The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

Others, again, were dressed somewhat in a military fashion, with helmets or stiff shakos, ill-fitting uniform coats of red or blue cloth, oddly contrasting with the brown buckskin that covered their legs and feet.

With some astonishment, I observed these “fancy dresses;” but my surprise passed away, when I reflected upon who were the men before me, and whence they had lately come, where they had been, and on what errand. It was no travesty, but a scene of actual life. The savages, were clad in the spoils they had captured from civilisation.

I need not have been at such pains with my toilet; under any guise, I could scarcely have looked odd in the midst of such a motley crew: even my own uniform might have passed muster – all except the colour of my skin.

Fortunately, a few of the band still preserved their native costume – a few appeared in full paint and plumes – else I should have been too Indian for such a company.

It cost not a minute to note these peculiarities, nor did I stay to observe them minutely; my eyes were in search of Isolina.

I cast inquiring glances on all sides; I scrutinised the groups around the different fires; I saw others – women – whom I knew to be captives, but I saw not her.

I scanned their forms and the faces of those who were turned towards me. A glance would have been enough; I could easily have recognised her face under the firelight – under any light. It was not before me.

“In the tent – in the tent: she must be there?”

I determined to move away from the spot where I had hitherto been standing. My eye, quickened by the necessity of action, had fallen upon the copse that stretched along the entire background of the camp. At a glance I detected the advantage offered by its shadowy cover.

The tent, as already stated, was placed close to the edge of the timber; and in front of the tent was the great fire. Plainly, this was the gravitating point – the centre of motive and motion. If aught of interest was to be enacted, there would lie the scene. In the lodge or near it would she be found – certainly she would be there; and there I resolved to seek her.

Chapter Ninety Three.

A Friendly Encounter

Just then the shrill voice of a crier pealed through the camp, and I observed a general movement. I could not make out what the man said, but the peculiar intonation told that he was uttering some signal or summons. Something of importance was about to transpire.

The Indians now commenced circling around the blazing pile, meeting and passing each other, as if threading the mazes of some silent and solemn dance. Others were seen hastening up from distant parts of the camp – as if to observe the actions of those around the fire, or join with them in the movement.

I did not wait to watch them; their attention thus occupied, gave me an opportunity of reaching the copse unobserved; and, without further ado, I started towards it.

I walked slowly, and with an assumed air of careless indifference. I counterfeited the Comanche walk – not that bold free port – the magnificent and inimitable stride, so characteristic of Chippewa and Shawano, of Huron and Iroquois – but the shuffling gingery step of an English jockey; for such in reality is the gait of the Comanche Indian when afoot.

I must have played my part well. A savage, crossing from the horse-guards towards the great fire, passed near me, and hailed me by name.

“Wakono!” cried he.

“Que cosa?” (Well – what matter?) I replied in Spanish, imitating as well as I could the Indian voice and accent. It was a venture, but I was taken at a strait, and could not well remain silent.

The man appeared some little surprised at being addressed in the language of Mexico; nevertheless, he understood it, and made rejoinder.

“You hear the summons, Wakono? Why do you not come forward? The council meets; Hissoo-royo is already there.”

I understood what was said – more from the Indian’s gestures than his speech – though the words “summons,” “council,” and the name “Hissoo-royo,” helped me to comprehend his meaning. I chanced to know the Comanche epithets for the two first, and also that Hissoo-royo (the Spanish wolf) was the Indian appellation of the Mexican renegade.

Though I understood what was said, I was not prepared with a reply. I dared not risk the answer in Spanish; for I knew not the extent of Wakono’s proficiency in the Andalusian tongue.

I felt myself in a dilemma; and the importunate savage – no doubt some friend of Wakono himself – appeared determined to stick to me. How was I to get rid of him?

A happy idea came to my relief. Assuming an air of extreme dignity, and as though I did not wish to be disturbed in my meditations, I raised my hand and waved the man a parting salute: at the same time turning my head, I walked slowly away.

The Indian accepted the congé, and moved off, but evidently with an air of reluctance. As I glanced back over my shoulder, I could see him parting from the spot, with a hesitating step; no doubt somewhat astonished at the strange behaviour of his friend Wakono.

