Chapter Seventy Seven.
The Writing on the Maguey.
The skill of the trackers was no longer called in need; the war-trail was as easily followed as a toll-road: a blind man could have guided himself along such a well-trodden highway.
Our rate of speed was now ruled by the capacity of our horses. Alas! their power was nearly at an end. They had been two days and a night under the saddle, with but a few hours to refresh themselves by food or rest: they could not hold out much longer.
One by one they began to lag, until the greater number of them followed with tottering step hundreds of yards in the rear.
It was in vain to contend against nature. The men were still willing, though they too were wearied to death; but their horses were quite done up—even whip and spur could force them no farther. Only my own matchless steed could have continued the journey. Alone I might have advanced, but that would have been madness. What could I have accomplished alone?
Night was fast coming down: it was already twilight. I saw by the clouded sky we should have no moon. We might follow the trail with our waxen torches—not yet burnt out—but that would no longer be safe. For myself, I was reckless enough to have risked life in any way, but the lives of my comrades were not mine. I could not give them—I should not wastefully fling them away.
Reluctantly I glided from my saddle, gave my steed to the grass, and sat down upon the earth.
My followers coming up, said not a word, but picketing their horses, seated themselves around me. One by one they stretched themselves along the sward, and in ten minutes all were asleep.
I alone could not sleep; the fever of unrest was upon me; the demon of thought would not let me close my eyes. Though my orbs ached with the long protracted vigil, I thought that “not all the drowsy syrups of the world” could have given me repose at that moment. I felt as one who suffers under delirium, produced by the intoxicating cup, the fearful mania-a-potu. I could neither sleep nor rest.
I could not even remain seated. I rose to my feet and wandered around, without heed of where I was going; I strode over the recumbent forms of my sleeping companions; I went among the horses; I paced backwards and forwards along the banks of the stream.
There was a stream—a small arroyo or rivulet. It was this that had caused me to halt in that particular spot; for wild as were my thoughts, I had enough of reason left to know that we could not encamp without water. The sight of the arroyo had decided my wavering resolution, and upon its banks, almost mechanically, I had drawn bridle and dismounted.
I once more descended to the bed of the stream, and, raising the water in the palms of my hands, repeatedly applied it to my lips and temples. The cool liquid refreshed me, and seemed to soothe both my nerves and my spirit.
After a time, both felt calmer, and I sat down upon the bank, and watched for a while the clear rivulet rippling past over its bed of yellow sand and glistening pebbles of quartz. The water was perfectly diaphanous; and, though the sun was no longer shining, I could see tiny silver fish, of the genus hyodon, sporting themselves in the lowest depths of the pool. How I envied them their innocent gambols, their life of crystal purity and freedom! Here, in this remote prairie stream, dwelt not the alligator, nor the ravenous garfish; here came no dolphin or shark to chase them, no tyrant of the waters to put them in fear. To be envied, indeed, such an insouciant, happy existence!
I watched them for a long while, till I thought that my eyes were growing heavy, and, after all, I might seep. The murmur of the arroyo helped to increase this inclination to repose, and, perhaps, I might have slept; but at that moment chancing to look around, my eyes rested upon an object that again drove sleep far away, and I was soon as wakeful as ever.
Close to where I had seated myself grew a large plant of the Mexican aloe (agave Americana). It was the wild maguey, of course, but of a species with broad fleshy leaves of dark-green colour, somewhat resembling the maguey of cultivation. I noticed that one of the great blades of the plant was bruised down, and the spine, which had terminated it, torn off.
All this would not have drawn my attention: I was already aware that the Indians had made a halt where we were encamped, and their sign was plenteous around—in the tracks of their animals, and the broken branches of trees. One of their horses or mules might have munched at the maguey in passing; and, viewing the bruised blade from a distance, I should have hazarded just such a conjecture. But my eyes were close to the plant, and, to my astonishment, I observed that there was writing upon the leaf!
I turned over upon my knees, and seizing the huge blade, bent it down before me, so as to obtain a better view of its surface. I read:—
“Captured by Comanches—a war-party with many captives—women and children—ay de mi! pobres niñas! north-west from this place. Saved from death; alas! I fear—”
The writing ended abruptly. There was no signature, but it needed not that. I had no doubts about who was the writer; in fact, rude as was the chirography—from the materials used—I easily identified the hand. It was Isolina de Vargas who had written.
I saw that she had torn off the terminal spine, and using it as a stylus, had graven those characters upon the epidermis of the plant.
Sweet subtle spirit! under any guise I could have recognised its outpourings.
“Saved from death”—thank Heaven for that!—“alas! I fear.” Oh, what feared she? Was it worse than death? that terrible fate—too terrible to think of?
She had broken off, without finishing the sentence. Why had she done so?
The sheet was broad—would have held many more words—why had she not written more? Did she dread to tell the cause of her fear? or had she been interrupted by the approach of some of her tyrant captors? O merciful Heaven! save me from thought!
I re-read the words over and over: there was nothing more. I examined the other leaves of the plant—on both sides, concave and convex, I examined them—not a word more could I find. What I had read was all she had written.
Chapter Seventy Eight.
The Southern Savage.
