THE PECCARIES.
In the middle of the clearing lay a ripped up horse, which six or eight
peccaries were rending, while a dozen others were attacking with their
tusks the stem of an enormous tree, in the topmost branches of which a
man had sought shelter.
Let us explain to our readers, who probably know little about them, what
sort of animals the peccaries are. The peccaries hold the intermediate
grade between the domestic pig and the wild boar. Although this animal
does not exceed two feet in height, and is not more than three feet long
from the end of the snout to the beginning of the tail, it is
indubitably one of the most dangerous animals in North America. The
animal's jaw is provided with tusks rather like those of the boar, but
straight and sharp, their length varying between four and six inches. In
the shape of the body it resembles a pig, but the bristles scattered
over its warty hide are in colored strips; the part nearest the skin is
white, and the point of a chocolate tinge. So soon as the animal is
enraged, these bristles stand out like the quills of a porcupine.
The movements of the peccaries are as quick and sharp as those of a
squirrel. They ordinarily live in herds of fifteen, thirty, and even
fifty. The strength of the head, neck, and shoulders is so great when
they charge, that nothing can resist the impetuosity of their attacks. A
remarkable peculiarity of this genus is the clumsy wart they have on
their backs, whence a musty fluid evaporates when the animal is in a
fury.
The peccary lives in preference on acorns, roots, wheat, sugar cane, and
reptiles of every description. It is a proved fact that the most
venomous serpents are devoured by them without their feeling in the
slightest degree incommoded.
The mode in which the peccary forms its lair is very singular. This lair
is generally in the midst of tufted and impenetrable canes, found in
marshy spots round the monarchs of the forest, which still stand like
crushed giants, with their grappling lines of creepers and virgin vines.
The trunks of these trees, which at times measure forty feet in
circumference, are nearly all hollow, and thus afford a convenient
shelter for the peccaries, which retire to them every night in herds of
twenty to twenty-five, entering the cavity one after the other
backwards; so that the last has the end of its snout placed just at the
entrance of the hole, thus watching, as it were, over the rest of its
companions.
The peccaries are unboundedly ferocious: they know not danger, or at
least despise it completely. They always attack in herds, and fight with
unequalled rage until the last succumbs, no matter the nature of their
foe.
Hence men and animals all fly a meeting with these terrible beasts: the
jaguar, so strong and redoubtable, will become their prey if it be so
imprudent as to attack them. This is the way they set about conquering
this wild beast:--
When a jaguar has wounded a peccary, the latter collect, chase it, and
pursue until they can contrive to surround the common enemy. When every
issue is closed, the jaguar, believing it can thus escape, seeks refuge
up a tree. But the peccaries do not resign the vengeance; they establish
themselves at the foot of the tree, being incessantly recruited by fresh
allies, and patiently waiting till the jaguar, driven to extremities by
hunger and thirst, decides on descending from its improvised fortress.
This is almost always sure to happen at the end of two or three days at
the most. The jaguar bounds into the midst of its enemies, which boldly
await it, and attack it bravely; a terrible fight commences; and the
tiger, after covering the ground with victims, at length succumbs
beneath the efforts of its assailants, and is ripped up by their tusks.
After what we have said, it is easy to understand how precarious was the
position of the man perched on the top of the tree, and surrounded by
peccaries. His enemies seemed determined not to leave their ground; they
craftily crept round the tree, attacked its base with their tusks, and
then recognising the inutility of their onsets, they quietly lay down by
the carcass of the horse, which they had already sacrificed to their
fury. Don Miguel felt moved to pity for the poor fellow, whose position
grew momentarily more critical; but in vain did he rack his brains how
to help the unhappy man whose destruction was assured.
To attack the peccaries would have been extreme imprudence, and have
produced no other result than that of turning on himself the fury of the
animals, while not saving the man he wished to help. Still time pressed.
What was to be done? How, without sacrificing himself, save the man who
ran so great a risk?
The Mexican hesitated for a long period. It seemed to Don Miguel
impossible to leave, without help, this man whose death was certain.
This idea, which presented itself to his mind several times, he had
energetically repulsed, so monstrous did it appear to him. At length he
resolved at all risks to attempt impossibilities in favour of this
stranger, of whose death he would have eventually accused himself had he
left him to perish in the desert.
The stranger's position was the more critical because, in his haste to
defend himself from the attacks of his enemies, he had left his rifle
fall at the foot of the tree, and was consequently unable to reduce the
number of the peccaries. In spite of their fineness of scent, the latter
had not noticed Don Miguel's approach, who, by a providential accident,
had entered the wood on the side opposite the wind. The Mexican
dismounted with a sigh, patted his horse, and then took off its
accoutrements. The noble animal, habituated to its master's caresses,
shook his head joyously, and fixed its large intelligent eyes on him.
Don Miguel could not repress another sigh: a tear fell down on his
bronzed cheeks. On the point of accomplishing the sacrifice, he
hesitated.
