six of the seven sleepers slept on, not
stirring at all, save for the rising and falling of their chests, and
Phil decided that he was neglecting his duty by failing to join them at
once in that vague and delightful land to which they had gone.

He shut his eyes, opened them once a minute or two later, but found the
task of holding up the lids too heavy. They shut down again, stayed
down, and in two minutes the six sleepers had become the seven.

Phil slept the remainder of the night as heavily as if he had been
steeped in some eastern drug. He, too, neither moved hand nor foot
after he had once gone to oblivion. The fire burned out, but he did not
awake. He was warm in his blanket, and sleep was bringing back the
strength that body and mind had wasted in the day. It was quiet, too, on
the battlefield. The surgeons still worked with the wounded, but they
had been taken back in the shelter of the pass, and the sounds did not
come to those on the plateau. Only the wind moaned incessantly, and the
cold was raw and bitter.

About half way between midnight and morning Bill Breakstone awoke. He
merely opened his eyes, not moving his body, but he stared about him in
a dim wonder. His awakening had interrupted a most extraordinary dream.
He had been dreaming that he was in a battle that had lasted at least a
month, and was not yet finished. Red strife and its fierce emotions
were still before him when he awoke. Now he gazed all around, and saw
only blackness, with a few points of light here and there.

His eyes, growing used to the darkness, came back, and he saw six stiff
figures stretched on the ground in a row, three on each side of him. He
looked at them fixedly and saw that they were the figures of human
beings. Moreover, he recognized two of them, and they were his best
friends. Then he remembered all about the battle, the great struggle,
how the terrible crisis came again and again, how the victory finally
was won, and he was glad that these two friends of his were alive,
though they seemed to be sleeping as men never slept before.

Breakstone sat up and looked at the six sleepers. The blankets of two
of them had shifted a little, and he pulled them back around their
necks. Then he glanced down the valley where the lights of Santa Anna’s
army flickered, and it all seemed wonderful, unbelievable to him. Yet it
was true. They had beaten off an army of more than twenty thousand men,
and had inflicted upon Santa Anna a loss far greater than their own. He
murmured very softly:

"Dreadful was the fight,
Welcome is the night;
Fiercely came the foe,
Many we laid low;
Backward he is sent,
But we, too, are spent.

I believe that’s about as true a poem as I ever composed," he said,
"whatever others may think about the rhyme and meter, and to be true is
to be right. That work well done, I’ll go back to sleep again."

He lay down once more and, within a minute, he kept his word. Phil and
his comrades were awakened just at the break of day by Middleton. Only
a narrow streak of light was to be seen over the eastern ridges, but the
Captain explained that he wanted them to go on a little scout toward the
Mexican army. They joined him with willingness and went down the
southern edge of the plateau. A few lights could be seen at the points
that Phil had marked during the night, and they approached very
cautiously. But they saw no signs of life. There were no patrols, no
cavalry, none of the stir of a great army, nothing to indicate any human
presence, until they came upon wounded men, abandoned upon the rugged
ground where they lay. When Phil and his comrades, belief turned into
certainty, rushed forward, Santa Anna and his whole army were gone,
leaving behind them their dead and desperately wounded. Tents,
supplies, and some arms were abandoned in the swift retreat, but the
army itself had already disappeared under the southern horizon, leaving
the field of Buena Vista to the victors.

They hurried back with the news. It spread like fire through the army.
Every man who could stand was on his feet. A mighty cheer rolled
through the Pass of Angostura, and the dark gorges and ravines of the
Sierra Madre gave it back in many echoes.

The victory, purchased at so great a price, was complete. Mounted
scouts, sent out, returned in the course of the day with the information
that Santa Anna had not stopped at Agua Neva. He was marching southward
as fast as he could, and there was no doubt that he would not stop until
he reached the City of Mexico, where he would prepare to meet the army
of Scott, which was to come by the way of Vera Cruz. The greatness of
their victory did not dawn upon the Americans until then. Not only had
they beaten back a force that outnumbered them manifold, but all
Northern Mexico lay at the feet of Taylor. The war there was ended, and
it was for Scott to finish it in the Valley of Mexico.

The following night the fires were built high on the plateau and in the
Pass of Angostura. Nearly everybody rested except the surgeons, who
still worked. Hundreds of the Mexican wounded had been left on the
field, and they received the same attention that was bestowed upon the
Americans. Nevertheless, the boy soldiers were cheerful. They knew
that the news of their wonderful victory was speeding north, and they
felt that they had served their country well.

Phil did not know until long afterward that at home the army of Taylor
had been given up as lost. News that Santa Anna was in front of him
with an overwhelming force had filtered through, and then had come the
long blank. Nothing was heard. It was supposed that Taylor had been
destroyed or captured. It was known that his force was composed almost
wholly of young volunteers, boys, and no chance of escape seemed
possible.

In the West and South, in Kentucky, Illinois, Indiana, Arkansas, and
Mississippi, the anxiety was most tense and painful. There, nearly
every district had sent some one to Buena Vista, and they sought in vain
for news. There were dark memories of the Alamo and Goliad, especially
in the Southwest, and these people thought of the disaster as in early
days they thought of a defeat by the Indians, when there were no wounded
or prisoners, only slain.

But even the nearest states were separated from Mexico by a vast
wilderness, and, as time passed and nothing came, belief settled into
certainty. The force of Taylor had been destroyed. Then the messenger
arrived literally from the black depths with the news of the
unbelievable victory. Taylor was not destroyed. He had beaten an army
that outnumbered him five to one. The little American force held the
Pass of Angostura, and Santa Anna, with his shattered army, was flying
southward. At first it was not believed. It was incredible, but other
messengers came with the same news, and then one could doubt no longer.
The victory struck so powerfully upon the imagination of the American
people that it carried Taylor into the White House.

Meanwhile, Phil, in the Pass of Angostura, sitting by a great fire on
the second night after the battle, was thinking little of his native
land. After the tremendous interruption of Buena Vista, his mind turned
again to the object of his search. He read and reread his letter. He
thought often of the lava that had cut his brother’s feet and his own.
John was sure that they had gone through a pass, and he knew that a
woman at a well had given him water. The belief that they were on the
trail of those forlorn prisoners was strong within him. And Bill
Breakstone and Arenberg believed it, too.

"Our army, I understand, will go into quarters in this region," he said,
"and will make no further advance by land into Mexico. We enlisted only
for this campaign, and I am free to depart. I mean to go at once,
boys."

"We go with you, of course," said Bill Breakstone. "Good old Hans and I
here have already talked it over. There will be no more campaigning in
Northern Mexico, and we’ve done our duty. Besides, we’ve got quests of
our own that do not lead toward the valley of Mexico."

Phil grasped a hand of each and gave it a strong squeeze.

"I knew that you would go with me, as I’ll go with you when the time
comes," he said.

They received their discharge the next morning, and were thanked by
General Taylor himself for bravery in battle. Old Rough and Ready put
his hand affectionately on Phil’s shoulder.

"May good fortune follow you wherever you may be going," he said. "It
was such boys as you who won this battle."

He also caused them to be furnished with large supplies of ammunition.
Middleton could go no farther. He and some other officers were to hurry
to Tampico and join Scott for the invasion of Mexico by the way of Vera
Cruz.

"But boys," he said, "we may meet again. We’ve been good comrades, I
think, and circumstances may bring us together a second time when this
war is over."

"It rests upon the knees of the gods," said Arenberg.

"I know it will come true," said the more sanguine Breakstone.

"So do I," said Phil.

Middleton rode away with his brother officers and a small body of
regulars, and Phil, Arenberg, and Breakstone rode southward to Agua
Neva. When they had gone some distance they stopped and looked back at
the plateau and the pass.

"How did we ever do it?" said Phil.

"By refusing to stay whipped," replied Arenberg.

"By making up our minds to die rather than give up," replied Bill
Breakstone.

They rode on to the little Mexican town, where Phil had an errand to do.
He had talked it over with the other two, and the three had agreed that
it was of the utmost importance. All the time a sentence from the
letter was running in Phil’s head. Some one murmuring words of pity in
Mexican had given him water to drink, and the voice was that of a woman.

"It must have been from a well," said Phil, "this is a dry country with
water mostly from wells, and around these wells villages usually grow.
Bill, we must be on the right track. I can’t believe that we’re going
wrong."

"The signs certainly point the way we’re thinking," said Bill
Breakstone. "The lava, the dust, and the water. We’ve passed the lava
and the dust, and we know that the water is before us."

They came presently to Agua Neva, a somber little town, now reoccupied
by a detachment from Taylor’s army. The people were singularly quiet
and subdued. The defeat of Santa Anna by so small a force and his
precipitate flight made an immense impression upon them, and, as they
suffered no ill treatment from the conquerors, they did not seek to make
trouble. There was no sharpshooting in the dark, no waylaying of a few
horsemen by guerillas, and the three could pursue without hesitation the
inquiry upon which they were bent.

Wells! Wells! Of course there were wells in Agua Neva. Several of
them, and the water was very fine. Would the señors taste it? They
would, and they passed from one well to another until they drank from
them all. Breakstone could speak Spanish, and its Mexican variations,
and he began to ask questions--chance ones at first, something about the
town and its age, and the things that he had seen. Doubtless in the
long guerilla war between Texas and Mexico, captives, the fierce Texans,
had passed through there on their way to strong prisons in the south.
Such men had passed more than once, but the people of Agua Neva did not
remember any particular one among them. They spent a day thus in vain,
and Phil, gloomy and discouraged, rode back to the quarters of the
American detachment.

"Don’t be downhearted, Phil," said Breakstone. "In a little place like
this one must soon pick up the trail. It will not be hard to get at the
gossip. We’ll try again to-morrow."

They did not go horseback the next morning, not wishing to attract too
much attention, but strolled about the wells again, Breakstone talking
to the women in the most ingratiating manner. He was a handsome fellow,
this Breakstone, and he had a smile that women liked. They did not
frown upon him at Agua Neva because he belonged to the enemy, but
exchanged a gay word or two with him, Spanish or Mexican banter as he
passed on.

They came to a well at which three women were drawing water for the
large jars that they carried on their heads, and these were somewhat
unlike the others. They were undoubtedly of Indian blood, Aztec
perhaps, or more likely Toltec. They were tall for Mexican women, and
it seemed to Phil that they bore themselves with a certain erectness and
pride. Their faces were noble and good.

Phil and his comrades drew near. He saw the women glance at them, and
he saw the youngest of them look at him several times. She stared with
a vague sort of wonder in her eyes, and Phil’s heart suddenly began to
pound so hard that he grew dizzy. Since the letter, coming out of the
unknown and traveling such a vast distance, had found him in the little
town of Paris, Kentucky, he had felt at times the power of intuition.
Truths burst suddenly upon him, and for the moment he had the conviction
that this was the woman. Moreover, she was still looking at him.

"Speak to her, Bill! Speak to her!" he exclaimed. "Don’t let her go
until you ask her."

But Breakstone had already noticed the curious glances the woman was
casting at Phil, and in the Spanish patois of the region he bade them a
light and courteous good morning. Here all the charm of Breakstone’s
manner showed at its very best. No one could take offense at it, and
the three women, smiling, replied in a similar vein. Breakstone
understood Phil’s agitation. The boy might be right, but he did not
intend to be too headlong. He must fence and approach the subject
gradually. So he spoke of the little things that make conversation, but
presently he said to the youngest of the women:

"I see that you notice my comrade, the one who is not yet a man in
years, though a man in size. Does it chance that you have seen some one
like him?"

"I do not know," replied the woman. "I am looking into my memory that I
may see."

"Perhaps," said Breakstone smoothly, "it was one of the Texan prisoners
whom they brought through here two or three years ago. A boy, tall and
fair like this boy, but dusty with the march, bent with weariness, his
feet cut and bleeding by the lava over which he had been forced to
march, stood here at this well. He was blindfolded that he might not
see which way he had come, but you, the Holy Virgin filling your heart
with pity, took the cup of cool water and gave it to him to drink."

Comprehension filled the eyes of the woman, and she gazed at Breakstone
with growing wonder.

"It is so!" she exclaimed. "I remember now. It was three years ago.
There was a band of prisoners, twelve or fifteen, maybe, but he was the
youngest of them all, and so worn, so weak! I could not see his eyes,
but he had the figure and manner of the youth who stands there! It was
why I looked, and then looked again, the resemblance that I could not
remember."

"It is his brother who is with me," said Breakstone. "Can you tell where
these prisoners were taken?"

"I do not know, but I have heard that they were carried into the
mountains to the south and west, where they were to be held until Texas
was brought back to Mexico, or to be put to death as outlaws."

"What prisons lie in these mountains to the south and west?"

"I do not know how many, but we have heard most of the Castle of
Montevideo. Some of our own people have gone there, never to come
back."

She and her companions shuddered at the name of the Castle of
Montevideo. It seemed to have some vague, mysterious terror for them.
It was now Bill Breakstone who had the intuition. The Castle of
Montevideo was the place. It was there that they had taken John
Bedford. He translated clearly for Phil, who became very pale.

"It is the place, Phil," he said. "We must go to the Castle of
Montevideo to find him."

He drew from his pocket a large octagonal gold piece, worth fifty
dollars, then coined by the United States.

"Give this to her, Bill," he said, "and tell her it is for the drink of
water that she gave to the blindfolded boy three years ago."

Bill Breakstone translated literally, and he added:

"You must take it. It comes from his heart. It is not only worth much
money, but it will be a bringer of luck to you."

She took it, hesitated a moment, then hid it under her red reboso, and,
the jars being filled, she and her two companions walked away, balancing
the great weights beautifully on their heads.

"To-night," said Phil, "we ride for the Castle of Montevideo."

CHAPTER XVI

THE CASTLE OF MONTEVIDEO

The Castle of Montevideo, as its name indicates, commanded a magnificent
view. Set in a niche of a mountain which towered far above, it looked
down upon and commanded one of the great roads that led to the heart of
Mexico, the city that stood in the vale of Tenochtitlan, the capital, in
turn, of the Toltecs, the Aztecs, the Spaniards, and the Mexicans, and,
for all that men yet knew, of races older than the Toltecs. But the
Spaniards had built it, completing it nearly a hundred and fifty years
ago, when their hold upon the greater part of the New World seemed
secure, and the name of Spain was filled with the suggestion of power.

It was a gloomy and tremendous fortress, standing seven thousand feet
above the level of the sea, and having about it, despite its latitude,
no indication of the tropics.

Spain had lavished here enormous sums of money dug for her by the slaves
of Mexico and Peru. It was built of volcanic pumice stone, very hard,
and of the color of dark honey. Its main walls formed an equilateral
triangle, eight hundred feet square on the inside, and sixty feet from
the top of the wall to the bottom of the enclosing moat. There was a
bastion at each corner of the main rampart, and the moat that enveloped
the main walls and bastions was two hundred feet wide and twenty feet
deep. Fifty feet beyond the outside wall of the moat rose a _chevaux de
frise_ built of squared cedar logs twelve feet long, set in the ground
and fastened together by longitudinal timbers. Beyond the _chevaux de
frise_ was another ditch, fourteen feet wide, of which the outer bank
was a high earthwork. The whole square enclosed by the outermost work
was twenty-six acres, and on the principal rampart were mounted eighty
cannon, commanding the road to the Valley of Tenochtitlan.

Few fortresses, even in the Old World, were more powerful or complete.
It enclosed armories, magazines, workshops, and cells; cells in rows,
all of which were duly numbered when Montevideo was completed in the
eighteenth century. And, to give it the last and happiest touch, the
picture of Ferdinand VII., King of Spain, Lord of the Indies and the New
World, was painted over the doorway of every cell, and they were many.

Nor is this the full tale of Montevideo. On the inner side of each
angle, broad wooden stairways ascended to the top, the stairways
themselves being enclosed at intervals by wooden gates twelve feet high.
The real fortifications enclosed a square of nearly five hundred feet,
and inside this square were the buildings of the officers and the
barracks of the soldiers. The floor of the square was paved with thick
cement, and deep down under the cement were immense water tanks, holding
millions of gallons, fed by subterranean springs of pure cold water. By
means of underground tunnels the moats could be flooded with water from
the tanks or springs.

It has been said that the Spaniards are massive builders, the most
massive since the Romans, and they have left their mark with many a huge
stone structure in the southern part of the New World. What Montevideo
cost the kings of Spain no one has ever known, and, although they
probably paid twice for every stick and stone in it, Peru and Mexico
were still pouring forth their floods of treasure, and there was the
fortress, honey colored, lofty, undeniably majestic and powerful.

When Mexico displaced Spain, she added to the defenses of Montevideo,
and now, on this spring day in 1847, it lowered, dark and sinister, over
the road. It was occupied by a strong garrison under that alert and
valiant soldier, Captain Pedro de Armijo, raised recently to that rank,
but still stinging with the memories of Buena Vista, he was anxious that
the Americans should come and attack him in Montevideo. He stood on the
rampart at a point where it was seventy feet wide, and he looked with
pride and satisfaction at the row of eighty guns. Pedro de Armijo,
swelling with pride, felt that he could hold the castle of Montevideo
against twenty thousand men. Time had made no impression upon those
massive walls, and the moat was filled with water. The castle,
mediæval, but grim and formidable, sat in its narrow mountain valley
with the Cofre de Montevideo (Trunk of Montevideo) behind it on the
north. This peak was frequently covered with snow and at all times was
gloomy and forbidding. Even on bright days the sun reached it for only
a few hours.

While Pedro de Armijo walked on the parapet, looking out at the range of
mountain and valley and enjoying the sunlight, which would soon be gone,
a young man stood at the window of cell No. 87, also looking out at the
mountain, although no sunlight reached him there. He gazed through a
slit four inches wide and twelve inches high, and the solid wall of
masonry through which this slit was cut was twelve feet thick. The
young man’s ankles were tied together with a chain which, although long
enough to allow him to walk, weighed twenty-five pounds. Once he had
been chained with another man. Formerly the prisoners who had been
brought with him to the Castle of Montevideo had been chained in pairs,
the chain in no case weighing less than twenty pounds, but, since only
John Bedford was left, Pedro de Armijo concluded that it was his duty to
carry the chain alone.

John Bedford was white with prison pallor. Although as tall, he weighed
many pounds less than his younger brother, Philip. His cheeks were
sunken, and his eyes were set in deep hollows. The careless observer
would have taken him for ten years more than his real age. He had
shuffled painfully to the slit in the wall, where he wished to see the
last rays of the daylight falling on the mountainside. The depth of the
slit made the section of the mountain that he could see very narrow, and
he knew every inch of it. There was the big projection of volcanic
rock, the tall, malformed cactus that put out a white flower, the little
bunch of stunted cedars or pines--he could never tell which--in the
shelter of the rock, and the yard or two of gully down which he had seen
the water roaring after the big rains or at the melting of the snows on
the Cofre de Montevideo.

How often he had looked upon these things! What a little slice of the
world it was! Only a few yards long and fewer yards broad, but what a
mighty thing it was to him! Even with the slit closed, he could have
drawn all of it upon a map to the last twig and pebble. He would have
suffered intensely had that little view been withdrawn, but it
tantalized him, too, with the sight of the freedom that was denied him.
Three years, they told him, he had been gazing out at that narrow slit
at the mountainside, and he only at the beginning of life, strong of
mind and body--or at least he was. Never in that time had he been
outside the inner walls or even in the court yard. He knew nothing of
what had happened in the world. Sometimes they told him that Texas had
been overrun and retaken by the Mexicans, and he feared that it was
true.

They did not always put the chains upon him, but lately he had been
refractory. He was easily caught in an attempt to escape, and a new
governor of the castle, lately come, a young man extremely arrogant, had
demanded his promise that he make no other such attempt. He had
refused, and so the chains were ordered. He had worn them many times
before, and now they oppressed him far less than his loneliness. He
alone of that expedition was left a prisoner in the castle. How all the
others had gone he did not know, but he knew that some had escaped.
Both he and his comrade of the chains were too ill to walk when the
escape was made, and there was nothing to do but leave them behind. His
comrade died, and he recovered after weeks, mainly through the efforts
of old Catarina, the Indian woman who sometimes brought him his food.

John Bedford’s spirits were at the bottom of the depths that afternoon.
How could human beings be so cruel as to shut up one of their kind in
such a manner, one who was no criminal? It seemed to him that lately
the watch in the castle had become more vigilant than ever. More
soldiers were about, and he heard vaguely of comings and goings. His
mind ran back for the thousandth time over the capture of himself and
his comrades.

When taken by an overwhelming force they were one hundred and seventy in
number, and there were great rejoicings in Mexico when they were brought
southward. They had been blindfolded at some points, once when he walked
for a long time on sharp volcanic rock, and once, when, as he was
fainting from heat and thirst, a woman with a kind voice had given him a
cup of water at a well. He remembered these things very vividly, and he
remembered with equal vividness how, when they were not blindfolded,
they were led in triumph through the Mexican towns, exactly as prisoners
were led to celebrate the glory of a general through the streets of old
Rome. They, the "Terrible Texans," as they were called, had passed
through triumphal arches decorated with the bright garments of women.
Boys and girls, brilliant handkerchiefs bound around their heads, and
shaking decorated gourds with pebbles in them, had danced before the
captives to the great delight of the spectators. Sometimes women
themselves in these triumphal processions had done the zopilote or
buzzard dance. At night the prisoners had been forced to sleep in foul
cattle sheds.

Then had come the Day of the Beans. One hundred and fifty-three white
beans and seventeen black beans were placed in a bowl, and every
prisoner, blindfolded, was forced to draw one. The seventeen who drew
the black beans were promptly shot, and the others were compelled to
march on. He remembered how lightly they had taken it, even when it was
known who had drawn the black beans. These men, mostly young like
himself, had jested about their bad luck, and had gone to their death
smiling. He did not know how they could do it, but it was so, because
he had seen it with his own eyes.

