Майн Рид
The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Sixty.
The Sombrero
The horses cowered under the cold rain, all of them jaded and hungry. The hot dusty march of the morning, and the long rough gallop of the night, had exhausted their strength; and they stood with drooped heads and hanging ears, dozing and motionless.
The men, too, were wearied – some of them quite worn out. A few kept their feet, bridle in hand, under shelter of the impending cliff; the others, having staggered down, with their backs against the rock, had almost instantly fallen asleep.
For me was neither sleep nor rest; I did not even seek protection against the storm; but standing clear of the cliff, received the drenching shower full upon my shoulders. It was the chill rain of the “norther;” but at that moment neither cold norte nor hot sirocco could have produced upon me an impression of pain. To physical suffering I was insensible. I should even have welcomed it, for I well understood the truth, proverbially expressed in that language, rich above all others in proverbial lore – “un clavo saca otro clavo” and still more fully illustrated by the poet:
“Tristezas me hacen triste,
Tristezas salgo a buscar,
A ver si con tristezas
Tristezas puedo olvidar.”
Yes, under any other form, I should have welcomed physical pain as a neutraliser of my mental anguish; but that cold norther brought no consolation.
Sadly the reverse. It was the harbinger of keen apprehension; for not only had it interrupted our search, but should the heavy rain continue only for a few hours, we might be able neither to find or further to follow the trail. It would be blinded– obliterated – lost.
Can you wonder that in my heart I execrated those black clouds, and that driving deluge? – that with my lips I cursed the sky and the storm, the moon and the stars, the red lightning and the rolling thunder?
My anathema ended, I stood in sullen silence, leaning against the body of my brave horse – whose sides shivered under the chilly rain, though I felt not its chill.
Absorbed in gloomy thought, I recked not what was passing around me; and, for an unnoted period, I remained in this speechless abstraction.
My reverie was broken. Some expressions that reached my ear told me that at least two of my followers had not yet yielded to weariness or despair. Two of them were in conversation; and I easily recognised the voices of the trappers.
Tireless, used to stern struggles – to constant warfare with the elements – with nature herself – these true men never thought of giving up, until the last effort of human ingenuity had failed. From their conversation, I gathered that they had not yet lost hope of finding the trail, but were meditating on some plan for recovering and following it.
With renewed eagerness I faced towards them and listened. Both talked in a low voice. Garey was speaking, as I turned to them.
“I guess you’re right, Rube. The hoss must a gone thar, an if so, we’re boun’ to fetch his tracks. Thar’s mud, if I remember right, all roun’ the pool. We can carry the cannel under Dutch’s sombrera.”
“Ye-es,” drawled Rube in reply; “an ef this niggur don’t miskalk’late, we ain’t a gwine to need eyther cannel or sombrairay. Lookee yander!” – the speaker pointed to a break in the clouds – “I’ll stake high, I kin mizyure this hyur shower wi’ the tail o’ a goat. Wagh! we’ll hev the moon agin, clur as iver in the inside o’ ten minnits – see ef we haint.”
“So much the better, old hoss; but hadn’t we best first try for the tracks; time’s precious, Rube – ”
“In coorse it ur; git the cannel an the sombrairay, an le’s be off then. The rest o’ these fellurs hed better stay hyur, an snore it out; thu’ll only bamfoozle us.”
“Lige!” called out Garey, addressing himself to Quackenboss – “Lige! gi’ us yur hat a bit.”
A loud snore was the only reply. The ranger, seated with his back against the rock, and his head drooping over his breast, was sound asleep.
“Durned sleepy-head!” exclaimed Rube, in a tone of peevish impatience. “Prod ’im wi’ the point o’ yur bowie, Bill! Rib-roast ’im wi’ yur wipin’-stick! Lam ’im wi’ yur laryette! – gi’ ’im a kick i’ the guts! – roust ’im up, durn ’im!”
“Lige! – he! – Dutchy!” cried Garey, approaching the sleeper, and shaking him by the shoulder; “I want your sombrera.”
“Ho! wo! stand still! Jingo! he’ll throw me. I can’t get off; the spurs are locked. He! wo! wo!”
Rube and Garey broke into a loud cachinnation that awakened the rest of the slumberers. Quackenboss alone remained asleep, fighting in his dreams with the wild Indian horse.
“Durned mulehead!” cried Rube after a pause; “let ’im go on at thet long’s he likes it. Chuck the hat off o’ his head, Bill! we don’t want him– thet we don’t.”
There was a little pique in the trapper’s tone. The breach that the ranger had made, while acting as a faithful sentinel, was not yet healed.
