No
flinching
in any of the horses.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v27 - Wat to Zor
In April 1861 he went with it to the front.
General
Butler made him his military secretary and aide. At Big Bethel, on
June roth, in the flush of his manhood, he fell with his face to the
enemy, a beautiful young leader.
While in camp, Winthrop was contributing to the Atlantic Monthly
admirably graphic papers on his war experiences: he began to draw
public attention as a writer. He left a large amount of manuscript,
and his books appeared in rapid succession after his death: Cecil
Dreeme) in 1861; John Brent,' 'Edwin Brothertoft,' and (The Canoe
and the Saddle) in 1862; Life in the Open Air and Other Papers) in
1863. The two novels first named proved the most popular: Cecil
Dreeme' reached its seventeenth edition by 1864, John Brent' its
fourteenth. The latter is unquestionably his strongest work. Win-
throp has fine qualities as a story-maker. The light and shade in
human existence is dramatically rendered in his fiction. He gives
his readers plot and action in plenty; writing in crisp, idiomatic, vig-
orous English. In such a book as John Brent' there is an open-air
wholesomeness that is infectious. That tale of the Western plains,
with its heroic men and horses, its knightly rescue of woman in
distress, its thrilling ride for love and life, is one of the breeziest
imaginable. It is thoroughly American in tone and atmosphere; and
had the merit, in its day especially, of delineating Western scenes
and characters with sympathy and skill, at a time when the West
was almost virgin soil to literature. In Cecil Dreeme) the drama is
enacted in the city, and it is dark and gruesome, running into melo-
drama: the story seems less mature. Yet it has unquestionable power
and charm.
Winthrop is always the poet and idealist, interested in character on
its spiritual side, - this tendency being healthily blended with the
objective narrative interest of plot. One feels in reading his vital
stories that in his early death American literature suffered a genuine
loss. “The Life and Poems of Theodore Winthrop,' edited by his
sister, appeared in 1884.
## p. 16077 (#423) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16077
A GALLOP OF THREE
From John Brent. Copyright 1862, by Ticknor & Fields
W*
E WERE off, we Three on our Gallop to save and to slay.
Pumps and Fulano took fire at once. They were ready
to burst into their top speed, and go off in a frenzy.
Steady, steady,” cried Brent. “Now we'll keep this long
easy lope for a while, and I'll tell you my plan. — They have
gone to the southward, — those two men. They could not get
away in any other direction. I have heard Murker say he knows
all the country between here and the Arkansaw. Thank Heaven!
so do I, foot by foot. ”
I recalled the sound of galloping hoofs I had heard in the
night to the southward.
"I heard them, then," said I, “in my watch after Fulano's
lariat was cut. The wind lulled, and there came a sound of
horses, and another sound, which I then thought a fevered fancy
of my own, a far-away scream of a woman.
Brent had been quite unimpassioned in his manner until now.
He groaned as I spoke of the scream.
“O Wade! O Richard! ” he said, "why did you not know the
voice? It was she. They have terrible hours the start. ”
.
He was silent a moment, looking sternly forward. Then he
began again; and as he spoke, his iron-gray edged on with a
looser rein.
“It is well you heard them: it makes their course unmistaka-
ble. We know we are on their track, Seven or eight full hours!
It is long odds of a start. But they are not mounted as we
are mounted. They did not ride as we shall ride. They had a
woman to carry, and their mules to drive. They will fear pur-
suit, and push on without stopping. But we shall catch them;
we shall catch them before night, so help us God! ”
You are aiming for the mountains ? ” I asked.
“For Luggernel Alley,” he said.
I remembered how, in our very first interview, a thousand
miles away at the Fulano mine, he had spoken of this spot. All
the conversation then, all the talk about my horse, came back
to me like a Delphic prophecy suddenly fulfilled. I made a good
omen of this remembrance.
“For Luggernel Alley,” said Brent. “Do you recollect my
pointing out a notch in the sierra, yesterday, when I said I
(c
## p. 16078 (#424) ##########################################
16078
THEODORE WINTHROP
>
would like to spend a honeymoon there, if I could find a woman
brave enough for this plains life ? »
He grew very white as he spoke, and again Pumps led off by
a neck, we ranging up instantly.
“They will make for the Luggernel Springs. The alley is
the only gate through the mountains towards the Arkansaw.
they can get by there, they are safe. They can strike off New
Mexico way; or keep on to the States out of the line of emigra-
tion or any Mormon pursuit. The Springs are the only water to
be had at this season, without digging, anywhere in that quarter.
They must go there. We are no farther from the spot than we
were at Bridger. We have been traveling along the base of the
triangle. We have only lost time. And now that we are fairly
under way, I think we might shake out another reef.
faster, friends- a little faster yet! ”
It was a vast desert level where we were riding. Here and
there a scanty tuft of grass appeared, to prove that Nature had
tried her benign experiment, and wafted seeds hither to let the
scene be verdant, if it would. Nature had failed. The land
refused any mantle over its brown desolation. The soil was dis-
integrated, igneous rock, fine and well beaten down as the most
thoroughly laid macadam.
Behind was the rolling region where the Great Trail passes;
before and far away, the faint blue of the sierra. Not a bird
sang in the hot noon; not a cricket chirped. No sound except
the beat of our horses' hoofs on the pavement. We rode side by
side, taking our strides together. It was a waiting race. The
horses traveled easily. They learned, as a horse with a self-
possessed rider will, that they were not to waste strength in
rushes. “Spend, but waste not,” — not a step, not a breath, in
that gallop for life! This must be our motto.
We three rode abreast over the sere brown plain on our gal-
lop to save and to slay.
Far - ah, how terribly dim and distant! - was the sierra, a
slowly lifting cloud. Slowly, slowly they lifted, those gracious
heights, while we sped over the harsh levels of the desert. Harsh
levels, abandoned or unvisited by verdancy. But better so: there
was no long herbage to check our great pace over the smooth
race-course; no thickets here to baffle us; no forests to mislead.
We galloped abreast, —Armstrong at the right. His weird,
gaunt white held his own with the best of us. No whip, no
## p. 16079 (#425) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16079
.
spur, for that deathly creature. He went as if his master's pur-
pose were stirring him through and through. That stern intent
made his sinews steel, and put an agony of power into every
stride. The man never stirred, save sometimes to put a hand
to that bloody blanket bandage across his head and temple. He
had told his story, he had spoken his errand, he breathed not a
word; but with his lean, pallid face set hard, his gentle blue eyes
scourged of their kindliness and fixed upon those distant mount-
ains where his vengeance lay, he rode on like a relentless fate.
