CHAPTER IX
THE EMBASSY
On the selfsame day that Father Seraphin went to the prison to propose an escape to the condemned, a very strange circumstance had aroused the entire population of Santa Fe. At about midday, at the moment when the inhabitants were enjoying their siesta, and the streets, calcined by the beams of a tropical sun, were completely deserted, a formidable whoop, the terrible war yell of the Comanche Indians, burst forth at the entrance of the town.
There was a general alarm, and everybody barricaded himself in his house, believing in a sudden assault of the savages. Presently an immense clamour, and cries of distress and despair uttered by a terrified population, could be heard throughout the town. Several times already the Comanches, in their periodical incursions, had come near Santa Fe, but never so closely as this time; and the remembrance of the cruelties they had practised on the hapless Spaniards who fell into their hands was still present to every mind.
In the meanwhile a few inhabitants, bolder than the rest, or having nothing to lose, proceeded with the greatest precautions toward the spot whence the shouts were heard; and a singular spectacle presented itself. A detachment of dismounted Comanche warriors, about two hundred strong, was marching in close column, flanked on either wing by two troops, each of fifty horses. About twenty paces in front caracoled Unicorn.
All these men had a martial aspect which was really remarkable: all were strangely painted, well adorned, and in their full war costume. The horsemen were loaded with all sorts of arms and ornaments: they had a bow and quiver on their backs, their guns slung and decorated with their medicine bags, and their lances in their hands. They were crowned with magnificent black and white eagle feathers, with a falling tuft. The upper part of the body, otherwise naked, was covered by a coyote skin rolled up and worn across the shoulder; their bucklers were ornamented with feathers, cloth of different colours, and human scalps. They were seated on handsome saddlecloth of panthers' skins, lined with red, which almost covered the horses' backs. According to the prairie fashion, they had no stirrups.
Unicorn brandished in his right hand the long medicine lance, the distinctive mark of the powerful "dance of the prairie dogs." It was a staff in the shape of a crook, covered with an otter skin, and decorated through its entire length with owl feathers. This talisman, which he had inherited, possessed the power of bringing under his orders all the warriors of his nation scattered over the prairies: hence on all grand occasions he never failed to carry it. He wore a shirt made of the skin of the bighorn, embroidered on the sleeves with blue flowers, and adorned on the right arm with long stripes of rolled ermine and red feathers, and on the left arm with long tresses of black hair cut from the scalps he had raised. Over his shoulders he had thrown a cloak of gazelle skin, having at each end an enormous tuft of ermine. On his forehead the chief had fastened two buffalo horns, which with the blue, red, and green paint plastered on his face, gave him a terrible aspect. His magnificent horse, a mustang full of fire, which he managed with inimitable grace and skill, was painted red in different fashions: on its legs were stripes like a zebra, and on either side the backbone were designed arrowhead, lances, beavers, tortoises, &c. The same was the case with the face and the haunches.
There was something at once imposing and striking in the appearance presented by this band of ferocious warriors as they advanced though the deserted streets of the city, brandishing their tremendous weapons, and uttering at intervals their sinister war cry, which they accompanied by the shrill sound of long whistles made of human thigh bones, which they wore suspended by strips of wild beast hide.
By this time the Comanches had penetrated to the heart of the city, driving before them, though without violence, the few inhabitants who had ventured to get in their way. They marched in good order, not turning to the right or left to plunder, and doing no reprehensive action.
The Spaniards, more and more surprised at the haughty and bold attitude of the Indians, and their exemplary conduct, asked themselves with terror what these men wanted, and what reason had led them to invade their frontiers in so sudden and secret a way, that the scouts the Mexican Government pays to watch them had no knowledge of their march. As usually happens in such cases, terror gradually gave way to curiosity. In the first place the leperos and adventurers dared to approach the Indians; then the inhabitants, if not completely tranquilised, still reassured by their peaceful attitude, mingled with the groups; so that when the Comanche war party arrived on the Plaza Mayor; it was followed by a crowd of Spaniards, who regarded them with the restless and stupid curiosity only to be found among the masses.
The Comanches did not appear to notice the excitement they created. As soon as they were on the Plaza Mayor they halted, and remained motionless, as if their feet had suddenly grown to the ground. Unicorn made a sign with his talisman; a warrior quitted the ranks, and rode up to the sentry standing in front of the governor's palace, who regarded the singular scene with a dazed air.
"Wah!" the Indian said sarcastically, as he lightly touched the soldier with the end of his lance. "Is my brother asleep, that he does not hear a warrior addressing him?"
