Читать книгу: «Grace Harlowe's Overland Riders on the Old Apache Trail», страница 5

CHAPTER X
A DOUBLE CAPTURE

GRACE started away at a brisk trot, followed by Elfreda Briggs, until they reached the bank of the creek.

“My gracious, Loyalheart, but you can race,” gasped J. Elfreda.

“Please work downstream, Elfreda. Watch carefully for footprints and broken twigs. I shall proceed upstream. About a quarter of a mile above here several deep canyons branch off, and it is possible that Emma may have taken one of these in search of flowers and lost her way,” said Grace.

“How far shall I go?” questioned Miss Briggs.

“Meet me here in an hour. Should you need me in the meantime, or, should you find Emma, fire three signal shots, with an interval between each shot. If in need of assistance I will do the same, and, should you hear three interval shots, answer them by the same signal with your rifle. That will be a warning to the camp as well. Hippy understands that, in case we give such a signal, he is to come on the run, and bring the girls with him, so that they may not be left alone in the camp. Good-bye and the best of luck.”

Grace turned and hurried up the stream, Elfreda proceeding in the opposite direction. Grace ran on until she reached the point where the narrow canyons radiated out from the one the girls had first taken on their way to the picnic ground.

A stream of clear, sparkling mountain water was rippling down each radiating canyon, and fragrant wild flowers gently nodded their greeting along the bank of the stream, from the crevices of rocks and from little patches of dirt that clung precariously to the mountainside.

“I do not believe Emma Dean could resist these flowers,” murmured Grace.

In order to observe both banks, Grace stepped into the stream that flowed from the larger of the canyons, and waded along it, regardless of the fact that the icy-cold water instantly took all feeling from her feet, her whole attention being centered on the flower-bordered banks of the stream. Grace was peering at the wild flowers, looking for plucked stems.

The Overton girl suddenly uttered an exclamation and sank down on her knees at the edge of the creek.

“Ah! Plucked flowers. Some one has picked them within a few hours, for the stems are still bleeding.”

Grace began examining the ground with infinite care, but though she found flowers that had been crushed down, she failed to find a single distinct footprint. Further up the stream, however, she came upon that for which she had been searching – the imprint of a human foot, a small, slender foot.

Reasonably certain that she had at last come upon the trail of her missing companion, Grace sprang up and ran as rapidly as the rough going would permit, plunging deeper and deeper into the canyon that was now dimmed with the gloom of the approaching mountain night.

The Overton girl’s first impression was that she should fire her rifle, but believing that Emma could not be far away, unless she had wandered into still another canyon and become wholly lost in the maze, Grace decided first to search a little further. At several such canyon intersections Grace herself became confused, but careful examination of a few yards of her own trail to the rear soon set her straight.

From time to time she would pause and raise her voice in a long-drawn call that must have reached far up the canyon and up the mountainside as well.

“I shall have to signal for assistance,” finally decided Grace, the gloom now having become so deep that she was no longer able to distinguish the tell-tale marks left by Emma Dean’s shoes.

“When Hippy and the girls come, we will build fires, and, with torches, follow the trail until we find her.”

Grace decided to signal for assistance, and pointing her rifle into the air she fired three times at intervals. She waited, listening intently. There was no response that she could hear, so she fired three more signal shots.

This time three faint reports were borne to her ears, but whether they were the echoes of her own shots or the answer to her signals, Grace did not know.

When about to move forward again, Grace’s nerves gave a tremendous jump as a human voice sounded close at hand.

“What do you all reckon you’re shootin’ at?” demanded the voice. It was a woman’s voice, which, in the circumstances, was a welcome thing to Grace Harlowe, even though it was a voice that she did not know.

Grace whirled and brought her rifle to bear on the owner of the voice. She peered into the darkness and was barely able to make out the form of the speaker.

“Who are you?” demanded Grace.

“I reckon you’d better say somethin’ for yourself,” answered the woman.

“Very well. I am looking for a young woman who is missing from my party, and who, I believe, came up this canyon.”

“Is her name Dean?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Grace. “You have found her?”

“I reckon so. The kid fell down and hurt herself a little. She’s up the canyon a piece. I’ll show you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

The woman turned and strode away, Grace following, her anxiety for Emma banishing all thoughts from mind of the strangeness of this woman’s presence in the dark canyon.

