At sight of Rocky bleeding at his feet, something seemed suddenly to snap in Stephens's brain, and the secret rage that had been consuming him for days blazed out. This was open war at last, and the Navajos themselves had begun it. It was their own choice.
"So now then," said he, "they shall have it."
Almost before Mahletonkwa could draw his dripping blade from his victim's body, the American's strong grasp seized him and swung him violently round. Stephens's right hand gripped the hilt of his great hunting-knife, and with it he dealt the red man one terrible stroke as with a sword. All the strength of his arm and all the wrath of his soul went into that mighty sweep of the blade, and he felt the keen edge shear right through bone and muscle as it clove the doomed man's breast asunder and split his heart in twain. The dying yell of the Indian rent the air with so piercing a sound that the women in the Sanchez house, three furlongs off, heard it, and sprang trembling to their feet. With both his hands the American raised his stricken foe aloft and flung him clear away, a corpse before he touched ground.
It was all over in five seconds; but Stephens knew it could not end there. This was no final blow in a single combat, it was rather the first in one where the odds were still ten to one against him. Mahletonkwa's followers were swiftly unslinging their guns, save four who had sprung to their horses, whether to fight or fly he could not tell. Like a flash the American's ready six-shooter was out from his belt. Notalinkwa was nearest him, his gun already at his shoulder; but the too careful Indian paused a moment on his aim to make sure, and that pause was fatal. As the American's pistol came up level the hammer fell, and Notalinkwa, shot through the heart, pitched heavily forward, and lay there prone on the brown earth, biting it convulsively in the strong death-agony.
With the rapidity of lightning the deadly weapon spoke again, and again, and again, and as each jet of smoke and flame leapt from the muzzle, each bullet, true to its mark, laid an enemy low. If Stephens thought at all during those breathless seconds in which he sent foe after foe to his last account, it was but to say to himself, "Quick, now, quick! Be quick, but sure!"
Navajo rifle-balls whistled by him, but he felt no fear; there was no room for that, for his whole soul now was bent upon one passionate purpose,—to kill, kill, kill.
As the fourth Navajo dropped to his fourth shot, he saw the rest run, and gave one wild shout of triumph, and even as his voice rang out his fifth barrel went off, and down dropped yet another of the gang. It seemed as though he could not miss a single shot to-day.
"Oh, Doctor," he cried, "oh, Doctor! quick here, Rocky's hurt!" but he did not turn his head as he shouted to him to help his wounded friend.
The four Indians who had already mounted were off and away, and Kaniache, the last of those who had turned to fight when Mahletonkwa was slain, had now lost heart and was springing to horse to follow them. What chance was there to fight against a man like this, on whom no Navajo rifle-balls seemed to have any effect, but whose own unerring bullets slew a victim at each shot? He was no mere man, but an avenging fury.
Alas for Kaniache! the resolve to fly came too late. As he reached the saddle Stephens raised his six-shooter for the last time, and the foresight came into the V-notch of the hammer just below the red man's shoulder blade as he turned to flee. The last of the six cartridges spoke, once more the jet of flame and smoke leaped from the muzzle, and Kaniache dropped forward on the neck of his steed, clutching blindly and desperately at the mane. The horse bounded forward after the others that had fled before him, his rider's hot blood pouring down his withers, and dropping on to his knees at every stride. Then the desperate clutch relaxed, and the death-stricken Kaniache pitched heavily to the ground, and with loose rein the riderless steed galloped wildly across the plain.
"Hurrah," shouted Stephens again as he darted to his mare, "hurrah! Run, you dogs, run!"
The sweetest moment in a man's life is when he looks in the eyes of his mistress and knows that his love is returned; the proudest is when he sees in front of him his foes, but sees nothing but their backs. And to Stephens both these things came in one hour.
