Chapter 38 - The Scalp Hunters by Mayne Reid
Adèle
We direct ourselves to the great building, and, surrounding it, again halt. The old men are still upon the roof, standing along the parapet. They are frightened, and tremble like children.
“Do not fear; we are friends!” cried Seguin, speaking in a strange language, and making signs to them.
His voice is not heard amidst the shrieks and shouting that still continue.
The words are repeated, and the sign given in a more emphatic manner.
The old men crowd along the edge of the parapet. There is one among them who differs from the rest. His snow-white hair reaches below his waist. There are bright ornaments hanging from, his ears and over his breast. He is attired in white robes. He appears to be a chief; for the rest obey him. He makes a signal with his hands, and the screaming subsides. He stands forward on the parapet, as if to speak to us.
“Amigos, amigos!” (friends!) cries he, speaking in Spanish.
“Yes, yes; we are friends,” replies Seguin, in the same language. “Do not fear us! We came not to harm you.”
“Why harm us? We are at peace with the white pueblos to the east. We are the children of Montezuma; we are Navajoes. What want you with us?”
“We come for our relatives, your white captives. They are our wives and daughters.”
“White captives! You mistake us. We have no captives. Those you seek are among the nations of the Apache, away far to the south.”
“No; they are with you,” replies Seguin. “I have certain information that they are here. Delay us not, then! We have come a far journey for them, and will not go without them.”
The old man turns to his companions. They converse in a low voice, and exchange signs. Again he faces round to Seguin.
“Believe me, señor chief,” says he, speaking with emphasis, “you have been wrongly informed. We have no white captives.”
“Pish! ’Ee dod-rotted ole liar!” cries Rube, pushing out of the crowd, and raising his cat-skin cap as he speaks. “’Ee know this child, do ’ee?”
The skinless head is discovered to the gaze of the Indians. A murmur, indicative of alarm, is heard among them. The white-haired chief seems disconcerted. He knows the history of that scalp!
A murmur, too, runs through the ranks of the hunters. They had seen white faces as they rode up. The lie exasperates them, and the ominous click of rifles being cocked is heard on all sides.
“You have spoken falsely, old man,” cries Seguin. “We know you have white captives. Bring them forth, then, if you would save your own lives!”
“Quick!” shouts Garey, raising his rifle in a threatening manner; “quick! or I’ll dye the flax on yer old skull.”
“Patience, amigo! you shall see our white people; but they are not captives. They are our daughters, the children of Montezuma.”
The Indian descends to the third story of the temple. He enters a door, and presently returns, bringing with him five females dressed in the Navajo costume. They are women and girls, and, as anyone could tell at a glance, of the Hispano-Mexican race.
But there are those present who know them still better. Three of them are recognised by as many hunters, and recognise them in turn. The girls rush out to the parapet, stretch forth their arms, and utter exclamations of joy. The hunters call to them—
“Pepe!” “Rafaela!” “Jesusita!” coupling their names with expressions of endearment. They shout to them to come down, pointing to the ladders.
“Bajan, niñas, bajan! aprisa, aprisa!” (Come down, dear girls! quickly, quickly!)
The ladders rest upon the upper terraces. The girls cannot move them. Their late masters stand beside them, frowning and silent.
“Lay holt thar!” cries Garey, again threatening with his piece; “lay holt, and help the gals down, or I’ll fetch some o’ yerselves a-tumblin’ over!”
“Lay holt! lay holt!” shouted several others in a breath.
The Indians place the ladders. The girls descend, and the next moment leap into the arms of their friends.
Two of them remain above; only three have come down. Seguin has dismounted, and passes these three with a glance. None of them is the object of his solicitude!
He rushes up the ladder, followed by several of the men. He springs from terrace to terrace, up to the third. He presses forward to the spot where stand the two captive girls. His looks are wild, and his manner that of one frantic. They shrink back at his approach, mistaking his intentions. They scream with terror!
He pierces them with his look. The instincts of the father are busy: they are baffled. One of the females is old, too old; the other is slave-like and coarse.
“Mon Dieu! it cannot be!” he exclaims, with a sigh. “There was a mark; but no, no, no! it cannot be!”
He leans forward, seizing the girl, though not ungently, by the wrist. Her sleeve is torn open, and the arm laid bare to the shoulder.
“No, no!” he again exclaims; “it is not there. It is not she.”
