Chapter 41

Cuatro Cavalleros

The party of searchers, under the command of the major, was not the only one that went forth from Fort Inge on that eventful morning.

Nor was it the earliest to take saddle. Long before – in fact close following the dawn of day – a much smaller party, consisting of only four horsemen, was seen setting out from the suburbs of the village, and heading their horses in the direction of the Nueces.

These could not be going in search of the dead body of Henry Poindexter. At that hour no one suspected that the young man was dead, or even that he was missing. The riderless horse had not yet come in to tell the tale of woe. The settlement was still slumbering, unconscious that innocent blood had been spilt.

Though setting out from nearly the same point, and proceeding in a like direction, there was not the slightest similarity between the two parties of mounted men. Those earliest a-start were all of pure Iberian[237] blood; or this commingled with Aztecan[238]. In other words they were Mexicans.

It required neither skill nor close scrutiny to discover this. A glance at themselves and their horses, their style of equitation, the slight muscular development of their thighs and hips – more strikingly observable in their deep-tree saddles – the gaily coloured serapes shrouding their shoulders, the wide velveteen calzoneros on their legs, the big spurs on their boots, and broad-brimmed sombreros on their heads, declared them either Mexicans, or men who had adopted the Mexican costume.

That they were the former there was not a question. The sallow hue; the pointed Vandyke[239] beard, covering the chin, sparsely – though not from any thinning by the shears – the black, close-cropped chevelure; the regular facial outline, were all indisputable characteristics of the Hispano-Moro-Aztecan race, who now occupy the ancient territory of the Moctezumas.

One of the four was a man of larger frame than any of his companions. He rode a better horse; was more richly apparelled; carried upon his person arms and equipments of a superior finish; and was otherwise distinguished, so as to leave no doubt about his being the leader of the cuartilla[240].

He was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, nearer to the latter than the former; though a smooth, rounded cheek – furnished with a short and carefully trimmed whisker – gave him the appearance of being younger than he was.

But for a cold animal eye, and a heaviness of feature that betrayed a tendency to behave with brutality – if not with positive cruelty – the individual in question might have been described as handsome.

A well formed mouth, with twin rows of white teeth between the lips, even when these were exhibited in a smile, did not remove this unpleasant impression. It but reminded the beholder of the sardonic grin that may have been given by Satan, when, after the temptation had succeeded, he gazed contemptuously back upon the mother of mankind.

It was not his looks that had led to his having become known among his comrades by a peculiar nick-name; that of an animal well known upon the plains of Texas.

His deeds and disposition had earned for him the unenviable soubriquet “El Coyote.”

How came he to be crossing the prairie at this early hour of the morning – apparently sober, and acting as the leader of others – when on the same morning, but a few hours before, he was seen drunk in his jacale – so drunk as to be unconscious of having a visitor, or, at all events, incapable of giving that visitor a civil reception?

The change of situation though sudden – and to some extent strange – is not so difficult of explanation. It will be understood after an account has been given of his movements, from the time of Calhoun’s leaving him, till the moment of meeting him in the saddle, in company with his three conpaisanos[241].

On riding away from his hut, Calhoun had left the door, as he had found it, ajar; and in this way did it remain until the morning – El Coyote all the time continuing his sonorous slumber.

At daybreak he was aroused by the raw air that came drifting over him in the shape of a chilly fog. This to some extent sobered him; and, springing up from his skin-covered truck, he commenced staggering over the floor – all the while uttering anathemas against the cold, and the door for letting it in.

It might be expected that he would have shut to the latter on the instant; but he did not. It was the only aperture, excepting some holes arising from dilapidation, by which light was admitted into the interior of the jacale; and light he wanted, to enable him to carry out the design that had summoned him to his feet.

The grey dawn, just commencing to creep in through the open doorway, scarce sufficed for his purpose; and it was only after a good while spent in groping about, interspersed with a series of stumblings, and accompanied by a string of profane exclamations, that he succeeded in finding that he was searching for: a large two-headed gourd, with a strap around its middle, used as a canteen for carrying water, or more frequently mezcal[242].

The odour escaping from its uncorked end told that it had recently contained this potent spirit; but that it was now empty, was announced by another profane ejaculation that came from the lips of its owner, as he made the discovery.

“Sangre de Cristo!” he cried, in an accent of angry disappointment, giving the gourd a shake to assure himself of its emptiness. “Not a drop – not enough to drown a chiga! And my tongue sticking to my teeth. My throat feels as if I had bolted a brazero of red-hot charcoal. Por Dios! I can’t stand it. What’s to be done? Daylight? It is. I must up to the pueblita[243]. It’s possible that Senor Doffer may have his trap open by this time to catch the early birds. If so, he’ll find a customer in the Coyote. Ha, ha, ha!”

