The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

“All right – this-away!” set off along the road.

I was curious to know how he had determined the point, and questioned him.

“Wal, yur see, young fellur, it ur the trail o’ a Mexikin cart; an’ anybody as iver seed thet ur vamint, knows it hez got only two wheels. But thur are four tracks hyur, an’ thurfor the cart must a gone back an’ fo’th, for I seed they wur the same set o’ wheels. Now, ’tur raizonable to s’pose thet the back-track leads to the settlements, an’ thet’s thisaway.”

“But how could you tell which was the back-track?”

“Wagh! thet ur easy as fallin’ off a log. The back track ur the fresher by more’n a kupple o’ hours.”

Pondering upon the singular “instinct” that enabled our guide to distinguish the tracks, I rode on in silence.

Shortly after, I again heard the voice of Rube, who was some paces in the advance.

“I kud a knowd the way,” he said, “’ithout the wheel-tracks: they only made things more sartint sure.”

“How?” I asked. “What other clue had you?”

“The water,” replied he; “’ee see, or ’ee mout, ef you’d a looked into the tracks, thet it ur runnin’ this-away. Do ee hear thet thur?”

I listened. I heard distinctly the sound of running water, as of a small stream carried down a rough rocky channel.

“Yes – I hear it, but how should the water guide you?”

“Wal,” continued the trapper, “it ur a branch made by the rain: we’re a follerin it down; an’ thurfor must kum to the river jest whur we want to git. Oncest thur, we’ll soon find our way, I reck’n. Wagh! how the durned rain kums down! It ’ud drown a muss-rat. Wagh!”

The result proved the trapper’s reasoning correct. The road-water was running in the direction we had taken; and shortly after, the brawling branch shot out from among the bushes, and crossed our path, diverging from it at an acute angle. We could see, however, as we plunged through the now swollen streamlet, that the current, in its general direction, was the same with our road: it would certainly guide us to the river.

It did so. Half a mile farther on we came out upon its banks, and struck the main road leading to the rancheria.

A few minutes’ brisk travelling carried us to the outskirts of the village, and we expected soon to be under shelter, when we were all three brought to a sudden halt by the sharp hail of the sentry, who called out the usual interrogatory —

“Who goes there?”

“Friends!” I replied; “’tis you, Quackenboss?”

I had recognised the voice of the soldier-botanist, and under the lightning saw him standing by the trunk of a tree.

“Halt! Give the countersign!” was the response in a firm, determined tone.

I did not know this masonic pass-word. On riding out, I had not thought of such a thing, and I began to anticipate some trouble. I resolved, however, to make trial of the sentry.

“We haven’t got the countersign. ’Tis I, Quackenboss. I am – ”

I announced my name and rank.

“Don’t care for all that!” was the somewhat surly rejoinder; “can’t pass ’ithout the countersign.”

“Yer durned fool! it’s yur captin,” cried Rube, in a peevish tone.

“Maybe,” replied the imperturbable sentry; “can’t let him pass ’ithout countersign.”

I now saw that we were in a real dilemma.

“Send for the corporal of the guard, or either of the lieutenants,” I suggested, thinking that that might be the shortest way to get over the difficulty.

“Hain’t got nobody to send,” came the gruff voice of Quackenboss from out the darkness.

“I’ll go!” promptly answered Garey – the big trapper thinking, in his innocence, there could be no reason why he should not carry the message to quarters – and as he spoke, he made a step or two forward in the direction of the sentinel.

“Halt there!” thundered the voice of Quackenboss; “halt! another step, and I’ll plug you with a bullet.”

“What’s thet? plug, he sez?” screamed Rube, leaping to the front. “Geezus Geehosophat! yu’ll plug ’im, eh? Yur durned mulehead, if ’ee shoot this way, it ’ll be the last time yu’ll ever lay claw to a trigger. Now then!” and Rube stood with his rifle half raised to the level, and threatening to raise it still higher.

At that moment, the lightning gleamed; I saw the sentry with his piece also at a level.

I well knew the accuracy of his aim; I trembled for the result.

In my loudest voice I called out —

“Hold, Quackenboss! hold your fire! we shall wait till some one comes;” and as I spoke, I caught both my companions, and drew them back.

Whether it was the commanding tone of my voice, which the ranger had heard before, or whether in the light he had recognised my features, I saw him, before it darkened, lower his piece, and I felt easy again.

But he still obstinately refused to let us pass.

Further parley was to no purpose, and only led to an exchange of rather rough compliments between Quackenboss and my two companions; so, after endeavouring to make peace between them, I stood still to await the chance of some one of the guard coming within hail.

Fortunately, at that moment, a ranger, somewhat the worse for aguardiente, appeared in the direction of the piazza.

Quackenboss condescended to call him up; and after a crooked palaver, he was despatched to bring the corporal of the guard.

The arrival of the latter ended our troubles, and we were permitted to reach the piazza without further hindrance; but as we passed the stern sentry, I could hear Rube mutter to him —

“Ee durned mulehead! ef I hed ye out upon the parairas, wudn’t I! Wagh!”

Chapter Forty Eight.

An Adios

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow – a demi-lune of love, whose every hour was consecrated to its god. At earliest dawn, by the rosy rays of Aurora; at golden noon, shadowed under sweet acacias; in the gleam of the purple twilight; ’neath the silvery light of the moon.

That both laid our hearts upon his altar, and willing knelt before the shrine, witness ye bright birds and perfumed flowers! – ye green myrtles and mimosas! – witness ye blue skies of Anahuac! Ye alone were our witnesses.

For you who have loved, I need not portray the pleasure of this noble passion; for you who have not loved, I cannot. Love is a delight that may be known only to those who have experienced it.

Ours was a half-month of happiness without alloy. True, there were moments of pain – the moments of daily parting – but these were brief, and perhaps only prevented the cloyment of too much joy – if such a thing be possible.

Moreover, these short-lived sorrows were in part neutralised by the knowledge we should soon meet again; we never parted without exchanging that fair promise. In the morning, it was “hasta la tarde;” at night, our last words were “mañana por la mañana” Lovers have felt, and poets have sung, the pleasures of hope; oft the anticipation of a pleasure rivals in piquancy its actual enjoyment.