Originally published: Sept. 30, 1876
Genres: Western
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66248
Chapters: 11
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
THE STRANGE RIDER
“Bah! for my part, I believe it sheer nonsense—nothing but a hoax.”
“So said I until lately; but now I know there is something in it.”
The sentences just noted were spoken in very dissimilar tones: the first one careless and slightly scoffing—the second low and earnest. Both speakers were young and of prepossessing appearance.
The scene was an attractive one, though somewhat similar ones have been described time and time again. In fact, it was the bivouac of a hunting party.
One glance would decide this. The soiled and blood-stained garments of the half-score figures gathered around the cheerful, crackling fire, in attitudes of careless ease, for the most part with a pipe in mouth, the half-picked bones and fragments of meat scattered profusely here and there, telling of a hearty meal just passed by. The horses, rudely hoppled, grazing eagerly hard-by, their sides still wet with sweat; the plentiful supply of rudely-butchered meat that hung suspended from the trees around, mostly of buffalo and deer, all told plainly that this was the bivouac of hunters, resting after a successful day’s chase.
In conscious security, they had kindled their campfire, and now, without a thought of danger, were enjoying that indispensable luxury of a true plainsman—pipes, and tobacco.
Though our hunters had not given the matter a thought, the camp had been pitched in a truly lovely and picturesque spot. At this point, two goodly-sized timber islands extended an arm toward each other, almost meeting. In fact, though the tree trunks were separated by several yards, their long branches fairly touched, interweaved together, forming a gayly-tinted arch, the frost-touched leaves vying in brilliance with the colors of the rainbow.
Through and beyond this natural bower, the prairie stretched far away in gently undulating swells, studded at irregular intervals with timber mottes, something similar to those beside which we find our friends. Close to these twin mottes was a clear stream of water, a confluent of the Trinity River.
As already incidentally mentioned, the party consisted of half a score of hunters, all young—the eldest scarcely numbering thirty years, while one or two were a third less than that. They were such men as can only be found apart from the great cities, nurtured in the broad West, their limbs and lungs fully developed by the clear, pure atmosphere of the prairies. They would have been out of place in a ladies’ drawing room because they were at home here. Their hair was worn long; scarcely one of their faces had ever known the touch of a razor, giving their beards a glossy silkiness seldom seen, that even the scorching sun or crinkling winds of winter could not destroy.
“What do you mean by that, Fred?” quickly added the first speaker, Edward Campbell—a tall, stalwart youth, who, despite his few years, had already gained a widely-known reputation from more than one desperate combat with the savages and wild beasts.
“Just what I say, Ned,” Fred Hawksley spoke in a serious tone. “I know there is such a being because I have seen her—yes, and spoken to her, too.”
A general movement followed this announcement, and it was plain that the subject under discussion possessed no little interest to the hunters. Still, despite Hawksley’s earnestness, they seemed to doubt.
“You have never mentioned this before, Fred. Are you sure there is no mistake?”
“Am I a fool, Ned Campbell?” retorted the young man, coolly. “I tell you that I saw her, only three days ago, not two miles from this very spot. And I spoke to her, too, as I told you before.”
“That’s why you were so urgent for us to encamp here, was it?” laughed Ned. “But never mind—tell us all about it now?”
“Yes—who is she? What did she look like? Did she answer you?” eagerly cried several of the little band.
“Well, I’ll tell you all I know about it, provided you promise not to make fun of me.”
“You’re not at another of your sales, are you, Fred? Honest, now.”
“No, Ned, I mean just what I say.”
“That’s enough. Go on. When you talk like that, we know you’re not fooling.”
“Well, as I said, I saw her three days ago, out just beyond the big red rock; you know where that is. I didn’t mention it to any of you, because we had all been deriding Hark Bogan so unmercifully about her, that I was ashamed to tell what I had seen. You may remember that I was unusually quiet, that night, after getting back to camp. I told you I felt tired, but I was thinking.
“You know that the red rock is just on the top of a high swell—the highest ground for miles around. I was climbing this—as my nag was tired and heavily loaded with meat—on foot. Mott suddenly raised his head and whickered. Even had there not come a quick reply, that would have told me there was another horse nearby, but a neigh did come from directly ahead of me.
“I was then almost on the top of the swell, and so could just see the top of the big rock. And there, beside it, she was. You know how high the rock is. Well, as she sat her horse, her head was on a level with the highest part of the rock, so you can judge she was no baby.