Garey made no further attempts to arouse the sleeper, but in obedience to the order of his comrade, lifted off the hat; and, having procured one of the great candles, he and Rube started off without saying another word, of giving any clue to their design.
Though joyed at what I had heard, I refrained from interrogating them. Some of my followers who put questions received only ambiguous answers. From the manner of the trappers, I saw that they wished to be left to themselves; and I could well trust them to the development of whatever design they had conceived.
On leaving us, they walked straight out from the cliff; but how far they continued in this direction it was impossible to tell. They had not lighted the candle; and after going half-a-dozen steps, their forms disappeared from our view amidst the darkness and thickly-falling rain.
Chapter Sixty One.
The Trail Recovered
The rangers, after a moment of speculation as to the designs of the trappers, resumed their attitude of repose. Fatigued as they were, even the cold could not keep them awake.
After a pause, the voice of Quackenboss could be heard, in proof that that heavy sleeper was at length aroused; the rain falling upon his half-bald skull had been more effective than the shouts and shaking of Garey.
“Hillo? Where’s my hat?” inquired he in a mystified tone, at the same time stirring himself, and groping about among the rocks. “Where is my hat? Boys, did any o’ ye see anything o’ a hat, did ye?” His shouts again awoke the sleepers.
“What sort of a hat, Lige?” inquired one.
“A black hat – that Mexican sombrera.”
“Oh! a black hat; no – I saw no black hat.”
“You darned Dutchman! who do you expect could see a black hat such a night as this, or a white one eyther? Go to sleep!”
“Come, boys, I don’t want none o’ your nonsense: I want my hat. Who’s tuk my hat?”
“Are you sure it was a black hat?”
“Bah! the wind has carried it away.”
“Pe gar! Monsieur Quack’bosh – votre chapeau grand – you great beeg ’at – est-il perdu? – is loss? – c’est vrai? Pardieu! les loups – ze wolfs have it carr’d avay – have it mange – eat? c’est vrai?”
“None o’ your gibberish, Frenchy. Have you tuk my hat?”
“Moi! votre chapeau grand! No, Monsieur Quack’bosh – vraiment je ne l’ai pas; pe gar, no!”
“Have you got it, Stanfield?” asked the botanist, addressing himself to a Kentucky backwoodsman of that name.
“Dang yar hat! What shed I do wi’ yar hat? I’ve got my own hat, and that’s hat enough for me.”
“Have you my hat, Bill Black?”
“No,” was the prompt reply; “I’ve got neery hat but my own, and that ain’t black, I reckon, ’cept on sich a night as this.”
“I tell you what, Lige, old fellow! you lost your hat while you were a ridin’ the mustang just now: the hoss kicked it off o’ your head.”
A chorus of laughter followed this sally, in the midst of which Quackenboss could be heard apostrophising both his hat and his comrades in no very respectful terms, while he commenced scrambling over the ground in vain search after the lost sombrero, amidst the jokes and laughter uttered at his expense.
To this merriment of my followers I gave but little heed: my thoughts were intent on other things. My eyes were fixed upon that bright spot in the sky, that had been pointed out by Rube; and my heart gladdened, as I perceived that it was every moment growing brighter and bigger.
The rain still fell thick and fast; but the edge of the cloud-curtain was slowly rising above the eastern horizon, as though drawn up by some invisible hand.
Should the movement continue, I felt confident that in a few minutes – as Rube had predicted – the sky would be clear again, and the moon shining brightly as ever. These were joyous anticipations.
At intervals I glanced towards the prairie, and listened to catch some sound – either the voices of the trappers, or the tread of their returning footsteps. No such sounds could be heard.
I was becoming impatient, when I perceived a sudden waif of light far out upon the plain. It seemed to be again extinguished; but in the same place, and the moment after, appeared a small, steady flame, twinkling like a solitary star through the bluish mist of the rain. For a few seconds it remained fixed, and then commenced moving – as if carried low down along the surface of the ground.
There was nothing mysterious about this lone light. To Quackenboss only it remained an unexplained apparition; and he might have mistaken it for the fata morgana. The others had been awake when Rube and Garey took their departure, and easily recognised the lighted candle in the hands of the trappers.
For some time the light appeared to move backwards and forwards, turning at short distances, as if borne in irregular circles, or in zig-zag lines. We could perceive the sheen of water between us and the flame – as though there was a pond, or perhaps a portion of the prairie, flooded by the rain.
After a while the light became fixed, and a sharp exclamation was heard across the plain, which all of us recognised as being in the voice of the trapper Rube.
Again the light was in motion – now flitting along more rapidly, and as if carried in a straight line over the prairie.
