CHAPTER XVI
EDDIE MAKES GOOD
BILLY BYRNE and Eddie Shorter rode steadily in the direction
of the hills. Upon either side and at intervals of a mile or
more stretched the others of their party, occasionally visible;
but for the most part not. Once in the hills the two could no
longer see their friends or be seen by them.
Both Byrne and Eddie felt that chance had placed them
upon the right trail for a well-marked and long-used path
wound upward through a canyon along which they rode. It
was an excellent location for an ambush, and both men
breathed more freely when they had passed out of it into
more open country upon a narrow tableland between the first
foothills and the main range of mountains.
Here again was the trail well marked, and when Eddie,
looking ahead, saw that it appeared to lead in the direction of
a vivid green spot close to the base of the gray brown hills he
gave an exclamation of assurance.
"We're on the right trail all right, old man," he said.
"They's water there," and he pointed ahead at the green
splotch upon the gray. "That's where they'd be havin' their
village. I ain't never been up here so I ain't familiar with the
country. You see we don't run no cattle this side the river--
the Pimans won't let us. They don't care to have no white
men pokin' round in their country; but I'll bet a hat we find a
camp there."
Onward they rode toward the little spot of green. Sometimes
it was in sight and again as they approached higher
ground, or wound through gullies and ravines it was lost to
their sight; but always they kept it as their goal. The trail they
were upon led to it--of that there could be no longer the
slightest doubt. And as they rode with their destination in
view black, beady eyes looked down upon them from the very
green oasis toward which they urged their ponies--tiring now
from the climb.
A lithe, brown body lay stretched comfortably upon a bed
of grasses at the edge of a little rise of ground beneath which
the riders must pass before they came to the cluster of huts
which squatted in a tiny natural park at the foot of the main
peak. Far above the watcher a spring of clear, pure water
bubbled out of the mountain-side, and running downward
formed little pools among the rocks which held it. And with
this water the Pimans irrigated their small fields before it sank
from sight again into the earth just below their village. Beside
the brown body lay a long rifle. The man's eyes watched,
unblinking, the two specks far below him whom he knew
and had known for an hour were gringos.
Another brown body wormed itself forward to his side and
peered over the edge of the declivity down upon the white
men. He spoke a few words in a whisper to him who watched
with the rifle, and then crawled back again and disappeared.
And all the while, onward and upward came Billy Byrne and
Eddie Shorter, each knowing in his heart that if not already,
then at any moment a watcher would discover them and a
little later a bullet would fly that would find one of them, and
they took the chance for the sake of the American girl who
lay hidden somewhere in these hills, for in no other way could
they locate her hiding place more quickly. Any one of the
other eight Americans who rode in pairs into the hills at other
points to the left and right of Billy Byrne and his companion
would have and was even then cheerfully taking the same
chances that Eddie and Billy took, only the latter were now
assured that to one of them would fall the sacrifice, for as
they had come closer Eddie had seen a thin wreath of smoke
rising from among the trees of the oasis. Now, indeed, were
they sure that they had chanced upon the trail to the Piman
village.
"We gotta keep our eyes peeled," said Eddie, as they
wound into a ravine which from its location evidently led
directly up to the village. "We ain't far from 'em now, an' if
they get us they'll get us about here."
As though to punctuate his speech with the final period a
rifle cracked above them. Eddie jumped spasmodically and
clutched his breast.
"I'm hit," he said, quite unemotionally.
Billy Byrne's revolver had answered the shot from above
them, the bullet striking where Billy had seen a puff of smoke
following the rifle shot. Then Billy turned toward Eddie.
"Hit bad?" he asked.
"Yep, I guess so," said Eddie. "What'll we do? Hide up
here, or ride back after the others?"
Another shot rang out above them, although Billy had been
watching for a target at which to shoot again--a target which
he had been positive he would get when the man rose to fire
again. And Billy did see the fellow at last--a few paces from
where he had first fired; but not until the other had dropped
Eddie's horse beneath him. Byrne fired again, and this time he
had the satisfaction of seeing a brown body rise, struggle a
moment, and then roll over once upon the grass before it
came to rest.
"I reckon we'll stay here," said Billy, looking ruefully at
Eddie's horse.
Eddie rose and as he did so he staggered and grew very
white. Billy dismounted and ran forward, putting an arm
about him. Another shot came from above and Billy Byrne's
pony grunted and collapsed.
