Chapter Sixty Three.
Across the Torrent.
Surely was it so. Into that seething rapid the steed had launched himself—where the spume was whitest, and the rocks gave out their hoarsest echoes. The four hoof-prints, close together upon the bank, showed the point from which he had sprung; and the deeply indented turf testified that he had made no timid leap. The pursuers had been close upon his heels, and he had flung himself with desperate plunge upon the water.
Had he succeeded in crossing? It was our first thought. It appeared improbable—impossible. Notwithstanding its foam-bedappled surface, the current was swift, and looked as though it would sweep either man or horse from his footing. Surely it was too deep to be forded. Though here and there rocks were seen above the surface, they were but the crests of large boulders, and between them the impetuous wave ran dark and rapid. Had the horse lost footing? had he been forced to swim? If so, he must have been carried down by the current—his body submerged—his withers sunk below the surface—his helpless rider—
The conclusion was evident to all of us. All felt the conviction simultaneously. No—not all. There came a word of comfort from the oldest and wisest—a word that gave cheer to my drooping spirit.
“Wagh! the hoss hain’t swum a lick—he hain’t.”
“Are you sure, Rube? How can you tell?” were the quick interrogatories.
“Sure—how kin I tell—i’deed, how?” replied Rube, a little nettled at our having questioned his judgment. “What the divul’s yur eyes good for—all o’ yur? Lookee hyur! and I’ll show ’ee how I tell. Do ’ee see the colour o’ thet water?—it ur as brown as a buffler in the Fall; thurfor it’s fresh kim down; and jest afore the shower, thur wan’t more’n half o’ it in the channel. Then the hoss mout a waded ’crosst hyur, easy as fallin’ off a log, and then that hoss did wade acrosst.”
“He crossed before the rain?”
“Sure as a shot from Targuts. Look at the tracks! Them wur made afore a drop o’ rain kim down: ef they hedn’t, they’d a been a durned sight deeper in the sod. Wagh! the hoss got safe acrosst ’ithout wettin’ a hair o’ his hips. So far as drowndin’ goes, don’t be skeeart ’bout thet, young fellur! the gurl’s safe enough yit.”
“And the wolves? Do you think they have followed across the stream?”
“Ne’er a wolf o’ ’em—ne’er a one. The vamints hed more sense. They knowd thur legs wan’t long enough, an thet ur current wud a swep ’em a mile afore they kud a swum half-way acrosst. The wolves, they stayed on this side, I reck’n. Look hyur—hyur’s thur tracks. Wagh! thur wur a wheen o’ the filthy beests. Geehosophat! the bank ur paddled like a sheep-pen.”
We bent down to examine the ground. Sure enough, it was covered with the tracks of wolves. A numerous band had crowded together on the spot; and as the prints of their feet pointed in all directions, it was evident they had not gone forward, but, brought to a stand by the torrent, had given up the chase, and scattered away.
Pray heaven it was no mere conjecture!
With Rube it was a belief; and as I had grown to put implicit reliance in the old trapper’s wood-craft, I felt reassured. Rube’s opinions, both as to the steed having safely crossed, and the discomfiture of the wolves, were shared by the rest of my followers—not one of whom was a mean authority on such a subject. Garey—second only to his older comrade in the working out of a prairie syllogism—gave Rube’s statement his emphatic confirmation. The steed was yet safe—and pray heaven, the rider.
With lighter heart I sprang back into the saddle. My followers imitated the example, and with eyes scanning the stream, we rode along the bank to seek for a crossing.
There was no ford near the spot. Perhaps where the steed had passed over the stream might have been waded at low-water; but now, during the freshet, the current would have swept off horse and man like so much cork-wood. The rocks—the black waves that rushed between them—the boiling, frothing eddies—discouraged any attempt at crossing there; we all saw that it was impracticable.
Some rode up stream, others went in the opposite direction.
Both parties met again with blank looks; neither had found a crossing.
There was no time to search further—at least my impatience would no longer brook delay. It was not the first time for both my horse and myself to cross a river without ford; nor was it the first time for many of my followers.
Below the rapids, the current ran slow, apparently ceasing altogether. The water was still, though wider from bank to bank—a hundred yards or more. By the aid of the moonlight, I could tell that the bank on the opposite side was low and shelving. It could be easily climbed by a horse.
I stayed to reason no further. Many a hundred yards had Moro swum with his rider on his back—many a current had he cleft with his proud breast far more rapid than that.
I headed him to the bank, gave him the spur, and went plunging into the flood.
Plunge—plunge—plunge! I heard behind me till the last of my followers had launched themselves on the wave, and were swimming silently over.
One after another we reached the opposite side, and ascended the bank.
Hurriedly I counted our number as the men rode out; one had not yet arrived. Who was missing?
“Rube,” answered some one.
I glanced back, but without feeling any uneasiness. I had no fear for the trapper; Garey alleged he was “safe to turn up.” Something had detained him. Could his old mare swim?
“Like a mink,” replied Garey; “but Rube won’t ride her across; he’s afeerd to sink her too deep in the water. See! yonder he comes!”
Near the middle of the stream, two faces were observed rippling the wave, one directly in the wake of the other. The foremost was the grizzled front of the old mustang, the other the unmistakeable physiognomy of her master. The moonlight shining upon both rendered them conspicuous above the dark brown water; and the spectacle drew a laugh from those who had reached the bank.
