Chapter Eighty Four.
“Painting Injun.”
Withal, I was not reckless. If not sanguine, I was far from despondent; and as I continued to dwell upon it, the prospect seemed to brighten, and success to appear less problematical.
One of the chief difficulties I should have to encounter would be getting into the camp. Once inside the lines—that is, among the camp-fires and tents, if there should be any—I should be comparatively safe. This I knew from experience; for it would not be my first visit to an encampment of prairie-Indians. Even in their midst, mingling with the savages themselves, and under the light of their glaring fires, I should be less exposed to the danger of detection than while attempting to cross their lines. First, I should have to pass the outlying pickets: then within these the horse-guards; and within these, again, the horses themselves!
You may smile when I assert that the last was to me a source of apprehension as great as either of the others. An Indian horse is a sentinel not to be despised. He is as much the enemy of the white man as his master; and partly from fear, and partly from actual antipathy, he will not permit the former to approach him. The human watcher may be negligent—may sleep upon his post—the horse never. The scent of a white man, or the sight of a skulking form, will cause him to snort and neigh; so that a whole camp will either be stampeded or put upon the alert in a few minutes. Many a well-planned attack has been defeated by the warning-snort of the sentinel mustang.
It is not that the prairie-horse feels any peculiar attachment for the Indian; strange if he did—since tyrant more cruel to the equine race does not exist; no driver more severe, no rider more hard, than a horse-Indian.
It is simply the faithfulness which the noble animal exhibits for his companion and master, with the instinct which tells him when that master is menaced by danger. He will do the same service for a white as for a red man; and often does the weary trapper take his lone rest, with full confidence that the vigil will be faithfully kept by his horse.
Had there been dogs in the Indian camp, my apprehensions would have been still more acute—the danger would have been more than doubled. Within the lines, these cunning brutes would have known me as an enemy: the disguise of garments would not have availed me by the scent, an Indian dog can at once tell the white from the red man; and they appear to hold a real antipathy against the race of the Celt or Saxon. Even in time of truce, a white man entering an Indian camp can scarcely be protected from the wolfish pack.
I knew there were no dogs—we saw tracks of none. The Indians had been upon the war-trail; and when they proceed on these grand expeditions, their dogs, like their women, are left “at home.” I had reason to be thankful that such was their custom.
Of course it was my intention to go disguised; it would have been madness to have gone otherwise. In the darkest night, my uniform would have betrayed me; but necessarily, in my search for the captive, I should be led within the light of the fires.
It was my design, therefore, to counterfeit the Indian costume; and how to do this had been for some time the subject of my reflections. I had been congratulating myself on the possession of the buffalo-robe. That would go far towards the disguise; but other articles were wanting to complete my costume. The leggings and moccasins—the plumed head-dress and neck ornaments—the long elfin locks—the bronze complexion of arms and breast—the piebald face of chalk, charcoal, and vermilion—where were all these to be obtained? There was no costumerie in the desert.
In the moment of excitement that succeeded the capture of the savage, I had been thinking of other things. It was only when we were about to part from him that the idea jumped into my mind—that bright idea—that he could furnish me—the very man.
I turned back to reconnoitre his person.
Dismounting, I scanned him from head to foot. With delight my eyes rested upon his buckskin-leggings, his bead-embroidered moccasins, his pendent collar of javali-tusks, his eagle-plumes stained red, and the ample robe of jaguar-skins that draped his back—all pleased me much.
But that we were bent on an errand of peril, the last-mentioned article would not have been left there. My followers had eyed it with avidity, and more than one of them had been desirous of removing it; but the prospect of proximate peril had damped the ardour for spoil; and the splendid robe had been permitted to remain, where so gracefully it hung, upon the shoulders of the savage.
It soon replaced the buffalo robe upon mine; my boots were cast aside, and my legs encased in the scalp-fringed leggings; my hips were swathed in the leathern “breech-clout;” and my feet thrust into the foot-gear of the Comanche, which, by good fortune, fitted to a hair.
There was yet much required to make me an Indian. Comanches upon the war-trail go naked from the waist upward—the tunic-shirt is only worn by them, when hunting, or on ordinary occasions. How was I to counterfeit the copper skin—the bronzed arms and shoulders?—the mottled breast—the face of red, and white, and black? Paint only could aid me; and where was paint to be procured? The black we could imitate with gunpowder, but—
“Wagh!” ejaculated Rube, who was seen holding in his hands a wolf-skin, prettily trimmed and garnished with quills and beads—the medicine-bag of the Indian. “Wagh! I thort we’d find the mateeruls in the niggur’s possible-sack—hyur they be!”
Rube had dived his hand to the bottom of the embroidered bag; and, while speaking, drew it triumphantly forth. Several little leathern packets appeared between his fingers, which, from their stained outsides, evidently contained pigments of various colours; whilst a small shining object in their midst proved, on closer inspection, to be a looking-glass!
Neither the trappers nor myself were astonished at finding these odd “notions” in such a place; on the contrary, it was natural we should have looked for them there. Seldom in peace, but never in time of war, does the Indian ride abroad without his rouge and his mirror!
The colours were of the right sort, and corresponded exactly with those that glittered upon the skin of the captive warrior.
Under the keen edge of a bowie, my moustaches came off in a twinkling: a little grease was procured; the paints were mixed; and placing myself side by side with the Indian, I stood for his portrait. Rube was the painter—a piece of soft buckskin his brush—the broad palm of Garey his palette.
