The Wild Huntress Part 27

RAISING A RAMPART.

I kept the telescope to my eye not half so long as I have taken in telling of it. Quick as I saw that the men stirring around the waggon were Indians, I thought only of screening my person from their sight.

To effect this, I dropped down from the summit of the rock--on the opposite side from that facing toward the savages. Showing only the top of my head, and with the gla.s.s once more levelled up the valley, I continued the observation. I now became a.s.sured that the victim of the ensanguined skull was a white man; that the other prostrate forms were also the bodies of white men, all dead--all, no doubt, mutilated in a similar manner?

The tableau told its own tale. The presence of the waggon halted, and without horses--one or two dead ones lying under the tongue--the ruck of Indians cl.u.s.tering around it--the bodies stretched along the earth-- other objects, boxes, and bales, strewed over the sward--all were significant of recent strife. The scene explained what we had heard while coming up the canon. The fusillade had been no fancy, but a fearful reality--fearful, too, in its effects, as I was now satisfied by the testimony of my telescope. The caravan had been attacked, or, more likely, only a single waggon that had been straggling in the rear? The firing may have proceeded from the escort, or the armed emigrants?

Indians may have fallen: indeed there were some prostrate forms apart, with groups gathered around them, and those I conjectured to be the corpses of red men. But it was evident the Indians had proved victorious: since they were still upon the field--still holding the place and the plunder.

Where were the other waggons of the train? There were fifty of them-- only one was in sight! It was scarcely possible that the whole caravan had been captured. If so, they must have succ.u.mbed within the pa.s.s? A fearful ma.s.sacre must have been made? This was improbable: the more so, that the Indians around the waggon appeared to number near two hundred men. They must have const.i.tuted the full band: for it is rare that a war-party is larger. Those seen appeared to be all warriors, naked from the breech-clout upward, their skins glaring with pigments. Neither woman nor child could I see among them. Had the other waggons been captured, there would not have been so many of the captors cl.u.s.tered around this particular one. In all likelihood, the vehicle had been coming up behind the others? The animals drawing it had been shot down in the skirmish, and it had fallen into the hands of the successful a.s.sailants?

These conjectures occupied me only a moment. Mingled with them was one of still more special import: to whom had belonged the abandoned waggon?

With fearful apprehension, I covered the ground with my gla.s.s-- straining my sight as I gazed through it. I swept the whole surface of the surrounding plain. I looked under the waggon--on both sides of it, and beyond. I sought amidst the ma.s.ses of dusky forms I examined the groups and stragglers--even the corpses that strewed the plain. Thank Heaven! they were all black, or brown, or red! All appeared to be _men_--both the living and the dead--thank Heaven! The e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n ended my survey of the scene: it had scarcely occupied ten seconds of time.

It was interrupted by a sudden movement on the part of the savages.

Those on horseback were seen separating from the rest; and, the instant after, appeared coming on in the direction of the b.u.t.te! The movement was easily accounted for. My imprudence had betrayed our presence. I had been seen while standing on the summit of the mound! I felt regret for my own rashness; but there was no time to indulge in the feeling, and I stifled it. The moment called for action--demanding all the firmness of nerve and coolness of head which, fortunately, I had acquired by the experience of similar arises. Instead of shouting to my comrades--as yet unconscious of the approaching danger--I remained upon the summit without uttering a word, or showing a sign that might alarm them. My object in so acting was to avoid the confusion, consequent upon a sudden panic, and keep my mind free to think over some plan of escape. The Indians were still five miles off. It would be some minutes at least before they could attack us. Two or three of these could be spared for reflection. After that, it would be time to call in the counsel of my companions.

