Майн Рид
The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Seventy.
A Burnt Prairie
The earth offers no aspect more drear and desolate than that of a burnt prairie. The ocean when its waves are grey – a blighted heath – a flat fenny country under a rapid thaw – all these impress the beholder with a feeling of chill monotony; but the water has motion, the heath, colour, and the half-thawed flat exhibits variety in its mottling of white and ground.
Not so the steppe that has been fired and burned. In this, the eye perceives neither colour, nor form, nor motion. It roams over the limitless level in search of one or other, but in vain; and in the absence of all three, it tires, and the heart grows cheerless and sick. Even the sky scarcely offers relief. It, too, by refraction from the black surface beneath, wears a dull livid aspect; or perhaps the eye, jaundiced by the reflection of the earth, beholds not the brightness of the heavens.
A prairie, when green, does not always glad the eye, – not even when enamelled with fairest flowers. I have crossed such plains, verdant or blooming to the utmost verge of vision, and longed for something to appear in sight– a rock, tree, a living creature – anything to relieve the universal sameness; just as the voyager on the ample ocean longs for ships, for cetaceae, or the sight of land, and is delighted with a nautilus, polypi, phosphorescence, or a floating weed.
Colour alone does not satisfy the sense. What hue more charming than the fresh verdure of the grassy plain? what more exquisite than the deep blue of the ocean? and yet the eye grows aweary of both! Even the “flower-prairie,” with its thousands of gay corollas of every tint and shade – with its golden helianthus, its white argemone, its purple cleome, its pink malvaceae, its blue lupin – its poppy worts of red and orange – even these fair tints grow tiresome to the sight, and the eye yearns for form and motion.
If so, what must be the prairie when divested of all these verdant and flowery charms – when burned to black ashes? It is difficult to conceive the aspect of dreary monotony it then presents – more difficult to describe it. Words will not paint such a scene.
And such presented itself to our eyes as we rode out from the chapparal. The fire was past – even the smoke had ceased to ascend – except in spots where the damp earth still reeked under the heat – but right and left, and far ahead, on to the very hem of the horizon, the surface was of one uniform hue, as if covered with a vast crape. There was nought of form to be seen, living or lifeless; there was neither life nor motion, even in the elements; all sounds had ceased: an awful stillness reigned above and around – the world seemed dead and shrouded in a vast sable pall!
Under other circumstances, I might have stayed to regard such a scene, though not to admire it. On that interminable waste, there was nought to be admired, not even sublimity; but no spectacle, however sublime, however beautiful, could have won from me a thought at that moment.
The trackers had already ridden far out, and were advancing, half concealed by the cloud of black “stoor” flung up from the heels of their horses.
For some distance, they moved straight on, without looking for the tracks of the steed. Before meeting the fire, they had traced them beyond the edge of the chapparal, and therefore knew the direction.
After a while, I observed them moving more slowly, with their eyes upon the ground as if they had lost it, I had doubts of their being able either to find or follow it now. The shallow hoof-prints would be filled with the débris of the burnt herbage – surely they could no longer be traced?
By myself, they could not, nor by a common man; but it seemed that to the eyes of those keen hunters, the trail was as conspicuous as ever. I saw that, after searching a few seconds, they had taken it up, and were once more moving along, guided by the tracks.
Some slight hollows I could perceive, distributed here and there over the ground, and scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding level. Certainly, without having been told what they were, I should not have known them to be the tracks of a horse.
It proved a wide prairie, and we seemed to be crossing its central part. The fire had spread far.
At one place, nearly midway, where the trail was faint, and difficult to make out, we stopped for a short while to give the trackers time. A momentary curiosity induced me to gaze around. Awful was the scene – awful without sublimity. Even the thorny chapparal no longer relieved the eye; the outline of its low shrubbery had sunk below the horizon; and on all sides stretched the charred plain up to the rim of the leaden canopy, black – black – illimitable. Had I been alone, I might easily have yielded to the fancy, that the world was dead.
