Chapter Twenty Three.
The Toughest Struggle of my Life.
I swam a few strokes, and then wading gently and without noise, I stood upon the sandy shore.
With shivering frame and dripping garments, I stood, uncertain what course to pursue. I was upon the opposite side of the lake—I mean opposite to where I had entered it. I had chosen that side intentionally, lest the bear should suddenly return. He might deposit the carcass in his lair, and come back to look after me. It is a habit of these animals, when not pressed by immediate hunger, to bury their food or store it in their caves. Even the devouring of the little antelope would have been an affair of only a few minutes’ time, and the bear might still return, more ravenous that he had tasted blood.
I was filled with irresolution. Should I run off across the plain beyond the reach of pursuit? I should have to return again for my horse and rifle. To take to the prairie on foot would be like going to sea without a boat. Even had I been sure of reaching the settlements in safety without my horse, I could not think of leaving him behind. I loved my Moro too well for that: I would have risked life itself rather than part with the noble creature. No; the idea of deserting him was not entertained for a moment.
But how was I to join him? The only path by which I could cross the barranca had just been taken by the bear. The latter was no doubt still upon it, in the bottom of the ravine. To attempt passing over would be to bring myself once more under the eyes of the fierce brute; and I should certainly become his victim.
Another idea suggested itself—to go up the barranca, and find a crossing, or else head the chasm altogether, and come down upon the opposite side. That was possibly the best plan to pursue.
I was about starting forward to execute it, when, to my dismay, I again beheld the bear; this time, not upon the same side with myself, but upon the opposite one, where Moro was picketed!
He was just climbing out of the ravine when I first saw him—slowly dragging his huge body over the escarpment of the cliff. In a moment he stood erect upon the open plain.
I was filled with a new consternation; I perceived too surely that he was about to attack the horse!
The latter had already observed the bear’s approach, and seemed to be fully aware of his danger. I had staked him at the distance of about four hundred yards from the barranca, and upon a lazo of about twenty in length. At sight of the bear he had run out to the end of his trail-rope, and was snorting and plunging with affright.
This new dilemma arrested me, and I stood with anxious feelings to watch the result. I had no hope of being able to yield the slightest aid to my poor horse—at least none occurred to me at the moment.
The bear made directly towards him, and my heart throbbed wildly as I saw the brute approach almost within clawing distance. The horse sprang round, however, and galloped upon a circle of which the lazo was the radius. I knew, from the hard jerks he had already given to the rope, that there was no chance of its yielding and freeing him. No; it was a raw-hide lazo of the toughest thong. I knew its power, and I remembered how firmly I had driven home the picket-pin. This I now regretted. What would I have given to have been able at that moment to draw the blade of my knife across that rope!
I continued to watch the struggle with a painful feeling of suspense. The horse still kept out of the bear’s reach by galloping round the circumference of the circle, while the boar made his attacks by crossing its chords, or running in circles of lesser diameter. The whole scene bore a resemblance to an act at the Hippodrome, Moro being the steed, and the bear taking the part of the ring-master!
Once or twice, the rope circling round, and quite taut, caught upon the legs of the bear, and, after carrying him along with it for some distance, flung him over upon his back. This seemed to add to his rage, since, after recovering his legs again, he ran after the horse with redoubled fury. I could have been amused at the singular spectacle, but that my mind was too painfully agitated about the result.
The scene continued for some minutes without much change in the relative position of the actors. I began to hope that the bear might be baffled after all, and finding the horse too nimble for him, might desist from his attacks, particularly as the horse had already administered to him several kicks that would have discomfited any other assailant. These, however, only rendered the brute more savage and vengeful.
Just at this time the scene assumed a new phase, likely to bring about the dénouement. The rope had once more pressed against the bear; but this time, instead of trying to avoid it, he seized it in his teeth and paws. I thought at first he was going to cut it, and this was exactly what I wished for; but no—to my consternation I saw that he was crawling along it by constantly renewing his hold, and thus gradually and surely drawing nearer to his victim! The horse now screamed with terror!
I could bear the sight no longer. I remembered that I had left my rifle near the edge of the barranca, and some distance from the horse; I remembered, too, that after shooting the antelope, I had carefully reloaded it.
I ran forward to the cliff, and dashed madly down its face; I climbed the opposite steep, and clutching the gun, rushed towards the scene of strife.
I was still in time; the bear had not yet reached his victim, though now within less than six feet of him.
I advanced within ten paces, and fired. As though my shot had cut the thong, it gave way at the moment, and the horse with a wild neigh sprang off into the prairie!
I had hit the bear, as I afterwards ascertained, but not in a vital part, and my bullet had no more effect upon him than if it had been a drop of snipe-shot. It was the strength of despair that had broken the rope, and set free the steed.
It was my turn now—for the bear, as soon as he perceived that the horse had escaped him, turned and sprang upon me, uttering, as he did so, a loud scream.
I had no choice but fight. I had no time to reload. I struck the brute once with my clubbed rifle, and flinging the gun away, grasped the readier knife. With the strong keen blade—the knife was a bowie—I struck out before me; but the next moment I felt myself grappled and held fast.
The sharp claws tore up my flesh; one paw was griped over my hips, another rested on my shoulder, while the white teeth gleamed before my eyes. My knife-arm was free: I had watched this when grappling, and with all the energy of despair I plunged the keen blade between the ribs of my antagonist. Again and again I plunged it, seeking for the heart at every stab.
We rolled together upon the ground, over and over again. The red blood covered us both. I saw it welling from the lips of the fierce monster, and I joyed to think that my knife reached his vitals. I was wild—I was mad—I was burning with a fierce vengeance—with anger, such as one might feel for a human foe!
Over and over the ground in the fierce struggle of life and death. Again I felt the terrible claws, the tearing teeth; again sank my blade up to the hilt.
