Читать книгу The Prairie Flower: A Tale of the Indian Border - Gustave Aimard - Страница 4

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Our friends would probably have remained for a long time plunged in their present state of beatitude had not a slight sound in the river suddenly recalled them to the exigencies of their position.

"What's that?" the Count said, flipping off the ash from his cigar.

Bright-eye glided among the shrubs, looked for a moment, and then calmly returned to his seat.

"Nothing," he said; "two alligators sporting in the mud."

"Ah!" the Count said. There was a moment's silence, during which the hunter mentally calculated the length of the shadow of the trees on the ground.

"It is past midday," he said.

"You think so," the young man remarked.

"No; I am sure of it, sir Count."

"Confound you! you are at it again," the young man said with a smile. "I have told you to call me by my Christian name; but if you do not like that, call me like the Indians."

"Nay!" the hunter objected.

"What is the name they gave me, Bright-eye? I have forgotten."

"Oh! I should not like, sir—"

"Eh?"

"Edward, I meant to say."

"Come, that is better," the young man remarked laughingly; "but I must beg of you to repeat the nickname."

"They call you 'Glass-eye.'"

"Oh, yes! that's it;" the Count continued his laugh. "Only Indians could have such an idea as that."

"Oh," Bright-eye went on, "the Indians are not what you suppose them; they are as crafty as the demon."

"Come, stop that, Bright-eye; I always suspected you of having a weakness for the Redskins."

"How can you say that, when I am their obstinate enemy, and have been fighting them for the last forty years?"

"That is the very reason that makes you defend them."

"How so?" the hunter said, astonished at this conclusion, which he was far from expecting.

"For a very simple reason. No one likes to contend with enemies unworthy of him, and it is quite natural you should try to elevate those against whom you have been fighting for forty years."

The hunter shook his head.

"Mr. Edward," he said, with a thoughtful air, "the Redskins are people whom it takes many a long year to know. They possess at once the craft of the opossum, the prudence of the serpent, and the courage of the cougar. A few years hence you will not despise them as you do now."

"My good fellow," the Count objected, "I hope I shall have left the prairies within a year. I am yearning for a civilized life. I want Paris, with its opera and balls. No, no; the desert does not suit me."

The hunter shook his head a second time. Then he continued, with a mournful accent, which struck the young man, and, as if rather speaking to himself, than replying to the Count's remarks—

"Yes, yes; that is the way with Europeans: when they arrive on the prairies, they regret civilized life, and the desert is only gradually appreciated; but when a man has breathed the odours of the savannah, when during long nights he has listened to the rustling of the wind in the trees, and the howling of the wild beasts in the virgin forests—when he has admired that proud landscape which owes nothing to art, where the hand of God is imprinted at each step in ineffaceable characters: when he has gazed on the glorious scenes that rise in succession before him—then he begins by degrees to love this unknown world, so full of mysteries and strange incidents; his eyes are opened to the truth, and he repudiates the falsehoods of civilization. At such a a moment he experiences emotions full of secret charms, and recognizing no other master save that God, in whose presence he feels himself so small, he forgets everything to lead a nomadic life, and remains in the desert, because there alone he feels free, happy—a man, in a word! Ah, sir, whatever you may say, whatever you may do, the desert now holds you: you have tasted its joys and its griefs; it will not allow you to depart so easily—you will not see France again so speedily—the desert will retain you in spite of yourself."

The young man had listened with an emotion for which he could not account, to this long harangue. In his heart he recognized, through the hunter's exaggeration, the justice of his reasoning, and felt startled at being compelled to allow him to be in the right. Not knowing what to reply, or feeling that he was beaten, the Count suddenly turned the conversation.

"Hum!" he began, "I think you said it was past twelve?"

"About a quarter past," the hunter answered.

The Count consulted, his watch.

"Quite right," he said.

"Oh!" the hunter continued, pointing to the sun, "that is the only true clock; it never goes too fast or too slow, for Heaven regulates it."

The young man bowed his head affirmatively.

"We will start," he said.

"For what good at this moment?" the Canadian asked. "We have nothing pressing before us."

"That is true; but are you sure we have not lost our way?"

"Lost our way!" the hunter exclaimed, with a start of surprise, almost of anger; "no, no, it is impossible. I guarantee that within a week we shall be on Lake Itasca."

"The Mississippi really runs from that lake?"

"Yes; for, in spite of what is asserted, the Missouri is only the principal branch of that river: the savants would have done better to assure themselves of the fact, ere they declared that the Mississippi and Missouri are two separate rivers."

