A HUNT ON THE PRAIRIE--(_concluded_).
In the new world, when people are travelling in Indian regions, and
do not desire to be tracked by the Redskins, they must be careful to
go to the east, if their business lies in the west, and _vice versa;_
in a word, imitate the manoeuvres of a ship, which, if surprised by
a contrary wind, is obliged to tack, and thus gradually approaches
the point it wishes to reach. Marksman was too conversant with the
cleverness and craft of the Indians not to act in a similar fashion.
Although the presence of Flying Eagle was, to a certain point, a
guarantee of security, still, not knowing with what Indian tribe
accident might bring him in contact, Marksman resolved not to be
discovered by anybody, were that possible.
Fenimore Cooper, the immortal historian of the North American Indians,
has, in his excellent works, initiated us into the tricks employed
by the Tuscaroras, Mohicans, and Hurons, when they wish to foil the
researches of their enemies; but, no offence to the numerous admirers
of the sagacity of young Uncas, a magnificent type of the Delaware
nation (of which he was not, however, the last hero, for it still
exists, though sadly, diminished), the Indians of the United States are
only children, when compared with the Comanches, Apaches, Pawnees, and
other nations of the great western prairies, who may justly be regarded
as their masters in every respect. The reason is very simple, and easy
of comprehension. The northern tribes never existed in the condition
of political powers. Each of them governs itself, separately, and, to
some extent, according to its fancy. The Indians composing them rarely
ally themselves with their neighbours, and have, from time immemorial,
constantly led a nomadic life. Hence they have only possessed the
instincts (though highly developed, we grant) of men constantly
inhabiting the forests; that is to say, a marvellous agility, a great
fineness of hearing, and a miraculous length of sight--qualities, by
the way, which may be also found in the Arabs, and generally in all
wandering tribes, whatever be the nook of earth that shelters them. As
for their sagacity and skill, the wild beasts taught them, and they
only had the trouble of imitating them.
The Mexican Indians join to the advantages we have mentioned the
remains of an advanced civilization--a civilization which, since the
Conquest, has taken refuge in inaccessible lurking places, but, for all
that, no less exists. The families, or tribes, regard themselves as
the members of one great whole--the nation. Now, the American nations,
continually fighting with the Spaniards on one side, and the North
Americans on the other, have felt the necessity of doubling their
strength, in order to triumph over the two formidable enemies who
incessantly harass them, and their descendants have gradually modified
what was injurious in their manners, to appropriate those of their
oppressors, and combat them with their own weapons. They have carried
these tactics so far--which have hitherto saved them, not only from
serfdom, but also from extermination--that they are perfect masters in
trickery and cunning; their ideas have grown larger, their intelligence
has been developed, and they have ended by surpassing their enemies in
craft and diplomacy, if we may employ the expression. And this is so
true, that for the last three hundred years the latter have not only
failed in subduing, but in preventing their periodical incursions,
which the Comanches proudly call the _Mexican Moon_, and during which
they destroy everything they come across with impunity.
Can we really regard as savages these men, who, formerly driven back
by the dread of fire arms, and the sight of horses, animals of whose
existence they were ignorant, and compelled to conceal themselves in
inaccessible ravines, have yet defended their territory inch by inch,
and, in certain districts, have actually reconquered a portion of
their old estates? Better than anyone, we know that there are savages
in America, savages in the fullest sense of the term; but they have
proved a cheap conquest, and they daily disappear from the earth, for
they possess neither the necessary intelligence to understand, nor
the energy to defend themselves. These savages to whom we allude,
before being subject to the Spaniards or Anglo-Americans, were so to
the Mexicans, the Peruvians, and the Araucanos of Chili, owing to
their intellectual organization, which scarce elevates them above the
brutes. We must not confound this race of helots, who are an exception
in the genus, with the great untamed nations whose manners, necessarily
alluring, we are attempting to portray here; for in spite of the
efforts they make to withdraw themselves from its influence, that
European civilization they despise rather through the hereditary hatred
of their conquerors and the whole race generally, than from any other
motive, surrounds, crushes, and invades them on all sides. Perhaps,
before a hundred years are past, the emancipated Indians, who smile
with pity at the paltry contests going on between the phantom republic
that surrounds them, and the colossal pigmy of the United States which
menaces them, will take their rank again in the world, and raise their
heads proudly; and that will be just, for they are heroic natures,
richly endowed, and capable, under good direction, of undertaking or
carrying out great things. In Mexico itself, since the period when that
country proclaimed its so-called independence, all the eminent men who
have risen either in arts, diplomacy, or war, belong to the pure Indian
race. In support of our statement, we will cite a fact of immense
significance:--The best history of southern America, published up to
this day, was written by an Inca, Garcillasso de la Vega. Is not this
conclusive? is it not time to condemn all those systematically absurd
theories which insist on representing the red family as a bastard race,
incapable of amelioration, and fatally destined to disappear?
