The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

This feeling produced a momentary revulsion in my thoughts. There were moments when I hated her, and vengeful impulses careered across my soul.

These were fleeting moments: again before me rose that lovely form, that proud grand spirit, in the full entirety of its power, and again my soul became absorbed in admiration, and yielded itself to its hopeless passion. It was far from being my first love. And thus experienced, I could reason upon it. I felt certain it was to be the strongest and stormiest of my life.

I know of three loves distinct in kind and power. First, when the passion is reciprocated – when the heart of the beloved yields back thought for thought, and throb for throb, without one reserved pulsation. This is bliss upon earth – not always long-lived – ending perchance in a species of sublimated friendship. To have is no longer to desire.

The second is love entirely unrequited – love that never knew word or smile of encouragement, no soft whisper to fan it into flame, no ray of hope to feed upon. Such dies of inanition – the sooner that its object is out of the way, and absence in time will conquer it.

The third is the love that “dotes yet doubts,” that doubts but never dies – no never. The jealousy that pains, only sustains it; it lives on, now happy in the honeyed conviction of triumph, now smarting under real or fancied scorn – on, on, so long as its object is accessible to sight or hearing! No matter how worthless that object may be or become – no matter how lost or fallen! Love regards not this; it has nought to do with the moral part of our nature. Beauty is the shrine of its worship, and beauty is not morality.

In my own mind I am conscious of three elements or classes of feeling: the moral, the intellectual, and what I may term the passional– the last as distinct from either of the other two as oil from spirits or water. To the last belongs love, which, I repeat again, has no sympathy with the moral feelings of our nature, but, alas! as one might almost believe, with their opposite. Even a plain but wicked coquette will captivate more hearts than a beautiful saint, and the brilliant murderess ere now has made conquests at the very foot of the scaffold!

It pains me to pronounce these convictions, derived as they are from experience. There is as little gain as pleasure in so doing, but popularity must be sacrificed at the shrine of truth. For the sake of effect, I shall not play false with philosophy.

Rough ranger as I was, I had studied psychology sufficiently to understand these truths; and I endeavoured to analyse my passion for this girl or woman – to discover why I loved her. Her physical beauty was of the highest order, and that no doubt was an element; but it was not all. Had I merely looked upon this beauty under ordinary circumstances – that is, without coming in contact with the spirit that animated it – I might have loved her, or I might not. It was the spirit, then, that had won me, though not alone. The same gem in a less brilliant setting might have failed to draw my admiration. I was the captive both of the spirit and the form. Soul and body had co-operated in producing my passion, and this may account for its suddenness and profundity. Why I loved her person, I knew – I was not ignorant of the laws of beauty – but why the spirit, I knew not. Certainly not from any idea I had formed of her high moral qualities; I had no evidence of these. Of her courage, even to daring, I had proof; of energy and determined will; of the power of thought, quick and versatile; but these are not moral qualities, they are not even feminine! True, she wept over her slain steed. Humanity? I have knows a hardened lorette weep bitter tears for her tortoise-shell cat. She refused to take from me my horse. Generosity? She had a thousand within sight. Alas! in thus reviewing all that had passed between myself and the beautiful Isolina, in search of her moral qualities, I met with but little success!

Mystery of our nature! I loved her not the less! And yet my passion was pure, and I do not believe that my heart was wicked. Mystery of our nature! He who reads all hearts alone can solve thee!

I loved without reason; but I loved now without hope. Hope I had before that night. Her glance through the turrets – her note – its contents – a word, a look at other times, had inspired me with hopes, however faint they were. The incident of the ball-room had crushed them.

Ijurra’s dark face kept lowering before me; even in my visions he was always by her side. What was between the two? Perhaps a nearer relationship than that of cousin? Perhaps they were affianced? Married?

The thought maddened me.

I could rest upon my couch no longer. I rose and sought the open air; I climbed to the azotea, and paced it to and fro, as the tiger walks his cage. My thoughts were wild, and my movements without method.

