Part 12

The white settlers were so aggravated by having their horses stolen that they resorted to all sorts of expedients to keep the Indians from getting them. The savages, however, kept up their thieving excursions till there were no horses left in some neighbourhoods, especially near rivers, down which the Indians came from the north and north-west, under cover of the timber along the waterside. If they could not get away with a horse, they would kill it rather than leave it alive to its owner. The settlers built strong log stables, with stout doors, which they fastened from the inside, climbing out themselves through a hole in the roof. Still, with wonderful cunning, the Indians got the horses, or killed them by shooting them with arrows through the cracks between the logs.

A friend of mine with whom I often stopped in South-West Texas told me how, on one occasion, the Indians got two fine horses from him when there seemed absolutely no chance for them to be stolen. He had a stable made of heavy oak logs, with a stout door fastened by a strong wooden pin, which one of his grown sons drove in with a maul on this particular evening, having seen Indian signs in the neighbourhood that day. Then the settler and his sons went to sleep in the hay-loft, under the same roof, with their loaded guns beside them. Not a sound disturbed them during the night, but when morning came the stable door was open and the horses gone. The Indians had found how the door was fastened and, by steady perseverance, succeeded in working the pin out. Probably the job took them hours, but they had plenty of time.

Old frontiersmen are the most superstitious class of people in the world. They all believe in omens and portents, things that forebode death and disaster. Their lives are spent amid dangerous surroundings, and they are suspicious of everything that seems unusual or ominous, and often attach uncanny significance to things which would make no impression upon the ordinary citizen living in a peaceful community.

One of the surest signs of approaching death to the old plainsman and Indian fighter is the scream of the "death-bird." The "death-bird" is supposed to fly about at night or hover near white men or women and children to give warning of the approach of Indians, wild beasts, or other great dangers. Its cry is the most piercing, nerve-racking wail that ever smote upon human ears. There is an almost human expression in it, as though it were the scream of a woman or child in mortal fear; and there is no mistaking its note among all the other night-birds of the plains. It never warns people unless there is no possible escape by other means, and woe to the man who hears its cry and heeds it not. As far as I have been able to discover no human eye has ever looked upon this mysterious "death-bird," for it flies only on dark nights, never uttering its warning at any other time, and the folk it honours with its attentions are thrown into such a state of fear, expectancy, and dread that curiosity as to the appearance of the bird is far from their thoughts. It is supposed, however, to be an owl, black as midnight, with very long wings and a large head and mouth, which superstitious people who claim to have seen the creature declare to be strangely like the head and mouth of a human being.

Almost every old Ranger and frontiersman has a weird story to tell as to the "death-bird" having saved the life of someone or other from Indians or outlaws. Most of the stories, however, are second-hand narratives, and I found when they had been sifted down they had almost always happened to someone other than the narrator. It was extremely rare that they were personal experiences, and they generally happened in some distant part of the State at some remote time. I had been a Ranger twenty years before I met a man, in whom I had the utmost confidence, who had a personal experience to relate wherein the "death-bird" had warned him of danger and saved his life. Up to this time I had doubted the truthfulness of these stories, and scouted the idea that such a bird existed. About seven years after this my friend, in company with two other Rangers, was ambushed and killed one night by renegade Mexicans down on the Rio Grande border, and on this occasion there was no "death-bird" to save his life, so I was still a little dubious.

Three years later, however, I met with an adventure which removed the last vestige of doubt from my mind. In the autumn of 1880, with five other Rangers, under command of a lieutenant, I was stationed at Eagle Pass, on the Rio Grande. About the middle of November I was sent to San Antonio with important despatches for the colonel commanding. I was selected for the trip because I had the fleetest horse of any man in the force, a big black thoroughbred, for which I had paid three hundred dollars when he was only two years old, and at a time, too, when horseflesh was cheap. For three years I had ridden this horse daily on all our scouting expeditions. He had borne me safely through many dangers, and I loved him almost as if he had been a human being.

I left San Antonio on my return one morning at eleven o'clock and rode seventy miles by nine o'clock that night, arriving at the Nueces River and Turkey Creek bottoms. The weather became threatening in the afternoon, and at night dense clouds obscured the light from the stars, and as there was no moon it became so appallingly black when we entered the thick timber of the "bottoms" that I could not see an inch before my eyes, and even my horse could not find his way around the trees, bushes, and fallen timber. There was no rain, no lightning, no thunder, and no wind--simply a thick pall of clouds which seemed to rest upon the tops of the trees--while a curious soft murmuring sound seemed to come from the bottom lands. I would have stopped immediately upon reaching the timber, but I had heard that afternoon that Indians had been seen along the river within the past twenty-four hours, and I had noticed the trail of what I believed to be Indian ponies crossing my road about six o'clock. So somehow or other I felt my way through the pitch-darkness till we were perhaps three hundred yards from the edge of the Nueces bottom. Then, dismounting, I took off my saddle and, letting down my lariat, looped the end around my left wrist so that my horse could graze, and yet waken me if he got too far away. Lying down under a large live-oak with my head on the saddle, I soon went to sleep with the subdued murmuring sound still echoing in my ears. I intended to rest a few hours, until the clouds lifted, and then continue my journey to a settlement twenty miles farther on. The tree under which I lay was a very large one, and I found next morning that the top limbs were dead, the tree having been struck by lightning some years before.

