Henty George Alfred
Out on the Pampas: or, The Young Settlers

A murmur of assent followed the chief’s speech; and supposing that no more would be said upon the matter, the Stag was about to declare the council closed, when an Indian sitting in the inner circle rose.

‘My brothers, I will tell you a story. The birds once went out to attack the nest of an eagle, but the eagle was too strong for them; and when all had gone, he went out from his nest with his children, the young eagles, and he found the raven and two other birds hurt and unable to fly, and instead of killing them, as they might have done, the eagles took them up to their nest, and nursed them and tended them until they were able to fly, and then sent them home to their other birds. So was it with Tawaina and his two friends.’ And the speaker indicated with his arm two Indians sitting at the outer edge of the circle. ‘Tawaina fell at the fence where so many of us fell, and in the morning the white men took him and gave him water, and placed him in shelter, and bandaged his wound; and the little White Bird and her sister brought him food and cool drinks every day, and looked pitifully at him. But Tawaina said to himself, The white men are only curing Tawaina, that when the time comes they may see how an Indian can die. But when he was well, they brought horses, and put a bow and arrows into our hands, and bade us go free. It is only in the battle that the great white chief is terrible. He has a great heart. The enemies he killed he did not triumph over. He laid them in a great grave. He honoured them, and planted trees with drooping leaves at their head and at their feet, and put a fence round that the foxes might not touch their bones. Shall the Indian be less generous than the white man? Even those taken in battle they spared and sent home. Shall we kill the White Bird captured in her nest? My brothers will not do so. They will send back the White Bird to the great white chief. Have I spoken well?’

This time a confused murmur ran round the circle. Some of the younger men were struck with this appeal to their generosity, and were in favour of the Raven’s proposition; the elder and more ferocious Indians were altogether opposed to it.

Speaker succeeded speaker, some urging one side of the question, some the other.

At last the Stag again rose. ‘My brothers,’ he said, ‘my ears have heard strange words, and my spirit is troubled. The Raven has told us of the ways of the whites after a battle; but the Indians’ ways are not as the whites’ ways, and the Stag is too old to learn new fashions. He looks round, he sees many lodges empty, he sees many women who have no husband to hunt game, he hears the voices of children who cry for meat. He remembers his brothers who fell before the flying fire and the guns which loaded themselves, and his eyes are full of blood. The great white chief has made many wigwams desolate: let there be mourning in the house of the white chief. Have I spoken well?’

The acclamations which followed this speech were so loud and general that the party of the Raven was silenced, and the council at once broke up.

A cry of exultation broke from the women when they heard the decision, and all prepared for the work of vengeance before them.

At a signal from the Stag, two of the young Indians went to the hut and summoned Ethel to accompany them. She guessed at once that her death was decided upon, and, pale as marble, but uttering no cry or entreaty, which she knew would be useless, she walked between them.

For a moment she glanced at the women around her, to see if there was one look of pity or interest; but faces distorted with hate and exultation met her eyes, and threats and imprecations assailed her ears. The sight, though it appalled, yet nerved her with courage. A pitying look would have melted her, – this rage against one so helpless as herself nerved her; and, with her eyes turned upwards and her lips moving in prayer, she kept along.

The Indians led her to a tree opposite the centre of the village, bound her securely to it, and then retired.

There was a pause before the tragedy was to begin. Some of the women brought faggots for the pile, others cut splinters to thrust under the nails and into the flesh. The old women chattered and exulted over the tortures they would inflict; a few of the younger ones stood aloof, looking on pityingly.

The men of the tribe gathered in a circle, but took no part in the preparations, – the torture of women was beneath them.

At last all was ready. A fire was lit near; the hags lit their firebrands and advanced. The chief gave the signal, and with a yell of exultation they rushed upon their victim, but fell back with a cry of surprise, rudely thrust off by three Indians who placed themselves before the captive.

The women retreated hastily, and the men advanced to know the reason of this strange interruption. The Raven and his companions were unarmed. The Indians frowned upon them, uncertain what course to pursue.

