Gustave Aimard
The Tiger-Slayer: A Tale of the Indian Desert

CHAPTER XX
BOOT AND SADDLE!

The great desert del Norte is the American Sahara – more extensive, more to be feared, than the African Sahara; for it contains no laughing oases, sheltered by fine trees, and refreshed by sparkling fountains. Beneath a coppery sky extend immense plains, covered with a dirty-greyish sand; in every direction horizons succeed horizons; sand, ever sand, fine impalpable sand, bearing a closer resemblance with human dust, which the wind carries aloft in long whirlwinds, whose desolating aspect varies incessantly at the will of the tempest, which hollows out valleys and throws up hills each time the fearful cordonazo howls across this desolate soil.

Greyish rocks, covered with patches of parched lichen, at times lift up their stunted crests in the midst of this chaos, which has not changed its appearance since the creation. The buffalo, the ashata, the swift-footed antelope, shun this desert, where their feet would only rest on a shifting soil; flocks of blear-eyed and ill-omened vultures alone soar over these regions in search of extremely rare prey for the desert is so horrible that the Indians themselves enter on it with a tremour, and cross it with express speed when they return to their villages after a foray on the Mexican territory. And yet, however rapid their journey may be, their passage is marked in an indelible manner by the skeletons of mules and horses which they are compelled to abandon, and whose bones blanch in the desert, until the hurricane, again unchained, covers all with a cerecloth of sand.

Still, as the hand of Deity is everywhere visible, in the desert more profoundly than elsewhere, there spring up at long intervals, and half buried in the sand, in the midst of piled up rocks, vigorous trees, with enormous trunks and immense foliage, which seem to offer the traveller rest beneath their shade. But these trees grow few and far between on the plain, and two are rarely found together at the same spot. These trees, revered by the Indians and wood rangers, are the imprint of Providence on the desert, the proof of His solicitude and inexhaustible goodness. But we repeat it, with the exception of these few landmarks, lost like imperceptible dots in the immensity, there are neither animals nor vegetables on the Del Norte: sand, and naught but sand.

The Casa Grande of Moctecuhzoma, where the Count de Lhorailles' free company was encamped, rose, and probably still rises, at the extreme limit of the prairie, at not more than two leagues from the skirt of the desert. The line of demarcation was clearly and coarsely traced between the two regions: on the one side a luxuriant vegetation, glowing with vigour and health; verdant plains covered with a close, tall grass, in which animals of every description browsed: the song of birds, the hiss of reptiles, the lowing of the buffaloes, in a word, grand, vigorous, and ever-joyous life, exhaling in every pore of this blessed landscape.

On the other side, the silence of death: a grey horizon; a sea of sand, whose agitated waves pressed forward on every side, as if to encroach on the prairie; not even the most scanty pasture – nothing – no roots, no moss, naught but sand!

After his conversation with Cucharés the count recalled his lieutenants, and began drinking and laughing again in their society. They rose from the table at an advanced hour to retire to sleep. Cucharés, however, did not sleep: he was too busily engaged in thinking. We know now, or nearly so, with what purpose he joined the count at the Casa Grande.

At sunrise the bugles sounded the réveillé. The soldiers rose from the ground on which they had been sleeping, shook off the night's cold, and were busily engaged in dressing their horses and preparations for the morning's meal. The camp soon put on that hurry and reckless animation so characteristic of Frenchmen when out on an expedition.

In the great hall of the Casa Grande the count and his lieutenants, seated on the dried skulls of buffaloes, were holding a council. The discussion was animated.

"In an hour," the count said, "we shall set out. We have twenty mules laden with provisions, ten to carry water, and eight for ammunition. We have, therefore, nothing to fear."

"That is true to a certain point, señor conde," the capataz observed.

"Why so?"

"We have no guides."

"What use are guides?" the count said passionately. "I fancy we need only follow the Apache trail."

Blas Vazquez shook his head.

"You do not know the Del Norte, excellency," he said candidly.

"This is the first time accident has brought me this way."

"I pray God it be not the last."

"What do you mean?" the count said with a secret shudder.

"Señor conde, the Del Norte is not a desert, but a gulf of shifting sands; at the slightest breath of air in these desolate regions the sand rises, whirls, and swallows up men and horses, leaving not a trace; all disappears for ever, buried beneath a cerecloth of sand."

