Chapter Fifty.Stalking the Stalker!The spot upon which the lancer troop had halted was less than a league from the grove that gave shelter to the two Americans. In the translucent atmosphere of the tableland it looked scarce a mile. The individual forms of troopers could be distinguished, and the two who had taken themselves apart. The taller of these was easily identified as the commanding officer of the troop.“If they’d only keep thar till arter sundown,” mutters Wilder, “especially him on yur hoss, I ked settle the hul bizness. This hyar gun the doc presented to me air ’bout as good a shootin’-iron as I’d care to shet my claws on, an ’most equal to my own ole rifle. I’ve gin it all sorts o’ trials, tharfor I know it’s good for plum center at a hundred an’ fifty paces. Ef yonner two squattin’ out from the rest ’ill jest stay thur till the shades o’ night gie me a chance o’ stealin’ clost enuf, thar’s one o’ ’em will never see daylight again.”“Ah!” exclaimed Hamersley, with a sigh of despair, and yet half hopeful, “if they would but remain there till night, we might still head them into the valley, time enough to get our friends away.”“Don’t you have any sech hopes, Frank; thar’s no chance o’ that I kin see what the party air arter. They’ve made up thar mind not to ’tempt goin’ inter the gully till they hev a trifle o’ shadder aroun’ them. They think that ef they’re seen afore they git up to the house their victims might ’scape ’em. Tharfor they purpiss approachin’ the shanty unobserved, and makin’ a surround o’ it. That’s thar game. Cunnin’ o’ them, too, for Mexikins.”“Yes, that is what they intend doing—no doubt of it. Oh, heavens! only to think we are so near, and yet cannot give Miranda a word of warning!”“Can’t be helped. We must put our trust in Him as hes an eye on all o’ us—same over these desert purairas an’ mountains as whar people are livin’ in large cities. Sartin we must trust to Him an’ let things slide a bit, jest as He may direct ’em. To go out of our kiver now ’ud be the same as steppin’ inter the heart o’ a forest fire. Them sogers air mounted on swift horses, an’ ’ud ketch up wi these slow critturs o’ mules in the shakin’ o’ goat’s tail. Thurfor, let’s lie by till night. Tain’t fur off now. Then, ef we see any chance to steal down inter the valley, we’ll take edvantage o’ it.”Hamersley can make no objection to the plan proposed. He sees no alternative but accede to it. So they remain watching the halted troop, regarding every movement with keen scrutiny.For several hours are they thus occupied, until the sun begins to throw elongated shadows over the plain. Within half an hour of its setting the Mexicans again mount their horses and move onwards.“Jest as I supposed they’d do,” said Walt. “Thar’s still all o’ ten miles atween them and the place. They’ve mezyured the time it’ll take ’em to git thur—an hour or so arter sundown. Thar ain’t the shadder o’ a chance for us to steal ahead o’ ’em. We must stay in this kiver till they’re clar out o’ sight.”And they do stay in it until the receding horsemen, who present the appearance of giants under the magnifying twilight mist, gradually grow less, and at length fade from view under the thickening darkness.Not another moment do Hamersley and the hunter remain within the grove, but springing to their saddles, push on after the troop.Night soon descending, with scarce ten minutes of twilight, covers the plain with a complete obscurity, as if a shroud of crape had been suddenly thrown over it.There is no moon, not even stars, in the sky; and the twinbuttes, that form the portals of the pass, are no longer discerned.But the ex-Ranger needs neither moon, nor stars, nor mountain peaks to guide him for such a short distance. Taking his bearings before starting from the black-jack copse, he rides on in a course straight as the direction of a bullet from his own rifle, until the two mounds loom up, their silhouettes seen against the leaden sky.“We mustn’t go any furrer, Frank,” he says, suddenly pulling up his mule; “leastwise, not a-straddle o’ these hyar conspikerous critters. Whether the sogers hev goed down inter the valley or no, they’re sartin to hev left some o’ the party ahind, by way o’ keepin’ century. Let’s picket the animals out hyar, an’ creep forrad afut. That’ll gie us a chance o’ seeing in, ’ithout bein’ seen.”The mules being disposed of as Walt had suggested, the two continue their advance.First walking erect, then in bent attitude, then crouching still lower, then as quadrupeds on all-fours, and at length, crawling like reptiles, they make their approach to the pass that leads down into the valley.They do not enter it; they dare not. Before getting within the gape of its gloomy portals they hear voices issuing therefrom. They can see tiny sparks of fire glowing at the lips of ignited cigars. From this they can tell that there are sentries there—a line of them across the ravine, guarding it from side to side.“It ain’t no use tryin’, Frank,” whispers Wilder; “ne’er a chance o’ our settin’ through. They’re stannin’ thick all over the ground. I kin see by thar seegars. Don’t ye hear them palaverin? A black snake kedn’t crawl through among ’em ’ithout bein’ obsarved.”“What are we to do?” asks Hamersley, in a despairing tone.“We kin do nothin’ now, ’ceptin’ go back an’ git our mules. We must move them out o’ the way afore sun-up. ’Taint no matter o’ use our squattin’ hyar. No doubt o’ what’s been done. The main body’s goed below; them we see’s only a party left to guard the gap. Guess it’s all over wi’ the poor critters in the cabin, or will be afore we kin do anythin’ to help ’em. Ef they ain’t kilt, they’re captered by this time.”Hamersley can scarce restrain himself from uttering an audible groan. Only the evident danger keeps him silent.“I say agin, Frank, ’tair no use our stayin’ hyar. Anythin’ we kin do must be did elsewhar. Let’s go back for our mules, fetch ’em away, an’ see ef we kin clomb up one o’ these hyar hills. Thar’s a good skirtin’ o’ kiver on thar tops. Ef the anymals can’t be tuk up, we kin leave them in some gulch, an’ go on to the summut ourselves. Thar we may command a view o’ all that passes. The sogers’ll be sartin to kum past in the mornin’, bringin’ thar prisoners. Then we’ll see who’s along wi’ ’em, and kin foller thar trail.”“Walt, I’m willing to do as you direct. I feel as if I’d lost all hope, and could give way to downright despair.”“Deespair be durned! Thar’s allers a hope while thar’s a bit o’ breth in the body. Keep up yur heart, man! Think o’ how we war ’mong them wagguns. That oughter strengthen yur gizzern. Niver say die till yur dead, and the crowner are holdin’ his ’quest over yur karkidge. Thet’s the doctryne o’ Walt Wilder.”As if to give illustrative proof of it, he catches hold of his comrade’s sleeve; with a pluck turns him around, and leads him back to the place where they had parted from the mules. These are released from their pickets, then led silently, and in a circuitous direction, towards the base of one of the buttes.Its sides appear too steep for even a mule to scale them; but a boulder-strewed ravine offers a suitable place for secreting the animals.There they are left, their lariats affording sufficient length to make them fast to the rocks, while atapadoof the saddle-blankets secures them against binneying.Having thus disposed of the animals, the two men scramble on up the ravine, reach the summit of the hill, and sit down among the cedar-scrub that crowns it, determined to remain there and await the “development of events.”
The spot upon which the lancer troop had halted was less than a league from the grove that gave shelter to the two Americans. In the translucent atmosphere of the tableland it looked scarce a mile. The individual forms of troopers could be distinguished, and the two who had taken themselves apart. The taller of these was easily identified as the commanding officer of the troop.
“If they’d only keep thar till arter sundown,” mutters Wilder, “especially him on yur hoss, I ked settle the hul bizness. This hyar gun the doc presented to me air ’bout as good a shootin’-iron as I’d care to shet my claws on, an ’most equal to my own ole rifle. I’ve gin it all sorts o’ trials, tharfor I know it’s good for plum center at a hundred an’ fifty paces. Ef yonner two squattin’ out from the rest ’ill jest stay thur till the shades o’ night gie me a chance o’ stealin’ clost enuf, thar’s one o’ ’em will never see daylight again.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Hamersley, with a sigh of despair, and yet half hopeful, “if they would but remain there till night, we might still head them into the valley, time enough to get our friends away.”
“Don’t you have any sech hopes, Frank; thar’s no chance o’ that I kin see what the party air arter. They’ve made up thar mind not to ’tempt goin’ inter the gully till they hev a trifle o’ shadder aroun’ them. They think that ef they’re seen afore they git up to the house their victims might ’scape ’em. Tharfor they purpiss approachin’ the shanty unobserved, and makin’ a surround o’ it. That’s thar game. Cunnin’ o’ them, too, for Mexikins.”
“Yes, that is what they intend doing—no doubt of it. Oh, heavens! only to think we are so near, and yet cannot give Miranda a word of warning!”
“Can’t be helped. We must put our trust in Him as hes an eye on all o’ us—same over these desert purairas an’ mountains as whar people are livin’ in large cities. Sartin we must trust to Him an’ let things slide a bit, jest as He may direct ’em. To go out of our kiver now ’ud be the same as steppin’ inter the heart o’ a forest fire. Them sogers air mounted on swift horses, an’ ’ud ketch up wi these slow critturs o’ mules in the shakin’ o’ goat’s tail. Thurfor, let’s lie by till night. Tain’t fur off now. Then, ef we see any chance to steal down inter the valley, we’ll take edvantage o’ it.”
Hamersley can make no objection to the plan proposed. He sees no alternative but accede to it. So they remain watching the halted troop, regarding every movement with keen scrutiny.
For several hours are they thus occupied, until the sun begins to throw elongated shadows over the plain. Within half an hour of its setting the Mexicans again mount their horses and move onwards.
“Jest as I supposed they’d do,” said Walt. “Thar’s still all o’ ten miles atween them and the place. They’ve mezyured the time it’ll take ’em to git thur—an hour or so arter sundown. Thar ain’t the shadder o’ a chance for us to steal ahead o’ ’em. We must stay in this kiver till they’re clar out o’ sight.”
And they do stay in it until the receding horsemen, who present the appearance of giants under the magnifying twilight mist, gradually grow less, and at length fade from view under the thickening darkness.
Not another moment do Hamersley and the hunter remain within the grove, but springing to their saddles, push on after the troop.
Night soon descending, with scarce ten minutes of twilight, covers the plain with a complete obscurity, as if a shroud of crape had been suddenly thrown over it.
There is no moon, not even stars, in the sky; and the twinbuttes, that form the portals of the pass, are no longer discerned.
But the ex-Ranger needs neither moon, nor stars, nor mountain peaks to guide him for such a short distance. Taking his bearings before starting from the black-jack copse, he rides on in a course straight as the direction of a bullet from his own rifle, until the two mounds loom up, their silhouettes seen against the leaden sky.
