The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

After winding about half-a-mile among the trees, we came out upon a narrow road. Here my companions, who were unacquainted with the neighbourhood, were at fault as well as myself: and knew not which direction to take.

It was dark as pitch, but, as on the night before, there was lightning at intervals. Unlike the preceding night, however, it was now raining as if all the sluices of the sky had been set open; and by this time we were all three of us soaking wet. The whole canopy of heaven was shrouded in black, without a single streak of light upon it – not even a star. Who could discover the direction in such a night?

As the lightning flashed, I saw Rube bending down over the road; he appeared to be examining the tracks. I noticed that there were wheel-tracks – deep ruts – evidently made by the rude block-wheels of a carreta. It was these that the trapper was scanning.

Almost as soon as a man could have read the direction from a finger-post, Rube raised himself erect, and crying out —

“All right – this-away!” set off along the road.

I was curious to know how he had determined the point, and questioned him.

“Wal, yur see, young fellur, it ur the trail o’ a Mexikin cart; an’ anybody as iver seed thet ur vamint, knows it hez got only two wheels. But thur are four tracks hyur, an’ thurfor the cart must a gone back an’ fo’th, for I seed they wur the same set o’ wheels. Now, ’tur raizonable to s’pose thet the back-track leads to the settlements, an’ thet’s thisaway.”

“But how could you tell which was the back-track?”

“Wagh! thet ur easy as fallin’ off a log. The back track ur the fresher by more’n a kupple o’ hours.”

Pondering upon the singular “instinct” that enabled our guide to distinguish the tracks, I rode on in silence.

Shortly after, I again heard the voice of Rube, who was some paces in the advance.

“I kud a knowd the way,” he said, “’ithout the wheel-tracks: they only made things more sartint sure.”

“How?” I asked. “What other clue had you?”

“The water,” replied he; “’ee see, or ’ee mout, ef you’d a looked into the tracks, thet it ur runnin’ this-away. Do ee hear thet thur?”

I listened. I heard distinctly the sound of running water, as of a small stream carried down a rough rocky channel.

“Yes – I hear it, but how should the water guide you?”

“Wal,” continued the trapper, “it ur a branch made by the rain: we’re a follerin it down; an’ thurfor must kum to the river jest whur we want to git. Oncest thur, we’ll soon find our way, I reck’n. Wagh! how the durned rain kums down! It ’ud drown a muss-rat. Wagh!”

The result proved the trapper’s reasoning correct. The road-water was running in the direction we had taken; and shortly after, the brawling branch shot out from among the bushes, and crossed our path, diverging from it at an acute angle. We could see, however, as we plunged through the now swollen streamlet, that the current, in its general direction, was the same with our road: it would certainly guide us to the river.

It did so. Half a mile farther on we came out upon its banks, and struck the main road leading to the rancheria.

A few minutes’ brisk travelling carried us to the outskirts of the village, and we expected soon to be under shelter, when we were all three brought to a sudden halt by the sharp hail of the sentry, who called out the usual interrogatory —

“Who goes there?”

“Friends!” I replied; “’tis you, Quackenboss?”

I had recognised the voice of the soldier-botanist, and under the lightning saw him standing by the trunk of a tree.

“Halt! Give the countersign!” was the response in a firm, determined tone.

I did not know this masonic pass-word. On riding out, I had not thought of such a thing, and I began to anticipate some trouble. I resolved, however, to make trial of the sentry.

“We haven’t got the countersign. ’Tis I, Quackenboss. I am – ”

I announced my name and rank.

“Don’t care for all that!” was the somewhat surly rejoinder; “can’t pass ’ithout the countersign.”

“Yer durned fool! it’s yur captin,” cried Rube, in a peevish tone.

“Maybe,” replied the imperturbable sentry; “can’t let him pass ’ithout countersign.”

I now saw that we were in a real dilemma.

“Send for the corporal of the guard, or either of the lieutenants,” I suggested, thinking that that might be the shortest way to get over the difficulty.

“Hain’t got nobody to send,” came the gruff voice of Quackenboss from out the darkness.

“I’ll go!” promptly answered Garey – the big trapper thinking, in his innocence, there could be no reason why he should not carry the message to quarters – and as he spoke, he made a step or two forward in the direction of the sentinel.