"I am not asleep," the soldier answered, as he fell back a pace. "What do you want?"
"The great sachem of the Comanches, the cacique whom the red children call Haboutzelze, has come to speak to his great white father, the chief of the frontier palefaces."
"What does he want with him?" the soldier asked, not knowing what he said, so much had the unexpected sight of the redskin disturbed him.
"Is my brother a chief?" the Indian asked cunningly.
"No," the soldier answered, greatly confused by this lesson.
"Well, then, let him close his ears as regards those the Great Spirit has set above him, and deliver the message I give him in the sachem's name."
While the Comanche was exchanging these few words with the sentry, several persons, drawn out of the palace by the unusual disturbance they heard, mingled with the crowd. Among them were several officers, one of whom advanced to the Indian horseman.
"What does my brother want?" he asked him.
The warrior saw at the first glance that this time he had to do with a chief. He bowed courteously, and answered.
"A deputation of the great Comanche nation desires to be introduced to my great white father."
"Good! But all the warriors cannot enter the palace," the officer said.
"My brother is right. Their chiefs alone will go in: their young men will await them here."
"Let my brother be patient. I will go and deliver his message in all haste."
"Good! My brother is a chief. The Spider will await him."
The officer disappeared in the interior, while the Spider planted the end of his long lance in the ground, and remained with his eye fixed on the gate of the palace, not evincing the slightest impatience.
The new governor of Santa Fe was a general of the name of Don Benito Ventura. He was ignorant as a fish, stupid and haughty as a heathcock. Like the majority of his colleagues in this eccentric country, he had gained his general's epaulettes by repeated pronunciamentos, managing to gain a step by every revolution, while never having seen more fire than that of the thin husk pajillo he constantly had in his mouth. To sum him up, he was very rich, a wonderful coward, and more afraid of blows than aught else in the world. Such he was morally: physically he was a plump little man, round as a barrel, with a rubicund face, lighted up by two small grey eyes.
This worthy officer perspired water and blood when the duties of his station obliged him to put on the uniform, every seam of which was overlaid with gold lace: his chest literally disappeared under the infinity of crosses of every description with which each president had honoured him on attaining power. In a word, General Ventura was a worthy man, as fit to be a soldier as he was to be a cardinal; and he had only one object, that of being President of the Republic in his turn; but this object he ever pursued without Once swerving from his path.
If he accepted the governorship of New Mexico, it was for the simple reason that, as Santa Fe was a long distance from Mexico, he had calculated that it would be easy for him to make a pronunciamento in his own favour, and become, ipso facto, president. He was not aware, on coming to Santa Fe, that the province he was about to govern was incessantly menaced by Indian forays. Had he known it, however advantageous the post of governor might, be for his schemes, he would have refused point blank so perilous an honour.
He had learned with the utmost terror the entrance of the Comanches into the town, and when the officer intrusted with the Spider's message presented himself before him he had literally lost his head. It took all possible trouble to make him comprehend that the Indians came as friends, that they merely wished to have a palaver with him, and that since their coming their conduct had been most honourable and exemplary. Fortunately for the Spanish honour, other officers entered the apartment in which was the governor, attracted to the palace by the news, which had spread with the speed of a train of powder through Santa Fe, of the appearance of an Indian detachment.
When the general saw himself surrounded and supported by the officers of his staff his terror was slightly toned down, he regained his presence of mind and it was with a calm and almost dignified demeanor that he discussed the question whether it was proper to receive the Indian deputation, and in what manner it should be done. The other officers, who, in the course of their professional career, had had many a skirmish with the redskins, felt no inclination to anger them. They produced in support of their opinions such peremptory reasons, that General Ventura, convinced by their arguments gave the officer who brought the message orders to bring the three principal Indian chiefs into the palace.
CHAPTER X
THE PRESENTATION
It needed the thorough knowledge the Comanches possessed of the terror they inspired the Mexicans with to have dared to enter in so small a body a town like Santa Fe, where they might expect to find a considerable garrison.
The general officer sent by General Ventura had performed his duty. Unicorn and two other chiefs dismounted, and followed him into the palace; while the Indian warriors, in spite of the heat of the sunbeams that played on their heads, remained motionless on the spot where their caciques bade them wait.
The general desired, by a certain display of strength, to impose on the redskin deputies; but unfortunately, as is always the case in Mexico, the garrison, which on paper represented eight hundred men, was in reality only composed of sixty at the most – a very small number for a frontier town, especially under the present circumstances. But if soldiers were lacking, to make up for it there was no paucity of officers; for about thirty were assembled at the palace, which allowed one officer to every two privates. This detail, which might appear exaggerated, is, however, strictly correct, and shows in what a state of anarchy this hapless country is plunged. The thirty officers, attired in their splendid uniforms, that glistened with gold and decorations, were arranged round the general, while three posts of ten men each held the doors of the halls of reception.
