The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

My sable groom, therefore, would convey the beautiful captive. Already the white lazo, formed into a halter, was adjusted around the animal’s head, and the negro only awaited orders to lead him away.

I confess that at that moment I felt somewhat annoyed at the publicity of my affair. My rough rangers were men of keen intelligence. I could tell from some whispers that had reached me, that one and all of them knew why I had gone upon the wild hunt, and I dreaded their good-humoured satire. I would have given something at that moment to have rendered the steed invisible – to have been able to transport him to his destination, Venus-like, under cover of a cloud. I thought of waiting for the friendly shelter of night.

Just then, however, an incident occurred which gave me the very opportunity I wanted – a scene so ludicrous, that the steed was no longer the cynosure of admiring eyes.

The hero of this scene was Elijah Quackenboss.

Of all the men in my band, “Dutch Lige” was the worst clad. Not that there was less money expended upon his outward man; but partly from his ungainly form and loose untidy habits, and more, perhaps, from the wear and tear caused by his botanising excursions, a suit of broadcloth did not keep sound upon him for a week. He was habitually in tatters.

The skirmish of the night had been profitable to Lige; it was his true aim that had brought down one of the live guerrilleros. On his asserting this, his comrades had laughed at it, as an idle vaunt; but Quackenboss proved his assertion to be correct by picking his bullet out of the man’s body, and holding it up before their eyes. The peculiar “bore” of his rifle rendered the bullet easy of identification, and all agreed that Lige had shot his man.

By the laws of ranger-war, the spoils of this particular individual became the property of Quackenboss; and the result was, that he had shaken off his tattered rags, and now appeared in the piazza in full Mexican costume – comprising calzoneros, and calzoncillos, sash and serapé, jacket and glazed hat, botas with gigantic spurs – in short, a complete set of ranchero habiliments!

Never was such a pair of legs encased in Mexican velveteens – never were two such arms thrust into the sleeves of an embroidered jaqueta; and so odd was the tout ensemble of the ranger thus attired, that his appearance in the piazza was hailed by a loud burst of laughter, both from his comrades and the natives who stood around. Even the gloomy Indians showed their white teeth, and joined in the general chorus.

But this was not the end. Among other spoils, Lige had made capture of a Comanche mustang; and as his own war-horse had been for a long time on the decline, this afforded him an excellent opportunity for a remount. Some duty of the day had called him forth, and he now appeared in the piazza leading the mustang, to which he had transferred his own saddle and bridle. A fine handsome horse it appeared. More than one of his comrades envied him this splendid prize.

The laughter had scarcely subsided, when the order was given to mount; and with others, Quackenboss sprang to his horse. But his hips were hardly snug in the saddle, when the wicked Comanche “humped” his back, and entered upon a round of kicking which seemed to exhibit every pose and attitude of equestrian exercise. First his hind feet, then his fore ones, then all together, could be seen glancing in the air. Now a hoof whizzed past the ear of the affrighted rider, now a set of teeth threatened his thighs, while every moment he appeared in danger of being hurled with violence to the earth. The sombrero had long since parted from his head, and the rifle from his hand; and what with the flapping of the wide trousers, the waving of the loose serape, the dancing of the steel scabbard, the distracted motion of the rider’s arms, his lank streaming hair, and look of terror – all combined to form a spectacle sufficiently ludicrous; and the whole crowd was convulsed with laughter, while the piazza rang with such shouts as “Bravo!”

“Well done, Lige!”

“Hooraw for you, old beeswax!”

But what surprised his comrades was the fact that Quackenboss still kept his seat. It was well known that he was the worst rider in the troop; yet, despite all the doubling and flinging of the mustang, that had now lasted for several minutes, he was still safe in the saddle. He was winning golden opinions upon the strength of his splendid horsemanship. The rangers were being astonished.

All at once, however, this mystery was explained, and the cause of his firm seat discovered. One of the bystanders, sharper than the rest, had chanced to look under the belly of the mustang, and the next moment shouted out —

“Hoy! look yonder! by Geehorum, his spars are clinched!”

All eyes were lowered, and a fresh peal of laughter broke forth from the crowd as they perceived that this was in reality the case.

Lige, upon mounting – under the suspicion that the mustang was disposed for a fling – had clutched firmly with his legs; and these, on account of their extreme length, completely enveloped the body of the animal, so that his heels met underneath. He had forgotten his new spurs, the rowels of which, six inches in diameter, irritated the mustang, and were no doubt the cause of such violent kicking. These, after a few turns had got “locked,” and of course held Quackenboss as firmly as if he had been strapped to the saddle. But as the rowels were now buried in the ribs of the mustang, the fierce brute, maddened with the pain, only grew more furious at each fling, and it was natural enough he should do his utmost to rid himself of so cruel a rider.