“We mustn’t go any furrer, Frank,” he says, suddenly pulling up his mule; “leastwise, not a-straddle o’ these hyar conspikerous critters. Whether the sogers hev goed down inter the valley or no, they’re sartin to hev left some o’ the party ahind, by way o’ keepin’ century. Let’s picket the animals out hyar, an’ creep forrad afut. That’ll gie us a chance o’ seeing in, ’ithout bein’ seen.”
The mules being disposed of as Walt had suggested, the two continue their advance.
First walking erect, then in bent attitude, then crouching still lower, then as quadrupeds on all-fours, and at length, crawling like reptiles, they make their approach to the pass that leads down into the valley.
They do not enter it; they dare not. Before getting within the gape of its gloomy portals they hear voices issuing therefrom. They can see tiny sparks of fire glowing at the lips of ignited cigars. From this they can tell that there are sentries there—a line of them across the ravine, guarding it from side to side.
“It ain’t no use tryin’, Frank,” whispers Wilder; “ne’er a chance o’ our settin’ through. They’re stannin’ thick all over the ground. I kin see by thar seegars. Don’t ye hear them palaverin? A black snake kedn’t crawl through among ’em ’ithout bein’ obsarved.”
“What are we to do?” asks Hamersley, in a despairing tone.
“We kin do nothin’ now, ’ceptin’ go back an’ git our mules. We must move them out o’ the way afore sun-up. ’Taint no matter o’ use our squattin’ hyar. No doubt o’ what’s been done. The main body’s goed below; them we see’s only a party left to guard the gap. Guess it’s all over wi’ the poor critters in the cabin, or will be afore we kin do anythin’ to help ’em. Ef they ain’t kilt, they’re captered by this time.”
Hamersley can scarce restrain himself from uttering an audible groan. Only the evident danger keeps him silent.
“I say agin, Frank, ’tair no use our stayin’ hyar. Anythin’ we kin do must be did elsewhar. Let’s go back for our mules, fetch ’em away, an’ see ef we kin clomb up one o’ these hyar hills. Thar’s a good skirtin’ o’ kiver on thar tops. Ef the anymals can’t be tuk up, we kin leave them in some gulch, an’ go on to the summut ourselves. Thar we may command a view o’ all that passes. The sogers’ll be sartin to kum past in the mornin’, bringin’ thar prisoners. Then we’ll see who’s along wi’ ’em, and kin foller thar trail.”
“Walt, I’m willing to do as you direct. I feel as if I’d lost all hope, and could give way to downright despair.”
“Deespair be durned! Thar’s allers a hope while thar’s a bit o’ breth in the body. Keep up yur heart, man! Think o’ how we war ’mong them wagguns. That oughter strengthen yur gizzern. Niver say die till yur dead, and the crowner are holdin’ his ’quest over yur karkidge. Thet’s the doctryne o’ Walt Wilder.”
As if to give illustrative proof of it, he catches hold of his comrade’s sleeve; with a pluck turns him around, and leads him back to the place where they had parted from the mules. These are released from their pickets, then led silently, and in a circuitous direction, towards the base of one of the buttes.
Its sides appear too steep for even a mule to scale them; but a boulder-strewed ravine offers a suitable place for secreting the animals.
There they are left, their lariats affording sufficient length to make them fast to the rocks, while atapadoof the saddle-blankets secures them against binneying.
Having thus disposed of the animals, the two men scramble on up the ravine, reach the summit of the hill, and sit down among the cedar-scrub that crowns it, determined to remain there and await the “development of events.”
Chapter Fifty One.Approaching the Prey.Were we gifted with clairvoyance, it might at times spare us much misery, thought at other times it would make it. Perhaps ’tis better we are as we are.Were Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder, keeping watch on the summit of the mound, possessed of second sight, they would not think of remaining there throughout all the night—not for an hour—nay, not so much as a minute, for they would be aware that within less than ten miles of them is a party of men with friendly hearts and strong arms, both at their disposal for the very purpose they now need such. Enough of them to strike Uraga’s lancers and scatter them like chaff.And could the man commanding these but peep over the precipitous escarpment of the Llano Estacado and see those stalwart Texans bivouacked below, he would descend into the valley with less deliberation, and make greater haste to retire out of it. He and his know nothing of the formidable foes so near, any more than Hamersley and Wilder suspect the proximity of such powerful friends. Both are alike unconscious that the Texans are encamped within ten miles. Yet they are; for the gorge at whose mouth they have halted is the outlet of the valley stream, where it debouches upon the Texan plain.Without thought of being interfered with, the former proceed upon their ruthless expedition; while the latter have no alternative but await its issue. They do so with spirits impatiently chafing, and hearts sorely agonised.Both are alike apprehensive for what next day’s sun will show them—perchance a dread spectacle.Neither shuts eye in sleep. With nerves excited and bosoms agitated they lie awake, counting the hours, the minutes; now and then questioning the stars as to the time.They converse but little, and only in whispers. The night is profoundly still. The slightest sound, a word uttered above their breath, might betray them.They can distinctly hear the talk of the lancers left below. Hamersley, who understands their tongue, can make out their conversation. It is for the most part ribald and blasphemous, boasts of theirbonnes fortuneswith the damsels of the Del Norte, commingled with curses at this ill-starred expedition that for a time separates them from their sweethearts.Among them appears a gleam greater than the ignited tips of their cigarittos. ’Tis the light of a candle which they have stuck up over a serape spread along the earth. Several are seen clustering around it; while their conversation tells that they are relieving the dull hours with a little diversion. They are engaged in gambling, and ever and anon the cries, “Soto en la puerta!” “Cavallo mozo!” ascending in increased monotone, proclaim it to be the never-ending national game of montè.Meanwhile Uraga, with the larger body of the lancers, has got down into the glen, and is making way towards the point aimed at. He proceeds slowly and with caution. This for two distinct reasons—the sloping path is difficult even by day, at night requiring all the skill of experienced riders to descend it. Still with the traitor at their head, who knows every step, they gradually crawl down the cliff, single file, again forming “by twos” as they reach the more practicable causeway below.Along this they continue to advance in silence and like caution. Neither the lancer colonel nor his lieutenant has forgotten the terrible havoc made among the Tenawas by the two men who survived that fearful affray, and whom they may expect once more to meet. They know that both have guns—the traitor has told them so—and that, as before, they will make use of them. Therefore Uraga intends approaching stealthily, and taking them by surprise. Otherwise he may himself be the first to fall—a fate he does not wish to contemplate. But there can be no danger, he fancies as he rides forward. It is now the mid-hour of night, a little later, and the party to be surprised will be in their beds. If all goes well he may seize them asleep.So far everything seems favourable. No sound comes from the direction of the lonely dwelling, not even the bark of a watch dog. The only noises that interrupt the stillness of the night are the lugubrious cry of the coyoté and the wailing note of the whip-poor-will; these, at intervals blending with the sweeter strain of the tzenzontle—the Mexican nightingale—intermittently silenced as the marching troop passes near the spot where it is perched.Once more, before coming in sight of the solitary jacal, Uraga commands a halt. This time to reconnoitre, not to rest or stay. The troopers sit in their saddles, with reins ready to be drawn; like a flock of vultures about to unfold their wings for the last swoop upon their victims—to clutch, tear, kill, do with them as they may wish!
Were we gifted with clairvoyance, it might at times spare us much misery, thought at other times it would make it. Perhaps ’tis better we are as we are.
Were Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder, keeping watch on the summit of the mound, possessed of second sight, they would not think of remaining there throughout all the night—not for an hour—nay, not so much as a minute, for they would be aware that within less than ten miles of them is a party of men with friendly hearts and strong arms, both at their disposal for the very purpose they now need such. Enough of them to strike Uraga’s lancers and scatter them like chaff.
And could the man commanding these but peep over the precipitous escarpment of the Llano Estacado and see those stalwart Texans bivouacked below, he would descend into the valley with less deliberation, and make greater haste to retire out of it. He and his know nothing of the formidable foes so near, any more than Hamersley and Wilder suspect the proximity of such powerful friends. Both are alike unconscious that the Texans are encamped within ten miles. Yet they are; for the gorge at whose mouth they have halted is the outlet of the valley stream, where it debouches upon the Texan plain.
Without thought of being interfered with, the former proceed upon their ruthless expedition; while the latter have no alternative but await its issue. They do so with spirits impatiently chafing, and hearts sorely agonised.
Both are alike apprehensive for what next day’s sun will show them—perchance a dread spectacle.
Neither shuts eye in sleep. With nerves excited and bosoms agitated they lie awake, counting the hours, the minutes; now and then questioning the stars as to the time.
They converse but little, and only in whispers. The night is profoundly still. The slightest sound, a word uttered above their breath, might betray them.
They can distinctly hear the talk of the lancers left below. Hamersley, who understands their tongue, can make out their conversation. It is for the most part ribald and blasphemous, boasts of theirbonnes fortuneswith the damsels of the Del Norte, commingled with curses at this ill-starred expedition that for a time separates them from their sweethearts.
Among them appears a gleam greater than the ignited tips of their cigarittos. ’Tis the light of a candle which they have stuck up over a serape spread along the earth. Several are seen clustering around it; while their conversation tells that they are relieving the dull hours with a little diversion. They are engaged in gambling, and ever and anon the cries, “Soto en la puerta!” “Cavallo mozo!” ascending in increased monotone, proclaim it to be the never-ending national game of montè.
Meanwhile Uraga, with the larger body of the lancers, has got down into the glen, and is making way towards the point aimed at. He proceeds slowly and with caution. This for two distinct reasons—the sloping path is difficult even by day, at night requiring all the skill of experienced riders to descend it. Still with the traitor at their head, who knows every step, they gradually crawl down the cliff, single file, again forming “by twos” as they reach the more practicable causeway below.
Along this they continue to advance in silence and like caution. Neither the lancer colonel nor his lieutenant has forgotten the terrible havoc made among the Tenawas by the two men who survived that fearful affray, and whom they may expect once more to meet. They know that both have guns—the traitor has told them so—and that, as before, they will make use of them. Therefore Uraga intends approaching stealthily, and taking them by surprise. Otherwise he may himself be the first to fall—a fate he does not wish to contemplate. But there can be no danger, he fancies as he rides forward. It is now the mid-hour of night, a little later, and the party to be surprised will be in their beds. If all goes well he may seize them asleep.
