We must have gone much faster than the trackers themselves—for notwithstanding the freshness of the trail, there were dry spots and patches of cut rock over which it passed, and where it must have cost them both time and keen perception to trace it.

As we were travelling so much more rapidly than Rube and Garey could have done, I looked forward to our soon overtaking them: with eager anticipation, I looked forward. Surely they would have some news for me, now that they had been so long in the advance? Surely by this time they must have come in sight of the steed?—perhaps captured him? Oh, joyous anticipation!

Or would they return with a different tale? Was I to meet the report that he still hurried on—on for ever? That he had swum some rapid stream? or plunged over a precipice—into some dark abysm?

Though hastening on after the trackers, there were moments when I feared to overtake them—moments when I dreaded to hear their tale!

We had worked our way about five miles through the hideous jungle, when I began to feel a strange sensation in my eyes—a sensation of pain— what is usually termed a "smarting." I at first attributed it to the want of sleep.

My companions complained that they were affected in a similar manner.

It was not until we had gone some distance farther, that we found the true explanation—on perceiving that there was smoke in the air! Smoke it was that was causing the bitterness in our eyes.

The denizen of the prairie never regards such an indication with indifference. Where there is smoke, there is fire, and where fire, danger—at least upon the broad grassy steppes of the west. A burning forest may be shunned. You may stand near a forest on fire, and contemplate such a scene with safety; but a blazing prairie is a phenomenon of a different character; and it is indeed a rare position where you may view, without peril, this sublime spectacle.

There are prairies that will not burn. The plains covered with the short "buffalo-grass" (sesleria dactyloides), and the sward of various species of "gramma" (chondrosium), rarely take fire; or if they do, horse, man, buffalo, or antelope, can easily escape by leaping across the blaze. 'Tis only the reptile world—snakes, lizards, the toad, and the land-turtle (terrapin)—that fall victims to such a flame.

Not so upon the "weed-prairies," or those where the tall reed-grass rises above the withers of a horse—its culms matted and laced together by the trailing stems of various species of bindweed, by creeping convolvulus, cucurbitacese, and wild pea-vines. In the dry season, when a fire lays its hold upon vegetation of this character, there is danger indeed—where it rages, there is death.

It was smoke that affected our eyes, causing them to wince and water. Fire must be causing the smoke—what was on fire?

I could detect apprehension in the looks of my followers, as we rode on. It was but slight, for as yet the smoke was scarcely perceptible, and the fire, wherever it was, must be distant—so fancied we.

As we advanced, the glances of the men became more uneasy. Beyond a doubt, the smoke was thickening around us, the sky was fast becoming darker, and the pain in our eyes more acute.

"The woods are on fire," said Stanfield.

Stanfield was a backwoodsman—his thoughts ran upon "woods."

Whether forest or prairie, a conflagration was certainly raging. It might be far off—for the wind will carry the smoke of a prairie fire a long distance—but I had an unpleasant suspicion that it was not distant. I noticed dropping around us the white floe of burnt leaves, and from the intense bitterness of the smoke, I reasoned that it could not have floated far—its gases were not yet dissipated.

It was not the distance of the fire that so much troubled me, as its direction. The wind blew right in our teeth, and the smoke was travelling with the wind. The conflagration must be ahead—directly upon the trail!

The smoke grew thicker and thicker—ahead, the sky appeared slashed with a lurid light; I fancied I could hear the crackling of the flames. The air felt hot and dry: a choking sensation was produced in our throats, and one and all were hacking and gasping for breath.

So dark had it suddenly become—or rather so blinded were we with the smoke—we could scarcely make out the trail.

My followers would have stopped, but I urged them on. With voice and example, I urged them on—myself leading the way. My heart was too full of anxiety to make pause.

Where in all this were Rube and Garey? We had come far and fast; we should now be nearly up with them—they could not be much ahead.

I halloed as we advanced.

"Hullow!" came the response, in the rough baritone of the younger trapper.

We hurried forward in the direction of the voice.

The path conducted to an opening in the chapparal—in the centre of which, through the smoke, we could distinguish the forms of men and horses.

With eager eyes, I scanned the group; a glance was sufficient: there were only two of each—only the trackers.



CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

SMOKE AND THIRST.

"Ah, Monsieur Roob!" cried the Canadian, as we hurried up, "vat make zees diable d'une fumee—smoke? Are ze woods on fire—you tink—eh?"

"Wuds!" exclaimed Rube, with a contemptuous glance at the speaker. "Wagh! Thur's no wuds hyur. Thur's a paraira afire. Don't yer smell the stink o' the grass?"

"Pe gar, oui! vraiment—c'est la prairie? You sure, Monsieur Roob?"

"Sure!" vociferated the trapper in a tone of indignation—"Sure!—ye durned parley-voo-eat-a-frog-spit-a-brickbat-soup-suckin' Frenchman, d'yur think I don't know the smell o' a burnin' paraira? Wagh!"

"Ah, Monsieur Roob, me pardonnez. Vat I mean ask—is ze chapparal brule—on fire—ces arbres?"

"The chapparil ain't afire," answered Rube, somewhat mollified by the apology: "so don't be skeeart, Frenchy yur safe enuf."

This assurance seemed to gratify not only the timid Canadian, but others, who, up to this moment, were apprehensive that it was the thicket that was on fire.

For myself, I had no such fears; I perceived that the chapparal could not burn. Here and there, patches of dry mezquite-trees would have caught like tinder; but in most places, a succulent endogenous vegetation formed three parts of the jungle, and rendered it "fire-proof." This was especially the case around the glade where the trappers had taken their stand, and which was completely enclosed by a wall of the great organ cactus, with aloes, opuntias, and other juicy-leaved plants. In the opening, we were as safe from the fire as though it was a hundred miles off; we suffered only from the smoke, that now quite filled the atmosphere, causing a darkness that rivalled night itself.

I had no apprehension for our safety; it was not of that I was thinking.

To the hasty dialogue between Rube and the Canadian I had scarcely given heed; Garey had advanced to meet me, and I listened with anxious ear to the tale of the tracker.

It was soon told. Rube and he had followed the trail, until it emerged from the chapparal, and struck out into a wide grass-prairie. The edge of the thicket was close by; but they had gone a considerable distance beyond it and across the plain. They were still advancing, when, to their consternation, they perceived that the prairie was on fire directly ahead of them! The wind was rolling both smoke and flames before it with the rapidity of a running horse; and it was with difficulty they had escaped from it by galloping back to the chapparal.

And the steed—what had become of him? Had they seen nothing?

I did not put these questions in words—only in thought did I ask them; and in thought only were they answered. Both the trackers were silent, and that was an answer in the negative; yes, I read an ominous negative in their looks of gloom.

We were compelled to halt; even the smoke rendered further progress impossible; but we could hear the fire at no great distance—the culms of the coarse reed-grass cracking like volleys of musketry.

Now and then, a scared deer broke through the bushes, passing us at full speed. A band of antelopes dashed into the glade, and halted close beside us—the frightened creatures not knowing where to run. At their heels came a pack of prairie-wolves, but not in pursuit of them: these also stopped near. A black bear and a cougar arrived next; and fierce beasts of prey and gentle ruminants stood side by side, both terrified out of their natural habits. Birds shrieked among the branches, eagles screamed in the air, and black vultures could be seen hovering through the smoke, with no thought of stooping upon a quarry!

The hunter man alone preserved his instincts. My followers were hungry. Rifles were levelled—and the bear and one of the antelopes fell victims to the deadly aim.

Both were soon stripped of their skins, and butchered. A fire was kindled in the glade, and upon sword-blades and sapling spits the choice morsels of venison and "bear-meat" were roasted, and eaten, with many a jest about the "smoky kitchen."

I was myself hungered. I shared the repast, but not the merriment. At that moment, no wit could have won from me a smile; the most luxurious table could not have furnished me with cheer.

A worse appetite than hunger assailed my companions, and I felt it with the rest—it was thirst: for hours all had been suffering from it; the long hard ride had brought it on, and now the smoke and the dry hot atmosphere increased the appetite till it had grown agonising, almost unendurable. No water had been passed since the stream we had crossed before day; there was none in the chapparal; the trackers saw none so far as they had gone: we were in a waterless desert; and the very thought itself renders the pang of thirst keener and harder to endure.

