The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

“Not yet, not yet,” thought I. “I shall fight him in the water – in the deep water: that may give me an advantage. Perhaps, then, the contest will be more equal; perhaps I may escape by diving.”

I sprang into the pond without a moment of hesitation.

The water was knee-deep. I plunged onward, making for the centre; the spray rose round me; the pond deepened as I advanced; I was soon up to the waist.

I glanced around with anxious heart; the bear was standing upon the shore. To my surprise and joy, I saw that he had halted, and seemed disinclined to follow me.

I say, to my surprise I saw this, for I knew that water has no terrors for the grizzly bear; I knew that he could swim; I had seen many of his kind crossing deep lakes and rapid rivers. What, then, hindered him from following me?

I could not guess, nor, indeed, did I try to guess, at the moment; I thought of nothing but getting farther from the shore, and waded on till I had arrived near the centre of the lake and stood neck-deep in the water. I could go no farther without swimming, and therefore came to a stand, with my face turned towards my pursuer.

I watched his every movement. He had risen once more upon his hind-quarters, and in this attitude stood looking after me, but still apparently without any intention of taking to the water.

After regarding me for some moments, he fell back upon all-fours, and commenced running round the border of the pond, as if searching for a place to enter.

There were still not over two hundred paces between us, for the pond was only twice that in diameter. He could easily have reached me, had he felt so disposed; but for some reason or other, he seemed disinclined to a “swim,” though for nearly half-an-hour he kept running backwards and forwards along the shore.

Now and then he made short excursions out into the prairie; but always returned again, and regarded me afresh, as though determined not to lose sight of me for any length of time. I was in hopes that he might stray round to the other side of the pond, and give me the chance of making a rush for the ravine; but no; he continued on that side where he had first appeared, as though he suspected my design.

I knew not how long the siege was to last; but as I well understood the implacable disposition of the grizzly bear, I could not hope that the scene would be otherwise than protracted.

It lasted a long while – more than an hour I should think. I began to despair. I shivered. The pond must have been a spring, so chill were its waters. I shivered, but kept my place; I dared not move out of it. I even feared to agitate the water around me, lest by so doing I might excite my fierce enemy, and tempt his onset. I shivered, but stood still.

My patience was at length rewarded. The bear, making one of his short tours into the prairie, espied the carcass of the antelope. I saw that he had halted over something, though I could not tell what, for my eyes were below the level of the plain.

Presently his head was raised again, and in his jaws were the remains of the prong-horn. To my joy I perceived that he was dragging it towards the barranca, and in another minute he had disappeared with it behind the cliff.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Toughest Struggle of my Life

I swam a few strokes, and then wading gently and without noise, I stood upon the sandy shore.

With shivering frame and dripping garments, I stood, uncertain what course to pursue. I was upon the opposite side of the lake – I mean opposite to where I had entered it. I had chosen that side intentionally, lest the bear should suddenly return. He might deposit the carcass in his lair, and come back to look after me. It is a habit of these animals, when not pressed by immediate hunger, to bury their food or store it in their caves. Even the devouring of the little antelope would have been an affair of only a few minutes’ time, and the bear might still return, more ravenous that he had tasted blood.

I was filled with irresolution. Should I run off across the plain beyond the reach of pursuit? I should have to return again for my horse and rifle. To take to the prairie on foot would be like going to sea without a boat. Even had I been sure of reaching the settlements in safety without my horse, I could not think of leaving him behind. I loved my Moro too well for that: I would have risked life itself rather than part with the noble creature. No; the idea of deserting him was not entertained for a moment.

But how was I to join him? The only path by which I could cross the barranca had just been taken by the bear. The latter was no doubt still upon it, in the bottom of the ravine. To attempt passing over would be to bring myself once more under the eyes of the fierce brute; and I should certainly become his victim.

Another idea suggested itself – to go up the barranca, and find a crossing, or else head the chasm altogether, and come down upon the opposite side. That was possibly the best plan to pursue.

I was about starting forward to execute it, when, to my dismay, I again beheld the bear; this time, not upon the same side with myself, but upon the opposite one, where Moro was picketed!

He was just climbing out of the ravine when I first saw him – slowly dragging his huge body over the escarpment of the cliff. In a moment he stood erect upon the open plain.