To add to the bitterness of my reflections, I now discovered that I had sustained a loss – not in property, but something that annoyed me still more. I had lost the order and its enclosure – the note of Don Ramon. I had dropped them on the day in which they were received, and I believed in the patio of the hacienda, where they must have been picked up at once. If by Don Ramon himself, then all was well; but if they had fallen into the hands of some of the leather-clad herdsmen, ill affected to Don Ramon, it might be an awkward affair for that gentleman – indeed for myself. Such negligence would scarcely be overlooked at head-quarters; and I had ill forebodings about the result. It was one of my soul’s darkest hours.

From its very darkness I might have known that light was near, for the proverb is equally true in the moral as in the material world. Light was near.

Chapter Fifteen.

An odd epistle

Breakfast I hardly tasted. A taso of chocolate and a small sugared cake – the desayuna of every Mexican – were brought, and these served me for breakfast. A glass of cognac and a Havanna were more to the purpose, and helped to stay the wild trembling of my nerves. Fortunately, there was no duty to perform, else I could ill have attended to it.

I remained on the azotea till near mid-day. The storm raging within prevented me from taking note of what was passing around. The scenes in the piazza, the rangers and their steeds, the “greasers” in their striped blankets, the Indias squatted on their petates, the pretty poblanas, were all unnoticed by me.

At intervals my eyes rested upon the walls of the distant dwelling; it was not so distant but that a human form could have been distinguished upon its roof, had one been there. There was none, and twenty, ay, fifty times, did I turn away my disappointed gaze.

About noon the Serjeant of the guard reported that a Mexican wished to speak with me. Mechanically, I gave orders for the man to be sent up; but it was not until he appeared before me that I thought of what I was doing.

The presence of the Mexican at once aroused me from my unpleasant reverie. I recognised him as one of the vaqueros of Don Ramon de Vargas – the same I had seen on the plain during my first interview with Isolina.

There was something in his manner that betokened him a messenger. A folded note, which he drew from under his jerkin – after having glanced around to see whether he was noticed – confirmed my observation.

I took the note. There was no superscription, nor did I stay to look for one. My fingers trembled as I tore open the seal. As my eye rested on the writing and recognised it, my heart throbbed so as almost to choke my utterance. I muttered some directions to the messenger; and to conceal my emotion from him, I turned away and proceeded to the farthest corner of the azotea before reading the note. I called back to the man to go below, and wait for an answer; and, then relieved of his presence, I read as follows: —

“July 18 – .

“Gallant capitan! allow me to bid you a buenas dias, for I presume that, after the fatigues of last night, it is but morning with you yet. Do you dream of your sable belle? ‘Poor devil!’ Ha, ha, ha! Gallant capitan!”

I was provoked at this mode of address, for the “gallant” was rendered emphatic by underlining. It was a letter to taunt me for my ill behaviour. I felt inclined to fling it down, but my eye wandering over the paper, caught some words that induced me to read on.

“Gallant capitan! I had a favourite mare. How fond I was of that creature you may understand, who are afflicted by a similar affection for the noble Moro. In an evil hour, your aim, too true, alas! robbed me of my favourite, but you offered to repay me by robbing yourself, for well know I that the black is to you the dearest object upon earth. Indeed, were I the lady of your love, I should ill brook such a divided affection! Well, mio capitan, I understood the generous sacrifice you would have made, and forbade it; but I know you are desirous of cancelling your debt. It is in your power to do so. Listen!”

Some hard conditions I anticipated would follow; I recked not of that. There was no sacrifice I was not ready to make. I would have dared any deed, however wild, to have won that proud heart – to have inoculated it with the pain that was wringing my own. I read on:

“There is a horse, famed in these parts as the ‘white steed of the prairies’ (el cavallo bianco de los llanos). He is a wild-horse, of course; snow-white in colour, beautiful in form, swift as the swallow – But why need I describe to you the ‘white steed of the prairies?’ You are a Tejano, and must have heard of him ere this? Well, mio capitan, I have long had a desire – a frantic one, let me add – to possess this horse. I have offered rewards to hunters – to our own vaqueros, for he sometimes appears upon our plains – but to no purpose. Not one of them can capture, though they have often seen and chased him. Some say that he cannot be taken, that he is so fleet as to gallop, or rather glide out of sight in a glance, and that, too, on the open prairie! There are those who assert that he is a phantom, un demonio! Surely so beautiful a creature cannot be the devil? Besides, I have always heard – and, if I recollect aright, some one said so last night – that the devil was black. ‘Poor devil!’ Ha, ha, ha!”

