I had fallen into a sort of reverie. My mind was occupied with the
incidents I had just witnessed, when a voice, which I recognised as that
of old Rube, roused me from my abstraction.
"Look'ee hyur, boyees! Tain't of'n as ole Rube wastes lead, but I'll
beat that Injun's shot, or 'ee may cut my ears off."
A loud laugh hailed this allusion of the trapper to his ears, which, as
we have observed, were already gone; and so closely had they been
trimmed that nothing remained for either knife or shears to accomplish.
"How will you do it, Rube?" cried one of the hunters; "shoot the mark
off a yer own head?"
"I'll let 'ee see if 'ee wait," replied Rube, stalking up to a tree, and
taking from its rest a long, heavy rifle, which he proceeded to wipe out
with care.
The attention of all was now turned to the manoeuvres of the old
trapper. Conjecture was busy as to his designs. What feat could he
perform that would eclipse the one just witnessed? No one could guess.
"I'll beat it," continued he, muttering, as he loaded his piece, "or 'ee
may chop the little finger off ole Rube's right paw."
Another peal of laughter followed, as all perceived that this was the
finger that was wanting.
"'Ee--es," continued he, looking at the faces that were around him, "'ee
may scalp me if I don't."
This last remark elicited fresh roars of laughter; for although the
cat-skin was closely drawn upon his head, all present knew that old Rube
was minus his scalp.
"But how are ye goin' to do it? Tell us that, old hoss!"
"'Ee see this, do 'ee?" asked the trapper, holding out a small fruit of
the cactus pitahaya, which he had just plucked and cleaned of its
spikelets.
"Ay, ay," cried several voices, in reply.
"'Ee do, do 'ee? Wal; 'ee see 'tain't half as big as the Injun's
squash. 'Ee see that, do 'ee?"
"Oh, sartinly! Any fool can see that."
"Wal; s'pose I plug it at sixty, plump centre?"
"Wagh!" cried several, with shrugs of disappointment.
"Stick it on a pole, and any o' us can do that," said the principal
speaker. "Here's Barney could knock it off wid his owld musket.
Couldn't you, Barney?"
"In truth, an' I could thry," answered a very small man, leaning upon a
musket, and who was dressed in a tattered uniform that had once been
sky-blue. I had already noticed this individual with some curiosity,
partly struck with his peculiar costume, but more particularly on
account of the redness of his hair, which was the reddest I had ever
seen. It bore the marks of a severe barrack discipline--that is, it had
been shaved, and was now growing out of his little round head short and
thick, and coarse in the grain, and of the colour of a scraped carrot.
There was no possibility of mistaking Barney's nationality. In trapper
phrase, any fool could have told that.
What had brought such an individual to such a place? I asked this
question, and was soon enlightened. He had been a soldier in a frontier
post, one of Uncle Sam's "Sky-blues." He had got tired of pork and
pipe-clay, accompanied with a too liberal allowance of the hide. In a
word, Barney was a deserter. What his name was, I know not, but he went
under the appellation of O'Cork--Barney O'Cork.
A laugh greeted his answer to the hunter's question.
"Any o' us," continued the speaker, "could plug the persimmon that a
way. But thar's a mighty heap o' diff'rence when you squints thro'
hind-sights at a girl like yon."
"Ye're right, Dick," said another hunter; "it makes a fellow feel queery
about the jeints."
"Holy vistment! An' wasn't she a raal beauty?" exclaimed the little
Irishman, with an earnestness in his manner that set the trappers
roaring again.
"Pish!" cried Rube, who had now finished loading, "yur a set o'
channering fools; that's what 'ee ur. Who palavered about a post? I've
got an ole squaw as well's the Injun. She'll hold the thing for this
child--she will."
"Squaw! You a squaw?"
"Yes, hoss; I has a squaw I wudn't swop for two o' his'n. I'll make
tracks an' fetch the old 'oman. Shet up yur heads, an' wait, will ye?"
So saying, the smoky old sinner shouldered his rifle, and walked off
into the woods.
I, in common with others, late comers, who were strangers to Rube, began
to think that he had an "old 'oman." There were no females to be seen
about the encampment, but perhaps she was hid away in the woods. The
trappers, however, who knew him, seemed to understand that the old
fellow had some trick in his brain; and that, it appeared, was no new
thing for him.
We were not kept long in suspense. In a few minutes Rube was seen
returning, and by his side the "old 'oman," in the shape of a long,
lank, bare-ribbed, high-boned mustang, that turned out on close
inspection to be a mare! This, then, was Rube's squaw, and she was not
at all unlike him, excepting the ears. She was long-eared, in common
with all her race: the same as that upon which Quixote charged the
windmill. The long ears caused her to look mulish, but it was only in
appearance; she was a pure mustang when you examined her attentively.
