The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

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 noble-looking to resemble these skulking jackals. More like are they to the Caygüas? But no – they are not Caygüas. 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 glass over them, seeking for signs by which I may identify our enemy. I perceive one that is significant. The leggings of the chiefs and principal 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; coarse hair; and some soft and silky. Through the glass 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 passion; 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. Assuredly 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 ejaculation 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 Fé – 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.

“Si cavallero! I speak Spanish. What wishes the warrior with the red-hand upon his shield?”

“The pale-face is a stranger in this country, else he would not ask such a question? What wishes the Red-Hand? Ha, ha, ha! The scalps of the white men – their scalps and lives – that is the will of the Arapaho chief!”

The speech is delivered in a tone of exultation, and accompanied by a scornful laugh. The savage is proud of his barbarous and bloodthirsty character: he glories in the terror of his name! With such a monster, it seems idle to bold parley. In the end, it will be only to fight, and if defeated, to die. But the drowning man cannot restrain himself from catching even at a straw.

“Arapaho! We are not your enemies! Why should you desire to take our lives? We are peaceful travellers passing through your country; and have no wish to quarrel with our red brothers.”

“Red brothers! ha, ha, ha! Tongue of a serpent, and heart of a hare! The proud Arapaho is not your brother: he disclaims kindred with a pale-face. Red-hand has no brothers among the whites: all are alike his enemies! Behold their scalps upon his shield! Ugh! See the fresh trophies upon his spear! Count them! There are six! There will be ten. Before the sun goes down, the scalps of the four squaws skulking on the mound will hang from the spears of the Arapahoes!”

I could not contradict the declaration: it was too fearfully probable. I made no reply.

“Dogs!” fiercely vociferated the savage, “come down, and deliver up your arms!”

“An’ our scalps too, I s’pose,” muttered the Yankee. “Neo, certingly not, at your price: I don’t sell my notions so dirt cheep as thet comes to. ’Twouldn’t pay nohow. Lookee yeer, old red gloves!” continued he in a louder voice, and raising his head above the rampart – “this heer o’ mine air vallable, do ee see? It air a rare colour, an’ a putty colour. It ’ud look jest the thing on thet shield o’ yourn; but ’tain’t there yet, not by a long chalk; an’ I kalklate ef ye want the skin o’ my head, ye’ll have to trot up an’ take it.”

“Ugh!” ejaculated the Indian with an impatient gesture. “The yellow squaw is not worth the words of a chief. His scalp is not for the shield of a warrior. It will be given to the dogs of our tribe. It will be thrown to the jackals of the prairie.”

“Ain’t partickler abeout what ’ee do wi’ ’t – thet is, efter ye’ve got it. Don’t ye wish ’ee may get it? eh?”

“Wagh!” exclaimed the savage, with another impatient gesticulation. “The Red-Hand is tired talking. One word more. Listen to it, chief of the pale-faces! Come down, and deliver up your fire-weapons! The Red-Hand will be merciful: he will spare your lives. If you resist, he will torture you with fire. The knives of his warriors will hew the living flesh from your bones. You shall die a hundred deaths; and the Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!”

“And what if we do not resist?”

“Your lives shall be spared. The Red-Hand declares it on the faith of a warrior.”

“Faith o’ a warrior! – faith o’ a cut-throat! He only wants to come round us, capting, an’ git our scalps ’ithout fightin’ for ’em – thet’s what the red verming wants to be at – sure as shootin’.”

“Why should the Red-Hand spare our lives?” I enquired, taken by surprise at any offer of life coming from such a quarter. “Has he not just said, that all white men are his enemies?”

“True. But white men may become his friends. He wants white men for his allies. He has a purpose.”

“Will the Red-Hand declare his purpose?”

“Freely. His people have taken, many fire-weapons. See! they are yonder in the hands of his braves, who know not how to use them. Our enemies – the Utahs – have been taught by the white hunters; and the ranks of the Arapaho warriors are thinned by their deadly bullets. If the pale-faced chief and his three followers will consent to dwell with the band of Red-Hand, and teach his warriors the great medicine of the fire-weapon, their lives shall be spared. The Red-Hand will honour the young soldier-chief, and the White Eagle of the forest.”

