Майн Рид
The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Forty Three.
The hand of God
Scarce any stream of South-Western Texas but runs between bluffs. There is a valley or “bottom-land,” only a little elevated above the water’s surface, and often submerged during inundations, – beyond this the bluffs. The valley may be a mile or more in width, in some places ten, at others contracted, till the opposing cliffs are scarce a pistol-shot apart. And of these there are frequently two or three tiers, or terraces, receding backward from the river, the crest of the last and outmost being but the edge of an upland plain, which is often sterile and treeless. Any timber upon it is stunted, and of those species to which a dry soil is congenial. Mezquite, juniper, and “black-jack” oaks grow in groves or spinneys; while standing apart may be observed the arborescent jucca – the “dragon-tree” of the Western world, towering above an underwood unlike any other, composed of cactaceae in all the varieties of cereus, cactus, and echinocactus. Altogether unlike is the bottom-land bordering upon the river. There the vegetation is lush and luxuriant, showing a growth of large forest timber – the trees set thickly, and matted with many parasites, that look like cables coiling around and keeping them together. These timbered tracts are not continuous, but show stretches of open between, – here little glades filled with flowers, there grand meadows overgrown with grass – so tall that the horseman riding through it has his shoulders swept by the spikes, which shed their pollen upon his coat.
Just such a bottom-land is that of the San Saba, near the river’s mouth; where, after meandering many a score of miles from its source in the Llano Estacado, it espouses the Colorado – gliding softly, like a shy bride, into the embrace of the larger and stronger-flowing stream.
For a moment departing from the field of romance, and treading upon the domain of history – or it may be but legend – a word about this Colorado river may interest the reader.
Possibly, probably, almost lor certain, there is no province in all Spanish America without its “Rio Colorado.” The geographer could count some scores of rivers so named – point them out on any map. They are seen in every latitude, trending in all directions, from the great Colorado of cañon celebrity in the north to another far south, which cuts a deep groove through the plains of Patagonia. All these streams have been so designated from the hue of their waters – muddy, with a pronounced tinge of red: this from the ochreous earth through which they have coursed, holding it in suspension.
In the Texan Colorado there is nothing of this; on the contrary, it is a clear water stream. A circumstance that may seem strange, till the explanation be given – which is, that the name is a misnomer. In other words, the Texan river now bearing the designation Colorado is not that so-called by the Spaniards, but their Rio Brazos; while the present Brazos is their Rio Colorado – a true red-tinted stream. The exchange of names is due to an error of the American map-makers, unacquainted with the Spanish tongue. Giving the Colorado its true name of Brazos, or more correctly “Brazos de Dios” (“The Arms of God”), the origin of this singular title for a stream presents us with a history, or legend, alike singular. As all know, Texas was first colonised by Spaniards, or Spanish Mexicans, on what might be termed the “militant missionary system.” Monks were sent into the province, cross in hand, with soldiers at their back, bearing the sword. Establishments were formed in different parts of the country; San Antonio de Bejar being the ecclesiastical centre, as also the political capital. Around these the aborigines were collected, and after a fashion converted to Christianity. With the christianising process, however, there were other motives mixed up, having very little to do either with morality or religion. Comfortable subsistence, with the accumulation of wealth by the missionaries themselves, was in most instances the lure which attracted them to Texas, tempting them to risk their lives in the so-called conversion of the heathen.
The mission-houses were in the monasterial style, many of them on a grand scale – mansions in fact, with roomy refectories, and kitchens to correspond; snug sitting and sleeping-chambers; well-paved courts and spacious gardens attached. Outside the main building, sometimes forming part of it, was a church, or capilla; near by the presidio, or barrack for their military protectors; and beyond, the rancheria, or village of huts, the homes of the new-made neophytes.
