Part 11 (2/2)

Leloo pulled his cayuse stock still. He did not understand English readily, he was not versed in the ways of the white man, but his wonderful native wit and instinct told him at once that there was something wrong--the wrong things that white men were sent to jail for sometimes. He asked himself, ”Why should they hide and whisper?” Only hunters hid and refused to speak aloud. Then he remembered--the stage.

How often his father had talked of the great lumps of gold the white men were digging up, two hundred miles north, up the Frozen River--”Cariboo gold,” his father had called it, and said that it was sent down in numberless bags to ”the front,” and the stage brought it. And his father would always finish the tale with, ”The white men will risk their lives and kill each other for this gold.”

Leloo could never understand it, for he would much rather have a soft wolf skin to lie on, a string of blue Hudson's Bay beads around his dark throat, and fine, beaded moccasins, than all the gold in the world. But while he sat stock still, the voices continued:

”There, it's stopped. I knew it was an animal. The stage won't be along for an hour yet.”

”They are white men, but the gold does not belong to them,” Leloo told himself. ”It belongs to the white men on the stage, or up in the Barkerville gold ledges. These white men here are 'bad medicine.' They shall not find that stage.”

But even as he thought it out, the voices began afresh.

”There's something wrong with my gun,” said one, ”it won't work.”

”There's nothing wrong with _mine_,” came the sneering reply. ”_Mine_ will work all right. I'm going to have that gold.”

”How much did Jim Orton say there was a-coming down on the stage?”

whispered the other.

”Some twenty thousand dollars' worth of nuggets,” was the answer. ”And you'll use your gun, too, to get it, if you don't turn coward.”

Then there was silence. So his father was right. These white men would kill each other for gold--gold that belonged to another, to the men who were working day and night for it up at the ledges, two hundred miles north. Instantly Leloo's plan was formed. He would save the gold for the men who owned it; save the good stage driver from the bullets of these hiding, whispering sneaks and robbers. But how was he to do it? How could he dare to move a step unless to turn backward? Twenty yards ahead of him the two men crouched. Even by their lowered voices he could locate them as hiding behind a giant boulder, some ten feet above the trail. If he was to advance to meet the stage and warn the driver, he needs must pa.s.s under their very feet. Was it quite impossible to daringly gallop under their guns and be lost in the darkness before they could recover from their surprise? Leloo could trust his cayuse, he knew. The honest little creature was at this moment standing still as the silence about them. Then acutely across that silence cut the long wail of a lonely wolf wandering across the heights. A very inspiration seized Leloo. In a second he had flung back his head, and from his thin, Indian boyish lips there issued a weird, prolonged howl. He was answering the wolf in his own language.

”Great guns!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed one of the highwaymen, ”that wolf's right under our feet. There he goes now. I hear him prowling past.” For with the howl, Leloo had started his cayuse gently, and the wise creature was slipping beneath the dreaded boulder almost noiselessly. The boy fairly held his breath. Suppose they should peer through the dark, and see that it was a horse and rider, and no wild animal padding up the trail? Then his wolf friend from the heights answered him, and Leloo once more lifted his head, and the strange half-barking, half-sobbing cry again broke the silence. He was well past the boulder now, ten, twenty, thirty yards, when his innocent little cayuse gave that peculiar snort which a horse always gives when some sudden fear or danger threatens. The animal's instinct had evidently detected the presence of enemies.

”It's a horseman, not a wolf,” fairly yelled a voice behind him; but Leloo had already struck the cayuse a smart blow on the flank, at which the animal bunched its four hoofs together, s.h.i.+vered, snorted again, then plunged, galloping like mad down the trail, down, blindly down into the darkness ahead. One, two, three sharp revolver shots rang out behind him, the bullets falling wide of their mark in the blackness of the night, rapidly running feet that seemed to gain upon him, the crash of a falling man, then terrible language--all rang in his ears in quick succession, but the boy never drew rein, never halted. On plunged the horse, heedlessly, wildly, but Leloo stuck to his back, scorning the fear of a horrible death in the canyon below, thinking only of the danger of the treasure-laden stage and of the safety of Big Bill, the driver, whom his father loved, and whom every Indian of the Lillooet tribe respected.

The stones were now rattling from the rush of his horse's hoofs, and once or twice the boy held his breath, as they swung round a boulder in the dark, and the st.u.r.dy animal almost lost its balance. Sometimes he heard the robbers scrambling down the trail far above him, the trail he had already covered, and twice they fired on him; but the kindly darkness saved him. He was nearing the foot of the mountain now, and the cayuse was beginning to heave badly, but Leloo still struck the sweating flanks, and the creature still plunged on, until, finally, in fear and exhaustion, it stumbled. Instantly it recovered itself, but Leloo knew that this was the first sign of the coming end. Then only did he stop.

In his mad ride Leloo had been so intently listening for sounds from behind that he never once thought of sounds ahead, and in this pause of the rattling hoofs and flying stones, his ears caught the rumble of wheels coming towards him, the gentle beat of six horses trotting slowly, and the cheery whistle of the big Canadian who drove the Cariboo stage. As Leloo came slowly upon them, the big driver called, ”Who's there--ahead in the trail? Who's shooting around here?”

”Go back, you!” cried the boy. ”Two bad men's up trail. They shoot you.

They get gold.”

”Gee whiz!” yelled Big Bill, bringing his six-in-hand to a standstill.

”Holdup, eh? I declare, but that's a narrow escape. I guess Big Bill won't cross the divide to-night.”

”No, you go back,” reiterated the boy.

”Well, I'll be blowed if it isn't just a kid!” exclaimed the driver, as Leloo rode up close beside him. ”And look at the horse of him, clean played out. I say, boy, no wonder you rode hard, with all that gunning behind you. I'm rather handy with a gun myself, and I never drive the 'gold' stage without these two here,” tapping the revolvers in his big belt, ”but if our friends up there had got the drop on me first, there'd have been a dead driver, and no gold for the boys in the bank, I'm thinking. What is your name, anyway, boy?”

”Me? I'm Leloo,” the little Indian replied. ”My father, he Chief Buckskin, Lillooet tribe.”

”Whew!” gasped Big Bill. ”Old Buckskin's son, eh? Then you're all right, for Buckskin is 'white'--all but his skin. You climb up beside me here, and give that poor, busted horse of yours a rest. This outfit is a-goin'

to turn back, and we'll all sleep at Pete's place to-night. But how did you get past those sneaking gunners up there? That's what I want to know.”

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