The operation did not last a great while. In twenty minutes it was all over; and the Indian brave and I appeared the exact counterparts of each other. Streak by streak, and spot by spot, had the old trapper imitated those hideous hieroglyphics—even to the red hand upon the breast, and the cross upon the brow. In horrid aspect, the copy quite equalled the original.
One thing was still lacking—an important element in the metamorphosis of disguise: I wanted the long snaky black tresses that adorned the head of the Comanche.
The want was soon supplied. Again the bowie blade was called upon to serve as scissors; and with Garey to perform the tonsorial feat, the chevelure of the Indian was shorn of its flowing glories.
The savage winced as the keen blade glistened around his brow; he had no other thought than that he was about to be scalped alive!
“’Tain’t the way I’d raise his har, the dodrotted skunk!” muttered Rube, as he stood watching the operation. “Fotch the hide along wi’ it, Bill! It ’ll save bother—’ee’ll hev to make a wig ef ’ee don’t; skin ’im, durn ’im!”
Of course Garey did not give heed to this cruel counsel, which he knew was not meant for earnest.
A rude “scratch” was soon constructed, and being placed upon my head, was attached to my own waving locks. Fortunately, these were of dark colour, and the hue corresponded.
I fancied I saw the Indian smile when he perceived the use we were making of his splendid tresses. It was a grim smile, however; and from the first moment to the last, neither word nor ejaculation escaped from his lips.
Even I was forced to smile; I could not restrain myself. The odd travestie in which we were engaged—the strange commingling of the comic and serious in the act—and above all, the ludicrous look of the captive Indian, after they had close cropped him—was enough to make a stone smile. My comrades could not contain themselves, but laughed outright.
The plume-bonnet was now placed on my head. It was fortunate the brave had one—for this magnificent head-dress is rarely worn on a war-expedition; fortunate, for it aided materially in completing the counterfeit. With it upon my head, the false hair could hardly have been detected under the light of day.
There was no more to be done. The painter, hairdresser, and costumier, had performed their several offices—I was ready for the masquerade.
Chapter Eighty Five.
The Last Hours on the Trail.
More cautiously than ever, we now crept along the trail—advancing only after the ground had been thoroughly “quartered” by the scouts. Time was of the least consequence. The fresh sign of the Indians told us they were but a short way ahead of us: we believed we could have ridden within sight of them at any moment.
We did not wish to set eyes on them before sunset. It could be no advantage to us to overtake them on the march, but the contrary. Some lagging Indian might be found in the rear of the band; we might come in contact with him, and thus defeat all our designs.
We hung back, therefore—allowing sufficient time for the savages to pitch their camp, and for their stragglers to get into it.
On the other hand, I did not desire to arrive late. The council was to be held that night—so she had learned—and after the council would come the crisis. I must be in time for both.
At what hour would the council take place?
It might be just after they had halted. The son of a chief, and a chief himself—for the white renegade was a leader of red men—a question between two such men would not remain long undecided. And a question of so much importance—involving such consequence—property in body and soul—possession of the most beautiful woman in the world!
Oh! I wondered! Could these hideous, ochre-stained, grease-bedaubed brutes appreciate that peerless beauty? Impossible, I thought. The delicate lines of her loveliness would be lost upon their gross eyes and coarse sensual hearts. That pearl beyond price—paste would have satisfied them as well—they could not distinguish the diamond from common glass.
And yet the Comanche is not without love-craft. Coarse as might be the passion, no doubt they loved her—both loved her—red savage and white savage.
For this very reason, the “trial” would not be delayed; the question would be speedily decided—in order that the quarrel of the chiefs might be brought to an end. For this very reason, the crisis might be hastened, the council take place at an early hour; for this very reason, I too must needs be early upon the spot.
It was my aim to arrive within sight of the Indian encampment just before night—in the twilight, if possible—that we might be able to make reconnoissance of the ground before darkness should cover it from our view. We were desirous of acquainting ourselves with the lay of the surrounding country as well—so that, in the event of our escape, we should know which was the best direction to take.
We timed our advance by the sign upon the trail. The keen scouts could tell, almost to a minute, when the latest tracks were made; and by this we were guided. Both glided silently along, their eyes constantly and earnestly turned upon the ground.
Mine were more anxiously bent upon the sky; from that quarter I most feared an obstacle to the execution of my purpose. What a change had come over my desires!—how different were they from those of the two preceding nights! The very same aspect of the heavens that had hitherto chagrined and baffled me, would now have been welcome. In my heart, I had lately execrated the clouds; in that same heart, I was now praying for cloud, and storm, and darkness!
Now could I have blessed the clouds, but there were none to bless—not a speck appeared over the whole face of the firmament—the eye beheld only the illimitable ether.
In another hour, that boundless blue would be studded with millions of bright stars; and, silvered by the light of a resplendent moon, the night would be as day.
I was dismayed at the prospect. I prayed for cloud and storm, and darkness. Human heart! when blinded by its own petty passions, unreasoning and unreasonable; my petition was opposed to the unalterable laws of nature—it could not be heard.
