The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

It was soon told. Rube and he had followed the trail, until it emerged from the chapparal, and struck out into a wide grass-prairie. The edge of the thicket was close by; but they had gone a considerable distance beyond it and across the plain. They were still advancing, when, to their consternation, they perceived that the prairie was on fire directly ahead of them! The wind was rolling both smoke and flames before it with the rapidity of a running horse; and it was with difficulty they had escaped from it by galloping back to the chapparal.

And the steed – what had become of him? Had they seen nothing?

I did not put these questions in words – only in thought did I ask them; and in thought only were they answered. Both the trackers were silent, and that was an answer in the negative; yes, I read an ominous negative in their looks of gloom.

We were compelled to halt; even the smoke rendered further progress impossible; but we could hear the fire at no great distance – the culms of the coarse reed-grass cracking like volleys of musketry.

Now and then, a scared deer broke through the bushes, passing us at full speed. A band of antelopes dashed into the glade, and halted close beside us – the frightened creatures not knowing where to run. At their heels came a pack of prairie-wolves, but not in pursuit of them: these also stopped near. A black bear and a cougar arrived next; and fierce beasts of prey and gentle ruminants stood side by side, both terrified out of their natural habits. Birds shrieked among the branches, eagles screamed in the air, and black vultures could be seen hovering through the smoke, with no thought of stooping upon a quarry!

The hunter man alone preserved his instincts. My followers were hungry. Rifles were levelled – and the bear and one of the antelopes fell victims to the deadly aim.

Both were soon stripped of their skins, and butchered. A fire was kindled in the glade, and upon sword-blades and sapling spits the choice morsels of venison and “bear-meat” were roasted, and eaten, with many a jest about the “smoky kitchen.”

I was myself hungered. I shared the repast, but not the merriment. At that moment, no wit could have won from me a smile; the most luxurious table could not have furnished me with cheer.

A worse appetite than hunger assailed my companions, and I felt it with the rest – it was thirst: for hours all had been suffering from it; the long hard ride had brought it on, and now the smoke and the dry hot atmosphere increased the appetite till it had grown agonising, almost unendurable. No water had been passed since the stream we had crossed before day; there was none in the chapparal; the trackers saw none so far as they had gone: we were in a waterless desert; and the very thought itself renders the pang of thirst keener and harder to endure.

Some chewed their leaden bullets, or pebbles of chalcedony which they had picked up; others obtained relief by drinking the blood of the slaughtered animals – the bear and the antelope – but we found a better source of assuagement in the succulent stems of the cactus and agave.

The relief was but temporary: the juice cooled our lips and tongues, but there is an acrid principle in some of these plants that soon acted, and our thirst became more intense than ever.

Some talked of returning on the trail in search of water – of going back even to the stream – more than twenty miles distant.

Under such circumstances, even military command loses its authority. Nature is stronger than martial law.

I cared not if they did return; I cared not who left me, so long as the trappers remained true. I had no fear that they would forsake me; and my disapprobation of it checked the cheerless proposal, and once more all declared their willingness to go on.

Fortunately, at that crisis the smoke began to clear away, and the atmosphere to lighten up. The fire had burnt on to the edge of the chapparal, where it was now opposed by the sap-bearing trees. The grass had been all consumed – the conflagration was at an end.

Mounting our horses, we rode out from the glade; and following the trail a few hundred yards farther, we emerged from the thicket, and stood upon the edge of the desolated plain.

Chapter Seventy.

A Burnt Prairie

The earth offers no aspect more drear and desolate than that of a burnt prairie. The ocean when its waves are grey – a blighted heath – a flat fenny country under a rapid thaw – all these impress the beholder with a feeling of chill monotony; but the water has motion, the heath, colour, and the half-thawed flat exhibits variety in its mottling of white and ground.

Not so the steppe that has been fired and burned. In this, the eye perceives neither colour, nor form, nor motion. It roams over the limitless level in search of one or other, but in vain; and in the absence of all three, it tires, and the heart grows cheerless and sick. Even the sky scarcely offers relief. It, too, by refraction from the black surface beneath, wears a dull livid aspect; or perhaps the eye, jaundiced by the reflection of the earth, beholds not the brightness of the heavens.

A prairie, when green, does not always glad the eye, – not even when enamelled with fairest flowers. I have crossed such plains, verdant or blooming to the utmost verge of vision, and longed for something to appear in sight– a rock, tree, a living creature – anything to relieve the universal sameness; just as the voyager on the ample ocean longs for ships, for cetaceae, or the sight of land, and is delighted with a nautilus, polypi, phosphorescence, or a floating weed.

Colour alone does not satisfy the sense. What hue more charming than the fresh verdure of the grassy plain? what more exquisite than the deep blue of the ocean? and yet the eye grows aweary of both! Even the “flower-prairie,” with its thousands of gay corollas of every tint and shade – with its golden helianthus, its white argemone, its purple cleome, its pink malvaceae, its blue lupin – its poppy worts of red and orange – even these fair tints grow tiresome to the sight, and the eye yearns for form and motion.

If so, what must be the prairie when divested of all these verdant and flowery charms – when burned to black ashes? It is difficult to conceive the aspect of dreary monotony it then presents – more difficult to describe it. Words will not paint such a scene.

And such presented itself to our eyes as we rode out from the chapparal. The fire was past – even the smoke had ceased to ascend – except in spots where the damp earth still reeked under the heat – but right and left, and far ahead, on to the very hem of the horizon, the surface was of one uniform hue, as if covered with a vast crape. There was nought of form to be seen, living or lifeless; there was neither life nor motion, even in the elements; all sounds had ceased: an awful stillness reigned above and around – the world seemed dead and shrouded in a vast sable pall!

