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Scalp Hunters
“Woman-meat, I reckin.”
“’Ee chuckle-headed fool! yur needn’t be so peert now, showin’ yur smartness when ’tain’t called for nohow.”
“Wal, leaving out man-meat, as you say,” remarked one of the hunters, in answer to Rube’s question, “a muss-rat’s the meanest thing I ever set teeth on.”
“I’ve chawed sage-hare — raw at that,” said a second, “an’ I don’t want to eat anything that’s bitterer.”
“Owl’s no great eatin’,” added a third.
“I’ve ate skunk,” continued a fourth; “an’ I’ve ate sweeter meat in my time.”
“Carrajo!” exclaimed a Mexican, “what do you think of monkey? I have dined upon that down south many’s the time.”
“Wal, I guess monkey’s but tough chawin’s; but I’ve sharpened my teeth on dry buffler hide, and it wa’n’t as tender as it mout ’a been.”
“This child,” said Rube, after the rest had given in their experience, “leavin’ monkey to the beside, have ate all them critturs as has been named yet. Monkey he hain’t, bein’ as thur’s none o’ ’em in these parts. It may be tough, or it mayn’t; it may be bitter, an’ it mayn’t, for what I knows to the contrairywise; but, oncest on a time, this niggur chawed a varmint that wa’n’t much sweeter, if it wur as sweet.”
“What was it, Rube?”
“What was it?” asked several in a breath, curious to know what the old trapper could have eaten more unpalatable than the viands already named.
“’Twur turkey-buzzart, then; that’s what it wur.”
“Turkey-buzzard!” echoed everyone.
“’Twa’n’t any thin’ else.”
“Wagh? that was a stinkin’ pill, an’ no mistake.”
“That beats me all hollow.”
“And when did ye eat the buzzard, old boy?” asked one, suspecting that there might be a story connected with this feat of the earless trapper.
“Ay! tell us that, Rube; tell us!” cried several.
“Wal,” commenced Rube, after a moment’s silence, “’twur about six yeern ago, I wur set afoot on the Arkansaw, by the Rapahoes, leastwise two hunder mile below the Big Timmer. The cussed skunks tuk hoss, beaver, an’ all. He! he!” continued the speaker with a chuckle; “he! he! they mout ’a did as well an’ let ole Rube alone.”
“I reckon that, too,” remarked a hunter. “’Tain’t like they made much out o’ that speckelashun. Well — about the buzzard?”
“’Ee see, I wur cleaned out, an’ left with jest a pair o’ leggins, better than two hunder miles from anywhur. Bent’s wur the nearest; an’ I tuk up the river in that direkshun.
“I never seed varmint o’ all kinds as shy. They wudn’t ’a been if I’d ’a had my traps; but there wa’n’t a critter, from the minners in the waters to the bufflers on the paraira, that didn’t look like they knowed how this niggur were fixed. I kud git nuthin’ for two days but lizard, an’ scarce at that.”
“Lizard’s but poor eatin’,” remarked one.
“’Ee may say that. This hyur thigh jeint’s fat cow to it — it are.”
And Rube, as he said this, made a fresh attack upon the wolf-mutton.
“I chawed up the ole leggins, till I wur as naked as Chimley Rock.”
“Gollies! was it winter?”
“No. ’Twur calf-time, an’ warm enuf for that matter. I didn’t mind the want o’ the buckskin that a way, but I kud ’a eat more o’ it.
“The third day I struck a town o’ sand-rats. This niggur’s har wur longer then than it ur now. I made snares o’ it, an’ trapped a lot o’ the rats; but they grew shy too, cuss ’em! an’ I had to quit that speck’lashun. This wur the third day from the time I’d been set down, an’ I wur getting nasty weak on it. I ’gin to think that the time wur come for this child to go under.
