Chapter Ninety One.
Up-Stream.
My progress was far from being rapid. The water was occasionally deeper or shallower, but generally rising above my hips—deep enough to render my advance a task of time and difficulty. The current was of course against me; and though not very swift, seriously impeded me. I could have advanced more rapidly, but for the necessity of keeping my head and that of my horse below the escarpment of the bank. At times it was a close fit, with scarcely an inch to spare; and in several places I was compelled to move with my neck bent, and my horse’s nose held close down to the surface of the water.
At intervals, I paused to rest myself—for the exertion of wading against the current wearied me, and took away my breath. This was particularly the case when I required to go in a crouching attitude; but I chose my resting-places where the channel was deepest, and where I could stand erect.
I was all the while anxious to look up and take a survey of the camp: I wished to ascertain its distance and position; but I dared not raise my head above the level of the bank: the sward that crowned it was smooth as a mown meadow, and the edge-line of the turf even and unbroken. Had I shown but my hand above it, it might have been seen in that clear white light. I dared not show either hand or head.
I had advanced I knew not how far, but I fancied I must be near the lines. All the way, I had kept close under the left bank—which, as Rube had predicted, now rose a full half-yard above the water-line. This was a favourable circumstance; and another equally so was the fact that the moon on that—the eastern side—was yet low in the sky, and consequently the bank flung a broad black shadow that extended nearly half-way across the stream. In this shadow I walked, and its friendly darkness sheltered both myself and my horse.
I fancied I must be near the lines, and longed to reconnoitre them, but, for the reasons already given, dared not.
I was equally afraid to make any farther advance—for that might be still more perilous. I had already noted the direction of the wind: it blew from the river, and towards the camp; and should I bring my horse opposite the line of the mustangs, I would then be directly to windward of them, and in danger from their keen nostrils. They would be almost certain to take up the scent of my steed, and utter their warning snorts. The breeze was light, but so much the worse. There was sufficient to carry the smell, and not enough to drown the plunging noise necessarily made by my horse moving through the water, with the occasional hollow pounding of his hoofs upon the rocks at the bottom.
If I raised my head over the bank, there was the danger of being seen; if I advanced, the prospect was one of equal peril of being scented.
For some moments I stood hesitating—uncertain as to whether I should leave my horse, or lead him a little farther. I heard noises from the camp, but they were not distinct enough to guide me.
I looked back down the river, in the hope of being able to calculate the distance I had come, and by that means decide where I was; but my observation furnished no data by which I could determine my position. With my eyes almost on a level with the surface of the water, I could not judge satisfactorily of distance.
I turned my face up-stream again, and scrutinised the parapet line of the bank.
Just then I saw an object over its edge that answered well to guide me: it was the croup and hip-bones of a horse—one of the mustangs staked near the bank. I saw neither the head nor shoulders of the animal; its hind-quarters were towards the stream; its head was to the grass—it was browsing.
The sight gratified me. The mustang was full two hundred yards above the point I had reached. I knew that its position marked the outer line of the encampment. I was in the very place where I wanted to be—about two hundred yards from the lines. Just at that distance I desired to leave my horse.
I had taken the precaution to bring with me my picket-pin—one of the essentials of the prairie traveller. It was the work of a moment to delve it into the bank. I needed not to drive it with violence: my well-trained steed never broke fastening, however slight. With him the stake was only required as a sign that he was not free to wander.
In a moment, then, he was staked; and with a “whisper” I parted from him, and kept on up-stream.
I had not waded a dozen yards farther, when I perceived a break in the line of the bank. It was a little gully that led slantingly from the level of the prairie down to the bed of the stream. Its counterpart I perceived on the opposite side. The two indicated a ford or crossing used by buffaloes, wild-horses, and other denizens of the prairie.
At first, I viewed it with apprehension; I feared it might uncover my body to the eyes of the enemy; but on coming opposite, my fears were allayed: the slope was abrupt, and the high ground screened me as before. There would be no danger in passing the place.
As I was about moving on, an idea arrested me; and I paused to regard the gully with a look of greater interest. I perceived an advantage in it.
I had been troubled about the position in which I had left my horse. Should I succeed in getting back, of course it would be under the pressure of a hot pursuit, and my steed was not conveniently placed; his back was below the level of the bank. He might easily be mounted, but how should I get him out of the channel of the stream? Only by a desperate leap might he reach the plain above: but he might fail in the effort—time might be lost, when time and speed would be most wanted.
I had been troubled with this thought; it need trouble me no longer. The “crossing” afforded easy access either to or from the bed of the river—the very thing I wanted.
I was not slow to profit by the discovery. I turned back, and having released the rein, led my horse gently up to the break.
Choosing a spot under the highest part of the bank, I fastened him as before, and again left him.
I now moved with more ease and confidence, but with increased caution. I was getting too near to risk making the slightest noise in the water; a single plash might betray me.
It was my intention to keep within the channel, until I had passed the point where the horses were staked; by so doing, I should avoid crossing the line of the horse-guards, and, what was quite as important, that of the horses themselves—for I was equally apprehensive of being discovered by the latter. Once inside their circle, they would take no notice of me—for doubtless there would be other Indians within sight; and I trusted to my well-counterfeited semblance of savagery to deceive the eyes of these equine sentinels.
I did not wish to go far beyond their line; that would bring me in front of the camp itself—too near its fires and its idle groups.
I had noticed before starting that there was a broad belt between the place occupied by the men, and that where their horses were staked. This “neutral” ground was little used by the camp loungers, and somewhere on the edge of it I was desirous of making my entrée.