Slinging the gourd strap around his neck, and thrusting his head through the slit of his serape, he set forth for the village.

The tavern was but a few hundred yards from his hut, on the same side of the river, and approachable by a path, that he could have travelled with his eyes under “tapojos.” In twenty minutes after, he was staggering past the sign-post of the “Rough and Ready.”

He chanced to be in luck. Oberdoffer was in his bar-room, serving some early customers – a party of soldiers who had stolen out of quarters to swallow their morning dram.

“Mein Gott[244], Mishter Dees!” said the landlord, saluting the newly arrived guest, and without ceremony forsaking six credit customers, for one that he knew to be cash. “Mein Gott! is it you I sees so early ashtir? I knowsh vat you vant. You vant your pig coord fill mit ze Mexican spirits – ag – ag – vat you call it?”

“Aguardiente[245]! You’ve guessed it, cavallero. That’s just what I want.”

“A tollar – von tollar ish the price.”

“Carrambo! I’ve paid it often enough to know that. Here’s the coin, and there’s the canteen. Fill, and be quick about it!”

“Ha! you ish in a hurry, mein herr. Fel – I von’t keeps you waitin’; I suppose you ish off for the wild horsh prairish. If there’s anything goot among the droves, I’m afeart that the Irishmans will pick it up before you. He went off lasht night. He left my housh at a late hour – after midnight it wash – a very late hour, to go a shourney! But he’s a queer cushtomer is that mushtanger, Mister Maurish Sherralt. Nobody knows his ways. I shouldn’t say anythings againsht him. He hash been a goot cushtomer to me. He has paid his bill like a rich man, and he hash plenty peside. Mein Gott! his pockets wash cramm mit tollars!”

On hearing that the Irishman had gone off to the “horsh prairish,” as Oberdoffer termed them, the Mexican by his demeanour betrayed more than an ordinary interest in the announcement.

It was proclaimed, first by a slight start of surprise, and then by an impatience of manner that continued to mark his movements, while listening to the long rigmarole that followed.

It was clear that he did not desire anything of this to be observed. Instead of questioning his informant upon the subject thus started, or voluntarily displaying any interest in it, he rejoined in a careless drawl —

“It don’t concern me, cavallero. There are plenty of mustenos[246] on the plains – enough to give employment to all the horse-catchers in Texas. Look alive, senor, and let’s have the aguardiente!”

A little chagrined at being thus rudely checked in his attempt at a gossip, the German Boniface hastily filled the gourd canteen; and, without essaying farther speech, handed it across the counter, took the dollar in exchange, chucked the coin into his till, and then moved back to his military customers, more amiable because drinking upon the score.

Diaz, notwithstanding the eagerness he had lately exhibited to obtain the liquor, walked out of the bar-room, and away from the hotel, without taking the stopper from his canteen, or even appearing to think of it!

His excited air was no longer that of a man merely longing for a glass of ardent spirits. There was something stronger stirring within, that for the time rendered him oblivious of the appetite.

Whatever it may have been it did not drive him direct to his home: for not until he had paid a visit to three other hovels somewhat similar to his own – all situated in the suburbs of the pueblita, and inhabited by men like himself – not till then, did he return to his jacale.

It was on getting back, that he noticed for the first time the tracks of a shod horse; and saw where the animal had been tied to a tree that stood near the hut.

“Carrambo!” he exclaimed, on perceiving this sign, “the Capitan Americano has been here in the night. Por Dios! I remember something – I thought I had dreamt it. I can guess his errand. He has heard of Don Mauricio’s departure. Perhaps he’ll repeat his visit, when he thinks I’m in a proper state to receive him? Ha! ha! It don’t matter now. The thing’s all understood; and I sha’n’t need any further instructions from him, till I’ve earned his thousand dollars. Mil pesos! What a splendid fortune! Once gained, I shall go back to the Rio Grande, and see what can be done with Isidora.”

After delivering the above soliloquy, he remained at his hut only long enough to swallow a few mouthfuls of roasted tasajo[247], washing them down with as many gulps of mezcal. Then having caught and caparisoned his horse, buckled on his huge heavy spurs, strapped his short carbine to the saddle, thrust a pair of pistols into their holsters, and belted the leathern sheathed machete on his hip, he sprang into the stirrups, and rode rapidly away.

