Kitabı oku: «The Scalp Hunters», sayfa 9

“And so ’ee will want me a bit; this child don’t move a peg till he has cleaned this hyur rib; he don’t, now!”

“Dog-gone it, man! make haste, then!” and the impatient trapper dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground, and stood waiting in sullen silence.

After chewing, and mumbling, and growling a few minutes longer, old Rube, for that was the name by which the leathery sinner was known, slowly erected his lean carcass; and came walking up to the crowd.

“What do ’ee want, Billee?” he inquired, going up to the trapper.

“I want ye to hold this,” answered Garey, offering him a round white shell, about the size of a watch, a species of which there were many strewed over the ground.

“It’s a bet, boyee?”

“No, it is not.”

“Ain’t wastin’ yur powder, ar yur?”

“I’ve been beat shootin’,” replied the trapper, in an undertone, “by that ’ar Injun.”

The old man looked over to where the strange Indian was standing erect and majestic, in all the pride of his plumage. There was no appearance of triumph or swagger about him, as he stood leaning on his rifle, in an attitude at once calm and dignified.

It was plain, from the way old Rube surveyed him, that he had seen him before, though not in that camp. After passing his eyes over him from head to foot, and there resting them a moment, a low murmur escaped his lips, which ended abruptly in the word “Coco.”

“A Coco, do ye think?” inquired the other, with an apparent interest.

“Are ’ee blind, Billee? Don’t ’ee see his moccasin?”

“Yes, you’re right, but I was in thar nation two years ago. I seed no such man as that.”

“He w’an’t there.”

“Whar, then?”

“Whur thur’s no great show o’ redskins. He may shoot well; he did oncest on a time: plumb centre.”

“You knew him, did ye?”

“O-ee-es. Oncest. Putty squaw: hansum gal. Whur do ’ee want me to go?”

I thought that Garey seemed inclined to carry the conversation further. There was an evident interest in his manner when the other mentioned the “squaw.” Perhaps he had some tender recollection; but seeing the other preparing to start off, he pointed to an open glade that stretched eastward, and simply answered, “Sixty.”

“Take care o’ my claws, d’yur hear! Them Injuns has made ’em scarce; this child can’t spare another.”

The old trapper said this with a flourish of his right hand. I noticed that the little finger had been chopped off!

“Never fear, old hoss!” was the reply; and at this, the smoky carcase moved away with a slow and regular pace, that showed he was measuring the yards.

When he had stepped the sixtieth yard, he faced about, and stood erect, placing his heels together. He then extended his right arm, raising it until his hand was on a level with his shoulder, and holding the shell in his fingers, flat side to the front, shouted back —

“Now, Billee, shoot, and be hanged to yur!”

The shell was slightly concave, the concavity turned to the front. The thumb and finger reached half round the circumference, so that a part of the edge was hidden; and the surface turned towards the marksman was not larger than the dial of a common watch.

This was a fearful sight. It is one not so common among the mountain men as travellers would have you believe. The feat proves the marksman’s skill; first, if successful, by showing the strength and steadiness of his nerves; secondly, by the confidence which the other reposes in it, thus declared by stronger testimony than any oath. In any case the feat of holding the mark is at least equal to that of hitting it. There are many hunters willing to risk taking the shot, but few who care to hold the shell.

It was a fearful sight, and my nerves tingled as I looked on. Many others felt as I. No one interfered. There were few present who would have dared, even had these two men been making preparations to fire at each other. Both were “men of mark” among their comrades: trappers of the first class.

Garey, drawing a long breath, planted himself firmly, the heel of his left foot opposite to, and some inches in advance of, the hollow of his right. Then, jerking up his gun, and throwing the barrel across his left palm, he cried out to his comrade —

“Steady, ole bone an’ sinyer! hyar’s at ye!”

The words were scarcely out when the gun was levelled. There was a moment’s death-like silence, all eyes looking to the mark. Then came the crack, and the shell was seen to fly, shivered into fifty fragments! There was a cheer from the crowd. Old Rube stopped to pick up one of the pieces, and after examining it for a moment, shouted in a loud voice; —

“Plumb centre, by – !”

The young trapper had, in effect, hit the mark in the very centre, as the blue stain of the bullet testified.

Chapter Twenty One.
A Feat à la Tell

All eyes were turned upon the strange Indian. During the scene described he has stood silent, and calmly looking on. His eye now wanders over the ground, apparently in search of an object.