I was filled with a new consternation; I perceived too surely that he was about to attack the horse!

The latter had already observed the bear’s approach, and seemed to be fully aware of his danger. I had staked him at the distance of about four hundred yards from the barranca, and upon a lazo of about twenty in length. At sight of the bear he had run out to the end of his trail-rope, and was snorting and plunging with affright.

This new dilemma arrested me, and I stood with anxious feelings to watch the result. I had no hope of being able to yield the slightest aid to my poor horse – at least none occurred to me at the moment.

The bear made directly towards him, and my heart throbbed wildly as I saw the brute approach almost within clawing distance. The horse sprang round, however, and galloped upon a circle of which the lazo was the radius. I knew, from the hard jerks he had already given to the rope, that there was no chance of its yielding and freeing him. No; it was a raw-hide lazo of the toughest thong. I knew its power, and I remembered how firmly I had driven home the picket-pin. This I now regretted. What would I have given to have been able at that moment to draw the blade of my knife across that rope!

I continued to watch the struggle with a painful feeling of suspense. The horse still kept out of the bear’s reach by galloping round the circumference of the circle, while the boar made his attacks by crossing its chords, or running in circles of lesser diameter. The whole scene bore a resemblance to an act at the Hippodrome, Moro being the steed, and the bear taking the part of the ring-master!

Once or twice, the rope circling round, and quite taut, caught upon the legs of the bear, and, after carrying him along with it for some distance, flung him over upon his back. This seemed to add to his rage, since, after recovering his legs again, he ran after the horse with redoubled fury. I could have been amused at the singular spectacle, but that my mind was too painfully agitated about the result.

The scene continued for some minutes without much change in the relative position of the actors. I began to hope that the bear might be baffled after all, and finding the horse too nimble for him, might desist from his attacks, particularly as the horse had already administered to him several kicks that would have discomfited any other assailant. These, however, only rendered the brute more savage and vengeful.

Just at this time the scene assumed a new phase, likely to bring about the dénouement. The rope had once more pressed against the bear; but this time, instead of trying to avoid it, he seized it in his teeth and paws. I thought at first he was going to cut it, and this was exactly what I wished for; but no – to my consternation I saw that he was crawling along it by constantly renewing his hold, and thus gradually and surely drawing nearer to his victim! The horse now screamed with terror!

I could bear the sight no longer. I remembered that I had left my rifle near the edge of the barranca, and some distance from the horse; I remembered, too, that after shooting the antelope, I had carefully reloaded it.

I ran forward to the cliff, and dashed madly down its face; I climbed the opposite steep, and clutching the gun, rushed towards the scene of strife.

I was still in time; the bear had not yet reached his victim, though now within less than six feet of him.

I advanced within ten paces, and fired. As though my shot had cut the thong, it gave way at the moment, and the horse with a wild neigh sprang off into the prairie!

I had hit the bear, as I afterwards ascertained, but not in a vital part, and my bullet had no more effect upon him than if it had been a drop of snipe-shot. It was the strength of despair that had broken the rope, and set free the steed.

It was my turn now – for the bear, as soon as he perceived that the horse had escaped him, turned and sprang upon me, uttering, as he did so, a loud scream.

I had no choice but fight. I had no time to reload. I struck the brute once with my clubbed rifle, and flinging the gun away, grasped the readier knife. With the strong keen blade – the knife was a bowie – I struck out before me; but the next moment I felt myself grappled and held fast.

The sharp claws tore up my flesh; one paw was griped over my hips, another rested on my shoulder, while the white teeth gleamed before my eyes. My knife-arm was free: I had watched this when grappling, and with all the energy of despair I plunged the keen blade between the ribs of my antagonist. Again and again I plunged it, seeking for the heart at every stab.

We rolled together upon the ground, over and over again. The red blood covered us both. I saw it welling from the lips of the fierce monster, and I joyed to think that my knife reached his vitals. I was wild – I was mad – I was burning with a fierce vengeance – with anger, such as one might feel for a human foe!

Over and over the ground in the fierce struggle of life and death. Again I felt the terrible claws, the tearing teeth; again sank my blade up to the hilt.