I can scarcely describe how the aspect of that bright sky troubled and pained me. The night-bird, which joys only in deepest darkness, could not have liked it less. Should there be moonlight, the enterprise would be made more perilous—doubly more. Should there be moonlight—why need I form an hypothesis? Moonlight there would be to a certainty. It was the middle of the lunar month, and the moon would be up almost as the sun went down—full, round, and almost as bright as he—with no cloud to cover her face, to shroud the earth from her white light. Certainly there would be moonlight!
Well thought of was that disguise—well spent our labour in making it so perfect. Under the moonlight, to it only could I trust; by it only might I expect to preserve my incognito.
But the eye of the Indian savage is sharp, and his perception keen—almost as instinct itself. I could not rely much upon my borrowed plumes, should speech be required from me. Just on account of the cunning imitation, the perfectness of the pattern, some friends of the original might have business with me—might approach and address me. I knew but a few words of Comanche—how should I escape from the colloquy?
Such thoughts were troubling me as we rode onward.
Night was near; the sun’s lower limb rested on the far horizon of the west: the hour was an anxious one to me.
The scouts had been for some time in the advance, without returning to report: and we had halted in a copse to wait for them. A high hill was before us, wooded only at the summit; over this hill the war-trail led. We had observed the scouts go into the timber. We kept our eyes upon the spot, waiting for their return.
Presently one of them appeared just outside the edge of the wood—Garey, we saw it was. He made signs to us to come on.
We rode up the hill, and entered among the trees. After going a little farther, we diverged from the trail. The scout guided us through the trunks over the high summit. On the other side, the wood extended only a little below; but we did not ride beyond it; we halted before coming to its edge, and dismounting, tied our horses to the trees.
We crept forward on our hands and knees till we had reached the utmost verge of the timber; through the leaves we peered, looking down into the plain beyond. We saw smokes and fires, and a skin-lodge in their midst; we saw dark forms around—men moving over the ground, and horses with their heads to the grass: we were looking upon the camp of the Comanches.
Chapter Eighty Six.
The Comanche Camp.
We had reached our ground just at the moment I desired. It was twilight—dark enough to render ourselves inconspicuous under the additional shadow of the trees—yet sufficiently clear to allow a full reconnoissance of the enemy’s position. Our point of view was a good one—under a single coup-d’oeil commanding the encampment, and a vast extent of country around it. The hill we had climbed—a sort of isolated butte—was the only eminence of any considerable elevation for miles around; and the site of the camp was upon the plain that stretched away from its base—apparently beyond limit!
The plain was what is termed a “pecan” prairie—that is, a prairie half covered with groves, copses, and lists of woodland—in which the predominating tree is the pecan—a species of hickory (carya olivaeformis), bearing an oval, edible nut of commercial value. Between the groves and mottes of timber, single trees stood apart, their heads fully developed by the free play given to their branches. These park-looking trees, with the coppice-like groves of the pecan, lent an air of high civilisation to the landscape; and a winding stream, whose water, under the still lingering rays, glistened with the sheen of silver, added to the deception. Withal, it was a wilderness—a beautiful wilderness. Human hands had never planted those groves—human agency had nought to do with the formation or adornment of that lovely landscape.
Upon the bank of the stream, and about half a mile from the base of the hill, stood the Indian camp. A glance at the position showed how well it had been chosen—not so much for defence, as to protect it against a surprise.
Assuming the lodge—there was but one—as the centre of the camp, it was placed upon the edge of a small grove, and fronting the stream. From the tent to the water’s edge, the plain sloped gently downward, like the glacis of a fortification. The smooth sward, that covered the space between the trees and the water, was the ground of the camp. On this could be seen the dusky warriors, some afoot, standing in listless attitudes, or moving about; others reclining upon the grass, and still others bending over the fires, as if engaged in the preparation of their evening meal.
A line of spears, regularly placed, marked the allotment of each. The slender shafts, nearly five yards in length, rose tall above the turf—like masts of distant ships—displaying their profusion of pennons and bannerets, of painted plumes and human hair. At the base of each could be seen the gaudy shield, the bow and quiver, the embroidered pouch and medicine-bag of the owner; and grouped around many of them appeared objects of a far different character—objects that we could not contemplate without acute emotion. They were women: enough of light still ruled the sky to show us their faces; they were white women—the captives.
Strange were my sensations as I regarded those forms and faces; but they were far off—even a lover’s eye was unequal to the distance.
Flanking the camp on right and left were the horses. They occupied a broad belt of ground—for they were staked out to feed—and each was allowed the length of his lazo. Their line converged to the rear, and met behind the grove—so that the camp was embraced by an arc of browsing animals, the river forming its chord. Across the stream, the encampment did not extend.
I have said that the spot was well selected to guard against a surprise. Its peculiar adaptability consisted in the fact, that the little grove that backed the camp was the only timber within a radius of a thousand yards. All around, and even on the opposite side of the stream, the plain was treeless, and free from cover of any kind. There were no inequalities of ground, neither “brake, bush, nor scaur,” to shelter the approach of an enemy.
Had this position been chosen, or was it accidental? In such a place and at such a time, it was not likely they had any fear of a surprise; but with the Indian, caution is so habitually exercised, that it becomes almost an instinct; and doubtless under such a habit, and without any forethought whatever, the savages had fixed upon the spot where they were encamped. The grove gave them wood; the stream, water; the plain, pabulum for their horses. With one of these last for their own food, they had all the requisites of an Indian camp.