So far everything seems favourable. No sound comes from the direction of the lonely dwelling, not even the bark of a watch dog. The only noises that interrupt the stillness of the night are the lugubrious cry of the coyoté and the wailing note of the whip-poor-will; these, at intervals blending with the sweeter strain of the tzenzontle—the Mexican nightingale—intermittently silenced as the marching troop passes near the spot where it is perched.
Once more, before coming in sight of the solitary jacal, Uraga commands a halt. This time to reconnoitre, not to rest or stay. The troopers sit in their saddles, with reins ready to be drawn; like a flock of vultures about to unfold their wings for the last swoop upon their victims—to clutch, tear, kill, do with them as they may wish!
Chapter Fifty Two.A Bloodless Capture.A house from which agreeable guests have just taken departure is rarely cheerful. The reverse, if these have been very agreeable—especially on the first evening after.The rude sheiling which gives shelter to the refugees is no exception. Everyone under its roof is afflicted with low spirits, some of them sad—two particularly so.Thus has it been since the early hour of daybreak, when the guests regretted spoke the parting speech.In the ears of Adela Miranda, all day long, has been ringing that painful word, “Adios!” while thoughts about him who uttered it have been agitating her bosom.Not that she has any fear of his fealty, or that he will prove traitor to his troth now plighted. On the contrary, she can confide in him for that, and does—fully, trustingly.Her fears are from a far different cause; the danger he is about to dare.Conchita, in like manner, though in less degree, has her apprehensions. The great Colossus who has captured her heart, and been promised her hand, may never return to claim it. But, unacquainted with the risk he is going to run, the little mestiza has less to alarm her, and only contemplates her lover’s absence, with that sense of uncertainty common to all who live in a land where every day has its dangers.Colonel Miranda is discomforted too. Never before since his arrival in the valley have his apprehensions been so keen. Hamersley’s words, directing suspicion to the peon, Manuel, have excited them. All the more from his having entertained something of this before. And now still more, that his messenger is three days overdue from the errand on which he has sent him.At noon he and Don Prospero again ascend to the summit of the pass, and scan the table plain above—to observe nothing upon it, either westwardly or in any other direction. And all the afternoon has one or the other been standing near the door of the jacal, with a lorgnette levelled up the ravine through which the valley is entered from above.Only as the shades of night close over them do they desist from this vigil, proving fruitless.Added to the idea of danger, they have another reason for desiring the speedy return of the messenger. Certain little luxuries he is expected to bring—among the rest a skin or two of wine and a few boxes of cigars. For neither the colonel himself nor the ex-army surgeon are anchorites, however much they have of late been compelled to the habit. Above all, they need tobacco, their stock being out; the last ounce given to their late guests on leaving.These are minor matters, but yet add to the cheerlessness of the time after the strangers have gone. Not less at night, when more than ever one feels a craving for the nicotian weed, to consume it in some way—pipe, cigar, or cigaritto.As the circle of three assemble in their little sitting-room, after a frugal supper, tobacco is the Colonel’s chief care, and becomes the first topic of conversation.“Carramba!” he explains, as if some new idea had entered his head, “I couldn’t have believed in a man suffering so much from such a trifling cause.”“What are you referring to?” interrogates the doctor.“The thing you’re thinking of at this moment,amigo mio. I’ll make a wager it’s the same.”“As you know, colonel, I never bet.”“Nor I upon a certainty, as in this case it would be. I know what your mind’s bent upon—tobacco.”“I confess it, colonel. I want a smoke, bad as ever I did in my life.”“Sol.”“But why don’t you both have it, then?”It is Adela who thus innocently interrogates.“For the best of all reasons,” rejoins her brother. “We haven’t the wherewith.”“What! no cigarittos? I saw some yesterday on one of the shelves.”“But not to day. At this moment there isn’t a pinch of tobacco within twenty miles of where we sit, unless our late guests have made a very short day’s march. I gave them the last I had to comfort them on the journey.”“Yes, senorita,” adds the doctor, “and something quite as bad, if not worse. Our bottles are empty. The wine is out as well as the weed.”“In that,” interrupts the Colonel, “I’m happy to say you’re mistaken. It’s not so bad as you think, doctor. True, the pigskin has collapsed; for the throat of the huge Texan was as difficult to saturate as the most parched spot on the Staked Plain. Finding it so, I took occasion to abstract a good large gourd, and set it surreptitiously aside. I did that to meet emergencies. As one seems to have arisen, I think the hidden treasure may now be produced.”Saying this, the colonel steps out of the room, soon returning with a large calabash bottle.Conchita is summoned, and directed to bring drinking cups, which she does.Miranda, pouring out the wine says,—“This will cheer us; and, in truth, we all need cheering. I fancy there’s enough to last us till Manuel makes his reappearance with a fresh supply. Strange his not having returned. He’s had time to do all his bargainings and been back three days ago. I hoped to see him home before our friends took departure, so that I could better have provided them for their journey. They’ll stand a fair chance of being famished.”“No fear of that,” puts in Don Prospero.“Why do you say so, doctor?”“Because of the rifle I gave to Señor Gualtero. With it he will be able to keep both provisioned. ’Tis marvellous how he can manage it. He has killed bits of birds without spoiling their skins or even ruffling a feather. I’m indebted to him for some of my best specimens. So long as he carries a gun, with ammunition to load it, you need have no fear he or his companion will perish from hunger, even on the Llano Estacado.”“About that,” rejoins Miranda, “I think we need have no uneasiness. Beyond lies the thing to be apprehended—not on the desert, but amid cultivated fields, in the streets of towns, in the midst of so-called civilisation. There will be their real danger.”For some time the three are silent, their reflections assuming a sombre hue, called forth by the colonel’s words.But the doctor, habitually light-hearted, soon recovers, and makes an effort to imbue the others with cheerfulness like his own.“Senorita,” he says, addressing himself to Adela, “your guitar, hanging there against the wall, seems straining its strings as if they longed for the touch of your fair fingers. You’ve been singing every night for the last month, delighting us all I hope you won’t be silent now that your audience is reduced, but will think it all the more reason for bestowing your favours on the few that remain.”To the gallant speech of pure Castilian idiom, the young lady answers with a smile expressing assent, at the same time taking hold of her guitar. As she reseats herself, and commences tuning the instrument, a string snaps.It seems an evil omen; and so all three regard it, though without knowing why. It is because, like the strings of the instrument, their hearts are out of tune, or rather attuned to a presentiment which oppresses them.The broken string is soon remedied by a knot; this easily done. Not so easy to restore the tranquillity of thought disturbed by its breaking.No more does the melancholy song which succeeds. Even to that far land has travelled the strain of the “Exile of Erin.” Its appropriateness to their own circumstances suggesting itself to the Mexican maiden, she sings—Sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.“Dear Adela!” interrupts Miranda. “That song is too sad. We’re already afflicted with its spirit. Change it for one more cheerful. Give us a lay of the Alhambra—a battle-song of the Cid or the Campeador—something patriotic and stirring.”Obedient to her brother’s request, the young girl changes tune and song, now pouring forth one of those inimitable lays for which the language of Cervantes is celebrated.Despite all, the heaviness of heart remains, pressing upon those who listen as on her who sings. Adela’s voice appears to have lost its accustomed sweetness, while the strings of her guitar seem equally out of tune.All at once, while in the middle of her song, the two bloodhounds, that have been lying on the floor at her feet, start from their recumbent position, simultaneously giving utterance to a growl, and together rush out through the open door.The singing is instantly brought to an end; while Don Valerian and the doctor rise hastily from their chairs.The bark of watch-dog outside some quiet farmhouse, amidst the homes of civilisation, can give no idea of the startling effect which the same sound calls forth on the far Indian frontier—nothing like the alarm felt by the dwellers in that lone ranche. To add to it, they hear a hoof striking on the stones outside—that of either horse or mule. It cannot be Lolita’s; the mustang mare is securely stalled, and the hoof-stroke comes not from the stable. There are no other animals. Their late guests have taken away the two saddle mules, while themulas de cargaare with the messenger, Manuel.“It’s he come back!” exclaims the doctor. “We ought to be rejoiced instead of scared. Come, Don Valerian! we shall have our smoke yet before going to bed.”“It’s not Manuel,” answers Miranda. “The dogs would have known him before this. Hear how they keep on baying! Ha! what’s that? Chico’s voice! Somebody has caught hold of him!”A cry from the peon outside, succeeded by expostulations, as if he was struggling to escape—his voice commingled with shrill screams from Conchita—are sounds almost simultaneous.Don Valerian strides back into the room and lays hold of his sword, the doctor clutching at the first weapon that presents itself.But weapons are of no avail where there are not enough hands to wield them.Into the cabin lead two entrance doors—one front, the other back—and into both is seen pouring a stream of armed men, soldiers in uniform.Before Miranda can disengage his sword from its scabbard, a perfectchevaux-de-friseof lance-points are within six inches of his breast, while the doctor is similarly menaced.Both perceive that resistance will be idle. It can only end in their instant impalement.“Surrender, rebels!” cries a voice rising above the din.“Drop your weapons, and at once, if you wish your lives spared! Soldiers, disarm them!”Miranda recognises the voice. Perhaps, had he done so sooner, he would have held on to his sword, and taken the chances of a more protracted and desperate resistance.It is too late. As the weapon is wrested from his grasp, he sees standing before him the man of all others he has most reason to fear—Gil Uraga!
A house from which agreeable guests have just taken departure is rarely cheerful. The reverse, if these have been very agreeable—especially on the first evening after.
The rude sheiling which gives shelter to the refugees is no exception. Everyone under its roof is afflicted with low spirits, some of them sad—two particularly so.
Thus has it been since the early hour of daybreak, when the guests regretted spoke the parting speech.
In the ears of Adela Miranda, all day long, has been ringing that painful word, “Adios!” while thoughts about him who uttered it have been agitating her bosom.
Not that she has any fear of his fealty, or that he will prove traitor to his troth now plighted. On the contrary, she can confide in him for that, and does—fully, trustingly.
Her fears are from a far different cause; the danger he is about to dare.
Conchita, in like manner, though in less degree, has her apprehensions. The great Colossus who has captured her heart, and been promised her hand, may never return to claim it. But, unacquainted with the risk he is going to run, the little mestiza has less to alarm her, and only contemplates her lover’s absence, with that sense of uncertainty common to all who live in a land where every day has its dangers.