Gracious heaven! how many lives has he? Will he never yield to the red steel? See the blood! – rivers of blood – the prairie is red – we roll in blood. I am sick – sick – I faint —

Chapter Twenty Four.

Old Comrades

I fancied myself in a future world, battling with some fearful demon. No; those forms I see around me are of the earth. I still live!

My wounds pain me. Some one is binding them up. His hand is rude; but the tender expression of his eye tells me that his heart is kind. Who is he? Whence came he?

I am still upon the wide prairie; I see that clearly enough. Where is my terrible antagonist? I remember our fierce fight – everything that occurred; but —I thought he had killed me!

I certainly was dead. But no; it cannot have been. I still live!

I see above me the blue sky – around me the green plain. Near me are forms – the forms of men, and yonder are horses too!

Into whose hands have I fallen? Whoever they be they are friends; they must have rescued me from the gripe of the monster?

But how? No one was in sight: how could they have arrived in time? I would ask, but have not strength.

The men are still bending over me. I observe one with large beard and brown bushy workers. There is another face, old and thin, and tanned to a copper colour. My eyes wander from one to the other; some distant recollections stir within me. Those faces —

Now I see them but dimly – I see them no longer I fainted, and was again insensible.

Once more I became conscious, and this time felt stronger: I could better understand what was passing around me. I observed that the sun was going down; a buffalo robe, suspended upon two upright saplings, guarded his slanting rays from the spot where I lay. My seraph was under me, and my head rested in my saddle, over which another robe had been laid. I lay upon my side, and the position gave me a view of all that was passing. A fire was burning near, by which were two persons, one seated, the other standing. My eyes passed from one to the other, scanning each in turn.

The younger stood leaning on his rifle, looking into the fire. He was the type of a “mountain man,” a trapper. He was full six feet in his moccasins, and of a build that suggested the idea of strength and Saxon ancestry. His arms were like young oaks; and his hand grasping the muzzle of his gun, appeared large, fleshless, and muscular. His cheek was broad and firm, and was partially covered with a bushy whisker, that met over the chin; while a beard of the same colour – dull brown – fringed his lips. The eye was grey, or bluish grey, small, well-set, and rarely wandering. The hair was light brown; and the complexion of the face, which had evidently once been blonde, was now nearly as dark as that of a half-breed. Sun-tan had produced this metamorphosis. The countenance was prepossessing: it might have been once handsome. Its expression was bold, but good-humoured, and bespoke a kind and generous nature.

The dress of this individual was the well-known costume of his class – a hunting-shirt of dressed deer-skin, smoked to the softness of a glove; leggings reaching to the hips, and fringed down the seams; moccasins of true Indian make, soled with buffalo hide (parflêche). The hunting-shirt was belted around the waist, but open above, so as to leave the throat and part of the breast uncovered; but over the breast could be seen the under-shirt, of finer material – the dressed skin of the young antelope, or the fawn of the fallow-deer. A short cape, part of the hunting-shirt, hung gracefully over the shoulders, ending in a deep fringe cut out of the buckskin itself. A similar fringe embellished the draping of the skirt. On the head was a raccoon-cap – the face of the animal over the front, while the barred tail, like a plume, fell drooping over the left shoulder.

The accoutrements were a bullet-pouch, made from the undressed skin of a tiger-cat, ornamented with the head of the beautiful summer-duck. This hung under the right arm, suspended by a shoulder-strap; and attached, in a similar manner, was a huge crescent-shaped horn, upon which was carved many a strange souvenir. His arms consisted of a knife and pistol – both stuck in the waist-belt – and a long rifle, so straight that the line of the barrel seemed scarcely to deflect from that of the butt.

But little attention had been paid to ornament in either his dress, arms, or equipments; and yet there was a gracefulness in the hang of his tunic-like shirt, a stylishness about the fringing and bead-embroidery, and an air of jauntiness in the set of the ’coon-skin cap, that showed the wearer was not altogether unmindful of his personal appearance. A small pouch or case, ornamented with stained porcupine quills, hung down upon his breast. This was the pipe-holder – no doubt a gage d’amour from some dark-eyed, dark-skinned damsel, like himself a denizen of the wilderness.

His companion was very different in appearance; unlike him, in almost every respect, unlike anybody in the world.

