been at first, and Two Knives found his little band assailed on all
sides at once by superior numbers.  The orders of Many Bears were that
the rear rank of his foes should only be kept at bay at first, so that
he could centre nearly all his force upon the foremost squad.  The
latter contained a bare two dozen of chosen warriors, and their courage
and skill were of little use in such a wild hurly-burly.
To-la-go-to-de and three more even suffered the disgrace of being taken
prisoners, knocked from their ponies, tied up, and led away toward the
Apache village.  Had Captain Skinner and his miners been on hand, with
all the Lipans they had killed or wounded, the result might have been
different.  But Captain Skinner was hurrying his men toward the ford,
and nothing could restore to usefulness the warriors who had been
smitten by their bullets.

The rear rank of the Lipans had made a brave charge at once, but it had
taught them all they needed to know.  That was a lost battle, and their
only remaining hope was in the speed of their horses.  They turned from
that fruitless charge as one man, and rode swiftly away--swiftly, but
not wildly, for they were veterans, and they kept well together.  They
were dangerous men to follow, and the main body of their foes was not
yet ready to try it.

By the time old Two Knives and his three warriors were safely tied up,
his fugitives' "rear rank" had galloped quite a distance, all the while
successfully beating off the squads of "young braves" that annoyed them.

There is an old proverb that "a stern chase is always a long chase,"
and the Lipans were even better mounted than their pursuers.  Besides,
they all knew exactly what to do, and the night seemed to be getting
darker, as if for their benefit.  They could not mistake their way, and
there were very few Apaches near them when they at last rode into their
own camp.

There was no time for them to throw away in talking over their defeat,
but they seemed to be united in their opinion that it was in some way
due to bad faith on the part of Captain Skinner and his miners.  If
there was no time for anything else, therefore, enough could be spared
for gathering the horses and mules of the pale-faces and setting their
wagon on fire.  They did the same with their own, after taking out of
it all they could carry in any other way.  They would have some good
plunder to show on their return home, if they should get there, but
what account could they give of the loss of their great war-chief and
so many of his best braves, horses and all?

The Apaches were beginning to show themselves on the borders of the
camp, and to send threatening whoops and distant shots into it, before
the remnant of the Lipans were ready to move.

They sent their quadrupeds and wounded men ahead, toward the mouth of
the pass by which they had entered that valley, and behind these the
warriors rode sullenly along, every one of them longing for an
opportunity to strike one more blow before he crossed the mountains.
Nothing of the kind could be done that night, but there was no saying
what might come into their angry minds before morning.  They would have
plenty of time to think after they were once safe in the pass, for
their enemies would not dream of following them among the rocks.

CHAPTER XXIV

Even before the Apaches set out to find their Lipan enemies Murray and
Steve made their way across the ford, and were guided by a bright-eyed
boy to the lodge which had been set apart for them.  That one had been
given them at all was a mark of great respect; and this lodge belonged
to Many Bear himself, which added to the honor done them.

"Now, Steve," said Murray, "you stay here awhile.  I can do some things
better if I'm alone."

"All right.  But there's no danger of my going to sleep while you're
gone."

"Pretty wide awake, eh?  Well, it's an exciting time all around."

"It is for me, Murray.  I feel as if I had made a good start on my way
home."

"I guess you have.  Your path is beginning to look pretty clear."

"I've escaped from the Lipans."

"But not yet from the Apaches.  I can't say how soon I'll be back again
now, but you'd better not leave the lodge."

Steve threw himself down on the blanket he had spread upon the grass,
and his thoughts came to him in a perfect crowd.

Sleep--for a boy like him, who had been for three years a prisoner, and
was now getting free!  He might as well have gone to sleep on his
horse, if he had been out there among the warriors on the prairie.

Murray walked away from the lodge very slowly.

"It's not a bad place for a camp," he said to himself, "but that side
of it is all bushes, and they have corralled all their loose ponies
right in there.  Old Many Bears will make some changes when he comes to
see it.  The squaws laid it out this time."

The lodges of the chief were not far apart from each other, and Murray
had not gone twenty steps before he found himself in front of them and
face to face with a very stout and dark-complexioned squaw.  If she had
been a warrior in the most hideous war-paint she could not have
expected a man like Send Warning to be startled so at meeting her.

Perhaps she did not notice the tremor which went over him from head to
foot, or that his voice was a little husky when he spoke to her.  At
all events she answered him promptly enough, for at that moment there
was nobody in sight or hearing for whose approval or disapproval Mother
Dolores cared a button.

She did not so much as give a thought to the youthful occupants of the
lodge behind her.

If Ni-ha-be and Rita were not asleep they should be, and they were mere
girls anyhow.

Ni-ha-be had not closed her black eyes for a moment, and Rita had only
refrained from talking because of the presence of Dolores.

"I am glad she's gone, Rita.  It's too bad we are shut up here, where
we can't know a word of all that's going on."

"There will be noise enough when the chief and the warriors come."

"Or if the camp is attacked.  My bow and arrows are ready."

"I don't believe we are in any danger.  Hark!  Ni-ha-be, don't speak."

"Somebody is talking with Dolores."

"Hark!"

They listened more and more eagerly, and they even crept to the outer
edge of the lodge and gently raised the bottom of the deer-skin
covering.

"Ni-ha-be, it is Send Warning."

Murray and Dolores were talking in Mexican Spanish.  He was not saying
anything about the Lipans, or anything else that seemed to Ni-ha-be
very interesting.  Neither did Rita understand why it should all be so
much so to her, or why her heart should beat and her cheeks burn as she
listened.

Murray had used his eyes to some purpose when he had watched Dolores at
her cookery, and his first words had made her his very good friend.

"Squaw of great chief.  Squaw great cook.  Know how."

"Is Send Warning hungry?"

"Not now.  Eat enough.  Great chief and warriors go after Lipans.
Pale-faces stay in camp."

"They will all eat a heap when they come back.  Bring Lipan scalps,
too."

"The Lipans are enemies of the Apaches.  The Mexicans are friends."

"The Mexicans!" exclaimed Dolores.

"Yes.  Great chief marry Mexican squaw.  Handsome.  Good cook."

"I am an Apache!"

"Yes, Apache now.  Mexican long ago.  Forget all about it.  All about
Santa Maria--"

"No, no; the talking leaf remembers that."  And the poor woman
nervously snatched from her bosom the leaf of the magazine on which was
printed the picture of the Virgin and Child, and held it out to Murray.

He could but dimly see what it was, but he guessed right, for he said
instantly,

"You remember that, do you?  I suppose you never knew how to read.  Not
many of 'em do down there.  The Apaches came one day and carried you
off.  Horses, mules, cattle, good cook--killed all the rest."

"How do you know?" suddenly interrupted Dolores.  "I remember all that.
Don't want to, but I can't help it.  Same thing happen a great many
times.  Apaches are great warriors.  Many Bears is a great chief.
Bring back heap of prisoners every time."

She was telling Murray what he wanted to know, but he saw that he must
ask his questions carefully, for, as he said to himself, "I never saw a
woman so completely Indianized.  She is more of an Apache than a
Mexican now."

He talked and Dolores answered him, and all the while the two girls
heard every word.

Ni-ha-be would have liked to make comments every now and then, and it
was quite a trial to be compelled to keep so still, but Rita would not
have spoken on any account.  It seemed to her as if Dolores were
telling all that to her instead of to Send Warning.  She found herself
thinking almost aloud about him.

"What a kind, sweet voice he has!  He cannot speak Apache.  I know he
is good."

In another moment she again came near betraying herself, for the words
were on her very lips before she could stop them and still them down to
an excited whisper.

"He is not talking even Mexican now.  It is the tongue of the talking
leaves, and I can hear what he says."

More than that, for she soon found that she could repeat them over and
over to herself, and knew what they meant.

Murray had talked to Dolores as long as was permitted by Indian ideas
of propriety, and it was just as he was turning away from her that he
said to himself, aloud and in English, "I am not mistaken.  She is the
same woman.  Who would have thought she could forget so?  I am on the
right track now."  And then he had walked pretty swiftly for a short
distance, in a way that made Dolores wonder if he were not taken with
some sharp and sudden pain.  Then he stopped suddenly, and muttered,

"I don't care to see Steve just now.  It is too bitter.  I'll go down
to the corral and see how our horses are getting along.  We may need to
have them in good condition to-morrow."

The horse corral was just beyond the line of bushes at the back of the
lodges of Many Bears, and contained a good deal of wealth in the form
of ponies and mules.  Those of Murray and Steve were tethered to young
trees, but with long lariats, so that they were feeding.

There was no one to watch Murray's movements.  Only a brave of high
rank would have presumed to go with him, and none of these were left in
camp.

Steve Harrison, sitting alone in the lodge, staring out of the door at
the smouldering camp-fires, and listening to the neighing of many
horses and the barking of many dogs, wondered why his friend did not
return, as the time went by, but could not guess at a reason.  At last
other sounds, distant but growing nearer, began to break in among those
that belonged to the camp.

"Hear them whoop!" exclaimed Steve.  "It isn't a fight, for there is no
firing.  Nothing but yells."

A great abundance of noise, to be sure, and it was rapidly coming
toward the ford.

"The Lipans must have been beaten," said Steve, for he now saw that the
Apache horsemen were crossing the river, and that every squaw and child
in the village was pouring out to welcome them.  "Squaws can do more
whooping than the braves know how to.  But I wonder what's become of
Murray!"

It was but a few minutes before Red Wolf rode up to tell him the news,
and ask him to come and take a look at the prisoners.  It flashed
across Steve's mind that it would not do for him.

"Lipans!  They must not see me."  And then he said aloud to Red Wolf,
"I must wait for Send Warning.  He may tell me I must not look upon
them.  He is my chief."

"Ugh!  Good.  Knotted Cord wait.  Red Wolf go.  Back soon."

As for Murray, he had not failed to hear the noise made by the
triumphant braves on their return, and he had understood it better than
Steve, for he exclaimed,

"That's the whoop for prisoners.  If they bring in any, I must not let
them see me here.  I never hated Apaches more in my life.  It won't do
to lose my friends.  Here they come."

He crept to the edge of the bushes and lay still.  There would be a
council called at once, he knew, and he would be sent for; but he was
determined to wait and see what was done with the prisoners.

"That's one thing they will consult over.  Hullo!"

He sunk down again in the bushes, for a squad of Apache warriors was
approaching, bringing with them four men securely bound.

They were the great To-la-go-to-de and his three chiefs, neither of
them hurt to speak of; but they were all that were left of the foremost
rank of the Lipans in that brief, terrible combat.

Other braves kept back the swarming mob of squaws and children, while
the four distinguished captives were almost carried into one of the
lodges at the border of the bushes.

Here more thongs of strong deer-skin were tightened upon their helpless
limbs, a strong guard of armed braves was stationed in front of the
lodge, and the Lipans were left in the dark to such thoughts as might
come to them.

