THE FIGHT WITH THE GRIZZLY.
The New World has no reason to envy the Old in the matter of ferocious animals of every description and every species. The family of the plantigrades has obtained an enormous development in America, and possesses races of a ferocity before which all the wild beasts of our continent turn pale.
We will speak here of the animal endowed with a prodigious strength, blind courage, and unbounded cruelty, which the learned call ursus cinereus, and the Americans the grizzly bear. Most travellers draw a terrific feature of this animal, saying that it combines with the stupidity of the Polar bear the ferocity and courage of the great carnivora. Though a traveller myself, I am forced humbly to confess that the stories of these gentry must be accepted with some reserve, who, often placed in perilous situations, or ill-disposed mentally and bodily, have seen badly, and, in spite of themselves, yielding to the influence of the moment, have unconsciously indulged in exaggerations, which have gradually become articles of faith, and are now accepted as such.
I have no intention to rehabilitate the grizzly bear in the minds of my readers; still, I will ask them not to be more unjust to it than they are to other animals sent into the world by the Creator. Hence, laying aside all exaggerations, and confining ourselves to the strictest truth, we will, in a few words, describe the grizzly bear and its habits. During our long stay in America, we saw enough of these animals, and in sufficient proximity to be accepted as a credible witness.
My readers will see from the portrait of this animal, correct, if not flattering though it be, that it is naturally ugly enough, both morally and physically, not to require to be rendered more hideous and converted into a monster. The grizzly, when it has reached its full growth, is about ten feet in length; its coat is woolly, very thick, and perfectly grey, excepting round the ears, where it is brown. Its face is terrible; it is the most ferocious and dangerous of all the American carnivora. In spite of its clumsy shape and heavy appearance, its agility is extreme. It is the more to be feared, because its indomitable courage emanates from the consciousness of its prodigious strength, and is always akin to fury. The grizzly attacks all animals, but chiefly the larger ruminants, such as buffaloes, oxen, &c. What has probably given rise to the exaggerated stories of travellers, is the fact that the grizzly bear does not hibernate, and as during winter it starves among the snow-covered mountains, it descends to the plains to find food. The redskins carry on a deadly warfare with it, in order to obtain its long sharp claws, of which they form collars, to which they set great value.
It was with one of these formidable animals that Valentine suddenly found himself face to face. The rencontre was most disagreeable; still when the first emotion had passed off, the hunters boldly made up their minds.
"It is a combat to death," Valentine said laconically; "you know the grizzly never draws back."
"What shall we do?" Don Miguel asked.
"See what he does first," the hunter continued. "It is evident that this animal has fed, else it would not return to its lair. You know that bears go out but little; if we are lucky enough to deal with a bear that has had a good dinner, it will be an immense advantage for us."
"Why so?"
"For the simple reason," Valentine said with a laugh, "that, like all people whose meal hours are irregular, when bears sit down to dinner, they eat with extreme gluttony, which renders them heavy, sleepy, and deprives them, in a word, of one half their faculties."
"Hum!" Don Miguel observed; "I fancy what is left them is quite enough."
"And so do I; but, quiet, I fancy the beast has made up his mind."
"That is to say," Don Pablo remarked, "that it is making its arrangements to attack us."
"That is what I meant to say," Valentine replied.
"Well, we will not let it make the first demonstration."
"Oh, don't be frightened, Don Miguel, I am used to bear hunting; this one certainly does not expect what I am preparing for it."
"Providing you do not miss your shot: in that case we should be lost," Don Miguel observed.
"By Jove! I know that: so I shall take my measures in accordance."
Curumilla, stoical as ever, had cut a piece of candlewood, and concealed himself in the shrubs only a few paces from the wild beast. The bear, after a moment's hesitation, during which it looked round with an eye flashing with gloomy fire, as if counting the number of foes it had to fight, uttered a second growl, as it passed a tongue as red as blood over its lips.
"That is it," Valentine said with a laugh; "lick your chops, my fine fellow; still, I warn you that your mouth is watering too soon—you have not got us yet."
The bear seemed to notice the bravado, for it made an effort, and its monstrous head entirely appeared above the level of the platform.
"Did I not tell you it had eaten too much?" the hunter went on. "See what difficulty it finds in moving. Come, sluggard," he said, addressing the terrible animal, "shake yourself up a little."
"Take care," Don Miguel shouted.
"The brute is going to leap on you," Don Pablo said in agony.
In fact, the bear, by a movement swift as lightning, had escaladed the platform with a gigantic bound, and was now scarce twenty yards from the intrepid hunter. Valentine did not move, not one of his muscles shook: he merely clenched his teeth as if going to break them, and a white foam appeared at the corner of his lips. The beast, surprised by the intrepidity of the man, cowed by the electric fluid that flashed from the hunter's haughty eye, fell back a step. For a moment it remained motionless, with hanging head; but it soon began tearing up the ground with its formidable claws, as if encouraging itself to begin the attack.
Suddenly it turned round. Curumilla profited by the movement, of the torch he held in readiness for the purpose, and at a signal from Valentine, made the light flash before the bear. The animal, dazzled by the brilliant glare of the torch, which suddenly dissipated the darkness that surrounded it, savagely rose on its hind legs, and turning toward the Indian, tried to clutch the torch with one of its forepaws, probably in order to put it out.
Valentine cocked his rifle, stood firmly on his legs, aimed carefully, and began whistling softly. So soon as the sound reached the bear's ears, it stopped, and remained thus for some seconds as if trying to account for this unusual noise. The hunter still whistled: the witnesses of the scene held their breath, so interested were they in the strange incidents of this duel between intellect and brute strength. Still they kept their hands on their weapons, ready to hurry to their friend's help, should he be in danger.
Valentine was calm, gently whistling to the bear, which gradually turned its head toward him. Curumilla, with the lighted torch in his hand, attentively watched all the animal's movements. The bear at length faced the hunter; it was only a few paces from him, and Valentine felt its hot and fetid breath. The man and the brute gazed on each other; the bear's bloodshot eye seemed riveted on that of the Frenchman, who looked at it intrepidly while continuing to whistle softly.
There was a moment, an age of supreme anxiety. The bear, as if to escape the strange fascination it suffered under, shook its head twice, and then rushed forward with a fearful growl. At the same instant a shot was fired.
Don Miguel and his son ran up. Valentine, with his rifle butt resting on the ground, was laughing carelessly, while two paces from him the terrible animal was uttering howls of fury, and writhing in its dying convulsions. Curumilla bending forward, was curiously watching the movements of the animal as it rolled at his feet.
"Thank Heaven," Don Miguel eagerly exclaimed. "You are safe, my friend."
"Did you fancy that I ran any danger?" the hunter answered simply.
"I trembled for your life," the hacendero said with surprise and admiration.
