Майн Рид
Scalp Hunters
Chapter Eight. Seguin the Scalp-Hunter
I have had the pleasure of being wounded in the field of battle. I say pleasure. Under certain circumstances, wounds are luxuries. How different were the feelings I experienced while smarting under wounds that came by the steel of the assassin!
My earliest anxiety was about the depth of my wound. Was it mortal? This is generally the first question a man puts to himself, after discovering that he has been shot or stabbed. A wounded man cannot always answer it either. One’s life-blood may be spurting from an artery at each palpitation, while the actual pain felt is not worth the pricking of a pin.
On reaching the Fonda, I sank exhausted on my bed. Saint Vrain split my hunting-shirt from cape to skirt, and commenced examining my wound. I could not see my friend’s face as he stood behind me, and I waited with impatience.
“Is it deep?” I asked.
“Not deep as a draw-well, nor wide as a waggon-track,” was the reply. “You’re quite safe, old fellow; thank God, and not the man who handled that knife, for the fellow plainly intended to do for you. It is the cut of a Spanish knife, and a devilish gash it is. Haller, it was a close shave. One inch more, and the spine, my boy! but you’re safe, I say. Here, Gode! that sponge!”
“Sacré!” muttered Gode, with true Gallic aspirate, as he handed the wet rag.
I felt the cold application. Then a bunch of soft raw cotton, the best dressing it could have, was laid over the wound, and fastened by strips. The most skilful surgeon could have done no more.
“Close as a clamp,” added Saint Vrain, as he fastened the last pin, and placed me in the easiest position. “But what started the row? and how came you to cut such a figure in it? I was out, thank God!”
“Did you observe a strange-looking man?”
“What! with the purple manga?”
“Yes.”
“He sat beside us?”
“Yes.”
“Ha! No wonder you say a strange-looking man; stranger than he looks, too. I saw him, I know him, and perhaps not another in the room could say that. Ay, there was another,” continued Saint Vrain, with a peculiar smile; “but what could have brought him there is that which puzzles me. Armijo could not have seen him: but go on.”
I related to Saint Vrain the whole of my conversation with the stranger, and the incidents that led to the breaking up of the fandango.
“It is odd — very odd! What could he want with your horse? Two hundred miles, and offers a thousand dollars!”
“Capitaine!” (Gode had called me captain ever since the ride upon the buffalo), “if monsieur come two hunred mile, and vill pay un mille thousan dollar, he Moro like ver, ver moch. Un grand passion pour le cheval. Pourquoi: vy he no like him ver sheep? vy he no steal ’im?”
I started at the suggestion, and looked towards Saint Vrain.
“Vith permiss of le capitaine, I vill le cheval cache,” continued the Canadian, moving towards the door.
“You need not trouble yourself, old Nor’-west, as far as that gentleman is concerned. He’ll not steal your horse; though that’s no reason why you should not fulfil your intention, and ‘cache’ the animal. There are thieves enough in Santa Fé to steal the horses of a whole regiment. You had better fasten him by the door here.”
Gode passed to the door and disappeared.
“Who is he?” I asked, “this man about whom there seems to be so much that is mysterious?”
“Ah! if you knew. I will tell you some queer passages by and by, but not to-night. You have no need of excitement. That is the famous Seguin — the Scalp-hunter.”
“The Scalp-hunter!”
“Ay! you have heard of him, no doubt; at least you would, had you been much among the mountains.”
“I have. The ruffian! the wholesale butcher of innocent — ”
A dark waif danced against the wall: it was the shadow of a man. I looked up. Seguin was before me!
Saint Vrain on seeing him enter had turned away, and stood looking out of the window.
I was on the point of changing my tirade into the apostrophic form, and at the same time ordering the man out of my sight, when something in his look influenced me to remain silent. I could not tell whether he had heard or understood to whom my abusive epithets had been applied; but there was nothing in his manner that betrayed his having done so. I observed only the same look that had at first attracted me — the same expression of deep melancholy.
Could this man be the hardened and heartless villain I had heard of, the author of so many atrocities?
“Sir,” said he, seeing that I remained silent, “I deeply regret what has happened to you. I was the involuntary cause of your mishap. Is your wound a severe one?”