Some chewed their leaden bullets, or pebbles of chalcedony which they had picked up; others obtained relief by drinking the blood of the slaughtered animals—the bear and the antelope—but we found a better source of assuagement in the succulent stems of the cactus and agave.

The relief was but temporary: the juice cooled our lips and tongues, but there is an acrid principle in some of these plants that soon acted, and our thirst became more intense than ever.

Some talked of returning on the trail in search of water—of going back even to the stream—more than twenty miles distant.

Under such circumstances, even military command loses its authority. Nature is stronger than martial law.

I cared not if they did return; I cared not who left me, so long as the trappers remained true. I had no fear that they would forsake me; and my disapprobation of it checked the cheerless proposal, and once more all declared their willingness to go on.

Fortunately, at that crisis the smoke began to clear away, and the atmosphere to lighten up. The fire had burnt on to the edge of the chapparal, where it was now opposed by the sap-bearing trees. The grass had been all consumed—the conflagration was at an end.

Mounting our horses, we rode out from the glade; and following the trail a few hundred yards farther, we emerged from the thicket, and stood upon the edge of the desolated plain.



CHAPTER SEVENTY.

A BURNT PRAIRIE.

The earth offers no aspect more drear and desolate than that of a burnt prairie. The ocean when its waves are grey—a blighted heath—a flat fenny country under a rapid thaw—all these impress the beholder with a feeling of chill monotony; but the water has motion, the heath, colour, and the half-thawed flat exhibits variety in its mottling of white and ground.

Not so the steppe that has been fired and burned. In this, the eye perceives neither colour, nor form, nor motion. It roams over the limitless level in search of one or other, but in vain; and in the absence of all three, it tires, and the heart grows cheerless and sick. Even the sky scarcely offers relief. It, too, by refraction from the black surface beneath, wears a dull livid aspect; or perhaps the eye, jaundiced by the reflection of the earth, beholds not the brightness of the heavens.

A prairie, when green, does not always glad the eye,—not even when enamelled with fairest flowers. I have crossed such plains, verdant or blooming to the utmost verge of vision, and longed for something to appear in sight—a rock, tree, a living creature—anything to relieve the universal sameness; just as the voyager on the ample ocean longs for ships, for cetaceae, or the sight of land, and is delighted with a nautilus, polypi, phosphorescence, or a floating weed.

Colour alone does not satisfy the sense. What hue more charming than the fresh verdure of the grassy plain? what more exquisite than the deep blue of the ocean? and yet the eye grows aweary of both! Even the "flower-prairie," with its thousands of gay corollas of every tint and shade—with its golden helianthus, its white argemone, its purple cleome, its pink malvaceae, its blue lupin—its poppy worts of red and orange—even these fair tints grow tiresome to the sight, and the eye yearns for form and motion.

If so, what must be the prairie when divested of all these verdant and flowery charms—when burned to black ashes? It is difficult to conceive the aspect of dreary monotony it then presents—more difficult to describe it. Words will not paint such a scene.

And such presented itself to our eyes as we rode out from the chapparal. The fire was past—even the smoke had ceased to ascend—except in spots where the damp earth still reeked under the heat—but right and left, and far ahead, on to the very hem of the horizon, the surface was of one uniform hue, as if covered with a vast crape. There was nought of form to be seen, living or lifeless; there was neither life nor motion, even in the elements; all sounds had ceased: an awful stillness reigned above and around—the world seemed dead and shrouded in a vast sable pall!

Under other circumstances, I might have stayed to regard such a scene, though not to admire it. On that interminable waste, there was nought to be admired, not even sublimity; but no spectacle, however sublime, however beautiful, could have won from me a thought at that moment.

The trackers had already ridden far out, and were advancing, half concealed by the cloud of black "stoor" flung up from the heels of their horses.

For some distance, they moved straight on, without looking for the tracks of the steed. Before meeting the fire, they had traced them beyond the edge of the chapparal, and therefore knew the direction.

After a while, I observed them moving more slowly, with their eyes upon the ground as if they had lost it, I had doubts of their being able either to find or follow it now. The shallow hoof-prints would be filled with the debris of the burnt herbage—surely they could no longer be traced?

By myself, they could not, nor by a common man; but it seemed that to the eyes of those keen hunters, the trail was as conspicuous as ever. I saw that, after searching a few seconds, they had taken it up, and were once more moving along, guided by the tracks.

Some slight hollows I could perceive, distributed here and there over the ground, and scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding level. Certainly, without having been told what they were, I should not have known them to be the tracks of a horse.

It proved a wide prairie, and we seemed to be crossing its central part. The fire had spread far.

At one place, nearly midway, where the trail was faint, and difficult to make out, we stopped for a short while to give the trackers time. A momentary curiosity induced me to gaze around. Awful was the scene— awful without sublimity. Even the thorny chapparal no longer relieved the eye; the outline of its low shrubbery had sunk below the horizon; and on all sides stretched the charred plain up to the rim of the leaden canopy, black—black—illimitable. Had I been alone, I might easily have yielded to the fancy, that the world was dead.

Gazing over this vast opacity, I for a moment forgot my companions, and fell into a sort of lethargic stupor. I fancied that I too was dead or dreaming—I fancied that I was in hell—the Avernus of the ancients. In my youth, I had the misfortune to be well schooled in classic lore—to the neglect of studies more useful—and often in life have the poetical absurdities of Greek and Latin mythology intruded themselves upon my spirit—both asleep and awake. I fancied, therefore, that some well-meaning Anchises had introduced me to the regions below; and that the black plain before me was some landscape in the kingdom of Pluto. Reflection—had I been capable of that—would have convinced me of my error. No part of that monarch's dominions can be so thinly peopled.

I was summoned to reason again by the voices of my followers. The lost trail had been found, and they were moving on.



CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

THE TALK OF THE TRACKERS.

I spurred after, and soon overtook them. Regardless of the dust, I rode close in the rear of the trackers, and listened to what they were saying.

These "men of the mountains"—as they prided to call themselves—were peculiar in everything. While engaged in a duty, such as the present, they would scarce disclose their thoughts, even to me; much less were they communicative with the rest of my following, whom they were accustomed to regard as "greenhorns"—their favourite appellation for all men who have not made the tour of the grand prairies.

Notwithstanding that Stanfield and Black were backwoodsmen and hunters by profession, Quackenboss a splendid shot, Le Blanc a regular voyageur, and the others more or less skilled in woodcraft, all were greenhorns in the opinion of the trappers. To be otherwise a man must have starved upon a "sage-prairie"—"run" buffalo by the Yellowstone or Platte—fought "Injun," and shot Indian—have well-nigh lost scalp or ears—spent a winter in Pierre's Hole upon Green River—or camped amid the snows of the Rocky Mountains! Some one of all these feats must needs have been performed, ere the "greenhorn" can matriculate and take rank as a "mountain man."

I of all my party was the only one who, in the eyes of Rube and Garey, was not a greenhorn; and even I—gentleman-amateur that I was—was hardly up either in their confidence or their "craft." It is indeed true—with all my classic accomplishments—with my fine words, my fine horse, and fine clothes—so long as we were within the limits of prairie-land, I acknowledged these men as my superiors. They were my guides, my instructors, my masters.

Since overtaking them on the trail, I had not asked them to give any opinion. I dreaded a direct answer—for I had noticed something like a despairing look in the eyes of both.

As I followed them over the black plain, however, I thought that their faces brightened a little, and appeared once more lit up by a faint ray of hope. For that reason, I rode close upon their heels, and eagerly caught up every word that was passing between them. Rube was speaking when I first drew near.

"Wagh! I don't b'lieve it, Bill: 'taint possyble no-howso-ever. The paraira wur sot afire—must 'a been—thur's no other ways for it. It cudn't 'a tuk to bleezing o' itself—eh?"

"Sartinly not; I agree wi' you, Rube."