"It was not worth the trouble, I assure you," the hunter said carelessly; "grizzly and I are old acquaintances; ask Curumilla how many we have knocked over in this way."
"But," Don Pablo objected, "the grizzly bear is invulnerable; bullets flatten on its skull, and glide off its fur."
"That is perfectly true; still, you forget there is a spot where it can be hit."
"I know it, the eye; but it is almost impossible to hit it at the first shot; to do so a man must be endowed with marvellous skill, not to say admirable courage and coolness."
"Thank you," Valentine replied with, a smile; "now that our enemy is dead, I would ask you to look and tell me where I hit it."
The Mexicans stooped down quickly; the bear was really dead. Its gigantic corpse, which Curumilla was already preparing to strip of its magnificent coat, covered a space of nearly ten feet. The hunter's bullet had entered its right eye; the two gentlemen uttered a cry of admiration.
"Yes," Valentine said, replying to their thought, "it was not a bad shot; but be assured that this animal enjoys an usurped reputation, owing to the habit it has of attacking man, whom, however, it hardly ever conquers."
"But look, my friend, at those sharp claws; why, they are nearly six inches long."
"That is true; I remember a poor Comanche, on whose shoulder a grizzly let his paw fall, and completely smashed it. But, is it an interesting sport? I confess that it possesses an irresistible attraction for me."
"You are quite at liberty, my friend," said Don Miguel, "to find a delight in fighting such monsters, and I can account for it; the life you lead in the desert has so familiarised you with danger, that you no longer believe in it; but we dwellers in towns have, I confess, an invincible respect and terror for this monster."
"Nonsense, Don Miguel, how can you say when I have seen you engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with tigers?"
"That is possible, my friend; I would do so again, if necessary—but a jaguar is not a grizzly."
"Come, come, I will not tease you any longer. While Curumilla prepares our breakfast, I will go down into the ravine. Help my friend to roast a piece of my game, and I am sure when you have tasted it, the exquisite flavour will make you quite alter your opinion about friend Grizzly."
And carelessly throwing his rifle on his shoulder, which he had reloaded, Valentine then entered the chaparral, in which he almost immediately disappeared.
The game, as Valentine called the grizzly, weighed about four hundred weight. After flaying it with that dexterity the Indians possess, Curumilla, aided by the two Mexicans, hung up the body to a branch, that bent beneath its weight; he cut steaks from the loin, and took out the pluck, which regular hunters consider the most delicate part of the beast; and then, while Don Miguel and Don Pablo lit the fire, and laid the steaks on the ashes, the Indian entered the cave.
Don Pablo and his father, long accustomed to the Araucano chief's way of behaving, made no remark, but went on with the preparations for breakfast actively, the more so because the night's fatigues and their long privations had given them an appetite which the smell of the cooking meat only heightened.
Still, the meal had been ready some time, and Valentine had not returned. The two gentlemen were beginning to feel anxious. Nor did Curumilla emerge either from the cavern in which he had now been upwards of an hour. The Mexicans exchanged a glance.
"Can anything have happened?" Don Miguel asked.
"We must go and see," said Don Pablo.
They rose; Don Pablo proceeded toward the cave, while his father went to the end of the platform. At this moment Valentine arrived on one side, Curumilla on the other, holding two young bearskins in his hands.
"What does that mean?" Don Pablo in his surprise could not refrain from asking.
The Indian smiled. "It was a she-bear," he said.
"Are we going to breakfast?" Valentine asked.
"Whenever you like, my friend," Don Miguel answered; "we were only waiting for you."
"I have been gone a long time."
"More than an hour."
"It was not my fault. Just fancy, down there it is as dark as in an oven. I had great difficulty in finding our friend's body; but, thanks to heaven, it is now in the ground, and protected from the teeth of the coyotes and the other vermin of the prairie."
Don Miguel took his hand and pressed it tenderly, while tears of gratitude ran down his cheeks.
"Valentine," he said, with great emotion. "You are better than all of us; you think of everything; no circumstance, however grave it may be, can make you forget what you regard in the light of a duty. Thanks, my friend, thanks, for having placed in the ground the poor general's body; you have made me very happy."
"That will do," Valentine said, as he turned his head away, not to let the emotion he felt in spite of himself, be noticed; "suppose we feed? I am fearfully hungry; the sun is rising, and we have not yet quitted that frightful labyrinth in which we so nearly left our bones."
The hunters set down round the fire, and began sharply attacking the meal that awaited them. When they had finished eating, which did not take long, thanks to Valentine, who continually urged them to take double mouthfuls, they rose and prepared to start again.
"Let us pay great attention, caballeros," the hunter said to them, "and carefully look around us, for I am greatly mistaken if we do not find a trail within an hour."
"What makes you suppose so?"
"Nothing, I have found no sign," Valentine answered, with a smile; "but I feel a foreboding that we shall soon find the man we have been seeking so long."
"May heaven hear you, my friend! Don Miguel exclaimed.
"Forward! Forward!" Valentine said, as he set out.
His comrades followed him. At this moment the sun appeared above the horizon, the forest awoke as if by enchantment, and the birds, concealed beneath the foliage, began their matin hymn, which they sing daily to salute the sun.
CHAPTER XXIX.
A MOTHER'S LOVE.
As we have said, Madame Guillois was installed by her son at the winter village of the Comanches, and the Indians gladly welcomed the mother of the adopted son of their tribe. The most commodious lodge was immediately placed at her service, and the most delicate attentions were lavished on her.
The redskins are incontestably superior to the whites in all that relates to hospitality. A guest is sacred to them to such an extent, that they become his slaves, so to speak, so anxious are they to satisfy all his desires, and even his slightest caprices.
After Father Seraphin had warned Red Cedar to be on his guard, he returned to Madame Guillois in order to watch more directly over it. The worthy missionary was an old acquaintance and friend of the Comanches, to whom he had been useful on several occasions, and who respected in him not the priest, whose sublime mission they could not understand, but the good and generous man, ever ready to devote himself to his fellow men.
Several weeks passed without producing any great change in the old lady's life. Sunbeam, on her own private authority, had constituted herself her handmaiden, amusing her with her medley of Indian-Spanish and French, attending to her like a mother, and trying, by all the means in her power, to help her to kill time. So long as Father Seraphin remained near her, Madame Guillois endured her son's absence very patiently. The missionary's gentle and paternal exhortations made her—not forget, because a mother never does that—but deceive herself as to the cruelty of this separation.
Unhappily, Father Seraphin had imperious duties to attend to which he could no longer neglect; to her great regret he must recommence his wandering life, and his mission of self-denial and suffering, while carrying to the Indian tribes, the light of the gospel, and the succour of religion. Father Seraphin was in Madame Guillois's sight a link of the chain that attached her to her son; she could speak about him with the missionary, who knew the most secret thoughts of her heart, and could by one word calm her alarm, and restore her courage. But when he left her for the first time since her arrival in America, she really felt alone, and lost her son once again, as it were. Thus the separation was cruel; and she needed all her Christian resignation and long habit of suffering to bear meekly the fresh blow that struck her.