I succeeded to my utmost wishes. Closely hugging the bank, I passed the browsing mustangs—under their very noses I glided past, for I could hear them munching the herbage right over me—but so silently did I steal along, that neither snort nor hoof-stroke heralded my advance.
In a few minutes, I was sufficiently beyond them for my purpose.
I raised my head; slowly and gently I raised it, till my eyes were above the level of the prairie slope.
No one was near. I could see the swarth savages grouped around their fires; but they were a hundred yards off, or more. They were capering, and talking, and laughing; but no ear was bent, and no eye seemed turned towards me. No one was near.
I grasped the bank with my hands, and drew myself up. Slowly and silently I ascended, like some demon from the dark trap-door of a stage.
On my knees, I reached the level of the turf; and, then gently rising to my feet, I stood erect within the limits of the Indian camp—to all appearance as complete a savage as any upon the ground!
Chapter Ninety Two.
Coup-d’oeil of the Camp.
For some minutes I stood motionless as a statue; I stirred neither hand nor foot, lest the movement should catch the eye either of the horse-guards or those moving around the fires.
I had already donned my plumed head-dress, before climbing out of the channel: and after getting on the bank, my first thought was to replace my pistols in the belt behind my back.
The movement was stealthily made; and with like stealthy action, I suffered the mantle of jaguar-skins to drop from my shoulders, and hang to its full length. I had saved the robe from getting wet; and its ample skirt now served me in concealing my soaked breech-cloth as well as the upper half of my leggings. These and the moccasins were, of course, saturated with water, but I had not much uneasiness about that. In a prairie camp, and upon the banks of a deep stream, an Indian with wet leggings could not be a spectacle to excite suspicion; there would be many reasons why my counterpart might choose to immerse his copper-coloured extremities in the river. Moreover, the buckskin—dressed Indian-fashion—was speedily casting the water; it would soon drip dry; or even if wet, would scarcely be observed under such a light.
The spot where I had “landed” chanced to be one of the least conspicuous in the whole area of the camp. I was just between two lights—the red glare of the campfires, and the mellower beams of the moon; and the atmospheric confusion occasioned by the meeting of the distinct kinds of light favoured me, by producing a species of optical delusion. It was but slight, and I could easily be seen from the centre of the camp—but not with sufficient distinctness for my disguise to be penetrated by any one; therefore, it was hardly probable that any of the savages would approach or trouble their heads about me. I might pass for one of themselves indulging in a solitary saunter, yielding himself to a moment of abstraction or melancholy. I was well enough acquainted with Indian life to know that there was nothing outré or unlikely in this behaviour; such conduct was perfectly en règle.
I did not remain long on that spot—only long enough to catch the salient features of the scene.
I saw there were many fires, and around each was grouped number of human forms—some squatted, some standing. The night was cold enough to make them draw near to the burning logs; and for this reason, but few were wandering about—a fortunate circumstance for me.
There was one fire larger than the rest; from its dimensions, it might be termed a “bonfire,” such as is made by the flattering and flunkeyish peasantry of old-world lands, when they welcome home the squire and the count. It was placed directly in front of the solitary tent, and not a dozen paces from its entrance. Its blazing pile gave forth a flood of red light that reached even to the spot where I stood, and flickered in my face. I even fancied I could feel its glow upon my cheeks.
Around this fire were many forms of men—all of them standing up. I could see the faces of those who were upon its farther side, but only the figures of these on the nearer.
The former I could see with almost as much distinctness as if I had been close beside them; I could trace the lineaments of their features—the painted devices on their breasts and faces—the style of their habiliments.
The sight of these last somewhat astonished me. I had expected to see red-skinned warriors in leggings, moccasins, and breech-cloth, with heads naked or plumed, and shoulders draped under brown robes of buffalo-skin. Some such there were, but not all of them were so costumed; on the contrary, I beheld savages shrouded in serapes and cloaks of broadcloth, with calzoneros on their legs, and upon their heads huge hats of black glaze—regular Mexican sombreros! In short, I beheld numbers of them in full Mexican costume!
Others, again, were dressed somewhat in a military fashion, with helmets or stiff shakos, ill-fitting uniform coats of red or blue cloth, oddly contrasting with the brown buckskin that covered their legs and feet.
With some astonishment, I observed these “fancy dresses;” but my surprise passed away, when I reflected upon who were the men before me, and whence they had lately come, where they had been, and on what errand. It was no travesty, but a scene of actual life. The savages, were clad in the spoils they had captured from civilisation.
I need not have been at such pains with my toilet; under any guise, I could scarcely have looked odd in the midst of such a motley crew: even my own uniform might have passed muster—all except the colour of my skin.
Fortunately, a few of the band still preserved their native costume—a few appeared in full paint and plumes—else I should have been too Indian for such a company.
It cost not a minute to note these peculiarities, nor did I stay to observe them minutely; my eyes were in search of Isolina.
I cast inquiring glances on all sides; I scrutinised the groups around the different fires; I saw others—women—whom I knew to be captives, but I saw not her.
I scanned their forms and the faces of those who were turned towards me. A glance would have been enough; I could easily have recognised her face under the firelight—under any light. It was not before me.
“In the tent—in the tent: she must be there?”
I determined to move away from the spot where I had hitherto been standing. My eye, quickened by the necessity of action, had fallen upon the copse that stretched along the entire background of the camp. At a glance I detected the advantage offered by its shadowy cover.
The tent, as already stated, was placed close to the edge of the timber; and in front of the tent was the great fire. Plainly, this was the gravitating point—the centre of motive and motion. If aught of interest was to be enacted, there would lie the scene. In the lodge or near it would she be found—certainly she would be there; and there I resolved to seek her.
