Chapter Twenty Eight.
Rube roasted alive.
Doomed beyond doubt—doomed to quick, awful, and certain death was the earless trapper. In five minutes more he must perish. The wall of flame, moving faster than charging cavalry, would soon envelope him, and surer than the carbine’s volley or the keen sabre-cut was the death borne forward upon the wings of that hissing, crackling cohort of fire.
Here and there, tall jets, shooting suddenly upward, stalked far in advance of the main line—fiery giants, with red arms stretched forth, as if eager to grasp their victim. Already their hot breath was upon him; another minute, and he must perish!
In a sort of stupor we stood, Garey and I, watching the advance of the flames. Neither of us uttered a word: painful emotions prevented speech. Both our hearts were beating audibly. Mine was bitterly wrung; but I knew that the heart of my companion was enduring the very acme of anguish. I glanced upward to his face: his eye was fixed, and looked steadfastly in one direction—as though it would pierce the sheet of flame that rolled farther and farther from where we stood, and nearer to the fatal spot. The expression of Garey’s eye was fearful to behold; it was a look of concentrated agony. A single tear had escaped from it, and was rolling down the rude weather-bronzed cheek, little used to such bedewing. The broad chest was heaving in short quick spasms, and it was evident the man was struggling with his breath. He was listening through all this intensity of gaze—listening for the death-shriek of his old comrade—his bosom-friend!
Not long was the suspense; though there was no shriek, no cry of human voice, to indicate the crisis. If any arose, it was not heard by us. It could not have been; it would have been drowned amid the roar of the flames, and the crackling of the hollow culms, whose pent-up gases, set free by the fire, sounded like the continuous rolling of musketry. No death-cry fell upon our ears; but, for all that, we were satisfied that the drama had reached its dénouement: the unfortunate trapper had been roasted alive!
Already the flames had passed over the spot where we had last seen him—far beyond—leaving the ground charred and black behind them. Though the smoke hindered our view of the plain, we knew that the climax had passed: the hapless victim had succumbed; and it remained only to look for his bones among the smouldering ashes.
Up to this moment Garey had stood in a fixed attitude, silent and rigid as a statue. It was not hope that had held him thus spell-bound; he had entertained no such feeling from the first: it was rather a paralysis produced by despair.
Now that the crisis was over, and he felt certain that his comrade had perished, his muscles, so long held in tension, suddenly relaxed—his arms fell loosely to his sides—the tears chased each other over his cheeks—his head reclined forward, and in a hoarse husky voice he exclaimed:
“O God! he’s rubbed out, rubbed out! We’ve seed the last o’ poor Old Rube!”
My sorrow, though perhaps not so keen as that of my companion, was nevertheless sufficiently painful. I knew the earless trapper well—had been his associate under strange circumstances—amid scenes of danger that draw men’s hearts more closely together than any phrases of flattery or compliment. More than once had I seen him tried in the hour of peril; and I knew that, notwithstanding the wildness and eccentricity of his character—of his crimes, I might add—his heart, ill directed by early education, ill guided by after-association, was still rife with many virtues. Many proofs of this could I recall; and I confess that a feeling akin to friendship had sprung up between myself and this singular man.
Between him and Garey the ties were still stronger. Long and inseparable companionship—years of participation in a life of hardships and perils—like thoughts and habitudes—though perhaps dispositions, age, and characters a good deal unlike—all had combined to unite the two in a firm bond of friendship. To use their own expressive phrase, they “froze” to each other. No wonder then that the look, with which the young trapper regarded that black plain, was one of indescribable anguish.
To his mournful speech I made no reply. What could I have said? I could not offer consolation. I was grieving as well as he: my silence was but an assent to his sad soliloquy.
After a moment he continued, his voice still tremulous with sorrow—
“Come, commarade! It are no use our cryin like a kupple o’ squaws.”
With his large finger he dashed the tears aside, as if ashamed of having shed them.
“It are all over now,” he continued. “Let’s look arter his bones—that is, if thar’s anythin left o’ ’em—and gie ’em Christyun burial. Come!”
We caught our horses, and mounting, rode off over the burnt ground.
The hoofs of the animals tossed up the smouldering ashes as we advanced, the hot red cinders causing them to prance. The smoke pained our eyes, and prevented us from seeing far ahead; but we guided ourselves as well as we could towards the point where we had last seen the trapper, and where we expected to find his remains.
On nearing the spot, our eyes fell upon a dark mass that lay upon the plain: but it appeared much larger than the body of a man. We could not make out what it was, until within a few feet of it, and even then it was difficult to recognise it as the carcass of a buffalo—though truly in reality it was. It was no doubt the game which the hunter had killed. It rested as it had fallen—as these animals usually fall—upon the breast, with legs widely spread, and humped shoulders upward.
We could perceive that the unfortunate man had nearly finished skinning it—for the hide, parted along the spine, had been removed from the back and sides, and with the fleshy side turned outward, was hanging to the ground, so as to conceal the lower half of the carcass. The whole surface was burnt to the colour of charcoal.
But where were the remains of the hunter? They were nowhere to be seen near the spot. The smoke had now cleared away sufficiently to enable us to observe the ground for several hundred yards around us. An object of small dimensions could have been distinguished upon the now bare surface; but none was seen. Yes! a mass lay close to the carcass, which drew our attention for a moment; but on riding up to it we perceived that it was the stomach and intestines of the buffalo, black and half broiled.