“Halt there!” thundered the voice of Quackenboss; “halt! another step, and I’ll plug you with a bullet.”

“What’s thet? plug, he sez?” screamed Rube, leaping to the front. “Geezus Geehosophat! yu’ll plug ’im, eh? Yur durned mulehead, if ’ee shoot this way, it ’ll be the last time yu’ll ever lay claw to a trigger. Now then!” and Rube stood with his rifle half raised to the level, and threatening to raise it still higher.

At that moment, the lightning gleamed; I saw the sentry with his piece also at a level.

I well knew the accuracy of his aim; I trembled for the result.

In my loudest voice I called out —

“Hold, Quackenboss! hold your fire! we shall wait till some one comes;” and as I spoke, I caught both my companions, and drew them back.

Whether it was the commanding tone of my voice, which the ranger had heard before, or whether in the light he had recognised my features, I saw him, before it darkened, lower his piece, and I felt easy again.

But he still obstinately refused to let us pass.

Further parley was to no purpose, and only led to an exchange of rather rough compliments between Quackenboss and my two companions; so, after endeavouring to make peace between them, I stood still to await the chance of some one of the guard coming within hail.

Fortunately, at that moment, a ranger, somewhat the worse for aguardiente, appeared in the direction of the piazza.

Quackenboss condescended to call him up; and after a crooked palaver, he was despatched to bring the corporal of the guard.

The arrival of the latter ended our troubles, and we were permitted to reach the piazza without further hindrance; but as we passed the stern sentry, I could hear Rube mutter to him —

“Ee durned mulehead! ef I hed ye out upon the parairas, wudn’t I! Wagh!”

Chapter Forty Eight.

An Adios

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow – a demi-lune of love, whose every hour was consecrated to its god. At earliest dawn, by the rosy rays of Aurora; at golden noon, shadowed under sweet acacias; in the gleam of the purple twilight; ’neath the silvery light of the moon.

That both laid our hearts upon his altar, and willing knelt before the shrine, witness ye bright birds and perfumed flowers! – ye green myrtles and mimosas! – witness ye blue skies of Anahuac! Ye alone were our witnesses.

For you who have loved, I need not portray the pleasure of this noble passion; for you who have not loved, I cannot. Love is a delight that may be known only to those who have experienced it.

Ours was a half-month of happiness without alloy. True, there were moments of pain – the moments of daily parting – but these were brief, and perhaps only prevented the cloyment of too much joy – if such a thing be possible.

Moreover, these short-lived sorrows were in part neutralised by the knowledge we should soon meet again; we never parted without exchanging that fair promise. In the morning, it was “hasta la tarde;” at night, our last words were “mañana por la mañana” Lovers have felt, and poets have sung, the pleasures of hope; oft the anticipation of a pleasure rivals in piquancy its actual enjoyment.

Let memory not be forgotten; it, too, has its joys; and oh, how sweet the retrospect of those blissful hours! If there was monotony, it was a monotone of which my heart could never tire. It was an intoxication I could have endured for life. There is no surfeit of such sweets. Why are we not permitted to enjoy them for ever? Alas! there is an ending.

There was so. A crisis came, and we must part – not with the pretty promise upon our lips – “until the morning,” “until the evening,” but for long weeks, months, maybe years – an uncertain time – “hasta se acabo la guerra” (until the war is over).

Oh, the misery of that parting! Cruel destiny of war! Never felt I so weary of wearing a sword.

There was a struggle ’twixt love and duty. No, not duty: I might have sheathed my sword, and wronged no one; I was but a cipher among thousands, whose blade would scarcely have been missed. Nor would I have wronged myself. I was simply, as I have already declared, an adventurer. The country for which I fought could not claim me; I was bound by no political conscience, no patriotic esprit. Perhaps, now and then, I entertained the idea that I was aiding the designs of “manifest destiny” – that I was doing God’s work in battling against the despotic form. Yes, I may confess that such sparks glowed within me at intervals, and at such intervals only did I feel enthusiasm in the cause. But it was no consideration of this kind that hindered me from deserting my banner. Far otherwise: I was influenced by a motive purely selfish – pride.

