Upon the side of the Indian now lies the strength—if not in numbers—at least in courage and war-prowess. The horse he once dreaded has become his dearest friend; and he can manage him with a skill scarcely equalled by his pale-faced adversary. The lance and fire-weapon are in his hands; the spirit-thunder no longer appals him: he knows its origin and nature, and uses it in the accomplishment of a terrible retaliation! On the northern continent, Utah and Yaqui, Kiowa and Comanche, Apaché and Navajo, have all proved their superiority over the degenerated descendants of Cortez: as in the south have Cuncho and Cashibo, Goajira and Auracanian, over those of the ruthless Pizarro. The red man no longer goes to war as a mere savage. He has disciplined his strength into a perfect strategy; and possesses a military system as complete as that of most civilised nations. The Comanche cavalry charges in line, and can perform evolutions to the call of the bugle! So can the Utah, as I had evidence at that moment. Before the trumpet-notes had ceased to reverberate from the rocks, five hundred warriors had secured their horses, and stood beside them armed and ready to mount. A regiment of regular dragoons could not have responded to “Boots and saddles” with greater expedition!
Peg-leg took possession of me. “Señor Pintado!” said he, speaking in Spanish, and after having examined my wounds, “the best medicine for you will be your breakfast; and while your conpaisana is preparing it, you can come with me, and have a little water thrown over you. This painting does not improve your looks; besides, if it get into your wounds, they will be all the more difficult to make a cure of. Nos vamos!”
The huntress had retired to a tent that stood near that of the chief, and a little to the rear of it. I followed the Mexican, who, in a hobbling gait, proceeded towards the stream. The cold bath, assisted by some Taos brandy from the gourd xuagé of the trapper, soon restored my strength; and the hideous pigment, lathered with the bruised roots of the palmilla—the soap-plant of the New Mexicans, soon disappeared from my skin. A few slices of the oregano cactus applied to my wounds, placed them in a condition to heal with a rapidity almost miraculous; for such is the curative power of this singular plant. My Mexican medico was yet more generous, and furnished me with a handsome Navajo blanket, which served as a complete covering for my shoulders.
“Carrambo!” exclaimed he, as he tendered the garment, “take it, Americano! You maybe able to repay me when you have recovered your possible-sack from the Arapahoes. Mira!” he added, pointing towards the tents—“your breakfast is ready: yonder the señorita is calling you. Take heed, hombre! or her eyes may cause you a more dangerous wound than any of those you have received from the bullets of the Arapahoes. Vaya!”
I resisted an inclination to make inquiries: though the hint of the Taos trapper half furnished me with an excuse. My “countrywoman,” he had called her. No doubt he knew more of her history; but I questioned him not. Remembering her promise, I had hopes that I might soon learn it from her own lips.
Chapter Seventy Four.
A Beautiful Hostess.
“Aha, stranger!” said she, as I approached the tent, “he has altered your appearance wonderfully. Oh! you are not so frightful now. Come in! Here is pinole, and a little broiled goat’s flesh. I am sorry I did not bring some of the wild sheep. It is most excellent; but in my haste I did not think of it. Bread I cannot give you: we never have it here.”