Майн Рид
The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Sixty Two
A Savage Artist

The ensanguined skull was the first object that caught my eye. The dead man was easily identified. The body – short, plump, and rotund – could be no other than that of the unfortunate Irishman. His jacket had been stripped off; but some tattered remnants of sky-blue, still clinging to his legs, aided me in identifying him. Poor fellow! The lure of Californian metal had proved an ill star for him. His golden dream was at an end. He was lying along the sward, upon his side, half doubled up. I could not see his face. His hands were over it, with palms spread out – as if shading his eyes from the sun! It was a position of ordinary repose; and one might have fancied him asleep. But the gory crown, and red mottling upon the shirt – seemingly still wet – forbade the supposition. He slept; but it was the sleep of death!

My eyes wandered in search of the others. There were fires burning. They were out upon the plain, some three hundred yards from the base of the butte. They had been lately kindled: for their smoke was rising in thick columns, part of it falling again to the earth. Around the fires, and through the smoke, flitted the forms of the Indians. They appeared to be cooking and feasting. Some of them staggering over the ground, kept up an incessant babble – at intervals varying their talk with savage whoops. Others danced around accompanying their leaps with the monotonous “hi-hi-hi-ya.” All appeared to have partaken freely of the fire-water of Taos. A few more seriously disposed were grouped around four or five prostrate forms – evidently the bodies of their slain. The two we had shot from their horses must have been amongst these: since they were no longer to be seen where they had fallen. Those around the bodies stood hand in hand chanting the dismal death-song.

Not far from the fires, a group fixed my attention. It consisted of three figures – all in attitudes as different as it was possible to place them in. He who lay along the ground, upon his back, was the young hunter Wingrove. He still wore his fringed buckskin shirt and leggings; and by these I recognised him. He was at too great a distance for his features to be distinguished. He appeared to be bound hand and foot – with his ankles lashed together, and his wrists tied behind his back. He was thus lying upon his arms, in an irksome position; but the attitude showed that he was alive. I knew it already.

Some half-dozen paces from him was a second form, difficult to be recognised as that of a human being – though it was one. It was the body of Jephthah Bigelow. Its very oddness of shape enabled me to identify it – odder from the attitude in which I now beheld it. It was lying flat along the grass, face downward, the long ape-like legs and arms stretched out to their full extent – both as to length and width – and radiating from the thin trunk, like spokes from the nave of a wheel! Viewing it from my elevated position, this attitude appeared all the more ludicrous; though it was easy to perceive that it was not voluntary. The numerous pegs standing up from the sward, and the cords attached to them, and leading to the arms and limbs, showed that the spread-eagle position was a constrained one. That it was Sure-shot, I had no doubt. The spare locks of clay-coloured hair were playing about in the breeze; and some remnants of bottle-green still clung around his limbs. But without these, the spider-like frame was too characteristic to be mistaken. I was glad to see those yellowish tufts. They told that the wearer still lived – as was also made manifest by the fact of his being bound. A dead body would not have merited such particular treatment.

It was the third figure of this group that most strongly claimed my attention. I saw that it was not that of a warrior; though quite as tall as many upon the plain. But the contour of the form was different – as also the fashion of the garments that draped it. It was the figure of a woman! Had I not been guided in my conjectures – by a certain foreknowledge – by the allusions that had occurred in the speeches of Red-Hand – I should never have dreamt of identifying that form. Forewarned by these, the apparition was not unexpected. The woman was Su-wa-nee! She was standing erect by the prostrate form of the young hunter – her head slightly bent, and her face turned towards him. An occasional motion of her arm showed that she was speaking to him. The gesture seemed to indicate a threat! Was it possible that in that dread hour she was reviling him? I was at too great a distance, either to hear her words, or note the expression upon her face. Only by the dumb show of her gesticulations, could I tell that a scene was passing between them.

