NEARER and nearer and nearer and near!
Hark how his horse's hoofs ring out
On the river-bottom, loud and clear!
He waves his sombrero, and utters a shout;
His long black hair floats free in the wind;
His gray-hued serape is fallen behind.
Nearer and nearer,
He has reached the river, yet does not seem
To notice the ford
Above, where 'tis broad;
But straight down the shelving bank into the stream
He urges his steed like a man in a dream.
Great God! The horse's head is under!
Not so, he swims: 'twas the quicksand, 'tis past.
See his broad breast cleave the waves asunder!
He comes straight onward; he's over at last:
He is here.
Poor mustang, panting and trembling and faint!
Not another rod to-night shall ye stir.
The dusky rider springs to ground,
And looks with questioning glance around.
"Americanos? Ah! Senors,
What hand so quick to save as yours?
Por amor de Dios, mount and ride!
Los Comanches! " The captain cried, –
"Stranger, enough! we know the rest.
God willing, we will do our best."
Hark to the bugle's roundelay!
Boot and saddle! Up and away!
Mount and ride as ye ne'er rode before;
Spur till your horses' flanks run gore;
Ride for the sake of human lives;
Ride as ye would were your sisters and wives
Cowering under their scalping-knives.
Boot and saddle! Away, away!
Come more welcome to us on the border;
Never more promptly did we obey.
Every thing dropped in drear disorder;
Supper half-finished was left on the ground;
Each man sprang to his horse's side;
Cheerily the word went round,
Rescue, rescue! Mount and ride!
Death to the redskins far and wide!
Then quickly we galloped off into the night, "All saddled, all bridled, all fit for a fight.'
The evening sun has sunk full soon, Tinging the west with crimson and gold; But over each man's left shoulder the moon Evil omen
As e'er foretold
To other foemen
In days of old
Danger and death in majesty
Silently climbs the eastern sky.
The moon behind, the stars shining o'er us, Shadows and darkness around;
But we only know straight before us
Are twenty miles of ground.
O God! To think of the terrible fate
Awaiting that home if we come too late!
To think twenty miles and two hours hence
May make such fearful difference!
Ah, noble steeds, do all ye know
That twenty miles we draw not rein,
But after that ye shall rest again.
Galloping, galloping, galloping on,
Four times thirty hoofs as one,
Galloping on at a fearful pace,
In terrible race,
One by one the miles go by,
Quickly the horses and moments fly.
"Stranger, are we almost there?"
The Mexican, he shook his head:
"Ten miles farther on," he said,
Then bowed his head in muttered prayer.
Ten miles more! Will they never pass?
On and on and on we go:
We brush the dew from the buffalo-grass;
We're in the Badlands now.
Still the miles are passing by,
Still the horses and moments fly:
“Stranger, do we near the place?"
The Mexican nods in mute reply,
Then suddenly, with ghastly face,
Points to the western sky.
Aha! What means that lurid glow?
Surely the sun set long ago.
"Pause not for your lives," the captain said: "'Tis a house in flames, five miles ahead!"
God grant that rarely on human sight
There dawn such a scene as we saw that night!
Such horrible pictures no brush could produce,
Such terrible story no pen could tell;
As if in an instant had been let loose
A thousand fiends of hell.
A bit of timber, a patch of green,
A house in a winding-sheet of flame,
Smoke and fire and ghastly glare,
The shrieks of a poor wretch tortured there,
The cries of women bemoaning their fate,
The yells of the devils incarnate,
Playing their devil's game,
This is the story filling the air,
This the terrible scene.
A painted savage, with rapid stride,
Places himself by a captive's side,
A moment toys with her beautiful hair,
Then raises his hatchet high in air.
But the threatening weapon never fell;
Something stays their horrible mirth;
What thunder is that which shakes the earth?
'Tis a thunder the redskins know full well;
Full well they know that heavy tread,
Full well they know they have cause to dread
The headlong charge of our cavalry.
See what a change in their revelry!
Scalps and captives are heeded not,
Plunder and pillage are all forgot.
Now let the fiends escape who can!
We're down upon them, horse and man;
We follow them far o'er the grassy plain;
We hunt them down amid the trees;
Ay, devils! well may you come to your knees!
Ye shall never slay women and children again.
But hark, the bugle! What does it say?
Methinks the notes were the recall.
Never less promptly did we obey;
Why should we hold our hand to slay?
The captain spoke, and shamed us all,
"Vengeance is Mine, I will repay:
'Twas He that brought us here to-night
In time to save: the fight is won.
Vengeance is his; let him requite:
Our work is done.'
JOHN BROWNJOHN, in New York Tribune.
"Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items of strong-beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to, "what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time." "Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen. "Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. "You skate, of course, Winkle?
"Ye-yes; oh, yes!" replied Mr. Winkle. "I—I am rather out of practice."
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