The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

’Twas but for a moment: the thought revolted me. Wicked and worthless as he was, I could not stab him in the back.

I leaned forward, and tapping him upon the shoulder, pronounced his name.

It was the first intimation he had of my presence; and starting as if hit by a bullet, he turned face towards me. The flush of anger upon his cheek suddenly gave place to deadly pallor, and his eyes became set in that peculiar stare that indicates an apprehension of danger. This he must have felt keenly, for my determined look and drawn sword – to say nothing of the surprise by which I had come upon him – were calculated to produce that effect.

It was the first time we had stood face to face, and I now perceived that he was a much larger man than myself. But I saw, too, that his eye quailed, and his lip quivered, at the encounter. I saw that he was cowed; felt that I was his master.

“You are Rafael Ijurra?” I repeated, as he had not made answer to my first interrogation.

“Si, señor,” he answered hesitatingly. “What want you with me?”

“You have some documents there,” (he still held the papers in his hand); “a portion of them belongs to me. I shall trouble you to hand them over.”

“Are you Captain Warfield?” he asked, after a pause, at the same time pretending to examine the superscription upon the commissary’s letter. I saw that his fingers trembled.

“I am Captain Warfield – you ought to know by this time?”

Without noticing the insinuation, he replied —

“True – there is a letter here bearing that address. I found it upon the road: you are welcome to it, señor.”

As he said this, he handed me the commissary’s order, still retaining the other documents.

“There was an enclosure. I perceive you have it in your hand. I beg you will make me equally welcome to that.”

“Oh! a note signed Ramon de Vargas? It was an enclosure?”

“Precisely so; and of course goes along with the letter.”

“Oh, certainly; here it is, señor.”

“There is still another little document in your possession – a safeguard from the American commander granted to a certain lady. It is not yours, Señor Ijurra! I beg you will deliver it to me. I wish to return it to the lady to whom it belongs.”

This was the bitterest pill I had yet presented to him. He glanced hastily first to the right and then to the left, as if desirous of making escape. He would fain have done so, but I kept him under my eye, and he saw that my hand was ready.

“Certainly there is a safeguard,” replied he, after a pause, and with a feigned attempt at laughter. “’Tis a worthless document to me; ’tis at your service, sir captain;” and as he handed me the paper, he accompanied the act with another sorry cachinnation.

I folded the precious documents, and thrust all three under the breast of my coat; then placing myself in fighting attitude, I cried out to my adversary to “draw and defend” himself.

I had already noticed that he wore a sword, and, like myself, it appeared to be the only weapon he carried. I saw no pistols upon his person. I had none myself – nothing save a light cut-and-thrust sword. It was far slighter than the sabre of my antagonist, but it was a weapon that had seen service in my hands, and I had perfect confidence in it. I had no fear for the result against so cowardly an adversary; I was not awed, either by his heavier blade, or the superior size of his person.

To my astonishment, he hesitated to unsheath his sword!

“You must draw,” I shouted with emphasis. “You or I have now to die. If you do not defend yourself, I shall run you through the body. Coward! would you have me kill you with your blade in its sheath?”

Even the taunt did not nerve him. Never saw I complete a poltroon. His white lips trembled, his eyes rolled wildly from side to side, seeking an opportunity to escape. I am certain that could he have hoped to get clear, he would at that crisis have turned and run.

All at once, and to my surprise, the coward appeared smitten with courage; and, grasping the hilt of his sabre, he drew the blade ringing from its scabbard, with all the energy of a determined man! His reluctance to fight seemed suddenly to have forsaken him. Had I mistaken my man? or was it despair that was nerving his arm?

His cowed look had disappeared: his eyes flashed with fury and vengeance; his teeth gritted together; and a fierce carajo hissed from his lips.

Our blades met – the sparks crackled along the creasing steel, and the combat began.

Fortunate for me, that, in avoiding the first lunge of my antagonist, I had to turn half round: fortunately I turned so soon, else I should never have left that glade alive.

As I faced in the new direction, I saw two men running towards us, sword in hand. A single glance told me they were guerrilleros. They were already within ten paces of the spot, and must have been seen long before by Ijurra.