He raised the rein, and Morgana bounded forward in pursuit. His eye glancing around fell upon the figure of Doctor Benton just leaping from the stage waggon, pistol in hand. He had heard the rapid shots before he heard Stephens's shout, and his first impulse had been to catch up his weapon and take his share in the fighting. But so quick had been the deadly work that there was no one for him to turn loose on save the dead or dying redskins who bestrewed the ground, and he paused as if undecided what to do.
Stephens settled the question for him.
"Hurry up, there, Doc," he shouted over his shoulder to him, "hurry up, or Rocky'll be dead." And looking back he saw the army surgeon run across to where the prostrate white man lay.
Seeing this, he was satisfied skilled hands would do all that was possible to save his old partner. For himself there was only one course, to go on right to the bitter end as he had begun, and avenge on the whole murderous gang the wanton knife-stroke of their chief,—ay, and more, to avenge upon them, too, the terrors of Manuelita, and the murder of that lonely wanderer in the mountains whom he and the whole lot of them had so foully done to death beside the Lone Pine. For all that long account, vengeance should be taken to the very last drop.
He looked ahead: the four fugitives were galloping a quarter of a mile in front of him, making not for the sierra, but for the more open valley of the Agua Negra. He was clearing the last of the San Remo houses now, and as he did so he heard the thunder of horsehoofs on his right, and two well-mounted Mexicans dashed forth from the corrals to join in the pursuit. They were the same young men who the day before had ridden in ahead of Don Nepomuceno's party to rejoin their sweethearts. They had heard the firing begin, had seen the fray, and mounted in hot haste to play their part.
"Bueno!" he shouted when he saw them, "bueno, boys! Wade in. We'll give 'em a dose of it between us."
The Mexicans cheered back to him, and plied their quirts; Morgana was going at three quarters racing speed, but they sent their horses along from the start as if they were running a quarter-mile dash. The house from which they came was a little to one side of the Indians' line of flight, and they made for their line at such an angle that they gained a decided advantage both on them and on the American, and were enabled to cut ahead of the latter. The fugitives, hearing the shouts, and looking back and becoming aware of these new pursuers, at once began to flog, but the rearmost Navajo's horse could not answer to the whip, and the tremendous pace at which the Mexicans had started carried them right up to within fifty yards of him.
Out came their revolvers, bang, bang, bang! they went at him, and again, bang, bang, bang! But such wild firing as this over the heads of galloping horses is random work at best, and the Navajo went on scathless.
"Esperate! Esperate!" sang out Stephens from behind. "You're wasting your ammunition. Wait till you're closer, boys." But in spite of his wiser counsels he still heard them firing away, bang, bang, bang!
Young blood soon gets hot in the chase; and then Stephens saw a curious sight. Bang went the leading Mexican's revolver once more, and this time the bullet, better aimed or more lucky, found its mark. The Navajo's horse was seen to stagger and stumble and then come down, the rider leaping nimbly off over its head; he lit on his feet like a cat, and he held his bow and some arrows in his left hand; in the twinkling of an eye he was ready for them, and as the Mexicans rode headlong at him he slapped an arrow into the first and brought him heavily to the ground; like lightning a second arrow was fitted to the string, and he let fly again, and the arrow buried itself to the feather in the breast of the second man's horse, and horse and rider both fell almost on top of him. The Navajo caught the rein of the first man's horse with which to resume his flight, while the second Mexican was still struggling with his fallen steed; and so marvellously quick and adroit was he that he must have succeeded in getting away but for the American. The moment Stephens saw the arrow-stricken horse roll over, he drew rein, and in half a dozen strides brought his mare to a standstill. He would not jerk her on to her haunches, for he was saving her strength for what promised to be a long chase. Before she had actually stopped he was on the ground, rifle in hand, and ready to shoot. Then, as the Indian was bounding to the saddle of the captured horse, the deadly rifle came up, and the momentary poise of the bent body, as he threw his leg over, gave to the marksman the fatal opportunity. The rifle cracked, and the conical bullet tore clean through the Navajo's vitals and passed out at his right breast. His dexterous manoeuvre had been all in vain, and he fell forward under the horse's feet, and his spirit took flight to join that of his slain chief who had gone so little before him.
