The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico

As soon as day broke he would go to the Waco camp – he would boldly upbraid them for their treachery. But what purpose would that serve? Besides, would he find them still there? No; most likely they were moving off to some other part at the time they had planned the robbery!

Several times during the night a wild idea occurred to him. If he could not have indemnity he might obtain revenge. The Wacoes were not without enemies. Several bordering tribes were at war with them; and Carlos knew they had a powerful foe in the Panés.

“My fortune is bitter,” thought Carlos; “but revenge is sweet! What if I seek the Pané, – tell him my intention, – offer him my lance, my bow, and my true rifle? I have never met the Pané. I know him not; but I am no weak hand, and now that I have a cause for vengeance he will not despise my aid. My men will follow me – I know they will – anywhere; and, tame ‘Tagnos’ though they be, they can fight when roused to revenge. I shall seek the Pané!”

The last thought was uttered half aloud, and with emphasis that spoke determination. The cibolero was a man of quick resolves, and this resolve he had actually come to. It is not to be wondered at, His indignation at being treated in such a cruel and cowardly manner – the poor prospect before him on returning to the settlement – his natural desire to punish those who had placed him in such a predicament – as well as some hope which he still entertained of recovering at least a part of his lost property, – all influenced him to this resolve. He had determined upon it, and was just on the point of communicating his determination to his companions, when he was interrupted by the half-blood Antonio.

“Master,” said the latter, who appeared to have been for some time busied with his own thoughts, “did you notice nothing strange?”

“When, Antonio?”

“During the estampeda.”

“What was there strange?”

“Why, there appeared to be a good number, full half, of the rascals afoot.”

“True; I observed that.”

“Now, master, I have seen a cavallada stampeded by the Comanches more than once – they were always mounted.”

“What signifies that? These are Wacoes, not Comanches.”

“True, master; but I have heard that the Wacoes, like the Comanches, are true Horse-Indians, and never go afoot on any business.”

“That is indeed so,” replied the cibolero in a reflective mood. “Something strange, I confess.”

“But, master,” continued the half-blood, “did you notice nothing else strange during the stampede?”

“No,” answered Carlos; “I was so annoyed – so put out by the loss – I scarce noticed anything. What else, Antonio?”

“Why, in the midst of these yellings, did you not hear a shrill whoop now and then – a whistle?”

“Ha! did you hear that?”

“More than once – distinctly.”

“Where were my ears?” asked the cibolero of himself. “You are sure, Antonio?”

“Quite sure, master.”

Carlos remained for a moment silent, evidently engaged in busy reflection. After a pause, he broke out in a half-soliloquy: —

“It may have been – it must have been – by Heavens! it must – ”

“What, master?”

“The Pané whistle!”

“Just what I was thinking, master. The Comanches never whoop so – the Kiawa never. I have not heard that the Wacoes give such a signal. Why not Pané? Besides, their being afoot – that’s like Pané!”

A sudden revulsion had taken place in the mind of the cibolero. There was every probability that Antonio’s conjecture was correct. The “whistle” is a peculiar signal of the Pané tribes. Moreover, the fact of so many of the marauders being on foot – that was another peculiarity. Carlos knew that among the Southern Indians such a tactic is never resorted to. The Panés are Horse-Indians too, but on their marauding expeditions to the South they often go afoot, trusting to return mounted – which they almost invariably do.

“After all,” thought Carlos, “I have been wronging the Wacoes – the robbers are Panés!”

But now a new suspicion entered his mind. It was still the Wacoes that had done it. They had adopted the Pané whistle to deceive him! A party of them might easily be afoot – it was not such a distance to their camp, – besides, after the estampeda they had gone in that very direction!

No doubt, should he go there on the morrow, they would tell him that Panés were in the neighbourhood, that it was they who had stolen his mules – the mules of course he would not see, as these would be safely concealed among the hills.

“No, Antonio,” he said, after making these reflections, “our enemies are the Wacoes themselves.”

“Master,” replied Antonio, “I hope not.”