“’Twur a leetle arter sun-up, an’ I wur sittin’ on the bank, when I seed somethin’ queery floatin’ a-down the river. When I kim closer, I seed it wur the karkidge o’ a buffler — calf at that — an’ a couple o’ buzzarts floppin’ about on the thing, pickin’ its peepers out. ’Twur far out, an’ the water deep; but I’d made up my mind to fetch it ashore. I wa’n’t long in strippin’, I reckin.”
Here the hunters interrupted Rube’s story with a laugh.
“I tuk the water, an’ swam out. I kud smell the thing afore I wur half-way, an’ when I got near it, the birds mizzled. I wur soon clost up, an’ seed at a glimp that the calf wur as rotten as punk.”
“What a pity!” exclaimed one of the hunters.
“I wa’n’t a-gwine to have my swim for nuthin’; so I tuk the tail in my teeth, an’ swam back for the shore. I hadn’t made three strokes till the tail pulled out!
“I then swum round ahint the karkidge, an’ pushed it afore me till I got it landed high an’ dry upon a sandbar. ’Twur like to fall to pieces, when I pulled it out o’ the water. ’Twa’n’t eatable nohow!”
Here Rube took a fresh mouthful of the wolf-mutton, and remained silent until he had masticated it. The men had become interested in the story, and waited with impatience. At length he proceeded —
“I seed the buzzarts still flyin’ about, an’ fresh ones a-comin’. I tuk a idee that I mout git my claws upon some o’ ’em. So I lay down clost up agin the calf, an’ played ’possum.
“I wa’n’t long that a way when the birds begun to light on the sandbar, an’ a big cock kim floppin’ up to the karkidge. Afore he kud flop up agin, I grupped him by the legs.”
“Hooraw! well done, by gollies!”
“The cussed thing wur nearly as stinkin’ as t’other, but it wur die dog — buzzart or calf — so I skinned the buzzart.”
“And ate it?” inquired an impatient listener. “No-o,” slowly drawled Rube, apparently “miffed” at being thus interrupted. “It ate me.”
The laugh that followed this retort restored the old trapper to good humour again.
“Did you go it raw, Rube?” asked one of the hunters. “How could he do otherwise? He hadn’t a spark o’ fire, an’ nothing to make one out of.”
“Yur’n etarnal fool!” exclaimed Rube, turning savagely on the last speaker. “I kud make a fire if thur wa’n’t a spark anywhar!”
A yell of laughter followed this speech, and it was some minutes before the trapper recovered his temper sufficiently to resume his narration.
“The rest o’ the birds,” continued he at length, “seein’ the ole cock rubbed out, grew shy, and kep away on t’other side o’ the river. ’Twa’n’t no use tryin’ that dodge over agin. Jest then I spied a coyoat comin’ lopin’ down the bank, an’ another follerin’ upon his heels, an’ two or three more on the same trail. I know’d it wud be no joke gruppin’ one o’ them by the leg, but I made up my mind to try it; an’ I lay down jest as afore, close up to the calf. ’Twur no go. The cunnin’ things seed the float stick, an’ kep clur o’ the karkidge. I wur a-gwine to cacher under some bush that wur by, an’ I begun to carry it up, when all of a suddint I tuk a fresh idee in my head. I seed thur wur drift-wood a plenty on the bank, so I fotched it up, an’ built a pen-trap roun’ about the calf. In the twinklin’ o’ a goat’s eye I had six varmints in the trap.”
“Hooraw! Ye war safe then, old hoss.”
“I tuk a lot o’ stones, an’ then clomb up on the pen, an’ killed the hul kit on ’em. Lord, boyees! ’ee never seed sich a snappin’, and snarlin’, and jumpin’, an’ yowltin’, as when I peppered them donicks down on ’em. He! he! he! Ho! ho! hoo!”
And the smoky old sinner chuckled with delight at the remembrance of his adventure.
“You reached Bent’s then safe enough, I reckin?”