It was a faithful companion, almost a friend, he was about to separate
from; but the life of a man was at stake. The Mexican drove back the
feelings that agitated him, and his resolution was formed. He passed a
lasso round his horse's neck, and, in spite of its obstinate resistance,
compelled it to advance to the entrance of the clearing in which the
peccaries were assembled. A frail curtain of creepers and leaves alone
hid it from their sight. On arriving here Don Miguel stopped: he had one
more moment's hesitation, but only one; for then seizing a piece of
tinder, which he lighted, he thrust it into the poor animal's ear while
caressing it.
The effect was sudden and terrible. The horse uttered a snort of pain;
and rendered mad by the burning, bounded forward into the clearing,
striving in vain to get rid of the tinder which caused it intolerable
suffering. Don Miguel had smartly leaped aside, and now followed with an
anxious glance the result of the terrible tentative he had just made to
save the stranger. On seeing the horse appear suddenly in their midst,
the peccaries rose, formed a compact group and rushed with their heads
down in pursuit of the horse, thinking no longer of the man. The animal,
spurred on still more by the sight of its ferocious enemies, shot ahead
with the speed of an arrow, breaking down with its chest all the
obstacles in its way, and followed closely by the peccaries.
The man saved; but at what a price! Don Miguel repressed a last sigh of
regret, and leaped into the clearing. The stranger had already descended
from the tree; but the emotion he had undergone was so extreme, that he
remained seated on the ground, almost in a state of unconsciousness.
"Quick, quick!" Don Miguel said to him sharply. "We have not a moment to
lose: the peccaries may alter their minds and return."
"That is true," the stranger muttered in a hollow voice, as he cast a
terrified glance around. "Let us be off--off at once."
He made an effort over himself, seized his rifle, and rose. Through a
presentiment for which he could not account to himself, Don Miguel
experienced at the sight of this man, whom he had hitherto scarce looked
at, a feeling of invincible doubt and disgust. Owing to the life he was
obliged to lead on these frontiers, frequented by people of every
description, the hacendero had been often brought into relation with
trappers and hunters whose faces were no recommendation to them; but
never ere now had chance brought him in contact with an individual of
such sinister appearance as this one.
Still he did not allow his feelings to be seen through, and invited this
man to follow him. The latter did not let the invitation be repeated;
for he was anxious to escape from the spot where he had been so near
death. Thanks to the Mexican's acquaintance with the country, the wood
was speedily traversed, and the two men, after a walk of scarce an
hour's duration, reached the banks of the Del Norte, just opposite the
village. Their speed had been so great, their anxiety so serious, that
they had not exchanged a syllable, so terrified were they of seeing the
peccaries appear at any moment. Fortunately this was not the case, and
they reached the ford without being again disturbed.
Don Miguel was burdened with his horse's trappings, which he now threw
on the ground, and looked around him in the hope of finding someone who
would help him in crossing the river. His expectations were not
deceived; for just as they reached the ford an _arriero_ was preparing
to cross to the other side of the river with his _recca_ of mules, and,
with the generosity innate in all Mexicans, he offered to carry them
both to the Paso. The two men eagerly accepted, each mounted a mule, and
half an hour later they found themselves in safety at the village. After
giving the arriero a few reals to requite him for his services, Don
Miguel took up his horse's trappings again, and prepared to start. The
stranger stopped.
"We are about to part here, caballero," he said in a rough voice, with a
very marked English accent; "but before leaving, let me express to you
my deep gratitude for the noble and generous manner in which you saved
my life at the peril of your own."
"Sir," the Mexican simply answered, "I only did my duty in saving you.
In the desert all men are brothers, and owe each other protection. Hence
do not thank me, I beg, for a very simple action: any other in my place
would have acted as I have done."
"Perhaps so," the stranger continued; "but be kind enough, pray, to tell
me your name, so that I may know to whom I owe my life."
"That is needless," Don Miguel said with a smile. "Still, as I fancy you
are a stranger in these parts, let me give you a piece of advice."
"What is it, sir?"
"Never in future to attack the peccaries. They are terrible enemies,
only to be conquered by a strong body of men; and an individual in
attacking them commits an unpardonable folly, to which he must fall a
victim."
"Be assured, sir, that I shall profit by the lesson I have received this
day, and shall never put myself in such a wasps' nest again. I was too
near paying dearly for my imprudence. But I beg you, sir, do not let us
separate ere I know the name of my preserver."
"As you insist, sir, you shall learn it. I am Don Miguel de Zarate."
The stranger took a peculiar glance at the speaker, while repressing a
movement of surprise.
"Ah!" he said in a singular tone, "Thanks, Don Miguel Zarate. Without
knowing you personally, I was already acquainted with your name."
"That is possible," the hacendero answered; "for I am well known in
this country, where my family has been established for many a long
year."
"I, sir, am the man whom the Indians call Witchasta Joute, the Maneater,
and the hunters, my companions, Red Cedar."
And after lifting his hand to his cap in salute, this man threw his
rifle on his shoulder, turned on his heel, and went off at full speed.
Don Miguel looked after him for a while, and then walked pensively
toward the house he inhabited at el Paso. The hacendero did not suspect
that he had sacrificed his favourite horse to save the life of his most
implacable enemy.