She seemed to have been at an earlier period of that dun-yellowish
colour known as "clay-bank," a common colour among Mexican horses; but
time and scars had somewhat metamorphosed her, and grey hairs
predominated all over, particularly about the head and neck. These
parts were covered with a dirty grizzle of mixed hues. She was badly
wind-broken; and at stated intervals of several minutes each, her back,
from the spasmodic action of the lungs, heaved up with a jerk, as though
she were trying to kick with her hind legs, and couldn't. She was as
thin as a rail, and carried her head below the level of her shoulders;
but there was something in the twinkle of her solitary eye (for she had
but one), that told you she had no intention of giving up for a long
time to come. She was evidently game to the backbone.
Such was the "old 'oman" Rube had promised to fetch; and she was greeted
by a loud laugh as he led her up.
"Now, look'ee hyur, boyees," said he, halting in front of the crowd.
"Ee may larf, an' gabble, an' grin till yur sick in the guts--yur may!
but this child's a-gwine to take the shine out o' that Injun's shot--he
is, or bust a-tryin'."
Several of the bystanders remarked that that was likely enough, and that
they only waited to see in what manner it was to be done. No one who
knew him doubted old Rube to be, as in fact he was, one of the very best
marksmen in the mountains--fully equal, perhaps, to the Indian; but it
was the style and circumstances which had given such _eclat_ to the shot
of the latter. It was not every day that a beautiful girl could be
found to stand fire as the squaw had done; and it was not every hunter
who would have ventured to fire at a mark so placed. The strength of
the feat lay in its newness and peculiarity. The hunters had often
fired at the mark held in one another's hands. There were few who would
like to carry it on their head. How, then, was Rube to "take the shine
out o' that Injun's shot"? This was the question that each was asking
the other, and which was at length put directly to Rube himself.
"Shet up your meat-traps," answered he, "an I'll show 'ee. In the fust
place, then, 'ee all see that this hyur prickly ain't more'n hef size o'
the squash?"
"Yes, sartainly," answered several voices. "That wur one sukumstance in
his favour. Wa'nt it?"
"It wur! it wur!"
"Wal, hyur's another. The Injun, 'ee see, shot his mark off o' the
head. Now, this child's a-gwine to knock his'n off o' the tail. Kud
yur Injun do that? Eh, boyees?"
"No, no!"
"Do that beat him, or do it not, then?"
"It beats him!"
"It does!"
"Far better!"
"Hooray!" vociferated several voices, amidst yells of laughter. No one
dissented, as the hunters, pleased with the joke, were anxious to see it
carried through.
Rube did not detain them long. Leaving his rifle in the hands of his
friend Garey, he led the old mare up towards the spot that had been
occupied by the Indian girl. Reaching this, he halted.
We all expected to see him turn the animal with her side towards us,
thus leaving her body out of range. It soon became evident that this
was not the old fellow's intention. It would have spoiled the look of
the thing, had he done so; and that idea was no doubt running in his
mind.
Choosing a place where the ground chanced to be slightly hollowed out,
he led the mustang forward, until her fore feet rested in the hollow.
The tail was thus thrown above the body.
Having squared her hips to the camp, he whispered something at her head;
and going round to the hind quarters, adjusted the pear upon the highest
curve of the stump. He then came walking back.
Would the mare stand? No fear of that. She had been trained to stand
in one place for a longer period than was now required of her.
The appearance which the old mare exhibited, nothing visible but her
hind legs and buttocks, for the mules had stripped her tail of the hair,
had by this time wound the spectators up to the risible point, and most
of them were yelling.
"Stop yur giggle-goggle, wull yur!" said Rube, clutching his rifle, and
taking his stand. The laughter was held in, no one wishing to disturb
the shot.
"Now, old Tar-guts, don't waste your fodder!" muttered the trapper,
addressing his gun, which the next moment was raised and levelled.
No one doubted but that Rube would hit the object at which he was
aiming. It was a shot frequently made by western riflemen; that is, a
mark of the same size at sixty yards. And no doubt Rube would have done
it; but just at the moment of his pulling trigger the mare's back heaved
up in one of its periodic jerks, and the pitahaya fell to the ground.
But the ball had sped; and grazing the animal's shoulder, passed through
one of her ears!
The direction of the bullet was not known until afterwards, but its
effect was visible at once; for the mare, stung in her tenderest part,
uttered a sort of human-like scream, and wheeling about, came leaping
into camp, kicking over everything that happened to lie in her way.
The yells and loud laughing of the trappers, the odd ejaculations of the
Indians, the "vayas" and "vivas" of the Mexicans, the wild oaths of old
Rube himself, all formed a medley of sounds that fell strangely upon the
ear, and to give an idea of which is beyond the art of my pen.