Gracious heaven! how many lives has he? Will he never yield to the red steel? See the blood!—rivers of blood—the prairie is red—we roll in blood. I am sick—sick—I faint—
Chapter Twenty Four.
Old Comrades.
I fancied myself in a future world, battling with some fearful demon. No; those forms I see around me are of the earth. I still live!
My wounds pain me. Some one is binding them up. His hand is rude; but the tender expression of his eye tells me that his heart is kind. Who is he? Whence came he?
I am still upon the wide prairie; I see that clearly enough. Where is my terrible antagonist? I remember our fierce fight—everything that occurred; but—I thought he had killed me!
I certainly was dead. But no; it cannot have been. I still live!
I see above me the blue sky—around me the green plain. Near me are forms—the forms of men, and yonder are horses too!
Into whose hands have I fallen? Whoever they be they are friends; they must have rescued me from the gripe of the monster?
But how? No one was in sight: how could they have arrived in time? I would ask, but have not strength.
The men are still bending over me. I observe one with large beard and brown bushy workers. There is another face, old and thin, and tanned to a copper colour. My eyes wander from one to the other; some distant recollections stir within me. Those faces—
Now I see them but dimly—I see them no longer I fainted, and was again insensible.
Once more I became conscious, and this time felt stronger: I could better understand what was passing around me. I observed that the sun was going down; a buffalo robe, suspended upon two upright saplings, guarded his slanting rays from the spot where I lay. My seraph was under me, and my head rested in my saddle, over which another robe had been laid. I lay upon my side, and the position gave me a view of all that was passing. A fire was burning near, by which were two persons, one seated, the other standing. My eyes passed from one to the other, scanning each in turn.
The younger stood leaning on his rifle, looking into the fire. He was the type of a “mountain man,” a trapper. He was full six feet in his moccasins, and of a build that suggested the idea of strength and Saxon ancestry. His arms were like young oaks; and his hand grasping the muzzle of his gun, appeared large, fleshless, and muscular. His cheek was broad and firm, and was partially covered with a bushy whisker, that met over the chin; while a beard of the same colour—dull brown—fringed his lips. The eye was grey, or bluish grey, small, well-set, and rarely wandering. The hair was light brown; and the complexion of the face, which had evidently once been blonde, was now nearly as dark as that of a half-breed. Sun-tan had produced this metamorphosis. The countenance was prepossessing: it might have been once handsome. Its expression was bold, but good-humoured, and bespoke a kind and generous nature.
The dress of this individual was the well-known costume of his class—a hunting-shirt of dressed deer-skin, smoked to the softness of a glove; leggings reaching to the hips, and fringed down the seams; moccasins of true Indian make, soled with buffalo hide (parflêche). The hunting-shirt was belted around the waist, but open above, so as to leave the throat and part of the breast uncovered; but over the breast could be seen the under-shirt, of finer material—the dressed skin of the young antelope, or the fawn of the fallow-deer. A short cape, part of the hunting-shirt, hung gracefully over the shoulders, ending in a deep fringe cut out of the buckskin itself. A similar fringe embellished the draping of the skirt. On the head was a raccoon-cap—the face of the animal over the front, while the barred tail, like a plume, fell drooping over the left shoulder.
The accoutrements were a bullet-pouch, made from the undressed skin of a tiger-cat, ornamented with the head of the beautiful summer-duck. This hung under the right arm, suspended by a shoulder-strap; and attached, in a similar manner, was a huge crescent-shaped horn, upon which was carved many a strange souvenir. His arms consisted of a knife and pistol—both stuck in the waist-belt—and a long rifle, so straight that the line of the barrel seemed scarcely to deflect from that of the butt.
But little attention had been paid to ornament in either his dress, arms, or equipments; and yet there was a gracefulness in the hang of his tunic-like shirt, a stylishness about the fringing and bead-embroidery, and an air of jauntiness in the set of the ’coon-skin cap, that showed the wearer was not altogether unmindful of his personal appearance. A small pouch or case, ornamented with stained porcupine quills, hung down upon his breast. This was the pipe-holder—no doubt a gage d’amour from some dark-eyed, dark-skinned damsel, like himself a denizen of the wilderness.
His companion was very different in appearance; unlike him, in almost every respect, unlike anybody in the world.
The whole appearance of this individual was odd and striking. He was seated on the opposite side of the fire, with his face partially turned towards me, and his head sunk down between a pair of long lank thighs. He looked more like the stump of a tree dressed in dirt-coloured buckskin than a human being; and had his arms not been in motion, he might have been mistaken for such an object. Both his arms and jaws were moving; the latter engaged in polishing a rib of meat which he had half roasted over the coals.
His dress—if dress it could be called—was simple as it was savage. It consisted of what might have once been a hunting-shirt, but which now looked more like a leathern bag with the bottom ripped open, and sleeves sewed into the sides. It was of a dirty-brown colour, wrinkled at the hollow of the arms, patched round the armpits, and greasy all over; it was fairly “caked” with dirt. There was no attempt at either ornament or fringe. There had been a cape, but this had evidently been drawn upon from time to time for patches and other uses, until scarcely a vestige of it remained. The leggings and moccasins were on a par with the shirt, and seemed to have been manufactured out of the same hide. They, too, were dirt-brown, patched, wrinkled, and greasy. They did not meet each other, but left bare a piece of the ankle, and that also was dirt-brown like the buckskin. There was no undershirt, waistcoat, or other garment to be seen, with the exception of a close-fitting cap, which had once been catskin; but the hair was all worn off, leaving a greasy, leathery-looking surface, that corresponded well with the other parts of the dress. Cap, shirt, leggings, and moccasins, looked as if they had never been stripped off since the day they were first tried on, and that might have been many a year ago. The shirt was open, displaying the naked breast and throat; and these, as well as the face, hands, and ankles, had been tanned by the sun and smoked by the fire to the hue of rusty copper. The whole man, clothes and all, looked as if he had been smoked on purpose.
