The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

Would the struggle be hard and long? Would Moro again be defeated? Such were my reflections as I swept onward in the pursuit.

I rode in silence; I scarcely drew breath, so keen were my apprehensions about the result.

A long start had the prairie-horse. My delay had thrown me far behind him – nearly a mile. But for the friendly light, I should have lost sight of him altogether; but the plain was open, the moon shining brightly, and the snow-white form, like a meteor, beaconed me onward.

I had not galloped far before I perceived that I was rapidly gaining upon the steed. Surely he was not running at his fleetest? Surely he was going more slowly than was his wont?

Oh! could his rider but know who was coming after! – could she but hear me!

I would have called, but the distance was still too great. She could not have heard even my shouts; how then distinguish my voice?

I galloped on in silence. I was gaining – constantly and rapidly gaining. Surely I was drawing nearer? or were my eyes playing false under the light of the moon?

I fancied that the steed was running heavily – slowly and heavily – as if he was labouring in the race. I fancied – no, it was no fancy – I was sure of it! Beyond a doubt, he was not going at his swiftest speed!

What could it mean? Was he broken by fatigue?

Still nearer and nearer I came, until scarcely three hundred yards appeared between us. My shout might now be heard; my voice —

I called aloud; I called the name of my betrothed, coupling it with my own; but no answer came back – no sign of recognition to cheer me.

The ground that lay between us favoured a race-course speed; and I was about putting my horse to his full stretch, when, to my astonishment, I saw the white steed stagger forward, and fall headlong to the earth!

It did not check my career; and in a few seconds more I was upon the spot, and halting over horse and rider, still prostrate.

I flung myself from the saddle just as Isolina disengaged herself, and rose to her feet. With her right hand clasping the red knife, she stood confronting me.

“Savage! approach me not!” she cried in the Comanche tongue, and with a gesture that told her determination.

“Isolina! I am not – It is – ”

“Henri!”

No words interrupted that wild embrace; no sound could be heard save that made by our hearts, as they throbbed closely together.

Silently I stood upon the plain with my betrothed in my arms. Moro was by our side, proudly curving his neck and chafing the steel between his foaming lips. At our feet lay the prairie-horse with the barb in his vitals, and the feathered shaft protruding from his side. His eyes were fixed and glassy; blood still ran from his spread nostrils; but his beautiful limbs were motionless in death!

Horsemen were seen approaching the spot. We did not attempt to flee from them: I recognised my followers.

They came galloping up; and, drawing bridle, sat silent in their saddles.

We looked back over the plain; there was no sign of pursuit; but for all that, we did not tarry there. We knew not how soon the Indians might be after us; the friends of Hissoo-royo might yet come upon the trail of Wakono!

We scarce gave a parting look to that noble form stretched lifeless at our feet; but plying the spur, rode rapidly away.

It was near daybreak when we halted to rest, and then only after the prairie had been fired behind us.

We found shelter in a pretty grove of acacias, and a grassy turf on which to repose. My wearied followers soon fell asleep.

I slept not; I watched over the slumbers of my betrothed. Her beautiful head rested upon my knees; her soft damask cheek was pillowed upon the robe of jaguar-skins, and my eyes were upon it. The thick tresses had fallen aside, and I saw —

The matador, too, had been merciful! or had gold bribed him from his cruel intent? No matter which – he had failed in his fiendish duty.

There in full entirety were those delicate organs – perfect, complete. I saw but the trifling scar where the gold circlet had been rudely plucked – the source of that red haemorrhage that had been noticed by Cyprio!

I was too happy to sleep.

It was our last night upon the prairies. Before the setting of another sun we had crossed the Rio Grande, and arrived in the camp of our army. Under the broad protecting wings of the American eagle, my betrothed could repose in safety, until that blissful hour when —

Of the Comanches we never heard more. The story of one only was afterwards told – a fearful tale. Ill-fated Wakono! A horrid end was his.

An oft-told tale by the prairie camp-fire is that of the skeleton of an Indian warrior found clasping the trunk of a tree! Wakono had horribly perished.

We had no design of giving him to such a fate. Without thought had we acted; and though he may have deserved death, we had not designed for him such terrible retribution.

Perhaps I was the only one who had any remorseful feeling; but the remembrance of that scalp-bedecked shield – the scenes in that Cyprian grove – those weeping captives, wedded to a woeful lot – the remembrance of these cruel realities evermore rose before my mind, stifling the remorse I should otherwise have felt for the doom of the ill-starred savage. His death, though terrible in kind, was merited by his deeds; and was perhaps as just as punishments usually are.

Poetical justice demands the death of Ijurra, and by the hand of Holingsworth. Truth enables me to satisfy the demand.

On my return to the camp, I learned that the act was already consummated – the brother’s blood had been avenged!

It was a tragic tale, and would take many chapters in the telling. I may not give them here. Let a few particulars suffice.

From that dread night, Holingsworth had found a willing hand to aid him in his purpose of retribution – one who yearned for vengeance keenly as himself. Wheatley was the man.

The two, with a chosen party, had thrown themselves on the trail of the guerrilla; and with Pedro as their guide, had followed it far within the hostile lines. Like sleuth-hounds had they followed it night and day, until they succeeded in tracking the guerrilleros to their lair.

It was a desperate conflict – hand to hand, and knife to knife – but the rangers at length triumphed; most of the guerrilleros were slain, and the band nearly annihilated.

Ijurra fell by Holingsworth’s own hand; while the death of the red ruffian El Zorro, by the bowie knife of the Texan lieutenant, was an appropriate punishment for the cruelty inflicted upon Conchita. The revenge of both was complete, though both still bore the sorrow within their hearts.

The expedition of the two lieutenants was productive of other fruits. In the head-quarters of the guerrilla they found many prisoners, Yankees and Ayankieados – among others, that rare diplomatist Don Ramon de Vargas.

Of course the old gentleman was released from captivity; and had arrived at the American camp, just in time to welcome his fair daughter and future son-in-law from their grand ante-hymeneal “tour upon the prairies.”