They were Cassius Calhoun, and a young planter who was riding by his side.
The jaguar dropped dead in its tracks: a bullet having entered its body, and traversed the spine in a longitudinal direction.
Which of the two was entitled to the credit of the successful shot? Calhoun claimed it, and so did the young planter.
The shots had been fired simultaneously, and only one of them had hit.
“I shall show you,” confidently asserted the ex-officer, dismounting beside the dead jaguar, and unsheathing his knife. “You see, gentlemen, the ball is still in the animal’s body? If it’s mine, you’ll find my initials on it – C.C. – with a crescent. I mould my bullets so that I can always tell when I’ve killed my game.”
The swaggering air with which he held up the leaden missile after extracting it told that he had spoken the truth. A few of the more curious drew near and examined the bullet. Sure enough it was moulded as Calhoun had declared, and the dispute ended in the discomfiture of the young planter.
The party soon after came up with the tracker, waiting to conduct them along a fresh trail.
It was no longer a track made by two horses, with shod hooves. The turf showed only the hoof-marks of one; and so indistinctly, that at times they were undiscernible to all eyes save those of the tracker himself.
The trace carried them through the thicket, from glade to glade – after a circuitous march – bringing them back into the lane-like opening, at a point still further to the west.
Spangler – though far from being the most accomplished of his calling – took it; up as fast as the people could ride after him. In his own mind he had determined the character of the animal whose footmarks he was following. He knew it to be a mustang – the same that had stood under the cottonwood whilst its rider was smoking a cigar – the same whose hoof-mark he had seen deeply indented in a sod saturated with human blood.
The track of the States horse he had also followed for a short distance – in the interval, when he was left alone. He saw that it would conduct him back to the prairie through which they had passed; and thence, in all likelihood, to the settlements on the Leona.
He had forsaken it to trace the footsteps of the shod mustang; more likely to lead him to an explanation of that red mystery of murder – perhaps to the den of the assassin.
Hitherto perplexed by the hoof-prints of two horses alternately overlapping each other, he was not less puzzled now, while scrutinising the tracks of but one.
They went not direct, as those of an animal urged onwards upon a journey; but here and there zigzagging; occasionally turning upon themselves in short curves; then forward for a stretch; and then circling again, as if the mustang was either not mounted, or its rider was asleep in the saddle!
Could these be the hoof-prints of a horse with a man upon his back – an assassin skulking away from the scene of assassination, his conscience freshly excited by the crime?
Spangler did not think so. He knew not what to think. He was mystified more than ever. So confessed he to the major, when being questioned as to the character of the trail.
A spectacle that soon afterwards came under his eyes – simultaneously seen by every individual of the party – so far from solving the mystery, had the effect of rendering it yet more inexplicable.
More than this. What had hitherto been but an ambiguous affair – a subject for guess and speculation – was suddenly transformed into a horror; of that intense kind that can only spring from thoughts of the supernatural.
No one could say that this feeling of horror had arisen without reason.
When a man is seen mounted on a horse’s back, seated firmly in the saddle, with limbs astride in the stirrups, body erect, and hand holding the rein – in short, everything in air and attitude required of a rider; when, on closer scrutiny, it is observed: that there is something wanting to complete the idea of a perfect equestrian; and, on still closer scrutiny, that this something is the head, it would be strange if the spectacle did not startle the beholder, terrifying him to the very core of his heart.
And this very sight came before their eyes; causing them simultaneously to rein up, and with as much suddenness, as if each had rashly ridden within less than his horse’s length of the brink of an abyss!
The sun was low down, almost on a level with the sward. Facing westward, his disc was directly before them. His rays, glaring redly in their eyes, hindered them from having a very accurate view, towards the quarter of the west. Still could they see that strange shape above described – a horseman without a head!
Had only one of the party declared himself to have seen it, he would have been laughed at by his companions as a lunatic. Even two might have been stigmatised in a similar manner.
But what everybody saw at the same time, could not be questioned; and only he would have been thought crazed, who should have expressed incredulity about the presence of the abnormal phenomenon.
No one did. The eyes of all were turned in the same direction, their gaze intently fixed on what was either a horseman without the head, or the best counterfeit that could have been contrived.
Was it this? If not, what was it?
These interrogatories passed simultaneously through the minds of all. As no one could answer them, even to himself, no answer was vouchsafed. Soldiers and civilians sate silent in their saddles – each expecting an explanation, which the other was unable to supply.
There could be heard only mutterings, expressive of surprise and terror. No one even offered a conjecture.
The headless horseman, whether phantom or real, when first seen, was about entering the avenue – near the debouchure of which the searchers had arrived. Had he continued his course, he must have met them in the teeth – supposing their courage to have been equal to the encounter.
As it was, he had halted at the same instant as themselves; and stood regarding them with a mistrust that may have been mutual.
There was an interval of silence on both sides, during which a cigar stump might have been heard falling upon the sward. It was then the strange apparition was most closely scrutinised by those who had the courage: for the majority of the men sate shivering in their stirrups – through sheer terror, incapable even of thought!
The few who dared face the mystery, with any thought of accounting for it, were baffled in their investigation by the glare of the setting sun. They could only see that there was a horse of large size and noble shape, with a man upon his back. The figure of the man was less easily determined, on account of the limbs being inserted into overalls, while his shoulders were enveloped in an ample cloak-like covering.
What signified his shape, so long as it wanted that portion most essential to existence? A man without a head – on horseback, sitting erect in the saddle, in an attitude of ease and grace – with spurs sparkling upon his heels – the bridle-rein held in one hand – the other where it should be, resting lightly upon his thigh!
Great God! what could it mean?
Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?
They who viewed it were not the men to have faith either in phantoms, or phantasmagoria[236]. Many of them had met Nature in her remotest solitudes, and wrestled with her in her roughest moods. They were not given to a belief in ghosts.
But the confidence of the most incredulous was shaken by a sight so strange – so absolutely unnatural – and to such an extent, that the stoutest hearted of the party was forced mentally to repeat the words: —
“Is it a phantom? Surely it cannot be human?”
Its size favoured the idea of the supernatural. It appeared double that of an ordinary man upon an ordinary horse. It was more like a giant on a gigantic steed; though this might have been owing to the illusory light under which it was seen – the refraction of the sun’s rays passing horizontally through the tremulous atmosphere of the parched plain.
There was but little time to philosophise – not enough to complete a careful scrutiny of the unearthly apparition, which every one present, with hand spread over his eyes to shade them from the dazzling glare, was endeavouring to make.
Nothing of colour could be noted – neither the garments of the man, nor the hairy coat of the horse. Only the shape could be traced, outlined in sable silhouette against the golden background of the sky; and this in every change of attitude, whether fronting the spectators, or turned stern towards them, was still the same – still that inexplicable phenomenon: a horseman without a head!
Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?
“’Tis old Nick upon horseback!” cried a fearless frontiersman, who would scarce have quailed to encounter his Satanic majesty even in that guise. “By the ’tarnal Almighty, it’s the devil himself.”
The boisterous laugh which succeeded the profane utterance of the reckless speaker, while it only added to the awe of his less courageous comrades, appeared to produce an effect on the headless horseman. Wheeling suddenly round – his horse at the same time sending forth a scream that caused either the earth or the atmosphere to tremble – he commenced galloping away.
He went direct towards the sun; and continued this course, until only by his motion could he be distinguished from one of those spots that have puzzled the philosopher – at length altogether disappearing, as though he had ridden into the dazzling disc!
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
The jaguar dropped dead in its tracks: a bullet having entered its body, and traversed the spine in a longitudinal direction.
Which of the two was entitled to the credit of the successful shot? Calhoun claimed it, and so did the young planter.
The shots had been fired simultaneously, and only one of them had hit.
“I shall show you,” confidently asserted the ex-officer, dismounting beside the dead jaguar, and unsheathing his knife. “You see, gentlemen, the ball is still in the animal’s body? If it’s mine, you’ll find my initials on it – C.C. – with a crescent. I mould my bullets so that I can always tell when I’ve killed my game.”
The swaggering air with which he held up the leaden missile after extracting it told that he had spoken the truth. A few of the more curious drew near and examined the bullet. Sure enough it was moulded as Calhoun had declared, and the dispute ended in the discomfiture of the young planter.
The party soon after came up with the tracker, waiting to conduct them along a fresh trail.
