The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

My heart was on fire; so were those of my followers. They swore and foamed at the mouth. Some drew pistols and knives, calling out to me to lead them on. Never saw I men in such a frenzy of rage: the most cold-blooded among them seemed to have suddenly gone mad.

I could scarcely restrain them, till we should hear the tale. We guessed it already; but we needed some details to guide us in the execution of vengeance. It was told by many mouths, interrupting or confirming one another.

One of the men was more coherent – Pedro, who used to sell mezcal to the troop. To him we listened. The substance of his story was as follows: —

Shortly after we had left the rancheria, it was entered by the guerrilleros with cries of “Viva Santa Anna! Viva Mexico!” and “Death to the Yankees!” They commenced by breaking open the tiendas, and drinking mezcal and whatever they could find. They were joined by the mob of the place – by leperos and others. Pedro noticed the herredero (blacksmith) and the matador (cattle-killer) taking a conspicuous part. There were many women in the mob – the mistresses of the guerrilleros, and others of the town.

After drinking a while, they grew more excited. Then was heard the cry, “Mueran los Ayankieados!” and the crowd scattering in different directions, entered the houses, shouting, “Saquenlos afuera! matenlos!” (Drag them out! kill them!)

The poor girls, and all who had been friendly to the Americanos, were dragged into the piazza amidst the oaths and execrations of the guerrilla, and hissings and hootings from the mob. They were spit upon, called by filthy names, pelted with mud and melon-rinds, and then some of the crowd suggested that they should be marked, so that their friends the Tejanos should know them again. The suggestion was adopted; the women, more fiendish than the men, exciting the latter to the deed. Voices were heard calling to the blacksmith —

“Traiga el fierro! traiga el fierro!” (Bring the branding-iron!)

Others cried out, “Sacan las orejas!” (Cut off their ears.)

The brutal blacksmith and butcher, both half drunk obeyed the call – willingly, Pedro alleged. The former used the branding-iron – already prepared – while the latter performed his bloody office with the knife of his trade!

Most of the guerrilleros wore masks. The leaders were all masked, and watched the proceedings from the roof of the alcalde’s house. One Pedro knew in spite of his disguise; he knew him by his great size and red hair: it was the salteador, El Zorro. Others he guessed at; but he had no doubt it was the band of Don Rafael Ijurra – nor had we.

Had they left the rancheria before Pedro and the others came away?

Pedro thought not; he and the other victims, as soon as they got out of the hands of the mob, had fled to the chapparal, and were making for the American camp when met by our scouts. They were straggling along the road one after the other; Rube had detained them by the rancho, till we should come up.

Pedro feared that they were not all who had suffered – that there were other victims; the alcalde, he feared, had been worse than mutilated – he had been murdered.

This last information the poor fellow imparted in a whisper – at the same time casting a sorrowful look towards Conchita. I had not the courage to inquire further.

The question arose whether we should send back for more men, and wait till they arrived, or advance at once to the rancheria.

The former was negatived with unanimous voice. We were strong enough, and vengeance was impatient.

I was joyed by this decision; I could not have waited.

The women were directed to continue on to the ranger-camp; Pedro, mounted behind one of the men, should go with us. We needed him for purposes of identification.

We were about to move forward, when a figure appeared along the road in the direction we were going to take. On coming within sight of us, the figure was seen to skulk and hide in the bushes.

Rube and Garey ran rapidly forward; and in a few minutes returned bringing with them a Mexican youth – another of the victims!

He had left the scene of his sufferings somewhat later than the rest.

Was the guerrilla still in the place?

No; they were gone from the village.

“Whither?” was the anxious interrogatory.

They had taken the up-river road, towards the hacienda de Vargas. They had passed the boy as he lay concealed among some magueys; he had heard their cries as they rushed past.

“What cries?”

They shouted: “Mueran al traidor y traidora! Mueran al padre y hija! Isolina la p-t-a!”

“O merciful God!”

Chapter Fifty Six.

The Bivouac of the Guerrilla

I stayed to hear no more, but drove the spur against the ribs of my horse, till he sprang in full gallop along the road. Eager as were my men to follow, ’twas as much as they could do to keep up.