No great difficulty had the fathers in thus handsomely housing themselves. The converts did all the work, willingly, for the sake and in the name of the “Holy Faith,” into which they had been recently inducted. Nor did their toil end with the erection of the mission-buildings. It was only transferred to a more layical kind; to the herding of cattle, and tillage of the surrounding land; this continued throughout their whole lives – not for their own benefit, but to enrich those idle and lazy friars, in many cases men of the most profligate character. It was, in fact, a system of slavery, based upon and sustained by religious fanaticism. The result as might be expected – failure and far worse. Instead of civilising the aborigines of America, it has but brutalised them the more – by eradicating from their hearts whatever of savage virtue they had, and implanting in its place a debasing bigotry and superstition.
Most American writers, who speak of these missionary establishments, have formed an erroneous estimate of them. And, what is worse, have given it to the world. Many of these writers are, or were, officers in the United States army, deputed to explore the wild territories in which the missions existed. Having received their education in Roman Catholic seminaries, they have been inducted into taking a too lenient view of the doings of the “old Spanish padres;” hence their testimony so favourable to the system.
The facts are all against them; these showing it a scheme of villeinage, more oppressive than the European serfdom of the Middle Ages. The issue is sufficient proof of this. For it was falling to pieces, long before the Anglo-Saxon race entered into possession of the territory where it once flourished. The missions are now in a state of decadence, their buildings fast falling into decay; while the red man, disgusted at the attempt to enslave, under the clock of christianising him, has returned to his idolatry, as to his savage life.
Several of these misiones were established on the San Saba river; one of which for a considerable period enjoyed a prosperous existence, and numbered among its neophytes many Indians of the Lipan and Comanche tribes.
But the tyranny of their monkish teachers by exactions of tenths and almost continuous toil – themselves living in luxurious ease, and without much regard to that continence they inculcated – at length provoked the suffering serfs to revolt. In which they were aided by those Indians who had remained unconverted, and still heretically roamed around the environs. The consequence was that, on a certain day when the hunters of the mision were abroad, and the soldiers of the presidio alike absent on some expedition, a band of the outside idolaters, in league with the discontented converts, entered the mission-building, with arms concealed under their ample cloaks of buffalo skin. After prowling about for a while in an insolent manner, they at length, at a given signal from their chief, attacked the proselytising padres, with those who adhered to them; tomahawked and scalped all who came in their way.
Only one monk escaped – a man of great repute in those early times of Texas. Stealing off at the commencement of the massacre, he succeeded in making his way down the valley of the San Saba, to its confluence with the Colorado. But to reach an asylum of safety it was necessary for him to cross the latter stream; in which unfortunately there was a freshet, its current so swollen that neither man nor horse could ford it.
The padre stood upon its bank, looking covetously across, and listening in terror to the sounds behind; these being the war-cries of the pursuing Comanches.
For a moment the monk believed himself lost. But just then the arm of God was stretched forth to save him. This done in a fashion somewhat difficult to give credence to, though easy enough for believers in Holy Faith. It was a mere miracle; not stranger, or more apocryphal, than we hear of at this day in France, Spain, or Italy. The only singularity about the Texan tale is the fact of its not being original; for it is a pure piracy from Sacred Writ – that passage of it which relates to the crossing of the Red Sea by Moses and his Israelites.
The Spanish monk stood on the river’s bank, his eyes fixed despairingly on its deep rapid-running current, which he knew he could not cross without danger of being drowned. Just at this crisis he saw the waters separate; the current suddenly stayed, and the pebbly bed showing dry as a shingle!
Tucking his gown under his girdle, he struck into the channel; and, no doubt, making good time – though the legend does not speak of this – he succeeded in planting his sandalled feet, dry shod, on the opposite shore! So far the Texan story closely corresponds with the Mosaic. Beyond, the incidents as related, are slightly different. Pharaoh’s following host was overwhelmed by the closing waters. The pursuing Comanches did not so much as enter the charmed stream; which, with channel filled up, as before, was running rapidly on. They were found next morning upon the bank where they had arrived in pursuit, all dead, all lying at full stretch along the sward, their heads turned in the same direction, like trees struck down by a tornado!