It was no longer a track made by two horses, with shod hooves. The turf showed only the hoof-marks of one; and so indistinctly, that at times they were undiscernible to all eyes save those of the tracker himself.
The trace carried them through the thicket, from glade to glade – after a circuitous march – bringing them back into the lane-like opening, at a point still further to the west.
Spangler – though far from being the most accomplished of his calling – took it; up as fast as the people could ride after him. In his own mind he had determined the character of the animal whose footmarks he was following. He knew it to be a mustang – the same that had stood under the cottonwood whilst its rider was smoking a cigar – the same whose hoof-mark he had seen deeply indented in a sod saturated with human blood.
The track of the States horse he had also followed for a short distance – in the interval, when he was left alone. He saw that it would conduct him back to the prairie through which they had passed; and thence, in all likelihood, to the settlements on the Leona.
He had forsaken it to trace the footsteps of the shod mustang; more likely to lead him to an explanation of that red mystery of murder – perhaps to the den of the assassin.
Hitherto perplexed by the hoof-prints of two horses alternately overlapping each other, he was not less puzzled now, while scrutinising the tracks of but one.
They went not direct, as those of an animal urged onwards upon a journey; but here and there zigzagging; occasionally turning upon themselves in short curves; then forward for a stretch; and then circling again, as if the mustang was either not mounted, or its rider was asleep in the saddle!
Could these be the hoof-prints of a horse with a man upon his back – an assassin skulking away from the scene of assassination, his conscience freshly excited by the crime?
Spangler did not think so. He knew not what to think. He was mystified more than ever. So confessed he to the major, when being questioned as to the character of the trail.
A spectacle that soon afterwards came under his eyes – simultaneously seen by every individual of the party – so far from solving the mystery, had the effect of rendering it yet more inexplicable.
More than this. What had hitherto been but an ambiguous affair – a subject for guess and speculation – was suddenly transformed into a horror; of that intense kind that can only spring from thoughts of the supernatural.
No one could say that this feeling of horror had arisen without reason.
When a man is seen mounted on a horse’s back, seated firmly in the saddle, with limbs astride in the stirrups, body erect, and hand holding the rein – in short, everything in air and attitude required of a rider; when, on closer scrutiny, it is observed: that there is something wanting to complete the idea of a perfect equestrian; and, on still closer scrutiny, that this something is the head, it would be strange if the spectacle did not startle the beholder, terrifying him to the very core of his heart.
And this very sight came before their eyes; causing them simultaneously to rein up, and with as much suddenness, as if each had rashly ridden within less than his horse’s length of the brink of an abyss!
The sun was low down, almost on a level with the sward. Facing westward, his disc was directly before them. His rays, glaring redly in their eyes, hindered them from having a very accurate view, towards the quarter of the west. Still could they see that strange shape above described – a horseman without a head!
Had only one of the party declared himself to have seen it, he would have been laughed at by his companions as a lunatic. Even two might have been stigmatised in a similar manner.
But what everybody saw at the same time, could not be questioned; and only he would have been thought crazed, who should have expressed incredulity about the presence of the abnormal phenomenon.
No one did. The eyes of all were turned in the same direction, their gaze intently fixed on what was either a horseman without the head, or the best counterfeit that could have been contrived.
Was it this? If not, what was it?
These interrogatories passed simultaneously through the minds of all. As no one could answer them, even to himself, no answer was vouchsafed. Soldiers and civilians sate silent in their saddles – each expecting an explanation, which the other was unable to supply.
There could be heard only mutterings, expressive of surprise and terror. No one even offered a conjecture.
The headless horseman, whether phantom or real, when first seen, was about entering the avenue – near the debouchure of which the searchers had arrived. Had he continued his course, he must have met them in the teeth – supposing their courage to have been equal to the encounter.
As it was, he had halted at the same instant as themselves; and stood regarding them with a mistrust that may have been mutual.
There was an interval of silence on both sides, during which a cigar stump might have been heard falling upon the sward. It was then the strange apparition was most closely scrutinised by those who had the courage: for the majority of the men sate shivering in their stirrups – through sheer terror, incapable even of thought!
The few who dared face the mystery, with any thought of accounting for it, were baffled in their investigation by the glare of the setting sun. They could only see that there was a horse of large size and noble shape, with a man upon his back. The figure of the man was less easily determined, on account of the limbs being inserted into overalls, while his shoulders were enveloped in an ample cloak-like covering.
What signified his shape, so long as it wanted that portion most essential to existence? A man without a head – on horseback, sitting erect in the saddle, in an attitude of ease and grace – with spurs sparkling upon his heels – the bridle-rein held in one hand – the other where it should be, resting lightly upon his thigh!
Great God! what could it mean?
Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?
They who viewed it were not the men to have faith either in phantoms, or phantasmagoria[236]. Many of them had met Nature in her remotest solitudes, and wrestled with her in her roughest moods. They were not given to a belief in ghosts.
But the confidence of the most incredulous was shaken by a sight so strange – so absolutely unnatural – and to such an extent, that the stoutest hearted of the party was forced mentally to repeat the words: —
“Is it a phantom? Surely it cannot be human?”
Its size favoured the idea of the supernatural. It appeared double that of an ordinary man upon an ordinary horse. It was more like a giant on a gigantic steed; though this might have been owing to the illusory light under which it was seen – the refraction of the sun’s rays passing horizontally through the tremulous atmosphere of the parched plain.
There was but little time to philosophise – not enough to complete a careful scrutiny of the unearthly apparition, which every one present, with hand spread over his eyes to shade them from the dazzling glare, was endeavouring to make.
Nothing of colour could be noted – neither the garments of the man, nor the hairy coat of the horse. Only the shape could be traced, outlined in sable silhouette against the golden background of the sky; and this in every change of attitude, whether fronting the spectators, or turned stern towards them, was still the same – still that inexplicable phenomenon: a horseman without a head!
Was it a phantom? Surely it could not be human?
“’Tis old Nick upon horseback!” cried a fearless frontiersman, who would scarce have quailed to encounter his Satanic majesty even in that guise. “By the ’tarnal Almighty, it’s the devil himself.”
The boisterous laugh which succeeded the profane utterance of the reckless speaker, while it only added to the awe of his less courageous comrades, appeared to produce an effect on the headless horseman. Wheeling suddenly round – his horse at the same time sending forth a scream that caused either the earth or the atmosphere to tremble – he commenced galloping away.
He went direct towards the sun; and continued this course, until only by his motion could he be distinguished from one of those spots that have puzzled the philosopher – at length altogether disappearing, as though he had ridden into the dazzling disc!
Chapter 41
Cuatro Cavalleros
The party of searchers, under the command of the major, was not the only one that went forth from Fort Inge on that eventful morning.
Nor was it the earliest to take saddle. Long before – in fact close following the dawn of day – a much smaller party, consisting of only four horsemen, was seen setting out from the suburbs of the village, and heading their horses in the direction of the Nueces.
These could not be going in search of the dead body of Henry Poindexter. At that hour no one suspected that the young man was dead, or even that he was missing. The riderless horse had not yet come in to tell the tale of woe. The settlement was still slumbering, unconscious that innocent blood had been spilt.
Though setting out from nearly the same point, and proceeding in a like direction, there was not the slightest similarity between the two parties of mounted men. Those earliest a-start were all of pure Iberian[237] blood; or this commingled with Aztecan[238]. In other words they were Mexicans.
It required neither skill nor close scrutiny to discover this. A glance at themselves and their horses, their style of equitation, the slight muscular development of their thighs and hips – more strikingly observable in their deep-tree saddles – the gaily coloured serapes shrouding their shoulders, the wide velveteen calzoneros on their legs, the big spurs on their boots, and broad-brimmed sombreros on their heads, declared them either Mexicans, or men who had adopted the Mexican costume.
That they were the former there was not a question. The sallow hue; the pointed Vandyke[239] beard, covering the chin, sparsely – though not from any thinning by the shears – the black, close-cropped chevelure; the regular facial outline, were all indisputable characteristics of the Hispano-Moro-Aztecan race, who now occupy the ancient territory of the Moctezumas.
One of the four was a man of larger frame than any of his companions. He rode a better horse; was more richly apparelled; carried upon his person arms and equipments of a superior finish; and was otherwise distinguished, so as to leave no doubt about his being the leader of the cuartilla[240].
He was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, nearer to the latter than the former; though a smooth, rounded cheek – furnished with a short and carefully trimmed whisker – gave him the appearance of being younger than he was.