I need not tell how deeply I was affected by the unexpected communication. All at once were decided a variety of doubts; all at once was I made aware of the exact situation.
Isolina still lived—that was no longer doubtful; and the knowledge produced joy. More than this: she was still uninjured—able to think, to act, to write—not only living, but well. The singular “billet” was proof of all this. Another point—her hands must have been free—her hands at least, else how could she have traced those lines? and with such a pencil? It argued indulgence—perhaps kind treatment on the part of her captors.
Another point yet. She knew I was in pursuit. She had seen me, then, as I galloped after. It was her cry I had heard as the steed dashed into the chapparal. She had recognised, me, and called back. She knew I would still be following; she knew I was following, and for me was the writing meant. Sweet subtle spirit!
Once more I devoured the welcome words; but my heart grew heavy as I pondered over them. What had caused her to break off so abruptly? What was it her intention to have said? Of what was she in fear? It was thinking about this that caused the heaviness upon my heart and forced me to give way to horrid imaginings.
Naturally my thoughts reverted to her captors; naturally I reflected upon the character of the prairie savage—so different from that of the forest Indian, opposite as is the aspect of their homes—and perhaps influenced by this very cause, though there are many others. Climate—contact with Spanish civilisation, so distinct from Saxon—the horse—conquest over white foes—concubinage with white and beautiful women, the daughters of the race of Cortez: all these have combined to produce in the southern Indian a spiritual existence that more resembles Andalusia than England—more like Mexico than Boston or New York.
Psychologically speaking, there is not so much difference between Paris and the prairies—between the habitat of the Bal Mabille and the horse-Indian of the plains. No cold ascetic this—no romantic savage, alike celebrated for silence and continence—but a true voluptuary, gay of thought and free of tongue—amorous, salacious, immoral. In nine cases out of ten, the young Comanche is a boastful Lothario as any flaneur that may be met upon the Boulevards; the old, a lustful sinner—women the idol of both. Women is the constant theme of their conversation, their motive for every act. For these they throw the prairie dice; for these they race their swift mustangs. To win them, they paint in hideous guise; to buy them, they steal horses; to capture them, they go to war!
And yet, with all their wanton love, they are true tyrants to the sex. Wife they have none—for it would be sheer sacrilege to apply this noble title to the “squaw” of a Comanche. Mistress is scarcely a fitter term—rather say slave. Hers is a hard lot indeed; hers it is to hew the wood and draw the water; to strike the tent and pitch it; to load the horse and pack the dog; to grain the skin and cure the meat; to plant the maize, the melon, squash; to hoe and reap them; to wait obsequious on her lounging lord, anticipate his whim or wish, be true to him, else lose her ears or nose—for such horrid forfeiture is, by Comanche custom, the punishment of conjugal infidelity!
But hard as is the lot of the native wife, harder still is that of the white captive. ’Tis hers to endure all the ills enumerated, with still another—the hostility of the squaw herself. The white captive is truly the slave of a slave, the victim of a treble antipathy—of race, of colour, of jealousy. Ofttimes is she beaten, abused, mutilated; and rarely does the apathetic lord interfere to protect her from this feminine but fiend-like persecution.
These were not imaginings; they were not fancies begot in my own brain. Would they had been so! Too well did I know they were facts—horrid realities.
Can you wonder that sleep was shaken from my eyelids?—that I could not think of rest or stay, till I had delivered my loved one—my betrothed—from the danger of such a destiny?
All thought of sleep was banished—even weariness forsook me. I felt fresh as if I had slept; my nerves were strung for emprise. It was but the excitement renewed by what I had read—the impatience of a new and keen apprehension.
I would have mounted and gone forward, spurning rest and sleep; regardless of danger, would I have followed; but what could I do alone?
Ay, and what with my few followers?
Ha! I had not thought of this; up to that moment, I had not put this important question, and I had need to reflect upon the answer. What if we should overtake this band of brigands? Booty-laden as they were, and cumbered with captives, surely we could come up with them, by night or by day; but what then? Ay, what then?
There were nine of us, and we were in pursuit of a war-party of at least one hundred in number!—one hundred braves armed and equipped for battle—the choice warriors of their tribe—flushed with late success, and vengeful against ourselves on account of former defeat. If conquered, we need look for no mercy at their hands; if conquered—how could it be otherwise? Nine against a hundred! How could we conquer?
Up to this moment, I say, I had not thought of the result I was borne along by only one impulse—the idea of overtaking the steed, and rescuing his rider from her perilous situation. It was only within the hour that her peril had assumed a new phase; only an hour since we had learned that she had escaped from one danger to be brought within the influence of another.
At first had I felt joy, but the feeling was of short existence, for I now recognised in the new situation a greater peril than that she had outlived. She had been rescued from death to become the victim of dishonour!
Chapter Seventy Nine.
A Subterranean Fire.
In the midst of my meditations, night descended upon the earth. It promised to be a moonless night. A robe of sable clouds formed a sombre lining to the sky, and through this neither moon nor stars were visible.
It grew darker apace, until in the dim light I could scarcely distinguish the forms of my companions—neither men nor horses, though both were near me.