“’Ee — es. I skinned the critters wi’ a sharp stone, an’ made me a sort o’ shirt an’ leggins. This niggur had no mind, comin’ in naked, to gi’ them thur joke at the Fort. I packed enough of the wolf-meat to last me up, an’ I got there in less’n a week. Bill wur thur himself, an’ ’ee all know Bill Bent. He know’d me. I wa’n’t in the Fort a half an hour till I were spick-span in new buckskins, wi’ a new rifle; an’ that rifle wur Tar-guts, now afore ye.”
“Ha! you got Tear-guts thar then?”
“I got Tar-guts thur then, an’ a gun she ur. He! he! he! ’Twa’n’t long arter I got her till I tried her. He! he! he! Ho! ho! hoo!”
And the old trapper went off into another fit of chuckling.
“What are ye laughin’ at now, Rube?” asked one of his comrades.
“He! he! he! What am I larfin’ at? He! he! he! Ho! ho! That ur the crisp o’ the joke. He! he! he! What am I larfin’ at?”
“Yes; tell us, man!”
“It are this then I’m larfin’ at,” replied Rube, sobering down a little, “I wa’n’t at Bent’s three days when who do ’ee think shed kum to the Fort?”
“Who? Maybe the Rapahoes!”
“Them same Injuns; an’ the very niggurs as set me afoot. They kum to the Fort to trade wi’ Bill, an’ thur I sees both my old mar an’ rifle!”
“You got them back then?”
“That wur likely. Thur wur a sight o’ mountainy men thur, at the time, that wa’n’t the fellurs to see this child put down on the parairar for nuthin’. Yander’s the critter!” and Rube pointed to the old mare. “The rifle I gin to Bill, an’ kep Tar-guts instead, seeing she wur a better gun.”
“So you got square with the Rapahoes?”
“That, young fellur, justs rests on what ’ee ’ud call squar. Do ’ee see these hyur nicks: them standin’ sep’rate?”
And the trapper pointed to a row of small notches cut in the stock of his rifle.
“Ay, ay!” cried several men in reply. “Thur’s five o’ ’em, ain’t thur?”
“One, two, three; yes, five.”
“Them’s Rapahoes!”
Rube’s story was ended.
Chapter Thirty. Blinding the Pursuer
By this time the men had finished eating, and now began to gather around Seguin, for the purpose of deliberating on what course we should pursue. One had already been sent up to the rocks to act as a vidette, and warn us in case any of the Indians should be descried upon the prairie.
We all felt that we were still in a dilemma. The Navajo was our captive, and his men would come to seek for him. He was too important a personage (second chief of the nation) to be abandoned without a search, and his own followers, nearly half of the tribe, would certainly be back to the spring. Not finding him there, should they not discover our tracks, they would return upon the war-trail to their country.
This, we all saw, would render our expedition impracticable, as Dacoma’s band alone outnumbered us; and should we meet them in their mountain fastnesses, we should have no chance of escape.
For some time Seguin remained silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. He was evidently tracing out in his mind some plan of action. None of the hunters chose to interrupt him.
“Comrades!” said he at length, “this is an unfortunate coup, but it could not be avoided. It is well it is no worse. As it is, we must alter our plans. They will be sure to return on his track, and follow their own trail back to the Navajo towns. What then? Our band cannot either come on to the Pinon or cross the war-trail at any point. They would discover our tracks to a certainty.”
“Why, can’t we go straight up to whar the rest’s cached, and then take round by the old mine? That won’t interfere with the war-trail nohow.” This was proposed by one of the hunters. “Vaya!” rejoined a Mexican; “we should meet the Navajoes just when we had got to their town! Carrai! that would never do, amigo. There wouldn’t many, of us get back again. Santisima! No.”
“We ain’t obleeged to meet them,” argued the first speaker. “They’re not a-goin’ to stop at thur town when they find the nigger hain’t been back.”
“It is true,” said Seguin, “they will not remain there. They will doubtless return on the war-trail again; but I know the country by the mine.”
“So do I! So do I!” cried several voices. “There is no game,” continued Seguin. “We have no provisions; it is therefore impossible for us to go that way.”
