Adventures Among the Red Indians Part 19

"Why, they are running to meet us," said Froebel; "they must have been reinforced."

The lights were certainly coming nearer, and, with them, a body of hors.e.m.e.n; and now the soldiers could hear the quick popping of pistol-shots. Then all at once a loud shout arose from where the lights were, the sound of wheels came nearer and nearer, but the accompanying hors.e.m.e.n were obviously riding now in the other direction.

"Are you the soldiers?" shouted a chorus of voices from the coach as it came up.

"Yes."

"You can catch them yet; they tried to stop us and rob us; and would have done, but for hearing you."

The troop did not draw bridle, but wheeled away on to the prairie in pursuit of half a dozen moving figures on whom they were easily gaining. A minute later a voice in front cried: "All right; we'll give in. Don't fire."

"Why, those are not Indians," said Trias in astonishment.

Nor were they; they were six Mexican brigands who had been pursuing the mail; the Apaches were probably safe long ago, in one of their forest camps. The highwaymen were soon seized and bound, and as it was ultimately discovered that they were some of the revolutionaries for whom Trias was on the look-out, the night-ride was not altogether a wild-goose chase.

CHAPTER XVII

ACROSS THE UNITED STATES IN A WAGGON

From the foregoing chapter it will have been seen that Mexico, in the middle of the nineteenth century, was not a neighbourhood wherein a man might look to find rest and quiet; and it is safe to say that if any one part of it was less to be desired than another as a place of resort, it was the United States frontier.

When the war between Mexico and the United States ended in 1847, this frontier had to be overhauled and settled afresh, and within the next two years Presidents Polk and Taylor appointed a Boundary Commission.

One of the commissioners was the late John Russell Bartlett, secretary to the New York Ethnographical Society, and subsequently one of the greatest authorities on the Indian races.

Mr. Bartlett did not leave New York for his southward journey till the summer of 1850, and one of the first lessons that he learned on that journey was that redskins, like other men, cannot be understood from books or from mere surface examination. Anxious to see as much as possible of the Indians of the southern States, he elected to travel by waggon, there being no immediate hurry for him to present himself at El Paso. Such a course meant pa.s.sing through wild regions of prairie, plain, and hill, peopled by Missouris, Choctaws, Bannocks, Comanches, Chicasas, Araphoes, and perhaps a score more of savage tribes, the majority of whom still regarded the white man as their natural enemy; and the details of that ride, with his subsequent adventures in and round Mexico, would occupy more than the whole of this book.

His first acquaintance with the Missouri Indians came about while the waggon was crossing the great undulating plains near the Arkansas River. He was seated under the tilt pretending to write letters, but, in actual fact, dozing off to sleep under the influence of a sudden spell of heat, when a wild shriek from the direction of his leaders'

heads aroused him. He looked up and found that he was alone, though this was nothing out of the ordinary; for his negro attendant and his two waggoners not infrequently got down and walked when the horses were obliged to move slowly or when there was an opportunity of filling the pot. Before he could reach the forepart of the waggon, the black's curly head showed above the front-board, eyes bulging and teeth chattering with terror.

"Look, Ma.s.sa; look!" he shrieked.

"Catch hold o' them ribbons, _will_ ye?" he heard one of the teamsters shout; but the negro was too paralysed with fear to obey. The next moment the man who had called out, and had now got possession of the reins, landed with a flying leap on the footboard, and was followed with no less precipitation by his mate.

"Gun; quick!" panted the second man, while the first endeavoured to control the frightened horses.

Stumbling over the cowering n.i.g.g.e.r, Mr. Bartlett joined the teamsters.

The four horses were still shying violently and kicking in every direction; and, not fifteen feet from the two wheelers, was a bison, charging with furious determination straight at them. He caught up his gun, which hung in slings close to his hand, and emptied both barrels at the formidable beast, which fell on his knees, gasping and bellowing, till two more bullets from the second teamster made him roll over.

"Reckon we'll have some of his meat, when them hosses have done rearing," said the shooter. It took time to quiet the terror-stricken creatures, and, in the end, the driver was forced to give them their heads for a while; and they had hardly settled to their normal condition when a fresh incident occurred to trouble their peace.

