MONSIEUR VIOLET (FISCLE PART-IV), FREDERICK MARRYAT [easy novels to read .txt] 📗

Among The Nations Which They Have

Sprung From.

 

 

 

The Third Tribe Of That Name Is Called pawnee Pict; These Are Of

Comanche Origin And Shoshone Race, Wearing Their Hair Long, And Speaking

The Same Language As All The Western Great Prairie Tribes. They Live

Upon The Red river, Which Forms The Boundary Betwixt North Texas And The

Western American Boundary, And Have Been Visited by Mr. Catlin, Who

Mentions Them In his Work. The Picts Are Constantly At War With The Two

Other Tribes Of Pawnees; And Though Their Villages Are Nearly One

Thousand Miles Distant From Those Of Their Enemy, Their War-Parties

Are Continually Scouring The Country Of The "Exiles Of The

East"--"_Pa-Wah-Nejs_."]

 

 

 

One Point Struck Me Forcibly During My Conversation With That Noble

Warrior. According To His Version, The Comanches Were In the Beginning

Very Partial To The Texans, As They Were Brave, And Some Of Them

Generous. But He Said That Afterwards, As They Increased their Numbers

And Established their Power, They Became A Rascally People, Cowards And

Murderers. One Circumstance Above All Fire The Blood Of The Comanches,

And Since That Time It Has Been And Will Be With Them A War Of

Extinction Against The Texans.

 

 

 

An Old Comanche, With A Daughter, Had Separated himself From Their

Tribe. He Was A Chief, But He Had Been Unfortunate, And Being Sick, He

Retired to San Antonio To Try The Skill Of The Great Pale-Face Medecin.

His Daughter Was A Noble And Handsome Girl Of Eighteen, And She Had Not

Been Long In the Place Before She Attracted the Attention Of A Certain

Doctor, A Young Man From Kentucky, Who Had Been Tried for Murder In the

States. He Was The Greatest Scoundrel In the World, But Being a

Desperate Character, He Was Feared, And, Of Course, Courted by His

Fellow Texans.

 

 

 

Perceiving That He Could Not Succeed in his Views So Long As The Girl

Was With Her Father, He Contrived to Throw The Old Man Into Gaol, And

Inducing Her To Come To His House To See What Could Be Done To Release

Him, He Abused her Most Shamefully, Using Blows And Violence To

Accomplish His Purpose, To Such A Degree, That He Left Her For Dead.

Towards The Evening, She Regained some Strength, And Found A Shelter In

The Dwelling Of Some Humane Mexican.

 

 

 

The Old Indian Was Soon Liberated: He Found His Daughter, But It Was On

Her Death-Bed, And Then He Learned the Circumstances Of The Shameful

Transaction, And Deeply Vowed revenge. A Mexican Gentleman, Indignant At

Such A Cowardly Deed, In the Name Of Outraged nature And Humanity, Laid

The Cause Before A Jury Of Texans. The Doctor Was Acquitted by The Texan

Jury, Upon The Ground That The Laws Were Not Made For The Benefit Of The

Comanches.

 

 

 

The Consequences May Be Told In a Few Words. One Day Dr. Cobbet Was

Found In an Adjoining Field Stabbed to The Heart And Scalped. The Indian

Had Run Away, And Meeting With A Party Of Comanches, He Related his

Wrongs And His Revenge. They Received him Again Into The Tribe, But The

Injury Was A National One, Not Sufficiently Punished: That Week

Twenty-Three Texans Lost Their Scalps, And Fourteen Women Were Carried

Into The Wilderness, There To Die In captivity.

 

 

 

The Comanche Chief Advised us To Keep Close To The Shores Of The Rio

Grande, That We Might Not Meet With The Parties Of The Pawnee Loups; And

So Much Was He Pleased with Us, That He Resolved to Turn Out Of His Way

And Accompany Us With His Men Some Thirty Miles Farther, When We Should

Be Comparatively Out Of Danger. The Next Morning We Started, The Chief

And I Riding Close Together And Speaking Of The Shoshones. We Exchanged

Our Knives As A Token Of Friendship, And When We Parted, He Assembled

All His Men And Made The Following Speech:--

 

 

 

"The Young Chief Of The Shoshones Is Returning To His Brave People

Across The Rugged mountains. Learn His Name, So That You May Tell Your

Children That They Have A Friend In owato Wanisha. He Is Neither A

Shakanath (An Englishman) Nor A Kishemoc Comoanak (A Long Knife, A

Yankee). He Is A Chief Among The Tribe Of Our Great-Grandfathers, He Is

A Chief, Though He Is Very, Very Young."

 

 

 

At This Moment All The Warriors Came, One After The Other, To Shake

Hands With Me, And When This Ceremony Was Terminated, The Chief Resumed

His Discourse.

