Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: "The man spoke in a sharp whisper: 'You are John
Bedford?'" Page 303]
_The_
QUEST OF THE FOUR
_A STORY OF THE COMANCHES AND
BUENA VISTA_
BY
JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER
AUTHOR OF "THE LAST OF THE CHIEFS,"
"THE YOUNG TRAILERS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON: MCMXX
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.--The Meeting of the Four
II.--The March of the Train
III.--At the Ford
IV.--On Watch
V.--The Comanche Village
VI.--The Medicine Lodge
VII.--The Great Sleep
VIII.--New Enemies
IX.--The Fiery Circle
X.--Phil's Letter
XI.--With the Army
XII.--The Pass of Angostura
XIII.--A Wind of the Desert
XIV.--Buena Vista
XV.--The Woman at the Well
XVI.--The Castle of Montevideo
XVII.--The Thread, the Key, and the Dagger
XVIII.--The Hut in the Cove
XIX.--Arenberg's Quest
XX.--The Silver Cup
XXI.--The Note of a Melody
XXII.--Breakstone's Quest
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"The man spoke in a sharp whisper: 'You are John Bedford?'" . . .
_Frontispiece_
"Putting his blanket beneath him, he lay before one of the fires"
"A black, snakelike loop fell over Bill Breakstone's head"
"The third boy from the rear stopped and listened"
THE QUEST OF THE FOUR
CHAPTER I
THE MEETING OF THE FOUR
A tall boy, dreaming dreams, was walking across the Place d'Armes in New
Orleans. It was a brilliant day in early spring, and a dazzling
sunlight fell over the city, gilding the wood or stone of the houses,
and turning the muddy current of the Mississippi into shimmering gold.
Under such a perfect blue sky, and bathed in such showers of shining
beams, New Orleans, a city of great and varied life, looked quaint,
picturesque, and beautiful.
But the boy, at that moment, thought little of the houses or people
about him. His mind roamed into the vast Southwest, over mountains,
plains, and deserts that his feet had never trod, and he sought, almost
with the power of evocation, to produce regions that he had never seen,
but which he had often heard described. He had forgotten no detail of
the stories, but, despite them, the cloud of mystery and romance
remained, calling to him all the more strongly because he had come upon
a quest the most vital of his life, a quest that must lead him into the
great unknown land.
He was not a native of New Orleans or Louisiana. Any one could have told
at a glance that the blue eyes, fair hair, and extreme whiteness of skin
did not belong to the Gulf coast. His build was that of the
Anglo-Saxon. The height, the breadth of shoulder and chest, and the
whole figure, muscled very powerfully for one so young, indicated birth
in a clime farther North--Kentucky or Virginia, perhaps. His dress,
neat and clean, showed that he was one who respected himself.
Phil Bedford passed out of the Place d'Armes, and presently came to the
levee which ran far along the great river, and which was seething with
life. New Orleans was then approaching the zenith of its glory. Many,
not foreseeing the power of the railroad, thought that the city, seated
near the mouth of the longest river of the world, into which scores of
other navigable streams drained, was destined to become the first city
of America. The whole valley of the Mississippi, unequalled in extent
and richness, must find its market here, and beyond lay the vast domain,
once Spain's, for which New Orleans would be the port of entry.
Romance, too, had seized the place. The Alamo and San Jacinto lay but a
few years behind. All the states resounded with the great story of the
Texan struggle for liberty. Everybody talked of Houston and Crockett
and Bowie and the others, and from this city most of the expeditions had
gone. New Orleans was the chief fountain from which flowed fresh
streams of men who steadily pushed the great Southwestern frontier
farther and farther into the Spanish lands.
It seemed to Phil, looking through his own fresh, young eyes, that it
was a happy crowd along the levee. The basis of the city was France and
Spain, with an American superstructure, but all the materials had been
bound into a solid fabric by their great and united defense against the
British in 1815. Now other people came, too, called by the spirit of
trade or adventure. Every nation of Europe was there, and the states,
also, sent their share. They came fast on the steamers which trailed
their black smoke down the yellow river.
