Chapter FIFTY NINE: Trailing by Torch-Light (2)

This time I listened and heard nothing--not even the recoil of a bough. The steed had either stopped, and was standing silent, or, what was more probable, had gained so so far in advance of me that his hoof-stroke was out of hearing.

Half-frantic, angered at myself, too much excited for cool reflection, I lanced the sides of my horse, and galloped madly through the thicket.

I rode several hundred yards before drawing bridle, in a sort of desperate hope I might once more bring myself within earshot of the chase.

Again I halted to listen. My recklessness proved of no avail. Not a sound reached my ear: even had there been sounds, I should scarcely have heard them above that that was issuing from the nostrils of my panting horse; but sound there was none. Silent was the chapparal around me-- silent as death; not even a bird moved among its branches.

I felt something like self-execration: my imprudence I denounced over and over. But for my rash haste, I might yet have been upon the trail-- perhaps within sight of the object of pursuit. Where the steed had gone, surely I could have followed. Now he was gone I knew not whither--lost--his trail lost--all lost!

To recover the trace of him, I made several casts across the thicket. I rode first in one direction, then in another, but all to no purpose. I could find neither hoof-track nor broken branch.

I next bethought me of returning to the open prairie, there retaking the trail, and following it thence. This was clearly the wisest,--in fact, the only course in which there was reason. I should easily recover the trail, at the point where the horse had entered the chapparal, and thence I might follow it without difficulty.

I turned my horse round, and headed him in the direction of the prairie--or rather in what I supposed to be the direction--for this too had become conjecture.

It was not till I had ridden for a half-hour--for more than a mile through glade and bush--not till I had ridden nearly twice as far in the opposite direction--and then to right, and then to left--that I pulled up my broken horse, dropped the rein upon his withers, and sat bent in my saddle under the full conviction that I too was lost.

Lost in the chapparal--that parched and hideous jungle, where every plant that carries a thorn seemed to have place. Around grew _acacias, mimosas, gleditschias, robinias, algarobias_--all the thorny legumes of the world; above towered the splendid _fouquiera_ with spinous stem; there nourished the "tornillo" (_prosopis glandulosa_), with its twisted beans; there the "junco" (_koeblerinia_), whose very leaves are thorns. There saw I spear-pointed yuccas and clawed bromelias (_agave_ and _dasylirion_); there, too, the universal cactacese (_opuntia, mamillaria, cereus_, and _echinocactus_); even the very grass was thorny--for it was a species of the "mezquite-grass," whose knotted culms are armed with sharp spurs!

Through this horrid thicket I had not passed unscathed; my garments were already torn, my limbs were bleeding.

_My_ limbs--and hers?

Of hers alone was I thinking: those fair-proportioned members--those softly-rounded arms--that smooth, delicate skin--bosom and shoulders bare--the thorn--the scratch--the tear. Oh! it was agony to think!

By action alone might I hope to still my emotions; and once more rousing myself from the lethargy of painful thought, I urged my steed onward through the bushes.

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

ENCOUNTER WITH JAVALL.

I had no mark to guide me, either on the earth or in the heavens. I had an indefinite idea that the chase had led westward, and therefore to get back to the prairie, I ought to head towards the east.

But how was I to distinguish east from west? In the chapparal both were alike, and so too upon the sky. No sun was visible; the canopy of heaven was of a uniform leaden colour; upon its face were no signs by which the cardinal points could have been discovered.

Had I been in the midst of a forest surrounded by a northern _sylva_, I could have made out my course. The oak or the elm, the ash-tree or maple, the beech or sycamore--any of them would have been compass sufficient for me; but in that thicket of thorny shrubs I was completely at fault. It was a subtropical flora--or rather a vegetation of the arid desert--to which I was almost a stranger. I knew there were men skilled in the craft of the chapparal, who, in the midst of it, could tell north from south without compass or stars. Not I.

I could think of no better mode than to trust to the guidance of my horse. More than once, when lost in the thick forest or on the boundless plain, had I reposed a similar trust in his instincts--more than once had he borne me out of my bewilderment.

But whither could he take me? Back to the path by which we had come?

Probably enough, had that path led to a home; but it did not: my poor steed, like myself, had no home. He, too, was a ranger; for years had been flitting from place to place,--hundreds, ay, thousands of miles from each other. Long had he forgotten his native stall.

I surmised that if there was water near, his instinct might carry him to that--and much needed it both horse and rider. Should we reach a running stream, it would serve as a guide.

I dropped the rein upon his neck, and left him to his will.

I had already shouted in my loudest voice, in hopes of being heard by my comrades; by none other than them, for what could human being do in such a spot, shunned even by the brute creation? The horned lizard (_agama cornuta_), the ground rattlesnake, the shell-covered armadillo, and the ever-present coyote, alone inhabit these dry jungles; and now and then the javali (_dicotyles torquatus_), feeding upon the twisted legumes of the "tornillo," passes through their midst; but even these are rare; and the traveller may ride for scores of miles through a Mexican chapparal without encountering aught that lives and moves. There reigns the stillness of death. Unless the wind be rustling among the pinnate fronds of the acacias, or the unseen locust utters its harsh shrieking amid the parched herbage, the weary wayfarer may ride on, cheered by no other sound than his own voice, or the footfall of his horse.

There was still the chance that my followers might hear me. I knew that they would not stray from the trail. Though they must have been far behind when I entered the chapparal, following the tracks, they would in time be sure to come up.

