Майн Рид
The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Fifty Seven.
Taking the Trail
I had merely swooned. My nerves and frame were still weak from the blood-letting I had received in the combat of yesterday. The shock of the horrid news was too much for my powers of endurance.
I was insensible only for a short while; the cold water revived me.
When consciousness returned, I was by the fountain, my back leaning against its parapet edge; Rube, Garey and others were around me. From my dripping garments, I perceived that they had douched me, and one was pouring a fiery spirit down my throat.
There were men on horseback, who had ridden into the patio – the iron hoofs causing the court to ring. They were rangers, but not those who had left camp in my company. Some had arrived since, and others were still galloping up. The girls had reached the ranger camp, and told their tale. The men had not waited for orders, or even for one another, but rushing to their horses, took the road in twos and threes. Every moment, a horseman, or several together, came riding forward in hot haste, carrying their rifles, as if ready for action, and uttering loud cries of indignation.
Wheatley had arrived among the foremost.
Poor fellow! his habitual buoyancy had departed; the gay smile was gone from his lips. His eyes were on fire, and his teeth set in the stern expression of heart-consuming vengeance.
Amidst the hoarse shouting of the men, I heard screaming in the shriller voices of women. It came from without.
I rose hastily, and ran towards the spot: I saw several of the wretched captives stripped to the waist, and men in the act of flogging them, with mule-quirts and pieces of raw-hide rope.
I had feared it was worse; I had feared that their captors were inflicting upon them a retaliation in kind. But no – angry as were my followers, they had not proceeded to such a fiendish extremity.
It required all the authority of a command to put an end to the distressing spectacle. They desisted at length; and the screeching and affrighted wretches were permitted to take themselves away – all disappearing rapidly beyond the light of the fire.
At this crisis a shout was raised: “To the rancheria, to the rancheria!” and instantly a party, with Wheatley and Holingsworth at its head, rode off for the village. Pedro went along with them.
I waited not for their return; I had formed a plan of action for myself, that would admit of no delay in its execution.
At first, stunned by the blow, and the distraction of my swooning senses, I had not been able to think; as soon as the confusion passed, and I could reflect more clearly, the course I ought to pursue was at once apparent. Vengeance I had felt as the first impulse, and a strong desire to follow up the fiend Ijurra – night and day to follow him – though the pursuit should lead me into the heart of the hostile ground.
This was but a momentary impulse: vengeance must be stifled for the time. A path was to be taken that widely diverged from that of the retreating guerrilla —the trail of the white steed.
Mounting Cyprio, and choosing from my band half-a-dozen of the best trackers, was the work of a moment. In another, we were in the saddle; and descending the hill, we plunged rapidly through the stream, crossed the skirting timber, and soon rode out upon the open prairie.
Under Cyprio’s guidance, we found the spot desecrated by that cruel display. The ground was trampled by many hoofs; fragments of paper – powder-blackened – broken rocket-sticks, and half-burnt fuses, strewed the sward – the pyrotechnic reliquiae of the fiendish spectacle.
We halted not there. By the aid of our guide and the moonlight, we rode clear of the confusion; and taking up the trail of the horse, struck off upon it, and were soon far out upon the prairie.
For more than a mile we advanced at a gallop. Time was everything. Trusting to the intelligence of the Mexican boy, we scarcely scrutinised the track, but made directly for the point where the horse had been last seen.
Cyprio’s information did not deceive us. A motte of timber had served him as a mark: the steed had passed close to its edge. Beyond it, he had seen him no more, and the boy was sent back.
Beyond it, we found the tracks, easily recognisable by Rube, Garey, and myself. There was a peculiarity by which we were prevented from mistaking them: three of the prints were clearly cut in the turf – almost perfect circles – the curve of the fourth – of the off fore-foot – was interrupted by a slight indentation, where a piece had been broken from the hoof. It had been done in that terrible leap upon the rocky bed of the barranca.
Taking the trail again, we kept on – now advancing at a slower pace, and with a greater degree of caution. Late rain had moistened the prairie-turf, and we could perceive the racks without dismounting. At intervals, there were stretches of drier surface, where the hoof had scarcely left its impression. In such places, one leaped from the saddle, and led the way on foot. Rube or Garey usually performed this office; and so rapidly did they move along the trail, that our horses were seldom in a walk. With bodies half bent, and eyes gliding along the ground, they pressed forward like hounds running by the scent, but, unlike these, the trackers made no noise. Not a word was spoken by any one. I had no list for speech; my agony was too intense for utterance.