Only the Omnipotent could have done this. No mortal hand could make such a coup. Hence the name which the Spaniards bestowed upon the present Colorado, Brazos de Dios– the “Hand of God.” Hence also the history, or rather fable, intended to awe the minds of the rebellious redskins, and restore them to Christanity, or serfdom.
Which it did not; since from that day the misiones of San Saba remained abandoned, running into ruin.
It is to one of these forsaken establishments Colonel Armstrong is conducting his colony; his future son-in-law having purchased the large tract of territory attached to it.
To that spot, where more than a century ago the monks made halt, with cross borne conspicuously in one hand, and sword carried surreptitiously in the other, there is now approaching a new invasion – that of axe and rifle – neither ostentatiously paraded, but neither insidiously concealed.
Chapter Forty Four.
A cloud on the cliffs
After a long toilsome journey through Eastern Texas, the emigrant train has reached the San Saba, and is working its way up-stream. Slowly, for the bottom-land is in some places heavily timbered, and the road requires clearing for the waggons.
The caravan has entered the valley on the left, or northern, bank of the river, while its point of destination is the southern; but a few miles above its confluence with the Colorado is a ford, by which the right side may be reached at low water. Luckily it is now at its lowest, and the waggons are got across without accident, or any great difficulty.
Once on the southern side, there is nothing to obstruct or further delay them. Some ten miles above is the abandoned mission-house, which they expect to reach that day, before going down of the sun.
With perhaps one exception, the emigrants are all happy, most of them in exuberant spirits. They are nearing a new home, having long ago left the old one behind; left also a thousand cankering cares, – many of them more than half a life spent in struggles and disappointments. In the untried field before them there is hope; it may be success and splendour; a prospect like the renewing of life’s lease, the younger to find fresh joys, the older to grow young again.
For weeks has the San Saba mission-house been the theme of their thoughts, and topic of discourse. They will re-people the deserted dwelling, restore it to its pristine splendour; bring its long neglected fields under tillage – out of them make fortunes by the cultivation of cotton.
There is no cloud to darken the horizon of their hopes. The toilsome journey is nearly at an end, and rejoicingly they hail its termination. Whether their train of white tilted wagons winds its way under shadowing trees, or across sunlit glades, there is heard along its line only joyous speech and loud hilarious laughter.
So go they on, regardless about the future, or only thinking of it as full of bright promise. Little do they dream how it may be affected by something seen upon the cliffs above, though not seen by them. At the point they have now reached, the bottom-land is several miles wide, with its bordering of grim bluffs rising on either flank, and running far as eye can see. On the left side, that they have just forsaken, not upon the river’s bank, but the cliff far back, is a cloud. No darkness of the sky, or concentration of unsubstantial vapour. But a gathering on the earth, and of men; who, but for their being on horseback, might be mistaken for devils. In Satan’s history the horse has no part; though, strange to say, Satan’s sons are those who most affect friendship for the noble animal. Of the horsemen seen hovering above the San Saba there are in all twenty; most of them mounted upon mustangs, the native steed of Texas, though two or three bestride larger and better stock, the breed of the States.
All appear Indians, or if there be white man among them, he must have been sun-tanned beyond anything commonly seen. In addition to their tint of burnt umber, they are all garishly painted; their faces escutcheoned with chalk-white, charcoal-black, and vermillion-red. Of their bodies not much can be seen. Blankets of blue and scarlet, or buffalo robes, shroud their shoulders; while buckskin breeches and leggings wrap their lower limbs; mocassins encasing their feet. In addition to its dress, they wear the usual Indian adornments. Stained eagle-plumes stand tuft-like out of their raven-black hair, which, in trailing tresses, sweeps back over the hips of their horses; while strings of peccaries’ teeth and claws of the grizzly bear fall over their breasts in bountiful profusion.
It is true, they are not in correct fighting costume. Nor would their toilet betoken them on the “war-trail.” But the Texan Indian does not always dress warrior-fashion, when he goes forth upon a predatory excursion. More rarely when on a mere pilfering maraud, directed against some frontier settlement, or travelling party of whites. On such occasions he does not intend fighting, but rather shuns it. And, as thieving is more congenial to him, he can steal as cleverly and adroitly in a buckskin hunting-shirt, as with bare arms.
