Chapter Fifty Six.
The Bivouac of the Guerrilla.
I stayed to hear no more, but drove the spur against the ribs of my horse, till he sprang in full gallop along the road. Eager as were my men to follow, ’twas as much as they could do to keep up.
We no longer thought of scouts or cautious marching. The trappers had mounted, and were galloping with the rest. We thought only of time.
We rode for the hacienda de Vargas, straight up the river. Although it was beyond the rancheria, we could reach it without passing through the latter—which lay some distance back from the stream. We could return to the village afterwards, but first for the hacienda. There I wished to arrive in the shortest time possible.
The miles flew behind us, like the dust of the road.
Oh, should we not be in time! I feared to calculate the length of the interval since the boy had heard that rabble rout. Was it more than an hour? Five miles to the rancho, and he on foot. Had he travelled rapidly? Yes, here and there; but he had made a stop: some men had passed him, and he had hidden in the bushes till they were out of sight. He had been more than an hour on the way—nearly two, and one would be enough for the execution of the darkest deed. Oh, we should not arrive in time!
There was no delay now. We were going at top-speed, and in silence, scarcely exchanging a word. Alone might be heard the clattering of hoofs, the chinking of bits, or the ringing of steel scabbards. Neither the slimy gutter nor the deep rut of carreta wheels stayed our advance; our horses leaped over, or went sweltering through them.
In five minutes we came to the rinconada, where the road forked—the left branch leading to the village. We saw no one, and kept on by the right—the direct road to the hacienda. Another mile, and we should reach the house; a quarter of that distance, and we should come in sight of it; the trees alone hindered our view of its walls. On—on!
What means that light? Is the sun rising in the west? Is the chapparal on fire? Whence comes the yellow gleam, half intercepted by the trunks of the trees? Is it not the moon!
“Ho! the hacienda is in flames!”
“No—it cannot be? A house of stone, with scarcely enough timber to make a blaze! It cannot be that?”
It is not that. We emerge from the forest; the hacienda is before our eyes. Its white walls gleam under a yellow light—the light of fire, but not of a conflagration. The house stands intact. A huge bonfire burns in front of the portal; it was this that caused the glare through the forest.
We draw up and gaze upon it with surprise. We behold a huge pile—the material supplied from the household stock of dry faggots—a vast blaze drowning the pale moonshine. We can see the hacienda, and all around it, as distinctly as by the light of day!
For what purpose this holocaust of crackling acacias?
Around the fire we behold many forms, living and moving. There are men, women, dogs, and saddled horses. Huge joints are roasting over the red coals, and others, roasted, are being greedily eaten. Are they savages who surround that blazing pile?
No—we can see their faces with full distinctness, the white skins and black beards of the men, the cotton garments of the women; we can see sombreros and serapes, cloth cloaks and calzoneros of velveteen, sashes and sabres; we can distinguish their voices as they shout, sing, and carouse; we note their lascivious movements in the national dance—the fandango. No Indians they—’tis a bivouac of the guerrilleros—the ruffians for whom we are in search!
Oh, that I had listened to the voice of prudence, and adopted the strategy of a surround! But my blood was boiling, and I feared to lose even a moment of time, lest we might be too late. But one or two of my followers counselled delay, and, as the event proved, they were the wisest. The rest, like myself, were impatient for action.
The word was given: and like hounds, fresh loosed from the leash, we rushed forward with charging cheer.
It was the madness of fools. Well knew our enemy the hoarse Texan “hurrah!” It had been shouted to terrify them, when there was no need. They would never have stood ground.
The shout warned them, causing them to scatter like a herd of deer. The steep hill proved too heavy for our horses; and before we could reach its summit, the main body of the guerrilla had mounted and scampered off into the darkness. Six of them fell to our shots; and as many more, with their she-associates, remained prisoners in our hands; but as usual that subtle coward had contrived to escape.
Pursuit was idle; they had taken to the dark woods beyond the hill.
I thought not of pursuit; my mind was bent on a far different purpose.
I rode into the patio. The court was lit up by the glare of the fire. It presented a picture of ruin. Rich furniture was scattered about in the verandah and over the pavement, broken or tumbled down. I called her name—the name of Don Ramon. Loudly and earnestly did I raise my voice, but echo gave the only reply.
I dismounted, and rushed into the verandah, still vociferating, and still without receiving a response.
I hurried from room to room—from cuarto to sala—from sola to saguan—up to the azotea—everywhere—even to the capilla in the rear. The moonbeams gleamed upon the altar, but no human form was there. The whole house was deserted; the domestics—even the women of the cocina—had disappeared. My horse and I seemed the only living things within those walls—for my followers had remained outside with their prisoners.
A sudden hope gleamed across my heart. Perhaps they had taken my counsel, and gone off before the mob appeared? Heaven grant it might be so!
I rushed out to question the captives. They should know, both men and women: they could certainly tell me.
A glance showed me I was too late to receive information from the men. A large pecan tree stood at one corner of the building. The firelight glared upon it; from its branches hung six human forms with drooping heads, and feet far from the earth. They had just ceased to live!
One told me that the herredero was among them, and also the cruel matador. Pedro had identified both. The others were pelados of the town, who had borne part in the affair of the day. Their judges had made quick work, and equally quick had been the ceremony of execution. Lazos had been reeved over the limbs of the pecan, and with these all six had been jerked up without shrift or prayer!