His face bespoke a man of sixty, or thereabout; his features were sharp, and somewhat aquiline; and the small eyes were dark, quick, and piercing. His hair was black, and cut short; his complexion had been naturally brunette, though there was nothing of the Frenchman or Spaniard in his physiognomy. He was more likely of the black-Saxon breed.
As I looked at this man, I saw that there was a strangeness about him, independently of the oddness of his attire. There was something peculiar about his head—something wanting.
What was it that was wanting? It was his ears!
There is something awful in a man without his ears. It suggests some horrid drama—some terrible scene of cruel vengeance: it suggests the idea of crime committed and punishment inflicted.
I might have had such unpleasant imaginings, but that I chanced to know why those ears were wanting. I remembered the man who was sitting before me!
It seemed a dream, or rather the re-enactment of an old scene. Years before, I had seen that individual, and for the first time, in a situation very similar. My eyes first rested upon him, seated as he was now, over a fire, roasting and eating. The attitude was the same; the tout ensemble in no respect different. There was the same greasy catskin cap, the same scant leggings, the same brown buckskin covering over the lanky frame. Perhaps neither shirt nor leggings had been taken off since I last saw them. They appeared no dirtier, however; that was not possible. Nor was it possible, having once looked upon the wearer, ever to forget him. I remembered him at a glance—Reuben Bawling, or “Old Rube,” as he was more commonly called, one of the most celebrated of trappers.
The younger man was “Bill Garey,” another celebrity of the same profession, and old Rube’s partner and constant companion.
My heart gladdened at the sight of these old acquaintances. I knew I was with friends.
I was about to call out to them, when my eye wandering beyond rested upon the group of horses, and what I saw startled me from my recumbent position.
There was Rube’s old, blind, bare-ribbed, high-boned, long-eared mare-mustang. Her lank grizzled body, naked tail, and mulish look, I remembered well. There, too, was the large powerful horse of Garey, and there was my own steed Moro picketed beside them! This was a joyful surprise to me, as he had galloped off after his escape from the bear, and I had felt anxious about recovering him.
But it was not the sight of Moro that caused me to start with astonishment; it was at seeing another well-remembered animal—another horse. Was I mistaken? Was it an illusion? Were my eyes or my fancy again mocking me?
No! It was a reality. There was the noble form, the graceful and symmetrical outlines, the smooth coat of silver white, the flowing tail, the upright jetty ears—all were before my eyes. It was he—the white steed of the prairies!
Chapter Twenty Five.
A Queer Conversation.
The surprise, with the exertion I had made in raising myself, overcame me, and I fell back in a swoon.
It was but a momentary dizziness, and in a short while I was again conscious.
Meanwhile, the two men had approached, and having applied something cold to my temples, stood near me conversing: I heard every word.
“Durn the weemen!” (I recognised Rube’s voice); “thur allers a gittin a fellur into some scrape. Hyur’s a putty pickle to be in, an all through a gurl. Durn the weemen! sez I.”
“We–ell,” drawlingly responded Garey, “pre-haps he loves the gal. They sez she’s mighty hansum. Love’s a strong feelin, Rube.”
Although I had my eyes partially open, I could not see Rube, as he was standing behind the suspended robe; but a gurgling, clucking sound—somewhat like that made in pouring water from a bottle—reached my ears, and told me what effect Garey’s remark had produced upon his companion.
“Cuss me, Bill!” the latter at length rejoined—“cuss me! ef yur ain’t as durned a fool as the young fellur hisself! Love’s a strong feelin! He, he, he—ho, ho, hoo! Wal, I guess it must a be to make sich dodrotted fools o’ reezunable men. As yit, it hain’t afooled this child, I reck’n.”
“You never knewd what love war, old hoss?”
“Thur yur off o’ the trail, Bill-ee. I did oncest—yis, oncest I wur in love, plum to the toe-nails. But thet wur a gurl to git sweet on. Ye-es, thet she wur, an no mistake!”
This speech ended in a sigh that sounded like the blowing of a buffalo.
“Who wur the gal?” inquired Garey after a pause. “White, or Injun?”
“Injun!” exclaimed Rube, in a contemptuous tone. “No; I reck’n not, boyee. I don’t say thet, for a wife, an Injun ain’t jest as good as a white, an more convaynient she are to git shet of when yur tired o’ her. I’ve hed a good grist o’ squaws in my time—hef-a-dozen maybe, an maybe more—but this I kin say, an no boastin neyther, thet I never sold a squaw yet for a plug o’ bacca less than I gin for her; an on most o’ ’em I made a clur profit. Thurfur, Billee, I don’t object to a Injun fur a wife: but wives is one thing, an sweethearts is diff’rent, when it comes to thet. Now the gurl I’m a-talkin ’bout wur my sweetheart.”
“She wur a white gal, then?”
“Are allyblaster white? She wur white as the bleached skull o’ a huffier; an sesh har! ’Twur as red as the brush o’ a kitfox! Eyes, too. Ah, Billee, boy, them wur eyes to squint out o’! They wur as big as a buck’s, an as soft as smoked fawn-skin. I never seed a pair o’ eyes like hern!”
“What wur her name?”
“Her name wur Char’ty, an as near as I kin remember, her other name wur Holmes—Char’ty Holmes. Ye-es, thet wur the name.
“’Twur upon Big-duck crick in the Tennessee bottom, the place whur this child chawed his fust hoe-cake. Let me see—it ur now more’n thirty yeer ago. I fust met the gurl at a candy-pullin; an I reccollex well we wur put to eat taffy agin one another. We ate till our lips met; an then the kissin—thet wur kissin, boyee. Char’ty’s lips wur sweeter than the treakle itself!