Then they had marched on until they came to the Castle of Montevideo.
There the world ended. There was nothing but time, divided into
alternations of night and day. He had seen nobody but soldiers, except
the old woman Catarina, who seemed to be a sort of scullion. After he
recovered from the prison fever of which his comrade of the chains died,
the old woman had shown a sort of pity for him; perhaps she liked him as
one often likes those upon whom one has conferred benefits. She yielded
to his entreaties for a pencil for an hour or so, and some paper, just a
sheet or two. She smuggled them to him, and she smuggled away the
letter that he wrote. She did not know what would happen, but she would
give it to her son Porfirio, who was a vaquero. Porfirio would give it
to his friend Antonio Vaquez, who was leading a burro train north to
Monterey. After that was the unknown, but who could tell? Antonio
Vaquez was a kind man, and the Holy Virgin sometimes worked miracles for
the good. As for the poor lad, the prisoner, he must rest now. He had
been _muy malo_ (very sick), and it was not good to worry.

John tried not to worry. It was such easy advice to give and so very
hard for one to take who had been buried alive through a time that
seemed eternity, and who had been forgotten by all the world, except his
jailers. That letter had gone more than a year ago, and, of course, it
had not reached its destination. He ought never to have thought such a
thing possible. Very likely it had been destroyed by Porfirio, the
vaquero, old Catarina’s son. He had not seen old Catarina herself in a
long time. Doubtless they had sent her away because she had been kind
to him, or they may have found out about the letter. He was very sorry.
She was far from young, and she was far from beautiful, but her brief
presence at intervals had been cheering.

He watched the last rays of the sun fade on the volcanic slope. A
single beam, livid and splendid, lingered for a moment, and then was
gone. After it came the dark, with all the chilling power of great
elevation. The cold even penetrated the deep slit that led through
twelve feet of solid masonry, and John Bedford shivered. It was partly
the dark that made him shiver. He rose from the stool and made his way
slowly and painfully to his cot against the wall, his chains rattling
heavily over the floor.

He heard a key turning in the lock and the door opening, but he did not
look around. They usually came with his food at this hour, and the food
was always the same. There was no cause for curiosity. But when he
heard the steps of two men instead of one he did look around. There was
the same soldier bringing his supper of frijoles and tortillas on a tin
plate, and a cup of very bad coffee, but he was accompanied by the new
governor of the castle, Captain Pedro de Armijo, whom John did not like
at all. The soldier drew up the stool, put the food on it, and also a
candle that he carried.

John began to eat and drink, taking not the slightest notice of de
Armijo. The man from the first had given him the impression of cold,
malignant cruelty. John Bedford had often thought that his own spirit
was crushed, but it was far from being so. Pride was strong within him,
and he resolved that de Armijo should speak first.

De Armijo stood in silence for some time, looking down at the prisoner.
He was not in a good humor, he had seldom been so since that fatal day
when the whole army of Santa Anna was hurled back by the little force
from the North. He knew many things of which the prisoner did not
dream, and he had no thought of giving him even the slightest hint of
them. In him was the venomous disposition of the cat that likes to play
with the rat it has caught. A curious piece of mockery, or perhaps it
was not wholly mockery, had occurred to him.

"Bedford," he said, speaking good English, "you have been a prisoner
here a long time, and no one loves captivity."

"I have not heard that any one does," replied John, taking another drink
of the bad coffee.

"You cannot escape. You see the impossibility of any such attempt."

"It does not look probable, I admit. Still, few things are impossible."

De Armijo smiled, showing even white teeth. He rather liked this game
of playing with the rat in the trap. So much was in favor of the cat.

"It is not a possibility with which one can reckon," he said, "and I
should think that the desire to be free would be overpowering in one so
young as you."

"Have you come here to make sport of me?" said John, with ominous
inflection. "Because if you have I shall not answer another question."

"Not at all," said de Armijo. "I come on business. You have been here,
as I said, a long time, and in that time many changes have occurred in
the world."

"What changes?" asked John sharply.

"The most important of them is the growth in power of Mexico," said de
Armijo smoothly. "We triumph over all our enemies."

"Do you mean that you have really retaken Texas?" asked John, with a
sudden falling of the heart.

De Armijo smiled again, then lighted a cigarette and took a puff or two
before he gave an answer which was really no answer at all, so far as
the words themselves were concerned.

"I said that Mexico had triumphed over her enemies everywhere," he
replied, "and so she has, but I give you no details. It has been the
order that you know nothing. You have been contumacious and obstinate,
and, free, you would be dangerous. So the world was to be closed to
you, and it has been done. You know nothing of it except these four
walls and the little strip of a mountain that you can see from the
window there. You are as one dead."

John Bedford winced. What the Mexican said was true, and he had long
known it to be true, but he did not like for de Armijo to say it to him
now. His lonesomeness in his long imprisonment had been awful, but not
more so than his absolute ignorance of everything beyond his four walls.
This policy with him had been pursued persistently. Old Catarina,
before her departure, had not dared to tell him anything, and now the
soldier who served him would not answer any question at all. He had
felt at times that this would reduce him to mental incompetency, to
childishness, but he had fought against it, and he had felt at other
times that the isolation, instead of weakening his faculties, had
sharpened them. But he replied without any show of emotion in his voice:

"What you say is true in the main, but why do you say it."

"In order to lay before you both sides of a proposition. You are
practically forgotten here. You can spend the rest of your life in this
cell, perish, perhaps, on the very bed where you are now sitting, but
you can also release yourself. Take the oath of fealty to Mexico,
become a Mexican citizen, join her army and fight her enemies. You
might have a career there, you might rise."

It was a fiendish suggestion to one who knew nothing of what was
passing, and de Armijo prided himself upon his finesse. To compel
brother to fight against brother would indeed be a master stroke. He
did not notice the rising blood in the face before him, that had so long
borne the prison pallor.

"Have you reconquered Texas?" asked John sharply.

"What has that to do with it?"

"Do you think I would join you and fight against the Texans? Do you
think I would join you anyhow, after I’ve been fighting against you?
I’d rather rot here than do such a thing, and it seems strange that you,
an officer and the governor of this castle, should make such an offer.
It’s dishonest!"

Blood flashed through de Armijo’s dark face, and he raised his hand in
menace. John Bedford instantly struck at him with all his might, which
was not great, wasted as he was by prison confinement. De Armijo
stepped back a little, drew his sword, and, with the flat of it, struck
the prisoner a severe blow across the forehead. John had attempted to
spring forward, but twenty-five pounds of iron chain confining his
ankles held him. He could not ward off the blow, and he dropped back
against the cot, bleeding and unconscious.

When John Bedford recovered his senses he was lying on the cot, and it
was pitch dark, save for a slender shaft of moonlight that entered at
the slit, and that lay like a sword-blade across the floor. His head
throbbed, and when he put his hand to it he found that it was swathed in
bandages. He remembered the blow perfectly, and he moved his feet, but
the chains had been taken off. They had had the grace to do that much.
He strove to rise, but he was very weak, and the throbbing in his head
increased. Then he lay still for a long time, watching the moonbeam
that fell across the floor. He was in a state of mind far from
pleasant. To be shut up so long is inevitably to grow bitter, and to be
struck down thus by de Armijo, while he was chained and helpless, was an
injury to both body and mind that he could never forgive. He had
nothing to do in his cell to distract his mind from grievous wrongs, and
there was no chance for them to fade from his memory. His very soul
rose in wrath against de Armijo.

He judged that it was far in the night, and, after lying perfectly still
for about an hour, he rose from the bed. His strength had increased,
and the throbbing in his head was not so painful. He staggered across
the floor and put his face to the slit in the wall. The cold air, as it
rushed against his eyes and cheeks, felt very good. It was spring in
the lowlands, but there was snow yet on the peak behind the Castle of
Montevideo, and winter had not yet wholly left the valley in which the
castle itself stood. But the air was not too cold for John, whose brain
at this moment was hotter than his blood.

The night was uncommonly clear. One could see almost as well as by day,
and he began to look over, one by one, the little objects that his view
commanded on the mountainside. He looked at every intimate friend, the
various rocks, the cactus, the gully, and the dwarfed shrubs--he still
wished to know whether they were pines or cedars, the problem had long
annoyed him greatly. He surveyed his little landscape with great care.
It seemed to him that he saw touches of spring there, and then he was
quite sure that he saw the figure of a man, dark and shadowy, but,
nevertheless, a human figure, pass across the little space. It was
followed in a moment by a second, and then by a third. It caused him
surprise and interest. His tiny landscape was steep, and he had never
before seen men cross it. Hunters, or perhaps goat herders, but it was
strange that they should be traveling along such a steep mountainside at
such an hour.

A person under ordinary conditions would have forgotten the incident in
five minutes, but this was an event in the life of the lonely captive.
Save his encounter with de Armijo, he could not recall another of so
much importance in many months. He stayed at the loophole a long time,
but he did not see the figures again nor anything else living. Once,
about a month before, he had caught a glimpse of a deer there, and it
had filled him with excitement, because to see even a deer was a great
thing, but this was a greater. He remained at the loophole until the
rocks began to redden with the morning sun, but his little landscape
remained as it had ever been, the same rocks, the same pines or
cedars--which, in Heaven’s name, were they?--and the same cactus.

Then he walked slowly back to his cot. The chains were lying on the
floor beside it, and he knew that, in time, they would be put on him
again, but he was resolved not to abate his independence a particle.
Nor would he defer in any way to de Armijo. If he came again he would
speak his opinion of him to his face, let him do what he would.

There was proud and stubborn blood in every vein of the Bedfords. John
Bedford’s grandfather had been one of the most noted of Kentucky’s
pioneers and Indian fighters, and on his mother’s side, too, there was a
strain of tenacious New England. By some possible chance he might be
able to return de Armijo’s blow. He drew the cover over his body and
fell into a sleep from which he was awakened by the slovenly soldier
with his breakfast. The man did not speak while John ate, and John was
glad of it. He, too, had nothing to say, and he wished to be left to
himself. When the man left he lay down on the cot again and slept until
nearly noon. Then de Armijo came a second time. He had no apologies
whatever for the manner in which he had struck down an unarmed prisoner,
but was hard and sneering.

"I merely tell you," he said, "that you lost your last chance yesterday.
The offer will not be repeated."

John said not a word, but gazed at him so steadily that the Mexican’s
swarthy face flushed a little. He hesitated, as if he would say
something, but evidently thought better of it, and went out. That night
he had a fever from his wounded head and the exertion that he had made
in standing so long at the loophole. He became delirious, and when he
emerged from his delirium a little weazened old Indian woman was sitting
by the side of his cot. She had kindly and pitying eyes, and John
exclaimed, in a weak but joyous voice:

"Catarina!"

"Poor boy," she said, "I have watched you one day and one night."

"Where have you been all the time before?" he asked in the Mexican
dialect that he had learned.

"I have been one of the cooks," she said. "The officers, they eat so
much, tortillas, frijoles, everything, and they drink so much, mescal,
pulque, wine, everything. Many busy months for Catarina, and I ask for
you, but I cannot see you. They say you bad, very bad. Then they say
you try to kill the governor, Captain de Armijo, but he strike you on
the head with the flat of his sword to save his own life. You have
fever, and at last they send me to nurse you as I did that other time."

"Do you believe, Catarina, that I tried to kill de Armijo?" asked John.

She looked about her fearfully, drew the reboso closely across her
shrunken shoulders, and answered in a frightened tone as if the thick
walls themselves could hear:

"How should I know? It is what they say. If I should say otherwise
they would lash me with the whip, even me, old Catarina."

The captive sighed. Nothing could break the awful wall of mystery that
enveloped him. Catarina even did not dare to speak, although no one but
himself could possibly hear.

"You mind I smoke?" said Catarina.

"No," replied John with a wan smile. "Any lady can smoke in my
presence."

She whipped out a cigarrito, lighted it with a match, held it for a
moment between the middle and fore finger, then inserted it between her
aged lips. She took two or three long, easy whiffs, letting the smoke
come out through her nose. John had never learned to smoke, but he said
to her:

"Does it do you good, Catarina?"

"Whether it does me good, I know not," replied the Indian woman, "but it
gives me pleasure, so I do it. I have to tell you, Señor John, that my
son, Porfirio, has returned from the north. He has been at Monterey and
the country about it."

John at once was all eagerness.

"And Antonio Vaquez, the leader of the burro train?" he exclaimed. "Has
he heard from him? Does he know if the letter went on beyond the Rio
Grande?"

"My son Porfirio has not seen Antonio Vaquez," replied Catarina, "and so
he does not know from Antonio Vaquez whether the letter has crossed the
Rio Grande or not. But it is a time of change."

"De Armijo told me that."

The old woman looked at him very keenly, and drove more smoke of the
cigarrito through her nose. Her next words made no reference to de
Armijo, but they startled John:

"You look through the loophole to-night, about midnight," she said, "You
see something on the mountain side, fire, a torch, it may mean much.
Who can tell?"

Excitement flamed up again in John’s veins.

"What do you mean, Catarina?" he exclaimed.

"Last night I crawled to the loophole for air. It was bright moonlight,
and while I was standing there I thought three human beings passed on
the little patch of the mountainside that I can see."

"It is all I know," said Catarina. "I can tell you no more. Now I am
_concinero_ (cook) again. Now I go. But watch. There have been many
changes. Diego, the soldier, will bring you your food as before. Watch
that, too."

"Poison!" exclaimed John aghast.

"No! No! No! _Hai Dios_ (my God), no! But do as I say!"

She snuffed out the end of the cigarrito, picked up the dishes, and
promptly left the cell. She also left the captive much excited and
wondering. De Armijo had said there were changes! Truly there had been
changes, said Catarina, but she had not told what they were. He made
many surmises, and one was as good as another, even to himself. Let a
man cut three years out of his life and see if he can span the gulf
between. But he was sure, despite his ignorance of their nature, that
Catarina’s words were full of meaning, and, perhaps among all the great
changes that had come, one was coming for him, too.

He slept that afternoon in order that he might be sure to keep awake at
night, and long before midnight he was on watch at the loophole. There
was still soreness in his head, where the flat of the heavy steel blade
had struck, but it was passing away, and his strength was returning. It
is hard to crush youth. It was now easier for him, too, as the chains
had not been put back upon his ankles.

He waited with great impatience, and, as his impatience increased, time
became slower. He began to feel that he was foolish. But Catarina had
been good to him. She would not make him keep an idle quest in the long
cold hours of the night. And he had seen the three shadows pass the
night before. He was sure now from what Catarina had said that they
were the shadows of human beings, and their presence there had been
significant.

The night was not so bright as the one before, but, by long looking, he
could trace the details of his landscape, all the well known objects,
every one in its proper place, with the dusky moonlight falling upon
them. He stared so long that his eyes ached. Surely Catarina had been
talking foolish talk! No, she had not! His heart stopped beating for a
few moments, because, as certainly as he was at that loophole, a light
had appeared on his bit of landscape. It was but a spark. A spark only
at first, but in a moment or two it blazed up like a torch. It showed a
vivid red streak against the mountainside, and the heart of the captive,
that had stood still for a few moments, now bounded rapidly. The words
of Catarina had come true, and he had had a sign. But what did the sign
mean? It must be connected in some way with him, and nothing could be
worse than that which he now endured. It must mean good.

It was a veritable flame of hope to John Bedford, the prisoner of the
Castle of Montevideo. New strength suffused his whole body. Courage
came back to him in a full tide. A sign had been promised to him, and
it had come.

The light burned for about half an hour, and then went out suddenly.
John Bedford returned to his cot, a new hope in his heart.

CHAPTER XVII

THE THREAD, THE KEY, AND THE DAGGER

When John Bedford rose the next morning he was several years younger.
He held himself erect, as became his youth, a little color had crept
into the pallid face, and his heart was still full of hope. He had seen
the light that Catarina had promised. Surely the world was making a
great change for him, and he reasoned again that, his present state
being so low, any possible change must be for the better.

But the day passed and nothing happened. Diego, the slouching soldier,
brought him his food, and, bearing in mind the vague words of Catarina,
he noticed it carefully while he ate. There was nothing unusual. It
was the same at his supper. The rosy cloud in which his hopes swam
faded somewhat, but he was still hopeful. No light had been promised for
the second night, but he watched for long hours, nevertheless, and he
could not restrain a sense of disappointment when he turned away.

A second day passed without event, and a third, and then a fourth. John
Bedford was overcome by a terrible depression. Catarina was old and
foolish, or perhaps she, too, had shown at last the cunning and trickery
that he began to ascribe to all these people. He would stay in that
cell all his life, fairly buried alive. A fierce, unreasoning anger
took hold of him. He would have flared out at stolid Diego who brought
the food, but he did not want those heavy chains put back on his ankles.
His head was now healed enough for the removal of the bandage, but a red
streak would remain for some time under the hair. Doubtless the hair
had saved him from a fracture of the skull. Every time he put his hand
to the wound, which was often, his anger against de Armijo rose. It was
that cold, silent anger which is the most terrible and lasting of all.

Although he was back in the depths, John felt that the brief spell of
hope had been of help to him. His wound had healed more rapidly, and he
was sure that he was physically stronger. Yet the black depression
remained. It was even painful for him to look through the slit at his
piece of the slope, which he sometimes called his mountain garden. He
avoided it, as a place of hope that had failed. On the sixth day, Diego
brought him his dinner a little after the dinner hour. He was sitting
on the edge of his cot and he bit into a tamale. His teeth encountered
something tough and fibrous, and he was about to throw it down in
disgust. Then the words of Catarina, those words which he had begun to
despise, came suddenly back to him. He put the tamale down and began to
eat a tortilla, keeping his eye on Diego, who slouched by the wall in
the attitude of a Mexican of the lower classes, that lazy, dreaming
attitude that they can maintain, for hours.

Presently Diego glanced at the loophole, and in an instant John whipped
the tamale off the plate and thrust it under the cover of the cot. Then
he went on calmly with his eating, and drank the usual amount of bad
coffee. Diego, who had noticed nothing, took the empty tray and went
out, carefully locking the heavy door behind him. Then John Bedford did
something that showed his wonderful power of self-restraint. He did not
rush to the bed, eager to read what the tamale might contain, but
strolled to the loophole and looked out for at least a quarter of an
hour. He did not wish any trick to be played upon him by a sudden
return of Diego. Yet he was quivering in every nerve with impatience.

When he felt that he was safe, he returned to the cot and took out the
tamale. He carefully pulled it open, and in the middle he found the
tough, fibrous substance that his teeth had met. He had half expected a
paper of some kind, rolled closely together, that the writing might not
perish, and what he really did find caused a disappointment so keen that
he uttered a low cry of pain.

He held it up in his hand. It was nothing more than a small package of
thread, such as might have been put in a thimble. What could it mean?
Of what possible use was a coil of fifty yards or so of thread that
would not sustain the weight of half a pound? Was he to escape through
the loophole on that as a rope? He looked at the loophole four inches
broad, and then at the tiny thread, and it seemed to him such a pitiful
joke that he sat down on the cot and laughed, not at the joke itself,
but at any one who was foolish enough to perpetrate such a thing.

He tested the thread. It was stronger than he had thought. Then he put
it on his knee, took his head in his two hands, and sat staring at the
thread for a long time, concentrating his thoughts and trying to evolve
something from this riddle. It did mean something. No one would go to
so much trouble to play a miserable joke on a helpless captive like
himself. Catarina certainly would not do it, and she had given him the
hint about the food, a hint that had come true. He kept his mind upon
the one point so steadily and with so much force that his brain grew
hot, and the wound, so nearly cured, began to ache again. Yet he kept
at it, studying out every possible twist and turn of the riddle. At
last he tested the thread again. It was undeniably strong, and then he
looked at the loophole. Only one guess savored of possibility. He must
hang the thread out of the loophole.

He ate the rest of the tamale, hid the little package under his
clothing, and at night, after supper, when the darkness was heavy, he
threw the end of the thread through the long slot, a cast in which he
did not succeed until about the twelfth attempt. Then he let the thread
drop down. He knew about how many feet it was to the pavement below,
and he let out enough with three or four yards for good count. Then he
found that he had several yards left, which he tied around one of the
iron bars at the edge of the loophole. It was a black thread, and,
although some one might see it by daylight, there was not one chance in
a thousand that any one would see it at night.

"Fishing," he said to himself, as he lay down on his cot, intending to
sleep awhile, but to draw in the thread before the day came. It might
be an idle guess, he could not even know that the thread was not
clinging to the stone wall, instead of reaching the ground, but there
was relief in action, in trying something. He fell asleep finally, and
when he awoke he sprang in an instant to the floor. The fear came with
his waking senses that he might have slept too long, and that it was
broad daylight. The fear was false. It was still night, with only the
moon shining at the loophole. But he judged that most of the night had
passed, and his impatience told him that if anything was going to happen
it had happened already. He went to the window. His thread was there,
tied to the bar and, like a fisherman, he began to pull it in. He felt
this simile himself. "Drawing in the line," he murmured. "Now I wonder
if I have got a bite."

Although he spoke lightly to himself, as if a calm man would soothe an
excitable one, he felt the cold chill that runs down one’s spine in
moments of intense excitement. The moonlight was good, and he watched
the black thread come in, inch by inch, while the hand that drew it
trembled. But he soon saw that there was no weight at the other end,
and down his heart went again into the blackest depths of black despair.
Nevertheless, he continued to pull on the thread, and, as it emerged
from the darkness into the far end of the loophole, he thought he saw
something tied on the end, although he was not sure, it looked so small
and dim. Here he paused and leaned against the wall, because he
suddenly felt weak in both mind and body. These alternations between
hope and despair were shattering to one who had been confined so long
between four walls. The very strength of his desire for it might make
him see something at the end of the thread when nothing was really
there.

He recovered himself and pulled in the thread, and now hope surged up in
a full tide. Something was on the end of the thread. It was a little
piece of paper not more than an inch long, rolled closely and tied
tightly around the center with the thread. He drew up his stool and sat
down on it by the loophole, where the moonlight fell. Then he carefully
picked loose the knot and unrolled the paper. The light was good
enough, and he read these amazing words:

"Don’t give up hope.
Your brother is here.
He received your letter.
Put out the thread
Again to-morrow night.
Read and destroy this."

John leaned against the wall. His surprise and joy were so great that
he was overpowered. He realized now that his hope had merely been a
forlorn one, an effort of the will against spontaneous despair. And yet
the miracle had been wrought. His letter, in some mysterious manner,
had got through to Phil, and Phil had come. He must have friends, too,
because the letter had not been written by Phil. It was in a strange
handwriting. But this could be no joke of fate. It was too powerful,
too convincing. Everything fitted too well together. It must have
started somehow with Catarina, because all her presages had come true.
She was the cook, she had put the thread in the tamale. How had the
others reached her?

