Chapter 45 - The Scalp Hunters by Mayne Reid
A Vexed Treaty
Within the barranca was the mine. The shafts, rude diggings, pierced the cliffs on both sides, like so many caves. The bottom between the cliffs was bisected by a rivulet that murmured among loose rocks.
On the banks of this rivulet stood the old smelting-houses and ruined ranches of the miners. Most of them were roofless and crumbling to decay. The ground about them was shaggy and choked up. There were briars, mezcal plants, and cacti—all luxuriant, hirsute, and thorny.
Approaching this point, the road on each side of the barranca suddenly dips, the trails converging downward, and meeting among the ruins.
When in view of these, both parties halted and signalled each other across the ravine. After a short parley, it was proposed by the Navajoes that the captives and horses should remain on the top of the hill, each train to be guarded by two men. The rest, eighteen on each side, should descend to the bottom of the barranca, meet among the houses, and, having smoked the calumet, arrange the terms of the exchange.
Neither Seguin nor I liked this proposal. We saw that, in the event of a rupture in the negotiation (a thing we more than half anticipated), even should our party overpower the other, we could gain nothing. Before we could reach the Navajo captives, up the steep hill, the two guards would hurry them off; or (we dreaded to think of it) butcher them on the ground! It was a fearful thought, but there was nothing improbable in it.
We knew, moreover, that smoking the peace-pipe would be another waste of time; and we were on thorns about the approach of Dacoma’s party.
But the proposal had come from the enemy, and they were obstinate. We could urge no objections to it without betraying our designs; and we were compelled, though loth, to accept it.
We dismounted, leaving our horses in charge of the guard, and descending into the ravine, stood face to face with the warriors of Navajo.
They were eighteen picked men; tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular. The expression of their faces was savage, subtle, and grim. There was not a smile to be seen, and the lip that at that moment had betrayed one would have lied. There was hate in their hearts and vengeance in their looks.
For a moment both parties stood scanning each other in silence. These were no common foes; it was no common hostility that for years had nerved them against each other; and it was no common cause that had now, for the first time, brought them face to face without arms in their hands. A mutual want had forced them to their present attitude of peace, though it was more like a truce between the lion and tiger which have met in an avenue of the jungly forest, and stand eyeing one another.
Though by agreement without arms, both were sufficiently armed, and they knew that of each other.
The handles of tomahawks, the hafts of knives, and the shining butts of pistols, peeped carelessly out from the dresses both of hunters and Indians. There was little effort made to conceal these dangerous toys, and they were on all sides visible.
At length our mutual reconnaissance came to a period, and we proceeded to business.
There happened to be no breadth of ground clear of weeds and thorny rubbish, where we could seat ourselves lor the “smoke.” Seguin pointed to one of the houses, an adobe structure in a tolerable state of preservation, and several entered to examine it. The building had been used as a smelting-house, and broken trucks and other implements were lying over the floor. There was but one apartment, not a large one either, and near its centre stood a brazero covered with cold slag and ashes.
Two men were appointed to kindle a fire upon the brazero, and the rest, entering, took their seats upon the trucks and masses of quartz rock ore that lay around the room!
As I was about seating myself, an object leaped against me from behind, uttering a low whine that ended in a bark. I turned, and beheld the dog Alp. The animal, frenzied with delight, rushed upon me repeatedly; and it was some time before I could quiet him and take my place.
At length we all were seated upon opposite sides of the fire, each party forming the arc of a circle, concave to the other.
There was a heavy door still hanging upon its hinge; and as there were no windows in the house, this was suffered to remain open. It opened to the inside.
The fire was soon kindled, and the clay-stone calumet filled with “kini-kinik.” It was then lighted, and passed from mouth to mouth in profound silence.
We noticed that each of the Indians, contrary to their usual custom of taking a whiff or two, smoked long and slowly. We knew it was a ruse to protract the ceremony and gain time; while we—I answer for Seguin and myself—were chafing at the delay.