Not an Apache among their guards dreamed that anything more dangerous
than thoughts could or would come.  And yet, within two minutes from
the time he was spread upon his back and left alone, old Two Knives
heard inside the lodge a low, warning hiss.

His companions also heard it, but neither of them was so unwise as to
answer by a sound.

The hiss was repeated, and now it was close to the chief's ear.

"Friend come.  No Tongue is here.  Great chief must be snake.  Creep
through hole in back of lodge.  Find plenty horse.  Ride fast.  Get to
pass.  Never forget friend.  No Tongue come some time."

Even while he was whispering the sharp edge of Murray's knife was busy
with the thongs, and in a moment more all four of the prisoners were
free--free to lie silently while their friend repeated to each in turn
his advice as to what they were to do next.

Their nerves had not been shaken by their defeat, and when Murray
slipped away again through the slit he had cut in the lodge cover, he
was followed by four forms that made their way every bit as quietly as
so many snakes could have done.

What puzzled To-la-go-to-de and his friends was that when they ventured
to rise upon their feet, out in the dark among the horses, No Tongue
was not with them.

"Ugh!  Gone!"

"Cunning snake.  Stay and strike Apaches.  Then come."

"Good friend.  Big warrior."

They could not quite understand the matter, but of one thing they were
sure: No Tongue had penetrated the Apache camp in the most daring
manner, and had set them free at the risk of his own life.

He had disappeared now, but they felt abundantly able to look out for
themselves.

Even the ordinary watchers of the corral had left their stations to
join the shouting crowd in camp, who were boasting of their victory,
and the escaping Lipans could do about as they pleased.

They could find no weapons, but there were saddles and bridles, and
scores and scores of fleet steeds to choose from, and it was but a few
minutes before Two Knives and his friends were leading their selections
through the darkness toward the river.  They did not hunt for any ford.
Horses and men alike knew how to swim.  Once safely across, there was a
great temptation to give a whoop, but the chief forbade it.

"No.  Keep still.  No Tongue is on the trail of the Apaches.  Noise bad
for him."

With that he sprung into his saddle, and led the way at a fierce
gallop.  If their horses should not fall with them and break their
necks they would soon be beyond pursuit.  It was a somewhat reckless
thing to do, considering how many squads of Apaches were on that
prairie, but they had no weapons, not so much as a knife, among them,
and speed seemed to be their only hope.

CHAPTER XXV

All the ordinary rules and regulations for the government of an Indian
village were knocked in pieces by the arrival of such an event as the
victory over the Lipans.

Even Mother Dolores could not reasonably have forbidden Ni-ha-be and
Rita from hurrying out of their lodge to join in the general rejoicing.
In fact, Dolores had left them to their own devices a full minute
before they made their appearance.

"Rita, there is Knotted Cord!"

"I see him."

"If he could understand me I would speak to him."

"Oh, Ni-ha-be!  That would be a dreadful thing to do."

Ni-ha-be would not have done any such thing, and Rita knew it; but the
chief's daughter saw no reason why she should not lead her sister
pretty near the young pale-face brave as they passed him.  They could
see that he was smiling at them, and it was an act of politeness to
smile back.  Ni-ha-be laughed.

It was that, perhaps, which led Steve into a mistake.  He wanted to say
something, and in his haste he forgot to speak Mexican Spanish, as he
ought to have done, if he expected to be understood by an Apache young
lady.

"There has been a great fight.  Your father has taken some prisoners."

"We know it," answered Rita, and she was almost as much startled as was
Steve himself.

"What!  Do you understand English?"

Ni-ha-be turned at the same moment, and looked at her in astonishment.

"Only some.  A little.  Not any more talk now.  Come, Ni-ha-be."

"Talk Apache, so I can hear.  You shall not say any more words to him.
Tell me what you said.  Tell me his words."

Ni-ha-be's jealous pride was touched to the quick at finding that Rita
possessed still another accomplishment that she had not.  It was worse
than even the talking leaves, for Rita had not seemed to hear them very
well.  It was too bad!

Rita quickly interpreted all that had been said, but she did it in a
way that told both her sister and Steve Harrison that she was a good
deal excited about something.

"Come, Ni-ha-be, come."

"I will.  There is Red Wolf.  We must hurry."

Poor Rita!  The whooping and clamor and tumult and confusion all around
her confused her more than ever.  She was glad there was enough of it
to keep Ni-ha-be from asking her any questions; but it seemed as if she
would be willing to give her favorite pony to hear a few words more in
that strange tongue--the tongue she had known once, and forgotten, till
the talking leaves began to speak it to her.

Pretty soon the girls were mingling with their friends and relations,
crowding as closely as they dared upon the line of warriors, and
striving to get a glimpse of the prisoners by the light of the
camp-fires.

It was getting late, but Many Bears had work to do before he could
think of calling for a luncheon or going to his lodge.  He had seen his
captives safely bound and put away under guard, and he now summoned his
old men for a brief but very important "talk."

Murray had guessed right when he said he would be sent for, but he had
not waited the arrival of any messenger.  The words were hardly out of
the mouth of Many Bears before a brave in the crowd responded,

"Send Warning is here."

"Where is the Knotted Cord?"

"In lodge.  Wait there."

That explanation came from Red Wolf, and the Apaches knew exactly where
their pale-face friends were at that particular moment, which was the
precise thing Murray wanted them to feel sure of, considering what he
knew was about to be found out.

All the rest of the village was full of noise, but the dignity of the
older men enforced silence in the circle now gathering closely around
the chief.  Added to the dignity was a large amount of pride over what
they had already done, and a little anxiety concerning what it would be
best to do next.

Many Bears turned to Murray.  "Send Warning gave good council.  His
head is white.  He is wise.  Tell Apaches now where all pale-face gone.
No come."

"Send Warning can guess.  The pale-faces don't like to be killed.  Find
too many Apaches.  Run away and save scalp."

"Ugh!  Good.  Nobody know where they go.  No use follow.  Apaches take
Lipan prisoners.  What Send Warning say about them?"

"Keep them till to-morrow.  No hurry.  Something else to think of now.
More fight, maybe."

The chief nodded his head, but a chorus of "Ughs!" expressed the
dissent of his council.  They meant to decide the fate of old Two
Knives without delay.

Still, three of the older braves insisted upon arguing the case, one
after the other; and by the time the last of them ceased speaking,
Murray felt pretty safe about To-la-go-to-de.  He said to himself, "The
old fox has half an hour the start of them now.  He is miles and miles
away."

Just then Many Bears turned to him with, "What say now?  Any words?"

"No.  Never speak twice.  Apaches do what think best."

"Ugh!  Good.  Young braves bring out Lipans.  No wait.  Kill them all
right away."

Prisoners of such a sort were likely to be a troublesome burden to a
party on the march like that of Many Bears, and the only real question
before the council was, after all, in what precise manner the killing
should be done.

At that moment, however, a great cry arose from the vicinity of the
lodge where the Lipans had been shut up--a cry of surprise, anger, and
disappointment.  And then the word spread over the whole camp like
wildfire,

"The Lipans are gone!"

It was almost beyond belief, and there was a general rush toward that
row of lodges, and beyond them into the bushes and through the corral.
It came within an ace of stampeding every pony there, and every trace
of anything like a "trail" left by the feet of Two Knives and his
warriors was quickly trampled out.

The only bit of a "sign" found by anybody was in the shape of more than
a dozen thongs of buckskin on the ground in the lodge, all clean cut
through with a sharp knife.

That told plainly how the prisoners had released themselves.

The braves who had searched and tied them were positive that not one of
them retained a knife, or was left in a condition to make any use of
one.  They must have had help from somebody, but it was a great mystery
who that somebody could be.

Suspicion might have fallen upon Murray and Steve, but it was well
known that the latter had remained in his lodge, refusing even to look
at the prisoners, while Send Warning had been in council with the
chiefs.  They believed they knew where he had been all the while, and
none of them imagined that Two Knives had been set free before he had
lain in that "prison lodge" three minutes.

It was a terrible mortification, but something must be done; and again
Murray was asked for advice.

"What do I think?  Let me ask you a question.  Did the Lipans go away
on foot?"

"Ugh!  No.  Take good horse."

"Did they have any arms?  Gun? lance? bow?"

"Ugh!  No.  Think not."

"They are cunning warriors.  Did they ride out among your young men?
Send Warning says they would do just what great Apache chief would do."

"Ugh!  Good.  Pale-face chief very wise.  Lipans go all way round.
Like snake.  Only one thing for us to do.  Catch 'em when they come to
pass."

"Better ride now," said Murray.  "Send Warning and Knotted Cord will
ride with Apache braves.  No time lose.  Want fresh horse."

He afterward explained to Steve that a little seeming activity on their
part was needful at that moment of excitement, lest anything unpleasant
should be said about them.  Besides, he had no fear of any farther
collision with the Lipans.  The night was too far gone for that, and he
had great confidence in the courage and skill of old Two Knives.

In less than twenty minutes after he had given his advice, he and Steve
Harrison, mounted on fresh mustangs chosen for them from the corral by
Red Wolf himself, were riding across the ford at the head of a strong
squad of Apache warriors, commanded by a chief of well-known skill and
prowess.

"They will pick up plenty more on the way, Steve, but they won't have
much to do."

"No danger of their catching old Two Knives?"

"Not a bit.  I'll tell you all about it some other time."

"I've something to tell you, Murray.  I can't keep it."

"Out with it, my boy."

"That white daughter of old Many Bears can speak English.  She
understood what I said and answered me."

It was dark, or Steve would have seen that the face of his friend grew
as white as his hair, and then flushed and brightened with a great and
sudden light.

For a moment he was silent, and then he said, in a deep, husky voice,

"Don't say any more about it to me, Steve.  Not till I speak to you
again.  I'm in an awful state of mind to-night."

Steve had somehow made up his mind to that already, but he was saved
the necessity of saying anything in reply.  Red Wolf rode closer to him
at the moment and said,

"Knotted Cord is young.  Been on war-path before?"

"Say yes, Steve," muttered Murray.

"Yes, I'm young.  Seen a good deal, though.  Many war-paths."

"What tribe strike?"

"Lipans, Comanches, Mexicans.  Followed some Pawnees once.  They got
away."

Red Wolf's whole manner told of the respect he felt for a young brave
who had already been out against the fiercest warriors of the Indian
country.  He would have given a good many ponies to have been able to
say as much for himself.

"Glad come among Apaches.  Stay long time.  Never go away."

That was a wonderful thing for Red Wolf to say, considering what a
bitter prejudice had been taught him against everybody with a white
skin.  Ni-ha-be would not have believed it unless she had heard him say
it.

"Can't promise," replied Steve.  "Go when Send Warning say."

No comment could be made by a "young brave" on an appeal to a
white-headed "chief" like Murray, and the talk slackened a little.

It would hardly have done so if they could have looked a few miles in
front of them just then.  The darkness would have prevented their
seeing much, but if they had been near the old Lipan camp they would
have seen that it was empty.