With the rifle still tucked under her arm, Grace stumbled along over the rough ground, managing to keep up with her guide, at the expense of several falls. Grace knew that she was proceeding in the direction which she believed Emma had followed, and she was, therefore, eager to get ahead as rapidly as possible.

“Is Miss Dean badly hurt?” she questioned anxiously, stepping up beside her companion.

“Hurt her ankle, thet’s all,” was the brief reply.

“Oh, that is too bad. How much further have we to go?”

“Reckon we’re there now. Miss Dean!”

“Emma! Are you there?” cried Grace.

“Grace! Oh, Grace! Save me!” wailed Emma Dean.

Grace Harlowe sprang forward, ahead of her companion, but she did not reach Emma. A pair of wiry arms were suddenly thrown about her, pinioning the Overton girl’s arms to her sides. Grace wriggled and struggled desperately, using every trick she knew to free herself, and appeared to be getting the best of the struggle, when an unlooked-for interruption occurred.

“Bud!” cried the woman sharply.

A man sprang forward in response to the call.

“Take her gun!” panted the woman. “She’s a terror.”

The rifle was wrenched from Grace’s hand, then the man jerked her hands behind her back and tied them there.

“Thar! I don’t reckon as you’ll do much more fightin’ right smart,” declared the woman, releasing her grip and stepping back, breathing heavily.

Grace, too, was breathing hard, but more from resentment than from exhaustion. She now swiftly began to reason out the meaning of what had occurred, and in a moment it became clear to her that she was in the hands of the band that had been harassing the Overton girls on the Apache Trail.

“Emma, are you hurt?” called Grace.

“Only my feelings. They’re wrecked,” answered Emma with a touch of her old-time humor. “Come here, Grace.”

“Stay where you be!” commanded the woman.

“You are not otherwise hurt?” begged Grace.

“No,” answered Emma.

“Now, woman, if you do not mind explaining the meaning of this high-handed affair, I am quite ready to listen,” announced Grace Harlowe evenly, at the same time facing her captor, whose face she had not yet been able to see in the darkness.

“Shut up!” ordered the man. “We got to git out of here on the jump. Belle, you rustle her along, an’ if she gits balky, hit her a clip over the haid. You owe her one anyhow.”

“I demand that you release us both instantly!” answered Grace.

Without replying, the woman roughly grasped Grace by an arm and propelled her along at a swift pace, Grace stumbling over nearly every step of the way, until they came up with two men who were guarding several horses. At this juncture, the man addressed as “Bud” came hurrying up to them, leading Emma Dean. Her hands, also, were securely bound behind her, and Emma was abusing and threatening her conductor at every step of the way.

“Oh, Grace!” she cried plaintively when she was halted close by her friend.

“Keep quiet, Emma, please,” warned Grace. “Are your hands tied?”

“Yes. The brutes tied the rope so tight that it hurts awfully.”

“If we untie your hands will you promise not to try to get away?” questioned Belle, addressing both girls.

“No!” answered Grace with emphasis.

The woman shrugged her shoulders.

“Cut them loose,” she ordered. “They can’t ride thet way without fallin’ off. You women! If you try to run away, you’ll be shot, thet’s all,” warned Belle as Bud severed the ropes that held the hands of the two girls.

“Git up! Both of you. Be lively ’bout it, too,” he ordered, pointing to one of the horses.

Grace took all the time in mounting that she dared, and Emma crowded into the saddle behind her.

“Give the critter his haid. He knows where to go better’n you do, I reckon,” advised Bud, swinging into his own saddle.

The woman rode up and took the lead, Bud falling in behind Grace and Emma. Grace saw one man ride forward and join Belle, while still another remained behind, standing by his horse. Evidently he was not going with them.

The party then started up the canyon, the ponies now and then breaking into a trot, as the footing permitted. Soon after the start, they began climbing the mountain side, along what Grace realized was a narrow trail, too narrow for safety, and on which the ordinarily sure-footed ponies slipped and stumbled perilously.

“Tell me what occurred,” whispered Grace to her companion.

“I was picking flowers when that woman caught hold of me. I never heard her approach, and she nearly scared me out of my wits when she grabbed me and clapped a hand over my mouth. Grace, I overheard the woman and that fellow Bud talking, and I learned some things. You can’t guess why they have stolen us.”

“In revenge, I presume, for what we did to Con Bates and his fellows. This, undoubtedly, is the gang that has been harassing us.”