He turns from them. He rushes forward to the old Indian, who falls back frightened at the glare of his fiery eye.
“These are not all!” cries he, in a voice of thunder; “there are others. Bring them forth, old man, or I will hurl you to the earth!”
“There are no other white squaws,” replied the Indian, with a sullen and determined air.
“A lie! a lie! your life shall answer. Here! confront him, Rube!”
“’Ee dratted old skunk! That white har o’ yourn ain’t a-gwine to stay thur much longer ev you don’t bring her out. Whur is she? the young queen?”
“Al sur,” and the Indian points to the south.
“Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” cries Seguin, in his native tongue, and with an accentuation that expresses his complete wretchedness.
“Don’t believe him, cap! I’ve seed a heap o’ Injun in my time; an’ a lyiner old varmint than this’n I never seed yet. Ye heerd him jest now ’bout the other gals?”
“Yes, true; he lied directly; but she—she might have gone—”
“Not a bit o’ it. Lyin’s his trade. He’s thur great medicine, an’ humbugs the hul kit o’ them. The gal is what they call Mystery Queen. She knows a heap, an’ helps ole whitey hyur in his tricks an’ sacrifiches. He don’t want to lose her. She’s hyur somewhur, I’ll be boun’; but she ur cached: that’s sartin.”
“Men!” cries Seguin, rushing forward to the parapet, “take ladders! Search every house! Bring all forth, old and young. Bring them to the open plain. Leave not a corner unsearched. Bring me my child!”
The hunters rush for the ladders. They seize those of the great building, and soon possess themselves of others. They run from house to house, and drag out the screaming inmates.
There are Indian men in some of the houses—lagging braves, boys, and “dandies.” Some of these resist. They are slaughtered, scalped, and flung over the parapets.
Crowds arrive, guarded, in front of the temple: girls and women of all ages.
Seguin’s eye is busy; his heart is yearning. At the arrival of each new group, he scans their faces. In vain! Many of them are young and pretty, but brown as the fallen leaf. She is not yet brought up.
I see the three captive Mexicans standing with their friends. They should know where she may be found.
“Question them,” I whisper to the chief.
“Ha! you are right. I did not think of that. Come, come!”
We run together down the ladders, and approach the delivered captives. Seguin hurriedly describes the object of his search.
“It must be the Mystery Queen,” says one.
“Yes, yes!” cries Seguin, in trembling anxiety; “it is; she is the Mystery Queen.”
“She is in the town, then,” adds another.
“Where? where?” ejaculates the halt-frantic father.
“Where? where?” echo the girls, questioning one another.
“I saw her this morning, a short time ago, just before you came up.”
“I saw him hurry her off,” adds a second, pointing upward to the old Indian. “He has hidden her.”
“Caval!” cries another, “perhaps in the estufa!”
“The estufa! what is it?”
“Where the sacred fire burns; where he makes his medicine.”
“Where is it? lead me to it!”
“Ay de mi! we know not the way. It is a sacred place where they burn people! Ay de mi!”
“But, señor, it is in this temple; somewhere under the ground. He knows. None but he is permitted to enter it. Carrai! The estufa is a fearful place. So say the people.”
An indefinite idea that his daughter may be in danger crosses the mind of Seguin. Perhaps she is dead already, or dying by some horrid means. He is struck, so are we, with the expression of sullen malice that displays itself upon the countenance of the medicine chief. It is altogether an Indian expression—that of dogged determination to die rather than yield what he has made up his mind to keep. It is a look of demoniac cunning, characteristic of men of his peculiar calling among the tribes.
Haunted by this thought, Seguin runs to the ladder, and again springs upward to the root, followed by several of the band. He rushes upon the lying priest, clutching him by the long hair.
“Lead me to her!” he cries, in a voice of thunder; “lead me to this queen, this Mystery Queen! She is my daughter.”
“Your daughter! the Mystery Queen!” replies the Indian, trembling with fear for his life, yet still resisting the appeal. “No, white man; she is not. The queen is ours. She is the daughter of the Sun. She is the child of a Navajo chief.”
“Tempt me no longer, old man! No longer, I say. Look forth! If a hair of her head has been harmed, all these shall suffer. I will not leave a living thing in your town. Lead on! Bring me to the estufa!”
“To the estufa! to the estufa!” shout several voices.
