CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
THE "DEATH FANDANGO."
"You think you've killed him?"
It is Don Estevan who interrogates, startled out of his slumber by thereport of the _gambusino's_ gun, which has brought him in hurried hasteto the post of guard.
"Pretty sure of it, your worship," is the rejoinder, in calm confidence.
"We all saw him staggering--he must have gone down," says another of thevidettes, confirmingly.
"If I haven't settled his hash," pursues Vicente, "then a man may get abullet through midribs, and live afterwards--a thing not likely. Or I'mmuch mistaken, mine went straight centreways into the white--that sweetthing I've such reason to remember--unluckily for him painted tooconspicuously."
"It must have been El Cascabel, if you saw that."
"He it was, or I shouldn't have been so quick on the trigger. Indeed, Iwasn't so confident about the carry of my piece. 'Twas a long shot."
"The bullet may have hit without killing him--spent, and only stunnedhim?"
"If your worship feels inclined for a bet, I'll lay big odds that erethis the Rattlesnake has kicked his last kick, or, to put it moreappropriately, wriggled his last wriggle."
The auditory gathered around the _gambusino_ would laugh at his quaintwords, but ere they give way to the inclination it is checked by otherwords quick following in exclamatory tones,
"Bet's off, your worship--too late! I'm not the man to dishonour myselfby wagering on a certainty. _Oigate_! you hear that?"
Don Estevan does hear, as the others, sounds ascending from below--humanvoices, in that melancholy cadence which tells of lamentation for thedead. They come from the direction of the camp, in a wild crooningwail, now and then a stave, as if coyotes were taking part in thelugubrious chorus. At intervals, also, there are other notes,differently intoned; loud angry ejaculations, the Apache war-cry,proclaiming vengeance only to be satisfied with blood for blood.
For nearly an hour the infernal _fracas_ is kept up, the volume of voicecontinuous, and redoubled by reverberation along the cliffs. Then it isabruptly brought to a close, succeeded by a silence mysterious andominous in itself. Can it be that in their insane anger the savageshave resolved upon the ascent, _coute-qui-coute_? The darkness, denseas ever, would favour, and might tempt them.
There is enough probability in it to make the videttes more vigilant,and their numbers are now greater. After an event of such seriousconsequence, most of the people--women and children excepted--are up andactive, moving backwards and forwards between their place of bivouac bythe spring and the ravine's head, all careful not to approach this pointtoo near. The big muskets admonish them; though as yet no shot fromone, nor from any other sort of piece, has been fired by the savages.If they mean assault, it will be by stealth, and in silence.
Hushed, and listening with all ears, the watchers hear nothing; atleast, no sound of a suspicious nature. But Indians can creep, orclimb, noiselessly as cats--the Coyoteros especially--in this respectequalling the animal from which they have their name. And they may beworming their way up for all, snake-like among the stems of the_mesquites_ and cactus plants.
"Speaking for myself," says the _gambusino_, after a time, "I haven'tmuch fear of them trying that trick. But if you think it worth while,_camarados_, to give them a hint--and perhaps it may be as well--we canspare a few of these pebbles." He points to the collected stones."Half a dozen or so will do it."
His _camarades_ comprehend his meaning; and as Don Estevan has returnedto his tent leaving him in command of the picket, they signify theirapproval of his design, all desiring it.
On the instant after, a rock pushed over the edge goes crashing down,breaking off branches, loosening other stones in its way, all in loudrumbling borne together to the level below. But they elicit noresponse, save the echo of their own noise, no shriek or cry, as if manwere caught and bruised by them.
After a time another is launched, with like result, then another andanother at measured intervals--for they must husband their ammunition--the watchers all the while without fear that man, red or white, willface such an avalanche, dangerous as any that ever swept down the slopeof Alps.
At the earliest dawn they desist as soon as they can trust to theireyes. And now, scanning the plain below, they see at the bottom of thegorge only the rocks they had rolled down, with the other _debris_.Farther out they perceive the line of dusky sentinels, just as theyexpected it to be; but no other human form, living or dead. TheCoyotero chief is dead for all that--carried to the camp of thepalefaces, inside the great tent, where he now lies face upward; thepale, crepusculous light stealing in to show that hideous device on hisbreast, symbol of death itself, no longer a disc of white, but flakedand mottled red, with a darker spot of ragged edging in the centre whereit was pierced by the _gambusino's_ bullet.
