The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

“Mummeries?” replied the person thus appealed to, another unattached member of the corps of rifle-rangers. “Are that what you’re arter, old Rube?”

“Preezackly, Bill Mum’ries; ay, the name war that – I reccolex it. They gits the critters out o’ large stone buildin’s, shaped same as the rockly islands we seed, when we were trappin’ that lake out t’ords California.”

“Pyramids!” exclaimed the old trapper’s companion, in a tone indicative of a more enlightened mind. “Pyramids o’ Eegip! That’s where they get ’em – so the feller sayed, as showed ’em to us.”

“Wal, wherever they gets ’em. I don’t care a durn whur; but as I wur tellin’ the capten, I’ve seed dead Mexikins as like them mum’ries as one buffler air to another. I’ve seed ’em lie out thur on the dry paraira, an’ neer a coyot, nor a wolf, nor even a turkey-buzzart go near ’em, let alone eat o’ thur meat. That’s what I’ve seed, and so’ve you, Bill Garey.”

“Ye’re right, old hoss; I’ve seed what you says.”

“Wagh! what, then?” interrogated the first speaker, “what do ye konklude from thet?”

“Wal,” drawlingly responded his younger compeer; “I shed say by that thet thar meat warn’t eatable, nohow.”

“Ah! there you’d be right, Bill Garey. There ain’t a critter on all the paraira as will stick a tooth into the meat o’ a reg’lar Mexikin. Coyot won’t touch it; painter won’t go near it; or buzzart, that’ll eat the durndest gurbage as ever wur throwed out o’ a tent, – even to the flesh o’ a Injun – won’t dig its bill into the karkidge o’ a yeller-belly. I’ve seed it, an’ I knows it.”

“Well,” I said, yielding to a belief in this curious theory – not propounded to me for the first time – “how do you account for this predilection, or rather dégoût, on the part of the predatory animals?”

“Digou!” replied the old trapper; “if ye mean by that ’ere a hanger agin ’em, ’taint nothin’ o’ the sort. It be the pure stink o’ the anymal as keeps ’em off. How ked they be other’ise, eatin’ nothin’ but them red peppers, an’ thur garlic, an’ thur half-rotten jirk-meat? ’Taint a bit strange, I reckin, that neyther wolf nor buzzarts’ll have anythin’ to do wi’ their karkidges. Is it, Billee?”

“No,” replied the individual thus appealed to; “not a bit, though some other sort o’ anymal ’haint been so pertikler. If their skins hain’t been touched, somebody’s been tolerable close to ’em, an’ taken thar shirts. I calclate it’s been some o’ thar own people as have jest gone up the road.”

“An’ maybe some o’ ourn as well,” rejoined the old trapper, with a significant leer upon his wrinkled features. “Some o’ them don’t appear to be much better than the Mexikins ’emselves. Look’ee there, Cap’n!”

The speaker gave a slight inclination of his head, accompanied by an equally slight wave of the hand.

I looked in the direction indicated by this double gesture; and at once comprehended the purport of his insinuation.

Story 1, Chapter XVI

A Brace of Bad Fellows

I was at the moment riding in the rear of my troop – having fallen back to hold conversation with my two unattached followers, thus incidentally introduced. The last trooper in the rank – except the corporal, who rode alongside of him – was a man of large body, somewhat slouched and unshapen; as were also his arms, limbs, and the forage-cap on his head. Altogether, he was a slovenly specimen for a cavalry soldier – to look at from behind; and his aspect from the front did not alter the impression.

A long cadaverous countenance, bedecked with a pair of hollow-glass-like eyes; a beard long as the face, hanging down over his breast, defiled with fragments of food and the “ambeer” of tobacco; behind which appeared a row of very large white teeth, set between lips of an unnaturally red colour; above these a long nose, broken near the middle, and obliquing outward to the sinister angle of his mouth; – such was the portrait presented by the individual in question.

I did not see his face, for I was behind him; but it did not need that to enable me to identify the man. By his back, or any part of his body, I could have told that the trooper before me was Johann Laundrich, the Jew-German.

“What of him?” I inquired, in an undertone, seeing that he was the individual referred to in the speech of the old trapper.

