Chapter Twenty Six.Three Days in the Trap.Our attention was now turned to our own situation. Dangers and difficulties suddenly presented themselves to our minds.“What if they should stay here to hunt?”The thought seemed to occur to all of us at the same instant, and we faced each other with looks of apprehension and dismay.“It is not improbable,” said Seguin, in a low and emphatic voice. “It is plain they have no supply of meat, and how are they to pass to the south without it? They must hunt here or elsewhere. Why not here?”“If so, we’re in a nice trap!” interrupted a hunter, pointing first to the embouchure of the defile and then to the mountain. “How are we to get out? I’d like to know that.”Our eyes followed the direction indicated by the speaker. In front of the ravine in which we were, extended the line of the Indian camp, not a hundred yards distant from the rocks that lay around its entrance. There was an Indian sentinel still nearer; but it would be impossible to pass out, even were he asleep, without encountering the dogs that prowled in numbers around the camp.Behind us, the mountain rose vertically like a wall. It was plainly impassable. We were fairly “in the trap.”“Carrai!” exclaimed one of the men, “we will die of hunger and thirst if they stay to hunt!”“We may die sooner,” rejoined another, “if they take a notion in their heads to wander up the gully.”This was not improbable, though it was but little likely. The ravine was a sort ofcul de sac, that entered the mountain in a slanting direction, and ended at the bottom of the cliff. There was no object to attract our enemies into it, unless indeed they might come up in search of pinon nuts. Some of their dogs, too, might wander up, hunting for food, or attracted by the scent of our horses. These were probabilities, and we trembled as each of them was suggested.“If they do not find us,” said Seguin, encouragingly, “we may live for a day or two on the pinons. When these fail us, one of our horses must be killed. How much water have we?”“Thank our luck, captain, the gourds are nearly full.”“But our poor animals must suffer.”“There is no danger of thirst,” said El Sol, looking downward, “while these last;” and he struck with his foot a large round mass that grew among the rocks. It was the spheroidal cactus. “See!” continued he, “there are hundreds of them!”All present knew the meaning of this, and regarded the cacti with a murmur of satisfaction.“Comrades!” said Seguin, “it is of no use to weary ourselves. Let those sleep who can. One can keep watch yonder while another stays up here. Go, Sanchez!” and the chief pointed down the ravine to a spot that commanded a view of its mouth.The sentinel walked off, and took his stand in silence. The rest of us descended, and after looking to the muffling of our horses, returned to the station of the vidette upon the hill. Here we rolled ourselves in our blankets, and, lying down among the rocks, slept out the night.We were awake before dawn, and peering through the leaves with feelings of keen solicitude.There is no movement in the Indian camp. It is a bad indication. Had they intended to travel on, they would have been stirring before this. They are always on the route before daybreak. These signs strengthen our feelings of apprehension.The grey light begins to spread over the prairie. There is a white band along the eastern sky. There are noises in the camp. There are voices. Dark forms move about among the upright spears. Tall savages stride over the plain. Their robes of skins are wrapped around their shoulders to protect them from the raw air of the morning.They carry faggots. They are rekindling the fires!Our men talk in whispers, as we lie straining our eyes to catch every movement.“It’s plain they intend to make a stay of it.”“Ay! we’re in for it, that’s sartin! Wagh! I wonder how long thar a-goin’ to squat hyar, any how.”“Three days at the least: may be four or five.”“Great gollies! we’ll be froze in half the time.”“What would they be doin’ here so long? I warrant ye they’ll clar out as soon as they can.”“So they will; but how can they in less time?”“They can get all the meat they want in a day. See! yonder’s buffalo a plenty; look! away yonder!” and the speaker points to several black objects outlined against the brightening sky. It is a herd of buffaloes.“That’s true enough. In half a day I warrant they kin get all the meat they want: but how are they a-goin’ to jirk it in less than three? That’s what I want to know.”“Es verdad!” says one of the Mexicans, a cibolero; “très dias, al menos!” (It is true—three days, at the least!)“Ay, hombre! an’ with a smart chance o’ sunshine at that, I guess.”This conversation is carried on by two or three of the men in a low tone, but loud enough for the rest of us to overhear it.It reveals a new phase of our dilemma on which we have not before reflected. Should the Indians stay to “jerk” their meat, we will be in extreme danger from thirst, as well as of being discovered in our cache.We know that the process of jerking buffalo beef takes three days, and that with a hot sun, as the hunter has intimated. This, with the first day required for hunting, will keep us four days in the ravine!The prospect is appalling. We feel that death or the extreme torture of thirst is before us. We have no fear of hunger. Our horses are in the grove, and our knives in our belts. We can, live for weeks upon them; but will the cacti assuage the thirst of men and horses for a period of three or four days? This is a question no one can answer. It has often relieved the hunter for a short period, enabling him to crawl on to the water; but for days!The trial will soon commence. The day has fairly broken. The Indians spring to their feet. About one-half of them draw the pickets of their horses, and lead them to the water. They adjust their bridles, pluck up their spears, snatch their bows, shoulder their quivers, and leap on horseback.After a short consultation they gallop off to the eastward. In half an hour’s time, we can see them running the buffalo far out upon the prairie: piercing them with their arrows, and impaling them on their long lances.Those who have remained behind lead their horses down to the spring-branch, and back again to the grass. Now they chop down young trees, and carry faggots to the fires. See! they are driving long stakes into the ground, and stretching ropes from one to the other. For what purpose? We know too well.“Ha! look yonder!” mutters one of the hunters, as this is first noticed; “yonder goes the jerking-line! Now we’re caged in airnest, I reckin.”“Por todos santos, es verdad!”“Carambo! carrajo! chingaro!” growls the cibolero, who well knows the meaning of those stakes and lines.We watch with a fearful interest the movements of the savages.We have now no longer any doubt of their intention to remain for several days.The stakes are soon erected, running for a hundred yards or more along the front of the encampment. The savages await the return of their hunters. Some mount and scour off toward the scene of the buffalo battue, still going on, far out upon the plain.We peer through the leaves with great caution, for the day is bright, and the eyes of our enemies are quick, and scan every object. We speak only in whispers, though our voices could not be heard if we conversed a little louder, but fear makes us fancy that they might. We are all concealed except our eyes. These glance through small loopholes in the foliage.The Indian hunters have been gone about two hours. We now see them returning over the prairie in straggling parties.They ride slowly back. Each brings his load before him on the withers of his horse. They have large masses of red flesh, freshly skinned and smoking. Some carry the sides and quarters; others the hump-ribs, the tongue, the heart, and liver—thepetits morceaux—wrapped up in the skins of the slaughtered animals.They arrive in camp, and fling their loads to the ground.Now begins a scene of noise and confusion. The savages run to and fro, whooping, chattering, laughing, and dancing. They draw their long scalping-knives, and hew off broad steaks. They spit them over the blazing fires. They cut out the hump-ribs. They tear off the white fat, and stuff the boudins. They split the brown liver, eating it raw! They break the shanks with their tomahawks, and delve out the savoury marrow; and, through all these operations, they whoop, and chatter, and laugh, and dance over the ground like so many madmen.This scene lasts for more than an hour.Fresh parties of hunters mount and ride off. Those who remain cut the meat into long thin strips, and hang it over the lines already prepared for this purpose. It is thus left to be baked by the sun into “tasajo.”We know part of what is before us. It is a fearful prospect; but men like those who compose the band of Seguin do not despond while the shadow of a hope remains. It is a barren spot indeed, where they cannot find resources.“We needn’t holler till we’re hurt,” says one of the hunters.“If yer call an empty belly a hurt,” rejoins another, “I’ve got it already. I kud jest eat a raw jackass ’ithout skinnin’ him.”“Come, fellers!” cries a third, “let’s gramble for a meal o’ these peenyuns.”Following this suggestion, we commence searching for the nuts of the pine. We find to our dismay that there is but a limited supply of this precious food; not enough either on the trees or the ground to sustain us for two days.“By gosh!” exclaims one, “we’ll have to draw for our critters.”“Well, and if we have to—time enough yet a bit, I guess. We’ll bite our claws a while first.”The water is distributed in a small cup. There is still a little left in the xuages; but our poor horses suffer.“Let us look to them,” says Seguin; and, drawing his knife, he commences skinning one of the cacti. We follow his example.We carefully pare off the volutes and spikelets. A cool, gummy liquid exudes from the opened vessels. We break the short stems, and lifting the green, globe-like masses, carry them to the thicket, and place them before our animals. These seize the succulent plants greedily, crunch them between their teeth, and swallow both sap and fibres. It is food and drink to them. Thank Heaven! we may yet save them!This act is repeated several times, until they have had enough.We keep two videttes constantly on the look-out—one upon the hill, the other commanding the mouth of the defile. The rest of us go through the ravine, along the sides of the ridge, in search of the cones of the pinon.Thus our first day is spent.The Indian hunters keep coming into their camp until a late hour, bringing with them their burdens of buffalo flesh. Fires blaze over the ground, and the savages sit around them, cooking and eating, nearly all the night.On the following day they do not rouse themselves until a late hour. It is a day of lassitude and idleness; for the meat is hanging over the strings, and they can only wait upon it. They lounge around the camp, mending their bridles and lassos, or looking to their weapons; they lead their horses to the water, and then picket them on fresh ground; they cut large pieces of meat, and broil them over the fires. Hundreds of them are at all times engaged in this last occupation. They seem to eat continually.Their dogs are busy, too, growling over the knife-stripped bones. They are not likely to leave their feast; they will not stray up the ravine while it lasts. In this thought we find consolation.The sun is hot all the second day, and scorches us in the dry defile. It adds to our thirst; but we do not regret, this so much, knowing it will hasten the departure of the savages. Towards evening, the tasajo begins to look brown and shrivelled. Another such day and it will be ready for packing.Our water is out, and we chew the succulent slices of the cactus. These relieve our thirst without quenching it.Our appetite of hunger is growing stronger. We have eaten all the pinons, and nothing remains but to slaughter one of our horses.“Let us hold out till to-morrow,” suggests one. “Give the poor brutes a chance. Who knows but what they may flit in the morning?”This proposition is voted in the affirmative. No hunter cares to risk losing his horse, especially when out upon the prairies.Gnawed by hunger, we lie waiting for the third day.The morning breaks at last, and we crawl forward as usual, to watch the movements of the camp. The savages sleep late, as on yesterday; but they arouse themselves at length, and after watering their animals, commence cooking. We see the crimson streaks and the juicy ribs smoking over the fires, and the savoury odours are wafted to us on the breeze. Our appetites are whetted to a painful keenness. We can endure no longer. A horse must die!Whose? Mountain law will soon decide.Eleven white pebbles and a black one are thrown into the water-bucket, and one by one we are blinded and led forward.I tremble as I place my hand in the vessel. It is like throwing the die for my own life.“Thank Heaven! my Moro is safe!”One of the Mexicans has drawn the black.“Thar’s luck in that!” exclaims a hunter. “Good fat mustang better than poor bull any day!”The devoted horse is in fact a well-conditioned animal; and placing our videttes again, we proceed to the thicket to slaughter him.We set about it with great caution. We tie him to a tree, and hopple his fore and hind feet, lest he may struggle. We propose bleeding him to death.The cibolero has unsheathed his long knife, while a man stands by, holding the bucket to catch the precious fluid: the blood. Some have cups in their hands, ready to drink it as it flows!We were startled by an unusual sound. We look through the leaves. A large grey animal is standing by the edge of the thicket, gazing in at us. It is wolfish-looking. Is it a wolf? No. It is an Indian dog!The knife is stayed; each man draws his own. We approach the animal, and endeavour to coax it nearer. But no; it suspects our intentions, utters a low growl, and runs away down the defile.We follow it with our eyes. The owner of the doomed horse is the vidette. The dog must pass him to get out, and he stands with his long lance ready to receive it.The animal sees himself intercepted, turns and runs back, and again turning, makes a desperate rush to pass the vidette. As he nears the latter, he utters a loud howl. The next moment he is impaled upon the lance!Several of us rush up the hill to ascertain if the howling has attracted the attention of the savages. There is no unusual movement among them; they have not heard it.The dog is divided and devoured before his quivering flesh has time to grow cold! The horse is reprieved.Again we feed our animals on the cooling cactus. This occupies us for some time. When we return to the hill a glad sight is before us. We see the warriors seated around their fires, renewing the paint upon their bodies.We know the meaning of this.The tasajo is nearly black. Thanks to the hot sun, it will soon be ready for packing!Some of the Indians are engaged in poisoning the points of their arrows. All these signs inspire us with fresh courage. They will soon march; if not to-night, by daybreak on the morrow.We lie congratulating ourselves, and watching every movement of their camp. Our hopes continue rising as the day falls.Ha! there is an unusual stir. Some order has been issued. “Voilà!” “Mira! mira!” “See!” “Look, look!” are the half-whispered ejaculations that break from the hunters as this is observed.“By the livin’ catamount, thar a-going to mizzle!”We see the savages pull down the tasajo and tie it in bunches. Then every man runs out for his horse; the pickets are drawn; the animals are led in and watered; they are bridled; the robes are thrown over them and girthed. The warriors pluck up their lances, sling their quivers, seize their shields and bows, and leap lightly upon horseback. The next moment they form with the rapidity of thought, and wheeling in their tracks, ride off in single file, heading to the southward.The larger band has passed. The smaller, the Navajoes, follow in the same trail. No! The latter has suddenly filed to the left, and is crossing the prairie towards the east, towards the spring of the Ojo de Vaca.
