The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

But it was not the contemplation of all these dangers that filled me with such a terrible foreboding. Strange to say, I had a forecast that I should survive them. It was almost a conviction, yet it failed to comfort me, for it comprehended not the safety of Isolina. No – but the contrary. Along with it came the presentiment, that we should never meet again.

Once or twice, as this dread feeling became most acute, I reined up my horse, half resolved to gallop back; but again the wild idea passed from me, and I continued irresolutely on.

Something of prudence, too, now restrained me from returning: it would no longer have been safe to go back to the rancheria. As we issued from the piazza, we could hear distant jeering, and cries of “Mueran los Tejanos!” It was with difficulty I could restrain the rangers from turning to take vengeance. One, the worse for mezcal, had loitered behind – under the influence of the drink fancying himself secure. Him the pelados had “bonneted,” and otherwise maltreated. They would have murdered him outright; but that some of them, more prudent than their fellows, had counselled the mob to let him go – alleging that the Tejanos were yet “too near, and might come back.”

Again I had strife with my men: they would have returned and fired the place, had I permitted them. Fortunately, he who had been ill-treated was a good-for-nothing fellow – scarcely worth the sympathy of his comrades – and I was well satisfied at his having received a lesson. It might be useful, and was much needed, for “straggling” was one of the ranger-crimes most difficult to cure.

Along the road, we saw signs of a guerrilla. Shots were fired at us from a hill; but a party sent to the place encountered no one. Horse-tracks were observed, and once a brace of mounted men were seen galloping away over a distant slope. It might be the band of Ijurra, and doubtless it was so; but we fancied at the time that Canales himself was near; and as an encounter with his large and well-organised force would be a very different affair from a skirmish with the other, we felt the necessity of advancing with caution.

The prospect of a “fight” with this noted partisan created quite an excitement in the ranks. To have captured Canales – the “Chapparal Fox,” as the Texans termed him – or to have made conquest of his band, would have been esteemed a feat of grand consequence – only inferior in importance to a pitched battle, or the taking of “Game-leg” (Santa Anna) himself.

I confess that to me the idea of measuring strength with the famed guerrillero was at that moment rife with charms; and the excitement derived from the hope of meeting him, for a while abstracted my mind from its painful bodings.

But we reached the town without seeing aught of the Chapparal Fox. It was not likely that he was on our road; or if so, he took care not to show himself. Canales fought not for glory alone, and the rangers were not the foes he cared to encounter. Rich baggage-trains were the game he was used to hunt; and our solitary “company-wagon,” filled with frying-pans, camp-kettles, sick soldiers, and tattered blankets – half alive with those charming little insects of the genera pules and pediculus– had no attractions for the gallant guerrillero.

On reaching the town, we were surprised to find that the division had not yet moved. It was to have marched on that morning; but a countermand had arrived from head-quarters, delaying the movement for some days – perhaps a week.

This was rare news to me; and as soon as I heard it, my mind became occupied with projects and anticipations of a pleasant nature. I had hoped that we should be sent back to the rancheria, but alas! no – our orders were to remain with the division.

As every available building was occupied by troops, the rangers, as usual, were treated as “outsiders,” and compelled to take to the grass.

Half-a-mile from the town, a spot was shown us for our camp. It was on the banks of a pretty rivulet; and there, having picketed our steeds, stretched our canvas to the sun, and washed the dust from our faces, we made ourselves at home.

I did not remain long by the camp. As soon as the tents were fairly pitched, I left them, and walked back into the town – partly to get more definite information as to the future movements of the army, and partly with the design of indulging a little in the social feeling. I had some old comrades among the different regiments of the division; and, after such a long spell of rustication, I was not indisposed to refresh my spirit by the renewal of former fellowships.

At head-quarters, I learned definitely that we should not march for a week at the least. So far good; and after hearing this, I proceeded to the fonda– the rendezvous of all the jovial spirits of the army. Here I encountered the friends of whom I was in search; and for a short while I found respite from the thoughts that had been harrowing me.

I soon gathered the current “camp gossip,” and learned who were the “newspaper heroes” of the hour; over many of whose names my friends and I could not restrain either our satire or laughter. It appeared that the men of deeds were scarcely known beyond the limits of the army itself, while others, who in the field of battle had actually played the poltroon, had at home become household words in the mouths of the people. One general, whom I myself saw hiding in a ditch daring the rage of battle, was the theme of speech, sentiment, and song. The newspapers were filled with praises, and the windows with pictures, of a “gallant dragoon officer,” who had somehow obtained the credit of capturing a certain battery. My rangers cried “Bah!” when I told them this. They themselves were the men who had first galloped over those Mexican guns!

