Vol. IV.] APRIL 29, 1876. [No. 48.

THE PHANTOM TRACKER;
OR,
THE PRISONER OF THE HILL CAVE.

BY FREDERICK DEWEY,
AUTHOR OF “THE DOG TRAILER,” “WILL-O’-THE WISP,” ETC.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

THE PHANTOM TRAILER;
OR,
THE PRISONER OF THE HILL CAVE.

CHAPTER I.

THE CAVE-HUNTER AND THE SHADOW.

It was a sultry, scorching day, on the banks of the river Gila—very sultry and silent. The sun in the zenith looked whitely down, and the yellow banks reflected its rays fiercely on the sluggishly-creeping, warm river. Away over the flat, glistening plain reigned the utmost silence. As far as the eye could reach it saw nothing—only dead level, dead heat, and dead silence. Here, mile upon mile from civilization, hundreds of miles away from any habitation, this vast wilderness stretched away—always level, always hazy, always silent—a spectral land.

A large catfish lazily rolled and tumbled on the surface of the river, too hot to swim, and too stupid to move—lying there, he only, at times, waved his fins and tumbled gently. A vulture sat on a sand-crag just above him—a water-vulture, or, rather, a brown, dirty fish-hawk. He was lazily watching his chance to swoop suddenly down upon the fish, and carry him off in his talons. But it was too hot to undergo any useless exertion, so he watched and waited for a sure chance, pluming himself moodily.

A panting coyote sat on his house at a little distance, watching the pair, and vaguely conscious that he was very hungry; a mule-rabbit under an adjacent tiny shrub tremblingly watched the coyote, starting violently at the slightest movement of the latter; and a huge yellow serpent, long and supple, dragged his scaly body up the bluff toward the rabbit.

The sun shone redly down now, leaving its white appearance for a sanguinary and blood-red hue; a haze was brewing.

Suddenly the quiet was disturbed. The coyote sneaked away, with his bristly chin upon his lank shoulder; this alarmed the rabbit, and he, too, fled, making the most gigantic leaps; in ten seconds he had disappeared. The snake’s eyes flashed in enraged disappointment, and hissing spitefully, he raised his head to discover the cause of the hasty flight.

He soon saw it. On the barren banks he could have seen a mouse at a long distance. The object he saw was the exact reverse of that diminutive quadruped, being a large, stalwart, swarthy man, on a large black horse.

He appeared suddenly, riding over the crest of an adjacent hillock. He stopped on the summit, glared keenly around, then rode down into the river. He stopped in the river where the thirsty horse drank greedily. Then, after dismounting and drinking deeply himself, he boldly rode up the opposite bank.

He appeared well acquainted with the locality, for this was the only fordable place for miles—either the river was too deep or the bottom too soft—“quicksandy.”

Riding up the bank, he halted and sat for a moment buried in profound thought. He was a Mexican, a giant in proportions. His visage was that of a crafty, wily man, and his keen black eye was one that never quailed. His dress was simple, being in the American manner, of well dressed buck-skin. He however still clung to his sombrero, which, instead of being cocked jauntily on the side of his head, was drawn down over his eyes to shield them from the hot sun. His whole equipment was that of a mounted ranger, and this style of dress has so often been described as to be familiar to all.

Instead of the short carbine which a Mexican habitually carries, he sported a long, elegant rifle—a very witch to charm a hunter’s eye. Then he had a brace of silver-mounted revolvers, each firing five times without reloading. Like the rifle, they were costly, and fatally precise and true, models of expensive and beautiful workmanship.

But in his belt was that which, however captivating to the eye they might be, cast them into the shade. It was a long dagger, double-edged, sharp as a razor, with a basket handle of rare workmanship. This last was gold (the handle)—pure, yellow gold, chased and milled into all manner of quaint and droll devices. It hung jauntily in its ornamented sheath at his belt, and his hand was forever caressing its beautiful handle.

Why should this man, forty years of age, rough, plainly dressed, riding with the stealthy air of one who is at war—with a ragged saddle and plain, even homely steed, have such elegant and costly weapons? They cost a large sum, evidently, and should be the property of a prince.

While he is caressing his dagger, as the weapons and their history are the subjects of this narrative, let us go back a year for a brief space.

The name of the Mexican was Pedro Felipe, the old and tried servant of a wealthy and kind master, also a Mexican. A year ago his master, Señor Martinez, had occasion to cross a vast, sterile wilderness, lying a hundred or more miles north of the Gila river. While on that plain, in a remote part of it, called the Land of Silence (a ghostly, spectral plain, considered haunted), his only daughter, a beautiful young girl, was abducted by a robber chief, and carried away to a rendezvous—a hollow hill in the plain. Here she was rescued by Pedro, disguised as a black savage.

The hillock had an aperture in it, and Pedro, on hearing a noise, looked out and saw the lieutenant of the band, a fierce man called the “Trailer,” approaching. Knowing he must take his life or be discovered by the whole band, he shot him dead, from off his horse.

From the Trailer’s body he took the weapons we have described, and then left the body to be devoured by wolves and birds of prey. He was certain that in the hillock a large treasure was secreted, but fearing to be discovered by the band, whom he expected to arrive every hour, he left without searching for it. But the band, he soon after learned, disbanded without returning to the hillock, and left for Mexico.

Pedro had but one glaring fault—the love of gold. He was now on his way to the hill in the Land of Silence, to search for the treasure, and he felt confident of finding it. Why not? The captain and the Trailer were dead—he had seen them both fall; the party had at the same time disorganized; and he was certain they had never returned to seek for it.

The Trailer had been the last robber on the spot, and he himself had killed him; so he was certain of finding the treasure untouched.

Pedro Felipe’s absorbing love of gold had brought him on this hot day to the northern bank of the Gila, on his way to the Land of Silence in search of it.

The sun gleamed redly through the haze as Pedro looked northward, with his raven eye toward the spectered Land of Silence. It was an ill-fated land. Many dark and mysterious deeds had taken place there, many deeds of which the world would never know. Indians and hunters avoided it and deemed it haunted by evil spirits. Well it might be; it was a ghostly, hazy, quiet place, where the sun shone fiercely, and water was scarce.