This was the key to his altered demeanour. Their approach it was that had inspired him with courage to begin the fight – for he had calculated the time when they should be able to get up, and assail me from behind.

“Hola!” shouted he, seeing that I had discovered them – “Hola! El Zorro—José! anda! anda! Mueran los Yankies! at muerte con el picaro!”

For the first time, I felt myself in danger. Three swords to one was awkward odds; and the red giant, with a companion nearly as large as himself, would no doubt prove very different antagonists from the poltroon with whom I was engaged.

Yes, I was conscious of danger, and might have retreated, had I deemed such a course possible; but my horse was too far off, and the new-comers were directly in the path I should have to take to reach him. I could not hope to escape on foot; I well knew that these men run as lightly as Indians, for we had often proved their capacity in that accomplishment. They were already too near. I should be overtaken, struck down, pierced, with my back to the foe.

I had no time to reflect – just enough to leap back a pace or two, so as to bring all three of them in front of me, when I found my sword clashing against their blades, and parrying their blows one after the other.

I can describe the unequal combat no farther. It was a confused medley of cut and thrust, in which I both gave wounds and received them. I was wounded in several places, and felt the warm blood running under my clothes and over my face.

I grew wearied to death, and every second growing weaker and fainter.

I saw the red giant before me with his hand raised on high. His blade had already drawn my blood, and was crimsoned at the point; it was about to descend with a finishing stroke. I should be unable to parry it, for I had just exhausted my strength in guarding against a blow from Ijurra. My hopeless peril wrung from me a cry of despair.

Was it my cry that caused the blade to drop from the hand of my antagonist, and the uplifted arm to fall loosely by his side? Was it my cry that created the consternation suddenly visible in the faces of my foes? I might have fancied so, had I not heard a sharp crack from behind, and seen that the arm of El Zorro was broken by a shot!

It seemed like the awaking from some horrid dream. One moment I was battling, face to face, with three desperate men; the instant after, their backs were towards me, and all three were running as for life!

I followed them with my eyes, but not far; for at twenty paces off they plunged into the thicket, and disappeared.

I turned in the opposite direction. A man was running across the open ground with a gun in his hand. He was advancing towards the spot where I stood. It was he who had fired the shot. I saw that he was in Mexican costume; surely he was one of the guerrilleros – he had aimed at me, and wounded his comrade?

For some seconds, I fancied that such might be the case. Evidently he was bolder than any of the three, for he continued to advance, as if determined to attack me alone!

I placed myself in readiness for this new antagonist – taking a fresh grasp on my sword, and wiping the blood from my eyes, that I might the better receive him.

It was not until he was close to the point of my blade, that I recognised the long ape-like arms, and crooked mateless limbs, of Elijah Quackenboss!

The ranger, after delivering his fire, had not waited to reload, but ran forward with the intention of joining me in the hand-to-hand fight – though he carried no other weapon than his empty gun. But this would have been an efficient arm in such hands; for, despite his unsymmetrical build, Dutch Lige was stalwart and though, and would have been a full match for any two of my assailants, had they stood their ground.

But the crack of the gun had set them off like deer. They fancied, no doubt, that a stronger force was near; perhaps they remembered the terrible rifles of the trappers, and no doubt believed it was they who had arrived to the rescue. Indeed, such was my own belief, until I saw the oddly-costumed ranger bounding towards the spot.

A glance satisfied me that I owed my preservation to Lige’s love of botanical science. A large globe-shaped cactus plant, bristling like a hedgehog, hung dangling from the swivel of his gun – it was thus carried to save his fingers from contact with its barbed spines – while stuck into every loop and button-hole of his dress could be seen the leaves and branchlets, and fruits and flowers, of a host of curious and unknown plants! He had been herborising in the woods; and coming by chance within earshot of the scuffle, had scrambled through the bushes just in time to spoil the coup-de-grâce intended by El Zorro.

“Thanks, Quackenboss! thanks, my brave friend! you came in good time: you have saved me.”

“But a poor shot I’ve made, capten. I ought to have broken that red divel’s skull, or sent my bullet into his stomach; he’s got off too easy.”

“It was a good shot: you broke his arm, I think.”