Chapter Ninety Three.
A Friendly Encounter.
Just then the shrill voice of a crier pealed through the camp, and I observed a general movement. I could not make out what the man said, but the peculiar intonation told that he was uttering some signal or summons. Something of importance was about to transpire.
The Indians now commenced circling around the blazing pile, meeting and passing each other, as if threading the mazes of some silent and solemn dance. Others were seen hastening up from distant parts of the camp—as if to observe the actions of those around the fire, or join with them in the movement.
I did not wait to watch them; their attention thus occupied, gave me an opportunity of reaching the copse unobserved; and, without further ado, I started towards it.
I walked slowly, and with an assumed air of careless indifference. I counterfeited the Comanche walk—not that bold free port—the magnificent and inimitable stride, so characteristic of Chippewa and Shawano, of Huron and Iroquois—but the shuffling gingery step of an English jockey; for such in reality is the gait of the Comanche Indian when afoot.
I must have played my part well. A savage, crossing from the horse-guards towards the great fire, passed near me, and hailed me by name.
“Wakono!” cried he.
“Que cosa?” (Well—what matter?) I replied in Spanish, imitating as well as I could the Indian voice and accent. It was a venture, but I was taken at a strait, and could not well remain silent.
The man appeared some little surprised at being addressed in the language of Mexico; nevertheless, he understood it, and made rejoinder.
“You hear the summons, Wakono? Why do you not come forward? The council meets; Hissoo-royo is already there.”
I understood what was said—more from the Indian’s gestures than his speech—though the words “summons,” “council,” and the name “Hissoo-royo,” helped me to comprehend his meaning. I chanced to know the Comanche epithets for the two first, and also that Hissoo-royo (the Spanish wolf) was the Indian appellation of the Mexican renegade.
Though I understood what was said, I was not prepared with a reply. I dared not risk the answer in Spanish; for I knew not the extent of Wakono’s proficiency in the Andalusian tongue.
I felt myself in a dilemma; and the importunate savage—no doubt some friend of Wakono himself—appeared determined to stick to me. How was I to get rid of him?
A happy idea came to my relief. Assuming an air of extreme dignity, and as though I did not wish to be disturbed in my meditations, I raised my hand and waved the man a parting salute: at the same time turning my head, I walked slowly away.
The Indian accepted the congé, and moved off, but evidently with an air of reluctance. As I glanced back over my shoulder, I could see him parting from the spot, with a hesitating step; no doubt somewhat astonished at the strange behaviour of his friend Wakono.
I did not look back again until I had placed myself under the shadow of the timber. Then I turned to reconnoitre; my friend had continued on: I saw him just entering among the crowd that circled around the great fire.
Screened from observation by the shadow, I could now pause and reflect. The trifling incident that had caused me some apprehension, had also helped me to some useful knowledge: First, I had learned my own name; second, that a council was about to take place; and thirdly, that the renegade, Hissoo-royo, had something to do with the council.
This was knowledge of importance; combined with my previous information, everything was now made clear. This council could be no other than the jury-trial between the renegade and the yet nameless chief; the same that was to decide to which belonged the right of property in my betrothed. It was about to meet; it had not assembled as yet. Then had I arrived in time. Neither white savage nor red savage had yet come into possession; neither had dared to lay hand on the coveted and priceless gem.
Isolina was still safe—thus singularly preserved from brutal contact. These dogs in the manger—their mutual jealousy had proved her protection!
I was consoled by the thought—strange source of consolation!
I was in time, but where was she? From my new position I had a still better view of the camp, its fires, and its denizens. She was nowhere to be seen!
“In the lodge, then—she must certainly be there—or—”
A new suspicion occurred to me: “She may be kept apart from the other captives?—in the copse—she may be concealed in the copse until the sentence be pronounced?”
This last conjecture brought along with it hopes and resolves. I determined to search the copse. If I should find her there, my emprise would be easy indeed; at all events, easier than I had anticipated. Though guarded by the savages, I should rescue her from their grasp. The lives of six men—perhaps twice that number—were under my belt. The odds of unarmed numbers would be nothing against the deadly bullets from my revolvers, and I perceived too that most of the savages had laid aside their weapons, confident in the security of their camp.
But I might find her alone, or perhaps with but a single jailer. The meeting of the council favoured the supposition. The men would all be there—some to take part—others interested in the result, or merely from curiosity to watch the proceedings. Yes, all of them would have an interest in the issue—too surely all. The barbarous customs of these savage brutes at that moment came to my remembrance!
I stayed no longer to reflect; but gliding into the grove, commenced my search for the captive.
The ground was favourable to my progress: there was not much underwood, and the trees grew thinly; I could easily pass amongst them without the necessity of crouching, and without making noise. The silent tread of the moccasin was in my favour, as also the dark shadowy foliage that stretched overhead, hiding the sky from my view.
The chief timber of the copse was the pecan hickory—almost an evergreen—and the trees were still in full leaf; only here and there, where the trunks stood far apart, did the moonbeams strike through the thick frondage. The surface of the ground was shrouded from her light; and the narrow aisles through which I passed were as dark as if no moon had been shining.
There was still light enough to reveal some horrid scenes. O Heaven! my heart bleeds at the remembrance.
I was wrong in my conjectures. The men had not all gone to the council; the captive women were not all by the camp-fires. I beheld ruffian men beside their helpless victims—women—fair white women—with drooping heads and listless air—dishevelled weeping! O Heaven! my heart bleeds at the remembrance!
