was heard – neither bugle nor drum sent forth their inspiring notes – no cannon rolled its thunder – no rocket blazed – no smoke spread its sulphury cloud upon the air; but without these sights and sounds there was no fear of mistaking that contest for a mimic game – a tournament of the prairies. The wild war-whoop, and the wilder whistle – the earnest onslaught – the fierce charging cheer – the cries of triumph and vengeance – the neighing steeds without riders – here and there the prostrate savage, with skinless scalp, glaring red in the sun – the spears and hatchets crimsoned with blood, – all were evidence of real and deadly strife, and Carlos did not doubt for a moment the character of the scene. Before him was an Indian fight – Waco and Pané engaged in the earnest struggle of life and death!
All this he comprehended at a glance, and, after regarding the fight for a moment, he could distinguish the warriors of both tribes from one another. The Panés, in full war-costume, were easily recognised by their tufted scalp-locks; while the Wacoes, who had, no doubt, been taken by surprise, were many of them in hunting-shirts and leggings. Some, however, were nearly as naked as their adversaries; but easily distinguished from them by their full flowing hair.
The first impulse of the cibolero was to gallop forward and mingle in the fight, – of course, taking side with the Wacoes. The sound of the conflict roused his blood, and the sight of the robbers who had so lately ruined him rendered him eager for revenge. Many of them were mounted upon the very mules they had taken from him, and Carlos was determined to have some of them back again.
He was about to put spurs to his horse, and dash forward, when a sudden change seemed to occur in the conflict that decided him to remain where he was. The Panés were giving way!
Many of them were seen wheeling out of the plain, and taking to flight.
As Carlos looked down the hill, he saw three of the Pané warriors in full run, making up to the spot where he stood. Most of the band were still fighting, or had fled in a different direction; but these, cut off from the rest, came directly up the hill at a gallop.
The cibolero had drawn his horse under the cover of some trees, and was not perceived by them until they were close to the spot.
At this moment the war-cry of the Wacoes was heard directly in their rear, and Carlos saw that two mounted warriors of that tribe were in pursuit. The fugitives looked back, and, seeing only two adversarios after them, once more wheeled round and gave fight.
At their first charge one of the pursuers was killed, and the other – whom Carlos now recognised as the Waco chief – was left alone against three assailants.
The whip-like crack of the cibolero’s rifle sounded on the air, and one of the Panés dropped out of his saddle. The other two, ignorant of whence the shot had come, continued their onset on the Waco chief, who, dashing close up, split the skull of one of there with his tomahawk. His horse, however, bore him rapidly past, and before he could wheel round, the remaining Pané – an active warrior – rushed after and thrust his long spear into the back of the chief. Its head passed clear through his body, completely impaling him; and with a death-whoop, the noble Indian fell from his horse to the ground.
But his enemy fell at the same time. The arrow of the cibolero was too late to save, though not to avenge, the Waco’s fall. It pierced the Pané just at the moment the latter had made his thrust, and he fell to the ground simultaneously with his victim, still clutching the handle of the spear!
A fearful group lay dead upon the sward; but Carlos did not stay to contemplate it. The fight still raged in another part of the field, and, putting spurs to his horse he galloped off to take part in it.
But the Panés had now lost many of their best warriors, and a general panic had seized upon them, ending in their full flight. Carlos followed along with the victorious pursuers, now and then using his rifle upon the fleeing robbers. But fearing that a stray party of them might attack his own little camp he turned from the line of pursuit, and galloped in that direction. On arriving, he found Antonio and the peons fortified within their corral, and all safe. Stray Indians had passed them, but all apparently too much frightened to have any desire for an attack upon the little party.
As soon as the cibolero had ascertained these facts, he turned his horse and rode back toward the scene of the late conflict.
Chapter Sixteen
As Carlos approached the spot where the chief had been slain he heard the death-wail chanted by a chorus of voices.
On getting still nearer, he perceived a ring of warriors dismounted and standing around a corpse. It was that of the fallen chief. Others, fresh from the pursuit, were gathering to the place; each taking up the melancholy dirge as he drew nigh.
The cibolero alighted, and walked forward to the ring. Some regarded him with looks of surprise, while others, who knew he had aided them in the fight, stepped up and grasped him by the hand. One old warrior taking Carlos’ arm in his, led him forward to the ring, and silently pointed to the now ghastly features, as though he was imparting to the cibolero the news that their chief was dead!
Neither he nor any of the warriors knew what part Carlos had borne in the affair. No one, now alive, had been witness to the conflict in which the chief had fallen. Around the spot were high copses that hid it from the rest of the field, and, at the time this conflict occurred, the fight was raging in a different direction. The warrior, therefore, thought he was imparting to Carlos a piece of news, and the latter remained silent.
But there was a mystery among the braves, and Carlos saw this by their manner. Five Indians lay dead upon the ground unscalped! That was the mystery. They were the three Panés, and the chief with the other Waco. They could not have slain each other, and all have fallen on the spot. That was not probable. The Waco and one of the Panés lay apart. The other three were close together, just as they had fallen, the chief impaled by the Pané spear, while his slayer lay behind him still grasping the weapon! The red tomahawk was clutched firmly in the hands of the chief, and the cleft skull of the second Pané showed where it had last fallen.
So far the Indians translated the tableau, but the mystery lay not there. Who had slain the slayer of their chief? That was the puzzle. Some one must have survived this deadly strife, where five warriors had died together!
If a Pané, surely he would not have gone off without that great trophy which would have rendered him famous for life, – the scalp of the Waco chief? If a Waco, where and who was he?
These questions passed from lip to lip. No one was found to answer them, but there were yet some warriors to return from the pursuit, and the inquiry was suspended, while the death-song was again chanted over the fallen chief.
At length all the braves had arrived on the spot, and stood in a circle around the body. One of the warriors stepped forward to the midst, and by a signal intimated that he wished to be heard. A breathless silence followed, and the warrior began: —
“Wacoes! our hearts are sad when they should otherwise rejoice. In the midst of victory a great calamity has fallen upon us. We have lost our father, – our brother! Our great chief – he whom we all loved – has fallen. Alas! In the very hour of triumph, when his strong right hand had hewn down his enemy on the field – in that moment has he fallen!
“The hearts of his warriors are sad, the hearts of his people will long be sad!
“Wacoes! our chief has not fallen unrevenged. His slayer lies at his feet pierced with the deadly dart, and weltering in his blood. Who of you hath done this?”
Here the speaker paused for a moment as if waiting for a reply. None was given.
“Wacoes!”