“Don’t ’ee see, Cap’n! them theer boots! I heern ye stopped ’im from takin’ ’em last night. He’s got ’em along wi’ him for all that. Thar they be!”

Rube’s gesture was this time more definite; and pointed to the cloak of the trooper, rolled and strapped to the cantle of his saddle.

Between the folds of the cloth, ill-adjusted as they were, I saw, protruding a few inches outward, something of a buff colour, that evidently did not belong to the garment.

A slight scrutiny satisfied me that it was a boot; and, guided by what the trapper had said, I saw that it could be no other than one of the pair I had prevented Laundrich from pilfering from the corpse of the Mexican officer.

I had only hindered him for the time. He had evidently returned to the tent, and made a finish of his filthy work.

A loud angry “halt!” brought the troop to a stand.

I ordered Laundrich to ride out of the ranks; unstrap his cloak from the saddle; and spread it out. On his doing so, the buff boots fell to the ground – where they were permitted to lie.

I could not contain my temper at the double disobedience of orders; and riding alongside the ruffian, I struck him over the crown with the flat of my sabre.

He made no movement to avoid the blow, nor did he stir on receiving it – further than to show his white teeth, like a savage dog suffering chastisement.

With Laundrich once more in the saddle, we were about to move on; when the corporal, touching his cap, came up to me.

“Captain!” said he, “there’s even worse than him among the men. There’s one o’ them got in his havresack a thing I think you ought to see. It’s a scandal to the corps.”

“Which one – who?”

“Bully, the Englishman.”

“Order Bully to ride this way.”

The trooper thus designated, on being summoned by the corporal, drew his horse out of the rank, and rode up – though evidently with an awkward reluctance.

He was quite as ill-favoured as the delinquent just punished. His evil aspect was of a type altogether different. He was bullet-headed and bull-faced, with a thick fleshy neck, and jowls entirely destitute of beard; while, instead of being of dark complexion, like the Jew-German, his face was of the hue of dirty shining tallow, not adorned by a close crop of hay-coloured hair that came far down upon a low square forehead. His nose was retroussé, with nostrils widely spread, like those of a pure-bred bull dog; and his eyes were not very unlike the optics of the fierce Molossian.

The man was known by the name above given to him; though whether he answered to this appellation at roll-call, or whether it was only a sobriquet bestowed upon him by his comrades, I really do not now remember.

His appearance was simply stupid and brutal, while that of Laundrich was cunning and savage.

They were the two worst men in the troop; and I had reason to believe that both had been convicts in their respective countries; but this was not much in the ranks of a campaigning army.

“Bully!” I demanded, as he drew near; “let us see what you’ve got in your havresack!”

A hideous grin overspread the fellow’s features, as he proceeded to draw out the contents of the bag.

“What is it?” I inquired of the corporal, impatient to learn what could be carried in a cavalry havresack, calculated to set a stigma upon a whole troop.

“A piece o’ a man,” was the reply.

By this time Bully had produced the identical article. Knowing what was wanted of him, he saw there would be no use in attempting to “dodge” the demand; and, without troubling the other impedimenta, which the sack contained, he drew out only the article requiring inspection.

It was the finger of a man, encircled by a heavy gold ring, deeply embedded in the swollen flesh! It had been cut off at the posterior joint, close to the hand; and a portion of the muscle of the two adjacent fingers was still attached to it. All this had been done to secure the ring which could not, without breaking it, have been detached from the finger.

The sight, taken in connection with the history deduced from its being in possession of the trooper, was sufficiently horrible.

I did not allow my eyes to dwell upon it; and the shower of blows which I administered to the inhuman scoundrel were not the less heavily dealt on my being told that the finger had belonged to the same corpse which Laundrich had despoiled of its boots!

Ordering the fragment of humanity to be brought along – with the design of some day sending the ring to the friends of the mutilated man – I resumed the route; painfully impressed with the disagreeable circumstances, which had thus disturbed the tranquillity of my temper.

Story 1, Chapter XVII

A Riderless Horse

We halted about midway on the road to Jalapa, at a place called Corral Falso, which, literally translated, signifies “The False Enclosure.”