It was not revenge for which I panted. I turned to the women; many of these had made off, but there were still a dozen or more in the hands of the men. They looked haggard with drink; some sullen, and some terrified. They had reason to be afraid.
In answer to my questions, they shook their heads, but gave me no information. Some remained doggedly silent; others denied all knowledge of Don Ramon or his daughter. Threats had no effect. They either knew not, or feared to tell what had befallen them. Oh heaven! could it be the latter?
I was turning away angered and despairing, when my eyes fell upon a figure that seemed to skulk under the shadow of the walls. A shout of joy escaped me as I recognised the boy Cyprio, just emerging from his place of concealment.
“Cyprio!” I cried.
“Si, señor’s” answered he, advancing rapidly to where I stood.
“Tell me, Cyprio! where are they gone—where—where?”
“Carrai, señor’s! these bad men have carried the dueño away; I do not know whither.”
“The señora? the señora?”
“Oh! cavallero! es una cosa espantosa!” (It is a terrible thing.)
“Quick, tell me all! Quickly, Cyprio!”
“Señor’s, there came men with black masks, who broke into the house and carried off the master; then they dragged out Dona Isolina into the patio! Ay de mi! I cannot tell you what they did before—pobre señorita! There was blood running down her neck and over her breast: she was not dressed, and I could see it. Some went to the caballeriza, and led out the white horse—the steed that was brought from the llanos. Upon his back they bound Dona Isolina. Valga me dios! such a sight!”
“Go on!”
“Then, señor’s, they led the horse across the river, and out to the plain beyond. All went along, to see the sport, as they said—ay de mi! such sport! I did not go, for they beat and threatened to kill me; but I saw all from the hill-top, where I had hidden myself in the bushes. O Santissima Maria!”
“Go on!”
“Then, señor’s, they stuck cohetes in the hips of the horse, and set them on fire, and pulled off the bridle, and the steed went off, with fire-rockets after him, and Dona Isolina tied down upon his back—pobre señorita! I could see the horse till he was far, far away upon the llano, and then I could see him no more. Dios de mi alma! la niña esta perdida!” (Alas! the young lady is lost.)
“Some water! Rube! Garey! friends—water! water!—”
I made an attempt to reach the fountain in the patio; but, after staggering dizzily a pace or two, my strength failed me, and I fell fainting to the earth.
Chapter Fifty Seven.
Taking the Trail.
I had merely swooned. My nerves and frame were still weak from the blood-letting I had received in the combat of yesterday. The shock of the horrid news was too much for my powers of endurance.
I was insensible only for a short while; the cold water revived me.
When consciousness returned, I was by the fountain, my back leaning against its parapet edge; Rube, Garey and others were around me. From my dripping garments, I perceived that they had douched me, and one was pouring a fiery spirit down my throat.
There were men on horseback, who had ridden into the patio—the iron hoofs causing the court to ring. They were rangers, but not those who had left camp in my company. Some had arrived since, and others were still galloping up. The girls had reached the ranger camp, and told their tale. The men had not waited for orders, or even for one another, but rushing to their horses, took the road in twos and threes. Every moment, a horseman, or several together, came riding forward in hot haste, carrying their rifles, as if ready for action, and uttering loud cries of indignation.
Wheatley had arrived among the foremost.
Poor fellow! his habitual buoyancy had departed; the gay smile was gone from his lips. His eyes were on fire, and his teeth set in the stern expression of heart-consuming vengeance.
Amidst the hoarse shouting of the men, I heard screaming in the shriller voices of women. It came from without.
I rose hastily, and ran towards the spot: I saw several of the wretched captives stripped to the waist, and men in the act of flogging them, with mule-quirts and pieces of raw-hide rope.
I had feared it was worse; I had feared that their captors were inflicting upon them a retaliation in kind. But no—angry as were my followers, they had not proceeded to such a fiendish extremity.
It required all the authority of a command to put an end to the distressing spectacle. They desisted at length; and the screeching and affrighted wretches were permitted to take themselves away—all disappearing rapidly beyond the light of the fire.
At this crisis a shout was raised: “To the rancheria, to the rancheria!” and instantly a party, with Wheatley and Holingsworth at its head, rode off for the village. Pedro went along with them.
I waited not for their return; I had formed a plan of action for myself, that would admit of no delay in its execution.
At first, stunned by the blow, and the distraction of my swooning senses, I had not been able to think; as soon as the confusion passed, and I could reflect more clearly, the course I ought to pursue was at once apparent. Vengeance I had felt as the first impulse, and a strong desire to follow up the fiend Ijurra—night and day to follow him—though the pursuit should lead me into the heart of the hostile ground.
This was but a momentary impulse: vengeance must be stifled for the time. A path was to be taken that widely diverged from that of the retreating guerrilla—the trail of the white steed.
Mounting Cyprio, and choosing from my band half-a-dozen of the best trackers, was the work of a moment. In another, we were in the saddle; and descending the hill, we plunged rapidly through the stream, crossed the skirting timber, and soon rode out upon the open prairie.
