Back towards those black pines and the long reach of road beyond he dare not go. The Tontos held the line of retreat. Here in camp he hardly dare remain for the keen cut in "Gregg's" side line showed plainly that the knife had been used, and left him accused of treachery. Out of the fire light and back to the grazing ground he must get the horse at once—but what then? Noiselessly turning, he led Gregg, wondering, back to the glade in which the other horses were tethered, and quickly drove his picket pin and put him on the half lariat. But how was he to conceal the severed side line? Off it came, both nervous hands working rapidly, and then when he had about determined to cut off the lines of one of Jim's mules and so throw suspicion on him, his African mate, he was aware of his captain striding through the trees toward him. He could almost have run away. But the next words re-assured him.
"That you, Manuelito?" challenged Captain Gwynne in low, hoarse tones. "All right! Take the side lines off Gregg and saddle him for me at once. I have work to do."
The Mexican could hardly believe in his escape. For the time being, at least, he stood safe. It would be easy enough later to "lose" the telltale side line in the waters of the lake. Manuelito cursed his folly in having used the knife at all. Haste prompted that piece of bad judgment. He could have unbuckled them just as well. But all the same he blessed his lucky stars for this respite. In three minutes he had "Gregg" saddled and ready by the little camp-fire. There stood the captain and Pike in low and earnest conversation.
"I shall only go out a short four miles," said the former, "but I must satisfy myself as to whether those beggars are coming this way to-night. Gregg and I have 'stalked' them many a time and the country is all flat and open for six miles back."
"I wish the captain would stay here and let me go," pleaded Pike.
"No! I'm never satisfied without seeing for myself. You and Manuelito will have your arms in constant readiness, and watch for me as I come back. There's no moon—no light—but so much the better for my purpose. Is he all ready, Manuelito? Let me glance at my little ones in the ambulance before I start."
Who can say with what love and yearning the father bent over those little faces as he peered in upon them? The flickering light of the camp-fire threw an occasional glimmer over them—just enough to enable him to see at times the contour yet hardly to reveal the features of "his babies." He dare not kiss for fear of waking them. "God bless and guard you, darlings," was the choking prayer that fell from his lips. Then, vigorous and determined, he sprang into saddle.
"Now, Pike," he muttered, "you've been with me in many a night bivouac and you know your orders. They never attack at night unless they know they have an absolutely sure thing, and they haven't—with you three. Jim, there, can fight like a tiger whenever there is need. Watch the horses. I'll be back in an hour or there'll be reason for my staying."
Three minutes more and they heard the rhythmic beat of "Gregg's" hoofs out on the open plateau and dying away westward, sturdy, measured, steady in the trot the captain preferred to any other gait. Pike moved out to the edge of the timber, where he could hear the last of it—a big anxiety welling up in his heart and a world of responsibility with it; but he clutched his carbine the more firmly and gave a backward glance, his face softening as his eyes fell upon the wagon where little Ned and Nell lay sleeping, and darkening with menace and suspicion as he took one swift look at Manuelito, cowering there over the fire.
"Blast that monkey-hearted greaser!" he muttered. "I believe he would knife the whole party just to get the horses and slip away. I'll keep my ears open to the west—but I'll have my eyes on you."
Once out at his chosen station, Pike found himself in a position where he could "cover" three important objects. Here, close at his right hand, between him and the lake, the horses and mules were browsing peacefully and as utterly undisturbed as though there were not an Apache within a thousand miles. To his rear, about fifty yards, were the two wagons, the little camp-fire and flitting restlessly about it the slouching form of Manuelito. In front of him, close at hand, nothing but a dark level of open prairie; then a stretch of impenetrable blackness; then, far away towards the western horizon, that black, piney ridge, stretching from north to south across the trail they had come along that day; and right there among the pines—Pike judged it to be several miles south of the road—there still glared and flamed that red beacon that his long service in Arizona told him could mean to the Apaches only one thing—"Close in!"—and well he knew that with the coming morn all the renegades within range would be gathered along their path, and that if they got through Sunset Pass without a fight it would be a miracle.
The night was still as the grave; the skies cloudless and studded with stars. One of these came shooting earthward just after he took his post, and seemed to plunge into vacancy and be lost in its own combustion over towards Jarvis Pass behind him. This gave him opportunity to glance backward again, and there was Manuelito still cowering over the fire. Then once more he turned to the west, watching, listening.
Many a year had old Pike served with the standards of the cavalry. All through the great civil war he had born manful, if humble part, but with his fifth enlistment stripe on his dress coat, a round thousand dollars of savings and a discharge that said under the head of "Character," "A brave, reliable and trustworthy man," the old corporal had chosen to add to his savings by taking his chances with Captain Gwynne, hoping to reach Santa Fe and thence the Kansas Pacific to St. Louis, to betterment of his pocket and to the service of one, at least, of his former troop commanders. No coward was Pike, but he had visions of a far-away home his coming would bless, where a loved sister's children would gather about his knee and hear his stories of battle and adventure, and where his dollars would enable him to give comforts and comfits, toys and "taffee" to her little ones. Was he not conscious that her eldest boy must be now fourteen, named for him, Martin Pike, and a young American all through? It must be confessed that as the ex-corporal stood there at his night post under the stars he half regretted that he had embarked on this risky enterprise.
"If it were anybody else now but old Gwynne," he muttered to himself, "things wouldn't be so mixed, but he never did have any horse sense and now has run us into this scrape—and it's a bad one or I'm no judge."
Then he glanced over his shoulder again. Manuelito was shuffling about the fire apparently doing nothing. Presently the ex-corporal saw the Mexican saunter up to the wagons and Pike took several strides through the timber watching before he said a word; yet, with the instinct of the old soldier, he brought his carbine to full cock. Somehow or other he "could not tolerate that greaser."
MANUELITO WAS SHUFFLING ABOUT THE FIRE APPARENTLY DOING NOTHING.
But the suspected greaser seemed to content himself with a cursory examination of the forage and baggage wagon and presently came slouching back to the fire again. He had some scrap of harness in his hand and Pike longed to know what, but it was too far from his post of observation. He decided to remain where he was. He must listen for the captain. All the same he kept vigilant watch of Manuelito's movements and ere long, when the fire brightened up a bit, he made out that the "greaser" was fumbling over nothing else than a side line. Now what did that mean?
Pike took a turn through the little herd of "stock," bending down and feeling the side line of each horse and mule. All were secure and in perfect order. The one in Manuelito's hands, therefore, was probably "Gregg's," or an extra "pair" that he had in his wagon. There was nothing out of the way about that after all, so Pike resumed his watch towards the west, where still the Apache beacon was burning.
It must have been half after ten o'clock. Manuelito had slunk down by the fire,