At the first glance, I saw the strength of their position—not so much with the eye of a soldier, as with that of a hunter and bush-fighter did I perceive it. In a military sense, it offered no point of defence; but it could not be approached by stratagem, and that is all the horse-Indian ever fears. Alarm him not too suddenly—give him five minutes’ warning, and he cannot be attacked. If superior in strength, you may chase him; but you must be better mounted than he to bring him to close combat. Retreat, not defence, is generally the leading idea of Comanche strategy, unless when opposed to a Mexican foe. Then he will stand fight with the courage of a master.
As I continued to gaze at the Indian encampment, my heart sank within me. Except under cover of a dark night—a very dark night—it could not be entered. The keenest spy could not have approached it: it appeared unapproachable.
The same thought must at that moment have occupied the minds of my companions; I saw the gloom of disappointment on the brows of all as they knelt beside me silent and sullen. None of them said a word; they had not spoken since we came upon the ground.
Chapter Eighty Seven.
No Cover.
In silence I continued to scrutinise the camp, but could discover no mode of approaching it secretly or in safety.
As I have said, the adjacent plain, for nearly a thousand yards’ radius, was a smooth grass-covered prairie. Even the grass was short: it would scarcely have sheltered the smallest game—much less afford cover for the body of a man—much less for that of a horse.
I should willingly have crawled on hands and knees, over the half-mile that separated us from the encampment; but that would have been of no service; I might just as well have walked erect. Erect or prostrate, I should be seen all the same by the occupants of the camp, or the guards of the horses. Even if I succeeded in effecting an entrance within the lines, what then? Even should I succeed in finding Isolina, what then? what hope was there of our getting off?
There was no probability of our being able to pass the lines unseen—not the least. We should certainly be pursued, and what chance for us to escape? It was not probable we could run for a thousand yards with the hue and cry after us? No; we should be overtaken, recaptured, speared or tomahawked upon the spot!
The design I had formed was to bring my horse as close as possible to the camp; to leave him under cover, and within such a distance as would make it possible to reach him by a run; then mounting with my betrothed in my arms, to gallop on to my comrades. The men, I had intended, should be placed in ambush, as near to the camp as the nature of the ground would permit.
But my preconceived plan was entirely frustrated by the peculiar situation of the Indian encampment. I had anticipated that there would be either trees, brushwood, or broken ground in its neighbourhood, under shelter of which we might approach it. To my chagrin, I now saw that there was none of the three. There was no timber nearer than the grove in which we were lying—the copse excepted—and to have reached this would have been to enter the camp itself.
We appeared to have advanced to the utmost limit possible that afforded cover. A few feet farther would have carried us outside the margin of the wood, and then we should have been as conspicuous to the denizens of the camp, as they now were to us. Forward we dared not stir—not a step farther.
I was puzzled and perplexed. Once more I turned my eyes upon the sky, but I drew not thence a ray of hope; the heavens were too bright; the sun had gone down in the west; but in the east was rising, full, round, and red, almost his counterpart. How I should have welcomed an eclipse! I thought of Omnipotent power; I thought of the command of the Israelitish captain. I should have joyed to see the shadow of the opaque earth pass over that shining orb; and rob it of its borrowed light, if only for a single hour!
Eclipse or cloud there was none—no prospect of one or other—no hope either from the earth or the sky.
Verily, then, must I abandon my design, and adopt some other for the rescue of my betrothed? What other?
I could think of none: there was no other that might be termed a plan. We might gallop forward, and openly attack the camp? Sheer desperation alone could impel us to such a course, and the result would be ruin to all—to her among the rest. We could not hope to rescue her—nine to a hundred—for we saw and could now count our dusky foemen. They would see us afar off; would be prepared to receive us—prepared to hurl their masses upon us—to destroy us altogether. Sheer desperation!
What other plan?—what—
Something of one occurred to me at that moment: a slight shadow of it had crossed my mind before. It seemed practicable, though fearfully perilous; but what of peril? It was not the time, nor was I in the mood, to regard danger. Anything short of the prospect of certain death had no terror for me then; and even this I should have preferred to failure.
We had along with us the horse of the captive Comanche. Stanfield had brought the animal, having left his own in exchange. I thought of mounting the Indian horse, and riding him into the camp. In this consisted the whole of the scheme that now presented itself.
Surely the idea was a good one—a slight alteration of my original plan. I had already undertaken to play the rôle of an Indian warrior, while within the camp; it would only require me to begin the personation outside the lines, and make my entrée along with my débût. There would be more dramatic appropriateness, with a proportionate increase of danger.
But I did not jest thus; I had no thought of merriment at the time. The travesty I had undertaken was no burlesque.
The worst feature of this new scheme was the increased risk of being brought in contact with the friends of the warrior of the red hand—of being accosted by them, and of course expected to make reply. How could I avoid meeting them—one or more of them? If interrogated, how shun making answer? I knew a few words of the Comanche tongue, but not enough to hold a conversation in it. Either my false accent or my voice would betray me! True, I might answer in Spanish. Many of the Comanches speak this language; but my using it would appear a suspicious circumstance.
There was another source of apprehension: I could not confide in the Indian horse. He had endeavoured to fling Stanfield all along the way—kicking violently, and biting at his Saxon rider while seated upon his back. Should he behave in a similar manner with me while entering the camp, it would certainly attract the attention of the Indian guards. It would lead to scrutiny and suspicion.