When the pipe came round to the hunters, it passed in quicker time.
The unsocial smoke was at length ended, and the negotiation began.
At the very commencement of the “talk,” I saw that we were going to have a difficulty. The Navajoes, particularly the younger warriors, assumed a bullying and exacting attitude that the hunters were not likely to brook; nor would they have submitted to it for a moment but for the peculiar position in which their chief was placed. For his sake they held in as well as they could; but the tinder was apparent, and would not bear many sparks before it blazed up.
The first question was in relation to the number of the prisoners. The enemy had nineteen, while we, without including the queen or the Mexican girls, numbered twenty-one. This was in our favour; but, to our surprise, the Indians insisted that their captives were grown women, that most of ours were children, and that two of the latter should be exchanged for one of the former!
To this absurdity Seguin replied that we could not agree; but, as he did not wish to keep any of their prisoners, he would exchange the twenty-one for the nineteen.
“Twenty-one!” exclaimed a brave; “why, you have twenty-seven. We counted them on the bank.”
“Six of those you counted are our own people. They are whites and Mexicans.”
“Six whites!” retorted the savage; “there are but five. Who is the sixth?”
“Perhaps it is our queen; she is light in colour. Perhaps the pale chief has mistaken her for a white!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the savages, in a taunting laugh. “Our queen a white! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Your queen,” said Seguin, in a solemn voice; “your queen, as you call her, is my daughter.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” again howled they, in scornful chorus; “your daughter! Ha! ha! ha!” and the room rang with their demoniac laughter.
“Yes!” repeated he, in a loud but faltering voice, for he now saw the turn that things were taking. “Yes, she is my daughter.”
“How can that be?” demanded one of the braves, an orator of the tribe. “You have a daughter among our captives; we know that. She is white as the snow upon the mountain-top. Her hair is yellow as the gold upon these armlets. The queen is dark in complexion; among our tribes there are many as light as she, and her hair is like the wing of the black vulture. How is that? Our children are like one another. Are not yours the same? If the queen be your daughter, then the golden-haired maiden is not. You cannot be the father of both. But no!” continued the subtle savage, elevating his voice, “the queen is not your daughter. She is of our race—a child of Montezuma—a queen of the Navajoes!”
“The queen must be returned to us!” exclaimed several braves; “she is ours; we must have her!”
In vain Seguin reiterated his paternal claim. In vain he detailed the time and circumstances of her capture by the Navajoes themselves. The braves again cried out—
“She is our queen; we must have her!”
Seguin, in an eloquent speech, appealed to the feelings of the old chief, whose daughter was in similar circumstances; but it was evident that the latter lacked the power, if he had the will, to stay the storm that was rising. The younger warriors answered with shouts of derision, one of them crying out that “the white chief was raving.”
They continued for some time to gesticulate, at intervals declaring loudly that on no terms would they agree to an exchange unless the queen were given up. It was evident that some mysterious tie bound them to such extreme loyalty. Even the exchange of Dacoma was less desired by them.
Their demands were urged in so insulting a manner that we felt satisfied it was their intention, in the end, to bring us to a fight. The rifles, so much dreaded by them, were absent; and they felt certain of obtaining a victory over us.
The hunters were equally willing to be at it, and equally sure of a conquest.
They only waited the signal from their leader.
A signal was given; but, to their surprise and chagrin, it was one of peace!
Seguin, turning to them and looking down—for he was upon his feet—cautioned them in a low voice to be patient and silent. Then covering his eyes with his hand, he stood for some moments in an attitude of meditation.
The hunters had full confidence in the talents as well as bravery of their chief. They knew that he was devising some plan of action, and they patiently awaited the result.