‘My brothers,’ the Raven said, ‘I am come to die. The Raven’s time is come. He has flown his last flight. He and his brothers will die with the little White Bird. The Raven and his friends are not dogs. They have shed their blood against their enemies, and they do not know how to cry out. But their time has come, they are ready to die. But they must die before the little White Bird. If not, her spirit will fly to the Great Spirit, and will tell him that the Raven and his friends, whom she had sheltered and rescued, had helped to kill her; and the Great Spirit would shut the gates of the happy hunting-grounds against them. The Raven has spoken.’

There was a pause of extreme astonishment, followed by a clamour of voices. Those who had before espoused the cause of the Raven again spoke out loudly, while many of the others hesitated as to the course to be pursued.

The Stag hastily consulted with two or three of his principal advisers, and then moved forward, waving his hand to command silence. His countenance was calm and unmoved, although inwardly he was boiling with rage at this defiance of his authority. He was too politic a chief, however, to show this. He knew that the great majority of the tribe was with him; yet the employment of force to drag the Raven and his companions from their post would probably create a division in the tribe, the final results of which none could see, and for the consequences of which he would, in case of any reverse, be held responsible and looked upon with disapproval by both parties.

‘The Raven and his friends have great hearts,’ he said courteously. ‘They are large enough to shelter the little White Bird. Let them take her. Her life is spared. She shall remain with our tribe.’

The Raven inclined his head, and, taking a knife from a warrior near, he cut the cords which bound Ethel, and, beckoning to the Fawn, handed the astonished girl again into her charge, saying as he did so, ‘Stop in hut. Not go out; go out, bad.’ And then, accompanied by his friends, he retired without a word to one of their huts.

A perfect stillness had hung over the crowd during this scene; but when it became known that Ethel was to go off unscathed, a murmur broke out from the elder females, disappointed in their work of vengeance. But the Stag waved his hand peremptorily, and the crowd scattered silently to their huts, to talk over the unusual scene that had taken place.

The Raven and his friends talked long and earnestly together. They were in no way deceived by the appearance of friendliness which the Stag had assumed. They knew that henceforth there was bitter hatred between them, and that their very lives were insecure. As to Ethel, it was, they knew, only a short reprieve which had been granted her. The Stag would not risk a division in the tribe for her sake, nor would attempt to bring her to a formal execution; but the first time she wandered from the hut, she would be found dead with a knife in her heart.

The Raven, however, felt certain that help was at hand. He and his friends, who knew Mr. Hardy, were alone of the tribe convinced that a pursuit would be attempted. The fact that no such attempt to penetrate into the heart of the Indian country had ever been made, had lulled the rest into a feeling of absolute security. The Raven, indeed, calculated that the pursuers must now be close at hand, and that either on that night or the next they would probably enter the gorge and make the attack.

The result of the council was that he left his friends and walked in a leisurely way back to his own hut, taking no notice of the hostile glances which some of the more violent of the Stag’s supporters cast towards him.

On his entrance he was welcomed by his wife, a young girl whom he had only married since his return from the expedition, and to whom, from what he had learned of the position of women among the whites, he allowed more freedom of speech and action than are usually permitted to Indian women. She had been one of the small group who had pitied the white girl.

‘The Raven is a great chief,’ she said proudly; ‘he has done well. The Mouse trembled, but she was glad to see her lord stand forth. The Stag will strike, though,’ she added anxiously. ‘He will look for the blood of the Raven.’

‘The Stag is a great beast,’ the Indian said sententiously; ‘but the Raven eat him at last.’

Then, sitting down upon a pile of skins, the chief filled his pipe, and made signs to his wife to bring fire. Then he smoked in silence for some time until the sun went down, and a thick darkness closed over the valley.

At length he got up, and said to his wife, ‘If they ask for the Raven, say that he has just gone out; nothing more. He will not return till daybreak; and remember,’ and he laid his hand upon her arm to impress the caution, ‘whatever noise the Mouse hears in the night, she is not to leave the hut till the Raven comes back to her.’

The girl bowed her head with an Indian woman’s unquestioning obedience; and then, drawing aside the skin which served as a door, and listening attentively to hear if any one were near, the Raven went out silently into the darkness.