I must have slept for some time, but it seemed to me my eyes had barely closed when a piercing, wailing scream in the tree above me brought me instantly to my feet--a scream so startling that it seemed to vibrate every nerve in my body. Even if I had never heard so much as a whisper as to the peculiar character of the "death-bird's" cry I should have recognised it, for never before or since have I heard such a wild, foreboding shriek. The cry was long and wailing--the first note sharp, like the crack of a six-shooter, then trailing off into a long-drawn-out, ominous wail. The bird was doubtless sitting on one of the dead limbs above me, and at the first note of alarm had flown off across the bottom, the cry becoming more weird and portentous the farther away it got.

I took notice of this in a kind of subconscious way, for my faculties were strung to their highest tension to discover the danger that I was convinced menaced me. Even before the cry died away I heard my horse drawing in its breath in a sort of sob, as though uneasy and somewhat excited. Then I noticed that the lariat looped to my wrist was drawn suspiciously tight. This impression had hardly formed in my mind before the lariat suddenly drew a little tighter, then slackened perceptibly. Instantly it occurred to me that an Indian was out there with my horse, that he had the lariat in his hand, and was perhaps running his hand along it towards me to untie it, thinking it was tied to a stake, when, having got near enough to hear me as I sprang to my feet, he cut the line with a knife, causing the momentary tightness, followed by the slackening.

The thought that an Indian was making off with my valuable horse so filled me with fury that I was driven almost to desperation, and forgot for an instant the necessity for caution. Slipping the looped lariat off my wrist, I drew my six-shooter and crept as softly as I could out in the direction of my horse. I could still hear him sniffing out there in the brush, and thought I heard him stepping among sticks as though he was being led away. This so enraged me that I pushed through the brush faster and more recklessly than ever, gripping my six-shooter, though I realized I was doing a foolhardy thing, for an Indian can see in the dark much better than a white man. Still, it seemed impossible for me to resist the impulse to pursue my horse.

I had groped my way perhaps twenty feet when I stepped on to some dry twigs, which cracked sharply under my weight. Simultaneously I heard the ominous throb of a heavy bow-string, and as I ducked my head, quick as thought, an arrow took off my hat and tore through my hair, scorching my scalp as though a red-hot iron rod had been laid across my head. Upon this my horse became so excited that he began to rear, plunge, and snort. I stood irresolute, fearing to fire in that direction lest I should kill the animal. From the sound the horse was making I believed he was pulling considerably on the halter and backing towards me. While I stood there, in a fever of uncertainty, I again heard the dull hum of the bow-string and ducked to avoid the arrow, but instead of its coming toward me there was a wild, almost human, cry from my horse, and he reared and fell heavily to the ground, then staggered to his feet again and came towards me, uttering the most agonizing cry that ever tortured human ears. When perhaps ten feet from me he again fell and lay still, moaning with pain. A mad fury of rage possessed me at my beauty's agony, and I leaped blindly forward in the darkness, not caring whether I lived or died if only I could kill that brute of an Indian. I made towards where I heard my horse fall, feeling for him with my left hand, and just as I touched him I heard once more the twang of the Indian's bow-string, and again an arrow whizzed at me, tearing away the lobe of my ear. In ducking this time I sank to my knees and found myself between my dead horse's fore and hind legs as he lay with his belly towards me, with my left hand resting on his body. I marked carefully the direction of the bow-string's hum, and as my knees touched the ground I raised myself up and fired twice in quick succession, afterwards sinking down low again behind the horse's body.

There was no sound from the redskin to lead me to believe I had struck him, so I crouched down between the feet of my dead horse, gripping my six-shooter, expecting the Indian or Indians to be upon me every minute. But minutes and hours passed, and still I heard not the faintest sound from that direction. Nevertheless, I dared not move, but spent the remainder of the night where I was, protected by the animal's body.