Our attention was now turned to our own situation. Dangers and difficulties suddenly presented themselves to our minds.
“What if they should stay here to hunt?”
The thought seemed to occur to all of us at the same instant, and we faced each other with looks of apprehension and dismay.
“It is not improbable,” said Seguin, in a low and emphatic voice. “It is plain they have no supply of meat, and how are they to pass to the south without it? They must hunt here or elsewhere. Why not here?”
“If so, we’re in a nice trap!” interrupted a hunter, pointing first to the embouchure of the defile and then to the mountain. “How are we to get out? I’d like to know that.”
Our eyes followed the direction indicated by the speaker. In front of the ravine in which we were, extended the line of the Indian camp, not a hundred yards distant from the rocks that lay around its entrance. There was an Indian sentinel still nearer; but it would be impossible to pass out, even were he asleep, without encountering the dogs that prowled in numbers around the camp.
Behind us, the mountain rose vertically like a wall. It was plainly impassable. We were fairly “in the trap.”
“Carrai!” exclaimed one of the men, “we will die of hunger and thirst if they stay to hunt!”
“We may die sooner,” rejoined another, “if they take a notion in their heads to wander up the gully.”
This was not improbable, though it was but little likely. The ravine was a sort ofcul de sac, that entered the mountain in a slanting direction, and ended at the bottom of the cliff. There was no object to attract our enemies into it, unless indeed they might come up in search of pinon nuts. Some of their dogs, too, might wander up, hunting for food, or attracted by the scent of our horses. These were probabilities, and we trembled as each of them was suggested.
“If they do not find us,” said Seguin, encouragingly, “we may live for a day or two on the pinons. When these fail us, one of our horses must be killed. How much water have we?”
“Thank our luck, captain, the gourds are nearly full.”
“But our poor animals must suffer.”
“There is no danger of thirst,” said El Sol, looking downward, “while these last;” and he struck with his foot a large round mass that grew among the rocks. It was the spheroidal cactus. “See!” continued he, “there are hundreds of them!”
All present knew the meaning of this, and regarded the cacti with a murmur of satisfaction.
“Comrades!” said Seguin, “it is of no use to weary ourselves. Let those sleep who can. One can keep watch yonder while another stays up here. Go, Sanchez!” and the chief pointed down the ravine to a spot that commanded a view of its mouth.
The sentinel walked off, and took his stand in silence. The rest of us descended, and after looking to the muffling of our horses, returned to the station of the vidette upon the hill. Here we rolled ourselves in our blankets, and, lying down among the rocks, slept out the night.
We were awake before dawn, and peering through the leaves with feelings of keen solicitude.
There is no movement in the Indian camp. It is a bad indication. Had they intended to travel on, they would have been stirring before this. They are always on the route before daybreak. These signs strengthen our feelings of apprehension.
The grey light begins to spread over the prairie. There is a white band along the eastern sky. There are noises in the camp. There are voices. Dark forms move about among the upright spears. Tall savages stride over the plain. Their robes of skins are wrapped around their shoulders to protect them from the raw air of the morning.
They carry faggots. They are rekindling the fires!
Our men talk in whispers, as we lie straining our eyes to catch every movement.
“It’s plain they intend to make a stay of it.”
“Ay! we’re in for it, that’s sartin! Wagh! I wonder how long thar a-goin’ to squat hyar, any how.”
“Three days at the least: may be four or five.”
“Great gollies! we’ll be froze in half the time.”
“What would they be doin’ here so long? I warrant ye they’ll clar out as soon as they can.”
“So they will; but how can they in less time?”
“They can get all the meat they want in a day. See! yonder’s buffalo a plenty; look! away yonder!” and the speaker points to several black objects outlined against the brightening sky. It is a herd of buffaloes.
“That’s true enough. In half a day I warrant they kin get all the meat they want: but how are they a-goin’ to jirk it in less than three? That’s what I want to know.”
“Es verdad!” says one of the Mexicans, a cibolero; “très dias, al menos!” (It is true—three days, at the least!)
“Ay, hombre! an’ with a smart chance o’ sunshine at that, I guess.”
This conversation is carried on by two or three of the men in a low tone, but loud enough for the rest of us to overhear it.
It reveals a new phase of our dilemma on which we have not before reflected. Should the Indians stay to “jerk” their meat, we will be in extreme danger from thirst, as well as of being discovered in our cache.
We know that the process of jerking buffalo beef takes three days, and that with a hot sun, as the hunter has intimated. This, with the first day required for hunting, will keep us four days in the ravine!
The prospect is appalling. We feel that death or the extreme torture of thirst is before us. We have no fear of hunger. Our horses are in the grove, and our knives in our belts. We can, live for weeks upon them; but will the cacti assuage the thirst of men and horses for a period of three or four days? This is a question no one can answer. It has often relieved the hunter for a short period, enabling him to crawl on to the water; but for days!
The trial will soon commence. The day has fairly broken. The Indians spring to their feet. About one-half of them draw the pickets of their horses, and lead them to the water. They adjust their bridles, pluck up their spears, snatch their bows, shoulder their quivers, and leap on horseback.
After a short consultation they gallop off to the eastward. In half an hour’s time, we can see them running the buffalo far out upon the prairie: piercing them with their arrows, and impaling them on their long lances.
Those who have remained behind lead their horses down to the spring-branch, and back again to the grass. Now they chop down young trees, and carry faggots to the fires. See! they are driving long stakes into the ground, and stretching ropes from one to the other. For what purpose? We know too well.
“Ha! look yonder!” mutters one of the hunters, as this is first noticed; “yonder goes the jerking-line! Now we’re caged in airnest, I reckin.”
“Por todos santos, es verdad!”
“Carambo! carrajo! chingaro!” growls the cibolero, who well knows the meaning of those stakes and lines.
We watch with a fearful interest the movements of the savages.
We have now no longer any doubt of their intention to remain for several days.
The stakes are soon erected, running for a hundred yards or more along the front of the encampment. The savages await the return of their hunters. Some mount and scour off toward the scene of the buffalo battue, still going on, far out upon the plain.
We peer through the leaves with great caution, for the day is bright, and the eyes of our enemies are quick, and scan every object. We speak only in whispers, though our voices could not be heard if we conversed a little louder, but fear makes us fancy that they might. We are all concealed except our eyes. These glance through small loopholes in the foliage.
The Indian hunters have been gone about two hours. We now see them returning over the prairie in straggling parties.
They ride slowly back. Each brings his load before him on the withers of his horse. They have large masses of red flesh, freshly skinned and smoking. Some carry the sides and quarters; others the hump-ribs, the tongue, the heart, and liver—thepetits morceaux—wrapped up in the skins of the slaughtered animals.
They arrive in camp, and fling their loads to the ground.
Now begins a scene of noise and confusion. The savages run to and fro, whooping, chattering, laughing, and dancing. They draw their long scalping-knives, and hew off broad steaks. They spit them over the blazing fires. They cut out the hump-ribs. They tear off the white fat, and stuff the boudins. They split the brown liver, eating it raw! They break the shanks with their tomahawks, and delve out the savoury marrow; and, through all these operations, they whoop, and chatter, and laugh, and dance over the ground like so many madmen.
This scene lasts for more than an hour.
Fresh parties of hunters mount and ride off. Those who remain cut the meat into long thin strips, and hang it over the lines already prepared for this purpose. It is thus left to be baked by the sun into “tasajo.”
We know part of what is before us. It is a fearful prospect; but men like those who compose the band of Seguin do not despond while the shadow of a hope remains. It is a barren spot indeed, where they cannot find resources.
“We needn’t holler till we’re hurt,” says one of the hunters.
“If yer call an empty belly a hurt,” rejoins another, “I’ve got it already. I kud jest eat a raw jackass ’ithout skinnin’ him.”
“Come, fellers!” cries a third, “let’s gramble for a meal o’ these peenyuns.”
Following this suggestion, we commence searching for the nuts of the pine. We find to our dismay that there is but a limited supply of this precious food; not enough either on the trees or the ground to sustain us for two days.
“By gosh!” exclaims one, “we’ll have to draw for our critters.”
“Well, and if we have to—time enough yet a bit, I guess. We’ll bite our claws a while first.”
The water is distributed in a small cup. There is still a little left in the xuages; but our poor horses suffer.
“Let us look to them,” says Seguin; and, drawing his knife, he commences skinning one of the cacti. We follow his example.
We carefully pare off the volutes and spikelets. A cool, gummy liquid exudes from the opened vessels. We break the short stems, and lifting the green, globe-like masses, carry them to the thicket, and place them before our animals. These seize the succulent plants greedily, crunch them between their teeth, and swallow both sap and fibres. It is food and drink to them. Thank Heaven! we may yet save them!
This act is repeated several times, until they have had enough.
We keep two videttes constantly on the look-out—one upon the hill, the other commanding the mouth of the defile. The rest of us go through the ravine, along the sides of the ridge, in search of the cones of the pinon.
Thus our first day is spent.
The Indian hunters keep coming into their camp until a late hour, bringing with them their burdens of buffalo flesh. Fires blaze over the ground, and the savages sit around them, cooking and eating, nearly all the night.
On the following day they do not rouse themselves until a late hour. It is a day of lassitude and idleness; for the meat is hanging over the strings, and they can only wait upon it. They lounge around the camp, mending their bridles and lassos, or looking to their weapons; they lead their horses to the water, and then picket them on fresh ground; they cut large pieces of meat, and broil them over the fires. Hundreds of them are at all times engaged in this last occupation. They seem to eat continually.
Their dogs are busy, too, growling over the knife-stripped bones. They are not likely to leave their feast; they will not stray up the ravine while it lasts. In this thought we find consolation.
The sun is hot all the second day, and scorches us in the dry defile. It adds to our thirst; but we do not regret, this so much, knowing it will hasten the departure of the savages. Towards evening, the tasajo begins to look brown and shrivelled. Another such day and it will be ready for packing.
Our water is out, and we chew the succulent slices of the cactus. These relieve our thirst without quenching it.
Our appetite of hunger is growing stronger. We have eaten all the pinons, and nothing remains but to slaughter one of our horses.
“Let us hold out till to-morrow,” suggests one. “Give the poor brutes a chance. Who knows but what they may flit in the morning?”
This proposition is voted in the affirmative. No hunter cares to risk losing his horse, especially when out upon the prairies.
Gnawed by hunger, we lie waiting for the third day.
The morning breaks at last, and we crawl forward as usual, to watch the movements of the camp. The savages sleep late, as on yesterday; but they arouse themselves at length, and after watering their animals, commence cooking. We see the crimson streaks and the juicy ribs smoking over the fires, and the savoury odours are wafted to us on the breeze. Our appetites are whetted to a painful keenness. We can endure no longer. A horse must die!
Whose? Mountain law will soon decide.
Eleven white pebbles and a black one are thrown into the water-bucket, and one by one we are blinded and led forward.
I tremble as I place my hand in the vessel. It is like throwing the die for my own life.
“Thank Heaven! my Moro is safe!”
One of the Mexicans has drawn the black.
