The discovery of Felipe seemed quite a godsend to Backus as he wended his way through the Indian lands back to San Remo. Had he had a pistol on him when Stephens struck him that morning he would have shot him, or tried to shoot him, then and there. But now that his fit of passion had gone by, he determined to pay the prospector out in his own way and at his own time. Looking at the matter in cooler blood he could see that he would let himself in for a lot of trouble if he killed Stephens with his own hand. In the first place, there would be a trial, and lawyers to be paid, and that would come expensive, very expensive; and, secondly, Stephens had friends capable of going on the war-path. These confounded redskin allies of his seemed so unaccountably devoted to him that they might take it into their heads to perforate anyone who harmed him in a highly unpleasant manner, to judge not only by Tito's talk, but by the action of this stubborn old squaw, who had flatly told him at last that he shouldn't even set eyes on Stephens's girl in his absence. And now here was just what he wanted, an instrument prepared to his hand. With a little judicious spurring, a little help on the sly, Felipe would be quite ready to stick a knife in Stephens's back some night, or blow the top of his head off, and he, Backus, would stand entirely clear—ay, need not even lose the trade of the pueblo. Really it seemed quite providential. The only question that occurred to him was, whether Felipe would come down to see him, which would be most convenient, or whether he would have to go back to the pueblo to hunt for him. "But there's small fear of that," said he, as his horse splashed through the Santiago River before entering San Remo; "that sore arm of his'll bring him along, if not to-night, then to-morrow, certain."
Mr. Backus was exceedingly accurate in his diagnosis of Felipe's frame of mind, as well as of the condition of his arm. The young Indian obeyed him implicitly in the matter of going home, taking food, and lying down to obtain a good rest. He rose again later in the afternoon, and went for the second time to Reyna's house, only to find that for him there was to be no admission. Reyna was perfectly clear that until Stephens came back and settled what was to be done, the less the young people saw of each other the better it would be for all concerned. She was very friendly, rather amusing, and perfectly inexorable. As to the health of her patient, all Felipe could learn was that she was getting along nicely, thank you, and was in absolute need of rest, and would be so for a day or two longer,—until Stephens came back in fact. At present she would not even go out of doors.
All which did but root more firmly in Felipe's mind the conviction that Josefa was destined for Stephens, and that this was why the door was barred against him. Nursing his wrath, he turned away to meet Tito. For the second time he tried to borrow Tito's pistol, which that discreet young man entirely declined to let him have so long as he continued in his present frame of mind.
"You can't want it to defend yourself, Felipe," he said very decidedly, "for the cacique isn't here."
"Yes," said the boy sullenly, "but he'll be back in two or three days, and I'm not going to have him shooting at me again, and I not have anything to shoot back with."
"Pooh!" said Tito, "don't you fret yourself. He's not going to bother you any more, you may be sure. Take it easy; that's all past and gone."
But Felipe declined to take it easy. Finding Tito's mind was quite made up, he went back to his mother's house, and announced his intention of going down to San Remo to get his arm dressed by the storekeeper. He took his blanket with him, and added, as he started, that if Backus would let him sleep down there, he wasn't coming back till the morrow, or even later. He reached the store at dark, and found Mr. Backus at home.
"Come right in," said the Texan, as the boy with his blanket wrapped round him appeared in the doorway of the house after knocking, "come right in and set down. I was expecting you." He placed him in the light of a kerosene lamp, undid the arm, and dressed the wound again with some stinging stuff out of a bottle that made it smart. But the sharp throb of the wound gave no such stab to Felipe as the inquiry, casually dropped, "Wal', have you called on Mrs. Stephens to pay your respects yet?"
The boy confessed his vain attempt.
"Hah!" said the Texan, "so they're keeping her locked up tight, eh? Well, well; that's rather tough on you. But I don't wonder at it, now that Mr. Stephens and the cacique are in cahoots together. Of course they don't want anybody smelling around there when they are off and out of the way. No, they've got her there and they mean to keep her. But I know what I'd do if a man stole my gal away from me and shut her up."
"What would you do?" inquired Felipe, with averted eyes. He had his head turned to one side, and was looking down at the hole in his arm which Backus was dressing.
"Me!" said Backus, "I'd fill the hound's hide so full of holes that it wouldn't hold shucks. That's what I'd do. And I'd lay for him, too, and get him when he wasn't expecting it. A man like that, as would steal another man's gal away from him, don't deserve any more show than a mad dog."
"I haven't got a pistol,"—Felipe's voice trembled a little as he said this,—"but I could buy one, perhaps, if it wasn't too dear, if I knew of one for sale."
"A knife's surer than a pistol," said the Texan cautiously; "though I allow a feller that's only got his left arm to use is rather at a disadvantage with a knife. So he is with a pistol, unless he practises shooting left-handed. However, if he gets up close, and takes his man from behind when he aint looking out for it, he can't hardly miss, and he hadn't ought to need a second shot."
