Майн Рид
The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Thirty Five.
El Zorro
The new object of dread was a large gun, which had been brought upon the ground by one of those lately arrived. In all probability, it belonged to El Zorro, as it was in his hands we first observed it. It appeared to be a long musket, or elephant-gun, such as the “roers” in use among South African hunters.
Whatever sort of weapon it was, we soon found to our annoyance that it pitched an ounce of lead nearly twice as far as any of our rifles, and with sufficient precision to make it probable that, before the sun had set, El Zorro would be able to pick off our horses, and perhaps ourselves, in detail.
It would be half-an-hour before darkness should screen us with its friendly shelter, and he had already commenced practice. His first shot had been fired. The bullet struck the cliff close to my own head, scattering the fragments of gypsum rock about my ears, and then fell, flattened like a Spanish dollar, at my feet.
The report was far louder than that of either carbine or escopette; and an ejaculation from Rube, as he saw the effect of the shot, followed by his usual ominous whistle, told that the old trapper was not disposed to make light of this new piece of ordnance. Neither was Garey. His look testified to what all three of us were thinking – which was, that this mode of attack was likely to put us in a more awkward dilemma than we had yet been placed in. El Zorro might shoot us down at his leisure. With our rifles, we could neither answer his fire, nor silence it. Our peril was obvious.
The salteador had delivered his first shot “off hand,” for we had seen him level the piece. Perhaps it was fortunate for us he had not taken aim over a “lean;” but fortune from that source was not going to favour us any farther; for we now observed Ijurra stick two lances obliquely in the ground, so that they crossed each other at a proper height, thus forming as perfect a rest as marksman could have desired.
As soon as the gun was reloaded, El Zorro knelt behind the lances, placed his barrel in the fork, and once more took aim.
I felt satisfied he was aiming at me, or my horse. Indeed, the direction of the long dark tube would have told me so; but I saw Ijurra directing him, and that made me sure of it.
I had little fear for myself. I was sheltered sufficiently, but I trembled for the brave horse that shielded me.
I waited with anxious heart. I saw the blaze of the priming as it puffed upward; the red flame projected from the muzzle, and simultaneously I felt the shock of the heavy bullet striking upon my horse.
Splinters of wood flew about my face; they were fragments of the saddle-tree. The ball had passed through the pommel, but my noble steed was untouched! It was a close shot, however – too close to allow of rejoicing, so long as others of the like were to follow.
I was getting as “riled” as Rube himself, when, all at once, a significant shout from the old trapper drew my attention from El Zorro and his gun.
Rube was on my right, and I saw that he was pointing along the bottom of the cliff to some object in that direction I could not see what it was, as his horses were in the way; but the next moment I observed him hurrying them along the cliff, at the same time calling to Garey and myself to follow.
I lost no time in putting my horse in motion, and Garey as hastily trotted after.
We had not advanced many paces, before we comprehended the strange behaviour of our companion.
Scarcely twenty yards from where we had first halted, a large rock rested upon the plain. It was a fragment that had fallen from the cliff, and was now lying several feet from its base; it was of such size, and in such a position, that, there was ample space behind it to shelter both men and horses – room for us all!
We were only astonished we had not observed it sooner; but this was not to be wondered at, for its colour corresponded exactly with that of the cliff, and it was difficult, even at twenty yards’ distance, to distinguish it from the latter. Besides, our eyes, from the moment of our halting, had been turned in another direction.
We did not stay to give words to our surprise; but hurrying our horses along with us, with joyful exclamations glided behind the rock.
It was not an echo of our joy, but a cry of disappointed rage, that pealed along the line of the guerrilla. They saw at once that their long gun would no longer avail them, and both Ijurra and his marksman were now seen dancing over the ground like madmen. El Zorro’s métier was at an end.
A more perfect “harbour of refuge” could not have been found in all prairie-land. As Garey alleged, it “beat tree-timber all hollow!” A little fortress, in fact, in which we might defy even twice the number of our assailants – unless, indeed, they should wax desperately brave, and try us hand to hand.
Our sudden disappearance had created a new sensation in their ranks. From their shouts, we could tell that some of them regarded it with feelings of wonder – perhaps with emotions of a still stronger kind. We could hear the exclamations “Carrai!” “Carrambo!” with the phrase “los demonios!” passing from mouth to mouth. Indeed, from the position which they occupied, it must have appeared to them that we had gone into the cliff – for the separation of the rock from the wall behind it was not perceptible from the plain, else we should have perceived it as we rode forward.
If our enemies knew of this outlying boulder, it was strange they had left the way open to so safe a retreat – strange, since it did not correspond with the cunning they had otherwise given proofs of – and yet stranger they should be ignorant of its existence. Most of them were natives of this frontier, and must have frequently visited the mesa, which was one of the “lions” of the district.
