THE PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES
ADVENTURES IN THE AMERICAN DESERT,
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD
AUTHOR OF "THE TRAIL HUNTER," "THE TIGER SLAYER," "THE INDIAN CHIEF," ETC.
LONDON
WARD AND LOCK
158, FLEET STREET
MDCCCLXII
PREFACE
The present is the second of the series of Indian tales, commencing with
the "Trail-Hunter," and which will be completed in one more volume,
entitled the "Trapper's Daughter." It must be understood, however, that
each of these volumes is complete in itself, although the characters
already introduced to the reader are brought on the stage again, and
continue their surprising adventures through succeeding works. For this,
Gustave Aimard can quote the example of his predecessor, Fenimore
Cooper, whose "Deer Slayer," appears in a long succession of volumes,
not necessarily connected, but which all repay perusal. I believe that
few who have commenced with one volume of Cooper's Indian tales, but
have been anxious to follow the hero through the remainder of his
adventures; and I sincerely trust that a perusal of the "Pirates of the
Prairies" may lead to a demand for the other volumes by the same author,
which have already appeared, and for those which have still to follow.
LASCELLES WRAXALL.
CONTENTS.
I. The Cache
II. The Ambuscade
III. An Old Acquaintance of the Reader
IV. Red Cedar at Bay
V. The Grotto
VI. The Proposition
VII. Ellen and Doña Clara
VIII. The Flight
IX. The Teocali
X. The White Gazelle
XI. The Apaches
XII. Black Cat
XIII. The Great Medicine
XIV. The Succour
XV. On the Island
XVI. Sunbeam
XVII. Indian Hospitality
XVIII. Love!
XIX. The Dance of the Old Dogs
XX. A Hand-to-Hand Fight
XXI. The Avenger
XXII. Explanatory
XXIII. Apaches and Comanches
XXIV. The Scalp-Dance
XXV. The Torture
XXVI. Two Women's Hearts
XXVII. Shaw
XXVIII. The Departure
XXIX. The Ambuscade
XXX. The Pirate's Confession
XXXI. The Rivals
XXXII. Fray Ambrosio
XXXIII. The Trail
XXXIV. The Hunt
XXXV. The Combat
XXXVI. The Earthquake
CHAPTER I.
THE CACHE.
Two months have elapsed since we left the Trail-Hunter commencing his
adventurous journey, and we are in the heart of the desert. Before us
immensity is unfolded. What pen, however eloquent, would venture to
describe those illimitable oceans of verdure to which the North
Americans have in their imagery, given the poetic and mysterious name of
the Far West? That is to say, the truly unknown region, with its scenes
at once grand and striking, soft and terrible; unbounded prairies in
which may be found that rich and luxuriant Flora, against whose magic
growth only the Indian can successfully struggle.
These plains, at the first glance, offer the dazzled eye of the rash
traveller who ventures on them a vast carpet of verdure embossed with
flowers, furrowed by large streams; and they appear of a desperate
regularity, mingling in the horizon with the azure of the sky.
It is only by degrees, when the sight grows accustomed to the picture,
that, gradually mastering the details, the visitor notices here and
there rather lofty hills, the escarped sides of the water courses, and a
thousand unexpected accidents which agreeably break that monotony by
which the eye is at first saddened, and which the lofty grass and the
giant productions of the Flora completely conceal.
How can we enumerate the products of this primitive nature, which form
an inextricable confusion and interlacement, describing majestic curves,
producing grand arcades, and offering, in a word, the most splendid and
sublime spectacle it was ever given to man to admire through its eternal
contrasts and striking harmony?
Above the gigantic ferns, the _mezquite_, the cactuses, nopales,
larches, and fruit-laden arbutuses, rise the mahogany tree with its
oblong leaves, the _moriche_, or pine tree, the _abanijo_, whose wide
leaves are shaped like a fan, the _pirijao_, from which hang enormous
clusters of golden fruit, the royal palm whose stem is denuded of
foliage, and balances its majestic and tufted head at the slightest
breath; the Indian cane, the lemon tree, the guava, the plantain, the
_chinciroya_, or intoxicating fruit, the oak, the pine tree, and the wax
palm, distilling its resinous gum.
Then, there are immense fields of dahlias, flowers whiter than the snows
of the Caffre de Perote or the Chimborazo, or redder than blood, immense
lianas twining and circling round the stems of trees and vines
overflowing with sap; and in the midst of this inextricable chaos fly,
run, and crawl, in every direction, animals of all sorts and sizes,
birds, quadrupeds, reptiles, amphibious, singing, crying, howling and
roaring with every note of the human gamut, some mocking and menacing,
others soft and melancholy.