“It is not,” I replied, with a dryness of manner that seemed somewhat to disconcert him.
“I am glad of that,” he continued, after a pause. “I came to thank you for your generous interference. I leave Santa Fé in ten minutes. I must bid you farewell.”
He held forth his hand. I muttered the word “farewell,” but without offering to exchange the salutation. The stories of cruel atrocity connected with the name of this man came into my mind at the moment, and I felt a loathing for him. His arm remained in its outstretched position, while a strange expression began to steal over his countenance, as he saw that I hesitated.
“I cannot take your hand,” I said at length.
“And why?” he asked, in a mild tone.
“Why? It is red, red! Away, sir, away!”
He fixed his eyes upon me with a sorrowful look. There was not a spark of anger in them. He drew his hand within the folds of his manga, and uttering a deep sigh, turned and walked slowly out of the room.
Saint Vrain, who had wheeled round at the close of this scene, strode forward to the door, and stood looking after him. I could see the Mexican, from where I lay, as he crossed the quadrangular patio. He had shrugged himself closely in his manga, and was moving off in an attitude that betokened the deepest dejection. In a moment he was out of sight, having passed through the saguan, and into the street.
“There is something truly mysterious about that man. Tell me, Saint Vrain — ”
“Hush–sh! look yonder!” interrupted my friend, pointing through the open door.
I looked out into the moonlight. Three human forms were moving along the wall, towards the entrance of the patio. Their height, their peculiar attitudes, and the stealthy silence of their steps, convinced me they were Indians. The next moment they were lost under the dark shadows of the saguan.
“Who are they?” I inquired.
“Worse enemies to poor Seguin than you would be, if you knew him better. I pity him if these hungry hawks overtake him in the dark. But no; he’s worth warning, and a hand to help him, if need be. He shall have it. Keep cool, Harry! I will be back in a jiffy.”
So saying, Saint Vrain left me; and the moment after I could see his light form passing hastily out of the gate.
I lay reflecting on the strangeness of the incidents that seemed to be occurring around me. I was not without some painful reflections. I had wounded the feelings of one who had not injured me, and for whom my friend evidently entertained a high respect. A shod hoof sounded upon the stones outside; it was Gode with my horse; and the next moment I heard him hammering the picket-pin into the pavement.
Shortly after, Saint Vrain himself returned.
“Well,” I inquired, “what happened you?”
“Nothing much. That’s a weasel that never sleeps. He had mounted his horse before they came up with him, and was very soon out of their reach.”
“But may they not follow him on horseback?”
“That is not likely. He has comrades not far from here, I warrant you. Armijo — and it was he sent those villains on his track — has no force that dare follow him when he gets upon the wild hills. No fear for him once he has cleared the houses.”
“But, my dear Saint Vrain, tell me what you know of this singular man. I am wound up to a pitch of curiosity.”
“Not to-night, Harry; not to-night. I do not wish to cause you further excitement; besides, I have reason to leave you now. To-morrow, then. Good-night! Good-night!”
And so saying, my mercurial friend left me to Gode and a night of restlessness.
Chapter Nine. Left Behind
On the third day after the fandango, it is announced that the caravan will move onward to Chihuahua. The day arrives, and I am unable to travel with it. My surgeon, a wretched leech of a Mexican, assures me that it will be certain death to attempt the journey. For want of any opposing evidence, I am constrained to believe him. I have no alternative but to adopt the joyless resolve to remain in Santa Fé until the return of the traders.
Chafing on a feverish bed, I take leave of my late companions. We part with many regrets; but, above all, I am pained at bidding adieu to Saint Vrain, whose light-hearted companionship has been my solace through three days of suffering. He has proved my friend; and has undertaken to take charge of my waggons, and dispose of my goods in the market of Chihuahua.
“Do not fret, man,” says he, taking leave. “Kill time with the champagne of El Paso. We will be back in a squirrel’s jump; and, trust me, I will bring you a mule-load of Mexican shiners. God bless you! Good-bye!”
I can sit up in my bed and, from the open window, see the white tilts of the waggons, as the train rolls over a neighbouring hill. I hear the cracking whips and the deep-toned “wo-ha” of the teamsters; I see the traders mount and gallop after; and I turn upon my couch with a feeling of loneliness and desertion.
