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"She's resting now," said the squaw. "Better she try to go to sleep."

"Oh, pshaw!" said the storekeeper; "it'll do her all the good in the world to see me. Come along, old lady, trot her out."

But though Mr. Backus had had reason for his boast when he declared that he had had a good deal of experience of Indians, and that too of different sorts, he found now that he knew precious little of Pueblo Indians, and next to nothing of the nature of the Pueblo squaw. This stout, jolly, comfortable-looking old lady (not so very old, either), whom he had imagined he could order about by virtue of his position as one of the superior sex as well as of the superior race, proved to have a decided will of her own. It was her house he was in, her very own, and, what was more, she was mistress in it, and did not for one moment mean to abdicate. She had no notion of being told to do this or that by anybody so long as she was inside her own door, and this she let him know. She was a woman of the Turquoise clan, and the Turquoise women owned that block of buildings, and their motto was, "What's mine's my own."

The astonished storekeeper found he had to swallow the fact that Josefa was invisible to him for the present, and he was sharp enough to see that it would do him not the slightest good to bluster. So he kept a civil tongue in his head, thanked Reyna profusely for allowing him to dress Felipe's wound in her house, and promised to call again soon. Then he went off to the cacique's stable and got his own horse, which was waiting for him there, and rode slowly home revolving fresh schemes of revenge.

CHAPTER XXIII
A PICNIC PARTY

The discovery of Felipe seemed quite a godsend to Backus as he wended his way through the Indian lands back to San Remo. Had he had a pistol on him when Stephens struck him that morning he would have shot him, or tried to shoot him, then and there. But now that his fit of passion had gone by, he determined to pay the prospector out in his own way and at his own time. Looking at the matter in cooler blood he could see that he would let himself in for a lot of trouble if he killed Stephens with his own hand. In the first place, there would be a trial, and lawyers to be paid, and that would come expensive, very expensive; and, secondly, Stephens had friends capable of going on the war-path. These confounded redskin allies of his seemed so unaccountably devoted to him that they might take it into their heads to perforate anyone who harmed him in a highly unpleasant manner, to judge not only by Tito's talk, but by the action of this stubborn old squaw, who had flatly told him at last that he shouldn't even set eyes on Stephens's girl in his absence. And now here was just what he wanted, an instrument prepared to his hand. With a little judicious spurring, a little help on the sly, Felipe would be quite ready to stick a knife in Stephens's back some night, or blow the top of his head off, and he, Backus, would stand entirely clear – ay, need not even lose the trade of the pueblo. Really it seemed quite providential. The only question that occurred to him was, whether Felipe would come down to see him, which would be most convenient, or whether he would have to go back to the pueblo to hunt for him. "But there's small fear of that," said he, as his horse splashed through the Santiago River before entering San Remo; "that sore arm of his'll bring him along, if not to-night, then to-morrow, certain."

* * * * * * *

Mr. Backus was exceedingly accurate in his diagnosis of Felipe's frame of mind, as well as of the condition of his arm. The young Indian obeyed him implicitly in the matter of going home, taking food, and lying down to obtain a good rest. He rose again later in the afternoon, and went for the second time to Reyna's house, only to find that for him there was to be no admission. Reyna was perfectly clear that until Stephens came back and settled what was to be done, the less the young people saw of each other the better it would be for all concerned. She was very friendly, rather amusing, and perfectly inexorable. As to the health of her patient, all Felipe could learn was that she was getting along nicely, thank you, and was in absolute need of rest, and would be so for a day or two longer, – until Stephens came back in fact. At present she would not even go out of doors.

All which did but root more firmly in Felipe's mind the conviction that Josefa was destined for Stephens, and that this was why the door was barred against him. Nursing his wrath, he turned away to meet Tito. For the second time he tried to borrow Tito's pistol, which that discreet young man entirely declined to let him have so long as he continued in his present frame of mind.

"You can't want it to defend yourself, Felipe," he said very decidedly, "for the cacique isn't here."

"Yes," said the boy sullenly, "but he'll be back in two or three days, and I'm not going to have him shooting at me again, and I not have anything to shoot back with."

"Pooh!" said Tito, "don't you fret yourself. He's not going to bother you any more, you may be sure. Take it easy; that's all past and gone."