But where were the bones of Rube? Had he got away from the spot, and perished elsewhere?
We glanced towards the fire still raging on the distant plain.
No: it was not probable he had moved thence. By the last look we had obtained of him, he did not appear to be making any effort to escape, and he could scarcely have gone a hundred yards before the flames swept over the spot and must have enveloped him.
How then? Were his bones entirely consumed—calcined—reduced to ashes? The lean, withered, dried-up body of the old mountain-man favoured such a supposition; and we began seriously to entertain it—for in no other way could we account for the total absence of all remains!
For some moments we sat in our saddles under the influence of strange emotions, but without exchanging a word. We scanned the black plain round and round. The smoke no longer hindered our view of the ground. In the weed-prairies there is no grassy turf; and the dry herbaceous stems of the annuals had burned out with the rapidity of blazing flax, so that nothing was left to cause a smoke. The fire was red or dead in an instant. We could see clear enough all the surface of the ground, but nothing that resembled the remains of a human being!
“No,” said Garey, with a long-drawn sigh. “Poor Old Rube! The classed thing has burned him to ashes—bones an all! Thur ain’t as much o’ ’im left as ’ud fill a tabacca-pipe!”
“The hell, thur ain’t!” replied a voice that caused both of us to start in our saddles, as if it had been Rube’s ghost that addressed us—“the hell, thur ain’t!” repeated the voice, as though it came out of the ground beneath our feet. “Thur’s enough o’ Ole Rube left to fill the stummuk o’ this hyur buffler; an by the jumpin Geehosophat, a tight fit it ur! Wagh! I’m well-nigh sufflocated! Gie’s yur claws, Bill, an pull me out o’ this hyur trap!”
To our astonishment the pendent hide of the buffalo was raised by an invisible hand; and underneath appeared, protruding through a hole in the side of the carcass, the unmistakable physiognomy of the earless trapper!
There was something so ludicrous in the apparition, that the sight of it, combined with the joyful reaction of our feelings, sent both Garey and myself into convulsions of laughter. The young trapper lay back in the saddle to give freer play to his lungs; and his loud cachinnations, varied at intervals by savage yells, caused our horses to dance about as if they anticipated an onslaught of Indians!
At first I could detect a significant smile at the angles formed by Rube’s thin lips; but this disappeared as the laughter continued too long for his patience.
“Cuss yur larfin!” cried he at length. “Kum, Billee, boy! Lay holt hyur, an gi’ me a help, or I must wriggle out o’ meself. The durned hole ain’t es big es twur when I krep in. Durn it, man, make haste! I’m better’n half-baked!”
Garey now leaped from his horse, and taking hold of his comrade by the “claws,” drew him out of his singular hiding-place. But the appearance of the old trapper, as he stood erect—red, reeking, and greasy—was so supremely ludicrous, that both Garey and I were driven off into a fresh fit of laughter, which lasted for several minutes.
Rube, once released from his uncomfortable situation, paid not the slightest attention to our mirth; but stooping down, drew out his long rifle—from where he had secured it under the hanging skin—and after having examined the piece, to see that no harm had come to it, he laid it gently across the horns of the bull. Then taking the bowie from his belt, he quietly proceeded with the skinning of the buffalo, as if nothing had happened to interrupt the operation!
Meanwhile Garey and I had laughed ourselves hoarse, and, moreover, were brimful of curiosity to know the particulars of Rube’s adventure; but for some time he fought shy of our queries, and pretended to be “miffed” at the manner in which we had welcomed him to life again.
It was all pretence, however, as Garey well knew; and the latter, having thrust into his comrade’s hand the gourd, still containing a small drop of aguardiente, soon conciliated him; and after a little more coaxing, the old trapper condescended to give us the details of his curious escapade. Thus ran his narration:—
“Ee wur both o’ yur mighty green to think thet arter fightin grizzly bar an Injun for nigh forty yeern on these hyur parairas, I wur a-gwine to be rubbed out by a spunk o’ fire like thet. Preehaps ’twur nat’ral enough for the young fellur hyur to take me for a greenhorn—seein as he oncest tuk me for a grizzly. He, he, he—ho, ho, hoo! I say it wur, an ur nat’ral enough for him to a thort so; but you mout a knowd better—you, Bill Garey, seein as ee oughter knowd me.
“Wal!” continued Rube, after another “suck” at the gourd, “when I seed the weeds afire, I knowd it wa’nt no use makin tracks. Preehaps if I’d a spied the thing when the bleeze fust broke out, I mout a run for it, an mout a hed time; but I wur busy skinnin this hyur beest, wi’ my head clost down to the karkidge, an thurfor didn’t see nuthin till I heern the cracklin, an in coorse thur wa’nt the ghost o’ a chance to git clur then. I seed thet at the fust glimp.
“I ain’t a-gwine to say I wa’nt skeeart; I wur skeeart an bad skeeart too. I thort for a spell, I wur boun to go under.
“Jest then I sot my eyes upon the burner. I hed got the critter ’bout half-skinned, as ee see; an the idee kim inter my head, I mout crawl somehow under, an pull the hide over me. I tried thet plan fust; but I kudnt git kivered to my saterfaction, an I gin it up.