For days I lay tossing and fretting, despite the consolatory influence of the champagne, and the rude but kindly attentions of my voyageur valet.
I rise at length, dress myself, and sit in my ventana. I have a good view of the plaza and the adjacent streets, with their rows of brown adobe houses, and dusty ways between.
I gaze, hour after hour, on what is passing without. The scene is not without novelty as well as variety. Swarthy, ill-favoured faces appear behind the folds of dingy rebozos. Fierce glances lower under the slouch of broad sombreros. Poplanas with short skirts and slippered feet pass my window; and groups of “tame” Indians, pueblos, crowd in from the neighbouring rancherias, belabouring their donkeys as they go. These bring baskets of fruit and vegetables. They squat down upon the dusty plaza, behind piles of prickly pears, or pyramids of tomatoes and chile. The women, light-hearted hucksters, laugh and sing and chatter continuously. The tortillera, kneeling by her metate, bruises the boiled maize, claps it into thin flakes, flings it on the heated stone, and then cries, “Tortillas! tortillas calientes!” The cocinera stirs the peppery stew of chile Colorado, lifts the red liquid in her wooden ladle, and invites her customers by the expressions: “Chile bueno! excellente!” “Carbon! carbon!” cries the charcoal-burner. “Agua! agua limpia!” shouts the aguadord. “Pan fino, pan bianco!” screams the baker; and other cries from the vendors of atole, huevos, and leche, are uttered in shrill, discordant voices. Such are the voices of a Mexican plaza.
They are at first interesting. They become monotonous, then disagreeable; until at length I am tortured, and listen to them with a feverish excitement.
After a few days I am able to walk, and go out with my faithful Gode. We stroll through the town. It reminds me of an extensive brick-field before the kilns have been set on fire.
We encounter the same brown adobes everywhere; the same villainous-looking leperos lounging at the corners; the same bare-legged, slippered wenches; the same strings of belaboured donkeys; the same shrill and detestable cries.
We pass by a ruinous-looking house in a remote quarter. Our ears are saluted by voices from within. We hear shouts of “Mueran los Yankies! Abajo los Americanos!” No doubt the pelado to whom I was indebted for my wound is among the ruffians who crowd into the windows; but I know the lawlessness of the place too well to apply for justice.
We hear the same shouts in another street; again in the plaza; and Gode and I re-enter the Fonda with a conviction that our appearance in public might be attended with danger. We resolve, therefore, to keep within doors.
In all my life I never suffered ennui as when cooped up in this semi-barbarous town, and almost confined within the walls of its filthy Fonda. I felt it the more that I had so lately enjoyed the company of such free, jovial spirits, and I could fancy them in their bivouacs on the banks of the Del Norte, carousing, laughing, or listening to some wild mountain story.
Gode shared my feelings, and became as desponding as myself. The light humour of the voyageur disappeared. The song of the Canadian boatman was heard no longer; but, in its place, the “sacré” and English exclamations were spluttered plentifully, and hurled at everything Mexican. I resolved at length to put an end to our sufferings.
“This life will never do, Gode,” said I, addressing my compagnon.
“Ah! monsieur, nevare! nevare it vill do. Ah! ver doll. It is like von assemblee of le Quaker.”
“I am determined to endure it no longer.”
“But what can monsieur do? How, capitaine?”
“By leaving this accursed place, and that to-morrow.”
“But is monsieur fort? strongs beau-coup? strongs to ride?”
“I will risk it, Gode. If I break down, there are other towns on the river where we can halt. Anywhere better than here.”
“C’est vrai, capitaine. Beautiful village down the river. Albuquerque; Tome: ver many village. Mon Dieu! all better, Santa Fé is one camp of tief. Ver good for us go, monsieur; ver good.”
“Good or not, Gode, I am going. So make your preparations to-night, for I will leave in the morning before sunrise.”
“It will be von grand plaisir to makes ready.” And the Canadian ran from the room, snapping his fingers with delight.
I had made up my mind to leave Santa Fé at any rate. Should my strength, yet but half restored, hold out, I would follow, and if possible overtake the caravan. I knew it could make but short journeys over the deep sand roads of the Del Norte. Should I not succeed in coming up with it, I could halt in Albuquerque or El Paso, either of which would offer me a residence at least as agreeable as the one I was leaving.
