CHAPTER XX. THE LOG-HUT AT BRAZOS
I was all impatience to see my prize: and scarcely had I entered the inn than I passed out into the stable-yard, now crowded with many of those equestrian-looking figures I had seen on board the steamer.
“Butcher's mare here still, Georgie?” said a huge fellow, with high boots of red-brown leather, and a sheepskin capote belted round him with a red sash.
“Yes, Master Seth, there she stands. You'll be getting a bargain of her, one of these days.”
“If I had her up at Austin next week for the fair, she 'd bring a few hundred dollars.”
“You 'd never think of selling a beast like that at Austin, Seth?” said a bystander.
“Why not? Do you fancy I 'll bring her into the States, and see her claimed in every town of the Union? Why, man, she's been stolen once a month, that mare has, since she was a two-year-old. I knew an old general up in the Maine frontier had her last year; and he rid her away from a 'stump meeting' in Vermont, in change of his own mule,—blind,—and never know'd the differ till he was nigh home. I sold her twice, myself, in one week. Scott of Muckleburg stained her off fore-leg white, and sold her back, as a new one, to the fellow who returned her for lameness; and she can pretend lameness, she can.”
A roar of very unbelieving laughter followed this sally, but Seth resumed,—
“Well, I'll lay fifty dollars with any gentleman here that she comes out of the stable dead lame, or all sound, just as I bid her.”
Nobody seemed to fancy this wager; and Seth, satisfied with having established his veracity, went on,—
“You 've but to touch the coronet of the off-foot with the point of your bowie,—a mere touch, not draw blood,—and see if she won't come out limping on the toe, all as one as a dead breakdown in the coffin joint; rub her a bit then with your hand,—she 's all right again! It was Wrecksley of Ohio taught her the trick; he used to lame her that way, and buy her in, wherever he found her.”
“Who's won her this time?” cried another.
“I have, gentlemen,” said I, slapping my boot with my cane, and affecting a very knowing air as I spoke. The company turned round and surveyed me some seconds in deep silence.
“You an't a-goin' to ride her, young 'un?” said one, half contemptuously.
“No, he an't; the gent's willin' to sell her,” chimed in another.
“He's goin' to ax me three hundred dollars,” said a third, “an' I an't a-goin' to gi' him no more than two hundred.”
“You are all wrong, every man of you,” said Seth. “He's bringing her to England, a present for the Queen, for her own ridin'.”
“And I beg to say, gentlemen, that none of you have hit upon the right track yet; nor do I think it necessary to correct you more fully. But as you appear to take an interest in my concerns, I may mention that I shall want a hack for my servant's riding,—a short-legged, square-jointed thing, clever to go, and a good feeder, not much above fourteen hands in height, or four hundred dollars in price. If you chance upon this—”
“I know your mark.”
“My roan, with the wall-eye. You don't mind a walleye?”
“No, no! my black pony mare's the thing the gent's a lookin' for.”
“I say it's nothing like it,” broke in Seth. “He's a-wantin' a half-bred mustang, with a down-east cross,—a critter to go through fire and water; liftin' the fore-legs like a high-pressure piston, and with a jerk of the 'stifle' like the recoil of a brass eight-pounder. An't I near the mark?”
“Not very wide of it,” said I, nodding encouragingly.
“She 's at Austin now. You an't a-goin' there?”
“Yes,” said I; “I shall be in Austin next week.”
“Well, never you make a deal till you see my black pony,” cried one.
“Nor the roan cob,” shouted another.
“He 'd better see 'em 'fore he sees Split-the-wind, then, or he 'd not look at 'em arter,” said Seth. “You 've only to ask for Seth Chiseller, and they 'll look me up.”
“You an't a-goin' to let us see Butcher's mare afore we go?” said one to the ostler.
“I an't, because I have n't got the key. She's a double-locked, and the cap 'n never gives it to no one, but comes a-feedin' time himself, to give her corn.”
After a few muttered remarks on this caution, the horse-dealers sauntered out of the yard, leaving me musing over what I had heard, and wondering if this excessive care of the landlord boded any suspicion regarding the winner of the prize.
“Jist draw that bolt across the gate, there, will ye,” said the ostler, while he produced a huge key from his pocket. “I know 'em well, them gents. A man must have fourteen eyes in his head, and have 'em back and front too, that shows 'em a horse beast! Darn me coarse! if they can't gi' 'un a blood spavin in a squirt of tobacco! Let's see your ticket, young master, and I 'll show you Charcoal,—. that's her name.”
