Майн Рид
The Death Shot: A Story Retold
Chapter Fifty One.
Locked in
At that same moment, when the red Sabines are carrying off his daughters, Colonel Armstrong is engaged, with his fellow-colonists, in discussing a question of great interest to all. The topic is sugar – the point, whether it will be profitable to cultivate it in their new colony. That the cane can be grown there all know. Both soil and climate are suitable. The only question is, will the produce pay, sugar being a bulky article in proportion to its price, and costly in transport through a territory without railroads, or steam communication.
While the discussion is at its height a new guest enters the room; who, soon as inside, makes a speech, which not only terminates the talk about sugar, but drives all thought of it out of their minds.
A speech of only four words, but these of startling significance: “There are Indians about!” ’Tis Hawkins who speaks, having entered without invitation, confident the nature of his news will hold him clear of being deemed an intruder.
And it does. At the word “Indians,” all around the table spring up from their seats, and stand breathlessly expectant of what the hunter has further to communicate. For, by his serious air, they are certain there must be something more.
Colonel Armstrong alone asks, the old soldier showing the presence of mind that befits an occasion of surprise.
“Indians about? Why do you say that, Hawkins? What reason have you to think so?”
“The best o’ reasons, colonel. I’ve seed them myself, and so’s Cris Tucker along with me.”
“Where?”
“Well, there’s a longish story to tell. If you’ll have patience, I’ll make it short as possible.”
“Go on! – tell it!”
The hunter responds to the demand; and without wasting words in detail, gives an epitome of his day’s doings, in company with Cris Tucker. After describing the savage troop, as first seen on the upper plain, how he and his comrade followed them across the river bottom, then over the ford, and there lost their trail, he concludes his account, saying:
“Where they went afterward, or air now, ’taint possible for me to tell. All I can say is, what I’ve sayed already: there are Indians about.”
Of itself enough to cause anxiety in the minds of the assembled planters; which it does, to a man making them keenly apprehensive of danger.
All the more from its being their first alarm of the kind. For, while travelling through Eastern Texas, where the settlements are thick, and of old standing, the savages had not evens been thought of. There was no chance of seeing any there. Only, on drawing nigh to the Colorado, were Indians likely to be encountered; though it did not necessarily follow that the encounter should be hostile. On the contrary, it ought to be friendly; since a treaty of peace had for some time been existing between the Comanches and Texans.
For all this, Colonel Armstrong, well acquainted with the character of the red men, in war as in peace, had not relied altogether on their pacific promises. He knew that such contracts only bind the savage so long as convenient to him, to be broken whenever they become irksome. Moreover, a rumour had reached the emigrants that, although the great Comanche nation was itself keeping the treaty, there were several smaller independent tribes accustomed to make “maraud” upon the frontier settlements, chiefly to steal horses, or whatever chanced in their way.
For this reason, after entering the territory where such pillagers might be expected, the old soldier had conducted his expedition as if passing through an enemy’s country. The waggons had been regularly corralled, and night guards kept – both camp sentinels and outlying pickets.
These rules had been observed up to the hour of arrival at their destination. Then, as the people got settled down in their respective domiciles, and nothing was heard of any Indians in that district, the discipline had been relaxed – in fact, abandoned. The colonists, numbering over fifty white men – to say nothing of several hundred negro slaves – deemed themselves strong enough to repel any ordinary assault from savages. They now considered themselves at home; and, with the confidence thus inspired, had ceased to speculate, on being molested by Indian enemies, or any others.
For this reason the suspicious movements of Dupré’s half-breed servant, as reported by the young surgeon, had failed to make more than a passing impression on those around the dining-table; many of them treating it as an eccentricity.
Now, after hearing Hawkins, they think differently. It presents a serious aspect, is, in truth, alarmingly suggestive of treason.
The half-blood inside the house may be in correspondence with full-blooded Indians outside, for some scheme of thieving or burglary.
The thought of either is sufficient to excite Colonel Armstrong’s guests, and all are on foot ready to take action.