Next in the line I galloped. Oh, my glorious black! The
great killing pace seemed mere playful canter to him,- such as
one might ride beside a timid girl, thrilling with her first free
dash over a flowery common, or a golden beach between sea and
shore. But from time to time he surged a little forward with
his great shoulders, and gave a mighty writhe of his body, while
his hind legs came lifting his flanks under me, and telling of the
giant reserve of speed and power he kept easily controlled. Then
his ear would go back, and his large brown eye, with its purple-
black pupil, would look round at my bridle hand and then into
my eye, saying as well as words could have said it, « This is
mere sport, my friend and master. You do not know me. I have
stuff in me of which you do not dream. Say the word, and I
can double this, treble it. Say the word! let me show you how I
can spurn the earth. ” Then with the lightest love pressure on
the snaffle, I would say, "Not yet! not yet! Patience, my noble
! !
friend! Your time will come. ”
At the left rode Brent, our leader. He knew the region; he
made the plan; he had the hope; his was the ruling passion, -
stronger than brotherhood, than revenge. Love made him leader
of that galloping three. His iron-gray bent grandly, with white
mane flapping the air like a signal flag of reprieve. Eager hope
and kindling purpose made the rider's face more beautiful than
He seemed to behold Sidney's motto written on the golden
haze before him, “Viam aut inveniam aut faciam. ” I felt my
heart grow great when I looked at his calm features, and caught
his assuring smile,-a gay smile but for the dark, fateful resolve
beneath it. And when he launched some stirring word of cheer,
and shook another ten of seconds out of the gray's mile, even
Armstrong's countenance grew less deathly, as he turned to our
leader in silent response. Brent looked a fit chieftain for such
a wild charge over the desert waste; with his buckskin hunting-
»
ever.
## p. 16080 (#426) ##########################################
16080
THEODORE WINTHROP
shirt and leggins with flaring fringes, his otter cap and eagle's
plume, his bronze face with its close brown beard, his elate head,
and his seat like a centaur.
So we galloped three abreast, neck and neck, hoof with hoof,
steadily quickening our pace over the sere width of desert. We
must make the most of the levels. Rougher work, cruel obstacles
were before. All the wild, triumphant music I had ever heard
came and sang in my ears to the flinging cadence of the resonant
feet, tramping on hollow arches of the volcanic rock, over great
vacant chasms underneath. Sweet and soft around us melted
the hazy air of October; and its warm, flickering currents shook
like a veil of gauzy gold between us and the blue bloom of the
mountains far away, but nearing now and lifting step by step.
On we galloped — the avenger, the friend, the lover — on our
errand to save and to slay.
It came afternoon, as we rode on steadily. The country grew
rougher. The horses never flinched; but they sweated freely, and
foam from their nostrils flecked their shoulders. By-and-by, with
little pleasant admonitory puffs, a breeze drew down from the
glimmering frosty edges of the sierra and cooled us. Horses and
men' were cheered and freshened, and lifted anew to their work.
We had seen and heard no life on the desert. Now, in the
broken country, a coyote or two scuttled away as we passed.
Sometimes a lean gray. wolf would skulk out of a brake, canter
after us a little way, and then squat on his haunches, staring at
our strange speed. Flight and chase he could understand; but
ours was not flight for safety, or chase for food. Men are queer
mysteries to beasts. So our next companions found. Over the
edge of a slope, bending away to a valley of dry scanty pasture
at the left, a herd of antelopes appeared. They were close to
us, within easy revolver shot. They sprang into graceful flight,
some score of them, with tails up and black hoofs glancing. Pres-
ently, pausing for curiosity, they saw that we fled, not followed;
and they in turn became pursuers, careering after us for a mile
or more, until our stern business left their gamboling play far
behind.
We held steadily for that notch in the blue sierra. The
mountain lines grew sharper, the country where we traveled
rougher, every stride. We came upon a wide tract covered with
wild sage-bushes. These delayed and baffled us.
-
It was a pigmy
forest of trees, mature and complete, but no higher than the knee.
## p. 16081 (#427) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16081
>
Every dwarfed, stunted, gnarled bush had the trunk, limbs, twigs,
and gray withered foliage, all in miniature, of some tree, hap-
less but sturdy, that has had a weather-beaten struggle for life
on a storm-threshed crag by the shore, or on a granite side of
a mountain, with short allowance of soil to eat and water
to drink. Myriads of square miles of that arid region have no
important vegetation except this wild sage or Artemisia, and a
meaner brother, not even good to burn,- the greasewood.
One may ride through the tearing thickets of a forest pri-
meval, as one may shoulder through a crowd of civilized barba-
rians at a spectacle. Our gallop over the top of this pigmy wood
was as difficult as to find passage over the heads of the same
crowd, tall men and short, men hatted with slouched hats, wash-
bowls, and stove-pipes. It was a rough scramble. It checked our
speed and chafed our horses. Sometimes we could find natural
pathways for a few rods. Then these strayed aside or closed up,
and we must plunge straight on. We lost time; moments we lost
more precious than if every one were marked by a drop in a
clepsydra, and each drop as it fell changed itself and tinkled in
the basin, a priceless pearl.
“It worries me, this delay," I said to Brent.
“They lost as much more time than we,” he said.
And he crowded on more desperately, as man rides for
dearer than life. as a lover rides for love.
We tore along, breaking through and over the sage-bushes,
each man where best he could. Fulano began to show me what
leaps were in him. I gave him his head. No bridle would
have held him. I kept my mastery by the voice, or rather by
the perfect identification of his will with mine. Our minds acted
together. "Save strength," I still warned him, “save strength,
.
my friend, for the mountains and the last leaps!
A little pathway in the sage-bushes suddenly opened before
me, as a lane rifts in the press of hurrying legions 'mid the
crush of a city thoroughfare. I dashed on a hundred yards in
advance of my comrades.
What was this? The bushes trampled and broken down,
just as we in our passage were trampling and breaking them.
What ?
Hoof-marks in the dust!
« The trail ! I cried, the trail !
They sprang toward me. Brent followed the line with his
eye. He galloped forward with a look of triumph.
XXVII-1006
a
(
>
»
»
## p. 16082 (#428) ##########################################
16082
THEODORE WINTHROP
Suddenly I saw him fling himself half out of his saddle, and
clutch at some object. Still going at speed and holding on by
one leg alone, after the Indian fashion for sport or shelter against
an arrow or a shot, he picked up something from the bushes,
regained his seat, and waved his treasure to us.