We no longer thought of scouts or cautious marching. The trappers had mounted, and were galloping with the rest. We thought only of time.

We rode for the hacienda de Vargas, straight up the river. Although it was beyond the rancheria, we could reach it without passing through the latter – which lay some distance back from the stream. We could return to the village afterwards, but first for the hacienda. There I wished to arrive in the shortest time possible.

The miles flew behind us, like the dust of the road.

Oh, should we not be in time! I feared to calculate the length of the interval since the boy had heard that rabble rout. Was it more than an hour? Five miles to the rancho, and he on foot. Had he travelled rapidly? Yes, here and there; but he had made a stop: some men had passed him, and he had hidden in the bushes till they were out of sight. He had been more than an hour on the way – nearly two, and one would be enough for the execution of the darkest deed. Oh, we should not arrive in time!

There was no delay now. We were going at top-speed, and in silence, scarcely exchanging a word. Alone might be heard the clattering of hoofs, the chinking of bits, or the ringing of steel scabbards. Neither the slimy gutter nor the deep rut of carreta wheels stayed our advance; our horses leaped over, or went sweltering through them.

In five minutes we came to the rinconada, where the road forked – the left branch leading to the village. We saw no one, and kept on by the right – the direct road to the hacienda. Another mile, and we should reach the house; a quarter of that distance, and we should come in sight of it; the trees alone hindered our view of its walls. On – on!

What means that light? Is the sun rising in the west? Is the chapparal on fire? Whence comes the yellow gleam, half intercepted by the trunks of the trees? Is it not the moon!

“Ho! the hacienda is in flames!”

“No – it cannot be? A house of stone, with scarcely enough timber to make a blaze! It cannot be that?”

It is not that. We emerge from the forest; the hacienda is before our eyes. Its white walls gleam under a yellow light – the light of fire, but not of a conflagration. The house stands intact. A huge bonfire burns in front of the portal; it was this that caused the glare through the forest.

We draw up and gaze upon it with surprise. We behold a huge pile – the material supplied from the household stock of dry faggots – a vast blaze drowning the pale moonshine. We can see the hacienda, and all around it, as distinctly as by the light of day!

For what purpose this holocaust of crackling acacias?

Around the fire we behold many forms, living and moving. There are men, women, dogs, and saddled horses. Huge joints are roasting over the red coals, and others, roasted, are being greedily eaten. Are they savages who surround that blazing pile?

No – we can see their faces with full distinctness, the white skins and black beards of the men, the cotton garments of the women; we can see sombreros and serapes, cloth cloaks and calzoneros of velveteen, sashes and sabres; we can distinguish their voices as they shout, sing, and carouse; we note their lascivious movements in the national dance – the fandango. No Indians they – ’tis a bivouac of the guerrilleros – the ruffians for whom we are in search!

Oh, that I had listened to the voice of prudence, and adopted the strategy of a surround! But my blood was boiling, and I feared to lose even a moment of time, lest we might be too late. But one or two of my followers counselled delay, and, as the event proved, they were the wisest. The rest, like myself, were impatient for action.

The word was given: and like hounds, fresh loosed from the leash, we rushed forward with charging cheer.

It was the madness of fools. Well knew our enemy the hoarse Texan “hurrah!” It had been shouted to terrify them, when there was no need. They would never have stood ground.

The shout warned them, causing them to scatter like a herd of deer. The steep hill proved too heavy for our horses; and before we could reach its summit, the main body of the guerrilla had mounted and scampered off into the darkness. Six of them fell to our shots; and as many more, with their she-associates, remained prisoners in our hands; but as usual that subtle coward had contrived to escape.

Pursuit was idle; they had taken to the dark woods beyond the hill.

I thought not of pursuit; my mind was bent on a far different purpose.

I rode into the patio. The court was lit up by the glare of the fire. It presented a picture of ruin. Rich furniture was scattered about in the verandah and over the pavement, broken or tumbled down. I called her name – the name of Don Ramon. Loudly and earnestly did I raise my voice, but echo gave the only reply.

I dismounted, and rushed into the verandah, still vociferating, and still without receiving a response.

