Part 20 (1/2)

The surface of Hurricane Hill was generally level, and free from the boulders and obstructions which one would naturally expect to find there, which Tom Hardynge explained by saying that they had all been rolled down upon the Indians below by parties who had been driven to this _dernier resorte_ years before. The position of the three, therefore, was very much as if they were upon the extensive top of a tower which was reached by a narrow stairway, their province being to defend it against all comers.

For some time after the repulse of the Apaches, all remained quiet. Of course, they took charge of the two mustangs that the fugitives had been compelled to leave behind in their flight and then disposed themselves around the refuge, like those who had made up their minds to wait until the fruit dropped into their hands.

The afternoon was drawing to a close, and Ned naturally viewed the coming night with distrust. Darkness seemed to be the appropriate time for the fiends to work, and more than once he shuddered as he pictured in his imagination the merciless wretches swarming up the narrow path and spreading over the top, like the rush of waters when bursting up from some hidden fountain.

”All we've got to do is to keep our eyes open,” said d.i.c.k, with a most rea.s.suring manner. ”If I could have plenty to eat and drink, with the privilege of sleeping a little now and then, I wouldn't want any better fun than to stay up here for a few months and crack their heads as they come up.”

”Shall I do the watching to-night?”

”Not much,” grinned d.i.c.k. ”Tom takes the first half, me the last, and that's as good a way as we can fix it.”

”And what shall I do to help?”

”Go to sleep as soon as it is dark, and don't wake up for three or four days--and even then you must not be dry or hungry.”

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

THE SENTINEL.

Ned then understood why the two scouts had taken pains to fill their canteens at the brook during the day, and why, also, they so religiously preserved the little lunch still remaining in their possession. It was to guard against just such a contingency.

As the sun approached the horizon, the lad seated himself upon a rocky protuberance and looked off over the surrounding country. To the west, the blue, misty outlines of a moderately high range of mountains shut off all further view.

”Just beyond that,” he said to himself, as he fixed his eyes upon the elevation, ”Tom tells me is Fort Havens, where father is waiting for me.

If he only knew we were here, he might come to our relief. Wouldn't he scatter the redskins down there? But I don't know how he will find it out. Oh! if we were only among those mountains, it wouldn't take us long to go the rest of the way. I suppose the fort can be seen from their top.”

To the south, a stratum of yellow vapor stretched for forty degrees along the horizon. There were no buffaloes there, but there had been, and it was the evidence of their pa.s.sage. To the north, the view was broken by ridges, patches of wood, and curious irregularities of surface, but there was no sign of life among all, nor could it be detected except by peering over the edge of Hurricane Hill down upon the a.s.sembled besiegers below. He noticed that Tom Hardynge, shading his eyes with his hand, was gazing off with a fixed intensity in the direction of the mountains which intervened between them and Fort Havens. He said nothing, but there was a significance in his persistency which aroused the curiosity of the lad in no small degree. Could it be that his keen vision detected something tangible toward the setting sun, which was hidden from view by the mountain range? Or was it the mere searching for something upon which to hang his hopes?

d.i.c.k Morris was very differently occupied, acting, indeed, as if unaware that anyone else was upon the hill-top besides himself. Crawling to the edge, he was stretched out flat upon his face, his hat removed, while he peered stealthily downward upon the crowd below. Probably, he, too, was searching for something or somebody. There was so much meaning in his actions that the interest of the lad centered upon him, and he watched every motion.

The hunter fidgeted around for a few minutes, as if his posture was not exactly comfortable, and then hastily projecting his gun over the margin, he took a quick aim and fired, and then flinging the weapon aside, looked down again to see the result. All at once, he sprang to his feet, and stamped back toward the center of the plateau, in a terrific rage.

”Ain't it awful!” he exclaimed, adding a forcible expletive. ”Did I ever make a bigger mistake?”

”What do you mean, d.i.c.k?”

”Hit the wrong skunk.”

”How is that?” asked Tom, turning toward him.

”I've been figuring around for half an hour so as to draw a bead on Lone Wolf, and just as I pulled the trigger, I found I'd hit the wrong one.

It's trying to one's feelings to be disappointed that way.”

”I don't b'leve you'll get a chance at him,” said Tom, as he seated himself and resumed his patient scrutiny of the western horizon.

However the scout was not quite in despair, and, reloading his piece, he returned to his position and resumed his watch. But the mistake he had made operated against him in every way. It apprised the Apaches of their danger from this sort of sharp-shooting, and the whole force fell back, while Lone Wolf, who was shrewd enough to know that his life was in special demand, made sure that he was out of range of those fatal rifles. Besides this, it was rapidly growing dark, and before d.i.c.k could gain any kind of a chance at all, the light was too dim to afford him the indispensable aim.