Chapter 44 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
Dutch Lige in a Difficulty
The soft blue light of morning was just perceptible along the eastern horizon as we rode into the rancheria. I no longer felt hunger. Some of the more provident of the rangers had brought with them well-filled haversacks, and had made me welcome to the contents. From their canteens I had satisfied my thirst, and Wheatley as usual carried his free flask.
Relieved of the protracted strain upon my nerves—of fear and vigil—I felt deadly weary, and scarcely undressing, I flung myself upon my leathern catré, and at once fell asleep.
A few hours’ repose had the desired effect, and restored both the strength of my body and the vigour of my mind. I awoke full of health and hope. A world of sweet anticipations was before me. The sky and fortune were both smiling.
I made my toilette with some care—my desayuna with less—and then, with lighted cigar, ascended to my favourite lounge on the azotea.
The beautiful captive was in the midst of a crowd, proudly curving his neck, as if conscious of the admiration he excited. The rangers, the poblanas, the hucksters of the piazza, even some sulky leperos, stood near, gazing with wondering eyes upon the wild-horse.
“Splendid present!” thought I—“worthy the acceptance of a princess!”
It had been my intention to make the offering in person—hence the care bestowed upon my toilette. After more mature reflection, I abandoned this design.
I was influenced by a variety of considerations—one among others, being a delicate apprehension that a persona visit from me might compromise the family at the hacienda. The patriotic sentiment was every day growing more intense. Even the acceptance of a present was a dangerous matter; but the steed was not to be a gift—only a return for the favourite that had fallen by my hand—and I was not to appear in the character of a donor.
My sable groom, therefore, would convey the beautiful captive. Already the white lazo, formed into a halter, was adjusted around the animal’s head, and the negro only awaited orders to lead him away.
I confess that at that moment I felt somewhat annoyed at the publicity of my affair. My rough rangers were men of keen intelligence. I could tell from some whispers that had reached me, that one and all of them knew why I had gone upon the wild hunt, and I dreaded their good-humoured satire. I would have given something at that moment to have rendered the steed invisible—to have been able to transport him to his destination, Venus-like, under cover of a cloud. I thought of waiting for the friendly shelter of night.
Just then, however, an incident occurred which gave me the very opportunity I wanted—a scene so ludicrous, that the steed was no longer the cynosure of admiring eyes.
The hero of this scene was Elijah Quackenboss.
Of all the men in my band, “Dutch Lige” was the worst clad. Not that there was less money expended upon his outward man; but partly from his ungainly form and loose untidy habits, and more, perhaps, from the wear and tear caused by his botanising excursions, a suit of broadcloth did not keep sound upon him for a week. He was habitually in tatters.
The skirmish of the night had been profitable to Lige; it was his true aim that had brought down one of the live guerrilleros. On his asserting this, his comrades had laughed at it, as an idle vaunt; but Quackenboss proved his assertion to be correct by picking his bullet out of the man’s body, and holding it up before their eyes. The peculiar “bore” of his rifle rendered the bullet easy of identification, and all agreed that Lige had shot his man.
By the laws of ranger-war, the spoils of this particular individual became the property of Quackenboss; and the result was, that he had shaken off his tattered rags, and now appeared in the piazza in full Mexican costume—comprising calzoneros, and calzoncillos, sash and serapé, jacket and glazed hat, botas with gigantic spurs—in short, a complete set of ranchero habiliments!
Never was such a pair of legs encased in Mexican velveteens—never were two such arms thrust into the sleeves of an embroidered jaqueta; and so odd was the tout ensemble of the ranger thus attired, that his appearance in the piazza was hailed by a loud burst of laughter, both from his comrades and the natives who stood around. Even the gloomy Indians showed their white teeth, and joined in the general chorus.
But this was not the end. Among other spoils, Lige had made capture of a Comanche mustang; and as his own war-horse had been for a long time on the decline, this afforded him an excellent opportunity for a remount. Some duty of the day had called him forth, and he now appeared in the piazza leading the mustang, to which he had transferred his own saddle and bridle. A fine handsome horse it appeared. More than one of his comrades envied him this splendid prize.
The laughter had scarcely subsided, when the order was given to mount; and with others, Quackenboss sprang to his horse. But his hips were hardly snug in the saddle, when the wicked Comanche “humped” his back, and entered upon a round of kicking which seemed to exhibit every pose and attitude of equestrian exercise. First his hind feet, then his fore ones, then all together, could be seen glancing in the air. Now a hoof whizzed past the ear of the affrighted rider, now a set of teeth threatened his thighs, while every moment he appeared in danger of being hurled with violence to the earth. The sombrero had long since parted from his head, and the rifle from his hand; and what with the flapping of the wide trousers, the waving of the loose serape, the dancing of the steel scabbard, the distracted motion of the rider’s arms, his lank streaming hair, and look of terror—all combined to form a spectacle sufficiently ludicrous; and the whole crowd was convulsed with laughter, while the piazza rang with such shouts as “Bravo!”
“Well done, Lige!”
“Hooraw for you, old beeswax!”
But what surprised his comrades was the fact that Quackenboss still kept his seat. It was well known that he was the worst rider in the troop; yet, despite all the doubling and flinging of the mustang, that had now lasted for several minutes, he was still safe in the saddle. He was winning golden opinions upon the strength of his splendid horsemanship. The rangers were being astonished.
All at once, however, this mystery was explained, and the cause of his firm seat discovered. One of the bystanders, sharper than the rest, had chanced to look under the belly of the mustang, and the next moment shouted out—
“Hoy! look yonder! by Geehorum, his spars are clinched!”
All eyes were lowered, and a fresh peal of laughter broke forth from the crowd as they perceived that this was in reality the case.
Lige, upon mounting—under the suspicion that the mustang was disposed for a fling—had clutched firmly with his legs; and these, on account of their extreme length, completely enveloped the body of the animal, so that his heels met underneath. He had forgotten his new spurs, the rowels of which, six inches in diameter, irritated the mustang, and were no doubt the cause of such violent kicking. These, after a few turns had got “locked,” and of course held Quackenboss as firmly as if he had been strapped to the saddle. But as the rowels were now buried in the ribs of the mustang, the fierce brute, maddened with the pain, only grew more furious at each fling, and it was natural enough he should do his utmost to rid himself of so cruel a rider.
How long he might have kept up the pitching frolic before his involuntary tormentor could have freed himself, is a matter of conjecture. It would have been an unfortunate “fix” to have been placed in, alone upon the prairies.
Lige, however, found a compassionate bystander; who, having flung his lazo around the neck of the mustang brought the spectacle to a termination.