A few Apaches had taken possession of it at first, but the smouldering
camp-fires and blazing wagons gave light enough to the Lipans among the
rocks to enable them to send occasional bullets at whatever might be
stirring there, and the place was given up as uselessly dangerous.  The
scattered shots which now and then came from the mouth of the pass told
that the beaten warriors of To-la-go-to-de were wide-awake and ready to
defend themselves, and their position was well known to be a strong
one--not to be attacked without both orders and re-enforcements.

But for one thing that end of the pass would have been already vacant.
The pride of the Lipans forbade their running farther without at least
an effort to learn what had become of their chief.  They felt that they
could never look their squaws in the face again unless they could
explain that point.

To be sure it was almost a hopeless case, and the Apaches would be upon
them in the morning, but they waited.

Everything seemed to be growing darker, and the outlying Lipan
sentinels were not in any fault that four men on horseback should get
so near them undiscovered.  It was very near, and the new-comers must
have known there was danger in it, for one of them suddenly put his
hand to his mouth and uttered a fierce, half-triumphant war-whoop.  It
was the well-known battle-cry of To-la-go-to-de himself, and it was
answered by a storm of exulting shouts from the warriors among the
rocks.  Their chief had escaped!

That was true, and it was a grand thing, but he had brought back with
him only three men of his "front rank."

The Apaches could hear the whooping, and the foremost of them deemed it
wise to fall back a little.  Whatever their enemies might be up to,
they were men to be watched with prudence as well as courage.

The words of the great chief were few.  There was no farther account to
be made of Captain Skinner and his miners, he told them.  They were
cunning, and they had taken care of themselves.  It had been well to
plunder their camp.  He himself owed his safety to their old friend No
Tongue, and the Lipans must never forget him.  The Yellow Head had
probably been killed, and they would not see him again.  They must now
gather all their horses and other plunder, and push their retreat as
far as possible before morning.  Some other time they would come and
strike the Apaches, but it was "bad medicine" for them just now.

Whatever else that may have meant, according to Indian superstition,
every warrior could understand that their losses had weakened them too
much to think of fighting another hard battle.  It was no disgrace to
make a great deal of haste under such circumstances; and so, if Red
Wolf and the rest had been near enough at that hour, they would have
seen Two Knives and what was left of his band riding steadily on,
deeper and deeper, among the mountains.

CHAPTER XXVI

All the while that Murray had been sitting among the Apache chiefs and
answering their questions, and even when he and Steve mounted the
mustangs Red Wolf brought them, there had been three pairs of very keen
eyes, not to speak of any others, closely watching him.

"He is not an Apache!" exclaimed Ni-ha-be to Rita.  "Why do they make a
chief of him?  He is nothing but an old pale-face!"

"He is wise.  He is good.  The great chief listens to him.  All the
warriors listen.  They did as he said to-night, and so they beat the
Lipans."

"He is not a warrior.  He did not go out and fight."

"All warriors do not go always.  Some stay in camp.  Young squaws like
you and me must not talk about chiefs."

That was good Apache teaching, and Ni-ha-be knew it, but she seemed to
have formed a strong dislike for Send Warning, and she retorted,

"He is not a chief--only a pale-face.  I will talk about him as much as
I please.  You like him because he is one of your own people."

Rita was silent.  There was a very strange feeling in her heart just
then, and she was trying to understand it.

For long years, ever since she was a little girl, she had been taught
to think of herself as an Apache maiden, the daughter of a great chief,
and she had grown to be very proud of it.  She had been even ashamed,
at times, of the fact that, in some way that she did not quite
understand, she was a pale-face also.  Ni-ha-be had been apt to throw
it at her whenever there was any dispute between them, and that had
helped to keep her from forgetting it.

And, now she had seen Send Warning and Knotted Cord, she had felt that
a sort of change was coming over her.  She was young, but she could see
that in some way they were the superiors of all the red warriors around
them.  They were listened to and looked up to, although they were
almost strangers.  To her eyes they were better-looking, something
higher and nobler, and she was not at all ashamed of the thought that
they belonged to her own people.  Then it had come to her, with a great
rush of joy in her heart, that she could speak her own language--a
little of it.  She could even hear many words from the mysterious
talking leaves of the pale-faces, and no Apache girl could do that--not
even Ni-ha-be herself, for all her wonderfully good eyes.

Then there came to the camp the great excitement caused by finding out
the escape of the Lipan prisoners, and quickly after that had come the
departure of the force sent out to recapture them.

Rita and Ni-ha-be had been standing side by side, watching all that was
done.

"Send Warning is going on the war-path now, Ni-ha-be."

"So are Red Wolf and Knotted Cord.  Young braves are worth more than
wrinkled old men."

"The great chief himself is wrinkled a little."

"He is a great brave.  He must be angry by this time.  He will send for
Dolores."

They did not know how earnestly that important woman had been using her
own eyes all that time.  She had seen as much as had either of them,
and she was close to them at that moment.

"Young squaws go back to lodge right away.  See?  All squaws go in a
hurry."

A few sharp words from one of the old men had started them, and they
were indeed hurrying.  They knew there was a good deal of bad temper up
in the village just then, and there was no telling who might be made to
suffer for it.  The last squaw to get home would be very likely to meet
a cross husband, and Indian husbands are not pleasant company when
anything has made them cross.

The two girls hurried with the rest, and Dolores had very little to say
to them.

It was now Ni-ha-be's turn to notice something of a change.  Not in
herself, but in Dolores.  She had been accustomed to feel that whatever
difference was made between Rita and herself was in her own favor.  She
felt that it was right it should be so, much as she loved her adopted
sister, for after all it was a great advantage to be every bit an
Apache.  She was often sorry for Rita, but she could not help her
having been born white.

Now, however, although it required all her keenness to detect it, there
seemed to be something of unusual respect in the voice and manner of
Dolores whenever she spoke to Rita.  A touch of special kindness came
with it.  Not a sign of harshness showed itself all the way to the
lodge, although Dolores had one or two pretty sharp things to say to
Ni-ha-be.  The Mexican darkness of the chief's "great cook" had helped
everybody to almost forget her origin, but the thought of it came
slowly into Ni-ha-be's mind.

"She read one of the talking leaves herself.  It made her shut her eyes
and kneel down.  Send Warning talked with her.  She is as bad as Rita.
She is not an Apache at heart."

That was hardly fair to Mother Dolores, for it was only too true that,
as Murray said of her, "she was completely Indianized."  Even now she
was not thinking of herself as a pale-face, or longing to be anything
else than the "cook squaw" of the mighty war-chief Many Bears.  No; she
was not thinking of herself, but a great cloud was gathering in her
mind, and she felt that it all belonged in some way to Rita.

She did not speak of it, but she felt a good deal more comfortable
after the two girls were safe behind the skin cover of their own lodge.

"Great chief not go on war-path.  Better not see young squaws just now.
He will send for the talking leaves in the morning.  Send Warning will
read them to him.  He did not look so old to-night.  He was a very
handsome man when he was young.  So long ago!"

Ni-ha-be had been right about her father's appetite, for it was only a
few minutes before he came stalking toward the camp-fire for some
venison-steak, and Dolores had been wise enough to have it on the
coals, so as not to keep him waiting.

He never dreamed of telling her, nor she of asking him, anything about
the events of the night or the plans of the warriors, but all the while
that steak was broiling she was thinking of Send Warning rather than of
Many Bears, and wondering if there would be another fight with the
Lipans before sunrise.  That was the very question asked of Murray by
the chief in command of their squad half an hour or so later.

"What do I think?  Well, I think the Lipans are not fools."

"What mean by that?"

"Fools stay and get killed.  Cunning men ride hard and get away."

The Apaches rode a little faster after that, and were joined by so many
other small parties of warriors that they were quite a respectable
force by the time they reached the neighborhood of the camp.  It was
nearly sunrise then, and the braves who had been watching the camp
faithfully reported all that had occurred.  They told of the sudden
whooping nearly two hours earlier, and Murray at once remarked, "Apache
chief knows what that means?"

"He is not very wise.  Send Warning tell him."

"It meant that their great chief and the three braves with him had come
back to them.  Send warrior up toward pass.  If I am wrong, the Lipans
are there now; if I am right, they are gone."

The warrior scout was sent in a twinkling, for Indian sagacity
understood the keenness of Murray's guess, and it was not long before
the news came back that not a sign of an enemy could be discovered
among the rocks.

It was a disappointment.  The daring invaders had escaped, for there
would be no use in following them.  The whole Apache nation could
hardly have forced the narrow places of that pass against so strong a
party of good rifle-men.  Neither was there any certainty but what the
pale-face miners might be in there somewhere, ready to deal destruction
on any Apache who should be so unwise as to ride into such a rocky trap.

The sun arose while they were talking about it, and the Apache braves
were already searching the camp for anything which might have been left.

They were not without some success, for the first wagon had not burnt
very well, and the Lipans had neither time nor heart to take everything
out of it.

"Come, Steve.  The miners made their last camp over yonder.  I can see
a wagon-wheel sticking up."

A quick gallop brought them to all that was left of that second wagon.
It had burnt better than the other, but had not been completely
consumed.

"Nothing left in it."

"If there had been, the Apaches would be here now instead of over
yonder.  I declare!"

He sprung from his pony, and rushed toward the one hind-wheel which was
still upheld by what was left of its broken axle, and by a part of the
wagon bottom.

"What is it, Murray?"

"Wait a moment."

Steve too was on foot, just as the old man gave that wheel a jerk that
dragged it several feet from its place.

"Look there, Steve!"

"Buckskin bags--some of them half burnt.  What is that, Murray, in the
ashes?  Is it gold?"

"More than that, Steve.  It's gold coin--twenty-dollar gold pieces.
Stow away as many of those little bags as you can before any Apaches
come.  It's our plunder."

"They're coming.  But how is it ours?"

He was picking up several of the little bags, and putting them inside
his hunting-shirt when he asked that question.

"Because we're on this war-path, and have found it.  The Apaches would
rather have ponies; but they may take what we leave, if they want it."

"Doesn't it belong to those miners?  Won't they come for it?"

"They would not find it if they did come, but they never will.  They'll
trust the Apaches and Lipans too well for that.  Besides, it never was
theirs.  They stole every cent of it."

"Do you suppose we can ever find the owners?"

"Never.  It would be an utter impossibility.  What we are picking up is
ours, by all the laws of the mountains and all the rules of Indian war."

They did not open a single one of the little buckskin bags, but Murray
threw down one that would not "chink" and picked up another.

"Coin is better than dust or nuggets, Steve, and we must not take it
all.  Only what we can stow away quickly.  It's just what we are going
to need.  It will pay the expenses of your trip to the settlements, and
take care of you after you get there."

His face was burning hot while he spoke, and his eyes were flashing
with sudden and fierce excitement.  Could it be possible that he was so
terribly fond of money?