Under Cyprio’s guidance, we found the spot desecrated by that cruel display. The ground was trampled by many hoofs; fragments of paper—powder-blackened—broken rocket-sticks, and half-burnt fuses, strewed the sward—the pyrotechnic reliquiae of the fiendish spectacle.
We halted not there. By the aid of our guide and the moonlight, we rode clear of the confusion; and taking up the trail of the horse, struck off upon it, and were soon far out upon the prairie.
For more than a mile we advanced at a gallop. Time was everything. Trusting to the intelligence of the Mexican boy, we scarcely scrutinised the track, but made directly for the point where the horse had been last seen.
Cyprio’s information did not deceive us. A motte of timber had served him as a mark: the steed had passed close to its edge. Beyond it, he had seen him no more, and the boy was sent back.
Beyond it, we found the tracks, easily recognisable by Rube, Garey, and myself. There was a peculiarity by which we were prevented from mistaking them: three of the prints were clearly cut in the turf—almost perfect circles—the curve of the fourth—of the off fore-foot—was interrupted by a slight indentation, where a piece had been broken from the hoof. It had been done in that terrible leap upon the rocky bed of the barranca.
Taking the trail again, we kept on—now advancing at a slower pace, and with a greater degree of caution. Late rain had moistened the prairie-turf, and we could perceive the racks without dismounting. At intervals, there were stretches of drier surface, where the hoof had scarcely left its impression. In such places, one leaped from the saddle, and led the way on foot. Rube or Garey usually performed this office; and so rapidly did they move along the trail, that our horses were seldom in a walk. With bodies half bent, and eyes gliding along the ground, they pressed forward like hounds running by the scent, but, unlike these, the trackers made no noise. Not a word was spoken by any one. I had no list for speech; my agony was too intense for utterance.
With Cyprio I had conversed upon the harrowing theme, and that only at starting. From him I had gathered further details. No doubt, the matador had performed his office. Oh, God! without ears!
Cyprio had seen blood; it was streaming adown her neck and over her bosom: her slight garments were stained red with it. He knew not whence it came, or why she was bleeding. He was not present when that blood had been drawn; it was in her chamber, he thought. She was bleeding when the ruffians dragged her forth!
Belike, too, the herredero had done his work? Cyprio had seen the blacksmith, but not the fierro. He heard they had branded some at the piazza, among others the daughter of the alcalde—pobre Conchita! He did not see them brand the Dona Isolina.
The ruffian deed might have been accomplished for all that; there was plenty of time, while the boy lay hid, or before she had been dragged from her chamber.
How was she placed upon the horse?
Despite my heart’s bitterness, as I put these interrogatories, I could not help thinking of the Cossack legend. The famed classic picture came vividly before my mind. Wide was the distance between the Ukraine and the Rio Bravo. Had the monsters who re-enacted this scene on the banks of the Mexican river—had these ever heard of Mazeppa? Possibly their leader had; but it was still more probable that the fiendish thought was original.
The fashion at least was. Cyprio had seen and described it.
She was laid longitudinally upon the back of the steed, her head resting upon the point of his shoulder. Her face was downward, her cheek touching the withers. Her arms embraced the neck, and her wrists were made fast under the animal’s throat. Her body was held in this position by means of a belt around her waist, attached to a surcingle on the horse—both tightly buckled. In addition to this, her ankles, bound together by a thong, were fastened to the croup, with her feet projecting beyond the hips!
I groaned as I listened to the details.
The ligature was perfect—cruelly complete. There was no hope that such fastenings would give way. Those thongs of raw-hide would not come undone. Horse and rider could never part from that unwilling embrace—never, till hunger, thirst, death—no, not even death could part them! Oh, horror!
Not without groans could I contemplate the hideous fate of my betrothed—of her whose love had become my life.
I left the tracking to my comrades, and my horse to follow after. I rode with loose rein, and head drooping forward; I scarcely gave thought to design. My heart was well-nigh broken.
Chapter Fifty Eight.
The Voyageur.
We had not gone far when some one closed up beside me, and muttered a word of cheer; I recognised the friendly voice of the big trapper.
“Don’t be afeerd, capt’n,” said he, in a tone of encouragement; “don’t be afeerd! Rube an me’ll find ’em afore thar’s any harm done. I don’t b’lieve the white hoss ’ll gallip fur, knowin’ thar’s someb’dy on his back. It war them gim-cracks that sot him off. When they burn out, he’ll come to a dead halt, an then—”
“And then?” I inquired mechanically.
“We’ll get up, an your black’ll be able to overhaul him in a jump or two.”
I began to feel hope. It was but a momentary gleam, and died out in the next instant.
“If the moon ’ud only hold out,” continued Garey, with an emphasis denoting doubt.
“Rot the moon!” said a voice interrupting him; “she’s a gwine to guv out. Wagh!”
It was Rube who had uttered the unpleasant prognostication, in a peevish, but positive tone.
All eyes were turned upward. The moon, round and white, was sailing through a cloudless sky, and almost in the zenith. How, then, was she to “give out?” She was near the full, and could not set before morning. What did Rube mean? The question was put to him.
“Look ee ’ander!” said he in reply. “D’ees see thet ur black line, down low on the paraira?”
There appeared a dark streak along the horizon to the eastward. Yes, we saw it.