A succession of single shouts from various directions sounded from beyond the hill which they were now pa.s.sing, and suddenly swelled into a long, howling, shrieking chorus that was echoed by maddened bellowings as from a thousand bulls. With difficulty the horses allowed themselves to be held in, and as they were walked past the final spur of the hill, a truly wonderful sight broke on the spectators. They had come to the mouth of a pleasant, gra.s.sy valley, in the midst of which a herd of over two hundred bison were running hither and thither, b.u.t.ting each other, falling over, or trying furiously to reach the slopes; while, down the hill on either side, a great troop of mounted Indians swept like a torrent; spears slung at their backs, arrows flying from the bows in their hands. With all the order and method of a cavalry brigade, they slackened their speed suddenly, and, spreading out, formed themselves into a huge circle; then straightway continued with their spears the work of slaughter which their arrows had begun.

For ever on the move, now to right, now to left, now charging into the heaving brown ma.s.s, they plied their lances untiringly, time after time avoiding, with no visible effort, the desperate charge of one or other of the bisons. To a man who loved sport, but not slaughter, it was a revolting sight; yet fascinating as well, by reason of the skill and pertinacity which these savages displayed in their task of blood.

Now and then one or two energetic bulls would force a way through some opening in the line, in the fond hope of being allowed to flee over the hills; but there was always some vigilant horseman ready to give chase or else to send half a dozen arrows in rapid succession, and so to cut short the creature's chance of escape. Not till every bison lay dead did the redskins stay their hands or condescend to turn an eye on the onlookers who had drawn up at the entrance to the valley.

Bartlett waited with curiosity to see what the Indians' next move would be. As concerned himself they might be perfectly harmless; already he had come to the conclusion that the redskin is a very much maligned man; but, whether harmless or offensive, the hunters had now caught sight of the waggon, and to attempt to flee before men, mounted as well as they were, would only be a ridiculous waste of energy. A few turned their horses his way, but the great majority continued to hunt down the game; but whatever work these had still to do, was very soon done; for, by the time their brethren had come up with the waggon, they were following in their wake.

From the teamsters Bartlett learned that the hors.e.m.e.n were Missouris--a branch of the Sioux--and accordingly he stood up in the waggon and began hesitatingly to address the foremost in what he had already mastered of the Siouan dialect. The effect should have been flattering; they didn't give him "three cheers," their education in that form of enthusiasm being as yet imperfect; but they smiled encouragingly and turned their spears points downwards, while the more demonstrative pressed up to him, patted his shoulders, his ribs, and his leggings, telling him that he was a great man, a wise chief, and a "good medicine"--whatever that might mean.

Three men who appeared, from their more ornate dress, to be rulers among the tribe, now turned and gave some directions to those who were coming up behind them; and, as these rode forward, Bartlett noticed that every man of the division that had stayed to cut up the carcases carried one or more semi-globular lumps of bison-beef on his saddle-bow; and it was to bestow some of these lumps on the stranger that the chief had called them. In a couple of minutes the footboard was like a butcher's stall, for meat enough lay there to feed the four occupants of the waggon for about a month. On Bartlett's asking where was the best place to cross the river, a chief told him there was a ferry fourteen miles farther, to which the troop would have great pleasure in escorting him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A BISON SURROUND

The Indians would surround a herd of bison and wantonly kill every member of it. They would cut off the hump only, leaving the rest of the carcase for wolves and coyotes.]

"We have finished our hunting for the day, and are going home to our camp, which is a few miles this side of the river," he said.

"Finished?" reiterated Bartlett. "Then who is going to carry the game home?" He pointed to the carcase-crowded valley.

"Oh, _those_ are for the coyotes and wolves," said the oldest chief contemptuously.

"Then why kill so many?"

The chief pointed to one of the blocks of meat.

"That is all that we care to eat; and just now we have no need of hides or hoofs, so we can afford to leave those."

The meat that had been cut away was just the "hump" of the animal; the raised portion of the withers. In his old age, Mr. Bartlett was not surprised to hear naturalists and sportsmen bewailing the scarcity of bisons after what he saw that day, and on many subsequent occasions.