But for a cold animal eye, and a heaviness of feature that betrayed a tendency to behave with brutality – if not with positive cruelty – the individual in question might have been described as handsome.
A well formed mouth, with twin rows of white teeth between the lips, even when these were exhibited in a smile, did not remove this unpleasant impression. It but reminded the beholder of the sardonic grin that may have been given by Satan, when, after the temptation had succeeded, he gazed contemptuously back upon the mother of mankind.
It was not his looks that had led to his having become known among his comrades by a peculiar nick-name; that of an animal well known upon the plains of Texas.
His deeds and disposition had earned for him the unenviable soubriquet “El Coyote.”
How came he to be crossing the prairie at this early hour of the morning – apparently sober, and acting as the leader of others – when on the same morning, but a few hours before, he was seen drunk in his jacalé – so drunk as to be unconscious of having a visitor, or, at all events, incapable of giving that visitor a civil reception?
The change of situation though sudden – and to some extent strange – is not so difficult of explanation. It will be understood after an account has been given of his movements, from the time of Calhoun’s leaving him, till the moment of meeting him in the saddle, in company with his three conpaisanos[241].
On riding away from his hut, Calhoun had left the door, as he had found it, ajar; and in this way did it remain until the morning – El Coyote all the time continuing his sonorous slumber.
At daybreak he was aroused by the raw air that came drifting over him in the shape of a chilly fog. This to some extent sobered him; and, springing up from his skin-covered truck, he commenced staggering over the floor – all the while uttering anathemas against the cold, and the door for letting it in.
It might be expected that he would have shut to the latter on the instant; but he did not. It was the only aperture, excepting some holes arising from dilapidation, by which light was admitted into the interior of the jacalé; and light he wanted, to enable him to carry out the design that had summoned him to his feet.
The grey dawn, just commencing to creep in through the open doorway, scarce sufficed for his purpose; and it was only after a good while spent in groping about, interspersed with a series of stumblings, and accompanied by a string of profane exclamations, that he succeeded in finding that he was searching for: a large two-headed gourd, with a strap around its middle, used as a canteen for carrying water, or more frequently mezcal[242].
The odour escaping from its uncorked end told that it had recently contained this potent spirit; but that it was now empty, was announced by another profane ejaculation that came from the lips of its owner, as he made the discovery.
“Sangre de Cristo!” he cried, in an accent of angry disappointment, giving the gourd a shake to assure himself of its emptiness. “Not a drop – not enough to drown a chiga! And my tongue sticking to my teeth. My throat feels as if I had bolted a brazero of red-hot charcoal. Por Dios! I can’t stand it. What’s to be done? Daylight? It is. I must up to the pueblita[243]. It’s possible that Señor Doffer may have his trap open by this time to catch the early birds. If so, he’ll find a customer in the Coyote. Ha, ha, ha!”
Slinging the gourd strap around his neck, and thrusting his head through the slit of his serapé, he set forth for the village.
The tavern was but a few hundred yards from his hut, on the same side of the river, and approachable by a path, that he could have travelled with his eyes under “tapojos.” In twenty minutes after, he was staggering past the sign-post of the “Rough and Ready.”
He chanced to be in luck. Oberdoffer was in his bar-room, serving some early customers – a party of soldiers who had stolen out of quarters to swallow their morning dram.
“Mein Gott[244], Mishter Dees!” said the landlord, saluting the newly arrived guest, and without ceremony forsaking six credit customers, for one that he knew to be cash. “Mein Gott! is it you I sees so early ashtir? I knowsh vat you vant. You vant your pig coord fill mit ze Mexican spirits – ag – ag – vat you call it?”
“Aguardiente[245]! You’ve guessed it, cavallero. That’s just what I want.”
“A tollar – von tollar ish the price.”
“Carrambo! I’ve paid it often enough to know that. Here’s the coin, and there’s the canteen. Fill, and be quick about it!”
“Ha! you ish in a hurry, mein herr. Fel – I von’t keeps you waitin’; I suppose you ish off for the wild horsh prairish. If there’s anything goot among the droves, I’m afeart that the Irishmans will pick it up before you. He went off lasht night. He left my housh at a late hour – after midnight it wash – a very late hour, to go a shourney! But he’s a queer cushtomer is that mushtanger, Mister Maurish Sherralt. Nobody knows his ways. I shouldn’t say anythings againsht him. He hash been a goot cushtomer to me. He has paid his bill like a rich man, and he hash plenty peside. Mein Gott! his pockets wash cramm mit tollars!”
On hearing that the Irishman had gone off to the “horsh prairish,” as Oberdoffer termed them, the Mexican by his demeanour betrayed more than an ordinary interest in the announcement.
It was proclaimed, first by a slight start of surprise, and then by an impatience of manner that continued to mark his movements, while listening to the long rigmarole that followed.
It was clear that he did not desire anything of this to be observed. Instead of questioning his informant upon the subject thus started, or voluntarily displaying any interest in it, he rejoined in a careless drawl —
“It don’t concern me, cavallero. There are plenty of musteños[246] on the plains – enough to give employment to all the horse-catchers in Texas. Look alive, señor, and let’s have the aguardiente!”
A little chagrined at being thus rudely checked in his attempt at a gossip, the German Boniface hastily filled the gourd canteen; and, without essaying farther speech, handed it across the counter, took the dollar in exchange, chucked the coin into his till, and then moved back to his military customers, more amiable because drinking upon the score.
Diaz, notwithstanding the eagerness he had lately exhibited to obtain the liquor, walked out of the bar-room, and away from the hotel, without taking the stopper from his canteen, or even appearing to think of it!
His excited air was no longer that of a man merely longing for a glass of ardent spirits. There was something stronger stirring within, that for the time rendered him oblivious of the appetite.
Whatever it may have been it did not drive him direct to his home: for not until he had paid a visit to three other hovels somewhat similar to his own – all situated in the suburbs of the pueblita, and inhabited by men like himself – not till then, did he return to his jacalé.
It was on getting back, that he noticed for the first time the tracks of a shod horse; and saw where the animal had been tied to a tree that stood near the hut.
“Carrambo!” he exclaimed, on perceiving this sign, “the Capitan Americano has been here in the night. Por Dios! I remember something – I thought I had dreamt it. I can guess his errand. He has heard of Don Mauricio’s departure. Perhaps he’ll repeat his visit, when he thinks I’m in a proper state to receive him? Ha! ha! It don’t matter now. The thing’s all understood; and I sha’n’t need any further instructions from him, till I’ve earned his thousand dollars. Mil pesos! What a splendid fortune! Once gained, I shall go back to the Rio Grande, and see what can be done with Isidora.”
After delivering the above soliloquy, he remained at his hut only long enough to swallow a few mouthfuls of roasted tasajo[247], washing them down with as many gulps of mezcal. Then having caught and caparisoned his horse, buckled on his huge heavy spurs, strapped his short carbine to the saddle, thrust a pair of pistols into their holsters, and belted the leathern sheathed macheté on his hip, he sprang into the stirrups, and rode rapidly away.
The short interval that elapsed, before making his appearance on the open plain, was spent in the suburbs of the village – waiting for the three horsemen who accompanied him, and who had been forewarned of their being wanted to act as his coadjutors, in some secret exploit that required their assistance.
Whatever it was, his trio of confrères[248] appeared to have been made acquainted with the scheme; or at all events that the scene of the exploit was to be on the Alamo. When a short distance out upon the plain, seeing Diaz strike off in a diagonal direction, they called out to warn him, that he was not going the right way.
“I know the Alamo well,” said one of them, himself a mustanger. “I’ve hunted horses there many a time. It’s southwest from here. The nearest way to it is through an opening in the chapparal you see out yonder. You are heading too much to the west, Don Miguel!”
“Indeed!” contemptuously retorted the leader of the cuartilla. “You’re a gringo[249], Señor Vicente Barajo! You forget the errand we’re upon; and that we are riding shod horses? Indians don’t go out from Port Inge and then direct to the Alamo to do – no matter what. I suppose you understand me?”
“Oh true!” answered Señor Vicente Barajo, “I beg your pardon, Don Miguel. Carrambo! I did not think of that.”
And without further protest, the three coadjutors of El Coyote fell into his tracks, and followed him in silence – scarce another word passing between him and them, till they had struck the chapparal, at a point several miles above the opening of which Barajo had made mention.