“A better idee then kim uppermost, an thet wur to clur out the anymal’s inside, an thur caché. I reck’n I wa’nt long in cuttin out a wheen o’ the buffer’s ribs, an tarin out the guts; an I wa’nt long neyther in squezzin my karkidge, feet fo’most, through the hole.
“I hedn’t need to a been long; it wur a close shave an a tight fit, it wur. Jest as I hed got my head ’bout half through, the bleeze kim swizzin round, an nearly singed the ears off me. He, he, he—ho, ho, hoo!”
Garey and I joined in the laugh, at what we both knew to be one of Old Rube’s favourite jokes; but Rube himself chuckled so long, that we became impatient to hear the end of his adventure.
“Well!” interrupted Garey, “consarn your old skin! what next?”
“Wagh!” continued the trapper, “the way thet bleeze did kum wur a caution to snakes. It roared an screeched, an yowlted, an hissed, an the weeds crackled like a million o’ wagon-whups! I wur like to be spinicated wi’ the smoke; but I contruv to pull down the flap o’ hide, an thet gin me some relief—though I wur well-nigh choked afore I got the thing fixed. So thur I lay till I heern you fellurs palaverin about a ’bacca-pipe, and thurfor I knowd the hul thing wur over. Wagh!”
And with this exclamation Rube ended his narration, and once more betook himself to the butchering of the already half-roasted buffalo.
Garey and I lent a hand; and having cut out the hump-ribs and other titbits, we returned to the camp. What with broiled hyodons, roast ribs, tongue, and marrow-bones, we had no reason for that night to be dissatisfied with the hospitality of the prairies.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Mesa.
After a breakfast of buffalo-flesh, seasoned with splendid appetites, and washed down by a cup of cold water from the arroyo, we “saddled up,” and headed for a high butte, just visible over the plain.
My companions knew the landmark well. It lay directly in our route. We should pass near its base, and a ride of ten miles farther would bring us to the end of our journey; indeed, the eminence was within sight of the rancheria. From the roof of the alcalde’s house I had frequently noticed it outlined against the horizon, in a north-westerly direction from the village. In clear weather only was it visible.
Struck with the singularity of this prairie-mound, I had longed to examine it, and had even projected a visit to it; but circumstances had prevented me from carrying out my intention. I was at length to have the pleasure of a nearer acquaintance with it.
I have called it singular. Most isolated hills are conical, dome-shaped, or ridge-like; this one differed from the usual configuration—hence its singularity. It presented the appearance of a huge box set upon the prairie, not unlike that rare formation, the “cofre,” which crowns the summit of the mountain Perote. Its sides in the distance appeared perfectly vertical, and its top horizontal as the plain on which it rested.
As we drew nearer, I could perceive by the dark parapet-like band along its crest that it was covered with a growth of timber. This was the more readily observed from contrast with the perpendicular sides, which were almost of a snowy whiteness, on account of the gypsum, chalk, or milky quartz of which the rock was composed.
The most peculiar feature of the mound was perhaps its apparently regular form—a perfect parallelopipedon. But it was striking in other respects. Its sides glistened fantastically under the rays of the sun, as though it were studded with settings of glass. This, however, was easily accounted for; and I knew that the sparkling effect was produced by plates of mica or selenite that entered into the composition of the rock. I had seen large mountains that presented a similar appearance. More than one such exist in the great American Saara, in whose glittering cliffs, viewed from afar, may be found the origin of that wild chimera, the mountain of gold.
Although neither a mountain of gold nor silver, the mound in question was an object of rare interest. A very enchanted castle it did appear, and it was difficult to assign its formation to nature alone. Human agency, one could not help fancying, must have had something to do in piling up a structure so regular and compact.
But he who has travelled over much of the earth’s surface will have met with many “freaks” of nature, exhibiting like appearance of design, in her world of inorganic matter. It was, in fact, one of those formations, of which many are met with in the plateaux-lands of America, known in Spanish phraseology as mesas. This name is given to them in allusion to the flat table-like tops, which distinguish them from other elevated summits.
Sometimes one of these mesas is found hundreds of miles from any similar eminence; more frequently a number of them stand near each other, like truncated cones—the summits of all being on the same level, and often covered with a vegetation differing materially from that of the surrounding plains.
Geologists have affirmed that these table-tops are the ancient level of the plains themselves; and that all around, and intervening between them, has either sunk or submitted to the degradation of water!
It is a vague explanation, and scarcely satisfies the speculative mind. The mesa of Mexico is still a geological puzzle.
As we approached this singular object, I could not help regarding it with a degree of curiosity. I had seen mesa heights before—in the “mauvaise terre,” upon the Missouri, in the Navajo country west of the Rocky Mountains, and along the edges of the “Llano Estacado,” which of itself is a vast mesa.
The mound before us was peculiar, from its very regular form, and the sparkling sheen of its cliffs. Its complete isolation, moreover, added to the effect—for no other eminence appeared in sight. The low hills that bordered the Rio Grande could barely be distinguished in the distance.
On getting nearer to it, its character became somewhat altered; the square box-like form appeared less regular, and it was then perceived that the parallelopipedon was not perfect. Slight ledges could be traced traversing the face of its cliffs, and here and there the rectangular lines were broken to the eye. Nature, after all, had not been so exact in her architecture.
