14 The Witless Dance

Charles was suffering alike from physical exhaustion and excess of his emotions, and his sleep resembled stupor. He did not awake until the sun was far up over the Arizona mountains and plains, and he might not have awakened even then, but the presence of four men in his hut impinged upon his consciousness.

He opened his eyes, writhed into a half-sitting position on his bed of leaves and saw the ancient shaman, Ka-jú, Big Elk and two others. The door of the hut was open and the bright light of the morning fell upon their mahogany faces. But it was old Ka-jú at whom Charles looked. His face seemed more cruel and horrible than ever. The boy had never seen such a type before. The impression that it was a survival from a cruel old world of long ago clung to him. As the toothless mouth was drawn up to compress the lips together the sharp pointed chin and the great hooked nose, pointed also, almost met. The eyes with their yellowish pupils were full of cruelty like those of the tiger. It seemed to Charles that Ka-jú was at least a hundred years old, and perhaps he was—a hundred years crowded with cruelty, the practice of savage rites and the reliance upon superstition. Charles could see in those saffron eyes a consuming hatred of himself and all of his race! It was his instant impression that his fate rested only with Ka-jú. Big Elk and the others, however important they might be elsewhere, were only pawns in the presence of the shaman.

Now Ka-jú disclosed that he could speak English.

“You sleep late,” he said. “Se-má-che (the Sun God) rose over the mountains three hours ago.”

“It is true,” replied Charles with some spirit, “but you have furnished me such a magnificent room here and such a nice bed that I could not keep from oversleeping myself. Blame your excessive hospitality, my ancient friend.”

Ka-jú looked at him and frowned. Charles’ words were too large for him, but he gathered from the tone that he was being derided, and the head shaman of the Apache-Yumas was a mighty man among his people, the close friend of Se-má-che himself and well-nigh the lord of life and death. It was not for a boy, a prisoner, to mock at him and as the lips were pressed more tightly together over the toothless gums a pebble could have been held between the pointed chin and the pointed nose. The yellowish eyes might have been a century old, but they were not too old to be full of baleful fire.

“You sleep late,” repeated Ka-jú in an ominous tone, “but a longer sleep may be coming for you.”

Charles shivered a little, despite all his pride and will—he understood the threat of Ka-jú.

The shaman said some words in Apache and the other three unbound the boy’s wrists and ankles. He sat up and stretched arms and legs luxuriously. The circulation had not been impeded, but it was pleasant to have one’s body free, even if it were only within the narrow space of an Apache hut. The feeling brought courage back with it.

“Why have you four come to see me here?” Charles asked, addressing himself as usual directly to the shaman.

“To ask you questions,” said Ka-jú, “questions that may help you, that may save you from the torture.”

“What are they?” asked Charles, although he could guess their nature.

“You came down the pass out of the deep mountains,” replied the shaman, waving his withered hand toward the north. “Far up the pass on the cliffs is a village where an old, old race dwelled long ago. They were driven away by my people who afterward lived on top of the cliff, not in the side of it as these people had done. By and by a great pestilence came upon us. The little people who lived in the cliffs had prayed to their gods to avenge them, and many of us died. It was in my time but before the time of these who are with us. We fled away and we have never been back. But we may go again. The face of Se-má-che is not now turned from us. We have the sacred dust. You saw, yesterday.”

“How does all this concern me?” asked Charles.

Old Ka-jú leaned forward, his fierce eyes holding the gaze of the boy.

“You came from the pass,” he said, “but you have not been alone there. Others are with you, four, five, six, maybe ten, perhaps men who hunt in our mountains for gold. You lead us there, you show us the way to take them, when they think nobody coming and we let you live.”

It seemed to Charles that the face of Ka-jú was that of a genuine fiend, fresh from the infernal regions, as he made this horrible proposition. The soul of the boy revolted, and giving himself no time to think of the consequences he exclaimed:

“Help you to ambush my friends! I’d rather die a dozen times than do such a thing!”

“You will die at least a dozen times before you really die,” said the shaman, grinning horribly.

Charles shuddered from head to foot. He could not help it. The recoil came from his first high emotion, and he foresaw all that they would do to him. He might give them his promise, lead them on a false trail, and escape somehow in the bush! Such a thing would be pardonable in the face of torture and death. But his courage came again. He would not do it.