The strong youth had been sad, when he came that morning from the dingy
little room in which he slept, and he had been sad when he was walking
across the Place d'Armes, but the scene was too bright and animated to
leave one so young in such a state of mind. He bought a cup of hot
coffee from one of the colored women who was selling it from immense
cans, drank it, exchanged a cheerful word or two of badinage, and, as he
turned away, he ran into a round man, short, rosy, and portly. Phil
sprang back, exclaiming:
"Your pardon, sir! It was an accident! All my fault!"
"No harm done where none iss meant," replied the stranger, speaking
excellent English, although with a German accent. It was obvious, even
without the accent, that he was of German birth. The Fatherland was
written all over his rotund figure, but he was dressed in the fashion of
the Southwest--light suit, light shoes, and a straw hat.
It was a time when chance meetings led to long friendships. On the
border, a stranger spoke to another stranger if he felt like it. One
could ask questions if he chose. Partnerships were formed on the spur
of the moment in the vast army that was made up of the children of
adventure, formality was a commodity little in demand. The German
looked rather inquiringly at the boy.
"From farther North, iss it not so?" he asked. "Answer or be silent.
Either iss your right."
Bill laughed. He liked the man's quaint manner and friendly tone, and
he replied promptly:
"I was born in Kentucky, my name is Philip Bedford, and I am alone in
New Orleans."
"Then," said the German, "you must be here for some expedition. This
iss where they start. It iss so. I can see it in your face. Come, my
young friend, no harm iss done where none iss meant."
Phil had taken no offense. He had merely started a little at the shrewd
guess. He replied frankly:
"I'm thinking of the West, Texas and maybe New Mexico, or even beyond
that--California."
"It iss a long journey to take alone," said the German, "two thousand,
three thousand miles, and not one mile of safe road. Indians, Mexicans,
buffaloes, bears, deserts, mountains, all things to keep you from
getting across."
"But I mean to go," paid Phil firmly.
The German looked at him searchingly. His interest in Phil seemed to
increase.
"Something calls you," he said.
Phil was silent.
"No harm iss done where none iss meant," the German. "You have told me
who you are, Mr. Philip Bedford, and where you come from. It iss right
that I tell you as much about myself. My name iss Hans Arenberg, and I
am a Texan."
Phil looked at him, his eyes full of unbelief, and the German laughed a
little.
"It iss so," he said. "You do not think I look like a Texan, but I am
one by way of Germany. I--I live at New Braunfels."
Arenberg's voice broke suddenly, and then Phil remembered vaguely--New
Braunfels, a settlement of German immigrants in Texas, raided by
Comanches, the men killed, and the women carried off! It was one of
those terrible incidents of the border, so numerous that the new fast
crowded the old out of place.
"You come from New Braunfels! You are one of the survivors of the
massacre!" he exclaimed.
"It iss so," said the German, his eyes growing sober, "and I, too, wish
to go far into the West. I, too, seek something, young Mr. Philip
Bedford, and my road would lie much where yours leads."
The two looked at each other with inquiry that shaded into
understanding. Arenberg was the first to speak.
"Yes, we could go together," he said. "I trust you, and you trust me.
But two are not strong enough. The chances are a thousand to one that
neither of us would find what he iss seeking. The Mexicans wish revenge
on the Texans, the Comanches raid to the outskirts of San Antonio.
Pouf! Our lives would not be worth that! It must be a strong party of
many men!"
"I believe you are right," said Phil, "but I wish to go. I wish to go
very much."
"So do I," said Arenberg. "It iss the same with both of us, but suppose
we wait. Where do you live?"
Phil no longer hesitated to confide in this chance acquaintance, and he
replied that he was staying in a house near the Convent of the Ursuline
Nuns, where a little room sheltered him and his few belongings.
"Suppose," said Arenberg, "that I join you there, and we save our
expenses. In union there iss strength. If you do not like my suggestion
say so. No harm iss done where none iss meant."
"On the contrary, I do like it," said Phil heartily. "It seems to me
that we can help each other."
"Then come," said Arenberg. "We will go first to my place, where I will
pay my own bill, take away what I have, and then we will join forces at
yours, iss it not so?"
Arenberg was staying at one of the inns that abounded in New Orleans,
and it took him only a half hour to pack and move, carrying his baggage
in his hand. Phil's room was in a large, rambling old house, built of
cypress wood, with verandas all about it. There an American widow kept
boarders, and she had plenty of them, as New Orleans was overflowing
with strangers. The room was small and bare, but it was large enough,
as Phil's baggage, too, was limited. A cot was put in for Arenberg, and
the two were at home.
