The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

A line of spears, regularly placed, marked the allotment of each. The slender shafts, nearly five yards in length, rose tall above the turf – like masts of distant ships – displaying their profusion of pennons and bannerets, of painted plumes and human hair. At the base of each could be seen the gaudy shield, the bow and quiver, the embroidered pouch and medicine-bag of the owner; and grouped around many of them appeared objects of a far different character – objects that we could not contemplate without acute emotion. They were women: enough of light still ruled the sky to show us their faces; they were white women – the captives.

Strange were my sensations as I regarded those forms and faces; but they were far off – even a lover’s eye was unequal to the distance.

Flanking the camp on right and left were the horses. They occupied a broad belt of ground – for they were staked out to feed – and each was allowed the length of his lazo. Their line converged to the rear, and met behind the grove – so that the camp was embraced by an arc of browsing animals, the river forming its chord. Across the stream, the encampment did not extend.

I have said that the spot was well selected to guard against a surprise. Its peculiar adaptability consisted in the fact, that the little grove that backed the camp was the only timber within a radius of a thousand yards. All around, and even on the opposite side of the stream, the plain was treeless, and free from cover of any kind. There were no inequalities of ground, neither “brake, bush, nor scaur,” to shelter the approach of an enemy.

Had this position been chosen, or was it accidental? In such a place and at such a time, it was not likely they had any fear of a surprise; but with the Indian, caution is so habitually exercised, that it becomes almost an instinct; and doubtless under such a habit, and without any forethought whatever, the savages had fixed upon the spot where they were encamped. The grove gave them wood; the stream, water; the plain, pabulum for their horses. With one of these last for their own food, they had all the requisites of an Indian camp.

At the first glance, I saw the strength of their position – not so much with the eye of a soldier, as with that of a hunter and bush-fighter did I perceive it. In a military sense, it offered no point of defence; but it could not be approached by stratagem, and that is all the horse-Indian ever fears. Alarm him not too suddenly – give him five minutes’ warning, and he cannot be attacked. If superior in strength, you may chase him; but you must be better mounted than he to bring him to close combat. Retreat, not defence, is generally the leading idea of Comanche strategy, unless when opposed to a Mexican foe. Then he will stand fight with the courage of a master.

As I continued to gaze at the Indian encampment, my heart sank within me. Except under cover of a dark night – a very dark night – it could not be entered. The keenest spy could not have approached it: it appeared unapproachable.

The same thought must at that moment have occupied the minds of my companions; I saw the gloom of disappointment on the brows of all as they knelt beside me silent and sullen. None of them said a word; they had not spoken since we came upon the ground.

Chapter Eighty Seven.

No Cover

In silence I continued to scrutinise the camp, but could discover no mode of approaching it secretly or in safety.

As I have said, the adjacent plain, for nearly a thousand yards’ radius, was a smooth grass-covered prairie. Even the grass was short: it would scarcely have sheltered the smallest game – much less afford cover for the body of a man – much less for that of a horse.

I should willingly have crawled on hands and knees, over the half-mile that separated us from the encampment; but that would have been of no service; I might just as well have walked erect. Erect or prostrate, I should be seen all the same by the occupants of the camp, or the guards of the horses. Even if I succeeded in effecting an entrance within the lines, what then? Even should I succeed in finding Isolina, what then? what hope was there of our getting off?

There was no probability of our being able to pass the lines unseen – not the least. We should certainly be pursued, and what chance for us to escape? It was not probable we could run for a thousand yards with the hue and cry after us? No; we should be overtaken, recaptured, speared or tomahawked upon the spot!

The design I had formed was to bring my horse as close as possible to the camp; to leave him under cover, and within such a distance as would make it possible to reach him by a run; then mounting with my betrothed in my arms, to gallop on to my comrades. The men, I had intended, should be placed in ambush, as near to the camp as the nature of the ground would permit.

But my preconceived plan was entirely frustrated by the peculiar situation of the Indian encampment. I had anticipated that there would be either trees, brushwood, or broken ground in its neighbourhood, under shelter of which we might approach it. To my chagrin, I now saw that there was none of the three. There was no timber nearer than the grove in which we were lying – the copse excepted – and to have reached this would have been to enter the camp itself.

We appeared to have advanced to the utmost limit possible that afforded cover. A few feet farther would have carried us outside the margin of the wood, and then we should have been as conspicuous to the denizens of the camp, as they now were to us. Forward we dared not stir – not a step farther.

