Part 8

We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels, Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride; And the heavens of blue and the harvest of brown And beautiful clover were welded as one, To the right and the left, in the light of the sun. "Forty full miles if a foot to ride, Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils Of red Camanches are hot on the track When once they strike it. Let the sun go down Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old Revels As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back, Holding fast to his lasso. Then he jerked at his steed And he sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around, And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground; Then again to his feet, and to me, to my bride, While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud, His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud, And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed,-- "Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed, And speed you if ever for life you would speed, And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride! For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, And feet of wild horses hard flying before I hear like a sea breaking high on the shore, While the buffalo come like a surge of the sea, Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire."

We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again, And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheers, Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, Cast aside the catenas red-spangled with gold, And gold mounted Colt's, the companions of years, Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a breath, And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse,-- As bare as when born, as when new from the hand Of God,--without word, or one word of command. Turned head to the Brazos in a red race with death, Turned head to the Brazos with a breath in the hair Blowing hot from a king leaving death in his course; Turned head to the Brazos with a sound in the air Like the rush of an army, and a flash in the eye Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the sky, Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black rolling sea Rushing fast upon us, as the wind sweeping free And afar from the desert blew hollow and hoarse.

Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, Not a kiss from my bride, not a look nor low call Of love-note or courage; but on o'er the plain So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose and gray nose, Reaching long, breathing loud, as a creviced wind blows: Yet we broke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer, There was work to be done, there was death in the air, And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.

Gray nose to gray nose, and each steady mustang Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the arid earth rang, And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. Twenty miles!... thirty miles!... a dim distant speck ... Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight, And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right-- But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping Hard down on his breast, and his naked breast stooping Low down to the mane, as so swifter and bolder Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. To right and to left the black buffalo came, A terrible surf on a red sea of flame Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher. And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud And unearthly, and up through its lowering cloud Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire, While his keen crooked horns, through the storm of his mane, Like black lances lifted and lifted again; And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through, And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.

I looked to my left then,--and nose, neck, and shoulder Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs; And up through the black blowing veil of her hair Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes, With a longing and love, yet a look of despair And of pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell Did subside and recede, and the nerves fall as dead. Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded his head, With a look of delight; for nor courage nor bribe, Nor naught but my bride, could have brought him to me. For he was her father's, and at South Santafee Had once won a whole herd, sweeping everything down In a race where the world came to run for the crown. And so when I won the true heart of my bride,-- My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,-- She brought me this steed to the border the night She met Revels and me in her perilous flight From the lodge of the chief to the North Brazos side; And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled, As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue I should surely escape without other ado Than to ride, without blood, to the North Brazos side, And await her,--and wait till the next hollow moon Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon And swift she would join me, and all would be well Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, The last that I saw was a look of delight That I should escape--a love--a desire-- Yet never a word, not one look of appeal, Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel One instant for her in my terrible flight.

Then the rushing of fire around me and under, And the howling of beasts and a sound as of thunder,-- Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over, As the passionate flame reached around them, and wove her Red hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,-- Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan, As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone ... And into the Brazos ... I rode all alone,-- All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. Then just as the terrible sea came in And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.

_Joaquin Miller._

TAMING THE WILD HORSE.

Last night he trampled with a thousand steeds The trembling desert. Now, he stands alone-- His speed hath baffled theirs. His fellows lurk, Behind, on heavy sands, with weary limbs That cannot reach him. From the highest hill, He gazes o'er the wild whose plains he spurned, And his eye kindles, and his breast expands, With an upheaving consciousness of might. He stands an instant, then he breaks away, As revelling in his freedom. What if art, That strikes soul into marble, could but seize That agony of action,--could impress Its muscular fulness, with its winged haste, Upon the resisting rock, while wonder stares, And admiration worships? There,--away-- As glorying in that mighty wilderness, And conscious of the gazing skies o'erhead, Quiver for flight, his sleek and slender limbs, Elastic, springing into headlong force-- While his smooth neck, curved loftily to arch, Dignifies flight, and to his speed imparts The majesty, not else its attribute. And, circling, now he sweeps, the flowery plain, As if 'twere his--imperious, gathering up His limbs, unwearied by their sportive play, Until he stands, an idol of the sight.