"Oh, oh!" the count said thoughtfully.

"Believe me, señor conde," the capataz continued. "Do not venture with your brave soldiers into this implacable desert: not one of you will leave it again."

"Still the Apaches are men too: they are not braver or better mounted than we, I may say."

"They are not."

"Well, they cross the Del Norte from north to south, from east to west, and that, not once a year or ten times, but continually, whenever the fancy takes them."

"But do you know at what price, señor conde? Have you counted the corpses they leave along the road to mark their passage? And then you cannot compare yourselves with the Pagans: the desert possesses no secrets for them. They know its furthest mysteries."

"Then," the count exclaimed impatiently, "your impression is – "

"That in bringing you here, and attacking you two days ago, the Apaches laid a trap for you. They wish to entice you after them into the desert; certain not merely that you will not catch them, but that you and all your men will leave your bones there."

"Still you agree with me, my dear Don Blas, that it is very extraordinary there is not among all your peons one capable of guiding us in this desert. Hang it, they are Mexicans!"

"Yes excellency, but I have more than once had the honour of observing to you that all these men are costeños, or inhabitants of the seaboard. They never before came so far into the interior."

"What shall we do, then?" the count asked with some hesitation.

"Return to the colony," the capataz replied. "I see no other means."

"Shall we abandon Don Sylva and his daughter?"

Blas Vasquez frowned. He replied in a solemn voice, and with much emotion, —

"Excellency, I was born on the estate of the Torrés family. No one is more devoted, body and soul, than I am to the persons whose names you have pronounced; but no one is bound to attempt impossibilities. It would be tempting God to enter the desert in our present state. We have no right to calculate on a miracle, and that alone could bring us back here safe and sound."

There was a moment's silence. These words produced on the count's mind an impression which he tried in vain to master. The lepero guessed his hesitation, and approached.

"Why," he said in a crafty voice, "did you not tell me that you needed a guide, señor conde?"

"What good would that do?"

"In fact, that is true; it was not worth the trouble, as I promised to conduct you to Don Sylva. You have doubtlessly forgotten that?"

"You know the road, then?"

"Yes, as well as a man can who has only gone along it twice."

"By heavens!" the count exclaimed, "We can push on now; nothing need keep us longer. Diégo Léon, order 'the boot and saddle' to be sounded, and if you are a good guide you shall have proofs of my satisfaction."

"Oh, you can trust to me, excellency!" the lepero answered with a dubious smile. "I certify you will reach the spot whither I have to guide you."

"I ask no more."

Blas Vasquez, with that instinctive suspicion innate in all honest minds when they come across wicked persons, felt an irresistible repugnance for the lepero. This repugnance had displayed itself from the first moment of Cucharés' appearance in the hall the previous evening. While he was talking to the count he therefore examined him closely. When he had ended, Blas made a sign to the count, who came up with him. The capataz led him to a distant corner of the room, and whispered in his ear, —

"Take care; that man is deceiving you."

"You know it?"

"I am certain of it."

"Why so?"

"Something tells me so."

"Have you any proofs?"

"None."

"You must be mad, Don Blas, fear troubles your senses."

"God grant that I am deceived!"

"Listen! Nothing forces you to follow us. Remain here till we return: in that way, whatever may happen, you will escape the dangers which in your idea menace us."

The capataz drew himself up to his full height.

"Enough, Don Gaëtano," he said coldly. "In warning you I acted as my conscience commanded. You will not attend to my advice – you need not do so; I have done my duty as I was bound to do. You wish to march forward. I will follow you, and hope soon to prove to you that if I am prudent, I can be as brave as any man when it is necessary."

"Thanks!" the count answered, affectionately pressing his hand: "I felt sure that you would not abandon me."

At this moment a great disturbance was heard outside, and Lieutenant Diégo Léon entered precipitately.

"What is the matter, lieutenant?" the count asked sternly. "What means this startled face? Why do you enter in this way?"

"Captain," the lieutenant answered in a panting voice, "the company has revolted."

"Eh? What do you say, sir? My troopers have revolted?"

"Yes, captain."

"Ah!" he said, biting his moustaches, "And why have they revolted, if you please?"

