The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

Such was the enterprise upon which I was resolved. Success or death was staked upon the issue. If not successful, I cared not to survive it.

Chapter Eighty Four.

“Painting Injun.”

Withal, I was not reckless. If not sanguine, I was far from despondent; and as I continued to dwell upon it, the prospect seemed to brighten, and success to appear less problematical.

One of the chief difficulties I should have to encounter would be getting into the camp. Once inside the lines – that is, among the camp-fires and tents, if there should be any – I should be comparatively safe. This I knew from experience; for it would not be my first visit to an encampment of prairie-Indians. Even in their midst, mingling with the savages themselves, and under the light of their glaring fires, I should be less exposed to the danger of detection than while attempting to cross their lines. First, I should have to pass the outlying pickets: then within these the horse-guards; and within these, again, the horses themselves!

You may smile when I assert that the last was to me a source of apprehension as great as either of the others. An Indian horse is a sentinel not to be despised. He is as much the enemy of the white man as his master; and partly from fear, and partly from actual antipathy, he will not permit the former to approach him. The human watcher may be negligent – may sleep upon his post – the horse never. The scent of a white man, or the sight of a skulking form, will cause him to snort and neigh; so that a whole camp will either be stampeded or put upon the alert in a few minutes. Many a well-planned attack has been defeated by the warning-snort of the sentinel mustang.

It is not that the prairie-horse feels any peculiar attachment for the Indian; strange if he did – since tyrant more cruel to the equine race does not exist; no driver more severe, no rider more hard, than a horse-Indian.

It is simply the faithfulness which the noble animal exhibits for his companion and master, with the instinct which tells him when that master is menaced by danger. He will do the same service for a white as for a red man; and often does the weary trapper take his lone rest, with full confidence that the vigil will be faithfully kept by his horse.

Had there been dogs in the Indian camp, my apprehensions would have been still more acute – the danger would have been more than doubled. Within the lines, these cunning brutes would have known me as an enemy: the disguise of garments would not have availed me by the scent, an Indian dog can at once tell the white from the red man; and they appear to hold a real antipathy against the race of the Celt or Saxon. Even in time of truce, a white man entering an Indian camp can scarcely be protected from the wolfish pack.

I knew there were no dogs – we saw tracks of none. The Indians had been upon the war-trail; and when they proceed on these grand expeditions, their dogs, like their women, are left “at home.” I had reason to be thankful that such was their custom.

Of course it was my intention to go disguised; it would have been madness to have gone otherwise. In the darkest night, my uniform would have betrayed me; but necessarily, in my search for the captive, I should be led within the light of the fires.

It was my design, therefore, to counterfeit the Indian costume; and how to do this had been for some time the subject of my reflections. I had been congratulating myself on the possession of the buffalo-robe. That would go far towards the disguise; but other articles were wanting to complete my costume. The leggings and moccasins – the plumed head-dress and neck ornaments – the long elfin locks – the bronze complexion of arms and breast – the piebald face of chalk, charcoal, and vermilion – where were all these to be obtained? There was no costumerie in the desert.

In the moment of excitement that succeeded the capture of the savage, I had been thinking of other things. It was only when we were about to part from him that the idea jumped into my mind – that bright idea – that he could furnish me – the very man.

I turned back to reconnoitre his person.

Dismounting, I scanned him from head to foot. With delight my eyes rested upon his buckskin-leggings, his bead-embroidered moccasins, his pendent collar of javali-tusks, his eagle-plumes stained red, and the ample robe of jaguar-skins that draped his back – all pleased me much.

But that we were bent on an errand of peril, the last-mentioned article would not have been left there. My followers had eyed it with avidity, and more than one of them had been desirous of removing it; but the prospect of proximate peril had damped the ardour for spoil; and the splendid robe had been permitted to remain, where so gracefully it hung, upon the shoulders of the savage.

It soon replaced the buffalo robe upon mine; my boots were cast aside, and my legs encased in the scalp-fringed leggings; my hips were swathed in the leathern “breech-clout;” and my feet thrust into the foot-gear of the Comanche, which, by good fortune, fitted to a hair.

There was yet much required to make me an Indian. Comanches upon the war-trail go naked from the waist upward – the tunic-shirt is only worn by them, when hunting, or on ordinary occasions. How was I to counterfeit the copper skin – the bronzed arms and shoulders? – the mottled breast – the face of red, and white, and black? Paint only could aid me; and where was paint to be procured? The black we could imitate with gunpowder, but —

“Wagh!” ejaculated Rube, who was seen holding in his hands a wolf-skin, prettily trimmed and garnished with quills and beads – the medicine-bag of the Indian. “Wagh! I thort we’d find the mateeruls in the niggur’s possible-sack – hyur they be!”

Rube had dived his hand to the bottom of the embroidered bag; and, while speaking, drew it triumphantly forth. Several little leathern packets appeared between his fingers, which, from their stained outsides, evidently contained pigments of various colours; whilst a small shining object in their midst proved, on closer inspection, to be a looking-glass!

Neither the trappers nor myself were astonished at finding these odd “notions” in such a place; on the contrary, it was natural we should have looked for them there. Seldom in peace, but never in time of war, does the Indian ride abroad without his rouge and his mirror!

