The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico. Reid Mayne

first streaks of daylight were just falling upon the prairie, when the quick keen eye of the half-blood, ranging the ground in every direction, was arrested by the appearance of something odd upon the grass. It lay near the spot where the mulada had been picketed. It was a darkish object in a recumbent position. Was it bushes or gorse? No. It could not be that. Its outlines were different. It was more like some animal lying down – perhaps a large wolf? It was near the place where they had fancied that they saw something in the darkness, and at which Carlos had fired.

      Antonio, on first perceiving the object, called his master’s attention to it, and both now gazed over the box of the carreta, scanning it as well as the grey light would permit them.

      As this became brighter, the object was seen more distinctly, while at each moment the curiosity of the ciboleros increased. They would have long since gone out to examine it more closely; but they were not yet free from apprehensions of a second attack from the Indians; and they prudently remained within the corral.

      At length, however, they could forego an examination no longer. They had formed their suspicion of what the object was; and Carlos and Antonio climbed over the carretas, and proceeded towards it.

      On arriving at the spot they were not so much surprised – for they had partially anticipated such a thing – at finding the body of a dead Indian. It was lying flat upon the grass, face downwards; and, on closer examination, a wound, from which much blood had run, was perceived in the side. There was the mark of a rifle bullet – Carlos had not fired in vain! They bent down, and turned over the body to examine it. The savage was in full war-costume – that is, naked to the waist, and painted over the breast and face so as to render him as frightful as possible: but what struck the ciboleros as most significant was the costume of his head! This was close shaven over the temples and behind the ears. A patch upon the top was clipped short, but in the centre of the crown one long lock of hair remained uncut, and this lock was intermingled with plumes, and plaited so as to hang, queue-like, down the back. The naked temples were stained with vermilion, and the cheeks and bosom daubed in a similar manner. These brilliant spots contrasted with the colourless and deathly hue of the skin, and, with the blanched lips and glazed eyeballs, gave to the corpse a hideous appearance.

      Carlos, after gazing upon it for some moments, turned to his companion with a look of intelligence; and, pointing to the shaved head, and then to the moccasins upon the Indian’s feet, in a tone that expressed the satisfaction he felt at the discovery, pronounced the word, – “Pané!”

      Chapter Fifteen

      The dead Indian was a Pané beyond doubt. The tonsure of his hair, the cut of his moccasins, his war-paint, enabled Carlos to tell this.

      The cibolero was glad that he was a Pané. He had several reasons for being so. First, it gratified him to know that his Waco friends were still true; secondly, that he had punished one of the robbers; and, lastly, the knowledge that they were Panés gave him some hope that he might yet recover, by the help of the Wacoes, some of the stolen mules.

      This was not improbable. As already stated, the Wacoes and Panés were sworn foes; and as soon as the former should hear that the latter were in the neighbourhood, Carlos felt sure they would go in pursuit of them. He would share in this pursuit with his little band, and, in the event of the Panés being defeated, might get back his mulada.

      His first impulse, therefore, was, to gallop to the Waco camp – apprise them of the fact that the Pané was on the war-trail, and then join them in search of the latter.

      Just then both he and Antonio remembered that the Panés had themselves gone in the direction of the Waco camp! It was not two miles distant – they could hardly fail to find it, even in the night. What if they had taken the Wacoes by surprise, and had already made their attack!

      It was quite probable – more than probable. The time and the hour were just in keeping. The estampeda had occurred before midnight. No doubt they were then on their way to the Waco village. They would just be in time to make their attack, at the usual hour for such forays, between midnight and morning.

      Carlos feared he might be too late to give warning. His Waco friends may have already perished! Whether or no, he determined to proceed at once to their encampment.

      Leaving Antonio and the peons with directions to guard and defend his own camp to the last, he rode off, armed both with rifle and bow. It was yet but grey day, but he knew the trail leading to the Waco village, and followed it without difficulty. He rode with caution, scanning the timber copses before approaching them; and running his eye along the crests of the ridges as he advanced.

      This caution was not unnecessary. The Panés could not be far off – they might still be in ambush between him and the Waco camp, or halted among the hills.

      The cibolero had but little fear of meeting one or two of them. He rode a horse in which he had full confidence; and he knew that no Pané could overtake him; but he might be surrounded by numbers, and intercepted before he could reach the Waco lodges. That was the reason why he advanced with so much caution.

      His ears were set to listen attentively. Every sound was noted and weighed – the “gobble” of the wild turkey from the branches of the oak; the drumming of the ruffed grouse on some dry knoll; the whistling of the fallow-deer; or the tiny bark of the prairie marmot. All these were well-known sounds; and as each was uttered, the cibolero stopped and listened attentively. Under other circumstances he would not have heeded them, but he knew that these sounds could be imitated, and his ear was bent to detect any counterfeit. He could distinguish the Pané trail of the previous night. A strong band there must have been, by the numerous tracks on the grass. At the crossing of a stream Carlos could detect the prints of moccasins in the sand. There were still some of the party afoot then, though, no doubt, the stolen mulada had mounted a good many.

      Carlos rode on with more caution than ever. He was half-way to the Waco village, and still the Pané trail led in that direction. Surely these could not have passed without finding it? Such skilled warriors as the Panés would not. They would see the trail of the Wacoes leading to the cibolero’s own camp – they would soon discover the lodges – perhaps they had already made their attack – perhaps —

      The reflections of the cibolero were suddenly interrupted; distant sounds fell upon his ear – shouts and cries of fearful import – with that continued murmur that results from the mingling of many voices in loud and confused clamour. Now and then was heard a whoop, or a cheer, or a shrill whistle, rising above the ordinary noises, and carrying far over the plain its tones of triumph or revenge.

      Carlos knew the import of those shouts and cries – they were the sounds of battle! – of terrible and deadly strife!

      They came from behind the hill – the cibolero was just climbing it.

      He spurred his horse, and, galloping forward to its crest, looked down into the valley. The conflict was raging before him!

      He had a full view of the dreadful scene. Six hundred dusky horsemen were riding about on the plain; some dashing at each other with couched lances – some twanging their bows from a distance; and others close together in the hand-to-hand combat of the deadly tomahawk! Some were charging in groups with their long spears – some wheeling into flight, and others, dismounted, were battling on foot! Some took shelter among the timber islands, and sprang out again as they saw an opportunity of sending an arrow, or lancing a foeman in the back; and so the red contest continued.

      Not a shot 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