“Dupré, call in your half-breed!” says the Colonel, directing it. “Let us hear what the fellow has to say for himself.”
“Tell Fernand to come hither,” commands the Creole, addressing himself to one of the negro lads waiting at table. “Tell him to come instantly!”
The boy hastens off to execute the order; and is several minutes before making re-appearance.
During the interval, they continue to discuss the circumstances that have so suddenly turned up; questioning Hawkins, and receiving from him minuter details of what he and his comrade have seen.
The additional matter made known but excites them the more, further intensifying their apprehensions.
They’re at their keenest, as the darkey re-enters the room with the announcement that Fernand is not to be found!
“What do you mean, boy?” thunders Dupré, in a voice that well-nigh takes away the young negro’s wits. “Is he not in the house?”
“Dat’s jess what he aint, Mass Looey. De Spanish Indyin’s no whar inside dis buildin’. We hab sarch all oba de place; call out his name in de store-rooms, an’ de coatyard, an’ de cattle closure – ebbery wha we tink of. We shout loud nuf for him to hyeer, ef he war anywha ’bout. He haint gib no answer. Sartin shoo he no inside o’ dis ’tablishment.”
The young planter shows dismay. So also the others, in greater or less degree, according to the light in which each views the matter.
For now on the minds of all is an impression, a presentiment, that there is danger at the bottom of Fernand’s doings – how near they know not.
At any other time his absence would be a circumstance not worth noting. He might be supposed on a visit to some of the huts appropriated to the humbler families of the colonist fraternity. Or engaged outside with a mulatto “wench,” of whom there are several, belonging to Dupré’s extensive slave-gang, far from ill-favoured.
Fernand is rather a handsome fellow, and given to gaiety; which, under ordinary circumstances, would account for his absenting himself from the house, and neglecting his duties as its head-servant. But after what the young surgeon has seen – above all the report just brought in by Hawkins – his conduct will not convey this trivial interpretation. All in the room regard it in a more serious light – think the mestizo is a traitor.
Having come to this general conclusion, they turn towards the table, to take a last drink, before initiating action.
Just as they get their glasses in hand, the refectory door is once more opened; this time with a hurried violence that causes them to start, as though a bombshell had rolled into the room.
Facing towards it, they see it is only the negro boy, who had gone out again, re-entering. But now with fear depicted on his face, and wild terror gleaming from his eyes; the latter awry in their sockets, with little beside the whites seen!
Their own alarm is not much less than his, on hearing what he has to say. His words are, —
“Oh, Mass Kurnel! Mass Looey! Gemmen all! De place am full ob Indyin sabbages! Dar outside in de coatyard, more’n a thousan’ ob um; an’ murderin’ ebbery body!”
At the dread tidings, glasses drop from the hands holding them, flung down in fear, or fury. Then all, as one man, make for the door, still standing open as in his scare the negro lad left it.
Before they can reach it, his words are too fully confirmed. Outside they see painted faces, heads covered with black hanging hair, and plumes bristling above. Only a glimpse they get of these, indistinct through the obscurity. But if transitory, not the less terrible – not less like a tableau in some horrid dream – a glance into hell itself.
The sight brings them to a stand; though, but for an instant. Then, they rush on towards the doorway, regardless of what may await them outside.
Outside they are not permitted to pass. Before they can reach the door, it is shut to with a loud clash; while another but slighter sound tells of a key turning in the wards, shooting a bolt into its keeper.
“Locked in, by God!” exclaims Hawkins, the rest involuntarily echoing his wild words; which are succeeded by a cry of rage as from one throat, though all have voice in it. Then silence, as if they were suddenly struck dumb.
For several moments they remain paralysed, gazing in one another’s faces in mute despairing astonishment. No one thinks of asking explanation, or giving it. As by instinct, all realise the situation – a surprise, an Indian attack. No longer the future danger they have been deeming probable, but its dread present reality!
Short while do they stand irresolute. Hawkins, a man of herculean strength, dashes himself against the door, in hopes of heaving it from its hinges. Others add their efforts.