We ranged up
and rode beside him over a gap in the sage.
A lady's glove! - that was what he had stooped to recover.
An old buckskin riding-gauntlet, neatly stitched about the wrist,
and pinked on the wristlet. A pretty glove, strangely, almost
tragically, feminine in this desolation. A well-worn glove that
had seen better days, like its mistress; but never any day so good
as this, when it proved to us that we were on the sure path of
rescue.
"I take up the gauntlet,” said Brent. «Gare à qui le
touche! ”
We said nothing more; for this unconscious token, this silent
cry for help, made the danger seem more closely imminent. We
pressed on.
No flinching in any of the horses. Where we could,
we were going at speed. Where they could, the horses kept side
by side, nerving each other. Companionship sustained them in
that terrible ride.
And now in front the purple sierra was growing brown, and
rising up a distinct wall, cleft visibly with dell, gully, ravine, and
cañon. The saw-teeth of the ridge defined themselves sharply
into peak and pinnacle. Broad fields of cool snow gleamed upon
the summits.
We were ascending now all the time into subalpine regions.
We crossed great sloping savannas, deep in dry, rustling grass,
where a nation of cattle might pasture. We plunged through
broad wastes of hot sand. We flung ourselves down and up the
red sides of water-worn gullies. We took breakneck leaps across
dry quebradas in the clay. We clattered across stony arroyos,
longing thirstily for the gush of water that had flowed there not
many months before.
The trail was everywhere plain. No prairie craft was needed
to trace it. Here the chase had gone but a few hours ago; here
across grassy slopes, trampling the grass as if a mower had
passed that way; here plowing wearily through the sand; here
treading the red, crumbling clay; here breaking down the side
of a bank; here leaving a sharp hoof-track in the dry mud of a
fied torrent. Everywhere a straight path, pointing for that deep-
ening gap in the sierra, Luggernel Alley, the only gate of escape.
## p. 16083 (#429) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16083
Brent's unerring judgment had divined the course aright. On
he led, charging along the trail, as if he were trampling already
on the carcasses of the pursued. On he led and we followed,
drawing nearer, nearer to our goal.
Our horses suffered bitterly for water. Some five hours we
had ridden without a pause. Not one drop or sign of water in
all that arid waste. The torrents had poured along the dry
watercourses too hastily to let the scanty alders and willows
along their line treasure up any sap of growth. The wild sage
bushes had plainly never tasted fluid more plenteous than seldom
dewdrops doled out on certain rare festal days, enough to keep
their meagre foliage a dusty gray. No pleasant streamlet lurked
anywhere under the long dry grass of the savannas. The arroyos
were parched and hot as rifts in lava.
It became agonizing to listen to the panting and gasping of
our horses. Their eyes grew staring and bloodshot. We suffered,
ourselves, hardly less than they. It was cruel to press on. But
we must hinder a crueler cruelty. Love against Time,- Ven-
geance against Time! We must not Ainch for any weak humanity
to the noble allies that struggled on with us, without one token
of resistance.
Fulano suffered least. He turned his brave eye back, and
beckoned me with his ear to listen, while he seemed to say:
“See, this is my Endurance! I hold my Power ready still to
show. ”
And he curved his proud neck, shook his mane like a banner,
and galloped the grandest of all.
We came to a broad strip of sand, the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. The trail followed up this disappointing path. Heavy
plowing for the tired horses! How would they bear the rough
work down the ravine yet to come ?
Suddenly our leader pulled up and sprang from the saddle.
“Look! ” he cried, “how those fellows spent their time and
saved ours.
Thank heaven for this! We shall save her, surely,
now. ”
They had dug a pit deep in the thirsty sand, and found a
lurking river buried there. Nature never questioned what man-
ner of men they were that sought. Murderers flying from ven-
geance and planning now another villain outrage,-still impartial
Nature did not change her laws for them. Sunshine, air, water,
life, — these boons of hers, — she gave them freely. That higher
## p. 16084 (#430) ##########################################
16084
THEODORE WINTHROP
as we.
«
VOS
boon of death, if they were to receive, it must be from some
other power, greater than the undiscriminating force of Nature.
Good luck and good omen, this well of water in the sand! It
proved that our chase had suffered as we, and had been delayed
Before they had dared to pause and waste priceless mo-
ments here, their horses must have been drooping terribly. The
pit was nearly five feet deep. A good hour's work, and no less,
had dug it with such tools as they could bring. I almost laughed
to think of the two,, slowly bailing out the sliding sand with a
tin plate, perhaps, and a frying-pan, while a score of miles away
upon the desert we three were riding hard upon their tracks to
follow them the feeter for this refreshment they had left. Sic
non vobis ! ” I was ready to say triumphantly; but then I
remembered the third figure in their group,- a woman, like a
Sibyl, growing calmer as her peril grew,- and succor seemed to
withdraw. And the pang of this picture crushed back into my
heart any thoughts but a mad anxiety, and a frenzy to be driv-
ing on.
We drank thankfully of this well by the wayside. No gentle
beauty hereabouts to enchant us to delay. No grand old tree,
the shelter and the landmark of the fountain, proclaiming an oasis
near. Nothing but bare, hot sand. But the water was pure, cool,
and bright. It had come underground from the sierra, and still
remembered its parent snows.
We drank and were grateful —
almost to the point of pity. Had we been but avengers, like
Armstrong, my friend and I could well-nigh have felt mercy
here, and turned back pardoning. But rescue was more imperative
than vengeance. Our business tortured us, as with the fanged
scourge of Tisiphone, while we dallied. We grudged these mo-
ments of refreshment. Before night fell down the west, and
night was soon to be climbing up the east, we must overtake –
and then ?
I wiped the dust and spume away from Fulano's nostrils and
breathed him a moment. Then I let him drain deep, delicious
draughts from the stirrup-cup. He whinnied thanks and undying
fealty,— my noble comrade! He drank like a reveler. When I
I
mounted again, he gave a jubilant curvet and bound. My weight
was a feather to him. All those leagues of our hard, hot gallop
were nothing
The brown sierra here was close at hand. Its glittering, icy
summits, above the dark and sheeny walls, far above the black
## p. 16085 (#431) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16085
ind":
det
Side
phalanxes of clambering pines, stooped forward and hung over
us as we rode. We were now at the foot of the range, where
it dipped suddenly down upon the plain. The gap, our goal all
day, opened before us, grand and terrible. Some giant force had
clutched the mountains, and riven them narrowly apart. The wild
defile gaped, and then wound away and closed, lost between its
mighty walls, a thousand feet high, and bearing two brother
pyramids of purple cliffs aloft far above the snow line. A fear-
ful portal into a scene of the throes and agonies of earth! and
my excited
eyes seemed to read, gilded over its entrance, in
the dead gold of that hazy October sunshine, words from Dante's
inscription,-
«Per me si va tra la perduta gente:
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate! ) *
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«Here we are,” said Brent, speaking hardly above his breath.
