Grace Harlowe's Overland Riders on the Old Apache Trail

CHAPTER V
WANTED BY THE SHERIFF

“WATCH the prisoners, Hippy! Anybody hurt?” called Grace as she came running to the scene of the disaster.

“No, but Mr. Fairweather’s feelings are considerably ruffled,” replied Miss Briggs.

Ike, after having been dragged to the very edge of the trail by the coach, had picked himself up and was brushing the dirt from his clothes, for he had been dragged right across the trail, but let go just in time to save himself.

“Why, Mr. Fairweather, what in the world has happened?” begged Grace solicitously.

“Don’t ask me, woman, or I’ll say somethin’. I’m mad clean through.”

“I do not blame you,” answered Grace sympathetically. “How did it occur?”

“The blamed thing got away from me while I was backin’ it around by hand, thet’s all. Ought to have known better’n to tackle it alone.”

“How long will it take to get the coach back on the trail so that we may go on?” questioned Emma Dean innocently.

“Get it on the trail?” Ike Fairweather groaned hopelessly. “We’ll never get it up, Miss. She shore is a basket of kindlin’ wood now, an’ I don’t know what we’re goin’ to do.”

“We can walk,” answered Grace confidently. “How far are we from Globe?”

“Nigh onto thirty mile, I reckon.”

“Walk thirty miles?” cried Emma. “I should simply expire.”

“I reckon you’ll have to walk if you want to get back,” grumbled Ike.

“Walking is most excellent exercise, and I am certain that it will do all of us good. I have a plan, Mr. Fairweather,” spoke up Grace.

“Thought you would have.”

At this juncture, Lieutenant Wingate came up leading the two wounded men who had been left down the trail. He too wished to know what the plan was for getting back to town.

“I was about to suggest something to Mr. Fairweather,” replied Grace. “We shall have to use the coach horses to help carry us.”

“Do not forget our prisoners in your calculations,” reminded Hippy Wingate. “Surely, you do not propose to let them go?”

“I have not forgotten. No, sir, we are not going to release them after all the bother they have put us to. Let me see, there are four prisoners and five girls.”

“And two men,” interjected Hippy.

“By placing two bandits on a horse, that will leave two horses to carry the rest of us. The girls can ride two on a horse, which will take care of Nora, Anne, Elfreda and Emma. You two men and myself will walk. Should we walkers get foot weary, we can change places with the girls who are riding. Does that meet with your approval, Mr. Fairweather?”

“It shore does.”

Hippy suggested, instead, that he be permitted to ride back to town for assistance, but Grace objected to this.

“The prisoners need medical attention, and we shall have to go on short rations as it is, so we have no time to lose. We will tie the four men on two horses and tie the pair of horses together; Mr. Fairweather can lead the animals; you, Hippy, will walk alongside of them and I will bring up the rear.”

“What if one of the bandits drops off and gives us the slip?” questioned Hippy.

“I shall see to it that he doesn’t get far,” answered Grace significantly.

“Huh!” grunted Ike. “I thought the lieutenant was givin’ me a fairy story ’bout your doin’s in the war. Jedgin’ from what I’ve seen to-night I reckon he hasn’t told the half of what there is to tell. Why, lady, if you was to live out here you’d be sheriff of the county at the next election. I reckon I know of one vote you’d get.”

“Thank you. Then you approve of my plan?” asked Grace.

“From the ground up.”

“And you folks?” she questioned, turning to her companions.

All nodded their heads in approval.

“I wish I had an airplane,” grumbled Hippy Wingate. “I never did like to walk when I had to.”

“We will take the rifles and revolvers of the highwaymen with us. I do not believe they will have use for their weapons. We may need them ourselves. Mr. Fairweather, if you will get the horses ready we will load up and start.”

Ike removed his sombrero and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

“Yes, I’ll get ’em ready, but what Ike Fairweather wants to say, he can’t, ’cause somehow it sticks in his crop an’ won’t come out. You’re the real thing, all of you is, an’ any galoot that says you ain’t – well, Ike Fairweather will take care of thet critter.”

“You fellows, I have a word for you,” announced Grace, turning to the prisoners. “I warn you that if you try to get away I shall shoot.”

“Which, altogether an’ in partic’lar means thet the everlastin’ daylights will be blown out of the critter thet tries to get away,” reminded Ike. “Fair warnin’s fair warnin’.”

