Kitabı oku: «Golden Face: A Tale of the Wild West», sayfa 9
Chapter Twenty
The War-Path
“Steady, boys. Here they come!” whispered Vipan, his eyes strained upon the point of a long narrow spit of scrub looming dark and indistinct in the heavy morning mist. Within the waggons, whose sides were securely padded with sacks of flour and other protective material, the women and children, worn out with anxiety and apprehension, were slumbering hard. It was the gloomy hour of early dawn.
A moment’s aim, and he discharged his Winchester. The report rolled out like thunder upon the heavy mist-enshrouded atmosphere. Then a moment of dead silence.
Suddenly a line of fire darted along the ground. Then whirling down like lightning upon the corral came what resembled a number of wavy balls of flame. There was a roar and thunder of hoofs, the loud, horrible, quavering war-whoop rent the air, and a plunging sea of hideously painted centaurs, streaming with feathers and tags and scalp-locks, and bathed as it were, in a ring of flame, surged around the corral, enfolding it in a mighty moving mass of demon riders and phantom steeds. A shower of blazing torches came whizzing right into the midst of the camp, followed by another. Thick and fast they fell, lying sputtering and flaring everywhere. The encampment and its defenders were in a sheet of flame, and amid the clouds of sulphurous smoke, even the crash and rattle of volleys was well-nigh drowned in the demoniacal and stunning yells of the attacking savages, who, pressing the advantage afforded them by this unlooked-for panic, saw success already theirs.
In the excitement of this sudden surprise the shooting on both sides was wild in the extreme. Amid the whirling, plunging mass, a warrior was seen to leap convulsively in his saddle, and, throwing up his arms, sink beneath the pounding hoofs. More than one pony rolled upon the ground, but still the flying horde circled in nearer and nearer, full half its strength preparing for a final and decisive charge. It seemed that the doom of every man, woman, and child in that camp was sealed.
Maddened by the terrific yells, by the flames of the burning missiles scorching their legs, the frantic animals picketed within the corral plunged and kicked, and strained wildly at their picket ropes. It only needed for them to break loose to render the general demoralisation complete.
But amid the indescribable tumult, the yelling of the Indians, the plunging of the frenzied cattle, the crash and rattle of volleys, the fiery peril which threatened to wrap the whole camp in flames, the on-rushing squadrons of demon centaurs, and the piteous shrieks of terrified women and children, three or four men there kept their heads, and well indeed was it for the rest that they did so.
“Keep cool, boys! Don’t fire too quick,” thundered Vipan, deliberately picking up one of the blazing torches and hurling it with good aim full against the striped countenance of a too daring assailant. Winthrop, whose trained eye took in the weakness, the frightful jeopardy of the situation, had his hands full at the side of the corral which he had elected to attend to.
“Jee-hoshaphat!” exclaimed Oregon Dave, between his set teeth. “Now for it, boys! They mean hair this time.”
For the Indians, who, wheeling and turning on their quick active little steeds in such wise as to render themselves difficult targets in the uncertain light, as well as to bewilder the eye of their enemy, were now seen to mass together with marvellous celerity. Then, with a long, thrilling whoop, they charged like lightning upon the weakest point in the defences.
Never more deadly cool in their lives, half-a-dozen men, among them Vipan and Oregon Dave, stand in readiness.
“Now let drive,” whispers the latter.
A raking volley at barely a hundred yards. Several saddles are emptied, but it does not stop the charge. Led by a chief of gigantic stature and wildly ferocious aspect, the whole band hurls itself forward, as a stone from a catapult. Then the fighting is desperate indeed, for it is hand-to-hand. A score of warriors slide from their horses and leap within the enclosure, their grim and savage countenances aglow with the triumph of victory, only, however, to retreat helter-skelter as several of their number drop dead or wounded before the terrible six-shooters of that determined half-dozen. In the confusion the gigantic chief, watching his opportunity, puts forth his lance and spears one of the unfortunate emigrants through the heart. Then bending forward he drags out the still quivering body, and with amazing strength throws it across his horse.
“That’s that devil Crow-Scalper,” cries Vipan, amid the roar of rage which goes up at this feat. But the chief, flinging the body to the earth again, wheels his horse and utters his piercing rallying cry, brandishing aloft the bleeding scalp he has just taken. More than one bullet ploughs through the eagle plumes of his war-bonnet; his horse is shot under him; but he seems to bear a charmed life. Leaping on the pony of a warrior at that moment shot dead at his side, again he utters his shrilling, piercing whoop and strives to rally his band.
