"I am ready: let us go."
The hunters exchanged a glance of discouragement, but they made no attempt to oppose the Coras' resolution, for they knew that it would be futile. But at this moment Doña Clara suddenly appeared, walked boldly up to the Indian, and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
"Stay!" she exclaimed. "I will not have you go, chief."
Eagle-wing turned as if he had received an electric shock, and gave the maiden a glance of undefinable expression; but he overcame this emotion, and reassumed his apparent coolness.
"I must go," he said softly, "the Lily must not restrain me; she is doubtless ignorant that her safety depends on my departure."
"I have heard everything," she quickly retorted. "I know the odious propositions these men have dared to make, and the condition they had audacity to insist on."
"Well, why then does my sister wish to stop me?"
"Because," the maiden energetically exclaimed, "I will not accept that condition."
"By Heavens! That is fine," Valentine said joyfully; "that is what I call speaking."
"Yes," the young lady continued, "in my father's name I order you not to leave this island, chief—in my father's name, who, were he here, would order you as I do."
"I answer for that," Don Pablo said; "my father has too noble a heart to assent to an act of cowardice."
The maiden turned to the Indian chief, who had been stoically witnessing the scene.
"Begone, redskins," she went on with a majestic accent, impossible to render, "you see that all your victims escape you."
"Honour bids me go," the warrior murmured feebly.
Doña Clara took his hand between hers, and looked at him softly.
"Moukapec!" she said to him, in her melodious and pure voice, "do you not know that yours would be a useless sacrifice? The Apaches are only striving to deprive us of our most devoted defender, that they may make an easier conquest of us. They are very treacherous Indians; remain with us."
Eagle-wing hesitated for a moment, and the two chiefs tried in vain to read on his face the feelings that affected him. During several seconds, a leaden silence weighed on this group of men, whose hearts could be heard beating. At length the Coras raised his head, and answered with an effort—
"You insist; I remain here."
Then he turned to the chief, who was waiting anxiously.
"Go," he said to them in a firm voice, "return to the tents of your tribe. Tell your brothers, who were never mine, but who at times have granted me a cordial hospitality, that Moukapec, the great Sachem of the Coras of the lakes, takes back his liberty: he gives up all claim to fire and water in their villages; he wishes to have nothing more in common with them; and if the Apache dogs prowl round him, and seek him, they will find him ever ready to meet them face to face on the warpath. I have spoken."
The Buffalo chiefs had listened to these words with that calmness which never abandons the Indians; not a feature on their faces had quivered. When the Coras warrior finished speaking, Black Cat looked at him fixedly, and replied to him with a cold and cutting accent—
"I have heard a crow, the Coras are cowardly squaws, to whom the Apache warriors will give petticoats. Moukapec is a prairie dog, the sunbeams hurt his eyes, he will make his lair with the paleface hares, my nation no longer knows him."
"Much good may it do him," Valentine remarked with a smile, while Eagle-wing shrugged his shoulders at this outburst of insults.
"I retire," Black Cat continued; "ere the owl has twice saluted the sun, the scalps of the palefaces will be fastened to my girdle."
"And," the second chief added, "the young men of my tribe will make war whistles of the white thieves' bones."
"Very good," Valentine replied, with a crafty smile; "try it, we are ready to receive you, and our rifles carry a long distance."
"The palefaces are boasting and yelping dogs," Black Cat said again. "I shall soon return."
"All the better," said Valentine; "but in the meanwhile, as I suppose you have nothing more to say to us, I fancy it is time for you to rejoin your friends, who must be growing impatient at your absence."
Black Cat gave a start of anger at this parting sarcasm; but repressing the passion that inflamed him, he folded himself haughtily in his buffalo robe, remounted the raft with his comrade, and they rapidly retired from the island.
The situation of the fugitives was most critical, as the Indians had stated; the number of their warriors hourly increased, and on both sides of the island there were large encampments, indicated by numerous fires.
The day passed in this way, and there was no attack. No incident even disturbed the tranquillity of the robbers till about the middle of the following night. At this moment the darkness was thick, and not a star glistened in the sky; the moon, obscured by clouds, only displayed her pallid disc at intervals.
One of those intense fogs which frequently prevail at this season on the Rio Gila, had fallen, and ended by confusing all objects; the banks of the river had disappeared from sight, and even the Indian campfires were no longer visible. The hunters, seated in a circle, maintained the deepest silence; each was yielding to the flood of bitter thoughts that rose from his heart. All at once, amid the silence of the night, a confused and indistinct sound was audible, like that of a paddle striking the side of a canoe.
"Hilloh! what's the meaning of this?" Valentine said. "Can the Apaches be dreaming of surprising us?"
"Let us have a look, at any rate," Don Pablo remarked.
The five men rose, and glided silently through the bushes, in the direction of the sound which had aroused them. After proceeding a certain distance, Valentine stopped to listen.
"I am certain I was not mistaken," he said to himself; "it was the sound produced by a paddle falling in a canoe that I heard. Who can have come to visit us? Perhaps it is some Indian deviltry."
And the hunter sounded the darkness around him with his piercing and unerring eye. All at once, he fancied he saw an object moving in the fog. He went on; then after carefully examining this person, who grew every moment more and more distinct, he drew himself up, and leant on his rifle.
"What the deuce do you want here at this hour, Sunbeam, my dear child?" he asked in a low voice.
The young Indian squaw, for it was really she whom the hunter had addressed, laid a finger on her lip as if recommending prudence.
"Follow me, Koutonepi," she said to him so softly that her voice resembled a sigh.
After going a few yards, the girl stooped, and made the hunter a sign to follow her example.
"Look," she said, pointing to one of those long and light canoes which the Indians hollow out of enormous trees, and which carry ten persons with ease. "Look."
Valentine, in spite of his self-command, had difficulty in suppressing a cry of joy. He held out his hand, saying with considerable emotion:
"My brave girl!"
"Sunbeam remembers," the Indian girl replied with a smile, "that Koutonepi saved her; the heart of the white lady is kind, Sunbeam wishes to save them all."