I am here describing in detail, and with the tranquillity of closet retrospect, thoughts that follow one another with the rapidity of lightning flashes. To say that I reflected coolly, would not be true: I was at that moment too much under the influence of fear for tranquil reflection. I perceived at once that the situation was more than dangerous: it was desperate. Flight was my first thought, or rather my first instinct: for, on reflection, it failed. The idea was to fling off the packs, mount the two pedestrians upon the mules, and gallop back for the canon. The conception was good enough, if it could have been carried out, but of this there was no hope. The defile was too distant to be reached in time. The two who might ride the mules could never make it--they must fall by the way. Even if all four of us should succeed in getting back to the canon, what then? Was it likely we should ever emerge from it? We might for a time defend ourselves within its narrow gorge; but to pa.s.s clear through and escape at the other end would be impossible. A party of our pursuers would be certain to take over the ridge, and head us below. To antic.i.p.ate them in their arrival there, and reach the woods beyond, would be utterly out of our power.

The trail through the canon was full of obstacles, as we had already discovered--and these would delay us. Without a prospect of reaching the forest below it would be of no use attempting flight. In the valley around us there was no timbered tract--nothing that deserved the name of a wood: only copses and groves, the largest of which would not have sheltered us for an hour.

I had a reflection. Happy am I now, and proud, that I had the virtue to stifle it. For myself, escape by flight might not have been so problematical. A steed stood near that could have carried me beyond all danger. It only needed to fling myself into the saddle, and ply the spur. Even without that impulsion, my Arab would, and could, have carried me clear of the pursuit. Death was preferable to the thought.

I could only indulge it as a last resort--after all else had failed and fallen. Three men were my companions, true and tried. To all of them, I owed some service--to one little less than my life--for the bullet of the eccentric ranger had once saved me from an enemy. It was I who had brought on the impending attack. It was but just I should share its danger; and the thought of shunning it vanished on the instant of its conception. Escape by flight appeared hopeless. On the shortest survey of the circ.u.mstances I perceived that our only chance lay in defending ourselves. The chance was not much worth; but there was no alternative.

We must stand and tight, or fall without resisting. From such a foe as that coming down upon us, we need expect no grace--not a modic.u.m of mercy. Where was our defence to be made? On the summit of the b.u.t.te?

There was no better place in sight--no other that could be reached, offering so many advantages. Had we chosen it for a point of defence, it could not have promised better for the purpose. As already stated, the cone was slightly truncated--its top ending in a _mesa_. The table was large enough to hold four of us. By crouching low, or lying flat upon it, we should be screened from the arrows of the Indians, or such other weapons as they might use. On the other hand, the muzzles of four guns pointed at _them_, would deter them from approaching the base of the b.u.t.te. Scarcely a minute was I in maturing a plan; and I lost less time in communicating it to my companions. Returning to them, as fast as I could make the descent, I announced the approach of the Indians.

The announcement produced a surprise sufficiently unpleasant, but no confusion. The old soldiers had been too often under fire to be frightened out of their senses at the approach of an enemy; and the young hunter was not one to give way to a panic. All three remained cool and collected, as they listened to my hurried detail of the plan I had sketched out for our defence. There was no difficulty in inducing them to adopt it. All agreed to it eagerly and at once: in short, all saw that there was no alternative. Up the mound again--this time followed by my three comrades--each of us heavily laden. In addition to our guns and ammunition, we carried our saddles and mule-packs, our blankets and buffalo-robes. It was not their intrinsic value that tempted us to take this trouble with our _impedimenta_: our object was to make with them a rampart upon the rock. We had just time for a second trip; and, flinging our first loads up to the table, we rushed back down the declivity. Each seized upon such objects as offered themselves--valises, the soldiers' knapsacks, joints of the antelope lately killed, and the noted meal-bag--all articles likely to avail us in building our bulwark.