But it was true. His letter had gone through, and the brave young boy
whom he had left behind had come. He was somewhere about the Castle of
Montevideo, and since such wonders had been achieved already, others
could be done. From that moment John Bedford never despaired. After
reading the letter many times, he tore it into minute fragments, and,
lest they should be seen below and create suspicion, he ate them all and
with a good appetite. Then he rolled up the thread, put it next to his
body, and, for the first time in many nights, slept so soundly that he
did not awake until Diego brought him his breakfast. Then he ate with a
remarkable appetite, and after Diego had gone he began to walk up and
down the cell with vigorous steps. He also did many other things which
an observer, had one been possible, would have thought strange.

John not only walked back and forth in his cell, but he went through as
many exercises as his lack of gymnastic equipment permitted, and he
continued his work at least an hour. He wished to get back his strength
as much as possible for some great test that he felt sure was coming.
If he were to escape with the help of Phil and unknown others, he must
be strong and active. A weakling would have a poor chance, no matter
how numerous his friends. He had maintained this form of exercise for a
long period after his imprisonment, but lately he had become so much
depressed that he had discontinued it.

He felt so good that he chaffed Diego when he came back with his food at
dinner and supper. Diego had long been a source of wonder to John. It
was evident that he breathed and walked, because John had seen him do
both, and he could speak, because at rare intervals John had heard him
utter a word or two, but this power of speech seemed to be merely
spasmodic. Now, while John bantered him, he was as stolid as any wooden
image of Aztecs or Toltecs, although John spoke in Spanish, which, bad
as it was, Diego could understand.

He devoted the last hours of the afternoon to watching his distant
garden. It had always been a pleasant landscape to him, but now it was
friendlier than ever. That was a fine cactus, and it was a noble forest
of dwarf pine or cedar--he wished he did know which. An hour after the
dark had fully come he let the thread out again.

"This beats any other fishing I ever did," he murmured. "Well, it ought
to. It’s fishing for one’s life."

He was calmer than on the night before, and fell asleep earlier, but he
had fixed his mind so resolutely on a waking time at least an hour
before daylight that he awoke almost at the appointed minute. Then he
tiptoed across the cold floor to the thread. Nobody could have heard
him through those solid walls, but the desire for secrecy was so strong
that he unconsciously tiptoed, nevertheless. He pulled the thread, and
he felt at once that something heavy had been fastened to the other end.
Then he pulled more slowly. The thread was very slender, and the weight
seemed great for so slight a line. If it were to break, the tragedy
would be genuinely terrible. He had heard of the sword suspended by a
single hair, and it seemed to him that he was in some such case. But the
thread was stronger than John realized--it had been chosen so on
purpose--and it did not break.

As the far end of the thread approached the loophole, he was conscious
of a slight metallic ring against the stone wall. His interest grew in
intensity. Phil and these unknown friends of his were sending him
something more than a note. He pulled with exceeding slowness and care
now, lest the metallic object hook against the far edge of the loophole.
But it came in safely, slid across the stone, and reached his hand. It
was a large iron key, with a small piece of paper tied around it. He
tore off the paper, and read, in a handwriting the same as that on the
first one:

"This is the key to your cell, No. 37, but do not use it. Do not even
put it in the lock until the fourth night from to-night. Then at
midnight, as nearly as you can judge, unlock and go out. Let out the
thread for the last time to-morrow night."

John looked at the key and glanced longingly at the lock. He had no
doubt that it would fit. But he obeyed orders and did not try it.
Instead he thrust it into the old ragged mattress of his cot. He
resumed his physical exercises the next day, giving an hour to them in
the morning and another hour in the afternoon. They helped, but the
breath of hope was doing more for him, both mind and body, than anything
else. He felt so strong and active that he did not chaff Diego any more
lest the Mexican, stolid and wooden though he was, might suspect
something.

He let out the thread according to orders, and, at the usual time, drew
in a dagger, slender and very light, but long and keen as a razor. He
read readily the purpose of this. There would be much danger when he
opened the door to go out, and he must have a weapon. He ran his finger
along the keen edge and saw that it would be truly formidable at close
quarters. Then he hid it in his mattress with the key, wound up the
thread, and put it in the same place. All had now come to pass as
promised, and he felt that the remainder would depend greatly upon
himself. So he settled down as best he could to three days and nights
of almost intolerable waiting. Dull and heavy as the time was, and
surely every second was a minute, many fears also came with it. They
might take it into their heads to change that ragged old mattress of
his, and then the knife, the thread, and the key would be found. He
would dismiss such apprehensions with the power of reason, but the power
of fear would bring them back again. Too much now depended upon his
freedom from examination and search to allow of a calm mind.

Yet time passed, no matter how slow, and he was helped greatly by his
physical exercises, which gave him occupation, besides preparing him for
an expected ordeal. Hope, too, was doing its great work. He could
fairly feel the strength flowing back into his veins, and his nerves
becoming tougher and more supple. Every night he looked out at the
mountain slope and itemized his little garden there that he had never
touched, shrub by shrub, stone by stone, not forgetting the great
cactus. He told himself that he did not expect to see any light there
again, because the unknown sender of messages had not spoken of another,
but, deep down at the bottom of his heart, he was hoping to behold the
torch once more, and he felt disappointment when it did not appear.

He tried to imagine how Phil looked. He knew that he must be a great,
strong boy, as big as a man. He knew that his spirit was bold and
enterprising, yet he must have had uncommon skill and fortune to have
penetrated so deep into Mexico, and to preserve a hiding-place so near
to the great Castle of Montevideo. And the friends with him must be
molded of the finest steel. Who were they? He recalled daring and
adventurous spirits among his own comrades in the fatal expedition, but
as he ran over every one in his mind he shook his head. It could not
be.

It is the truth that, during all this period, inflicting such a
tremendous strain upon the captive, John never once tried the key in the
door. It was the supreme test of his character, of his restraint, of
his power of will, and he passed it successfully. The thread, the
dagger, and the key lay together untouched in the bottom of the old
mattress, and he waited in all the outward seeming of patience.

The first night was very clear, on the second it rained for six or seven
hours. The entire mountainside was veiled in sheets of water or vapor,
and John saw nothing beyond his window but the black blur. The third
night was clear, but when the morning of the fourth day dawned, John
thought, from the clouds that were floating along the mountain slope, it
would be rainy again. He hoped that the promise would come true.
Darkness and rain favor an escaping prisoner.

The last day was the most terrible of all. Now and then he found his
heart pounding as if it would rack itself to pieces. It was difficult
to go through with the exercises, and it was still more difficult to
preserve calmness of manner in the presence of Diego. Yet he did both.
Moreover, his natural steadiness seemed to come back to him as the hour
drew near. His was one of those rare and fortunate natures which may be
nervous and apprehensive some time before the event, but which become
hard and firm when it is at hand. Now John found himself singularly
calm. The eternity of waiting had passed, and he was strong and ready.

Diego brought him his supper early, and then, through his loophole, he
watched the twilight deepen into the night. And with the night came the
rain that the morning and afternoon clouds had predicted. It was a cold
rain, driven by a wind that shrieked down the valley, and drops of it,
hurled like shot the full width of the slit, struck John in the face.
But he liked the cool sharp touch, and he felt sure that the rain would
continue all through the night. So much the better.

John’s clothing was old and ragged, and he wore a pair of heelless
Mexican shoes. He had no hat or cap. But a prisoner of three lonely
years seeking to escape was not likely to think of such things.

He waited patiently through these last hours. He was compelled to judge
for himself when midnight had come, but he believed that he had made a
close calculation. Then he took a final look through the loophole. The
wind, with a mighty groaning and shrieking, was still driving the rain
down the slopes, and nothing was visible. Then, with a firm hand, he
took from the bed the thread, the knife, and the key. It was not likely
that he would have any further use for the thread, but for the sake of
precaution he put it in his pocket. He also slipped the dagger into the
back of his coat at the neck, after a southwestern fashion which allowed
a man to draw and strike with a single motion.

Then, key in hand, he boldly approached the door. Some throbbings of
doubt appeared, but he sternly repressed them. Giving himself no time
for hesitation, he put the key in the lock and turned his hand toward
the right. The key, without any creaking or scraping, turned with it.
His heart gave a great leap. He did not know until now that he had
really doubted. His joy at the fact showed it. But the miracles were
coming true, one after another.

He turned the key around the proper distance, and he heard the heavy
bolt slide back. He knew that he would have nothing to do now but pull
on the door, yet he paused a few moments as one lingers over a great
pleasure, in order to make it greater. He pulled, and the door came
back with the same familiar slight creak that he had heard it make so
often when Diego entered or left. With an involuntary gesture of one
hand, he bade farewell to his cell and stepped into the long, dark
corridor upon which the row of cells opened. But for the sake of
precaution he locked the cell door again and put the key in his pocket.

Then he drew the slender dagger, clutched it firmly in his right hand,
and stepped softly back against the wall, which was in heavy shadow, no
light entering it from the narrow barred window at either end. John’s
heart beat painfully, but he did not believe that the miracles which
were being done in his behalf had yet ended. With his back still toward
the wall, and his hand on the hilt of the dagger, he slipped soundlessly
along for a few feet. His eyes, growing used to the darkness, made out
the posts at the head of a stairway.

Evidently this was the way he should go, and he paused again. Then his
blood slowly chilled within him. A human figure was standing beside one
of the posts. He saw it distinctly. It was the figure of a tall man in
a long black serape, with a dark handkerchief tied around mouth and chin
after the frequent Mexican fashion, and a great sombrero which nearly
met the handkerchief. He could see nothing but the narrowest strip of
dark face, and in the dusk the man rose to the size of a giant. He was
truly a formidable figure to one who had been three years a captive, to
one who was armed only with a slender knife.

But the crisis in John Bedford’s life was so great that he advanced
straight toward the ominous presence in his path. The man said nothing,
but John felt as he approached that the stranger was regarding him
steadily. Moreover, he made no motion to draw a weapon. John saw now
that one of his hands rested on the post at the stairhead, and the other
hung straight down by his side. Surely this was not the attitude of a
foe! Perhaps here was merely another in the chain of miracles that had
begun to work in his behalf. He advanced a step or two nearer, and the
stranger was yet motionless. Another step, and the man spoke in a sharp
whisper:

"You are John Bedford?"

"I am," replied John.

"I’ve been waiting for you. Come. But first take this."

He drew a double-barreled pistol from his pocket and handed it to John,
who did as he was told. The stranger then produced from under his
capacious serape another serape and a Mexican hat, which John, acting
under his instructions, also put on.

"Now," said the man, "follow me, and do what I do or what I tell you.

"It is the midnight hour,
They wait us at the gate.
May Heaven its favors pour,
Then easy is our fate.

You seem to be a brave fellow like your brother; then now is the time to
show your courage, and remember, also, that I can do all the talking for
both of us. Talking is my great specialty."

It seemed to John that the stranger spoke in an odd manner, but he liked
the sound of his voice, which was at once strong and kind. Why should
he not like a man who had come through every imaginable danger to save
him from a living death!

"My brother?" whispered John in his eagerness. "Is he still near?"

"I told you I was to do all the talking," replied the man. "You just
follow and step as lightly as you can."

John obeyed, and, after a descent of a few steps, they came to one of
the heavy wooden doors, twelve feet high, but the stranger unlocked it
with a key taken from the folds of that invaluable Mexican garment, the
serape.

"You didn’t think I’d come on such a trip as this without making full
preparations?" said the man with a slight humorous inflection. Then he
added: "You’re just a plain, common Mexican, some servant or other,
employed about the castle, and you continue to slouch along behind me,
who may be an officer for all one knows in this darkness. But first
push with me on this door. Push hard and push slowly."

The heavy door moved back a foot or two, but that was all the stranger
wanted. He slipped through the opening, and John came after him. Then
the man closed and locked the door again.

"A wise burglar leaves no trail behind him," he said, "and, although it
is too dark for me to see you very well, I want to tell you, Sir John of
the Cell, that your figure and walk remind me a great deal of your
brother, Sir Philip of the Mountain, the River, and the Plain, as
gallant a lad as one may meet in many a long day."

A question, a half dozen of them leaped to John’s lips, but, remembering
his orders, he checked them all there.

"Ah, I see," said the stranger. "That would certainly tempt any man to
ask questions, but, remembering what I told you, you did not ask them.
You are of the true metal.

"Though in prison he lay,
His spirit was strong,
He sought a better day,
And now it’s come along.

At least it’s a better night, which, for the uses of poetry, is the same
as day. This stairway, John, leads into the great inner court, and then
our troubles begin, although we ought to return thanks all the rest of
our days for the rain and the heavy darkness. The Mexican officers will
see no reason why they shouldn’t remain under shelter, and the Mexican
soldiers, in this case, will be glad enough to do as their officers do."

John now followed his guide with absolute faith. The man spoke more
queerly than anybody else that he had ever heard, but everything that he
did or said inspired confidence.

They came to the bottom of the stairway and reached the great paved
central court, with the buildings of the officers scattered here and
there. They stepped into the court, and John fairly shrank within
himself when the cold rain lashed into his face. He did not know until
then how three years within massive walls had softened and weakened him.
But he held himself erect and tautened his nerves, resolved that his
comrade should not see that he had shivered.

They saw lights shining from the windows of some of the low buildings,
but no human being was visible within the square.

"They’ve all sought cover," said his rescuer, "and now is our best
chance to get through one of the gates. After that there are other walls
and ditches to be passed, but, Sir John of the Night, the Wall, the
Rain, and the Moat, we’ll pass them. This little plan of ours has been
too well laid to go astray. Just the same, you keep that pistol handy."

John drew the serape about his thin body. It was useful for other
things than disguise. Without it the cold would have struck him to the
bone. His rescuer led the way across the court until they came to one
of the great gates in the wall. The sentinel then was pacing back and
forth, his musket on his shoulder, and at intervals he called:
"Sentinela alerte!" that his comrades at other gates might hear, and out
of the wind and rain came at intervals, though faintly, the responding
cry, "Sentinela alerte!" John and the stranger were almost upon this
man when the cry "Sentinela alerte!" came from the next gate. He turned
quickly as the two dark figures emerged from the darker gloom, but the
stranger, with extraordinary dexterity, threw his serape over his face,
checking any cry, while his powerful hands choked him into
insensibility. At the same time the stranger uttered the answering cry,
"Sentinela alerte!"

"You haven’t killed him?" exclaimed John, aghast, as his rescuer let the
Mexican slide to the wet earth.

"Not at all," replied this resourceful man. "The cold rain will bring
him back to his senses in five minutes and in ten minutes he will be as
well as ever, but in ten minutes we should play our hand, if we ever
play it."

He drew an enormous key from the pocket of the Mexican, unlocked the
gate, and, after they had passed out, locked it behind them. Then they
stood on the edge of the great moat, two hundred feet wide, twenty feet
deep and bank full. The man dropped the key into the water.

"Now, Sir John of the Escape," he said, "the drawbridge is up, and if it
were down it would be too well guarded for us to pass. We must swim. I
don’t know how strong you are after a long life in prison, but swim you
must. Life is dear, and I think you’ll swim. We’ll take off most of
our clothes and tie them with our weapons on our heads. What a wild
night! But how good it is for us!"

Crouching in the shadow of the wall they took off most of their clothes,
and then each tied them in a package containing his weapons, also, on
his head. They were secured with strips torn from John’s rags.
Meanwhile, the night was increasing in wildness. John would have viewed
it with awe, had not his escape absorbed every thought. The wind
groaned through the gorges of the great Sierra, and the cold rain lashed
like a whip. The rumblings of thunder came from far and deep valleys
between the ridges.

"Now," said the man, "we’ll drop into the moat together. But let
yourself down by your hands as gently as you can, and make no splash
when you strike. Now, over we go!"

The two dropped into the water, taking care not to go under, and then
began to swim toward the far edge of the moat. John had been a good
swimmer, but the water was very cold to his thin body. Nevertheless, he
swam with a fairly steady stroke, until they were about half-way across,
when he felt cramps creeping over him. But the stranger, who kept close
by his side, had been watching, and he put one hand under John’s body.
In water the light support became a strong one, and now John swam
easily.

They reached the far edge and climbed up on the wall. Here John lay a
little while, gasping, while the stranger, who now seemed a very god to
him, rubbed his cold body to bring back the warmth. From a point down
the bank came the cry "Sentinela alerte!" and from a point in the other
direction came the answering cry, "Sentinela alerte!"

"Lie flat," whispered his rescuer to John, "and we’ll wriggle across
fifty feet of ground here until we come to a wooden wall. We’re lost if
we stand up, because I think lightning is coming with that thunder."

He spoke with knowledge, as the thunder suddenly grew louder and the air
around them was tinted with phosphorescent light. It was not a flare of
lightning, merely its distant reflection, but it was enough to have
disclosed them, if they had been standing, to any one ten paces distant.
The danger itself gave them new strength, and they quickly crossed the
ground to the _chevaux de frise_, where they crouched against the tall
cedar posts. They lay almost flat upon the ground, and they were very
glad of the shelter, because the lightning was coming nearer. Now, when
the lightning flashed along the mountain slopes, they saw not far away
the dim figure of a soldier, and they heard distinctly his cry:
"Sentinela alerte!"

"Wait until he goes back," whispered the stranger. "Then we must climb
the wall and climb it quickly. It’s fastened with cross timbers which
will give us hold for both hand and foot."

The lightning tinted the sky once more with its phosphorescent gleam,
and they did not see the soldier.

"Now for it!" said the man in a sharp, commanding whisper. "Up with you
and over the wall!"

John seized the crosspiece, and in another instant was on the top of a
wall of cedar posts twelve feet high. He did not know until afterward
that the strong hand of his rescuer had helped him up. In another
instant the man was beside him, and then the lightning flared brightly,
showing vividly the huge castle, the stone ramparts, the moats and the
two figures, naked to the waist, sitting on top of the cedar wall.

"Sentinela alerte!" was shouted far louder than usual, and "Sentinela
alerte!" came the reply in the same tone. Two musket shots were fired,
and the two figures, one with a red stain on his side, sprang outward
from the cedar fence into the second and smaller moat, which was only
fourteen feet wide, although its outer wall was an earthwork rising very
high above the water. Two or three strong strokes carried them across,
and with desperate efforts they climbed up the high bank. They heard
shouts, and they knew that when the lightning flared again more shots
would be fired at them. It was then that John noticed the red stain on
the side of his comrade, and all the reserves of mental strength that
made him so much like his brother, Philip, came to his aid. He snatched
the package from his head, tore it apart, threw the serape around his
body and stood up, erect and defiant, pistol in hand. He would do
something for this man who had done so much for him.

The lightning flared again, a long quivering stroke, and the heads of
half a dozen men appeared at the crest of the _chevaux de frise_, not
twenty feet away. But John Bedford looked at only one of them. He saw
the swarthy, angry face of de Armijo. He seemed to be beckoning with
his sword to his men, but a flash like that of the lightning seared
John’s whole brain. He remembered how this man had struck him down,
when he was chained and helpless, and he fired point blank at the angry
face. De Armijo fell back with a terrible cry. He was not dead, but the
bullet had plowed full length across his cheek, and he would bear there
a terrible red weal all the rest of his life.

The lightning passed, and they were in complete darkness, but John felt
a hand on his arm.

"Come," whispered his rescuer. "You did that well. Prison hasn’t taken
any of the manhood from you. We’re outside everything now, and the
others are waiting for us."

They fled away together in the darkness.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE HUT IN THE COVE

John Bedford forgot everything in those moments of wild exultation save
the fact that he was free. The miracles had begun, and the whole chain
was now complete. After three years in one cell he had left behind him
forever, as he believed, the Castle of Montevideo, and he was going
straight to his brother and powerful friends. He cast back only a
single look, and then he saw the huge dim bulk of the castle showing
through the mists and the rain. But presently the woods shut it from
view, and he could not have seen it had he looked again. John’s
exultation, the vast rebound, grew. He had escaped, and he had struck
down the enemy who had struck him. He felt equal to anything, and he
forgot for the moment that the man who had rescued him in such an
extraordinary way was wounded. But the man himself stopped soon.

"We’ll wait here, Sir John of the Fleet Foot," he said. "Our friends
who are frolicking in this thorny Forest of Arden were to come if they
heard the sound of firing, and we must not go far away lest we miss
them. Truly that was a fine and timely shot of yours, Sir John of the
Bold Escape, and I judged by the look of your face that you had no love
for the man at whom you fired."

"I did not," replied John. "He beat me, when I was in chains."

The other man uttered a low whistle.

"That was a nasty thing to do, but you are even. If he’s still alive
he’ll have a face that will scare a dog.

"Whate’er you do
Unto another,
Some day that other
Will do unto you.

"Bear that in mind, young sir. In the hour of triumph do not rejoice
too much in the fall of the man who has failed, because when he achieves
his triumph and you have failed, which is likely to come to pass some
time or other, he may make some moments exceedingly bitter unto thee.
And now I shall dress myself, as I think I hear the footsteps of
visitors."

John remembered that he, too, was clad lightly, and hastily put on his
upper garments, while his friend did likewise. He now heard the steps,
also, and they were rapidly coming nearer.

"Shouldn’t we move?" he whispered. "Those must be Mexicans."

"No, we shouldn’t move, because those are not the footsteps of Mexicans.
Those sounds are made by the hardy feet of just two persons. One of
them is a large brave German man, whose tread I would know a mile away,
and the other, the lighter tread of whom is drowned in the volume of
sound made by his comrade, is a boy, a strong, healthy boy who comes
from a little town in Kentucky, which has the same name as a big town in
France."

John began to tremble all over. He knew what these words meant. His
friend uttered a low whistle, and quickly a low whistle in reply came
from a point not twenty feet away. There was a moment of silence, then
the approaching footsteps were resumed, the bushes were parted, and, as
the lightning flared once more across the sky, John Bedford and Philip
Bedford looked into the faces of each other.

They wrung hands in the darkness that followed the lightning flash, and,
after the Anglo-Saxon fashion, said brief, inconsequential words. Yet
the hearts of the two were full, and both Bill Breakstone, who had done
the last miracle, and Hans Arenberg were moved deeply.

"Your letter came, John," said Phil simply, "and we are here. These are
the best friends I ever had or that anybody ever could have. The man
who brought you out of the castle was Bill Breakstone, and the one with
me is Hans Arenberg. Without them I never could have reached you in the
castle."