With Cyprio I had conversed upon the harrowing theme, and that only at starting. From him I had gathered further details. No doubt, the matador had performed his office. Oh, God! without ears!
Cyprio had seen blood; it was streaming adown her neck and over her bosom: her slight garments were stained red with it. He knew not whence it came, or why she was bleeding. He was not present when that blood had been drawn; it was in her chamber, he thought. She was bleeding when the ruffians dragged her forth!
Belike, too, the herredero had done his work? Cyprio had seen the blacksmith, but not the fierro. He heard they had branded some at the piazza, among others the daughter of the alcalde —pobre Conchita! He did not see them brand the Dona Isolina.
The ruffian deed might have been accomplished for all that; there was plenty of time, while the boy lay hid, or before she had been dragged from her chamber.
How was she placed upon the horse?
Despite my heart’s bitterness, as I put these interrogatories, I could not help thinking of the Cossack legend. The famed classic picture came vividly before my mind. Wide was the distance between the Ukraine and the Rio Bravo. Had the monsters who re-enacted this scene on the banks of the Mexican river – had these ever heard of Mazeppa? Possibly their leader had; but it was still more probable that the fiendish thought was original.
The fashion at least was. Cyprio had seen and described it.
She was laid longitudinally upon the back of the steed, her head resting upon the point of his shoulder. Her face was downward, her cheek touching the withers. Her arms embraced the neck, and her wrists were made fast under the animal’s throat. Her body was held in this position by means of a belt around her waist, attached to a surcingle on the horse – both tightly buckled. In addition to this, her ankles, bound together by a thong, were fastened to the croup, with her feet projecting beyond the hips!
I groaned as I listened to the details.
The ligature was perfect – cruelly complete. There was no hope that such fastenings would give way. Those thongs of raw-hide would not come undone. Horse and rider could never part from that unwilling embrace – never, till hunger, thirst, death – no, not even death could part them! Oh, horror!
Not without groans could I contemplate the hideous fate of my betrothed – of her whose love had become my life.
I left the tracking to my comrades, and my horse to follow after. I rode with loose rein, and head drooping forward; I scarcely gave thought to design. My heart was well-nigh broken.
Chapter Fifty Eight.
The Voyageur
We had not gone far when some one closed up beside me, and muttered a word of cheer; I recognised the friendly voice of the big trapper.
“Don’t be afeerd, capt’n,” said he, in a tone of encouragement; “don’t be afeerd! Rube an me’ll find ’em afore thar’s any harm done. I don’t b’lieve the white hoss ’ll gallip fur, knowin’ thar’s someb’dy on his back. It war them gim-cracks that sot him off. When they burn out, he’ll come to a dead halt, an then – ”
“And then?” I inquired mechanically.
“We’ll get up, an your black’ll be able to overhaul him in a jump or two.”
I began to feel hope. It was but a momentary gleam, and died out in the next instant.
“If the moon ’ud only hold out,” continued Garey, with an emphasis denoting doubt.
“Rot the moon!” said a voice interrupting him; “she’s a gwine to guv out. Wagh!”
It was Rube who had uttered the unpleasant prognostication, in a peevish, but positive tone.
All eyes were turned upward. The moon, round and white, was sailing through a cloudless sky, and almost in the zenith. How, then, was she to “give out?” She was near the full, and could not set before morning. What did Rube mean? The question was put to him.
“Look ee ’ander!” said he in reply. “D’ees see thet ur black line, down low on the paraira?”
There appeared a dark streak along the horizon to the eastward. Yes, we saw it.
“Wal,” continued Rube, “thur’s no timber thur – ne’er a stick – nor high groun neyther: thurfor thet ur’ss a cloud; I’ve seed the likes afore. Wait a bit. Wagh! In jest ten minnits, the durned thing’ll kiver up the moon, an make thet putty blue sky look as black as the hide o’ an Afrikin niggur —it will.”
“I’m afeerd he’s right, capt’n,” said Garey, in a desponding tone. “I war doubtful o’ it myself: the sky looked too near. I didn’t like it a bit: thar’s always a change when things are better ’n common.”
I needed not to inquire the consequences, should Rube’s prediction prove correct; that was evident to all of us. The moon once obscured by clouds, our progress would be arrested: even a horse could not be tracked in the darkness.