“But not Fairweather,” chuckled Hippy Wingate, which brought a groan of disapproval from the Overton girls.

Placing the prisoners on the horses and tying them securely was a proceeding that took some little time, so that it was fully an hour later before the procession started out, Elfreda, Anne, Emma and Nora riding on the two leading horses, Ike leading the prisoners’ mounts, Hippy in the middle of the procession, and Grace Harlowe, with a bandit’s rifle slung in the crook of her right arm, bringing up the rear.

The highwaymen were sullen, not uttering a word, so far as Grace had heard, though she had no doubt that they had quietly exchanged confidences. The one who was most severely wounded was the man whose scalp a bullet had raked, but he apparently was in no danger, though still weak from loss of blood.

“Is there a place where we can get breakfast, if still on the trail in the morning?” called Anne.

“Narry a place,” answered Ike Fairweather.

They plodded on, Grace, if anything, being the most cheerful and contented member of the party. At break of day they halted, having made about ten miles of the thirty. From the little kit pack in which each one carried emergency rations, they eked out a slender breakfast, though they had neither coffee nor tea, that part of the food supply being at the bottom of the canyon in the wreckage of the old Deadwood coach. The prisoners, however, refused to eat, maintaining a sullen silence as they watched their captors partaking of breakfast.

At the noon halt, Grace and Elfreda dressed the prisoners’ wounds, binding them up with skillful hands with pieces of cloth torn from skirts. It was not the first time that either Grace Harlowe or Elfreda Briggs had dressed bullet wounds, both having been called upon to do so in numerous instances on the western front in France. The prisoners watched the dressing operations without uttering a word of comment, but the expressions on their faces were not pleasant to look upon.

Ike, who had been regarding the wound-dressing with interest, turned, as the girls finished their work, and walked away running his fingers through his whiskers.

The prisoners were placed on the horses and secured, after which the party started on again.

“Horses comin’ up the trail,” announced Ike, a few moments later, holding up a hand for the party to stop.

Grace ran forward to halt the two horses carrying the four girls.

“Some one is coming, girls. Go back and get out of the way in case there should be trouble,” she directed.

Grace joined Ike after the girls had taken up a safe position, Hippy standing expectantly by the prisoners, the outfit, with rifles in hand, ready to meet whatever trouble might be in store for them.

Three horsemen swept around a bend in the trail, and the instant they hove in sight, Ike Fairweather uttered a shout.

“It’s Deputy Sheriff Wheelock,” he cried. “Now we’re all right. Howdy, Wheelock!”

The deputy, upon recognizing Ike, swung down from his horse, doffed his hat to Grace, and turned to Mr. Fairweather.

“What do you reckon you’ve got here!” demanded the deputy.

Ike explained who and what his outfit was, relating briefly the story of the loss of the stagecoach and the capture of the bandits.

“This little woman did the business. Deputy Sheriff Wheelock, Mrs. Gray,” introduced Ike.

“Do you know the prisoners, sir?” she asked.

After looking the bandits over closely, the deputy shook his head. He asked Ike if he needed any assistance to get the prisoners in. Grace answered the question by saying that they did not.

“We’re going out after a fellow who lives in the mountains and who has been shooting game out of season, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll send one of my men to Globe in a hurry and have him ride out to the sheriff’s ranch and get him,” offered the deputy. “That will save you waiting for the sheriff when you get in. I reckon maybe these are fellows that Sheriff Collins has been looking for. Take your men right to the jail, Ike, and Collins will do the rest.”

After starting one of his men back toward Globe, Mr. Wheelock, mounted, waved a hand, and, with his assistant, galloped on. The Overton party assumed its former formation and plodded on, weary, but encouraged by the realization that only a few hours now separated them from their goal.

It was half past three o’clock in the afternoon when the weary, dust-covered Overton party reached the Arizona town from which it had made its start the day before. The four girls, on two horses, decided that they would dismount before entering the town, even Emma Dean declaring that this was one time when she was not seeking publicity.

The news of the plucky fight that Grace and Hippy had made, and their capture of four highwaymen, had been carried to town by the deputy’s assistant, and throngs stood on the main street awaiting the arrival of the party. Occasionally there was a cheer from a group of enthusiasts, but generally the townspeople were silent, curiosity being their leading emotion.

“Girls, I think it might be advisable for you to go on to the hotel! You look all fagged out,” suggested Grace. “Run along, and I will be over there as soon as we have disposed of our prisoners.”

