The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  A grand review was ordered for the benefit of the general’s gaze. On a beautiful sunny day, all the warriors gathered their equipment and arranged themselves on the plain, fully armed. Farandoul ran between the ranks supplying a few finishing touches and adding a few ornaments, such as a white clock-face with all the numbers marked in red, and the occasional ace of hearts, spades or clubs.

  During the march-past, when the warriors charged, the women recoiled in terror; the effect was frightful!

  III.

  It was on the morning after the review that Farandoul made the acquaintance of a new set of clients. A few Apache beauties, from among those who set examples for the others, came to ask him to sketch a few graceful compositions on their epidermis.

  Fire-Eye was over the Moon; he had not hoped for such a complete success. Finally, he might be able to enter into communication with the woman he loved! Without losing a minute, he set to work: elegance in the design; flair in the color, he put every possible charm into his compositions, knowing that he was dealing with his most demanding clients.

  These attempts succeeded; charmed by the color and style of his compositions, the feminine sector of the Apache population—who had, until then, found the provisions of nature sufficient—made free with these ornaments, decreeing that it was necessary further to augment natural gifts, to the extent that tattooing became high fashion among the Apache ladies.

  How Farandoul’s heart beat!

  Every day, in front of his wigwam, there was a queue of Apache ladies; they made appointments with the artist to obtain a sitting. The latter never hurried, giving each of his designs all the necessary time and attention.

  “How is it,” he said one day, with feigned indifference, to young Morning Mist, the daughter of the Sachem with the locomotive, “that I haven’t yet seen Rising Moon?” Rising Moon was the poetic name of Red Bison’s wife, who had made such a powerful impression on our hero’s thoughts.

  “Well, I was saying just the same thing this morning!” replied Morning Mist. “It’s Red Bison who won’t let her—I’ll get her to make her mind up.”

  The young brunette departed at a run. Farandoul did not know the result of the negotiations until the next day; they had concluded with a complete success, for the first client who presented herself was Rising Moon, accompanied by her friend Morning Mist.

  Fire-Eye received the ladies with exquisite politeness; he offered them two calumets with a little fire-water, and they chatted. Rising Moon had finally obtained authorization from her husband to be ornamented with a few simple paintings in good taste.

  Leaving the ladies to take long draws on their calumets, Farandoul plunged his head into his hands in search of inspiration; it was not long in coming, for, leaping upon his brushes, he asked to begin.

  For Rising Moon, he found the most delectable allegories, the most gracious attributes, the most exciting compositions: hearts in flames or pierced with arrows, doves, cupids brandishing bows and tomahawks, and so on. By way of conclusion, he painted a white warrior at the feet of a roseate woman within a red heart, forming a charming group that a blue child half-hidden behind a bush was transpiercing with a pointed arrow; to the right of the design was a Moon half-emerging from the bosom of a cloud—evidently recalling the gracious lady’s name, while a red eye, placed in suspense on the other side, opened the way to the strangest suppositions.

  The thing was all too clear: the red eye signified Fire-Eye; the painting was an imprudent declaration that the blushing Rising Moon understood.

  The presence of Morning Mist embarrassed Farandoul, who did not dare express his love for Rising Moon except by furtively squeezing her hand.

  In the meantime, Red Bison came into the artist’s tent.

  Farandoul, thwarted, pretended to be applying a few final brush-strokes to his work. Without saying a word, Red Bison examined the work.

  “How!” he exclaimed, finally. “Fire-Eye likes hearts on fire. These hearts on fire often encounter arrows and tomahawks—that’s bad! Would Fire-Eye like to put a red warrior with his scalping-knife in his hand behind the group pierced by the blue child?”

  “No, that wouldn’t work,” Farandoul replied, coldly.

  “All right!” replied Red Bison, as he went away.

  This time, it was Rising Moon who furtively squeezed Farandoul’s hand. The poor woman had understood that Red Bison had just sworn a mortal hatred against Farandoul.