My surgeon endeavoured to dissuade me from setting out. He represented that I was in a most critical condition, my wound far from being cicatrised. He set forth in most eloquent terms the dangers of fever, of gangrene, of haemorrhage. He saw I was obstinate, and concluded his monitions by presenting his bill. It amounted to the modest sum of one hundred dollars! It was an extortion. What could I do? I stormed and protested. The Mexican threatened me with “Governor’s” justice. Gode swore in French, Spanish, English, and Indian. It was all to no purpose. I saw that the bill would have to be paid, and I paid it, though with indifferent grace.
The leech disappeared, and the landlord came next. He, like the former, made earnest entreaty to prevent me from setting forth. He offered a variety of reasons to detain me.
“Do not go; for your life, señor, do not!”
“And why, good José?” I inquired.
“Oh, señor, los Indios bravos! los Navajoes! carambo!”
“But I am not going into the Indian country. I travel down the river, through the towns of New Mexico.”
“Ah! señor! the towns! no hay seguridad. No, no; there is safety nowhere from the Navajo. Hay novedades: news this very day. Polvidera; pobre polvidera! It was attacked on Sunday last. On Sunday, señor, when they were all en la misa. Pues, señor, the robbers surrounded the church; and oh, carambo! they dragged out the poor people — men, women and children! Pues, señor; they kill the men: and the women: Dios de mi alma!”
“Well, and the women?”
“Oh, señor! they are all gone; they were carried to the mountains by the savages. Pobres mugeres!”
“It is a sad story, truly; but the Indians, I understand, only make these forays at long intervals. I am not likely to meet with them now. At all events, José, I have made up my mind to run the risk.”
“But, señor,” continued José, lowering his voice to a confidential tone, “there are other ladrones besides the Indians: white ones, muchos, muchissimos! Ay, indeed, mi amo, white robbers; blancos, blancos y muy feos, carrai!”
And José closed his fingers as if clutching some imaginary object.
This appeal to my fears was in vain. I answered it by pointing to my revolvers and rifle, and to the well-filled belt of my henchman Gode.
When the Mexican Boniface saw that I was determined to rob him of all the guests he had in his house, he retired sullenly, and shortly after returned with his bill. Like that of the medico, it was out of all proportion; but I could not help myself, and paid it.
By grey dawn I was in my saddle; and, followed by Gode and a couple of heavily packed mules, I rode out of the ill-favoured town, and took the road for the Rio Abajo.
Chapter Ten. The Del Norte
For days we journey down the Del Norte. We pass through numerous villages, many of them types of Santa Fé. We cross the zequias and irrigating canals, and pass along fields of bright green maize plants. We see vineyards and grand haciendas. These appear richer and more prosperous as we approach the southern part of the province, the Rio Abajo.
In the distance, both east and west, we descry dark mountains rolled up against the sky. These are the twin ranges of the Rocky Mountains. Long spurs trend towards the river, and in places appear to close up the valley. They add to the expression of many a beautiful landscape that opens before us as we move onward.
We see picturesque costumes in the villages and along the highways: men dressed in the chequered serape or the striped blankets of the Navajoes; conical sombreros with broad brims; calzoneros of velveteen, with their rows of shining “castletops” and fastened at the waist by the jaunty sash. We see mangas and tilmas, and men wearing the sandal, as in Eastern lands. On the women we observe the graceful rebozo, the short nagua, and the embroidered chemisette.
We see rude implements of husbandry: the creaking carreta, with its block wheels; the primitive plough of the forking tree-branch, scarcely scoring the soil; the horn-yoked oxen; the goad; the clumsy hoe in the hands of the peon serf: these are all objects that are new and curious to our eyes, and that indicate the lowest order of agricultural knowledge.
Along the roads we meet numerous atajos, in charge of their arrieros. We observe the mules, small, smooth, light-limbed, and vicious. We glance at the heavy alparejas and bright worsted apishamores. We notice the tight wiry mustangs, ridden by the arrieros; the high-peaked saddles and hair bridles; the swarth faces and pointed beards of the riders; the huge spurs that tinkle at every step; the exclamations, “Hola, mula! malraya! vaya!” We notice all these, and they tell us we are journeying in the land of the Hispano-American.