“Ach! ’twas a poor shot; the cactus spoiled my aim. You hurt, capten?”

“I am wounded, but not mortally, I think. I feel a little faint: ’tis only the blood. My horse – you will find him yonder – among the trees – yonder. Go, Lige; bring my horse – my horse – ”

For some minutes, I was out of the world.

When consciousness came back, I perceived that my steed had been brought up, and stood near. The botanist was bending over me, and binding up my wounds with strips torn from his own shirt. He had one boot on; the other stood by, full of water, a portion of which he had already poured down my throat, and with the rest he proceeded to bathe my temples and wash the blood from my face.

This done, I soon felt refreshed and strong enough to mount; and having climbed into the saddle, I set out for the rancheria, my companion half guiding, half leadin my horse.

By the path which we followed, we should have to pass close to the hacienda and within sight of it; but night had come on, and the darkness would hinder us from being observed. It was what I now desired, though I had left the cerro with hopes and wishes directly the reverse. With a red gash upon my forehead – my uniform torn and blood-stained – I feared being seen, lest my invalid appearance should create unnecessary alarm. But we passed on without meeting any one, either by the hill or upon the main road; and in half-an-hour after, I was safe within my cuarto in the house of the alcalde.

Chapter Fifty One.

An Official Black List

The incidents of the day preyed upon my spirits, and I was far from feeling easy about the future. I knew that my betrothed would be true till death; and I felt ashamed that I had doubted her, even for a moment. About her loyalty I had no uneasiness, and I mentally vowed never more to give way to suspicion.

It was no thought of that that now troubled me, but an anxiety about her personal safety; and this grew stronger the more I pondered upon it, till it assumed almost the form of a fear.

The man who had used such bitter threats, and behaved with so much rudeness, would scarcely stop at anything. ’Tis true I had deprived him of much of his power over her, by stripping him of the dangerous documents; but it was not this time, nor was he the man, to stand upon nice distinctions of legality, where jealousy and cupidity were the incentives to action. Holding a sort of irresponsible office as the chief of what was less a patriotic guerrilla than a band of brigands, it was difficult to tell what such a monster might or might not attempt. In our absence from the post the ruffian would be full master of the neighbourhood. What deed might he not accomplish with impunity, holding his power directly from the unprincipled dictator, whom he was accustomed to imitate as a model, and who would indorse any act of villainy, provided it was the act of one of his own satellites? I shuddered as I reflected.

The reappearance of Ijurra and his band – for I doubted not that his followers were near – their reappearance in that vicinity, and at such a crisis – just as we were being withdrawn – had something ominous in it. They must have known ere this of the plan of campaign designed for the American army. Wheatley’s rumour had proved well founded. The new commander-in-chief, Scott, had arrived upon the ground, and three-fourths of the “army of occupation” had been draughted to form the expedition destined to act upon Vera Cruz. As this greedy general stripped our old favourite “Rough and Ready” of only his best troops, we had the consolation of knowing that the “rangers” were among the “picked;” though, for all that, many of us would have preferred remaining with the brave veteran who had already led us so often to victory. I can answer for Wheatley and myself; I might also vouch for Holingsworth, though far different were his motives for wishing to remain on the Rio Grande. His sweetheart was revenge – in his breast long cherished – to his heart faithful and true.

I have said that our design must have been known to the enemy ere this; indeed our army was already in movement. Troops and brigades were marching upon Brazos Santiago, and Tampico, there to be embarked for the south, and all that were to go had received their orders. The provinces on the Rio Grande were not to be entirely abandoned, but the army left there was to have its lines contracted, and would therefore cover much less ground. Not only was our little post to be deserted, but the neighbouring town, which had long been the head-quarters of a division, was also to be evacuated. No force of ours would remain within fifty miles of the rancheria; and perhaps no American troop would ever again visit that isolated village. The reflection rendered me more than melancholy.

No doubt of it, then, the enemy was apprised of our movements. In our special case – that we the rangers were to march on the following morning, was well known to the people of the neighbourhood. It had been known to them for several days; and it had not passed unobserved by us that the citizens of the place – those who were not Ayankieados – had lately shown themselves more sulky and inhospitable, in proportion as the time approached for our departure. This brusquerie had led to several street-conflicts, in which knives had been drawn and blood spilled, and much “bad blood” begotten on both sides.