Stephens leaped into the saddle again, and galloped up. The unwounded Mexican had freed himself unhurt from his prostrate mount, and was now trying to draw the arrow from his friend.
"Go on, you," he cried to Stephens as the latter checked his speed, "go on, you, and kill los demonios, kill them all." The American took him at his word, and away darted Morgana again in her stretching gallop. There were only three redskins left now, and they were some distance ahead, but the gallant little Morgan mare pressed steadily after them. The foam flakes began to fly from her bit, but she was full of spirit and going strong. He glanced down at his waist and saw the bright copper tops of the row of unused cartridges that encircled it. Stephens was one of those men who grow cold as they grow hot. His brain was like molten metal under a crust of ice. Shifting reins and rifle into one hand, he composedly felt the belt all round with the other; there was but one vacant loop, and this assured him that there were thirty-nine more there in reserve.
"Seven Indians in seven shots," said he cynically; "that must come pretty near making a record. Well, if I can only keep up that lick now!" His relentless eye measured the gap between him and his flying foes. With joy he noted that it was decreasing, for his whole soul longed to close with them and slay, slay, slay.
This blood thirst in him was a new thing. He had been in battles before, but he had never felt like this. The strained nerve, the hot fever of strife, the passionate will to win, none of these sensations were new to him, though he had not known them since the day of Apache Cañon. But when Coloradans and Texans met in conflict he had not felt as he did now. He had had no race feeling against foes whom he looked upon as Western men like himself. He had no personal wrongs to avenge upon them; all he wanted was to send them back to where they came from; to stop them from conquering the Rocky Mountain country and breaking up the Union; in short, he only wanted to hammer them back into brotherhood. This was a different thing; now there was a fire burning in his veins that would not be satisfied till the last one of his enemies lay dead at his feet. It was not merely victory he wanted, but vengeance. The shedders of the innocent blood, that cried against them from the ground, should be utterly wiped out from the face of the earth. He would not leave one of them alive.
And ever the game little Morgan mare strode bravely along, and now his heart leaped to perceive that the Indians were losing more and more rapidly the advantage they had gained at the start. By this time there was distinctly less than a quarter of a mile between him and them.
"Good for you, Pedro," he cried, as he noted the gain the mare was making; "you didn't stint her feed last night. Don Nepomuceno's corn sticks by your ribs, little lady"; and at the sound of her master's voice Morgana pricked her ears and strode out more bravely than ever. He had not touched her yet with the spur.
Overnight Mahletonkwa and his gang had betaken themselves some little distance down the Santiago River to enjoy themselves in their own way with the illicit whiskey they had procured from the storekeeper, and there they had turned their ponies loose to graze. There was rich green grass in the moist swales along the river-bed, and their steeds had feasted on it. The young April grass tells its tale in a long gallop, and Stephens began to see that their horses were already in distress. He gave his bridle-rein a shake, and touched Morgana with the spur; right gallantly she responded, and the gap now diminished fast. He was overhauling them hand over hand. He turned his head and looked back; he could see for miles behind him, but there was no one in sight. No doubt as soon as they could get together there would be many Mexican friends who would take up his trail and follow it, eager to help, but that could not be for some time yet. Once more it was his lot to play a lone hand.
And still the gap grew less; the Indians looked back oftener and oftener, and their whips were plied mercilessly all the time. Only a bare hundred yards separated him from them now.
Stephens kept his eye glued to them, expecting them every instant to jump off and receive him with a volley. That certainly seemed to be the best game for them to play, as their horses were so nearly done. The question was, would they try it? If they did, he too must leap off and shoot as quick as they. The Winchester, he thought, would give the three of them shot for shot and something over.
But to stand up to it and give and take shot for shot was not the Indians' style of doing business. They had no spirit left in them to face this terrible man in the open; just here, however, the trail approached a spot more suitable to their methods of fighting. A bold and lofty butte, a landmark known far and wide as the Cerro Chato, rose abruptly a little to one side of the trail, and the Navajos suddenly swung off to the right and made for it, hoping to gain the shelter of the broken masses of rock that were strewn about its base, and from that vantage-ground defy their merciless pursuer.