The first moment of emotion past, the hunter, who was thoroughly acquainted with the cunning and roguery of the redskins, bent a scrutinising gaze on the girl. The Indian's face had an expression of honesty which commanded confidence, and Valentine entered the canoe.
It contained paddles, provisions, and, what caused him more pleasure than all else, six large buffalo horns, full of gunpowder, and two bags of bullets.
"Good!" he said, "my daughter is grateful, Wacondah will protect her."
Sunbeam's face expanded at these words.
At this moment Don Pablo and the other hunters rejoined Valentine, and learned with delight what had happened; the sight of the canoe restored them all their energy. Shaw remained on guard, while Valentine, accompanied by the others, and Sunbeam, returned to Doña Clara, whom anxiety had aroused.
"Here is a new friend I present to you," the hunter said, pointing to the young Indian, who stood timidly behind him.
"Oh! I know her," Doña Clara replied, as she embraced the girl, who was quite confused by these caresses.
"But tell me, Sunbeam," Valentine said, after the expiration of a moment, "how comes it that you arrived here?"
The Indian girl smiled haughtily.
"Unicorn is a great warrior," she answered; "he has the glance of the eagle, he knows all that happens in the prairie; he saw the danger his brother, the great paleface hunter, ran, and his heart trembled with sadness."
"Yes," Valentine said, "the chief loves me."
The Indian continued.
"Unicorn sought a mode of coming to his brother's assistance; he was wandering along the riverbank when the fog supplied him with the means he so greatly desired; he placed Sunbeam in a canoe, ordered her to come, and she came with joy, laughing at the Apache dogs, whose mole eyes could not perceive her, when she passed in front of them."
"Yes, it must be so," Valentine said, "but why did not the chief come himself with his warriors, instead of sending you?"
"Unicorn is a sachem," the squaw answered, "he is wise and prudent as he is brave. The warriors had remained in the village; the chief was alone with Sunbeam."
"May heaven grant that your words be sincere, and that we may not have cause to repent having placed confidence in you," Don Pablo said.
"Sunbeam is a Comanche woman," the Indian replied haughtily; "her heart is red, and her tongue is not forked."
"I answer for her," Doña Clara said, impetuously; "she would not deceive us."
"I believe it," Valentine said; "but, at any rate, we shall see. There is some honour among the redskins; besides, we shall be prudent. Now, I presume that, like myself, you are all anxious to quit this island? My advice is, that we should at once take advantage of the canoe this young woman has brought us."
"It is true, then," Doña Clara said joyfully, as she sprang up.
"Yes," Valentine answered, "a magnificent canoe, in which we shall be perfectly at our ease; and, better still, it is capitally found in food and ammunition. Still, I think we should not do wrong by taking advantage of the fog to escape, without giving the Indians a chance of seeing us."
"Be it so," Don Pablo said; "but once on firm ground, what road shall we follow, as we have no horses? Come, Sunbeam, can you give us any advice on that head?"
"Listen," the young squaw said; "the Apaches are preparing for a great expedition. They have called under arms all their brethren; and more than three thousand warriors are traversing the prairie in every direction at this moment. Their war parties hold all the paths. Two nations alone would not respond to the invitation of the Apaches: they are the Comanches and the Navajos. The villages of my tribe are not far off, and I can try to lead you to them."
"Very good," Don Pablo answered. "From what you tell us, the riverbanks are guarded. Going up the Gila in a canoe is impossible, because within two hours we should be inevitably scalped. I am therefore of opinion that we should proceed by the shortest road to the nearest Comanche or Navajo village. But, to do that, we require horses, for we must let no grass grow under our feet."
"Only one road is open," Sunbeam said, firmly.
"Which?" Don Pablo asked.
"The one that crosses the Apache camp."
"Hum!" Valentine muttered, "That seems to me very dangerous. We are only seven, and two of them are women."
"That is true," Eagle-wing remarked, who had hitherto been silent; "but it is, at the same time, the road which offers the best chances of success."
"Let us hear your plan, then," Valentine asked.
"The Apaches," the sachem went on, "are numerous; they believe us crushed and demoralised by the critical position in which we are. They will never suppose that five men will have the audacity to enter their camp; and their security is our strength."
"Yes, but horses! Horses!" the hunter objected.
"The Wacondah will provide them," the chief replied. "He never abandons brave men, who place their confidence in him."
"Well, let us trust in Heaven!" Valentine said.
"I believe," said Doña Clara, who had listened to the conversation with deep attention, "that the advice of our friend, the Indian warrior, is good, and we ought to follow it."
Eagle-wing bowed, while a smile of satisfaction played over his face.
"Let it be as you desire," the hunter said, turning to the young Mexican girl, "we will start without further delay."
The cry of the jay was heard twice.
"Hilloh!" the hunter went on, "What is going on now? That is Shaw's signal."
Everybody seized his weapon, and proceeded at full speed in the direction whence the signal came; Doña Clara and Sunbeam remaining behind, concealed in a thicket.
Though unable to guess the motive which had caused Sunbeam to act in the way she had done, Doña Clara had however, understood at the first word, with that intuition which women possess, that Sunbeam was to be trusted—that in the present case she was acting under the impression of a good thought, and was entirely devoted to them for some reason or another. Hence she bestowed the most affectionate caresses on her.
Knowing, besides, the desire for rapine and the avarice which are the foundation of the redskin character generally, she took off a gold bracelet she wore on her right arm, and fastened it on the Indian's, whose joy and happiness were raised to their acme by this pretty present.
Seduced by this unexpected munificence, although already devoted to Valentine by the services he had rendered her, she attached herself unreservedly to Doña Clara.
"The pale virgin need not feel alarmed," she said in her soft and musical voice; "she is my sister. I will save her, with the warriors who accompany her."
"Thanks," Doña Clara answered, "my sister is good; she is the wife of a great chief; I shall ever be her friend. So soon as I have rejoined my father, I will make her presents far more valuable than this."
The young Indian clapped her dainty little hands, in sign of joy.
"What is the matter there?" Valentine asked, on reaching Shaw, who, lying on the ground with his rifle thrust forward, seemed trying to pierce the darkness.