« This is Luggernel Alley at last, thank God! In an hour, if the
horses hold out, we shall be at the Springs; that is, if we can go
through this breakneck gorge at the same pace. My horse began
to flinch a little before the water. Perhaps that will set him up.
How are yours ? ”
“Fulano asserts that he has not begun to show himself yet.
I may have to carry you en croupe before we are done. ”
Armstrong said nothing, but pointed impatiently down the
defile. The gaunt white horse moved on quicker at this gesture.
He seemed a tireless machine, not flesh and blood, - a being like
his master, living and acting by the force of a purpose alone.
Our chief led the way into the cañon.
Yes, John Brent, you were right when you called Luggernel
Alley a wonder of our continent.
I remember it now,- I only saw it then;- for those strong
-I
scenes of nature assault the soul whether it will or no, fight in
against affirmative or negative resistance, and bide their time
to be admitted as dominant over the imagination. It seemed to
me then that I was not noticing how grand the precipices, how
stupendous the cleavages, how rich and gleaming the rock faces
in Luggernel Alley. My business was not to stare about, but to
look sharp and ride hard; and I did it.
*« Through me one goes among the lost folk:
Leave behind all hope, ye who enter!
Li-
1:
## p. 16086 (#432) ##########################################
16086
THEODORE WINTHROP
Yet now I can remember, distinct as if I beheld it, every
stride of that pass; and everywhere, as I recall foot after foot of
that fierce chasm, I see three men with set faces,-one deathly
pale and wearing a bloody turban,- all galloping steadily on, on
an errand to save and to slay.
Terrible riding it was! A pavement of slippery, sheeny rock;
great beds of loose stones; barricades of mighty bowlders, where
a cliff had fallen an æon ago, before the days of the road-maker
race; crevices where an unwary foot might catch; wide rifts
where a shaky horse might fall, or a timid horseman drag him
down. Terrible riding! A pass where a calm traveler would go
quietly picking his steps, thankful if each hour counted him a
safe mile.
Terrible riding! Madness to go as we went! Horse and man
any moment either might shatter every limb. But man and
horse — neither can know what he can do, until he has dared and
done. On we went, with the old frenzy growing tenser. Heart
almost broken with eagerness.
No whipping or spurring. Our horses were a part of our-
selves. While we could go, they would go. Since the water, they
were full of leap again. Down in the shady Alley, too, evening
had come before its time. Noon's packing of hot air had been
dislodged by a mountain breeze drawing through. Horses and
men were braced and cheered to their work; and in such rid-
ing as that, the man and the horse must think together and move
together,-eye and hand of the rider must choose and command,
as bravely as the horse executes.
The blue sky was overhead, the red sun upon the castellated
walls a thousand feet above us, the purpling chasm opened be-
fore. It was late; these were the last moments. But we should
save the lady yet.
“Yes,” our hearts shouted to us, we shall save her yet. ”
An arroyo, the channel of a dry torrent, followed the pass.
It had made its way as water does, not straightway, but by that
potent feminine method of passing under the frowning front of
an obstacle, and leaving the dull rock staring there, while the
wild creature it would have held is gliding away down the valley.
This zigzag channel baffled us; we must leap it without check
wherever it crossed our path. Every second now was worth a
century. Here was the sign of horses, passed but now. We
## p. 16087 (#433) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16087
-
could not choose ground. We must take our leaps on that cruel
rock wherever they offered.
Poor Pumps!
He had carried his master so nobly! There were so few miles
to do! He had chased so well; he merited to be in at the death.
Brent lifted him at a leap across the arroyo.
Poor Pumps!
His hind feet slipped on the time-smoothed rock. He fell
short. He plunged down a dozen feet among the rough bowlders
of the torrent bed. Brent was out of the saddle almost before
he struck, raising him.
No, he would never rise again. Both his fore legs were
broken at the knee. He rested there, kneeling on the rocks
where he fell.
Brent groaned. The horse screamed horribly, horribly,— there
is no more agonized sound,- and the scream went echoing high
up the cliffs where the red sunlight rested.
It costs a loving master much to butcher his brave and trusty
horse, the half of his knightly self; but it costs him more to
hear him shriek in such misery. Brent drew his pistol to put
poor Pumps out of pain.
Armstrong sprang down and caught his hand.
“Stop! ” he said in his hoarse whisper.
He had hardly spoken since we started. My nerves were so
strained that this mere ghost of a sound rang through me like a
death yell, a grisly cry of merciless and exultant vengeance. I
seemed to hear its echoes, rising up and swelling in a flood of
thick uproar, until they burst over the summit of the pass and
were wasted in the crannies of the towering mountain flanks
above.
“Stop! ” whispered Armstrong. «No shooting! They'll hear.
The knife ! )
He held out his knife to my friend.
Brent hesitated one heart-beat. Could he stain his hand with
his faithful servant's blood ?
Pumps screamed again.
Armstrong snatched the knife and drew it across the throat of
the crippled horse.
Poor Pumps! He sank and died without a
Noble
martyr in the old, heroic cause!
(
>>
I
moan.
## p. 16088 (#434) ##########################################
16088
THEODORE WINTHROP
man.
I caught the knife from Armstrong. I cut the thong of my
girth. The heavy California saddle, with its macheers and roll
of blankets, fell to the ground. I cut off my spurs.
They had
never yet touched Fulano's flanks. He stood beside me quiet,
but trembling to be off.
"Now, Brent! up behind me! " I whispered, - for the awe of
death was upon us.
I mounted. Brent sprang up behind. I ride light for a tall
Brent is the slightest body of an athlete I ever saw.
Fulano stood steady till we were firm in our seats.
Then he tore down the defile.
Here was that vast reserve of power; here the tireless spirit;
here the hoof striking true as a thunderbolt, where the brave eye
saw footing; here that writhing agony of speed; here the great
promise fulfilled, the great heart thrilling to mine, the grand
body living to the beating heart. Noble Fulano!
I rode with a snaffle. I left it hanging loose. I did not check
or guide him. He saw all. He knew all. All was his doing.