“Here it is,” said I, “signed by the agent at Galveston, all right and regular.”
“The cap'n must see to that. I only want to know that ye have the number. Yes, that 's it; now stand a bit on one side. Ye 'll see her when she comes out.”
He entered the stable as he spoke, and soon re-appeared, leading a tall mare, fully sixteen hands high, and black as jet; a single white star on her forehead, and a dash of white across the tail, being the only marks on her. She was bursting with condition, and both in symmetry and action a splendid creature.
“An't she a streak of lightnin', and no mistake?” said he, gazing on her with rapture. “An't she glibber to move nor a wag of a comet's tail, when he 's taking a lark round the moon? There's hocks! there's pasterns! Show me a gal with ankles like 'em, and look at her, here! An't she a-made for sittin' on?”
I entered into all his raptures. She was faultless in every point,—save, perhaps, that in looking at you she would throw her eye backwards, and show a little bit too much of the white. I remarked this to the ostler.
“The only fault she has,” said he, shaking his head; “she mistrusts a body always, and so she's eternally a lookin' back, and a gatherin' up her quarters, and a holdin' of her tail tight in; but for that, she's a downright regular beauty, and for stride and bottom there ain't her equal nowhere.”
“Her late master was unlucky, I've heard,” said I, insinuatingly.
“He was so far unlucky that he could n't sit his beast over a torrent and a down leap. He would hold her in, and she won't bear it at a spring, and so she flung him before she took the leap; and when she lit, 't other side, with her head high and her hind legs under her, he was a sittin' with his 'n under his arm, and his neck bruck,—that was the way o' it. See now, master, if ever ye do want a great streak out of her, leave the head free a bit, press her wi' your calves, and give a right down reg'lar halloo,—ha! like a Mexican chap; then she'll do it!”
The ostler found me a willing listener, either when dwelling on the animal's perfections, or suggesting hints for her future management; and when at last both these themes were tolerably exhausted, he proceeded to show me the horse-gear of saddle, and bridle, and halter, and holsters, all handsomely finished in Mexican taste, and studded with brass nails in various gay devices. At last he produced the rifle,—a regular Kentucky one, of Colt's making,—and what he considered a still greater prize, a bell-mouthed thing half horse-pistol, half blunderbuss, which he called “a almighty fine 'Harper's Ferry tool,' that would throw thirty bullets through an oak panel two inches thick.”
It was evident that he looked upon the whole equipment as worthy of the most exalted possession, and he gazed on me as one whose lot was indeed to be envied.
“Seth and the others leave this to-morrow a'ternoon,” said he; “but if ye be a-goin' to Austin, where the 'Spedeshin' puts up, take my advice, and get away before 'em. You 've a fine road,—no trouble to find the way; your beast will carry you forty, fifty, if you want it, sixty, miles between sunrise and 'down;' and you 'll be snug over the journey before they reach Killian's Mill, the half-way. An' if ye want to know why I say so, it's just because that's too good a beast to tempt a tramper wi', and them's all trampers!”
I gave the ostler a dollar for all his information and civility, and re-entered the inn to have my supper. The cap'n had already returned home, and after verifying my ticket, took my receipt for the mare, which I gave in all form, writing my name, “Con Cregan,” as though it were to a check for a thousand pounds.
I supped comfortably, and then walked out to the stable to see Charcoal. “Get her corn; you'll see if she don't, eat it in less than winkin',” said the ostler; “and if she wor my beast, she'd never taste another feed till she had her nose in the manger at Croft's Gulley.”
“And where is Croft's Gulley?”
“It's the bottoms after you pass the larch wood; the road dips a bit, and is heavy there, and it's a good baitin' place, just eighteen miles from here.”
“On the road to Austin?”
He nodded. “Ye see,” he said, “the moon's a risin'; there's no one out this time. Ye know what I said afore.”
“I'll take the advice, then. Get the traps ready; I'll pack the saddle-bags and set out.”