The men were still asleep, stretched along the grass in various attitudes, like so many bodies upon a battle-field. The horses were too hungry to sleep—the constant “crop-crop” told that they were greedily browsing upon the sward of gramma-grass that, by good fortune, grew luxuriantly around. This would be the best rest for them, and I was glad to think that this splendid provender would in a few hours recruit their strength. It was the chondrosium foeneum, the favourite food of horses and cattle, and in its effects upon their condition almost equal to the bean or the oat. I knew it would soon freshen the jaded animals, and make them ready for the road. At least in this there was some consolation.
Notwithstanding the pre-occupation of my thoughts, I began to be sensible of a physical discomfort, which, despite their low latitude, is often experienced upon the southern prairies—cold. A chill breeze had set in with the night, which in half-an-hour became a strong and violent wind, increasing in coldness as in strength.
In that half-hour the thermometer must have fallen at least fifty Fahrenheit degrees; and such a phenomenon is not rare upon the plains of Texas. The wind was the well-known “norther” which often kills both men and animals, that chance to be exposed to its icy breath.
I have endured the rigour of a Canadian winter—have crossed the frozen lakes—have slept upon a snow-wreath amidst the wild wastes of Rupert’s Land; but I cannot remember cold more intensely chilling than that I have suffered in a Texan norther.
This extreme does not arise from the absolute depression of the thermometer—which at least is but a poor indicator of either heat or cold—I mean the sensation of either. It is more probably the contrast springing from the sudden change—the exposure—the absence of proper clothing or shelter—the state of the blood—and other like circumstances, that cause both heat and cold to be more sensibly felt.
I had ofttimes experienced the chill blast of the norther, but never more acutely than upon that night. The day had been sweltering hot—the thermometer at noon ranging about the one-hundredth Fahrenheit degree, while in the first hour of darkness it could not have been far above the twentieth. Had I judged by my sensations, I should have put it even lower. Certainly it had passed the freezing-point, and sharp sleet and hail were borne upon the wings of the wind.
With nerves deranged from want of rest and sleep—after the hot day’s march—after the perspiration produced by long exposure upon the heated surface of the burnt prairie—I perhaps felt the cold more acutely than I should otherwise have done. My blood seemed to stagnate and freeze within my veins.
I was fain to wrap around my body a buffalo-robe, which some careless savage had dropped upon the trail. My followers were not so well furnished; starting as we had done, without any thought of being absent for the night, no preparation had been made for camping out. Only a portion of them chanced to have their blankets strapped upon the cantles of their saddles. These were now the fortunate ones.
The norther had roused all of them from their slumbers—had awaked them as suddenly as a douche of cold water would have done; and one and all were groping about in the darkness—some seeking for their blankets—others for such shelter as was afforded by the lee-side of the bushes.
Fortunately there were some saddle-blankets, and these were soon dragged from the backs of the horses. The poor brutes themselves suffered equally with their owners; they stood cowering under the cold, with their hips to the cutting blast, their limbs drawn close together, and their flanks shaggy and shivering. Some of them half sheltered themselves behind the bushes, scarce caring to touch the grass at their feet.
It would have been easy enough to make a fire; there was dry wood in plenty near the spot, and of the best kind for burning—the large species of mezquite. Some of the men were for kindling fires at once, regardless of consequences; but this design was overruled by the more prudent of the party. The trappers were strongly against it. Cold as was the night, and dark, they knew that neither the norther nor the darkness would deter Indians from being abroad. A party might be out upon the prowl; the very buffalo-skin we had picked up might bring a squad of them back; for it was the grand robe of some brave or chief, whose whole life-history was delineated in hieroglyphical painting upon its inner surface. To have made a fire, might have cost us our lives; so alleged the trappers, Rube and Garey. It would be better to endure the cold, than risk our scalps; so counselled they.
But for all that, Rube had no idea of being starved to death. He could kindle a fire, and burn it upon an open prairie, without the least fear of its being seen; and in a few minutes’ time he had succeeded in making one, that could not have been discovered by the most sharp-sighted Indian in creation. I had watched the operation with some interest.
He first collected a quantity of dead leaves, dry grass, and short sticks of the mezquite-tree—all of which he placed under his saddle-blanket, to prevent the rain and sleet from wetting them. This done, he drew out his bowie-knife, and with the blade “crowed” a hole into the turf, about a foot deep, and ten inches or a foot in diameter. In the bottom of this hole he placed the grass and leaves, having first ignited them by means of his flint, steel, and “punk” tinder—all of which implements formed part of the contents of Rube’s pouch and possible sack—ever present. On the top of the now blazing leaves and grass he placed the dry sticks—first the smaller ones, and then those of larger dimensions—until the hole was filled up to the brim—and over all he laid the piece of sod, originally cut from the surface, and which fitted as neatly as a lid.
His furnace being now finished and in full blast, the old trapper “hunkered” down close to its edge—in such a position as to embrace the fire between his thighs, and have it nearly under him. He then drew his old saddle-blanket over his shoulders, allowing it to droop behind until he had secured it under the salient points of his lank angular hips. In front he passed the blanket over his knees, until both ends, reaching the ground, were gripped tightly between his toes. The contrivance was complete; and there sat the earless trapper like a hand-glass over a plant of spring rhubarb—a slight smoke oozing through the apertures of the scant blanket, and curling up around his “ears” as though he was hatching upon a hotbed. But no fire could be seen, though Rube shivered no longer.