“We couldn’t go it, nohow.”
“We should starve before we had got through the Mimbres.”
“Thar’s no water that way.”
“No, by gosh! not enough to make a drink for a sand-rat.”
“We must take our chances, then,” said Seguin. Here he paused thoughtfully, and with a gloomy expression of countenance.
“We must cross the trail,” he continued, “and go by the Prieto, or abandon the expedition.”
The word “Prieto,” in opposition to the phrase “abandon the expedition,” put the hunters to their wits’ end for invention, and plan after plan was proposed; all, however, ending in the probability — in fact, certainty — that if adopted, our trail would be discovered by the enemy, and followed up before we could escape back to the Del Norte. They were, therefore, one after another rejected.
During all this discussion, old Rube had not said a word. The earless trapper was sitting upon the prairie, squat on his hams, tracing out some lines with his bow, and apparently laying out the plan of a fortification.
“What are ye doin’, old hoss?” inquired one of his comrades.
“My hearin’ ain’t as good as ’twur afore I kim into this cussed country; but I thought I heerd some o’ ’ees say, jest now, we cudn’t cross the ’Pash trail ’ithout bein’ followed in two days. That’s a dod-rotted lie. It are.”
“How are ye goin’ to prove it, hoss?”
“Chut, man! yur tongue wags like a beaver’s tail in flood-time.”
“Can you suggest any way in which it can be done, Rube? I confess I see none.”
As Seguin made this appeal, all eyes were turned upon the trapper.
“Why, cap, I kin surgest my own notion o’ the thing. It may be right, an’ it mayn’t be right; but if it wur follered out, there’ll be neither ’Pash nor Navagh that’ll smell where we go for a week. If they diz, ’ee may cut my ears off.”
This was a favourite joke with Rube, and the hunters only laughed. Seguin himself could not restrain a smile, as he requested the speaker to proceed.
“Fust an’ fo’most, then,” said Rube, “thur not a-gwine to come arter that nigger in less than two days.”
“How can you tell that?”
“This way: ’Ee see he’s only second chief, an’ they kin go on well enough ’ithout him. But that ain’t it. The Injun forgot his bow; white at that. Now ’ee all knows as well as this child, that that’s a big disgrace in the eyes o’ Injuns.”
“You’re right about that, hoss,” remarked one.
“Wal, so the ole ’coon thinks. Now, ’ee see, it’s as plain as Pike’s Peak that he kim away back ’ithout tellin’ any o’ the rest a syllabub about it. He’d not let ’em know if he kud help it.”
“That is not improbable,” said Seguin. “Proceed, Rube!”
“More’n that,” continued the trapper, “I’ll stake high thet he ordered them not to foller him, afeerd thet some on ’em mout see what he kim for. If he’d a-thought they knew or suspected, he’d ’a sent some other, an’ not kum himself; that’s what he’d ’a done.”
This was all probable enough; and with the knowledge which the scalp-hunters possessed of the Navajo character, they one and all believed it to be so.
“I’m sartin they’ll kum back,” continued Rube; “that ur, his half o’ the tribe, anyways; but it’ll be three days clur, an’ well up till another, afore they drinks Peenyun water.”
“But they would strike our trail the day after.”
“If we were green fools enough to let ’em, they wud.”
“How can we prevent that?” asked Seguin.
“Easy as fallin’ off a log.”
“How? how?” inquired several at once.
“By puttin’ them on another scent, do ’ee see?”
“Yes! but in what way can we effect that?” inquired Seguin.
“Why, cap, yur tumble has surely dumfoundered ye. I wud think less o’ these other dummies not seein’ at a glimp how we kin do it.”
“I confess, Rube,” replied Seguin, with a smile, “I do not perceive how we can mislead them.”
“Wal, then,” continued the trapper, with a chuckle of satisfaction at his own superior prairie-craft, “this child’s a-gwyne to tell ’ee how ’ee kin put them on a different track.”
“Hooraw for you, old hoss!”