“We met oncest agin at a corn-shuckin, an arterwards at a blanket-trampin, an thur’s whur the bisness wur done. I seed Char’ty’s ankles as she wur a-trampin out the blankets, as white an smooth as peeled poplar. Arter thet ’twur all up wi’ Reuben Rawlins. I approached the gurl ’ithout more ado; an sez I: ‘Char’ty,’ sez I, ‘I freeze to you;’ an sez she: ‘Reuben, I cottons to you.’ So I immeediantly made up to the ole squire—thet ur Squire Holmes—an axed him for his darter. Durn the ole skunk! he refused to gin her to me!
“Jest then, thur kum a pedlar from Kinneticut, all kivered wi’ fine broadcloth. He made love to Char’ty; an wud yur b’lieve it, Bill? the gurl married him! Cuss the weemen! thur all alike.
“I met the pedlar shortly arter, and gin him sech a larrupin as laid him up for a month; but I hed to clur out for it, an I then tuk to the plains.
“I never seed Char’ty arterward, but I heerd o’ her oncest from a fellur I kim acrosst on the Massoury. She wur a splendid critter; an if she ur still livin, she must hev a good grist o’ young uns by this, for the fellur said she’d hed a kupple o’ twins very shortly arter she wur married, with har an eyes jest like herself! Wal, thur’s no kalklatin on weemen, any how. Jest see what this young fellur’s got by tryin to sarve ’em. Wagh!”
Up to this moment I took no part in the conversation, nor had I indicated to either of the trappers that I was aware of their presence. Everything was enveloped in mystery. The presence of the white steed had sufficiently astonished me, and not less that of my old acquaintances, Rube and Garey. The whole scene was a puzzle.
I was equally at a loss to account for their being acquainted with the cause that had brought me there. That they were so, was evident from their conversation. Where could they have procured their information on this head? Neither of them had been at the rancheria, nor in the army anywhere; certainly not, else I should have heard of them. Indeed, either of them would have made himself known to me, as a strong friendship had formerly existed between us.
But they alone could give me an explanation, and, without further conjecture, I turned to them.
“Rube! Garey!” I said, holding out my hand.
“Hilloo! yur a-comin too, young fellur. Thet’s right; but thur now—lay still a bit—don’t worrit yurself; y’ull be stronger by’m by.”
“Take a sup o’ this,” said the other, with an air of rude kindness, at the same time holding out a small gourd, which I applied to my lips. It was aguardiente of El Paso, better known among the mountain-men as “Pass-whisky.” The immediate effect of this strong, but not bad spirit, was to strengthen my nerves, and render me abler to converse.
“I see you reccollects us, capt’n,” said Garey, apparently pleased at the recognition.
“Well, old comrades—well do I remember you.”
“We ain’t forgot you neyther. Rube an I often talked about ye. We many a time wondered what hed becomed o’ you. We heerd, of coorse, that you hed gone back to the settlements, an that you hed come into gobs o’ property, an hed to change yur name to git it—”
“Durn the name!” interrupted Rube. “I’d change mine any day for a plug o’ Jeemes River bacca; thet wud I sartint.”
“No, capt’n,” continued the young trapper, without heeding Rube’s interruption, “we hedn’t forgot you, neyther of us.”
“That we hedn’t!” added Rube emphatically: “forgot ye—forgot the young fellur as tuk ole Rube for a grizzly! He, he, he!—ho, ho, hoo! How Bill hyur did larf when I gin him the account o’ that bissnes in the cave. Bill, boy, I niver seed you larf so in all my life. Ole Rube tuk for a grizzly! He, he, he!—Ho, ho, hoo!”
And the old trapper went off into a fit of laughing that occupied nearly a minute. At the end of it, he continued:—
“Thet wur a kewrious bit o’ dodgin—wa’nt it, young fellur? You saved my ole karkidge thet time, an I ain’t a-gwine to forgit it; no, this child ain’t.”
“I think you have repaid me; you have rescued me from the bear?”
“From one bar preehaps we did, but from t’other grizzly you rescooed yurself; an’, young fellur, you must a fit a putty consid’able bout afore the vamint knocked under. The way you hev gin him the bowie ur a caution to snakes, I reck’n.”
“What! were there two bears?”
“Look thur! thur’s a kupple, ain’t thur?”
The trapper pointed in the direction of the fire. Sure enough, the carcasses of two bears lay upon the ground, both skinned, and partially cut up!
“I fought with only one.”
“An thet wur enuf at a time, an a leetle more, I reck’n. ’Tain’t many as lives to wag thur jaws arter a stan-up tussle wi’ a grizzly. Wagh! how you must have fit, to a rubbed out thet bar!”
“I killed the bear, then?”
“Thet you sartintly did, young fellur. When Bill an me kim on the groun, the bar wur as dead as pickled pork. We thort yur case wa’nt any better. Thur you lay a-huggin the bar, an the bar a-huggin you, as ef both on yur hed gone to sleep in a sort o’ friendly way, like the babbies in the wood, exceptin thet you wa’nt kivered wi’ leaves. But thur wur yur claret a kiverin the paraira for yurds round. Thur wa’nt as much blood in you as wud a gin a leech his breakfist.”
“The other bear?”
“She kum arterwards out o’ the gully. Bill, he wur gone to look arter the white hoss. I wur sittin aside you, jest hyur, when I seed the vamint’s snout pokin up. I knowd it wur the she-bar a-comin to see where ole Eph had strayed to. So I tuk up Targuts, an plummed the critter in the eye, an thet wur the eend o’ her trampin.
“Now, lookee hyur, young fellur! I ain’t no doctur, neyther’s Bill, but I knows enough about wownds to be sartint thet you must lay still, an stop talkin. Yur mighty bad scratched, I tell ye, but yur not dangerous, only you’ve got no blood in yur body, an you must wait till it gathers agin. Take another suck out o’ the gourd. Thur now, come, Billee! leave ’im alone. Le’s go an hev a fresh toothfull o’ bar-meat.”