“Wal,” continued Rube, “thur’s no timber thur—ne’er a stick—nor high groun neyther: thurfor thet ur’ss a cloud; I’ve seed the likes afore. Wait a bit. Wagh! In jest ten minnits, the durned thing’ll kiver up the moon, an make thet putty blue sky look as black as the hide o’ an Afrikin niggur—it will.”
“I’m afeerd he’s right, capt’n,” said Garey, in a desponding tone. “I war doubtful o’ it myself: the sky looked too near. I didn’t like it a bit: thar’s always a change when things are better ’n common.”
I needed not to inquire the consequences, should Rube’s prediction prove correct; that was evident to all of us. The moon once obscured by clouds, our progress would be arrested: even a horse could not be tracked in the darkness.
We were not long in suspense. Again the foresight of the old trapper proved unerring. Cumuli rolled up the sky one after another, until their black masses shrouded the moon. At first, they came only in detached clouds, and there was light at intervals; but these were only the advanced columns of a heavier body, that soon after appeared; and without a break, spread itself pall-like over the firmament.
The moon’s disc became entirely hidden from our view; her scattered beams died out; and the prairie lay dark as if shadowed by an eclipse.
We could follow the trail no farther. The ground itself was not visible, much less the hoof-prints we had been tracing; and halting simultaneously, we drew our horses togther, and sat in our saddles to deliberate upon what was best to be done.
The consultation was a short one. They who formed that little party were all men of prairie or backwoods experience, and well versed in the ways of the wilderness. It took them but little time to decide what course should be followed; and they were unanimous in their opinion. Should the sky continue clouded, we must give up the pursuit till morning, or adopt the only alternative—follow the trail by torchlight.
Of course the latter was determined upon. It was yet early in the night; many hours must intervene before we should have the light of day. I could not live through those long hours without action. Even though our progress might be slow, the knowledge that we were advancing would help to stifle the painfulness of reflection.
“A torch! a torch!”
Where was such a thing to be procured? We had with us no material with which to make one; there was no timber near! We were in the middle of a naked prairie. The universal mesquite—the algar obia glandulosa—excellent for such a purpose—grew nowhere in the neighbourhood. Who was to find the torch? Even Rube’s ingenuity could not make one out of nothing.
”Écoutez, mon capitaine!” cried Le Blanc, an old voyageur—”écoutez! vy me no ride back, et von lanterne bring from ze ville Mexicaine?”
True, why not? We were yet but a few miles from the rancheria. The Canadian’s idea was a good one.
“Je connais,” he continued—“know I, pe gar! ze ver spot ou—vere—sont cachées—hid les chandelles magnifiques—von, deux, tree big candle—vax, vax—”
“Wax-candles?”
“Oui—oui, messieurs! très grand comme un baton; ze ver chose pour allumer la prairie.”
“You know where they are? You could find them, Le Blanc?”
“Oui, messieurs—je connais: les chandelles sont cachées dans l’église—zey are in ze church hid.”
“Ha! in the church?”
“Oui, messieurs; c’est un grand sacrilege, mon Dieu! ver bad; mais n’importe cela. Eef mon capitaine permit—vill allow pour aller Monsieur Quack’bosh, he go chez moi; nous chercherons; ve bring ze chandelles—pe gar ve bring him!”
From the mixed gibberish of the voyageur, I could gather his meaning well enough. He knew of a depository of wax-candles, and the church of the rancheria was the place in which they were kept.
I was not in a frame of mind to care much for the sacrilege, and my companions were still less scrupulous. The act was determined upon, and Le Blanc and Quackenboss, without more delay, took the back-track for the village.
The rest of us dismounted; and, picketing our horses to the grass, lay down to await the return of the messengers.
Chapter Fifty Nine.
Trailing by Torch-Light.
While thus inactive, my mind yielded itself up to the contemplation of painful probabilities. Horrid spectacles passed before my imagination. I saw the white horse galloping over the plain, pursued by wolves, and shadowed by black vultures. To escape these hungry pursuers, I saw him dash into the thick chapparal, there to encounter the red panther or the fierce prowling bear—there to encounter the sharp thorns of the acacias, the barbed spines of the cactus, and the recurving claw-like armature of the wild aloes. I could see the red blood streaming adown his white flanks—not his blood, but that of the helpless victim stretched prostrate along his back. I could see the lacerated limbs—the ankles chafed and swollen—the garments torn to shreds—the drooping head—the long loose hair tossed and trailing to the earth—the white wan lips—the woe-bespeaking eyes— Oh! I could bear my reflections no longer. I sprang to my feet, and paced the prairie with the aimless, unsteady step of a madman.
Again the kind-hearted trapper approached, and renewed his efforts to console me.
“We could follow the trail,” he said, “by torch or candle light, almost as fast as we could travel; we should be many miles along it before morning; maybe before then we should get sight of the steed. It would not be hard to surround and capture him; now that he was half-tamed, he might not run from us; if he did, he could be overtaken. Once in view, we would not lose sight of him again. The saynyora would be safe enough; there was nothing to hurt her: the wolves would not know the ‘fix’ she was in, neyther the ‘bars’ nor ‘painters.’ We should be sure to come up with her before the next night, an would find her first-rate; a little tired and hungry, no doubt, but nothing to hurt. We should relieve her, and rest would set all right again.”