Once under cover of the thicket, the four men dismounted; and, after tying their horses to the trees, commenced a performance that could only be compared to a scene in the gentlemen’s dressing-room of a suburban theatre, preliminary to the representation of some savage and sanguinary drama.
Nor was it the earliest to take saddle. Long before – in fact close following the dawn of day – a much smaller party, consisting of only four horsemen, was seen setting out from the suburbs of the village, and heading their horses in the direction of the Nueces.
These could not be going in search of the dead body of Henry Poindexter. At that hour no one suspected that the young man was dead, or even that he was missing. The riderless horse had not yet come in to tell the tale of woe. The settlement was still slumbering, unconscious that innocent blood had been spilt.
Though setting out from nearly the same point, and proceeding in a like direction, there was not the slightest similarity between the two parties of mounted men. Those earliest a-start were all of pure Iberian[237] blood; or this commingled with Aztecan[238]. In other words they were Mexicans.
It required neither skill nor close scrutiny to discover this. A glance at themselves and their horses, their style of equitation, the slight muscular development of their thighs and hips – more strikingly observable in their deep-tree saddles – the gaily coloured serapes shrouding their shoulders, the wide velveteen calzoneros on their legs, the big spurs on their boots, and broad-brimmed sombreros on their heads, declared them either Mexicans, or men who had adopted the Mexican costume.
That they were the former there was not a question. The sallow hue; the pointed Vandyke[239] beard, covering the chin, sparsely – though not from any thinning by the shears – the black, close-cropped chevelure; the regular facial outline, were all indisputable characteristics of the Hispano-Moro-Aztecan race, who now occupy the ancient territory of the Moctezumas.
One of the four was a man of larger frame than any of his companions. He rode a better horse; was more richly apparelled; carried upon his person arms and equipments of a superior finish; and was otherwise distinguished, so as to leave no doubt about his being the leader of the cuartilla[240].
He was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, nearer to the latter than the former; though a smooth, rounded cheek – furnished with a short and carefully trimmed whisker – gave him the appearance of being younger than he was.
But for a cold animal eye, and a heaviness of feature that betrayed a tendency to behave with brutality – if not with positive cruelty – the individual in question might have been described as handsome.
A well formed mouth, with twin rows of white teeth between the lips, even when these were exhibited in a smile, did not remove this unpleasant impression. It but reminded the beholder of the sardonic grin that may have been given by Satan, when, after the temptation had succeeded, he gazed contemptuously back upon the mother of mankind.
It was not his looks that had led to his having become known among his comrades by a peculiar nick-name; that of an animal well known upon the plains of Texas.
His deeds and disposition had earned for him the unenviable soubriquet “El Coyote.”
How came he to be crossing the prairie at this early hour of the morning – apparently sober, and acting as the leader of others – when on the same morning, but a few hours before, he was seen drunk in his jacalé – so drunk as to be unconscious of having a visitor, or, at all events, incapable of giving that visitor a civil reception?
The change of situation though sudden – and to some extent strange – is not so difficult of explanation. It will be understood after an account has been given of his movements, from the time of Calhoun’s leaving him, till the moment of meeting him in the saddle, in company with his three conpaisanos[241].
On riding away from his hut, Calhoun had left the door, as he had found it, ajar; and in this way did it remain until the morning – El Coyote all the time continuing his sonorous slumber.
At daybreak he was aroused by the raw air that came drifting over him in the shape of a chilly fog. This to some extent sobered him; and, springing up from his skin-covered truck, he commenced staggering over the floor – all the while uttering anathemas against the cold, and the door for letting it in.
It might be expected that he would have shut to the latter on the instant; but he did not. It was the only aperture, excepting some holes arising from dilapidation, by which light was admitted into the interior of the jacalé; and light he wanted, to enable him to carry out the design that had summoned him to his feet.
The grey dawn, just commencing to creep in through the open doorway, scarce sufficed for his purpose; and it was only after a good while spent in groping about, interspersed with a series of stumblings, and accompanied by a string of profane exclamations, that he succeeded in finding that he was searching for: a large two-headed gourd, with a strap around its middle, used as a canteen for carrying water, or more frequently mezcal[242].
The odour escaping from its uncorked end told that it had recently contained this potent spirit; but that it was now empty, was announced by another profane ejaculation that came from the lips of its owner, as he made the discovery.
“Sangre de Cristo!” he cried, in an accent of angry disappointment, giving the gourd a shake to assure himself of its emptiness. “Not a drop – not enough to drown a chiga! And my tongue sticking to my teeth. My throat feels as if I had bolted a brazero of red-hot charcoal. Por Dios! I can’t stand it. What’s to be done? Daylight? It is. I must up to the pueblita[243]. It’s possible that Señor Doffer may have his trap open by this time to catch the early birds. If so, he’ll find a customer in the Coyote. Ha, ha, ha!”
Slinging the gourd strap around his neck, and thrusting his head through the slit of his serapé, he set forth for the village.
The tavern was but a few hundred yards from his hut, on the same side of the river, and approachable by a path, that he could have travelled with his eyes under “tapojos.” In twenty minutes after, he was staggering past the sign-post of the “Rough and Ready.”
He chanced to be in luck. Oberdoffer was in his bar-room, serving some early customers – a party of soldiers who had stolen out of quarters to swallow their morning dram.
“Mein Gott[244], Mishter Dees!” said the landlord, saluting the newly arrived guest, and without ceremony forsaking six credit customers, for one that he knew to be cash. “Mein Gott! is it you I sees so early ashtir? I knowsh vat you vant. You vant your pig coord fill mit ze Mexican spirits – ag – ag – vat you call it?”
“Aguardiente[245]! You’ve guessed it, cavallero. That’s just what I want.”
“A tollar – von tollar ish the price.”
“Carrambo! I’ve paid it often enough to know that. Here’s the coin, and there’s the canteen. Fill, and be quick about it!”
“Ha! you ish in a hurry, mein herr. Fel – I von’t keeps you waitin’; I suppose you ish off for the wild horsh prairish. If there’s anything goot among the droves, I’m afeart that the Irishmans will pick it up before you. He went off lasht night. He left my housh at a late hour – after midnight it wash – a very late hour, to go a shourney! But he’s a queer cushtomer is that mushtanger, Mister Maurish Sherralt. Nobody knows his ways. I shouldn’t say anythings againsht him. He hash been a goot cushtomer to me. He has paid his bill like a rich man, and he hash plenty peside. Mein Gott! his pockets wash cramm mit tollars!”
On hearing that the Irishman had gone off to the “horsh prairish,” as Oberdoffer termed them, the Mexican by his demeanour betrayed more than an ordinary interest in the announcement.
It was proclaimed, first by a slight start of surprise, and then by an impatience of manner that continued to mark his movements, while listening to the long rigmarole that followed.
It was clear that he did not desire anything of this to be observed. Instead of questioning his informant upon the subject thus started, or voluntarily displaying any interest in it, he rejoined in a careless drawl —
“It don’t concern me, cavallero. There are plenty of musteños[246] on the plains – enough to give employment to all the horse-catchers in Texas. Look alive, señor, and let’s have the aguardiente!”
A little chagrined at being thus rudely checked in his attempt at a gossip, the German Boniface hastily filled the gourd canteen; and, without essaying farther speech, handed it across the counter, took the dollar in exchange, chucked the coin into his till, and then moved back to his military customers, more amiable because drinking upon the score.
Diaz, notwithstanding the eagerness he had lately exhibited to obtain the liquor, walked out of the bar-room, and away from the hotel, without taking the stopper from his canteen, or even appearing to think of it!
His excited air was no longer that of a man merely longing for a glass of ardent spirits. There was something stronger stirring within, that for the time rendered him oblivious of the appetite.
Whatever it may have been it did not drive him direct to his home: for not until he had paid a visit to three other hovels somewhat similar to his own – all situated in the suburbs of the pueblita, and inhabited by men like himself – not till then, did he return to his jacalé.
It was on getting back, that he noticed for the first time the tracks of a shod horse; and saw where the animal had been tied to a tree that stood near the hut.
“Carrambo!” he exclaimed, on perceiving this sign, “the Capitan Americano has been here in the night. Por Dios! I remember something – I thought I had dreamt it. I can guess his errand. He has heard of Don Mauricio’s departure. Perhaps he’ll repeat his visit, when he thinks I’m in a proper state to receive him? Ha! ha! It don’t matter now. The thing’s all understood; and I sha’n’t need any further instructions from him, till I’ve earned his thousand dollars. Mil pesos! What a splendid fortune! Once gained, I shall go back to the Rio Grande, and see what can be done with Isidora.”
