ASLEEP IN THE LAND OF SILENCE.
“Turned round twice!” ejaculates the reader. “Why should she be terrified at such a slight thing?”
For a very good reason, for example: blindfold a person and after doing so turn him twice in his tracks. He then will be unable to tell with any degree of certainty to which point of the compass he is facing. So it was with Kissie. Though not blindfolded, she might as well have been, and might as well have turned round fifty times as twice. The flat plain was everywhere the same monotonous expanse, nowhere showing any landmarks, by the slightest depression or elevation.
No wonder she was frightened, even terrified. Had she been in a settled country, she would only have experienced vexation and discontent at being forced to spend the night on the prairie; but here she was, far from any settlement, lost from her companions, and in a hostile Indian country. She knew the latter to be fierce and bloodthirsty, and was aware they would not scruple to commit any outrage their cunning brains might suggest. She knew they were predatory and gregarious, often rambling in bands of from a dozen to fifty or a hundred. She knew also they were the fiends of the plains—either Comanches or Apaches, dreaded alike by quiet ranchero and courageous hunter.
Should she meet with them, what would be her fate—what her doom? What—
At this point in her reflections Dimple pawed impatiently, and tossing her head, snuffed the air; she was evidently fatigued and hungry and was impatient at being kept at a standstill.
“Quiet, Dimple! you are tired, pet; you have had a hard gallop after a day’s march. Dear, dear me; that I had never left them.”
But the pony was not very much fatigued. She was a pure mustang, but recently captured and tamed, and could have galloped the entire day without faltering.
“Oh, where shall I go—what shall I do? Oh, heaven! I would I had never left them. Be quiet, I say, Dimple? what do you mean?”
The pony was stamping violently, and with tossing head was staring over the plain. Mechanically Kissie followed his gaze.
Away on the distant horizon (the eastern one, though she did not know it) she saw a solitary speck, moving slowly. It was that which had caused the mustang’s alarm. It had evidently been in sight for some time, for now she remembered the pony had been restless for considerable time. It was some animal, perhaps a solitary horseman. Indeed, by straining her eyes, she was almost certain it was the latter, as she thought she could distinguish the necessary outlines of a mounted man.
The object was a man, and mounted on a black powerful horse. It was Pedro Felipe.
Had she known it was a white man, had she any reason to suppose he was not an enemy, she would have at once spurred toward him; but, knowing that numerous Indians were at all times scouring the plains, she desired rather to give him a wide berth, fearing he was one of that dreaded race.
She raised her whip, and striking the mustang sharply, was riding away when a new object appeared on the horizon, opposite the Mexican. Object? rather a number of blots, moving toward her. This she could tell as they appeared stationary while they rose and fell, like a galloping horse.
She had seen such objects before, and knew they were galloping animals. Knowing that scarcely any animals frequented the plain, from its sterility, she readily became aware that they were a band of mounted men.
She felt her heart leap joyously; it was her friends. They had doubtless become alarmed at her prolonged absence, and had started in search of her. Filled with joy at the thought, she pressed on, her fears at rest. Just then she looked for the far-distant, lone rider—he was not in sight; he had vanished.
Suddenly she stopped the mustang, and a deadly pallor overspread her countenance, a wild fear arose within her. She had counted thirteen distinct objects moving toward her.
Her father’s party numbered seven—the one approaching numbered thirteen; it could not be her friends—it could not.
Who were they? Surely they were mounted men, surely they were not her friends; who could they be? They were coming, miles away, directly toward her.
The truth flashed upon her, and her heart sunk like lead. Sitting quietly in her saddle, she stared at them, drawing nearer every minute. Then she became aroused. Wheeling suddenly she plied the whip, and the wiry mustang, now somewhat refreshed, sprung away at a long, steady gallop, and the blots behind scattered, collected again, then rose and fell faster and shorter. The chase had commenced—she was pursued by Indians.
It was now sunset, as nearly as she could judge, and the cloudy sky overhead promised a brief, dark twilight, to be succeeded by a dark, murky night. The rainy season was now drawing near, and for aught she knew the clouds above might be the “advance-guard.” This, at least, was in her favor.