A small convolvulus, known as the prairie gourd, is lying at his feet. It is globe-shaped, about the size of an orange, and not unlike one in colour. He stoops and takes it up. He seems to examine it with great care, balancing it upon his hand, as though he were calculating its weight.

What does he intend to do with this? Will he fling it up, and send his bullet through it in the air? What else?

His motions are watched in silence. Nearly all the scalp-hunters, sixty or seventy, are on the ground. Seguin only, with the doctor and a few men, is engaged some distance off, pitching a tent. Garey stands upon one side, slightly elated with his triumph, but not without feelings of apprehension that he may yet be beaten. Old Rube has gone back to the fire, and is roasting another rib.

The gourd seems to satisfy the Indian, for whatever purpose he intends it. A long piece of bone, the thigh joint of the war-eagle, hangs suspended over his breast. It is curiously carved, and pierced with holes like a musical instrument. It is one.

He places this to his lips, covering the holes, with his fingers. He sounds three notes, oddly inflected, but loud and sharp. He drops the instrument again, and stands looking eastward into the woods. The eyes of all present are bent in the same direction. The hunters, influenced by a mysterious curiosity, remain silent, or speak only in low mutterings.

Like an echo, the three notes are answered by a similar signal! It is evident that the Indian has a comrade in the woods, yet not one of the band seems to know aught of him or his comrade. Yes, one does. It is Rube.

“Look’ee hyur, boyees!” cries he, squinting over his shoulders; “I’ll stake this rib against a griskin o’ poor bull that ’ee’ll see the puttiest gal as ’ee ever set yur eyes on.”

There is no reply; we are gazing too intently for the expected arrival.

A rustling is heard, as of someone parting the bushes, the tread of a light foot, the snapping of twigs. A bright object appears among the leaves. Someone is coming through the underwood. It is a woman.

It is an Indian girl, attired in a singular and picturesque costume.

She steps out of the bushes, and comes boldly towards the crowd. All eyes are turned upon her with looks of wonder and admiration. We scan her face and figure and her striking attire.

She is dressed not unlike the Indian himself, and there is resemblance in other respects. The tunic worn by the girl is of finer materials; of fawn-skin. It is richly trimmed, and worked with split quills, stained to a variety of bright colours. It hangs to the middle of the thighs, ending in a fringe-work of shells, that tinkle as she moves.

Her limbs are wrapped in leggings of scarlet cloth, fringed like the tunic, and reaching to the ankles where they meet the flaps of her moccasins. These last are white, embroidered with stained quills, and fitting closely to her small feet.

A belt of wampum closes the tunic on her waist, exhibiting the globular developments of a full-grown bosom and the undulating outlines of a womanly person. Her headdress is similar to that worn by her companion, but smaller and lighter; and her hair, like his, hangs loosely down, reaching almost to the ground! Her neck, throat, and part of her bosom are nude, and clustered over with bead-strings of various colours.

The expression of her countenance is high and noble. Her eye is oblique. The lips meet with a double curve, and the throat is full and rounded. Her complexion is Indian; but a crimson hue, struggling through the brown upon her cheek, gives that pictured expression to her countenance which may be observed in the quadroon of the West Indies.

She is a girl, though full-grown and boldly developed: a type of health and savage beauty.

As she approaches, the men murmur their admiration. There are hearts beating under hunting-shirts that rarely deign to dream of the charms of woman.

I am struck at this moment with the appearance of the young trapper Garey. His face has fallen, the blood has forsaken his cheeks, his lips are white and compressed, and dark rings have formed round his eyes. They express anger, but there is still another meaning in them.

Is it jealousy? Yes!

He has stepped behind one of his comrades, as if he did not wish to be seen. One hand is playing involuntarily with the handle of his knife. The other grasps the barrel of his gun, as though he would crush it between his fingers!

The girl comes up. The Indian hands her the gourd, muttering some words in an unknown tongue – unknown, at least, to me. She takes it without making any reply, and walks off towards the spot where Rube had stood, which has been pointed out to her by her companion.

She reaches the tree, and halts in front of it, facing round as the trapper had done.

There was something so dramatic, so theatrical, in the whole proceeding, that up to the present time we had all stood waiting for the dénouement in silence. Now we knew what it was to be, and the men began to talk.

“He’s a-goin’ to shoot the gourd from the hand of the gal,” suggested a hunter.

“No great shot, after all,” added another; and indeed this was the silent opinion of most on the ground.