"Hell!" exclaimed Byrne. "We gotta get out of this," and
lifting his wounded comrade in his arms he ran for the shelter
of the bluff from the summit of which the snipers had fired
upon them. Close in, hugging the face of the perpendicular
wall of tumbled rock and earth, they were out of range of the
Indians; but Billy did not stop when he had reached temporary
safety. Farther up toward the direction in which lay the
village, and halfway up the side of the bluff Billy saw what he
took to be excellent shelter. Here the face of the bluff was less
steep and upon it lay a number of large bowlders, while others
protruded from the ground about them.
Toward these Billy made his way. The wounded man
across his shoulder was suffering indescribable agonies; but he
bit his lip and stifled the cries that each step his comrade took
seemed to wrench from him, lest he attract the enemy to their
position.
Above them all was silence, yet Billy knew that alert, red
foemen were creeping to the edge of the bluff in search of
their prey. If he could but reach the shelter of the bowlders
before the Pimans discovered them!
The minutes that were consumed in covering the hundred
yards seemed as many hours to Billy Byrne; but at last he
dragged the fainting cowboy between two large bowlders close
under the edge of the bluff and found himself in a little,
natural fortress, well adapted to defense.
From above they were protected from the fire of the
Indians upon the bluff by the height of the bowlder at the
foot of which they lay, while another just in front hid them
from possible marksmen across the canyon. Smaller rocks
scattered about gave promise of shelter from flank fire, and as
soon as he had deposited Eddie in the comparative safety of
their retreat Byrne commenced forming a low breastwork
upon the side facing the village--the direction from which
they might naturally expect attack. This done he turned his
attention to the opening upon the opposite side and soon had
a similar defense constructed there, then he turned his attention
to Eddie, though keeping a watchful eye upon both
approaches to their stronghold.
The Kansan lay upon his side, moaning. Blood stained his
lips and nostrils, and when Billy Byrne opened his shirt and
found a gaping wound in his right breast he knew how
serious was his companion's injury. As he felt Billy working
over him the boy opened his eyes.
"Do you think I'm done for?" he asked in a tortured
whisper.
"Nothin' doin'," lied Billy cheerfully. "Just a scratch. You'll
be all right in a day or two."
Eddie shook his head wearily. "I wish I could believe you,"
he said. "I ben figgerin' on goin' back to see maw. I ain't
thought o' nothin' else since you told me 'bout how she
missed me. I ken see her right now just like I was there. I'll
bet she's scrubbin' the kitchen floor. Maw was always a-scrubbin'
somethin'. Gee! but it's tough to cash in like this
just when I was figgerin' on goin' home."
Billy couldn't think of anything to say. He turned to look
up and down the canyon in search of the enemy.
"Home!" whispered Eddie. "Home!"
"Aw, shucks!" said Billy kindly. "You'll get home all right,
kid. The boys must a-heard the shootin' an' they'll be along in
no time now. Then we'll clean up this bunch o' coons an'
have you back to El Orobo an' nursed into shape in no
time."
Eddie tried to smile as he looked up into the other's face.
He reached a hand out and laid it on Billy's arm.
"You're all right, old man," he whispered. "I know you're
lyin' an' so do you; but it makes me feel better anyway to
have you say them things."
Billy felt as one who has been caught stealing from a blind
man. The only adequate reply of which he could think was,
"Aw, shucks!"
"Say," said Eddie after a moment's silence, "if you get out
o' here an' ever go back to the States promise me you'll look
up maw and paw an' tell 'em I was comin' home--to stay.
Tell 'em I died decent, too, will you--died like paw was
always a-tellin' me my granddad died, fightin' Injuns 'round
Fort Dodge somewheres."
"Sure," said Billy; "I'll tell 'em. Gee! Look who's comin'
here," and as he spoke he flattened himself to the ground just
as a bullet pinged against the rock above his head and the
report of a rifle sounded from up the canyon. "That guy most
got me. I'll have to be 'tendin' to business better'n this."
He drew himself slowly up upon his elbows, his carbine
ready in his hand, and peered through a small aperture
between two of the rocks which composed his breastwork.
Then he stuck the muzzle of the weapon through, took aim
and pulled the trigger.
"Didje get him?" asked Eddie.
"Yep," said Billy, and fired again. "Got that one too. Say,
they're tough-lookin' guys; but I guess they won't come so
fast next time. Those two were right in the open, workin' up
to us on their bellies. They must a-thought we was sleepin'."
For an hour Billy neither saw nor heard any sign of the
enemy, though several times be raised his hat above the
breastwork upon the muzzle of his carbine to draw their fire.
It was midafternoon when the sound of distant rifle fire
came faintly to the ears of the two men from somewhere far
below them.
"The boys must be comin'," whispered Eddie Shorter hopefully.
For half an hour the firing continued and then silence again
fell upon the mountains. Eddie began to wander mentally. He
talked much of Kansas and his old home, and many times he
begged for water.
