Murray's hunt was a short one, for that grassy tableland, with its cool streams and its shady trees, seemed to be a favorite pasture-ground for the mountain-deer. It is not likely they were often annoyed by hunters of any kind, and they were comparatively easy to approach. Besides, it was not necessary for a marksman like Murray to get so very near.
"A fine fat doe," said Steve, when his friend threw down his game in front of the fire.
"Now for a cooking time," replied Murray; "and then we must have a good nap."
"I'll do a little eating, too, while I'm cooking."
Neither of them neglected that duty, but Murray took the two plump hind-quarters of the doe and roasted them whole. How?—with no stove, no oven, no kitchen tools of any sort or description?
Two forked sticks were set firmly in the ground on either side, in front of the fire, and a strong stick laid across from fork to fork at about four feet from the ground; then a leg of venison, hung to this cross-piece by a thong of raw deer-skin, was turned around and around until the thong would twist no tighter. When it was let go the weight of the meat kept it from untwisting too fast; but it turned around in the opposite direction for ever so long, and it was roasting all the while.
It was precisely what our own great-grandmothers used to call a "roasting-jack," and all it required was somebody to wind it up when it ran down, so that the meat could be evenly done all over.
Meantime the broiling and eating of smaller pieces went right on, and neither Steve nor his friend seemed to have lost their appetite by their long ride and hard work.
"Now, Steve, lie down. Sleep all you can."
"Sha'n't you take a rest?"
"Don't need much. Young eyes call for more sleep than old ones. Lie right down and never mind me. I'll call you when your time comes."
Steve was used to paying the old man a pretty good kind of obedience, and he was glad enough to obey him now. He was quickly asleep under a spreading tree, while Murray sat down before the fire, as if to "mind the roast." There was something more important than venison for him to think of, however. He had taken off his hat, and his white head was bare. With the strong light of the camp-fire shining upon his weather-beaten face he would have made a good subject for a painter. He was thinking deeply—so deeply that at last he thought aloud:
"I am a white man. I've been an Indian long enough. Yes, I think I'll try it. That would be better than killing all the Apaches between this and the California line."
He did not explain what it was he meant to try, or why it would be so much better than killing Apaches; but the stern expression on his face grew milder and milder, until it almost seemed as if he were smiling, and even Steve Harrison had never seen him do that.
The venison roasts were wound up, twisted tight again and again, and at last they were taken off.
"They'll do. I'll give 'em an hour to cool, and then we must be off. I'll pack the rest of the meat raw, but we haven't left much of it."
To much to throw away for men who were not sure of their regular meals, and were very sure of getting hungry.
The hour went by, and then Steve felt himself rudely shaken by the shoulder.
"You can't have it," grumbled Steve. "That gold's ours. I killed it myself, and we're roasting it now."
"Dreaming, are you? Wake up, Steve; it's time we were moving. We've a long night ride before us."
"How late is it?"
"No watch. Can't say exactly; but I reckon we can reach the valley by sunrise, and not overwork our horses. They're both in good condition."
The great heavy carriage and road horses used in the "settlements" would not have been in anything like as good condition as were those two wiry, tough, swift-footed mustangs, after all they had been through. They were ready now for another long pull; but they were likely to stand it better in the cool night hours than under the hot sun.
In a few minutes more the two friends were in the saddle. There was no more that they could do just then for the safety of the Buckhorn Mine; but they had not ridden far before Murray suddenly exclaimed,
"I'm going to do a queer thing, Steve Harrison!"
"You won't go back to the Lipans?"
"Queerer than that. I'm going to ride straight in among that band of Apaches!"
"What for?"
"I can't exactly say as yet. Will you go with me?"
"Anywhere. I'll feel safer about not getting into the hands of the Lipans again."
"They never did you any hurt."
"I should say they did. It's hurt enough to stay among them for three long years."
"Think of what you've learned by it, my boy. And now you've found a gold-mine."
"And it isn't worth ten cents to me. Nobody'd give me a new hat for it."
"You will need one by the time you get to the settlements. We must try and look out for that. The main thing for us to-night is to see that we don't get into bad company."
"Either Lipans or miners. I believe one is about as bad as the other."
They had plenty to talk about but some parts of the pass they were following were densely dark, and they had to feel their way a foot at a time like a pair of blind men. It was slower work than riding over the same ground by day, and Murray turned out nearly right in his calculation of the time they would reach the valley. It was just as the light of the rising sun grew strong and bright that he and Steve stood on the slope at the lower edge of the forest, taking turns at looking through the spy-glass at the white tilts of the two wagons of the miners.
"They've roused up early for something," said Murray.
"Looks as if they were setting out on a hunt or a scout."
"So it does. There they go. Steve, we must ride after those fellows."
"What for?"
"To stop 'em. They'll only run their heads against the Apaches, and leave their camp to be plundered by the Lipans."
"They're in a trap, Murray."
"Come on, Steve!"
But the distance was not less than a couple of miles, and the miners had prepared beforehand for that "early start." It was all against the will of Captain Skinner, and the bad temper he was in only made him start more promptly, ............