Sunset Pass | Page 6

as though there were not an
Apache within a thousand miles. To his rear, about fifty yards, were the
two wagons, the little camp-fire and flitting restlessly about it the
slouching form of Manuelito. In front of him, close at hand, nothing but
a dark level of open prairie; then a stretch of impenetrable blackness;
then, far away towards the western horizon, that black, piney ridge,
stretching from north to south across the trail they had come along that
day; and right there among the pines--Pike judged it to be several miles
south of the road--there still glared and flamed that red beacon that his
long service in Arizona told him could mean to the Apaches only one
thing--"Close in!"--and well he knew that with the coming morn all the
renegades within range would be gathered along their path, and that if
they got through Sunset Pass without a fight it would be a miracle.
The night was still as the grave; the skies cloudless and studded with
stars. One of these came shooting earthward just after he took his post,
and seemed to plunge into vacancy and be lost in its own combustion
over towards Jarvis Pass behind him. This gave him opportunity to
glance backward again, and there was Manuelito still cowering over the
fire. Then once more he turned to the west, watching, listening.
Many a year had old Pike served with the standards of the cavalry. All
through the great civil war he had born manful, if humble part, but with
his fifth enlistment stripe on his dress coat, a round thousand dollars of
savings and a discharge that said under the head of "Character," "A
brave, reliable and trustworthy man," the old corporal had chosen to

add to his savings by taking his chances with Captain Gwynne, hoping
to reach Santa Fe and thence the Kansas Pacific to St. Louis, to
betterment of his pocket and to the service of one, at least, of his former
troop commanders. No coward was Pike, but he had visions of a
far-away home his coming would bless, where a loved sister's children
would gather about his knee and hear his stories of battle and adventure,
and where his dollars would enable him to give comforts and comfits,
toys and "taffee" to her little ones. Was he not conscious that her eldest
boy must be now fourteen, named for him, Martin Pike, and a young
American all through? It must be confessed that as the ex-corporal
stood there at his night post under the stars he half regretted that he had
embarked on this risky enterprise.
"If it were anybody else now but old Gwynne," he muttered to himself,
"things wouldn't be so mixed, but he never did have any horse sense
and now has run us into this scrape--and it's a bad one or I'm no judge."
Then he glanced over his shoulder again. Manuelito was shuffling
about the fire apparently doing nothing. Presently the ex-corporal saw
the Mexican saunter up to the wagons and Pike took several strides
through the timber watching before he said a word; yet, with the
instinct of the old soldier, he brought his carbine to full cock. Somehow
or other he "could not tolerate that greaser."
[Illustration: MANUELITO WAS SHUFFLING ABOUT THE FIRE
APPARENTLY DOING NOTHING.]
But the suspected greaser seemed to content himself with a cursory
examination of the forage and baggage wagon and presently came
slouching back to the fire again. He had some scrap of harness in his
hand and Pike longed to know what, but it was too far from his post of
observation. He decided to remain where he was. He must listen for the
captain. All the same he kept vigilant watch of Manuelito's movements
and ere long, when the fire brightened up a bit, he made out that the
"greaser" was fumbling over nothing else than a side line. Now what
did that mean?
Pike took a turn through the little herd of "stock," bending down and

feeling the side line of each horse and mule. All were secure and in
perfect order. The one in Manuelito's hands, therefore, was probably
"Gregg's," or an extra "pair" that he had in his wagon. There was
nothing out of the way about that after all, so Pike resumed his watch
towards the west, where still the Apache beacon was burning.
It must have been half after ten o'clock. Manuelito had slunk down by
the fire, and not a sound was to be heard except Jim's musical snore,
and a little cropping noise among the horses. Yet Pike's quick ear
caught, far out on the prairie to the west, the sound of hoofs coming
towards him.
"When those Apaches named a horse 'click-click' they must have struck
one that interfered,"