When the preparations were completed the ambassadors were introduced. The Indian chiefs, accustomed for a long period to Spanish luxury, entered without testifying the slightest surprise. They bowed with dignity to the assembly, and, crossing their arms on their chests, waited till they were addressed. The general regarded them with an astonishment pardonable enough, for this was the first time he had found himself in the presence of these untamable redskins, whose terrible renown had so often made him shudder.
"What reason can have been so powerful as to oblige my sons to come and see me?" he asked in a gracious and conciliating tone. "Let them make their request, and, if I can do so, I shall be most ready to satisfy it."
This opening, which the governor fancied to be very politic, was, on the contrary, most awkward, as it offended the pride of those he addressed, and whom he had the greatest interest in humouring. Unicorn took a step forward. A sarcastic smile played on his lips, and he replied in a voice slightly tinged with irony, —
"I have heard a parrot speak. Are the words addressed to me?"
The general blushed up to the eyes at this insult, which he did not dare retaliate.
"The chief has not understood my words," he said. "My intentions are good, and I only wish to be agreeable to him."
"The Comanches do not come here to ask a favour," Unicorn answered, haughtily. "They know how to avenge themselves when insulted."
"What do my sons want then?"
"To treat with my father for the ransom of the white chiefs who are in their power. Five palefaces inhabit the cabin of the Comanches. The young men of the tribe demand their punishment, for the blood of the palefaces is agreeable to the Master of Life. Tomorrow the prisoners will have ceased to live if my father does not buy them off today."
After these words, uttered in a firm and peremptory tone, there was a moment of supreme silence. The Mexican officers reflected sadly on the fearful fate that threatened their friends. Unicorn continued: —
"What does my father say? Shall we fasten our prisoners to the stake of blood, or restore them to liberty?"
"What ransom do you ask?" the general said.
"Listen, all you chiefs of the palefaces here present, and judge of the clemency and generosity of the Comanches. We only, wish, for the life of these five men, the life of two men."
"That is little, I allow," the general remarked; "and who are the two men whose lives you ask?"
"The palefaces call them, the first, Don Miguel Zarate; the second, General Ibañez."
The general started.
"These two men cannot be delivered to you," he answered; "they are condemned to death, and will die tomorrow."
"Good! My prisoners will be tortured this night," the chief replied stoically.
"Confound it!" the general sharply exclaimed, "Is there no other arrangement possible? Let my brothers ask me a thing I can grant them, and – "
"I want those two men," the chief quickly interrupted. "If not, my warriors will themselves deliver them; and in that case the Comanche chiefs cannot prevent the injury their warriors may commit in the town."
One of the officers present at this interview was aroused by the tone Unicorn had affected since the beginning of the audience. He was a brave old soldier, and the cowardice of his comrades shamed him. He rose at this point.
"Chief," he said in a firm voice, "your words are very haughty and foolish for the mouth of an ambassador. You are here, at the head of scarce two hundred warriors, in the heart of a town peopled by brave men. Despite all my desire to be agreeable to you, if you do not pay greater respect to your audience, prompt and severe justice shall be inflicted on your insolence."
The Indian chief turned toward the new speaker, whose remarks had aroused a sympathetic murmur.
"My words are those of a man who fears nothing, and holds in his hands the life of five men."
"Well," the officer retorted sharply, "what do we care for them? If they were such fools as to let you capture them, they must suffer the consequences of their madness; we cannot pay for them. Besides, as you have already been told, those you claim must die."
"Good! We will retire," Unicorn said haughtily. "Longer discourse is needless; our deeds shall speak for us."
"A moment!" the general exclaimed. "All may yet be arranged. An affair like the present cannot be settled all in a hurry; we must reflect on the propositions made to us. My son is a chief, and will grant us reasonable time to offer him a reply."
Unicorn bent a suspicious glance on the governor.
"My father has spoken wisely," he presently made answer. "Tomorrow at the twelfth hour, I will come for the final answer of the palefaces. But my father will promise me not to order the punishment of the prisoners till he has told me the decision he has come to."
"Be it so," the general answered. "But what will the Comanches do till, then?"
"They will leave the town as they entered it, and bivouac on the plain."
"Agreed on."