“Thar’s luck in that!” exclaims a hunter. “Good fat mustang better than poor bull any day!”
The devoted horse is in fact a well-conditioned animal; and placing our videttes again, we proceed to the thicket to slaughter him.
We set about it with great caution. We tie him to a tree, and hopple his fore and hind feet, lest he may struggle. We propose bleeding him to death.
The cibolero has unsheathed his long knife, while a man stands by, holding the bucket to catch the precious fluid: the blood. Some have cups in their hands, ready to drink it as it flows!
We were startled by an unusual sound. We look through the leaves. A large grey animal is standing by the edge of the thicket, gazing in at us. It is wolfish-looking. Is it a wolf? No. It is an Indian dog!
The knife is stayed; each man draws his own. We approach the animal, and endeavour to coax it nearer. But no; it suspects our intentions, utters a low growl, and runs away down the defile.
We follow it with our eyes. The owner of the doomed horse is the vidette. The dog must pass him to get out, and he stands with his long lance ready to receive it.
The animal sees himself intercepted, turns and runs back, and again turning, makes a desperate rush to pass the vidette. As he nears the latter, he utters a loud howl. The next moment he is impaled upon the lance!
Several of us rush up the hill to ascertain if the howling has attracted the attention of the savages. There is no unusual movement among them; they have not heard it.
The dog is divided and devoured before his quivering flesh has time to grow cold! The horse is reprieved.
Again we feed our animals on the cooling cactus. This occupies us for some time. When we return to the hill a glad sight is before us. We see the warriors seated around their fires, renewing the paint upon their bodies.
We know the meaning of this.
The tasajo is nearly black. Thanks to the hot sun, it will soon be ready for packing!
Some of the Indians are engaged in poisoning the points of their arrows. All these signs inspire us with fresh courage. They will soon march; if not to-night, by daybreak on the morrow.
We lie congratulating ourselves, and watching every movement of their camp. Our hopes continue rising as the day falls.
Ha! there is an unusual stir. Some order has been issued. “Voilà!” “Mira! mira!” “See!” “Look, look!” are the half-whispered ejaculations that break from the hunters as this is observed.
“By the livin’ catamount, thar a-going to mizzle!”
We see the savages pull down the tasajo and tie it in bunches. Then every man runs out for his horse; the pickets are drawn; the animals are led in and watered; they are bridled; the robes are thrown over them and girthed. The warriors pluck up their lances, sling their quivers, seize their shields and bows, and leap lightly upon horseback. The next moment they form with the rapidity of thought, and wheeling in their tracks, ride off in single file, heading to the southward.
The larger band has passed. The smaller, the Navajoes, follow in the same trail. No! The latter has suddenly filed to the left, and is crossing the prairie towards the east, towards the spring of the Ojo de Vaca.
Chapter Twenty Seven.The Diggers.Our first impulse was to rush down the ravine, satisfy our thirst at the spring, and our hunger on the half-polished bones that were strewed over the prairie. Prudence, however, restrained us.“Wait till they’re clar gone,” said Garey. “They’ll be out o’ sight in three skips o’ a goat.”“Yes! stay where we are a bit,” added another; “some of them may ride back; something may be forgotten.”This was not improbable; and in spite of the promptings of our appetites, we resolved to remain a while longer in the defile.We descended straightway into the thicket to make preparations for moving—to saddle our horses and take off their mufflings, which by this time had nearly blinded them. Poor brutes! they seemed to know that relief was at hand.While we were engaged in these operations, our vidette was kept at the top of the hill to watch both bands, and warn us when their heads should sink to the prairie level.“I wonder why the Navajoes have gone by the Ojo de Vaca,” remarked our chief, with an apparent anxiety in his manner. “It is well our comrades did not remain there.”“They’ll be tired o’ waitin’ on us, whar they are,” rejoined Garey, “unless blacktails is plentier among them Musquites than I think for.”“Vaya!” exclaimed Sanchez; “they may thank the Santisima they were not in our company! I’m spent to a skeleton. Mira! carrai!”Our horses were at length bridled and saddled, and our lassoes coiled up. Still the vidette had not warned us. We grew every moment more impatient.“Come!” cried one; “hang it! they’re far enough now. They’re not a-goin’ to be gapin’ back all the way. They’re looking ahead, I’m bound. Golly! thar’s fine shines afore them.”We could resist no longer. We called out to the vidette. He could just see the heads of the hindmost.“That will do,” cried Seguin; “come, take your horses!”The men obeyed with alacrity, and we all moved down the ravine, leading our animals.We pressed forward to the opening. A young man, the pueblo servant of Seguin, was ahead of the rest. He was impatient to reach the water. He had gained the mouth of the defile, when we saw him fall back with frightening looks, dragging at his horse and exclaiming—“Mi amo! mi amo! to davia son!” (Master, master! they are here yet!)“Who?” inquired Seguin, running forward in haste.“The Indians, master; the Indians!”“You are mad! Where did you see them?”“In the camp, master. Look yonder!”I pressed forward with Seguin to the rocks that lay along the entrance of the defile. We looked cautiously over. A singular sight met our eyes.The camp-ground was lying as the Indians had left it. The stakes were still standing; the shaggy hides of the buffaloes, and pile of their bones, were strewn upon the plain; hundreds of coyotes were loping back and forward, snarling at one another, or pursuing one of their number which had picked up a nicer morsel than his companions. The fires were still smouldering, and the wolves galloped through the ashes, raising them in yellow clouds.But there was a sight stranger than all this, a startling sight to me. Five or six forms, almost human, were moving about among the fires, collecting the débris of skins and bones, and quarrelling with the wolves that barked round them in troops. Five or six others, similar forms were seated around a pile of burning wood, silently gnawing at half roasted ribs. Can they be—yes, they are human beings!I was for a moment awe-struck as I gazed at the shrivelled and dwarfish bodies, the long, ape-like arms, and huge disproportioned heads, from which fell their hair in snaky tangles, black and matted.But one or two appeared to have any article of dress, and that was a ragged breech-clout. The others were naked as the wild beasts around them, naked from head to foot!It was a horrid sight to look upon these fiend-like dwarfs squatted around the fires, holding up half-naked bones in their long, wrinkled arms, and tearing off the flesh with their glistening teeth. It was a horrid sight, indeed; and it was some moments before I could recover sufficiently from my amazement to inquire who or what they were. I did so at length.“Los Yamparicos,” answered the cibolero.“Who?” I asked again.“Los Indios Yamparicos, señor.”“The Diggers, the Diggers,” said a hunter, thinking that would better explain the strange apparitions.“Yes, they are Digger Indians,” added Seguin. “Come on; we have nothing to fear from them.”“But we have somethin’ to git from them,” rejoined one of the hunters, with a significant look. “Digger plew good as any other; worth jest as much as ’Pash chief.”“No one must fire,” said Seguin, in a firm tone. “It is too soon yet; look yonder!” and he pointed over the plain, where two or three glancing objects, the helmets of the retreating warriors, could still be seen above the grass.“How are we goin’ to get them, then, captain?” inquired the hunter. “They’ll beat us to the rocks; they kin run like scared dogs.”“Better let them go, poor devils!” said Seguin, seemingly unwilling that blood should be spilled so wantonly.“No, captain,” rejoined the same speaker, “we won’t fire, but we’ll git them, if we kin, ’ithout it. Boys, follow me down this way.”And the man was about guiding his horse in among the loose rocks, so as to pass unperceived between the dwarfs and the mountain.But the brutal fellow was frustrated in his design; for at that moment El Sol and his sister appeared in the opening, and their brilliant habiliments caught the eyes of the Diggers. Like startled deer they sprang to their feet, and ran, or rather flew, toward the foot of the mountain. The hunters galloped to intercept them, but they were too late. Before they could come up, the Diggers had dived into the crevices of the rocks, or were seen climbing like chamois along the cliffs, far out of reach.One of the hunters only—Sanchez—succeeded in making a capture. His victim had reached a high ledge, and was scrambling along it, when the lasso of the bull-fighter settled round his neck. The next moment he was plucked out into the air, and fell with a “cranch” upon the rocks!I rode forward to look at him. He was dead. He had been crushed by the fall; in fact, mangled to a shapeless mass, and exhibited a most loathsome and hideous sight.The unfeeling hunter recked not of this. With a coarse jest he stooped over the body; and severing the scalp, stuck it, reeking and bloody, behind the waist of his calzoneros!
Our first impulse was to rush down the ravine, satisfy our thirst at the spring, and our hunger on the half-polished bones that were strewed over the prairie. Prudence, however, restrained us.
“Wait till they’re clar gone,” said Garey. “They’ll be out o’ sight in three skips o’ a goat.”
“Yes! stay where we are a bit,” added another; “some of them may ride back; something may be forgotten.”
This was not improbable; and in spite of the promptings of our appetites, we resolved to remain a while longer in the defile.
We descended straightway into the thicket to make preparations for moving—to saddle our horses and take off their mufflings, which by this time had nearly blinded them. Poor brutes! they seemed to know that relief was at hand.
While we were engaged in these operations, our vidette was kept at the top of the hill to watch both bands, and warn us when their heads should sink to the prairie level.
“I wonder why the Navajoes have gone by the Ojo de Vaca,” remarked our chief, with an apparent anxiety in his manner. “It is well our comrades did not remain there.”
“They’ll be tired o’ waitin’ on us, whar they are,” rejoined Garey, “unless blacktails is plentier among them Musquites than I think for.”
“Vaya!” exclaimed Sanchez; “they may thank the Santisima they were not in our company! I’m spent to a skeleton. Mira! carrai!”
Our horses were at length bridled and saddled, and our lassoes coiled up. Still the vidette had not warned us. We grew every moment more impatient.
“Come!” cried one; “hang it! they’re far enough now. They’re not a-goin’ to be gapin’ back all the way. They’re looking ahead, I’m bound. Golly! thar’s fine shines afore them.”
We could resist no longer. We called out to the vidette. He could just see the heads of the hindmost.
“That will do,” cried Seguin; “come, take your horses!”
The men obeyed with alacrity, and we all moved down the ravine, leading our animals.
We pressed forward to the opening. A young man, the pueblo servant of Seguin, was ahead of the rest. He was impatient to reach the water. He had gained the mouth of the defile, when we saw him fall back with frightening looks, dragging at his horse and exclaiming—
“Mi amo! mi amo! to davia son!” (Master, master! they are here yet!)
“Who?” inquired Seguin, running forward in haste.
“The Indians, master; the Indians!”
“You are mad! Where did you see them?”
“In the camp, master. Look yonder!”
I pressed forward with Seguin to the rocks that lay along the entrance of the defile. We looked cautiously over. A singular sight met our eyes.
The camp-ground was lying as the Indians had left it. The stakes were still standing; the shaggy hides of the buffaloes, and pile of their bones, were strewn upon the plain; hundreds of coyotes were loping back and forward, snarling at one another, or pursuing one of their number which had picked up a nicer morsel than his companions. The fires were still smouldering, and the wolves galloped through the ashes, raising them in yellow clouds.
But there was a sight stranger than all this, a startling sight to me. Five or six forms, almost human, were moving about among the fires, collecting the débris of skins and bones, and quarrelling with the wolves that barked round them in troops. Five or six others, similar forms were seated around a pile of burning wood, silently gnawing at half roasted ribs. Can they be—yes, they are human beings!
I was for a moment awe-struck as I gazed at the shrivelled and dwarfish bodies, the long, ape-like arms, and huge disproportioned heads, from which fell their hair in snaky tangles, black and matted.
But one or two appeared to have any article of dress, and that was a ragged breech-clout. The others were naked as the wild beasts around them, naked from head to foot!
It was a horrid sight to look upon these fiend-like dwarfs squatted around the fires, holding up half-naked bones in their long, wrinkled arms, and tearing off the flesh with their glistening teeth. It was a horrid sight, indeed; and it was some moments before I could recover sufficiently from my amazement to inquire who or what they were. I did so at length.
“Los Yamparicos,” answered the cibolero.
“Who?” I asked again.
“Los Indios Yamparicos, señor.”
“The Diggers, the Diggers,” said a hunter, thinking that would better explain the strange apparitions.
“Yes, they are Digger Indians,” added Seguin. “Come on; we have nothing to fear from them.”
