Майн Рид
The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Forty Three.
A Chapter of Explanations
The fight could not have lasted more than ten minutes. The whole skirmish had the semblance of a moonlight dream, interrupted by interludes of darkness. So rapid had been the movements of the forces engaged, that after the first fire not a gun was reloaded. As for the guerrilleros, the Indian war-cry seemed to have shaken the pieces out of their hands, for the ground where they had first broken off was literally strewed with carbines, escopettes, and lances. The great gun of El Zorro was found among the spoils.
Notwithstanding the shortness of the affair, it proved sufficiently tragical to both Mexicans and Indians; five of the guerrilleros had bit the dust, and twice that number of savage warriors lay lifeless upon the plain – their bodies glaring under the red war-paint, as if shrouded in blood. The Mexicans lay near the foot of the mesa, having fallen under the first fire of the rangers, delivered as they galloped up. The Indians were farther out upon the plain, where they had dropped to the thick rapid detonations of the revolvers, that, so long as the warriors held their ground, played upon them with fearful effect. They may have heard of this weapon, and perhaps have seen a revolver in the hands of some trapper or traveller, but, to my knowledge, it was the first time they had ever encountered a band of men armed with so terrible a power to destroy; for the rangers were indeed the first military organisation that carried Colt’s pistol into battle – the high cost of the arm having deterred the government from extending it to other branches of the service.
Nor did the rangers themselves come unscathed out of the fight; two had dropped out of their saddles, pierced by the Comanche spear; while nearly a dozen were more or less severely wounded by arrows.
While Quackenboss was climbing the cliff, Garey and I found time to talk over the strange incidents to which we had been witness. We were aided by explanations from below, but without these we had no difficulty in comprehending all.
The Indians were a band of Comanches, as their war-cry had already made known to us. Their arrival on the ground at that moment was purely accidental, so far as we or the Mexicans were concerned: it was a war-party, and upon the war-trail, with the intention of reiving a rich Mexican town on the other side of the Rio Grande, some twenty leagues from the rancheria. Their spy had discovered the horsemen by the mesa, and made them out to be Mexicans – a foe which the lordly Comanche holds in supreme contempt. Not so contemptible in his eyes are Mexican horses, silver-studded saddles, speckled serapes, mangas of fine cloth, bell-buttoned breeches, arms, and accoutrements: and it was to sweep this paraphernalia that the attack had been made; though hereditary hatred of the Spanish race – old as the conquest – and revenge for more recent wrongs, were of themselves sufficient motives to have impelled the Indians to their hostile attempt.
All this we learned from one of their braves, who remained wounded upon the ground, and who, upon closer examination, turned out to be a ci-devant Mexican captive, now completely Indianised!
Fortunately for the Mexican town, the savages, thus checked, abandoned their design, and returned to their mountain fastnesses sadly humbled.
The rest of the affair was still of easier explanation to Garey and myself. Rube, as we conjectured, had arrived safe at the rancheria; and in ten minutes after his story had been told, fifty rangers, with Holingsworth at their head, rode rapidly for the mesa.
Rube had guided them with his usual craft. Like the Indians, they had been moving forward during the intervals of darkness; but, coming in the opposite direction, they had kept the mound between them and their foe, and, trusting to this advantage, were in hopes of taking the guerrilleros by surprise.
They had approached almost within charging distance, when the war-whoop of the savage sounded in their ears, and they were met by the retreating band.
Knowing that all who came that way must be enemies, they delivered their fire upon the approaching horsemen, and then galloping forward, found themselves face to face with the painted warriors of the plains.
The mutual surprise of rangers and Indians, caused by the unexpected rencontre, proved a happy circumstance for the cowardly guerrilla – who, during the short halt of their double pursuers, and the confused fight that followed, were enabled to gallop off beyond reach of pursuit.
It was a curious conjecture what would have been the result had the rangers not arrived on the ground. Certainly the Indians would have rescued us from our not less savage foes. My companion and I might have remained undiscovered, but we should have lost our precious horses. As it was, we were soon once more upon their backs; and, free from all thought of peril, now joyfully turned our faces towards the rancheria.