The stags and deer bounding timidly along, with ear erect and eye on the
watch, the bighorn leaping from rock to rock, and then resting
motionless on the verge of a precipice, the heavy and stupid buffaloes
with their sad eyes; the wild horses, whose numerous _manadas_ make the
earth re-echo in their purposeless chase; the alligator, with its body
in the mud, and sleeping in the sun; the hideous _iguana_ carelessly
climbing up a tree; the puma, that maneless lion; the panther and jaguar
cunningly watch their prey as it passes; the brown bear, that gluttonous
honey-hunter; the grizzly, the most formidable denizen of these
countries; the _cotejo_, with its venomous bite; the chameleon, whose
skin reflects every hue; the green lizard, and the basilisk crawling
silent and sinister beneath the leaves; the monstrous boa, the coral
snake, so small and yet so terrible; the _cascabel_, the _macaurel_, and
the great striped serpent.
The feathered flock sing and twitter on the branches, hidden beneath the
dense foliage; the tanagers, the curassos, the chattering _lloros_, the
_haras_, the flycatcher, the toucans, with their enormous beaks, the
pigeons, the _trogons_, the elegant rose flamingos, the swans balancing
and sporting in the streams, and the light and graceful gray squirrels
leaping with unimaginable speed from creeper to creeper, from shrub to
shrub.
In the highest regions of air, hovering in long circles over the
prairie, the eagle of the Sierra Madre, with wide-spread wings, and the
bald-headed vulture, select the prey on which they dart with the
rapidity of lightning.
Then, suddenly, crushing under his horse's hoofs the sand and
gold-studded pebbles sparkling in the sun, appears, as if by
enchantment, an Indian, with his red skin glistening like new copper,
robust limbs, gestures stamped with majesty and grace, and a commanding
eye; a Navajo, Pawnee, Comanche, Apache or Sioux, who, whirling his
lasso or _lakki_ round his head, drives before him a herd of startled
buffaloes or wild horses, or else a panther, ounce, or jaguar, that fly
his presence with hoarse roars of rage and terror.
This child of the desert, so grand, so noble, and so disdainful of
peril, who crosses the prairies with incredible speed, and knows its
thousand turnings, is truly the king of this strange country, which he
alone can traverse night and day, and whose countless dangers he does
not fear. He struggles inch by inch with that European civilisation
which is slowly advancing, driving him into his last intrenchments and
invading his lands on all sides.
Hence, woe to the trapper or hunter who ventures to traverse these
prairies alone! His bones will bleach on the plain, and his scalp adorn
the shield of an Indian chief, or the mane of his horse.
Such is the sublime, striking, and terrible spectacle the Far West
offers even at the present day.
The day on which we resume our story, at the moment when the sun
attained its zenith, the mournful silence brooding over the desert was
suddenly troubled by a slight sound, which was heard in the tufted
clumps that border the Rio Gila, in one of the most unknown districts of
this solitude.
The branches were cautiously parted, and amid the leaves and creepers a
man displayed his face dripping with perspiration, and marked with an
expression of terror and despair.
This man, after looking around him anxiously, and assuring himself that
no one was on the watch, slowly disengaged his body from the grass and
shrubs that conceal it, walked a few steps in the direction of the
river, and fell to the ground, uttering a profound sigh.
Almost simultaneously an enormous mastiff, with a cross of the wolf and
Newfoundland, bounded from the shrubs and lay down at his feet.
The man who appeared so unexpectedly on the banks of the Rio Gila was
Red Cedar.[1]
His position appeared most critical, for he was alone in the desert,
without weapons or provisions. We say without weapons, for the long
knife passed through his deerskin girdle was almost useless to him.
In the Far West, that infinite ocean of verdure, an unarmed man is a
dead man!
The struggle becomes impossible for him with the numberless enemies who
watch his passing, and only await a favourable moment to catch him. Red
Cedar was deprived of those inestimable riches of the hunter, a rifle
and a horse. Moreover he was alone!
Man, so long as he can see his fellow, even though that fellow be an
enemy, does not believe himself abandoned. In his heart there remains a
vague hope for which he cannot account, but which sustains and endows
him with courage.
But, so soon as every human form has disappeared, and man, an
imperceptible grain of dust in the desert, finds himself face to face
with God, he trembles, for the feeling of his weakness is then revealed
to him; he comprehends how insignificant he is before these colossal
works of nature, and how insensate is the struggle he must carry on, in
order to raise only a corner of the winding sheet of sand gradually
settling down on him, and which assails him from all sides at once.
Red Cedar was an old wood ranger. Many times, during his excursions in
the prairies, he had found himself in almost desperate situations, and
he had always got out of them by his boldness, patience, and above all,
his firm will.
Still, he had never before been so denuded of everything as he was at
this moment.