CHAPTER XVII.
RESCUED

IN spite of their utmost efforts, Mr. Hardy’s party had made slower progress than they had anticipated. Many of the horses had broken down under fatigue; and as they had no spare horses to replace them, as the Indians had in like case done from those they had driven off from Mr. Mercer, they were forced to travel far more slowly than at first. They gained upon the Indians, however, as they could tell by the position of the camping-ground for the night.

At three o’clock on the afternoon of the last day they passed the place their enemy had left that morning; but although they kept on until long after sunset, many of them having led their horses all day, they were still more than thirty miles away from the mountains among which they knew that the Indian village was situated.

None of the Guachos had ever been there, but they knew its situation and general features by report. There had been no difficulty in following the trail since they had struck it. The broad line of trodden ground, and the frequent carcases of sheep, sufficiently told the tale.

That was a night of terrible anxiety to all. They knew that already Ethel was in the Indian village, and they thought with a sickening dread of what might happen the next day. Nothing, however, could be done. Many of the party were already exhausted by their long day’s walk under a burning sun. It was altogether impossible to reach the village that night.

Before lying down for the night, Mr. Hardy asked all the party to join in a prayer for the preservation of his daughter during the following day; and it was a strange and impressing sight to see the group of sunburnt, travel-worn men standing uncovered while their leader offered up an earnest prayer.

Mr. Hardy then said for that night it was unnecessary to keep watch as usual. The Indians had pushed on, and could no longer dread pursuit, and therefore there was no risk of a night attack. Besides which, there was little chance of his sleeping. This proposition was a most acceptable one, and in a very short time a perfect silence reigned in the camp.

Before daybreak they were again on the march, all on foot and leading their horses, in order to spare them as much as possible should they be required at night. Speed was now no object. It was, they knew, hopeless to attack in broad daylight, as the Indians would be probably more than a match for them, and Ethel’s life would be inevitably sacrificed. They walked, therefore, until within six or seven miles of the gorge, nearer than which they dared not go, lest they might be seen by any straggling Indian.

Their halting-place was determined by finding a stream with an abundance of fresh grass on its banks. They dared not light a fire, but chewed some of the tough charqui, and watched the distant cleft in the hills which led to the ardently wished-for goal.

As evening fell they were all in the saddle, and were pleased to find that the horses were decidedly fresher for their rest. They did not draw rein until the ground became stony, and they knew that they must be at the mouth of the gorge. Then they dismounted and picketed the horses. Two of the Guachos were stationed with them as guards, and the rest went stealthily forward, – the rockets being entrusted to the care of Terence, who fastened them tightly together with a cord, and then hung them by a loop, like a gun, over his shoulder, in order that he might have his hands free.

It was still only eight o’clock, – dangerously early for a surprise; but the whole party were quite agreed to risk everything, as no one could say in what position Ethel might be placed, and what difference an hour might make. Their plan was to steal quietly up to the first hut they found, to gag its inmates, and compel one of them, under a threat of instant death, to guide them to the hut in which Ethel was placed.

Suddenly Mr. Hardy was startled by a dark figure rising from a rock against which he had almost stumbled, with the words, ‘White man good. Tawaina friend. Come to take him to child.’

Then followed a few hurried questions; and no words can express the delight and gratitude of Mr. Hardy and his sons, and the intense satisfaction of the others, on finding that Ethel was alive, and for the present free from danger.

It was agreed to wait now for two hours, to give time for the Indians to retire to rest; and while they waited, the Raven told them all that had happened up to the arrival at the village, passing over the last day’s proceedings by saying briefly that Ethel had run a great risk of being put to death, but that a delay had been obtained by her friends. Having told his story, he said, ‘Tawaina friend to great white chief. Gave signal with arrow; save little White Bird to-day. But Tawaina Indian, – not like see Indian killed. White chief promise not kill Indian women and children?’

Mr. Hardy assured the Indian that they had no thought of killing women and children.

‘If can take little White Bird without waking village, not kill men?’ Tawaina asked again.

‘We do not want to wake the village if we can help it, Tawaina; but I do not see any chance of escaping without a fight. Our horses are all dead beat, and the Indians will easily overtake us, even if we get a night’s start.’