"The Master of Life has heard my father's promise. If he break his word and possess a forked tongue, the blood shed will fall on his head."
The Comanche uttered these words in a significant tone that made the general tremble inwardly; then he bowed to the assembly, and left the hall with his companions. On reaching the square the chiefs remounted their horses and placed themselves at the head of their warriors. An hour later the Comanches had left the town, and camped within two gunshots of the walls, on the banks of the river. It was after this interview that Unicorn had the conversation with Valentine which we recently described.
Still, when the Mexican officers were alone with the general, their courage returned all at once, and they reproached him for the little dignity he had displayed before the Indians, and specially for the promise he had made them. The general listened to them calmly, with a smile on his lips, and contented himself with answering them, in a tone, of indescribable meaning, —
"The promise you allude to pledges me to nothing. Between this and tomorrow certain things will happen to free us from the Comanches, and let us dispense with surrendering the prisoners they demand so insolently."
CHAPTER XI
PSYCHOLOGICAL
About half a league to the west of Santa Fe three men and a woman were seated behind a dense clump of trees, which sheltered while rendering them unseen, over a bois-de-vache fire, supping with good appetite, and chatting together. The three men were Red Cedar's sons; the female was Ellen. The maiden was pale and sad: her dreamy eye wandered around with a distraught expression. She listened hardly to what her brothers said, and would certainly have been greatly embarrassed to describe the conversation, for her mind was elsewhere.
"Hum!" Sutter said, "what the deuce can keep the old one so long? He told us he should be back by four o'clock at the latest; but the sun is just disappearing on the horizon, and he has not come yet."
"Pshaw!" Nathan said with a shrug of the shoulders. "Are you afraid that something has happened to him? The old chap has beak and nails to defend himself; and since his last turn up with Don Miguel, the fellow who is to be shot tomorrow at Santa Fe, he has kept on his guard."
"I care very little," Sutter replied brusquely, "whether father is here or not; but I believe we should do well not to wait longer, but return to the camp, where our presence is doubtless necessary."
"Nonsense! Our comrades can do without us," Shaw observed. "We are all right here, so suppose we stop the night. Tomorrow it will be day. Well, if father has not returned by sunrise, we will go back to camp. Harry and Dick can keep good order till our return."
"In truth, Shaw is right," Nathan said. "Father is at times so strange, that he might be angry with us for not having waited for him; for he never does anything lightly. If he told us to stay here, he probably had his reasons."
"Let us stay, then," Sutter remarked carelessly. "I ask for nothing better. We shall only have to keep the fire up, and so one of us will watch while the others sleep."
"Agreed on," Nathan replied. "In that way, if the old man comes during our sleep, he will see that we waited for him."
The three brothers rose. Sutter and Nathan collected a pile of dry wood to maintain the fire, while Shaw intertwined a few branches to make his sister a sufficient shelter for the night. The two elder brothers thrust their feet toward the fire, wrapped themselves in their blankets, and went to sleep, after advising Shaw to keep a bright lookout, not only against wild beasts, but to announce the old squatter's approach. Shaw, after stirring up the fire, threw himself at the foot of a larch tree, and letting his head sink on his chest, plunged into deep and painful meditation.
This poor boy, hardly twenty years of age, was a strange composite of good and evil qualities. Reared in the desert, he had grown up like one of its native trees, thrusting out here and there branches full of powerful sap. Nothing had ever thwarted his instincts, no matter what their nature might be. Possessing no cognizance of justice and injustice, he had never been able to appreciate the squatter's conduct, or see the injury he did society by the life he led. Habituated to regard as belonging to himself all that he wished for, allowing himself to be guided by his impressions and caprices, never having felt any other fetter than his father's despotic will, this young man had at once a nature expansive and reserved, generous and avaricious, gentle and cruel: in a word, he possessed all the qualities of his vices; but he was, before all, a man of sensations. Endowed with a vast intellect, extreme audacity, and lively comprehensions, he would have been indubitably a remarkable man, had he been born in a different position.
His sister Ellen was the only member of his family for whom he experienced sympathy; and yet it was only with extreme reserve that he intrusted his boyish secrets to her – secrets which, during the last few days, had acquired an importance he did not himself suspect, but which his sister, with the innate intelligence of woman, had already divined.