Notwithstanding the rude phrase in which these consolatory remarks were made, I appreciated their kind intention.
Garey’s speech had the effect of rendering me more hopeful; and in calmer mood, I awaited the return of Quackenboss and the Canadian.
These did not linger. Two hours had been allowed them to perform their errand; but long before the expiration of that period, we heard the double tramp of their horses as they came galloping across the plain.
In a few minutes they rode up, and we could see in the hands of Le Blanc three whitish objects, that in length and thickness resembled stout walking-canes. We recognised les chandelles magnifiques.
They were the property of the church—designed, no doubt, to have illumined the altar upon the occasion of some grand dia de fiesta.
“Voilà! mon capitaine!” cried the Canadian, as he rode forward—“voilà les chandelles! Ah, mon Dieu! c’est von big sacrilege, et je suis bon Chrétien—buen Catolico, as do call ’im ze dam Mexicaine; bien—ze bon Dieu me forgive—God ve pardon vill pour—for ze grand necessitie; sure certaine he will me pardon—Lige et moi—ze brave Monsieur Quack’bosh.”
The messengers had brought news from the village. Some rough proceedings had taken place since our departure. Men had been punished; fresh victims had been found under the guidance of Pedro and others of the abused. The trees in the church enclosure that night bore horrid fruit.
The alcalde was not dead; and Don Ramon, it was supposed, still survived, but had been carried off a prisoner by the guerrilla! The rangers were yet at the rancheria; many had been desirous of returning with Le Blanc and Quackenboss, but I had sent orders to the lieutenants to take all back to camp as soon as their affair was over. The fewer of the troop that should be absent, the less likelihood of our being missed, and those I had with me I deemed enough for my purpose. Whether successful or not, we should soon return to camp. It would then be time to devise some scheme for capturing the leader and prime actor in this terrible tragedy.
Hardly waiting to hear the story, we lighted the great candles, and moved once more along the trail.
Fortunately, the breeze was but slight, and only served to make the huge waxen torches flare more freely. By their brilliant blaze, we were enabled to take up the tracks, quite as rapidly as by the moonlight. At this point, the horse had been still going at full gallop; and his course, as it ran in a direct line, was the more easily followed.
Dark as the night was, we soon perceived we were heading for a point well known to all of us—the prairie mound; and, under a faint belief that the steed might have there come to a stop, we pressed forward with a sort of hopeful anticipation.
After an hour’s tracking, the white cliffs loomed within the circle of our view—the shining selenite glancing back the light of our tapers, like a wall set with diamonds.
We approached with caution, still keeping on the trail, but also keenly scrutinising the ground in advance of us—in hopes of perceiving the object of our search. Neither by the cliff, nor in the gloom around, was living form to be traced.
Sure enough the steed had halted there, or, at all events, ceased from his wild gallop. He had approached the mound in a walk, as the tracks testified; but how, and in what direction, had he gone thence? His hoof-prints no longer appeared. He had passed over the shingle, that covered the plain to a distance of many yards from the base of the cliff, and no track could be found beyond!
Several times we went around the mesa, carrying our candles everywhere. We saw skeletons of men and horses, with skulls detached, fragments of dresses, and pieces of broken armour—souvenirs of our late skirmish. We looked into our little fortress, and gazed upon the rock that had sheltered us; we glanced up the gorge where we had climbed, and beheld the rope by which we had descended still hanging in its place: all these we saw, but no further traces of the steed!
Round and round we went, back and forward, over the stony shingle, and along its outer edge, but still without coming upon the tracks. Whither could the horse have gone!
Perhaps, with a better light, we might have found the trail; but for a long hour we searched, without striking upon any sign of it. Perhaps we might still have found it, even with our waxen torches, but for an incident that not only interrupted our search, but filled us with fresh apprehension, and almost stifled our hopes of success.
The interruption did not come unexpected. The clouds had for some time given ample warning. The big solitary drops that at intervals fell with plashing noise upon the rocks, were but the avant-couriers of one of the great rainstorms of the prairie, when water descends as if from a shower-bath. We knew from the signs that such a storm was nigh; and while casting around to recover the trail, it came down in all its fury.
Almost in an instant our lights were extinguished, and our bootless search brought to a termination.
We drew up under the rocks, and stood side by side in sullen silence. Even the elements seemed against me. In my heart’s bitterness, I cursed them.
Chapter Sixty.
The Sombrero.
The horses cowered under the cold rain, all of them jaded and hungry. The hot dusty march of the morning, and the long rough gallop of the night, had exhausted their strength; and they stood with drooped heads and hanging ears, dozing and motionless.
The men, too, were wearied—some of them quite worn out. A few kept their feet, bridle in hand, under shelter of the impending cliff; the others, having staggered down, with their backs against the rock, had almost instantly fallen asleep.
For me was neither sleep nor rest; I did not even seek protection against the storm; but standing clear of the cliff, received the drenching shower full upon my shoulders. It was the chill rain of the “norther;” but at that moment neither cold norte nor hot sirocco could have produced upon me an impression of pain. To physical suffering I was insensible. I should even have welcomed it, for I well understood the truth, proverbially expressed in that language, rich above all others in proverbial lore—“un clavo saca otro clavo” and still more fully illustrated by the poet:
“Tristezas me hacen triste,
Tristezas salgo a buscar,
A ver si con tristezas
Tristezas puedo olvidar.”