“Yes, that is one reason. The other is that they hope to get some money for us.”

“You mean ransom?” asked Grace in a guarded whisper.

“Yes. Isn’t it silly? It’s romantic, too.”

“So, that is it, eh? They will have a fine time getting it. I still have my revolver inside my waist, Emma Dean, and, if necessary, I shall use it. I don’t think they will dare to really harm us, but we must be on the alert every minute for an opportunity to escape. Leave all that to me, for I shall know when the time is opportune for such a move on our part.”

“What if they search you and find the revolver?” questioned Emma.

“They had better not try it,” muttered Grace.

She told Emma that the Overton outfit were no doubt, even then, searching for them, though she said she doubted the ability of the searchers to pick up and follow the trail.

“Should Mr. Fairweather get back in time, he can and will follow it, and I shall expect him to do that very thing. Above all, keep your head, Emma dear, and do not talk too much. The less they know about us the better. I don’t believe they know who I am, and I sincerely hope they do not find out.”

“Yes, they do know. How, I can’t even guess, but one of the men came up and reported to that ruffian, Bud, that you were coming up the trail with Belle. He referred to you as the ‘Harlowe woman.’”

“Hm-m-m-m-m,” mused Grace. “They are sharper than I thought. Hold tight to me, Emma. It won’t do at all for either of us to slip off. We are liable to be shot if we do.”

As they worked their way up the mountain trail, Grace tore bits of linen from her handkerchief and cautiously allowed them to drift to the ground, hoping thereby to so mark the trail that their friends would see and understand.

The captors did not speak a word to the girls, slipping hoofs, creaking leather and the heavy breathing of the ponies being the only sounds accompanying the journey.

Some time near morning a halt was made, and for a few minutes Bud and the woman sat on their ponies listening. Grace surmised that they had heard something. Either this or they were expecting to hear something. A few minutes later the man who had been left down in the canyon came jogging up to them, giving a signal whistle while still some distance to the rear.

The woman rode out a few yards to meet the newcomer, and was joined by Bud, whereupon an animated, but low-toned conversation between the three ensued.

“Hang on! There’s goin’ to be some rough ridin’,” warned Belle as she galloped up to the two girls, following the conference. “We’ve got to make a certain place before sun-up. No funny business, neither,” she added warningly.

It was a grilling ride that the Overton girls experienced during the next two hours. A halt finally was called to enable two of the men to go back and mask the trail of the ponies, but just how it was done Grace was unable to see, owing to the darkness that still enshrouded the mountains.

Day dawned slowly, finding the party threading its way through rocky defiles, now well at the top of the ridge of mountains. Gray, rolling hills and rocky towers were all about them, and in the east the grayness of the skies was gradually giving way to pale rose and silver that lengthened and brightened along a horizon broken by many mountain peaks.

The party finally came to a halt in an open space, well screened by rocks from view of any roving eyes that might be observing from near or distant mountain tops.

There the captors made a hurried breakfast. Grace and Emma were directed to help themselves to food, which they did, then sat down by themselves to eat, under the observant eyes of their captors.

The men plainly were ill at ease, and it was evident that they still were listening expectantly. Finally, one of the men saddled his horse and rode back, he soon being lost to sight among the rocks.

“Those ruffians really fear that they are being followed,” muttered Grace, barely loud enough for Emma, for whose ears the words were intended, to hear. “They have sent that fellow back to take an observation. I wonder if they have good reason for thinking that they are being followed?”

“Why can’t we cut and run?” suggested Emma.

“There is nothing to hinder our doing so, except that we probably should be shot before we reached yonder rocks.”

“There comes Belle now!” whispered Emma excitedly.

“Keep quiet, please, and let me do the talking,” advised Grace.

The woman was approaching the two girls at a rapid step, an expression in her eyes that Grace Harlowe did not like. In repose, Belle’s face, while regular, and rather attractive at first glance, showed hard lines, particularly about the mouth, indicating that, when occasion demanded, she could be hard and merciless. The expression that the face of their captor wore as she came towards them gave promise that the present might be such an occasion.

Belle halted before the Overton girls and stood regarding them through narrowed eyelids. Then she spoke, and what she had to say brought a pallor to Emma Dean’s face, and stirred the fighting instincts of Grace Harlowe to the danger point.

CHAPTER XI
FOLLOWING A COLD TRAIL

“I TELL you I heard Grace’s signal shots!” protested Elfreda Briggs, in reply to Hippy’s declaration that he had heard no shots except the three fired by Elfreda.