I hurried from room to room – from cuarto to sala– from sola to saguan– up to the azotea – everywhere – even to the capilla in the rear. The moonbeams gleamed upon the altar, but no human form was there. The whole house was deserted; the domestics – even the women of the cocina– had disappeared. My horse and I seemed the only living things within those walls – for my followers had remained outside with their prisoners.

A sudden hope gleamed across my heart. Perhaps they had taken my counsel, and gone off before the mob appeared? Heaven grant it might be so!

I rushed out to question the captives. They should know, both men and women: they could certainly tell me.

A glance showed me I was too late to receive information from the men. A large pecan tree stood at one corner of the building. The firelight glared upon it; from its branches hung six human forms with drooping heads, and feet far from the earth. They had just ceased to live!

One told me that the herredero was among them, and also the cruel matador. Pedro had identified both. The others were pelados of the town, who had borne part in the affair of the day. Their judges had made quick work, and equally quick had been the ceremony of execution. Lazos had been reeved over the limbs of the pecan, and with these all six had been jerked up without shrift or prayer!

It was not revenge for which I panted. I turned to the women; many of these had made off, but there were still a dozen or more in the hands of the men. They looked haggard with drink; some sullen, and some terrified. They had reason to be afraid.

In answer to my questions, they shook their heads, but gave me no information. Some remained doggedly silent; others denied all knowledge of Don Ramon or his daughter. Threats had no effect. They either knew not, or feared to tell what had befallen them. Oh heaven! could it be the latter?

I was turning away angered and despairing, when my eyes fell upon a figure that seemed to skulk under the shadow of the walls. A shout of joy escaped me as I recognised the boy Cyprio, just emerging from his place of concealment.

“Cyprio!” I cried.

“Si, señor’s” answered he, advancing rapidly to where I stood.

“Tell me, Cyprio! where are they gone – where – where?”

“Carrai, señor’s! these bad men have carried the dueño away; I do not know whither.”

“The señora? the señora?”

“Oh! cavallero! es una cosa espantosa!” (It is a terrible thing.)

“Quick, tell me all! Quickly, Cyprio!”

“Señor’s, there came men with black masks, who broke into the house and carried off the master; then they dragged out Dona Isolina into the patio! Ay de mi! I cannot tell you what they did before —pobre señorita! There was blood running down her neck and over her breast: she was not dressed, and I could see it. Some went to the caballeriza, and led out the white horse – the steed that was brought from the llanos. Upon his back they bound Dona Isolina. Valga me dios! such a sight!”

“Go on!”

“Then, señor’s, they led the horse across the river, and out to the plain beyond. All went along, to see the sport, as they said —ay de mi! such sport! I did not go, for they beat and threatened to kill me; but I saw all from the hill-top, where I had hidden myself in the bushes. O Santissima Maria!”

“Go on!”

“Then, señor’s, they stuck cohetes in the hips of the horse, and set them on fire, and pulled off the bridle, and the steed went off, with fire-rockets after him, and Dona Isolina tied down upon his back —pobre señorita! I could see the horse till he was far, far away upon the llano, and then I could see him no more. Dios de mi alma! la niña esta perdida!” (Alas! the young lady is lost.)

“Some water! Rube! Garey! friends – water! water! – ”

I made an attempt to reach the fountain in the patio; but, after staggering dizzily a pace or two, my strength failed me, and I fell fainting to the earth.

Chapter Fifty Seven.

Taking the Trail

I had merely swooned. My nerves and frame were still weak from the blood-letting I had received in the combat of yesterday. The shock of the horrid news was too much for my powers of endurance.

I was insensible only for a short while; the cold water revived me.

When consciousness returned, I was by the fountain, my back leaning against its parapet edge; Rube, Garey and others were around me. From my dripping garments, I perceived that they had douched me, and one was pouring a fiery spirit down my throat.

There were men on horseback, who had ridden into the patio – the iron hoofs causing the court to ring. They were rangers, but not those who had left camp in my company. Some had arrived since, and others were still galloping up. The girls had reached the ranger camp, and told their tale. The men had not waited for orders, or even for one another, but rushing to their horses, took the road in twos and threes. Every moment, a horseman, or several together, came riding forward in hot haste, carrying their rifles, as if ready for action, and uttering loud cries of indignation.

