A more legitimate specimen of this profession appeared in the person of a well-dressed darkie, who moved about the ground in a very authoritative manner; deriving his importance, from his office of valet de tout[142] to the major in command of the cantonment. A sergeant, as shown by his three-barred chevron, was in charge of the mixed party, directing their movements; the object of which was to load the waggon with eatables and drinkables – in short, the paraphernalia[143] of a pic-nic.
That it was intended to be upon a grand scale, was testified by the amplitude and variety of the impedimenta[144]. There were hampers and baskets of all shapes and sizes, including the well known parallelopipedon, enclosing its twelve necks of shining silver-lead; while the tin canisters, painted Spanish brown, along with the universal sardine-case, proclaimed the presence of many luxuries not indigenous to Texas.
However delicate and extensive the stock of provisions, there was one in the party of purveyors who did not appear to think it complete. The dissatisfied Lucullus[145] was Zeb Stump.
“Lookee hyur, surgint,” said he, addressing himself confidentially to the individual in charge, “I hain’t seed neery smell o’ corn put inter the veehicle as yit; an’, I reck’n, thet out on the purayra, thur’ll be some folks ud prefar a leetle corn to any o’ thet theer furrin French stuff. Sham-pain, ye call it, I b’lieve.”
“Prefer corn to champagne! The horses you mean?”
“Hosses be durned. I ain’t talkin’ ’bout hoss corn. I mean M’nongaheela.”
“Oh – ah – I comprehend. You’re right about that, Mr Stump. The whisky mustn’t be forgotten, Pomp. I think I saw a jar inside, that’s intended to go?”
“Yaw – yaw, sagint,” responded the dark-skinned domestic; “dar am dat same wesicle. Hya it is!” he added, lugging a large jar into the light, and swinging it up into the waggon.
Old Zeb appearing to think the packing now complete, showed signs of impatience to be off.
“Ain’t ye riddy, surgint?” he inquired, shifting restlessly in his stirrups.
“Not quite, Mr Stump. The cook tells me the chickens want another turn upon the spit, before we can take ’em along.”
“Durn the chickens, an the cook too! What air any dung-hill fowl to compare wi’ a wild turkey o’ the purayra; an how am I to shoot one, arter the sun hev clomb ten mile up the sky? The major sayed I war to git him a gobbler, whativer shed happen. ’Tain’t so durnation eezy to kill turkey gobbler arter sun-up, wi’ a clamjamferry like this comin’ clost upon a fellur’s heels? Ye mustn’t surpose, surgint, that thet ere bird air as big a fool as the sodger o’ a fort. Of all the cunnin’ critters as ferquents these hyur purayras, a turkey air the cunninest; an to git helf way roun’ one o’ ’em, ye must be up along wi’ the sun; and preehap a leetle urlier.”
“True, Mr Stump. I know the major wants a wild turkey. He told me so; and expects you to procure one on the way.”
“No doubt he do; an preehap expex me likeways to purvid him wi’ a baffler’s tongue, an hump – seein’ as thur ain’t sech a anymal on the purayras o’ South Texas – nor hain’t a been for good twenty yurs past – noterthstandin’ what Eur-op-ean writers o’ books hev said to the contrary, an ’specially French ’uns, as I’ve heern. Thur ain’t no burner ’bout hyur. Thur’s baar, an deer, an goats, an plenty o’ gobblers; but to hev one o’ these critters for yur dinner, ye must git it urly enuf for yur breakfist. Unless I hev my own time, I won’t promise to guide yur party, an git gobbler both. So, surgint, ef ye expex yur grand kumpny to chaw turkey-meat this day, ye’ll do well to be makin’ tracks for the purayra.”
Stirred by the hunter’s representation, the sergeant did all that was possible to hasten the departure of himself and his parti-coloured company; and, shortly after, the provision train, with Zeb Stump as its guide, was wending its way across the extensive plain that lies between the Leona and the “River of Nuts.”
The parade-ground had been cleared of the waggon and its escort scarce twenty minutes, when a party of somewhat different appearance commenced assembling upon the same spot.
There were ladies on horseback; attended, not by grooms, as at the “meet” in an English hunting-field, but by the gentlemen who were to accompany them – their friends and acquaintances – fathers, brothers, lovers, and husbands. Most, if not all, who had figured at Poindexter’s dinner party, were soon upon the ground.
The planter himself was present; as also his son Henry, his nephew Cassius Calhoun, and his daughter Louise – the young lady mounted upon the spotted mustang, that had figured so conspicuously on the occasion of the entertainment at Casa del Corvo.
