Chapter 57 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
On arriving at the month of the ravine he halted—not in the middle of the plain, but under the shadow of the rocks—the same rocks where the hunters had placed themselves in ambush. He did not dismount, but sat in his saddle, gazing up the cañon, and listening for some token of the expected pursuit.
He had not been long in this spot when he perceived a dark object approaching him. It gave him joy, for he recognised Cibolo coming along his trail. The next moment the dog was by his stirrup. The cibolero bent down in his saddle, and perceived that the poor brute was badly cut and bleeding profusely. Several gashes appeared along his side, and one near his shoulder exhibited a flap of hanging skin, over which the red stream was pouring. The animal was evidently weak from loss of blood, and tottered in his tracks.
“Amigo!” said Carlos, “you have saved my life to a certainty. It’s my turn to save yours—if I can.”
As he said this he dismounted, and, taking the dog in his arms, climbed back into the saddle.
For a while he sat reflecting what to do, with his eyes turned in the direction from which he expected the pursuit.
He had now no doubt as to who were the occupants of the cave. The bay of the hound was satisfactory evidence of the presence of the yellow hunter, and of course the zambo was along with him. Carlos knew of no other bloodhound in the settlement—the one heard must be that of the mulatto.
For some minutes he remained by the rocks, considering what course he had best take.
“I’ll ride on to the grove,” reflected he, “and hide in it till Antonio comes. They can’t track me this night—it will be too dark. The whole sky is becoming clouded—there will be no more moon to-night I can lie hid all day to-morrow, if they don’t follow. If they do, why, I can see them far enough off to ride away. My poor Cibolo, how you bleed! Heavens, what a gash! Patience, brave friend! When we halt, your wounds shall be looked to. Yes! to the grove I’ll go. They won’t suspect me of taking that direction, as it is towards the settlements. Besides they can’t trail me in the darkness. Ha! what am I thinking of?—not trail me in the darkness! What! I had forgotten the bloodhound! O God, preserve me! These fiends can follow me were it as dark as pitch! God preserve me!”
An anxious expression came over his countenance, and partly from the burden he held in his arms, and partly from the weight of his thoughts, he dropped into an attitude that betokened deep depression. For the first time the hunted outlaw showed symptoms of despair.
For a long while he remained with his head leaning forward, and his body bent over the neck of his horse.
But he had not yet yielded to despair.
All at once he started up, as if some thought, suddenly conceived, had given him hopes. A new resolution seemed to have been taken.
“Yes!” he soliloquised, “I shall go to the grove—direct to the grove. Ha! you bloodthirsty yellow-skin, I’ll try your boasted skill. We shall see—we shall see. Maybe you’ll get your reward, but not that you are counting upon. You have yet something to do before you take the scalp of Carlos the cibolero!”
Muttering these words he turned his horse’s head, renewed his hold of the dog and the bridle, and set off across the plain.
He rode at a rapid pace, and without casting a look behind him. He appeared to be in a hurry, though it could not be from fear of being overtaken. No one was likely to come up with him, so long as he kept on at such a pace.
He was silent, except now and then when he addressed some kind word to the dog Cibolo, whose blood ran over his thighs, and down the flanks of the horse. The poor brute was weak, and could no longer have kept his feet.
“Patience, old friend!—patience!—you shall soon have rest from this jolting.”
In less than an hour he had reached the lone grove on the Pecos—the same where he had lately parted with Antonio. Here he halted. It was the goal of his journey. Within that grove he had resolved on passing the remainder of the night, and, if not disturbed, the whole of the following day.
The Pecos at this point, and for many miles above and below, ran between low banks that rose vertically from the water. On both sides its “bottom” was a smooth plain, extending for miles back, where it stepped up to a higher level. It was nearly treeless. Scattered clumps grew at distant intervals, and along its margin a slight fringing of willows. This fringe was not continuous, but broken here and there by gaps, through which the water might be seen. The timber clumps were composed of cotton-wood trees and live-oak, with acacias forming an underwood, and occasionally plants of cactus growing near.
These groves were so small, and so distant from each other, that they did not intercept the general view of the surface, and a person occupying one of them could see a horseman, or other large object, at a great distance. A man concealed in them could not have been approached by his enemy in daylight, if awake and watching. At night, of course, it was different, and the security then afforded depended upon the degree of darkness.
The “motte” at which the cibolero had arrived was far apart from any of the others, and commanded a view of the river bottom on both sides for more than a mile’s distance. The grove itself was but a few acres in size, but the fringe of willows running along the stream at both ends gave it, when viewed from a distance, the appearance of a wood of larger dimensions. It stood upon the very bank of the stream, and the selvedge of willows looked like its prolongation. These, however, reached but a few feet from the water’s edge, while the grove timber ran out several hundred yards into the plain.
About this grove there was a peculiarity. Its central part was not timbered, but open, and covered only with a smooth sward of gramma-grass. It was, in fact, a glade, nearly circular in shape, and about a hundred yards in diameter. On one side of this glade the river impinged, its bank being almost a tangent line to it. Here there was a gap in the timber, so that out of the glade could be obtained a view of the bottom on the other side of the stream. Diametrically opposite to this gap another opening, of an avenue-like form, led out into the adjacent plain, so that the grove was in reality bisected by an open line, which separated it into two groves, nearly equal in extent. This separation could only be observed from certain positions in the plain—one on each side of the river.
The glade, the avenue of a dozen yards loading from it to the outside plain, and the plain itself, were all perfectly level, and covered with a smooth turf. Any object upon their surface would be easily perceptible at a distance. The grove was thickly stocked with underwood—principally the smaller species of “mezquite.” There was also a network of vines and llianas that, stretching upward, twined around the limbs of the live-oaks—the latter forming the highest and largest timber of all. The underwood was impenetrable to the eye, though a hunter could have crept through it in pursuit of game. At night, however, even under moonlight, it appeared a dark and impassable thicket.
On one side of the glade, where the ground was dry and sandy, there stood a small clump of pitahaya cactus. There were not over a dozen plants in all, but two or three of them were large specimens, sending up their soft succulent limbs nearly as high as the live-oaks. Standing by themselves in massive columns, and so unlike the trees that surrounded them, they gave a peculiar character to the scene; and the eye, unaccustomed to these gigantic candelabra, would scarce have known to what kingdom of nature they belonged—so unlike were they to the ordinary forms of vegetation.
Such were the features of the spot where the hunted outlaw sought shelter for the night.