THE INDIAN SCOUT.
A Story of the Aztec City
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD,
AUTHOR OF "PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES," "TRAPPER'S BRIDE,"
"PRAIRIE FLOWER," ETC.
LONDON:
WARD AND LOCK,
158, FLEET STREET.
MDCCCLXI.
PREFACE.
The following work has been the most successful of all Gustave Aimard
has published in Paris, and it has run through an unparalleled number
of Editions. This is not surprising, however, when we bear in mind that
he describes in it his personal experiences in the Indian Aztec city,
from which no European ever returned prior to him, to tell the tale of
his adventures. From this volume we learn to regard the Indians from a
very different side than the one hitherto taken; for it is evident that
they are something more than savages, and possess their traditions just
as much as any nation of the Old World. At the present moment, when
the Redskins appear destined to play an important part in the American
struggle, I think that such knowledge as our Author is enabled alone to
give us about their manners and customs, will be read with interest.
L. W.
CONTENTS.
I. THE SURPRISE
II. THE GUEST
III. A NIGHT CONFERENCE
IV. INDIANS AND HUNTERS
V. MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS
VI. A DARK HISTORY
VII. A DARK HISTORY CONTINUED
VIII. A DARK HISTORY CONCLUDED
IX. BRIGHTEYE AND MARKSMAN
X. FRESH CHARACTERS
XI. THE FORD OF THE RUBIO
XII. DON STEFANO COHECHO
XIII. THE AMBUSCADE
XIV. THE TRAVELLERS
XV. RECALLED TO LIFE
XVI. THE SEARCH AFTER TRUTH
XVII. DON MARIANO
XVIII. BEFORE THE TRIAL
XIX. FACE TO FACE
XX. THE JUDGMENT
XXI. BRIGHTEYE
XXII. THE CAMP
XXIII. FLYING EAGLE
XXIV. QUIEPAA TANI
XXV. A TRIO OF VILLAINS
XXVI. A HUNT ON THE PRAIRIE
XXVII. A HUNT ON THE PRAIRIE CONCLUDED
XXVIII. REDSKINS AND WHITE
XXIX. THE COUNCIL
XXX. THE SECOND DETACHMENT
XXXI. THE TLACATEOTZIN
XXXII. THE FIRST WALK IN THE CITY
XXXIII. EXPLANATORY
XXXIV. CONVERSATIONAL
XXXV. THE INTERVIEW
XXXVI. A MEETING
XXXVII. COMPLICATIONS
XXXVIII. A WALK IN THE DARK
XXXIX. THE GREAT MEDICINE
XL. THE FINAL STRUGGLE
THE EPILOGUE
THE INDIAN SCOUT.
CHAPTER I.
THE SURPRISE.
It was towards the end of May, 1855, in one of the least visited parts
of the immense prairies of the Far West, and at a short distance from
the Rio Colorado del Norte, which the Indian tribes of those districts
call, in their language so full of imagery, "The endless river with the
golden waves."
The night was profoundly dark. The moon, which had proceeded two-thirds
of its course, displayed between the lofty branches of the trees her
pallid face; and the scanty rays of vacillating light scarce brought
out the outlines of the abrupt and stern scenery. There was not a
breath in the air, not a star in the sky. A silence of death brooded
over the desert--a silence only interrupted, at long intervals, by the
sharp barking of the coyotes in search of prey, or the savage miaulings
of the panthers and jaguars at the watering place.
During the darkness, the great American savannahs, on which no human
sound troubles the majesty of night, assume, beneath the eye of heaven,
an imposing splendour, which unconsciously affects the heart of the
strongest man, and imbues him involuntarily with a feeling of religious
respect.
All at once the closely growing branches of a floripondio were
cautiously parted, and in the space thus left appeared the anxious
head of a man, whose eyes, flashing like those of a wild beast, darted
restless glances in every direction. After a few seconds of perfect
immobility, the man of whom we speak left the clump of trees in the
midst of which he was concealed, and leaped out on the plain.
Although his bronzed complexion had assumed almost a brick colour,
still, from his hunting garb, and, above all, the light colour of
his long hair, and his bold, frank, and sharply-marked features, it
was easy to recognise in this man one of those daring Canadian wood
rangers, whose bold race is daily expiring, and will probably disappear
ere long.
He walked a few paces, with the barrel of his rifle thrust forward,
and his finger on the trigger, minutely inspecting the thickets and
numberless bushes that surrounded him; then, probably reassured by the
silence and solitude that--continued to prevail around, he stopped,
rested the butt of his rifle on the ground, bent forward, and imitated,
with rare perfection, the song of the centzontle, the American
nightingale.
Scarce had the last modulation of this song, which was gentle as a love
sigh, died away in the air, when a second person bounded forward from
the same shrub which had already offered passage to the hunter. It was
an Indian; he stationed himself by the Canadian's side, and, after
a few seconds' silence, said, affecting a tranquillity probably not
responded to by his heart,--"Well?"
"All is calm," the hunter answered. "The _Cihuatl_ can come."
