The elevated table-land known as Llano Estacado is in length over three
hundred miles, with an average width of sixty or seventy. It extends
longitudinally between the former Spanish provinces of New Mexico and
Texas; their respective capitals, Santa Fe and San Antonia de Bejar,
being on the opposite side of it. In the days of vice-royal rule, a
military road ran across it, connecting the two provincial centres, and
mule trains of traders passed to and fro between. As this road was only
a trail, often obliterated by the drifting sands of the desert, tall
stakes were set up at intervals to indicate the route. Hence the name
"Llano Estacado"--literally, Staked Plain.
In those days Spain was a strong, enterprising nation, and her Mexican
colonists could travel over most parts of their vast territory without
fear of being assaulted by the savages. At a later period, when Spanish
power began to decline, all this became changed. Cities fell to ruin,
settlements were deserted, mission establishments abandoned, and in the
provinces of Northern Mexico white travellers had to be cautious in
keeping to the most frequented roads, in some districts not daring even
to venture beyond the walls of their haciendas or towns. Many of these
were fortified against Indian attack, and are so to this day.
Under these circumstances the old Spanish trail across the Staked Plain
fell into disuse; its landmarks became lost, and of late years only
expeditions of the United States army have traversed it for purposes of
exploration.
In physical aspect it bears resemblance to the table lands of Abyssinia
and Southern Arabia, and at its northern end many outlying spurs and
detached _mesas_ remind the traveller of the Abyssinian hills--known as
_ambas_. A portion of this singular territory belongs to the great
gypsum formation of the south-western prairies, perhaps the largest in
the world; while a highly-coloured sandstone of various vivid hues,
often ferruginous, forms a conspicuous feature in its cliffs. Along its
eastern edge these present to the lower champaign of Texas a precipitous
escarpment several hundred feet sheer, in long stretches, tending with
an unbroken facade, in other places showing ragged, where cleft by
canons, through which rush torrents, the heads of numerous Texan
streams. Its surface is, for the most part, a dead horizontal level,
sterile as the Sahara itself, in places smooth and hard as a macadamised
road. Towards its southern end there is a group of _medanos_
(sandhills), covering a tract of several hundred square miles, the sand
ever drifting about, as with _dunes_ on the seashore. High up among
their summits is a lakelet of pure drinking water, though not a drop can
be found upon the plateau itself for scores of miles around. Sedge and
lilies grow by this tarn so singularly situated.
Here and there the plain is indented by deep fissures (_barrancas_),
apparently the work of water. Often the traveller comes upon them
without sign or warning of their proximity, till, standing on the edge
of a precipitous escarpment, he sees yawning below a chasm sunk several
hundred feet into the earth. In its bed may be loose boulders piled in
chaotic confusion, as if cast there by the hands of Titans; also trunks
of trees in a fossilised state such as those observed by Darwin on the
eastern declivity of the Chilian Andres.
Nearly all the streams that head in the Staked Plain cut deep channels
in their way to the outer world. These are often impassable, either
transversely or along their course. Sometimes, however, their beds are
worn out into little valleys, or "coves," in which a luxuriant
vegetation finds shelter and congenial soil. There flourish the pecan,
the hackberry, the black walnut, the wild china, with evergreen oaks,
plums, and clustering grapevines; while in the sterile plain above are
only seen those forms of the botanical world that truly indicate the
desert--various species of cactaceae, agaves, and yuccas--the palmilla
and lechuguilla, dwarf-cedars, and mezquites, artemisia, and the
strong-smelling larrea, or "creosote plant."
Animals are rare upon the Llano Estacado, although the prong-horn
antelope--true denizen of the desert--is there found, as also its enemy,
the Mexican jackal, or coyote. To the rattlesnake and horned lizard
(_agama_) it is a congenial home; and the singular snake-bird
(_paisano_) may frequently be seen running over the arid waste, or
skulking through the tortuous stems of the nopals. In the canons of the
stream the grizzly bear makes his haunt, and in times not long gone by
it was ascended and traversed by the unwieldy buffalo. The wild horse
(_musteno_) still occasionally courses across it.
Of all the living things it is least frequented by man. Even the Indian
rarely strays into its solitudes; and the white man, when necessitated
to enter them, does so with fear and trembling, for he knows there is
danger.
This is chiefly due to the absence of water; but there is also the
chance of going astray--getting lost in the absence of landmarks. To be
astray in a wilderness of any kind is a perilous predicament for the
traveller--in one without water it is death.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
After their affair with the Tenawas, the Texan Rangers directed their
course towards the Llano Estacado. On starting, it was their intention
to strike north, and get upon the main stream of the Canadian, then
follow it up to the place where the prairie traders met their murderous
doom. From the country of the Tenawa Comanches this would be the
correct route, and was the same taken by these freebooters returning
with the spoils of the caravan. But from the mouth of the Pecan Creek
is one more direct, leading across a spur of the plateau itself, instead
of turning its north-eastern extremity.
