Chapter 60 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
The Sombrero
The horses cowered under the cold rain, all of them jaded and hungry. The hot dusty march of the morning, and the long rough gallop of the night, had exhausted their strength; and they stood with drooped heads and hanging ears, dozing and motionless.
The men, too, were wearied—some of them quite worn out. A few kept their feet, bridle in hand, under shelter of the impending cliff; the others, having staggered down, with their backs against the rock, had almost instantly fallen asleep.
For me was neither sleep nor rest; I did not even seek protection against the storm; but standing clear of the cliff, received the drenching shower full upon my shoulders. It was the chill rain of the “norther;” but at that moment neither cold norte nor hot sirocco could have produced upon me an impression of pain. To physical suffering I was insensible. I should even have welcomed it, for I well understood the truth, proverbially expressed in that language, rich above all others in proverbial lore—“un clavo saca otro clavo” and still more fully illustrated by the poet:
“Tristezas me hacen triste,
Tristezas salgo a buscar,
A ver si con tristezas
Tristezas puedo olvidar.”
Yes, under any other form, I should have welcomed physical pain as a neutraliser of my mental anguish; but that cold norther brought no consolation.
Sadly the reverse. It was the harbinger of keen apprehension; for not only had it interrupted our search, but should the heavy rain continue only for a few hours, we might be able neither to find or further to follow the trail. It would be blinded—obliterated—lost.
Can you wonder that in my heart I execrated those black clouds, and that driving deluge?—that with my lips I cursed the sky and the storm, the moon and the stars, the red lightning and the rolling thunder?
My anathema ended, I stood in sullen silence, leaning against the body of my brave horse—whose sides shivered under the chilly rain, though I felt not its chill.
Absorbed in gloomy thought, I recked not what was passing around me; and, for an unnoted period, I remained in this speechless abstraction.
My reverie was broken. Some expressions that reached my ear told me that at least two of my followers had not yet yielded to weariness or despair. Two of them were in conversation; and I easily recognised the voices of the trappers.
Tireless, used to stern struggles—to constant warfare with the elements—with nature herself—these true men never thought of giving up, until the last effort of human ingenuity had failed. From their conversation, I gathered that they had not yet lost hope of finding the trail, but were meditating on some plan for recovering and following it.
With renewed eagerness I faced towards them and listened. Both talked in a low voice. Garey was speaking, as I turned to them.
“I guess you’re right, Rube. The hoss must a gone thar, an if so, we’re boun’ to fetch his tracks. Thar’s mud, if I remember right, all roun’ the pool. We can carry the cannel under Dutch’s sombrera.”
“Ye-es,” drawled Rube in reply; “an ef this niggur don’t miskalk’late, we ain’t a gwine to need eyther cannel or sombrairay. Lookee yander!”—the speaker pointed to a break in the clouds—“I’ll stake high, I kin mizyure this hyur shower wi’ the tail o’ a goat. Wagh! we’ll hev the moon agin, clur as iver in the inside o’ ten minnits—see ef we haint.”
“So much the better, old hoss; but hadn’t we best first try for the tracks; time’s precious, Rube—”
“In coorse it ur; git the cannel an the sombrairay, an le’s be off then. The rest o’ these fellurs hed better stay hyur, an snore it out; thu’ll only bamfoozle us.”
“Lige!” called out Garey, addressing himself to Quackenboss—“Lige! gi’ us yur hat a bit.”
A loud snore was the only reply. The ranger, seated with his back against the rock, and his head drooping over his breast, was sound asleep.
“Durned sleepy-head!” exclaimed Rube, in a tone of peevish impatience. “Prod ’im wi’ the point o’ yur bowie, Bill! Rib-roast ’im wi’ yur wipin’-stick! Lam ’im wi’ yur laryette!—gi’ ’im a kick i’ the guts!—roust ’im up, durn ’im!”
“Lige!—he!—Dutchy!” cried Garey, approaching the sleeper, and shaking him by the shoulder; “I want your sombrera.”
“Ho! wo! stand still! Jingo! he’ll throw me. I can’t get off; the spurs are locked. He! wo! wo!”
Rube and Garey broke into a loud cachinnation that awakened the rest of the slumberers. Quackenboss alone remained asleep, fighting in his dreams with the wild Indian horse.
“Durned mulehead!” cried Rube after a pause; “let ’im go on at thet long’s he likes it. Chuck the hat off o’ his head, Bill! we don’t want him—thet we don’t.”
There was a little pique in the trapper’s tone. The breach that the ranger had made, while acting as a faithful sentinel, was not yet healed.
Garey made no further attempts to arouse the sleeper, but in obedience to the order of his comrade, lifted off the hat; and, having procured one of the great candles, he and Rube started off without saying another word, of giving any clue to their design.
Though joyed at what I had heard, I refrained from interrogating them. Some of my followers who put questions received only ambiguous answers. From the manner of the trappers, I saw that they wished to be left to themselves; and I could well trust them to the development of whatever design they had conceived.
On leaving us, they walked straight out from the cliff; but how far they continued in this direction it was impossible to tell. They had not lighted the candle; and after going half-a-dozen steps, their forms disappeared from our view amidst the darkness and thickly-falling rain.