Yet, with every deduction, it was a singular structure to look upon, not the less so that its summit was inaccessible to human foot. A precipice fifty yards sheer fronted outward on all sides. No one had ever scaled this precipice—so alleged my companions, who were well acquainted with the locality.
We had approached within less than a mile of its base; our conversation had dropped—at least so far as I was concerned; my thoughts were occupied with the mound, and my eyes wandering over its outlines.
I was endeavouring to make out the character of the vegetation which seemed to flourish luxuriantly on its summit. The dark foliage was evidently that of some species of acicular trees, perhaps the common red cedar (Juniperus Virginiana), but there were others of lighter hue—in all likelihood pinons, the pines with edible cones, peculiar to this region. I noticed, also, growing upon the very edge of the cliff, yuccas and aloes, whose radiating blades, stretching out, curved gracefully over the white rock. Forms of cactus, too, were apparent, and several plants of the great pitahaya rose high above the cliff, like gigantic candelabra—strange objects in such a situation.
My companions seemed to have no eyes for these rare vegetable beauties; I could hear them at intervals engaged in conversation; but the subject had no reference to the scene, and I paid little attention to what they were saying.
All at once I was startled by the voice of Garey, giving utterance to the emphatic announcement—
“Injuns, by God!”
“Indians!—where?”
The interrogation as it escaped my lips, was half involuntary, and needed no reply. Garey’s glance guided me; and following its direction, I observed a string of horsemen just debouching from behind the mesa, and spurring forward upon the plain.
Both my companions had drawn bridle, and halted. I followed their example; and all three of us sat in our saddles, scanning this sudden apparition of mounted men. A dozen had now cleared themselves from behind the mesa, and were riding towards us.
We were yet nearly a mile from them; and at that distance it is difficult to distinguish a white man from an Indian—I should rather say impossible. Even at half the distance, the oldest prairie-men are sometimes puzzled. The garments are often not very dissimilar, and sun-bronze and dust confound the complexions.
Although Garey, at first sight of them, had pronounced the horsemen to be Indians—the most probable supposition under the circumstances—it was but a random conjecture, and for some time we remained in doubt.
“If they’re Injuns,” suggested Garey, “they’re Comanche.”
“An if thur Kimanch,” added Rube, with ominous emphasis, “we’ve got to fight. If thur Kimanch, thur on the war-trail, an thur’ll be mischief in ’em. Wagh! Look to yur flints an primin!”
Rube’s counsel was instantly followed. Necessity quickened our precautions. All of us well knew, that, should the approaching horsemen turn out to be Comanches, we had no alternative but fight.
This warlike nation occupies the whole western area of Texas, ranging from the Rio Grande on the south, to the Arkansas on the north. They are to-day, with their kindred tribes, the most powerful Indian alliance on the continent. They affect the ownership of all prairie-land, styling themselves its “lords,” though their sovereignty towards the north is successfully disputed by the Pawnees, Sioux, Blackfeet, and others as warlike as they. From the earliest times, they have been the fiend of the Texan settler; and a detailed account of their forays and pillaging expeditions would fill a score of volumes. But from these they have not gone back unscathed. The reprisals have outnumbered the assaults, and the rifle of the border-ranger has done its work of vengeance.
In Mexico they have found less puissant defenders of the hearth and home; and into the north-eastern provinces of that unhappy country, the Comanches have been for the last half-century in the habit of making an annual expedition of war and plunder. In fact, plunder has become the better part of their subsistence, as they usually return from these rieving incursions laden with spoil, and carrying with them vast droves of horses, mules, horned cattle, and captive women!
For a short time, these dusky freebooters were at peace with the Anglo-American colonists of Texas. It was but a temporary armistice, brought about by Houston; but Lamar’s administration, of a less pacific character, succeeded, and the settlers were again embroiled with the Indians. War to the knife was declared and carried on; red and white killed each other on sight. When two men met upon the prairie, the colour of the skin determined the relations between them! If they differed in this, the were enemies without parley, and to kill the other was the first thought of each. The lex talionis was the custom of the hour.
If the rancour could possibly have been augmented, an incident had just transpired calculated to produce that effect. A band of Comanche warriors had offered their services to the commander-in-chief of the American army. They held the following language:—
“Let us fight on your side. We have no quarrel with you. You are warriors: we know it, and respect you. We fight against the cowardly Mexicans, who robbed us of our country. We fight for Moctezuma!”
These words, uttered along the whole northern frontier of Mexico, are full of strange import.
The American commander prudently declined the Comanche alliance; and the result was the bitter triangular war in which, as already noticed, we were now engaged.
If, then, the approaching horsemen were Indians of the Comanche tribe, Rube’s forecast was correct; we had “got to fight.”
With this understanding, we lost no time in putting ourselves in an attitude of defence.
Hastily dismounting, and sheltering our bodies behind those of our horses, we awaited the approach of the band.
Chapter Thirty.
Guerrilleros.
The manoeuvre had occupied only a few seconds of time, and the horsemen were yet distant. They had thrown themselves into a formation, and were riding “by twos!”
This movement took us by surprise. The tactics were not Indian: Comanches never march in double file. The horsemen could not be Indians. Who, then?
A sudden hope crossed my mind, that it might be a party of my own people, out in search of me. “By twos” was our favourite and habitual order of march. But no; the long lances and streaming pennons at once dissipated the hope: there was not a lance in the American army. They could not be “rangers.”
