Desert Conquest - A. M. Chisholm (all ebook reader txt) 📗

shot, a third, a fourth. The air became alive with hurtling masses raining from the heavens.

The four dynamiters reached Wyndham, who, cursing in his excitement, was straining every muscle and a comprehensive vocabulary in an effort to hold the frightened horses.

Casey, McHale, and Sandy seized their nigh stirrups, shot them at their left toes, gripped saddle horns, and went up in an instant. Oscar, less expert, fumbled for a hold with his toe, hopping on his right leg as his horse sidled and backed.

"Stand still, Ay tal you!" he gritted. "By Yudas, Ay club hal from you purty kvick!"

Young McCrae wheeled his horse on the off side and gripped the headstall by the bit. "Up you go!" he cried, and Oscar fell into the saddle, the horn striking him amidships and momentarily checking a torrent of oaths. "Hang on, now!" McCrae ordered and let go.

They shot away with a wild plunge and a scurry of panicky hoofs. The going was rough, but luck was with them. They surged up the coulée, emerging on the higher bench land by the trail.

"Look here, Tom," said Dunne, "what did you want to do the shooting for back there? Afraid I'd get rattled and hit somebody?"

McHale grinned in the darkness. "Not hardly. Mostly, Casey, you mamook tumtum a heap—you look ahead and savvy plenty. You're foolish—the way an old dog fox is. But onct in a while you overlook a bet. You're too plumb modern and up to date."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"A lot. I don't know no other man hereabouts that packs a forty-four automatic. See, now?"

"No."

"Why, Casey," said McHale, "I'm surprised at you! It's clear as gin. Them guns spits out the empty shells right where you stand. Farwell finds 'em, and he goes lookin' for a gun to fit 'em. You've got it. There ain't no other gun hereabouts that takes forty-four automatic ammunition. Now, my old gun don't leave no trail of ca'tridges to follow unless I breaks her open. So I just naturally horned in and played the hand myself."

CHAPTER XII

When daylight fully disclosed the wreck, and also his night watchman lying helpless out of harm's way, Farwell was in a savage temper. Never before, in all his career, had anything like that been put over on him. And the knowledge that he had been sent there for the express purpose of preventing anything of the kind did not improve matters. He hated to put the news on the wire—to admit to headquarters that the ranchers apparently had caught him napping. But, having dispatched his telegram, he set his energies to finding some clew to the perpetrators of the outrage.

He drew a large and hopeless blank in Kelly, the watchman. Mr. Kelly's films ran smoothly up to a certain point, after which they were not even a blur. The Stygian darkness of his hiatus refused to lift by questioning. He had neither seen nor heard anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. About one o'clock in the morning he had laid down his pipe to rest his long-suffering tongue. Immediately afterward, so far as his recollection went, he found himself tied up, half smothered, with aching jaws and a dull pain in his head.

Farwell metaphorically bade this unsatisfactory witness stand aside, and proceeded to investigate the gunny sack, the rope that had tied him, and the rag and stick that had gagged him. Whatever information these might have given to M. Lecoq, S. Holmes, or W. Burns, they yielded none to Farwell, who next inspected the ground. Here, also, he found nothing. There were footmarks in plenty, but he could not read them. Though in the first flare of the explosion he had glimpsed three or four running figures, his eyes had been too dazzled to receive an accurate impression.

"Maybe an Australian nigger or a Mohave trailer could work this out," he said in disgust to his assistant, Keeler. "I can't."

"Well, say," said young Keeler, "talking about Indians—how about old Simon over there? Might try him."

He pointed. Just above the dam an Indian sat on a pinto pony, gazing stolidly at the wreck. His hair streaked with gray, was braided, and fell below his shoulders on either side. His costume was that of ordinary civilization, save for a pair of new, tight moccasins. Having apparently all the time there was, he had been a frequent spectator of operations, squatting by the hour watching the work. Occasionally his interest had been rewarded by a meal or a plug of tobacco. These things he had accepted without comment and without thanks. His taciturnity and gravity seemed primeval.

"Huh! That old beat!" said Farwell contemptuously. "Every Indian can't trail. However, we can't, that's sure. Maybe he can make a bluff at it. Go and get him."

Keeler brought up old Simon, and Farwell endeavoured to explain what was wanted in language which he considered suited to the comprehension of a representative of the original North American race. He had a smattering of Chinook,1 and for the rest he depended on gestures and a loud voice, having the idea that every man can understand English if it be spoken loudly enough.

"Simon," said he, "last night bad man come and mamook raise heap hell. Him blow up dam. You savvy 'dam,' hey?"

"Ah-ha!" Simon grunted proudly. "Me kumtuks. Me kumtuks hell. Me kumtuks dam. Dam good, dam bad; godam——"

"No, no!" rasped Farwell. "Halo cuss word—no bad word—no. D-a-m, 'dam.' Oh, Lord, the alphabet's wasted on him, of course. What's Siwash for dam, Keeler?"

"Search me," said Keeler; "but 'pence' is Chinook for fence, and 'chuck' means water. Try him with that." And Farwell tried again.

"Now, see, Simon! Last night hiyu cultus man come. Bring dynamite—hiyu skookum powder. Put um in dam—in chuck pence. Set um off. Mamook poo!—all same shoot. Bang! Whoosh! Up she go!" He waved his hand at the wreck. "You kumtuks that?"

Simon nodded, understanding.

"Mamook bang," said he; "mamook bust!"

"Right," Farwell agreed. "Cultus man come at night. Dark. Black. No see um." He made a footprint in the earth, pointed at it, and then to Simon, and waved a hand at the horizon generally. "You find trail, follow, catch um. Hey, can you do that, Simon? And I'll bet," he added to Keeler, "the infernal old blockhead doesn't understand a word I've said."