We sat firm, clinging as we could, as we must.
Butler made him his military secretary and aide. At Big Bethel, on
June roth, in the flush of his manhood, he fell with his face to the
enemy, a beautiful young leader.
While in camp, Winthrop was contributing to the Atlantic Monthly
admirably graphic papers on his war experiences: he began to draw
public attention as a writer. He left a large amount of manuscript,
and his books appeared in rapid succession after his death: Cecil
Dreeme) in 1861; John Brent,' 'Edwin Brothertoft,' and (The Canoe
and the Saddle) in 1862; Life in the Open Air and Other Papers) in
1863. The two novels first named proved the most popular: Cecil
Dreeme' reached its seventeenth edition by 1864, John Brent' its
fourteenth. The latter is unquestionably his strongest work. Win-
throp has fine qualities as a story-maker. The light and shade in
human existence is dramatically rendered in his fiction. He gives
his readers plot and action in plenty; writing in crisp, idiomatic, vig-
orous English. In such a book as John Brent' there is an open-air
wholesomeness that is infectious. That tale of the Western plains,
with its heroic men and horses, its knightly rescue of woman in
distress, its thrilling ride for love and life, is one of the breeziest
imaginable. It is thoroughly American in tone and atmosphere; and
had the merit, in its day especially, of delineating Western scenes
and characters with sympathy and skill, at a time when the West
was almost virgin soil to literature. In Cecil Dreeme) the drama is
enacted in the city, and it is dark and gruesome, running into melo-
drama: the story seems less mature. Yet it has unquestionable power
and charm.
Winthrop is always the poet and idealist, interested in character on
its spiritual side, - this tendency being healthily blended with the
objective narrative interest of plot. One feels in reading his vital
stories that in his early death American literature suffered a genuine
loss. “The Life and Poems of Theodore Winthrop,' edited by his
sister, appeared in 1884.
## p. 16077 (#423) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16077
A GALLOP OF THREE
From John Brent. Copyright 1862, by Ticknor & Fields
W*
E WERE off, we Three on our Gallop to save and to slay.
Pumps and Fulano took fire at once. They were ready
to burst into their top speed, and go off in a frenzy.
Steady, steady,” cried Brent. “Now we'll keep this long
easy lope for a while, and I'll tell you my plan. — They have
gone to the southward, — those two men. They could not get
away in any other direction. I have heard Murker say he knows
all the country between here and the Arkansaw. Thank Heaven!
so do I, foot by foot. ”
I recalled the sound of galloping hoofs I had heard in the
night to the southward.
"I heard them, then," said I, “in my watch after Fulano's
lariat was cut. The wind lulled, and there came a sound of
horses, and another sound, which I then thought a fevered fancy
of my own, a far-away scream of a woman.
Brent had been quite unimpassioned in his manner until now.
He groaned as I spoke of the scream.
“O Wade! O Richard! ” he said, "why did you not know the
voice? It was she. They have terrible hours the start. ”
.
He was silent a moment, looking sternly forward. Then he
began again; and as he spoke, his iron-gray edged on with a
looser rein.
“It is well you heard them: it makes their course unmistaka-
ble. We know we are on their track, Seven or eight full hours!
It is long odds of a start. But they are not mounted as we
are mounted. They did not ride as we shall ride. They had a
woman to carry, and their mules to drive. They will fear pur-
suit, and push on without stopping. But we shall catch them;
we shall catch them before night, so help us God! ”
You are aiming for the mountains ? ” I asked.
“For Luggernel Alley,” he said.
I remembered how, in our very first interview, a thousand
miles away at the Fulano mine, he had spoken of this spot. All
the conversation then, all the talk about my horse, came back
to me like a Delphic prophecy suddenly fulfilled. I made a good
omen of this remembrance.
“For Luggernel Alley,” said Brent. “Do you recollect my
pointing out a notch in the sierra, yesterday, when I said I
(c
## p. 16078 (#424) ##########################################
16078
THEODORE WINTHROP
>
would like to spend a honeymoon there, if I could find a woman
brave enough for this plains life ? »
He grew very white as he spoke, and again Pumps led off by
a neck, we ranging up instantly.
“They will make for the Luggernel Springs. The alley is
the only gate through the mountains towards the Arkansaw.
they can get by there, they are safe. They can strike off New
Mexico way; or keep on to the States out of the line of emigra-
tion or any Mormon pursuit. The Springs are the only water to
be had at this season, without digging, anywhere in that quarter.
They must go there. We are no farther from the spot than we
were at Bridger. We have been traveling along the base of the
triangle. We have only lost time. And now that we are fairly
under way, I think we might shake out another reef.
faster, friends- a little faster yet! ”
It was a vast desert level where we were riding. Here and
there a scanty tuft of grass appeared, to prove that Nature had
tried her benign experiment, and wafted seeds hither to let the
scene be verdant, if it would. Nature had failed. The land
refused any mantle over its brown desolation. The soil was dis-
integrated, igneous rock, fine and well beaten down as the most
thoroughly laid macadam.
Behind was the rolling region where the Great Trail passes;
before and far away, the faint blue of the sierra. Not a bird
sang in the hot noon; not a cricket chirped. No sound except
the beat of our horses' hoofs on the pavement. We rode side by
side, taking our strides together. It was a waiting race. The
horses traveled easily. They learned, as a horse with a self-
possessed rider will, that they were not to waste strength in
rushes. “Spend, but waste not,” — not a step, not a breath, in
that gallop for life! This must be our motto.
We three rode abreast over the sere brown plain on our gal-
lop to save and to slay.
Far - ah, how terribly dim and distant! - was the sierra, a
slowly lifting cloud. Slowly, slowly they lifted, those gracious
heights, while we sped over the harsh levels of the desert. Harsh
levels, abandoned or unvisited by verdancy. But better so: there
was no long herbage to check our great pace over the smooth
race-course; no thickets here to baffle us; no forests to mislead.
We galloped abreast, —Armstrong at the right. His weird,
gaunt white held his own with the best of us. No whip, no
## p. 16079 (#425) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16079
.
spur, for that deathly creature. He went as if his master's pur-
pose were stirring him through and through. That stern intent
made his sinews steel, and put an agony of power into every
stride. The man never stirred, save sometimes to put a hand
to that bloody blanket bandage across his head and temple. He
had told his story, he had spoken his errand, he breathed not a
word; but with his lean, pallid face set hard, his gentle blue eyes
scourged of their kindliness and fixed upon those distant mount-
ains where his vengeance lay, he rode on like a relentless fate.