Stephens divined their object the moment they turned for the butte; he also changed his course, and he now spurred freely and spoke to the mare and encouraged her with his voice. The staunch Morgan blood answered to the call; there was a spurt still left in her, and she fairly raced them for the rocks. But though she was doing all she knew, the Indians got there first. They sprang to earth, and as they did so Stephens did the same, scarce fifty yards behind them. They darted for hiding to the cleft of rocks; two got there, but one was too late; just as he reached his goal the leaden messenger outwent him, and he felt the crippling blow; it caught him in the thigh as he ran, and the broken limb gave way under him; still, on his hands and knees, he dragged himself desperately forward almost into the longed-for haven of refuge, but another bullet, pumped up from the magazine, followed all too swiftly on the first, and broke his spine, and a third gave the merciful coup-de-grâce and put him out of his pain.
"There's something mighty persuasive about a Winchester," jeered Stephens, hastily throwing in another cartridge as he rushed forward, and casting just one glance at the body as he passed. The persuasive repeating rifle had pumped lead to some purpose into White Antelope. Never again would he see the rich valleys of the Chusca Mountains where so often he had roamed with his tribe; no more would he tend his flock, like the patriarch of old, and lead from pasture to water, and from water to pasture the spotted and ringstreaked herd of many-horned sheep whose innocent faces he knew so well. Here, under the Cerro Chato, coyotes and eagle-hawks would pick his bones, and the little booth of boughs where his squaw and his papooses waited for him—the little booth that to each wandering son of the desert stands for home—would never see him more.
War is cruel work. The renegade Navajo band had brought this on themselves, and richly deserved what they got, yet, take it all round, retribution, however just, is a butcherly job.
"Two more left, and I'm bound to rub it in," said Stephens, plunging in amongst the rocks lest the pair who had already found cover should take advantage of his exposed position outside.
Above them the butte rose abruptly to a height of two or three hundred feet, but the face of it was so much broken down that the fallen fragments had made a slope half way up it, while the largest detached blocks had rolled in numbers to the very bottom and lay confusedly heaped together or loosely scattered around.
"It's pretty near as good a place for these sons of guns as the Lava Beds," he said; "only, thank my stars, there aren't so many of them now. Yet, I've got to go to work mighty cautious here, or else I'll give myself away for good and all." He wiped his streaming face as he crouched behind a rock for a minute or two to recover his breath and decide on the next move.
"Git 'em!" he went on, "I've got to git 'em, as the boy said; and there's no two ways about it. But how am I going to git 'em? that's the next question. If I stand straight up and try to walk right on to them, they're simply bound to have the deadwood on me. There'd be no show at all for me in that game. I've got to try and play it more their own style."
Very cautiously, foot by foot, surveying the ground on every side at each change of position, he began to move around. Dead silence reigned, broken here by no war-whoops as in the Lava Beds; the desperate red men were biding their time; hid in the rocks they knew their advantage, and reckoned at last to turn the tables on their pursuer with a vengeance.
The hot sun blazed down on him as the American patiently crept from the shelter of one rock to another, but neither sign nor sound of his enemies could he detect. Out on the plain he could see that his mare had joined the horses abandoned by the Indians, and was making friends with them. They were getting over the effects of their gallop already, and were beginning to try a nibble at the grass.
"Make friends with them as much as you like, little lady," said he, apostrophising the mare; "it's all right for you, though I can't—at least not yet. There's eleven thousand peaceable Navajos living on their reservation that I'm quite ready to be friends with, but this band of cutthroats has got to be wiped clean out. 'Hit hard when you do hit,' was old Grant's motto every time, and I reckon he knew pretty well what he was about."
On he moved again, warily searching each hole and cranny where the great rocks had fallen against each other and formed shelters.