Indian life is very dull and monotonous, especially in winter, in the heart of the forest, in badly built huts, open to all the winds, when the leafless trees are covered with hoar-frost; the villages are half buried beneath the snow, the sky is gloomy, and during the long nights the hurricane may be heard howling, and a deluge of rain falling.
Alone, deprived of a friend in whose bosom she could deposit the overflowing of her heart, Madame Guillois gradually fell into a gloomy melancholy, from which nothing could arouse her. A woman of the age of the hunter's mother does not easily break through all her habits to undertake a journey like that she had made across the American desert. However simple and frugal the life of a certain class of society may be in Europe, they still enjoy a certain relative comfort, far superior to what they may expect to find in Indian villages, where objects of primary necessity are absent, and life is reduced to its simplest expression.
Thus, for instance, a person accustomed to work in the evening in a comfortable chair, in the chimney corner, by the light of a lamp, in a well-closed room, would never grow used to sit on the beaten ground, crouching over a fire, whose smoke blinds her, in a windowless hut, only illumined by the flickering flame of a smoky torch.
When Madame Guillois left Havre, she had only one object, one desire, to see her son again; every other consideration must yield to that: she gladly sacrificed the comfort she enjoyed to find the son whom she believed she had lost, and who filled her heart.
Still, in spite of her powerful constitution and the masculine energy of her character, when she had endured the fatigue of a three months' voyage, and the no less rude toil of several weeks' travelling through forests and over prairies, sleeping in the open air, her health had gradually broken down, her strength was worn out in this daily and hourly struggle, and wounded, both physically and morally, she had been at length forced to confess herself beaten, and to allow that she was too weak to endure such an existence longer.
She grew thin and haggard visibly; her cheeks were sunken, her eyes buried more and more deeply in their orbits, her face was pale, her look languishing—in short, all the symptoms revealed that the nature which had hitherto so valiantly resisted, was rapidly giving way, and was undermined by an illness which had been secretly wasting her for a long time, and now displayed itself in its fell proportions.
Madame Guillois did not deceive herself as to her condition, she calculated coolly and exactly all the probable incidents, followed step by step the different phases of her illness, and when Sunbeam anxiously enquired what was the matter with her, and what she suffered from, she answered her with that calm and heart-breaking smile which the man condemned to death puts on when no hope is left him—a smile more affecting than a sob—
"It is nothing, my child,—I am dying."
These words were uttered with so strange an accent of gentleness and resignation that the young Indian felt her eyes fill with tears, and hid herself to weep.
One morning a bright sun shone on the village, the sky was blue, and the air mild. Madame Guillois, seated in front of her calli, was warming herself in this last smile of autumn, while mechanically watching the yellow leaves, which a light breeze turned round. Not far from her the children were sporting, chasing each other with merry bursts of laughter. Unicorn's squaw presently sat down by the old lady's side, took her hand, and looked at her sympathisingly.
"Does my mother feel better?" she asked her in her voice which was soft as the note of the Mexican nightingale.
"Thanks, my dear little one," the old lady answered, affectionately, "I am better."
"That is well," Sunbeam replied, with a charming smile; "for I have good news to tell my mother."
"Good news?" she said, hurriedly, as she gave her a piercing glance; "has my son arrived?"
"My mother would have seen him before this," the squaw said, with a tinge of gentle reproach in her voice.
"That is true," she muttered; "my poor Valentine!"
She let her head sink sadly on her bosom. Sunbeam looked at her for a moment with an expression of tender pity.
"Does not my mother wish to hear the news I have to tell her?" she went on.
Madame Guillois sighed.
"Speak, my child," she said.
"One of the great warriors of the tribe has just entered the village," the young woman continued; "Spider left the chief two days ago."
"Ah!" the old lady said, carelessly, seeing that Sunbeam stopped; "and where is the chief at this moment?"
"Spider says that Unicorn is in the mountains, with his warriors; he has seen Koutonepi."
"He has seen my son?" Madame Guillois exclaimed.
"He has seen him," Sunbeam repeated; "the hunter is pursuing Red Cedar with his friends."
"And—he is not wounded?" she asked anxiously.
The young Indian pouted her lips.
"Red Cedar is a dog and cowardly old woman," she said; "his arm is not strong enough, or his eye sure enough to wound the great pale hunter. Koutonepi is a terrible warrior, he despises the barkings of the coyote."
Madame Guillois had lived long enough among the Indians to understand their figurative expressions; she gratefully pressed the young squaw's hand.
"Your great warrior has seen my son?" she said eagerly.
"Yes," Sunbeam quickly answered, "Spider saw the pale hunter, and spoke. Koutonepi gave him a necklace for my mother."
"A necklace?" she repeated, in surprise, not understanding what the woman meant; "What am I to do with it?"
Sunbeam's face assumed a serious expression.
"The white men are great sorcerers," she said, "they know how to make powerful medicines; by figures traced on birch bark communicate their thoughts at great distances; space does not exist for them. Will not my mother receive the necklace her son sends her?"
"Give it me, my dear child," she eagerly answered; "everything that comes from him is precious to me."
The young squaw drew from under her striped calico dress a square piece of bark of the size of her hand, and gave it to her. Madame Guillois took it curiously, not knowing what this present meant. She turned it over and over, while Sunbeam watched her attentively. All at once the old lady's features brightened, and she uttered a cry of joy; she had perceived a few words traced on the inside of the bark with the point of a knife.
"Is my mother satisfied?" Sunbeam asked.
"Oh, yes," she answered.
She eagerly perused the note; it was short, contained indeed but a few words, yet they filled the mother with delight; for they gave her certain news of her son. This is what Valentine wrote—
"My dear mother, be of good cheer, my health is excellent, I shall see you soon: your loving son, Valentine."
It was impossible to write a more laconic letter; but on the desert, where communication is so difficult, a son may be thanked for giving news of himself, if only in a word. Madame Guillois was delighted, and when she had read the note again, she turned to the young squaw.
"Is Spider a chief?" she asked.
"Spider is one of the great warriors of the tribe," Sunbeam answered proudly; "Unicorn places great confidence in him."
"Good; I understand. He has come here on a particular mission?"
"Unicorn ordered his friend to choose twenty picked warriors from the tribe, and lead them to him."
A sudden idea crossed Madame Guillois's mind.
"Does Sunbeam love me?" she asked her.
"I love my mother," the squaw replied, feelingly; "her son saved my life."
"Does not my daughter feel grieved at being away from her husband?" the old lady continued.