Yes, under any other form, I should have welcomed physical pain as a neutraliser of my mental anguish; but that cold norther brought no consolation.
Sadly the reverse. It was the harbinger of keen apprehension; for not only had it interrupted our search, but should the heavy rain continue only for a few hours, we might be able neither to find or further to follow the trail. It would be blinded—obliterated—lost.
Can you wonder that in my heart I execrated those black clouds, and that driving deluge?—that with my lips I cursed the sky and the storm, the moon and the stars, the red lightning and the rolling thunder?
My anathema ended, I stood in sullen silence, leaning against the body of my brave horse—whose sides shivered under the chilly rain, though I felt not its chill.
Absorbed in gloomy thought, I recked not what was passing around me; and, for an unnoted period, I remained in this speechless abstraction.
My reverie was broken. Some expressions that reached my ear told me that at least two of my followers had not yet yielded to weariness or despair. Two of them were in conversation; and I easily recognised the voices of the trappers.
Tireless, used to stern struggles—to constant warfare with the elements—with nature herself—these true men never thought of giving up, until the last effort of human ingenuity had failed. From their conversation, I gathered that they had not yet lost hope of finding the trail, but were meditating on some plan for recovering and following it.
With renewed eagerness I faced towards them and listened. Both talked in a low voice. Garey was speaking, as I turned to them.
“I guess you’re right, Rube. The hoss must a gone thar, an if so, we’re boun’ to fetch his tracks. Thar’s mud, if I remember right, all roun’ the pool. We can carry the cannel under Dutch’s sombrera.”
“Ye-es,” drawled Rube in reply; “an ef this niggur don’t miskalk’late, we ain’t a gwine to need eyther cannel or sombrairay. Lookee yander!”—the speaker pointed to a break in the clouds—“I’ll stake high, I kin mizyure this hyur shower wi’ the tail o’ a goat. Wagh! we’ll hev the moon agin, clur as iver in the inside o’ ten minnits—see ef we haint.”
“So much the better, old hoss; but hadn’t we best first try for the tracks; time’s precious, Rube—”
“In coorse it ur; git the cannel an the sombrairay, an le’s be off then. The rest o’ these fellurs hed better stay hyur, an snore it out; thu’ll only bamfoozle us.”
“Lige!” called out Garey, addressing himself to Quackenboss—“Lige! gi’ us yur hat a bit.”
A loud snore was the only reply. The ranger, seated with his back against the rock, and his head drooping over his breast, was sound asleep.
“Durned sleepy-head!” exclaimed Rube, in a tone of peevish impatience. “Prod ’im wi’ the point o’ yur bowie, Bill! Rib-roast ’im wi’ yur wipin’-stick! Lam ’im wi’ yur laryette!—gi’ ’im a kick i’ the guts!—roust ’im up, durn ’im!”
“Lige!—he!—Dutchy!” cried Garey, approaching the sleeper, and shaking him by the shoulder; “I want your sombrera.”
“Ho! wo! stand still! Jingo! he’ll throw me. I can’t get off; the spurs are locked. He! wo! wo!”
Rube and Garey broke into a loud cachinnation that awakened the rest of the slumberers. Quackenboss alone remained asleep, fighting in his dreams with the wild Indian horse.
“Durned mulehead!” cried Rube after a pause; “let ’im go on at thet long’s he likes it. Chuck the hat off o’ his head, Bill! we don’t want him—thet we don’t.”
There was a little pique in the trapper’s tone. The breach that the ranger had made, while acting as a faithful sentinel, was not yet healed.
Garey made no further attempts to arouse the sleeper, but in obedience to the order of his comrade, lifted off the hat; and, having procured one of the great candles, he and Rube started off without saying another word, of giving any clue to their design.
Though joyed at what I had heard, I refrained from interrogating them. Some of my followers who put questions received only ambiguous answers. From the manner of the trappers, I saw that they wished to be left to themselves; and I could well trust them to the development of whatever design they had conceived.
On leaving us, they walked straight out from the cliff; but how far they continued in this direction it was impossible to tell. They had not lighted the candle; and after going half-a-dozen steps, their forms disappeared from our view amidst the darkness and thickly-falling rain.
Chapter Sixty One.
The Trail Recovered.
The rangers, after a moment of speculation as to the designs of the trappers, resumed their attitude of repose. Fatigued as they were, even the cold could not keep them awake.
After a pause, the voice of Quackenboss could be heard, in proof that that heavy sleeper was at length aroused; the rain falling upon his half-bald skull had been more effective than the shouts and shaking of Garey.
“Hillo? Where’s my hat?” inquired he in a mystified tone, at the same time stirring himself, and groping about among the rocks. “Where is my hat? Boys, did any o’ ye see anything o’ a hat, did ye?” His shouts again awoke the sleepers.
“What sort of a hat, Lige?” inquired one.
“A black hat—that Mexican sombrera.”
“Oh! a black hat; no—I saw no black hat.”
“You darned Dutchman! who do you expect could see a black hat such a night as this, or a white one eyther? Go to sleep!”
“Come, boys, I don’t want none o’ your nonsense: I want my hat. Who’s tuk my hat?”