After delivering the above soliloquy, he remained at his hut only long enough to swallow a few mouthfuls of roasted tasajo[247], washing them down with as many gulps of mezcal. Then having caught and caparisoned his horse, buckled on his huge heavy spurs, strapped his short carbine to the saddle, thrust a pair of pistols into their holsters, and belted the leathern sheathed macheté on his hip, he sprang into the stirrups, and rode rapidly away.
The short interval that elapsed, before making his appearance on the open plain, was spent in the suburbs of the village – waiting for the three horsemen who accompanied him, and who had been forewarned of their being wanted to act as his coadjutors, in some secret exploit that required their assistance.
Whatever it was, his trio of confrères[248] appeared to have been made acquainted with the scheme; or at all events that the scene of the exploit was to be on the Alamo. When a short distance out upon the plain, seeing Diaz strike off in a diagonal direction, they called out to warn him, that he was not going the right way.
“I know the Alamo well,” said one of them, himself a mustanger. “I’ve hunted horses there many a time. It’s southwest from here. The nearest way to it is through an opening in the chapparal you see out yonder. You are heading too much to the west, Don Miguel!”
“Indeed!” contemptuously retorted the leader of the cuartilla. “You’re a gringo[249], Señor Vicente Barajo! You forget the errand we’re upon; and that we are riding shod horses? Indians don’t go out from Port Inge and then direct to the Alamo to do – no matter what. I suppose you understand me?”
“Oh true!” answered Señor Vicente Barajo, “I beg your pardon, Don Miguel. Carrambo! I did not think of that.”
And without further protest, the three coadjutors of El Coyote fell into his tracks, and followed him in silence – scarce another word passing between him and them, till they had struck the chapparal, at a point several miles above the opening of which Barajo had made mention.
Once under cover of the thicket, the four men dismounted; and, after tying their horses to the trees, commenced a performance that could only be compared to a scene in the gentlemen’s dressing-room of a suburban theatre, preliminary to the representation of some savage and sanguinary drama.
Chapter 42
Vultures on the Wing
He who has travelled across the plains of Southern Texas cannot fail to have witnessed a spectacle of common occurrence – a flock of black vultures upon the wing.
An hundred or more in the flock, swooping in circles, or wide spiral gyrations – now descending almost to touch the prairie award, or the spray of the chapparal – anon soaring upward by a power in which the wing bears no part – their pointed pinions sharply cutting against the clear sky – they constitute a picture of rare interest, one truly characteristic of a tropical clime.
The traveller who sees it for the first time will not fail to rein up his horse, and sit in his saddle, viewing it with feelings of curious interest. Even he who is accustomed to the spectacle will not pass on without indulging in a certain train of thought which it is calculated to call forth.
There is a tale told by the assemblage of base birds. On the ground beneath them, whether seen by the traveller or not, is stretched some stricken creature – quadruped, or it may be man – dead, or it may be dying.
On the morning that succeeded that sombre night, when the three solitary horsemen made the crossing of the plain, a spectacle similar to that described might have been witnessed above the chapparal into which they had ridden. A flock of black vultures, of both species, was disporting above the tops of the trees, near the point where the avenue angled.
At daybreak not one could have been seen. In less than an hour after, hundreds were hovering above the spot, on widespread wings, their shadows sailing darkly over the green spray of the chapparal.
A Texan traveller entering the avenue, and observing the ominous assemblage, would at once have concluded, that there was death upon his track.
Going farther, he would have found confirmatory evidence, in a pool of blood trampled by the hooves of horses.
Not exactly over this were the vultures engaged in their aerial evolutions. The centre of their swoopings appeared to be a point some distance off among the trees; and there, no doubt, would be discovered the quarry that had called them together.
At that early hour there was no traveller – Texan, or stranger – to test the truth of the conjecture; but, for all that, it was true.
At a point in the chapparal, about a quarter of a mile from the blood-stained path, lay stretched upon the ground the object that was engaging the attention of the vultures.
It was not carrion, nor yet a quadruped; but a human being – a man!
A young man, too, of noble lineaments and graceful shape – so far as could be seen under the cloak that shrouded his recumbent form – with a face fair to look upon, even in death.
Was he dead?
At first sight any one would have said so, and the black birds believed it. His attitude and countenance seemed to proclaim it beyond question.
He was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky – no care being taken to shelter it from the sun. His limbs, too, were not in a natural posture; but extended stiffly along the stony surface, as if he had lost the power to control them.
A colossal tree was near, a live oak, but it did not shadow him. He was outside the canopy of its frondage; and the sun’s beams, just beginning to penetrate the chapparal, were slanting down upon his pale face – paler by reflection from a white Panama hat that but partially shaded it.
His features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep. It had more the look of death than sleep. The eyes were but half closed; and the pupils could be seen glancing through the lashes, glassy and dilated. Was the man dead?
Beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was. But the black birds were judging only by appearances. Their wish was parent to the thought. They were mistaken.
Whether it was the glint of the sun striking into his half-screened orbs, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame.
Soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow, stared confusedly around him.
The vultures soared upward into the air, and for the time maintained a higher flight.
“Am I dead, or living?” muttered he to himself. “Dreaming, or awake? Which is it? Where am I?”
The sunlight was blinding him. He could see nothing, till he had shaded his eyes with his hand; then only indistinctly.
“Trees above – around me! Stones underneath! That I can tell by the aching of my bones. A chapparal forest! How came I into it?
“Now I have it,” continued he, after a short spell of reflection. “My head was dashed against a tree. There it is – the very limb that lifted me out of the saddle. My left leg pains me. Ah! I remember; it came in contact with the trunk. By heavens, I believe it is broken!”
As he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect attitude. It proved a failure. His sinister limb would lend him no assistance: it was swollen at the knee-joint – either shattered or dislocated.
“Where is the horse? Gone off, of course. By this time, in the stables of Casa del Corvo. I need not care now. I could not mount him, if he were standing by my side.
“The other?” he added, after a pause. “Good heavens! what a spectacle it was! No wonder it scared the one I was riding!
“What am I to do? My leg may be broken. I can’t stir from this spot, without some one to help me. Ten chances to one – a hundred – a thousand – against any one coming this way; at least not till I’ve become food for those filthy birds. Ugh! the hideous brutes; they stretch out their beaks, as if already sure of making a meal upon me!
“How long have I been lying here? The surf don’t seem very high. It was just daybreak, as I climbed into the saddle. I suppose I’ve been unconscious about an hour. By my faith, I’m in a serious scrape? In all likelihood a broken limb – it feels broken – with no surgeon to set it; a stony couch in the heart of a Texan chapparal – the thicket around me, perhaps for miles – no chance to escape from it of myself – no hope of human creature coming to help me – wolves on the earth, and vultures in the air! Great God! why did I mount, without making sure of the rein? I may have ridden my last ride!”
The countenance of the young man became clouded; and the cloud grew darker, and deeper, as he continued to reflect upon the perilous position in which a simple accident had placed him.
Once more he essayed to rise to his feet, and succeeded; only to find, that he had but one leg on which he could rely! It was no use, standing upon it; and he lay down again.
Two hours were passed without any change in his situation; during which he had caused the chapparal to ring with a loud hallooing. He only desisted from this, under the conviction: that there was no one at all likely to hear him.
The shouting caused thirst; or at all events hastened the advent of this appetite – surely coming on as the concomitant of the injuries he had received.
The sensation was soon experienced to such an extent that everything else – even the pain of his wounds – became of trifling consideration.
“It will kill me, if I stay here?” reflected the sufferer. “I must make an effort to reach water. If I remember aright there’s a stream somewhere in this chapparal, and not such a great way off. I must get to it, if I have to crawl upon my hands and knees. Knees! and only one in a condition to support me! There’s no help for it but try. The longer I stay here, the worse it will be. The sun grows hotter. It already burns into my brain. I may lose my senses, and then – the wolves – the vultures – ”
The horrid apprehension caused silence and shuddering. After a time he continued:
“If I but knew the right way to go. I remember the stream well enough. It runs towards the chalk prairie. It should be south-east, from here. I shall try that way. By good luck the sun guides me. If I find water all may yet be well. God give me strength to reach it!”