“I hope not, too, camarado. I had taken a fancy to our friends of but yesterday: I should be sorry to find them our foes – but I fear it is even so.”

With all, Carlos was not confident; and now that he reflected, another circumstance came to his mind in favour of the Wacoes. His companions had also noted it.

That circumstance was the running of the buffaloes observed during the past few days. The gangs had passed from the north, going southward; and their excited manner was almost a proof that they were pressed by a party of hunters. The Wacoes were all this time hunting to the south of the cibolero’s camp! This would seem to indicate that some other Indians were upon the north. What more likely than a band of Panés?

Again Carlos reproached himself for his too hasty suspicions of his new friends. His mind was filled with doubts. Perhaps these would be resolved by the light of the morning.

As soon as day should arrive, he had resolved to go to the Waco camp, and satisfy himself, or at all events openly make his inquiries.

The first streaks of daylight were just falling upon the prairie, when the quick keen eye of the half-blood, ranging the ground in every direction, was arrested by the appearance of something odd upon the grass. It lay near the spot where the mulada had been picketed. It was a darkish object in a recumbent position. Was it bushes or gorse? No. It could not be that. Its outlines were different. It was more like some animal lying down – perhaps a large wolf? It was near the place where they had fancied that they saw something in the darkness, and at which Carlos had fired.

Antonio, on first perceiving the object, called his master’s attention to it, and both now gazed over the box of the carreta, scanning it as well as the grey light would permit them.

As this became brighter, the object was seen more distinctly, while at each moment the curiosity of the ciboleros increased. They would have long since gone out to examine it more closely; but they were not yet free from apprehensions of a second attack from the Indians; and they prudently remained within the corral.

At length, however, they could forego an examination no longer. They had formed their suspicion of what the object was; and Carlos and Antonio climbed over the carretas, and proceeded towards it.

On arriving at the spot they were not so much surprised – for they had partially anticipated such a thing – at finding the body of a dead Indian. It was lying flat upon the grass, face downwards; and, on closer examination, a wound, from which much blood had run, was perceived in the side. There was the mark of a rifle bullet – Carlos had not fired in vain! They bent down, and turned over the body to examine it. The savage was in full war-costume – that is, naked to the waist, and painted over the breast and face so as to render him as frightful as possible: but what struck the ciboleros as most significant was the costume of his head! This was close shaven over the temples and behind the ears. A patch upon the top was clipped short, but in the centre of the crown one long lock of hair remained uncut, and this lock was intermingled with plumes, and plaited so as to hang, queue-like, down the back. The naked temples were stained with vermilion, and the cheeks and bosom daubed in a similar manner. These brilliant spots contrasted with the colourless and deathly hue of the skin, and, with the blanched lips and glazed eyeballs, gave to the corpse a hideous appearance.

Carlos, after gazing upon it for some moments, turned to his companion with a look of intelligence; and, pointing to the shaved head, and then to the moccasins upon the Indian’s feet, in a tone that expressed the satisfaction he felt at the discovery, pronounced the word, – “Pané!”

Chapter Fifteen

The dead Indian was a Pané beyond doubt. The tonsure of his hair, the cut of his moccasins, his war-paint, enabled Carlos to tell this.

The cibolero was glad that he was a Pané. He had several reasons for being so. First, it gratified him to know that his Waco friends were still true; secondly, that he had punished one of the robbers; and, lastly, the knowledge that they were Panés gave him some hope that he might yet recover, by the help of the Wacoes, some of the stolen mules.

This was not improbable. As already stated, the Wacoes and Panés were sworn foes; and as soon as the former should hear that the latter were in the neighbourhood, Carlos felt sure they would go in pursuit of them. He would share in this pursuit with his little band, and, in the event of the Panés being defeated, might get back his mulada.

His first impulse, therefore, was, to gallop to the Waco camp – apprise them of the fact that the Pané was on the war-trail, and then join them in search of the latter.

Just then both he and Antonio remembered that the Panés had themselves gone in the direction of the Waco camp! It was not two miles distant – they could hardly fail to find it, even in the night. What if they had taken the Wacoes by surprise, and had already made their attack!