 

 

 

"Owato Wanisha, We Met As Strangers, We Part As Friends. Tell Your Young

Warriors You Have Been Among The Comanches, And That We Would Like To

Know Them. Tell Them To Come, A Few Or Many, To Our _Waikiams_ (Lodges);

They Will Find The Moshkotaj (Buffalo) In plenty.

 

 

 

"Farewell, Young Chief, With A Pale Face And An Indian Heart; The Earth

Be Light To Thee And Thine. May The White Manitou Clear For Thee The

Mountain Path, And May You Never Fail To Remember _Opishka Toaki_ (The

White Raven), Who Is Thy Comanche Friend, And Who Would Fain Share With

Thee His Home, His Wealth, And His Wide Prairies. I Have Said: Young

Brother, Farewell."

 

 

 

The Tears Stood In our Eyes As Gallantly The Band Wheeled round. We

Watched them Till They Had All Disappeared in the Horizon. And These

Noble Fellows Were Indians; Had They Been Texans, They Would Have

Murdered us To Obtain Our Horses And Rifles.

 

 

 

Two Days After, We Crossed the Rio Grande, And Entered the Dreary Path

Of The Mountains In the Hostile And Inhospitable Country Of The Navahoes

And The Crows[16].

 

 

 

[Footnote 16: The Crows Are Gallant Horsemen; But Although They Have

Assumed the Manners And Customs Of The Shoshones, They Are Of The

Dahcotah Breed. There Is A Great Difference Between The Shoshone Tribes

And The Crows. The Latter Want That Spirit Of Chivalry So Remarkable

Among The Comanches, The Arrapahoes, And The Shoshones--That Nobility Of

Feeling Which Scorns To Take An Enemy At A Disadvantage, I Should Say

That The Shoshone Tribes Are The Lions And The Crows The Tigers Of These

Deserts.]

 

 

 

We Had Been Travelling Eight Days On A Most Awful Stony

Road, When At Last We Reached the Head Waters Of The Colorado Of The

West, But We Were Very Weak, Not Having Touched any Food During The Last

Five Days, Except Two Small Rattlesnakes, And A Few Berries We Had

Picked up On The Way. On The Morning We Had Chased a Large Grizzly Bear,

But To No Purpose; Our Poor Horses And Ourselves Were Too Exhausted to

Follow The Animal For Any Time, And With Its Disappearance Vanished away

All Hopes Of A Dinner.

 

 

 

It Was Evening Before We Reached the River, And, By That Time, We Were

So Much Maddened with Hunger, That We Seriously Thought Of Killing One

Of Our Horses. Luckily, At That Instant, We Espied smoke Rising From A

Camp Of Indians In a Small Valley. That They Were Foes We Had No Doubt;

But Hunger Can Make Heroes, And We Determined to Take A Meal At Their

Expense. The Fellows Had Been Lucky, For Around Their Tents They Had

Hung Upon Poles Large Pieces Of Meat To Dry. They Had No Horses, And

Only A Few Dogs Scattered about The Camp. We Skirted the Plain In

Silence, And At Dark We Had Arrived at Three Hundred yards From Them,

Concealed by The Projecting Rocks Which Formed a Kind Of Belt Around

The Camp.

 

 

 

Now Was Our Time. Giving The Shoshone War-Whoop, And Making as Much

Noise As We Could, We Spurred on Our Horses, And In a Few Moments Each

Of Us Had Secured a Piece Of Meat From The Poles. The Crows (For The

Camp Contained fifteen Crows And Three Arrapahoes), On Hearing The

War-Whoop, Were So Terrified that They Had All Run Away Without Ever

Looking Behind Them; But The Arrapahoes Stood Their Ground, And Having

Recovered from Their First Surprise, They Assaulted us Bravely With

Their Lances And Arrows.

 

 

 

Roche Was Severely Bruised by His Horse Falling, And My Pistol, By

Disabling His Opponent, Who Was Advancing With His Tomahawk, Saved his

Life. Gabriel Had Coolly Thrown His Lasso Round His Opponent, And Had

Already Strangled him, While The Third Had Been In the Very Beginning Of

The Attack Run Over By My Horse. Gabriel Lighted on The Ground, Entered

The Lodges, Cut The Strings Of All The Bows He Could Find, And,

Collecting a Few More Pieces Of The Meat, We Started at A Full Gallop,

Not Being Inclined to Wait Till The Crows Should Have Recovered from

Their Panic. Though Our Horses Were Very Tired, We Rode Thirteen Miles

More That Night, And, About Ten O'Clock, Arrived at A Beautiful Spot

With Plenty Of Fine Grass And Cool Water, Upon Which Both We And Our

Horses Stretched ourselves Most Luxuriously Even Before Eating.

