THE SACHEM OF THE CORAS.
A few days after the events we have described in the previous chapter
there was one of those lovely mornings which are not accorded to our
cold climates to know. The sun poured down in profusion its warm beams,
which caused the pebbles and sand to glisten in the walks of the garden
of the Hacienda de la Noria. In a clump of flowering orange and lemon
trees, whose sweet exhalations perfumed the air, and beneath a copse of
cactus, nopals, and aloes, a maiden was asleep, carelessly reclining in
a hammock made of the thread of the _Phormium tenax,_ which hung between
two orange trees.
With her head thrown back, her long black hair unfastened, and falling
in disorder on her neck and bosom; with her coral lips parted, and
displaying the dazzling pearl of her teeth, Doña Clara (for it was she
who slept thus with an infantile slumber) was really charming. Her
features breathed happiness, for not a cloud had yet arisen to perturb
the azure horizon of her calm and tranquil life.
It was nearly midday: there was not a breath in the air. The sunbeams,
pouring down vertically, rendered the heat so stifling and
unsupportable, that everyone in the hacienda had yielded to sleep, and
was enjoying what is generally called in hot countries the _siesta._
Still, at a short distance from the spot where Doña Clara reposed, calm
and smiling, a sound of footsteps, at first almost imperceptible, but
gradually heightening, was heard, and a man made his appearance. It was
Shaw, the youngest of the squatter's sons. How was he at this spot?
The young man was panting, and the perspiration poured down his cheeks.
On reaching the entrance of the clump he bent an anxious glance on the
hammock.
"She is there," he murmured with a passionate accent. "She sleeps."
Then he fell on his knees upon the sand, and began admiring the maiden,
dumb and trembling. He remained thus a long time, with his glance fixed
on the slumberer with a strange expression. At length he uttered a sigh
and tearing himself with an effort from this delicious contemplation, he
rose sadly, muttering in a whisper,--
"I must go--if she were to wake--oh, she will never know how much I love
her!"
He plucked an orange flower, and softly laid it on the maiden; then he
walked a few steps from her, but almost immediately returning, he
seized, with a nervous hand, Doña Clara's _rebozo,_ which hung down from
the hammock, and pressed it to his lips several times, saying, in a
voice broken by the emotion he felt,--
"It has touched her hair."
And rushing from the thicket, he crossed the garden and disappeared. He
had heard footsteps approaching. In fact, a few seconds after his
departure, Don Miguel, in his turn, entered the copse.
"Come, come," he said gaily, as he shook the hammock, "sleeper, will you
not have finished your siesta soon?"
Doña Clara opened her eyes, with a smile.
"I am no longer asleep, father," she said.
"Very good. That is the answer I like."
And he stepped forward to kiss her; but, with sudden movement, the
maiden drew herself back as if she had seen some frightful vision, and
her face was covered with a livid pallor.
"What is the matter with you?" the hacendero exclaimed with terror.
The girl showed him the orange flower.
"Well," her father continued, "what is there so terrific in that flower?
It must have fallen from the tree during your sleep."
Doña Clara shook her head sadly.
"No," she said: "for some days past I have always noticed, on waking a
similar flower thrown on me."
"You are absurd; chance alone is to blame for it all. Come, think no
more about it; you are pale as death, child. Why frighten yourself thus
about a trifle? Besides the remedy may be easily found. If so afraid of
flowers now, why not take your siesta in your bedroom, instead of
burying yourself in this thicket?"
"That is true, father," the girl said, all joyous, and no longer
thinking of the fear she had undergone. "I will follow your advice."
"Come, that is settled, so say no more about it. Now give me a kiss."
The maiden threw herself into her father's arms, whom she stifled with
kisses. Both sat down on a grassy mound, and commenced one of those
delicious chit-chats whose charm only those who are parents can properly
appreciate. Presently a peon came up.
"What has brought you?" Don Miguel asked.
"Excellency," the peon answered, "a redskin warrior has just arrived at
the hacienda, who desires speech with you."
"Do you know him?" Don Miguel asked.
"Yes, Excellency; it is Eagle-wing, the sachem of the Coras of the Rio
San Pedro."
"Mookapec! (Flying Eagle)" the hacendero repeated with surprise. "What
can have brought him to me? Lead him here."
The peon retired and in a few minutes returned, preceding Eagle-wing.
The chief had donned the great war-dress of the sachems of his nation.
His hair, plaited with the skin of a rattlesnake, was drawn up on the
top of his head; in the centre an eagle plume was affixed. A blouse of
striped calico, adorned with a profusion of bells, descended to his
thighs, which were defended from the stings of mosquitoes by drawers of
the same stuff. He wore moccasins made of peccary skin, adorned with
glass beads and porcupine quills. To his heels were fastened several
wolves' tails, the distinguishing mark of renowned warriors. Round his
loins was a belt of elk hide, through which passed his knife, his pipe
and his medicine bag. His neck was adorned by a collar of grizzly bear
claws and buffalo teeth. Finally, a magnificent robe of a white female
buffalo hide, painted red inside, was fastened to his shoulders, and
fell down behind him like a cloak. In his right hand he held a fan
formed of a single eagle's wing, and in his left hand an American rifle.
