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<h3>Chapter Twenty Two.</h3> <h4>A Feat à la Tail.</h4> I had fallen into a sort of reverie. My mind was occupied with the incidents I had just witnessed, when a voice, which I recognised as that of old Rube, roused me from my abstraction. “Look’ee hyur, boyees! Tain’t of’n as ole Rube wastes lead, but I’ll beat that Injun’s shot, or ’ee may cut my ears off.” A loud laugh hailed this allusion of the trapper to his ears, which, as we have observed, were already gone; and so closely had they been trimmed that nothing remained for either knife or shears to accomplish. “How will you do it, Rube?” cried one of the hunters; “shoot the mark off a yer own head?” “I’ll let ’ee see if ’ee wait,” replied Rube, stalking up to a tree, and taking from its rest a long, heavy rifle, which he proceeded to wipe out with care. The attention of all was now turned to the manoeuvres of the old trapper. Conjecture was busy as to his designs. What feat could he perform that would eclipse the one just witnessed? No one could guess. “I’ll beat it,” continued he, muttering, as he loaded his piece, “or ’ee may chop the little finger off ole Rube’s right paw.” Another peal of laughter followed, as all perceived that this was the finger that was wanting. “’Ee—es,” continued he, looking at the faces that were around him, “’ee may scalp me if I don’t.” This last remark elicited fresh roars of laughter; for although the cat-skin was closely drawn upon his head, all present knew that old Rube was minus his scalp. “But how are ye goin’ to do it? Tell us that, old hoss!” “’Ee see this, do ’ee?” asked the trapper, holding out a small fruit of the cactus pitahaya, which he had just plucked and cleaned of its spikelets. “Ay, ay,” cried several voices, in reply. “’Ee do, do ’ee? Wal; ’ee see ’tain’t half as big as the Injun’s squash. ’Ee see that, do ’ee?” “Oh, sartinly! Any fool can see that.” “Wal; s’pose I plug it at sixty, plump centre?” “Wagh!” cried several, with shrugs of disappointment. “Stick it on a pole, and any o’ us can do that,” said the principal speaker. “Here’s Barney could knock it off wid his owld musket. Couldn’t you, Barney?” “In truth, an’ I could thry,” answered a very small man, leaning upon a musket, and who was dressed in a tattered uniform that had once been sky-blue. I had already noticed this individual with some curiosity, partly struck with his peculiar costume, but more particularly on account of the redness of his hair, which was the reddest I had ever seen. It bore the marks of a severe barrack discipline—that is, it had been shaved, and was now growing out of his little round head short and thick, and coarse in the grain, and of the colour of a scraped carrot. There was no possibility of mistaking Barney’s nationality. In trapper phrase, any fool could have told that. What had brought such an individual to such a place? I asked this question, and was soon enlightened. He had been a soldier in a frontier post, one of Uncle Sam’s “Sky-blues.” He had got tired of pork and pipe-clay, accompanied with a too liberal allowance of the hide. In a word, Barney was a deserter. What his name was, I know not, but he went under the appellation of O’Cork—Barney O’Cork. A laugh greeted his answer to the hunter’s question. “Any o’ us,” continued the speaker, “could plug the persimmon that a way. But thar’s a mighty heap o’ diff’rence when you squints thro’ hind-sights at a girl like yon.” “Ye’re right, Dick,” said another hunter; “it makes a fellow feel queery about the jeints.” “Holy vistment! An’ wasn’t she a raal beauty?” exclaimed the little Irishman, with an earnestness in his manner that set the trappers roaring again. “Pish!” cried Rube, who had now finished loading, “yur a set o’ channering fools; that’s what ’ee ur. Who palavered about a post? I’ve got an ole squaw as well’s the Injun. She’ll hold the thing for this child—she will.” “Squaw! You a squaw?” “Yes, hoss; I has a squaw I wudn’t swop for two o’ his’n. I’ll make tracks an’ fetch the old ’oman. Shet up yur heads, an’ wait, will ye?” So saying, the smoky old sinner shouldered his rifle, and walked off into the woods. I, in common with others, late comers, who were strangers to Rube, began to think that he had an “old ’oman.” There were no females to be seen about the encampment, but perhaps she was hid away in the woods. The trappers, however, who knew him, seemed to understand that the old fellow had some trick in his brain; and that, it appeared, was no new thing for him. We were not kept long in suspense. In a few minutes Rube was seen returning, and by his side the “old ’oman,” in the shape of a long, lank, bare-ribbed, high-boned mustang, that turned out on close inspection to be a mare! This, then, was Rube’s squaw, and she was not at all unlike him, excepting the ears. She was long-eared, in common with all her race: the same as that upon which Quixote charged the windmill. The long ears caused her to look mulish, but it was only in appearance; she was a pure mustang when you examined her attentively. She seemed to have been at an earlier period of that dun-yellowish colour known as “clay-bank,” a common colour among Mexican