The Indians in question number too few for a war party. At the same time, their being without women is evidence they are on no errand of peace. But for the arms carried, they might be mistaken for hunters. They have spears and guns, some of them “bowie” knives and pistols; while the Indian hunter still believes in the efficacy of the silent arrow.
In their armour, and equipment there are other peculiarities the ordinary traveller might not comprehend, but which to the eye of an old prairie man would be regarded as suspicious. Such an one would at once pronounce them a band of prairie pirates, and of the most dangerous kind to be encountered in all the territory of Texas.
Whoever they may be, and whatever their design, their behaviour is certainly singular. Both by their looks and gestures it can be told they are watching the waggon train, and interested in its every movement; as also taking care not to be themselves observed by those belonging to it. To avoid this they keep back from the crest of the escarpment; so far, it would not be possible to see them from any part of the bottom-land below.
One of their number, afoot, goes closer to the cliff’s edge, evidently sent there by the others as a sort of moving vidette. Screened by the cedars that form its crinière, he commands a view of the river valley below, without danger of being himself seen from it.
At short intervals he passes back a pace or two, and gesticulates to the others. Then returning to the cliff’s edge, he continues on as before.
These movements, apparently eccentric, are nevertheless of grave import. The man who makes them, with those to whom they are made, must be watching the travellers with the intention of waylaying them.
Afar off are the waggons, just distinguishable as such by their white canvas tilts – the latter in contrast with the surface of vivid green over which they are progressing. Slowly crawling along, they bear similitude to a string of gigantic termites bent on some industrial excursion. Still the forms of mounted men – at least forty in number, can be distinguished. Some riding in front of the train, some in its rear, and others alongside of it. No wonder the twenty savage men, who pursue the parallel line along the cliff, are taking care not to approach it too nearly. One would suppose that from such a strong travelling party their chance of obtaining plunder would seem to them but slight. And yet they do not appear to think so. For as the caravan train tardily toils on up the bottom-land, they too move along the upper plain at a like rate of speed, their scout keeping the waggons in sight, at intervals, as before, admonishing them of every movement.
And they still continue watching the emigrant train until the sun sinks low – almost to the horizon. Then they halt upon a spot thickly beset with cedar trees – a sort of promontory projecting over the river valley.
On its opposite side they can see the waggons still slowly creeping along, though now not all in motion. Those in the lead have stopped; the others doing likewise, as, successively, they arrive at the same place.
This in front of a large building, just discernible in the distance, its outlines with difficulty traceable under the fast gathering gloom of the twilight.
But the savages who survey it from the bluff have seen that building before, and know all about it; know it to be one of the abandoned misiones of San Saba; as, also, why those vehicles are now coming to a stop before its walls.
While watching these, but few words are exchanged between them, and only in an under tone. Much or loud talk would not be in keeping with their Indian character. Still enough passes in their muttered speeches – observable also in the expression of their features – for any one hearing the first, or seeing the last, to predict danger to the colony of Colonel Armstrong. If looks count for aught, or words can be relied on the chances seem as if the old San Saba mission-house, long in ruins, may remain so yet longer.
Chapter Forty Five.
A suspicious surveillance
The ancient monastery, erst the abode of Spanish monks, now become the dwelling-place of the ci-devant Mississippi planter, calls for a word of description.
It stands on the right side of the river, several hundred yards from the bank, on a platform slightly elevated above the general level of the surrounding terrain.
The site has been chosen with an eye to the pleasant and picturesque – that keen look-out towards temporal enjoyment, which at all times, and in all countries, has characterised these spiritual teachers of the heathen.
Its elevated position gives it command of a fine prospect, at the same time securing it against the danger of inundation, when the river is in flood.
In architectural style the mission-building itself does not much differ from that of most Mexican country houses – called haciendas.
Usually a grand quadrangular structure, with an uncovered court in the centre, the patio; around which runs a gallery or corridor, communicating with the doors of the different apartments.