I was puzzled and perplexed. Once more I turned my eyes upon the sky, but I drew not thence a ray of hope; the heavens were too bright; the sun had gone down in the west; but in the east was rising, full, round, and red, almost his counterpart. How I should have welcomed an eclipse! I thought of Omnipotent power; I thought of the command of the Israelitish captain. I should have joyed to see the shadow of the opaque earth pass over that shining orb; and rob it of its borrowed light, if only for a single hour!

Eclipse or cloud there was none – no prospect of one or other – no hope either from the earth or the sky.

Verily, then, must I abandon my design, and adopt some other for the rescue of my betrothed? What other?

I could think of none: there was no other that might be termed a plan. We might gallop forward, and openly attack the camp? Sheer desperation alone could impel us to such a course, and the result would be ruin to all – to her among the rest. We could not hope to rescue her– nine to a hundred – for we saw and could now count our dusky foemen. They would see us afar off; would be prepared to receive us – prepared to hurl their masses upon us – to destroy us altogether. Sheer desperation!

What other plan? – what —

Something of one occurred to me at that moment: a slight shadow of it had crossed my mind before. It seemed practicable, though fearfully perilous; but what of peril? It was not the time, nor was I in the mood, to regard danger. Anything short of the prospect of certain death had no terror for me then; and even this I should have preferred to failure.

We had along with us the horse of the captive Comanche. Stanfield had brought the animal, having left his own in exchange. I thought of mounting the Indian horse, and riding him into the camp. In this consisted the whole of the scheme that now presented itself.

Surely the idea was a good one – a slight alteration of my original plan. I had already undertaken to play the rôle of an Indian warrior, while within the camp; it would only require me to begin the personation outside the lines, and make my entrée along with my débût. There would be more dramatic appropriateness, with a proportionate increase of danger.

But I did not jest thus; I had no thought of merriment at the time. The travesty I had undertaken was no burlesque.

The worst feature of this new scheme was the increased risk of being brought in contact with the friends of the warrior of the red hand – of being accosted by them, and of course expected to make reply. How could I avoid meeting them – one or more of them? If interrogated, how shun making answer? I knew a few words of the Comanche tongue, but not enough to hold a conversation in it. Either my false accent or my voice would betray me! True, I might answer in Spanish. Many of the Comanches speak this language; but my using it would appear a suspicious circumstance.

There was another source of apprehension: I could not confide in the Indian horse. He had endeavoured to fling Stanfield all along the way – kicking violently, and biting at his Saxon rider while seated upon his back. Should he behave in a similar manner with me while entering the camp, it would certainly attract the attention of the Indian guards. It would lead to scrutiny and suspicion.

Still another fear: even should I succeed in the main points – in entering the camp, finding the captive, and wresting her from the hands of her jailers – how after? I could never depend upon this capricious mustang to carry us clear of the pursuit – there would be others as swift, perhaps swifter than he, and we should only be carried back to die. Oh! that I could have taken my own steed near to the line of yonder guard – oh! that I could have hidden him there!

It might not be; I saw that it could not be; and I was forced to abandon the thoughts of it.

I had well-nigh made up my mind to risk all the chances of my assumed character, by mounting the Indian horse. To my comrades I imparted the idea, and asked their counsel.

All regarded it as fraught with danger; one or two advised me against it. They were those who did not understand my motives – who could not comprehend the sentiment of love – who knew not the strength and courage which that noble passion may impart. Little understood they how its emotions inspire to deeds of daring – how love absorbs all selfishness – even life becoming a secondary consideration, when weighed against the happiness or safety of its object. These rude men had never loved as I. I gave no ear to their too prudent counsels.

Others acknowledged the danger, but saw not how I could act differently. One or two had in their life’s course experienced a touch of tender feeling akin to mine. These could appreciate; and counselled me in consonance with my half-formed resolution. I liked their counsel best.

One had not yet spoken – one upon whose advice I placed a higher value than upon the combined wisdom of all the others. I had not yet taken the opinion of the earless trapper.

Chapter Eighty Eight.

Rube Consulting his Oracle

He was standing apart from the rest – leaning, I should rather say, for his body was not erect, but diagonal. In this attitude it was propped by his rifle, the butt of which was steadied against the stump of a tree, whilst the muzzle appeared to rest upon the bridge of Rube’s own nose.

