The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

I groaned in spirit as I was forced to adopt his conclusion. But it was all probable – too probable. Had the steed been alone – Unembarrassed – free – it was not likely the wolves would have chased him thus. The wild-horse in his prime is rarely the object of their attack; though the old and infirm – the gravid mare, and the feeble colt – often fall before these hungry hunters of the plains. Both common wolf and coyote possess all the astuteness of the fox, and know, as if by instinct, the animal that is wounded to death. They will follow the stricken deer that has escaped from the hunter; but if it prove to be but slightly harmed, instinctively they abandon the chase.

Their instinct had told them that the steed was not ridden by a free hand; they had seen that there was something amiss; and in the hope of running down both horse and rider, they had followed with hungry howl.

Another fact lent probability to this painful conjecture; we knew that by the mesa were many wolves.

The spring was the constant resort of ruminant animals, deer and antelopes; the half-wild cattle of the ganaderos drank there, and the tottering calf oft became the prey of the coyote and his more powerful congener, the gaunt Texan wolf. There was still another reason why the place must of late have been the favourite prowl of these hideous brutes: the débris of our skirmish had furnished them with many a midnight banquet. They had ravened upon the blood of men and the flesh of horses, and they hungered for more.

That they might succeed in running down the steed, cumbered as he was, was probable enough. Sooner or later, they would overtake him. It might be after a long, long gallop over hill and dale, through swamp and chapparal; but still it was probable those tough, tireless pursuers would overtake him. They would launch themselves upon his flanks; they would seize upon his wearied limbs – upon hers, the helpless victim on his back – both horse and rider would be dragged to the earth – both torn – parted in pieces – devoured!

I groaned under the horrid apprehension.

“Look thar!” said Garey, pointing to the ground, and holding his torch so as to illuminate the surface; “the hoss has made a slip thar. See! hyar’s the track o’ the big wolf – he hes sprung up jest hyar; I can tell by the scratch o’ his hind-claws.”

I examined the “sign.” Even to my eyes it was readable, and just as Garey had interpreted it. There were other tracks of wolves on the damp soil, but one had certainly launched himself forward, in a long leap, as though in an effort to fasten himself upon the flanks of some animal. The hoof-mark plainly showed that the steed had slipped as he sprang over the wet grass; and this had tempted the spring of the watchful pursuer.

We hurried on. Our excited feelings hindered us from causing longer than a moment. Both rangers and trappers snared my eagerness, as well as my apprehensions. Fast as the torches could be carried, we hurried on.

Shortly after parting from the mesa, there occurred a change in our favour. The lights had been carried under hats to protect them from the rain. This precaution was no longer required. The storm had passed – the shower ceasing as suddenly as it had come on; the clouds were fast driving from the face of the firmament. In five minutes more, the moon would shine forth. Already her refracted rays lightened the prairie.

We did not stay for her full beam; time was too precious. Still trusting to the torches, we hurried on.

The beautiful queen of the night kept her promise. In five minutes, her cheering orb shot out beyond the margin of the dark pall that had hitherto shrouded it; and her white disc, as if purified by the storm, shone with unwonted brightness. The ground became conspicuous almost as in day; the torches were extinguished, and we followed the trail more rapidly by the light of the moon.

Here, still in full gallop, had passed the wild-horse, and for miles beyond – still had he gone at utmost speed. Still close upon his heels had followed the ravenous and untiring wolves. Here and there were the prints of their clawed feet – the signs of their unflagging pursuit.

The roar of water sounded in our ears: it came from the direction towards which the trail was conducting us, a stream was not far distant.

We soon diminished the distance. A glassy sheet glistened under the moonlight, and towards this the trail trended in a straight line.

It was a river – a cataract was near, down which the water, freshened by the late rain, came tumbling, broken by the rocks into hummocks of white foam. Under the moonlight, it appeared like an avalanche of snow. The trappers recognised an affluent of the Rio Bravo, running from the north – from the high steppe of the Llano Estacado.

We hurried forward to its bank, and opposite the frothing rapids. The trail conducted us to this point – to the very edge of the foaming water. It led no farther. There were the hoof-marks forward to the brink, but not back. The horse had plunged into the torrent.

