The Border Rifles: A Tale of the Texan WarAimard, Gustave
History
The Border Rifles: A Tale of the Texan War
Aimard, Gustave
Texas -- History -- To 1846 -- Fiction; Western stories
After a few moments of an exercise that restored circulation to his
blood and elasticity to his joints, completely reassured about himself,
the thought occurred to him of trying whether among the bodies lying
around him any still breathed.
"They are only Indians," he muttered, "but, after all, they are men;
although they are nearly deprived of reason, humanity orders me to help
them; the more so, as my present situation has nothing very agreeable
about it, and if I succeed in saving any of them, their knowledge of the
desert will be of great service to me."
This last consideration determined him on helping men whom probably
without it he would have abandoned to their fate, that is to say, to the
teeth of the wild beasts which, attracted by the scent of blood, would
have certainly made them their prey after dark.
Still it is our duty to render the egotistic citizen of the United
States the justice of saying that, so soon as he had formed this
determination, he acquitted himself conscientiously and sagaciously of
his self-imposed task, which was easy to him after all; for the numerous
professions he had carried on during the course of his adventurous life
had given him a medical knowledge and experience which placed him in a
position to give sick persons that care their condition demanded.
Unfortunately, most of the persons he inspected had received such
serious wounds that life had long fled their bodies, and help was quite
unavailing.
"Hang it, hang it!" the American muttered at every corpse he turned
over, "These poor savages were killed by a master-hand. At any rate they
did not suffer long, for with such fearful wounds they must have
surrendered their souls to the Creator almost instantaneously."
He thus reached the spot where lay the body of Blue-fox, with a wide
gaping wound in his chest.
"Ah, ah! Here is the worthy Chief," he went on. "What a gash! Let us see
if he is dead too."
He bent over the motionless body, and put the blade of his knife to the
Indian's lips.
"He does not stir," he continued, with an air of discouragement; "I am
afraid I shall have some difficulty in bringing him round."
In a few minutes, however, he looked at the blade of his knife and saw
that it was slightly tarnished.
"Come, he is not dead yet; so long as the soul holds to the body, there
is hope, so I will have a try."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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