“But we have somethin’ to git from them,” rejoined one of the hunters, with a significant look. “Digger plew good as any other; worth jest as much as ’Pash chief.”
“No one must fire,” said Seguin, in a firm tone. “It is too soon yet; look yonder!” and he pointed over the plain, where two or three glancing objects, the helmets of the retreating warriors, could still be seen above the grass.
“How are we goin’ to get them, then, captain?” inquired the hunter. “They’ll beat us to the rocks; they kin run like scared dogs.”
“Better let them go, poor devils!” said Seguin, seemingly unwilling that blood should be spilled so wantonly.
“No, captain,” rejoined the same speaker, “we won’t fire, but we’ll git them, if we kin, ’ithout it. Boys, follow me down this way.”
And the man was about guiding his horse in among the loose rocks, so as to pass unperceived between the dwarfs and the mountain.
But the brutal fellow was frustrated in his design; for at that moment El Sol and his sister appeared in the opening, and their brilliant habiliments caught the eyes of the Diggers. Like startled deer they sprang to their feet, and ran, or rather flew, toward the foot of the mountain. The hunters galloped to intercept them, but they were too late. Before they could come up, the Diggers had dived into the crevices of the rocks, or were seen climbing like chamois along the cliffs, far out of reach.
One of the hunters only—Sanchez—succeeded in making a capture. His victim had reached a high ledge, and was scrambling along it, when the lasso of the bull-fighter settled round his neck. The next moment he was plucked out into the air, and fell with a “cranch” upon the rocks!
I rode forward to look at him. He was dead. He had been crushed by the fall; in fact, mangled to a shapeless mass, and exhibited a most loathsome and hideous sight.
The unfeeling hunter recked not of this. With a coarse jest he stooped over the body; and severing the scalp, stuck it, reeking and bloody, behind the waist of his calzoneros!
Chapter Twenty Eight.Dacoma.We all now hurried forward to the spring, and, dismounting, turned our horses’ heads to the water, leaving them to drink at will. We had no fear of their running away.Our own thirst required slaking as much as theirs; and, crowding into the branch, we poured the cold water down our throats in cupfuls. We felt as though we should never be surfeited; but another appetite, equally strong, lured us away from the spring; and we ran over the camp-ground in search of the means to gratify it. We scattered the coyotes and white wolves with our shouts, and drove them with missiles from the ground.We were about stooping to pick up the dust-covered morsels, when a strange exclamation from one of the hunters caused us to look hastily round.“Malaray, camarados; mira el arco!”The Mexican who uttered these words stood pointing to an object that lay upon the ground at his feet. We ran up to ascertain what it was.“Caspita!” again ejaculated the man. “It is a white bow!”“A white bow, by gosh!” echoed Garey.“A white bow!” shouted several others, eyeing the object with looks of astonishment and alarm.“That belonged to a big warrior, I’ll sartify,” said Garey.“Ay,” added another, “an’ one that’ll ride back for it as soon as—holies! look yonder! he’s coming by—!”Our eyes rolled over the prairie together, eastward, as the speaker pointed. An object was just visible low down on the horizon, like a moving blazing star. It was not that. At a glance we all knew what it was. It was a helmet, flashing under the sunbeam, as it rose and fell to the measured gallop of a horse.“To the willows, men! to the willows!” shouted Seguin. “Drop the bow! Leave it where it was. To your horses! Lead them! Crouch! crouch!”We all ran to our horses, and, seizing the bridles, half-led, half-dragged them within the willow thicket. We leaped into our saddles, so as to be ready for any emergency, and sat peering through the leaves that screened us.“Shall we fire as he comes up, captain?” asked one of the men.“No.”“We kin take him nicely, just as he stoops for the bow.”“No; not for your lives!”“What then, captain?”“Let him take it, and go,” was Seguin’s reply.“Why, captain? what’s that for?”“Fools! do you not see that the whole tribe would be back upon our trail before midnight? Are you mad? Let him go. He may not notice our tracks, as our horses are not shod. If so, let him go as he came, I tell you.”“But how, captain, if he squints yonder-away?”Garey, as he said this, pointed to the rocks at the foot of the mountain.“Sac-r–r–ré! the Digger!” exclaimed Seguin, his countenance changing expression.The body lay on a conspicuous point, on its face, the crimson skull turned upward and outward, so that it could hardly fail to attract the eye of anyone coming in from the plain. Several coyotes had already climbed up on the slab where it lay, and were smelling around it, seemingly not caring to touch the hideous morsel.“He’s bound to see it, captain,” added the hunter.“If so, we must take him with the lance, the lasso, or alive. No gun must be fired. They might still hear it, and would be on us before we could get round the mountain. No! sling your guns! Let those who have lances and lassoes get them in readiness.”“When would you have us make the dash, captain?”“Leave that to me. Perhaps he may dismount for the bow; or, if not, he may ride into the spring to water his horse, then we can surround him. If he see the Digger’s body, he may pass up to examine it more closely. In that case we can intercept him without difficulty. Be patient! I shall give you the signal.”During all this time, the Navajo was coming up at a regular gallop. As the dialogue ended, he had got within about three hundred yards of the spring, and still pressed forward without slackening his pace. We kept our gaze fixed upon him in breathless silence, eyeing both man and horse.It was a splendid sight. The horse was a large, coal-black mustang, with fiery eyes and red, open nostrils. He was foaming at the mouth, and the white flakes had clouted his throat, counter, and shoulders. He was wet all over, and glittered as he moved with the play of his proud flanks. The rider was naked from the waist up, excepting his helmet and plumes, and some ornaments that glistened on his neck, bosom and wrists. A tunic-like skirt, bright and embroidered, covered his hips and thighs. Below the knee his legs were naked, ending in a buskined moccasin, that fitted tightly round the ankle. Unlike the Apaches,there was no paint upon his body, and his bronze complexion shone with the hue of health. His features were noble and warlike, his eye bold and piercing, and his long black hair swept away behind him, mingling with the tail of his horse. He rode upon a Spanish saddle with his lance poised on the stirrup, and resting lightly against his right arm. His left was thrust through the strap of a white shield, and a quiver with its feathered shafts peeped over his shoulder.His bow was before him.It was a splendid sight, both horse and rider, as they rose together over the green swells of the prairie; a picture more like that of some Homeric hero than a savage of the wild west.“Wagh!” exclaimed one of the hunters in an undertone; “how they glitter! Look at that ’ar headpiece! It’s fairly a-blazin’!”“Ay,” rejoined Garey, “we may thank the piece o’ brass. We’d have been in as ugly a fix as he’s in now if we hadn’t sighted it in time. What!” continued the trapper, his voice rising into earnestness; “Dacoma, by the Etarnal! The second chief of the Navajoes!”I turned toward Seguin to witness the effect of this announcement. The Maricopa was leaning over to him, muttering some words in an unknown tongue, and gesticulating with energy. I recognised the name “Dacoma,” and there was an expression of fierce hatred in the chief’s countenance as he pointed to the advancing horseman.“Well, then,” answered Seguin, apparently assenting to the wishes of the other, “he shall not escape, whether he sees it or no. But do not use your gun; they are not ten miles off, yonder behind the swell. We can easily surround him. If not, I can overtake him on this horse, and here’s another.”As Seguin uttered the last speech he pointed to Moro. “Silence!” he continued, lowering his voice. “Hish-sh!”The silence became death-like. Each man sat pressing his horse with his knees, as if thus to hold him at rest.The Navajo had now reached the border of the deserted camp; and inclining to the left, he galloped down the line, scattering the wolves as he went. He sat leaning to one side, his gaze searching the ground. When nearly opposite to our ambush, he descried the object of his search, and sliding his feet out of the stirrup, guided his horse so as to shave closely past it. Then, without reining in, or even slacking his pace, he bent over until his plume swept the earth, and picking up the bow, swung himself back into the saddle.“Beautiful!” exclaimed the bull-fighter.“By gosh! it’s a pity to kill him,” muttered a hunter; and a low murmur of admiration was heard among the men.After a few more springs, the Indian suddenly wheeled, and was about to gallop back, when his eye was caught by the ensanguined object upon the rock. He reined in with a jerk, until the hips of his horse almost rested upon the prairie, and sat gazing upon the body with a look of surprise.“Beautiful!” again exclaimed Sanchez; “carambo, beautiful!”It was, in effect, as fine a picture as ever the eye looked upon. The horse with his tail scattered upon the ground, with crest erect and breathing nostril, quivering under the impulse of his masterly rider; the rider himself, with his glancing helmet and waving plumes, his bronze complexion, his firm and graceful seat, and his eye fixed in the gaze of wonder.It was, as Sanchez had said, a beautiful picture—a living statue; and all of us were filled with admiration as we looked upon it. Not one of the party, with perhaps an exception, should have liked to fire the shot that would have tumbled it from its pedestal.Horse and man remained in this attitude for some moments. Then the expression of the rider’s countenance suddenly changed. His eye wandered with an inquiring and somewhat terrified look. It rested upon the water, still muddy with the trampling of our horses.One glance was sufficient; and, with a quick, strong jerk upon the bridle, the savage horseman wheeled, and struck out for the prairie.Our charging signal had been given at the same instant; and springing forward, we shot out of the copse-wood in a body.We had to cross the rivulet. Seguin was some paces in advance as we rode forward to it. I saw his horse suddenly baulk, stumble over the bank, and roll headlong into the water!The rest of us went splashing through. I did not stop to look back. I knew that now the taking of the Indian was life or death to all of us; and I struck my spur deeply, and strained forward in the pursuit.For some time we all rode together in a dense clump. When fairly out on the plain, we saw the Indian ahead of us about a dozen lengths of his horse, and one and all felt with dismay that he was keeping his distance, if not actually increasing it.We had forgotten the condition of our animals. They were faint with hunger, and stiff from standing so long in the ravine. Moreover, they had just drunk to a surfeit.I soon found that I was forging ahead of my companions. The superior swiftness of Moro gave me the advantage. El Sol was still before me. I saw him circling his lasso; I saw him launch it, and suddenly jerk up; I saw the loop sliding over the hips of the flying mustang. He had missed his aim.He was recoiling the rope as I shot past him, and I noticed his look of chagrin and disappointment.My Arab had now warmed to the chase, and I was soon far ahead of my comrades. I perceived, too, that I was closing upon the Navajo. Every spring brought me nearer, until there were not a dozen lengths between us.I knew not how to act. I held my rifle in my hands, and could have shot the Indian in the back; but I remembered the injunction of Seguin, and we were now closer to the enemy than ever. I did not know but that we might be in sight of them. I dared not fire.I was still undecided whether to use my knife or endeavour to unhorse the Indian with my clubbed rifle, when he glanced over his shoulder and saw that I was alone.Suddenly he wheeled, and throwing his lance to a charge, came galloping back. His horse seemed to work without the rein, obedient to his voice and the touch of his knees.I had just time to throw up my rifle and parry the charge, which was a right point. I did not parry it successfully. The blade grazed my arm, tearing my flesh. The barrel of my rifle caught in the sling of the lance, and the piece was whipped out of my hands.The wound, the shock, and the loss of my weapon, had discomposed me in the manage of my horse, and it was some time before I could gain the bridle to turn him. Myantagonist had wheeled sooner, as I knew by the “hist” of an arrow that scattered the curls over my right ear. As I faced him again, another was on the string, and the next moment it was sticking through my left arm.I was now angry; and, drawing a pistol from the holster, I cocked it, and galloped forward. I knew it was the only chance for my life.The Indian, at the same time, dropped his bow, and, bringing his lance to the charge, spurred on to meet me. I was determined not to fire until near and sure of hitting.We closed at full gallop. Our horses almost touched. I levelled and pulled trigger. The cap snapped upon my pistol!The lance-blade glittered in my eyes; its point was at my breast. Something struck me sharply in the face. It was the ring-loop of a lasso. I saw it settle over the shoulders of the Indian, falling to his elbows. It tightened as it fell. There was a wild yell, a quick jerk of my antagonist’s body, the lance flew from his hands, and the next moment he was plucked out of his saddle, and lying helpless upon the prairie.His horse met mine with a concussion that sent both of them to the earth. We rolled and scrambled about, and rose again.When I came to my feet, El Sol was standing over the Navajo, with his knife drawn, and his lasso looped around the arms of his captive.“The horse! the horse! secure the horse!” shouted Seguin, as he galloped up; and the crowd dashed past me in pursuit of the mustang, which, with trailing bridle, was scouring over the prairie.In a few minutes the animal was lassoed, and led back to the spot so near being made sacred with my grave.