"What would you have, Bright-eye?" the Count said, laughingly. "Savants are the same in all countries; being naturally indolent, they rely on one another, and hence the infinity of absurdities they put in circulation with the most astounding coolness."

"The Indians are never mistaken."

"That is true; but then the Indians are not savants."

"No; they see for themselves, and only assert what they are sure of."

"That is what I meant," the Count replied.

"If you will listen to me, Mr. Edward, we will remain here a few hours longer to let the great heat pass off, and when the sun is going down we will start again."

"Very good; let us rest then. Ivon appears to be thoroughly of our opinion, for he has not stirred."

The Count had risen; before sitting down, he mechanically cast a glance on the immense plain which lay so calmly and majestically at his feet.

"Eh!" he suddenly exclaimed, "what is that down there?—look, Bright-eye."

The hunter rose and looked in the direction indicated by the Count.

"Well—do you see nothing?" the young man remarked.

Bright-eye, with his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun, looked attentively without replying.

"Well?" the Count said, at the expiration of a moment.

"We are no longer alone," the hunter answered; "there are men down there."

"How men? We have seen no Indian trail."

"I did not say they were Indians."

"Hum! I suppose at this distance it would be rather difficult to decide who they are."

Bright-eye smiled.

"You always judge from your knowledge obtained in the civilized world, Mr. Edward," he answered.

"Which means—?" the young man said, intensely piqued at the observation.

"That you are always wrong."

"Hang it, my friend! You will allow me to observe, all individuality apart, that it is impossible at this distance to recognize anybody. Especially when nothing can be distinguished, save a little white smoke."

"Is not that enough? Do you believe that all smoke is alike?"

"That is rather a subtle distinction; and I confess that to me all smoke is alike."

"That's where the error is," the Canadian continued, with great coolness, "and when you have spent a few years in the prairie you will not be deceived."

The Count looked at him attentively, convinced that he was laughing at him; but the other continued, with the utmost calmness—

"What we notice down there is neither the fire of Indians nor of hunters, but is kindled by white men, not yet accustomed to a desert life."

"Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain."

"I will do so, and you will soon allow that I am correct. Listen, Mr. Edward, for this is important to know."

"I am listening, my good fellow."

"You are not ignorant," the hunter continued imperturbably, "that what is conventionally called the desert is largely populated."

"Quite true," the young man said, smiling.

"Good; but the enemies most to be feared in the prairies are not wild beasts so much as men; the Indians and hunters are so well aware of this fact that they try as much as possible to destroy all traces of their passage and hide their presence."

"I admit that."

"Very good; when the Redskins or the hunters are obliged to light a fire, either to prepare their food or ward off the cold, they select most carefully the wood they intend to burn, and never employ any but dry wood."

"Hum! I do not see the use of that."

"You will soon understand me," the hunter continued; "dry wood only produces a bluish smoke, which is difficult to detect from the sky, and this renders it invisible at a short distance; while on the other hand, green wood, through its dampness, produces a white dense smoke, which reveals for a long distance the presence of those who kindle it. This is the reason why, by a mere inspection of that smoke, I told you just now that the people down there were white men, and strangers, moreover, to the prairie, else they would have employed dry wood."

"By Jove," the young man exclaimed, "that is curious, and I should like to convince myself."

"What do you intend doing?"

"Why, go and see who are the people that have lighted the fire."

"Why disturb yourself, since I have told you?"

"That is possible; but what I propose doing is for my personal satisfaction; since we have been living together you have told me such extraordinary things, that I should like, once in a way, to know what faith to place in them."

And not listening to the Canadian's observations, the young man aroused his servant.

"What do you want, my lord?" the latter said, rubbing his eyes.

"The horses, and quickly too, Ivon."

The Breton rose and bridled the horses; the Count leaped into the saddle; the hunter imitated him, though shaking his head; and the three trotted down the hill.

"You will see Mr. Edward," Bright-eye said, "that I was in the right."

"I am certain of it; still I should like to judge for myself."

"If that is the case, allow me to go in front; for, as we do not know with what people we may have to deal, it is as well to be on our guard."