"Because they do not wish to enter the desert."

"They do not wish!" the count continued, weighing every word. "Are you sure of what you say, lieutenant?"

"I swear it, captain; but listen."

In fact, shouts and oaths, an ever-increasing noise, which was beginning to assume formidable proportions, were heard outside.

"Oh, oh! This is becoming serious, I fancy," the count continued.

"Much more than you suppose, captain. The company, I repeat, is in complete mutiny. The rebels have loaded their arms: they surround the house, uttering threats against you. They say they want to speak to you, and that they are sure of obtaining what they want, by good will or ill."

"I am curious to see that," the count said, still perfectly calm, as he walked toward the door.

"Stay, captain," the officers exclaimed, as they rushed before him; "our men are exasperated; some accident may happen to you."

"Nonsense, gentlemen," he replied angrily, repulsing them; "you are mad: they do not know me well enough yet. I intend to show these bandits that I am worthy to command them."

And, without listening to any entreaty, he slowly walked out of the room with a firm and calm step.

What had happened may be told in a few words.

Blas Vasquez' peons, during the few days the company had bivouacked in the ruined city, told the troops, with sufficient exaggeration, mournful and gloomy stories about the desert, giving details about those accursed regions which would have made the hair stand on the head of the bravest. Unfortunately, as we have said, the company was encamped hardly two leagues from the entrance of the Del Norte: the gloomy horizon of the desert added its frightful reality to the terrible tales told by the peons.

All the count's soldiers were French Dauph'yeers, principally men who had escaped the gallows, brave, but, like all Frenchmen, easy to lead backwards and forwards, and equally resolute for good or bad. Since they had been under the command of the Count de Lhorailles, although he had behaved with considerable bravery in action, they only obeyed him with a certain degree of repugnance. The count had grave faults in their eyes; in the first place, that of being a count; next, they considered him too polite, his voice was too soft, his manner too delicate and effeminate. They could not imagine that this gentleman, so well clothed and well gloved, was capable of leading them to great things. They would have liked as a chief a man of rude voice and rough manner, with whom they could have lived, so to speak, on a footing of equality.

In the morning rumour had spread that the camp was about to be raised, in order to enter the desert and pursue the Apaches. At once groups were formed – commentaries commenced – the men gradually grew excited. Resistance was soon organised, and when the lieutenant came to give orders to raise the camp he was greeted with laughter, jests, and hisses; in short, he was compelled to give ground before the mutineers, and return to his captain to make his report.

An officer, under such circumstances, acts very wrongly in losing his coolness, and yielding a step in the presence of revolt, he ought sooner to let himself be killed. In a mutiny one concession compels another; then this inevitably happens – the rebels count their strength, and at the same time their leaders': they recognise the immense superiority brute strength gives them, and immediately abuse the position which the weakness or sloth of their officers has given them, not to ask a simple modification, but even to claim a radical change.

This happened under the present circumstances. So soon as the lieutenant had retired, his departure was at once regarded in the light of a triumph. The soldiers began haranguing, influenced by those among them whose tongues were most loosely hung. It was no longer a question about not entering the desert, but of appointing other officers, and returning at once to the colony. The entire staff must be changed, and the leaders chosen from those who inspired their comrades with most confidence – that is to say, the most dangerous fellows.

The effervescence had reached the boiling point: the soldiers brandished their weapons furiously, while directing the most furious threats at the captain and his lieutenants. Suddenly the door opened, and the count appeared. He was pale, but calm. He took a quiet look at the mutinous band that howled around him.

"The captain! Here is the captain!" the troopers shouted.

"Kill him!" others went on.

"Down with him, down with him!" they howled in chorus.

All rushed upon him, brandishing weapons and offering insults. But the count did not give way; on the contrary, he advanced a step. He held in his mouth a fine husk cigarette, from which he puffed the smoke with the utmost serenity.

Nothing imposes on masses like cold and unaffected courage. There was a pause in the revolt. The captain and his men examined each other, like two tigers measuring their strength ere bounding forward. The count profited by the moment of silence he had obtained to take the word.

"What do you want?" he asked calmly, while withdrawing his cigarette from his mouth, and following the light cloud of bluish smoke as it rose in spirals in the sky.

