The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

It was a rolling prairie over which the chase led – a surface that undulated like the billows of the ocean. We galloped transversely to the direction of the “swells,” that rose one after the other in rapid succession. Perhaps the rapidity with which we were crossing them brought them nearer to each other. To me there appeared no level ground between these land-billows. Up hill and down hill in quick alternation was the manner of our progress – a severe trial upon the girths – a hard killing gallop for my poor horse. But life and death were upon the issue, and the spur must be plied without remorse.

A long cruel gallop – would it never come to an end I would the steed never tire? would he never stop? Surely in time he must become weary? Surely Moro was his equal in strength as in speed? – superior to him in both?

Ah! the prairie horse possessed a double advantage – he had started fresh – he was on his native ground.

I kept my eyes fixed upon him; not for one moment did I withdraw my glance. A mysterious apprehension was upon me; I feared to look around, lest he should disappear! The souvenirs of the former chase still haunted me; weird remembrances clung to my spirit. I was once more in the region of the supernatural.

I looked neither to the right nor left, but straight before me – straight at the object of my pursuit, and the distance that lay between us. This last I continuously scanned, now with fresh hope, and now again with doubt. It seemed to vary with the ground. At one time, I was nearer, as the descending slope gave me the advantage; but the moment after, the steep declivity retarded the speed of my horse, and increased the intervening distance.

It was with joy I crossed the last swell of the rolling prairie, and beheld a level plain stretching before us. It was with joy I perceived that upon the new ground I was rapidly gaining upon the steed!

And rapidly I continued to gain upon him, until scarcely three hundred yards were between us. So near was I, that I could trace the outlines of her form – her prostrate limbs – still lashed to the croup – her garments loose and torn – her ankles – her long dark hair dishevelled and trailing to the ground – even her pallid cheek I could perceive, as at intervals the steed tossed back his head to utter his wild taunting neigh. O God! there was blood upon it!

I was near enough to be heard. I shouted in my loudest voice; I called her by name. I kept my eyes upon her, and with throbbing anxiety listened for a response.

I fancied that her head was raised, as though she understood and would have answered me. I could hear no voice, but her feeble cry might have been drowned by the clatter of the hoofs.

Again I called aloud – again and again pronouncing her name.

Surely I heard a cry? surely her head was raised from the withers of the horse? It was so – I could not be mistaken.

“Thank Heaven, she lives!”

I had scarcely uttered the prayer, when I felt my steed yield beneath me as though he was sinking into the bosom of the earth. I was hurled out of the saddle, and flung head-foremost upon the plain. My horse had broken through the burrow of the prairie marmot, and the false step had brought him with violence to the ground.

I was neither stunned nor entangled by the fall; and in a few seconds had regained my feet, my bridle, and saddle. But as I headed my horse once more toward the chase, the white steed and his rider had passed out of sight.

Chapter Sixty Six.

Lost in a Chapparal

I was chagrined, frantic, and despairing, but not surprised. This time there was no mystery about the disappearance of the steed; the chapparal explained it. Though I no longer saw him, he was yet within hearing. His footfall on the firm ground, the occasional snapping of a dead stick, the whisk of the recoiling branches, all reached my ears as I was remounting.

These sounds guided me, and without staying to follow his tracks, I dashed forward to the edge of the chapparal – at the point nearest to where I heard him moving.

I did not pause to look for an opening, but, heading in the direction whence came the sounds, I spurred forward into the thicket.

Breasting the bushes that reached around, his neck, or bounding over them, my brave horse pressed on; but he had not gone three lengths of himself before I recognised the imprudence of the course I was pursuing: I now saw I should have followed the tracks.

I no longer heard the movements of the steed – neither foot-stroke, nor snapping sticks, nor breaking branches. The noise made by my own horse, amid the crackling acacias, drowned every other sound; and so long as I kept in motion, I moved with uncertainty. It was only when I made stop that I could again hear the chase struggling through the thicket; but now the sounds were faint and far distant – growing still fainter as I listened.