There was something imposing and singularly martial in the appearance
and demeanor of this savage child of the forest.
On entering the thicket, he bowed gracefully to Doña Clara, and then
stood motionless and dumb before Don Miguel. The Mexican regarded him
attentively, and saw an expression of gloomy melancholy spread over the
Indian chief's features.
"My brother is welcome," the hacendero said to him. "To what do I owe
the pleasure of seeing him?"
The chief cast a side glance at the maiden. Don Miguel understood what
he desired, and made Doña Clara a sign to withdraw. They remained alone.
"My brother can speak," the hacendero then said; "the ears of a friend
are open."
"Yes, my father is good," the chief replied in his guttural voice. "He
loves the Indians: unhappily all the palefaces do not resemble him."
"What does my brother mean? Has he cause to complain of anyone?"
The Indian smiled sadly.
"Where is there justice for the redskins?" he said. "The Indians are
animals: the Great Spirit has not given them a soul, as He has done for
the palefaces, and it is not a crime to kill them."
"Come, chief, pray do not speak longer in riddles, but explain why you
have quitted your tribe. It is far from Rio San Pedro to this place."
"Mookapec is alone: his tribe no longer exists."
"How?"
"The palefaces came in the night, like jaguars without courage. They
burned the village, and massacred all the inhabitants, even to the women
and little children."
"Oh, that is frightful!" the hacendero murmured, in horror.
"Ah!" the chief continued with an accent full of terrible irony, "The
scalps of the redskins are sold dearly."
"And do you know the men who committed this atrocious crime?"
"Mookapec knows them, and will avenge himself."
"Tell me their chief, if you know his name."
"I know it. The palefaces call him Red Cedar, the Indians the Maneater."
"Oh! As for him, chief, you are avenged, for he is dead."
"My father is mistaken."
"How so? Why, I killed him myself."
The Indian shook his head.
"Red Cedar has a hard life," he said: "the blade of the knife my father
used was too short. Red Cedar is wounded, but in a few days he will be
about again, ready to kill and scalp the Indians."
This news startled the hacendero: the enemy he fancied he had got rid
of still lived, and he would have to begin a fresh struggle.
"My father must take care," the chief continued. "Red Cedar has sworn to
be avenged."
"Oh! I will not leave him the time. This man is a demon, of whom the
earth must be purged at all hazards, before his strength has returned,
and he begins his assassinations again."
"I will aid my father in his vengeance."
"Thanks, chief. I do not refuse your offer: perhaps I shall soon need
the help of all my friends. And now, what do you purpose doing?"
"Since the palefaces reject him, Eagle-wing will retire to the desert.
He has friends among the Comanches. They are redskins, and will welcome
him gladly."
"I will not strive to combat your determination, chief, for it is just;
and if, at a later date, you take terrible reprisals on the white men,
they will have no cause of complaint, for they have brought it on
themselves. When does my brother start?"
"At sunset."
"Rest here today: tomorrow will be soon enough to set out."
"Mookapec must depart this day."
"Act as you think proper. Have you a horse?"
"No; but at the first manada I come to I will lasso one."
"I do not wish you to set out thus, but will give you a horse."
"Thanks; my father is good. The Indian chief will remember--"
"Come, you shall choose for yourself."
"I have still a few words to say to my father."
"Speak, chief; I am listening to you."
"Koutonepi, the pale hunter, begged me to give my father an important
warning."
"What is it?"
"A great danger threatens my father. Koutonepi wishes to see him as soon
as possible, in order himself to tell him its nature."
"Good! My brother will tell the hunter that I shall be tomorrow at the
'clearing of the shattered oak,' and await him there till night."
"I will faithfully repeat my father's words to the hunter."
The two men then quitted the garden, and hurriedly proceeded toward the
hacienda. Don Miguel let the chief choose his own horse, and while the
sachem was harnessing his steed in the Indian fashion, he withdrew to
his bedroom, and sent for his son to join him. The young man had
perfectly recovered from his wound. His father told him that he was
obliged to absent himself for some days: he intrusted to him the
management of the hacienda, while recommending him on no consideration
to leave the farm, and to watch attentively over his sister. The young
man promised him all he wished, happy at enjoying perfect liberty for a
few days.
After embracing his son and daughter for the last time Don Miguel
proceeded to the _patio_, where in the meanwhile, the chief had been
amusing himself by making the magnificent horse he had chosen curvet.
Don Miguel admired for several moments the Indian's skill and grace, for
he managed a horse as well as the first Mexican _jinete;_ then mounted,
and the two men proceeded together toward the Paso del Norte, which they
must cross in order to enter the desert, and reach the clearing of the
shattered oak.
The journey passed in silence, for the two men were deeply reflecting.
At the moment they entered Paso the sun was setting on the horizon in a
bed of red mist, which foreboded a storm for the night. At the entrance
of the village they separated; and on the morrow, as we have seen in our
first chapter, Don Miguel set out at daybreak, and galloped to the
clearing.
We will now end this lengthy parenthesis, which was, however,
indispensable for the due comprehension of the facts that are about to
follow, and take up our story again at the point where we left it.