If any one had asked me why I was in such haste to reach Austin, my answer would have been, “To join the expedition;” and if interrogated, “With what object then?” I should have been utterly dumbfoundered. Little as I knew of its intentions, they must all have been above the range of my ability and means to participate in. True, I had a horse and a rifle; but there was the end of my worldly possessions, not to say that my title, even to these, admitted of litigation. A kind of vague notion possessed me that, once up with the expedition, I should find my place “somewhere,”—a very Irish idea of a responsible situation. I trusted to the “making myself generally useful” category for employment, and to a ready-wittedness never cramped nor restrained by the petty prejudices of a conscience.
The love of enterprise and adventure is conspicuous among the springs of action in Irish life, occasionally developing a Wellesley or a Captain Rock. Peninsular glories and predial outrage have just the same one origin,—a love of distinction, and a craving desire for the enjoyment of that most fascinating of all excitements,—whatever perils life.
Without this element, pleasure soon palls; without the cracked skulls and fractured “femurs,” fox-hunting would be mere galloping; a review might vie with a battle, if they fire blank cartridge in both! Who 'd climb the Peter Bot, or cross the “petit mulets” of Mont Blanc, if it were not that a false step or a totter would send him down a thousand fathoms into the deep gorge below. This playing hide-and-seek with Death seems to have a great charm, and is very possibly the attraction some folks feel in playing invalid, and passing their lives amid black draughts and blue lotions!
I shrewdly suspect this luxury of tempting peril distinguishes man from the whole of the other animal creation; and if we were to examine it a little, we should see that it opens the way to many of his highest aspirings and most noble enterprises. Now, let not the gentle reader ask, “Does Mr. Cregan include horse-stealing in the list of these heroic darings?” Believe me, he does not; he rather regarded the act of appropriation in the present case in the light some noble lords did when voting away church property,—“a hard necessity, but preferable to being mulct oneself!” With many a thought like this, I rode out into the now silent town, and took my way towards Austin.
It is a strange thing to find oneself in a foreign land, thousands of miles from home, alone, and at night; the sense of isolation is almost overwhelming. So long as daylight lasts, the stir of the busy world and the business of life ward off these thoughts,—the novelty of the scene even combats them; but when night has closed in, and we see above us the stars that we have known in other lands, the self-same moon by whose light we wandered years ago, and then look around and mark the features of a new world, with objects which tell of another hemisphere; and then think that we are there alone, without tie or link to all around us, the sensation is thrilling in its intensity.
Every one of us—the least imaginative, even—will associate the strangeness of a foreign scene with something of that adventure of which he has read in his childhood; and we people vacancy, as we go, with images to suit the spot in our own country. The little pathway along the river side suggests the lovers' walk at sunset as surely as the dark grove speaks of a woodman's hut or a gypsy camp. But abroad, the scene evokes different dwellers: the Sierra suggests the brigand; the thick jungle, the jaguar or the rattlesnake; the heavy plash in the muddy river is the sound of the cayman; and the dull roar, like wind within a cavern, is the cry of the hungry lion. The presence around us of objects of which we have read long ago, but never expected to see, is highly exciting; it is like taking our place among the characters of a story, and investing us with an interest to ourselves, as the hero of some unwrought history.
This is the most fascinating of all castle-building, since we have a spot for an edifice,—a territory actually given to us.
I thought long upon this theme, and wondered to what I was yet destined,—whether to some condition of real eminence, or to move on among that vulgar herd who are the spectators of life, but never its conspicuous actors. I really believe this ignoble course was more distasteful to me from its flatness and insipidity than from its mere humility. It seemed so devoid of all interest, so tame and so monotonous, I would have chosen peril and vicissitude any day in preference. About midnight I reached Croft's Gulley, where, after knocking for some time, a very sulky old negro admitted me into a stable while I baited my mare. The house was shut up for the night; and even had I sought refreshment, I could not have obtained it.
After a brief halt, I again resumed the road, which led through a close pine forest, and, however much praised, was anything but a good surface to travel on. Charcoal, however, made light of such difficulties, and picked her steps over holes and stumps with the caution of a trapper, detecting with a rare instinct the safe ground, and never venturing on spots where any difficulty or danger existed. I left her to herself, and it was curious to see that whenever a short interval of better footway intervened, she would, as if to “make play,” as the jockeys call it, strike out in a long swinging canter, “pulling up” to the walk the moment the uneven surface admonished her to caution.