"Unicorn is a great chief; when he commands, Sunbeam bows and obeys without a murmur; the warrior is the strong and courageous eagle, the squaw is the timid dove."
There was a long silence, which Sunbeam at last broke by saying, with a meaning smile—
"My mother had something to ask of me?"
"What use is it, dear child?" she answered hesitatingly, "As you will not grant my request."
"My mother thinks so, but is not sure," she said, maliciously.
The old lady smiled.
"Have you guessed, then, what I was about to ask of you?" she said.
"Perhaps so; my mother will explain, so that I may see whether I was mistaken."
"No, it is useless; I know that my daughter will refuse."
Sunbeam broke into a fresh and joyous laugh as she clapped her little hands.
"My mother knows the contrary," she said; "why does she not place confidence in me? Has she ever found me unkind?"
"Never; you have always been kind and attentive to me, trying to calm my grief, and dissipate my fears."
"My mother can speak then, as the ears of a friend are open," Sunbeam said to her quietly.
"In truth," the old lady remarked, after some thought, "what I desire is just. Is Sunbeam a mother?" she said, meaningly.
"Yes," she quickly replied.
"Does my daughter love her child?"
The Indian looked at her in surprise.
"Are there mothers in the great island of the whites who do not love their child?" she asked; "My child is myself, is it not my flesh and blood? What is there dearer to a mother than her child?"
"Nothing, that is true." Madame Guillois sighed. "If my daughter were separated from her child, what Would she do?"
"What would I do?" the Indian exclaimed, with a flash in her black eye; "I would go and join him, no matter when, no matter how."
"Good," the old lady remarked, eagerly; "I, too, love my child, and my daughter knows it. Well, I wish to join him, for my heart is lacerated at the thought of remaining any longer away from him."
"I know it, that is natural, it cannot be opposed. The flower fades when separated from the stem, the mother suffers when away from the son she nourished with her milk. What does my mother wish to do?"
"Alas! I wish to start as soon as possible to embrace my son."
"That is right: I will help my mother."
"What shall I do?"
"That is my business. Spider is about to assemble the council in order to explain his mission to the chiefs. Many of our young men are scattered through the forest, setting traps and hunting the elk to support their family. Spider will want two days to collect the warriors he needs, and he will not start till the third day. My mother can be at rest; I will speak to Spider, and in three days we will set out."
She embraced the old lady, who tenderly responded, then rose and went away, after giving her a final sign of encouragement. Madame Guillois returned to her calli, her heart relieved of a heavy weight; for a long time she had not felt so happy. She forgot her sufferings and the sharp pangs of illness that undermined her, in order to think only of the approaching moment when she would embrace her son.
All happened as Sunbeam had foreseen. An hour later, the hachesto convened the chiefs to the great medicine lodge. The council lasted a long time, and was prolonged to the end of the day. Spider's demand was granted, and twenty warriors were selected to go and join the sachem of the tribe. But, as the squaw had foretold, most of the warriors were absent, and their return had to be awaited.
During the two succeeding days Sunbeam held frequent conferences with Spider, but did not exchange a word with Madame Guillois, contenting herself, when the mother's glance became too inquiring, by laying her finger on her lip with a smile. The poor lady sustained by factitious strength, a prey to a burning fever, sadly counted the hours while forming the most ardent vows for the success of her plan. At length, on the evening of the second day, Sunbeam, who had hitherto seemed to avoid the old lady, boldly approached her.
"Well?" the mother asked.
"We are going."
"When?"
"Tomorrow, at daybreak."
"Has Spider pledged his word to my daughter?"
"He has; so my mother will hold herself in readiness to start."
"I am so now."
The Indian woman smiled.
"No, tomorrow."
At daybreak, as was agreed on the previous evening, Madame Guillois and Sunbeam set out under the escort of Spider and his twenty warriors to join Unicorn.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE SORCERER.
Although Spider was a Comanche warrior in the fullest meaning of the term, that is to say rash, cunning, brutal and cruel, the laws of gallantry were not entirely unknown to him, and he had eagerly accepted Sunbeam's proposition. The Indian, who, like most of his countrymen, was under great obligations to Valentine, was delighted at the opportunity to do him a kindness.
If Spider had only travelled with his warriors the journey would have been accomplished, to use a Comanche expression, between two sunsets; but having with him two women, one of whom was not only old, but a European, that is to say, quite unused to desert life, he understood, without anyone making the remark—for Madame Guillois would have died sooner than complain, and she alone could have spoken—that he must completely modify his mode of travelling, and he did so.
The women, mounted on powerful horses (Madame Guillois being comfortably seated on a cushion made of seven or eight panthers' skins) were, for fear of any accident, placed in the middle of the band, which did not take Indian file, owing to its numerical strength.
They trotted on thus during the whole day, and at sunset Spider gave orders to camp. He was one of the first to dismount, and cut with his knife a number of branches, of which he formed, as if by enchantment, a hut to protect the two females from the dew. The fires were lighted, supper prepared, and immediately after the meal, all prepared to sleep except the sentries.
Madame Guillois alone did not sleep, for fever and impatience kept her awake; she therefore spent the whole night crouched in a corner of the hut, reflecting. At sunrise they started again; as they were approaching the mountains the wind grew cold, and a dense fog covered the prairie. All wrapped themselves up carefully in their furs until the sun gained sufficient strength to render this precaution unnecessary.
In some parts of America the climate has this disagreeable peculiarity, that in the morning the frost is strong enough to split stones, at midday the heat is stifling, and in the evening the thermometer falls again below zero.
The day passed without any incident worth recording. Toward evening, at about an hour before the halt, Spider, who was galloping as scout about one hundred yards ahead of the band, discovered footsteps. They were clear, fresh, regular, deep, and seemed to be made by a young, powerful man accustomed to walking.
Spider rejoined his party without imparting his discovery to anyone; but Sunbeam, by whose side he was riding, suddenly tapped him on the shoulder, to attract his attention.
"Look there, warrior," she said, pointing a little to the left "does that look like a man marching?"
The Indian stopped, put his hand over his eyes as a shade, to concentrate his attention, and examined for a long time the point the chief's squaw pointed out. At length he set out again, shaking his head repeatedly.
"Well, what does my brother think?" Sunbeam asked.
"It is a man," he answered; "from here it appears an Indian, and yet I either saw badly, or am mistaken."
"How so?"
"Listen: you are the wife of the first chief of the tribe, and so I can tell you this, there is something strange about the affair. A few minutes back I discovered footprints; by the direction they follow it is plain they were made by that man—the more so, as they are fresh, as if made a little while ago."
"Well?"
"These are not the footprints of a redskin, but of a white."
"That is really strange," the squaw muttered and became serious; "but are you quite sure of what you assert?"
The Indian smiled contemptuously.