Rube’s mode of crossing was unique, like every action of this singular man. Perhaps he adopted it from sheer eccentricity, or maybe in order that his mustang might swim more freely.
He had ridden gently into the water, and kept his saddle till the mare was beyond her depth—then sliding backward over her hips, he took the tail in his teeth, and partly towed like a fish upon the hook, and partly striking to assist in the passage, he swam after. As soon as the mare again touched bottom, he drew himself up over the croup, and in this way regained his saddle.
Mare and man, as they climbed out on the bank—the thin skeleton bodies of both reduced to their slenderest dimensions by the soaking water—presented a spectacle so ludicrous as to elicit a fresh chorus of laughter from his comrades.
I stayed not till its echoes had died away; but pressing my steed along the bank, soon arrived at the rapids, where I expected to recover the trail.
To my joy, hoof-marks were there, directly opposite the point where the steed had taken to the stream. Rube was right. He had waded safely across.
Thank heaven! at least from that peril has she been saved!
Chapter Sixty Four.
A Lilliputian Forest.
On resuming the trail, I was cheered by three considerations. The peril of the flood was past—she was not drowned. The wolves were thrown off—the dangerous rapid had deterred them; on the other side their footprints were no longer found. Thirdly, the steed had slackened his pace. After climbing the bank, he had set off in a rapid gait, but not at a gallop.
“He’s been pacin’ hyar!” remarked Garey, as soon as his eyes rested upon the tracks.
“Pacing!”
I knew what was meant by this; I knew that gait peculiar to the prairie horse, fast but smooth as the amble of a palfrey. His rider would scarcely perceive the gentle movement; her torture would be less.
Perhaps, too, no longer frighted by the fierce pursuers, the horse would come to a stop. His wearied limbs would admonish him, and then—
Surely he could not have gone much farther?
We, too, were wearied, one and all; but these pleasing conjectures beguiled us from thinking of our toil, and we advanced more hopefully along the trail.
Alas! it was my fate to be the victim of alternate hopes and fears. My new-sprung joy was short-lived, and fast fleeted away.
We had gone but a few hundred paces from the river, when we encountered an obstacle, that proved not only a serious barrier to our progress, but almost brought our tracking to a termination.
This obstacle was a forest of oaks, not giant oaks, as these famed trees are usually designated, but the very reverse—a forest of dwarf oaks (Quercus nana). Far as the eye could reach extended this singular wood, in which no tree rose above thirty inches in height! Yet was it no thicket—no under-growth of shrubs—but a true forest of oaks, each tree having its separate stem, its boughs, its lobed leaves, and its bunches of brown acorns.
“Shin oak,” cried the trappers, as we entered the verge of this miniature forest.
“Wagh!” exclaimed Rube, in a tone of impatience, “hyur’s bother. ’Ee may all get out o’ yur saddles an rest yur critturs: we’ll hev to crawl hyur.”
And so it resulted. For long weary hours we followed the trail, going not faster than we could have crawled upon our hands and knees. The tracks of the steed were plain enough, and in daylight could have been easily followed; but the little oaks grew close and regular as if planted by the hand of man; and through their thick foliage the moonlight scarcely penetrated. Their boughs almost touched each other, so that the whole surface lay in dark shadow, rendering it almost impossible to make out the hoof-prints. Here and there, a broken branch or a bunch of tossed leaves—their under-sides shining glaucous in the moonlight—enabled us to advance at a quicker rate; but as the horse had passed gently over the ground, these “signs” were few and far between.
For long fretful hours we toiled through the “shin-oak” forest, our heads far overtopping its tallest trees! We might have fancied that we were threading our way through some extended nursery. The trail led directly across its central part; and ere we had reached its furthest verge, the moon’s rays were mingling with the purple light of morning.
Soon after the “forest opened;” the little dwarfs grew further apart—here scattered thinly over the ground, there disposed in clumps or miniature grove?—until at length the sward of the prairie predominated.
The trouble of the trackers was at an end. The welcome light of the sun was thrown upon the trail, so that they could lift it as fast as we could ride; and, no longer hindered by brake or bush, we advanced at a rapid rate across the prairie.
Over this ground the steed had also passed rapidly. He had continued to pace for some distance, after emerging from the shin-oak forest; but all at once, as we could tell by his tracks, he had bounded off again, and resumed his headlong gallop.
What had started him afresh? We were at a loss to imagine; even the prairie-men were puzzled!
Had wolves again attacked him, or some other enemy? No; nor one nor other. It was a green prairie over which he had gone, a smooth sward of mezquite-grass; but there were spots where the growth was thin—patches nearly bare—and these were softened by the rain. Even the light paw of a wolf would have impressed itself in such places, sufficiently to be detected by the lynx-eyed men of the plains. The horse had passed since the rain had ceased falling. No wolf, or other animal, had been after him.
