"As you please, Chief."
The conversation broke off here. The warriors were really awaking, and the camp, so quiet a few moments previously, had now the aspect of a hive, when the bees prepare at sunrise to go in search of their daily crop. At a sign from the Chief, the hachesto, or public crier, mounted a fallen tree, and twice uttered a shrill cry. At this appeal all the warriors, even those still lying on the ground, hastened to range themselves behind the Chief. A deep silence then prevailed for several minutes; all the Indians, with their arms folded on their chest, and their faces turned to the rising sun, awaited what the Sachem was about to do.
The latter took a calabash full of water, which the hachesto handed him, and in which was a spray of wormwood. Then raising his voice, he sprinkled toward the four cardinal points, saying
"Wacondah, Wacondah! Thou unknown and omnipotent spirit, whose universe is the temple, Master of the life of man, protect thy children!"
"Master of the life of man, protect thy children!" the Apaches repeated in chorus, respectfully bowing.
"Creator of the great sacred Tortoise, whose skill supports the world, keep far from us Nyang, the genius of evil! Deliver our enemies to us, and give us their scalps. Wacondah! Wacondah! Protect thy children!"
"Wacondah! Wacondah! Protect thy children!" the warriors repeated.
The Sachem then bowed to the sun, and then towards the contents of the calabash, saying
"And thou, sublime star, visible representative of the omnipotent and invincible Creator, continue to pour thy vivifying heat on the hunting grounds of thy Red Sons, and intercede for them with the Master of life. May this clear water I offer thee be grateful. Wacondah! Wacondah! Protect thy children!"
"Wacondah! Wacondah! Protect thy children!" the Apaches repeated, and followed their Chief's example by kneeling reverently. The latter then took a medicine rod from the hachesto, and waved it several times over his head, while shouting in a loud voice
"Nyang, spirit of evil, rebel against the Master of life; we brave and despise thy power, for the Wacondah protects us!"
All the congregation uttered a loud yell, and rose. When the morning prayer had been said, and the rites performed, each man began attending to his daily duties.
Fray Antonio had witnessed with extreme astonishment this sacred and affecting ceremony, whose details, however, escaped his notice, for the words uttered by the Chief had been in the dialect of his nation, and consequently incomprehensible to the monk. Still, he experienced a certain delight on seeing that these men, whom he regarded as barbarians, were not entirely devoid of better feelings, and religious faith.
The expiring campfires were rekindled, in order to prepare the morning meal, while scouts started in every direction, to assure themselves that the road was free, and no enemy on the watch. The monk, being now completely reassured, and beginning to grow accustomed to his new position, ate with good appetite the provisions offered him, and made no objection to mount the horse the Chief indicated to him, when they prepared to set out on the termination of the meal.
Fray Antonio was beginning to find that the savages, who had been represented to him in such gloomy colours, were not so wicked as they were said to be, and he was almost inclined to believe that they had been calumniated. In truth, their hospitality had never once been in default; on the contrary, they had apparently studied to please him.
They rode on for several hours along tracks marked by the wild beasts, forced, through the narrowness of the paths, to go in Indian file, that is to say, one behind the other; and although the monk perceived that the Sachem constantly kept by his side, he did not feel at all alarmed by it, remembering the conversation they had in the morning.
A little before midday the band halted on the bank of a small stream, shadowed by lofty trees, where they intended to wait till the great heat had passed over. The monk was not at all vexed at this delay, which enabled him to rest in the cool. During the halt Blue-fox did not once address him, and the monk made no attempt to bring on a conversation, as he much preferred enjoying a siesta.
At about four P.M. the band mounted, and set out again; but this time, instead of going at a walking pace, they galloped. The Indians, by the way, only recognize these two paces; they consider trotting an absurdity, and we confess that we are somewhat of their opinion. The ride was long; the sun had set for more than two hours, and still the Indians galloped. At length, at a signal from their Chief, they halted. Blue-fox then went up to the monk, and drew him a little aside.
"We shall separate here," he said; "it would not be prudent for the Apaches to go further: my father will continue his journey alone."
"I?" the monk said, in surprise; "You are jesting, Chief I prefer remaining with you."
"That cannot be," the Indian said, in a peremptory voice.
"Where the deuce would you have me go at this hour, and in this darkness?"
"My father will look," the Chief continued, stretching out his arm to the south-west, "does he see that reddish light scarce rising above the horizon?"
Fray Antonio looked attentively in the direction indicated. "Yes," he said, presently, "I do see it."
"Very good; that flame is produced by a campfire of the Palefaces."
"Oh, oh! are you sure of that?"
"Yes; but my father must listen; the Palefaces will receive my father kindly."