Colonel Miranda is discomforted too. Never before since his arrival in the valley have his apprehensions been so keen. Hamersley’s words, directing suspicion to the peon, Manuel, have excited them. All the more from his having entertained something of this before. And now still more, that his messenger is three days overdue from the errand on which he has sent him.
At noon he and Don Prospero again ascend to the summit of the pass, and scan the table plain above—to observe nothing upon it, either westwardly or in any other direction. And all the afternoon has one or the other been standing near the door of the jacal, with a lorgnette levelled up the ravine through which the valley is entered from above.
Only as the shades of night close over them do they desist from this vigil, proving fruitless.
Added to the idea of danger, they have another reason for desiring the speedy return of the messenger. Certain little luxuries he is expected to bring—among the rest a skin or two of wine and a few boxes of cigars. For neither the colonel himself nor the ex-army surgeon are anchorites, however much they have of late been compelled to the habit. Above all, they need tobacco, their stock being out; the last ounce given to their late guests on leaving.
These are minor matters, but yet add to the cheerlessness of the time after the strangers have gone. Not less at night, when more than ever one feels a craving for the nicotian weed, to consume it in some way—pipe, cigar, or cigaritto.
As the circle of three assemble in their little sitting-room, after a frugal supper, tobacco is the Colonel’s chief care, and becomes the first topic of conversation.
“Carramba!” he explains, as if some new idea had entered his head, “I couldn’t have believed in a man suffering so much from such a trifling cause.”
“What are you referring to?” interrogates the doctor.
“The thing you’re thinking of at this moment,amigo mio. I’ll make a wager it’s the same.”
“As you know, colonel, I never bet.”
“Nor I upon a certainty, as in this case it would be. I know what your mind’s bent upon—tobacco.”
“I confess it, colonel. I want a smoke, bad as ever I did in my life.”
“Sol.”
“But why don’t you both have it, then?”
It is Adela who thus innocently interrogates.
“For the best of all reasons,” rejoins her brother. “We haven’t the wherewith.”
“What! no cigarittos? I saw some yesterday on one of the shelves.”
“But not to day. At this moment there isn’t a pinch of tobacco within twenty miles of where we sit, unless our late guests have made a very short day’s march. I gave them the last I had to comfort them on the journey.”
“Yes, senorita,” adds the doctor, “and something quite as bad, if not worse. Our bottles are empty. The wine is out as well as the weed.”
“In that,” interrupts the Colonel, “I’m happy to say you’re mistaken. It’s not so bad as you think, doctor. True, the pigskin has collapsed; for the throat of the huge Texan was as difficult to saturate as the most parched spot on the Staked Plain. Finding it so, I took occasion to abstract a good large gourd, and set it surreptitiously aside. I did that to meet emergencies. As one seems to have arisen, I think the hidden treasure may now be produced.”
Saying this, the colonel steps out of the room, soon returning with a large calabash bottle.
Conchita is summoned, and directed to bring drinking cups, which she does.
Miranda, pouring out the wine says,—
“This will cheer us; and, in truth, we all need cheering. I fancy there’s enough to last us till Manuel makes his reappearance with a fresh supply. Strange his not having returned. He’s had time to do all his bargainings and been back three days ago. I hoped to see him home before our friends took departure, so that I could better have provided them for their journey. They’ll stand a fair chance of being famished.”
“No fear of that,” puts in Don Prospero.
“Why do you say so, doctor?”
“Because of the rifle I gave to Señor Gualtero. With it he will be able to keep both provisioned. ’Tis marvellous how he can manage it. He has killed bits of birds without spoiling their skins or even ruffling a feather. I’m indebted to him for some of my best specimens. So long as he carries a gun, with ammunition to load it, you need have no fear he or his companion will perish from hunger, even on the Llano Estacado.”
“About that,” rejoins Miranda, “I think we need have no uneasiness. Beyond lies the thing to be apprehended—not on the desert, but amid cultivated fields, in the streets of towns, in the midst of so-called civilisation. There will be their real danger.”
For some time the three are silent, their reflections assuming a sombre hue, called forth by the colonel’s words.
But the doctor, habitually light-hearted, soon recovers, and makes an effort to imbue the others with cheerfulness like his own.
“Senorita,” he says, addressing himself to Adela, “your guitar, hanging there against the wall, seems straining its strings as if they longed for the touch of your fair fingers. You’ve been singing every night for the last month, delighting us all I hope you won’t be silent now that your audience is reduced, but will think it all the more reason for bestowing your favours on the few that remain.”
To the gallant speech of pure Castilian idiom, the young lady answers with a smile expressing assent, at the same time taking hold of her guitar. As she reseats herself, and commences tuning the instrument, a string snaps.
It seems an evil omen; and so all three regard it, though without knowing why. It is because, like the strings of the instrument, their hearts are out of tune, or rather attuned to a presentiment which oppresses them.
The broken string is soon remedied by a knot; this easily done. Not so easy to restore the tranquillity of thought disturbed by its breaking.
No more does the melancholy song which succeeds. Even to that far land has travelled the strain of the “Exile of Erin.” Its appropriateness to their own circumstances suggesting itself to the Mexican maiden, she sings—
Sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.
Sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.
“Dear Adela!” interrupts Miranda. “That song is too sad. We’re already afflicted with its spirit. Change it for one more cheerful. Give us a lay of the Alhambra—a battle-song of the Cid or the Campeador—something patriotic and stirring.”
Obedient to her brother’s request, the young girl changes tune and song, now pouring forth one of those inimitable lays for which the language of Cervantes is celebrated.
Despite all, the heaviness of heart remains, pressing upon those who listen as on her who sings. Adela’s voice appears to have lost its accustomed sweetness, while the strings of her guitar seem equally out of tune.
All at once, while in the middle of her song, the two bloodhounds, that have been lying on the floor at her feet, start from their recumbent position, simultaneously giving utterance to a growl, and together rush out through the open door.
The singing is instantly brought to an end; while Don Valerian and the doctor rise hastily from their chairs.
The bark of watch-dog outside some quiet farmhouse, amidst the homes of civilisation, can give no idea of the startling effect which the same sound calls forth on the far Indian frontier—nothing like the alarm felt by the dwellers in that lone ranche. To add to it, they hear a hoof striking on the stones outside—that of either horse or mule. It cannot be Lolita’s; the mustang mare is securely stalled, and the hoof-stroke comes not from the stable. There are no other animals. Their late guests have taken away the two saddle mules, while themulas de cargaare with the messenger, Manuel.
“It’s he come back!” exclaims the doctor. “We ought to be rejoiced instead of scared. Come, Don Valerian! we shall have our smoke yet before going to bed.”
“It’s not Manuel,” answers Miranda. “The dogs would have known him before this. Hear how they keep on baying! Ha! what’s that? Chico’s voice! Somebody has caught hold of him!”
A cry from the peon outside, succeeded by expostulations, as if he was struggling to escape—his voice commingled with shrill screams from Conchita—are sounds almost simultaneous.
Don Valerian strides back into the room and lays hold of his sword, the doctor clutching at the first weapon that presents itself.
But weapons are of no avail where there are not enough hands to wield them.
Into the cabin lead two entrance doors—one front, the other back—and into both is seen pouring a stream of armed men, soldiers in uniform.
Before Miranda can disengage his sword from its scabbard, a perfectchevaux-de-friseof lance-points are within six inches of his breast, while the doctor is similarly menaced.
Both perceive that resistance will be idle. It can only end in their instant impalement.
“Surrender, rebels!” cries a voice rising above the din.
“Drop your weapons, and at once, if you wish your lives spared! Soldiers, disarm them!”
Miranda recognises the voice. Perhaps, had he done so sooner, he would have held on to his sword, and taken the chances of a more protracted and desperate resistance.
It is too late. As the weapon is wrested from his grasp, he sees standing before him the man of all others he has most reason to fear—Gil Uraga!
