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Scalp Hunters

<h3>Chapter Fifty Three.</h3> <h4>A Conflict upon a Cliff.</h4> My horse, idle for days, had recovered his full action, and bore me up the rocky path with proud, springy step. My nerves drew vigour from his, and the strength of my body was fast returning. It was well. I would soon be called upon to use it. The picket was still to be passed. While escaping from the town, in the excitement of the more proximate peril I had not thought of this ulterior one. I now remembered it. It flashed upon me of a sudden, and I commenced gathering my resolution to meet it. I knew there was a picket upon the mountain! Sanchez had said so; he had heard them say so. What number of men composed it? Sanchez had said two, but he was not certain of this. Two would be enough, more than enough for me, still weak, and armed as I was with a weapon in the use of which I had little skill. How would they be armed? Doubtless with bows, lances, tomahawks, and knives. The odds were all against me. At what point should I find them? They were videttes. Their chief duty was to watch the plains without. They would be at some station, then, commanding a view of these. I remembered the road well—the same by which we had first entered the valley. There was a platform near the western brow of the sierra. I recollected it, for we had halted upon it while our guide went forward to reconnoitre. A cliff overhung this platform. I remembered that too; for during the absence of the guide, Seguin and I had dismounted and climbed it. It commanded a view of the whole outside country to the south and west. No doubt, then, on that very cliff would the videttes be stationed. Would they be on its top? If so, it might be best to make a dash, and pass them before they could descend to the road, running the risk of their missiles, their arrows and lances. Make a dash! No; that would be impossible. I remembered that the path at both ends of the platform narrowed to a width of only a few feet, with the cliff rising above it and the cañon yawning below. It was, in fact, only a ledge of the precipice, along which it was dangerous to pass even at a walk. Moreover, I had re-shod my horse at the mission. The iron was worn smooth; and I knew that the rock was as slippery as glass. All these thoughts passed through my mind as I neared the summit of the sierra. The prospect was appalling. The peril before me was extreme, and under other circumstances I would have hesitated to encounter it. But I knew that that which threatened from behind was not less desperate. There was no alternative; and with only half-formed resolutions as to how I should act, I pushed forward. I rode with caution, directing my horse as well as I could upon the softer parts of the trail, so that his hoof-strokes might not be heard. At every turn I halted, and scanned the profile of each new prospect; but I did not halt longer than I could help. I knew that I had no time to waste. The road ascended through a thin wood of cedars and dwarf pinons. It would zigzag up the face of the mountain. Near the crest of the sierra it turned sharply to the right, and trended in to the brow of the cañon. There the ledge already mentioned became the path, and the road followed its narrow terrace along the very face of the precipice. On reaching this point I caught view of the cliff where I expected to see the vidette. I had guessed correctly—he was there, and, to my agreeable surprise, there was only one: a single savage. He was seated upon the very topmost rock of the sierra, and his large brown body was distinctly visible, outlined against the pale blue sky. He was not more than three hundred yards from me, and about a third of that distance above the level of the ledge along which I had to pass. I halted the moment I caught sight of him, and sat making a hurried reconnaissance. As yet he had neither seen nor heard me. His back was to me, and he appeared to be gazing intently towards the west. Beside the rock on which he was, his spear was sticking in the ground, and his shield, bow, and quiver were leaning against it. I could see upon his person the sparkle of a knife and tomahawk. I have said my reconnaissance was a hurried one. I was conscious of the value of every moment, and almost at a glance I formed my resolution. That was, to “run the gauntlet,” and attempt passing before the Indian could descend to intercept me. Obedient to this impulse, I gave my animal the signal to move forward. I rode slowly and cautiously, for two reasons: because my horse dared not go otherwise; and I thought that, by riding quietly, I might get beyond the vidette without attracting his notice. The torrent was hissing below. Its roar ascended to the cliff; it might drown the sound of the hoof-strokes. With this hope I stole onward. My eye passed rapidly from one to the other; from the savage on the cliff to the perilous path along which my horse crawled, shivering with affright. When I had advanced about six lengths upon the