When first talking with Jack Dudley, the hunter expected to retain his place near the cavern until morning, for it would seem that there was little hope of doing anything until the sun shone, but reflection convinced him that there was a possibility of accomplishing something during the long interval that must intervene. Still it is not probable he would have made the attempt had not something invited it.
Standing in the gloom on the outside of the cavern, he saw a point of light against the side of the nearest mountain peak, less than half a mile distant. It could not be a star, for his familiarity with the country told him the background must prevent an orb showing at that height above the horizon. It came from a fire burning at the place, and that fire had been kindled by Indians.
Hank's decision was to visit the camp, in the hope of picking up some information about the missing boy. It has been shown that he was so convinced that no danger threatened Jack Dudley that he did not hesitate to leave him alone, believing him asleep. As a precaution, however, he flung additional fuel on the fire, with a view of keeping away any wild animals that might be in the vicinity. Had Jack answered to his name when called by the guide he would have been invited to accompany him for a portion at least of the way on the reconnaissance, as it might be termed—a most welcome relief. Thus, trifling as was the deception, it operated unfavorably for our young friend.
The progress of the veteran through and over the rough country was a very different proceeding from that of the two boys. He seemed never to hesitate or be in doubt as to the shortest and easiest course, and his advance, therefore, was much the same as if he were striding across the grassy plateau near camp. As he went forward his shifting position frequently shut out the beacon-light, but he made no mistake at any point in his walk. It was a striking proof of his woodcraft that when he reached the canyon it was at a spot where it was so narrow that he appeared merely to lengthen his step when he placed himself on the other side. Progressing in this manner, it did not take him long to reach the immediate vicinity of the camp.
The blaze had been kindled among a clump of cedars which were a continuation of a growth that extended with more or less vigor for miles among the mountains, gradually disappearing as the snow-line was reached. Hazletine recalled the particular spot so clearly that he knew precisely what to do.
It was not very late in the evening, else there would have been one of the Indians on guard. As it was, the three were lolling in lazy attitudes, smoking their long-stemmed pipes and talking in a disjointed fashion. If they had eaten anything in camp, there were no evidences of it.
Having reached a point from which he could survey the party without being observed, the hunter proceeded to do so. His first feeling was of disappointment, for Motoza was not one of the three bucks, who appeared to be in middle life, and were dressed and painted similarly to that individual. In fact, the trio were the ones seen by the youths earlier in the day, at the point where the break in the canyon occurred.
Hazletine had set out with the belief that the vagrant Sioux was the one chiefly concerned in the disappearance of Fred Greenwood. His absence from camp confirmed that belief, while the indifferent manner of the three, and the apparent lack of subjects of discussion among them, indicated that they knew nothing of the abduction or death, as it might be, of the missing one. Had they known of it, the guide was confident it would have been betrayed by their manner, since they could have no suspicion that they were under surveillance at that time, and therefore would act their natural selves.
What would have been the course of Hazletine had he seen Motoza, not doubting, as he did, the guilt of the miscreant? He would have walked directly forward to the camp and warned the Sioux that if he harmed a hair of the youth's head his life should pay therefor.
Since Motoza was not in the situation thus to be warned, the hunter did the next best thing. With no attempt to veil the sound of his footsteps, he strode into the circle of light thrown out by the Indian camp-fire. The bucks looked up curiously at him, but betrayed no emotion beyond a few grunts. They did not invite him to be seated or to join them in smoking, and had they done so, neither invitation would have been accepted.
Hank knew nothing of the lingo of the red men, but it was presumed they had a fair understanding of English, taking which for granted, he proceeded to carry out his self-imposed mission. He told the bucks they had no business off their reservation, although it was a matter of indifference to him. He knew there were others in the mountains, and Motoza was among them. It was concerning this scoundrel, as Hank characterized him, that he had something to say. A white youth, while hunting that afternoon not far off, with his companion, had disappeared. Hazletine had looked into the matter far enough to discover that he had been stolen by Motoza. The white man was hunting for Motoza, but in the brief time at his disposal had not been able to find him, though he was confident of doing so on the morrow.
