Whether these, the lawful lords of the soil, chanced to be in a state of open war—or whether, by some treaty with the settlers they were consenting to a temporary peace—made but slight difference, so far as they were talked about. In either case they were a topic of daily discourse. In the former it related to the dangers to be hourly apprehended from them; in the latter, to the probable duration of such treaty as might for the moment be binding them to hold their tomahawks entombed.
In Mexican times these questions formed the staple of conversation, at desayuno, almuerzo, comida, y cena; in American times, up to this present hour, they have been the themes of discussion at the breakfast, dinner, and supper tables. In the planter’s piazza, as in the hunter’s camp, bear, deer, cougar, and peccary, are not named with half the frequency, or half the fear-inspiring emphasis, allotted to the word “Indian.” It is this that scares the Texan child instead of the stereotyped nursery ghost, keeping it awake upon its moss-stuffed mattress—disturbing almost as much the repose of its parent.
Despite the surrounding of strong walls—more resembling those of a fortress than a gentleman’s dwelling—the inmates of Casa del Corvo were not excepted from this feeling of apprehension, universal along the frontier. As yet they knew little of the Indians, and that little only from report; but, day by day, they were becoming better acquainted with the character of this natural “terror” that interfered with the slumbers of their fellow settlers.
That it was no mere “bogie” they had begun to believe; but if any of them remained incredulous, a note received from the major commanding the Fort—about two weeks after the horse-hunting expedition—was calculated to cure them of their incredulity. It came in the early morning, carried by a mounted rifleman. It was put into the hands of the planter just as he was about sitting down to the breakfast-table, around which were assembled the three individuals who composed his household—his daughter Louise, his son Henry, and his nephew Cassius Calhoun.
“Startling news!” he exclaimed, after hastily reading, the note. “Not very pleasant if true; and I suppose there can be no doubt of that, since the major appears convinced.”
“Unpleasant news, papa?” asked his daughter, a spot of red springing to her cheek as she put the question.
The spoken interrogatory was continued by others, not uttered aloud.
“What can the major have written to him? I met him yesterday while riding in the chapparal. He saw me in company with—Can it be that? Mon Dieu! if father should hear it—”
“‘The Comanches on the war trail’—so writes the major.”
“Oh, that’s all!” said Louise, involuntarily giving voice to the phrase, as if the news had nothing so very fearful in it. “You frightened us, sir. I thought it was something worse.”