The Lone Ranche, Mayne Reid [romantic love story reading txt] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
Book online «The Lone Ranche, Mayne Reid [romantic love story reading txt] 📗». Author Mayne Reid
The only sounds heard are the dull thumping of their horses’ hoofs upon the soft prairie turf; now and then a clink, as one strikes against a stone; the occasional tinkle of a canteen as it comes in contact with saddle mounting or pistol butt; the champing of bits, with the breathing of horses and men.
These last talk in low tones, in mutterings not much louder than whispers. In pursuit of their savage foe, the well-trained Rangers habitually proceed thus, and have cautioned the settlers to the same. Though these need no compulsion to keep silent; their hearts are too sore for speech; their anguish, in its terrible intensity, seeks for no expression, till they stand face to face with the red ruffians who have caused, and are still causing, it. The night darkens down, becoming so obscure that each horseman can barely distinguish the form of him riding ahead. Some regret this, thinking they may get strayed. Not so Cully. On the contrary, the guide is glad, for he feels confident in his conjecture that the pursued will be found in Pecan Creek, and a dark night will favour the scheme of attack he has conceived and spoken of. Counselled by him, the Ranger captain shares his confidence, and they proceed direct towards the point where the tributary stream unites with the main river—the little Witchita, along whose banks they have been all that day tracking. Not but that Cully could take up the Indian trail. Despite the obscurity he could do that, though not, as he jestingly declared, by the smell. There are other indices that would enable him, known but to men who have spent a lifetime upon the prairies. He does not need them now, sure he will find the savages, as he said, “squatted on the Peecawn.”
And, sure enough, when the pursuers, at length at the creek’s mouth, enter the canon through which it disembogues its crystal water into the grander and more turbid stream, they discovered certain traces of the pursued having passed along its banks.
Another mile of travelling, the same silence observed, with caution increased, and there is no longer a doubt about the truth of Cully’s conjecture. Noises are heard ahead, sounds disturbing the stillness of the night air that are not those of the uninhabited prairie. There is the lowing of cattle, in long monotonous moans, like when being driven to slaughter, with, at intervals, the shriller neigh of a horse, as if uneasy at being away from his stable.
On hearing these sounds, the Ranger captain, acting by the advice of the guide, orders a halt. Then the pursuing party is separated into two distinct troops. One, led by Cully, ascends the cliff by a lateral ravine, and pursues its way along the upper table-land. The other, under the command of the captain, is to remain below until a certain time has elapsed, its length stipulated between the two leaders before parting.
When it has passed, the second division moves forward up the creek, again halting as a light shines through the trees, which, from its reddish colour, they know to be the glare of log fires.
They need not this to tell them they are close to an encampment—that of the savages they have been pursuing. They can hear their barbarous jargon, mingled with shouts and laughter like that of demons in the midst of some fiendish frolic.
They only stay for a signal the guide arranged to give as soon as he has got round to attack on the opposite side. The first shot heard, and they will dash forward to the fires.
Seated in their saddles, with reins tight drawn, and heels ready to drive home the spur—with glances bent greedily at the gleaming lights, and ears keenly alert to catch every sound—the hearts of some trembling with fear, others throbbing with hope, still others thrilling with the thought of vengeance—they wait for the crack that is to be the signal—wait and listen, with difficulty restraining themselves.
It comes at length. Up the glen peals a loud report, quickly followed by another, both from a double-barrelled gun.
This was the signal for attack, arranged by Cully.
Soon as hearing it, the reins are slackened, the spurs sent home, and, with a shout making the rocks ring, and the trees reverberate its echoes, they gallop straight towards the Indian encampment, and in a moment are in its midst.
They meet little resistance—scarce any. Too far from the settlements to fear pursuit—in full confidence they have not been followed, the red robbers have been abandoning themselves to pleasure, spending the night in a grand gluttonous feast, furnished by the captured kine.
Engrossed with sensual joys, they have neglected guard; and, in the midst of their festivities, they are suddenly set upon from all sides; the sharp cracking of rifles, with the quick detonation of repeating pistols, soon silences their cacchinations, scattering them like chaff.
After the first fusillade, there is but little left of them. Those not instantly shot down retreat in the darkness, skulking of! among the pecan trees. It is altogether an affair of firearms: and for once the bowie—the Texan’s trusted weapon—has no part in the fray.
The first rays of next morning’s sun throw light upon a sanguinary scene—a tableau terrible, though not regrettable. On the contrary, it discloses a sight which, but for the red surroundings, might give gladness. Fathers, half frantic with joy, are kissing children they never expected to see again; brothers clasping the hands of sisters late deemed lost for ever; husbands, nigh broken-hearted, once more happy, holding their wives in fond, affectionate embrace.
Near by, things strangely contrasting—corpses strewn over the ground, stark and bleeding, but not yet stiff, all of coppery complexion, but bedaubed with paint of many diverse colours. All surely savages.
A fearful spectacle, but one too often witnessed on the far frontier land of Texas.