Chapter Sixty Three.

Across the Torrent

Surely was it so. Into that seething rapid the steed had launched himself – where the spume was whitest, and the rocks gave out their hoarsest echoes. The four hoof-prints, close together upon the bank, showed the point from which he had sprung; and the deeply indented turf testified that he had made no timid leap. The pursuers had been close upon his heels, and he had flung himself with desperate plunge upon the water.

Had he succeeded in crossing? It was our first thought. It appeared improbable – impossible. Notwithstanding its foam-bedappled surface, the current was swift, and looked as though it would sweep either man or horse from his footing. Surely it was too deep to be forded. Though here and there rocks were seen above the surface, they were but the crests of large boulders, and between them the impetuous wave ran dark and rapid. Had the horse lost footing? had he been forced to swim? If so, he must have been carried down by the current – his body submerged – his withers sunk below the surface – his helpless rider —

The conclusion was evident to all of us. All felt the conviction simultaneously. No – not all. There came a word of comfort from the oldest and wisest – a word that gave cheer to my drooping spirit.

“Wagh! the hoss hain’t swum a lick —he hain’t.”

“Are you sure, Rube? How can you tell?” were the quick interrogatories.

“Sure – how kin I tell – i’deed, how?” replied Rube, a little nettled at our having questioned his judgment. “What the divul’s yur eyes good for – all o’ yur? Lookee hyur! and I’ll show ’ee how I tell. Do ’ee see the colour o’ thet water? – it ur as brown as a buffler in the Fall; thurfor it’s fresh kim down; and jest afore the shower, thur wan’t more’n half o’ it in the channel. Then the hoss mout a waded ’crosst hyur, easy as fallin’ off a log, and then that hoss did wade acrosst.”

“He crossed before the rain?”

“Sure as a shot from Targuts. Look at the tracks! Them wur made afore a drop o’ rain kim down: ef they hedn’t, they’d a been a durned sight deeper in the sod. Wagh! the hoss got safe acrosst ’ithout wettin’ a hair o’ his hips. So far as drowndin’ goes, don’t be skeeart ’bout thet, young fellur! the gurl’s safe enough yit.”

“And the wolves? Do you think they have followed across the stream?”

“Ne’er a wolf o’ ’em – ne’er a one. The vamints hed more sense. They knowd thur legs wan’t long enough, an thet ur current wud a swep ’em a mile afore they kud a swum half-way acrosst. The wolves, they stayed on this side, I reck’n. Look hyur – hyur’s thur tracks. Wagh! thur wur a wheen o’ the filthy beests. Geehosophat! the bank ur paddled like a sheep-pen.”

We bent down to examine the ground. Sure enough, it was covered with the tracks of wolves. A numerous band had crowded together on the spot; and as the prints of their feet pointed in all directions, it was evident they had not gone forward, but, brought to a stand by the torrent, had given up the chase, and scattered away.

Pray heaven it was no mere conjecture!

With Rube it was a belief; and as I had grown to put implicit reliance in the old trapper’s wood-craft, I felt reassured. Rube’s opinions, both as to the steed having safely crossed, and the discomfiture of the wolves, were shared by the rest of my followers – not one of whom was a mean authority on such a subject. Garey – second only to his older comrade in the working out of a prairie syllogism – gave Rube’s statement his emphatic confirmation. The steed was yet safe – and pray heaven, the rider.

With lighter heart I sprang back into the saddle. My followers imitated the example, and with eyes scanning the stream, we rode along the bank to seek for a crossing.

There was no ford near the spot. Perhaps where the steed had passed over the stream might have been waded at low-water; but now, during the freshet, the current would have swept off horse and man like so much cork-wood. The rocks – the black waves that rushed between them – the boiling, frothing eddies – discouraged any attempt at crossing there; we all saw that it was impracticable.

Some rode up stream, others went in the opposite direction.

Both parties met again with blank looks; neither had found a crossing.

There was no time to search further – at least my impatience would no longer brook delay. It was not the first time for both my horse and myself to cross a river without ford; nor was it the first time for many of my followers.