"On my honour, I do not know," the latter replied simply, "but it seems as if something extraordinary were going on around us. I see shadows moving about the river, but can distinguish nothing, owing to the fog; I hear dull sounds, and plashing in the water, and I fancy that the Indians are going to attack us."
"Yes," Valentine muttered, as if speaking to himself, "these are their favourite tactics. They like to surprise their enemies, so let us look out for the canoe."
At this instant, a black mass pierced the fog, advancing slowly and noiselessly up to the island.
"Here they are," Valentine said, in a low voice. "Attention! Do not let them land."
The hunters hid themselves behind the shrubs. Valentine was not mistaken: it was a raft loaded with Indian warriors coming up. So soon as the Apaches were only a few yards from the island, five shots were fired simultaneously, which spread death and disorder among them.
The Apaches believed they should surprise their enemies asleep, and were far from expecting so rough a reception. Seeing their plans foiled, and that the enemy were ready for action, there was a momentary hesitation; still, shame gained the victory over prudence, and they continued to advance.
This raft was the vanguard of some dozen others, still hidden in the fog, awaiting the result of the reconnoissance made by the first. If the hunters were awake, they had orders to return without attacking them, which they obeyed. The first raft had the same instructions, but it had either got into a current which urged it on, or, as was more probable, the Indians wished to avenge their comrades, and they consequently advanced.
This time the word of command was given by Valentine, and the Apaches landed without being disturbed. They all rushed forward brandishing their clubs, and uttering their war yell, but were received with clubbed rifles, felled or drowned, ere they had scarce time to walk a couple of paces on land.
"Now," Valentine said coldly, "we shall be quiet the whole night. I know the Indians, they will not recommence the attack. Don Pablo, be so good as to warn Doña Clara: Shaw and the Coras warrior will get the canoe ready, and, if you think proper, we will start at once."
Curumilla had already prepared to pull the canoe into a more suitable spot for embarking than the mass of tall grass and shrubs in which it was concealed, but, as he was about to leap into it, he fancied he saw that it was sensibly moving from the bank.
Curumilla, much surprised, stepped into the river, in order to discover the cause of this unusual movement. The canoe was moving further and further, and was already three or four yards from the bank. Completely liberated from the reeds, it was cutting the current at right angles, with a continuous and regular movement, which proved that it was obeying some secret and intelligent influence.
Curumilla, more and more surprised, but determined to know the truth, proceeded silently to the bow of the boat, and then all was explained. An end of rope, intended to tie up the canoe and prevent it from drifting, was hanging over; an Apache was holding this end between his teeth, and swimming vigorously in the direction of the camp, dragging the canoe with him.
"My brother is fatigued," Curumilla said, ironically; "he must let me in my turn direct the canoe."
"Ouchi!" the Indian exclaimed, in his alarm; and, letting loose the rope, he dived. Curumilla dived upon him. For some minutes the river was agitated by a submarine shock, and then the two men reappeared on the surface. Curumilla held the Apache tightly by the throat.
He then drew his knife, buried it twice in the Indian's heart and lifted his scalp, and letting go of the corpse, which floated swiftly on the river, he leaped into the canoe, which during the short struggle had continued to drift, and brought it back to the isle.
"Hilloh!" Valentine said, laughing; "Where on earth do you come from, chief? I thought you were lost." Without uttering a syllable, Curumilla showed him the bloody scalp hanging from his girdle.
"Good," said Valentine; "I comprehend; my brother is a great warrior, nothing escapes him."
The Araucano smiled proudly. The little party had collected; the embarkation took place at once, and the men, each seizing a paddle, began crossing the river slowly and silently, thanks to Curumilla's precaution of muffling the paddles with leaves.
The hearts of these men, brave as they were, palpitated with fear, for they did not yet dare believe in the success of their daring project.
Not only was the attempt of the hunters to escape not so desperate as the reader might be inclined to suppose, but it even offered, up to a certain point, great chances of success.
The Apaches, when encamped in sight of an enemy, never keep watch, unless they form a weak detachment of warriors, and find themselves opposed to a far superior force; but even in that case these sentries are so careless that it is extremely easy to surprise them, which often happens, by the way, without rendering them any the more cautious.
In the case of which we write, hardly a few miles from their village, and having an effective strength of nearly eight hundred bold warriors, they could not suppose that five men, who had sought shelter in an island, without the means of quitting it, would attempt such a daring stroke.
Hence, after their attempted surprise of the whites had failed, they returned to sleep, some round the fires, others in the tents erected by their wives, waiting patiently for the morrow to attack their foes from all sides at once, which offered a certain chance of success.
In the meanwhile the hunters advanced toward the bank, concealed by the fog that enfolded them like a winding sheet, and hid their movements from the eyes interested in spying them. In this way they arrived in sight of the fires, whose uncertain gleams became weaker and weaker, and they saw their enemies lying down asleep.
Eagle-wing, at a hint from Sunbeam, steered the canoe to the foot of a rock, whose commanding mass stood about thirty feet over the river, and offered them under its flank a propitious shelter to disembark in security.
So soon as they landed, the hunters took Indian file, and with their rifles ready, they stealthily marched toward the camp, stopping at intervals to look anxiously around them, or listen to any suspicious sound.
Then, when all became quiet again, they resumed their venturesome march, gliding past tents and at times stepping over the sleepers at the fire, whom the slightest badly-calculated movement would have aroused.
It is impossible to form a correct idea of such a march unless you have made one yourself. A man gifted with the most energetic mind could not endure its terrible emotions for an hour. With oppressed chest, haggard eyes, and limbs agitated by a feverish and convulsive motion, the hunters passed through the midst of their ferocious enemies, knowing perfectly well that, if they were discovered, it would be all over with them, and that they would perish in the most horrible agony.
On reaching almost the extreme limit of the camp, an Indian, lying across the path they were following, suddenly made a movement and sat up, instinctively seizing his lance. One shout and the hunters were lost! Curumilla walked straight up to the Indian, who was stupefied by the sight of this funereal and fantastic procession, which he could not comprehend, and was followed by his comrades, whose step was so light that they seemed to glide over the ground without touching it.
