Chapter 26 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
Vows of Vengeance
I soon fell asleep again, and this time slept long and profoundly.
It was after nightfall,—in fact, near midnight, when I awoke. The air had grown chilly, but I found I had not been neglected; my serape was wrapped closely around me, and with a buffalo-robe, had sufficiently protected me from the cold while I slept.
On awaking, I felt much better and stronger. I looked around for my companions. The fire had gone out—no doubt intentionally extinguished, lest its glare amid the darkness might attract the eye of some roving Indian. The night was a clear one, though moonless; but the heaven was spangled with its sparkling worlds, and the starlight enabled me to make out the forms of the two trappers and the group of browsing horses. Of the former, one only was asleep; the other sat upright, keeping guard over the camp. He was motionless as a statue: but the small spark gleaming like a glowworm from the bowl of his tobacco pipe, gave token of his wakefulness. Dim as the light was, I could distinguish the upright form to be that of the earless trapper. It was Garey who was sleeping.
I could have wished it otherwise. I was anxious to have some conversation with the younger of my companions; I was longing for an explanation, and I should have preferred addressing myself to Garey.
My anxiety would not allow me to wait, and I turned towards Rube. He sat near me, and I spoke in a low tone, so as not to awake the sleeper. “How came you to find me?”
“By follerin yur trail.”
“Oh, you followed me then! From the settlements?”
“Not so fur. Bill an me wur camped in the chapparil, an spied you a gallupin arter the white hoss, as ef all the devils out o’ hell wur arter you. I knowd yur at a glimp; so did Bill. Sez I: ‘Bill, thet ur’s the young fellur as tuk me for a grizzly up thur in the mountains,’ and the reckoleckshun o’ the sark’instance sot me a larfin till my ole ribs ached. ‘It ur the same,’ sez Bill; an jest then, we met a Mexikin who hed been yur guide, gallupin about in sarch o’ you. He gin us a story ’bout some gurl thet hed sent you to catch the white hoss; some saynyora with a dodrotted long name. ‘Durn the weemen!’ sez I to Bill. Didn’t I, Bill?”
To this interesting interrogatory, Garey, who was but half asleep, gave an assenting grunt.
“Wal,” continued Rube, “seem thur wur a pettycoat in the case, I sez to Bill, sez I: ‘Thet young fellur ain’t a-gwine to pull up till eyther he grups the hoss, or the hoss gits clur off.’
“Now, I know’d you wur well mounted, but I knowd you wur arter the fastest critter on all these parairas; so I sez to Bill, sez I: ‘Billee, thur boun for a long gallup.’ Sez Bill: ‘Thet ur sartin.’
“Wal! Bill and me tuk the idee in our heads, thet you mout git lost, for we seed the white hoss wur a makin for the big paraira. It ain’t the biggest paraira in creashun, but it ur one of the wust to git strayed on. Yur greenhorns wur all gone back, so Bill and me catched up our critters, an as soon as we kud saddle ’em, put arter you. When we kumd out in the paraira, we seed no signs o’ you, ’ceptin yur trail. Thet we follered up; but it wur night long afore we got half way hyur, an wur obleeged to halt till sun-up.
“Wal—in the mornin, the trail wur nurly blind, on account o’ the rain; an it tuk us a good spell afore we reached the gully. ‘Thur,’ sez Bill, ‘the hoss hes jumped in, an hyur’s the trail o’ the young fellur leadin down the bank.’ Wal, we wur jest turn in to go down, when we seed yur own hoss a good ways off on the paraira, ’ithout saddle or bridle. We rid straight for him, an when we got closter, we seed somethin on the groun, right under the hoss’s nose. Thet somethin turned out to be yurself an the grizzly, lyin in grups, as quiet as a kupple o’ sleepin ’possums. Yur hoss wur a squealin like a bag o’ wild-cats, an at fust Bill an me thort you hed gone under. But upon a closter view, we seed you wur only a faintin, while the bar wur as dead as a buck. Of coorse we sot about docterin you, to fotch you roun agin.”
“But the steed? the white steed?”
“Bill hyur grupped him in the gully. A leetle further down it’s stopped up wi’ big rocks. We knowd thet, for we’d been over this groun’ afore. We knowd the hoss kudn’t a got over the rocks, an Bill went arter an foun him, on a ledge whur he hed clomb out o’ reech o’ the flood; an then he lazooed the critter, an fotched ’im up hyur. Now, young fellur, you’ve got the hul story.”
“An the hoss,” added Garey, rising from his recumbent position, “he’s yourn, capt’n. Ef you hadn’t rid him down, I couldn’t a roped him so easy. He’s yourn, ef yu’ll accept o’ him.”
“Thanks, thanks! not for the gift alone, but I may thank you for my life. But for you, I might never have left this spot. Thanks! old comrades, thanks!”
Every point was now cleared up. There was mystery no longer, though, from an expression which Garey had dropped, I still desired a word with him in private.
On further inquiry, I learned that the trappers were on their way to take part in the campaign. Some barbarous treatment they had experienced from Mexican soldiers at a frontier post, had rendered both of them inveterate foes to Mexico; and Rube declared he would never be contented until he had “plugged a score of the yellur-hided vamints.” The breaking out of the war gave them the opportunity they desired, and they were now on their way, from a distant part of prairie-land, to take a hand in it.