I could not – an adventurer almost penniless – I would not presume to claim that richly dowried hand. Fortune I might never have to equal hers, but fame is worthy wealth, and glory mates with beauty. I knew that I was gifted with an apt head and bold aspiring heart; I knew that I carried a keen blade, and hoped to hew my way to rank and fame. Perhaps I might return with a star upon my shoulder, and a better handle to my name, and then —

Ah, for all that, it was a bitter parting! It was hard to list unheeding to those earnest entreaties, adjuring me to stay – terrible to entwine those tender arms – terrible to utter that last adios!

Our troth was plighted within that same glade that had echoed our first vows. It had been plighted a hundred times, but never sadly as now, amidst sobs and tears. When the bright form, screened by the frondage, had passed out of sight, I felt as if the sun had become suddenly eclipsed.

I lingered not long, though I could have stayed for hours upon the hallowed spot. Again duty, that stern commander, summoned me away. It was already close upon sunset, and by to-morrow’s dawn I must be en route with my troop.

I was about heading my horse into the track, now well known to me; Isolina had gone down the hill on the opposite side, by a path that led more directly to the hacienda. From precaution this had been our habitual mode of parting; and we also met from opposite sides. In the wild region of the cerro– for by this name was the hill known – we never encountered a human being. There was no habitation near, and the vaqueros rarely strayed that way, so that our place of meeting remained a secret – at least we fancied so – and we acted without much apprehension, and perhaps without sufficient caution. Each hour we had grown more confident of security, and, blinded by love, had taken less pains to conceal the fact of our daily assignation. It was only that morning I had heard a whisper that our affair was known, and that they of the rancheria were not as benighted as we supposed them. Wheatley was my informant – Conchita, his. The lieutenant had added some friendly advice, cautioning me against the imprudence of going so far from the post unattended.

Perhaps I might have treated his remonstrance with less neglect; but as this was to be our last meeting for a long time, my heart grew heavy under the prospect of the parting scene. I preferred going companionless; I had no apprehension that any enemy was near. As for Ijurra, he was no longer in the neighbourhood; he had not been seen since the night of the battle; and we had positive information that he had joined his band with the guerrilla of the celebrated Canales, then operating on the road between Camargo and Monterey. Indeed, had Ijurra been near, he could hardly have escaped the keen search of Holingsworth and the rangers, who, night and day, had been upon the scout, in hopes of overhauling him.

I was about turning into the old track, when a yearning came over me – a desire to obtain one more look at my beloved. By this time she would have reached her home; I should pass near the house; perhaps I might see her upon the azotea – a distant glance – a wave of the hand – haply the sweet prayer “va con Dios!” wafted upon the breeze: something of the kind I anticipated.

My horse seemed to divine my wishes; scarcely waiting for the guidance of the rein, he moved forward upon the path taken by the steed of Isolina.

I soon reached the bottom of the hill, and, entering the heavy timber, traversed a tangled wood – similar to that on the other side of the cerro. There was no path, but the tracks of the white steed were easily followed, and, guiding myself by them, I rode forward.

I had not gone five hundred yards from the hill, when I heard voices through, the woods, directly in front of me, and apparently at no great distance. Years of frontier-life had imbued me with an intuitive caution that resembled instinct; and, as if by mechanical effort, I pulled up and listened.

A woman was speaking; and instantly I recognised the voice. There was but one that rang with that rich metallic tone. I might well remember it, for the sweet, sad sounds of the va con Dios had not yet ceased to vibrate in my ears.

With whom was she in converse? Whom had she encountered in such a place, amid the wild woods?

She ceased speaking.

With ears keenly set, I listened for the rejoinder. Naturally, I expected it in the voice of a man; but not that man. Oh, heavens! it was the voice of Rafael Ijurra!

Chapter Forty Nine.

Threats

Yes, the voice was Ijurra’s. I knew it well. While listening to it by the mesa, I had noted its tones sufficiently to remember them – round, sonorous, of true Spanish accent, and not inharmonious – though at that moment they grated harshly upon my ear.

An indescribable feeling came over me: it was not jealousy – I was too confident to be jealous – and yet, I shame to confess, I felt a sensation sadly akin to it. After those earnest oaths, those tears and frenzied kisses – so soon after! Oh, shame upon me!

Alas! the experienced heart no more enjoys the tranquil continuity of faith. Its belief is like a broken dream – an intermittence of light and shade. It was my misfortune, my error, perhaps my crime, to remember too many pairs of pretty perjured lips.

