Kitabı oku: «The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse», sayfa 35

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.