He stands and trembles! The warm life is gone That gave him action. Wherefore is it thus? His eye hath lost its lustre, though it still Sends forth a glance of consciousness and care, To a deep agony of acuteness wrought, And straining at a point--a narrow point-- That rises, but a speck upon the verge Of the horizon. Sure, the humblest life, Hath, in God's providence, some gracious guides, That warn it of its foe. The danger there, His instinct teaches, and with growing dread, No more solicitous of graceful flight, He bounds across the plain--he speeds away, Into the tameless wilderness afar, To 'scape his bondage. Yet, in vain his flight-- Vain his fleet limbs, his desperate aim, his leap Through the close thicket, through the festering swamp, And rushing waters. His proud neck must bend Beneath a halter, and the iron parts And tears his delicate mouth. The brave steed, Late bounding in his freedom's consciousness, The leader of the wild, unreached of all, Wears gaudy trappings, and becomes a slave.

He bears a master on his shrinking back, He feels a rowel in his bleeding flanks, And his arched neck, beneath the biting thong, Burns, while he bounds away--all desperate-- Across the desert, mad with the vain hope To shake his burden off. He writhes, he turns On his oppressor. He would rend the foe, Who subtle, with less strength, had taken him thus, At foul advantage--but he strives in vain. A sudden pang--a newer form of pain, Baffles, and bears him on--he feels his fate, And with a shriek of agony, which tells, Loudly, the terrors of his new estate, He makes the desert--his own desert--ring With the wild clamors of his new born grief. One fruitless effort more--one desperate bound, For the old freedom of his natural life, And then he humbles to his cruel lot, Submits, and finds his conqueror in man!

_W. G. Simms._

CHIQUITA.

Beautiful! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn't her match in the county. Is thar, old gal,--Chiquita, my darling, my beauty? Feel of that neck, sir,--thar's velvet! Whoa! Steady,--ah, will you, you vixen! Whoa! I say. Jack, trot her out; let the gentleman look at her paces.

Morgan!--She ain't nothin' else, and I've got the papers to prove it. Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy her. Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne?-- Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 'Frisco?

Hedn't no savey--hed Briggs. Thar, Jack! that'll do,--quit that foolin'! Nothin' to what she kin do, when she's got her work cut out before her. Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys; And 'tain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a hoss has got in him.

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's leaders? Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water! Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his nevey Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all round us;

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a bilin', Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river. I had the grey, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita; And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the canyon.

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could yell to her rider, Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me standing, And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat and a driftin' to thunder!

Would ye b'lieve it? that night that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita, Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping: Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, Just as she swam the Fork,--that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita.

That's what I call a hoss! and--What did you say!--Oh, the nevey? Drownded, I reckon,--leastways, he never kem back to deny it. Ye see the derned fool had no seat,--ye couldn't have made him a rider; And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses--well, hosses is hosses!

_Bret Harte._

BAY BILLY.

'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,-- Perhaps the day you reck, Our boys, the Twenty-Second Maine, Kept Early's men in check. Just where Wade Hampton boomed away The fight went neck and neck.

All day the weaker wing we held, And held it with a will. Five several stubborn times we charged The battery on the hill, And five times beaten back, re-formed, And kept our column still.

At last from out the centre fight Spurred up a General's Aid. "That battery must silenced be!" He cried, as past he sped. Our Colonel simply touched his cap, And then, with measured tread,

To lead the crouching line once more The grand old fellow came. No wounded man but raised his head And strove to gasp his name, And those who could not speak nor stir, "God blessed him" just the same.

For he was all the world to us, That hero gray and grim. Right well he knew that fearful slope We'd climb with none but him, Though while his white head led the way We'd charge hell's portals in.

