



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. III.--NO. 124. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, March 14, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

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[Illustration: "TEASING TOM."]




POLLY GARDNER AND THE DRAW-BRIDGE.

BY JULIA K. HILDRETH.


Polly Gardner had been spending her vacation with Aunt Mary in the
country. She would have been "perfectly happy" but that her father and
mother were obliged to remain in the city. It was five weeks since she
had seen them, and it seemed to Polly like five months.

One lovely afternoon Polly sat on the horse-block idly kicking one foot
backward and forward, watching Aunt Mary as she drove off on a visit to
a sick neighbor. Birds were singing, bees were humming, and the slender
branches of the great gray-green willows that shadowed the road moved
softly with every light puff of wind. Away off in the field over the
hills Polly could hear the ring of the mowers' scythes. Everything was
so pleasant and peaceful that she wished her parents were there to enjoy
it with her.

Just as Aunt Mary was hidden from sight by a bend in the road, she heard
the crunching of wheels in the opposite direction, and, on looking up,
found it was another wagon, driven by Mr. Ward, the grocer and postman
of Willow Grove. He checked his horse at the gate, and began fumbling
slowly in his coat pocket for something.

After considerable searching, he drew out a white envelope, and turned
it first one way and then another, shook his head, and began feeling in
his pockets again, brought forth his spectacles, adjusted them carefully
upon his nose, and once more began examining the letter. At last he read
in a loud voice:

"'Miss Polly Gardner, in care of Mrs. Mary West, Willow Grove. In
haste.'" Then he peeped over his glasses severely at Polly, and asked,
sharply, "Who's Miss Polly Gardner? Do you know, little girl?"

"Oh, that's _me_!" cried Polly, jumping from the horse-block, "and Mrs.
Mary West is aunty. Please give me my letter. It's from mamma. I am so
glad!"

"Can you read?" asked Mr. Ward, still holding the letter far above
Polly's reach.

"Yes, of course," cried Polly, indignantly. "I'm nine years old next
week."

"Wery well, Miss Polly Gardner, here's your letter. But if your mar
hadn't put 'In haste' on the outside of it, you would have had to come
and fetch it yourself," said Mr. Ward, as he handed the letter down to
Polly.

"Thank you ever so much," said Polly, tearing her letter open nervously.
After reading it once, she said "Oh!" in a delighted voice.

"Nothing the matter?" inquired Mr. Ward, who still sat looking at Polly.

"No; but mother and father are coming to-day, if this is the 24th of
August."

"Yes, it's the 24th. But let's see your letter, and I can tell you what
they mean."

Polly handed her letter back to Mr. Ward, who read it aloud slowly:

     "'DEAREST POLLY,--Papa finds he can leave his business for a short
     time, so we have concluded to spend the remainder of your vacation
     with you and Aunt Mary. We shall take the train that reaches Willow
     Grove at 4.30 P. M. on the 24th. Tell Aunt Mary to meet us if she
     has time.

     "'Love to all, and a thousand kisses from

  "'MAMMA AND PAPA.'

"Well," said Mr. Ward, as he gave Polly back her letter, "they'll be
here in about a half-hour, for it's almost four now. I guess I'll be
moving; it's time I was back to the store." So he chirped to his horse,
turned the wagon, and was soon out of sight.

As Aunt Mary would not return before five o'clock, Polly determined to
walk down to the railroad station, and meet her father and mother alone.
She had often been there with Aunt Mary to watch the trains come and go.
It was a small station, and very few people stopped there.

Just before reaching the station the railroad crossed a draw-bridge.
Polly liked to watch the man open and shut the draw as the boats in the
river passed through. There was a foot-path over this bridge, and Polly
had once crossed it with Aunt Mary. They had stopped to speak to the
flagman, who was pleasant and good-natured. He told Polly where she
could find some beautiful white lilies in a pond not far away. That was
more than a week ago, and the flowers were not then open, and now as
Polly ran down the road she thought she would have time to gather some
for her parents before the train arrived.

When Polly reached the station she found no one there, and on looking at
the clock, saw that it was only ten minutes past four, so she had twenty
minutes to wait. Then she ran on quickly.

The flagman stood by the draw, and Polly saw, some distance down the
river, a small vessel coming toward the bridge. She ran along rapidly,
and as she passed the flagman he called out:

"Going for the lilies? The pond was all white with them when I went by
this morning."

