Chapter 58 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
The Voyageur
We had not gone far when some one closed up beside me, and muttered a word of cheer; I recognised the friendly voice of the big trapper.
“Don’t be afeerd, capt’n,” said he, in a tone of encouragement; “don’t be afeerd! Rube an me’ll find ’em afore thar’s any harm done. I don’t b’lieve the white hoss ’ll gallip fur, knowin’ thar’s someb’dy on his back. It war them gim-cracks that sot him off. When they burn out, he’ll come to a dead halt, an then—”
“And then?” I inquired mechanically.
“We’ll get up, an your black’ll be able to overhaul him in a jump or two.”
I began to feel hope. It was but a momentary gleam, and died out in the next instant.
“If the moon ’ud only hold out,” continued Garey, with an emphasis denoting doubt.
“Rot the moon!” said a voice interrupting him; “she’s a gwine to guv out. Wagh!”
It was Rube who had uttered the unpleasant prognostication, in a peevish, but positive tone.
All eyes were turned upward. The moon, round and white, was sailing through a cloudless sky, and almost in the zenith. How, then, was she to “give out?” She was near the full, and could not set before morning. What did Rube mean? The question was put to him.
“Look ee ’ander!” said he in reply. “D’ees see thet ur black line, down low on the paraira?”
There appeared a dark streak along the horizon to the eastward. Yes, we saw it.
“Wal,” continued Rube, “thur’s no timber thur—ne’er a stick—nor high groun neyther: thurfor thet ur’ss a cloud; I’ve seed the likes afore. Wait a bit. Wagh! In jest ten minnits, the durned thing’ll kiver up the moon, an make thet putty blue sky look as black as the hide o’ an Afrikin niggur—it will.”
“I’m afeerd he’s right, capt’n,” said Garey, in a desponding tone. “I war doubtful o’ it myself: the sky looked too near. I didn’t like it a bit: thar’s always a change when things are better ’n common.”
I needed not to inquire the consequences, should Rube’s prediction prove correct; that was evident to all of us. The moon once obscured by clouds, our progress would be arrested: even a horse could not be tracked in the darkness.
We were not long in suspense. Again the foresight of the old trapper proved unerring. Cumuli rolled up the sky one after another, until their black masses shrouded the moon. At first, they came only in detached clouds, and there was light at intervals; but these were only the advanced columns of a heavier body, that soon after appeared; and without a break, spread itself pall-like over the firmament.
The moon’s disc became entirely hidden from our view; her scattered beams died out; and the prairie lay dark as if shadowed by an eclipse.
We could follow the trail no farther. The ground itself was not visible, much less the hoof-prints we had been tracing; and halting simultaneously, we drew our horses togther, and sat in our saddles to deliberate upon what was best to be done.
The consultation was a short one. They who formed that little party were all men of prairie or backwoods experience, and well versed in the ways of the wilderness. It took them but little time to decide what course should be followed; and they were unanimous in their opinion. Should the sky continue clouded, we must give up the pursuit till morning, or adopt the only alternative—follow the trail by torchlight.
Of course the latter was determined upon. It was yet early in the night; many hours must intervene before we should have the light of day. I could not live through those long hours without action. Even though our progress might be slow, the knowledge that we were advancing would help to stifle the painfulness of reflection.
“A torch! a torch!”
Where was such a thing to be procured? We had with us no material with which to make one; there was no timber near! We were in the middle of a naked prairie. The universal mesquite—the algar obia glandulosa—excellent for such a purpose—grew nowhere in the neighbourhood. Who was to find the torch? Even Rube’s ingenuity could not make one out of nothing.
”Écoutez, mon capitaine!” cried Le Blanc, an old voyageur—”écoutez! vy me no ride back, et von lanterne bring from ze ville Mexicaine?”
True, why not? We were yet but a few miles from the rancheria. The Canadian’s idea was a good one.
“Je connais,” he continued—“know I, pe gar! ze ver spot ou—vere—sont cachées—hid les chandelles magnifiques—von, deux, tree big candle—vax, vax—”
“Wax-candles?”
“Oui—oui, messieurs! très grand comme un baton; ze ver chose pour allumer la prairie.”
“You know where they are? You could find them, Le Blanc?”
“Oui, messieurs—je connais: les chandelles sont cachées dans l’église—zey are in ze church hid.”
“Ha! in the church?”
“Oui, messieurs; c’est un grand sacrilege, mon Dieu! ver bad; mais n’importe cela. Eef mon capitaine permit—vill allow pour aller Monsieur Quack’bosh, he go chez moi; nous chercherons; ve bring ze chandelles—pe gar ve bring him!”
From the mixed gibberish of the voyageur, I could gather his meaning well enough. He knew of a depository of wax-candles, and the church of the rancheria was the place in which they were kept.
I was not in a frame of mind to care much for the sacrilege, and my companions were still less scrupulous. The act was determined upon, and Le Blanc and Quackenboss, without more delay, took the back-track for the village.
The rest of us dismounted; and, picketing our horses to the grass, lay down to await the return of the messengers.