Chapter 13: The Grip of the Shaman

Charles, true to his nature, which was extremely bold and enterprising, became the most skillful and daring hunter of the little colony of four, and his range gradually grew further and wider. Sometimes he went with the others, oftenest with Herbert, but frequently alone.

Now in the search for deer he followed for the second time their mountain stream far down toward the desert, noticing with interest the path by which they had come, recalling the old landmarks, a rock here, an upthrust of black lava there.

The deer were still evasive, as he approached the outlet of the stream from the hills into the plains and, as the twilight was approaching, he decided to spend the night there by the bank of the little river. He was often gone forty-eight hours at least, and he knew that his absence would occasion no alarm at the village. Hence he made his camp with a clear conscience.

It was the kind of camp that a strong active boy could make in ten minutes, merely a heap of dry leaves, raked up under the shelter of some bushes. Rain fell rarely there and the pure air bore only the scented odors of mountain forests. Charles ate venison from his knapsack, drank at the stream yet cold from its mountain run, and then lay down on his bed of leaves beneath the bushes.

Twilight was at hand. Far off in the southwest where the plains and the desert lay he saw the sun setting like an immense red shield. Behind him the hills and the mountains were already black with night. A light wind blew gently among the oaks and the cedars and the pinons.

Charles lay outstretched on the leaves, his rifle by his side. He was relaxed mentally and physically. Without any will of his own, his mind wandered back to the little station in the desert. He had no regrets for it, but he felt all the old pity for Ananias Brown, the man with the hideous marks in his palms, the man who had died, but who might be no Ananias at all. Yes, Charles was very sorry for him, but he was glad that he had refused to stay any longer in the telegraph office.

It had been perhaps a wild venture of his, but it was turning out well. He had found good comrades and they would yet find the gold. What more could he ask? His deep sense of peace and satisfaction grew deeper still, and permeated all his being. How wonderfully soft was his bed of leaves! And the air that he breathed was like some great tonic.

The wind still blew gently. The light drone of an insect came to his ears, and a lizard near by pattered over the dry leaves. But Charles did not stir. He saw the great red shield of the sun sink behind the swells and pass swiftly out of sight. He saw the night drop down on the plains and darkness cover everything. His eyes drooped and the boughs of the trees, that had shown dimly, floated away. He stirred slightly. He was conscious that he was very happy, and then he fell asleep.

The lad awoke in some unknown hour of the night, and he did not at first know where he was, but the feeling in his mind, instead of being happiness, was alarm, a vague, mysterious apprehension that seemed to have come in his sleep. He did not move his body, but his right hand crept a little from his side, and then lay across the stock of his rifle. The cold wood and metal were good to the touch, and brought reassurance.

The night was somewhat lighter than it had been when he fell asleep. A good moon rode high in the sky and its light fell on trees and bushes. Charles did not see anything, but he believed that he had received a warning. Still he did not move. His right ear was close to the earth and he listened a full two minutes. Then he heard a sound that was not of the wind, nor a lizard scuttling over the leaves. It was the tread of human footsteps and it was very near. Moreover, it was made by more than one.

It might have been prospectors or wandering hunters straying far, but it never occurred to Charles that it could be either. His mind leaped at once to the conclusion that savage Apaches were near enough for him to hear them walking.

He was glad now that he had chosen the shelter of low-lying bushes and that he was sunk deep in his bed of dry leaves.

The footsteps came closer. He was only a boy and his muscles began to quiver, but with a powerful effort of the will he kept them still. His breathing seemed painfully loud to him, a sound that must be heard, but mind again came to his relief, telling him that it was not so.

The footsteps still approached and from his leafy covert the boy saw four men step into a little opening.

His instinct had been right. They were Apaches, the most cruel of all Indians, tall, slender men about five feet ten inches in height, dark mahogany in color, their coarse black hair cut straight around in front and hanging almost to the eyes, as a shade against the sun, but long behind, and tied up with garters or pieces of red flannel, in which was fastened a slender stick about eight inches long, used as a comb. Tied to a central lock in the head of every one was a feather, hanging at the end of a string, two or three inches long and fluttering in the wind. In one case it was a quail feather, in another that of a hawk, the third was that of the eagle, and the fourth came from that of the wild turkey. Three of the feathers were tinted red, and one white.