Perhaps he had taken a start of himself, freshly affrighted at the novel mode in which he was ridden—still under excitement from the rough usage he had received, and from which he had not yet cooled down—perhaps the barbed points of the cohetes rankled in his flesh, acting like spurs; perhaps some distant sound had led him to fancy the hooting mob, or the howling wolves, still coming at his heels; perhaps—
An exclamation from the trackers, who were riding in the advance, put an end to these conjectures. Both had pulled up, and were pointing to the ground. No words were spoken—none needed. We all read with our eyes an explanation of the renewed gallop.
Directly in front of us, the sward was cut and scored by numerous tracks. Not four, but four hundred hoof-prints were indented in the turf—all of them fresh as the trail we were following—and amidst these the tracks of the steed, becoming intermingled, were lost to our view.
“A drove of wild horses,” pronounced the guides at a glance.
They were the tracks of unshod hoofs, though that would scarcely have proved them wild. An Indian troop might have ridden past without leaving any other sign; but these horses had not been mounted, as the trappers confidently alleged; and among them were the hoof-marks of foals and half-grown colts, which proved the drove to be a caballada of mustangs.
At the point where we first struck their tracks they had been going in full speed, and the trail of the steed converged until it closed with theirs at an acute angle.
“Ye-es,” drawled Rube, “I see how ’tis. They’ve been skeeart at the awkurd look o’ the hoss, an hev put off. See! thur’s his tracks on the top o’ all o’ theirn: he’s been runnin’ arter ’em. Thur!” continued the tracker, as we advanced—“thur he hez overtuk some o’ ’em. See! thur! the vamints hev scattered right an left! Hyur agin, they’ve galliped thegither, some ahint, an some afore him. Wagh! I guess they know him now, an ain’t any more afeerd o’ him. See thur! he’s in the thick o’ the drove.”
Involuntarily I raised my eyes, fancying from these words that the horses were in sight; but no; the speaker was riding forward, leaning over in his saddle, with looks fixed upon the ground. All that he had spoken he had been reading from the surface of the prairie—from hieroglyphics to me unintelligible, but to him more easily interpreted than a page of the printed book.
I knew that what he was saying was true. The steed had galloped after a drove of wild horses; he had overtaken them; and at the point where we now were, had been passing along in their midst!
Dark thoughts came crowding into my mind at this discovery—another shadow across my heart. I perceived at once a new situation of peril for my betrothed—new, and strange, and awful.
I saw her in the midst of a troop of neighing wild-horses—stallions with fiery eyes and red steaming nostrils—these perhaps angry at the white steed, and jealous of his approach to the manada; in mad rage rushing upon him with open mouth and yellow glistening teeth; rearing around and above him, and striking down with deadly desperate hoof— Oh, it was a horrid apprehension, a fearful fancy!
Yet, fearful as it was, it proved to be the exact shadow of a reality. As the mirage refracts distant objects upon the retina of the eye, so some spiritual mirage must have thrown upon my mind the image of things that were real. Not distant, though then unseen—not distant was the real.
Rapidly I ascended another swell of the prairie, and from its crest beheld almost the counterpart of the terrible scene that my imagination had conjured up!
Was it a dream? was it still fancy that was cheating my eyes? No; there was the wild-horse drove; there the rearing, screaming stallions; there the white steed in their midst—he too rearing erect—there upon his back—
“O God! look down in mercy—save her! save her!”
Chapter Sixty Five.
Scattering the Wild Stallions.
Such rude appeal was wrung from my lips by the dread spectacle on which my eyes rested.
I scarcely waited the echo of my words; I waited not the counsel of my comrades; but, plunging deeply the spur, galloped down the hill in the direction of the drove.
There was no method observed—no attempt to keep under cover. There was no time either for caution or concealment. I acted under instantaneous impulse, and with but one thought—to charge forward, scatter the stallions, and, if yet in time, save her from those hurling heels and fierce glittering teeth.
If yet in time—ay, such provisory parenthesis was in my mind at the moment. But I drew hope from observing that the steed kept a ring cleared around him: his assailants only threatened at a distance.
Had he been alone, I might have acted with more caution, and perhaps have thought of some stratagem to capture him. As it was, stratagem was out of the question; the circumstances required speed.
Both trappers and rangers—acting under like impulse with myself—had spurred their horses into a gallop, and followed close at my heels.
The drove was yet distant. The wind blew from them—a brisk breeze. We were half-way down the hill, and still the wild horses neither heard, saw, nor scented us.
I shouted at the top of my voice: I wished to startle and put them to flight. My followers shouted in chorus; but our voices reached not the quarrelling caballada.
A better expedient suggested itself: I drew my pistol from its holster, and fired several shots in the air.
The first would have been sufficient. Its report was heard, despite the opposing wind; and the mustangs, affrighted by the sound, suddenly forsook the encounter. Some bounded away at once; others came wheeling around us, snorting fiercely, and tossing their heads in the air, a few galloped almost within range of our rifles; and then, uttering their shrill neighing, turned and broke off in rapid flight. The steed and his rider alone remained, where we had first observed them!
For some moments he kept the ground, as if bewildered by the sudden scattering of his assailants; but he too must have heard the shots, and perhaps alone divined something of what had caused those singular noises. In the loud concussion, he recognised the voice of his greatest enemy; and yet he stirred not from the spot!
Was he going to await our approach? Had he become tamed?—reconciled to captivity? or was it that we had rescued him from his angry rivals—that he was grateful, and no longer feared us?
