These mysterious directions were accompanied by a corresponding gesture. With the point of his knife, the savage traced a circle upon my breast—just as if he had been scribing it on the bark of a tree. The scratch was light, though here and there it drew blood. At the words “red spot in the centre,” as if to make the direction more emphatic, he punctured the spot with his knife till the blood flowed freely. Had he driven the blade to its hilt, I could not have flinched: I was fixed firmly as the post to which they had bound me. I could not speak a word—either to question his intent, or reply to his menace. The gag was still between my teeth, and I was necessarily silent. It mattered little about my remaining silent. Had my tongue been free, it would have been idle to use it. In the wolf’s visage, there was no one trait of clemency: every feature bespoke the obduracy of unrelenting cruelty. I knew that he would only have mocked any appeal I might have made. It was just as well that I had no opportunity of making it. After giving some further directions to his follower—and once more repeating his savage menace, in the same exulting tone—he passed behind me; and I lost sight of him. But I could tell by the noise that reached me at intervals, that he had gone down from the rock, and was returning to his warriors upon the plain.
It was the first time since my face-fastenings had been cut loose, that I had a thought of looking in that direction. During all the while that the Red-Hand stood by me, I had been in constant dread of instant death—or of some equally fearful issue. The gleaming blade had never been out of my eyes for two seconds at a time; for in the gesticulations that accompanied his speeches, the steel had played an important part, and I knew not the moment, it might please the ferocious savage to put an end to my life. Now that he was gone, and I found a respite from his torturing menace, my eyes turned mechanically to the plain. I there beheld a spectacle, that under other circumstances might have filled me with horror. Not so then. The agony of my thoughts was already too keen to be further quickened. Even the gory skull of one of my comrades, who lay scalped upon the sward, scarcely added an emotion. It was a sight I had anticipated. They could not all be alive.
Chapter Sixty Two.
A Savage Artist.
The ensanguined skull was the first object that caught my eye. The dead man was easily identified. The body—short, plump, and rotund—could be no other than that of the unfortunate Irishman. His jacket had been stripped off; but some tattered remnants of sky-blue, still clinging to his legs, aided me in identifying him. Poor fellow! The lure of Californian metal had proved an ill star for him. His golden dream was at an end. He was lying along the sward, upon his side, half doubled up. I could not see his face. His hands were over it, with palms spread out—as if shading his eyes from the sun! It was a position of ordinary repose; and one might have fancied him asleep. But the gory crown, and red mottling upon the shirt—seemingly still wet—forbade the supposition. He slept; but it was the sleep of death!
My eyes wandered in search of the others. There were fires burning. They were out upon the plain, some three hundred yards from the base of the butte. They had been lately kindled: for their smoke was rising in thick columns, part of it falling again to the earth. Around the fires, and through the smoke, flitted the forms of the Indians. They appeared to be cooking and feasting. Some of them staggering over the ground, kept up an incessant babble—at intervals varying their talk with savage whoops. Others danced around accompanying their leaps with the monotonous “hi-hi-hi-ya.” All appeared to have partaken freely of the fire-water of Taos. A few more seriously disposed were grouped around four or five prostrate forms—evidently the bodies of their slain. The two we had shot from their horses must have been amongst these: since they were no longer to be seen where they had fallen. Those around the bodies stood hand in hand chanting the dismal death-song.
Not far from the fires, a group fixed my attention. It consisted of three figures—all in attitudes as different as it was possible to place them in. He who lay along the ground, upon his back, was the young hunter Wingrove. He still wore his fringed buckskin shirt and leggings; and by these I recognised him. He was at too great a distance for his features to be distinguished. He appeared to be bound hand and foot—with his ankles lashed together, and his wrists tied behind his back. He was thus lying upon his arms, in an irksome position; but the attitude showed that he was alive. I knew it already.
Some half-dozen paces from him was a second form, difficult to be recognised as that of a human being—though it was one. It was the body of Jephthah Bigelow. Its very oddness of shape enabled me to identify it—odder from the attitude in which I now beheld it. It was lying flat along the grass, face downward, the long ape-like legs and arms stretched out to their full extent—both as to length and width—and radiating from the thin trunk, like spokes from the nave of a wheel! Viewing it from my elevated position, this attitude appeared all the more ludicrous; though it was easy to perceive that it was not voluntary. The numerous pegs standing up from the sward, and the cords attached to them, and leading to the arms and limbs, showed that the spread-eagle position was a constrained one. That it was Sure-shot, I had no doubt. The spare locks of clay-coloured hair were playing about in the breeze; and some remnants of bottle-green still clung around his limbs. But without these, the spider-like frame was too characteristic to be mistaken. I was glad to see those yellowish tufts. They told that the wearer still lived—as was also made manifest by the fact of his being bound. A dead body would not have merited such particular treatment.