The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

“What is it?” inquired several in the same breath.

“Injun on the back-track,” replied the panting trappers.

“Indians! – how many of them?” naturally asked one of the rangers.

“Who slayed Injuns? We saved a Injun,” sharply retorted Rube. “Damn yur palaver! thur’s no time for jaw-waggin’. Git yur rope ready, Bill. ’Ee durned greenhorns! keep down yur guns – shootin’ won’t do hyur – yu’d hev the hul gang back in the flappin’ o’ a beaver’s tail. You, Bill, rope the redskin, an let the young fellur help – he knows how; an ef both shed miss ’im, I ain’t agwine. ’Ee hear me, fellurs? Don’t ne’er a one o’ ye fire: ef a gun ur wanted, Targuts ’ll be surfficient, I guess. For yur lives don’t a fire them ur blunderboxes o’ yourn till ees see me miss – they’d be heerd ten mile off. Ready wi’ yur rope, Billee? You, young fellur? All right; mind yur eyes both an snare the durned niggur like a swamp-rabbit. Yanner he comes, right inter the trap, by the jumpin Geehosophat!”

The pithy chapter of instructions above detailed was delivered in far less time than it takes to read it. The speaker never paused till he had uttered the final emphatic expression, which was one of his favourite phrases of embellishment.

At the same instant I saw, just appearing above the crest of the ridge, the head and shoulders of a savage. In a few seconds more, the body rose in sight; and then the thighs and legs, with a large piebald mustang between them. I need scarcely add that the horse was going at a gallop; it is a rare sight when a horse-Indian rides any other gait.

There was only one. The scouts were sure of this. Beyond the swell stretched an open prairie, and if the Indian had had companions or followers, they would have been seen. He was alone.

What had brought him back on the trail? Was he upon the scout?

No; he was riding without thought, and without precaution. A scout would have acted otherwise.

He might have been a messenger; but whither bound? Surely the Indians had left no party in our rear?

Quickly these inquiries passed among us, and quick conjectures were offered in answer. The voyageur gave the most probable solution.

“Pe gar! he go back for ze sheel.”

“Shield! what shield?”

“Ah, you no see ’im. I see ’im wiz me eye; he vas caché dans les herbes – von larzge sheel – bouclier très gros – fabriqué from ze peau of de buffle – ze parflèche – et garnie avec les scalps – frais et sanglants – scalps Mexicaines. Mon Dieu!”

The explanation was understood. Le Blanc had observed a shield among the bushes where we had halted – like enough left behind by some of the braves. It was garnished with scalps, fresh Mexican scalps – like enough. The Indian had forgotten both his armour and his trophies; he was on his way to recover them – like enough.

There was no time either for further talk or conjecture; the red horseman had reached the bottom of the hill; in ten seconds more, he would be lazoed or shot!

Garey and I placed ourselves on opposite sides of the path, both with our lazoes coiled and ready. The trapper was an adept in the use of this singular weapon, and I too understood something of its management. The trees were in our way, and would have prevented the proper winding of it; but it was our intention to spur clear of the timber – the moment the Indian came within range – and “rope” him on the run.

Rube crouched behind Garey, rifle in hand, and the rangers were also ready, in case both the lazoes and Rube’s rifle should miss.

It would not do to let the Indian either go on or go back; in either case he would report us. Should he pass the spot where we were, he would observe our tracks in a minute’s time – even amidst the thousands of others – and would be certain to return by another route. Should he escape from us, and gallop away, still worse. He must not be permitted either to go on or go back; he must be captured or killed!

For my part, I desired that the former should be his destiny. I had no feeling of revenge to gratify by taking the life of this red man; and had his capture not been absolutely necessary to our own safety, I should willingly have let him come and go as he listed.

Some of my comrades were actuated by very different motives. Killing a Comanche Indian was, by their creed, no greater crime than killing a wolf, a panther, or a grizzly bear; and it was not from any motives of mercy that the trapper had cautioned the others to hold their fire; prudence alone dictated the advice – he had given his reason – the reports of our guns might be heard.

Through the leaves, I looked upon the horseman as he advanced. A fine-looking fellow he was – no doubt one of the distinguished warriors of his tribe. What his face was I could not see, for the war-paint disfigured it with a hideous mask; but his body was large, his chest broad and full, his limbs symmetrical, and well turned to the very toes. He sat his horse like a centaur.

I had no opportunity for prolonged observation. Without hesitating, the Indian galloped up.

I sprang my horse clear of the timber. I wound the lazo around my head, and hurled it towards him; I saw the noose settling over his shoulders, and falling down to his hips.

I spurred in the opposite direction; I felt the quick jerk, and the taut rope told me I had secured the victim.

I turned in my saddle, and glanced back; I saw the rope of Garey around the neck of the Indian’s mustang, tightened, and holding him fast. Horse and horseman – both were ours!

Chapter Eighty Three.

My Plan

The savage did not yield himself up without resistance. Resistance with an Indian is instinctive, as with a wild animal. He flung himself from his horse, and drawing his knife, with a single cut severed the thong that bound him.

