Майн Рид
The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Fifty Four.
The Ruined Rancho
The pleasant excitement caused by the visit to my old comrades was soon over; and having nothing to do but lounge about my tent, I became again the victim of the same painful bodings. I could not shake them off.
Subtle and mysterious is the spirit-world within us; certainly does it seem to have prescience of the future. Is it an electric chain connecting what is, with what is to be? Or is it the second-sight of instinct? Certainly there are times when something within whispers a warning – as, in the physical world, God’s wild creatures are warned from without of the earthquake and the storm. How often do we experience the realisation of portentous dreams? Why should not the waking soul have also its moments of clairvoyance?
As I lay stretched upon my leathern catré, I gave way to such reflections. I soon succeeded in reasoning myself into a full belief in foreknowledge; and my apprehensions were proportionately strengthened. But I had conceived a design; and the prospect of putting it in execution somewhat relieved me from the heaviness I had hitherto felt.
My new project was to take a score of my best men, to ride back the road we had come, place the party in ambush near the hacienda, while I alone should enter the house, and further urge the counsels I had committed to writing. If I should find that these had been already followed, so much the better – I should be assured, and return content; but I felt almost certain that Don Ramon had rejected them. At all events, I was determined to know the truth – determined, moreover, to gratify my longing for one more interview with my beloved.
I had warned the men and fixed the hour – as soon it was dark enough to conceal our departure from the camp.
I had two reasons for not starting earlier – first, because I did not wish this private scouting to be known at head-quarters. It is true, that in such matters we rangers had the advantage of regular troops. Though belonging to the division, our duty was usually detached from it, and we were rarely “missed” when absent. There was thus a sort of pleasant independence in my command, which I for one fully appreciated. For all that, I did not desire the whole world to know of an expedition like the one projected.
My second motive for going in the night was simple prudence. I dared not take the whole of my command along with me without permission from head-quarters. The absence of the corps without leave would certainly be noticed – even were it but for a few hours – and with the smaller party I intended to take, caution would be requisite. Should we move along the road before it was deserted, some swift messenger might carry the tidings en avant, and get us into trouble.
I designed to start at the earliest hour of darkness – so that I might not alarm the hacienda by a midnight visit.
An hour and a half of constant riding would bring me to its gate.
At the last moment of twilight we leaped into our saddles; and rode silently into the chapparal that skirted the camp. After filing for some distance through a narrow path, we debouched upon the up-river road – the same that conducted to the rancheria.
The trappers, Rube and Garey, acting as scouts, went forward in the advance. They were on foot – their horses remaining behind with the party.
It was a mode of march I had adopted after some experience in bush-fighting. The scouts of a marching force should always go on foot, whether the main body be dragoons or infantry. In this manner they can take advantage of the ground; and by keeping under cover of the timber, are enabled to reconnoitre the angles of the road in a much safer way than when on horseback. The great danger to a scout – and consequently to the party for which he is acting – lies in his being first seen, and the risk is greater when he is mounted. The horse cannot be drawn under cover without an effort; and the sound of the hoof may be heard; whereas in nine cases out of ten, a man on foot – that is, such a man as either Rube Rawlings or Bill Garey – will discover the enemy before he is himself seen, or any ambuscade can be attempted. Of course the scout should never advance beyond the possibility of retreating upon the party he is guiding.
With full confidence in the men who had been sent forward, we rode on – timing our pace, so as not to overtake them. Now and then we caught a glimpse of them, at the further end of a long stretch, skirting the bushes, or stooping behind the cover, to reconnoitre the road in advance. To our chagrin, it was clear moonlight, and we could distinguish their forms at a great distance. We should have preferred a darker night.
The road we were travelling upon was entirely without habitations; most of it ran through light chapparal forest, with neither clearing nor homestead. One solitary rancho stood at about equal distances between the town and the rancheria; and was known among the rangers by the familiar sobriquet of the “half-way house.” It was a poor hovel of yucca, with a small patch around that had once grown yams, chile-pepper, and a stock of maize for whoever had tilled it; but the occupants of the little rancho had long since disappeared – the prowling soldier-robber from the camp had paid it many a visit, and its household gods lay broken upon the hearth. The tortilla stone and comal, red earthen ollas, calabash cups, bedsteads and benches of the caña vaquera, a whirligig spindle, an old stringless jarana or bandolon, with other like effects, lay in fragments upon the floor. Mingling with these were cheap coloured wood-prints, of saints and Saviour, that had been dragged from the walls, and with the torn leaves of an old Spanish misa, trampled in dust and dishonour.
