The ex-officer of volunteers with confident air trots onward. The waggon-train is once more in motion.
A mile or more is made, apparently in a direct line from the point of starting. Then there is a halt. The self-appointed guide has ordered it. He appears to be puzzled about the direction.
Youve lost the way, nephew? said the planter, riding rapidly up.
Damned if I dont believe I have, uncle! responded the nephew, in a tone of not very respectful mistrust. No, no! he continued, reluctant to betray his embarrassment as the carriole came up. I see now. Were all right yet. The river must be in this direction. Come on!
Once more they are stretching their teams along a travelled road where a half-score[4] of wheeled vehicles must have passed before them. And not long before: the hoof-prints of the animals fresh as if made within the hour. A train of waggons, not unlike their own, must have passed over the burnt prairie!
Like themselves, it could only be going towards the Leona. In that case they have only to keep in the same track.
For a mile or more the waggon-tracks are followed. The countenance of Cassius Calhoun, for a while wearing a confident look, gradually becomes clouded. It assumes the profoundest expression of despondency, on discovering that the four-and-forty wheel-tracks he is following, have been made by ten Pittsburgh waggons, and a carriole the same that are now following him, and in whose company he has been travelling all the way from the Gulf of Matagorda!
Beyond doubt, the waggons of Woodley Poindexter were going over ground already traced by the tiring of their wheels.
Our own tracks! muttered Calhoun on making the discovery.
Our own tracks! What mean you, Cassius? You dont say weve been travelling
On our own tracks. I do, uncle; that very thing. Thats the very hill we went down as we left our last stopping place. Weve made a couple of miles for nothing.
Embarrassment is no longer the only expression upon the face of the speaker. It has deepened to chagrin, with an admixture of shame. He feels it keenly as the carriole comes up, and bright eyes become witnesses of his discomfiture.
There is a general halt, succeeded by an animated conversation among the white men. The situation is serious: the planter himself believes it to be so. He cannot that day reach the end of his journey a thing upon which he had set his mind.
How are they to find their way?
Calhoun no longer volunteers to point out the path.
A ten minutes discussion terminates in nothing. No one can suggest a feasible plan of proceeding.
Another ten minutes is spent in the midst of moral and physical gloom. Then, as if by a benignant mandate from heaven, does cheerfulness resume its sway. The cause? A horseman riding in the direction of the train!
An unexpected sight: who could have looked for human being in such a place? All eyes simultaneously sparkle with joy; as if, in the approach of the horseman, they beheld the advent of a saviour!
A Mexican! whispered Henry, drawing his deduction from the habiliments of the horseman.
So much the better, replied Poindexter, in the same tone of voice; hell be all the more likely to know the road.
Not a bit of Mexican about him, muttered Calhoun, excepting the rig. Ill soon see. Buenos dias, cavallero! Esta V. Mexicano? (Good day, sir! are you a Mexican?)
No, indeed, replied the stranger, with a protesting smile. I can speak to you in Spanish, if you prefer it; but I dare say you will understand me better in English: which, I presume, is your native tongue?
American, sir, replied Poindexter. Then, as if fearing to offend the man from whom he intended asking a favour, he added: Yes, sir; we are all Americans from the Southern States.
That I can perceive by your following. An expression of contempt showed itself upon the countenance of the speaker, as his eye rested upon the groups of black bondsmen. I can perceive, too, he added, that you are strangers to prairie travelling. You have lost your way?
We have, sir; and have very little prospect of recovering it, unless we may count upon your kindness to direct us.
Not much kindness in that. By chance I came upon your trail, as I was crossing the prairie. I saw you were going astray; and have ridden this way to set you right.
It is very good of you. We shall be most thankful, sir. My name is Woodley Poindexter, of Louisiana. I have purchased a property on the Leona river, near Fort Inge. We were in hopes of reaching it before nightfall. Can we do so?
There is nothing to hinder you: if you follow the instructions I shall give.
On saying this, the stranger rode a few paces apart; and appeared to scrutinise the country as if to determine the direction which the travellers should take.
A blood-bay[5] steed, such as might have been ridden by an Arab sheik. On his back a rider a young man of not more than five-and-twenty of noble form and features, dressed in the picturesque costume of a Mexican rancher[6]. Thus looked the horseman, upon whom the planter and his people were gazing.