Another circumstance was not unnoticed amongst us. Ribald pasquinades, rudely written, and accompanied by threats of proscription, were at this time thrust under the doors of such of the citizens as had been friendly to us. Even the alcalde had received some documents of this character – perhaps emanating from a jealous tiendero who had looked with bitter eye upon the courtship of Wheatley and Conchita. It was not till afterwards I learned that similar missives had “come to hand” in a quarter that more concerned myself.

Some scouted the absurdity of these acts – alleging that they sprung from personal enmity, or originated in the mob-patriotism of the leperos. It was not so, as we afterwards learned; the government of the country – or, at all events, several of its prominent members – countenanced the meanness; and at their instigation, a “black list” was made out in every town and village through which the American army had occasion to pass. Let the minister, Señor O – , make answer to this accusation.

I was musing on this disagreeable theme, after my return from the cerro, and endeavouring to sketch out some plan for the safety of my betrothed during my absence; but my thoughts proved barren.

With a sort of faint hope that the villain Ijurra might yet fall into our hands, I had despatched Holingsworth – nothing loath for the duty – with a party of rangers upon his trail, and I was impatiently awaiting their return.

The voice of Wheatley aroused me from my reverie.

“Well, lieutenant, what is it?”

“Only that precious boy,” answered he, with a significant smile, at the same time ushering “Cyprio” into the room.

The lad carried a note, which I opened. A green sprig of juniper was enclosed, and the simple word “tuya” was written in pencil.

I knew the symbol well. The juniper is tuya in that most beautiful of tongues, and tuya from a lady signifies “yours.”

“Anything more?” I asked of the messenger.

“Nothing, Señor Capitan,” answered the intelligent boy; “only to inquire if you had arrived safe.”

She had been anxious then!

I separated the branchlet into two equal parts: one I placed in my bosom; the other, having fervently kissed, I enclosed in a folded sheet, upon which I wrote the words —

“Tuyo—tuyo—hasta la muerte!”

Cyprio bore back my parting message.

At midnight Holingsworth and his party came in from the scout. Nothing had been seen of the guerrilla.

Chapter Fifty Two.

The Route

It was a struggle between Aurora and the moon which of them should rule the sky, when our bugle rang its clear réveillé, rousing the rangers from their slumber, and startling their steeds at the stall. The goddess of morning soon triumphed, and under her soft blue light, men and horses could be seen moving about, until the bugle again sounded – this time to “boot and saddle” – and the rangers began to form in the piazza, and prepare for the route.

A single wagon with its white tilt and long team of mules, already “hitched up,” stood near the centre of the square. It constituted the whole baggage-train of the corps, and served as an ambulance for our invalids. Both baggage and sick had been safely stowed, and the vehicle was ready for the road. The bugler, already in his saddle, awaited orders to sound the “forward.”

I had climbed to my favourite “smoking-room,” the azotea. Perhaps it was the last time I should ever set foot on those painted tiles. My eyes wandered over the piazza, though I little heeded what was passing there. Only the salient points of the picture were noted by me – steeds under saddle and bridle; men buckling on folded blankets, holsters, and valises; a few already in the saddle; a few more standing by the heads of their horses, and still another few grouped round the door of the pulperia, having a last drink of mezcal or Catalan with their swarthy Mexican acquaintances.

Here and there, in front of some adobe hut, might be observed a more tender leave-taking. The ranger fully equipped – with arms, haversack, and canteen – leaning against the heavy bars of a window, his face turned inward, as though he was talking to some prisoner through the grating of a jail. But he is himself the real captive, ensnared during his short sojourn, and still held in chains by the olive-skinned poblana, whose dark liquid eyes may be seen on the other side of the reja, flashing with love, or melting with sad tenderness at the prospect of parting.

Others, again, are bidding their adios in retired corners, under the shadow of the church walls, or in groups of four or five more openly in the piazza itself. Early as is the hour, the people have all arisen; and not a few of the brown, rebosa-clad, short-skirted wenches are already on their way, jarro on crown, to the fountain. There the pitchers are filled, and lifted on their heads – perhaps for the last time – by the rangers, who perform the office with all the rude grace in their power. Then follows a profusion of smiles and bows, and a dialogue, on the ranger’s part extending to the whole of his Spanish, which consists of the phrase —

“Mucho bueno, muchacha!”

