Out on the Pampas: or, The Young Settlers

‘That was just what I thought,’ Hubert said; and the other Englishmen admitted that they had all entertained a somewhat similar idea.

At four in the afternoon they were again in the saddle, having taken the precaution of filling their water-skins, and of watering the horses the last thing.

‘How far do you think it is across, papa?’ Hubert asked.

‘It cannot be very far, Hubert. We are so much nearer the place where the fire began, that I do not think it can have spread more than ten miles or so across.’

Mr. Hardy’s conjecture proved to be correct. An hour and a half’s riding brought them to the other side of the burnt prairie, striking a point which they felt sure was to the south of the place where the trail would have left it.

As they had done more than fifty miles since the morning, and the horses were much distressed with the effect of the dust, it was resolved to encamp at once. The horses received a little water, and were picketed out to graze. The fire was soon lit, and the ducks cut up and spitted upon the ramrods.

All were so much exhausted with the heat, the ashes, the fatigue, and the want of sleep of the previous night, that, the tea and pipes finished, and the watch posted, the rest laid down to sleep before the sun had been an hour below the horizon.

All rose at daybreak, refreshed with their quiet night’s rest, and were soon in the saddle and on their way northward.

They had nearly an hour’s ride before they came upon the trail.

There it was unmistakeably, – at first sight as broad and as much trampled as the other; but, after a careful examination of it, there was but one opinion, namely, that the number of animals who had passed was decidedly less than those who had gone south.

One of the Guachos now told Mr. Hardy that he knew that at a short distance further to the west there was a spring of water much used by the Indians, and where he had no doubt they had halted on the night of the fire. Finding that it was not more than half an hour’s ride, Mr. Hardy, after a brief consultation, determined to go over there to water the horses and breakfast, before retracing their footsteps across the burnt prairie.

In little over the time named they came to a small pool of bright water, from which a little stream issued, running nearly due north across the plain. After drinking heartily themselves, and filling the water-skins and kettle, the horses were allowed to drink; and Dash plunged in with the greatest delight, emerging his usual bright chestnut colour, whereas he had gone into the water perfectly black.

After he had come out and had shaken himself, he commenced hunting about, sniffing so violently that Hubert’s attention was attracted to him. Presently the dog ran forward a few paces and gave a sharp bark of pleasure, and Hubert running forward, gave so loud a cry that all the party rushed up.

Hubert could not speak. There, half buried in the ground, and pointing west, was an Indian arrow, and round the head was twisted a piece of white calico, with little blue spots upon it, which Mr. Hardy instantly recognised as a piece of the dress Ethel had worn when she left home.

Surprise kept all quiet for a while, and then exclamations of pleasure and excitement broke from all, while Mr. Hardy and his sons were greatly affected at this proof of the recent presence of their lost one.

The arrow was deeply sunk in the ground, but it was placed at a spot where the grass happened to be particularly short, so that any one passing outward from the spring could hardly have failed to notice the piece of calico upon the grass.

There was a perfect shower of congratulations; and it was some time before they were recovered sufficiently to renew their preparations for breakfast.

At last they sat down round the fire, all their faces radiant with excitement.

Perez and Martinez, however, sat somewhat apart, talking in an animated undertone to each other. They did not even approach the fire to roast their food; and Mr. Hardy’s attention being attracted by this circumstance, he asked what they were talking so earnestly about.

Neither of them answered him, and he repeated the question. Then Perez replied: ‘Martinez and I think same. All trick; girl gone other way.’

Conversation and eating were alike suspended at these ominous words, and each looked blankly into the others’ faces.

Now that their attention was called to it, the whole circumstances of the case rushed to their minds; and as they felt the probable truth of what Perez said, their hopes fell to zero.

Mr. Percy was the first who, after a long silence, spoke. ‘I am afraid, Hardy, that what Perez says is right, and that we have been very nearly thrown off the scent by a most transparent trick. Watched as Ethel must have been, is it probable that she could have possessed herself of that arrow, and have fastened a strip of her dress to it, without being noticed? Still more impossible is it that she could have placed the arrow where we found it. No one could have passed without noticing it; so, unless we suppose that she was allowed to linger behind every one, which is out of the question, the arrow could not have been put there by her.’