Meanwhile, the white man wanted these three, or any one of them, if they should meet the aforementioned scoundrel, to repeat what he had said about him. If any harm had befallen the missing boy, Hazletine would take it upon himself to hunt down Motoza and "execute" him himself, without waiting for the United States authorities to do it. Such a summary course would save expense and make the white man feel better.
If Motoza should return the stolen boy within twenty-four hours, and it was found he was unharmed, the whole matter would be treated as a joke, and no punishment would be visited upon Motoza, provided he didn't do it again.
This was the substance of Hank Hazletine's communication to the three bucks, to whom he repeated and discussed it until there was no fear of a misunderstanding, after which the visitor strode out of camp, without so much as bidding the trio good-night. His whole manner was that of contempt, for, had it been otherwise, he would not have dared to turn his back upon them, when they could have shot him down with impunity.
The cowman had accomplished something, though less than he hoped. While he failed to gain definite knowledge of the missing youth, he had brought a message which was certain to be delivered to the right party before the next set of sun. But Hank knew the men with whom he was dealing, and could not feel assured that any ultimate good would result until nearer the end.
"I wish I knowed whether them imps know anything about that younker; they don't act as if they did, and yet they may be as deep in the bus'ness as Motoza."
The last remark suggested a possibility which the cowman shrank from considering. It was that the Sioux was wholly innocent, and that all the mischief had been done through unsuspected parties. It has been shown that other Indians, not yet encountered, were in the vicinity, and it was not absolutely certain that they were not the criminals. The thought, however, opened the illimitable fields of speculation, and the hunter was wise in determining to hold to his original belief until assured it was an error.
Before he was half-way back to camp the moon appeared above the mountain peak behind him, and the rugged scenery was lit up by the rays that streamed on every side. He paused where he could observe the gleam of his own camp-fire at the mouth of the cavern, while, by turning his head, he saw the twinkle of the one he had left behind. All between lay as silent as the tomb.
"I bluffed it pretty heavy," he reflected, "and I guess it'll work with them bucks; I ain't so sartin of Motoza, fur if he has had anything to do with the taking off of that younker he's covered up his tracks pretty well and it'll be hard work to run him down, but I'll do it!" he savagely exclaimed, as he resumed his strides toward his own camp.
As he drew near he caught sight of the unconscious figure of Jack Dudley, sitting with his back against the rock. The moon revealed him clearly, and the cowman approached him with noiseless step.
"Poor fellow! he come out here to watch, thinking he couldn't sleep, and now he's good for nothing till sunup."
Hank leaned over and tenderly adjusted the blanket around the figure of the handsome youth, as his mother might have done had she been present. Then passing within the cavern, he lay down and slept until the night was ended.
The presence of the lad on the outside of the cavern showed that he knew of the departure of the guide. Hank, therefore, explained his reason for leaving him, and told him all that had occurred.
"The first thing to do, younker, is to find Motoza; that's what I'm going to do. You can't stand it to be alone with yourself, so you can come with me, though I hain't no idee that you'll be able to give any help."
"I hope I shall; though, if you think there is more chance of success in making the hunt alone, I'll do the same."
Hank was silent a moment, as if considering the matter, but he quickly added:
"Come along. But how about breakfast?"
"I haven't the least appetite."
"I thought so by your looks," he said, sympathizingly. "I'm blamed sorry fur you, and hope your appetite will soon come back to you."
"It will as soon as we find Fred," said Jack, with a faint smile; "but what about yourself?"
"It's all the same; if we had meat here I'd cook and eat it; but I'm willing to go a day or two, if I haven't the time to take any meals."
"That's strange!" broke in Jack; "yonder comes a white man; he must be one of your acquaintances, though I never saw him before."
Hazletine turned round in surprise. A tall white man, dressed as a cowboy, with long dangling yellow hair and a thin mustache and goatee, and with rifle slung over his shoulder, had appeared on the further side of the plateau, and was approaching the couple at a deliberate pace.
"Wal, I'm hanged!" exclaimed Hazletine; "if there isn't Bill Tozer! He's the last man I expected to meet in these parts."