The animals must be abandoned--both horses and mules. Could we take them up to the summit? Yes, the thing could be accomplished, but to what purpose? It would be worse than useless: since it would only render them an aim for the arrows of the enemy, and insure their being shot down at once. To leave them below appeared the better plan. A tree stood near the base of the mound. To its branches their bridles had been already looped. There they would be within easy range of our rifles. We could shelter them so long as there was light. To protect them might appear of little advantage; since in the darkness they could be easily taken from us. But in leaving them thus, we were not without some design. We, too, might build a hope on the darkness. If we could succeed in sustaining the attack until nightfall, flight might _then_ avail us. In truth, that seemed the only chance we should have of ultimately escaping from our perilous situation. We resolved, therefore, to look well to the safety of the animals. Though, forced to forsake them for a time, we might still keep the enemy off, and again recover them? The contingency was not clear, and we were too much hurried to dwell long upon it. It only flitted before our minds like a gleam of light through, the misty future.

I had just time to bid farewell to my Arab--to run my fingers along his smooth arching neck--to press my lips to his velvet muzzle. Brave steed! tried and trusty friend! I could have wept at the parting. He made answer to my caresses: he answered them with a low whimpering neigh. He knew there was something amiss--that there was danger. Our hurried movements had apprised him of it; but the moment after, his altered att.i.tude, his flashing eyes, and the loud snorting from his spread nostrils, told that he perfectly comprehended the danger. He heard the distant trampling of hoofs: he knew that an enemy was approaching. I heard the sounds myself, and rushed back up the b.u.t.te.

My companions were already upon the summit, busied in building the rampart around the rock. I joined them, and aided them in the work.

Our _paraphernalia_ proved excellent for the purpose--light enough to be easily handled, and sufficiently firm to resist either bullets or arrows. Before the Indians had come within hailing distance, the parapet was completed; and, crouching behind it, we awaited their approach.

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

THE WAR-CRY.

The war-cry "How-ow-owgh-aloo-oo!" uttered loudly from a hundred throats, comes pealing down the valley. Its fiendish notes, coupled with the demon-like forms that give utterance, to them, are well calculated to quail the stoutest heart. Ours are not without fear.

Though we know that the danger is not immediate, there is a significance in the tones of that wild slogan. They express more than the usual hostility of red to white--they breathe a spirit of vengeance. The gestures of menace--the brandished spears, and bended bows--the war-clubs waving in the air--are all signs of the excited anger of the Indians. Blood has been spilled--perhaps the blood of some of their chosen warriors--and ours will be sought to a certainty. We perceive no signs of a pacific intent--no semblance that would lead us to hope for mercy. The foe is bent on our destruction. He rushes forward to kill!

I have said that the danger was not immediate. I did not conceive it so. My conception was based upon experience. I had met the prairie Indians before--in the south; but north or south, I knew that their tactics were the same. It is a mistake to suppose that these savages rush recklessly upon death. Only when their enemy is far inferior to them in numbers--or otherwise an under-match--will they advance boldly to the fight. They will do this in an attack upon Mexicans, whose prowess they despise; or sometimes in a conflict with their own kind-- when stimulated by warrior pride, and the promptings of the tribal vendetta. On other occasions, they are sufficiently careful of their skins--more especially in an encounter with the white trappers, or even travellers who tenter the prairies from the east. Of all other weapons, they dread the long rifle of the hunter. It is only after stratagem has failed--when _do or die_ becomes a necessity--that the horse-Indian can bring himself to charge forward upon the glistening barrel. The mere hope of plunder will not tempt even the boldest of red-skinned robbers within the circle of a rifle's range. They all know from experience the deadliness of its aim.

Most probably plunder had been their motive for attacking the train; but their victims could only have been some straggling unfortunates, too confident in their security. These had not succ.u.mbed without a struggle. The death of all of them proved this: since not a prisoner appeared to have been taken. Further evidence of it was seen upon the sward; for as the crowd scattered, I observed through, the gla.s.s several corpses that were not those of white men. The robbers, though victorious, had suffered severely: hence the vengeful yells with which they were charging down upon us. With all their menace both of signs and sounds, I had no fear of their charging; up the mound, nor yet to its base. There were fifty yards around it within range of our guns; and the first who should venture within this circle would not be likely to go forth from it alive.

