Gustave Aimard
The Indian Chief: The Story of a Revolution

But this calm concealed the tempest. In the shadow palpitated the anxious hearts of the men who, with ear on the watch, and finger on the trigger, awaited motionless the arrival of their enemies. The hours, however, passed away slowly one after the other, and nothing justified the apprehensions expressed by Valentine as to a speedy attack.

The count was walking up and down the church which served as his retreat, listening anxiously to the slightest sounds that interrupted the silence at intervals. At times he turned an angry and impatient look upon the desert country, but nothing stirred – the same calm continued ever to oppress nature. Wearied by this long and enervating delay, he quitted the church, and proceeded toward the intrenchments. The adventurers were at their posts, stretched on the ground, each man with his hand on the trigger.

"Have you seen or heard nothing yet?" the count asked, though he knew beforehand the answer he would receive, and rather for the purpose of deceiving his impatience than with any other object.

"Nothing," Don Cornelio answered coldly, who happened to be close to him.

"Ah! it is you," the count said. "And Colonel Florés, what have you done with him?"

"I followed your instructions, commandant. He is asleep."

"You are sure of it?"

The Spaniard smiled.

"I guarantee that he will sleep at least till sunrise," he said. "I managed matters well."

"Very good; in that case we have nothing to fear from him."

"Nothing at all."

"Has anyone seen Don Valentine or the Indian chief?"

"No; they both went out at sunset, and have not reappeared since."

While speaking thus the two men were looking out, and their eyes attentively examined the plain: hence they made a gesture of surprise, almost of alarm, on suddenly perceiving a man who seemed to emerge from the ground, and rose between them like a phantom.

"Válgame Dios!" the superstitious Spaniard said as he crossed himself, "what is this?"

The count quickly drew a revolver from his girdle.

"Do not fire," the newcomer said as he laid his hand on the count's arm.

"Curumilla!" the count exclaimed in surprise.

"Silence!" the Araucano commanded.

"Where is Valentine?"

"He sent me."

"Then the redskins will not attack us this night?"

Curumilla regarded the count with amazement.

"Does not my brother see them?" he said.

"Where?" the count asked in astonishment.

"There!" Curumilla answered, stretching out his arm in the direction of the plain.

Don Louis and Don Cornelio looked out for several instants with the most sustained attention; but, in spite of all their efforts, they perceived nothing. The plain was still just as naked, lighted up by the ruddy glare from the braseros: here and there alone lay the trunks of the trees felled during the day to leave an open prospect.

"No," they said at length, "we see nothing."

"The eyes of the white men are closed at night," the chief muttered sententiously.

"But where are they?" the count asked impatiently. "Why did you not warn us?"

"My brother Koutonepi sends me for that purpose."

The name of Koutonepi – that is to say, the Valiant – had been given to Valentine by the Araucanos on his arrival in America, and Curumilla never called him otherwise.

"Then make haste to teach us, chief, that we may foil the accursed stratagem which these demons have doubtlessly invented."

"Let my brother warn his brothers to be ready to fight."

The word ran immediately along the line from one to the other. Curumilla then tranquilly shouldered his rifle, and aimed at a trunk of a tree rather nearer the intrenchments than the rest.

Never did a shot produce such an effect. A horrible yell rose from the plain, and a swarm of redskins, rising, as if moved by a spring, from behind the stems of trees that sheltered them, rushed toward the intrenchments, bounding like coyotes, uttering fearful yells, and brandishing their weapons furiously.

But the Frenchmen were prepared for this attack: they received the Indians at the bayonet point without recoiling an inch, and answering their ferocious yells with the unanimous shout of "VIVE LA FRANCE!"

From this moment war was, de facto, declared. The French had smelled powder, and the Mexicans were about to learn, at their own expense, what rude enemies they had so madly brought on themselves.

Still the redskins, led and animated by their chief, fought with extraordinary obstinacy. The majority of the Frenchmen who composed the company were ignorant of the way of fighting with the Indians, and it was the first time they had come into collision with them. While valiantly resisting them, and inflicting on them terrible losses, they could not refrain from admiring the audacious temerity of these men, who, half naked and wielding wretched weapons, yet rushed upon them with invincible courage, and only fell back when dead.