Chapter Fifty Three.A Sleepless Night.All night long Hamersley and the hunter remain upon the summit of the mound. It is a night of dread anxiety, seeming to them an age.They think not of taking sleep—they could not. There is that in their minds that would keep them wakeful if they had not slept for a week. Time passing does not lessen their suspense. On the contrary, it grows keener, becoming an agony almost unendurable.To escape from it, Hamersley half forms the resolution to descend the hill and endeavour to steal past the sentinels. If discovered, to attack them boldly, and attempt cutting a way through; then on into the valley, and take such chances as may turn up for the rescue of the refugees.Putting it to his companion, the latter at once offers opposing counsel. It would be more than rashness—sheer madness. At least a dozen soldiers have been left on picket at the summit of the pass. Standing or sitting, they are scattered all over the ground. It would be impossible for anyone going down the gorge to get past them unperceived; and for two men to attack twelve, however courageous the former and cowardly the latter, the odds would be too great.“I wouldn’t mind it for all that,” says Walt, concluding his response to the rash proposal, “ef thar war nothin’ more to be did beyont. But thar is. Even war we to cut clar through, kill every skunk o’ ’em, our work ’ud be only begun. Thar’s two score to meet us below. What ked we do wi’ ’em? No, Frank; we mout tackle these twelve wi’ some sort o’ chance, but two agin forty! It’s too ugly a odds. No doubt we ked drop a good grist o’ ’em afore goin’ under, but in the eend they’d git the better o’ us—kill us to a sartinty.”“It’s killing me to stay here. Only to think what the ruffians may be doing at this moment! Adela—”“Don’t gie yur mind to thinkin’ o’ things now. Keep your thoughts for what we may do arterward. Yur Adela ain’t goin’ to be ate up that quick, nor yet my Concheeter. They’ll be tuk away ’long wi’ t’others as prisoners. We kin foller, and trust to some chance o’ bein’ able to git ’em out o’ the clutches o’ the scoundrels.”Swayed by his comrade’s counsel, somewhat tranquillised by it, Hamersley resigns himself to stay as they are. Calmer reflection convinces him there is no help for it. The alternative, for an instant entertained, would be to rush recklessly on death, going into its very jaws.They lie along the ground listening, now and then standing up and peering through the branches at the sentries below. For a long while they hear nothing save the calls of the card-players, thickly interlarded withcarajoz, chingaras, and other blasphemous expressions. But just after the hour of midnight other sounds reach their ears, which absorb all their attention, taking it away from the gamesters.Up out of the valley, borne upon the buoyant atmosphere, comes the baying of bloodhounds. In echo it reverberates along the façade of the cliff, for a time keeping continuous. Soon after a human voice, quickly followed by a second; these not echoes or repetitions of the same; for one is the coarse guttural cry of a man, the other a scream in the shrill treble of of a woman. The first is the shout of surprise uttered by Chico, the second the shriek of alarm sent forth by Conchita.With hearts audibly beating, the listeners bend their ears to catch what may come next, both conjecturing the import of the sounds that have already reached them, and this with instinctive correctness. Walt is the first to give speech to his interpretation of it.“They’re at the shanty now,” he says, in a whisper. “The two houn’s guv tongue on hearin’ ’em approach. That fust shout war from the Injun Cheeko; and the t’other air hern—my gurl’s. Durnation! if they hurt but a he’r o’ her head—Wagh! what’s the use o’ my threetenin’?”As if seeing his impotence, the hunter suddenly ceases speech, again setting himself to listen. Hamersley, without heeding him, is already in this attitude.And now out of the valley arise other sounds, not all of them loud. The stream, here and there falling in cataracts, does something to deaden them. Only now and then there is the neigh of a horse, and intermittently the bark of one of the bloodhounds, as if these animals had yielded, but yet remain hostile to the intruders. They hear human voices, too, but no shout following that of Chico, and no scream save the one sent up by Conchita.There is loud talk, a confusion of speakers, but no report of firearms. This last is tranquillising. A shot at that moment heard by Hamersley would give him more uneasiness than if the gun were aimed at himself.“Thank God!” he gasps out, after a long spell of listening, “Miranda has made no resistance. He’s seen it would be no use, and has quietly surrendered. I suppose it’s all over now, and they are captives.”“Wal, better thet than they shed be corpses,” is the consolatory reflection of the hunter. “So long as thar’s breath left in thar bodies we kin hev hope, as I sayed arready. Let’s keep up our hearts by thinkin’ o’ the fix we war in atween the wagguns, an’ arterwards thet scrape in the cave. We kim clar out o’ both in a way we mout call mirakelous, an’ we may yit git them clar in someat the same fashion. ’Slong’s I’ve got my claws roun’ the stock o’ a good gun, wi’ plenty o’ powder and lead, I ain’t a-goin’ to deespar. We’ve both got that, tharfor niver say die!”The hunter’s quaint speech is encouraging; but for all, it does not hinder him and his comrade from soon after returning to a condition of despondency, if not actual despair.A feeling which holds possession of them till the rising of the sun, and on till it reaches meridian.When the day breaks, with eyes anxiously scrutinising, they look down into the valley. A mist hangs over the stream, caused by the spray of its cataracts.Lifting at length, there is displayed a scene not very different from what they have been expecting.Around the ranche they see horses picketed and soldiers moving among them or standing in groups apart; in short, a picture of military life in “country quarters.”Their point of view is too far off to identify individual forms or note the exact action carried on. This last, left to conjecture, is filled up by fancies of the most painful kind.For long hours are they constrained to endure them—up to that of noon. Then, the notes of a bugle, rising clear above the hissing of the cascades, foretell a change in the spectacle. It is the call, “Boots and saddles!” The soldiers are seen caparisoning their horses and standing by the stirrup.Another blast gives the order to “Mount!” Soon after, the “Forward!” Then the troop files off from the front of the jacal, disappearing under the trees like a gigantic glittering serpent. The white drapery of a woman’s dress is seen fluttering at its head, as if the reptile had seized upon some tender prey—a dove from the cote—and was bearing it off to its slimy lair.For another half-hour the two men on the mound wait with nervous impatience. It requires this time to make the ascent from the centre of the valley to the upper plain. After entering among the trees, the soldiers and their captives are out of sight; but the clattering of their horses’ hoofs can be heard as they strike upon the rock-strewn path. Once or twice a trumpet sound proclaims their movements upon the march.At length the head of the troop appears, the leading files following one after the other along the narrow ledge. As they approach the summit of the pass the track widens, admitting a formation “by twos.” At the trumpet call they change to this, a single horseman riding at their head.He is now near enough for his features to be distinguished, and Hamersley’s heart strikes fiercely against his ribs as he recognises them. If he had any doubt before, it is set at rest now. He sees Gil Uraga, certain of his being the man who caused the destruction of his caravan. His own horse, ridden by the robber, is proof conclusive of the crime.He takes note that the lancer colonel is dressed in splendid style, very different from the dust-stained cavalier who the day before passed over the desert plain. Now he appears in a gorgeous laced uniform, with lancer cap and plume, gold cords and aiguillettes dangling adown his breast; for he has this morning made his toilet with care, in consideration of the company in which he intends travelling.Neither Hamersley nor the hunter hold their eyes long upon him; they are both looking for another individual—each his own. These soon make their appearance, their white dresses distinguishable amid the darker uniforms. During the march their position has been changed. They are now near the centre of the troop, the young lady upon her own mare Lolita, while the Indian damsel is mounted on a mule. They are free, both hand and limb, but a file in front, with another behind, have charge of them. Farther rearward is another group, more resembling captives. This is composed of three men upon mules, fast bound to saddle and stirrup, two of them having their arms pinioned behind their backs. Their animals are led each by a trooper who rides before. The two about whose security such precaution has been taken are Don Valerian and the doctor, the third, with his arms free, is Chico. His fellow-servant Manuel, also on mule-back, is following not far behind, but in his attitude or demeanour there is nothing to tell of the captive. If at times he looks gloomy, it is when he reflects upon his black treason and infamous ingratitude. Perhaps he has repented, or deems the prospect not so cheerful as expected. After all, what will be his reward? He has ruined his master and many others beside, but this will not win him the love of Conchita.The spectators feel somewhat relieved as Colonel Miranda comes in sight. Still more as the march brings him nearer, and it can be seen that he sits his horse with no sign of having received any injury; and neither has Don Prospero. The elaborate fastenings are of themselves evidences that no hurt has happened to them. It has been a capture without resistance, as their friends hoped it would, their fears having been of a conflict to end in the death of the exiles.One by one, and two by two, the troops come filing on, till the leader is opposite the spot where the two spectators stand crouching among the trees. These are dwarf cedars, and give the best cover for concealment. Thoroughly screened by their thickly-set boughs and dense dark foliage, Hamersley and the hunter command a clear view of everything below. The distance to the summit of the pass is about two hundred yards in a slanting direction.As the lancer colonel approaches the spot where the picket is posted, he halts and gives an order. It is for the guard to fall in along with the rest of the troop.At this moment a similar thought is in the minds of the two men whose eyes are upon him from above. Wilder is the first to give expression to it. He does so in an undertone,—“Ef we ked trust the carry o’ our rifles, Frank.”“I was thinking of it,” is the rejoinder, equally earnest. “We can’t I’m afraid it’s too far.”“I weesh I only had my old gun; she’d a sent a bullet furrer than that. A blue pill inter his stomach ’ud simplerfy matters consid’rable. ’Tall events it ’ud git your gurl out o’ danger, and mayhap all on ’em. I b’lieve the hul clanjamfery o’ them spangled jay birds ’ud run at hearin’ a shot. Then we ked gie ’em a second, and load an’ fire half a dozen times afore they could mount up hyar—if they’d dar to try it. Ah! it’s too fur. The distance in these hyar high purairas is desprit deceivin’. Durned pity we kedn’t do it. I fear we can’t.”“If we should miss, then—”“Things ’ud only be wuss. I reck’n we’d better let’m slide now, and foller arter. Thar boun’ straight for the Del Norte; but whether or no, we kin eesy pick up thar trail.”Hamersley still hesitates, his fingers alternately tightening on his gun, and then relaxing. His thoughts are flowing in a quick current—too quick for cool deliberation. He knows he can trust his own aim, as well as that of his comrade. But the distance is doubtful, and the shots might fall short. Then it would be certain death to them; for the situation is such that there could be no chance to escape, with fifty horsemen to pursue, themselves mounted upon mules, and therewith be reached without difficulty. They might defend themselves on the mound, but not for long. Two against fifty, they would soon be overpowered. After all, it will be better to let the troop pass on. So counsels the ex-Ranger, pointing out that the prisoners will be carried on to New Mexico—to Albuquerque, of course. He and his comrade are Americans, and not proscribed there. They can follow without fear. Some better opportunity may arise for rescuing the captives. Their prison may offer this; and from what they have heard of such places it is probable enough. A golden key is good for opening the door of any gaol in Mexico.Only one thought hinders Hamersley from at once giving way to this reasoning—the thought of his betrothed being in such company—under such an escort, worse than unprotected!Once more he scans the distance that separates him from the soldiers, his gun tightly grasped.Could their colonel but suspect his proximity at that moment, and what is passing through his mind, he would sit with little confidence in his saddle, bearing himself less pompously.Caution, backed by the ex-Ranger’s counsel, asserts its sway, and the Kentuckian relaxes his grasp on the gun, dropping its butt to the ground.The last files, having cleared the gap, are formed into a more compact order; when, the bugle again sounding “Forward,” the march is resumed, the troop striking off over the plain in the direction whence it came.
All night long Hamersley and the hunter remain upon the summit of the mound. It is a night of dread anxiety, seeming to them an age.
They think not of taking sleep—they could not. There is that in their minds that would keep them wakeful if they had not slept for a week. Time passing does not lessen their suspense. On the contrary, it grows keener, becoming an agony almost unendurable.
To escape from it, Hamersley half forms the resolution to descend the hill and endeavour to steal past the sentinels. If discovered, to attack them boldly, and attempt cutting a way through; then on into the valley, and take such chances as may turn up for the rescue of the refugees.
Putting it to his companion, the latter at once offers opposing counsel. It would be more than rashness—sheer madness. At least a dozen soldiers have been left on picket at the summit of the pass. Standing or sitting, they are scattered all over the ground. It would be impossible for anyone going down the gorge to get past them unperceived; and for two men to attack twelve, however courageous the former and cowardly the latter, the odds would be too great.
“I wouldn’t mind it for all that,” says Walt, concluding his response to the rash proposal, “ef thar war nothin’ more to be did beyont. But thar is. Even war we to cut clar through, kill every skunk o’ ’em, our work ’ud be only begun. Thar’s two score to meet us below. What ked we do wi’ ’em? No, Frank; we mout tackle these twelve wi’ some sort o’ chance, but two agin forty! It’s too ugly a odds. No doubt we ked drop a good grist o’ ’em afore goin’ under, but in the eend they’d git the better o’ us—kill us to a sartinty.”