Such odd ideas rushed rapidly through my mind as I hurried forward!
I had begun to deem it probable that he would stay our approach, and suffer us quietly to recapture him. Alas! I was soon undeceived. I was still a long way off—many hundred yards—when I saw him rear upward, wheel round upon his hind-feet as on a pivot, and then bound off in determined flight. His shrill scream pealing back upon the breeze, fell upon my ears like the taunt of some deadly foe. It seemed the utterance of mockery and revenge: mockery at the impotence of my pursuit; revenge that I had once made him my captive.
I obeyed the only impulse I could have at such a moment, and galloped after as fast as my horse could go. I stayed for no consultation with my companions; I had already forged far ahead of them. They were too distant for speech.
I needed not their wisdom to guide me. No plan required conception or deliberation; the course was clear: by speed alone could the horse be taken, and his rider saved from destruction—if yet safe.
Oh, the fearfulness of this last reflection! the agony of the doubt!
It was not the hour to indulge in idle anguish; I repressed the emotion, and bent myself earnestly upon the pursuit. I spoke to my brave steed, addressing him by name; I urged him with hands and knees; only at intervals did I inflict the cruel steel upon his ribs.
I soon perceived that he was flagging; I perceived it with increased apprehension for the result. He had worn his saddle too long on the day before, and the wet weary night had jaded him. He had been over-wrought, and I felt his weariness, as he galloped with feebler stroke. The prairie-steed must have been fresh in comparison.
But life and death were upon the issue. Her life—perhaps my own. I cared not to survive her. She must be saved. The spur must be plied without remorse: the steed must be overtaken, even if Moro should die!
It was a rolling prairie over which the chase led—a surface that undulated like the billows of the ocean. We galloped transversely to the direction of the “swells,” that rose one after the other in rapid succession. Perhaps the rapidity with which we were crossing them brought them nearer to each other. To me there appeared no level ground between these land-billows. Up hill and down hill in quick alternation was the manner of our progress—a severe trial upon the girths—a hard killing gallop for my poor horse. But life and death were upon the issue, and the spur must be plied without remorse.
A long cruel gallop—would it never come to an end I would the steed never tire? would he never stop? Surely in time he must become weary? Surely Moro was his equal in strength as in speed?—superior to him in both?
Ah! the prairie horse possessed a double advantage—he had started fresh—he was on his native ground.
I kept my eyes fixed upon him; not for one moment did I withdraw my glance. A mysterious apprehension was upon me; I feared to look around, lest he should disappear! The souvenirs of the former chase still haunted me; weird remembrances clung to my spirit. I was once more in the region of the supernatural.
I looked neither to the right nor left, but straight before me—straight at the object of my pursuit, and the distance that lay between us. This last I continuously scanned, now with fresh hope, and now again with doubt. It seemed to vary with the ground. At one time, I was nearer, as the descending slope gave me the advantage; but the moment after, the steep declivity retarded the speed of my horse, and increased the intervening distance.
It was with joy I crossed the last swell of the rolling prairie, and beheld a level plain stretching before us. It was with joy I perceived that upon the new ground I was rapidly gaining upon the steed!
And rapidly I continued to gain upon him, until scarcely three hundred yards were between us. So near was I, that I could trace the outlines of her form—her prostrate limbs—still lashed to the croup—her garments loose and torn—her ankles—her long dark hair dishevelled and trailing to the ground—even her pallid cheek I could perceive, as at intervals the steed tossed back his head to utter his wild taunting neigh. O God! there was blood upon it!
I was near enough to be heard. I shouted in my loudest voice; I called her by name. I kept my eyes upon her, and with throbbing anxiety listened for a response.
I fancied that her head was raised, as though she understood and would have answered me. I could hear no voice, but her feeble cry might have been drowned by the clatter of the hoofs.
Again I called aloud—again and again pronouncing her name.
Surely I heard a cry? surely her head was raised from the withers of the horse? It was so—I could not be mistaken.
“Thank Heaven, she lives!”
I had scarcely uttered the prayer, when I felt my steed yield beneath me as though he was sinking into the bosom of the earth. I was hurled out of the saddle, and flung head-foremost upon the plain. My horse had broken through the burrow of the prairie marmot, and the false step had brought him with violence to the ground.
I was neither stunned nor entangled by the fall; and in a few seconds had regained my feet, my bridle, and saddle. But as I headed my horse once more toward the chase, the white steed and his rider had passed out of sight.
Chapter Sixty Six.
Lost in a Chapparal.
I was chagrined, frantic, and despairing, but not surprised. This time there was no mystery about the disappearance of the steed; the chapparal explained it. Though I no longer saw him, he was yet within hearing. His footfall on the firm ground, the occasional snapping of a dead stick, the whisk of the recoiling branches, all reached my ears as I was remounting.
These sounds guided me, and without staying to follow his tracks, I dashed forward to the edge of the chapparal—at the point nearest to where I heard him moving.
I did not pause to look for an opening, but, heading in the direction whence came the sounds, I spurred forward into the thicket.
Breasting the bushes that reached around, his neck, or bounding over them, my brave horse pressed on; but he had not gone three lengths of himself before I recognised the imprudence of the course I was pursuing: I now saw I should have followed the tracks.
