In half-an-hour after, with the vaquero for my guide, I rode quietly out of the rancheria. A dozen rangers followed close behind; and, having crossed the river at a ford nearly opposite the village, we struck off into the chapparal on the opposite side.
The men whom I had chosen to accompany me were most of them old hunters, fellows who could “trail” and “crease” with accurate aim. I had confidence in their skill, and, aided by them, I had great hopes we should find the game we were in search of.
My hopes, however, would not have been so sanguine but for another circumstance. It was this: Our guide had informed me, that when he saw the white steed, the latter was in company with a large drove of mares – a manada– doubtless his harem. He would not be likely to separate from them, and even if these had since left the ground, they could be the more easily “trailed” in consequence of their numbers. Indeed, but for this prospect, our wild-horse hunt would have partaken largely of the character of a “wild-goose chase.” The steed, by all accounts of him, might have been seen upon one arroyo to-day, and by the banks of some other stream, a hundred miles off, on the morrow. The presence of his manada offered some guarantee, that he might still be near the ground where the vaquero had marked him. Once found, I trusted to the swiftness of my horse, and my own skill in the use of the lazo.
As we rode along, I revealed to my following the purpose of the expedition. All of them knew the white steed by fame; one or two averred they had seen him in their prairie wanderings. The whole party were delighted at the idea of such a “scout,” and exhibited as much excitement as if I was leading them to a skirmish with guerilleros.
The country through which we passed was at first a dense chapparal, consisting of the various thorny shrubs and plants for which this part of Mexico is so celebrated. The greater proportion belonged to the family of leguminosae—robinias, gleditschias, and the Texan acacias of more than one species, there known as mezquite. Aloes, too, formed part of the under-growth, to the no small annoyance of the traveller – the wild species known as the lechuguilla, or pita-plant, whose core is cooked for food, whose fibrous leaves serve for the manufacture of thread, cordage, or cloth – while its sap yields by distillation the fiery mezcal. Here and there, a tree yucca grew by the way, its fascicles of rigid leaves reminding one of the plumed heads of Indian warriors. Some I saw with edible fruits growing in clusters, like bunches of bananas. Several species are there of these fruit-bearing yuccas in the region of the Rio Grande, as yet unknown to the scientific botanist. I observed also the palmilla, or soap-plant, another yucca whose roots yield an excellent substitute for soap; and various forms of cactus – never out of sight on Mexican soil – grew thickly around, a characteristic feature of the landscape. Plants of humbler stature covered the surface, among which the syngenesists predominated; while the fetid artemisia, and the still more disagreeably odorous creosote plant (Larrea Mexicana) grew upon spots that were sandy and arid. Pleasanter objects to the eye were the scarlet panicles of the Fouquiera splendens, then undescribed by botanists, and yet to become a favourite of the arboretums.
I was in no mood for botanising at the time, but I well remember how I admired this elegant species – its tall culm-like stems, surmounted by panicles of brilliant flowers, rising high above the level of the surrounding thicket, like banners above a host. Not that I possess the refined taste of a lover of flowers, and much less then; but cold must be the heart that could look upon the floral beauty of Mexico, without remembering some portion of its charms. Even the rudest of my followers could not otherwise than admire; and once or twice, as we journeyed along, I could hear them give utterance to that fine epithet of the heart’s desire, “Beautiful!”
As we advanced, the aspect changed. The surface became freer of jungle; a succession of glade and thicket; in short, a “mezquite prairie.” Still advancing, the “openings” became larger, while the timbered surface diminished in extent, and now and then the glades joined each other without interruption.
We had ridden nearly ten miles without drawing bridle, when our guide struck upon the trail of the manada. Several of the old hunters, without dismounting, pronounced the tracks to be those of wild mares, which they easily distinguished from horse tracks. Their judgment proved correct; for following the trail but a short distance farther, we came full in sight of the drove, which the vaquero confidently pronounced was the manada we were in search of!
So far our success equalled our expectations; but to get sight of a caballada of wild-horses, and to capture its swiftest steed, are two things of very unequal difficulty. This fact my anxiously beating heart and quickly throbbing pulse revealed to me at the moment. It would be difficult to describe the mingled feelings of anxious doubt and joyous hope that passed through my mind, as from afar off I gazed upon that shy herd, still unconscious of our approach.
The prairie upon which the mares were browsing was more then a mile in width, and, like those we had been passing through, it was surrounded by the low chapparal forest – although there were avenues that communicated with other openings of a similar kind. Near its centre was the manada. Some of the mares were quietly browsing upon the grass, while others were frisking and playing about, now rearing up as if in combat, now rushing in wild gallop, their tossed manes and full tails flung loosely upon the wind. Even in the distance we could trace the full rounded development of their bodies; and their smooth coats glistening under the sun denoted their fair condition. They were of all colours known to the horse, for in this the race of the Spanish horse is somewhat peculiar. There were bays, and blacks, and whites – the last being most numerous. There were greys, both iron and roan, and duns with white manes and tails, and some of a mole colour, and not a few of the kind known in Mexico as pintados (piebalds) – for spotted horses are not uncommon among the mustangs – all of course with full manes and tails, since the mutilating shears of the jockey had never curtailed their flowing glories.
But where was the lord of this splendid harem? – where the steed?
This was the thought that was uppermost in the mind of all – the question upon every tongue.
Our eyes wandered over the herd, now here, now there. White horses there were, numbers of them, but it needed but a glance to tell that the “steed of the prairies” was not there.
We eyed each other with looks of disappointment. Even my companions felt that; but a far more bitter feeling was growing upon me as I gazed upon the leaderless troop. Could I have captured and carried back the whole drove, the present would not have purchased one smile from Isolina. The steed was not among them!
He might still be in the neighbourhood; or had he forsaken the manada altogether, and gone far away over the wide prairie in search of new conquests?
The vaquero believed he was not far off. I had faith in this man’s opinion, who, having passed his life in the observation of wild and half-wild horses, had a perfect knowledge of their habits. There was hope then. The steed might be near; perhaps lying down in the shade of the thicket; perhaps with a portion of the manada or some favourite in one of the adjacent glades. If so, our guide assured us we should soon have him in view. He would soon bring the steed upon the ground.
How?
Simply by startling the mares, whose neigh of alarm would be heard from afar.
The plan seemed feasible enough; but it was advisable that we should surround the manada before attempting to disturb them, else they might gallop off in the opposite direction, before any of us could get near.
Without delay, we proceeded to effect the “surround.”
The chapparal aided us by concealing our movements; and in half-an-hour we had deployed around the prairie.
The drove still browsed and played. They had no suspicion that a cordon of hunters was being formed around them, else they would have long since galloped away.
Of all wild creatures, the shyest is the wild-horse; the deer, the antelope, and buffalo, are far less fearful of the approach of man. The mustang seems to understand the doom that awaits him in captivity. One could almost fancy that the runaways from the settlements – occasionally seen amongst them – had poured into their ears the tale of their hardships and