"Not a shot is to be fired, till you are sure of hitting! Do not one of you pull trigger, till you have sighted your man!" This was the order pa.s.sed around. On the skill of my comrades I could confide--on Sure-shot with all the certainty which his _soubriquet_ expressed; and I had seen enough of the young hunter, to know how he handled his rifle.

About the Irishman alone was there a doubt--only of his coolness and his aim--of his courage there was none. In this, the infantry was perhaps equal to any of us.

The words of caution had scarcely parted from my lips, when the enemy came galloping up. Their yelling grew louder as they advanced; and its echoes, ringing from the rocks, appeared to double the number of their wild vociferations. We could only hear one another by calling out at the top of our voices. But we had little to say. The time for talking had expired: that of action had arrived. On come the whooping; savages, horrid to behold: their faces, arms, and bodies frightfully painted, each after his own device, and all as hideous as savage conception can suggest. The visages of bears, wolves, and other fierce animals, are depicted on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and shields--with the still more horrid emblems of the death's head, the cross-bones, and the red-hand. Even their horses are covered with similar devices--stained upon their skins in ochre, charcoal, and vermilion! The sight is too fearful to be fantastic. On they come, uttering their wild "Howgh-owgh-aloo!"

brandishing their various weapons, and making their shields of _parfleche_ rattle by repeated strokes against their clubs and spears-- on comes the angry avalanche!

They are within a hundred yards of the b.u.t.te. For a moment we are in doubt. If they charge up the declivity, we are lost men. We may shoot down the foremost; but they are twenty to one. In a hand-to-hand struggle, we shall be overwhelmed--killed or captured--in less than sixty seconds of time!

"Hold your fire!" I cried, seeing my comrades lie with their cheeks against their guns; "not yet! only two at a time--but not yet! Ha! as I expected."

And just as I had expected, the wild ruck came to a halt--those in the lead drawing up their horses, as suddenly as if they had arrived upon the edge of a precipice! They had come to a stand just in the nick of time. Had they advanced but five paces further, at least two of their number would have tumbled out of their saddles. Sure-shot and I had each selected our man, and agreed upon the signal to fire. The others were ready to follow. All four barrels resting over the rampart had caught the eyes of the Indians. A glance at the glistening tubes was sufficient. True to their old tactics, it was the sight of these that had halted them!

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

THE RED-HAND.

The whooping and screaming are for a while suspended. Those in the rear have ridden up; and the straggling cavalcade becomes ma.s.sed upon the plain, at less than two hundred yards' distance from the b.u.t.te. Shouts are still heard, and talking in an unknown tongue; but not the dread war-cry. That has failed of its effect, and is heard no longer. Now and then, young warriors gallop toward the b.u.t.te, vaunt their valour, brandish their weapons, shoot off their arrows, and threaten us by word and gesture. All, however, keep well outside the perilous circ.u.mference covered by our guns.

We perceive that they, too, have guns, both muskets and rifles--in all, a dozen or more! We can tell that they are empty. Those who carry them are dismounting to load. We may expect soon to receive their fire; but, from the clumsy manner in which they handle their pieces, that need not terrify us--any more than their arrows, already sent, and falling far short.

Half-a-dozen hors.e.m.e.n are conspicuous. They are chiefs, as can be told by the eagle plumes sticking in their hair, with other insignia on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and bodies. These have ridden to the front, and are grouped together--their horses standing head to head. Their speeches and gesticulations declare that they are holding council. The movements of menace are no longer made. We have time to examine our enemies. They are so near that I need scarcely level the gla.s.s upon them; though through it, I can note every feature with minute distinctness.

They are not Comanches. Their bodies are too big, and their limbs too long, for these Ishmaelites of the southern plains. Neither are they of the Jicarilla-Apache: they are too n.o.ble-looking to resemble these skulking jackals. More like are they to the Cayguas? But no--they are not Cayguas. I have met these Indians, and should know them. The war-cry did not resemble theirs. Theirs is the war-cry of the Comanche.

