the savages surprised.
throughout the afternoon hours both parties remained stationary; the pursued indulging in a siesta, which days of rough riding and raiding, with nights of watchfulness, have made necessary; the pursuers, on their part, wearied as well, but unable to sleep so long as their vengeance remains unappeased, and such dread danger hangs over the heads of those near and dear to them.
above the bivouacs the black vultures spread their shadowy wings, soaring and circling, each “gang” over the cohort it has been all day accompanying.
every now and then between the two “gangs” one is seen coming and going, like so many mutual messengers passing between; for, although the flocks are far apart, they can see one another, and each is aware, by instinct clearer than human ken, what the other is after. it is not the first time for them to follow two such parties travelling across the texan prairie. nor will it be the first for them to unite in the air as the two troops come into collision on the earth. often have these birds, poised in the blue ether, looked down upon red carnage like that now impending. their instincts—let us call them so, for the sake of keeping peace with the naturalists of the closet—then admonish them what is likely to ensue. for if not reason, they have at least recollection; and as their eyes rest upon men with dusky skins, and others dimly white, they know that between such is a terrible antagonism, oft accruing to their own interest. many a time has it given them a meal. strange if they should not remember it!
they do. though tranquilly soaring on high—each bird with outstretched neck and eye bent, in hungry concupiscence, looks below on the forms moving or at rest, saying to itself, “ere long these vermin will furnish a rich repast.” so sure are they of this—the birds of both flocks—that, although the sun is nigh setting, instead of betaking themselves to their roosts, as is their wont, they stay, each by its own pet party. those accompanying the pursuers still fly about in the air. they can tell that these do not intend to remain much longer on that spot. for they have kindled no fires, nor taken other steps that indicate an encampment for the night.
different with those that soar over the halting-place of the pursued. as night approaches they draw in their spread wings and settle down to roost; some upon trees, others on the ledges of rock, still others on the summits of the cliffs that overhang the camping place of the indians.
the blazing fires, with meat on spits sputtering over them; the arms abandoned, spears stuck in the ground, with shields suspended; the noise and revelry around—all proclaim the resolve of the savages to stay there till morning.
an intention which, despite their apparent stolidity—in contradiction to the ideas of the closet naturalist and his theory of animal instinct—the vultures clearly comprehend.
about the behaviour of the birds the marauders take no note. they are used to seeing turkey-buzzards around—better known to them by the name “zopilotés.”
for long ere the anglo-american colonists came in contact with the comanche indians a spano-mexican vocabulary had penetrated to the remotest of these tribes.
no new thing for the tenawas to see the predatory birds swooping above them all day and staying near them all night. not stranger than a wolf keeping close to the sheepfold, or a hungry dog skulking around shambles.
as night draws near, and the purple twilight steals over the great texan plain, the party of chasing pursuers is relieved from a stay by all deemed so irksome. remounting their horses, they leave the scene of their reluctant halt, and continue the pursuit silently, as if moving in funeral march.
the only sounds heard are the dull thumping of their horses’ hoofs upon the soft prairie turf; now and then a clink, as one strikes against a stone; the occasional tinkle of a canteen as it comes in contact with saddle mounting or pistol butt; the champing of bits, with the breathing of horses and men.
these last talk in low tones, in mutterings not much louder than whispers. in pursuit of their savage foe, the well-trained rangers habitually proceed thus, and have cautioned the settlers to the same. though these need no compulsion to keep silent; their hearts are too sore for speech; their anguish, in its terrible intensity, seeks for no expression, till they stand face to face with the red ruffians who have caused, and are still causing, it. the night darkens down, becoming so obscure that each horseman can barely distinguish the form of him riding ahead. some regret this, thinking they may get strayed. not so cully. on the contrary, the guide is glad, for he feels confident in his conjecture that the pursued will be found in pecan creek, and a dark night will favour the scheme of attack he has conceived and spoken of. counselled by him, the ranger captain shares his confidence, and they proceed direct towards the point where the tributary stream unites with the main river—the little witchita, along whose banks they have been all that day tracking. not but that cully could take up the indian trail. despite the obscurity he could do that, though not, as he jestingly declared, by the smell. there are other indices that would enable him, known but to men who have spent a lifetime upon the prairies. he does not need them now, sure he will find the savages, as he said, “squatted on the peecawn.”
and, sure enough, when the pursuers, at length at the creek’s mouth, enter the canon through which it disembogues its crystal water into the grander and more turbid stream, they discovered certain traces of the pursued having passed along its banks.
another mile of travelling, the same silence observed, with caution increased, and there is no longer a doubt about the truth of cully’s conjecture. noises are heard ahead, sounds disturbing the stillness of the night air that are not those of the uninhabited prairie. there is the lowing of cattle, in long monotonous moans, like when being driven to slaughter, with, at intervals, the shriller neigh of a horse, as if uneasy at being away from his stable.
on hearing these sounds, the ranger captain, acting by the advice of the guide, orders a halt. then the pursuing party is separated into two distinct troops. one, led by cully, ascends the cliff by a lateral ravine, and pursues its way along the upper table-land. the other, under the command of the captain, is to remain below until a certain time has elapsed, its length stipulated between the two leaders before parting.
when it has passed, the second division moves forward up the creek, again halting as a light shines through the trees, which, from its reddish colour, they know to be the glare of log fires.
they need not this to tell them they are close to an encampment—that of the savages they have been pursuing. they can hear their barbarous jargon, mingled with shouts and laughter like that of demons in the midst of some fiendish frolic.
they only stay for a signal the guide arranged to give as soon as he has got round to attack on the opposite side. the first shot heard, and they will dash forward to the fires.
seated in their saddles, with reins tight drawn, and heels ready to drive home the spur—with glances bent greedily at the gleaming lights, and ears keenly alert to catch every sound—the hearts of some trembling with fear, others throbbing with hope, still others thrilling with the thought of vengeance—they wait for the crack that is to be the signal—wait and listen, with difficulty restraining themselves.
it comes at length. up the glen peals a loud report, quickly followed by another, both from a double-barrelled gun.
this was the signal for attack, arranged by cully.
soon as hearing it, the reins are slackened, the spurs sent home, and, with a shout making the rocks ring, and the trees reverberate its echoes, they gallop straight towards the indian encampment, and in a moment are in its midst.
they meet little resistance—scarce any. too far from the settlements to fear pursuit—in full confidence they have not been followed, the red robbers have been abandoning themselves to pleasure, spending the night in a grand gluttonous feast, furnished by the captured kine.
engrossed with sensual joys, they have neglected guard; and, in the midst of their festivities, they are suddenly set upon from all sides; the sharp cracking of rifles, with the quick detonation of repeating pistols, soon silences their cacchinations, scattering them like chaff.
after the first fusillade, there is but little left of them. those not instantly shot down retreat in the darkness, skulking of! among the pecan trees. it is altogether an affair of firearms: and for once the bowie—the texan’s trusted weapon—has no part in the fray.
the first rays of next morning’s sun throw light upon a sanguinary scene—a tableau terrible, though not regrettable. on the contrary, it discloses a sight which, but for the red surroundings, might give gladness. fathers, half frantic with joy, are kissing children they never expected to see again; brothers clasping the hands of sisters late deemed lost for ever; husbands, nigh broken-hearted, once more happy, holding their wives in fond, affectionate embrace.
near by, things strangely contrasting—corpses strewn over the ground, stark and bleeding, but not yet stiff, all of coppery complexion, but bedaubed with paint of many diverse colours. all surely savages.
a fearful spectacle, but one too often witnessed on the far frontier land of texas.