It was quite probable – more than probable. The time and the hour were just in keeping. The estampeda had occurred before midnight. No doubt they were then on their way to the Waco village. They would just be in time to make their attack, at the usual hour for such forays, between midnight and morning.

Carlos feared he might be too late to give warning. His Waco friends may have already perished! Whether or no, he determined to proceed at once to their encampment.

Leaving Antonio and the peons with directions to guard and defend his own camp to the last, he rode off, armed both with rifle and bow. It was yet but grey day, but he knew the trail leading to the Waco village, and followed it without difficulty. He rode with caution, scanning the timber copses before approaching them; and running his eye along the crests of the ridges as he advanced.

This caution was not unnecessary. The Panés could not be far off – they might still be in ambush between him and the Waco camp, or halted among the hills.

The cibolero had but little fear of meeting one or two of them. He rode a horse in which he had full confidence; and he knew that no Pané could overtake him; but he might be surrounded by numbers, and intercepted before he could reach the Waco lodges. That was the reason why he advanced with so much caution.

His ears were set to listen attentively. Every sound was noted and weighed – the “gobble” of the wild turkey from the branches of the oak; the drumming of the ruffed grouse on some dry knoll; the whistling of the fallow-deer; or the tiny bark of the prairie marmot. All these were well-known sounds; and as each was uttered, the cibolero stopped and listened attentively. Under other circumstances he would not have heeded them, but he knew that these sounds could be imitated, and his ear was bent to detect any counterfeit. He could distinguish the Pané trail of the previous night. A strong band there must have been, by the numerous tracks on the grass. At the crossing of a stream Carlos could detect the prints of moccasins in the sand. There were still some of the party afoot then, though, no doubt, the stolen mulada had mounted a good many.

Carlos rode on with more caution than ever. He was half-way to the Waco village, and still the Pané trail led in that direction. Surely these could not have passed without finding it? Such skilled warriors as the Panés would not. They would see the trail of the Wacoes leading to the cibolero’s own camp – they would soon discover the lodges – perhaps they had already made their attack – perhaps —

The reflections of the cibolero were suddenly interrupted; distant sounds fell upon his ear – shouts and cries of fearful import – with that continued murmur that results from the mingling of many voices in loud and confused clamour. Now and then was heard a whoop, or a cheer, or a shrill whistle, rising above the ordinary noises, and carrying far over the plain its tones of triumph or revenge.

Carlos knew the import of those shouts and cries – they were the sounds of battle! – of terrible and deadly strife!

They came from behind the hill – the cibolero was just climbing it.

He spurred his horse, and, galloping forward to its crest, looked down into the valley. The conflict was raging before him!

He had a full view of the dreadful scene. Six hundred dusky horsemen were riding about on the plain; some dashing at each other with couched lances – some twanging their bows from a distance; and others close together in the hand-to-hand combat of the deadly tomahawk! Some were charging in groups with their long spears – some wheeling into flight, and others, dismounted, were battling on foot! Some took shelter among the timber islands, and sprang out again as they saw an opportunity of sending an arrow, or lancing a foeman in the back; and so the red contest continued.

Not a shot was heard – neither bugle nor drum sent forth their inspiring notes – no cannon rolled its thunder – no rocket blazed – no smoke spread its sulphury cloud upon the air; but without these sights and sounds there was no fear of mistaking that contest for a mimic game – a tournament of the prairies. The wild war-whoop, and the wilder whistle – the earnest onslaught – the fierce charging cheer – the cries of triumph and vengeance – the neighing steeds without riders – here and there the prostrate savage, with skinless scalp, glaring red in the sun – the spears and hatchets crimsoned with blood, – all were evidence of real and deadly strife, and Carlos did not doubt for a moment the character of the scene. Before him was an Indian fight – Waco and Pané engaged in the earnest struggle of life and death!

All this he comprehended at a glance, and, after regarding the fight for a moment, he could distinguish the warriors of both tribes from one another. The Panés, in full war-costume, were easily recognised by their tufted scalp-locks; while the Wacoes, who had, no doubt, been taken by surprise, were many of them in hunting-shirts and leggings. Some, however, were nearly as naked as their adversaries; but easily distinguished from them by their full flowing hair.

