Читать книгу Ranchero - Stewart Edward White - Страница 9

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That night he slept among the cottonwoods. Next day he rode through the waist-high grasses. Soon he ran into swarms of game—elk, antelope, deer in herds throughout the bottoms. Andy had never seen so many waterfowl; had never imagined there could be so many, anywhere. They covered the surfaces of the small lakes so thickly that, even from the vantage of his saddle, Andy could discern but a gleam of water here and there. As he rode nearer he found the borders of these ponds eaten, or beaten, bare for a hundred feet or more, to form muddy beaches, and that the beaches too were covered with the ducks and geese, basking or preening in the sun. He rode among them. They waddled away, to right or left, shaking their tails in indignation, gabbling their opinion of discourtesy. But they did not fly. Andy waved his arms and shouted. A few of the more nervous sprang into the air; but immediately dropped down again. But every head was turned accusingly toward the intruder; and into the peaceful air arose a mighty chorus of quackings and honkings. For the first time since the fatal Rendezvous at Pierre’s Hole a slow grave smile lightened Andy’s face.

“Now, look here!” he expostulated, speaking aloud after the fashion of the man who spends much of his year in solitude, “I’ve got as much right here as you have! I never in my life been so cussed out!”

A goose stretched her neck at him, hissing, seeming almost decided to nip a horse’s legs. Andy turned his smile toward this valiant but somewhat ridiculous champion.

“No, you don’t, old girl,” said he. “I’ve got a trick of my own!”

On a sudden impulse he extended the long rifle and fired it into the air.

A blank instant silence followed the sharp crack of the piece, broken a half second later by the crash as of a mighty waterfall as the birds took wing. It seemed as if the dark earth were lifting to expose the hidden silver of the lake. The air was filled with hurtling bodies. The very sky was darkened. And another great roar, and a third, like successive peals of thunder, rolled across the man’s astonishment; and then a smooth high silence made up of the thin whistlings of thousands upon thousands of wings. But the startlement was only momentary. Almost at once the birds began to drop back to their resting places, at first by ones and twos, then by tens and twenties, finally by thousands. Each volplaned down at a sharp angle, upended, lowered yellow webbed feet, set the brakes of outspread pinions, furrowed the water in a long silver curve, and came to rest, wagging his tail vigorously, fluffing his plumes, and quack-quacking his resentment at the shock to his nerves. Andy threw back his head and laughed long and joyously. A cloud seemed to have rolled away, a physical weight to have been lifted from his somber spirit. He rode on, whistling under his breath, with a new eye cocked to the low circling marsh hawks and the high sailing vultures and the remote calm blue of the sky.

But when, a time later, he brought his gaze back from this high ecstasy to the practical affairs of life, he drew rein abruptly with a swift curse at his lapse from the mountain-bred wariness which until now he had never relaxed for a single moment of his ten years in the wilderness, a wariness that had brought him this far safely through many dangers, but which now, it appeared, he had abandoned at exactly the wrong time. For he had ridden unseeing over a low undulation of the plains smack into the middle of a wandering band of Indians. They surrounded him on all sides, thirty or forty of them, and were standing silent, looking at him.

Andy was accustomed to the Indians of the plains and the mountains, a fine warlike people, with considerable claim to a civilization of their own. Save for the miserable creatures at the water holes of the Utah desert, whom he had encountered when with Jedediah Smith, he had never seen as wild and primitive a lot as this. He sat his horse quietly and looked them over, trying to size up the situation, to determine a course of action. And while he did so, he cursed himself as a heedless fool.

They were a hard-looking lot, Andy thought, short, squat, heavily muscled, with flat expressionless faces and small beady eyes. Most of them were naked, except for a scrap of skin. One man wore a curious robe made of ropes of feathers twisted together. A few had plastered themselves with an overcoat of mud. Many were tattooed with blue-black transverse stripes across the face and body. Their hair was as coarse as thread. Most wore it long, to the waist; but some had trimmed it to five or six inches, and its stiffness stood it out like bristles. Andy’s eyes ran over them appraisingly, seeking for indications that might guide his course of action. He saw women, which was encouraging in a way—or would have been were these Indians whose habits he knew. The men carried short bows, which was not so good. All were afoot; but Andy could not risk a dash, not with a laden pack horse, anyway. They made no hostile demonstration. In fact, they did not move at all; they merely stared.

