I spurred after, and soon overtook them. Regardless of the dust, I rode
close in the rear of the trackers, and listened to what they were
saying.
These "men of the mountains"--as they prided to call themselves--were
peculiar in everything. While engaged in a duty, such as the present,
they would scarce disclose their thoughts, even to me; much less were
they communicative with the rest of my following, whom they were
accustomed to regard as "greenhorns"--their favourite appellation for
all men who have not made the tour of the grand prairies.
Notwithstanding that Stanfield and Black were backwoodsmen and hunters
by profession, Quackenboss a splendid shot, Le Blanc a regular
_voyageur_, and the others more or less skilled in woodcraft, all were
greenhorns in the opinion of the trappers. To be otherwise a man must
have starved upon a "sage-prairie"--"run" buffalo by the Yellowstone or
Platte--fought "Injun," and shot Indian--have well-nigh lost scalp or
ears--spent a winter in Pierre's Hole upon Green River--or camped amid
the snows of the Rocky Mountains! Some one of all these feats must
needs have been performed, ere the "greenhorn" can matriculate and take
rank as a "mountain man."
I of all my party was the only one who, in the eyes of Rube and Garey,
was _not_ a greenhorn; and even I--gentleman-amateur that I was--was
hardly up either in their confidence or their "craft." It is indeed
true--with all my classic accomplishments--with my fine words, my fine
horse, and fine clothes--so long as we were within the limits of
prairie-land, I acknowledged these men as my superiors. They were my
guides, my instructors, my masters.
Since overtaking them on the trail, I had not asked them to give any
opinion. I dreaded a direct answer--for I had noticed something like a
despairing look in the eyes of both.
As I followed them over the black plain, however, I thought that their
faces brightened a little, and appeared once more lit up by a faint ray
of hope. For that reason, I rode close upon their heels, and eagerly
caught up every word that was passing between them. Rube was speaking
when I first drew near.
"Wagh! I don't b'lieve it, Bill: 'taint possyble no-howso-ever. The
paraira wur sot afire--must 'a been--thur's no other ways for it. It
cudn't 'a tuk to bleezing o' itself--eh?"
"Sartinly not; I agree wi' you, Rube."
"Wal--thur wur a fellur as I met oncest at Bent's Fort on the Arkinsaw--
a odd sort o' a critter he wur, an no mistake; he us't to go pokin
about, gatherin' weeds an' all sorts o' green garbitch, an' spreadin'
'em out atween sheets o' paper--whet he called button-eyesin--jest like
thet ur Dutch doctur as wur rubbed out when we went into the Navagh
country, t'other side o' the Grand."
"I remembers him."
"Wal, this hyur fellur I tell 'ee about, he us't to talk mighty big o'
this, thet, an t' other; an he palavered a heap 'bout a thing thet, ef I
don't disremember, wur called _spuntainyus kumbuxshun_."
"I've heerd o' 't; that are the name."
"Wal, the button-eyeser, he sayed thet a paraira mout take afire o'
itself, 'ithout anybody whatsomdiver heving sot it. Now, thet ur's what
this child don't b'lieve, nohow. In coorse, I knows thet lightnin'
sometimes may sot a paraira a bleezin', but lightnin's a natral fire o'
itself; an it's only reezunible to expect thet the dry grass wud catch
from _it_ like punk; but I shed like to know how fire kud kindle 'ithout
somethin to kindle it--thet's whet I shed like to know."
"I don't believe it can," rejoined Garey.
"Ne'er a bit o' it. I never seed a burnin' paraira yit, thet thur
wa'n't eyther a camp-fire or a Injun at the bottom o' it--thet ur
'ceptin whur lightnin hed did the bizness."
"And you think, Rube, thar's been Injun at the bottom o' this?"
"Putty nigh sure; an I'll gie you my reezuns. Fust, do 'ee see thur's
been no lightnin this mornin to 'a made the fire? Seconds, it's too fur
west hyur for any settlement o' whites--in coorse I speak o' Texans--
thur might be Mexikins; them I don't call white, nohow-nosomediver. An
then, agin, it kin scace be Mexikins neyther. It ur too fur no'th for
any o' the yellur-bellies to be a straying jest now, seein as it's _the
Mexikin moon_ wi' the kimanchees, an both them an the Leepans ur on the
war-trail. Wal, then, it's clur thur's no Mexikin 'bout hyur to hev sot
the paraira afire, an thur's been no lightnin to do it; thurfor, it must
'a been did eyther by a Injun, or thet ur dodrotted spuntainyus
kumbuxshun."