We were not long in suspense. Again the foresight of the old trapper proved unerring. Cumuli rolled up the sky one after another, until their black masses shrouded the moon. At first, they came only in detached clouds, and there was light at intervals; but these were only the advanced columns of a heavier body, that soon after appeared; and without a break, spread itself pall-like over the firmament.
The moon’s disc became entirely hidden from our view; her scattered beams died out; and the prairie lay dark as if shadowed by an eclipse.
We could follow the trail no farther. The ground itself was not visible, much less the hoof-prints we had been tracing; and halting simultaneously, we drew our horses togther, and sat in our saddles to deliberate upon what was best to be done.
The consultation was a short one. They who formed that little party were all men of prairie or backwoods experience, and well versed in the ways of the wilderness. It took them but little time to decide what course should be followed; and they were unanimous in their opinion. Should the sky continue clouded, we must give up the pursuit till morning, or adopt the only alternative – follow the trail by torchlight.
Of course the latter was determined upon. It was yet early in the night; many hours must intervene before we should have the light of day. I could not live through those long hours without action. Even though our progress might be slow, the knowledge that we were advancing would help to stifle the painfulness of reflection.
“A torch! a torch!”
Where was such a thing to be procured? We had with us no material with which to make one; there was no timber near! We were in the middle of a naked prairie. The universal mesquite – the algar obia glandulosa– excellent for such a purpose – grew nowhere in the neighbourhood. Who was to find the torch? Even Rube’s ingenuity could not make one out of nothing.
”Écoutez, mon capitaine!” cried Le Blanc, an old voyageur – ”écoutez! vy me no ride back, et von lanterne bring from ze ville Mexicaine?”
True, why not? We were yet but a few miles from the rancheria. The Canadian’s idea was a good one.
“Je connais,” he continued – “know I, pe gar! ze ver spot ou – vere – sont cachées – hid les chandelles magnifiques – von, deux, tree big candle – vax, vax – ”
“Wax-candles?”
“Oui – oui, messieurs! très grand comme un baton; ze ver chose pour allumer la prairie.”
“You know where they are? You could find them, Le Blanc?”
“Oui, messieurs – je connais: les chandelles sont cachées dans l’église – zey are in ze church hid.”
“Ha! in the church?”
“Oui, messieurs; c’est un grand sacrilege, mon Dieu! ver bad; mais n’importe cela. Eef mon capitaine permit – vill allow pour aller Monsieur Quack’bosh, he go chez moi; nous chercherons; ve bring ze chandelles – pe gar ve bring him!”
From the mixed gibberish of the voyageur, I could gather his meaning well enough. He knew of a depository of wax-candles, and the church of the rancheria was the place in which they were kept.
I was not in a frame of mind to care much for the sacrilege, and my companions were still less scrupulous. The act was determined upon, and Le Blanc and Quackenboss, without more delay, took the back-track for the village.
The rest of us dismounted; and, picketing our horses to the grass, lay down to await the return of the messengers.
Chapter Fifty Nine.
Trailing by Torch-Light
While thus inactive, my mind yielded itself up to the contemplation of painful probabilities. Horrid spectacles passed before my imagination. I saw the white horse galloping over the plain, pursued by wolves, and shadowed by black vultures. To escape these hungry pursuers, I saw him dash into the thick chapparal, there to encounter the red panther or the fierce prowling bear – there to encounter the sharp thorns of the acacias, the barbed spines of the cactus, and the recurving claw-like armature of the wild aloes. I could see the red blood streaming adown his white flanks – not his blood, but that of the helpless victim stretched prostrate along his back. I could see the lacerated limbs – the ankles chafed and swollen – the garments torn to shreds – the drooping head – the long loose hair tossed and trailing to the earth – the white wan lips – the woe-bespeaking eyes – Oh! I could bear my reflections no longer. I sprang to my feet, and paced the prairie with the aimless, unsteady step of a madman.
Again the kind-hearted trapper approached, and renewed his efforts to console me.
“We could follow the trail,” he said, “by torch or candle light, almost as fast as we could travel; we should be many miles along it before morning; maybe before then we should get sight of the steed. It would not be hard to surround and capture him; now that he was half-tamed, he might not run from us; if he did, he could be overtaken. Once in view, we would not lose sight of him again. The saynyora would be safe enough; there was nothing to hurt her: the wolves would not know the ‘fix’ she was in, neyther the ‘bars’ nor ‘painters.’ We should be sure to come up with her before the next night, an would find her first-rate; a little tired and hungry, no doubt, but nothing to hurt. We should relieve her, and rest would set all right again.”