Steve wondered and stared, but the Apache young men were crowding
around them now, and Murray nodded to him to fall back.

"Mount at once, Steve.  Don't seem to claim anything or to interfere.
Let them sift the ashes if they want to."

"Seems to me we must have the best part of it."

"That's likely.  I think we have as much as we shall need.  No.  I
don't know how much I may need before I get through.  Money is a good
thing to have sometimes."

Murray was hardly himself that morning, and yet he met the Apache
leader coolly enough.

"What do now?  Send Warning advise friend."

"Ride back to village.  Not lose time.  Young men finish plunder.  Old
men not stay.  Great chief want to see us."

That last word was enough and the warrior wheeled his horse westward.
His parting orders were few, but they would bring back every Apache
from that "war-path" as soon as the search for plunder should be
completed.

"It's all right, Steve," said Murray, as they rode along side by side.
"If we had stayed there too long some of them might have been curious
how much we had picked up.  They won't say a word after we are in camp.
If an Indian once gets his plunder safe into his own lodge nobody
questions his title to it.  That is, if it has been taken from an
enemy."

CHAPTER XXVII

Not one of the persons who had "wondered what had become of those
miners" had so much as guessed at the exact truth, although Murray had
come nearer to it than anybody else.

That sunrise found them, as they thought, once for all safe within the
boundary of the "foreign country," where no one would ask them any ugly
questions about the stolen gold they had brought there.

In fact, the first thing they did, after finishing their hearty
breakfast of fresh beef, was to "unpack themselves."  Every man wanted
to know if he had lost anything on the way, and to make as good a guess
as he could how much his load was worth.  Then it seemed as if they all
spoke together when they tried to express their regret at having been
compelled to leave any of their treasure behind.

"No use to think of going back for it now, boys.  Some day we'll take
another look at that mine, but there won't be a thing worth going for
in that wagon."

"What do ye mean to do next, Cap?" asked Bill.

"I told you before.  Give our horses a chance to feed, and then push
right on.  We can afford to use 'em all up now.  Three days of hard
riding'll carry us out of harm's way."

"And then we can go jest whar we please."

There was a wonderful deal of comfort in that for men who had been
"running away" so long as they had, and over so very rough a country.
Their hard, rude, weather-beaten faces began to put on an expression of
peace and quiet, and even of good-nature, and they gave their weary
horses a longer rest than they had at first intended.  After that,
however, the sharp, stern summons of Captain Skinner called them to
"mount and ride" once more, and they were all ready to obey.  It was a
wild region through which they were going, but at more than one place
they passed the ruins of old houses and other traces of former attempts
at settlement and cultivation.

"There were good ranches hereaway in the old times," said Captain
Skinner, "and there was some mining done, but it was too near the
Apache range, and there were too many revolutions.  It won't be settled
up till there's a new state of things.  The Apaches'll take care of
that."

All their troubles, they thought, were behind them, and they cared very
little for those of the country they had gotten into--less than they
might have done if they had imagined how nearly those very troubles
might yet concern themselves.

It was impossible, however, not to think and talk about the Apaches,
and to "wonder how the Lipans came out of their attack on that village."

Captain Skinner's comment was, "I don't reckon a great many of 'em came
out at all.  The chances were against them.  Old Two Knives made a
mistake for once, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd had to pay for it."

Well, so he had, but not so heavily as the Captain imagined.

At that very moment he was leading through the homeward pass just about
half of his original war-party--all that "had come out of the attack on
that village."

The village itself was in a high state of fermentation that morning.
There was mourning in some of the lodges over braves who had fallen in
that brief, sharp battle with the Lipans, but there were only five of
these in all, so great had been the advantage of superior numbers in
the fight, and of holding the ground of it afterward.

The bitterest disgrace of To-la-go-to-de and his warriors had been
their failure to carry off the bodies of their friends who had fallen.
At least twenty of the Apaches had been more or less wounded, and every
man of them was as proud of it as if he had been "promoted."  A scar
received in battle is a badge of honor to an Indian warrior, and he is
apt to make a show of it on every fair opportunity.

There was no need, therefore, of throwing away any pity on those who
had been cut by the lances or "barked" by the bullets of the Lipans.
Red Wolf himself had concealed a smart score of a lance-thrust along
his left side, for fear he might be forbidden going on that second
war-path.  Even now he refused to consider it as amounting to anything,
and his sister's face glowed with family pride as she said to Rita,

"Red Wolf is a true Apache.  He's a warrior already.  He will be a
great chief some day.  The Knotted Cord is white.  He has no scars.  He
has never been on a war-path."

She was speaking in her brother's hearing, and Steve was at no great
distance at that very moment, talking, in a low, earnest tone, with
Murray.

Rita replied, "He is young.  Send Warning is a warrior--"  But Red Wolf
broke in, very honestly, with,

"Knotted Cord is my brother.  Only his skin is white.  Not his heart.
He is a warrior.  He has been on war-paths.  He has seen the Lipans,
the Comanches, the Pawnees, the Mexicans.  He is not a boy."

Ni-ha-be's little "pet" was blown away by that, and she looked once
more admiringly at the strong and handsome young pale-face.  If he had
only been so fortunate as to be born an Apache, what might not have
been expected of him!

The girls had many questions to ask concerning the events of the night
before, and Red Wolf was in an accommodating frame of mind that
morning.  It was right, too, in his opinion, that the squaws of his
family should be able to boast among the other squaws of the mighty
doings of their father and brother.  That was the way the reputations
of warriors were to be made and kept up, aided now and then by the good
things they might see fit to say about themselves.

In all that there is just this difference between red men and white,
and it would soon disappear with civilization.

That is, when a great white "brave" of any kind does a thing he is
proud of he manages to have the story of it printed in the newspapers,
so that all his boasting is done for him by somebody else.

The Indian "brave" is compelled to be his own newspaper, and tell his
own story of himself.  That is all, and it sometimes makes the poor red
man appear to be the vainer of the two, which is a great injustice.

The conversation between Steve and Murray could not be overheard by
their friends, but it must have been of more than a little importance,
to judge by the expression that came and went upon their faces.  No
Indian warrior's face would have betrayed his feelings in such a manner.

Dolores was busy at the camp-fires, as usual, with her frying-pan, and
they were looking at her.

"How old do you think she is, Steve?"

"It's hard to guess, Murray.  Maybe she's forty-five."

"She is not much above thirty.  The Mexican women grow old sooner than
white ones.  She was not much above twenty when she cooked for my
miners on the Santa Rita mine."

"Do you feel perfectly sure about that?"

"I've watched her.  There is no doubt left in my mind.  Still, I may
ask her a few more questions.  Then there is one thing more I want to
make sure of."

"Will it keep us here long?"

"It may keep me, Steve."

"Then it will keep me, Murray.  You will need me if you have anything
on hand.  I am anxious enough to get off, but I will not leave you
behind.  I'll stay and help."

Murray held out his hand.

"It's a fact, Steve.  I may need all the help you can give."

"Take care!  Here comes Many Bears himself, and two of his cunningest
councillors."

It did not require much guessing on Steve's part to know that, for the
"cunning" of those old Indians was written all over their dark,
wrinkled faces.

"More advice wanted," thought Murray, but it was not asked for so soon
as he expected.

The first words of Many Bears were complimentary, of course.  His
pale-face friend had been very wise.  All he had said had been good,
even to the not permitting the young men to follow the Lipans into the
mountains.  Warriors had told the chief that Send Warning and Knotted
Cord had picked up something in the camp of the pale-faces.  The
Apaches were glad.  Their friends were welcome to what they had found.
Murray interrupted him there by promptly holding out one of the little
buckskin bags.

"Great chief take it."

"No.  No want it.  Send Warning keep it, and tell Apaches what better
do next."

"Go to better hunting-ground.  Bad place for camp."

"Will the Lipans come again?"

"Not till after next snow.  Got enough now.  Come then."

All that and more came in as a sort of preface to what Many Bears
really wanted to say.  He had something very heavy on his mind that
morning, and in order to get rid of it he had to tell the whole story
of the buffalo-hunt his band had made away beyond the mountains into
the country claimed by the Lipans.  That was the way they came to be
followed so closely by Two Knives and his warriors.

Murray and Steve listened closely, for the chief spoke in very good
Mexican Spanish most of the time, and they both understood him.  Then
came the story of the return through the pass, and it wound up with the
finding of the talking leaves by Rita.

"Send Warning knows the rest."

"No," said Murray, "I have not seen the talking leaves."

"Great medicine.  Tell Apache chief about miners.  Tell about old
fight.  Tell about blue-coat soldiers come, and where go.  Tell about
big talk, and treaty, and presents.  Many Bears want to hear more."

"Ask young squaw."

"Can't hear all.  Send Warning listen.  Say what he hears."

"All right.  Bring young squaw."

"No need of squaw.  Bring talking leaves."

"No," persisted Murray.  "Young squaw find.  All her medicine.  Must
hold leaves for Send Warning to read."

"Ugh!  Good.  Many Bears not care.  Dolores bring Rita.  Tell her to
bring leaves."

Ni-ha-be and Rita were near enough to hear, and the latter at once
darted into the lodge for her treasures, while her adopted sister
looked after her with a good deal of envy in her eyes.

"She is a pale-face.  It is too bad."

Rita was gone but a moment, and her whole body seemed to glow and
tremble with excitement as she held out the three magazines to Murray.

"Take one, Steve.  You haven't forgotten your reading, have you?"

"Send Warning hear leaves," said Many Bears, anxiously.  "The Knotted
Cord is young."

"He is white.  He can hear.  The great chief will listen."

"Ugh!" muttered Ni-ha-be, looking on from a little distance, but Rita
looked at Steve, with a bright smile on her face.

"There, Murray," said Steve, "the chief was right.  There's a picture
of cavalry.  All the others he spoke of are here.  Here is the picture
of the big talk and the treaty."

"Here is the mining fight--" and just there Murray paused as if he
could say no more, and the Indians looked at him in undisguised
astonishment.  His breast was heaving, his lips were quivering, and the
hands that held the magazines were trembling as if their owner had an
ague fit.

"What find?" exclaimed Many Bears.  "Is it bad medicine?"

It was some seconds before Murray could trust himself to speak, but he
was thinking very fast.

"The talking leaves have told Many Bears the truth.  Now Send Warning
is troubled in his mind."

All could see that, and it made them not a little anxious.

"What want?  What do?"

"Go into lodge with young squaw.  Knotted Cord stay and talk with
Apache chief.  Nobody come into lodge.  Take a little time.  Then tell
what hear."

It was an unusual request, but there could be no objection, in view of
the fact that there was "great medicine" to be looked into.  An Indian
conjurer always requires the absence of all observers for the
performance of his most important juggling.  It was at once decided by
the chief that Send Warning should have his way.

Rita listened, pale and serious, while Ni-ha-be looked on in jealous
amazement.

