"You think you've killed him?"
It is Don Estevan who interrogates, startled out of his slumber by the
report of the _gambusino's_ gun, which has brought him in hurried haste
to the post of guard.
"Pretty sure of it, your worship," is the rejoinder, in calm confidence.
"We all saw him staggering--he must have gone down," says another of the
videttes, confirmingly.
"If I haven't settled his hash," pursues Vicente, "then a man may get a
bullet through midribs, and live afterwards--a thing not likely. Or I'm
much mistaken, mine went straight centreways into the white--that sweet
thing I've such reason to remember--unluckily for him painted too
conspicuously."
"It must have been El Cascabel, if you saw that."
"He it was, or I shouldn't have been so quick on the trigger. Indeed, I
wasn't so confident about the carry of my piece. 'Twas a long shot."
"The bullet may have hit without killing him--spent, and only stunned
him?"
"If your worship feels inclined for a bet, I'll lay big odds that ere
this the Rattlesnake has kicked his last kick, or, to put it more
appropriately, wriggled his last wriggle."
The auditory gathered around the _gambusino_ would laugh at his quaint
words, but ere they give way to the inclination it is checked by other
words quick following in exclamatory tones,
"Bet's off, your worship--too late! I'm not the man to dishonour myself
by wagering on a certainty. _Oigate_! you hear that?"
Don Estevan does hear, as the others, sounds ascending from below--human
voices, in that melancholy cadence which tells of lamentation for the
dead. They come from the direction of the camp, in a wild crooning
wail, now and then a stave, as if coyotes were taking part in the
lugubrious chorus. At intervals, also, there are other notes,
differently intoned; loud angry ejaculations, the Apache war-cry,
proclaiming vengeance only to be satisfied with blood for blood.
For nearly an hour the infernal _fracas_ is kept up, the volume of voice
continuous, and redoubled by reverberation along the cliffs. Then it is
abruptly brought to a close, succeeded by a silence mysterious and
ominous in itself. Can it be that in their insane anger the savages
have resolved upon the ascent, _coute-qui-coute_? The darkness, dense
as ever, would favour, and might tempt them.
There is enough probability in it to make the videttes more vigilant,
and their numbers are now greater. After an event of such serious
consequence, most of the people--women and children excepted--are up and
active, moving backwards and forwards between their place of bivouac by
the spring and the ravine's head, all careful not to approach this point
too near. The big muskets admonish them; though as yet no shot from
one, nor from any other sort of piece, has been fired by the savages.
If they mean assault, it will be by stealth, and in silence.
Hushed, and listening with all ears, the watchers hear nothing; at
least, no sound of a suspicious nature. But Indians can creep, or
climb, noiselessly as cats--the Coyoteros especially--in this respect
equalling the animal from which they have their name. And they may be
worming their way up for all, snake-like among the stems of the
_mesquites_ and cactus plants.
"Speaking for myself," says the _gambusino_, after a time, "I haven't
much fear of them trying that trick. But if you think it worth while,
_camarados_, to give them a hint--and perhaps it may be as well--we can
spare a few of these pebbles." He points to the collected stones.
"Half a dozen or so will do it."
His _camarades_ comprehend his meaning; and as Don Estevan has returned
to his tent leaving him in command of the picket, they signify their
approval of his design, all desiring it.
On the instant after, a rock pushed over the edge goes crashing down,
breaking off branches, loosening other stones in its way, all in loud
rumbling borne together to the level below. But they elicit no
response, save the echo of their own noise, no shriek or cry, as if man
were caught and bruised by them.
After a time another is launched, with like result, then another and
another at measured intervals--for they must husband their ammunition--
the watchers all the while without fear that man, red or white, will
face such an avalanche, dangerous as any that ever swept down the slope
of Alps.
At the earliest dawn they desist as soon as they can trust to their
eyes. And now, scanning the plain below, they see at the bottom of the
gorge only the rocks they had rolled down, with the other _debris_.