I no longer heard the movements of the steed—neither foot-stroke, nor snapping sticks, nor breaking branches. The noise made by my own horse, amid the crackling acacias, drowned every other sound; and so long as I kept in motion, I moved with uncertainty. It was only when I made stop that I could again hear the chase struggling through the thicket; but now the sounds were faint and far distant—growing still fainter as I listened.
Once more I urged forward my horse, heading him almost at random; but I had not advanced a hundred paces, before the misery of uncertainty again impelled me to halt.
This time I listened and heard nothing—not even the recoil of a bough. The steed had either stopped, and was standing silent, or, what was more probable, had gained so so far in advance of me that his hoof-stroke was out of hearing.
Half-frantic, angered at myself, too much excited for cool reflection, I lanced the sides of my horse, and galloped madly through the thicket.
I rode several hundred yards before drawing bridle, in a sort of desperate hope I might once more bring myself within earshot of the chase.
Again I halted to listen. My recklessness proved of no avail. Not a sound reached my ear: even had there been sounds, I should scarcely have heard them above that that was issuing from the nostrils of my panting horse; but sound there was none. Silent was the chapparal around me—silent as death; not even a bird moved among its branches.
I felt something like self-execration: my imprudence I denounced over and over. But for my rash haste, I might yet have been upon the trail—perhaps within sight of the object of pursuit. Where the steed had gone, surely I could have followed. Now he was gone I knew not whither—lost—his trail lost—all lost!
To recover the trace of him, I made several casts across the thicket. I rode first in one direction, then in another, but all to no purpose. I could find neither hoof-track nor broken branch.
I next bethought me of returning to the open prairie, there retaking the trail, and following it thence. This was clearly the wisest,—in fact, the only course in which there was reason. I should easily recover the trail, at the point where the horse had entered the chapparal, and thence I might follow it without difficulty.
I turned my horse round, and headed him in the direction of the prairie—or rather in what I supposed to be the direction—for this too had become conjecture.
It was not till I had ridden for a half-hour—for more than a mile through glade and bush—not till I had ridden nearly twice as far in the opposite direction—and then to right, and then to left—that I pulled up my broken horse, dropped the rein upon his withers, and sat bent in my saddle under the full conviction that I too was lost.
Lost in the chapparal—that parched and hideous jungle, where every plant that carries a thorn seemed to have place. Around grew acacias, mimosas, gleditschias, robinias, algarobias—all the thorny legumes of the world; above towered the splendid fouquiera with spinous stem; there nourished the “tornillo” (prosopis glandulosa), with its twisted beans; there the “junco” (koeblerinia), whose very leaves are thorns. There saw I spear-pointed yuccas and clawed bromelias (agave and dasylirion); there, too, the universal cactacese (opuntia, mamillaria, cereus, and echinocactus); even the very grass was thorny—for it was a species of the “mezquite-grass,” whose knotted culms are armed with sharp spurs!
Through this horrid thicket I had not passed unscathed; my garments were already torn, my limbs were bleeding.
My limbs—and hers?
Of hers alone was I thinking: those fair-proportioned members—those softly-rounded arms—that smooth, delicate skin—bosom and shoulders bare—the thorn—the scratch—the tear. Oh! it was agony to think!
By action alone might I hope to still my emotions; and once more rousing myself from the lethargy of painful thought, I urged my steed onward through the bushes.
Chapter Sixty Seven.
Encounter with Javall.
I had no mark to guide me, either on the earth or in the heavens. I had an indefinite idea that the chase had led westward, and therefore to get back to the prairie, I ought to head towards the east.
But how was I to distinguish east from west? In the chapparal both were alike, and so too upon the sky. No sun was visible; the canopy of heaven was of a uniform leaden colour; upon its face were no signs by which the cardinal points could have been discovered.
Had I been in the midst of a forest surrounded by a northern sylva, I could have made out my course. The oak or the elm, the ash-tree or maple, the beech or sycamore—any of them would have been compass sufficient for me; but in that thicket of thorny shrubs I was completely at fault. It was a subtropical flora—or rather a vegetation of the arid desert—to which I was almost a stranger. I knew there were men skilled in the craft of the chapparal, who, in the midst of it, could tell north from south without compass or stars. Not I.
I could think of no better mode than to trust to the guidance of my horse. More than once, when lost in the thick forest or on the boundless plain, had I reposed a similar trust in his instincts—more than once had he borne me out of my bewilderment.
But whither could he take me? Back to the path by which we had come?
Probably enough, had that path led to a home; but it did not: my poor steed, like myself, had no home. He, too, was a ranger; for years had been flitting from place to place,—hundreds, ay, thousands of miles from each other. Long had he forgotten his native stall.
I surmised that if there was water near, his instinct might carry him to that—and much needed it both horse and rider. Should we reach a running stream, it would serve as a guide.
I dropped the rein upon his neck, and left him to his will.