“Wagh! it don’t beat Garey if he diz hit it,” exclaimed a third.

What was our amazement at seeing the girl fling off her plumed bonnet, place the gourd upon her head, fold her arms over her bosom, and standing fronting us as calm and immobile as if she had been carved upon the tree!

There was a murmur in the crowd. The Indian was raising his rifle to take aim, when a man rushed forward to prevent him. It was Garey!

“No, yer don’t! No!” cried he, clutching the levelled rifle; “she’s deceived me, that’s plain, but I won’t see the gal that once loved me, or said she did, in the trap that a-way. No! Bill Garey ain’t a-goin’ to stand by and see it.”

“What is this?” shouted the Indian, in a voice of thunder. “Who dares to interrupt me?”

“I dares,” replied Garey. “She’s yourn now, I suppose. You may take her whar ye like; and take this too,” continued he, tearing off the embroidered pipe-case, and flinging it at the Indian’s feet; “but ye’re not a-goin’ to shoot her down whiles I stand by.”

“By what right do you interrupt me? My sister is not afraid, and – ”

“Your sister!”

“Yes, my sister.”

“And is yon gal your sister?” eagerly inquired Garey, his manner and the expression of his countenance all at once changing.

“She is. I have said she is.”

“And are you El Sol?”

“I am.”

“I ask your pardon; but – ”

“I pardon you. Let me proceed!”

“Oh, sir, do not. No! no! She is your sister, and I know you have the right, but thar’s no needcessity. I have heerd of your shootin’. I give in; you kin beat me. For God’s sake, do not risk it; as you care for her, do not!”

“There is no risk. I will show you.”

“No, no! If you must, then, let me! I will hold it. Oh, let me!” stammered the hunter, in tones of entreaty.

“Hollo, Billee! What’s the dratted rumpus?” cried Rube, coming up. “Hang it, man! let’s see the shot. I’ve heern o’ it afore. Don’t be skeert, ye fool! he’ll do it like a breeze; he will!”

And as the old trapper said this he caught his comrade by the arm, and swung him round out of the Indian’s way.

The girl, during all this, had stood still, seemingly not knowing the cause of the interruption. Garey’s back was turned to her, and the distance, with two years of separation, doubtless prevented her from recognising him.

Before Garey could turn to interpose himself, the rifle was at the Indian’s shoulder and levelled. His finger was on the trigger, and his eyes glanced through the sights. It was too late to interfere. Any attempt at that might bring about the dreaded result. The hunter, as he turned, saw this, and halting in his tracks, stood straining and silent.

It was a moment of terrible suspense to all of us – a moment of intense emotion. The silence was profound. Every breath seemed suspended; every eye was fixed on the yellow object, not larger, I have said, than an orange. Oh, God! will the shot never come?

It came. The flash, the crack, the stream of fire, the wild hurrah, the forward rush, were all simultaneous things. We saw the shivered globe fly off. The girl was still upon her feet; she was safe!

I ran with the rest. The smoke for a moment blinded me. I heard the shrill notes of the Indian whistle. I looked before me. The girl had disappeared.

We ran to the spot where she had stood. We heard a rustling in the underwood, a departing footstep. We knew it was she; but guided by an instinct of delicacy, and a knowledge that it would be contrary to the wish of her brother, no one followed her.

We found the fragments of the calabash strewed over the ground. We found the leaden mark upon them. The bullet itself was buried in the bark of the tree, and one of the hunters commenced digging it out with the point of his bowie.

When we turned to go back we saw that the Indian had walked away, and now stood chatting easily and familiarly with Seguin.

As we re-entered the camp-ground I observed Garey stoop and pick up a shining object. It was the gage d’amour, which he carefully readjusted around his neck in its wonted position.

From his look and the manner in which he handled it, it was plain that he now regarded that souvenir with more reverence than ever.

Chapter Twenty Two.
A Feat à la Tail

I had fallen into a sort of reverie. My mind was occupied with the incidents I had just witnessed, when a voice, which I recognised as that of old Rube, roused me from my abstraction.

“Look’ee hyur, boyees! Tain’t of’n as ole Rube wastes lead, but I’ll beat that Injun’s shot, or ’ee may cut my ears off.”

A loud laugh hailed this allusion of the trapper to his ears, which, as we have observed, were already gone; and so closely had they been trimmed that nothing remained for either knife or shears to accomplish.

“How will you do it, Rube?” cried one of the hunters; “shoot the mark off a yer own head?”

