The horses cowered under the cold rain, all of them jaded and hungry.
The hot dusty march of the morning, and the long rough gallop of the
night, had exhausted their strength; and they stood with drooped heads
and hanging ears, dozing and motionless.
The men, too, were wearied--some of them quite worn out. A few kept
their feet, bridle in hand, under shelter of the impending cliff; the
others, having staggered down, with their backs against the rock, had
almost instantly fallen asleep.
For me was neither sleep nor rest; I did not even seek protection
against the storm; but standing clear of the cliff, received the
drenching shower full upon my shoulders. It was the chill rain of the
"norther;" but at that moment neither cold _norte_ nor hot sirocco could
have produced upon me an impression of pain. To physical suffering I
was insensible. I should even have welcomed it, for I well understood
the truth, proverbially expressed in that language, rich above all
others in proverbial lore--"_un clavo saca otro clavo_" and still more
fully illustrated by the poet:
"_Tristezas me hacen triste,
Tristezas salgo a buscar,
A ver si con tristezas
Tristezas puedo olvidar_."
Yes, under any other form, I should have welcomed physical pain as a
neutraliser of my mental anguish; but that cold norther brought no
consolation.
Sadly the reverse. It was the harbinger of keen apprehension; for not
only had it interrupted our search, but should the heavy rain continue
only for a few hours, we might be able neither to find or further to
follow the trail. It would be _blinded_--obliterated--lost.
Can you wonder that in my heart I execrated those black clouds, and that
driving deluge?--that with my lips I cursed the sky and the storm, the
moon and the stars, the red lightning and the rolling thunder?
My anathema ended, I stood in sullen silence, leaning against the body
of my brave horse--whose sides shivered under the chilly rain, though I
felt not its chill.
Absorbed in gloomy thought, I recked not what was passing around me;
and, for an unnoted period, I remained in this speechless abstraction.
My reverie was broken. Some expressions that reached my ear told me
that at least two of my followers had not yet yielded to weariness or
despair. Two of them were in conversation; and I easily recognised the
voices of the trappers.
Tireless, used to stern struggles--to constant warfare with the
elements--with nature herself--these true men never thought of giving
up, until the last effort of human ingenuity had failed. From their
conversation, I gathered that they had not yet lost hope of finding the
trail, but were meditating on some plan for recovering and following it.
With renewed eagerness I faced towards them and listened. Both talked
in a low voice. Garey was speaking, as I turned to them.
"I guess you're right, Rube. The hoss must a gone thar, an if so, we're
boun' to fetch his tracks. Thar's mud, if I remember right, all roun'
the pool. We can carry the cannel under Dutch's sombrera."
"Ye-es," drawled Rube in reply; "an ef this niggur don't miskalk'late,
we ain't a gwine to need eyther cannel or sombrairay. Lookee yander!"--
the speaker pointed to a break in the clouds--"I'll stake high, I kin
mizyure this hyur shower wi' the tail o' a goat. Wagh! we'll hev the
moon agin, clur as iver in the inside o' ten minnits--see ef we haint."
"So much the better, old hoss; but hadn't we best first try for the
tracks; time's precious, Rube--"
"In coorse it ur; git the cannel an the sombrairay, an le's be off then.
The rest o' these fellurs hed better stay hyur, an snore it out; thu'll
only bamfoozle us."
"Lige!" called out Garey, addressing himself to Quackenboss--"Lige! gi'
us yur hat a bit."
A loud snore was the only reply. The ranger, seated with his back
against the rock, and his head drooping over his breast, was sound
asleep.
"Durned sleepy-head!" exclaimed Rube, in a tone of peevish impatience.
"Prod 'im wi' the point o' yur bowie, Bill! Rib-roast 'im wi' yur
wipin'-stick! Lam 'im wi' yur laryette!--gi' 'im a kick i' the guts!--
roust 'im up, durn 'im!"
"Lige!--he!--Dutchy!" cried Garey, approaching the sleeper, and shaking
him by the shoulder; "I want your sombrera."
"Ho! wo! stand still! Jingo! he'll throw me. I can't get off; the
spurs are locked. He! wo! wo!"
Rube and Garey broke into a loud cachinnation that awakened the rest of
the slumberers. Quackenboss alone remained asleep, fighting in his
dreams with the wild Indian horse.
"Durned mulehead!" cried Rube after a pause; "let 'im go on at thet
long's he likes it. Chuck the hat off o' his head, Bill! we don't want
_him_--thet we don't."
There was a little pique in the trapper's tone. The breach that the
ranger had made, while acting as a faithful sentinel, was not yet
healed.
Garey made no further attempts to arouse the sleeper, but in obedience
to the order of his comrade, lifted off the hat; and, having procured
one of the great candles, he and Rube started off without saying another
word, of giving any clue to their design.
Though joyed at what I had heard, I refrained from interrogating them.
Some of my followers who put questions received only ambiguous answers.
From the manner of the trappers, I saw that they wished to be left to
themselves; and I could well trust them to the development of whatever
design they had conceived.
On leaving us, they walked straight out from the cliff; but how far they
continued in this direction it was impossible to tell. They had not
lighted the candle; and after going half-a-dozen steps, their forms
disappeared from our view amidst the darkness and thickly-falling rain.