As day broke, the road improved so that I was able to push along at a better pace, and by breakfast-time I found myself at a low, poor-looking log-house called “Brazos.” A picture representing Texas as a young child receiving some admirable counsel from a very matronly lady with thirteen stars on her petticoat, flaunted over the door, with the motto, “Filial Affection, and Candy Flip at all hours.”
A large, dull-eyed man, in a flannel pea-jacket and loose trousers to match, was seated in a rocking-chair at the door, smoking an enormous cigar, a little charmed circle of expectoration seeming to defend him from the assaults of the vulgar. A huge can of cider stood beside him, and a piece of Indian corn bread. He eyed me with the coolest unconcern as I dismounted, nor did he show the slightest sign of welcome.
“This is an inn, I believe, friend?” said I, saluting him.
“I take it to be a hotel,” said he, in a voice very like a yawn.
“And the landlord, where is he?”
“Where he ought to be,—at his own door, a smokin' his own rearin'.”
“Is there an ostler to be found? I want to refresh my horse, and get some breakfast for myself too.”
“There an't none.”
“No help?”
“Never was.”
“That's singular, I fancy.”
“No, it an't.”
“Why, what do travellers do with their cattle, then?”
“There bean't none.”
“No cattle?”
“No travellers.”
“No travellers! and this the high road between two considerable towns!”
“It an't.”
“Why, surely this is the road to Austin?”
“It an't.”
“Then this is not Brazos?”
“It be Upper Brazos.”
“There are two of them, then; and the other, I suppose, is on the Austin road?”
He nodded.
“What a piece of business!” sighed I; “and how far have I come astray?”
“A good bit.”
“A mile or two?”
“Twenty.”
“Will you be kind enough to be a little more communicative, and just say where this road leads to; if I can join the Austin road without turning back again; and where?”
Had I propounded any one of these queries, it is just possible I might have had an answer; but, in my zeal, I outwitted myself. I drew my check for too large an amount, and consequently was refused payment altogether.
“Well,” said I, after a long and vain wait for an answer, “what am I to do with my horse? There is a stable, I hope?”
“There an't,” said he, with a grunt.
“So that I can't bait my beast?”
“No!”
“Bad enough! Can I have something to eat myself,—a cup of coffee—?”
A rude burst of laughter stopped me, and the flannel man actually shook with the drollery of his own thoughts. “It bean't Astor House, I reckon!” said he, wiping his eyes.
“Not very like it, certainly,” said I, smiling.
“What o' that? Who says it ought to be like it?” said he, and his fishy eyes flared up, and his yellow cheeks grew orange with anger. “I an't very like old Hickory, I s'pose! and maybe I don't want to be! I'm a free Texan! I an't a nigger nor a blue-nose! I an't one of your old country slaves, that black King George's boots, and ask leave to pay his taxes! I an't.”
“And I,” said I, assuming an imitation of his tone, for experiment's sake, “I am no lazy, rocking-chair, whittling, tobacco-chewing Texan! but a traveller, able and willing to pay for his accommodation, and who will have it, too!”
“Will ye? Will ye, then?” cried he, springing up with an agility I could not have believed possible; while, rushing into the hut, he reappeared with a long Kentucky rifle, and a bayonet a-top of it. “Ye han't long to seek yer man, if ye want a flash of powder! Come out into the bush and 'see it out,' I say!”
The tone of this challenge was too insulting not to call for at least the semblance of acceptance; and so, fastening my mare to a huge staple beside the door, I unslung my rifle, and cried, “Come along, my friend; I'm quite ready for you!”
Nothing daunted at my apparent willingness, he threw back the hammer of his lock, and said, “Hark ye, young un! You can't give me a cap or two? Mine are considerable rusty!”
The request was rather singular, but its oddity was its success; and so, opening a small case in the stock of my rifle, I gave him some.
“Ah, them 's real chaps,—the true 'tin jackets,' as we used to say at St. Louis!” cried he, his tongue seeming wonderfully loosened by the theme. “Now, lad, let's see if one of your bullets fit this bore; she's a heavy one, and carries twenty to the pound; and I 've nothing in her now but some loose chips of iron for the bears.”
Loose chips of iron for the bears! thought I; did ever mortal hear such a barbarian! “You don't fancy, friend, I came here to supply you with lead and powder, to be used upon myself, too! I supposed, when you asked me to come out into the bush, that you had everything a gentleman ought to have for such a purpose.”