At this question of their captain's the charm was broken; the shouts and yells recommenced with even greater intensity; the rebels were angry with themselves for having allowed their chief's firmness momentarily to overawe them. All spoke at once. They surrounded the count on all sides, pulling him in every direction, to force him to listen to them. The count, pressed and hustled by all these rogues, who had thrown discipline overboard, and were sure of impunity in a country where justice only nominally exists, did not lose his countenance – his coolness remained the same. He allowed these men to yell at their ease for some moments, their eyes bloodshot, and foam on their lips; and when he considered this had lasted long enough, he said, in a voice as calm and tranquil as on the first occasion: —

"My friends, it is impossible for us to go on talking in this way: I understand nothing of what you say. Choose one of your comrades to make your complaints in your name. If they are just, I will do you justice; but be calm."

After uttering these words the count leaned his shoulder against the door, crossed his arms on his chest, and began smoking again, apparently indifferent to what was going on around him. The calmness and firmness displayed by the count from the beginning of this scene had already borne their fruit: he had regained numerous partisans among his soldiers. These men, though they dared not yet openly avow the sympathy they felt with their chief, warmly supported the proposition he had made them.

"The captain is right," they said. "It is impossible, if we continue to badger him in this way, that he can understand our arguments."

"We must be just too," others took up the ball. "How can you expect the captain to do justice unless we clearly explain to him what we want?"

The revolt had made an immense backward step. It no longer spoke of deposing its chiefs; it limited itself to asking justice of the captain. Hence it still tacitly recognised him.

At length, after numberless discussions among the mutineers, one of their number was selected to take the word in the name of the rest. He was a short, square-shouldered fellow, with a cunning face, and little eyes sparkling with wickedness and spite; a regular scoundrel in a word. The type of the low-class adventurer, with whom everything is comprised in robbery and assassination. This man, whose nom de guerre was Curtius, was a Parisian, and hailed from the Faubourg Saint Marceau. An ex-soldier, an ex-sailor, he had been at every trade, except, perhaps, that of an honest man. Since his arrival in the colony he had been remarkable for his spirit of insubordination, brutality, and, above all, his bounce. He boasted of "owing eight dead;" that is to say, in the language of the country, having committed eight murders. He inspired his comrades with an instinctive terror. When he was selected to take word he rammed his hat down on the side of his head, and addressing his comrades, said, —

"You shall see how I'll walk into him."

And he advanced, insolently swaying from side to side, toward the captain, who watched his approach with a smile of peculiar meaning. Suddenly a great silence fell on the crowd; hearts beat powerfully, faces grew anxious; each guessed instinctively that something decisive and extraordinary was about to happen.

When Curtius was only two paces from his captain he stopped, and, surveying him insolently, said, —

"Come, captain, the business is this: my com – "

But the count gave him no time to finish. Quickly drawing a pistol from his girdle, he pressed it against his temples and blew out his brains. The bandit rolled in the dust with a fractured skull. The captain returned the pistol to his sash, and coolly raising his head, said in a firm voice: —

"Has anyone further observations to make?"

No one stirred: the bandits had suddenly become lambs. They stood silent and penitent before their chief, for they understood him. The count smiled contemptuously.

"Pick up this carrion," he said, spurning the corpse with his foot. "We are Dauph'yeers, and woe to the man who does not carry out the clauses of our agreement: I will kill him like a dog. Let this scoundrel be hanged by the feet, that his unclean carcass may become the prey of the vultures. In ten minutes the boot and saddle will sound: all the worse for the man who is not ready."

After this thundering speech the count re-entered the house with as firm a step as he had left. The revolt was subdued – the wild beasts had recognised the iron grip beneath the velvet glove; they were tamed forever, and henceforth would let themselves be killed without uttering a murmur.

"'Tis no matter," the soldiers said to each other, "he is a rude fellow for all that: he hasn't any cold in his eyes."

And then each eagerly made his preparations for departure. Ten minutes later, as the captain had announced, he reappeared; the troop was on horseback, ranged in order of battle, and ready to set out. The count smiled, and gave the word to set out.

"Humph!" Cucharés muttered to himself, "What a pity that Don Martial has such fine diamonds! After what I have seen I could have broken my word with pleasure."

Before long the free company, with the captain at its head, disappeared in the Del Norte.