The Indian shook his head.
"Since the rising of the moon, Mahchsi Karehde has been separated from
Eglantine; he knows not where she is at this moment."
A kindly smile played round the hunter's lips.
"Eglantine loves my brother," he said, gently. "The little bird that
sings in her heart will have led her on the trail of the Chief. Has
Mahchsi Karehde forgotten the song with which he called her to his love
meetings in the tribe?"
"The Chief has forgotten nothing."
"Let him call her then."
The Indian did not let the invitation be repeated. The cry of the
walkon rose in the silence.
At the same moment a rustling was heard in the branches, and a young
woman, bounding like a startled fawn, fell panting into the warrior's
arms, which were opened to receive her. This pressure was no longer
than a flash of lightning; the Chief, doubtlessly ashamed of the tender
emotion he had yielded to in the presence of a white man, even though
that white man was a friend, coldly repulsed the young female, saying
to her, in a voice in which no trace of feeling was visible, "My sister
is fatigued, without doubt; no danger menaces her at this moment; she
can sleep; the warriors will watch over her."
"Eglantine is a Comanche maid," she answered in a timid voice. "Her
heart is strong; she will obey Mahchsi Karehde (the Flying Eagle).
Under the protection of so terrible a chief she knows herself in
safety."
The Indian bent on her a glance full of indescribable tenderness; but
regaining, almost immediately, that apparent apathy which the Redskins
never depart from, "The warriors wish to hold a council; my sister can
sleep," he said.
The young woman made no reply; she bowed respectfully to the two men,
and withdrawing a few paces, she lay down in the grass, and slept, or
feigned to sleep. The Canadian had contented himself with smiling, on
seeing the result obtained by the advice he had given the warrior, and
listened, with an approving nod of the head, to the few words exchanged
between the Redskins. The Chief, buried in thought, stood for a few
minutes with his eyes fixed, with a strange expression, on the young,
sleeping woman; then he passed his hand several times over his brow, as
if to dissipate the clouds that oppressed his mind, and turned to the
hunter.
"My brother, the Paleface, has need of rest. The Chief will watch," he
said.
"The coyotes have ceased barking, the moon has disappeared, a white
streak is rising on the horizon," the Canadian replied. "Day will
speedily appear; sleep has fled my eyelids; the men must hold a
council."
The Indian bowed, without further remark, and, laying his gun on the
ground, collected a few armfuls of dry wood, which he carried near
the sleeper. The Canadian struck a light; the wood soon caught, and
the flame coloured the trees with its blood red hue. The two men then
squatted by each other's side, filled their calumets with _manachie_,
the sacred tobacco, and commenced smoking silently, with that imposing
gravity which the Indians, under all circumstances, bring to this
symbolic operation.
We will profit by this moment of rest, which accident offers us, to
draw a portrait of these three persons, who are destined to play an
important part in the course of our story.
The Canadian was a man of about forty-five years of age, six feet in
height, long, thin, and dry; his was a nervous nature, composed of
muscle and sinews, perfectly adapted to the rude profession of wood
ranger, which demands a vigour and boldness beyond all expression.
Like all his countrymen, the Canadian offered, in his features, the
Norman type in its thorough purity. His wide forehead; his grey eyes,
full of intelligence; his slightly aquiline nose; his large mouth,
full of magnificent teeth; the long light hair, mingled with a few
silvery threads which escaped from under his otter skin cap, and fell
in enormous ringlets on his shoulders,--all these details gave this man
an open, frank, and honest appearance, which attracted sympathy, and
pleased at the first glance. This worthy, giant, whose real name was
Bonnaire, but who was only known on the prairies by the sobriquet of
Marksman, a sobriquet which he fully justified by the correctness of
his aim, and his skill in detecting the lurking places of wild beasts,
was born in the vicinity of Montreal; but having been taken, while very
young, into the forests of Upper Canada, desert life possessed such
charms for him, that he had given up civilized society, and for nearly
thirty years had traversed the vast solitudes of North America, only
consenting to visit the towns and villages when he wanted to dispose
of the skins of the animals he had killed, or renew his provision of
powder and bullets.
Marksman's companion, Flying Eagle, was one of the most renowned chiefs
of the tribe of the White Buffaloes, the most powerful of all forming
the warlike Comanche race, that untameable and ferocious nation, which,
in its immeasurable pride, haughtily terms itself the Queen of the
Prairies, a title which no other tribe dares to challenge. Flying
Eagle, though still very young, for he was scarcely four-and-twenty,
had already distinguished himself, on several occasions, by deeds of
such unheard-of boldness and temerity, that his mere name inspired the
countless Indian hordes that constantly traverse the desert in every
direction, with invincible terror.
He was tall, well built, and perfectly proportioned; his features were
elegant, and his black eyes acquired, beneath the influence of any
powerful emotion, that strange rigidity which commands respect; his
gestures were noble, and his carriage graceful, and stamped with that
majesty inborn in Indians. The Chief was attired in his war dress, and
that was so singular, as to deserve a detailed description.