As the man and the piece were about of a length, the two just placed in juxtaposition presented the exact figure of an inverted V, and the small close-capped skull of the trapper formed a sufficiently tapering apex to the angle. Both his hands were clasped round the barrel, near its muzzle, his fingers interlocking, while the thumbs lay flat – one upon each side of his nose.

At first glance, it was difficult to tell whether he was gazing into the barrel of the piece, or beyond it upon the Indian camp.

The attitude was not new to him nor to me; it was not the first time I had observed him in a posture precisely similar. I knew it was his favourite pose, when any question of unusual difficulty required all the energy of his “instincts.” He was now, as often of yore, consulting his “divinity,” presumed to dwell far down within the dark tube of “Targuts.”

After a time, all the others ceased to speak, and stood watching him. They knew that no step would be taken before Rube’s advice had been received; and they waited with more or less patience for him to speak.

Full ten minutes passed, and still the old trapper neither stirred nor spoke. Nor lip nor muscle of him was seen to move; the eyes alone could be detected in motion, and these small orbs, scintillating in their deep sockets, were the only signs of life which he showed. Standing rigid and still, he appeared, not a statue, but a scarecrow, propped up by a stick; and the long, brown, weather-washed rifle did not belie the resemblance.

Full ten minutes passed, and still he spoke not; his “oracle” had not yet yielded its response.

I have said that at the first glance it was difficult to tell whether the old man was gazing into the barrel of his gun or beyond it. After watching him closely, I observed that he was doing both. Now his eyes were a little raised, as if he looked upon the plain – anon they were lowered, and apparently peering into the tube. He was drawing the data of his problem from facts – he was trusting to his divinity for the solution.

For a long time he kept up this singular process of conjuration – alternating his glances in equal distribution between the hollow cylinder and the circle of vision that comprehended within its circumference the Comanche encampment.

The others began to grow impatient; all were interested in the result, and not without reason. Standing upon the limits of a life-danger, it is not strange they should feel anxiety about the issue.

Thus far, however, none had offered to interrupt or question the queer old man. None dared. One or two of the party had already had a taste of his quality when fretted or interfered with, and no one desired to draw upon himself the sharp “talk” of the earless trapper.

Garey at length approached, but not until Rube, with a triumphant toss of his head and a scarcely audible “wheep” from his thin lips, showed signs that the consultation had ended, and that the “joss” who dwelt at the bottom of his rifle-barrel had vouchsafed an answer!

I had watched him with the rest. I liked that expressive hitch of the head; I liked the low, but momentous sibillation that terminated the séance between him and his familiar spirit. They were signs that the knot was unravelled – that the old trapper had devised some feasible plan by which the Indian camp might be entered.

Garey and I drew near, but not to question him; we understood him too well for that. We knew that he must be left free to develop his purpose in his own time; and we left him free – simply placing ourselves by his side.

“Wal, Billee!” he said, after drawing a long breath, “an yurself, young fellur! whet do ’ee both think o’ this hyur bizness: looks ugly, don’t it – eh, boyees?”

“Tarnal ugly,” was Garey’s laconic answer.

“Thort so meself at fust.”

“Thar ain’t no plan o’ gettin’ in yander,” said the young trapper, in a desponding tone.

“The doose thur ain’t! what greenhorn put thet idee inter yur brain-pan, Bill?”

“Wal, thar are a plan; but ’tain’t much o’ a one: we’ve been talkin it over hyar.”

“Le’s hear it,” rejoined Rube, with an exulting chuckle – “le’s hev it, boyee! an quick, Bill, fur time’s dodrotted preecious ’bout now. Wal?”

“It’s jest this, Rube, neyther less nor more: the capt’n proposes to take the Injun’s hoss; and ride straight into thar camp.”

“Straight custrut in, do ’ee?”

“Ov coorse; it ’ud be no use goin about the bush: they kin see him a-comin’ from ony side.”

“I’ll be durned ef they kin – thet I’ll be durned. Wagh! they cudn’t ’a see me – thet they cudn’t, ef ivery niggur o’ ’em hed the eyes o’ an Argoose es hed eyes all over him – thet they cudn’t, Billee.”

“How?” I inquired. “Do you mean to say that it is possible for any one to approach yonder camp without being observed? Is that what you mean, Rube?”

