At last I couldn't stand feeling all them hard-coal eyes behind me, so
I whirls around as if I'd simply waited my time, and capered down that
line of Injuns, wavin' the sword over their heads, looking far away,
and smilin' the easy grin of the gentleman who pets the tiger in the
circus parade.
"Oh, Colin!" I chants, as if it was part of a war-song; "understand
English for once in your life and keep that squealer yelpin' or these
ham-coloured sons of Satan will play a tune on us--give it to 'em,
Colin, my b-o-o-y--let the good work go ah-ah-ah-ah-on!"
I reckon he made me out, for, after one sharp blat (I suppose when he
opened his eyes), the old bagpipes went on whining same as before.
I made two trips up and down the line, then flung the sword up in the
air and yelled: "Bastante!"
Come silence, like a fainting fit--the thickest, muckiest silence I
ever heard.
"Your house, amigos," I says. "In what way may we serve you?" I had
an idea of what way they would serve _us_---fried, likely, with a dish
of greens on the side--but I thought I'd get in my crack first.
It was weary waiting to see what kind of play the bucks was going to
make. They had the immortal on us, and what they said went.
At last the oldest man in the party stepped out. I guess the Yankee
got his love for Fourth of July gas-displays from the Injuns, for
there's nothin' that those simple-hearted children of nature love
better than chawing air.
"Amigos," says the old buck. "Mira. We are not Gilas; we are not
Mescaleros; we are not Copper-miners; neither Jicarillas, Coyoteros,
nor Llaneros." All this very slow and solemn. Very interesting, no
doubt; but a _little_ long to a man waiting to see whether he's about
to jump the game or not. "No," thinks I; "nor you ain't town-pumps nor
snow-ploughs nor real-estate agents--hook yourself up, for Heaven's
sake, and let go on your family history."
"No," says he, shaking his head. "Nada, I am Yuma--they are Yuma."
"I sincerely hope so," thinks I. "And I wish you'd let us in on the
joke. I'm dyin' for lack of a laugh this minute."
"Si, señores," says he. "We are not Apaches; and we are not now for
war. Before, yes. Now we are peaceful. But the white man has put us
on reservation at Camp Grant, and there bad white men bother us. We
are all braves; we do not wish to be bothered. So we shoot those white
men for the sake of peace, and then we come away. We come here last
moon. We see this man," pointing to Colin Hiccup. "At first my young
men wish to shoot at him, to see him hop, but I say 'no'--we are
peaceful; besides, he is a strange white man. I think he is a great
chief and comes here to make medicine. Do you not see how small is the
rebaño and how large the man? And how he dresses like a woman? And
there we hear the music he makes. Then I know he is great medicine.
It is beautiful music he makes to the Great Spirit. It makes our
hearts good. We wait; see you come. See two big medicine men fight,
then be friend again. Know, by the hair, both same medicine. To-night
sounds the music more and more. We come and see dance. We have
council. All say, when dance is over, we ask white man to be chief.
Just one chief--two chiefs, like calf with two heads, no good. You
choose. We have no chief since Mangas Colorado. He make fight. Fight
hard but no good. Now we are for peace. I say it."
He threw down his rifle and waited. The other braves dropped their
guns, crash!
"We will talk," says I, drawing myself up tall.
"Buen," says he, and Colin and me withdrew.
"Now, my Scotch friend," says I, when we got out of hearin', "we are up
against it, bang! It's all right for them Injuns to talk of how
peaceful they are, but I'll bet you there ain't a bigot among 'em. If
we don't slide down their gutter, they'll do us harm. How're we to
decide who puts his neck in the lion's mouth?"
But old Colin wasn't listening to me. "They'll make me chief," says
he. "I'm tired of herding sheep." His little grey eyes was shining.
"Well, you knock me every time," says I. "Do you mean you want to trot
with them?"
"They stick together--they have a clan."
I got some excited. "Here, now," I says; "this lets me out of a good
deal of trouble to have you take it this way, but all the same as I've
drunk your whiskey and ate your bread, I'll stand at your back till
your belt caves in. You pass this idea up--it's dangerous--and I'll
make you a foolish proposition; you take the bagpipes and I'll take the
sword and we will pass away to lively music. Darn my skin if I'll see
a friend turned over to those tarriers and sit still."
"Heugh!" says he. "What's a man but a man? As safe with them as
anywhere--and what do I care about safe? What's left me, anyhow? Will
you watch the sheep till they send from the ranch?"
"Why, yes," says I. "But----"
He waved his hand and walked towards the Injuns. "Voy," says he.
"Hungh!" says they. "Bueno."
I laid my hand on his shoulder for one more try. Every brave picked up
his gun and beaded me.
"Drop the guns!" says Colin Hiccup Grunt. And down went the guns.
You'd be surprised at his tone of voice; it meant, as plain as you
could put it in words, "We will now put down the guns." Oh, yes, it
meant it entirely. And he looked a foot taller. The change had done
him good.
"Well," thinks I; "my boys, I reckon you've got your chief, and as
there ain't another peek of light out of this business, I shelve my
kick."
"Where is the señor's horse?" asks Colin.
"In the hills," says the Injun, before he thought.
"Bring it," says Colin.
"Ha!" says all the Injuns, and they sent a man for my mustang. That
quick guess surprised the whole lot of us.
We went together to the cabin, to get his belongings and to cache the
whiskey. If it come into our friend's heads to rummage we might have a
poor evening of it.
"Leave me that sock as a momentum," says I.
"'Tain't finished," says he.
"Never mind. I want it to put under my pillow to dream on," and I have
it yet.
One half-hour after that I sat in the doorway, scratching my head and
thinkin'; whilst before my eyes marched off Colin Hiccup Grunt, Great
Peace Chief of the Yumas, bare-legged and red-headed, with his wool hat
on one side and his bagpipe squealin', at the head of his company. You
won't see such a sight often, so I watched 'em out of eyeshot.
It chanced I was asleep inside when the rider came from the ranch, so
when I stuck my head out to answer his hail, "Why," says he, "how
you've changed!" He was surprised, that man.
"You ain't done nothing to old Scotty?" says he, looking cross.
"No," says I. "Hold your hand. He's gone off and joined the Injuns."
Then I up and told him the story.
"Hungh!" says he. "Well, that's just like him!"
THE END