It recoiled at the sight—it burned with indignation. At every turn did it prompt me to draw knife or pistol; at every step my fingers itched to immolate a hideous paint-besmeared brute—to slay a “noble” savage.
I was restrained only by my own desperate situation—by my apprehensions for the safety of Isolina, now more acute than ever. What horrid imaginings crowded into my brain, begot by the barbarous scenes that were being enacted around me!
The monsters, too earnestly occupied with their captives, took no heed of me; and I passed on without interruption.
I threaded the pathways of the grove one after another, gliding through as rapidly as the path would permit; I entered every aisle and glade; I sought everywhere, even to the farthest limits of the wood. I saw more men—more weeping women—more red ruffianism; I saw nought of her for whom I searched.
“In the tent then—she must be there.”
I turned my face towards the lodge; and, moving with stealthy step, soon arrived among the trees that stood in the rear.
I halted near the edge; and, separating the leaves with my hands, peered cautiously through. I had no need to search further—Isolina was before my eyes.
Chapter Ninety Four.
The Council.
Yes, there was my betrothed—within sight, within hearing, almost within reach of my hands; and I dared not touch, I dared not speak, I scarcely dared look upon her!
My fingers trembled among the leaves—my heart rose and fell—I could feel within my breast its strokes, rapid and irregular—I could hear its sonorous vibration.
It was not at the first glance that I saw Isolina. On looking through the leaves, the coup d’oeil was a scene that quite astonished me, and for a while occupied my attention. Since I had last gazed upon the great fire, the grouping around it had undergone an entire change; a new tableau was presented, that for the moment held me under a spell of surprise.
The fire no longer blazed, or only slightly, and when stirred; the logs had burned into coals, and now yielded a fainter light, but one more red and garish. It was steady, nevertheless, and the vastness of the pile rendered it strong enough to illumine the camp-ground to its utmost limits.
The fire was still encircled by savages, but no longer standing, nor grouped irregularly, as I had before observed them; on the contrary, they were seated, or rather squatted at equal distances from each other, and forming a ring that girdled the huge mound of embers.
There were about twenty of these men—I did not count them—but I observed that all were in their native costume—leggings, and breech-cloth to the waist—nothing above, save the armlets and shell-ornaments of nose, ears, and neck. All were profusely painted with chalk, ochre, and vermilion. Beyond doubt, I was looking upon the “council.”
The other Indians—they in “fancy dresses”—were still upon the ground; but they were standing behind, retired a pace or two from the circle, and in groups of two, three, or four, talking in low mutterings. Others were moving about at a still greater distance from the fire.
My observation of all these features of the scene did not occupy ten seconds of time—just so long as my eyes were getting accustomed to the light.
At the end of that interval, my glance rested upon Isolina, and there became fixed.
My fingers trembled among the leaves; my heart rose and fell; I could feel within my breast its strokes, rapid and irregular; I could hear its sonorous vibration.
In the chain of Indians that encircled the fire, there was a break—an interval of ten or a dozen feet. It was directly in front of the lodge, and above the fire; for the ground gently sloped from the tent towards the stream.
In this spot the captive was seated. Her situation was exactly between the lodge and the fire, and a little retired behind the circle of the council. The tent intervening between her and my position, had prevented me from seeing her at first.
She was half-seated, half-reclining upon a robe of wolfskins. I saw that her arms were free; I saw that her limbs were bound. Her back was to the tent, her face turned towards the council. I could not see it.
To recognise my betrothed, I did not need to look upon her face; her matchless form, outlined against the red embers, was easily identified. The full round curve of the neck—the oval lines of the head—the majestic sweep of the shoulders—the arms smooth and symmetrical—all these were familiar to my eyes, for oft had they dwelt on them in admiration. I could not be mistaken; the form before me was that graven upon my heart—it was Isolina’s.
There was another salient point in this singular tableau, that could not escape observation. Beyond the fire, and directly opposite to where Isolina was placed, I saw another well-known object—the white steed!
He was not staked there, but haltered and held in hand by one of the Indians. He must have been lately brought upon the ground, for from neither of my former points of observation had I noticed him. He, like his mistress, was “on trial”—his ownership was also matter of dispute.
There was in sight one more object that interested me—not with friendly interest did I regard it—but with disgust and indignation.
Not seated in the council ring, nor standing among the idle groups, but apart from all, I beheld Hissoo-royo the renegade. Savage as were the red warriors, fiend-like as they appeared with their paint-smeared visages, not one looked so savage or fiend-like as he.
The features of this man were naturally bad: but the paint—for he had adopted this with every other vile custom of barbarian life—rendered their expression positively ferocious. The device upon his forehead was a death’s-head and cross-bones—done in white chalk—and upon his breast appeared the well-imitated semblance of a bleeding scalp—the appropriate symbols of a cruel disposition.
There was something unnatural in a white skin thus disfigured, for the native complexion was not hidden: here and there it could be perceived forming the ground of the motley elaboration—its pallid hue in strange contrast with the deeper colours that daubed it! It was not the canvas for such a picture.
Yet there the picture was—in red and yellow, black, white, and blue; there stood the deep-dyed villain.
I saw not his rival; I looked for him, but saw him not. Perhaps he was one of those who stood around?—perhaps he had not yet come up? He was the son of the head-chief—perhaps he was inside the lodge? The last was the most probable conjecture.
The great calumet was brought forward and lit by the fire; it was passed around the circle, from mouth to mouth—each savage satisfying himself with a single draw from its tube.
I knew that this was the inauguration of the council. The trial was about to proceed.
Chapter Ninety Five.
Measuring the Chances.
