The Trail-Hunter: A Tale of the Far West

by Gustave Aimard

  CHAPTER IV.

  SUNBEAM.

  We will now go a little way back, in order to clear up certain portionsof the conversation between Valentine and Unicorn, whose meaning thereader can not have caught.

  Only a few months after their arrival in Apacheria the Frenchman andCurumilla were hunting the buffalo on the banks of the Rio Gila. It wasa splendid day in the month of July. The two hunters, fatigued by a longmarch under the beams of the parching sun, that fell vertically on theirheads, had sheltered themselves under a clump of cedar wood trees, and,carelessly stretched out on the ground, were smoking while waiting tillthe great heat had passed, and the evening breeze rose to enable them tocontinue their hunt. A quarter of elk was roasting for their dinner.

  "Eh, _penni_," Valentine said, addressing his comrade, and rising on hiselbow, "the dinner seems to be ready; so suppose we feed? The sun israpidly sinking behind the virgin forest, and we shall soon have tostart again."

  "Eat," Curumilla answered, sharply.

  The meat was laid on a leaf between the two hunters, who began eatingwith good appetite, and indulging in cakes of _hautle_. These cakes,which are very good, are certainly curious. They are made of the poundedeggs of a species of water bug, collected by a sort of harvest in theMexican lakes. They are found on the leaves of the _toule_ (bulrush),and the farina is prepared in various ways. It is an Aztec preparation_par excellence_, for so long back as 1625 they were sold on themarketplace of the Mexican capital. They form the chief food of theIndians, who consider them as great a dainty as the Chinese do theirswallow nests, with which this article of food has a certain resemblancein taste. Valentine had taken a third bite at his hautle cake when hestopped, with his arm raised and his head bent forward, as if an unusualsound had suddenly smitten his ear. Curumilla imitated his friend, andboth listened with that deep attention that only results from alengthened desert life; for on the prairie every sound issuspicious--every meeting is feared, especially with man.

  Some time elapsed ere the noise which startled the hunters was repeated.For a moment they fancied themselves deceived, and Valentine tookanother bite, when he was again checked. This time he had distinctlyheard a sound resembling a stifled sigh, but so weak and hollow that itneeded the Trail-hunter's practised ear to catch it. Curumilla himselfhad perceived nothing. He looked at his friend in amazement, not knowingto what he should attribute his state of agitation. Valentine rosehurriedly, seized his rifle, and rushed in the direction of the river,his friend following him in all haste.

  It was from the river, in fact, that the sigh heard by Valentine hadcome, and fortunately it was but a few paces distant. So soon as thehunters had leaped over the intervening bushes they found themselves onthe bank, and a fearful sight presented itself to their startled eyes. Along plank was descending the river, turning on its axis, and borne bythe current, which ran rather strongly at this point. On this plank wasfastened a woman, who held a child in her clasped arms. Each time theplank revolved the unhappy woman plunged with her child into the stream,and at ten yards at the most from it an enormous cayman was swimmingvigorously to snap at its two victims.

  Valentine raised his rifle. Curumilla at the same moment glided into thewater, holding his knife blade between his teeth, and swam toward theplank. Valentine remained for a few seconds motionless, as if changedinto a block of marble. All at once he pulled the trigger, and thedischarge was re-echoed by the distant mountains. The cayman leaped outof the water, and plunged down again; but it reappeared a moment later,belly upwards. It was dead. Valentine's bullet had passed through itseye.

  In the meanwhile Curumilla, had reached the plank with a few strokes,without loss of time he turned it in the opposite direction from what itwas following; and while holding it so that it could not revolve, hepushed it onto the sand. In two strokes he cut the bonds that held thehapless woman, seized her in his arms, and ran off with her to thebivouac fire.

  The poor woman gave no signs of life, and the two hunters eagerly soughtto restore her. She was an Indian, apparently not more than eighteen,and very beautiful. Valentine found great difficulty in loosening herarms and removing the baby; for the frail creature about a year old, byan incomprehensible miracle, had been preserved--thanks, doubtless toits mother's devotion. It smiled pleasantly at the hunter when he laidit on a bed of dry leaves.

