Chapter 54 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
The Ruined Rancho
The pleasant excitement caused by the visit to my old comrades was soon over; and having nothing to do but lounge about my tent, I became again the victim of the same painful bodings. I could not shake them off.
Subtle and mysterious is the spirit-world within us; certainly does it seem to have prescience of the future. Is it an electric chain connecting what is, with what is to be? Or is it the second-sight of instinct? Certainly there are times when something within whispers a warning—as, in the physical world, God’s wild creatures are warned from without of the earthquake and the storm. How often do we experience the realisation of portentous dreams? Why should not the waking soul have also its moments of clairvoyance?
As I lay stretched upon my leathern catré, I gave way to such reflections. I soon succeeded in reasoning myself into a full belief in foreknowledge; and my apprehensions were proportionately strengthened. But I had conceived a design; and the prospect of putting it in execution somewhat relieved me from the heaviness I had hitherto felt.
My new project was to take a score of my best men, to ride back the road we had come, place the party in ambush near the hacienda, while I alone should enter the house, and further urge the counsels I had committed to writing. If I should find that these had been already followed, so much the better—I should be assured, and return content; but I felt almost certain that Don Ramon had rejected them. At all events, I was determined to know the truth—determined, moreover, to gratify my longing for one more interview with my beloved.
I had warned the men and fixed the hour—as soon it was dark enough to conceal our departure from the camp.
I had two reasons for not starting earlier—first, because I did not wish this private scouting to be known at head-quarters. It is true, that in such matters we rangers had the advantage of regular troops. Though belonging to the division, our duty was usually detached from it, and we were rarely “missed” when absent. There was thus a sort of pleasant independence in my command, which I for one fully appreciated. For all that, I did not desire the whole world to know of an expedition like the one projected.
My second motive for going in the night was simple prudence. I dared not take the whole of my command along with me without permission from head-quarters. The absence of the corps without leave would certainly be noticed—even were it but for a few hours—and with the smaller party I intended to take, caution would be requisite. Should we move along the road before it was deserted, some swift messenger might carry the tidings en avant, and get us into trouble.
I designed to start at the earliest hour of darkness—so that I might not alarm the hacienda by a midnight visit.
An hour and a half of constant riding would bring me to its gate.
At the last moment of twilight we leaped into our saddles; and rode silently into the chapparal that skirted the camp. After filing for some distance through a narrow path, we debouched upon the up-river road—the same that conducted to the rancheria.
The trappers, Rube and Garey, acting as scouts, went forward in the advance. They were on foot—their horses remaining behind with the party.
It was a mode of march I had adopted after some experience in bush-fighting. The scouts of a marching force should always go on foot, whether the main body be dragoons or infantry. In this manner they can take advantage of the ground; and by keeping under cover of the timber, are enabled to reconnoitre the angles of the road in a much safer way than when on horseback. The great danger to a scout—and consequently to the party for which he is acting—lies in his being first seen, and the risk is greater when he is mounted. The horse cannot be drawn under cover without an effort; and the sound of the hoof may be heard; whereas in nine cases out of ten, a man on foot—that is, such a man as either Rube Rawlings or Bill Garey—will discover the enemy before he is himself seen, or any ambuscade can be attempted. Of course the scout should never advance beyond the possibility of retreating upon the party he is guiding.
With full confidence in the men who had been sent forward, we rode on—timing our pace, so as not to overtake them. Now and then we caught a glimpse of them, at the further end of a long stretch, skirting the bushes, or stooping behind the cover, to reconnoitre the road in advance. To our chagrin, it was clear moonlight, and we could distinguish their forms at a great distance. We should have preferred a darker night.
The road we were travelling upon was entirely without habitations; most of it ran through light chapparal forest, with neither clearing nor homestead. One solitary rancho stood at about equal distances between the town and the rancheria; and was known among the rangers by the familiar sobriquet of the “half-way house.” It was a poor hovel of yucca, with a small patch around that had once grown yams, chile-pepper, and a stock of maize for whoever had tilled it; but the occupants of the little rancho had long since disappeared—the prowling soldier-robber from the camp had paid it many a visit, and its household gods lay broken upon the hearth. The tortilla stone and comal, red earthen ollas, calabash cups, bedsteads and benches of the caña vaquera, a whirligig spindle, an old stringless jarana or bandolon, with other like effects, lay in fragments upon the floor. Mingling with these were cheap coloured wood-prints, of saints and Saviour, that had been dragged from the walls, and with the torn leaves of an old Spanish misa, trampled in dust and dishonour.
I paint this tableau of ruin, not that it was in any way connected with the events of our narrative, but that it had strangely affected me. On the day before, as we rode past, I had halted a moment by the rancho, and contemplated the scene with a feeling of melancholy that amounted almost to sadness. Little thought I that a still sadder spectacle awaited me in that same spot.
We had approached within less than half-a-mile of the ruined house, when a strange medley of sounds reached our ears. Human voices they were; and borne upon the light breeze we could distinguish them to be the voices of women. Occasionally harsher tones were heard mingling in the murmur, but most of them had the soft rich intonation that distinguishes the female voice.
We all drew bridle, and listened.
The sounds continued in the same confused chorus, but there was neither song nor joy in the accents. On the contrary, the night-wind carried upon its wings the voices of “lamentation and wailing.”
“There are women in trouble,” remarked one of my followers, in a suggestive tone.
The remark caused all of us simultaneously to ply the spur, and ride forward.
Before we had galloped a dozen lengths, a man appeared coming from the opposite direction, and advancing rapidly up the middle of the road. We saw it was the scout Garey; and, once more reining up, we awaited his approach.
I was at the head of the little troop, and as the trapper drew near, I could see his face full under the light of the moon. Its expression was ominous of evil tidings.
He spoke not until he had laid his hand upon the pommel of my saddle, and then only in a subdued and saddened tone. His words were:—
“Thar’s ugly news, capt’n.”
Oh, that terrible foreboding!
“News?—ill news?” I stammered out; “what, for Heaven’s sake?—speak, Garey!”
“They’ve been playin’ the devil at the rancherie. Them ruffins hez behaved wuss than Injuns would a done. But ride forrard, capt’n, an see for yurself. The weemen are clost by hyar at the shanty. Rube’s a tryin’ to pacify them, poor critters.”
Oh, that terrible foreboding!
I made no response to Garey’s last speech, but rode forward as fast as my horse could carry me.
A brace of minutes brought me up to the rancho; and there I beheld a spectacle that caused the blood to curdle in my veins.