All idle. The door is of stout timber – oaken – massive as that of a jail; and, opening inward, can only be forced along with its posts and lintels. – These are set in the thick wall, embedded, firm as the masonry itself.
They rush to the windows, in hope of getting egress there.
Equally to be disappointed, baffled. The strong, iron bar resist every effort to break or dislodge them. Though weakened with decaying rust, they are yet strong enough to sustain the shock of shoulders, and the tug of arms.
“Trapped, by the Eternal!” despairingly exclaims the hunter. “Yes, gentlemen, we’re caged to a certainty.”
They need not telling. All are now aware of it – too well. They see themselves shut in – helplessly, hopelessly imprisoned.
Impossible to describe their thoughts, or depict their looks, in that anguished hour. No pen, or pencil, could do justice to either. Outside are their dear ones; near, but far away from any hope of help, as if twenty miles lay between. And what is being done to them? No one asks – none likes to tempt the answer; all guessing what it would be, dreading to hear it spoken. Never did men suffer emotions more painfully intense, passions more heartfelt and harrowing; not even the prisoners of Cawnpore, or the Black Hole of Calcutta.
They are in darkness now – have been from the moment of the door being closed. For, expecting to be fired at from the outside, they had suddenly extinguished the lights. They wonder there has been no shooting, aware that the Comanches carry fire-arms. But as yet there has been no report, either of pistol, or gun!
They hear only voices – which they can distinguish as those of the house-Servants – male and female – all negroes or mulattoes. There are shrieks, intermingled with speeches, the last in accent of piteous appealing; there is moaning and groaning. But where are the shouts of the assailants? Where the Indian yell – the dread slogan of the savage? Not a stave of it is heard – nought that resembles a warwhoop of Comanches!
And soon is nothing heard. For the shrieks of the domestics have ceased, their cries coming suddenly, abruptly to an end, as if stifled by blows bringing death.
Inside the room is a death-like stillness; outside the same.
Chapter Fifty Two.
Massacre without mercy
Pass to the scene outside, than which none more tragical in the history of Texan colonisation.
No need to tell who the Indians are that have shown their faces at the dining-room door, shutting and locking it. They are those seen by Hawkins and Tucker – the same Dupré’s traitorous servant has conducted through the gap in the garden wall; whence, after making seizure of the girls, they continued on to the house, the half-blood at their head.
Under his guidance they passed through the cattle corral, and into the inner court. Till entering this they were not observed. Then the negro lad, sent in search of Fernand, seeing them, rushed back for the refectory.
With all his haste, as already known, too late in giving the alarm. Half-a-dozen of the foremost, following, were at the dining-room door almost soon as he, while others proceeding to the front entrance, closed the great gate, to prevent any one escaping that way.
In the courtyard ensues a scene, horrible to behold. The domestics frightened, screaming, rushing to and fro, are struck down with tomahawks, impaled upon spears, or hacked and stabbed with long-bladed knives. At least a half-score of these unhappy creatures fall in the fearful slaughter. Indiscriminate as to age or sex: for men, women, and children are among its victims.
Their shrieks, and piteous appeals, are alike disregarded. One after another they are struck, or hewn down, like saplings by the macheté. A scene of red carnage, resembling a saturnalia of demons, doing murder!
Short as terrible; in less than ten minutes after its commencement it is all over. The victims have succumbed, their bleeding bodies lie along the pavement. Only those domestics have escaped, who preserved enough presence of mind to get inside rooms, and barricade the doors behind them.
They are not followed; for despite the red murder already done, the action ensuing, tells of only robbery intended.
This evident from the way the savages now go to work. Instead of attempting to reach those they have imprisoned within the dining-room, they place two of their number to stand guard by its door; another pair going on to the gate entrance. These steps taken, the rest, with Fernand still conducting, hurry along the corridor, towards a room which opens at one of its angles. It is the chamber Dupré has chosen for his sleeping apartment, and where he has deposited his treasure. Inside it his cash, at least fifty thousand dollars, most of it in silver, packed in stout boxes.