Kissie was like her father—impulsive but cool. Looking back, she calculated the distance between her and the flying savages. It was nearly four miles. She looked at the sky and calculated that darkness would fall in less than an hour.
“They will have to ride like the wind to overtake Dimple in an hour,” she said, with a small degree of hope. “Till then, Dimple, fly; in an hour we may be safe for the present.”
The mustang, as if cognizant of the importance of speed, tossed his plucky head, then bending it down, “reached” like a quarter-horse; his sensitive nose had warned him of the proximity of his former hated foe—the red-man. Running without the incentive of whip or spur, he stretched away; and behind came a dozen and one Apaches, grim and resolved; they were on the war-trail.
At that hour a flock of vultures wheeling above, high in the zenith, looked down upon a strange scene—at least for that usually deserted plain. Directly beneath were a flying maiden and galloping Indians—the latter in hot pursuit of the former; both mounted on fleet horses, both riding at full speed.
A few miles to the west a solitary horseman was pursuing his way northward, at a slow gallop. He was a Mexican—Pedro Felipe. At the rate, and in the direction the maiden was riding, it would not be long ere she would meet him—she riding north-westerly. Directly south and nearly fifteen miles behind Pedro, rode a dark, ugly-looking man on a black horse; and though the Mexican had left no visible trail, this mysterious rider was following him, directly in his very tracks. Riders on the savage-infested, weird plains generally look sharply in every direction to avoid their dreaded foes; they generally, if alone, keep close to timbered tracts; but this rider never gazed to the right, left, or behind him—only keeping his gaze fixed toward the Land of Silence.
In a south-easterly direction from him was a train encamped on the Gila, for the night. All the work had been finished. The horses were lariated at hand; the rude kettle was boiling merrily; the cook was swearing and grumbling, as usual; but all was not quiet.
Ever and anon one of the several men lying lazily about would rise, and shading his eyes, peer toward the north-east, as if in search of something.
He was invariably unsuccessful; and, after anxiously gazing for several minutes, would return, and talk in low tones to his companions.
Then several would start up together and peer over the north-western plain; then, muttering anxiously, would return and lie down again, talking earnestly; something was wrong.
Even the cook, who was generally too hard at work, tired and surly to pay attention to any thing outside of his “Dutch-oven,” would now and then pause and look anxiously toward the north-west; it was plain something was wrong.
It was twilight on the vast plain, north of the Gila. Now the two principal parties had visibly changed their positions. The Indians were quite near, having gained two miles in light—a vast gain; they must have ridden like the wind, or the sorrel mustang must have lagged.
The last was the case. From some hidden reason Dimple had lost his swift run, and was going at a faltering canter—he was unaccountably fatigued or injured. She could hear faintly the hideous yells behind—a mile and a half distant.
At this, with her last hope giving way, she plied the whip.
The mustang obeyed, and for a few lengths galloped briskly, but soon collapsed, and feebly cantered on. She felt terrified at the thought of captivity and prayed for rescue.
It came. The twilight was almost over, then pitchy darkness would shield her from her red enemies. The moon rose about three hours after sundown—she could easily elude them until that time; then, perhaps, she would be safe.
Another circumstance, far more potent, was in her favor. The soil of the plain, baked hard after months of drought, left no impression of the mustang’s hoof, consequently she could not be traced by the hoof-marks. It was not probable, after having eluded them, that in this wide, vast plain they could chance upon her again. So, if she succeeded in escaping, for the present she was in comparative safety.
She succeeded. The darkness swiftly gathered down over the plain; she lost sight of her pursuers, though still hearing their hideous yells; and they, in turn, lost sight of her.
Fifteen minutes later, on pausing and waiting a few moments, Kissie heard them gallop by in the darkness, not ten rods away. Then she turned and rode for an hour in an opposite direction; for the present she was safe.
Alighting, she left Dimple to graze at will on the scanty herbage; and, conscious the timid mustang would awaken her by stamping, should danger come, lay down, and, completely worn out, fell into a light, troubled sleep.
The chase had not amounted to much—the odds, large ones, being in her favor; but while she had escaped from them, she had ridden many miles further from her friends.
Alone in the desert, guarded by the wary, timid pony, she slept; and the night was dark and gloomy in the Land of Silence—for she was within its ghostly border.