Part 2 (1/2)

THE TRAIL OF THE LAZO.

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, adding a fierce oath as he reined up.

”Our own tracks! What mean you, Ca.s.sius? You don't say we've been travelling--”

”On our own tracks. I do, uncle; that very thing. We must have made a complete circ.u.mbendibus of it. See! here's the hind hoof of my own horse, with half a shoe off; and there's the foot of the n.i.g.g.e.rs.

Besides, I can tell the ground. That's the very hill we went down as we left our last stopping place. Hang the crooked luck! We've made a couple of miles for nothing.”

Embarra.s.sment is no longer the only expression upon the face of the speaker. It has deepened to chagrin, with an admixture of shame. It is through him that the train is without a regular guide. One, engaged at Indianola, had piloted them to their last camping place. There, in consequence of some dispute, due to the surly temper of the ex-captain of volunteers, the man had demanded his dismissal, and gone back.

For this--as also for an ill-timed display of confidence in his power to conduct the march--is the planter's nephew now suffering under a sense of shame. He feels it keenly as the carriole comes up, and bright eyes become witnesses of his discomfiture.

Poindexter does not repeat his inquiry. That the road is lost is a fact evident to all. Even the barefooted or ”broganned” pedestrians have recognised their long-heeled footprints, and become aware that they are for the second time treading upon the same ground.

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.

That is the very least misfortune that can befall them. There are others possible, and probable. There are perils upon the burnt plain.

They may be compelled to spend the night upon it, with no water for their animals. Perhaps a second day and night--or longer--who can tell how long?

How are they to find their way? The sun is beginning to descend; though still too high in heaven to indicate his line of declination. By waiting a while they may discover the quarters of the compa.s.s.

But to what purpose? The knowledge of east, west, north, and south can avail nothing now: they have lost their _line of march_.

Calhoun has become cautious. He no longer volunteers to point out the path. He hesitates to repeat his pioneering experiments--after such manifest and shameful failure.

A ten minutes' discussion terminates in nothing. No one can suggest a feasible plan of proceeding. No one knows how to escape from the embrace of that dark desert, which appears to cloud not only the sun and sky, but the countenances of all who enter within its limits.

A flock of black vultures is seen flying afar off. They come nearer, and nearer. Some alight upon the ground--others hover above the heads of the strayed travellers. Is there a boding in the behaviour of the birds?

Another ten minutes is spent in the midst of moral and physical gloom.

Then, as if by a benignant mandate from heaven, does cheerfulness re-a.s.sume 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!

”He's coming this way, is he not?” inquired the planter, scarce confident in his failing sight.

”Yes, father; straight as he can ride,” replied Henry, lifting the hat from his head, and waving it on high: the action accompanied by a shout intended to attract the horseman.

The signal was superfluous. The stranger had already sighted the halted waggons; and, riding towards them at a gallop, was soon within speaking distance.

He did not draw bridle, until he had pa.s.sed the train; and arrived upon the spot occupied by the planter and his party.

”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; ”he'll be all the more likely to know the road.”

”Not a bit of Mexican about him,” muttered Calhoun, ”excepting the rig.