"You talk too much, young sir," said Bill Breakstone.

Then John suddenly remembered.

"Mr. Breakstone is wounded," he exclaimed. "We took off most of our
clothes to swim the moat and I remember seeing a red spot on his side."

"Like your brother, you talk too much," said Bill Breakstone. "It seems
to be a family failing with the Bedfords. It’s a mere scratch."

"No harm iss done where none iss meant," said Arenberg sententiously.
"It iss also well for us soon to be away from where we now are."

"That is true," said Breakstone. "The Mexicans undoubtedly will make
some sort of a search and pursuit, though I don’t think they’ll carry it
far on such a night. Come on boys, I’ll lead, and the reunited family
will bring up the rear. But no talking is best. You can’t tell what we
might stir up."

He led the way, and the others followed in silence. They crossed a
valley, reached a mountain slope and began to climb. Up they went for
at least two hours, pausing at times for John to take breath and rest.
Meanwhile the storm continued, with cold rain, an alternate groaning and
whistling of the wind through the valley, deep rumblings of thunder, and
now and then a bright flare of lightning. John caught only one other
glimpse of the huge, ominous bulk of the Castle of Montevideo, but it
was far below him now. He knew, too, that it was impossible for anybody
to follow a mountain trail in such darkness and storm. But, despite his
great joy, he was feeling an exceeding weariness of the body. The long
confinement had told heavily, but he would utter no complaint.

A half hour more, and they turned into a deep cove which led three or
four hundred yards into the Sierra. At its end stood a small cabin,
built of logs and almost hidden under the overhang of the cliff.

"Welcome to our home, Sir John," said Bill Breakstone, "we have no title
to it, and it probably belonged to some Mexican sheep herder or hunter,
but since our arrival none has appeared to claim it."

He threw open the door, and all went inside into the dry dark. John
heard the door close behind him, a bar fell into place, and then the
striking of a match came to his ear. A little blue flame appeared and
grew. Arenberg, who had struck the match, lighted a pine torch, which he
stuck at an angle in a hole in the wall, and a fine red flame lighted up
the whole interior of the little cabin. Cabin! It was no cabin to John
Bedford. It was a gorgeous palace, the finest that he had ever seen,
and he was surrounded by the most devoted and daring friends that man
ever had. Had they not just proved it?

The little torch disclosed a hard earthen floor, upon which the skins of
wild animals had been spread, log walls with wooden hooks and pins
inserted here and there, evidently within recent days, a strong board
roof, rafters from which skins and some tools hung, a fireplace with a
stone hearth, and four narrow skin couches, three of which had been
often occupied, the fourth never. Outside, the wind still wailed, and
the cold rain still beat upon the logs, but here it was warm, dry, and
light. The greatness of it all suddenly overwhelmed John, and he sank
forward in a faint.

Phil instantly seized his brother and raised him up, but Breakstone and
Arenberg told him not to be alarmed, that it was merely the collapse of
a weakened frame after tremendous tension, both physical and mental.
Breakstone brought water in a gourd from a pail that stood in the
corner, and soon John sat up again, very much ashamed of himself, and
offering many apologies, at all of which the others laughed.

"Considering all you’ve been through to-night," said Bill Breakstone,
"it’s a wonder that you held out so long. I wouldn’t have believed that
you could do it, if I hadn’t known your brother so well. Good thing I
learned to be an actor. I was always strong in those Spanish parts.
Wide hat brim, big black cloak coming up to meet the hat brim, terrible
sword at my thigh, and terrible frown behind the cloak and the hat brim.
Now, Hans, I think you can light the fire on the hearth there. No
chance that anybody will see the smoke on a night like this, and there’s
no reason why we shouldn’t dry our clothes and have a gay party. We’ve
carried through our great adventure, and we’ll just royster over it
awhile."

Arenberg, without another word, took down the pine torch from its hole
in the wall and ignited the heap of dry pine boughs that lay in the
fireplace. They caught at once, crackled, and blazed pleasantly. Warm
red shadows were soon cast across the floor, and a generous heat reached
them all. They basked in it, and turned about and about, drying all
their clothing and driving the last sign of chill from their bones.
Arenberg also made coffee over the coals, and cooked venison, which they
had in abundance. When John ate and drank in plenty, he felt that life
did not have much more to offer. He sat on one of the skins, leaned
comfortably against the wall, and contemplated his younger brother.

"You have grown a lot, Phil," he said.

"You didn’t expect him to stand still, just because you were away locked
up in a castle?" asked Bill Breakstone. "He had to grow up, so he could
come and rescue you. Such tasks are too big for little children."

John Bedford smiled indulgently.

"It was certainly a big job," he said. "I am the one who ought to
appreciate most its size and danger. It was a big thing to get through
Texas even. Of course I learned while I was a prisoner in the castle
that the Mexicans had retaken it. It made me feel mighty bad for a long
time."

Phil and Bill Breakstone looked at each other. Arenberg pushed one of
the pine-knots back into the fire. For a little while there was
silence. Then Breakstone said:

"You tell him, Phil."

John Bedford looked in wonder at the three, one by one. Their silence
impressed him as ominous, and he, too, was silent.

"The Mexicans have not retaken Texas, John," said Philip Bedford. "They
will never retake Texas. They could never beat the Texans alone, and
the Texans are not alone. There has been war between the United States
and Mexico for a year. An American army under General Taylor beat the
Mexican army at Palo Alto, at Resaca de la Palma, and took the city of
Monterey by storm. Then most of his army were drawn off to help General
Scott, who is invading Mexico by the way of Vera Cruz. General Taylor,
with the rest of his force, between four and five thousand men, nearly
all volunteers, many from our own state, John, and some you knew,
advanced to Saltillo and beyond. He was attacked in the Pass of
Angostura by Santa Anna, the President of Mexico, with more than twenty
thousand men, the best of the Mexican troops, but, John, he won the
victory over odds of five to one. It was long and hard and desperate,
and a half dozen times we were within an inch of losing the battle, but
we won at last, John! We won at last! And we know, because we three
were there, all through it! all day long! Bill Breakstone, Hans
Arenberg, and I!"

John looked at them and gasped. It had all been poured upon him so
suddenly that he was overpowered.

"War between Mexico and the United States!" he exclaimed, "and we’ve
been winning battle after battle! Why, they never said a word to me
about it in the castle. De Armijo made me think that the Mexicans had
retaken Texas."

"I forgot to tell you," said Bill Breakstone to the others, "that de
Armijo knocked John down, when he was chained, but John got back at him
to-night when he plowed his face with a bullet. In fact, I think John
has the better of the bargain:

"A blow--
He’ll rue it.
A bullet--
That pays it.

"Now, I propose, as it’s pretty near toward morning, and this is about
the snuggest hotel I know of anywhere in the Sierras, that John and I,
who have been through a lot, go to sleep. Phil, you and Arenberg can
toss coins, or decide in any other way you choose, who’s to keep watch.
There’s your bed, John; it’s been waiting for you quite awhile."

He pointed to the skin couch that had never been occupied, and John lay
down upon it. Complete relaxation of both mind and body had now come.
The room was warm and dry, his friends were near, and, in two minutes,
he was buried in a deep and dreamless sleep. Phil rose and looked at
him. His neck and wrists were thin, his face was wasted wofully.
Arenberg watched Philip with sympathy.

"Much harm has been done to him," he said, "but he will overcome it all
in a month. You have fared wonderfully well in your quest, Herr Philip,
and I take it as an omen that we shall do as well in mine. I come next,
you know, Philip."

"It is true," said Phil, with a great stirring of the heart. "Nobody
ever had such help as you and Breakstone have given to me, and now I
will help you, and John, too, as soon as he is strong enough, to our
utmost power in whatever task you may have."

He held out his hand, and Arenberg took it in a powerful grasp.

"Now you sleep! I will watch," he said. "No, I will not let you stay
awake, because I wish to do so instead. I intend to think much with
myself."

Phil saw that the German was in earnest, and he took his place on his
own couch. Soon he was asleep. Arenberg sat on a piece of wood before
the coals which were now almost dead. He clasped his knees in his
hands, and his rifle, which was between his knees, projected above his
shoulder. So long as the light from the coals endured he cast a black
and almost shapeless shadow on the wall. But the last coal went out by
and by, and he sat there in the darkness, never stirring. He watched
automatically through the faculty of hearing, but his thoughts were not
on that little cabin nor any of its occupants. In the darkness his
chest heaved, and a big tear from either eye rolled down his cheek. But
he did not move. After awhile he felt the dawn, and went to the single
shuttered window, which he opened slightly.

The rain and wind had ceased, but drops of water, turned into a myriad
of glittering beads by the rising sun, hung from trees and bushes. The
air of the mountains at that early hour was crisp and cold, and it felt
good to Arenberg’s face. He glanced at his three comrades. They were
still absorbed by that absolute sleep which is the mortal Nirvana. Then
Arenberg took from the inside of his coat something small, which he
looked at for a long time. Again a big tear from either eye rolled down
his cheek and fell on the floor. But the face of Hans Arenberg, in that
brilliant Mexican sun which now shone straight upon it, was curiously
transformed. For the first time in many days it was illumined with
hope.

"It’s my turn now! It’s my turn!" he murmured. "We have succeeded in
everything so far, and we will succeed again. I feel it. All the omens
are good."

There is something mystic in the German nature, a feeling derived,
perhaps, from the unknown ages passed by the Teutonic tribes in the dark
forests of the Baltic. They were as prolific as the Greeks in seers and
priestesses, and some of this feeling was in Arenberg now, as he gazed
at the dripping forest and the blazing sun rising over a peak ten
thousand feet high. Below him he knew lay the Castle of Montevideo, but
before him the mountains were unrolled, peak after peak, and ridge after
ridge. To his German mind came visions of Valhalla and the great gods
that were.

Hans Arenberg yet felt the great uplift of the spirit. The premonition
of success, of a triumphant end to his quest was very strong within him.
He kissed the little package and replaced it within the inside of his
waistcoat. Then he looked again at his comrades. They were still in
Valhalla.

The German was very kindly and very pitiful. He had noticed the wasted
frame of John Bedford, and he knew how much he needed sleep. Bill
Breakstone, too, had gone through a tremendous ordeal, and Phil Bedford
was but a boy, who had waited, tense and strained, all through the
night.

"Let them sleep," murmured Hans Arenberg. "I will still watch."

He left the window open a little so that the fresh air might come in,
and resumed his seat. The other three slept on soundly. An hour or two
later he opened the door softly and went out into the cove, which he
scouted carefully. It was as silent and desolate as if man had never
been there. At forty yards the cabin itself was invisible in the
foliage and against the dark, volcanic cliff. The German was quite sure
that no one would come, but, for precaution, he examined every bush and
projection of rock. Then he climbed one of the cliffs, and, sheltering
himself well, looked down the valley. There, far below, was the huge,
honey-colored Castle of Montevideo, seeming singularly vivid and near in
the intense sunlight. Arenberg thought that he could make out a figure
or two on its walls, but he was not sure. He also examined the slopes,
but he could not detect human life. Then he returned to the cabin and
found his comrades still sound asleep. Arenberg smiled.

"Let them sleep on," he murmured, "until the sleep that is in them is
exhausted." He opened the door a little in order that he might let in
more fresh air, and also because it gave him a complete view down the
valley. No one could approach the cabin without being seen by Hans
Arenberg, who had uncommonly good eyes.

The German sat there all the morning and listened to the hours as they
ticked themselves away. He listened literally, and he heard the ticking
literally, because he carried a large silver watch in his waistcoat
pocket, and in the dead silence, he could hear it very well. His
comrades slept on, each on his couch. Once Arenberg rose and looked at
John Bedford.

"A fine young man," he murmured. "He iss worthy of his brother."

It was fully an hour after noon when Bill Breakstone began to squirm
about on his couch and yawn mightily.

Then he opened his eyes, sat up, and stared at Hans Arenberg, who sat
placidly by the fireplace, looking down the valley.

"Hans!" said Bill Breakstone.

Arenberg looked at him and smiled.

"I’m thinking," said Bill Breakstone, "that we’ve overslept ourselves a
bit. I guess from the looks of the light there at the door that the sun
must be up at least an hour."

"It has been up seven hours," replied Arenberg.

"Then we’re that much ahead," said Bill Breakstone calmly, "and at least
one of those two has needed it badly."

He looked at the sleeping brothers.

"It iss so," said Arenberg. "The captive who iss a captive no longer
iss, I take it, a good youth, like his brother."

"He surely is," said Breakstone with emphasis, "and I have given him the
honor of knighthood, along with Phil. Besides, he’s as smart as a steel
trap. He read the meaning of the thread that we sent him, and he did
everything else exactly as we wished. It’s all the more wonderful
because so long a time in prison is apt to make one dull and stupid in
some ways. Anything happen on your long watch, Hans?"

"Nothing. I made a scout all the way up the cove. I am sure there iss
no human being except ourselves on this mountain."

"I move that we boil a little coffee and fry a little venison for the
youngsters. John, in particular, needs it, because he’s got to be built
up. I don’t think there’s any danger."

"Then we’ll light the fire and let the cooking wake them up."

John Bedford, in a dream, as it were, felt a delicious aroma in his
nostrils. It was singularly pleasant to a poor prisoner in a bleak
stone cell in the Castle of Montevideo, and he did not wish to destroy
the illusion. In the early morning the air that came through the
loophole was very cold, and there was no reason why he should rise.
Perhaps he was really dreaming, and, since it was such a pleasant dream,
he would let it run on. But that odor in his nostrils grew more and
more powerful, and it was not like the odor of the frijoles and
tortillas that Diego brought him. He also heard, or thought he heard,
the voices of men, and not one of them bore any resemblance to the harsh
Mexican tones of Diego. Then he remembered it all, and the truth came
in such a sudden flood of delight that he sat up abruptly and looked
around that wonderful cabin, the finest cabin in the world.

Arenberg had just brought the coffee to a boiling point, the strips of
venison, under the deft handling of Bill Breakstone, were just becoming
crisp. Phil was coming in with a canteen of fresh water, and at the
wide-open door, through which he might pass as he pleased, the sunshine
was entering like a golden shower.

"Morning, Sir John the Sleeper," said Bill Breakstone cheerily. "It’s
well along in the afternoon, but, if you were to ask me, I’d tell you
that you hadn’t slept a minute too long. Phil here has been up only
five minutes before you, but, by running for the water, he’s trying to
make you believe that he’s an early riser."

John said not a word, but rose to his feet--they had all lain down fully
dressed--and looked at the open door with a gaze so fixed and
concentrated that all stared curiously at him. Something was working in
John’s mind, something deep and vital. He walked in a perfectly
straight line across the cabin floor until he came within a foot of the
open door. Then he stood there for a little space, gazing out.

The curiosity of the others deepened. What was passing in his mind?
But John said never a word. Instead, he stepped out in the sunshine and
crisp air, went two or three yards, and then came back again into the
cabin. But he did not stay there. He went out once, came back once
more, and repeated the round trip four more times. All the while he said
never a word, and, at each successive trip, the look of pleasure on his
face grew. At the sixth that look was complete, and he turned to the
three who were staring at him open-eyed and open-mouthed.

"I’m not crazy, as you think, not the least bit of it," he said. "It’s
been three years since I could go out of a door and come in at it as I
pleased. I wanted to prove to myself that it was no dream, and to enjoy
it at the same time. I’ll never have such an acute joy again in this
world, I suppose. As you haven’t been where I’ve been, you’ll never
know what it is to go in and come out when you like."

"We don’t know, but we can guess," said Phil.

A little lump came into the throat of Bill Breakstone.

"I was never cooped up like that," he said, "but if I were, I guess I
couldn’t stand it. But the coffee and the venison are ready, and while
we set to and keep at it, Phil, you tell your brother how it all came
about."

Phil was willing. He was so full of the story himself that he was
anxious John should hear it all. He recounted how the letter had
reached him at Paris in Kentucky, his journey to New Orleans, and his
successive meetings there with Arenberg, Middleton, and Bill Breakstone;
how they had joined the Santa Fé train and their encounter with the
Comanches, led by Santana and Black Panther, the deeds of de Armijo,
their long trail southward to join Taylor’s army, and a description, as
far as he saw it amid the flame and smoke, of the great battle of Buena
Vista. He told of the sharp lava, the pass, and of the woman at the
well who had given the cup of water to the weary prisoner who was but a
boy.

"I remember her, I remember her well," said John, a thrill of gratitude
showing in his tone. "I believe I’d have died if it hadn’t been for
that water, the finest that anybody ever tasted. I knew from the voice
that it was a woman."

"We felt sure then," continued Phil, "that we were on the right trail,
and we believed that, with patience and method, we’d be sure to find you
if you were living. We knew that the letter had been brought to the
Texas frontier by Antonio Vaquez, a driver who had received it in turn
from one Porfirio, a vaquero, and we knew from your letter that you were
confined in some great stone prison or castle. We learned of
Montevideo, which is perhaps the greatest castle in Mexico, and
everything pointed to it as the place.

"The Mexican army retreated in great haste southward after Buena Vista,
in order to meet Scott, who was advancing on Mexico by the way of Vera
Cruz. That left the country comparatively clear for us, and we came
through the mountains, until we saw the Castle of Montevideo. When we
saw it, we believed still more strongly that this was the place, but we
knew that the biggest part of our work was before us. We would have to
spy, and spy, and keep on spying before we could act. Any mule driver
or sheepherder might carry news of us, and we must have a secure
hiding-place as a basis. After a long search we found this cabin, which
I don’t think had been occupied for several years. We soon fixed it up
so it was comfortable, as you can now see. There’s a little spring at
the west edge of the cove, and on the other side of the ridge there’s a
little valley with water and grass, but with walls so steep that a horse
won’t climb ’em unless he’s led. Our horses are there now, having
perhaps the best time of their lives.

"When we were located, good and snug, we began to spy. I believed after
we met the woman at the well that fortune was favoring us. Arenberg
here talked a lot about the spirits of the forest and the stream, some
old heathen mythology of his, to which Bill and I didn’t pay any
attention. But anyway, we had luck. We scouted about the castle for
weeks, but we didn’t learn a thing, except that de Armijo was now
governor there. We could find no more trace of you than if you had been
on the moon.

"At last our lucky day came. We ran squarely upon a good-looking young
Mexican, a vaquero. There wasn’t time for us to get away or for him to
get away. So we, being the more numerous, seized him. I suppose he
thought he was going to be killed at once, as we were Americans, looking
pretty tough from exposure and hardships, and so to make a play on our
good feelings--Bill Breakstone could understand his Spanish--he said
that once he’d tried to help a Gringo, a prisoner, in the great castle
in the valley. He said he’d carried a letter from him, asking for help,
and that the prisoner was not much more than a boy, taken in a raid from
Texas three years ago.

"It flashed over us all at once that we had found the right man.
Everything fitted too well together to permit of a mistake, and you can
believe that we treated Porfirio, the vaquero, the finest we knew how,
and made him feel that he had fallen into the hands of the best friends
in the world. Were you still alive? We waited without drawing breath
for the answer. You were still alive he answered, and well, so far as a
prisoner could be. He knew that positively from his mother, Catarina,
who was a cook at the castle, although he himself would not stay there,
as, like a sensible man, he liked the mountains and the plains and the
free life. He did not tell us of the blow that de Armijo had given you,
perhaps because Catarina had said nothing of it to him, but we learned
that he hated de Armijo, who had once struck him when he was at the
castle, for some trifle or other--it seems that de Armijo had the
striking habit--and after that we soon made our little plot. Catarina,
of course, was the center of it, and her duties as a cook gave her the
chance.

"It was Catarina who put the thread in the tamale. She might have put
the letter there, but the writing on it would have been effaced, and
even if it could have remained she did not dare. If the paper had been
discovered by the Mexicans, she, of course, would have been declared
guilty, but thread, even a package of it, might have found its way into
the loose Mexican cooking, and if it had been discovered none of the
sentinels or officers could have made anything out of such a slender
thing. We trusted to your shrewdness that you would drop the thread out
of the window, because there was nothing else to do with it, and you
didn’t fail us."

"But who tied the note on it?" asked John.

"Catarina, again--that is, she was at the end of the chain, Porfirio was
in the middle, and we were at the other or far end. He passed the
letter in to her--he works about the castle at times--and she tied it on
the end of the thread. The key and the dagger reached you by the same
route. Then we knew that, although you might unlock the door of your
cell, you could never go outside the castle without the aid of some one
within. For that reason we told you the night on which to unlock it, and
the very hour, in order that the right man might be waiting for you at
the head of the stairway. Bill Breakstone had to be that man, because
he can speak Spanish and the Mexican dialects, and because, lucky for
you, he’s been an actor; often to amuse others he has played parts like
the one that he played last night in such deadly earnest.

"Catarina got the keys--there are duplicates to all the cells--so we
sent that up early, and on the day before your escape she stole the one
to the big gate that guards the stairway. It was easy enough to steal
the clothes for Breakstone, take him in as a servant, and his nerve and
yours did the rest. But we must never forget Catarina and her son
Porfirio, the vaquero. Without them we could have done nothing."

"I’m prouder of it than of any other thing in which I ever took part,"
said Bill Breakstone.

"It was not one miracle, it was a chain of them," said John Bedford.

"Whatever it was, here we all are," said Phil.

CHAPTER XIX

ARENBERG’S QUEST

It was necessary for several reasons to remain some days in the cove.
John Bedford’s strength must be restored. After the long confinement
and the great excitement of his escape, he suffered from a little fever,
and it was deemed best that he should lie quiet in the cabin. Phil
stayed with him most of the time, while Breakstone and Arenberg hunted
cautiously among the mountains, bringing in several deer. They incurred
little risk in their pursuit, because the mountaineers, few in number at
any time, were all drawn off by the war.

John had a splendid constitution, and, with this as a basis, good and
abundant food and the delight of being free built him up very fast. On
the fourth day Bill Breakstone came in with news received through the
Porfirio-Catarina telegraph that the escape of John had caused a great
stir at the castle. Nobody could account for it, and nobody was
suspected. De Armijo was suffering from a very painful wound in the
face, and would leave on the following day for the capital to receive
surgical treatment.

