Mayne Reid - The Scalp Hunters

The Taos whisky had by this time produced its effect upon the dancers. The trappers and teamsters had become noisy and riotous. The leperos, who now half-filled the room, stimulated by wine, jealousy, old hatreds, and the dance, began to look more savage and sulky. The fringed hunting-shirts and brown homespun frocks found favour with the dark-eyed majas of Mexico, partly out of a respect for, and a fear of, courage, which is often at the bottom of a love like theirs.

Although the trading caravans supplied almost all the commerce of Santa Fé, and it was clearly the interest of its inhabitants to be on good terms with the traders, the two races, Anglo-American and Hispano-Indian, hated each other thoroughly; and that hate was now displaying itself on one side in bullying contempt, on the other in muttered carrajos and fierce looks of vengeance.

I was still chatting with my lively partner. We were seated on the banquette where I had introduced myself. On looking casually up, a bright object met my eyes. It appeared to be a naked knife in the hands of su marido who was just then lowering over us like the shadow of an evil spirit. I was favoured with only a slight glimpse of this dangerous meteor, and had made up my mind to “’ware steel,” when someone plucked me by the sleeve, and turning, I beheld my quondam acquaintance of the purple magna.

“Dispensadme, señor,” said he, nodding graciously, “I have just learned that the caravan is going on to Chihuahua.”

“True, there is no market here for our goods.”

“You go on then, of course?”

“Certainly, I must.”

“Will you return this way, señor?”

“It is very likely; I have no other intention at present.”

“Perhaps then you might be willing to part with your horse? You will find many as good in the great valley of the Mississippi.”

“Neither is likely.”

“But, señor, should you be inclined to do so, will you promise me the refusal of him?”

“Oh! that I will promise you, with all my heart.”

Our conversation was here interrupted by a huge, gaunt, half-drunken Missourian, who, tramping rudely upon the stranger’s toes, vociferated —

“Ye – up, old greaser! gi’ mi a char.”

“Y porque?” (And why?) demanded the Mexican, drawing in his feet, and looking up with astonished indignation.

“I’m tired jumpin’. I want a seat, that’s it, old hoss.”

There was something so bullying and brutal in the conduct of this man, that I felt called upon to interfere.

“Come!” said I, addressing him, “you have no right to deprive this gentleman of his seat, much less in such a fashion.”

“Eh, mister? who asked you to open yer head? Ye – up, I say!” and at the word, he seized the Mexican by the corner of his manga, as if to drag him from his seat.

Before I had time to reply to this rude speech and gesture, the stranger leaped to his feet, and with a well-planted blow felled the bully upon the floor.

This seemed to act as a signal for bringing several other quarrels to a climax. There was a rush through all parts of the sala, drunken shouts mingled with yells of vengeance, knives glanced from their sheaths, women screamed, pistols flashed and cracked, filling the rooms with smoke and dust. The lights went out, fierce struggles could be heard in the darkness, the fall of heavy bodies amidst groans and curses, and for five minutes these were the only sounds.

Having no cause to be particularly angry with anybody, I stood where I had risen, without using either knife or pistol, my frightened maja all the while holding me by the hand. A painful sensation near my left shoulder caused me suddenly to drop my partner; and with that unaccountable weakness consequent upon the reception of a wound, I felt myself staggering towards the banquette. Here I dropped into a sitting posture, and remained till the struggle was over, conscious all the while that a stream of blood was oozing down my back, and saturating my undergarments.

I sat thus till the struggle had ended. A light was brought, and I could distinguish a number of men in hunting-shirts moving to-and-fro with violent gesticulations. Some of them were advocating the justice of the “spree,” as they termed it; while others, the more respectable of the traders, were denouncing it. The leperos with the women, had all disappeared, and I could perceive that the Americanos had carried the day. Several dark objects lay along the floor: they were bodies of men dead or dying! One was an American, the Missourian who had been the immediate cause of the fracas; the others were pelodos. I could see nothing of my late acquaintance. My fandanguera, too — con su marido – had disappeared; and on glancing at my left hand, I came to the conclusion that so also had my diamond ring!

“Saint Vrain! Saint Vrain!” I called, seeing the figure of my friend enter at the door.

“Where are you, H., old boy. How is it with you? all right, eh?”

“Not quite, I tear.”

“Good heavens! what’s this? why, you’re stabbed in the hump ribs! Not bad, I hope. Off with your shirt and let’s see.”

“First, let us to my room.”

“Come, then, my dear boy, lean on me – so, so!”

The fandango was over.

I have had the pleasure of being wounded in the field of battle. I say pleasure. Under certain circumstances, wounds are luxuries. How different were the feelings I experienced while smarting under wounds that came by the steel of the assassin!

My earliest anxiety was about the depth of my wound. Was it mortal? This is generally the first question a man puts to himself, after discovering that he has been shot or stabbed. A wounded man cannot always answer it either. One’s life-blood may be spurting from an artery at each palpitation, while the actual pain felt is not worth the pricking of a pin.

On reaching the Fonda, I sank exhausted on my bed. Saint Vrain split my hunting-shirt from cape to skirt, and commenced examining my wound. I could not see my friend’s face as he stood behind me, and I waited with impatience.

“Is it deep?” I asked.

“Not deep as a draw-well, nor wide as a waggon-track,” was the reply. “You’re quite safe, old fellow; thank God, and not the man who handled that knife, for the fellow plainly intended to do for you. It is the cut of a Spanish knife, and a devilish gash it is. Haller, it was a close shave. One inch more, and the spine, my boy! but you’re safe, I say. Here, Gode! that sponge!”

“Sacré!” muttered Gode, with true Gallic aspirate, as he handed the wet rag.

I felt the cold application. Then a bunch of soft raw cotton, the best dressing it could have, was laid over the wound, and fastened by strips. The most skilful surgeon could have done no more.

“Close as a clamp,” added Saint Vrain, as he fastened the last pin, and placed me in the easiest position. “But what started the row? and how came you to cut such a figure in it? I was out, thank God!”

“Did you observe a strange-looking man?”

“What! with the purple manga?”

“Yes.”

“He sat beside us?”

“Yes.”

“Ha! No wonder you say a strange-looking man; stranger than he looks, too. I saw him, I know him, and perhaps not another in the room could say that. Ay, there was another,” continued Saint Vrain, with a peculiar smile; “but what could have brought him there is that which puzzles me. Armijo could not have seen him: but go on.”

I related to Saint Vrain the whole of my conversation with the stranger, and the incidents that led to the breaking up of the fandango.

“It is odd – very odd! What could he want with your horse? Two hundred miles, and offers a thousand dollars!”