But Felipe declined to take it easy. Finding Tito's mind was quite made up, he went back to his mother's house, and announced his intention of going down to San Remo to get his arm dressed by the storekeeper. He took his blanket with him, and added, as he started, that if Backus would let him sleep down there, he wasn't coming back till the morrow, or even later. He reached the store at dark, and found Mr. Backus at home.

"Come right in," said the Texan, as the boy with his blanket wrapped round him appeared in the doorway of the house after knocking, "come right in and set down. I was expecting you." He placed him in the light of a kerosene lamp, undid the arm, and dressed the wound again with some stinging stuff out of a bottle that made it smart. But the sharp throb of the wound gave no such stab to Felipe as the inquiry, casually dropped, "Wal', have you called on Mrs. Stephens to pay your respects yet?"

The boy confessed his vain attempt.

"Hah!" said the Texan, "so they're keeping her locked up tight, eh? Well, well; that's rather tough on you. But I don't wonder at it, now that Mr. Stephens and the cacique are in cahoots together. Of course they don't want anybody smelling around there when they are off and out of the way. No, they've got her there and they mean to keep her. But I know what I'd do if a man stole my gal away from me and shut her up."

"What would you do?" inquired Felipe, with averted eyes. He had his head turned to one side, and was looking down at the hole in his arm which Backus was dressing.

"Me!" said Backus, "I'd fill the hound's hide so full of holes that it wouldn't hold shucks. That's what I'd do. And I'd lay for him, too, and get him when he wasn't expecting it. A man like that, as would steal another man's gal away from him, don't deserve any more show than a mad dog."

"I haven't got a pistol," – Felipe's voice trembled a little as he said this, – "but I could buy one, perhaps, if it wasn't too dear, if I knew of one for sale."

"A knife's surer than a pistol," said the Texan cautiously; "though I allow a feller that's only got his left arm to use is rather at a disadvantage with a knife. So he is with a pistol, unless he practises shooting left-handed. However, if he gets up close, and takes his man from behind when he aint looking out for it, he can't hardly miss, and he hadn't ought to need a second shot."

"Do you know of anyone that's got a pistol for sale?" said the boy earnestly.

"Wal', yes," said the Texan, "I do happen to know of a very good pistol that's for sale. In fact, a man left it with me to be disposed of." Mr. Backus did not deal in firearms, but second-hand ones sometimes came in his way as part payment of a debt. "I could sell it for him, and afford to take a very reasonable price for it. It's a first-class weapon." He finished tying up the wounded arm, and released his patient.

"Thank you, señor, a thousand thanks for all your kindness," said Felipe, rising. "May I see the pistol?"

The storekeeper took a key from his pocket, unlocked a chest, and produced a heavy, old-fashioned, muzzle-loading Colt's revolver in a leather holster. He drew it out; it was well smeared with grease. He pulled the hammer to half-cock, and spun the cylinder round, click, click, click, with his finger.

"She's not new," he remarked; "but she goes like clockwork, and she'll throw a conical ball through four inches of pine wood. I've tried her at a mark, too, and she'll hit the size of a silver dollar at ten yards every pop, if you're man enough to hold her steady." He handed it over to Felipe, who examined it with great care. Though he had never owned a weapon of his own, he knew how to handle one. They did not read or write in the pueblo, but they had compulsory education for all that; every boy learned two necessary things, the use of weapons and the use of tools. And they never required any salaried attendance officer to drive them to school. The boy drew back the hammer with his left thumb, holding the barrel with his stiff right hand, and squinted down the sights.

"That's right," said Backus approvingly, "I see you know all about it. Now that pistol cost fifteen dollars new, and I can sell it to you for four dollars and a half, and there's a little ammunition that goes with it, thrown in. It's as good as new, too; these Colt's pistols never wear out, but they've got a new style now with copper cartridges, and that's why these old-fashioned ones are cheap." It was all quite true. Mr. Backus loved truth, it got you such a useful reputation; he never lied except when he thought it would pay him, and then he could lie like a gas-meter.

Felipe produced the cash, and slipped his belt through the loop of the holster. He felt himself more a man now; from this time forward he would go "heeled."