Perhaps they had never troubled their thoughts about it. There is no people who take less interest in the rare features of their beautiful country than the Mexicans. Nature charms them not. A Mexican dwelling with a garden around it is a rarity – a lawn or a shrubbery is never seen; but indeed nature has bounteously supplied them with all these. They dwell amidst scenes of picturesque beauty; they gaze over green savannas – down into deep barrancas – up to the snow-crowned summits of mighty mountains – without experiencing one emotion of the sublime. A tortured bull, a steel-galved cock, Roman candles, and the Chinese wheel, are to them the sights of superior interest, and furnish them with all their petty emotions. So is it with nations, as with men who have passed the age of their strength, and reached the period of senility and second childhood.
But there was another, and perhaps a better, reason why none of our adversaries should be intimate with the locality. As my companions alleged, the spot was a favourite halting-place of the Comanches —they have an eye for the picturesque – but perhaps the existence of a spring that was near had more to do in guiding the preference of these “lords of the prairies.” The mesa, therefore, had for years been dangerous ground, and little trodden by the idle curious. Possibly not one of the heroes we saw before us had for years ventured so far out upon the plains.
Chapter Thirty Six.
A Plan of Escape
If our enemies were awed by our sudden disappearance, it was soon robbed of its mysterious character. Our faces, and the dark barrels of our rifles, visible around the edges of the white rock, must have dispelled all ideas of the supernatural. Having hastily disposed of our horses, we had placed ourselves thus – in case of a charge being made – though of this we had no longer any great apprehension; and still less as we watched the movements of our adversaries.
El Zorro continued for some time to fire his big gun – the bullets of which we could dodge as easily as if they had been turnips hurled at us – and the leaden missiles fell harmlessly at our feet.
Seeing this, the salteador at length ceased firing, and with another, rode off in the direction of the settlements – no doubt sent on some errand by Ijurra.
One pair of eyes was sufficient to watch the movements of the besiegers. Garey undertook this duty, leaving Rube and myself free to think over some plan of escape.
That we were not to be attacked was now certain. We had the choice, then, of two alternatives – either to keep the position we were in till thirst should force us to surrender, or attack them, and by a bold coup cut our way through their line.
As to the former, we well knew that thirst would soon compel us to yield. Hunger we dreaded not. We had our knives, and before us a plentiful stock of that food on which the prairie wanderer often sustains life. “Horse-beef” we had all eaten, and could do so again; but for the sister-appetite – thirst – we had made no provision. Our gourd-canteens were empty – had been empty for hours – we were actually pushing for the mesa spring when the enemy first came in sight. We were then athirst; but the excitement of the skirmish, with the play of passion incident thereto, had augmented the appetite, and already were we a prey to its keenest pangs. We mumbled as we talked, for each of us was chewing the leaden bullet. Thirst we dreaded even more than our armed enemy.
The other alternative was a desperate one – now more desperate than ever, from the increased number of our foes. To cut our way through them had no other signification than to fight the whole party hand to hand; and we regretted that we had not done so when only eleven were opposed to us.
A little reflection, however, convinced us that we were in a yet better position. We might make the attempt in the darkness. Night would favour us to some extent. Could we succeed by a bold dash in breaking through their deployed line, we might escape under the friendly cover of the night, and the confusion consequent upon the mêlée.
There was probability in this. The boldest was clearly the wisest course we could pursue. Desperate it appeared. One or other of us might fall, but it offered the only hope that any of us might get free, for we knew that to surrender was to be shot – perhaps worse —tortured.
We had but faint hopes of a rescue; so faint, we scarcely entertained them. I knew that my friends, the rangers, would be in search of me. Wheatley and Holingsworth would not give me up without making an effort for my recovery; but then the search would be made in a different direction – that in which I had gone, and which lay many miles from the route by the mesa. Even had they thought of sending to the mound, the search must have been already made, and the party returned from it. Too long time had elapsed to make any calculation on a chance like this. The hope was not worth holding, and we held it not.
For some time, Rube and I thought in combination, canvassing the details of the plan that had offered. After a while, we stood apart, and each pursued the train of his own reflections.
I declare that in that hour I had more painful thoughts than those that arose from the peril of my situation; this I solemnly declare.
I have already said, that when I first recognised the leader of the guerrilla, I experienced an unpleasant suspicion. Since then, I had not time to dwell upon it – self-preservation engrossing all my thoughts.
Now that I found more leisure for reflection, the dire doubt returned in full strength, and I bitterly pondered upon it. Need I name the subject of my wretched reflections? Isolina de Vargas!