Still another fear: even should I succeed in the main points—in entering the camp, finding the captive, and wresting her from the hands of her jailers—how after? I could never depend upon this capricious mustang to carry us clear of the pursuit—there would be others as swift, perhaps swifter than he, and we should only be carried back to die. Oh! that I could have taken my own steed near to the line of yonder guard—oh! that I could have hidden him there!
It might not be; I saw that it could not be; and I was forced to abandon the thoughts of it.
I had well-nigh made up my mind to risk all the chances of my assumed character, by mounting the Indian horse. To my comrades I imparted the idea, and asked their counsel.
All regarded it as fraught with danger; one or two advised me against it. They were those who did not understand my motives—who could not comprehend the sentiment of love—who knew not the strength and courage which that noble passion may impart. Little understood they how its emotions inspire to deeds of daring—how love absorbs all selfishness—even life becoming a secondary consideration, when weighed against the happiness or safety of its object. These rude men had never loved as I. I gave no ear to their too prudent counsels.
Others acknowledged the danger, but saw not how I could act differently. One or two had in their life’s course experienced a touch of tender feeling akin to mine. These could appreciate; and counselled me in consonance with my half-formed resolution. I liked their counsel best.
One had not yet spoken—one upon whose advice I placed a higher value than upon the combined wisdom of all the others. I had not yet taken the opinion of the earless trapper.
Chapter Eighty Eight.
Rube Consulting his Oracle.
He was standing apart from the rest—leaning, I should rather say, for his body was not erect, but diagonal. In this attitude it was propped by his rifle, the butt of which was steadied against the stump of a tree, whilst the muzzle appeared to rest upon the bridge of Rube’s own nose.
As the man and the piece were about of a length, the two just placed in juxtaposition presented the exact figure of an inverted V, and the small close-capped skull of the trapper formed a sufficiently tapering apex to the angle. Both his hands were clasped round the barrel, near its muzzle, his fingers interlocking, while the thumbs lay flat—one upon each side of his nose.
At first glance, it was difficult to tell whether he was gazing into the barrel of the piece, or beyond it upon the Indian camp.
The attitude was not new to him nor to me; it was not the first time I had observed him in a posture precisely similar. I knew it was his favourite pose, when any question of unusual difficulty required all the energy of his “instincts.” He was now, as often of yore, consulting his “divinity,” presumed to dwell far down within the dark tube of “Targuts.”
After a time, all the others ceased to speak, and stood watching him. They knew that no step would be taken before Rube’s advice had been received; and they waited with more or less patience for him to speak.
Full ten minutes passed, and still the old trapper neither stirred nor spoke. Nor lip nor muscle of him was seen to move; the eyes alone could be detected in motion, and these small orbs, scintillating in their deep sockets, were the only signs of life which he showed. Standing rigid and still, he appeared, not a statue, but a scarecrow, propped up by a stick; and the long, brown, weather-washed rifle did not belie the resemblance.
Full ten minutes passed, and still he spoke not; his “oracle” had not yet yielded its response.
I have said that at the first glance it was difficult to tell whether the old man was gazing into the barrel of his gun or beyond it. After watching him closely, I observed that he was doing both. Now his eyes were a little raised, as if he looked upon the plain—anon they were lowered, and apparently peering into the tube. He was drawing the data of his problem from facts—he was trusting to his divinity for the solution.
For a long time he kept up this singular process of conjuration—alternating his glances in equal distribution between the hollow cylinder and the circle of vision that comprehended within its circumference the Comanche encampment.
The others began to grow impatient; all were interested in the result, and not without reason. Standing upon the limits of a life-danger, it is not strange they should feel anxiety about the issue.
Thus far, however, none had offered to interrupt or question the queer old man. None dared. One or two of the party had already had a taste of his quality when fretted or interfered with, and no one desired to draw upon himself the sharp “talk” of the earless trapper.
Garey at length approached, but not until Rube, with a triumphant toss of his head and a scarcely audible “wheep” from his thin lips, showed signs that the consultation had ended, and that the “joss” who dwelt at the bottom of his rifle-barrel had vouchsafed an answer!
I had watched him with the rest. I liked that expressive hitch of the head; I liked the low, but momentous sibillation that terminated the séance between him and his familiar spirit. They were signs that the knot was unravelled—that the old trapper had devised some feasible plan by which the Indian camp might be entered.
Garey and I drew near, but not to question him; we understood him too well for that. We knew that he must be left free to develop his purpose in his own time; and we left him free—simply placing ourselves by his side.
“Wal, Billee!” he said, after drawing a long breath, “an yurself, young fellur! whet do ’ee both think o’ this hyur bizness: looks ugly, don’t it—eh, boyees?”
“Tarnal ugly,” was Garey’s laconic answer.
“Thort so meself at fust.”
“Thar ain’t no plan o’ gettin’ in yander,” said the young trapper, in a desponding tone.
“The doose thur ain’t! what greenhorn put thet idee inter yur brain-pan, Bill?”
“Wal, thar are a plan; but ’tain’t much o’ a one: we’ve been talkin it over hyar.”
“Le’s hear it,” rejoined Rube, with an exulting chuckle—“le’s hev it, boyee! an quick, Bill, fur time’s dodrotted preecious ’bout now. Wal?”
“It’s jest this, Rube, neyther less nor more: the capt’n proposes to take the Injun’s hoss; and ride straight into thar camp.”