Comanches on the war-trail would have been armed with the lance, but clearly they were not Comanches.
“Wagh!” exclaimed Rube, after eyeing them intently. “Ef thur Injuns, I’m a niggur! Ef thur Injuns, they’ve got beards an sombrayras, an thet ain’t Injun sign nohow. No!” he added, raising his voice, “thur a gang o’ yellur-bellied Mexikins! thet’s what they ur.”
All three of us had arrived simultaneously at the same conviction. The horsemen were Mexicans.
It was no great source of rejoicing to know this; and the knowledge produced no change in our defensive attitude. We well knew that a band of Mexicans, armed as these were, could not be other than a hostile party, and bitter too in their hostility. For several weeks past, the petite guerre had been waged with dire vengeance. The neutral ground had been the scene of reprisals and terrible retaliations. On one side, wagon-trains had been attacked and captured, harmless teamsters murdered, or mutilated whilst still alive. I saw one with his arms cut off by the elbow-joints, his heart taken out, and thrust between his teeth! He was dead; but another whom I saw still lived, with the cross deeply gashed upon his breast, on his brow, upon the soles of his feet, and the palms of his hands—a horrid spectacle to behold!
On the other side, ranchos had been ransacked and ruined, villages given to the flames, and men on mere suspicion shot down upon the spot or hanged upon the nearest tree.
Such a character had the war assumed; and under these circumstances, we knew that the approaching horsemen were our deadly foes.
Beyond a doubt, it was either a scouting-party of Mexican lancers, a guerrilla, or a band of robbers. During the war, the two last were nearly synonymous, and the first not unfrequently partook of the character of both.
One thing that puzzled us—what could any of the three be doing in that quarter?
The neutral ground—the scene of guerrilla operations—lay between the two armies; and we were now far remote from it; in fact, altogether away from the settlements. What could have brought lancers, guerrilleros, or robbers out upon the plains? There was no game in that quarter for any of these gentry—neither an American force to be attacked, nor a traveller to be plundered! My own troop was the extreme out-picket in this direction, and it was full ten miles off. The only thing likely to be met with near the mesa would be a war-party of Comanches, and we knew the Mexicans well enough to be convinced that, whether soldiers or freebooters, they were not in search of that.
Such reflections, made in double-quick time, occurred to us as we scanned the advancing troop.
Up to this moment, they had ridden directly towards us, and were now nearly in a line between us and the mesa.
On getting within about half-a-mile of our position, they turned sharply towards the west, and rode as if to make round to our rear!
This manoeuvre of course placed us upon their flank; and now outlined against the sky, we could distinctly trace their forms and note their habiliments and armour. Nearly all wore broad-brimmed sombreros, with jacket, sash, and calzoneros. They carried lances, lazoes, and carbines or escopettes. We could distinguish sabres and machetes—the universal weapon of the Mexican ranchero. They could not be drilled troops. Their costumes, as well as a certain irregularity in their manoeuvring, forbade this supposition. Their lances, moreover, were borne in all sorts of ways—some couched, some resting in the stirrup and held correctly, while others were carried over the shoulder like a firelock! No, they could not be a troop of regulars. They were either guerrillos or true salteadores.
After riding nearly a half-circle round—still keeping at the same distance—the troop suddenly made front towards as, and halted.
We had been puzzled by their going round; we could not divine their object in so doing. It could not be to cut off our retreat. The timber in the back direction was miles off. Had it been near enough, we should certainly have retreated to it long before; but we knew it was too distant. Rube and his old mare would have been overtaken by our well-mounted enemies long ere we could have gained the woods; we knew this, and therefore did not think of making the attempt. On the other side was the mesa, which, by their late movement, had been left open to us. It was but a half-mile off, and perhaps, by making a dash, we might have reached it; but not a tree grew near it—except those on its summit—and its rocky wall apparently offered no advantage to us, any more than the open plain. The enemy seemed to be aware of this, else they would not have ridden round, and by so doing left the way clear.
Until the moment of their halt, therefore, we remained ignorant of their motive in moving to our rear. Then it was explained. Their object was evident to all of us: they had halted between us and the sun!
It was a cunning manoeuvre—worthy of a war-party of Indians—and told us we had no common enemy to deal with. By approaching us from that direction, they would have a decided advantage: our aim would be spoiled by the sun—now low down upon the horizon, and gleaming right in our eyes.
My companions were wroth at the trick that had been thus played so adroitly; though we could not have hindered it even if forewarned of their intention.
We were allowed but little time to reflect upon the matter; we saw by the movements of the horsemen that they were preparing to charge. One who appeared to be the leader, mounted upon a larger horse than any of the rest was addressing them. He rode along the line speaking in a loud tone, and gesticulating violently; he was answered with vivas, which we could plainly hear. Every moment, we looked to see them gallop forward.
We knew there was no alternative but fight or surrender—though not one of us entertained an idea of the latter. For myself, I should as soon have thought of turning my pistol to my own head. My uniform, tattered as it was, would easily reveal my character to the enemy; and, if captured, I knew that I should be hung, or perhaps, in the absence of trees, shot down upon the spot. My comrades had reasons for knowing that their shrift would be equally short: neither thought for a moment of tamely yielding.