"No use your going back all that way to the pueblo," said the storekeeper, "and it won't do your arm any good. I can let you sleep here in an outhouse, and I've lots of sheepskins I've traded for that you can spread down for a bed." The Indians despise soft mattresses, but love to lie on skins.

For the next three days Felipe was Backus's guest. His wounded arm made rapid progress towards recovery, and the boy spent his days either squatting in the store with his blanket drawn round him, silently noting all that went on, or in lounging round the corral, looking after Backus's horse and practising aiming at a mark with his new toy. He could not afford to waste his ammunition, but Backus showed him how to put on old caps to save the tubes from the blow of the hammer, and by snapping it thus he acquired a useful familiarity with his weapon.

* * * * * * *

For three days no tiding came to San Remo of Manuelita and her captors, or of their pursuers. But on the fourth morning two young Mexicans came spurring in from the westward, and reined up their weary horses before one of the San Remo corrals. They were soon surrounded by eager questioners, boys and women mostly, and the storekeeper and Felipe were not long in joining the throng. The young men felt their own importance, and dealt out their information gradually. No, there had been nothing to call a fight, and no one was hurt, though there had been some shots fired. Yes, the Señorita Manuelita Sanchez was all right. She and the Americano, Don Estevan, and the Navajos were all coming home together in one party; and Don Nepomuceno and Don Andrés with the rest of the Mexicans were also coming home together, but by a different route, and along with them were the Santiago trailers. The various incidents of the expedition, – of the loss of the trail and of the finding it again, of the renewed pursuit almost to the verge of the Lava Beds, and of the meeting there between the party of Mexicans and the returning Santiago trailers, who announced to them that Stephens, with Manuelita and the Navajos, were already on their way back to San Remo, – all these things had to be related at length and with impressive detail. And then, their horses unsaddled and attended to, these young men, who had been riding a good part of the night, slipped away to contrive an interview with their sweethearts, to get quickly back to whom they had ridden far and fast. The young men of San Remo were neither laggards in love nor dastards in war.

"I think, mebbe, if I was you," said Backus to the young Indian, "I'd contrive not to be here just when they arrive, but go off somewheres and keep out of the way. If you have a notion in your head to do anything, better not let folks see you, as it were, waiting for anyone – you understand?"

Felipe understood perfectly. In the past three days he and Backus had come to understand one another only too well; there was no formal conspiracy between them; Backus was much too cautious to give himself entirely away to any confederate, more especially to one so green and inexperienced as this Indian boy, but each was perfectly aware of the other's feelings towards the prospector.

"Why shouldn't you jes' go back to your folks for the rest of the day," continued Backus, "and let 'em know how you're getting on? Likely enough the cacique and his son-in-law" (he always alluded to Stephens now as the cacique's son-in-law) "will be going on up there too, and you might chance to hear something interesting if you lie low. You can come back down here again after dark if you like, and I'll do up your arm for you as usual."

Felipe took the hint, and was off at once. The rest and good food, for Backus treated him extremely well – it was part of his game – had quite restored his strength, and except for having to carry his right arm in a sling he felt fit for anything.

Later on in the morning arrived the main party of Mexicans, headed by Don Nepomuceno and his son. They dispersed to their different houses to dispose of their horses and be welcomed back by their families, but they did not lay aside their arms, and it was not very long before they reassembled at the Sanchez house in expectation of the arrival of the other party. The cacique and his three fellow-tribesmen of Santiago preferred not to await the return of the Navajos, but pushed on at once for their own pueblo.

But, for the waiting Mexicans, hour after hour passed and no sign of the Navajos or of Manuelita and Stephens appeared. The sun climbed high in the heavens and sank slowly to the west, and still their coming was delayed. True, their exact route was not known, but it was guessed (and correctly guessed) that it was the short cut through the sierra, and if so it was calculated that they should have arrived long before noon. The anxiety became painful. All sorts of theories to account for the delay were started. There had been a quarrel between Stephens and the Navajos; they had killed him and Manuelita, or had at least made them captives and carried them farther into the wilderness to a securer hiding-place. Or Stephens and Manuelita had made their escape from them during the night, and were now in hiding in the sierra, besieged there, perchance in some cave, and defended by the deadly rifle of the American. Many possible explanations were discussed, and many tales of Navajo treachery recalled to mind; but there was nothing to be done except wait.