Ending here this digression, which is perhaps, too lengthy, but is
indispensable for the due comprehension of the facts that follow, we
will take up our narrative again, at the point where we broke it off.
After a march of three hours, rendered fatiguing and difficult by the
lofty grass, the adventurers reached the skirt of the forest. About
midnight, Marksman, after allowing his comrades two hours' rest,
started again. At sunrise they reached a species of canyon, or narrow
gorge, formed by two walls of perpendicular rocks, and were constrained
to march for four hours in the bed of a half dried-up torrent, in which
their footsteps fortunately left no mark. During several days their
journey over abrupt and desolate mountains was effected with great
toil, but did not offer any incident worthy of narration. At length
they found themselves again in the region of the _tierras calientes_;
the verdure reappeared, and the heat became sensible. Hence the
adventurers, who had suffered extremely from the cold in the lofty
regions of the Serranía, experienced a feeling of marked comfort on
inhaling the gentle and perfumed atmosphere, in contemplating the azure
sky and dazzling sun which had now taken the place of a grey and leaden
sky, and the limited, fog-laden horizon, which they had left behind
them. Toward the end of the fourth day after leaving the mountains,
Marksman uttered a shout of satisfaction, on noticing the skirt of
the immense virgin forest, toward which he was marching, rise in the
distant azure of the prairie. "Courage, my friends!" he said; "we shall
soon obtain the shadow and freshness lacking here."
The adventurers, without replying, hurried their steps, like men who
perfectly appreciated the value of the promise made them. Night had
completely set in, when they reached the banks of a rather high river,
whose vicinity the tall grass had concealed from them, although for
some minutes they had heard the continued rustling of the water over
the pebbles. Marksman resolved to wait till the next day, and look for
a ford. The party camped, but the fire was prudently not lighted. The
adventurers wrapped themselves in their zarapés, after taking a scanty
meal, and soon fell asleep. Marksman alone watched. Gradually the moon
sunk on the horizon: the stars began to dim and go out in the depths of
the sky. The hunter, whose eyes fatigue closed against his will, was
about to yield to sleep, when suddenly a strange and unexpected sound
made him start. He drew himself up, as if he had received an electric
shock, and listened. A slight rustling agitated the reeds that bordered
the river, whose calm and motionless waters resembled a long silvery
ribbon. There was not a breath of air. The hunter laid his hand on
Flying Eagle's shoulder; the latter opened his eyes, and gazed at him.
"The Indians," Marksman muttered in the Chief's ear. Then, crawling on
his hands and knees, he glided down the slope, and entered the water.
Then he looked around him. The moon shed sufficient light to let him
survey the country for a long distance, but, in spite of the attention
he devoted, he could see nothing. All was calm; but he waited with eye
fixed, and ear on the watch. Half an hour passed, and the sound which
had aroused him was not repeated. However closely he listened, no sound
arose to disturb the silence of night. Still Marksman felt certain he
was not mistaken. In the desert all sounds have a cause, a reason; the
hunters know them, and can distinguish them, being never deceived as
to their nature. The hunter was immersed, however, in the water up to
his waist belt. In America, if the heat of the day is stifling, the
nights, to make up for it, are excessively fresh, and Marksman felt an
icy coldness invading his whole body. Tired of waiting, and believing
that he was deceived, he was at length preparing to return to the bank,
when, at the moment he was preparing to carry out his design, a hard
body struck his chest.
He looked down, and instinctively thrust out his hands. He stifled a
cry of surprise; what had touched him was the side of a canoe, gliding
noiselessly through the reeds, which it parted in its passage. This
canoe, like all the Indian boats in these parts, was made of birch
bark, detached from the tree by means of boiling water. Marksman
examined the canoe, which seemed to be moving without the assistance of
any human being, and rather drifting with the current than proceeding
in a straight line. Still one thing astonished the Canadian: the canoe
was moving without the slightest oscillation. Evidently an invisible
being, probably an Indian, was directing it, but where was he? Was
he alone? This it was impossible to guess. The Canadian's anxiety
was extreme; he did not dare make the slightest move, through fear
of imprudently revealing his presence. And yet the canoe was moving
on. Resolved to know how it was, Marksman gently drew his knife, and,
holding his breath, bent down in the river, and only let the top of
his face emerge from the water. What he expected happened: in a moment
he saw the eyes of an Indian, who was swimming behind the canoe, and
pushing it with his arm, sparkle in the gloom like two live coals.