But few windows face outside; such as there are being casements, unglazed, but protected by a grille of iron bars set vertically – the reja. In the centre of its front façade is a double door, of gaol-like aspect, giving admittance to the passage-way, called saguan; this of sufficient capacity to admit a waggon with its load, intended for those grand old coaches that lumbered along our own highways in the days of Dick Turpin, and in which Sir Charles Grandison used luxuriously to ride. Vehicles of the exact size, and pattern, may be seen to this day crawling along the country roads of modern Mexico – relics of a grandeur long since gone.
The patio is paved with stone flags, or tesselated tiles; and, where a head of water can be had, a fountain plays in the centre, surrounded by orange-trees, or other evergreens, with flowering-plants in pots. To rearward of this inner court, a second passage-way gives entrance to another, and larger, if not so sumptuously arrayed; this devoted to stables, store-rooms, and other domestic offices. Still farther back is the huerta, or garden.
That attached to the ancient monastery is an enclosure of several acres in extent, surrounded by a high wall of adobes; made to look still higher from being crested with a palisade of the organ cactus. Filled with fruit trees and flowering shrubs, these once carefully cultivated, but for long neglected, now cover the walks in wild luxuriance. Under their shade, silently treading with sandalled feet, or reclining on rustic benches, the Texan friars used to spend their idle hours, quite as pleasantly as their British brethren of Tintern and Tewkesbury. Oft have the walls of the San Saba mission-house echoed their “ha, ha!” as they quaffed the choicest vintage of Xeres, and laughed at jests ribald as any ever perpetrated in a pot-house. Not heard, however, by the converted heathen under their care; nor intended to be. For them there were dwellings apart; a collection of rude hovels, styled the rancheria. These were screened from view by a thick grove of evergreen trees; the padres not relishing a too close contact with their half-naked neophytes, who were but their peons– in short their slaves. In point of fact, it was the feudal system of the Old World transported to the New; with the exception that the manorial lords were monks, and the villeins savage men. And the pretence at proselytising, with its mongrel mixture of Christianity and superstition, did not make this Transatlantic villeinage a whit less irksome to endure. Proof, that the red-skinned serfs required the iron hand of control is found in the presidio, or soldier’s barrack – standing close by – its ruin overlooking those of the rancheria. They who had been conquered by the Cross, still needed the sword to keep them in subjection, which, as we have seen, it finally failed to do.
Several of the huts still standing, and in a tolerable state of repair, have supplied shelter to the new settlers; most of whom have taken up their abode in them. They are only to serve as temporary residences, until better homes can be built. There is no time for this now. The spring is on, and the cotton-seed must be got into the ground, to the neglect of everything else.
Colonel Armstrong himself, with his daughters and domestics, occupies the old mission-building, which also gives lodgment to Luis Dupré and his belongings. For the young planter is now looked upon as a member of the Armstrong family, and it wants but a word from one in holy orders to make him really so. And such an one has come out with the colonists. The marriage ceremony is but deferred until the cotton-seed be safe under the soil. Then there will be a day of jubilee, such as has never been seen upon the San Saba; a fiesta, which in splendour will eclipse anything the Spanish monks, celebrated for such exhibitions, have ever got up, or attempted.
But “business before pleasure” is the adage of the hour; and, after a day or two given to rest, with the arrangement of household affairs, the real work of colonising commences. The little painted ploughs, transported from the States, are set to soiling their paint, by turning up the fertile clod of the San Saba valley, which has so long lain fallow; while the seed of the cotton-plant is scattered far and wide over hundreds – ay, thousands of acres.
Around the ancient mission is inaugurated a new life, with scenes of industry, stirring as those presided over by the padres.
Is it sure of being as prosperous, or more likely to be permanent?
One confining his view to the valley – regarding only the vigorous activity there displayed – would answer this question in the affirmative.
But he who looks farther off – raising his eyes to the bluff on the opposite side of the river, fixing them on that spot where the Indians made halt – would hesitate before thus prognosticating. In the dusky cohort he might suspect some danger threatening the new settlement.