"Do you know of anyone that's got a pistol for sale?" said the boy earnestly.
"Wal', yes," said the Texan, "I do happen to know of a very good pistol that's for sale. In fact, a man left it with me to be disposed of." Mr. Backus did not deal in firearms, but second-hand ones sometimes came in his way as part payment of a debt. "I could sell it for him, and afford to take a very reasonable price for it. It's a first-class weapon." He finished tying up the wounded arm, and released his patient.
"Thank you, señor, a thousand thanks for all your kindness," said Felipe, rising. "May I see the pistol?"
The storekeeper took a key from his pocket, unlocked a chest, and produced a heavy, old-fashioned, muzzle-loading Colt's revolver in a leather holster. He drew it out; it was well smeared with grease. He pulled the hammer to half-cock, and spun the cylinder round, click, click, click, with his finger.
"She's not new," he remarked; "but she goes like clockwork, and she'll throw a conical ball through four inches of pine wood. I've tried her at a mark, too, and she'll hit the size of a silver dollar at ten yards every pop, if you're man enough to hold her steady." He handed it over to Felipe, who examined it with great care. Though he had never owned a weapon of his own, he knew how to handle one. They did not read or write in the pueblo, but they had compulsory education for all that; every boy learned two necessary things, the use of weapons and the use of tools. And they never required any salaried attendance officer to drive them to school. The boy drew back the hammer with his left thumb, holding the barrel with his stiff right hand, and squinted down the sights.
"That's right," said Backus approvingly, "I see you know all about it. Now that pistol cost fifteen dollars new, and I can sell it to you for four dollars and a half, and there's a little ammunition that goes with it, thrown in. It's as good as new, too; these Colt's pistols never wear out, but they've got a new style now with copper cartridges, and that's why these old-fashioned ones are cheap." It was all quite true. Mr. Backus loved truth, it got you such a useful reputation; he never lied except when he thought it would pay him, and then he could lie like a gas-meter.
Felipe produced the cash, and slipped his belt through the loop of the holster. He felt himself more a man now; from this time forward he would go "heeled."
"No use your going back all that way to the pueblo," said the storekeeper, "and it won't do your arm any good. I can let you sleep here in an outhouse, and I've lots of sheepskins I've traded for that you can spread down for a bed." The Indians despise soft mattresses, but love to lie on skins.
For the next three days Felipe was Backus's guest. His wounded arm made rapid progress towards recovery, and the boy spent his days either squatting in the store with his blanket drawn round him, silently noting all that went on, or in lounging round the corral, looking after Backus's horse and practising aiming at a mark with his new toy. He could not afford to waste his ammunition, but Backus showed him how to put on old caps to save the tubes from the blow of the hammer, and by snapping it thus he acquired a useful familiarity with his weapon.
For three days no tiding came to San Remo of Manuelita and her captors, or of their pursuers. But on the fourth morning two young Mexicans came spurring in from the westward, and reined up their weary horses before one of the San Remo corrals. They were soon surrounded by eager questioners, boys and women mostly, and the storekeeper and Felipe were not long in joining the throng. The young men felt their own importance, and dealt out their information gradually. No, there had been nothing to call a fight, and no one was hurt, though there had been some shots fired. Yes, the Señorita Manuelita Sanchez was all right. She and the Americano, Don Estevan, and the Navajos were all coming home together in one party; and Don Nepomuceno and Don Andrés with the rest of the Mexicans were also coming home together, but by a different route, and along with them were the Santiago trailers. The various incidents of the expedition,—of the loss of the trail and of the finding it again, of the renewed pursuit almost to the verge of the Lava Beds, and of the meeting there between the party of Mexicans and the returning Santiago trailers, who announced to them that Stephens, with Manuelita and the Navajos, were already on their way back to San Remo,—all these things had to be related at length and with impressive detail. And then, their horses unsaddled and attended to, these young men, who had been riding a good part of the night, slipped away to contrive an interview with their sweethearts, to get quickly back to whom they had ridden far and fast. The young men of San Remo were neither laggards in love nor dastards in war.
"I think, mebbe, if I was you," said Backus to the young Indian, "I'd contrive not to be here just when they arrive, but go off somewheres and keep out of the way. If you have a notion in your head to do anything, better not let folks see you, as it were, waiting for anyone—you understand?"
Felipe understood perfectly. In the past three days he and Backus had come to understand one another only too well; there was no formal conspiracy between them; Backus was much too cautious to give himself entirely away to any confederate, more especially to one so green and inexperienced as this Indian boy, but each was perfectly aware of the other's feelings towards the prospector.