I rather welcomed this allusion to my misconduct of the preceding night, for I began to feel easier under the perception that the whole affair was thus treated in jest, instead of the anger and scorn I had anticipated. With pleasanter presentiments I read on: —

“To the point, mio capitan. There are some incredulous people who believe the white steed of the prairies to be a myth, and deny his existence altogether. Carrambo! I know that he does exist, and what is more to my present purpose, he is – or was, but two hours ago – within ten miles of where I am writing this note! One of our vaqueros saw him near the banks of a beautiful arroyo, which I know to be his favourite ground. For reasons known to me, the vaquero did not either chase or molest him; but in breathless haste brought me the news.

“Now, capitan, gallant and grand! there is but one who can capture this famed horse, and that is your puissant self. Ah! you have made captive what was once at wild and free. Yes! you can do it – you and Moro!

“Bring me the white steed of the prairies! I shall cease to grieve for poor Lola. I shall forgive you that contratiempo. I shall forgive all – even your rudeness to my double mask. Ha, ha, ha! Bring me the white steed! the white steed!

“Isolina.”

As I finished reading this singular epistle, a thrill of pleasure ran through my veins. I dwelt not on the oddness of its contents, thoroughly characteristic of the writer. Its meaning was clear enough.

I had heard of the white horse of the prairies – what hunter or trapper, trader or traveller, throughout all the wide borders of prairie-land, has not? Many a romantic story of him had I listened to around the blazing campfire – many a tale of German-like diablerie, in which the white horse played hero. For nearly a century has he figured in the legends of the prairie “mariner” – a counterpart of the Flying Dutchman – the “phantom-ship” of the forecastle. Like this, too, ubiquitous – seen today scouring the sandy plains of the Platte, to-morrow bounding over the broad llanos of Texas, a thousand miles to the southward!

That there existed a white stallion of great speed and splendid proportions – that there were twenty, perhaps a hundred such – among the countless herds of wild-horses that roam over the great plains, I did not for a moment doubt. I myself had seen and chased more than one that might have been termed “a magnificent animal,” and that no ordinary horse could overtake; but the one known as the “white steed of the prairies” had a peculiar marking, that distinguished him from all the rest —his ears were black! – only his ears, and these were of the deep colour of ebony. The rest of his body, mane, and tail, was white as fresh-fallen snow.

It was to this singular and mysterious animal that the letter pointed; it was the black-eared steed I was called upon to capture. The contents of the note were specific and plain.

One expression alone puzzled me —

“You have made captive what was once as wild and free.” What? I asked myself. I scarce dared to give credence to the answer that leaped like an exulting echo from out my heart!

There was a postscript, of course: but this contained only “business.” It gave minuter details as to when, how, and where the white horse had been seen, and stated that the bearer of the note – the vaquero who had seen him – would act as my guide.

I pondered not long upon the strange request. Its fulfilment promised to recover me the position, which, but a moment before, I had looked upon as lost for ever. I at once resolved upon the undertaking.

“Yes, lovely Isolina! if horse and man can do it, ere another sun sets, you shall be mistress of the white steed of the prairies!”

Chapter Sixteen.

The Manada

In half-an-hour after, with the vaquero for my guide, I rode quietly out of the rancheria. A dozen rangers followed close behind; and, having crossed the river at a ford nearly opposite the village, we struck off into the chapparal on the opposite side.