Yet the cause of the delay was perfectly simple, and the result of the merest accident. When daylight came, and the sleeping band of Navajos awoke to find that four of their horses had strayed off, the owners immediately started on their trail to recover them, and till they returned Mahletonkwa declined to budge. He absolutely refused to divide his party, or to allow the American and the girl to proceed alone. Under the circumstances there was nothing to be done but wait, and Stephens determined to make the best of it. Hardy as he was, he could not but feel the strain of the efforts he had been making, followed as they were by a whole night on guard. He now left Manuelita to tend the fire and keep a daylight watch; he threw himself on the ground, wrapped in his blanket, under the shade of a bush, drew his hat over his eyes, and in two minutes was fast asleep.

It was well into the afternoon when the four Navajos rode bareback into camp with their truant steeds that had caused all this delay. Manuelita saw them arrive, and was glad to think that the hour for their final departure had come; once more she looked across where Stephens was still sleeping, and seeing that the babbling talk of the Indians, who were already saddling up, did not rouse him, she went over to where he lay and laid her hand lightly on his shoulder.

"Oh, Don Estevan," she said in her softest voice; but it was as if she had unwittingly touched the trigger of a gun. She was startled at the suddenness with which he bounded to his feet, broad awake, rifle in hand, the ominous click-clack of the lever sounding loud as he instinctively threw in a cartridge from the magazine; his flashing eyes darted one swift glance around, and then in an instant he recognised that there was no need for disquiet.

"Pshaw!" he said in half-apology, "I guess I was dreaming. Sorry if I startled you, señorita. I suppose I'm on my nerve a bit with all this trouble there's been." He looked at the sun. "By George! but it's afternoon already, and I thought I'd just lain down for a five-minutes' nap. That over there means the Navajos have come in with the lost horses, I suppose?" He indicated the busy folk a little way off, where preparations for the start were going on.

"Yes," she answered, "they have but just arrived with them. That was why I ventured to call you."

"They must have had the dickens of a chase after them; those Indian ponies are beggars to stray," he remarked, carefully working the lever so as to extract the cartridge from the chamber. "And there's nothing happened, señorita, whilst I was asleep? All's quiet along the Potomac, eh?"

"No," she answered, "nothing has happened. I think the Indians have been rather suspicious that they might be attacked; they've most of them been out in the brush all morning on the watch."

"And you've been on watch here by the camp-fire," he said, "and I've been sleeping there like a log when I might have been talking to you"; he looked in her eyes with a smile as he rallied himself for his lack of gallantry. "And you've made yourself smart for the home-coming, I see. That's right, señorita. You're not going to play the poor captive, not by no manner of means. We've just been out for a cheerful picnic party, we have, like those high-toned tenderfoot outfits that come out from the East and go to camping out in South Park with an escort of Utes to do them honour. Well, well; the pleasantest picnics have got to come to an end some time, and I see our escort under Mr. Mahletonkwa are really thinking of starting. I'd better go and catch up Morgana, and then we'll have you home in three hours. How's that for high?"

CHAPTER XXIV
WEIGHING THE SILVER

Twilight was falling as the armed band of Mexicans who had waited since noon around Don Nepomuceno's house saw through the dusk a long cavalcade approaching from the sierra, and in the front of it a lady mounted on a horse, and a man running at her side. It was Manuelita returning, accompanied by Stephens and the Navajos. There were muttered threats and sonorous Spanish curses, deep if not loud, hurled against the raiders, and pistols were loosened in their holsters, and belts drawn tighter and adjusted, as the party drew near. There were men among the Mexicans who burned to avenge the insult of the abduction, and were ready and eager for the signal to fight. All they waited for was the word to begin.

But their ardour was momentarily checked by the older and more experienced among them. The cavalcade was suffered to approach peaceably, and Don Nepomuceno running forward received his daughter in his arms. No sooner was she seen to be safe out of the hands of the enemy, than the anger of the high-spirited young Mexicans broke forth in spite of their elders, and they raised the war-cry.

At this juncture the voice of the American was heard above the tumult. "Peace! peace!" he proclaimed loudly for all to hear, "it is peace. I am responsible. A bargain has been made, and I am bound to see that Mahletonkwa and his people come to no harm at your hands. Anyone who touches them attacks me now. My honour is pledged, so take notice all."