We all now hurried forward to the spring, and, dismounting, turned our horses’ heads to the water, leaving them to drink at will. We had no fear of their running away.
Our own thirst required slaking as much as theirs; and, crowding into the branch, we poured the cold water down our throats in cupfuls. We felt as though we should never be surfeited; but another appetite, equally strong, lured us away from the spring; and we ran over the camp-ground in search of the means to gratify it. We scattered the coyotes and white wolves with our shouts, and drove them with missiles from the ground.
We were about stooping to pick up the dust-covered morsels, when a strange exclamation from one of the hunters caused us to look hastily round.
“Malaray, camarados; mira el arco!”
The Mexican who uttered these words stood pointing to an object that lay upon the ground at his feet. We ran up to ascertain what it was.
“Caspita!” again ejaculated the man. “It is a white bow!”
“A white bow, by gosh!” echoed Garey.
“A white bow!” shouted several others, eyeing the object with looks of astonishment and alarm.
“That belonged to a big warrior, I’ll sartify,” said Garey.
“Ay,” added another, “an’ one that’ll ride back for it as soon as—holies! look yonder! he’s coming by—!”
Our eyes rolled over the prairie together, eastward, as the speaker pointed. An object was just visible low down on the horizon, like a moving blazing star. It was not that. At a glance we all knew what it was. It was a helmet, flashing under the sunbeam, as it rose and fell to the measured gallop of a horse.
“To the willows, men! to the willows!” shouted Seguin. “Drop the bow! Leave it where it was. To your horses! Lead them! Crouch! crouch!”
We all ran to our horses, and, seizing the bridles, half-led, half-dragged them within the willow thicket. We leaped into our saddles, so as to be ready for any emergency, and sat peering through the leaves that screened us.
“Shall we fire as he comes up, captain?” asked one of the men.
“No.”
“We kin take him nicely, just as he stoops for the bow.”
“No; not for your lives!”
“What then, captain?”
“Let him take it, and go,” was Seguin’s reply.
“Why, captain? what’s that for?”
“Fools! do you not see that the whole tribe would be back upon our trail before midnight? Are you mad? Let him go. He may not notice our tracks, as our horses are not shod. If so, let him go as he came, I tell you.”
“But how, captain, if he squints yonder-away?”
Garey, as he said this, pointed to the rocks at the foot of the mountain.
“Sac-r–r–ré! the Digger!” exclaimed Seguin, his countenance changing expression.
The body lay on a conspicuous point, on its face, the crimson skull turned upward and outward, so that it could hardly fail to attract the eye of anyone coming in from the plain. Several coyotes had already climbed up on the slab where it lay, and were smelling around it, seemingly not caring to touch the hideous morsel.
“He’s bound to see it, captain,” added the hunter.
“If so, we must take him with the lance, the lasso, or alive. No gun must be fired. They might still hear it, and would be on us before we could get round the mountain. No! sling your guns! Let those who have lances and lassoes get them in readiness.”
“When would you have us make the dash, captain?”
“Leave that to me. Perhaps he may dismount for the bow; or, if not, he may ride into the spring to water his horse, then we can surround him. If he see the Digger’s body, he may pass up to examine it more closely. In that case we can intercept him without difficulty. Be patient! I shall give you the signal.”
During all this time, the Navajo was coming up at a regular gallop. As the dialogue ended, he had got within about three hundred yards of the spring, and still pressed forward without slackening his pace. We kept our gaze fixed upon him in breathless silence, eyeing both man and horse.
It was a splendid sight. The horse was a large, coal-black mustang, with fiery eyes and red, open nostrils. He was foaming at the mouth, and the white flakes had clouted his throat, counter, and shoulders. He was wet all over, and glittered as he moved with the play of his proud flanks. The rider was naked from the waist up, excepting his helmet and plumes, and some ornaments that glistened on his neck, bosom and wrists. A tunic-like skirt, bright and embroidered, covered his hips and thighs. Below the knee his legs were naked, ending in a buskined moccasin, that fitted tightly round the ankle. Unlike the Apaches,there was no paint upon his body, and his bronze complexion shone with the hue of health. His features were noble and warlike, his eye bold and piercing, and his long black hair swept away behind him, mingling with the tail of his horse. He rode upon a Spanish saddle with his lance poised on the stirrup, and resting lightly against his right arm. His left was thrust through the strap of a white shield, and a quiver with its feathered shafts peeped over his shoulder.
His bow was before him.
It was a splendid sight, both horse and rider, as they rose together over the green swells of the prairie; a picture more like that of some Homeric hero than a savage of the wild west.
“Wagh!” exclaimed one of the hunters in an undertone; “how they glitter! Look at that ’ar headpiece! It’s fairly a-blazin’!”
“Ay,” rejoined Garey, “we may thank the piece o’ brass. We’d have been in as ugly a fix as he’s in now if we hadn’t sighted it in time. What!” continued the trapper, his voice rising into earnestness; “Dacoma, by the Etarnal! The second chief of the Navajoes!”
I turned toward Seguin to witness the effect of this announcement. The Maricopa was leaning over to him, muttering some words in an unknown tongue, and gesticulating with energy. I recognised the name “Dacoma,” and there was an expression of fierce hatred in the chief’s countenance as he pointed to the advancing horseman.
“Well, then,” answered Seguin, apparently assenting to the wishes of the other, “he shall not escape, whether he sees it or no. But do not use your gun; they are not ten miles off, yonder behind the swell. We can easily surround him. If not, I can overtake him on this horse, and here’s another.”
As Seguin uttered the last speech he pointed to Moro. “Silence!” he continued, lowering his voice. “Hish-sh!”
The silence became death-like. Each man sat pressing his horse with his knees, as if thus to hold him at rest.
The Navajo had now reached the border of the deserted camp; and inclining to the left, he galloped down the line, scattering the wolves as he went. He sat leaning to one side, his gaze searching the ground. When nearly opposite to our ambush, he descried the object of his search, and sliding his feet out of the stirrup, guided his horse so as to shave closely past it. Then, without reining in, or even slacking his pace, he bent over until his plume swept the earth, and picking up the bow, swung himself back into the saddle.
“Beautiful!” exclaimed the bull-fighter.
“By gosh! it’s a pity to kill him,” muttered a hunter; and a low murmur of admiration was heard among the men.
After a few more springs, the Indian suddenly wheeled, and was about to gallop back, when his eye was caught by the ensanguined object upon the rock. He reined in with a jerk, until the hips of his horse almost rested upon the prairie, and sat gazing upon the body with a look of surprise.
“Beautiful!” again exclaimed Sanchez; “carambo, beautiful!”
It was, in effect, as fine a picture as ever the eye looked upon. The horse with his tail scattered upon the ground, with crest erect and breathing nostril, quivering under the impulse of his masterly rider; the rider himself, with his glancing helmet and waving plumes, his bronze complexion, his firm and graceful seat, and his eye fixed in the gaze of wonder.
It was, as Sanchez had said, a beautiful picture—a living statue; and all of us were filled with admiration as we looked upon it. Not one of the party, with perhaps an exception, should have liked to fire the shot that would have tumbled it from its pedestal.
Horse and man remained in this attitude for some moments. Then the expression of the rider’s countenance suddenly changed. His eye wandered with an inquiring and somewhat terrified look. It rested upon the water, still muddy with the trampling of our horses.
One glance was sufficient; and, with a quick, strong jerk upon the bridle, the savage horseman wheeled, and struck out for the prairie.
Our charging signal had been given at the same instant; and springing forward, we shot out of the copse-wood in a body.
We had to cross the rivulet. Seguin was some paces in advance as we rode forward to it. I saw his horse suddenly baulk, stumble over the bank, and roll headlong into the water!
The rest of us went splashing through. I did not stop to look back. I knew that now the taking of the Indian was life or death to all of us; and I struck my spur deeply, and strained forward in the pursuit.
For some time we all rode together in a dense clump. When fairly out on the plain, we saw the Indian ahead of us about a dozen lengths of his horse, and one and all felt with dismay that he was keeping his distance, if not actually increasing it.
We had forgotten the condition of our animals. They were faint with hunger, and stiff from standing so long in the ravine. Moreover, they had just drunk to a surfeit.
I soon found that I was forging ahead of my companions. The superior swiftness of Moro gave me the advantage. El Sol was still before me. I saw him circling his lasso; I saw him launch it, and suddenly jerk up; I saw the loop sliding over the hips of the flying mustang. He had missed his aim.
He was recoiling the rope as I shot past him, and I noticed his look of chagrin and disappointment.
My Arab had now warmed to the chase, and I was soon far ahead of my comrades. I perceived, too, that I was closing upon the Navajo. Every spring brought me nearer, until there were not a dozen lengths between us.
I knew not how to act. I held my rifle in my hands, and could have shot the Indian in the back; but I remembered the injunction of Seguin, and we were now closer to the enemy than ever. I did not know but that we might be in sight of them. I dared not fire.
I was still undecided whether to use my knife or endeavour to unhorse the Indian with my clubbed rifle, when he glanced over his shoulder and saw that I was alone.
Suddenly he wheeled, and throwing his lance to a charge, came galloping back. His horse seemed to work without the rein, obedient to his voice and the touch of his knees.
I had just time to throw up my rifle and parry the charge, which was a right point. I did not parry it successfully. The blade grazed my arm, tearing my flesh. The barrel of my rifle caught in the sling of the lance, and the piece was whipped out of my hands.
The wound, the shock, and the loss of my weapon, had discomposed me in the manage of my horse, and it was some time before I could gain the bridle to turn him. Myantagonist had wheeled sooner, as I knew by the “hist” of an arrow that scattered the curls over my right ear. As I faced him again, another was on the string, and the next moment it was sticking through my left arm.
I was now angry; and, drawing a pistol from the holster, I cocked it, and galloped forward. I knew it was the only chance for my life.
The Indian, at the same time, dropped his bow, and, bringing his lance to the charge, spurred on to meet me. I was determined not to fire until near and sure of hitting.
We closed at full gallop. Our horses almost touched. I levelled and pulled trigger. The cap snapped upon my pistol!
The lance-blade glittered in my eyes; its point was at my breast. Something struck me sharply in the face. It was the ring-loop of a lasso. I saw it settle over the shoulders of the Indian, falling to his elbows. It tightened as it fell. There was a wild yell, a quick jerk of my antagonist’s body, the lance flew from his hands, and the next moment he was plucked out of his saddle, and lying helpless upon the prairie.
His horse met mine with a concussion that sent both of them to the earth. We rolled and scrambled about, and rose again.
When I came to my feet, El Sol was standing over the Navajo, with his knife drawn, and his lasso looped around the arms of his captive.
“The horse! the horse! secure the horse!” shouted Seguin, as he galloped up; and the crowd dashed past me in pursuit of the mustang, which, with trailing bridle, was scouring over the prairie.
In a few minutes the animal was lassoed, and led back to the spot so near being made sacred with my grave.
