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CHAPTER XXXIX.
CONCLUSION

Long and hard rode Tom Hardynge after his escape from the beleaguring Apaches, for he was determined to save Ned and Dick if the thing were within the range of human possibility. His mustang seemed to understand what was expected of him, and he required no urging from his master to maintain his arrowy flight. It was a literal race between life and death. If he could reach Fort Havens in time to procure succor, the man and the boy were saved. If not, then they were doomed.

At daylight he was among the mountains, and the steed paused a few seconds to swallow a little water from a tiny stream. An hour later he ascended an elevation, and from his back the rider took a survey of the plain stretched out before him.

Far away in the distance a dark, stationary object was discerned. A keen eye could detect something fluttering above it in the wind. That was the star-spangled banner, waving above Fort Havens. Yonder was the destination toward which the little party had been laboring for days and which there was no assurance of still reaching. The scout had not yet passed half the distance intervening between the fort and Hurricane Hill. Mercy to his beast compelled him to give him a brief rest and an opportunity to eat a little food. Then, away again.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and Tom was nearing the fort, which was in distinct view a few miles ahead, when his attention was arrested by the sight of a number of men moving along to the north, and in a contrary direction to that which he himself was following. They suddenly emerged from some hills, and rode at a sweeping gallop. What surprised the hunter was the discovery that they were United States cavalry, that had evidently come from Fort Havens itself! How their appearance could be explained was more than he could understand; but he saw at once that if their co-operation could be secured, several hours' valuable time might be saved. He turned the head of his mustang in that direction and rode at the same tearing speed as before.

The cavalry detected his coming, reined up and awaited his approach. The afternoon was well advanced when the hunter drew rein in front of the company, and saluted the chief officer, who was Colonel Chadmund himself, the commandant of Fort Havens, at the head of seventy-five veteran cavalry. He recognized the scout, and rode forward to meet him.

"Any news of my little boy, Tom?" he asked, before their palms crossed.

"Alive and well."

"Thank God! thank God!" exclaimed the white-faced officer, trembling with joy. "Have the Indians caught him?"

"No; but he is in danger. What are you doing with these men here?"

"An Indian came into the fort several hours ago, with the word that Lone Wolf and a party of Apaches had driven two or three persons to the top of Hurricane Hill, where they would soon be caught unless assistance was sent them. The Indian is one of our regular scouts, in whom we have much confidence, and thinking it might be you, with possibly my little Ned, I put myself at the head of the company and started out to see. I had very little hope, however, of seeing him alive, for news had reached us of the massacre of the escort party in Devil's Pass."

Hardynge, in a few minutes, explained the situation, and the colonel was all excitement to be off again. Every hour – every minute, indeed – was precious to him, and, as the two rode back, the advance was resumed without a moment's delay. Instead of proceeding back in a direct line, however, over the path traveled by the scout, they made a detour to the northward, the configuration of the country being such that a much nearer approach, undiscovered, could be made from this direction than from any other.

There were several extra horses in the company, one of which was appropriated by Tom, while he left his own to roam over the plain and reach the fort whenever his disposition should take him in that direction. Colonel Chadmund had taken the precaution to mount all his men upon the best steeds at command, and they were driven into a rapid, telling pace. They made good progress, but when the sun set they had not yet reached a point from which the most distant view of Hurricane Hill could be obtained. A more moderate speed was kept up until midnight, when they went into camp, picketed their animals, and resumed the march at daybreak. The horses were forced to the greatest possible endurance, but never did miles seem so long. It was high noon before a point among the hills on the north was reached from which a fair view of the pile of rocks could be obtained. Colonel Chadmund produced his glass, and scrutinized the towering-like mass, in quest of some sign of the defenders. Not the least could be obtained; but he saw at the base the band of Apaches, spread out like a miniature besieging army, and this, to the minds of all, was proof that the garrison of Hurricane Hill were still at the post of duty.

It was necessary to approach as close to the spot as possible without discovery, and then to charge down upon the Indians with such fiery impetuosity that they would have no time to inflict any damage upon the brave defenders. The appearance of the cavalry would apprise them that the siege was at an end, and in the gnawing rage thereat, they might charge up the incline and open a fire, which would riddle Dick and Ned and from which there would be no escape.

Colonel Chadmund understood Indian warfare so well as to know that Lone Wolf had his scouts out, and it would be a difficult matter to avoid them. Still the attempt was made, and by the middle of the afternoon, the cavalry had reached a point barely two miles away without his presence being suspected.

"I've been watching the place for half an hour," said the colonel, as he lowered his glass, and handed it to Tom Hardynge, standing at his elbow, "and it seems to me that the top of Hurricane Hill is deserted, although the Apaches at the base seem to point the other way."

"Of course, of course," replied the hunter, impatiently. "You don't 'spose they'd stand up in sight all the time, like a couple of spoonies gettin' their pictures took? They're watchin' the path that leads up to where they be."

It required but a few minutes to conclude their preparations, when the seventy odd cavalrymen, armed to the teeth, burst forth from the hills like a mountain torrent, and charged straight for Lone Wolf and his band. The latter, of course, were quick to detect it, and drew up with the purpose of making a fight; but when they took in the strength of the company approaching, they changed their minds, and broke and scattered like chaff before the whirlwind.

This was a severe disappointment, for the colonel and a dozen of his best Indian fighters had arranged to make a determined effort to rid the country of this pest. These were the best mounted in the company, and in their eagerness they sped straight ahead after the redskins, still hoping that some turn of fortune's wheel would give them the coveted chance. But the mustangs of the Apaches were fresh and fleet, and they had no purpose of meeting the United States cavalry where there was anything like an equal advantage; so they continued their flight with such persistent celerity that they soon vanished from view.

The heart of Colonel Chadmund misgave him as he galloped toward Hurricane Hill and saw no sign of life there. But while he was alternating between hope and despair, the figure of a man appeared around the corner of the rock, and then the form of a little boy was discerned, as he came running across the prairie with out-stretched arms.

"Oh, father! father!"

Colonel Chadmund leaped from the back of his horse and ran to meet him.

"My darling boy! God be thanked!"

The stern old soldier wept like a child as he caught him in his arms and hugged him to his breast, while more than one rough soldier, looking on, dashed the tears from his eyes and tried to look as if he were thinking of something else.

The danger was passed. Little Ned, carried in triumph to the fort, remained the appointed time with his father at this advanced frontier post, and when he returned to Santa Fe to his beloved mother it was with an escort which guaranteed his safety.

Thus ended his adventures with what were then the scourges of the great Southwest, but the memory of them is indelible and not to be subdued by the lapse of years. In his manhood days he looks back upon those troublous times when the wild riders left the bones of venturesome white men to whiten upon the banks of the Gila; and, although remembrance brings its thrill of excitement, it is coupled with a shudder whenever Ned Chadmund thinks of his passage "Through Apache Land."

Volume III of The War Whoop Series is entitled "In the Pecos Country."