"Yes, sir; I want to pick some for mamma and papa. They wrote me a
letter and said they were coming in the next train."

"You don't say so! Well, I guess you're glad. Look out for the
locomotive, and don't take too long picking your flowers, and you'll
have plenty of time to get back before the train comes in."

Polly thanked him and ran on. In about five minutes she reached the
pond. How lovely the lilies looked, with their snowy cups resting upon
the dark water! But their stems were long and tough, and most of them
grew far beyond her reach. She contrived to secure four. Polly was sorry
to leave so many behind, but was afraid if she lingered too long she
would miss the train. So, gathering up the blossoms, she pinned them
into her belt, and scampered back toward the bridge.

The boat had just sailed through the draw, and the man stood ready to
close the bridge, when Polly came up. He looked over at her from the
centre of the bridge, and called out with a smile:

"Couldn't you get any more flowers than those? If I had time to go to
the pond, you should have as many as you could carry."

Polly smiled back at him, and then began to watch him as he made ready
to turn the great bridge back into place for the train to pass over. His
hand was already on the crank, when a rope dangling over the railing of
the bridge attracted his attention. As he tried to pull it in, it seemed
to be caught underneath. Polly watched him lean over to get a better
hold, when, to her great horror, the piece of railing to which he held
gave way.

There was a sudden scream, and a great splash in the water. But before
the waves of the swiftly flowing river closed over him, Polly heard the
cry,

"The train!--the flag!"

Poor little Polly! She was so alarmed for the poor man's safety that for
some moments she could think of nothing else, and ran backward and
forward wringing her hands in despair. As he arose to the surface she
saw that he made frantic gestures to her, and pointed up the road from
which the train was to come. He seemed to be able to keep himself above
water with very little effort, and Polly saw with joy that the accident
had been observed by the occupants of the vessel. The man in the water
struck out toward the boat, and Polly could hear shouts and cheers from
the men on board.

All at once she was startled by the far-off whistle of the approaching
locomotive. In a moment she understood the meaning of the flagman's
gestures. She looked at the open space and then at the bridge. In five
minutes or less the train would come dashing into that terrible chasm.
Polly's hair almost rose on her head with horror. It was as much as she
could do to keep her senses.

There must be some way to avert the awful calamity. She ran swiftly
along toward the rapidly approaching train. Lying on the ground just by
the small wooden house where the flagman generally sat, Polly saw a red
flag. She remembered having heard that this flag was used in case of
danger, or when there was any reason for stopping the cars. She did not
know whether there was yet time, but she seized the flag and flew wildly
up the track.

"Oh, my papa! oh, my mamma!" she cried; "they will fall into the river
and be drowned! What shall I do?" and Polly waved the flag backward and
forward as she ran.

Then came the train around the curve. She could see the white steam
puffing from the pipe, and could hear the panting of the engine.

"I know they'll run over me, but if mamma and papa are killed, I don't
care to live," she said to herself, as she approached the great black
noisy engine.

When it was about three hundred feet away from her, she saw a head
thrust out of the little window by the locomotive, and then, with a
great puffing, snorting, and whistling, it began to move slower and
slower, until at last, when it was almost upon Polly, it stopped
entirely.

All the windows were alive with heads and hands. The passengers screamed
and waved her off the track. She stepped off and ran close up to the
side of the engine and gasped out, "The bridge is open, and the man has
fallen into the river. Please stop the train or you'll be drowned."

The engineer stared in amazement, as well he might, to see a small girl
with a flushed face, hair blown wildly about, and four lilies pinned in
her belt, waving the red flag as though she had been used to flagging
trains all her life.

At that moment another remarkable figure presented itself to the
astonished eyes of the passengers. A man, dripping wet, bruised and
scratched as though he had been drawn through briers, came tearing
toward the cars, stumbling and almost falling at every step. As he
reached little Polly, he snatched her up and covered her face with
kisses.

"You little darling," he cried, "do you know what you've done? You've
saved the lives of more than a hundred people."

Polly, nervous and excited, began to cry. One after another the
passengers came hurrying out of the train and crowded around her,
praising and kissing her, until she was quite ashamed, and hid her head
upon the kind flagman's shoulder, whispering, "Please take me away and
find mamma and papa."

Almost the last to alight were Polly's parents. "Why, it's our Polly!"
they both exclaimed at once.