"Spider is a warrior," he said; "a child of eight years could have seen it as well as I; the feet are turned out, while the Indians turn them in; the great toe is close to the others, while ours grow out considerably. With such signs, I ask my sister can a man be deceived?"
"That is true," she said; "I cannot understand it."
"And stay," he continued; "now we are nearer the man, just watch his behaviour, it is plain he is trying to hide himself; he fancies we have not yet remarked him, and is acting in accordance. He is stooping down behind that mastic: now he reappears. See, he stops, he is reflecting; he fears lest we have seen him, and his walking may appear suspicious to us. Now he is sitting down to await us."
"We must be on our guard," said Sunbeam.
"I am watching," Spider replied, with an ill-omened smile.
In the meanwhile all Spider had described had taken place, point by point. The stranger, after trying several times to hide himself behind the bushes or disappear in the mountains, calculated that if he fled the persons he saw could soon catch him up, as he was dismounted. Then, making up his mind to risk it, he sat down with his back against a tamarind tree, and quietly smoked while awaiting the arrival of the horsemen, who were quickly coming up.
The nearer the Comanches came to this man, the more like an Indian he looked. When they were only a few paces from him, all doubts were at an end; he was, or seemed to be, one of those countless vagabond sorcerers who go from tribe to tribe in the Far West to cure the sick and practice their enchantment. In fact, the sorcerer was no other than Nathan, as the reader has doubtless guessed.
After so nobly recompensing the service rendered him by the poor juggler, whose science had not placed him on his guard against such abominable treachery, Nathan went off at full speed, resolved on crossing the enemy's lines, thanks to the disguise he wore with rare perfection.
When he perceived the horsemen, he attempted to fly; but unfortunately for him he was tired, and in a part so open and denuded of chaparral, that he soon saw, if he attempted to bolt, he should inevitably ruin himself by arousing the suspicions of these men, who, on the other hand, as they did not know him, would probably pass him with a bow. He also calculated on the superstitious character of the Indians and his own remarkable stock of impudence and boldness to deceive them.
These reflections Nathan made with that speed and certainty which distinguish men of action; he made up his mind in a moment, and sitting down at the foot of a tree, coolly awaited the arrival of the strangers. Moreover, we may remark, that Nathan was gifted with daring and indomitable spirit; the critical position in which chance suddenly placed him, instead of frightening pleased him, and caused him a feeling which was not without its charm with a man of his stamp. He boldly assumed the borrowed character, and when the Indians stopped in front of him, he was the first to speak.
"My sons are welcome to my bivouac," he said, with that marked guttural accent that belongs to the red race alone, and which the white men have such difficulty in imitating; "as the Wacondah has brought them here, I will strive to fulfil his intentions by receiving them as well as I possibly can."
"Thanks," Spider replied, giving him a scrutinising glance; "we accept our brother's offer as freely as it is made. My young men will camp with him."
He gave his orders, which were immediately carried out. As on the previous evening. Spider built a hut for the females, to which they immediately withdrew. The sorcerer had given them a glance which made them shudder all over.
After supper; Spider lit his pipe and sat down near the sorcerer; he wished to converse with him and clear up, not his suspicions, but the doubts he entertained about him. The Indian, however, felt for this man an invincible repulsion for which he could not account. Nathan, although smoking with all the gravity the redskins display in this operation, and wrapping himself up in a dense cloud of smoke, which issued from his mouth and nostrils, closely watched all the Indian's movements, while not appearing to trouble himself about him.
"My father is travelling?" Spider asked.
"Yes," the pretended sorcerer laconically replied.
"Has he done so long?"
"For eight moons."
"Wah!" the Indian said in surprise; "Where does my father come from, then?"
Nathan took, his pipe from his lips, assumed a mysterious air, and answered gravely and reservedly—
"The Wacondah is omnipotent, those to whom the Master of Life speaks, keep his words in their heart."
"That is just," Spider, who did not understand him, answered, with a bow.
"My son is a warrior of the terrible queen of the prairies?" the sorcerer went on.
"I am indeed, a Comanche warrior."
"Is my son on the hunting path?"
"No, I am at this moment on the war trail."
"Wah! Does my son hope to deceive a great medicine man, that he utters such word before him?"
"My words are true, my blood runs pure as water in my veins, a lie never sullied my lips, my heart only breathes the truth," Spider answered, with a certain haughtiness, internally wounded by the sorcerer's suspicions.
"Good, I am willing to believe him," the latter went on; "but when did the Comanches begin to take their squaws with them on the war path?"
"The Comanches are masters of their actions; no one has a right to control them."
Nathan felt that he was on a wrong track, and that if the conversation went on in this way, he should offend a man whom he had such an interest in conciliating. He therefore altered his tactics.
"I do not claim any right," he said quietly, "to control the acts of warriors for am I not a man of peace?"
Spider smiled contemptuously.
"In truth," he said, in a good-humoured tone, "great medicine men such as my father are like women, they live a long time; the Wacondah protects them."
The sorcerer refrained from noticing the bitter sarcasm the speaker displayed in his remark.
"Is my son returning to his village?" he asked him.
"No," the other answered, "I am going to join the great chief of my tribe, who is on an expedition, with his most celebrated warriors."
"To what tribe does my son belong, then?"
"To that of Unicorn."
Nathan trembled inwardly, though his face remained unmoved.
"Wah!" he said, "Unicorn is a great chief; his renown is spread over the whole earth. What warrior could contend with him on the prairie?"
"Does my father know him?"
"I have not the honour, though I have often desired it; never to this day have I been able to meet the celebrated chief."
"If my father desires it, I will introduce him."
"It would be happiness for me; but the mission the Wacondah has confided to me claims my presence far from here. Time presses; and, in spite of my desire, I cannot leave my road."
"Good! Unicorn is hardly three hours march from the spot where we now are; we shall reach his camp at an early hour tomorrow."
"How is it that my son, who seems to me a prudent warrior, should have halted here, when so near his chief?"
All suspicion had been removed from the Indian's mind, so he answered frankly this time, without trying to disguise the truth, and laying all reticence aside.
"My father is right. I would certainly have continued my journey to the chief's camp, and reached it this evening before the shriek of the owl, but the two squaws with me delayed me and compelled me to act as I have done."
"My son is young," Nathan answered, with an insinuating smile.
"My father is mistaken; the squaws are sacred to me; I love and respect them. The one is Unicorn's own wife, who is returning to her husband; the other is a paleface, her hair is white as the snow that passes over our heads driven by the evening breeze, and her body is bowed beneath the weight of winters; she is the mother of a great hunter of the palefaces, the adopted son of our tribe, whose name has doubtless reached our father's ears."
"How is he called?"
"Koutonepi."
At this name, which he might have expected, however, Nathan involuntarily gave such a start that Spider perceived it.
"Can Koutonepi be an enemy of my father?" he asked, with astonishment.