A glance around the plain enabled me to note some other changes that had recently taken place. The horses of the Indians were now picketed upon the grass, and browsing peacefully – as if the clangour of strife had never sounded in their ears. I could see my own Arab a little apart, with Wingrove’s horse and the mules – all in the charge of a horse-guard, who stood sentry near them. The waggon was still by the base of the mound. The cedars along its sides were yet unburnt! I thought that the flames had consumed them, but no. The object of their fires had been to blind us with their smoke – thus to drive us from our position, and facilitate our capture.

I was not permitted to make these observations without interruption. The savage – who had stood by me had a duty to perform; and during all this time he was busied in its performance. A singular and inexplicable operation it at first appeared to me. His initiatory act was to blacken my body from the waist upward, including my face, throat, and arms. The substance used appeared to be a paste of charcoal, which he rubbed rudely over my skin. A circle upon my breast – that traced out by the blade of the chief – was left clear; but as soon as the black ground had been laid on, a new substance was exhibited, of snow-white colour, resembling chalk or gypsum. With this – after the blood had been carefully dried off – the circular space was thickly coated over, until a white disc, about as large as a dining-plate shewed conspicuously on my breast! A red spot in the centre of this was necessary to complete the escutcheon; but the painter appeared at a loss for the colour, and paused to reflect. Only a moment did he remain at fault. He was an ingenious artist; and his ingenuity soon furnished him with an idea. Drawing his knife, and sticking the point of it some half inch deep into the fleshy part of my thigh, he obtained the required “carmine”; and, after dipping his finger in the blood, and giving it a dab in the centre of the white circle, he stood for a short time contemplating his work. A grim smile announced that he was satisfied with it; and, uttering a final grunt, the swarthy Apelles leaped down from the platform, and disappeared from my sight. A horrid suspicion had already taken possession of my soul; but I was not left long to speculate upon the purpose for which I had been thus bedaubed: the suspicion gave place to certainty.

Upon the plain directly in front of me, and at less than a hundred yards’ distance from the butte, the warriors were collecting in groups. The Red-Hand with his under-chiefs had already arrived there; and the other Indians were forsaking the fires, and hurrying up to the spot. They had left their lances apart, standing upright on the plain, with their shields, bows, and quivers leaning against them, or suspended from their shafts. The only weapons taken along with them to the common rendezvous were the muskets. With these they were now occupying themselves – apparently preparing them for use. I saw them mark out a line upon the grass, by stretching a lazo between two upright pegs. I saw them wiping, loading, and priming their pieces – in short, going through all the preliminary manoeuvres, observed by marksmen preparing for a trial of skill. Then burst on me in all its broad reality the dread horror for which I was reserved – then did I comprehend the design of that white circle with its centre of red: the savages were about to hold a shooting-match —my own bosom was to be their target!

Chapter Sixty Three
A Pitiless Pastime

Yes – to hold a shooting-match was undoubtedly the design of my captors; and equally clear was it that my breast was to be their mark. This explained my position upon the summit of the mound, as well as my attitude upon the cross. I was bound to the latter, in order that my person might be held erect, spread, and conspicuous. I could not comfort, myself with any doubt as to their intention. Every movement I saw confirmed it; and the question was finally set at rest by Red-Hand possessing himself of one of the loaded muskets, and making ready to fire. Stepping a pace or two in front of the line of his warriors, he raised the piece to his shoulder, and pointed it towards me. It is vain to attempt describing the horror I endured at that moment. Utterly unable to move, I gazed upon the glistening barrel, with its dark tube, that threatened to send forth the leaden messenger of death. I have stood before the pistol of the duellist. It is not a pleasant position to be in, under any conditions of quarrel. Still it is perfect happiness compared with that I then held. In the former case, there are certain circumstances that favour the chances of safety. You know that you are en profile to your antagonist – thus lessening the danger of being hit. Judging by yourself, you feel assured that the aim taken will be quick and unsteady, and the shot a random one. You are conscious of possessing the capability of motion – that whether you may feel inclined to give way to it or not, you still have a certain discretion of avoiding the deadly missile – that by superior skill or quickness, you may anticipate your antagonist and hinder his bullet from being sent. There are other circumstances of a moral nature to sustain you in a trial of this kind – pride, angry passion, the fear of social contempt; and, stronger than all – perhaps most frequent of all – the jealousy of rival love. From none of all these could I derive support, as I stood before the raised musket of the Arapaho. There was no advantage – either moral or physical – in my favour. I was broad front to the danger, without the slightest capacity of “dodging” it; whilst there was nothing to excite the nerves of the marksman, or render his aim unsteady. On the contrary, he was sighting me as coolly, as if about to fire at a piece of painted plank.