He soon found imitators. Garey had already constructed a similar furnace; and the others were soon warming themselves by this simple but ingenious device.
I did not disdain to avail myself of the extra “shaft” which the kind-hearted Garey had sunk for my accommodation; and having placed myself by its side, and drawn the ample robe over my shoulders, I felt as warm as if seated in front of a sea-coal fire!
Under other circumstances, I might have joined in the merriment produced among my companions by the ludicrous spectacle which we presented. A comic spectacle indeed; nine of us squatted at intervals over the ground, the blue smoke escaping through the interstices of our robes and blankets, and rising around our heads, as though one and all of us were on fire!
Wind, sleet, and darkness, continued throughout the whole night—cold wind, sharp icy sleet, and black darkness, that seemed palpable to the touch. Ever so eager, ever so fresh, we could not have advanced along the trail. Grand war-trail as it was, it could not have been traced under that amorphous obscurity, and we had no means of carrying a light, even had it been safe to do so. We had no lantern, and the norther with one blast would have whisked out a torch of pitch-pine.
We thought no more of going forward, until either the day should break or the wind come to a lull.
At midnight we replenished our subterranean fires, and remained on the ground. Hail, rain, wind, and darkness.
My companions rested their heads upon their knees, or nodding slept. No sleep for me—not even the repose of thought. Like some fevered sufferer on his wakeful couch. I counted the hours—the minutes. The minutes seemed hours.
Rain, hail, sleet, and wind seemed, like darkness itself, to belong to the night. As long as night lasted, so long continued they. When it came to an end, all vanished together—the norther had exhausted its strength.
A wild turkey—killed before nightfall—with some steaks of the peccary-pork, furnished us with an ample breakfast.
It was hastily cooked, and hastily eaten; and as the first streak of dawn appeared along the horizon, we were in our saddles, and advancing upon the trail.
Chapter Eighty.
A Red Epistle.
The trail led north-west, as written upon the maguey. No doubt Isolina had heard her captors forespeak their plans. I knew that she herself understood something of the Comanche language. The accomplishment may appear strange—and not strange either, when it is known that her mother could have spoken it well: with her it was a native tongue.
But even without this knowledge she might still have learned the designs of the savages—for these southern Comanches are accomplished linguists; many of them can speak the beautiful language of Andalusia! There was a time when a portion of the tribe submitted to the teaching of the mission padres; besides, a few among them might boast—which they do not—of Iberian blood!
No doubt, then, that the captive in their midst had overheard them discussing their projects.
We had ridden about two hours, when we came upon the ground where the Indians had made their night-camp. We approached it warily and with stealth, for we were now travelling with great caution. We had need. Should a single savage, straggling behind, set eyes upon us, we might as well be seen by the whole band. If discovered upon the war-trail, our lives would not be worth much. Some of us might escape; but even if all of us survived our plan would be completely frustrated.
I say plan, for I had formed one. During the long vigil of the night, my thoughts had not been idle, and a course of action I had traced out, though it was not yet fully developed in my mind. Circumstances might yet alter it, or aid me in its execution.
We approached their night-encampment, then, warily and with stealth. The smoke of its smouldering fires pointed out the place, and warned us from afar.
We found it quite deserted—the gaunt wolf and coyote alone occupying the ground, disputing with each other possession of the hide and bones of a horse—the débris of the Indian breakfast.
Had we not known already, the trappers could have told by the sign of the camp to what tribe the Indians belonged. There were still standing the poles of a tent—only one—doubtless the lodge of the head chief. The poles were temporary ones—saplings cut from the adjacent thicket. They were placed in a circle, and meeting at the top, were tied together with a piece of thong—so that, when covered, the lodge would have exhibited the form of a perfect cone. This we knew was the fashion of the Comanche tent.
“Ef ’t hed ’a been Kickapoo,” said Rube, who took the opportunity of displaying his knowledge, “th’ud ’a bent thur poles in’ard, so’s to make a sort o’ a roun top, d’ee see; an ef ’t hed ’a been Wacoes or Witcheetoes, thu’d ’a left a hole at the top, to let out thur smoke. Delawurs an Shawnee wud ’a hed tents, jest like whites; but thet ur ain’t thur way o’ makin a fire. In a Shawnee fire, the logs ’ud ’a been laid wi’ one eend turned in an the tother turned ut, jest like the star on a Texas flag, or the spokes o’ a wagon-wheel. Likeways Cherokee an Choctaw wud ’a hed reg’lar tents, but thur fire wud ’a been alser diff’rint. They’d ’a sot the logs puralell, side by side, an lit’ em only at one eend, an then pushed ’em up as fast as they burn’d. Thet’s thur way. ’Ee see these hyur logs is sot diff’rint—thur lit in the middle, an thet’s Kimanch for sartint—it ur.”
Rube’s “clairvoyance” extended further. The savages had been astart as early as ourselves. They had decamped about daylight, and were now exactly two hours ahead of us on the trail.
