The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista. Altsheler Joseph Alexander
the States andMexico over the Texan boundary-and the younger is Pedrode Armijo, his nephew, and the nephew, also, of Armijo, the governor of New Mexico, where we are planningto go."
"I fancied from his manner," said Bill Breakstone,"that young Armijo was the President of Old Mexico andNew Mexico both. I have called you Sir Knight, andMy Lord Phil, but our young Mexican is both His Graceand His Royal Highness. By my halidome, we areindeed proud and far above that vile herd, the populace."
"Well, he will not bother us," said Arenberg. "Ifyou run after trouble you will find it coming to meetyou."
Middleton watched the Mexicans with uncommon interestuntil they passed out of sight. Arenberg, a shrewdand penetrating man himself, said:
"You are interested in them, Mr. Middleton?"
"I am," replied Middleton frankly, "and I know, too, that the errand of Zucorra to Washington has been afailure. The relations of the United States and Mexicoare no better."
"But that won't keep us from going across to thePacific, will it, Cap?" said Bill Breakstone briskly."You don't mind if I call you Cap, do you, Mr. Middleton?You are, in a way, our leader, because you aremost fit, and the title seems to suit you."
"Call me Cap if you wish," replied Middleton, "butwe are all on equal terms. Now, as we have seen theMexicans, and, as there is nothing more here to attract us,we might go on up the levee."
"Prithee, we will suit the deed to the word," said BillBreakstone, "but do not run into that drunken Indianthere, Phil. I would not have thy garments soiled bycontact with this degraded specimen of a race once proudand noble."
Phil turned a little to one side to avoid the Indian ofwhom Breakstone spoke. The levee was littered withfreight, and the red man huddled against a hogshead oftobacco from far Kentucky. His dress was partly savageand partly civilized, and he was sodden with dirt anddrink. But, as Breakstone spoke, he raised his head andflashed him a look from fiery, glowing eyes. Then hishead sank back, but the single glance made Breakstoneshiver.
"I felt as if I had received a bullet," he said. "Nowwhat did the noble savage mean by giving me such a look?He must have understood what I said. Ah, well, itmattereth not. He looked like a Comanche. It has beenwisely said, let the cobbler stick to his last, and there isno last in New Orleans for Mr. Cobbler Comanche."
"You didn't suppose he understood you," saidArenberg, "and no harm iss done where none iss meant."
Phil looked back at the Comanche, but there wasnothing heroic about him. He was huddled lower thanever against the tobacco hogshead. Certainly there wasno suggestion of the dauntless warrior, of the wildhorseman. Phil felt a curious little thrill of disappointment.
He looked in the same place the next day for theComanche, but he did not see him, and then, in theexcitement of great preparations, he forgot the Indian.The New Mexico expedition was about to become a fact, and the little band of four were promptly received asmembers. On all such perilous trips strong andwell-armed men were welcome.
The outfit would embrace about sixty wagons and twohundred men, and the goods they carried would be ofgreat value. Phil and his comrades paid for the right toput their extra supplies in one of the wagons, and thenthey equipped themselves with great care. They boughtfour good horses, four fine rifles, made by the famousDickson, of Louisville, four double-barreled pistols oflong range, knives and hatchets, a large quantity ofammunition, an extra suit apiece of stout deerskin, foursmall pocket compasses, and many other things which seemtrifles in a town, but which are important in the wilderness.
It took them but a few days to make their purchases, but it was at least three weeks before the train started.The Mexicans, meanwhile, had stayed about a week at thechief hotel, and then had left on a steamer for their owncountry. Phil heard that there had been much talkabout the high-handed manner of young Armijo, andthat he had been extremely disagreeable to all about him.The older man, Zucorra, who was milder and morediplomatic, had sought to restrain him, but with nosuccess. It was a relief when they were gone.
The boy, still curious about the Comanche, looked forhim once more on the levee. More hogsheads of tobaccoand sugar were there, but the Indian was not leaningagainst any of them. At last he found him in one of theinns or taverns frequented by sailors and roustabouts, arough place at any time, and crowded then with menfrom the ships and boats. The Indian was sitting in acorner, huddled down in a chair, in much the sameattitude of sloth and indifference that he had shown whenleaning against the hogshead. Phil saw that when hestood up he would be a tall man, and his figure, if itwere not flabby, would be powerful.
Phil was intensely interested. The Indian had alwaysappealed to his romantic imagination, and, now that hesaw one of the race close at hand, he wished to learnmore. He sat down near the man, and, not knowingwhat else to say, remarked that it was a fine day. TheComanche raised his head a little, and bent upon Phil alook like that he had given to Breakstone. It was apiercing glance, full of anger and hatred. Then theglowing eyes were veiled, and his head dropped back onhis arms. He did not utter a word in reply.
The innkeeper, who had noticed the brief incident, laughed.
"Don't you try to get up a conversation with BlackPanther, my boy," he said. "He ain't what you wouldcall a pow'ful talker."
"No, I suppose he wouldn't talk anybody to death,"said Phil. "What is he?"
"He's a tame Comanche, an' he's been loafing aroundNew Orleans for two or three months-learnin' the whiteman's vices, 'specially the drinkin' of fire water, whichhe keeps first on the list. You can see what it's done forhim-taken all the pith right out of him, same as youwould take it out of a length of elder to make a pop gun.I reckon New Orleans ain't no place for an Indian.Hello, what's the matter with Black Panther?"
The Indian uttered a short, savage exclamation thatstartled every one in the place, and sprang to his feet.His long coal black hair was thrown back from his face, and he seemed to be alive in every fiber. The eyes werelike two points of fire.
"Black Panther was a great warrior and a chief," hesaid. "He has been a dog in the white man's town, andhe has burned his brain with fire water until it is likethat of a little child. But he will be a great warrior anda chief again. Now, I go."
He gathered a tattered old blanket around his shoulders, and, holding himself erect, stalked in savage dignityout of the place.
"Now, what in thunder did he mean?" exclaimed theastonished innkeeper.
"I think he meant just what he said," replied Phil."He is going away from New Orleans. He certainlylooked it."
So far as he knew, the assertion was true, because, aslong as he remained in the city, he neither saw nor heardanything further of the Comanche. But the time for hisown departure was soon at hand, and in the excitementof it he forgot all about the Comanche.
CHAPTER II
THE MARCH OF THE TRAIN
The train made an imposing appearance with itssixty wagons and its horsemen, numerous and wellarmed. It was commanded by a middle-agedtrader of experience, Thomas Woodfall, who had alreadymade several trips to Santa Fé, and the hopes of all werehigh. They carried, among other things, goods that theseñoras and señoritas of Santa Fé would be eager to buy, and much gain might be obtained. But every one of thefour who rode so closely together thought most in hisheart of that for which he sought, and in no instance wasthe object of search the same.
But they were cheerful. Whatever were past griefs orwhatever might be those to come, the present waspropitious and fair. The Southern spring was not yet advancedfar enough to drive the cool tang out of the air bydaylight, while at night fires were needed. It rained butlittle, and they marched steadily on through crisp sunshine.
"I trust that the good Sir Roland is pleased," saidBill Breakstone to Phil. "Fresh air in the lungs ofyouth produces exhilaration."
"It's fine," said Phil, with emphasis.
"But we may yet come to our Pass of Roncesvalles.Bethink you of that, Sir Roland. They say that it's anill wind that blows nobody good, and I say that it's agood wind that blows nobody ill. The rain will rain, thesnow will snow, the wind will blow, and what will poorrabbit do then?"
"Get into his