Authors: Mayne Reid
And thus I went on rambling from thought to thought, and listening for the signal, although I knew that it could not be given for some time yet.
The buffaloes kept moving slowly onward, browsing as they went, and continuing to lie down one after another. I thought it strange, their stretching themselves thus successively; but I had observed farm cattle do the same, and I was at that time but little acquainted with the habits of the buffalo. Some of them appeared to toss about on the ground and kick violently. I had heard of a peculiarity of these animals termed "wallowing."
"They are at it," thought I. I wished much to have a clearer view of this curious exercise, but the high grass prevented me. I could only see their shaggy shoulders, and occasionally their hoofs kicking up over the sward.
I watched their movements with great interest, now feeling secure that the "surround" would be complete before they would think of rising.
At length the last one of the gang followed the example of his companions, and dropped over.
They were all now upon their sides, half-buried in the bunch grass. I thought I noticed the calf still upon its feet; but at that moment the bugle sounded, and a simultaneous cheer broke from all sides of the prairie.
I pressed the spur to my horse's flank, and dashed out into the open plain. Fifty others had done the same, yelling as they shot out of the thicket.
With my reins resting on my left fingers, and my rifle thrown crosswise, I galloped forward, filled with the wild excitement that such an adventure imparts. I was cocked and ready, resolved upon having the first shot.
It was but a short distance from where I had started to the nearest buffalo. I was soon within range, my horse flying like an arrow.
"Is the animal asleep? I am within ten paces of him, and still he stirs not! I will fire at him as he lies."
I raised my rifle, levelled it, and was about to pull the trigger, when something red gleamed before my eyes. It was blood!
I lowered the piece with a feeling of terror, and commenced dragging upon the rein; but, before I could pull up, I was carried into the midst of the prostrate herd. Here my horse suddenly stopped, and I sat in my saddle as if spell-bound. I was under the influence of a superstitious awe. Blood was before me and around me. Turn which way I would, my eye rested upon blood!
My comrades closed in, yelling as they came; but their yelling suddenly ceased, and one by one reined up, as I had done, with looks of consternation and wonder.
It was not strange, at such a sight. Before us lay the bodies of the buffaloes. They were all dead, or quivering in the last throes. Each bad a wound above the brisket, and from this the red stream gurled out, and trickled down their still panting sides. Blood welled from their mouths and out of their nostrils. Pools of it were filtering through the prairie turf; and clotted gouts, flung out by the struggling hoof, sprinkled the grass around them!
"Oh, heavens! what could it mean?"
"Wagh! Santisima! Sacre Dieu!" were the exclamations of the hunters.
"Surely no mortal hand has done this?"
"It wa'n't nuthin' else," cried a well-known voice, "ef yur call an Injun a mortal. 'Twur a red-skin, and this child-look 'ee-e!"
I heard the click of a rifle along with this abrupt exclamation. I turned suddenly. Rube was in the act of levelling his piece. My eye involuntarily followed the direction of the barrel. There was an object moving in the long grass.
"A buffalo that still kicks," thought I, as I saw the mass of dark-brown hair; "he is going to finish him; it is the calf!"
I had scarcely made the observation when the animal reared up on its hind legs, uttering a wild human scream; the shaggy hide was flung off; and a naked savage appeared, holding out his arms in an attitude of supplication.
I could not have saved him. The rifle had cracked, the ball had sped. I saw it piercing his brown breast, as a drop of sleet strikes upon the pane of glass; the red spout gushed forth, and the victim fell forward upon the body of one of the animals.
"Wagh! Rube!" exclaimed one of the men; "why didn't ye give him time to skin the meat? He mout as well 'a done that when he war about it;" and the man laughed at his savage jest.
"Look 'ee hyur, boyees!" said Rube, pointing to the motte; "if 'ee look sharp, yur mout scare up another calf yander away! I'm a-gwine to see arter this Injun's har; I am."
The hunters, at the suggestion, galloped off to surround the motte.
I felt a degree of irresolution and disgust at this cool shedding of blood. I drew my rein almost involuntarily, and moved forward to the spot where the savage had fallen. He lay back uppermost. He was naked to the breech-clout. There was the debouchure of a bullet below the left shoulder, and the black-red stream was trickling down his ribs. The limbs still quivered, but it was in the last spasms of parting life.
The hide in which he had disguised himself lay piled up where it had been flung. Beside it were a bow and several arrows. The latter were crimsoned to the notch, the feathers steeped in blood and clinging to the shafts. They had pierced the huge bodies of the animals, passing through and through. Each arrow had taken many lives! The old trapper rode up to the corpse, and leisurely dismounted from his mare.
"Fifty dollar a plew!" he muttered, unsheathing his knife and stooping over the body. "It's more'n I got for my own. It beats beaver all hollow. Cuss beaver, say this child. Plew a plug-ain't worth trappin' if the varmint wur as thick as grass-jumpers in calf-time. 'Ee up, niggur," he continued, grasping the long hair of the savage, and holding the face upward; "let's get a squint of your phisog. Hooraw! Coyote 'Pash! Hooraw!"
And a gleam of triumph lit up the countenance of the old man as he uttered these wild exclamations.
"Apash, is he?" asked one of the hunters, who had remained near the spot.
"That he are, Coyote 'Pash, the very niggurs that bobtailed this child's ears. I kin swar to thur ugly picters anywhur I get my peepers upon 'em. Wouwough-ole woofy! got 'ee at last, has he! Yur a beauty, an' no mistake."
So saying, he gathered the long crown locks in his left hand, and with two slashes of his knife, held quarte and tierce, he cut a circle around the top of the head, as perfect as if it had been traced by compasses. He then took a turn of the hair over his wrist, giving it a quick jerk outward. At the same instant, the keen blade passed under the skin, and the scalp was taken!