Pedro’s experience had been strange in this land, and he was very superstitious. But he was also brave and crafty, having the reputation of being the best Mexican scout and Indian-fighter in his part of the country.

So, urged on by his love of gold—his only and great fault—and by the prospect of adventure and excitement, he was to brave, alone and unaided, the land of specters and of death—the Land of Silence.

He turned his horse’s head to the south, and peered away over the plain. Nothing was in sight; he was alone in the vast wilderness.

“Farewell, Mexico!” he said; “good-by to your sunny plains and pleasant groves! May it not be long before I come back to thee, my land! Farewell, my old master, my beautiful mistress, and her noble husband; my old companion, Benedento—and all I hold dear. This morning I stood on your border, sunny Mexico. To-morrow, at sunset, I will be alone, alone in the Land of Silence. Farewell, my land! I may never tread your soil again.”

He slowly dismounted, and placing his arm affectionately round his steed’s neck, raised his sombrero reverently.

“My faithful horse, we must go; time is precious. Once more, farewell, my land.”

He waved his hand with a graceful parting-salute, calmly, but with a vague presentiment of coming evil. Then he remounted, turning his horse’s head to the north; under the hot sun, blazing with blinding heat, in the desert alone, he rode away, bound for the Land of Silence.

As he started, a vulture rose from an adjacent knoll, and wheeled slowly above him, and croaked dismally. Was it a bad augury—the warning of evil to come?

The vulture returned to his perch; the other animals returned to their former places, and Pedro was riding away.

As the last wink of the setting sun gleamed out over the silent plain, a new form appeared on the southern bank of the river. He, too, peered sharply about him when he reached the crest of the knoll, and he was very wary and watchful. When he had finished his scrutiny without seeing any thing to alarm him, or arouse distrust, he rode down the bank.

In the river his horse (a powerful black) halted to drink; but the rider never moved. Then, when he had finished, the horse stepped up the northern bank and galloped away toward the north.

The traveler was dressed in buck-skin; was armed to the teeth; had a black, conical hat in which a black plume nodded and waved, and a face in which glowed two raven eyes.

He was an ugly-looking customer—a desperado in appearance.

In the twilight soon horse and rider became blended in one blurred mass as they receded, rapidly growing fainter to the sight, and further away. In half an hour darkness had fallen, and they were no longer visible from the river bank.

Who was the rider?

Ask the winds.

Where was he going?

To the Land of Silence, directly in the Mexican’s tracks.

CHAPTER II.

LOST IN THE DESERT.

On the afternoon in which last chapter’s events occurred, a train of three wagons plodded slowly up to the southern bank of the Gila, about twenty miles east from the place where Pedro forded it. Here was quite a good ford, and it was somewhat in use, being on a northern trail—one of the many from Mexico to the north. The country about it was exactly similar to that around the other ford with one exception—away in the east, Vulture Mountain was barely visible in the distance. From that mountain toward the east the Gila river was constantly under the quiet supervision of a sandy-rocky range of disconnected mountains, to its extreme source. But here all was flat, sterile, and quiet.

The wagons were accompanied by several horsemen, and one horsewoman—or rather, young girl. In fact, these were almost the entire party, the only ones in the wagons being the teamster, one American, and two Canadians.

It was a small train—a “whiffit-outfit.” Three wagons were a small number beside the dozens that generally consorted. It could easily be seen it was not the property of a large stock-owner or freighter, but was evidently the property of a single man—an emigrant.

It was even so. The man yonder on the verge of the bank—that sturdy, bronzed man of fifty or thereabouts, about whom the other horsemen gather, is the owner: Joel Wheeler, a northern New Yorker.

Hearing of the rapid fortunes which were constantly being made by enterprising Americans in Mexico, he had left a comfortable home in New York to gain immense riches. After being in that “golden” land for several years he had found out what many others had done before him—that the men in Mexico were as keen and shrewd at a bargain as any one else—in fact, many times more so.

His exchequer ran low; marauding savages and violent disease thinned his flocks; his native servants plundered him; until, completely disgusted and homesick, he packed his goods and chattels and started, en route for his old State.

His daughter, the horsewoman on the sorrel pony, was a sweet, lovely girl of eighteen. Blessed with natural beauty, the several years’ sojourn in Mexico had done much to enliven and develop it—being a brunette she was rendered doubly comely by the fresh, dry air of that country.

Another of its pleasant freaks had it played upon her; it had given her that much to be desired blessing, perfect health. From a pallid, feeble invalid she had become a jovial, blooming maid—a very picture of sound health. During her residence in Mexico she had, without losing her northern modesty and chastity, contracted the universal abandon of the graceful, indolent people, which, while it detracted nothing from her purity, visibly added to her external attractions. In one respect, however, she still clung to her former breeding—her equitation. While it was, and is, customary for Mexican ladies, when so inclined, to ride astride of a horse, and while she knew it was much the easiest way, she still rode, as she termed it, “in civilized fashion.”

Christina Wheeler (Christina being curtailed to the tantalizing appellation of Kissie) was a courageous, high-spirited girl. Though being in possession of several masculine traits, she still preserved that feminine reserve and chariness of conduct which is so necessary in male eyes, and without which woman sinks to the level of a beautiful, favorite dog, or a precise, costly gem. She was a kind and beloved mistress to the few servants; and while treating them graciously and well, brooked no unseemly or obtrusive familiarity. Besides her beauty she was no nobler nor more intellectual than scores of women one may chance upon during a day’s ride through a prosperous and refined district. But her beauty was regal—more—bewitching, as many a disappointed Mexican dandy only too well remembered, who had basked in her impartial smiles only to mope and sulk afterward.

Did I say impartial smiles? I was wrong—entirely so. If report said truly, the sweetest were bestowed on her father’s chief man, or foreman. He was with the party, being an adopted son of the old gentleman. Sturdy, self-reliant and brave, and withal, handsome, being brought up from infancy with Christina, no wonder her romantic spirit had endowed him with all the qualities requisite as a hero. It had; and as she gazed at him now, as he conversed with her father, she felt pleased at seeing how much he relied on young Carpenter.