Chapter Twenty Nine.A Dinner with Two Dishes.El Sol, I have said, was standing over the prostrate Indian. His countenance indicated the blending of two emotions, hate and triumph.His sister at this moment galloped up, and, leaping from her horse, advanced rapidly forward.“Behold!” said he, pointing to the Navajo chief; “behold the murderer of our mother!”The girl uttered a short, sharp exclamation; and, drawing a knife, rushed upon the captive.“No, Luna!” cried El Sol, putting her aside; “no; we are not assassins. That is not revenge. He shall not yet die. We will show him alive to the squaws of the Maricopa. They shall dance the mamanchic over this great chief—this warrior captured without a wound!”El Sol uttered these words in a contemptuous tone. The effect was visible on the Navajo.“Dog of a Coco!” cried he, making an involuntary struggle to free himself; “dog of a Coco! leagued with the pale robbers. Dog!”“Ha! you remember me, Dacoma? It is well—”“Dog!” again ejaculated the Navajo, interrupting him; and the words hissed through his teeth, while his eyes glared with an expression of the fiercest malignity.“He! he!” cried Rube, at this moment galloping up; “he! he! that Injun’s as savagerous as a meat axe. Lamm him! Warm his collops wi’ the bull rope; he’s warmed my old mar. Nick syrup him!”“Let us look to your wound, Monsieur Haller,” said Seguin, alighting from his horse, and approaching me, as I thought, with an uneasiness of manner. “How is it? through the flesh? You are safe enough; if, indeed, the arrow has not been poisoned. I tear—El Sol! here! quick, my friend! tell me if this point has been dipped.”“Let us first take it out,” replied the Maricopa, coming up; “we shall lose no time by that.”The arrow was sticking through my forearm. The barb had pierced through the flesh, until about half of the shaft appeared on the opposite side.El Sol caught the feather end in both his hands, and snapped it at the lapping. He then took hold of the barb and drew it gently out of the wound.“Let it bleed,” said he, “till I have examined the point. It does not look like a war-shaft; but the Navajoes use a very subtle poison. Fortunately I possess the means of detecting it, as well as its antidote.”As he said this, he took from his pouch a tuft of raw cotton. With this he rubbed the blood lightly from the blade. He then drew forth a small stone phial, and, pouring a few drops of liquid upon the metal, watched the result.I waited with no slight feeling of uneasiness. Seguin, too, appeared anxious; and as I knew that he must have oftentimes witnessed the effect of a poisoned arrow, I did not feel very comfortable, seeing him watch the assaying process with so much apparent anxiety. I knew there was danger where he dreaded it.“Monsieur Haller,” said El Sol, at length, “you are in luck this time. I think I may call it luck, for your antagonist has surely some in his quiver not quite so harmless as this one.“Let me see,” he added; and, stepping up to the Navajo, he drew another arrow from the quiver that still remained slung upon the Indian’s back. After subjecting the blade to a similar test, he exclaimed—“I told you so. Look at this, green as a plantain! He fired two: where is the other? Comrades, help me to find it. Such a tell-tale as that must not be left behind us.”Several of the men leaped from their horses, and searched for the shaft that had been shot first. I pointed out the direction and probable distance as near as I could, and in a few moments it was picked up.El Sol took it, and poured a few drops of his liquid on the blade. It turned green like the other.“You may thank your saints, Monsieur Haller,” said the Coco, “it was not this one made that hole in your arm, else it would have taken all the skill of Doctor Reichter and myself to have saved you. But what’s this? Another wound! Ha! He touched you as he made his right point. Let me look at it.”“I think it is only a scratch.”“This is a strange climate, Monsieur Haller. I have seen scratches become mortal wounds when not sufficiently valued. Luna! Some cotton, sis! I shall endeavour to dress yours so that you need not fear that result. You deserve that much at my hands. But for you, sir, he would have escaped me.”“But for you, sir, he would have killed me.”“Well,” replied the Coco, with a smile, “it is possible you would not have come off so well. Your weapon played you false. It is hardly just to expect a man to parry a lance-point with a clubbed rifle, though it was beautifully done. I do not wonder that you pulled trigger in the second joust. I intended doing so myself, had the lasso failed me again. But we are in luck both ways. You must sling this arm for a day or two. Luna! that scarf of yours.”“No!” said I, as the girl proceeded to unfasten a beautiful scarf which she wore around her waist; “you shall not: I will find something else.”“Here, mister; if this will do,” interposed the young trapper Garey, “you are heartily welcome to it.”As Garey said this, he pulled a coloured handkerchief out of the breast of his hunting-shirt, and held it forth.“You are very kind; thank you!” I replied, although I knew on whose account the kerchief was given; “you will be pleased to accept this in return.” And I offered him one of my small revolvers—a weapon that, at that time and in that place, was worth its weight in pearls.The mountain man knew this, and very gratefully accepted the proffered gift; but much as he might have prized it, I saw that he was still more gratified with a simple smile that he received from another quarter, and I felt certain that the scarf would soon change owners, at any rate.I watched the countenance of El Sol to see if he had noticed or approved of this little by-play. I could perceive no unusual emotion upon it. He was busy with my wounds, which he dressed in a manner that would have done credit to a member of the R.C.S.“Now,” said he, when he had finished, “you will be ready for as much more fighting in a couple of days at the furthest. You have a bad bridle-arm, Monsieur Haller, but the best horse I ever saw. I do not wonder at your refusing to sell him.”Most of the conversation had been carried on in English; and it was spoken by the Coco chief with an accent and emphasis, to my ear, as good as I had ever heard. He spoke French, too, like a Parisian; and it was in this language that he usually conversed with Seguin. I wondered at all this.The men had remounted, with the intention of returning to the camp. Extreme hunger was now prompting us, and we commenced riding back to partake of the repast so unceremoniously interrupted.At a short distance from the camp we dismounted, and, picketing our horses upon the grass, walked forward to search for the stray steaks and ribs we had lately seen in plenty. A new chagrin awaited us; not a morsel of flesh remained! The coyotes had taken advantage of our absence, and we could see nothing around us but naked bones. The thighs and ribs of the buffaloes had been polished as if scraped with a knife. Even the hideous carcass of the Digger had become a shining skeleton!“Wagh!” exclaimed one of the hunters; “wolf now or nothing: hyar goes!” and the man levelled his rifle.“Hold!” exclaimed Seguin, seeing the act. “Are you mad, sir?”“I reckon not, capt’n,” replied the hunter, doggedly bringing down his piece. “We must eat, I s’pose. I see nothin’ but them about; an’ how are we goin’ to get them ’ithout shootin’?”Seguin made no reply, except by pointing to the bow which El Sol was making ready.“Eh-ho!” added the hunter; “yer right, capt’n. I asks pardon. I had forgot that piece o’ bone.”The Coco took an arrow from the quiver, and tried the head with the assaying liquid. It proved to be a hunting-shaft; and, adjusting it to the string, he sent it through the body of a white wolf, killing it instantly. He took up the shaft again, and wiping the feather, shot another, and another, until the bodies of five or six of these animals lay stretched upon the ground.“Kill a coyote when ye’re about it,” shouted one of the hunters; “gentlemen like we oughter have leastwise two courses to our dinner.”The men laughed at this rough sally; and El Sol, smiling, again picked up the arrow, and sent it whizzing through the body of one of the coyotes.“I think that will be enough for one meal, at all events,” said El Sol, recovering the arrow, and putting it back into the quiver.“Ay!” replied the wit; “if we wants more we kin go back to the larder agin. It’s a kind o’ meat that eats better fresh, anyhow.”“Well, it diz, hoss. Wagh! I’m in for a griskin o’ the white. Hyar goes!”The hunters, laughing at the humour of their comrades, drew their shining knives, and set about skinning the wolves. The adroitness with which this operation was performed showed that it was by no means new to them.In a short time the animals were stripped of their hides and quarters; and each man, taking his quarter, commenced roasting it over the fire.“Fellers! what d’ye call this anyhow? Beef or mutton?” asked one, as they began to eat.“Wolf-mutton, I reckin,” was the reply.“It’s dog-gone good eatin’, I say; peels off as tender as squ’ll.”“It’s some’ut like goat, ain’t it?”“Mine tastes more like dog to me.”“It ain’t bad at all; better than poor bull any day.”“I’d like it a heap better if I war sure the thing hadn’t been up to yon varmint on the rocks.” And the man who said this pointed to the skeleton of the Digger.The idea was horrible, and under other circumstances would have acted as a sufficient emetic.“Wagh!” exclaimed a hunter; “ye’ve most taken away my stammuck. I was a-goin’ to try the coyoat afore ye spoke. I won’t now, for I seed them smellin’ about him afore we rid off.”“I say, old case, you don’t mind it, do ye?”This was addressed to Rube, who was busy on his rib and made no reply.“He? not he,” said another, answering for him. “Rube’s ate a heap o’ queery tit-bits in his time. Hain’t ye, Rube?”“Ay, an’ afore yur be as long in the mountains as this child, ’ee’ll be glad to get yur teeth over wuss chawin’s than wolf-meat; see if ’ee don’t, young fellur.”“Man-meat, I reckin?”“Ay, that’s what Rube means.”“Boyees!” said Rube, not heeding the remark, and apparently in good humour, now that he was satisfying his appetite, “what’s the nassiest thing, leavin’ out man-meat, any o’ ’ees iver chawed?”“Woman-meat, I reckin.”“’Ee chuckle-headed fool! yur needn’t be so peert now, showin’ yur smartness when ’tain’t called for nohow.”“Wal, leaving out man-meat, as you say,” remarked one of the hunters, in answer to Rube’s question, “a muss-rat’s the meanest thing I ever set teeth on.”“I’ve chawed sage-hare—raw at that,” said a second, “an’ I don’t want to eat anything that’s bitterer.”“Owl’s no great eatin’,” added a third.“I’ve ate skunk,” continued a fourth; “an’ I’ve ate sweeter meat in my time.”“Carrajo!” exclaimed a Mexican, “what do you think of monkey? I have dined upon that down south many’s the time.”“Wal, I guess monkey’s but tough chawin’s; but I’ve sharpened my teeth on dry buffler hide, and it wa’n’t as tender as it mout ’a been.”“This child,” said Rube, after the rest had given in their experience, “leavin’ monkey to the beside, have ate all them critturs as has been named yet. Monkey he hain’t, bein’ as thur’s none o’ ’em in these parts. It may be tough, or it mayn’t; it may be bitter, an’ it mayn’t, for what I knows to the contrairywise; but, oncest on a time, this niggur chawed a varmint that wa’n’t much sweeter, if it wur as sweet.”“What was it, Rube?”“What was it?” asked several in a breath, curious to know what the old trapper could have eaten more unpalatable than the viands already named.“’Twur turkey-buzzart, then; that’s what it wur.”“Turkey-buzzard!” echoed everyone.“’Twa’n’t any thin’ else.”“Wagh? that was a stinkin’ pill, an’ no mistake.”“That beats me all hollow.”“And when did ye eat the buzzard, old boy?” asked one, suspecting that there might be a story connected with this feat of the earless trapper.“Ay! tell us that, Rube; tell us!” cried several.“Wal,” commenced Rube, after a moment’s silence, “’twur about six yeern ago, I wur set afoot on the Arkansaw, by the Rapahoes, leastwise two hunder mile below the Big Timmer. The cussed skunks tuk hoss, beaver, an’ all. He! he!” continued the speaker with a chuckle; “he! he! they mout ’a did as well an’ let ole Rube alone.”“I reckon that, too,” remarked a hunter. “’Tain’t like they made much out o’ that speckelashun. Well—about the buzzard?”“’Ee see, I wur cleaned out, an’ left with jest a pair o’ leggins, better than two hunder miles from anywhur. Bent’s wur the nearest; an’ I tuk up the river in that direkshun.“I never seed varmint o’ all kinds as shy. They wudn’t ’a been if I’d ’a had my traps; but there wa’n’t a critter, from the minners in the waters to the bufflers on the paraira, that didn’t look like they knowed how this niggur were fixed. I kud git nuthin’ for two days but lizard, an’ scarce at that.”“Lizard’s but poor eatin’,” remarked one.“’Ee may say that. This hyur thigh jeint’s fat cow to it—it are.”And Rube, as he said this, made a fresh attack upon the wolf-mutton.“I chawed up the ole leggins, till I wur as naked as Chimley Rock.”“Gollies! was it winter?”“No. ’Twur calf-time, an’ warm enuf for that matter. I didn’t mind the want o’ the buckskin that a way, but I kud ’a eat more o’ it.