The whole appearance of this individual was odd and striking. He was seated on the opposite side of the fire, with his face partially turned towards me, and his head sunk down between a pair of long lank thighs. He looked more like the stump of a tree dressed in dirt-coloured buckskin than a human being; and had his arms not been in motion, he might have been mistaken for such an object. Both his arms and jaws were moving; the latter engaged in polishing a rib of meat which he had half roasted over the coals.

His dress – if dress it could be called – was simple as it was savage. It consisted of what might have once been a hunting-shirt, but which now looked more like a leathern bag with the bottom ripped open, and sleeves sewed into the sides. It was of a dirty-brown colour, wrinkled at the hollow of the arms, patched round the armpits, and greasy all over; it was fairly “caked” with dirt. There was no attempt at either ornament or fringe. There had been a cape, but this had evidently been drawn upon from time to time for patches and other uses, until scarcely a vestige of it remained. The leggings and moccasins were on a par with the shirt, and seemed to have been manufactured out of the same hide. They, too, were dirt-brown, patched, wrinkled, and greasy. They did not meet each other, but left bare a piece of the ankle, and that also was dirt-brown like the buckskin. There was no undershirt, waistcoat, or other garment to be seen, with the exception of a close-fitting cap, which had once been catskin; but the hair was all worn off, leaving a greasy, leathery-looking surface, that corresponded well with the other parts of the dress. Cap, shirt, leggings, and moccasins, looked as if they had never been stripped off since the day they were first tried on, and that might have been many a year ago. The shirt was open, displaying the naked breast and throat; and these, as well as the face, hands, and ankles, had been tanned by the sun and smoked by the fire to the hue of rusty copper. The whole man, clothes and all, looked as if he had been smoked on purpose.

His face bespoke a man of sixty, or thereabout; his features were sharp, and somewhat aquiline; and the small eyes were dark, quick, and piercing. His hair was black, and cut short; his complexion had been naturally brunette, though there was nothing of the Frenchman or Spaniard in his physiognomy. He was more likely of the black-Saxon breed.

As I looked at this man, I saw that there was a strangeness about him, independently of the oddness of his attire. There was something peculiar about his head – something wanting.

What was it that was wanting? It was his ears!

There is something awful in a man without his ears. It suggests some horrid drama – some terrible scene of cruel vengeance: it suggests the idea of crime committed and punishment inflicted.

I might have had such unpleasant imaginings, but that I chanced to know why those ears were wanting. I remembered the man who was sitting before me!

It seemed a dream, or rather the re-enactment of an old scene. Years before, I had seen that individual, and for the first time, in a situation very similar. My eyes first rested upon him, seated as he was now, over a fire, roasting and eating. The attitude was the same; the tout ensemble in no respect different. There was the same greasy catskin cap, the same scant leggings, the same brown buckskin covering over the lanky frame. Perhaps neither shirt nor leggings had been taken off since I last saw them. They appeared no dirtier, however; that was not possible. Nor was it possible, having once looked upon the wearer, ever to forget him. I remembered him at a glance – Reuben Bawling, or “Old Rube,” as he was more commonly called, one of the most celebrated of trappers.

The younger man was “Bill Garey,” another celebrity of the same profession, and old Rube’s partner and constant companion.

My heart gladdened at the sight of these old acquaintances. I knew I was with friends.

I was about to call out to them, when my eye wandering beyond rested upon the group of horses, and what I saw startled me from my recumbent position.

There was Rube’s old, blind, bare-ribbed, high-boned, long-eared mare-mustang. Her lank grizzled body, naked tail, and mulish look, I remembered well. There, too, was the large powerful horse of Garey, and there was my own steed Moro picketed beside them! This was a joyful surprise to me, as he had galloped off after his escape from the bear, and I had felt anxious about recovering him.

But it was not the sight of Moro that caused me to start with astonishment; it was at seeing another well-remembered animal – another horse. Was I mistaken? Was it an illusion? Were my eyes or my fancy again mocking me?

No! It was a reality. There was the noble form, the graceful and symmetrical outlines, the smooth coat of silver white, the flowing tail, the upright jetty ears – all were before my eyes. It was he —the white steed of the prairies!

Chapter Twenty Five.

