Gustave Aimard
The Freebooters: A Story of the Texan War

"That is possible, my friend. I will not discuss that question with you, but merely limit myself to saying that joy has robbed me of sleep. I am as wide awake as an opossum, and in vain should I try to close my eyes. No, I require to reflect a little on all this, and I propose doing so, while you, who are naturally calmer, will sleep."

"As you insist on it, I will give way."

"Very good; you are becoming reasonable," Tranquil said, with a smile. "Good night, brother."

"Good night!" Loyal Heart answered.

The young man, in the face of the resolve so clearly made by the Canadian, thought it useless longer to resist, the more so, as he was beginning to feel great inclination for sleep. He, therefore, lay down, and was soon sound asleep. Tranquil had spoken the truth; he required to isolate himself for some hours, in order to go over the events which during the last few days had fallen upon him so unexpectedly, and broken up that placidity of life to which he had grown gently accustomed for some years past.

The hours passed away one after the other, but the hunter, plunged in his reflections, felt no desire for sleep. The stars were beginning to go out, the horizon was crossed by pale bands, the breeze grew sharper and colder; all foreboded, in fact, the approach of dawn, when suddenly a slight noise, resembling that produced by the fracture of a withered branch, smote on the hunter's practised ear, and caused him to start. The Canadian, without stirring, raised his head and listened, while softly placing his hand on the rifle that lay by his side.

CHAPTER VII.
AN OLD FRIEND

Tranquil was too old and too crafty a wood ranger to let himself be surprised. With his eyes obstinately fixed on the spot whence the sound that had aroused him came, he tried to pierce the darkness, and distinguish any movement in the chaparral which would permit him to form probable conjectures as to the visitors who were arriving.

For a long period the noise he had heard was not repeated, and the desert had fallen back into silence. But the Canadian did not deceive himself. Up to all Indian tricks, and knowing the unbounded patience of the Redskins, he continued to keep on his guard; still, as he suspected that in the darkness searching glances were fixed on him and spying his slightest movements, Tranquil yawned twice or thrice, as if overcome by sleep, drew back the hand he had laid on his rifle barrel, and pretending to be unable to resist sleep any longer, he let his head sink on his chest with a natural movement.

Nothing stirred. An hour elapsed ere the slightest rumour disturbed the silence of the forest. Still, Tranquil felt confident that he had not deceived himself. The sky grew gradually brighter, the last star had disappeared, the horizon was assuming those fiery red tints which immediately precede the appearance of the sun: the Canadian, weary of this long watching, and not knowing to what he should attribute this inaction on the part of the Redskins, resolved at last to obtain the solution of the enigma. He therefore started suddenly to his feet and took up his rifle.

At the moment he prepared to go on the discovery, a noise of footsteps near him, mingled with the rustling of leaves, and the breaking of dry branches, smote his ear.

"Ah, ah!" the Canadian muttered, "It seems they have made up their mind at last; let us see who these troublesome neighbours are."

At the same instant, a clear feminine voice rose harmoniously and sonorously in the silence. Tranquil stopped with a start of surprise. This voice was singing an Indian melody, of which this was the first verse —

"I confide my heart to thee in the name of the Omnipotent.

I am unhappy, and no one takes pity on me;

Still God is great in my eyes."

"Oh!" the hunter muttered, with a nervous quivering, "I know that song, it is that of the betrothed of the Snake-Pawnees. How is it that these words strike my ear so far from their hunting grounds? Can a detachment of Pawnees be wandering in the neighbourhood? Oh, no! That is impossible. I will see who this singer is who has awaked with the sun."

Without further hesitation, the hunter walked hurriedly toward the thicket, from the centre of which the melody had been audible. But at the moment he was about to enter it, the shrubs were quickly parted, and two Redskins entered the clearing, to the amazement of the Canadian.