It was not known to the Rangers, though Cully remembered having heard
something about it. But the Mexican renegade declared himself familiar
with, and counselled taking it. There had been hesitation before
acceding to his counsel. Of course, they could have no confidence in
such a man, but rather suspicion of all he said or did. In guiding them
across the Staked Plain he might have some sinister purpose--perhaps
lead them into a trap.
After all, how could he? The tribe of savages with which he had been
consorting was now so terribly chastised, so effectually crushed, it was
not probable--scarce possible--they would be encountered again.
Certainly not for a season. For weeks there would be weeping and
wailing in the tents of the Tenawas. If the renegade had any hope of
being rescued from his present captivity, it could not be by them. He
might have some thought of escape, taking the Rangers by the route he
proposed to them. On this score they had no apprehension--not the
slightest. Suspicious, they would keep close watch upon him; shoot him
down like a dog at the first sign of his attempting to deceive them.
And, as Cully remembered having heard of this trail over the Staked
Plain, it was most probable the Mexican had no other object than to
bring them to the end of their journey in the shortest time and
straightest course. All knew it would be a near cut, and this decided
them in its favour.
After parting from Pecan Creek, with their faces set westward, they had
a journey before them anything but easy or pleasant. On the contrary,
one of the most difficult and irksome. For it lay across a sterile
tract--the great gypsum bed of North-western Texas, on which abut the
bluffs of the Llano Estacado. Mile after mile, league after league; no
"land in sight," to use a prairie-man's phrase--nothing but level plain,
smooth as a sleeping sea; but, unlike the last, without water--not a
sheet to cheer their eyes, not a drop to quench the thirst, almost
choking them. Only its resemblance, seen in the white mist always
moving over these arid plains--the deluding, tantalising mirage. Lakes
lay before them, their shores garlanded by green trees, their bosoms
enamelled with islets smiling in all the verdure of spring--always
before them, ever receding; the trees, as the water, never to be
reached!
Water they do arrive at more than once--streams rushing in full flow
across the barren waste. At sight they ride towards them rapidly.
Their horses need not to be spurred. The animals suffer as themselves,
and rush on with outstretched necks, eager to assuage their thirst.
They dip their muzzles, plunge in their heads till half-buried, only to
draw out again and toss them aloft with snorts of disappointment shaking
the water like spray from their nostrils. It is salt!
For days they have been thus journeying. They are wearied, worn down by
fatigue, hungry; but more than all, tortured by the terrible thirst--
their horses as themselves. The animals have become reduced in flesh
and strength; they look like skeletons staggering on, scarce able to
carry their riders.
Where is the Mexican conducting them? He has brought them into a
desert. Is the journey to end in their death? It looks like enough.
Some counsel killing him, and returning on their tracks. Not all; only
a minority. The majority cry "Onward!" with a thought beyond present
suffering. They must find the bones of Walt Wilder and bury them!
Brave men, true men, these Texan Rangers! Rough in outward appearance,
often rude in behaviour, they have hearts gentle as children. Of all
friends the most faithful, whether it be affection or pure
_camaraderie_. In this case a comrade has been killed--cruelly
murdered, and in a strange manner. Its very strangeness has maddened
them the more, while sharpening their desire to have a last look at his
remains, and give them Christian burial. Only the fainthearted talk of
retreating; the others do not think of it, and these are more than the
majority.
On, therefore, they ride across treeless, grassless tracks; along the
banks of streams, of whose bitter, saline waters they cannot drink, but
tantalising themselves and their animals. On, on!
Their perseverance is at length rewarded. Before their eyes looms up a
line of elevated land, apparently the profile of a mountain.
But no; it cannot be that.
Trending horizontally, without curvature, against the sky, they know it
is not a mountain, but a mesa--a table-land.
It is the Llano Estacado.
Drawing nearer, they get under the shadow of its beetling bluffs.
They see that these are rugged, with promontories projecting far out
over the plain, forming what Spanish Americans, in their expressive
phraseology, call _ceja_.
Into an embayment between two of the out-stretching spurs Barbato
conducts them.
Joyously they ride into it, like ships long storm-tossed entering a
haven of safety; for at the inner end of the concavity there is a cleft
in the precipitous wall, reaching from base to summit, out of which
issues a stream whose waters are sweet!
It is a branch of the Brazos River, along whose banks they have been
some time travelling, lower down finding its waters bitter as gall.
That was in its course through the selenite. Now they have reached the
sandstone it is clear as crystal, and to them sweeter than champagne.
"Up it lies our way," says the renegade guide, pointing to the portals
of the canon through which the stream debouched from the table to the
lower plain.
But for that night the Rangers care hot to travel further. There is no
call for haste. They are _en route_ to bury the bones of a dead man,
not to rescue one still living.