With this prayer upon his lips, he commenced making his way through the thicket – creeping over the stony ground, and dragging after him his disabled leg, like some huge Saurian[250] whose vertebrae have been disjointed by a blow!
Lizard-like, he continued his crawl.
The effort was painful in the extreme; but the apprehension from which he suffered was still more painful, and urged him to continue it.
He well knew there was a chance of his falling a victim to thirst – almost a certainty, if he did not succeed in finding water.
Stimulated by this knowledge he crept on.
At short intervals he was compelled to pause, and recruit his strength by a little rest. A man does not travel far, on his hands and knees, without feeling fatigued. Much more, when one of the four members cannot be employed in the effort.
His progress was slow and irksome. Besides, it was being made under the most discouraging circumstances. He might not be going in the right direction? Nothing but the dread of death could have induced him to keep on.
He had made about a quarter of a mile from the point of starting, when it occurred to him that a better plan of locomotion might be adopted – one that would, at all events, vary the monotony of his march.
“Perhaps,” said he, “I might manage to hobble a bit, if I only had a crutch? Ho! my knife is still here. Thank fortune for that! And there’s a sapling of the right size – a bit of blackjack. It will do.”
Drawing the knife – a “bowie” – from his belt, he cut down the dwarf-oak; and soon reduced it to a rude kind of crutch; a fork in the tree serving for the head.
Then rising erect, and fitting the fork into his armpit, he proceeded with his exploration.
He knew the necessity of keeping to one course; and, as he had chosen the south-east, he continued in this direction.
It was not so easy. The sun was his only compass; but this had now reached the meridian, and, in the latitude of Southern Texas, at that season of the year, the midday sun is almost in the zenith. Moreover, he had the chapparal to contend with, requiring constant détours to take advantage of its openings. He had a sort of guide in the sloping of the ground: for he knew that downward he was more likely to find the stream.
After proceeding about a mile – not in one continued march, but by short stages, with intervals of rest between – he came upon a track made by the wild animals that frequent the chapparal. It was slight, but running in a direct line – a proof that it led to some point of peculiar consideration – in all likelihood a watering-place – stream, pond, or spring.
Any of these three would serve his purpose; and, without longer looking to the sun, or the slope of the ground, he advanced along the trail – now hobbling upon his crutch, and at times, when tired of this mode, dropping down upon his hands and crawling as before.
The cheerful anticipations he had indulged in, on discovering the trail, soon, came to a termination. It became blind. In other words it ran out – ending in a glade surrounded by impervious masses of underwood. He saw, to his dismay, that it led from the glade, instead of towards it. He had been following it the wrong way!
Unpleasant as was the alternative, there was no other than to return upon his track. To stay in the glade would have been to die there.
He retraced the trodden path – going on beyond the point where he had first struck it.
Nothing but the torture of thirst could have endowed him with strength or spirit to proceed. And this was every moment becoming more unendurable.
The trees through which he was making way were mostly acacias, interspersed with cactus and wild agave. They afforded scarce any shelter from the sun, that now in mid-heaven glared down through their gossamer foliage with the fervour of fire itself.
The perspiration, oozing through every pore of his skin, increased the tendency to thirst – until the appetite became an agony!
Within reach of his hand were the glutinous legumes of the mezquites, filled with mellifluous moisture. The agaves and cactus plants, if tapped, would have exuded an abundance of juice. The former was too sweet, the latter too acrid to tempt him.
He was acquainted with the character of both. He knew that, instead of allaying his thirst, they would only have added to its intensity.
He passed the depending pods, without plucking them. He passed the succulent stalks, without tapping thorn.
To augment his anguish, he now discovered that the wounded limb was, every moment, becoming more unmanageable. It had swollen to enormous dimensions. Every step caused him a spasm of pain. Even if going in the direction of the doubtful streamlet, he might never succeed in reaching it? If not, there was no hope for him. He could but lie down in the thicket, and die!
Death would not be immediate. Although suffering acute pain in his head, neither the shock it had received, nor the damage done to his knee, were like to prove speedily fatal. He might dread a more painful way of dying than from wounds. Thirst would be his destroyer – of all shapes of death perhaps the most agonising.
The thought stimulated him to renewed efforts; and despite the slow progress he was able to make – despite the pain experienced in making it – he toiled on.
The black birds hovering above, kept pace with his halting step and laborious crawl. Now more than a mile from the point of their first segregation, they were all of them still there – their numbers even augmented by fresh detachments that had become warned of the expected prey. Though aware that the quarry still lived and moved, they saw that it was stricken. Instinct – perhaps rather experience – told them it must soon succumb.
Their shadows crossed and recrossed the track upon which he advanced – filling him with ominous fears for the end.
There was no noise: for these birds are silent in their flight – even when excited by the prospect of a repast. The hot sun had stilled the voices of the crickets and tree-toads. Even the hideous “horned frog” reclined listless along the earth, sheltering its tuberculated body under the stones.
The only sounds to disturb the solitude of the chapparal were those made by the sufferer himself – the swishing of his garments, as they brushed against the hirsute plants that beset the path; and occasionally his cries, sent forth in the faint hope of their being heard.
By this time, blood was mingling with the sweat upon his skin. The spines of the cactus, and the clawlike thorns of the agave, had been doing their work; and scarce an inch of the epidermis upon his face, hands, and limbs, that was not rent with a laceration.
He was near to the point of despondence – in real truth, he had reached it: for after a spell of shouting he had flung himself prostrate along the earth, despairingly indifferent about proceeding farther.
In all likelihood it was the attitude that saved him. Lying with his ear close to the surface, he heard a sound – so slight, that it would not have been otherwise discernible.
Slight as it was, he could distinguish it, as the very sound for which his senses were sharpened. It was the murmur of moving water!
With an ejaculation of joy, he sprang to his feet, as if nothing were amiss; and made direct towards the point whence proceeded the sound.
He plied his improvised crutch with redoubled energy. Even the disabled leg appeared to sustain him. It was strength and the love of life, struggling against decrepitude and the fear of death.
The former proved victorious; and, in ten minutes after, he lay stretched along the sward, on the banks of a crystal streamlet – wondering why the want of water could have caused him such indescribable agony!
An hundred or more in the flock, swooping in circles, or wide spiral gyrations – now descending almost to touch the prairie award, or the spray of the chapparal – anon soaring upward by a power in which the wing bears no part – their pointed pinions sharply cutting against the clear sky – they constitute a picture of rare interest, one truly characteristic of a tropical clime.
The traveller who sees it for the first time will not fail to rein up his horse, and sit in his saddle, viewing it with feelings of curious interest. Even he who is accustomed to the spectacle will not pass on without indulging in a certain train of thought which it is calculated to call forth.
There is a tale told by the assemblage of base birds. On the ground beneath them, whether seen by the traveller or not, is stretched some stricken creature – quadruped, or it may be man – dead, or it may be dying.
On the morning that succeeded that sombre night, when the three solitary horsemen made the crossing of the plain, a spectacle similar to that described might have been witnessed above the chapparal into which they had ridden. A flock of black vultures, of both species, was disporting above the tops of the trees, near the point where the avenue angled.
At daybreak not one could have been seen. In less than an hour after, hundreds were hovering above the spot, on widespread wings, their shadows sailing darkly over the green spray of the chapparal.
A Texan traveller entering the avenue, and observing the ominous assemblage, would at once have concluded, that there was death upon his track.
Going farther, he would have found confirmatory evidence, in a pool of blood trampled by the hooves of horses.
Not exactly over this were the vultures engaged in their aerial evolutions. The centre of their swoopings appeared to be a point some distance off among the trees; and there, no doubt, would be discovered the quarry that had called them together.
At that early hour there was no traveller – Texan, or stranger – to test the truth of the conjecture; but, for all that, it was true.
At a point in the chapparal, about a quarter of a mile from the blood-stained path, lay stretched upon the ground the object that was engaging the attention of the vultures.
It was not carrion, nor yet a quadruped; but a human being – a man!
A young man, too, of noble lineaments and graceful shape – so far as could be seen under the cloak that shrouded his recumbent form – with a face fair to look upon, even in death.
Was he dead?
At first sight any one would have said so, and the black birds believed it. His attitude and countenance seemed to proclaim it beyond question.
He was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky – no care being taken to shelter it from the sun. His limbs, too, were not in a natural posture; but extended stiffly along the stony surface, as if he had lost the power to control them.