The young man bestrode a light-colored steed, known from its peculiar color throughout the western and southern States as a “clay-bank.” He was well curried and rubbed down; indeed a curry-comb attached to his saddle-horn denoted this was an every-day occurrence, even in the desert.

Such a man was Samuel Carpenter. At twenty-five years of age he well understood wild life, and it showed his tidy, neat habits—every thing belonging to him being kept in perfect order.

The other two horsemen were rough-looking, wiry men of middle age. One, mounted on a gray “States horse,” was Burt Scranton—Carpenter’s assistant. The other was a man well known in southern Texas and northern Mexico—“Tim Simpson, the guide.”

The latter, for a stipulated sum, had agreed to conduct the party by the shortest and quickest way to the Leavenworth and Texas trail—being nearly four hundred miles from their present position.

Like many others of his calling he was reticent in the extreme, scarcely speaking save in monosyllables. He had several reasons for this: one was that it kept him out of trouble; another, that he was not annoyed by a cross-fire of questions, which guides detest.

The teamsters were Kit Duncan, an American, and Napoleon and Louis Robidoux, two brother Canadians, whom Joel Wheeler had brought from New York. They were now returning with glad hearts toward their northern home.

It is unnecessary to state the party was well armed—every man carried a rifle, and the regulation brace of revolvers and a “bowie.” The wagons were drawn by horses—six to a wagon.

Instead of sitting in the wagon and driving, the teamsters had adopted the southern habit, of riding the “near” wheel-horse and guiding the leaders by a single line. When wishing to “gee,” he steadily pulled the line; to “haw,” a short jerk was sufficient.

This is the party, its outfit and position, now on the southern bank of the Gila.

They forded the river and stood headed northward on the other side. Now they were in the heart of the Indian country—now they must be wary and guard against the hostile and cunning savages.

“Well,” remarked Mr. Wheeler, looking north, “had we better stop here, or go on?”

The question was addressed to the guide, who was down on his knees searching for Indian “sign.” He arose.

“Stop hyar.”

“Why? what are your reasons?”

“Water hyar. No water fur forty mile.”

“Is that so? Well, then we had better stop. We can’t afford to lie out all night without water, can we Sam?”

“No, sir,” replied the young man. “We should be obliged to fast if we did. When the weather is sultry, especially on the southern prairies, food begets thirst. We should suffer without water. Any old plainsman will tell you when out of water to keep your stomach empty, unless a dry cracker can be called food. It is true, medical men say the reverse; but, sir, men that have suffered thirst know that food without water is dangerous. I have tried it.”

“K’rect!” muttered the old guide, in assent.

“Skience is one thing an’ experience is another,” declared Burt Scranton. “I’ve studied one an’ tried t’other. Unhitch, boys.”

All hands went to work to prepare for the night. While the preparations for camping were going on, the cook, Kit Duncan (the hardest worked, and consequently sourest and snarliest man in the party), who was also a teamster, went down to the stream to fill his kettle with water.

A “jack-rabbit,” startled at his approach, sprung from under a projecting sand-point, and darted away up the bank. As it gracefully and rapidly “loped” away, Christina (or Kissie, as we shall call her), ever on the alert, noticed it.

“Oh, what an enormous rabbit!” she cried. “The largest I ever saw. Pray, Simpson, is that the common rabbit?”

“No. Jack-rabbit.”

“What a very odd name. Why do they call it so?”

The guide did not give the true answer—that because of its resemblance to a laughable beast of burden; but answered shortly, as he filled his pipe:

“Big ear; like—like—like—donkey.”

“Oh, hum! I perceive. See, it has stopped under that little bush. There—Oh, my! it is hurt—it is lame! see how it limps—I will catch it, it is so curious.”

Kissie was impulsive. Without further preface she lightly struck the sorrel pony with her riding whip, and on a swift gallop went after the rabbit, which slowly limped away.

The guide, being the only idle one, alone noticed her. He shook with suppressed laughter, awaiting the result.

The guide well knew, though Kissie did not, that this strange rabbit plays some unaccountable pranks, and is the direct cause of many hearty laughs at a “greenhorn’s” expense. Seeing a human being, he at once retreats, limping as if badly hurt. This attracts some one not “well up” in prairie life, and he pursues it. But let the sequel tell its own tale.

As Kissie drew near, the rabbit bounded away as if suddenly cured of its disability, gaining some distance; then he limped again—this time dragging one of its hind-legs laboriously.

His long ears were laid upon his back, which was suddenly shrunken, as if by a shot in the spine; he pawed hastily with his fore-feet; and, evidently, was badly hurt. Perhaps his sudden activity was the result of severe fright, succeeded by a reaction—so reasoned Kissie.

“Bunny, Bunny,” she cried, “you are mine—you are my captive.”

She was quite close upon him, and was drawing closer at every spring. The rabbit was almost caught.

“Count not your chickens before they are hatched,” warns an old saw. Perhaps it would have been better for Kissie to have recollected it. But on she went, with no other desire or thought besides catching the feebly-struggling animal.

To her surprise she drew no nearer, though the rabbit seemed scarce moving, and Dimple was going at a smart gallop. Surprised and nettled, she plied the whip, and once again she was on the rabbit’s very heels.

Once again the rabbit suddenly darted away as lightly as a deer; but only for a few smart leaps.

Again he seemed stricken by that odd impediment to his flight. It was very strange—what could it mean?

For an hour the strange chase continued, the participants sustaining their respective positions, while Dimple panted and lagged, and Kissie alternately wondered and plied the whip.

It was a rare place for a protracted chase. For miles and miles northward (the course they were following) the great, flat plain stretched away—although level, always hard and solid.

The chase still continued, still repeating itself: now a spurt, and the rabbit is near; Bunny springs once or twice and the sorrel pony is behind again.

