The whooping and screaming are for a while suspended. Those in the rear
have ridden up; and the straggling cavalcade becomes massed upon the
plain, at less than two hundred yards' distance from the butte. Shouts
are still heard, and talking in an unknown tongue; but not the dread
war-cry. That has failed of its effect, and is heard no longer. Now
and then, young warriors gallop toward the butte, vaunt their valour,
brandish their weapons, shoot off their arrows, and threaten us by word
and gesture. All, however, keep well outside the perilous circumference
covered by our guns.
We perceive that they, too, have guns, both muskets and rifles--in all,
a dozen or more! We can tell that they are empty. Those who carry them
are dismounting to load. We may expect soon to receive their fire; but,
from the clumsy manner in which they handle their pieces, that need not
terrify us--any more than their arrows, already sent, and falling far
short.
Half-a-dozen horsemen are conspicuous. They are chiefs, as can be told
by the eagle plumes sticking in their hair, with other insignia on their
breasts and bodies. These have ridden to the front, and are grouped
together--their horses standing head to head. Their speeches and
gesticulations declare that they are holding council. The movements of
menace are no longer made. We have time to examine our enemies. They
are so near that I need scarcely level the glass upon them; though
through it, I can note every feature with minute distinctness.
They are not Comanches. Their bodies are too big, and their limbs too
long, for these Ishmaelites of the southern plains. Neither are they of
the Jicarilla-Apache: they are too noble-looking to resemble these
skulking jackals. More like are they to the Cayguas? But no--they are
not Cayguas. I have met these Indians, and should know them. The
war-cry did not resemble theirs. Theirs is the war-cry of the Comanche.
I should have known it at once. Cheyennes they may be--since it is
their especial ground? Or might it be that tribe of still darker,
deadlier fame--the hostile Arapaho? If they be Arapahoes, we need look
for no mercy.
I sweep the glass over them, seeking for signs by which I may identify
our enemy. I perceive one that is significant. The leggings of the
chiefs and principal warriors are fringed with scalps; their shields are
encircled by similar ornaments. Most of these appendages are of dark
hue--the locks long and black. But not all are of this kind or colour.
One shield is conspicuously different from the rest. A red-hand is
painted upon its black disc. It is the _totem_ of him who carries it.
A thick fringe of hair is set around its rim. The tufts are of
different lengths and colours. There are tresses of brown, blonde, and
even red; hair curled and wavy; coarse hair; and some soft and silky.
Through the glass I see all this, with a clearness that leaves no doubt
as to the character of these varied _chevelures_. They are the scalps
of whites--both of men and women! And the red-hand upon the shield? A
red-hand? Ah! I remember. There is a noted chief of the name, famed
for his hostility to the trappers--famed for a ferocity unequalled among
his race--a savage, who is said to delight in torturing his captives--
especially if it be a pale-face who has had the misfortune to fall into
his hands. Can it be that fiend--the Red-Hand of the Arapahoes?
The appearance of the man confirms my suspicion. A body, tall, angular,
and ill-shaped, scarred with cicatrised wounds, and bent with age; a
face seamed with the traces of evil passion; eyes deep sunken in their
sockets, and sparkling like coals of fire--an aspect more fiend-like
than human! All this agrees with the descriptions I have had of the
Red-Hand chief. Assuredly it is he. Our enemies, then, are the
Arapahoes--their leader the dreaded _Red-Hand_.
"Heaven have mercy upon us! These men will have none!" Such was the
ejaculation that escaped my lips, on recognising, or believing that I
recognised, the foe that was before us.
The Red-Hand is seen to direct. He is evidently leader of the band.
All seem obedient to his orders; all move with military promptness at
his word or nod. Beyond doubt, it is the Red-Hand and his followers,
who for crimes and cold-blooded atrocities are noted as he. A dreaded
band, long known to the traders of Santa Fe--to the _ciboleros_ from the
Taos Valley--to the trappers of the Arkansas and Platte. We are not the
first party of white men besieged by these barbarous robbers; and if it
be our fate to fall, we shall not be their first victims. Many a brave
"mountain-man" has already fallen a victim to their fiendish grasp.
Scarcely a trapper who cannot tell of some comrade, who has been
"rubbed" out by Red-Hand and his "Rapahoes."
The council of the chiefs continues for some time. Some _ruse_ is being
devised and debated among them. With palpitating hearts we await the
issue. I have made known my suspicions as to who is our enemy, and
cautioned my comrade's to be on their guard. I have told them that, if
my conjecture prove true, we need look for no mercy. The talk is at an
end. Red-Hand is about to address us. Riding two lengths in front of
his followers, the savage chief makes halt. His shield is held
conspicuously upward--its convexity towards us--not for any purpose of
security; but evidently that we may see its device, and know the bearer.
Red-Hand is conscious of the terror inspired by his name. In his other
hand, he carries an object better calculated than the shield to beget
fearful emotions. Poised on the point of his long spear, and held high
aloft, are the scalps recently taken. There are six of them in the
bunch--easily told by the different hues of the hair; and all easily
identified as those of white men. They are the scalps of the slain
teamsters, and others who had vainly attempted to defend the captured
waggon. They are all fresh and gory--hang limber along the shaft. The
blood is not yet dry upon them--the wet surface glitters in the sun! We
view them with singular emotions--mine perhaps more singular than any.
I endeavour to identify some of those ghastly trophies. I am but too
satisfied at failing.