Next in the line I galloped. Oh, my glorious black! The
great killing pace seemed mere playful canter to him,- such as
one might ride beside a timid girl, thrilling with her first free
dash over a flowery common, or a golden beach between sea and
shore. But from time to time he surged a little forward with
his great shoulders, and gave a mighty writhe of his body, while
his hind legs came lifting his flanks under me, and telling of the
giant reserve of speed and power he kept easily controlled. Then
his ear would go back, and his large brown eye, with its purple-
black pupil, would look round at my bridle hand and then into
my eye, saying as well as words could have said it, « This is
mere sport, my friend and master. You do not know me. I have
stuff in me of which you do not dream. Say the word, and I
can double this, treble it. Say the word! let me show you how I
can spurn the earth. ” Then with the lightest love pressure on
the snaffle, I would say, "Not yet! not yet! Patience, my noble
! !
friend! Your time will come. ”
At the left rode Brent, our leader. He knew the region; he
made the plan; he had the hope; his was the ruling passion, -
stronger than brotherhood, than revenge. Love made him leader
of that galloping three. His iron-gray bent grandly, with white
mane flapping the air like a signal flag of reprieve. Eager hope
and kindling purpose made the rider's face more beautiful than
He seemed to behold Sidney's motto written on the golden
haze before him, “Viam aut inveniam aut faciam. ” I felt my
heart grow great when I looked at his calm features, and caught
his assuring smile,-a gay smile but for the dark, fateful resolve
beneath it. And when he launched some stirring word of cheer,
and shook another ten of seconds out of the gray's mile, even
Armstrong's countenance grew less deathly, as he turned to our
leader in silent response. Brent looked a fit chieftain for such
a wild charge over the desert waste; with his buckskin hunting-
»
ever.
## p. 16080 (#426) ##########################################
16080
THEODORE WINTHROP
shirt and leggins with flaring fringes, his otter cap and eagle's
plume, his bronze face with its close brown beard, his elate head,
and his seat like a centaur.
So we galloped three abreast, neck and neck, hoof with hoof,
steadily quickening our pace over the sere width of desert. We
must make the most of the levels. Rougher work, cruel obstacles
were before. All the wild, triumphant music I had ever heard
came and sang in my ears to the flinging cadence of the resonant
feet, tramping on hollow arches of the volcanic rock, over great
vacant chasms underneath. Sweet and soft around us melted
the hazy air of October; and its warm, flickering currents shook
like a veil of gauzy gold between us and the blue bloom of the
mountains far away, but nearing now and lifting step by step.
On we galloped — the avenger, the friend, the lover — on our
errand to save and to slay.
It came afternoon, as we rode on steadily. The country grew
rougher. The horses never flinched; but they sweated freely, and
foam from their nostrils flecked their shoulders. By-and-by, with
little pleasant admonitory puffs, a breeze drew down from the
glimmering frosty edges of the sierra and cooled us. Horses and
men' were cheered and freshened, and lifted anew to their work.
We had seen and heard no life on the desert. Now, in the
broken country, a coyote or two scuttled away as we passed.
Sometimes a lean gray. wolf would skulk out of a brake, canter
after us a little way, and then squat on his haunches, staring at
our strange speed. Flight and chase he could understand; but
ours was not flight for safety, or chase for food. Men are queer
mysteries to beasts. So our next companions found. Over the
edge of a slope, bending away to a valley of dry scanty pasture
at the left, a herd of antelopes appeared. They were close to
us, within easy revolver shot. They sprang into graceful flight,
some score of them, with tails up and black hoofs glancing. Pres-
ently, pausing for curiosity, they saw that we fled, not followed;
and they in turn became pursuers, careering after us for a mile
or more, until our stern business left their gamboling play far
behind.
We held steadily for that notch in the blue sierra. The
mountain lines grew sharper, the country where we traveled
rougher, every stride. We came upon a wide tract covered with
wild sage-bushes. These delayed and baffled us.
-
It was a pigmy
forest of trees, mature and complete, but no higher than the knee.
## p. 16081 (#427) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16081
>
Every dwarfed, stunted, gnarled bush had the trunk, limbs, twigs,
and gray withered foliage, all in miniature, of some tree, hap-
less but sturdy, that has had a weather-beaten struggle for life
on a storm-threshed crag by the shore, or on a granite side of
a mountain, with short allowance of soil to eat and water
to drink. Myriads of square miles of that arid region have no
important vegetation except this wild sage or Artemisia, and a
meaner brother, not even good to burn,- the greasewood.
One may ride through the tearing thickets of a forest pri-
meval, as one may shoulder through a crowd of civilized barba-
rians at a spectacle. Our gallop over the top of this pigmy wood
was as difficult as to find passage over the heads of the same
crowd, tall men and short, men hatted with slouched hats, wash-
bowls, and stove-pipes. It was a rough scramble. It checked our
speed and chafed our horses. Sometimes we could find natural
pathways for a few rods. Then these strayed aside or closed up,
and we must plunge straight on. We lost time; moments we lost
more precious than if every one were marked by a drop in a
clepsydra, and each drop as it fell changed itself and tinkled in
the basin, a priceless pearl.
“It worries me, this delay," I said to Brent.
“They lost as much more time than we,” he said.
And he crowded on more desperately, as man rides for
dearer than life. as a lover rides for love.
We tore along, breaking through and over the sage-bushes,
each man where best he could. Fulano began to show me what
leaps were in him. I gave him his head. No bridle would
have held him. I kept my mastery by the voice, or rather by
the perfect identification of his will with mine. Our minds acted
together. "Save strength," I still warned him, “save strength,
.
my friend, for the mountains and the last leaps!
A little pathway in the sage-bushes suddenly opened before
me, as a lane rifts in the press of hurrying legions 'mid the
crush of a city thoroughfare. I dashed on a hundred yards in
advance of my comrades.
What was this? The bushes trampled and broken down,
just as we in our passage were trampling and breaking them.
What ?
Hoof-marks in the dust!
« The trail ! I cried, the trail !
They sprang toward me. Brent followed the line with his
eye. He galloped forward with a look of triumph.
XXVII-1006
a
(
>
»
»
## p. 16082 (#428) ##########################################
16082
THEODORE WINTHROP
Suddenly I saw him fling himself half out of his saddle, and
clutch at some object. Still going at speed and holding on by
one leg alone, after the Indian fashion for sport or shelter against
an arrow or a shot, he picked up something from the bushes,
regained his seat, and waved his treasure to us.