The Apache, terrified by this apparition, which, in his superstitious belief, he attributed to the heavenly powers, crossed his arms on his chest and silently bowed his head. The band passed, the Indian not making a sigh or uttering a word. The hunters had scarce disappeared behind some rising ground, when the Apache ventured to lift his eyes; he was then convinced that he had had a vision, and without trying to account for what he had seen, he lay down and went quietly to sleep again. By this time the hunters had emerged from the camp.
"Now," said Valentine, "the worst is over."
"On the contrary," Don Pablo observed, "our position is more precarious than ever, since we are in the midst of our enemies, and have no horses."
Curumilla laid his hand on his shoulder, and looked at him softly. "My brother will be patient," he said, "he will soon have them."
"How so?" the young man asked.
"Sunbeam," the Aucas Chief continued, "must know where the horses of the tribe are."
"I know it," she replied, laconically.
"Very good; my sister will guide me."
"Chief, one moment: the deuce!" Valentine exclaimed, "I will not let you run this new danger alone; it would be a dishonour to my white skin."
"My brother can come."
"That is exactly what I mean to do. Don Pablo will remain here with Shaw and Eagle-wing near Doña Clara, while we attempt this new expedition. What do you think of it, Don Pablo?"
"That your plan, my friend, is worth nothing."
"Why so?"
"For this reason: we are here two paces from the Apaches, and one of them may awake at any moment. Just now we escaped only by a miracle; who knows how our enterprise will turn? If we separate, perhaps we may never come together again. My opinion is, that we should all go together to look for the horses; we should then save time in useless coming and going, and this will give us a considerable advantage."
"That is true," Valentine answered; "let us go together, and in that way we shall have finished sooner."
Sunbeam then began guiding the little party, but instead of re-entering the camp, as the hunters feared, she skirted it for some distance; then, making a sign to her companions to stop and wait, she advanced alone. Within five minutes she returned.
"The horses are there," she said, pointing to a spot in the fog; "they are hobbled, and guarded by a man walking up and down near them. What will my pale brothers do?"
"Kill the man, and seize the horses we want," Don Pablo said; "we are not in such a situation that we can be fastidious."
"Why kill the poor man, if he can be got rid of otherwise?" Doña Clara said, softly.
"That is true," Valentine supported her, "we are not wild beasts, hang it all!"
"The warrior shall not be killed," Curumilla said, in his grave voice; "my pale brothers must wait."
And seizing the lasso he always carried about him, the Aucas lay down on the ground, and began crawling through the tall grass. He soon disappeared in the fog.
The Apache sentry was strolling carelessly along, when Curumilla suddenly rose behind him, and seizing his neck in both his hands, he squeezed it with such force that the Apache, taken unawares, had not time to utter a cry.
In a turn of the hand he was thrown down, and garotted, and that so promptly that he was choked as much by the sudden attack as by the terror that had seized on him. The chief put his prisoner on his shoulders, and deposited him at Doña Clara's feet, saying—"My sister's wishes are accomplished, this man is safe and sound."
"Thank you," the maiden answered, with a charming smile.
Curumilla turned red with delight.
Without loss of time, the hunters seized the seven best horses they came across, which they saddled, and then shod withparflècheto avoid the sound of their hoofs on the sand.
This time, Valentine assumed the command of the party. So soon as the horses were urged into a gallop, all their chests, oppressed by the moving interludes of the struggle which had continued so long, dilated, and hope returned to their hearts. The hunters were at length in the desert; before them they had space, good horses, arms and ammunition. They fancied themselves saved, and were so to a certain extent, as their enemies still slept, little suspecting their daring escape.
The night was half spent, and the fog covered the fugitives. They had at least six hours before them, and they profited by them.
The horses, urged to their utmost speed, went two leagues without stopping. At sunrise the fog was dissipated by the first beams; and the hunters instinctively raised their heads. The desert was calm, nothing disturbed its majestic solitude; in the distance a few elks and buffaloes were browsing on the prairie grass, a sure sign of the absence of Indians, whom these intelligent animals scent at great distances.
Valentine, in order to let the horses breathe awhile, as well as draw breath himself, checked the headlong speed, which had no further object. The region on which the hunters found themselves in no way resembled that they had quitted a few hours previously; here and there, the monotony of the landscape was broken by lofty trees; on either side stretched out high hills. At times they forded some of the innumerable streams which fall from the mountains, and, after the most capricious windings, are swallowed up in the Gila.
At about eight o'clock Valentine noticed, a little to the left, a light cloud of bluish smoke rising in a spiral to the sky.
"What is that?" Don Pablo asked, anxiously.
"A hunter's encampment, doubtless," Valentine answered.
"No," Curumilla said; "that is not a paleface, but an Indian, fire."
"How the deuce can you see that, chief? I fancy all fires are the same, and produce smoke," Don Pablo said.
"Yes," Valentine remarked, "all fires produce smoke; but there is a difference in smoke—is there not, chief?" he added, addressing Curumilla.
"Yes," the latter answered laconically.
"All that is very fine," Don Pablo went on; "but can you explain to me, chief, by what you see, that the smoke is produced by a redskin fire?"
Curumilla shrugged his shoulders without replying—Eagle-wing took the word.
"The whites, when they light fires," he said, "take the first wood to hand."
"Of course," said Don Pablo.
"Most frequently they collect green wood: in that case the wood, which is damp, produces in burning a white thick smoke, very difficult to hide on the prairie; while the Indians only employ dry wood, whose smoke is light, thin, almost impalpable, and soon becomes confused with the sky."
"Decidedly, on the desert," Don Pablo said, with an air of conviction, "the Indians are better than us; we shall never come up to them."
"Humph!" said Valentine; "If you were to live with them a while, they would teach you plenty more things."
"Look," Eagle-wing continued; "what did I tell you?"
In fact, during this conversation the hunters had continued their journey, and at this moment were not more than a hundred yards from the spot where the fire burned which had given rise to so many comments. Two Indians, completely armed and equipped for war, were standing in front of the travellers, waving their buffalo robes in sign of peace.