"I’m going to see Porfirio for the last time to-morrow," said
Breakstone, "and as we have some gold left among us, I suggest that we
make a purse of half of it and give it to him. Money can’t repay him
and his mother for all they’ve done, but it may serve as an instalment."

All were willing, and Breakstone departed with a hundred dollars. He
reported on the day following that Porfirio had received it with great
gratitude, and that, as they were now rich, he and his mother were going
to buy a little house of their own among the hills.

"And now," said Breakstone, "as John here has been gaining about five
pounds a day, and is as frisky as a two year old just turned out to
pasture, I think we’d better start."

It was late in the afternoon when he said these words, and they were all
present in the cabin. Three pairs of eyes turned toward Arenberg. A
sigh swelled the chest of the German, but he checked it at the lips.
Without saying a word he drew a little packet from the inside of his
waistcoat and handed it to Phil, who was nearest.

Phil looked at it long and attentively. It was the portrait of a little
boy, about seven, with yellow hair and blue eyes, a fair little lad who
looked out from the picture with eyes of mirth and confidence. The
resemblance to Arenberg was unmistakable. Phil passed it to Breakstone,
who, after a look, passed it on to John, who in his turn, after a
similar look, gave it back to Arenberg.

"Your boy?" said Breakstone.

Arenberg nodded. The others, sympathetic and feeling that they were in
the presence of a great grief, waited until he should choose to speak.

"It iss the picture of my boy," said Arenberg at last. "Hiss name is
William--Billy we called him. I came to this country and settled in
Texas, which was then a part of Mexico. I married an American girl, and
this iss our boy. We lived at New Braunfels in Texas with the people
from Germany. She died. Perhaps it iss as well that she did. It
sounds strange to hear me say it, but it iss true. The Comanches came,
they surprised and raided the town, they killed many, and they carried
away many women and children. Ah, the poor women who have never been
heard of again! My little boy was among those carried off. I fought, I
was wounded three times, I was in a delirium for days afterward.

"As soon as I could ride a horse again I tried to follow the Comanches.
They had gone to the Northwest, and I was sure that they had not killed
Billy. They take such little boys and turn them into savage warriors,
training them through the years. I followed alone toward the western
Comanche villages for a long time, and then I lost the trail. I
searched again and again. I nearly died of thirst in the desert;
another time only luck kept me from freezing in a Norther. I saw, alas!
that I could not do anything alone. I went all the way to New Orleans,
whence, I learned, a great train for Santa Fé was going to start.
Perhaps among the fearless spirits that gather for such an expedition I
could find friends who would help me in my hunt. I have found them."

Arenberg stopped, his tale told, his chest heaving with emotion, but no
word passing his lips. Bill Breakstone was the first to speak.

"Hans," he said, "you have had to turn aside from your quest to help in
Phil’s, which is now finished, and you have done a big part; now we
swear one and all to help you to the extent of our lives in yours, and
here’s my hand on it."

He solemnly gave his hand to Arenberg, who gave it a convulsive grasp in
his own big palm. Phil and John pledged their faith in the same manner,
and moisture dimmed Arenberg’s honest eyes.

"It will be all right, Hans, old man," said Breakstone. "We’ll get your
boy sure. About how old is he now?"

"Ten."

"Then the Comanches have certainly adopted him. They’d take a boy at
just about the age he was captured, six or seven, because he would soon
be old enough to ride and take care of himself, and he’s not too old to
forget all about his white life and to become a thorough Indian. That
logic is good. You can rely on it, Hans."

"It iss so! I feel it iss so!" said Arenberg. "I feel that my boy iss
out there somewhere with the Comanche riders, and that we will find
him."

"Of course we will," said Breakstone cheerfully. "Phil, you see that a
place is registered in this company for one William Arenberg, blue eyes,
light hair, fair complexion, age ten years. Meanwhile I want to tell
you, John Bedford, that we were so certain of getting you, in spite of
the impossible, that we brought along an extra rifle, pistol, and
ammunition, and that we also have a horse for you over in the valley
with the others."

"It’s like all that you have done for me," said John, "thorough and
complete."

They went over into the valley the next day, saddled and bridled the
horses, and, well provided with food and ammunition, started for the
vast plains of Northwestern Texas, on what would have seemed to others a
hopeless quest, distance and space alike were so great. When they came
out upon one of the early ridges John had a sudden and distinct view of
the Castle of Montevideo lying below, honey-colored, huge, and
threatening. A shudder that had in it an actual tinge of physical pain
passed through him. One cannot forget in a moment three years between
stone walls. But the shudder was quickly gone, and, in its place, came
a thrill of pure joy. Freedom, freedom itself, irrespective of all other
good things, still sparkled so gloriously in his veins that it alone
could make him wholly happy.

They rode on over the ridge. John looked back. The Castle of
Montevideo was shut from his view now forever, although he never ceased
to remember the minutest detail of Cell 87 and the little patch of
mountainside that could be seen from the deep loophole of a window.

But they were all joyous, Phil because he had found and rescued his
brother, John because he had been found and rescued, Bill Breakstone
because he had helped in great deeds ending in triumph, and Hans
Arenberg because they were now engaged upon his own quest, the quest
that lay next to his heart, and these comrades of his were the best and
most loyal that a man could ever have for such a service. Three or four
years rolled away from Hans Arenberg, the blue eyes grew brighter, the
pink in his cheeks deepened, and Phil, looking at him, saw that he was
really a young man. Before, he had always made upon his mind the
impression of middle age.

They rode steadily toward the northwest for many days without serious
adventure. Once or twice they encountered small bands of Mexican
guerillas, with whom they exchanged distant shots without harm, but the
war was now south of them, and soon they passed entirely beyond its
fringe, leaving the mountains also behind them. They met various
American scouts and trappers, from whom they bought a couple of pack
horses, two good rifles, and a large supply of fresh ammunition. It was
explained by Bill Breakstone, who said:

"More than enough
Merely makes weight,
Leas than enough,
You’re doomed by fate."

The two extra horses were trained to follow, and they caused no trouble.
They carried the supplies of spare arms and ammunition and also of dried
venison for the intervals in which they might find no game. They also
found it wise to take skin bags of water, buying the bags at a village
occupied by American troops, which they passed. They found Northern
Mexico almost at peace. Resistance to the Americans there had ceased
practically, and in the towns buying and selling, living and dying went
on as usual. They had nothing to guard against but sudden ambushes by
little bands of guerillas, and they were now all so experienced and so
skilled with the rifle that they feared no such trap.

It was wonderful at this time to watch John Bedford grow. He had
already reached the stature and frame of a man, but when he came from
the Castle of Montevideo he was a frame, and not much more. Now the
flesh formed fast upon this frame, cords and knots of muscle grew upon
his arms, his cheeks filled out, the prison pallor disappeared and gave
way to a fine healthy brown, the creation of the Southern sun, his
breath came deep and regular from strong lungs, and he duly notified
Bill Breakstone that within another month he would challenge him to a
match at leaping, wrestling, jumping, boxing, or any other contest he
wished. They had also bought good clothes for him at one of the
villages, and he was now a stalwart young man, anxious to live intensely
and to make up the three years that he had lost.

Meantime, leaving the Mexican mountains and the alkali desert of the
plateau behind them, they came to the Rio Grande, though farther west
than their first passage. Here they stopped and looked awhile at the
stream, a large volume of water flowing in its wide channel of sand.
Phil felt emotion. Many and great events had happened since he saw that
water flowing by the year before, and the miracle for which he hoped had
been accomplished. To-day they were upon a quest other than his own,
but they pursued it with an equal zeal, and he believed that all the
omens and presages were in their favor.

They found a safe passage through the sandy approaches, swam the river
upon their horses, and stood once more upon the soil of Texas. Phil
felt that they would have little more to do with Mexicans, but that they
must dare the formidable power of the Comanches, which now lay before
them.

They camped that night in chaparral, where they were well concealed and
built no fire. The weather was quite warm again, save for those sudden
but usually brief changes of temperature that often occur in West Texas.
But there was no sign of storm in the air, and they felt that their
blankets would be sufficient for the night--however hot the day might
be, the nights were always cool. Bill Breakstone had first beaten up
the chaparral for rattlesnakes, and, feeling safe from any unpleasant
interruption from that source, they spread out their blankets and lay
comfortably upon them while they discussed the plan of their further
march.

They felt quite sure that, with the passage of American troops south,
the Comanches had gone far to the westward. The Indians had already
suffered too much from these formidable invaders to oppose their
southward march. Besides, they had received definite information that
both Santana and Black Panther with their bands had gone almost to the
border of New Mexico. The sole question with the four was whether to
search over a wide belt of territory at once, or to go straight westward
until they struck the Rio Grande again.

"I favor the long trip before we begin the hunt," said Bill Breakstone.
"The chances are all in favor of the Comanches being out there. The
buffalo herds, which will soon be drifting southward, are thickest in
that part of the country."

Breakstone’s logic seemed good to the others, and the next morning they
began the long march through a region mostly bare but full of interest
for them all. They passed a river which flowed for many miles on a bed
of sand a half mile wide, and this sand everywhere was thick with salt.
From the bluffs farther back salt springs gushed forth and flowed down
to the river.

Then they came upon the southern edge of the Great Staked Plain of
Texas, known long ago to the Spaniards and Mexicans as the Llano
Estacado. John Bedford, who was a little in advance, was the first to
see the southern belt of timber. It had been discovered very soon that
John’s eyes were the keenest of them all. He believed himself that they
had been strengthened by his long staring through the loophole at the
castle in order to make out every detail of his little landscape on the
far mountainside. Now he saw a faint dark line running along the
horizon until it passed out of sight both to east and west. He called
Breakstone’s attention to it at once, and the wise Bill soon announced
that it was the southern belt of the Cross Timbers, the two parallel
strips of forest growing out of an otherwise treeless country which for
hundreds of miles enclose a vast plain.

"It’s the first belt," said Bill Breakstone, "and, while it’s not as
near as it looks, we’re covering ground pretty fast, and we’ll strike
the timber before nightfall. How good it looks to see forest again."

Even the horses seemed to understand, as they raised their heads,
neighed, and then, without any urging from their masters, increased
their pace. Phil rode up by the side of his brother John, and watched
the belt of timber rise from the plain. He had often heard of this
strange feature of the Texas wilds, but he had never expected to see it.

A little before nightfall they rode out of a plain, perfectly bare
behind them for hundreds of miles, into the timber, which grew up in an
arid country without any apparent cause, watered by no rivers or creeks
and by no melting snows from mountains. Phil and John looked around
with the greatest interest. The timber was of oak, ash, and other
varieties common in the Southwest, but the oak predominated. The trees
were not of great size, but they were trees, and they looked magnificent
after the sparse cottonwoods and bushes along the shallow prairie
streams that they had passed.

The foliage had already turned brown under the summer sun, but there was
fresh grass within the shadow of the trees, upon which the horses grazed
eagerly when they were turned loose. The four meanwhile rejoiced, and
looked around, seeking a place for a camp.

"How long is this belt, Bill?" asked Phil of Breakstone.

"I don’t know, but maybe it’s a thousand miles. There’s two of them, you
know. That’s the reason they call them the Cross Timbers. After you
pass through this belt you cross about fifteen miles of perfectly bare
plain, and then you come to the second belt, which is timbered exactly
like this. One belt is about eight miles wide, the other about twelve
miles wide, and, keeping an average distance of about fifteen miles
apart, they run all the way from the far western edge of these plains in
a southeasterly direction clean down to the Brazos and Trinity River
bottoms, where they come together and merge in the heavy timber. It’s a
most wonderful thing, Sir Philip of Buena Vista and Sir John of
Montevideo, and it’s worthy of any man’s attention."

"It has mine, that’s sure," said Phil, as he walked about through the
forest. "It’s an extraordinary freak of nature, but the roots of the
two belts of timber must be fed by subterranean water, though it’s
strange that they should run parallel so many hundreds of miles, always
separated by that strip of dry country fifteen miles wide, as you say,
Bill."

"I can’t account for it, Phil," replied Breakstone, "and I don’t try.
The people who don’t believe in queer things are those who stay at home
and sit by the fire. I’ve roamed all my life, and I’ve had experience
enough to believe that anything is possible."

"Look!" exclaimed Phil in delight. "Here’s our camp, just made for us!"

He pointed to a tiny spring oozing from beneath the roots of a large
oak, flowing perhaps thirty yards and then losing itself beneath the
roots of another large oak. It looked clear and fresh, and Phil,
kneeling down and drinking, found it cold and delightful. Bill
Breakstone did the same, with results equally happy.

"Yes, this was made for us," he said, confirming Phil’s words. "There
are not many such springs that I ever heard of in the Cross Timbers, and
our luck holds good."

They called the others, who drank, and after them the horses. It was an
ideal place for a camp, and they felt so secure that they lighted a fire
and cooked food, venison, and steaks of antelope and deer that they had
shot by the way.

"It might be a good idea," said Breakstone, "to rest here in the shade a
part of to-morrow. All of us have been riding pretty hard, and you
know, Hans, old man, that if you go too fast you are not strong enough
to do what you must do when you get there."

It was Arenberg whose feelings were now consulted most, and, when they
looked at him for an answer, he nodded assent.

Hence they took some of their supplies from the pack horses, and made
themselves more comfortable on the grass about the little spring.
Lengthy scouting, done by Arenberg and Breakstone, showed that there was
no danger from Comanche, Lipan, or any other Indian tribes, and they
could take their rest without apprehension. They also dared to build a
fire for the cooking, a luxury which they enjoyed much, but which was
usually dangerous in the Indian country. Fallen and dry timber was
abundant, and when they had cooked a plentiful supply of venison and
buffalo strips they fell to and ate with the appetite which only life
under the stars can give. By and by Bill Breakstone gazed at John in
admiration. But John took no notice. He ate steadily on, varying the
course with an occasional tin cup of water.

"Sir John Falstaff," said Bill Breakstone, "I’ve read a lot about you in
Shakespeare, and on two or three memorable occasions I have played you.
You have been renowned two hundred and fifty years for your appetite,
and I want to tell you right now that your fame isn’t up to the real
thing by half. Say, Sir John, they didn’t give you much to eat in that
Castle of Montevideo, did they?"

"Tortillas, frijoles, tamales, tortillas, frijoles, tamales," replied
John in a muffled voice, as he reached for another delicate piece of
fried deer.

"Go right on," said Bill Breakstone, "I’ve no wish to stop you. Make up
for all the three years that you lost."

John, taking his advice, stuck to his task. Although imprisonment had
greatly wasted him, it had never impaired his powerful and healthy
constitution. Now he could fairly feel his muscles and sinews growing
and the new life pouring into heart and lungs.

After supper they lay upon their blankets in a circle, with their feet
to the fire, and spoke of the land that stretched beyond the two belts
of trees, the Great Staked Plain.

"We’ll find it hot," said Breakstone, "and parts of it are sandy and
without water, but we should get through to the Rio Grande, especially
as we have, besides the sand, a big region of buffalo grass; and then
the land of gramma grass, in both of which we can find plenty of game.
Game and water are the things for which we must look. But we won’t talk
of trouble now. It’s too fine here."

They spent the next day and the following night among the trees, and
were fortunate enough to find in the oaks a number of fine wild turkeys
which abounded in all parts of the Southwest. They secured four, and
added them to their larder. The next day they rode through the belt,
and across the twelve miles of bare country into the second belt, which
was exactly like the first, with the oak predominating.

"Makes me think of the rings of Saturn," said Phil, as they entered the
timber once more.

But they passed the night only in the inner belt, and emerged the next
morning upon the great plain that ran to the Rocky Mountains.

"Now," said Bill Breakstone, "we leave home and its comforts behind."

Phil felt the truth of his words. He understood now why the Bible put
so much value upon wood and water. To leave the belt of trees was like
going away from a wooded park about one’s house in order to enter a
bleak wilderness. It was very hot after they passed from the shade, and
before them stretched the rolling plains once more, without trees,
reaching the sky-line, and rolling on beyond it without limit. The sun
was pouring down from a high sky that flamed like brass. Bill
Breakstone caught the look on Phil’s face and laughed.

"You hate to give up an easy place, don’t you, Phil?" he said. "Don’t
deny it, because I hate it just as much as you do. Arenberg alone
forgets what lies before us, because he has so much to draw him on."

Arenberg was too far ahead to hear them. He always rode in advance now,
and the place was conceded to him as a right. They passed through a
region of gramma grass which stood about three feet in height, and
entered a stretch of buffalo grass, where little clumps of the grass
were scattered over the brown plain.

"It doesn’t look as if great buffalo herds could be fed on tufts like
that," said Phil.

"But they can be," said Bill Breakstone. "It looks scanty, but it’s got
some powerfully good property in it, because cattle as well as buffalo
thrive on it as they do on nothing else. We ought to see buffalo
hereabouts."

But for two days after entering this short grass region they saw not a
single buffalo. Antelope, also, were invisible, and they began to be
worried about their supplies of food. Both Breakstone and Arenberg
believed that there were hunting parties of Indians farther westward,
and they kept a sharp watch for such dangerous horsemen, Fortunately
they had been able to find enough water for their horses in little pools
and an occasional spring, and the animals retained their strength.
Finally they encamped one evening by the side of a prairie stream so
slender that it was a mere trickle over the sand. It also contained a
slight taste of salt, but not enough to keep both men and horses from
drinking eagerly.

After supper Phil took his rifle and walked up the little stream. It
had become a habit with the four, whenever they camped, to look about
for game. But they had been disappointed so often that Phil’s quest now
was purely mechanical. Still he was alert and ready. The training of
the wilderness compelled any one with wisdom to acquire such quantities
quickly. He walked perhaps half a mile along the brook, which was edged
here and there with straggling bushes, and at other points with nothing
at all. It was twilight now, and suddenly something huge and brown rose
up among a cluster of the dwarf bushes directly in Phil’s path. In the
fading light it loomed monstrous and misshapen, but Phil knew that it
was a lone bull buffalo, probably an old and evil-tempered outcast from
the herd. He saw that the big brute was angry, but he was a cool hunter
now, and, taking careful aim, he planted a bullet near the vital spot.
The buffalo, head down, charged directly at him, but he leaped to one
side and, as the mortally stricken beast ran on, he reloaded and sent in
a second bullet, which promptly brought him to earth.

Still practicing that wilderness caution which never allows a man’s
rifle to remain unloaded, he rammed home a third bullet, and then
contemplated his quarry, an enormous bull, scarred from fights and
undoubtedly tough eating. But Phil was very happy. It was in this case
not the pride of the hunter, but the joy of the commissary. Tough though
this bull might be, there was enough of him to feed the four many a long
day.

While he was standing there he heard the sound of running feet, and he
knew that it was the others coming to the report of his shots. Bill
Breakstone first hove into view.

"What is it, Phil?" he cried, not yet seeing the mountain of buffalo
that lay upon the ground.

"Nothing much," replied Phil carelessly, "only I’ve killed a whole
buffalo herd while you three lazy fellows were lying upon the ground
playing mumble peg, or doing something else trivial. I’ll get you
trained to work after awhile."

Breakstone saw the buffalo and whistled with delight. The four set to
work, skinned him, and then began to cut off the tenderest parts of the
meat for drying. This was a task that took them a long time, but
fortunately the night was clear, with a bright moon. Before they
finished they heard the howling of wolves from distant points, and Phil
occasionally caught slight glimpses of slender dark forms on the plain,
but he knew they were prairie wolves that would not dare to attack, and
he went on with his work.

"They’ll have a great feast here when we leave with what we want," said
Bill Breakstone. "They’re not inviting creatures, but I’m sorry for ’em
sometimes, they seem so eternally hungry."

After the task was finished, three went back for the horses to carry
their food supply, and Phil was left to guard it. He was tired now, and
he sat down on the ground with his rifle across his knee. The moon came
out more brightly, and he saw well across the prairie. The slender,
shadowy forms there increased in numbers, and they whined with
eagerness, but the boy did not have the slightest fear. Nevertheless,
he was glad they were not the great timber wolves of the North. That
would have been another matter. At last he took a piece of the buffalo
that his comrades and he would not use and flung it as far as he could
upon the prairie.

There was a rush of feet, a confused snarling and fighting, and then a
long death howl. In the rush some wolf had been bitten, and, at the
sight of the blood, the others had leaped upon him and devoured him.

Phil, who understood the sounds, shuddered. He had not meant to cause
cannibalism, and he was glad when his comrades returned with the horses.
They spent two days jerking the buffalo meat, as best they could in the
time and under the conditions, and they soon found the precaution one of
great wisdom, as they did not see any more game, and, on the second day
afterward, entered a region of sand. The buffalo grass disappeared
entirely, and there was nothing to sustain life. This was genuine
desert, and it rolled before them in swells like the grassy prairie.

The four, after going a mile or so over the hot sand, stopped and
regarded the gloomy waste with some apprehension. It seemed to stretch
to infinity. They did not see a single stalk or blade of vegetation,
and the sand looked so fine, or of such small grain, to Phil that he
dismounted, picked up a handful of it, and threw it into the air. The
sand seemingly did not fall back, but disappeared like white smoke. He
tried it a second and a third time, with the same result in each case.

"It’s not sand," he said, "it’s just dust."

"Dust or sand," said Bill Breakstone, "we must rush our way through it,
and I’m thinking that we’ve got to make every drop of water we have in
the bags last as long as possible."

They rode on for several hours, and the very softness of the sand made
the going the worst that they had ever encountered. The feet of the
horses sank deep in it, and they began to pant with weariness, but there
was no relief. The vertical sun blazed down with a fiery splendor that
Phil hitherto would have believed impossible. The whole earth shimmered
in the red glare, and the rays seemed to penetrate. All of them had
broad brimmed hats, and they protected their eyes as much as possible.
The weariness of the horses became so great that after awhile the riders
dismounted and walked by the side of them. Two hours of this, and they
stopped in order that Breakstone might take the direction with a little
compass that he carried in a brass box about two inches in diameter. He
had made the others buy the same kind, but they had not yet used them.

"This is the best kind of compass to put in your baggage on such a trip
as this," he said, "and it says that we re going straight on in the way
we want to go. Come boys, the more sand we pass the less we have in
front of us."

