The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

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.

Chapter Thirty.

Guerrilleros

The manoeuvre had occupied only a few seconds of time, and the horsemen were yet distant. They had thrown themselves into a formation, and were riding “by twos!”

This movement took us by surprise. The tactics were not Indian: Comanches never march in double file. The horsemen could not be Indians. Who, then?

A sudden hope crossed my mind, that it might be a party of my own people, out in search of me. “By twos” was our favourite and habitual order of march. But no; the long lances and streaming pennons at once dissipated the hope: there was not a lance in the American army. They could not be “rangers.”

Comanches on the war-trail would have been armed with the lance, but clearly they were not Comanches.

“Wagh!” exclaimed Rube, after eyeing them intently. “Ef thur Injuns, I’m a niggur! Ef thur Injuns, they’ve got beards an sombrayras, an thet ain’t Injun sign nohow. No!” he added, raising his voice, “thur a gang o’ yellur-bellied Mexikins! thet’s what they ur.”

All three of us had arrived simultaneously at the same conviction. The horsemen were Mexicans.

It was no great source of rejoicing to know this; and the knowledge produced no change in our defensive attitude. We well knew that a band of Mexicans, armed as these were, could not be other than a hostile party, and bitter too in their hostility. For several weeks past, the petite guerre had been waged with dire vengeance. The neutral ground had been the scene of reprisals and terrible retaliations. On one side, wagon-trains had been attacked and captured, harmless teamsters murdered, or mutilated whilst still alive. I saw one with his arms cut off by the elbow-joints, his heart taken out, and thrust between his teeth! He was dead; but another whom I saw still lived, with the cross deeply gashed upon his breast, on his brow, upon the soles of his feet, and the palms of his hands – a horrid spectacle to behold!

On the other side, ranchos had been ransacked and ruined, villages given to the flames, and men on mere suspicion shot down upon the spot or hanged upon the nearest tree.

Such a character had the war assumed; and under these circumstances, we knew that the approaching horsemen were our deadly foes.

Beyond a doubt, it was either a scouting-party of Mexican lancers, a guerrilla, or a band of robbers. During the war, the two last were nearly synonymous, and the first not unfrequently partook of the character of both.

One thing that puzzled us – what could any of the three be doing in that quarter?

The neutral ground – the scene of guerrilla operations – lay between the two armies; and we were now far remote from it; in fact, altogether away from the settlements. What could have brought lancers, guerrilleros, or robbers out upon the plains? There was no game in that quarter for any of these gentry – neither an American force to be attacked, nor a traveller to be plundered! My own troop was the extreme out-picket in this direction, and it was full ten miles off. The only thing likely to be met with near the mesa would be a war-party of Comanches, and we knew the Mexicans well enough to be convinced that, whether soldiers or freebooters, they were not in search of that.

Such reflections, made in double-quick time, occurred to us as we scanned the advancing troop.

Up to this moment, they had ridden directly towards us, and were now nearly in a line between us and the mesa.

On getting within about half-a-mile of our position, they turned sharply towards the west, and rode as if to make round to our rear!

This manoeuvre of course placed us upon their flank; and now outlined against the sky, we could distinctly trace their forms and note their habiliments and armour. Nearly all wore broad-brimmed sombreros, with jacket, sash, and calzoneros. They carried lances, lazoes, and carbines or escopettes. We could distinguish sabres and machetes– the universal weapon of the Mexican ranchero. They could not be drilled troops. Their costumes, as well as a certain irregularity in their manoeuvring, forbade this supposition. Their lances, moreover, were borne in all sorts of ways – some couched, some resting in the stirrup and held correctly, while others were carried over the shoulder like a firelock! No, they could not be a troop of regulars. They were either guerrillos or true salteadores.

After riding nearly a half-circle round – still keeping at the same distance – the troop suddenly made front towards as, and halted.

We had been puzzled by their going round; we could not divine their object in so doing. It could not be to cut off our retreat. The timber in the back direction was miles off. Had it been near enough, we should certainly have retreated to it long before; but we knew it was too distant. Rube and his old mare would have been overtaken by our well-mounted enemies long ere we could have gained the woods; we knew this, and therefore did not think of making the attempt. On the other side was the mesa, which, by their late movement, had been left open to us. It was but a half-mile off, and perhaps, by making a dash, we might have reached it; but not a tree grew near it – except those on its summit – and its rocky wall apparently offered no advantage to us, any more than the open plain. The enemy seemed to be aware of this, else they would not have ridden round, and by so doing left the way clear.