Andy spoke to them in sign language. He tried them in several of the trans-mountain dialects, finally in Spanish. They continued to stare. At length he gathered up his reins and, rather gingerly, moved his horse forward. They did not offer to stop him. But they accompanied him. When again he drew rein, after a few yards, they too halted. And continued to stare.

Andy pondered. The situation was decidedly perplexing. Though not at the moment hostile, these people had him at their mercy, unless he could disengage himself. And just how was he to do that?

Finally one who might have been a headman or chief—at least, he wore a headdress of woven grass and feathers—stepped forward. Andy eyed him narrowly for a sign of hostility, testing the looseness of his knife in its sheath. The man touched one of the bear paws hanging at Andy’s saddlebow and said something. Andy did not comprehend the words, but he did the look of inquiry. When the Indian understood that Andy had killed the bear he threw back his head and gave utterance to a long wolf-like howl. The unwinking immobility of the bystanders broke. A number ran off through the grass in several directions. The others chattered to one another, moved about. But none ventured to approach, nor was there any evidence of hostile intention. Andy sat his saddle in alert expectation for five minutes; then ventured to move on. They made no offer to hinder him; but followed after, like a pack of dogs. Andy did not like that. He rode in momentary expectation of an arrow in his back. But there was nothing else to do; so he continued, trying at first to watch as well as he could. It was impossible to do so with any efficiency because of the high grass. Finally he gave it up with a shrug.

After a time, from the elevation of his saddle, he began to see the bobbing heads and shoulders of other Indians converging from several directions, hundreds of them. As they came nearer he noticed that each wore a single white feather in his hair. He stopped; then rode on. If he was to fight, one spot was as good as another, unless he could gain some vantage point. He spied about him for a grove of trees, a thicket, even a slight elevation. There was none.

As the newcomers drew nearer Andy saw that many of them were women, and that they bore armfuls of green branches and tules. These, when they had approached, they proceeded to scatter in handfuls before the hoofs of Andy’s saddle horse. He rode forward on an improvised carpet. Gradually he gained confidence. They seemed to be honoring him in a rude fashion of their own. But as he looked about at the impassive, ugly, stupid, cruel faces, he was not so sure. The bead-like eyes stared at him unblinking.

After some hours he saw in the distance a low butte-like hill with a flat top. Unmolested he rode to this, dismounted, tied his horses nose to nose, made the best disposition he could for defense. That was not much; the people crowded about him too closely. He sat in the midst of his possessions, his long rifle across his knees, and waited. He wondered what he should do when night fell. The Indians stared at him. Andy’s nerves were good; but this was beginning to get him a little.

More women came in. They brought baskets which they set down before him, dozens of baskets. Soon he was fairly barricaded by them. He examined them. They were filled with acorn meal, with bread in small dingy loaves, with grass seeds, with dried grasshoppers. He tasted some of the bread and found it bitter, but the action seemed to please the savages. The sun set. Andy managed to convey the idea that he wished the top of the hill to himself. To his great surprise the whole multitude withdrew to its base, where they camped below him in a great circle. Andy unsaddled his horses, picketed them, made of his belongings and the baskets a rude fortification. He lighted his pipe and took up his vigil, for he still feared treachery. Evidently someone somehow carried fire, for shortly tiny blazes sprang up in the gathering dusk. After a time a spark advanced up the hill. As it came near Andy saw it was carried by a single unarmed man. The savage laid down the brand and retired. Andy made himself a fire of sorts from the dried brittle brushwood that grew sparsely near where he sat. No other invaded his sanctity of the hill, though he watched all night, but at daylight the whole tribe swarmed up the slope, to squat about and stare.

Andy saddled; mounted; turned down the slope toward the south. The people remained where they were, without following. No one made even a gesture of farewell.

He rode nearly to the foot of the hill; then bethought him, and turned back. From his saddlebow he untied the paws of the grizzly bear and gave them to the chief. He would not need them now as food; there was a plenty of game. For the second time the man’s unwinking animal gravity broke, his spirit rose to the surface of his beady eyes. Again he threw back his head to utter his long howl. And the faces of the bystanders became human.

A quarter mile from the foot of the hill Andy turned in his saddle to look back. The Indians were gathered in a compact group on the summit. When they saw him turn they waved their hands in farewell. The whole experience was mystifying.