"I am an Apache girl?  Why can he not teach me to hear the talking
leaves?"

No doubt he could have done so if she would have given him plenty of
time, and been willing to begin with A B C, as Rita had done long years
before.

How should all that ABC business have come back to Rita as it did, when
she found herself alone in her lodge with that white-headed old
pale-face warrior?

She thought she had never before seen so kind and good a face, and she
wondered that it did not seem so very old, after all, now it was so
near.

"I will sit down, Rita, my dear.  Sit down too.  You are too tall now
to stand up."

Not a human eye was looking upon them, but Rita had suddenly covered
her face with her hands.

"Speak," she said, earnestly; "I remember better when I do not see."

She was talking English, just as he had done, only more slowly, and
almost as if it hurt her.

"I will read the first word, dear.  Then you may spell it.  M-i-n-e,
mine.  That means a gold-mine, like ours, dear.  Spell it, Rita, my
darling."

"Our mine?  Darling?  Oh, if I could see my father!"

Murray sprung to his feet as if he were a boy.  His mouth opened and
closed as if he were keeping back a great shout, and the tears came
pouring down over his cheeks.

"Rita!  Rita!  My dear little daughter!  Here I am!"

"Father!"

His arms were around her now, and he was kissing her almost frantically.

Slowly she opened her eyes.  "I know it is you when you speak, and when
my eyes are shut.  When I open them you are very old.  My father was
young and handsome.  His hair was not white."

"Rita, darling, it has been just as white as it is now ever since the
morning after I came home and found that the Apaches had carried you
away.  They killed your mother, and I heard that they had killed you
too.  I have been an old man ever since, but I think I shall grow young
again now."

Time was precious.  They could only spare enough for a few hurried
questions and answers, and Murray glanced rapidly over the pages of the
three magazines.

"Let me take them," he said.  "I would like to read them carefully.  I
shall know what to say to the chief.  You must not let anybody know I
am your father--not till the right time comes."

"Oh, why not?"

"Because the Apaches would know then that I am their enemy, and have
good reason to be.  Even if they did not kill me at once, they would
not trust me, and I want them to do that.  It is my only hope of
carrying you away with me.  Stay here in the lodge till you are sure
your face will not betray you."

She had been crying more copiously than her father, and that would have
been a thing to be explained to Ni-ha-be and Dolores.  Rita therefore
remained in the lodge while Murray, with a great effort, recovered his
usual calm self-control, and walked slowly and dignifiedly out.  He
needed to put on all the dignity he was master of, for his heart was
thump-thumping against his ribs, and his brain was in a whirl as to
when and how he should be able to claim and carry on the great treasure
he had found.

Treasure!  The Buckhorn Mine, piled mountain high with twenty-dollar
pieces, was nothing to it.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Steve Harrison found his position a little awkward during the time
spent by Murray with Rita in the lodge.  The chiefs had too much
dignity to seem to consult with so young a brave especially as he had
not even one of the talking leaves to listen to.  He knew that not only
Dolores and Ni-ha-be, but half a dozen other squaws, old and young,
were staring at him, and he could not understand a word of the
low-voiced remarks they made.  He was very glad, therefore, when his
friend once more appeared, and he saw by the light on his face that he
had no unpleasant news to bring.

"What find?" asked Many Bears.  "Send Warning and Rita hear something?"

"Hear a little.  Send Warning will take the leaves to his own lodge and
hear more."

"What say now?  Hear about big talk with blue-coat pale-faces?"

"Tell you what I think."

"The chief is listening."

"Break up village.  Move west right away.  More news come soon.  Hear
about treaty when you see the lodges of your own people.  No time to
lose."

That advice agreed so exactly with the notions of Many Bears that he
was ready to accept it at once.  He turned to his two councillors
triumphantly.

"What did I tell you?  It is wisdom.  We will go.  Tell the braves to
get ready.  Tell all the squaws to pack up.  Send on hunting braves.
Good many.  Kill plenty meat."

There was no opposition.  The only objection that could reasonably be
raised was that so sudden a departure gave no opportunity for a grand
celebration of their victory over the Lipans.  They could attend to
that some other time, and there was no doubt but what all the whooping
and boasting in the band would keep safely till it should be called for.

"Come, Steve," said Murray.  "We want an hour by ourselves."

They were quickly inside their own lodge, and were sure there were no
listeners.

"Steve!"

"What is it, Murray?"

"That little girl is my own daughter!"

"I've suspected it.  And this was the very band of Apaches that broke
up your home and your mine."

"Yes, and it is a wonder they have not recognized me.  If Apaches of
some other band were to join them, some of them might remember me.
They have seen me in more than one of their fights with the Lipans."

"It would be all over with us then."

"Of course it would.  I am dressed differently, to be sure.  I can
change a little more.  Must crop my hair and beard closer.  They know
me for a long-bearded old man.  I must turn myself into a short-haired
young one."

"Can't you dye your hair?"

"Not till we get to the settlements.  There are no barbers among the
Apaches."

"How will we ever get her away, Murray?"

"Oh, my girl!  My poor, dear little girl!  I dare not think about my
wife.  No wonder my hair is white.  Steve, I must not let her live and
die among these wild people.  They have been kind to her, she says; and
I do not hate them so much now I know that, but she shall not be an
Indian."

He was getting feverishly excited, and Steve replied,

"Now, Murray, of course we will get her away.  Haven't you some plan?"

"Only to draw the whole band nearer the frontier, or nearer to some
fort or other."

"That's good.  We should have a shorter distance to run, if we should
escape."

"Now, Steve, I'm all upset and unstrung.  That's the reason I came in
here.  I've got to get my wits about me again, or I can't plan
anything."

"Sit down and read."

"Read?  Do you suppose I could do that just now?  Why, Steve, I've
found my little daughter!"

"So you have.  I don't wonder you're excited.  I am myself.  Here, give
me a magazine.  I'd like to find out how much of my reading will come
back."

Murray handed him one, and Steve sat down.  He had been fond of books
in the days before he was captured by the Lipans.  He had not forgotten
his reading at all, and it came back to him in a way that made his
heart jump.  But that was after he had made a great effort, and driven
away the faces of Rita and Ni-ha-be.

Both of them would somehow come between his eyes and the paper of those
printed pages at first.  Both of them were such nice, pretty,
well-behaved girls, and yet one of them was white, the daughter of his
friend Murray, and the other was only a poor little squaw of the
Apaches.

How the black eyes of Ni-ha-be would have snapped if she could have
read the thoughts of Knotted Cord at that moment!  She would never
again have regarded him as a handsome young brave, almost good enough
to be an Apache.

Murray, too, picked up a magazine and sat down.

"It will do for a sort of medicine," he muttered.  "I may learn
something from it, too.  The world has changed a great deal since I
have had newspapers or magazines to read.  There may be some new
nations in it, for all I know, and there surely must be a new lot of
kings and queens and presidents, and all that sort of thing."

It was that thought which made him turn over a little carelessly all
the illustrated articles and the stories, till he came to the "news of
the month" among the leaves at the end.

There he began actually to read, and read closely, for it was all very
new to him, although it was several months since it had been printed
there.

There was a great deal of it, for the editor had condensed everything
into the fewest words possible, and more than once Murray's eyes opened
wider or his mouth puckered up as if for a whistle.  The world had been
moving fast while he had been among the Lipans.

"And Rita," he muttered, "she knows nothing at all about any of it.  I
don't know that I am sorry.  She will have all the pleasure of learning
all she needs to know, and she won't have anything to unlearn.  I wish
I could forget some things as completely as she seems to have done.  I
hope a good many of them will never come back to her at all."

No doubt it was very interesting, and Steve looked up from his own
reading to see how completely absorbed Murray had become.

Still, it must have been a remarkable news item that could make a man
of steady nerves bound suddenly to his feet and hold that magazine out
at arm's length.

"Why, Murray," said Steve, "what can be the matter?"

"Matter?  My dear boy!  Read that!  Rita is an heiress."

"What?"

He might well have been half afraid his friend had lost his wits, but
he took the "talking leaves" held out to him, and read the few lines to
which the finger of Murray was pointing:

"The great English estate of Cranston Hall, with a baronetcy, is
waiting for an heir.  The late baronet left no children, and his only
brother, to whom the title and all descend, was last heard of in
America.  He is believed to have been interested in mining in the Far
West, and the lawyers are hunting for him."

"Well," said Murray, when Steve ceased reading, "what do you think of
that?"

"I don't know exactly what to think.  Your name is Murray."

"Robert Cranston Murray, as my father's was before me.  It was because
he left me only my name that I left England to seek my fortune.  Oh,
Steve!  I must find my way back now.  Rita will be the lady of Cranston
Hall!"

"Instead of the squaw of some Apache horse-stealer!"

Steve felt a little like dancing, and a good deal like tossing up his
hat and venting his feelings by a good hurrah, but the next thought was
a sober one.

"How are we ever to get them to give up Rita?"

Murray was thinking the same thought just then, and it seemed to him as
if he must go out to the door of the lodge for a little breath of fresh
air.

The chief and his councillors were nowhere to be seen, but there was
Mother Dolores by the camp-fire.

Murray tried hard to assume a calm and steady face and voice as he
strode forward and stood beside her.  He spoke to her in Spanish.

"Well, Dolores, which do you like best, cooking for Mexican miners or
for the great chief?"

She dropped her stew-pan and stood looking at him for a moment, drawing
her breath hard, and then she exclaimed,

"I was right.  It is Señor Murray.  Ah, señor, it is so long ago!  The
poor señora--"

"Don't speak of her.  I know.  We found her.  My Rita?"

"Yes, she is your Rita.  But they will kill you if you tell them.  I
will keep your secret, señor.  I have kept it now."

She had dimly recognized him, then, and she, too, had been in doubt
what to do or say.  In answer to a few more questions she told him very
truly that she had been better off among the Apaches than before she
was captured.  Less hard work, better treatment, better food, better
position, just about as much real civilization.

Poor Dolores had never known much about that or anything better than
the hard lot of a Mexican woman of the lower class among the rough
miners.  It was better, she said, to be the wife of a chief and have
plenty to eat, and little hard work to do.

"But about Rita?"

"If you had your mine now, and your great droves of horses!"

"What could I do?"

"Do, Señor Murray?  Why, you could buy half the young squaws in the
village, if you had husbands for them.  But you are poor now.  I
suppose it cannot be done."

It was no wonder he had not thought of it before.  It was so strange a
thing to propose.  That a father should buy his own daughter!  He
turned from her and strode back to his own lodge, to hear what Steve
would say.  "He's a mere boy, but sometimes he seems to have a great
deal of sense."

Steve's remark, after he had heard about Dolores and her idea, was
simply,

"That's nothing new, is it?  If we can't run away with her, we can
ransom her."

"Ransom?  Well, now, that's a great deal better word than buy.  But our
gold coin won't do.  They won't take the whole pile for her.  They
don't really understand the value of it."