Suddenly a second band, more numerous than the first, and composed entirely of horsemen, burst on to the battlefield, and sustained the efforts of the assailants. The latter, feeling themselves supported, redoubled their yells and efforts. The medley became terrible: the combatants fought hand to hand, lacerating each other like wild beasts.

The French bugles and drums sounded the charge heartily.

"A sortie – a sortie!" the adventurers shouted, ashamed at being thus held in check by enemies apparently so insignificant.

"Kill, kill!"

The Indians responded with their war cry.

An Indian chief, mounted on a magnificent black horse, and with his body naked to the waist, curveted in the front rank of his men, dropping with his club every man that came within reach of his arm. Twice he had made his steed leap at the barricades, and twice he scaled them, though unable to clear them completely. This chief was Mixcoatzin. His black eye flashed with a sombre fire; his arm seemed indefatigable; and everyone withdrew from this terrible enemy, who was apparently invincible.

The sachem redoubled his boldness, incessantly urging on his men, and insulting the whites by his shouts and ironical gestures.

Suddenly a third troop appeared on the battlefield, which, owing to the braziers, was as light as day. But this troop, composed, like the second, of horsemen, instead of joining the Indians, formed a semicircle, and charged them furiously, shouting, —

"A muerte—a muerte!"

Valentine's powerful voice at this moment rose above the tumult of battle, and even reached those he wished to warn.

"Now is the time!" he shouted.

The count heard him. Turning then to fifty of the adventurers who bad remained inactive since the beginning of the action, chafing and trailing their arms, —

"It is our turn, comrades!" he shouted as he drew his long sword. Then, opening the wicket, he bounded boldly into the mêlée, followed by his party, who rushed after him with shouts of joy. The Indians were caught between two fires – a thing which rarely happens – and compelled to fight in the open. Still they were not discouraged, for Indian bravery surpasses all belief. Finding themselves surrounded, they resolved to die bravely sooner than surrender; and though not nearly so well armed as their enemies, they received their attack with unlessened resolution.

But the Indians, on this occasion, had not to do with Mexicans, and soon discovered the difference. The charge of the Frenchmen was irresistible: they passed like a tornado through the redskins, who, in spite of their resolution, were compelled to give ground. But flight was impossible. Recalled by the voices of their chiefs, who, while themselves fighting bravely, did not cease to urge them to redouble their efforts, they returned to the combat. The struggle then assumed the gigantic proportions of a horrible carnage. It was no longer a battle, but a butchery, in which each sought to kill, caring little about falling himself, so long as he dragged down his foeman with him.

Valentine, the greater part of whose life had been spent in the desert, and who had frequently encountered the Indians, had never before seen them display so great animosity, and, above all, such obstinacy; for usually, when they suffer a check, far from obstinately continuing a fight without any possible advantageous result for themselves, they retire immediately, and seek safety in a hurried flight; but this time their mode of fighting was completely changed, and it seemed that the more they recognised the impossibility of victory, the more anxious they felt to resist.

The count, ever in front of his comrades, whom he encouraged by his gestures and voice, tried to approach Mixcoatzin, who, still curveting on his black horse, performed prodigies of valour, which electrified his men, and threatened, if not to change the face of the combat, at any rate to prolong it. But each time that chance brought him in front of the chief, and he prepared to rush upon him, a crowd of combatants, driven back by the changing incidents of the fight, came between them, and neutralised his efforts.

For his part, the sachem also strove to approach the count, with whom he burned to measure himself, persuaded that, if he succeeded in killing the chief of the palefaces, the latter would be struck with terror, and abandon the battlefield.

At length, as if by mutual agreement, the white men and Indians fell back a few paces, doubtlessly to prepare for a final contest; and it was then that, for the first time since the combat, the count and the sachem found themselves face to face. The two men exchanged a flashing glance, and rushed upon each other furiously. Neither of the chiefs had firearms: the sachem brandished his terrible club, and the count waved his long sword, which was reddened to the hilt.

"At last!" the count shouted, as he raised his weapon over his head.

"Begging dog of the palefaces," the Indian said with a grin, "you bring me, then, your scalp, that I may attach it to the entrance of my cabin!"

