Chapter 74 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
The Steed Lazoed
It was not the emphatic tone in which this announcement was made that produced within me conviction of its truth; I should have been convinced without that. I was better than half prepared for the intelligence thus rudely conveyed; for I was myself not altogether unskilled in that art of which my trapper-companions were masters.
I had observed the sudden convergence of the horse-tracks; I had noticed also, that, after coming together, the animals had proceeded at a slow pace—at a walk. I needed only to perceive the hoof of the steed among the others, to know that he no longer ran free—that he was a captive.
This the tracker had found; hence the decisive declaration that the Indians had “roped” him—in other words, had caught him with their lazoes.
“Sartint they’ve tuk ’im,” asserted Rube, in answer to an interrogatory: “sartint sure; hyur’s his track clur as daylight. He’s been led hyur at the eend o’ a laryette; he’s been nigh the middle o’ the crowd—some in front—some hev been arter ’im—thet’s how they’ve gone past hyur. Wagh!” continued the speaker, once more turning his eyes upon the trail, “thur’s been a good grist on ’em—twunty or more; an ef this child don’t miskalkerlate, thet ain’t the hul o’ the niggurs; it ain’t! ’Tur only some o’ ’em as galliped out to rope the hoss. I’d lay my rifle agin a Mexican blunderbox, thur’s a bigger party than this nigh at hand somewhur hyur. By Geehosophat, thur’s boun to be, sartint as sun-up!”
The suspicion that had half formed itself in my mind was no longer hypothetical; the sign upon the trail had settled that: it was now a positive intelligence—a conviction. The steed had been taken; he and his rider were captive in the hands of the Indians.
This knowledge brought with it a crowd of new thoughts, in which emotions of the most opposite character were mingled together.
The first was a sensation of joy. The steed had been captured, and by human beings. Indians at least were men, and possessed human hearts. Though in the rider they might recognise the lineaments of their pale-faced foes—not so strongly neither—yet a woman, and in such a dilemma, what reason could they have for hostility to her?
None; perhaps the very opposite passion might be excited by the spectacle of her helpless situation. They would see before them the victim of some cruel revenge—the act, too, of their own enemies; this would be more likely to inspire them with sympathy and pity; they would relieve her from her perilous position; would minister to her wants and wounds; would tenderly nurse and cherish her: yes; of all this I felt confident. They were human; how could they do otherwise?
Such was the first rush of my reflections on becoming assured that the steed had been captured by Indians—that Isolina was in their hands. I only thought of her safety—that she was rescued from pain and peril, perhaps from death; and the thought was a gleam of joy.
Alas! only a gleam; and the reflections that followed were painfully bitter.
I could not help thinking of the character of the savages into whose hands she had fallen. If they were the same band that had harried the frontier town, then were they southern Indians—Comanche or Lipan. The report said one or other; and it was but too probable. True, the remnant of Shawanos and Delawares, with the Kickapoos and Texan Cherokees, sometimes stray as far as the banks of the Rio Grande. But the conduct was not theirs: these tribes, from long intercourse with whites, have been inducted into a sort of semi-civilisation; and their hereditary hostility for the pale-face has died out. Pillage and murder are no longer their trade; it could not have been they who had made the late foray. It might have been “Wild Cat” with his wicked Seminoles, now settled on the Texan frontier; but the act was more in keeping with the character of the mezcal-eating Apachés, who of late years had been pushing their expeditions far down the river. Even so—it mattered little; Apachés are but Comanches, or rather Comanches Apachés, and whether the Indians on whose trail we were standing were one or the other—whether Apaché, Lipan, Comanche, or their allies Caygua, Waco, or Pawnee-Pict, it mattered not; one and all were alike; one or other of them, my reflections were bitterly the same. Well understood I the character of these red men of the south; so far differing from their kindred of the north—so far different from that ideal type of cold continence, it has pleased the poet and the writer of romance to ascribe to them. The reverse of the medal was before my mind’s eye; the memory of many a scene was in my thoughts, of many a tale I had heard, illustrating the uxorious disposition, the wild unbridled wantonness of these lords of the southern plains.
Not then did I dwell long on such thoughts; for they had their influence in urging me onward, and onward I spurred.
There was another reason for our rapid advance: all of us were under the extreme agony of thirst—literally gasping for water; and thus physical suffering impelled us to ride forward as fast as our jaded horses could carry us over the ground.
Timber was at length before our eyes—green foliage—looking all the fresher and brighter from contrast with the black plain which it bounded. It was a grove of cottonwoods, skirting a prairie-stream; and beyond this the fire had not extended.
Wild joyous cries escaped from men and horses, as their eyes rested upon the limpid stream.
The men galloped over the bank, leaped out of their saddles, and without a thought of drowning, plunged breast-deep into the water. Some lifted the crystal liquid in their palms; others, more impatient, bent down, and ducking their faces in the flood, drank à la mode du cheval.
I noticed that the trappers behaved less recklessly than the rest; before going down to drink, the eyes of both were directed, with instinctive caution, along the banks, and into the timber.
Close to where we had halted, I observed a crossing, where numerous tracks of animals formed in the soil a deep, well-beaten path. Rube’s eyes were upon it, and I saw that they were glistening with unusual excitement.
“Told ’ee so!” cried he, after a short survey: “yanner’s thur trail—war-trail, by the Eturnal!”