“I’ll let ’ee see if ’ee wait,” replied Rube, stalking up to a tree, and taking from its rest a long, heavy rifle, which he proceeded to wipe out with care.

The attention of all was now turned to the manoeuvres of the old trapper. Conjecture was busy as to his designs. What feat could he perform that would eclipse the one just witnessed? No one could guess.

“I’ll beat it,” continued he, muttering, as he loaded his piece, “or ’ee may chop the little finger off ole Rube’s right paw.”

Another peal of laughter followed, as all perceived that this was the finger that was wanting.

“’Ee – es,” continued he, looking at the faces that were around him, “’ee may scalp me if I don’t.”

This last remark elicited fresh roars of laughter; for although the cat-skin was closely drawn upon his head, all present knew that old Rube was minus his scalp.

“But how are ye goin’ to do it? Tell us that, old hoss!”

“’Ee see this, do ’ee?” asked the trapper, holding out a small fruit of the cactus pitahaya, which he had just plucked and cleaned of its spikelets.

“Ay, ay,” cried several voices, in reply.

“’Ee do, do ’ee? Wal; ’ee see ’tain’t half as big as the Injun’s squash. ’Ee see that, do ’ee?”

“Oh, sartinly! Any fool can see that.”

“Wal; s’pose I plug it at sixty, plump centre?”

“Wagh!” cried several, with shrugs of disappointment.

“Stick it on a pole, and any o’ us can do that,” said the principal speaker. “Here’s Barney could knock it off wid his owld musket. Couldn’t you, Barney?”

“In truth, an’ I could thry,” answered a very small man, leaning upon a musket, and who was dressed in a tattered uniform that had once been sky-blue. I had already noticed this individual with some curiosity, partly struck with his peculiar costume, but more particularly on account of the redness of his hair, which was the reddest I had ever seen. It bore the marks of a severe barrack discipline – that is, it had been shaved, and was now growing out of his little round head short and thick, and coarse in the grain, and of the colour of a scraped carrot. There was no possibility of mistaking Barney’s nationality. In trapper phrase, any fool could have told that.

What had brought such an individual to such a place? I asked this question, and was soon enlightened. He had been a soldier in a frontier post, one of Uncle Sam’s “Sky-blues.” He had got tired of pork and pipe-clay, accompanied with a too liberal allowance of the hide. In a word, Barney was a deserter. What his name was, I know not, but he went under the appellation of O’Cork – Barney O’Cork.

A laugh greeted his answer to the hunter’s question.

“Any o’ us,” continued the speaker, “could plug the persimmon that a way. But thar’s a mighty heap o’ diff’rence when you squints thro’ hind-sights at a girl like yon.”

“Ye’re right, Dick,” said another hunter; “it makes a fellow feel queery about the jeints.”

“Holy vistment! An’ wasn’t she a raal beauty?” exclaimed the little Irishman, with an earnestness in his manner that set the trappers roaring again.

“Pish!” cried Rube, who had now finished loading, “yur a set o’ channering fools; that’s what ’ee ur. Who palavered about a post? I’ve got an ole squaw as well’s the Injun. She’ll hold the thing for this child – she will.”

“Squaw! You a squaw?”

“Yes, hoss; I has a squaw I wudn’t swop for two o’ his’n. I’ll make tracks an’ fetch the old ’oman. Shet up yur heads, an’ wait, will ye?”

So saying, the smoky old sinner shouldered his rifle, and walked off into the woods.

I, in common with others, late comers, who were strangers to Rube, began to think that he had an “old ’oman.” There were no females to be seen about the encampment, but perhaps she was hid away in the woods. The trappers, however, who knew him, seemed to understand that the old fellow had some trick in his brain; and that, it appeared, was no new thing for him.

We were not kept long in suspense. In a few minutes Rube was seen returning, and by his side the “old ’oman,” in the shape of a long, lank, bare-ribbed, high-boned mustang, that turned out on close inspection to be a mare! This, then, was Rube’s squaw, and she was not at all unlike him, excepting the ears. She was long-eared, in common with all her race: the same as that upon which Quixote charged the windmill. The long ears caused her to look mulish, but it was only in appearance; she was a pure mustang when you examined her attentively. She seemed to have been at an earlier period of that dun-yellowish colour known as “clay-bank,” a common colour among Mexican horses; but time and scars had somewhat metamorphosed her, and grey hairs predominated all over, particularly about the head and neck. These parts were covered with a dirty grizzle of mixed hues. She was badly wind-broken; and at stated intervals of several minutes each, her back, from the spasmodic action of the lungs, heaved up with a jerk, as though she were trying to kick with her hind legs, and couldn’t. She was as thin as a rail, and carried her head below the level of her shoulders; but there was something in the twinkle of her solitary eye (for she had but one), that told you she had no intention of giving up for a long time to come. She was evidently game to the backbone.