They staggered bravely on, but the glare seemed to grow. The whole sky
was like a hot, brassy cover that held them prisoners below. It
scarcely seemed possible to Phil that trees, green grass, and running
water had ever existed anywhere. A light wind arose, but, unlike other
winds that cool, this wind merely sent the heat against their faces in
streams and currents that were hotter than ever. It also whirled the
fine sand over them in blinding showers. Acting on the advice of
Breakstone, they drew up their horses in a little circle, and stood in
the center shielding their eyes with their hands. Peering over his
horse’s back, Phil saw hills of sand four or five feet high picked up
and carried away, while hills equally high were formed elsewhere.
Ridges disappeared, and new ridges were formed. The wind blew for about
two hours, and then the four, covered with sand, resumed their march
noting with joy that the sun was now sinking and the heat decreasing.
The very first shadows brought relief, but the greatest solace was to
the eye. Despite the protection of hand and hat-brims, they were so
burnt by the sand and glare that it was a pain to see. Yet the four
were so weary of mind and body that they said nothing, as they trudged
on until the edge of the sun cut into the western plain on the horizon.
Phil had never before seen such a sun. He had not believed it could be
so big, so glaring, and so hot. He was so glad now that the earth was
revolving away from it that he raised his clenched hand and shook his
fist in its very eye.

"Good-by to you," he exclaimed. "And I was never before so glad to see
you go!"

Phil spoke in such deadly earnest that Bill Breakstone, despite his
aching muscles and burning throat, broke into laughter.

"You talk as you feel, Phil," he said, "but it’s no good to threaten the
sun. It’s just gone for a little while, and it will be back again
to-morrow as bright and hot as ever."

"But while it iss gone we will be glad," said Arenberg.

Down dropped the shadows, deeper and deeper, and a delicious coolness
stole over the earth. It was like a dew on their hot eyeballs, and the
pain there went swiftly away. A light wind blew, and they took the
fresh air in long, deep breaths. They had been old three or four hours
ago, now they were young again. The horses, feeling the same influence,
raised their lowered heads and walked more briskly.

The shadows merged into the night, and now it was actually cold. But
they went on an hour or more in order to find a suitable place for a
camp. They chose at last a hollow just beyond a ridge of sand that
seemed more solid than usual. On the slope grew a huge cactus with
giant arms, the first that they had seen in a long time.

"Here we rest," said Bill Breakstone. "What more could a man ask?
Plenty of sand for all to sleep on. No crowding. Regular king’s
palace. Water in the water-bags, and firewood ready for us."

"Firewood," said John Bedford. "I fail to see it."

Breakstone pointed scornfully to the huge cactus.

"There it is, a whole forest of it," he said. "We break down that
cactus, which is old and dry, and it burns like powder. But it will
burn long enough to boil our coffee, which we need."

But they took a good drink of water first, and gave another to every one
of the horses. Then they chopped down the giant cactus and cut it into
lengths. As Breakstone had said, it burned with a light flame and was
rapidly consumed, leaving nothing but thin ashes. But they were able to
boil their coffee, which refreshed them even more than the food, and
then they lay on their blankets, taking a deep, long rest. The contrast
between night and day was extraordinary. The sun seemed to have taken
all heat with it, and the wind blew. They could put on coats again,
draw blankets over their bodies, and get ready for delicious sleep.
They knew that the sun with all its terrors would come back the next
day, but they resolved to enjoy the night and its coolness to the full.

The wind rose, and dust and sand were blown across the plain, but it
passed over the heads of the four who lay in the narrow dip between the
swells, and they soon fell into a sleep that built up brain and muscle
anew for the next day’s struggle.

CHAPTER XX

THE SILVER CUP

They awoke at the coming dawn, which began swiftly to drive away the
coolness of the night, and, using what was left of the giant cactus,
they boiled coffee and heated their food again. This was a brief task,
but by the time it was finished the whole world was enveloped once more
in a reddish glare. All that day they advanced, alternately riding and
walking through an absolutely desolate land. The single cactus that
they had burned loomed in Phil’s memory like a forest. The water was
doled out with yet more sparingness, and, a few minutes after they drank
it, throat, tongue, and lips began to feel as parched as ever.

Phil did not see a living thing besides themselves. No rattlesnake, no
lizard, no scorpion dwelled in this burning sand. Two or three of the
horses began to show signs of weakness.

"If we only had a tent to shelter us from this awful glare," said
Breakstone, "we could camp for the day, and then travel at night, but it
will be worse standing still than going on. And get on we must. The
horses have had no food, and they cannot stand it much longer."

They slept on the sand that night until a little past twelve o’clock,
and then, to save time, resumed the march once more. The air was cool
and pleasant at that time, but the desert looked infinitely weird and
menacing under the starlight. The next day they entered upon a region
of harder sand and in one or two places found a patch of scanty herbage,
upon which the horses fed eagerly, but there was not a sign of water to
ward off the new and formidable danger that was threatening them, as the
canteens and water-bags were now almost empty.

"To-morrow they will be empty," said Bill Breakstone.

His dismal prophecy came true. At noon of the following day the last
drop was gone, and John and Phil looked at each other in dismay. But
Bill Breakstone was a man of infinite resource.

"I mean to find water before night," he said. "Not any of your
Mississippis or Missouris, nor even a beautiful creek or brook, not
anything flowing or pretty to the eye, but water all the same. You just
wait and see."

He spoke with great emphasis and confidence, but the others were too
much depressed to believe. Nevertheless, Bill Breakstone was watching
the ground critically. He noticed that the depressions between the
swells had deepened, and that the whole surface seemed to have a general
downward slope. Toward the twilight they came to a deeper depression
than any that they had seen before. Two or three slender trees, almost
leafless grew in it. The trees themselves seemed to cry aloud: "I
thirst! I thirst!" But Bill Breakstone was all cheeriness.

"Here is our water!" he cried briskly. "Get ready all!"

He himself took out a stout shovel from the baggage on his horse, and
began to dig, with great vigor, in the lowest part of the bowl.

"I see," said Phil, "you’re going to dig a well."

"I am, and you’re going to help me do it, too."

"But will we find anything at the bottom of it?"

"We will. Many a man has died of thirst in the desert, with plenty of
water not twenty feet away. Some men are born without brains, Phil.
Others have brains, but never use them, but I am egotistical enough to
think that I have some brains, at least, and some will and capacity to
use them. Now I’ve thrown up a pretty good pile of sand there, and I’m
growing tired. You take that shovel and see what you can do, but make
it a wide hole. You don’t want a ton of sand caving in on you."

Phil took the shovel and worked with energy. John and Arenberg with tin
cups also leaped down into the hole and helped as much as they could.
As the sand was soft they descended fast, and Phil suddenly uttered a
shout. He drew up a shovelful of wet sand, and, after that, sand yet
wetter.

"That will do," said Breakstone a minute or two later. "Stand aside now
and watch the water come into our well."

They had reached an underground seepage or soakage, draining from the
higher ground above, and slowly a pool of water gathered at the bottom.
The four uttered a shout of joy, entirely pardonable at such a time.
The water was muddy, and it was warm, but it was pure water without any
alkali, and, as such it meant life, life to men and beasts in the
desert.

"The horses first," said Breakstone, "or they’ll be tumbling in here on
our heads, and they are entitled to it, anyhow."

They filled their kettles and pans with water, climbing out again and
again. The horses drank greedily and uttered deep sighs of
satisfaction. It took a long time to give them enough by this method,
but when they were satisfied the men took their tin cups and drank.

"Slowly now," said Breakstone. "Don’t you be too eager there, John, you
escaped convict! Phil, you accidental buffalo killer, just hold that
cup of yours steady, or you’ll be dashing its contents into your mouth
before the rest of us. Now then, you sun-scorched scamps, drink!"

The four drank together and at the same pace. Never in his life had
anything more delicious trickled down Philip Bedford’s throat. That
yellow, muddy water must have been the nectar that Jupiter and the rest
of the gods drank, when they were lounging about Olympus. Four empty
cups came back, and four heartfelt sighs of satisfaction were uttered.
The cups were filled again, but Bill Breakstone held up a warning
finger.

"I know you want it bad," he said, "because I want it myself just as bad
as any of you, but remember that it’s never good for the health to drink
too fast, especially when you’re nearly dead of thirst."

Phil appreciated the wisdom of his words. Yet he was terribly thirsty.
On the burning desert the evaporation was so rapid that his system was
already dry again through and through.

"Now," said Bill Breakstone, "fill again, gentlemen, and drink. Not
quite so fast as before. Just let it linger a little, like an epicure
over his wine, while the delicious taste tickles your palate, and the
delicate aroma fills your nostrils."

The yellow water was all of these things to them, and they did as Bill
bade while they drank. After that, they took more cups of it from time
to time, and noted with satisfaction that, as they dipped the water out
of the pit, more trickled back in again. Toward night they watered the
horses a second time, and Arenberg suggested that they spend both the
night and the day there, since the water seemed to be plentiful. In the
day they could at least sit in the shadow of their horses, and, if
pushed hard by the sun, they could sit in their well. As the suggestion
came from Arenberg, who had the most reason for haste, it was adopted
unanimously and quickly.

In the night, when it was cool and work was easy, they deepened the well
considerably, securing a much stronger and purer flow of water. They
also gave a greater slope to the sides, and then they went to sleep,
very well contented with themselves. The next day, either in reality or
imagination, was hotter than any of the others, and they felt devoutly
thankful for the well, by which they could stay as long as they chose.
When the sun was at its hottest they literally took refuge in it,
sheltering themselves against the sandy bank and putting their hands in
the water.

"My hands must be conductors," said Bill Breakstone, "because, when I
hold them in the water, I can feel the damp coolness running all through
my system. Now, Sir John, you escaped convict, without the striped
clothes, did you ever see such a fine well as this before?"

John laughed.

"I’d rather have this well and freedom," he said, "than my cell in the
Castle of Montevideo and all the beautiful mountain springs about
there."

"Spoken like a man," said Bill Breakstone; "but this well is a beauty on
its own account, and not merely by comparison. Look at the flowers all
around its brink. Look at the beautiful white stone with which it is
walled up. Look at the clearness of the water, like silver, in which my
lily white hand now laves itself.

"Our thirst rages;
Water is found;
Out of Hades
At one bound.

"Can you better that descriptive poem, Phil?"

Phil shook his head.

"No, Bill," he replied, "I can’t. We’re all of us poets at heart, but
you’re the only one that can give his poetry expression. One poet is
enough, another is too many."

At sundown they watered all the horses again, filled every canteen and
skin bag with water, bade farewell to the well that they had digged and
loved, and again marched westward over the sand. But they were now
vigorous and full of hope, the sand was harder, and in the long cool
night hours they traveled fast. Their most pressing need now was to
secure food for the horses, which were relatively weaker than their
masters, and by the moonlight they watched anxiously for some dim line
which would indicate the approach of forests or mountains. They saw no
such line, but the country was undoubtedly growing hillier. The sand
was also packed much harder. At times it seemed to resemble soil, but
as yet there was neither grass nor bushes.

They plodded along in silence, but hopeful. All the horses were weak
from the lack of food, and the four walked by the side of them
throughout the night. But the night itself was beautiful, a dusky blue
sky sprinkled with a myriad of silver stars. The weakness of the horses
increased, and the four human beings were much alarmed for their brute
comrades, who were so important to them. But toward morning all the
horses raised their heads, thrust out their noses, and began to sniff.

"Now what can the matter be?" exclaimed John Bedford.

"They smell water," replied Bill Breakstone. "They can smell it a long
way off, and, as it’s bound to be surface water, that means grass. I’m
of the opinion, boys, that we’re saved."

The horses, despite their weakness, advanced so rapidly now that the
four ran in order to keep up.

"Jump on their backs," exclaimed Bill Breakstone, when they had gone
about a quarter of a mile. "It’s water sure, and they won’t mind a
little extra weight now."

They sprang into the saddles, and the horses, seeming to take it as a
hint, broke into a run. They ascended a slope and saw a dark outline
before them.

"Trees! Pines! Fine, good pines!" exclaimed Arenberg. "The sight iss
much good!"

They galloped among the pines, which were without undergrowth, and then
down the other slope. Phil caught a glimpse of something that set all
his pulses beating. It was a surface of dark blue water.

"Yes, the pines are good," he said, "but this is better! A lake, boys!
A lake of pure cold water, a precious jewel of a lake, set here among
the hills of the desert, and just waiting for us!"

Phil was right. It was a little lake set down among hills, with a rim
of tall forest. It was almost circular, and about a hundred yards in
diameter. They rode into it until their horses were up to their bodies.
They let them drink copiously, and then rode back to the bank, after
which they were out with the tin cups again and took their fill, finding
the water not only pure but cold. Then Philip Bedford sat down on the
grass and looked at the lake. A light wind was making silver lacework
of its surface. Beyond it, and apparently for some distance, fine, tall
trees stood. Abundant grass, sheltered by the hills, grew in the open
places. At the far edge of the lake a dozen wild ducks swam, evidently
not yet understanding human presence. The silver of the water and the
green of the grass were like a lotion to the boy’s eyes, used so long to
the brazen sun and the hot sand. He looked and looked, and then he
cried:

"I think this must be heaven!"

Nobody laughed. Every one had the same feeling. They had come from the
desert, and the power of contrast was so great that the little lake with
its trees and grass was, in truth, like a foretaste of heaven. They
took everything from the horses, even the bridles, and turned them
loose. There was no danger that they would wander from such a place.
Then John Bedford began to take off his clothes.

"I’m going to have a swim," he said. "I haven’t had a real bath in more
than three years, and, after this last march of ours, I think I’m
carrying at least a hundred pounds of unpleasant desert about my body."

"Me, too," said Phil. "Bet you ten thousand acres of desert that I beat
you into the water."

"Go ahead, boys," said Breakstone, "and Hans and I will watch and
decide. Remember that you mustn’t have on a single garment when you
jump, or you’ll be disqualified."

Breakstone had scarcely finished the words when two white bodies flashed
through the air and struck the water with two splashes that were one in
sound. Both disappeared beneath the surface and then came up,
spluttering and splashing and swimming with bold strokes.

"A tie," said Bill Breakstone.

Hans Arenberg nodded.

The brothers found the water much colder than they had expected, but
they swam so vigorously that they were soon in a fine glow. Bill
Breakstone looked at Hans Arenberg. Hans Arenberg looked at Bill
Breakstone.

"Why not?" said Bill.

"It iss what we ought to do," said Arenberg.

In two minutes they also were in the lake, enjoying a greater luxury
than any Roman ever found in his marble and perfumed bath. All the dust
and dirt of the desert were quickly swept from them, and the cold water
infused new life into their veins and muscles. Toward the center they
found by diving that the lake had a depth of at least twenty feet. As
they saw no stream flowing into it, they were of the opinion that it was
fed by underground springs, probably the snow water from distant
mountains, which accounted for its coldness. At the far side they found
the outlet, a rivulet that flowed between rocks and then descended
swiftly toward the plain. They marked its course by the rows of trees
on either side, and they knew that after its passage from the hilly
country it would enter the desert, there to be lost among the sands. To
the north of them the country seemed to rise considerably, and
Breakstone believed that the faint blue haze just under the horizon
indicated mountains.

"If so," he said, "we’re not likely to suffer much more from the desert,
because the mountains in this part of the Southwest generally mean trees
and water. Meanwhile, we’ll take the goods the gods provide us, while
the lovely lake is here beside us; which bears a little resemblance to
more famous lines, and which fits the case just now."

After a splendid swim they lay on the grass and let the sun dry them,
while they soothed their eyes with the view of the lakes and the woods
and the horses grazed in peace near the water’s edge. It was idyllic,
sylvan, and at this moment they felt at peace with everybody, all except
Arenberg, who rarely let his boy and the Comanches go out of his
thoughts.

"Maybe we’re the first white people who have ever seen this lake," said
John Bedford.

"Not likely," replied Breakstone. "Hunters and trappers have roved
through this region a lot. People of that kind generally see things
before the discoverers come along and name ’em."

"At any rate," said Phil, "we’ve never seen it before, and since it’s
the color of silver, and it’s set here in this bowl, I propose that we
call it ’The Silver Cup."

"Good," said Breakstone, and the others, also, approved. They were
silent for awhile longer, enjoying their rest, and then Hans Arenberg
spoke gravely:

"It iss likely," he said, "that the Comanches know of this lake, and
that warriors in time may come here. We are sure that their bands went
westward to avoid the American troops. Wherever there iss good water
they will come sooner or later, and this water iss the best. It may be
that it will pay us to stay here awhile and seek some clue."

"I think you’re right," said Bill Breakstone, speaking for all the
others. "We don’t know just where we are going, and we’ve got to stop
and catch hold to something somewhere. And, as you say, in this part of
the world good water is bound to draw people."

Now that they were thoroughly refreshed they dressed and made a very
careful inspection of the country. On all sides of "The Silver Cup" but
the north the belt of wood was narrow, but northward it seemed to extend
to a considerable distance. Looking from an elevation there, they were
positive that the blue haze under the horizon meant mountains. There
was timber as far as they could see in that direction, and this view
confirmed them in their resolution to stay where they were for awhile.

They also took into account another consideration. It had been many
months since the battle of Buena Vista. Much had happened since then,
and the summer was waning. With winter approaching, it was more than
likely that the Comanches would either hug the warm plains or return
toward them. It was an additional reason why warriors might come to The
Silver Cup. Such coming, of course, brought danger, but the likelihood
of success increased with the danger.

They found a sheltered place on the north side of the lake, but about
forty yards distant. It was a kind of rocky alcove, sloping down toward
the water, with great trees growing very thickly on every side. They
put their supplies in here and made beds of dry leaves. Just above them
was a fine open space richly grassed, into which they turned the horses.

"Those four-footed friends of ours will be our sentinels to-night," said
Bill Breakstone. "I don’t think any creeping Comanche could pass them
without an alarm being raised, and, as we all need rest, we’ll leave the
watching to them and take the chances."

They did not light any fire, but ate their supper cold, and quickly
betook themselves to The Dip, as they called this shelter. There,
wrapped in their blankets, they lay down on the soft beds of leaves, and
deemed themselves fortunate. Phil could just see between two great
tree-trunks a narrow strip of The Silver Cup, which flashing in the
moonlight with a luminous glow, looked like a wonderful gem. The water
rippled and moved softly. Beyond was the fringe of trees, and beyond
that the vast blue sky with a host of friendly stars. Then Phil fell
into the sleep of the just, and so did all his comrades. The only one of
them who awoke in the night was Hans Arenberg. He looked at his
friends, saw they were sleeping so soundly that they did not move, and
he arose very gently. Then he stepped out of The Dip and walked down to
the edge of The Silver Cup. There he stood looking at the waters which
still shifted and moved like molten metal under the wind.

There was a spell upon Hans Arenberg that night. The soul of the old
Teuton was alive within him, of the Teuton who lived in the great
forests of Germany far back of the Christian era. It was his
inheritance, like that of the Americans who, also, grew up in the shadow
of the vast wilderness. The forest and lake were alive to him with the
spirits of his primitive ancestors, but they were good spirits. They
whispered in chorus that he, too, would succeed, and he began to whistle
softly a quaint melody, some old German folk song that he had whistled
to his boy. His mood grew upon him. All things were mystic. The seen
were the unseen, and the things around him had no place. Even the lake
vanished as he softly whistled the little melody, and it seemed to him
after awhile that an answer to it came out of the forest, the same
melody whistled more softly yet, and from childish lips. Arenberg knew
that he was dreaming awake, but from that moment he never doubted.

He came from the spell, slipped back into The Dip, and was the first
next morning to awake. But he built the fire and did all the cooking,
and he was uncommonly cheerful, whistling at times a peculiar but
beautiful melody that none of them had ever heard before.

"Arenberg must have had a fine dream last night," said John Bedford to
Phil.

"Looks so," replied Phil, "but I’m not going to ask him about it."

Arenberg and John remained and watched at the lake that day, devoting
themselves at the same time, to the improvement of their camp, by means
of a roof of bark and poles at the upper edge of The Dip, which would
protect them from the infrequent rains. Phil and Bill Breakstone
mounted the best of the horses and made a great scout northward. They
found that the thick woods extended four or five miles. Beyond that the
timber became scattering, and they also saw patches of open country with
the succulent buffalo grass. Farther on lay the great mountains,
clearly visible now.

"That’s our water supply," said Bill, pointing to the blue range. "As
we guessed, The Silver Cup is certainly fed from them, and I think that
we’ve seen enough for the present. We’ve established the fact that
we’ve got about the best base to be found in this country, and these
woods will surely contain game."

Their luck continued high, for within fifteen minutes they flushed a
black-tailed deer, which Phil, from his horse’s back, brought down with
a fine running shot. It was a fat doe, and, skinning and cleaning it
there, they put it upon one of the horses and carried it back to camp.
They did not arrive until nearly sundown, and their spoils made them
doubly welcome to their comrades.

"You have done good work," said Hans Arenberg, "and this deer is very
welcome. There are more where it came from, and to-morrow I think,
also, that I will shoot some of the foolish ducks that are swimming
around on the lake."

Arenberg was as good as his word; the next day they added a half dozen
fine ducks to their larder. On the following day Arenberg and John rode
northward, making the great scout. They had resolved to do this day by
day, two to ride for enemies, and two to watch and work at the camp
until something happened. Thus nearly two weeks passed and The Silver
Cup remained untouched by any human beings save themselves. It was so
peaceful that apparently it would remain forever so. Nor did they find
anything in the forest except game, although they threshed up the
country at least thirty miles to the north. Still they clung to their
camp, knowing that they must have patience.

The hot days passed fast, and the coolness of autumn came upon them.
One night it rained heavily, but the thatched roof did its duty, and
they did not surfer. The waters of the lake grew colder, but they
rarely missed their daily swim. Breakstone thought it likely that it
was already snowing on the distant mountains.

They continued to beat up the country in circles that widened steadily,
still without any sign of Comanches or any other Indian tribe, but
Arenberg was resolute in his desire to stay, and the others thought it
right to defer to him in the matter that concerned him most. The German
held to the theory that sooner or later Comanches would pass that way,
since water, wood, and game, the three requisites of savage life, were
found there.

Hence they made ready for winter. They had two axes in their baggage,
and they built a strong shack in The Dip, one quite sufficient to
protect them from the winter storms which were likely to occur here, as
they were at a great elevation above the sea. They made rude fish
traps, with which they caught excellent fish in the lake, and they could
increase the supply indefinitely. The black-tailed deer were numerous in
the forest. They also found wild turkeys, and they shot two buffaloes
on the plains below. The horses grazed in a sheltered little valley,
and they judged that grass could be found there all through the winter.