Suddenly, as he paused a moment in his advance, listening, there came to his ears from far away a welcome, well-known sound. It was the voice of a dog giving tongue on the trail.
"Faro, by all the powers!" he cried. "Why, he must have heard the shooting at the store and come a-running to see what was up, and then not finding me there he's taken the trail of the mare."
Straining his eyes he discerned a dark spot advancing over the plain; nearer it came and nearer, and then was heard a joyful bark of recognition as the dog rushed up to the head of the grazing mare and greeted her vociferously. But soon, not finding with her the master whom he loved best of all, he left her, and questing round he came upon his trail where Stephens had dismounted to shoot, and again he eagerly gave tongue and came running towards the rocks. But at the body of White Antelope he checked.
"Now," said Stephens, standing with his back against a rock, with his rifle cocked and ready, "if those sons of guns lay themselves out to shoot him they're bound to give me a chance to spot where they are, and I'll see if I can't give them what for."
Keeping his eye on the alert for any move of theirs, he gave a sharp whistle. But the hidden red men, though they both heard him and saw the dog, would not take the risk of exposing themselves to his deadly aim, and in another minute the excited bulldog was leaping up and fawning on the master to whom he was devoted, as if to reproach him for having left his most faithful ally behind.
Stephens patted and encouraged him, making him understand that there was game afoot, and, warily as if stalking a deer, took him back to where White Antelope lay stiff and stark. As he smelt the blood again Faro growled and his bristles rose; his master encouraged him till the dog knew what he meant; the game they were after was not deer—it was men. He took up the scent of the two Navajos who had escaped into the rocks, and followed it with his hackles erect. In and out among the labyrinth of tumbled rocks he led the way, and Stephens kept up with him as best he could without exposing himself too recklessly. The trail grew hotter and hotter, till on a sudden Faro turned sharply aside and dashed out of sight behind a huge boulder; instantly there followed his loud, angry bark, and a half-stifled cry of human rage.
With his rifle raised nearly to his shoulder, Stephens put his head round the angle of the boulder, to see an Indian standing almost within arm's length of him with his back against the rock, angrily striking with his gun at the dog, who was baying furiously as he sprang from side to side to avoid the blows. Stephens had no time to look around to see where the other redskin was, for at sight of him the Navajo, disregarding the dog, raised his rifle and fired, and the Winchester cracked almost in the same instant. So close were the two to one another that the burst of flame and powder smoke from the Indian's piece momentarily blinded the American.
"I must be done for now," was the despairing thought that flashed through his mind in the utter helplessness of loss of sight; yet he felt no wound, and blind as he was he instinctively threw in a fresh cartridge for a second shot. Then his smarting eyes began to recover themselves; hope came back; he was not blinded; he found himself able to see again, though with difficulty; and there at his feet was the body of the Navajo and the dog worrying him. He flung himself on the pair to protect, if need be, his ever faithful ally, but need was none. His bullet had gone home, and the Navajo was sped. He dragged the infuriated bulldog from his prey.
"Luck's all," said he, dashing the water from his eyes. "I don't know how I came to plug him so squarely; I never even saw the sights; I thought I was a goner that journey, sure."
He looked around with restored vision to try if he could descry the last of the gang, but there was no sign of him visible; it seemed as if the pair must either have separated somehow before he and Faro came up to their hiding-place, or else the survivor had fled on his companion's fall.
"And that's lucky for me, too," said Stephens, "for he could just have socked it into me as he liked when I was blinded with all that powder smoke."
"Come on then, Faro," he continued, patting the dog, and encouraging him to take up the trail again. "One more, and our job's done. Hie on, old man, he can't be far away."
With eager pride the dog began questing anew for the scent, nosing inquisitively to right and to left, and Stephens, as before, followed him warily. They did not have to go far before the dog's stiffening bristles showed that the enemy was near. Three great detached masses of stone, fallen together haphazard, so bore against each other as to leave underneath a low, dark, cavernous recess, and into the mouth of this the dog dashed without a pause. The fierce sounds of conflict that instantly followed proved that it was the hiding-place of the hunted man.