And so saying, the leathery figure moved off in the direction of the fire, followed by his younger companion.
Although I was anxious to have a further explanation about the other points that puzzled me—about the steed, the trappers’ own presence, their knowledge of my wild hunt, and its antecedents—I knew it would be useless to question Old Rube any further after what he had said; I was compelled, therefore, to follow his advice, and remain quiet.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Vows of Vengeance.
I soon fell asleep again, and this time slept long and profoundly.
It was after nightfall,—in fact, near midnight, when I awoke. The air had grown chilly, but I found I had not been neglected; my serape was wrapped closely around me, and with a buffalo-robe, had sufficiently protected me from the cold while I slept.
On awaking, I felt much better and stronger. I looked around for my companions. The fire had gone out—no doubt intentionally extinguished, lest its glare amid the darkness might attract the eye of some roving Indian. The night was a clear one, though moonless; but the heaven was spangled with its sparkling worlds, and the starlight enabled me to make out the forms of the two trappers and the group of browsing horses. Of the former, one only was asleep; the other sat upright, keeping guard over the camp. He was motionless as a statue: but the small spark gleaming like a glowworm from the bowl of his tobacco pipe, gave token of his wakefulness. Dim as the light was, I could distinguish the upright form to be that of the earless trapper. It was Garey who was sleeping.
I could have wished it otherwise. I was anxious to have some conversation with the younger of my companions; I was longing for an explanation, and I should have preferred addressing myself to Garey.
My anxiety would not allow me to wait, and I turned towards Rube. He sat near me, and I spoke in a low tone, so as not to awake the sleeper. “How came you to find me?”
“By follerin yur trail.”
“Oh, you followed me then! From the settlements?”
“Not so fur. Bill an me wur camped in the chapparil, an spied you a gallupin arter the white hoss, as ef all the devils out o’ hell wur arter you. I knowd yur at a glimp; so did Bill. Sez I: ‘Bill, thet ur’s the young fellur as tuk me for a grizzly up thur in the mountains,’ and the reckoleckshun o’ the sark’instance sot me a larfin till my ole ribs ached. ‘It ur the same,’ sez Bill; an jest then, we met a Mexikin who hed been yur guide, gallupin about in sarch o’ you. He gin us a story ’bout some gurl thet hed sent you to catch the white hoss; some saynyora with a dodrotted long name. ‘Durn the weemen!’ sez I to Bill. Didn’t I, Bill?”
To this interesting interrogatory, Garey, who was but half asleep, gave an assenting grunt.
“Wal,” continued Rube, “seem thur wur a pettycoat in the case, I sez to Bill, sez I: ‘Thet young fellur ain’t a-gwine to pull up till eyther he grups the hoss, or the hoss gits clur off.’
“Now, I know’d you wur well mounted, but I knowd you wur arter the fastest critter on all these parairas; so I sez to Bill, sez I: ‘Billee, thur boun for a long gallup.’ Sez Bill: ‘Thet ur sartin.’
“Wal! Bill and me tuk the idee in our heads, thet you mout git lost, for we seed the white hoss wur a makin for the big paraira. It ain’t the biggest paraira in creashun, but it ur one of the wust to git strayed on. Yur greenhorns wur all gone back, so Bill and me catched up our critters, an as soon as we kud saddle ’em, put arter you. When we kumd out in the paraira, we seed no signs o’ you, ’ceptin yur trail. Thet we follered up; but it wur night long afore we got half way hyur, an wur obleeged to halt till sun-up.
“Wal—in the mornin, the trail wur nurly blind, on account o’ the rain; an it tuk us a good spell afore we reached the gully. ‘Thur,’ sez Bill, ‘the hoss hes jumped in, an hyur’s the trail o’ the young fellur leadin down the bank.’ Wal, we wur jest turn in to go down, when we seed yur own hoss a good ways off on the paraira, ’ithout saddle or bridle. We rid straight for him, an when we got closter, we seed somethin on the groun, right under the hoss’s nose. Thet somethin turned out to be yurself an the grizzly, lyin in grups, as quiet as a kupple o’ sleepin ’possums. Yur hoss wur a squealin like a bag o’ wild-cats, an at fust Bill an me thort you hed gone under. But upon a closter view, we seed you wur only a faintin, while the bar wur as dead as a buck. Of coorse we sot about docterin you, to fotch you roun agin.”
“But the steed? the white steed?”
“Bill hyur grupped him in the gully. A leetle further down it’s stopped up wi’ big rocks. We knowd thet, for we’d been over this groun’ afore. We knowd the hoss kudn’t a got over the rocks, an Bill went arter an foun him, on a ledge whur he hed clomb out o’ reech o’ the flood; an then he lazooed the critter, an fotched ’im up hyur. Now, young fellur, you’ve got the hul story.”
“An the hoss,” added Garey, rising from his recumbent position, “he’s yourn, capt’n. Ef you hadn’t rid him down, I couldn’t a roped him so easy. He’s yourn, ef yu’ll accept o’ him.”
“Thanks, thanks! not for the gift alone, but I may thank you for my life. But for you, I might never have left this spot. Thanks! old comrades, thanks!”
Every point was now cleared up. There was mystery no longer, though, from an expression which Garey had dropped, I still desired a word with him in private.
On further inquiry, I learned that the trappers were on their way to take part in the campaign. Some barbarous treatment they had experienced from Mexican soldiers at a frontier post, had rendered both of them inveterate foes to Mexico; and Rube declared he would never be contented until he had “plugged a score of the yellur-hided vamints.” The breaking out of the war gave them the opportunity they desired, and they were now on their way, from a distant part of prairie-land, to take a hand in it.