Why were they travelling so rapidly? Not from fear of pursuit by any enemy. The soldiers of Mexico—had these been regarded by them—were too busy with the Saxon foe, and vice versa. They could hardly be expecting as upon an expedition to rob them of their captives. Perhaps they were driving forward to be in time for the great herds of buffalo, that, along with the cold northers, might now be looked for in the higher latitudes of the Comanche range. This was the explanation given by the trappers—most probably the true one.
Under the influence of singular emotions, I rode over the ground. There were other signs besides those of the savage—signs of the plunder with which they were laden—signs of civilisation. There were fragments of broken cups and musical instruments—torn leaves of books—remnants of dresses, silks and velvets—a small satin slipper (the peculiar chaussure of the Mexican manola) side by side with a worn-out mud-stained moccasin—fit emblems of savage and civilised life.
There was no time for speculating on so curious a confusion. I was looking for signs of her—for traces of my betrothed.
I cast around me inquiring glances. Where was it probable she had passed the night? Where?
Involuntarily my eyes rested upon the naked poles—the tent of the chief. How could it be otherwise? Who among all the captives like her? grandly beautiful to satisfy the eye even of a savage chieftain—grandly, magnificently beautiful, how could she escape his notice? There, in his lodge, shrouded under the brown skins of buffaloes—under hideous devices—in the arms of a painted, keel-bedaubed savage—his arms brawn and greasy—embraced—oh!—
“Young fellur! I ain’t much o’ a skollur; but I’d stake a pack o’ beaver plew agin a plug o’ Jeemes River, thet this hyur manurscrip wur entended for yurself, an nob’dy else. Thur’s writin’ upon it—thet’s clur, an mighty kew’rous ink I reck’n thet ur. Oncest ov a time I kud ’a read write, or print eythur, as easy as fallin’ off a log; for thur wur a Yankee fellur on Duck Crik thet kep a putty consid’able school thur, an the ole ’oman—thet ur Mrs Rawlins—hed this child put thro’ a reg’lar coorse o’ Testy mint. I remembers readin’ ’bout thet ur cussed niggur as toated the possible sack—Judeas, ef I reccol’ex right, war the durned raskul’s name—ef I kud ’a laid claws on him, I’d a raised his har in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Wagh! thet I wild.”
Rube’s indignation against the betrayer having reached its climax, brought his speech to a termination.
I had not waited for its finale. The object which he held between his fingers had more interest for me, than either the history of his own early days or the story of the betrayal.
It was a paper—a note actually folded, and addressed “Warfield!” He had found it upon the grass, close to where the tent had stood, where it was held in the crotch of a split reed, the other end of which was sticking in the ground.
No wonder the trapper had remarked upon the ink, there was no mistaking the character of that livid red: the writing was in blood!
Hastily unfolding the paper, I read:
“Henri! I am still safe, but in dread of a sad fate—the fate of the poor white captive among these hideous men. Last night I feared it, but the Virgin shielded me. It has not come. Oh! I shall not submit—I shall die by my own hand. A strange chance has hitherto saved me from this horrid outrage. No! it was not chance, but Heaven that interposed. It is thus: Two of my captors claim me—one, the son of the chief—the other, the wretch to whom you granted life and freedom. Would to God it had been otherwise! Of the two, he of white blood is the viler savage—bad, brutal—a very demon. Both took part in the capture of the steed, therefore both claim me as their property? The claim is not yet adjusted; hence have I been spared. But, alas! I fear my hour is nigh. A council is to be held that will decide to which of these monsters I am to be given. If to either, it is a horrid fate; if to neither, a doom still more horrible. Perchance, you know their custom: I should be common property—the victim of all. Dios de mi alma! Never—never! Death—welcome death!
“Fear not, Henri, lord of my heart! fear not that I shall dishonour your love. No—sacred in my breast, its purity shall be preserved, even at the sacrifice of my life. I shall bathe it with my blood. Ah me! my heart is bleeding now! They come to drag me away. Farewell! farewell!”
Such were the contents of the page—the fly-leaf of a torn missal. Upon the other side was a vignette—a picture of Dolores, the weeping saint of Mexico! Had it been chosen, the emblem could scarcely have been more appropriate.
I thrust the red writing into my bosom; and, without waiting to exchange a word with my companions, pressed forward upon the trail.
Chapter Eighty One.
More Writing in Red.
The men followed as before. We needed no trackers to point out the way; the path was plain as a drover’s road—a thousand hoofs had made their mark upon the ground.
We rode at a regular pace, not rapidly. I was in no hurry to come up with the savages; I desired to get sight of them just after nightfall, not before, lest they might also get sight of us.
The plan I proposed to myself for the rescue of my betrothed, could not be accomplished in the daytime; darkness alone could avail me in carrying it out, and for nightfall must I wait.
We could easily have overtaken the Indians before night. They were but two short hours in the advance of us, and would be certain—as is their custom on the war-trail—to make a noon-halt of several hours’ duration. Even Indian horses require to be rested.
We calculated the rate at which they were travelling—how many miles to the hour. The prairie-men could tell to a furlong, both the gait and the distance.
The tracks of the poor captives were still seen along the trail. This showed that the party could not have been going faster than a walk.