There would be no trouble about living. Beyond a doubt, they could find
ample supplies of food, and so long a time passed without the appearance
of an enemy that they began to feel quite safe at their home in The Dip
and in the region about it. As they sat there late one afternoon and
watched the twilight come over The Silver Cup, Hans Arenberg spoke the
thoughts that had been heavy in his mind that day.

"See what a misty twilight it iss," he said. "It iss too cold for rain,
and so I think it means snow. The Comanches will come with the snow.
While the weather was warm, and they could sleep on the open plain, they
rode there, hunting the buffalo. Now the western bands will seek
shelter and they will come here."

He walked from the hut and stood looking down at the lake, the surface
of which had turned from silver to gray. The three followed him with a
gaze which was of blended curiosity and sympathy.

"I more than half believe him," said Breakstone in a whisper to the
others.

"It seems to me that sometimes he talks like a prophet," said John
Bedford.

"He is a prophet sometimes," said Bill Breakstone, "or at least he’s got
second sight. Now he’s looking at that lake, but he doesn’t see it at
all. He sees the Comanches, riding, riding, always riding toward this
place, and maybe they have with them some one for whom he is looking.
Maybe, and maybe not, but we’ll see, don’t you forget that, Phil, you
and John, and somehow I’m thinking that he sees true."

It rapidly grew colder, and they were glad enough, when they came back
from hunting and scouting, to seek the shelter of the thatched hut in
The Dip. There, while the coals glowed on the stone hearth that they
had made, and the smoke passed out through the vent in the wall, they
speculated much on what was passing far to the southward of them. The
great battle at the mouth of the Pass of Angostura was still so vivid in
the minds of Phil, Breakstone, and Arenberg that they did not have to
shut their eyes to see it again, and John often dreamed that he was
still in the Castle of Montevideo, sitting by that deep loophole,
looking out upon his mountain landscape.

"I guess they’re closing in on the City of Mexico," said Bill
Breakstone. "It’s in a rough and mountainous country, easy to defend,
but after the battle of Buena Vista I don’t believe anything in Mexico
can defeat our soldiers, no matter what the odds."

"And Middleton is with them," said Phil. "I’d like to see the Captain
again. He was a fine man."

"Maybe we will," said Breakstone. "The West is a mighty big place, but
there are not many white men in it, and when you shuffle them around
some you are likely to meet them more than once."

The next morning The Silver Cup had a cover, a beautiful clear cover of
ice an eighth of an inch thick. The following morning the cover was a
little thicker, and it thickened perceptibly every succeeding morning,
until it would bear the weight of Phil or John. The trees were heavy
with frost, and the wind sometimes blew so sharply from the mountain
that they made rude ear-muffs of deerskin and helped out their clothing
as skillfully as possible with skins and furs.

Then the snow came. Looking northward, they saw a whitish mist over the
forest. The mist gradually turned to dark blue clouds hanging very low.
The snow fell, at first, in slow, solemn flakes, and then swiftly. They
filled the air, all the forest was hidden, and nothing marked the
presence of The Silver Cup but the level expanse of the snow. It fell
to the depth of six or seven inches, then the skies cleared away, became
crystal blue, and the cold increased, promising no more snow for the
present, but a long continuance of that which lay on the ground. They
visited the horses the next morning and found them well protected in
their valley. Large spaces there were but thinly covered with the snow,
and the horses could easily get at the grass. Assured on this point,
John and Breakstone returned to The Dip, while Phil and Arenberg,
mounting the strongest two horses, rode northward.

CHAPTER XXI

THE NOTE OF A MELODY

Phil and Arenberg were undertaking this journey because they wished to
make one of their usual thorough scouts. It merely happened to be their
day, as John and Breakstone had gone on the day preceding. They were
well wrapped up, with their ear-muffs on and with big moccasins that
they had made to go over their shoes. The snow was very light and dry,
and offered little obstacle to the horses, which were fat and strong
with good feeding.

"We certainly leave a fine trail, Hans," said Phil, looking back at the
impressions made by their horse’s hoofs.

"It iss so," said Arenberg, "but since we hunt people it iss not our
object to hide ourselves. Do you notice how beautiful iss the forest,
Herr Philip? All the trees are white with the snow. It iss a great
tracery, silver sometimes and gold sometimes as the sun falls, and it
extends farther than we can see. It must often have been such as this
in the great Teutonic forest where my ancestors dwelled thousands of
years ago. Here in these woods I have this feeling at times, as if the
centuries were rolled back, and last night I dreamed a strange dream."

"What was the dream?"

"I don’t know. That was the strange part of it. I awoke and I knew
that I had dreamed a strange dream which was not unpleasant, but, try as
hard as I would, I could not remember anything about it. What do you
think that portends, Herr Philip?"

"I do not know. Perhaps when we want a thing so much and think about it
so much the imagination, while we are asleep and the will is dead, forms
a picture of it that remains in our possession when we awake. But it’s
just surmise. I don’t know anything about it."

"Nor do I," said Arenberg, "but sometimes I believe. Now I suggest that
we ride toward the northwest. I believe that good hunting grounds are
in that direction beyond this forest, and perhaps the Comanches may have
been on the plain there, and may now be seeking shelter in this
wilderness."

"It’s as good a theory as any," said Phil, "and we’ll try it."

They rode for several hours toward the northwest, passing from the
region of heavy forest into that of the scrub timber, and again into
heavy forest as they approached the slopes of the higher mountains.
They were now at least twenty miles from The Silver Cup, and it was past
midday. They had brought jerked venison with them, and they ate their
noon meal on horseback. But Phil wanted water, and he saw a clear white
line leading among the trees, which he thought might indicate a brook
flowing under the ice and snow. He dismounted, scraped away the snow
and found that he was right. He broke the ice, took a good drink, and
then noticed a trail on the far side of the brook. It was unmistakably
that of a single horse, and he called excitedly to Arenberg.

"Look, Hans," he said. "Doesn’t this show that an Indian pony has
passed here?"

Arenberg came at once, and when he looked down at the trail his eyes
sparkled with a kind of exultant joy. But he showed no excitement
otherwise.

"It iss the trail of a single Indian pony," he said. "We will follow it.
It iss not likely that a lone warrior rides in this region. He goes to
join others."

Phil looked closely at Arenberg. He was quite sure that his comrade
considered this a sign, the first sign that had come in the long, long
search. He knew how the stout heart must be throbbing within the
German’s powerful chest.

"Lead on, Hans," he said. "I think you’re right."

The two followed the trail at a good walk. It lay before them in the
snow as plain as a railroad track. There was but little undergrowth
here, and they saw far among the stems of the trees. They were quite
sure that danger lay before them, since they might ride at any moment
into an ambush, but they kept on without hesitation, although they
watched well with two pairs of unusually keen eyes. In this manner they
rode about five miles, and then Arenberg’s eyes began to scintillate
again. The pony’s trail was merged into that of three or four more
coming from the north.

"It iss so! It iss so!" he said softly, although excitement now showed
in his tone. "The Comanches have come! Presently more riders will
enter the trail, and beyond will lie their camp. Now, young Herr
Philip, it iss for us to go with great care."

A mile farther the trail was merged with that of at least twenty
horsemen. Phil himself did not doubt that the new Indian camp lay
before them. The forest was now heavy with undergrowth here and there,
for which he was thankful, since it afforded hiding for Arenberg and
himself, while the trail was so broad that they could not possibly miss
it. There was another fortunate circumstance. They had been longer on
the trail than they had realized, and the twilight was now coming fast.
It already lay in deep shadows over the vast, lonely wilderness.
Although he was very near, Phil saw Arenberg’s figure enveloped in a
sort of black mist, and the horse’s feet made but little sound on the
soft snow. At intervals the two stopped to listen, because there was no
doubt now in the mind of either that they were close to a large Indian
camp. A half hour of this, and they stopped longer than usual. Both
distinctly heard a low chant. Arenberg knew that it was the song of
Indian women at work.

"Phil," he said, "we are close by. Let us leave our horses here and
steal forward. We may lose the horses or we may not, but we cannot
scout on horseback close up to the Indian camp."

Phil did not hesitate. They fastened the horses to swinging boughs in
dense thickets, trusting them to the fortune that had been kind thus
far, and then crept through the snow and among the frees toward the low
sound of the chant. At the edge of a thicket of scrub cedar they knelt
down and looked through the snow-laden branches into an Indian village
that lay in the valley beyond.

It was a broad valley, with a creek now frozen over running through it,
and the village, a large one, was evidently not more than a day or two
old, as many of the lodges were not yet finished. All these lodges were
of buffalo skin on poles, and the squaws were still at work on some of
them. Others were beating buffalo meat or deer meat before the cooking
fires, and yet others dragged from the snow the dead wood that lay about
plentifully. Many warriors were visible here and there amid the
background of flame, but they merely lounged, leaving the work to the
squaws.

"It may be the band of Black Panther," said Phil.

"I think it iss," said Arenberg, "but I also think it has been swollen
by the addition of another band or two."

The two were lying so close under the dwarf pines that Phil’s arm was
pressed against Arenberg’s side, and he could feel the German trembling
all over. Phil knew perfectly that it was not fear, but a powerful
emotion that could thus shake the strong soul of his friend. Evidently
the Indians had no thought of a foreign presence in a region so far from
any settlement. A feeling of good-humor seemed to pervade the village.
It was obvious that they had found game in abundance, and thus the
Indian’s greatest want was filled.

Some of the Indian women continued the low humming chant that Phil and
Arenberg had first heard, and others chattered as they worked about the
fires. But Arenberg’s eyes were for neither men nor women. He was
watching a group of children at the outskirts. They were mostly boys,
ranging in years from eight to thirteen, and, despite the darkness and
the distance, he followed them with a gaze so intense, so full of
longing, that it was painful to Phil who saw it. But it was impossible
to distinguish. It was merely a group of Indian lads, half at play,
half at work, and it would have been folly for the two to go closer.

But only hope was in the soul of Arenberg. The mystic spell of the
great woods was on him, and he did not believe that he had come so far
merely to lose at last. Phil suddenly felt his great frame shake under a
stronger quiver of emotion than before. About a third of the Indian
boys, carrying tin pails or stone jars, moved up the creek.

"Come," whispered Arenberg, in intense excitement. "They’re going after
water, where it is not defiled by offal from the village! We’ll follow
them on this side of the creek! See, the dwarf pines continue along the
bank indefinitely!"

Arenberg led the way, treading softly in the snow. He was now the
director, and Phil obeyed him in everything. Besides his own perception
of the critical, Phil caught some of the intense excitement that
surcharged every pore of Arenberg’s being. He felt sure that something
was going to happen. The thought was like fire in his brain.

The boys moved on toward a point where the ice had been broken already.
The creek curved, and the village behind them passed out of sight,
although its sounds could yet be heard plainly. Directly they came to
the water hole and filled the pails and jars. Arenberg’s excitement was
increasing. He was much closer to them now, and again he studied every
figure with a concentration of vision that was extraordinary. Yet the
night was already dark, the figures were indistinct, and, to Phil at
least, one figure, barring size, looked just like another.

The boys turned away, walked perhaps a dozen paces, and then Phil heard
by his side a soft whistle, low, melodious, a bar of some quaint old
song. It might have been mistaken in a summer night for the song of a
bird. The boys stopped, but moved on again in a moment, thinking
perhaps it was only fancy. Another ten feet, and that melodious whistle
came again, lower than ever, but continuing the quaint old song. The
third boy from the rear stopped and listened a little longer than the
others. But the sound had been so faint, so clever an approach to the
sighing of the wind among the pines, that the other boys seemed to take
no notice of it. Arenberg was moving along in a parallel line with
them, keeping behind the pines. Phil followed close behind him, and
once more he put his hand on his arm. Now he felt, with increasing
force, that the man was shaken by some tremendous internal excitement.

[Illustration: "The third boy from the rear stopped and listened"]

The file of Indian boys moved on, save the one who had been third from
the last. He was carrying a pail of water, and he lingered, looking
cautiously in the direction whence the low whistle had come. He was a
small, strong figure, in Indian dress, a fur cap on his head. He seemed
to be struggling with some memory, some flash out of the past. Then
Arenberg, rising above the breast-work of pines, his head showing
clearly over the topmost fringe, whistled a third bar of the old German
folk song, so low, so faint that to Phil himself it was scarcely more
than the sighing of the wind. The boy straightened up and the pail of
water dropped from his hands upon the soft snow. Then he pursed his
lips and whistled softly, continuing the lines of the melody.

An extraordinary thrill, almost like the chill of the supernatural, ran
down Phil’s back, but it was nothing to the emotion that shook the
German. With a sudden cry: "It iss he!" Arenberg leaped entirely over
the pine bushes, ran across the frozen creek, and snatched up the boy in
his arms. It was Phil then who retained his coolness, luckily for them
both. He seized the fallen rifle and called:

"Come! Come, Hans, come with the boy, we must ride for our lives now!"

Arenberg came suddenly back to the real world and the presence of great
danger, just when he had found his son. He lifted the boy in his arms,
ran with him across the creek, up the slope, and through the bushes.
Little Billy scarcely stirred, but remained with his arms clasped around
his father’s neck. Already hostile sounds were coming from the Indian
camp. The Indian boys, at the sound of Arenberg’s footsteps, had turned
back, and had seen what had happened.

"We must reach the horses," cried Phil, retaining his full presence of
mind. "If we can do that before they wing us we’ll escape. Run ahead.
I’ll bring your rifle."

Arenberg, despite the weight of his boy, rushed toward the horses. Phil
kept close behind, carrying the two rifles. From the village came a
long, fierce cry, the Comanche war whoop. Then it came back from the
snowy forest in faint, dying echoes, full of menace. Phil knew that in a
few moments the alert warriors would be on their ponies and in full
pursuit.

"Faster, Hans! Faster!" he cried. "Never mind how much noise we may
make now or how broad a trail we may leave! To the horses! To the
horses!"

The little boy was perfectly silent, clinging to his father’s neck, and
Arenberg himself did not speak now. In a minute they reached the horses,
untied them, and sprang upon their backs, Billy, as they always called
him hereafter, sitting with a sure seat behind his father. Phil handed
Arenberg his rifle:

"Take it," he said. "You may need it!"

Arenberg received the weapon mechanically. Before, he had been the
leader. Now Phil took the position. He dashed away in the forest,
turning toward the east, and the hoofs of Arenberg’s horse thudded on
the snow at his flank. They heard behind them the second shout of the
Comanches, who had now crossed the creek on their ponies. Arenberg
suddenly lifted his boy about and placed him in front of him. Phil
understood. If a bullet came, it was now Arenberg instead of his boy
who would receive it.

But it was not in vain that their horses had rested and eaten the sweet,
clean grass so long. Now they obeyed the sudden call upon accumulated
strength and energy, and, despite the double burden that Arenberg’s
horse bore, raced on at a speed that yet held the Indian ponies out of
rifle shot.

"We must keep to the east, Hans," said Phil, "because if we brought them
down on our friends at The Silver Cup we’d all be overpowered. Maybe we
can shake them off. If so, we’ll take a wide curve to our place. You
ride a little ahead now. I can use the rifle better, as you have to
look out for Billy besides yourself."

Arenberg urged his horse to greater speed and continued about a length
ahead of Phil. Fortunately the forest was open here, and they could go
at good speed without the dangers of tripping or becoming entangled.
Phil looked back for the first time. He saw at some distance a half
dozen Comanches on their ponies, mere shadowy outlines in the dusk, but
he knew that more were behind them. His heart sank a little, too, when
he remembered the tenacity of the Indians in pursuit.

"They’re not gaining, Hans," he said, "and if they do I’ll shoot at the
first who comes up. Keep a watch for a good path, and I’ll follow."

They galloped on an hour perhaps, and then the Indians began to yell
again. Two or three fired their rifles, although the bullets fell
short.

"Don’t worry, Hans," called Phil. "They’re merely trying to frighten
us. They have not gained."

He sent back a taunting cry, twirled his own rifle in defiance, and then
remembered that it was the slender, long-barreled Kentucky weapon, the
highest of its type. He took another glance backward, but this was a
measuring one. "It will reach," was his thought. He turned his whole
body from the hips up in his saddle, took swift aim at the leading
Comanche, and fired. The white smoke puffed from the muzzle of his
rifle, the report was uncommonly loud and sharp in the night, and the
bullet went home. The leading Indian fell from his pony in the snow,
and the pony ran away. A fierce cry of rage came from the Comanches.

"It was well done, Herr Philip," said Arenberg. He did not look back,
but he knew from the cry of the Indians that Phil’s bullet had struck
its target. The Comanches dropped back somewhat, but they were still
near enough to keep the two flying horses in sight. Phil and Arenberg
maintained their course, which was leading far from The Silver Cup.
Phil’s brain was cooling with the long gallop, and his nerves were
becoming steadier. The change in himself caused him to notice other
changes around him.

The air felt damp to his face, and the night seemed to have grown
darker. He thought at first that it was mere fancy, but when he looked
up he knew that it was the truth. He could not see the moon, and, just
as he looked, the last star winked and went out. The damp touch on his
face was that of a snowflake, and, as he still looked, the dark clouds
stalked somberly across the sky.

"The snow! the snow," he murmured in eager prayer. "Let it come! It
will save us!"

Another and larger flake dropped on his face, and--after it, came more,
falling fast now, large and feathery. He looked back for the last time.
Not a single pursuer could be seen in the heavy gloom. He felt that
their chance had come. He rode up by the side of Arenberg.

"Hans," he said, "turn sharp to the south. Look how the snow comes
down! It is impossible for them to follow us now. It does not matter
how we blunder along except that we must keep close together."

"It iss good," said Arenberg, as he turned his horse’s head. "The great
God is putting a veil about us, and we are saved!"

He spoke with unaffected solemnity, and Phil felt that his words were
true. He felt, too, that they would not have escaped had it not been
for the great snow that was now coming down. Surely a power had
intervened in their behalf.

They rode southward for about an hour through forest, comparatively free
from undergrowth, the two horses keeping so close together that the
knees of their riders touched. The snow continued to fall, and they
went on, always in a dense white gloom, leaving to their horses the
choice of the path. They stopped finally under a huge tree, where they
were sheltered, in some degree, from the snow, and Arenberg made the boy
more comfortable on the saddle behind.

"Hello, Billy," said Phil. "Do you know that you’ve been away from home
a long time? Your father was beginning to fear that you’d never come
back."

The boy smiled, and, despite the Indian paint on his face, Phil saw
there the blue eyes and features of Arenberg. He guessed, too, that the
black hair under the cap would become gold as soon as the paint wore
off.

"I not know at first," said Billy, speaking slowly and hesitatingly, as
if it were difficult for him to remember the English language, "but the
song when I hear it one, two, three times, then it come back and I
answered. I knew my father, too, when he picked me up."

Arenberg gave him a squeeze, then he produced from his pocket some
jerked venison, which Billy ate eagerly.

"He’s strong and hearty, that’s evident," said Phil. "And, since we
cannot leave any trail while the snow is pouring down in this way, I
suggest that we let our horses rest for awhile, and then ride as
straight as we can for The Silver Cup."

"It iss well," said Arenberg. "Nothing but one chance in a thousand
could bring them upon us now, and God iss so good that I do not think He
will let that chance happen."

Arenberg spoke very quietly, but Phil saw that the words came from his
heart. The boy still preserved the singular stillness which he seemed
to have learned from the Indians, but he held firmly to his father. Now
and then he looked curiously at Phil. Phil chucked him under the chin
and said:

"Quite a snow, isn’t it, Billy?"

"I’m not afraid of snow," rejoined the boy, in a tone that seemed to
defy any kind of a storm.

"Good thing," said Phil, "but this is a fine snow, a particularly fine
snow. It has probably saved us all."

"Where are you going?" asked Billy.

"Where are we going?" said Phil. "Well, when this snow lightens a
little we are going to ride a long distance through the woods. Perhaps
we’ll ride until morning. Then, when morning comes, we’ll keep on
riding, although it may not be in the forest. We’ll make a great circle
to the south, and there, at the edge of the forest, we’ll come to a
beautiful clear little lake that four men I know call The Silver Cup,
only you can’t get at the contents of that cup just now, as it has a
fine ice covering. But overlooking The Silver Cup is a fine rocky hollow
with a neat little thatched cabin in it. We call the hollow and the
cabin The Dip, and in it are two of the four persons, your father and I
being the other two.

"It’s a fine little place, a snug little place, Billy, and there isn’t
any lodge anywhere on this whole continent of North America that is
equal to it. There is a big flat stone at one end on which we build our
fire, and just above it is a vent to carry off the smoke.

"Hanging about that cabin are some of the most beautiful skins and furs
you ever saw. And then we have rifles and pistols and knives and
hatchets, and a shovel and an ax or two, and big soft blankets, and,
when we are all in the hut at night, every fellow rolled in his warm
blanket, as you will be, being a brave new comrade, and when the wind
roars outside, and the hail and the snow beat against it and never touch
you, then you feel just about as fine as anybody can ever feel. It’s
surely a glorious life that’s ahead of you, Billy Arenberg. Those other
two fellows who are waiting for you, Billy, are as good as any you ever
saw. One of them is my brother, who has just escaped from a great
prison, where wicked men held him for a long time, just as you have
escaped, Billy, from the savages, to whom you don’t belong, and the
other is the bravest, oddest, wisest, funniest man you ever saw. You
can’t help liking him the very first moment you see him. He talks a
lot, but it’s all worth hearing. Now and then he makes up queer rhymes.
I don’t think he could get them printed, but we like them all the same,
and they always mean just what they say, which isn’t generally the way
of poetry. I see right now, Billy, that that man and you are going to
be great friends. His name is William, just like yours, William
Breakstone, but he’s Bill and you are Billy. It will be fine to have a
Bill and a Billy around the camp."

The boy’s eyes glistened. All sorts of emotion awoke within him.

"Won’t it be fine?" he said. "I want to see that camp."

Phil had spoken with purpose. He had seen what Arenberg, thinking only
of his recovered son, had failed to see, that the boy, taken in his
early childhood and held so long, had acquired something of the Indian
nature. He had recognized his father and he had clung to him, but he
was primitive and as wild as a hawk. The escape from the Indian village
had been no escape for him at all, merely a transference. Phil now
devoted himself to the task of calling him back to the white world to
which he belonged.

