The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

After a while the light became fixed, and a sharp exclamation was heard across the plain, which all of us recognised as being in the voice of the trapper Rube.

Again the light was in motion – now flitting along more rapidly, and as if carried in a straight line over the prairie.

We followed it with eager eyes. We saw it was moving further and further away; and my companions hazarded the conjecture that the trappers had recovered the trail.

This was soon verified by one of themselves – Garey – whose huge form, looming through the mist, was seen approaching the spot; and though the expression of his face could not be noted in the darkness, his bearing betokened that he brought cheerful tidings.

“Rube’s struck the trail, capt’n,” said he in a quiet voice as he came up: “yonder he goes, whar you see the bleeze o’ the cannel! He’ll soon be out o’ sight, if we don’t make haste, an follow.”

Without another word, we seized the reins, sprang once more into our saddles, and rode off after the twinkling star, that beaconed us across the plain.

Rube was soon overtaken; and we perceived that despite the storm, he was rapidly progressing along the trail, his candle sheltered from the rain under the ample sombrero.

In answer to numerous queries, the old trapper vouchsafed only an occasional “Wagh!” evidently proud of this new exhibition of his skill. With Garey, the curious succeeded better; and as we continued on, the latter explained to them how the trail had been recovered by his comrade – for to Rube, it appeared, was the credit due.

Rube remembered the mesa spring. It was the water in its branch that we had seen gleaming under the light. The thoughtful trapper conjectured, and rightly as it proved, that the steed would stop there to drink. He had passed along the stony shingle by the mound – simply because around the cliff lay his nearest way to the water – and had followed a dry ridge that led directly from the mesa to the spring-branch. Along this ridge, going gently at the time, his hoof had left no marks – at least none that could be distinguished by torch-light – and this was why the trail had been for the moment lost. Rube, however, remembered that around the spring there was a tract of soft boggy ground; and he anticipated that in this the hoof-prints would leave a deep impression. To find them he needed only a “kiver” for the candle, and the huge hat of Quackenboss served the purpose well. An umbrella would scarcely have been better.

As the trappers had conjectured, they found the tracks in the muddy margin of the spring-branch. The steed had drunk at the pool; but immediately after had resumed his wild flight, going westward from the mound.

Why had he gone off at a gallop? Had he been alarmed by aught? Or had he taken fresh affright, at the strange rider upon his back?

I questioned Garey. I saw that he knew why. He needed pressing for the answer.

He gave it at length, but with evident reluctance. These were his words of explanation —

“Thar are wolf-tracks on the trail!”

Chapter Sixty Two.

Wolves on the Track

The wolves, then, were after him!

The trackers had made out their footprints in the mud of the arroyo. Both kinds had been there – the large brown wolf of Texas, and the small barking coyote of the plains. A full pack there had been, as the trappers could tell by the numerous tracks, and that they were following the horse, the tracks also testified to these men of strange intelligence. How knew they this? By what sign?

To my inquiries, I obtained answer from Garey.

Above the spring-branch extended a shelving bank; up this the steed had bounded, after drinking at the pool. Up this, too, the wolves had sprung after: they had left the indentation of their claws in the soft loam.

How knew Garey that they were in pursuit of the horse?

The “scratches” told him they were going at their fastest, and they would not have sprung so far had they not been pursuing some prey. There were footmarks of no other animal except theirs, and the hoof-prints of that steed; and that they were after him was evident to the trapper, because the tracks of the wolves covered those of the horse.

Garey had no more doubt of the correctness of his reasoning, than a geometrician of the truth of a theorem in Euclid.

I groaned in spirit as I was forced to adopt his conclusion. But it was all probable – too probable. Had the steed been alone – Unembarrassed – free – it was not likely the wolves would have chased him thus. The wild-horse in his prime is rarely the object of their attack; though the old and infirm – the gravid mare, and the feeble colt – often fall before these hungry hunters of the plains. Both common wolf and coyote possess all the astuteness of the fox, and know, as if by instinct, the animal that is wounded to death. They will follow the stricken deer that has escaped from the hunter; but if it prove to be but slightly harmed, instinctively they abandon the chase.

Their instinct had told them that the steed was not ridden by a free hand; they had seen that there was something amiss; and in the hope of running down both horse and rider, they had followed with hungry howl.

Another fact lent probability to this painful conjecture; we knew that by the mesa were many wolves.

The spring was the constant resort of ruminant animals, deer and antelopes; the half-wild cattle of the ganaderos drank there, and the tottering calf oft became the prey of the coyote and his more powerful congener, the gaunt Texan wolf. There was still another reason why the place must of late have been the favourite prowl of these hideous brutes: the débris of our skirmish had furnished them with many a midnight banquet. They had ravened upon the blood of men and the flesh of horses, and they hungered for more.