They were only two paces from each other, each awaiting the favourable moment to rush on his enemy. On seeing their chiefs ready to engage, the two parties rushed forward impetuously, in order to separate them and recommence the combat; bat Don Louis, with a gesture of supreme command, ordered his companions not to interfere. The adventurers remained motionless. On his side, Mixcoatzin, seeing the noble and gallant courtesy of the count, commanded his comrades to keep back. The redskins obeyed, and the question was left to be decided between Don Louis and the sachem.

CHAPTER VI
REPRISALS

The two enemies hesitated for a moment; but suddenly the sachem bounded forward. The count remained motionless; but at the moment the Indian reached him, with a movement rapid as thought, he seized the nostrils of the chief's horse with the left hand, so that it reared with a shriek of pain, and thrust his sword into the Indian's throat: the latter's lifted arm fell down, his eyes opened widely, a jet of blood poured from the gaping wound, and he rolled on the ground, uttering a yell of agony, and writhing like a serpent. The count placed his foot on the chief's chest, and nailed him to the ground. Then he shouted to his comrades in a powerful voice, —

"Forward – forward!"

The adventurers responded by a shout of triumph, and rushed once more on the redskins. But the latter no longer awaited their attack. Terrified by the death of Mixcoatzin, one of their most revered sachems, a panic seized upon them, and they fled in every direction. Then began a real manhunt, with all its hideous and atrocious interludes. As we have said, the Indians were surrounded: flight had become impossible. The adventurers, exasperated by the long contest they had been obliged to sustain, pitilessly massacred their conquered enemies, who would have implored mercy in vain. The distracted Indians ran hither and thither, sabred as they passed, transfixed by bayonets, and trampled underfoot by the horses, which, as cruel as their masters, and intoxicated by the sharp odour of blood, stamped on them frenziedly. The corpses were piled up in the centre of the fatal circle which incessantly closed in around them.

Their courage and strength all exhausted, the wretched redskins had thrown away their arms, and, with their hands crossed on their chests, they gave up any further struggle for life, and awaited death with that gloomy calmness of despair and stoicism which characterises their race.

The count had wished for a long time to arrest this horrible carnage; but, in the intoxication of victory, his orders were not so much disobeyed as unheard. Still the Frenchmen stopped, struck with admiration at the sight of the stoical resignation displayed by their brave enemies, who disdained to ask mercy, and prepared to die worthily, without any weakness or bravado. The Frenchmen hesitated, looked at one another, and then raised their bayonets. The count profited by this truce, and rushed before his men, brandishing in the air his sword, reddened to the hilt.

"Enough, comrades," he shouted, "enough! We are soldiers, not hangmen or butchers. Leave to the Mexicans all cowardly acts, and remain what you have ever been – brave and clement men. Mercy for these poor wretches!"

"Mercy – mercy!" the Frenchmen shouted as they brandished their weapons above their heads.

At this moment the sun rose gloriously in a flood of vapour. It was a scene at once imposing and full of sublime horror which the battlefield offered – still smoking with the last explosions of the firearms, covered with corpses, and in the midst of which thirty disarmed men appeared to bid defiance to a circle of men stained with blood and powder, and whose features were contracted by passion.

The count then returned his sword to its scabbard, and walked slowly toward the Indians, who watched his approach restlessly; for they understood nothing of what had just occurred. The Indians are implacable, and clemency is unknown to them. In the prairies the only law is va victis. The redskins, being pitiless, never implore the mercy of their foes, and endure unmurmuring the harsh law which it may please their conquerors to mete out to them.

The adventurers had piled their arms, and had already forgotten all their rancour: they were laughing and talking gaily together. Valentine and Curumilla had rejoined the count.

"What is your intention?" the hunter asked.

"Have you not guessed it?" Louis replied. "I pardon them."

"All?"

"Of course," he said with surprise.

"Then you will restore them to liberty?"

"Yes."

"Hum!" the hunter said.

"Do you see anything to prevent it?"

"Possibly."

"Explain yourself."

"I see no harm in your forgiving the Indians, for that may produce a good effect among the tribes, especially as the redskins have an excellent memory, and will long remember the severe lesson they received this night."

"Well?"

"But," the hunter went on, "all those men are not Indians."

"What do you mean?"

"That there are disguised Mexicans among them."

"You are certain of that?"

"Yes, the more so because I was warned by the man who commands the horsemen that proved such useful auxiliaries to you."