Valentine quivered with joy on recognising them; these men were Comanches, that is to say, friends and allies, since the hunter was an adopted son of that nation. Valentine ordered his little party to halt, and carelessly throwing his rifle on his back, he pushed on, and soon met the still motionless Indians.
After exchanging the different questions always asked in such cases on the prairie, as to the state of the roads and the quantity of game, the hunter, though he was well aware of the fact, asked the Indians to what nation they belonged.
"Comanches," one of the warriors answered, proudly. "My nation is the Queen of the Prairies."
Valentine bowed, as if fully convinced. "I know," he said, "that the Comanches are invincible warriors. Who can resist them?"
It was the Indian's turn to bow, with a smile of satisfaction at this point-blank compliment.
"Is my brother a chief?" Valentine again asked.
"I am Pethonista (the Eagle)," the Indian said, regarding the hunter like a man persuaded that he was about to produce a profound sensation.
He was not mistaken; for the name was that of one of the most venerated chiefs of the Comanche nation.
"I know my brother," Valentine answered; "I am very happy to have met him."
"Let my brother speak; I am listening to him: the great white hunter is no stranger to the Comanches, who have adopted him."
"What?" the hunter exclaimed; "Do you know me too, chief?"
The warrior smiled.
"Unicorn is the most powerful Sachem of the Comanches," he said. "On leaving his village twelve hours ago, he warned his brother Pethonista that he expected a great white warrior adopted by the tribe."
"It is him," said Valentine. "Unicorn is a part of myself, and the sight of him dilates my heart. Personally, I have nothing to say to you, chief, since the sachem has instructed you; but I bring with me friends and two females—one is Sunbeam, the other the White Lily of the Valley."
"The White Lily is welcome among my people: my sons will make it a duty to serve her," the Indian answered nobly.
"Thanks, chief. I expected nothing less from you. Permit me to rejoin my companions, who are doubtless growing impatient, to tell them of the fortunate meeting with which the Master of Life has favoured me."
"Good. My brother can return to his friends, and I shall go before him to the village, in order to warn my young men of the arrival of a warrior of our nation."
Valentine smiled at this remark.
"My brother is the master," he said.
After bowing to the Indian chief, he returned to his companions, who did not know to what circumstance they should attribute his lengthened absence.
"They are friends," Valentine said, pointing to Pethonista, who had leaped on a mustang, and started at full speed. "Unicorn, on leaving his village, ordered the chief I have been speaking to, to do us the honours until his return. So look, Don Pablo, how he hurries to announce our arrival to the warriors of his tribe."
"Heaven be praised!" the young man said, "For ease and rest in safety. Suppose we push on?"
"Do not do so, my friend. On the contrary, if you will take my advice, we shall reduce our pace. The Comanches are doubtless preparing us a reception, and we should annoy them by arriving too soon."
"I do not wish that," Don Pablo replied. "In fact, we have nothing to fear now, so we can continue our journey at a trot."
"Yes; for nothing presses on us. In an hour at the most we shall have arrived."
"May Heaven be thanked for the protection it has deigned to grant us," the young man said, looking up with a glance of gratitude.
The little party continued to advance in the presumed direction of the village.
An hour later, the hunters, on reaching the top of a hill, perceived, about a mile ahead of them, a large village, before which three hundred Indian warriors were ranged in battle array.
At the sight of the whites the warriors advanced at a gallop, making their horses curvet and dance, and discharging their muskets in the air. They uttered their war cry, and unfolded their buffalo robes, performing, in a word, all the usual evolutions in a friendly reception.
Valentine made his companions to imitate the Indians; and the hunters, who asked nothing better than to display their skill, descended the hill at headlong speed, shouting and discharging their rifles, amid the yells of joy from the redskins, who were delighted at this triumphal arrival among them.
After the usual salutations and expressions of welcome, the Comanches formed a semicircle round the hunters, and Pethonista advanced to Valentine, and held out his hand, saying:—
"My brother is an adopted son of the nation. He is at home. The Comanches are happy to see him. The longer he remains among them with the persons who accompany him, the more pleasure he will cause them. A calli is prepared for my brother, and a second for the White Lily of the Valley; a third for his friends. We have killed many buffaloes; my brothers will eat their meat with us. When our brother leaves us, our hearts will be swollen with sorrow. Hence my brother must remain as long as possible with his Comanche friends, if he wishes to see them happy."
Valentine, well versed in Indian customs, replied graciously to this harangue, and the two bands, smiling, made their entry into the village to the sound of the chichikouis, conches, and Indian instruments, mingled with the voices of the women and children, and the barking of the dogs, which produced the most horrible row imaginable.
On reaching the village square, the chief conducted the guests to the huts prepared to receive them, which stood side by side, after which he invited them to rest, with a politeness that a man more civilised than him might have envied, after telling them at twelve o'clock they would be summoned to the meal.
Valentine thanked Pethonista for the kind attention he displayed to him and his comrades: then, after installing Doña Clara in a hut with Sunbeam, he entered his own, after recommending the hunters to display the greatest prudence toward the Comanches, who, like all Indians, are punctilious, irascible, and susceptible to the highest degree.
Curumilla lay down without saying a word, like a good watchdog, across the door of the lodge inhabited by Doña Clara. So soon as the two females were alone, Sunbeam seated herself at the Mexican lady's feet, and, fixing on her a bright glance, full of tenderness, she said, in a soft and caressing voice—
"Is my sister, the White Lily of the Valley, satisfied with me? Have I faithfully fulfilled the obligation I contracted toward her?"
"What obligation was that, child?" the girl said, as she passed her hand through the Indian's long hair which she began plaiting.
"That of saving you, my sister, and conducting you in safety to the callis of my nation."
"Yes, yes, poor girl," she said, tenderly, "your devotion to me has been unbounded, and I know not how I can ever requite it."
"Do not speak of that," the Indian said, with a charming pout. "Now that my sister has nothing more to fear, I will leave her."
"You would leave me, Sunbeam?" Doña Clara exclaimed anxiously. "Why so?"