I paint this tableau of ruin, not that it was in any way connected with the events of our narrative, but that it had strangely affected me. On the day before, as we rode past, I had halted a moment by the rancho, and contemplated the scene with a feeling of melancholy that amounted almost to sadness. Little thought I that a still sadder spectacle awaited me in that same spot.
We had approached within less than half-a-mile of the ruined house, when a strange medley of sounds reached our ears. Human voices they were; and borne upon the light breeze we could distinguish them to be the voices of women. Occasionally harsher tones were heard mingling in the murmur, but most of them had the soft rich intonation that distinguishes the female voice.
We all drew bridle, and listened.
The sounds continued in the same confused chorus, but there was neither song nor joy in the accents. On the contrary, the night-wind carried upon its wings the voices of “lamentation and wailing.”
“There are women in trouble,” remarked one of my followers, in a suggestive tone.
The remark caused all of us simultaneously to ply the spur, and ride forward.
Before we had galloped a dozen lengths, a man appeared coming from the opposite direction, and advancing rapidly up the middle of the road. We saw it was the scout Garey; and, once more reining up, we awaited his approach.
I was at the head of the little troop, and as the trapper drew near, I could see his face full under the light of the moon. Its expression was ominous of evil tidings.
He spoke not until he had laid his hand upon the pommel of my saddle, and then only in a subdued and saddened tone. His words were: —
“Thar’s ugly news, capt’n.”
Oh, that terrible foreboding!
“News? – ill news?” I stammered out; “what, for Heaven’s sake? – speak, Garey!”
“They’ve been playin’ the devil at the rancherie. Them ruffins hez behaved wuss than Injuns would a done. But ride forrard, capt’n, an see for yurself. The weemen are clost by hyar at the shanty. Rube’s a tryin’ to pacify them, poor critters.”
Oh, that terrible foreboding!
I made no response to Garey’s last speech, but rode forward as fast as my horse could carry me.
A brace of minutes brought me up to the rancho; and there I beheld a spectacle that caused the blood to curdle in my veins.
Chapter Fifty Five.
A Cruel Proscription
The open space in front of the hovel was occupied by a group of women – most of them young girls. There were six or seven; I did not count them. There were two or three men, Mexicans, mixed up in the group. Rube was in their midst, endeavouring in his broken Spanish to give them consolation and assurance of safety. Poor victims! they needed both.
The women were half-naked – some of them simply en chemise. Their long black hair fell loosely over their shoulders, looking tossed, wet, and draggly. There was blood upon it; there was blood upon their cheeks in seams half dried, but still dropping. The same horrid red mottled their necks and bosoms, and there was blood upon the hands that had wiped them. A red-brown blotch appeared upon the foreheads of all. In the moonlight, it looked as if the skin had been burnt.
I rode closer to one, and examined it: it was a brand – the fire-stamp of red-hot iron. The skin around was scarlet; but in the midst of this halo of inflammation I could distinguish, from their darker hue, the outlines of the two letters I wore upon my button – the well-known “U.S.”
She who was nearest me raised her hands, and tossing back from her cheeks the thick clustered hair, cried out —
“Miralo, señor! mira!”
Oh, Heaven! my flesh crept as I looked upon the source of that crimson haemorrhage. Her ears had been cut off – they were wanting!
I needed no further uplifting of their hair to satisfy me that the others had been served in like manner; the red stream still trickling adown their necks was evidence enough.
The men, too, had been similarly abused. Two of them had suffered still further mutilation. They held up their right arms before my face – not their hands. There were no hands. I saw the hanging sleeve, and the blood-steeped bandage on the stump. Their hands had been chopped off at the wrists. Horrid sight!