Wheatley rode by my side. Holingsworth with a party remained upon the ground to collect the “spoils” and bury our unfortunate comrades. As we moved away, I turned, and for a moment gazed back on the scene of strife. I saw Holingsworth dismounted on the plain. He was moving among the bodies of the five guerrilleros; one after another, he turned them over, till the moon glared upon their ghastly features. So odd were his movements, and so earnest did he appear, that one might have fancied him engaged in searching for a fallen friend, or more like some prowling robber intent upon stripping the dead!
But neither object was his – on the contrary, he was searching for a foe.
He found him not. After scanning the features of all five, he was seen to turn away, and the unconcerned manner in which he moved from the spot told that he who was sought was not among the slain.
“The news, Wheatley?”
“News, Cap! Grand news, by thunder! It appears we have been barking up the wrong tree – at least so thinks President Polk. They say we can’t reach Mexico on this line; so we’re all going to be drawn off, and shipped to some port farther down the gulf, Vera Cruz – I believe.”
“Ah! grand news, indeed.”
“I don’t like it a bit,” continued Wheatley; “the less so since it is rumoured that old ‘Rough and Ready’ is to be recalled, and we’re to be commanded by that book martinet Scott. It’s shabby treatment of Taylor, after what the old vet has accomplished. They’re afraid of him setting up for President next go. Hang their politics! It’s a confounded shame, by thunder!”
I could partly understand Wheatley’s reluctance to be ordered upon the new line of operations. The gay lieutenant was never troubled with ennui; his leisure hours he contrived to pass pleasantly enough in company with Conchita, the plump, dark-eyed daughter of the alcalde; more than once, I had unwittingly interrupted them in their amorous dalliance. The rancheria with its mud huts and dusty lanes, in the eyes of the Texan, was a city of gilded palaces, its streets paved with gold. It was Wheatley’s heaven, and Conchita was the angel who inhabited it.
Little as either he or I had liked the post at first, neither of us desired a change of quarters.
As yet, no order had arrived to call the picket in, but my companion affirmed that the camp-rumour was a substantial one, and believed that we might expect such a command at any moment.
“What say they of me?” I inquired.
“Of you, Cap? Why, nothing. What do you expect them to say of you?”
“Surely there has been some talk about my absence?”
“Oh, that! No, not a word, at least at head-quarters, for the simple reason, that you’re not yet reported missing.”
“Ah! that is good news; but how – ”
“Why, the truth is, Holingsworth and I thought we might serve you better by keeping the thing dark – at all events, till we should be sure you were dead lost. We hadn’t given up all hope. The greaser who guided you out, brought back word that two trappers had gone after you. From his description, I knew that queer old case Rube, and was satisfied that if anything remained of you, he was the man to find it.”
“Thanks, my friend! you have acted wisely; your discreet conduct will save me a world of mortification.”
“No other news?” I inquired after a pause.
“No,” said Wheatley, “none worth telling. Oh, yes!” he continued, suddenly recollecting himself, “there is a bit. You remember those hang-dog greasers that used to loaf about the village when we first came? Well, they’re gone, by thunder! every mother’s son of them clean vamosed from the place, and not a grease-spot left of them. You may walk through the whole settlement without seeing a Mexican, except the old men and the women. I asked the alcalde where they had cleared to; but the old chap only shook his head, and drawled out his eternal ‘Quien sabe?’ Of course they’re off to join some band of guerrillas. By thunder! when I think of it, I wouldn’t wonder if they were among that lot we’ve just scattered. Sure as shootin’ they are! I saw Holingsworth examine the five dead ones as we rode off. He’ll know them, I guess, and can tell us if any of our old acquaintances are among them.”
Knowing more of this matter than Wheatley himself, I enlightened him as to the guerrilleros and their leader.
“Thought so, by thunder! Rafael Ijurra! No wonder Holingsworth was so keen to start – in such a hurry to reach the mound, he forgot to tell me who we were after. Deuce take it! what fools we’ve been to let these fellows slide. We should have strung up every man of them when we first reached the place – we should, by thunder!”
For some minutes, we rode on in silence. Twenty times a question was upon my lips but I refrained from putting it, in hopes that Wheatley might have something more to tell me – something of more interest than aught he had yet communicated. He remained provokingly silent.
With the design of drawing him out, I assumed a careless air, and inquired —
“Have we had no visitors at the post? Any one from the camp?”
“Not a soul,” replied he, and again relapsed into meditative silence.
