The Lost Gold of the Montezumas: A Story of the Alamo

by William Osborn Stoddard

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE RACE FOR THE CHAPARRAL.

  It was a bugle and not a drum that summoned the garrison to answer attheir morning roll-call.

  "Bowie," said Colonel Travis, just after he had dismissed the men, "Idon't want to ask too much. You're not under my orders, but I wishyou'd take a pretty strong patrol and scout off southerly. The Lipanscamped off toward San Antonio, but I'd like to feel sure that GreatBear kept his promise and rode straight away. He isn't heavy onpromise-keeping."

  "Not where scalps are in it," said Bowie. "He's in bad humor. I'llgo."

  "You bet," remarked Crockett. "Castro hasn't many braves with him.He'll be bare-headed before night if the Comanches can light onto him."

  "All right," said Bowie; "but they won't strike us just now. I don'twant Castro wiped out. We're old friends."

  "Mount your men well," said Travis to Bowie. "You may have hardriding. Don't fight either tribe if you can help it. I must be off onHouston's orders as soon as I can get away."

  "I'll take a dozen," replied Bowie. "The fort 'll be safe enough justnow."

  No further orders were given, but he picked both his men and hishorses, and he seemed to know them all.

  They were good ones, the riders especially. They were all veterans,trained and tried and hardened in Indian warfare, and ready foranything that might turn up. They went into their saddles at the wordof command as if they were setting out for a merry-making, and thelittle column passed through the gate-way two abreast, followed aminute later by their temporary commander.

  The Texan rangers were armed as well as was possible at that date. TheColt's revolver had but just been invented, and the first specimens ofthat deadly weapon found their way to Texas a few months later. Barelytwo small six-shooters came in 1836, but these opened the market, andthere was a full supply, large pattern, sent on in 1837.

  Just now, however, each man had horse-pistols in holsters at thesaddle. In each man's belt were smaller weapons, of various shapes andsizes, and not one of them failed to carry a first-rate rifle. All hadsabres as well as knives, but they were not lancers. On the contrary,they were inclined to despise the favorite weapon of the plains red menand of the Mexican cavalry.

  Bowie was now at the front, and he appeared to have some reason of hisown for making haste.

  No such indication was given, however, by an entirely different body ofhorsemen, five times as numerous, which was at that hour riding acrossthe prairie, several miles to the southeastward. These, too, seemed tohave a well-understood errand.

  Their leader was about two hundred yards in advance of the main body,and he paused upon the crest of every "rising ground" as he went, totake swift, searching glances in all directions.

  "Great Bear is a great chief!" he loudly declared. "He will teachCastro and the Lipan dogs a lesson. They have set Travis against theComanches. Castro shall not ride into Chihuahua. I will hang hisscalp to dry in my own lodge. I will strike the Mexicans. Ugh!"

  He spoke in his own tongue, and then he seemed to be inclined to repeathimself in Spanish, for he was an angry man that day. It was not atall likely that he would prove over-particular whether his next victimswere red or white, and he evidently did not consider himself any longerwithin neutral territory.

  Suddenly the Comanche war-chief straightened in his saddle, turned hishead, and sent back to his warriors a prolonged, ear-piercing whoop.

  A chorus of fierce yells answered him, and the slow movement of thewild-looking array changed into a swift, pell-mell gallop.

  It had been a whoop of discovery. At no great distance from the knollupon which Great Bear had sounded his war-cry a voice as shrill and asfierce, although not as powerful, replied to him with the battle-yellof the Lipans. In another instant, the wiry mustang which carried anIndian boy was springing away at his best pace eastward. Probably itwas well for his rider that the race before him was to be run with alight weight.

  Red Wolf was all alone, but if Great Bear was hunting Lipans, they, ontheir part, were on the lookout for Comanches. Their cunning chief hadread, as clearly as had Travis, the wrathful face of Great Bear. Hehad camped for one night in the comparatively secure vicinity of SanAntonio. Shortly after he and his braves began their homeward ridethat morning, he had given to his son and to several others orderswhich were accompanied by swift gesticulations that rendered many wordsneedless. What he said to Red Wolf might have been translated,--

  "We are to strike the chaparral on a due south line from the fort.Ride a mile to the west of our line of march. Keep your eye out forenemies. If you see any, get back to us full speed. Great Bear hassixty braves. Maybe more. We are only twenty. He would wipe us out."