On coming within ten paces of the hunter the Indians stopped, and stretched their arms out in front of them, with fingers parted in sign of peace; then, crossing their arms on their chest, they waited. At this manifestation of the peaceful sentiments of the newcomers, the Canadian rested the butt of his rifle on the ground, and examined the Indians with rapid glance.

The first was a man of lofty stature, with intelligent features and open countenance; as far as it was possible to judge the age of an Indian, this man seemed to have passed the middle stage of life. He was dressed in his full warpaint, and the condor plume, fastened above his right ear, indicated that he held the rank of a Sachem in his tribe.

The other Redskin was not a man, but a woman, twenty years of age at the most; she was slim, active, and elegant, and her dress was decorated in accordance with the rules of Indian coquetry: still, her worn features, on which only the fugitive traces of a prematurely vanished beauty were visible, shewed that, like all Indian squaws, she had been pitilessly compelled to do all those rude household tasks, the whole weight of which the men lay on them, regarding it as beneath their dignity to interfere.

At the sight of these two persons, the hunter involuntarily felt an emotion, for which he could not account; the more he regarded the warrior standing before him, the more he seemed to find again in this martial countenance the distant memory of the features of a man he had formerly known, though it was impossible for him to recall how or where this intimacy had existed; but overcoming his feelings, and comprehending that his lengthened silence must appear extraordinary to the persons who had been waiting so long for him to address to them the compliments of welcome, which Indian etiquette demands, he at length decided on speaking.

"The Sachem can approach without fear and take his seat by the fire of a friend," he said.

"The voice of the Pale hunter rejoices the heart of the Chief," the warrior answered; "his invitation pleases him; he will smoke the calumet of friendship with the Pale hunter."

The Canadian bowed politely; the Sachem gave his squaw a sign to follow him, and he crouched on his heels in front of the fire, where Loyal Heart and Lanzi were still asleep. Tranquil and the warrior then began smoking silently, while the young Indian squaw was busily engaged with the household duties and preparing the morning meal. The two men allowed her to do so, not noticing apparently the trouble she took.

There was a lengthened silence. The hunter was reflecting, while the Indian was apparently completely absorbed by his pipe. At last he shook the ash out of the calumet, thrust the stem through his belt, and turned to his host —

"The Walkon and the Maukawis," he said, "always sing the same song; the man who has heard them during the moons of spring recognizes them in the moons of winter, it is not the same with man; he forgets quickly; his heart does not bound at the recollection of a friend; and if he meet him again after many moons, his eyes do not see him."

"What does the Chief mean?" the Canadian asked, astonished at these words, which seemed to convey a reproach.

"The Wacondah is powerful," the Indian continued; "it is he who dictates the words my breast breathes; the sturdy oak forgets that he has been a frail sapling."

"Explain yourself, Chief," the hunter said, with great agitation; "the sound of your voice causes me singular emotion; your features are not unknown to me; speak, who are you?"

"Singing-bird," the Indian said, addressing the young woman, "you are the cihuatl of a Sachem; ask the great Pale hunter why he has forgotten his friend – the man who, in happier times, was his brother?"

"I will obey," she answered, in a melodious voice; "but the Chief is deceived; the great Pale hunter has not forgotten the Wah-rush-a-menec of the Snake Pawnees."

"Oh!" Tranquil exclaimed, warmly, "Are you really Black-deer, my brother? My heart warned me secretly of your presence, and though your features had almost faded from my memory, I expected to find a friend again."

"Wah! is the Paleface speaking the truth?" the Chief said, with an emotion he could not quite conceal; "Has he really retained the memory of his brother, Black-deer?"

"Ah, Chief," the hunter said, sadly; "to doubt any longer would be an insult to me; how could I suppose I should ever meet you here, at so considerable a distance from the wigwams of your nation?"

"That is true?" the Indian remarked, thoughtfully; "my brother will forgive me."

"What!" Tranquil exclaimed, "Is that charming squaw I see there, the Singing-bird, that frail child whom I so often tossed on my knee?"