"I do not see what right you have to bind us," cried a young Mexican, one of the two who had brought the news in the morning.

Stephens handed the mare's rein to Pedro, who came running from the house, whither Don Nepomuceno had already conducted his daughter; he held his Winchester at the ready, and ranged himself alongside of Mahletonkwa, who was in the saddle in front of his band.

"I have the right of discovery," he declared boldly. "It was I who found her with them, and made terms for her release. Those terms shall be satisfied to the last dollar in my pocket and the last cartridge in my belt. Come, my friends," and he changed his tone a little here, "let us show ourselves honourable men. Faith must be kept."

His appeal was hardly needed by the older and more experienced Mexicans, who had dealt with the wild Indians too often before this not to agree with him fully, and their influence quickly reduced the young hotheads to reason. Assurances were given that the terms he had made should be kept, and the Navajos be freed absolutely from molestation.

Don Nepomuceno hurried back from the house when he had restored Manuelita to the arms of her aunt, and embraced Stephens with effusion, calling him her saviour and deliverer.

"Come aside with me one moment, my friend," said the American, holding him by the hand, and checking, as politely as might be, the flow of thanks poured upon him, "there is something I must speak with you about at once." They moved a little apart from the spectators. "I made a bargain with Mahletonkwa," said Stephens, "to guarantee him against any injury or retaliation for what has happened, and that has already been accepted by your good friends here. We were quite in the Indians' power, you know, and of course I was obliged to promise this. But I also promised Mahletonkwa a sum of money. In fact I must tell you that I promised him silver dollars enough to weigh down the rifle he carries; that will mean two hundred or two hundred and fifty, I expect. Now, I have not got them here, but I could easily get them by going to Santa Fé, only that would take so much time; and what I wanted to ask is, who is there among the San Remo people, do you think, that could advance me the amount? I should like to settle Mahletonkwa's business right away."

"But, my dear friend," cried Don Nepomuceno, "I will pay the money, of course. Thank goodness, it is only a quarter of what he asked at first."

"But it's my debt," interrupted the American. "I made the terms on my own hook entirely."

"Impossible, dear friend," cried the Mexican, "absolutely impossible and out of the question! You touch on my honour. I am most grateful to you for having succeeded in reducing his ridiculous demand by three-fourths, but not one medio real can I suffer you to pay. I should be disgraced for ever in the eyes of myself and of my people. Thank God, the Sanchez family can still pay their scot, if they are not so rich as they were. The silver shall be forthcoming immediately. Oh, there are ways and means," – he nodded his head mysteriously, – "you shall see. How much did you say will be needed?"

"About twelve or thirteen pounds' weight of silver," returned Stephens; "at least so I guessed when I hefted his rifle."

"Very well," said Sanchez, "if you will remain here and keep the peace – I see some of our young men are hardly to be restrained – then I will go in and bring out the scales and the money, and he shall have his price."

He went into the house, and in a few minutes Pedro appeared with three long cottonwood poles and a rope. The poles were bound together at the top so as to form a tripod higher than a man's head, and a piece of rope was left hanging down from the apex. Then he brought out a beam with a pair of large rude scales, and the middle of the beam being attached to the rope the balance was formed. By this time it was dark, and Pedro returned once more for some torches of pine, which were lit and threw their weird lights flickering over the faces of the bystanders. The lurid glare lit up the swarthy, bearded faces of the Mexicans who crowded round, and the dark, smooth cheeks and flashing eyes of the Indians, who, recognising that Stephens had power to protect them from attack, dismounted and closed up the ring.

Then from the darkness appeared Don Nepomuceno with a heavy leathern sack, and approached the scales.

"Now, then, Mahletonkwa," said Stephens, "put your rifle in one of those scales, put it on whichever side you choose, and my agreement is to put silver enough in the other to pull it down."

The Indian came forward, and stooping down placed his rifle on one side of the balance. Don Nepomuceno stepped forward with the bag of silver towards the other.

"Wait one moment, señor, if you please," said Stephens to the latter. "There is one little matter I wish to settle first. I think, Mahletonkwa," he addressed the Indian, "we agreed that I should give your rifle's weight in silver, was it not so?"