I should have known it at once. Cheyennes they may be--since it is their especial ground? Or might it be that tribe of still darker, deadlier fame--the hostile Arapaho? If they be Arapahoes, we need look for no mercy.

I sweep the gla.s.s over them, seeking for signs by which I may identify our enemy. I perceive one that is significant. The leggings of the chiefs and princ.i.p.al warriors are fringed with scalps; their shields are encircled by similar ornaments. Most of these appendages are of dark hue--the locks long and black. But not all are of this kind or colour.

One shield is conspicuously different from the rest. A red-hand is painted upon its black disc. It is the _totem_ of him who carries it.

A thick fringe of hair is set around its rim. The tufts are of different lengths and colours. There are tresses of brown, blonde, and even red; hair curled and wavy; coa.r.s.e hair; and some soft and silky.

Through the gla.s.s I see all this, with a clearness that leaves no doubt as to the character of these varied _chevelures_. They are the scalps of whites--both of men and women! And the red-hand upon the shield? A red-hand? Ah! I remember. There is a noted chief of the name, famed for his hostility to the trappers--famed for a ferocity unequalled among his race--a savage, who is said to delight in torturing his captives-- especially if it be a pale-face who has had the misfortune to fall into his hands. Can it be that fiend--the Red-Hand of the Arapahoes?

The appearance of the man confirms my suspicion. A body, tall, angular, and ill-shaped, scarred with cicatrised wounds, and bent with age; a face seamed with the traces of evil pa.s.sion; eyes deep sunken in their sockets, and sparkling like coals of fire--an aspect more fiend-like than human! All this agrees with the descriptions I have had of the Red-Hand chief. a.s.suredly it is he. Our enemies, then, are the Arapahoes--their leader the dreaded _Red-Hand_.

"Heaven have mercy upon us! These men will have none!" Such was the e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that escaped my lips, on recognising, or believing that I recognised, the foe that was before us.

The Red-Hand is seen to direct. He is evidently leader of the band.

All seem obedient to his orders; all move with military promptness at his word or nod. Beyond doubt, it is the Red-Hand and his followers, who for crimes and cold-blooded atrocities are noted as he. A dreaded band, long known to the traders of Santa Fe--to the _ciboleros_ from the Taos Valley--to the trappers of the Arkansas and Platte. We are not the first party of white men besieged by these barbarous robbers; and if it be our fate to fall, we shall not be their first victims. Many a brave "mountain-man" has already fallen a victim to their fiendish grasp.

Scarcely a trapper who cannot tell of some comrade, who has been "rubbed" out by Red-Hand and his "Rapahoes."

The council of the chiefs continues for some time. Some _ruse_ is being devised and debated among them. With palpitating hearts we await the issue. I have made known my suspicions as to who is our enemy, and cautioned my comrade's to be on their guard. I have told them that, if my conjecture prove true, we need look for no mercy. The talk is at an end. Red-Hand is about to address us. Riding two lengths in front of his followers, the savage chief makes halt. His shield is held conspicuously upward--its convexity towards us--not for any purpose of security; but evidently that we may see its device, and know the bearer.

Red-Hand is conscious of the terror inspired by his name. In his other hand, he carries an object better calculated than the shield to beget fearful emotions. Poised on the point of his long spear, and held high aloft, are the scalps recently taken. There are six of them in the bunch--easily told by the different hues of the hair; and all easily identified as those of white men. They are the scalps of the slain teamsters, and others who had vainly attempted to defend the captured waggon. They are all fresh and gory--hang limber along the shaft. The blood is not yet dry upon them--the wet surface glitters in the sun! We view them with singular emotions--mine perhaps more singular than any.

I endeavour to identify some of those ghastly trophies. I am but too satisfied at failing.

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

AN ILL-TIMED SHOT.

"_Hablo Castellano_?" cries the savage chieftain in broken Spanish.

I am not surprised at being addressed in this language by a prairie Indian. Many of them speak Spanish, or its North Mexican _patois_.

They have opportunities of learning it from the New Mexican traders, but better--_from their captives_.