Gazing over this vast opacity, I for a moment forgot my companions, and fell into a sort of lethargic stupor. I fancied that I too was dead or dreaming – I fancied that I was in hell – the Avernus of the ancients. In my youth, I had the misfortune to be well schooled in classic lore – to the neglect of studies more useful – and often in life have the poetical absurdities of Greek and Latin mythology intruded themselves upon my spirit – both asleep and awake. I fancied, therefore, that some well-meaning Anchises had introduced me to the regions below; and that the black plain before me was some landscape in the kingdom of Pluto. Reflection – had I been capable of that – would have convinced me of my error. No part of that monarch’s dominions can be so thinly peopled.
I was summoned to reason again by the voices of my followers. The lost trail had been found, and they were moving on.
Chapter Seventy One.
The Talk of the Trackers
I spurred after, and soon overtook them. Regardless of the dust, I rode close in the rear of the trackers, and listened to what they were saying.
These “men of the mountains” – as they prided to call themselves – were peculiar in everything. While engaged in a duty, such as the present, they would scarce disclose their thoughts, even to me; much less were they communicative with the rest of my following, whom they were accustomed to regard as “greenhorns” – their favourite appellation for all men who have not made the tour of the grand prairies.
Notwithstanding that Stanfield and Black were backwoodsmen and hunters by profession, Quackenboss a splendid shot, Le Blanc a regular voyageur, and the others more or less skilled in woodcraft, all were greenhorns in the opinion of the trappers. To be otherwise a man must have starved upon a “sage-prairie” – “run” buffalo by the Yellowstone or Platte – fought “Injun,” and shot Indian – have well-nigh lost scalp or ears – spent a winter in Pierre’s Hole upon Green River – or camped amid the snows of the Rocky Mountains! Some one of all these feats must needs have been performed, ere the “greenhorn” can matriculate and take rank as a “mountain man.”
I of all my party was the only one who, in the eyes of Rube and Garey, was not a greenhorn; and even I – gentleman-amateur that I was – was hardly up either in their confidence or their “craft.” It is indeed true – with all my classic accomplishments – with my fine words, my fine horse, and fine clothes – so long as we were within the limits of prairie-land, I acknowledged these men as my superiors. They were my guides, my instructors, my masters.
Since overtaking them on the trail, I had not asked them to give any opinion. I dreaded a direct answer – for I had noticed something like a despairing look in the eyes of both.
As I followed them over the black plain, however, I thought that their faces brightened a little, and appeared once more lit up by a faint ray of hope. For that reason, I rode close upon their heels, and eagerly caught up every word that was passing between them. Rube was speaking when I first drew near.
“Wagh! I don’t b’lieve it, Bill: ’taint possyble no-howso-ever. The paraira wur sot afire – must ’a been – thur’s no other ways for it. It cudn’t ’a tuk to bleezing o’ itself – eh?”
“Sartinly not; I agree wi’ you, Rube.”
“Wal – thur wur a fellur as I met oncest at Bent’s Fort on the Arkinsaw – a odd sort o’ a critter he wur, an no mistake; he us’t to go pokin about, gatherin’ weeds an’ all sorts o’ green garbitch, an’ spreadin’ ’em out atween sheets o’ paper – whet he called button-eyesin – jest like thet ur Dutch doctur as wur rubbed out when we went into the Navagh country, t’other side o’ the Grand.”
“I remembers him.”
“Wal, this hyur fellur I tell ’ee about, he us’t to talk mighty big o’ this, thet, an t’ other; an he palavered a heap ’bout a thing thet, ef I don’t disremember, wur called spuntainyus kumbuxshun.”
“I’ve heerd o’ ’t; that are the name.”
“Wal, the button-eyeser, he sayed thet a paraira mout take afire o’ itself, ’ithout anybody whatsomdiver heving sot it. Now, thet ur’s what this child don’t b’lieve, nohow. In coorse, I knows thet lightnin’ sometimes may sot a paraira a bleezin’, but lightnin’s a natral fire o’ itself; an it’s only reezunible to expect thet the dry grass wud catch from it like punk; but I shed like to know how fire kud kindle ’ithout somethin to kindle it – thet’s whet I shed like to know.”
“I don’t believe it can,” rejoined Garey.