Once more I urged forward my horse, heading him almost at random; but I had not advanced a hundred paces, before the misery of uncertainty again impelled me to halt.

This time I listened and heard nothing – not even the recoil of a bough. The steed had either stopped, and was standing silent, or, what was more probable, had gained so so far in advance of me that his hoof-stroke was out of hearing.

Half-frantic, angered at myself, too much excited for cool reflection, I lanced the sides of my horse, and galloped madly through the thicket.

I rode several hundred yards before drawing bridle, in a sort of desperate hope I might once more bring myself within earshot of the chase.

Again I halted to listen. My recklessness proved of no avail. Not a sound reached my ear: even had there been sounds, I should scarcely have heard them above that that was issuing from the nostrils of my panting horse; but sound there was none. Silent was the chapparal around me – silent as death; not even a bird moved among its branches.

I felt something like self-execration: my imprudence I denounced over and over. But for my rash haste, I might yet have been upon the trail – perhaps within sight of the object of pursuit. Where the steed had gone, surely I could have followed. Now he was gone I knew not whither – lost – his trail lost – all lost!

To recover the trace of him, I made several casts across the thicket. I rode first in one direction, then in another, but all to no purpose. I could find neither hoof-track nor broken branch.

I next bethought me of returning to the open prairie, there retaking the trail, and following it thence. This was clearly the wisest, – in fact, the only course in which there was reason. I should easily recover the trail, at the point where the horse had entered the chapparal, and thence I might follow it without difficulty.

I turned my horse round, and headed him in the direction of the prairie – or rather in what I supposed to be the direction – for this too had become conjecture.

It was not till I had ridden for a half-hour – for more than a mile through glade and bush – not till I had ridden nearly twice as far in the opposite direction – and then to right, and then to left – that I pulled up my broken horse, dropped the rein upon his withers, and sat bent in my saddle under the full conviction that I too was lost.

Lost in the chapparal – that parched and hideous jungle, where every plant that carries a thorn seemed to have place. Around grew acacias, mimosas, gleditschias, robinias, algarobias– all the thorny legumes of the world; above towered the splendid fouquiera with spinous stem; there nourished the “tornillo” (prosopis glandulosa), with its twisted beans; there the “junco” (koeblerinia), whose very leaves are thorns. There saw I spear-pointed yuccas and clawed bromelias (agave and dasylirion); there, too, the universal cactacese (opuntia, mamillaria, cereus, and echinocactus); even the very grass was thorny – for it was a species of the “mezquite-grass,” whose knotted culms are armed with sharp spurs!

Through this horrid thicket I had not passed unscathed; my garments were already torn, my limbs were bleeding.

My limbs – and hers?

Of hers alone was I thinking: those fair-proportioned members – those softly-rounded arms – that smooth, delicate skin – bosom and shoulders bare – the thorn – the scratch – the tear. Oh! it was agony to think!

By action alone might I hope to still my emotions; and once more rousing myself from the lethargy of painful thought, I urged my steed onward through the bushes.

Chapter Sixty Seven.

Encounter with Javall

I had no mark to guide me, either on the earth or in the heavens. I had an indefinite idea that the chase had led westward, and therefore to get back to the prairie, I ought to head towards the east.

But how was I to distinguish east from west? In the chapparal both were alike, and so too upon the sky. No sun was visible; the canopy of heaven was of a uniform leaden colour; upon its face were no signs by which the cardinal points could have been discovered.

Had I been in the midst of a forest surrounded by a northern sylva, I could have made out my course. The oak or the elm, the ash-tree or maple, the beech or sycamore – any of them would have been compass sufficient for me; but in that thicket of thorny shrubs I was completely at fault. It was a subtropical flora – or rather a vegetation of the arid desert – to which I was almost a stranger. I knew there were men skilled in the craft of the chapparal, who, in the midst of it, could tell north from south without compass or stars. Not I.

I could think of no better mode than to trust to the guidance of my horse. More than once, when lost in the thick forest or on the boundless plain, had I reposed a similar trust in his instincts – more than once had he borne me out of my bewilderment.