The situation in which I was placed by chance, could not have been better had I deliberately chosen it. I had under my eyes the council fire and council, the groups around—in short, the whole area of the camp.
What was of most importance, I could see without being seen. Along the edge of the copse there extended a narrow belt of shadow, similar to that which had favoured me while in the channel, and produced by a like cause—for the stream and the selvage of the grove were parallel to each other. The moonbeams fell obliquely upon the grove; and, under the thick foliage of the pecans, I was well screened from her light behind—while the lodge covered me from the glare of the fire in front.
I could not have been better placed for my purpose. I saw the advantage of the position, and resolved therefore to abide in it.
The observations and reflections thus given in detail occupied me but a few minutes of time. Thought is quick, and at that crisis mine was more than usually on the alert. Almost instantaneously did I perceive the points that most interested me, or had reference to my plans; almost instantaneously I had mastered the situation, and I next bent my mind upon the way to take advantage of it.
I saw there was but one way to proceed: my original scheme must be carried cut. Under so many eyes, there was not the slightest chance that the captive could be stolen away; she must be taken openly, and by a bold stroke. Of this was I convinced.
The question arose, when should I make the attempt? At that moment?
She was not ten paces from where I stood! Could I rush forward, and with my knife set free her limbs? Might we then get off before the savages could fling themselves upon us?
Hopeless—impossible! She was too near them; she was too near the renegade who claimed her as his property.
He was standing almost over her, within distance of a single leap. In his belt I saw the long triangular blade of a Spanish knife. He could have cut me down ere I could have severed a cord of her fastenings. The attempt would fail; success was hopeless—impossible. I must wait for a better opportunity; and I waited.
I remembered Rube’s last word of counsel, not to act too hastily—and his reasons, that if I must make a “desprit strike for it,” to leave the grand coup to the last moment. The circumstances could be no more unfavourable then than now.
Under the influence of this idea, I checked my impatience, and waited.
I watched Hissoo-royo; I watched the squatted forms around the fire; I watched the straggling groups behind them. In turn, my eyes wandered from one to the other. At intervals, too, they rested upon Isolina.
Up to this moment I had not seen her countenance; I saw only the reverse of that beautiful image so deeply graven upon my heart. But even then—under that suspense of peril—strange thoughts were passing within me. I felt a singular longing to look upon her face; I remembered the herredero.
It pleased fortune to smile upon me. So many little incidents were occurring in my favour, that I began to believe the fates propitious, and my hopes of success were growing stronger apace.
Just then the captive turned her head, and her face was towards me. There was no mark on that fair brow; that soft cheek was without a scar; the delicate skin was intact, smooth, and diaphanous as ever. The herredero had been merciful!
Perhaps something had occurred to interrupt or hinder him from his horrid work?
I prayed that the matador had met with a similar interruption! I could not tell—those profuse clusters covered all—neck, bosom, and shoulders—all were hidden under the dark dishevelment. I could not tell, but I did not dare to hope. Cyprio had seen the blood!
It was but a momentary glance, and her face was again turned away.
At intervals she repeated it, and I saw that she looked in other directions. I could note the uneasiness of her manner; I could tell why those glances were given; I knew her design. O for one word in her hearing—one whisper!
It might not be; she was too closely watched. Jealous eyes were upon her; savage hearts were gloating over her beauty. No word could have reached her, that would not have been heard by others—by all around the fire—for the silence was profound. The “council” had not yet essayed to speak.
The stillness was at length broken by the voice of a crier, who in a shrill tone proclaimed that the “council was in session.”
There was something so ceremonious in the whole proceedings, and every movement was made with such regularity, that but for the open air, the fire, the wild savage costumes, and fierce painted faces, I might have fancied myself in the presence of a civilised court, and witnessing a trial by jury! It was in effect just such a trial, though judge there was none. The members of the jury were themselves the judges—for in the simplicity of such primitive litigation, each was presumed to understand the law without an interpreter.
Pleaders, too, were equally absent; each party—plaintiff and defendant—was expected to plead his own case. Such is the simple fashion in the high court of the prairies—a fashion which might elsewhere be adopted with advantage.
The name of “Hissoo-royo” pealed upon the air. The crier was calling him into court—another parallel with the customs of civilisation!
Three times the name was pronounced, at each repetition in louder voice than before.
The man might have spared his breath; he who was summoned was upon the spot, and ready to answer.
Before the echo died away, the renegade uttered a response; and, stepping to an open space within the ring, halted, drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms, and in this attitude stood waiting.
At that crisis the thought occurred to me, whether I should rash forward, and at once decide the fate of myself and my betrothed. The seated warriors appeared to be all unarmed; and the renegade—whose hand I most regarded—was now farther off, having gone round to the opposite side of the fire. The situation was favourable, and for a moment I stood straining upon the spring.
But my eye fell upon the spectators in the background; many of them were directly in the way I should have to take; I saw that many of them carried weapons—either in their hands, or upon their persons—and Hissoo-royo himself was still too near.
I could never fight my way against such odds. I could not break such a line—it would be madness to attempt it. Rube’s counsel was again ringing in my ears; and once more I abandoned the rash design.
Chapter Ninety Six.
The White-Haired Chief.
There was an interval of silence—a dramatic pause—that lasted for more than a minute.
It was ended by one of the council rising to his feet, and by a gesture inviting Hissoo-royo to speak.
The renegade began:
“Red warriors of the Hietan! brothers! what I have to say before the council will not require many words. I claim yonder Mexican girl as my captive, and therefore as my own. Who denies my right? I claim the white horse as mine—my prize fairly taken.”
The speaker paused as if to wait for further commands from the council.
