Chapter 16 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
As Carlos approached the spot where the chief had been slain he heard the death-wail chanted by a chorus of voices.
On getting still nearer, he perceived a ring of warriors dismounted and standing around a corpse. It was that of the fallen chief. Others, fresh from the pursuit, were gathering to the place; each taking up the melancholy dirge as he drew nigh.
The cibolero alighted, and walked forward to the ring. Some regarded him with looks of surprise, while others, who knew he had aided them in the fight, stepped up and grasped him by the hand. One old warrior taking Carlos’ arm in his, led him forward to the ring, and silently pointed to the now ghastly features, as though he was imparting to the cibolero the news that their chief was dead!
Neither he nor any of the warriors knew what part Carlos had borne in the affair. No one, now alive, had been witness to the conflict in which the chief had fallen. Around the spot were high copses that hid it from the rest of the field, and, at the time this conflict occurred, the fight was raging in a different direction. The warrior, therefore, thought he was imparting to Carlos a piece of news, and the latter remained silent.
But there was a mystery among the braves, and Carlos saw this by their manner. Five Indians lay dead upon the ground unscalped! That was the mystery. They were the three Panés, and the chief with the other Waco. They could not have slain each other, and all have fallen on the spot. That was not probable. The Waco and one of the Panés lay apart. The other three were close together, just as they had fallen, the chief impaled by the Pané spear, while his slayer lay behind him still grasping the weapon! The red tomahawk was clutched firmly in the hands of the chief, and the cleft skull of the second Pané showed where it had last fallen.
So far the Indians translated the tableau, but the mystery lay not there. Who had slain the slayer of their chief? That was the puzzle. Some one must have survived this deadly strife, where five warriors had died together!
If a Pané, surely he would not have gone off without that great trophy which would have rendered him famous for life,—the scalp of the Waco chief? If a Waco, where and who was he?
These questions passed from lip to lip. No one was found to answer them, but there were yet some warriors to return from the pursuit, and the inquiry was suspended, while the death-song was again chanted over the fallen chief.
At length all the braves had arrived on the spot, and stood in a circle around the body. One of the warriors stepped forward to the midst, and by a signal intimated that he wished to be heard. A breathless silence followed, and the warrior began:—
“Wacoes! our hearts are sad when they should otherwise rejoice. In the midst of victory a great calamity has fallen upon us. We have lost our father,—our brother! Our great chief—he whom we all loved—has fallen. Alas! In the very hour of triumph, when his strong right hand had hewn down his enemy on the field—in that moment has he fallen!
“The hearts of his warriors are sad, the hearts of his people will long be sad!
“Wacoes! our chief has not fallen unrevenged. His slayer lies at his feet pierced with the deadly dart, and weltering in his blood. Who of you hath done this?”
Here the speaker paused for a moment as if waiting for a reply. None was given.
“Wacoes!” he continued, “our beloved chief has fallen, and our hearts are sad. But it glads them to know that his death has been avenged. There lies his slayer, still wearing his hated scalp. What brave warrior claims the trophy? Let him stop forth and take it!”
Here there was another pause, but neither voice nor movement answered the challenge.
The cibolero was silent with the rest. He did not comprehend what was said, as the speech was in the Waco tongue, and he understood it not. He guessed that it related to the fallen chief and his enemies, but its exact purport was unknown to him.
“Brothers!” again resumed the orator, “brave men are modest and silent about their deeds. None but a brave warrior could have done this. We know that a brave warrior will avow it. Let him fear not to speak. The Wacoes will be grateful to the warrior who has avenged the death of their beloved chief.”
Still the silence was unbroken, except by the voice of the orator.
“Brother warriors!” he continued, raising his voice and speaking in an earnest tone, “I have said that the Wacoes will be grateful for this deed. I have a proposal to make. Hear me!”
All signified assent by gestures.
“It is our custom,” continued the speaker, “to elect our chief from the braves of our tribe. I propose that we elect him now and here—here! on the red field where his predecessor has fallen. I propose for our chief the warrior who has done this deed!” And the orator pointed to the fallen Pané.
“My voice for the brave who has avenged our chief!” cried one.
“And mine!” shouted another.
“And mine! and mine! and mine!” exclaimed all the warriors.
“Then solemnly be it proclaimed,” said the orator, “that he to whom belongs this trophy,” he pointed to the scalp of the Pané, “shall be chief of the Waco nation!”
“Solemnly we avow it!” cried all the warriors in the ring, each placing his hand over his heart as he spoke.
“Enough!” said the orator. “Who is chief of the Waco warriors? Let him declare himself on the spot!”
A dead silence ensued. Every eye was busy scanning the faces around the circle, every heart was beating to hail their new chief.
Carlos, unconscious of the honour that was in store for him, was standing a little to one side, observing the movements of his dusky companions with interest. He had not the slightest idea of the question that had been put. Some one near him, however, who spoke Spanish, explained to him the subject of the inquiry, and he was about to make a modest avowal, when one of the braves in the circle exclaimed—
“Why be in doubt longer? If modesty ties the tongue of the warrior, let his weapon speak. Behold! his arrow still pierces the body of our foe. Perhaps it will declare its owner,—it is a marked one!”
“True!” ejaculated the orator. “Let us question the arrow!”
And, stepping forward, he drew the shaft from the body of the Pané, and held it aloft.
The moment the eyes of the warriors fell upon its barbed head, an exclamation of astonishment passed from their lips. The head was of iron! No Waco ever used such a weapon as that!
All eyes were instantly turned on Carlos the cibolero, with looks of inquiry and admiration. All felt that it must be from his bow had sped that deadly shaft; and they were the more convinced of this because some who had noticed the third Pané pierced with a rifle bullet, had just declared the fact to the crowd.
Yes, it must be so. The pale-face was the avenger of their chief!