‘Mustn’t go out on plain,’ the Raven said earnestly. ‘If go out on plain, all killed. Indian two hundred and fifty braves, – eat up white men on plain.’

‘I am afraid that is true enough, Tawaina, though we shall prove very tough morsels. Still we should fight at a fearful disadvantage in the open. But what are we to do?’

‘Come back to mouth of Canon, – hold that; can keep Indians off as long as like. Indians have to make peace.’

‘Capital!’ Mr. Hardy said delightedly; for he had reviewed the position with great apprehension, as he had not seen how it would be possible to make good their retreat on their tired horses in the teeth of the Indians. ‘The very thing! As you say, we can hold the gorge for a month if necessary, and, sooner or later, they will be sick of it, and agree to let us retreat in quiet. Besides, a week’s rest would set our horses up again, and then we could make our retreat in spite of them.’

‘One more thing,’ the Raven said. ‘When great chief got little White Bird safe, Tawaina go away, – not fight one way, not fight other way. When meet again, white chief not talk about to-night. Not great Indian know Tawaina white chief’s friend.’

‘You can rely upon us all, Tawaina. They shall never learn from us of your share in this affair. And now I think that it is time for us to be moving forward. It will be past ten o’clock before we are there.’

Very quietly the troop crept along, Tawaina leading the way, until he approached closely to the village. Here they halted for a moment.

‘Only six of us will go in,’ Mr. Hardy said; ‘there will be less chance of detection, – Jamieson, Percy, Herries, my boys, and myself. The others take post close to the hut we see ahead. If you find that we are discovered, be in readiness to support us. And Farquhar, two or three of you get matches ready, and stick a blue-light into the straw roof of the hut. We must have light, or we lose all the advantage of our firearms. Besides, as we retreat we shall be in darkness, while they will be in the glare.’

Thus speaking, Mr. Hardy followed his guide, the men he had selected treading cautiously in his rear. Presently they stopped before one of the huts, and pointing to the door, Tawaina said, ‘Little White Bird there;’ and then gliding away, he was lost in the darkness.

Mr. Hardy cautiously pushed aside the skin and entered, followed by his friends. It was perfectly dark, and they stood for a moment uncertain what to do. Then they heard a low voice saying, ‘Papa, is that you?’ while at the same instant they saw a gleam of light in the other corner of the tent, and heard a rustling noise, and they knew that an Indian had cut a slit in the hide walls and had escaped; and as Mr. Hardy pressed his child to his heart, a terrific war-whoop rose on the air behind the hut.

‘Come,’ Mr. Hardy said, ‘keep together, and make a run of it.’

Ethel had laid down without taking off even her shoes, so strong had been her hope of her father’s arrival. She was therefore no impediment to the speed of their retreat. For a short distance they were unopposed.

The Indians, indeed, rushed from their huts like swarms of bees disturbed by an intruder. Ignorant of the nature of the danger, and unable to see its cause, all was for a minute wild confusion; and then, guided by the war-whoop of the Indian who had given the alarm, all hurried toward the spot, and as they did so, several saw the little party of whites. Loud whoops gave the intimation of this discovery, and a rush towards them was made.

‘Now, your revolvers,’ Mr. Hardy said. ‘We are nearly out of the village.’

Not as yet, however, were the Indians gathered thickly enough to stop them. A few who attempted to throw themselves in the way were instantly shot down, and in less time than it has occupied to read this description they reached the end of the village. As they did so, a bright flame shot up from the farthest hut, and the rest of the party rushed out and joined them.

The Indians in pursuit paused at seeing this fresh accession of strength to their enemies, and then, as they were joined by large numbers, and the flame shooting up brightly enabled them to see how small was the body of whites, they rushed forward again with fierce yells.

But the whites were by this time a hundred and fifty yards away, and were already disappearing in the gloom.

‘Stop!’ Mr. Hardy cried. ‘Steady with your rifles! Each man single out an Indian. Fire!’

A yell of rage broke from the Indians as fourteen or fifteen of their number fell, and a momentary pause took place again. And then, as they were again reinforced, they continued the pursuit.

But the two hundred yards which the whites had gained was a long start in the half a mile’s distance to be traversed, and the whites well knew that they were running for their lives; for once surrounded in the plain, their case was hopeless.