The prairie-men alleged there were many horses without riders—led or driven; many mules, too—the product of the foray. Why were the poor captives not permitted to ride them?
Was it sheer cruelty, or brutal indifference on the part of their captors? Did the inhuman monsters gloat over the sufferings of these unfortunates, and deny them even the alleviation of physical pain? The affirmative answer to all these questions was probably the true one, since hardly better—no better, indeed—is the behaviour of these savages towards the women of their own blood and kind—their own squaws.
Talk not to me of the noble savage—of the simplicity and gentleness of that condition falsely termed a “state of nature.” It is not nature. God meant not man to be a wild Ishmaelite on the face of the earth. Man was made for civilisation—for society; and only under its influence does he assume the form and grace of true nobility. Leave him to himself—to the play of his instincts—to the indulgence of his evil impulses—and man becomes a brute, a beast of prey. Even worse—for wolf and tiger gently consort with their kind, and still more gently with their family: they feel the tenderness of the family tie. Where is the savage upon all the earth who does not usurp dominion, and practise the meanest tyranny, over his weaker mate? Where can you find him? Not on the blood-stained karoos of Africa, not upon the forest-plains of the Amazon, not by the icy shores of the Arctic Sea, certainly not upon the prairies of North America.
No man can be noble who would in wrath lay his finger upon weaker woman; talk not, then, of the noble savage!—fancy of poets, myth of romancers!
The tracks of riderless horses, the footsteps of walking women—tender girls and children—upon that long tiresome trail, had for me a cruel significance—those slender tiny tracks of pretty feet—pobres niñas!
There was one that fixed my attention more than the rest: every now and then my eyes were upon it; I fancied I could identify it. It was exactly the size, I thought. The perfect symmetry and configuration, the oval curve of the heel, the high instep, the row of small graduated globes made by the impression of the toes, the smooth surface left by the imprint of the delicate epidermis—all these points seemed to characterise the footprint of a lady.
Surely it could not be hers? Oh, surely she would not be toiling along that weary track? Cruel as were the hearts of her captors, brutal as were their natures, surely they would not inflict this unnecessary pain? Beauty like hers should command kinder treatment, should inspire compassion even in the breast of a savage! Alas! I deemed it doubtful.
We rode slowly on, as already said, not desirous of yet overtaking the foe: we were allowing them time to depart from their noon halting-place. We might have stopped there a while longer, but I could not submit to the repose of a halt. Motion, however slow, appeared progress, and in some measure hindered me from dwelling upon thoughts that only produced unnecessary pain.
Notwithstanding the incumbrance of their spoils, the Indians must have been travelling faster than we. They had no fear of foes to retard them; nought to require either spies or caution. They were now in their own country—in the very heart of the Comanche range—and in dread of no enemy. They were moving freely and without fear. We, on the contrary, had to keep our scouts in the advance; every bend of the road had to be reconnoitred by them, every bush examined, every rise of the ground approached with extreme care and watchfulness. These manoeuvres occupied time, and we moved slowly enough.
It was after mid-day when we arrived at the noon-camp of the savages. The smoke, as before, warned us, and approaching under cover, we perceived that they were gone. They had kindled fires and cooked flesh. The bones, clean picked, were easily identified, and the mid-day meal showed that there had been no change in the diet of these hippophagists: dinner and déjeuner had been alike—drawn from the same larder.
Again I searched the ground; but, as before, the eyes of the trapper proved better than mine.
“Hyur’s a other billy-dux, young fellur,” said he, handing me the paper.
Another leaf from the missal!
I seized it eagerly—eagerly I devoured its contents! This time they were more brief:
“Once more I open my veins. The council meets to-night. In a few hours it will be decided whose property I am—whose slave—whose—Santissima Maria! I cannot write the word. I shall attempt to escape. They leave my hands free, but my limbs are tightly bound. I have tried to undo my fastenings, but cannot. O, if I but had a knife! I know where one is kept; I may contrive to seize it, but it must be in the last moment—it will not do to fail. Henri, I am firm and resolute; I do not yield to despair. One way or the other, I shall free myself from the hideous embrace of— They come—the villain watches me—I must—”
The writing ended abruptly. Her jailers had suddenly approached.
The paper had evidently been concealed from them in haste; it had been crumpled up and flung upon the grass—for so was it when found.
We remained for a while upon the spot, to rest and refresh our horses; the poor brutes needed both. There was water at the place; and that might not be met with again.
The sun was far down when we resumed our march—our last march along the war-trail.
Chapter Eighty Two.
An “Injun on the Back-Track.”
We had advanced about a mile farther, when our scouts—who, as usual, had gone forward to reconnoitre—having ascended a swell of the prairie, were observed crouching behind some bushes that grew upon its crest.
We all drew bridle to await the result of their reconnoissance. The peculiar attitude in which they had placed themselves, and the apparent earnestness with which they glanced over the bushes, led us to believe that some object was before their eyes of more than common interest.
So it proved. We had scarcely halted, when they were seen to retire suddenly from the cover, and rising erect, run at full speed back down the hill—at the same time making signals to us to conceal ourselves in the timber.
Fortunately, there was timber near; and in a few seconds we had all ridden into it, taking the horses of the trappers along with us.
