Майн Рид
The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Eighty.
A Red Epistle
The trail led north-west, as written upon the maguey. No doubt Isolina had heard her captors forespeak their plans. I knew that she herself understood something of the Comanche language. The accomplishment may appear strange – and not strange either, when it is known that her mother could have spoken it well: with her it was a native tongue.
But even without this knowledge she might still have learned the designs of the savages – for these southern Comanches are accomplished linguists; many of them can speak the beautiful language of Andalusia! There was a time when a portion of the tribe submitted to the teaching of the mission padres; besides, a few among them might boast – which they do not – of Iberian blood!
No doubt, then, that the captive in their midst had overheard them discussing their projects.
We had ridden about two hours, when we came upon the ground where the Indians had made their night-camp. We approached it warily and with stealth, for we were now travelling with great caution. We had need. Should a single savage, straggling behind, set eyes upon us, we might as well be seen by the whole band. If discovered upon the war-trail, our lives would not be worth much. Some of us might escape; but even if all of us survived our plan would be completely frustrated.
I say plan, for I had formed one. During the long vigil of the night, my thoughts had not been idle, and a course of action I had traced out, though it was not yet fully developed in my mind. Circumstances might yet alter it, or aid me in its execution.
We approached their night-encampment, then, warily and with stealth. The smoke of its smouldering fires pointed out the place, and warned us from afar.
We found it quite deserted – the gaunt wolf and coyote alone occupying the ground, disputing with each other possession of the hide and bones of a horse – the débris of the Indian breakfast.
Had we not known already, the trappers could have told by the sign of the camp to what tribe the Indians belonged. There were still standing the poles of a tent – only one – doubtless the lodge of the head chief. The poles were temporary ones – saplings cut from the adjacent thicket. They were placed in a circle, and meeting at the top, were tied together with a piece of thong – so that, when covered, the lodge would have exhibited the form of a perfect cone. This we knew was the fashion of the Comanche tent.
“Ef ’t hed ’a been Kickapoo,” said Rube, who took the opportunity of displaying his knowledge, “th’ud ’a bent thur poles in’ard, so’s to make a sort o’ a roun top, d’ee see; an ef ’t hed ’a been Wacoes or Witcheetoes, thu’d ’a left a hole at the top, to let out thur smoke. Delawurs an Shawnee wud ’a hed tents, jest like whites; but thet ur ain’t thur way o’ makin a fire. In a Shawnee fire, the logs ’ud ’a been laid wi’ one eend turned in an the tother turned ut, jest like the star on a Texas flag, or the spokes o’ a wagon-wheel. Likeways Cherokee an Choctaw wud ’a hed reg’lar tents, but thur fire wud ’a been alser diff’rint. They’d ’a sot the logs puralell, side by side, an lit’ em only at one eend, an then pushed ’em up as fast as they burn’d. Thet’s thur way. ’Ee see these hyur logs is sot diff’rint – thur lit in the middle, an thet’s Kimanch for sartint – it ur.”
Rube’s “clairvoyance” extended further. The savages had been astart as early as ourselves. They had decamped about daylight, and were now exactly two hours ahead of us on the trail.
Why were they travelling so rapidly? Not from fear of pursuit by any enemy. The soldiers of Mexico – had these been regarded by them – were too busy with the Saxon foe, and vice versa. They could hardly be expecting as upon an expedition to rob them of their captives. Perhaps they were driving forward to be in time for the great herds of buffalo, that, along with the cold northers, might now be looked for in the higher latitudes of the Comanche range. This was the explanation given by the trappers – most probably the true one.
Under the influence of singular emotions, I rode over the ground. There were other signs besides those of the savage – signs of the plunder with which they were laden – signs of civilisation. There were fragments of broken cups and musical instruments – torn leaves of books – remnants of dresses, silks and velvets – a small satin slipper (the peculiar chaussure of the Mexican manola) side by side with a worn-out mud-stained moccasin – fit emblems of savage and civilised life.
There was no time for speculating on so curious a confusion. I was looking for signs of her – for traces of my betrothed.
I cast around me inquiring glances. Where was it probable she had passed the night? Where?