"But are not those horsemen Apaches?"

"You are mistaken, my dear friend: they are white men, and what is more, cívicos; that is to say, men paid and enrolled by the hacenderos to chase the Indians. You see how honourably they carry out their duties; but that must not astonish you, for you are sufficiently well acquainted with the manners of this country to find that perfectly natural, I have no doubt."

Louis stopped thoughtfully.

"What you tell me confounds me," he muttered.

"Why so?" the hunter replied carelessly. "It is, on the contrary, most simple. But we have not to trouble ourselves about the horsemen at present – they are beside the question."

"Certainly. Indeed, I owe them my thanks."

"They will save you the trouble, and I too. Let us only deal with the men down there."

"Then you are sure there are white men among them?"

"Quite sure."

"But how to recognise them?"

"Curumilla will undertake that."

"What you tell me is strange. For what purpose are these men leagued with our enemies?"

"We shall soon know that."

They then went on, and stood by the group. Valentine made a sign to Curumilla: the chief then approached the Indians, and began examining them attentively in turn, the count and Valentine watching him with considerable interest. The Araucano was as cold and gloomy as usual – not a muscle of his face quivered. On seeing him examine them thus, the Indians could not refrain from shuddering: they trembled at the sight of this dumb and unarmed man, whose piercing glance seemed to try and read their hearts; Curumilla laid his finger on an Indian's chest.

"One!" he said, and passed on.

"Come out!" Valentine said to the redskin.

The latter stood apart.

Curumilla pointed out in this way nine in succession, and then rejoined his comrades.

"Is that all?" Valentine asked.

"Yes," he answered.

"Disarm those men, and bind them firmly," the count commanded.

His orders being obeyed, Don Louis then walked up to the Apaches.

"My brothers may take their arms and mount their horses again," he said. "They are valiant warriors. The palefaces have appreciated their courage, and esteem them. My brothers will return to their villages, and tell the old men and sages of their nation that the palefaces who have conquered them are not cruel men, like the ferocious Yoris, and that they desire to bury the hatchet so deeply between themselves and the Apaches, that it may never be found again for ten thousand years."

An Indian advanced from the group, and saluted majestically.

"Strong Heart is a terrible warrior: he is a jaguar during the combat, but he becomes an antelope after the victory. The words his breast breathes are inspired in him by the Great Spirit – the Wacondah loves him. My nation was deceived by the Yoris. Strong Heart is generous – he has pardoned. Henceforth there will be friendship between the Apaches and the warriors of Strong Heart."

The redskins, according to their custom, had, with that poesy which distinguishes them, given Don Louis the name of Strong Heart.

After this address on the part of the Indian, who was a celebrated chief, and known as the White Buffalo, there was an interchange of good offices between the adventurers and Apaches. Their horses and arms were returned to them, and the ranks were opened to let them pass. When they had disappeared in the forest, El Buitre ordered his men to wheel, and retired in his turn. Don Louis for a moment had the idea of recalling this auxiliary, who had been so useful to him during the action; but Valentine opposed it.

"Let those men go, brother," he said to him. "You must not have any public relations with them."

Don Louis did not insist.

"Now," Valentine went on, "let us finish what we have so well begun."

"That is right," the count answered.

The order was at once given to bury the dead and attend to the wounded. The Frenchmen had suffered a serious loss: they had ten men killed and twenty odd wounded. It is true that the majority of these wounds were not mortal; still the victory cost dearly: it was a warning for the future.

Two hours later the company, assembled by the bugle call, ranged themselves silently in the mission square, in the centre of which Don Louis, Valentine, and three officers were gravely seated at a table, on which lay sundry papers. Don Cornelio was writing at a smaller table. The count had summoned his comrades, and appointed a court martial, of which he was president, in order to try the prisoners captured during the fight. Don Louis rose amidst a solemn silence.

"Bring forward the prisoners," he said.

The men previously pointed out by Curumilla appeared, led by a detachment of adventurers, and were freed from their bonds. Although they still wore the costume of Apache warriors, they had been compelled to wash themselves, and remove the paint that disguised them. These men appeared not so much to repent of their detected roguery, but merely ashamed of being made a public spectacle.

"Bring in the last prisoner," Don Louis commanded.