"Why shouldn't you jes' go back to your folks for the rest of the day," continued Backus, "and let 'em know how you're getting on? Likely enough the cacique and his son-in-law" (he always alluded to Stephens now as the cacique's son-in-law) "will be going on up there too, and you might chance to hear something interesting if you lie low. You can come back down here again after dark if you like, and I'll do up your arm for you as usual."
Felipe took the hint, and was off at once. The rest and good food, for Backus treated him extremely well—it was part of his game—had quite restored his strength, and except for having to carry his right arm in a sling he felt fit for anything.
Later on in the morning arrived the main party of Mexicans, headed by Don Nepomuceno and his son. They dispersed to their different houses to dispose of their horses and be welcomed back by their families, but they did not lay aside their arms, and it was not very long before they reassembled at the Sanchez house in expectation of the arrival of the other party. The cacique and his three fellow-tribesmen of Santiago preferred not to await the return of the Navajos, but pushed on at once for their own pueblo.
But, for the waiting Mexicans, hour after hour passed and no sign of the Navajos or of Manuelita and Stephens appeared. The sun climbed high in the heavens and sank slowly to the west, and still their coming was delayed. True, their exact route was not known, but it was guessed (and correctly guessed) that it was the short cut through the sierra, and if so it was calculated that they should have arrived long before noon. The anxiety became painful. All sorts of theories to account for the delay were started. There had been a quarrel between Stephens and the Navajos; they had killed him and Manuelita, or had at least made them captives and carried them farther into the wilderness to a securer hiding-place. Or Stephens and Manuelita had made their escape from them during the night, and were now in hiding in the sierra, besieged there, perchance in some cave, and defended by the deadly rifle of the American. Many possible explanations were discussed, and many tales of Navajo treachery recalled to mind; but there was nothing to be done except wait.
Yet the cause of the delay was perfectly simple, and the result of the merest accident. When daylight came, and the sleeping band of Navajos awoke to find that four of their horses had strayed off, the owners immediately started on their trail to recover them, and till they returned Mahletonkwa declined to budge. He absolutely refused to divide his party, or to allow the American and the girl to proceed alone. Under the circumstances there was nothing to be done but wait, and Stephens determined to make the best of it. Hardy as he was, he could not but feel the strain of the efforts he had been making, followed as they were by a whole night on guard. He now left Manuelita to tend the fire and keep a daylight watch; he threw himself on the ground, wrapped in his blanket, under the shade of a bush, drew his hat over his eyes, and in two minutes was fast asleep.
It was well into the afternoon when the four Navajos rode bareback into camp with their truant steeds that had caused all this delay. Manuelita saw them arrive, and was glad to think that the hour for their final departure had come; once more she looked across where Stephens was still sleeping, and seeing that the babbling talk of the Indians, who were already saddling up, did not rouse him, she went over to where he lay and laid her hand lightly on his shoulder.
"Oh, Don Estevan," she said in her softest voice; but it was as if she had unwittingly touched the trigger of a gun. She was startled at the suddenness with which he bounded to his feet, broad awake, rifle in hand, the ominous click-clack of the lever sounding loud as he instinctively threw in a cartridge from the magazine; his flashing eyes darted one swift glance around, and then in an instant he recognised that there was no need for disquiet.
"Pshaw!" he said in half-apology, "I guess I was dreaming. Sorry if I startled you, señorita. I suppose I'm on my nerve a bit with all this trouble there's been." He looked at the sun. "By George! but it's afternoon already, and I thought I'd just lain down for a five-minutes' nap. That over there means the Navajos have come in with the lost horses, I suppose?" He indicated the busy folk a little way off, where preparations for the start were going on.
"Yes," she answered, "they have but just arrived with them. That was why I ventured to call you."
"They must have had the dickens of a chase after them; those Indian ponies are beggars to stray," he remarked, carefully working the lever so as to extract the cartridge from the chamber. "And there's nothing happened, señorita, whilst I was asleep? All's quiet along the Potomac, eh?"
"No," she answered, "nothing has happened. I think the Indians have been rather suspicious that they might be attacked; they've most of them been out in the brush all morning on the watch."
"And you've been on watch here by the camp-fire," he said, "and I've been sleeping there like a log when I might have been talking to you"; he looked in her eyes with a smile as he rallied himself for his lack of gallantry. "And you've made yourself smart for the home-coming, I see. That's right, señorita. You're not going to play the poor captive, not by no manner of means. We've just been out for a cheerful picnic party, we have, like those high-toned tenderfoot outfits that come out from the East and go to camping out in South Park with an escort of Utes to do them honour. Well, well; the pleasantest picnics have got to come to an end some time, and I see our escort under Mr. Mahletonkwa are really thinking of starting. I'd better go and catch up Morgana, and then we'll have you home in three hours. How's that for high?"