"I understand; then I will tell Tranquil that his friend Blue-fox desires to speak with him, point out where he is, and "
"The magpie is a chattering and brainless bird, which gabbles like an old squaw," the Chief roughly interrupted him; "my father will say nothing."
"Oh!" the monk said, in confusion.
"My father will be careful to do what I order him, if he does not wish his scalp to dry on the lance of a Chief."
Fray Antonio shuddered at this menace.
"I swear it, Chief," he said.
"A man does not swear," the Chief remarked, brutally; "he says yes or no. When my father reaches the camp of the Palefaces, he will not allude to the Apaches; but when the Pale hunters are asleep, my father will leave the camp and come to warn Blue-fox."
"But where shall I find you?" the monk asked, piteously, beginning to perceive that he was destined to act as the spy of the savages in one of their diabolical machinations.
"My father need not trouble himself about that, for I shall manage to find him."
"Very good."
"If my father is faithful, Blue-fox will give him a buffalo skin full of gold dust; if not, he must not hope to escape the Chief; the Apaches are crafty, the scalp of a Chief of prayer will adorn the lance of a Chief; I have spoken."
"You have no further orders to give me?"
"No."
"Good-bye, then."
"Till we meet again," the Apache said, with a grin.
Fray Antonio made no reply, but uttered a deep sigh, and pushed on in the direction of the camp. The nearer he drew to it, the more difficult did it appear to him to accomplish the sinister mission with which the Apache Chief had intrusted him; twice or thrice the idea of flight crossed his mind, but whither could he go? And then it was probable that the Indians placed but slight confidence in him, and carefully watched him in the gloom.
At length the camp appeared before the monk's startled eyes, as he could not draw back, for the hunters had doubtless perceived him already; he decided on pushing forward, while desperately muttering
"The Lord have mercy upon me!"
CHAPTER III.
DOWN THE PRECIPICE
The romancer has an incontestable advantage over the historian. Not being obliged to restrict himself to historical documents, he bases his work chiefly on tradition, and revels in those incidents of private life disdained by cold and severe history, which is constrained to describe only great events, and is not permitted to descend to the frequently trivial causes which not only prepared, but actually brought them about.
"The Lord have mercy upon me!"
CHAPTER III.
DOWN THE PRECIPICE
The romancer has an incontestable advantage over the historian. Not being obliged to restrict himself to historical documents, he bases his work chiefly on tradition, and revels in those incidents of private life disdained by cold and severe history, which is constrained to describe only great events, and is not permitted to descend to the frequently trivial causes which not only prepared, but actually brought them about.
Frequently, after a long journey, the traveller, fatigued by the vast horizons incessantly unrolled before him, and rendered giddy by the sharp air of the elevations along which he has been riding, looks down on the plain, and his eye rests with indescribable pleasure on those modest points in the landscape which at the outset he despised. In the same way the romancer halts at the familiar episodes of the great poem, and listens to the simple stories told him by those who were actors in the scenes merely indicated by history. Such stories complete the dry and stern narrative of great wars, but historians dare not transcribe them.
It is true that in these stories ignorance is nearly always perceptible, and prejudice very frequently; but life is found in them, for if the narrators tell inexactly what happened, they at any rate say frankly how they felt, what they heard and saw themselves, and the errors they sometimes involuntarily make are not falsehoods, but relative truths, which it is the duty of the romancer to classify and put in their proper place.
We have several times visited the narrow defile where the Border Rifles and the Mexicans fought the action we described in a previous volume.3 Bending over the precipice, with our eyes fixed on the yawning abyss beneath us, we heard the narrative of the strange incidents of that battle of giants, and if we had not been certain of the veracity of the narrator, we should certainly have not only doubted but completely denied the possibility of certain facts which are, however, rigorously true, and which we are now about to impart to the reader.
The Border Rifles saw with a shriek of horror the two men, intertwined like serpents, roll together over the precipice; the flashes of the fire, which was beginning to die out for want of nourishment, after devastating the crests of the hills, threw at intervals a lurid light over this scene, and gave it a striking aspect.
The first moment of stupor past, John Davis, mastering with difficulty the emotion that agitated him, sought to restore courage, if not hope, to all these men who were crushed by the terrible catastrophe. John Davis enjoyed, and justly so, a great reputation among the Borderers. All know the close friendship which attached the Americans to their chief: in several serious affairs he had displayed a coolness and intelligence which gained him the respect and admiration of these men: hence they immediately responded to his appeal, by grouping silently round him, for they understood intuitively that there was only one man among them worthy of succeeding the Jaguar, and that he was the North American.
