It was the third figure of this group that most strongly claimed my attention. I saw that it was not that of a warrior; though quite as tall as many upon the plain. But the contour of the form was different—as also the fashion of the garments that draped it. It was the figure of a woman! Had I not been guided in my conjectures—by a certain foreknowledge—by the allusions that had occurred in the speeches of Red-Hand—I should never have dreamt of identifying that form. Forewarned by these, the apparition was not unexpected. The woman was Su-wa-nee! She was standing erect by the prostrate form of the young hunter—her head slightly bent, and her face turned towards him. An occasional motion of her arm showed that she was speaking to him. The gesture seemed to indicate a threat! Was it possible that in that dread hour she was reviling him? I was at too great a distance, either to hear her words, or note the expression upon her face. Only by the dumb show of her gesticulations, could I tell that a scene was passing between them.
A glance around the plain enabled me to note some other changes that had recently taken place. The horses of the Indians were now picketed upon the grass, and browsing peacefully—as if the clangour of strife had never sounded in their ears. I could see my own Arab a little apart, with Wingrove’s horse and the mules—all in the charge of a horse-guard, who stood sentry near them. The waggon was still by the base of the mound. The cedars along its sides were yet unburnt! I thought that the flames had consumed them, but no. The object of their fires had been to blind us with their smoke—thus to drive us from our position, and facilitate our capture.
I was not permitted to make these observations without interruption. The savage—who had stood by me had a duty to perform; and during all this time he was busied in its performance. A singular and inexplicable operation it at first appeared to me. His initiatory act was to blacken my body from the waist upward, including my face, throat, and arms. The substance used appeared to be a paste of charcoal, which he rubbed rudely over my skin. A circle upon my breast—that traced out by the blade of the chief—was left clear; but as soon as the black ground had been laid on, a new substance was exhibited, of snow-white colour, resembling chalk or gypsum. With this—after the blood had been carefully dried off—the circular space was thickly coated over, until a white disc, about as large as a dining-plate shewed conspicuously on my breast! A red spot in the centre of this was necessary to complete the escutcheon; but the painter appeared at a loss for the colour, and paused to reflect. Only a moment did he remain at fault. He was an ingenious artist; and his ingenuity soon furnished him with an idea. Drawing his knife, and sticking the point of it some half inch deep into the fleshy part of my thigh, he obtained the required “carmine”; and, after dipping his finger in the blood, and giving it a dab in the centre of the white circle, he stood for a short time contemplating his work. A grim smile announced that he was satisfied with it; and, uttering a final grunt, the swarthy Apelles leaped down from the platform, and disappeared from my sight. A horrid suspicion had already taken possession of my soul; but I was not left long to speculate upon the purpose for which I had been thus bedaubed: the suspicion gave place to certainty.
Upon the plain directly in front of me, and at less than a hundred yards’ distance from the butte, the warriors were collecting in groups. The Red-Hand with his under-chiefs had already arrived there; and the other Indians were forsaking the fires, and hurrying up to the spot. They had left their lances apart, standing upright on the plain, with their shields, bows, and quivers leaning against them, or suspended from their shafts. The only weapons taken along with them to the common rendezvous were the muskets. With these they were now occupying themselves—apparently preparing them for use. I saw them mark out a line upon the grass, by stretching a lazo between two upright pegs. I saw them wiping, loading, and priming their pieces—in short, going through all the preliminary manoeuvres, observed by marksmen preparing for a trial of skill. Then burst on me in all its broad reality the dread horror for which I was reserved—then did I comprehend the design of that white circle with its centre of red: the savages were about to hold a shooting-match—my own bosom was to be their target!
Chapter Sixty Three.
A Pitiless Pastime.
Yes—to hold a shooting-match was undoubtedly the design of my captors; and equally clear was it that my breast was to be their mark. This explained my position upon the summit of the mound, as well as my attitude upon the cross. I was bound to the latter, in order that my person might be held erect, spread, and conspicuous. I could not comfort, myself with any doubt as to their intention. Every movement I saw confirmed it; and the question was finally set at rest by Red-Hand possessing himself of one of the loaded muskets, and making ready to fire. Stepping a pace or two in front of the line of his warriors, he raised the piece to his shoulder, and pointed it towards me. It is vain to attempt describing the horror I endured at that moment. Utterly unable to move, I gazed upon the glistening barrel, with its dark tube, that threatened to send forth the leaden messenger of death. I have stood before the pistol of the duellist. It is not a pleasant position to be in, under any conditions of quarrel. Still it is perfect happiness compared with that I then held. In the former case, there are certain circumstances that favour the chances of safety. You know that you are en profile to your antagonist—thus lessening the danger of being hit. Judging by yourself, you feel assured that the aim taken will be quick and unsteady, and the shot a random one. You are conscious of possessing the capability of motion—that whether you may feel inclined to give way to it or not, you still have a certain discretion of avoiding the deadly missile—that by superior skill or quickness, you may anticipate your antagonist and hinder his bullet from being sent. There are other circumstances of a moral nature to sustain you in a trial of this kind—pride, angry passion, the fear of social contempt; and, stronger than all—perhaps most frequent of all—the jealousy of rival love. From none of all these could I derive support, as I stood before the raised musket of the Arapaho. There was no advantage—either moral or physical—in my favour. I was broad front to the danger, without the slightest capacity of “dodging” it; whilst there was nothing to excite the nerves of the marksman, or render his aim unsteady. On the contrary, he was sighting me as coolly, as if about to fire at a piece of painted plank.
It may have been but a minute, that the savage occupied himself in adjusting his aim; but to me it appeared ten. In such a situation, I may have believed the seconds to be minutes: they seemed so. In reality, the time must have been considerable. The drops of sweat that had started from my brow were chasing each other over my cheeks, and trickling down upon my breast. So prolonged was the suspense, I began to fancy that the Arapaho was designedly dallying with his aim, for the purpose of sporting with my fears. He may have had such motive for procrastination. I could have believed it. Distant though he was, I could mark his fiendish smile, as he repeatedly dropped the piece from his shoulder, and then returned it to the level. That he meant more than mere menace, however, was proved in the end. Having satisfied himself with several idle feints, I saw him make demonstration, as if setting himself more determinedly to the work. This time he was certainly in earnest. His cheek lay steadily along the stock—his arms appeared more rigid—his finger was pressing on the trigger—the moment had come!