“Soldier-chief. White Eagle of the forest! How can he have known – ”

“If you resist,” continued he, interrupting my reflections, “the Red-Hand will keep his word. You have no chance of escape. You are but four, and the Arapaho warriors are numerous as the trees of the Big Timber. If one of them fall by your fire-weapons, he shall be revenged. The Red-Hand repeats what he has said: the knives of his braves will hew the living flesh from your bones. You shall die a hundred deaths, and the Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!”

“Be Jaysis, cyaptin!” cried O’Tigg, who, not understanding Spanish, was ignorant of what had been said, “that ugly owld Indyan wants a bit ov cowld lid through him. In troth, I b’lave the musket moight raich him. She belonged to Sargent Johnson, an’ was considhered the longest raich gun about the Fort. What iv I throy her carry on the ridskin? Say the word, yer honour, an’ here goes!”

So astounded was I at the last words of the Arapaho chief, that I paid no heed to what the Irishman was saying. I had turned towards Wingrove – not for an explanation: for the young hunter, also ignorant of the language in which the Indian spoke, was unaware of the allusion that had been made to him. I had commenced translating the speech; but, before three words had escaped my lips, the loud bang of a musket drowned every other sound; and the cloud of sulphureous smoke covering the whole platform, hindered us from seeing one another! It needed no explanation. The Irishman had taken my silence for consent: he had fired! From the thick of the smoke came his exulting shout:

“Hooray! he’s down – be my sowl! he’s down! I knew the owld musket ’ud raich him! Hooray!”

The report reverberated from the rocks – mingling its echoes with the wild vengeful cries that came pealing up from the plain. In an instant, the smoke was wafted aside; and the painted warriors were once more visible. The Red-Hand was erect upon his feet, standing by the side of his horse, and still holding his spear and his shield. The horse was down – stretched along the turf, and struggling in the throes of death!

“Begorrah! cyaptin! wasn’t it a splindid shat?”

“A shot that may cost us our scalps,” said I: for I saw that there was no longer any chance of a pacific arrangement – even upon the condition of our making sharpshooters of every redskin in the tribe. “Ha, ha, ha!” came the wild laugh of the Arapaho. “Vengeance on the pale-faced traitors! vengeance!”

And shaking his clenched fist above his head, the savage chief retired among his warriors.

Chapter Fifty Six

Attempt to stampede

We made an attempt to open the interrupted parley. In vain. Whatever amicable design the Red-Hand might have conceived was now changed to a feeling of the most deadly hostility. There was no more “talk” to be drawn from him – not a word. In the midst of his warriors, he stood scowling and silent. Neither did any of the chiefs deign to reply. The common braves made answers to our overtures; but only by the insult of a peculiar gesture. Any hopes we might have conceived of a pacific termination to the encounter, died within us as we noted the behaviour of the band. Whether the Indian was in earnest in the proposal he had made, or whether it was a mere scheme to get our scalps without fighting for them, we could not tell at the time. There was an air of probability that he was honest about the matter; but, on the other hand, his notorious character for hostility to the white race contradicted this probability. I had heard, moreover, that this same chief was in the habit of adopting such stratagems to get white men into his power. We had no time to speculate upon the point; nor yet upon that which puzzled us far more – how he had arrived at the knowledge of who we were! What could he have known of the “White Eagle of the forest,” or the “young soldier-chief?” So far as I was myself concerned, the title might have been explained.

My uniform – I still wore it – might have been espied upon the prairies? The Indians are quick at catching an appellation, and communicating it to one another. But the figurative soubriquet of the young hunter? That was more specific. The Red-Hand could not have used it accidentally? Impossible. It bespoke a knowledge of us, and our affairs, that appeared mysterious and inexplicable. It did not fail to recall to our memory the apparition that had astonished Wingrove in the morning. There was no opportunity to discuss the question. We had only time for the most vague conjectures – before the savages began to fire at us – discharging in rapid succession the guns which they had loaded.