“Thet ur preezactly whet I mean, young fellur. No – not adzactly thet eyther. One o’ you I didn’t say: whet I sayed wur, that this hyur trapper, Rube Rawlins o’ the Rocky Mountains, kud slide inter yander campmint jest like greased lightnin through a gooseberry-bush, ’ithout e’er an Injun seein ’im; an thet, too, ef the red-skinned vamints hed more eyes in thur heads than they hev lice; which, accordin’ to this child’s reck’nin’, ’ud guv ivery squaw’s son o’ the gang as many peepers es thur ur spots in a peecock’s tail, an a wheen over to breed, I kalkerlate. No plan to git inter thur camp ’ithout bein’ seed! Wagh! yur gettin’ green, Bill Garey!”

“How can it be accomplished, Rube? Pray, explain! You know how impatient – ”

“Don’t git unpayshint, young fellur! thet ur’s no use whetsomdiver. Yu’ll need payshinse, an a good grist o’ thet ur, afore ye kin warm yur shins at yander fires; but ’ee kin do it, an in the nick o’ time too, ef yu’ll go preezactly accordin’ to whet old Rube tells ye, an keep yur eye well skinned and yur teeth from chatterin’: I knows yu’ll do all thet. I knows yur weasel to the back o’ yur neck, an kin whip yur weight in wild cat any day i’ the year. Now? D’yur agree to follur my direekshuns!”

“I promise faithfully to act according to your advice.”

“Thet ur sensible sayed – durnation’d sensible. Wal, then, I’ll gi’ ye my device.”

As Rube said this, he moved forward to the edge of the timber, making a sign for Garey and myself to follow.

On reaching its outer edge – but still within cover – he dropped down upon his knees, behind some evergreen bushes.

I imitated his example, and knelt upon his right, while Garey crouched down on the left.

Our eyes were directed upon the Indian camp, of which, and the plain around it, we had a good view – as good as could be obtained under the light of a brilliant moon, alas! too brilliant!

After we had surveyed the scene for some moments in silence, the old trapper condescended to begin the conversation.

Chapter Eighty Nine.

The Trapper’s Counsel

“Now, Bill Garey, an you, young fellur, jest clap yur eyes on thet ’ere ’campmint, an see ef thur ain’t a road leadin inter the very heart o’ it, straight as the tail o’ a skeeart fox. ’Ee see it? eh?”

“Not under kiver?” replied Garey interrogatively.

“Unner kiver – ivery step o’ the way – the best o’ kiver.”

Garey and I once more scrutinised the whole circumference of the encampment, and the ground adjacent. We could perceive no cover by which the camp could be approached. Surely there was none.

What could Rube mean? Were there clouds in the sky? Had he perceived some portent of coming darkness? and had his words reference to this?

I raised my eyes, and swept the whole canopy with inquiring glances. Up to the zenith, around the horizon – east, west, north, and south – I looked for clouds, but looked in vain. A few light cirrhi floated high in the atmosphere; but these, even when crossing the moon’s disk, cast no perceptible shadow. On the contrary, they were tokens of settled weather; and moving slowly, almost fixed upon the face of the heavens, were evidence that no sudden change might be expected. When the trapper talked of entering the camp under cover, he could not have meant under cover of darkness. What then?

“Don’t see ony kiver, old hoss,” rejoined Garey, after a pause; “neyther bush nor weed.”

“Bush!” echoed Rube – “weed! who’s talkin ’bout weeds an bushes? Thur’s other ways o’ hidin’ yur karkidge ’sides stickin’ it in a bush or unner a weed. Yur a gettin’ durnation’d pumpkin-headed, Bill Garey. I gin to think yur in the same purdicamint as the young fellur hisself. Yu’ve been a humbuggin’ wi’ one o’ them ur Mexikin moochachers.”

“No, Rube, no.”

“Durn me, ef I don’t b’lieve you hev, boy. I heern ye tell one o’ ’em – ”

“What?”

“Wagh! ye know well enuf. Didn’t ’ee tell one o’ ’em gurls at the rancherie that ye loved her as hard as a mule kud kick – sartintly ye did; them wur yur preezact words, Billee.”

“I was only jokin’, hoss.”

“Putty jokin’ thet ur ’ll be when I gits back to Bent’s Fort, and tell yur Coco squaw. He, he, he – ho, ho, hoo! Geehosophat! thur will be a rumpus bumpus!”

“Nonsense, Rube; thar’s nothin’ ov it.”