Wheatley had arrived among the foremost.

Poor fellow! his habitual buoyancy had departed; the gay smile was gone from his lips. His eyes were on fire, and his teeth set in the stern expression of heart-consuming vengeance.

Amidst the hoarse shouting of the men, I heard screaming in the shriller voices of women. It came from without.

I rose hastily, and ran towards the spot: I saw several of the wretched captives stripped to the waist, and men in the act of flogging them, with mule-quirts and pieces of raw-hide rope.

I had feared it was worse; I had feared that their captors were inflicting upon them a retaliation in kind. But no – angry as were my followers, they had not proceeded to such a fiendish extremity.

It required all the authority of a command to put an end to the distressing spectacle. They desisted at length; and the screeching and affrighted wretches were permitted to take themselves away – all disappearing rapidly beyond the light of the fire.

At this crisis a shout was raised: “To the rancheria, to the rancheria!” and instantly a party, with Wheatley and Holingsworth at its head, rode off for the village. Pedro went along with them.

I waited not for their return; I had formed a plan of action for myself, that would admit of no delay in its execution.

At first, stunned by the blow, and the distraction of my swooning senses, I had not been able to think; as soon as the confusion passed, and I could reflect more clearly, the course I ought to pursue was at once apparent. Vengeance I had felt as the first impulse, and a strong desire to follow up the fiend Ijurra – night and day to follow him – though the pursuit should lead me into the heart of the hostile ground.

This was but a momentary impulse: vengeance must be stifled for the time. A path was to be taken that widely diverged from that of the retreating guerrilla —the trail of the white steed.

Mounting Cyprio, and choosing from my band half-a-dozen of the best trackers, was the work of a moment. In another, we were in the saddle; and descending the hill, we plunged rapidly through the stream, crossed the skirting timber, and soon rode out upon the open prairie.

Under Cyprio’s guidance, we found the spot desecrated by that cruel display. The ground was trampled by many hoofs; fragments of paper – powder-blackened – broken rocket-sticks, and half-burnt fuses, strewed the sward – the pyrotechnic reliquiae of the fiendish spectacle.

We halted not there. By the aid of our guide and the moonlight, we rode clear of the confusion; and taking up the trail of the horse, struck off upon it, and were soon far out upon the prairie.

For more than a mile we advanced at a gallop. Time was everything. Trusting to the intelligence of the Mexican boy, we scarcely scrutinised the track, but made directly for the point where the horse had been last seen.

Cyprio’s information did not deceive us. A motte of timber had served him as a mark: the steed had passed close to its edge. Beyond it, he had seen him no more, and the boy was sent back.

Beyond it, we found the tracks, easily recognisable by Rube, Garey, and myself. There was a peculiarity by which we were prevented from mistaking them: three of the prints were clearly cut in the turf – almost perfect circles – the curve of the fourth – of the off fore-foot – was interrupted by a slight indentation, where a piece had been broken from the hoof. It had been done in that terrible leap upon the rocky bed of the barranca.

Taking the trail again, we kept on – now advancing at a slower pace, and with a greater degree of caution. Late rain had moistened the prairie-turf, and we could perceive the racks without dismounting. At intervals, there were stretches of drier surface, where the hoof had scarcely left its impression. In such places, one leaped from the saddle, and led the way on foot. Rube or Garey usually performed this office; and so rapidly did they move along the trail, that our horses were seldom in a walk. With bodies half bent, and eyes gliding along the ground, they pressed forward like hounds running by the scent, but, unlike these, the trackers made no noise. Not a word was spoken by any one. I had no list for speech; my agony was too intense for utterance.

With Cyprio I had conversed upon the harrowing theme, and that only at starting. From him I had gathered further details. No doubt, the matador had performed his office. Oh, God! without ears!

Cyprio had seen blood; it was streaming adown her neck and over her bosom: her slight garments were stained red with it. He knew not whence it came, or why she was bleeding. He was not present when that blood had been drawn; it was in her chamber, he thought. She was bleeding when the ruffians dragged her forth!