‘Too true, Percy,’ Mr. Hardy said with a sigh, after a short silence; ‘it is altogether impossible, and I should call it a clumsy artifice, were it not that it deceived us all for a while. However, there is one comfort; it decides the question as we had ourselves decided it: Ethel is gone with the larger party to the south.’

Breakfast was continued, but with a very subdued feeling. Hubert had now finished his, and, being a lad of restless habit, he took up the arrow which lay beside him, and began toying with it.

First he untied the piece of stuff, smoothed it, and put it into his pocket-book, while his eyes filled with tears; then he continued listlessly twisting the arrow in his fingers, while he listened to the conversation around him.

Presently his eyes fell upon the arrow. He started, a flush of excitement rushed across his face, and his hands and lips trembled as he closely examined the feather.

All gazed at him with astonishment.

‘Oh, papa, papa,’ he cried at last, ‘I know this arrow!’

‘Know the arrow!’ all repeated.

‘Yes, I am quite, quite sure I know it. Don’t you remember, Charley, the day that those wounded Indians started, as we were taking the quivers down to them, I noticed that one arrow had two feathers which I had never seen before, and could not guess what bird they came from. They were light blue, with a crimson tip. I pulled one off to compare it with my others. It is at home now. I remember that I chose the one I did, because the other one had two of the little side feathers gone. This is the feather, I can most solemnly declare, and you see the fellow one is gone. That arrow belongs to one of the men we recovered.’

All crowded round to examine the arrow, and then Mr. Hardy said solemnly, ‘Thank God for His mercy, He has decided our way now. Undoubtedly, as Hubert says, one of the men we aided is of the party, and wishes to show his gratitude. So he has managed to get a piece of Ethel’s dress, and has tied it to this arrow, hoping that we should recognise the feather. Thank God, there is no more doubt, and thank Him, too, that Ethel has at least one friend near her.’

All was now joy and congratulation, and Hubert rubbed his hands, and said triumphantly, ‘There, Charley, you were always chaffing me, and wanting to know what was the good of my collection, and now you see what was the good. It has put us on the right trail for Ethel, and you will never be able to laugh at me about my collection again.’

CHAPTER XVI.

AT THE STAKE

IT was on the evening of the fifth day after her capture by the Indians, that Ethel Hardy rode into a wide valley in the heart of the mountains. It was entered by a narrow gorge, through which ran a stream. Beyond this the hill receded, forming a nearly circular basin a mile in diameter, from the sides of which the rocks ascended almost perpendicularly, so that the only means of entering it was through the gorge. Clumps of trees were scattered everywhere about, and nearly in the centre stood a large Indian village, numbering about three hundred lodges, the population of which, consisting almost entirely of women and children, came out with shrill cries of welcome to meet the returning band. This was two hundred strong. Before them they drove about four hundred cattle and fifteen hundred sheep. In the midst of the band Ethel Hardy rode, apparently unwatched, and forming part of it.

The girl was very pale, and turned even more so at the wild yells of triumph which rose around her, when those who had been left behind learned how signal had been the success of their warriors, and heard that the captive in their midst was one of the family which had inflicted such terrible loss upon the tribe two years previously. Fortunately she could not understand the volleys of threats and curses which the women of the tribe heaped upon her, although she could not mistake their furious ejaculations.

Ethel had cried at first until she could cry no more, and had now nerved herself for the worst. She had heard that the Indians have neither mercy nor pity for any one who may exhibit fear of death; she knew that no entreaties or tears would move them in the slightest, but that courage and firmness would at any rate command their respect and admiration. She had therefore schooled herself to show no emotion when the time came; and now, except that she had given an involuntary shudder at the sight of the gesticulating throng, she betrayed no sign whatever of her emotion, but looked round so calmly and unflinchingly, that the violent abuse and gesticulations died away in a murmur of admiration of the pale-faced child who looked so calmly on death.