The men whom I had chosen to accompany me were most of them old hunters, fellows who could “trail” and “crease” with accurate aim. I had confidence in their skill, and, aided by them, I had great hopes we should find the game we were in search of.

My hopes, however, would not have been so sanguine but for another circumstance. It was this: Our guide had informed me, that when he saw the white steed, the latter was in company with a large drove of mares – a manada– doubtless his harem. He would not be likely to separate from them, and even if these had since left the ground, they could be the more easily “trailed” in consequence of their numbers. Indeed, but for this prospect, our wild-horse hunt would have partaken largely of the character of a “wild-goose chase.” The steed, by all accounts of him, might have been seen upon one arroyo to-day, and by the banks of some other stream, a hundred miles off, on the morrow. The presence of his manada offered some guarantee, that he might still be near the ground where the vaquero had marked him. Once found, I trusted to the swiftness of my horse, and my own skill in the use of the lazo.

As we rode along, I revealed to my following the purpose of the expedition. All of them knew the white steed by fame; one or two averred they had seen him in their prairie wanderings. The whole party were delighted at the idea of such a “scout,” and exhibited as much excitement as if I was leading them to a skirmish with guerilleros.

The country through which we passed was at first a dense chapparal, consisting of the various thorny shrubs and plants for which this part of Mexico is so celebrated. The greater proportion belonged to the family of leguminosae—robinias, gleditschias, and the Texan acacias of more than one species, there known as mezquite. Aloes, too, formed part of the under-growth, to the no small annoyance of the traveller – the wild species known as the lechuguilla, or pita-plant, whose core is cooked for food, whose fibrous leaves serve for the manufacture of thread, cordage, or cloth – while its sap yields by distillation the fiery mezcal. Here and there, a tree yucca grew by the way, its fascicles of rigid leaves reminding one of the plumed heads of Indian warriors. Some I saw with edible fruits growing in clusters, like bunches of bananas. Several species are there of these fruit-bearing yuccas in the region of the Rio Grande, as yet unknown to the scientific botanist. I observed also the palmilla, or soap-plant, another yucca whose roots yield an excellent substitute for soap; and various forms of cactus – never out of sight on Mexican soil – grew thickly around, a characteristic feature of the landscape. Plants of humbler stature covered the surface, among which the syngenesists predominated; while the fetid artemisia, and the still more disagreeably odorous creosote plant (Larrea Mexicana) grew upon spots that were sandy and arid. Pleasanter objects to the eye were the scarlet panicles of the Fouquiera splendens, then undescribed by botanists, and yet to become a favourite of the arboretums.

I was in no mood for botanising at the time, but I well remember how I admired this elegant species – its tall culm-like stems, surmounted by panicles of brilliant flowers, rising high above the level of the surrounding thicket, like banners above a host. Not that I possess the refined taste of a lover of flowers, and much less then; but cold must be the heart that could look upon the floral beauty of Mexico, without remembering some portion of its charms. Even the rudest of my followers could not otherwise than admire; and once or twice, as we journeyed along, I could hear them give utterance to that fine epithet of the heart’s desire, “Beautiful!”

As we advanced, the aspect changed. The surface became freer of jungle; a succession of glade and thicket; in short, a “mezquite prairie.” Still advancing, the “openings” became larger, while the timbered surface diminished in extent, and now and then the glades joined each other without interruption.

We had ridden nearly ten miles without drawing bridle, when our guide struck upon the trail of the manada. Several of the old hunters, without dismounting, pronounced the tracks to be those of wild mares, which they easily distinguished from horse tracks. Their judgment proved correct; for following the trail but a short distance farther, we came full in sight of the drove, which the vaquero confidently pronounced was the manada we were in search of!

So far our success equalled our expectations; but to get sight of a caballada of wild-horses, and to capture its swiftest steed, are two things of very unequal difficulty. This fact my anxiously beating heart and quickly throbbing pulse revealed to me at the moment. It would be difficult to describe the mingled feelings of anxious doubt and joyous hope that passed through my mind, as from afar off I gazed upon that shy herd, still unconscious of our approach.