“Keeping an editor in pay” was a standing sarcasm applicable to more than one of our generals; and the “army correspondent,” taking advantage of this pruriency for fame, lived well, and swaggered in proportional importance.

Ah, glory! what sacrifices men make for thee upon the shrine of conscience! For my part, I do not think I could feel happy under the credit of a feat I had not performed. Surely the consciousness of having done a deed is of itself a sufficient reward? He is but an unhappy hero who is not a hero to himself!

Pleasanter gossip I heard about the relations existing between our troops and the people of the town. Many of the inhabitants had grown quite friendly, in consequence of our excellent behaviour towards them. Our conduct was compared with that which they had lately experienced at the hands of their own army. The latter was in the habit of seizing property at pleasure, on pretence of using it for the defence of the state. We, on the contrary, paid for everything – round prices too – in bright American dollars. The ricos and merchants preferred this system, and had no objections to making it permanent. Outrages were few on the part of our soldiery, and severely punished by the general. Our enemies contrasted the modest bearing of the American soldier with the conceited strut and insolent swagger of their own gold-bedizened militarios, who were wont on all occasions to “take the wall” of them. It was only outside the lines, between stragglers and leperos, that the retaliation system was carried on so fiercely. Within the walls, everything was order, with a mildness too rare under martial law. Private property was strictly regarded, and private dwellings were not occupied by our troops. Even the officers were not billeted in private houses; and many of them had to make shift in rather uncomfortable quarters, while most of the soldiers lived under canvas. This state of things was scarcely satisfactory to the troops; and some grumbling was heard. There was no complaint, however, from the Mexicans, who seemed rather astonished at so much forbearance on the part of their conquerors.

I doubt whether, in the whole history of war, can be found a conquest characterised by equal mildness and humanity with the “Second Conquest of Mexico.”

It was principally for this reason the people had grown so well affected towards us. But there was another reason, perhaps, not less potent. From the extensive operations we were now about to undertake, they saw that we meant war in earnest; and the belief had become general, that a large “annexation” was to follow; that perhaps the whole valley of the Rio Grande would become American territory. It was but human nature in them to do homage to the rising sun.

The ricos were better disposed towards us than the common people; but this enigma is easily explained. The latter were more patriotic– that is, more ready to fight for native tyranny, than accept freedom from a foreign hand. ’Tis so in all lands. In the event of a war with England, the black slave of Carolina would range himself by the side of his master, and prove the bitterest foe to the enemies, not of his freedom, but of his country.

The familias principales of Mexico had good reasons for being friendly to us. They had a stake to lose, which, under their own government, had been ill guarded for them. No wonder they should desire to come under the broad protecting wings of the northern eagle.

I found that another species of “annexation” had been going on during my absence. One of our officers had become annexed to a wealthy señorita of the place, and the marriage-ceremony had been performed with great pomp and splendour. Another was talked of as being fiancé; and it was expected that the example would find numerous imitators.

I need not say that I was much interested by these novedades and I returned with lighter heart to the ranger-camp.

Chapter Fifty Four.

The Ruined Rancho

The pleasant excitement caused by the visit to my old comrades was soon over; and having nothing to do but lounge about my tent, I became again the victim of the same painful bodings. I could not shake them off.

Subtle and mysterious is the spirit-world within us; certainly does it seem to have prescience of the future. Is it an electric chain connecting what is, with what is to be? Or is it the second-sight of instinct? Certainly there are times when something within whispers a warning – as, in the physical world, God’s wild creatures are warned from without of the earthquake and the storm. How often do we experience the realisation of portentous dreams? Why should not the waking soul have also its moments of clairvoyance?

As I lay stretched upon my leathern catré, I gave way to such reflections. I soon succeeded in reasoning myself into a full belief in foreknowledge; and my apprehensions were proportionately strengthened. But I had conceived a design; and the prospect of putting it in execution somewhat relieved me from the heaviness I had hitherto felt.

My new project was to take a score of my best men, to ride back the road we had come, place the party in ambush near the hacienda, while I alone should enter the house, and further urge the counsels I had committed to writing. If I should find that these had been already followed, so much the better – I should be assured, and return content; but I felt almost certain that Don Ramon had rejected them. At all events, I was determined to know the truth – determined, moreover, to gratify my longing for one more interview with my beloved.

I had warned the men and fixed the hour – as soon it was dark enough to conceal our departure from the camp.