In a word, I was once more jealous, in spite of all that had passed – of sighs, and tears, and plighted vows – once more jealous of Ijurra!

But the moment before, his name was on her tongue, and spoken with scorn; in the same breath I was assured that he was no longer in the neighbourhood, that he was far away!

No; he was upon the spot, in close conversation with her, and scarcely five minutes after the oath had been sworn that bound her to me for life! Less wonder I was jealous. That the feeling lasted only for an instant might be some palliation, but it was no merit of mine that brought it so quickly to a termination. I cannot screen my conduct behind an act of volition; for although the poisoned sting rankled but for a few seconds of time, during that short period I yielded obedience to its demoniac promptings.

I slipped down gently from my saddle; and with the crouching gait and silent tread of the jaguar, approached the speakers. My horse, well trained to such tactics stayed where I had dismounted, without tie or hopple. No fear that his hoof would betray me.

Step by step I advanced, with my hands cautiously parting the boughs. The fronds of a curious sabal palm befriended me. They grew vertically on short petioles, like large green fans; and overlying one another, formed a perfect screen, through which the keenest eye could not perceive the approach of an intruder.

In a few seconds, I stood behind the last row that bounded the edge of a small opening; and peering through the serrate interstices of the leaves, I saw my betrothed and her cousin.

Isolina was still in the saddle. Ijurra was on foot, and standing by her stirrup, with one hand resting upon the pommel, the other grasping the rein.

Up to this moment, my heart had continued its painful throbbing; but the attitude of Ijurra, with his troubled and angry look, at once produced a revulsion in my feelings. I saw that the encounter had been accidental – at least on the part of Isolina; I saw that she was detained.

I could not see her face; it was turned in the opposite direction, and towards Ijurra; but the tones of her voice reached me, and by these I perceived that she addressed him in anger. Oh, how those accents of indignation ravished my heart; sweeter were they to me than the softest melody!

As yet, I had heard nothing of what had passed between them; the loud beating of my heart, the rustling of the leaves under my feet, of the boughs as I pressed through them, had prevented me from distinguishing what was said. These sounds ceased as I came to a stop; and although still fifty paces distant from the speakers, I could catch every word of their conversation, favoured by the loud tone in which it was carried on.

“So, then, you refuse?”

It was Ijurra who put this interrogatory.

“I have done so before, Rafael; your conduct has given me no cause to change my mind.”

“Ha! my conduct has nothing to do with it; you have other reasons. Isolina, do not imagine I am such a bobo. I know your secret: you love this gringo– this Yankee captain?”

“And suppose I do, that is my affair. Nay, more, sir, shall not even attempt to make a secret of it. I do love him – I do – I do.”

Ijurra’s eyes gleamed with malignant fire; his lips turned white, and tightened over his teeth; he seemed endeavouring to curb the exposure of his spleen.

“And you would marry him?” he asked with compressed emphasis.

“I shall marry him,” was the prompt reply.

“Por todos santos! it shall never be.”

“And who is to hinder it?”

“I!”

“Ha, ha, ha! You are raving, Rafael Ijurra!”

“You may love him to your heart’s content – I care not; but marry him – never! s’death! never!”

“Indeed?”

“By the saints, I swear it. I swear – ”

“You have sworn enough; you are sufficiently perjured already.”

“Carrai!” furiously shouted Ijurra, as if losing patience. “Listen to me, Isolina de Vargas! I have something to say that may not be so pleasant – ”

“You can say nothing pleasant; but I listen.”

“First, then, here are certain documents that concern you – both you and your father.”

I saw some folded papers in his hand, which he had taken from under his jacket. He opened and held them before her face, as he continued: —

“This safeguard is one given by the American commander-in-chief to the Dona Isolina de Vargas. Perhaps you have seen it before? And here is a letter from Don Ramon de Vargas to the commissary-general of the American army, enclosed within another from that functionary to your pet filibustero – a pretty piece of treason this!”

“Well, sir?”

“Not so well for you, madame. You forget that General Santa Anna is now chief of this republic. Think you he will not punish such traitorous correspondence! Carrambo! if I but lay these documents before his Excellency, I shall have an order for the arrest of both yourself and your father as quickly as it can be spoken. No more; the estate will be proscript and confiscated – it will become mine – mine!”

