The skill of the trackers was no longer called in need; the war-trail
was as easily followed as a toll-road: a blind man could have guided
himself along such a well-trodden highway.
Our rate of speed was now ruled by the capacity of our horses. Alas!
their power was nearly at an end. They had been two days and a night
under the saddle, with but a few hours to refresh themselves by food or
rest: they could not hold out much longer.
One by one they began to lag, until the greater number of them followed
with tottering step hundreds of yards in the rear.
It was in vain to contend against nature. The men were still willing,
though they too were wearied to death; but their horses were quite done
up--even whip and spur could force them no farther. Only my own
matchless steed could have continued the journey. Alone I might have
advanced, but that would have been madness. What could I have
accomplished alone?
Night was fast coming down: it was already twilight. I saw by the
clouded sky we should have no moon. We might follow the trail with our
waxen torches--not yet burnt out--but that would no longer be safe. For
myself, I was reckless enough to have risked life in any way, but the
lives of my comrades were not mine. I could not give them--I should not
wastefully fling them away.
Reluctantly I glided from my saddle, gave my steed to the grass, and sat
down upon the earth.
My followers coming up, said not a word, but picketing their horses,
seated themselves around me. One by one they stretched themselves along
the sward, and in ten minutes all were asleep.
I alone could not sleep; the fever of unrest was upon me; the demon of
thought would not let me close my eyes. Though my orbs ached with the
long protracted vigil, I thought that "not all the drowsy syrups of the
world" could have given me repose at that moment. I felt as one who
suffers under delirium, produced by the intoxicating cup, the fearful
_mania-a-potu_. I could neither sleep nor rest.
I could not even remain seated. I rose to my feet and wandered around,
without heed of where I was going; I strode over the recumbent forms of
my sleeping companions; I went among the horses; I paced backwards and
forwards along the banks of the stream.
There _was_ a stream--a small arroyo or rivulet. It was this that had
caused me to halt in that particular spot; for wild as were my thoughts,
I had enough of reason left to know that we could not encamp without
water. The sight of the arroyo had decided my wavering resolution, and
upon its banks, almost mechanically, I had drawn bridle and dismounted.
I once more descended to the bed of the stream, and, raising the water
in the palms of my hands, repeatedly applied it to my lips and temples.
The cool liquid refreshed me, and seemed to soothe both my nerves and my
spirit.
After a time, both felt calmer, and I sat down upon the bank, and
watched for a while the clear rivulet rippling past over its bed of
yellow sand and glistening pebbles of quartz. The water was perfectly
diaphanous; and, though the sun was no longer shining, I could see tiny
silver fish, of the genus _hyodon_, sporting themselves in the lowest
depths of the pool. How I envied them their innocent gambols, their
life of crystal purity and freedom! Here, in this remote prairie
stream, dwelt not the alligator, nor the ravenous garfish; here came no
dolphin or shark to chase them, no tyrant of the waters to put them in
fear. To be envied, indeed, such an _insouciant_, happy existence!
I watched them for a long while, till I thought that my eyes were
growing heavy, and, after all, I might seep. The murmur of the arroyo
helped to increase this inclination to repose, and, perhaps, I might
have slept; but at that moment chancing to look around, my eyes rested
upon an object that again drove sleep far away, and I was soon as
wakeful as ever.
Close to where I had seated myself grew a large plant of the Mexican
aloe (_agave Americana_). It was the wild maguey, of course, but of a
species with broad fleshy leaves of dark-green colour, somewhat
resembling the maguey of cultivation. I noticed that one of the great
blades of the plant was bruised down, and the spine, which had
terminated it, torn off.
All this would not have drawn my attention: I was already aware that the
Indians had made a halt where we were encamped, and their sign was
plenteous around--in the tracks of their animals, and the broken
branches of trees. One of their horses or mules might have munched at
the maguey in passing; and, viewing the bruised blade from a distance, I
should have hazarded just such a conjecture. But my eyes were close to
the plant, and, to my astonishment, I observed that there _was writing
upon the leaf_!
I turned over upon my knees, and seizing the huge blade, bent it down
before me, so as to obtain a better view of its surface. I read:--
"_Captured by Comanches_--_a war-party with many captives_--_women and
children_--_ay de mi! pobres ninas! north-west from this place. Saved
from death; alas! I fear_--"
The writing ended abruptly. There was no signature, but it needed not
that. I had no doubts about who was the writer; in fact, rude as was
the chirography--from the materials used--I easily identified the hand.
It was Isolina de Vargas who had written.
I saw that she had torn off the terminal spine, and using it as a
stylus, had graven those characters upon the epidermis of the plant.
Sweet subtle spirit! under any guise I could have recognised its
outpourings.
"Saved from death"--thank Heaven for that!--"alas! I fear." Oh, what
feared she? Was it worse than death? that terrible fate--too terrible
to think of?
She had broken off, without finishing the sentence. Why had she done
so?
The sheet was broad--would have held many more words--why had she not
written more? Did she dread to tell the cause of her fear? or had she
been interrupted by the approach of some of her tyrant captors? O
merciful Heaven! save me from thought!
I re-read the words over and over: there was nothing more. I examined
the other leaves of the plant--on both sides, concave and convex, I
examined them--not a word more could I find. What I had read was all
she had written.