CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.
THE NIGHT AMBUSCADE.
A short hour passes. The bright orb sinks behind us, and the quartzrock saddens into a sombre hue. The straggling rays of twilight hoverbut a moment over the chalky cliffs, and then vanish away. It is night.
Descending the hills in a long string, we arrive upon the plain. Weturn to the left, and keep round the mountain foot. The rocks guide us.
We proceed with caution, and exchange our words only in whispers. Wecrawl around and among loose boulders that have fallen from above. Weturn many spurs that shoot out into the plain. Occasionally we halt andhold council.
After a journey of ten or twelve miles, we find ourselves opposite theIndian town. We are not over a mile from it. We can see the firesburning on the plain, and hear the voices of those who move around them.
At this point the band is divided. A small party remains making itscache in a defile among the rocks. These guard the captive chief andthe antajo of mules. The rest move forward, guided by Rube, who carriesthem round the edge of the forest, here and there dropping a picket ofseveral men as he proceeds.
These parties conceal themselves at their respective stations, remainsilent, and wait for the signal from the bugle, which is to be given atthe hour of daybreak.
The night passes slowly and silently. The fires one by one go out,until the plain is wrapt in the gloom of a moonless midnight. Darkclouds travel over the sky, portending rain: a rare phenomenon in theseregions. The swan utters its wild note, the gruya whoops over thestream, and the wolf howls upon the skirts of the sleeping village. Thevoice of the bull-bat wails through the air. You hear the "flap, flap"of his long wings as he dashes down among the cocuyos. You hear thehoof-stroke on the hard plain, the "crop" of the browsing steed, and thetinkling of the bit-ring, for the horses eat bridled.
At intervals, a drowsy hunter mutters through his sleep, battling indreams with some terrible foe. Thus goes the night. These are itsvoices.
They cease as daybreak approaches. The wolf howls no longer; the swanand the blue crane are silent; the night-hawk has filled his ravenousmaw, and perches on the mountain pine; the fire-flies disappear, chasedby the colder hours; and the horses, having eaten what grew within theirreach, stand in lounging attitudes, asleep.
A grey light begins to steal into the valley. It flickers along thewhite cliffs of the quartz mountain. It brings with it a raw, cold airthat awakens the hunters.
One by one they arouse themselves. They shiver as they stand up, andcarry their blankets wrapped about their shoulders. They feel weary,and look pale and haggard. The grey dawn lends a ghastly hue to theirdusty beards and unwashed faces.
After a short while they coil up their trail-ropes and fasten them tothe rings. They look to their flints and priming, and tighten thebuckles of their belts. They draw forth from their haversacks pieces ofdry tasajo, eating it raw. They stand by their horses, ready to mount.It is not yet time.
The light is gathering into the valley. The blue mist that hung overthe river during the night is rising upward. We can see the town. Wecan trace the odd outlines of the houses. What strange structures theyare!
Some of them are higher than others: one, two, four stories in height.They are each in form like a pyramid without its apex. Each upper storyis smaller than that below it, the roofs of the lower ones serving asterraces for those above. They are of a whitish yellow, the colour ofthe clay out of which they are built. They are without windows, butdoors lead into each story from the outside; and ladders stretch fromterrace to terrace, leaning against the walls. On the tops of somethere are poles carrying bannerets. These are the residences of theprincipal war-chiefs and great warriors of the nation.
We can see the temple distinctly. It is like the houses in shape, buthigher and of larger dimensions. There is a tall shaft rising out ofits roof, and a banner with a strange device floating at its peak.
Near the houses we see corrals filled with mules and mustangs, thelive-stock of the village.
The light grows stronger. Forms appear upon the roofs and move alongthe terraces. They are human forms enveloped in hanging garments,robe-like and striped. We recognise the Navajo blanket, with itsalternate bands of black and white.
With the glass we can see these forms more distinctly; we can tell theirsex.
Their hair hangs loosely upon their shoulders, and far down their backs.Most of them are females, girls and women. There are many children,too. There are men, white-haired and old. A few other men appear, butthey are not warriors. The warriors are absent.
They come down the ladders, descending from terrace to terrace. They goout upon the plain, and rekindle the fires. Some carry earthen vessels,ollas, upon their heads, and pass down to the river. They go in forwater. These are nearly naked. We can see their brown bodies anduncovered breasts. They are slaves.
See! the old men are climbing to the top of the temple. They arefollowed by women and children, some in white, others in bright-colouredcostumes. These are girls and young lads, the children of the chiefs.
Over a hundred have climbed up. They have reached the highest root.There is an altar near the staff. A smoke rolls up--a blaze: they havekindled a fire upon the altar.
Listen! the chant of voices, and the beat of an Indian drum!
The sounds cease, and they all stand motionless and apparently silent,facing to the east.
"What does it mean?"
"They are waiting for the sun to appear. These people worship him."
The hunters, interested and curious, strain their eyes, watching theceremony.
The topmost pinnacle of the quartz mountain is on fire. It is the firstflash of the sun!
The peak is yellowing downward. Other points catch the brilliant beams.They have struck the faces of the devotees. See! there are whitefaces! One--two--many white faces, both of women and girls.
"Oh, God! grant that it may be!" cries Seguin, hurriedly putting up theglass, and raising the bugle to his lips.
A few wild notes peal over the valley. The horsemen hear the signal.They debouche from the woods and the defiles of the mountains. Theygallop over the plain, deploying as they go.
In a few minutes we have formed the arc of a circle, concave to thetown. Our horses' heads are turned inwards, and we ride forward,closing upon the walls.
We have left the atajo in the defile; the captive chief, too, guarded bya few of the men. The notes of the bugle have summoned the attention ofthe inhabitants. They stand for a while in amazement, and withoutmotion. They behold the deploying of the line. They see the horsemenride inward.
Could it be a mock surprise of some friendly tribe? No. That strangevoice, the bugle, is new to Indian ears; yet some of them have heard itbefore. They know it to be the war-trumpet of the pale-faces!
For awhile their consternation hinders them from action. They standlooking on until we are near. Then they behold pale-faces, strangearmour, and horses singularly caparisoned. It is the white enemy!
They run from point to point, from street to street. Those who carrywater dash down their ollas, and rush screaming to the houses. Theyclimb to the roofs, drawing the ladders after them. Shouts areexchanged, and exclamations uttered in the voices of men, women, andchildren. Terror is on every face; terror displays itself in everymovement.
Meanwhile our line has approached, until we are within two hundred yardsof the walls. We halt for a moment. Twenty men are left as an outerguard. The rest of us, thrown into a body, ride forward, following ourleader.