A colossal tree was near, a live oak, but it did not shadow him. He was outside the canopy of its frondage; and the sun’s beams, just beginning to penetrate the chapparal, were slanting down upon his pale face – paler by reflection from a white Panama hat that but partially shaded it.
His features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep. It had more the look of death than sleep. The eyes were but half closed; and the pupils could be seen glancing through the lashes, glassy and dilated. Was the man dead?
Beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was. But the black birds were judging only by appearances. Their wish was parent to the thought. They were mistaken.
Whether it was the glint of the sun striking into his half-screened orbs, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame.
Soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow, stared confusedly around him.
The vultures soared upward into the air, and for the time maintained a higher flight.
“Am I dead, or living?” muttered he to himself. “Dreaming, or awake? Which is it? Where am I?”
The sunlight was blinding him. He could see nothing, till he had shaded his eyes with his hand; then only indistinctly.
“Trees above – around me! Stones underneath! That I can tell by the aching of my bones. A chapparal forest! How came I into it?
“Now I have it,” continued he, after a short spell of reflection. “My head was dashed against a tree. There it is – the very limb that lifted me out of the saddle. My left leg pains me. Ah! I remember; it came in contact with the trunk. By heavens, I believe it is broken!”
As he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect attitude. It proved a failure. His sinister limb would lend him no assistance: it was swollen at the knee-joint – either shattered or dislocated.
“Where is the horse? Gone off, of course. By this time, in the stables of Casa del Corvo. I need not care now. I could not mount him, if he were standing by my side.
“The other?” he added, after a pause. “Good heavens! what a spectacle it was! No wonder it scared the one I was riding!
“What am I to do? My leg may be broken. I can’t stir from this spot, without some one to help me. Ten chances to one – a hundred – a thousand – against any one coming this way; at least not till I’ve become food for those filthy birds. Ugh! the hideous brutes; they stretch out their beaks, as if already sure of making a meal upon me!
“How long have I been lying here? The surf don’t seem very high. It was just daybreak, as I climbed into the saddle. I suppose I’ve been unconscious about an hour. By my faith, I’m in a serious scrape? In all likelihood a broken limb – it feels broken – with no surgeon to set it; a stony couch in the heart of a Texan chapparal – the thicket around me, perhaps for miles – no chance to escape from it of myself – no hope of human creature coming to help me – wolves on the earth, and vultures in the air! Great God! why did I mount, without making sure of the rein? I may have ridden my last ride!”
The countenance of the young man became clouded; and the cloud grew darker, and deeper, as he continued to reflect upon the perilous position in which a simple accident had placed him.
Once more he essayed to rise to his feet, and succeeded; only to find, that he had but one leg on which he could rely! It was no use, standing upon it; and he lay down again.
Two hours were passed without any change in his situation; during which he had caused the chapparal to ring with a loud hallooing. He only desisted from this, under the conviction: that there was no one at all likely to hear him.
The shouting caused thirst; or at all events hastened the advent of this appetite – surely coming on as the concomitant of the injuries he had received.
The sensation was soon experienced to such an extent that everything else – even the pain of his wounds – became of trifling consideration.
“It will kill me, if I stay here?” reflected the sufferer. “I must make an effort to reach water. If I remember aright there’s a stream somewhere in this chapparal, and not such a great way off. I must get to it, if I have to crawl upon my hands and knees. Knees! and only one in a condition to support me! There’s no help for it but try. The longer I stay here, the worse it will be. The sun grows hotter. It already burns into my brain. I may lose my senses, and then – the wolves – the vultures – ”
The horrid apprehension caused silence and shuddering. After a time he continued:
“If I but knew the right way to go. I remember the stream well enough. It runs towards the chalk prairie. It should be south-east, from here. I shall try that way. By good luck the sun guides me. If I find water all may yet be well. God give me strength to reach it!”
With this prayer upon his lips, he commenced making his way through the thicket – creeping over the stony ground, and dragging after him his disabled leg, like some huge Saurian[250] whose vertebrae have been disjointed by a blow!
Lizard-like, he continued his crawl.
The effort was painful in the extreme; but the apprehension from which he suffered was still more painful, and urged him to continue it.
He well knew there was a chance of his falling a victim to thirst – almost a certainty, if he did not succeed in finding water.
Stimulated by this knowledge he crept on.
At short intervals he was compelled to pause, and recruit his strength by a little rest. A man does not travel far, on his hands and knees, without feeling fatigued. Much more, when one of the four members cannot be employed in the effort.
His progress was slow and irksome. Besides, it was being made under the most discouraging circumstances. He might not be going in the right direction? Nothing but the dread of death could have induced him to keep on.
He had made about a quarter of a mile from the point of starting, when it occurred to him that a better plan of locomotion might be adopted – one that would, at all events, vary the monotony of his march.
“Perhaps,” said he, “I might manage to hobble a bit, if I only had a crutch? Ho! my knife is still here. Thank fortune for that! And there’s a sapling of the right size – a bit of blackjack. It will do.”
Drawing the knife – a “bowie” – from his belt, he cut down the dwarf-oak; and soon reduced it to a rude kind of crutch; a fork in the tree serving for the head.
Then rising erect, and fitting the fork into his armpit, he proceeded with his exploration.
He knew the necessity of keeping to one course; and, as he had chosen the south-east, he continued in this direction.
It was not so easy. The sun was his only compass; but this had now reached the meridian, and, in the latitude of Southern Texas, at that season of the year, the midday sun is almost in the zenith. Moreover, he had the chapparal to contend with, requiring constant détours to take advantage of its openings. He had a sort of guide in the sloping of the ground: for he knew that downward he was more likely to find the stream.
After proceeding about a mile – not in one continued march, but by short stages, with intervals of rest between – he came upon a track made by the wild animals that frequent the chapparal. It was slight, but running in a direct line – a proof that it led to some point of peculiar consideration – in all likelihood a watering-place – stream, pond, or spring.
Any of these three would serve his purpose; and, without longer looking to the sun, or the slope of the ground, he advanced along the trail – now hobbling upon his crutch, and at times, when tired of this mode, dropping down upon his hands and crawling as before.
The cheerful anticipations he had indulged in, on discovering the trail, soon, came to a termination. It became blind. In other words it ran out – ending in a glade surrounded by impervious masses of underwood. He saw, to his dismay, that it led from the glade, instead of towards it. He had been following it the wrong way!
Unpleasant as was the alternative, there was no other than to return upon his track. To stay in the glade would have been to die there.
He retraced the trodden path – going on beyond the point where he had first struck it.
Nothing but the torture of thirst could have endowed him with strength or spirit to proceed. And this was every moment becoming more unendurable.
The trees through which he was making way were mostly acacias, interspersed with cactus and wild agave. They afforded scarce any shelter from the sun, that now in mid-heaven glared down through their gossamer foliage with the fervour of fire itself.
The perspiration, oozing through every pore of his skin, increased the tendency to thirst – until the appetite became an agony!
Within reach of his hand were the glutinous legumes of the mezquites, filled with mellifluous moisture. The agaves and cactus plants, if tapped, would have exuded an abundance of juice. The former was too sweet, the latter too acrid to tempt him.
He was acquainted with the character of both. He knew that, instead of allaying his thirst, they would only have added to its intensity.
He passed the depending pods, without plucking them. He passed the succulent stalks, without tapping thorn.
To augment his anguish, he now discovered that the wounded limb was, every moment, becoming more unmanageable. It had swollen to enormous dimensions. Every step caused him a spasm of pain. Even if going in the direction of the doubtful streamlet, he might never succeed in reaching it? If not, there was no hope for him. He could but lie down in the thicket, and die!
Death would not be immediate. Although suffering acute pain in his head, neither the shock it had received, nor the damage done to his knee, were like to prove speedily fatal. He might dread a more painful way of dying than from wounds. Thirst would be his destroyer – of all shapes of death perhaps the most agonising.
The thought stimulated him to renewed efforts; and despite the slow progress he was able to make – despite the pain experienced in making it – he toiled on.
The black birds hovering above, kept pace with his halting step and laborious crawl. Now more than a mile from the point of their first segregation, they were all of them still there – their numbers even augmented by fresh detachments that had become warned of the expected prey. Though aware that the quarry still lived and moved, they saw that it was stricken. Instinct – perhaps rather experience – told them it must soon succumb.
Their shadows crossed and recrossed the track upon which he advanced – filling him with ominous fears for the end.