The usual reply, accompanied with a display of pretty white teeth, is —

“Mucho bueno, cavallero! mucho bueno, Tejano!” given in like ungrammatical phrase, in order that it may be intelligible to the person to whom it is addressed.

I have often been surprised at the success of my great uncouth followers with these petite dark-eyed damsels of Anahuac; but, indeed, many of the rangers are not bad-looking men. On the contrary, there are handsome fellows among them, if they were only put into clean shirts, and a little more closely shaven. But woman’s eye is keen-sighted in such matters: she easily penetrates through the disguise of dust, the bronze of sun-tan, and the shaggy mask of an ill-kept beard; and no eye is quicker in this respect than that of the fair Mexicana. In the big, apparently rude, individual, called a “ranger,” she beholds a type of strength and courage, a heart that can cherish, and an arm that can protect her. These are qualities that, from all time, have won the love of woman.

It is evident they are not all friends whom we are leaving behind us. Hostile faces may be observed, many of them peering from open doors or windows. Here and there a sulky lepero swings about in his blanket, or cowers by the corner of the street, scowling savagely from under his broad-brimmed hat. Most of this class are absent – as long since ascertained – with the guerrilla; but a few still remain to give shadow to the picture. They regard the approaches towards their women with ill-concealed anger; and would resent this politeness if they dared. They confine the exhibition of their spite to the dastardly meanness of ill-treating the women themselves, whenever they have an opportunity. No later than the night before, one of them was detected in beating his sweetheart or mistress for the crime, as was alleged, of dallying too long in the company of a Tejano. The Tejano, in this case, took the law into his own hands, and severely chastised the jealous pelado.

Even in the hurried glance which I gave to these scenes of leave-taking, I could not help noticing an expression on the faces of some of the young girls that had in it a strange significance. It was something more than sadness: it was more like the uneasy look that betokens apprehension.

Perhaps the state of mind I was in magnified my perceptions. At that moment, a struggle was passing in my own breast, and a feeling of irresolution lay heavy upon me. All night long had my mind dwelt upon the same thought – the danger that menaced my betrothed – all night long I had been occupied with plans to avert it; but no reasonable scheme had I succeeded in devising.

It is true the danger was only hypothetical and undefined; but it was just this supposititious indefiniteness that caused the difficulty in providing against it. Had it assumed a tangible shape, I might more easily have adopted some means of avoiding it: but no – it remained a shadow, and against a shadow I knew not what precautions to take. When morning broke, I was still struggling under the same nervous indecision.

Problematical as was the peril my fancy had formed, there were moments when it appalled me – moments when my mind laboured under a painful presentiment, and I could not cast the load by any act of volition. With all my philosophy, I could not fortify myself against the belief that “coming events cast their shadows before;” and, spite of myself, I kept repeating in thought the weird prophetic words. Upon my soul, certainly, there were shadows, and dark ones; if the events should have any correspondence with them, then there was misery before me.

I have termed the danger in which Isolina was placed indefinite: it was not so indefinite, after a fair analysis; it was directly traceable to the presence of Rafael Ijurra.

True, there were other sources of apprehension; other perils surrounded her, arising from the disturbed state of the country – but these did not point at her in particular. That frontier province had been for years in a distracted condition – by revolution or Indian invasion – and war was no new thing to its people. In the midst of strife had this fair flower grown to perfect blooming, without having been either crushed or trodden upon. Isolina de Vargas was a woman of sufficient spirit to resist insult and cast off intrusion. I had just had proof of this. Under ordinary circumstances, I had no fear that she would be unequal to the emergency; but the circumstances in which she now stood were not of that character; they were extraordinary, and that to an extreme degree. In addition to the light thrown upon Ijurra’s designs by his own menacing confession, I knew other particulars of him. Holingsworth had helped me to a knowledge of this bad man, and this knowledge it was that rendered me apprehensive. From a nature so base and brutal, it was natural I should dread the worst.