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Just as the sun begins to show above the horizon's edge, again go up thecrooning cries, but now in more measured strain. For the savages arecollected in the _corral_, a choice party of them under direction oftheir medicine man ranged about the marquee, not standing still, butcircling round and round it in a slow, saltatory step--in short, dancingthe "death-dance."
It is accompanied by chants and incantations, in the voice of themedicine chief himself, pitched louder than the rest, with a pause atintervals, to speak eulogies of the deceased, praise of his valour andvirtues, ending in a passionate appeal to his followers to avenge hisdeath. They need not the stimulus of such exhortation. In the eyes ofall vengeance is already glowing, burning, and but flashes a littleangrier as they respond in a vociferous and united yell.
They upon the _mesa_ are not witnesses to this odd ceremony, only aportion of the camp being within their view. But ere long they haveanother under their eyes--a spectacle equally exciting, and of likegrave portent to themselves.
It takes place out on the open plain by the lake's edge, upon a portionof the grass ground, all visible from the ravine's head. The arena ispurposely chosen for the palefaces to be spectators of it, that it maystrike terror to their souls, by giving them a foretaste of what is tobe their fate. For it is the "_Fandango de crancos_," _anglice_,scalp-dance.
What they on the mountain first see is some half-score of the savagesissuing forth from the _corral_ and taking their way to the appointedspot. They bear with them a long pole painted blood-red, recognisableas one of the wagon-tongues, drawn to a sharp point at its inner end.In a trice it is stuck upright in the turf, showing at its top somethingvery different from the chains late there. It is the skin of a humanhead, with the hair hanging straggled down, light-coloured hairproclaiming it that of a paleface. They could crown that pole withscores of such scalps, many having their leggings fringed with them.But for the rites of the ceremony to be performed one is deemedsufficient; and to make it more terribly impressive, the one selectedshows by the silken gloss of the hair with its luxuriance and length tohave been taken from the head of a woman! There are women looking at itnow, and young girls of different ages. For all have left the springand come forward to the viewing-point. It is a sight to inspire themwith awe enough of itself, without their being told of a certain andterrible signification attached to the fact of a _woman's_ scalp beingfixed to the head of that pole instead of a _man's_. Pedro Vicentecould make it known to them, but does not.
Ere long the ceremonial of vengeful menace commences, the Indiansapproaching the ensanguined stake and forming in wide cordon around it;all of them in full war-paint, a fresh coat of it in their garishdevices of various colours, scarlet and blood-red predominating. Butthere is one common to all, a symbol in white--the same borne by him whois sleeping his last sleep in the _corral_. They have but assumed itfor the occasion to do honour to their dead chief. And a frightful formof demonstration it is. Over two hundred men, mahogany-colouredsavages, all naked to the waist, each with a death's head and crossbonesdone in white gypsum on t
he central and prominent portion of his breast!'Twere enough to awe the heart of any one within their reach or intheir power, and many of the spectators above tremble at beholding thehorrid insignia.
The dance begins, the savages in circle tramping round and round thepole "how-howing" as they go, at first in slow step and with voicebarely audible. Soon, however, the one quickens, the other becominglouder, till the step is a violent bounding, the voice raised to highestpitch. Louder and angrier grow the shouts as they turn their eyesupward to the scalp, and still more violent their gesticulations, armsin air with weapons whirled above their heads, till at length severalrush at the reddened stake, and hack it down with their tomahawks. Thenfollows a confused struggle for the scalp, in which it is torn topieces, all who can appropriating shred or tress, but to spit upon it invindictive scorn, while still further rending it!
The demoniac dance is now over; some it has most excited come rushingtowards the ravine, as though they really meant risking an assault. Allabove draw back out of sight, only they appointed for the defencestaying by the stone artillery. But they are not called upon to hurlany more down just yet. Warned by the event of overnight, the savagesthink better of it, and before getting too close, come to a stop, andcontent themselves with wordy threats and a brandishing of weapons.
But, empty and impotent as is their menacing attitude, it makes deepimpression on those against whom it is directed. For it tells them theymay never more go down that gorge, or set foot upon the plain below, tolive an hour, if a minute, after.