On the other side, the Indians showed no signs of impatience. They cared not how much time was consumed, for they hoped that by this time Dacoma’s party would be on their trail. They sat still, exchanging their thoughts in grunts and short phrases, while many of them filled up the intervals with laughter. They felt quite easy, and seemed not in the least to dread the alternative of a fight with us. Indeed, to look at both parties, one should have said that, man to man, we would have been no match for them. They were all, with one or two exceptions, men of six feet—most of them over it—in height; while many of the hunters were small-bodied men. But among these there was not one “white feather.”
The Navajoes knew that they themselves were well armed for close conflict. They knew, too, that we were armed. Ha! they little dreamt how we were armed. They saw that the hunters carried knives and pistols; but they thought that, after the first volley, uncertain and ill-directed, the knives would be no match for their terrible tomahawks. They knew not that from the belts of several of us—El Sol, Seguin, Garey, and myself—hung a fearful weapon, the most fearful of all others in close combat: the Colt revolver. It was then but a new patent, and no Navajo had ever heard its continuous and death-dealing detonations.
“Brothers!” said Seguin, again placing himself in an attitude to speak, “you deny that I am the father of the girl. Two of your captives, whom you know to be my wife and daughter, are her mother and sister. This you deny. If you be sincere, then, you cannot object to the proposal I am about to make. Let them be brought before us; let her be brought. If she fail to recognise and acknowledge her kindred, then shall I yield my claim, and the maiden be free to return with the warriors of Navajo.”
The hunters heard this proposition with surprise. They knew that Seguin’s efforts to awaken any recollection of himself in the mind of the girl had been unsuccessful. What likelihood was there that she would remember her mother? But Seguin himself had little hope of this, and a moment’s reflection convinced us that his proposal was based upon some hidden idea.
He saw that the exchange of the queen was a sine qua non with the Indians; and without this being granted, the negotiations would terminate abruptly, leaving his wife and younger daughter still in the hands of our enemies. He reflected on the harsh lot which would await them in their captivity, while she returned but to receive homage and kindness. They must be saved at every sacrifice; she must be yielded up to redeem them.
But Seguin had still another design. It was a strategic manoeuvre, a desperate and dernier ressort on his part. It was this: he saw that, if he could once get the captives, his wife and daughter, down among the houses, there would be a possibility, in the event of a fight, of carrying them off. The queen, too, might thus be rescued as well. It was the alternative suggested by despair.
In a hurried whisper he communicated this to those of his comrades nearest him, in order to insure their prudence and patience.
As soon as the proposal was made, the Navajoes rose from their seats, and clustered together in a corner of the room to deliberate. They spoke in low tones. We could not, of course, understand what was said; but from the expression of their faces, and their gesticulations, we could tell that they seemed disposed to accept it. They knew that the queen had not recognised Seguin as her father. They had watched her closely as she rode down the opposite side of the barranca; in fact, conversed by signals with her, before we could interfere to prevent it. No doubt she had informed them of what happened at the cañon with Dacoma’s warriors, and the probability of their approach. They had little fear, then, that she would remember her mother. Her long absence, her age when made captive, her after-life, and the more than kind treatment she had received at their hands, had long since blotted out every recollection of her childhood and its associations. The subtle savages well knew this; and at length, after a discussion which lasted for nearly an hour, they resumed their seats, and signified their assent to the proposal.
Two men, one from each party, were now sent for the three captives, and we sat waiting their arrival.
In a short time they were led in.
I find a difficulty in describing the scene that followed. The meeting of Seguin with his wife and daughter; my own short embrace and hurried kiss; the sobs and swooning of my betrothed; the mother’s recognition of her long-lost child; the anguish that ensued as her yearning heart made its appeals in vain; the half-indignant, half-pitying looks of the hunters; the triumphant gestures and ejaculations of the Indians: all formed points in a picture that lives with painful vividness in my memory, though I am not sufficiently master of the author’s art to paint it.
In a few minutes the captives were led out of the house, guarded by two men, while the rest of us remained to complete the negotiation.