horses; but time and scars had somewhat metamorphosed her, and grey hairs predominated all over, particularly about the head and neck. These parts were covered with a dirty grizzle of mixed hues. She was badly wind-broken; and at stated intervals of several minutes each, her back, from the spasmodic action of the lungs, heaved up with a jerk, as though she were trying to kick with her hind legs, and couldn’t. She was as thin as a rail, and carried her head below the level of her shoulders; but there was something in the twinkle of her solitary eye (for she had but one), that told you she had no intention of giving up for a long time to come. She was evidently game to the backbone. Such was the “old ’oman” Rube had promised to fetch; and she was greeted by a loud laugh as he led her up. “Now, look’ee hyur, boyees,” said he, halting in front of the crowd. “Ee may larf, an’ gabble, an’ grin till yur sick in the guts—yur may! but this child’s a-gwine to take the shine out o’ that Injun’s shot—he is, or bust a-tryin’.” Several of the bystanders remarked that that was likely enough, and that they only waited to see in what manner it was to be done. No one who knew him doubted old Rube to be, as in fact he was, one of the very best marksmen in the mountains—fully equal, perhaps, to the Indian; but it was the style and circumstances which had given such éclat to the shot of the latter. It was not every day that a beautiful girl could be found to stand fire as the squaw had done; and it was not every hunter who would have ventured to fire at a mark so placed. The strength of the feat lay in its newness and peculiarity. The hunters had often fired at the mark held in one another’s hands. There were few who would like to carry it on their head. How, then, was Rube to “take the shine out o’ that Injun’s shot”? This was the question that each was asking the other, and which was at length put directly to Rube himself. “Shet up your meat-traps,” answered he, “an I’ll show ’ee. In the fust place, then, ’ee all see that this hyur prickly ain’t more’n hef size o’ the squash?” “Yes, sartainly,” answered several voices. “That wur one sukumstance in his favour. Wa’nt it?” “It wur! it wur!” “Wal, hyur’s another. The Injun, ’ee see, shot his mark off o’ the head. Now, this child’s a-gwine to knock his’n off o’ the tail. Kud yur Injun do that? Eh, boyees?” “No, no!” “Do that beat him, or do it not, then?” “It beats him!” “It does!” “Far better!” “Hooray!” vociferated several voices, amidst yells of laughter. No one dissented, as the hunters, pleased with the joke, were anxious to see it carried through. Rube did not detain them long. Leaving his rifle in the hands of his friend Garey, he led the old mare up towards the spot that had been occupied by the Indian girl. Reaching this, he halted. We all expected to see him turn the animal with her side towards us, thus leaving her body out of range. It soon became evident that this was not the old fellow’s intention. It would have spoiled the look of the thing, had he done so; and that idea was no doubt running in his mind. Choosing a place where the ground chanced to be slightly hollowed out, he led the mustang forward, until her fore feet rested in the hollow. The tail was thus thrown above the body. Having squared her hips to the camp, he whispered something at her head; and going round to the hind quarters, adjusted the pear upon the highest curve of the stump. He then came walking back. Would the mare stand? No fear of that. She had been trained to stand in one place for a longer period than was now required of her. The appearance which the old mare exhibited, nothing visible but her hind legs and buttocks, for the mules had stripped her tail of the hair, had by this time wound the spectators up to the risible point, and most of them were yelling. “Stop yur giggle-goggle, wull yur!” said Rube, clutching his rifle, and taking his stand. The laughter was held in, no one wishing to disturb the shot. “Now, old Tar-guts, don’t waste your fodder!” muttered the trapper, addressing his gun, which the next moment was raised and levelled. No one doubted but that Rube would hit the object at which he was aiming. It was a shot frequently made by western riflemen; that is, a mark of the same size at sixty yards. And no doubt Rube would have done it; but just at the moment of his pulling trigger the mare’s back heaved up in one of its periodic jerks, and the pitahaya fell to the ground. But the ball had sped; and grazing the animal’s shoulder, passed through one of her ears! The direction of the bullet was not known until afterwards, but its effect was visible at once; for the mare, stung in her tenderest part, uttered a sort of human-like scream, and wheeling about, came leaping into camp, kicking over everything that happened to lie in her way. The yells and loud laughing of the trappers, the odd ejaculations of the Indians, the “vayas” and “vivas” of the Mexicans, the wild oaths of old Rube himself, all formed a medley of sounds that fell strangely upon the ear, and to give an idea of which is beyond the art of my pen. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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