"Wal—thur wur a fellur as I met oncest at Bent's Fort on the Arkinsaw— a odd sort o' a critter he wur, an no mistake; he us't to go pokin about, gatherin' weeds an' all sorts o' green garbitch, an' spreadin' 'em out atween sheets o' paper—whet he called button-eyesin—jest like thet ur Dutch doctur as wur rubbed out when we went into the Navagh country, t'other side o' the Grand."

"I remembers him."

"Wal, this hyur fellur I tell 'ee about, he us't to talk mighty big o' this, thet, an t' other; an he palavered a heap 'bout a thing thet, ef I don't disremember, wur called spuntainyus kumbuxshun."

"I've heerd o' 't; that are the name."

"Wal, the button-eyeser, he sayed thet a paraira mout take afire o' itself, 'ithout anybody whatsomdiver heving sot it. Now, thet ur's what this child don't b'lieve, nohow. In coorse, I knows thet lightnin' sometimes may sot a paraira a bleezin', but lightnin's a natral fire o' itself; an it's only reezunible to expect thet the dry grass wud catch from it like punk; but I shed like to know how fire kud kindle 'ithout somethin to kindle it—thet's whet I shed like to know."

"I don't believe it can," rejoined Garey.

"Ne'er a bit o' it. I never seed a burnin' paraira yit, thet thur wa'n't eyther a camp-fire or a Injun at the bottom o' it—thet ur 'ceptin whur lightnin hed did the bizness."

"And you think, Rube, thar's been Injun at the bottom o' this?"

"Putty nigh sure; an I'll gie you my reezuns. Fust, do 'ee see thur's been no lightnin this mornin to 'a made the fire? Seconds, it's too fur west hyur for any settlement o' whites—in coorse I speak o' Texans— thur might be Mexikins; them I don't call white, nohow-nosomediver. An then, agin, it kin scace be Mexikins neyther. It ur too fur no'th for any o' the yellur-bellies to be a straying jest now, seein as it's the Mexikin moon wi' the kimanchees, an both them an the Leepans ur on the war-trail. Wal, then, it's clur thur's no Mexikin 'bout hyur to hev sot the paraira afire, an thur's been no lightnin to do it; thurfor, it must 'a been did eyther by a Injun, or thet ur dodrotted spuntainyus kumbuxshun."

"One or t'other."

"Wal, being as this child don't b'lieve in the kumbuxshun nohow, thurfore it's my opeenyun thet red Injuns did the bizness—they did sartint."

"No doubt of it," assented Garey.

"An ef they did," continued the old trapper, "thur about yit some whur not fur off, an we've got to keep a sharp look-out for our har—thet's what we hev."

"Safe, we have," assented Garey.

"I tell 'ee, Bill," continued Rube in a new strain, "the Injuns is mighty riled jest now. I never knowd 'em so savagerous an fighty. The war hez gin 'em a fresh start, an thur dander's up agin us, by reezun thet the gin'ral didn't take thur offer to help us agin the yellur-bellies. Ef we meet wi' eyther Kimanch or Leepan on these hyur plains, thu'll scalp us, or we'll scalp 'em—thet 'll be it. Wagh!"

"But what for could they 'a sot the parairy on fire?" inquired Garey.

"Thet ere," replied Rube,—"thet ere wur what puzzled me at fust. I thort it mout 'a been done by accydent—preehaps by the scattering o' a camp-fire—for Injuns is careless enuf 'bout thet. Now, howsowever, I've got a different idee. Thet story thet Dutch an Frenchy hev fetched from the rancherie, gies me a insight inter the hull bizness."

I knew the "story" to which Rube had reference. Lige and Le Blanc, when at the village, had heard some rumour of an Indian foray that had just been made against one of the Mexican towns, not far from the rancheria. It had occurred on the same day that we marched out. The Indians— supposed to be Lipans or Comanches—had sacked the place, and carried off both plunder and captives. A party of them had passed near the rancheria after we ourselves had left it. This party had "called" at the hacienda de Vargas and completed the pillage, left unfinished by the guerilla. This was the substance of what the messengers had heard.

"You mean about the Injuns?" said Garey, half interrogatively.

"In coorse," rejoined Rube. "Belike enuf, 'em Injuns ur the same niggurs we gin sich a rib-roastin' to by the moun. Wagh! they hain't gone back to thur mountains, as 'twur b'lieved: they dassent 'a gone back in sich disgrace, 'ithout takin' eyther har or hosses. The squaws ud 'a hooted 'em out o' thur wigwams."

"Sure enough."

"Sure, sartint. Wal, Billee, 'ee see now what I mean: thet party's been a skulketin' 'bout hyur ever since, till they got a fust-rate chance at the Mexikin town, an thur they've struck a blow."

"It's mighty like as you say, Rube; but why have they sot fire to the parairy?"

"Wagh! Bill, kin ye not see why? it ur plain as Pike's Peak on a summery day."

"I don't see," responded Garey, in a thoughtful tone.

"Well, this child do; an this ur the reezun: as I tell 'ee, the Injuns hain't forgot the lambaystin they hed by the moun; an preehaps bein' now a weak party, an thinkin' thet we as wolloped 'em wur still i' the rancherie, they wur afeerd thet on hearing o' thur pilledgin', we mout be arter 'em."

"An they've burnt the parairy to kiver thur trail?"

"Preezactly so."

"By Gosh, you're right, Rube!—it's uncommon like. But whar do you think this trail's goin? Surely the hoss hain't been caught in the fire?"

I bent forward in the saddle, and listened with acute eagerness. To my great relief, the answer of the old trapper was in the negative.

"He hain't," said he; "ne'er a bit o' it. His trail, do ee see, runs in a bee-line, or clost on a bee-line: now, ef the fire hed 'a begun afore he wur acrosst this paraira, he wud long since 'a doubled 'bout, an tuk the back track; but 'ee see he hain't did so; thurfor, I conclude he's safe through it, an the grass must 'a been sot afire ahint 'im."

I breathed freely after listening to these words. A load seemed lifted from my breast—for up to this moment I had been vainly endeavouring to combat the fearful apprehension that had shaped itself in my imagination. From the moment that we had entered the burning prairie, my eyes constantly, and almost mechanically, had sought the ground in front of our course, had wandered over it, with uneasy glance, in dread of beholding forms—lifeless—burned and charred—

The words of the trapper gave relief—almost an assurance that the steed and his rider were still safe—and under the inspiration of renewed hope, I rode forward with lighter heart.



CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

"INJUN SIGN."

After a pause, the guides resumed their conversation, and I continued to listen.

I had a reason for not mingling in it. If I joined them in their counsels, they might not express their convictions so freely, and I was desirous of knowing what they truly thought. By keeping close behind them, I could hear all—myself unnoticed under the cloud of dust that ascended around us. On the soft ashes, the hoof-stroke was scarcely audible—our horses gliding along in a sweeping silent walk.

"By Gosh! then," said Garey, "if Injuns fired the parairy, they must 'a done it to wind'ard, an we're travellin' right in the teeth o' the wind; we're goin in a ugly direction, Rube; what do you think o' 't, old hoss?"

"Jest what you sez, boyee—a cussed ugly direckshun—durnation'd ugly."

"It ain't many hours since the fire begun, an the redskins won't be far from t'other side, I reckon. If the hoss-trail leads us right on them, we'll be in a fix, old boy."

"Ay," replied Rube, in a low but significant drawl; "ef it do, an ef this niggur don't a miskalkerlate, it will lead right on 'em, plum straight custrut into thur camp."

I started on hearing this. I could no longer remain silent; but brushing rapidly forward to the side of the trapper, in hasty phrase demanded his meaning.

"Jest what 'ee've heern me say, young fellur," was his reply.

"You think that there are Indians ahead? that the horse has gone to their camp?"

"No, not gone thur; nor kin I say for sartint thur ur Injuns ahead; though it looks mighty like. Thur's nuthin else to guv reezun for the fire—nuthin as Bill or me kin think o'; an ef thur be Injuns, then I don't think the hoss hez gone to thur camp, but I do kalkerlate it's mighty like he's been tuk thur: thet's what I thinks, young fellur."

"You mean that the Indians have captured him?"