  Away went Red Wolf. He was only a scout, but he was a youngster doingwarrior duty, and he felt as if the fate of the whole band dependedupon him. It was another big thing to add to his remarkableexperiences of the day before,--a fort, guns, a grand cock-fight, andthe heroes of the border,--white chiefs who were famous among all thetribes. More than all, and he said so as he rode onward, he had beenspoken to by the Big Knife of the palefaces, and he had not only seenbut had handled the "heap medicine knife" itself. He was now almost abrave, with a name given him by the hero, his father's friend, and hewas burning all over with a fever to do something worthy of the changein his circumstances.

  He was well mounted, for he was the son of a chief, and there had beena drove of all sorts to select from. The mustang under him was abright sorrel,--a real beauty, full of fire, and now and then showingthat he possessed his full share of the high temper belonging to hishalf-wild pedigree.

  Mile after mile went by at an easy gait, and the watchful scout hadseen nothing more dangerous than a rabbit or a deer. He was beginningto feel disappointed, as if his luck were leaving him. It was hardupon a fellow who was so tremendously ready for an adventure if nonewas to be had. He even grew less persistently busy with his eyes, andlet his thoughts go back to the fort.

  "Heap big gun," he was remarking to himself. "Kill a heap. Shoot awayoff."

  At that instant his pony sprang forward with a nervous bound, for hisquick ears had caught the first notes of Great Bear's thrillingwar-whoop. Red Wolf went with him as if he were part of him, while hedrew the rein hard and sent back his shrill reply.

  "Great Bear!" he exclaimed. "Catch Red Wolf? Ugh! No! Take heapComanche hair."

  The other warriors were not yet in sight, but there was a great deal of"boy" in his boastful threat, considering the known prowess of theirleader.

  The sorrel pony was having his own way, and the horse carrying GreatBear must have been not only fast but strong, or he would have beenleft behind in short order. It was not so, however; and now, as higherrolls of the prairie were reached and climbed, the entire yelling bandwere now and then seen by the young Lipan.

  "Poor pony!" he remarked of some of them, for their line was drawingout longer as the better animals raced to the front and the slower fellto the rear. All were doing their best, and some were even catching upwith Great Bear. It would, therefore, be really of no use for Red Wolfto stop and kill him, unless he were ready, also, to take in hand andscalp a number of other warriors.

  "What Red Wolf do now? Ugh!"

  It was a question which was running through his mind hot-footed, and itwas not at first easy to shape a satisfactory answer.

  A white boy would have been likely to have let it answer itself. Hewould have ridden as straight as he could to rejoin the band of Lipansand to tell his father that the Comanches were coming. He would havethought only of getting them to help him in his proposed fight withGreat Bear.

  Red Wolf was an Indian boy. All his life, thus far, he had beengetting lessons in Indian war-methods. He had heard the talks andtales of chiefs and noted braves in their camps and councils. He had,therefore, been taught in a redskin academy of the best kind, and hewas a credit to his professors.

  "Ugh! No!" he exclaimed, at last. "Comanch
e find chaparral. No findLipan."

  He had no need to urge his pony, but he rode southward, not eastward.Already, in the distance, he could see the endless, ragged border ofthe chaparral. It began with scattered trees and bushes out on theprairie. These increased in number and in closeness to each other,until they thickened into the dense, many-pathed labyrinth. Thepursuers also could see, and they could understand that if the fugitivethey were following was leading them toward Castro's party, they mustclose up to him now or never.

  The whoops which burst from them as they dashed along were loud, butshort, sharp, excited.

  "Whoop big!" shouted Red Wolf. "Heap yell! Castro hear whoop."

  He had noted that the wind was blowing in the right direction. Itcould carry a sound upon its wings far away to the eastward, but twovery different kinds of human ears received and understood the fiercemusic the chasers were making.