Still, he must make up his mind to something. He arose, stifling an
oath, and whistling to his dog, the only being that remained faithful in
his misfortunes, he set out, not even taking the trouble to find out his
direction. In fact, what need had he to choose one? Were not all good
for him, and would they not all lead within a given period to the same
end--death?
He walked on thus for several hours with drooping head, seeing the
bighorns and asshatas bounding round, as if mocking him. The buffaloes
scarce deigned to raise their heads as he passed, and looked at him with
their large melancholy eyes, as if comprehending that their implacable
foe was disarmed, and they had nothing to fear from him. The elks,
balanced on the points of the rocks, leaped and sported round him, while
his dog, who did not at all comprehend this very novel affair, looked at
its master, and seemed to ask him what it all meant.
The day passed thus, without producing the least change for the better
in the squatter's position; but, on the contrary, aggravating it. At
nightfall he fell on the sand, exhausted by fatigue and hunger. The sun
had disappeared, and the darkness was already invading the prairie. The
howling of the wild beasts could be heard as they emerged from their
lair to quench their thirst and go in search of food. The disarmed
squatter could not light a fire to keep them at bay.
He looked around him; a last instinct of preservation, perhaps, or the
final gleam of hope, that divine spark which is never extinguished in
the heart of the most unfortunate man, urged him to seek a shelter. He
climbed up a tree, and after tying himself securely, through fear of a
fall, if, as was very improbable, he fell asleep, he closed his eyes and
sought slumber, in order to cheat for a few moments, at any rate, that
hunger which devoured him, and forget his deplorable position.
But sleep does not thus visit the unfortunate, and obstinately refused
to come, when most earnestly invoked. No one, who has not experienced
it, can imagine the horror of a sleepless night in the desert! The
darkness is peopled with mournful spectres, the wild beasts roar, the
serpents twine round the trees, and at times clasp in their cold and
viscous coils the wretched man half-dead with terror.
No one can say of how many centuries a minute is composed in this
terrible situation, or the length of this nightmare, during which the
sickly mind creates the most monstrous lucubrations. Especially when the
stomach is empty, and, through that very circumstance, the brain is more
easily invaded by delirium.
At sunrise the squatter breathed a sigh of relief. And yet, of what
consequence to him was the appearance of light, for it was only the
beginning of a day of intolerable suffering and frightful torture? But,
at any rate, he could see, he could notice, what went on around him; the
sun warmed and restored him some slight strength. He came down from the
tree in which he had passed the night, and continued his journey.
Why did he go on? He did not know himself; still, he walked as if he had
a point to reach, although he was perfectly well aware he had no help to
expect from anyone, and that, on the contrary, the first face he
perceived would be that of an enemy.
But the man whose mind is powerfully constituted is so. He never gives
up; he struggles to the last moment, and if he cannot trust to
Providence, he hopes in accident, without daring to confess it to
himself.
It would be impossible for us to explain the thoughts that crossed the
squatter's brain while, with uncertain step he crossed silently and
sadly the vast solitudes of the prairie.
Toward midday, the heat became so intense, that, overcome by so much
moral and physical suffering, he sank exhausted at the foot of a tree.
He remained for a long time extended on the ground; but, at length,
impelled by want, he rose with an effort, and sought for roots and herbs
which might lull the hunger that gnawed his vitals. His search was long
in vain, but at last he found a species of _yucca_, a pasty root
somewhat like manioc, which he devoured with delight. He laid in a stock
of this root, which he shared with his dog, and, after a deep draught
from the stream, he prepared to continue his journey, slightly
re-invigorated by this more than frugal meal; when all at once his eye
emitted a flash, his face grew animated, and he murmured in a voice
trembling with emotion:
"Suppose it was one!"
This is what had caused Red Cedar's exclamation. At the moment he was
setting out again after looking mechanically around him, he fancied he
noticed at a certain spot that the grass was closer and taller than
anywhere else. This difference, visibly only to a man long accustomed to
the prairie, did not escape him.
The Indians and hunters, often compelled to make a hurried journey,
either to avoid a hostile ambuscade or follow up the game, are
necessitated to abandon a large portion of their plunder or merchandise
they carry with them for trading purposes. As they are not at all
inclined to lose it, however, they make what is called in trapper
language a _cache_.
It is effected in the following way.
They begin by spreading blankets and buffalo skins round the spot where
they intend making the cache: then they remove large sods of grass,
square, round, or oval, and dig out the soil, being careful to lay it on
the blankets or skins. When the hole is deep enough, the sides are lined
with buffalo hides, for fear of damp, and the articles are laid in it:
the soil is then put in again, and the grass laid over it, which is
watered to make it grow, and the rest of the earth is carried to the
river, into which every particle is thrown, in order to hide any trace
of the cache, which is so closely concealed, that a man must have an
extraordinary skilful eye to discover one, and he often only finds old
caches which have been ransacked and have nothing left in them.