The affair was a reciprocal treat – a simple return of hospitality; the major and his officers being the hosts, the planter and his friends the invited guests. The entertainment about to be provided, if less pretentious in luxurious appointments, was equally appropriate to the time and place. The guests of the cantonment were to be gratified by witnessing a spectacle – grand as rare – a chase of wild steeds!
The arena of the sport could only be upon the wild-horse prairies – some twenty miles to the southward of Fort Inge. Hence the necessity for an early start, and being preceded by a vehicle laden with an ample commissariat.
Just as the sunbeams began to dance upon the crystal waters of the Leona, the excursionists were ready to take their departure from the parade-ground – with an escort of two-score dragoons that had been ordered to ride in the rear. Like the party that preceded them, they too were provided with a guide – not an old backwoodsman in battered felt hat, and faded blanket coat, astride a scraggy roadster; but a horseman completely costumed and equipped, mounted upon a splendid steed, in every way worthy to be the chaperone of such a distinguished expedition.
“Come, Maurice!” cried the major, on seeing that all had assembled, “we’re ready to be conducted to the game. Ladies and gentlemen! this young fellow is thoroughly acquainted with the haunts and habits of the wild horses. If there’s a man in Texas, who can show us how to hunt them, ’tis Maurice the mustanger.”
“Faith, you flatter me, major!” rejoined the young Irishman, turning with a courteous air towards the company; “I have not said so much as that. I can only promise to show you where you may find them.”
“Modest fellow!” soliloquised one, who trembled, as she gave thought to what she more than half suspected to be an untruth.
“Lead on, then!” commanded the major; and, at the word, the gay cavalcade, with the mustanger in the lead, commenced moving across the parade-ground – while the star-spangled banner, unfurled by the morning breeze, fluttered upon its staff as if waving them an elegant adieu!
A twenty-mile ride upon prairie turf is a mere bagatelle – before breakfast, an airing. In Texas it is so regarded by man, woman, and horse.
It was accomplished in less than three hours – without further inconvenience than that which arose from performing the last few miles of it with appetites uncomfortably keen.
Fortunately the provision waggon, passed upon the road, came close upon their heels; and, long before the sun had attained the meridian line, the excursionists were in full pic-nic under the shade of a gigantic pecân tree, that stood near the banks of the Nueces.
No incident had occurred on the way – worth recording. The mustanger, as guide, had ridden habitually in the advance; the company, with one or two exceptions, thinking of him only in his official capacity – unless when startled by some feat of horsemanship – such as leaping clear over a prairie stream, or dry arroyo, which others were fain to ford, or cross by the crooked path.
There may have been a suspicion of bravado in this behaviour – a desire to exhibit. Cassius Calhoun told the company there was. Perhaps the ex-captain spoke the truth – for once.
If so, there was also some excuse. Have you ever been in a hunting-field, at home, with riding habits trailing the sward, and plumed hats proudly nodding around you? You have: and then what? Be cautious how you condemn the Texan mustanger. Reflect, that he, too, was under the artillery of bright eyes – a score pair of them – some as bright as ever looked love out of a lady’s saddle. Think, that Louise Poindexter’s were among the number – think of that, and you will scarce feel surprised at the ambition to “shine.”
There were others equally demonstrative of personal accomplishments – of prowess that might prove manhood. The young dragoon, Hancock, frequently essayed to show that he was not new to the saddle; and the lieutenant of mounted rifles, at intervals, strayed from the side of the commissary’s niece for the performance of some equestrian feat, without looking exclusively to her, his reputed sweetheart, as he listened to the whisperings of applause.
Ah, daughter of Poindexter! Whether in the salons of civilised Louisiana, or the prairies of savage Texas, peace could not reign in thy presence! Go where thou wilt, romantic thoughts must spring up – wild passions be engendered around thee!
Chapter 14
The Manada
[146]
Had their guide held the prairies in complete control – its denizens subject to his secret will – responsible to time and place – he could not have conducted the excursionists to a spot more likely to furnish the sport that had summoned them forth.
Just as the sparkling Johannisberger – obtained from the German wine-stores of San Antonio – had imparted a brighter blue to the sky, and a more vivid green to the grass, the cry “Musteños!” was heard above the hum of conversation, interrupting the half-spoken sentiment, with the peal of merry laughter. It came from a Mexican vaquero, who had been stationed as a vidette[147] on an eminence near at hand.
Maurice – at the moment partaking of the hospitality of his employers, freely extended to him – suddenly quaffed off the cup; and springing to his saddle, cried out —
“Cavallada?”
“No,” answered the Mexican; “manada.”
“What do the fellows mean by their gibberish?” inquired Captain Calhoun.