Involuntarily my eyes rested upon the naked poles – the tent of the chief. How could it be otherwise? Who among all the captives like her? grandly beautiful to satisfy the eye even of a savage chieftain – grandly, magnificently beautiful, how could she escape his notice? There, in his lodge, shrouded under the brown skins of buffaloes – under hideous devices – in the arms of a painted, keel-bedaubed savage – his arms brawn and greasy – embraced – oh! —
“Young fellur! I ain’t much o’ a skollur; but I’d stake a pack o’ beaver plew agin a plug o’ Jeemes River, thet this hyur manurscrip wur entended for yurself, an nob’dy else. Thur’s writin’ upon it – thet’s clur, an mighty kew’rous ink I reck’n thet ur. Oncest ov a time I kud ’a read write, or print eythur, as easy as fallin’ off a log; for thur wur a Yankee fellur on Duck Crik thet kep a putty consid’able school thur, an the ole ’oman – thet ur Mrs Rawlins – hed this child put thro’ a reg’lar coorse o’ Testy mint. I remembers readin’ ’bout thet ur cussed niggur as toated the possible sack – Judeas, ef I reccol’ex right, war the durned raskul’s name – ef I kud ’a laid claws on him, I’d a raised his har in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Wagh! thet I wild.”
Rube’s indignation against the betrayer having reached its climax, brought his speech to a termination.
I had not waited for its finale. The object which he held between his fingers had more interest for me, than either the history of his own early days or the story of the betrayal.
It was a paper – a note actually folded, and addressed “Warfield!” He had found it upon the grass, close to where the tent had stood, where it was held in the crotch of a split reed, the other end of which was sticking in the ground.
No wonder the trapper had remarked upon the ink, there was no mistaking the character of that livid red: the writing was in blood!
Hastily unfolding the paper, I read:
“Henri! I am still safe, but in dread of a sad fate—the fate of the poor white captive among these hideous men. Last night I feared it, but the Virgin shielded me. It has not come. Oh! I shall not submit—I shall die by my own hand. A strange chance has hitherto saved me from this horrid outrage. No! it was not chance, but Heaven that interposed. It is thus: Two of my captors claim me—one, the son of the chief—the other, the wretch to whom you granted life and freedom. Would to God it had been otherwise! Of the two, he of white blood is the viler savage—bad, brutal—a very demon. Both took part in the capture of the steed, therefore both claim me as their property? The claim is not yet adjusted; hence have I been spared. But, alas! I fear my hour is nigh. A council is to be held that will decide to which of these monsters I am to be given. If to either, it is a horrid fate; if to neither, a doom still more horrible. Perchance, you know their custom: I should be common property—the victim of all. Dios de mi alma! Never—never! Death—welcome death!
“Fear not, Henri, lord of my heart! fear not that I shall dishonour your love. No—sacred in my breast, its purity shall be preserved, even at the sacrifice of my life. I shall bathe it with my blood. Ah me! my heart is bleeding now! They come to drag me away. Farewell! farewell!”
Such were the contents of the page – the fly-leaf of a torn missal. Upon the other side was a vignette – a picture of Dolores, the weeping saint of Mexico! Had it been chosen, the emblem could scarcely have been more appropriate.
I thrust the red writing into my bosom; and, without waiting to exchange a word with my companions, pressed forward upon the trail.
Chapter Eighty One.
More Writing in Red
The men followed as before. We needed no trackers to point out the way; the path was plain as a drover’s road – a thousand hoofs had made their mark upon the ground.
We rode at a regular pace, not rapidly. I was in no hurry to come up with the savages; I desired to get sight of them just after nightfall, not before, lest they might also get sight of us.
The plan I proposed to myself for the rescue of my betrothed, could not be accomplished in the daytime; darkness alone could avail me in carrying it out, and for nightfall must I wait.
We could easily have overtaken the Indians before night. They were but two short hours in the advance of us, and would be certain – as is their custom on the war-trail – to make a noon-halt of several hours’ duration. Even Indian horses require to be rested.
We calculated the rate at which they were travelling – how many miles to the hour. The prairie-men could tell to a furlong, both the gait and the distance.
The tracks of the poor captives were still seen along the trail. This showed that the party could not have been going faster than a walk.
The prairie-men alleged there were many horses without riders – led or driven; many mules, too – the product of the foray. Why were the poor captives not permitted to ride them?
Was it sheer cruelty, or brutal indifference on the part of their captors? Did the inhuman monsters gloat over the sufferings of these unfortunates, and deny them even the alleviation of physical pain? The affirmative answer to all these questions was probably the true one, since hardly better – no better, indeed – is the behaviour of these savages towards the women of their own blood and kind – their own squaws.
Talk not to me of the noble savage – of the simplicity and gentleness of that condition falsely termed a “state of nature.” It is not nature. God meant not man to be a wild Ishmaelite on the face of the earth. Man was made for civilisation – for society; and only under its influence does he assume the form and grace of true nobility. Leave him to himself – to the play of his instincts – to the indulgence of his evil impulses – and man becomes a brute, a beast of prey. Even worse – for wolf and tiger gently consort with their kind, and still more gently with their family: they feel the tenderness of the family tie. Where is the savage upon all the earth who does not usurp dominion, and practise the meanest tyranny, over his weaker mate? Where can you find him? Not on the blood-stained karoos of Africa, not upon the forest-plains of the Amazon, not by the icy shores of the Arctic Sea, certainly not upon the prairies of North America.