At this order the adventurers looked round in surprise, not understanding what the count meant, for the nine Mexicans were all present. But at the expiration of a moment their surprise was changed into anger, and a dull murmur ran along their ranks like an electric current.

Colonel Florés had made his appearance. He was unarmed, and his head bare; but his face, stamped with boldness and defiance, had a gloomily malicious expression, which gave him a most unpleasant appearance. Curumilla accompanied him. The count made a sign, and silence was re-established.

"What is the meaning of this?" the colonel asked in a haughty tone.

Don Louis did not allow him to continue.

"Silence!" he said in a firm voice, turning a flashing glance upon him.

Subdued, in spite of himself, by the count's accent, the colonel blushed and remained silent. Don Louis continued: —

"Brothers and comrades," he said, "unfortunately for us, circumstances have placed us in an exceptional situation. On all sides treachery surrounds us. By falsehood after falsehood, trick upon trick, they have led us onto this desert, where we are abandoned to ourselves, far from all help, and having our courage alone to count upon to save us. Yesterday Don Sebastian Guerrero, believing himself at length sure of the success of his infamous plans, which he has so long been forming against us, decided on raising the mask. He declared us outlaws, and branded us with the disgraceful epithet of pirates. Scarce two hours after his departure we were attacked by Indians. Our enemies' measures were well calculated, and were within an ace of success. But God was on the watch, and saved us this time again. Now, do you know the man who made himself the generals right arm, and carried into effect the odious treachery of which we were so nearly the victims?

"This man," he said, pointing with his finger with an expression of crushing contempt, "is the villain who, since our departure from Guaymas, has attached himself to us, and never left us. He pretended to love and defend us, that he might surprise our secrets, and sell them to our enemies. It is the wretch whom we treated as a brother – to whom we offered the most delicate and enduring attention. It is the man, lastly, who assumes the title of colonel, and name of Francisco Florés, and who lied in doing so; for he is a nameless half-breed, surnamed El Garrucholo, ex-lieutenant of El Buitre, that ferocious brigand who commands a cuadrilla of salteadores that has desolated Upper Mexico for several years. Look at him! Now that he is detected, he trembles – villain that he is; for he knows that the supreme hour of justice has rung for him."

In fact, at this terrible revelation, thus made in the presence of all, the bandit's boldness suddenly gave way, and an expression of hideous terror contracted his features.

"See," the count continued, "the men whom our enemies are not ashamed to employ against us; and yet they treat us as pirates! Well, we accept this brand, brothers; and these bandits who have fallen into our hands shall be judged according to the summary law of pirates."

The adventurers warmly applauded their chief's address. Besides, all recognised the truth and logic of his remarks. In the critical situation in which they found themselves they could forgive nothing: clemency would have been culpable weakness. They could only regain their position by boldness and energy, by terrifying their foes, and compelling them to treat with them. The count sat down again.

"Don Cornelio," he said, "read to the accused the charges brought against him."

The Spaniard rose, and began a long charge against the colonel, supported by numerous letters written by Don Francisco, or received by him from various persons, principally General Guerrero, which clearly and indubitably proved the colonel's guilt. Don Cornelio finished by describing the interview on the previous day between Don Francisco, El Buitre, and the Apache chief. The adventurers listened to this long enumeration of crimes and felonies in the most profound silence. When Don Cornelio had ended the count addressed the colonel.

"Do you recognise the truth of the charge brought against you?"

The bandit raised his head: his mind was made up, and he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"Of what use to deny?" he said. "It is all true."

"Then you confess that you have betrayed us since the first moment we met?"

"Canarios!" he said, with a mocking smile, "you are mistaken, señor conde. I betrayed you even before I knew you."

At this cynical declaration no one present could repress a start of horror.

"Does what I say astonish you?" the bandit continued boldly. "Why so? I consider my conduct perfectly natural. What are you to us Mexicans but strangers? You are leeches, who come to our country to suck the brightest of our blood; that is to say, to gorge yourselves with our riches, deride our ignorance, turn into ridicule our manners and customs, and impose on us your tastes, and what you call your Western civilisation. By what right do you seize on all that is dear to us? You are only ferocious beasts, to destroy whom all measures are justifiable. If we are not the stronger in the sunshine, well, we have the night. Loyalty and frankness would ruin us, so we employ falsehood and treachery. What next? Who is wrong – who is right? Who will dare to be judge between us? No one. I have fallen into your hands: you are going to kill me. Very good. I shall be assassinated, but not condemned by you, for you have no authority by which to try me. What more do you want? Act as you think proper: it does not trouble me. He who sows the wind reaps the whirlwind. I have sown trickery – I have reaped treason. It is but just. I am about to die. Well, you have no right to inflict on me this death which I have deserved. Your verdict will be a murder, I repeat."

