Chapter 33 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
A Running-Shot
Though our enemies were once more in motion, we no longer anticipated a direct attack; the time for that had passed. The fate of their comrade had evidently checked their ardour, and too much shouting and bravado had cooled, rather than heightened, their enthusiasm.
We could tell by their manoeuvring that some new mode of assault had been planned, and was about to be practised.
“Cowardly skunks!” muttered Rube; “they hain’t the pluck to charge us! Who ever heerd o’ fair fight in a Mexikin? Damn ’em, thur arter some trick,” he continued, in a more serious tone. “What do ’ee think it be, Billee?”
“I’m thinkin’, old boy,” replied Garey, whose keen grey eye had been for some time fixed on the movements of the guerrilla—“I’m thinkin’ thar a-goin to gallup roun, an try a shot at us Injun fashion.”
“Yur right,” assented Rube; “thet’s thur game! Scalp me ef ’taint! Look yanner!—thur they go!”
The horsemen were no longer in line, nor formed in any fashion. Irregularly grouped, they exhibited a “clump” upon the prairie, some standing still, others in motion.
As Rube uttered the last words, one of them was seen to shoot out from the main body, spurring his steed into a gallop as he parted from the crowd.
One might have fancied he was about to ride off from the ground: but no; that was not his intention. When he had made half-a-dozen stretches over the plain, he guided his horse into a curve, evidently with the design of riding around us.
As soon as he had gained some score of yards from the troop, a second horseman followed, repeating the manoeuvre; and then another and another, until five of the band, thus deployed, galloped round us in circles. The remaining six kept their ground.
We observed that the five had left their lances behind them, and carried only their carbines.
We were not astonished at this: we divined the intention of our enemies. They were about to practise an old prairie-tactic—a stratagem of the horse-Indians—with which all three of us were familiar.
We might have been more apprehensive about the result had it been really Indians who were going to practise the manoeuvre—since in an attack of this kind, the bow, with its many missiles in a minute, is far more dangerous than either carbine or rifle. But the fact that our assailants understood the stratagem, told us we were opposed to men who had seen Indian fight—no doubt, the picked men of the frontier—and to defend ourselves would require all the courage and cunning we possessed.
It did not surprise us that only a portion of the band galloped out to effect the surround; there was design in that, and we knew it. The five who had been detached were to wheel round us in circles, dash at intervals within range, fire their carbines, kill some of our horses, keep us distracted, and if possible, draw the fire of our rifles. This purpose effected, the other six—who had already approached as near as was safe for them—would charge forward, empty their guns, and then use their lazoes with effect.
Of this last weapon my companions had more dread than of all the others carried by our foes. They had reason. They knew that our rifles once empty, the lazo could be used beyond pistol-range; and by such men, with far surer aim than either carbine or escopette!
We were allowed but scant time to entertain these doubts, fears, and conjectures, or to communicate them to one another. They passed before us like the lightning’s flash: the quicker that they were old thoughts—things familiar from experience. We were conscious that the stratagem of our enemy had increased the peril of our situation; but we thought not yet of yielding to despair.
In an instant we had altered our relative positions. The three of us no longer fronted in one direction, but stood back to back—each to guard the third of the circle before his face. Thus stood we, rifles in hand.
The five horsemen were not slow in the execution of their manoeuvre. Once or twice they galloped round us in a wide circle; and then following a spiral curve, drew nearer and nearer.
When within carbine-range, each fired his piece; and, retreating outward upon the main body, hastily exchanged his empty gun for one that was loaded, and galloped back as before.
In the first volley, most of their bullets, discharged at random, had passed over our heads. We heard them hissing in the air high above us. One, however, had been better aimed, and struck Rube’s mare in the hip, causing the old mustang to squeal and kick violently. It did but little damage, though it was an earnest of what we might expect; and it was with increased apprehension that we saw the horsemen come back on their circling career.