"Yes," the young woman answered, as she frowned, and her voice became stern, "I have a duty to accomplish. I have taken an oath, and my sister well knows that is sacred. I must go."
"But where are you going, my poor child? Whence arises this sudden thought of leaving me? What do you intend? Where are you about to proceed?"
"My sister must not ask me. Her questions would only grieve me, for I cannot answer her."
"Then you have secrets from me, Sunbeam. You will not give me your confidence? Fool! Do you fancy I do not know what you intend doing?"
"My sister knows my plan!" The Indian interrupted her with flashing eye, while a convulsive tremor passed over her limbs.
"Yes, I do," the other answered with a smile. "Unicorn is a renowned warrior, and my sister is doubtless anxious to rejoin him?"
The Indian shook her head in denial.
"No," she said, "Sunbeam is following her vengeance."
"Oh, yes, poor child," Doña Clara said, as she pressed the young squaw to her heart, "I know from what a fearful catastrophe Don Valentine saved you."
"Koutonepi is a great warrior. Sunbeam loves him; but Stanapat is a dog, son of an Apache devil."
The two women wept for several minutes, silently mingling their tears, but the Indian, overcoming grief, dried her red eyes with a passionate gesture, and tore herself from the arms that held her.
"Why weep?" she said. "Only cowards and weak people groan and lament. Indian squaws do not weep. When they are insulted they avenge themselves," she added, with an accent full of strange resolution. "My sister must let me depart! I can no longer be useful to her, and other cares claim my attention."
"Go, then, poor girl. Act as your heart orders you. I have no right either to retain you or prevent you acting as you please."
"Thanks," the Indian said. "My sister is kind. The Wacondah will not desert her."
"Cannot you tell me what you intend doing?"
"I cannot."
"At any rate, tell me in what direction you are going?"
The girl shook her head with discouragement.
"Does the leaf detached from the tree by a high wind know in what direction it will be carried? I am the leaf. So my sister must ask me no more."
"As you wish it, I will be silent; but before we separate, perhaps forever, let me make you a present, which will recall me to mind when I am far from you."
Sunbeam laid her hand on her heart with a charming gesture.
"My sister is there," she said, with emotion.
"Listen," the maiden continued: "last night I gave you a bracelet; here is another. These ornaments are useless to me, and I shall be happy if they please you."
She unfastened the bracelet, and fastened it on the Indian's arm. The latter allowed her to do it, and, after kissing the pearl several times, she raised her head and held out her hand to the young Mexican.
"Farewell!" she said to her, with a shaking voice. "My sister will pray to her God for me: He is said to be powerful, perhaps He will come to my help."
"Hope, poor child!" Doña Clara said, as she held her in her arms.
Sunbeam shook her head sadly, and, making a last sign of farewell to her companion, she bounded like a startled fawn, rushed to the door, and disappeared.
The young Mexican remained for a long time pensive after Sunbeam's departure; the Indian's veiled words and embarrassed countenance had excited her curiosity to the highest degree. On the other hand, the interest she could not forbear taking in this extraordinary woman, who had rendered her a signal service, or, to speak more correctly, a gloomy presentiment warned her that Sunbeam was leaving her to undertake one of those dangerous expeditions which the Indians like to carry out without help of any soul.
About two hours elapsed. The maiden, with her head bowed on her bosom, went over in her mind the strange events which had led her, incident by incident, to the spot where she now was. All at once a stifled sigh reached her ear; she raised her head with surprise, and saw a man standing before her, humbly leaning against a beam of the calli, and gazing on her with a strange meaning in his glance. It was Shaw, Red Cedar's son.
Doña Clara blushed and looked down in confusion; Shaw remained silent, with his eyes fixed on her, intoxicating himself with the happiness of seeing and contemplating her at his ease. The girl, seated alone in this wretched Indian hut, before the man who so many times had nobly risked his life for her, fell into profound and serious thought.
A strange trouble seized upon her—her breast heaved under the pressure of her emotion. She did not at all comprehend the delicious sensations which at times made her quiver. Her eye, veiled with a soft languor, rested involuntarily on this man, handsome as an ancient Antinous, who with his haughty glance, his indomitable character, whom a frown from her made tremble—the wild son of the desert, who had hitherto known no will but his own!
On seeing him, so handsome and so brave, she felt herself attracted to him by all the strength of her soul. Though she was ignorant of the word love, for some time an unconscious revolution had taken place in her mind: she now began to understand that divine union of two souls, which are commingled in one, in an eternal communion of thoughts of joy and suffering.
In a word, she was about to love!
"What do you want with me, Shaw?" she asked, timidly.
"I wish to tell you, señorita," he answered, in a rough voice, marked, however, with extraordinary tenderness, "that, whatever may happen, whenever you have need of a man to die for you, you will have no occasion to seek him for I will be there."
"Thanks," she answered, smiling, in spite of herself, at the strangeness of the offer and the way in which it was made; "but here we have nothing to fear."
"Perhaps," he went on. "No one knows what the morrow has in store."
Women have a decided taste for taming ferocious animals: like all natures essentially nervous, woman is a creature of feeling, whose passion dwells in her head rather than in her heart. Love with a woman is only an affair of pride or a struggle to endure: as she is weak, she always wishes to conquer, and above all dominates at the outset, in order to become presently more completely the slave of the man she loves, when she has proved her strength, by holding him panting at her feet.
Owing to that eternal law of contrasts which governs the world, a woman will never love any man but him who, for some reason or another, flatters her pride. At any rate, it is so in the desert. I do not pretend to speak for our charming European ladies, who are a composite of grace and attraction, and who, like the angels, only belong to humanity, by the tip of their little wing, which scarce grazes the earth.
Doña Clara was a Mexican. Her exceptional position among Indians, the dangers to which she had been exposed, the weariness that undermined her—all these causes combined must dispose her in favour of the young savage, whose ardent passion she divined, with that intuition peculiar to all women.
She yielded so far as to answer him, and encourage him to speak. Was it sport, or did she act in good; faith? No one could say: woman's heart is a book, in which man has never yet been able to construe a word.