“No visitors whatever? Has no one inquired for me?” I asked, determined to come boldly to the point.
“No,” was the discouraging reply. – “Oh, stay: oh, ah – yes, indeed!” he added, correcting himself, while I could perceive that he spoke in a peculiar tone. “Yes, you were inquired for.”
“By whom?” asked I, in a careless drawl.
“Well, that I can’t tell,” answered the lieutenant in an evident tone of badinage; “but there appears to be somebody mighty uneasy about you. A slip of a Mexican boy has been backward and forward something less than a million of times. It’s plain somebody sends the boy; but he’s a close little shaver that same – he won’t tell either who sends him, or what’s his business: he only inquires if you have returned, and looks dead down in the mouth when he’s told no. I have noticed that he comes and goes on the road that leads to the hacienda.”
The last words were spoken with a distinct emphasis. “We might have arrested the little fallow as a spy,” continued Wheatley, in a tone of quiet irony, “but we fancied he might have been sent by some friend of yours.”
The speaker concluded with another marked emphasis, and under the moonlight I could see a smile playing across his features. More than once I had “chaffed” my lieutenant about Conchita; he was having his revenge.
I was not in a mood to take offence; my companion could have taken any liberty with me at that moment – his communication had fallen like sweet music upon my ears; and I rode forward with the proud consciousness that I was not forgotten. Isolina was true.
Soon after, my eyes rested upon a shining object; it was the gilded vane of the little capilla, and beneath glistened the white vails of the hacienda, bathed in the milky light of the moon. My heart beat with strange emotions as I gazed upon the well-known mansion, and thought of the lovely jewel which that bright casket contained.
Was she asleep? Did she dream? Of what – of whom, was she dreaming?
Chapter Forty Four.
Dutch Lige in a Difficulty
The soft blue light of morning was just perceptible along the eastern horizon as we rode into the rancheria. I no longer felt hunger. Some of the more provident of the rangers had brought with them well-filled haversacks, and had made me welcome to the contents. From their canteens I had satisfied my thirst, and Wheatley as usual carried his free flask.
Relieved of the protracted strain upon my nerves – of fear and vigil – I felt deadly weary, and scarcely undressing, I flung myself upon my leathern catré, and at once fell asleep.
A few hours’ repose had the desired effect, and restored both the strength of my body and the vigour of my mind. I awoke full of health and hope. A world of sweet anticipations was before me. The sky and fortune were both smiling.
I made my toilette with some care – my desayuna with less – and then, with lighted cigar, ascended to my favourite lounge on the azotea.
The beautiful captive was in the midst of a crowd, proudly curving his neck, as if conscious of the admiration he excited. The rangers, the poblanas, the hucksters of the piazza, even some sulky leperos, stood near, gazing with wondering eyes upon the wild-horse.
“Splendid present!” thought I – “worthy the acceptance of a princess!”
It had been my intention to make the offering in person – hence the care bestowed upon my toilette. After more mature reflection, I abandoned this design.
I was influenced by a variety of considerations – one among others, being a delicate apprehension that a persona visit from me might compromise the family at the hacienda. The patriotic sentiment was every day growing more intense. Even the acceptance of a present was a dangerous matter; but the steed was not to be a gift – only a return for the favourite that had fallen by my hand – and I was not to appear in the character of a donor.
My sable groom, therefore, would convey the beautiful captive. Already the white lazo, formed into a halter, was adjusted around the animal’s head, and the negro only awaited orders to lead him away.
I confess that at that moment I felt somewhat annoyed at the publicity of my affair. My rough rangers were men of keen intelligence. I could tell from some whispers that had reached me, that one and all of them knew why I had gone upon the wild hunt, and I dreaded their good-humoured satire. I would have given something at that moment to have rendered the steed invisible – to have been able to transport him to his destination, Venus-like, under cover of a cloud. I thought of waiting for the friendly shelter of night.
Just then, however, an incident occurred which gave me the very opportunity I wanted – a scene so ludicrous, that the steed was no longer the cynosure of admiring eyes.
The hero of this scene was Elijah Quackenboss.
Of all the men in my band, “Dutch Lige” was the worst clad. Not that there was less money expended upon his outward man; but partly from his ungainly form and loose untidy habits, and more, perhaps, from the wear and tear caused by his botanising excursions, a suit of broadcloth did not keep sound upon him for a week. He was habitually in tatters.