We ranged up
and rode beside him over a gap in the sage.
A lady's glove! - that was what he had stooped to recover.
An old buckskin riding-gauntlet, neatly stitched about the wrist,
and pinked on the wristlet. A pretty glove, strangely, almost
tragically, feminine in this desolation. A well-worn glove that
had seen better days, like its mistress; but never any day so good
as this, when it proved to us that we were on the sure path of
rescue.
"I take up the gauntlet,” said Brent. «Gare à qui le
touche! ”
We said nothing more; for this unconscious token, this silent
cry for help, made the danger seem more closely imminent. We
pressed on.
No flinching in any of the horses. Where we could,
we were going at speed. Where they could, the horses kept side
by side, nerving each other. Companionship sustained them in
that terrible ride.
And now in front the purple sierra was growing brown, and
rising up a distinct wall, cleft visibly with dell, gully, ravine, and
cañon. The saw-teeth of the ridge defined themselves sharply
into peak and pinnacle. Broad fields of cool snow gleamed upon
the summits.
We were ascending now all the time into subalpine regions.
We crossed great sloping savannas, deep in dry, rustling grass,
where a nation of cattle might pasture. We plunged through
broad wastes of hot sand. We flung ourselves down and up the
red sides of water-worn gullies. We took breakneck leaps across
dry quebradas in the clay. We clattered across stony arroyos,
longing thirstily for the gush of water that had flowed there not
many months before.
The trail was everywhere plain. No prairie craft was needed
to trace it. Here the chase had gone but a few hours ago; here
across grassy slopes, trampling the grass as if a mower had
passed that way; here plowing wearily through the sand; here
treading the red, crumbling clay; here breaking down the side
of a bank; here leaving a sharp hoof-track in the dry mud of a
fied torrent. Everywhere a straight path, pointing for that deep-
ening gap in the sierra, Luggernel Alley, the only gate of escape.
## p. 16083 (#429) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16083
Brent's unerring judgment had divined the course aright. On
he led, charging along the trail, as if he were trampling already
on the carcasses of the pursued. On he led and we followed,
drawing nearer, nearer to our goal.
Our horses suffered bitterly for water. Some five hours we
had ridden without a pause. Not one drop or sign of water in
all that arid waste. The torrents had poured along the dry
watercourses too hastily to let the scanty alders and willows
along their line treasure up any sap of growth. The wild sage
bushes had plainly never tasted fluid more plenteous than seldom
dewdrops doled out on certain rare festal days, enough to keep
their meagre foliage a dusty gray. No pleasant streamlet lurked
anywhere under the long dry grass of the savannas. The arroyos
were parched and hot as rifts in lava.
It became agonizing to listen to the panting and gasping of
our horses. Their eyes grew staring and bloodshot. We suffered,
ourselves, hardly less than they. It was cruel to press on. But
we must hinder a crueler cruelty. Love against Time,- Ven-
geance against Time! We must not Ainch for any weak humanity
to the noble allies that struggled on with us, without one token
of resistance.
Fulano suffered least. He turned his brave eye back, and
beckoned me with his ear to listen, while he seemed to say:
“See, this is my Endurance! I hold my Power ready still to
show. ”
And he curved his proud neck, shook his mane like a banner,
and galloped the grandest of all.
We came to a broad strip of sand, the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. The trail followed up this disappointing path. Heavy
plowing for the tired horses! How would they bear the rough
work down the ravine yet to come ?
Suddenly our leader pulled up and sprang from the saddle.
“Look! ” he cried, “how those fellows spent their time and
saved ours.
Thank heaven for this! We shall save her, surely,
now. ”
They had dug a pit deep in the thirsty sand, and found a
lurking river buried there. Nature never questioned what man-
ner of men they were that sought. Murderers flying from ven-
geance and planning now another villain outrage,-still impartial
Nature did not change her laws for them. Sunshine, air, water,
life, — these boons of hers, — she gave them freely. That higher
## p. 16084 (#430) ##########################################
16084
THEODORE WINTHROP
as we.
«
VOS
boon of death, if they were to receive, it must be from some
other power, greater than the undiscriminating force of Nature.
Good luck and good omen, this well of water in the sand! It
proved that our chase had suffered as we, and had been delayed
Before they had dared to pause and waste priceless mo-
ments here, their horses must have been drooping terribly. The
pit was nearly five feet deep. A good hour's work, and no less,
had dug it with such tools as they could bring. I almost laughed
to think of the two,, slowly bailing out the sliding sand with a
tin plate, perhaps, and a frying-pan, while a score of miles away
upon the desert we three were riding hard upon their tracks to
follow them the feeter for this refreshment they had left. Sic
non vobis ! ” I was ready to say triumphantly; but then I
remembered the third figure in their group,- a woman, like a
Sibyl, growing calmer as her peril grew,- and succor seemed to
withdraw. And the pang of this picture crushed back into my
heart any thoughts but a mad anxiety, and a frenzy to be driv-
ing on.
We drank thankfully of this well by the wayside. No gentle
beauty hereabouts to enchant us to delay. No grand old tree,
the shelter and the landmark of the fountain, proclaiming an oasis
near. Nothing but bare, hot sand. But the water was pure, cool,
and bright. It had come underground from the sierra, and still
remembered its parent snows.
We drank and were grateful —
almost to the point of pity. Had we been but avengers, like
Armstrong, my friend and I could well-nigh have felt mercy
here, and turned back pardoning. But rescue was more imperative
than vengeance. Our business tortured us, as with the fanged
scourge of Tisiphone, while we dallied. We grudged these mo-
ments of refreshment. Before night fell down the west, and
night was soon to be climbing up the east, we must overtake –
and then ?
I wiped the dust and spume away from Fulano's nostrils and
breathed him a moment. Then I let him drain deep, delicious
draughts from the stirrup-cup. He whinnied thanks and undying
fealty,— my noble comrade! He drank like a reveler. When I
I
mounted again, he gave a jubilant curvet and bound. My weight
was a feather to him. All those leagues of our hard, hot gallop
were nothing
The brown sierra here was close at hand. Its glittering, icy
summits, above the dark and sheeny walls, far above the black
## p. 16085 (#431) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16085
ind":
det
Side
phalanxes of clambering pines, stooped forward and hung over
us as we rode. We were now at the foot of the range, where
it dipped suddenly down upon the plain. The gap, our goal all
day, opened before us, grand and terrible. Some giant force had
clutched the mountains, and riven them narrowly apart. The wild
defile gaped, and then wound away and closed, lost between its
mighty walls, a thousand feet high, and bearing two brother
pyramids of purple cliffs aloft far above the snow line. A fear-
ful portal into a scene of the throes and agonies of earth! and
my excited
eyes seemed to read, gilded over its entrance, in
the dead gold of that hazy October sunshine, words from Dante's
inscription,-
«Per me si va tra la perduta gente:
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate! ) *
DU
lange
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«Here we are,” said Brent, speaking hardly above his breath.