Notwithstanding the rude phrase in which these consolatory remarks were made, I appreciated their kind intention.
Garey’s speech had the effect of rendering me more hopeful; and in calmer mood, I awaited the return of Quackenboss and the Canadian.
These did not linger. Two hours had been allowed them to perform their errand; but long before the expiration of that period, we heard the double tramp of their horses as they came galloping across the plain.
In a few minutes they rode up, and we could see in the hands of Le Blanc three whitish objects, that in length and thickness resembled stout walking-canes. We recognised les chandelles magnifiques.
They were the property of the church – designed, no doubt, to have illumined the altar upon the occasion of some grand dia de fiesta.
“Voilà! mon capitaine!” cried the Canadian, as he rode forward – “voilà les chandelles! Ah, mon Dieu! c’est von big sacrilege, et je suis bon Chrétien – buen Catolico, as do call ’im ze dam Mexicaine; bien – ze bon Dieu me forgive – God ve pardon vill pour – for ze grand necessitie; sure certaine he will me pardon – Lige et moi – ze brave Monsieur Quack’bosh.”
The messengers had brought news from the village. Some rough proceedings had taken place since our departure. Men had been punished; fresh victims had been found under the guidance of Pedro and others of the abused. The trees in the church enclosure that night bore horrid fruit.
The alcalde was not dead; and Don Ramon, it was supposed, still survived, but had been carried off a prisoner by the guerrilla! The rangers were yet at the rancheria; many had been desirous of returning with Le Blanc and Quackenboss, but I had sent orders to the lieutenants to take all back to camp as soon as their affair was over. The fewer of the troop that should be absent, the less likelihood of our being missed, and those I had with me I deemed enough for my purpose. Whether successful or not, we should soon return to camp. It would then be time to devise some scheme for capturing the leader and prime actor in this terrible tragedy.
Hardly waiting to hear the story, we lighted the great candles, and moved once more along the trail.
Fortunately, the breeze was but slight, and only served to make the huge waxen torches flare more freely. By their brilliant blaze, we were enabled to take up the tracks, quite as rapidly as by the moonlight. At this point, the horse had been still going at full gallop; and his course, as it ran in a direct line, was the more easily followed.
Dark as the night was, we soon perceived we were heading for a point well known to all of us – the prairie mound; and, under a faint belief that the steed might have there come to a stop, we pressed forward with a sort of hopeful anticipation.
After an hour’s tracking, the white cliffs loomed within the circle of our view – the shining selenite glancing back the light of our tapers, like a wall set with diamonds.
We approached with caution, still keeping on the trail, but also keenly scrutinising the ground in advance of us – in hopes of perceiving the object of our search. Neither by the cliff, nor in the gloom around, was living form to be traced.
Sure enough the steed had halted there, or, at all events, ceased from his wild gallop. He had approached the mound in a walk, as the tracks testified; but how, and in what direction, had he gone thence? His hoof-prints no longer appeared. He had passed over the shingle, that covered the plain to a distance of many yards from the base of the cliff, and no track could be found beyond!
Several times we went around the mesa, carrying our candles everywhere. We saw skeletons of men and horses, with skulls detached, fragments of dresses, and pieces of broken armour – souvenirs of our late skirmish. We looked into our little fortress, and gazed upon the rock that had sheltered us; we glanced up the gorge where we had climbed, and beheld the rope by which we had descended still hanging in its place: all these we saw, but no further traces of the steed!
Round and round we went, back and forward, over the stony shingle, and along its outer edge, but still without coming upon the tracks. Whither could the horse have gone!
Perhaps, with a better light, we might have found the trail; but for a long hour we searched, without striking upon any sign of it. Perhaps we might still have found it, even with our waxen torches, but for an incident that not only interrupted our search, but filled us with fresh apprehension, and almost stifled our hopes of success.
The interruption did not come unexpected. The clouds had for some time given ample warning. The big solitary drops that at intervals fell with plashing noise upon the rocks, were but the avant-couriers of one of the great rainstorms of the prairie, when water descends as if from a shower-bath. We knew from the signs that such a storm was nigh; and while casting around to recover the trail, it came down in all its fury.
Almost in an instant our lights were extinguished, and our bootless search brought to a termination.
We drew up under the rocks, and stood side by side in sullen silence. Even the elements seemed against me. In my heart’s bitterness, I cursed them.