“I remembered Bogan’s description the moment I saw this, and knew that I must be looking upon his ‘wild woman.’ At first, I could only see her head and shoulders. On her head, she wore a small cap of some kind of fur, with two or three brightly dyed eagle feathers, such as the Kiowas wear. Her dress—what I could see of it—seemed to be made of tanned fawnskin, trimmed in Indian style.
“I took in this much at a glance, and as it was nearly dark, I naturally thought she was some Indian. I knew that only a woman could wear such hair as that which hung down her back. I even laughed as I thought how crestfallen old Hark would be when I proved to him that his lovely white phantom was nothing more than some wandering Indian squaw.
“Thinking this I kept on until close to the rock, and not half a dozen lengths from the stranger. Then she lifted a hand and motioned for me to pause. That she meant this, I saw from her turning the muzzle of a light, handsome rifle toward my breast, it resting between the ears of her horse. She seemed like one who had smelled powder before, and I obeyed her.
“Now I could see that she was white—though her complexion was that of a rich brunette. A more beautiful face I never saw. I can’t describe it—only that her great big eyes were black and shining as those of a deer; that her figure was the most superbly developed, the most symmetrical that I ever beheld in my life. Boys, that face and figure have haunted me ever since. If that woman is as good and pure as she is beautiful, she would be well worth dying for!” suddenly added Hawksley, puffing vigorously at his extinguished pipe.
“And still better living for—eh, Fred?” and Ned Campbell laughed. “But go on—you spoke to her—this marvelous beauty?”
“Yes—but not until she spoke first to me. I was still staring at her, amazed, for I knew that she did not live anywhere around here—at least with anyone I know, and there’s few families in the State that I do not know. She said:
“‘What is your name?’
“Just that and nothing more. Of course, I told her. But that voice! It corresponded perfectly with her face and figure, rich, mellow, voluptuous—just such a voice as I believe Homer endowed the goddess Calypso with when she was seeking to captivate Ulysses.”
“Ha! ha! the invincible conquered—Fred Hawksley in love with the fair unknown!”
“Laugh if you will, Ned Campbell,” was the sober reply. “I half-believe it myself. But as I said, I answered her. She did not speak again but gave me a look—a glance that set my brain afire—my heart to throbbing like a trip-hammer. Then she touched the rein and shot off to the right, swift as an arrow. At a little distance, she paused and raised one hand toward me. I was dumbfounded then, but I believe that she meant it as a challenge to me. I did mount Mott, but jaded as he was, I knew that he stood no chance in a race with that Mustang.
“Ned, as I rode slowly toward camp, the strange woman—whoever she may be—fairly rode round me, then with a clear, taunting laugh, gave loose rein and dashed away over the prairie like a bird. In five minutes, she was out of sight. Now you know all that I know about the matter.”
“And you chose this camp in hopes of seeing her again?”
“Well, no, not that exactly; and yet I did think of her. If we do meet again, I’ll find out who she is, if it lies in old Mott’s limbs to carry me up to her. There’s some mystery ’bout the woman, that I’ve determined to unravel.”
“Give old ‘buck-skin’ a fair show, with plenty of ground before him, and he’ll ride over the best Mustang that ever scored turf in Texas.”
“I believe he can,” and Hawksley glanced proudly toward the large, but nobly-shaped yellow horse that munched the grass at the timber’s edge.
“Hark!”
There was little need for the exclamation, for all, both human and quadruped, heard the sound that called it forth; the quick, rapid thud of a horse’s hoofs upon the solid prairie. All eyes were instantly turned toward the arch before alluded to. The rider—and a trained ear has but little difficulty in deciding whether a galloping horse is riderless—whoever it might be, was beyond the neck of timber, yet evidently approaching the bivouac.
The hunters felt only curiosity, for they knew that only one horseman approached. Then a simultaneous cry broke from their lips. For a moment they appeared awe-stricken.
Sitting a noble-looking Mustang beneath the leafy canopy, with form perfectly outlined against the still glowing sky in the west, was none other than the strange being who had formed the subject of conversation for the past half-hour. Her features were indistinctly visible, but there could be no mistake.