John Davis had guessed the feelings that agitated them, but did not allow it to be seen: his face was pale, his appearance sad: he bent a thoughtful glance on the rude, determined men who, leaning on their rifles, gazed at him mournfully, and seemed already tacitly to recognize the authority with which he was, probably, about to invest himself.
Their expectations were deceived, at least, temporarily. Davis, at this moment, had no intention of making the Borderers elect him as their chief: the fate of his friend entirely absorbed him, and all other considerations disappeared in the presence of the one idea.
"Caballeros," he said, in a melancholy tone, "a terrible misfortune has struck us. Under such circumstances, we must summon up all our courage and resignation, for women weep, but men revenge themselves. The death of the Jaguar is not only an immense loss for ourselves, but also for the cause we have sworn to defend, and to which he has already given such great proof of devotion. But, before bewailing our chief, so worthy in every respect of the sorrow which we shall feel for him, we have one duty to accomplish a duty which, if we neglect it, will cause us piercing remorse at a later date."
"Speak, speak, John Davis, we are ready to do anything you order us," the Borderers exclaimed unanimously.
"I thank you," the American continued, "for the enthusiasm with which you have replied to me: I cannot believe that an intellect so vast, a heart so noble, as that of our beloved Chief can be thus destroyed. God, I feel convinced, would not thus have broken a cause for which we have so long been struggling with such devotion and self-denial. Heaven will have performed a miracle in favour of our Chief, and we shall see him reappear among us safe and sound! But whatsoever may happen, should this last hope be denied us, at any rate, we must not abandon like cowards, without attempting to save him, the man who twenty times braved death for each of us. For my part, I swear by all that is most sacred in the world, that I will not leave this spot till I have assured myself whether the Jaguar be dead or alive."
At these words a buzz of assent ran along his hearers, and John Davis continued, "Who knows whether our unhappy Chief is not lying crushed, but still breathing, at the foot of this accursed abyss, and reproaching us for our cowardly desertion of him?"
The Border Rifles declared, with the most energetic oaths, that they would find their Chief again, dead or alive.
"Good, my friends," the American exclaimed; "if he be unhappily dead, we will place his body in the ground and protect his remains, so dear to us on many accounts, from the insults of wild beasts: but, I repeat to you, one of those presentiments which never deceive, because they come from God, tells me that he is still alive."
"May Heaven hear you, John Davis," the Borderers shouted, "and restore us our Chief."
"I am going to descend the precipice," the American said; "I will inspect its most secret recesses, and before sunrise we shall know what we have to hope or fear."
This proposal of John Davis' was greeted as it deserved, by enthusiastic shouts. When the excitement of the hearers had slightly calmed, the American prepared to carry out his design.
"Permit me a remark," said an old wood ranger.
"Speak, Ruperto, what is it?" Davis answered.
"I have known the spot where we now are for a long time, and have often hunted deer and antelopes here."
"Come to facts, my friend."
"You can act as you please, John Davis, on the information I am about to give you; by turning to the right, after marching for about three miles, you get round the hills, and what appears to us from here a precipice, is, in fact, only a plain, very enclosed, I allow, but easy to traverse on horseback."
"Ah, ah," John said thoughtfully, "and what do you conclude from that, Ruperto?"
"That it would be, perhaps, better to mount and skirt the hills."
"Yes, yes, that is a good idea, and we will take advantage of it; take twenty men with you, Ruperto, and proceed at full speed to the plain you allude to, for we must not throw away any chance; the rest of the band will remain here to watch the environs, while I effect the descent of the barranca."
"You still adhere to your idea, then?"
"More than ever."
"As you please, John Davis, as you please, though you risk your bones on such a black night as this."
"I trust in Heaven, and I hope it will protect me."
"I hope so too for your sake; but I must be off here's luck."
"Thanks, the same to you."
Red Ruperto then went off, followed by twenty borderers, who spontaneously offered to accompany him, and soon disappeared in the darkness. The descent John Davis was preparing to make, was anything but easy. The American was too experienced a wood ranger not to know, and hence took all proper precautions. He placed in his belt next his knife a wide and strong axe, and fastened round his waist a rope formed of several reatas. Three men seized the end of the rope, which they turned round the stem of a tree, so as to let it out without a shock, whenever the American desired it. As a final precaution, he lit a branch of ocote wood, which was to serve as his guide during his perilous descent, for the sky was perfectly black, which rendered the gloom so thick that it was impossible to see anything two paces away. His last measures taken with the coolness that distinguishes men of his race, the North American pressed the hands held out to him, tried once again to restore hope to his comrades by a few hearty words, and kneeling on the brink of the abyss, began slowly descending.