“The third day I struck a town o’ sand-rats. This niggur’s har wur longer then than it ur now. I made snares o’ it, an’ trapped a lot o’ the rats; but they grew shy too, cuss ’em! an’ I had to quit that speck’lashun. This wur the third day from the time I’d been set down, an’ I wur getting nasty weak on it. I ’gin to think that the time wur come for this child to go under.“’Twur a leetle arter sun-up, an’ I wur sittin’ on the bank, when I seed somethin’ queery floatin’ a-down the river. When I kim closer, I seed it wur the karkidge o’ a buffler—calf at that—an’ a couple o’ buzzarts floppin’ about on the thing, pickin’ its peepers out. ’Twur far out, an’ the water deep; but I’d made up my mind to fetch it ashore. I wa’n’t long in strippin’, I reckin.”Here the hunters interrupted Rube’s story with a laugh.“I tuk the water, an’ swam out. I kud smell the thing afore I wur half-way, an’ when I got near it, the birds mizzled. I wur soon clost up, an’ seed at a glimp that the calf wur as rotten as punk.”“What a pity!” exclaimed one of the hunters.“I wa’n’t a-gwine to have my swim for nuthin’; so I tuk the tail in my teeth, an’ swam back for the shore. I hadn’t made three strokes till the tail pulled out!“I then swum round ahint the karkidge, an’ pushed it afore me till I got it landed high an’ dry upon a sandbar. ’Twur like to fall to pieces, when I pulled it out o’ the water. ’Twa’n’t eatable nohow!”Here Rube took a fresh mouthful of the wolf-mutton, and remained silent until he had masticated it. The men had become interested in the story, and waited with impatience. At length he proceeded—“I seed the buzzarts still flyin’ about, an’ fresh ones a-comin’. I tuk a idee that I mout git my claws upon some o’ ’em. So I lay down clost up agin the calf, an’ played ’possum.“I wa’n’t long that a way when the birds begun to light on the sandbar, an’ a big cock kim floppin’ up to the karkidge. Afore he kud flop up agin, I grupped him by the legs.”“Hooraw! well done, by gollies!”“The cussed thing wur nearly as stinkin’ as t’other, but it wur die dog—buzzart or calf—so I skinned the buzzart.”“And ate it?” inquired an impatient listener. “No-o,” slowly drawled Rube, apparently “miffed” at being thus interrupted. “It ate me.”The laugh that followed this retort restored the old trapper to good humour again.“Did you go it raw, Rube?” asked one of the hunters. “How could he do otherwise? He hadn’t a spark o’ fire, an’ nothing to make one out of.”“Yur’n etarnal fool!” exclaimed Rube, turning savagely on the last speaker. “I kud make a fire if thur wa’n’t a spark anywhar!”A yell of laughter followed this speech, and it was some minutes before the trapper recovered his temper sufficiently to resume his narration.“The rest o’ the birds,” continued he at length, “seein’ the ole cock rubbed out, grew shy, and kep away on t’other side o’ the river. ’Twa’n’t no use tryin’ that dodge over agin. Jest then I spied a coyoat comin’ lopin’ down the bank, an’ another follerin’ upon his heels, an’ two or three more on the same trail. I know’d it wud be no joke gruppin’ one o’ them by the leg, but I made up my mind to try it; an’ I lay down jest as afore, close up to the calf. ’Twur no go. The cunnin’ things seed the float stick, an’ kep clur o’ the karkidge. I wur a-gwine to cacher under some bush that wur by, an’ I begun to carry it up, when all of a suddint I tuk a fresh idee in my head. I seed thur wur drift-wood a plenty on the bank, so I fotched it up, an’ built a pen-trap roun’ about the calf. In the twinklin’ o’ a goat’s eye I had six varmints in the trap.”“Hooraw! Ye war safe then, old hoss.”“I tuk a lot o’ stones, an’ then clomb up on the pen, an’ killed the hul kit on ’em. Lord, boyees! ’ee never seed sich a snappin’, and snarlin’, and jumpin’, an’ yowltin’, as when I peppered them donicks down on ’em. He! he! he! Ho! ho! hoo!”And the smoky old sinner chuckled with delight at the remembrance of his adventure.“You reached Bent’s then safe enough, I reckin?”“’Ee—es. I skinned the critters wi’ a sharp stone, an’ made me a sort o’ shirt an’ leggins. This niggur had no mind, comin’ in naked, to gi’ them thur joke at the Fort. I packed enough of the wolf-meat to last me up, an’ I got there in less’n a week. Bill wur thur himself, an’ ’ee all know Bill Bent. He know’d me. I wa’n’t in the Fort a half an hour till I were spick-span in new buckskins, wi’ a new rifle; an’ that rifle wur Tar-guts, now afore ye.”“Ha! you got Tear-guts thar then?”“I got Tar-guts thur then, an’ a gun she ur. He! he! he! ’Twa’n’t long arter I got her till I tried her. He! he! he! Ho! ho! hoo!”And the old trapper went off into another fit of chuckling.“What are ye laughin’ at now, Rube?” asked one of his comrades.“He! he! he! What am I larfin’ at? He! he! he! Ho! ho! That ur the crisp o’ the joke. He! he! he! What am I larfin’ at?”“Yes; tell us, man!”“It are this then I’m larfin’ at,” replied Rube, sobering down a little, “I wa’n’t at Bent’s three days when who do ’ee think shed kum to the Fort?”“Who? Maybe the Rapahoes!”“Them same Injuns; an’ the very niggurs as set me afoot. They kum to the Fort to trade wi’ Bill, an’ thur I sees both my old mar an’ rifle!”“You got them back then?”“That wur likely. Thur wur a sight o’ mountainy men thur, at the time, that wa’n’t the fellurs to see this child put down on the parairar for nuthin’. Yander’s the critter!” and Rube pointed to the old mare. “The rifle I gin to Bill, an’ kep Tar-guts instead, seeing she wur a better gun.”“So you got square with the Rapahoes?”“That, young fellur, justs rests on what ’ee ’ud call squar. Do ’ee see these hyur nicks: them standin’ sep’rate?”And the trapper pointed to a row of small notches cut in the stock of his rifle.“Ay, ay!” cried several men in reply. “Thur’s five o’ ’em, ain’t thur?”“One, two, three; yes, five.”“Them’s Rapahoes!”Rube’s story was ended.
El Sol, I have said, was standing over the prostrate Indian. His countenance indicated the blending of two emotions, hate and triumph.
His sister at this moment galloped up, and, leaping from her horse, advanced rapidly forward.
“Behold!” said he, pointing to the Navajo chief; “behold the murderer of our mother!”
The girl uttered a short, sharp exclamation; and, drawing a knife, rushed upon the captive.
“No, Luna!” cried El Sol, putting her aside; “no; we are not assassins. That is not revenge. He shall not yet die. We will show him alive to the squaws of the Maricopa. They shall dance the mamanchic over this great chief—this warrior captured without a wound!”
El Sol uttered these words in a contemptuous tone. The effect was visible on the Navajo.
“Dog of a Coco!” cried he, making an involuntary struggle to free himself; “dog of a Coco! leagued with the pale robbers. Dog!”
“Ha! you remember me, Dacoma? It is well—”
“Dog!” again ejaculated the Navajo, interrupting him; and the words hissed through his teeth, while his eyes glared with an expression of the fiercest malignity.
“He! he!” cried Rube, at this moment galloping up; “he! he! that Injun’s as savagerous as a meat axe. Lamm him! Warm his collops wi’ the bull rope; he’s warmed my old mar. Nick syrup him!”
“Let us look to your wound, Monsieur Haller,” said Seguin, alighting from his horse, and approaching me, as I thought, with an uneasiness of manner. “How is it? through the flesh? You are safe enough; if, indeed, the arrow has not been poisoned. I tear—El Sol! here! quick, my friend! tell me if this point has been dipped.”
“Let us first take it out,” replied the Maricopa, coming up; “we shall lose no time by that.”
The arrow was sticking through my forearm. The barb had pierced through the flesh, until about half of the shaft appeared on the opposite side.
El Sol caught the feather end in both his hands, and snapped it at the lapping. He then took hold of the barb and drew it gently out of the wound.
“Let it bleed,” said he, “till I have examined the point. It does not look like a war-shaft; but the Navajoes use a very subtle poison. Fortunately I possess the means of detecting it, as well as its antidote.”
As he said this, he took from his pouch a tuft of raw cotton. With this he rubbed the blood lightly from the blade. He then drew forth a small stone phial, and, pouring a few drops of liquid upon the metal, watched the result.
I waited with no slight feeling of uneasiness. Seguin, too, appeared anxious; and as I knew that he must have oftentimes witnessed the effect of a poisoned arrow, I did not feel very comfortable, seeing him watch the assaying process with so much apparent anxiety. I knew there was danger where he dreaded it.
“Monsieur Haller,” said El Sol, at length, “you are in luck this time. I think I may call it luck, for your antagonist has surely some in his quiver not quite so harmless as this one.
“Let me see,” he added; and, stepping up to the Navajo, he drew another arrow from the quiver that still remained slung upon the Indian’s back. After subjecting the blade to a similar test, he exclaimed—
“I told you so. Look at this, green as a plantain! He fired two: where is the other? Comrades, help me to find it. Such a tell-tale as that must not be left behind us.”
Several of the men leaped from their horses, and searched for the shaft that had been shot first. I pointed out the direction and probable distance as near as I could, and in a few moments it was picked up.
El Sol took it, and poured a few drops of his liquid on the blade. It turned green like the other.
“You may thank your saints, Monsieur Haller,” said the Coco, “it was not this one made that hole in your arm, else it would have taken all the skill of Doctor Reichter and myself to have saved you. But what’s this? Another wound! Ha! He touched you as he made his right point. Let me look at it.”
“I think it is only a scratch.”
“This is a strange climate, Monsieur Haller. I have seen scratches become mortal wounds when not sufficiently valued. Luna! Some cotton, sis! I shall endeavour to dress yours so that you need not fear that result. You deserve that much at my hands. But for you, sir, he would have escaped me.”
“But for you, sir, he would have killed me.”
“Well,” replied the Coco, with a smile, “it is possible you would not have come off so well. Your weapon played you false. It is hardly just to expect a man to parry a lance-point with a clubbed rifle, though it was beautifully done. I do not wonder that you pulled trigger in the second joust. I intended doing so myself, had the lasso failed me again. But we are in luck both ways. You must sling this arm for a day or two. Luna! that scarf of yours.”
“No!” said I, as the girl proceeded to unfasten a beautiful scarf which she wore around her waist; “you shall not: I will find something else.”
“Here, mister; if this will do,” interposed the young trapper Garey, “you are heartily welcome to it.”
As Garey said this, he pulled a coloured handkerchief out of the breast of his hunting-shirt, and held it forth.
“You are very kind; thank you!” I replied, although I knew on whose account the kerchief was given; “you will be pleased to accept this in return.” And I offered him one of my small revolvers—a weapon that, at that time and in that place, was worth its weight in pearls.
The mountain man knew this, and very gratefully accepted the proffered gift; but much as he might have prized it, I saw that he was still more gratified with a simple smile that he received from another quarter, and I felt certain that the scarf would soon change owners, at any rate.
I watched the countenance of El Sol to see if he had noticed or approved of this little by-play. I could perceive no unusual emotion upon it. He was busy with my wounds, which he dressed in a manner that would have done credit to a member of the R.C.S.
“Now,” said he, when he had finished, “you will be ready for as much more fighting in a couple of days at the furthest. You have a bad bridle-arm, Monsieur Haller, but the best horse I ever saw. I do not wonder at your refusing to sell him.”
Most of the conversation had been carried on in English; and it was spoken by the Coco chief with an accent and emphasis, to my ear, as good as I had ever heard. He spoke French, too, like a Parisian; and it was in this language that he usually conversed with Seguin. I wondered at all this.
The men had remounted, with the intention of returning to the camp. Extreme hunger was now prompting us, and we commenced riding back to partake of the repast so unceremoniously interrupted.
At a short distance from the camp we dismounted, and, picketing our horses upon the grass, walked forward to search for the stray steaks and ribs we had lately seen in plenty. A new chagrin awaited us; not a morsel of flesh remained! The coyotes had taken advantage of our absence, and we could see nothing around us but naked bones. The thighs and ribs of the buffaloes had been polished as if scraped with a knife. Even the hideous carcass of the Digger had become a shining skeleton!
“Wagh!” exclaimed one of the hunters; “wolf now or nothing: hyar goes!” and the man levelled his rifle.
“Hold!” exclaimed Seguin, seeing the act. “Are you mad, sir?”
“I reckon not, capt’n,” replied the hunter, doggedly bringing down his piece. “We must eat, I s’pose. I see nothin’ but them about; an’ how are we goin’ to get them ’ithout shootin’?”
Seguin made no reply, except by pointing to the bow which El Sol was making ready.
“Eh-ho!” added the hunter; “yer right, capt’n. I asks pardon. I had forgot that piece o’ bone.”
