Chapter 40 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
An Indian Diplomat
After the cries of triumph which announced the capture of the unlucky white man, there was a moment of profound silence. The men on the island exchanged looks of consternation and pity. “Thank God! they have not killed him!” said Fabian.
The prisoner indeed arose, although bruised with his fall, and one of the Indians disengaged him from the lasso. Bois-Rose and Pepé shook their heads.
“So much the worse for him, for his sufferings would now be over,” said Pepé; “the silence of the Indians shows that each is considering what punishment to inflict. The capture of one white is more precious in their eyes than that of a whole troop of horses.”
The Indians, still on horseback, surrounded the prisoner, who, casting around him a despairing glance, saw on every side only bronzed and hardened faces. Then the Indians began to deliberate.
Meanwhile, one who appeared to be the chief, and who was distinguished by his black plumes, jumped off his horse, and, throwing the bridle to one of the men, advanced towards the island. Having reached the bank, he seemed to seek for footsteps on the sand. Bois-Rose’s heart beat violently, for this movement appeared to show some suspicion as to their presence.
“Can this wretch,” whispered he to Pepé, “smell flesh like the ogres in the fairy tales?”
“Quien sabe—who knows?” replied the Spaniard, in the phrase which is the common answer of his native country.
But the sand trampled over by the wild horses who had come to drink, showed no traces of a human foot, and the Indian walked up the stream, still apparently seeking.
“The demon has some suspicion,” said Bois-Rose; “and he will discover the traces that we left half-a-mile off when we entered the bed of the river to get at this island. I told you,” added he, “that we should have entered two miles higher up; but neither you nor Fabian wished it, and like a fool, I yielded to you.”
The deliberation as to the fate of the prisoner was now doubtless over; for cries of joy welcomed some proposition made by one of the Indians. But it was necessary to await the return and approbation of the chief, who was the man already known to us as the “Blackbird.” He had continued his researches, and having reached the place where they had left the sand to enter the river, no longer doubted that the report brought to them had been correct; and having his own private objects, he determined to follow it. Once assured of the presence of the three whites, he returned to his men, listened gravely to the result of their deliberations, answered in a few words, and then advanced slowly towards the river—after having given an order to five of his men who set off at full gallop to execute it.
The aquatic plants were open in the sunshine; the breeze agitated the leaves of the osiers on the banks of the island, which was to all appearance as uninhabited as when the stream flowed only for the birds of heaven, and the buffaloes and wild horses of the plains. But an Indian could not be deceived by this apparent calm. The “Blackbird” made a speaking-trumpet of his hand, and cried in a language half Indian, half-Spanish—
“The white warriors of the north may show themselves; the ‘Blackbird’ is their friend. So, too, are the warriors he commands.”
At these words, borne to them distinctly by the wind, the Canadian pressed the arm of Pepé; both understood the mixed dialect of the Indian.
“What shall we reply?” said he.
“Nothing,” answered Pepé.
The breeze which murmured through the reeds was the only answer the Indian could hear.
He went on—
“The eagle may hide his track in the air from the eye of an Apache; the salmon in the stream leaves no trace behind him; but a white man who crosses the desert is neither a salmon nor an eagle.”
“Nor a gosling,” murmured Pepé; “and a gosling only betrays himself by trying to sing.”
The Indian listened again, but hearing no sound, continued, without showing any signs of being discouraged, “The white warriors of the north are but three against twenty, and the red warriors engage their word to be friends and allies to them.”
“Wagh!” said Bois-Rose, “for what perfidy has he need of us?”
“Let him go on, and we shall hear; he has not yet finished, or I am much mistaken!”
“When the white warriors know the intentions of the Blackbird, they will leave their hiding-place,” continued he, “but they shall hear them. The white men of the north are the enemies of those of the south—their language, their religion is different. The Apaches hold in their toils a whole camp of southern warriors.”
“So much the worse for the gold-seekers,” said Bois-Rose.
“If the warriors of the north will join the Indians with their long rifles, they shall share the horses and the treasures of the men of the south; the Indians and the whites will dance together round the corpses of their enemies, and the ashes of their camp.”
Bois-Rose and Pepé looked at each other in astonishment, and explained to Fabian the proposal made to them, but the fire of their eyes and their disdainful looks, showed that the noble trio had but one opinion on the subject—that of perishing rather than aiding the Indians to triumph even over their mortal enemies.
“Do you hear the miscreant,” cried Bois-Rose, using in indignation an image fit for the Indians, “he takes jaguars far jackals. Ah! if Fabian were not here, a bullet would be my answer.”
