Chapter 29 - The Scalp Hunters by Mayne Reid
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.