“Thur must ’a be: yur brain-pan’s out o’ order, Bill; ye hain’t hed a clur idee for days back. Bushes! an weeds too! Wagh! who sayed thur wur bushes? Whur’s yur eyes? d’yur see a bank?”

“A bank!” echoed Garey and I simultaneously.

“Ye-es,” drawled Rube – “a bank. I guess thur’s bank, right afore yur noses, ef both o’ yur ain’t as blind as the kittlins o’ a ’possum. Now, do ’ee see it?”

Neither of us made reply to the final interrogatory. For the first time, we began to comprehend Rube’s meaning; and our eyes as well as thoughts were suddenly directed upon the object indicated by his words – the bank of the stream – for to that he referred.

I have stated that the little river ran close to the Indian lines, and on one side formed the boundary of the camp. We could tell that the current was towards us; for the stream, on reaching the hill upon which we were, turned sharply off, and swept round its base. The Indian camp was on the left bank – though upon its right when viewed up-stream, as we were regarding it. Any one proceeding up the left bank must therefore necessarily pass within the lines, and through among the horses that were staked nearest to the water.

It need not be supposed that under our keen scrutiny the stream had hitherto escaped observation; I myself had long ago thought of it – as a means of covering my approach – and time after time had my eyes dwelt upon it, but without result: in its channel I could perceive no shelter from observation. Its banks were low, and without either rush or bush upon them. The green turf of the prairie stretched up to the very brink, and scarcely twelve inches below its level was the surface of the current water. This was especially the case along the front of the encampment, and for some distance above and below.

Any one endeavouring to enter the camp by stealing up the channel, must have gone completely under the water, for a swimmer could have been observed upon its surface; even if a man could have approached in this way, there was no hope that a horse could be taken with him; and without the horse, what prospect of ultimate escape?

It had seemed to me impossible. More than once had I taken into consideration, and as often rejected, the idea.

Not so Rube. It was the very scheme he had conceived, and he now proceeded to point out his practicability.

“Now, theen – ees see a bank, do ’ee?”

“’Tain’t much o’ a bank,” replied Garey, rather discouragingly.

“No: ’tain’t as high as Massoora bluffs, nor the kenyons o’ Snake River – thet nob’dy durnies; but ef ’tain’t as high as it mout be, it ur ivery minnit a gettin’ higherer, I reck’n.”

“Getting higher, you think?”

“Ye-es; or whet ur putty consid’able the same thing the t’other ur a gettin’ lower.”

“The water, you mean?”

“The water ur a fallin’ – gwine down by inches at a jump; an in an hour from this, thur’ll be bluffs afront o’ the camp helf a yurd high – thet’s whet thur’ll be.”

“And you think I could get into the camp by creeping under them?”

“Sure o’t. Whet’s to hinner ye? it ur easy as fallin’ off o’ a log.”

“But the horse – how could I bring him near?”

“Jest the same way as yurself. I tell yur the bed o’ thet river ur deep enuf to hide the biggest hoss in creeashun. ’Tur now full, for the reezun thur’s been a fresh in consykwince o’ last night’s rain: ’ee needn’t mind thet – the hoss kin wade or swim eyther, an the bank ’ll kiver ’im from the eyes of the Injuns. You kin leave ’im in the river.”

“In the water?”

“In coorse – yur hoss’ll stan thur; an ef he don’t, you kin tie his nose to the bank. Don’t be skeeart, but ’ee kin take ’im as near as ’ee please; but don’t git too far to wind’ard, else them mustangs ’ll smell ’im, and then it ur all up both wi’ yurself an yur hoss. About two hundred yurds ull be yur likeliest distence. Ef ye git the gurl clur, ye kin easy run thet, I reck’n; put straight for the hoss; an whun yur mounted, gallip like hell! Put straight up higher for the timmer, whur we’ll be cached; an then, durn ’em! ef the red-skins don’t catch goss out o’ our rifles. Wagh! thet’s the way to do the thing —it ur.”

Certainly, this plan appeared practicable enough. The sinking of the water was a new element; it had escaped my observation, though Rube had noted it. It was this that had delayed him so long in giving his opinion; he had been watching it while leaning upon his rifle, though none of the rest of us had thought of such a thing. He remembered the heavy rain of the night before; he saw that it had caused a freshet in the little river; that its subsidence had begun; and, as in most prairie-streams, was progressing with rapidity. His keen eye had detected a fall of several inches during the half-hour we had been upon the ground. I could myself observe, now the thing was pointed out to me, that the banks were higher than before.