The objects placed in the caches will keep for five or six years without
deteriorating. How many things concealed in this way have been lost
through the death of their owners who bear with them in the tomb the
secret of the spot where they have deposited their wealth!
We have said, that the squatter imagined he had found such a cache. In
his position, such a discovery was of inestimable value to him: it might
offer him articles of primary necessity he wanted, and restore him, as
it were, to life, by supplying him with means to recommence his
existence of hunting, plunder, and vagabondage.
He stood for some minutes with his eye fixed on the spot where he
suspected the cache, his mind agitated by undefinable feelings. At
length he moderated his emotion, and his heart palpitating with fear and
hope, carefully laid his blanket and buffalo robe by the cache to hold
the earth, with that honesty innate in men accustomed to a prairie life,
who, though they may be bandits and plunder the property of others
unscrupulously, still consider it a point of honour not to squander it,
or deprive the legal owner of anything but what is absolutely necessary
to themselves; then he knelt down and with his knife removed a sod of
grass.
It is impossible to describe the quiver and anxiety of this man when he
first plunged his knife into the ground. He then carefully removed all
the turf that seemed to him to form the outline of the cache. This first
task ended, he rested for a moment to take breath, and at the same time
to indulge in that emotion so full of pleasure and pain felt on
accomplishing an act from which life or death depends.
After a quarter of an hour, he passed his hand over his dank forehead,
and set to work resolutely, digging up the ground with his knife, and
removing it with his hands to the blanket. It was really a rude task,
especially for a man exhausted by fatigue and weakened by privations.
Several times he was compelled to stop through the exhaustion of his
strength: the work advanced slowly, and no sign as yet corroborated the
squatter's belief.
Several times he was on the point of abandoning this vain search, but it
was his only chance of safety; there alone, if he succeeded, would he
find the means to become once more a wood ranger: hence he clung to this
last plank of safety which chance offered him, with all the energy of
despair, that Archimedean lever, which finds nothing impossible.
Still, the unhappy wretch had been digging for a long time; a large hole
was gaping before him, but nothing offered him a prospect of success;
hence, in spite of the invincible energy of his character, he felt
despair invading his mind once again. A tear of impotent rage brooded in
his fever-inflamed eyelids, and he hurled his knife into the hole,
uttering an oath, and giving heaven a bitter look of defiance.
The knife sprung back with a metallic sound; the squatter seized it and
examined it closely--the point was broken clean off.
He began digging again frenziedly with his nails, like a wild beast,
disdaining the use of his knife any longer, and he soon laid bare a
buffalo hide. Instead of lifting this skin at once, which doubtless
covered all the treasures whose possession he coveted, he began gazing
at it with terrible anxiety.
Red Cedar had not deceived himself: he had really discovered a cache.
But what did it contain? Perhaps it had already been ransacked, and was
empty. When he had only one movement to make, in order to assure
himself, he hesitated--he was afraid!
During the three hours he had been toiling to reach this point, he had
formed so many chimeras, that he instinctively feared to see them vanish
suddenly, and fall back rudely into the frightful reality which held him
in its iron claws.
For a long time he hesitated in this way; at length suddenly forming a
resolve, with hands trembling with emotion, palpitating heart and
bloodshot eye, he tore away the buffalo skin, with a movement rapid as
thought. He felt dazzled, and uttered a roar like a wild beast--he had
hit upon a thorough hunter's cache!
It contained iron traps of every description, rifles, double and single
pistols, powder horns, bags filled with bullets, knives, and the
thousand objects suitable for wood rangers.
Red Cedar felt himself born again: a sudden change took place in him, he
became again the implacable and indomitable being he had been prior to
the catastrophe, without fear or remorse, ready to recommence the
struggle with all nature, and laughing at the perils and snares he might
meet with on the road.
He selected the best rifle, two pairs of double-barrelled pistols, and a
knife with a blade fifteen inches in length. He also took the necessary
harness for a horse; two powder horns, a bag of bullets, and an elk skin
game pouch richly embroidered in the Indian fashion, containing a
tinderbox and all the necessaries for bivouacking. He also found pipes
and tobacco, which he eagerly clutched, for his greatest privation had
been the inability to smoke.
When he had loaded himself with all he thought he needed, he restored
all to its primitive condition, and skilfully removed the traces which
might have revealed to others the cache which had been so useful to
himself. This duty of an honest man performed, Red Cedar threw his rifle
over his shoulder, whistled to the dog, and went off hurriedly
muttering:
"Ah, ah! You fancied you had forced the boar in its lair; we shall see
whether it can take its revenge."
By what concourse of extraordinary events was the squatter, whom we saw
enter the desert at the head of a numerous and resolute troop, reduced
to such a state of urgent peril?
[1] See the Trail-hunter.