ledge, the platform came in view, and with it a group of objects that caused me to reach suddenly forward and grasp the forelock of my Moro—a sign by which, in the absence of a bit, I could always halt him. He came at once to a stand, and I surveyed the objects before me with a feeling of despair. They were two horses, mustangs; and a man, an Indian. The mustangs, bridled and saddled, were standing quietly out upon the platform; and a lasso, tied to the bit-ring of one of them, was coiled around the wrist of the Indian. The latter was sitting upon his hams, close up to the cliff, so that his back touched the rock. His arms lay horizontally across his knees, and upon these his head rested. I saw that he was asleep. Beside him were his bow and quiver, his lance and shield, all leaning against the cliff. My situation was a terrible one. I knew that I could not pass him without being heard, and I knew that pass him I must. In fact, I could not have gone back had I wished it; for I had already entered upon the ledge, and was riding along a narrow shelf where my horse could not possibly have turned himself. All at once, the idea entered my mind that I might slip to the ground, steal forward, and with my tomahawk— It was a cruel thought, but it was the impulse of instinct, the instinct of self-preservation. It was not decreed that I should adopt so fearful an alternative. Moro, impatient at being delayed in the perilous position, snorted and struck the rock with his hoof. The clink of the iron was enough for the sharp ears of the Spanish horses. They neighed on the instant. The savages sprang to their feet, and their simultaneous yell told me that both had discovered me. I saw the vidette upon the cliff pluck up his spear, and commence hurrying downward; but my attention was soon exclusively occupied with his comrade. The latter, on seeing me, had leaped to his feet, seized his bow, and vaulted, as if mechanically, upon the back of his mustang. Then, uttering a wild shout, he trotted over the platform, and advanced along the ledge to meet me. An arrow whizzed past my head as he came up; but in his hurry he had aimed badly. Our horses’ heads met. They stood muzzle to muzzle <ANTIMG src="images/sclph290.jpg" alt=""> with eyes dilated, their red nostrils steaming into each other. Both snorted fiercely, as if each was imbued with the wrath of his rider. They seemed to know that a death-strife was between us. They seemed conscious, too, of their own danger. They had met at the very narrowest part of the ledge. Neither could have turned or backed off again. One or other must go over the cliff—must fall through a depth of a thousand feet into the stony channel of the torrent! I sat with a feeling of utter helplessness. I had no weapon with which I could reach my antagonist; no missile. He had his bow, and I saw him adjusting a second arrow to the string. At this crisis three thoughts passed through my mind; not as I detail them here, but following each other like quick flashes of lightning. My first impulse was to urge my horse forward, trusting to his superior weight to precipitate the lighter animal from the ledge. Had I been worth a bridle and spurs, I should have adopted this plan; but I had neither, and the chances were too desperate without them. I abandoned it for another. I would hurl my tomahawk at the head of my antagonist. No! The third thought! I will dismount, and use my weapon upon the mustang. This last was clearly the best; and, obedient to its impulse, I slipped down between Moro and the cliff. As I did so, I heard the “hist” of another arrow passing my cheek. It had missed me from the suddenness of my movements. In an instant I squeezed past the flanks of my horse, and glided forward upon the ledge, directly in front of my adversary. The animal, seeming to guess my intentions, snorted with affright and reared up, but was compelled to drop again into the same tracks. The Indian was fixing another shaft. Its notch never reached the string. As the hoofs of the mustang came down upon the rock, I aimed my blow. I struck the animal over the eye. I felt the skull yielding before my hatchet, and the next moment horse and rider, the latter screaming and struggling to clear himself of the saddle, disappeared over the cliff. There was a moment’s silence, a long moment, in which I knew they were falling—falling—down that fearful depth. Then came a loud splash, the concussion of their united bodies on the water below! I had no curiosity to look over, and as little time. When I regained my upright attitude (for I had come to my knees in giving the blow), I saw the vidette just leaping upon the platform. He did not halt a moment, but advanced at a run, holding his spear at the charge. I saw that I should be impaled unless I could parry the thrust. I struck wildly, but with success. The lance-blade glinted from the head of my weapon. Its shaft passed me; and our bodies met with a shock that caused us both to reel upon the very edge of the cliff. As soon as I had recovered my balance, I