Below the rapids, the current ran slow, apparently ceasing altogether. The water was still, though wider from bank to bank – a hundred yards or more. By the aid of the moonlight, I could tell that the bank on the opposite side was low and shelving. It could be easily climbed by a horse.

I stayed to reason no further. Many a hundred yards had Moro swum with his rider on his back – many a current had he cleft with his proud breast far more rapid than that.

I headed him to the bank, gave him the spur, and went plunging into the flood.

Plunge – plunge – plunge! I heard behind me till the last of my followers had launched themselves on the wave, and were swimming silently over.

One after another we reached the opposite side, and ascended the bank.

Hurriedly I counted our number as the men rode out; one had not yet arrived. Who was missing?

“Rube,” answered some one.

I glanced back, but without feeling any uneasiness. I had no fear for the trapper; Garey alleged he was “safe to turn up.” Something had detained him. Could his old mare swim?

“Like a mink,” replied Garey; “but Rube won’t ride her across; he’s afeerd to sink her too deep in the water. See! yonder he comes!”

Near the middle of the stream, two faces were observed rippling the wave, one directly in the wake of the other. The foremost was the grizzled front of the old mustang, the other the unmistakeable physiognomy of her master. The moonlight shining upon both rendered them conspicuous above the dark brown water; and the spectacle drew a laugh from those who had reached the bank.

Rube’s mode of crossing was unique, like every action of this singular man. Perhaps he adopted it from sheer eccentricity, or maybe in order that his mustang might swim more freely.

He had ridden gently into the water, and kept his saddle till the mare was beyond her depth – then sliding backward over her hips, he took the tail in his teeth, and partly towed like a fish upon the hook, and partly striking to assist in the passage, he swam after. As soon as the mare again touched bottom, he drew himself up over the croup, and in this way regained his saddle.

Mare and man, as they climbed out on the bank – the thin skeleton bodies of both reduced to their slenderest dimensions by the soaking water – presented a spectacle so ludicrous as to elicit a fresh chorus of laughter from his comrades.

I stayed not till its echoes had died away; but pressing my steed along the bank, soon arrived at the rapids, where I expected to recover the trail.

To my joy, hoof-marks were there, directly opposite the point where the steed had taken to the stream. Rube was right. He had waded safely across.

Thank heaven! at least from that peril has she been saved!

Chapter Sixty Four.

A Lilliputian Forest

On resuming the trail, I was cheered by three considerations. The peril of the flood was past – she was not drowned. The wolves were thrown off – the dangerous rapid had deterred them; on the other side their footprints were no longer found. Thirdly, the steed had slackened his pace. After climbing the bank, he had set off in a rapid gait, but not at a gallop.

“He’s been pacin’ hyar!” remarked Garey, as soon as his eyes rested upon the tracks.

“Pacing!”

I knew what was meant by this; I knew that gait peculiar to the prairie horse, fast but smooth as the amble of a palfrey. His rider would scarcely perceive the gentle movement; her torture would be less.

Perhaps, too, no longer frighted by the fierce pursuers, the horse would come to a stop. His wearied limbs would admonish him, and then —

Surely he could not have gone much farther?

We, too, were wearied, one and all; but these pleasing conjectures beguiled us from thinking of our toil, and we advanced more hopefully along the trail.

Alas! it was my fate to be the victim of alternate hopes and fears. My new-sprung joy was short-lived, and fast fleeted away.

We had gone but a few hundred paces from the river, when we encountered an obstacle, that proved not only a serious barrier to our progress, but almost brought our tracking to a termination.

This obstacle was a forest of oaks, not giant oaks, as these famed trees are usually designated, but the very reverse – a forest of dwarf oaks (Quercus nana). Far as the eye could reach extended this singular wood, in which no tree rose above thirty inches in height! Yet was it no thicket – no under-growth of shrubs – but a true forest of oaks, each tree having its separate stem, its boughs, its lobed leaves, and its bunches of brown acorns.

“Shin oak,” cried the trappers, as we entered the verge of this miniature forest.

“Wagh!” exclaimed Rube, in a tone of impatience, “hyur’s bother. ’Ee may all get out o’ yur saddles an rest yur critturs: we’ll hev to crawl hyur.”