The draw was now being closed again, and the conductor cried, "All
aboard!" The passengers scrambled back to their seats again. Polly's
father took her into the car with him, and now she looked calmly at the
people as they gathered around, and answered politely all questions put
to her, but refused the rings, chains, bracelets, and watches that the
grateful passengers pressed her to accept as tokens of their gratitude
for saving their lives.

At last Polly grew tired of so much praise, and spoke out: "Really I
don't deserve your thanks, for I never once thought of any one but papa
and mamma. So keep your presents for your own little girls. Thank you
all the same."

Those that heard her laughed, seeing they could do nothing better for
her than to let her remain unnoticed for the short distance she had to
go.

When Polly was lifted out of the car, and stood upon the steps of the
station while her father looked after the luggage, the passengers threw
kisses and waved their handkerchiefs to her until they were out of
sight.

A few days afterward Polly was astonished at receiving a beautiful ivory
box containing an exquisitely enamelled medal, with these words engraved
on it:

"Presented to Polly Gardner, whose courage and presence of mind saved a
hundred lives."




WHO ARE THEY?

BY JENNIE J. KELLY.


  A blustering fellow goes prowling about;
  He tosses the snow with a scuffle and shout,
            And pinches the toes,
            The ears, and the nose
  Of each little darling, wherever he goes.

  The timid birds hear him and hide their wee heads,
  The mooly-cows shiver in barns and in sheds,
            And sweet flowers say,
            "At home we will stay
  Until this noisy fellow gets out of the way."

  A bright little maiden is soon on his track,
  And gently, though firmly, she orders him back.
            Oh, fair she appears,
            In smiles and in tears;
  She calls to the flowers, "Come up, pretty dears."

  The birds hear her voice, and they twitter with glee,
  And pink little buds peep the bright sky to see;
            The grass twinkles out,
            And lambs skip about,
  And, oh, the glad children so merrily shout!

  And who is this blustering chap, can you tell?
  And who is this maiden who robes hill and dell,
            Whose whisper so arch
            Wakes oak-tree and larch?--
  Why, she is Miss April, and he Mister March.




SOME ODD RELATIONS OF THE JELLY-FISH.

BY SARAH COOPER.


Let us now examine some odd-looking animals called hydroids, or
sea-firs, which grow in the ocean, firmly rooted upon the bottom, or
attached to shells and stones.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--HYDROIDS GROWING ON A SHELL.]

The tall branches in Fig. 1 are hydroids growing upon the shell of a
dead mussel. A barnacle, too, has lived and died on this pretty shell,
and little sea-weeds cluster around its remains.

We can scarcely imagine animals that are more unlike jelly-fish than
these slender branches are; and yet the wonderful story I have to tell
you will show them to be so closely related that we could not study the
life of one without the other.

Long graceful sprays of hydroids are often thrown on shore by the tide,
and as they resemble plants much more than animals, they are generally
mistaken for sea-weeds. Many persons gather them for decorating brackets
and hanging baskets. We frequently see bunches of them arranged in
sea-shells, and offered for sale in our shops. The shop-keeper would
probably not know them by any other name than sea-weed. Still, they are
animals, and we can mostly recognize them by their yellow, horny
appearance, and by the numerous joints on their stems.

In looking at one of these sprays with a microscope you will find each
little point on the stem to be in reality a dainty cup, which when alive
contained a hungry animal. Should you find a piece freshly washed up
from the ocean, it would be well to place it in a glass jar filled with
sea-water, and after allowing it to remain perfectly still for a while,
it may perhaps show you, if it is yet alive, how it has been accustomed
to pass the quiet hours in its native home.

You will find each cup occupied by a soft animal, with a mouth in the
centre opening directly into the stomach. Hydroids, you see, are higher
in the scale of life than sponges, for they possess mouths and stomachs.
As we watch, the body of the animal will rise up in the cup, and from
around the mouth will gradually creep out slender thread-like feelers,
which may be extended quite a distance, or drawn up at will entirely
within the body of the animal. You will, of course, wish to use the
proper name for these feelers. They are called tentacles, and they
evidently serve to produce currents of water toward the mouth, and to
bring the required food. In this way the little animals live, day after
day and year after year, patiently waving their tentacles, and waiting
for the food that is sure to come.

Do you still ask what connection there is between these demure little
animals and the jolly jelly-fish? We shall soon see.