Elfreda, Nora, Anne and Emma quickly separated themselves from the outfit, Ike Fairweather, accompanied by Grace and Hippy, heading for the jail. The sheriff came out to meet them as they rounded up their horses before the jail entrance. He strode straight to the bandit that Grace, while crouching under the stagecoach, had shot in the leg.

“Hulloa, Con,” greeted the officer. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. I’ve got a nice little room ready for you. You may find it a bit cramped, but it is the best we have in the house to-day.

“Ah! I see you have some familiar faces with you,” added the sheriff, directing a swift, appraising glance at the other prisoners. “A fine bunch of brave men you are to let yourselves get caught by a party of women. Who are you?” he demanded, wheeling on Hippy.

“I am Lieutenant Wingate, Sheriff. This is Mrs. Grace Harlowe Gray who got the drop on these fellows when all the rest of us were helpless.”

“Glad to meet you, Mrs. Gray,” greeted the sheriff, removing his hat and stepping forward to shake hands with the Overton girl. “I’m Jim Collins, sheriff of this county. So you did this little job, eh? You don’t look it for a little bit, but you’ve delivered the goods, and that’s the answer. My hat is off to you. Do you know who you have here?” he questioned, pointing to the bandit with the wounded leg.

“No, sir, I do not.”

“He is Con Bates, one of the few real bandit leaders left in this part of the west. He’s a bad man, Miss, and I couldn’t begin to express to you how pleased I am to get my paws on him.”

“Who are the others?” asked Grace.

The sheriff named them and Grace fixed the names in her mind.

“Con is the most dangerous of the lot,” Sheriff Collins informed her. “This isn’t all of the outfit by any means. The rest are in the hills somewhere. What do you reckon on doing now?”

“I hope that we may be able to get out on the trail with our ponies some time to-morrow.”

“Don’t plan to leave until the late afternoon. I shall need you to appear against these men to-morrow. Going over the trail, eh? You’ll need to keep your eyes peeled when you get up in the mountains again. Some of the critters still at large may take it into their heads to even up with you for this job you’ve done. Then, too, there’s some roving bands of trouble-hunting Apaches up there who are out with the excuse that they’re waiting for the hunting season to open. I’ll talk with you about that later.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. I leave the prisoners in your hands, but I should like to have their rifles, if you do not object.”

“Sure thing. You may need them, too. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Grace shook hands with Ike Fairweather and whispered to him that she would give him a check for whatever he considered the Deadwood stagecoach worth.

“Nothin’ doin’,” growled Ike. “Thet old coach wa’n’t worth ten dollars, an’ I’ve had about a million dollars’ worth of excitement out of this here trip. Wish I was goin’ to be with you on your pony journey, for I know you folks now. You’ll be stirrin’ up things the whole length of the Old Apache Trail, or my name ain’t Ike Fairweather.”

Promising to see Ike later on, Grace and Hippy hurried to the Dominion Hotel where Hippy’s wife and the other girls were anxiously awaiting them.

All hands then went to their rooms, bathed, and went to bed for a few hours’ sleep.

CHAPTER VI
A SHOT WELL PLACED

GRACE started out early the next morning for a call on Ike Fairweather. The whole party slept the late afternoon and night through, without even awakening for supper. She found Ike grooming his horses.

“Good morning, Mr. Fairweather. I hope you are none the worse for your trip,” greeted Grace smilingly.

“I shore ain’t,” grinned Ike. “How’s yourself?”

“I feel fit. What I wished to see you about was to ask if you can recommend some one to provide and drive our supply wagon.”

Ike stroked his whiskers and regarded her quizzically.

“How will I do?” he asked.

“Do you mean it? Would you really like to drive for us?” questioned Grace, brightening.

“I shore would, an’ it won’t cost you a cent ’cept for the feed for the hosses. Tell me ’bout it.”

“Not supposing that you would care for such work, we did not even think of you in that connection. If, however, you really wish to go with us we shall be very glad to have you.”

“I’m your man.”

“That is fine. Of course, you understand that we shall pay you, and before we start we must decide upon a price that will be perfectly satisfactory to you. I would suggest that you get under way about two o’clock this afternoon, and we will follow you a couple of hours later. Make camp at Squaw Valley. There is plenty of room there for a camp. Two horses should be enough to draw the wagon. Our camping outfit is at the railroad station. Have you a wagon?”