"Buck up, kid," said Billy; "the boys'll be along in a minute
now an' then we'll get you all the water you want."
But the boys did not come. Billy was standing up now,
stretching his legs, and searching up and down the canyon for
Indians. He was wondering if he could chance making a break
for the valley where they stood some slight chance of meeting
with their companions, and even as he considered the matter
seriously there came a staccato report and Billy Byrne fell
forward in a heap.
"God!" cried Eddie. "They got him now, they got him."
Byrne stirred and struggled to rise.
"Like'll they got me," he said, and staggered to his knees.
Over the breastwork he saw a half-dozen Indians running
rapidly toward the shelter--he saw them in a haze of red that
was caused not by blood but by anger. With an oath Billy
Byrne leaped to his feet. From his knees up his whole body
was exposed to the enemy; but Billy cared not. He was in a
berserker rage. Whipping his carbine to his shoulder he let
drive at the advancing Indians who were now beyond hope of
cover. They must come on or be shot down where they were,
so they came on, yelling like devils and stopping momentarily
to fire upon the rash white man who stood so perfect a target
before them.
But their haste spoiled their marksmanship. The bullets
zinged and zipped against the rocky little fortress, they nicked
Billy's shirt and trousers and hat, and all the while he stood
there pumping lead into his assailants--not hysterically; but
with the cool deliberation of a butcher slaughtering beeves.
One by one the Pimans dropped until but a single Indian
rushed frantically upon the white man, and then the last of
the assailants lunged forward across the breastwork with a
bullet from Billy's carbine through his forehead.
Eddie Shorter had raised himself painfully upon an elbow
that he might witness the battle, and when it was over he sank
back, the blood welling from between his set teeth.
Billy turned to look at him when the last of the Pimans was
disposed of, and seeing his condition kneeled beside him and
took his head in the hollow of an arm.
"You orter lie still," he cautioned the Kansan. "Tain't
good for you to move around much."
"It was worth it," whispered Eddie. "Say, but that was
some scrap. You got your nerve standin' up there against the
bunch of 'em; but if you hadn't they'd have rushed us and
some of 'em would a-got in."
"Funny the boys don't come," said Billy.
"Yes," replied Eddie, with a sigh; "it's milkin' time now, an'
I figgered on goin' to Shawnee this evenin'. Them's nice
cookies, maw. I--"
Billy Byrne was bending low to catch his feeble words, and
when the voice trailed out into nothingness he lowered the
tousled red head to the hard earth and turned away.
Could it be that the thing which glistened on the eyelid of
the toughest guy on the West Side was a tear?
The afternoon waned and night came, but it brought to
Billy Byrne neither renewed attack nor succor. The bullet
which had dropped him momentarily had but creased his
forehead. Aside from the fact that he was blood covered from
the wound it had inconvenienced him in no way, and now
that darkness had fallen he commenced to plan upon leaving
the shelter.
First he transferred Eddie's ammunition to his own person,
and such valuables and trinkets as he thought "maw" might
be glad to have, then he removed the breechblock from
Eddie's carbine and stuck it in his pocket that the weapon
might be valueless to the Indians when they found it.
"Sorry I can't bury you old man," was Billy's parting
comment, as he climbed over the breastwork and melted into
the night.
Billy Byrne moved cautiously through the darkness, and he
moved not in the direction of escape and safety but directly
up the canyon in the way that the village of the Pimans lay.
Soon he heard the sound of voices and shortly after saw
the light of cook fires playing upon bronzed faces and upon
the fronts of low huts. Some women were moaning and
wailing. Billy guessed that they mourned for those whom his
bullets had found earlier in the day. In the darkness of the
night, far up among the rough, forbidding mountains it was
all very weird and uncanny.
Billy crept closer to the village. Shelter was abundant. He
saw no sign of sentry and wondered why they should be so
lax in the face of almost certain attack. Then it occurred to
him that possibly the firing he and Eddie had heard earlier in
the day far down among the foothills might have meant the
extermination of the Americans from El Orobo.
"Well, I'll be next then," mused Billy, and wormed closer to
the huts. His eyes were on the alert every instant, as were his
ears; but no sign of that which he sought rewarded his
keenest observation.
Until midnight he lay in concealment and all that time the
mourners continued their dismal wailing. Then, one by one,
they entered their huts, and silence reigned within the village.
Billy crept closer. He eyed each hut with longing, wondering
gaze. Which could it be? How could he determine? One
seemed little more promising than the others. He had noted
those to which Indians had retired. There were three into
which he had seen none go. These, then, should be the first to
undergo his scrutiny.