You will wonder why we did not return their fire? Our guns carried as far as theirs. Why did we not use them, while the horsemen were within range? Not one of the three of us thought of drawing a trigger! You will wonder at this? It requires explanation.
Know, then, that the five men who galloped round us were five of the best horsemen in the world—no doubt the picked riders of the band. Not in Arabia, not in the hippodromes of Paris or London, could they have found their superiors—perhaps not their equals—for these men literally live in the saddle. Each, as he approached the dangerous circle covered by our rifles, disappeared behind the body of his horse. A boot and spur over the hollow of the deep saddle-tree, perhaps a hand grasping the wither-lock of the horse, were all of the rider that could be seen. Presently a face might be observed, suddenly veiled by a puff of smoke from the carbine, and then ducked instantly out of sight. Perhaps the barrel of the piece might be noticed glancing along the horse’s counter, while the stream of fire pouring forth, told that the rider had taken aim under the throat of his steed, the latter all the while going at full gallop!
During these manoeuvres, sharp shots as my comrades were, and fair marksman as I was myself, there was no instant when we could have hit any one of the five horsemen. It would have been easier to have brought down a bird upon the wing. Their horses we might have killed or crippled, but that would not have repaid us for the risk of an empty rifle. We dared not waste a bullet on the horses. That was our reason for reserving our fire.
Do not fancy from this my prolixity of explanation, that we were so slow in comprehending all these points. No, we understood our situation well enough; we knew that to discharge our pieces—even though a horse should fall to every shot—was just what the enemy desired. That was the main object of their ruse; but we were too well used to the wiles of Indian warfare to be beguiled by so shallow an artifice. Words of caution passed between us, and we stood to our guns with as much patience as we could command.
It was tempting enough—provoking, I should rather say—thus to be fired at, without the chance of returning it; and my companions, notwithstanding their habitual coolness, chafed angrily under the infliction.
Once more the five horsemen came galloping around us, and discharged their pieces as before; but this time with more effect. A bullet struck Garey in the shoulder, tearing away a patch of his hunting-shirt, and drawing the blood; while another went whizzing past the cheek of Old Rube, creasing his catskin cap!
“Hooray!” shouted the latter, clapping his hand over the place where the lead had wounded him. “Clost enough thet wur! Cuss me, eft hain’t carried away one o’ my ears!”
And the old trapper accompanied the remark with a wild, reckless laugh.
The rent of the bullet, and the blood upon Garey’s shoulder, now fell under his eye, and suddenly changing countenance, he exclaimed—
“By the ’tarnal! yur hit, Bill? Speak, boyee!”
“It’s nothin’,” promptly replied Garey—“nothin’; only a grease. I don’t feel it.”
“Yur sure?”
“Sartin sure.”
“By the livin catamount!” exclaimed Rube, in a serious tone, “we can’t stan this no longer. What’s to be done, Billee? Think, boy!”
“We must make a burst for it,” replied Garey; “it’s our only chance.”
“Tur no use,” said Rube, with a doubtful shake of the head. “The young fellur mout git clur; but for you ’n me thur’s not the shaddy o’ a chance. They’d catch up wi’ the ole mar in the flappin’ o’ a beaver’s tail, an yur hoss ain’t none o’ the sooplest. Tur no use.”
“I tell you it are, Rube,” replied Garey impatiently. “You mount the white hoss—he’s fast enough—an let the mar slide; or you take mine, an I’ll back whitey. We mayent get clar altogether; but we’ll string the niggers out on the parairy, an take them one arter another. It’s better than stannin’ hyar to be shot down like buffler in a penn. What do you think, capt’n?” added he, addressing himself to me.
Just then an idea had occurred to me. “Why not gallop to the cliff?” I inquired, looking toward the mesa: “they can’t surround us there? With our backs to the rock, and our horses in front of us, we may defy the rabble. We might easily reach it by a dash—”
“Scalp me! ef the young fellur ain’t right,” cried Rube, interrupting my speech. “It’s the very idee, plum centre!”