“Well, I never seed the like of that!” exclaimed he, striking the ground with the butt end of his piece. “If we don't stand at four guns' length—”
“We 'll do no such thing, friend,” said I, shouldering my piece, and advancing towards him. “I never meant to offend you; nor have you any object in wounding, mayhap killing, me. Let me have something to eat; I 'll pay for it freely, and go my ways.”
“What on airth is it, eh?” said he, looking puzzled. “Why, that's one of Colt's rifles! you'd have picked me down at two hundred yards, sure as my name is Gabriel.”
“I know it,” said I, coolly; “and how much the better or the happier should I have been, had I done so?” I watched the fellow's pasty countenance as though I could read what passed in the muddy bottom of his mind.
“If it were not for something of this kind,” added I, sorrowfully, “I should not be here to-day. You know New Orleans?” He nodded. “Well, perhaps you know Ebenezer York?”
“The senator?”
“The same!” I made the pantomime of presenting a pistol, and then of a man falling. “Just so. His brothers have taken up the pursuit, and so I came down into this quarter till the smoke cleared off!”
“He was a plumper at a hundred and twenty yards. I seen him double up Gideon Millis, of Ohio.”
“Ah, I could recount many a thing of the kind to you,” said I, leading the way towards the hut, “but my throat is so dry, and I feel so confoundedly weary just now—”
“That's cider,” said he, pointing to the crock.
I did n't wait for a more formal invitation, but carried it to my lips, and so held it for full a couple of minutes.
“Ye wor drouthy,—that's a fact!” said he, peering into the low watermark of the vessel.
“You hav'n't got any more bread?” said I, appropriating his own.
“If I had n't, ye 'd not have got that so easy, lad!” said he, with a grin.
“And now for my mare; you see she's a good one—”
“Good as if she belonged to a richer master!” said he, with a peculiar leer of the eye. “I know her well! knowed her a foal! Ah, Charry, Miss! do you forget the way to take off your saddle with your teeth?” and he patted the creature with a nearer approach to kindness than I believed he was capable of.
I will not dwell upon the little arts I employed to conciliate my friend Gabriel, nor stop to say how I managed to procure some Indian corn-meal for my horse, and the addition of a very tough piece of dried beef to my own meagre breakfast. I conclude the reader will be as eager to escape from his society as I was myself; nor had I ever thrown him into such unprofitable acquaintanceship, were there other means of explaining how first I wandered from the right path, and by what persuasions I was influenced in not returning to it.
If Gabriel's history was not very entertaining, it was at least short, so far as its catastrophe went. He was a Kentucky “bounty man,” who had taken into his head to fight a duel with a companion with whom he was returning from New York. He killed his antagonist, buried him, and was wending his way homeward with the watch and other property of the deceased, to restore to his friends, when he was arrested at Little Rock, and conveyed to jail. He was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death, but made his escape the night before the execution was to have taken place. His adventures from the Arkansas River till the time he found himself in Texas were exciting in a high degree, and, even with his own telling, not devoid of deep interest. Since his location in the One-star Republic, he had tried various things, but all had failed with him. His family, who followed him, died off by the dreadful intermittents of the bush, leaving him alone to doze through the remainder of existence between the half-consciousness of his fall and the stupid insensibility of debauch. There was but one theme could stir the dark embers of his nature; and when he had quitted that, the interest of life seemed to have passed away, and he relapsed into his dreamy indifference to both present and future.
How he contrived to eke out subsistence was difficult to conceive. To the tavern he had been almost the only customer, and in succession consumed the little stores his poor wife had managed to accumulate. He appeared to feel a kind of semi-consciousness that if “bears did not fall in his way” during the winter, it might go hard with him; and he pointed to four mounds of earth behind the log-hut, and said that “the biggest would soon be alongside of 'em.”
As the heat of midday was too great to proceed in, I learned from him thus much of his own story, and some particulars of the road to Bexar, whither I had now resolved on proceeding, since, according to his opinion, that afforded me a far better chance of coming up with the expedition than by following their steps to Austin.
“Had you come a few hours earlier to-day,” said he, “you could have joined company with a Friar who is travelling to Bexar; but you 'll easily overtake him, as he travels with a little wagon and a sick woman. They are making a pilgrimage to the saints there for her health. They have two lazy mules and a half-breed driver that won't work miracles on the roads, whatever the Virgin may after! You'll soon come up with them, if Charry's like what she used to be.”
