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<h3>Chapter Fifty Five.</h3> <h4>An ill-timed Shot.</h4> “Hablo Castellano?” cries the savage chieftain in broken Spanish. I am not surprised at being addressed in this language by a prairie Indian. Many of them speak Spanish, or its North Mexican patois. They have opportunities of learning it from the New Mexican traders, but better—from their captives. “Si cavallero! I speak Spanish. What wishes the warrior with the red-hand upon his shield?” “The pale-face is a stranger in this country, else he would not ask such a question? What wishes the Red-Hand? Ha, ha, ha! The scalps of the white men—their scalps and lives—that is the will of the Arapaho chief!” The speech is delivered in a tone of exultation, and accompanied by a scornful laugh. The savage is proud of his barbarous and bloodthirsty character: he glories in the terror of his name! With such a monster, it seems idle to bold parley. In the end, it will be only to fight, and if defeated, to die. But the drowning man cannot restrain himself from catching even at a straw. “Arapaho! We are not your enemies! Why should you desire to take our lives? We are peaceful travellers passing through your country; and have no wish to quarrel with our red brothers.” “Red brothers! ha, ha, ha! Tongue of a serpent, and heart of a hare! The proud Arapaho is not your brother: he disclaims kindred with a pale-face. Red-hand has no brothers among the whites: all are alike his enemies! Behold their scalps upon his shield! Ugh! See the fresh trophies upon his spear! Count them! There are six! There will be ten. Before the sun goes down, the scalps of the four squaws skulking on the mound will hang from the spears of the Arapahoes!” I could not contradict the declaration: it was too fearfully probable. I made no reply. “Dogs!” fiercely vociferated the savage, “come down, and deliver up your arms!” “An’ our scalps too, I s’pose,” muttered the Yankee. “Neo, certingly not, at your price: I don’t sell my notions so dirt cheep as thet comes to. ’Twouldn’t pay nohow. Lookee yeer, old red gloves!” continued he in a louder voice, and raising his head above the rampart—“this heer o’ mine air vallable, do ee see? It air a rare colour, an’ a putty colour. It ’ud look jest the thing on thet shield o’ yourn; but ’tain’t there yet, not by a long chalk; an’ I kalklate ef ye want the skin o’ my head, ye’ll have to trot up an’ take it.” “Ugh!” ejaculated the Indian with an impatient gesture. “The yellow squaw is not worth the words of a chief. His scalp is not for the shield of a warrior. It will be given to the dogs of our tribe. It will be thrown to the jackals of the prairie.” “Ain’t partickler abeout what ’ee do wi’ ’t—thet is, efter ye’ve got it. Don’t ye wish ’ee may get it? eh?” “Wagh!” exclaimed the savage, with another impatient gesticulation. “The Red-Hand is tired talking. One word more. Listen to it, chief of the pale-faces! Come down, and deliver up your fire-weapons! The Red-Hand will be merciful: he will spare your lives. If you resist, he will torture you with fire. The knives of his warriors will hew the living flesh from your bones. You shall die a hundred deaths; and the Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!” “And what if we do not resist?” “Your lives shall be spared. The Red-Hand declares it on the faith of a warrior.” “Faith o’ a warrior!—faith o’ a cut-throat! He only wants to come round us, capting, an’ git our scalps ’ithout fightin’ for ’em—thet’s what the red verming wants to be at—sure as shootin’.” “Why should the Red-Hand spare our lives?” I enquired, taken by surprise at any offer of life coming from such a quarter. “Has he not just said, that all white men are his enemies?” “True. But white men may become his friends. He wants white men for his allies. He has a purpose.” “Will the Red-Hand declare his purpose?” “Freely. His people have taken, many fire-weapons. See! they are yonder in the hands of his braves, who know not how to use them. Our enemies—the Utahs—have been taught by the white hunters; and the ranks of the Arapaho warriors are thinned by their deadly bullets. If the pale-faced chief and his three followers will consent to dwell with the band of Red-Hand, and teach his warriors the great medicine of the fire-weapon, their lives shall be spared. The Red-Hand will honour the young soldier-chief, and the White Eagle of the forest.” “Soldier-chief. White Eagle of the forest! How can he have known—” “If you resist,” continued he, interrupting my reflections, “the Red-Hand will keep his word. You have no chance of escape. You are but four, and the Arapaho warriors are numerous as the trees of the Big Timber. If one of them fall by your fire-weapons, he shall be revenged. The Red-Hand repeats what he has said: the knives of his braves will hew the living flesh from your bones. You shall die a hundred deaths, and the Great Spirit of the Arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!” “Be Jaysis, cyaptin!” cried O’Tigg, who, not understanding Spanish, was ignorant of what had been said, “that ugly owld Indyan wants a bit ov cowld lid through him. In troth, I b’lave the musket moight raich him. She belonged to Sargent Johnson, an’ was considhered the longest raich gun about the Fort. What iv I throy her carry on the ridskin? Say the word, yer honour, an’ here goes!” So astounded was I at the last words of the Arapaho chief, that I paid no heed to what the Irishman was saying. I had turned towards Wingrove—not for an explanation: for the young hunter, also ignorant of the language in which the Indian spoke, was unaware of the allusion that had been made to him. I had commenced translating the speech; but, before three words had escaped my lips, the loud bang of a musket drowned every other sound; and the cloud of sulphureous smoke covering the whole platform, hindered us from seeing one another! It needed no explanation. The Irishman had taken my silence for consent: he had fired! From the thick of the smoke came his exulting shout: “Hooray! he’s down—be my sowl! he’s down! I knew the owld musket ’ud raich him! Hooray!” The report reverberated from the rocks—mingling its echoes with the wild vengeful cries that came pealing up from the plain. In an instant, the smoke was wafted aside; and the painted warriors were once more visible. The Red-Hand was erect upon his feet, standing by the side of his horse, and still holding his spear and his shield. The horse was down—stretched along the turf, and struggling in the throes of death! “Begorrah! cyaptin! wasn’t it a splindid shat?” “A shot that may cost us our scalps,” said I: for I saw that there was no longer any chance of a pacific arrangement—even upon the condition of our making sharpshooters of every redskin in the tribe. “Ha, ha, ha!” came the wild laugh of the Arapaho. “Vengeance on the pale-faced traitors! vengeance!” And shaking his clenched fist above his head, the savage chief retired among his warriors. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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