Chapter 28 - The Scalp Hunters by Mayne Reid
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. My antagonist 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.