The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

In the muddy margin of the stream we could not find it; but the steed may have been led or ridden in front of the rest, and his tracks trampled out by the thick drove that followed.

At this moment, Stanfield came up and joined us in the examination. The ranger had scarcely bent his eyes on the trail, when a significant exclamation escaped him. He stood pointing downward to the track of a shod horse.

“My horse!” cried he; “my horse Hickory, by Gosh!”

“Your horse?”

“May I never see Kaintuck if it ain’t.”

“Yur sure o’ it, ole hoss? yur sure it’s yurn?”

“Sure as shootin’; I shod him myself. I kid tell that ere track on a dry sand-bar. I know every nail thar; I druv ’em wi’ my own hand – it’s him sartin.”

“Wheeo-o!” whistled Rube in his significant way, “thet makes things a leetle plainer, I reck’n; an so I thort all along – an so I thort – ye-es – so I thort. The durned rennygade niggur!” he added with angry emphasis, “I know’d we dud wrong to let ’im go; we oughter served ’im as I perposed; we oughter cut his durnation throat, an scalped ’im the minnut we tuk ’im: cuss the luck thet we didn’t! Wagh!”

Rube’s words needed no interpretation. We knew whose throat he would have cut – that of the Indianised Mexican taken at the mesa; and I remembered that at the time of his capture such had been Rube’s advice, overruled, of course, by the more merciful of his comrades. The trapper had assigned some reason: he knew something of the man’s history.

He now repeated his reasons:

“He ur a true rennygade,” said he; “an thur ain’t on all the parairas a wusser enemy to whites than thet ur – more partiklurly to Texan whites. He wur at the massacree o’ Wilson’s family on the clur fork o’ the Brazos, an wur conspik’us in the skrimmige: a’ more too – it ur thort he toated off one o’ Wilson’s gurls, an made a squaw o’ her, for he’s mighty given thet way I’ve heern. Wagh! he ur wuss than a Injun, for the reezun thet he unerstans the ways o’ the whites. I never know’d sich a foolitch thing as ter let ’im git clur. ’Ee may thank yur luck, Mister Stannafeel, thet he didn’t take yur har at the same time when he tuk yur hoss. Wagh! thet ye may!”

It was Stanfield’s horse that had bee a stolen by the renegade, and the tracks now identified by the ranger were those of that animal – no doubt with the freebooter upon his back.

This new discovery let in a flood of light. Beyond a doubt, the war-party was the same we had met by the mound, with perhaps a reinforcement; the same that had just plundered the Mexican town; the same who had paid their hurried visit to the hacienda, and this renegade —

Ha! Strange remembrances were crowding into my brain. I remembered meeting this semi-savage skulking about the road, after we had granted him his parole; I remembered, upon one occasion, seeing him while riding out with her; I remembered the rude expression with which he had regarded my companion – the glance half-fierce, half-lustful; I remembered that it made me angry; that I rebuked and threatened him – I now remembered all.

Wild thoughts came rushing into my mind – worse thoughts than ever.

I sprang to my saddle; and, calling out some half-coherent orders, rode rapidly along the trail.

Chapter Seventy Seven.

The Writing on the Maguey

The skill of the trackers was no longer called in need; the war-trail was as easily followed as a toll-road: a blind man could have guided himself along such a well-trodden highway.

Our rate of speed was now ruled by the capacity of our horses. Alas! their power was nearly at an end. They had been two days and a night under the saddle, with but a few hours to refresh themselves by food or rest: they could not hold out much longer.

One by one they began to lag, until the greater number of them followed with tottering step hundreds of yards in the rear.

It was in vain to contend against nature. The men were still willing, though they too were wearied to death; but their horses were quite done up – even whip and spur could force them no farther. Only my own matchless steed could have continued the journey. Alone I might have advanced, but that would have been madness. What could I have accomplished alone?

Night was fast coming down: it was already twilight. I saw by the clouded sky we should have no moon. We might follow the trail with our waxen torches – not yet burnt out – but that would no longer be safe. For myself, I was reckless enough to have risked life in any way, but the lives of my comrades were not mine. I could not give them – I should not wastefully fling them away.

Reluctantly I glided from my saddle, gave my steed to the grass, and sat down upon the earth.

My followers coming up, said not a word, but picketing their horses, seated themselves around me. One by one they stretched themselves along the sward, and in ten minutes all were asleep.

I alone could not sleep; the fever of unrest was upon me; the demon of thought would not let me close my eyes. Though my orbs ached with the long protracted vigil, I thought that “not all the drowsy syrups of the world” could have given me repose at that moment. I felt as one who suffers under delirium, produced by the intoxicating cup, the fearful mania-a-potu. I could neither sleep nor rest.

I could not even remain seated. I rose to my feet and wandered around, without heed of where I was going; I strode over the recumbent forms of my sleeping companions; I went among the horses; I paced backwards and forwards along the banks of the stream.

There was a stream – a small arroyo or rivulet. It was this that had caused me to halt in that particular spot; for wild as were my thoughts, I had enough of reason left to know that we could not encamp without water. The sight of the arroyo had decided my wavering resolution, and upon its banks, almost mechanically, I had drawn bridle and dismounted.