  "Forward! Gallop!" rang from the heavily-bearded lips of the commanderof horsemen coming from the northward.

  "Comanches! Colonel Bowie!" shouted a grizzled veteran behind him."That's Great Bear's band, you bet!"

  Another whoop swept by them on the wind as Bowie replied to him,--

  "And they've struck the Lipans, I'm afraid. We must try and get intoit before too much mischief's done. On, boys! We'll give him alesson."

  Silence followed, but the men looked at the locks of their rifles andfelt of their belt pistols as they went forward. It was no lightmatter to act as police, or even as peacemakers, in that part of theworld.

  The other listeners were nearer and could hear more distinctly, but nosound was uttered by the warriors with Castro when their chief drew hisrein and held up a hand. Every man of them knew, or thought he knew,just what it all meant, but more news was coming.

  One brave who had been some distance in their rear, as a lookout inthat direction, came on at full speed, followed by another whose dutieshad detailed him more to the westward. Both brought the same errand,for the first exclaimed, as he came within speaking range,--

  "Ugh! Heap Texan," and the other, whose eyes may have been sharper,added, "Big Knife! Many rifle?"

  "Comanche! Great Bear!" roared Castro, in a deep-toned, wrathfulvoice. "Red Wolf lose hair! Ugh! Chaparral!"

  He knew that his son must in some way have been the immediate cause ofthat whooping, but his first duty as a leader was to save his party,letting his vengeance wait for a better opportunity. He led on,therefore, toward the only possible refuge, muttering as he went.

  "Ugh!" he said. "Heap boy. Run against Comanche! Young chief! Ugh!Go to bushes. No good wait for Big Knife. Not enough Texan. Too manyComanche."

  He might well be anxious concerning his promising son, but Red Wolf'shair was yet upon his head, for the wind tossed it well as his fleetmustang carried him past the outermost clump of mesquit-bushes.

  "Whoop!" he yelled. "Red Wolf beat Great Bear! All Lipans get away.Ugh!"

  He had not beaten his pursuer by more than two hundred yards, however,and several other Comanches were now as near as was their chief.

  Could there be such a thing as an escape from all of them? Would notthe entire swarm go in after him and surely find him, no matter whatpath he might take? The situation looked awfully doubtful in spite ofthe moderate advantage which he had thus far maintained.

  Closer grew the trees. Nearer to each other were the thick "tow-heads"of bushes. On went Red Wolf, veering to the left around eachsuccessive cover, but seeming to push directly into the chaparral. Itwas a complete cover now, and he was well hidden at the next sharp,sudden turn that he made to the eastward.

  Paths, paths, paths, fan-like, but that none of them were straight, andfan-like was the spreading out of the wily Comanches. Or perhaps theywere more like a lot of mounted, lance-bearing spiders, that were goingin to catch a young Lipan fly in that web.

  As for him, he had whooped his very loudest just before he reached thechaparral, and a gust of wind had helped him like a brother. AgainCastro had raised a hand, but now he shouted fiercely,--

  "Hear heap boy! Red Wolf! No lose hair yet. Ugh! Whoop!"

  For all he knew, nevertheless, he may have been listening to the lastbattle-cry of his brave son. He and his braves were at that momentriding in among the bushes, while more than half a mile away, upon theprairie, galloped Bowie and his riflemen.

  "Reckon we'll git thar jest about in time to see 'em count the skelps,"remarked one ranger.

  "Reckon not," replied another. "Those Lipans are as safe asjack-rabbits if once they kin fetch the chaparral."

  Red Wolf had reached it, but he was by no means safe. Great Bearhimself had dashed in so recklessly that he and his first handful offast racers were galloping upon the wrong paths. They discovered theirerror, or thought they did, in a minute or so, but a minute was ofimportance just then. They lost it before a kind of instinct told themto wheel eastward if they expected to find the Lipans.

  That had been the direction taken by one of their best-mounted comradeson entering the chaparral, and the soft thud of his horse's hoofs hadnow reached the quick ears of Red Wolf.

  "Ugh!" he exclaimed. "One!"