But the latter have had about enough. The deadly precision of those unceasing close-quarter shots is more than Indian flesh and blood can stand up to.
“They’re off, by th’ Etarnal, they’re off!” roared one of the emigrants, a tall Kentuckian who boasted a strain of the blood of the Boones. “Give ’em another volley, boys!”
“Guess so, Elias,” yelled his spouse, a raw-boned masculine virago, who throughout had been wielding a rifle with good effect. But the Indians showed no desire to wait for this parting attention. They kept up a show of fight just long enough to enable them to bear away their dead, always an important feature in their military drill. Then with a final whoop of defiance they vanished into the mist.
Suddenly they returned, but only a handful. One of their fallen comrades had been overlooked. Darting from among the rest a couple of warriors, riding abreast, skimmed rapidly along towards the corral. Suddenly they were seen to bend over, and seizing an inert corpse by the neck and heels, raise it and fling it across the pommel in front of one of them. Then, almost without abating speed, they wheeled their ponies and disappeared.
“By the Lord! but that was well done,” cried Winthrop.
Throughout this desperate affray, which had not occupied many minutes, the weaker members of the community, frozen with fear, crouched shudderingly within their shelters. These helpless women knew what terrible fate awaited them in the event of the savages proving victorious, and to their appalled senses the hideous war-whoop, the thunder of charging hoofs, the shouts and the wild crashing of shots seemed as a very hell opening before them.
Shivering in her well-padded waggon, poor little Mrs Winthrop was in a pitiable state of terror and anxiety.
“Oh, Yseulte, I wish I could be as brave as you,” she moaned, clinging to her friend as to a final refuge. “How do you manage it? Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” answered the girl, with something of a warrior-light shining in her eyes. “Only I’m sure we shall win.”
The calm, steadfast tones conveyed to the distracted, terrified creature, as she herself phrased it, “tons of comfort.” Then the tumult had ceased.
The mist was rolling back, unfolding heaven’s vault of brilliant blue, and in less than half an hour the whole country-side stood revealed. Not an Indian was in sight. Slain ponies lay around, and here and there a dark clot of gore showed where a warrior had fallen.
“Will they come again?” said Winthrop, turning to Vipan. Many an ear hung upon the answer.
“No,” replied the latter, tranquilly, beginning to sponge out his rifle. “I never saw a finer charge than that last, and they know perfectly that if it wouldn’t carry the corral nothing will. They intended a surprise, you see, but it broke down completely, and unless they try the palaver trick we shall see no more of them just yet. But we shall have to keep a bright lookout, for depend upon it, they won’t let us be out of sight long – for some time at any rate.”
“Waal, boys,” drawled the tall Kentuckian, “I reckon we’ll jest squat around a bit, and be darn thankful.”
“That’s so, Elias,” assented his martial spouse, diving into the waggon to lug out her brood by the ears, as if nothing had happened.
Chapter Twenty One
Truce
It was afternoon, and quiet had settled down upon the emigrants’ camp once more. While its inmates were despatching their much-needed breakfasts Vipan and Oregon Dave had sallied forth upon a scout. They soon returned, reporting the whole party of Indians to be retiring over a distant range of hills some twelve miles to the eastward. So, pickets being posted to give warning should they think better of it and return, the cattle were driven down to the water and were now enjoying a graze under the watchful supervision of half-a-dozen men.
It was afternoon. Most of the inmates of the camp were recruiting themselves after their night of watching and the exciting events of the morning’s conflict. A few drowsy snores, or now and then the puling cry of some child within the waggons, or perchance the clatter of pots and pans, as one or two of the women were cleaning up the culinary implements which had served for the morning meal; these were the only sounds which broke the slumbrous stillness.
Stretched upon the turf about fifty yards outside the corral, puffing lazily at an Indian pipe, lay Vipan. He alone of all there present seemed to feel no need of slumber. The dash and excitement of the conflict over, a strange reaction had set in. There was a look upon his face as of a man who, turning back upon the chapters of his own history, finds the reminiscences therein recorded the reverse of pleasant. It was also the look of one who is undergoing a new experience, and a disquieting one.
A light step on the grass behind him.
“Are you really made of cast-iron, Mr Vipan?”
“H’m, why so, Miss Santorex?”
“Because everyone else is snoring like the Seven Sleepers, and you, who have had as trying a time of it as any three of the rest put together, are still wide awake.”
“I might say the same of you. You, too, have been awake all night.”