"One or t'other."
"Wal, being as this child don't b'lieve in the kumbuxshun nohow,
thurfore it's my opeenyun thet red Injuns did the bizness--_they_ did
sartint."
"No doubt of it," assented Garey.
"An ef they did," continued the old trapper, "thur about yit some whur
not fur off, an we've got to keep a sharp look-out for our har--thet's
what _we_ hev."
"Safe, we have," assented Garey.
"I tell 'ee, Bill," continued Rube in a new strain, "the Injuns is
mighty riled jest now. I never knowd 'em so savagerous an fighty. The
war hez gin 'em a fresh start, an thur dander's up agin us, by reezun
thet the gin'ral didn't take thur offer to help us agin the
yellur-bellies. Ef we meet wi' eyther Kimanch or Leepan on these hyur
plains, thu'll scalp us, or we'll scalp 'em--thet 'll be it. Wagh!"
"But what for could they 'a sot the parairy on fire?" inquired Garey.
"Thet ere," replied Rube,--"thet ere wur what puzzled me at fust. I
thort it mout 'a been done by accydent--preehaps by the scattering o' a
camp-fire--for Injuns is careless enuf 'bout thet. Now, howsowever,
I've got a different idee. Thet story thet Dutch an Frenchy hev fetched
from the rancherie, gies me a insight inter the hull bizness."
I knew the "story" to which Rube had reference. Lige and Le Blanc, when
at the village, had heard some rumour of an Indian foray that had just
been made against one of the Mexican towns, not far from the rancheria.
It had occurred on the same day that we marched out. The Indians--
supposed to be Lipans or Comanches--had sacked the place, and carried
off both plunder and captives. A party of them had passed near the
rancheria after we ourselves had left it. This party had "called" at
the hacienda de Vargas and completed the pillage, left unfinished by the
guerilla. This was the substance of what the messengers had heard.
"You mean about the Injuns?" said Garey, half interrogatively.
"In coorse," rejoined Rube. "Belike enuf, 'em Injuns ur the same
niggurs we gin sich a rib-roastin' to by the moun. Wagh! they hain't
gone back to thur mountains, as 'twur b'lieved: they dassent 'a gone
back in sich disgrace, 'ithout takin' eyther har or hosses. The squaws
ud 'a hooted 'em out o' thur wigwams."
"Sure enough."
"Sure, sartint. Wal, Billee, 'ee see now what I mean: thet party's been
a skulketin' 'bout hyur ever since, till they got a fust-rate chance at
the Mexikin town, an thur they've _struck a blow_."
"It's mighty like as you say, Rube; but why have they sot fire to the
parairy?"
"Wagh! Bill, kin ye not see why? it ur plain as Pike's Peak on a
summery day."
"I don't see," responded Garey, in a thoughtful tone.
"Well, this child _do_; an this ur the reezun: as I tell 'ee, the Injuns
hain't forgot the lambaystin they hed by the moun; an preehaps bein' now
a weak party, an thinkin' thet we as wolloped 'em wur still i' the
rancherie, they wur afeerd thet on hearing o' thur pilledgin', we mout
be arter 'em."
"An they've burnt the parairy to kiver thur trail?"
"Preezactly so."
"By Gosh, you're right, Rube!--it's uncommon like. But whar do you
think this trail's goin? Surely the hoss hain't been caught in the
fire?"
I bent forward in the saddle, and listened with acute eagerness. To my
great relief, the answer of the old trapper was in the negative.
"He hain't," said he; "ne'er a bit o' it. His trail, do ee see, runs in
a bee-line, or clost on a bee-line: now, ef the fire hed 'a begun afore
he wur acrosst this paraira, he wud long since 'a doubled 'bout, an tuk
the back track; but 'ee see he hain't did so; thurfor, I conclude he's
safe through it, an the grass must 'a been sot afire ahint 'im."
I breathed freely after listening to these words. A load seemed lifted
from my breast--for up to this moment I had been vainly endeavouring to
combat the fearful apprehension that had shaped itself in my
imagination. From the moment that we had entered the burning prairie,
my eyes constantly, and almost mechanically, had sought the ground in
front of our course, had wandered over it, with uneasy glance, in dread
of beholding forms--lifeless--burned and charred--
The words of the trapper gave relief--almost an assurance that the steed
and his rider were still safe--and under the inspiration of renewed
hope, I rode forward with lighter heart.