True, the savages are no longer there. After seeing the waggons one after another becoming stationary, like vultures deprived of a carrion repast, they moved away. But not far. Only about five miles, to a grove of timber standing back upon the plain, where they have made a more permanent camp.
Two alone are left upon the cliff’s edge; evidently to act as videttes. They keep watch night and day, one always remaining awake. Especially during the night hours do they appear on the alert – with eyes bent on the far off mission-buildings – watching the window-lights that steadily shine, and the torches that flit to and fro. Watching for something not yet seen. What can it be?
And what is the design of these painted savages, who look more like demons than men? Is it to attack the new colony, plunder, and destroy it?
Regarding their numbers, this would seem absurd. They are in all only twenty; while the colonists count at least fifty fighting men. No common men either; but most of them accustomed to the use of arms; many backwoodsmen, born borderers, staunch as steel. Against such, twenty Indians – though the picked warriors of the warlike Comanche tribe – would stand no chance in fair open fight. But they may not mean this; and their intent be only stealing?
Or they may be but a pioneer party – the vanguard of a greater force?
In any case, their behaviour is singularly suspicious. Such manoeuvring can mean no good, but may be fraught with evil to Colonel Armstrong and his colonists.
For several successive days is this surveillance maintained, and still nothing seems to come of it. The party of savages remains encamped in the timber at back; while the two sentinels keep their place upon the promontory; though now and then going and coming, as before.
But on a certain night they forsake their post altogether, as if their object has been attained, and there is no need to keep watch any more.
On this same night, a man might be seen issuing out of the mission-building, and making away from its walls. He is not seen, nevertheless. For it is the hour of midnight, and all have retired to rest – the whole household seemingly wrapt in profoundest slumber. Moreover, the man slips out stealthily, through the backdoor; thence across the second courtyard, and along a narrow passage leading into the garden. Having reached this, he keeps on down the centre walk, and over the wall at bottom, through which there chances to be a breach. All these mysterious movements are in keeping with the appearance of the man. For his countenance shows cunning of no ordinary kind. At first glance, and under the moonlight, he might be mistaken for a mulatto. But, though coloured, he is not of this kind. His tawny skin shows a tinge of red, which tells of Indian, rather than African blood. He is, in truth, a mestizo– half Spaniard or Mexican, the other half being the aboriginal race of America.
It is a breed not always evil-disposed, still less frequently ill-featured; and, so far as looks go, the individual in question might claim to be called handsome. He has a plenteous profusion of dark curly hair, framing a countenance by no means common. A face of oval form, regular features, the nose and chin markedly prominent, a pair of coal black eyes, with a well-defined crescent over each. Between his lips are teeth, sound and of ivory whiteness, seeming whiter in contrast with a pair of jet black moustaches.
Taking his features singly, any of them might be pronounced comely. And yet the tout ensemble is not pleasing. Despite physical beauty, there is something in the man’s face that appears repulsive, and causes shrinking in the heart of the beholder. Chiefly is it his eyes that seem to produce this effect; their glance inspiring fear, such as one feels while being gazed at by an adder.
Not always can this sinister look be observed. For the mestizo, when face to face with his superiors, has the habit of holding his eyes averted – cast down, as if conscious of having committed crime, or an intention to commit it.
Most with whom he comes in contact are impressed with the idea, that he either has sinned, or intends sinning; so all are chary of giving him confidence.
No – not all. There is one exception: one man who has trusted, and still continues to trust him – the young planter, Dupré. So far, that he has made him his man of confidence – head-servant over all the household. For it need scarce be told, that the real master of the house is he who rendered it habitable, by filling it with furniture and giving it a staff of servants. Colonel Armstrong is but its head through courtesy due to age, and the respect shown to a future father-in-law.
Why the Creole puts such trust in Fernand – the mestizo’s name – no one can clearly comprehend. For he is not one of those domestics, whose integrity has been tested by long years of service. On the contrary, Dupré has never set eyes on him, till just before leaving Nachitoches.