  “Bah! I’ve seen plenty of others,” murmured the young man, when he was alone.

  Red Bison was a cruel and vindictive man; he did not want to attack Farandoul straightforwardly, in order not to compromise his marital dignity by putting his wife in question, but he sought by every means possible to make trouble for our hero.

  The latter was summoned to the council hut a few days later, where all the chiefs were gathered.

  The Sachem Mountain Eagle spoke first. “Our white brother Fire-Eye,” he said, “possesses a great talent, but his beard is not yet white and the years have not cooled his head—is that not true?”

  “Mountain Eagle is a great chief; his tongue is not forked; what he says is true.”

  “Fire-Eye has painted beautiful things on the breasts of red warriors, but on those of the warriors’ squaws he paints things that are difficult to understand. Has Fire-Eye a forked brush? The white hair of old men is standing up on their heads; the chiefs ask that in future, Fire-Eye will explain the meaning of these paintings before completing them.”

  “Fire-Eye is indignant that the good faith of his brush should be suspected by his red brothers! He will refuse any explanation!”

  And with these imprudent words, Farandoul left the council hut. “Me, submit to a censor!” he cried. “Never!”

  The machinations of Red Bison had partially alienated the amity of the population from Farandoul. Our hero was soon put to a further proof. Two Indians presented themselves at his tent with their wives.

  “Fire-Eye has a forked brush,” said the first. “Would he care to explain to me what he has painted on the breast of Flying Horse’s squaw?”

  “And on Muskrat’s squaw,” cried the second. “Fire-Eye has sought to take advantage of the honest and simple minds of his Apache friends in order to deceive them. What does this mean?”

  Farandoul burst out laughing. The terrible paintings that had excited so much suspicion in the Indians were a portrait of a monkey and a windmill.

  “How!” said the Indians. “Fire-Eye is laughing! He mocks the red warriors, but the red warriors have tomahawks!”

  “So has Fire-Eye!” cried Farandoul. “Come on! Enough threats!”

  The Redskins were gesticulating on the threshold of the tent; other Apaches came running. Red Bison was among them. He had seen the quarrel from afar and came to aggravate it. “The red warriors are right,” he said, pushing through the group. “Fire-Eye is a traitor! He had better watch out that he doesn’t return to the war-pole…this time he’ll lose his scalp!”

  “Come and get me!” said Farandoul, putting his hand on his tomahawk. Red Bison had already launched his own at his head. If Farandoul had not thrown himself sideways, it would have split his skull.

  The circle widened out; the women and children ran way, for the warriors had all drawn their weapons.

  Farandoul, standing up in a threatening pose, awaited the attack.

  Chief Mountain Eagle ran forward in haste. “Is this the way Fire-Eye repays the hospitality of the tribe?” he said. “He has wounded one of our warriors!”

  “Red Bison attacked me!”

  There was a long discussion among the Apaches, after which they withdrew, darting threatening glances at their former friend. Farandoul, left alone, went back into his wigwam, well aware that he was in grave danger. He loaded his rifle, armed himself with powder and lead, put his hatchet in his belt and awaited developments. The whole tribe was astir; there were discussions and deliberations. An empty space developed around the wigwam, which a few warrior
s watched from a distance.

  What about Rising Moon? our hero asked himself, anxiously. What’s become of her?

  Night fell. Farandoul could still see the Apaches gathered near the council hut, murmuring. A slight noise behind him interrupted his reflections, Rising Moon was in the tent. She had used her knife to cut an opening in the hide wall and as standing in front of Farandoul. “Quickly!” she said. “The red warriors have decided to kill Fire-Eye. The chief is still trying to restrain them, but he cannot do it much longer. Rising Moon has secretly taken a horse to the edge of the forest; it’s necessary to flee with her.”

  “Let’s go!” said Farandoul, delighted with the turn that events had taken.