As the grey light of coming day began to steal into the bottom I peered anxiously around me, searching for signs of the Indian, either dead or alive. I could see nothing of him through the bushes and vines, so when it became light I got up and walked cautiously in the direction from which the arrows had come. About fifty yards away I discovered traces of blood, and following these for a short distance I found where the Indian had lain down and dragged himself, leaving a plainly discernible trail. Following this for about three hundred yards farther I came to a tiny little gully about a foot deep. In one place the limbs of a low tree overhung it, and here the gully appeared to be nearly full of leaves. Looking about, I saw what I took to be an arrow sticking up above the leaves. I approached very cautiously, watching for the slightest movement, but there was none, and the arrow still stuck out at an angle of about forty-five degrees. Six-shooter in hand I drew nearer, and found an Indian lying there dead in the gully. It was obvious what had happened. Becoming too weak to crawl, my enemy had stretched himself in this gully, raked the dead leaves over his body, covering himself from view very artfully, and then, with bow and arrow, ready to shoot me if I had followed him and overtook him while he was yet alive, he had lain there, bearing the pain of his wounds with stoical fortitude, until death came to his release.

SHORT STORIES.

The first instalment of a budget of breezy little narratives--exciting, humorous, and curious--hailing from all parts of the world. This month's collection comprises a weird experience at an Hungarian inn, a snake adventure in West Africa, and a sea-captain's account of a rough and-tumble voyage.

MY ADVENTURE AT ARAD.

+By F. Harris Deans.+

Other travellers may have experienced adventures in inns. They may have been awakened--many declare they have--in the early hours of the morning by the creaking of the stairs; have listened, frozen with horror, to the whispered colloquy between the villainous innkeeper and his equally villainous wife outside his door; have heard the stealthy sharpening of a knife. I admit that such adventures may have befallen other wayfarers, but that anyone has lived through a night at an inn as strange as that spent by me I am unable to believe.

The only person--at one time I had regarded him as a friend--to whom I have hitherto nerved myself to recount my experience regarded it as an excuse--nay, more than an excuse, an incentive--for mirth. The thoughtful reader, however, who now becomes acquainted with my story will, I feel confident, place himself in imagination in my position, so that his perusal of this article will, at all events, enable him to refrain from ribald laughter.

I will confess at the outset that my knowledge of Hungarian is limited to some dozen words. The time of day I will pass with you in the most fluent Ungarisch; if you, enraptured at my accent, wish to continue the conversation, and will confine yourself to remarking that the weather is hot or cold (you must not say warm or chilly), I will agree, or disagree, with you--curtly, maybe, but nevertheless I will do so; if you are thirsty I will order you wine, beer, or water; your hunger I will satisfy with bread. Further, I can amuse, instruct, and elevate you by counting up to ten.

The reader who himself possesses some knowledge of Hungarian will share with me my admiration of my linguistic accomplishments. It takes some years of patient efforts for an Hungarian himself to learn his own language. I feel confident, had I been so fortunate (I am writing this in the heart of Hungary, and the inhabitants are an impulsive people) as to have been born an Hungarian, I should have borne dumbness with equanimity.

All this--though, to the broad-minded, it excuses my ignorance of the language--does not alter the fact that I was fully aware beforehand that in certain regions of the country I should not be able to enjoy heart-to-heart talks with the people. Even in England there are whole villages which speak no tongue save their native one. I did not, however, anticipate that my ignorance would land me in the weird adventure here set forth.

In a town, however, such as Arad I did not anticipate that there would exist one miserable, imbecile, uneducated incompetent--who, alas, only knows my opinion of him through a far too polite interpreter--who spoke only his own language, and that this one disreputable outcast and disgrace to an educated nation should cross my path.

I arrived in Arad--a town of about sixty thousand people, lying near the Roumanian border--at about 2 a.m. I had not slept for over thirty-six hours, and I was so tired that I would have shared a bed with a Roumanian peasant. Can I say more?

At the nearest hotel I pulled myself together and demanded, in what was, under the circumstances, very tolerable German, a bedroom. There was no difficulty about this; there was a room vacant. Gladly I filled in particulars of myself on the Police Form as the law demands.

"Are you an Austrian or a German?" inquired the porter.

I glanced at him sharply; I was in no mood for sarcasm. Besides, if it came to that, _his_ German wasn't of much account. But no; his face was gravity itself; courteous curiosity was its only expression. I pointed--I had no mind to risk my reputation as a linguist by further speech--to the form I had just filled in.

"London," he read. "So, ein Englander?"

"_Ja_," said I.

I got into bed at 2.30 a.m., and immediately fell last asleep.

Some time later I awoke and sat up with a start. Thump, thump, thump--blows rained steadily, monotonously, on my door. I switched on the light; it was 3.30 a.m. Springing out of bed, I threw open my door. The interrupter of my repose, apparently resting against it after his exertions, fell forward into the room and trod on my bare toes. I called him, in German, a clumsy donkey, and demanded to know what all of the noise was about. By way of reply he grinned at me amiably--as if we had a little joke in common--and promptly retreated.

Puzzled by his behaviour, I looked along the corridor. Everything appeared to be all right, so I retired again to bed.

Seven minutes, by my watch, had I been sleeping dreamlessly, when again that tattoo was beaten on my door. I nearly choked with anger, and, throwing off my quilt, I dashed madly to the door.

