We stared at each other. We had been going on the theory that the Indian had been killed. But if he had been merely wounded we had another responsibility. We must find him, hoping that our help would not be too late.
I lined up the direction in which the twig pointed. We walked in that direction, scrutinizing every inch of the ground. Yet there seemed to be no more twigs.
We climbed up the slope of a huge mesa or butte with sharp sandy sides, when another bit of brush caught my eye. It was just a clump of sage, but the topmost branches were bent. They were not broken off entirely, but bent over at right angles, in a direction almost at right angles to the direction in which the twig had been pointed.
Then I saw what I should have seen before. At the top of the mesa was a rimrock, and there was a little hole in that rimrock. Had it not been for the eye-aching brilliance of the sand, the glittering refractions of hot air from the rimrock itself, I would have seen it. It was barely more than two feet in diameter, and it was nestled in against the folds of rock in such a way that a person might have walked past it without seeing it.
I motioned to the rock. “This way,” I told them.
They didn’t see the little opening until they were almost upon it. I dropped to my stomach, started to crawl into the hole, on my guard against snakes.
The hole was just a little opening into a chamber which had evidently been hollowed out of the rock by hand. A foot or two beyond the entrance, the chamber opened up. I straightened up inside, and found that I could stand erect, but I could see little, as yet, after the glare of the outer world.
“Okay,” I said to the others.
They pushed their way in, momentarily blotting out the light as they filled the passageway. Then, when Kaplin was in and the girl was also standing at my side, the daylight filtered through once more, and I could see the vague outlines of the chamber, my eyes gradually becoming accustomed to the half darkness.
I saw a human form, stretched out at one side of the rock. I went toward it, extended my hand. When I felt the firm, quiet body, I knew what had happened. Hoste-Ne-Bega had been wounded, and had dragged himself to the secret cave where he had died — Indian fashion — alone, proud.
I turned to Bess. “It’s too late,” I said.
She dropped to her knees beside the figure. I struck a match. Apparently he had died only a few minutes after he had gained his sanctuary.
She straightened again as the match burned down to my fingers and I dropped it on the floor of the cavern.
That floor was thick with the dust of ages. The cavern had a dry, dusty smell. The fine sediment rose as a dust to our nostrils as we moved about, stirring it up. It was far finer than flour — a dust that was like a mist.
“He never dreamt of this place,” I said. “It was old when he was born.”
“How did he find it then?” asked Bess.
I shrugged my shoulders.
We looked about us. There were little niches cut into the wall, and in these niches were bags of what had evidently been buckskin. Now they were but shreds of dusty ruin. But back of these dusty curtains gleamed yellow metal. There were niches filled with gold nuggets, other niches that were filled with cunningly wrought gold jewelry, turquoise-studded works of Indian art and craftsmanship that far surpassed any examples of workmanship by the modem Indian.
I picked up several objects and examined them.
Then my ears heard the sound of a rock falling. Bess gave a little gasp.
“We’ve forgotten about those men!” she said.
I grinned. Forgotten nothing! We were in exactly the right sort of place. Let them find us here and try to get in. Let them try to stand off and pepper us with their rifles! The opening faced upon a ridge of rock not more than twenty yards away. We were on the inside, safe from attack save in one direction. Let them come!
But they had lost our trail, and they were worried and cautious, mindful of my previous accurate shooting which had almost proven fatal.
I could hear their voices as they called to one another. Then they stumbled on, keeping below the rimrock. The opening into the rock chamber was out of their sight.
I made an examination of the dead Indian.
He had been shot twice, once in the shoulder and once through the side. The shots had come from rifles, and probably he had been shot down, without a chance to defend himself or to flee.
The glint of tears was on Bess’s cheeks as the light from the cave opening showed the side of her face.
“He was old,” I said. “He couldn’t have lived long in any event.”
She nodded, choked.
“I know. It’s the cowardice of it! Think of it! Ambushing a lone Indian, murdering him this way!”
I shared her indignation, but I wasn’t showing it. There was work to be done, and there was some thinking to do. These men had killed Hoste-Ne-Bega; but they would never have killed him unless they had been satisfied he had led the way to the cache which they sought. Nor had he been shot very far from the cave. The nature of his wounds was such that he couldn’t have gone far.
It was fair to suppose then that these men were pretty hot on the scent. Within a few hundred yards, they knew where the cache was located. They must have been satisfied they had learned from Hoste-Ne-Bega all that they could learn.
Emerging from the rock cave, the Indian had found himself ringed around by the enemy. It had probably been night, or dusk. He had marked the way to the cave, hoping that ours were eyes that were wise in Indian lore to follow. Then he had been trapped.
There was a shooting. Perhaps the Indian had shot in his own defense, but probably his bullets were unavailing. And just before the end he had crawled into the cave.
The men had become convinced that the Indian had either escaped, or else hidden himself so cunningly he could not be found. They had devoted their attention to locating the treasure. So far they had failed, but that failure would not be for long. Inch by inch, they would comb the desert.
I thought somewhat of letting them know where the treasure was, so forcing them to come and fight it out. I was hungry, and the prospect of getting food didn’t seem very favorable. Then an idea gripped me. I’d been overlooking the best ally we had.
V. The Desert Speaks
The sounds which indicated the passing of our hunters died in the distance.
“We’re safe here,” said Bess.
“Safe,” I said, “except that we’re going to run out of food and water. If those men get wise, they’ll go back to the spring and hold it against us. We’ll have to have water. We’ve got one chance. You remember, we brought along a little dynamite. It’s in our blankets. Also there’s a little food there. Now, I suggest that we go to the place where we left our blankets, and get that dynamite. Then we’ll blow up the spring, which will put us all on an equal footing.”
“But they’ll still have the rifles,” said Bess.
“They can’t drink rifles,” I reminded her.
“But we’ll be suffering, too,” said Ed. “Our canteens are just little ones.”
“Sure,” I told him, “but we know the desert, and the desert is kind to those who know her.”
Bess took a deep breath. “Come on,” she said. “It’s going to be a nightmare. Let’s get it over with, and let’s get to that spring before they think of holding it.”
We wormed our way out of the treasure cave, sliding down the rocky ledge, keeping up where the chunks of rimrock had broken off, so that we wouldn’t leave too plain a trail. Then we headed for the spring.
We hadn’t been going very long when we saw that the others had also got the idea of concentrating at the spring. We could see them, although they hadn’t seen us. They were pretty well to the north of us, and we were between them and the spring. They were coming right along, hitting the ridges and keeping an eye out for us, heading toward the water.