Knew she of this? Knew she that Ijurra was the chief of a guerrilla? Her cousin – sharer of the same roof – she could scarcely be ignorant of it! Who set him on our trail? Oh, bitter thought! was the hunt of the wild horse a ruse– a scheme – to separate me from my command, and thus render it an easy prey to the Mexican guerrilleros? Perhaps my straggling followers were by this cut off? Perhaps the post had been attacked by a large body of the enemy – captured? I was not only to lose life, but had already lost my honour. I, the proud captain of a boasted troop, to be thus entrapped by artifice – the artifice of a woman!
My heart, overwhelmed with such bitter fancies, stayed not to reason.
Presently followed a calmer interval, and I began to discuss the probability of my suspicions. What motive could she have to plot my destruction? Surely not from any feeling of love for her country, and hatred towards its enemies? From all I had learned, no such sentiment existed in her mind, but rather an opposite one – a truer patriotism. She was a woman of sufficient aim and intellect to have a feeling one way or the other; but had I not good grounds for believing her a friend to our cause; a foe to the tyrants we would conquer? If otherwise, I was the victim of profound deception and unparalleled hypocrisy!
Perhaps, however, her feeling was personal, not national. Was I alone the object of her hatred? Had I done aught by word or deed to call forth her antagonism – to deserve such cruel vengeance? If so, I was sadly ignorant of the fact. If she hated me, she hated one who loved her, with his whole soul absorbed in the passion. But no, I could not think that I was an object of hatred to her. Why should she hate me? How could she?
I could think of but one motive why she should make herself instrumental in the accomplishment of my ruin. It was explicable only on the presumption that she was attached to Ijurra – that Rafael Ijurra was the lord of her heart. If so, he could easily bend it to his will – for this is but the sequence of the other – could influence her to whatever act.
As for Ijurra, there was motive enough for his hostility, even to the seeking of my life. The insult put upon him at our first meeting – the knowledge that I loved her– for I was certain he knew it – with the additional fact that I was an enemy – one of the invaders of his country. These were sufficient motives, though, doubtless, the two first far outweighed the other: with Rafael Ijurra, revenge and jealousy were stronger passions than patriotism.
Then came consolation – thoughts of brighter hue. In the face of all was the fact, that the white steed had been found, and captured! There stood the beautiful creature before my eyes. There was no deception in that – there could be none – no scheme could have contrived a contingency so remarkable.
Ijurra might easily have known of the expedition without her agency. Its result he would have learned from the returned vaqueros. He had time enough then to collect his band, and set after me. Perhaps she even knew not that he was a leader of guerrilleros? I had heard that his movements were shrouded in mystery – that mystery which covers the designs of the adventurer. He had served in the school of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna – a fit master of deception. Isolina might be innocent even of the knowledge of his acts.
I re-read Isolina’s letter, weighing every word. Strange epistle, but natural to the spirit that had dictated it. In its pages I could trace no evidence of treason. No; Isolina was loyal – she was true!
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Elijah Quackenboss
While these reflections were passing through my mind, I was standing, or rather leaning, with my back against the boulder, and my face towards the wall of the mesa. Directly in front of me was a recess or indentation in the cliff, carried groove-like upward, and deepening as it approached the summit. It was a slight gorge or furrow, evidently formed by the attrition of water, and probably the conduit of the rain that fell upon the table surface of the mound.
Though the cliffs on each side were perfectly vertical, the gorge had a considerable inclination; and the instant my eyes rested upon it, it occurred to me that the precipice at this point could be scaled!
Up to this moment, I had not thought of such a thing; for I had been under the impression – from what my companions had told me – that the summit of the mesa was inaccessible.
Housing myself to more energetic observation, I scrutinised the cliff from base to summit; and the more I regarded it, the stronger grew my conviction that, without great difficulty, an active climber might reach the top. There were knob-like protuberances on the rock that would serve as foot-holds, and here and there small bushes of the trailing cedar hung out from the seams, that would materially assist any one making the ascent.
While scanning these peculiarities, I was startled by observing several abrasions on the face of the rock. These marks appeared quite fresh, and evidently made by some other agency than that of the elements.
After a short examination, I became convinced that they were marks made by a human foot – the scratches of a strong-soled shoe. Beyond a doubt, the cliff had been scaled!
My first impulse was to communicate the discovery to my companions; but I forbore for a while – in order to satisfy myself that the person who had made this daring attempt had actually succeeded in reaching the summit.
Twilight was on, and I could get only an indistinct view of the gorge at its upper part; but I saw enough to convince me that the attempt had been successful.
What bold fellow had ventured this? and with what object? were the questions I naturally asked myself.
