The Lone Ranche, Mayne Reid [romantic love story reading txt] 📗

Despite common belief, the instinct of the Indian is not always sure, nor his intellect unerring. An instance of the contrary is afforded by the behaviour of the Tenawa chief and his subordinate Barbato.

About the buzzards both have been mistaken. The second flock seen by them is not hovering over a horse, but above an encampment of horsemen. Not correctly an encampment, but a halt en bivouac—where men have thrown themselves from their saddles, to snatch a hurried repast, and take quick consultation about continuing on.

They are all men, not a woman or child among them, bearded men with white skins, and wearing the garb of civilisation. This not of the most fashionable kind or cut, nor are they all in the exact drew of civilised life. For many of them wear buckskin hunting shirts, fringed leggings, and moccasins; more a costume peculiar to the savage. Besides these there are some in blanket-coats of red, green, and blue; all sweat-stained and dust-tarnished, till the colours nearly correspond. Others in Kentucky jeans, or copper-coloured homespun. Still others in sky-blue cottonade, product of the hand-mills of Attakapas. Boots, shoes, and brogans fabricated out of all kinds of leather; even that from the corrugated skin of the illigator. Hats of every shape, fashion, size, and material—straw, chip, Panama, wool, felt, silk, and beaver.

In one respect they are all nearly alike—in their armour and accoutrements. All are belted, pouched, and powder-horned. Each carries a bowie-knife and a revolving pistol—some two—and none are without a rifle. Besides this uniformity there are other points of resemblance—extending to a certain number. It is noticeable in their guns, which are jägers of the US army-brand. Equally apparent is the caparison of their horses; these carrying cavalry saddles, with peaks and cantles brass mounted. Among the men to whom these appertain there is a sort of half-military discipline, indicated by some slight deference shown to two or three, who appear to act with the authority of officers. It is, in fact, a troop—or, as by themselves styled, a “company”—of Texan Rangers.

About one-half the band belongs to this organisation. The others are the people of the plundered settlement—the fathers, brothers, and husbands, whom the Horned Lizard and his red robbers have bereft of daughters, sisters, and wives.

They are in pursuit of the despoilers; a chase commenced as soon as they could collect sufficient force to give it a chance of success. Luckily, a troop of Rangers, scouting in the neighbourhood, came opportunely along, just in time to join them. Soldiers and settlers united, they are now on the trail of the Tenawas, and have only halted to breathe and water their horses, eat some food themselves, and then on.

Not strange their hot haste—men whose homes have been made desolate, their kindred carried into captivity. Each has his own painful reflections. In that hour, at that very moment, his beloved wife, his delicate daughter, his fair sister, or sweetheart, may be struggling in the embrace of a brawny savage. No wonder that to them every hour seems a day, every minute an hour.

Though with a different motive, not much less impatient are their associates in the pursuit—the Rangers. It chances to be a company especially rabid for defence against the incursions of the Tenawa tribe; and more than once baffled by these cunning red-skins, they are anxious to make up for past disappointment. Twice before have they followed the retreating trail of these same savages, on both occasions returning foiled and empty-handed. And, now that they are again on it, with surer signs to guide them, the young men of the corps are mad to come up with the red marauders, while the elder ones are almost equally excited. Both resemble hounds in a hunt where the scent is hot—the young dogs dashing forward without check, the old ones alike eager, but moving with more circumspection.

Between them and the settlers there is the same earnestness of purpose, though stimulated by resentment altogether different. The latter only think of rescuing their dear ones, while the former are stirred by soldier pride and the instinctive antagonism which a Texan Ranger feels for a Tenawa. Many of them have old scores to settle with the Horned Lizard, and more than one longs to send a bullet through his heart.

But, despite the general reckless impatience to proceed, there are some who counsel caution. Chief among those is a man named Cully, a thin wiry sexagenarian, who looks as if he had been at least half a century upon the prairies. All over buckskin, fitting tight to his body, without tag or tail, he is not one of the enrolled Rangers, though engaged to act as their guide. In this capacity he exercises an influence over the pursuers almost equalling that of their leader, the Ranger captain, who, with a group gathered around, is now questioning the guide as to the next move to be made.

“They can’t be very far off now,” replies Cully, in answer to the captain’s interrogatory. “All the signs show they passed this hyar point a good hour arter sun-up. The dew war off the grass as they druv over it, else the blades ’ud a been pressed flatter down. Besides, there’s the dead hoss they’ve left ahint. Ye see some o’ ’em’s cut out his tongue an’ tuk it along for a tit-bit at thar next campin’ place. Now, as the blood that kim out o’ the animal’s mouth ain’t been long cruddled up, thet shows to a sartinty they can’t be far forrad. I reck’n I know the adzact spot whar they’re squatted.”

“Where?”

“Peecawn creek. There they’ll get good water for thar stock, an’ the shade o’ trees to rest unner; the which last they’ll take to in this hottish spell o’ sun.”

“If they’re upon the Pecan,” puts in a third speaker, a tall, lathy individual, in a green blanket coat, badly faded, “and anywhere near its mouth, we can’t be more than five miles from them. I know this part of the country well. I passed through it last year along with the Santa Fé expedition.”

“Only five miles!” exclaims another man, whose dress bespeaks a planter of respectability, while his woe-begone countenance proclaims him to be one of the bereaved. “Oh, gentlemen I surely our horses are now rested enough. Let us ride forward and fall upon them at once!”

“We’d be durned foolish to do so,” responded Cully. “Thet, Mr Wilton, ’ud be jest the way to defeet all our plans an’ purpisses. They’d see us long afore we ked git sight o’ them, an’ maybe in time to run off all the stolen hosses an’ cattle, but sartinly the keptyves.”

“What’s your way, Cully?” interrogates a lieutenant of the Rangers.

“My way air to wait till the sun go down, then steal torst ’m. Thar boun’ to hev fires, an’ thet’ll guide us right into thar camp. Ef it’s in the Peecawn bottom, as I’m pretty sure it air, we kin surround ’em eesy. Thar’s bluffs a-both sides, an’ we kin divide inter two lots—one slippin’ roun’ an’ comin’ from up the creek, while t’other approaches ’em from below. In thet way we’ll make sure o’ keepin’ ’em from runnin’ off the weemen; beside it’ll gie us the more likelier chance to make a good count o’ the redskin sculps.”

“What do you say, boys?” asks the Ranger captain, addressing himself more especially to the men composing his command.

“Cully’s right,” is the response from a majority of voices.

“Then we must stay here till night. If we go forward now, they may see us before we get within shooting distance. So you think, Cully, you can take up the trail at night, supposing it to be a dark one?”

“Pish!” retorts the old prairie-man, with a disdainful toss of his head.

“Take up the trail o’ a Tenawa Injun? I’d do that in the darkest night as iver shet down over a prairie. The skunks! I ked smell the place they’d passed over.”

There is no further discussion. Cully’s opinion is all-powerful, and determines the course to be pursued. The halt intended to be temporary, is to continue till near sunset, despite expostulations, almost prayerful appeals, from those who have left desolate homes behind, and who burn with impatience to ride forward and rescue their captive kindred.