The Indian assented.

"Is your rifle loaded?"

"It is."

"And was that in the bargain?"

"It was loaded when we made the bargain," answered the Navajo.

"And is it loaded now in the same way?"

The Indian remained silent.

"I'm willing you should have the full weight of it loaded," said Stephens, "I don't make any objection to that. Will you, then, fire off the load that's in it now, and put in another here before us all, that we may see how big a load you use?"

The Indian sullenly indicated dissent.

"We wish to have everything fair," said Stephens. "Why do you refuse?"

"It is very well as it is," muttered Mahletonkwa, looking singularly disconcerted.

"Then will you put the ramrod into the bore and let us see how big a load you have got in it?" persisted the American. "Or would you prefer that I should do it for you?"

He put out his hand as if to take the rifle for the purpose, but the Navajo sulkily caught it up himself. He spoke not a single word, and maintained an impassive face as he picked out a little tuft of rag that was wedged inside the muzzle of the gun, and, tilting the barrel slightly forward, allowed sixty or seventy small round bullets to run out one after the other, plop, plop, plop, into the scale.

A roar of scornful laughter went up from the Mexicans at this demonstration of the American's 'cuteness and the Indian's baffled cunning.

Mahletonkwa deliberately swept the bullets back into his pouch, and replaced the rifle in the scale.

"Thank you," said Stephens, with quiet sarcasm; "now I think we can begin. Don Nepomuceno, will you pour in the silver?"

The bag was untied, and from the mouth of it a stream of big white round coins rattled into the opposite scale. Bigger and bigger grew the heap; the flickering torchlight played on dollars from Mexico and dollars that bore the image and superscription of many an old Spanish king who reigned before Mexico was a republic, on coins stamped in the United States Mint, and on five-franc pieces that displayed the head of Louis Napoleon – pieces that had come over with the French army that for a while had supported the rickety throne of ill-fated Maximilian. And now the stream ran slower and slower, and the rifle began to lift; the Mexican stopped pouring, and taking a handful from the bag tossed them on to the pile one at a time. Gradually the rifle rose, the beam turned, the silver scale descended; yet one more dollar was thrown in and it touched the earth. The tale was complete.

"There's your silver, Mahletonkwa," said the American; "your rifle kicks the beam. Are you satisfied now?"

"I am satisfied," said the Navajo; "it is enough." He took a sack from one of his men and poured the glittering stream into it.

"Basta!" said Stephens. "Then it is settled. You acknowledge that my tongue is not double. I have done what I said I would do."

"And now," he went on, addressing the bystanders, "I have only one word more to say to you. Let bygones be bygones. The señorita has been brought back safe and unharmed, and the matter is over and done with. Let no man molest these people in any way for it, now or at any future time. If any man among you does so, he makes himself my enemy, for I am surety to the Indians in this. If he touches them, he must walk over my dead body. And to you, Navajos, I have one more word to say," – he had caught sight while he was speaking of the sinister face of Backus among the crowd, – "be advised and go straight back to your own country. Don't hang about here; and above all don't touch whiskey. Take my advice and let the sun of to-morrow find you ten leagues from San Remo – and sober. I have spoken."

He turned away, and in company with Don Nepomuceno and his son retired to the house, while the Indians remounted their horses and filed off in the moonlight, and the assembly gradually dispersed.

Inside the house Stephens found Manuelita in the sitting-room, with various female friends and relations who had gathered to see the heroine of such an adventure and to hear her story. Her shining eyes and flushed cheeks made her look more bewitching than ever, but he saw how overstrained were her nerves, and he longed to turn out the cackling crowd and carry her off far away to some peaceful retreat where no fear or grief should ever dare to come near her again. But no sooner had he shown himself in the room than a stout old lady who had been Manuelita's nurse in childhood arose and fell upon his neck and kissed him heartily.

"Blessings on you!" she cried, with tearful loquacity, "and may the Madre de Dios and all the blessed saints be with you and reward you for your goodness." She clasped him to her heart. "You are a hero," she said, "a perfect hero! you have brought us back my dear child safe and unharmed from the clutches of those anathematised Indians, whom may the devil fly away with!"