“Oh, dear no; nothing like it. And now – and now we are alone, I want really to thank you as I ought, but – but – I don’t know how,” broke off the girl, with a comic ruefulness that was inexpressibly bewitching. “Really, though, I never was further from joking in my life. Now that I have seen what those dreadful savages are like, I seem to realise what a frightful fate you saved me from,” she added earnestly, with a lovely flush.
“Let us talk of something else,” he answered, somewhat abruptly. “You showed extraordinary grit during the recent little unpleasantness between us and our red brothers. May I ask where, when, and how you served your apprenticeship as an Indian fighter?”
She laughed and gave a slight shiver. Now that they were over, the appalling experiences of the early morning could not but tell upon her. She was rather pale, and dark circles round her eyes told of an apprehensive and restless night.
“Poor Mrs Winthrop is quite ill this morning, and no wonder. I hope we shall have no more of those frightful experiences. And yet, to look round the camp no one would suspect that anything out of the way had happened.”
Vipan followed her glance. He was glad that all traces of the bloody struggle had been removed – the dead bodies, including that of the unfortunate emigrant who had been scalped, had been buried while the terrified and worn-out women were sleeping the slumber of exhaustion.
“No, it was all horrible – horrible,” Yseulte went on, speaking gravely and sadly. “If I was not half-dead with fear it was thanks to my father’s teaching. He always used to say that panic was fatal to self-respect, and still more fatal to self-preservation. Child as I was, the idea took root, and I was able to conquer my fears of bulls or savage dogs, or mysterious noises at night, or at any rate very nearly so.”
“Quite, I should say. Your father must be a somewhat rare type of man.”
“He is. Wait till you see him. Then you will think so.”
“Is he coming out here, then?”
“Coming out here!” she echoed, wonderingly. “Oh, no. I am going back in a few months’ time. I mean when you come to see us and give him the opportunity of thanking you as I never can.”
Vipan looked curiously at her. They had been strolling all this while, and were now well out of earshot of the camp.
“When I come and see you,” he repeated. “To begin with, it is extremely unlikely I shall ever leave these festive plains, let alone go back to England.”
“Ah, you are English. I guessed that much from the very first. But I thought – we all thought – you were only out here on a trip.”
He did not even smile.
“Do you think, Miss Santorex, that a man out here ‘on a trip’ would be up to every move of a Sioux war-party? No; I have been out here a good many years. There are those in the settlements who speak of me as the white Indian, who have more than once attempted my life because I happen to feel more respect for the savage as he is than for that vilest of all scum of humanity the ‘mean white.’ Why, not many weeks ago I was in a far tighter place than this last little shindy of ours, and narrowly escaped with my life at the hands of the latter.”
“Bang!”
The picket posted on an eminence a mile distant had discharged his piece.
“We must cut short our walk,” went on the adventurer. “That shot means Indians in sight.”
A few minutes and the pickets could be seen riding in. As arranged, the cattle, which had been brought near on the first alarm, were now quickly driven into the corral.
The man who had fired the shot reported a large party of warriors approaching rapidly from the direction in which the assailants had retired. He reckoned it was the same lot coming back.
“Hoorar! Guess we’ll lick ’em into pounded snakes again,” drawled the long Kentuckian, on hearing this news.
“They don’t want to fight,” said Vipan, “or they wouldn’t have drawn off so kindly to let us water and graze the stock. This time they’re coming to talk.”
“Well, that’s better, anyhow,” said the Major. A sentiment which his wife, who was standing at his side looking very pale and scared, thoroughly echoed.
Mounted figures now began to appear on the ridge about a mile away, and presently the entire band was halted upon the eminence. Then a couple of warriors rode out from the main body, and advancing a little distance, made the peace-sign. By way of answer a white towel was run up on a pole and waved above the waggon corral.
“I want you to see this, Miss Santorex,” said Vipan. “It’s a sight you may not see again in a lifetime.”
The band had now left its halting place and was riding slowly down towards the camp. If in the wild fury of their swooping charge the Indians had worn a savagely picturesque aspect, with their waving plumes, and flowing tags and scalp-locks on weapon and garment, none the less now was the appearance of the warrior phalanx stately and striking to the last degree. So thought Yseulte Santorex, as she gazed with more admiration than fear upon this array of the barbaric chivalry of the Western plains.