Until the moment of their halt, therefore, we remained ignorant of their motive in moving to our rear. Then it was explained. Their object was evident to all of us: they had halted between us and the sun!

It was a cunning manoeuvre – worthy of a war-party of Indians – and told us we had no common enemy to deal with. By approaching us from that direction, they would have a decided advantage: our aim would be spoiled by the sun – now low down upon the horizon, and gleaming right in our eyes.

My companions were wroth at the trick that had been thus played so adroitly; though we could not have hindered it even if forewarned of their intention.

We were allowed but little time to reflect upon the matter; we saw by the movements of the horsemen that they were preparing to charge. One who appeared to be the leader, mounted upon a larger horse than any of the rest was addressing them. He rode along the line speaking in a loud tone, and gesticulating violently; he was answered with vivas, which we could plainly hear. Every moment, we looked to see them gallop forward.

We knew there was no alternative but fight or surrender – though not one of us entertained an idea of the latter. For myself, I should as soon have thought of turning my pistol to my own head. My uniform, tattered as it was, would easily reveal my character to the enemy; and, if captured, I knew that I should be hung, or perhaps, in the absence of trees, shot down upon the spot. My comrades had reasons for knowing that their shrift would be equally short: neither thought for a moment of tamely yielding.

“No!” emphatically pronounced Rube, “this child don’t guv in, till he’s rubbed out, he don’t! Tarnation odd too!” he added, looking toward the troop; “twelve agin three o’ us. Durn the odds! I’ve got clur o’ wuss scrapes than’t looks yit, and so’ve you, Bill Garey – hain’t we, boyee? Durn the odds! let ’em kum on!”

“Ay,” responded Garey, without the slightest show of excitement, “they’d better not come too near ’ithout telling thar bisness. I see one saddle that I’ll empy the minnit they pass yon weed.” And the speaker indicated a bunch of the artemisia plant that grew some two hundred paces off in the direction of the horsemen.

The reckless talk of the old trapper, with the contrasted cool bearing of his younger companion, had fixed my nerves fully. At the first sight of so many adversaries, I was not without some misgivings – in truth, I felt fear. Such odds against us – four to one – was fair cause for apprehension. But it was not my first fight against large odds, both Indian and Mexican; and on that account, I regarded it the less seriously.

Notwithstanding the superiority of our enemy in numbers, I knew we were not so unequal. Unless shot down by the first volley of their carbines and escopettes, each of our three rifles was sure of its man. I had confidence in my own weapon, and a still more perfect reliance on those of my comrades. They were men that never missed – men who never fired a random shot – never drew trigger till their aim was sure. I felt certain, therefore, that should the horsemen charge upon us, only nine of the twelve would ever get within pistol-shot of us, and for that distance we were well prepared. I carried in my belt a six-chambered revolver, one of Colt’s best; Garey had another – a present I had made him many years before – and Rube was armed with a pair of stout single-barrels, likely enough to do good service.

“Sev’nteen shots! wid our bowies to fall back upon!” cried Garey triumphantly, as we finished a hasty survey of our arms.

As yet the enemy did not advance. Notwithstanding their vivas and ejaculations, they appeared to hesitate about charging. Their leader, and another – a lieutenant, perhaps – were still seen riding along their line, as if animating them by further speech, giving them orders how to act.

Meanwhile, we had not been idle; we had formed square to receive the charge!

You may smile, but such was in reality the case. We had formed square – with our horses! There were four of them, for the wild-horse counted one. Garey, who rode like a Comanche, had broken him at our last camp, and he was now perfectly tractable. The shake of a lazo rendered him docile as a lamb.

The four were tied head to head, and croup to croup, and each formed one side of the square. They could not have broken it even under a charge of cavalry; bridles must be untied or cut, and lazoes set loose, before that formation could be destroyed!

Within stood we, fronting our foes – the large horse of Garey forming our barricade towards them – our heads and feet alone visible to the enemy.

Thus did we await their onset.