Well was it, then, that Ethel was so accustomed to an out-of-door life. Hope and fear lent speed to her feet, and running between her father and brothers, she was able to keep up a speed equal to their own.

Scarce a word was spoken, as with clenched teeth and beating hearts they dashed along. Only once Mr. Jamieson said, ‘Can Ethel keep up?’ and she gasped out ‘Yes.’

The whites had this great advantage in the race, that they knew that they had only half a mile in all to run, and therefore put out their best speed; whereas, although a few of the Indians saw the importance of overtaking the fugitives on the plain, the greater portion believed that their prey was safe in their hands, and made no great effort to close with them at once. The whites, too, had the advantage of being accustomed to walking exercise, whereas the Indians, almost living on horseback, are seldom in the habit of using their feet. Consequently the whites reached the narrow mouth of the gorge a full hundred and fifty yards ahead of the main body of the pursuers, although a party of their fastest runners was not more than half that distance in their rear.

There was a general ejaculation of thankfulness as the parties now halted and turned to face the enemy.

It was now that the full advantage of Mr. Hardy’s precaution of firing the Indian hut had become manifest.

The fire had communicated to the next two or three dwellings, and a broad flame rose up, against the glare of which the Indians stood out distinctly, while the whites were posted in deep gloom.

‘Now, boys,’ Mr. Hardy said, ‘pick off the first lot with your carbines, while we load our rifles. Ethel, get behind that rock. Take shelter all till the last moment. The arrows will soon be amongst us.’

Steadily as if firing at a mark the boys discharged their five shots each; and as the enemy was not more than fifty yards off, every shot told.

The rest of the leading band hesitated, and throwing themselves down, waited until the others came up. There was a momentary pause, then a volley of arrows and musket balls was discharged in the direction of their hidden foe, and then, with a wild yell, the whole mass charged.

Not till they were within thirty yards was there a return shot fired; but as they entered the narrow gorge, the whites leapt to their feet with a cheer, and poured in a volley from twenty-four rifles.

The effect was terrible; and those in front who were unwounded hesitated, but, pressed on from behind, they again rushed forward. Then, as they closed, a desperate combat began.

The boys had hastily handed their carbines to Ethel to fit in the spare chamber, and had taken their place by their father’s side. The gorge was so narrow that there was not room to stand abreast, and by previous arrangement those who had no revolvers placed themselves in front, clubbing their rifles, while those with revolvers fired between them.

Mr. Percy, one of the Jamiesons, and Herries stood a pace or two in the rear, with their revolvers in hand, as a reserve.

For a few minutes the contest was terrific. The rush of the Indians partially broke the line, and the whirl of gleaming hatchets, the heavy crash of the blows with the rifles, the sharp incessant cracks of the revolvers, the yells of the Indians, the short shouts of encouragement from the English, and the occasional Irish cry of Terence, made up a total of confusion and noise which was bewildering.

Scarce a shot of the whites was thrown away, and a heap of dead lay across the pass.

Still the Indians pressed on.

The fight was more silent now, the cracks of the revolvers had ceased, and the whites were fighting silently and desperately with their rifles. They had not given way a foot, but the short panting breath told that the tremendous exertion was telling, as they stood in a line at short intervals, and their weapons rose and fell with a force and might that the Indian hatchets could seldom stem or avert.

Not bloodless on their part had the fight been up to this time. Most of them had received gashes more or less severe, and Martinez the Guacho and Cook lay dead at their feet.

Charley and Hubert, upon emptying their revolvers, had fallen back and taken their carbines, and now stood with the reserve upon a flat rock a few paces in the rear, all burning with impatience to take part in the strife.

At this moment they were joined by the two Guachos who had been left with the horses, but who now, hearing the firing, had arrived to take part in the fray.

At last Mr. Hardy judged that the time had come, and shouted,

‘Take aim into the middle of the mass, and fire as quick as you can, then all charge together. Now!’

In less than half a minute the four barrels of the Guachos’ guns, and the thirty shots from the revolvers, had been discharged into the densely-packed throng; then the seven men leapt from the rock, and with a cheer the whites threw themselves upon the Indians, already recoiling and panic-struck by the tremendous and deadly fire.