The short interval that elapsed, before making his appearance on the open plain, was spent in the suburbs of the village – waiting for the three horsemen who accompanied him, and who had been forewarned of their being wanted to act as his coadjutors, in some secret exploit that required their assistance.

Whatever it was, his trio of confreres[248] appeared to have been made acquainted with the scheme; or at all events that the scene of the exploit was to be on the Alamo. When a short distance out upon the plain, seeing Diaz strike off in a diagonal direction, they called out to warn him, that he was not going the right way.

“I know the Alamo well,” said one of them, himself a mustanger. “I’ve hunted horses there many a time. It’s southwest from here. The nearest way to it is through an opening in the chapparal you see out yonder. You are heading too much to the west, Don Miguel!”

“Indeed!” contemptuously retorted the leader of the cuartilla. “You’re a gringo[249], Senor Vicente Barajo! You forget the errand we’re upon; and that we are riding shod horses? Indians don’t go out from Port Inge and then direct to the Alamo to do – no matter what. I suppose you understand me?”

“Oh true!” answered Senor Vicente Barajo, “I beg your pardon, Don Miguel. Carrambo! I did not think of that.”

And without further protest, the three coadjutors of El Coyote fell into his tracks, and followed him in silence – scarce another word passing between him and them, till they had struck the chapparal, at a point several miles above the opening of which Barajo had made mention.

Once under cover of the thicket, the four men dismounted; and, after tying their horses to the trees, commenced a performance that could only be compared to a scene in the gentlemen’s dressing-room of a suburban theatre, preliminary to the representation of some savage and sanguinary drama.

Chapter 42

Vultures on the Wing

He who has travelled across the plains of Southern Texas cannot fail to have witnessed a spectacle of common occurrence – a flock of black vultures upon the wing.

An hundred or more in the flock, swooping in circles, or wide spiral gyrations – now descending almost to touch the prairie award, or the spray of the chapparal – anon soaring upward by a power in which the wing bears no part – their pointed pinions sharply cutting against the clear sky – they constitute a picture of rare interest, one truly characteristic of a tropical clime.

The traveller who sees it for the first time will not fail to rein up his horse, and sit in his saddle, viewing it with feelings of curious interest. Even he who is accustomed to the spectacle will not pass on without indulging in a certain train of thought which it is calculated to call forth.

There is a tale told by the assemblage of base birds. On the ground beneath them, whether seen by the traveller or not, is stretched some stricken creature – quadruped, or it may be man – dead, or it may be dying.

On the morning that succeeded that sombre night, when the three solitary horsemen made the crossing of the plain, a spectacle similar to that described might have been witnessed above the chapparal into which they had ridden. A flock of black vultures, of both species, was disporting above the tops of the trees, near the point where the avenue angled.

At daybreak not one could have been seen. In less than an hour after, hundreds were hovering above the spot, on widespread wings, their shadows sailing darkly over the green spray of the chapparal.

A Texan traveller entering the avenue, and observing the ominous assemblage, would at once have concluded, that there was death upon his track.

Going farther, he would have found confirmatory evidence, in a pool of blood trampled by the hooves of horses.

Not exactly over this were the vultures engaged in their aerial evolutions. The centre of their swoopings appeared to be a point some distance off among the trees; and there, no doubt, would be discovered the quarry that had called them together.

At that early hour there was no traveller – Texan, or stranger – to test the truth of the conjecture; but, for all that, it was true.

At a point in the chapparal, about a quarter of a mile from the blood-stained path, lay stretched upon the ground the object that was engaging the attention of the vultures.

It was not carrion, nor yet a quadruped; but a human being – a man!

A young man, too, of noble lineaments and graceful shape – so far as could be seen under the cloak that shrouded his recumbent form – with a face fair to look upon, even in death.

Was he dead?

At first sight any one would have said so, and the black birds believed it. His attitude and countenance seemed to proclaim it beyond question.

He was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky – no care being taken to shelter it from the sun. His limbs, too, were not in a natural posture; but extended stiffly along the stony surface, as if he had lost the power to control them.

A colossal tree was near, a live oak, but it did not shadow him. He was outside the canopy of its frondage; and the sun’s beams, just beginning to penetrate the chapparal, were slanting down upon his pale face – paler by reflection from a white Panama hat that but partially shaded it.

His features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep. It had more the look of death than sleep. The eyes were but half closed; and the pupils could be seen glancing through the lashes, glassy and dilated. Was the man dead?

Beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was. But the black birds were judging only by appearances. Their wish was parent to the thought. They were mistaken.

