Wood Rangers Part 40

Oroche, Baraja, and Pedro Diaz pressed one against the other, sometimes retiring to avoid the long lances of their enemies--sometimes advancing and striking in their turn--encouraging each other, and never pausing but to glance at their chief. As already stated, the report had vaguely spread that he knew the secret of the immense riches, and cupidity supplied to Oroche and Baraja the place of enthusiasm.

"Carramba!" cried Baraja, "a man possessing such a secret should be invulnerable."

"Immortal!" said Oroche, "or only die after--"

A blow from a hatchet on his head cut short his words. He fell to the ground, and but for the solidity of his hat, and the thickness of his hair, all had been over with him. His adversary, carried away by the violence of his own blow, placed his hand for support on the shafts of the cart which separated them. Diaz immediately seized the Indian's arm, and leaning on the nave of the wheel, dragged him towards him with such force that he fell off his horse into camp; and, almost before he touched the ground, the Mexican's sword severed his head from his body.

Useless now on their elevated position--for the _melee_ was so thick that their shots might have been as fatal to friends as foes--the sharpshooters had come down and mingled with the other combatants.

In the corner of the intrenchments where they stood, Don Estevan and Cuchillo had to sustain an attack not less furious. The first, while he defended himself, yet cast an eye over the whole of the intrenchments; but it was with the greatest difficulty that amidst the tumult he could make heard his orders and advice. More than once his double-barrelled rifle of English make--and which he loaded and discharged with wonderful rapidity--stayed the knife or axe which was menacing one of his men--a feat which was greeted each time with loud hurrahs. He was, in a word, what the adventurers had seen him from the beginning of this dangerous campaign, the chief who thought of all, and the chief who feared nothing.

Accompanied by his horse, which followed his movements with the intelligence of a spaniel, Cuchillo stood behind the chief--as much out of the way as possible--with more prudence than bravery. He seemed to be following with an anxious eye the chances of attack and defence: when all at once he tottered as though struck by a mortal wound, and fell heavily behind the carts. This incident pa.s.sed almost unperceived amidst the confusion--every one being in so much danger as to be able to think only of himself.

"There is a coward the less," said Don Estevan, coldly, while Cuchillo's horse drew near him with a terrified air.

For some minutes Cuchillo remained motionless; then, little by little, he raised his head and cast around him a glance which seemed undimmed by the approach of death. A few minutes after, he rose on his feet, like a man to whom death lends some strength at the last, and apparently, mortally hurt, his hand on his breast, as though endeavouring to retain the spark of life ready to escape, tottered backwards, and then fell again some way off. His horse followed him once more; and then, if every one had not been too much occupied, they might have seen the outlaw rolling over and over towards an open place in the intrenchments.

He then stopped again; and finally glided under the cart wheels out of the camp.

There he rose upon his legs as firm as ever, while a smile of joy played over his lips. The darkness and the tumult favoured his manoeuvre. He silently unfastened the iron chains of two carts, and opened a pa.s.sage.

He whistled and his horse glided after him; in a second he was in the saddle, almost without touching the stirrup; when after a moment's thought, he spurred on the animal, who set off like the wind, and horse and rider soon disappeared in the darkness!

On both sides of the intrenchment corpses covered the ground; half burnt-out piles of wood cast their red light upon the b.l.o.o.d.y scenes of this struggle; the shouts of enemies, the repeated discharge of firearms, and the whistling of bullets followed each other uninterruptedly. The hideous figures of the Indians looked more hideous still in the strange light.

One point in the intrenchment had given way before the incessant attacks; and here, dead or wounded, its defenders had yielded to enemies who seemed to swarm from the ground. At this point there was an instant of horrible confusion. A _pele mele_ of bodies interlaced, over which appeared the plumes of the Indian warriors. Soon, however, the line of the adventurers, broken for an instant, reformed before a group of Indians who were rus.h.i.+ng like wild beasts into the middle of the camp.

Oroche and Baraja left the point which they were still defending, and found themselves face to face with their enemies, this time with nothing to separate them. Amidst the group of Indians, whose lances and hatchets fell indiscriminately upon horses, mules and men, the chief was recognisable by his vast height, the painting of his face and his great strength.

It was the second time that he had faced the whites since the commencement of the campaign, and his name was known to them.

"Here, Diaz," cried Baraja, "here is the _Spotted Cat_!"

At the name of Diaz, which had already reached him, the Indian chief looked round for him who bore it, with eyes which seemed to dart flames, and raised his lance to strike Diaz, when a blow from Oroche's knife wounded his horse. The Indian thrown to the ground, let fall his lance.

Diaz seized it, and while the chief raised himself on one knee and endeavoured to draw his sword, the lance which he had dropped, pierced his naked breast, and came out between his shoulders. Although mortally wounded, the Indian uttered no cry, his eyes never lost their haughty menace, and his face expressed only rage.

"The Spotted Cat dies not so easily," said he, and with a vigorous hand he seized the wood of the lance still held by Diaz. A fierce struggle ensued, but at every effort of the Indian to draw Diaz towards him, and envelop him in a last deadly clasp, the murdering, lance pierced farther and farther. Soon his strength failed, and violently torn from his body the b.l.o.o.d.y weapon remained in the hands of Diaz. The Indian fell back, gave one glance of defiance, and then lay motionless upon the earth.

Their chief fallen, the others soon shared the same fate, while their companions vainly tried to force the line a second time. Victims of their temerity, the Indians, without asking for a mercy which they never showed, fell like their chief facing the enemy, and surrounded by the corpses of those who had preceded them in their journey to the land of spirits.