There was no noise: for these birds are silent in their flight – even when excited by the prospect of a repast. The hot sun had stilled the voices of the crickets and tree-toads. Even the hideous “horned frog” reclined listless along the earth, sheltering its tuberculated body under the stones.
The only sounds to disturb the solitude of the chapparal were those made by the sufferer himself – the swishing of his garments, as they brushed against the hirsute plants that beset the path; and occasionally his cries, sent forth in the faint hope of their being heard.
By this time, blood was mingling with the sweat upon his skin. The spines of the cactus, and the clawlike thorns of the agave, had been doing their work; and scarce an inch of the epidermis upon his face, hands, and limbs, that was not rent with a laceration.
He was near to the point of despondence – in real truth, he had reached it: for after a spell of shouting he had flung himself prostrate along the earth, despairingly indifferent about proceeding farther.
In all likelihood it was the attitude that saved him. Lying with his ear close to the surface, he heard a sound – so slight, that it would not have been otherwise discernible.
Slight as it was, he could distinguish it, as the very sound for which his senses were sharpened. It was the murmur of moving water!
With an ejaculation of joy, he sprang to his feet, as if nothing were amiss; and made direct towards the point whence proceeded the sound.
He plied his improvised crutch with redoubled energy. Even the disabled leg appeared to sustain him. It was strength and the love of life, struggling against decrepitude and the fear of death.
The former proved victorious; and, in ten minutes after, he lay stretched along the sward, on the banks of a crystal streamlet – wondering why the want of water could have caused him such indescribable agony!
Chapter 43
The Cup and the Jar
Once more the mustanger’s hut! Once more his henchman, astride of a stool in the middle of the floor! Once more his hound lying astretch upon the skin-covered hearth, with snout half buried in the cinders!
The relative positions of the man and the dog are essentially the same – as when seen on a former occasion – their attitudes almost identical. Otherwise there is a change in the picture since last painted – a transformation at once striking and significant.
The horse-hide door, standing ajar, still hangs upon its hinges; and the smooth coats of the wild steeds shine lustrously along the walls. The slab table, too, is there, the trestle bedstead, the two stools, and the “shake down” of the servitor.
But the other “chattels” wont to be displayed against the skin tapestry are either out of sight, or displaced. The double gun has been removed from its rack; the silver cup, hunting horn, and dog-call, are no longer suspended from their respective pegs; the saddle, bridles, ropes, and serapés are unslung; and the books, ink, pens, and papeterie have entirely disappeared.
At first sight it might be supposed that Indians have paid a visit to the jacalé, and pillaged it of its penates.
But no. Had this been the case, Phelim would not be sitting so unconcernedly on the stool, with his carroty scalp still upon his head.
Though the walls are stripped nothing has been carried away. The articles are still there, only with a change of place; and the presence of several corded packages, lying irregularly over the floor – among which is the leathern portmanteau – proclaims the purpose of the transposition.
Though a clearing out has not been made, it is evident that one is intended.
In the midst of the general displacement, one piece of plenishing was still seen in its accustomed corner – the demijohn. It was seen by Phelim, oftener than any other article in the room: for no matter in what direction he might turn his eyes, they were sure to come round again to that wicker-covered vessel that stood so temptingly in the angle.
“Ach! me jewel, it’s there yez are!” said he, apostrophising the demijohn for about the twentieth time, “wid more than two quarts av the crayther inside yer bewtifull belly, and not doin’ ye a bit av good, nayther. If the tinth part av it was inside av me, it wud be a moighty binnefit to me intistines. Trath wud it that same. Wudn’t it, Tara?”
On hearing his name pronounced, the dog raised his head and looked inquiringly around, to see what was wanted of him.
Perceiving that his human companion was but talking to himself, he resumed his attitude of repose.
“Faix! I don’t want any answer to that, owld boy. It’s meself that knows it, widout tillin’. A hape av good a glass of that same potyeen would do me; and I dar’n’t touch a dhrap, afther fwhat the masther sid to me about it. Afther all that packin’, too, till me throat is stickin’ to me tongue, as if I had been thryin’ to swallow a pitch plaster. Sowl! it’s a shame av Masther Maurice to make me promise agaynst touchin’ the dhrink – espacially when it’s not goin’ to be wanted. Didn’t he say he wudn’t stay more than wan night, whin he come back heeur; an shure he won’t conshume two quarts in wan night – unless that owld sinner Stump comes along wid him. Bad luck to his greedy gut! he gets more av the Manongahayla than the masther himsilf.
“There’s wan consolashun, an thank the Lord for it, we’re goin’ back to the owld sad, an the owld place at Ballyballagh. Won’t I have a skinful when I get thare – av the raal stuff too, instid of this Amerikyan rotgut! Hooch – hoop – horoo! The thought av it’s enough to sit a man mad wid deloight. Hooch – hoop – horoo!”
Tossing his wide-awake up among the rafters, and catching it as it came down again, the excited Galwegian several times repeated his ludicrous shibboleth. Then becoming tranquil he sate for awhile in silence – his thoughts dwelling with pleasant anticipation on the joys that awaited him at Ballyballagh.
The relative positions of the man and the dog are essentially the same – as when seen on a former occasion – their attitudes almost identical. Otherwise there is a change in the picture since last painted – a transformation at once striking and significant.
The horse-hide door, standing ajar, still hangs upon its hinges; and the smooth coats of the wild steeds shine lustrously along the walls. The slab table, too, is there, the trestle bedstead, the two stools, and the “shake down” of the servitor.
But the other “chattels” wont to be displayed against the skin tapestry are either out of sight, or displaced. The double gun has been removed from its rack; the silver cup, hunting horn, and dog-call, are no longer suspended from their respective pegs; the saddle, bridles, ropes, and serapés are unslung; and the books, ink, pens, and papeterie have entirely disappeared.
At first sight it might be supposed that Indians have paid a visit to the jacalé, and pillaged it of its penates.
But no. Had this been the case, Phelim would not be sitting so unconcernedly on the stool, with his carroty scalp still upon his head.
Though the walls are stripped nothing has been carried away. The articles are still there, only with a change of place; and the presence of several corded packages, lying irregularly over the floor – among which is the leathern portmanteau – proclaims the purpose of the transposition.
Though a clearing out has not been made, it is evident that one is intended.
In the midst of the general displacement, one piece of plenishing was still seen in its accustomed corner – the demijohn. It was seen by Phelim, oftener than any other article in the room: for no matter in what direction he might turn his eyes, they were sure to come round again to that wicker-covered vessel that stood so temptingly in the angle.
“Ach! me jewel, it’s there yez are!” said he, apostrophising the demijohn for about the twentieth time, “wid more than two quarts av the crayther inside yer bewtifull belly, and not doin’ ye a bit av good, nayther. If the tinth part av it was inside av me, it wud be a moighty binnefit to me intistines. Trath wud it that same. Wudn’t it, Tara?”
On hearing his name pronounced, the dog raised his head and looked inquiringly around, to see what was wanted of him.
Perceiving that his human companion was but talking to himself, he resumed his attitude of repose.
“Faix! I don’t want any answer to that, owld boy. It’s meself that knows it, widout tillin’. A hape av good a glass of that same potyeen would do me; and I dar’n’t touch a dhrap, afther fwhat the masther sid to me about it. Afther all that packin’, too, till me throat is stickin’ to me tongue, as if I had been thryin’ to swallow a pitch plaster. Sowl! it’s a shame av Masther Maurice to make me promise agaynst touchin’ the dhrink – espacially when it’s not goin’ to be wanted. Didn’t he say he wudn’t stay more than wan night, whin he come back heeur; an shure he won’t conshume two quarts in wan night – unless that owld sinner Stump comes along wid him. Bad luck to his greedy gut! he gets more av the Manongahayla than the masther himsilf.
“There’s wan consolashun, an thank the Lord for it, we’re goin’ back to the owld sad, an the owld place at Ballyballagh. Won’t I have a skinful when I get thare – av the raal stuff too, instid of this Amerikyan rotgut! Hooch – hoop – horoo! The thought av it’s enough to sit a man mad wid deloight. Hooch – hoop – horoo!”
Tossing his wide-awake up among the rafters, and catching it as it came down again, the excited Galwegian several times repeated his ludicrous shibboleth. Then becoming tranquil he sate for awhile in silence – his thoughts dwelling with pleasant anticipation on the joys that awaited him at Ballyballagh.