I had already shouted in my loudest voice, in hopes of being heard by my comrades; by none other than them, for what could human being do in such a spot, shunned even by the brute creation? The horned lizard (agama cornuta), the ground rattlesnake, the shell-covered armadillo, and the ever-present coyote, alone inhabit these dry jungles; and now and then the javali (dicotyles torquatus), feeding upon the twisted legumes of the “tornillo,” passes through their midst; but even these are rare; and the traveller may ride for scores of miles through a Mexican chapparal without encountering aught that lives and moves. There reigns the stillness of death. Unless the wind be rustling among the pinnate fronds of the acacias, or the unseen locust utters its harsh shrieking amid the parched herbage, the weary wayfarer may ride on, cheered by no other sound than his own voice, or the footfall of his horse.
There was still the chance that my followers might hear me. I knew that they would not stray from the trail. Though they must have been far behind when I entered the chapparal, following the tracks, they would in time be sure to come up.
It was a question whether they would follow mine, or those of the steed. This had not occurred to me before, and I paused to consider it. If the former, then was I wrong in moving onward, as I should only be going from them, and leading them on a longer search. Already had I given them a knot to unravel—my devious path forming a labyrinthine maze.
It was more than probable they would follow me—in the belief that I had some reason for deviating from the trail of the steed, perhaps for the purpose of heading or intercepting him.
This conjecture decided me against advancing farther—at least until some time should elapse, enough for them to get up.
Out of compassion for my hard-breathing horse, I dismounted.
At intervals, I shouted aloud, and fired shots from my pistols after each I listened; but neither shot nor shout reached me in reply. They must have been distant indeed, not to hear the report of fire-arms; for had they heard them, they would have been certain to make answer in a similar manner. All of them carried rifles and pistols.
I began to think it was full time for them to have reached me. Again I fired several shots; but, as before, echo was the only reply. Perhaps they had not followed me? perhaps they had kept on upon the trail of the steed, and it might be leading them far away, beyond hearing of the reports? perhaps there was not yet time for them to have arrived?
While thus conjecturing, my ears were assailed by the screeching of birds at some distance off. I recognised the harsh notes of the jay, mingling with the chatter of the red cardinal.
From the tones, I knew that these birds were excited by the presence of some enemy. Perhaps they were defending their nests against the black snake or the crotalus.
Or it might be my followers approaching! it might be the steed—like me, still wandering in the chapparal?
I sprang to my saddle to get a better view, and gazed over the tops of the trees. Guided by the voices of the birds, I soon discovered the scene of the commotion.
At some distance off, I saw both jays and cardinals fluttering among the branches, evidently busy with something on the ground beneath them. At the same time I heard strange noises, far louder than the voices of the birds, but could not tell what was causing them. My spirits sank, for I knew they could not be produced either by my comrades or the steed.
It was not far, and I determined to satisfy myself as to what was causing such a commotion in this hitherto silent place. I rode towards the spot, as fast as my horse could make way through the bushes. I was soon satisfied.
Coming out on the edge of a little glade, I became spectator to a singular scene—a battle between the red cougar and a band of javali.
The fierce little boars were “ringing” the panther, who was fighting desperately in their midst. Several of them lay upon the ground, struck senseless or dead, by the strong paws of the huge cat; but the others, nothing daunted, had completely surrounded their enemy, and were bounding upon him with open mouths; and wounding him with their sharp shining tusks.
The scene aroused my hunter instincts; and suddenly unslinging my rifle, I set my eye to the sights. I had no hesitation about the selection of my mark—the panther, by all means—and drawing trigger, I sent my bullet through the creature’s skull, that stretched him out in the midst of his assailants.
Three seconds had not elapsed, before I had reason to regret the choice I had made of a victim. I should have let the cougar alone, and either held my fire, or directed it upon one of his urchin-like enemies; for the moment he was hors de combat, his assailants became mine—transferring their “surround” to my horse and myself, with all the savage fierceness they had just exhibited towards the panther!
I had no means of punishing the ungrateful brutes. They had not given me time to reload my rifle before commencing their attack, and my pistols were both empty. My horse, startled by the unexpected assault, as well as by the strange creatures that were making it, snorted and plunged wildly over the ground; but go where he would, a score of the ferocious brutes followed, springing up against his thighs, and scoring his shanks with their terrible tusks. Well for me I was able to keep the saddle; had I been thrown from it at that moment, I should certainly have been torn to pieces.
I saw no hope of safety but in flight; and spurring my horse, I gave him full rein. Alas! through that tangled thicket the javali could go as fast as he; and after advancing a hundred yards or so, I perceived the whole flock still around me, assailing as fiercely as ever the limbs of my steed.
The result might have proved awkward enough; but at that moment I heard voices, and saw mounted men breaking through the underwood. They were Stanfield, Quackenboss, and the rest of the rangers.
In another instant, they were on the ground; and their revolvers, playing rapidly, soon thinned the ranks of the javali, and caused the survivors to retreat grunting and screaming into the thicket.
Chapter Sixty Eight.
The Woods on Fire?
The trappers were not among those who had rescued me—where were they?
The others made answer, though I already guessed what they had to tell. Rube and Garey had followed the tracks of the steed, leaving the rangers to come after me.
I was pleased with the ready intelligence of my comrades: they had acted exactly as they should have done. I was myself found, and I no longer entertained any apprehension that the trail would be lost.
By this time, the trackers must be far upon it; more than an hour had elapsed since they and the others had parted company. My zigzag path had cost my followers many a bewildering pause.