I once more descended to the bed of the stream, and, raising the water in the palms of my hands, repeatedly applied it to my lips and temples. The cool liquid refreshed me, and seemed to soothe both my nerves and my spirit.

After a time, both felt calmer, and I sat down upon the bank, and watched for a while the clear rivulet rippling past over its bed of yellow sand and glistening pebbles of quartz. The water was perfectly diaphanous; and, though the sun was no longer shining, I could see tiny silver fish, of the genus hyodon, sporting themselves in the lowest depths of the pool. How I envied them their innocent gambols, their life of crystal purity and freedom! Here, in this remote prairie stream, dwelt not the alligator, nor the ravenous garfish; here came no dolphin or shark to chase them, no tyrant of the waters to put them in fear. To be envied, indeed, such an insouciant, happy existence!

I watched them for a long while, till I thought that my eyes were growing heavy, and, after all, I might seep. The murmur of the arroyo helped to increase this inclination to repose, and, perhaps, I might have slept; but at that moment chancing to look around, my eyes rested upon an object that again drove sleep far away, and I was soon as wakeful as ever.

Close to where I had seated myself grew a large plant of the Mexican aloe (agave Americana). It was the wild maguey, of course, but of a species with broad fleshy leaves of dark-green colour, somewhat resembling the maguey of cultivation. I noticed that one of the great blades of the plant was bruised down, and the spine, which had terminated it, torn off.

All this would not have drawn my attention: I was already aware that the Indians had made a halt where we were encamped, and their sign was plenteous around – in the tracks of their animals, and the broken branches of trees. One of their horses or mules might have munched at the maguey in passing; and, viewing the bruised blade from a distance, I should have hazarded just such a conjecture. But my eyes were close to the plant, and, to my astonishment, I observed that there was writing upon the leaf!

I turned over upon my knees, and seizing the huge blade, bent it down before me, so as to obtain a better view of its surface. I read: —

“Captured by Comanches—a war-party with many captives—women and children—ay de mi! pobres niñas! north-west from this place. Saved from death; alas! I fear– ”

The writing ended abruptly. There was no signature, but it needed not that. I had no doubts about who was the writer; in fact, rude as was the chirography – from the materials used – I easily identified the hand. It was Isolina de Vargas who had written.

I saw that she had torn off the terminal spine, and using it as a stylus, had graven those characters upon the epidermis of the plant.

Sweet subtle spirit! under any guise I could have recognised its outpourings.

“Saved from death” – thank Heaven for that! – “alas! I fear.” Oh, what feared she? Was it worse than death? that terrible fate – too terrible to think of?

She had broken off, without finishing the sentence. Why had she done so?

The sheet was broad – would have held many more words – why had she not written more? Did she dread to tell the cause of her fear? or had she been interrupted by the approach of some of her tyrant captors? O merciful Heaven! save me from thought!

I re-read the words over and over: there was nothing more. I examined the other leaves of the plant – on both sides, concave and convex, I examined them – not a word more could I find. What I had read was all she had written.

Chapter Seventy Eight.

The Southern Savage

I need not tell how deeply I was affected by the unexpected communication. All at once were decided a variety of doubts; all at once was I made aware of the exact situation.

Isolina still lived – that was no longer doubtful; and the knowledge produced joy. More than this: she was still uninjured – able to think, to act, to write – not only living, but well. The singular “billet” was proof of all this. Another point – her hands must have been free – her hands at least, else how could she have traced those lines? and with such a pencil? It argued indulgence – perhaps kind treatment on the part of her captors.

Another point yet. She knew I was in pursuit. She had seen me, then, as I galloped after. It was her cry I had heard as the steed dashed into the chapparal. She had recognised, me, and called back. She knew I would still be following; she knew I was following, and for me was the writing meant. Sweet subtle spirit!

Once more I devoured the welcome words; but my heart grew heavy as I pondered over them. What had caused her to break off so abruptly? What was it her intention to have said? Of what was she in fear? It was thinking about this that caused the heaviness upon my heart and forced me to give way to horrid imaginings.

Naturally my thoughts reverted to her captors; naturally I reflected upon the character of the prairie savage – so different from that of the forest Indian, opposite as is the aspect of their homes – and perhaps influenced by this very cause, though there are many others. Climate – contact with Spanish civilisation, so distinct from Saxon – the horse – conquest over white foes – concubinage with white and beautiful women, the daughters of the race of Cortez: all these have combined to produce in the southern Indian a spiritual existence that more resembles Andalusia than England – more like Mexico than Boston or New York.

Psychologically speaking, there is not so much difference between Paris and the prairies – between the habitat of the Bal Mabille and the horse-Indian of the plains. No cold ascetic this – no romantic savage, alike celebrated for silence and continence – but a true voluptuary, gay of thought and free of tongue – amorous, salacious, immoral. In nine cases out of ten, the young Comanche is a boastful Lothario as any flaneur that may be met upon the Boulevards; the old, a lustful sinner – women the idol of both. Women is the constant theme of their conversation, their motive for every act. For these they throw the prairie dice; for these they race their swift mustangs. To win them, they paint in hideous guise; to buy them, they steal horses; to capture them, they go to war!