This intelligence was far from displeasing to me. I longed for some companionship; and that of a Friar, if not very promising as to amusement, had at least the merit of safety,—no small charm in such a land as I then sojourned in. I learned besides that he was an Irishman who had come out as a missionary among the Choctaws, and that he was well versed in prairie life; that he spoke many of the Indian dialects, and knew the various trails of these pathless wilds like any trapper of them all.
Such a fellow-traveller would be indeed a prize; and as I saddled my mare to follow him, I felt lighter at heart than I had done for a long time previous. “And his name?” said I.
“It is half-Mexican by this. They call him Fra Miguel up at Bexar.”
“Now then for Fra Miguel!” cried I, springing into my saddle; and with a frank “Good-bye,” took the road to Bexar.
I rode along with a light heart, my way leading through a forest of tall beech and alder trees, whose stems were encircled by the twining tendrils of the “Liana,” which oftentimes spanned the space overhead, and tempered the noonday sun by its delicious shade. Birds of gay plumage and strange note hopped from branch to branch, while hares and rabbits sat boldly on the grassy road, and scarcely cared to move at my approach. The crimson-winged bustard, the swallow-tailed woodpecker, with his snowy breast, and that most beautiful of all, the lazuli finch, whose color would shame the blue waters of the Adriatic, chirped and fluttered on every side. The wild squirrel, too, swung by his tail, and jerked himself from bough to bough, in all the confidence of unmolested liberty; while even the deer, timid without danger, stood and gazed at me as I went, doubtless congratulating themselves that they were not born to be beasts of burden.
There was so much novelty to me in all around that the monotonous character of the scene never wearied; for, although as far as human companionship was concerned, nothing could be more utterly solitary and desolate, yet the abundance of animal life, the bright tints of plumage, and the strange concert of sound, afforded an unceasing interest.
Occasionally I came upon the charred fragments of firewood, with other signs indicative of a bivouac, showing where some hunting-party had halted; but these, with a chance wheel-track, were all the evidence that travellers had ever passed that way. The instincts of the human heart are, after all, linked to companionship, and although it was but a few hours since I had parted with “mine host” of Brazos, I began to conceive a most anxious desire for the society of a fellow-traveller. I had pushed Charcoal for some time, in the hope of overtaking the Friar; but not only without success, but even without coming upon any recent tracks that should show where the party passed. I could not have mistaken the road, since there was but one through the forest; and at last I became uneasy lest I should not reach some place of shelter for the night, and obtain refreshment for myself and my horse. From the time that these thoughts crossed my mind, all relish for the scene and its strange associations departed. A scarlet jay might have perched upon my saddle-bow unmolested; a “whip-poor-will” might have chanted her note from my hat or my holsters unminded; the antlered stags did indeed graze me as they went, without my once remembering that I was the owner of one of “Colt's sharp bores,” so intent I had grown upon the topic of personal safety. What if I had gone astray? What if I fell in with the Choctaws, who often came within a few miles of Austin? What if Charcoal fell lame, or even tired? What if—But why enumerate all the suspicions that, when chased away on one side, invariably came back on the other? There was not an incident, from a sprained ankle to actual starvation, that I did not rehearse; and, like that respected authority who spent his days speculating what he should do “if he met a white bear,” I threw myself into so many critical situations and embarrassing conjectures that my head ached with overtaxed ingenuity to escape from them.
Æsop's fables have much to answer for. The attributing the gift of speech to animals, by way of characterizing their generic qualities, takes a wondrous hold upon the mind; and as for me, I held “imaginary conversations” with everything that flew or bounded past. From the green lizard that scaled the shining cork-trees, to the lazy toad that flopped heavily into the water, I had a word for all,—ay, and thought they answered me, too.
Some, I fancied, chirped pleasantly and merrily, as though to say, “Go it, Con, my hearty; Charry has stride and wind for many a mile yet!” Some, with a wild scream, would seem to utter a cry of surprise at the pace, as if saying, “Ruffle my feathers if Con 's not in a hurry!” An old owl, with a horseshoe wig, looked shocked at my impetuosity, and shook his wise head in grave rebuke; while a fat asthmatic frog nearly choked with emotion as I hurled the small pebbles into his bath of duck-weed. How strange would life be, reduced to such companionship! thought I. Would one gradually sink down to the level of this animal existence, such as it appears now, or would one elevate the inferior animal to some equality of intelligence?