Whether it was the glint of the sun striking into his half-screened orbs, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame.

Soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow, stared confusedly around him.

The vultures soared upward into the air, and for the time maintained a higher flight.

“Am I dead, or living?” muttered he to himself. “Dreaming, or awake? Which is it? Where am I?”

The sunlight was blinding him. He could see nothing, till he had shaded his eyes with his hand; then only indistinctly.

“Trees above – around me! Stones underneath! That I can tell by the aching of my bones. A chapparal forest! How came I into it?

“Now I have it,” continued he, after a short spell of reflection. “My head was dashed against a tree. There it is – the very limb that lifted me out of the saddle. My left leg pains me. Ah! I remember; it came in contact with the trunk. By heavens, I believe it is broken!”

As he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect attitude. It proved a failure. His sinister limb would lend him no assistance: it was swollen at the knee-joint – either shattered or dislocated.

“Where is the horse? Gone off, of course. By this time, in the stables of Casa del Corvo. I need not care now. I could not mount him, if he were standing by my side.

“The other?” he added, after a pause. “Good heavens! what a spectacle it was! No wonder it scared the one I was riding!

“What am I to do? My leg may be broken. I can’t stir from this spot, without some one to help me. Ten chances to one – a hundred – a thousand – against any one coming this way; at least not till I’ve become food for those filthy birds. Ugh! the hideous brutes; they stretch out their beaks, as if already sure of making a meal upon me!

“How long have I been lying here? The surf don’t seem very high. It was just daybreak, as I climbed into the saddle. I suppose I’ve been unconscious about an hour. By my faith, I’m in a serious scrape? In all likelihood a broken limb – it feels broken – with no surgeon to set it; a stony couch in the heart of a Texan chapparal – the thicket around me, perhaps for miles – no chance to escape from it of myself – no hope of human creature coming to help me – wolves on the earth, and vultures in the air! Great God! why did I mount, without making sure of the rein? I may have ridden my last ride!”

The countenance of the young man became clouded; and the cloud grew darker, and deeper, as he continued to reflect upon the perilous position in which a simple accident had placed him.

Once more he essayed to rise to his feet, and succeeded; only to find, that he had but one leg on which he could rely! It was no use, standing upon it; and he lay down again.

Two hours were passed without any change in his situation; during which he had caused the chapparal to ring with a loud hallooing. He only desisted from this, under the conviction: that there was no one at all likely to hear him.

The shouting caused thirst; or at all events hastened the advent of this appetite – surely coming on as the concomitant of the injuries he had received.

The sensation was soon experienced to such an extent that everything else – even the pain of his wounds – became of trifling consideration.

“It will kill me, if I stay here?” reflected the sufferer. “I must make an effort to reach water. If I remember aright there’s a stream somewhere in this chapparal, and not such a great way off. I must get to it, if I have to crawl upon my hands and knees. Knees! and only one in a condition to support me! There’s no help for it but try. The longer I stay here, the worse it will be. The sun grows hotter. It already burns into my brain. I may lose my senses, and then – the wolves – the vultures – ”

The horrid apprehension caused silence and shuddering. After a time he continued:

“If I but knew the right way to go. I remember the stream well enough. It runs towards the chalk prairie. It should be south-east, from here. I shall try that way. By good luck the sun guides me. If I find water all may yet be well. God give me strength to reach it!”

With this prayer upon his lips, he commenced making his way through the thicket – creeping over the stony ground, and dragging after him his disabled leg, like some huge Saurian[250] whose vertebrae have been disjointed by a blow!

Lizard-like, he continued his crawl.

The effort was painful in the extreme; but the apprehension from which he suffered was still more painful, and urged him to continue it.

He well knew there was a chance of his falling a victim to thirst – almost a certainty, if he did not succeed in finding water.

Stimulated by this knowledge he crept on.

At short intervals he was compelled to pause, and recruit his strength by a little rest. A man does not travel far, on his hands and knees, without feeling fatigued. Much more, when one of the four members cannot be employed in the effort.

His progress was slow and irksome. Besides, it was being made under the most discouraging circumstances. He might not be going in the right direction? Nothing but the dread of death could have induced him to keep on.

He had made about a quarter of a mile from the point of starting, when it occurred to him that a better plan of locomotion might be adopted – one that would, at all events, vary the monotony of his march.

“Perhaps,” said he, “I might manage to hobble a bit, if I only had a crutch? Ho! my knife is still here. Thank fortune for that! And there’s a sapling of the right size – a bit of blackjack. It will do.”

