Chapter 34 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
Rube’s charger
Our attitude of defence, thus suddenly assumed, produced a quick effect upon our pursuers, who pulled up simultaneously on the prairie. Some who had been foremost, and who fancied they had ridden too near, wheeled round and galloped back.
“Wagh!” ejaculated Rube; “jest look at ’em! they’ve tuk care to put plenty o’ paraira atween our guns an thur cowardly karkidges. Wagh!”
We at once perceived the advantage of our new position. We could all three show front wherever the enemy threatened. There was no longer any danger of their practising the surround. The half-circle behind us was covered by the mesa, and that could not be scaled. We had only to guard the semicircle in front—in fact, less than a semicircle, for we now perceived that the place was embayed, a sort of re-entering angle formed by two oblique faces of the cliff. The walls that flanked it extended three hundred yards on either side, so that no cover commanded our position. For defence, we could not have chosen a better situation; gallop round as they might, the guerrilleros would always find us with our teeth towards them! We saw our advantage at a glance.
Neither were our enemies slow to perceive it, and their exulting shouts changed to exclamations that betokened their disappointment.
Almost as suddenly, their tone again changed, and cries of triumph were once more heard along their line.
We looked forth to discover the cause. To our dismay, we perceived a reinforcement just joining them!
Five fresh horsemen were riding up, evidently a portion of the band. They appeared to have come from behind the mesa—from the direction of the rancheria—though, as we galloped forward, we had not observed them; the mound had concealed them from our view.
Notwithstanding this accession to their strength, their courage did not appear to gain by it, as no charge was attempted.
Almost on the instant that their new allies arrived upon the ground, the troop filed off by twos, and deployed across the mouth of the little bay in which we had taken shelter. The movement was soon completed, and six pair of them were now ranged before us at equal distances from each other. The remaining three men—Ijurra and two others—kept their places directly in front of us.
In one of the new-comers I recognised a ruffian whom I had frequently noticed at the rancheria. He was a man of large size, and, what is rare among Mexicans, red-haired; but I believe he was a Vizcaino, among whom red-haired men are not uncommon. He was familiarly known by the sobriquet of El Zorro (the Fox), probably on account of the hue of his hair; and I had heard from good authority—that of the alcaldé himself!—that the fellow was neither more nor less than a salteador. Indeed, El Zorro made little secret of his calling. The brigand of Mexico is usually well known to his countrymen. During his intervals of leisure he appears in the populous town, walks boldly through the streets, and freely mingles in society. Such was El Zorro, one of the right-hand men of Ijurra.
The design of our enemy was now manifest: they had no intention of making an immediate attack upon us; they saw that our retreat was impossible, and had resolved to hold us in siege, perhaps till thirst and hunger should force us to surrender.
Their calculation was founded on probability. If their valour was weak, their cunning was strong and subtle.
Rube was now greatly “out of sorts.” When he saw the guerrilleros “fixing” themselves in the manner described, he seemed to regret that we had taken our stand there.
“We’re hyur!” he exclaimed peevishly, “an how are we to git clur agin? Scalp me, Bill! ef we hedn’t better a fit ’em on the paraira, afore we gits weak wi’ hunger. Wagh! I kud eat a griskin now, an a good chunk o’ a one. Ay, smoke away!” (some of the Mexicans had lighted their cigars, and were coolly puffing at them)—“smoke away, durn yur! yur yeller-skinned skunks! I’ll make some o’ ye smoke afore mornin, or my name ain’t Rube Rawlins. Gi’s a bit o’ bacca, Bill; maybe it’ll take the edge off o’ my stummuk. Wagh! I feel as holler about the kidneys as my ole mar— Geehosophat! See the mar!”
The emphatic utterance of the last words caused Garey and myself to look towards the speaker, and then in the direction in which he pointed. A spectacle came before our eyes, that, spite the depression of our spirits, caused both of us to break into loud laughter.
The “ole mar,” that for many long years had carried Rube over the mountains and prairies, was a creature that scarce yielded to himself in peculiarity.
She was a lank, bare-ribbed, high-boned animal, long-eared like all of her race—for she belonged to the race of Rosinante. The long ears caused her to look mulish, and at a distance she might have been mistaken for a mixed breed; but it was not so—she was a true mustang, and, spite of her degenerate look, a pure Andalusian. She seemed to have been, at an earlier period of her life, of that dun yellowish colour known as “clay-bank”—a common hue among Mexican horses—but time and scars had metamorphosed her, and grey hairs predominated, particularly about the head and neck. These parts were covered with a dirty grizzle of mixed colour. She was badly wind-broken, and at stated intervals, of several minutes each, her back, from the spasmodic action of the lungs, heaved up with a jerk, as though she was trying to kick, and couldn’t. Her body was as thin as a rail, and her head habitually carried below the level of her shoulders; but there was something in the twinkle of her solitary eye—for she had but one—that told you she had no intention of giving up for a long time to come. As Rube often alleged, “she was game to the backbone.”
Such was the “ole mar,” and it was to her that our attention was now so suddenly called.
Having parted from her on the prairie, in the wild gallop that followed, we had thought no more of the creature, not caring—that is, Garey and myself—what became of her.
Rube, however, was far from sharing our indifference as to her fate. He would almost as soon have parted with one of his “claws” as that same faithful companion; and we had heard him expressing his hopes that no harm would come to her.
Or course, we had concluded that she would either be shot or lazoed by one of the guerrilleros.
It appeared, however, that this was not to be her fate just then. Resolving not to be parted from her master so easily, she had galloped after us. Being slow, she soon fell behind, and for a while was mixed up with the horses of the guerrilleros. Of course the men had noticed her, but seeing that she was a worthless brute, had not deigned to make a capture of her.
In due time she fell into the rear of the whole troop; but even that did not turn her from her original intention, and at the moment of Rube’s exclamation, she was just breaking through the line of deployment on her way to join her master. From the manner in which her nose was held as she ran, she appeared to be trailing him by the scent!
Seeing her pass, one of the guerrilleros dashed after to capture her; perhaps because there was an old saddle with some of Rube’s traps buckled upon it.
Mare, saddle, and all, were scarcely worth the fling of lazo, and so the man appeared to think; for instead of using his lazo, he rode forward with the intention of seizing the mare by the bridle.
The feat proved not so easy of accomplishment. As the fellow bent down to grasp the rein, the old mare uttered one of her wild squeals, slewed her hind-quarters about, and raising her heels high in air, delivered them right upon the ribs of the Mexican.
The heavy “thud” was heard by all of us; and the man swayed from his saddle, and fell to the ground—to all appearance badly hurt, and most probably with a pair of broken ribs.
The squeal of the mare was echoed by a shrill laugh from the throat of her delighted master; and not until she had galloped up to him, did he cease to make the locks ring with his wild cachinnations.
“Wa-hoo—woop! yur thur, ole gal!” he shouted as the animal halted before him. “You gin ’im a sockdolloger—you did. Yeeup! ole blue-skin! yur welkum back! an ye’ve fotched my saddle too! Hooray! Ain’t she a beauty, Bill? She’s wuth her weight in beaver-plew. Wagh! that ’ee ur, ole beeswax! Kum hyur this away—thur now!”
And the speaker proceeded, after some more apostrophising, to draw the animal closer up to the cliff, placing her body as an additional barricade in front of his own.
Our involuntary mirth was of short duration; it was interrupted by an object that filled our hearts with new apprehension.