Chapter 26 - The Scalp Hunters by Mayne Reid
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 of cul 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—the petits 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.