And so it resulted. For long weary hours we followed the trail, going not faster than we could have crawled upon our hands and knees. The tracks of the steed were plain enough, and in daylight could have been easily followed; but the little oaks grew close and regular as if planted by the hand of man; and through their thick foliage the moonlight scarcely penetrated. Their boughs almost touched each other, so that the whole surface lay in dark shadow, rendering it almost impossible to make out the hoof-prints. Here and there, a broken branch or a bunch of tossed leaves – their under-sides shining glaucous in the moonlight – enabled us to advance at a quicker rate; but as the horse had passed gently over the ground, these “signs” were few and far between.

For long fretful hours we toiled through the “shin-oak” forest, our heads far overtopping its tallest trees! We might have fancied that we were threading our way through some extended nursery. The trail led directly across its central part; and ere we had reached its furthest verge, the moon’s rays were mingling with the purple light of morning.

Soon after the “forest opened;” the little dwarfs grew further apart – here scattered thinly over the ground, there disposed in clumps or miniature grove? – until at length the sward of the prairie predominated.

The trouble of the trackers was at an end. The welcome light of the sun was thrown upon the trail, so that they could lift it as fast as we could ride; and, no longer hindered by brake or bush, we advanced at a rapid rate across the prairie.

Over this ground the steed had also passed rapidly. He had continued to pace for some distance, after emerging from the shin-oak forest; but all at once, as we could tell by his tracks, he had bounded off again, and resumed his headlong gallop.

What had started him afresh? We were at a loss to imagine; even the prairie-men were puzzled!

Had wolves again attacked him, or some other enemy? No; nor one nor other. It was a green prairie over which he had gone, a smooth sward of mezquite-grass; but there were spots where the growth was thin – patches nearly bare – and these were softened by the rain. Even the light paw of a wolf would have impressed itself in such places, sufficiently to be detected by the lynx-eyed men of the plains. The horse had passed since the rain had ceased falling. No wolf, or other animal, had been after him.

Perhaps he had taken a start of himself, freshly affrighted at the novel mode in which he was ridden – still under excitement from the rough usage he had received, and from which he had not yet cooled down – perhaps the barbed points of the cohetes rankled in his flesh, acting like spurs; perhaps some distant sound had led him to fancy the hooting mob, or the howling wolves, still coming at his heels; perhaps —

An exclamation from the trackers, who were riding in the advance, put an end to these conjectures. Both had pulled up, and were pointing to the ground. No words were spoken – none needed. We all read with our eyes an explanation of the renewed gallop.

Directly in front of us, the sward was cut and scored by numerous tracks. Not four, but four hundred hoof-prints were indented in the turf – all of them fresh as the trail we were following – and amidst these the tracks of the steed, becoming intermingled, were lost to our view.

“A drove of wild horses,” pronounced the guides at a glance.

They were the tracks of unshod hoofs, though that would scarcely have proved them wild. An Indian troop might have ridden past without leaving any other sign; but these horses had not been mounted, as the trappers confidently alleged; and among them were the hoof-marks of foals and half-grown colts, which proved the drove to be a caballada of mustangs.

At the point where we first struck their tracks they had been going in full speed, and the trail of the steed converged until it closed with theirs at an acute angle.

“Ye-es,” drawled Rube, “I see how ’tis. They’ve been skeeart at the awkurd look o’ the hoss, an hev put off. See! thur’s his tracks on the top o’ all o’ theirn: he’s been runnin’ arter ’em. Thur!” continued the tracker, as we advanced – “thur he hez overtuk some o’ ’em. See! thur! the vamints hev scattered right an left! Hyur agin, they’ve galliped thegither, some ahint, an some afore him. Wagh! I guess they know him now, an ain’t any more afeerd o’ him. See thur! he’s in the thick o’ the drove.”

Involuntarily I raised my eyes, fancying from these words that the horses were in sight; but no; the speaker was riding forward, leaning over in his saddle, with looks fixed upon the ground. All that he had spoken he had been reading from the surface of the prairie – from hieroglyphics to me unintelligible, but to him more easily interpreted than a page of the printed book.

I knew that what he was saying was true. The steed had galloped after a drove of wild horses; he had overtaken them; and at the point where we now were, had been passing along in their midst!