The hydroids have grown by budding and branching somewhat as plants do.
Occasionally pear-shaped cups much larger than those we have looked at
are formed on the stem. These large cups are called spore-sacs. They
contain the substances which, later, will grow into eggs; and at the
proper time they fall off. After resting awhile, and throwing out cilia
and tentacles, these spore-sacs swim gayly away, and, strange to relate,
they are hence-forth known by the name of jelly-fish!

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--HYDROID MAGNIFIED, SHOWING SPORE-SACS.]

In Fig. 2 you will see a spray of hydroid magnified which shows two
spore-sacs. In the species which is represented here (the Sertularia)
the spore-sacs do not fall off, but they burst and discharge the eggs
which they contain.

These jelly-fish now lead active lives, and as they dart and swim about
in the water no one would suspect that they had any relation to the
plant-like animals with which we started, yet it is supposed that most
hydroids have this wonderful history.

Forgive us, jelly-fish, forgive us, hydroids, if in our ignorance we
have ever cast an indifferent glance upon you. We did not know your
charming secret, and we should never have guessed it, for the lives we
lead are so different from yours. Now that we have learned your secret,
we shall certainly tell it to the boys and girls, that they may help us
enjoy it.

Jelly-fish produce eggs, from which are born little floating bodies.
These after a time fasten themselves to some stick or stone, and grow by
budding until they become the elegant feathery branches which we must
now call hydroids. The young of nearly all animals resemble their
parents, but the children of jelly-fish, you see, are very different
from the jelly-fish itself. In the next generation, however, we shall
find jelly-fish again.

Most of the plant-like objects which we are accustomed to see growing
near the shore are in reality hydroids. Has it ever puzzled you to know
the difference between plants and these low forms of animal life? One
very important difference is that most plants can procure their food
directly from the soil, whereas animals are obliged to feed upon living
substances, or those which have at some time been alive, as vegetables
and animals.

Hydroids grow in all parts of the ocean, in deep water as well as near
the coast. Some of them are three feet high. One branch may contain a
hundred thousand distinct animals, the only communication between them
being a circulation of fluid through the hollow stems. In this way each
branch constitutes a family which has sprung originally from the same
little egg. Some varieties never grow tall, and as they occur in patches
over rocks and shells, they resemble thick beds of moss.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--JELLY-FISH (AURELIA AURITA), WITH YOUNG IN
VARIOUS STAGES.]

The little hydroids which we see hanging from the under side of a rock
in Fig. 3 produce jelly-fish in a different manner from the one I have
described, although it is equally remarkable. This hydroid has no buds
or branches, but the main tube of the body divides itself into a number
of rings or plates, until the whole animal looks somewhat like a pile of
tiny saucers with scalloped edges. Finally the upper plate begins to
twist and squirm until it loosens itself from the pile, and floats off
to lead the gay and independent life of a jelly-fish. It is followed by
the other plates in their turn, each making a separate animal. These new
jelly-fish eat greedily and grow fast, forming some of our largest
varieties.

We can form but little idea of the immense numbers of animals thus
leading quiet contented lives, and drawing from the surrounding water
all that is needed for their support. They can not go in search of food,
and they take only such as floats toward them. Still, they seem to have
some choice in the matter, as they reject from their mouths any food
they are not suited with. Many of these curious animals are glowing with
bright colors, and surrounded as they are with a great variety of
plants, they give to the bottom of the ocean a marvellous beauty.

Does it not seem strange that the slender, delicate sprays of which we
have been speaking are really animals; and more than that, the children
of jelly-fish? A little girl once exclaimed, on hearing of these
wonderful changes that happen in the life of hydroids, "Why, it seems
almost like a fairy tale!"




THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

[1] Begun in No. 101, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER XXIII.


Every one of the ordinary rules and regulations for the government of an
Indian village was knocked in pieces by the victory over the Lipans.
Even Mother Dolores could not reasonably have forbidden Ni-ha-be and
Rita from hurrying out of their lodge to join in the general rejoicings.

"Rita, there is Knotted Cord."

"I see him."

"If he could understand me, I would speak to him."

"Oh, Ni-ha-be! that would be a dreadful thing to do."

Ni-ha-be would not have done any such thing, and Rita knew it; but the
chief's daughter saw no reason why she should not lead her sister pretty
near the young pale-face brave as they passed him. They could see that
he was smiling at them, and it was an act of politeness to smile back.
Ni-ha-be laughed. It was that, perhaps, which led Steve into a mistake.
He wanted to say something, and in his haste he forgot to speak
Mexican-Spanish, as he ought to have done if he expected to be
understood by an Apache young lady.