The Indians approached in crescent formation, some half-dozen chiefs riding a little in advance. All were in their war-paint – the dresses of some being, moreover, exceeding rich with colour and embroidery – the eagle-plumed crest of many a noted brave streaming to the ground as he rode. Not a warrior but showed some bit of gorgeous colour. Even the ponies’ manes were adorned with feathers and vermilion, and the lance-heads and floating pennants gleaming above the sea of fierce stern faces put the finishing touch to a battle array as martial and gallant-looking as it was redoubtable and ruthlessly unsparing.
“It is magnificent!” said Yseulte, as from the coign of vantage which the other had secured for her she surveyed the approaching band. “What tribe are they, Mr Vipan?”
“Sioux. There may be a few Cheyennes among them, but the war-party is a Sioux one. Take the glass, and I’ll tell you who some of them are. The chief there most to the right is Crow-Scalper, of the Uncpapa clan, a record of whose atrocities would keep you awake at night for a week.”
“He’s a splendid-looking fellow,” commented the girl, gazing withal at the gigantic warrior who had led the last and most persistent charge upon the camp.
“Oh, yes; I know him well. Many’s the hour I’ve spent in his lodge making him talk. Now, look again. The middle one is Mountain Cat – the trappers call him Catamount, but the other’s the real rendering of his name. He hates the whites more than any Indian on this continent, and would willingly put a bullet into me if he got the chance. He’s an Ogallalla, and a good big chief too.”
“He looks an awful savage,” answered Yseulte, with the glass still at her eyes. “I never saw a more diabolical expression. Who is the man who has just joined them?”
“Lone Panther – a half-bred Cheyenne – a small chief in standing, but a fiend when he heads a war-party. And now I must leave you for a little, and go and hear what they have to say. It may interest you to watch the progress of our conference through the glass.”
“That it will. But, oh, Mr Vipan, do try and persuade them to leave us in peace. You know them so well, I am sure you can.”
“I’ll try, anyhow, if only for your sake,” he answered, with a queer smile.
The three chiefs named had halted their band, and, attended by a couple of warriors displaying dingy white rags on their lance-points, were cantering down towards the corral. Arrived within two hundred yards, they halted. There went forth to meet them Vipan, Major Winthrop, and one of the latter’s cowboys, who rejoiced in the name of Sam Sharp; also two of the teamsters to hold their horses.
When within a hundred yards of each other, both parties dismounted. The three chiefs, giving their horses to their attendants, advanced with slow and stately gait to where the three white men awaited them.
“Do we meet in peace, or do we meet in war?” began Vipan, as both parties having surveyed each other for a few moments the Indians showed no inclination to break the silence. No answer followed this straight question. Then Lone Panther, breaking into a broad grin, said:
“Injun brother Goddam hungry. White Colonel gib him heap ‘chuck.’” (Food.)
Of this flippant remark Winthrop, to whom it was addressed, took no notice beyond a signal to Vipan to carry the negotiations further.
The latter explained to the chiefs that the “white Colonel” entertained his friends, not his enemies. They had attacked his outfit, tried to run off his stock, and had made themselves a dangerous nuisance. But that the camp had been vigorously defended they would have killed every one in it. They could not do this, and now they came and asked to be feasted as if they were friends.
To this Crow-Scalper, putting on his most jovial smile and manner, replied that the whole affair had been a mistake. Young men, especially when on the war-path, would not always be restrained; that being so, the chiefs were obliged to humour them. Beside, the warriors had no idea that these whites were among the friends of Golden Face, or that Golden Face was in the camp at all. Otherwise they would never have attempted to run off even a single hoof.
Vipan could hardly keep from roaring with laughter at the twinkle which lurked in the speaker’s eye, as he delivered himself of this statement. Both he and the red man knew each other well – knew the futility of trying to humbug each other. Hence the joke underlying the whole thing.
What himself and his warriors most ardently desired now, went on Crow-Scalper, was to show themselves friends of the friends of Golden Face. To this end they proposed to accompany the waggon train as an escort. There were, he feared, bands of very bad Indians roaming the country, who would leave them unmolested if they had for escort a Dahcotah war-party. This course would wipe out all bad blood between them, and atone for the mistake they had made in attacking their dear friends the whites. So having settled this to his own satisfaction, Crow-Scalper suggested that a proper and most harmonious way of cementing their new friendship would be for the white men to join camp with their red brothers and to invite the latter to participate in a feast.
Vipan managed to preserve his gravity while translating these proposals for the benefit of his companions. The chiefs meanwhile watched every expression of their faces with steady and scrutinising gaze.
“They must take us for born idiots,” said Winthrop.