Belike, too, the herredero had done his work? Cyprio had seen the blacksmith, but not the fierro. He heard they had branded some at the piazza, among others the daughter of the alcalde —pobre Conchita! He did not see them brand the Dona Isolina.

The ruffian deed might have been accomplished for all that; there was plenty of time, while the boy lay hid, or before she had been dragged from her chamber.

How was she placed upon the horse?

Despite my heart’s bitterness, as I put these interrogatories, I could not help thinking of the Cossack legend. The famed classic picture came vividly before my mind. Wide was the distance between the Ukraine and the Rio Bravo. Had the monsters who re-enacted this scene on the banks of the Mexican river – had these ever heard of Mazeppa? Possibly their leader had; but it was still more probable that the fiendish thought was original.

The fashion at least was. Cyprio had seen and described it.

She was laid longitudinally upon the back of the steed, her head resting upon the point of his shoulder. Her face was downward, her cheek touching the withers. Her arms embraced the neck, and her wrists were made fast under the animal’s throat. Her body was held in this position by means of a belt around her waist, attached to a surcingle on the horse – both tightly buckled. In addition to this, her ankles, bound together by a thong, were fastened to the croup, with her feet projecting beyond the hips!

I groaned as I listened to the details.

The ligature was perfect – cruelly complete. There was no hope that such fastenings would give way. Those thongs of raw-hide would not come undone. Horse and rider could never part from that unwilling embrace – never, till hunger, thirst, death – no, not even death could part them! Oh, horror!

Not without groans could I contemplate the hideous fate of my betrothed – of her whose love had become my life.

I left the tracking to my comrades, and my horse to follow after. I rode with loose rein, and head drooping forward; I scarcely gave thought to design. My heart was well-nigh broken.

Chapter Fifty Eight.

The Voyageur

We had not gone far when some one closed up beside me, and muttered a word of cheer; I recognised the friendly voice of the big trapper.

“Don’t be afeerd, capt’n,” said he, in a tone of encouragement; “don’t be afeerd! Rube an me’ll find ’em afore thar’s any harm done. I don’t b’lieve the white hoss ’ll gallip fur, knowin’ thar’s someb’dy on his back. It war them gim-cracks that sot him off. When they burn out, he’ll come to a dead halt, an then – ”

“And then?” I inquired mechanically.

“We’ll get up, an your black’ll be able to overhaul him in a jump or two.”

I began to feel hope. It was but a momentary gleam, and died out in the next instant.

“If the moon ’ud only hold out,” continued Garey, with an emphasis denoting doubt.

“Rot the moon!” said a voice interrupting him; “she’s a gwine to guv out. Wagh!”

It was Rube who had uttered the unpleasant prognostication, in a peevish, but positive tone.

All eyes were turned upward. The moon, round and white, was sailing through a cloudless sky, and almost in the zenith. How, then, was she to “give out?” She was near the full, and could not set before morning. What did Rube mean? The question was put to him.

“Look ee ’ander!” said he in reply. “D’ees see thet ur black line, down low on the paraira?”

There appeared a dark streak along the horizon to the eastward. Yes, we saw it.

“Wal,” continued Rube, “thur’s no timber thur – ne’er a stick – nor high groun neyther: thurfor thet ur’ss a cloud; I’ve seed the likes afore. Wait a bit. Wagh! In jest ten minnits, the durned thing’ll kiver up the moon, an make thet putty blue sky look as black as the hide o’ an Afrikin niggur —it will.”

“I’m afeerd he’s right, capt’n,” said Garey, in a desponding tone. “I war doubtful o’ it myself: the sky looked too near. I didn’t like it a bit: thar’s always a change when things are better ’n common.”

I needed not to inquire the consequences, should Rube’s prediction prove correct; that was evident to all of us. The moon once obscured by clouds, our progress would be arrested: even a horse could not be tracked in the darkness.

We were not long in suspense. Again the foresight of the old trapper proved unerring. Cumuli rolled up the sky one after another, until their black masses shrouded the moon. At first, they came only in detached clouds, and there was light at intervals; but these were only the advanced columns of a heavier body, that soon after appeared; and without a break, spread itself pall-like over the firmament.