Under other circumstances, I might have stayed to regard such a scene, though not to admire it. On that interminable waste, there was nought to be admired, not even sublimity; but no spectacle, however sublime, however beautiful, could have won from me a thought at that moment.

The trackers had already ridden far out, and were advancing, half concealed by the cloud of black “stoor” flung up from the heels of their horses.

For some distance, they moved straight on, without looking for the tracks of the steed. Before meeting the fire, they had traced them beyond the edge of the chapparal, and therefore knew the direction.

After a while, I observed them moving more slowly, with their eyes upon the ground as if they had lost it, I had doubts of their being able either to find or follow it now. The shallow hoof-prints would be filled with the débris of the burnt herbage – surely they could no longer be traced?

By myself, they could not, nor by a common man; but it seemed that to the eyes of those keen hunters, the trail was as conspicuous as ever. I saw that, after searching a few seconds, they had taken it up, and were once more moving along, guided by the tracks.

Some slight hollows I could perceive, distributed here and there over the ground, and scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding level. Certainly, without having been told what they were, I should not have known them to be the tracks of a horse.

It proved a wide prairie, and we seemed to be crossing its central part. The fire had spread far.

At one place, nearly midway, where the trail was faint, and difficult to make out, we stopped for a short while to give the trackers time. A momentary curiosity induced me to gaze around. Awful was the scene – awful without sublimity. Even the thorny chapparal no longer relieved the eye; the outline of its low shrubbery had sunk below the horizon; and on all sides stretched the charred plain up to the rim of the leaden canopy, black – black – illimitable. Had I been alone, I might easily have yielded to the fancy, that the world was dead.

Gazing over this vast opacity, I for a moment forgot my companions, and fell into a sort of lethargic stupor. I fancied that I too was dead or dreaming – I fancied that I was in hell – the Avernus of the ancients. In my youth, I had the misfortune to be well schooled in classic lore – to the neglect of studies more useful – and often in life have the poetical absurdities of Greek and Latin mythology intruded themselves upon my spirit – both asleep and awake. I fancied, therefore, that some well-meaning Anchises had introduced me to the regions below; and that the black plain before me was some landscape in the kingdom of Pluto. Reflection – had I been capable of that – would have convinced me of my error. No part of that monarch’s dominions can be so thinly peopled.

I was summoned to reason again by the voices of my followers. The lost trail had been found, and they were moving on.

Chapter Seventy One.

The Talk of the Trackers

I spurred after, and soon overtook them. Regardless of the dust, I rode close in the rear of the trackers, and listened to what they were saying.

These “men of the mountains” – as they prided to call themselves – were peculiar in everything. While engaged in a duty, such as the present, they would scarce disclose their thoughts, even to me; much less were they communicative with the rest of my following, whom they were accustomed to regard as “greenhorns” – their favourite appellation for all men who have not made the tour of the grand prairies.

Notwithstanding that Stanfield and Black were backwoodsmen and hunters by profession, Quackenboss a splendid shot, Le Blanc a regular voyageur, and the others more or less skilled in woodcraft, all were greenhorns in the opinion of the trappers. To be otherwise a man must have starved upon a “sage-prairie” – “run” buffalo by the Yellowstone or Platte – fought “Injun,” and shot Indian – have well-nigh lost scalp or ears – spent a winter in Pierre’s Hole upon Green River – or camped amid the snows of the Rocky Mountains! Some one of all these feats must needs have been performed, ere the “greenhorn” can matriculate and take rank as a “mountain man.”

I of all my party was the only one who, in the eyes of Rube and Garey, was not a greenhorn; and even I – gentleman-amateur that I was – was hardly up either in their confidence or their “craft.” It is indeed true – with all my classic accomplishments – with my fine words, my fine horse, and fine clothes – so long as we were within the limits of prairie-land, I acknowledged these men as my superiors. They were my guides, my instructors, my masters.

Since overtaking them on the trail, I had not asked them to give any opinion. I dreaded a direct answer – for I had noticed something like a despairing look in the eyes of both.

As I followed them over the black plain, however, I thought that their faces brightened a little, and appeared once more lit up by a faint ray of hope. For that reason, I rode close upon their heels, and eagerly caught up every word that was passing between them. Rube was speaking when I first drew near.

“Wagh! I don’t b’lieve it, Bill: ’taint possyble no-howso-ever. The paraira wur sot afire – must ’a been – thur’s no other ways for it. It cudn’t ’a tuk to bleezing o’ itself – eh?”

“Sartinly not; I agree wi’ you, Rube.”

“Wal – thur wur a fellur as I met oncest at Bent’s Fort on the Arkinsaw – a odd sort o’ a critter he wur, an no mistake; he us’t to go pokin about, gatherin’ weeds an’ all sorts o’ green garbitch, an’ spreadin’ ’em out atween sheets o’ paper – whet he called button-eyesin – jest like thet ur Dutch doctur as wur rubbed out when we went into the Navagh country, t’other side o’ the Grand.”

“I remembers him.”

“Wal, this hyur fellur I tell ’ee about, he us’t to talk mighty big o’ this, thet, an t’ other; an he palavered a heap ’bout a thing thet, ef I don’t disremember, wur called spuntainyus kumbuxshun.”

“I’ve heerd o’ ’t; that are the name.”

“Wal, the button-eyeser, he sayed thet a paraira mout take afire o’ itself, ’ithout anybody whatsomdiver heving sot it. Now, thet ur’s what this child don’t b’lieve, nohow. In coorse, I knows thet lightnin’ sometimes may sot a paraira a bleezin’, but lightnin’s a natral fire o’ itself; an it’s only reezunible to expect thet the dry grass wud catch from it like punk; but I shed like to know how fire kud kindle ’ithout somethin to kindle it – thet’s whet I shed like to know.”

“I don’t believe it can,” rejoined Garey.