"On the contrary," Nathan hastened to reply; "the men protected by the Wacondah have no enemies, as my son knows. The joy I felt on hearing his name uttered caused the emotion my son noticed."
"My father must have powerful reasons for displaying such surprise."
"I have, indeed, very powerful," the sorcerer replied with feigned delight; "Koutonepi saved my mother's life."
This falsehood was uttered with such magnificent coolness, and such a well-assumed air of truth, that the Indian was convinced and bowed respectfully to the pretended sorcerer.
"In that case," he said, "I am certain that my father will not mind leaving his road a little to see the man to whom he is attached by such strong ties of gratitude; for it is very probable that we shall meet Koutonepi at Unicorn's camp."
Nathan made a grimace; as usually happens to rogues, who try to prove too much, in dissipating suspicions at all hazards, he had caught himself. Now he understood that, unless he wished to become again suspected, he must undergo the consequences of his falsehood and go with Spider to his destination. The American did not hesitate; he trusted to his star to get him out of the scrape. Chance is, before all, the deity of bandits; they count on it, and we are forced to concede that they are rarely deceived.
"I will accompany my son to Unicorn's camp," he said.
The conversation went on for some time, and when the night had quite set in, Spider took leave of the sorcerer, and following his custom since the beginning of the journey, lay down across the door of the hut in which the two females reposed and speedily fell asleep.
Left alone by the fire, Nathan took a searching glance around; the sentinels, motionless as statues of bronze, were watching as they leant on their long lances. Any flight was impossible. The American gave a sigh of regret, wrapped himself in his buffalo robe, and lay down, muttering—
"Bah! Tomorrow it will be day. Since I have succeeded in deceiving this man, why should I not do the same with the others?"
And he fell asleep.
CHAPTER XXXI.
WHITE GAZELLE.
The night passed quietly.
As soon as the sun appeared on the horizon, all were in motion in the camp, preparing for departure. The horses were saddled, the ranks formed, the two females left the hut, placed themselves in the middle of the detachment, and only the order to start was awaited. Nathan, then acting in conformity with his sorcerer's character, took a calabash, which he filled with water, and dipping a branch of wormwood in it, he sprinkled the four winds, muttering mysterious words to exorcise the spirit of evil; then he threw the contents of the calabash toward the sun, shouting in a loud voice, three different times—
"Sun, receive this offering; regard us with a favourable eye, for we are thy children."
So soon as this ceremony was ended, the Indians joyously set out. The sorcerers incantation had pleased them, the more so as at the moment of starting, four bald-headed eagles, unfurling their wide wings, had slowly risen on their right, mounting in a straight line to heaven, when they soon disappeared at a prodigious height. The omens were, therefore, most favourable, and the sorcerer suddenly acquired immense importance in the eyes of the superstitious Comanches.
Still, two persons felt a prejudice for this man which they could not overcome: they were Sunbeam and the hunter's mother. Each moment they involuntarily looked at the sorcerer, who, warned by a species of intuition of the scrutiny of which he was the object, kept at a respectful distance, walking at the head of the party by the side of Spider, with whom he conversed in a low voice to keep him by him, and prevent him joining the two females, who might have communicated their suspicions to him.
The party ambled through a grand and striking scenery; here and there they saw, scattered irregularly over the plains, spherically shaped rocks, whose height varied from two to four, and even five hundred feet. On the east rose the spires of the Sierra de los Comanches, among which the travellers now were. The denuded peaks raised their white summits to the skies, extending far north, until they appeared in the horizon only a slight vapour, which an inexperienced eye might have taken for clouds, but the Comanches recognised very plainly as a continuation of the Rocky Mountains. On the left of the travellers, and almost at their feet, extended an immense desert, bordered on the distant horizon by another line of almost imperceptible vapour, marking the site of the Rocky Chain.
The Indians ascended insensibly, by almost impracticable paths, where their horses advanced so boldly, however, that they seemed rooted to the ground, so secure was their foothold. As they got deeper into the mountains the cold grew sharper; at length, about nine o'clock, after crossing a deep gorge let in between two tall mountains, whose masses intercepted the sunbeams, they entered a smiling valley about three miles in extent, in the centre of which the tents rose and the campfires smoked.
So soon as the vedettes signalled the approach of Spider's detachment, some sixty warriors mounted and rode to meet them, firing guns, and uttering shouts of welcome, to which the newcomers responded by blowing their war whistles, from which they produced sharp and prolonged sounds.
They then entered the camp, and proceeded toward Unicorn's hut; the chief, already informed of the arrival of the reinforcement he expected, was standing with folded arms before his calli, between the totem and the great calumet. Unicorn inspected the warriors with a rapid glance, and noticed the two females and the strange sorcerer they brought with them; still he did not appear to see them: his face revealed no sign of emotion: and he waited stoically for Spider to give him a report of his mission.
The Comanche warrior dismounted, threw his bridle to one of his comrades, crossed his hands on his chest, bowed deeply each time he took a step, and on arriving a short distance from the sachem, he bowed a last time as he said—
"Spider has accomplished his mission: he put on gazelle's feet to return more speedily."
"Spider is an experienced warrior, in whom I have entire confidence. Does he bring me the number of young men I asked of the nation?" Unicorn replied.
"The elders assembled round the council fire, they lent an ear to Spider's words. The twenty young warriors are here, boiling with courage, and proud to follow on the war trail so terrible a chief as my father."
Unicorn smiled proudly at this compliment; but assuming almost immediately the rigid expression which was the usual character of his face, he said—
"I have heard the song of the centzontle, my ear was struck by the melodious modulations of its voice. Am I mistaken, or has it really formed its nest beneath the thick foliage of the oaks or pines in this valley?"
"My father is mistaken; he has not heard the song of the nightingale, but the voice of the friend of his heart has reached, him and caused him to start," Sunbeam said softly, as she timidly approached him.
The chief looked at his wife with a mixture of love and sternness.
"Soul of my life," he said, "why have you left the village? Is your place among the warriors? Ought the wife of a chief to join him on the war trail without permission?"
The young squaw let her eyes fall, and two liquid pearls trembled at the end of her long eyelashes.
"Unicorn is severe to his wife," she replied sadly; "winter is coming on apace, the tall trees have been stripped of their leaves, the snow is falling on the mountains, Sunbeam is restless in her solitary lodge; for many moons the chief has left his squaw alone, and gone away; she wished to see once more the man she loves."
"Sunbeam is the wife of a chief, her heart is strong; she has often been separated from Unicorn, and ever awaited his return without complaining; why is her conduct different today?"
The young woman took Madame Guillois's hand.
"Koutonepi's mother wishes to see her son again," she simply answered.
Unicorn's face grew brighter, and his voice softened.
"My brother's mother is welcome in Unicorn's camp," he said, as he courteously bowed to the old lady.