"They want ponies, and blankets, and all that?"

"That's it.  Why, Steve, it's the queerest thing.  I'm so excited I
can't think.  If we can make a bargain with them they'll be glad enough
to go with us to the nearest trading-post.  We can buy all we want when
we get there.  You've helped me out of my scrape."

"Seems to me it was easy enough to think of that."

It may have been, but Murray felt very grateful to Steve.  The latter
now put down his magazine and went to the door in his turn, for he,
too, had a large amount of thinking to do.

"Murray, they are taking down the lodges again."

"Going forward to-night, eh?  I'm glad of that.  I must spur old Many
Bears up to it.  Don't want him to lose a day on the road."

"Nor I either.  They'll move slowly enough anyhow."

"Oh, they'll find a good place to leave the village, while the chiefs
and warriors go on to be present at the treaty talk."

"Suppose there isn't any?"

"There's pretty sure to be something of the kind at this season of the
year.  Anyhow, we will get them to the right place for us to buy our
ponies and blankets, and we will have Rita with us."

It was pretty hard, and he felt it in every corner of his heart, that
he could not send for her at once and tell her all about his plans for
her release.  Yes, and about the beautiful home to which he meant to
take her, away beyond the great salt sea she had never seen.

CHAPTER XXIX

Captain Skinner and his miners were well mounted, and they were tough,
seasoned horsemen.  They were in a great hurry, too, for their minds were
full of dreams of the grand good times they meant to have.  Some of them
talked and laughed and even sung over their plans for the future.
Others, older or of more quiet disposition, rode forward in good-humored
silence all the many long miles of that second day.

The only thing to be done, now they were once for all beyond the reach of
enemies, was to get to a place where they could exchange their gold-dust
and nuggets and ingots for coin, and then spend that.

Captain Skinner had been compelled to hear nearly all of them say, one
after another, and in very much the same way,

"It's a great pity, Cap, we didn't get out them twenty-dollar pieces, and
leave bullion instead."

He had only replied two or three times,

"No use, boys.  All under the false bottom, at the hind end of the wagon.
No time to go for 'em.  Had to take what was handiest."

They made an astonishingly long day's march, and did not meet with the
slightest sign of danger.  Nor did they come across any better token of
civilized life than two deserted "ranches," or farm-houses, made of
"abode" or sunburnt brick.

That night they slept soundly on their blankets in the open air, and
perhaps some of them dreamed that in a few nights more they would have
roofs over their heads, and wake up in the morning to find hot coffee on
the breakfast-table.  No bell rung for them, however, when breakfast time
came, and they had nearly completed their simple meal of broiled beef and
cold water when their ears were saluted by a very different sound from
that of a bell.

"Horses!  Rifles!  Mount, boys!" shouted the little Captain.  "That's a
cavalry bugle!"

Cavalry.

They sprung for their arms, and they mounted in hot haste, but before the
last man was in the saddle the music of that bugle was close upon them.
It was a good bugle, with a sweet, clear voice, and it was well played by
the tall German who had somehow drifted away from the Rhine-land into
that gayly dressed and glittering regiment of Mexican lancers.

"No use to fight, boys, even if they were enemies.  There's more'n three
hundred of 'em.  Regulars, too.  What on earth brings 'em away up here?
Can't be there's any revolution going on."

Captain Skinner was not a man to be easily puzzled, but the appearance of
such a force there and then was a remarkable circumstance--altogether
unaccountable.  So was the action taken by the Mexican colonel in
command.  No message of inquiry was sent forward.  No greeting was
offered.  The only sound to be heard was that of the bugle as it repeated
the signals called for by the few brief, sternly uttered orders that rung
out from the head of the column.

"It isn't too late for us to run, Cap," suggested Bill.

"Yes, it is.  They'd catch us in no time.  Besides, we haven't done
anything to run for."

"Not to them we haven't."

In a few minutes more it was too late, if it had not been just then, for
the gleaming lances of a full company of the Mexicans began to shine
above the grass and bushes behind the miners.

"Trapped, boys!  I wonder what they're going to do?"

The Mexican commander was nearly ready to tell them now, for, as his
really splendid-looking horsemen closed steadily in upon the silent squad
of wild-looking desperadoes, he himself rode forward toward them,
accompanied by two officers in brilliant uniforms.

Captain Skinner rode out as if to meet him, but was greeted by an
imperative, loud-voiced,

"Halt!  Dismount!"

The fire flashed from the eyes of the ragged little Captain.

"Close up, boys!  Dismount behind your horses, and take aim across the
saddle."

He was obeyed like clock-work, and it was the colonel's turn to "halt,"
for no less than three of those deadly dark tubes were pointing straight
at him, and he saw with what sort of men he was dealing.  Had they been
six dozen instead of only less than two, they would not have hesitated a
second about charging in upon his gay lancers, and would probably have
scattered them right and left.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded of Captain Skinner.

"Travelling."

"Where are you going?"

"Going to try and mind our own business."

"Where did you come from?"

"Across the border.  Driven out of the mines by Apaches.  Didn't expect
to find Mexican regular cavalry worse than the redskins."

"We will see about that, señor.  You are our prisoners."

"All right, so long as none of you come too near.  It won't be healthy
for any of you to try."

"No harm is intended you, señor.  We are sent to guard this frontier
against the Apaches, and to put down a small pronunciamento."

Captain Skinner knew what that meant.  There had been some sort of a
little revolution in that part of Mexico, and he and his men were
suspected of having crossed the border to take part in it.

"All right, colonel.  All we want is to march right along.  We can pay
our own way."

That was the first blunder the wily Captain had made.

The regiment of lancers, like a great many other Mexican regiments, was
only "regular" because it happened just then to be employed by the
national government.  Its pay had not been regular at all, and the minds
of both officers and men were excited by the mention of such a thing.

A half-scornful smile shot across the dark face of the colonel as he
looked at those ragged men, and wondered how much they would be likely to
pay for anything, even if they were not disposed to help themselves
without paying.  A young officer at his side was more sagacious, and
suggested,

"I beg a thousand pardons, colonel, but they are miners."

"Ah!  They may have been successful."

The expression of his face underwent a rapid change, and there was
nothing scornful in it when he remarked to Captain Skinner that the price
of a written "safe-conduct" for him and his men would be a hundred
dollars each.

"That's reasonable, Cap."

"We won't mind that."

"Pay him.  It's the best we can do."

"All right, Señor Colonel," said the Captain.  "We will pay you in gold
as soon as it's written."

One of the young officers at once dismounted, and produced a supply of
writing materials.

The "safe-conduct" was a curious document, and nothing exactly like it
could have been had or bought of any cavalry officer in the United
States.  It was written in Spanish, of course, and it appeared to vouch
for the peaceable and honest character and intentions of the entire
company of miners.

The latter stood sternly behind their horses, in a dangerous looking
circle, while the bargain was making, and the Captain himself had coin
enough to pay for them all without calling for contributions.

The colonel was very polite now, and gave very accurate advice and
instructions as to the route the miners would do well to follow.

Captain Skinner's second blunder was that he determined to go by the road
laid out for him by the colonel.

Perhaps he might not have done so if he had read one other piece of paper
that the young officer wrote for his colonel to sign.  Or if he had seen
it handed to a lancer, who rode away with it at full speed along the
precise path the colonel was describing.

It was addressed, with many titles and formalities, to "General Vincente
Garcia," and it was delivered by the lancer postman within three hours.

There was something remarkable in the quantity and quality of the
politeness expressed by the Mexican officers after that money had been
paid.  Not only did they declare their great pleasure at meeting so
distinguished a party of "caballeros," but also a great deal of regret at
parting with them.

"That's all serene, Cap," said Bill, "but they'd have rid right over us
if we'd ha' let 'em."

"We're all right now.  Let's make a long push today."

The colonel showed no disposition to detain them, and it was not until
they had been on their southward march for an hour that he wheeled his
glittering column in the same direction.

Captain Skinner and his men knew nothing about that, and when noon came
they found a capital camping-place, precisely as it had been described to
them.  A beautiful spot it was, with groves of shady trees and a fine
spring of water, and there was more than one drove of long-horned cattle
in sight.

"Somebody or other's careless about his critters," remarked one of the
miners; but the Captain's face was sober.

"It looks too much as if they'd been driven up this way to feed the
cavalry on.  I don't like it."

"Cap, do you hear that?  If it ain't another bugle you can shoot me!"

More than one was heard within the next half-hour, and three consecutive
squadrons of lancers rode within sight of the miners' camp and dismounted
for their noon-day meal.

They had a perfect right to do so.  They were in their own country.
Besides, they were not interfering with anybody.  There was a good many
of them, to be sure, and it was a curious thing that they should happen
to come.

"Thar's too big a crop o' lancers this year to suit me," muttered Bill.
"Thar's a squad of 'em coming now."

Not a large squad; only a couple of officers and their orderlies, on a
very proper errand, very politely done.

It was their duty, they said, with many apologies.  General Garcia
desired to know who were his neighbors, and so forth.

The colonel's "safe-conduct" was shown them, and they actually touched
their hats when they read it.

It was entirely satisfactory, they said.  Perfect.  The general would be
glad to know that all was in due form.  Would Captain Skinner do them the
great favor to go with them and pay his respects to the general?  Or
would one of the other caballeros?  The general would be glad to sign the
"safe-conduct" himself, as the officer In supreme command of the district.

That was precisely what the Captain thought he wanted, and he consented
at once.

"Cap," said Bill, "can't you get one of them civil-talkin' chaps to let
us have some coffee?  Or a side o' bacon?"

The officer understood him, and his bow and smile were of the most
polished order as he replied, "Certainly, señor.  We will be only too
happy.  But we hope to have the happiness of your presence at our own
mess at dinner to-day.  We can promise you something better than
camp-fare."

"We are too many, señor," said Captain Skinner.

"Too many, Captain!  We shall not have a caballero at each mess.  Some of
us will be disappointed."

He repeated his invitation, with a tempting list of the good things to be
had at the regimental campfires, and the miners assented like one man.
They had had no coffee for long months, nor bread, nor tobacco, nor
vegetables, and the mere mention of such things entirely overcame their
prudence.

They all abandoned their lunch of cold beef, mounted their horses, and
followed the polite officers and Captain Skinner.

Their promised "good time" had come to them sooner than they had
expected, and they were all jubilant over it.

The Mexicans were as good as their word, and the miners were astonished
at the cordial hospitality of their welcome in the cavalry camp.  Every
"mess" came forward to claim a guest, and they were speedily distributed
in a way which left no two of them together.

Captain Skinner found General Garcia as polite as any of the others.  Not
a word would he speak about business until after dinner, and so the
Captain did not know till then how great a mistake he had made in
permitting his men to be scattered.

"You will permit us to go on with our journey, of course, will you not,
general?" said he at last, over his coffee.