“No!” emphatically pronounced Rube, “this child don’t guv in, till he’s rubbed out, he don’t! Tarnation odd too!” he added, looking toward the troop; “twelve agin three o’ us. Durn the odds! I’ve got clur o’ wuss scrapes than’t looks yit, and so’ve you, Bill Garey—hain’t we, boyee? Durn the odds! let ’em kum on!”
“Ay,” responded Garey, without the slightest show of excitement, “they’d better not come too near ’ithout telling thar bisness. I see one saddle that I’ll empy the minnit they pass yon weed.” And the speaker indicated a bunch of the artemisia plant that grew some two hundred paces off in the direction of the horsemen.
The reckless talk of the old trapper, with the contrasted cool bearing of his younger companion, had fixed my nerves fully. At the first sight of so many adversaries, I was not without some misgivings—in truth, I felt fear. Such odds against us—four to one—was fair cause for apprehension. But it was not my first fight against large odds, both Indian and Mexican; and on that account, I regarded it the less seriously.
Notwithstanding the superiority of our enemy in numbers, I knew we were not so unequal. Unless shot down by the first volley of their carbines and escopettes, each of our three rifles was sure of its man. I had confidence in my own weapon, and a still more perfect reliance on those of my comrades. They were men that never missed—men who never fired a random shot—never drew trigger till their aim was sure. I felt certain, therefore, that should the horsemen charge upon us, only nine of the twelve would ever get within pistol-shot of us, and for that distance we were well prepared. I carried in my belt a six-chambered revolver, one of Colt’s best; Garey had another—a present I had made him many years before—and Rube was armed with a pair of stout single-barrels, likely enough to do good service.
“Sev’nteen shots! wid our bowies to fall back upon!” cried Garey triumphantly, as we finished a hasty survey of our arms.
As yet the enemy did not advance. Notwithstanding their vivas and ejaculations, they appeared to hesitate about charging. Their leader, and another—a lieutenant, perhaps—were still seen riding along their line, as if animating them by further speech, giving them orders how to act.
Meanwhile, we had not been idle; we had formed square to receive the charge!
You may smile, but such was in reality the case. We had formed square—with our horses! There were four of them, for the wild-horse counted one. Garey, who rode like a Comanche, had broken him at our last camp, and he was now perfectly tractable. The shake of a lazo rendered him docile as a lamb.
The four were tied head to head, and croup to croup, and each formed one side of the square. They could not have broken it even under a charge of cavalry; bridles must be untied or cut, and lazoes set loose, before that formation could be destroyed!
Within stood we, fronting our foes—the large horse of Garey forming our barricade towards them—our heads and feet alone visible to the enemy.
Thus did we await their onset.
Chapter Thirty One.
The Parley.
Another chorus of vivas announced that the guerrilla captain had finished his oration, and that the attack was about to be made. We saw the chief himself, with one or two others, advance in front of the line, and head towards us, as if intending to lead the charge.
“Now!” muttered Rube, in a sharp quick tone, “guns ready, boys! no waste shots, d’yur hear? Lead counts hyur—it do. See! By the jumpin Geehosophat, thur a gwine to ride right down! Let ’em kum on, and be damned! Thur’s one o’ ’em won’t git thie fur—I mout say two—I mout say three i’deed. Durn the glint o’ thet sun! Billee!” he continued, addressing Garey, “ee ’ll shoot fust; yur gun’s furrest carry. Plug the big un on the clay-bank hoss. This child’s for Number 2 on the grey mustang. An, young fellur! ee’ll jest pick off thet niggur on the roan. I know yur wild-cat to the back-bone, but keep yur eye skinned an yur narves steady, d’yur hear?”
“Yes, yes!” I hurriedly answered, though at the time steadiness of nerves was easier promised than practised. My heart was heaving in quick pulsations at the near prospect of the terrible drama about to be enacted.
At this moment the “Forward” fell upon our ears, and with the wild notes of the bugle came the words—
“Andela! anda! Dios y Guadalupe!” (On! forward! God and Guadalupe!)
In an instant, the troop was in motion, galloping down to the charge.
They had not made many stretches before their line became broken, several of the swiftest or most courageous having forged ahead of the others.
“The three ’most!” cried Rube, in the same sharp tone—“the three fo’most! Thet’ll fotch ’em up wi’ a roun turn, or this child’s mistaken. Now, boyees! mind yur eyes! Steady! Stea–dy—stea–d–y—”
All at once, Rube’s muttered cautions, slowly drawled out, were changed to an exclamation that betokened surprise, followed by a long low whistle of the same import!
The cause was clear! The guerrilleros had got within three hundred yards of us, still going at a gallop, but we could perceive that their pace slackened as they advanced; already it was more of an amble than the forward dash of an earnest charge. It was evident they had no stomach for the business—now that they were near enough to see the shining barrels and black hollow tubes of our levelled rifles.
Garey was waiting till the foremost should pass the artemisia-bush; for by that he had calculated the point-blank range of his rifle. Another moment, and its crack would have been heard; but the horseman, as if warned by instinct, seemed to divine the exact limit of danger. Before reaching the bush, his heart failed him, and in a wavering, irresolute manner, he drew bridle, and halted!
The others, nothing loath, followed his example, until the whole troop had pulled up within less than three hundred yards of the muzzles of our guns!
“Cowed, by God!” shouted Rube, with a derisive laugh, “Hulloo!” continued he, raising his voice still louder, and addressing the halted line: “what do ee want anyhow? Why the hell don’t ee come on?”