The day was now drawing to a close, and the two ate supper with a
strange company in the large dining-room of the boarding house. Phil, a
close observer, noted that six languages were spoken around that more or
less hospitable board. He understood only his own, and a little French
and Spanish, but the difference in sound and intonation enabled him to
note the others. One of the men who sat opposite him was a big fellow
with glistening gold rings in his ears, evidently a West Indian of
somewhat doubtful color, but he was quiet, and ate dextrously and
skillfully with his knife. A sallow young Mexican with curling black
mustaches complained incessantly about his food, and a thin New
Englander spoke at times of the great opportunities for capital in the
Southwest.
Phil and Arenberg, who sat side by side, said little, but both watched
all the other guests with interested eyes. The one who held Phil's gaze
the longest was a smoothly shaven young man on the other side of the
table. It was the difference between him and the others that aroused
Phil's curiosity. He sat very erect, with his square shoulders thrown
back, and he never spoke, except to accept or reject the food passed by
colored girls. His eyes were blue, and his face, cut clear and strong,
betokened perception and resolve. Phil believed that he could like him,
but his attention by and by wandered elsewhere.
Philip Bedford had not felt so nearly content for many days. The making
of a new friend was a source of strength to the boy, and he felt that he
had taken a step forward in his great search. Fresh confidence flowed
like good wine into his veins. He had friendly feelings toward all
those around the table, and the room itself became picturesque. He ate
of strange dishes, French or Spanish, and liked them, careless what they
were. A mild breeze came through the open windows, and the outlines of
buildings were softened in the dusk. Within the room itself six candles
in tall candlesticks, placed at regular intervals on the table, cast a
sufficient light. Two young colored women in red calico dresses, and
with red turbans on their heads, kept off the flies and mosquitoes with
gorgeous fans of peacock feathers, which they waved gently over the
heads of the guests. Phil became deeply conscious of the South, of its
glow and its romance.
The guests, having a sufficiency of food, left the table one by one.
The young man with the smooth face was among the first to go. Phil
noticed him again and admired his figure--tall, slender, and beautifully
erect. He walked with ease and grace, and his dress of plain brown was
uncommonly neat and well fitting. "I should like to know that man," was
Phil's thought.
After dinner the boy and Arenberg sat on the veranda in the dusk, and
talked in low voices of their plans. They deemed it better to keep their
intentions to themselves. Many expeditions were fitting out in New
Orleans. Some were within the law, and some were not. Wise men talked
little of what was nearest to their hearts.
"If we go into the West--and we are going," said Phil, "we shall need
weapons--rifles, pistols."
"Time enough for that," said Arenberg. "If we have the money, we can
arm ourselves in a day. Weapons are a chief article of commerce in New
Orleans."
An hour later they went up to their room and to bed. Phil carried his
money on his person, and most of his other belongings were in a stout
leather bag or valise, which was fastened with a brass lock. It was
necessary for him to open the bag to obtain some clean linen, and as
Arenberg's back was turned he took out, also, a small paper, yellow and
worn. He opened it for the thousandth time, choked a sigh, and put it
back. As he relocked the bag and turned, he noticed that Arenberg also
had been looking at something. It seemed to be a photograph, and the
German, after returning it to his own bag, gazed absently out of the
window. His face, which at other times was obviously made for smiles
and cheeriness, was heavy with grief. A flood of sympathy rushed over
Philip Bedford. "I wonder what it is he seeks out there," the boy
thought as he looked unconsciously toward the West. But he had too much
delicacy of mind to say anything, and presently Arenberg was himself
again, speaking hopefully of their plans as they prepared for bed.
Phil slept soundly, except for one interval. Then he dreamed a dream,
and it was uncommonly vivid. He saw Hans Arenberg rise from his cot,
take from his bag the small object which was undoubtedly a photograph,
go to the window, where the moonlight fell, and look at it long and
earnestly. Presently his chest heaved, and tears ran down either cheek.
Then his head fell forward, and he dropped the photograph to his breast.
He stood in that stricken attitude for at least five minutes, then he
put the photograph back in the bag, and returned to his cot. In the
morning Phil's recollection of the dream was very vivid, but Arenberg
was cheery and bright.