Fernand carries the key, which he inserts into its lock. The door flies open, and the half-blood enters, closely followed by those who appear all Indians. They go in with the eagerness of tigers springing upon prey, or more like the stealthiness of cats.
Soon they come out again, each bearing a box, of diminutive size, but weight sufficient to test his strength.
Laying these down, they re-enter the room, and return from it similarly loaded.
And so they go and come, carrying out the little boxes, until nearly a score are deposited upon the pavement of the courtyard.
The abstraction of the specie completed, the sentries set by the dining-room door, as also those sent to guard the entrance-gate, are called off; and the band becomes reunited by the treasure, as vultures around a carcass.
Some words are exchanged in undertone. Then each, laying hold of a box – there is one each for nearly all of them – and poising it upon his shoulders, strides off out of the courtyard.
Silently, and in single file, they pass across the cattle corral, on into the garden, down the central walk, and out through the gap by which they came in.
Then on to the glade where they have left their horses.
These they remount, after balancing the boxes upon their saddle-bows, and there securing them with trail-ropes.
Soon as in the saddle they move silently, but quickly away; the half-blood going along with them.
He, too, has a horse, the best in the troop – taken from the stable of the master he has so basely betrayed, so pitilessly plundered.
And that master at the moment nearly mad! Raging frantically around the room where they are left confined, nearly all the others frantic as he. For scarce any of them who has not like reason.
In the darkness groping, confusedly straying over the floor, stunned and stupified, they reel like drunken men; as they come in contact tremblingly interrogating one another as to what can have occurred.
By the silence outside it would seem as if everybody were murdered, massacred – coloured servants within the house, colonists without – all!
And what of Colonel Armstrong’s own daughters? To their father it is a period of dread suspense – an agony indescribable. Much longer continued it would drive him mad. Perhaps he is saved from insanity by anger – by thoughts of vengeance, and the hope of living to accomplish it.
While mutually interrogating, one starts the suggestion that the whole affair may be a travestie– a freak of the younger, and more frolicksome members of the colonist fraternity. Notwithstanding its improbability, the idea takes, and is entertained, as drowning men catch at straws.
Only for an instant. The thing is too serious, affecting personages of too much importance, to be so trifled with. There are none in the settlement who would dare attempt such practical joking with its chief – the stern old soldier, Armstrong. Besides, the sounds heard outside were not those of mirth, mocking its opposite. The shouts and shrieks had the true ring of terror, and the accents of despair.
No. It could not be anything of a merrymaking, but what they at first supposed it – a tragedy.
Their rage returns, and they think only of revenge. As before, but to feel their impotence. The door, again tried, with all their united strength, refuses to stir from its hinges. As easily might they move the walls. The window railings alike resist their efforts; and they at length leave off, despairingly scattering through the room.
One alone remains, clinging to the window bars. It is Hawkins. He stays not with any hope of being able to wrench them off. He has already tested the strength of his arms, and found it insufficient. It is that of his lungs he now is determined to exert, and does so, shouting at the highest pitch of his voice.
Not that he thinks there is any chance of its being heard at the rancheria, nearly a half-mile off, with a grove of thick timber intervening. Besides, at that late hour the settlers will be asleep.
But in the grove between, and nearer, he knows there is a tent; and inside it a man who will be awake, if not dead – his comrade, Cris Tucker.
In the hope Cris may still be in the land of the living, Hawkins leans against the window bars and, projecting his face outward, as far as the jawbones will allow, he gives utterance to a series of shouts, interlarded with exclamations, that in the ears of a sober Puritan would have sounded terribly profane.
Chapter Fifty Three.
A horrid spectacle
On a log outside the tent sits Cris Tucker, with the fire before him, kindled for cooking the turkey. The bird is upon a spit suspended above the blaze. A fat young “gobbler,” it runs grease at every pore, causing the fire to flare up. Literally is it being broiled by its own grease, and is now well-nigh done brown.
Perceiving this, Tucker runs his eyes inquiringly along the path leading towards the mission, at the same time setting his ears to listen. What can be keeping his comrade, who promised so soon to be back?
