The Treasure of Pearls: A Romance of Adventures in California

by Gustave Aimard

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  THE BEST BAIT TO CATCH APACHES.

  The farewell to the American was still "warm," when don Jorge, spite ofhis grief, begged Mr. Gladsden to await his return, as he felt bound to"go up the country" to make sure the rebellion was over. He had spokenin such a matter-of-fact way that the Englishman shared with his wifeand sister, and don Benito's widow, much wonder at his absence beingprotracted. To have clearly known the reason, and to see him again,they would have been compelled to follow him to the very border ofSonora and Arizona.

  The _Sierra de Pajaros_, a broken side piece of the Sierra Madre, maybe said to divide on its double water shed the feeders of the YaquiRiver and the San Pedro, which courses north and west to supply theGila. It has the most picturesque and striking aspect of any mountainsin those regions, of old forests and cloud-capped peaks. Under themajestic bluffs, the ruins of ancient Spanish settlements crumble away,and the mysterious Pimas Indians prowl.

  Nothing so rests the sight and rejoices the heart of waywornadventurers, saddened and wearied by the sandy and salty plains, asthese verdant heights. Almost ignored, and perhaps not mapped down inordinary atlases, this Sierra preserves to this very day its primevalwildness; only very few "traces," formed more often by wild beasts thanwoodsmen, vaguely and widely apart appears in the brush. Very hard topenetrate, and then to move about in with certainty, none but Indiansand hunters care to have anything to do with its mazes.

  Nevertheless, not far from the Cascade of the Cave, a solitary hunterwas tranquilly making a meal. It was don Jorge. In Europe, thingsare different, for we are astonished at a soldier making a good mealbefore the battle, and a condemned criminal regaling on the eve ofexecution. Nevertheless, the care of the body is logical and conformsto natural laws. If joy or grief is allowed to cut the appetite short,the physique weakens, and the mind being counteracted upon, againdeters the body, and illness, if not death, is the consequence of thisdeplorable folly. I prefer the hunter's habit.

  Don Jorge finished his ration, and proceeded to smoke cigarettes, in alounging attitude, which recreation he certainly deserved if only toremark the tired state of three excellent horses, which were picketednear him, and which, alternately shifted on and off from whilst ingallop (a fact not remarkable among Mexicans), had borne him almostwithout check to this remote spot.

  No investigation of the desert which his eyrie commanded, had answeredhis expectations, and he was soon after his third cigarette deep in aslumber _pierna suelta_, or with legs at ease, as his countrymen say.

  There was not a breath in the air; the heat was overpowering, so thatthe birds were sleeping with heads under the wing, and the wild beastscould almost be heard panting and lolling out their tongues in theirlairs.

  Only one continuous sound disturbed the profound calm, and that was thenoise of those infinitely little beings which never, anywhere, cease toaccomplish their mysterious missions.

  Two hours thus passed, with don Jorge slumbering, his face hidden byhis handkerchief and sombrero to keep off the sun and the gnats, ofwhich myriads played catch-who-can with the sand flies.

  All of a sudden the horses, which had stopped grazing and had beenmotionless with lowered heads, as if also taking a nap, shuddered allover, and abruptly tossed their manes and pointed their ears. Withtheir fineness of hearing they were aware of some suspicious sounds.One of them, whose lariat allowed the approach, stalked up to hismaster and uttered a soft and plaintive whinny, as if demanding help.However soundly a ranger sleeps, he must be able to wake up immediatelyand with all his senses clear, and the son of don Benito did so atonce. The next moment, turning over on his breast, too wary to rise onhis feet, he had his rifle in hand, ready for action.

  Listening and staring was of no avail. There was nothing far or near tojustify the animals in their still evident fears.

  It might be a jaguar or a grizzly only that they scented, if not ahostile man, but, in any case, don Jorge took his safeguards. He hidhis horses in the brush, and, crawling to the very brink of the bluff,scrutinised the plain, his finger on the trigger, his ears well opened.

  But a quarter of an hour passed, whilst he remained as if moulded outof the clay and merely drying there.