Dark thoughts came crowding into my mind at this discovery – another shadow across my heart. I perceived at once a new situation of peril for my betrothed – new, and strange, and awful.

I saw her in the midst of a troop of neighing wild-horses – stallions with fiery eyes and red steaming nostrils – these perhaps angry at the white steed, and jealous of his approach to the manada; in mad rage rushing upon him with open mouth and yellow glistening teeth; rearing around and above him, and striking down with deadly desperate hoof – Oh, it was a horrid apprehension, a fearful fancy!

Yet, fearful as it was, it proved to be the exact shadow of a reality. As the mirage refracts distant objects upon the retina of the eye, so some spiritual mirage must have thrown upon my mind the image of things that were real. Not distant, though then unseen – not distant was the real.

Rapidly I ascended another swell of the prairie, and from its crest beheld almost the counterpart of the terrible scene that my imagination had conjured up!

Was it a dream? was it still fancy that was cheating my eyes? No; there was the wild-horse drove; there the rearing, screaming stallions; there the white steed in their midst – he too rearing erect – there upon his back —

“O God! look down in mercy – save her! save her!”

Chapter Sixty Five.

Scattering the Wild Stallions

Such rude appeal was wrung from my lips by the dread spectacle on which my eyes rested.

I scarcely waited the echo of my words; I waited not the counsel of my comrades; but, plunging deeply the spur, galloped down the hill in the direction of the drove.

There was no method observed – no attempt to keep under cover. There was no time either for caution or concealment. I acted under instantaneous impulse, and with but one thought – to charge forward, scatter the stallions, and, if yet in time, save her from those hurling heels and fierce glittering teeth.

If yet in time– ay, such provisory parenthesis was in my mind at the moment. But I drew hope from observing that the steed kept a ring cleared around him: his assailants only threatened at a distance.

Had he been alone, I might have acted with more caution, and perhaps have thought of some stratagem to capture him. As it was, stratagem was out of the question; the circumstances required speed.

Both trappers and rangers – acting under like impulse with myself – had spurred their horses into a gallop, and followed close at my heels.

The drove was yet distant. The wind blew from them – a brisk breeze. We were half-way down the hill, and still the wild horses neither heard, saw, nor scented us.

I shouted at the top of my voice: I wished to startle and put them to flight. My followers shouted in chorus; but our voices reached not the quarrelling caballada.

A better expedient suggested itself: I drew my pistol from its holster, and fired several shots in the air.

The first would have been sufficient. Its report was heard, despite the opposing wind; and the mustangs, affrighted by the sound, suddenly forsook the encounter. Some bounded away at once; others came wheeling around us, snorting fiercely, and tossing their heads in the air, a few galloped almost within range of our rifles; and then, uttering their shrill neighing, turned and broke off in rapid flight. The steed and his rider alone remained, where we had first observed them!

For some moments he kept the ground, as if bewildered by the sudden scattering of his assailants; but he too must have heard the shots, and perhaps alone divined something of what had caused those singular noises. In the loud concussion, he recognised the voice of his greatest enemy; and yet he stirred not from the spot!

Was he going to await our approach? Had he become tamed? – reconciled to captivity? or was it that we had rescued him from his angry rivals – that he was grateful, and no longer feared us?

Such odd ideas rushed rapidly through my mind as I hurried forward!

I had begun to deem it probable that he would stay our approach, and suffer us quietly to recapture him. Alas! I was soon undeceived. I was still a long way off – many hundred yards – when I saw him rear upward, wheel round upon his hind-feet as on a pivot, and then bound off in determined flight. His shrill scream pealing back upon the breeze, fell upon my ears like the taunt of some deadly foe. It seemed the utterance of mockery and revenge: mockery at the impotence of my pursuit; revenge that I had once made him my captive.

I obeyed the only impulse I could have at such a moment, and galloped after as fast as my horse could go. I stayed for no consultation with my companions; I had already forged far ahead of them. They were too distant for speech.

I needed not their wisdom to guide me. No plan required conception or deliberation; the course was clear: by speed alone could the horse be taken, and his rider saved from destruction —if yet safe.