The War Trail | Page 6

is plunder. Many a noble heart beats
beneath a rude exterior--many a one truly humane. There are hearts in
that band that throb under the influence of patriotism; some are guided
by a still nobler impulse, a desire to extend the area of freedom: others,
it is true, yearn but for revenge. These last are chiefly Texans, who
mourn a friend or brother slain by Mexican treachery. They have not
forgotten the cowardly assassination of Goliad; they remember the red
butchery of the Alamo.
Perhaps I alone, of all the band, have no motive for being here; if one,
'tis slight--scarce so noble as vengeance. Mere chance, the love of
excitement and adventure, perhaps some weak fondness for power and
fame, are all the excuses I can urge for taking a hand in this affair. A
poor adventurer--without friends, without home, without country, for
my native land is no more a nation--my heart is not cheered by a single
throb of patriotism. I have no private wrong to redress, no public cause,
no country for which to combat.
During intervals of inaction, these thoughts recur to me, and give me

pain.
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The men have picketed their horses in the church enclosure; some are
tied to trees, and others to the reja-bars of the windows: like their riders,
a motley group, various in size, colour, and race. The strong
high-mettled steed of Kentucky and Tennessee, the light "pacer" of
Louisiana, the cob, the barb, his descendant the "mustang," that but a
few weeks ago was running wild upon the prairies, may all be seen in
the troop. Mules, also, of two distinct races--the large gaunt mule of
North America, and the smaller and more sprightly variety, native of
the soil.
My own black steed, with his pretty fern-coloured muzzle, stands near
the fountain in the centre of the piazza. My eye wanders with a sort of
habitual delight over the oval outlines of his body. How proudly he
curves his swan like neck, and with mock anger paws up the dust! He
knows that my eyes are upon him.
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We have been scarcely an hour in the rancheria; we are perfect
strangers to it: we are the first American troop its people have yet
seen-- although the war has been going on for some months farther
down the river. We have been despatched upon scouting duty, with
orders to scour the surrounding country as far as it is safe. The object in
sending us hither is not so much to guard against a surprise from our
Mexican foe, who is not upon this side, but to guard them, the
Mexicans, from another enemy--an enemy of both of us--the Comanche!
These Indian Ishmaelites, report says, are upon the "war-trail" and
have quite an army in the field. It is said they are foraging higher up the
river, where they have it all to themselves, and have just pillaged a
settlement in that direction--butchered the men, as is their wont, and
carried off the women, children, and chattels. We came hither to
conquer the Mexicans, but we must protect while conquering them!
Cosas de Mexico!

CHAPTER FOUR.
MAKING A CAPTIVE.
I was musing upon the singular character of this triangular war, when
my reverie was disturbed by the hoof strokes of a horse. The sounds
came from a distance, outside the village; the strokes were those of a
horse at full gallop.
I stepped hastily across the azotea, and looked over the parapet, in
hopes of obtaining a view of this rapid rider. I was not disappointed--
as I neared the wall, the road and the rider came full under my eyes.
In the latter, I beheld a picturesque object. He appeared to be a very
young man--a mere youth, without beard or moustache, but of
singularly handsome features. The complexion was dark, almost brown;
but even at the distance of two hundred yards, I could perceive the flash
of a noble eye, and note a damask redness upon his cheeks. His
shoulders were covered with a scarlet manga, that draped backward
over the hips of his horse; and upon his head he wore a light sombrero,
laced, banded, and tasselled with bullion of gold. The horse was a small
but finely proportioned mustang--spotted like a jaguar upon a ground
colour of cream--a true Andalusian.
The horseman was advancing at a gallop, without fear of the ground
before him: by chance, his eyes were raised to the level of the azotea,
on which I stood; my uniform, and the sparkle of my accoutrements,
caught his glance; and quick as thought, as if by an involuntary
movement, he reined up his mustang, until its ample tail lay clustered
upon the dust of the road. It was then that I noted the singular
appearance of