A short hour passes. The bright orb sinks behind us, and the quartz
rock saddens into a sombre hue. The straggling rays of twilight hover
but a moment over the chalky cliffs, and then vanish away. It is night.
Descending the hills in a long string, we arrive upon the plain. We
turn to the left, and keep round the mountain foot. The rocks guide us.
We proceed with caution, and exchange our words only in whispers. We
crawl around and among loose boulders that have fallen from above. We
turn many spurs that shoot out into the plain. Occasionally we halt and
hold council.
After a journey of ten or twelve miles, we find ourselves opposite the
Indian town. We are not over a mile from it. We can see the fires
burning on the plain, and hear the voices of those who move around them.
At this point the band is divided. A small party remains making its
cache in a defile among the rocks. These guard the captive chief and
the antajo of mules. The rest move forward, guided by Rube, who carries
them round the edge of the forest, here and there dropping a picket of
several men as he proceeds.
These parties conceal themselves at their respective stations, remain
silent, and wait for the signal from the bugle, which is to be given at
the hour of daybreak.
The night passes slowly and silently. The fires one by one go out,
until the plain is wrapt in the gloom of a moonless midnight. Dark
clouds travel over the sky, portending rain: a rare phenomenon in these
regions. The swan utters its wild note, the gruya whoops over the
stream, and the wolf howls upon the skirts of the sleeping village. The
voice of the bull-bat wails through the air. You hear the "flap, flap"
of his long wings as he dashes down among the cocuyos. You hear the
hoof-stroke on the hard plain, the "crop" of the browsing steed, and the
tinkling of the bit-ring, for the horses eat bridled.
At intervals, a drowsy hunter mutters through his sleep, battling in
dreams with some terrible foe. Thus goes the night. These are its
voices.
They cease as daybreak approaches. The wolf howls no longer; the swan
and the blue crane are silent; the night-hawk has filled his ravenous
maw, and perches on the mountain pine; the fire-flies disappear, chased
by the colder hours; and the horses, having eaten what grew within their
reach, stand in lounging attitudes, asleep.
A grey light begins to steal into the valley. It flickers along the
white cliffs of the quartz mountain. It brings with it a raw, cold air
that awakens the hunters.
One by one they arouse themselves. They shiver as they stand up, and
carry their blankets wrapped about their shoulders. They feel weary,
and look pale and haggard. The grey dawn lends a ghastly hue to their
dusty beards and unwashed faces.
After a short while they coil up their trail-ropes and fasten them to
the rings. They look to their flints and priming, and tighten the
buckles of their belts. They draw forth from their haversacks pieces of
dry tasajo, eating it raw. They stand by their horses, ready to mount.
It is not yet time.
The light is gathering into the valley. The blue mist that hung over
the river during the night is rising upward. We can see the town. We
can trace the odd outlines of the houses. What strange structures they
are!
Some of them are higher than others: one, two, four stories in height.
They are each in form like a pyramid without its apex. Each upper story
is smaller than that below it, the roofs of the lower ones serving as
terraces for those above. They are of a whitish yellow, the colour of
the clay out of which they are built. They are without windows, but
doors lead into each story from the outside; and ladders stretch from
terrace to terrace, leaning against the walls. On the tops of some
there are poles carrying bannerets. These are the residences of the
principal war-chiefs and great warriors of the nation.
We can see the temple distinctly. It is like the houses in shape, but
higher and of larger dimensions. There is a tall shaft rising out of
its roof, and a banner with a strange device floating at its peak.
Near the houses we see corrals filled with mules and mustangs, the
live-stock of the village.
The light grows stronger. Forms appear upon the roofs and move along
the terraces. They are human forms enveloped in hanging garments,
robe-like and striped. We recognise the Navajo blanket, with its
alternate bands of black and white.
With the glass we can see these forms more distinctly; we can tell their
sex.
Their hair hangs loosely upon their shoulders, and far down their backs.
Most of them are females, girls and women. There are many children,
too. There are men, white-haired and old. A few other men appear, but
they are not warriors. The warriors are absent.
They come down the ladders, descending from terrace to terrace. They go
out upon the plain, and rekindle the fires. Some carry earthen vessels,
ollas, upon their heads, and pass down to the river. They go in for
water. These are nearly naked. We can see their brown bodies and
uncovered breasts. They are slaves.
See! the old men are climbing to the top of the temple. They are
followed by women and children, some in white, others in bright-coloured
costumes. These are girls and young lads, the children of the chiefs.
Over a hundred have climbed up. They have reached the highest root.
There is an altar near the staff. A smoke rolls up--a blaze: they have
kindled a fire upon the altar.
Listen! the chant of voices, and the beat of an Indian drum!
The sounds cease, and they all stand motionless and apparently silent,
facing to the east.
"What does it mean?"
"They are waiting for the sun to appear. These people worship him."
The hunters, interested and curious, strain their eyes, watching the
ceremony.
The topmost pinnacle of the quartz mountain is on fire. It is the first
flash of the sun!
The peak is yellowing downward. Other points catch the brilliant beams.
They have struck the faces of the devotees. See! there are white
faces! One--two--many white faces, both of women and girls.
"Oh, God! grant that it may be!" cries Seguin, hurriedly putting up the
glass, and raising the bugle to his lips.
A few wild notes peal over the valley. The horsemen hear the signal.
They debouche from the woods and the defiles of the mountains. They
gallop over the plain, deploying as they go.
In a few minutes we have formed the arc of a circle, concave to the
town. Our horses' heads are turned inwards, and we ride forward,
closing upon the walls.
We have left the atajo in the defile; the captive chief, too, guarded by
a few of the men. The notes of the bugle have summoned the attention of
the inhabitants. They stand for a while in amazement, and without
motion. They behold the deploying of the line. They see the horsemen
ride inward.
Could it be a mock surprise of some friendly tribe? No. That strange
voice, the bugle, is new to Indian ears; yet some of them have heard it
before. They know it to be the war-trumpet of the pale-faces!
For awhile their consternation hinders them from action. They stand
looking on until we are near. Then they behold pale-faces, strange
armour, and horses singularly caparisoned. It is the white enemy!
They run from point to point, from street to street. Those who carry
water dash down their ollas, and rush screaming to the houses. They
climb to the roofs, drawing the ladders after them. Shouts are
exchanged, and exclamations uttered in the voices of men, women, and
children. Terror is on every face; terror displays itself in every
movement.
Meanwhile our line has approached, until we are within two hundred yards
of the walls. We halt for a moment. Twenty men are left as an outer
guard. The rest of us, thrown into a body, ride forward, following our
leader.