"Singing-bird is the wife of a Chief," the Indian answered, flattered by the compliment; "at the next fall of the leaves forty-five moons will have passed since Black-deer bought her of her father for two mustangs and a panther skin quiver."

Singing-bird smiled gracefully at the hunter, and went on with her duties.

"Will the Chief permit me to ask him a question?" Tranquil went on.

"My brother can speak, the ears of a friend are open."

"How did the Sachem learn that he would find me here?"

"Black-deer was ignorant of it: he was not seeking the great Pale hunter; the Wacondah has permitted him to find a friend again, and he is grateful."

Tranquil looked at the warrior in surprise. He smiled.

"Black-deer has no secret from his brother," he said, softly; "the Pale hunter will wait; soon he shall know all."

"My brother is free to speak or be silent; I will wait."

The conversation ceased here. The Sachem had wrapped himself in his buffalo robe, and did not appear disposed, to give any further explanation at present. Tranquil, restrained by the duties of hospitality, which in the desert prohibit any interrogation of a guest; imitated the Chiefs reserve; but the silence had lasted but a few minutes, when the hunter felt a light hand laid on his shoulder, while a soft and affectionate voice murmured in his ear: – "Good morning, father."

And a kiss completed the silence.

"Good-morning, little one," the hunter replied, with a smile; "did you sleep well?"

"Splendidly, father."

"And you have rested?"

"I no longer feel fatigued."

"Good; that is how I like to see you, my darling girl."

"Father," the inquisitive maiden said, as she looked around, "have visitors arrived?"

"As you see."

"Strangers?"

"No, old friends, who, I hope, will soon be yours."

"Redskins?" she asked with an instinctive start of terror.

"All of them are not wicked," he answered with a smile: "these are kind." Then, turning to the Indian woman, who had fixed her black velvet looking eyes on Carmela with simple admiration, he called out, "Singing-bird!"

The squaw bounded up like a young antelope. "What does my father want?" she asked, bowing gently.

"Singing-bird," the hunter continued, "this girl is my daughter, Carmela," and taking in his bony hand those of the two women, he clasped them together, adding with emotion, "Love one another like sisters."

"Singing-bird will feel very happy to be loved by the White lily," the Indian squaw replied; "for her heart has already flown towards me."

Carmela, charmed at the name which the squaw with her simple poesy had given her, bent down affectionately to her and kissed her forehead.

"I love you already, sister," she said to her, and holding her by the hand, they went off together twittering like two nightingales. Tranquil looked after them with a tender glance. Black-deer had witnessed this little scene with that Indian phlegm which nothing even disturbs: still, when he found himself alone with the hunter, he bent over to him, and said in a slightly shaking voice, —

"Wah! my brother has not changed: the moons of winter have scattered snow over his scalp, but his heart has remained as good as when it was young."

At this moment the sleeper awoke.

"Hilloh!" Loyal Heart said gaily, as he looked up at the sun, "I have had a long sleep."

"To tell you the truth," Lanzi observed, "I am not an early bird either: but nonsense! I will make up for it. The poor beasts of horses must be thirsty, so I will give them water."

"Very good!" said Tranquil; "By the time you have done that, breakfast will be ready."

Lanzi rose, leaped on his horse, and seizing the lasso of the others, went off in the direction of the stream without asking questions relative to the strangers. On the prairie it is so: a priest is an envoy of God, whose presence must arouse no curiosity. In the meanwhile Loyal Heart had also risen: suddenly his glance fell on the Indian Chief, whose cold eye was fixed on him: the young man suddenly turned pale as a corpse, and hurriedly approached the Chief.

"My mother!" he exclaimed in a voice quivering with emotion, "my mother – "

He could say no more. The Pawnee bowed peacefully to him.

"My brother's mother is still the cherished child of the Wacondah," he answered in a gentle voice; "her heart only suffers from the absence of her son."

"Thanks, Chief," the young man said with a sigh of relief; "forgive this start of terror which I could not overcome, but on perceiving you I feared lest some misfortune bad happened."