“Hissoo-royo has spoken his claim to the Mexican maiden and the white steed. He has not said upon what right he rests it. Let him declare his right in presence of the council!”
This was said by the same Indian who had made the gesture, and who appeared to direct the proceedings. He was not acting by any superior authority, which he may have possessed, but merely by reason of his being the oldest of the party. Among the Indians, age gives precedence.
“Brothers!” continued Hissoo-royo, in obedience to the command—“my claim is just—of that you are to be the judges; I know your true hearts—you will not shut them against justice. I need not read to you your own law, that he who makes a captive has the right to keep it—to do with it as he will. This is the law of your tribe—of my tribe as well, for yours is mine.”
Grunts of approbation caused a momentary interruption in the speech.
“Hietans!” resumed the speaker, “my skin is white, but my heart is the colour of your own. You did me the honour to adopt me into your nation; you honoured me by making me first a warrior, and afterwards a war-chief. Have I ever given you cause to regret what you have done? Have I ever betrayed your trust?”
A volley of exclamations indicated a response in the negative.
“I have confidence, then, in your love of justice and truth; I have no fear that the colour of my skin will blind your eyes, for you all know the colour of my heart.”
Fresh signs of approbation followed this adroit stroke of eloquence.
“Then, brothers! listen to my cause; I claim the maiden and the horse. I need not tell where they were found, and how; your own eyes were witnesses of their capture. There has been talk of a doubt as to who made it, for many horsemen were in the pursuit. I deny that there is any doubt. My lazo was first over the head of the horse—was first tightened around his throat—first brought him to a stand. To take the horse was to take the rider. It was my deed; both are my captives. I claim both as my property. Who is he that disputes my claim? Let him stand forth!”
Having delivered this challenge with a defiant emphasis, the speaker fell back into his former attitude; and, once more folding his arms, remained silent and immobile.
Another pause followed, which was again terminated by a sign from the old warrior who had first spoken. This gesture was directed to the crier, who the moment after, raising his shrill voice, called out:
“Wakono!”
The name caused me to start as if struck by an arrow. It was my own appellation: I was Wakono!
It was pronounced thrice, each time louder than the preceding:
“Wakono! Wakono! Wakono!”
A light flashed upon me. Wakono was the rival claimant! He whose breech-cloth was around my hips, whose robe hung from my shoulders, whose plumed bonnet adorned my head, whose pigments disfigured my face—he of the red hand upon his breast, and the cross upon his brow, was no other than Wakono!
I cannot describe the singular sensation I felt at this discovery. I was in a perilous position indeed. My fingers trembled among the leaves. I released the branchlets, and let them close up before my face; I dared not trust myself to look forth.
For some moments I stood still and silent, but not without trembling. I could not steady my nerves under such a dread agitation.
I listened, but looked not. There was an interval of breathless silence—no one seemed to stir or speak—they were waiting the effect of the summons.
Once more the voice of the crier was heard pronouncing in triple repetition: “Wakono! Wakono! Wakono!”
Again followed an interval of silence; but I could hear low mutterings of surprise and disappointment as soon as it was perceived that the Indian did not answer to his name.
I alone knew the reason of his absence; I knew that Wakono could not—the true Wakono; that his counterfeit would not come. Though I had undertaken to personate the savage chieftain, for this act in the drama I was not prepared. The stage must wait!
Even at that moment I was sensible of the ludicrousness of the situation; so extreme was it, that even at that moment of direst peril, I felt a half inclination for laughter!
But the feeling was easily checked; and once more parting the branches, I ventured to look forth.
I saw there was some confusion. Wakono had been reported “missing.” The members of the council still preserved both their seats and stoical composure; but the younger warriors behind were uttering harsh ejaculations, and moving about from place to place with that restless air that betokens at once surprise and disappointment.
At this crisis, an Indian was seen emerging from the tent. He was a man of somewhat venerable aspect, though venerable more from age than any positive expression of virtue. His cheeks were furrowed by time, and his hair white as bleached flax—a rare sight among Indians.
There was something about this individual that bespoke him a person of authority. Wakono was the son of the chief—the chief, then, should be an old man. This must be he?
I had no doubt of it, and my conjecture proved to be correct.
The white-haired Indian stepped forward to the edge of the ring, and with a wave of his hand commanded silence.
The command was instantly obeyed. The murmurings ceased, and all placed themselves in fixed attitudes to listen.
Chapter Ninety Seven.
Speeches in Council.
“Hietans!” began the chief, for such in reality was the old Indian, “my children, and brothers in council! I appeal to you to stay judgment in this matter. I am your chief, but I claim no consideration on that account; Wakono is my son, but for him I ask no favour; I demand only justice and right—such as would be given to the humblest in on tribe; I ask no more for my son Wakono.
“Wakono is a brave warrior; who among you does not know it? His shield is garnished with many trophies taken from the hated pale-face; his leggings are fringed with scalps of the Utah and Cheyenne; at his heels drag the long locks of the Pawnee and Arapaho. Who will deny that Wakono—my son Wakono—is a brave warrior?”
A murmur of assent was the response to this paternal appeal.
“The Spanish wolf, too, is a warrior—a brave warrior; I deny it not. He is stout of heart and strong of arm; he has taken many scalps from the enemies of the Hietan; I honour him for his achievements; who among us does not?”
A general chorus of “ughs” and other ejaculations from both council and spectators responded to this interrogatory. The response, both in tone and manner, was strongly in the affirmative; and I could tell by this that the renegade—not Wakono—was the favourite.
The old chief also perceived that such was the prevailing sentiment: and despite his pretensions to fair-play, he was evidently nettled at the reply. The father of Wakono was undoubtedly no Brutus.