A Queer Conversation

The surprise, with the exertion I had made in raising myself, overcame me, and I fell back in a swoon.

It was but a momentary dizziness, and in a short while I was again conscious.

Meanwhile, the two men had approached, and having applied something cold to my temples, stood near me conversing: I heard every word.

“Durn the weemen!” (I recognised Rube’s voice); “thur allers a gittin a fellur into some scrape. Hyur’s a putty pickle to be in, an all through a gurl. Durn the weemen! sez I.”

“We–ell,” drawlingly responded Garey, “pre-haps he loves the gal. They sez she’s mighty hansum. Love’s a strong feelin, Rube.”

Although I had my eyes partially open, I could not see Rube, as he was standing behind the suspended robe; but a gurgling, clucking sound – somewhat like that made in pouring water from a bottle – reached my ears, and told me what effect Garey’s remark had produced upon his companion.

“Cuss me, Bill!” the latter at length rejoined – “cuss me! ef yur ain’t as durned a fool as the young fellur hisself! Love’s a strong feelin! He, he, he – ho, ho, hoo! Wal, I guess it must a be to make sich dodrotted fools o’ reezunable men. As yit, it hain’t afooled this child, I reck’n.”

“You never knewd what love war, old hoss?”

“Thur yur off o’ the trail, Bill-ee. I did oncest – yis, oncest I wur in love, plum to the toe-nails. But thet wur a gurl to git sweet on. Ye-es, thet she wur, an no mistake!”

This speech ended in a sigh that sounded like the blowing of a buffalo.

“Who wur the gal?” inquired Garey after a pause. “White, or Injun?”

“Injun!” exclaimed Rube, in a contemptuous tone. “No; I reck’n not, boyee. I don’t say thet, for a wife, an Injun ain’t jest as good as a white, an more convaynient she are to git shet of when yur tired o’ her. I’ve hed a good grist o’ squaws in my time – hef-a-dozen maybe, an maybe more – but this I kin say, an no boastin neyther, thet I never sold a squaw yet for a plug o’ bacca less than I gin for her; an on most o’ ’em I made a clur profit. Thurfur, Billee, I don’t object to a Injun fur a wife: but wives is one thing, an sweethearts is diff’rent, when it comes to thet. Now the gurl I’m a-talkin ’bout wur my sweetheart.”

“She wur a white gal, then?”

“Are allyblaster white? She wur white as the bleached skull o’ a huffier; an sesh har! ’Twur as red as the brush o’ a kitfox! Eyes, too. Ah, Billee, boy, them wur eyes to squint out o’! They wur as big as a buck’s, an as soft as smoked fawn-skin. I never seed a pair o’ eyes like hern!”

“What wur her name?”

“Her name wur Char’ty, an as near as I kin remember, her other name wur Holmes – Char’ty Holmes. Ye-es, thet wur the name.

“’Twur upon Big-duck crick in the Tennessee bottom, the place whur this child chawed his fust hoe-cake. Let me see – it ur now more’n thirty yeer ago. I fust met the gurl at a candy-pullin; an I reccollex well we wur put to eat taffy agin one another. We ate till our lips met; an then the kissin – thet wur kissin, boyee. Char’ty’s lips wur sweeter than the treakle itself!

“We met oncest agin at a corn-shuckin, an arterwards at a blanket-trampin, an thur’s whur the bisness wur done. I seed Char’ty’s ankles as she wur a-trampin out the blankets, as white an smooth as peeled poplar. Arter thet ’twur all up wi’ Reuben Rawlins. I approached the gurl ’ithout more ado; an sez I: ‘Char’ty,’ sez I, ‘I freeze to you;’ an sez she: ‘Reuben, I cottons to you.’ So I immeediantly made up to the ole squire – thet ur Squire Holmes – an axed him for his darter. Durn the ole skunk! he refused to gin her to me!

“Jest then, thur kum a pedlar from Kinneticut, all kivered wi’ fine broadcloth. He made love to Char’ty; an wud yur b’lieve it, Bill? the gurl married him! Cuss the weemen! thur all alike.

“I met the pedlar shortly arter, and gin him sech a larrupin as laid him up for a month; but I hed to clur out for it, an I then tuk to the plains.