I know not why the name; but certain it is, that a large enclosure of mason work, with a portion of it in ruins, occupied the summit of the slight eminence where the village stands.

This enclosure may have been a “corral” or penn for cattle, or perhaps a “paraje” for pack mules; though it seemed to be no longer used for any purpose – as it exhibited the appearance of a ruin overgrown with bushes and rank weeds.

The village itself may also have seen more prosperous days – in the times of vice-regal rule – but Corral Falso, on the occasion of my making halt in it, was nothing more than a very small collection of huts, constructed out of tree poles – “Jacales” – and constituting that grouping, known in Mexico as a rancheria– a collection of “ranchos.”

The vanquished army, in its retreat, as well as the victors in their pursuit having passed through the place, had temporarily deprived Corral Falso of its inhabitants. They had taken to the wild chapparal which grew close to their village; and there had they hidden themselves.

But since then a whole day had intervened; and hunger had forced them back to their despoiled homes – at the same time inspiring them with courage to stay there, or at all events with a repugnance to return to the starving shelter of the chapparal.

We found the Corral Falsenians at home – of both sexes and of all ages – all alike trembling at our approach, and evidently gratified to find that we did not eat them up!

I have given this prominence to the pretty paraje Corral Falso, not out of any consideration for the place itself but on account of an incident that transpired there, which resulted in my losing two of my men; and – which was of far more importance to me – was very nearly ending in the loss of myself!

We had halted to “bait” our animals – from their own nosebags of course: for there was not as much corn in Corral Falso as would have filled the crop of a chicken.

While thus occupied, it was reported to me – that one of the horses would not eat; but on the contrary, was more likely to die.

He had been stricken by the sun, or had got the staggers from some other unexplained cause; which ended by his tumbling over upon the road, and stretching out his limbs in their last tremulous struggle.

The horse belonged to the lieutenant of my troop; who was now, of course, démonté.

Slight as the contretemps may appear, or might have been under other circumstances, it placed us at the time in somewhat of a dilemma. One of the men would have to be dismounted, in order that the officer might ride; but how was the man to be taken along? I had been ordered to report speedily at head-quarters in Jalapa; and to have marched at such a pace as would allow one on foot to keep up with the troop, was entirely out of the question.

It is true that the dismounted trooper might be carried on the croup of one of his comrades’ horses; but all of these were greatly fatigued by a long-continued spell of duty; and it was just doubtful enough whether there was a horse in the cavallada capable of “carrying double.”

While my lieutenant and I were debating this question between us, fate or fortune seemed to have determined on deciding it in our favour.

I have said that the chapparal stretched in to the very confines of the rancheria – holding the little village, as it were, in its thorny embrace.

But the country around was not all of this character. The thicket was far from being continuous. On the contrary, the eye rested upon broad tracts of open pasture-ground, covered with a growth of tufted grass, here and there matted, with clumps of cactus, and plants of the wild agave bristling under their tall flower-stalks, and cymes of strong-scented blossoms.

It was not these curious forms of the botanical world that attracted our attention – we had seen and admired them before – but the hoof-strokes of a galloping horse, ringing, not upon the road that bisected the village, but upon the hard turf, that covered the surface of the soil in the open spaces extending between the copses of the chapparal.

We had scarcely bent our ears to listen to the sounds, when we saw the animal that was causing them – a horse – galloping down the slope of a hill in the direction of the rancheria.

He was saddled; but without bridle, and without a rider!

The animal appeared to be a splendid musténo, of a steel-grey colour; and the gleam of silver upon the mountings of the saddle bespoke him as belonging, or having belonged, to an owner of some consideration – perhaps an officer of rank.

The sight of a saddled but riderless steed, thus scampering across country, was by no means strange – at least to us then and there. More than one had we observed upon our march enjoying a like liberty – whose riders were perhaps, at that moment, coldly asleep upon the field of battle, never more to remount them.

We should scarcely have taken notice of the circumstance, but for the want which just then was making itself so unpleasantly felt. We wanted a horse to remount the lieutenant. Here was one about to offer himself ready saddled, and as if saying, “Come and bestride me!”