All the time as they rode forward in the snow, Phil talked to him of the
great things that were to be seen where the white men dwelled. He made
their lives infinitely grander and more varied than those of the
Indians. He told of the mighty battle in which his father had been a
combatant. Here the boy’s eyes glistened more than ever.

"My father is a great warrior," he exclaimed happily.

"One of the greatest that ever lived," said Phil. "There were more men,
Billy, at that place we call Buena Vista than all the Comanche warriors
put together several times over. And there were many cannon, great guns
on wheels, shooting bullets as big as your head and bigger, and the
battle went on all day. You couldn’t hear yourself speak, the cannon
and rifles roared so terribly and without ever stopping, and the smoke
was greater than that of the biggest prairie fire you ever saw, and
thousands of men and horses, with long lances, charged again and again.
And your father stood there all day helping to beat them back."

Phil did not wish to speak so much of battle and danger, but he judged
that this would appeal most to the boy, who had been taught by the
Comanches that valor and fighting were the greatest of all things. The
boy exclaimed:

"My father is one of the greatest of all warriors! He is a chief! He
and you and I and the other two of whom you speak will go with a great
army and beat the Mexicans again!"

Phil laughed and turned the talk more to the chase, the building of
cabins in the wilderness, and of great explorations across the prairies
and through the hills. He still held the interest of the boy, and Phil
saw the soul of the white race growing stronger and stronger within him.
Arenberg listened, too, and at last he understood. He gave his comrade
a look of gratitude. That, Phil always considered one of the greatest
rewards he ever received.

They finally found a partial shelter in a ravine protected by trees, and
here they dismounted in order to rest the horses and shake the snow from
themselves. But they were not suffering from the snow. They were all
warmly clad, and, as usual in the West in winter, Phil and Arenberg
carried heavy blankets at their saddle horns. One of these had already
been wrapped around Billy, and when they dismounted he remained clad in
its folds. The fall of snow was lightening somewhat, enabling them to
see perhaps twenty feet farther into it, but it was still a vast white
gloom.

"I think it will stop before morning," said Arenberg, "and then we can
make much greater speed. Are you sleepy, Billy?"

"I do not sleep when we are in danger," replied the boy.

He spoke with such youthful pride that Phil smiled. Yet the boy meant
it. His wild life had certainly harmed neither his spirit nor his body.
He was taller and heavier than most boys of his age, and Phil could see
that he was as wiry and sinewy as a young panther. He seemed to endure
the hardships of the night quite as well as Phil or his father.

"Snow is warm if there is something between you and it," said Phil.
"Let’s scrape out a place here against the bank, throw up the snow
around us in walls, and rest until daylight. It will be a little hard
on the horses, but they seem to be doing fairly well there against the
trees."

"It iss wisdom that you speak," said Arenberg.

They threw back the snow until they made a den against the cliff, and
the three, wrapped from head to foot in their heavy blankets, crouched
in it close together. The snow fell upon the blankets, and, at times,
when it lay too thick, they threw it all off. Billy seemed perfectly
contented. Either he had no awe of the wilderness, or the presence of
the others was enough for him. He had all the quietness and taciturnity
of a little Indian lad. He did not speak at all, and did not move. By
and by his eyes closed and he slept soundly. Arenberg drew the blanket
a little more closely, until only the mouth and nose showed from the
blanket, his breath making a white rim around the aperture. Then
Arenberg said in a whisper to Phil:

"Young Herr Philip, you have helped me to get back my own. I cannot
repay you."

"I am repaying _you_," said Phil. "You have _already_ helped me."

After that they did not speak for a long time. The snow became lighter
and lighter, then it ceased entirely. The horses were quiet in the
shelter of the trees, and Phil was so snug and warm that he fell into a
beautiful sleep, from which he was aroused by Arenberg.

"It iss day, Herr Philip," he said. "Look how the sun shines on the
snow."

Phil drew himself out of the hole and looked at a white world, tinted
silver in the early dawn.

"Yes, it is time for us to go," he said. "Wake Billy, and we’ll ride."

But Billy was already awake, his small face illumined with curiosity and
interest.

"Now we will ride," he said to Phil, "and see the men of whom you have
told me."

They had some food left, and, after eating it to the last particle, they
mounted their horses and rode with as much speed as was wise in the deep
snow. Both Phil and Arenberg had an excellent idea of direction, and,
guided by the sun, they rode straight toward The Silver Cup. But the
snow was so deep and heavy that they were compelled to stop often to let
their horses rest, and nearly a whole day passed before they saw the
familiar trees and slopes that marked the approach to The Silver Cup.
It was a glad sight. They were thoroughly exhausted with a day of
plowing through the snow, and the horses were in the same condition. A
trace of smoke marked the point at which The Dip lay.

"They’re at home to callers, or at least one of them is," said Phil,
"and I’ll be glad to be on the inside of that hut again, with real red
coals before me on a stone hearth."

In order to give the horses an equal chance, Billy, through the day, had
ridden alternately behind Phil and his father. Now he was behind
Arenberg, and he leaned forward eagerly to see. Before him lay a sort
of path trampled in the snow, and, suddenly leaping from the horse, he
ran forward with the agility and speed of a deer.

Bill Breakstone and John Bedford were inside the little thatched hut,
and the red coals of which Phil had spoken in fancy were really burning
on the hearth. They had made no search for Phil and Arenberg in the
deep snow, knowing that such a thing was useless. There was not one
chance in a thousand that they could find them, while Phil and Arenberg,
strong, capable, and brave, were sure to come back. So they took their
rest and made the place as comfortable as possible for the return of
their partners, who would certainly be cold and hungry.

"John, keep that coffee ready to put on," said Bill Breakstone. "You
know that your brother loves coffee when he comes in out of the snow and
the cold."

"It will be ready any minute," replied John Bedford. "And I’m glad,
Bill, you thought of that little pot of tea for Arenberg. You know he
loves to have it about once a week."

"So I do," said Bill Breakstone. "Good old Hans. I suppose that he and
Phil made a burrow somewhere in the woods, and slept in it last night.
Naturally it’s slow traveling back here through such a deep snow. Now
what under the sun is that?"

The rude door of their little thatch was suddenly thrown open, and a
small painted face thrust in. But the eyes in the painted face staring
at them so intently, were blue, although they did not then notice the
fact.

"A little Indian boy," said Bill Breakstone, rising. "Probably he got
lost from a band in the storm and has stumbled upon us. We wouldn’t
welcome a lot of warriors, but we won’t repel one boy. Come in, Red
Jacket, Tecumseh, Powhatan, or whatever your name may be. We won’t hurt
you."

To his immense surprise the boy walked boldly in, came straight up to
him, and said, in excellent English: "I know that you are Bill
Breakstone, and I want to hear you make rhymes."

Bill stared and stared. It was perhaps the first and last time in his
life that he was dumfounded. But two larger figures came in immediately
behind the boy, and Phil said:

"Mr. William Breakstone, I wish to introduce our new friend and comrade,
Master William Arenberg. As ’William’ seems a trifle pompous, he is to
be known as Billy to distinguish him from you, who remain the Bill that
you always have been. Look this way, Billy, and you will see my
brother, John Bedford."

Hans Arenberg stood by, so happy that tears rose in his eyes. But Bill
Breakstone came at once from his cloud of surprise. He snatched the boy
up in his arms and gave him a big hug.

"Well, Billy," he cried, "here you are at last! I don’t know how they
got you, but they’ve brought you. Now my first duty as housekeeper is to
wash our little boy’s face."

He took water from a pail and promptly cleaned all the paint off Billy’s
face. Then Billy stood forth a white and not an Indian boy, and, with
the departure of the paint, nearly all that was left of his acquired
Indian nature seemed to go, too. While Phil and Arenberg told the story
of the new miracle, he made himself easily at home, examining everything
in the hut with minute care, and, by his actions, notifying Bill
Breakstone and John Bedford that he was ready at once for a cordial
friendship.

"Tea is ready! So is coffee," announced Bill Breakstone presently.
"Now sit down, eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you may not have
such a good chance."

They charged with avidity, and little Billy Arenberg proved that he was
already a mighty trencherman in the making.

"I wish I had some German blood in me, then I could eat with a fair
appetite," said Bill Breakstone, as he reached for a huge buffalo steak.

CHAPTER XXII

BREAKSTONE’S QUEST

It was nearly night, and they quickly agreed that they must not remain
any longer in The Dip, however comfortable it might be. The Comanches
were bound to find them in time, and the longer their lead the better.

"The night is going to be clear," said Breakstone, "and we must leave
just as soon as we can pack our things on our horses. Everything
indicates that the country toward the west slopes down rapidly, and we
may soon pass out of the area of deep snow. Besides, we want to go
toward the west. It’s my turn now, and my search lies there."

"It iss so," said Arenberg with deep feeling. "You have helped all the
rest of us, and we would not be fit to live if we did not now help you."

"I knew that you would not think of anything else," said Breakstone
simply. "I’ll tell you about it a little later, but now we’ll start as
soon as we can, and maybe we can come back some day and enjoy The Silver
Cup again."

The horses were brought from the sheltered valley, and their provisions
and other supplies were strapped on them. They soon discovered that
Billy knew how to ride very well, and the gentlest of the horses was
assigned to him, although he slept during the early part of the night.
But when he was roused he was full of zeal and interest, and he was also
so alert and active that he proved himself a help instead of a burden.

At midnight, they put out the fire and left a cold hearth. Then, with
some reluctant glances backward at The Dip and the snowy cover of The
Silver Cup, they rode away in single file, Breakstone leading, Phil
next, followed by John, behind whom came Billy, with Arenberg at the
rear. It was cold, but they were sufficiently clad, and they rode on
until daylight, the dry snow crunching beneath the hoofs of their
horses.

The descent proved to be sharp, and when daylight came they were in a
region where the snow was very light. They saw the plains before them
and below them, and they believed that by noon they would be entirely
beyond the expanse of snow.

"By the time those Comanches discover our abandoned home," said Bill
Breakstone, "it’s likely that we’ll be days and days away. We’ll never
see them again because our journey leads west and always west, far
beyond the Comanche country."

"I learned from Billy," said Phil, "that it was really Black Panther who
was in command back there. Billy had been with another band, farther
west, which last spring was incorporated into the more powerful force of
Black Panther. The chief was treating Billy well, and was going to
adopt him as his son."

"Then I am glad that we shall fight no more with Black Panther," said
Arenberg.

"So am I," said Breakstone thoughtfully. "I suppose the chief has acted
according to his lights. If we’d been roaming over the country for
ages, we’d fight for it, too. Well, good-by to you, Black Panther, I
wish you many a good buffalo hunt, but that no white people may fall
into your hands."

At noon, as they had expected, they passed through the last thin sheet
of snow and entered warm country. But it was not desert here. It was a
region of buffalo grass, with shallow streams and scattered timber. It
was very pleasant after so much riding through the snow, and, after
resting an hour by the side of one of the rivulets, they kept on until
night. They were not compelled to spend any time in hunting a camp, but
stopped under a clump of trees, turned the horses loose to graze on the
plentiful grass, and spread their own blankets on the turf. They were
too tired to light a fire, but they ate heartily of the cold food, and
then lay back comfortably on the blankets. Billy fell asleep in a few
minutes, but the others did not yet feel the desire for slumber. The
ride of a day and half a night had not been hard, but, as much of that
ride had been downward, the change was wonderful. Gone was the deep
snow, gone the biting winds. They wrestled with neither the ice nor the
desert, but lay upon a carpet of pine needles and breathed an air that
came, crisp with life, from the mountains. Bill Breakstone luxuriated
in it, and finally, observing that the others were not asleep, he sat
up.

"Boys," he said, "I think the time has come for me to tell you about the
errand that has brought me so far, and that’s going to take me a lot
farther. I haven’t said anything about the nature of it before, because
it was the one that could wait longest. Sit up and look at what I’m
going to show you."

They sat up on their blankets, and he took from his pocket a little
package which he unwrapped and looked at a moment or two. Then he
poured the contents out upon his blanket. They looked like gravel or
grains of stone, but the moon was good then, and from some of the grains
came a slight metallic glitter, like pin-points of light.

"That," said Bill Breakstone in deeply impressive tones, "is gold."

"It looks more like gravel to me," said John Bedford.

"It is gravel, too," said Breakstone, "gravel, and gold in the gravel."

"About how much iss your gold worth?" asked Arenberg skeptically.

"Fifty cents, maybe," replied Bill Breakstone.

"Which wouldn’t carry you far."

"No, it wouldn’t," said Breakstone genially. "But see here, my merry
Dutchman, a man may have a million dollars in the bank, and carry only a
dime in his pocket. That’s me. This is my sample, my specimen. It came
from a spot far away, but there’s a million more, or something like it,
there waiting for us. Listen to me, Sir Philip of the River and the
Plain, Sir Hans of the Forest and the Snow, and even you, Sir John of
the Castle and the Cell, and I will tell you a glittering tale which is
true."

Every one moved forward a few inches on his blanket, and their figures
grew tense with interest. The moon sent a broad shaft of light through
an opening in the trees directly upon the face of Bill Breakstone,
showing eyes that sparkled with the pleasure of one who held a great
secret that he was willing to tell to others.

"I’m not joking," continued Bill Breakstone earnestly. "I’m a rover, but
I find when I rove. There’s gold, lots of it, far west across the great
mountains in California. You find it in the sand and gravel along the
edges of streams which are dry most of the year. A man can generally do
the work all by himself, with water and a pan, sifting the gold dust
from the baser stuff.

"It’s a terribly wild country of hills and of tremendously high
mountains covered with snow. When the snow melts and the water comes
down into these dry creek and river beds it comes with a mighty rush,
and it washes the gold from the rocks along with it. At least, that’s
my theory, and the gold has been piling up for ages in dust and grains
along the edges of these beds in the valleys below. I found this dust
in a wild country about a thousand miles from here, but I can go
straight back to the place."

The others were continually creeping a little nearer and a little nearer
on their blankets, and the moonlight which found new openings through
the trees showed three more pairs of eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Why did you come away after you found the gold?" asked Phil.

"Because I lacked supplies. Because I was alone. Because California
belonged to the Mexicans. Because the Indians were dangerous to one
man. Any of these reasons was good enough, but we can take supplies in
abundance. I will not be alone. I doubt very much whether California
now belongs to the Mexicans, or will belong to them much longer, and it
is very likely that the Indians have wandered off into some other
region. Boys, after so many dangers we’ll all be rich."

"But, Bill," said Phil, "we can’t take your gold, which you found after
so much hardship and danger."

Bill Breakstone gave Phil Bedford a threatening look.

"I wish you to listen to a few words of wisdom," he said in a menacing
tone, "and take care that you listen well. If I hear any more such
foolishness from you, Sir Philip of the River and the Plain, you’ll lose
your golden spurs and your silver breastplate and your steel helmet and
all your titles. You’ll be degraded into the position of a common
varlet to pull off my shoes, to bring me the mead to quaff, and to have
a spear shaft broken over your wooden head when you’re not bright and
lively. And to you, Hans Arenberg, I give the same advice. I’ll make
you the King’s Jester, and, with that solemn Prussian face of yours and
that solemn Prussian mind of yours, you’ll find jesting for me about as
hard a task as any man ever undertook. And you, John Bedford, I will
deliver bound hand and foot to your friend Captain Pedro de Armijo with
the great red scar across his face which you put there. What a crisp
little revenge he would take! I can see you now frying over the coals."

"But, Bill," persisted Phil, "it’s your find."

"I know it, but you needn’t think that ends everything. It’s only the
beginning. We’ve got to get back to that dead river of mine, and for
that I need comrades. We’ve got to do weeks and weeks of work, and for
that I need comrades. We’ve got to fight off danger, Indians perhaps,
Mexicans perhaps, outlaws perhaps, and for that I need comrades. After
we get the gold we’ve got to bring it safely to civilization, and for
that I need comrades. Also, there is so much of the gold in the bed of
the dead river that I could not spend it all alone, and for that I need
comrades. Now will you come willingly and share and share alike with
me, or shall I have to yoke up together and drive you unwillingly?"

"We’ll come," said Phil, and John and Arenberg added their assent.

"I wish the Captain was with us, too," said Bill Breakstone. "He
belongs in this crowd, and he ought to have some of the gold."

Phil and Arenberg echoed his regret at the absence of Middleton.

"Now that it is all settled," said Bill Breakstone, "I’m going to
sleep."

In five minutes he was sound in slumber, and the others soon followed
him to that pleasant land.

They resumed their journey the next morning, but they advanced in
leisurely fashion. Breakstone warned them that there were other high
ranges ahead, and they agreed that it would not be wise to attempt their
passage in winter. Hence, they must find a winter home in some
sheltered spot, where the three requisites of wild life, wood, water,
and game, could be found. It did not take them long to find such a
place, and they built a rude cabin, using it as their base during the
remainder of the winter, which was mild, as they were not at a great
elevation. Although they made an occasional scout, they never found any
Indian sign, and the cold weather passed in comparative ease and safety.
Little Billy developed at a remarkable rate, and here he sloughed off
the last vestige of the Indian. But he had learned many cunning arts in
hunting, trapping, and fishing which he never forgot, and there were
some things pertaining to these in which he could instruct his elders.

Not a single hunter, trapper, or rover of any kind passed through during
the winter months, and they often wondered what was going on in the
world without.

"I’d surely like to see the Captain again," said Bill Breakstone one
cold evening as they sat by their fire. "Just to think of all that he
went through with us, and now he’s vanished into thin air. Maybe he’s
dead, killed in some battle a thousand miles down in Mexico."

"I don’t believe the Captain is killed," spoke up Phil promptly. "I
don’t believe that he’s the kind of man who would be killed. But a lot
of things must have happened since we left. There must have been some
big fighting away down there by the City of Mexico. Do you think we
could have been whipped, Bill?"

"Phil, I’ve half a mind to take away all your titles without another
word," replied Breakstone reprovingly. "How could you think of our being
whipped, after what you saw at Buena Vista?"

"That’s so," said Phil, his cheerfulness coming back at once.

Late in the spring they began the passage of the ranges, and although it
was a long, hard, and sometimes dangerous task, they got safely across
with all their horses, coming again into a plains country, which merged
farther west into a desert. Here they were about to make a great loop
northward, around the Mexican settlements, when they met an American
soldier carrying dispatches. They hailed him, and, when he stopped,
they rode forward, all eagerness. It was deputed to Bill Breakstone to
ask the momentous question, and he asked it:

"How is the war going on?"

The soldier looked at them, amused little crinkles at the corners of his
mouth. He knew by their appearance that these were people who had been
long in the wilderness.

"It isn’t getting on at all," he replied.

"What!" cried Bill Breakstone appalled.

"It isn’t going on, because it’s all over. General Scott marched
straight to the City of Mexico. He fought a half dozen terrible
battles, but he won every one of them, and then took the City of Mexico
itself. A treaty of peace was signed February 2 last. You are riding
now on American soil. New Mexico, Arizona, California, and vast regions
to the north of us have been ceded to the United States."

"Hurrah!" they cried together, Billy joining in with as much enthusiasm
as the others.

"What about Santa Fé?" asked Bill Breakstone.

"It’s occupied by an American garrison, and there is complete peace
everywhere. The only danger is from wandering Indians."

"We know how to fight them," said Bill Breakstone. "Boys, we ride for
Santa Fé."

The soldier continued northward, and they turned the heads of their
horses toward the New Mexico capital, reaching, in good time and without
loss, the queer little old Spanish and Indian town from which the flags
of Spain and then of Mexico had disappeared forever. They intended to
remain only two or three days in order to obtain more horses and fresh
supplies. Then they would slip quietly out of the town, because they
wished their errand to be known to nobody. On the second day Bill
Breakstone and Phil were walking together, when a man in sober civilian
dress suddenly seized a hand of each in a firm grasp, and exclaimed in
joy:

"Why, boys, when did you come here?"

"The Captain!" exclaimed Bill Breakstone. "How things do come around!"

It was Middleton, his very self, thinner and browner, but with the same
fine open countenance and alert look. Bill and his comrade explained
rapidly about the rescue of John Bedford, the recovery of little Billy
Arenberg, and their passage through the mountains.

"And now," said Breakstone, "you tell us, Captain, how you happen to be
up here in Santa Fé in civilian dress."

Middleton smiled a little sadly as he replied:

"The war is over. We won many brilliant victories. We were never beaten
once. And I’m glad it’s over, but there is nothing left for the
majority of the younger officers. I should probably remain a captain
all the rest of my life at some obscure frontier station, and so I’ve
resigned from the army."

A light leaped up in Bill Breakstone’s eyes, but he asked very quietly:

"And what are you meaning to do now, Captain?"

"I don’t know, but I’ve been hearing talk about gold in California, and
perhaps I’ll go there to hunt it."

"Of course you will!" exclaimed Bill Breakstone, letting himself go.
"You’re going to start to-morrow, and you’re going with us. I know
right where that gold is, and I’m going to lead you and the rest of the
boys to it. You remember that every one of us had a quest that drew us
into the West. The secret of the gold is mine. We need you and we
share alike. As I’ve told the others, there’s enough for all."

Middleton was easily persuaded, and they left Santa Fé the next morning
before daylight, taking little Billy Arenberg with them. They traveled
a long time toward the northwest, crossing mountains and deserts, until
they reached the mighty range of the Sierra Nevada. This, too, they
crossed without accident or loss, and then Bill Breakstone led them
straight to the dead river and up its channel to the hidden gold. Here
he dug in the bank and showed them the result.

"Am I right or am I wrong?" he asked exultantly.

"Right!" they replied with one voice.

At first they washed out the gold, but afterward they used both the
cradle and the sluice methods. The deposits were uncommonly rich, and
they worked there all through the summer and winter. The next spring,
Middleton and Arenberg carried a great treasure of gold on horses to San
Francisco. They also took Billy Arenberg with them, but on their way
back they left him, to his huge regret, at a good school in Sacramento,
while they rejoined their comrades on the great Breakstone claim. They
exhausted it in another year, but they were all now as rich as they
wished to be, and they descended into the beautiful valley of
California, where they expected to make their homes.

THE END

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Quest of the Four - A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista" ***

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