But whither could he take me? Back to the path by which we had come?

Probably enough, had that path led to a home; but it did not: my poor steed, like myself, had no home. He, too, was a ranger; for years had been flitting from place to place, – hundreds, ay, thousands of miles from each other. Long had he forgotten his native stall.

I surmised that if there was water near, his instinct might carry him to that – and much needed it both horse and rider. Should we reach a running stream, it would serve as a guide.

I dropped the rein upon his neck, and left him to his will.

I had already shouted in my loudest voice, in hopes of being heard by my comrades; by none other than them, for what could human being do in such a spot, shunned even by the brute creation? The horned lizard (agama cornuta), the ground rattlesnake, the shell-covered armadillo, and the ever-present coyote, alone inhabit these dry jungles; and now and then the javali (dicotyles torquatus), feeding upon the twisted legumes of the “tornillo,” passes through their midst; but even these are rare; and the traveller may ride for scores of miles through a Mexican chapparal without encountering aught that lives and moves. There reigns the stillness of death. Unless the wind be rustling among the pinnate fronds of the acacias, or the unseen locust utters its harsh shrieking amid the parched herbage, the weary wayfarer may ride on, cheered by no other sound than his own voice, or the footfall of his horse.

There was still the chance that my followers might hear me. I knew that they would not stray from the trail. Though they must have been far behind when I entered the chapparal, following the tracks, they would in time be sure to come up.

It was a question whether they would follow mine, or those of the steed. This had not occurred to me before, and I paused to consider it. If the former, then was I wrong in moving onward, as I should only be going from them, and leading them on a longer search. Already had I given them a knot to unravel – my devious path forming a labyrinthine maze.

It was more than probable they would follow me– in the belief that I had some reason for deviating from the trail of the steed, perhaps for the purpose of heading or intercepting him.

This conjecture decided me against advancing farther – at least until some time should elapse, enough for them to get up.

Out of compassion for my hard-breathing horse, I dismounted.

At intervals, I shouted aloud, and fired shots from my pistols after each I listened; but neither shot nor shout reached me in reply. They must have been distant indeed, not to hear the report of fire-arms; for had they heard them, they would have been certain to make answer in a similar manner. All of them carried rifles and pistols.

I began to think it was full time for them to have reached me. Again I fired several shots; but, as before, echo was the only reply. Perhaps they had not followed me? perhaps they had kept on upon the trail of the steed, and it might be leading them far away, beyond hearing of the reports? perhaps there was not yet time for them to have arrived?

While thus conjecturing, my ears were assailed by the screeching of birds at some distance off. I recognised the harsh notes of the jay, mingling with the chatter of the red cardinal.

From the tones, I knew that these birds were excited by the presence of some enemy. Perhaps they were defending their nests against the black snake or the crotalus.

Or it might be my followers approaching! it might be the steed – like me, still wandering in the chapparal?

I sprang to my saddle to get a better view, and gazed over the tops of the trees. Guided by the voices of the birds, I soon discovered the scene of the commotion.

At some distance off, I saw both jays and cardinals fluttering among the branches, evidently busy with something on the ground beneath them. At the same time I heard strange noises, far louder than the voices of the birds, but could not tell what was causing them. My spirits sank, for I knew they could not be produced either by my comrades or the steed.

It was not far, and I determined to satisfy myself as to what was causing such a commotion in this hitherto silent place. I rode towards the spot, as fast as my horse could make way through the bushes. I was soon satisfied.

Coming out on the edge of a little glade, I became spectator to a singular scene – a battle between the red cougar and a band of javali.

The fierce little boars were “ringing” the panther, who was fighting desperately in their midst. Several of them lay upon the ground, struck senseless or dead, by the strong paws of the huge cat; but the others, nothing daunted, had completely surrounded their enemy, and were bounding upon him with open mouths; and wounding him with their sharp shining tusks.

The scene aroused my hunter instincts; and suddenly unslinging my rifle, I set my eye to the sights. I had no hesitation about the selection of my mark – the panther, by all means – and drawing trigger, I sent my bullet through the creature’s skull, that stretched him out in the midst of his assailants.