  But unexpectedly a tiny black spot under a shining speck whichever accompanied it, flashed on the view afar out of a stragglingtimberland. Soon the watcher could be sure it was a mounted man, hisrifle gleaming, speeding towards him in the maddest haste. He had beenclearing obstacles or bursting through them without any daintiness asto his garments, for they were torn by the thorns into tatters, and nodoubt the swaying from side to side was as much weakness from loss ofblood as the mere dodging to avoid a pursuer's missiles. No one elsewas perceptible to the young Mexican; but there must have been enemiesin the woodland, running along parallel with the fugitive, for, turningwithout an anticipatory gesture, and stopping his horse with a terribletug of the Mexican bit, he fired two shots into the cover, bent low,and rode on once more.

  "'Tis a white man," observed don Jorge, knitting his brow, "a hunter!Oh, my gracious saint!" he ejaculated, at the height of amazement andpain, "It is none other than don Olivero! I thought he had taken theregular route for the Pass, whilst the Apaches, with our stock, struckoff for this trail, and they have met him! I do not need that plumedhead to recognise he is the prey of the Apaches now."

  He sprang up, regardless of being spied now, and quickly butcomprehensively studied the scene.

  Oregon Oliver's last two shots had galled the Indians into unusualdaring. Three of them, on excellent horses, which the young hacenderomight have known as his own, left the wood and sought to keep thehunter in the open, whilst gradually bearing down upon him. As theyflanked him it was not easy for him to escape falling victim to one ofthe three when they saw fit to stop and fire or even risk a snap shotin mid-career.

  The Mexican's rifle would not carry that distance. To mount and ride asfar around as the steepness of the mountain sides compelled was equallyas nugatory.

  Instantly a new idea struck him, and he was carrying it out. Drawinghis cutlass he severed the lariats of all three horses close to thepicket pin, unfastened the other ends at the hobbled hoofs, and splicedthe three into one long rope. Securing the last loop round a basaltcolumn which a whale's rush would not have shaken, he flung the loosecoils over the edge of the cliff, and, ere the end had fallen into theperpendicular, his machete between his teeth, the brave quick-wittedyouth was sliding down into the abyss.

  There were some twenty feet to drop at the last thong, but he hadremarked the crumbling sandstone to be a soft bed and he let go withouta pause.

  Meanwhile, the American swinging about like a drunken man, seemed ina despairing state. Either his ammunition was exhausted at last, orhis only hope was to reserve his final cartridge for the hand-to-handencounter, but a matter of moments.

  The emboldened Apaches, at a signal from Iron Shirt, who formed thepoint of the angle of which they were the opening ends, and of whichthe hunted white marked the closing base's centre, began closing in.

  But at the instant when they levelled their guns under their horses'necks, as they rode suspended on the off side in precaution of thedreaded breechloader, the sudden appearance of the Mexican, like aspider on its thread, sliding down the face of the bluff, only remarkedby the Apache chief, in whose direct front the feat was performed, gavethe latter a start and he uttered an outcry despite himself. The twosavages, surprised in turn, suspended their shots, and all three, aswell as Oliver, none slackening their headlong pace, however, gazed atthe man fallen from the clouds, and after striking the soft, dry groundwith a force that sent up a cloud of sand, rebounding and dashingtowards them, his bright steel waving overhead and his fresh youngvoice shouting:

  "_Amigo_! Friend, it is I who am here, praise to God!"

  "Well, I'm durned!" roared the ranger.

  But, not accustomed to let even so extreme a surprise alter any planhe had traced out, he only thought to profit by the brief but d
eepconfusion of the enemies. With a nimbleness that perfectly revealed howassumed was his air of lassitude and despair, he sat up in the saddleand fired two shots, one to the right, one to the left, by a gracefulturn of the hips which a queen of the ballet could not have surpassed,controlling his steed simply by the pressure of his knees.

  Spite of the emergency, don Jorge could not repress a cry of admiration.