We followed it with eager eyes. We saw it was moving further and further away; and my companions hazarded the conjecture that the trappers had recovered the trail.
This was soon verified by one of themselves – Garey – whose huge form, looming through the mist, was seen approaching the spot; and though the expression of his face could not be noted in the darkness, his bearing betokened that he brought cheerful tidings.
“Rube’s struck the trail, capt’n,” said he in a quiet voice as he came up: “yonder he goes, whar you see the bleeze o’ the cannel! He’ll soon be out o’ sight, if we don’t make haste, an follow.”
Without another word, we seized the reins, sprang once more into our saddles, and rode off after the twinkling star, that beaconed us across the plain.
Rube was soon overtaken; and we perceived that despite the storm, he was rapidly progressing along the trail, his candle sheltered from the rain under the ample sombrero.
In answer to numerous queries, the old trapper vouchsafed only an occasional “Wagh!” evidently proud of this new exhibition of his skill. With Garey, the curious succeeded better; and as we continued on, the latter explained to them how the trail had been recovered by his comrade – for to Rube, it appeared, was the credit due.
Rube remembered the mesa spring. It was the water in its branch that we had seen gleaming under the light. The thoughtful trapper conjectured, and rightly as it proved, that the steed would stop there to drink. He had passed along the stony shingle by the mound – simply because around the cliff lay his nearest way to the water – and had followed a dry ridge that led directly from the mesa to the spring-branch. Along this ridge, going gently at the time, his hoof had left no marks – at least none that could be distinguished by torch-light – and this was why the trail had been for the moment lost. Rube, however, remembered that around the spring there was a tract of soft boggy ground; and he anticipated that in this the hoof-prints would leave a deep impression. To find them he needed only a “kiver” for the candle, and the huge hat of Quackenboss served the purpose well. An umbrella would scarcely have been better.
As the trappers had conjectured, they found the tracks in the muddy margin of the spring-branch. The steed had drunk at the pool; but immediately after had resumed his wild flight, going westward from the mound.
Why had he gone off at a gallop? Had he been alarmed by aught? Or had he taken fresh affright, at the strange rider upon his back?
I questioned Garey. I saw that he knew why. He needed pressing for the answer.
He gave it at length, but with evident reluctance. These were his words of explanation —
“Thar are wolf-tracks on the trail!”
Chapter Sixty Two.
Wolves on the Track
The wolves, then, were after him!
The trackers had made out their footprints in the mud of the arroyo. Both kinds had been there – the large brown wolf of Texas, and the small barking coyote of the plains. A full pack there had been, as the trappers could tell by the numerous tracks, and that they were following the horse, the tracks also testified to these men of strange intelligence. How knew they this? By what sign?
To my inquiries, I obtained answer from Garey.
Above the spring-branch extended a shelving bank; up this the steed had bounded, after drinking at the pool. Up this, too, the wolves had sprung after: they had left the indentation of their claws in the soft loam.
How knew Garey that they were in pursuit of the horse?
The “scratches” told him they were going at their fastest, and they would not have sprung so far had they not been pursuing some prey. There were footmarks of no other animal except theirs, and the hoof-prints of that steed; and that they were after him was evident to the trapper, because the tracks of the wolves covered those of the horse.
Garey had no more doubt of the correctness of his reasoning, than a geometrician of the truth of a theorem in Euclid.
I groaned in spirit as I was forced to adopt his conclusion. But it was all probable – too probable. Had the steed been alone – Unembarrassed – free – it was not likely the wolves would have chased him thus. The wild-horse in his prime is rarely the object of their attack; though the old and infirm – the gravid mare, and the feeble colt – often fall before these hungry hunters of the plains. Both common wolf and coyote possess all the astuteness of the fox, and know, as if by instinct, the animal that is wounded to death. They will follow the stricken deer that has escaped from the hunter; but if it prove to be but slightly harmed, instinctively they abandon the chase.
Their instinct had told them that the steed was not ridden by a free hand; they had seen that there was something amiss; and in the hope of running down both horse and rider, they had followed with hungry howl.
Another fact lent probability to this painful conjecture; we knew that by the mesa were many wolves.
The spring was the constant resort of ruminant animals, deer and antelopes; the half-wild cattle of the ganaderos drank there, and the tottering calf oft became the prey of the coyote and his more powerful congener, the gaunt Texan wolf. There was still another reason why the place must of late have been the favourite prowl of these hideous brutes: the débris of our skirmish had furnished them with many a midnight banquet. They had ravened upon the blood of men and the flesh of horses, and they hungered for more.
