The Talking Leaves | Page 3

pavement, a sidewalk, or anything of the sort; but
when they came to that white thing fluttering at the foot of a
mesquite-bush they both sprung from their saddles at the same instant.
One, two, three--a good deal dog's-eared and thumb-worn, for they had
been read by every man of the white party who cared to read them
before they were thrown away, but they were very wonderful yet.
Nothing of the kind had ever before been imported into that region of
the country.
Ni-ha-be's keen black eyes searched them in vain, one after another, for
anything she had ever seen before.

"Rita, you are born white. What are they?"
Poor Rita!
Millions and millions of girls have been "born white," and lived and
died with whiter faces than her own rosy but sun-browned beauty could
boast, and yet never looked into the fascinating pages of an illustrated
magazine.
How could any human being have cast away in the wilderness such a
treasure?
Rita was sitting on the grass, with one of the strange prizes open in her
lap, rapidly turning the leaves, and more excited by what she saw than
were Many Bears and his braves by all they were discovering upon the
trampled level around the spring.
"Rita," again exclaimed Ni-ha-be, "what are they?"
"They are talking leaves," said Rita.
CHAPTER II
"Did you say, Murray, there were any higher mountains than these?"
"Higher'n these? Why, Steve, the mountains we crossed away back
there, just this side of the Texas border, were twice as high, some of
them."
"These are big enough. Are there any higher mountains in the world
than ours? Did you ever see any?"
"I've seen some of them. I've heard it said the tallest are in India. South
America can beat us. I've seen the Andes."
"I don't want to see anything that looks worse to climb than this range
right ahead of us."
"Where the Apaches got through, Steve, we can. They're only a

hunting-party, too."
"More warriors than we have."
"Only Apaches, Steve. Ours are Lipans. There's a big difference in that,
I tell you."
"The Lipans are your friends."
"Yours too, and you must let them think you are their friend--strong.
The Apaches are everybody's enemies--mine, yours--only fit to be
killed off."
"You've killed some of 'em."
"Not so many as I mean to kill. That's one thing I'm on this trip for. Old
Two Knives would almost have given it up if it hadn't been for me."
"I don't feel that way about the Lipans if they did capture me. All I
want of them is to get away and go back to the settlements."
"Maybe your folks won't know you when you come."
Steve looked down at his fine muscular form from limb to limb, while
the stern, wrinkled face of his companion almost put on a smile.
"I'd have to wash, that's a fact."
"Get off your war-paint. Put on some white men's clothing. Cut your
hair."
"They'd know me then."
"You've grown a head taller since you was captured, and they've made
a Lipan of you all over but in two places."
"What are they?"
"Your eyes and hair. They're as light as mine were when I was of your

age."
"I'm not a Lipan inside, Murray, nor any other kind of Indian. It would
take more than three years to do that."
"I've been among 'em seven. But then I never would paint."
The sun and the wind had painted him darkly enough; and if his hair
had once been "light," it was now as white as the tops of the mountains
he and Steve had been looking at.
Behind them, on a barren sandy level, through which ran a narrow
stream of ice-cold water, about three-score of wild-looking human
beings were dismounted, almost in a circle, each holding the end of a
long "lariat" of strong hide, at the other end of which was a horse.
Some seemed to have two and even three horses, as if they were on an
errand which might use up one and call for another. That was quite
likely, for Lipan warriors are terribly hard riders.
Those who had now but one horse had probably worn out their first
mount and turned him adrift by the way-side, to be picked up, Indian
fashion, on the way home.
When a plains Indian leaves a horse in that way, and does not find him
again, he tries his best to find some other man's horse to take his place.
More than sixty Indian warriors, all in their war-paint, armed to the
teeth, with knives, revolvers, repeating-rifles of the best and latest
patterns, and each carrying a long steel-headed Mexican lance.
Not a bow or arrow or war-club among them. All such weapons belong
to