But Simon's reply indicated not only comprehension, but a tolerable acquaintance with modern business methods. Said he:

"How moch you give?"

Keeler grinned. "I think he gets you," he commented.

"I guess he does," Farwell admitted. "How much you want?"

"Hundred dolla'!" Simon answered promptly.

"Like blazes!" snapped Farwell. "You blasted, copper-hided old Shylock, I'll give you five!"

Simon held out his hand. The gesture was unmistakable.

"And they say an Indian doesn't know enough to vote!" said Farwell. He laid a five-dollar bill in the smoky palm. "Now get busy and earn it."

Simon inspected the ground carefully. Finally he took a course straight away from the dam.

"That's about where those fellows ran," said Farwell. "Maybe the old rascal can trail, after all."

Simon came to a halt at a spot cut up by hoofs. He bent down, examining the tracks carefully. Farwell, doing likewise, caught sight of a single moccasin track plainly outlined. It lay, long and straight-footed, deep in the soft soil; and where the big toe had pressed there was the mark of a sewn-in patch.

"Here, look here!" he cried. "One of 'em was wearing moccasins, and patched moccasins at that."

"Sure enough," said Keeler.

"Here, Simon, look at this," said the engineer. "You see um? One cultus man wear moccasin. Was he white man or Indian?"

Simon surveyed the track gravely, knelt, and examined it minutely. "Mebbyso Injun," he said.

"Mebbyso white man," Farwell objected. "What makes you think it's an Indian?"

"Oleman moccasin, him," Simon replied oracularly. "White man throw him away; Injun keep him, mend him—mamook tipshin klaska."

"Something in that, too," Farwell agreed. "It's a straight foot—no swing-in to the toe. Still, I don't know. I've seen white men like that. I wonder——" He broke off abruptly, shaking his head.

Simon gave a correct imitation of mounting a horse. "Him klatawa," he announced. "Him Injun."

"Got on his horse and pulled out, hey?" said Farwell. "Yes, of course, that's what he did. That's why the track is pressed in so deep. That's all right. Simon, how many men stop last night?"

"Four, five cayuse stop," Simon answered. "Mebbyso four, five, man stop."

"Well, four or five cayuses must have left a trail of some kind. You find it. Follow—catchum. Find where they live—their illahee, where they hang out. You get that?"

Simon nodded and went to his horse. Farwell frowned at the lone moccasin track, and, lifting his eyes, beheld Simon in the act of mounting. Contrary to the custom of white men, the old Indian did so from the off side. Farwell swore suddenly.

"What?" Keeler asked.

"Hey, Simon!" said Farwell. "This man with oleman moccasin—him make track getting on cayuse? Him stand so to get on cayuse. You sure of that?"

Simon nodded. "Ah-ha!" he agreed.

"Then he's a white man," Farwell exclaimed. "This is the track of a right foot, made while he was standing reaching for the stirrup with the left. An Indian always gets on his horse from the wrong side, and puts his right foot in the stirrup first."

"So he does," said Keeler.

"So this fellow is a white man," Farwell concluded triumphantly. "We want a white man with a patched moccasin. You kumtuks, Simon? Injun mount so. White man so—left foot up, right foot down. White man's moccasin, Simon."

"Huh!" Simon grunted gravely. "Mebbyso white man; mebbyso sitkum Siwash."

"Half-breed nothing!" Farwell declared. "Straight white, I tell you. Now get ahead on the trail."

But whatever Simon's skill as a trailer, it availed little. In half a mile the hoofprints merged with many others in a beaten track, and so were lost. Simon halted.

"Halo mamook!" said he, signifying that he had done his possible. The fact was so self-evident that Farwell could not gainsay it.

"That's an easy five for you," he grumbled. "We might as well get back, Keeler. I never took any stock in that old buck, anyway. He's a gold brick, like all the rest of them."

But Simon, when they had gone, kept along the beaten track. And shortly he came to where McCrae had turned the buckboard around. Simon, after examining the tracks, took pains to efface them entirely; after which he ambled on, his usually grave countenance illumined by a grin.

Following the road, peering narrowly at either side, he finally came in sight of Talapus Ranch. Halting, he surveyed the fields.

The ditches of Talapus were once more running rap-full; and Donald McCrae, his son, and half a dozen men were busy with shovels and hoes turning the water down among the young grain in marks already prepared which followed the natural slope of the land; taking care that the little rivulets should be of sufficient strength to run the length of the field, but not so strong as to wash out the soil; adjusting the flow to a nicety with miniature dams of sods and stones.

Old Simon rode slowly along the ditch until he came to where Sandy McCrae was working.

"Hello, Simon!" said the latter carelessly. "How you makin' it this morning? You keeping skookum?"

"Ah-ha!" Simon responded gutturally. "Skookum, you?"

"You bet," Sandy replied. "Hiyu skookum me." He leaned on his shovel for a moment, stretching his young, sinewy body, grinning at the Indian. The latter dismounted, and, stooping down, touched the young man's worn footgear.

"Mamook huyhuy moccasin," said he.

"Swap moccasins?" Sandy repeated. "What for? Yours are new. Chee moccasin, you; oleman moccasin, me. What are you getting at? That's fool talk."

But Simon insisted. "Mamook huyhuy," said he. "Halo mitlite oleman moccasin."

"Why shouldn't I wear my old moccasins?" asked Sandy.

Simon lifted McCrae's right foot and placed his finger on a patch beneath the ball of the great toe. His features expanded in a knowing grin. Sandy McCrae's face suddenly became grave and his mouth grim. His voice, when he spoke, was hard and metallic.

"Quit this sign business