It was a question whether they would follow mine, or those of the steed. This had not occurred to me before, and I paused to consider it. If the former, then was I wrong in moving onward, as I should only be going _from_ them, and leading them on a longer search. Already had I given them a knot to unravel--my devious path forming a labyrinthine maze.

It was more than probable they would follow _me_--in the belief that I had some reason for deviating from the trail of the steed, perhaps for the purpose of heading or intercepting him.

This conjecture decided me against advancing farther--at least until some time should elapse, enough for them to get up.

Out of compassion for my hard-breathing horse, I dismounted.

At intervals, I shouted aloud, and fired shots from my pistols after each I listened; but neither shot nor shout reached me in reply. They must have been distant indeed, not to hear the report of fire-arms; for had they heard them, they would have been certain to make answer in a similar manner. All of them carried rifles and pistols.

I began to think it was full time for them to have reached me. Again I fired several shots; but, as before, echo was the only reply. Perhaps they had _not_ followed me? perhaps they had kept on upon the trail of the steed, and it might be leading them far away, beyond hearing of the reports? perhaps there was not yet time for them to have arrived?

While thus conjecturing, my ears were assailed by the screeching of birds at some distance off. I recognised the harsh notes of the jay, mingling with the chatter of the red cardinal.

From the tones, I knew that these birds were excited by the presence of some enemy. Perhaps they were defending their nests against the black snake or the _crotalus_.

Or it might be my followers approaching! it might be the steed--like me, still wandering in the chapparal?

I sprang to my saddle to get a better view, and gazed over the tops of the trees. Guided by the voices of the birds, I soon discovered the scene of the commotion.

At some distance off, I saw both jays and cardinals fluttering among the branches, evidently busy with something on the ground beneath them. At the same time I heard strange noises, far louder than the voices of the birds, but could not tell what was causing them. My spirits sank, for I knew they could not be produced either by my comrades or the steed.

It was not far, and I determined to satisfy myself as to what was causing such a commotion in this hitherto silent place. I rode towards the spot, as fast as my horse could make way through the bushes. I was soon satisfied.

Coming out on the edge of a little glade, I became spectator to a singular scene--a battle between the red cougar and a band of javali.

The fierce little boars were "ringing" the panther, who was fighting desperately in their midst. Several of them lay upon the ground, struck senseless or dead, by the strong paws of the huge cat; but the others, nothing daunted, had completely surrounded their enemy, and were bounding upon him with open mouths; and wounding him with their sharp shining tusks.

The scene aroused my hunter instincts; and suddenly unslinging my rifle, I set my eye to the sights. I had no hesitation about the selection of my mark--the panther, by all means--and drawing trigger, I sent my bullet through the creature's skull, that stretched him out in the midst of his assailants.

Three seconds had not elapsed, before I had reason to regret the choice I had made of a victim. I should have let the cougar alone, and either held my fire, or directed it upon one of his urchin-like enemies; for the moment he was _hors de combat_, his assailants became mine-- transferring their "surround" to my horse and myself, with all the savage fierceness they had just exhibited towards the panther!

I had no means of punishing the ungrateful brutes. They had not given me time to reload my rifle before commencing their attack, and my pistols were both empty. My horse, startled by the unexpected assault, as well as by the strange creatures that were making it, snorted and plunged wildly over the ground; but go where he would, a score of the ferocious brutes followed, springing up against his thighs, and scoring his shanks with their terrible tusks. Well for me I was able to keep the saddle; had I been thrown from it at that moment, I should certainly have been torn to pieces.

I saw no hope of safety but in flight; and spurring my horse, I gave him full rein. Alas! through that tangled thicket the javali could go as fast as he; and after advancing a hundred yards or so, I perceived the whole flock still around me, assailing as fiercely as ever the limbs of my steed.

The result might have proved awkward enough; but at that moment I heard voices, and saw mounted men breaking through the underwood. They were Stanfield, Quackenboss, and the rest of the rangers.

In another instant, they were on the ground; and their revolvers, playing rapidly, soon thinned the ranks of the javali, and caused the survivors to retreat grunting and screaming into the thicket.

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

THE WOODS ON FIRE?

The trappers were not among those who had rescued me--where were they?

The others made answer, though I already guessed what they had to tell. Rube and Garey had followed the tracks of the steed, leaving the rangers to come after me.

I was pleased with the ready intelligence of my comrades: they had acted exactly as they should have done. I was myself found, and I no longer entertained any apprehension that the trail would be lost.

By this time, the trackers must be far upon it; more than an hour had elapsed since they and the others had parted company. My zigzag path had cost my followers many a bewildering pause.

But they had not ridden recklessly as I, and could find their way back. As it was impossible to tell in what direction Rube and Garey had gone, this course was the best to be followed; and under the guidance of Stanfield--an expert woodsman--we rode back towards the prairie.

It was not necessary to retrace our own crooked trail. The Kentuckian had noted the "lay" of the chapparal, and led us out of its labyrinths by an almost direct path.

On reaching the open ground, we made no pause; but upon the tracks of Rube, Garey, and the steed, re-entered the chapparal.

We had no difficulty about our course; it was plainly traced out for us; the trappers had "blazed" it. In most places, the tracks of the three horses were sufficient indices of the route; but there were stretches where the ground was stony, and upon the parched arid herbage, even the shod hoof left no visible mark. In such places, a branch of acacia broken and pendulous, the bent flower-stem of an aloe, or the succulent leaves of the cactus slashed with a sharp knife, were conspicuous and unmistakeable signs; and by the guidance of these we made rapid advance.

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.