Vague recollections were stirring within me; presently they grew more distinct, and all at once I was able to answer both the interrogatories I had put. I knew the man who had climbed that cliff. I only wondered I had not thought of him before!
Among the many odd characters in the piebald band, of which I had the honour to be chief, not the least odd was one who answered to the euphonious name of “Elijah Quackenboss.” He was a mixture of Yankee and German, originating somewhere in the mountains of Pennsylvania. He had been a schoolmaster among his native hills – had picked up some little book-learning; but what rendered him more interesting to me was the fact that he was a botanist. Not a very scientific one, it is true; but in whatever way obtained, he possessed a respectable knowledge of flora and sylva, and evinced an aptitude for the study not inferior to Linneus himself. The more surprising was this, that such inclinations are somewhat rare among Americans – but Quackenboss no doubt drew his instinct from his Teutonic ancestry.
If his intellectual disposition was odd, not less so was his physical. His person was tall, crooked, and lanky; and none of those members that should have been counterparts of each other seemed exactly to match. His arms were odd ones – his limbs were unlike; and all four looked as if they had met by accident, and could not agree upon anything. His eyes were no better mated, and never consented to look in the same direction; but with the right one, Elijah Quackenboss could “sight” a rifle, and drive in a nail at a hundred yards’ distance.
From his odd habits, his companions – the rangers – regarded him as hardly “square;” but this idea was partially derived from seeing him engaged in his botanical researches – an occupation that to them appeared simply absurd. They knew, however, that “Dutch Lige” – such was his sobriquet – could shoot “plum centre;” and notwithstanding his quiet demeanour, had proved himself “good stuff at the bottom;” and this shielded him from the ridicule he would otherwise have experienced at their hands.
Than Quackenboss, a more ardent student of botany I never saw. No labour retarded him in the pursuit. No matter how wearied with drill or other duties, the moment the hours became his own, he would be off in search of rare plants, wandering far from camp, and at times placing himself in situations of extreme danger. Since his arrival on Texan ground, he had devoted much attention to the study of the cactaceae; and now having reached Mexico, the home of these singular endogens, he might be said to have gone cactus-mad. Every day his researches disclosed to him new forms of cactus or cereus, and it was in connexion with one of these that he was now recalled to my memory. I remembered his having told me – for a similarity of tastes frequently brought us into conversation – of his having discovered, but a few days before, a new and singular species of mamillaria. He had found it growing upon a prairie mound– which he had climbed for the purpose of exploring his botany – adding at the same time that he had observed the species only upon the top of this mound, and nowhere else in the surrounding country.
This mound was our mesa. It had been climbed by Elijah Quackenboss!
If he, awkward animal that he was, had been able to scale the height, why could not we?
This was my reflection; and without staying to consider what advantage we should derive from such a proceeding. I communicated the discovery to my companions.
Both appeared delighted; and after a short scrutiny declared the path practicable. Garey believed he could easily go up; and Rube in his terse way said, that his “jeints wa’nt so stiff yit;” only a month ago he had “clomd a wuss-lukin bluff than it.”
But now the reflection occurred, to what purpose should we make the ascent? We could not escape in that way! There was no chance of our being able to descend upon the other side, for there the cliff was impracticable. The behaviour of the guerrilleros had given proof of this. Some time before, Ijurra, with another, had gone to the rear of the mound, evidently to reconnoitre it, in hopes of being able to assail us from behind. But they had returned and their gestures betokened their disappointment.
Why, then, should we ascend, if we could not also descend on the opposite side?
True, upon the summit we should be perfectly safe from an attack of the guerrilla, but not from thirst, and this was the enemy we now dreaded. Water would not be found on the top of the mesa. It could not better our situation to go there; on the contrary, we should be in a worse “fix” than ever.
So said Garey. Where we were, we had our horses – a spare one to eat when that became necessary, and the others to aid us in our attempt to escape. Should we climb the cliff, these must be left behind. From the top was less than fifty yards, and our rifles would still cover them from the clutch of our enemies, but to what advantage? Like ourselves, they must in time fall before thirst and hunger.
The gleam of hope died within us, as suddenly as it had sprung up.
It could in no wise serve us to scale the cliff: we were better in our present position; we could hold that so long as thirst would allow us. We could not do more within the granite walls of an impregnable fortress.
This was the conclusion at which Garey and I had simultaneously arrived.
Rube had not yet expressed himself. The old man was standing with both hands clutching his long rifle, the butt of which rested upon the ground. He held the piece near the muzzle, partially leaning upon it, while he appeared gazing intently into the barrel. This was one of his “ways” when endeavouring to unravel a knotty question; and Garey and I knowing this peculiarity on the part of the old trapper, remained silent – leaving him to the free development of his “instincts.”