It may have been but a minute, that the savage occupied himself in adjusting his aim; but to me it appeared ten. In such a situation, I may have believed the seconds to be minutes: they seemed so. In reality, the time must have been considerable. The drops of sweat that had started from my brow were chasing each other over my cheeks, and trickling down upon my breast. So prolonged was the suspense, I began to fancy that the Arapaho was designedly dallying with his aim, for the purpose of sporting with my fears. He may have had such motive for procrastination. I could have believed it. Distant though he was, I could mark his fiendish smile, as he repeatedly dropped the piece from his shoulder, and then returned it to the level. That he meant more than mere menace, however, was proved in the end. Having satisfied himself with several idle feints, I saw him make demonstration, as if setting himself more determinedly to the work. This time he was certainly in earnest. His cheek lay steadily along the stock – his arms appeared more rigid – his finger was pressing on the trigger – the moment had come!

The flash from the pan – the red stream poured forth from the muzzle – the hist of the bullet, were all simultaneous. The report came afterwards; but, before it had reached my ears, I knew that I was untouched. The lead had already whizzed past, at a distance – as I could judge by the sound – of several feet from my body. I heard a scratching behind me; and the instant after, a swarthy face was thrust before my eyes. It was that of the artist, who had painted me for the part I was playing. I had been under the impression that he had gone down to the plain, but I now perceived my error. He had remained near me, concealing his body behind the rock. I saw that he was now enacting a different rôle– that of marker for the marksmen. Running his eye over my body, and perceiving that I was nowhere hit, he telegraphed the intelligence to his comrades upon the plain; and then glided back to his covert.

I was relieved from the terrible anxiety; but only for a short moment – a mere interval of about a dozen seconds’ duration. The Red-Hand, after firing, had resigned his place; but this was instantly occupied by one of his sub-chiefs, who, armed with another musket, in turn stepped up to the line. Again I saw the gleaming barrel brought to the level, with its dark tube pointed upon my body. This marksman was more expeditious; but for all that, it was to me a time of racking torture. Again did the drops bead out upon my brow, and chase one another down my cheeks. Again had I to undergo all the agony of death itself and, as before, without dying, or even losing a drop of my blood! As before, I beheld the puff of smoke, the flash, the blaze of fire projected from the muzzle: but ere the crack reached me, I heard the “thud” of the bullet, as it flattened against the granite on which I stood. This time the marker did not mount up to the platform. He had seen the splinters shivered from the rock; and without further inquiry, for the second time, telegraphed a miss.

A third candidate appeared upon the stand; and my fears returned – as acute as ever. This fellow caused me to suffer nearly a dozen deaths. Either was his gun without a flint, or his powder damp: since after snapping nearly a dozen times, the piece still refused to go off. Had it been designed to give me a new horror, the thing could not have been better planned: for each time that the savage essayed to fire, I had to undergo the agony of a fresh apprehension. The scene ended by another gun being placed in his hands, that did go off; but with no advantage to the clumsy marksman: for his bullet, like that of the Red-Hand, whistled past, far wide of the mark.

A fourth now took the ground. This was a tall, swarthy warrior, one of the tallest of the tribe; and without the insignia of a chief. The cool and deliberate manner in which he went about his work, caused me to anticipate in him a better shot; and my apprehensions were heightened to a degree of painful intensity. I felt my whole frame shiver as his gun blazed forth; and for a time I believed myself hit. The cheer of his companions upon the plain announced the belief in the success of the shot; but he upon the summit soon undeceived them – just as I became myself reassured. The bullet had struck the wood-work of my crucifix – one of the crosspieces to which my arms were attached. It was the shock of the timber that had deceived me into the belief that I had been struck.