“Ne’er a bit o’ it. I never seed a burnin’ paraira yit, thet thur wa’n’t eyther a camp-fire or a Injun at the bottom o’ it – thet ur ’ceptin whur lightnin hed did the bizness.”
“And you think, Rube, thar’s been Injun at the bottom o’ this?”
“Putty nigh sure; an I’ll gie you my reezuns. Fust, do ’ee see thur’s been no lightnin this mornin to ’a made the fire? Seconds, it’s too fur west hyur for any settlement o’ whites – in coorse I speak o’ Texans – thur might be Mexikins; them I don’t call white, nohow-nosomediver. An then, agin, it kin scace be Mexikins neyther. It ur too fur no’th for any o’ the yellur-bellies to be a straying jest now, seein as it’s the Mexikin moon wi’ the kimanchees, an both them an the Leepans ur on the war-trail. Wal, then, it’s clur thur’s no Mexikin ’bout hyur to hev sot the paraira afire, an thur’s been no lightnin to do it; thurfor, it must ’a been did eyther by a Injun, or thet ur dodrotted spuntainyus kumbuxshun.”
“One or t’other.”
“Wal, being as this child don’t b’lieve in the kumbuxshun nohow, thurfore it’s my opeenyun thet red Injuns did the bizness —they did sartint.”
“No doubt of it,” assented Garey.
“An ef they did,” continued the old trapper, “thur about yit some whur not fur off, an we’ve got to keep a sharp look-out for our har – thet’s what we hev.”
“Safe, we have,” assented Garey.
“I tell ’ee, Bill,” continued Rube in a new strain, “the Injuns is mighty riled jest now. I never knowd ’em so savagerous an fighty. The war hez gin ’em a fresh start, an thur dander’s up agin us, by reezun thet the gin’ral didn’t take thur offer to help us agin the yellur-bellies. Ef we meet wi’ eyther Kimanch or Leepan on these hyur plains, thu’ll scalp us, or we’ll scalp ’em – thet ’ll be it. Wagh!”
“But what for could they ’a sot the parairy on fire?” inquired Garey.
“Thet ere,” replied Rube, – “thet ere wur what puzzled me at fust. I thort it mout ’a been done by accydent – preehaps by the scattering o’ a camp-fire – for Injuns is careless enuf ’bout thet. Now, howsowever, I’ve got a different idee. Thet story thet Dutch an Frenchy hev fetched from the rancherie, gies me a insight inter the hull bizness.”
I knew the “story” to which Rube had reference. Lige and Le Blanc, when at the village, had heard some rumour of an Indian foray that had just been made against one of the Mexican towns, not far from the rancheria. It had occurred on the same day that we marched out. The Indians – supposed to be Lipans or Comanches – had sacked the place, and carried off both plunder and captives. A party of them had passed near the rancheria after we ourselves had left it. This party had “called” at the hacienda de Vargas and completed the pillage, left unfinished by the guerilla. This was the substance of what the messengers had heard.
“You mean about the Injuns?” said Garey, half interrogatively.
“In coorse,” rejoined Rube. “Belike enuf, ’em Injuns ur the same niggurs we gin sich a rib-roastin’ to by the moun. Wagh! they hain’t gone back to thur mountains, as ’twur b’lieved: they dassent ’a gone back in sich disgrace, ’ithout takin’ eyther har or hosses. The squaws ud ’a hooted ’em out o’ thur wigwams.”
“Sure enough.”
“Sure, sartint. Wal, Billee, ’ee see now what I mean: thet party’s been a skulketin’ ’bout hyur ever since, till they got a fust-rate chance at the Mexikin town, an thur they’ve struck a blow.”
“It’s mighty like as you say, Rube; but why have they sot fire to the parairy?”
“Wagh! Bill, kin ye not see why? it ur plain as Pike’s Peak on a summery day.”
“I don’t see,” responded Garey, in a thoughtful tone.
“Well, this child do; an this ur the reezun: as I tell ’ee, the Injuns hain’t forgot the lambaystin they hed by the moun; an preehaps bein’ now a weak party, an thinkin’ thet we as wolloped ’em wur still i’ the rancherie, they wur afeerd thet on hearing o’ thur pilledgin’, we mout be arter ’em.”