"Is not my son with you, chief?" she anxiously asked.
"No, but my mother can be at rest; if she desire it, she shall see him before the second sun."
"Thanks, chief."
"I will send a warrior to tell Koutonepi of his mother's presence among us."
"I will go myself," Spider said.
"Good! That is settled. My mother will enter my lodge to take the rest she needs."
The two females withdrew, and only one person now remained before Unicorn, and that was the feigned sorcerer. The two men examined each other attentively.
"Oh," the chief said, "what fortunate accident brings my father to my camp?"
"The messengers of Wacondah go whither he orders them without discussing his will," Nathan answered drily.
"That is true," the chief went on; "what does my father desire?"
"Hospitality for the night."
"Hospitality is granted even to an enemy in the desert; is my father ignorant of the customs of the prairie, that he asks it of me?" the chief said, giving him a suspicious look.
Nathan bit his lips.
"My father did not quite understand my words," he said.
"No matter," Unicorn interrupted him authoritatively; "the Great Medicine man will pass the night in the camp; a guest is sacred to the Comanches; only traitors, when they are unmasked, are punished as they deserve. My father can retire."
Nathan shuddered inwardly at these words, which apparently indicated that the sachem had his suspicions. Still, he shut up his fears in his heart, and continued to keep a good countenance.
"Thanks," he said with a bow.
Unicorn returned his salute, and walked away.
"Hum!" the American muttered to himself; "I fancy I did wrong to venture among these demons; the eyes of that accursed chief seemed to read me through. I must be on my guard."
While making these reflections, Nathan walked slowly on, with head erect, apparently delighted at the result of his interview with Unicorn. At this moment, a rider entered the valley at full speed, and passed two paces from the sorcerer, exchanging a glance with him. Nathan started.
"If she recognised me, I am a gone 'coon," he said.
It was White Gazelle, whom the Comanches saluted as she passed, and she proceeded to Unicorn's lodge.
"I am in the wolf's throat," Nathan went on; "my presumption will cause my ruin. There is one thing a man cannot disguise, and that is his eye; the Gazelle knows me too well to be deceived; I must try to get away while there is still time."
Nathan was too resolute a man to despair uselessly; he did not lose a moment in idle lamentations; on the contrary, with that clearness of perception which danger gives to courageous people, he calculated in a few moments the chances of success left him, and prepared for a desperate struggle. He knew too well the horrible punishment that menaced him, not to defend his life to the last extremity.
Without stopping, or altering his pace, he walked on in the previous direction, returning the salutes the warriors gave him. Thus he reached, undisturbed, the end of the camp. He did not dare turn his head to see what was going on behind, him; but his practised ear listened for every suspicious sound; nothing apparently confirmed his apprehensions, and the camp was still plunged in the same repose.
"I was mistaken," he, muttered; "she did not recognise me. My disguise is good, I was too easily frightened. It would, perhaps, be better to remain. Oh no, it is not," he added almost directly; "I feel convinced I am not safe there."
He took a step to enter the forest; but at this moment a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He stopped and turned; Spider was by his side.
"Where is my father going?" the warrior asked, in a slightly sarcastic voice, well adapted to increase the American's alarm; "I think he must be mistaken."
"Why so?" Nathan asked, striving to regain his coolness.
"In the way my father is going, he is leaving the camp."
"Well, what then?"
"Did not my father ask hospitality of the sachem?"
"Yes, I did."
"Then, why is he going away?"
"Who told you I was going, warrior?"
"Why, I fancy the direction you have taken leads to the forest."
"I am well aware of that, for I was going there to pluck some magic plants, in order to compose a great medicine, which I wish to offer the chief to render him invulnerable."
"Wah!" the Indian said, with sparkling eyes; "when you tell him that, I do not doubt he will let you go wherever you please."
"What, am I a prisoner, then?"
"Not at all; but the order has been given that no one should leave the camp without permission; and as you did not ask for it, I am forced, to my great regret, to stop you."
"Very well; I remain, but I will remember the way in which the Comanches offer hospitality."
"My father does wrong to speak thus; the honour of the nation demands that this matter should be settled without delay. My father will follow me to the chief; I am certain that, after a short explanation, all misunderstanding will cease."
Nathan scented a trap. Spider, while speaking to him, had a soothing way, which only slightly reassured him. The proposal made him was not at all to his taste; but as he was not the stronger, and had no chance of evasion, he consented, much against the grain, to follow Spider and return to Unicorn's lodge.
"Let us go," he said to the Indian.
Nathan silently followed Spider. Unicorn was seated before his lodge, surrounded by his principal chiefs; near him stood White Gazelle, leaning on her rifle barrel. When the pretended sorcerer arrived, the Indians did not give the slightest intimation that they knew who he was. The American took a sharp look round.
"I am done," he muttered to himself, "they are too quiet."
Still, he placed himself before them, crossed his arms on his chest, and waited. Then White Gazelle fixed on him an implacable glance, and said, in a voice which made his blood run cold:—
"Nathan, the chiefs wish you to perform one of those miracles of which the sorcerers of their tribes possess the secret, and of which they are so liberal."
All eyes were curiously turned to the American; all awaited his reply to judge whether he was a brave man or coward. He understood this, for he shrugged his shoulders with, disdain, and answered, with a haughty smile:
"The Comanches are dogs and old women—the men of my nation drive them back with whips. They pretend to be so clever, and yet a white man has deceived them, and had it not been for you, Niña, deuce take me if they would have detected me."
"Then you confess you are not an Indian sorcerer?"
"Of course I do. This Indian skin I have put on smells unpleasantly, and oppresses me; I throw it off to resume my proper character, which I ought never to have left."
White Gazelle turned with a smile to Unicorn.
"The chief sees," she said.
"I do see," he replied, and addressing the American, he asked—"Is my brother a warrior in his nation?"
The other grinned.
"I am," he answered, dauntlessly, "the son of Red Cedar, the implacable foe of your accursed race; my name is Nathan. Do with me what you like, dogs, but you will not draw a complaint from my lips, a tear from my eyes, or a sigh from my lips."
At these haughty words a murmur of satisfaction ran round the audience.
"Ah!" Unicorn said, to whom White Gazelle had whispered, "What was Red Cedar's son doing in the camp of the Comanches?"
"I should be greatly embarrassed to tell you, chief," the young man answered, frankly; "I was not looking for you, but only wished to cross your lines and escape. That was all."
An incredulous smile played round White Gazelle's lips.
"Does Nathan take us for children," she said, "that he tries so clumsily to deceive us?"
"Believe me what you please, I do not care; I have answered you the truth."
"You will not persuade us that you fell unwittingly among your enemies while thus disguised."
"You have done so too, Niña; one is not more extraordinary than the other, I presume. However, I repeat accident did it all."