“Yes, a covered one thet will be just the thing for you. Can sleep in it if you like.”

“We shall sleep in our tents. All provisions and the like we shall send to you some time before you leave.”

The hearing that afternoon, attended by the entire Overton outfit, was of short duration. Grace gave her testimony briefly and to the point. What she was most concerned about was whether or not it would be necessary for her to return for the trial of the bandits, and she was relieved to learn that it would not, and that Ike Fairweather would be the witness who would appear against the prisoners at the trial at the fall term of court.

Before leaving the court, Grace was complimented by the judge for her part in capturing Con Bates and his fellow highwaymen. Sheriff Collins accompanied her from the court room.

“I’ll have an eye on you while your party is in this neck of the woods,” he volunteered. “What shall I do with the rifles I promised you?”

“If not too much trouble, please send them to Mr. Fairweather’s stable before two o’clock this afternoon. He is to drive our wagon for us and will pack the rifles with the other equipment. Is there ammunition for the rifles or shall I purchase some?”

“Get fifty rounds for each rifle, and, Miss, it’s my hunch that you will do well not to pack the rifles away so deep that you can’t reach them in a hurry,” advised Mr. Collins.

After thanking the sheriff for his courtesy, Grace hurried back to the hotel. The rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the journey. Ike Fairweather, now fully informed as to the immediate plans of his party, got away with the wagon on time, and two hours later the Overton girls started on their second journey into the gorgeous mountains that stand sentinel along the Old Apache Trail. The ponies they were riding were a bit lively at the start, especially the one ridden by Grace, as the party galloped out of the town. Emma Dean was making heavy weather of it, bobbing up and down like a chip on the sea, until Grace, fearful that Emma would fall off, rode up beside her for a word of caution.

“Sit your saddle firmly, and do not try to resist the motion of your horse. Move with him, or, rather, permit your body to follow his movements,” advised Grace. “There! You see you can ride.”

“I know, but it bumps me almost to death. How far do we have to ride? This beast isn’t a bit like my pony.”

“Thirty miles or thereabouts.”

“Oh – h – h!” wailed Emma. “Look at Hippy!”

They had barely cleared the town and emerged into the open country when Hippy Wingate’s apparently docile pony suddenly came to life. The animal whirled and started back toward Globe, whereupon Hippy used his crop vigorously. Instantly, the pony began to buck in the most approved western broncho style, and Hippy was more often in the air than on the saddle.

The Overton girls reined in and watched the lieutenant’s battle, offering suggestions and advice that might have been helpful had the lieutenant had time to listen.

Hippy had had no experience with bucking ponies, and, as a result, he was becoming more and more confused from the terrible jolting he was getting.

“Hang on, Hippy, my darling,” encouraged Nora in a shrill voice.

“There he goes!” gasped J. Elfreda Briggs.

Hippy made a long, ungraceful dive over the lowered head of the native pony. At the side of the road there was a ditch with a full twelve inches of water flowing over a bottom of soft mud. Lieutenant Wingate landed on head and shoulders in the ditch. His feet pawed the air for a few seconds, then Hippy flopped over, with face down in the water and mud.

It was Elfreda Briggs who checked Hippy’s pony at the psychological moment, for the little fellow already had whirled preparatory to racing for home. As it was he dragged Elfreda along with him until Grace sprang to her assistance and threw her weight on the bit, at the same time talking soothingly to the animal whose stubborn resentment slowly melted. Elfreda led him back without help and stood holding the pony, waiting for Hippy to take charge of him.

Lieutenant Wingate was plastered with mud, which Nora was solicitously mopping from his face with her handkerchief.

“Let it dry on, then roll him on the grass when we find some,” suggested Emma.

“Yes, who coddled you when you fell out of a cloud and crashed down on the French front?” laughed Grace.

“I didn’t fall out,” protested Hippy indignantly, though a little thickly, for there was still mud in his mouth. “It was the other fellow who fell and crashed.”

“Come, take your pony,” urged Elfreda. “I have my own to look after. I would suggest, too, that if you will treat him right you will have little trouble with him.”

“You don’t have to take the brute’s part. I reckon I know how to handle a horse.”

“And you have a horse that knows how to handle you, if my observation is not at fault,” interjected Grace Harlowe.

Hippy acted upon Elfreda’s advice, however, petted the pony and offered it some candy, which the animal refused, and finally swung himself into the saddle.