The Indians had surrounded and slain a whole herd, with the wanton love of destruction that the child and the savage usually display.

They were in the habit of using the horns for spear-heads, and the hoofs to make the glue with which they fixed their arrow-points; but here were enough horns and glue to equip a dozen regiments of Indians--and all left to waste and rot.

The ferry was reached before dark; the Indians were rewarded with bits of finery, and a plug or two of tobacco, and went on their way.

As the waggon neared the "Llano Estacado," Bartlett began to hear news of redskins who might not accord him so amiable a reception. At the Red River tributary of the Mississippi, he was told that several American travellers had been murdered in the valleys and pa.s.ses by Apaches, who were popularly supposed to be a sort of hired a.s.sa.s.sins of the Mexicans at this time. The tidings did not sound encouraging, but he had now travelled through about twelve hundred miles of Indian territory without encountering so much as an angry word or a petty theft, and he was not prepared to go out of his way on account of a mere rumour.

He had scarcely crossed the first part of the hill-ridge that encloses the celebrated Llano, when his waggon broke down without the least warning. Tools were got out and the damage examined, and the axle-bar of the hind wheels was found to be so injured as to necessitate repairs that would take a good deal of time.

Jim, the black, had just unharnessed the horses, and was pegging them down, when one of the teamsters reported a small batch of Apaches overtaking them, as though they might have followed the waggon from a distance.

"I see they all have muskets," commented Bartlett. "That doesn't look promising. We must make as big a show as we can. Here you, Jim; you must pretend to be mending the waggon, and we others will stand by and look as innocent as we can--but with guns and pistols ready."

The negro's courage was not remarkable, and this was a very satisfactory means of keeping him out of the way, for he would be perfectly happy under the waggon; the teamsters, on the other hand, were men who had been through the recent war, and cared no more for Indians than they did for Mexicans. They and Bartlett picked up their guns, taking care to hold them as unconcernedly and inoffensively as possible; but at the same time keeping a sharp eye on the hors.e.m.e.n, and prepared to fire the moment they saw any of them inclined to take a preliminary shot at them by way of greeting.

Perhaps this att.i.tude disconcerted the redskins; perhaps they had had no evil intentions from the beginning; at any rate, they rode up harmlessly enough, asked what was the matter, and offered to act as guides if the travellers would give them a little powder and tobacco.

While the teamsters betook themselves to the repairs, Bartlett talked with the Apaches, questioned them about the way, and told them smoothly but decisively that he could not part with any ammunition, though he would give tobacco and some scarlet cloth. The cloth was received rapturously, and, as soon as the waggon was mended, the procession moved on, the Apaches proving very satisfactory and friendly guides.

At parting, Bartlett gave the chief--who, by the way, called himself "Mangus Colorado"--an old overcoat, and his delight, his pride, and his antics forthwith convulsed the beholders. Months afterwards, while scouring the valley of the Rio Grande with Captain Buford and his dragoons, who were hunting for Indian horse-thieves, the Commissioner came across Mangus again; he was still wearing the overcoat, though it was a stifling day, and though he had, all his life, gone naked as far as the waist.

The guides left the waggon at the beginning of the El Paso road, whence, though the way was rough and sometimes nearly impa.s.sable, there could be no difficulty in finding the city. On the evening of the following day, Bartlett, hearing gunshots close at hand, sent a teamster forward to reconnoitre. The man soon came running back; some Apaches were besieging a wayside inn, he said. He mounted to his place and the horses were whipped up to the gallop.

"The more show and noise we make, the better," remarked the driver as he reached for his gun.

As soon as they were past a belt of boulders they could see what was taking place. Twelve Indians on horseback were surrounding the house, while, from behind a half-shuttered window, a man and a woman were firing despairingly, though the Apaches were sheltered from their bullets; no one but these two seemed to be about the place. As the waggon stopped, one of the Indians got off his horse and began to batter at the flimsy door with the stock of his gun. The second teamster raised his rifle and fired with as much coolness as if he had been shooting a prairie wolf, and the redskin fell dead.

"Now they'll make fools of themselves, and get between two fires.