“Thunder! I guess there’s no end to the sass of a redskin,” said Sam Sharp, the cowboy. “Travel with a war-party of pesky Sioux! Haw-haw-haw!”
“Better conciliate them to a small extent, though I never did believe in buying off your Danes,” said Winthrop. “I’ll give them an order for coffee and sugar and tobacco on the post we last quitted; but I’ll see them hanged before they’ll get anything out of us here.”
This resolve Vipan communicated to the chiefs. The white Colonel felt quite strong enough to protect his own camp and did not need the escort so kindly offered. At the same time his red brothers could best show their friendship by retiring altogether and leaving him quite alone. The chiefs had admitted their inability to control their young men under all circumstances, and this being so, it would be best to part good friends. They could proceed to Fort Jervis and obtain the supplies, for which he would give them an order.
The emissaries saw that the game was up. They might eventually wear out the patience and watchfulness of the whites, and obtain the scalps and plunder they so ardently desired, but they would have to fight. No safe and easy way of treachery lay open to the coveted spoil, and this they recognised.
Then Mountain Cat, who up till now had preserved a stern and contemptuous silence, said:
“Golden Face, the friend and brother of the Dahcotah! Should he not rather be called Double Face?”
The sneering and vindictive tone was not lost upon the other two whites, although they understood not a word of its burden. Glancing at Vipan, they noticed that he was as unconcerned as though the other had never spoken.
“Does one friend kill another?” went on the savage, his eyes flashing with hatred. “Ha! More than one of our young men has been shot this day. Who was their slayer? Golden Face – the friend and brother of the Dahcotah nation!”
“What were my words to the great Council at Dog Creek?” was the calm rejoinder. “‘Those who strike my friends strike me, and turn me into an enemy.’ Were there not enough whites abroad upon the plains for your war-party to strike without attacking my friends whom I accompany? Enough. My words stand. I never go back from them.”
For a moment things seemed to have come to a crisis. The chief made a step backward and cast a half-involuntary glance in the direction of his party. A threatening scowl came over his grim countenance, and his hand made a movement towards the revolver in his belt. But Vipan never moved a muscle, beyond carelessly dropping his rifle so as to cover the Indian in a manner apparently accidental.
“The Dahcotah have entertained a false friend in their midst,” went on Mountain Cat, darting forth his hand with a menacing gesture, “one who smokes in their council and then betrays them. Where is War Wolf?”
“Is War Wolf my horse or my dog that it is my business to take care of him?” was the coldly contemptuous reply.
“Who witnessed the scalp-dance in our village at Dog Creek, when War Wolf showed his scalps? Who delivered him into the hands of the soldiers?” said the other, meaningly.
“I know who did not – and that was myself. We may as well speak plainly. War Wolf appears to have gone about the country bragging how he took the scalps of two white men, when he ought to have kept his mouth shut. If he was seized by the soldiers he has himself to thank for it, and nobody else – certainly not me, any more than yourself. I would even have warned him if I had been able, but it was impossible. That is enough about the matter.”
“Good,” repeated the savage chieftain, in a tone full of grim meaning. “Golden Face talks well, but in future our war-parties will know an enemy from a friend.”
“So be it,” replied Vipan, wholly unmoved by the threat. “If your party attacks our outfit again, we shall fight, as we did before.”
“Excuse me,” put in Winthrop, who was waxing impatient during this protracted conversation. “Excuse me – but our friend there does not seem to enter into the situation in a right spirit. Here is the order. It is made available only up till three days hence. So if you will kindly inform him accordingly, no doubt we shall get rid of the whole crew.”
On the principle of “half a loaf,” the other two chiefs grasped the bit of paper eagerly. They were beaming with smiles, and brimming over with affection for their dear white brothers. Only Mountain Cat held scowlingly aloof. Then they returned to their men.
It was uncertain now how matters would turn. Watching them, the occupants of the corral could see that an animated conference was being held. Would there be another battle? Even if not, a large war-party like this, determined to annoy them, could soon reduce their position to one of imminent peril. By closely investing the camp they could render it nearly an impossibility for the stock to obtain proper grazing – let alone bringing all progress forward to an utter standstill. They could even make it a matter of extreme difficulty to replenish the water supply – and then, too, there would be the constant strain and fatigue of ever being on the watch against surprise – whether by day or night. So that when their conference ended, the whole party mounted their ponies and retreated in the same way as they had come, the feeling evoked in the minds of the spectators was one of entire and undiluted relief.