But they had not ridden recklessly as I, and could find their way back. As it was impossible to tell in what direction Rube and Garey had gone, this course was the best to be followed; and under the guidance of Stanfield—an expert woodsman—we rode back towards the prairie.
It was not necessary to retrace our own crooked trail. The Kentuckian had noted the “lay” of the chapparal, and led us out of its labyrinths by an almost direct path.
On reaching the open ground, we made no pause; but upon the tracks of Rube, Garey, and the steed, re-entered the chapparal.
We had no difficulty about our course; it was plainly traced out for us; the trappers had “blazed” it. In most places, the tracks of the three horses were sufficient indices of the route; but there were stretches where the ground was stony, and upon the parched arid herbage, even the shod hoof left no visible mark. In such places, a branch of acacia broken and pendulous, the bent flower-stem of an aloe, or the succulent leaves of the cactus slashed with a sharp knife, were conspicuous and unmistakeable signs; and by the guidance of these we made rapid advance.
We must have gone much faster than the trackers themselves—for notwithstanding the freshness of the trail, there were dry spots and patches of cut rock over which it passed, and where it must have cost them both time and keen perception to trace it.
As we were travelling so much more rapidly than Rube and Garey could have done, I looked forward to our soon overtaking them: with eager anticipation, I looked forward. Surely they would have some news for me, now that they had been so long in the advance? Surely by this time they must have come in sight of the steed?—perhaps captured him? Oh, joyous anticipation!
Or would they return with a different tale? Was I to meet the report that he still hurried on—on for ever? That he had swum some rapid stream? or plunged over a precipice—into some dark abysm?
Though hastening on after the trackers, there were moments when I feared to overtake them—moments when I dreaded to hear their tale!
We had worked our way about five miles through the hideous jungle, when I began to feel a strange sensation in my eyes—a sensation of pain—what is usually termed a “smarting.” I at first attributed it to the want of sleep.
My companions complained that they were affected in a similar manner.
It was not until we had gone some distance farther, that we found the true explanation—on perceiving that there was smoke in the air! Smoke it was that was causing the bitterness in our eyes.
The denizen of the prairie never regards such an indication with indifference. Where there is smoke, there is fire, and where fire, danger—at least upon the broad grassy steppes of the west. A burning forest may be shunned. You may stand near a forest on fire, and contemplate such a scene with safety; but a blazing prairie is a phenomenon of a different character; and it is indeed a rare position where you may view, without peril, this sublime spectacle.
There are prairies that will not burn. The plains covered with the short “buffalo-grass” (sesleria dactyloides), and the sward of various species of “gramma” (chondrosium), rarely take fire; or if they do, horse, man, buffalo, or antelope, can easily escape by leaping across the blaze. ’Tis only the reptile world—snakes, lizards, the toad, and the land-turtle (terrapin)—that fall victims to such a flame.
Not so upon the “weed-prairies,” or those where the tall reed-grass rises above the withers of a horse—its culms matted and laced together by the trailing stems of various species of bindweed, by creeping convolvulus, cucurbitacese, and wild pea-vines. In the dry season, when a fire lays its hold upon vegetation of this character, there is danger indeed—where it rages, there is death.
It was smoke that affected our eyes, causing them to wince and water. Fire must be causing the smoke—what was on fire?
I could detect apprehension in the looks of my followers, as we rode on. It was but slight, for as yet the smoke was scarcely perceptible, and the fire, wherever it was, must be distant—so fancied we.
As we advanced, the glances of the men became more uneasy. Beyond a doubt, the smoke was thickening around us, the sky was fast becoming darker, and the pain in our eyes more acute.
“The woods are on fire,” said Stanfield.
Stanfield was a backwoodsman—his thoughts ran upon “woods.”
Whether forest or prairie, a conflagration was certainly raging. It might be far off—for the wind will carry the smoke of a prairie fire a long distance—but I had an unpleasant suspicion that it was not distant. I noticed dropping around us the white floe of burnt leaves, and from the intense bitterness of the smoke, I reasoned that it could not have floated far—its gases were not yet dissipated.
It was not the distance of the fire that so much troubled me, as its direction. The wind blew right in our teeth, and the smoke was travelling with the wind. The conflagration must be ahead—directly upon the trail!
The smoke grew thicker and thicker—ahead, the sky appeared slashed with a lurid light; I fancied I could hear the crackling of the flames. The air felt hot and dry: a choking sensation was produced in our throats, and one and all were hacking and gasping for breath.
So dark had it suddenly become—or rather so blinded were we with the smoke—we could scarcely make out the trail.
My followers would have stopped, but I urged them on. With voice and example, I urged them on—myself leading the way. My heart was too full of anxiety to make pause.
Where in all this were Rube and Garey? We had come far and fast; we should now be nearly up with them—they could not be much ahead.
I halloed as we advanced.
“Hullow!” came the response, in the rough baritone of the younger trapper.
We hurried forward in the direction of the voice.
The path conducted to an opening in the chapparal—in the centre of which, through the smoke, we could distinguish the forms of men and horses.
With eager eyes, I scanned the group; a glance was sufficient: there were only two of each—only the trackers.
Chapter Sixty Nine.
Smoke and Thirst.
“Ah, Monsieur Roob!” cried the Canadian, as we hurried up, “vat make zees diable d’une fumée—smoke? Are ze woods on fire—you tink—eh?”