  Curumilla opened the woman's mouth slightly with his knife blade, placedin it the mouth of his gourd, and made her swallow a few drops ofmezcal. A long time elapsed ere she gave the slightest move thatindicated an approaching return to life. The hunters, however, would notbe foiled by the ill-success of their attentions, but redoubled theirefforts. At length a deep sigh burst painfully from the sufferer'soppressed chest, and she opened her eyes, murmuring in a voice weak as abreath!

  "_Xocoyotl_ (My child)!"

  The cry of the soul--this first and supreme appeal of a mother on theverge of the tomb--affected the two men with their hearts of bronze.Valentine cautiously lifted the child, which had gone to sleeppeacefully on the leaves, and presented it to the mother, saying in asoft voice:

  "_Nantli joltinemi_ (Mother, he lives)!"

  At these words, which restored her hope, the woman leaped up as if movedby a spring, seized the child, and covered it with kisses, as she burstinto tears. The hunters respected this outpouring of maternal love: theywithdrew, leaving food and water by the woman's side. At sunset the twomen returned. The woman was squatting by the fire, nursing her child,and lulling it to sleep by singing an Indian song. The night passedtranquilly, the two hunters watching in turn over the slumbers of thewoman they had saved, and who reposed in peace.

  At sunrise she awoke; and, with the skill and handiness peculiar to thewomen of her race, she rekindled the fire and prepared breakfast. Thetwo men looked at her with a smile, then threw their rifles over theirshoulders, and set out in search of game. When they returned to thebivouac the meal was ready. After eating, Valentine lit his Indian pipe,seated himself at the foot of a tree, and addressed the young woman.

  "What is my sister's name?" he asked.

  "Tonameyotl (the Sunbeam)," she replied, with a joyous smile thatrevealed the double row of pearls that adorned her mouth.

  "My sister has a pretty name," Valentine answered. "She doubtlessbelongs to the great nation of the Apaches."

  "The Apaches are dogs," she said in a hollow voice, and with a flash ofhatred in her glance. "The Comanche women will weave them petticoats.The Apaches are cowardly as the coyotes: they only fight a hundredagainst one. The Comanche warriors are like the tempest."

  "Is my sister the wife of a cacique?"

  "Where is the warrior who does not know Unicorn?" she said proudly.

  Valentine bowed. He had already heard the name of this terrible chiefpronounced several times. Mexicans and Indians, trappers, hunters, andwarriors, all felt for him a respect mingled with terror.

  "Sunbeam is Unicorn's wife," the Indian girl continued.

  "Good!" Valentine answered. "My sister will tell me where to find thevillage of her tribe, and I will lead her back to the chief."

  The young woman smiled.

  "I have in my heart a small bird that sings at every instant of theday," she said in her gentle and melodious voice. "The swallow cannotlive without its mate, and the chief is on the trail of Sunbeam."

  "We will wait the chief here, then," Valentine said.

  The hunter felt great pleasure in conversing with this simple child.

  "How was my sister thus fastened to the trunk of tree, and thrown intothe current of the Gila, to perish there with her child? It is anatrocious vengeance."

  "Yes, it is the vengeance of an Apache dog," she answered. "Aztatl (theHeron), daughter of Stanapat, the great chief of the Apaches, lovedUnicorn--her heart bounded at the mere name of the great Comanchewarrior; but the chief of my nation has only one heart, and it belongsto Sunbeam. Two days ago the warriors of my tribe set out for a greatbuffalo hunt, and the squaws alone remained in the village. Wh
ile Islept in my hut four Apache thieves, taking advantage of my slumber,seized me and my child, and delivered us into the hands of Stanapat'sdaughter. 'You love your husband,' she said with a grin: 'you doubtlesssuffer at being separated from him. Be happy: I will send you to him bythe shortest road. He is hunting on the prairies down the river, and intwo hours you will be in his arms, unless,' she added with a laugh, 'thecaymans stop you on the road.'--'The Comanche women despise death,' Ianswered her. 'For a hair you pluck from me, Unicorn will take thescalps of your whole tribe; so act as you think proper;' and I turned myhead away, resolved to answer her no more. She herself fastened me tothe log, with my face turned to the sky, in order, as she said, that Imight see my road; and then she hurled me into the river, yelling:'Unicorn is a cowardly rabbit, whom the Apache women despise. This ishow I revenge myself.' I have told my brother, the pale hunter,everything as it happened."