"Certainly.  Without doubt.  We shall not detain you an hour.  But the
señor is a caballero of experience and knowledge.  He will understand
that I cannot permit so strong a body of foreigners to march through my
district armed?"

"Armed?  We always go armed."

"At home.  Of course.  You have your own laws and customs.  I must
enforce those of Mexico, and this district is under martial law."

So smiling and so polite was the general, that Captain Skinner could
almost believe he was sorry to be compelled to enforce that law.

He tried, therefore, to argue the point, and was still trying when one of
his men came rushing up, knocking over a Mexican as he came, and
shouting, "Cap, they've took every weapon I had while I was eatin'!  And
they won't give them up."

"Will Señor Skinner do me the favor to tell his friend that this is by my
order?"  The general smiled as he said it.

It was another half-hour before the different "messes" in all parts of
the camp brought up to "headquarters" each its angry and disarmed guest.

"It's no use, boys," said Captain Skinner to his crestfallen band.  "It's
martial law, and we may as well submit.  We'd best mount and ride now."

Again General Garcia felt called upon to smile and be very polite.  His
command was greatly in need of horses.  Those of the American caballeros
were just suited to cavalry use.

"Oh, if we only had our rifles, Cap!" exclaimed Bill.  "Anyhow, we'll get
our saddles back."

More than one bearded face grew a little pale at the thought of those
saddles.  The general's own chief of staff had attended to their transfer
from the backs of the splendid American horses to those of the wretched
little Mexican ponies, and he had noticed how heavy they all were.  It
was his duty, therefore, to search them, and not a saddle among them all
was now any heavier than a saddle of that size ought to be.

"The ponies," remarked the polite Mexican, "are not strong enough to
carry all that gold bullion as well as those heavy Gringo miners."

It was a sad dinner-party for Captain Skinner and his miners.  And it
turned out as he feared, for not an ounce of stolen gold was to be found
in the pockets of that ragged band within ten days of their "first
dinner."

CHAPTER XXX

The day the village was moved from the bank of the river was in many
ways unsatisfactory to Ni-ha-be, and so was the next and the next.
Nothing went to suit her, whether in camp or on the march.

Her father was continually having grave talks with Send Warning.  Red
Wolf seemed to feel that he could not even ride out after deer or
buffalo unless he was accompanied by Knotted Cord.  He declared that no
Apache "young brave" could surpass the pale-face boy in handling the
lance, and that he could even make a good use of a bow and arrows.

But all that was nothing to the remarkable conduct of Dolores.
Ni-ha-be was sure Rita had never before received such a degree of
attention and respect from the great cook.  She had even seen her
adopted sister helped to broiled venison again and again before a
morsel had been handed to her, the born heiress of the great chief.
Her keen black eyes put on a continual watchfulness and they soon
detected other strange things, and so did her quick, suspicious ears.
She saw Rita look in the face of Send Warning as if she had known him
all her life, and she was sure she had heard both him and Knotted Cord
speak to her in the detested tongue of their race.

It was all the work of those miserable talking leaves, and they were
therefore the worst kind of "bad medicine."  She would have burnt them
up if she could, but now they were no longer within her reach.  Rita
had one, but Send Warning and his young friend had taken possession of
the others, and were "listening to them" at every opportunity.

Steve said to Murray that the reading of those magazines made him feel
as if he were half-way home again.

"We're anything but that, Steve.  What do you think old Many Bears
proposed this morning?"

"I can't guess."

"Wants to adopt us into his band.  Have us marry Indian wives, and
settle down."

"Tell him I'm too young.  Can't take care of a squaw."

"So I did, and he answered, 'Ugh!  Buy squaw some time.  No hurry.
Young brave good.'"

"Tell him you don't want a wife, but you'd like to buy a daughter, and
keep her for me when I get old enough."

"Steve!"

"Now, Murray, I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended.  It's an idea.  It's a good one.  It would sound
right in Indian ears.  I will think about it.  I've been an Indian so
long I hardly know how it would sound to my friends in England."

"They wouldn't care what you did, I guess, to get Rita out of the hands
of the Apaches."

"Of course they would not."

Still, it was a delicate piece of business, and Murray went at it very
carefully.

That afternoon, as they were riding along side by side, Many Bears
again remarked to him that he would be better off among his Apache
friends than anywhere else.

"Have lodge.  Have squaw.  Be chief a little.  Be great brave."

"Got good lodge now."

"Yes, but lodge empty.  Want squaw."

"Send Warning is old.  No child.  Rather have daughter.  He has taken
the Knotted Cord for a son.  All he needs now is a young squaw.  Keep
her for young brave by-and-by."

"Ugh!  Good!  All Apaches say Send Warning is wise.  Know what he likes
best.  Buy young squaw.  Braves get killed in fight.  Plenty young
squaw have no father.  All glad to come into good lodge.  Have plenty
meat.  Plenty nice blanket.  Old warrior make 'em behave, too.  Good
for squaw."

The notion of Many Bears was one that fitted him very well, for as
chief of the band it was his duty to keep an eye upon the fortunes of
its "orphans."  There could be no better "asylum" for one of them than
the lodge of a wise old brave like Send Warning.

"No," said Murray, after a moment of silence.  "Only one young squaw in
camp for me.  The great chief must let me have Rita."

Many Bears was as nearly startled as an Indian chief could be by the
sudden and daring proposal, although it was not at all the same as if
Murray had spoken of Ni-ha-be.  He pondered a moment, and then shook
his head.

"Rita will be the squaw of a great chief.  He will bring me many
ponies.  Heap give."

Any chief in want of a wife would expect to bring rich presents, all
the richer if he were to come for the daughter of a great man like Many
Bears.  Something far beyond the power of a seemingly poor warrior like
Send Warning.

"Good," said Murray, calmly.  "Heap give.  Suppose you say what you
think?  How big heap?"

There was a grim smile on the face of Many Bears as he turned and
looked in the face of his friend.  "How much?  Ugh!  Suppose big chief
bring fifty ponies?"

"Good," said Murray.  "Go on."

"Fifty new blanket?"

"Good.  All right."

"Five new gun.  Fifty knife.  Much heap powder.  Big roll cloth for
squaws.  What say?"

"Good.  All right."

"Much pistol, too.  Suppose chief think of something more?"

"All right.  Send Warning give it all."

"Ugh!  No got 'em.  No find 'em.  Send Warning laugh at chief.  Bad."

There was an offended look in his eyes, but Murray laid his hand on his
arm, saying,

"Listen!  Send Warning is white.  He is a great man among his own
people.  He can give heap to chief.  Can't find all here.  Out on
plains.  Up in mountains.  Go to fort.  See blue-coat chief.  See
traders.  Get all he wants there."

"Ugh!  Good.  Make talking leaf.  Send it to fort.  Young brave carry
it.  All things come back."

Many Bears had seen something of that kind done, and had never ceased
envying the white man's power to obtain presents by means of a little
piece of paper.  Murray replied,

"No.  Send Warning in no hurry.  Wait till we get to fort."

That would not be for many days; and the more Many Bears thought of all
the good things he had mentioned the more anxious he became to see his
adopted daughter set up in a lodge of her own.  Or at least under the
care of a warrior who was willing to give such a "big heap" for the
privilege.  He "thought of something more" almost every hour from that
time on, but his demands were mainly for items of moderate cost, and he
did not feel at liberty to mention any larger number of ponies or
blankets.

"We can buy the blankets easily enough," said Steve, when he was told
the terms of the bargain, "but what about the ponies?"

"Cheaper than blankets, my boy.  I've seen droves of them going for ten
dollars a head.  We won't have to give more than twenty.  As to the
other things there are always traders around the posts."

They had already counted the contents of their little buckskin bags,
and Steve had been surprised to find how much money there was in little
more than twenty pounds of gold coin.  He had found, indeed, a strange
pleasure in counting it over and over, while Murray told him of his
beautiful home away across the sea.

"You'll be a rich man there."

"Have three or four times as much as this every year.  You must come
and visit with me, Steve, as soon as you've seen your own people."

"I dare not think much of them, Murray.  I can't talk about them.  It
will be time enough when I learn if any of them are yet alive."

"Your father and mother?"

"Don't, Murray.  I'd rather talk about Rita and our plans here."

Poor Ni-ha-be!  It was not many days after that before Mother Dolores
one morning called her into the lodge.

"Ni-ha-be, Rita is going to the lodge of Send Warning!"

"She shall not!  He is to old.  His head is white.  He is ugly.  I will
not let her go.  He is a pale-face."

"So is she."

"She is an Apache now.  She is my sister.  He shall not have her."

"She is to be his daughter."

"Ugh!  Then he will take her away."

"No.  He will stay with us."

"Will the Knotted Cord stay?"

"Of course.  He is to be the son of Send Warning."

"Ugh!  Good.  He is young.  He is poor.  He has no ponies.  He will
never have any.  Send Warning is poor.  How will he pay for Rita?"

"He is rich among his people.  He is a great chief."

Ni-ha-be sprung out of the lodge and looked hurriedly around for her
adopted sister.  Rita had never imagined till that moment how much she
was loved by the earnest-hearted Apache girl.  Ni-ha-be's arms were
twining around her neck, and she was weeping bitterly as she exclaimed,

"He shall not take you away from me.  You are not a pale-face any more.
You are Apache!"

Rita could not help crying, for the idea of the change which was coming
to her was getting more and more difficult to deal with.

They were interrupted by the stately approach of old Many Bears.

"Young squaws foolish.  Know nothing.  Must laugh.  Go to lodge now.
Three days go to fort."

Three days?  Was it so near?  The two friends were glad to go into the
lodge, as they were told, and cry it out together.

The nearest United States post at which there were likely to be any
traders was still a "two days' journey" to the northward, but Many
Bears had actually now received a message from his tribe that there
would be "heap presents" for those who should come in time to get them,
and he was more than ever anxious to discover if Send Warning had been
telling him the truth.  His first proposition had been, as before, that
Murray should send for what he wanted, and have it brought to the
Apache camp, but that had been declared out of the question.

"Ugh!  Good.  Then Send Warning go with chief.  Buy pony.  Buy heap
other things.  Come back and take young squaw to lodge."

"No.  The great chief can bring young squaw with him.  Send Warning
take then what he pay for.  Give pony, take young squaw."

After some little argument this was agreed to, but there were almost as
serious objections made to Steve Harrison's joining the party who were
to visit the post.

"Tell them I'm going anyhow," said Steve to Red Wolf, "whether they
like it or not.  You come too.  I'll buy you a new rifle.  Best there
is at the fort."

That settled the matter, but Steve did not imagine how much difficulty
he would have in getting hold of a rifle for an Indian.  He was at
last, as it turned out, compelled to keep his word by giving Red Wolf
his own, and then buying another for himself from one of the traders.

But Dolores and Ni-ha-be were to be of the party.  The first because
Many Bears would need to "eat great heap," and the second because she
had made up her mind to it very positively and would not give the
matter up.