The solitude which a short time previous had suggested—I know not now many!—bright imaginings, presented now the one sad, unvarying reflection,—desolation; and it had almost become a doubtful point whether I should not at once turn my horse's head and make for Upper Brazos and its gruff host of the log-house, rather than brave a night “al fresco” in the forest. It was just at the moment that this question became mooted in my mind that I perceived the faint track of a wheel on the short grass of the pathway. I dismounted and examined it closely, and soon discovered its counterpart on the other side of the road; and with a little further search I could detect the footmarks of two horses, evidently unshod.
Inspired with fresh courage by these signs, I spurred Charry to a sharper stride, and for above two hours rode on, each turning of the road suggesting the hope of coming up with the Friar, who evidently journeyed at a brisker pace than I had anticipated. The sailor's adage says that “A stern chase is a long chase;” and so it is, whether it be on land or sea,—whether the pursuit be to overtake a flying Frenchman or Fortune!
The sun had sunk beneath the tops of the tall trees, and only streamed through, in chance lines of light, upon the road, when suddenly I found myself upon the verge of an abrupt descent, at the bottom of which ran a narrow but rapid river. These great fissures, by which the mountain streams descend to join the larger rivers, are very common in Texas and throughout the region which borders on the Rocky Mountains, and form one of the greatest impediments to travelling in these tracts.
As I gazed upon the steep descent, to have scrambled down which, even on foot, would have been dangerous and difficult enough, I remembered that I had passed, about half an hour before, a spot where the road “forked” off into two separate directions, and at once resumed my march to this place, where I had the satisfaction of perceiving that the grass was yet rising under the recent passage of a wagon. A short and sharp canter down a gentle slope brought me once more in sight of the stream and of what was far nearer to my hopes, the long looked-for party with the Friar.
The scene I now beheld was sufficiently striking for a picture. About fifty feet beneath where I stood, and on the bank of a boiling, foaming torrent, was a wagon, drawn by two large horses; a covering of canvas formed an awning overhead, and curtains of the same material closed the sides. A large, powerful-looking Mexican stood beating the stream with a great pole, while the Friar, with his robes tucked up so as to display a pair of enormous naked legs, assisted in this singular act of flagellation, from time to time addressing a hasty prayer to a small image which I perceived he had hung up against the canvas covering. The noise of the rushing water and the crashing sound of the sticks prevented my hearing the voices, which were most volubly exerted all the while, and which, by accustoming myself to the din, I at last perceived were used in exhorting the horses to courage. The animals, however, gave no token of returning confidence, nor showed the slightest inclination to advance. On the contrary, whenever led forward a pace or two, they invariably sprang back with a bound that threatened to smash their tackle or upset the wagon; nor was it without much caressing and encouragement that they would stand quiet again. Meanwhile, the Friar's exertions were redoubled at every moment, and both his prayers and his thrashings became more animated. Indeed, it was curious to watch with what agility his bulky figure alternated from the work of beating the water to gesticulating before “the Virgin.” Now, as I looked, a small corner of the canvas curtain was moved aside, and a hand appeared, which, even without the large straw fan it carried, might have been pronounced a female one. This, however, was speedily withdrawn on some observation from the Friar, and the curtain was closed rigidly as before.
All my conjectures as to this singular proceeding being in vain, I resolved to join the party, towards whom I perceived the road led by a slightly circuitous descent.
Cautiously wending my way down this slope, which grew steeper as I advanced, I had scarcely reached the river side when I was perceived by the party. Both the Friar and his follower ceased their performance on the instant, and cast their eyes upwards to the road with a glance that showed they were on “the look-out” for others. They even changed their position, to have a better view of the path, and seemed as if unable to persuade themselves that I could be alone. To my salutation, which I made by courteously removing my hat and bowing low, they offered no return, and looked—as I really believe they were—far too much surprised at my sudden appearance to afford me any signs of welcome. As I came nearer, I could see that the Friar made the circuit of the wagon, and, as if casually, examined the curtains; and then, satisfied “that all was right,” took his station by the head of his beasts, and waited for my approach.
“Good day, Señhor Caballero,” said the Friar, in Spanish, while the Mexican looked at the lock of his long-barrelled rifle, and retired a couple of paces, with a gesture of guarded caution.
