ASLEEP IN THE LAND OF SILENCE.
“Turned round twice!” ejaculates the reader. “Why should she be
terrified at such a slight thing?”
For a very good reason, for example: blindfold a person and after doing
so turn him twice in his tracks. He then will be unable to tell with
any degree of certainty to which point of the compass he is facing.
So it was with Kissie. Though not blindfolded, she might as well have
been, and might as well have turned round fifty times as twice. The
flat plain was everywhere the same monotonous expanse, nowhere showing
any landmarks, by the slightest depression or elevation.
No wonder she was frightened, even terrified. Had she been in a settled
country, she would only have experienced vexation and discontent at
being forced to spend the night on the prairie; but here she was, far
from any settlement, lost from her companions, and in a hostile Indian
country. She knew the latter to be fierce and bloodthirsty, and was
aware they would not scruple to commit any outrage their cunning brains
might suggest. She knew they were predatory and gregarious, often
rambling in bands of from a dozen to fifty or a hundred. She knew also
they were _the_ fiends of the plains--either Comanches or Apaches,
dreaded alike by quiet _ranchero_ and courageous hunter.
Should she meet with them, what would be her fate--what her doom? What--
At this point in her reflections Dimple pawed impatiently, and tossing
her head, snuffed the air; she was evidently fatigued and hungry and
was impatient at being kept at a standstill.
“Quiet, Dimple! you are tired, pet; you have had a hard gallop after a
day’s march. Dear, dear me; that I had never left them.”
But the pony was not very much fatigued. She was a pure mustang, but
recently captured and tamed, and could have galloped the entire day
without faltering.
“Oh, where shall I go--what shall I do? Oh, heaven! I would I had never
left them. Be quiet, I say, Dimple? what do you mean?”
The pony was stamping violently, and with tossing head was staring over
the plain. Mechanically Kissie followed his gaze.
Away on the distant horizon (the eastern one, though she did not
know it) she saw a solitary speck, moving slowly. It was that which
had caused the mustang’s alarm. It had evidently been in sight for
some time, for now she remembered the pony had been restless for
considerable time. It was some animal, perhaps a solitary horseman.
Indeed, by straining her eyes, she was almost certain it was the
latter, as she thought she could distinguish the necessary outlines of
a mounted man.
The object was a man, and mounted on a black powerful horse. It was
Pedro Felipe.
Had she known it was a white man, had she any reason to suppose he was
not an enemy, she would have at once spurred toward him; but, knowing
that numerous Indians were at all times scouring the plains, she
desired rather to give him a wide berth, fearing he was one of that
dreaded race.
She raised her whip, and striking the mustang sharply, was riding
away when a new object appeared on the horizon, opposite the Mexican.
Object? rather a number of blots, moving toward her. This she could
tell as they appeared stationary while they rose and fell, like a
galloping horse.
She had seen such objects before, and knew they were galloping animals.
Knowing that scarcely any animals frequented the plain, from its
sterility, she readily became aware that they were a band of mounted
men.
She felt her heart leap joyously; it was her friends. They had
doubtless become alarmed at her prolonged absence, and had started in
search of her. Filled with joy at the thought, she pressed on, her
fears at rest. Just then she looked for the far-distant, lone rider--he
was not in sight; he had vanished.
Suddenly she stopped the mustang, and a deadly pallor overspread her
countenance, a wild fear arose within her. She had counted thirteen
distinct objects moving toward her.
Her father’s party numbered seven--the one approaching numbered
thirteen; it could not be her friends--it could not.
Who were they? Surely they were mounted men, surely they were not her
friends; who could they be? They were coming, miles away, directly
toward her.
The truth flashed upon her, and her heart sunk like lead. Sitting
quietly in her saddle, she stared at them, drawing nearer every minute.
Then she became aroused. Wheeling suddenly she plied the whip, and the
wiry mustang, now somewhat refreshed, sprung away at a long, steady
gallop, and the blots behind scattered, collected again, then rose and
fell faster and shorter. The chase had commenced--she was pursued by
Indians.
It was now sunset, as nearly as she could judge, and the cloudy sky
overhead promised a brief, dark twilight, to be succeeded by a dark,
murky night. The rainy season was now drawing near, and for aught she
knew the clouds above might be the “advance-guard.” This, at least, was
in her favor.