Within the hour Andy had his second encounter in California. This time the men were five, and mounted, so he saw them in the distance and composed himself advantageously to await their approach. This was headlong, until the party was within a little over a hundred yards. Then the leader uttered a sharp command. The horses threw up their heads, stiffened their forelegs, and came to a plunging stop. The leader trotted forward alone. Andy examined him watchfully and with some curiosity.

This was rather a small man on a very fine horse. He wore a flat glazed hat tied under his chin, and fine botas with silver spurs. The rest of his dress, whatever it might be, was concealed by a loose, sleeveless leathern armor. Andy later learned this to be composed of seven thicknesses of antelope skin, and that it would stop an arrow handily; but at the moment it looked like rather an awkward smock. A saddle covering of the same material afforded a partial protection to the horse. On either side the pommel hung a large pistol in a holster. A sword swung at the rider’s side. As he drew near Andy saw him to be dark, young, and rather handsome, especially when, as now, he flashed very white teeth in a smile.

“Buenas tardes, señor,” he greeted Andy, who watched him composedly but with a finger within the trigger guard. “Lieutenant Jesús María Corbedo de Cortilla of the Army of Mexico upon the affairs of the Republic with troops.” He gestured largely toward the four still in the background. “You understand Spanish?” he added as an afterthought. “Ah, that is well. And you? You are a Hudson’s Bay man, no? Would you be so polite as to afford me a glimpse of your permiso?”

“My permiso?” repeated Andy, puzzled.

“Your permission to travel in these the lands of the Republic.”

“I am but now across the mountains, señor,” explained Andy. “You are the first man—white man,” he corrected, “whom I have encountered. So naturally I have no permit such as you mention.”

The officer drew his brows together, pursed his small red mouth.

“No permit, hah! From over the mountains, hah! You are not Hudson’s Bay man! You are americano!” he accused.

A fleeting grave smile sketched Andy’s lips at the little man’s fussy excitement.

“Why, yes, señor lieutenant,” he acknowledged. “My name is Andrew Burnett,” he added.

“This is important. This must be seen to. At once. You are under arrest,” he stated suddenly.

The grave smile reappeared on Andy’s lips and stayed there. The muzzle of the long rifle shifted slightly but significantly.

“That is as may be, señor,” said he.

“But let us not be hasty; let us consider.” The Mexican’s eyes shifted, and he paled slightly. “The situation is most irregular. Dismount, señor, and let us discuss this matter.” He signed, almost imperceptibly, with his hand, and the four men gathered their reins and turned their horses.

“Willingly, señor lieutenant; but alone,” replied Andy; then, with a snap in his voice and a flash in his gray eyes, “Order your men to stay where they are!” Again the long rifle shifted, until now its muzzle pointed toward the officer’s chest. The Mexican shouted a command. The soldiers stopped; drew together in a group, and began indifferently to roll cigarettes.

The officer dismounted. Andy too swung himself from his saddle. The two men squatted on their heels together. Above them stood the horses. The Mexican’s animal was a fine beast. From the corner of his eye Andy surveyed its proportions with admiration. It stood like a statue, its head high, its little ears pricked forward, turning over and over on its tongue the metal rollers of its bit.

“The situation is complicated,” repeated the lieutenant. The truculence had evaporated from his manner. He was all smiles. His bearing was intimate, as though he took Andy into his confidence, asking him to share his difficulties. “It is my duty to escort you to the Governor, señor. But I am on campaign. I fight the Indians.” He swelled his chest beneath the cuero and slapped himself vigorously. “I am an Indian fighter, señor. That is my duty in the army. Were you not a stranger, señor, you would know the name of Cortilla.” He produced tobacco and corn husks, which he offered politely; then, on Andy’s refusal, proceeded to roll a cigarette and to puff the tobacco fiercely through his nostrils. “I have fought many campaigns. It is sufficient that these others learn that Cortilla is afield. They flee, they scatter, their rancherías are abandoned. Them I burn,” he added; then, as an afterthought, “But perhaps you too have fought the Indians, there, across the mountains, señor? If so, you can appreciate the difficulties and the hardships of a soldier’s life.”

To the mountain man, new come from a long sojourn among the warlike tribes of the plains and ranges, from the winter blizzards and summer “dry scrapes” of the wilderness of the “Great American Desert,” riding about in this lovely land in pursuit of such simple savages as he had seen looked more like a picnic than a campaign. But he agreed politely.

“These Indians make war on your people?” he asked.

