The Rifle Rangers, Mayne Reid [intellectual books to read txt] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
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A loud cheer, such as was never uttered by Mexican throats, came from the opposite edge of the prairie; and looking in that direction I beheld a long line of dark forms debouching from the woods at a gallop. Their sparkling blades, as they issued from the dark forest, glistened like a cordon of fireflies, and I recognised the heavy footfall of the American horse. A cheer from my men attracted their attention; and the leader of the dragoons, seeing that the guerilleros had got far out of reach, wheeled his column to the right and came galloping down.
“Is that Colonel Rawley?” inquired I, recognising a dragoon officer.
“Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed he, “how did you get out? We heard you were jugged. All alive yet?”
“We have lost two,” I replied.
“Pah! that’s nothing. I came out expecting to bury the whole kit of you. Here’s Clayley, too. Clayley, your friend Twing’s with us; you’ll find him in the rear.”
“Ha! Clayley, old boy!” cried Twing, coming up; “no bones broken? all right? Take a pull; do you good—don’t drink it all, though—leave a thimbleful for Haller there. How do you like that?”
“Delicious, by Jove!” ejaculated Clayey, tugging away at the major’s flask.
“Come, Captain, try it.”
“Thank you,” I replied, eagerly grasping the welcome flask.
“But where is old Bios? killed, wounded, or missing?”
“I believe the major is not far off, and still uninjured.”
I despatched a man for the major, who presently came up, blowing and swearing like a Flanders trooper.
“Hilloa, Bios!” shouted Twing, grasping him by the hand.
“Why, bless me, Twing, I’m glad to see you!” answered Blossom, throwing his arms around the diminutive major. “But where on earth is your pewter?” for during the embrace he had been groping all over Twing’s body for the flask.
“Here, Cudjo! That flask, boy!”
“Faith, Twing, I’m near choked; we’ve been fighting all day—a devil of a fight! I chased a whole squad of the cursed scoundrels on Hercules, and came within a squirrel’s jump of riding right into their nest. We’ve killed dozens; but Haller will tell you all. He’s a good fellow, that Haller; but he’s too rash—rash as blazes! Hilloa, Hercules! glad to see you again, old fellow; you had a sharp brush for it.”
“Remember your promise, Major,” said I, as the major stood patting Hercules upon the shoulder.
“I’ll do better, Captain. I’ll give you a choice between Hercules and a splendid black I have. Faith! it’s hard to part with you, old Herky, but I know the captain will like the black better: he’s the handsomest horse in the whole army; bought him from poor Ridgely, who was killed at Monterey.”
This speech of the major was delivered partly in soliloquy, partly in an apostrophe to Hercules, and partly to myself.
“Very well, Major,” I replied. “I’ll take the black. Mr Clayley, mount the men on their mules: you will take command of the company, and proceed with Colonel Rawley to camp. I shall go myself for the Don.”
The last was said in a whisper to Clayley.
“We may not get in before noon to-morrow. Say nothing of my absence to anyone. I shall make my report at noon tomorrow.”
“And, Captain—” said Clayley.
“Well, Clayley?”
“You will carry back my—.”
“What? To which friend?”
“Of course, to Mary of the Light.”
“Oh, certainly!”
“In your best Spanish.”
“Rest assured,” said I, smiling at the earnestness of my friend.
I was about moving from the spot, when the thought occurred to me to send the company to camp under command of Oakes, and take Clayley along with me.
“Clayley, by the way,” said I, calling the lieutenant back, “I don’t see why you may not carry your compliments in person. Oakes can take the men back. I shall borrow half a dozen dragoons from Rawley.”
“With all my heart!” replied Clayley.
“Come, then; get a horse, and let us be off.”
Taking Lincoln and Raoul, with half a dozen of Rawley’s dragoons, I bade my friends good-night.
These started for camp by the road of Mata Cordera, while I with my little party brushed for some distance round the border of the prairie, and then climbed the hill, over which lay the path to the house of the Spaniard.
As I reached the top of the ridge I turned to look upon the scene of our late skirmish.
The cold, round moon, looking down upon the prairie of La Virgen, saw none of the victims of the fight.
The guerilleros in their retreat had carried off their dead and wounded comrades, and the Americans slept underground in the lone corral: but I could not help fancying that gaunt wolves were skulking round the inclosure, and that the claws of the coyote were already tearing up the red earth that had been hurriedly heaped over their graves.
A night-ride through the golden tropical forest, when the moon is bathing its broad and wax-like frondage—when the winds are hushed and the long leaves hang drooping and silent—when the paths conduct through dark aisles and arbours of green vine-leaves, and out again into bright and flowery glades—is one of those luxuries that I wish we could obtain without going beyond the limits of our own land.
But no. The romance of the American northern forest—the romance that lingers around the gnarled limbs of the oak, and the maple, and the elm—that sighs with the wintry wind high up among the twigs of the shining sycamore—that flits along the huge fallen trunks—that nestles in the brown and rustling leaves—that hovers above the bold cliff and sleeps upon the grey rock—that sparkles in the diamond stalactites of the frost, or glides along the bosom of the cold black river—is a feeling or a fancy of a far different character.
These objects—themselves the emblems of the stony and iron things of nature—call up associations of the darker passions: strange scenes of strife and bloodshed; struggles between red and white savages; and struggles hardly less fierce with the wild beasts of the forest. The rifle, the tomahawk, and the knife are the visions conjured up, while the savage whoop and the dread yell echo in your ear; and you dream of war.