Nevertheless, as the troop drew up in front of the council hut, and alighted, the women pressed round as usual to heap abuse upon the prisoner; but one of the Indians stepped up to her, and waved them back, and saying, ‘She is the child of a great chief,’ took her by the arm, and handed her over to the care of the wife of one of the principal chiefs. The selection was a good one; for the woman, who was young, was known in the tribe as the Fawn for her gentle disposition. She at once led the captive away to her lodge, where she bade her sit down, offered her food, and spoke kindly to her in her low, soft, Indian tongue. Ethel could not understand her, but the kindly tones moved her more than the threats of the crowd outside had done, and she broke down in a torrent of tears.

The Indian woman drew the girl to her as a mother might have done, stroked her long fair hair, and soothed her with her low talk. Then she motioned to a pile of skins in the corner of the hut; and when Ethel gladly threw herself down upon them, the Indian woman covered her up as she would have done a child, and with a nod of farewell tripped off to welcome her husband and hear the news, knowing that there was no possibility of the captive making her escape.

Exhausted with fatigue and emotion, Ethel’s sobs soon ceased, and she fell into a sound sleep.

Of that terrible catastrophe at the Mercers’ she had but a confused idea. They were sitting round the table talking, when, without the slightest notice or warning, the windows and doors were burst in, and dozens of dark forms leapt into the room. She saw Mr. Mercer rush to the wall and seize his pistols, and then she saw no more. She was seized and thrown over the shoulder of an Indian before she had time to do more than leap to her feet. There was a confused whirl of sounds around her, – shrieks, threats, pistol shots, and savage yells, – then the sounds swam in her ears, and she fainted.

When she recovered consciousness, she found that she was being carried on a horse before her captor, and that the air was full of a red glare, which she supposed to arise from a burning house. On the chief, who carried her, perceiving that she had recovered her senses, he called to one of his followers, who immediately rode up, bringing a horse upon which a sidesaddle had been placed. To this Ethel was transposed, and in another minute was galloping along by the side of her captor.

Even now she could hardly persuade herself that she was not dreaming. That instantaneous scene at the Mercers’, – those confused sounds, – this wild cavalcade of dark figures who rode round her, – could not surely be real. Alas! she could not doubt it; and as the thought came across her, What would they say at home when they heard it? she burst into an agony of silent tears. Towards daybreak she was often startled to hear the words, ‘Hope, Ethel, hope!’ in Spanish distinctly spoken close to her. She turned hastily, but there rode the dark forms as usual. Still, she felt sure that she was not mistaken. Her own name she had distinctly heard; and although she could not form a conjecture who this unknown friend could be, still it was a great consolation to her to feel that she had at any rate one well-wisher among her enemies. He had told her to hope, too; and Ethel’s spirits, with the elasticity of youth, rose at the word.

Why should she not hope? she thought. They were sure to hear it at home next morning, even if no one escaped and took them the news earlier; and she was certain that within a few hours of hearing it her father and friends would be on their trail. Before the night fell, at latest, they would be assembled. Twenty-four hours’ start would be the utmost that the Indians could possibly obtain, and her friends would travel as fast or faster than they could, for they would be free from all encumbrances. How far she was to be taken she could not say, but she felt sure that in a week’s travelling her friends would make up for the day lost at starting. She knew that they might not be able to attack the Indians directly they came up, for they could not be a very strong party, whereas the Indians were several hundreds strong; but she believed that sooner or later, in some way or other, her father and brothers would come to her rescue. Ethel from that time forward did not doubt for a moment. Trusting thus firmly in her friends, she gained confidence and courage; and when the troops halted at nine in the morning, after nine hours’ riding, Ethel was able to look round with some sort of curiosity and interest.

It was here that an incident occurred, which, although she knew it not at the time, entirely altered her destination and prospects.

She was sitting upon the ground, when a man, who by his bearing appeared to be the principal chief present, passed in earnest talk with another chief. In the latter she recognised at once one of the wounded Indian prisoners.