The men had no beards or mustaches, although they were of mature age, only a few scattered hairs on chin and lip. Their foreheads were low and narrow, receding from prominent brows. Their eyes were far apart with heavy lids painted black to brighten the eyes. The iris of their eyes was dark mahogany like their skins, but the rest of the ball was yellowish. Two of the men had Roman noses, but those of the others were broad and flat with conspicuous nostrils. Two of them had pierced nostrils with beads hanging from them.

Their ears were small and well shaped, but were disfigured by cuts. The lobes were slit, and strings of small beads, mixed with mother of pearl or stone pendants, hung from them. Their mouths were large, with long thin lips and small, closely set teeth.

The hidden boy staring with fascinated eyes took in every detail of these terrible visitors. They wore no clothing except moccasins and breech clouts. The latter were made of buckskin with the hair on, and hung down behind nearly to the ground, resembling a tail.

Although clothed but little they were armed amply. Every man carried a rifle which Charles could see was a breech loader of the finest pattern. At the belt that held the breech clout were revolver and knife. The boy surmised from their manner and the fineness of their arms that they were chiefs. He could hear them talking in clicking tones, but, of course, he did not understand a word they said.

They were not more than fifteen feet from him and they stopped there in the opening, gesticulating now and then toward the mountains. The boy had a horrible fear that they had learned of the presence there of his friends and himself, and he felt that he must return quickly with a warning. But for the present he was occupied with the task of keeping himself immovable and still.

The Apaches talked for three or four minutes, then turned and went back down the stream. Charles watched them, until their figures blended with the darkness, and he did not stir for at least a quarter of an hour afterward. Then he rose very cautiously, holding tight to his precious rifle, and feeling of the pistol in his belt. He followed the stream forty or fifty yards, and then halted in a cluster of piñons.

The boy was divided between two opinions. He knew that he ought to warn his friends, but if he were to go back now he would have little to tell them, except that he had seen four Apaches at the entrance of the pass. Ought he not to continue with the stream and learn more before he returned to the cliff village? The latter opinion conquered, and he continued to follow the stream, stopping at intervals to look and listen.

But he neither saw nor heard the Apaches again and his confidence began to increase. It was not such a dark night, and the trail could lead only one way—by the side of the river. If any other Apaches were near he would discover their presence in the course of time. Charles knew that he must be exceedingly wary. Apaches were cunning and their cruelty was beyond description. A sudden lifting of the wind or the light sound of a rabbit leaping through the brush would cause him to pause and watch a long while before he resumed his slow advance.

He tried to guess the time and concluded that it was about halfway between midnight and day, finding that he was right, as in about three hours he saw a faint gray appearing in the cast. The gray turned to silver, and then that enormous red shield came up again out of the desert plains.

Charles was at the mouth of the pass. Before him, as he looked southward, the gray swells stretched, and, now and then, one of the dancing “dust devils” that had mocked him of old would rise up and whirl away out of sight. He murmured,

O’er the measureless range where rarely change The swart gray plains, so weird and strange, Treeless and streamless and wondrous still.

He saw nothing but the desert before him and the mountains behind him. What had become of the Apaches, those dreadful figures of the night? They had vanished, melted away, dissolved into the ether. It must have been a bad dream, born of the wilderness and solitude!

He heard a light step behind him and whirled quickly, but not quickly enough. Strong arms seized him and pinned him face down to the earth. His wrists and ankles were bound with rawhide, and then somebody turned him over with contemptuous foot.

Charles lay on his back and looked up into the eyes of the four Apaches whom he had seen in the night. Cruel their countenances seemed then, but far more cruel now, and in the eyes of every one was savage and derisive laughter that cut him to the bone. While he had been trying to stalk them, they had deftly turned and had stalked him, capturing him with consummate ease and dispatch.

One of the Apaches took his rifle, examined it, and then, with an air of satisfaction and possession, put it upon his own shoulder, another helped himself to his revolver, and a third deftly ran through his pockets, taking any valuables that might be left.

“Me Big Elk,” said the oldest and evidently the most important of the four. “Who you? Where you come from?”

Charles was a boy of spirit. He regarded himself as lost anyhow, and he did not see any reason why he should involve his comrades in his own fate.

“So you understand English then,” he said contemptuously. “Well, it doesn’t matter to you who I am or where I come from. It’s unpleasant enough to be here in your dirty hands, without having to talk about it.”