“Listening, as I was, I surely would have heard the signal had she given it,” averred the lieutenant. “It’s too dark to see anything, but of course, if you girls have anything to suggest, I am ready to act.”

“Hippy Wingate! You don’t mean that you’re going to sit down and leave Grace and Emma in that terrible canyon all night?” protested Nora, indignantly.

“No, not without an effort to find them. I didn’t mean that I should sit by the campfire and wait for daylight. I’m going now.” Hippy slung his rifle under his arm and strode off toward the creek. “Should anything break loose, shoot,” he called back.

Reaching the creek, the lieutenant trudged along it to the canyon, Elfreda having told him that Grace had gone in that direction. He examined the bank of the creek with a pocket lamp that Anne had handed to him, as Grace had done before him, but failed to find footprints. When he arrived at the point from which other canyons radiated, the lieutenant took the wrong one and wandered along its course for half a mile. Finding nothing of what he sought, he returned to the creek and searched along a second canyon, and so on until finally reaching the dark ravine through which Grace really had gone in search of Emma. Hippy, on the contrary, failed to find a trail.

It was long past midnight when finally he gave up his search and started back to the camp. As he neared it, he discovered, by the light of the campfire, that a string of ponies was being led down from the Apache Trail.

“There comes Ike! Now we’ll see what can be done,” cried the lieutenant in a relieved tone. Hippy started on a run for the camp. By the time he reached there Ike had arrived and the Overton girls were gathered about him, all speaking at once, trying to tell him of the disaster that had befallen them.

“Them critters got Miss Dean and Mrs. Gray?” demanded Ike.

“We do not know. We know that they are missing,” replied Elfreda. “Hippy, did you discover anything?”

“Not a thing.”

“Come here, Western. Folks, this is Western Jones thet came along with me to help lead the string of ponies. Glad now thet I fetched him. West, please stake down the ponies. Now you folks tell me every little thing thet’s happened, so I can get a line on this business.”

The girls told the old stagecoach driver of the occurrences of the night when he left for Globe, of the picnic, of Emma’s disappearance and of Grace’s having gone in search of her.

“We’ve got to find ’em, thet’s all,” declared Ike, after a moment’s thought. “Tell you what we’ll do. The lieutenant and I’ll take two ponies and lead ’em until we pick up the trail, then we’ll ride as far up the canyon as we can an’ walk the rest of the way. We’ll send the ponies back if we have to. They’ll come right back so long as the others are staked here.”

“What about guarding the camp?” questioned Lieutenant Wingate.

“Western Jones can do thet. West, how’d you like a little brush with some of thet Con Bates gang?” demanded Ike, grinning.

“Sweeter’n wild honey,” grinned Western. “Is it them as has done this trick?”

“I reckon mebby it is. We don’t know for shore. Mebby Apaches, for all I know.”

“Leave ’em to me,” grinned Western Jones.

“Then you keep these gals right here in this camp, an’ don’t you let a one of ’em get away till I come back. Got the makin’s of a light, Lieutenant, or have I got to carry a torch to light the way?”

“I have a flash lamp.”

“Saddle up an’ we’ll be off right smart, an’ we’ll bring back the missin’ girls. I don’t reckon as thet gang will have more’n a mouthful of success with them two little ladies. They better look out thet they don’t rile thet sweet, smilin’ Grace Harlowe too much or they’ll discover, when it’s too late, thet they barked agin’ the wrong cottonwood. Look for us when we get back.”

“Darling, be careful! Don’t get shot,” begged Nora, giving her husband a good-bye kiss.

Hippy hurried along and joined Mr. Fairweather, and together they saddled and bridled, and then strode down to the creek leading their mounts. Ike took the flash lamp and, soon after reaching the stream, he picked up the trail of the Overton party on their way to the picnic grounds. He found Lieutenant Wingate’s footprints also.

Reaching the point where other trails radiated out from the main canyon, Ike bade his companion hold the horses. Then began a painstaking examination of the ground, along the little mountain stream, a proceeding that excited Lieutenant Wingate’s admiration. After a time Mr. Fairweather’s light disappeared and Hippy was left in the somber canyon to pass the time as best he might.

Ike was gone an hour. He returned without showing a light. Hippy heard him when he was almost upon him, and challenged.

“It’s Ike,” was the brief answer.