That they might succeed in running down the steed, cumbered as he was, was probable enough. Sooner or later, they would overtake him. It might be after a long, long gallop over hill and dale, through swamp and chapparal; but still it was probable those tough, tireless pursuers would overtake him. They would launch themselves upon his flanks; they would seize upon his wearied limbs – upon hers, the helpless victim on his back – both horse and rider would be dragged to the earth – both torn – parted in pieces – devoured!
I groaned under the horrid apprehension.
“Look thar!” said Garey, pointing to the ground, and holding his torch so as to illuminate the surface; “the hoss has made a slip thar. See! hyar’s the track o’ the big wolf – he hes sprung up jest hyar; I can tell by the scratch o’ his hind-claws.”
I examined the “sign.” Even to my eyes it was readable, and just as Garey had interpreted it. There were other tracks of wolves on the damp soil, but one had certainly launched himself forward, in a long leap, as though in an effort to fasten himself upon the flanks of some animal. The hoof-mark plainly showed that the steed had slipped as he sprang over the wet grass; and this had tempted the spring of the watchful pursuer.
We hurried on. Our excited feelings hindered us from causing longer than a moment. Both rangers and trappers snared my eagerness, as well as my apprehensions. Fast as the torches could be carried, we hurried on.
Shortly after parting from the mesa, there occurred a change in our favour. The lights had been carried under hats to protect them from the rain. This precaution was no longer required. The storm had passed – the shower ceasing as suddenly as it had come on; the clouds were fast driving from the face of the firmament. In five minutes more, the moon would shine forth. Already her refracted rays lightened the prairie.
We did not stay for her full beam; time was too precious. Still trusting to the torches, we hurried on.
The beautiful queen of the night kept her promise. In five minutes, her cheering orb shot out beyond the margin of the dark pall that had hitherto shrouded it; and her white disc, as if purified by the storm, shone with unwonted brightness. The ground became conspicuous almost as in day; the torches were extinguished, and we followed the trail more rapidly by the light of the moon.
Here, still in full gallop, had passed the wild-horse, and for miles beyond – still had he gone at utmost speed. Still close upon his heels had followed the ravenous and untiring wolves. Here and there were the prints of their clawed feet – the signs of their unflagging pursuit.
The roar of water sounded in our ears: it came from the direction towards which the trail was conducting us, a stream was not far distant.
We soon diminished the distance. A glassy sheet glistened under the moonlight, and towards this the trail trended in a straight line.
It was a river – a cataract was near, down which the water, freshened by the late rain, came tumbling, broken by the rocks into hummocks of white foam. Under the moonlight, it appeared like an avalanche of snow. The trappers recognised an affluent of the Rio Bravo, running from the north – from the high steppe of the Llano Estacado.
We hurried forward to its bank, and opposite the frothing rapids. The trail conducted us to this point – to the very edge of the foaming water. It led no farther. There were the hoof-marks forward to the brink, but not back. The horse had plunged into the torrent.
Chapter Sixty Three.
Across the Torrent
Surely was it so. Into that seething rapid the steed had launched himself – where the spume was whitest, and the rocks gave out their hoarsest echoes. The four hoof-prints, close together upon the bank, showed the point from which he had sprung; and the deeply indented turf testified that he had made no timid leap. The pursuers had been close upon his heels, and he had flung himself with desperate plunge upon the water.
Had he succeeded in crossing? It was our first thought. It appeared improbable – impossible. Notwithstanding its foam-bedappled surface, the current was swift, and looked as though it would sweep either man or horse from his footing. Surely it was too deep to be forded. Though here and there rocks were seen above the surface, they were but the crests of large boulders, and between them the impetuous wave ran dark and rapid. Had the horse lost footing? had he been forced to swim? If so, he must have been carried down by the current – his body submerged – his withers sunk below the surface – his helpless rider —
The conclusion was evident to all of us. All felt the conviction simultaneously. No – not all. There came a word of comfort from the oldest and wisest – a word that gave cheer to my drooping spirit.
“Wagh! the hoss hain’t swum a lick —he hain’t.”
“Are you sure, Rube? How can you tell?” were the quick interrogatories.
“Sure – how kin I tell – i’deed, how?” replied Rube, a little nettled at our having questioned his judgment. “What the divul’s yur eyes good for – all o’ yur? Lookee hyur! and I’ll show ’ee how I tell. Do ’ee see the colour o’ thet water? – it ur as brown as a buffler in the Fall; thurfor it’s fresh kim down; and jest afore the shower, thur wan’t more’n half o’ it in the channel. Then the hoss mout a waded ’crosst hyur, easy as fallin’ off a log, and then that hoss did wade acrosst.”
“He crossed before the rain?”
