Майн Рид
The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Rube roasted alive
Doomed beyond doubt – doomed to quick, awful, and certain death was the earless trapper. In five minutes more he must perish. The wall of flame, moving faster than charging cavalry, would soon envelope him, and surer than the carbine’s volley or the keen sabre-cut was the death borne forward upon the wings of that hissing, crackling cohort of fire.
Here and there, tall jets, shooting suddenly upward, stalked far in advance of the main line – fiery giants, with red arms stretched forth, as if eager to grasp their victim. Already their hot breath was upon him; another minute, and he must perish!
In a sort of stupor we stood, Garey and I, watching the advance of the flames. Neither of us uttered a word: painful emotions prevented speech. Both our hearts were beating audibly. Mine was bitterly wrung; but I knew that the heart of my companion was enduring the very acme of anguish. I glanced upward to his face: his eye was fixed, and looked steadfastly in one direction – as though it would pierce the sheet of flame that rolled farther and farther from where we stood, and nearer to the fatal spot. The expression of Garey’s eye was fearful to behold; it was a look of concentrated agony. A single tear had escaped from it, and was rolling down the rude weather-bronzed cheek, little used to such bedewing. The broad chest was heaving in short quick spasms, and it was evident the man was struggling with his breath. He was listening through all this intensity of gaze – listening for the death-shriek of his old comrade – his bosom-friend!
Not long was the suspense; though there was no shriek, no cry of human voice, to indicate the crisis. If any arose, it was not heard by us. It could not have been; it would have been drowned amid the roar of the flames, and the crackling of the hollow culms, whose pent-up gases, set free by the fire, sounded like the continuous rolling of musketry. No death-cry fell upon our ears; but, for all that, we were satisfied that the drama had reached its dénouement: the unfortunate trapper had been roasted alive!
Already the flames had passed over the spot where we had last seen him – far beyond – leaving the ground charred and black behind them. Though the smoke hindered our view of the plain, we knew that the climax had passed: the hapless victim had succumbed; and it remained only to look for his bones among the smouldering ashes.
Up to this moment Garey had stood in a fixed attitude, silent and rigid as a statue. It was not hope that had held him thus spell-bound; he had entertained no such feeling from the first: it was rather a paralysis produced by despair.
Now that the crisis was over, and he felt certain that his comrade had perished, his muscles, so long held in tension, suddenly relaxed – his arms fell loosely to his sides – the tears chased each other over his cheeks – his head reclined forward, and in a hoarse husky voice he exclaimed:
“O God! he’s rubbed out, rubbed out! We’ve seed the last o’ poor Old Rube!”
My sorrow, though perhaps not so keen as that of my companion, was nevertheless sufficiently painful. I knew the earless trapper well – had been his associate under strange circumstances – amid scenes of danger that draw men’s hearts more closely together than any phrases of flattery or compliment. More than once had I seen him tried in the hour of peril; and I knew that, notwithstanding the wildness and eccentricity of his character – of his crimes, I might add – his heart, ill directed by early education, ill guided by after-association, was still rife with many virtues. Many proofs of this could I recall; and I confess that a feeling akin to friendship had sprung up between myself and this singular man.
Between him and Garey the ties were still stronger. Long and inseparable companionship – years of participation in a life of hardships and perils – like thoughts and habitudes – though perhaps dispositions, age, and characters a good deal unlike – all had combined to unite the two in a firm bond of friendship. To use their own expressive phrase, they “froze” to each other. No wonder then that the look, with which the young trapper regarded that black plain, was one of indescribable anguish.
To his mournful speech I made no reply. What could I have said? I could not offer consolation. I was grieving as well as he: my silence was but an assent to his sad soliloquy.
After a moment he continued, his voice still tremulous with sorrow —
“Come, commarade! It are no use our cryin like a kupple o’ squaws.”
With his large finger he dashed the tears aside, as if ashamed of having shed them.
“It are all over now,” he continued. “Let’s look arter his bones – that is, if thar’s anythin left o’ ’em – and gie ’em Christyun burial. Come!”
We caught our horses, and mounting, rode off over the burnt ground.