Meanwhile, the Indian feeling certain of the presence of the hunters in the island, began to lose patience—for the orders of the chiefs had been peremptory to attack the whites—but he, having his own opinions, wished to prove them right. He knew that the American or Canadian rifle never misses its aim, and three such allies seemed to him not to be despised. He therefore continued to speak:
“The buffalo of the prairies is not more easy to follow than the white man; the track of the buffalo tells the Indian his age, his size, and the time of his passing. There are behind the reeds of the floating island a man as strong as a bison, and taller than the tallest rifle, a warrior of mingled north and south blood, and a young warrior of the pure south, but the alliance of these two with the first, indicates that they are enemies of the southern whites—for the weakest ever seek the friendship of the strongest and espouse their cause.”
“The sagacity of these dogs is admirable,” said Bois-Rose.
“Because they flatter you,” said Pepé, who seemed somewhat annoyed at what the Indian had said.
“I await for the answer of the whites,” continued the Blackbird. “I hear only the sound of the river, and the wind which says to me, ‘the whites imagine a thousand errors; they believe that the Indian has eyes behind his back, that the track of the bison is invisible, and that reeds are ball proof.’ The Blackbird laughs at the words of the wind.”
“Ah!” said Bois-Rose, “if we had entered but two miles higher up the river!”
“A friend disdained becomes a terrible enemy,” continued the chief.
“We say something similar among us,” muttered Pepé.
The Blackbird now signed to the captive to approach. The latter advanced, and the chief pointed out to him the little island, and said, “Can the rifle of the pale-face send a ball into the space between those bushes?”
But the prisoner had understood only the little Spanish mixed with the Indian dialect, and he remained mute and trembling. Then the Blackbird spoke to one of his warriors, who placed in the hands of the prisoner the rifle that he had taken from him, and by gestures made him understand what was wanted of him. The unlucky man tried to take aim, but terror caused him to shake in such a fashion that his rifle was unsteady in his hands.
“If the Indian has no better way than that to make us speak,” said Pepé, “I will not say a word until to-morrow!”
The white man fired indeed, but the ball, directed by his trembling hands, fell into the water some distance from the island. The Blackbird glanced contemptuously at him, and then looked around him.
“Yes,” said Pepé; “seek for balls and powder among the lances and lassoes of your warriors.”
But as he finished this consoling reflection, the five men who had gone away, returned armed for combat, with rifles and quivers full of arrows. They had been to fetch the arms which they had laid down, in order to follow the wild horses more freely. Five others now went off.
“This looks bad,” said Bois-Rose.
“Shall we attack them while they are but fifteen,” said Pepé.
“No, let us remain silent; he still doubts whether we are here.”
“As you like.”
The Indian chief now took a rifle and advanced again to the bank.
“The hands of the Blackbird do not tremble like a leaf shaken by the wind,” said he, pointing his rifle steadily towards the island. “But before firing, he will wait while he counts one hundred, for the answer of the whites who are hidden in the island.”
“Get behind me, Fabian,” said Bois-Rose.
“No, I stay here,” said Fabian, decidedly. “I am younger, and it is my place to expose myself for you.”
“Child! do you not see that my body exceeds yours six inches on every side, and your remaining in front is but presenting a double mark.”
And without shaking a single one of the reeds around the island, he advanced and knelt before Fabian.
“Let him do it, Fabian,” said Pepé. “Never had man a more noble buckler, than the heart of the giant which beats in fear for you.”
The Indian chief, rifle in hand, listened as he counted, but excepting the murmur of the water, a profound silence reigned everywhere.
He fired at length, and the leaves of the trees flew into the air; but as the three hunters knelt in a row they did not present a large aim, and the ball passed at some little distance from them.
The Blackbird waited a minute and cried again: “The Indian was wrong, he acknowledges his error, he will seek for the white warriors elsewhere.”
“Who believes that?” said Pepé; “he is more sure than ever. He is about to leave us alone for a few minutes, until he has finished with that poor devil yonder, which will not belong—since the death of a white is a spectacle which an Indian is always in a hurry to enjoy.”
“But had we better not make some effort in favour of the unlucky man?” said Fabian.
“Some unexpected circumstances may come to our assistance,” replied Bois-Rose. “Whatever Pepé says, the Indians may still doubt, but if we show ourselves, all is over. To accept an alliance with these Indians, even against Don Estevan de Arechiza, would be an unworthy cowardice. What can we do?” added he, sadly.