  "My sister is a brave woman," Valentine replied: "she is worthy to bethe wife of a renowned chief."

  The young mother smiled as she embraced her child, which she presented,with a movement full of grace, to the hunter, who kissed it on theforehead. At this moment the song of the maukawis was heard at a shortdistance off. The two hunters raised their heads in surprise, and lookedaround them.

  "The quail sings very late, I fancy," Valentine muttered suspiciously.

  The Indian girl smiled as she looked down, but gave no answer. Suddenlya slight cracking of dry branches disturbed the silence. Valentine andCurumilla made a move, as if to spring up and seize their rifles thatlay by their side.

  "My brothers must not stir," the squaw said quickly: "it is a friend."

  The hunters remained motionless, and the girl then imitated with rareperfection the cry of the blue jay. The bushes parted, and an Indianwarrior, perfectly painted and armed for war, bounded like a jackal overthe grass and herbs that obstructed his passage, and stopped in face ofthe hunters. This warrior was Unicorn. He saluted the two men with thatgrace innate in the Indian race; then he crossed his arms on his breastand waited, without taking a glance at his squaw, or even appearing tohave seen her. On her side the Indian woman did not stir.

  During several moments a painful silence fell on the four persons whomchance had assembled in so strange a way. At length Valentine, seeingthe warrior insisted on being silent, decided he would be the first tospeak.

  "Unicorn is welcome to our camp," he said. "Let him take a seat by thefire of his brothers, and share with them the provisions they possess."

  "I will take a seat by the fire of my paleface brother," he replied;"but he must first answer me a question I wish to ask of him."

  "My brother can speak: my ears are open."

  "Good!" the chief answered. "How is it the hunters have with themUnicorn's wife?"

  "Sunbeam can answer that question best," Valentine said gravely.

  The chief turned to his squaw.

  "I am waiting," he remarked.

  The Indian woman repeated, word for word, to her husband the story shehad told a few minutes before. Unicorn listened without evincing eithersurprise or wrath: his face remained impassive, but his brows wereimperceptibly contracted. When the woman had finished speaking, theComanche chief bowed his head on his chest, and remained for a momentplunged in serious thought. Presently he raised his head.

  "Who saved Sunbeam from the river when she was about to perish?" heasked her.

  The young woman's face lit up with a charming smile.

  "These hunters," she replied.

  "Good!" the chief said, laconically, as he bent on the two men glancesfull of the most unspeakable gratitude.

  "Could we leave her to perish?" Valentine said.

  "My brothers did well. Unicorn is one of the first sachems of hisnation. His tongue is not forked: he gives his heart once, and takes itback no more. Unicorn's heart belongs to the hunters."

  These simple words were uttered with the majesty and grandeur theIndians know so well how to assume when they think proper. The two menvowed their gratitude, and the chief continued:--

  "Unicorn is returning to his village with his wife: his young men areawaiting him twenty paces from here. He would be happy if the hunterswould consent to accompany him there."

  "Chief," Valentine answered, "we came into the prairie to hunt thebuffalo."

  "Well, what matter? My brothers will hunt with me and my young men; butif they wish to prove to me that they accept my friendship, they willfollow me to my village."

  "The chief is mounted, while we are on foot."

  "I have horses."

  Any further resistance would have been a breach of politeness, and thehunters accepted the invitation. Valentine, whom accident had brought onto the prairies of the Rio Gila and Del Norte, was in his heart notsorry to make friends there, and have allies on whose support he couldreckon in case of need. The squaw had by this time risen: she timidlyapproached her husband, and held up the child, saying in a soft andfrightened voice,--

  "Kiss this warrior."

  The chief took the frail creature in his muscular arms, and kissed itrepeatedly with a display of extraordinary tenderness, and then returnedit to the mother. The latter wrapped the babe in a small blanket, thenplaced it on a plank shaped like a cradle, and covered with dry moss,fastened a hoop over the place where its head rested, to guard it fromthe burning beams of the sun, and hung the whole on her back by means ofa woolen strap passing over her forehead.

  "I am ready," she said.

  "Let us go," the chief replied.

  The hunters followed him, and they were soon on the prairie.