Once she thought she had heard a shout far behind; but intent upon overtaking the rabbit, still kept on and looked not back.

At last the chase was terminated rather suddenly. Evidently becoming wearied with his frolics, the rabbit cast a single look behind, then to Kissie’s utter dismay, darted away at full speed.

She had seen frightened antelopes flee like the wind; she had seen wild mustangs scour away in affright; but never before had she seen a “jack-rabbit” on his mettle.

There was a sudden streak before her, a small white speck bobbing up and down; and when Kissie reined in the pony she was alone. The rabbit was far away.

“Duped! miserably deceived!” were her exclamations as the truth forced itself upon her. “To think that insignificant creature had so much reason in him. Why, he was only deceiving me, after all—a mean trick to gratify his wicked little heart. I might have known it by the way he acted. Well, I never; and what a laugh there will be when I get back. Deceived by a paltry rabbit. I can imagine how they will laugh. Father will never let me hear the last of it—neither will that horrid Burt Scranton; only Sam will be my champion. And how that horrid guide will grin, too—I declare it makes me provoked to think of it.”

She pouted prettily and gazed where the sly animal had disappeared. Then she spoke again:

“Well, it is of no use that I can see—my remaining here. It is ’most supper-time and I will go back, without my boasted capture. So, Dimple—tired, pet? We are going back.”

She turned the pony’s head around and slowly cantered off, still musing over her defeat, without raising her head.

She had ridden a mile, perhaps, when it occurred to her she had better discover the whereabouts of the train. Accordingly she reined in, and raising her eyes, slowly scanned the prairie before her.

It was bare; the train was not in sight.

Thinking some intervening hillock hid them from her sight, she rode some distance at right angles; but still no white-capped wagons did she see.

She certainly must have become turned round; she must be bewildered as to the direction she had been pursuing.

But no. She distinctly remembered seeing her shadow at her right hand when pursuing the rabbit. She was certain of that—quite sure. What easier than to ride back, keeping the shadow to the left of her? She could not then go astray.

Christina was quick-witted. She had no sooner found the wagons were not in sight when the above reflection ran through her mind. She was impulsive, decided; and knowing this to be the only means of again finding the wagons, started back, with her shadow over her left shoulder.

“Man proposes, God disposes.”

She soon discovered that. No sooner had she started on the return track, than, as if to vex and annoy her, a bank of snow-colored clouds rose rapidly in the south. At the same moment a southerly breeze came lightly over the plain.

As said before, Kissie was a girl of keen and quick perceptions. She saw the bank of clouds arising; she knew if not breeding a terrible squall, they were at least rolling on to obscure the sun; then what were her chances of regaining camp?

She knew they were few; she knew the necessity of hard riding; and, plying the whip again, rode at a gallop with the shadow still over her left shoulder.

On the Southern plains, as with the Southern people, changes come and go with great speed. It was so in the present case; for before the sorrel pony had cantered a mile the heavens above were clouded; the sun was obscured.

A loud, swishing noise accompanied the fleecy clouds, somewhat in the rear of the advanced vapor. She reined in.

She was sufficiently versed in Southern life to feel no alarm at the approaching wind. Had it been from the north—a norther—she would have trembled; but, coming from the south, she felt no alarm; it was nothing but a “field” of drifting vapor, and in the course of an hour the sky might be clear again.

So, turning her pony’s hind quarters to the coming wind, she braced herself and waited its approach.

It came with a roar, and striking Dimple, almost took her off her feet; but the sturdy little beast spread her legs and stood like a rock. Almost as soon as told it was past, rushing toward the north, gathering strength every moment: and, beyond a steady breeze, and a few floating particles in the air, the atmosphere was quiet.

Kissie looked at her tiny watch, and sighed: in another hour the sun would sink below the horizon. What, then, would become of her if she did not succeed in finding the camp?

“I must ride somewhere,” she said, growing seriously alarmed. “If I haven’t the sun to guide me I must steer without it.”

So saying, she re-turned her pony’s head and rode away in a canter.

She had not gone far when she reined in with a very white face. Covering her eyes with her hands, she bowed her head, and her heart sunk.

“Oh, my God! what shall I do?” she moaned. “What shall I do? Where shall I go?”

Well might she feel alarmed! well might she be terror-stricken; for in her abstraction she had turned round twice.

CHAPTER III.

ASLEEP IN THE LAND OF SILENCE.

“Turned round twice!” ejaculates the reader. “Why should she be terrified at such a slight thing?”

For a very good reason, for example: blindfold a person and after doing so turn him twice in his tracks. He then will be unable to tell with any degree of certainty to which point of the compass he is facing. So it was with Kissie. Though not blindfolded, she might as well have been, and might as well have turned round fifty times as twice. The flat plain was everywhere the same monotonous expanse, nowhere showing any landmarks, by the slightest depression or elevation.

No wonder she was frightened, even terrified. Had she been in a settled country, she would only have experienced vexation and discontent at being forced to spend the night on the prairie; but here she was, far from any settlement, lost from her companions, and in a hostile Indian country. She knew the latter to be fierce and bloodthirsty, and was aware they would not scruple to commit any outrage their cunning brains might suggest. She knew they were predatory and gregarious, often rambling in bands of from a dozen to fifty or a hundred. She knew also they were the fiends of the plains—either Comanches or Apaches, dreaded alike by quiet ranchero and courageous hunter.

Should she meet with them, what would be her fate—what her doom? What—

At this point in her reflections Dimple pawed impatiently, and tossing her head, snuffed the air; she was evidently fatigued and hungry and was impatient at being kept at a standstill.

“Quiet, Dimple! you are tired, pet; you have had a hard gallop after a day’s march. Dear, dear me; that I had never left them.”

But the pony was not very much fatigued. She was a pure mustang, but recently captured and tamed, and could have galloped the entire day without faltering.

“Oh, where shall I go—what shall I do? Oh, heaven! I would I had never left them. Be quiet, I say, Dimple? what do you mean?”

The pony was stamping violently, and with tossing head was staring over the plain. Mechanically Kissie followed his gaze.

