The Trail-Hunter: A Tale of the Far West. Gustave Aimard
quarrelling or gambling with multitudinous yells and oaths. Two men seated apart at the foot of an enormous cactus, were conversing in a low tone, while smoking their husk cigarettes. These two men, of whom we have already spoken to the reader, were Fray Ambrosio, chaplain to the Hacienda de la Noria, and Andrés Garote, the hunter.
Andrés was a tall, thin fellow, with a sickly and cunning face, who draped himself defiantly in his sordid rags, but whose weapons were in a perfectly good condition.
Who were the men causing this disturbance? They were "rangers," but this requires explanation.
Immediately after each of the different revolutions which have periodically overturned Mexico since that country so pompously declared its independence, the first care of the new president who reaches power is to dismiss the volunteers who had accidentally swollen the ranks of his army, and supplied him the means of overthrowing his predecessor. These volunteers, we must do them the justice of allowing, are the very scum of society, and the most degraded class human nature produces. These sanguinary men, without religion or law, who have no relations or friends, are an utter leprosy to the country.
Roughly driven back into society, the new life they are forced to adopt in no way suits their habits of murder and pillage. No longer able to wage war on their countrymen, they form free corps, and engage themselves for a certain salary, to hunt the Indios Bravos—that is to say, the Apaches and Comanches—who desolate the Mexican frontiers. In addition to this, the paternal government of North America in Texas, and of Mexico in the States of the Confederation, allots them a certain sum for each Indian scalp they bring in.
We do not fancy we are saying anything new in asserting that they are the scourge of the colonists and inhabitants, they plunder shamelessly in every way when they are not doing worse.
The men assembled at this moment on the banks of the Rio San Pedro were preparing for a war party—the name they give to the massacres they organise against the redskins.
Toward midnight Red Cedar and his three sons reached the rangers' camp. They must have been impatiently expected, for the bandits received them with marks of the greatest joy and the warmest enthusiasm. The dice, the cards, and botas of mezcal and whiskey were immediately deserted. The rangers mounted their horses, and grouped round the squatters, near whom stood Fray Ambrosio and his friend Andrés Garote.
Red Cedar took a glance round the mob, and could not repress a smile of pride at the sight of the rich collection of bandits of every description whom he had around him, and who recognised him as chief. He extended his arm to command peace. When all were silent the giant took the word.
"Señores caballeros," he said, in a powerful and marked voice, which made all these scamps quiver with delight at being treated like honest people, "the audacity of the redskins is growing intolerable. If we let them alone they would soon inundate the country, when they would end by expelling us. This state of things must have an end. The government complains about the few scalps we supply; it says we do not carry out the clauses of the agreement we have formed with it; it talks about disbanding us, as our services are useless, and therefore burdensome to the republic. It is our bounden duty to give a striking denial to these malevolent assertions, and prove to those who have placed confidence in us that we are ever ready to devote ourselves to the cause of humanity and civilisation. I have assembled you here for a war party, which I have been meditating for some time, and shall carry out this night. We are about to attack the rancheria of the Coras, who for some years past have had the impudence to establish themselves near this spot. They are pagans and thieves, who have one hundred times merited the severe chastisement we are about to inflict on them. But I implore you, señores caballeros, display no mistaken pity. Crush this race of vipers—let not one escape! The scalp of a child is worth as much as that of a man; so do not let yourselves be moved by cries or tears, but scalp, scalp to the end."
This harangue was greeted as it deserved to be; that is, by yells of joy.
"Señores," Red Cedar continued, "the worthy monk who accompanies me will call down the blessing of Heaven on our enterprise; so kneel down to receive the absolution he is about to give you."
The bandits instantaneously dismounted, took off their hats, and knelt on the sand. Fray Ambrosio then repeated a long prayer, to which they listened with exemplary patience, repeating amen after each occasion, and he ended by giving them absolution. The rangers rose, delighted at being thus freed from the burden of their sins, and got into their saddles again.
Red Cedar then whispered a few words in Fray Ambrosio's ears, who bowed his head in assent, and immediately set out in the direction of the Hacienda de la Noria, followed by Andrés Garote. The squatter then turned to the rangers, who were awaiting his orders.
"You know where we are going, gentlemen," he said. "Let us start, and, before all, be silent, if we wish to catch our game in its lair; for you know that the Indians are as cunning as opossums."
The band started at a gallop, Red Cedar and his sons being at their head. It was one of those calm nights which predispose the soul to reverie, such as America alone has the privilege of possessing. The dark blue sky was spangled with an infinite number of stars, in the centre of which shone the majestic Southern Cross, sparkling like a king's mantle; the atmosphere was extraordinarily transparent, and allowed objects to be noticed at a great distance; the moon profusely spread around her silvery rays, which gave the scenery a fantastic appearance; a mysterious breeze sported through the tops of the great trees; and at times vague rumours traversed the space, and were lost in the distance.
The gloomy horsemen still went on, silent and frowning, like the phantoms of the ancient legends, which glide through the shadows to accomplish a deed without a name. At the end of scarce an hour the rancheria was reached. All were resting in the village—not a light flashed in the hut. The Indians, wearied with the hard toil of the day, were reposing, full of confidence in the sworn faith, and apprehending no treason.
Red Cedar halted twenty yards from the rancheria, and drew up his horsemen so as to surround the village on all sides. When each had taken his post, and the torches were lighted, Red Cedar uttered the terrible war cry of the Apaches, and the rangers galloped at full speed on the village, uttering ferocious howls, and brandishing the torches, which they threw on the cabins.
A scene of carnage then took place which the human pen is powerless to describe. The unhappy Indians, surprised in their sleep, rushed terrified and half naked out of their poor abodes, and were pitilessly massacred and scalped by the rangers, who waved with a demoniac laugh their smoking, blood-dripping scalps. Men, women, and children, all were killed with refinements of barbarity. The village, fired by the rangers' torches, soon became an immense funebral pile, in which victims and murderers were huddled pell-mell.
Still a few Indians had succeeded in collecting. Formed in a compact troop of twenty men, they opposed a desperate resistance to their assassins, exasperated by the odour of blood and the intoxication of carnage. At the head of this band was a half-nude, tall Indian of intelligent features, who, armed with a ploughshare, which he wielded with extreme force and skill, felled all the assailants who came within reach of his terrible weapon. This man was the cacique of the Coras. At his feet lay his mother, wife, and two children—dead. The unhappy man struggled with the energy of despair. He knew his life would be sacrificed, but he wished to sell it as dearly as possible.
In vain had the rangers fired on the cacique—he seemed invulnerable: not one of the bullets aimed at him had struck him. He still fought, and the weight of his weapon did not seem to fatigue his arm. The rangers excited each other to finish him; but not one dared to approach him.
But this combat of giants could not endure longer. Of the twenty companions he had round him on commencing the struggle, the cacique now only saw two or three upright: the rest were dead. There must be an end. The circle that inclosed the hapless Indian drew closer and closer. Henceforth it was only a question of time with him. The rangers, recognising the impossibility of conquering this lion-hearted man, had changed their tactics: they no longer attacked him, but contented themselves with forming an impassable circle round him, waiting prudently for the moment when the strength of the prey, which could not escape them, was exhausted, in order