In another instant, he would have been off among the bushes; but before he could move from the spot, half-a-dozen strong arms were around him; and in spite of his struggles, and the dangerous thrusts of his long Spanish knife, he was “choked” down and held fast.

My followers were for making short work with him. More than one had bared their blades to finish him upon the spot, and would have done so, had I not interfered. I was averse to spilling his blood; and by my intercession, his life was spared.

To prevent him from giving us further trouble, however, we tied him to a tree in such a manner that he could not possibly free himself.

The mode of securing him was suggested by Stanfield, the backwoodsman: it was simple and safe. A tree was chosen, whose trunk was large enough to fill the embrace of the Indian, so that the ends of his fingers just met when his arms were drawn to their full stretch around it. Upon his wrists, thongs of raw hide were firmly looped, and then knotted together. His ankles were also bound by similar cords – the ends of which were staked, so as to hinder him from worming around the tree, and perchance wearing off his thongs, or chafing them, so that they might break.

The ligature was perfect; the most expert jail-breaker could not have freed himself from such a fastening.

It was our intention to leave him thus, and perhaps set him free upon our return, if we should return by that way – a doubtful hypothesis.

I thought not at the time of the cruelty we were committing. We had spared the Indian’s life – a mercy at the moment – and I was too much concerned about the future of others, to waste reflection on his.

We had taken the precaution to leave him at some distance from the place of his capture; others of his party might come after, and discover him, soon enough to interfere with our plans. His prison had been chosen far off in the depth of the woods; even his shouts could not have been heard by any one passing along the trail.

He was not to be left entirely alone: a horse was to be his companion – not his own – for one of the rangers had fancied an exchange. Stanfield – not well mounted – had proposed a “swop,” as he jocosely termed it, to which the savage had no alternative but consent; and the Kentuckian, having “hitched” his worn-out nag to a tree, led off the skew-bald mustang in triumph, declaring that he was now “squar wi’ the Indyens.” Stanfield would have liked it better had the “swop” been made with the renegade who had robbed him.

We were about to leave the place and move on, when a bright idea suddenly came into my head: it occurred to me that I too might effect a profitable exchange with our new-made captive – a swop, not of horses, but of men – in short, an exchange of persons – of identities! In truth, a bright idea it was, and one that promised well.

I have said that I had already conceived a plan for the rescue of my betrothed: I had done so during the night; and all along the route, in my mind I had been maturing it. The incident that had just transpired had given rise to a host of new ideas – one, above all, that promised to aid me in facilitating the execution of my design. The capture of the savage, which had at first given me uneasiness, I now regarded in a very different light – as a fortunate circumstance. I could not help thinking that I recognised in it the finger of Providence, and the thought inspired me with hope. I felt that I was not forsaken.

The plan I had proposed to myself was simple enough; it would require more of courage than stratagem; but to the former I was sufficiently nerved by the desperate circumstances in which we had become involved. I proposed to enter the Indian camp in the night – of course, by stealth and under cover of the darkness – to find the captive, if possible – set her limbs free – and then trust to chance for the escape of both of us.

If once inside the encampment, and within reach of her, a sudden coup might accomplish all this: success was not beyond possibility, nor probability neither; and the circumstances admitted of no plan that promised so fairly.

To have attempted fight with my few followers against such a host – to have attacked the Indian camp, even under the advantage of an alarm – would have been sheer madness. It must have resulted not only in our immediate defeat, but would have destroyed our last chance of rescuing the captive. The savages, once alarmed and warned, could never be approached again. Isolina would be lost for ever.

My followers agreed with me upon the imprudence of an attack. Folly they termed it – and not from any motives of fear: they were willing to risk all; and had I so ordered, would have charged with me, rifle in hand, into the very midst of the enemy’s lines. I knew they would, every man of them. Even the voyageur – the least brave of the party – would not have flinched; for, in the midst of brave men, cowards cease to be.

But such a course would indeed have been folly – madness. We thought not of adopting it; all approved of the plan I had formed, and which I had already laid before them as we tarried by the noon halting-place.

Several had volunteered to be my companions – to venture along with me into the camp of the savage; to share with me the extreme of the danger; but for several reasons I was determined to go alone. Should even one of them be along with me, I saw it would double the risk of detection. In this matter, stratagem, not strength, was needed, and speed in the last moments would be worth both.

Of course, I did not think to get the captive clear without being observed and pursued – such an expectation would have been preposterous; she would be too well watched by the savages – not only by her jailers, but by the jealous eyes of those rival claimants of her body.

No; on the contrary, I anticipated pursuit – close and eager. It might be strife; but I trusted to my own swiftness of foot, and to hers – for well knew I her bold heart and free limb: it was no helpless burden I should have to bring away.

I trusted to my being able to baffle their pursuit – to keep them back while she ran forward. For that purpose, I should take with me my knife and revolvers – I trusted to these, and much to chance, or, perhaps, I should rather say, to God. My cause was good – my heart firm and hopeful.

Other precautions I intended to take: horses ready as near as they might be brought; men also ready in their saddles, rifle in hand – ready for fight, or flight.