Several times has this happened; settlers having come up the Colorado in pursuit of a marauding party—supposed to be Comanche Indians—tracked them into the San Saba bottom-land, and on over the bluff—there to lose their trail, and retire disheartened from the pursuit.
Across this stony stretch proceed the freebooters, leaving no more trace behind, than one would walking on a shingled sea-beach.
On its opposite edge they make stop to take bearings. For although they have more than once passed that way before, it is a route which always requires to be traversed with caution. To get strayed on the inhospitable steppe would be attended with danger, and might result in death.
In clear weather, to those acquainted with the trail, there is little chance of losing it. For midway between the water courses runs a ridge, bisecting the steppe in a longitudinal direction; and on the crest of this is a tree, which can be seen from afar off on either side. The ridge is of no great elevation, and would scarce be observable but for the general level from which it rises, a mere comb upon the plain, such as is known northward by the term coteau de prairie—a title bestowed by trappers of French descent.
The tree stands solitary, beside a tiny spring, which bubbles out between its roots. This, trickling off, soon sinks into the desert sand, disappearing within a few yards of the spot where it has burst forth.
In such situation both tree and fountain are strange; though the one will account for the other, the former being due to the latter. But still another agency is needed to explain the existence of the tree. For it is a “cottonwood”—a species not found elsewhere upon the same plain; its seed no doubt transported thither by some straying bird. Dropped by the side of the spring in soil congenial, it has sprouted up, nourished, and become a tall tree. Conspicuous for long leagues around, it serves the prairie pirates as a finger-post to direct them across the steppe; for by chance it stands right on their route. It is visible from the edge of the pebble-strewn tract, but only when there is a cloudless sky and shining sun. Now, the one is clouded, the other unseen, and the tree cannot be distinguished.
For some minutes the robbers remain halted, but without dismounting. Seated in the saddle, they strain their eyes along the horizon to the west.
The Fates favour them; as in this world is too often the case with wicked men, notwithstanding many saws to the contrary. The sun shoots from behind a cloud, scattering his golden gleams broad and bright over the surface of the plain. Only for an instant, but enough to show the cottonwood standing solitary on the crest of the ridge.
“Thank the Lord for that glimp o’ light!” exclaims Borlasse, catching sight of the tree, “Now, boys; we see our beacon, an’ let’s straight to it. When we’ve got thar I’ll show ye a bit of sport as ’ll make ye laugh till there wont be a whole rib left in your bodies, nor a button on your coats—if ye had coats on.”
With this absurd premonition he presses on—his scattered troop reforming, and following.