"Rita," said Murray, in a low voice, the morning they rode out of the
village-camp, "take a good look back.  That's the last you will ever
see of it."

Then for the first rime it came into the mind of Rita that she loved
not only Ni-ha-be, but all those wild, dark, savage people among whom
she had been living ever since she was a little girl.  She forgot for
the moment how she came among them.  She only remembered that the
village, with all its wandering, had been her home.

"Father, will I never see any of them again?"

"I think not, Rita."

"You will let me send them presents, will you not?"

"As many as you please, Rita."

"Then I will make the whole village happy some day."

The ride to the fort was a somewhat hurried one, for Many Bears was in
some fear lest all the presents should be given out before he could
come for his share, and Murray was half in dread lest he should not be
able to keep his own promise to the chief.

His first difficulty was removed almost at once, on his arrival, by his
finding a trader who had bought a great many more ponies than he knew
what to do with.  Fifty of them were promptly secured and turned over
to Many Bears.  Even while that was being cared for Murray sought and
obtained two or three important interviews.  One was with the United
States Army officer in command of the post, and from him he received
the promise of all the help he might need.

"Still," said the gallant major, "it will keep the Indians in better
humor if you pay as you agreed."

"I mean to exactly."

"It's a little the biggest romance I ever heard of.  I'll tell you
what: you'd better have the final transfer made in my presence."

"Thank you heartily.  That will be just the thing."

Another of Murray's calls was upon the "post barber," the next upon the
traders in boots, hats, clothing etc.; and when he finished the last
one, Steve Harrison, who had accompanied him, making some purchases on
his own account, exclaimed,

"Why, Murray, you don't look as if you were over forty.  The major
won't know you, nor the chief either."

"I was almost ashamed to have my hair dyed.  I did it partly for Rita's
sake.  So she can remember me better.  Partly, I must say, so my
English friends will know me."

Rita turned pale when she saw him, and did not say a word; but
Ni-ha-be's face put on an expression of great disgust both for him and
Steve.

"Ugh!  Pale-face!  Young brave better wear blanket and look like a man!"

"That's it, Ni-ha-be," said Murray.  "He looks like a white man now,
not like a red one."

Many Bears also took a look at Send Warning and Knotted Cord in their
new rig, and it was not half an hour before he was strutting around in
an old blue army uniform coat and a high-crowned hat.

The Apaches of his band declared the "talking leaves" to have told the
truth; for, although there was not much of a "big talk" or treaty,
there were a good many presents from their "Great Father at
Washington," and they were in excellent humor.

Many Bears knew that the price to be paid for Rita was fast being got
together, and he may have cared very little whether it should be called
a dowry or a ransom, for he had as yet no idea but what she and her new
father and Steve would go back with him to their lodge in his camp.

The romantic truth, however, had been told as a great secret to the
major's wife, and she told it to the other ladies at the fort, and they
all went wild together over a grand new wardrobe for Rita.  Never had
any daughter of the Apaches owned a tenth of the varied material the
enthusiastic ladies prepared in less than twenty-four hours after they
had their first glimpse of Rita.

"We must make quite an affair," said the major to Murray, "of your
making the payment.  Then they will not think of trying to back out."

"There would be danger to Rita, I fear, if I were to make the truth
known publicly too soon."

"Of course there would.  Are all your presents ready?"

"They will be to-morrow."

"Then bring them to the parade ground in the morning.  I will have
everything fixed for the occasion."

Major Norris was an experienced "Indian fighter," and just the man to
be in command of such a post, for the reason that he had learned how
much cheaper it was to have the red men as friends than as enemies.  He
sent word at once to Many Bears and a number of other "great chiefs"
that Send Warning was also a "great chief" and that proper honor must
be shown him by his pale-face friends on so great an occasion.  Nothing
could have better suited the pride of Many Bears, but both Dolores and
Ni-ha-be bitterly resented the proposal of the white ladles to prepare
Rita's toilet.  They would surely have kept her to themselves if it had
not been for the tact and good-sense of the major's wife, to whom
Murray explained the difficulty.

"Nonsense!  Tell them all the ladies of the great chief's family are
invited to come to my room in the morning.  Tell them it will be bad
manners if they do not come."

That was enough.  Ni-ha-be felt that the daughter of a great chief
ought not to be impolite, and she and Dolores came with Rita in the
morning.  The white ladies preserved their gravity, but they all said
afterward that it was great fun.

Somehow or other, Rita seemed to know the uses of her new wardrobe very
well, except that hooks-and-eyes were a sort of mystery, and she had no
skill in the handling of pins.  Dolores was made happy by the
presentation of a wonderful scarf of brilliant colors, and Ni-ha-be
consented to "try on" everything that was put before her.

That was as far as they could persuade her to go, however, for she took
off bonnet and dress, stockings and shoes, resuming her own pretty and
neatly fitting garments.  All she would keep on was a pair of bracelets
sent to her by Knotted Cord.  They were hardly ready when they heard
the band begin to play on the parade-ground, and word came from the
major to hurry.

It was quite a procession that marched out of the fort barracks with
Rita, and the Apache warriors and squaws who were looking on felt that
a high compliment was paid to their nation.  There were the troops
drawn up in splendid array, with flags, and cannon, and music, and the
"white chiefs" in their bright uniforms.

There were the great warriors of several "bands" of the Apaches in
their paint and feathers.  There were the beautiful white squaws in
their strange dresses.  Many Bears had been looking very intently at a
collection of things just in front of where Major Norris was standing,
with Murray and Steve Harrison.  Ponies, blankets, guns, all, and more
than all, that had been agreed upon.  No chief who was looking on could
say he had ever received more than that for one of his daughters, and
the heart of Many Bears swelled proudly within him.  There was a cloud
upon his haughty face, however, and another on that of Red Wolf, who
was standing at his side.

The clouds did not disperse when they searched the approaching party of
ladies with their eyes for Rita.  Rita!  Could that be the adopted
daughter of Many Bears walking there behind Mrs. Norris and Mother
Dolores?  The beautiful young lady whose face was so very pale, and who
was dressed so splendidly?  They had never before seen her look
anything like that.  The band played, the soldiers "presented arms,"
the officers touched their hats, and Murray stepped forward and held
out his right hand to Many Bears, pointing with his left to the ponies
and things.

"There they are.  Send Warning has kept his word.  Rita is mine."

"Ugh!  Good.  Presents all right.  Young squaw is the daughter of Send
Warning."

He shook hands heartily as he said it; but Many Bears had something
more on his mind, and was about to open his mouth, only waiting for the
music to stop.  He was farther prevented by a sign to his father and a
word in Apache from Red Wolf.

"Listen!" exclaimed Many Bears.  "Send Warning see ponies?  See all
presents?"

"Yes, I see them."

"All mine now.  Give all to Red Wolf.  Young brave want Rita.  Give all
ponies for her.  All presents.  All except gun.  Great chief keep them.
What does Send Warning say?"

"Not want pony.  Not want anything.  Want daughter.  Keep her."

"Red Wolf is young.  Come again by-and-by.  Bring more pony."

"Listen," said Murray, in his turn.  "I tell you a big truth.  Rita is
my own daughter.  When you burn ranch in Mexico, many summers ago, burn
mine, take horses, cattle, mules, take away little girl, all that was
mine.  Got little girl back now.  Apaches all good friends of mine."

"Send Warning not come back to lodge?"

"Not now.  Go to my own people for a while.  Show them my daughter.
Say found her again."

"Ugh!  Send Warning is a wise man.  Cunning chief.  Throw dust in the
eyes of the Apaches."

It was plain that the chief was troubled in his mind.  He hardly knew
whether to be angry or not, but there was no reasonable objection to
Murray's doing as he pleased with his own daughter, after she had cost
him so many ponies.

Murray spoke again.

"Send Warning say what great chief do.  Let Ni-ha-be come with Rita to
pale-face lodges.  Stay awhile.  Learn to hear talking leaves.  Then
come back to her friends.  What say?"

The chief pondered a moment, but Ni-ha-be had heard and understood, and
a scared look arose in her face.

"Rita!  Rita!  You are going away?  You will not be an Apache girl any
more?"

"Oh, Ni-ha-be, come with me!"

Their arms were around each other, and they were both weeping, but
Ni-ha-be's mind was made up instantly.

"No.  You are born white.  You will go with your father.  I am an
Apache, and I will go with my father."

Many Bears was listening.

"Send Warning hear what young squaw say?  All Apaches say good.  She
will stay with her own people."

Ni-ha-be consented, nevertheless, to remain with Rita at the post
head-quarters as long as her friends were camped close by.

Murray and Steve were anxious to begin their return to civilization,
but it would be several days before a "train" would go with an escort,
and they did not care to run any farther risks.

So the "farewell" was spread over sufficient time to make all sorts of
explanations and promises, and Rita's mind became so full of dreams of
her new life that she could easily give up the old one.

Ni-ha-be had never seen so much of the pale-faces before, and Rita
tried again and again to persuade her to change her mind, but, on the
very last morning of all, she resolutely responded,

"No, Rita, you are all pale-face.  All over.  Head and heart both
belong with white friends.  Feel happy.  Ni-ha-be only little Indian
girl here.  Out there, on plains, among mountains, Ni-ha-be is the
daughter of a great chief.  She is an Apache."

No doubt she was right, but she and Rita had a good long cry over it
then, and probably more than one afterward.  As for Dolores, she came
to the fort to say good-bye, but neither Many Bears nor Red Wolf came
with her.

"The heart of the great chief is sore," she said, "and he mourns for
his pale-face daughter.  Not want to speak."

Rita sent many kindly messages, even to Red Wolf, glad as she was that
he had failed to make a bargain for her.

Out from the gates of the fort that morning wheeled the cavalry escort
of the waiting "train" of supply wagons and traders' "outfits," and
behind the cavalry rode a little group of three.  The ladies of the
garrison, with the major and the rest, had said their last farewells at
the gates, and the homeward journey had begun.

"Steve," said Murray, "are you a Lipan or an Apache to-day?"

"Seems to me that is all ever so long ago.  I am white again."

"So am I.  At one time I had little hope that I ever should be.  I
never would if I had not found Rita.  Oh, my daughter!"

"Father!  Father, see--there she is!  Oh, Ni-ha-be!"

A swift and beautiful mustang was bounding toward them across the plain
from a sort of cloud of wild-looking figures at a little distance, and
on its back was a form they all knew well.  Nearer it came and nearer.

"She wants to say good-bye again."

Nearer still, so near that they could almost look into her dark,
streaming eyes, and Rita held out her arms beseechingly; but at that
moment the mustang was suddenly reined in and wheeled to the
right-about, while Ni-ha-be clasped both hands upon her face.

"Ni-ha-be!  Oh, Ni-ha-be!"

But she was gone like the wind, and did not come again.

"There, Rita," said her father.  "It is all for the best.  All your
Indian life is gone, like mine and Steve's.  We have something better
before us now."