The hoofs of the animals tossed up the smouldering ashes as we advanced, the hot red cinders causing them to prance. The smoke pained our eyes, and prevented us from seeing far ahead; but we guided ourselves as well as we could towards the point where we had last seen the trapper, and where we expected to find his remains.
On nearing the spot, our eyes fell upon a dark mass that lay upon the plain: but it appeared much larger than the body of a man. We could not make out what it was, until within a few feet of it, and even then it was difficult to recognise it as the carcass of a buffalo – though truly in reality it was. It was no doubt the game which the hunter had killed. It rested as it had fallen – as these animals usually fall – upon the breast, with legs widely spread, and humped shoulders upward.
We could perceive that the unfortunate man had nearly finished skinning it – for the hide, parted along the spine, had been removed from the back and sides, and with the fleshy side turned outward, was hanging to the ground, so as to conceal the lower half of the carcass. The whole surface was burnt to the colour of charcoal.
But where were the remains of the hunter? They were nowhere to be seen near the spot. The smoke had now cleared away sufficiently to enable us to observe the ground for several hundred yards around us. An object of small dimensions could have been distinguished upon the now bare surface; but none was seen. Yes! a mass lay close to the carcass, which drew our attention for a moment; but on riding up to it we perceived that it was the stomach and intestines of the buffalo, black and half broiled.
But where were the bones of Rube? Had he got away from the spot, and perished elsewhere?
We glanced towards the fire still raging on the distant plain.
No: it was not probable he had moved thence. By the last look we had obtained of him, he did not appear to be making any effort to escape, and he could scarcely have gone a hundred yards before the flames swept over the spot and must have enveloped him.
How then? Were his bones entirely consumed – calcined – reduced to ashes? The lean, withered, dried-up body of the old mountain-man favoured such a supposition; and we began seriously to entertain it – for in no other way could we account for the total absence of all remains!
For some moments we sat in our saddles under the influence of strange emotions, but without exchanging a word. We scanned the black plain round and round. The smoke no longer hindered our view of the ground. In the weed-prairies there is no grassy turf; and the dry herbaceous stems of the annuals had burned out with the rapidity of blazing flax, so that nothing was left to cause a smoke. The fire was red or dead in an instant. We could see clear enough all the surface of the ground, but nothing that resembled the remains of a human being!
“No,” said Garey, with a long-drawn sigh. “Poor Old Rube! The classed thing has burned him to ashes – bones an all! Thur ain’t as much o’ ’im left as ’ud fill a tabacca-pipe!”
“The hell, thur ain’t!” replied a voice that caused both of us to start in our saddles, as if it had been Rube’s ghost that addressed us – “the hell, thur ain’t!” repeated the voice, as though it came out of the ground beneath our feet. “Thur’s enough o’ Ole Rube left to fill the stummuk o’ this hyur buffler; an by the jumpin Geehosophat, a tight fit it ur! Wagh! I’m well-nigh sufflocated! Gie’s yur claws, Bill, an pull me out o’ this hyur trap!”
To our astonishment the pendent hide of the buffalo was raised by an invisible hand; and underneath appeared, protruding through a hole in the side of the carcass, the unmistakable physiognomy of the earless trapper!
There was something so ludicrous in the apparition, that the sight of it, combined with the joyful reaction of our feelings, sent both Garey and myself into convulsions of laughter. The young trapper lay back in the saddle to give freer play to his lungs; and his loud cachinnations, varied at intervals by savage yells, caused our horses to dance about as if they anticipated an onslaught of Indians!
At first I could detect a significant smile at the angles formed by Rube’s thin lips; but this disappeared as the laughter continued too long for his patience.
“Cuss yur larfin!” cried he at length. “Kum, Billee, boy! Lay holt hyur, an gi’ me a help, or I must wriggle out o’ meself. The durned hole ain’t es big es twur when I krep in. Durn it, man, make haste! I’m better’n half-baked!”
Garey now leaped from his horse, and taking hold of his comrade by the “claws,” drew him out of his singular hiding-place. But the appearance of the old trapper, as he stood erect – red, reeking, and greasy – was so supremely ludicrous, that both Garey and I were driven off into a fresh fit of laughter, which lasted for several minutes.