‘Tawaina,’ she said, leaping to her feet.

He paid no attention to her call, and she repeated it in a louder tone.

The principal chief stopped; Tawaina did the same. Then he walked slowly towards the captive.

‘Save me, Tawaina,’ she said, ‘and send me back again home.’

Tawaina shook his head.

‘Not can,’ he said. ‘Tawaina friend. Help some time, – not now.’ And he turned away again.

‘Does the Raven know the White Bird,’ the chief asked him, ‘that she sings his name?’

Tawaina paused and said, —

‘Tawaina knows her. Her father is the great white brave.’

The Indian chief gave a bound of astonishment and pleasure.

‘The white brave with the shooting flames?’

Tawaina nodded.

The Raven’s meeting with Ethel had been apparently accidental, but was in reality intentional. Her actual captor was one of the chiefs, although not the principal one, of the Pampas Indians; and in the division of the spoil, preparations for which were going on, there was no doubt that she would be assigned to that tribe, without any question upon the part of the Raven’s people.

Now, however, that the Stag knew who the prisoner was, he determined to obtain her for his tribe. He therefore went direct to the chief of the Pampas Indians, and asked that the white girl might fall to his tribe.

The chief hesitated.

‘She is our only captive,’ he said. ‘The people will like to see her, and she will live in the lodge of the Fox, who carried her off.’

‘The Stag would like her for a slave to his wife. He will give fifty bullocks and two hundred sheep to the tribe, and will make the Fox’s heart glad with a present.’

The offer appeared so large for a mere puny girl, that the chief assented at once; and the Fox was content to take a gun, which proved part of the spoil, for his interest in his captive.

The Indians of the Stag’s tribe murmured to themselves at this costly bargain upon the part of their chief. However, they expressed nothing of this before him, and continued the work of counting and separating the animals in proportion to the number of each tribe present, – the tribes from the plains being considerably the more numerous.

Not until four o’clock were they again in motion, when each tribe started direct for home.

In three hours’ riding they reached the spring, and then the Stag ordered a small tent of skins to be erected for Ethel’s accommodation.

From this she came out an hour later to gaze upon the great wave of fire which, kindled at a point far away by their scouts, now swept along northward, passing at a distance of three or four miles from the spring.

It was when sitting gravely round the fire later on, that the Stag deigned to enlighten his followers as to his reasons for giving what seemed to them so great a price for a pale-faced child.

The delight of the Indians, when they found that they had the daughter of their twice victorious enemy in their hands, was unbounded. Vengeance is to the Indian even more precious than plunder; and the tribe would not have grudged a far higher price even than had been paid for the gratification of thus avenging themselves upon their enemy. The news flew from mouth to mouth, and triumphant whoops resounded throughout the camp; and Ethel inside her tent felt her blood run cold at the savage exultation which they conveyed.

She was greatly troubled by the fire, for she saw that it must efface all signs of the trail, and render the task of her friends long and difficult, and she felt greatly depressed at what she looked upon as a certain postponement of her rescue. She lay thinking over all this for a long time, until the camp had subsided into perfect quiet. Then the skins were slightly lifted near her head, and she heard a voice whisper, —

‘Me, Tawaina, – friend. Great chief come to look for girl. Two trails, – eyes blinded. Tawaina make sign, – point way. Give piece dress that great chief may believe.’

Ethel at once understood. She cautiously tore off a narrow strip from the bottom of her dress, and put it under the skin to the speaker.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Tawaina friend. Ethel, hope.’

Greatly relieved by knowing that a clue would be now given to her friends, and overpowered by fatigue, Ethel was very shortly fast asleep.

At daybreak they set off again, having thus thirty hours’ start of their pursuers. They travelled six hours, rested from eleven till three, and then travelled again until dark. Occasionally a sheep lagged behind, footsore and weary. He was instantly killed and cut up.

For four days was their rate of travelling, which amounted to upwards of fifty miles a day, continued, and they arrived, as has been said, the last evening at their village.