  He had pulled in his panting pony, and he now unslung his bow and putan arrow on the string.

  "Red Wolf young chief!" he said. "Wait for Comanche! Tell Big Knife!"

  It was not altogether imprudence or bad management to let hishard-pushed mustang breathe for a few moments. It might be calledcunning to let his enemies go by him if they would. But stronger thanany cunning, or than any prudence concerning his horse, was his burningambition to do something that he could boast of afterwards. What iscalled Indian boasting is only the white man's love of fame in anotherform. Each red hero is his own newspaper, and has to do his ownreporting of his feats of arms.

  The hoof-beats came nearer, swiftly, upon a path which crossed his ownat the bushes behind which he had halted.

  Twang went the bow, the arrow sped, and a screeching death-whoopfollowed. The Lipan boy did but prove himself altogether a son ofCastro when he sprang to the ground and secured his bloody war-trophyat the risk of his life. The pony and the weapons of the fallen bravewere also taken. Then once more Red Wolf was on the sorrel dashingonward, while behind him rose the angry yells of the Comanches, who hadheard the death-cry and knew that one of their number had "gone under."

  "Ugh! Heap boy! Save hair!" was the hoarse-toned greeting given tohis son by Castro three minutes later.

  "Comanche!" said Red Wolf, holding up his gory prize. "Great Bearcome. Not many braves right away. Too many pretty soon. Heap run.Ugh!"

  Castro understood the situation well enough without much explanation,and his prospects did not seem to be very good. He and his braves weretoo few to win a pitched battle and too many for concealment.

  "Ugh!" he replied to Red Wolf. "Great chief no run. Die hard. Heapfight."

  The one thing in his favor was the first mistake made by Great Bear.It had kept him from being in person among the next half-dozen of thebraves who had gone to the left, so very close upon the heels of RedWolf. Even their wrath for the fate of their foremost man did but sendthem on the more recklessly to avenge him. They whooped savagely asthey galloped past his body at the crossing of the paths. They stillbelieved they had only one Lipan to deal with, but they were terriblyundeceived, for their blind rush into the presence of Castro and hiswarriors was as if they had fallen into a skilfully set ambuscade.They were taken by surprise, outnumbered, almost helpless, and downthey went, not one of them escaping.

  Away behind them, the fast-arriving main body of the Comanches listenedto the death-shouts and to the Lipan whoops of triumph, and they obeyedthe astonished yell with which their leader summoned them to gather tohim at the spot where he had halted.

  "Too many Lipan," he said, to a brave who rode in with a kind ofreport. "Castro great chief. Heap snake. No let him catch Great Bearin chaparral trap. Wait. Comanche fool. Lose hair for
nothing. RedWolf heap young brave. Kill him dead."

  That was indeed fame for the young Lipan warrior. Not only had he beenrecognized by his pursuer, but the great war-chief of the Comanchesbelieved that the son of his old enemy was proving himself anotherCastro, as courageous and as cunning as his father. A mere boy, notyet sixteen, had become of such importance that he must be killed off,if possible, to prevent the future harm that he would be likely to do.

  Red Wolf's ambuscade had not been of his own planning, but he hadperformed his accidental part of it remarkably well.

  "Red Wolf, young chief! Son of Castro!" said his father, proudly."Big Knife good medicine. Saw boy. Old friend tell name. Ugh! Good!"

  To his mind, therefore, Colonel Bowie had been a kind of war-prophet,declaring the capacity of the boy he had named, giving him "goodmedicine," or tremendous good luck, and now his correctness as aprophet had been unexpectedly established. So said more than one ofthe Lipans who had been at the fort and had witnessed the performancewith the wonderful medicine knife.

  Now, during a number of minutes, all the chaparral was still, for eventhe wild creatures were hiding and the human beings talked by motionsand not by spoken words. Not one of the latter, on either side, couldas yet shape for himself a trustworthy idea concerning the numbers orthe precise locality of his enemies. All had dismounted, however, andthe hard-ridden horses had a chance to recover their wind. No lessthan seven of them, that had been very good Comanche ponies thatmorning, had now changed their tribe and had become Lipans, whetherthey would or not.