These words did not bring Jack Dudley much enlightenment, but he felt no special curiosity concerning the individual, and silently waited till he came up. The youth judged from the manner of the guide, however, that he was not overly pleased with the new arrival, whose countenance was not attractive. Nevertheless, the two shook hands with seeming cordiality, and the new-comer looked inquiringly at Jack.
"This is a friend of mine, Bill, that I took out on a hunt t'other day with another younker; Jack Dudley, Bill Tozer."
"Glad to know you," said the man heartily; "I see you're a tenderfoot."
"Yes," replied Jack; "less than two weeks ago I had never set foot in Wyoming."
"Wal, now that's funny; you'll like the country after you get used to it."
"Would to heaven I had never seen it!" was the bitter exclamation of the youth, hardly able to keep back his tears.
"Sorry to hear that, my young friend; but cheer up; it'll come out all right."
It struck Jack that this was a singular remark for the man to make, for it sounded as if he knew the cause of Jack's emotion; but before the boy could seek enlightenment the man made a more extraordinary remark:
"You'll excuse us for a few minutes, my young friend; I've some words to say in private to Hank."
"Certainly," replied Jack, turning on his heel and walking beyond earshot. He gave the men no further attention, for he did not suspect the new-comer had anything to impart of interest to him. The boy felt more like resenting this interference with the momentous business he and the guide had on hand.
But Jack was mistaken. Hardly was he a hundred feet from the couple when Hazletine asked:
"What's up, Bill?"
"One of them young tenderfeet is missing, eh?"
"How did you find that out?"
"I reached the camp of Bok-kar-oo last night within a half-hour after you'd gone; he and two other bucks are out on a hunt, which they haven't any business to be, but that's nothing to us. Bok-kar-oo told me what you had told him; it's queer business, isn't it?"
"I should say it was. That Motoza has had a hand in it, and I've set out to find him and settle the account."
"Why are you so sure about Motoza?"
"'Cause I know him!" said Hank, savagely; "and I've knowed him fur a good many years; there isn't a worse Injin in Wyoming."
Instead of commenting on this remark, Tozer stood silent a moment, and then made a flirt with his head as a request for Hank to step aside with him. The cowman obeyed, and they seated themselves still further from Jack Dudley.
"What makes you so afeard he'll hear us?" asked Hazletine, impatiently, noting the suspicious glances which the man cast in the direction of the youth.
"For the reason that I don't want him to hear us; I've something to say about him and his friend."
"His father owns half of Bowman's ranch."
Bill Tozer started with an angry exclamation.
"Is that so?" he asked in amazement. "I thought it was the other fellow's father."
"How should you know anything about it anyway?" demanded Hazletine, who made no attempt to conceal his dislike of the man. "I'd like to know where you picked up so much knowledge 'bout these two younkers."
"There's no need of getting huffy about it, Hank; it seemed to me that I was to be on your heels for the last few days, for I stopped at the ranch and had a talk with the fellows only a short time after you left with the tenderfeet for this hunt. I understood Kansas Jim to say that it was the father of the Greenwood boy that owned half the ranch."
"If Jim told you that, which I don't believe he done, he told you what ain't so."
"But the father of the other boy—the one that's missing—he's rich too, ain't he?"
"I don't know nothing 'bout it; what are you driving at? Bill, you know that my 'pinion of you is 'bout the same as it is of that tramp Motoza, so, if you've got anything to say to me, out with it! I hain't any time to fool away."
"I have something to say, Hank, and it's about them young tenderfeet: I've seen Motoza."
"When?"
"This morning."
"Did you give him my message?"
"Every word of it, as I received it from Bok-kar-oo; I made it as strong as I could."
"You couldn't make it any too strong; how did he take it?"
"It didn't seem to worry him much; he says he don't know anything about the missing boy and your threats don't scare him. But, Hank," added Tozer, lowering his voice almost to a whisper and glancing furtively around, "I suspect Motoza was lying."
"I know he was, fur he doesn't know how to tell the truth."
"If he's treated right, I believe he'll produce the missing youngster."