“Are you sure it was a black hat?”
“Bah! the wind has carried it away.”
“Pe gar! Monsieur Quack’bosh—votre chapeau grand—you great beeg ’at—est-il perdu?—is loss?—c’est vrai? Pardieu! les loups—ze wolfs have it carr’d avay—have it mange—eat? c’est vrai?”
“None o’ your gibberish, Frenchy. Have you tuk my hat?”
“Moi! votre chapeau grand! No, Monsieur Quack’bosh—vraiment je ne l’ai pas; pe gar, no!”
“Have you got it, Stanfield?” asked the botanist, addressing himself to a Kentucky backwoodsman of that name.
“Dang yar hat! What shed I do wi’ yar hat? I’ve got my own hat, and that’s hat enough for me.”
“Have you my hat, Bill Black?”
“No,” was the prompt reply; “I’ve got neery hat but my own, and that ain’t black, I reckon, ’cept on sich a night as this.”
“I tell you what, Lige, old fellow! you lost your hat while you were a ridin’ the mustang just now: the hoss kicked it off o’ your head.”
A chorus of laughter followed this sally, in the midst of which Quackenboss could be heard apostrophising both his hat and his comrades in no very respectful terms, while he commenced scrambling over the ground in vain search after the lost sombrero, amidst the jokes and laughter uttered at his expense.
To this merriment of my followers I gave but little heed: my thoughts were intent on other things. My eyes were fixed upon that bright spot in the sky, that had been pointed out by Rube; and my heart gladdened, as I perceived that it was every moment growing brighter and bigger.
The rain still fell thick and fast; but the edge of the cloud-curtain was slowly rising above the eastern horizon, as though drawn up by some invisible hand.
Should the movement continue, I felt confident that in a few minutes—as Rube had predicted—the sky would be clear again, and the moon shining brightly as ever. These were joyous anticipations.
At intervals I glanced towards the prairie, and listened to catch some sound—either the voices of the trappers, or the tread of their returning footsteps. No such sounds could be heard.
I was becoming impatient, when I perceived a sudden waif of light far out upon the plain. It seemed to be again extinguished; but in the same place, and the moment after, appeared a small, steady flame, twinkling like a solitary star through the bluish mist of the rain. For a few seconds it remained fixed, and then commenced moving—as if carried low down along the surface of the ground.
There was nothing mysterious about this lone light. To Quackenboss only it remained an unexplained apparition; and he might have mistaken it for the fata morgana. The others had been awake when Rube and Garey took their departure, and easily recognised the lighted candle in the hands of the trappers.
For some time the light appeared to move backwards and forwards, turning at short distances, as if borne in irregular circles, or in zig-zag lines. We could perceive the sheen of water between us and the flame—as though there was a pond, or perhaps a portion of the prairie, flooded by the rain.
After a while the light became fixed, and a sharp exclamation was heard across the plain, which all of us recognised as being in the voice of the trapper Rube.
Again the light was in motion—now flitting along more rapidly, and as if carried in a straight line over the prairie.
We followed it with eager eyes. We saw it was moving further and further away; and my companions hazarded the conjecture that the trappers had recovered the trail.
This was soon verified by one of themselves—Garey—whose huge form, looming through the mist, was seen approaching the spot; and though the expression of his face could not be noted in the darkness, his bearing betokened that he brought cheerful tidings.
“Rube’s struck the trail, capt’n,” said he in a quiet voice as he came up: “yonder he goes, whar you see the bleeze o’ the cannel! He’ll soon be out o’ sight, if we don’t make haste, an follow.”
Without another word, we seized the reins, sprang once more into our saddles, and rode off after the twinkling star, that beaconed us across the plain.
Rube was soon overtaken; and we perceived that despite the storm, he was rapidly progressing along the trail, his candle sheltered from the rain under the ample sombrero.
In answer to numerous queries, the old trapper vouchsafed only an occasional “Wagh!” evidently proud of this new exhibition of his skill. With Garey, the curious succeeded better; and as we continued on, the latter explained to them how the trail had been recovered by his comrade—for to Rube, it appeared, was the credit due.
Rube remembered the mesa spring. It was the water in its branch that we had seen gleaming under the light. The thoughtful trapper conjectured, and rightly as it proved, that the steed would stop there to drink. He had passed along the stony shingle by the mound—simply because around the cliff lay his nearest way to the water—and had followed a dry ridge that led directly from the mesa to the spring-branch. Along this ridge, going gently at the time, his hoof had left no marks—at least none that could be distinguished by torch-light—and this was why the trail had been for the moment lost. Rube, however, remembered that around the spring there was a tract of soft boggy ground; and he anticipated that in this the hoof-prints would leave a deep impression. To find them he needed only a “kiver” for the candle, and the huge hat of Quackenboss served the purpose well. An umbrella would scarcely have been better.
As the trappers had conjectured, they found the tracks in the muddy margin of the spring-branch. The steed had drunk at the pool; but immediately after had resumed his wild flight, going westward from the mound.
Why had he gone off at a gallop? Had he been alarmed by aught? Or had he taken fresh affright, at the strange rider upon his back?
I questioned Garey. I saw that he knew why. He needed pressing for the answer.