I did not look back again until I had placed myself under the shadow of the timber. Then I turned to reconnoitre; my friend had continued on: I saw him just entering among the crowd that circled around the great fire.

Screened from observation by the shadow, I could now pause and reflect. The trifling incident that had caused me some apprehension, had also helped me to some useful knowledge: First, I had learned my own name; second, that a council was about to take place; and thirdly, that the renegade, Hissoo-royo, had something to do with the council.

This was knowledge of importance; combined with my previous information, everything was now made clear. This council could be no other than the jury-trial between the renegade and the yet nameless chief; the same that was to decide to which belonged the right of property in my betrothed. It was about to meet; it had not assembled as yet. Then had I arrived in time. Neither white savage nor red savage had yet come into possession; neither had dared to lay hand on the coveted and priceless gem.

Isolina was still safe – thus singularly preserved from brutal contact. These dogs in the manger – their mutual jealousy had proved her protection!

I was consoled by the thought – strange source of consolation!

I was in time, but where was she? From my new position I had a still better view of the camp, its fires, and its denizens. She was nowhere to be seen!

“In the lodge, then – she must certainly be there – or – ”

A new suspicion occurred to me: “She may be kept apart from the other captives? – in the copse – she may be concealed in the copse until the sentence be pronounced?”

This last conjecture brought along with it hopes and resolves. I determined to search the copse. If I should find her there, my emprise would be easy indeed; at all events, easier than I had anticipated. Though guarded by the savages, I should rescue her from their grasp. The lives of six men – perhaps twice that number – were under my belt. The odds of unarmed numbers would be nothing against the deadly bullets from my revolvers, and I perceived too that most of the savages had laid aside their weapons, confident in the security of their camp.

But I might find her alone, or perhaps with but a single jailer. The meeting of the council favoured the supposition. The men would all be there – some to take part – others interested in the result, or merely from curiosity to watch the proceedings. Yes, all of them would have an interest in the issue – too surely all. The barbarous customs of these savage brutes at that moment came to my remembrance!

I stayed no longer to reflect; but gliding into the grove, commenced my search for the captive.

The ground was favourable to my progress: there was not much underwood, and the trees grew thinly; I could easily pass amongst them without the necessity of crouching, and without making noise. The silent tread of the moccasin was in my favour, as also the dark shadowy foliage that stretched overhead, hiding the sky from my view.

The chief timber of the copse was the pecan hickory – almost an evergreen – and the trees were still in full leaf; only here and there, where the trunks stood far apart, did the moonbeams strike through the thick frondage. The surface of the ground was shrouded from her light; and the narrow aisles through which I passed were as dark as if no moon had been shining.

There was still light enough to reveal some horrid scenes. O Heaven! my heart bleeds at the remembrance.

I was wrong in my conjectures. The men had not all gone to the council; the captive women were not all by the camp-fires. I beheld ruffian men beside their helpless victims – women – fair white women – with drooping heads and listless air – dishevelled weeping! O Heaven! my heart bleeds at the remembrance!

It recoiled at the sight – it burned with indignation. At every turn did it prompt me to draw knife or pistol; at every step my fingers itched to immolate a hideous paint-besmeared brute – to slay a “noble” savage.

I was restrained only by my own desperate situation – by my apprehensions for the safety of Isolina, now more acute than ever. What horrid imaginings crowded into my brain, begot by the barbarous scenes that were being enacted around me!

The monsters, too earnestly occupied with their captives, took no heed of me; and I passed on without interruption.

I threaded the pathways of the grove one after another, gliding through as rapidly as the path would permit; I entered every aisle and glade; I sought everywhere, even to the farthest limits of the wood. I saw more men – more weeping women – more red ruffianism; I saw nought of her for whom I searched.

“In the tent then —she must be there.”

I turned my face towards the lodge; and, moving with stealthy step, soon arrived among the trees that stood in the rear.

I halted near the edge; and, separating the leaves with my hands, peered cautiously through. I had no need to search further – Isolina was before my eyes.

Chapter Ninety Four.

The Council