"Thet's preezactly what this child means."

"But how? What reason have you for thinking so?"

"Wal—jest because I think so."

"Pray explain, Rube!" I said in an appealing tone. I feared that his secretive instincts would get the better of him, and he would delay giving his reasons, out of the pure love of mystification that was inherent in the old fellow's nature. I was too anxious to be patient; but my appeal proved successful.

"Wal, 'ee see, young fellur, the hoss must 'a crosst hyur jest afore this paraira wur sot afire; an it's mighty reezunible to s'pose thet whosomediver did the bizness, Injun or no Injun, must 'a been to win'ard o' hyur. It ur also likely enuf, I reckun, thet the party must 'a seed the hoss; an it ur likely agin thet nobody wa'nt a gwine to see thet hoss, wi' the gurl stropped down 'long his hump-ribs, 'ithout bein' kewrious enuf to take arter 'im. Injuns 'ud be safe to go arter 'im, yellin' like blazes; an arter 'im they've gone, an roped 'im, I reckun— thet they've done."

"You think they could have caught him?"

"Sartint. The hoss by then must 'a been dead beat—thet ur, unless he's got the divvel in 'im; an by Geehorum! I gin to surspect—Gehu— Gehosophat! jest as I said; lookee, thur—thur!"

"What is it?" I inquired, seeing the speaker suddenly halt and point to the ground, upon which his eyes also were fixed. "What is it, Rube? I can perceive nothing strange."

"Don't 'ee see 'em hoss-tracks?—thur!—thick as sheep-feet—hundreds o' 'em!"

I certainly noticed some slight hollows in the surface, nearly levelled up by the black ashes. I should not have known them to be horse-tracks.

"They ur," said Rube, "every one o' 'em—an Injun hoss-tracks too— sartint they ur."

"They may be the wild-hosses, Rube?" said one of the rangers, riding up and surveying the sign.

"Wild jackasses!" angrily retorted the old trapper. "Whur did you ever see a wild-hoss? Do 'ee s'pose I've turned stone-blind, do 'ee? Stan thur, my mar!" he cried, talking to his mare, flinging his lean carcass out of the saddle at the same time: "stan thur! 'ee knows better than thet fellur, I kin tell by the way yur sniftin'. Keep yur ground a minnit, ole gurl, till Rube Rawlins shew these hyur greenhorns how a mountain man kin read sign—wild-hosses! wagh!"

After thus delivering himself, the trapper dropped upon his knees, placed his lips close to the ground, and commenced blowing at the black ashes.

The others had by this time ridden up, and sat in their saddles watching him. We saw that he was clearing the ashes out of one of the hollows which he had pronounced to be horse-tracks, and which now proved to be so.

"'Thur now, mister!" said he, turning triumphantly, and rather savagely, upon the ranger who had questioned the truth of his conjecture: "thur's a shod track—shod wi' parflesh too. Did 'ee ever see a wild-hoss, or a wild mule, or a wild jackass eyther, shod wi' parflesh? Ef 'ee did, it's more'n Rube Rawlins ever seed, an thet ur trapper's been on the hoss-plains well-nigh forty yeern. Wagh!"

Of course, there was no reply to this interrogatory. There was the track; and, dismounting, all examined it in turn.

Sure enough it was the track of a shod horse—shod with parfleche— thick leather made from the hide of the buffalo bull.

We all knew this to be a mode of shoeing practised by the horse-Indians of the plains, and only by them.

The evidence was conclusive: Indians had been upon the ground.



CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

TRANSLATING THE "SIGN."

This discovery brought us to a pause. A consultation ensued, in which all took part; but as usual, the others listened to the opinions of the prairie-men, and especially to that of Rube.

The old trapper was inclined to sulk for some time, and acted as if he meant to withhold his advice. Nothing "miffed" him more than to have his word contradicted or his skill called in question. I have known him to be "out of sorts" for days, from having his prairie-craft doubted by some one whom he deemed less experienced than himself; and, indeed, there were few of his kind whose knowledge of the wilderness was at all comparable with his. He was not always in the right; but generally where his instincts failed, it wat, idle to try further. In the present case, the man who had thoughtlessly doubted him was one of the "greenest" of the party, but this only aggravated the matter in the eyes of Old Rube.

"Sich a fellur as you," he said, giving a last dig to the offending ranger—"sich a fellur as you oughter keep yur head shet up: thet ur tongue o' yourn s' allers a gwine like a bull's tail in fly-time. Wagh!"

As the man made no reply to this rather rough remonstrance, Rube's "dander" soon smoothed down; and once more becoming cool, he turned his attention to the business of the hour.

That there had been Indians upon the ground was now an ascertained fact; the peculiar shoeing of the horses rendered it indubitable. Mexican horses, if shod at all, would have had a shoeing of iron—at least on their fore-feet. Wild mustangs would have had the hoof naked; while the tracks of Texan or American horses could have been easily told, either from the peculiar shoeing or the superior size of their hoofs. The horses that had galloped over that ground were neither wild, Texan, nor Mexican: Indian they must have been.

Although the one track first examined might have settled the point, it was a fact of too much importance to be left under the slightest doubt. The presence of Indians meant the presence of enemies—foes dire and deadly—and it was with something more than feelings of mere curiosity that my companions scrutinised the sign.

The ashes were blown out from several others, and these carefully studied. Additional facts were brought to light by those Champollions of the prairie—Rube and Garey. Whoever rode the horses, had been going in a gallop. They had not ridden long in one course; but here and there had turned and struck off in new directions. There had been a score or so of them. No two had been galloping together; their tracks converged or crossed one another—now zigzagging, now running in right lines, or sweeping in curves and circles over the plain.

All this knowledge the trackers had obtained in less than ten minutes— simply by riding around and examining the tracks. Not to disturb them in their diagnosis, the rest of us halted and awaited the result of their scrutiny.

In ten minutes' time both came back to us; they had read the sign to their satisfaction, and needed no further light.

That sign had disclosed to them one fact of more significance than all the rest. Of course, we all knew that the Indian horsemen had gone over the ground before the grass had been burnt; but how long before? We had no difficulty in making out that it was upon that same day, and since the rising of the sun—these were trifles easily ascertained; but at what hour had they passed? Late, or early? With the steed, before, or after him?

About this point I was most anxious, but I had not the slightest idea that it could be decided by the "sign."

To my astonishment, those cunning hunters returned to tell me, not only the very hour at which the steed had passed the spot, but also that the Indian horsemen had been riding after him! Clairvoyance could scarcely have gone farther.

The old trapper had grown expletive, more than was his wont. It was no longer a matter of tracking the white steed. Indians were near. Caution had become necessary, and neither the company nor counsel of the humblest was to be scorned. We might soon stand in need of the strength, even of the weakest in our party.

Freely, then, the trackers communicated their discoveries, in answer to my interrogation.

"The white hoss," said Rube, "must 'a been hyur 'bout four hour ago— kalkerlatin the rate at which he wur a gwine, an kalkerlatin how fur he hed ter kum. He hain't 'a stopped nowhur; an 'ceptin i' the thicket, he hez gallipt the rest o' the way—thet's clur. Wal, we knows the distance, thurfor we knows the time—thet's clur too; an four hour's 'bout the mark, I reck'n—preehaps a leetle less, an alser preehaps a leetle more. Now, furrermore to the peint. Them niggurs hez been eyther clost arter 'im, in view o' the critter, or follerin 'im on the trail—the one or the t'other—an which 'taint possyble to tell wi' this hyur sign no-how-cum-somever. But thet they wur arter 'im, me an Bill's made out clur as mud—thet we sartintly hez."

"How have you ascertained that they were after?"

"The tracks, young fellur—the tracks."

"But how by them?"

"Easy as eatin' hump-rib: them as wur made by the white hoss ur un'ermost."

The conclusion was clear indeed. The Indians must have been after him.

We stayed no longer upon the spot, but once more sending the trackers forward, moved on after them.

We had advanced about half-a-mile farther, when the horse-tracks, hitherto scattered, and tending in different directions, became merged together, as though the Indians had been riding, not in single file—as is their ordinary method—but in an irregular body of several abreast.