He gave it at length, but with evident reluctance. These were his words of explanation—
“Thar are wolf-tracks on the trail!”
Chapter Sixty Two.
Wolves on the Track.
The wolves, then, were after him!
The trackers had made out their footprints in the mud of the arroyo. Both kinds had been there—the large brown wolf of Texas, and the small barking coyote of the plains. A full pack there had been, as the trappers could tell by the numerous tracks, and that they were following the horse, the tracks also testified to these men of strange intelligence. How knew they this? By what sign?
To my inquiries, I obtained answer from Garey.
Above the spring-branch extended a shelving bank; up this the steed had bounded, after drinking at the pool. Up this, too, the wolves had sprung after: they had left the indentation of their claws in the soft loam.
How knew Garey that they were in pursuit of the horse?
The “scratches” told him they were going at their fastest, and they would not have sprung so far had they not been pursuing some prey. There were footmarks of no other animal except theirs, and the hoof-prints of that steed; and that they were after him was evident to the trapper, because the tracks of the wolves covered those of the horse.
Garey had no more doubt of the correctness of his reasoning, than a geometrician of the truth of a theorem in Euclid.
I groaned in spirit as I was forced to adopt his conclusion. But it was all probable—too probable. Had the steed been alone—Unembarrassed—free—it was not likely the wolves would have chased him thus. The wild-horse in his prime is rarely the object of their attack; though the old and infirm—the gravid mare, and the feeble colt—often fall before these hungry hunters of the plains. Both common wolf and coyote possess all the astuteness of the fox, and know, as if by instinct, the animal that is wounded to death. They will follow the stricken deer that has escaped from the hunter; but if it prove to be but slightly harmed, instinctively they abandon the chase.
Their instinct had told them that the steed was not ridden by a free hand; they had seen that there was something amiss; and in the hope of running down both horse and rider, they had followed with hungry howl.
Another fact lent probability to this painful conjecture; we knew that by the mesa were many wolves.
The spring was the constant resort of ruminant animals, deer and antelopes; the half-wild cattle of the ganaderos drank there, and the tottering calf oft became the prey of the coyote and his more powerful congener, the gaunt Texan wolf. There was still another reason why the place must of late have been the favourite prowl of these hideous brutes: the débris of our skirmish had furnished them with many a midnight banquet. They had ravened upon the blood of men and the flesh of horses, and they hungered for more.
That they might succeed in running down the steed, cumbered as he was, was probable enough. Sooner or later, they would overtake him. It might be after a long, long gallop over hill and dale, through swamp and chapparal; but still it was probable those tough, tireless pursuers would overtake him. They would launch themselves upon his flanks; they would seize upon his wearied limbs—upon hers, the helpless victim on his back—both horse and rider would be dragged to the earth—both torn—parted in pieces—devoured!
I groaned under the horrid apprehension.
“Look thar!” said Garey, pointing to the ground, and holding his torch so as to illuminate the surface; “the hoss has made a slip thar. See! hyar’s the track o’ the big wolf—he hes sprung up jest hyar; I can tell by the scratch o’ his hind-claws.”
I examined the “sign.” Even to my eyes it was readable, and just as Garey had interpreted it. There were other tracks of wolves on the damp soil, but one had certainly launched himself forward, in a long leap, as though in an effort to fasten himself upon the flanks of some animal. The hoof-mark plainly showed that the steed had slipped as he sprang over the wet grass; and this had tempted the spring of the watchful pursuer.
We hurried on. Our excited feelings hindered us from causing longer than a moment. Both rangers and trappers snared my eagerness, as well as my apprehensions. Fast as the torches could be carried, we hurried on.
Shortly after parting from the mesa, there occurred a change in our favour. The lights had been carried under hats to protect them from the rain. This precaution was no longer required. The storm had passed—the shower ceasing as suddenly as it had come on; the clouds were fast driving from the face of the firmament. In five minutes more, the moon would shine forth. Already her refracted rays lightened the prairie.
We did not stay for her full beam; time was too precious. Still trusting to the torches, we hurried on.
The beautiful queen of the night kept her promise. In five minutes, her cheering orb shot out beyond the margin of the dark pall that had hitherto shrouded it; and her white disc, as if purified by the storm, shone with unwonted brightness. The ground became conspicuous almost as in day; the torches were extinguished, and we followed the trail more rapidly by the light of the moon.
Here, still in full gallop, had passed the wild-horse, and for miles beyond—still had he gone at utmost speed. Still close upon his heels had followed the ravenous and untiring wolves. Here and there were the prints of their clawed feet—the signs of their unflagging pursuit.
The roar of water sounded in our ears: it came from the direction towards which the trail was conducting us, a stream was not far distant.
We soon diminished the distance. A glassy sheet glistened under the moonlight, and towards this the trail trended in a straight line.
It was a river—a cataract was near, down which the water, freshened by the late rain, came tumbling, broken by the rocks into hummocks of white foam. Under the moonlight, it appeared like an avalanche of snow. The trappers recognised an affluent of the Rio Bravo, running from the north—from the high steppe of the Llano Estacado.
We hurried forward to its bank, and opposite the frothing rapids. The trail conducted us to this point—to the very edge of the foaming water. It led no farther. There were the hoof-marks forward to the brink, but not back. The horse had plunged into the torrent.