Of all the savages in the camp but one remained. He looked round him for a minute with eyes fierce as those of the hunted tiger; then, instead of seeking to hide his presence, he uttered anew his war-cry, but it was confounded with those from without--and profiting by a moment of confusion, during which the adventurers, attacked from without, left the breach almost clear--he caused his horse to leap over, and found himself once more among his own people.

Pedro Diaz alone saw him, and regretted his prey, but the implacable enemy of the Indians never indulged in sterile regrets. He was mounted on the war-horse presented to him by Don Augustin Pena. From his left hand hung by the sword-knot a long Toledo rapier, with the Spanish device:

Do not draw me without cause, Or sheathe me without honour.

The blade was red with blood. Diaz shaded his eyes with his right hand, and tried to pierce the distant obscurity. All at once he perceived at the end of the luminous zone projected by the fires, the man he was seeking. He was making furious evolutions on his horse, and uttering shouts of defiance. Diaz remembered the speech of the haciendado about the horse he had given him--"The Indian whom you pursue must be mounted on the wings of the wind if you do not catch him," and he resolved to make the attempt. The n.o.ble animal, excited by the spur, leaped over the intrenchments overthrown by the Indians, and the two were soon side by side. The Indian brandished his hatchet, Diaz his sword, and for some seconds there was a trial of agility, courage, and address. Each sustained his country's reputation, but the Indian's hatchet broke to pieces the sword of the Mexican. The two combatants then seized one another round the body and tried to drag each other from their horses, but like centaurs, each seemed to form a part of the animal he bestrode.

At last Diaz disengaged himself from his adversary's clasp, and backed his horse, still facing the Indian. Then, when he was a little way off, he caused his horse to rear so furiously that the animal seemed for a moment to be raised over the Indian. At the same moment Diaz lifted his right leg, and with a blow from the large heavy iron-bound stirrup, broke his adversary's skull, whom his horse carried away dead from the spot.

This last magnificent exploit seemed to end the battle; some arrows flew harmlessly around Diaz, who was welcomed back with shouts of triumph by his companions.

"Poor Benito!" cried Baraja; "may G.o.d rest his soul, I regret even his terrific histories."

"What is still more to be regretted," interrupted Oroche, "is the death of the ill.u.s.trious Cuchillo, the guide of the expedition."

"Your ideas are still confused from the blow you received on your head,"

said Diaz, as he tried the flexibility of a new sword. "But for the ill.u.s.trious Cuchillo, as you call him, we should not have lost to-night at least twenty brave comrades. Cuchillo unluckily died a day too late, and I cannot say 'G.o.d rest _his_ soul.'"

Meanwhile the Indians were deliberating. The last exploit of Diaz, the death that so many of their party had met with in the camp, and those killed by the filing, had thinned their ranks.

The Indian never persists in a hopeless struggle: a singular mixture of prudence and contempt of life characterises this singular race, and prudence counselled them to retreat; they did so precipitately as they had attacked.

But the tactics of the white men were different; they were anxious to profit by a victory the fame of which would penetrate to the furthest end of the desert, and render their future more secure. Therefore an order to pursue the fugitives given by Don Estevan was received with acclamations. Twenty cavaliers instantly rushed forward, Pedro Diaz among the foremost. Sword in one hand, and la.s.so and bridle in the other, he was soon out of sight.

Those who remained behind, though nearly all more or less wounded, occupied themselves first with reconstructing the intrenchment in case of any new attack; then, overwhelmed with fatigue, hunger, and thirst, after clearing the camp of the dead bodies which enc.u.mbered it, they lay down on the earth, still wet with blood, to seek for repose.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

AFTER THE FIGHT.

In the calm which succeeded to the noise of the combat, a single man rose slowly up, and by the light of a torch which he held, examined all the corpses lying at his feet, as if seeking to identify the livid or b.l.o.o.d.y faces of the dead. Sometimes the light fell on the strange paint of an Indian face, and the pale one of a white man, lying side by side in an eternal sleep; occasionally a deep groan proceeded from some one who was wounded, but the seeker did not appear to find what he sought.

All at once, amidst the silence, a weak voice attracted his attention, and he tried in the half-light to discover whence the sound proceeded.

The feeble movement of a hand guided him, and he approached the dying man--in whom he immediately recognised Benito.

"Ah! it is you, my poor Benito?" said he, with a look of profound pity.

"Yes," replied the old shepherd, "it is old Benito, dying in the desert where he has nearly always lived. As for me--I know not who you are; my eyes are dim. Is Baraja living?"

"I trust so; he is now pursuing the Indians, and will return in time, I hope, to bid you a last adieu."

"I doubt it," replied Benito; "I wished to teach him a verse of the hymn for the dying. I can no longer remember it now. Do you not know something?"

"Not a word."

"Ah! I must do without it," said Benito, whose accustomed stoicism did not forsake him even at that moment. Then, in a still more feeble voice, he added, "I have bequeathed to Baraja an old companion--an old friend; whoever you may be, recommend him to observe my last request, to love him as I did."

"A brother doubtless."

"Better than that; my horse."

"I shall remind him--do not fear."

"Thank you," said the old man. "As for myself, I have finished my travels. The Indians did not kill me when they took me prisoner in my youth--now they have killed me in my old age without taking me prisoner.

That--" he stopped, and then added some words in so low a tone that they did not reach the ear of the listener. He spoke no more; those were his last words, for death had abruptly ended his speech.

"He was a brave man--peace be with him!" said the speaker, who then continued his search, until at last, fatigued by its uselessness, he returned with an anxious look to his place, and after he had gone the silence of death seemed to pervade the camp.