Such was the “old ’oman” Rube had promised to fetch; and she was greeted by a loud laugh as he led her up.

“Now, look’ee hyur, boyees,” said he, halting in front of the crowd. “Ee may larf, an’ gabble, an’ grin till yur sick in the guts – yur may! but this child’s a-gwine to take the shine out o’ that Injun’s shot – he is, or bust a-tryin’.”

Several of the bystanders remarked that that was likely enough, and that they only waited to see in what manner it was to be done. No one who knew him doubted old Rube to be, as in fact he was, one of the very best marksmen in the mountains – fully equal, perhaps, to the Indian; but it was the style and circumstances which had given such éclat to the shot of the latter. It was not every day that a beautiful girl could be found to stand fire as the squaw had done; and it was not every hunter who would have ventured to fire at a mark so placed. The strength of the feat lay in its newness and peculiarity. The hunters had often fired at the mark held in one another’s hands. There were few who would like to carry it on their head. How, then, was Rube to “take the shine out o’ that Injun’s shot”? This was the question that each was asking the other, and which was at length put directly to Rube himself.

“Shet up your meat-traps,” answered he, “an I’ll show ’ee. In the fust place, then, ’ee all see that this hyur prickly ain’t more’n hef size o’ the squash?”

“Yes, sartainly,” answered several voices. “That wur one sukumstance in his favour. Wa’nt it?”

“It wur! it wur!”

“Wal, hyur’s another. The Injun, ’ee see, shot his mark off o’ the head. Now, this child’s a-gwine to knock his’n off o’ the tail. Kud yur Injun do that? Eh, boyees?”

“No, no!”

“Do that beat him, or do it not, then?”

“It beats him!”

“It does!”

“Far better!”

“Hooray!” vociferated several voices, amidst yells of laughter. No one dissented, as the hunters, pleased with the joke, were anxious to see it carried through.

Rube did not detain them long. Leaving his rifle in the hands of his friend Garey, he led the old mare up towards the spot that had been occupied by the Indian girl. Reaching this, he halted.

We all expected to see him turn the animal with her side towards us, thus leaving her body out of range. It soon became evident that this was not the old fellow’s intention. It would have spoiled the look of the thing, had he done so; and that idea was no doubt running in his mind.

Choosing a place where the ground chanced to be slightly hollowed out, he led the mustang forward, until her fore feet rested in the hollow. The tail was thus thrown above the body.

Having squared her hips to the camp, he whispered something at her head; and going round to the hind quarters, adjusted the pear upon the highest curve of the stump. He then came walking back.

Would the mare stand? No fear of that. She had been trained to stand in one place for a longer period than was now required of her.

The appearance which the old mare exhibited, nothing visible but her hind legs and buttocks, for the mules had stripped her tail of the hair, had by this time wound the spectators up to the risible point, and most of them were yelling.

“Stop yur giggle-goggle, wull yur!” said Rube, clutching his rifle, and taking his stand. The laughter was held in, no one wishing to disturb the shot.

“Now, old Tar-guts, don’t waste your fodder!” muttered the trapper, addressing his gun, which the next moment was raised and levelled.

No one doubted but that Rube would hit the object at which he was aiming. It was a shot frequently made by western riflemen; that is, a mark of the same size at sixty yards. And no doubt Rube would have done it; but just at the moment of his pulling trigger the mare’s back heaved up in one of its periodic jerks, and the pitahaya fell to the ground.

But the ball had sped; and grazing the animal’s shoulder, passed through one of her ears!

The direction of the bullet was not known until afterwards, but its effect was visible at once; for the mare, stung in her tenderest part, uttered a sort of human-like scream, and wheeling about, came leaping into camp, kicking over everything that happened to lie in her way.

The yells and loud laughing of the trappers, the odd ejaculations of the Indians, the “vayas” and “vivas” of the Mexicans, the wild oaths of old Rube himself, all formed a medley of sounds that fell strangely upon the ear, and to give an idea of which is beyond the art of my pen.