Both men and women gathered around me, clasping my knees, and uttering prayers and entreaties. No doubt most of them were known to me by sight; but their features were now unrecognisable. They had been the friends and sweethearts of the corps, and my followers were already addressing them by name. The lovers of one or two were present, sadly embracing them!
One appeared more richly costumed than the rest, and upon her my eyes had fallen, as I first rode up. I almost dreaded to approach her, as she stood a little apart; but no – it could not be – she was not tall enough; besides, the ruffians would not dare —
“Your name, señorita?”
“Conchita, señor—la hija del alcaldé.”
The tears burst from her eyes, mingling with blood as they ran down her cheeks. Oh, that I too could have wept! Poor Wheatley! he was not with us. He had yet to receive the blow: it would soon fall.
My heart was on fire; so were those of my followers. They swore and foamed at the mouth. Some drew pistols and knives, calling out to me to lead them on. Never saw I men in such a frenzy of rage: the most cold-blooded among them seemed to have suddenly gone mad.
I could scarcely restrain them, till we should hear the tale. We guessed it already; but we needed some details to guide us in the execution of vengeance. It was told by many mouths, interrupting or confirming one another.
One of the men was more coherent – Pedro, who used to sell mezcal to the troop. To him we listened. The substance of his story was as follows: —
Shortly after we had left the rancheria, it was entered by the guerrilleros with cries of “Viva Santa Anna! Viva Mexico!” and “Death to the Yankees!” They commenced by breaking open the tiendas, and drinking mezcal and whatever they could find. They were joined by the mob of the place – by leperos and others. Pedro noticed the herredero (blacksmith) and the matador (cattle-killer) taking a conspicuous part. There were many women in the mob – the mistresses of the guerrilleros, and others of the town.
After drinking a while, they grew more excited. Then was heard the cry, “Mueran los Ayankieados!” and the crowd scattering in different directions, entered the houses, shouting, “Saquenlos afuera! matenlos!” (Drag them out! kill them!)
The poor girls, and all who had been friendly to the Americanos, were dragged into the piazza amidst the oaths and execrations of the guerrilla, and hissings and hootings from the mob. They were spit upon, called by filthy names, pelted with mud and melon-rinds, and then some of the crowd suggested that they should be marked, so that their friends the Tejanos should know them again. The suggestion was adopted; the women, more fiendish than the men, exciting the latter to the deed. Voices were heard calling to the blacksmith —
“Traiga el fierro! traiga el fierro!” (Bring the branding-iron!)
Others cried out, “Sacan las orejas!” (Cut off their ears.)
The brutal blacksmith and butcher, both half drunk obeyed the call – willingly, Pedro alleged. The former used the branding-iron – already prepared – while the latter performed his bloody office with the knife of his trade!
Most of the guerrilleros wore masks. The leaders were all masked, and watched the proceedings from the roof of the alcalde’s house. One Pedro knew in spite of his disguise; he knew him by his great size and red hair: it was the salteador, El Zorro. Others he guessed at; but he had no doubt it was the band of Don Rafael Ijurra – nor had we.
Had they left the rancheria before Pedro and the others came away?
Pedro thought not; he and the other victims, as soon as they got out of the hands of the mob, had fled to the chapparal, and were making for the American camp when met by our scouts. They were straggling along the road one after the other; Rube had detained them by the rancho, till we should come up.
Pedro feared that they were not all who had suffered – that there were other victims; the alcalde, he feared, had been worse than mutilated – he had been murdered.
This last information the poor fellow imparted in a whisper – at the same time casting a sorrowful look towards Conchita. I had not the courage to inquire further.
The question arose whether we should send back for more men, and wait till they arrived, or advance at once to the rancheria.
The former was negatived with unanimous voice. We were strong enough, and vengeance was impatient.
I was joyed by this decision; I could not have waited.
The women were directed to continue on to the ranger-camp; Pedro, mounted behind one of the men, should go with us. We needed him for purposes of identification.
We were about to move forward, when a figure appeared along the road in the direction we were going to take. On coming within sight of us, the figure was seen to skulk and hide in the bushes.