“Straight custrut in, do ’ee?”
“Ov coorse; it ’ud be no use goin about the bush: they kin see him a-comin’ from ony side.”
“I’ll be durned ef they kin—thet I’ll be durned. Wagh! they cudn’t ’a see me—thet they cudn’t, ef ivery niggur o’ ’em hed the eyes o’ an Argoose es hed eyes all over him—thet they cudn’t, Billee.”
“How?” I inquired. “Do you mean to say that it is possible for any one to approach yonder camp without being observed? Is that what you mean, Rube?”
“Thet ur preezactly whet I mean, young fellur. No—not adzactly thet eyther. One o’ you I didn’t say: whet I sayed wur, that this hyur trapper, Rube Rawlins o’ the Rocky Mountains, kud slide inter yander campmint jest like greased lightnin through a gooseberry-bush, ’ithout e’er an Injun seein ’im; an thet, too, ef the red-skinned vamints hed more eyes in thur heads than they hev lice; which, accordin’ to this child’s reck’nin’, ’ud guv ivery squaw’s son o’ the gang as many peepers es thur ur spots in a peecock’s tail, an a wheen over to breed, I kalkerlate. No plan to git inter thur camp ’ithout bein’ seed! Wagh! yur gettin’ green, Bill Garey!”
“How can it be accomplished, Rube? Pray, explain! You know how impatient—”
“Don’t git unpayshint, young fellur! thet ur’s no use whetsomdiver. Yu’ll need payshinse, an a good grist o’ thet ur, afore ye kin warm yur shins at yander fires; but ’ee kin do it, an in the nick o’ time too, ef yu’ll go preezactly accordin’ to whet old Rube tells ye, an keep yur eye well skinned and yur teeth from chatterin’: I knows yu’ll do all thet. I knows yur weasel to the back o’ yur neck, an kin whip yur weight in wild cat any day i’ the year. Now? D’yur agree to follur my direekshuns!”
“I promise faithfully to act according to your advice.”
“Thet ur sensible sayed—durnation’d sensible. Wal, then, I’ll gi’ ye my device.”
As Rube said this, he moved forward to the edge of the timber, making a sign for Garey and myself to follow.
On reaching its outer edge—but still within cover—he dropped down upon his knees, behind some evergreen bushes.
I imitated his example, and knelt upon his right, while Garey crouched down on the left.
Our eyes were directed upon the Indian camp, of which, and the plain around it, we had a good view—as good as could be obtained under the light of a brilliant moon, alas! too brilliant!
After we had surveyed the scene for some moments in silence, the old trapper condescended to begin the conversation.
Chapter Eighty Nine.
The Trapper’s Counsel.
“Now, Bill Garey, an you, young fellur, jest clap yur eyes on thet ’ere ’campmint, an see ef thur ain’t a road leadin inter the very heart o’ it, straight as the tail o’ a skeeart fox. ’Ee see it? eh?”
“Not under kiver?” replied Garey interrogatively.
“Unner kiver—ivery step o’ the way—the best o’ kiver.”
Garey and I once more scrutinised the whole circumference of the encampment, and the ground adjacent. We could perceive no cover by which the camp could be approached. Surely there was none.
What could Rube mean? Were there clouds in the sky? Had he perceived some portent of coming darkness? and had his words reference to this?
I raised my eyes, and swept the whole canopy with inquiring glances. Up to the zenith, around the horizon—east, west, north, and south—I looked for clouds, but looked in vain. A few light cirrhi floated high in the atmosphere; but these, even when crossing the moon’s disk, cast no perceptible shadow. On the contrary, they were tokens of settled weather; and moving slowly, almost fixed upon the face of the heavens, were evidence that no sudden change might be expected. When the trapper talked of entering the camp under cover, he could not have meant under cover of darkness. What then?
“Don’t see ony kiver, old hoss,” rejoined Garey, after a pause; “neyther bush nor weed.”
“Bush!” echoed Rube—“weed! who’s talkin ’bout weeds an bushes? Thur’s other ways o’ hidin’ yur karkidge ’sides stickin’ it in a bush or unner a weed. Yur a gettin’ durnation’d pumpkin-headed, Bill Garey. I gin to think yur in the same purdicamint as the young fellur hisself. Yu’ve been a humbuggin’ wi’ one o’ them ur Mexikin moochachers.”
“No, Rube, no.”
“Durn me, ef I don’t b’lieve you hev, boy. I heern ye tell one o’ ’em—”
“What?”
“Wagh! ye know well enuf. Didn’t ’ee tell one o’ ’em gurls at the rancherie that ye loved her as hard as a mule kud kick—sartintly ye did; them wur yur preezact words, Billee.”
“I was only jokin’, hoss.”
“Putty jokin’ thet ur ’ll be when I gits back to Bent’s Fort, and tell yur Coco squaw. He, he, he—ho, ho, hoo! Geehosophat! thur will be a rumpus bumpus!”
“Nonsense, Rube; thar’s nothin’ ov it.”
“Thur must ’a be: yur brain-pan’s out o’ order, Bill; ye hain’t hed a clur idee for days back. Bushes! an weeds too! Wagh! who sayed thur wur bushes? Whur’s yur eyes? d’yur see a bank?”
“A bank!” echoed Garey and I simultaneously.