“It’s killing me to stay here. Only to think what the ruffians may be doing at this moment! Adela—”
“Don’t gie yur mind to thinkin’ o’ things now. Keep your thoughts for what we may do arterward. Yur Adela ain’t goin’ to be ate up that quick, nor yet my Concheeter. They’ll be tuk away ’long wi’ t’others as prisoners. We kin foller, and trust to some chance o’ bein’ able to git ’em out o’ the clutches o’ the scoundrels.”
Swayed by his comrade’s counsel, somewhat tranquillised by it, Hamersley resigns himself to stay as they are. Calmer reflection convinces him there is no help for it. The alternative, for an instant entertained, would be to rush recklessly on death, going into its very jaws.
They lie along the ground listening, now and then standing up and peering through the branches at the sentries below. For a long while they hear nothing save the calls of the card-players, thickly interlarded withcarajoz, chingaras, and other blasphemous expressions. But just after the hour of midnight other sounds reach their ears, which absorb all their attention, taking it away from the gamesters.
Up out of the valley, borne upon the buoyant atmosphere, comes the baying of bloodhounds. In echo it reverberates along the façade of the cliff, for a time keeping continuous. Soon after a human voice, quickly followed by a second; these not echoes or repetitions of the same; for one is the coarse guttural cry of a man, the other a scream in the shrill treble of of a woman. The first is the shout of surprise uttered by Chico, the second the shriek of alarm sent forth by Conchita.
With hearts audibly beating, the listeners bend their ears to catch what may come next, both conjecturing the import of the sounds that have already reached them, and this with instinctive correctness. Walt is the first to give speech to his interpretation of it.
“They’re at the shanty now,” he says, in a whisper. “The two houn’s guv tongue on hearin’ ’em approach. That fust shout war from the Injun Cheeko; and the t’other air hern—my gurl’s. Durnation! if they hurt but a he’r o’ her head—Wagh! what’s the use o’ my threetenin’?”
As if seeing his impotence, the hunter suddenly ceases speech, again setting himself to listen. Hamersley, without heeding him, is already in this attitude.
And now out of the valley arise other sounds, not all of them loud. The stream, here and there falling in cataracts, does something to deaden them. Only now and then there is the neigh of a horse, and intermittently the bark of one of the bloodhounds, as if these animals had yielded, but yet remain hostile to the intruders. They hear human voices, too, but no shout following that of Chico, and no scream save the one sent up by Conchita.
There is loud talk, a confusion of speakers, but no report of firearms. This last is tranquillising. A shot at that moment heard by Hamersley would give him more uneasiness than if the gun were aimed at himself.
“Thank God!” he gasps out, after a long spell of listening, “Miranda has made no resistance. He’s seen it would be no use, and has quietly surrendered. I suppose it’s all over now, and they are captives.”
“Wal, better thet than they shed be corpses,” is the consolatory reflection of the hunter. “So long as thar’s breath left in thar bodies we kin hev hope, as I sayed arready. Let’s keep up our hearts by thinkin’ o’ the fix we war in atween the wagguns, an’ arterwards thet scrape in the cave. We kim clar out o’ both in a way we mout call mirakelous, an’ we may yit git them clar in someat the same fashion. ’Slong’s I’ve got my claws roun’ the stock o’ a good gun, wi’ plenty o’ powder and lead, I ain’t a-goin’ to deespar. We’ve both got that, tharfor niver say die!”
The hunter’s quaint speech is encouraging; but for all, it does not hinder him and his comrade from soon after returning to a condition of despondency, if not actual despair.
A feeling which holds possession of them till the rising of the sun, and on till it reaches meridian.
When the day breaks, with eyes anxiously scrutinising, they look down into the valley. A mist hangs over the stream, caused by the spray of its cataracts.
Lifting at length, there is displayed a scene not very different from what they have been expecting.
Around the ranche they see horses picketed and soldiers moving among them or standing in groups apart; in short, a picture of military life in “country quarters.”
Their point of view is too far off to identify individual forms or note the exact action carried on. This last, left to conjecture, is filled up by fancies of the most painful kind.
For long hours are they constrained to endure them—up to that of noon. Then, the notes of a bugle, rising clear above the hissing of the cascades, foretell a change in the spectacle. It is the call, “Boots and saddles!” The soldiers are seen caparisoning their horses and standing by the stirrup.
Another blast gives the order to “Mount!” Soon after, the “Forward!” Then the troop files off from the front of the jacal, disappearing under the trees like a gigantic glittering serpent. The white drapery of a woman’s dress is seen fluttering at its head, as if the reptile had seized upon some tender prey—a dove from the cote—and was bearing it off to its slimy lair.
For another half-hour the two men on the mound wait with nervous impatience. It requires this time to make the ascent from the centre of the valley to the upper plain. After entering among the trees, the soldiers and their captives are out of sight; but the clattering of their horses’ hoofs can be heard as they strike upon the rock-strewn path. Once or twice a trumpet sound proclaims their movements upon the march.
At length the head of the troop appears, the leading files following one after the other along the narrow ledge. As they approach the summit of the pass the track widens, admitting a formation “by twos.” At the trumpet call they change to this, a single horseman riding at their head.
He is now near enough for his features to be distinguished, and Hamersley’s heart strikes fiercely against his ribs as he recognises them. If he had any doubt before, it is set at rest now. He sees Gil Uraga, certain of his being the man who caused the destruction of his caravan. His own horse, ridden by the robber, is proof conclusive of the crime.
He takes note that the lancer colonel is dressed in splendid style, very different from the dust-stained cavalier who the day before passed over the desert plain. Now he appears in a gorgeous laced uniform, with lancer cap and plume, gold cords and aiguillettes dangling adown his breast; for he has this morning made his toilet with care, in consideration of the company in which he intends travelling.
Neither Hamersley nor the hunter hold their eyes long upon him; they are both looking for another individual—each his own. These soon make their appearance, their white dresses distinguishable amid the darker uniforms. During the march their position has been changed. They are now near the centre of the troop, the young lady upon her own mare Lolita, while the Indian damsel is mounted on a mule. They are free, both hand and limb, but a file in front, with another behind, have charge of them. Farther rearward is another group, more resembling captives. This is composed of three men upon mules, fast bound to saddle and stirrup, two of them having their arms pinioned behind their backs. Their animals are led each by a trooper who rides before. The two about whose security such precaution has been taken are Don Valerian and the doctor, the third, with his arms free, is Chico. His fellow-servant Manuel, also on mule-back, is following not far behind, but in his attitude or demeanour there is nothing to tell of the captive. If at times he looks gloomy, it is when he reflects upon his black treason and infamous ingratitude. Perhaps he has repented, or deems the prospect not so cheerful as expected. After all, what will be his reward? He has ruined his master and many others beside, but this will not win him the love of Conchita.
The spectators feel somewhat relieved as Colonel Miranda comes in sight. Still more as the march brings him nearer, and it can be seen that he sits his horse with no sign of having received any injury; and neither has Don Prospero. The elaborate fastenings are of themselves evidences that no hurt has happened to them. It has been a capture without resistance, as their friends hoped it would, their fears having been of a conflict to end in the death of the exiles.
One by one, and two by two, the troops come filing on, till the leader is opposite the spot where the two spectators stand crouching among the trees. These are dwarf cedars, and give the best cover for concealment. Thoroughly screened by their thickly-set boughs and dense dark foliage, Hamersley and the hunter command a clear view of everything below. The distance to the summit of the pass is about two hundred yards in a slanting direction.
As the lancer colonel approaches the spot where the picket is posted, he halts and gives an order. It is for the guard to fall in along with the rest of the troop.
At this moment a similar thought is in the minds of the two men whose eyes are upon him from above. Wilder is the first to give expression to it. He does so in an undertone,—
“Ef we ked trust the carry o’ our rifles, Frank.”
“I was thinking of it,” is the rejoinder, equally earnest. “We can’t I’m afraid it’s too far.”
“I weesh I only had my old gun; she’d a sent a bullet furrer than that. A blue pill inter his stomach ’ud simplerfy matters consid’rable. ’Tall events it ’ud git your gurl out o’ danger, and mayhap all on ’em. I b’lieve the hul clanjamfery o’ them spangled jay birds ’ud run at hearin’ a shot. Then we ked gie ’em a second, and load an’ fire half a dozen times afore they could mount up hyar—if they’d dar to try it. Ah! it’s too fur. The distance in these hyar high purairas is desprit deceivin’. Durned pity we kedn’t do it. I fear we can’t.”
“If we should miss, then—”
“Things ’ud only be wuss. I reck’n we’d better let’m slide now, and foller arter. Thar boun’ straight for the Del Norte; but whether or no, we kin eesy pick up thar trail.”
Hamersley still hesitates, his fingers alternately tightening on his gun, and then relaxing. His thoughts are flowing in a quick current—too quick for cool deliberation. He knows he can trust his own aim, as well as that of his comrade. But the distance is doubtful, and the shots might fall short. Then it would be certain death to them; for the situation is such that there could be no chance to escape, with fifty horsemen to pursue, themselves mounted upon mules, and therewith be reached without difficulty. They might defend themselves on the mound, but not for long. Two against fifty, they would soon be overpowered. After all, it will be better to let the troop pass on. So counsels the ex-Ranger, pointing out that the prisoners will be carried on to New Mexico—to Albuquerque, of course. He and his comrade are Americans, and not proscribed there. They can follow without fear. Some better opportunity may arise for rescuing the captives. Their prison may offer this; and from what they have heard of such places it is probable enough. A golden key is good for opening the door of any gaol in Mexico.
Only one thought hinders Hamersley from at once giving way to this reasoning—the thought of his betrothed being in such company—under such an escort, worse than unprotected!
Once more he scans the distance that separates him from the soldiers, his gun tightly grasped.
Could their colonel but suspect his proximity at that moment, and what is passing through his mind, he would sit with little confidence in his saddle, bearing himself less pompously.
Caution, backed by the ex-Ranger’s counsel, asserts its sway, and the Kentuckian relaxes his grasp on the gun, dropping its butt to the ground.
The last files, having cleared the gap, are formed into a more compact order; when, the bugle again sounding “Forward,” the march is resumed, the troop striking off over the plain in the direction whence it came.