« This is Luggernel Alley at last, thank God! In an hour, if the
horses hold out, we shall be at the Springs; that is, if we can go
through this breakneck gorge at the same pace. My horse began
to flinch a little before the water. Perhaps that will set him up.
How are yours ? ”
“Fulano asserts that he has not begun to show himself yet.
I may have to carry you en croupe before we are done. ”
Armstrong said nothing, but pointed impatiently down the
defile. The gaunt white horse moved on quicker at this gesture.
He seemed a tireless machine, not flesh and blood, - a being like
his master, living and acting by the force of a purpose alone.
Our chief led the way into the cañon.
Yes, John Brent, you were right when you called Luggernel
Alley a wonder of our continent.
I remember it now,- I only saw it then;- for those strong
-I
scenes of nature assault the soul whether it will or no, fight in
against affirmative or negative resistance, and bide their time
to be admitted as dominant over the imagination. It seemed to
me then that I was not noticing how grand the precipices, how
stupendous the cleavages, how rich and gleaming the rock faces
in Luggernel Alley. My business was not to stare about, but to
look sharp and ride hard; and I did it.
*« Through me one goes among the lost folk:
Leave behind all hope, ye who enter!
Li-
1:
## p. 16086 (#432) ##########################################
16086
THEODORE WINTHROP
Yet now I can remember, distinct as if I beheld it, every
stride of that pass; and everywhere, as I recall foot after foot of
that fierce chasm, I see three men with set faces,-one deathly
pale and wearing a bloody turban,- all galloping steadily on, on
an errand to save and to slay.
Terrible riding it was! A pavement of slippery, sheeny rock;
great beds of loose stones; barricades of mighty bowlders, where
a cliff had fallen an æon ago, before the days of the road-maker
race; crevices where an unwary foot might catch; wide rifts
where a shaky horse might fall, or a timid horseman drag him
down. Terrible riding! A pass where a calm traveler would go
quietly picking his steps, thankful if each hour counted him a
safe mile.
Terrible riding! Madness to go as we went! Horse and man
any moment either might shatter every limb. But man and
horse — neither can know what he can do, until he has dared and
done. On we went, with the old frenzy growing tenser. Heart
almost broken with eagerness.
No whipping or spurring. Our horses were a part of our-
selves. While we could go, they would go. Since the water, they
were full of leap again. Down in the shady Alley, too, evening
had come before its time. Noon's packing of hot air had been
dislodged by a mountain breeze drawing through. Horses and
men were braced and cheered to their work; and in such rid-
ing as that, the man and the horse must think together and move
together,-eye and hand of the rider must choose and command,
as bravely as the horse executes.
The blue sky was overhead, the red sun upon the castellated
walls a thousand feet above us, the purpling chasm opened be-
fore. It was late; these were the last moments. But we should
save the lady yet.
“Yes,” our hearts shouted to us, we shall save her yet. ”
An arroyo, the channel of a dry torrent, followed the pass.
It had made its way as water does, not straightway, but by that
potent feminine method of passing under the frowning front of
an obstacle, and leaving the dull rock staring there, while the
wild creature it would have held is gliding away down the valley.
This zigzag channel baffled us; we must leap it without check
wherever it crossed our path. Every second now was worth a
century. Here was the sign of horses, passed but now. We
## p. 16087 (#433) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16087
-
could not choose ground. We must take our leaps on that cruel
rock wherever they offered.
Poor Pumps!
He had carried his master so nobly! There were so few miles
to do! He had chased so well; he merited to be in at the death.
Brent lifted him at a leap across the arroyo.
Poor Pumps!
His hind feet slipped on the time-smoothed rock. He fell
short. He plunged down a dozen feet among the rough bowlders
of the torrent bed. Brent was out of the saddle almost before
he struck, raising him.
No, he would never rise again. Both his fore legs were
broken at the knee. He rested there, kneeling on the rocks
where he fell.
Brent groaned. The horse screamed horribly, horribly,— there
is no more agonized sound,- and the scream went echoing high
up the cliffs where the red sunlight rested.
It costs a loving master much to butcher his brave and trusty
horse, the half of his knightly self; but it costs him more to
hear him shriek in such misery. Brent drew his pistol to put
poor Pumps out of pain.
Armstrong sprang down and caught his hand.
“Stop! ” he said in his hoarse whisper.
He had hardly spoken since we started. My nerves were so
strained that this mere ghost of a sound rang through me like a
death yell, a grisly cry of merciless and exultant vengeance. I
seemed to hear its echoes, rising up and swelling in a flood of
thick uproar, until they burst over the summit of the pass and
were wasted in the crannies of the towering mountain flanks
above.
“Stop! ” whispered Armstrong. «No shooting! They'll hear.
The knife ! )
He held out his knife to my friend.
Brent hesitated one heart-beat. Could he stain his hand with
his faithful servant's blood ?
Pumps screamed again.
Armstrong snatched the knife and drew it across the throat of
the crippled horse.
Poor Pumps! He sank and died without a
Noble
martyr in the old, heroic cause!
(
>>
I
moan.
## p. 16088 (#434) ##########################################
16088
THEODORE WINTHROP
man.
I caught the knife from Armstrong. I cut the thong of my
girth. The heavy California saddle, with its macheers and roll
of blankets, fell to the ground. I cut off my spurs.
They had
never yet touched Fulano's flanks. He stood beside me quiet,
but trembling to be off.
"Now, Brent! up behind me! " I whispered, - for the awe of
death was upon us.
I mounted. Brent sprang up behind. I ride light for a tall
Brent is the slightest body of an athlete I ever saw.
Fulano stood steady till we were firm in our seats.
Then he tore down the defile.
Here was that vast reserve of power; here the tireless spirit;
here the hoof striking true as a thunderbolt, where the brave eye
saw footing; here that writhing agony of speed; here the great
promise fulfilled, the great heart thrilling to mine, the grand
body living to the beating heart. Noble Fulano!
I rode with a snaffle. I left it hanging loose. I did not check
or guide him. He saw all. He knew all. All was his doing.
We sat firm, clinging as we could, as we must.