I had two reasons for not starting earlier – first, because I did not wish this private scouting to be known at head-quarters. It is true, that in such matters we rangers had the advantage of regular troops. Though belonging to the division, our duty was usually detached from it, and we were rarely “missed” when absent. There was thus a sort of pleasant independence in my command, which I for one fully appreciated. For all that, I did not desire the whole world to know of an expedition like the one projected.

My second motive for going in the night was simple prudence. I dared not take the whole of my command along with me without permission from head-quarters. The absence of the corps without leave would certainly be noticed – even were it but for a few hours – and with the smaller party I intended to take, caution would be requisite. Should we move along the road before it was deserted, some swift messenger might carry the tidings en avant, and get us into trouble.

I designed to start at the earliest hour of darkness – so that I might not alarm the hacienda by a midnight visit.

An hour and a half of constant riding would bring me to its gate.

At the last moment of twilight we leaped into our saddles; and rode silently into the chapparal that skirted the camp. After filing for some distance through a narrow path, we debouched upon the up-river road – the same that conducted to the rancheria.

The trappers, Rube and Garey, acting as scouts, went forward in the advance. They were on foot – their horses remaining behind with the party.

It was a mode of march I had adopted after some experience in bush-fighting. The scouts of a marching force should always go on foot, whether the main body be dragoons or infantry. In this manner they can take advantage of the ground; and by keeping under cover of the timber, are enabled to reconnoitre the angles of the road in a much safer way than when on horseback. The great danger to a scout – and consequently to the party for which he is acting – lies in his being first seen, and the risk is greater when he is mounted. The horse cannot be drawn under cover without an effort; and the sound of the hoof may be heard; whereas in nine cases out of ten, a man on foot – that is, such a man as either Rube Rawlings or Bill Garey – will discover the enemy before he is himself seen, or any ambuscade can be attempted. Of course the scout should never advance beyond the possibility of retreating upon the party he is guiding.

With full confidence in the men who had been sent forward, we rode on – timing our pace, so as not to overtake them. Now and then we caught a glimpse of them, at the further end of a long stretch, skirting the bushes, or stooping behind the cover, to reconnoitre the road in advance. To our chagrin, it was clear moonlight, and we could distinguish their forms at a great distance. We should have preferred a darker night.

The road we were travelling upon was entirely without habitations; most of it ran through light chapparal forest, with neither clearing nor homestead. One solitary rancho stood at about equal distances between the town and the rancheria; and was known among the rangers by the familiar sobriquet of the “half-way house.” It was a poor hovel of yucca, with a small patch around that had once grown yams, chile-pepper, and a stock of maize for whoever had tilled it; but the occupants of the little rancho had long since disappeared – the prowling soldier-robber from the camp had paid it many a visit, and its household gods lay broken upon the hearth. The tortilla stone and comal, red earthen ollas, calabash cups, bedsteads and benches of the caña vaquera, a whirligig spindle, an old stringless jarana or bandolon, with other like effects, lay in fragments upon the floor. Mingling with these were cheap coloured wood-prints, of saints and Saviour, that had been dragged from the walls, and with the torn leaves of an old Spanish misa, trampled in dust and dishonour.

I paint this tableau of ruin, not that it was in any way connected with the events of our narrative, but that it had strangely affected me. On the day before, as we rode past, I had halted a moment by the rancho, and contemplated the scene with a feeling of melancholy that amounted almost to sadness. Little thought I that a still sadder spectacle awaited me in that same spot.

We had approached within less than half-a-mile of the ruined house, when a strange medley of sounds reached our ears. Human voices they were; and borne upon the light breeze we could distinguish them to be the voices of women. Occasionally harsher tones were heard mingling in the murmur, but most of them had the soft rich intonation that distinguishes the female voice.

We all drew bridle, and listened.

The sounds continued in the same confused chorus, but there was neither song nor joy in the accents. On the contrary, the night-wind carried upon its wings the voices of “lamentation and wailing.”

“There are women in trouble,” remarked one of my followers, in a suggestive tone.

The remark caused all of us simultaneously to ply the spur, and ride forward.

Before we had galloped a dozen lengths, a man appeared coming from the opposite direction, and advancing rapidly up the middle of the road. We saw it was the scout Garey; and, once more reining up, we awaited his approach.

I was at the head of the little troop, and as the trapper drew near, I could see his face full under the light of the moon. Its expression was ominous of evil tidings.

He spoke not until he had laid his hand upon the pommel of my saddle, and then only in a subdued and saddened tone. His words were: —

“Thar’s ugly news, capt’n.”