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<h3>Chapter Seventy Seven.</h3> <h4>The Surprise.</h4> The white cloud—a puff of powder-smoke—had scarcely scattered in the air, when a dark mass appeared upon the plain, emerging from the sulphureous vapour. It was a troop of horsemen—the warriors of Wa-ka-ra. On giving the signal they had issued forth from the lower cañon, and were coming up the valley at a gallop. They were too distant for us to heat their charging cheer; but from right and left proceeded a double shout—a war-cry answering to our own; and, the moment after, a stream of dusky forms was seen pouring down each bluff, through the sloping gorges that led to the plain. We could hear the shout that announced the astonishment of the Arapahoes. It betokened more than astonishment; there was terror in its wild intonations. It was evident that they had been taken altogether by surprise; having no suspicion that an enemy was near—least of all the dreaded foes who were now rushing forward to surround them. The red men are rarely betrayed into a panic. Accustomed from earliest youth to war, with all its wiles, they are always prepared for a stampede. It is the system they themselves follow, and are ever expecting to be practised against them. They accept the chances of attack—no matter how sudden or unforeseen—with all the coolness of a contest premeditated and prearranged. Even terror does not always create confusion in their ranks—for there are no ranks—and in conflicts with their own race, combinations that result from drill and discipline are of little consequence. It is usually a fight hand to hand, and man to man—where individual prowess prevails, and where superior personal strength and dexterity conduct to conquest. It is for this reason that the scalp-trophy is so highly prized: it is a proof that he who has taken it must have fought to obtain it. When “hair is raised” in a night attack—by the chance of an arrow or a bullet—it is less esteemed. By the laws of Indian warfare the stratagem of assassination is permissible, and practised without stint. But a coup of this kind is far less glorious, than to slay an enemy, in the open field, and under the broad glare of the sunlight. In conflicts by day, strategy is of slight advantage, and superior numbers are alone dreaded. It was the superior numbers of their Utah enemies that caused dismay in the ranks of the Arapahoes. Otherwise, they would not have regarded the mode of attack—whether their assailants advanced upon them in a single body, or in four divisions, as they were doing. Indeed it was merely with a view of cutting off their retreat, that the Utah chieftain had adopted the plan. Had he not taken the precaution to approach from all sides at once, it would have been necessary for him to have waited for the night, before an attack could have been made. In daylight it would have been impossible to get even within shot-range of the enemy. The Arapahoes were as well-mounted as the Utahs; and perceiving their inferiority in numbers, they would have refused to fight, and ridden off, perhaps, without losing a man. The strategic manoeuvre of the Utah was meant to force the Red-Hand to a conflict. This was its purpose, and no other. It was likely to be successful. For the Arapahoes, there appeared no alternative but stand and fight. The attack, coming from four points at one and the same time, and by superior numbers must have caused them fear. How could it be otherwise? It failed, however, to create any remarkable confusion. We could see them hurrying around the butte, in the direction of their cavallada: and, in an incredibly short space of time, most of the warriors had leaped to their horses, and with their long spears towering high above their heads, had thrown themselves into an irregular formation. The plain at this moment presented an animated spectacle. He upon the summit of the butte, if still alive, must have viewed it with singular emotions. The painted Arapahoes clustered around their chief, and for the moment appearing in a close crowd, silent and immobile: from north, south, east, and west, the four bands of the Utahs approaching in rapid gallop, each led by its war-chief; while the “Ugh! aloo!” pealing from five hundred throats, reverberated from cliff to cliff, filling the valley with its vengeful echoes! The charge might have been likened to a chapter from the antique—an onslaught of Scythians! Would the Arapahoes await the shock of all four divisions at once? All were about equally distant, and closing in at equal speed. Surely the Red-Hand would not stay to be thus attacked. “Carrambo! I wonder they are not off before this!” shouted Archilete, who was galloping by my side. “Ha, yonder!” added he, “a party on foot making from the grove of alamos! They are waiting for those to come up—that’s what’s been detaining them. Mira!” As the Mexican spoke, he pointed to a small tope of cotton-woods, which grew isolated about three or four hundred yards from the mound. Out of this was seen issuing some fifteen or twenty Arapahoes. They were on foot—except three or four, who appeared to be carried by the others. “Their wounded!” continued the trapper. “They’ve had them under the bushes to keep the sun off them, I suppose. Mira! they are meeting them with horses! They