After pronouncing these words he folded his arms on his chest, and boldly surveyed his auditors. In spite of themselves the adventurers felt moved by a species of admiration for the savage resolution of this man, with his feline and crafty manner, who had suddenly revealed himself in so different a light from that in which they had hitherto known him. In speaking with such brutal frankness the bandit had, as it were, raised himself in the eyes of all. His roguery appeared less vile; he inspired a sort of sympathy in these brave men, for whom courage and virtue are the first two virtues.

"Then you do not even try to defend yourself?" Don Louis said sorrowfully.

"Defend myself," he said in amazement, "for having acted as I thought it my duty to do, and as I should act again if you were such fools as to pardon me! Come, caballeros, that is not common sense. Besides, if I defended myself, I should to a certain extent recognise the competency of your tribunal, and I absolutely deny it; so, believe me, you had better finish with me – the sooner the better, both for you and me."

The count rose, took off his hat, and, addressing the adventurers, said in a solemn voice, —

"Friends and comrades, on your soul and conscience, is this man guilty?"

"Yes!" the adventurers answered in a hollow voice.

"What punishment has this man merited?" the count continued.

"Death!" the adventurers replied simultaneously.

The count then turned to the colonel.

"Don Francisco Florés, otherwise called El Garrucholo, you are condemned to the penalty of death."

"Thanks!" he said, with a graceful bow.

"But," the count continued, "as you are convicted of treason, and must suffer the death of traitors – that is, be shot in the back – taking into consideration the uniform you wear, which is that of the Mexican army, which we do not wish to disgrace in your person, you will be first degraded: the judgment will be executed immediately after."

The bandit shrugged his shoulders.

"What do I care?" he said.

At a sign from the count a non-commissioned officer stepped from the ranks, and the degradation commenced. El Garrucholo endured this frightful humiliation without turning pale: the bandit had in him completely gained the mastery over the caballero, and, as he said, he cared little about being degraded – that is to say, dishonoured – because honour to him was as nothing. When the subaltern had returned to the ranks the count again addressed the condemned man.

"You have five minutes to commend your soul to God," he said to him. "May He be merciful to you! You have nothing more to expect in this world from men."

The bandit burst into a hoarse laugh.

"You are all fools!" he shouted. "What have I in common with God, if really He exist? I had better recommend myself to the demon, into whose clutches I shall fall, if what the monks say is true."

At this frightful blasphemy the adventurers gave a start of terror; but El Garrucholo did not seem to notice it.

"I have," he continued, "only one favour more to ask of you."

"Speak!" the count replied, suppressing a gesture of disgust.

"I wear round my neck, hanging by a steel chain, a little velvet bag, containing a blessed relic, which my mother gave me, telling me it would bring me good fortune. Since my birth this scapulary has never left me. I desire it to be buried with me. Perhaps it will be of use to me down there where I am bound."

"What you desire shall be done," the count answered.

"Thanks!" he said with evident satisfaction.

Strange anomaly of the Mexican character! This people is credulous and superstitious, without faith and without belief – a childish people, too long enslaved, and too quickly liberated, which has not had the time either to forget or to learn.

"The picket!" the count commanded.

Eight men, commanded by a corporal, stepped from the ranks. The bandit knelt, with his back turned to the executioners.

"Present – fire!"

El Garrucholo fell, shot in the back, not uttering a sigh: he was stark dead. His body was covered with a zarapé.

"Now," the count said coldly, "for the rest."

The nine prisoners were brought up to the table: they were trembling, for the summary justice of the adventurers filled them with terror. A great noise was at this moment heard a short distance off, mingled with shouts and imprecations; and suddenly two females, mounted on magnificent horses, galloped into the middle of the square, when they stopped. They were Doña Angela and her waiting maid, Violanta.