“An they’ve burnt the parairy to kiver thur trail?”
“Preezactly so.”
“By Gosh, you’re right, Rube! – it’s uncommon like. But whar do you think this trail’s goin? Surely the hoss hain’t been caught in the fire?”
I bent forward in the saddle, and listened with acute eagerness. To my great relief, the answer of the old trapper was in the negative.
“He hain’t,” said he; “ne’er a bit o’ it. His trail, do ee see, runs in a bee-line, or clost on a bee-line: now, ef the fire hed ’a begun afore he wur acrosst this paraira, he wud long since ’a doubled ’bout, an tuk the back track; but ’ee see he hain’t did so; thurfor, I conclude he’s safe through it, an the grass must ’a been sot afire ahint ’im.”
I breathed freely after listening to these words. A load seemed lifted from my breast – for up to this moment I had been vainly endeavouring to combat the fearful apprehension that had shaped itself in my imagination. From the moment that we had entered the burning prairie, my eyes constantly, and almost mechanically, had sought the ground in front of our course, had wandered over it, with uneasy glance, in dread of beholding forms – lifeless – burned and charred —
The words of the trapper gave relief – almost an assurance that the steed and his rider were still safe – and under the inspiration of renewed hope, I rode forward with lighter heart.
Chapter Seventy Two.
“Injun Sign.”
After a pause, the guides resumed their conversation, and I continued to listen.
I had a reason for not mingling in it. If I joined them in their counsels, they might not express their convictions so freely, and I was desirous of knowing what they truly thought. By keeping close behind them, I could hear all – myself unnoticed under the cloud of dust that ascended around us. On the soft ashes, the hoof-stroke was scarcely audible – our horses gliding along in a sweeping silent walk.
“By Gosh! then,” said Garey, “if Injuns fired the parairy, they must ’a done it to wind’ard, an we’re travellin’ right in the teeth o’ the wind; we’re goin in a ugly direction, Rube; what do you think o’ ’t, old hoss?”
“Jest what you sez, boyee – a cussed ugly direckshun – durnation’d ugly.”
“It ain’t many hours since the fire begun, an the redskins won’t be far from t’other side, I reckon. If the hoss-trail leads us right on them, we’ll be in a fix, old boy.”
“Ay,” replied Rube, in a low but significant drawl; “ef it do, an ef this niggur don’t a miskalkerlate, it will lead right on ’em, plum straight custrut into thur camp.”
I started on hearing this. I could no longer remain silent; but brushing rapidly forward to the side of the trapper, in hasty phrase demanded his meaning.
“Jest what ’ee’ve heern me say, young fellur,” was his reply.
“You think that there are Indians ahead? that the horse has gone to their camp?”
“No, not gone thur; nor kin I say for sartint thur ur Injuns ahead; though it looks mighty like. Thur’s nuthin else to guv reezun for the fire – nuthin as Bill or me kin think o’; an ef thur be Injuns, then I don’t think the hoss hez gone to thur camp, but I do kalkerlate it’s mighty like he’s been tuk thur: thet’s what I thinks, young fellur.”
“You mean that the Indians have captured him?”
“Thet’s preezactly what this child means.”
“But how? What reason have you for thinking so?”
“Wal – jest because I think so.”
“Pray explain, Rube!” I said in an appealing tone. I feared that his secretive instincts would get the better of him, and he would delay giving his reasons, out of the pure love of mystification that was inherent in the old fellow’s nature. I was too anxious to be patient; but my appeal proved successful.
“Wal, ’ee see, young fellur, the hoss must ’a crosst hyur jest afore this paraira wur sot afire; an it’s mighty reezunible to s’pose thet whosomediver did the bizness, Injun or no Injun, must ’a been to win’ard o’ hyur. It ur also likely enuf, I reckun, thet the party must ’a seed the hoss; an it ur likely agin thet nobody wa’nt a gwine to see thet hoss, wi’ the gurl stropped down ’long his hump-ribs, ’ithout bein’ kewrious enuf to take arter ’im. Injuns ’ud be safe to go arter ’im, yellin’ like blazes; an arter ’im they’ve gone, an roped ’im, I reckun – thet they’ve done.”