"A son must love his mother: my brother's feeling is natural; it comes from the Wacondah. When I left the Village of Flowers, the old greyhead, the companion of my brother's mother, wished to start with me."

"Poor ño Eusabio," the young man muttered, "he is so devoted to us."

"The Sachems would not consent; greyhead is necessary to my brother's mother."

"They were right, Chief; I thank them for retaining him. Have you followed my trail from the village?"

"I did."

"Why did you not awake me on your arrival?"

"Loyal Heart was asleep. Black-deer did not wish to trouble his sleep: he waited."

"Good! my brother is a Chief; he acted as he thought advisable."

"Black-deer is intrusted with a message from the Sachems to Loyal Heart. He wishes to smoke the calumet in council with him."

"Are the reasons that have brought my brother here urgent?"

"They are."

"Good! my brother can speak, I am listening."

Tranquil rose, and threw his rifle over his shoulder.

"Where is the hunter going?" the Indian asked.

"While you tell Loyal Heart the message I will take a stroll in the forest."

"The white hunter will remain; the heart of Black-deer has nothing hidden from him. The wisdom of my brother is great; he was brought up by the Redskins; his place is marked out at the council fire."

"But perhaps you have things to tell Loyal Heart which only concern yourselves."

"I have nothing to say which my brother should not hear; my brother will disoblige me by withdrawing."

"I will remain, then, Chief, since such is the case."

While saying these words, the hunter resumed his seat, and said: "Speak, Chief, I am listening."

The methodical Indian drew out his calumet, and, to display the importance of the commission with which he was entrusted, instead of filling it with ordinary tobacco, he placed in it morhichee, or sacred tobacco, which he produced from a little parchment bag he took from the pouch all Indians wear when travelling, and which contains their medicine bag, and the few articles indispensable for a long journey. When the calumet was filled, he lit it from a coal he moved from the fire by the aid of a medicine rod, decorated with feathers and bills.

These extraordinary preparations led the hunters to suppose that Black-deer was really the bearer of important news, and they prepared to listen to him with all proper gravity. The Sachem inhaled two or three whiffs of smoke, then passed the calumet to Tranquil, who, after performing the same operation, handed it to Loyal Heart. The calumet went the round thus, until all the tobacco was consumed.

During this ceremony, which is indispensable at every Indian council, the three men remained silent. When the pipe was out, the Chief emptied the ash into the fire, while muttering a few unintelligible words, which, however, were probably an invocation to the Great Spirit; he then thrust the pipe in his girdle, and after reflecting for some moments, rose and began speaking.

"Loyal Heart," he said, "you left the Village of Flowers to follow the hunting path at daybreak of the third sun of the moon of the falling leaves; thirty suns have passed since that period, and we are hardly at the beginning of the moon of the passing game. Well, during so short a period many things have occurred, which demand your immediate presence, in the tribe of which you are one of the adopted sons. The war hatchet, so deeply buried for ten moons between the prairie Comanches and the Buffalo Apaches, has suddenly been dug up in full council, and the Apaches are preparing to follow the war trail, under the orders of the wisest and most experienced Chiefs of the nation. Shall I tell you the new insults the Apaches have dared to offer your Comanche fathers? What good would it be? Your heart is strong, you will obey the orders of your fathers, and fight for them."

Loyal Heart bowed his head in assent.

"No one doubted you," the Chief continued; "still, for a war against the Apaches, the Sachems would not have claimed your help; the Apaches are chattering old women, whom Comanche children can drive off with their dog-whips; but the situation has all at once become complicated, and it is more your presence at the council of the nation than the aid of your arm, though you are a terrible warrior, which your fathers desire. The Long knives of the East and the Yoris have also dug up the hatchet, and both have offered to treat with the Comanches. An alliance with the Palefaces is not very agreeable to Redskins; still, their anxiety is great, as they do not know which side to take, or which party to protect."

Black-deer was silent.