Shaw, as we have said, was thinking. The young savage's indomitable nature revolted against an unknown force which had suddenly sprung up in his heart – mastered and subdued him in spite of all his efforts. He was in love! He loved, ignorant even of the meaning of the word love, which comprises in this nether world all earthly joy and suffering. Vainly he sought to explain his feelings; but no light flashed across his mind, or illumined the darkness of his heart. He loved without desire and without hope, involuntarily obeying that divine law which compels even the roughest man to seek a mate. He was dreaming of Doña Clara. He loved her, as he was capable of loving, with that passionate impetuosity, that violence of feeling, to which his uncultivated mind adapted him. The sight of the maiden caused him a strange trouble, which he did not attempt to account for. He did not try to analyse his feelings, for that would have been impossible; and yet at times he was a prey to cold and terrible fury, when thinking that the haughty maiden, who was even unconscious of his existence, would probably only spurn and despise him if she knew it. He was yielding to these crushing thoughts, when he suddenly felt a hand laid on his shoulder. On turning, Ellen stood before him, upright and motionless, like the white apparitions of the German legends. He raised his head, and bent an inquiring glance on his sister.
"You are not asleep, Ellen?"
"No," she answered in a voice soft as a bird's song. "Brother, my heart is sad."
"What is the matter, Ellen? Why not enjoy a few hours of that repose so necessary for you?"
"My heart is sad, I tell you, brother," she went on. "In vain do I seek sleep – it flies far from me."
"Sister, tell me the cause of your sufferings, and perhaps I can appease the grief that devours you."
"Can you not guess it?"
"I do not understand you."
She looked at him so sternly that he could not let his eyes fall.
"On the contrary, you understand me too well, Shaw," she said with a sigh. "Your heart rejoices at this moment at the misfortune of the woman you should defend."
The young man blushed.
"What can I do?" he murmured faintly.
"Everything, if you have the firm will," she exclaimed energetically.
"No," Shaw went on, shaking his head with discouragement; "the person of whom you speak is the old man's prisoner. I cannot contend against my father."
Ellen smiled contemptuously.
"You seek in vain to hide your thoughts from me," she said harshly. "I read your heart as an open book: your sorrow is feigned, and you really rejoice at the thought that in future you will constantly be by Doña Clara's side."
"I!" he exclaimed with an angry start.
"Yes, you only see in her captivity a means to approach her. Your selfish heart is secretly gladdened by that hope."
"You are harsh to me, sister. Heaven is my witness that, were it possible, I would at once restore her the liberty torn from her."
"You can if you like."
"No, it is impossible. My father watches too closely over his prisoner."
"He will not distrust you, but allow you to approach her freely."
"What you ask of me is impossible."
"Because you will not, Shaw. Remember that women only love men in proportion to the sacrifices they make for them: they despise cowards."
"But how to save her?"
"That is your affair, Shaw."
"At least give me some advice which will help me to escape from the difficult position in which I find myself."
"In such serious circumstances your heart must guide you, and you must only ask counsel of it."
"But the old one?" Shaw said hesitatingly.
"Our father will not know your movements. I take on myself to prevent him noticing them."
"Good!" the young man remarked, half convinced; "but I do not know where the maiden is hidden."
"I will tell you, if you swear to do all in your power to save her."
There was a moment of silence.
"I swear to obey you, Ellen. If I do not succeed in carrying the girl off, I will at any rate employ all my intellect to obtain that result. Speak, then, without fear."
"Doña Clara is confined at the Rancho del Coyote: she was intrusted to Andrés Garote."
"Ah, ah!" the young man said, as if speaking to himself, "I did not fancy her so near us."
"You will save her?"
"At all events I will try to free her from the hands of the man who guards her."
"Good!" the maiden remarked; "I now recognise you. Lose no time: my father's absence alarms me. Perhaps at this moment he is preparing a safer hiding place for his prisoner."
"Your idea is excellent, sister. Who knows whether it is not too late now to tear from the old man the prey he covets?"
"When do you intend to start?"
"At once: I have not a moment to lose. If the old man returned I should be compelled to remain here. But who will keep watch while my brothers sleep?"
"I will," the maiden answered resolutely.
"Whence arises the interest you feel in this woman, sister, as you do not know her?" the young man asked in surprise.
"She is a woman, and unhappy. Are not those reasons sufficient?"
"Perhaps so," Shaw remarked doubtfully.
"Child!" Ellen muttered, "Can you not read in your own heart, the motive of my conduct toward this stranger?"
The young savage started at this remark.
"It is true!" He exclaimed passionately. "Pardon me, sister! I am mad; but I love you, and you know me better than I do myself."
And rising hurriedly, he kissed his sister, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and ran off in the direction of Santa Fe.
When he had disappeared in the gloom, and the sound of his footsteps had died out in the distance, the girl fell on the ground, muttering in a low, sad voice:
"Will he succeed?"