“I can’t help you,” he said; “I don’t even say that I have friends anywhere in the mountains.”

“We may find a way to make you serve us,” said the shaman. “The flesh is brave, before it feels the touch of steel and fire.”

Charles lay back upon his bed of grass. He did not wish to hear any more threats—the sound of them was too unpleasant—and he was anxious above all that the horrible old shaman should go away. His face was enough to call up the most cruel of realities.

Seeing that he would not talk, the four left, but Big Elk came back presently with some food and water, which the boy could scarcely touch.

“Eat, drink,” said Big Elk, “you need strength.” He spoke in the most matter-of-fact way, without a touch of sympathy in his voice, but Charles, reflecting that the advice might be good, forced himself to finish the breakfast.

“Now you come,” said Big Elk, leading the way, and Charles followed him into the sunshine. The shaman was close by the door, outside, regarding him with malignant triumph, and the entire population was assembled again as if to witness some rite. Charles had a sudden horrible fear that he was to be the chief figure in this rite.

A great cry went up when he appeared in the sunshine, but it was stilled in a moment, when old Ka-jú raised his withered right hand. Big Elk took the boy by the right arm, another strong warrior took him by the left, and as the shaman led the way out of the valley toward the edge of the desert they followed close behind. But Charles made no resistance, he knew that it would be futile and even in this terrible moment he had his pride. But the insistent question, what were they going to do with him, pricked him continually like the red hot point of a needle.

They emerged upon the sands. Charles saw the brown swells, stretching away until they met the horizon, and a whirling “dust devil” passed for a moment against the lowest belt of sky and was lost. Behind him he heard muttered words, the low breathing of hundreds of savages and the shuffling of impatient feet. The sky was a burning blue, and he saw that the desert sands would be hot to the touch.

He turned half around. Warriors, women and children were gathered in a great semicircle about him, and every savage face showed eagerness and delight, never sympathy.

Ka-jú came close to the boy and stood before him. Charles was the taller and the old man had to look up into his eyes.

“Once again,” said the shaman, “I make you the offer. Will you take us to your friends in the mountains, take us there when they sleep?”

“No, I will not,” replied Charles, making a supreme effort of his will.

The shaman stepped back and made a gesture. Four men, with stone-headed hoes and spades, began to dig a hole in the ground. They went down rapidly in the loose hot sand, and Charles saw that the pit they dug, although not very wide, would be deep. The horrible shudder ran through every nerve again. They were going to bury him standing, up to the chin, press the sand about him and leave him there, with the brazen sun blazing upon him, and the vultures awaiting their prey. He looked up and saw two of them already wheeling in the blue, drawn by some hideous instinct.

The eyes of the boy wandered back to the hole that the warriors were digging. It was down three feet, and then four feet. It would soon be five feet and then they would put him in it. He had heard of this form of torture among the Apaches and it seemed to him the most horrible that human cruelty could devise. He turned half around once more, and looked at the semicircle of Apaches. Not a ray of human sympathy appeared in the eye of warrior, woman or child, only an eager interest and delight. He wondered that beings fashioned like himself could do such things.

He watched the workers and saw how the perspiration rolled off their mahogany-colored bodies. He himself, although he stood idle, felt the brazen glare of the sun that seemed to be burning into his brain. His fate was very near, apparently it was inescapable, and yet he had a feeling that it could not be real, it was a phantasm, not a thing that could happen to him, and this blessed feeling upheld him in his moment of greatest need, enabling him to stand erect and present a stoical face to those who watched hopefully for signs of flinching. But his heart beat heavily, and little black specks in myriads began to dance before his eyes.

He heard behind him a cry, not loud, but coming from many throats. It was a cry of surprise and he whirled to see. The savage eyes were turned from him, and were gazing at something that had appeared upon one of the swells of the desert though far away. He saw it, too, but at first thought it might be one of the black specks that danced in such myriads before his eyes. Then he was sure that it was not a black speck. It was larger, it came on toward the Apaches, growing larger still, and it took the shape of a man.

An Apache, probably a runner returning to his tribe, Charles thought, and then when the exclamation of surprise came again from the people about him, he knew that he was mistaken. It was no Apache; then it must be a white man!