The trackers, after proceeding along this new trail for a hundred yards or so, deliberately drew up; and dismounting, bent down upon their hands and knees, as if once more to examine the sign. The rest of us halted a little behind, and watched their proceedings without offering to interrupt them.

Both were observed to be busy blowing aside the ashes, not now from any particular track, but from the full breadth of the trail.

In a few minutes, they succeeded in removing the black dust from a stretch of several yards—so that the numerous hoof-prints could be distinctly traced, side by side, or overlapping and half obliterating one another.

Rube now returned to where they had commenced; and then once more leisurely advancing upon his knees, with eyes close to the surface, appeared to scrutinise the print of every hoof separately.

Before he had reached the spot where Garey was still engaged in clearing off the dust, he rose to his feet with an air that told he was satisfied, and turning to his companion, cried out—

"Don't bother furrer, Bill: it ur jest as I thort; they've roped 'im, by Gad!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

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 Apaches, who of late years had been pushing their expeditions far down the river. Even so—it mattered little; Apaches are but Comanches, or rather Comanches Apaches, and whether the Indians on whose trail we were standing were one or the other—whether Apache, 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 a 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!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

THE "INDIOS BRAVOS."

You may be asking, what the trapper meant by a war-trail? It has been a phrase of frequent occurrence with us. It is a phrase of the frontier. Even at the eleventh hour, let me offer its explanation.

For half a century—ay, for three centuries and more—even since the conquest itself—the northern frontier of Mexico has been in, what is termed in old-fashioned phraseology, a "disturbed state." Though the semi-civilised Aztecs, and the kindred races of town-dwelling Indians, easily yielded to the sword of the Spanish conquerors, far different has been the history of the wild tribes—the free hunters of the plains. Upon those mighty steppes that occupy the whole central area of the North American continent, dwell tribes of Indians—nations they might be called—who neither know, nor ever have known, other rule than that of their own chieftains. Even when Spain was at her strongest, she failed to subjugate the "Indios bravos" of her frontiers, who to the present hour have preserved their wild freedom. I speak not of the great nations of the northern prairies—Sioux and Cheyenne—Blackfeet and Crow—Pawnee and Arapahoe. With these the Spanish race scarcely ever came in contact. I refer more particularly to the tribes whose range impinges upon the frontiers of Mexico—Comanche, Lipan, Utah, Apache, and Navajo.

It is not in the annals of Spain to prove that any one of these tribes ever yielded to her conquering sword; and equally a failure has been the attempt to wheedle them into a fanatical civilisation by the much-boasted conquest of the mission. Free, then, the prairie Indians are from white man's rule, and free have they been, as though the keels of Columbus had never ploughed the Carib Sea.

But although they have preserved their independence for three centuries, for three centuries have they never known peace. Between the red Indian and the white Iberian, along the frontier of Northern Mexico, a war-border has existed since the days of Cortez to the present hour— constantly shifting north or south, but ever extended from east to west, from ocean to ocean, through wide degrees of longitude. North of this border ranges the "Indio bravo;" south of it dwells his degenerate and conquered kinsman, the "Indio manso"—not in the "tents," but in the towns of his Spanish conqueror—the former, free as the prairie wind; the latter, yoked to a condition of "peon" vassalage, with chains as strong as those of slavery itself. The neutral belt of hostile ground lies between—on the one side half defended by a line of garrisoned forts (presidios); on the other, sheltered from attack by the wild and waterless desert.

I have stated that this war-border has been constantly shifting either northward or southward. Such was its history up to the beginning of the present cycle. Since then, a remarkable change has been going forward in the relative position of Indian and Iberian; and the line of hostile ground has been moving only in one direction—continually towards the south! To speak in less metaphorical phrase, the red man has been encroaching upon the territory of the white man—the so-called savage has been gaining ground upon the domain of civilisation. Not slowly or gradually either, but by gigantic strides—by the conquest of whole provinces as large as England ten times told!

I shall make the announcement of a fact, or rather a hypothesis— scarcely well known, though strange enough. It may interest, if not surprise, the ethnologist. I assert, then, that had the four tribes of North Mexican Indians—Comanche, Lipano, Apache, and Navajo—been left to themselves, in less than another century they would have driven the degenerate descendants of the conquerors of Cortez from the soil of Anahuac! I make this assertion with a full belief and clear conviction of its truthfulness. The hypothesis rests upon a basis of realities. It would require but very simple logic to prove it; but a few facts may yield illustration.

With the fall of Spanish rule in Mexico, ended the predominance of the Spaniard over the Indian. By revolution, the presidios became shorn of their strength, and no longer offered a barrier even to the weakest incursion. In fact, a neutral line no more exists; whole provinces— Sonora, Chihuahua, Tamaulipas, Cinaloa, and Leon—are no better than neutral ground, or, to speak more definitely, form an extended territory conquered and desolated by the Indians. Even beyond these, into the "provincias internas," have the bold copper-coloured freebooters of late carried their forays—even to the very gates of Durango. Two hundred Comanche warriors, or as many Apaches, fear not to ride hundreds of miles into the heart of civilised Mexico—hesitate not to attack a city or a settlement—scruple not to drag from hearth and home lovely maids and tender children—only these—and carry them slave and captive to their wild fastnesses in the desert! And this is no occasional foray, no long gathering outburst of revenge or retaliation; but an annual expedition, forming part of the regular routine of the year, and occurring at the season when the buffalo have migrated to the north— occurring in that month in the calendar of these aboriginal brigands jocosely styled the "Mexican moon!"

Upon whose head falls the blow thus periodically repeated? Upon the poor and unprotected? No doubt you will fancy so.

A single fact may serve to undeceive you. Only a few years ago, Trias, a man of "first family" in Mexico and governor of the large state of Chihuahua, lost one of his sons by an Indian foray. The boy was taken prisoner by the Comanches; and it was only after years of negotiation and payment of a large sum, that the father recovered his child. Thus the governor of a province, with means and military at his command, was not powerful enough to cause the surrender of his captive son: he was forced to buy him!

It is computed that at this moment there are three thousand white captives in the hands of the North Mexican Indians—nearly all of them of Spanish descent. They are mostly females, and live as the slave-wives of their captors—if such connexion may be dignified by the name. There are white men, too, among the Indians—prisoners taken in their youth; and strange as it may appear, few of them—either of the men or women—evince any desire to return to their former life or homes. Some, when ransomed, have refused the boon. Not uncommon along the frontier has been witnessed that heart-rending scene—a father who had recovered his child from the savages, and yet unable to reclaim its affection, or even to arouse it to a recognition of its parentage. In a few years—sometimes only months—the captives forget their early ties, and become wedded to their new life—become Indianised!

But a short time before, an instance had come under our own observation. The wounded brave taken in the skirmish at the mound was a full-blooded Mexican—had been carried off by the Comanches, some years before, from the settlements on the Lower Rio Grande. In consideration of this, we gave him his liberty—under the impression that he would gladly avail himself of the opportunity to return to his kindred.

He proved wanting in gratitude as in natural affection. The same night on which he was set free, he took the route back to the prairies, mounted upon one of the best horses of our troop, which he had stolen from its unfortunate owner!

Such are the "Cosas de Mexico"—a few of the traits of frontier-life on the Rio Bravo del Norte.

But what of the war-trail? That is not yet explained.

Know, then, that from the country of the Indians to that of the Mexicans extend many great paths, running for hundreds of miles from point to point. They follow the courses of streams, or cross vast desert plains, where water is found only at long intervals of distance. They are marked by the tracks of mules, horses, and captives. Here and there, they are whitened by bones—the bones of men, of women, of animals, that have perished by the way. Strange paths are these! What are they, and who have made them? Who travel by these roads that lead through the wild and homeless desert?

Indians: they are the paths of the Comanche and Caygua—the roads made by their warriors during the "Mexican moon."

It was upon one of these that the trapper was gazing when he gave out the emphatic utterance—

"War-trail, by the Eturnal!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

ON THE WAR-TRAIL.

Scarcely staying to quench my thirst, I led my horse across the stream, and commenced scrutinising the trail upon the opposite bank. The faithful trackers were by my side—no fear of them lagging behind.