The Mexican explained. The missions and ranches of the Spanish occupation were all near the coast. The Indians there were Christians, civilized by the efforts of the padres.

“A cattle, señor,” said the officer contemptuously, “but useful.”

Back of this narrow strip lay the broad valleys and the Sierra, a wild country, visited by no man in his senses except at the call of duty. Here dwelt the wild tribes, the “gentiles.” They were lower than cattle, mere beasts. No one disturbed them.

“Save when the good padres need converts, señor.”

But these gentiles would not stay put. Every so often they made raids. Then they must be pursued. And the duty of pursuit fell upon him, Jesús María Corbedo de Cortilla. It was a hard life.

“You have not a large force, señor,” observed Andy.

“Stout hearts! Strong arms!”

Nevertheless, thought Andy, these gentiles could not be very formidable. He questioned. It developed that the warfare was not a matter of much bloodshed. The Indians raided with one object in view, to steal horses. This they accomplished at night, without attempting to come in conflict with the rancheros, indeed with a very successful determination to keep out of sight. Then the soldiers were sent out in pursuit. Ordinarily they succeeded in recovering most of the stolen animals, for the trail was easy to follow, driven animals moved more slowly than mounted men, and the raiders scattered without resistance when overtaken.

“Like quail, like rabbits, señor,” complained the lieutenant, “in the bush, the barrancas, in the mountains where horses cannot go.”

Nevertheless, he talked largely of doughty deeds, trying to convey the impression of terrible slaughters and reprisals. Andy’s shrewdness and experience read between the lines. He began to be slightly amused. These excursions to him took on more and more the character of picnics. Andy was tough and hard from his ten years in the trapping country. About the only hardship he could discover in the situation was the necessity of wearing the many-plied cueros of antelope skin—if it was a necessity. They must be very hot. Sometimes the raiders managed to get clear away with their booty. Then, it seemed, they did not ride the horses, they ate them! This was the culminating grievance.

That was the present case. Don Sylvestre Cordero had been relieved of a whole manada of breeding mares. The savages had managed to confuse their trail and had wholly disappeared. It developed that some of the mares belonged to Cortilla himself! So he had pushed on in hope of vengeance, much farther to the north than he had ever been before.

“I circle wide to cut the trail,” he cried. “My men are expert at tracking. Soon I shall meet with these roto cabrones! And they shall learn that it is not well to affront Jesús María Corbedo de Cortilla—and the Mexican government!” he added. “You encountered no such people?” he asked.

“Oh, I met some Indians,” said Andy carelessly, “but they were not the people you are looking for. They were friendly. I don’t think, by the way they acted, they had ever seen a white man before. They had no horses.”

The young officer brooded darkly for a moment, then turned upon Andy a countenance beaming with friendliness. Andy had listened well, and it was evident that Jesús María had talked himself into a liking for so respectful an audience. And he still had an eye on the long rifle lying in apparent carelessness across the young man’s lap.

“As for this present difficulty,” said he, “I should, as I said, escort you to the capitol. But I am on other duty, and Jesús María Corbedo de Cortilla never shrinks from duty. I will take your word. You will ride to the Governor. You will report to him. You will say that I have sent you. Thus all will be regular.”

“I have never had other intention,” said Andy simply.

“Bueno!” cried the officer gayly. “Then, señor, we shall meet again. And know this, I, Jesús María Corbedo de Cortilla, am an intimate of the new governor who comes, Figueroa. We are like that,” he laid his two forefingers side by side. “A word in his ear, eh? We shall see!”

“Thanks, señor,” said Andy. “Vaya con Dios.”

He mounted and drew aside to watch the little cavalcade pass. The soldiers, he thought, were rather stupid looking, though they sat their horses gracefully and well. They glanced at him sullenly as they passed, lowered resentfully at their officer’s sharp command. They, too, wore the antelope skin cuero de gamuza and the glazed flat hats. They too carried swords, but no pistols. But they were armed further with long lances and short guns slung under the leather skirts of their saddles, and swathed heavily in fox skins, the tails dangling. It crossed Andy’s mind that the battle would be about over before they could bring these clumsy smoothbores into action. As additional defense each bore a round rawhide shield. These had been varnished and painted with the arms of Mexico. They presented a very gay but not particularly warlike appearance.

“I think, señor,” Andy called after them, “that you will do better to swing to the east. I saw no sign in the north.”

The Mexican waved his hand gayly and rode on.