The Indians in front, surprised and confused, were mown down by the long rifles like grass before the mower, and those behind, after one moment’s hesitation, broke and fled; in another two minutes the fight was over, and the Indians in full flight to their village.

After a few words of hearty congratulation, the whites threw themselves on the ground, panting and exhausted, after their tremendous exertions.

Their first care, upon recovering a little, was to load their revolvers; as for the rifles, there was not one, with the exception of those of the three men who had formed the reserve, and the boys’ carbines, which were not disabled. The stocks were broken, the hammers wrenched off, and the barrels twisted and bent.

The party now crowded round Ethel, with whom not a single word had yet been exchanged since her rescue, and warm and hearty were the congratulations and welcome bestowed upon her. There was then an examination of wounds.

These had been many, and in some cases severe. Mr. Farquhar was completely disabled by a deep wound in the shoulder. Mr. Percy had received a fearful gash on the arm. Charley had one ear nearly cut off, and the side of his face laid completely open with a sweeping blow. Four others were seriously wounded, and six had less important wounds. All, however, were too much elated with their success to make anything but light of their hurts.

‘You seem fated to have your beauty spoilt, Charley,’ Mr. Hardy said, as he bandaged up his son’s face. ‘A few more fights, and you will be as seasoned with scars as any Chelsea pensioner.’

Charley joined in the general laugh at his own expense.

‘Yes, papa, if I go on like this, I shall certainly get rid of my looking-glass.’

‘You have not lost the rockets, I hope, Terence?’ Mr. Hardy asked.

‘Sure and I’ve not, your honour. I put them down behind a big rock before the little shindy began.’

‘We will fire them off,’ Mr. Hardy said. ‘They will heighten the impression, and make the Indians more anxious to come to terms, when they see that we can reach their village. We will not let them off all at once; but as we have four of each sort, we will send off a pair every half-hour or so, as they may think, if we fire them all at once and then stop, that we have no more left. We may as well give them a few shots, too, with our carbines and the rifles that remain serviceable. They will carry as far as half a mile if we give them elevation enough, and it is well to impress them as much as possible.’

Mr. Hardy’s suggestion was carried out. The first signal rocket showed the village crowded with Indians, over whose heads the cracked rocket slowly whizzed. The light of the next rocket did not disclose a single person, and it was apparent that the place was deserted. The third rocket happened to strike one of the roofs, and exploding there, set the thatch on fire.

‘Good!’ Mr. Percy said. ‘We shall have them asking for terms to-morrow.’

Four of the unwounded men were now placed as a guard at the mouth of the gorge, the others retiring further into it, so as to be beyond the dead Indians, who lay there literally in piles.

The morning broke over the white men occupied in the burial of their two fallen companions, and upon the Indians assembled at a short distance beyond the village. The men sat upon the ground in sullen despair; the women wailed and wrang their hands.

Now that it was day, they could see how terrible had been their loss. Upwards of sixty of their number were missing. The Stag had fallen, as had several of the most valiant braves of the tribe.

Presently the Raven rose from the midst of the warriors. His absence the preceding evening had not been noticed; and although all knew that he had taken no part in the fight, this was considered natural enough, when his advice to give up the captive had been rejected.

‘My brothers,’ he began, ‘the Great Spirit is very angry. He has hidden his face from his children. Yesterday he blinded their eyes and made them foolish; last night he made them as water before the white men. Why were the ears of the chiefs closed to the words of the Raven? If the Raven had set out with the little White Bird, the great white chief would have been glad, and the hatchet would have been buried in peace. But the chiefs would not hear the words of the Raven. The Stag said, Kill! and the war chiefs shouted, Kill! and where are they now? Their wigwams are empty, and their women have none to bring in the deer for food. The Great Spirit is angry.’

The Raven then took his seat; but, as he anticipated, no one rose to speak after him. The depression was too general; and the fact that, had the Raven’s advice been followed, the evils would have been avoided, was too manifest for any one to attempt to utter a word.

After a profound silence of some minutes’ duration, the Raven again rose.