The boy and the man ate breakfast together in the dining-room, a
breakfast of oranges--Phil had never seen an orange until he came to New
Orleans--cakes and butter and coffee. Only a few of the diners of the
evening before were present when they went into the room, but among them
was the young man with the shaven face and the firm chin. Phil liked
him even better in the morning light. His seemed the kindly face of a
man with a strong and decided character. Their eyes met, and the
stranger smiled and nodded. Phil smiled and nodded back. After
breakfast Phil and Arenberg went out upon the veranda. The man was
already there, smoking a cigarette.
"Fine morning," he observed easily. "One could not ask anything better
than these early spring days in New Orleans. In the North we are still
in the grasp of snow and ice."
Phil and Arenberg also sat down, as the way was now opened for
conversation.
"Then you are from the North, I suppose," said Phil.
"Yes," replied the stranger, "from the State of New York, but I am
traveling now, as you see. My name is Middleton, George Middleton."
He paused, meditatively blew a whiff of smoke from the little Spanish
cigarrito, and added:
"I'm not for long in New Orleans. I'm thinking of a journey in the
West."
"Nobody goes there unless he has a very good reason for going. Iss it
not so? No harm iss done where none iss meant," said Arenberg, in a
tone half of apology and half of inquiry.
Middleton laughed and took another puff at his cigarrito.
"Certainly no harm has been done," he replied. "You are right, also, in
saying that no one goes into the West unless he has an excellent reason.
I have such a reason. I want to look for something there."
Phil and the German exchanged glances. They, too, wished to look for
something there. So! Here was a third man seeking to embark upon the
great journey. But it was no business of theirs what he sought, however
curious they might feel about it. Phil took another look at Middleton.
Surely his was a good face, a face to inspire trust and courage.
"We wish to go across Texas and New Mexico, also," he said, "but we've
been delaying until we could form a party."
"You've two at least," said Middleton, "and you now have the chance to
make it three. Why not do so?"
"We will," said Arenberg. "It iss a case where three are company, and
two are not so much. Our firm is now Middleton, Bedford, Arenberg &
Co."
"Do not put me first," said Middleton. "We must all be on exactly the
same plane. But I hope, friends, that you trust me as much as I trust
you. I think I know truth and honesty when I see them."
"We do!" said Phil and Arenberg together and emphatically.
The three shook hands, and that single act bound them into a solemn
compact to stand by one another through all things. They did not waste
words. Then the three went into the town, walking about among the inns
and on the levee to hear the gossip of New Orleans, and to learn what
chance there was of a large party going into the West. On the way
Middleton told them of some things that he had learned. He was not
sure, but a large wagon train might start soon for Santa Fe, in the far
Mexican land of New Mexico. It was to be a trading expedition, carrying
much cloth, metal goods, and other articles of value to this, the
greatest of Mexico's outlying posts.
"It will be a numerous train," said Middleton, "perhaps too numerous, as
it may arouse the suspicion of the Mexicans. The relations of the
States and Mexico are none too good. There is trouble over Texas, and
who can tell what will happen a thousand miles in the depths of the
wilderness?"
"Nobody," said Arenberg. "Who should know better than I?"
He spoke with such sudden emphasis that Middleton opened his mouth as if
he would ask a question, but changed his mind and was silent.
"Then it is your opinion, Mr. Middleton," said Phil, "that we should
join this train?"
"If nothing better offers. All such expeditions are loosely organized.
If we should wish to leave it we can do so."
"It iss well to keep it in mind," said Arenberg. "No harm can be done
where none iss meant."
They entered a large inn kept by a Frenchman. Many men were sitting
about drinking or smoking. Middleton ordered lemonade for the three,
and they sat at a small table in the corner, observing the life of the
place. Phil's attention was presently attracted to another small table
near them, at which a single man sat. His gaze would not have lingered
there, had it not been for this man's peculiar appearance. His age
might have been thirty-five, more or less, and his figure was powerful.
His face was burned almost black by a sun that could not have been
anything but ardent, but his features and his blue eyes showed him to be
American of a fair race. His clothes were poor, and he looked
depressed. Yet the stranger was not without a certain distinction, an
air as of one who did not belong there in an inn. Something in the blue
eyes told of wild freedom and great spaces. He interested Phil more than
anybody else in the room. He felt that here was another man whom he
could like.