“Musteños is only the Mexican for mustangs,” replied the major; “and by ‘manada’ he means they are wild mares – a drove of them. At this season they herd together, and keep apart from the horses; unless when – ”
“When what?” impatiently asked the ex-officer of volunteers, interrupting the explanation.
“When they are attacked by asses,” innocently answered the major.
A general peal of laughter rendered doubtful the naïvété of the major’s response – imparting to it the suspicion of a personality not intended.
For a moment Calhoun writhed under the awkward misconception of the auditory; but only for a moment. He was not the man to succumb to an unlucky accident of speech. On the contrary, he perceived the chance of a triumphant reply; and took advantage of it.
“Indeed!” he drawled out, without appearing to address himself to any one in particular. “I was not aware that mustangs were so dangerous in these parts.”
As Calhoun said this, he was not looking at Louise Poindexter or he might have detected in her eye a glance to gratify him.
The young Creole, despite an apparent coolness towards him, could not withhold admiration at anything that showed cleverness. His case might not be so hopeless?
The young dragoon, Hancock, did not think it so; nor yet the lieutenant of rifles. Both observed the approving look, and both became imbued with the belief that Cassius Calhoun had – or might have – in his keeping, the happiness of his cousin.
The conjecture gave a secret chagrin to both, but especially to the dragoon.
There was but short time for him to reflect upon it; the manada was drawing near.
“To the saddle!” was the thought upon every mind, and the cry upon every tongue.
The bit was rudely inserted between teeth still industriously grinding the yellow corn; the bridle drawn over shoulders yet smoking after the quick skurry of twenty miles through the close atmosphere of a tropical morn; and, before a hundred could have been deliberately counted, every one, ladies and gentlemen alike, was in the stirrup, ready to ply whip and spur.
By this time the wild mares appeared coming over the crest of the ridge upon which the vidette had been stationed. He, himself a horse-catcher by trade, was already mounted, and in their midst – endeavouring to fling his lazo over one of the herd. They were going at mad gallop, as if fleeing from a pursuer – some dreaded creature that was causing them to “whigher” and snort! With their eyes strained to the rear, they saw neither the sumpter waggon, nor the equestrians clustering around it, but were continuing onward to the spot; which chanced to lie directly in the line of their flight.
“They are chased!” remarked Maurice, observing the excited action of the animals.
“What is it, Crespino?” he cried out to the Mexican, who, from his position, must have seen any pursuer that might be after them.
There was a momentary pause, as the party awaited the response. In the crowd were countenances that betrayed uneasiness, some even alarm. It might be Indians who were in pursuit of the mustangs!
“Un asino cimmaron!” was the phrase that came from the mouth of the Mexican, though by no means terminating the suspense of the picknickers. “Un macho!” he added.
“Oh! That’s it! I thought it was!” muttered Maurice. “The rascal must be stopped, or he’ll spoil our sport. So long as he’s after them, they’ll not make halt this side the sky line. Is the macho coming on?”
“Close at hand, Don Mauricio. Making straight for myself.”
“Fling your rope over him, if you can. If not, cripple him with a shot – anything to put an end to his capers.”
The character of the pursuer was still a mystery to most, if not all, upon the ground: for only the mustanger knew the exact signification of the phrases – “un asino cimmaron,” “un macho.”
“Explain, Maurice!” commanded the major. “Look yonder!” replied the young Irishman, pointing to the top of the hill.
The two words were sufficient. All eyes became directed towards the crest of the ridge, where an animal, usually regarded as the type of slowness and stupidity, was seen advancing with the swiftness of a bird upon the wing.
But very different is the “asino cimmaron” from the ass of civilisation – the donkey be-cudgelled into stolidity.
The one now in sight was a male, almost as large as any of the mustangs it was chasing; and if not fleet as the fleetest, still able to keep up with them by the sheer pertinacity of its pursuit!
The tableau of nature, thus presented on the green surface of the prairie, was as promptly produced as it could have been upon the stage of a theatre, or the arena of a hippodrome.
Scarce a score of words had passed among the spectators, before the wild mares were close up to them; and then, as if for the first time, perceiving the mounted party, they seemed to forget their dreaded pursuer, and shied off in a slanting direction.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” shouted the guide to a score of people, endeavouring to restrain their steeds; “keep your places, if you can. I know where the herd has its haunt. They are heading towards it now; and we shall find them again, with a better chance of a chase. If you pursue them at this moment, they’ll scatter into yonder chapparal; and ten to one if we ever more get sight of them.
“Hola[148], Señor Crespino! Send your bullet through that brute. He’s near enough for your escopette, is he not?”