“You think they could have caught him?”
“Sartint. The hoss by then must ’a been dead beat – thet ur, unless he’s got the divvel in ’im; an by Geehorum! I gin to surspect – Gehu – Gehosophat! jest as I said; lookee, thur – thur!”
“What is it?” I inquired, seeing the speaker suddenly halt and point to the ground, upon which his eyes also were fixed. “What is it, Rube? I can perceive nothing strange.”
“Don’t ’ee see ’em hoss-tracks? – thur! – thick as sheep-feet – hundreds o’ ’em!”
I certainly noticed some slight hollows in the surface, nearly levelled up by the black ashes. I should not have known them to be horse-tracks.
“They ur,” said Rube, “every one o’ ’em – an Injun hoss-tracks too – sartint they ur.”
“They may be the wild-hosses, Rube?” said one of the rangers, riding up and surveying the sign.
“Wild jackasses!” angrily retorted the old trapper. “Whur did you ever see a wild-hoss? Do ’ee s’pose I’ve turned stone-blind, do ’ee? Stan thur, my mar!” he cried, talking to his mare, flinging his lean carcass out of the saddle at the same time: “stan thur! ’ee knows better than thet fellur, I kin tell by the way yur sniftin’. Keep yur ground a minnit, ole gurl, till Rube Rawlins shew these hyur greenhorns how a mountain man kin read sign – wild-hosses! wagh!”
After thus delivering himself, the trapper dropped upon his knees, placed his lips close to the ground, and commenced blowing at the black ashes.
The others had by this time ridden up, and sat in their saddles watching him. We saw that he was clearing the ashes out of one of the hollows which he had pronounced to be horse-tracks, and which now proved to be so.
“’Thur now, mister!” said he, turning triumphantly, and rather savagely, upon the ranger who had questioned the truth of his conjecture: “thur’s a shod track – shod wi’ parflesh too. Did ’ee ever see a wild-hoss, or a wild mule, or a wild jackass eyther, shod wi’ parflesh? Ef ’ee did, it’s more’n Rube Rawlins ever seed, an thet ur trapper’s been on the hoss-plains well-nigh forty yeern. Wagh!”
Of course, there was no reply to this interrogatory. There was the track; and, dismounting, all examined it in turn.
Sure enough it was the track of a shod horse – shod with parflèche– thick leather made from the hide of the buffalo bull.
We all knew this to be a mode of shoeing practised by the horse-Indians of the plains, and only by them.
The evidence was conclusive: Indians had been upon the ground.
Chapter Seventy Three.
Translating the “Sign.”
This discovery brought us to a pause. A consultation ensued, in which all took part; but as usual, the others listened to the opinions of the prairie-men, and especially to that of Rube.
The old trapper was inclined to sulk for some time, and acted as if he meant to withhold his advice. Nothing “miffed” him more than to have his word contradicted or his skill called in question. I have known him to be “out of sorts” for days, from having his prairie-craft doubted by some one whom he deemed less experienced than himself; and, indeed, there were few of his kind whose knowledge of the wilderness was at all comparable with his. He was not always in the right; but generally where his instincts failed, it wat, idle to try further. In the present case, the man who had thoughtlessly doubted him was one of the “greenest” of the party, but this only aggravated the matter in the eyes of Old Rube.
“Sich a fellur as you,” he said, giving a last dig to the offending ranger – “sich a fellur as you oughter keep yur head shet up: thet ur tongue o’ yourn s’ allers a gwine like a bull’s tail in fly-time. Wagh!”
As the man made no reply to this rather rough remonstrance, Rube’s “dander” soon smoothed down; and once more becoming cool, he turned his attention to the business of the hour.
That there had been Indians upon the ground was now an ascertained fact; the peculiar shoeing of the horses rendered it indubitable. Mexican horses, if shod at all, would have had a shoeing of iron – at least on their fore-feet. Wild mustangs would have had the hoof naked; while the tracks of Texan or American horses could have been easily told, either from the peculiar shoeing or the superior size of their hoofs. The horses that had galloped over that ground were neither wild, Texan, nor Mexican: Indian they must have been.