This time we were not half-way up, When, midst the storm of shell, Our leader, with his sword upraised, Beneath our bayonets fell. And, as we bore him back, the foe Set up a joyous yell.

Our hearts went with him. Back we swept, And when the bugle said "Up, charge, again!" no man was there But hung his dogged head. "We've no one left to lead us now," The sullen soldiers said.

Just then before the laggard line The Colonel's horse we spied, Bay Billy with his trappings on, His nostrils swelling wide, As though still on his gallant back The master sat astride.

Right royally he took the place That was of old his wont, And with a neigh that seemed to say, Above the battle's brunt, "How can the Twenty-second charge If I am not in front?"

Like statues rooted there we stood, And gazed a little space, Above that floating mane we missed The dear familiar face, But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire, And it gave us heart of grace.

No bugle-call could rouse us all As that brave sight had done. Down all the battered line we felt A lightning impulse run. Up! up! the hill we followed Bill, And we captured every gun!

And when upon the conquered height Died out the battle's hum. Vainly mid living and the dead We sought our leader dumb. It seemed as if a spectre steed To win that day had come.

And then the dusk and dew of night Fell softly o'er the plain, As though o'er man's dread work of death The angels wept again, And drew night's curtain gently round A thousand beds of pain.

All night the surgeons' torches went, The ghastly rows between.-- All night with solemn step I paced The torn and bloody green. But who that fought in the big war Such dread sights have not seen?

At last the morning broke. The lark Sang in the merry skies As if to e'en the sleepers there It bade awake, and rise! Though naught but that last trump of all Could ope their heavy eyes.

And then once more with banners gay, Stretched out the long Brigade. Trimly upon the furrowed field The troops stood on parade, And bravely mid the ranks were closed The gaps the fight had made.

Not half the Twenty-second's men Were in their place that morn, And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon Stood six brave fellows on, Now touched my elbow in the ranks, For all between were gone.

Ah! who forgets that dreary hour When, as with misty eyes, To call the old familiar roll The solemn Sergeant tries,-- One feels that thumping of the heart As no prompt voice replies.

And as in faltering tone and slow The last few names were said, Across the field some missing horse Toiled up with weary tread, It caught the Sergeant's eye, and quick Bay Billy's name he read.

Yes! there the old bay hero stood, All safe from battle's harms, And ere an order could be heard, Or the bugle's quick alarms, Down all the front, from end to end, The troops presented arms!

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth Could still our mighty cheer; And ever from that famous day, When rang the roll-call clear, Bay Billy's name was read, and then The whole line answered, "Here!"

_Frank H. Gassaway._

WIDDERIN'S RACE.

A horse amongst ten thousand! on the verge, The extremest verge, of equine life he stands; Yet mark his action, as those wild young colts Freed from the stock-yard gallop whinnying up; See how he trots towards them,--nose in air, Tail arched, and his still sinewy legs out-thrown In gallant grace before him! A brave beast As ever spurned the moorland, ay, and more,-- He bore me once,--such words but smite the truth I' the outer ring, while vivid memory wakes, Recalling now, the passion and the pain,-- He bore me once from earthly Hell to Heaven!

The sight of fine old Widderin (that's his name, Caught from a peak, the topmost rugged peak Of tall Mount Widderin, towering to the North Most like a steed's head, with full nostrils blown, And ears pricked up),--the sight of Widderin brings That day of days before me, whose strange hours Of fear and anguish, ere the sunset, changed To hours of such content and full-veined joy As Heaven can give our mortal lives but once.

Well, here's the story: While yon bush-fires sweep The distant ranges, and the river's voice Pipes a thin treble through the heart of drouth, While the red heaven like some hugh caldron's top Seems with the heat a-simmering, better far In place of riding tilt 'gainst such a sun, Here in the safe veranda's flowery gloom, To play the dwarfish Homer to a song, Whereof myself am hero:

Two decades Have passed since that wild autumn-time when last The convict hordes from near Van Diemen, freed By force or fraud, swept, like a blood-red fire, Inland from beach to mountain, bent on raid And rapine.