The skirmish of the night had been profitable to Lige; it was his true aim that had brought down one of the live guerrilleros. On his asserting this, his comrades had laughed at it, as an idle vaunt; but Quackenboss proved his assertion to be correct by picking his bullet out of the man’s body, and holding it up before their eyes. The peculiar “bore” of his rifle rendered the bullet easy of identification, and all agreed that Lige had shot his man.
By the laws of ranger-war, the spoils of this particular individual became the property of Quackenboss; and the result was, that he had shaken off his tattered rags, and now appeared in the piazza in full Mexican costume – comprising calzoneros, and calzoncillos, sash and serapé, jacket and glazed hat, botas with gigantic spurs – in short, a complete set of ranchero habiliments!
Never was such a pair of legs encased in Mexican velveteens – never were two such arms thrust into the sleeves of an embroidered jaqueta; and so odd was the tout ensemble of the ranger thus attired, that his appearance in the piazza was hailed by a loud burst of laughter, both from his comrades and the natives who stood around. Even the gloomy Indians showed their white teeth, and joined in the general chorus.
But this was not the end. Among other spoils, Lige had made capture of a Comanche mustang; and as his own war-horse had been for a long time on the decline, this afforded him an excellent opportunity for a remount. Some duty of the day had called him forth, and he now appeared in the piazza leading the mustang, to which he had transferred his own saddle and bridle. A fine handsome horse it appeared. More than one of his comrades envied him this splendid prize.
The laughter had scarcely subsided, when the order was given to mount; and with others, Quackenboss sprang to his horse. But his hips were hardly snug in the saddle, when the wicked Comanche “humped” his back, and entered upon a round of kicking which seemed to exhibit every pose and attitude of equestrian exercise. First his hind feet, then his fore ones, then all together, could be seen glancing in the air. Now a hoof whizzed past the ear of the affrighted rider, now a set of teeth threatened his thighs, while every moment he appeared in danger of being hurled with violence to the earth. The sombrero had long since parted from his head, and the rifle from his hand; and what with the flapping of the wide trousers, the waving of the loose serape, the dancing of the steel scabbard, the distracted motion of the rider’s arms, his lank streaming hair, and look of terror – all combined to form a spectacle sufficiently ludicrous; and the whole crowd was convulsed with laughter, while the piazza rang with such shouts as “Bravo!”
“Well done, Lige!”
“Hooraw for you, old beeswax!”
But what surprised his comrades was the fact that Quackenboss still kept his seat. It was well known that he was the worst rider in the troop; yet, despite all the doubling and flinging of the mustang, that had now lasted for several minutes, he was still safe in the saddle. He was winning golden opinions upon the strength of his splendid horsemanship. The rangers were being astonished.
All at once, however, this mystery was explained, and the cause of his firm seat discovered. One of the bystanders, sharper than the rest, had chanced to look under the belly of the mustang, and the next moment shouted out —
“Hoy! look yonder! by Geehorum, his spars are clinched!”
All eyes were lowered, and a fresh peal of laughter broke forth from the crowd as they perceived that this was in reality the case.
Lige, upon mounting – under the suspicion that the mustang was disposed for a fling – had clutched firmly with his legs; and these, on account of their extreme length, completely enveloped the body of the animal, so that his heels met underneath. He had forgotten his new spurs, the rowels of which, six inches in diameter, irritated the mustang, and were no doubt the cause of such violent kicking. These, after a few turns had got “locked,” and of course held Quackenboss as firmly as if he had been strapped to the saddle. But as the rowels were now buried in the ribs of the mustang, the fierce brute, maddened with the pain, only grew more furious at each fling, and it was natural enough he should do his utmost to rid himself of so cruel a rider.
How long he might have kept up the pitching frolic before his involuntary tormentor could have freed himself, is a matter of conjecture. It would have been an unfortunate “fix” to have been placed in, alone upon the prairies.
Lige, however, found a compassionate bystander; who, having flung his lazo around the neck of the mustang brought the spectacle to a termination.
Chapter Forty Five.
A Lover on the Trail
Taking advantage of the distraction caused by Quackenboss and his troubles, I despatched the black upon his interesting errand, and with no slight anxiety awaited the result.
