The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

“A piece o’ a man,” was the reply.

By this time Bully had produced the identical article. Knowing what was wanted of him, he saw there would be no use in attempting to “dodge” the demand; and, without troubling the other impedimenta, which the sack contained, he drew out only the article requiring inspection.

It was the finger of a man, encircled by a heavy gold ring, deeply embedded in the swollen flesh! It had been cut off at the posterior joint, close to the hand; and a portion of the muscle of the two adjacent fingers was still attached to it. All this had been done to secure the ring which could not, without breaking it, have been detached from the finger.

The sight, taken in connection with the history deduced from its being in possession of the trooper, was sufficiently horrible.

I did not allow my eyes to dwell upon it; and the shower of blows which I administered to the inhuman scoundrel were not the less heavily dealt on my being told that the finger had belonged to the same corpse which Laundrich had despoiled of its boots!

Ordering the fragment of humanity to be brought along – with the design of some day sending the ring to the friends of the mutilated man – I resumed the route; painfully impressed with the disagreeable circumstances, which had thus disturbed the tranquillity of my temper.

Story 1, Chapter XVII

A Riderless Horse

We halted about midway on the road to Jalapa, at a place called Corral Falso, which, literally translated, signifies “The False Enclosure.”

I know not why the name; but certain it is, that a large enclosure of mason work, with a portion of it in ruins, occupied the summit of the slight eminence where the village stands.

This enclosure may have been a “corral” or penn for cattle, or perhaps a “paraje” for pack mules; though it seemed to be no longer used for any purpose – as it exhibited the appearance of a ruin overgrown with bushes and rank weeds.

The village itself may also have seen more prosperous days – in the times of vice-regal rule – but Corral Falso, on the occasion of my making halt in it, was nothing more than a very small collection of huts, constructed out of tree poles – “Jacales” – and constituting that grouping, known in Mexico as a rancheria– a collection of “ranchos.”

The vanquished army, in its retreat, as well as the victors in their pursuit having passed through the place, had temporarily deprived Corral Falso of its inhabitants. They had taken to the wild chapparal which grew close to their village; and there had they hidden themselves.

But since then a whole day had intervened; and hunger had forced them back to their despoiled homes – at the same time inspiring them with courage to stay there, or at all events with a repugnance to return to the starving shelter of the chapparal.

We found the Corral Falsenians at home – of both sexes and of all ages – all alike trembling at our approach, and evidently gratified to find that we did not eat them up!

I have given this prominence to the pretty paraje Corral Falso, not out of any consideration for the place itself but on account of an incident that transpired there, which resulted in my losing two of my men; and – which was of far more importance to me – was very nearly ending in the loss of myself!

We had halted to “bait” our animals – from their own nosebags of course: for there was not as much corn in Corral Falso as would have filled the crop of a chicken.

While thus occupied, it was reported to me – that one of the horses would not eat; but on the contrary, was more likely to die.

He had been stricken by the sun, or had got the staggers from some other unexplained cause; which ended by his tumbling over upon the road, and stretching out his limbs in their last tremulous struggle.

The horse belonged to the lieutenant of my troop; who was now, of course, démonté.

Slight as the contretemps may appear, or might have been under other circumstances, it placed us at the time in somewhat of a dilemma. One of the men would have to be dismounted, in order that the officer might ride; but how was the man to be taken along? I had been ordered to report speedily at head-quarters in Jalapa; and to have marched at such a pace as would allow one on foot to keep up with the troop, was entirely out of the question.

It is true that the dismounted trooper might be carried on the croup of one of his comrades’ horses; but all of these were greatly fatigued by a long-continued spell of duty; and it was just doubtful enough whether there was a horse in the cavallada capable of “carrying double.”

While my lieutenant and I were debating this question between us, fate or fortune seemed to have determined on deciding it in our favour.

I have said that the chapparal stretched in to the very confines of the rancheria – holding the little village, as it were, in its thorny embrace.

But the country around was not all of this character. The thicket was far from being continuous. On the contrary, the eye rested upon broad tracts of open pasture-ground, covered with a growth of tufted grass, here and there matted, with clumps of cactus, and plants of the wild agave bristling under their tall flower-stalks, and cymes of strong-scented blossoms.

