Part 30 (1/2)
And where am I in this stringent att.i.tude? I am conscious that I am a captive and bound--a captive to Indians--to Arapahoes. Memory helps me to this knowledge; and furthermore, that I should be, if I have not been carried elsewhere, in the valley of the Huerfano--by the Orphan b.u.t.te.
Ha! why should I not be _upon_ the b.u.t.te--on its summit? I remember going down to the plain; and there being struck senseless to the earth.
For all that, I may have been brought up again. The savages may have borne me back to satisfy some whim? They often act in such strange fas.h.i.+on with, their vanquished victims. I must be on some eminence: since I cannot see the earth before me? In all likelihood, I am on the top of the mound. This will account for my not having a view of the ground. It will also explain the direction in which the voices are reaching me. Those who utter them are below upon the plain?
The death-song ceases: and sounds of other import are borne upward to my ears. I hear shouts that appear to be signals--words of command in the fierce guttural of the Arapaho. Other sounds seem nearer. I distinguish the voices of two men in conversation. They are Indian voices. As I listen they grow more distinct. The speakers are approaching me--the voices reach me, as if rising out of the ground beneath my feet! They draw nigher and nigher. They are close to where I stand--so close that I can feel them breathing upon my body--but still I see them not. Their heads are below the line of my vision. I feel a hand--knuckles pressing against my throat; the cold blade of a knife is laid along my cheek; its steel point glistens under my eyes. I shudder with a horrid thought. I mistake the purpose. I hear the ”wheek” that announces the cutting of a tight-drawn cord. The thong slackens, and drops off from my cheeks. My head is free: but the piece of wood between my teeth--it remains still gagging me firmly. I cannot get rid of that.
I can now look below, and around me. I perceive the correctness of my conjecture. I am on the b.u.t.te--upon its summit. I am close to the edge of the platform, and command a full view of the valley below. A painted Arapaho is standing on each side of me. One is a common warrior, with nought to distinguish him from his fellows. The other is a chief. Even without the insignia of his rank, the tall gaunt form and lupine visage are easily identified. They are those of Red-Hand the truculent chieftain of the Arapahoes.
Now for the first time do I perceive that I am naked. From the waist upward, there is not a rag upon me--arms, breast, and body all bare!
This does not surprise me. It is natural that the robbers should have stripped me--that they should at least have taken my coat, whose yellow b.u.t.tons are bright gold in the eyes of the Indian. But I am now to learn that for another, and very different, purpose have they thus bereft me of my garments. Now also do I perceive the _fas.h.i.+on_ in which I am confined. I am erect upon my feet, with arms stretched out to their full fathom. My limbs are lashed to an upright post; and, with the same thong, are my arms tied to a transverse beam. _I am bound upon a cross_!
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.
THE MYSTERIOUS CIRCLE.
In an exulting tone, the savage chief broke silence. ”_Bueno_!” cried he, as soon as he saw that my eyes were upon him--”_bueno, bueno_! The pale-face still lives! the heart of the Red-Hand is glad of it--ha, ha, ha! Give him to drink of the fire-water of Taos! Let him be strong!
Fill him with life, that death may be all the more bitter to him!”
These orders were delivered to his follower, who, in obedience to them, removed the gag; and, holding to my lips a calabash filled with Taos whiskey, poured a quant.i.ty of the liquor down my throat. The beverage produced the effect which the savage chief appeared to desire. Scarcely had I swallowed the fiery spirit when my strength and senses were restored to their full vigour--but only to make me feel more keenly the situation in which I stood--to comprehend more acutely the appalling prospect that was before me. This was the design in resuscitating me.
No other purpose had the cruel savage. Had I entertained any doubt as to the motive, his preliminary speech would have enlightened me; but it was made still clearer by that which followed.
”Dog of a pale-face!” cried he, brandis.h.i.+ng a long Spanish knife before my eyes; ”you shall see how the Red-Hand can revenge himself upon the enemies of his race. The slayer of Panthers, and the White Eagle, shall die a hundred deaths. They have mocked the forest maiden, who has followed them from afar. Her vengeance shall be satisfied; and the Red-Hand will have his joy--ha, ha, ha!”
Uttering a peal of demoniac laughter, the Indian held the point of the knife close to my forehead--as if about to drive the blade into my eyes!
It was but a feint to produce terror--a spectacle which this monster was said to enjoy.
Wingrove was still alive: the wretch Su-wa-nee must be near?
”_Carajo_!” again yelled the savage. ”What promised you the Red-Hand?
To cut the living flesh from your bones? But _no_--that would be merciful. The Arapahoes have contrived a sweeter vengeance--one that will appease the spirits of our slain warriors. We shall combine sport with the sacrifice of the pale-faced dogs--ha, ha, ha!”
After another fiendish cachinnation, far more horrible to hear than his words of menace, the monster continued:
”Dog! you refused to instruct the Arapaho in the skill of the fire-weapon; but you shall furnish them with at least one lesson before you die--ha, ha! You shall soon experience the pleasant death we have prepared for you! Ugh!”
”Haste!” he continued, addressing himself to his follower; ”prepare him for the sacrifice! Our warriors are impatient for the sport. The blood of our brothers is calling for vengeance. This in white, with a red spot in the centre--the rest of his body in black.”
These mysterious directions were accompanied by a corresponding gesture.
With the point of his knife, the savage traced a circle upon my breast--just as if he had been _scribing_ it on the bark of a tree. The scratch was light, though here and there it drew blood. At the words ”red spot in the centre,” as if to make the direction more emphatic, he punctured the spot with his knife till the blood flowed freely. Had he driven the blade to its hilt, I could not have flinched: I was fixed firmly as the post to which they had bound me. I could not speak a word--either to question his intent, or reply to his menace. The gag was still between my teeth, and I was necessarily silent. It mattered little about my remaining silent. Had my tongue been free, it would have been idle to use it. In the wolf's visage, there was no one trait of clemency: every feature bespoke the obduracy of unrelenting cruelty.
I knew that he would only have mocked any appeal I might have made. It was just as well that I had no opportunity of making it. After giving some further directions to his follower--and once more repeating his savage menace, in the same exulting tone--he pa.s.sed behind me; and I lost sight of him. But I could tell by the noise that reached me at intervals, that he had gone down from the rock, and was returning to his warriors upon the plain.
It was the first time since my face-fastenings had been cut loose, that I had a thought of looking in that direction. During all the while that the Red-Hand stood by me, I had been in constant dread of instant death--or of some equally fearful issue. The gleaming blade had never been out of my eyes for two seconds at a time; for in the gesticulations that accompanied his speeches, the steel had played an important part, and I knew not the moment, it might please the ferocious savage to put an end to my life. Now that he was gone, and I found a respite from his torturing menace, my eyes turned mechanically to the plain. I there beheld a spectacle, that under other circ.u.mstances might have filled me with horror. Not so then. The agony of my thoughts was already too keen to be further quickened. Even the gory skull of one of my comrades, who lay scalped upon the sward, scarcely added an emotion. It was a sight I had antic.i.p.ated. They could not all be alive.
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 s.h.i.+rt--seemingly still wet--forbade the supposition. He slept; but it was the sleep of death!