Three seconds had not elapsed, before I had reason to regret the choice I had made of a victim. I should have let the cougar alone, and either held my fire, or directed it upon one of his urchin-like enemies; for the moment he was hors de combat, his assailants became mine – transferring their “surround” to my horse and myself, with all the savage fierceness they had just exhibited towards the panther!

I had no means of punishing the ungrateful brutes. They had not given me time to reload my rifle before commencing their attack, and my pistols were both empty. My horse, startled by the unexpected assault, as well as by the strange creatures that were making it, snorted and plunged wildly over the ground; but go where he would, a score of the ferocious brutes followed, springing up against his thighs, and scoring his shanks with their terrible tusks. Well for me I was able to keep the saddle; had I been thrown from it at that moment, I should certainly have been torn to pieces.

I saw no hope of safety but in flight; and spurring my horse, I gave him full rein. Alas! through that tangled thicket the javali could go as fast as he; and after advancing a hundred yards or so, I perceived the whole flock still around me, assailing as fiercely as ever the limbs of my steed.

The result might have proved awkward enough; but at that moment I heard voices, and saw mounted men breaking through the underwood. They were Stanfield, Quackenboss, and the rest of the rangers.

In another instant, they were on the ground; and their revolvers, playing rapidly, soon thinned the ranks of the javali, and caused the survivors to retreat grunting and screaming into the thicket.

Chapter Sixty Eight.

The Woods on Fire?

The trappers were not among those who had rescued me – where were they?

The others made answer, though I already guessed what they had to tell. Rube and Garey had followed the tracks of the steed, leaving the rangers to come after me.

I was pleased with the ready intelligence of my comrades: they had acted exactly as they should have done. I was myself found, and I no longer entertained any apprehension that the trail would be lost.

By this time, the trackers must be far upon it; more than an hour had elapsed since they and the others had parted company. My zigzag path had cost my followers many a bewildering pause.

But they had not ridden recklessly as I, and could find their way back. As it was impossible to tell in what direction Rube and Garey had gone, this course was the best to be followed; and under the guidance of Stanfield – an expert woodsman – we rode back towards the prairie.

It was not necessary to retrace our own crooked trail. The Kentuckian had noted the “lay” of the chapparal, and led us out of its labyrinths by an almost direct path.

On reaching the open ground, we made no pause; but upon the tracks of Rube, Garey, and the steed, re-entered the chapparal.

We had no difficulty about our course; it was plainly traced out for us; the trappers had “blazed” it. In most places, the tracks of the three horses were sufficient indices of the route; but there were stretches where the ground was stony, and upon the parched arid herbage, even the shod hoof left no visible mark. In such places, a branch of acacia broken and pendulous, the bent flower-stem of an aloe, or the succulent leaves of the cactus slashed with a sharp knife, were conspicuous and unmistakeable signs; and by the guidance of these we made rapid advance.

We must have gone much faster than the trackers themselves – for notwithstanding the freshness of the trail, there were dry spots and patches of cut rock over which it passed, and where it must have cost them both time and keen perception to trace it.

As we were travelling so much more rapidly than Rube and Garey could have done, I looked forward to our soon overtaking them: with eager anticipation, I looked forward. Surely they would have some news for me, now that they had been so long in the advance? Surely by this time they must have come in sight of the steed? – perhaps captured him? Oh, joyous anticipation!

Or would they return with a different tale? Was I to meet the report that he still hurried on – on for ever? That he had swum some rapid stream? or plunged over a precipice – into some dark abysm?

Though hastening on after the trackers, there were moments when I feared to overtake them – moments when I dreaded to hear their tale!

We had worked our way about five miles through the hideous jungle, when I began to feel a strange sensation in my eyes – a sensation of pain – what is usually termed a “smarting.” I at first attributed it to the want of sleep.

My companions complained that they were affected in a similar manner.

It was not until we had gone some distance farther, that we found the true explanation – on perceiving that there was smoke in the air! Smoke it was that was causing the bitterness in our eyes.

