On reaching this point, I perceived that I had been mistaken. The
mustang had not entered the timber at all, but had turned into a sort of
alley, or opening, among the trees--along which it was still going in
full gallop, as when last seen.
I hesitated not to follow. I was by this time too much excited to think
of consequences. Moro's spirit was, like my own, roused to a pitch
closely bordering upon the reckless; and on we went through the forest
aisle--that appeared to grow gloomier the farther we penetrated under
its shadows.
It was a forest of silk-cotton trees--as I could tell by the flossy down
that lay scattered along the ground; but while noting this, I saw
something else of far greater significance--something, in fact, that
seemed to whisper to me, "You are riding fast, but you may be riding too
far."
The thing that suggested this thought was an observation I made at the
moment. Though going at full gallop along what appeared to be a natural
avenue between the trees, I could not help perceiving that the ground
under my horse's feet was thickly imprinted with tracks. They were the
hoof-prints of horses that, not long before, must have passed over it,
going in the same direction as myself I might have taken them for a wild
herd--the _cavallada_ belonging to some grazing hacienda--of which there
were more than one among the half-prairie chapparals that surrounded me;
but this conjecture was nipped in the bud, on my perceiving among the
tracks more than one set made by horses, that had been handled by the
_herradero_.
I knew that shod horses were rarely or never found in the grazing
_cavallada_; and therefore the large troop that had preceded me through
the forest opening, must have had saddles upon their backs, and men
bestriding them.
I had gone a good way into the timber before arriving at this
conclusion.
I need not say that it affected my further advance. The horsemen who
had trodden the track before me must be enemies; they could not be
friends. I was now full three miles from the main road--leading from
Vera Cruz to Jalapa--and I knew that no troop of our cavalry had left
it.
Besides, the shod-tracks I saw were those of mustangs, or Mexican
horses--so much smaller in their circumference than those of the
American horse, that I could note the difference, even in the glance
allowed by the rapidity of my onward gallop.
Mexican cavalry must have passed over the ground, perhaps in retreat
from the field of Cerro Gordo; but even so, they might not have
proceeded far, since they could have but little fear of our following
them in that crosscountry direction.
I was beginning to repent of my recklessness. Already my bridle-rein
was, by a half-mechanical effort on my part, perceptibly becoming
tighter along the neck of my steed, when the chase that had lured me so
far, presented an aspect to seduce me still further.
I had been observing for some time that the mustang, although without a
bridle in its mouth, carried one upon the pommel of its saddle. The
reins were hanging in a loose coil over the "horn."
This half explained to me why the animal had been going across country
without a rider. Had it been bridled, I should have concluded that it
had left its owner upon the field of Cerro Gordo, or parted with him in
the hot pursuit succeeding that action.
But a bridle suspended from the saddle-bow--with bit, curb, and
head-piece attached--forbade the conjecture; at the same time suggesting
another: that the mustang must have made its escape from some temporary
halting-place, where, like our own horses at Corral Falso, it had been
unbridled to "bait."
It was not this conjecture that influenced me to continue the chase; but
the fact that the bridle-reins, suspended over the saddle-horn, had
begun to trail among the animal's feet, and promised, ere long, to prove
an impediment to its flight. It was my observation of this that lured
me on.
Chance, not prowess, was likely to give me the victory. But what
mattered it, so long as there would be no one to witness the event?
My comrades would not know how I had effected the capture; and, instead
of returning to them empty-handed--crest-fallen with chagrin--I should
ride back in triumph; and so should Moro, the steel-grey mustang
following at his heels.
Inspired by this pleasant anticipation, I once more struck the spur into
the flank of my brave steed, which needed not such prompting. It was
merely mechanical. Perhaps Moro knew as much, and forgave me for the
unnecessary infliction.
Quite unnecessary, as it proved; for, at the very instant I was causing
it, the riderless mustang, just as I had been wishing and expecting,
became entangled in its trailing bridle, and rolled headlong upon the
grass.
Before it could recover its legs, Moro was snorting by its side; and
Moro's rider, having forsaken his own steed, had looped the lazo around
its neck, and secured it as a captive.
I was not left much time to congratulate myself on my good luck; for, in
truth, it was luck, and only that, to which I had been indebted for the
capture of the mustang.
Having secured the animal, as I supposed to a certainty, I was
proceeding to re-insert its own bit between its teeth, in order the more
easily to lead it along with me on the return journey to Corral Falso.
I was even full of self-gratulation--chuckling over the conquest I had
accomplished--anticipating one of those pleasant little triumphs one
feels on having performed a feat, however trifling, under the eyes of
one's everyday associates.
I believed I should have nothing more to do than attach the captured
mustang to the ring of my saddle-tree, remount my own steed, and ride
back to the "false enclosure."