The talk about them drifted quite naturally upon the subject of the
West, what Texas was going to do, what Mexico was going to do, the great
trail toward the Pacific, and the prospect of trouble between the United
States and Mexico. The shabby man raised his head and showed interest.
His eyes began to glow. He was not more than three feet away, and Phil,
prompted by a sort of instinct, spoke to him.
"It seems that all eyes turn toward the West now," he said.
"Yes," replied the stranger, "and they're right. It's out there that
the great things lie."
He moved his hand with a slight but significant gesture toward the
setting sun.
"I've been there once," he said, "and I want to go back."
"A man takes his life in his hands when he travels that way," said Phil.
"I know," replied the stranger, "but I'm willing to risk it. I must go
back there. I want to look for something, something very particular."
Phil started. Here was a fourth who sought some darling wish of his
heart in that far mysterious West. He felt a strange influence. It
seemed to him a sign, or rather a command that must be obeyed. He
glanced at Middleton and Arenberg, who had been listening, and,
understanding him perfectly, they nodded.
"We three are going into the West, also, on errands of our own," said
Phil. "Why not join us? Three are good, but four are better."
"It iss a fair proposition," added Arenberg. "No harm iss done where
none iss meant."
"We make the offer," said Middleton, "because on such a journey one
needs friends. If you do not think you can trust us, as our
acquaintance is so short, say so."
The man examined them keenly, one by one. Phil, looking with equal
keenness at him, saw that, despite shabbiness of dress and despondency
of manner, he was not a common man. In truth, as he looked, the
depression seemed to be passing away. The stranger raised his head,
threw back his shoulders, and the blue eyes began to glow.
"You look all right to me," he said. "A man has got to make friends,
and if you trust me I don't see why I can't trust you. Besides, I'm
terribly anxious to go back out there, and my reason is mighty good."
"Then shall we consider it a bargain?" said Middleton.
"You may count me one of the band as long as you will have me," said the
stranger with hearty emphasis, "and I suppose I oughtn't to come in as
an unknown. My name is Breakstone, William Breakstone, though I am
always called Bill Breakstone by those who know me. Bill Breakstone
seems to run off smoother."
He smiled in the most ingratiating manner. The sudden acquisition of
friends seemed to have clothed him about with sunlight. All the others
felt that they had made no mistake.
"I'm a rover," said Bill Breakstone in round, cheerful tones. "I've
been roaming all my life, though I'm bound to say it hasn't been to much
purpose. As you see me now, I haven't got nearly enough to buy either a
rifle or a horse for this big trip on which you're asking me to go, and
on which I'm wanting to go terrible bad."
"Never mind, Mr. Breakstone--" began Middleton, but he was interrupted.
"I'm Breakstone or Bill to those that feed with me," said the new man,
"and I'm Mr. Breakstone to those that don't like me or suspect me."
"All right," said Middleton with a laugh, "it's Breakstone for the
present. By and by we may call you Bill. I was going to tell you,
Breakstone, that we four go in together. We furnish you what you need,
and later on you pay us back if you can. It's the usual thing in the
West."
"You're right, my lord," said Bill Breakstone, "and I accept. It gives
me pleasure to be enrolled in your most gallant company, and, by my
troth, I will serve you right well."
Middleton looked at him in amazement, and Bill Breakstone broke into a
mellow, infectious laugh.
"I don't talk that way all the time," he said. "It merely bursts out in
spots. You may not believe it, when you look at me, but I studied for
the stage once, and I've been an actor. Now and then the old scraps
come to the end of my tongue. All's well that end's well, and may that
be the fate of our expedition."
"Come," said Middleton, after telling his own name and that of his
friends to Breakstone, "we'll go to our quarters and make a place for
you. Phil and Arenberg are in a room together, and you shall share
mine."
"Lead on!" said Bill Breakstone.
The four left the inn. Bill Breakstone was as poor as he described
himself to be. He owned only the worn suit of clothes in which he
stood, a pistol, and a pair of saddle bags, seeming to contain some
linen, of which he took good care.
"Prithee, young sir," he said to Phil, "I would fain guard well the
little that I have, because if I lose the little that I have, then what
I have shall be nothing. Do I argue well, Sir Ivanhoe?"