Charles gazed with all his eyes. His heart had taken a sudden upward leap. Help might be coming, though the advance of a lone man promised but little. But at least it would cause a wait and he was glad now even for a delay of a few minutes. That pit and the perspiring Apaches who dug were real after all.

The advancing figure rose upon the plain and Charles winked his eyes rapidly, lest he had been deceived by some mist. The outlines grew familiar. It was unbelievable, he winked his eyes again to clear away a deceitful mist, but no mist was there. They had not yet bound his hands and feet for the pit, and he rubbed his eyes with his fingers, but he did not rub the advancing figure away, nor its familiar appearance.

It was a white man who came, and, as he rose now on the crest of a swell, an enormous pith helmet came into view, then a round, red face, the eyes shaded by huge glasses, and a small, trim figure in neat khaki, carrying a box under one arm.

It was Professor Erasmus Darwin Longworth. No one who ever knew him could mistake him, and the amazed boy would have shouted a warning, he would have cried to him that he was coming straight among cruel and merciless Apaches, but the actions of the professor were so strange that his tongue lay dry in his mouth, and he was silent with astonishment.

Perhaps it was the blazing sun of the Arizona desert, perhaps it was delving too much and too deep into the world of knowledge, but Charles had never seen the Professor behave in such a frivolous and extraordinary manner. He came on with a light, dancing step, swaying rhythmically from side to side, and now and then holding his free hand above his head in the manner of a Spanish dancer. Occasionally he sang snatches of song in a not unmusical voice. Charles thought that he recognized more than once a strain of plantation melody.

The Apaches were silent. The shaman, old Ka-jú, was a little ahead of the others, and his shrunken figure was bent forward. But the yellowish eyes that had seen so much in nearly a century of life were regarding the stranger with an intent, suspicious gaze. Charles never knew why he did not call out to the Professor and greet him as the friend that he was—perhaps it was due to his amazement and the fact that the Professor did not appear to know him.

There was a rapt look on the Professor’s face, and he did not seem to see the Apaches until he was within twenty feet of them. Then he began to sing incessantly, and to dance back and forth with all the agility of an acrobat. He danced forward to old Ka-jú, made imaginary crosses in front of his face, and sang with renewed vigor. The shaman shrank visibly, and a look of fear came into the old eyes that feared so little. The Professor danced away and made similar crosses before the face of Big Elk. The chief turned away in unconcealed fright, and the Professor, advancing into a little open space, continued to sing and dance. Murmurs of pity arose, and now Charles understood why. This strange little man under the enormous pith helmet, who sang and danced, had been bewitched, and he was protected by Se-má-che. None might harm him.

The Professor still sang and danced. Once he danced near Charles and under the words of the song came to the boy’s ears: “Don’t be afraid, I’ll save you.” Hope leaped up in the boy’s heart. How could he ever have despaired while Professor Longworth lived! That brain filled with the wisdom of ages would save him. He did not know how, but he knew it.

The Professor presently stopped dancing and singing, took the box from under his arm, and laid it upon the sand. Then he knelt before it and said cabalistic words in a low tone. The Apaches silent, save for their heavy breathing, regarded him with awe. His prayer finished he turned a wheel and out of the box, mellow and clear, came the strains of “Dixie.”

A gasp of astonishment burst from the Apaches. This singular being was certainly bewitched and without mind, but it was equally certain that Se-má-che, the Sun God, the master of the universe, spoke through him, and no one might lay a hostile hand upon him without danger of being smitten dead by Se-má-che himself. Did he not achieve the greatest of all wonders! He put a little box upon the ground, and forth from it came beautiful sounds, such as Se-má-che alone could produce.

The shaman stroked his beardless chin, and doubt and terror struggled in his soul. For full two generations he had ruled this band of Apaches and never before had he encountered anything like this. Great as his authority might be, he could not exert it against one protected by Se-má-che, and he, too, was almost convinced by the singular box that sent forth such wonderful strains of music.

The air was finished, the Professor bent over the box and another was begun. Over the yellow sands rose the solemn notes of the Tomb Song from “Lucia di Lammermoor,” and now the professor’s head, under his enormous pith helmet, was bowed with grief as he danced slowly and solemnly.

