The watchers of the trail

Had Jeffries Mayberry and Rob Blake possessed the wonderfully sensitive intuition of the Indian agent’s beautiful horse, they might have been able to feel, as they set out from the shanty in the clearing, that they were being followed and observed by more than one pair of cruel, beady eyes. Not being endowed with any such faculties, however, they followed the trail without any misgivings.

The Indian agent, fortunately, had the good sense to accept the uneasiness of his steed as a sign of nearby danger. He had, for that reason, altered his previous determination to leave Rob behind in the hut till he returned with the soldiers from Fort Miles. And it was well that he did so, as we shall see.

Hardly had the ring of Ranger’s hoofs died out than a dozen dusky forms slid from the brush into the clearing and looked cautiously about. Seeing no cause for alarm, they entered the shanty and stripped it of everything they considered valuable. The Moquis, for such they were, then returned to the spot where they had tethered their ponies, and took the trail after Mayberry and his young companion. It was the scent of the ponies that had aroused Ranger’s uneasiness, although the Indians, with their customary caution, had, as has been said, tethered them some little distance from the shanty.

All that night, as Mr. Mayberry and his young companion rode steadily forward toward Red Flat, the objective point at which the Indian agent had determined to aim, the redskins stealthily dogged their tracks. Never by so much as an incautious move, however, did they betray their presence. Red Flat had been chosen as their destination by Mr. Mayberry on account of the superior attractions in point of distance it offered to the other station of Sentinel Peak. It was out of his way, it is true, but he determined to tax Ranger with the extra miles rather than expose Rob to peril, or keep him separated from his friends longer than needful.

It was early dawn when they clattered into Red Flat, a small settlement with the essential store and post office. Its communication with the outside world consisted of the telephone and a stage which once a day trundled through. To the chagrin of the two travelers, however, the store in which the ’phone was located had been locked up during its owner’s absence, and it was necessary to await his return before they could use the instrument. This opportunity, as we know, did not occur before the afternoon. In the meantime, Rob had hired a pony from the blacksmith of the place, and started off for the Harkness ranch.

He had not been gone ten minutes when Ben Starkey, the storekeeper, drove into town. He had been off on a distant pasture, rounding up some sheep, which had kept him away till that time.

“Hullo, Mr. Mayberry,” he hailed, as he saw the Indian agent. “What brings you here? Come to buy a plow, or a shotgun to manage those ‘babies’ of yours?”

“Neither,” smiled the agent; “but if you will open up the store, Ben, I’d like to telephone.”

“All right. Want to use the talk box, eh?” chattered the storekeeper, as he unfastened sundry locks and bolts. “There you are. Now talk your head off.”

Presently, as we know, Mr. Mayberry was communicating the news of Rob’s astonishing rescue to Mr. Harkness. He also told him something that he had not confided to Rob, and that was that he intended to hold the soldiers in reserve and go by himself to the valley in which the snake dance was to be held, and, as he expressed it, “reason with the Moquis.”

Now, there is little doubt that, had Black Cloud been in supreme control of the tribe at that time, Mr. Mayberry, with his knowledge of the red men, and the many little kindnesses he had done them, might have been able to “reason with them.” But, as has been said, conditions in the tribe were not normal. The unscrupulous Diamond Snake, who was as ambitious as he was senseless, had determined on giving the snake dance, and equally determined that the logic of the little circle who still kept their heads and counseled saner measures should not prevail. Unfortunately, the wisest counsel is not invariably the most acceptable, and so it proved in the case of the rival chiefs. Black Cloud was even spoken of as “timid” by some of the young bucks. This, however, was behind his back, as none dared to fling such a taunt in the face of the veteran.

In counsel, Black Cloud, supported by three or four of the elder Indians, had pleaded the many years of comfort Mr. Mayberry had provided for them. If they did nothing to thwart his wishes, he reasoned, the good times would continue. If they deliberately rebelled, however, no one knew what would happen.

This sage advice had been jeered down by Diamond Snake’s followers. The ancient lore of the tribe had been quoted, the spirits of their ancestors invoked, and Black Cloud denounced as a traitor to the traditions of the Moquis. A similar situation has often prevailed in the counsels of the white men, who vaunt themselves so much the red man’s superiors. It was simply the case of one leader bowing to the will of the populace, the other sternly stemming the tide, bidding defiance to the element which he knows stands for what is wrong and foolish.