She sat her horse in true savage style: astride, and, with a dress fashioned for that purpose, as was hers, the effect was far from displeasing. Her dress flashed back the firelight in a thousand scintillations, from the beads and silver ornaments that thickly studded its folds. The long black hair, slightly curling at the extremities, floated in wild profusion around her form. A light rifle was carelessly balanced across the deep-seated Mexican saddle. Other weapons gleamed from the belt that encircled her round, compact waist.
“Who and what are you, anyhow?” cried Campbell, breaking the spell with an effort.
The only reply was a low, clear laugh, melodious as the notes of a silver bell. Hawksley had not exaggerated in the least. The most skeptical now acknowledged this, mentally, if not aloud.
“Keep her in sight, Ned,” muttered Fred, as he arose. “If Mott can do it, I’ll answer that question before I’m an hour older!”
At his movement, the strange rider wheeled her Mustang and seemed ready for flight, her face turned, glancing back over her shoulder.
“I can drop the piebald without hurting her,” muttered Campbell, half inquiringly.
“No—that would never do. We have no right. Keep her in sight—I think I can overhaul her,” and Hawksley uttered a low whistle, at the same time gliding toward where his saddle and bridle hung.
With another clear laugh, the strange rider turned and, bending low along the spotted Mustang’s neck, dashed around the timber. Campbell rushed to the arch, then paused, muttering eagerly:
“Quick, Fred—she’s waiting for you!”
Such indeed seemed the case. The woman had only retreated a few hundred yards from the bivouac, and then, as if feeling implicit confidence in the powers of the animal she bestrode, had halted, once more glancing back toward the campfire. Her actions were as strange as her appearance. She seemed inviting—challenging pursuit.
In less than a minute from her first appearance, Fred Hawksley sprung upon his noble beast and dashed through the arch out upon the prairie. The strange rider uttered another laugh, clear and silvery, yet with a taunting cadence that caused the young hunter’s blood to tingle and his lips to compress firmly. He resolved to overtake the woman, even if it cost him the noble steed he bestrode.
“We’ll follow on after you, Fred,” cried Campbell as his friend dashed past him. “Don’t be rash—there may be some deviltry in this!”
The strange rider tossed back her floating hair with one hand, as the young borderer sprung into view, then with a peculiar cry, gave her Mustang free rein, and sped away over the undulating prairie with the speed of a swallow. And after her thundered the big yellow horse, with the long, swinging stride that Fred knew few Mustangs could successfully cope with in anything over a mile dash.
“Quick, boys—saddle up!” cried Campbell, excitedly. “Never mind the meat. I’m afraid that Fred is running into some real trouble—that creature has bewitched him. See! he forgot his rifle—but he has his pistols. Make haste! we mustn’t lose sight of them if we can help it, though the moon is full and will soon be up. We can follow their trail if needs be.”
There was little hesitation. Though the day’s work had been hard, both men and beasts were ready for a race, and this was no common one. Already the young hunters possessed a burning curiosity to know who and what this strange woman rider really was, and what was the motive of her strange actions.
Hopples were slipped, saddles and bridles quickly adjusted, and then, weapons in hand, the little party dashed swiftly beneath the natural rock, out upon the broad prairie. But where were the two riders—their friend and the strange woman?
For a moment a superstitious thrill agitated the young hunters, but then Campbell laughed. He saw their foolishness.
“They’re beyond the swell—we’ll see them in a moment. Come on—keep up with me if you can!”
That he spoke the truth, the next moment confirmed. Gliding like shadowy phantoms, rapidly yet noiselessly, two riders appeared near the crest of the second swell, already a mile away. Only that the moon was just rising the eastern swells, the chase would have been invisible to the hunters.
But few more words were spoken on the part of the little band. One and all, they saw that a long and severe race was before them and that all their attention must be given to their horses, already jaded by their hard day’s hunt, if they hoped to keep within view of the young ranger. Uphill and down, over gullies and through the patches of tall grass and weeds, sped the hunters, now no longer in a compact clump, but strung out with intervals of a yard, a horse’s length, maybe, between each other. A dozen lengths in front thundered Ned Campbell on his big bay horse.
“Do the best ye can, boys,” he shouted back, with a beard on the shoulder. “If you can’t keep up, follow the trail.”
Each of his friends felt the same vague fear that agitated Campbell’s heart. They believed that Hawksley was being led into some great peril by this strange rider—that she was acting the part of a decoy.
But why? That was beyond them. They did not pause to reason—they jumped at once to the conclusion, preposterous as it seemed.