followed up my blows, keeping close to my antagonist, so that he could not again use his lance. Seeing this, he dropped the weapon and drew his tomahawk. We now fought hand to hand, hatchet to hatchet! Backward and forward along the ledge we drove each other, as the advantage of the blows told in favour of either, or against him. Several times we grappled, and would have pushed each other over; but the fear that each felt of being dragged after mutually restrained us, and we let go, and trusted again to our tomahawks. Not a word passed between us. We had nothing to say, even could we have understood each other. But we had no boast to make, no taunt to urge, nothing before our minds but the fixed dark purpose of murdering one another! After the first onset the Indian had ceased yelling, and we both fought in the intense earnestness of silence. There were sounds, though: an occasional sharp exclamation, our quick, high breathing, the clinking of our tomahawks, the neighing of our horses, and the continuous roar of the torrent. These were the symphonies of our conflict. For some minutes we battled upon the ledge. We were both cut and bruised in several places, but neither of us had as yet received or inflicted a mortal wound. At length, after a continuous shower of blows, I succeeded in beating my adversary back, until we found ourselves out upon the platform. There we had ample room to wind our weapons, and we struck with more energy than ever. After a few strokes, our tomahawks met, with a violent concussion, that sent them flying from our hands. Neither dared stoop to regain his weapon; and we rushed upon each other with naked arms, clutched, wrestled a moment, and then fell together to the earth. I thought my antagonist had a knife. I must have been mistaken, otherwise he would have used it; but without it, I soon found that in this species of encounter he was my master. His muscular arms encircled me until my ribs cracked under the embrace. We rolled along the ground, over and over each other. Oh, God! we were nearing the edge of the precipice. I could not free myself from his grasp. His sinewy fingers were across my throat. They clasped me tightly around the trachea, stopping my breath. He was strangling me. I grew weak and nerveless. I could resist no longer. I felt my hold relax. I grew weaker and weaker. I was dying. I was—I—Oh, Heaven! pard—on. Oh—! <hr /> I could not have been long insensible; for when consciousness returned I was still warm, sweating from the effects of the struggle, and my wounds were bleeding freshly and freely. I felt that I yet lived. I saw that I was still upon the platform; but where was my antagonist? Why had not he finished me? Why had not he flung me over the cliff? I rose upon my elbow and looked around. I could see no living things but my own horse and that of the Indian galloping over the platform, kicking and plunging at each other. But I heard sounds, sounds of fearful import, like the hoarse, angry worrying of dogs, mingling with the cries of a human voice—a voice uttered in agony! What could it mean? I saw that there was a break in the platform, a deep cut in the rock; and out of this the sounds appeared to issue. I rose to my feet, and, tottering towards the spot, looked in. It was an awful sight to look upon. The gully was some ten feet in depth; and at its bottom, among the weeds and cacti, a huge dog was engaged in tearing something that screamed and struggled. It was a man, an Indian. All was explained at a glance. The dog was Alp; the man was my late antagonist! As I came upon the edge, the dog was on the top of his adversary, and kept himself uppermost by desperate bounds from side to side, still dashing the other back as he attempted to rise to his feet. The savage was crying in despair. I thought I saw the teeth of the animal fast in his throat, but I watched the struggle no longer. Voices from behind caused me to turn round. My pursuers had reached the cañon, and were urging their animals along the ledge. I staggered to my horse, and, springing upon his back, once more directed him to the terrace—that part which led outward. In a few minutes I had cleared the cliff and was hurrying down the mountain. As I approached its foot I heard a rustling in the bushes that on both sides lined the path. Then an object sprang out a short distance behind me. It was the Saint Bernard. As he came alongside he uttered a low whimper and once or twice wagged his tail. I knew not how he could have escaped, for he must have waited until the Indians reached the platform; but the fresh blood that stained his jaws, and clotted the shaggy hair upon his breast, showed that he had left one with but little power to detain him. On reaching the plain I looked back. I saw my pursuers coming down the face of the sierra; but I had still nearly half a mile of start, and, taking the snowy mountain for my guide, I struck out into the open prairie. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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