Something of one occurred to me at that moment: a slight shadow of it
had crossed my mind before. It seemed practicable, though fearfully
perilous; but what of peril? It was not the time, nor was I in the
mood, to regard danger. Anything short of the prospect of certain death
had no terror for me then; and even this I should have preferred to
failure.
We had along with us the horse of the captive Comanche. Stanfield had
brought the animal, having left his own in exchange. I thought of
mounting the Indian horse, and riding him into the camp. In this
consisted the whole of the scheme that now presented itself.
Surely the idea was a good one--a slight alteration of my original plan.
I had already undertaken to play the _role_ of an Indian warrior, while
within the camp; it would only require me to begin the personation
outside the lines, and make my _entree_ along with my _debut_. There
would be more dramatic appropriateness, with a proportionate increase of
danger.
But I did not jest thus; I had no thought of merriment at the time. The
travesty I had undertaken was no burlesque.
The worst feature of this new scheme was the increased risk of being
brought in contact with the friends of the warrior of the red hand--of
being accosted by them, and of course expected to make reply. How could
I avoid meeting them--one or more of them? If interrogated, how shun
making answer? I knew a few words of the Comanche tongue, but not
enough to hold a conversation in it. Either my false accent or my voice
would betray me! True, I might answer in Spanish. Many of the
Comanches speak this language; but my using it would appear a suspicious
circumstance.
There was another source of apprehension: I could not confide in the
Indian horse. He had endeavoured to fling Stanfield all along the way--
kicking violently, and biting at his Saxon rider while seated upon his
back. Should he behave in a similar manner with me while entering the
camp, it would certainly attract the attention of the Indian guards. It
would lead to scrutiny and suspicion.
Still another fear: even should I succeed in the main points--in
entering the camp, finding the captive, and wresting her from the hands
of her jailers--how after? I could never depend upon this capricious
mustang to carry us clear of the pursuit--there would be others as
swift, perhaps swifter than he, and we should only be carried back to
die. Oh! that I could have taken my own steed near to the line of
yonder guard--oh! that I could have hidden him there!
It might not be; I saw that it could not be; and I was forced to abandon
the thoughts of it.
I had well-nigh made up my mind to risk all the chances of my assumed
character, by mounting the Indian horse. To my comrades I imparted the
idea, and asked their counsel.
All regarded it as fraught with danger; one or two advised me against
it. They were those who did not understand my motives--who could not
comprehend the sentiment of love--who knew not the strength and courage
which that noble passion may impart. Little understood they how its
emotions inspire to deeds of daring--how love absorbs all selfishness--
even life becoming a secondary consideration, when weighed against the
happiness or safety of its object. These rude men had never loved as I.
I gave no ear to their too prudent counsels.
Others acknowledged the danger, but saw not how I could act differently.
One or two had in their life's course experienced a touch of tender
feeling akin to mine. These could appreciate; and counselled me in
consonance with my half-formed resolution. I liked their counsel best.
One had not yet spoken--one upon whose advice I placed a higher value
than upon the combined wisdom of all the others. I had not yet taken
the opinion of the earless trapper.