“’Ee see a quiver on that Injun’s back?”
“Ay, ay!” cried several voices.
“It’s full o’ arrows, or pretty near it, I reckin.”
“It is. Well?”
“Wal, then, let some o’ us ride the Injun’s mustang: any other critter thet’s got the same track ’ll do; away down the ’Pash trail, an’ stick them things pointin’ south’art; an’ if the Navagh don’t travel that a way till they comes up with the ’Pashes, ’ee may have this child’s har for a plug o’ the wust Kaintucky terbaccer.”
“Viva!”
“He’s right, he’s right!”
“Hooraw for old Rube!” and various exclamations, were uttered by the hunters.
“’Tain’t needcessary for them to know why he shud ’a tuk that track. They’ll know his arrows; that’s enuf. By the time they gits back, with their fingers in thur meat-traps, we’ll hev start enough to carry us to Hackensack.”
“Ay, that we will, by gollies!”
“The band,” continued Rube, “needn’t come to the Peenyun spring no howsomever. They kin cross the war-trail higher up to to’rst the Heely, an’ meet us on t’other side o’ the mountain, whur thur’s a grist o’ game, both cattle an’ buffler. A plenty o’ both on the ole mission lands, I’ll be boun’. We’d hev to go thur anyways. Thur’s no hopes o’ meetin’ the buffler this side, arter the splurry them Injuns has gin them.”
“That is true enough,” said Seguin. “We must go round the mountain before we can expect to fall in with the buffalo. The Indian hunt has chased them clean off from the Llanos. Come, then! Let us set about our work at once. We have yet two hours before sunset. What would you do first, Rube? You have given the plan: I will trust to you for the details.”
“Why, in my opeenyun, cap, the fust thing to be did are to send a man as straight as he can gallip to whur the band’s cached. Let him fotch them acrost the trail.”
“Where should they cross, do you think?”
“About twenty mile north o’ hyur thur’s a dry ridge, an’ a good grist o’ loose donicks. If they cross as they oughter, they needn’t make much sign. I kud take a train o’ Bent’s waggons over, that ’ud puzzle deaf Smith to foller ’em. I kud.”
“I will send a man off instantly. Here, Sanchez! you have a good horse, and know the ground. It is not over twenty miles to where they are cached. Bring them along the ridge, and with caution, as you have heard. You will find us around the north point of the mountain. You can travel all night, and be up with us early in the morning. Away!”
The torero, without making any answer, drew his horse from the picket, leaped into the saddle, and rode off at a gallop towards the north-west.
“It is fortunate,” said Seguin, looking after him for some moments, “that they have trampled the ground about here, else the tracks made in our last encounter would certainly have told tales upon us.”
“Thur’s no danger about that,” rejoined Rube; “but when we rides from hyur, cap’n, we mustn’t foller their trail. They’d soon sight our back tracks. We had best keep up yander among the loose donicks.” Rube pointed to the shingle that stretched north and south along the foot of the mountain.
“Yes, that shall be our course. We can leave this without leaving any tracks. What next?”
“The next idee ur, to get rid o’ yon piece o’ machin’ry,” and the trapper, as he spoke, nodded in the direction of the skeleton.
“True! I had forgotten it. What shall we do with it?”
“Bury it,” advised one.
“Wagh! no. Burn it!” cried another.
“Ay, that’s best,” said a third.
The latter suggestion was adopted.
The skeleton was brought down; the stains of the blood were carefully rubbed from the rocks; the skull was shivered with a tomahawk, and the joints were broken in pieces. The whole mass was then flung upon the fire, and pounded down among numerous bones of the buffalo, already simmering in the cinders. An anatomist only could have detected the presence of a human skeleton.
“Now, Rube; the arrows?”
“If ’ee’ll leave that to me an’ Bill Garey, I think them two niggurs kin fix ’em so as to bamfoozle any Injuns thur is in these parts. We’ll hev to go three mile or tharabout; but we’ll git back by the time ’ee hev filled yur gourds, an’ got yur traps ready for skeetin’.”
