The campaign against the Comanches proved one of the shortest--lasting
only three or four days. It was discovered that these Ishmaelites of
the West did not mean war--at least, on a grand scale. Their descent
upon the settlements was only the freak of some young fellows, about to
take out their degree as _braves_, desirous of signalising the event by
"raising" a few scalps, and capturing some horses and horned cattle.
Forays of this kind are not unfrequent among the Texan Indians. They
are made on private account--often without the knowledge of the chief,
or elders of the tribe--just as an ambitious young mid, or ensign, may
steal off with a score of companions from squadron or camp, to cut out
an enemy's craft, or capture his picket guard. These _marauds_ are
usually made by young Indians out on a hunting party, who wish to return
home with something to show besides the spoils of the chase; and the
majority of the tribe is often ignorant of them till long after the
event. Otherwise, they might be interdicted by the elders; who, as a
general thing, are averse to such _filibustering_ expeditions--deeming
them not only imprudent, but often injurious to the interests of the
community. Only when successful are they applauded.
On the present occasion several young Comanches had taken out their
war-diploma, by carrying back with them the scalps of a number of white
women and boys. The horses and horned cattle were also collected; but
these, being less convenient of transport than the light scalp-locks,
had been recaptured.
The red-skinned filibusters, overtaken by a detachment of Mounted
Rifles, among the hills of the San Saba, were compelled to abandon their
four-footed booty, and only saved their own skins by a forced retreat
into the fastnesses of the "Llano Estacado."
To follow them beyond the borders of this sterile tract would have
required a _commissariat_ less hastily established than that with which
the troops had sallied forth; and, although the relatives of the scalped
settlers clamoured loudly for retaliation, it could only be promised
them after due time and preparation.
On discovering that the Comanches had retreated beyond their neutral
ground, the soldiers of Uncle Sam had no choice but to return to their
ordinary duties--each detachment to its own fort--to await further
commands from the head-quarters of the "department."
The troops belonging to Port Inge--entrusted with the guardianship of
the country as far as the Rio Nueces--were surprised on getting back to
their cantonment to discover that they had been riding in the wrong
direction for an encounter with the Indians! Some of them were half mad
with disappointment: for there were several--young Hancock among the
number--who had not yet run their swords through a red-skin, though
keenly desirous of doing so!
No doubt there is inhumanity in the idea. But it must be remembered,
that these ruthless savages have given to the white man peculiar
provocation, by a thousand repetitions of three diabolical crimes--rape,
rapine, and murder.
To talk of their being the aborigines of the country--the real, but
dispossessed, owners of the soil--is simple nonsense. This sophism, of
the most spurious kind, has too long held dominion over the minds of
men. The whole human race has an inherent right to the whole surface of
the earth: and if any infinitesimal fraction of the former by chance
finds itself idly roaming over an extended portion of the latter, their
exclusive claim to it is almost too absurd for argument--even with the
narrowest-minded disciple of an aborigines society.
Admit it--give the _hunter_ his half-dozen square miles--for he will
require that much to maintain him--leave him in undisputed possession to
all eternity--and millions of fertile acres must remain untilled, to
accommodate this whimsical theory of _national_ right. Nay, I will go
further, and risk reproach, by asserting:--that not only the savage, so
called, but civilised people should be unreservedly dispossessed--
whenever they show themselves incapable of turning to a good account the
resources which Nature has placed within their limits.
The _exploitation_ of Earth's treasures is a question not confined to
nations. It concerns the whole family of mankind.
In all this there is not one iota of agrarian doctrine--not a thought of
it. He who makes these remarks is the last man to lend countenance to
_communism_.
It is true that, at the time spoken of, there were ruffians in Texas who
held the life of a red-skin at no higher value than an English
gamekeeper does that of a stoat, or any other vermin, that trespasses on
his preserves. No doubt these ruffians are there still: for ten years
cannot have effected much change in the morality of the Texan frontier.
But, alas! we must now be a little cautious about calling names. Our
own story of Jamaica--by heaven! the blackest that has blotted the pages
of history--has whitewashed these border _filibusteros_ to the seeming
purity of snow!
If things are to be judged by comparison, not so fiendish, then, need
appear the fact, that the young officers of Fort Inge were some little
chagrined at not having an opportunity to slay a score or so of
red-skins. On learning that, during their absence, Indians had been
seen on the other side, they were inspired by a new hope. They might
yet find the opportunity of fleshing their swords, transported without
stain--without sharpening, too--from the military school of West Point.
