Ever since Texas became the scene of an Anglo-Saxon immigration--I might
go a century farther back and say, from the time of its colonisation by
the descendants of the Conquistadores--the subject of primary importance
has been the disposition of its aborigines.
Whether these, the lawful lords of the soil, chanced to be in a state of
open war--or whether, by some treaty with the settlers they were
consenting to a temporary peace--made but slight difference, so far as
they were talked about. In either case they were a topic of daily
discourse. In the former it related to the dangers to be hourly
apprehended from them; in the latter, to the probable duration of such
treaty as might for the moment be binding them to hold their tomahawks
entombed.
In Mexican times these questions formed the staple of conversation, at
_desayuno, almuerzo, comida, y cena_; in American times, up to this
present hour, they have been the themes of discussion at the breakfast,
dinner, and supper tables. In the planter's piazza, as in the hunter's
camp, bear, deer, cougar, and peccary, are not named with half the
frequency, or half the fear-inspiring emphasis, allotted to the word
"Indian." It is this that scares the Texan child instead of the
stereotyped nursery ghost, keeping it awake upon its moss-stuffed
mattress--disturbing almost as much the repose of its parent.
Despite the surrounding of strong walls--more resembling those of a
fortress than a gentleman's dwelling--the inmates of Casa del Corvo were
not excepted from this feeling of apprehension, universal along the
frontier. As yet they knew little of the Indians, and that little only
from report; but, day by day, they were becoming better acquainted with
the character of this natural "terror" that interfered with the slumbers
of their fellow settlers.
That it was no mere "bogie" they had begun to believe; but if any of
them remained incredulous, a note received from the major commanding the
Fort--about two weeks after the horse-hunting expedition--was calculated
to cure them of their incredulity. It came in the early morning,
carried by a mounted rifleman. It was put into the hands of the planter
just as he was about sitting down to the breakfast-table, around which
were assembled the three individuals who composed his household--his
daughter Louise, his son Henry, and his nephew Cassius Calhoun.
"Startling news!" he exclaimed, after hastily reading, the note. "Not
very pleasant if true; and I suppose there can be no doubt of that,
since the major appears convinced."
"Unpleasant news, papa?" asked his daughter, a spot of red springing to
her cheek as she put the question.
The spoken interrogatory was continued by others, not uttered aloud.
"What can the major have written to him? I met him yesterday while
riding in the chapparal. He saw me in company with--Can it be that?
_Mon Dieu_! if father should hear it--"
"`The Comanches on the war trail'--so writes the major."
"Oh, that's all!" said Louise, involuntarily giving voice to the phrase,
as if the news had nothing so very fearful in it. "You frightened us,
sir. I thought it was something worse."
"Worse! What trifling, child, to talk so! There is nothing worse, in
Texas, than Comanches on the war trail--nothing half so dangerous."
Louise might have thought there was--a danger at least as difficult to
be avoided. Perhaps she was reflecting upon a pursuit of wild steeds--
or thinking of the _trail of a lazo_.
She made no reply. Calhoun continued the conversation.
"Is the major sure of the Indians being up? What does he say, uncle?"
"That there have been rumours of it for some days past, though not
reliable. Now it is certain. Last night Wild Cat, the Seminole chief,
came to the Fort with a party of his tribe; bringing the news that the
painted pole has been erected in the camps of the Comanches all over
Texas, and that the war dance has been going on for more than a month.
That several parties are already out upon the maraud, and may be looked
for among the settlements at any moment."
"And Wild Cat himself--what of him?" asked Louise, an unpleasant
reminiscence suggesting the inquiry. "Is that renegade Indian to be
trusted, who appears to be as much an enemy to the whites as to the
people of his own race?"
"Quite true, my daughter. You have described the chief of the Seminoles
almost in the same terms as I find him spoken of, in a postscript to the
major's letter. He counsels us to beware of the two-faced old rascal,
who will be sure to take sides with the Comanches, whenever it may suit
his convenience to do so."
"Well," continued the planter, laying aside the note, and betaking
himself to his coffee and waffles, "I trust we sha'n't see any redskins
here--either Seminoles or Comanches. In making their marauds, let us
hope they will not like the look of the crenelled parapets of Casa del
Corvo, but give the hacienda a wide berth."
Before any one could respond, a sable face appearing at the door of the
dining-room--which was the apartment in which breakfast was being
eaten--caused a complete change in the character of the conversation.