Hank Hazletine was keener mentally than most of his friends suspected. He had more acumen than even Bill Tozer suspected. A great light flashed upon the cowman, and the questions and answers which fell from his lips during the next few minutes were intended to hide his real purpose.
"What do you mean by treating Motoza right? If he was treated right he'd be kicking the air this very minute."
"I agree with you," said Tozer, laughing; "but Motoza doesn't, and he's the one who asks to be treated right, as he considers it."
"I've said that if he produces the younker, and we find he hain't been harmed, why we'll call it a joke and drop the whole thing."
Tozer gazed at a distant mountain peak and thoughtfully chewed tobacco for a minute. He was approaching delicate ground and needed all his finesse.
"That's fair on your part, and is more than he ought to expect, but I've a suspicion it isn't what he means."
"Do you know what he means, Bill?"
"No; he hasn't told me a word, but I think I can guess it."
"Wal, then, guess."
"Remember it's only a guess, and I may be away off."
Hazletine nodded his head.
"I'm listening."
"I suspect Motoza has the tenderfoot in hiding somewhere, where there's no chance of his getting away or of any of his friends finding him."
"What does the scamp mean by doing that?"
"He must have had an idea that the father of the Greenwood boy has enough money to pay a good sum to recover him unharmed."
"That's a new scheme! I've heard of such things in the East, but never knowed 'em to be tried in this part of the country."
"Bear in mind," Tozer hastened to add, "that it's all guesswork on my part."
"You've said that afore, but it's powerful good guessing, Bill. It's my 'pinion you ain't a thousand miles from the truth, but you can see this makes a mighty different thing of the bus'ness."
"How so?"
"The younker's father lives in New York; he's got to be reached, and the question laid afore him. How much money will Motoza ask to produce the younker?"
"Certainly not much—something like five thousand dollars, I should say."
"That is rather a healthy pile for you or me, but I don't 'spose it's more than a trifle for them folks in the East."
"Of course not; they'll raise it at once, and be glad to do so."
"But it'll take two weeks at least."
"Not necessarily; you can telegraph from Fort Steele, and two or three days ought to wind up the whole business."
"But you can't telegraph the money."
"Yes, you can; nothing is easier."
Hazletine was silent a minute or two.
"It sounds easy 'nough, the way you put it, but it won't be so powerful easy after all. I s'pose the Sioux will want the money afore he turns over the younker?"
"Of course; that's business."
"How can we know he'll give up the younker after he gits the money?"
"In a matter of this kind, a point must be reached where one party has to trust the other, and Motoza wouldn't dare play you false."
"He wouldn't, eh? Just give him the chance."
"Then we won't let him. I'll guarantee that he shall keep his part of the agreement in spirit and letter."
It was on Hazletine's tongue to ask who should guarantee the honesty of Bill Tozer, but for reasons of his own he kept back the question.
"Wal, now, to git down to bus'ness, as you say; s'pose Doctor Greenwood sends word that he won't or can't raise the money you ask—what then?"
Tozer shrugged his shoulders suggestively.
"Don't forget that I am guessing all the way through. I should say, however, that Doctor Greenwood would never see his boy again."
"I'm afraid he never will, as the matter now stands."
"That depends on the parent. If he is not rich, the father of that young man over yonder is, and he would let him have the money."
"No doubt he'd do that very thing; but s'pose the thing is all fixed and carried out as you've been saying—does Motoza fancy there won't be some accounts to be squared with him afterwards?"
"You know what a cunning fellow he is. He wouldn't go through with the job until he was guaranteed against any punishment for his part in it."
"The father of the younker would give the pledge, and he'd keep it, too, if he's anything like his son. But what 'bout Hank Hazletine?"
"He would have to make the same promise—that is, I presume he would. It might be, however, that Motoza would feel able to take care of himself, so far as you are concerned. But we are talking blindly."
"Is there any other way to talk?"
"You say you were just about starting out to hunt up Motoza. You won't be able to find him, for he'll keep out of your sight. Leave that part of the business to me."
"What'll you do?"
"I'll explain the situation to him, and then come back and have another talk with you."
"All right; you can't do it any too soon."
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