It was not so certain, however, that the mustang was thus generously disposed; and it became still less so, when the animal, after approaching within twenty paces of the troop, suddenly stopped, threw his nostrils into a horizontal position; loudly inhaled the air; and then with a terrific neigh turned in his tracks and galloped back up the acclivity of the hill.

In the cavallada of tall, scraggy steeds that stood in the street of the village with their noses buried eye-deep in canvas bags – he seemed not to have recognised his own species; or, if so, it was only to identify them as enemies.

The horses of the troop had taken no heed of the shy stranger. They were not in the humour for a “stampede.” They did not even think it necessary to neigh, but remained tranquilly crunching their corn, as if aware that they were making only a temporary halt, and that their time was too precious to be spent in any other occupation.

On reaching the summit of the hill, the mustang came to a stand, and, with head high in air, screamed back a series of wild “whighers,” as if uttered in mockery or defiance.

There was but one horse on the ground capable of capturing that mustang; and perhaps only one rider who could have conducted him to the capture.

Though laying myself open to the accusation of an inordinate vanity, I must specify the horse and the rider thus alluded to. The first was my brave steed Moro– the second was Captain Edward Warfield, in command of a “free corps of rangers.”

An early practice of hare and fox hunting in my native land – continued by the chase of the stag over the forest-clad slopes of the Alleghanies – had given me a seat in the saddle firm as its “tree,” and close as the skin that covered it; while a still later experience on the great western prairies, had rendered me habile in the handling of that wonderful weapon of prairie and pampa – the lazo.

Habit had accustomed me to deem it almost as essential as my bridle; never to go abroad without it; and ever, while riding at the head of my troop of half guerilleros, half-regular cavalry – a coil of thin shining rope composed of twisted hair from the tails of horses, might have been seen hanging from the horn of my saddle.

I esteemed it an arm of equal service with my pistols, whose butts glistened in the holsters beneath. It could be seen in Corral Falso hanging over the withers of my steed, as he stood among the others quietly munching his maize.

My dismounted lieutenant had noticed it, and turned towards me with an appealing look, impossible to be misunderstood.

He liked the appearance of the steel-grey mustang; and had become inspired with an insatiable longing to bestride it.

That longing could only be gratified by its capture; and this could only be effected by myself and Moro.

I understood the lieutenant’s look. Perhaps my comprehension was quickened by the pride or vanity that fluttered up within my bosom at the moment – a desire for even that trifling triumph of distinguishing myself in the eyes of my own men.

I perceived that their eyes were upon me; and, ordering my horse to be bridled, I leaped into the saddle, and started off in pursuit of the escapado.

Story 1, Chapter XVIII

A Horse-Hunt

My steed deemed to comprehend the object for which I had mounted him. Without any guidance, either of voice or rein, he headed for the hill, upon the summit of which stood the neighing mustang.

I rode cautiously up the slope, keeping as well as I could under cover of the cactus plants, in hopes that I might get near enough to fling my lazo without fraying the animal I wished to capture.

There was but slight chance of my being able to accomplish this without a gallop.

The riderless horse was roused, and could not be approached unless by a ruse, or after being run down.

I could think of no trick beyond that of stealing upon the mustang through some trees near which he had stopped, and I rode towards them.

It was to no purpose. The animal having the advantage in position, could see me as I advanced up the acclivity. Before I had got half way to the trees, it turned tail towards me; and, uttering a shrill scream, disappeared over the crest of the ridge.

Giving Moro a touch of the spur, I hastened on to the spot lately occupied by the escapado.

On reaching the summit I saw the mustang once more, but at a rather discouraging distance. It had made good use of the short time it had been out of sight – being now nearly half a mile off, and still going down the slope, which declined in the direction of the Rio del Plan.

I hesitated to follow. The pursuit might carry me far into the heart of the country, and away from the main road. My time was precious. I had orders to report at head-quarters at an early hour of the evening. Cavalry were at that time scarce in the American army; and even my “irregulars” might be required for some duty. I had not much discretionary control as to my movements; and, with these reflections crossing my mind, I determined to return to my troop.

Rather should I say, I was about determining to do so, when a circumstance occurred that decided me to go on.