The countenance belonged to Pluto, the coachman.
"What do you want, Pluto?" inquired his owner.
"Ho, ho! Massr Woodley, dis chile want nuffin 't all. Only look in t'
tell Missa Looey dat soon's she done eat her brekfass de spotty am unner
de saddle, all ready for chuck de bit into him mouf. Ho! ho! dat
critter do dance 'bout on de pave stone as ef it wa' mad to 'treak it
back to de smoove tuff ob de praira."
"Going out for a ride, Louise?" asked the planter with a shadow upon his
brow, which he made but little effort to conceal.
"Yes, papa; I was thinking of it."
"You must not."
"Indeed!"
"I mean, that you must not ride out _alone_. It is not proper."
"Why do you think so, papa? I have often ridden out alone."
"Yes; perhaps too often."
This last remark brought the slightest tinge of colour to the cheeks of
the young Creole; though she seemed uncertain what construction she was
to put upon it.
Notwithstanding its ambiguity, she did not press for an explanation. On
the contrary, she preferred shunning it; as was shown by her reply.
"If you think so, papa, I shall not go out again. Though to be cooped
up here, in this dismal dwelling, while you gentlemen are all abroad
upon business--is that the life you intend me to lead in Texas?"
"Nothing of the sort, my daughter. I have no objection to your riding
out as much as you please; but Henry must be with you, or your cousin
Cassius. I only lay an embargo on your going alone. I have my
reasons."
"Reasons! What are they?"
The question came involuntarily to her lips. It had scarce passed them,
ere she regretted having asked it. By her uneasy air it was evident she
had apprehensions as to the answer.
The reply appeared partially to relieve her.
"What other reasons do you want," said the planter, evidently
endeavouring to escape from the suspicion of duplicity by the Statement
of a convenient fact--"what better, than the contents of this letter
from the major? Remember, my child, you are not in Louisiana, where a
lady may travel anywhere without fear of either insult or outrage; but
in Texas, where she may dread both--where even her life may be in
danger. Here there are Indians."
"My excursions don't extend so far from the house, that I need have any
fear of Indians. I never go more than five miles at the most."
"Five miles!" exclaimed the ex-officer of volunteers, with a sardonic
smile; "you would be as safe at fifty, cousin Loo. You are just as
likely to encounter the redskins within a hundred yards of the door, as
at the distance of a hundred miles. When they are on the war trail they
may be looked for anywhere, and at any time. In my opinion, uncle
Woodley is rights you are very foolish to ride out alone."
"Oh! _you_ say so?" sharply retorted the young Creole, turning
disdainfully towards her cousin. "And pray, sir, may I ask of what
service your company would be to me in the event of my encountering the
Comanches, which I don't believe there's the slightest danger of my
doing? A pretty figure we'd cut--the pair of us--in the midst of a
war-party of painted savages! Ha! ha! The danger would be yours, not
mine: since I should certainly ride away, and leave you to your own
devices. Danger, indeed, within five miles of the house! If there's a
horseman in Texas--savages not excepted--who can catch up with my little
Luna in a five mile stretch, he must ride a swift steed; which is more
than you do, Mr Cash!"
"Silence, daughter!" commanded Poindexter. "Don't let me hear you talk
in that absurd strain. Take no notice of it, nephew. Even if there
were no danger from Indians, there are other outlaws in these parts
quite as much to be shunned as they. Enough that I forbid you to ride
abroad, as you have of late been accustomed to do."
"Be it as you will, papa," rejoined Louise, rising from the
breakfast-table, and with an air of resignation preparing to leave the
room. "Of course I shall obey you--at the risk of losing my health for
want of exercise. Go, Pluto!" she added, addressing herself to the
darkey, who still stood grinning in the doorway, "turn Luna loose into
the corral--the pastures--anywhere. Let her stray back to her native
prairies, if the creature be so inclined; she's no longer needed here."
With this speech, the young lady swept out of the _sala_, leaving the
three gentlemen, who still retained their seats by the table, to reflect
upon the satire intended to be conveyed by her words.
They were not the last to which she gave utterance in that same series.
As she glided along the corridor leading to her own chamber, others, low
murmured, mechanically escaped from her lips. They were in the shape of
interrogatories--a string of them self-asked, and only to be answered by
conjecture.
"What can papa have heard? Is it but his suspicions? Can any one have
told him? Does he knew that we have met?"