The Tomahawk. [volume] (White Earth, Becker County, Minn.) 1903-192?, 1926-01-07

Wnite Iace OF the preclplce tnar rose
three thousand feet and pressed its
pinnacles against the sky. Not crew
Ice or jutting point Of rock gave prom
ise Of foothold or hiding place.
Then spasm Of agony and despair
crossed the mans face and he bowed
his head upon his arms and Rugged his
misery to his heart. As slight as his
movement had been, the red gushed
forth anew from the jagged hole In his
side where the Apache's bullet had
gnawed his flesh, and with fast weak
ening fingers he clutched handful Of
dew-wet leaves and pressed them to
the wound. Then he lay for long
time, fat upon his face, motionless,
listening. t, $50 u
The sun poured its wealth Of scorch-
ing brilliancy into the canyon-nOt a
feathery cloud dimmed Its luster. The
breeze whispered amid the pine trees
across the river, and the eddying tide
rushed past increasingly. High over
head an eagle circled slowly. No other
living creature was visible.
In this wild, lonely tabernacle of ma
ture end Of God, peace seemed to have
found an eternal hiding place. but the
man, with his parching lips pressed
against the cooling grasses, knew that
every tuft Of waving verdure might
conceal the painted form and shining
eyes Of an Apache, whose copper-col-
ored hands rested upon the lock Of
deadly rifle, invented by white mans
brain, fashioned by white mans skill
and used for white mans humiliation.
The dew-damp leaves staunched the
flow Of blood from his side and, little
by little, his strength revived. But he
did not, dare not, move, for death
lurked on every hand. So he lay, as
motionless as dead man, amid the
rank and tangled grass-thinking Of a
woman. NJ >s.. ....--...
And his thoughts made him I'LL his
mouth with leaves to stifle the groan
that swelled up from his heart. In the
autumn he was to have gone back to
her. Four years Of prospecting In Ari-
IONA had brought him a wealth Of
gold-and that CHASTITY hole in his side
And this was the end! The end Of the
woman's waiting-the end of his long
ing to go back. But how, when, would
she ever learn Of his death? White men
seldom come into Dead Mans canyon.
And If one should, he would not be
likely to stumble upon the heap Of
white bones here in the jungle Of grass.
Thirst was burning in his veins. God |!
how hot the sun was He must have
water-water!
Not twenty feet from where he lay
sparkling crystal river, cold as the
snow-capped mountain peaks, flowed
by. Its constant murmuring was music
to his ears-maddening music, for a
score of Indians might be hidden be-
tween him and the waters brink.
But he must have drink. His lips
were parched and cracked-his tongue
was swollen-his veins were on fire.
He peered through the grass before
him-he saw CLINT of light upon the
rivers surface. Perhaps-perhapsl
Slowly, painfully, so carefully that
not the faintest sound was caused by
the movement Of his body, he dragged
himself forward. An eighth Of an inch
a second-a foot In minute and a
half-he moved, the pace of snail,
and he was dying Of thirst
Ten feet, twelve feet, fifteen feet,
he crept. Through the quivering YER
dure he could see the sunlight glisten-
ing upon the shimmering river; in his
ears the torrents roar was deafening !;
mist from the dashing waves moistened
his brow.
Carefully he reached forth his hand
and parted bunch Of grass before
him; then he drew his hand back
quickly and fiattened himself upon the
ground. For, just beyond that little
tuft Of verdure, so near that the man
could touch him with his fingers, an
Apache warrior lay, his naked body
cleaning like FURNISHED copper, his
black hair falling like dark shadows
upon his painted neck and broad Shout
dersl
The savage was lying upon his face,
his rifle thrust through the grasses be-
fore him, his eyes riveted upon the
bank Of the stream. With infinite pa
thence he was waiting, watching for
the writhing body of a wounded man,
whose delirium and fever would cause
him to be lured to death by the sing
ing of the ripples.
Gazing through the intervening
grasses at his silent, relentless foe, the
man drew revolver from his belt and
raised It to the level Of his eve. The
little projection on the end Of the shin
ing barrel pointed directly at the base
Of the Indians brain, and the mans
fingers closed slowly, steadily upon the
trigger. A sudden tremor passed
through the indian; then he lay quite
still again and the man lowered his
pistol. He had but that one cartridge
left, and its voice would call hundred
painted devils upon himl
So he stretched, like shadow, amid
the grass, not moving so much as a
finger, breathing into the turf and
gritting his teeth over the agony in'nis
throat which the river, singing In his
ears, could alleviate. -