Away on the distant horizon (the eastern one, though she did not know it) she saw a solitary speck, moving slowly. It was that which had caused the mustang’s alarm. It had evidently been in sight for some time, for now she remembered the pony had been restless for considerable time. It was some animal, perhaps a solitary horseman. Indeed, by straining her eyes, she was almost certain it was the latter, as she thought she could distinguish the necessary outlines of a mounted man.

The object was a man, and mounted on a black powerful horse. It was Pedro Felipe.

Had she known it was a white man, had she any reason to suppose he was not an enemy, she would have at once spurred toward him; but, knowing that numerous Indians were at all times scouring the plains, she desired rather to give him a wide berth, fearing he was one of that dreaded race.

She raised her whip, and striking the mustang sharply, was riding away when a new object appeared on the horizon, opposite the Mexican. Object? rather a number of blots, moving toward her. This she could tell as they appeared stationary while they rose and fell, like a galloping horse.

She had seen such objects before, and knew they were galloping animals. Knowing that scarcely any animals frequented the plain, from its sterility, she readily became aware that they were a band of mounted men.

She felt her heart leap joyously; it was her friends. They had doubtless become alarmed at her prolonged absence, and had started in search of her. Filled with joy at the thought, she pressed on, her fears at rest. Just then she looked for the far-distant, lone rider—he was not in sight; he had vanished.

Suddenly she stopped the mustang, and a deadly pallor overspread her countenance, a wild fear arose within her. She had counted thirteen distinct objects moving toward her.

Her father’s party numbered seven—the one approaching numbered thirteen; it could not be her friends—it could not.

Who were they? Surely they were mounted men, surely they were not her friends; who could they be? They were coming, miles away, directly toward her.

The truth flashed upon her, and her heart sunk like lead. Sitting quietly in her saddle, she stared at them, drawing nearer every minute. Then she became aroused. Wheeling suddenly she plied the whip, and the wiry mustang, now somewhat refreshed, sprung away at a long, steady gallop, and the blots behind scattered, collected again, then rose and fell faster and shorter. The chase had commenced—she was pursued by Indians.

It was now sunset, as nearly as she could judge, and the cloudy sky overhead promised a brief, dark twilight, to be succeeded by a dark, murky night. The rainy season was now drawing near, and for aught she knew the clouds above might be the “advance-guard.” This, at least, was in her favor.

Kissie was like her father—impulsive but cool. Looking back, she calculated the distance between her and the flying savages. It was nearly four miles. She looked at the sky and calculated that darkness would fall in less than an hour.

“They will have to ride like the wind to overtake Dimple in an hour,” she said, with a small degree of hope. “Till then, Dimple, fly; in an hour we may be safe for the present.”

The mustang, as if cognizant of the importance of speed, tossed his plucky head, then bending it down, “reached” like a quarter-horse; his sensitive nose had warned him of the proximity of his former hated foe—the red-man. Running without the incentive of whip or spur, he stretched away; and behind came a dozen and one Apaches, grim and resolved; they were on the war-trail.

At that hour a flock of vultures wheeling above, high in the zenith, looked down upon a strange scene—at least for that usually deserted plain. Directly beneath were a flying maiden and galloping Indians—the latter in hot pursuit of the former; both mounted on fleet horses, both riding at full speed.

A few miles to the west a solitary horseman was pursuing his way northward, at a slow gallop. He was a Mexican—Pedro Felipe. At the rate, and in the direction the maiden was riding, it would not be long ere she would meet him—she riding north-westerly. Directly south and nearly fifteen miles behind Pedro, rode a dark, ugly-looking man on a black horse; and though the Mexican had left no visible trail, this mysterious rider was following him, directly in his very tracks. Riders on the savage-infested, weird plains generally look sharply in every direction to avoid their dreaded foes; they generally, if alone, keep close to timbered tracts; but this rider never gazed to the right, left, or behind him—only keeping his gaze fixed toward the Land of Silence.

In a south-easterly direction from him was a train encamped on the Gila, for the night. All the work had been finished. The horses were lariated at hand; the rude kettle was boiling merrily; the cook was swearing and grumbling, as usual; but all was not quiet.

Ever and anon one of the several men lying lazily about would rise, and shading his eyes, peer toward the north-east, as if in search of something.

He was invariably unsuccessful; and, after anxiously gazing for several minutes, would return, and talk in low tones to his companions.

Then several would start up together and peer over the north-western plain; then, muttering anxiously, would return and lie down again, talking earnestly; something was wrong.

Even the cook, who was generally too hard at work, tired and surly to pay attention to any thing outside of his “Dutch-oven,” would now and then pause and look anxiously toward the north-west; it was plain something was wrong.

It was twilight on the vast plain, north of the Gila. Now the two principal parties had visibly changed their positions. The Indians were quite near, having gained two miles in light—a vast gain; they must have ridden like the wind, or the sorrel mustang must have lagged.

The last was the case. From some hidden reason Dimple had lost his swift run, and was going at a faltering canter—he was unaccountably fatigued or injured. She could hear faintly the hideous yells behind—a mile and a half distant.

At this, with her last hope giving way, she plied the whip.

The mustang obeyed, and for a few lengths galloped briskly, but soon collapsed, and feebly cantered on. She felt terrified at the thought of captivity and prayed for rescue.

It came. The twilight was almost over, then pitchy darkness would shield her from her red enemies. The moon rose about three hours after sundown—she could easily elude them until that time; then, perhaps, she would be safe.

Another circumstance, far more potent, was in her favor. The soil of the plain, baked hard after months of drought, left no impression of the mustang’s hoof, consequently she could not be traced by the hoof-marks. It was not probable, after having eluded them, that in this wide, vast plain they could chance upon her again. So, if she succeeded in escaping, for the present she was in comparative safety.

She succeeded. The darkness swiftly gathered down over the plain; she lost sight of her pursuers, though still hearing their hideous yells; and they, in turn, lost sight of her.

Fifteen minutes later, on pausing and waiting a few moments, Kissie heard them gallop by in the darkness, not ten rods away. Then she turned and rode for an hour in an opposite direction; for the present she was safe.