The Coco took an arrow from the quiver, and tried the head with the assaying liquid. It proved to be a hunting-shaft; and, adjusting it to the string, he sent it through the body of a white wolf, killing it instantly. He took up the shaft again, and wiping the feather, shot another, and another, until the bodies of five or six of these animals lay stretched upon the ground.
“Kill a coyote when ye’re about it,” shouted one of the hunters; “gentlemen like we oughter have leastwise two courses to our dinner.”
The men laughed at this rough sally; and El Sol, smiling, again picked up the arrow, and sent it whizzing through the body of one of the coyotes.
“I think that will be enough for one meal, at all events,” said El Sol, recovering the arrow, and putting it back into the quiver.
“Ay!” replied the wit; “if we wants more we kin go back to the larder agin. It’s a kind o’ meat that eats better fresh, anyhow.”
“Well, it diz, hoss. Wagh! I’m in for a griskin o’ the white. Hyar goes!”
The hunters, laughing at the humour of their comrades, drew their shining knives, and set about skinning the wolves. The adroitness with which this operation was performed showed that it was by no means new to them.
In a short time the animals were stripped of their hides and quarters; and each man, taking his quarter, commenced roasting it over the fire.
“Fellers! what d’ye call this anyhow? Beef or mutton?” asked one, as they began to eat.
“Wolf-mutton, I reckin,” was the reply.
“It’s dog-gone good eatin’, I say; peels off as tender as squ’ll.”
“It’s some’ut like goat, ain’t it?”
“Mine tastes more like dog to me.”
“It ain’t bad at all; better than poor bull any day.”
“I’d like it a heap better if I war sure the thing hadn’t been up to yon varmint on the rocks.” And the man who said this pointed to the skeleton of the Digger.
The idea was horrible, and under other circumstances would have acted as a sufficient emetic.
“Wagh!” exclaimed a hunter; “ye’ve most taken away my stammuck. I was a-goin’ to try the coyoat afore ye spoke. I won’t now, for I seed them smellin’ about him afore we rid off.”
“I say, old case, you don’t mind it, do ye?”
This was addressed to Rube, who was busy on his rib and made no reply.
“He? not he,” said another, answering for him. “Rube’s ate a heap o’ queery tit-bits in his time. Hain’t ye, Rube?”
“Ay, an’ afore yur be as long in the mountains as this child, ’ee’ll be glad to get yur teeth over wuss chawin’s than wolf-meat; see if ’ee don’t, young fellur.”
“Man-meat, I reckin?”
“Ay, that’s what Rube means.”
“Boyees!” said Rube, not heeding the remark, and apparently in good humour, now that he was satisfying his appetite, “what’s the nassiest thing, leavin’ out man-meat, any o’ ’ees iver chawed?”
“Woman-meat, I reckin.”
“’Ee chuckle-headed fool! yur needn’t be so peert now, showin’ yur smartness when ’tain’t called for nohow.”
“Wal, leaving out man-meat, as you say,” remarked one of the hunters, in answer to Rube’s question, “a muss-rat’s the meanest thing I ever set teeth on.”
“I’ve chawed sage-hare—raw at that,” said a second, “an’ I don’t want to eat anything that’s bitterer.”
“Owl’s no great eatin’,” added a third.
“I’ve ate skunk,” continued a fourth; “an’ I’ve ate sweeter meat in my time.”
“Carrajo!” exclaimed a Mexican, “what do you think of monkey? I have dined upon that down south many’s the time.”
“Wal, I guess monkey’s but tough chawin’s; but I’ve sharpened my teeth on dry buffler hide, and it wa’n’t as tender as it mout ’a been.”
“This child,” said Rube, after the rest had given in their experience, “leavin’ monkey to the beside, have ate all them critturs as has been named yet. Monkey he hain’t, bein’ as thur’s none o’ ’em in these parts. It may be tough, or it mayn’t; it may be bitter, an’ it mayn’t, for what I knows to the contrairywise; but, oncest on a time, this niggur chawed a varmint that wa’n’t much sweeter, if it wur as sweet.”
“What was it, Rube?”
“What was it?” asked several in a breath, curious to know what the old trapper could have eaten more unpalatable than the viands already named.
“’Twur turkey-buzzart, then; that’s what it wur.”
“Turkey-buzzard!” echoed everyone.
“’Twa’n’t any thin’ else.”
“Wagh? that was a stinkin’ pill, an’ no mistake.”
“That beats me all hollow.”
“And when did ye eat the buzzard, old boy?” asked one, suspecting that there might be a story connected with this feat of the earless trapper.
“Ay! tell us that, Rube; tell us!” cried several.
“Wal,” commenced Rube, after a moment’s silence, “’twur about six yeern ago, I wur set afoot on the Arkansaw, by the Rapahoes, leastwise two hunder mile below the Big Timmer. The cussed skunks tuk hoss, beaver, an’ all. He! he!” continued the speaker with a chuckle; “he! he! they mout ’a did as well an’ let ole Rube alone.”
“I reckon that, too,” remarked a hunter. “’Tain’t like they made much out o’ that speckelashun. Well—about the buzzard?”
“’Ee see, I wur cleaned out, an’ left with jest a pair o’ leggins, better than two hunder miles from anywhur. Bent’s wur the nearest; an’ I tuk up the river in that direkshun.
“I never seed varmint o’ all kinds as shy. They wudn’t ’a been if I’d ’a had my traps; but there wa’n’t a critter, from the minners in the waters to the bufflers on the paraira, that didn’t look like they knowed how this niggur were fixed. I kud git nuthin’ for two days but lizard, an’ scarce at that.”
“Lizard’s but poor eatin’,” remarked one.
“’Ee may say that. This hyur thigh jeint’s fat cow to it—it are.”
And Rube, as he said this, made a fresh attack upon the wolf-mutton.
“I chawed up the ole leggins, till I wur as naked as Chimley Rock.”
“Gollies! was it winter?”
“No. ’Twur calf-time, an’ warm enuf for that matter. I didn’t mind the want o’ the buckskin that a way, but I kud ’a eat more o’ it.
“The third day I struck a town o’ sand-rats. This niggur’s har wur longer then than it ur now. I made snares o’ it, an’ trapped a lot o’ the rats; but they grew shy too, cuss ’em! an’ I had to quit that speck’lashun. This wur the third day from the time I’d been set down, an’ I wur getting nasty weak on it. I ’gin to think that the time wur come for this child to go under.
“’Twur a leetle arter sun-up, an’ I wur sittin’ on the bank, when I seed somethin’ queery floatin’ a-down the river. When I kim closer, I seed it wur the karkidge o’ a buffler—calf at that—an’ a couple o’ buzzarts floppin’ about on the thing, pickin’ its peepers out. ’Twur far out, an’ the water deep; but I’d made up my mind to fetch it ashore. I wa’n’t long in strippin’, I reckin.”
Here the hunters interrupted Rube’s story with a laugh.
“I tuk the water, an’ swam out. I kud smell the thing afore I wur half-way, an’ when I got near it, the birds mizzled. I wur soon clost up, an’ seed at a glimp that the calf wur as rotten as punk.”
“What a pity!” exclaimed one of the hunters.
“I wa’n’t a-gwine to have my swim for nuthin’; so I tuk the tail in my teeth, an’ swam back for the shore. I hadn’t made three strokes till the tail pulled out!
“I then swum round ahint the karkidge, an’ pushed it afore me till I got it landed high an’ dry upon a sandbar. ’Twur like to fall to pieces, when I pulled it out o’ the water. ’Twa’n’t eatable nohow!”
Here Rube took a fresh mouthful of the wolf-mutton, and remained silent until he had masticated it. The men had become interested in the story, and waited with impatience. At length he proceeded—
“I seed the buzzarts still flyin’ about, an’ fresh ones a-comin’. I tuk a idee that I mout git my claws upon some o’ ’em. So I lay down clost up agin the calf, an’ played ’possum.
“I wa’n’t long that a way when the birds begun to light on the sandbar, an’ a big cock kim floppin’ up to the karkidge. Afore he kud flop up agin, I grupped him by the legs.”
“Hooraw! well done, by gollies!”
“The cussed thing wur nearly as stinkin’ as t’other, but it wur die dog—buzzart or calf—so I skinned the buzzart.”
“And ate it?” inquired an impatient listener. “No-o,” slowly drawled Rube, apparently “miffed” at being thus interrupted. “It ate me.”
The laugh that followed this retort restored the old trapper to good humour again.
“Did you go it raw, Rube?” asked one of the hunters. “How could he do otherwise? He hadn’t a spark o’ fire, an’ nothing to make one out of.”
“Yur’n etarnal fool!” exclaimed Rube, turning savagely on the last speaker. “I kud make a fire if thur wa’n’t a spark anywhar!”
A yell of laughter followed this speech, and it was some minutes before the trapper recovered his temper sufficiently to resume his narration.
“The rest o’ the birds,” continued he at length, “seein’ the ole cock rubbed out, grew shy, and kep away on t’other side o’ the river. ’Twa’n’t no use tryin’ that dodge over agin. Jest then I spied a coyoat comin’ lopin’ down the bank, an’ another follerin’ upon his heels, an’ two or three more on the same trail. I know’d it wud be no joke gruppin’ one o’ them by the leg, but I made up my mind to try it; an’ I lay down jest as afore, close up to the calf. ’Twur no go. The cunnin’ things seed the float stick, an’ kep clur o’ the karkidge. I wur a-gwine to cacher under some bush that wur by, an’ I begun to carry it up, when all of a suddint I tuk a fresh idee in my head. I seed thur wur drift-wood a plenty on the bank, so I fotched it up, an’ built a pen-trap roun’ about the calf. In the twinklin’ o’ a goat’s eye I had six varmints in the trap.”
“Hooraw! Ye war safe then, old hoss.”
“I tuk a lot o’ stones, an’ then clomb up on the pen, an’ killed the hul kit on ’em. Lord, boyees! ’ee never seed sich a snappin’, and snarlin’, and jumpin’, an’ yowltin’, as when I peppered them donicks down on ’em. He! he! he! Ho! ho! hoo!”
And the smoky old sinner chuckled with delight at the remembrance of his adventure.
“You reached Bent’s then safe enough, I reckin?”
“’Ee—es. I skinned the critters wi’ a sharp stone, an’ made me a sort o’ shirt an’ leggins. This niggur had no mind, comin’ in naked, to gi’ them thur joke at the Fort. I packed enough of the wolf-meat to last me up, an’ I got there in less’n a week. Bill wur thur himself, an’ ’ee all know Bill Bent. He know’d me. I wa’n’t in the Fort a half an hour till I were spick-span in new buckskins, wi’ a new rifle; an’ that rifle wur Tar-guts, now afore ye.”
“Ha! you got Tear-guts thar then?”
“I got Tar-guts thur then, an’ a gun she ur. He! he! he! ’Twa’n’t long arter I got her till I tried her. He! he! he! Ho! ho! hoo!”
And the old trapper went off into another fit of chuckling.
“What are ye laughin’ at now, Rube?” asked one of his comrades.
“He! he! he! What am I larfin’ at? He! he! he! Ho! ho! That ur the crisp o’ the joke. He! he! he! What am I larfin’ at?”
“Yes; tell us, man!”
“It are this then I’m larfin’ at,” replied Rube, sobering down a little, “I wa’n’t at Bent’s three days when who do ’ee think shed kum to the Fort?”
“Who? Maybe the Rapahoes!”
“Them same Injuns; an’ the very niggurs as set me afoot. They kum to the Fort to trade wi’ Bill, an’ thur I sees both my old mar an’ rifle!”
“You got them back then?”
“That wur likely. Thur wur a sight o’ mountainy men thur, at the time, that wa’n’t the fellurs to see this child put down on the parairar for nuthin’. Yander’s the critter!” and Rube pointed to the old mare. “The rifle I gin to Bill, an’ kep Tar-guts instead, seeing she wur a better gun.”
“So you got square with the Rapahoes?”
“That, young fellur, justs rests on what ’ee ’ud call squar. Do ’ee see these hyur nicks: them standin’ sep’rate?”
And the trapper pointed to a row of small notches cut in the stock of his rifle.
“Ay, ay!” cried several men in reply. “Thur’s five o’ ’em, ain’t thur?”
“One, two, three; yes, five.”
“Them’s Rapahoes!”
Rube’s story was ended.