From my position on the roof, I saw my messenger climb the hill, leading the proud steed, and saw him enter the great portal of the hacienda.
Promptly – almost directly – the groom came out again without the horse. The present had been accepted. So far well.
I counted the moments, till heavy footsteps were heard upon the escalera, and a shining black face rose over the roof.
There was no letter, no message beyond “mil gracias.”
I felt a pang of chagrin. I had expected thanks more formal than this mere phrase of compliment.
My man appeared better satisfied. A gold onza gleamed in his purple palm – a handsome perquisite.
“By whom given?” I inquired.
“Golly, mass cap’n, a gal guv it! De handsomest quaderoom gal dis nigga ever see.”
Beyond a doubt, Isolina herself was the donor!
I could have broken the rascal’s thick skull, but that the queenly douceur gave proof of the satisfaction with which my offering had been received. Even on this trivial circumstance, I built my hopes of yet receiving a fuller meed of thanks.
Absorbed in these hopes, I continued to pace the azotea alone.
It was a dia de fiesta in the rancheria. Bells had already commenced their clangour, and other notes of rejoicing fell upon the ear. The poblanas appeared in their gayest attire – the Indians in bright naguas, with red and purple threads twisted in their black hair; the denizens of the ranchitos were pouring into the piazza, and processions were being formed by the church; jararas were twanging their guitar-like music; and pyrotechnic machines were set up at the corners of the streets. Tinsel-covered saints were carried about on the shoulders of painted maskers; and there were Pilate and the Centurion, and the Saviour – a spectacle absurd and unnatural; and yet a spectacle that may be witnessed every week in a Mexican village, and which, with but slight variation, has been exhibited every week for three centuries!
I had no eyes for this disgusting fanfarronade of a degrading superstition. Sick of the sight, wearied with the sounds, I had given orders for my horse to be saddled, intending to ride forth and seek repose for my spirit amid the silent glades of the chapparal.
While waiting for my steed, an object came under my eyes that quickened the beatings of my pulse: my gaze had been long turned in one direction – upon the hacienda of Don Ramon de Vargas.
Just then, I saw emerging from its gate, and passing rapidly down the hill, a horse with a rider upon his back.
The snow-white colour of this horse, and the scarlet manga of the rider – both contrasting with the green of the surrounding landscape – could not escape observation even at that distance, and my eyes at once caught the bright object.
I hesitated not to form my conclusion. It was the white steed I saw; and the rider – I remembered the manga as when first my eyes rested upon that fair form – the rider was Isolina.
She was passing down the slope that stretched from the hacienda to the river, and the minute after, the thick foliage of the platanus trees shrouded the shining meteor from my sight.
I noticed that she halted a moment on the edge of the woods, and fancied that she gazed earnestly towards the village; but the road she had taken led almost in the opposite direction.
I chafed with impatience for my horse. My resolve, made on the impulse of the moment, was to follow the white steed and his scarlet-clad rider.
Once in the saddle I hurried out of the piazza, passed the ranchos of yucca, and reaching the open country, pressed my horse into a gallop.
My road lay up the river, through a heavily timbered bottom of gum and cotton-woods. These were thickly beset with the curious tillandsia, whose silvery festoons, stretching from branch to branch, shrouded the sun, causing amongst the tree-trunks the obscurity of twilight.
In the midst of one of these shadowy aisles, I met or passed some one: I saw that it was a Mexican boy; but the sombre light, and the rapidity with which I was riding, prevented me from noting anything more. The lad shouted after me, uttering some words, which were drowned by the hoof-strokes of my horse. I deemed it some expression of boyish esprit, and, without heeding it, rode on.
Not until far out of sight and hearing did it occur to me that I knew the voice and the lad. I recollected a sort of errand-boy attached to the hacienda, and whom I had seen more than once at the rancheria. I now remembered the badinage of Wheatley, and would have returned to question the youth; but I had left him too far in the rear. After a moment’s reflection, I spurred on.
I soon arrived at the base of the hill on which stood the hacienda; and here leaving the main road, I followed a bridle-path that skirted the hill.
A few hundred yards brought me to the spot where I had last observed the object of my pursuit.
The hoof-track of the white horse now guided me, and upon his trail I entered the woods.