The declivity of the hill enabled the scouts to run with swiftness; and they were among the trees almost as soon as we.
“What is it?” inquired several in the same breath.
“Injun on the back-track,” replied the panting trappers.
“Indians!—how many of them?” naturally asked one of the rangers.
“Who slayed Injuns? We saved a Injun,” sharply retorted Rube. “Damn yur palaver! thur’s no time for jaw-waggin’. Git yur rope ready, Bill. ’Ee durned greenhorns! keep down yur guns—shootin’ won’t do hyur—yu’d hev the hul gang back in the flappin’ o’ a beaver’s tail. You, Bill, rope the redskin, an let the young fellur help—he knows how; an ef both shed miss ’im, I ain’t agwine. ’Ee hear me, fellurs? Don’t ne’er a one o’ ye fire: ef a gun ur wanted, Targuts ’ll be surfficient, I guess. For yur lives don’t a fire them ur blunderboxes o’ yourn till ees see me miss—they’d be heerd ten mile off. Ready wi’ yur rope, Billee? You, young fellur? All right; mind yur eyes both an snare the durned niggur like a swamp-rabbit. Yanner he comes, right inter the trap, by the jumpin Geehosophat!”
The pithy chapter of instructions above detailed was delivered in far less time than it takes to read it. The speaker never paused till he had uttered the final emphatic expression, which was one of his favourite phrases of embellishment.
At the same instant I saw, just appearing above the crest of the ridge, the head and shoulders of a savage. In a few seconds more, the body rose in sight; and then the thighs and legs, with a large piebald mustang between them. I need scarcely add that the horse was going at a gallop; it is a rare sight when a horse-Indian rides any other gait.
There was only one. The scouts were sure of this. Beyond the swell stretched an open prairie, and if the Indian had had companions or followers, they would have been seen. He was alone.
What had brought him back on the trail? Was he upon the scout?
No; he was riding without thought, and without precaution. A scout would have acted otherwise.
He might have been a messenger; but whither bound? Surely the Indians had left no party in our rear?
Quickly these inquiries passed among us, and quick conjectures were offered in answer. The voyageur gave the most probable solution.
“Pe gar! he go back for ze sheel.”
“Shield! what shield?”
“Ah, you no see ’im. I see ’im wiz me eye; he vas caché dans les herbes—von larzge sheel—bouclier très gros—fabriqué from ze peau of de buffle—ze parflèche—et garnie avec les scalps—frais et sanglants—scalps Mexicaines. Mon Dieu!”
The explanation was understood. Le Blanc had observed a shield among the bushes where we had halted—like enough left behind by some of the braves. It was garnished with scalps, fresh Mexican scalps—like enough. The Indian had forgotten both his armour and his trophies; he was on his way to recover them—like enough.
There was no time either for further talk or conjecture; the red horseman had reached the bottom of the hill; in ten seconds more, he would be lazoed or shot!
Garey and I placed ourselves on opposite sides of the path, both with our lazoes coiled and ready. The trapper was an adept in the use of this singular weapon, and I too understood something of its management. The trees were in our way, and would have prevented the proper winding of it; but it was our intention to spur clear of the timber—the moment the Indian came within range—and “rope” him on the run.
Rube crouched behind Garey, rifle in hand, and the rangers were also ready, in case both the lazoes and Rube’s rifle should miss.
It would not do to let the Indian either go on or go back; in either case he would report us. Should he pass the spot where we were, he would observe our tracks in a minute’s time—even amidst the thousands of others—and would be certain to return by another route. Should he escape from us, and gallop away, still worse. He must not be permitted either to go on or go back; he must be captured or killed!
For my part, I desired that the former should be his destiny. I had no feeling of revenge to gratify by taking the life of this red man; and had his capture not been absolutely necessary to our own safety, I should willingly have let him come and go as he listed.
Some of my comrades were actuated by very different motives. Killing a Comanche Indian was, by their creed, no greater crime than killing a wolf, a panther, or a grizzly bear; and it was not from any motives of mercy that the trapper had cautioned the others to hold their fire; prudence alone dictated the advice—he had given his reason—the reports of our guns might be heard.
Through the leaves, I looked upon the horseman as he advanced. A fine-looking fellow he was—no doubt one of the distinguished warriors of his tribe. What his face was I could not see, for the war-paint disfigured it with a hideous mask; but his body was large, his chest broad and full, his limbs symmetrical, and well turned to the very toes. He sat his horse like a centaur.
I had no opportunity for prolonged observation. Without hesitating, the Indian galloped up.
I sprang my horse clear of the timber. I wound the lazo around my head, and hurled it towards him; I saw the noose settling over his shoulders, and falling down to his hips.
I spurred in the opposite direction; I felt the quick jerk, and the taut rope told me I had secured the victim.
I turned in my saddle, and glanced back; I saw the rope of Garey around the neck of the Indian’s mustang, tightened, and holding him fast. Horse and horseman—both were ours!
Chapter Eighty Three.
My Plan.
The savage did not yield himself up without resistance. Resistance with an Indian is instinctive, as with a wild animal. He flung himself from his horse, and drawing his knife, with a single cut severed the thong that bound him.