The first impulse of the cibolero was to gallop forward and mingle in the fight, – of course, taking side with the Wacoes. The sound of the conflict roused his blood, and the sight of the robbers who had so lately ruined him rendered him eager for revenge. Many of them were mounted upon the very mules they had taken from him, and Carlos was determined to have some of them back again.

He was about to put spurs to his horse, and dash forward, when a sudden change seemed to occur in the conflict that decided him to remain where he was. The Panés were giving way!

Many of them were seen wheeling out of the plain, and taking to flight.

As Carlos looked down the hill, he saw three of the Pané warriors in full run, making up to the spot where he stood. Most of the band were still fighting, or had fled in a different direction; but these, cut off from the rest, came directly up the hill at a gallop.

The cibolero had drawn his horse under the cover of some trees, and was not perceived by them until they were close to the spot.

At this moment the war-cry of the Wacoes was heard directly in their rear, and Carlos saw that two mounted warriors of that tribe were in pursuit. The fugitives looked back, and, seeing only two adversarios after them, once more wheeled round and gave fight.

At their first charge one of the pursuers was killed, and the other – whom Carlos now recognised as the Waco chief – was left alone against three assailants.

The whip-like crack of the cibolero’s rifle sounded on the air, and one of the Panés dropped out of his saddle. The other two, ignorant of whence the shot had come, continued their onset on the Waco chief, who, dashing close up, split the skull of one of there with his tomahawk. His horse, however, bore him rapidly past, and before he could wheel round, the remaining Pané – an active warrior – rushed after and thrust his long spear into the back of the chief. Its head passed clear through his body, completely impaling him; and with a death-whoop, the noble Indian fell from his horse to the ground.

But his enemy fell at the same time. The arrow of the cibolero was too late to save, though not to avenge, the Waco’s fall. It pierced the Pané just at the moment the latter had made his thrust, and he fell to the ground simultaneously with his victim, still clutching the handle of the spear!

A fearful group lay dead upon the sward; but Carlos did not stay to contemplate it. The fight still raged in another part of the field, and, putting spurs to his horse he galloped off to take part in it.

But the Panés had now lost many of their best warriors, and a general panic had seized upon them, ending in their full flight. Carlos followed along with the victorious pursuers, now and then using his rifle upon the fleeing robbers. But fearing that a stray party of them might attack his own little camp he turned from the line of pursuit, and galloped in that direction. On arriving, he found Antonio and the peons fortified within their corral, and all safe. Stray Indians had passed them, but all apparently too much frightened to have any desire for an attack upon the little party.

As soon as the cibolero had ascertained these facts, he turned his horse and rode back toward the scene of the late conflict.

Chapter Sixteen

As Carlos approached the spot where the chief had been slain he heard the death-wail chanted by a chorus of voices.

On getting still nearer, he perceived a ring of warriors dismounted and standing around a corpse. It was that of the fallen chief. Others, fresh from the pursuit, were gathering to the place; each taking up the melancholy dirge as he drew nigh.

The cibolero alighted, and walked forward to the ring. Some regarded him with looks of surprise, while others, who knew he had aided them in the fight, stepped up and grasped him by the hand. One old warrior taking Carlos’ arm in his, led him forward to the ring, and silently pointed to the now ghastly features, as though he was imparting to the cibolero the news that their chief was dead!

Neither he nor any of the warriors knew what part Carlos had borne in the affair. No one, now alive, had been witness to the conflict in which the chief had fallen. Around the spot were high copses that hid it from the rest of the field, and, at the time this conflict occurred, the fight was raging in a different direction. The warrior, therefore, thought he was imparting to Carlos a piece of news, and the latter remained silent.