“What luck?” questioned Hippy.

“Struck the trail. Stands out like a boulevard in a big city. Found somethin’ else, too.”

“What was it?”

“Found where some woman met one of ours an’ went with her up the canyon. It wa’n’t a regular white girl’s footprint thet the woman made. Reckon it was an Indian or some mountain woman, ’cause she had on moccasins. There was three or four men a little further upstream an’ they had horses. I found this up there. Reco’nize it?” Ike held out something white and turned the ray of the flash lamp on it.

“E. D.” muttered Hippy. “I should say this is Miss Dean’s handkerchief. Well, what next?”

“All hands got on the horses and went on up the canyon. I come back from that pint.”

“Ike, you are a wonder! How do you do it? I couldn’t read the story of a trail the way you do, if I was to practice it all the rest of my life.”

“An’ I reckon thet if I tried to sail one of them flyin’ machines my name would be Dennis, right smart,” replied Ike. “Get aboard! We’re goin’ right up thet trail and we’re goin’ to keep goin’ till either we lose it for good, or find the gals, or get shot doin’ one or t’other. We can’t pull off an’ wait till mornin’. Mornin’ may be too late.”

Hippy swung into his saddle, Ike being but a few seconds behind him in mounting, Mr. Fairweather taking the lead at a slow jog trot.

“Right here’s where they took to the ponies,” announced Ike finally. How he knew that in the darkness, Hippy was unable to imagine, but then, Hippy Wingate had not followed mountain trails at any stage of his career, and knew nothing of them.

Ike now began to flash his light against the mountain, first on one side, then on the other.

“Whoa!” The command came out sharp and incisive. “Hold my nag, Lieutenant.” The old driver dismounted, and, handing his bridle rein to his companion, began climbing up along the mountainside, keeping the ray of his light directly on the ground at his feet.

Ike returned in a few minutes.

“I reckon we’ve got to do some tall climbin’ ourselves. Party went up the mountain here.” Ike mounted and started up a twisting, narrow trail, his light now in almost continuous use, for the going was extremely perilous.

“See them bits of white cloth alongside the trail?” Ike called back.

“I had not noticed them. I see them now,” answered Hippy.

“Them’s markers that Mrs. Gray prob’bly dropped to show us the way. Thet’s a real gal, Lieutenant.”

Hippy marveled in silence.

Day was breaking when they reached the top, and, looking back, Hippy found himself wondering how they ever made it, for the mountain they had climbed looked to Lieutenant Wingate to be straight up and down.

Ike Fairweather again dismounted, was searching the ground, running back and forth, covering wider and wider stretches of rock and earth, continuously combing his whiskers with his fingers, and perspiring freely. Ike finally returned to his companion, his chagrin reflected in his face.

“What’s the matter, Ike?” asked Hippy in a cheerful voice, a tone that, at the moment, did not reflect his real feelings.

“Matter? I’m plumb locoed, Lieutenant. I’ve lost the trail, an’ I don’t know where to look for it. It’s a mighty big place up here, an’ mebby we find the track an’ mebby we don’t. Leastwise, I’m sorry for the gals who, I’ll bet, are lookin’ their eyes out for us.”

“You are excited, Ike. Sit down, consult your whiskers and perhaps you may find an idea or something in them,” suggested Hippy gravely.

Ike promptly adopted his companion’s suggestion, and for the next several minutes gave himself up to reflection, punctuated with an occasional throaty growl.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it, Lieutenant!” cried Ike, springing up. “It’s a cold trail.”

“A trail with snow or something on it?” questioned Hippy innocently. “I haven’t seen snow in these mountains, but I presume there is plenty of it.”

“No, no, Lieutenant. A cold trail’s a fixed trail – doctored so as to mislead a trailer, or covered up altogether so he can’t find it. I reckon Ike Fairweather ain’t goin’ to be fooled by no cheap mountain trick like thet. Lieutenant, you work to the right, while I go to the left. Take a wide circle along the top of the mountain an’ come up with me by thet monument you can see the top of over to the north’ard. Watch the ground like sixty, an’ watch out for broken twigs an’ crushed clumps of grass. If you find any, sit still an’ wait for me.”

Hippy Wingate wheeled his pony and trotted off to the right, peering at the ground, a puzzled expression in his eyes.

“I shouldn’t know a frozen trail, or whatever you call it, if I saw one,” he muttered helplessly.