Chapter 48 - The Scalp Hunters by Mayne Reid
Smoked Out
Our conversation had been carried on in a low tone, for the Indians still remained in front of the cave. Many others had arrived, and were examining the skull of the Canadian with the same looks of curiosity and wonderment that had been exhibited by their comrades.
Rube and I sat for some time in silence, watching them. The trapper had flitted near me, so that he could see out and talk in whispers.
I was still apprehensive that the savages might search the cave.
“’Tain’t likely,” said my companion. “They mout ef thur hadn’t ’a been so many o’ these diggins, do ’ee see? Thur’s a grist o’ ’em—more’n a hundred—on t’other side; an’ most o’ the men who got clur tuk furrer down. It’s my notion the Injuns seed that, an’ won’t disturb— Ef thur ain’t that dog!”
I well understood the meaning of the emphasis with which these last words were repeated. My eyes, simultaneously with those of the speaker, had fallen upon the dog Alp. He was running about in front of the cave. I saw at a glance he was searching for me.
The next moment he had struck the trail where I had crawled through the cacti, and came running down in the direction of the cave.
On reaching the body of the Canadian, which lay directly in his track, he stopped for a moment and appeared to examine it. Then, uttering a short yelp, he passed on to that of the doctor, where he made a similar demonstration. He ran several times from one to the other, but at length left them; and, with his nose once more to the ground, disappeared out of our view.
His strange actions had attracted the attention of the savages, who, one and all, stood watching him.
My companion and I were beginning to hope that he had lost me, when, to our dismay, he appeared a second time, coming down the trail as before. This time he leaped over the bodies, and the next moment sprang into the mouth of the cave.
A yell from without told us that we were lost.
We endeavoured to drive the dog out again, and succeeded, Rube having wounded him with his knife; but the wound itself, and the behaviour of the animal outside, convinced our enemies that someone was within the shaft.
In a few seconds the entrance was darkened by a crowd of savages, shouting and yelling.
“Now show yur shootin’, young fellur!” said my companion. “It’s the new kind o’ pistol ’ee hev got. Load every ber’l o’ it.”
“Shall I have time to load them?”
“Plenty o’ time. They ain’t a-gwine to come in ’ithout a light. Thur gone for a torch to the shanty. Quick wi’ yur! Slap in the fodder!”
Without waiting to reply, I caught hold of my flask, and loaded the remaining five chambers of the revolver. I had scarcely finished when one of the Indians appeared in front with a flaming brand, and was about stooping into the mouth of the cavern.
“Now’s yur time,” cried Rube. “Fetch the niggur out o’ his boots! Fetch him!”
I fired, and the savage, dropping the torch, fell dead upon the top of it!
An angry yell from without followed the report, and the Indians disappeared from the front. Shortly after, an arm was seen reaching in, and the dead body was drawn back out of the entrance.
“What will they do next, think you?” I inquired of my companion.
“I can’t tell adzactly yit; but thur sick o’ that game, I reckin. Load that ber’l agin. I guess we’ll git a lot o’ ’m afore we gins in. Cuss the luck! that gun, Tar-guts! Ef I only had that leetle piece hyur! ’Ee’ve got six shots, have ’ee? Good! ’Ee mout chock up the cave wi’ their karkidges afore they kin reach us. It ur a great weepun, an’ no mistakes. I seed the cap use it. Lor’! how he made it tell on them niggers i’ the shanty! Thur ain’t many o’ them about, I reckin. Load sure, young fellur! Thur’s plenty o’ time. They knows what you’ve got thur.”
During all this dialogue none of the Indians made their appearance, but we could hear them on both sides of the shaft without. We knew they were deliberating on what plan they would take to get at us.
As Rube suggested, they seemed to be aware that the shot had come from a revolver. Doubtless some of the survivors of the late fight had informed them of the fearful havoc that had been made among them with our pistols, and they dreaded to face them. What other plan would they adopt? Starve us out?
“They mout,” said Rube, in answer to my question, “an’ kin if they try. Thur ain’t a big show o’ vittlin’ hyur, ’ceptin’ we chaw donnicks. But thur’s another way, ef they only hev the gumshin to go about it, that’ll git us sooner than starvin’. Ha!” ejaculated the speaker, with emphasis. “I thort so. Thur a-gwine to smoke us. Look ’ee yander!”
I looked forth. At a distance I saw several Indians coming in the direction of the cave, carrying large bundles of brushwood. Their intention was evident.
“But can they do this?” I inquired, doubting the possibility of our enemies being able to effect their purpose in that way; “can we not bear the smoke?”
“Bar it! Yur green, young fellur. Do ’ee know what sort o’ brush thur a-toatin’ yander?”
“No,” said I; “what is it?”
“It ur the stink-plant, then; an’ the stinkinest plant ’ee ever smelt, I reckin. The smoke o’ it ud choke a skunk out o’ a persimmon log. I tell ’ee, young ’un, we’ll eyther be smoked out or smothered whur we are; an’ this child hain’t fit Injun for thirty yeern or better, to go under that a way. When it gets to its wurst I’m a-gwine to make a rush. That’s what I’m a-gwine ter do, young fellur.”
“But how?” I asked, hurriedly; “how shall we act then?”
“How? Yur game to the toes, ain’t ’ee?”
“I am willing to fight to the last.”
“Wal, than, hyur’s how, an’ the only how: when they’ve raised the smoke so that they can’t see us a-comin’, we’ll streak it out among ’em. You hev the pistol, an’ kin go fo’most. Shoot every niggur that clutches at ye, an’ run like blazes! I’ll foller clost on yur heels. If we kin oncest git through the thick o’ ’em, we mout make the brush, an’ creep under it to the big caves on t’other side. Them caves jines one another, an’ we mout dodge them thur. I seed the time this ’coon kud ’a run a bit, but these hyur jeints ain’t as soople as they wur oncest. We kin try neverthemless; an’ mind, young fellur, it’s our only chance: do ’ee hear?”
I promised to follow the directions that my never-despairing companion had given me.
“They won’t get old Rube’s scalp yit, they won’t. He! he! he!”
I turned towards him. The man was actually laughing at this wild and strangely-timed jest. It was awful to hear him.
Several armfuls of brush were now thrown into the mouth of the cave. I saw that it was the creosote plant, the ideodondo.
It was thrown upon the still blazing torch, and soon caught, sending up a thick, black smoke. More was piled on; and the fetid vapour, impelled by some influence from without, began to reach our nostrils and lungs, causing an almost instantaneous feeling of sickness and suffocation. I could not have borne it long. I did not stay to try how long, for at that moment I heard Rube crying out—
“Now’s your time, young fellur! Out, and gi’ them fits!”
With a feeling of desperate resolve, I clutched my pistol and dashed through the smoking brushwood. I heard a wild and deafening shout. I saw a crowd of men—of fiends. I saw spears, and tomahawks, and red knives raised, and—