Strong hands grasp the garments of the Indian, and are twined into his loose hair. Knives, already red and reeking, are brandished before his eyes. He is forced from the roof, and hurried down the ladders.
He ceases to resist, for he sees that resistance is death; and half-dragged, half-leading, he conducts them to the ground-floor of the building.
He enters by a passage covered with the shaggy hides of the buffalo. Seguin follows, keeping his eye and hand upon him. We crowd after, close upon the heels of both.
We pass through dark ways, descending, as we go, through an intricate labyrinth. We arrive in a large room, dimly lighted. Ghastly images are before us and around us, the mystic symbols of a horrid religion! The walls are hung with hideous shapes and skins of wild beasts. We can see the fierce visages of the grizzly bear, of the white buffalo, of the carcajou, of the panther, and the ravenous wolf. We can recognise the horns and frontlets of the elk, the cimmaron, and the grim bison. Here and there are idol figures, of grotesque and monster forms, carved from wood and the red claystone of the desert.
A lamp is flickering with a feeble glare; and on a brazero, near the centre of the room, burns a small bluish flame. It is the sacred fire—the fire that for centuries has blazed to the god Quetzalcoatl!
We do not stay to examine these objects. The fumes of the charcoal almost suffocate us. We run in every direction, overturning the idols and dragging down the sacred skins.
There are huge serpents gliding over the floor, and hissing around our feet. They have been disturbed and frightened by the unwonted intrusion. We, too, are frightened, for we hear the dreaded rattle of the crotalus!
The men leap from the ground, and strike at them with the butts of their rifles. They crush many of them on the stone pavement.
There are shouts and confusion. We suffer from the exhalations of the charcoal. We shall be stifled. Where is Seguin? Where has he gone?
Hark! There are screams! It is a female voice! There are voices of men, too!
We rush towards the spot where they are heard. We dash aside the walls of pendant skins. We see the chief. He has a female in his arms—a girl, a beautiful girl, robed in gold and bright plumes.
She is screaming as we enter, and struggling to escape him. He holds her firmly, and has torn open the fawn-skin sleeve of her tunic. He is gazing on her left arm, which is bared to the bosom!
“It is she! it is she!” he cries, in a voice trembling with emotion. “Oh, God! it is she! Adèle! Adèle! do you not know me? Me—your father?”
Her screams continue. She pushes him off, stretching out her arms to the Indian, and calling upon him to protect her!
The father entreats her in wild and pathetic words. She heeds him not. She turns her face from him, and crouches down, hugging the knees of the priest!
“She knows me not! Oh, God! my child! my child!”
Again Seguin speaks in the Indian tongue, and with imploring accents—
“Adèle! Adèle! I am your father!”
“You! Who are you? The white men; our foes! Touch me not! Away, white men! away!”
“Dear, dearest Adèle! do not repel me—me, your father! You remember—”
“My father! My father was a great chief. He is dead. This is my father now. The Sun is my father. I am a daughter of Montezuma! I am a queen of the Navajoes!”
As she utters these words, a change seems to come over her spirit. She crouches no longer. She rises to her feet. Her screaming has ended, and she stands in an attitude of pride and indignation.
“Oh, Adèle!” continues Seguin, more earnest than ever, “look at me! look! Do you not remember? Look in my face! Oh, Heaven! Here, see! Here is your mother, Adèle! See! this is her picture: your angel mother. Look at it! Look, oh, Adèle!”
Seguin, while he is speaking, draws a miniature from his bosom, and holds it before the eyes of the girl. It arrests her attention. She looks upon it, but without any signs of recognition. It is to her only a curious object.
She seems struck with his manner, frantic but intreating. She seems to regard him with wonder. Still she repels him. It is evident she knows him not. She has lost every recollection of him and his. She has forgotten the language of her childhood; she has forgotten her father, her mother: she has forgotten all!
I could not restrain my tears as I looked upon the face of my friend, for I had grown to consider him such. Like one who has received a mortal wound, yet still lives, he stood in the centre of the group, silent and crushed. His head had fallen upon his breast, his cheek was blanched and bloodless; and his eye wandered with an expression of imbecility painful to behold. I could imagine the terrible conflict that was raging within.
He made no further efforts to intreat the girl. He no longer offered to approach her; but stood for some moments in the same attitude without speaking a word.
“Bring her away!” he muttered, at length, in a voice husky and broken; “bring her away! Perhaps, in God’s mercy, she may yet remember.”