“Promises are like pie-crust,” says Cris in soliloquy; “Old Hawk aint keeping his, and I guess aint goin’ to. I heard they war to have a big dine up there the night. So I suppose the colonel’s axed him in for a glass o’ his whiskey punch. Hawk’s jest the one to take it – a dozen, if they insist. Well, there’s no reason I should wait supper any longer. I’m ’most famished as it is. Besides, that bird’s gettin’ burnt.”
Rising up from the log, he takes the turkey off the spit, and carries it inside the tent. Then dishing, he sets it upon the table; the dish a large platter of split wood rudely whittled into oblong oval shape, the table a stump with top horizontally hewn, over which the tent has been erected.
Placing a “pone” of corn-bread, and some salt alongside, he sits down; though not yet to commence eating. As certainly his comrade should now soon be back, he will give him ten minutes’ grace.
The position is agreeable, at the same time having its drawbacks. The odour pervading the tent is delicious; still there is the sense of taste to be satisfied, and that of smell but provokes it. The savoury aroma of the roast turkey is keenly appetising, and Cris can’t hold out much longer.
Time passes, and no sign of Hawkins returning. Tucker’s position becomes intolerable; the bird is getting cold, its juices drying up, the repast will be spoilt.
Besides, his comrade has not kept faith with him. In all probability he has eaten supper at the house, and at that moment is enjoying a jorum of whisky punch, quite forgetful of him. Tucker. Cris can stand it no longer; and, drawing out his knife, he takes the turkey by the leg, and cuts a large slice from its breast.
This eaten, another slice of breast is severed and swallowed. Then a wing is carved off, and lastly a leg, which he polishes to the smoothness of a drumstick. —
The young hunter, now no longer ravenous, proceeds more leisurely, and completes his repast by tranquilly chewing up the gizzard, and after it the liver – the last a tit-bit upon the prairies, as in a Strasburg paté.
Washing all down with a gourd of whisky and water, he lights his pipe; and, seated by the mangled remains of the gobbler, commences smoking.
For a time the inhaled nicotine holds him tranquil; though not without wondering why his comrade is so long in patting in an appearance.
When over two hours have elapsed, his wonder becomes changed to anxiety. Not strange it should, recalling the reason why he has been left alone.
This increasing to keen apprehension, he can no longer stay within the tent. He will go up to the house, and find out what is detaining Hawkins.
Donning his skin cap, and stepping out into the open air, he starts off towards the mission-building.
Less than ten minutes’ walking brings him to its walls, by their main front entrance.
There he pauses, surprised at the stillness surrounding the place. It is profound, unnatural.
For some moments he remains in front of the massive pile, looking at it, and listening. Still no sound, within or without.
True, it is time for the inmates to be a-bed.
But if so, where is Hawkins? He may be drinking, but surely not sleeping within!
In any case, Cris deems it his duty to look him up; and with this intent determines to enter.
He is not on terms of social equality with those who occupy the mission; still, under the circumstances, he cannot be considered intruding.
He sees that the great door is closed, but the wicket is ajar; presumptive proof of Hawkins being inside. There are no lights in the front windows, but, as Cris knows, those of the dining-room open backward.
Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, passes on through the saguan, and once more emerges into moonlight within the patio.
There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds a sight that almost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise the cap from his head.
Down into the hollow quadrangle – enclosed on every side, except that towards heaven – the moonbeams are falling in full effulgence. By their light he sees forms lying along the pavement in every possible position. They are human bodies – men and boys, among them some whose drapery declares them to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but all spotted and spattered with red – with blood! Fresh, but fast freezing in the chill night air, it is already darkened, almost to the hue of ink.
The hunter turns faint, sick, as he contemplates this hecatomb of corpses. A spectacle far more fearful than any ever witnessed upon battle-field. There men lie in death from wounds given, as received under the grand, if delusive, idea of glory. Those Cris Tucker sees must have been struck down by the hand of the assassin!
For a time he stands gazing upon them, scarce knowing what to do.