When the song was over he bowed his head above the magic box and wept. Then he lifted it in his arms and approached Big Elk as if to give it to him. But that valiant warrior, uttering a cry of terror, fled. It was refused also by a second and a third and then he approached the shaman.

Old Ka-jú stood his ground, as the Professor, with mincing step, approached, but Charles saw that the wrinkled, ancient face was ghastly, and that perspiration stood upon the mahogany brow and cheek. The Professor came closer, dancing more wildly than ever, and holding out the magic box in his hands. The shaman raised his own hands, but only halfway. Then his courage broke. He dropped his hands, and, as he shrank back, a deep sigh came from the crowd. Now that the great shaman had shown fear nothing on earth could convince them that Se-má-che himself was not acting in the person of the stranger.

When the shaman gave way, the Professor, still dancing and now singing, also approached Charles. He held out the box to the boy and said under his song, “Take it; it is set for the ‘Donna e Mobile.’” Charles took the box boldly and touched the spring. Out came the strains of the famous old air from “Rigoletto,” and, as Charles held the magic box in his hand, the Professor danced and bowed before him. Another gasp went up from the Apaches. Was the prisoner, too, a favorite of Se-má-che? If not, why did the witless one worship before him?

The song ended, and the Professor remained perfectly still, with head bowed before the captive youth, he was fixed in that position for a full minute, and not a soul among the Apaches dared to disturb him. The only sound they made was that of their heavy breathing. Then the Professor slowly raised his face until he looked directly into the eye of the sun through his great glasses.

The Apaches uttered another cry. He was returning, without flinching, the gaze of their own great God, Se-má-che. The Professor raised both arms and made gestures with them toward the sun. Then he turned to the prisoner again and took the box from his hand.

Ka-jú, the shaman, was watching it all with those keen old eyes of his. Suspicion and terror were still fighting in his mind, but suspicion was getting the better of terror. He had seen white men before, and he knew that they were full of guile and cunning. What was this magic box? He would renew his courage, take it in his own hands and let it play for his people. He would show them that his medicine was as good as any in the world.

The aged, the bold shaman, Ka-jú, had done many bold things in his life, but never before one so bold as that, when he stepped forward and held out his hands for the magic box. Perspiration stood again on brow and chin but he made the offer, nevertheless. Professor Longworth stared fixedly into his eyes and he saw there fear, but a will controlled by fear, and he felt a momentary thrill of respect for the old savage. Then he handed him the box, and began to dance before it.

Ka-jú held the box in hands that trembled, and listened for the song, but no song came. A low but swelling cry of horror rose from the throats of the Apaches. The magic box would not play for the greatest shaman of them all, but it would play for the prisoner and the stranger. Then they were under the protection of Se-má-che and Ka-jú was committing sacrilege. The cry of horror turned to something else and, for the first time in half a century the shaman heard the rebuke of his tribe. He felt himself that he had done wrong, and a guilty conscience added to his terror. He dropped the box on the sand as if it had been a poisonous snake and shrank back among the warriors.

The Professor picked up the box, pressed the spring and forth came the flowing strains of “The Beautiful Blue Danube.” Here certainty was piled upon belief, and surprise deepened when the strange, little man turning to them addressed them in their own tongue.

“He is mine,” he said, nodding toward the prisoner, “I have come for him. Give him to me.”

The Apaches did not expect so great a request and they looked blankly at their shaman. But he trembled. He alone had committed sacrilege and he alone had the punishment of Se-má-che to fear. He could not say no, much as it tore his soul to let a captive go, and he merely nodded and waved his hand, so much as to say, “Take him, he is yours.”

Charles stepped forward and no hand was raised to stay him, but the anger of the witless one rose and he said in a stern voice to the Apaches:

“I wish him as he came to you. ’Tis Se-má-che who speaks through me. The Sun God may need him for the sacrifice, and I take him into the deep mountains.”

Frightened hands brought the boy his rifle, pistol and knife, his ammunition and the other articles that had been stripped from him when he was captured, and the Apaches seemed relieved when he received them.

“Follow me,” said the Professor in English to Charles.

He pressed the spring, the music box began to play a swift military march, and holding it, tucked under his arm, he danced away along the edge of the plain, where it merged into the scrub and the foothills. Charles, his head erect, his eyes on the Professor, followed as if he were held by the spell of the witless one.

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