One fear tormented him; he had seen Fabian in danger when his blood was boiling with passion, but had he the calm courage which meets death coolly? Had he the stoical resignation of which he himself had given so many proofs? The Canadian took a sudden resolution.
“Listen, Fabian,” said he; “can I speak to you the language of a man? Will the words which your ears will transmit to your heart not freeze it with terror?”
“Why doubt my courage?” replied Fabian in a tone of gentle reproach. “Whatever you say, I will hear without growing pale; whatever you do, I will do also, without trembling.”
“Don Fabian speaks truly, Pepé; look at his eye,” said the Canadian, pressing Fabian in his arms; then he continued solemnly: “Never were three men in greater peril than we are now; our enemies are seven times our number; when each of us has killed six of them, there would still remain a number equal to our own.”
“We have done it before,” said Pepé.
“And we shall do it again,” cried Fabian.
“Good, my child,” said Bois-Rose, “but whatever happens, these demons must not take us alive. See, Fabian!” added the old man, in a voice that he tried to keep firm while unsheathing a long knife, “if we were left without powder or ammunition at the mercy of these dogs, about to fall into their hands, and this poignard in my hand was our only chance, what would you say?”
“I would say, strike, father, and let us die together!”
“Yes, yes,” cried the Canadian, looking with indescribable tenderness at him who called him father, “it will be one means of never being separated.” And he held out to Fabian his hand trembling with emotion, which the latter kissed respectfully.
“Now,” said Bois-Rose, “whatever happens we shall not be separated. God will do the rest, and we shall try to save this unlucky man.”
“To work then!” said Fabian.
“Not yet, my child; let us see what these red demons are about to do.”
Meanwhile the Indians had ranged themselves in two lines, and the white man was placed a little in advance of them.
“I see what they are going to do,” said Bois-Rose, “they are going to try if the poor wretch’s legs are better than his arms. They are about to chase him.”
“How so?” said Fabian.
“They will place their captive a little in advance, then at a given signal he will run. Then all the Indians will run after him, lance and hatchet in hand. If the white is quick enough to reach the river before them, we will call to him to swim to us. Some shots will protect him, and he may reach here safe and sound. But if terror paralyses his limbs, as it did his hands just now, the foremost Indian will break his head with a blow from a hatchet. In any case we shall do our best.”
At this moment the five other Indians returned armed from head to foot, and now joined the rest. Fabian looked with profound compassion at the unlucky white man, who with haggard eye, and features distorted by terror, waited in horrible anguish until the signal was given. But the Blackbird pointed to the bare feet of his warriors, and then to the leather buskins which protected the feet of the white man. They then saw the latter sit down and take them off slowly, as if to gain a few seconds.
“The demons!” cried Fabian.
“Hush!” said Bois-Rose, “do not by discovering yourself destroy the last chance of life for the poor wretch!”
Fabian shut his eyes so as not to witness the horrible scene about to take place. At length the white man rose to his feet, and the Indians stood devouring him with their looks, until the Blackbird clapped his hands together, and then the howlings which followed could only be compared to those of a troop of jaguars in pursuit of a deer. The unlucky captive ran with great swiftness, but his pursuers bounded after him like tigers. Thanks to the start which he had had, he cleared safely a part of the distance which separated him from the river, but the stones which cut his feet and the sharp thorns of the nopals soon caused him to slacken his pace, and one of the Indians rushed up and made a furious thrust at him with his lance. It passed between his arm and his body, and the Indian losing his equilibrium, fell on the sand.
Gayferos, for it was he, appeared to hesitate a moment whether he should pick up the lance which the Indian had let fall, but then rapidly continued his course. That instant’s hesitation was fatal to him. All at once, amidst the cloud of dust raised by his feet, a hatchet shone over the head of the unfortunate Mexican, who was seen falling to the earth.
Bois-Rose was about to fire, but the fear of killing him whom he wished to defend, stopped his hand. For a single moment the wind cleared away the dust, and he fired, but it was too late, the Indian who fell under his ball was brandishing in his hand the scalp of the unhappy man. To this unexpected shot, the savages replied with howls, and then rushed away from what they believed to be only a corpse. Soon, however, they saw the man rise, with his head laid bare, who after straggling a few paces, fell again, while the blood flowed in torrents from his wounds.
“Ah!” cried Bois-Rose, “if there remains in him a spark of life—and people do not die only from scalping—we shall save him yet; I swear we shall!”