Rube and Garey ran rapidly forward; and in a few minutes returned bringing with them a Mexican youth – another of the victims!
He had left the scene of his sufferings somewhat later than the rest.
Was the guerrilla still in the place?
No; they were gone from the village.
“Whither?” was the anxious interrogatory.
They had taken the up-river road, towards the hacienda de Vargas. They had passed the boy as he lay concealed among some magueys; he had heard their cries as they rushed past.
“What cries?”
They shouted: “Mueran al traidor y traidora! Mueran al padre y hija! Isolina la p-t-a!”
“O merciful God!”
Chapter Fifty Six.
The Bivouac of the Guerrilla
I stayed to hear no more, but drove the spur against the ribs of my horse, till he sprang in full gallop along the road. Eager as were my men to follow, ’twas as much as they could do to keep up.
We no longer thought of scouts or cautious marching. The trappers had mounted, and were galloping with the rest. We thought only of time.
We rode for the hacienda de Vargas, straight up the river. Although it was beyond the rancheria, we could reach it without passing through the latter – which lay some distance back from the stream. We could return to the village afterwards, but first for the hacienda. There I wished to arrive in the shortest time possible.
The miles flew behind us, like the dust of the road.
Oh, should we not be in time! I feared to calculate the length of the interval since the boy had heard that rabble rout. Was it more than an hour? Five miles to the rancho, and he on foot. Had he travelled rapidly? Yes, here and there; but he had made a stop: some men had passed him, and he had hidden in the bushes till they were out of sight. He had been more than an hour on the way – nearly two, and one would be enough for the execution of the darkest deed. Oh, we should not arrive in time!
There was no delay now. We were going at top-speed, and in silence, scarcely exchanging a word. Alone might be heard the clattering of hoofs, the chinking of bits, or the ringing of steel scabbards. Neither the slimy gutter nor the deep rut of carreta wheels stayed our advance; our horses leaped over, or went sweltering through them.
In five minutes we came to the rinconada, where the road forked – the left branch leading to the village. We saw no one, and kept on by the right – the direct road to the hacienda. Another mile, and we should reach the house; a quarter of that distance, and we should come in sight of it; the trees alone hindered our view of its walls. On – on!
What means that light? Is the sun rising in the west? Is the chapparal on fire? Whence comes the yellow gleam, half intercepted by the trunks of the trees? Is it not the moon!
“Ho! the hacienda is in flames!”
“No – it cannot be? A house of stone, with scarcely enough timber to make a blaze! It cannot be that?”
It is not that. We emerge from the forest; the hacienda is before our eyes. Its white walls gleam under a yellow light – the light of fire, but not of a conflagration. The house stands intact. A huge bonfire burns in front of the portal; it was this that caused the glare through the forest.
We draw up and gaze upon it with surprise. We behold a huge pile – the material supplied from the household stock of dry faggots – a vast blaze drowning the pale moonshine. We can see the hacienda, and all around it, as distinctly as by the light of day!
For what purpose this holocaust of crackling acacias?
Around the fire we behold many forms, living and moving. There are men, women, dogs, and saddled horses. Huge joints are roasting over the red coals, and others, roasted, are being greedily eaten. Are they savages who surround that blazing pile?
No – we can see their faces with full distinctness, the white skins and black beards of the men, the cotton garments of the women; we can see sombreros and serapes, cloth cloaks and calzoneros of velveteen, sashes and sabres; we can distinguish their voices as they shout, sing, and carouse; we note their lascivious movements in the national dance – the fandango. No Indians they – ’tis a bivouac of the guerrilleros – the ruffians for whom we are in search!
Oh, that I had listened to the voice of prudence, and adopted the strategy of a surround! But my blood was boiling, and I feared to lose even a moment of time, lest we might be too late. But one or two of my followers counselled delay, and, as the event proved, they were the wisest. The rest, like myself, were impatient for action.
The word was given: and like hounds, fresh loosed from the leash, we rushed forward with charging cheer.
It was the madness of fools. Well knew our enemy the hoarse Texan “hurrah!” It had been shouted to terrify them, when there was no need. They would never have stood ground.