One of those long and pleasant conversations now begun between the two young people, during which, though the word "love" is not once uttered, it is expressed at every instant on the lips, and causes the heart to palpitate, which it plunges into those divine ecstacies, forgotten by ripe age, but which render those who experience them so happy.
Shaw, placed at his ease by the complacent kindness of Doña Clara, was no longer the same man. He found in his heart expressions which, in spite of herself made the maiden quiver, and put her into a confusion she could not understand.
At the hour indicated by Pethonista, a Comanche warrior appeared at the door of the calli, and broke off the conversation. He was ordered to lead the strangers to the meal prepared for them in the chief's lodge. Doña Clara went out at once, followed by Shaw, whose heart was ready to burst with joy.
And yet what had Doña Clara said to him? Nothing. But she had let him speak, and listened to him with interest, and at times smiled at his remarks. The poor young man asked no more to be happy, and he was so, more than he had ever been before.
Valentine, Don Pablo, and the two Indians were awaiting Doña Clara. So soon as she appeared, all proceeded to the calli of the chief, preceded by the Comanche warrior, who served as guide.
Pethonista received his guests with all the refinements of Indian courtesy, obliging them to eat when he fancied he noticed that what was placed before them pleased their taste.
It is not always agreeable to a white man to be invited to an Indian dinner; for, among the redskins, etiquette prescribes that you should eat everything offered you without leaving a mouthful. Acting otherwise would greatly offend the "Anfitrión". Hence the position of small eaters is very disagreeable at times: owing to the vast capacity of Indian stomachs, they find themselves under the harsh necessity of undergoing an attack of indigestion, or attract on themselves a quarrel which must have serious consequences.
Fortunately nothing of this sort occurred on the present occasion, and the repast terminated satisfactorily to all. When dinner was over, Valentine rose, and bowing thrice to the company, said to the chief—
"I thank my brother, in the name of my comrades and myself, for his gracious reception. In a thousand moons the recollection of it will not be effaced from my mind. But warriors have something else to do than to eat, when serious interests claim their attention. Will my brother Pethonista hear the news I have to impart to him?"
"Has my brother a secret communication to make to me, or does his message interest the whole tribe?"
"My message concerns all."
"Wah! my brother must be patient, then. Tomorrow—perhaps in a few hours—Unicorn, our great sachem, will have returned, and my brother can then speak with him."
"If Unicorn were here," Valentine said quickly, "two words would suffice; but he is absent, and time presses. For a second time I ask my brother to listen to me."
"Good; as my brother wishes it, in an instant all the chiefs shall be assembled in the great audience lodge, above the vault in which burns the fire of Montecuhzoma."
Valentine bowed in acquiescence.
We will say something here about the fire of Montecuhzoma, which is not without interest to the reader.
This singular custom has been handed down from age to age, especially among the Comanches. They state that, at the period of the conquest, and a few days prior to his death, Montecuhzoma,[1]having a presentiment of the fate that surely awaited him, lit a sacred fire and ordered their ancestors to keep it up, never allowing it to expire until the day when he returned to deliver his people from the Spanish yoke.
The guard of this sacred fire was confided to picked warriors; it was placed in a vault, in a copper basin, on a species of small altar, where it constantly smoulders under a dense layer of ashes.
Montecuhzoma announced at the same time that he would return with the Sun, his father; hence, at the first hour of day, many Indians mount on the roof of their callis, in the hope of seeing their well-beloved sovereign reappear, accompanied by the day planet. These poor Indians, who constantly maintain in their hearts the hope of their future regeneration, are convinced that this event, will be accomplished, unless the fire go out, through some reason impossible to foresee.
Scarce fifty years ago, the persons appointed to maintain the secret fire were relieved every two days, thus passing eight-and-forty hours without eating, drinking or sleeping. It frequently happened that these poor wretches, asphyxiated by the carbonic gas in the narrow space where they stopped, and weakened by the long fast, succumbed to their religious devotion. Then, according to the Indians, the bodies were thrown into the den of a monstrous serpent, which devoured them.
At the present day this strange belief is beginning to die out, although the fire of Montecuhzoma may be found in nearly all the pueblos; but the old custom is not kept up so vigorously, and the serpent is obliged to obtain his food in a different fashion.
I knew at the Paso del Norte a rich hacendero of Indian origin, who, though he would not confess it, and asserted a very advanced degree of belief, preciously kept up the fire of Montecuhzoma, in a vault he made for this express purpose, at a considerable expense.
The Comanches are divided into a number of small tribes, all placed under the orders of a special chief. When this chief is old or infirm, he surrenders the military command to the one of his sons most distinguished by his bravery, only retaining the civil jurisdiction; on the father's death, the son attains the complete sovereignty.
The chief summoned an old Indian who was leaning against the wall of the lodge, and bade him assemble the council. In the Comanche villages the old men incapable for active service, and whom their merits have not raised to the rank of chief, perform the office of crier. They undertake to announce the news to the population, transmit the orders of the sachem, organise the ceremonies, and convene the council. They are all men gifted with powerful voices; they mount on the roof of a calli, and from this improvised pulpit perform those duties, with an extraordinary quantity of shouts and gestures.
When the chiefs were assembled, Pethonista humbly led his guests to the council lodge, called the great medicine lodge. It was a large cabin, completely without furniture, in the midst of which an enormous fire burned. Some twenty chiefs were assembled, and gravely crouched in a circle; they maintained the most profound silence.
Ordinarily, no stranger is admitted to the council; but on this occasion this was departed from, owing to Valentine's quality as an adopted son of the tribe. The newcomers took their place. A chair of sculptured nopal was placed in a corner for Doña Clara, who, by a privilege unprecedented in Indian manners, and through her double quality of white woman and stranger, was present at the council, which is never permitted a squaw, except in the rare instance when she holds the rank of warrior.
So soon as each was comfortably settled, the pipe bearer entered the circle, holding the calumet, which he presented ready-lighted to Pethonista. The chief pointed it to the four cardinal points, and smoked for a few seconds; then, holding the bowl in his hand, he offered the stem to all present in turn, who imitated him. When all had smoked, the chief returned the pipe to the bearer, who emptied it into the fire, while pronouncing some mysterious words addressed to the Sun, that great dispenser of all the good things of this world, and walked backward out of the circle.