The moon shone clear and full upon the prairie, lighting up this unique, double chase. First—far ahead, almost invisible in the dim, deceitful light, sped the strange woman rider, the spotted Mustang running freely and seemingly at ease. Close behind—in fact not more than a hundred yards, thundered the dark figure of the young ranger, urging on his noble “buck-skin” with both voice and spur. A mile further to the rear was Ned Campbell, his big bay holding its own, if not slowly gaining upon the two foremost racers. Gradually losing ground, struggled the others, bringing up the rear.
Bitterly Hawksley regretted having so severely taxed his animal during the day. Were he fresh now, there was little doubt as to how the chase would terminate. The spotted Mustang would speedily be forced to acknowledge its master. But now? With varying hope and fear, Fred urged his horse on. He scarcely knew what to think. At times the spotted creature seemed laboring heavily, at others to be running well within himself. Could it be that this strange woman was playing with him? Fred bit his lip and pressed his spurs home. With an angry snort, the big horse plunged forward with lightning speed.
Ned Campbell was urging his horse to the utmost, and in his anxiety concerning his friend, he neglected his usual caution, unfortunately for all concerned. Fearing to lose sight of the chase, his gaze was bent ahead, as he gained the crest of a swell.
A loud cheer burst from his lips as he caught sight of his friend, seemingly riding close beside the strange woman. As he turned his head to cheer on his friends, Ned felt his horse suddenly stumble, and then came insensibility.
The big bay horse had stepped into the burrow of a gopher, and stumbling, fell with violence, casting its rider far over its head. Campbell lay like one dead, and forgetting all else in their anxiety regarding his welfare, the young hunters dismounted and crowded around him.
Thus a full half-hour was lost; momentous minutes to their friend Fred Hawksley. Only for that unfortunate stumble, how much that followed might have been spared!
Though considerably bruised, when he returned to consciousness, Campbell found that no bones were broken. Almost his first thought was for his horse. It stood nearby, leisurely cropping the grass, in nowise injured by the contretemps.
Ned uttered a little exclamation, as he glanced around him. He counted eight forms besides his own. Then he glanced over the prairie in which direction he had last noted his young friend. It was clear and unobstructed. Hawksley and the strange rider had disappeared.
“You ought to have followed on, boys. I fear that Fred is running into some snare. Do you take the trail now? I remember the point where I last saw them. I’ll ride on ahead. Don’t lose any time, but keep the right track. Fred’s life may depend upon it.”
Before the last words were spoken, he was in the saddle and away. One quick glance around settled his course, and then fixing his eyes steadily upon a point of timber a mile or more ahead, he dashed on like an arrow fresh from the bow.
His companions followed more deliberately, though at a steady gallop. The moonlight was sufficiently strong to enable them to follow the plainly imprinted trail with little difficulty. In a few minutes, they lost sight of Ned Campbell, behind a timber island.
Round a point of this the trail led, and dashing along, the eyes of the pursuers widely dilated as they abruptly drew rein. The prairie here stretched out free of timber, almost level for several miles in either direction. And yet not a living object was to be seen upon its surface!
Was this magic? More than one of the hunters felt a thrill of superstitious awe, as they glanced at each other. Where were Hawksley and the strange woman? Where was Ned Campbell?
“Look!” muttered a tall, lank youth, Zebedee Ruel by name, “hyar’s thar trail—three critters goin’ at full split. They’ve passed this away. Reckon we’d best follow on—what say?”
The trail was faint and indistinct at this point, for the ground was harder, ringing sharply beneath the iron-shod hoofs. It was the edge of a tract of prairie sometimes found in Texas—more frequently in Kansas and Nebraska; composed of sand, gravel, and flinty pebbles, over which a horse may pass without leaving a trail.
Such was soon found to be the case here. Though all dismounted, even searching the ground on hands and knees, the trail was soon lost.
“Ha! boys, we’re fools!” muttered Craig Fenton, in a tone of disquiet. “Don’t you know this place? Why we’re not five miles from Colton’s Ranch!”
“By thunder! you’re right, Craig,” muttered Ruel. “Then they must be in the—”
“Look yonder!”
Following the direction indicated by the outstretched finger, the hunters beheld the tall figure of a horseman, standing motionless upon the prairie, not two hundred yards from their position. And yet, only a moment before, the prairie had been closely scanned, without a living object being seen.
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