Drawing the knife – a “bowie” – from his belt, he cut down the dwarf-oak; and soon reduced it to a rude kind of crutch; a fork in the tree serving for the head.

Then rising erect, and fitting the fork into his armpit, he proceeded with his exploration.

He knew the necessity of keeping to one course; and, as he had chosen the south-east, he continued in this direction.

It was not so easy. The sun was his only compass; but this had now reached the meridian, and, in the latitude of Southern Texas, at that season of the year, the midday sun is almost in the zenith. Moreover, he had the chapparal to contend with, requiring constant detours to take advantage of its openings. He had a sort of guide in the sloping of the ground: for he knew that downward he was more likely to find the stream.

After proceeding about a mile – not in one continued march, but by short stages, with intervals of rest between – he came upon a track made by the wild animals that frequent the chapparal. It was slight, but running in a direct line – a proof that it led to some point of peculiar consideration – in all likelihood a watering-place – stream, pond, or spring.

Any of these three would serve his purpose; and, without longer looking to the sun, or the slope of the ground, he advanced along the trail – now hobbling upon his crutch, and at times, when tired of this mode, dropping down upon his hands and crawling as before.

The cheerful anticipations he had indulged in, on discovering the trail, soon, came to a termination. It became blind. In other words it ran out – ending in a glade surrounded by impervious masses of underwood. He saw, to his dismay, that it led from the glade, instead of towards it. He had been following it the wrong way!

Unpleasant as was the alternative, there was no other than to return upon his track. To stay in the glade would have been to die there.

He retraced the trodden path – going on beyond the point where he had first struck it.

Nothing but the torture of thirst could have endowed him with strength or spirit to proceed. And this was every moment becoming more unendurable.

The trees through which he was making way were mostly acacias, interspersed with cactus and wild agave. They afforded scarce any shelter from the sun, that now in mid-heaven glared down through their gossamer foliage with the fervour of fire itself.

The perspiration, oozing through every pore of his skin, increased the tendency to thirst – until the appetite became an agony!

Within reach of his hand were the glutinous legumes of the mezquites, filled with mellifluous moisture. The agaves and cactus plants, if tapped, would have exuded an abundance of juice. The former was too sweet, the latter too acrid to tempt him.

He was acquainted with the character of both. He knew that, instead of allaying his thirst, they would only have added to its intensity.

He passed the depending pods, without plucking them. He passed the succulent stalks, without tapping thorn.

To augment his anguish, he now discovered that the wounded limb was, every moment, becoming more unmanageable. It had swollen to enormous dimensions. Every step caused him a spasm of pain. Even if going in the direction of the doubtful streamlet, he might never succeed in reaching it? If not, there was no hope for him. He could but lie down in the thicket, and die!

Death would not be immediate. Although suffering acute pain in his head, neither the shock it had received, nor the damage done to his knee, were like to prove speedily fatal. He might dread a more painful way of dying than from wounds. Thirst would be his destroyer – of all shapes of death perhaps the most agonising.

The thought stimulated him to renewed efforts; and despite the slow progress he was able to make – despite the pain experienced in making it – he toiled on.

The black birds hovering above, kept pace with his halting step and laborious crawl. Now more than a mile from the point of their first segregation, they were all of them still there – their numbers even augmented by fresh detachments that had become warned of the expected prey. Though aware that the quarry still lived and moved, they saw that it was stricken. Instinct – perhaps rather experience – told them it must soon succumb.

Their shadows crossed and recrossed the track upon which he advanced – filling him with ominous fears for the end.

There was no noise: for these birds are silent in their flight – even when excited by the prospect of a repast. The hot sun had stilled the voices of the crickets and tree-toads. Even the hideous “horned frog” reclined listless along the earth, sheltering its tuberculated body under the stones.

The only sounds to disturb the solitude of the chapparal were those made by the sufferer himself – the swishing of his garments, as they brushed against the hirsute plants that beset the path; and occasionally his cries, sent forth in the faint hope of their being heard.

By this time, blood was mingling with the sweat upon his skin. The spines of the cactus, and the clawlike thorns of the agave, had been doing their work; and scarce an inch of the epidermis upon his face, hands, and limbs, that was not rent with a laceration.

He was near to the point of despondence – in real truth, he had reached it: for after a spell of shouting he had flung himself prostrate along the earth, despairingly indifferent about proceeding farther.

In all likelihood it was the attitude that saved him. Lying with his ear close to the surface, he heard a sound – so slight, that it would not have been otherwise discernible.