Beadle's New York Dime Library, No. 20 — page 19: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

— ‘ i a per. ~The Bandit at Bay. 19 aescended the hill at headlong speed, shout. ope dlschanees their rifles, amid the yells of joy from the red-skins, who were delighted at this triumphal arrival among them, After the usual salutations and expressions of welcome, the Comanches formed a semi- circleround the hunters, and Pethonista ad- vanced to Valentine, and held out his hand, ony : ‘* My brother is an adopted son of the na- tion. Heis at home. The Comanches are happy tosee him. The longer he remains — them with the persons who accom- pany him, the more pleasure he will cause them. A hut is prepared for my brother, a second for the White Lily of the Valley and a third for his friends. We have killed many buffaloes; my brothers will eat their meat with us. When our brother leaves us, our hearts will be swollen with sorrow. Hence my brother must remain as long as possible with his Comanche friends, if he wishes to see them happy.’’ Valentine, well versed in Indian customs, replied graciously to this harangue, snd the two bands, smiling, made their entry into the village to the sound of the chickikouis conchs, and Indian instruments, mingle with the voices of the women and children and the barking of the dogs, which produced the most horrible row imaginable. On reaching the village square, the chief conducted the guests to the huts prepared for them, after which he invited them to rest, ‘with a politeness that a man more civil- ized than he naight have envied, after tell- ing them at twelve o’clock they would be summoned to the meal. Valentine thanked Pethonista for the kind attention he displayed to him and his com- rades: then, after installing Dona Clara ina hut with Sunbeam, he entered his own, after recommending the hunters to display the greatest prudence toward the Coman- ches, who, like all Indians, are punctilious, irascible, and susceptible in the highest de- gree. Curumilla lay down without saying a word like a good watch-dog, across the door o the lodge inhabited by Dona Clara. So soon as the two females were alone, Sunbeaia seated herself at Clara’s feet, and, fixing on her a bright glance, fu!l of tender- ness, she said, in a soft and caressing voice: ‘“*Ismy sister, the White Lily of the Val- | ley, satisfied with me? Have I faithfully terpe the obligation I contracted toward her “What obligation was that, child?’ the girl said, as she passed her hand through the ndian’s long hair, which she began plaiting. “That of saving you, my sister, and con ducting you in safety to the camp of my nation.’’ ‘“* Yes, yes, poor girl,’ she said, tenderly, “‘your devotion to me has been unbounded, and I know not how I can ever requite it.”’ ** Do not speak of that,’’ the Indian said, with acharming smile. ‘* Now that my sister has nothing more to fear, I will leave her.” *‘ You would leave me, Sunbeam ?”’ Dona Clara exclaimed, anxiously. ‘* Why so?) . “Yes,” the young woman answe)ed, as she frowned, and her voice became stern, “J have a duty toaccomplish. Ihave taken an Oath, and my sister well knows that is sacred. I must go.” ‘*But where are you going, my poor child ? Whence arises this sudden thought of leay- ing me? What doyouintend? Where are you about to proceed ?”’ “My sister must not ask me. Her ques- tions would only grieve me, for I can not answer her.”’ ‘“‘Then you have secrets from me, Sun- beam. You will not give me your confi- dence? Do you fancy 1 do not know what you intend doing ?”’ ‘“‘ My sister knows my plan !’’ | The Indian interrupted her with flashing eye, whilea convulsive tremor passed over her limbs. . “Yes, I do,” the other answered, with a smile, ‘*Unicorn is a renowned warrior. and my sister is doubtless anxious to rejoin him ? ' The \ndian shook her head in denial. _ **No,”’ she said, ‘‘Sunbeam is following her vengeance.”’ ‘**Oh, yes, poor child,’’ Dona Clara said, a8 she pressed the young squaw to her heart, ‘I know from what a fearful catastrophe Don Valentine saved you.”’ ‘* Koutonepi isa great warrior. Sunbeam loves him; but Stanapat is a dog, son of an Apache devil.’’ The two women wept for several minutes, silently mingling their tears, but the Indian, overcoming grief, dried her eyes with a pas- sionate gesture, and tore herself from the arms that held her, | ‘“Why weep?” shesaid. ‘ Only cowards and weak people groan and lament. Indian squaws do not weep. When theyare insult- ed avenge themselves,’ she added with an accent full of strange resolution. ‘*My sister must let me depart! Ican no longer be useful to her, and other cares claim my attention.’’ ‘*Go, then, poor girl.. Actas your heart orders you. I have no right either to retain you or prevent you acting as you please.” ‘* Thanks,’’ the Indian said. | ‘‘ My sister . kind. The Wacondah will not desert er. ‘““Cgn not you tell me what you intend doing ?”’ ‘*] can not.”’ ‘At any rate, tell me m what direction you are going ?”’ The girl shook her head with discourage- ment. ** Does theleaf detached from the tree bya high wind know in what direction it will be carried? lam the ieaf. So my sister must ask me no more.’’, **As you wish, I will be silent; but before we separate, perhaps forever, let me make you a present, which will recall me to mind when I am far from you.”’ Sunbeam laid her hund on her heart with a charming gesture. * ‘** My sister is there,’’ she said with emo- on. ‘* Listen,’ the maiden continued; ‘last night I gave you a bracelet ; here is another. These ornaments are useless. to me, and I shall be happy if they please you.’ She unclasped the bracelet, and fastened it on the Indian’s arm- The latter allowed her todo it, and, after kissing the pearl several times, she raised her head and held out her hand to Clara. *‘Farewell,’’ she said to her, with a shaking voice. ‘‘ My sister will pray to God for me: he is said to be power ul, perhaps he will come to my help.’ 7 ‘*Hope, poor child!” Dona Clara said, as she held her in her arms. Sunbeam shook her head sadly, and, mak- ing a last sign of farewell to her compan- ion, she bounded like.a startled fawn, rush- ed to the door, and disappeared. The young Mexican girl remained for a long time pensive after Sunbeam’s. depar- ture; the Indian's vailed words and embar- rassed countenance had excited her curiosity to the highest degree. On the other hand, the interest she could. not forbear taking in this extraordinary woman, who had rendered her a signal service, or, to speak more cor- rectly, a gloomy presentiment warned her that Sunbeam was, leaving her to undertake one of those dangerous expeditions which the Indians like to carry out without help of any soul. About two hours elapsed. The maiden, with her head bowed on her bosom, went over in her mind the strange events which had led her, incident by inci- dent, to the spot where she now was. All at once a stifled sigh reached her ear; she raised her head with surprise, and saw a man standing before her, humbly lean- ing against a beam of the calli, and gazing on her with a strange meaning 2 his lance. , It was Shaw, Red Cedar’s son. Dona Clara blushed and looked down in confusion; Shaw remained silent, with his eyes fixed on her, intoxicating himself with the neppiness of seeing and. contemplating her at his ease. The girl, seated alone in this wretched Indian hut, before the man who so man times had nobly risked his life for her, fe into a profound and serious. thought. A strange trouble seized upon her—her breast heaved under the pressure of her emotion. Her eye, vailed with a soft languor, reste i involuntarily on this man, TR eal as an ancient Antinous, whom, with his haughty lance, his indomitable character, a frown m her made tremble—the wild son of the desert, wae had hitherto known no will but own nu seeing him, so handsome and so brave, she felt herself attracted to him by all the strength of her soul. Though she was ignorant of the word love, for some time an unconscious revolu- tion had taken place in her mind: she now began to understand that divine union of two souls, which are commingled in one, in an eternal communion of thoughts, of joy and suffering. In a word, she was about to love! ‘What do you want with me, Shaw?” she asked, timidly, ‘*] wish to tell you,” he answered, in a voice marked with extraordinary tender- ness, “that, whatever may te ap when- ever you have need of a man to die for you you will have no occasion to seek him, for i will be there.”’ ‘“‘Thanks,’’ she answered, smiling, in spite of herself, at the strangeness of the offer and the way in which it was made; ‘but here we have nothing to fear,” ‘“*Perhaps,’”’ he went on. ‘* No one knows what the morrow has in store.”’ Love with a woman is only an affair of pride or a struggle to endure: as she is weak, she always wishes to conquer, and above all dominates at the outset, in order to become presently the slave of the man she loves, when she has proved herstrength, by holding him panting at her feet. Owing to that eternal law of contrasts which governs the whole world, a woman will never love any man but him who, for some reason or another, flatters her pride. At any rate, it is so in the desert. Dona Clara was a Mexican. Her excep- tional position among Indians, the dangers to which she had been exposed, the weari- ness that undermined her—all these causes combined must dispose her in fayor of the young man, whose ardent passion she di- vined, with that intuition peculiar to all women. She yielded so far as to answer him, and encourage him to speak. Was it sport, or did she act in good faith j No one could say: woman’s heart is 8 book, in which man has never yet been able to construe a word. One of those long and pleasant conversa tions now began between the two you people, during which, though the wor “love” is not once uttered, it is expressed at every instant on the lips, and causes the heart to palpitate, which it plunges into those divine eestasies, forgotten by ripe age, but which render those who experience them 80 happy. Shaw, placed at his ease by the complacent kindness of Dona Clara, was no longer the same man. He found in his heart expres- sions which, in spite of herself made the maiden tremble, and put her into a confu- sion she could not understand. At the hour indicated by Pethonista, a Comanche warrior appeared at the door of the hut, and broke off the conversation. He was ordered tc lead the strangers to the meal prepared for them in the ehief’s lodge. Dona Clara went out at once, followed Shaw, whose heart was ready to burst with Ops 2% And yet what had Dona Clara said to him? Nothing. Butshe had let him speak, and listened to him with interest, and at times smiled at his remarks. The poor young man asked no more to be happy, and he was so, more than he had ever been before. Valentine, Don Pablo, and the two Indians were awaiting Dona Clara. So soon as she appeared, all proceeded to the wigwam of the chief, preceded by the Comanche warrior, who served as guide, CHAPTER XIX. THE DANCE OF THE OLD DOGS. PETHONISTA received his guests with all the refinements of Indian courtesy, obliging them to eat when he fancied he noticed that what was placed before them pleased their taste. It is not always agreeable to a white man to be invited to an Indian dinner; for, among the red-skins, etiquette prescribes that you should eat every — offered you without leaving a mouthful. Acting otber- wise would greatly offend them. Hence the position of small eaters is very disagreeable at times: owing to the vast capacity of In- dian stomachs, they find themselves under the harsh necessity of undergoing an attack of indigestion, or attract on themselves a guarrel which must have serious conse- quences. Fortunately nothing of this sort occurred on the present oceasion, and the repast. ter- minated satisfactorily to all. When dinner was over, Valentine rose, and bowing thrice to the company, said to the chief: ‘I thank my brother, in the name of my comrades and myself, for his grecons recep- tion. In a thousand moons the recollection of it will not be effaced from my mind. But warriors have something else to do than to eat, when serious interests claim their attention. Will my brother Pethonista hear the news I have to impart to him ?”’ “ Has my brother a secret communication to make to me, or does his message interest the whole tribe ?”’ ; ‘“ My message concerns all.” ‘** Wak! my brother must be patient then. To morrow—perhaps in a few hours—Uni- corn, our great sachem, will have returned, and my brother can then speak with him.”’ ‘“‘If Unicorn were bere,’’ Valentine said quickly, ‘‘two words would suffice; but he is absent, and time presses. For a second time I ask my brother to listen to me,” ““Good; a8 my brother wishes it, in an instant all <e we va “a assembled in the yreat audience lo above the vault in which burns the fire of Montecuhzoma,” . = | = comicboo ou ye ? - —* —_ ‘ * TY) 4 ~ ihe! ‘oF # . eat com