Alighting, she left Dimple to graze at will on the scanty herbage; and, conscious the timid mustang would awaken her by stamping, should danger come, lay down, and, completely worn out, fell into a light, troubled sleep.

The chase had not amounted to much—the odds, large ones, being in her favor; but while she had escaped from them, she had ridden many miles further from her friends.

Alone in the desert, guarded by the wary, timid pony, she slept; and the night was dark and gloomy in the Land of Silence—for she was within its ghostly border.

CHAPTER IV.

CIMARRON JACK.

As the first gray streaks of dawn slanted across the eastern horizon, the little camp on the Gila was astir, and the members were bustling about. Anxious faces they were; their movements were hurried and nervous; and the general aspect of the camp was one of alarm and anxiety.

There is evidently a great commotion in camp; ever and anon the men scan the surrounding horizon; and one and all wear the same anxious look; what is the matter?

The question is answered almost as soon as asked, as a cry arises from one of the watchers. The others start to their feet (they are at present bolting a hasty breakfast) and following their companion’s gaze see a horseman coming along the river bank. He is quite near, having been coming under the bank, and consequently unseen by them.

“Simpson! the guide!” shout one or two voices; then two others add, with a groan, “and alone.”

“And alone!” cry the rest, gloomily.

The guide was coming slowly, his mustang lagging with drooping head, as if just freed from a hard, long ride. The guide, too, though generally reserved, was moody, and wore a sort of apologetic, shame-faced air.

Joel Wheeler and young Carpenter sprung to meet him.

“Have you seen her?” asked Mr. Wheeler, though knowing the question was a superfluous one. The guide shook his head.

“Nor any trace of her?” hastily added Carpenter. Simpson slowly shook his head again.

“Not at all—no sign?”

“Nary mark, sign, trail, trace—nary nuthin’. Blast the luck!” he added, in sudden ire; “I’ve done rode over every squar’ inch of this kentry sence last night, fur miles around. She ain’t nowhar ’round hyar, that’s sartain shure.”

It was only too evident the guide spoke truthfully. His fatigued, travel-worn steed, panting deeply, and his own wearied air, showed he had ridden far and swiftly.

“Yer see’d no one, then?” asked Burt Scranton.

“Who sed I never see’d no one?” hastily retorted Simpson.

“You did.”

“I didn’t!”

“What did you say, then?”

“Thet I hedn’t see’d the lady—and I hevn’t.”

“You have seen some one, then?” asked Carpenter.

“Yes, I hev.”

“Whom?”

The guide brought his fist down on his knees:

“A sperrit.”

“A spirit? Nonsense! Where?”

“Up hyar, a piece—in a kentry called the Land of Silence.”

“Ah! the Land of Silence,” and Burt slowly shook his head. “I’ve heerd on that place.”

The Canadians looked incredulous and grinned. Seeing them in the act, the guide, nettled, burst out:

“Yes, and yer may jist bet yer hides I don’t want ter see it ag’in, now. By thunder! ef I warn’t skeered I never was, and every one of ye’s heerd of Simpson, the guide—every one of ye know ’t I ain’t no coward, neither.”

“What did it look like?” asked Kit Duncan.

The guide slowly dismounted, and flinging his arm over his saddle, said:

“It war the ghost of the Trailer.”

“The Trailer!” echoed Burt.

“Yes, the Trailer. Jest the same as he allus war, in his peaked hat and black feather, jest the same as ever he war, armed ter kill, he rode his old black hoss right by me, not ten feet off. Gee-whittaker! I ked hev touched him.”

“Did he speak?” asked Louis Robidoux, in a quizzical manner.

“Thet’s the wust of it. When he got clos’t ter me, he turned his face too-ward me. Gee-crymini! how white his face war.”

“What did he say?”

“‘You air ridin’ late, Tim Simpson.’”

“Is that all?”

“Gee-whiz! ain’t thet enough?”

“Why didn’t you shoot him?”

“I war too skeered—I know’d ’twar no mortal man.”

“How did you know?”

“Cuss yer! a woman’s nuthin’ ter yer on the ke-westion. How did I know? Wal, the Trailer’s got a grudge ag’in’ me, an’ ef he’d been a man don’t yer see he’d ’a’ plugged me afore I see’d him? He war a fee-rocious man, thet Trailer, and ef he war alive when I met him, he’d ’a’ sure plugged me. He didn’t, and thet shows he’s dead. Durn it! I know he’s dead; Pedro Felipe killed him in the Land of Silence, over a year ago. I see’d his skeleton onc’t.”

“Halloa!” exclaimed Burt, suddenly. “Look thar!” and he pointed down the river. All eyes followed the direction.

A man mounted on a trim bay horse was seen advancing at a long, swinging lope, quite near. He had drawn close during the dialogue, unnoticed, and was coming boldly on, as if he feared no danger. Simpson immediately recognized him.

“Cimarron Jack!” he cried. “Gee-menentli! hooray!”

The rider stopped and drew a revolver.

“Who is there?” he demanded, in a rich, musical voice, with a purity of accent rarely seen on the southern plains.

“Tim Simpson, the guide!”

“Is that so? Hurrah! I’m Cimarron Jack, the tiger, and I’m a thorough-bred from Tartary, I tell you.”

Belting his revolver, he struck spurs to his splendid bay, and the next moment was heartily shaking Simpson by the hand, wrenching it violently.

“I’m an elephant, I am!” he shouted, in stentorian tones, addressing the entire party. “I’m a Feejee dancing-master, and where’s the man that’ll say ‘boo’ to this chap? I’m the fellow who killed cock-robin!”

“You are jest in time, Jack,” said the guide. “We want yer ter help us.”

Nowhere in America do men come so quickly “to the point,” as on the vast South-western plains. Meet a friend you have not seen for years—he is in trouble, mayhap. You have scarcely time to greet him before he informs you of his embarrassment, and requests your immediate assistance. You instantly, if you are a “plainsman,” grant his request—it is often policy to do so.