Whether Rube’s comical interrogatory was understood or not, it elicited a reply:—
“Amigos! somos amigos!” (We are friends!) shouted back the leader of the band.
“Friends, be damned!” exclaimed the trapper, who knew enough of Spanish to understand the signification of amigos. “Nice friends, you, i’deed! Wagh! D’yur think to bamfoozle us thet-away? Keep yur distance now!” continued he, raising his rifle in a threatening manner, as a movement was perceptible among the horsemen. “Keep yur distance, or, by the ’tarnal airthquake! I’ll plug the fust o’ ye thet rides within reach. Damn sich friends as you!”
The leader now conversed in a low tone with his lieutenant, and some new design seemed to be discussed between them. A change of tactics was evidently devised during this pause in the action.
After a while the chief again addressed us, speaking as before in Spanish.
“We are friends!” said he: “we mean you no harm. To prove it, I shall order my men to fall back upon the prairie, while my lieutenant, unarmed, will meet one of you on the neutral ground. Surely, you can have no objection to that?”
“And why such an arrangement?” inquired Garey, who spoke Spanish fluently. “We want nothing of you. What do you want from us, with all this infernal fuss?”
“I have business with you,” replied the Mexican; “and you, sir, in particular. I have something to say to you I don’t wish others to hear.”
As he said this, the speaker turned his head, and nodded significantly towards his own following. He was candid with them at least.
This unexpected dialogue took all three of us by surprise. What could the man want with Garey? The latter knew nothing of him—had never, as he declared, “sot eyes on the niggur afore;” although at such a distance—with the sun in his face, and the Mexican’s sombrero slouched as it was—Garey might be mistaken. It might be some one whom he had met, though he could not recall him to mind.
After a short consultation, we agreed that Garey should accept the proposal. No evil could result from it—none that we could think of. Garey could easily get back, before any attack could be made upon him, and Rube and I should still be ready to protect him with our pieces. If they meditated treachery, we could not perceive the advantage they were to gain from the proceeding.
The “parley” therefore was accepted, and the conditions arranged with due caution on our part.
The horsemen—with the exception of the leader and his lieutenant—were to ride back to the distance of half-a-mile; the leader was to remain where he was; and halfway between him and us, Garey and the lieutenant were to meet, both of them on foot and unarmed.
At an order from their chief, the guerrilleros fell back. The lieutenant dismounted, laid his lance along the ground, unbuckled his sabre, drew the pistols from his belt, and placing them beside the lance, advanced towards the appointed spot.
Garey had likewise disarmed himself; and leaving his weapons in charge of Rube and myself, stepped forth to meet the Mexican.
In another minute, the two stood face to face, and the “parley” began.
It was of short duration. The speaking, which appeared to be principally done by the Mexican, was carried on in a low tone; and Rube and I saw that he pointed frequently in our direction, as if we were the subject of his discourse! We observed that his harangue was suddenly interrupted by Garey, who, turning round at the same instant, cried out to us in English—
“Hillow, Rube! what do yer think the skunk wants?”
“How shed I know?” replied Rube. “What do ’e want?”
“Why, he wants”—Garey’s voice rose louder with indignation—“he wants us to give up the ranger-captain; an sez, if we do, you an me can go free. Ha, ha, ha!” and the young trapper ended his announcement with a scornful laugh.
Simultaneous with Garey’s laugh, I could hear Rube utter a low whistle, and the words, “Thet’s how the stick floats;” and then raising his voice, he called out—
“An what answer hev you gin him, Billee?”
“I hain’t answered him yet,” was the prompt reply: “but hyar’s the answer!”
I saw Garey’s arm raised, with his huge fist clenched; I saw it descend like a trip-hammer upon the face of the Mexican, who under the blow fell heavily to the earth.
Chapter Thirty Two.
A Dead Shot.
The unexpected closing of the conference elicited an angry shout from the Mexican horsemen; and, without waiting for orders, they galloped up to their chief.
Halting at long-range, they fired their carbines and escopettes; but their bullets cut the grass far in front of us, and one or two that hurtled past were wide of the mark.
The lieutenant, who had been only stunned, soon recovered his legs, but not his temper. His wrath overbalanced his prudence, else the moment he found his feet he would have made the best of his way to his horse and comrades.
Instead of doing so, he turned full front towards us, raised his arm in the air, shook his clenched fist in a menacing manner, accompanying the action with a torrent of defiant speech.
Of what he said, we understood but the concluding phrase, and that was the bitter and blasphemous carajo! that hissed through his teeth with the energetic aspiration of rage and revenge.
That oath was the last word he ever uttered; his parting breath scarcely carried it from his lips ere he ceased to live. I heard the fierce word, and almost simultaneously the crack of a rifle, fired close to my ear. I saw the dust puff out from the embroidered spencer of the Mexican, and directly over his heart; I saw his hand pass rapidly to the spot, and the next moment I saw him fall forward upon his face!
Without a groan, without a struggle, he lay as he had fallen, spread, dead, and motionless upon the prairie!
“Thur now, an damn yur carajo!” cried a voice at my shoulder; “ee won’t bid for me agin, ye skunk—thet yur won’t!”
Though I turned involuntarily to the speaker it was not for an explanation. Of course, it was Rube who spoke. His rifle was smoking at the muzzle, and he was proceeding to reload it.