"Hum! that is not very probable; your father and brother are in the vicinity through the same accident, I suppose?"
"As for them, may the devil twist my neck if I know where they are at this moment."
"I expected that answer from you; unluckily warriors have scattered in every direction, and will soon find them."
"I do not believe it; however, what do I care? All the better for them if they escape; all the worse if they fall into your hands."
"I need not tell you, I fancy, the fate that awaits you?"
"I have known it a long time; the worthy redskins will probably amuse themselves with flaying me alive, roasting me at a slow fire, or some other politeness of that sort. Much good may it do them."
"Suppose they spared your life, would you not reveal where your father, brother, and that excellent Fray Ambrosio are?"
"I would not. Look you, I am a bandit, I allow it, but, Niña, I am neither a traitor nor an informer. Regulate your conduct by that, and if you are curious to see a man die well, I invite you to be present at my punishment."
"Well?" Unicorn asked the girl.
"He will not speak," she replied; "although he displays great resolution, perhaps the torture you will make him undergo may overcome his courage, and he consent to speak."
"Hum!" the chief went on, "my sister's advice is—"
"My advice," she quickly interrupted, "is to be as pitiless to him as he has been to others."
"Good!"
The chief pointed to the American.
"Take him away," he said, "and let all the preparations be made for torture."
"Thanks," Nathan replied; "at any rate you will not make me languish, that is a consolation."
"Wait before you rejoice, till you have undergone the first trial," White Gazelle said ironically.
Nathan made no answer, but went away whistling with two warriors. They fastened him securely to the trunk of a tree, and left him alone, after assuring themselves that he could not move, and consequently flight was impossible. The young man watched them go off, and then fell on the ground, carelessly muttering—
"The disguise was good for all that; had it not been for that she-devil, I must have escaped."
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE ESCAPE.
Red Cedar had seen his son tied up, from the tree where he was concealed. This sight suddenly stopped him; he found himself just over the Comanche camp, in a most perilous situation, as the slightest false movement, by revealing his presence, would be sufficient to destroy him. Sutter and Fray Ambrosio in turn parted the branches and looked down at Nathan, who certainly was far from suspecting that the persons he had left on the previous day were so near him.
In the meanwhile the shadows gradually invaded the clearing, and soon all objects were confounded in the gloom, which was rendered denser by the gleam of the fires lighted from distance to distance, and which shed an uncertain light around. The squatter did not love his son; for he was incapable of feeling affection for more than one person, and it was concentrated on Ellen. Nathan's life or death, regarded in the light of paternal love, was of very slight consequence to him; but in the situation where his unlucky star placed him, he regretted his son, as one regrets a jolly comrade, a bold man and clever marksman—an individual, in short, who can be relied on in a fight.
We need not here describe Red Cedar's resolute character, for the reader is acquainted with it. Under these circumstances, a strange idea crossed his brain; and as, whenever he had formed a resolution, nothing could stop it, and he would beard all dangers in carrying it out, Red Cedar had resolved on delivering his son, not, we repeat through any paternal love, but to have a good rifle more, in the very probable event that he should have to fight.
But it was not an easy matter to liberate Nathan. The young man was far from suspecting that at the moment he was awaiting worse than death, his father was only a few paces from him, preparing everything for his flight. This ignorance might compromise the success of the daring stroke the squatter intended to attempt.
The latter, before undertaking anything, called his two companions to him and imparted his plan to them. Sutter, adventurous and rash as his father, applauded the resolve. He only saw in the bold enterprise a trick to be played on his enemies, the redskins, and rejoiced, not at carrying off his brother from among them, but at the faces they would cut when they came to fetch their prisoner to fasten him to the stake and no longer found him.
Fray Ambrosio regarded the question from a diametrically opposite point of view: their position, he said, was already critical enough, and they ought not to render it more perilous by trying to save a man whom they could not succeed in enabling to escape, and which would hopelessly ruin them, by informing the redskins of their presence.
The discussion between the three adventurers was long and animated, for each obstinately held to his opinion. They could not come to an agreement; seeing which, Red Cedar peremptorily cut short all remarks by declaring that he was resolved to save his son, and would do so, even if all the Indians of the Far West tried to oppose it. Before a resolution so clearly intimated, the others could only be silent and bow their heads, which the monk did. The trapper then prepared to carry out his design.
By this time, the shades of night had enveloped the prairie in a black winding sheet; the moon, which was in her last quarter, would not appear before two in the morning; it was now about eight in the evening, and Red Cedar had six hours' respite before him, by which he intended to profit. Under circumstances so critical as the adventurers were now placed, time is measured with the parsimony of the miser parting with his treasure, for five minutes wasted may ruin everything.
The night became more and more gloomy; heavy black clouds, charged with electricity, dashed against each other and intercepted the light of the stars; the evening breeze had risen at sunset, and whistled mournfully through the branches of the primæval forest. With the exception of the sentries placed round the camp, the Indians were lying round the decaying fires, and, wrapped in their buffalo robes, were soundly asleep. Nathan, securely tied, slept or feigned to sleep. Two warriors, lying not far from him, and ordered to watch him, seeing their prisoner apparently so resigned to his fate, at length yielded to slumber.
Suddenly, a slight hiss, like that of the whip snake, was audible from the top of the tree to which the young man was fastened. He opened his eyes with a start, and looked searchingly round him, though not making the slightest movement, for fear of arousing his guardians. A second hiss, more lengthened than the first, was heard, immediately followed by a third.
Nathan raised his head cautiously, and looked up; but the night was so dark that he could distinguish nothing. At this moment, some object, whose shape it was impossible for him to guess, touched his forehead and struck it several times, as it oscillated. This object gradually descended, and at length fell on the young man's knees.
He stooped down and examined it.
It was a knife!
Nathan with difficulty repressed a shout of joy. He was not entirely abandoned, then! Unknown friends took an interest in his fate, and were trying to give him the means of escape. Hope returned to his heart; and like a boxer, stunned for a moment by the blow he had received, he collected all his strength to recommence the contest.
However intrepid a man may be, although if conquered by an impossibility he has bravely sacrificed his life, still, if at the moment of marching to the place of punishment a gleam of hope seems to dazzle his astonished eyes, he suddenly draws himself up—the image of death is effaced from his mind, and he fights desperately to regain that life which he had so valiantly surrendered. This is what happened to Nathan; he gradually sat up, with his eyes eagerly fixed on his still motionless guards.
My readers must pardon the following trifling detail, but it is too true to be passed over. When the first hiss was heard, the young man was snoring, though wide awake; he now continued the monotonous melody which lulled his keepers to sleep. There was something most striking in the appearance of this man, who, with eyes widely open, frowning brow, features painfully contracted by hope and fear, was cutting through the cords that fastened his elbows to the tree, while snoring as quietly as if he were enjoying the quietest sleep.