After a momentary pause, he resumed speech, but in a tone entirely altered. He was now painting the reverse side of Hissoo-royo’s portrait, and as he threw in the darker touches, it was with evident pique and hostility.
“I honour the Spanish wolf,” he continued; “I honour him for his strong arm and his stout heart: I have said so; but hear me, Hietans—hear me, children and brothers! there are two of every kind—there is a night and a day—a winter and a summer—a green prairie and a desert plain, and like these is the tongue of Hissoo-royo. It speaks two ways that differ as the light from the darkness—it is double—it forks like the tongue of the rattle-serpent—it is not to be believed.”
The chief ceased speaking, and the “Spanish wolf” was permitted to make reply.
He did not attempt to defend himself from the charge of the double tongue; perhaps he knew that the accusation was just enough, and he had no reason to tremble for his popularity on that score. He must have been a great liar, indeed, to have excelled or even equalled the most ordinary story-teller in the Comanche nation; for the mendacity of these Indians would have been a match for Sparta herself.
The renegade did not even deny the aspersion: he seemed to be confident in his case: he simply replied—
“If the tongue of Hissoo-royo is double, let not the council rely upon his words! let witnesses be called! there are many who are ready to testify to the truth of what Hissoo-royo has spoken.”
“First hear Wakono! Let Wakono be heard! Where is Wakono?”
These demands were made by various members of the council, who spoke simultaneously.
Once more the crier’s voice was heard calling “Wakono!”
“Brothers!” again spoke the chief: “it is for this I would stay your judgment. My son is not in the camp; he went back upon the trail, and has not returned. I know not his purpose. My heart is in doubt—but not in fear Wakono is a strong warrior, and can take care of himself. He will not be long absent; he must soon return. For this I ask you to delay the judgment.”
A murmur of disapprobation followed this avowal. The allies of the renegade evidently mustered stronger than the friends of the young chief.
Hissoo-royo once more addressed the council.
“What trifling would this be, warriors of the Hietan? Two suns have gone down, and this question is not decided! I ask only justice. By our laws, the judgment cannot stand over. The captives must belong to some one. I claim them as mine, and I offer witnesses to prove my right. Wakono has no claim, else why is he not here to avow it? He has no proofs beyond his own word; he is ashamed to stand before you without proof—that is why he is now absent from the camp!”
“Wakono is not absent,” cried a voice from among the bystanders; “he is in the camp!”
This announcement produced a sensation, and I could perceive that the old chief partook equally with the others of the surprise created.
“Who says Wakono is in the camp?” inquired he in a loud voice.
An Indian stepped forth from the crowd of spectators. I recognised the man, whom I had met crossing from the horse-guard.
“Wakono is in the camp,” repeated he, as he paused outside the circle. “I saw the young chief; I spoke with him.”
“When?”
“Only now.”
“Where?”
The man pointed to the scene of our accidental rencontre.
“He was going yonder,” said he; “he went among the trees—I saw him not after.”
This intelligence evidently increased the astonishment. It could not be comprehended why Wakono should be upon the ground, and yet not come forward to assert his claim. Had he abandoned it altogether?
The father of the claimant appeared as much puzzled as any one; he made no attempt to explain the absence of his son: he could not; he stood silent, and evidently in a state of mystification.
Several now suggested that a search be made for the absent warrior. It was proposed to send messengers throughout the camp—to search the grove.
My blood ran cold as I listened to the proposal; my knees trembled beneath me. I knew that if the grove was to be searched, I should have no chance of remaining longer concealed. The dress of Wakono was conspicuous; I saw that there was none other like it: no other wore a robe of jaguar-skins, and this would betray me. Even the paint would not avail: I should be led into the firelight; the counterfeit would be detected. I should be butchered upon the spot—perhaps tortured for the treatment we had given the true Wakono, which would soon become known.
My apprehensions had reached the climax of acuteness, when they were suddenly relieved by some words from the Spanish wolf.
“Why search for Wakono?” cried he; “Wakono knows his own name; it has been called and loud enough. Wakono has ears—surely he can hear for himself, if he be in the camp. Call him again, if you will!”
This proposition appeared reasonable. It was adopted, and the crier once more summoned the young chief by name.
The voice, as all perceived, could have been heard to the farthest bounds of the camp, and far beyond.
An interval was allowed, during which there reigned perfect silence, every one bending his ears to listen.
There came no answer—no Wakono appeared to the summons.
“Now!” triumphantly exclaimed the renegade, “is it not as I have said? Warriors! I demand your judgment.”
There was no immediate reply. A long pause followed, during which no one spoke, either in the circle or among the spectators.
At length the oldest of the council rose, re-lit the calumet, and, after taken a whiff from the tube, handed it to the Indian seated on his left. This one, in like manner, passed it to the next, and he to the next, until the pipe had made the circuit of the fire, and was returned to the old warrior who had first smoked from it.
The latter now laid aside the pipe, and in a formal manner, but in a voice inaudible to the spectators, proposed the question.
The vote was taken in rotation, and was also delivered sotto voce. The judgment only was pronounced aloud.
The decision was singular, and somewhat unexpected. The jury had been moved by a strong leaning towards equity, and an amicable adjustment that might prove acceptable to all parties.
The horse was adjudged to Wakono—the maiden was declared the property of the Spanish wolf!
Chapter Ninety Eight.
A Rough Courtship.
The decision appeared to give satisfaction to all. A grim smile, upon his face testified that the renegade himself was pleased. How could he be otherwise? He had certainly the best of the suit—for what was a beautiful horse to a beautiful woman, and such a woman?