Rube, once released from his uncomfortable situation, paid not the slightest attention to our mirth; but stooping down, drew out his long rifle – from where he had secured it under the hanging skin – and after having examined the piece, to see that no harm had come to it, he laid it gently across the horns of the bull. Then taking the bowie from his belt, he quietly proceeded with the skinning of the buffalo, as if nothing had happened to interrupt the operation!
Meanwhile Garey and I had laughed ourselves hoarse, and, moreover, were brimful of curiosity to know the particulars of Rube’s adventure; but for some time he fought shy of our queries, and pretended to be “miffed” at the manner in which we had welcomed him to life again.
It was all pretence, however, as Garey well knew; and the latter, having thrust into his comrade’s hand the gourd, still containing a small drop of aguardiente, soon conciliated him; and after a little more coaxing, the old trapper condescended to give us the details of his curious escapade. Thus ran his narration: —
“Ee wur both o’ yur mighty green to think thet arter fightin grizzly bar an Injun for nigh forty yeern on these hyur parairas, I wur a-gwine to be rubbed out by a spunk o’ fire like thet. Preehaps ’twur nat’ral enough for the young fellur hyur to take me for a greenhorn – seein as he oncest tuk me for a grizzly. He, he, he – ho, ho, hoo! I say it wur, an ur nat’ral enough for him to a thort so; but you mout a knowd better —you, Bill Garey, seein as ee oughter knowd me.
“Wal!” continued Rube, after another “suck” at the gourd, “when I seed the weeds afire, I knowd it wa’nt no use makin tracks. Preehaps if I’d a spied the thing when the bleeze fust broke out, I mout a run for it, an mout a hed time; but I wur busy skinnin this hyur beest, wi’ my head clost down to the karkidge, an thurfor didn’t see nuthin till I heern the cracklin, an in coorse thur wa’nt the ghost o’ a chance to git clur then. I seed thet at the fust glimp.
“I ain’t a-gwine to say I wa’nt skeeart; I wur skeeart an bad skeeart too. I thort for a spell, I wur boun to go under.
“Jest then I sot my eyes upon the burner. I hed got the critter ’bout half-skinned, as ee see; an the idee kim inter my head, I mout crawl somehow under, an pull the hide over me. I tried thet plan fust; but I kudnt git kivered to my saterfaction, an I gin it up.
“A better idee then kim uppermost, an thet wur to clur out the anymal’s inside, an thur caché. I reck’n I wa’nt long in cuttin out a wheen o’ the buffer’s ribs, an tarin out the guts; an I wa’nt long neyther in squezzin my karkidge, feet fo’most, through the hole.
“I hedn’t need to a been long; it wur a close shave an a tight fit, it wur. Jest as I hed got my head ’bout half through, the bleeze kim swizzin round, an nearly singed the ears off me. He, he, he – ho, ho, hoo!”
Garey and I joined in the laugh, at what we both knew to be one of Old Rube’s favourite jokes; but Rube himself chuckled so long, that we became impatient to hear the end of his adventure.
“Well!” interrupted Garey, “consarn your old skin! what next?”
“Wagh!” continued the trapper, “the way thet bleeze did kum wur a caution to snakes. It roared an screeched, an yowlted, an hissed, an the weeds crackled like a million o’ wagon-whups! I wur like to be spinicated wi’ the smoke; but I contruv to pull down the flap o’ hide, an thet gin me some relief – though I wur well-nigh choked afore I got the thing fixed. So thur I lay till I heern you fellurs palaverin about a ’bacca-pipe, and thurfor I knowd the hul thing wur over. Wagh!”
And with this exclamation Rube ended his narration, and once more betook himself to the butchering of the already half-roasted buffalo.
Garey and I lent a hand; and having cut out the hump-ribs and other titbits, we returned to the camp. What with broiled hyodons, roast ribs, tongue, and marrow-bones, we had no reason for that night to be dissatisfied with the hospitality of the prairies.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Mesa
After a breakfast of buffalo-flesh, seasoned with splendid appetites, and washed down by a cup of cold water from the arroyo, we “saddled up,” and headed for a high butte, just visible over the plain.