For some distance, it followed a well-trodden path – a cattle-track – but all at once it diverged from this, and struck off into a heavily timbered bottom, where not the semblance of path existed.
Keeping the trace in view, I rode after.
As I advanced, the timber grew thicker, and the path more difficult. A close underwood of arundinaria and sabal palms shut up the way and the view; trailing roots obstructed progress below; while higher up, the trelliswork of llianas, bamboo briars, sarsaparilla, and gigantic grape-vines, rendered it necessary to bend down in the saddle in order to pass onward.
To my surprise I noticed all this. For what purpose could she have chosen such a path? Was it indeed Isolina I had seen? A white horse and a scarlet manga are not uncommon things in Mexico. It might not be – But the hoof-print —
I dismounted and examined it: I knew it at a glance – it was that of the noble steed, and the rider could be no other than Isolina de Vargas.
No longer in doubt, though still wondering, I followed the tracks.
For a half-mile or more, the path meandered through thick forest, here turning around some giant trunk, there diverging to the right or left, to avoid the impervious network of canes and llianas.
At length it began to slope upwards; and I perceived by the ascent that I was climbing a hill. The woods became more open as I advanced – here and there alternating with glades – the trees were of slender growth, and the foliage lighter and thinner. I was no longer among the heavy trunks of platanus and liquidambar. The leguminoseae were the prevailing trees; and many beautiful forms of inga, acacia, and mimosa, grew around. Myrtles, too, mingled their foliage with wild limes, their branches twined with flowering parasites, as the climbing combretum, with its long flame-like clusters, convolvuli, with large white blossoms, and the beautiful twin-leaved bauhinia.
It was a wild garden of flowers – a shrubbery of nature’s own planting. The eye, wandering through the vistas and glades, beheld almost every form of inflorescence. There were the trumpet-shaped bignonias – convolvuli in pendulous bells – syngenesists disposed in spreading umbels; and over them, closely set upon tall spikes, rose the showy blossoms of the bromelias – aloes and dasylyrium. Even from the tops of the highest trees hung gaudy catkins, wafted to and fro by the light breeze, mingling their sheen and their perfume with the floral epiphytes and parasites that clustered around the branches.
I could not help thinking that these flowers are gifted with life, and enjoy, during their short and transient existence, both pleasure and pain. The bright warm sun is their happiness, while the cold cloudy sky is the reflection of their misery.
As I rode onward, another reflection passed through my mind; it was caused by my perceiving that the atmosphere was charged with pleasant perfumes – literally loaded with fragrance. I perceived, moreover, that the same breeze carried upon its breath the sweet music of birds, whose notes sounded clear, soft, and harmonious.
What closet-slanderer hath asserted that the flowers of this fair land are devoid of fragrance – that its birds, though brightly plumed, are songless?
Ah, Monsieur Buffon! with all your eloquence, such presumptive assertion will one day strip you of half your fame. You could never have approached within two hundred paces of a Stanhopea, of the epidendrum odoratum, of the datura grandiflora, with its mantle of snow-white blossoms? You could never have passed near the pothos plant, the serbereae, and tabernamon taneae, the callas, eugenias, ocotas, and nictiginas? – you could never have ridden through a chapparal of acacias and mimosas – among orchids whose presence fills whole forests with fragrant aroma?
And more, Monsieur! you could never have listened to the incomparable melody of the mock-bird – the full, charming notes of the blue song-thrush – the sweet warbling voices of the silvias, finches, and tanagers, that not only adorn the American woods with their gorgeous colours, but make them vocal with never-ending song?
No, Monsieur! you could never have inhaled the perfume of these flowers, nor listed to the melody of these sweet songsters; and sad it was of you, and silly as sad, to have yielded to the prejudice of a slender spirit, and denied their existence. Both exist – the singing birds and the fragrant flowers – both exist, and thou art gone.
On such reflections I dwelt but for a moment; they were merely the natural impressions of surrounding objects – short-lived sensations, almost instantaneously passing away. The soul, benighted with love, has neither eye nor ear for aught beyond the object of its passion. From the contemplation of that only does it derive pleasure; and even the fairest pictures of nature may be spread before it without challenging observation. It was only that the one through which I was passing was of such transcendent beauty – so like to some scene of paradise – that I could not help regarding it with momentary admiration.