No man can be noble who would in wrath lay his finger upon weaker woman; talk not, then, of the noble savage! – fancy of poets, myth of romancers!
The tracks of riderless horses, the footsteps of walking women – tender girls and children – upon that long tiresome trail, had for me a cruel significance – those slender tiny tracks of pretty feet —pobres niñas!
There was one that fixed my attention more than the rest: every now and then my eyes were upon it; I fancied I could identify it. It was exactly the size, I thought. The perfect symmetry and configuration, the oval curve of the heel, the high instep, the row of small graduated globes made by the impression of the toes, the smooth surface left by the imprint of the delicate epidermis – all these points seemed to characterise the footprint of a lady.
Surely it could not be hers? Oh, surely she would not be toiling along that weary track? Cruel as were the hearts of her captors, brutal as were their natures, surely they would not inflict this unnecessary pain? Beauty like hers should command kinder treatment, should inspire compassion even in the breast of a savage! Alas! I deemed it doubtful.
We rode slowly on, as already said, not desirous of yet overtaking the foe: we were allowing them time to depart from their noon halting-place. We might have stopped there a while longer, but I could not submit to the repose of a halt. Motion, however slow, appeared progress, and in some measure hindered me from dwelling upon thoughts that only produced unnecessary pain.
Notwithstanding the incumbrance of their spoils, the Indians must have been travelling faster than we. They had no fear of foes to retard them; nought to require either spies or caution. They were now in their own country – in the very heart of the Comanche range – and in dread of no enemy. They were moving freely and without fear. We, on the contrary, had to keep our scouts in the advance; every bend of the road had to be reconnoitred by them, every bush examined, every rise of the ground approached with extreme care and watchfulness. These manoeuvres occupied time, and we moved slowly enough.
It was after mid-day when we arrived at the noon-camp of the savages. The smoke, as before, warned us, and approaching under cover, we perceived that they were gone. They had kindled fires and cooked flesh. The bones, clean picked, were easily identified, and the mid-day meal showed that there had been no change in the diet of these hippophagists: dinner and déjeuner had been alike – drawn from the same larder.
Again I searched the ground; but, as before, the eyes of the trapper proved better than mine.
“Hyur’s a other billy-dux, young fellur,” said he, handing me the paper.
Another leaf from the missal!
I seized it eagerly – eagerly I devoured its contents! This time they were more brief:
“Once more I open my veins. The council meets to-night. In a few hours it will be decided whose property I am – whose slave – whose – Santissima Maria! I cannot write the word. I shall attempt to escape. They leave my hands free, but my limbs are tightly bound. I have tried to undo my fastenings, but cannot. O, if I but had a knife! I know where one is kept; I may contrive to seize it, but it must be in the last moment – it will not do to fail. Henri, I am firm and resolute; I do not yield to despair. One way or the other, I shall free myself from the hideous embrace of – They come – the villain watches me – I must– ”
The writing ended abruptly. Her jailers had suddenly approached.
The paper had evidently been concealed from them in haste; it had been crumpled up and flung upon the grass – for so was it when found.
We remained for a while upon the spot, to rest and refresh our horses; the poor brutes needed both. There was water at the place; and that might not be met with again.
The sun was far down when we resumed our march —our last march along the war-trail.
Chapter Eighty Two.
An “Injun on the Back-Track.”
We had advanced about a mile farther, when our scouts – who, as usual, had gone forward to reconnoitre – having ascended a swell of the prairie, were observed crouching behind some bushes that grew upon its crest.
We all drew bridle to await the result of their reconnoissance. The peculiar attitude in which they had placed themselves, and the apparent earnestness with which they glanced over the bushes, led us to believe that some object was before their eyes of more than common interest.
So it proved. We had scarcely halted, when they were seen to retire suddenly from the cover, and rising erect, run at full speed back down the hill – at the same time making signals to us to conceal ourselves in the timber.
Fortunately, there was timber near; and in a few seconds we had all ridden into it, taking the horses of the trappers along with us.
The declivity of the hill enabled the scouts to run with swiftness; and they were among the trees almost as soon as we.
“What is it?” inquired several in the same breath.
“Injun on the back-track,” replied the panting trappers.
“Indians! – how many of them?” naturally asked one of the rangers.