Kissie was like her father--impulsive but cool. Looking back, she
calculated the distance between her and the flying savages. It was
nearly four miles. She looked at the sky and calculated that darkness
would fall in less than an hour.
“They will have to ride like the wind to overtake Dimple in an hour,”
she said, with a small degree of hope. “Till then, Dimple, fly; in an
hour we may be safe for the present.”
The mustang, as if cognizant of the importance of speed, tossed his
plucky head, then bending it down, “reached” like a quarter-horse; his
sensitive nose had warned him of the proximity of his former hated
foe--the red-man. Running without the incentive of whip or spur, he
stretched away; and behind came a dozen and one Apaches, grim and
resolved; they were on the war-trail.
At that hour a flock of vultures wheeling above, high in the
zenith, looked down upon a strange scene--at least for that usually
deserted plain. Directly beneath were a flying maiden and galloping
Indians--the latter in hot pursuit of the former; both mounted on fleet
horses, both riding at full speed.
A few miles to the west a solitary horseman was pursuing his way
northward, at a slow gallop. He was a Mexican--Pedro Felipe. At the
rate, and in the direction the maiden was riding, it would not be long
ere she would meet him--she riding north-westerly. Directly south and
nearly fifteen miles behind Pedro, rode a dark, ugly-looking man on a
black horse; and though the Mexican had left no visible trail, this
mysterious rider was following him, directly in his very tracks. Riders
on the savage-infested, weird plains generally look sharply in every
direction to avoid their dreaded foes; they generally, if alone, keep
close to timbered tracts; but this rider never gazed to the right,
left, or behind him--only keeping his gaze fixed toward the Land of
Silence.
In a south-easterly direction from him was a train encamped on the
Gila, for the night. All the work had been finished. The horses were
lariated at hand; the rude kettle was boiling merrily; the cook was
swearing and grumbling, as usual; but all was not quiet.
Ever and anon one of the several men lying lazily about would rise,
and shading his eyes, peer toward the north-east, as if in search of
something.
He was invariably unsuccessful; and, after anxiously gazing for several
minutes, would return, and talk in low tones to his companions.
Then several would start up together and peer over the north-western
plain; then, muttering anxiously, would return and lie down again,
talking earnestly; something was wrong.
Even the cook, who was generally too hard at work, tired and surly
to pay attention to any thing outside of his “Dutch-oven,” would now
and then pause and look anxiously toward the north-west; it was plain
something was wrong.
It was twilight on the vast plain, north of the Gila. Now the two
principal parties had visibly changed their positions. The Indians were
quite near, having gained two miles in light--a vast gain; they must
have ridden like the wind, or the sorrel mustang must have lagged.
The last was the case. From some hidden reason Dimple had lost his
swift run, and was going at a faltering canter--he was unaccountably
fatigued or injured. She could hear faintly the hideous yells behind--a
mile and a half distant.
At this, with her last hope giving way, she plied the whip.
The mustang obeyed, and for a few lengths galloped briskly, but soon
collapsed, and feebly cantered on. She felt terrified at the thought of
captivity and prayed for rescue.
It came. The twilight was almost over, then pitchy darkness would
shield her from her red enemies. The moon rose about three hours after
sundown--she could easily elude them until that time; then, perhaps,
she would be safe.
Another circumstance, far more potent, was in her favor. The soil of
the plain, baked hard after months of drought, left no impression
of the mustang’s hoof, consequently she could not be traced by the
hoof-marks. It was not probable, after having eluded them, that in this
wide, vast plain they could chance upon her again. So, if she succeeded
in escaping, for the present she was in comparative safety.
She succeeded. The darkness swiftly gathered down over the plain; she
lost sight of her pursuers, though still hearing their hideous yells;
and they, in turn, lost sight of her.
Fifteen minutes later, on pausing and waiting a few moments, Kissie
heard them gallop by in the darkness, not ten rods away. Then she
turned and rode for an hour in an opposite direction; for the present
she was safe.
Alighting, she left Dimple to graze at will on the scanty herbage; and,
conscious the timid mustang would awaken her by stamping, should danger
come, lay down, and, completely worn out, fell into a light, troubled
sleep.
The chase had not amounted to much--the odds, large ones, being in her
favor; but while she had escaped from them, she had ridden many miles
further from her friends.
Alone in the desert, guarded by the wary, timid pony, she slept; and
the night was dark and gloomy in the Land of Silence--for she was
within its ghostly border.