“It are!” echoed Garey—“it are! We hain’t a second to lose; they’ll be round us again in a squ’ll’s jump. Look yonder!”
This conversation had occupied but a few seconds of time. It occurred just after the five horsemen had the second time emptied their guns, and galloped back to exchange them.
Before they could return to deliver a third fire, our determination was taken, and we had hastily undone the fastenings of our horses, and were ready to mount.
This we accomplished so quietly, that it was evident the enemy had not perceived us, and therefore entertained no suspicion of our design; hence the road towards the mesa was still perfectly open to us. In another minute, however, the five riders would have been circling around us, and that would have naturally altered our situation.
“Hurry, Rube!” cried Garey—“hurry, man, and let’s be off!”
“Keep cool, Billee,” rejoined Rube, who was adjusting the bridle of Garey’s horse. “Plenty o’ time, I tell ee; they ain’t a comin’ yit. He woo! ole gal!” he continued, addressing himself to the mare—“ho-woo! we’re a-gwine to leave you ahint a bit, but I reck’n yu’ll turn up agin. They won’t eat ye, anyhow; so don’t be skeeart about thet, ole gal! Now, Billee, I’m ready.”
It was time, for the riders were again spurring forward to surround us.
Without waiting to observe further, we all three leaped simultaneously on horseback; and, plying the spur deeply, shot off in a direct line of the mesa.
A glance behind showed us the guerrilleros—the whole band coming in full tilt after us, while their cries sounded in our ears. To our satisfaction, we saw we had gained ground upon them—our sudden start having taken them by surprise, and produced in their ranks a momentary hesitation. We had no fear of being able to reach the mesa before they could overtake us.
For my own part, I could soon have ridden out of sight altogether; so could Garey, mounted on the white steed, that, with only a raw-hide halter, was behaving splendidly. It was Garey’s own horse, a strong but slow brute, that delayed us; he was ridden by Rube; and it was well the chase was not to be a long one, else our pursuers would have easily overhauled him. Garey and I kept by his side.
“Don’t be afeerd, Rube!” shouted Garey, in a tone of encouragement; “we ain’t a-goin to leave you—we’ll stick thegither!”
“Yes,” added I, in the excitement of the moment, “we live or die together!”
“Hooray, young fellur!” cried Rube, in a burst of wild gratitude—“hooray for you! I know yur the stuff, an won’t leave me ahint, though I gin you the slip oncest—when you mistuk me for the grizzly. He, he, hoo! But then, you ses twur no use o’ my stickin’ to you—ne’er a bit o’ good. Wagh! them niggurs ur gettin’ nigher!”
We were riding directly for the middle of the mesa, whose cliff, like a vast wall, rose up from the level plain. We headed for its central part, as though we expected some gate to open in the rock and give us shelter!
Shouts of astonishment could be heard mingling with the hoof-strokes. Some of the expressions we heard distinctly. “Whither go they?” “Vaya! do they intend to ride up the cliff?” “Carrambo! bueno! bueno! van en la trampa!” (Good! they are going into the trap!)
Shouts of exultation followed, as they saw us thus voluntarily placing ourselves in a position from which retreat appeared impossible.
They had been apprehensive, on our first galloping off, that we might be mounted on swift horses, and meditated escaping by speed; but on discovering that this was not our intention, cries of joyful import were heard; and as we approached the cliff, we saw them deploying behind us, with the design of hemming us in. It was just the movement we had anticipated, and the very thing we desired them to do.
We galloped up close to the rocky wall before drawing bridle; then, suddenly flinging ourselves to the ground, we placed our backs to the cliff, drew our horses in front of us, and holding the bridles in our teeth, raised our rifles towards the foe.
Once more the three shining tubes were levelled, promising certain death to the first who should approach within range.