The reflections of the cibolero were suddenly interrupted; distant sounds fell upon his ear—shouts and cries of fearful import—with that continued murmur that results from the mingling of many voices in loud and confused clamour. Now and then was heard a whoop, or a cheer, or a shrill whistle, rising above the ordinary noises, and carrying far over the plain its tones of triumph or revenge.
Carlos knew the import of those shouts and cries—they were the sounds of battle!—of terrible and deadly strife!
They came from behind the hill—the cibolero was just climbing it.
He spurred his horse, and, galloping forward to its crest, looked down into the valley. The conflict was raging before him!
He had a full view of the dreadful scene. Six hundred dusky horsemen were riding about on the plain; some dashing at each other with couched lances—some twanging their bows from a distance; and others close together in the hand-to-hand combat of the deadly tomahawk! Some were charging in groups with their long spears—some wheeling into flight, and others, dismounted, were battling on foot! Some took shelter among the timber islands, and sprang out again as they saw an opportunity of sending an arrow, or lancing a foeman in the back; and so the red contest continued.
Not a shot was heard—neither bugle nor drum sent forth their inspiring notes—no cannon rolled its thunder—no rocket blazed—no smoke spread its sulphury cloud upon the air; but without these sights and sounds there was no fear of mistaking that contest for a mimic game—a tournament of the prairies. The wild war-whoop, and the wilder whistle—the earnest onslaught—the fierce charging cheer—the cries of triumph and vengeance—the neighing steeds without riders—here and there the prostrate savage, with skinless scalp, glaring red in the sun—the spears and hatchets crimsoned with blood,—all were evidence of real and deadly strife, and Carlos did not doubt for a moment the character of the scene. Before him was an Indian fight—Waco and Pané engaged in the earnest struggle of life and death!
All this he comprehended at a glance, and, after regarding the fight for a moment, he could distinguish the warriors of both tribes from one another. The Panés, in full war-costume, were easily recognised by their tufted scalp-locks; while the Wacoes, who had, no doubt, been taken by surprise, were many of them in hunting-shirts and leggings. Some, however, were nearly as naked as their adversaries; but easily distinguished from them by their full flowing hair.
The first impulse of the cibolero was to gallop forward and mingle in the fight,—of course, taking side with the Wacoes. The sound of the conflict roused his blood, and the sight of the robbers who had so lately ruined him rendered him eager for revenge. Many of them were mounted upon the very mules they had taken from him, and Carlos was determined to have some of them back again.
He was about to put spurs to his horse, and dash forward, when a sudden change seemed to occur in the conflict that decided him to remain where he was. The Panés were giving way!
Many of them were seen wheeling out of the plain, and taking to flight.