My companions knew the landmark well. It lay directly in our route. We should pass near its base, and a ride of ten miles farther would bring us to the end of our journey; indeed, the eminence was within sight of the rancheria. From the roof of the alcalde’s house I had frequently noticed it outlined against the horizon, in a north-westerly direction from the village. In clear weather only was it visible.
Struck with the singularity of this prairie-mound, I had longed to examine it, and had even projected a visit to it; but circumstances had prevented me from carrying out my intention. I was at length to have the pleasure of a nearer acquaintance with it.
I have called it singular. Most isolated hills are conical, dome-shaped, or ridge-like; this one differed from the usual configuration – hence its singularity. It presented the appearance of a huge box set upon the prairie, not unlike that rare formation, the “cofre,” which crowns the summit of the mountain Perote. Its sides in the distance appeared perfectly vertical, and its top horizontal as the plain on which it rested.
As we drew nearer, I could perceive by the dark parapet-like band along its crest that it was covered with a growth of timber. This was the more readily observed from contrast with the perpendicular sides, which were almost of a snowy whiteness, on account of the gypsum, chalk, or milky quartz of which the rock was composed.
The most peculiar feature of the mound was perhaps its apparently regular form – a perfect parallelopipedon. But it was striking in other respects. Its sides glistened fantastically under the rays of the sun, as though it were studded with settings of glass. This, however, was easily accounted for; and I knew that the sparkling effect was produced by plates of mica or selenite that entered into the composition of the rock. I had seen large mountains that presented a similar appearance. More than one such exist in the great American Saara, in whose glittering cliffs, viewed from afar, may be found the origin of that wild chimera, the mountain of gold.
Although neither a mountain of gold nor silver, the mound in question was an object of rare interest. A very enchanted castle it did appear, and it was difficult to assign its formation to nature alone. Human agency, one could not help fancying, must have had something to do in piling up a structure so regular and compact.
But he who has travelled over much of the earth’s surface will have met with many “freaks” of nature, exhibiting like appearance of design, in her world of inorganic matter. It was, in fact, one of those formations, of which many are met with in the plateaux-lands of America, known in Spanish phraseology as mesas. This name is given to them in allusion to the flat table-like tops, which distinguish them from other elevated summits.
Sometimes one of these mesas is found hundreds of miles from any similar eminence; more frequently a number of them stand near each other, like truncated cones – the summits of all being on the same level, and often covered with a vegetation differing materially from that of the surrounding plains.
Geologists have affirmed that these table-tops are the ancient level of the plains themselves; and that all around, and intervening between them, has either sunk or submitted to the degradation of water!
It is a vague explanation, and scarcely satisfies the speculative mind. The mesa of Mexico is still a geological puzzle.
As we approached this singular object, I could not help regarding it with a degree of curiosity. I had seen mesa heights before – in the “mauvaise terre,” upon the Missouri, in the Navajo country west of the Rocky Mountains, and along the edges of the “Llano Estacado,” which of itself is a vast mesa.
The mound before us was peculiar, from its very regular form, and the sparkling sheen of its cliffs. Its complete isolation, moreover, added to the effect – for no other eminence appeared in sight. The low hills that bordered the Rio Grande could barely be distinguished in the distance.
On getting nearer to it, its character became somewhat altered; the square box-like form appeared less regular, and it was then perceived that the parallelopipedon was not perfect. Slight ledges could be traced traversing the face of its cliffs, and here and there the rectangular lines were broken to the eye. Nature, after all, had not been so exact in her architecture.
Yet, with every deduction, it was a singular structure to look upon, not the less so that its summit was inaccessible to human foot. A precipice fifty yards sheer fronted outward on all sides. No one had ever scaled this precipice – so alleged my companions, who were well acquainted with the locality.
We had approached within less than a mile of its base; our conversation had dropped – at least so far as I was concerned; my thoughts were occupied with the mound, and my eyes wandering over its outlines.
I was endeavouring to make out the character of the vegetation which seemed to flourish luxuriantly on its summit. The dark foliage was evidently that of some species of acicular trees, perhaps the common red cedar (Juniperus Virginiana), but there were others of lighter hue – in all likelihood pinons, the pines with edible cones, peculiar to this region. I noticed, also, growing upon the very edge of the cliff, yuccas and aloes, whose radiating blades, stretching out, curved gracefully over the white rock. Forms of cactus, too, were apparent, and several plants of the great pitahaya rose high above the cliff, like gigantic candelabra – strange objects in such a situation.