The Canadian headed the party. The fire the Count had seen from the top of the hill was not so near as he supposed, the hunter was incessantly compelled to get out of the way of dense thickets which barred the way, and this lengthened the distance; so that they took nearly two hours in reaching the spot they were steering for. When they had at length arrived within a short distance of the fire which had so perplexed M. de Beaulieu, the Canadian stopped, making his companions a sign to imitate him. When they had done so, Bright-eye got down, gave his horse's bridle to Ivon, and taking his rifle in his hand, said, "I am going on a voyage of discovery."

"Go," the young man replied, laconically.

The Count was a man of tried courage; but since he had been in the prairie he had learned one thing, that courage without prudence is madness in the presence of enemies who never act without calling craft and treachery to their aid; hence, gradually renouncing his chivalrous ideas, he was beginning to adopt the habits of the desert, knowing very well that in an ambuscade the advantage nearly always remains with the man who first discovers the enemies whom chance may bring in his way. The Count, therefore, patiently awaited the hunter's return, who had silently glided among the trees, and disappeared in the direction of the fire. At the end of about an hour the shrubs shook, and Bright-eye reappeared at a point opposite to that where he had started. The old wood ranger had been considerably bothered by the apparition of the distant fire which the Count pointed out to him from the top of the hill. So soon as he was alone, putting in practice the axiom, that the shortest road from one point to another is a curved line, the truth of which is proved in the prairie, he had taken a wide circuit, in order to come, if it were possible, on the trail of the men he wished to observe, and from it discover who they really were.

In the desert, the meeting most feared is that with man. Every stranger is at first an enemy, and hence persons generally accost each other at a distance, with the barrel of the gun advanced, and the finger on the trigger. With that infallible glance the experience of the savannahs had given him, Bright-eye had noticed from a distance a place where the grass was laid, and the strangers must have passed along that road. The hunter, still bent down to escape observation, soon found himself on the edge of a track about four feet wide, the end of which was lost in a virgin forest a short distance ahead. After stopping a minute, to recover his breath, the Canadian placed the butt of his rifle on the ground, and began carefully studying the traces so deeply imprinted on the plain. His investigation did not last ten minutes; then he raised his head with a smile, threw his rifle on his shoulder, and quietly returned to the spot where he had left his companions, not even taking the trouble to go to the fire. This brief examination had told him all he wished to know.

"Well, Bright-eye, any news?" the Count asked, on noticing him.

"The people, whose fire we perceived," the hunter replied, "are American emigrants, pioneers who wish to set up their tent in the desert. The family is composed of six persons—four men and two women; they have a waggon to carry their baggage, and have with them a large number of beasts."

"Mount your horse, Bright-eye, and let us go and welcome these worthy people to the desert."

The hunter remained motionless and thoughtful, leaning on his rifle.

"Well," the Count said, "did you not hear me, my friend?"

"Yes, Mr. Edward, I perfectly understood you; but among the traces left by the emigrants I discovered others which appeared to me suspicious, and I should like, before venturing into their camp, to beat up the neighbourhood."

"What traces do you allude to?" the young man asked, quickly.

"Well," the hunter went on, "you know that, rightly or wrongly, the Redskins claim to be kings of the prairies, and will not endure there the presence of white men."

"I consider that they are perfectly right in doing so; since the discovery of America, the white men have gradually dispossessed them of their territory, and driven them back on the desert; they are defending their last refuge, and are justified in doing so."

"I am perfectly of your opinion, Mr. Edward; the desert ought to belong to the hunters and the Indians; unfortunately the Americans do not think so, and they daily quit their cities and proceed into the interior, establishing themselves here and there, and confiscating to their benefit the most fertile countries, and those richest in game."

"What can we do, my good friend?" the Count answered, with a smile; "it is an irremediable evil, which we must put up with; but I cannot yet see where you wish to arrive with these reflections, which, though extremely just, do not appear to me exactly suited to the occasion; so pray have the goodness to explain your meaning."

"I will do so. Well, I noticed, by certain signs, that the emigrants are closely followed by a party of Indians, who probably only await a favourable moment to attack and massacre them."

"The deuce!" the young man said; "that is serious of course you warned these worthy people of the danger that threatens them."

"I—not at all. I have not spoken to them, nor even seen them."

"What! you have not seen them?"

"No; so soon as I recognized the Indian sign, I hurried back to consult with you."

"Very good; but as you did not go to their camp, how were you able to give me such precise information about them and their number?"

"Oh, very easily," the hunter answered simply; "the desert is a book entirely written by the hand of God, and it cannot hide its secrets from a man accustomed to read it. I needed only to look at the trail for a few minutes to divine everything."