"There has been a great fight. Your father has taken some prisoners."

"We know it," answered Rita; and she was almost as much startled as was
Steve himself.

[Illustration: "'WHAT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ENGLISH?'"]

"What! do you understand English?"

Ni-ha-be turned, and looked at her in astonishment.

"Only some. Not any more talk now. Come, Ni-ha-be."

"Talk Apache, so I can hear. You shall not say any more words to him.
Tell me his words."

Ni-ha-be's jealous pride was touched to the quick at finding that Rita
possessed still another accomplishment that she had not.

Rita quickly explained all that had been said, but she did it in a way
that told both her sister and Steve Harrison that she was a good deal
excited about something.

"Come, Ni-ha-be, come."

"I will. There is Red Wolf. We must hurry."

Poor Rita! The terrible whooping and clamor and tumult all around her
confused her more than ever. She was glad there was enough of it to keep
Ni-ha-be from asking her any questions; but it seemed as if she would be
willing to give her favorite pony to hear a few words more in that
strange tongue--the tongue she had known once, and forgotten, till the
talking leaves began to speak it to her.

Pretty soon the girls were mingling with their friends and relatives,
and crowding as closely as they dared upon the line of warriors in their
eagerness to get a glimpse of the prisoners by the light of the camp
fires.

It was getting late, but Many Bears had work to do before he could think
of calling for a luncheon, or going to his lodge. He had seen his
captives safely bound and put away under guard, and he now summoned his
old men for a brief but very important "talk."

Murray had guessed right when he said he would be sent for, but he had
not waited for the arrival of any messenger. The words were hardly out
of the mouth of Many Bears before a brave in the crowd responded,

"Send Warning is here."

"Where is the Knotted Cord?"

"In lodge. Wait there."

That explanation came from Red Wolf, and the Apaches knew exactly where
their pale-face friends were at that particular moment, which was the
precise thing Murray wanted them to feel sure of, considering what he
knew was about to be found out.

All the rest of the village was full of noise, but the dignity of the
older men enforced silence upon the circle now gathering closely around
the chief.

Many Bears turned to Murray.

"Send Warning gave good counsel. His head is white. He is wise. Tell
Apaches now where all pale-face gone. No come."

"Send Warning can guess. The pale-faces don't like to be killed. Find
too many Apaches. Run away and save scalp."

"Ugh! Good. Nobody know where they go. No use follow. Apaches take Lipan
prisoners. What Send Warning say about them?"

"Keep them till to-morrow. No hurry. Something else to think of now.
More fight maybe."

The chief nodded his head, but a chorus of "ughs" expressed the dissent
of his council. They meant to decide the fate of old Two Knives without
delay. Three of the older braves still insisted upon arguing the case
one after the other, and by the time the last of them ceased speaking,
Murray felt pretty safe about To-la-go-to-de. He said to himself: "The
old fox has half an hour the start of them now. He is miles and miles
away."

Just then Many Bears turned to him with: "What say now? Any words?"

"No. Never speak twice. Apaches do what think best."

"Ugh! Good. Young braves, bring out Lipans. No wait. Kill them all right
away."

Prisoners such as these were likely to be a troublesome burden to a
party on the march, like that of Many Bears, and the only real question
before the council was, after all, in what precise manner the killing
should be done.

But while they were talking a great cry arose from the vicinity of the
lodge where the Lipans had been shut up--a cry of surprise, anger, and
disappointment. And then the word spread over the whole camp like
wild-fire, "The Lipans are gone!"

It was almost beyond belief, and there was a general rush toward the row
of lodges and beyond them, into the bushes and through the corral. It
came very near stampeding every pony there, and every trace of anything
like a "trail" left by the feet of Two Knives and his warriors was
quickly trampled out. The only "sign" found by anybody was in the shape
of more than a dozen thongs of buckskin lying on the ground in the
lodge, all clean cut through with a sharp knife. That told plainly how
the prisoners had escaped. The braves who had searched and tied them
were positive that not one of them retained a knife, or was left in a
condition to make any use of one. They must have had help from somebody,
but it was a great mystery who that somebody could be. Suspicion might
have fallen upon Murray and Steve, but it was well known that the latter
had remained in his lodge, refusing even to look at the prisoners, while
Send Warning had been in council with the chiefs. They believed they
knew where he had been all the while, and none of them imagined that Two
Knives had been set free before he had lain in that "prison lodge" three
minutes. It was a terrible mortification; but something must be done,
and again Murray was asked for advice.