"It's conclusive," said Phil. He took greatly to this man who had
become in an hour the life of their little band, a constant source of
cheerful patter that invigorated them all. Middleton bought him a new
suit of clothes, gave him some money, which he promised earnestly to
return a hundredfold, and then they went forth to inquire further into
the matter of the trading expedition for Santa Fe. But their attention
was diverted by the arrival of a large steamboat that had come all the
way from Pittsburgh loaded with passengers. A particular group among
the arrivals soon became the center of their interest.
The members of the group were Mexicans, and they were evidently people
of distinction, or, at least, position. The first among them was
middle-aged, fat, and yellow, and dressed in garments much brighter in
color than Americans wear. Indeed, as a wind somewhat chill swept over
the river, he threw around his shoulders a red serape with a magnificent
border of gold fringe. But a young man who walked by his side made no
acknowledgment to the wind. It was he whom Phil watched most. Some
people inspire us at once with hostility, and Phil had this feeling
about the stranger, who bore himself in a manner that had more than a
tinge of sneering arrogance.
The young man was obviously of the Spanish race, although his blood
might run back to Northern Spain, as he was tall and very strongly
built, and his complexion inclined to fairness, but Phil believed him to
be of Mexican birth, as he showed the shade of change that the New World
always made in the old. He wore the uniform of a captain in the Mexican
army. Mexican uniforms were not popular in the States, but he bore
himself as if he preferred the hostility of the crowd to its friendship.
His insolent gaze met Phil's for an instant, and the boy gave it back
with interest. For a few moments these two who had never met before,
who did not know the names of each other, and who might never meet
again, stared with immediate hostility. Eye plumbed the depths of eye,
but it was the Mexican who looked away first, although he let his lips
curl slightly into a gesture with which he meant to convey contempt.
Middleton had observed this silent drama of a few moments, and he said
quietly:
"You do not know, Philip, who these men are?"
"No," replied the boy, "but I should like to know."
"The stout, elderly man is Don August Xavier Hernando Zucorra y Palite,
who is at the head of a special Mexican embassy that has been at
Washington to treat with our government about the boundary of Texas--you
know there has been trouble between the States and Mexico over the Texan
boundary--and the younger is Pedro de Armijo, his nephew, and the
nephew, also, of Armijo, the governor of New Mexico, where we are
planning to go."
"I fancied from his manner," said Bill Breakstone, "that young Armijo
was the President of Old Mexico and New Mexico both. I have called you
Sir Knight, and My Lord Phil, but our young Mexican is both His Grace
and His Royal Highness. By my halidome, we are indeed proud and far
above that vile herd, the populace."
"Well, he will not bother us," said Arenberg. "If you run after trouble
you will find it coming to meet you."
Middleton watched the Mexicans with uncommon interest until they passed
out of sight. Arenberg, a shrewd and penetrating man himself, said:
"You are interested in them, Mr. Middleton?"
"I am," replied Middleton frankly, "and I know, too, that the errand of
Zucorra to Washington has been a failure. The relations of the United
States and Mexico are no better."
"But that won't keep us from going across to the Pacific, will it, Cap?"
said Bill Breakstone briskly. "You don't mind if I call you Cap, do you,
Mr. Middleton? You are, in a way, our leader, because you are most fit,
and the title seems to suit you."
"Call me Cap if you wish," replied Middleton, "but we are all on equal
terms. Now, as we have seen the Mexicans, and, as there is nothing more
here to attract us, we might go on up the levee."
"Prithee, we will suit the deed to the word," said Bill Breakstone, "but
do not run into that drunken Indian there, Phil. I would not have thy
garments soiled by contact with this degraded specimen of a race once
proud and noble."
Phil turned a little to one side to avoid the Indian of whom Breakstone
spoke. The levee was littered with freight, and the red man huddled
against a hogshead of tobacco from far Kentucky. His dress was partly
savage and partly civilized, and he was sodden with dirt and drink.
But, as Breakstone spoke, he raised his head and flashed him a look from
fiery, glowing eyes. Then his head sank back, but the single glance
made Breakstone shiver.