"The situation is, indeed, grave," Loyal Heart answered; "it is even critical."

"The Chiefs, divided in opinion, and not knowing which is the better," Black-deer continued, "sent me off in all haste to find my brother, whose wisdom they are aware of, and promise to follow his advice."

"I am very young," Loyal Heart answered, "to venture to give my advice in such a matter, and settle so arduous a question. The Comanche nation is the queen of the prairies; its Chiefs are all experienced warriors; they will know better than I how to form a decision which will at once protect the interests and honour of the nation."

"My brother is young, but wisdom speaks by his mouth. The Wacondah breathes in his heart the words his lips utter; all the Chiefs feel for him the respect he deserves."

The young man shook his head, as if protesting against such a mark of deference. "Since you insist," he said, "I will speak; but I will not give my opinion till I have heard that of this hunter, who is better acquainted with the desert than I am."

"Wah!" said Black-deer, "the Pale hunter is wise; his advice must be good; a Chief is listening to him."

Thus compelled to explain his views, Tranquil had involuntarily to take part in the discussion; but he did not feel at all inclined to take on himself the responsibility of the heavy burden which Loyal Heart tried to throw off his own shoulders. Still, he was too thoroughly a man of the desert to refuse giving his opinion in council, especially upon so important a question. After reflecting for some moments, he therefore at length decided on speaking.

"The Comanches are the most terrible warriors of the prairie," he said, "no one must try to invade their hunting grounds; if they make war with the Apaches, who are vagabond and cowardly thieves, they are in the right to do so; but for what good object would they interfere in the quarrels of the Palefaces? Whether Yoris or Long knives, the Whites have ever been, at all times, and under all circumstances, the obstinate enemies of the Redskins, killing them wherever they may find them, under the most futile pretexts, and for the most time simply because they are Indians. When the coyotes are tearing each other asunder on the prairie, do the Indians try to separate them? No. They say, let them fight it out – the more that fall, the fewer thieves and plunderers will there be in the desert. To the Redskins the Palefaces are coyotes thirsting for blood. The Comanches should leave them to devour each other; whichever party triumph, those who have been killed will be so many enemies the fewer for the Indians. This war between the Palefaces has been going on for two years, implacably and obstinately. Up to the present the Comanches have remained neutral; why should they interfere now? However great the advantages offered them may be, they will not be equivalent to a neutrality, which will render them stronger and more dangerous in the sight of the Whites. I have spoken."

"Yes," Loyal Heart said, "you have spoken well, Tranquil. The opinion you have offered is the only one the Comanches ought to follow, an interference on their part would be an act of deplorable folly, which the Sachems would soon regret having committed."

Black-deer had carefully listened to the Canadian's speech, and it appeared to have produced a certain impression on him; he listened in the same way to Loyal Heart, and when the latter had ceased speaking, the Chief remained thoughtful for a while, and then replied —

"I am pleased with the words of my brothers, for they prove to me that I regarded the situation correctly. I gave the council of the Chiefs the same advice my brothers just offered. My brothers have spoken like wise men, I thank them."

"I am ready to support in council," Loyal Heart remarked, "the opinions the white hunter has offered, for they are the only ones which should prevail."

"I think so too. Loyal Heart will accompany the Chief to the callis of the nation?"

"It is my intention to start on my return tomorrow; if my brother can wait till then, we will start together."

"I will wait."

"Good; tomorrow at daybreak we will follow the return trail in company."

The council was over, yet Tranquil tried vainly to explain to himself how it was that Black-deer, whom he had left among the Snake Pawnees, could now be an influential Chief of the Comanche nation; and the connection between Loyal Heart and the Chief perplexed him not a bit less. All these ideas troubled the hunter's head, and he promised himself on the first opportunity to ask Black-deer for the history of his life since their separation.

As soon as Lanzi returned with the horses, the hunters and Carmela sat down to breakfast, waited on by Singing-bird, who performed her duties with extreme grace.