As I sat in my saddle, watching the fugitive mustang – expecting it soon to disappear into the woods at the bottom of the hill, all of a sudden the animal came to a halt, and, turning around and tossing its head high in the air, once more gave utterance to a shrill “whigher.”

There was something in the neighing of the creature, as well as the movement that accompanied it, that seemed to say, “Come after me if you dare!”

At all events, I interpreted it as a challenge of this kind, and, in the excitement of the moment, I determined to accept it.

I was influenced, also, by the presence of my comrades, who were watching me from below.

Duty should have determined me to ride back to them, and resume our interrupted march; but the chagrin which I should have felt in so easily abandoning a project I had taken up with such a show of determination, outweighed my sense of duty; and, without further delay, I launched myself down the slope in pursuit of the fugitive horse.

As I drew near, the animal started off again; but, instead of taking to the timber – as I expected it would have done – it kept along the edge of the wood, in a south-easterly direction.

This was just what I wanted. I believed that on open ground – in a fair tail-on-end chase – I could overtake either it or any other mustang in Mexico; and my hope was that it might give me a fair chance without taking to cover.

Although I had hunted its wild congeners on the prairies of Texas, it proved the swiftest thing in mustang shape I had ever followed, and I soon began to doubt my capacity to overtake it.

After I had ridden more than a mile along the edge of the forest timber, the creature seemed as far ahead of me as ever! I was fast losing faith in the fleetness of Moro; for I knew that he had been going at top speed all the time, while the mustang appeared to have preserved the distance with which it had started.

“It has heels equal to yours, Moro,” I said mutteringly to my own horse. “It will be a question of bottom between you.”

Was Moro stung by my reproach? He seemed so. Perhaps my thoughts were his? At all events I could feel him perceptibly mending his pace; and perceived, moreover, that he was at last gaining ground upon the fugitive.

There was a natural reason for this, though I did not think of it at the moment. The first mile of the chase had been down hill – so much the worse for Moro. He was a true Arab; his ancestors had been denizens of the great plains of the Sahara – a race of steeds famed for fleetness on the level course. The mustang, on the contrary, was by birth and habits a mountaineer; and either up-hill or down hill would have been the track of his selection.

Going down the slope, he had maintained his distance, or nearly so; but now that the chase led along a level tract of country, he was losing it length by length – so perceptibly, that I began to grope around the pommel of my saddle, to assure myself of the readiness of my lazo.

Perhaps another mile was passed over in the chase, without any change taking place; except that I saw myself constantly closing in towards the heels of the riderless horse. Then a change did occur, and one altogether unexpected: the mustang suddenly disappeared from my sight!

Story 1, Chapter XIX

The Captor Captured

There was nothing mysterious in the disappearance of the fugitive. It had simply made a turn to the right, and plunged, as I thought, into the forest, along the edge of which I had been hitherto pursuing it.

I declined taking the diagonal direction. By doing so I might have headed the mustang; but I feared that the timber might mislead me, and I should lose the animal altogether.

I kept on, therefore, to the point where it had entered the wood.

On reaching this point, I perceived that I had been mistaken. The mustang had not entered the timber at all, but had turned into a sort of alley, or opening, among the trees – along which it was still going in full gallop, as when last seen.

I hesitated not to follow. I was by this time too much excited to think of consequences. Moro’s spirit was, like my own, roused to a pitch closely bordering upon the reckless; and on we went through the forest aisle – that appeared to grow gloomier the farther we penetrated under its shadows.

It was a forest of silk-cotton trees – as I could tell by the flossy down that lay scattered along the ground; but while noting this, I saw something else of far greater significance – something, in fact, that seemed to whisper to me, “You are riding fast, but you may be riding too far.”

The thing that suggested this thought was an observation I made at the moment. Though going at full gallop along what appeared to be a natural avenue between the trees, I could not help perceiving that the ground under my horse’s feet was thickly imprinted with tracks. They were the hoof-prints of horses that, not long before, must have passed over it, going in the same direction as myself I might have taken them for a wild herd – the cavallada belonging to some grazing hacienda – of which there were more than one among the half-prairie chapparals that surrounded me; but this conjecture was nipped in the bud, on my perceiving among the tracks more than one set made by horses, that had been handled by the herradero.