In another instant, he would have been off among the bushes; but before he could move from the spot, half-a-dozen strong arms were around him; and in spite of his struggles, and the dangerous thrusts of his long Spanish knife, he was “choked” down and held fast.
My followers were for making short work with him. More than one had bared their blades to finish him upon the spot, and would have done so, had I not interfered. I was averse to spilling his blood; and by my intercession, his life was spared.
To prevent him from giving us further trouble, however, we tied him to a tree in such a manner that he could not possibly free himself.
The mode of securing him was suggested by Stanfield, the backwoodsman: it was simple and safe. A tree was chosen, whose trunk was large enough to fill the embrace of the Indian, so that the ends of his fingers just met when his arms were drawn to their full stretch around it. Upon his wrists, thongs of raw hide were firmly looped, and then knotted together. His ankles were also bound by similar cords—the ends of which were staked, so as to hinder him from worming around the tree, and perchance wearing off his thongs, or chafing them, so that they might break.
The ligature was perfect; the most expert jail-breaker could not have freed himself from such a fastening.
It was our intention to leave him thus, and perhaps set him free upon our return, if we should return by that way—a doubtful hypothesis.
I thought not at the time of the cruelty we were committing. We had spared the Indian’s life—a mercy at the moment—and I was too much concerned about the future of others, to waste reflection on his.
We had taken the precaution to leave him at some distance from the place of his capture; others of his party might come after, and discover him, soon enough to interfere with our plans. His prison had been chosen far off in the depth of the woods; even his shouts could not have been heard by any one passing along the trail.
He was not to be left entirely alone: a horse was to be his companion—not his own—for one of the rangers had fancied an exchange. Stanfield—not well mounted—had proposed a “swop,” as he jocosely termed it, to which the savage had no alternative but consent; and the Kentuckian, having “hitched” his worn-out nag to a tree, led off the skew-bald mustang in triumph, declaring that he was now “squar wi’ the Indyens.” Stanfield would have liked it better had the “swop” been made with the renegade who had robbed him.
We were about to leave the place and move on, when a bright idea suddenly came into my head: it occurred to me that I too might effect a profitable exchange with our new-made captive—a swop, not of horses, but of men—in short, an exchange of persons—of identities! In truth, a bright idea it was, and one that promised well.
I have said that I had already conceived a plan for the rescue of my betrothed: I had done so during the night; and all along the route, in my mind I had been maturing it. The incident that had just transpired had given rise to a host of new ideas—one, above all, that promised to aid me in facilitating the execution of my design. The capture of the savage, which had at first given me uneasiness, I now regarded in a very different light—as a fortunate circumstance. I could not help thinking that I recognised in it the finger of Providence, and the thought inspired me with hope. I felt that I was not forsaken.
The plan I had proposed to myself was simple enough; it would require more of courage than stratagem; but to the former I was sufficiently nerved by the desperate circumstances in which we had become involved. I proposed to enter the Indian camp in the night—of course, by stealth and under cover of the darkness—to find the captive, if possible—set her limbs free—and then trust to chance for the escape of both of us.
If once inside the encampment, and within reach of her, a sudden coup might accomplish all this: success was not beyond possibility, nor probability neither; and the circumstances admitted of no plan that promised so fairly.
To have attempted fight with my few followers against such a host—to have attacked the Indian camp, even under the advantage of an alarm—would have been sheer madness. It must have resulted not only in our immediate defeat, but would have destroyed our last chance of rescuing the captive. The savages, once alarmed and warned, could never be approached again. Isolina would be lost for ever.
My followers agreed with me upon the imprudence of an attack. Folly they termed it—and not from any motives of fear: they were willing to risk all; and had I so ordered, would have charged with me, rifle in hand, into the very midst of the enemy’s lines. I knew they would, every man of them. Even the voyageur—the least brave of the party—would not have flinched; for, in the midst of brave men, cowards cease to be.
But such a course would indeed have been folly—madness. We thought not of adopting it; all approved of the plan I had formed, and which I had already laid before them as we tarried by the noon halting-place.
Several had volunteered to be my companions—to venture along with me into the camp of the savage; to share with me the extreme of the danger; but for several reasons I was determined to go alone. Should even one of them be along with me, I saw it would double the risk of detection. In this matter, stratagem, not strength, was needed, and speed in the last moments would be worth both.
Of course, I did not think to get the captive clear without being observed and pursued—such an expectation would have been preposterous; she would be too well watched by the savages—not only by her jailers, but by the jealous eyes of those rival claimants of her body.
No; on the contrary, I anticipated pursuit—close and eager. It might be strife; but I trusted to my own swiftness of foot, and to hers—for well knew I her bold heart and free limb: it was no helpless burden I should have to bring away.
I trusted to my being able to baffle their pursuit—to keep them back while she ran forward. For that purpose, I should take with me my knife and revolvers—I trusted to these, and much to chance, or, perhaps, I should rather say, to God. My cause was good—my heart firm and hopeful.
Other precautions I intended to take: horses ready as near as they might be brought; men also ready in their saddles, rifle in hand—ready for fight, or flight.
Such was the enterprise upon which I was resolved. Success or death was staked upon the issue. If not successful, I cared not to survive it.