The vehemence of their hostility towards the Mexicans somewhat surprised me—as I knew it was a recent feeling with them—and I inquired more particularly into the nature of the ill-treatment they had received. They answered me by giving a detailed account of the affair. It had occurred at one of the Mexican frontier towns, where, upon a slight pretext, the trappers had been arrested and flogged, by order of the commanding officer of the post.
“Yes–s!” said Rube, the words hissing angrily through his teeth; “yes–s, flogged!—a mountain-man flogged by a cussed monkey of a Mexikin! Ne’er a mind! ne’er a mind! By the ’tarnal God!—an when I say thet, I swar it—this niggur don’t leave Mexiko till he hes rubbed out a soger for every lash they gin him—an that’s twenty!”
“Hyur’s another, old hoss!” cried Garey, with equal earnestness of manner—“hyur’s another that swars the same oath!”
“Yes, Billee, boy! I guess we’ll count some in a skrimmage. Thur’s two a’ready! lookee thur, young fellur!”
As Rube said this, he held his rifle close to my eyes, pointing with his finger to a particular part of the stock. I saw two small notches freshly cut in the wood. I knew well enough what these notches meant; they were a registry of the deaths of two Mexicans, who had fallen by the hand or bullet of the trapper. They had not been the only victims of that unerring and deadly weapon. On the same piece of wood-work I could see long rows of similar souvenirs, apart from each other, only differing a little in shape. I knew something of the signification of these horrible hieroglyphics; I knew they were the history of a life fearfully spent—a life of red realities.
The sight was far from pleasant. I turned my eyes away, and remained silent.
“Mark me, young fellur!” continued Rube, who noticed that I was not gratified by the inspection; “don’t mistake Bill Garey an me for wild beests; we ain’t thet quite; we’ve been mighty riled, I reck’n; but f’r all thet, we ain’t a-gwine to take revenge on weemen an childer, as Injuns do. No—weemen an childer don’t count, nor men neyther, unless thur sogers. We’ve no spite agin the poor slaves o’ Mexiko. They never did me nor Bill harm. We’ve been on one skurry, along wi’ the Yutaws, down to the Del Nort settlements. Thur’s whur I made them two nicks; but neyther Bill or me laid a finger on the weemen an childer. It wur bekase the Injuns did, thet we left ’em. We’re jest kum from thur. We want fair fight among Christyun whites; thet’s why we’re hyur. Now, young fellur!”
I was glad to hear Rube talk in this manner, and I so signified to him. Indianised as the old trapper was—with all his savageness, all his reckless indifference to ordinary emotions—I knew there was still a touch of humanity in his breast. Indeed, on more than one occasion, I had witnessed singular displays of fine feeling on the part of Rube. Circumstanced as he was, he is not to be judged by the laws of civilised life.
“Your intention, then, is to join some corps of rangers, is it not?” I asked after a pause.
“I shed like it,” replied Garey: “I shed like to join your company, capt’n; but Rube hyur won’t consent to it.”
“No!” exclaimed the other with emphasis; “I’ll jine no kumpny. This niggur fights on his own hook. Yur see, young fellur, I hev been all my life a free mountaineeman, an don’t understan sogerin, nohow. I mout make some mistake, or I moutn’t like some o’ the reg’lashuns; thurfor I prefers fightin arter my own fashun. Bill an me kin take care o’ ourselves, I reck’n. Kin we, Bill?—eh, boyee?”
“I guess so, old hoss,” replied Garey mildly; “but for all that, Rube, I think it would be better to go at it in a reglar way—particlarly as the capt’n hyur would make the sogerin part as easy as possible. Wudn’t yur, capt’n?”
“The discipline of my corps is not very severe. We are Rangers, and our duties are different from those of regular soldiers—”
“It ur no use,” interrupted Rube; “I must fight as I’ve allers fit, free to kum an free to go whur I please. I won’t bind myself to nuthin. I moutn’t like it, an mout desart.”
“But by binding yourself,” suggested I, “you draw pay and rations; whereas—”
“Durn pay an rashuns!” exclaimed the old trapper, striking the butt of his rifle upon the prairie. “Durn pay an rashuns! Young fellur, I fights for revenge!”
This was said in an energetic and conclusive manner, and I urged my advice no further.
“Look hyur, cap!” continued the speaker in a more subdued tone. “Though I ain’t a-gwine to jine yur fellurs, yet thur ur a favour I wud axe from yur; an thet is, to let me an Bill keep by you, or foller whuriver you lead. I don’t want to spunge for rashuns; we’ll git thet ef thur’s a head o’ game in Mexiko, an ef thur ain’t, why we kin eat a Mexikin. Can’t we, Bill?—eh, boyee?”
Garey knew this was one of Rube’s jokes, and laughingly assented; adding at the same time, that he would prefer eating any other “sort o’ a vamint.”
“Ne’er a mind!” continued Rube: “we ain’t a-gwine to starve. So, young fellur, ef you agrees to our goin on them tarms, yu’ll heve a kupple o’ rifles near you thet won’t miss fire—they won’t.”
“Enough! You shall go and come as you please. I shall be glad to have you near me, without binding you to any term of service.”
“Hooray!—thet’s the sort for us! Kum, Billee!—gie’s another suck out o’ yur gourd. Hyur’s success to the Stars and Stripes! Hooray for Texas!”