Farther out they perceive the line of dusky sentinels, just as they
expected it to be; but no other human form, living or dead. The
Coyotero chief is dead for all that--carried to the camp of the
palefaces, inside the great tent, where he now lies face upward; the
pale, crepusculous light stealing in to show that hideous device on his
breast, symbol of death itself, no longer a disc of white, but flaked
and mottled red, with a darker spot of ragged edging in the centre where
it was pierced by the _gambusino's_ bullet.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just as the sun begins to show above the horizon's edge, again go up the
crooning cries, but now in more measured strain. For the savages are
collected in the _corral_, a choice party of them under direction of
their medicine man ranged about the marquee, not standing still, but
circling round and round it in a slow, saltatory step--in short, dancing
the "death-dance."
It is accompanied by chants and incantations, in the voice of the
medicine chief himself, pitched louder than the rest, with a pause at
intervals, to speak eulogies of the deceased, praise of his valour and
virtues, ending in a passionate appeal to his followers to avenge his
death. They need not the stimulus of such exhortation. In the eyes of
all vengeance is already glowing, burning, and but flashes a little
angrier as they respond in a vociferous and united yell.
They upon the _mesa_ are not witnesses to this odd ceremony, only a
portion of the camp being within their view. But ere long they have
another under their eyes--a spectacle equally exciting, and of like
grave portent to themselves.
It takes place out on the open plain by the lake's edge, upon a portion
of the grass ground, all visible from the ravine's head. The arena is
purposely chosen for the palefaces to be spectators of it, that it may
strike terror to their souls, by giving them a foretaste of what is to
be their fate. For it is the "_Fandango de crancos_," _anglice_,
scalp-dance.
What they on the mountain first see is some half-score of the savages
issuing forth from the _corral_ and taking their way to the appointed
spot. They bear with them a long pole painted blood-red, recognisable
as one of the wagon-tongues, drawn to a sharp point at its inner end.
In a trice it is stuck upright in the turf, showing at its top something
very different from the chains late there. It is the skin of a human
head, with the hair hanging straggled down, light-coloured hair
proclaiming it that of a paleface. They could crown that pole with
scores of such scalps, many having their leggings fringed with them.
But for the rites of the ceremony to be performed one is deemed
sufficient; and to make it more terribly impressive, the one selected
shows by the silken gloss of the hair with its luxuriance and length to
have been taken from the head of a woman! There are women looking at it
now, and young girls of different ages. For all have left the spring
and come forward to the viewing-point. It is a sight to inspire them
with awe enough of itself, without their being told of a certain and
terrible signification attached to the fact of a _woman's_ scalp being
fixed to the head of that pole instead of a _man's_. Pedro Vicente
could make it known to them, but does not.
Ere long the ceremonial of vengeful menace commences, the Indians
approaching the ensanguined stake and forming in wide cordon around it;
all of them in full war-paint, a fresh coat of it in their garish
devices of various colours, scarlet and blood-red predominating. But
there is one common to all, a symbol in white--the same borne by him who
is sleeping his last sleep in the _corral_. They have but assumed it
for the occasion to do honour to their dead chief. And a frightful form
of demonstration it is. Over two hundred men, mahogany-coloured
savages, all naked to the waist, each with a death's head and crossbones
done in white gypsum on the central and prominent portion of his breast!
'Twere enough to awe the heart of any one within their reach or in
their power, and many of the spectators above tremble at beholding the
horrid insignia.
The dance begins, the savages in circle tramping round and round the
pole "how-howing" as they go, at first in slow step and with voice
barely audible. Soon, however, the one quickens, the other becoming
louder, till the step is a violent bounding, the voice raised to highest
pitch. Louder and angrier grow the shouts as they turn their eyes
upward to the scalp, and still more violent their gesticulations, arms
in air with weapons whirled above their heads, till at length several
rush at the reddened stake, and hack it down with their tomahawks. Then
follows a confused struggle for the scalp, in which it is torn to
pieces, all who can appropriating shred or tress, but to spit upon it in
vindictive scorn, while still further rending it!
The demoniac dance is now over; some it has most excited come rushing
towards the ravine, as though they really meant risking an assault. All
above draw back out of sight, only they appointed for the defence
staying by the stone artillery. But they are not called upon to hurl
any more down just yet. Warned by the event of overnight, the savages
think better of it, and before getting too close, come to a stop, and
content themselves with wordy threats and a brandishing of weapons.
But, empty and impotent as is their menacing attitude, it makes deep
impression on those against whom it is directed. For it tells them they
may never more go down that gorge, or set foot upon the plain below, to
live an hour, if a minute, after.