“Wa-hoo—woop!” continued he, uttering his wild war-cry; “thet shortens thur count, I reck’n. Another nick for Targuts! Gi’ me her for a gun. Wagh! a long pull it wur for the ole weepun; an the glint in my eyes too! The niggur riled me, or I wudn’t a risked it. Hold yur hosses, boys!” he continued in a more earnest tone: “don’t fire till I’m loaded—for yur lives, don’t!”
“All right, Rube!” cried Garey, who hastily passing under the belly of his horse, had re-entered the square, and once more handled his rifle. “All right, old boy! Ne’er a fear! we’ll wait for ye.”
Somewhat to our surprise, Rube was allowed ample time to reload, and our three barrels once more protruded over the shoulders of Garey’s horse. Our animals still held their respective positions. Three of them were too well used to such scenes, to be startled by the detonation of a rifle; and the fourth, fastened as he was, kept his place perforce.
I say, to our surprise we were allowed time to get into our old vantage-ground; for we had expected an immediate charge from the guerrilla.
Vengeance for the death of their comrade would give them courage enough for that; so thought we; but we were mistaken, as their ire only vented itself in fierce yells, violent gestures, and ejaculations.
They had now clustered around their chief without order or formation, though they seemed to pay but slight regard to his authority. Some appeared to be urging him to lead them on! Others came galloping nearer, and fired their carbines or shook their lances in a threatening manner; but one and all were careful to keep outside that perilous circle, whose circumference marked the range of our rifles. They seemed, even less inclined for close quarters than ever; the fate of their comrade had awed them.
The dead man lay about half-way between them and us, glittering in his picturesque habiliments. They were weaker by his loss—for not only had he been one of their leaders, but one of their best men. They saw he was dead, though none had dared to approach him. They knew the Texan rifle of old—these spangled heroes; they knew, moreover, that we were armed with revolvers, and the fame of this terrible weapon had been already carried beyond the frontier of the Rio Grande.
Notwithstanding all that, men of our race, under similar circumstances, would have charged without hesitation. So, too, would men of theirs three centuries ago.
Perhaps in that band was an Alvarado, a Sandoval, a Diaz, or De Soto! only in name. O Cortez! and you conquistadores! could you have beheld your degenerate descendants!
And yet not all of them were cowards; some, I dare say, were brave enough, for there are brave men among the Mexicans. A few were evidently willing to make the attack, but they wanted combination—they wanted a leader: he who acted as such appeared to be endowed with more prudence than valour.
Meanwhile we kept our eyes fixed upon them, listening to their varied cries, and closely watching their movements.
In perfect coolness, we regarded them—at least so much can I say for my comrades. Though life or death rested upon the issue, both were as cool at that moment as if they had been only observing the movements of a gang of buffaloes! There was no sign of trepidation—hardly a symptom of excitement visible in the countenance of either. Now and then, a half-muttered ejaculation, a rapid exchange of thought—relating to some fresh movement of the enemy—alone told that both were alive to the peril of the situation.
I cannot affirm that I shared with them this extreme and perfect sang froid; though upon my nerves, less indifferent to danger, their example had its effect, and inspired me with courage sufficient for the occasion. Besides, I drew confidence from another source. In case of defeat, I had a resource unshared by my companions—perhaps unthought of by them. Trusting to the matchless speed of my horse, as a last resort, I might possibly escape. I could have ridden off at that moment without fear of being overtaken, but the craven thought was not entertained for an instant. By my honour, no! I should have accepted death upon the spot rather than desert the brave men who stood by my side. To them I was indebted for my life. ’Twas for me that theirs were now in peril; and from the first moment I had determined to stand by them to the end, and sell my blood at its dearest. In the event of both falling before me, it would then be time enough to think of flight.
Even this contingency had the effect of strengthening my courage, and at that moment I viewed the vengeful foe with a coolness and freedom from fear that now, in the retrospect, surprises me.
During the interval of inaction that followed, I was cool enough to reflect upon the demand which the guerrilla leader had made—the surrender of my person. Why was I singled out? We were all enemies alike—all Americans or Texans—on Mexican soil, and armed for strife. Why did they want me alone?
Was it because I was superior in rank to my companions? But how knew they this?—how knew they I was a “ranger-captain”? Ha! they must have known it before; they must have come out specially in search of me!
A light flashed suddenly into my mind—a suspicion strong almost as certainty. But for the sun glancing in my eyes, I might have earlier obtained an explanation of the mystery.
I drew down the visor of my forage-cap, stretching it to its full extent; I increased the shade with my flattened palms, and from under them strained my eyes upon the leader of the band. Already his voice, while in conversation with Garey, had aroused a faint recollection within me. I had heard that voice only once, but I thought I remembered it. Guided by my suspicion, I now scrutinised more closely the countenance of the man. Fortunately the face was turned towards me, and, despite the dazzling of the sunbeams, despite the slouched sombrero, I recognised the dark features of Rafael Ijurra! In that glance I comprehended the situation. He it was who wanted the “ranger-captain!”
There was doubt no longer. My suspicion was a certainty; but with the next throb of my heart rose another, a thousand times more painful—a suspicion of—
With an effort, I stifled my emotions; a movement was perceptible among the guerrilleros; the moment of action had arrived!