It was not these curious forms of the botanical world that attracted our attention – we had seen and admired them before – but the hoof-strokes of a galloping horse, ringing, not upon the road that bisected the village, but upon the hard turf, that covered the surface of the soil in the open spaces extending between the copses of the chapparal.

We had scarcely bent our ears to listen to the sounds, when we saw the animal that was causing them – a horse – galloping down the slope of a hill in the direction of the rancheria.

He was saddled; but without bridle, and without a rider!

The animal appeared to be a splendid musténo, of a steel-grey colour; and the gleam of silver upon the mountings of the saddle bespoke him as belonging, or having belonged, to an owner of some consideration – perhaps an officer of rank.

The sight of a saddled but riderless steed, thus scampering across country, was by no means strange – at least to us then and there. More than one had we observed upon our march enjoying a like liberty – whose riders were perhaps, at that moment, coldly asleep upon the field of battle, never more to remount them.

We should scarcely have taken notice of the circumstance, but for the want which just then was making itself so unpleasantly felt. We wanted a horse to remount the lieutenant. Here was one about to offer himself ready saddled, and as if saying, “Come and bestride me!”

It was not so certain, however, that the mustang was thus generously disposed; and it became still less so, when the animal, after approaching within twenty paces of the troop, suddenly stopped, threw his nostrils into a horizontal position; loudly inhaled the air; and then with a terrific neigh turned in his tracks and galloped back up the acclivity of the hill.

In the cavallada of tall, scraggy steeds that stood in the street of the village with their noses buried eye-deep in canvas bags – he seemed not to have recognised his own species; or, if so, it was only to identify them as enemies.

The horses of the troop had taken no heed of the shy stranger. They were not in the humour for a “stampede.” They did not even think it necessary to neigh, but remained tranquilly crunching their corn, as if aware that they were making only a temporary halt, and that their time was too precious to be spent in any other occupation.

On reaching the summit of the hill, the mustang came to a stand, and, with head high in air, screamed back a series of wild “whighers,” as if uttered in mockery or defiance.

There was but one horse on the ground capable of capturing that mustang; and perhaps only one rider who could have conducted him to the capture.

Though laying myself open to the accusation of an inordinate vanity, I must specify the horse and the rider thus alluded to. The first was my brave steed Moro– the second was Captain Edward Warfield, in command of a “free corps of rangers.”

An early practice of hare and fox hunting in my native land – continued by the chase of the stag over the forest-clad slopes of the Alleghanies – had given me a seat in the saddle firm as its “tree,” and close as the skin that covered it; while a still later experience on the great western prairies, had rendered me habile in the handling of that wonderful weapon of prairie and pampa – the lazo.

Habit had accustomed me to deem it almost as essential as my bridle; never to go abroad without it; and ever, while riding at the head of my troop of half guerilleros, half-regular cavalry – a coil of thin shining rope composed of twisted hair from the tails of horses, might have been seen hanging from the horn of my saddle.

I esteemed it an arm of equal service with my pistols, whose butts glistened in the holsters beneath. It could be seen in Corral Falso hanging over the withers of my steed, as he stood among the others quietly munching his maize.

My dismounted lieutenant had noticed it, and turned towards me with an appealing look, impossible to be misunderstood.

He liked the appearance of the steel-grey mustang; and had become inspired with an insatiable longing to bestride it.

That longing could only be gratified by its capture; and this could only be effected by myself and Moro.

I understood the lieutenant’s look. Perhaps my comprehension was quickened by the pride or vanity that fluttered up within my bosom at the moment – a desire for even that trifling triumph of distinguishing myself in the eyes of my own men.

I perceived that their eyes were upon me; and, ordering my horse to be bridled, I leaped into the saddle, and started off in pursuit of the escapado.

Story 1, Chapter XVIII

A Horse-Hunt

My steed deemed to comprehend the object for which I had mounted him. Without any guidance, either of voice or rein, he headed for the hill, upon the summit of which stood the neighing mustang.

I rode cautiously up the slope, keeping as well as I could under cover of the cactus plants, in hopes that I might get near enough to fling my lazo without fraying the animal I wished to capture.

There was but slight chance of my being able to accomplish this without a gallop.