His first impulse is to turn back, rush out of the courtyard, and away altogether from the place.
But a thought – a loyal thought or instinct, stays him. Where is Hawkins? His body may be among the rest – Cris is almost sure it will be found there – and affection for his friend prompts him to seek for it. There may still be breath in it – a spark of departing life, capable of being called back.
With this hope, however faint, he commences searching among the corpses.
The spectacle, that has sickened, makes his step feeble. He staggers as he passes among the prostrate forms, at times compelled to stride over them.
He examines one after another, bending low down to each – lower where they lie in shadow, and it is more difficult to distinguish their features.
Going the round of the courtyard, he completes the scrutiny of all. Living or dead, Hawkins is not among them.
Nor is there the body of any white man, or woman. The stricken victims are of every age, and both sexes. But all, male as female, are negroes or mulattoes – the slaves of the establishment. Many of them he recognises; knows them to be the house-servants.
Where are their masters? Where everybody? What terrible tragedy has occurred to leave such traces behind? The traces of murder – of wholesale slaughter!
Who have been the murderers, and where are they now? Where is Hawkins?
To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur in quick succession; along with the last a sound reaching his ears which causes him to start, and stand listening acutely for its repetition. It seemed a human voice, as of a man in mortal agony shouting for succour. Faint, as if far off, away at the back of the building.
Continuing to listen, Tucker hears it again, this time recognising the voice of Hawkins.
He does not stay to conjecture why his comrade should be calling in accents of appeal. That they are so is enough for him to hasten to his aid. Clearly the cry comes from outside; and, soon as assured of this, Tucker turns that way, leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides on along the saguan, and through the open wicket.
Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to direct him, which it does.
As before he hears it, shouting for help, now sure it is Hawkins who calls. And sure, also, that the cries come from the eastern side of the building.
Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, breaking through the bushes like a chased bear.
Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which the shouts appear to proceed.
Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly against the bars; at the same time hearing himself hailed in a familiar voice.
“Is’t you, Cris Tucker? Thank the Almighty it is!”
“Sartin it’s me,” Hawkins. “What does it all mean?”
“Mean? That’s more’n I can tell; or any o’ us inside here; though there’s big ends o’ a dozen. We’re shut up, locked in, as ye see. Who’s done it you ought to know, bein’ outside. Han’t you seen the Indians?”
“I’ve seen no Indians; but their work I take it. There’s a ugly sight round t’other side.”
“What sight, Oris? Never mind – don’t stay to talk. Go back, and get something to break open the door of this room. Quick, comrade, quick!”
Without stayin’ for further exchange of speech, the young hunter hurries back into the patio as rapidly as he had quitted it; and laying hold of a heavy beam, brings it like a battering-ram, against the dining-room door.
Massive as this is, and strongly hung upon its hinges, it yields to his strength.
When at length laid open, and those inside released, they look upon a spectacle that sends a thrill of horror through their hearts.
In the courtyard lie ten corpses, all told. True they are but the dead bodies of slaves – to some beholding them scarce accounted as human beings. Though pitied, they are passed over without delay; the thoughts, as the glances, of their masters going beyond, in keen apprehension for the fate of those nearer and dearer.
Escaped from their imprisonment, they rush to and fro, like maniacs let out of a madhouse. Giving to the dead bodies only a passing glance, then going on in fear of finding others by which they will surely stay; all the time talking, interrogating, wildly gesticulating, now questioning Oris Tucker, now one another; in the confusion of voices, some heard inquiring for their wives, some their sisters or sweethearts, all with like eagerness; hopefully believing their dear ones still alive, or despairingly thinking them dead; fearing they may find them with gashed throats and bleeding breasts, like those lying along the flagstones at their feet.
The spectacle before their eyes, appalling though it be, is nought to that conjured up in their apprehensions. What they see may be but a forecast, a faint symbol, of what ere long they may be compelled to look upon.
And amid the many voices shouting for wife, sister, or sweetheart, none so loud, or sad, as that of Colonel Armstrong calling for his daughters.