The party then moved off at a brisk gallop. The sun was behind the mountains when they reached Squaw Valley for the second time. Down on the level below the trail they saw their tents pitched and ready for them. The wagon team was staked down, a fire was burning in front of the tents, and Ike Fairweather was observed working about the camp. The girls shouted and Ike waved a hand.

Without leaving their saddles, the entire party slid their ponies down the steep bank without a single rider coming a cropper, though Emma lost her stirrups and was clinging to the pommel of her saddle, bouncing up and down perilously as the party trotted into camp. When her pony stopped, which it did abruptly, Emma fell off in a heap. About the same instant Lieutenant Wingate’s pony stepped in a hole and Hippy went off over the pony’s head, but this time he clung to the bridle rein and held the animal.

“Good work,” complimented Grace when Hippy, very red of face, struggled to his feet. “You surely are a graceful animal, Lieutenant. Pinal Creek is a little way beyond this camp, and I suppose you will be falling into that next.”

“That’s right. Abuse a fellow when he is down,” growled the lieutenant.

Grace, with her bridle rein thrown over one arm, walked over to Ike Fairweather.

“Now that Lieutenant Wingate has finished his performance, I wish to say that it is very fine of you to get our supper started.”

The bacon was in the frying pan, and the potatoes, baked in hot ashes, were ready to be served, as Grace discovered upon testing them with a fork; the coffee was done, and the tin plates were already on the folding table that had been included with the equipment. Oilcloth spread over the table made it look quite attractive.

Folding camp stools had been placed by Ike, and Hippy promptly took a seat at the head of the table.

“Being the only male member of this party, proper, my place is at the head of the table,” he declared. “Be seated, ladies, I beg of you. Kellner – Garcon, I mean, bring on the food and – ”

“Please eat and be silent,” urged Grace laughingly, as she began serving the food. “In my childhood days I was taught that children, while at table, should be seen and not heard. Come, Mr. Fairweather, sit down. We are all one family now.”

“Had my grub,” answered the driver gruffly. “Never did like to eat at fashionable hours.”

Darkness had enveloped mountain and canyon by the time the evening meal was finished. It was the deep, mysterious darkness of the mountains. The girls could hear the faint, musical murmur of Pinal Creek, a few hundred yards below them, music that accentuated the romance of the mysterious mountain night. Hippy Wingate, finally, having eaten all he could conveniently stow away, stood up and rapped on a tin plate for order.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, raising the plate above his head where it reflected the light from the campfire. “We are now in the former haunts of the murderous Apaches. We have fallen willing victims to the irresistible charm and the magic power of the waters of Pinal Creek.”

“Some one has been reading a guide book,” observed Anne mischievously.

“Please be silent when your superiors are speaking. Where was I?”

“Up Pinal Creek, I believe,” reminded Elfreda dryly.

“Exactly. We have penetrated far into the labyrinth of the red men of other days, the place where the savages crept with stealthy tread until their primitive language came to know it as the Apache Trail. Along this weird and amazing pathway – ”

Pock!

The tin plate was whisked from Hippy’s hand and fell clattering to the ground.

Bang! came the belated report of a rifle.

Emma Dean uttered a stifled little cry of alarm.

“It is nothing but a bullet, my dear young woman, a chance shot from somewhere up in the mountains. Kindly pass me another plate that I may continue with my narration.”

Grace Harlowe’s face reflected sudden concern, then she smiled, but her companions plainly were nervous.

“Where was I?” again asked Hippy.

“I believe you were laboring along on the amazing pathway,” Anne informed him.

“Thank you,” bowed the lieutenant as Grace offered him another plate. “Along this weird and amazing pathway, as already remarked, are crowded, in bewildering succession, scenes that grip the imagination like phantom photo plays of the world’s creation. It was on this pathway, this weird and amazing trail that – ”

The second plate left Hippy Wingate’s hand as if by magic, again followed by the report of a rifle. Hippy sank down on his campstool, holding the hand that had held the plate.

“The campfire, Mr. Fairweather!” urged Grace calmly, with a note of incisiveness in her tone.

Ike sprang up and kicked the burning embers away, stamping out the little flickering flames, leaving only a scattered bed of glowing coals.

A bullet whistled over the heads of the Overton girls, but the shooter’s aim was not so good this time.

“Some critter shore is tryin’ to shoot up this outfit,” growled Ike Fairweather.