We soon perceived that we had little to fear from this sort of attack. Unless by some stray bullet, there was not much danger of their hitting us. Their clumsy manège of the fire-weapon was evident enough. It added to the probability, that the chief had been in earnest about our giving instructions to his warriors. Still was there some degree of danger. The guns they had got hold of were large ones – most of them old muskets of heavy calibre – that cast their ounces of lead to a long distance. We heard their bullets pattering against the rocks, and one or two of them had passed whistling over our heads. It was just possible to get hit; and, to avoid such an accident, we crouched behind our parapet, as closely as if we had been screening ourselves from the most expert marksmen. For a long time we did not return their fire. O’Tigg was desirous of trying another shot with his piece, but I forbade it. Warned by what they had witnessed, the Indians had retired beyond even the range of the Serjeant’s fusil.

Two parties of savages now separate from the main body; and, taking opposite directions, go sweeping at full gallop round the butte. We divine their object. They have discovered the position of our animals: the intention is to stampede them. We perceive the importance of preventing this. If we can but keep our animals out of the hands of the savages until darkness come down, then may there be some prospect of our escaping by flight. True, it is only a faint hope. There are many contingencies by which the design may be defeated, but there are also circumstances to favour it; and to yield without a struggle, would only be to deliver ourselves into the hands of an unpitying foe. The last words uttered by the Arapaho chief have warned us that death will be preferable to captivity.

We are sustained by another remembrance. We know that we are not the first white men who have been thus surrounded, and who afterwards contrived to escape. Many a small band of brave trappers have sustained the attack of a whole Indian tribe; and though half of their number may have fallen, the others lived to relate the perilous adventure. The life of a determined man is difficult to take. A desperate sortie often proves the safest defence; and three or four resolute arms will cut a loophole of escape through a host of enemies. Some such thoughts, flitting before us, hinder us from succumbing to despair.

It was of the utmost importance, to prevent our animals from being swept off; and to this end were our energies now directed. Three of us faced towards them – leaving the fourth to watch the movements of the enemy on the other side of the butte.

Once more the wild cry rings among the rocks, as the red horsemen gallop around – rattling their shields, and waving their weapons high in the air. These demonstrations are made to affright our animals, and cause them to break from their fastenings. They have not the desired effect. The mules prance and hinnie; the horses neigh and bound over the grass; but the long boughs bend without breaking: and, acting as elastic springs, give full play to the affrighted creatures. Not a rein snaps – not a lazo breaks – not a loop slides from its hold! The first skurry is over; and we are gratified to see the four quadrupeds still grouped around the tree, and fast as ever to its branches. The stampede has proved a failure. Another swoop of the wild horsemen ends with like result: and then another. And now closer and closer they come – galloping in all directions, crossing and meeting, and wheeling and circling – with shrill screams and violent gesticulations. As they pass near, they shelter themselves behind the bodies of their horses. An arm over the withers, a leg above the croup, are all of the riders we can see. It is useless to fire at these. The horses we might tumble over at pleasure; but the men offer no point to aim at. At intervals a red face gleams through the tossing locks of the mane; but, ere we can take sight upon it, it is jerked away. For a considerable time this play is kept up, the Indians all the time yelling as if engaged in some terrible conflict.

As to ourselves, we are too wary to waste our shots upon the horses; and we reserve them in the hope of being able to “draw a bead” on some rider more reckless than the rest. The opportunity soon offers. Two of the savages exhibit a determination to succeed in snatching away the horses. Knife in hand, they career around, evidently with the design of cutting the bridles and lazoes. Cheered on by the shouts of their comrades, they grow less careful of their skins, and at length make a dash towards the group under the tree. When almost within head-reach of the fastenings by which the mules are held, one of the latter slews suddenly round, and sends her heels in a well-directed fling against the head of the foremost horse! The steed instantly wheels, and the other coming behind follows the same movement, exposing both the riders to our aim. They make an effort to throw themselves to the other side of their animals; but the opportunity is lost. Our rifles are too quick for them. Two of us fire at the same instant; and as the smoke clears away, the red robbers are seen sprawling upon the plain. Our shots have proved fatal. Before we can reload, the struggles of the fallen horsemen have ended; and both lie motionless upon the grass.

The lesson was sufficient for the time. Warned by the fate of their comrades, the Indians, although still continuing their noisy demonstrations, now kept well out of the range of our rifles. There appeared to be no others in the band, desirous of achieving fame at such a risk of life.

Chapter Fifty Seven

Our Weak Point