Flying Eagle wore the cap which only distinguished warriors, who have
killed many warriors, have the right to assume; it is made of strips
of white ermine, with a large piece of red cloth fastened at the back,
and falling to the thigh, to which is fastened an upright crest of
black and white eagle plumes, which begins at the head, and continues
in close order to the extremity. Above his right ear he had passed
through his hair a wooden knife, painted red, and about the length
of a hand; this knife was the model of one with which he had killed
a Dacotah chief; he wore, in addition, eight small wooden skewers,
painted blue, and adorned at the upper extremity with a gilt nail, to
indicate the number of bullets that had wounded him; over his left ear
he wore a large tuft of yellow owl feathers, with the ends painted
red, as the totem of the Band of Dogs; one half his face was red, and
his body reddish brown, with stripes from which the colour had been
removed by a moistened finger. His arms, starting from the shoulder,
were adorned with twenty-seven yellow stripes, indicating the number
of his exploits, while on his chest he had painted a blue hand, to
announce that he had frequently made prisoners. Round his neck he wore
a magnificent collar of grizzly bear's claws, three inches in length,
and white at the point. His shoulders were covered by a large buffalo
robe, falling almost to the ground, and painted of various colours.
His breeches, composed of two separate parts, one for each leg, were
tightly fastened to his waist belt, and fell almost to his ankles,
embroidered externally with coloured porcupine quills, terminating in a
long tuft that trailed on the ground. Wide stripes of black and white
cloth were rolled round his hips, and fell before and behind in heavy
folds. His slippers, of buffalo hide, were but slightly decorated;
but wolf tails, trailing on the ground behind him, and equalling in
number the enemies he had conquered, were fastened above his ankles.
From his waist belt hung, on one side, his powder flask, ball pouch,
and scalping knife: on the other, a quiver of panther skin filled with
long, sharp arrows, and his tomahawk; his gun was laid on the ground,
within reach of his hand.
This warrior, dressed in such a strange costume, had something imposing
and sinister about him which inspired terror.
For the present we will confine ourselves to saying that Eglantine was
not more than fifteen years of age; that she was very beautiful for an
Indian girl; and wore, in all its elegant simplicity, the sweet costume
adopted by the women of her nation. Ending here this description, which
was perhaps too detailed, but which was necessary in order to know the
men we have introduced in the scene, we will return to our narrative.
For a long time the two men smoked side by side without exchanging a
syllable; at length, the Canadian shook out the ashes of his pipe on
his thumb nail, and addressed his companion.
"Is my brother satisfied?" he said.
"Wah!" the Indian answered, and bowing assent; "my brother has a
friend."
"Good!" the hunter continued; "and what will the Chief do now?"
"Flying Eagle will rejoin his tribe with Eglantine, and then return to
seek the Apache trail."
"For what purpose?"
"Flying Eagle will avenge himself."
"As you please, Chief. I will certainly not try to dissuade you from
projects against enemies who are also mine; still, I do not believe you
look at the matter in the right light."
"What would my brother the Paleface warrior say?"
"I mean that we are far from the lodges of the Comanches, and before
reaching them we shall have doubtlessly more than one turn-up with
the enemies from whom the Chief considers himself freed, perhaps, too
prematurely."
The Indian shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"The Apaches are old women, chattering, and cowardly," he said. "Flying
Eagle despises them."
"That is possible," the hunter replied, with a toss of his head;
"still, in my opinion, we should have done better in continuing our
journey till sunrise, in order to put a greater distance between them
and us, instead of halting so imprudently; we are still very near the
camp of our enemies."
"The fire water has stopped the ears and closed the eyes of the Apache
dogs; they are stretched on the ground and sleeping."
"Hum! that is not my opinion; I am, on the contrary, persuaded that
they are watching and looking for us."
At the same instant, as if chance wished to justify the apprehensions
of the prudent hunter, some dozen shots were fired; a horrible war
cry, to which the Canadian and the Comanche responded, with a yell of
defiance, was heard in the forest, and nearly thirty Indians rushed
howling toward the fire, at which our three characters were seated; but
the latter had disappeared, as if by enchantment.
The Apaches stopped with an outburst of passion, not knowing in what
direction to turn, in order to find their crafty foes again. Suddenly
three shots were fired from the interior of the forest, and three
Apaches rolled on the ground, with holes in their chests. The Indians
uttered a yell of fury, and rushed in the direction of the shots. At
the moment they reached the edge of the forest, a man stepped forward,
waving in his right hand a buffalo robe, as a signal of peace. It was
Marksman, the Canadian.
The Apaches stopped with an ill-omened hesitation, but the Canadian,
without seeming to notice the movement, walked resolutely toward them
with the slow and careless step habitual to him; on recognizing him,
the Indians brandished their weapons wrathfully, and wished to rush
upon him, for they had many reasons for hating the hunter; but their
Chief arrested them with a peremptory gesture.
"Let my brothers be patient," he said, with a sinister smile, "they
will lose nothing by waiting."