The vehemence of their hostility towards the Mexicans somewhat surprised me—as I knew it was a recent feeling with them—and I inquired more particularly into the nature of the ill-treatment they had received. They answered me by giving a detailed account of the affair. It had occurred at one of the Mexican frontier towns, where, upon a slight pretext, the trappers had been arrested and flogged, by order of the commanding officer of the post.
“Yes–s!” said Rube, the words hissing angrily through his teeth; “yes–s, flogged!—a mountain-man flogged by a cussed monkey of a Mexikin! Ne’er a mind! ne’er a mind! By the ’tarnal God!—an when I say thet, I swar it—this niggur don’t leave Mexiko till he hes rubbed out a soger for every lash they gin him—an that’s twenty!”
“Hyur’s another, old hoss!” cried Garey, with equal earnestness of manner—“hyur’s another that swars the same oath!”
“Yes, Billee, boy! I guess we’ll count some in a skrimmage. Thur’s two a’ready! lookee thur, young fellur!”
As Rube said this, he held his rifle close to my eyes, pointing with his finger to a particular part of the stock. I saw two small notches freshly cut in the wood. I knew well enough what these notches meant; they were a registry of the deaths of two Mexicans, who had fallen by the hand or bullet of the trapper. They had not been the only victims of that unerring and deadly weapon. On the same piece of wood-work I could see long rows of similar souvenirs, apart from each other, only differing a little in shape. I knew something of the signification of these horrible hieroglyphics; I knew they were the history of a life fearfully spent—a life of red realities.
The sight was far from pleasant. I turned my eyes away, and remained silent.
“Mark me, young fellur!” continued Rube, who noticed that I was not gratified by the inspection; “don’t mistake Bill Garey an me for wild beests; we ain’t thet quite; we’ve been mighty riled, I reck’n; but f’r all thet, we ain’t a-gwine to take revenge on weemen an childer, as Injuns do. No—weemen an childer don’t count, nor men neyther, unless thur sogers. We’ve no spite agin the poor slaves o’ Mexiko. They never did me nor Bill harm. We’ve been on one skurry, along wi’ the Yutaws, down to the Del Nort settlements. Thur’s whur I made them two nicks; but neyther Bill or me laid a finger on the weemen an childer. It wur bekase the Injuns did, thet we left ’em. We’re jest kum from thur. We want fair fight among Christyun whites; thet’s why we’re hyur. Now, young fellur!”
I was glad to hear Rube talk in this manner, and I so signified to him. Indianised as the old trapper was—with all his savageness, all his reckless indifference to ordinary emotions—I knew there was still a touch of humanity in his breast. Indeed, on more than one occasion, I had witnessed singular displays of fine feeling on the part of Rube. Circumstanced as he was, he is not to be judged by the laws of civilised life.
“Your intention, then, is to join some corps of rangers, is it not?” I asked after a pause.
“I shed like it,” replied Garey: “I shed like to join your company, capt’n; but Rube hyur won’t consent to it.”
“No!” exclaimed the other with emphasis; “I’ll jine no kumpny. This niggur fights on his own hook. Yur see, young fellur, I hev been all my life a free mountaineeman, an don’t understan sogerin, nohow. I mout make some mistake, or I moutn’t like some o’ the reg’lashuns; thurfor I prefers fightin arter my own fashun. Bill an me kin take care o’ ourselves, I reck’n. Kin we, Bill?—eh, boyee?”
“I guess so, old hoss,” replied Garey mildly; “but for all that, Rube, I think it would be better to go at it in a reglar way—particlarly as the capt’n hyur would make the sogerin part as easy as possible. Wudn’t yur, capt’n?”
“The discipline of my corps is not very severe. We are Rangers, and our duties are different from those of regular soldiers—”
“It ur no use,” interrupted Rube; “I must fight as I’ve allers fit, free to kum an free to go whur I please. I won’t bind myself to nuthin. I moutn’t like it, an mout desart.”
“But by binding yourself,” suggested I, “you draw pay and rations; whereas—”
“Durn pay an rashuns!” exclaimed the old trapper, striking the butt of his rifle upon the prairie. “Durn pay an rashuns! Young fellur, I fights for revenge!”
This was said in an energetic and conclusive manner, and I urged my advice no further.
“Look hyur, cap!” continued the speaker in a more subdued tone. “Though I ain’t a-gwine to jine yur fellurs, yet thur ur a favour I wud axe from yur; an thet is, to let me an Bill keep by you, or foller whuriver you lead. I don’t want to spunge for rashuns; we’ll git thet ef thur’s a head o’ game in Mexiko, an ef thur ain’t, why we kin eat a Mexikin. Can’t we, Bill?—eh, boyee?”
Garey knew this was one of Rube’s jokes, and laughingly assented; adding at the same time, that he would prefer eating any other “sort o’ a vamint.”
“Ne’er a mind!” continued Rube: “we ain’t a-gwine to starve. So, young fellur, ef you agrees to our goin on them tarms, yu’ll heve a kupple o’ rifles near you thet won’t miss fire—they won’t.”
“Enough! You shall go and come as you please. I shall be glad to have you near me, without binding you to any term of service.”
“Hooray!—thet’s the sort for us! Kum, Billee!—gie’s another suck out o’ yur gourd. Hyur’s success to the Stars and Stripes! Hooray for Texas!”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
A “Weed”-Prairie on Fire.