“Ye-es,” drawled Rube—“a bank. I guess thur’s bank, right afore yur noses, ef both o’ yur ain’t as blind as the kittlins o’ a ’possum. Now, do ’ee see it?”
Neither of us made reply to the final interrogatory. For the first time, we began to comprehend Rube’s meaning; and our eyes as well as thoughts were suddenly directed upon the object indicated by his words—the bank of the stream—for to that he referred.
I have stated that the little river ran close to the Indian lines, and on one side formed the boundary of the camp. We could tell that the current was towards us; for the stream, on reaching the hill upon which we were, turned sharply off, and swept round its base. The Indian camp was on the left bank—though upon its right when viewed up-stream, as we were regarding it. Any one proceeding up the left bank must therefore necessarily pass within the lines, and through among the horses that were staked nearest to the water.
It need not be supposed that under our keen scrutiny the stream had hitherto escaped observation; I myself had long ago thought of it—as a means of covering my approach—and time after time had my eyes dwelt upon it, but without result: in its channel I could perceive no shelter from observation. Its banks were low, and without either rush or bush upon them. The green turf of the prairie stretched up to the very brink, and scarcely twelve inches below its level was the surface of the current water. This was especially the case along the front of the encampment, and for some distance above and below.
Any one endeavouring to enter the camp by stealing up the channel, must have gone completely under the water, for a swimmer could have been observed upon its surface; even if a man could have approached in this way, there was no hope that a horse could be taken with him; and without the horse, what prospect of ultimate escape?
It had seemed to me impossible. More than once had I taken into consideration, and as often rejected, the idea.
Not so Rube. It was the very scheme he had conceived, and he now proceeded to point out his practicability.
“Now, theen—ees see a bank, do ’ee?”
“’Tain’t much o’ a bank,” replied Garey, rather discouragingly.
“No: ’tain’t as high as Massoora bluffs, nor the kenyons o’ Snake River—thet nob’dy durnies; but ef ’tain’t as high as it mout be, it ur ivery minnit a gettin’ higherer, I reck’n.”
“Getting higher, you think?”
“Ye-es; or whet ur putty consid’able the same thing the t’other ur a gettin’ lower.”
“The water, you mean?”
“The water ur a fallin’—gwine down by inches at a jump; an in an hour from this, thur’ll be bluffs afront o’ the camp helf a yurd high—thet’s whet thur’ll be.”
“And you think I could get into the camp by creeping under them?”
“Sure o’t. Whet’s to hinner ye? it ur easy as fallin’ off o’ a log.”
“But the horse—how could I bring him near?”
“Jest the same way as yurself. I tell yur the bed o’ thet river ur deep enuf to hide the biggest hoss in creeashun. ’Tur now full, for the reezun thur’s been a fresh in consykwince o’ last night’s rain: ’ee needn’t mind thet—the hoss kin wade or swim eyther, an the bank ’ll kiver ’im from the eyes of the Injuns. You kin leave ’im in the river.”
“In the water?”
“In coorse—yur hoss’ll stan thur; an ef he don’t, you kin tie his nose to the bank. Don’t be skeeart, but ’ee kin take ’im as near as ’ee please; but don’t git too far to wind’ard, else them mustangs ’ll smell ’im, and then it ur all up both wi’ yurself an yur hoss. About two hundred yurds ull be yur likeliest distence. Ef ye git the gurl clur, ye kin easy run thet, I reck’n; put straight for the hoss; an whun yur mounted, gallip like hell! Put straight up higher for the timmer, whur we’ll be cached; an then, durn ’em! ef the red-skins don’t catch goss out o’ our rifles. Wagh! thet’s the way to do the thing—it ur.”
Certainly, this plan appeared practicable enough. The sinking of the water was a new element; it had escaped my observation, though Rube had noted it. It was this that had delayed him so long in giving his opinion; he had been watching it while leaning upon his rifle, though none of the rest of us had thought of such a thing. He remembered the heavy rain of the night before; he saw that it had caused a freshet in the little river; that its subsidence had begun; and, as in most prairie-streams, was progressing with rapidity. His keen eye had detected a fall of several inches during the half-hour we had been upon the ground. I could myself observe, now the thing was pointed out to me, that the banks were higher than before.
Certainly, the idea of approaching by the stream had assumed a more feasible aspect. If the channel should prove deep enough, I might get the horse sufficiently near: the rest would have to be left to stratagem and chance.
“Yur ridin’ in the Injun hoss,” said Rube, “ud niver do: it mout, on the wust pinch: an ef ee don’t git in the t’other way, ee kin still try it; but ye kud niver git acrosst through the cavayard ’ithout stampeedin’ ’em: ’em mustangs ud be sure to make sich a snortin’, and stompin’, an whigherin’, as ’ud bring the hul campmint about ye; an some o’ the sharp-eyed niggurs ’ud be sartint to find out yur hide wur white. T’other way es I’ve desized ur fur the safest—it ur.”
I was not long in making up my mind. Rube’s counsel decided me, and I resolved to act accordingly.
Chapter Ninety.
Taking to the Water.
I spent but little time in preparations; these had been made already. It remained only to tighten my saddle-girths, look to the caps of my revolvers, and place both pistols and knife in the belt behind my back—where the weapons would be concealed by the pendent robe of jaguar-skins. In a few minutes I was ready.
I still loitered a while, to wait for the falling of the water; not long—my anxiety did not permit me to tarry long. The hour of the council might be nigh—I might be too late for the crisis. Not long did I loiter.