  One of the Apaches, his horse's throat cut by the same bullet thatpenetrated his head beyond, fell in a heap under the side of theanimal, also thrown and floundering in the death agony. The other,perforated in the eye by the lead scattering along his own gun whichhad split the ball, emitted a horrid scream, as he was borne, stillheld by the horsehair loop which detained his foot to the crupper, andwhich is there placed to enable the rider to hang alongside the pony,back towards the thicket, where his brains would soon be knocked out bythe masterless mustang.

  Iron Shirt was dismayed. He lifted his horse in order to turn and seekthe covert. But already the unerring marksman was covering him, andhe held his horse rearing, afraid to fire his last load with two foesbefore him, and to expose himself in the riding away.

  "Spare him!" cried don Jorge, hoarsely, "Murderer of my father,murderer of my little son, I--I, alone, must have his life!"

  "Lucky you spoke," returned Oliver, firing.

  The horse of the chief, struck in the shoulder, roared with pain, sointense was the anguish whilst being tortured with the bit, wrenchedits head away and fell forward, ere rolling on one side.

  The Apache did not lose his command of sense at the disaster, for heleaped clear. But his shield, his lance, and his gun were flung fromhim, and before he could reach the latter, don Jorge had made a seriesof prodigious bounds, like a tiger, and placed his foot on it. Thebaffled Indian sprang back as rapidly and seized his spear and shield.

  But instantly, careless of ammunition, and fearful lest the lance, castas a javelin, would transfix the Mexican only armed with a sword, thehunter fired again. The spear, split in half, was left a mere stump inthe redskin's feverish, quivering grasp.

  "That's the style to draw teeth, I judge," remarked the American,throwing himself off his horse, and approaching the pair.

  His last weapon was a machete, and this Iron Shirt, protected by hisround shield, drew as he advanced on don Jorge.

  "I thank you," said the latter. "Steel to steel! This is my heart'sdesire!"

  "You are going to get a licking, chief," said Oliver, grimly, as hepulled out a corncob pipe, filled it and lit it with unshaking fingers.

  "So thar ain't no 'casion to thank me for the promise which I give notto interfere. Fair play's a jewel, and you kin wear in your ear all thejewel you'll win in this hyar tussle."

  The Apache wasted no breath in a rejoinder. His lips were parted onlyfor a smile, the set grin of a man who had no hope but to inflict allthe pain he could on an antagonist before he met his inevitable death.He had on his mind not only the recent striking down of his aids, butthe death of others in the past and on the Sonoran plains, due to theAmerican who had shown himself to the Apache caravan only, it wasnow clear, to draw off a detachment. Like the red man his hatred wasinsatiable, even that slaughter in which he had distinguished himselfseemed no way to wipe out the final collapse on the heap of slain.But for don Benito, Oliver would have been "rubbed out!" The thoughtwas intolerable, and, we see, all alone, he had devoted himself toharassing the Indians in their retreat, and lured away the chief.The scalp of so renowned a hunter would have been a more magnificenttrophy than the herd of cattle, to show in the Apache town when the oldfathers should demand their lost sons.

  Meanwhile, the two men were facing one another, broadsword in hand.

  For his age Jorge was endowed with unwonted powers, but his frame hadnot fully set, and he had an antagonist whose vigour surpassed thecommon, too. Nevertheless, the Mexican was not dismayed, and the huntertook care not to betray any apprehension he felt as to the result ofthe terrible duel. If Jorge smiled, it was because he relied on hisskill and agility. On the farm he had joined in all the wrestling andknife play of the Vaqueros, and Old Silvano had passed him as a pupilto whom there was nothing more he could teach. Therefore, the youth,gifted with lofty courage and unalterable coolness, believed himselfcapable of struggling with advantage.

  As a kind of chivalrous signal, the Indian slapped his shieldresonantly.