*....*....*....*

So, in late autumn,--'twas a marvellous morn, With breezes from the calm snow-river borne That touched the air, and stirred it into thrills, Mysterious and mesmeric, a bright mist Lapping the landscape like a golden trance, Swathing the hill-tops with fantastic veils, And o'er the moorland-ocean quivering light As gossamer threads drawn down the forest aisles At dewy dawning,--on this marvellous morn, I, with four comrades, in this selfsame spot, Watched the fair scene, and drank the spicy airs, That held a subtler spirit than our wine, And talked and laughed, and mused in idleness,-- Weaving vague fancies, as our pipe-wreaths curled Fantastic in the sunlight! I, with head Thrown back, and cushioned snugly, and with eyes Intent on one grotesque and curious cloud, Puffed upward, that now seemed to take the shape Of a Dutch tulip, now a Turk's face topped By folds on folds of turban limitless,-- Heard suddenly, just as the clock chimed one, To melt in musical echoes up the hills, Quick footsteps on the gravelled path without,-- Steps of the couriers of calamity,-- So my heart told me,--ere with blanched regards, Two stalwart herdsmen on our threshold paused, Panting, with lips that writhed, and awful eyes;-- A breath's space in each other's eyes we glared, Then, swift as interchange of lightning thrusts In deadly combat, question and reply Clashed sharply, "What! the Rangers?" "Ay, by Heaven! And loosed in force,--the hell-hounds!" "Whither bound?" I stammered, hoarsely. "Bound," the elder said, "Southward!--four stations had they sacked and burnt, And now, drunk, furious"--But I stopped to hear No more: with booming thunder in mine ears, And blood-flushed eyes, I rushed to Widderin's side, Drew tight the girths, upgathered curb and rein, And sprang to horse ere yet our laggard friends-- Now trooping from the green veranda's shade-- Could dream of action!

Love had winged my will, For to the southward fair Garoopna held My all of hope, life, passion; she whose hair (Its tiniest strand of waving, witch-like gold) Had caught my heart, entwined, and bound it fast, As 'twere some sweet enchantment's heavenly net!

I only gave a hand-wave in farewell, Shot by, and o'er the endless moorland swept (Endless it seemed, as those weird, measureless plains, Which, in some nightmare vision, stretch and stretch Towards infinity!) like some lone ship O'er wastes of sailless waters: now, a pine, The beacon pine gigantic, whose grim crown Signals the far land-mariner from out Gaunt boulders of the gray-backed Organ hill, Rose on my sight, a mist-like, wavering orb, The while, still onward, onward, onward still, With motion winged, elastic, equable, Brave Widderin cleaved the air-tides, tossed aside The winds as waves, their swift, invisible breasts Hissing with foam-like noise when pressed and pierced By that keen head and fiery-crested form!

The lonely shepherd guardian on the plains, Watching his sheep through languid, half-shut eyes, Looked up, and marvelled, as we passed him by, Thinking, perchance, it was a glorious thing, So dressed, so booted, so caparisoned, To ride such bright blood-coursers unto death! Two sun-blacked natives, slumbering in the grass, Just rose betimes to 'scape the trampling hoofs, And hurled hot curses at me as I sped; While here and there the timid kangaroo Blundered athwart the mole-hills, and in puffs Of steamy dust-cloud vanished like a mote!

Onward, still onward, onward, onward still! And lo! thank Heaven, the mighty Organ hill, That seemed a dim blue cloudlet at the start, Hangs in aerial, fluted cliffs aloft,-- And still as through the long, low glacis borne, Beneath the gorge borne ever at wild speed, I saw the mateless mountain eagle wheel Beyond the stark height's topmost pinnacle; I heard his shriek of rage and ravin die Deep down the desolate dells, as far behind I left the gorge, and far before me swept Another plain, tree-bordered now, and bound By the clear river gurgling o'er its bed.