My companions seemed to have no eyes for these rare vegetable beauties; I could hear them at intervals engaged in conversation; but the subject had no reference to the scene, and I paid little attention to what they were saying.
All at once I was startled by the voice of Garey, giving utterance to the emphatic announcement —
“Injuns, by God!”
“Indians! – where?”
The interrogation as it escaped my lips, was half involuntary, and needed no reply. Garey’s glance guided me; and following its direction, I observed a string of horsemen just debouching from behind the mesa, and spurring forward upon the plain.
Both my companions had drawn bridle, and halted. I followed their example; and all three of us sat in our saddles, scanning this sudden apparition of mounted men. A dozen had now cleared themselves from behind the mesa, and were riding towards us.
We were yet nearly a mile from them; and at that distance it is difficult to distinguish a white man from an Indian – I should rather say impossible. Even at half the distance, the oldest prairie-men are sometimes puzzled. The garments are often not very dissimilar, and sun-bronze and dust confound the complexions.
Although Garey, at first sight of them, had pronounced the horsemen to be Indians – the most probable supposition under the circumstances – it was but a random conjecture, and for some time we remained in doubt.
“If they’re Injuns,” suggested Garey, “they’re Comanche.”
“An if thur Kimanch,” added Rube, with ominous emphasis, “we’ve got to fight. If thur Kimanch, thur on the war-trail, an thur’ll be mischief in ’em. Wagh! Look to yur flints an primin!”
Rube’s counsel was instantly followed. Necessity quickened our precautions. All of us well knew, that, should the approaching horsemen turn out to be Comanches, we had no alternative but fight.
This warlike nation occupies the whole western area of Texas, ranging from the Rio Grande on the south, to the Arkansas on the north. They are to-day, with their kindred tribes, the most powerful Indian alliance on the continent. They affect the ownership of all prairie-land, styling themselves its “lords,” though their sovereignty towards the north is successfully disputed by the Pawnees, Sioux, Blackfeet, and others as warlike as they. From the earliest times, they have been the fiend of the Texan settler; and a detailed account of their forays and pillaging expeditions would fill a score of volumes. But from these they have not gone back unscathed. The reprisals have outnumbered the assaults, and the rifle of the border-ranger has done its work of vengeance.
In Mexico they have found less puissant defenders of the hearth and home; and into the north-eastern provinces of that unhappy country, the Comanches have been for the last half-century in the habit of making an annual expedition of war and plunder. In fact, plunder has become the better part of their subsistence, as they usually return from these rieving incursions laden with spoil, and carrying with them vast droves of horses, mules, horned cattle, and captive women!
For a short time, these dusky freebooters were at peace with the Anglo-American colonists of Texas. It was but a temporary armistice, brought about by Houston; but Lamar’s administration, of a less pacific character, succeeded, and the settlers were again embroiled with the Indians. War to the knife was declared and carried on; red and white killed each other on sight. When two men met upon the prairie, the colour of the skin determined the relations between them! If they differed in this, the were enemies without parley, and to kill the other was the first thought of each. The lex talionis was the custom of the hour.
If the rancour could possibly have been augmented, an incident had just transpired calculated to produce that effect. A band of Comanche warriors had offered their services to the commander-in-chief of the American army. They held the following language: —
“Let us fight on your side. We have no quarrel with you. You are warriors: we know it, and respect you. We fight against the cowardly Mexicans, who robbed us of our country. We fight for Moctezuma!”
These words, uttered along the whole northern frontier of Mexico, are full of strange import.
The American commander prudently declined the Comanche alliance; and the result was the bitter triangular war in which, as already noticed, we were now engaged.
If, then, the approaching horsemen were Indians of the Comanche tribe, Rube’s forecast was correct; we had “got to fight.”
With this understanding, we lost no time in putting ourselves in an attitude of defence.
Hastily dismounting, and sheltering our bodies behind those of our horses, we awaited the approach of the band.