So it had come about that a band of young braves engaged in hunting had stumbled across Mr. Mayberry’s hiding place, and, having discovered it, had decided that it was their duty to trail its occupant, whom they not unnaturally, perhaps, regarded as their enemy.

No such thoughts were in Jeffries Mayberry’s mind, however, as he rode slowly out of Red Flat in the early twilight. On the contrary, a smile played about his usually rather stern features, and his whole countenance was relaxed in an expression which, to any one viewing him, would have said as plain as print that Jeffries Mayberry was in a pleasant mood.

In fact, the crisis that he had feared seemed to the Indian agent’s mind to have passed the crucial point. The cavalry from Fort Miles would be at Sentinel Peak that evening. From there it was not a long ride to the valley in which the dance was to be held. By midnight, he felt certain, things would be in train for the peaceful return of the Moquis to their reservation. Jeffries Mayberry was, as our readers have doubtless decided by this time, a man to whom the idea of bloodshed or violence was abhorrent, but also a man who looked upon duty unflinchingly. He regarded the Moquis more as children to be looked after, and chided, and reasoned with, than as bloodthirsty and cruel savages, in whom a thin veneer of civilization only skinned the savagery festering below. Men had often told Jeffries Mayberry that his view of the Indian character was wrong, but he had always defended his views. They were shortly destined to be put to the severest test a man’s theories ever were called upon to bear.

The Indian agent had ridden easily down the trail some two miles or so in the direction of Sentinel Mountain, when Ranger suddenly swerved so violently from the trail as almost to unseat him.

“Steady, boy, steady!” soothed the agent, patting the alarmed animal’s neck. “What is it?”

Ranger snorted violently and then, trembling in every limb, came to a dead stop.

“Why, Ranger, I ” began Mr. Mayberry, when, with hideous yells, several dark forms rushed from the surrounding gloom. As their soul-chilling yell burst from those hideously painted faces, distorted with the vilest of passions, a terrific blow was dealt the Indian agent from behind, and he fell forward, almost beneath the trampling hoofs of the maddened Ranger.

His assailants were the same Indians who had been trailing him all the previous night, and who had lain in wait for him outside the settlement.

The taste of blood is said to transmute a hitherto peaceful sheep dog into a creature more dangerous to his flock than even a marauding wolf. In like manner, the Moquis’ dash off the reservation had converted them into a ferocity of mind which had speedily wiped off the varnish civilization had applied so painstakingly.

While one of the Indians, seemingly the leader of the band, possessed himself of the agent’s fine rifle, another hastened to seize the plunging Ranger’s bridle. But the animal, beside himself with rage and fear, reared straight upright. Angered, the Indian dealt him a blow with a heavy rawhide quirt. With a squeal of rage, Ranger struck with his iron-shod forefeet at the redskin, and striking him on the head, toppled him over in the road beside his master.

The fellow, however, was not badly hurt, and was soon on his feet again. Meanwhile, the other red men hoisted the agent’s unconscious form over the back of one of their ponies.

Jeffries Mayberry lay as if he were dead. Blood flowed from the wound that the weapon with which he had been struck had inflicted on the back of his head. Only the regular rising and falling of his deep, massive chest showed that he still lived.

Glancing furtively about them, the Indians, including the one who had been felled by Ranger, remounted and prepared to proceed. The chief, however, on whose pony the still form of Jeffries Mayberry lay, found himself thus without a mount, and essayed to ride Ranger. Splendid rider as the fellow was, he met more than his match in the Indian agent’s steed. Time and again he attempted to mount, only to be driven off by Ranger, who rushed at the member of the hated race, with bared teeth and ears wickedly set back.

With a laugh that acknowledged his defeat, the Indian finally gave up the attempt, and mounted his pony, sitting far back on the animal’s rump. In the glance he threw at the fiery Ranger there was an expression of admiration and respect. There are few horses that an Indian cannot master.

Attempts to lead Ranger proved equally hopeless, but as he seemed to be inclined to follow his master’s form, they allowed him to trail behind. And so the procession wound on, sometimes following a trail and sometimes striking off through the trackless wild. Never once did the redskins falter, but kept on as unhesitatingly as if following a beaten track.

Occasionally, as they journeyed on, poor Ranger gave vent to a pathetic whinny, but the master he loved so well lay still and motionless on the back of the Indian pony that bore him.