Chapter 96 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
The White-Haired Chief
There was an interval of silence—a dramatic pause—that lasted for more than a minute.
It was ended by one of the council rising to his feet, and by a gesture inviting Hissoo-royo to speak.
The renegade began:
“Red warriors of the Hietan! brothers! what I have to say before the council will not require many words. I claim yonder Mexican girl as my captive, and therefore as my own. Who denies my right? I claim the white horse as mine—my prize fairly taken.”
The speaker paused as if to wait for further commands from the council.
“Hissoo-royo has spoken his claim to the Mexican maiden and the white steed. He has not said upon what right he rests it. Let him declare his right in presence of the council!”
This was said by the same Indian who had made the gesture, and who appeared to direct the proceedings. He was not acting by any superior authority, which he may have possessed, but merely by reason of his being the oldest of the party. Among the Indians, age gives precedence.
“Brothers!” continued Hissoo-royo, in obedience to the command—“my claim is just—of that you are to be the judges; I know your true hearts—you will not shut them against justice. I need not read to you your own law, that he who makes a captive has the right to keep it—to do with it as he will. This is the law of your tribe—of my tribe as well, for yours is mine.”
Grunts of approbation caused a momentary interruption in the speech.
“Hietans!” resumed the speaker, “my skin is white, but my heart is the colour of your own. You did me the honour to adopt me into your nation; you honoured me by making me first a warrior, and afterwards a war-chief. Have I ever given you cause to regret what you have done? Have I ever betrayed your trust?”
A volley of exclamations indicated a response in the negative.
“I have confidence, then, in your love of justice and truth; I have no fear that the colour of my skin will blind your eyes, for you all know the colour of my heart.”
Fresh signs of approbation followed this adroit stroke of eloquence.
“Then, brothers! listen to my cause; I claim the maiden and the horse. I need not tell where they were found, and how; your own eyes were witnesses of their capture. There has been talk of a doubt as to who made it, for many horsemen were in the pursuit. I deny that there is any doubt. My lazo was first over the head of the horse—was first tightened around his throat—first brought him to a stand. To take the horse was to take the rider. It was my deed; both are my captives. I claim both as my property. Who is he that disputes my claim? Let him stand forth!”
Having delivered this challenge with a defiant emphasis, the speaker fell back into his former attitude; and, once more folding his arms, remained silent and immobile.
Another pause followed, which was again terminated by a sign from the old warrior who had first spoken. This gesture was directed to the crier, who the moment after, raising his shrill voice, called out:
“Wakono!”
The name caused me to start as if struck by an arrow. It was my own appellation: I was Wakono!
It was pronounced thrice, each time louder than the preceding:
“Wakono! Wakono! Wakono!”
A light flashed upon me. Wakono was the rival claimant! He whose breech-cloth was around my hips, whose robe hung from my shoulders, whose plumed bonnet adorned my head, whose pigments disfigured my face—he of the red hand upon his breast, and the cross upon his brow, was no other than Wakono!
I cannot describe the singular sensation I felt at this discovery. I was in a perilous position indeed. My fingers trembled among the leaves. I released the branchlets, and let them close up before my face; I dared not trust myself to look forth.
For some moments I stood still and silent, but not without trembling. I could not steady my nerves under such a dread agitation.
I listened, but looked not. There was an interval of breathless silence—no one seemed to stir or speak—they were waiting the effect of the summons.
Once more the voice of the crier was heard pronouncing in triple repetition: “Wakono! Wakono! Wakono!”
Again followed an interval of silence; but I could hear low mutterings of surprise and disappointment as soon as it was perceived that the Indian did not answer to his name.
I alone knew the reason of his absence; I knew that Wakono could not—the true Wakono; that his counterfeit would not come. Though I had undertaken to personate the savage chieftain, for this act in the drama I was not prepared. The stage must wait!
Even at that moment I was sensible of the ludicrousness of the situation; so extreme was it, that even at that moment of direst peril, I felt a half inclination for laughter!
But the feeling was easily checked; and once more parting the branches, I ventured to look forth.
I saw there was some confusion. Wakono had been reported “missing.” The members of the council still preserved both their seats and stoical composure; but the younger warriors behind were uttering harsh ejaculations, and moving about from place to place with that restless air that betokens at once surprise and disappointment.
At this crisis, an Indian was seen emerging from the tent. He was a man of somewhat venerable aspect, though venerable more from age than any positive expression of virtue. His cheeks were furrowed by time, and his hair white as bleached flax—a rare sight among Indians.
There was something about this individual that bespoke him a person of authority. Wakono was the son of the chief—the chief, then, should be an old man. This must be he?
I had no doubt of it, and my conjecture proved to be correct.
The white-haired Indian stepped forward to the edge of the ring, and with a wave of his hand commanded silence.
The command was instantly obeyed. The murmurings ceased, and all placed themselves in fixed attitudes to listen.