The Count fixed on the hunter a glance of surprise. Though he had been living in the prairie for more than six months, he could not yet understand the species of divination with which the hunter seemed gifted, with reference to facts that were to himself as a dead letter.

"Perhaps, though," he said, "the Indians whose trail you detected are harmless hunters."

Bright-eye shook his head.

"There are no harmless hunters among the Indians, especially when they are on the trail of white men. These Indians belong to three plundering tribes which I am surprised to see united; they doubtlessly meditate some extraordinary expedition, in which the massacre of these emigrants will be one of the least interesting episodes."

"Who are these Indians? Do you think they are numerous?"

The hunter reflected for a moment.

"The party I discovered is probably only the vanguard of a more numerous band," he answered; "as far as I could judge, there were not more than forty; but the Redskin warriors march with the speed of the antelope, and they can hardly ever be counted; the party is composed of Comanches, Blackfeet, and Sioux; that is to say, the three most warlike tribes in the prairie."

"Hum!" the Count remarked, after a moment's reflection, "if these demons really mean to attack the Americans, as everything leads us to suppose, the poor fellows appear to be in an awkward position."

"Unless a miracle occur, they are lost," the hunter said, concisely.

"What is to be done—how to warn them?"

"Mr. Edward, take care what you are going to do."

"Still we cannot allow men of our own colour to be murdered almost in our presence; that would be cowardly."

"Yes; but it would be astounding folly to join them; reflect that there are only three of us."

"I know it," the young man said, thoughtfully; "still I would never consent to abandon these poor people without trying to defend them."

"Stay, there is only one thing to be done, and perhaps Heaven will come to our aid."

"Come, be brief, my friend, time presses."

"In all probability, the Indians have not yet discovered our trail, although they must be a short distance from us. Let us, then, return to the spot where we breakfasted, and which commands the entire prairie. The Indians never attack their enemy before four in the morning; as soon as they attempt their attack on the emigrants, we will fall on their rear; surprised by the sudden aid given the Americans, it is possible they will fly, for the darkness will prevent them counting us, and they will never suppose that three men were so mad as to make such an attack upon them."

"By Jove!" the Count said, laughing, "that is a good idea of yours, Bright-eye, and such as I expected from so brave a hunter as yourself; let us hurry back to our observatory, so as to be ready for every event."

The Canadian leaped on his horse, and the three men retraced their steps. But, according to his custom, Bright-eye, who was apparently a sworn foe to a straight line, made them describe an infinite number of turnings, to throw out any person whom accident brought on their track.

They arrived at the top of the hill just at the moment the sun was disappearing beneath the horizon. The evening breeze was rising, and beginning to agitate the tops of the great trees with mysterious murmurs. The howling of the tigers and cougars was already mingled with the lowing of the elks and buffaloes, and the sharp yelping of the red wolves, whose dusky outlines appeared here and there on the river bank. The sky grew more and more gloomy, and the stars began dotting the vault of heaven.

The three hunters sat down carelessly on the top of the hill, at the same spot they had left a few hours previously with the intention of never returning, and made preparations for supper,—preparations which did not take long, for prudence imperiously ordered them not to light a fire, which would have at once revealed their presence to the unseen eyes which were, at the moment, probably surveying the desert in every direction. While eating a few mouthfuls of pemmican, they kept their eyes fixed on the camp of the emigrants, whose fire was perfectly visible in the night.

"Oh Lord!" Bright-eye said, "those people are ignorant of the first law of the desert, else they would guard against lighting a fire which the Indians can see for ten leagues round."

"Bah! that beacon will guide us where to go to their aid," the Count said.

"Heaven grant that it be not in vain."

The meal over, the hunter invited the Count and his servant to sleep for a few hours.

"For the present," he said, "we have nothing to fear; let me keep watch for all, as my eyes are accustomed to see in the darkness."

The Count did not allow the invitation to be repeated; he rolled himself in his cloak, and lay down on the ground. Two minutes later, himself and Ivon were sleeping the sleep of the righteous. Bright-eye took his seat against the trunk of a tree, and lit a pipe to soothe the weariness of his night watch. All at once, he bent his body forward, placed his ear to the ground, and seemed to be listening attentively. His practised ear had heard a sound at first imperceptible, but which seemed to be gradually drawing nearer.

The hunter silently cocked his rifle, and waited. At the expiration of about a quarter of an hour there was a slight rustling in the thicket, the branches parted, and a man made his appearance.

This man was Natah Otann, the sachem of the Piékanns.