Far different are the thoughts that suggest themselves as you glide along under the aromatic arbours of the American southern forest, brushing aside the silken foliage, and treading upon the shadows of picturesque palms.
The cocuyo lights your way through the dark aisles, and the nightingale cheers you with his varied and mimic song. A thousand sights and sounds, that seem to be possessed of some mysterious and narcotic power, lull you into silence and sleep—a sleep whose dream is love.
Clayey and I felt this as we rode silently along. Even the ruder hearts of our companions seemed touched by the same influence.
We entered the dark woods that fringed the arroyo, and the stream was crossed in silence. Raoul rode in advance, acting as our guide.
After a long silence Clayey suddenly awoke from his reverie and straightened himself up in the saddle.
“What time is it, Captain?” he inquired.
“Ten—a few minutes past,” answered I, holding my watch under the moonlight.
“I wonder if the Don’s in bed yet.”
“Not likely: he will be in distress; he expected us an hour ago.”
“True, he will not sleep till we come; all right then.”
“How all right then?”
“For our chances of a supper; a cold pasty, with a glass of claret. What think you?”
“I do not feel hungry.”
“But I do—as a hawk. I long once more to sound the Don’s larder.”
“Do you not long more to see—”
“Not to-night—no—that is until after supper. Everything in its own time and place; but a man with a hungry stomach has no stomach for anything but eating. I pledge you my word, Haller, I would rather at this moment see that grand old stewardess, Pepe, than the loveliest woman in Mexico, and that’s ‘Mary of the Light’.”
“Monstrous!”
“That is, until after I have supped. Then my feelings will doubtless take a turn.”
“Ah! Clayey, you can never love!”
“Why so, Captain?”
“With you, love is a sentiment, not a passion. You regard the fair blonde as you would a picture or a curious ornament.”
“You mean to say, then, that my love is ‘all in my eye’?”
“Exactly so, in a literal sense. I do not think it has reached your heart, else you would not be thinking of your supper. Now, I could go for days without food—suffer any hardship; but, no—you cannot understand this.”
“I confess not. I am too hungry.”
“You could forget—nay, I should not be surprised if you have already forgotten—all but the fact that your mistress is a blonde, with bright golden hair. Is it not so?”
“I confess, Captain, that I should make but a poor portrait of her from memory.”
“And, were I a painter, I could throw her features upon the canvas as truly as if they were before me. I see her face outlined upon these broad leaves—her dark eyes burning in the flash of the cocuyo—her long black hair drooping from the feathery fringes of the palm—and her—”
“Stop! You are dreaming, Captain! Her eyes are not dark—her hair is not black.”
“What! Her eyes not dark?—as ebony, or night!”
“Blue as a turquoise!”
“Black! What are you thinking of?”
“‘Mary of the Light’.”
“Oh, that is quite a different affair!” and my friend and I laughed heartily at our mutual misconceptions.
We rode on, again relapsing into silence. The stillness of the night was broken only by the heavy hoof bounding back from the hard turf, the jingling of spurs, or the ringing of the iron scabbard as it struck against the moving flanks of our horses.
We had crossed the sandy spur, with its chaparral of cactus and mezquite, and were entering a gorge of heavy timber, when the practised eye of Lincoln detected an object in the dark shadow of the woods, and communicated the fact to me.
“Halt!” cried I, in a low voice.
The party reined up at the order. A rustling was heard in the bushes ahead.
“Quien viva?” challenged Raoul, in the advance.
“Un amigo,” (A friend), was the response.
I sprang forward to the side of Raoul and called out:
“Acercate! acercate!” (Come near!)
A figure moved out of the bushes, and approached.
“Está el Capitan?” (Is it the captain?)
I recognised the guide given me by Don Cosmé.
The Mexican approached, and handed me a small piece of paper. I rode into an opening, and held it up to the moonlight; but the writing was in pencil, and I could not make out a single letter.
“Try this, Clayley. Perhaps your eyes are better than mine.”
“No,” said Clayley, after examining the paper. “I can hardly see the writing upon it.”
“Esperate mi amo!” (Wait, my master), said the guide, making me a sign. We remained motionless.
The Mexican took from his head his heavy sombrero, and stepped into a darker recess of the forest. After standing for a moment, hat in hand, a brilliant object shot out from the leaves of the palma redonda. It was the cocuyo—the great firefly of the tropics. With a low, humming sound it came glistening along at the height of seven or eight feet from the ground. The man sprang up, and with a sweep of his arm jerked it suddenly to the earth. Then, covering it with his hat, and inverting his hand, he caught the gleaming insect, and presented it to me with the ejaculation:
“Ya!” (Now!)
“No muerde,” (It does not bite), added he, as he saw that I hesitated to touch the strange, beetle-shaped insect.
I took the cocuyo in my hand, the green, golden fire flashing from its great round eyes. I held it up before the writing, but the faint glimmer was scarcely discernible upon the paper.
“Why, it would require a dozen of these to make sufficient light,” I said to the guide.
“No, Señor; uno basti—asi;” (No, sir; one is enough—thus); and the Mexican, taking the cocuyo in his fingers, pressed it gently against the surface of the paper. It produced a brilliant light, radiating over
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