Chapter Fifty Six.
Spectral equestrians.
But a short distance from where the travellers made stop, a side trace leads to the left, parallel to the direction of the river. Into this Woodley strikes, conducting the others.
It is so narrow they cannot go abreast, but in single file.
After proceeding thus for some fifty yards, they reach a spot where the path widens, debouching upon an open space—a sort of terrace that overhangs the channel of the stream, separated from it by a fringe of low trees and bushes.
Pointing to it, Sime says:—
“This chile hev slep on that spread o’ grass, some’at like six yeern ago, wi’ nothin’ to disturb his rest ’ceptin the skeeters. Them same seems nasty bad now. Let’s hope we’ll git through the night ’ithout bein’ clar eat up by ’em. An’, talkin’ o’ eatin’, I reckin we’ll all be the better o’ a bit supper. Arter thet we kin squat down an’ surrender to Morpheus.”
The meal suggested is speedily prepared, and, soon as despatched, the “squatting” follows.
In less than twenty minutes after forsaking the saddle, all are astretch along the ground, their horses “hitched” to trees, themselves seemingly buried in slumber—bound in its oblivious embrace.
There is one, however, still awake—Clancy.
He has slept but little any night since entering the territory of! Texas. On this he sleeps not at all—never closes eye—cannot. On the contrary, he turns restlessly on his grassy couch, fairly writhing with the presentiment he has spoken of, still upon him, and not to be cast off.
There are those who believe in dreams, in the reality of visions that appear to the slumbering senses. To Clancy’s, awake, on this night, there seems a horrid realism, almost a certainty, of some dread danger. And too certain it is. If endowed with the faculty of clairvoyance, he would know it to be so—would witness a series of incidents at that moment occurring up the river—scarce ten miles from the spot where he is lying—scenes that would cause him to start suddenly to his feet, rush for his horse, and ride off, calling upon his companions to follow. Then, plunging into the river without fear of the ford, he would gallop on towards the San Saba mission, as if the house were in names, and he only had the power to extinguish them.
Not gifted with second-sight, he does not perceive the tragedy there being enacted. He is only impressed with a prescience of some evil, which keeps him wide awake, while the others around are asleep; soundly, as he can tell by their snoring.
Woodley alone sleeps lightly; the hunter habituated, as he himself phrases it, “allers to do the possum bizness, wi’ one eye open.”
He has heard Clancy’s repeated shiftings and turnings, coupled with involuntary exclamations, as of a man murmuring in his dreams. One of these, louder than the rest, at length startling, causes Woodley to enquire what his comrade wants; and what is the matter with him.
“Oh, nothing,” replies Clancy; “only that I can’t sleep—that’s all.”
“Can’t sleep! Wharfore can’t ye? Sure ye oughter be able by this time. Ye’ve had furteeg enuf to put you in the way o’ slumberin’ soun’ as a hummin’ top.”
“I can’t to-night, Sime.”
“Preehaps ye’ve swallered somethin’, as don’t sit well on your stummuk! Or, it may be, the klimat o’ this hyar destrict. Sartin it do feel a leetle dampish, ’count o’ the river fog; tho’, as a general thing, the San Sabre bottom air ’counted one o’ the healthiest spots in Texas. S’pose ye take a pull out o’ this ole gourd o’ myen. It’s the best Monongaheely, an’ for a seedimentary o’ the narves thar ain’t it’s eequal to be foun’ in any drug-shop. I’ll bet my bottom dollar on thet. Take a suck, Charley, and see what it’ll do for ye.”
“It would have no effect. I know it wouldn’t. It isn’t nervousness that keeps me awake—something quite different.”
“Oh!” grunts the old hunter, in a tone that tells of comprehension. “Something quite diff’rent? I reck’n I kin guess what thet somethin’ air—the same as keeps other young fellurs awake—thinkin’ o’ thar sweethearts. Once’t in the arms o’ Morpheous, ye’ll forgit all about your gurl. Foller my deevice; put some o’ this physic inside yur skin, an’ you’ll be asleep in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail.”
The dialogue comes to a close by Clancy taking the prescribed physic.
After which he wraps his blanket around him, and once more essays to sleep.
As before, he is unsuccessful. Although for a while tranquil and courting slumber, it will not come. He again tosses about; and at length rises to his feet, his hound starting up at the same time.
Woodley, once more awakened, perceives that the potion has failed of effect, and counsels his trying it again.
“No,” objects Clancy; “’tis no use. The strongest soporific in the world wouldn’t give me sleep this night. I tell you, Sime, I have a fear upon me.”
“Fear o’ what?”
“That we’ll be too late.”
The last words, spoken solemnly, tell of apprehension keenly felt—whether false, or prophetic.
“That air’s all nonsense,” rejoins Woodley, wishing to reason his comrade out of what he deems an idle fancy. “The height o’ nonsense. Wheesh!”
The final exclamation, uttered in an altered tone, is accompanied by a start—the hunter suddenly raising his head from the saddle on which it rests. Nor has the act any relation to his previous speeches. It comes from his hearing a sound, or fancying he hears one. At the same instant, the hound pricks up its ears, giving utterance to a low growl.
“What is’t, I wonder?” interrogates Woodley, in a whisper, placing himself in a kneeling posture, his eyes sharply set upon the dog.
Again the animal jerks its ears, growling as before.
“Take clutch on the critter, Charley! Don’t let it gie tongue.”
Clancy lays hold of the hound, and draws it against his knees, by speech and gesture admonishing it to remain silent.
The well-trained animal sees what is wanted; and, crouching down by its master’s feet, ceases making demonstration.
Meanwhile Woodley has laid himself flat along the earth, with ear close to the turf.
There is a sound, sure enough; though not what he supposed he had heard just before. That was like a human voice—some one laughing a long way off. It might be the “too-who-ha” of the owl, or the bark of a prairie wolf. The noise now reaching his ears is less ambiguous, and he has no difficulty in determining its character. It is that of water violently agitated—churned, as by the hooves of horses.
Clancy, standing erect, hears it, too.
The backwoodsman does not remain much longer prostrate; only a second to assure himself whence the sound proceeds. It is from the ford. The dog looked that way, on first starting up; and still keeps sniffing in the same direction.
Woodley is now on his feet, and the two men standing close together, intently listen.
They have no need to listen long; for their eyes are above the tops of the bushes that border the river’s bank, and they see what is disturbing the water.
Two horses are crossing the stream. They have just got clear of the timber’s shadow on the opposite side, and are making towards mid-water.
Clancy and Woodley, viewing them from higher ground, can perceive their forms, in silhouette, against the shining surface.
Nor have they any difficulty in making out that they are mounted. What puzzles them is the manner. Their riders do not appear to be anything human!
The horses have the true equine outline; but they upon their backs seem monsters, not men; their bodies of unnatural breadth, each with two heads rising above it!
There is a haze overhanging the river, as gauze thrown over a piece of silver plate. It is that white filmy mist which enlarges objects beyond their natural size, producing the mystery of mirage. By its magnifying effect the horses, as their riders, appear of gigantic dimensions; the former seeming Mastodons, the latter Titans bestriding them!
Both appear beings not of Earth, but creatures of some weird wonder-world—existences not known to our planet, or only in ages past!