My recovery was rapid. My wounds, though deep, were not dangerous; they were only flesh-wounds, and closed rapidly under the cauterising influence of the lechuguilla. Rude as my doctors were, in the matter of such a malady, I could not have fallen into better hands. Both, during their lives of accident and exposure, had ample practice in the healing art; and I would have trusted either, in the curing of a rattle-snake’s bite, or the tear of a grizzly bear’s claw, in preference to the most accomplished surgeon. Old Rube, in particular, thoroughly understood the simple pharmacopoeia of the prairies; and his application to my wounds of the sap of the pita plant, obtained among the rocks of the ravine, bespoke his skill. This plant, a bromelia, is of the same genus as the Agave Americana, and by travellers often confounded with the latter, though quite a distinct plant from the maguey of cultivation. It grows in most parts of Mexico and South America, extending as far north as the latitude of 30 degrees, and even farther. There is no spot too arid or barren to give support to it. It is a true desert plant; and even on the naked rock, its curved and thorny blades may be seen radiating on all sides from the tall flower-stalk, that shoots upward like a signal-staff, to the height of twenty feet. As already observed, its uses are manifold: the fibre of its leaves can be manufactured into thread, cordage, and cloth; fences are constructed of the growing plant, and thatch of the blades when cut; its sap, distilled, furnishes the fiery but not unwholesome mezcal; and the large egg-shaped core or stem is eaten for food. Tribes of Indians—Lipans, Comanches, and Apachés—use it extensively as an article of diet. One branch of the great Apaché nation are distinguished—“Mezcaleros” (eaters of the mezcal-plant). They bake it in ground-ovens of heated stones, along with the flesh of the wild-horse. It is firm when cooked, with a translucent appearance like candied fruits. I have eaten it; it is palatable—I might say delicious. The mastication of it is accompanied by a prinkling sensation upon the tongue, singular to one unaccustomed to it. It is a gift of nature to the desert regions—where it grows in greatest luxuriance, and where it serves the same purpose in the economy of the savage natives as the ixias, mesembryanthemums, and zarnias (the Caffre bread), upon the arid karoos of Southern Africa.
One of the most esteemed qualities of this bromelia is the cauterising property of its juice—well known to the natives of the Mexican table-land, and to the Peruvians, where several species are found of like virtues. It will cause ordinary wounds to cicatrise in a few hours, and even “ugly gashes” will yield to it in time.
My companions had full knowledge of its effects; and, having extracted the sap from its large succulent leaves, and boiled it to the consistency of honey, they applied it to my wounds. This operation they from time to time repeated, and the scratches were healed in a period marvellously short. My strength, too, was soon restored. Garey with his gun catered for the cuisine, and the ruffed grouse, the prairie partridge, and roasted ribs of fresh venison, were dainties even to an invalid.
In three days I was strong enough to mount; and bidding adieu to our camping-ground, we all three set forth, taking with us our beautiful captive. He was still as wild as a deer; but we had adopted precautions to prevent him from getting away from us. The trappers led him between them, secured to the saddles of both by a lazo.
We did not return in the direction of our old trail; my companions knew a shorter route—at least one upon which we should sooner reach water—and that is the most important consideration on a prairie-journey. We headed in a more westerly direction; by which, keeping in a straight line, we expected to strike the Rio Grande some distance above the rancheria.
The sky was leaden-grey—the sun not being visible—and with no guide in the heavens, we knew that we might easily diverge from a direct course. To provide against this, my companions had recourse to a compass of their own invention.
On taking our departure from camp, a sapling was stuck into the ground, and upon the top of this was adjusted a piece of bear’s-skin, which, with the long hair upon it, could be distinguished at the distance of a mile or more. The direction having been determined upon, another wand, similarly garnished with a tuft of the bear’s-skin, was set up several hundred yards distant from the first.
Turning our backs upon these signal-posts, we rode off with perfect confidence, glancing back at intervals to make sure we were keeping the line. So long as they remained in sight, and aligned with each other, we could not otherwise than travel in a straight path. It was an ingenious contrivance, but it was not the first time I had been witness to the ingenuity of my trapper-friends, and therefore I was not astonished.
When the black tufts were well-nigh hidden from view, a similar pair—the materials for which had been brought along—were erected; and these insured our direction for another stretch of a mile; then fresh saplings were planted; and so on, till we had passed over six miles of the plain.
We now came in sight of timber right ahead of us, and apparently about five miles distant. Towards this we directed our course.
We reached the timber about noon, and found it to consist of black-jack and post-oak groves, with mezquite and wild china-trees interspersed, and here and there some taller trees of the honey-locust (Gleditschia triacanthos). It was not a close forest, but a succession of groves, with openings between—avenues and grassy glades.
There were many pleasant spots, and, faint with the ride, I would fain have chosen one of them for a resting-place; but there was no water, and without water we could not halt. A short distance farther, and we should reach a stream—a small arroyo, an affluent of the Rio Grande. So promised my companions, and we rode onward.
After passing a mile or so through the timber-openings, we came out on the edge of a prairie of considerable extent. It was full three miles in diameter, and differed altogether from the plain we had left behind us. It was of the kind known in hunter phraseology as a “weed-prairie”—that is, instead of having a grassy turf, its surface was covered in a thick growth of flowering-plants, as helianthus, malvas, altheas, hibiscus, and other tall annuals standing side by side, and frequently laced together by wild-pea vines and various species of convolvulus. Such a flower-prairie was the one now before us, but not a flower was in sight; they had all bloomed, faded, and fallen—perhaps unseen by human eye—and the withered stalks, burned by a hot sun, looked brown and forbidding. They tracked and broke at the slightest touch, their seed-pods shelling their contents like rain upon the loose earth.
Instead of striking across this prairie, we skirted around its edge; and at no great distance arrived on the banks of the arroyo.
We had made but a short march; but my companions, fearful that a longer ride might bring on fever, proposed to encamp there for the night, and finish our journey on the following day. Though I felt strong enough to have gone farther, I made no objection to the proposal; and our horses were at once unsaddled and picketed near the banks of the arroyo.
The stream ran through a little bottom-valley covered with a sward of grass, and upon this we staked our steeds; but a better place offered for our camp upon the higher ground; and we chose a spot under the shade of a large locust-tree, upon the edge of the great wilderness of weeds. To this place we carried our saddles, bridles, and blankets, and having collected a quantity of dead branches, kindled our camp-fire.