But there was a mystery among the braves, and Carlos saw this by their manner. Five Indians lay dead upon the ground unscalped! That was the mystery. They were the three Panés, and the chief with the other Waco. They could not have slain each other, and all have fallen on the spot. That was not probable. The Waco and one of the Panés lay apart. The other three were close together, just as they had fallen, the chief impaled by the Pané spear, while his slayer lay behind him still grasping the weapon! The red tomahawk was clutched firmly in the hands of the chief, and the cleft skull of the second Pané showed where it had last fallen.

So far the Indians translated the tableau, but the mystery lay not there. Who had slain the slayer of their chief? That was the puzzle. Some one must have survived this deadly strife, where five warriors had died together!

If a Pané, surely he would not have gone off without that great trophy which would have rendered him famous for life, – the scalp of the Waco chief? If a Waco, where and who was he?

These questions passed from lip to lip. No one was found to answer them, but there were yet some warriors to return from the pursuit, and the inquiry was suspended, while the death-song was again chanted over the fallen chief.

At length all the braves had arrived on the spot, and stood in a circle around the body. One of the warriors stepped forward to the midst, and by a signal intimated that he wished to be heard. A breathless silence followed, and the warrior began: —

“Wacoes! our hearts are sad when they should otherwise rejoice. In the midst of victory a great calamity has fallen upon us. We have lost our father, – our brother! Our great chief – he whom we all loved – has fallen. Alas! In the very hour of triumph, when his strong right hand had hewn down his enemy on the field – in that moment has he fallen!

“The hearts of his warriors are sad, the hearts of his people will long be sad!

“Wacoes! our chief has not fallen unrevenged. His slayer lies at his feet pierced with the deadly dart, and weltering in his blood. Who of you hath done this?”

Here the speaker paused for a moment as if waiting for a reply. None was given.

“Wacoes!” he continued, “our beloved chief has fallen, and our hearts are sad. But it glads them to know that his death has been avenged. There lies his slayer, still wearing his hated scalp. What brave warrior claims the trophy? Let him stop forth and take it!”

Here there was another pause, but neither voice nor movement answered the challenge.

The cibolero was silent with the rest. He did not comprehend what was said, as the speech was in the Waco tongue, and he understood it not. He guessed that it related to the fallen chief and his enemies, but its exact purport was unknown to him.

“Brothers!” again resumed the orator, “brave men are modest and silent about their deeds. None but a brave warrior could have done this. We know that a brave warrior will avow it. Let him fear not to speak. The Wacoes will be grateful to the warrior who has avenged the death of their beloved chief.”

Still the silence was unbroken, except by the voice of the orator.

“Brother warriors!” he continued, raising his voice and speaking in an earnest tone, “I have said that the Wacoes will be grateful for this deed. I have a proposal to make. Hear me!”

All signified assent by gestures.

“It is our custom,” continued the speaker, “to elect our chief from the braves of our tribe. I propose that we elect him now and here– here! on the red field where his predecessor has fallen. I propose for our chief the warrior who has done this deed!” And the orator pointed to the fallen Pané.

“My voice for the brave who has avenged our chief!” cried one.

“And mine!” shouted another.

“And mine! and mine! and mine!” exclaimed all the warriors.

“Then solemnly be it proclaimed,” said the orator, “that he to whom belongs this trophy,” he pointed to the scalp of the Pané, “shall be chief of the Waco nation!”

“Solemnly we avow it!” cried all the warriors in the ring, each placing his hand over his heart as he spoke.

“Enough!” said the orator. “Who is chief of the Waco warriors? Let him declare himself on the spot!”

A dead silence ensued. Every eye was busy scanning the faces around the circle, every heart was beating to hail their new chief.

Carlos, unconscious of the honour that was in store for him, was standing a little to one side, observing the movements of his dusky companions with interest. He had not the slightest idea of the question that had been put. Some one near him, however, who spoke Spanish, explained to him the subject of the inquiry, and he was about to make a modest avowal, when one of the braves in the circle exclaimed —

“Why be in doubt longer? If modesty ties the tongue of the warrior, let his weapon speak. Behold! his arrow still pierces the body of our foe. Perhaps it will declare its owner, – it is a marked one!”

“True!” ejaculated the orator. “Let us question the arrow!”