"Our ears are open, my brother; the great pale hunter can take the word. We have removed the skin from our heart, and the words his bosom breathes will be carefully received by us. We impatiently await the communications which he has to make us," the chief said, bowing courteously to Valentine.
"What I have to say will not take long," the hunter answered. "Are my brothers still the faithful allies of the palefaces?"
"Why should we not be so?" the chief sharply interrupted him. "The great pale hearts have been constantly good to us; they buy of our beaver skins and buffalo robes, giving us in exchange gunpowder, bullets, and scalping knives. When we are ill, our pale friends nurse us, and give us all we need. When the winter is severe—when the buffaloes are gone, and famine is felt in the villages—the whites come to our help. Why, then, shall we no longer be their allies? The Comanches are not ungrateful; they have a noble and generous heart; they never forget a kindness. We shall be the friend of the whites so long as the sun lights the universe."
"Thanks, chief," the hunter answered; "I am glad you have spoken in that way, for the hour has come to prove your friendship to us."
"What does my brother mean?"
"The Apaches have dug up the hatchet against us: their war parties are marching to surround our friend, Bloodson. I have come to ask my brothers if they will help us to repulse and beat back our enemies."
There was a moment's silence, and the Indians seemed to be seriously reflecting on the hunter's words. At length, Pethonista said, after giving the members of the council a glance—
"The enemies of Bloodson and of my brother are our enemies," he said, in a loud and firm voice. "My young men will go to the help of the palefaces. The Comanches will not suffer their allies to be insulted. My brother may rejoice at the success of his mission. Unicorn, I feel convinced, would not have answered differently from me, had he been present at the council. Tomorrow, at sunrise, all the warriors of my tribe will set out to the assistance of Bloodson. I have spoken. Have I said well, powerful chiefs?"
"Our father has spoken well," the chiefs replied, with a bow. "What he desires shall be done."
"Wah!" Pethonista went on; "my sons will prepare to celebrate worthily the arrival of our white friends in their village, and prove that we are warriors without fear. The Old Dogs will dance in the medicine lodge."
Shouts of joy greeted these words. The Indians, who are supposed to be so little civilised, have a number of associations, bearing a strong likeness to Freemasonry. These associations are distinguished by their songs, dances, and certain signs. Before becoming a member, the novice has certain trials to undergo, and several degrees to pass through. The Comanches have eleven associations for men and three for women, the scalp dance not included.
We will allude here solely to the Band of the Old Dogs, an association which only the most renowned warriors of the nation can join, and whose dance is only performed when an expedition is about to take place, in order to implore the protection of Natosh.
The strangers mounted on the roof of the medicine lodge with a multitude of Indians, and when all had taken their places, the ceremony commenced. Before the dancers appeared, the sound of their war whistles,—made of human thigh bones, could be heard; and at length ninety "Old Dogs" came up, attired in their handsomest dresses.
A portion were clothed in gowns or shirts of bighorn leather; others had blouses of red cloth, and blue and scarlet uniforms the Americans had given them, on their visits to the frontier forts. Some had the upper part of the body naked, and their exploits painted in reddish brown on their skin; others, and those the most renowned, wore a colossal cap of raven plumes, to the ends of which small tufts of down were fastened. This cap fell down to the loins, and in the centre of this shapeless mass of feathers were the tail of a wild turkey and that of a royal eagle.
Round their necks the principal Old Dogs wore a long strip of red cloth, descending behind to their legs, and forming a knot in the middle of the back. They had on the right side of the head a thick tuft of screech owl feathers, the distinctive sign of the band. All had round their necks the longihkochekas, and on the left arm their fusil, bow, or club, while in their right hand they held the chichikoui.
This is a stick adorned with blue and white glass beads, completely covered with animals' hoofs, having at the upper end an eagle's feather, and at the lower a piece of leather embroidered with beads and decorated with scalps.
The warriors formed a wide circle, in the centre of which was the drum, beaten by five badly dressed men. In addition to these, there were also two others, who played a species of tambourine. When the dance began, the Old Dogs let their robes fall behind them, some dancing in a circle, with the body bent forward, and leaping in the air with both feet at once.
The other Dogs danced without any order, their faces turned to the circle, the majority collected in a dense mass, and bending their heads and the upper part of the body simultaneously. During this period, the war whistles, the drums, and chichikouis made a fearful row. This scene offered a most original and interesting sight—these brown men, their varied costumes, their yells, and the sounds of every description produced by the delighted spectators, who clapped their hands with grimaces and contortions impossible to describe, in the midst of the Indian village, near a gloomy and mysterious virgin forest, a few paces from the Rio Gila; in this desert where the hand of God is marked in indelible characters—all this affected the mind, and plunged it into a melancholy reverie.
The dance had lasted some time, and would have been probably prolonged, when the fierce and terrible war cry of the Apaches re-echoed through the air. Shots were heard, and Indian horsemen rushed like lightning on the Comanches, brandishing their weapons, and uttering terrible yells. Black Cat, at the head of more than five hundred warriors, had attacked the Comanches.
There was a frightful disorder and confusion. The women and children ran frantically in every direction, pursued by their ferocious enemies, who pitilessly scalped and massacred them, while the warriors collected, mostly badly armed, in order to attempt a desperate, but almost impossible, resistance.
The hunters, stationed, as we have said, on the top of the hut whence they had witnessed the dance, found themselves in a most critical position. Fortunately for them, thanks to their old habit as wood rangers, they had not forgotten their weapons.
Valentine understood the position at the first glance. He saw that, unless a miracle occurred, they were all lost. Placing himself with his comrades before the terrified maiden, to make her a rampart of his body, he resolutely cocked his rifle, and said to his friends, in a firm voice:—
"Lads, the question is not about conquering, but we must all prepare to die here!"
"We will," Don Pablo said haughtily.
And with his clubbed rifle he killed an Apache who was trying to escalade the hut.