I had won the hearts of both these men; and that they would have risked life to serve me, I could no longer doubt, since over and over again they had risked it. For Garey strong, courageous, handsome in the true sense, and noble-hearted, I felt real friendship, which the young trapper reciprocated. For his older comrade, the feeling. I had was like himself—indefinable, indescribable. It was strongly tinctured with admiration, but admiration of the intellectual rather than the moral or personal qualities of the man.

Instead of intellectual, I should rather say instinctive—for his keen intuitive thoughts appeared more like instincts, than the results of a process of ratiocination.

That the old trapper admired me—in his own phraseology, "liked me mightily"—I was aware. He was equally zealous as the younger in my service; but too free an exhibition of zeal was in his eyes a weakness, and he endeavoured to conceal it. His admiration of myself was perhaps owing to the fact that I neither attempted to thwart him in his humours nor rival him in his peculiar knowledge—the craft of the prairie. In this I was but his pupil, and behaved as such, generally deferring to his judgment.

Another impulse acted upon the trackers—sheer love of the part they were now playing. Just as the hound loves the trail, so did they; and hunger, thirst, weariness, one or all must be felt to an extreme degree before they would voluntarily forsake it.

Scarcely staying, therefore, to quench their thirst, they followed me out of the water; and all three of us together bent our attention to the sign.

It was a war-trail—a true war-trail. There was not the track of a dog—not the drag of a lodge-pole upon it. Had it been a moving encampment of peaceable Indians, these signs would have been visible; moreover, there would have been seen numerous footsteps of Indian women—of squaws; for the slave-wife of the lordly Comanche is compelled to traverse the prairies a pied, loaded like the packhorse that follows at her heels!

But though no foot-prints of Indian women appeared, there were tracks of women, scores of them, plainly imprinted in the soil of the river-bank. Those slender impressions, scarcely a span in length, smoothly moulded in the mud, were not to be mistaken for the footsteps of an Indian squaw. There was not the wide divergence at the heels with the toes turned inward; neither was there the moccasin-print. No: those tiny tracks must have been made by women of that nation who possess the smallest and prettiest feet in the world—by women of Mexico.

"Captives!" we exclaimed, as soon as our eyes rested upon the tracks.

"Ay, poor critters!" said Rube sympathisingly; "the cussed niggurs hev made 'em fut it, while thur's been spare hosses a plenty. Wagh! a good wheen o' weemen thur's been—a score on 'em at the least. Wagh! I pity 'em, poor gurls! in sech kumpny as they've got into. It ur a life they've got to lead. Wagh!"

Rube did not reflect how heavily his words were falling upon my heart.

There were the tracks of more than a hundred horses, and as many mules. Some of both were iron-shod; but for all that, we knew they had been either ridden or driven by Indians: they, too, were captives.

The sign helped my companions to much knowledge, that would have been unintelligible to me. It was certainly the path of a war-party of Indians on the back-track. They were laden with plunder, and driving before them, or forcing to follow, a crowd of captives—horses, mules, and women—children, too, for we saw the tiny foot-marks of tender age. The trail was significant of all this—even to me.

But my comrades saw more; they no longer doubted that the Indians were Comanches—a moccasin had been picked up, a castaway—and the leathern tassel attached to the heel declared the tribe to which its wearer belonged to be the Comanche.

The trail was quite fresh; that is, but a few hours had intervened since the Indians passed along it. Notwithstanding the dryness of the atmosphere, the mud on the river-edge had not yet become "skinned," as the trappers expressed it. The Indians had forded the stream about the time the prairie was set on fire.

The horses, we had been following across the burnt plain, were those of a party who had gone out in pursuit of the steed. Just at the ford, they had overtaken the main body, who carried along the spoil and captives. From that point, all had advanced together.

Had they done so? This was our first object of inquiry. It was almost too probable to admit of a doubt; but we desired to be certain about a matter of such primary importance, and we looked for the hoof with the piece chipped from its edge—easily to be identified by all of us.

In the muddy margin of the stream we could not find it; but the steed may have been led or ridden in front of the rest, and his tracks trampled out by the thick drove that followed.

At this moment, Stanfield came up and joined us in the examination. The ranger had scarcely bent his eyes on the trail, when a significant exclamation escaped him. He stood pointing downward to the track of a shod horse.

"My horse!" cried he; "my horse Hickory, by Gosh!"

"Your horse?"

"May I never see Kaintuck if it ain't."

"Yur sure o' it, ole hoss? yur sure it's yurn?"

"Sure as shootin'; I shod him myself. I kid tell that ere track on a dry sand-bar. I know every nail thar; I druv 'em wi' my own hand—it's him sartin."

"Wheeo-o!" whistled Rube in his significant way, "thet makes things a leetle plainer, I reck'n; an so I thort all along—an so I thort— ye-es—so I thort. The durned rennygade niggur!" he added with angry emphasis, "I know'd we dud wrong to let 'im go; we oughter served 'im as I perposed; we oughter cut his durnation throat, an scalped 'im the minnut we tuk 'im: cuss the luck thet we didn't! Wagh!"

Rube's words needed no interpretation. We knew whose throat he would have cut—that of the Indianised Mexican taken at the mesa; and I remembered that at the time of his capture such had been Rube's advice, overruled, of course, by the more merciful of his comrades. The trapper had assigned some reason: he knew something of the man's history.

He now repeated his reasons:

"He ur a true rennygade," said he; "an thur ain't on all the parairas a wusser enemy to whites than thet ur—more partiklurly to Texan whites. He wur at the massacree o' Wilson's family on the clur fork o' the Brazos, an wur conspik'us in the skrimmige: a' more too—it ur thort he toated off one o' Wilson's gurls, an made a squaw o' her, for he's mighty given thet way I've heern. Wagh! he ur wuss than a Injun, for the reezun thet he unerstans the ways o' the whites. I never know'd sich a foolitch thing as ter let 'im git clur. 'Ee may thank yur luck, Mister Stannafeel, thet he didn't take yur har at the same time when he tuk yur hoss. Wagh! thet ye may!"

It was Stanfield's horse that had bee a stolen by the renegade, and the tracks now identified by the ranger were those of that animal—no doubt with the freebooter upon his back.

This new discovery let in a flood of light. Beyond a doubt, the war-party was the same we had met by the mound, with perhaps a reinforcement; the same that had just plundered the Mexican town; the same who had paid their hurried visit to the hacienda, and this renegade—

Ha! Strange remembrances were crowding into my brain. I remembered meeting this semi-savage skulking about the road, after we had granted him his parole; I remembered, upon one occasion, seeing him while riding out with her; I remembered the rude expression with which he had regarded my companion—the glance half-fierce, half-lustful; I remembered that it made me angry; that I rebuked and threatened him—I now remembered all.

Wild thoughts came rushing into my mind—worse thoughts than ever.

I sprang to my saddle; and, calling out some half-coherent orders, rode rapidly along the trail.



CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.

THE WRITING ON THE MAGUEY.

The skill of the trackers was no longer called in need; the war-trail was as easily followed as a toll-road: a blind man could have guided himself along such a well-trodden highway.

Our rate of speed was now ruled by the capacity of our horses. Alas! their power was nearly at an end. They had been two days and a night under the saddle, with but a few hours to refresh themselves by food or rest: they could not hold out much longer.

One by one they began to lag, until the greater number of them followed with tottering step hundreds of yards in the rear.

It was in vain to contend against nature. The men were still willing, though they too were wearied to death; but their horses were quite done up—even whip and spur could force them no farther. Only my own matchless steed could have continued the journey. Alone I might have advanced, but that would have been madness. What could I have accomplished alone?

Night was fast coming down: it was already twilight. I saw by the clouded sky we should have no moon. We might follow the trail with our waxen torches—not yet burnt out—but that would no longer be safe. For myself, I was reckless enough to have risked life in any way, but the lives of my comrades were not mine. I could not give them—I should not wastefully fling them away.

Reluctantly I glided from my saddle, gave my steed to the grass, and sat down upon the earth.