For one anxious moment Stephens doubted whether to shoot or no, but standing outside in the bright light he could see nothing clear in the dark recess, and to shoot at random into it was to hazard killing his own friend. Then there came a loud howl from Faro, and unhesitatingly he drew his knife, dropped on all-fours, and laying the rifle aside threw himself head first into the cave, and in the darkness grappled for his foe. His left hand, thrust forward, seized an arm of the other, and swiftly in reply came the sharp, cold pang of a knife drawn across the back of it, and the warm gush of blood following the cut. As he felt the wound, his right hand instinctively let go of his own knife and seized the wrist of the hand wielding the blade that had cut him, the redskin frantically striving to get the hand free to deal him a fatal stab.
The two men had clinched for the death-grapple, and in their furious struggles they dashed one another against the sides and roof of the narrow cave. Dear life hung in the balance, and both knew it well. Stephens's left hand had no grip left in it, but he could use the arm to bear down his opponent, while his strong right hand held on like a vice to the wrist it had seized, and kept the deadly blade from being plunged into him. Mute as wolves they battled for the mastery; the sweat poured off them like rain, and their breath came in short, hard pants. Then with joy Stephens felt that his right hand was overpowering his enemy's and with all his might he dashed the Indian's hand and the knife it held so violently against the rough rock wall that the blade snapped short off at the haft. One despairing effort the active red man made to twist himself clear, but in the narrow space his litheness was of no avail, and by sheer strength Stephens got him under and turned him on his face. A short moment they paused, exhausted and breathless, when suddenly the American released the other's wrist and clutched him by the throat. Writhe as he might the Indian could not throw him off, nor relax that fatal grip that was choking the very life out of him. Gradually he ceased to struggle, and Stephens knew now that victory was his; with a final effort he raised himself on one knee on the red man's back, and quickly shifting the grip of his right hand from the throat to the top of the head, with a sharp, hard jerk and backward wrench he broke his neck. A convulsive quiver ran through his enemy's limbs, and then died away. The last of the renegade gang was dead.
Bruised, battered, and bleeding, the victor dragged himself from out the cave that had so nearly been his tomb. The fight was finished, he had no enemies left, and he lay there weak and unstrung, his head resting on his blood-stained hands. "Why can't men be brothers?" he said. "But they would have it. They began. I didn't want to kill them. I wonder is Rocky dead? They're all good Indians now, anyway."
A dead Indian is reckoned a good Indian throughout the West. He can be trusted not to do any mischief.
His strength returning, he drew out the body of Faro from the cave, and felt him all over; he had been dashed senseless against the wall of the cave and three of his ribs were injured, but his heart still beat; he was not completely done for.
"Worth a whole herd of dead dogs yet," said his master, gently rubbing the brindled back which at first he had feared was broken. "A blacktail buck has used you up as bad before now." He fondled his head, and the dog, coming to, made a feeble attempt to lick his hand. "We'll find a way to tote you home, never fear, old man," he continued; "and it's odd if we can't scare up a nurse to fix you good when we get back."
He examined his own body; he was scraped and skinned by the rough rocks, and his shirt was torn half off him in the last struggle with the Indian; but except for the one severe knife-gash, which he carefully bound up, he had no serious wound.
He looked for his mare. She was grazing peacefully where he had left her, with her bridle trailing, as a hunter's horse should do. He looked away beyond her, far across the burning plain.
"I've played this hand alone," said he; "but I'm thinking it's getting about time for those San Remo folks to chip in."
And then in the distance, through the shimmering mirage that wavered before the eye, he saw a little cloud of dust arise like a travelling whirlwind.
He watched it; it was not one of nature's whirlwinds, for it came straight on up the trail, fast and steady. Men made that whirlwind, and soon they were near enough to be distinguished.
It was Don Andrés and a strong band of Mexicans riding like the Old Harry to the rescue.
"But I played it alone, for all that," he said.