“Good evening, rather, Father,” said I, in English. “I have ridden hard to come up with you, for the last twenty miles.”
“From the States?” said the Friar, approaching me, but with no peculiar evidences of pleasure at hearing his native language.
“From your own country, Fra Miguel,” said I, boldly—“an Irishman.”
“And how are you travelling here?” said he, still preserving his previous air of caution and reserve.
“A mistake of the road!” said I, confidently; for already I had invented my last biographical sketch. “I was on the way to Austin, whither I had despatched my servants and baggage, when accidentally taking the turn to Upper Brazos instead of the lower one, I found myself some twenty miles off my track before I knew of it. I should have turned back when I discovered my error, but that I heard that a Friar, a countryman, too, had just set out towards Bexar. This intelligence at once determined me to continue my way, which I rejoice to find has been so far successful.”
To judge from the “Padre's” face, the pleasure did not appear reciprocal. He looked at me and the wagon alternately, and then he cast his eyes towards the Mexican, who, understanding nothing of English, was evidently holding himself ready for any measures of a hostile character.
“Going to Austin,” at last said the Friar. “You are a merchant, then?”
“No,” said I, smiling superciliously; “I am a mere traveller for pleasure, my object being to make a tour of the prairies, and by some of the Mexican cities, before my return to Europe.”
“Heaven guide and protect you,” said he, fervently, with a wave of his hand like leave-taking. “This is not a land to wander in after nightfall. You are well mounted, and a good rider; push on, then, my son, and you 'll reach Bexar before the moon sets.”
“If that be your road, Father,” said I, “as speed is no object with me, I 'd rather join company with you than proceed alone.”
“Ahem!” said he, looking confused, “I am going to Bexar, it is true, Señhor; but my journey is of the slowest: the wagon is heavy, and a sick companion whom it contains cannot travel fast. Go, then, 'con Dios!' and we may meet again at our journey's end.”
“My mare has got quite enough of it,” said I, my desire to remain with him being trebled by his exertions to get rid of me. “When I overtook you, I was determining to dismount and spare my beast; so that your pace will not in the least inconvenience me.”
The Padre, instead of replying to me, addressed some words to the Mexican in Spanish, which, whatever they were, the other only answered by a sharp slap of his palm on the stock of his rifle, and a very significant glance at his girdle, where a large bowie-knife glittered in all the freedom of its unsheathed splendor. As if not noticing this pantomime, I drew forth my “Harper's Ferry pistol” from the holster, and examined the priming,—a little bit of display I had the satisfaction to perceive was not thrown away on either the Friar or the layman. At a word from the former, however, the latter began once again his operations with the pole, the Friar resuming his place beside the cattle as if totally forgetful of my presence there.
“May I ask the object of this proceeding, Father?” said I, “which, unless it be a 'devotional exercise,' is perfectly unaccountable to me.”
The Padre looked at me without speaking; but the sly drollery of his eye showed that he would have had no objection to bandy a jest with me, were the time and place more fitting. “I perceive,” said he, at length, “that you have not journeyed in this land, or you would have known that at this season the streams abound with caymans and alligators, and that when the cattle have been once attacked by them, they have no courage to cross a river after. Their instinct, however, teaches them that beating the waters insures safety, and many a Mexican horse will not go knee-deep without this ceremony being performed.”
“I see that your cattle are unusually tired in the present case,” said I, “for you have been nigh half an hour here, to my own knowledge.”
“Look at that black marc's fore-leg, and you ll see why,” said he, pointing to a deep gash, which laid bare the white tendons for some inches in length, while a deep pool of blood flowed around the animal's hoof.
A cry from the Mexican here broke in upon our colloquy, as, throwing down his pole, he seized his rifle, and dropped upon one knee in the attitude of defence.
“What is it, Sancho?” cried the Friar.
A few words of guttural followed, and the Padre said it was a large alligator that had just carried off a chiguire—a wild pig—under the water with him. This stream is a tributary of the Colloredo, along the banks of which these creatures' eggs are found in thousands!
My blood ran cold at the horrid thought of being attacked by such animals, and I readily volunteered my assistance at the single-stick exercise of my companion.
The Friar accepted my offer without much graciousness, but rather as that of an unwelcome guest who could not be easily got rid of.
END OF VOL. I.