The speaker paused, as if for an answer.

Isolina remained silent. I could not see her face to notice the effect. I fancied that the threat had terrified her. Ijurra continued: —

“Now, señorita! you better comprehend our relative positions. Give your consent to become my wife, and these papers shall be destroyed on the instant.”

“Never!” was the firm response that delighted my ears.

“Never!” echoed Ijurra; “then dread the consequences. I shall obtain orders for your arrest, and as soon as this horde of Yankee ruffians has been driven from the country, the property shall be mine.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” came the scornful laugh in reply – “ha, ha, ha! you mistake, Rafael Ijurra; you are not so far-sighted as you deem yourself; you forget that my father’s land lies on the Texan side of the Rio Grande; and ere that horde of Yankee ruffians, as you term them, be driven out, they will establish this river for their boundary. Where, then, will lie the power of confiscation? Not with you, and your cowardly master. Ha, ha, ha!”

The reply maddened Ijurra still further, for he saw the probability of what had been said. His face became livid, and he seemed to lose all control of himself.

“Even so,” he shouted with the addition of a fierce oath – “even so, you shall never inherit those lands. Listen, Isolina de Vargas! listen to another secret I have for you: know, señorita, that you are not the lawful daughter of Don Ramon!”

I saw the proud girl start, as if struck with an arrow.

“I have the proofs of what I repeat,” continued Ijurra; “and even should the United States triumph, its laws cannot make you legitimate. You are not the heiress of the hacienda de Vargas!”

As yet not a word from Isolina. She sat silent and motionless, but I could tell by the rising and falling of her shoulders that a terrible storm was gathering in her bosom.

The fiend continued: —

“Now, madame, you may know how disinterested it was of me to offer you marriage: nay, more, I never loved you; if I told you so, it was a lie – ”

He never lied in his life as he was doing at that moment. His face bespoke the falsehood of his words. It was the utterance of purest spleen. I read in his look the unmistakable expression of jealousy. Coarse as the passion may have been, he loved her – oh! how could it have been otherwise?

“Love you, indeed! Ha, ha, ha! love you – the daughter of a poor Indian – a margarita!”

The climax had come. The heaving bosom could bear silence no longer; the insult was unendurable.

“Base wretch!” cried she, in a voice of compressed agony, “stand aside from my path!”

“Not yet,” answered Ijurra, grasping the bridle more firmly. “I have something further to communicate – ”

“Villain! release the rein!”

“Before I do, you shall promise – you shall swear – ”

“Again! let go! or this bullet to your heart!”

I had sprung from out the thicket, and was running forward to her rescue. I saw her right hand raised on high, and something shining in its grasp. It was a pistol. Its muzzle was pointed at Ijurra.

No doubt the resolute character of her who held it was well known to him, for the threat produced an immediate effect; the coward relaxed his hold, the reins dropped from his fingers, and with a mingled look of hatred and fear, he stepped back a pace.

The moment the bridle became free, the steed, already startled by the spur, bounded forward; and after half-a-dozen springs, both horse and rider disappeared behind the screen of the palmettoes.

I was too late to play the knight-errant. The “ladye faire” had not needed my help; she neither saw nor heard me; and by the time I arrived upon the ground, she had passed out of sight, and Ijurra was alone.

Chapter Fifty.

Awkward Odds

Ijurra was alone, and I continued to advance to the spot where he was standing. His back was towards me, for he still fronted in the direction in which Isolina had galloped off. He had followed her with his eyes, with a cry of disappointed rage, with a threat of malignant vengeance.

The sound of his own voice hindered him from hearing mine, and he was not aware of my presence, when I paused scarcely three feet from where he stood, and directly behind him.

I held my sword drawn; I could have thrust him in the back, through and through again, before he could have offered either defence or resistance. He was completely in my power.

Fortunate was it for him at that moment that I had been bred a gentleman, else in another instant his lifeless body would have lain at my feet. A plebeian blade would have made short work with the ruffian, and I confess that my instincts of fair-play were sorely tried. I had before me a man who had sought my life – a deadly foe – a deadly foe to her I loved – a perjured villain – a murderer! With such titles for himself, he had none to the laws of honour; and I confess that for one short moment, I felt like ignoring his claim.