It was not necessary. Even by the moonlight, we could distinguish the dark line of the bank separating the grassy turf from the surface of the water. The rippling current was shining like silver-lace, and, by contrast, the brown earthy strip that rose vertically above it, could be observed more distinctly. It was sensibly broader.
I could wait no longer. I leaped into the saddle. My comrades crowded around me to say a parting word: and with a wish or a prayer upon their lips, one after another pressed my hand. Some doubted of their ever seeing me again—I could tell this from the tone of their leave-taking—others were more confident. All vowed to revenge me if I fell.
Rube and Garey went with me down the hill.
At the point where the stream impinged upon the hill? there were bushes; these continued up the declivity, and joined the timber upon the summit. Under their cover we descended, reaching the bank just at the salient angle of the bend. A thin skirting of similar bushes ran around the base of the hill, and we now perceived that by following the path on which we had come, the ambuscade might have been brought a little nearer to the camp. But the cover was not so good as the grove upon the summit, and in case of a retreat, it would be necessary to gallop up the naked face of the slope, and thus expose our numbers. It was decided, therefore, after a short consultation, to leave the men where they were.
From the bend, where we stood, to the Indian camp? the river trended almost in a straight line, and its long reach lay before our eyes like a band of shining metal. Along its banks, the bush extended no farther. A single step towards the camp would have exposed us to the view of its occupants.
At this point, therefore, it was necessary for me to take to the water; and dismounting, I made ready for the immersion.
The trappers had spoken their last words of instruction and counsel; they had both grasped my hand, giving it a significant squeeze that promised more than words; but to these, too, had they given utterance.
“Don’t be afeerd, capt’n!” said the younger. “Rube and I won’t be far off. If we hear your pistols, we’ll make a rush to’rst you, and meet you half-way anyhow; and if onything should happen amiss,”—here Garey spoke with emphasis—“you may depend on’t we’ll take a bloody revenge.”
“Yees!” echoed Rube, “we’ll do jest thet. Thur’ll be many a nick in Targuts afore next Krissmuss ef you ur rubbed out, young fellur; thet I swar to ye. But don’t be skeeart! Keep yur eye sharp-skinned, an yur claws steady, an thur’s no fear but yu’ll git clur. Oncest yur clur o’ the camp, ’ee may reck’n on us. Put straight for the timmer, an gallip as ef Ole Scratch wur a-gruppin’ at the tail o’ yur critter.”
I waited to hear no more, but leading Moro down the bank, at a place where it sloped, I stepped gently into the current. My well-trained steed followed without hesitation, and in another instant we were both breast-deep in the flood.
The water was just the depth I desired. There was a half-yard of bank that rose vertically above the surface; and this was sufficient to shelter either my own head, as I stood erect, or the frontlet of my horse. Should the channel continue of uniform depth as far as the camp, the approach would be easy indeed: and, for certain hydrographic reasons, I was under the belief it would.
The plumes of the Indian bonnet rose above the level of the meadow-turf; and as the feathers—dyed of gay colours—would have formed a conspicuous object, I took off the gaudy head-dress, and carried it in my hand.
I also raised the robe of jaguar-skin over my shoulders, in order to keep it dry; and for the same reason, temporarily carried my pistols above the water-line.
The making of these slight alterations occupied only a minute or so; and, as soon as they were completed, I moved forward through the water.
The very depth of the stream proved a circumstance in my favour. In wading, both horse and man make less noise in deep than in shallow water; and this was an important consideration. The night was still—too still for my wishes—and the plunging sound would have been heard afar off; but fortunately there were rapids below—just where the stream forced its way through the spur of the hill—and the hissing sough of these, louder in the still night, was borne upon the air to the distance of many miles. Their noise, to my own ears, almost drowned the plashing made by Moro and myself. I had noted this point d’avantage before embarking upon the enterprise.
At the distance of two hundred yards from the bushes, I paused to look back. My purpose was to fix in my memory the direction of the hill, and more especially the point where my comrades had been left in ambush: in the event of a close pursuit, it would not do to mistake their exact situation.
I easily made out the place, and observed that, for several reasons, a better could not have been chosen. The trees that timbered the crest of the hill were of a peculiar kind—none more so upon the earth. They were a species of arborescent yucca, then unknown to botanists. Many of them were forty feet in height; and their thick angular branches, and terminal fascicles of rigid leaves, outlined against the sky, formed a singular, almost an unearthly spectacle. It was unlike any other vegetation upon earth, more resembling a grove of cast-iron than a wood of exogenous trees.
Why I regarded the spot as favourable for an ambush, was chiefly this: a party approaching it from the plain, and climbing the hill, might fancy a host of enemies in their front; for the trees themselves, with their heads of radiating blades, bore a striking resemblance to an array of plumed gigantic warriors. Many of the yuccas were only six feet in height, with tufted heads, and branchless trunks as gross as the body of a man, and they might readily have been mistaken for human beings.
I perceived at a glance the advantage of the position. Should the Indians pursue me, and I could succeed in reaching the timber before them, a volley from my comrades would check the pursuers, however numerous. The nine rifles would be enough, with a few shots from the revolvers. The savages would fancy nine hundred under the mystifying shadows of that spectral-like grove.
With confidence, strengthened by these considerations, I once more turned my face up-stream; and breasting the current, waded on.