The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse

by Mayne Reid

For some minutes I stood motionless as a statue; I stirred neither hand nor foot, lest the movement should catch the eye either of the horse-guards or those moving around the fires.

I had already donned my plumed head-dress, before climbing out of the channel: and after getting on the bank, my first thought was to replace my pistols in the belt behind my back.

The movement was stealthily made; and with like stealthy action, I suffered the mantle of jaguar-skins to drop from my shoulders, and hang to its full length. I had saved the robe from getting wet; and its ample skirt now served me in concealing my soaked breech-cloth as well as the upper half of my leggings. These and the moccasins were, of course, saturated with water, but I had not much uneasiness about that. In a prairie camp, and upon the banks of a deep stream, an Indian with wet leggings could not be a spectacle to excite suspicion; there would be many reasons why my counterpart might choose to immerse his copper-coloured extremities in the river. Moreover, the buckskin—dressed Indian-fashion—was speedily casting the water; it would soon drip dry; or even if wet, would scarcely be observed under such a light.

The spot where I had “landed” chanced to be one of the least conspicuous in the whole area of the camp. I was just between two lights—the red glare of the campfires, and the mellower beams of the moon; and the atmospheric confusion occasioned by the meeting of the distinct kinds of light favoured me, by producing a species of optical delusion. It was but slight, and I could easily be seen from the centre of the camp—but not with sufficient distinctness for my disguise to be penetrated by any one; therefore, it was hardly probable that any of the savages would approach or trouble their heads about me. I might pass for one of themselves indulging in a solitary saunter, yielding himself to a moment of abstraction or melancholy. I was well enough acquainted with Indian life to know that there was nothing outré or unlikely in this behaviour; such conduct was perfectly en règle.

I did not remain long on that spot—only long enough to catch the salient features of the scene.

I saw there were many fires, and around each was grouped number of human forms—some squatted, some standing. The night was cold enough to make them draw near to the burning logs; and for this reason, but few were wandering about—a fortunate circumstance for me.

There was one fire larger than the rest; from its dimensions, it might be termed a “bonfire,” such as is made by the flattering and flunkeyish peasantry of old-world lands, when they welcome home the squire and the count. It was placed directly in front of the solitary tent, and not a dozen paces from its entrance. Its blazing pile gave forth a flood of red light that reached even to the spot where I stood, and flickered in my face. I even fancied I could feel its glow upon my cheeks.

Around this fire were many forms of men—all of them standing up. I could see the faces of those who were upon its farther side, but only the figures of these on the nearer.

The former I could see with almost as much distinctness as if I had been close beside them; I could trace the lineaments of their features—the painted devices on their breasts and faces—the style of their habiliments.

The sight of these last somewhat astonished me. I had expected to see red-skinned warriors in leggings, moccasins, and breech-cloth, with heads naked or plumed, and shoulders draped under brown robes of buffalo-skin. Some such there were, but not all of them were so costumed; on the contrary, I beheld savages shrouded in serapes and cloaks of broadcloth, with calzoneros on their legs, and upon their heads huge hats of black glaze—regular Mexican sombreros! In short, I beheld numbers of them in full Mexican costume!