“Who slayed Injuns? We saved a Injun,” sharply retorted Rube. “Damn yur palaver! thur’s no time for jaw-waggin’. Git yur rope ready, Bill. ’Ee durned greenhorns! keep down yur guns – shootin’ won’t do hyur – yu’d hev the hul gang back in the flappin’ o’ a beaver’s tail. You, Bill, rope the redskin, an let the young fellur help – he knows how; an ef both shed miss ’im, I ain’t agwine. ’Ee hear me, fellurs? Don’t ne’er a one o’ ye fire: ef a gun ur wanted, Targuts ’ll be surfficient, I guess. For yur lives don’t a fire them ur blunderboxes o’ yourn till ees see me miss – they’d be heerd ten mile off. Ready wi’ yur rope, Billee? You, young fellur? All right; mind yur eyes both an snare the durned niggur like a swamp-rabbit. Yanner he comes, right inter the trap, by the jumpin Geehosophat!”
The pithy chapter of instructions above detailed was delivered in far less time than it takes to read it. The speaker never paused till he had uttered the final emphatic expression, which was one of his favourite phrases of embellishment.
At the same instant I saw, just appearing above the crest of the ridge, the head and shoulders of a savage. In a few seconds more, the body rose in sight; and then the thighs and legs, with a large piebald mustang between them. I need scarcely add that the horse was going at a gallop; it is a rare sight when a horse-Indian rides any other gait.
There was only one. The scouts were sure of this. Beyond the swell stretched an open prairie, and if the Indian had had companions or followers, they would have been seen. He was alone.
What had brought him back on the trail? Was he upon the scout?
No; he was riding without thought, and without precaution. A scout would have acted otherwise.
He might have been a messenger; but whither bound? Surely the Indians had left no party in our rear?
Quickly these inquiries passed among us, and quick conjectures were offered in answer. The voyageur gave the most probable solution.
“Pe gar! he go back for ze sheel.”
“Shield! what shield?”
“Ah, you no see ’im. I see ’im wiz me eye; he vas caché dans les herbes – von larzge sheel – bouclier très gros – fabriqué from ze peau of de buffle – ze parflèche – et garnie avec les scalps – frais et sanglants – scalps Mexicaines. Mon Dieu!”
The explanation was understood. Le Blanc had observed a shield among the bushes where we had halted – like enough left behind by some of the braves. It was garnished with scalps, fresh Mexican scalps – like enough. The Indian had forgotten both his armour and his trophies; he was on his way to recover them – like enough.
There was no time either for further talk or conjecture; the red horseman had reached the bottom of the hill; in ten seconds more, he would be lazoed or shot!
Garey and I placed ourselves on opposite sides of the path, both with our lazoes coiled and ready. The trapper was an adept in the use of this singular weapon, and I too understood something of its management. The trees were in our way, and would have prevented the proper winding of it; but it was our intention to spur clear of the timber – the moment the Indian came within range – and “rope” him on the run.
Rube crouched behind Garey, rifle in hand, and the rangers were also ready, in case both the lazoes and Rube’s rifle should miss.
It would not do to let the Indian either go on or go back; in either case he would report us. Should he pass the spot where we were, he would observe our tracks in a minute’s time – even amidst the thousands of others – and would be certain to return by another route. Should he escape from us, and gallop away, still worse. He must not be permitted either to go on or go back; he must be captured or killed!
For my part, I desired that the former should be his destiny. I had no feeling of revenge to gratify by taking the life of this red man; and had his capture not been absolutely necessary to our own safety, I should willingly have let him come and go as he listed.
Some of my comrades were actuated by very different motives. Killing a Comanche Indian was, by their creed, no greater crime than killing a wolf, a panther, or a grizzly bear; and it was not from any motives of mercy that the trapper had cautioned the others to hold their fire; prudence alone dictated the advice – he had given his reason – the reports of our guns might be heard.
Through the leaves, I looked upon the horseman as he advanced. A fine-looking fellow he was – no doubt one of the distinguished warriors of his tribe. What his face was I could not see, for the war-paint disfigured it with a hideous mask; but his body was large, his chest broad and full, his limbs symmetrical, and well turned to the very toes. He sat his horse like a centaur.
I had no opportunity for prolonged observation. Without hesitating, the Indian galloped up.
I sprang my horse clear of the timber. I wound the lazo around my head, and hurled it towards him; I saw the noose settling over his shoulders, and falling down to his hips.
I spurred in the opposite direction; I felt the quick jerk, and the taut rope told me I had secured the victim.
I turned in my saddle, and glanced back; I saw the rope of Garey around the neck of the Indian’s mustang, tightened, and holding him fast. Horse and horseman – both were ours!