"I felt as if I had received a bullet," he said. "Now what did the
noble savage mean by giving me such a look? He must have understood what
I said. Ah, well, it mattereth not. He looked like a Comanche. It has
been wisely said, let the cobbler stick to his last, and there is no
last in New Orleans for Mr. Cobbler Comanche."
"You didn't suppose he understood you," said Arenberg, "and no harm iss
done where none iss meant."
Phil looked back at the Comanche, but there was nothing heroic about
him. He was huddled lower than ever against the tobacco hogshead.
Certainly there was no suggestion of the dauntless warrior, of the wild
horseman. Phil felt a curious little thrill of disappointment.
He looked in the same place the next day for the Comanche, but he did
not see him, and then, in the excitement of great preparations, he
forgot the Indian. The New Mexico expedition was about to become a fact,
and the little band of four were promptly received as members. On all
such perilous trips strong and well-armed men were welcome.
The outfit would embrace about sixty wagons and two hundred men, and the
goods they carried would be of great value. Phil and his comrades paid
for the right to put their extra supplies in one of the wagons, and then
they equipped themselves with great care. They bought four good horses,
four fine rifles, made by the famous Dickson, of Louisville, four
double-barreled pistols of long range, knives and hatchets, a large
quantity of ammunition, an extra suit apiece of stout deerskin, four
small pocket compasses, and many other things which seem trifles in a
town, but which are important in the wilderness.
It took them but a few days to make their purchases, but it was at least
three weeks before the train started. The Mexicans, meanwhile, had
stayed about a week at the chief hotel, and then had left on a steamer
for their own country. Phil heard that there had been much talk about
the high-handed manner of young Armijo, and that he had been extremely
disagreeable to all about him. The older man, Zucorra, who was milder
and more diplomatic, had sought to restrain him, but with no success.
It was a relief when they were gone.
The boy, still curious about the Comanche, looked for him once more on
the levee. More hogsheads of tobacco and sugar were there, but the
Indian was not leaning against any of them. At last he found him in one
of the inns or taverns frequented by sailors and roustabouts, a rough
place at any time, and crowded then with men from the ships and boats.
The Indian was sitting in a corner, huddled down in a chair, in much the
same attitude of sloth and indifference that he had shown when leaning
against the hogshead. Phil saw that when he stood up he would be a tall
man, and his figure, if it were not flabby, would be powerful.
Phil was intensely interested. The Indian had always appealed to his
romantic imagination, and, now that he saw one of the race close at
hand, he wished to learn more. He sat down near the man, and, not
knowing what else to say, remarked that it was a fine day. The Comanche
raised his head a little, and bent upon Phil a look like that he had
given to Breakstone. It was a piercing glance, full of anger and
hatred. Then the glowing eyes were veiled, and his head dropped back on
his arms. He did not utter a word in reply.
The innkeeper, who had noticed the brief incident, laughed.
"Don't you try to get up a conversation with Black Panther, my boy," he
said. "He ain't what you would call a pow'ful talker."
"No, I suppose he wouldn't talk anybody to death," said Phil. "What is
he?"
"He's a tame Comanche, an' he's been loafing around New Orleans for two
or three months--learnin' the white man's vices, 'specially the drinkin'
of fire water, which he keeps first on the list. You can see what it's
done for him--taken all the pith right out of him, same as you would
take it out of a length of elder to make a pop gun. I reckon New Orleans
ain't no place for an Indian. Hello, what's the matter with Black
Panther?"
The Indian uttered a short, savage exclamation that startled every one
in the place, and sprang to his feet. His long coal black hair was
thrown back from his face, and he seemed to be alive in every fiber.
The eyes were like two points of fire.
"Black Panther was a great warrior and a chief," he said. "He has been
a dog in the white man's town, and he has burned his brain with fire
water until it is like that of a little child. But he will be a great
warrior and a chief again. Now, I go."
He gathered a tattered old blanket around his shoulders, and, holding
himself erect, stalked in savage dignity out of the place.
"Now, what in thunder did he mean?" exclaimed the astonished innkeeper.
"I think he meant just what he said," replied Phil. "He is going away
from New Orleans. He certainly looked it."
So far as he knew, the assertion was true, because, as long as he
remained in the city, he neither saw nor heard anything further of the
Comanche. But the time for his own departure was soon at hand, and in
the excitement of it he forgot all about the Comanche.