  The tent was surrounded; the Apaches were already creeping up on it. Farandoul remembered the gymnastics he had learned in the monkeys’ school; in the blink of an eye, with Rising Moon on his back, he hoisted himself up to the top of the wigwam, which was open to let out smoke, and slipped silently into the bushes just as the Indians invaded the tent.

  The night was dark. The two fugitives reached the edge of the wood without being seen. They had just got to the horse when a loud cry told them that their flight had been discovered.

  “Let’s get going!” exclaimed Farandoul. Leaping into the saddle, he set Rising Moon sideways in front of him. “We’ll have at least two hours start,” he said. “The Apaches won’t find it easy to follow our trail in the darkness.”

  In the early morning light, the fugitives encountered a swift-flowing river. As the horse could go no further, Farandoul judged it prudent to abandon the animal. With his hatchet he felled a few small trees and set about constructing a raft, tying it together with the cords forming the harness of his mount. Within an hour it was complete and in the water. Rising Moon sat at the back and Farandoul, standing at the front, began paddling to get it under way.

  The river was deep and rapid, sometimes narrowly enclosed by two steep banks and sometimes widening out in the middle of dark forests. They covered some 15 leagues in eight hours in this fashion. Rising Moon told Saturnin that the river, called the Colorado, was interrupted further on by dangerous rapids; the fugitives decided to go ashore and not to resume their journey until the following day, at dawn, in order not to risk a shipwreck in pitch darkness.

  The raft was carefully concealed in the reeds and Farandoul searched for a sheltered spot to make camp. It was not easy to find. In the end, he discovered an old hollow tree in which they would be safe. The entrance was five or six meters above the ground; Farandoul climbed into it and used his hatchet to make the refuge a little more comfortable. When that was done, he helped Rising Moon to install herself therein for the night.

  A strange situation! A tête-à-tête inside a tree! Fortunately, the prescient Rising Moon had brought a little pemmican; they made a frugal meal and, as they were extremely tired, went to sleep very quickly.

  At about midnight, Farandoul was woken up with a start by growls coming from down below, inside the tree. Ominous movements were taking place beneath them—the tree was inhabited!

  “Listen!” said Farandoul, waking his companion. “We have bears for neighbors.”

  Rising Moon, asking no questions, moved out of the cavity and sat on a branch. Farandoul, rifle in hand, came out backwards. The growling grew louder; a bear was climbing up. Farandoul, sitting astride a major branch, put his finger on the trigger. The head of a bear appeared. It was an enormous beast: a Rocky Mountain grizzly—a disagreeable animal at any time but ferocious when disturbed.

  The bear was still climbing. Its open mouth gave voice to frightful roars. With lightning rapidity, Farandoul stuck the barrel of his rifle into that mouth and fired.

  The thunderstruck bear fell backwards. Other roars sounded within the tree. Farandoul only just had time to reload his weapon and repeat the same maneuver.

  The she-bear immediately collapsed.

  Rising Moon was cold. Farandoul spent the rest of the night removing the cadavers from the tree in order to make bedclothes with the bearskins. One bear-cub remained, and Rising Moon adopted the orphan.

  This work was scarcely finished, at daybreak, when Rising Moon, still sitting astride a tree-branch, let out a cry of alarm. An Apache had just appeared 200 meters from the tree. The Indian had perceived the two fugitives and was returning at a run to alert his comrades. One of Farandoul’s bullets struck him down.

  “Run and fetch his rifle,” said the Indian woman. “Rising Moon knows how to use it.”

  Farandoul ran to strip the Apache. “And now,” he said, “the others will soon be on our heels. We have to get out of here. I’ve got an idea! Let’s put the bearskins on our backs and try to pass for grizzlies.”

  In five minutes, the two fugitives were transformed; at 15 paces the illusion was complete.

  “Bring the cub!” said Farandoul. “It’ll facilitate our disguise.”

  On seeing the two bears, the little cub seemed happy to found its parents again; its stopped growling and it darted between Rising Moon’s legs. Without interrupting this effusion of filial piety, the bears, followed by the cub, went into the rocks. Farandoul showed his companion a distant party of Indians galloping across the plain. “There’s time!” he said.