 

 

 

Capital Jokes Were Passed round That Night While We Were Discussing The

Qualities Of The Mountain-Goat Flesh, But Yet I Felt Annoyed at Our

Feat; The Thing, To Be Sure, Had Been Gallantly Done, Still It Was

Nothing Better Than Highway Robbery. Hunger, However, Is A Good

Palliative For Conscience, And, Having Well Rubbed our Horses, Who

Seemed to Enjoy Their Grazing amazingly, We Turned to Repose, Watching

Alternately For Every Three Hours.

 

 

 

The Next Day At Noon We Met With Unexpected sport And Company. As We

Were Going along, We Perceived two Men At A Distance, Sitting Close

Together Upon The Ground, And Apparently In a Vehement Conversation. As

They Were White Men, We Dismounted and Secured our Horses, And Then

Crept Silently Along Until We Were Near The Strangers. They Were Two

Very Queer-Looking Beings; One Long And Lean, The Other Short And Stout.

 

 

 

"Bless Me," The Fat One Said, "Bless Me, Pat Swiney, But I Think The

Frenchers Will Never Return, And So We Must Die Here Like Starved dogs."

 

 

 

"Och," Answered the Thin One, "They Have Gone To Kill Game. By St.

Patrick, I Wish It Would Come, Raw Or Cooked, For My Bowels Are Twisting

Like Worms On A Hook."

 

 

 

"Oh, Pat, Be A Good Man; Can'T You Go And Pick Some Berries? My Stomach

Is Like An Empty Bag."

 

 

 

"Faith, My Legs Ain'T Better Than Yours," Answered the Irishman, Patting

His Knee With A Kind Of Angry Gesture. And For The First Time We

Perceived that The Legs Of Both Of Them Were Shockingly Swollen.

 

 

 

"If We Could Only Meet With The Welsh Indians Or A Gold Mine," Resumed

The Short Man.

 

 

 

"Botheration," Exclaimed his Irascible Companion. "Bother Them All--The

Welsh Indians And The Welsh English."

 

 

 

[Illustration: "Faith, My Legs Ain'T Better Than Yours."]

 

 

 

We Saw That Hunger Had Made The Poor Fellows Rather Quarrelsome, So We

Kindly Interfered with A Tremendous War-Whoop. The Fat One Closed his

Eyes, And Allowed himself To Fall Down, While His Fellow In misfortune

Rose Up In spite Of The State Of His Legs.

 

 

 

"Come," Roared he, "Come, Ye Rascally Red devils, Do Your Worst Without

Marcy, For I Am Lame And Hungry."

 

 

 

There Was Something Noble In his Words And Pathetic In the Action.

Roche, Putting His Hand On His Shoulder, Whispered some Irish Words In

His Ear, And The Poor Fellow Almost Cut A Caper. "Faith," He Said, "If

You Are Not A Cork Boy You Are The Devil; But Devil Or No, For The Sake

Of The Old Country, Give Us Something To Eat--To Me And That Poor Welsh

Dreamer. I Fear Your Hellish Yell Has Taken The Life Out Of Him."

 

 

 

Such Was Not The Case. At The Words "Something To Eat," The Fellow

Opened his Eyes With A Stare, And Exclaimed--

 

 

 

"The Welsh Indians, By St. David!"

 

 

 

We Answered him With A Roar Of Merriment That Rather Confused him, And

His Companion Answered--

 

 

 

"Ay! Welsh Indians Or Irish Indians, For What I Know. Get Up, Will Ye,

Ye Lump Of Flesh, And Politely Tell The Gentlemen That We Have Tasted

Nothing For The Last Three Days."

 

 

 

Of Course, We Lost No Time In lighting a Fire And Bringing Our Horses.

The Meat Was Soon Cooked, And It Was Wonderful To See How Quickly It

Disappeared in the Jaws Of Our Two New Friends. We Had Yet About Twelve

Pounds Of It, And We Were Entering a Country Where Game Would Be Found

Daily, So We Did Not Repine At Their Most Inordinate Appetites, But, On

The Contrary, Encouraged them To Continue. When The First Pangs Of

Hunger Were A Little Soothed, They Both Looked at Us With Moist And

Grateful Eyes.

 

 

 

"Och," Said The Irishman, "But Ye Are Kind Gentlemen, Whatever You May

Be, To Give Us So Good A Meal When, Perhaps, You Have No More."

 

 

 

Roche Shook Him By The Hand. "Eat On, Fellow," He Said, "Eat On, And

Never Fear. We Will Afterwards See What Can Be Done For The Legs." As To

The Welshman, He Never Said A Word For A Full Half-Hour. He Would Look,

But Could Neither Speak Nor Hear, So Intensely Busy Was He With An

Enormous Piece Of Half-Raw Flesh, Which He Was Tearing