The denizen of the prairie never regards such an indication with indifference. Where there is smoke, there is fire, and where fire, danger – at least upon the broad grassy steppes of the west. A burning forest may be shunned. You may stand near a forest on fire, and contemplate such a scene with safety; but a blazing prairie is a phenomenon of a different character; and it is indeed a rare position where you may view, without peril, this sublime spectacle.

There are prairies that will not burn. The plains covered with the short “buffalo-grass” (sesleria dactyloides), and the sward of various species of “gramma” (chondrosium), rarely take fire; or if they do, horse, man, buffalo, or antelope, can easily escape by leaping across the blaze. ’Tis only the reptile world – snakes, lizards, the toad, and the land-turtle (terrapin) – that fall victims to such a flame.

Not so upon the “weed-prairies,” or those where the tall reed-grass rises above the withers of a horse – its culms matted and laced together by the trailing stems of various species of bindweed, by creeping convolvulus, cucurbitacese, and wild pea-vines. In the dry season, when a fire lays its hold upon vegetation of this character, there is danger indeed – where it rages, there is death.

It was smoke that affected our eyes, causing them to wince and water. Fire must be causing the smoke – what was on fire?

I could detect apprehension in the looks of my followers, as we rode on. It was but slight, for as yet the smoke was scarcely perceptible, and the fire, wherever it was, must be distant – so fancied we.

As we advanced, the glances of the men became more uneasy. Beyond a doubt, the smoke was thickening around us, the sky was fast becoming darker, and the pain in our eyes more acute.

“The woods are on fire,” said Stanfield.

Stanfield was a backwoodsman – his thoughts ran upon “woods.”

Whether forest or prairie, a conflagration was certainly raging. It might be far off – for the wind will carry the smoke of a prairie fire a long distance – but I had an unpleasant suspicion that it was not distant. I noticed dropping around us the white floe of burnt leaves, and from the intense bitterness of the smoke, I reasoned that it could not have floated far – its gases were not yet dissipated.

It was not the distance of the fire that so much troubled me, as its direction. The wind blew right in our teeth, and the smoke was travelling with the wind. The conflagration must be ahead – directly upon the trail!

The smoke grew thicker and thicker – ahead, the sky appeared slashed with a lurid light; I fancied I could hear the crackling of the flames. The air felt hot and dry: a choking sensation was produced in our throats, and one and all were hacking and gasping for breath.

So dark had it suddenly become – or rather so blinded were we with the smoke – we could scarcely make out the trail.

My followers would have stopped, but I urged them on. With voice and example, I urged them on – myself leading the way. My heart was too full of anxiety to make pause.

Where in all this were Rube and Garey? We had come far and fast; we should now be nearly up with them – they could not be much ahead.

I halloed as we advanced.

“Hullow!” came the response, in the rough baritone of the younger trapper.

We hurried forward in the direction of the voice.

The path conducted to an opening in the chapparal – in the centre of which, through the smoke, we could distinguish the forms of men and horses.

With eager eyes, I scanned the group; a glance was sufficient: there were only two of each – only the trackers.

Chapter Sixty Nine.

Smoke and Thirst

“Ah, Monsieur Roob!” cried the Canadian, as we hurried up, “vat make zees diable d’une fumée – smoke? Are ze woods on fire – you tink – eh?”

“Wuds!” exclaimed Rube, with a contemptuous glance at the speaker. “Wagh! Thur’s no wuds hyur. Thur’s a paraira afire. Don’t yer smell the stink o’ the grass?”

“Pe gar, oui! vraiment – c’est la prairie? You sure, Monsieur Roob?”

“Sure!” vociferated the trapper in a tone of indignation – “Sure! – ye durned parley-voo-eat-a-frog-spit-a-brickbat-soup-suckin’ Frenchman, d’yur think I don’t know the smell o’ a burnin’ paraira? Wagh!”

“Ah, Monsieur Roob, me pardonnez. Vat I mean ask – is ze chapparal brule – on fire – ces arbres?”