The Redskin held his face on a level with the water, and was looking
searchingly around him. The Canadian recognized an Apache. Suddenly
the stranger's eyes were fixed on the hunter. The latter; judged that
the time had arrived, and bounding with the suppleness and speed of a
jaguar, he seized his enemy by the throat; giving him no time to utter
a cry of alarm, he buried his knife in his heart. The Apache's face
turned black; his eyes were dilated; he struck the water for a moment
with his legs and arms; but soon his limbs stiffened, a convulsion
passed over his body, and the current bore him away, leaving behind a
slight reddish trace. He was dead. The Canadian, without the loss of a
moment, clambered into the canoe, and, holding on to the reeds, looked
across to the spot where he had left his comrades. The latter, warned
by Flying Eagle, had cautiously come up, bringing with them the rifle
left by the hunter on the bank.
So soon as they were together again, they freed the canoe from the
reeds that barred its passage, and, by Marksman's advice, after
embarking, and turning the canoe into the current, they lay down
in the bottom. For some time they had been gliding along gently,
believing themselves hidden from the invisible enemies they supposed
to be concealed around them, when suddenly a terrible clamour broke
out, like a thunderclap. The body of the Apache killed by Marksman,
after following the current for some distance, had stopped in some
grass and dead leaves, exactly opposite an Indian camp, near which
the adventurers had passed a few hours previously, not suspecting its
presence. At the sight of their brother's corpse, the Redskins uttered
the formidable howl of grief we mentioned, and rushed tumultuously
toward the bank, pointing to the canoe.
Marksman, seeing himself discovered, seized the paddles, and, aided by
Flying Eagle and Domingo, he was in a few minutes out of range. The
Apaches, furious at this flight, and not knowing with whom they had
to deal, overwhelmed their enemies with all the insults the Indian
tongue could supply, calling them hares, ducks, dogs, owls, and other
epithets, borrowed from the nomenclature of the animals they hate or
despise. The hunter and his companions did not trouble themselves about
these impotent insults; they began paddling vigorously, which soon
restored the circulation in their limbs.
The Indians then changed their tactics; several long-barbed arrows were
shot at the canoe, and several shots were even discharged; but the
distance was too great, and the water was only dashed up by the bullets.
Thus the night passed.
The adventurers paddled eagerly; for they had noticed that the river,
owing to its countless bends, was visibly drawing nearer to the forest
they had so much interest in reaching. Still, believing that they no
longer had anything to fear from their enemies, they laid down the
paddles for a few moments, to rest, and take a little food.
The day rose while they were thus engaged, and a magnificent landscape
was unfolded before the dazzled eyes of the adventurers. "Oh!" Flying
Eagle exclaimed, with an expression of surprise.
"What is the matter?" Marksman answered at once, who understood that
the Chief had noticed something out of the common.
"Look!" the Comanche said, emphatically, holding his arm out in the
direction they had come during the night.
"_Virtudieu!_" the Canadian shouted. "Two canoes in pursuit of us. Oh,
oh! we must make a fight of it."
"_Cuerpo del Cristo!_" Domingo said, in his turn, with a bound, which
almost upset the frail boat.
"What is the matter now?"
"Look!"
"A thousand demons!" the hunter exclaimed. "We are beset."
In fact, two canoes were rapidly coming up in the rear of the
adventurers, while two others, starting from, the opposite sides of
the river, were pulling ahead of them, with the evident intention of
barring their passage, and cutting off their retreat.
"_Voto a Dios!_ these Redskins want to make us dance a singular
_jaleo_" Domingo muttered. "What do you say, old hunter?"
"Good, good!" Marksman replied gaily; "we'll find the music. Attention,
comrades, and redouble your energy."
At a sign from him, all the men took up paddles, and gave such an
impetus to their canoe, that it seemed to fly over the water. The
situation was becoming critical for the whites. Marksman, upright, and
leaning on his rifle, coldly calculated the chances of this inevitable
rencontre. He did not fear the boats in pursuit, for they were at too
great a distance behind, to hope to catch him; all his attention was
concentrated on those in front, between which he must pass. Each stroke
of the paddle diminished the distance which separated the white men
from the Redskins. The hostile canoes, as far as could be judged from
a distance, seemed overloaded, and only advanced with some difficulty.
Marksman had judged the situation with an infallible glance, and formed
one of those daring resolutions, to which he owed the reputation he
enjoyed, and which resolution could alone save him and his friends, in
these critical circumstances.