"What do I think? Let me ask you a question. Did the Lipans go away on
foot?"

"Ugh! No. Take good horse."

"Did they have any arms? Gun? lance? bow?"

"Ugh! No. Think not."

"They are cunning warriors. Did they ride out among your young men? Send
Warning says they would do just what great Apache chief would do."

"Ugh! Good. Pale-face chief very wise. Lipans go all way round. Like
snake. Only one thing for us to do. Catch 'em when they come to pass."

"Better ride now," said Murray. "Send Warning and Knotted Cord will ride
with Apache braves. No time lose. Want fresh horse."

He afterward explained to Steve that a little seeming activity on their
part was needful at that moment of excitement, lest anything unpleasant
should be said about them. Besides, he had no fear of any further
collision with the Lipans. The night was too far gone for that, and he
had great confidence in the courage and skill of old Two Knives.

In less than twenty minutes after he had given his advice, he and Steve
Harrison, mounted on fresh mustangs chosen for them from the corral by
Red Wolf himself, were riding across the ford at the head of a strong
squad of Apache warriors, commanded by a chief of well-known skill and
prowess.

"They will pick up plenty more on the way, Steve, but they won't have
much to do."

"No danger of their catching old Two Knives?"

"Not a bit. I'll tell you all about it some other time."

"I've something to tell you, Murray; I can't keep it."

"Out with it, my boy."

"That white daughter of old Many Bears can speak English. She understood
what I said, and answered me."

It was dark, or Steve would have seen that the face of his friend grew
as white as his hair, and then flushed and brightened with a great and
sudden light.

For a moment he was silent, and then he said, in a deep, husky voice,

"Don't say any more about it to me, Steve. Not till I speak to you
again. I'm in an awful state of mind to-night."

Steve had somehow made up his mind to that already, but he was saved the
necessity of saying anything in reply.

Red Wolf rode closer to him at the moment, and said,

"Knotted Cord is young. Been on war-path before?"

"Say yes, Steve," muttered Murray.

"Yes, I'm young. Seen a good deal, though. Many war-paths."

"What tribe strike?"

"Lipans, Comanches, Mexicans. Followed some Pawnees once. They got
away."

Red Wolf's whole manner told of the respect he felt for a young brave
who had already been out against the fiercest warriors of the Indian
country. He would have given a good many ponies to have been able to say
as much for himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

The position chosen by the Lipans was a strong one, and the scattered
shots which now and then came from the mouth of the pass told that the
beaten warriors of To-la-go-to-de were wide awake and ready to defend
themselves.

But for one thing that end of the pass would have been already vacant.
The pride of the Lipans forbade their running further without at least
an effort to learn what had become of their chief. They felt that they
could never look their squaws in the face again unless they could
explain that point.

To be sure, it was almost a hopeless case, and the Apaches would be upon
them in the morning, but they waited.

Everything seemed to be growing darker, and the outlying Lipan sentinels
were not in any fault that four men on horseback should get so near them
undiscovered. It was very near, and the new-comers must have known there
was danger in it, for one of them suddenly put his hand to his mouth and
uttered a fierce, half-triumphant war-whoop. It was the well-known
battle cry of To-la-go-to-de himself, and it was answered by a storm of
exulting shouts from the warriors among the rocks. Their chief had
escaped!

That was true, and it was a grand thing, but he had brought back with
him only three men of his "front rank."

The Apaches could hear the whooping, and the foremost of them deemed it
wise to fall back a little. Whatever their enemies might be up to, they
were men to be watched with prudence as well as courage.

The words of To-la-go-to-de when he joined his friends were few. There
was no further account to be made of Captain Skinner and his miners, he
told them. They were cunning, and they had taken care of themselves. It
had been well to plunder their camp. He himself owed his safety to their
old friend No Tongue, and the Lipans must never forget him. The Yellow
Head had probably been killed, and they would not see him again. They
must now gather all their horses and other plunder, and push their
retreat as far as possible before morning. Some other time they would
come and strike the Apaches, but it was "bad medicine"