Cimarron Jack was a noted ranger and inexplicable man. While his whole conversation was a series of boastings and vaunts, while a more conceited man perhaps never breathed, he had one trait which was the very opposite, paradoxical as it may appear—he believed that others were as keen and shrewd as himself, and, when on the war-path, believed his enemy as bold and crafty as himself—the predominating trait of the shrewdest detectives in the world.

To describe him, his dress and manner, were a long and hard task. Closely-knit, six feet and three inches in hight, with the arm of a blacksmith, and the leg of a cassowary, he was a formidable enemy when aroused, and he was a man of iron nerve. Withal, he was at times as tender as a woman, and was always upright and honest.

Imagine a giant on a splendid bay stallion, with weapons of all sorts, sizes and nationalities slung about him; with red, green, blue, gray—in short, every color—feathers twisted into his clothing, long boots, painted in different colors—looking like an insane person—imagine this, and you are distantly acquainted with Cimarron Jack, the ranger, hunter and Indian-fighter.

“What do you want with the king-pin of all rifle-shots? Show me a star, and I’ll knock the twinkle out of it with a Number One buckshot.”

The party stared at him aghast. Never before had they seen such a fantastical braggadocio. Had they never before heard of him they would have deemed him a raving maniac, and would have given him a wide berth. But every one who was in that country at that time—184—, had heard of the far-famed Cimarron Jack.

“What do you want with the people’s favorite?” he demanded. “Come—the court is impatient.”

Joel Wheeler stepped forward and said: “Sir, we are—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me!” interrupted the ranger. “I’m Cimarron Jack, and I’m the cock of the walk.”

“Well then, Cimarron Jack, my daughter strayed away last night and we fear she is lost—indeed, we are positive she is. The country is infested with Indians—”

“You can’t tell me any thing about Indians, for my education in that direction is finished. Hurrah! three genuine cheers and a tiger for the man that can’t be beat!”

Snatching his sombrero from his head, he swung it aloft, cheering himself lustily. Then he replaced the hat and listened gravely.

“It is only too evident that Christina is lost. Cognizant that the country is swarming with hostile Apaches and Comanches, we are very much alarmed. You are a noted scout and tracker—I’ve frequently heard of you; and if you will lend us your assistance in searching for her, I will cheerfully pay any price you may ask.”

“Count me in—just score the grizzly-tamer on the rolls. But stop!” he added, his face becoming grave, and addressing Simpson. “Is the beauteous maid fair to look upon?”

“Ef thar ever was an angel on airth, she’s the one,” emphatically pronounced the guide.

“Then hurrah! blood raw, blood raw! cut your palate out and eat it—you are just shouting I will. I’m a thorough-bred, sired by Colossus.”

“Are you willing to go, then?” demanded Carpenter.

“You’re talking I am.”

“Well, just tell the men to hitch up the horses, Burt.”

Scranton turned to execute the order, and Mr. Wheeler called a consultation of the principal men, Cimarron Jack, Carpenter and Simpson, to decide upon the most feasible plan for recovering Kissie. He was much alarmed. Although for years accustomed to Kissie’s vagaries and erratic wanderings, he was now alarmed in good earnest. She had often ridden away from the train on some expedition, but she had always returned punctually. But now they were in a country overrun with hostile, ferocious Indians, who were capable of any fiendish deed, and quite unscrupulous enough to execute it.

But there were other dangers near by, if not quite as potent. Here in this hot, vast plain water was scarce, though the country was “cut up” by creeks. These, however, were entirely dry nine months in the year, and this season was uncommonly dry. Then, too, savage and large beasts roamed the plain. The large gray wolf hunted in packs, ready when hungry to follow and run down a human being; the grizzly often came down from his cave in the mountains to prey upon the animals in the plain; and many other animals, quite as ferocious and cunning, roamed the illimitable waste.

Should she avoid all these dangers; should she elude the fierce Apache, the gray wolf and grizzly bear; should she be fortunate enough to discover water, a thing scarcely possible, there was another danger to be dreaded—hunger.

She was not armed, and procuring food on the barren plain, without the necessary weapons, was impossible. She could procure no food from the herbage—it was scant, dry and short. She was undoubtedly in a desperate predicament.

Mr. Wheeler revolved these several contingencies in his mind, and grew sad and moody. Carpenter noticed his dejection, and though anxious and sad himself, endeavored to cheer him.

“Come, cheer up,” he said, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “The case may not be so desperate after all. While there is life there is hope, you know.”

“Sam, I know you can sympathize with me—you are the only one who can appreciate my agony, for it is positive agony. To think of the dear child, heaven knows where, suffering and heart-sick, almost distracts me. Sam, I fear the worst.”

“Come, sir, come; you must not talk like that. She only rode away after a rabbit—she, mayhap, has become confused, perhaps lost. But the sorrel mustang is sagacious, and doubtless ere this is scenting back toward us. I know he will come back if she will give him his head.”

“A thing she will not think of doing,” replied Mr. Wheeler. “If she is lost, she is lost, indeed—there is no end to this vast plain.”

“But she must have left a trail, and with two such famous men as Cimarron Jack and Simpson, we can surely trail her. Those two men are prodigies, sir—they are famous even among their fellow-countrymen. Cheer up, sir—see, they are ready to start. Shall I saddle your horse, sir?”

“If you will, Sam. I am so perplexed I am fit for nothing.”

“I will do it, sir. Take my word for it, sir, we will soon find her.”

“God grant it!” was the fervent reply.

The result of the council was this: the guide, Cimarron Jack, Mr. Wheeler, and Sam, were to ride toward the north-west, if possible on Kissie’s trail. Burt Scranton and the teamster would follow with the wagons. The trailing party would proceed moderately, while the wagons would move at a much faster rate than usual to keep in sight. This was done to avoid being separated by Indians, should they meet with any. This arrangement (Cimarron Jack’s suggestion) afterward proved a wise one. But more anon.

“Are you ready?” said Jack, vaulting into his saddle. “If you are, follow the man who can thrash his weight in wild-cats with a ton of grizzlies thrown in too to make the skirmish interesting.”