"Counts six," he continued, muttering to himself while placing the scalp in his belt; "six at fifty-three hunder shiners for 'Pash har; cuss beaver trappin'! says I."
Having secured the bleeding trophy, he wiped his knife upon the hair of one of the buffaloes, and proceeded to cut a small notch in the woodwork of his gun, alongside five others that had been carved there already. These six notches stood for Apaches only; for as my eye wandered along the outlines of the piece, I saw that there were many other columns in that terrible register!
* * *
-
In the programme placed before me by Seguin, I had not bargained for such wanton cruelties as I was now compelled to witness. It was not the time to look back, but forward, and perhaps, over other scenes of blood and brutality, to that happier hour, when I should have redeemed my promise, and won the prize, beautiful Zoe.
* * *
A short hour passes. The bright orb sinks behind us, and the quartz rock saddens into a sombre hue. The straggling rays of twilight hover but a moment over the chalky cliffs, and then vanish away. It is night.
Descending the hills in a long string, we arrive upon the plain. We turn to the left, and keep round the mountain foot. The rocks guide us.
We proceed with caution, and exchange our words only in whispers. We crawl around and among loose boulders that have fallen from above. We turn many spurs that shoot out into the plain. Occasionally we halt and hold council.
After a journey of ten or twelve miles, we find ourselves opposite the Indian town. We are not over a mile from it. We can see the fires burning on the plain, and hear the voices of those who move around them.
At this point the band is divided. A small party remains making its cache in a defile among the rocks. These guard the captive chief and the antajo of mules. The rest move forward, guided by Rube, who carries them round the edge of the forest, here and there dropping a picket of several men as he proceeds.
These parties conceal themselves at their respective stations, remain silent, and wait for the signal from the bugle, which is to be given at the hour of daybreak.
The night passes slowly and silently. The fires one by one go out, until the plain is wrapt in the gloom of a moonless midnight. Dark clouds travel over the sky, portending rain: a rare phenomenon in these regions. The swan utters its wild note, the gruya whoops over the stream, and the wolf howls upon the skirts of the sleeping village. The voice of the bull-bat wails through the air. You hear the "flap, flap" of his long wings as he dashes down among the cocuyos. You hear the hoof-stroke on the hard plain, the "crop" of the browsing steed, and the tinkling of the bit-ring, for the horses eat bridled.
At intervals, a drowsy hunter mutters through his sleep, battling in dreams with some terrible foe. Thus goes the night. These are its voices.
They cease as daybreak approaches. The wolf howls no longer; the swan and the blue crane are silent; the night-hawk has filled his ravenous maw, and perches on the mountain pine; the fire-flies disappear, chased by the colder hours; and the horses, having eaten what grew within their reach, stand in lounging attitudes, asleep.
A grey light begins to steal into the valley. It flickers along the white cliffs of the quartz mountain. It brings with it a raw, cold air that awakens the hunters.
One by one they arouse themselves. They shiver as they stand up, and carry their blankets wrapped about their shoulders. They feel weary, and look pale and haggard. The grey dawn lends a ghastly hue to their dusty beards and unwashed faces.
After a short while they coil up their trail-ropes and fasten them to the rings. They look to their flints and priming, and tighten the buckles of their belts. They draw forth from their haversacks pieces of dry tasajo, eating it raw. They stand by their horses, ready to mount. It is not yet time.
The light is gathering into the valley. The blue mist that hung over the river during the night is rising upward. We can see the town. We can trace the odd outlines of the houses. What strange structures they are!
Some of them are higher than others: one, two, four stories in height. They are each in form like a pyramid without its apex. Each upper story is smaller than that below it, the roofs of the lower ones serving as terraces for those above. They are of a whitish yellow, the colour of the clay out of which they are built. They are without windows, but doors lead into each story from the outside; and ladders stretch from terrace to terrace, leaning against the walls. On the tops of some there are poles carrying bannerets. These are the residences of the principal war-chiefs and great warriors of the nation.
We can see the temple distinctly. It is like the houses in shape, but higher and of larger dimensions. There is a tall shaft rising out of its roof, and a banner with a strange device floating at its peak.
Near the houses we see corrals filled with mules and mustangs, the live-stock of the village.
The light grows stronger. Forms appear upon the roofs and move along the terraces. They are human forms enveloped in hanging garments, robe-like and striped. We recognise the Navajo blanket, with its alternate bands of black and white.
With the glass we can see these forms more distinctly; we can tell their sex.
Their hair hangs loosely upon their shoulders, and far down their backs. Most of them are females, girls and women. There are many children, too. There are men, white-haired and old. A few other men appear, but they are not warriors. The warriors are absent.
They come down the ladders, descending from terrace to terrace. They go out upon the plain, and rekindle the fires. Some carry earthen vessels, ollas, upon their heads, and pass down to the river. They go in for water. These are nearly naked. We can see their brown bodies and uncovered breasts. They are slaves.
See! the old men are climbing to the top of the temple. They are followed by women and children, some in white, others in bright-coloured costumes. These are girls and young lads, the children of the chiefs.
Over a hundred have climbed up. They have reached the highest root. There is an altar near the staff. A smoke rolls up-a blaze: they have kindled a fire upon the altar.
Listen! the chant of voices, and the beat of an Indian drum!
The sounds cease, and they all stand motionless and apparently silent, facing to the east.
"What does it mean?"
"They are waiting for the sun to appear. These people worship him."
The hunters, interested and curious, strain their eyes, watching the ceremony.
The topmost pinnacle of the quartz mountain is on fire. It is the first flash of the sun!
The peak is yellowing downward. Other points catch the brilliant beams. They have struck the faces of the devotees. See! there are white faces! One-two-many white faces, both of women and girls.