It was a fresh disappointment to them, when a party came in on the same
day--civilians who had gone in pursuit of the savages seen on the
Alamo--and reported: that no Indians had been there!
They came provided with proofs of their statement, which otherwise would
have been received with incredulity--considering what had occurred.
The proofs consisted in a collection of miscellaneous articles--an odd
lot, as an auctioneer would describe it--wigs of horse-hair, cocks'
feathers stained blue, green, or scarlet, breech-clouts of buckskin,
mocassins of the same material, and several packages of paint, all which
they had found concealed in the cavity of a cottonwood tree!
There could be no new campaign against Indians; and the aspiring spirits
of Fort Inge were, for the time, forced to content themselves with such
incidents as the situation afforded.
Notwithstanding its remoteness from any centre of civilised life, these
were at the time neither tame nor uninteresting. There were several
subjects worth thinking and talking about. There was the arrival, still
of recent date, of the most beautiful woman ever seen upon the Alamo;
the mysterious disappearance and supposed assassination of her brother;
the yet more mysterious appearance of a horseman without a head; the
trite story of a party of white men "playing Indian"; and last, though
not of least interest, the news that the suspected murderer had been
caught, and was now inside the walls of their own guardhouse--mad as a
maniac!
There were other tales told to the disappointed campaigners--of
sufficient interest to hinder them from thinking: that at Fort Inge they
had returned to dull quarters. The name of Isidora Covarubio do los
Llanos--with her masculine, but magnificent, beauty--had become a theme
of conversation, and something was also said, or surmised, about her
connection with the mystery that occupied all minds.
The details of the strange scenes upon the Alamo--the discovery of the
mustanger upon his couch--the determination to hang him--the act delayed
by the intervention of Louise Poindexter--the respite due to the courage
of Zeb Stump--were all points of the most piquant interest--suggestive
of the wildest conjectures.
Each became in turn the subject of converse and commentary, but none was
discussed with more earnestness than that which related to the
innocence, or guilt, of the man accused of murder.
"Murder," said the philosophic Captain Sloman, "is a crime which, in my
opinion, Maurice the mustanger is incapable of committing. I think, I
know the fellow well enough to be sure about that."
"You'll admit," rejoined Crossman, of the Rifles, "that the
circumstances are strong against him? Almost conclusive, I should say."
Crossman had never felt friendly towards the young Irishman. He had an
idea, that on one occasion the commissary's niece--the belle of the
Fort--had looked too smilingly on the unknown adventurer.
"I consider it anything but conclusive," replied Sloman.
"There's no doubt about young Poindexter being dead, and having been
murdered. Every one believes that. Well; who else was likely to have
done it? The cousin swears to having overheard a quarrel between him
and Gerald."
"That precious cousin would swear to anything that suited his purpose,"
interposed Hancock, of the Dragoons. "Besides, his own shindy with the
same man is suggestive of suspicion--is it not?"
"And if there _was_ a quarrel," argued the officer of infantry, "what
then? It don't follow there was a murder."
"Then you think the fellow may have killed Poindexter in a fair fight?"
"Something of the sort is possible, and even probable. I will admit
that much."
"But what did they have a difficulty about?" asked Hancock. "I heard
that young Poindexter was on friendly terms with the horse-hunter--
notwithstanding what had happened between him and Calhoun. What could
they have quarrelled about?"
"A singular interrogation on _your_ part, Lieutenant Hancock!" answered
the infantry officer, with a significant emphasis on the pronoun. "As
if men ever quarrelled about anything except--"
"Except women," interrupted the dragoon with a laugh.
"But which woman, I wonder? It could not be anything relating to young
Poindexter's sister?"
"_Quien sabe_?" answered Sloman, repeating the Spanish phrase with an
ambiguous shrug of the shoulders.
"Preposterous!" exclaimed Crossman. "A horse-catcher daring to set his
thoughts on Miss Poindexter! Preposterous!"
"What a frightful aristocrat you are, Crossman! Don't you know that
love is a natural democrat; and mocks your artificial ideas of
distinction. I don't say that in this case there's been anything of the
kind. Miss Poindexter's not the only woman that might have caused a
quarrel between the two individuals in question. There are other
damsels in the settlement worth getting angry about--to say nothing of
our own fair following in the Fort; and why not--"
"Captain Sloman," petulantly interrupted the lieutenant of Rifles. "I
must say that, for a man of your sense, you talk very inconsiderately.