The party of Texans has made what prairie men call a “coup.” On counting the corpses of their slain enemies they find that at least one-half of the Tenawa warriors have fallen, including their chief. They can make an approximate estimate of the number that was opposed to them by the signs visible around the camp, as also upon the trail they have been for several days following. Those who escaped have got off, some on their horses, hastily caught and mounted; others afoot, by taking to the timber. They were not pursued, as it was still dark night when the action ended, and by daylight these wild centaurs, well acquainted with the country, will have scattered far and wide, beyond all likelihood of being again encountered.
The settlers are satisfied at having recovered their relatives, as also their stolen stock. As to the Rangers, enough has been accomplished to slake their revengeful thirst—for the time. These last, however, have not come off unscathed; for the Comanches, well armed with guns, bows, and lances, did not die unresistingly. In Texas Indians rarely do, and never when they engage in a fight with Rangers. Between them and these border guerrilleros—in one sense almost as much savages as themselves—war is an understood game—to the bitter end, with no quarter either asked or given.
The Rangers count three of their number killed and about twice as many wounded—enough, considering the advantage they had in their unwarned attack upon enemies who for once proved unwatchful.
When the conflict has finally come to a close, and daylight makes manifest the result, the victors take possession of the spoil—most of it their own property. The horses that strayed or stampeded during the fight are again collected into a drove—those of the Indians being united to it. This done, only a short stay is intended—just long enough to bury the bodies of the three Rangers who have been killed, get stretchers prepared for such of the wounded as are unable to sit in the saddle, and make other preparations for return towards the settlements.
They do not hasten their departure through any apprehension of a counter-attack on the side of the Comanches. Fifty Texan Rangers—and there are this number of them—have no fear on any part of the plains, so long as they are mounted on good horses, carry rifles in their hands, bowie-knives and pistols in their belts, with a sufficient supply of powder in their flasks, and bullets in their pouches. With all these items they are amply provided; and were there now any necessity for continuing the pursuit, or the prospect of striking another coup, they would go on, even though the chase should conduct them into the defiles of the Rocky Mountains. To pursue and slay the savage is their vocation, their duty, their pastime and pleasure.
But the settlers are desirous of a speedy return to their homes, that they may relieve the anxiety of other dear ones, who there await them. They long to impart the glad tidings they will take with them.
While the preparations for departure are going on, Cully—who, with several others, has been collecting the arms and accoutrements of their slain enemies—gives utterance to a cry that brings a crowd of his comrades around him.
“What is it, Nat?” inquires the Ranger captain.
“Look hyar, cap! D’ye see this gun?”
“Yes; a hunter’s rifle. Whose is it?”
“That’s jess the questyin; though thar ain’t no questyin about it. Boys, do any o’ ye recognise this hyar shootin’ iron?”
One after another the Rangers step up, and look at the rifle.
“I do,” says one.
“And I,” adds another.
And a third, and fourth, make the same affirmation, all speaking in tones of surprise.
“Walt Wilder’s gun,” continues Cully, “sure an’ sartin. I know it, an oughter know it. See them two letters in the stock thar—‘WW.’ Old Nat Cully hez good reezun to recconise them, since ’twas hisself that cut ’em. I did it for Walt two yeern ago, when we war scoutin’ on the Collyrado. It’s his weepun, an’ no mistake.”
“Where did you find it?” inquires the captain.
“I’ve jess tuk it out o’ the claws o’ the ugliest Injun as ever made trail on a puraira—that beauty thar, whose karkidge the buzzards won’t be likely to tech.”
While speaking Cully points to a corpse. It is that of the Tenawa chief, already identified among the slain.
“He must a’ hed it in his clutch when suddenly shot down,” pursues the guide. “An’ whar did he git it? Boys, our ole kummerade’s wiped out for sartin. I know how Walt loved that thar piece. He w’udn’t a parted wi’ it unless along wi’ his life.”
This is the conviction of several others acquainted with Wilder. It is the company of Rangers to which he formerly belonged.
“Thar’s been foul play somewhar,” continues Cully. “Walt went back to the States—to Kaintuck, ef this chile ain’t mistook. But ’tain’t likely he stayed thar; he kedn’t keep long off o’ the purairas. I tell ye, boys, these hyar Injens hev been makin’ mischief somewhar’. Look thar, look at them leggin’s! Thar’s no eend o’ white sculps on’ ’em, an’ fresh tuk, too!”
The eyes of all turned towards these terrible trophies that in gory garniture fringe the buck-skin leg-wear of the savages. Cully, with several others who knew Wilder well, proceed to examine them, in full expectation of finding among them the skin of their old comrade’s head. There are twelve scalps, all of white men, with others that are Indian, and not a few that exhibit the equally black, but shorter crop of the Mexican. Those that are indubitably of white men show signs of having been recently taken, but none of them can be identified as the scalp of Walt Wilder.
There is some relief in this, for his old comrades love. Walt. Still, there is the damning evidence of the gun, which Cully declares could only have been taken from him along with his life. How has it got into
Comments (0)