  The Indians saw them too, but being on the warpath, following an easy trail, they did not pause. The fugitives were increasing their pace when, on going around a rock, they found themselves face to face with more Apaches, whose bodily decorations Farandoul recognized.

  The Indians had leapt backwards. Farandoul, thinking that he had been recognized, did not hesitate, and felled the first with a single rifle-shot. Rising Moon did likewise for the second.

  No words can describe the astonishment of the Apaches on seeing bears shooting at them with rifles—an astonishment shared by the little bear-cub, still full of the innocence of infancy.

  The Indians, however, overcoming their bewilderment, soon saw through the stratagem and replied with a hail of bullets, which did not hit anyone. The fugitives threw themselves behind a rock in order to fight from cover.

  The Apaches’ war-cries resounding from echo to echo, the Indians from the plain came running at a gallop. Farandoul inspected the surroundings of his rock, searching for some means of salvation. He was greatly astonished to see a second bear-cub beside the first. There was a cave-opening behind them; it must be inhabited.

  Meanwhile, the Apaches were advancing cautiously.

  “Into the cave,” said Farandoul, shoving his companion urgently.

  A few hairy individuals growled but, recognizing brothers, did not manifest any hostility.

  The Apaches, not finding anybody behind the rock, ventured into the cave-entrance. That was what Farandoul was waiting for. He fired on them and gave the little bear-cub a vigorous kick on the nose. The increasingly-bewildered cub growled painfully. Then there was a fearful jostling in the cave; the bears, thinking that they were under attack, surged out.

  “Damn!” murmured Farandoul. “That’s a numerous family!”

  Indeed, six bears of colossal size were rushing at the Apaches, fighting furiously. Farandoul and his companion, going out behind them, ran to their rock and started firing continually at the fleeing Indians.

  The fight was still continuing. Farandoul, striking out at the last Apaches with his rifle-butt, completed the rout. Eighteen Apaches were dead; four or five were limping away, with a single wounded bear still in pursuit.

  The bears sat down on rocks, in a familiar graceful attitude, licking their wounds. Farandoul and his companion attempted to behave in as ursine a manner as possible, in order not to arouse suspicion, and examined their paws with their hands. From time to time, a bear released a howl of pain and look around angrily in search of some new enemy.

  To escape this new danger, Farandoul signaled to Rising Moon to imitate him, released a few growls, and got up furiously as if to go in pursuit of an enemy. One old bear followed them. For a few minutes he showed off, parading hims
elf in front of Rising Moon—who, you will remember, had put on the she-bear’s fur.

  Without speaking, the three bears headed for the Colorado, followed by the cub. Farandoul’s intention was to find the raft and resume the river journey as quickly as possible. The bear was still playing the gallant, but Farandoul only had to growl at it to make it behave itself.

  Soon they reached the river and found the raft. The bear watched their preparations uncomprehendingly, but when it saw its companions jump on to the raft it followed their example without hesitation.

  “Bah!” said Farandoul. “Let it come—it’s a friend.”

  The day went well. While Rising Moon acted as lookout, Farandoul paddled, to the great astonishment of the grizzly.

  As evening approached they neared the rapids. Farandoul had to get closer to the right bank of the river to avoid being dragged away by the current. Suddenly, he felt someone grip his arm; it was Rising Moon, who showed him 20 Indians galloping over the plain.

  “Apaches!” he murmured. “Damn!”

  The Indians stopped some 50 meters from the bank, surprised by the sight of a raft steered by bears. The real grizzly, remembering the morning’s battle, roared furiously.

  One Apache, whom the two fugitives recognized simultaneously, was talking volubly and seemed to be giving an order to open fire on the raft.

  “Red Bison!” cried Farandoul. Seizing his carbine, he fired at his enemy, but Red Bison had leapt sideways and the bullet struck a warrior to one side of him.