Under other circumstances these objects would have interested me. At that time, they appeared to me like the pictures of a panorama, or the changing scenes of a continuous dream. As such have they left their impressions on my memory. I was under the incipient delirium of fever.
It was as yet only incipient; nevertheless, it distorted the images around me, and rendered their impressions unnatural and wearisome. My wound began to pain me afresh, and the hot sun, and the dust, and the thirst, with the miserable accommodations of New Mexican posadas, vexed me to an excess of endurance.
On the fifth day after leaving Santa Fé, we entered the wretched little pueblo of Parida. It was my intention to have remained there all night, but it proved a ruffian sort of place, with meagre chances of comfort, and I moved on to Socorro. This is the last inhabited spot in New Mexico, as you approach the terrible desert, the Jornada del Muerte.
Gode had never made the journey, and at Parida I had obtained one thing that we stood in need of, a guide. He had volunteered; and as I learnt that it would be no easy task to procure one at Socorro, I was fain to take him along. He was a coarse, shaggy-looking customer, and I did not at all like his appearance; but I found, on reaching Socorro, that what I had heard was correct. No guide could be hired on any terms, so great was their dread of the Jornada and its occasional denizens, the Apaches.
Socorro was alive with Indian rumours, “novedades.” The Indians had fallen upon an atajo near the crossing of Fra Cristobal, and murdered the arrieros to a man. The village was full of consternation at the news. The people dreaded an attack, and thought me mad, when I made known my intention of crossing the Jornada.
I began to fear they would frighten my guide from his engagement, but the fellow stood out staunchly, still expressing his willingness to accompany us.
Without the prospect of meeting the Apache savages, I was but ill prepared for the Jornada. The pain of my wound had increased, and I was fatigued and burning with fever.
But the caravan had passed through Socorro only three days before, and I was in hopes of overtaking my old companions before they could leave El Paso. This determined me to proceed in the morning, and I made arrangements for an early start.
Gode and I were awake before dawn. My attendant went out to summon the guide and saddle our animals. I remained in the house, making preparations for a cup of coffee before starting. I was assisted by the landlord of the posada, who had risen, and was stalking about in his serape.
While thus engaged I was startled by the voice of Gode calling from without, “Von maître! von maître! the rascal have him run vay!”
“What do you mean? Who has run away?”
“Oh, monsieur! la Mexicaine, with von mule, has robb, and run vay. Allons, monsieur, allons!”
I followed the Canadian to the stable with a feeling of anxiety. My horse — but no — thank Heaven, he was there! One of the mules, the macho, was gone. It was the one which the guide had ridden from Parida.
“Perhaps he is not off yet,” I suggested. “He may still be in the town.”
We sent and went in all directions to find him, but to no purpose. We were relieved at length from all doubts by the arrival of some early market men, who had met such a man as our guide far up the river, and riding a mule at full gallop.
What should we do? Follow him to Parida? No; that would be a journey for nothing. I knew that he would not be fool enough to go that way. Even if he did, it would have been a fool’s errand to seek for justice there, so I determined on leaving it over until the return of the traders would enable me to find the thief, and demand his punishment from the authorities.
My regrets at the loss of my macho were not unmixed with a sort of gratitude to the fellow when I laid my hand upon the nose of my whimpering charger. What hindered him from taking the horse instead of the mule? It is a question I have never been able to answer to this day. I can only account for the fellow’s preference for the mule on the score of downright honesty, or the most perverse stupidity.
I made overtures for another guide. I applied to the Boniface of Socorro, but without success. He knew no mozo who would undertake the journey.
“Los Apaches! los Apaches!”
I appealed to the peons and loiterers of the plaza.
“Los Apaches!”
Wherever I went, I was answered with “Los Apaches,” and a shake of the forefinger in front of the nose — a negative sign over all Mexico.
“It is plain, Gode, we can get no guide. We must try this Jornada without one. What say you, voyageur?”
“I am agree, mon maître; allons!”
And, followed by my faithful compagnon, with our remaining pack-mule, I took the road that leads to the desert. That night we slept among the ruins of Valverde; and the next morning, after an early start, embarked upon the “Journey of Death.”