mean flight then.” A party with led-horses were seen galloping out from the base of the butte, evidently to take up the men on foot—who were still hurrying towards their mounted comrades, as fast as the nature of their duty would permit them. There were several groups of the Indians on foot—each no doubt in charge of a disabled comrade. One crowd appeared to encircle a man who was not borne upon their shoulders, but was moving forward on his own feet. The violent gesticulations of those who surrounded him drew our attention. The man was evidently being menaced and urged forward—as if he went against his will! “Carrai!” exclaimed the Mexican, “he is not one of their wounded. A captive! One of your camarados, I dare say?” “No doubt of it,” I replied, at that moment equally guided to the conjecture. “Wagh!” exclaimed the trapper, “the poor fellow’s scalp is in danger just now. I wonder they take all that trouble to get him away alive!—that puzzles me, amigo! I think it high time they looked to their own lives, without being so particular about that of their prisoner. Santissima Virgen! As I live, there’s a woman among them!” “Yes—I see her—I know her. Her presence explains why they are taking him alive.” “You know her?” “And him too. Poor fellow! I hope she will befriend him; but—” I was hindered from continuing the explanation. Just at that moment, the led-horses were rushed up to: and those in charge of the wounded were seen to spring to their backs. Here and there, a double mount proclaimed that the disabled men were still capable of making a last effort for their lives. All had got upon their horses, and in a straggling crowd were making to join the main band; when, just at that moment, one of the horses that carried two men was seen to swerve suddenly from the line, and, heading up the valley, come galloping in our direction. The horse appeared to have taken fright, and shied away from the others; while the men upon his back were tossing and writhing about, as if trying to restrain him! At the same instant, half-a-dozen mounted Arapahoes were seen shooting forth from the crowd, and with loud yells galloping in pursuit of the runaway! The double-loaded steed—a powerful animal—kept on his course; but, not until he had approached within three or four hundred paces of our own front, could I account for this strange manoeuvre. Then was I enabled to comprehend the mysterious escapade. The rider upon the croup was Frank Wingrove! He upon the saddle was a red Arapaho. The bodies of the two men appeared to be lashed together by a raw-hide rope; but, in front of the Indian, I could perceive the muscular arms of the young backwoodsman tightly embracing the chest of the savage, while with the reins in his fingers he was guiding the gallop of the horse! With a shout of joy I hailed the escape of my comrade, now no longer problematical. In a score of seconds more, we should meet. The pursuers—satisfied that his recapture was hopeless without risking their own scalps—had already turned with a despairing shout, and were galloping back. Wingrove was near enough to hear the cry of encouragement that passed from my lips; and, soon recognising me, despite the disguise of the serapé, headed his horse directly towards us. “Hooraw, capt’n!” cried he, as he came up. “Hev you e’er a knife to cut me clar o’ this Indjun? Durn the niggur! I’ve got him in a leetle o’ the tightest fix he’s been in for a while, I reck’n. Dog-gone ye! keep still, ye skunk, or I’ll smash every rib in yur body! Quiet now!” During all this time, the Indian was making the most strenuous efforts to free himself from the grasp of his powerful adversary—now endeavouring to throw himself down from the horse, anon trying to turn the animal in an opposite direction. But the thongs intended to secure his captive—and which had no doubt been wound around both of them by a third hand—had become bonds for himself. Wingrove, who had by some means wrenched his wrists free from their fastenings, had turned the tables upon his captor, by transforming him into a captive! I chanced to be without a knife; but the Mexican was supplied with the necessary implement; and, drawing it from its sheath, shot past me to use it. I thought he intended to cut the thongs that bound the two men together. So did he: but not till after he had performed another operation—which consisted in plunging his blade between the ribs of the Arapaho! At the stab, the Indian gave utterance to his wild death-shout. In the same instant his head coggled over upon his shoulder, his body relaxed its muscular tension, and hung limp over the raw-hide rope. A snig of the red blade severed the thong; and the Indian’s body sliding down from the withers of the horse, fell with a dull dead sound upon the turf. “Here Americano!” cried the trapper, holding out the ensanguined knife to Wingrove; “take this weapon for want of a better. Let us on! See! the picaros are making off. Vamos! nos vamonos!” The incident had delayed us but for a very short while—perhaps not half a minute; but as we returned to the charging gallop, most of our party had passed us; and the foremost were already within rifle range, and opening fire upon the Arapahoes. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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