Chapter 80 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
A Red Epistle
The trail led north-west, as written upon the maguey. No doubt Isolina had heard her captors forespeak their plans. I knew that she herself understood something of the Comanche language. The accomplishment may appear strange—and not strange either, when it is known that her mother could have spoken it well: with her it was a native tongue.
But even without this knowledge she might still have learned the designs of the savages—for these southern Comanches are accomplished linguists; many of them can speak the beautiful language of Andalusia! There was a time when a portion of the tribe submitted to the teaching of the mission padres; besides, a few among them might boast—which they do not—of Iberian blood!
No doubt, then, that the captive in their midst had overheard them discussing their projects.
We had ridden about two hours, when we came upon the ground where the Indians had made their night-camp. We approached it warily and with stealth, for we were now travelling with great caution. We had need. Should a single savage, straggling behind, set eyes upon us, we might as well be seen by the whole band. If discovered upon the war-trail, our lives would not be worth much. Some of us might escape; but even if all of us survived our plan would be completely frustrated.
I say plan, for I had formed one. During the long vigil of the night, my thoughts had not been idle, and a course of action I had traced out, though it was not yet fully developed in my mind. Circumstances might yet alter it, or aid me in its execution.
We approached their night-encampment, then, warily and with stealth. The smoke of its smouldering fires pointed out the place, and warned us from afar.
We found it quite deserted—the gaunt wolf and coyote alone occupying the ground, disputing with each other possession of the hide and bones of a horse—the débris of the Indian breakfast.
Had we not known already, the trappers could have told by the sign of the camp to what tribe the Indians belonged. There were still standing the poles of a tent—only one—doubtless the lodge of the head chief. The poles were temporary ones—saplings cut from the adjacent thicket. They were placed in a circle, and meeting at the top, were tied together with a piece of thong—so that, when covered, the lodge would have exhibited the form of a perfect cone. This we knew was the fashion of the Comanche tent.
“Ef ’t hed ’a been Kickapoo,” said Rube, who took the opportunity of displaying his knowledge, “th’ud ’a bent thur poles in’ard, so’s to make a sort o’ a roun top, d’ee see; an ef ’t hed ’a been Wacoes or Witcheetoes, thu’d ’a left a hole at the top, to let out thur smoke. Delawurs an Shawnee wud ’a hed tents, jest like whites; but thet ur ain’t thur way o’ makin a fire. In a Shawnee fire, the logs ’ud ’a been laid wi’ one eend turned in an the tother turned ut, jest like the star on a Texas flag, or the spokes o’ a wagon-wheel. Likeways Cherokee an Choctaw wud ’a hed reg’lar tents, but thur fire wud ’a been alser diff’rint. They’d ’a sot the logs puralell, side by side, an lit’ em only at one eend, an then pushed ’em up as fast as they burn’d. Thet’s thur way. ’Ee see these hyur logs is sot diff’rint—thur lit in the middle, an thet’s Kimanch for sartint—it ur.”
Rube’s “clairvoyance” extended further. The savages had been astart as early as ourselves. They had decamped about daylight, and were now exactly two hours ahead of us on the trail.
Why were they travelling so rapidly? Not from fear of pursuit by any enemy. The soldiers of Mexico—had these been regarded by them—were too busy with the Saxon foe, and vice versa. They could hardly be expecting as upon an expedition to rob them of their captives. Perhaps they were driving forward to be in time for the great herds of buffalo, that, along with the cold northers, might now be looked for in the higher latitudes of the Comanche range. This was the explanation given by the trappers—most probably the true one.
Under the influence of singular emotions, I rode over the ground. There were other signs besides those of the savage—signs of the plunder with which they were laden—signs of civilisation. There were fragments of broken cups and musical instruments—torn leaves of books—remnants of dresses, silks and velvets—a small satin slipper (the peculiar chaussure of the Mexican manola) side by side with a worn-out mud-stained moccasin—fit emblems of savage and civilised life.
There was no time for speculating on so curious a confusion. I was looking for signs of her—for traces of my betrothed.
I cast around me inquiring glances. Where was it probable she had passed the night? Where?
Involuntarily my eyes rested upon the naked poles—the tent of the chief. How could it be otherwise? Who among all the captives like her? grandly beautiful to satisfy the eye even of a savage chieftain—grandly, magnificently beautiful, how could she escape his notice? There, in his lodge, shrouded under the brown skins of buffaloes—under hideous devices—in the arms of a painted, keel-bedaubed savage—his arms brawn and greasy—embraced—oh!—
“Young fellur! I ain’t much o’ a skollur; but I’d stake a pack o’ beaver plew agin a plug o’ Jeemes River, thet this hyur manurscrip wur entended for yurself, an nob’dy else. Thur’s writin’ upon it—thet’s clur, an mighty kew’rous ink I reck’n thet ur. Oncest ov a time I kud ’a read write, or print eythur, as easy as fallin’ off a log; for thur wur a Yankee fellur on Duck Crik thet kep a putty consid’able school thur, an the ole ’oman—thet ur Mrs Rawlins—hed this child put thro’ a reg’lar coorse o’ Testy mint. I remembers readin’ ’bout thet ur cussed niggur as toated the possible sack—Judeas, ef I reccol’ex right, war the durned raskul’s name—ef I kud ’a laid claws on him, I’d a raised his har in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Wagh! thet I wild.”
Rube’s indignation against the betrayer having reached its climax, brought his speech to a termination.
I had not waited for its finale. The object which he held between his fingers had more interest for me, than either the history of his own early days or the story of the betrayal.
It was a paper—a note actually folded, and addressed “Warfield!” He had found it upon the grass, close to where the tent had stood, where it was held in the crotch of a split reed, the other end of which was sticking in the ground.
No wonder the trapper had remarked upon the ink, there was no mistaking the character of that livid red: the writing was in blood!
Hastily unfolding the paper, I read:
“Henri! I am still safe, but in dread of a sad fate—the fate of the poor white captive among these hideous men. Last night I feared it, but the Virgin shielded me. It has not come. Oh! I shall not submit—I shall die by my own hand. A strange chance has hitherto saved me from this horrid outrage. No! it was not chance, but Heaven that interposed. It is thus: Two of my captors claim me—one, the son of the chief—the other, the wretch to whom you granted life and freedom. Would to God it had been otherwise! Of the two, he of white blood is the viler savage—bad, brutal—a very demon. Both took part in the capture of the steed, therefore both claim me as their property? The claim is not yet adjusted; hence have I been spared. But, alas! I fear my hour is nigh. A council is to be held that will decide to which of these monsters I am to be given. If to either, it is a horrid fate; if to neither, a doom still more horrible. Perchance, you know their custom: I should be common property—the victim of all. Dios de mi alma! Never—never! Death—welcome death!
“Fear not, Henri, lord of my heart! fear not that I shall dishonour your love. No—sacred in my breast, its purity shall be preserved, even at the sacrifice of my life. I shall bathe it with my blood. Ah me! my heart is bleeding now! They come to drag me away. Farewell! farewell!”
Such were the contents of the page—the fly-leaf of a torn missal. Upon the other side was a vignette—a picture of Dolores, the weeping saint of Mexico! Had it been chosen, the emblem could scarcely have been more appropriate.
I thrust the red writing into my bosom; and, without waiting to exchange a word with my companions, pressed forward upon the trail.