A fifth marksman followed; and then another and another – until more than a dozen had tried their hands. The guns were now all emptied; but this caused only a temporary cessation in the cruel sport. They were soon reloaded; and new candidates stepped forward to make trial of their skill.

I had by this time discovered that they were not practising for mere sport. It was a game, and bets were laid, upon it. Apart upon the plain, the stakes were placed, consisting of saddles, robes, weapons, and the plunder of the emigrant waggon. Horses also were picketed near – surplus animals – that were betted against one another: whether in many separate wagers, or all forming a grand “pool,” I could not determine. My own scalp – I was uncertain whether I still wore it – was no doubt the chief object of the contest. It was the “cup,” to be given to him who should place his bullet in that white circle upon my breast, and nearest the red spot in the centre!

The guns being once more reloaded, the firing recommenced, I saw that only one shot was allowed to each; and this only to those who had entered a stake. The condition gave me an opportunity of experiencing my apprehensions in different degrees: since, according to the apparent adroitness or clumsiness of the marksman, my fears of being hit were greater or less. Strange to say, before a dozen shots had been fired, I no longer wished them to miss! The dread ordeal, so oft repeated, was too terrible to be borne. I was sustained by no hope of ultimate escape. I knew that the fiends would continue firing, till some one of them should finish me by a fatal shot; and I cared not how soon it should be sent. Nay, I even desired that it should come quickly. Death was preferable to the agony I was enduring.

Chapter Sixty Four
A Hundred Deaths

For a full hour was the pitiless pastime continued – during which at least fifty shots had been fired at my person. The truculent chieftain had threatened me with a hundred deaths. He was fulfilling his threat to the letter; for, notwithstanding the unskilful practice, I felt, on the eve of each discharge, a certain creeping of the flesh, and curdling of the blood, as if that moment was to be my last. If I had not yet died a hundred times, for at least so many had I felt all the sensations that should precede actual death. In truth over a hundred times: for although but fifty shots had been fired, twice as often had the old guns snapped or flashed in the pan; and each of these was preceded by its especial pang. I had not escaped altogether unscathed: I had been hit in two or three places – in my arms and limbs. Blood was running down my legs, and creeping over my feet. I could feel it warm and wet, as it trickled between my toes. In a little hollow of the rock, directly in front of me, a crimson pool was collecting. The wounds could not be severe: since I scarcely felt them. Perhaps only the crease of a bullet? A scratch would be sufficient to cause the effusion of the blood – copious though it appeared to be; and I felt certain that no bone had yet been broken – that no vital part of my body had been touched.

After about an hour had been spent by the savages in their fiendish sport, the firing became suddenly suspended. I could not tell why; and sought for an explanation by watching the movements of the marksmen. Had they exhausted their ammunition? This was the idea that came uppermost. The chiefs had turned face to face, and were again engaged in some earnest deliberation. The subject of their talk was made known by their gesticulations. They were pointing towards Sure-shot, who still lay, as I have described, flat upon his face.

Wingrove was no longer there; nor yet Su-wa-nee! Where could they have gone? I had seen both but the moment before! Had she unbound, and rescued him? Was it about them that the savages were in consultation? No; the result proved not. It was the deserter who was the object of their attention – as was soon made manifest by their movements.