The shout warned them, causing them to scatter like a herd of deer. The steep hill proved too heavy for our horses; and before we could reach its summit, the main body of the guerrilla had mounted and scampered off into the darkness. Six of them fell to our shots; and as many more, with their she-associates, remained prisoners in our hands; but as usual that subtle coward had contrived to escape.
Pursuit was idle; they had taken to the dark woods beyond the hill.
I thought not of pursuit; my mind was bent on a far different purpose.
I rode into the patio. The court was lit up by the glare of the fire. It presented a picture of ruin. Rich furniture was scattered about in the verandah and over the pavement, broken or tumbled down. I called her name – the name of Don Ramon. Loudly and earnestly did I raise my voice, but echo gave the only reply.
I dismounted, and rushed into the verandah, still vociferating, and still without receiving a response.
I hurried from room to room – from cuarto to sala– from sola to saguan– up to the azotea – everywhere – even to the capilla in the rear. The moonbeams gleamed upon the altar, but no human form was there. The whole house was deserted; the domestics – even the women of the cocina– had disappeared. My horse and I seemed the only living things within those walls – for my followers had remained outside with their prisoners.
A sudden hope gleamed across my heart. Perhaps they had taken my counsel, and gone off before the mob appeared? Heaven grant it might be so!
I rushed out to question the captives. They should know, both men and women: they could certainly tell me.
A glance showed me I was too late to receive information from the men. A large pecan tree stood at one corner of the building. The firelight glared upon it; from its branches hung six human forms with drooping heads, and feet far from the earth. They had just ceased to live!
One told me that the herredero was among them, and also the cruel matador. Pedro had identified both. The others were pelados of the town, who had borne part in the affair of the day. Their judges had made quick work, and equally quick had been the ceremony of execution. Lazos had been reeved over the limbs of the pecan, and with these all six had been jerked up without shrift or prayer!
It was not revenge for which I panted. I turned to the women; many of these had made off, but there were still a dozen or more in the hands of the men. They looked haggard with drink; some sullen, and some terrified. They had reason to be afraid.
In answer to my questions, they shook their heads, but gave me no information. Some remained doggedly silent; others denied all knowledge of Don Ramon or his daughter. Threats had no effect. They either knew not, or feared to tell what had befallen them. Oh heaven! could it be the latter?
I was turning away angered and despairing, when my eyes fell upon a figure that seemed to skulk under the shadow of the walls. A shout of joy escaped me as I recognised the boy Cyprio, just emerging from his place of concealment.
“Cyprio!” I cried.
“Si, señor’s” answered he, advancing rapidly to where I stood.
“Tell me, Cyprio! where are they gone – where – where?”
“Carrai, señor’s! these bad men have carried the dueño away; I do not know whither.”
“The señora? the señora?”
“Oh! cavallero! es una cosa espantosa!” (It is a terrible thing.)
“Quick, tell me all! Quickly, Cyprio!”
“Señor’s, there came men with black masks, who broke into the house and carried off the master; then they dragged out Dona Isolina into the patio! Ay de mi! I cannot tell you what they did before —pobre señorita! There was blood running down her neck and over her breast: she was not dressed, and I could see it. Some went to the caballeriza, and led out the white horse – the steed that was brought from the llanos. Upon his back they bound Dona Isolina. Valga me dios! such a sight!”
“Go on!”
“Then, señor’s, they led the horse across the river, and out to the plain beyond. All went along, to see the sport, as they said —ay de mi! such sport! I did not go, for they beat and threatened to kill me; but I saw all from the hill-top, where I had hidden myself in the bushes. O Santissima Maria!”
“Go on!”
“Then, señor’s, they stuck cohetes in the hips of the horse, and set them on fire, and pulled off the bridle, and the steed went off, with fire-rockets after him, and Dona Isolina tied down upon his back —pobre señorita! I could see the horse till he was far, far away upon the llano, and then I could see him no more. Dios de mi alma! la niña esta perdida!” (Alas! the young lady is lost.)
“Some water! Rube! Garey! friends – water! water! – ”
I made an attempt to reach the fountain in the patio; but, after staggering dizzily a pace or two, my strength failed me, and I fell fainting to the earth.