My followers coming up, said not a word, but picketing their horses, seated themselves around me. One by one they stretched themselves along the sward, and in ten minutes all were asleep.

I alone could not sleep; the fever of unrest was upon me; the demon of thought would not let me close my eyes. Though my orbs ached with the long protracted vigil, I thought that "not all the drowsy syrups of the world" could have given me repose at that moment. I felt as one who suffers under delirium, produced by the intoxicating cup, the fearful mania-a-potu. I could neither sleep nor rest.

I could not even remain seated. I rose to my feet and wandered around, without heed of where I was going; I strode over the recumbent forms of my sleeping companions; I went among the horses; I paced backwards and forwards along the banks of the stream.

There was a stream—a small arroyo or rivulet. It was this that had caused me to halt in that particular spot; for wild as were my thoughts, I had enough of reason left to know that we could not encamp without water. The sight of the arroyo had decided my wavering resolution, and upon its banks, almost mechanically, I had drawn bridle and dismounted.

I once more descended to the bed of the stream, and, raising the water in the palms of my hands, repeatedly applied it to my lips and temples. The cool liquid refreshed me, and seemed to soothe both my nerves and my spirit.

After a time, both felt calmer, and I sat down upon the bank, and watched for a while the clear rivulet rippling past over its bed of yellow sand and glistening pebbles of quartz. The water was perfectly diaphanous; and, though the sun was no longer shining, I could see tiny silver fish, of the genus hyodon, sporting themselves in the lowest depths of the pool. How I envied them their innocent gambols, their life of crystal purity and freedom! Here, in this remote prairie stream, dwelt not the alligator, nor the ravenous garfish; here came no dolphin or shark to chase them, no tyrant of the waters to put them in fear. To be envied, indeed, such an insouciant, happy existence!

I watched them for a long while, till I thought that my eyes were growing heavy, and, after all, I might seep. The murmur of the arroyo helped to increase this inclination to repose, and, perhaps, I might have slept; but at that moment chancing to look around, my eyes rested upon an object that again drove sleep far away, and I was soon as wakeful as ever.

Close to where I had seated myself grew a large plant of the Mexican aloe (agave Americana). It was the wild maguey, of course, but of a species with broad fleshy leaves of dark-green colour, somewhat resembling the maguey of cultivation. I noticed that one of the great blades of the plant was bruised down, and the spine, which had terminated it, torn off.

All this would not have drawn my attention: I was already aware that the Indians had made a halt where we were encamped, and their sign was plenteous around—in the tracks of their animals, and the broken branches of trees. One of their horses or mules might have munched at the maguey in passing; and, viewing the bruised blade from a distance, I should have hazarded just such a conjecture. But my eyes were close to the plant, and, to my astonishment, I observed that there was writing upon the leaf!

I turned over upon my knees, and seizing the huge blade, bent it down before me, so as to obtain a better view of its surface. I read:—

"Captured by Comanches—a war-party with many captives—women and children—ay de mi! pobres ninas! north-west from this place. Saved from death; alas! I fear—"

The writing ended abruptly. There was no signature, but it needed not that. I had no doubts about who was the writer; in fact, rude as was the chirography—from the materials used—I easily identified the hand. It was Isolina de Vargas who had written.

I saw that she had torn off the terminal spine, and using it as a stylus, had graven those characters upon the epidermis of the plant.

Sweet subtle spirit! under any guise I could have recognised its outpourings.

"Saved from death"—thank Heaven for that!—"alas! I fear." Oh, what feared she? Was it worse than death? that terrible fate—too terrible to think of?

She had broken off, without finishing the sentence. Why had she done so?

The sheet was broad—would have held many more words—why had she not written more? Did she dread to tell the cause of her fear? or had she been interrupted by the approach of some of her tyrant captors? O merciful Heaven! save me from thought!

I re-read the words over and over: there was nothing more. I examined the other leaves of the plant—on both sides, concave and convex, I examined them—not a word more could I find. What I had read was all she had written.



CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT.

THE SOUTHERN SAVAGE.

I need not tell how deeply I was affected by the unexpected communication. All at once were decided a variety of doubts; all at once was I made aware of the exact situation.

Isolina still lived—that was no longer doubtful; and the knowledge produced joy. More than this: she was still uninjured—able to think, to act, to write—not only living, but well. The singular "billet" was proof of all this. Another point—her hands must have been free—her hands at least, else how could she have traced those lines? and with such a pencil? It argued indulgence—perhaps kind treatment on the part of her captors.

Another point yet. She knew I was in pursuit. She had seen me, then, as I galloped after. It was her cry I had heard as the steed dashed into the chapparal. She had recognised, me, and called back. She knew I would still be following; she knew I was following, and for me was the writing meant. Sweet subtle spirit!

Once more I devoured the welcome words; but my heart grew heavy as I pondered over them. What had caused her to break off so abruptly? What was it her intention to have said? Of what was she in fear? It was thinking about this that caused the heaviness upon my heart and forced me to give way to horrid imaginings.

Naturally my thoughts reverted to her captors; naturally I reflected upon the character of the prairie savage—so different from that of the forest Indian, opposite as is the aspect of their homes—and perhaps influenced by this very cause, though there are many others. Climate— contact with Spanish civilisation, so distinct from Saxon—the horse— conquest over white foes—concubinage with white and beautiful women, the daughters of the race of Cortez: all these have combined to produce in the southern Indian a spiritual existence that more resembles Andalusia than England—more like Mexico than Boston or New York.

Psychologically speaking, there is not so much difference between Paris and the prairies—between the habitat of the Bal Mabille and the horse-Indian of the plains. No cold ascetic this—no romantic savage, alike celebrated for silence and continence—but a true voluptuary, gay of thought and free of tongue—amorous, salacious, immoral. In nine cases out of ten, the young Comanche is a boastful Lothario as any flaneur that may be met upon the Boulevards; the old, a lustful sinner—women the idol of both. Women is the constant theme of their conversation, their motive for every act. For these they throw the prairie dice; for these they race their swift mustangs. To win them, they paint in hideous guise; to buy them, they steal horses; to capture them, they go to war!

And yet, with all their wanton love, they are true tyrants to the sex. Wife they have none—for it would be sheer sacrilege to apply this noble title to the "squaw" of a Comanche. Mistress is scarcely a fitter term—rather say slave. Hers is a hard lot indeed; hers it is to hew the wood and draw the water; to strike the tent and pitch it; to load the horse and pack the dog; to grain the skin and cure the meat; to plant the maize, the melon, squash; to hoe and reap them; to wait obsequious on her lounging lord, anticipate his whim or wish, be true to him, else lose her ears or nose—for such horrid forfeiture is, by Comanche custom, the punishment of conjugal infidelity!

But hard as is the lot of the native wife, harder still is that of the white captive. 'Tis hers to endure all the ills enumerated, with still another—the hostility of the squaw herself. The white captive is truly the slave of a slave, the victim of a treble antipathy—of race, of colour, of jealousy. Ofttimes is she beaten, abused, mutilated; and rarely does the apathetic lord interfere to protect her from this feminine but fiend-like persecution.

These were not imaginings; they were not fancies begot in my own brain. Would they had been so! Too well did I know they were facts—horrid realities.

Can you wonder that sleep was shaken from my eyelids?—that I could not think of rest or stay, till I had delivered my loved one—my betrothed— from the danger of such a destiny?

All thought of sleep was banished—even weariness forsook me. I felt fresh as if I had slept; my nerves were strung for emprise. It was but the excitement renewed by what I had read—the impatience of a new and keen apprehension.

I would have mounted and gone forward, spurning rest and sleep; regardless of danger, would I have followed; but what could I do alone?

Ay, and what with my few followers?

Ha! I had not thought of this; up to that moment, I had not put this important question, and I had need to reflect upon the answer. What if we should overtake this band of brigands? Booty-laden as they were, and cumbered with captives, surely we could come up with them, by night or by day; but what then? Ay, what then?

There were nine of us, and we were in pursuit of a war-party of at least one hundred in number!—one hundred braves armed and equipped for battle—the choice warriors of their tribe—flushed with late success, and vengeful against ourselves on account of former defeat. If conquered, we need look for no mercy at their hands; if conquered—how could it be otherwise? Nine against a hundred! How could we conquer?