How long he might have kept up the pitching frolic before his involuntary tormentor could have freed himself, is a matter of conjecture. It would have been an unfortunate “fix” to have been placed in, alone upon the prairies.

Lige, however, found a compassionate bystander; who, having flung his lazo around the neck of the mustang brought the spectacle to a termination.

Chapter Forty Five.

A Lover on the Trail

Taking advantage of the distraction caused by Quackenboss and his troubles, I despatched the black upon his interesting errand, and with no slight anxiety awaited the result.

From my position on the roof, I saw my messenger climb the hill, leading the proud steed, and saw him enter the great portal of the hacienda.

Promptly – almost directly – the groom came out again without the horse. The present had been accepted. So far well.

I counted the moments, till heavy footsteps were heard upon the escalera, and a shining black face rose over the roof.

There was no letter, no message beyond “mil gracias.”

I felt a pang of chagrin. I had expected thanks more formal than this mere phrase of compliment.

My man appeared better satisfied. A gold onza gleamed in his purple palm – a handsome perquisite.

“By whom given?” I inquired.

“Golly, mass cap’n, a gal guv it! De handsomest quaderoom gal dis nigga ever see.”

Beyond a doubt, Isolina herself was the donor!

I could have broken the rascal’s thick skull, but that the queenly douceur gave proof of the satisfaction with which my offering had been received. Even on this trivial circumstance, I built my hopes of yet receiving a fuller meed of thanks.

Absorbed in these hopes, I continued to pace the azotea alone.

It was a dia de fiesta in the rancheria. Bells had already commenced their clangour, and other notes of rejoicing fell upon the ear. The poblanas appeared in their gayest attire – the Indians in bright naguas, with red and purple threads twisted in their black hair; the denizens of the ranchitos were pouring into the piazza, and processions were being formed by the church; jararas were twanging their guitar-like music; and pyrotechnic machines were set up at the corners of the streets. Tinsel-covered saints were carried about on the shoulders of painted maskers; and there were Pilate and the Centurion, and the Saviour – a spectacle absurd and unnatural; and yet a spectacle that may be witnessed every week in a Mexican village, and which, with but slight variation, has been exhibited every week for three centuries!

I had no eyes for this disgusting fanfarronade of a degrading superstition. Sick of the sight, wearied with the sounds, I had given orders for my horse to be saddled, intending to ride forth and seek repose for my spirit amid the silent glades of the chapparal.

While waiting for my steed, an object came under my eyes that quickened the beatings of my pulse: my gaze had been long turned in one direction – upon the hacienda of Don Ramon de Vargas.

Just then, I saw emerging from its gate, and passing rapidly down the hill, a horse with a rider upon his back.

The snow-white colour of this horse, and the scarlet manga of the rider – both contrasting with the green of the surrounding landscape – could not escape observation even at that distance, and my eyes at once caught the bright object.

I hesitated not to form my conclusion. It was the white steed I saw; and the rider – I remembered the manga as when first my eyes rested upon that fair form – the rider was Isolina.

She was passing down the slope that stretched from the hacienda to the river, and the minute after, the thick foliage of the platanus trees shrouded the shining meteor from my sight.

I noticed that she halted a moment on the edge of the woods, and fancied that she gazed earnestly towards the village; but the road she had taken led almost in the opposite direction.

I chafed with impatience for my horse. My resolve, made on the impulse of the moment, was to follow the white steed and his scarlet-clad rider.

Once in the saddle I hurried out of the piazza, passed the ranchos of yucca, and reaching the open country, pressed my horse into a gallop.

My road lay up the river, through a heavily timbered bottom of gum and cotton-woods. These were thickly beset with the curious tillandsia, whose silvery festoons, stretching from branch to branch, shrouded the sun, causing amongst the tree-trunks the obscurity of twilight.

In the midst of one of these shadowy aisles, I met or passed some one: I saw that it was a Mexican boy; but the sombre light, and the rapidity with which I was riding, prevented me from noting anything more. The lad shouted after me, uttering some words, which were drowned by the hoof-strokes of my horse. I deemed it some expression of boyish esprit, and, without heeding it, rode on.

Not until far out of sight and hearing did it occur to me that I knew the voice and the lad. I recollected a sort of errand-boy attached to the hacienda, and whom I had seen more than once at the rancheria. I now remembered the badinage of Wheatley, and would have returned to question the youth; but I had left him too far in the rear. After a moment’s reflection, I spurred on.

I soon arrived at the base of the hill on which stood the hacienda; and here leaving the main road, I followed a bridle-path that skirted the hill.

A few hundred yards brought me to the spot where I had last observed the object of my pursuit.

The hoof-track of the white horse now guided me, and upon his trail I entered the woods.

For some distance, it followed a well-trodden path – a cattle-track – but all at once it diverged from this, and struck off into a heavily timbered bottom, where not the semblance of path existed.