We had already quenched our thirst at the stream, but, although we were all three hungry enough, the dried flesh of the grizzly bear proved but a poor repast. The rivulet looked promising for fish. Garey had both hooks and line in his “possible sack,” and I proposed the angle.
The young trapper soon baited his hooks; and he and I, repairing to the stream, cast our lines, sat down, and waited for a nibble.
Fishing was not to Rube’s taste. For a few minutes he stood watching us, but evidently with little interest, either in the sport, or what it might produce. Rube was not a fish-eater.
“Durn yur fish!” exclaimed he at length: “I’d ruther hev a hunk o’ deer-meat than all the fish in Texas. I’ll jest see ef I kin scare up somethin; the place looks likely for deer—it do.”
So saying, the old trapper shouldered his long rifle, and stalking off up the bank, was soon out of sight.
Garey and I continued bobbing with but indifferent success.
We had succeeded in drawing out a couple of cat-fish, not the most palatable of the finny tribe, when the crack of Rube’s rifle sounded in our ears. It seemed to come from the weed-prairie, and we both ran up on the high bank to ascertain what success had attended the shot.
Sure enough, Rube was out in the prairie, nearly half a mile distant from the camp. His head and shoulders were just visible above the tall stalks of the helianthus; and we could see, by his stooping at intervals, that he was bending over some game he had killed, skinning or cutting it up. The game we could not see, on account of the interposed culms of the weeds.
“A deer, I reck’n,” remarked Garey. “Buffler don’t often o’ late years stray so far to the southert, though I’ve killed some on the Grande, higher up.”
Without other remark passing between us, we descended to the arroyo, and recommenced our fishing. We took it for granted that Rube did not require any aid, or he would have signalled to us. He would soon return with his game to the camp.
We had just discovered that silver-fish (a species of hyodori) were plentiful in the stream, and this kept our attention fixed. We were desirous of taking some of them for our dinner, knowing them to be excellent eating, and far superior to the despised “cat.”
Having changed our bait for some small pieces of gold-lace, which my uniform furnished, we succeeded in pulling several of these beautiful creatures out of the water; and were congratulating one another upon the delicious broil we should have, when our conversation was suddenly interrupted by a crackling noise, that caused both of us to turn our faces towards the prairie.
The sight that met our eyes prompted us to spring simultaneously to our feet. Our horses already reared upon their lazoes—neighing with affright—and the wild screams of Rube’s mustang-mare were loud and continuous. There was no mystery about the cause; that was obvious at a glance. The wind had blown some sparks among the dry flower-stalks. The weed-prairie was on fire!
Though startled at the first sight of the conflagration, for ourselves we had nothing to fear. The bottom on which we stood was a sward of short buffalo-grass; it was not likely to catch fire, and even if it did, we could easily escape from it. There is not much danger in a burning prairie where the grass is light and short; one can dash through the line of flame, with no greater injury than the singeing of his hair, or a little suffocation from the smoke; but upon a plain covered with rank and thick vegetation, the case is very different. We therefore felt no apprehension for ourselves, but we did for our companion; his situation filled us with alarm.
Was he still where we had last seen him? This was the first question we asked one another. If so, then his peril was great indeed; his escape would be almost hopeless!
We had observed him a full half-mile out among the weeds, and on foot too. To have attempted a retreat towards the opposite side of the prairie, would have been folly: it was three miles off. Even on horseback, the flames would have overtaken him! Mounted, or on foot, he could not have got out of the way through those tall stalks—laced as they were by pea-vines and other trailing plants—whose tough tangle would have hindered the progress even of the strongest horse!
To have returned to the near side would be his only chance; but that would be in the very face of the fire, and, unless he had started long before the flames broke out, it was evident that his retreat in that direction would be cut off. As already stated, the weeds were as dry as tinder; and the flames, impelled by gusts of wind, at intervals shot out their red tongues, licking up the withered stalks, coiling like serpents around them, and consuming them almost instantaneously.
Filled with forebodings, my companion and I ran in the direction of the prairie.
When first noticed by us, the fire had extended but a few yards on each side of the locust-tree we had chosen for our camp. We were not opposite this point at the moment, having gone a little way down the arroyo; we ran, therefore, not towards the camp, but for the nearest point of high ground, in order to discover the situation of our friend.
On reaching the high ground, about two hundred yards from the locust, we saw to our astonishment that the fire had already spread, and was now burning forward to the spot where we had climbed up!
We had only a moment to glance outward, when the conflagration, hissing and crackling as it passed, rolled in front of us, and with its wall of flame shut off our view of the prairie.
But that glance had shown us all, and filled our hearts with sorrow and dismay; it revealed the situation of the trapper—no longer a situation of peril, but, as we supposed, of certain death!
He was still in the place where we had last seen him; he had evidently made no attempt to escape from it. Perhaps the knowledge that such an attempt must have failed, and hindered him from making it. The reflection that he might as well die where he stood, as be licked up by the flames in the act of fleeing from them, had bound him to the spot, wavering and undecided!
Oh! it was a dread sight to see that old man, hardened sinner that he was about to be snatched into eternity!
I remember his wild look, as the red flame, roiling between us, shut him from our sight! We saw him but for a single instant: his head and shoulders were alone visible above the tall weeds. He made no sign either with voice or arm; but I fancied that even at that distance I could read his glance of despair!
Was there no hope? Could no exertion be made to rescue him? Could he do nothing for himself? Was there no chance of his being able to clear a circle round him, and burn off a space before the line of fire could come up? Such a ruse has often availed, but no—never in such a ground as that! The weeds were too thick and tall—it could not be done—Garey said it could not be done.
There was no hope, then. The old trapper was lost!