Half a dozen warriors were seen separating from the group and running up to the spot where Sure-shot lay. Stooping around him, they undid his fastenings; and then, having, raised him to his feet, commenced dragging him towards the crowd of marksmen. The terrified man made no resistance. It would have been idle. There was a brawny savage on each side, grasping him by the wrist; and three or four behind pushing him forward at a run. His long hair streaming loosely, strengthened the expression of despair that was depicted upon his countenance. No doubt he deemed it his last hour. Whether could they be dragging him? Whither but to death? This was my own belief – at first; but in a few minutes I had reason to change it. For a short while, Sure-shot was encircled by the dusky forms, and I saw him not – or only the crown of his head – conspicuous by its yellow hue among the darker chevelures of the Indians. What were they doing to him? I could not guess; but they appeared to be offering him no further violence. After a time, the group scattered from around him, and the ex-rifleman was again uncovered to my view. With some surprise, I perceived that the expression of his countenance had undergone a total change. It was no longer that of terror – much less of despair. On the contrary, there was a certain air of confidence visible both in his look and manner – as if something had been said, or done to him, that had given him satisfaction! I was further surprised at perceiving that he had a gun in his hands – his own rifle – and that he was in the act of loading the piece! My surprise changed to indignation as I saw him step forward to the line, and stand facing me – evidently with the intention to fire! “Cowardly traitor! he has accepted life upon some base condition. Jeph Bigelow! Sure-shot! whom I thought true as steel! I would not have believed it.” Such was the reflection, to which my gag prevented me from giving utterance. In reality, I felt astonished at the behaviour of the old ranger. I believed him a better man; but the dread of death is a powerful test to apply to the human soul; and hard must be the conditions of life when, under such circumstances, they are refused. Sure-shot had succumbed to the temptation.

Such was my belief, as I saw him raise his piece, and stand confronting me – in an attitude that too plainly bespoke his intention. Another surprise awaited me – another stimulus to my indignation. Instead of looking ashamed of his work, and cowering under my glance, he appeared eager and determined to execute the dastardly design. There was even an expression of fierceness, ill becoming his countenance habitually meek. Under other circumstances, it would have been ludicrous enough. “Bravado,” thought I, “assumed, no doubt, to give satisfaction to his new allies?”

I had not recovered from the confusion of my surprise, when his voice fell upon my ear – uttered in a tone of anger, and accompanied with corresponding gestures. But the words that reached me explained all. On hearing them, I no longer suspected the loyalty of my old comrade. The angry expression was assumed; but the counterfeit had a design, far different from that which I had attributed to it. It was Sure-shot himself – still tricky as true.

“Capting!” cried he, speaking quickly, and raising his gun with a gesture of menace, “pay ’tention to whet I’m ’beout to say. Look savagerous at me, an’ make these yeer verming b’lieve you an’ me’s que’lling. Fo’most tell me, ef they’ve krippled ye ’beout the legs? I know ye can’t speak; but shet yeer eyes, an’ thet says ‘No.’”

I was for the moment puzzled, by the matter as well as manner of his speech, which in no way corresponded. In an instant, however, I perceived that he had some design; and I hastened to obey his hurried instructions. As to the first, I needed to make no alteration in my demeanour. Under the belief that he was disloyal, I had been regarding him with a glance sufficiently scowling. I preserved the expression – at the same time closing my eyes, as a negative answer to his query. Although I believed myself to be hit somewhere about the legs, I felt confident that I was not “crippled.”

“So fur good!” continued he, still speaking loudly and angrily. “Neow! slew yeer right elbow down a leetle, an’ gi’ me a better chance at thet eer strip o’ hide. I kinder guess as heow I kin cut the thing. It ’peers to be all o’ one piece, an’ ’ll peel off yeer body like a rope o’ rushes. Ef I cut it, theer’ll be a chance for ye. Theer’s only one o’ the verming ahint the mound. Yeer hoss air theer; make for the anymal – mount ’im, an’ put off like a streak o’ greased lightnin’! Neow!”

As he finished speaking, he stepped nearer to the line, and placed himself in an attitude to fire. I now fully comprehended his design. I saw, as he said, that the cord which bound me to the crucifix was all of one piece – a thin thong of raw-hide – lapped not very tightly around my arms, legs, and body. If cut through at any point, it could easily be detached; and, true enough, my horse must be behind the butte, for I could not see him in front. By a quick rush I might succeed in reaching him, before the Indians could intercept me? If so, then indeed might there be a chance of escaping.