“Very well! take the arrows.”
“Four’s gobs for us,” said Rube, taking that number from the quiver. “Keep the rest. ’Ee’ll want more wolf-meat afore we start. Thur’s not a tail o’ anythin’ else till we git clur roun’ the mountain yander. Billee! throw your ugly props over that Navagh mustang. Putty hoss too; but I wudn’t giv my old mar for a hul cavayard o’ him. Gi’s a sprig o’ the black feather.”
Here the old trapper drew one of the ostrich feathers out of the helmet of the Navajo chief, and continued —
“Boyees! take care o’ the ole mar till I kum back, an don’t let her stampede, do ’ee hear. I wants a blanket. Don’t all speak at oncest!”
“Here, Rube, here!” cried several, holding out their blankets.
“E’er a one ’ll do. We needs three: Bill’s an’ mine an’ another’n. Hyur, Billee! take these afore ye. Now ride down the ’Pash trail three hunred yards, or tharabout, an’ then pull up. Don’t take the beaten pad, but keep alongside, an’ make big tracks. Gallop!”
The young hunter laid his quirt to the flanks of the mustang, and started at full gallop along the Apache trail.
When he had ridden a distance of three hundred yards or so, he halted to wait for further directions from his comrade.
Old Rube, at the same time, took an arrow; and, fastening a piece of ostrich feather to the barb, adjusted it on one of the upright poles which the Indians had left standing on the camp-ground. It was placed in such a manner that the head pointed southward in the direction of the Apache trail, and was so conspicuous with the black feather that no one coming in from the Llanos could fail to see it.
This done, he followed his companion on foot, keeping wide out from the trail, and making his tracks with great caution. On coming up with Garey, he stuck a second arrow in the ground: its point also inclined to the south, and so that it could be seen from the former one.
Garey then galloped forward, keeping on the trail, while Rube struck out again to the open prairie, and advanced in a line parallel to it.
Having ridden a distance of two or three miles, Garey slackened his pace, and put the mustang to a slow walk. A little farther on he again halted, and held his horse at rest, in the beaten path.
Rube now came up, and spread the three blankets lengthwise along the ground, and leading westward from the trail. Garey dismounted, and led the animal gently on the blankets.
As its feet rested on two at a time, each, as it became the rearmost, was taken up, and spread again in front; and this was repeated until they had got the mustang some fifty lengths of himself out into the prairie. The movement was executed with an adroitness equal to that which characterised the feat of Sir Walter Raleigh.
Garey now took up the blankets, and, remounting, commenced riding slowly back by the foot of the mountain; while Rube returned to the trail, and placed a third arrow at the point where the mustang had parted from it. He then proceeded south as before. One more was yet needed to make doubly sure.
When he had gone about half a mile, we saw him stoop over the trail, rise up again, cross toward the mountain foot, and follow the path taken by his companion. The work was done; the finger-posts were set; the ruse was complete!
El Sol, meanwhile, had been busy. Several wolves were killed and skinned, and the meat was packed in their skins. The gourds were filled, our captive was tied on a mule, and we stood waiting the return of the trappers.
Seguin had resolved to leave two men at the spring as videttes. They were to keep their horses by the rocks, and supply them with the mule-bucket, so as to make no fresh tracks at the water. One was to remain constantly on an eminence, and watch the prairie with the glass. They could thus descry the returning Navajoes in time to escape unobserved themselves along the foot of the mountain. They were then to halt at a place ten miles to the north, where they could still have a view of the plain. There they were to remain until they had ascertained what direction the Indians should take after leaving the spring, when they were to hurry forward and join the band with their tidings.
All these arrangements having been completed as Rube and Garey came up, we mounted our horses and rode by a circuitous route for the mountain foot. When close in, we found the path strewed with loose cut-rock, upon which the hoofs of our animals left no track. Over this we rode forward, heading to the north, and keeping in a line nearly parallel to the “war-trail.”