  They mutually advanced till their forward feet almost touched. For amoment their blades clashed and then the red man, shouting with savagejoy, delivered a terrific cut. But the air alone was severed, the agileMexican having shifted his position with great celerity. Their firstencounter was merely a test of one another's style, on which would befounded the passage of arms itself. They fell to it anew, but thistime also, don Jorge showed incredible quickness; he eluded the blows,parried them or fenced them off with all that dexterity which a Mexicanshould exhibit in the management of a weapon which is to him what the_navaja_ is to the Spanish peasant. With giddy rapidity he spun roundthe savage; and when he got a cut in, as the phraseology of such sporthas it, it was a telling one. The shield, however tough the buffalohide, could not long resist such hearty strokes; sliced off into tissuethinness, cleft, gaping wider and wider with its own tension, IronShirt suddenly cast it at the young man to bewilder him and at the sametime darted forward. But the Mexican, who uses his blanket sometimesin just the same way as a blind, is taught to keep his eyes on hisopponent's, and the ferocious gleam in the Apache's had warned him; hereceived the charge firmly; parried the cut with excellent precision,though the rush brought the two heaving breasts in contact, and as theIndian receded, lest he should be grappled, he struck in turn. Theblow, from the handle turning in the grasp a little paralysed by thelate ward, came flat on the savage's shoulder and, diverted upwards,removed his car as clean as if done by a surgeon. Iron Shirt yelledwith fury.

  "You will never more hear an infant wail, pierced by your cowardarrows!" hissed don Jorge, leaning forward. "Come again, and I willsunder the other!"

  More hideously than before this third meeting ensued. No longer somuch on the defensive and aggressive, but bent on leaving his mark,the Mexican gave two cuts for the other's each one. All of them lefta bleeding trace. One would have concluded that he meant to hack theredskin's surface into a chessboard. The slashed face of the Apache hadlost human semblance; the gashes already were swollen, and his eyeswere sealing with blood; he groaned with tantalised rage, however, morethan pain, whilst the Mexican, anticipating his victory ever since hehad made mincemeat of the buckler, redoubled his hail of steel. Now itwas the Apache chief who only stood on guard.

  "There!" cried don Jorge, taking his cutlass in both hands, andpressing forward so that their knees knocked, "That is to avenge myfather!"

  On receiving this irresistible chopping blow, which beat down hisjagged edged blade, Iron Shirt lifted up a yell of spite and despair.The steel cleft through all, top knot, frontal bone and brow, and,opening his arms, he reeled, half turning, and fell without a stiron the blood-besprinkled sands, the machete left in the wound, soinextricably had it been driven there.

  Oliver approached, and at the same time bending over the stiffeningbody and patting the panting conqueror on the shoulder, he said:

  "Ef them doggoned 'Paches was to have seen this fight they would notcross into Mexico for a year, I reckon. You've fout him squar' andfa'r, a riggler stand-up fight, and you're a credit to the father,whose wiping out don't count one for them red niggers now, nohow."

  They sat down there to rest, and Oliver related his adventure.

  "Ef I on'y had had an idee that the old man's loss preyed upon youin that sor o' way we mout ha' got up some pootier trick o' war! Butyou've sarved him A-one and you are entitled to his scalp to hang overyour fireplace."

  Rejecting this trophy, and only despoiling the Indian chief of hisweapons, and adding to the prize those of the other Apaches, whose hairthe hunter had no scruples to remove, they climbed the mountain to thehor
ses which came at the hacendero's calls. After spending some hourstogether in conversation, which they promised to renew, "who knowswhen?" as the Spaniards say--they parted, Oliver resuming his route.

  When don Jorge returned home, his revenge sated, he found the Englishgentleman, who then broke away with a great effort from the entreatiesof the rich widow and her family. He felt the need of loneliness onthe ocean to take the edge off his acute sorrow. But the memory, thusmournfully renewed, of his youthful friendship, so fatally cut short,dwells piously cherished in "the heart of heart," and there willflourish till he, too, reposes his adventurous body in the grave.

  However, as an author may anticipate as well as record, we may beallowed to suggest that there is nothing contrary to logic in thehope that, if ever dona Perla and her mother act on Mr. Gladsden'surgent invitation, often renewed by letter, for them to visit him inEngland, the Gladsden juniors will have to draw lots for the Mexicanheiress. Sure is it that they will find nowhere a happier choice, be itfor wealth, beauty, or rare goodness, than in this true "Treasure ofPearls."

  THE END.