The colours were of the right sort, and corresponded exactly with those that glittered upon the skin of the captive warrior.

Under the keen edge of a bowie, my moustaches came off in a twinkling: a little grease was procured; the paints were mixed; and placing myself side by side with the Indian, I stood for his portrait. Rube was the painter – a piece of soft buckskin his brush – the broad palm of Garey his palette.

The operation did not last a great while. In twenty minutes it was all over; and the Indian brave and I appeared the exact counterparts of each other. Streak by streak, and spot by spot, had the old trapper imitated those hideous hieroglyphics – even to the red hand upon the breast, and the cross upon the brow. In horrid aspect, the copy quite equalled the original.

One thing was still lacking – an important element in the metamorphosis of disguise: I wanted the long snaky black tresses that adorned the head of the Comanche.

The want was soon supplied. Again the bowie blade was called upon to serve as scissors; and with Garey to perform the tonsorial feat, the chevelure of the Indian was shorn of its flowing glories.

The savage winced as the keen blade glistened around his brow; he had no other thought than that he was about to be scalped alive!

“’Tain’t the way I’d raise his har, the dodrotted skunk!” muttered Rube, as he stood watching the operation. “Fotch the hide along wi’ it, Bill! It ’ll save bother – ’ee’ll hev to make a wig ef ’ee don’t; skin ’im, durn ’im!”

Of course Garey did not give heed to this cruel counsel, which he knew was not meant for earnest.

A rude “scratch” was soon constructed, and being placed upon my head, was attached to my own waving locks. Fortunately, these were of dark colour, and the hue corresponded.

I fancied I saw the Indian smile when he perceived the use we were making of his splendid tresses. It was a grim smile, however; and from the first moment to the last, neither word nor ejaculation escaped from his lips.

Even I was forced to smile; I could not restrain myself. The odd travestie in which we were engaged – the strange commingling of the comic and serious in the act – and above all, the ludicrous look of the captive Indian, after they had close cropped him – was enough to make a stone smile. My comrades could not contain themselves, but laughed outright.

The plume-bonnet was now placed on my head. It was fortunate the brave had one – for this magnificent head-dress is rarely worn on a war-expedition; fortunate, for it aided materially in completing the counterfeit. With it upon my head, the false hair could hardly have been detected under the light of day.

There was no more to be done. The painter, hairdresser, and costumier, had performed their several offices – I was ready for the masquerade.

Chapter Eighty Five.

The Last Hours on the Trail

More cautiously than ever, we now crept along the trail – advancing only after the ground had been thoroughly “quartered” by the scouts. Time was of the least consequence. The fresh sign of the Indians told us they were but a short way ahead of us: we believed we could have ridden within sight of them at any moment.

We did not wish to set eyes on them before sunset. It could be no advantage to us to overtake them on the march, but the contrary. Some lagging Indian might be found in the rear of the band; we might come in contact with him, and thus defeat all our designs.

We hung back, therefore – allowing sufficient time for the savages to pitch their camp, and for their stragglers to get into it.

On the other hand, I did not desire to arrive late. The council was to be held that night – so she had learned – and after the council would come the crisis. I must be in time for both.

At what hour would the council take place?

It might be just after they had halted. The son of a chief, and a chief himself – for the white renegade was a leader of red men – a question between two such men would not remain long undecided. And a question of so much importance – involving such consequence – property in body and soul – possession of the most beautiful woman in the world!

Oh! I wondered! Could these hideous, ochre-stained, grease-bedaubed brutes appreciate that peerless beauty? Impossible, I thought. The delicate lines of her loveliness would be lost upon their gross eyes and coarse sensual hearts. That pearl beyond price – paste would have satisfied them as well – they could not distinguish the diamond from common glass.

And yet the Comanche is not without love-craft. Coarse as might be the passion, no doubt they loved her – both loved her – red savage and white savage.

For this very reason, the “trial” would not be delayed; the question would be speedily decided – in order that the quarrel of the chiefs might be brought to an end. For this very reason, the crisis might be hastened, the council take place at an early hour; for this very reason, I too must needs be early upon the spot.

It was my aim to arrive within sight of the Indian encampment just before night – in the twilight, if possible – that we might be able to make reconnoissance of the ground before darkness should cover it from our view. We were desirous of acquainting ourselves with the lay of the surrounding country as well – so that, in the event of our escape, we should know which was the best direction to take.

We timed our advance by the sign upon the trail. The keen scouts could tell, almost to a minute, when the latest tracks were made; and by this we were guided. Both glided silently along, their eyes constantly and earnestly turned upon the ground.

Mine were more anxiously bent upon the sky; from that quarter I most feared an obstacle to the execution of my purpose. What a change had come over my desires! – how different were they from those of the two preceding nights! The very same aspect of the heavens that had hitherto chagrined and baffled me, would now have been welcome. In my heart, I had lately execrated the clouds; in that same heart, I was now praying for cloud, and storm, and darkness!

Now could I have blessed the clouds, but there were none to bless – not a speck appeared over the whole face of the firmament – the eye beheld only the illimitable ether.

In another hour, that boundless blue would be studded with millions of bright stars; and, silvered by the light of a resplendent moon, the night would be as day.