The night was dark. The moon had not yet risen. Only a
few dying fires cast a wavering and uncertain light upon the
scene. Through the shadows Billy Byrne crept closer and
closer. At last he lay close beside one of the huts which was
to be the first to claim his attention.
For several moments he lay listening intently for any sound
which might come from within; but there was none. He
crawled to the doorway and peered within. Utter darkness
shrouded and hid the interior.
Billy rose and walked boldly inside. If he could see no one
within, then no one could see him once he was inside the
door. Therefore, so reasoned Billy Byrne, he would have as
good a chance as the occupants of the hut, should they prove
to be enemies.
He crossed the floor carefully, stopping often to listen. At
last he heard a rustling sound just ahead of him. His fingers
tightened upon the revolver he carried in his right hand, by
the barrel, clublike. Billy had no intention of making any
more noise than necessary.
Again he heard a sound from the same direction. It was
not at all unlike the frightened gasp of a woman. Billy emitted
a low growl, in fair imitation of a prowling dog that has been
disturbed.
Again the gasp, and a low: "Go away!" in liquid feminine
tones--and in English!
Billy uttered a low: "S-s-sh!" and tiptoed closer. Extending
his hands they presently came in contact with a human body
which shrank from him with another smothered cry.
"Barbara!" whispered Billy, bending closer.
A hand reached out through the darkness, found him, and
closed upon his sleeve.
"Who are you?" asked a low voice.
"Billy," he replied. "Are you alone in here?"
"No, an old woman guards me," replied the girl, and at the
same time they both heard a movement close at hand, and
something scurried past them to be silhouetted for an instant
against the path of lesser darkness which marked the location
of the doorway.
"There she goes!" cried Barbara. "She heard you and she
has gone for help."
"Then come!" said Billy, seizing the girl's arm and dragging
her to her feet; but they had scarce crossed half the distance
to the doorway when the cries of the old woman without
warned them that the camp was being aroused.
Billy thrust a revolver into Barbara's hand. "We gotta make
a fight of it, little girl," he said. "But you'd better die than be
here alone."
As they emerged from the hut they saw warriors running
from every doorway. The old woman stood screaming in
Piman at the top of her lungs. Billy, keeping Barbara in front
of him that he might shield her body with his own, turned
directly out of the village. He did not fire at first hoping that
they might elude detection and thus not draw the fire of the
Indians upon them; but he was doomed to disappointment,
and they had taken scarcely a dozen steps when a rifle spoke
above the noise of human voices and a bullet whizzed past
them.
Then Billy replied, and Barbara, too, from just behind his
shoulder. Together they backed away toward the shadow of
the trees beyond the village and as they went they poured shot
after shot into the village.
The Indians, but just awakened and still half stupid from
sleep, did not know but that they were attacked by a vastly
superior force, and this fear held them in check for several
minutes--long enough for Billy and Barbara to reach the
summit of the bluff from which Billy and Eddie had first been
fired upon.
Here they were hidden from the view of the Indians, and
Billy broke at once into a run, half carrying the girl with a
strong arm about her waist.
"If we can reach the foothills," he said, "I think we can
dodge 'em, an' by goin' all night we may reach the river and
El Orobo by morning. It's a long hike, Barbara, but we gotta
make it--we gotta, for if daylight finds us in the Piman
country we won't never make it. Anyway," he concluded
optimistically, "it's all down hill."
"We'll make it, Billy," she replied, "if we can get past the
sentry."
"What sentry?" asked Billy. "I didn't see no sentry when I
come in."
"They keep a sentry way down the trail all night," replied
the girl. "In the daytime he is nearer the village--on the top
of this bluff, for from here he can see the whole valley; but at
night they station him farther away in a narrow part of the
trail."
"It's a mighty good thing you tipped me off," said Billy;
"for I'd a-run right into him. I thought they was all behind us
now."
After that they went more cautiously, and when they
reached the part of the trail where the sentry might be
expected to be found, Barbara warned Billy of the fact. Like
two thieves they crept along in the shadow of the canyon
wall. Inwardly Billy cursed the darkness of the night which
hid from view everything more than a few paces from them;
yet it may have been this very darkness which saved them,
since it hid them as effectually from an enemy as it hid the
enemy from them. They had reached the point where Barbara
was positive the sentry should be. The girl was clinging tightly
to Billy's left arm. He could feel the pressure of her fingers as
they sunk into his muscles, sending little tremors and thrills
through his giant frame. Even in the face of death Billy Byrne
could sense the ecstasies of personal contact with this girl--the
only woman he ever had loved or ever would.
And then a black shadow loomed before them, and a rifle
flashed in their faces without a word or a sign of warning.