Although the one track first examined might have settled the point, it was a fact of too much importance to be left under the slightest doubt. The presence of Indians meant the presence of enemies – foes dire and deadly – and it was with something more than feelings of mere curiosity that my companions scrutinised the sign.
The ashes were blown out from several others, and these carefully studied. Additional facts were brought to light by those Champollions of the prairie – Rube and Garey. Whoever rode the horses, had been going in a gallop. They had not ridden long in one course; but here and there had turned and struck off in new directions. There had been a score or so of them. No two had been galloping together; their tracks converged or crossed one another – now zigzagging, now running in right lines, or sweeping in curves and circles over the plain.
All this knowledge the trackers had obtained in less than ten minutes – simply by riding around and examining the tracks. Not to disturb them in their diagnosis, the rest of us halted and awaited the result of their scrutiny.
In ten minutes’ time both came back to us; they had read the sign to their satisfaction, and needed no further light.
That sign had disclosed to them one fact of more significance than all the rest. Of course, we all knew that the Indian horsemen had gone over the ground before the grass had been burnt; but how long before? We had no difficulty in making out that it was upon that same day, and since the rising of the sun – these were trifles easily ascertained; but at what hour had they passed? Late, or early? With the steed, before, or after him?
About this point I was most anxious, but I had not the slightest idea that it could be decided by the “sign.”
To my astonishment, those cunning hunters returned to tell me, not only the very hour at which the steed had passed the spot, but also that the Indian horsemen had been riding after him! Clairvoyance could scarcely have gone farther.
The old trapper had grown expletive, more than was his wont. It was no longer a matter of tracking the white steed. Indians were near. Caution had become necessary, and neither the company nor counsel of the humblest was to be scorned. We might soon stand in need of the strength, even of the weakest in our party.
Freely, then, the trackers communicated their discoveries, in answer to my interrogation.
“The white hoss,” said Rube, “must ’a been hyur ’bout four hour ago – kalkerlatin the rate at which he wur a gwine, an kalkerlatin how fur he hed ter kum. He hain’t ’a stopped nowhur; an ’ceptin i’ the thicket, he hez gallipt the rest o’ the way – thet’s clur. Wal, we knows the distance, thurfor we knows the time – thet’s clur too; an four hour’s ’bout the mark, I reck’n – preehaps a leetle less, an alser preehaps a leetle more. Now, furrermore to the peint. Them niggurs hez been eyther clost arter ’im, in view o’ the critter, or follerin ’im on the trail – the one or the t’other – an which ’taint possyble to tell wi’ this hyur sign no-how-cum-somever. But thet they wur arter ’im, me an Bill’s made out clur as mud – thet we sartintly hez.”
“How have you ascertained that they were after?”
“The tracks, young fellur – the tracks.”
“But how by them?”
“Easy as eatin’ hump-rib: them as wur made by the white hoss ur un’ermost.”
The conclusion was clear indeed. The Indians must have been after him.
We stayed no longer upon the spot, but once more sending the trackers forward, moved on after them.
We had advanced about half-a-mile farther, when the horse-tracks, hitherto scattered, and tending in different directions, became merged together, as though the Indians had been riding, not in single file – as is their ordinary method – but in an irregular body of several abreast.
The trackers, after proceeding along this new trail for a hundred yards or so, deliberately drew up; and dismounting, bent down upon their hands and knees, as if once more to examine the sign. The rest of us halted a little behind, and watched their proceedings without offering to interrupt them.
Both were observed to be busy blowing aside the ashes, not now from any particular track, but from the full breadth of the trail.
In a few minutes, they succeeded in removing the black dust from a stretch of several yards – so that the numerous hoof-prints could be distinctly traced, side by side, or overlapping and half obliterating one another.
Rube now returned to where they had commenced; and then once more leisurely advancing upon his knees, with eyes close to the surface, appeared to scrutinise the print of every hoof separately.
Before he had reached the spot where Garey was still engaged in clearing off the dust, he rose to his feet with an air that told he was satisfied, and turning to his companion, cried out —
“Don’t bother furrer, Bill: it ur jest as I thort; they’ve roped ’im, by Gad!”