“Sure as a shot from Targuts. Look at the tracks! Them wur made afore a drop o’ rain kim down: ef they hedn’t, they’d a been a durned sight deeper in the sod. Wagh! the hoss got safe acrosst ’ithout wettin’ a hair o’ his hips. So far as drowndin’ goes, don’t be skeeart ’bout thet, young fellur! the gurl’s safe enough yit.”
“And the wolves? Do you think they have followed across the stream?”
“Ne’er a wolf o’ ’em – ne’er a one. The vamints hed more sense. They knowd thur legs wan’t long enough, an thet ur current wud a swep ’em a mile afore they kud a swum half-way acrosst. The wolves, they stayed on this side, I reck’n. Look hyur – hyur’s thur tracks. Wagh! thur wur a wheen o’ the filthy beests. Geehosophat! the bank ur paddled like a sheep-pen.”
We bent down to examine the ground. Sure enough, it was covered with the tracks of wolves. A numerous band had crowded together on the spot; and as the prints of their feet pointed in all directions, it was evident they had not gone forward, but, brought to a stand by the torrent, had given up the chase, and scattered away.
Pray heaven it was no mere conjecture!
With Rube it was a belief; and as I had grown to put implicit reliance in the old trapper’s wood-craft, I felt reassured. Rube’s opinions, both as to the steed having safely crossed, and the discomfiture of the wolves, were shared by the rest of my followers – not one of whom was a mean authority on such a subject. Garey – second only to his older comrade in the working out of a prairie syllogism – gave Rube’s statement his emphatic confirmation. The steed was yet safe – and pray heaven, the rider.
With lighter heart I sprang back into the saddle. My followers imitated the example, and with eyes scanning the stream, we rode along the bank to seek for a crossing.
There was no ford near the spot. Perhaps where the steed had passed over the stream might have been waded at low-water; but now, during the freshet, the current would have swept off horse and man like so much cork-wood. The rocks – the black waves that rushed between them – the boiling, frothing eddies – discouraged any attempt at crossing there; we all saw that it was impracticable.
Some rode up stream, others went in the opposite direction.
Both parties met again with blank looks; neither had found a crossing.
There was no time to search further – at least my impatience would no longer brook delay. It was not the first time for both my horse and myself to cross a river without ford; nor was it the first time for many of my followers.
Below the rapids, the current ran slow, apparently ceasing altogether. The water was still, though wider from bank to bank – a hundred yards or more. By the aid of the moonlight, I could tell that the bank on the opposite side was low and shelving. It could be easily climbed by a horse.
I stayed to reason no further. Many a hundred yards had Moro swum with his rider on his back – many a current had he cleft with his proud breast far more rapid than that.
I headed him to the bank, gave him the spur, and went plunging into the flood.
Plunge – plunge – plunge! I heard behind me till the last of my followers had launched themselves on the wave, and were swimming silently over.
One after another we reached the opposite side, and ascended the bank.
Hurriedly I counted our number as the men rode out; one had not yet arrived. Who was missing?
“Rube,” answered some one.
I glanced back, but without feeling any uneasiness. I had no fear for the trapper; Garey alleged he was “safe to turn up.” Something had detained him. Could his old mare swim?
“Like a mink,” replied Garey; “but Rube won’t ride her across; he’s afeerd to sink her too deep in the water. See! yonder he comes!”
Near the middle of the stream, two faces were observed rippling the wave, one directly in the wake of the other. The foremost was the grizzled front of the old mustang, the other the unmistakeable physiognomy of her master. The moonlight shining upon both rendered them conspicuous above the dark brown water; and the spectacle drew a laugh from those who had reached the bank.
Rube’s mode of crossing was unique, like every action of this singular man. Perhaps he adopted it from sheer eccentricity, or maybe in order that his mustang might swim more freely.
He had ridden gently into the water, and kept his saddle till the mare was beyond her depth – then sliding backward over her hips, he took the tail in his teeth, and partly towed like a fish upon the hook, and partly striking to assist in the passage, he swam after. As soon as the mare again touched bottom, he drew himself up over the croup, and in this way regained his saddle.
Mare and man, as they climbed out on the bank – the thin skeleton bodies of both reduced to their slenderest dimensions by the soaking water – presented a spectacle so ludicrous as to elicit a fresh chorus of laughter from his comrades.
I stayed not till its echoes had died away; but pressing my steed along the bank, soon arrived at the rapids, where I expected to recover the trail.
To my joy, hoof-marks were there, directly opposite the point where the steed had taken to the stream. Rube was right. He had waded safely across.
Thank heaven! at least from that peril has she been saved!