Chapter Fifty Four.A Man and a Mule.Carefully as ever, Hamersley and the Texan keep to their place of concealment. They dare not do otherwise. The slope by which they ascended is treeless, the cedars only growing upon the summit. The gorge, too, by which they went up, and at the bottom of which their mules were left, debouches westwardly on the plain—the direction in which the lancers have ridden off. Any of these chancing to look back would be sure to catch sight of them if they show themselves outside the sheltering scrub. They have their apprehensions about their animals. It is a wonder these have not been seen by the soldiers. Although standing amid large boulders, a portion of the bodies of both are visible from the place mentioned. Fortunately for their owners, their colour closely resembled the rocks, and for which the troopers may have mistaken them. More probably, in their impatience to proceed upon the return route, none of them turn their eyes in that direction.An equally fortunate circumstance is the fact of the mules being muffled. Otherwise they might make themselves heard. Not a sound, either snort or hinney, escape them; not so much as the stamping of a hoof. They stand patient and silent, as if they themselves had fear of the men who are foes to their masters.For a full hour after the lancers have left these stay crouching behind the cedars. Even an hour does not take the troop out of sight. Cumbered with their captives, they march at slow, measured pace—a walk. Moreover, the pellucid atmosphere of the Staked Plain makes objects visible at double the ordinary distance. They are yet but five miles from the buttes, and, looking back, could see a man at their base, more surely one mounted.The two who are on the summit allow quite twenty minutes more to elapse before they think of leaving it. Then, deeming it safe, they prepare to descend.Still they are in no haste. Their intention is to follow the cavalcade, but by no means to overtake it. Nor do they care to keep it in sight, but the contrary, since that might beget danger to themselves. They anticipate no difficulty in taking up the trail of a troop like that Walt confidently declares he could do so were he blindfolded as their mules, adding, in characteristic phraseology, “I ked track the skunks by thar smell.”Saying this he proposes a “bit o’ brakwist,” a proposition his comrade assents to with eagerness. They have not eaten since dinner of the day before, their provisions having been left below, and the sharp morning air has given additional edge to their appetites. This at length draws them down to their mules.Taking off thetapadosto relieve the poor animals, who have somewhat suffered from being so scurvily treated, they snatch a hasty repast from their haversacks, then light their pipes for a smoke preparatory to setting forth. It is not yet time, for the soldiers are still in sight. They will wait till the last lance pennon sinks below the horizon.Whilst smoking, with eyes bent upon the receding troop, a sound salutes their ears, causing both to start. Fortunately they draw back behind one of the boulders, and there remain listening. What they heard was certainly a hoofstroke, whether of horse or mule—not of either of their own; these are by their sides, while the sound that has startled them appears to proceed from the other side of the mound, as if from the summit of the pass leading up out of the valley.They hear it again. Surely it is in the gorge that goes down, or at the head of it.Their conjecture is that one of the lancers has lagged behind, and is nowen routeto overtake the troop.If it be thus what course are they to pursue? He may look back and see themselves or their animals, then gallop on and report to his comrades.’Twould be a sinister episode, and they must take steps to prevent it.They do so by hastily restoring thetapadosand leading the mules into acul-de-sac, where they will be safe from observation.Again they hear the sound, still resembling a hoofstroke, but not of an animal making way over the ground in walk, trot, or gallop, but as one that refused to advance, and was jibbing.Between them and it there seems great space, a projecting spur of the butte from which they have just descended. By climbing the ridge for a score of yards or so they can see into the gorge that goes down to the valley.As the trampling still appears steadfast to the same point, their alarm gives place to curiosity, then impatience. Yielding to this, they scramble up the ridge that screens the kicking animal from their view.Craning their heads over its crest, they see that which, instead of causing further fear, rather gives them joy.Just under their eyes, in the gap of the gorge, a man is struggling with a mule. It is a contest of very common occurrence. The animal is saddled, and the man is making attempts to get his leg over the saddle. The hybrid is restive, and will not permit him to put foot in the stirrup. Ever as he approaches it shies back, rearing and pitching to the full length and stretch of the bridle-rein.Soon as seeing him, they upon the ridge recognise the man thus vexatiously engaged. He is the peon Manuel.“The durned scoundrel,” hissed Walt, through clenched teeth. “What’s kep him ahint, I wonder?”Hamersley responds not—he, too, conjecturing.“By Jehorum!” continues the hunter, “it looks like he’d stayed back apurpose. Thar ked been nothin’ to hinder him to go on ’long wi’ the rest. The questyun air what he’s stayed for. Some trick o’ trezun, same as he’s did afore.”“Something of the kind, I think,” rejoins Hamersley, still considering.“Wal, he’s wantin’ to get on bad enuf now, if the mule ’ud only let him. Say, Frank, shell I put a payriud to their conflict by sendin’ a bit o’ lead that way, I kin rub the varmint out by jest pressin’ my finger on this trigger.”“Do you mean the man or the mule?”“The man, in coorse. For what shed I shoot the harmless critter that’s been carryin’ him? Say the word, an’ I’ll send him to kingdom come in the twinklin’ o’ a goat’s tail. I’ve got sight on him. Shall I draw the trigger?”“For your life, don’t look yonder! They’re not yet out of sight. They might see the smoke, perhaps hear the crack. Comrade, you’re taking leave of your senses!”“Contemplatin’ that ugly anymal below air enough to make me. It a’most druv me out o’ my mind to think o’ his black ungratefulness. Now, seein’ hisself through the sight of a rifle ’ithin good shootin’ distance, shurely ye don’t intend we shud let him go!”“Certainly not. That would be ruin to ourselves. We must either kill or capture him. But it must be done without noise, or at least without firing a shot. They’re not far enough off yet.”“How d’ye devise, then?”“Let’s back to our mules, mount, and get round the ledge. We must head him before he gets out of the gap. Come on!”Both scramble back down the slope quicker than they ascended it, knowing there is good reason for haste—the best for their lives—every thing may depend on capturing the peon. Should he see them, and get away, it will be worse both for them and their dear ones.In two minutes the mules are again unmuffled and mounted. In two more they are entering the gap from outside, their masters on their backs.These, spurring the animals to speed, enter the gorge, their eyes everywhere. They reach the spot where the peon was so late seen, striving to get into his saddle. They see the turf torn up by the hybrid’s hoofs, but no man, no mule.
Carefully as ever, Hamersley and the Texan keep to their place of concealment. They dare not do otherwise. The slope by which they ascended is treeless, the cedars only growing upon the summit. The gorge, too, by which they went up, and at the bottom of which their mules were left, debouches westwardly on the plain—the direction in which the lancers have ridden off. Any of these chancing to look back would be sure to catch sight of them if they show themselves outside the sheltering scrub. They have their apprehensions about their animals. It is a wonder these have not been seen by the soldiers. Although standing amid large boulders, a portion of the bodies of both are visible from the place mentioned. Fortunately for their owners, their colour closely resembled the rocks, and for which the troopers may have mistaken them. More probably, in their impatience to proceed upon the return route, none of them turn their eyes in that direction.
An equally fortunate circumstance is the fact of the mules being muffled. Otherwise they might make themselves heard. Not a sound, either snort or hinney, escape them; not so much as the stamping of a hoof. They stand patient and silent, as if they themselves had fear of the men who are foes to their masters.
For a full hour after the lancers have left these stay crouching behind the cedars. Even an hour does not take the troop out of sight. Cumbered with their captives, they march at slow, measured pace—a walk. Moreover, the pellucid atmosphere of the Staked Plain makes objects visible at double the ordinary distance. They are yet but five miles from the buttes, and, looking back, could see a man at their base, more surely one mounted.
The two who are on the summit allow quite twenty minutes more to elapse before they think of leaving it. Then, deeming it safe, they prepare to descend.
Still they are in no haste. Their intention is to follow the cavalcade, but by no means to overtake it. Nor do they care to keep it in sight, but the contrary, since that might beget danger to themselves. They anticipate no difficulty in taking up the trail of a troop like that Walt confidently declares he could do so were he blindfolded as their mules, adding, in characteristic phraseology, “I ked track the skunks by thar smell.”
Saying this he proposes a “bit o’ brakwist,” a proposition his comrade assents to with eagerness. They have not eaten since dinner of the day before, their provisions having been left below, and the sharp morning air has given additional edge to their appetites. This at length draws them down to their mules.
Taking off thetapadosto relieve the poor animals, who have somewhat suffered from being so scurvily treated, they snatch a hasty repast from their haversacks, then light their pipes for a smoke preparatory to setting forth. It is not yet time, for the soldiers are still in sight. They will wait till the last lance pennon sinks below the horizon.
Whilst smoking, with eyes bent upon the receding troop, a sound salutes their ears, causing both to start. Fortunately they draw back behind one of the boulders, and there remain listening. What they heard was certainly a hoofstroke, whether of horse or mule—not of either of their own; these are by their sides, while the sound that has startled them appears to proceed from the other side of the mound, as if from the summit of the pass leading up out of the valley.
They hear it again. Surely it is in the gorge that goes down, or at the head of it.
Their conjecture is that one of the lancers has lagged behind, and is nowen routeto overtake the troop.
If it be thus what course are they to pursue? He may look back and see themselves or their animals, then gallop on and report to his comrades.
’Twould be a sinister episode, and they must take steps to prevent it.
They do so by hastily restoring thetapadosand leading the mules into acul-de-sac, where they will be safe from observation.
Again they hear the sound, still resembling a hoofstroke, but not of an animal making way over the ground in walk, trot, or gallop, but as one that refused to advance, and was jibbing.
Between them and it there seems great space, a projecting spur of the butte from which they have just descended. By climbing the ridge for a score of yards or so they can see into the gorge that goes down to the valley.
As the trampling still appears steadfast to the same point, their alarm gives place to curiosity, then impatience. Yielding to this, they scramble up the ridge that screens the kicking animal from their view.
Craning their heads over its crest, they see that which, instead of causing further fear, rather gives them joy.
Just under their eyes, in the gap of the gorge, a man is struggling with a mule. It is a contest of very common occurrence. The animal is saddled, and the man is making attempts to get his leg over the saddle. The hybrid is restive, and will not permit him to put foot in the stirrup. Ever as he approaches it shies back, rearing and pitching to the full length and stretch of the bridle-rein.
Soon as seeing him, they upon the ridge recognise the man thus vexatiously engaged. He is the peon Manuel.
“The durned scoundrel,” hissed Walt, through clenched teeth. “What’s kep him ahint, I wonder?”
Hamersley responds not—he, too, conjecturing.
“By Jehorum!” continues the hunter, “it looks like he’d stayed back apurpose. Thar ked been nothin’ to hinder him to go on ’long wi’ the rest. The questyun air what he’s stayed for. Some trick o’ trezun, same as he’s did afore.”
“Something of the kind, I think,” rejoins Hamersley, still considering.