The ladies of the garrison ought to be grateful to you for the
insinuation."
"What insinuation, sir?"
"Do you suppose it likely that there's one of them would condescend to
speak to the person you've named?"
"Which? I've named two."
"You understand me well enough, Sloman; and I you. Our ladies will, no
doubt, feel highly complimented at having their names connected with
that of a low adventurer, a horse-thief, and suspected assassin!"
"Maurice the mustanger may be the last--suspected, and that is all. He
is neither of the two first; and as for our ladies being above speech
with him, in that as in many other things, you may be mistaken, Mr
Crossman. I've seen more of this young Irishman than you--enough to
satisfy me that, so far as _breeding_ goes, he may compare notes with
the best of us. Our grand dames needn't be scared at the thought of his
acquaintance; and, since you have raised the question, I don't think
they would shy from it--some of them at least--if it were offered them.
It never has. So far as I have observed, the young fellow has behaved
with a modesty that betokens the true gentleman. I have seen him in
their presence more than once, and he has conducted himself towards them
as if fully sensible of his position. For that matter, I don't think he
cares a straw about one or other of them."
"Indeed! How fortunate for those, who might otherwise have been his
rivals!"
"Perhaps it is," quietly remarked the captain of infantry.
"Who knows?" asked Hancock, intentionally giving a turn to the ticklish
conversation. "Who knows but the cause of quarrel--if there's been
one--might not be this splendid senorita so much talked about? I
haven't seen her myself; but, by all accounts, she's just the sort to
make two fellows as jealous as a pair of tiger-cats."
"It might be--who knows?" drawled Crossman, who found contentment in the
thought that the handsome Irishman might have his amorous thoughts
turned in any other direction than towards the commissary's quarters.
"They've got him in the guard-house," remarked Hancock, stating a fact
that had just been made known to him: for the conversation above
detailed occurred shortly after their return from the Comanche campaign.
"His droll devil of a serving man is along with him. What's more; the
major has just issued an order to double the guard! What does it mean,
Captain Sloman--you who know so much of this fellow and his affairs?
Surely there's no danger of his making an attempt to steal out of his
prison?"
"Not likely," replied the infantry officer, "seeing that he hasn't the
slightest idea that he's inside of one. I've just been to the
guard-house to have a look at him. He's mad as a March hare; and
wouldn't know his own face in a looking-glass."
"Mad! In what way?" asked Hancock and the others, who were yet but half
enlightened about the circumstances of the mustanger's capture.
"A brain fever upon him--delirious?"
"Is that why the guards have been doubled? Devilish queer if it is.
The major himself must have gone mad!"
"Maybe it's the suggestion--command I should rather say--of the
majoress. Ha! ha! ha!"
"But what _does_ it mean? Is the old maje really afraid of his getting
out of the guard-house?"
"No--not that, I fancy. More likely an apprehension of somebody else
getting into it."
"Ah! you mean, that--"
"I mean that for Maurice the Mustanger there's more safety inside than
out. Some queer characters are about; and there's been talk of another
Lynch trial. The Regulators either repent of having allowed him a
respite; or there's somebody hard at work in bringing about this state
of public opinion. It's lucky for him that the old hunter has stood his
friend; and it's but a continuation of his good luck that we've returned
so opportunely. Another day, and we might have found the guardhouse
empty--so far as its present occupants are concerned. Now, thank God!
the poor fellow shall have a fair trial."
"When is it to take place?"
"Whenever he has recovered his senses, sufficiently to know that he's
being tried!"
"It may be weeks before that."
"And it may be only days--hours. He don't appear to be very bad--that
is, bodily. It's his mind that's out of order--more, perhaps, from some
strange trouble that has come over him, than any serious hurt he has
received. A day may make all the difference; and, from what I've just
heard, the Regulators will insist on his being tried as soon as he shows
a return to consciousness. They say, they won't wait for him to recover
from his wounds!"
"Maybe he'll be able to tell a story that'll clear him. I hope so."
This was said by Hancock.
"I doubt it," rejoined Crossman, with an incredulous shake of the head.
"_Nous verrons_!"
"I'm sure of it," said Sloman. "_Nos veremos_!" he added, speaking in a
tone that seemed founded less upon confidence than a wish that was
father to the thought.