Even the white-haired chief seemed satisfied! Perhaps, of the two, the old savage jockey preferred the horse? It might have been different had Wakono been upon the ground. I was much mistaken if he would so tamely have acquiesced in the decision.
Yes, the renegade was satisfied—more than that, he was rejoiced. His bearing bespoke his consciousness of the possession of a rare and much-coveted thing. He was unable to conceal the gratification he felt; and with an air of triumph and exultation, he approached the spot where the captive sat.
As soon as the sentence was pronounced, the Indians who had been seated rose to their feet. The council was dismissed.
Some of the members strolled off on their own business; others remained by the great fire, mixing among their comrades—no longer with the solemn gravity of councillors, but chatting, laughing, shouting, and gesticulating as glibly and gaily as if they had been an assemblage of French dancing-masters.
The trial and its objects appeared to be at once forgotten; neither plaintiff, defendant, nor cause, seemed any longer to occupy the thoughts of any one. The horse had been delivered to a friend of Wakono—the maiden to Hissoo-royo—and the thing was settled and over.
Perhaps, here and there, some young brave, with a pain in his heart, may have bent wistful glances upon the lovely captive. No doubt there were many who looked with envious thoughts upon Hissoo-royo and his fortunes. If so, their emotions were concealed, their glances furtive.
After the council was over, no one interfered—no one seemingly took any interest either in the renegade or his pale-faced squaw; they were left to themselves.
And to me. From that moment, my eyes and thoughts rested only on them; I saw no one else; I thought of nothing else; I watched but the “wolf” and his victim.
The old chief had retired into the tent. Isolina was left alone.
Only a moment alone. Had it been otherwise, I should have sprung forward. My fingers had moved mechanically towards my knife; but there was not time. In the next instant, Hissoo-royo stood beside her.
He addressed her in Spanish; he did not desire the others to understand what was said. Speaking in this language, there would be less fear of them doing so.
There was one who listened to every word. I listened—not a syllable escaped me.
“Now!” began he, in an exulting tone—“Now, Dona Isolina de Vargas! you have heard? I know you understand the tongue in which the council has spoken—your native tongue. Ha, ha, ha!”
The brute was jeering her!
“You are mine—soul and body, mine; you have heard?”
“I have heard,” was the reply, in a tone of resignation!
“And surely you are satisfied; are you not? You should be. I am white as yourself—I have saved you from the embrace of a red Indian. Surely you are satisfied with the judgment?”
“I am satisfied.”
This was uttered in the same tone of resignation. The answer somewhat surprised me.
“’Tis a lie!” rejoined the brutal monster; “you are playing false with me, sweet señorita. But yesterday you spoke words of scorn—you would scorn me still?”
“I have no power to scorn you; I am your captive.”
“Carrambo! you speak truth. You have no power either to scorn or refuse me. Ha, ha, ha! And as little do I care if you did; you may like me or not at your pleasure. Perhaps you will take to me in time, as much as I may wish it; but that will be for your consideration, sweet señorita! Meanwhile, you are mine, body and soul, you are mine—and I mean to enjoy my prize after my own fashion.”
The coarse taunt caused my blood, already hot enough, to boil within my veins. I grasped the haft of my knife, and like a tiger stood cowering on the spring. My intent was, first to cut down the ruffian, and then set free the limbs of the captive with the blood-stained blade.
The chances were still against me. A score of savages were yet around the fire. Even should he fall at the first blow, I could not hope to get clear.
But I could bear it no longer; and would have risked the chances at that moment, had not my foot been stayed by some words that followed.
“Come!” exclaimed the renegade, speaking to his victim, and making sign for her to follow him—“Come, sweet señorita! This place is too public. I would talk with you elsewhere: I know where there are softer spots for that fair form to recline upon—pretty glades and arbours, choice retreats within the shadow of the grove. There, dearest, shall we retire. Vamos!”
Though hideous the signification of this mock-poetic speech, I joyed at hearing it. It arrested my hand and limb, both of which had been ready for action. The “choice retreats within the shadow of the grove” promised a better opportunity.
With an effort, therefore, I restrained myself, and resolved to wait.
I listened for the reply of Isolina; I watched her as well; I noted her every movement.
I saw that she pointed to her limbs—to the thong-fastenings around her ankles.
“How can I follow you?” she inquired, in a calm voice, and in a tone of surprise. Surely that tone was feigned. Surely she meditated some design?
“True,” said the man, turning back, and drawing the knife from his belt. “Carrai! I had not thought of that; but we shall soon—”
He did not finish the sentence; he stopped in the middle of it, and in an attitude that betokened hesitation.
In this attitude he remained awhile, gazing into the eyes of his victim: then, as if suddenly changing his mind, he struck the knife back into his sheath, and at the same time cried out—
“By the Virgin! I shall not trust you. You are too free of limb, sweet margarita! you might try to give me the slip. This is a better plan. Come! raise yourself up—a little higher—so. Now we go—now for the grove. Vamos!”
While delivering the last words, the ruffian bent himself over the half-prostrate captive; and, placing his arm underneath, wound it around her waist. He then raised her upward until her bosom rested upon his—the bosom of my betrothed in juxtaposition with the painted breast of this worse than savage!
I saw it, and slew him not; I saw it, and kept cool—I can scarcely tell why, for it is not a characteristic of my nature. My nerves, from being so much played upon during the preceding hours, had acquired the firmness of steel; perhaps this enabled me to endure the sight—this, combined with the almost certain prospect of an improved opportunity.
At all events, I kept cool, and remained in my place though only for a moment longer.