“Yer ain’t quit yer bragging yet, I see,” remarked the guide.

“Bragging! me brag? d’ye mean it? whiz! I’ll cut your palate out and eat it—yes, I will, you know that yourself. Blood raw, blood raw! I’m the man that never says ‘boo’ to a lame chicken.”

“Hyar’s her trail,” observed the guide.

Jack vaulted backward to the ground, examined it, swore an oath or two, lit his pipe, boasted a little, then remounted and rode off on the faint, very dim trail, with the wagons rumbling after; the search had commenced.

The guide ever and anon raised his head and peered off into the northern, purple-tinted distance, as if half afraid of seeing some disagreeable object. However, he held his peace and relapsed into his usual, but for some time, abandoned taciturnity. Must the truth be spoken? The guide was alarmed.

CHAPTER V.

A DEAD MAN’S GHOST.

On the day after Pedro left the Gila he arrived at the old robber hillock. As he rode up to it, he mechanically looked for a skeleton he expected to see there—the skeleton of the Trailer. To his surprise not a bone of it was there, where he left the body.

Could the Trailer have come to life? impossible—he was killed instantly. Pedro had shot him from behind, the ball entering his back and penetrating to his heart. No—it could not be possible.

But the skeleton—where was it? of course the body had been devoured by carnivorous animals—as a matter of course it had been; but animals never swallow the bones—they should be there still.

Pedro was perplexed and looked off over the plain, as if for an answer. He got none. Everywhere, in every direction, it was the same monotonous expanse—always yellow, dry and quiet, always spectral and forbidding; he was in the heart of the Land of Silence.

“The skeleton—where in the world can it be?” he muttered, glancing about. “Curse it, I begin to feel awkward and uneasy already. This is a cursed quiet place—this plain; and such a name as it has, too; just the place for spirits to roam about in. I am beginning to believe they have tampered with the Trailer’s bones—I do, indeed. Ha! what’s that?”

He had espied something white at a distance away—something which looked dry and bleached, like bones long exposed to the elements. He rode slowly toward it; it (or they) was a bunch of bones clustered together, as if thrown hastily in a pile.

He took them one by one in his hands and narrowly examined them. They were human, he could tell—might they not be the Trailer’s? They were much too small, he thought, still one is deceived ofttimes by appearances. The Trailer had been a large man—a giant; these bones were rather small.

Still he knew he had not seen them when here a year ago—they had not been there then. These bones were about a year old; that is, exposed to the elements. A year ago he had killed the Trailer, the last robber on the spot—the bones must be his.

“They are the Trailer’s—they must be,” he said, and idly kicking them, mounted and rode back to the hill or mound.

To describe this singular place would be a long task, so we will skim briefly over it. About forty feet long by twenty in hight, it was a mere shell—probably a hiding-place contrived centuries ago. It was entered in this manner by Pedro.

Scattered over the surface of the knoll were a large number of flat stones. Lifting one of the largest of these, he hurled it against one imbedded in the ground, dented in the form of a cross. The ground suddenly gave way and disclosed an opening sufficient to admit a horse.

It was a plank-trap; cunningly covered with earth, its existence would never have been suspected by the uninitiated. It was hung on stout leathern hinges fastened to two upright posts.

The hollow hill was divided into two chambers, one within the other. The first was dark and was only lighted by the opening of the door. The floor was the ground, the walls the hillside, the ceiling the summit. The only furniture it contained was a huge water-bucket, a rusty gun or two, several tattered blankets, and a resinous, partially-consumed torch.

Pedro noticed this torch, and his eyes sparkled.

“Just where I left it a year ago—in this chink. Now I am certain I was the last one here—now am I certain of finding the hidden treasure.”

He lighted the torch, and after looking out into the plain, started toward the inner chamber. But suddenly stopping, he went back to the entrance.

“I might as well bring the horse inside now,” he said. “Perhaps I may be obliged to spend a week here. He will be out of sight, too.”

Going out he brought in the horse, and then tightly closed the entrance. Then his eyes fell on the water-vessel.

“I wish I had some water,” he said; “and no doubt the horse thinks the same. But there is a stream ten miles north—Alkali Creek. The water is not very good, but it is wet. I will go after I’ve searched awhile.”

Unsaddling the horse, and leaving him to roam at will about the chamber, he again took up the torch and went to the entrance of the inner one.

This was a mere slit in the hillside, barely large enough for him to enter. However, his pliant body enabled him to glide through, and standing in the entrance, he threw the light over the apartment.

It was empty, just as he had expected. It was unchanged, too—further evidence that there had been no one there since he had left. His spirits rose at every step, and his way was becoming certain.

This chamber was somewhat larger than the other, and was lighter, the chinks above being larger. It was also scantily furnished, and in the same manner as the first.

A pile of blankets lay in one corner, and were evidently long unused. A single gun stood by them—a rifle. Otherwise the room was empty.

Pedro, after satisfying himself as to other occupants, with his habitual energy began at once to work. Drawing his revolver, he hastily uncapped the tubes, then, lighted by his torch, commenced to sound the wall, the ceiling, the floor—in fact, everything which might conceal the treasure he knew was there.

Outside the sun still shone upon the bare plain, blinding with its heat the few small animals which stole about, the only moving objects on the plain.

The only moving objects? Not so; there was another one—a man riding a black horse. Several miles away from the hillock, he was coming, at a slow walk, from the south; going north and to the hillock.

An hour passed. Pedro was working steadily inside, at intervals muttering disjointed sentences. The solitary rider drew near, and halted close to the hillock.

He was dressed in a tight-fitting suit of buck-skin, and in his black, conical hat, a black plume drooped. Armed to the teeth, he was a desperate-appearing person. His face, bearing the marks of license to strong and evil passions, was pale in the extreme—even ghastly.

He halted before the entrance, and just then Pedro exclaimed below—he was excited about something. Then he rode round to the opposite side of the hillock, and drawing up, facing it, sat like a statue on his black horse.