During all this time Ethel was treated with courtesy and respect. The best portion of the food was put aside for her, the little tent of skins was always erected at night, and no apparent watch was kept over her movements.

The next morning she was awake early, and, had it not been for the terrible situation in which she was placed, she would have been amused by the busy stir in the village, and by the little copper-coloured urchins at play, or going out with the women to collect wood or fetch water. There was nothing to prevent Ethel from going out among them, but the looks of scowling hatred which they cast at her made her draw back again into the hut, after a long anxious look around.

It was relief at least to have halted, great as her danger undoubtedly was. She felt certain now that hour by hour her father must be approaching. He might even now be within a few miles. Had it not been for the fire, she was certain that he would already have been up, but she could not tell how long he might have been before he recovered the trail.

Towards the middle of the day two or three Indians might have been seen going through the village, summoning those whose position and rank entitled them to a place at the council.

Soon they were seen approaching, and taking their seats gravely on the ground in front of the hut of the principal chief. The women, the youths, and such men as had not as yet by their feats in battle distinguished themselves sufficiently to be summoned to the council, assembled at a short distance off. The council sat in the form of a circle, the inner ring being formed of the elder and leading men of the tribe, while the warriors sat round them.

Struck by the hush which had suddenly succeeded to the noise of the village, Ethel again went to the door. She was greatly struck by the scene, and was looking wonderingly at it, when she felt a touch on her shoulder, and on looking round saw the Fawn gazing pityingly at her, and at the same time signing to her to come in.

The truth at once flashed across Ethel’s mind. The council had met to decide her fate, and she did not doubt for a moment what that decision would be. She felt that all hope was over, and, retiring into the hut, passed the time in prayer and in preparation for the fearful ordeal which was at hand.

After the council had met, there was a pause of expectation, and the Stag then rose.

‘My brothers, my heart is very glad. The Great Spirit has ceased to frown upon his children. Twice we went out, and twice returned empty-handed, while many of our lodges were empty. The guns which shoot without loading were too strong for us, and we returned sorrowful. Last year we did not go out; the hearts of our braves were heavy. This year, we said perhaps the Great Spirit will no longer be angry with his children, and we went out. This time we have not returned empty-handed. The lowing of cattle is in my ear, and I see many sheep. The white men have felt the strength of our arms; and of the young men who went out with me there is not one missing. Best of all, we have brought back a captive, the daughter of the white chief of the flying fires and the guns which load themselves. Let me hand her over to our women; they will know how to make her cry; and we will send her head to the white chief, to show that his guns cannot reach to the Indian country. Have I spoken well?’

A murmur of assent followed the chief’s speech; and supposing that no more would be said upon the matter, the Stag was about to declare the council closed, when an Indian sitting in the inner circle rose.

‘My brothers, I will tell you a story. The birds once went out to attack the nest of an eagle, but the eagle was too strong for them; and when all had gone, he went out from his nest with his children, the young eagles, and he found the raven and two other birds hurt and unable to fly, and instead of killing them, as they might have done, the eagles took them up to their nest, and nursed them and tended them until they were able to fly, and then sent them home to their other birds. So was it with Tawaina and his two friends.’ And the speaker indicated with his arm two Indians sitting at the outer edge of the circle. ‘Tawaina fell at the fence where so many of us fell, and in the morning the white men took him and gave him water, and placed him in shelter, and bandaged his wound; and the little White Bird and her sister brought him food and cool drinks every day, and looked pitifully at him. But Tawaina said to himself, The white men are only curing Tawaina, that when the time comes they may see how an Indian can die. But when he was well, they brought horses, and put a bow and arrows into our hands, and bade us go free. It is only in the battle that the great white chief is terrible. He has a great heart. The enemies he killed he did not triumph over. He laid them in a great grave. He honoured them, and planted trees with drooping leaves at their head and at their feet, and put a fence round that the foxes might not touch their bones. Shall the Indian be less generous than the white man? Even those taken in battle they spared and sent home. Shall we kill the White Bird captured in her nest? My brothers will not do so. They will send back the White Bird to the great white chief. Have I spoken well?’