“Wuds!” exclaimed Rube, with a contemptuous glance at the speaker. “Wagh! Thur’s no wuds hyur. Thur’s a paraira afire. Don’t yer smell the stink o’ the grass?”
“Pe gar, oui! vraiment—c’est la prairie? You sure, Monsieur Roob?”
“Sure!” vociferated the trapper in a tone of indignation—“Sure!—ye durned parley-voo-eat-a-frog-spit-a-brickbat-soup-suckin’ Frenchman, d’yur think I don’t know the smell o’ a burnin’ paraira? Wagh!”
“Ah, Monsieur Roob, me pardonnez. Vat I mean ask—is ze chapparal brule—on fire—ces arbres?”
“The chapparil ain’t afire,” answered Rube, somewhat mollified by the apology: “so don’t be skeeart, Frenchy yur safe enuf.”
This assurance seemed to gratify not only the timid Canadian, but others, who, up to this moment, were apprehensive that it was the thicket that was on fire.
For myself, I had no such fears; I perceived that the chapparal could not burn. Here and there, patches of dry mezquite-trees would have caught like tinder; but in most places, a succulent endogenous vegetation formed three parts of the jungle, and rendered it “fire-proof.” This was especially the case around the glade where the trappers had taken their stand, and which was completely enclosed by a wall of the great organ cactus, with aloes, opuntias, and other juicy-leaved plants. In the opening, we were as safe from the fire as though it was a hundred miles off; we suffered only from the smoke, that now quite filled the atmosphere, causing a darkness that rivalled night itself.
I had no apprehension for our safety; it was not of that I was thinking.
To the hasty dialogue between Rube and the Canadian I had scarcely given heed; Garey had advanced to meet me, and I listened with anxious ear to the tale of the tracker.
It was soon told. Rube and he had followed the trail, until it emerged from the chapparal, and struck out into a wide grass-prairie. The edge of the thicket was close by; but they had gone a considerable distance beyond it and across the plain. They were still advancing, when, to their consternation, they perceived that the prairie was on fire directly ahead of them! The wind was rolling both smoke and flames before it with the rapidity of a running horse; and it was with difficulty they had escaped from it by galloping back to the chapparal.
And the steed—what had become of him? Had they seen nothing?
I did not put these questions in words—only in thought did I ask them; and in thought only were they answered. Both the trackers were silent, and that was an answer in the negative; yes, I read an ominous negative in their looks of gloom.
We were compelled to halt; even the smoke rendered further progress impossible; but we could hear the fire at no great distance—the culms of the coarse reed-grass cracking like volleys of musketry.
Now and then, a scared deer broke through the bushes, passing us at full speed. A band of antelopes dashed into the glade, and halted close beside us—the frightened creatures not knowing where to run. At their heels came a pack of prairie-wolves, but not in pursuit of them: these also stopped near. A black bear and a cougar arrived next; and fierce beasts of prey and gentle ruminants stood side by side, both terrified out of their natural habits. Birds shrieked among the branches, eagles screamed in the air, and black vultures could be seen hovering through the smoke, with no thought of stooping upon a quarry!
The hunter man alone preserved his instincts. My followers were hungry. Rifles were levelled—and the bear and one of the antelopes fell victims to the deadly aim.
Both were soon stripped of their skins, and butchered. A fire was kindled in the glade, and upon sword-blades and sapling spits the choice morsels of venison and “bear-meat” were roasted, and eaten, with many a jest about the “smoky kitchen.”
I was myself hungered. I shared the repast, but not the merriment. At that moment, no wit could have won from me a smile; the most luxurious table could not have furnished me with cheer.
A worse appetite than hunger assailed my companions, and I felt it with the rest—it was thirst: for hours all had been suffering from it; the long hard ride had brought it on, and now the smoke and the dry hot atmosphere increased the appetite till it had grown agonising, almost unendurable. No water had been passed since the stream we had crossed before day; there was none in the chapparal; the trackers saw none so far as they had gone: we were in a waterless desert; and the very thought itself renders the pang of thirst keener and harder to endure.
Some chewed their leaden bullets, or pebbles of chalcedony which they had picked up; others obtained relief by drinking the blood of the slaughtered animals—the bear and the antelope—but we found a better source of assuagement in the succulent stems of the cactus and agave.
The relief was but temporary: the juice cooled our lips and tongues, but there is an acrid principle in some of these plants that soon acted, and our thirst became more intense than ever.
Some talked of returning on the trail in search of water—of going back even to the stream—more than twenty miles distant.
Under such circumstances, even military command loses its authority. Nature is stronger than martial law.
I cared not if they did return; I cared not who left me, so long as the trappers remained true. I had no fear that they would forsake me; and my disapprobation of it checked the cheerless proposal, and once more all declared their willingness to go on.
Fortunately, at that crisis the smoke began to clear away, and the atmosphere to lighten up. The fire had burnt on to the edge of the chapparal, where it was now opposed by the sap-bearing trees. The grass had been all consumed—the conflagration was at an end.
Mounting our horses, we rode out from the glade; and following the trail a few hundred yards farther, we emerged from the thicket, and stood upon the edge of the desolated plain.