The prairie upon which the mares were browsing was more then a mile in width, and, like those we had been passing through, it was surrounded by the low chapparal forest – although there were avenues that communicated with other openings of a similar kind. Near its centre was the manada. Some of the mares were quietly browsing upon the grass, while others were frisking and playing about, now rearing up as if in combat, now rushing in wild gallop, their tossed manes and full tails flung loosely upon the wind. Even in the distance we could trace the full rounded development of their bodies; and their smooth coats glistening under the sun denoted their fair condition. They were of all colours known to the horse, for in this the race of the Spanish horse is somewhat peculiar. There were bays, and blacks, and whites – the last being most numerous. There were greys, both iron and roan, and duns with white manes and tails, and some of a mole colour, and not a few of the kind known in Mexico as pintados (piebalds) – for spotted horses are not uncommon among the mustangs – all of course with full manes and tails, since the mutilating shears of the jockey had never curtailed their flowing glories.

But where was the lord of this splendid harem? – where the steed?

This was the thought that was uppermost in the mind of all – the question upon every tongue.

Our eyes wandered over the herd, now here, now there. White horses there were, numbers of them, but it needed but a glance to tell that the “steed of the prairies” was not there.

We eyed each other with looks of disappointment. Even my companions felt that; but a far more bitter feeling was growing upon me as I gazed upon the leaderless troop. Could I have captured and carried back the whole drove, the present would not have purchased one smile from Isolina. The steed was not among them!

He might still be in the neighbourhood; or had he forsaken the manada altogether, and gone far away over the wide prairie in search of new conquests?

The vaquero believed he was not far off. I had faith in this man’s opinion, who, having passed his life in the observation of wild and half-wild horses, had a perfect knowledge of their habits. There was hope then. The steed might be near; perhaps lying down in the shade of the thicket; perhaps with a portion of the manada or some favourite in one of the adjacent glades. If so, our guide assured us we should soon have him in view. He would soon bring the steed upon the ground.

How?

Simply by startling the mares, whose neigh of alarm would be heard from afar.

The plan seemed feasible enough; but it was advisable that we should surround the manada before attempting to disturb them, else they might gallop off in the opposite direction, before any of us could get near.

Without delay, we proceeded to effect the “surround.”

The chapparal aided us by concealing our movements; and in half-an-hour we had deployed around the prairie.

The drove still browsed and played. They had no suspicion that a cordon of hunters was being formed around them, else they would have long since galloped away.

Of all wild creatures, the shyest is the wild-horse; the deer, the antelope, and buffalo, are far less fearful of the approach of man. The mustang seems to understand the doom that awaits him in captivity. One could almost fancy that the runaways from the settlements – occasionally seen amongst them – had poured into their ears the tale of their hardships and long endurance.

I had myself ridden to the opposite side of the prairie, in order to be certain when the circle was complete. I was now alone, having dropped my companions at intervals along the margin of the timber. I had brought with me the bugle, with a note or two of which I intended to give the alarm to the mares.

I had placed myself in a clump of mezquite trees, and was about raising the horn to my lips, when a shrill scream from behind caused me to bring down the instrument, and turn suddenly in my seat. For a moment, I was in doubt as to what could have produced such a singular utterance, when a second time it fell on my ear, and then I recognised it. It was the neigh of the prairie stallion!

Near me was a break in the thicket, a sort of avenue leading out into another prairie. In this I could hear the hoof-stroke of a horse going at a gallop.

As fast as the underwood would allow, I pressed forward and came out upon the edge of the open ground; but the sun, low down, flashed in my eyes, and I could see no object distinctly.

The tread of the hoofs and the shrill neighing still rang in my ears.

Presently the dazzling light no longer quite blinded me: I shaded my eyes with my hand, and could perceive the form of a noble steed stretching in full gallop down the avenue, and coming in the direction of the manada.

Half-a-dozen springs brought him opposite; the beam was no longer in my eyes; and as he galloped past, I saw before me “the white steed of the prairies.”