The Scalp Hunters Part 52

"I vote with you, hoss."

"Comrades!" said Seguin, turning to the mutineers, and speaking in a tone of extreme mildness, "remember your promise. Count the prisoners, as we agreed. I will answer for the payment of all."

"Can ye pay for them now?" asked a voice.

"You know that that would be impossible."

"Pay for them now! Pay for them now!" shouted several.

"Cash or scalps, says I."

"Carrajo! where is the captain to get the money when we reach El Paso more than here? He's neither a Jew nor a banker; and it's news to me if he's grown so rich. Where, then, is all the money to some from?"

"Not from the Cabildo, unless the scalps are forthcoming; I'll warrant that."

"True, Jose! They'll give no money to him, more than to us; and we can get it ourselves if we show the skins for it. That we can."

"Wagh! what cares he for us, now that he has got what he wanted?"

"Not a niggur's scalp. He wouldn't let us go by the Prieto, when we kud 'a gathered the shining stuff in chunks."

"Now he wants us to throw away this chance too. We'd be green fools to do it, I say."

It struck me at this moment that I might interfere, with success. Money seemed to be what the mutineers wanted; at least it was their alleged grievance; and rather than witness the fearful drama which appeared to be on the eve of enactment, I would have sacrificed my fortune.

"Men!" cried I, speaking so that I could be heard above the din, "if you deem my word worth listening to, it is this: I have sent a cargo to Chihuahua with the last caravan. By the time we get back to El Paso the traders will have returned, and I shall be placed in possession of funds double what you demand. If you will accept my promise, I shall see that you be paid."

"Wagh! that talk's all very well, but what do we know of you or yer cargo?"

"Vaya! A bird in the hand's worth two in the bush."

"He's a trader. Who's goin' to take his word?"

"Rot his cargo! Scalps or cash, cash or scalps! that's this niggur's advice; an' if ye don't take it, boys, ye may leave it! but it's all the pay ye'll ever crook yer claws on."

The men had tasted blood, and like the tiger, they thirsted for more.

There were glaring eyes on all sides, and the countenances of some exhibited an animal ferociousness hideous to look upon. The half-robber discipline that hitherto ruled in the band seemed to have completely departed, and the authority of the chief to be set at defiance.

On the other side stood the females, clinging and huddling together.

They could not understand the mutinous language, but they saw threatening att.i.tudes and angry faces. They saw knives drawn, and heard the c.o.c.king of guns and pistols. They knew there was danger, and they crouched together, whimpering with fear.

Up to this moment Seguin had stood giving directions for the mounting of his captives. His manner was strangely abstracted, as it had been ever since the scene of meeting with his daughter. That greater care, gnawing at his heart, seemed to render him insensible to what was pa.s.sing. He was not so.

As Kirker ended (for he was the last speaker) a change came over Sequin's manner, quick as a flash of lightning. Suddenly rousing himself from his att.i.tude of indifference, he stepped forward in front of the mutineers.

"Dare!" shouted he, in a voice of thunder, "dare to dishonour your oaths! By heavens! the first man who raises knife or rifle shall die on the instant!"

There was a pause, and a moment of deep silence.

"I had made a vow," continued he, "that should it please G.o.d to restore me my child, this hand should be stained with no more blood. Let any man force me to break that vow, and, by Heaven, his blood shall be the first to stain it!"

A vengeful murmur ran through the crowd, but no one replied.

"You are but a cowardly brute, with all your bl.u.s.ter," he continued, turning round to Kirker, and looking him in the eye. "Up with that knife! quick! or I will send this bullet through your ruffian heart!"

Seguin had drawn his pistol, and stood in an att.i.tude that told he would execute the threat. His form seemed to have grown larger; his eye dilated, flashing as it rolled, and the man shrank before its glance.

He saw death in it if he disobeyed, and with a surly murmur he fumbled mechanically at his belt, and thrust the blade back into its sheath.

But the mutiny was not yet quelled. These were men not so easily conquered. Fierce exclamations still continued, and the mutineers again began to encourage one another with shouts.

I had thrown myself alongside the chief, with my revolvers c.o.c.ked and ready, resolved to stand by him to the death. Several others had done the same, among whom were Rube, Garey, Sanchez the bull-fighter, and the Maricopa.

The opposing parties were nearly equal, and a fearful conflict would have followed had we fought; but at this moment an object appeared that stifled the resentment of all. It was the common enemy!

Away on the western border of the valley we could see dark objects, hundreds of them, coming over the plain. They were still at a great distance, but the practised eyes of the hunters knew them at a glance.

They were hors.e.m.e.n; they were Indians; they were our pursuers, the Navajoes!

They were riding at full gallop, and strung over the prairie like hounds upon a run. In a twinkling they would be on us.

"Yonder!" cried Seguin, "yonder are scalps enough to satisfy you; but let us see to our own. Come! to your horses! On with the atajo! I will keep my word with you at the pa.s.s. Mount! my brave fellows, mount!"

The last speech was uttered in a tone of reconciliation; but it needed not that to quicken the movements of the hunters. They knew too well their own danger. They could have sustained the attack among the houses, but it would only have been until the return of the main tribe, when they knew that every life would be taken. To make a stand at the town would be madness, and was not thought of. In a moment we were in our saddles; and the atajo, strung out with the captives and provisions, was hurrying off toward the woods. We purposed pa.s.sing the defile that opened eastward, as our retreat by the other route was now cut off by the advancing hors.e.m.e.n.

Seguin had thrown himself at the head, leading the mule upon which his daughter was mounted. The rest followed, straggling over the plain without rank or order.

I was among the last to leave the town. I had lingered behind purposely, fearing some outrage, and determined, if possible, to prevent it.

"At length," thought I, "they have all gone!" and putting spurs to my horse, I galloped after.

When I had ridden about a hundred yards from the walls, a loud yell rang behind me; and, reining in my horse, I turned in the saddle and looked back. Another yell, wild and savage, directed me to the point whence the former had come.

On the highest roof of the temple two men were struggling. I knew them at a glance; and I knew, too, it was a death-struggle. One was the medicine chief, as I could tell by the flowing, white hair. The scanty skirt and leggings, the naked ankles, the close-fitting skull-cap, enabled me easily to distinguish his antagonist. It was the earless trapper!

The conflict was a short one. I had not seen the beginning of it, but I soon witnessed the denouement. As I turned, the trapper had forced his adversary against the parapet, and with his long, muscular arm was bending him over its edge. In the other hand, uplifted, he brandished his knife!

I saw a quick flash as the blade was plunged; a red gush spurted over the garments of the Indian; his arms dropped, his body doubled over the wall, balanced a moment, and then fell with a dull, sodden sound upon the terrace below!

The same wild whoop again rang in my ears, and the hunter disappeared from the root.

I turned to ride on. I knew it was the settling of some old account, the winding up of some terrible revenge.

The clattering of hoofs sounded behind me, and a horseman rode up alongside. I knew, without turning my head, that it was the trapper.

"Fair swop, they say, ain't no stealin'. Putty har, too, it ur. Wagh!

It won't neyther match nor patch mine; but it makes one's feelin's easier."

Puzzled at this speech, I turned to ascertain its meaning. I was answered by the sight that met my eye. An object was hanging from the old man's belt, like a streak of snow-white flax. But it was not that.

It was hair. It was a scalp!