Once more the idiot met me with an amiable grin.

"You confounded fool!" I roared, shaking my fist in his beaming face; "what do you think you're doing? Even if this is an Hungarian game, do you think this is the time to start teaching it to a stranger? Your intentions may be good; I admit I am lonely; perhaps in the afternoon I may be glad to play some simple little game with you. But not now. Do you understand? Not at three in the morning. Get!"

My vivacity appeared to cause him much satisfaction, and he again took his departure.

I returned to bed.

This time I didn't even succeed in getting to sleep; he must have been waiting round the corner. Once more he beat upon my door.

I made no attempt to speak to him; I could not have expressed my feelings even in English; I seized him by the shoulders (luckily he was a good-tempered man) and shook him. Apparently, judging from the sound, I had shaken him to pieces. I looked on the ground and saw that he had dropped--my boots! This restored my speech. "Boots!" I shrieked, as he picked them up and politely offered them to me. "I want peace, not boots. Have I as much as mentioned boots to you? Does any sane man want his boots at three o'clock? Do you think I sleep in them? Do you imagine that's what's keeping me awake, not having them?"

I think it was the man's perfect placidity that made me so mad. Had he lost _his_ temper, had he only sworn in Hungarian--a language admirably suited for the art, by the way--I should have felt better. But no; he maintained a perfect silence; he appeared to regard me as a lunatic on whom speech would be wasted. Realizing at last, however, that I was not yearning at that moment for my boots, he put them on one side--to be introduced again at a more suitable moment. Next he pointed to my pyjamas.

"What about them?" I demanded, furiously. "What's wrong with them? Is it the colour, or what?" As a matter of fact they looked rather neat--a sort of chocolate with blue stripes. In any case, I didn't want to be awakened in the middle of the night to have a boots tell me he didn't admire my pyjamas. They weren't meant to be admired; they were intended to be slept in. I wished he would realize that.

"Perhaps you would rather I wore a night-shirt," I continued, as he remained speechless. "Well, I'm not going to. I'm an Englishman, Englander, Angol--do you understand?--and I'll wear what I like. Now I'm going to bed again. If I so much as hear you breathe near my door before nine o'clock I'll shoot you." With that I retired and slammed the door.

I was half-way towards the bed when the door opened and boots inserted his head. Then a hand followed, and he scratched his head in a puzzled manner. Words, I felt, were wasted on him. In as dignified a manner as possible I climbed into bed and switched off the light hanging over it. Immediately boots turned on the light near the door. I sat up, indignant.

"Look here," I said, "I've had enough of it." I raised a cautioning forefinger. "I will _not_ play games with you. Understand that, once for all. Go and wake somebody else up--somebody who knows these national customs of yours. I'm speaking seriously now. When I engaged this room I engaged it to sleep in. Sleep! Do you understand? It's an English custom. You're wasting your time trying to talk to me. I don't understand your language, and I'm not going to learn--not immediately, anyhow. Now, go! Go, you----!" As I rushed at him he turned and fled, and, locking the door, for the fifth time that night I got into bed.

I was by this time in such a mood that I was awakened with a start at four o'clock by the sound of whispering outside my door. Without stopping to consider how I should dispose of the corpse of my intended victim, I again vacated my bed. This time boots was accompanied by another person, who turned out to be the manager.

"I hev' come to apologize," he remarked, blandly.

I struggled to regain my composure.

"This is too good of you," I said, warmly. "Come in and take a seat."

He misunderstood my sarcasm and promptly entered, accompanied by the boots.

"Zere have been a leetle mistake," he continued, with an amused smile I made no effort to share.

"It's more than kind of you," I said, gratefully, "to come and wake me up at four in the morning to explain it."

He bowed modestly. Personal convenience, he assured me earnestly, was as nothing to an act of courtesy.

Then he explained. It appeared that the previous occupier of my room had been a German, who had intended to take his departure at three o'clock that morning. At the last moment, however, he had changed his mind, and had left at 11 p.m. Unfortunately, the porter, whom he had desired to instruct the boots to awaken him, had forgotten to cancel the order.

"Und he had sayed he vos a ver' heafy sleeper!" he wound up. "So you see, it vos a mutual misunderstanding. Nicht was?"

"This," I said, "makes everything satisfactory. Now, if you don't mind, I should like to go to sleep. I have to catch a train at ten. Perhaps you will see that I am not awakened before nine?"

When he had impressed this on the penitent boots, we parted, with mutual expressions of regard.

The boots--no doubt in a well-meant desire to make up for his earlier mistake--this time forbore to awaken me at all. I accordingly awoke at midday, in plenty of time for my next train, which left twenty-two hours later.

THE HORROR IN THE PIT.

+By E. F. Martin, late of the Royal Niger Company's Service.+