That they might succeed in running down the steed, cumbered as he was, was probable enough. Sooner or later, they would overtake him. It might be after a long, long gallop over hill and dale, through swamp and chapparal; but still it was probable those tough, tireless pursuers would overtake him. They would launch themselves upon his flanks; they would seize upon his wearied limbs – upon hers, the helpless victim on his back – both horse and rider would be dragged to the earth – both torn – parted in pieces – devoured!

I groaned under the horrid apprehension.

“Look thar!” said Garey, pointing to the ground, and holding his torch so as to illuminate the surface; “the hoss has made a slip thar. See! hyar’s the track o’ the big wolf – he hes sprung up jest hyar; I can tell by the scratch o’ his hind-claws.”

I examined the “sign.” Even to my eyes it was readable, and just as Garey had interpreted it. There were other tracks of wolves on the damp soil, but one had certainly launched himself forward, in a long leap, as though in an effort to fasten himself upon the flanks of some animal. The hoof-mark plainly showed that the steed had slipped as he sprang over the wet grass; and this had tempted the spring of the watchful pursuer.

We hurried on. Our excited feelings hindered us from causing longer than a moment. Both rangers and trappers snared my eagerness, as well as my apprehensions. Fast as the torches could be carried, we hurried on.

Shortly after parting from the mesa, there occurred a change in our favour. The lights had been carried under hats to protect them from the rain. This precaution was no longer required. The storm had passed – the shower ceasing as suddenly as it had come on; the clouds were fast driving from the face of the firmament. In five minutes more, the moon would shine forth. Already her refracted rays lightened the prairie.

We did not stay for her full beam; time was too precious. Still trusting to the torches, we hurried on.

The beautiful queen of the night kept her promise. In five minutes, her cheering orb shot out beyond the margin of the dark pall that had hitherto shrouded it; and her white disc, as if purified by the storm, shone with unwonted brightness. The ground became conspicuous almost as in day; the torches were extinguished, and we followed the trail more rapidly by the light of the moon.

Here, still in full gallop, had passed the wild-horse, and for miles beyond – still had he gone at utmost speed. Still close upon his heels had followed the ravenous and untiring wolves. Here and there were the prints of their clawed feet – the signs of their unflagging pursuit.

The roar of water sounded in our ears: it came from the direction towards which the trail was conducting us, a stream was not far distant.

We soon diminished the distance. A glassy sheet glistened under the moonlight, and towards this the trail trended in a straight line.

It was a river – a cataract was near, down which the water, freshened by the late rain, came tumbling, broken by the rocks into hummocks of white foam. Under the moonlight, it appeared like an avalanche of snow. The trappers recognised an affluent of the Rio Bravo, running from the north – from the high steppe of the Llano Estacado.

We hurried forward to its bank, and opposite the frothing rapids. The trail conducted us to this point – to the very edge of the foaming water. It led no farther. There were the hoof-marks forward to the brink, but not back. The horse had plunged into the torrent.

Chapter Sixty Three.

Across the Torrent

Surely was it so. Into that seething rapid the steed had launched himself – where the spume was whitest, and the rocks gave out their hoarsest echoes. The four hoof-prints, close together upon the bank, showed the point from which he had sprung; and the deeply indented turf testified that he had made no timid leap. The pursuers had been close upon his heels, and he had flung himself with desperate plunge upon the water.

Had he succeeded in crossing? It was our first thought. It appeared improbable – impossible. Notwithstanding its foam-bedappled surface, the current was swift, and looked as though it would sweep either man or horse from his footing. Surely it was too deep to be forded. Though here and there rocks were seen above the surface, they were but the crests of large boulders, and between them the impetuous wave ran dark and rapid. Had the horse lost footing? had he been forced to swim? If so, he must have been carried down by the current – his body submerged – his withers sunk below the surface – his helpless rider —

The conclusion was evident to all of us. All felt the conviction simultaneously. No – not all. There came a word of comfort from the oldest and wisest – a word that gave cheer to my drooping spirit.

“Wagh! the hoss hain’t swum a lick —he hain’t.”

“Are you sure, Rube? How can you tell?” were the quick interrogatories.

“Sure – how kin I tell – i’deed, how?” replied Rube, a little nettled at our having questioned his judgment. “What the divul’s yur eyes good for – all o’ yur? Lookee hyur! and I’ll show ’ee how I tell. Do ’ee see the colour o’ thet water? – it ur as brown as a buffler in the Fall; thurfor it’s fresh kim down; and jest afore the shower, thur wan’t more’n half o’ it in the channel. Then the hoss mout a waded ’crosst hyur, easy as fallin’ off a log, and then that hoss did wade acrosst.”

“He crossed before the rain?”

“Sure as a shot from Targuts. Look at the tracks! Them wur made afore a drop o’ rain kim down: ef they hedn’t, they’d a been a durned sight deeper in the sod. Wagh! the hoss got safe acrosst ’ithout wettin’ a hair o’ his hips. So far as drowndin’ goes, don’t be skeeart ’bout thet, young fellur! the gurl’s safe enough yit.”