Up to this moment, I say, I had not thought of the result I was borne along by only one impulse—the idea of overtaking the steed, and rescuing his rider from her perilous situation. It was only within the hour that her peril had assumed a new phase; only an hour since we had learned that she had escaped from one danger to be brought within the influence of another.

At first had I felt joy, but the feeling was of short existence, for I now recognised in the new situation a greater peril than that she had outlived. She had been rescued from death to become the victim of dishonour!



CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.

A SUBTERRANEAN FIRE.

In the midst of my meditations, night descended upon the earth. It promised to be a moonless night. A robe of sable clouds formed a sombre lining to the sky, and through this neither moon nor stars were visible.

It grew darker apace, until in the dim light I could scarcely distinguish the forms of my companions—neither men nor horses, though both were near me.

The men were still asleep, stretched along the grass in various attitudes, like so many bodies upon a battle-field. The horses were too hungry to sleep—the constant "crop-crop" told that they were greedily browsing upon the sward of gramma-grass that, by good fortune, grew luxuriantly around. This would be the best rest for them, and I was glad to think that this splendid provender would in a few hours recruit their strength. It was the chondrosium foeneum, the favourite food of horses and cattle, and in its effects upon their condition almost equal to the bean or the oat. I knew it would soon freshen the jaded animals, and make them ready for the road. At least in this there was some consolation.

Notwithstanding the pre-occupation of my thoughts, I began to be sensible of a physical discomfort, which, despite their low latitude, is often experienced upon the southern prairies—cold. A chill breeze had set in with the night, which in half-an-hour became a strong and violent wind, increasing in coldness as in strength.

In that half-hour the thermometer must have fallen at least fifty Fahrenheit degrees; and such a phenomenon is not rare upon the plains of Texas. The wind was the well-known "norther" which often kills both men and animals, that chance to be exposed to its icy breath.

I have endured the rigour of a Canadian winter—have crossed the frozen lakes—have slept upon a snow-wreath amidst the wild wastes of Rupert's Land; but I cannot remember cold more intensely chilling than that I have suffered in a Texan norther.

This extreme does not arise from the absolute depression of the thermometer—which at least is but a poor indicator of either heat or cold—I mean the sensation of either. It is more probably the contrast springing from the sudden change—the exposure—the absence of proper clothing or shelter—the state of the blood—and other like circumstances, that cause both heat and cold to be more sensibly felt.

I had ofttimes experienced the chill blast of the norther, but never more acutely than upon that night. The day had been sweltering hot—the thermometer at noon ranging about the one-hundredth Fahrenheit degree, while in the first hour of darkness it could not have been far above the twentieth. Had I judged by my sensations, I should have put it even lower. Certainly it had passed the freezing-point, and sharp sleet and hail were borne upon the wings of the wind.

With nerves deranged from want of rest and sleep—after the hot day's march—after the perspiration produced by long exposure upon the heated surface of the burnt prairie—I perhaps felt the cold more acutely than I should otherwise have done. My blood seemed to stagnate and freeze within my veins.

I was fain to wrap around my body a buffalo-robe, which some careless savage had dropped upon the trail. My followers were not so well furnished; starting as we had done, without any thought of being absent for the night, no preparation had been made for camping out. Only a portion of them chanced to have their blankets strapped upon the cantles of their saddles. These were now the fortunate ones.

The norther had roused all of them from their slumbers—had awaked them as suddenly as a douche of cold water would have done; and one and all were groping about in the darkness—some seeking for their blankets— others for such shelter as was afforded by the lee-side of the bushes.

Fortunately there were some saddle-blankets, and these were soon dragged from the backs of the horses. The poor brutes themselves suffered equally with their owners; they stood cowering under the cold, with their hips to the cutting blast, their limbs drawn close together, and their flanks shaggy and shivering. Some of them half sheltered themselves behind the bushes, scarce caring to touch the grass at their feet.

It would have been easy enough to make a fire; there was dry wood in plenty near the spot, and of the best kind for burning—the large species of mezquite. Some of the men were for kindling fires at once, regardless of consequences; but this design was overruled by the more prudent of the party. The trappers were strongly against it. Cold as was the night, and dark, they knew that neither the norther nor the darkness would deter Indians from being abroad. A party might be out upon the prowl; the very buffalo-skin we had picked up might bring a squad of them back; for it was the grand robe of some brave or chief, whose whole life-history was delineated in hieroglyphical painting upon its inner surface. To have made a fire, might have cost us our lives; so alleged the trappers, Rube and Garey. It would be better to endure the cold, than risk our scalps; so counselled they.

But for all that, Rube had no idea of being starved to death. He could kindle a fire, and burn it upon an open prairie, without the least fear of its being seen; and in a few minutes' time he had succeeded in making one, that could not have been discovered by the most sharp-sighted Indian in creation. I had watched the operation with some interest.

He first collected a quantity of dead leaves, dry grass, and short sticks of the mezquite-tree—all of which he placed under his saddle-blanket, to prevent the rain and sleet from wetting them. This done, he drew out his bowie-knife, and with the blade "crowed" a hole into the turf, about a foot deep, and ten inches or a foot in diameter. In the bottom of this hole he placed the grass and leaves, having first ignited them by means of his flint, steel, and "punk" tinder—all of which implements formed part of the contents of Rube's pouch and possible sack—ever present. On the top of the now blazing leaves and grass he placed the dry sticks—first the smaller ones, and then those of larger dimensions—until the hole was filled up to the brim—and over all he laid the piece of sod, originally cut from the surface, and which fitted as neatly as a lid.

His furnace being now finished and in full blast, the old trapper "hunkered" down close to its edge—in such a position as to embrace the fire between his thighs, and have it nearly under him. He then drew his old saddle-blanket over his shoulders, allowing it to droop behind until he had secured it under the salient points of his lank angular hips. In front he passed the blanket over his knees, until both ends, reaching the ground, were gripped tightly between his toes. The contrivance was complete; and there sat the earless trapper like a hand-glass over a plant of spring rhubarb—a slight smoke oozing through the apertures of the scant blanket, and curling up around his "ears" as though he was hatching upon a hotbed. But no fire could be seen, though Rube shivered no longer.

He soon found imitators. Garey had already constructed a similar furnace; and the others were soon warming themselves by this simple but ingenious device.

I did not disdain to avail myself of the extra "shaft" which the kind-hearted Garey had sunk for my accommodation; and having placed myself by its side, and drawn the ample robe over my shoulders, I felt as warm as if seated in front of a sea-coal fire!

Under other circumstances, I might have joined in the merriment produced among my companions by the ludicrous spectacle which we presented. A comic spectacle indeed; nine of us squatted at intervals over the ground, the blue smoke escaping through the interstices of our robes and blankets, and rising around our heads, as though one and all of us were on fire!

Wind, sleet, and darkness, continued throughout the whole night—cold wind, sharp icy sleet, and black darkness, that seemed palpable to the touch. Ever so eager, ever so fresh, we could not have advanced along the trail. Grand war-trail as it was, it could not have been traced under that amorphous obscurity, and we had no means of carrying a light, even had it been safe to do so. We had no lantern, and the norther with one blast would have whisked out a torch of pitch-pine.

We thought no more of going forward, until either the day should break or the wind come to a lull.

At midnight we replenished our subterranean fires, and remained on the ground. Hail, rain, wind, and darkness.

My companions rested their heads upon their knees, or nodding slept. No sleep for me—not even the repose of thought. Like some fevered sufferer on his wakeful couch. I counted the hours—the minutes. The minutes seemed hours.

Rain, hail, sleet, and wind seemed, like darkness itself, to belong to the night. As long as night lasted, so long continued they. When it came to an end, all vanished together—the norther had exhausted its strength.

A wild turkey—killed before nightfall—with some steaks of the peccary-pork, furnished us with an ample breakfast.

It was hastily cooked, and hastily eaten; and as the first streak of dawn appeared along the horizon, we were in our saddles, and advancing upon the trail.



CHAPTER EIGHTY.

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 debris 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."