“Wal, he’s wantin’ to get on bad enuf now, if the mule ’ud only let him. Say, Frank, shell I put a payriud to their conflict by sendin’ a bit o’ lead that way, I kin rub the varmint out by jest pressin’ my finger on this trigger.”
“Do you mean the man or the mule?”
“The man, in coorse. For what shed I shoot the harmless critter that’s been carryin’ him? Say the word, an’ I’ll send him to kingdom come in the twinklin’ o’ a goat’s tail. I’ve got sight on him. Shall I draw the trigger?”
“For your life, don’t look yonder! They’re not yet out of sight. They might see the smoke, perhaps hear the crack. Comrade, you’re taking leave of your senses!”
“Contemplatin’ that ugly anymal below air enough to make me. It a’most druv me out o’ my mind to think o’ his black ungratefulness. Now, seein’ hisself through the sight of a rifle ’ithin good shootin’ distance, shurely ye don’t intend we shud let him go!”
“Certainly not. That would be ruin to ourselves. We must either kill or capture him. But it must be done without noise, or at least without firing a shot. They’re not far enough off yet.”
“How d’ye devise, then?”
“Let’s back to our mules, mount, and get round the ledge. We must head him before he gets out of the gap. Come on!”
Both scramble back down the slope quicker than they ascended it, knowing there is good reason for haste—the best for their lives—every thing may depend on capturing the peon. Should he see them, and get away, it will be worse both for them and their dear ones.
In two minutes the mules are again unmuffled and mounted. In two more they are entering the gap from outside, their masters on their backs.
These, spurring the animals to speed, enter the gorge, their eyes everywhere. They reach the spot where the peon was so late seen, striving to get into his saddle. They see the turf torn up by the hybrid’s hoofs, but no man, no mule.
Chapter Fifty Five.A Lagger Lagged.The surprise of the two men is but momentary; for there can be no mystery about the peon’s disappearance. He has simply gone down the ravine, and back into the valley. Is he on return to the house, which they know is now untenanted, and, if so, with what intent? Has he become so attached to the place as to intend prolonging his sojourn there? or has something arisen to make him discontented with the company he has been keeping, and so determined to get quit of it by hanging behind?Something of this sort was on their minds as they last saw him over the crest of the ridge. While in conflict with his mule, he was ever and anon turning his eyes towards the point where the soldiers must have been last seen by him; for from the gap in which he was these were no longer visible. Both Hamersley and Wilder had noticed an uneasy air about him at the time, attributing it to his vexation at being delayed by the obstinacy of the animal and the fear of being left behind. Now that he had mounted and taken the back-track, the cause must be different.“Thar’s somethin’ queery in what the coyoats doin’,” is Walt’s half-soliloquised observation; adding, “Though what he’s arter tain’t so eezy to tell. He must be tired o’ their kumpany, and want to get shet o’ it. He’ll be supposin’ they ain’t likely to kum back arter him; an’ I reck’n they won’t, seein’ they’ve got all out o’ him they need care for. Still, what ked he do stayin’ hyar by himself?”Walt is still ignorant of the peon’s partiality for his own sweetheart. He has had a suspicion of something, but not the deep, dire passion that burns in the Indian’s heart. Aware of this, he would not dwell on the probability of the man having any intention, any more than himself, remain behind now that Conchita is gone.“Arter all,” he continues, still speaking in half soliloquy, “I don’t think stayin’s his game. There’s somethin’ else at the bottom on’t.”“Can Uraga have sent him back on any errand?”“No, that ain’t it eyther. More like he’s good on a errand o’ his own. I reckon I ken guess it now. The traitur intends turnin’ thief as well—doin’ a leetle bit o’ stealin’ along wi’ his treason. Ye remember, Frank, thar war a goodish grit o’ valleyables in the shanty—the saynorita’s jeweltry an’ the like. Jest possyble, in the skrimmage, whiles they war making capter o’ thar prisoners, this ugly varmint tuk devantage o’ the confusion to secret a whun o’ thar gimcracks, an’s now goed back arter ’em.”“It seems probable enough. Still, he might have some other errand, and may not go on as far as the house. In which case, we may look for his return this way at any moment. It will never do for us to start upon their trail, leaving him coming in our rear. He would see us, and in the night might slip past and give them warning they were followed.”“All that air true. We must grup him now.”“Should we go down after him, or stay here till he comes up?”“Neythur o’ the two ways’ll do. He moutn’t kum along no time. If he’s got plunder he won’t try to overtake the sogers, but wait till they’re well out o’ his way. He knows the road to the Del Norte, and kin travel it by hisself.”“Then we should go down after him.”“Only one o’ us. If we both purceed to the shanty there’s be a chance o’ passin’ him on the way. He mout be in the timmer, an’, seein’ us, put back out hyar, an’ so head us. There’d no need o’ both for the capterin’ sech a critter as that. I’ll fetch him on his marrowbones by jest raisin’ this rifle. Tharfor, s’pose you stay hyar an’ guard this gap, while I go arter an’ grup him. I’m a’most sartin he’ll be at the shanty. Anyhow, he’s in the trap, and can’t get out till he’s hed my claws roun’ the scruff o’ his neck an’ my thumb on his thropple.”“Don’t kill him if you can help it. True he deserves to die; but we may want a word with him first. He may give information that will afterwards prove useful to us.”“Don’t be afeared, Frank. I shan’t hurt a har o’ his head, unless he reesists, then I must kripple him a bit. But he ain’t like to show fight, such a coyoat as he!”“All right, Walt. I’ll wait for you.”“You won’t hev long. Ye’d better take kiver back o’ them big stones to make sure o’ not bein’ seen by him, shed he by any chance slip past me. An’ keep yur ears open. Soon as I’ve treed him I’ll gie a whistle or two. When ye hear that ye can kim down.”After delivering this chapter of suggestions and injunctions, the ex-Ranger heads his mule down the pass, and is soon lost to his comrade’s sight as he turns off along the ledge of the cliff.Hamersley, himself inclined to caution, follows the direction last given, and rides back behind one of the boulders. Keeping in the saddle, he sits in silent meditation. Sad thoughts alone occupy his mind. His prospects are gloomy indeed; his forecast of the future dark and doubtful. He has but little hope of being able to benefit Don Valerian Miranda, and cannot be sure of rescueing his sister—his own betrothed—in time to avert that terrible catastrophe which he knows to be impending over her. He does not give it a name—he scarce dares let it take shape in his thoughts.Nearly half-an-hour is spent in this painful reverie. He is aroused from it by a sound which ascends out of the valley. With a start of joy he recognises the signal his comrade promised to send him. The whistle is heard in three distinct “wheeps,” rising clear above the hoarser sibillations of the cascades. From the direction he can tell it comes from the neighbourhood of the house; but, without waiting to reflect whither, he spurs his mule out, and rides down the pass as rapidly as possible.On reaching the level below he urges the animal to a gallop, and soon arrives at the ranche.There, as expected, he finds his companion, with the peon a captive.The two, with their mules, form a tableau in front of the untenanted dwelling.The ex-Ranger is standing in harangue attitude, slightly bent forward, his body propped by his rifle, the butt of which rests upon the ground. At his feet is the Indian, lying prostrate, his ankles lashed together with a piece of cowhide rope, his wrists similarly secured.“I ked catched him a leetle sooner,” says Walt to his comrade, coming up, “but I war kewrious to find out what he war arter, an’ waited to watch him. That’s the explication o’ it.”He points to a large bag lying near, with its contents half poured out—a varied collection of articles of bijouterie and virtu, resembling a cornucopia; spilling its fruits. Hamersley recognises them as part of thepenatesof his late host.“Stolen goods,” continues Walt, “that’s what they air. An’ stole from a master he’s basely betrayed, may be to death. A mistress, besides, that’s been too kind to him. Darnation! that’s a tortiss-shell comb as belonged to my Concheeter, an’ a pair o’ slippers I ken swar wur here. What shed we do to him?”“What I intended,” responds Hamersley, assuming a curious air; “first make him confess—tell all he knows. When we’ve got his story out of him we can settle that next.”The confession is not very difficult to extract. With Wilder’s bowie-knife gleaming before his eyes, its blade within six inches of his breast, the wretch reveals all that has passed since the moment of his first meditating treason. He even makes declaration of the motive, knowing the nobility of the men who threatened him, and thinking by this means to obtain pardon.To strengthen his chances he goes still farther, turning traitor against him to whom he had sold himself—Uraga. He has overheard a conversation between the Mexican colonel and his adjutant, Lieutenant Roblez. It was to the effect that they do not intend taking their prisoners all the way back to Albuquerque. How they mean to dispose of them the peon does not know.He had but half heard the dialogue relating to Don Valerian and the doctor.The female prisoners! Can he tell anything of what is intended with them? Though not in these terms, the question is asked with this earnestness.The peon is unable to answer it. He does not think they are prisoners—certainly not Conchita. She is only being taken back along with her mistress. About the senorita, his mistress, he heard some words pass between Uraga and Roblez, but without comprehending their signification.In his own heart Hamersley can supply it—does so with dark, dire misgivings.
The surprise of the two men is but momentary; for there can be no mystery about the peon’s disappearance. He has simply gone down the ravine, and back into the valley. Is he on return to the house, which they know is now untenanted, and, if so, with what intent? Has he become so attached to the place as to intend prolonging his sojourn there? or has something arisen to make him discontented with the company he has been keeping, and so determined to get quit of it by hanging behind?
Something of this sort was on their minds as they last saw him over the crest of the ridge. While in conflict with his mule, he was ever and anon turning his eyes towards the point where the soldiers must have been last seen by him; for from the gap in which he was these were no longer visible. Both Hamersley and Wilder had noticed an uneasy air about him at the time, attributing it to his vexation at being delayed by the obstinacy of the animal and the fear of being left behind. Now that he had mounted and taken the back-track, the cause must be different.
“Thar’s somethin’ queery in what the coyoats doin’,” is Walt’s half-soliloquised observation; adding, “Though what he’s arter tain’t so eezy to tell. He must be tired o’ their kumpany, and want to get shet o’ it. He’ll be supposin’ they ain’t likely to kum back arter him; an’ I reck’n they won’t, seein’ they’ve got all out o’ him they need care for. Still, what ked he do stayin’ hyar by himself?”
Walt is still ignorant of the peon’s partiality for his own sweetheart. He has had a suspicion of something, but not the deep, dire passion that burns in the Indian’s heart. Aware of this, he would not dwell on the probability of the man having any intention, any more than himself, remain behind now that Conchita is gone.
“Arter all,” he continues, still speaking in half soliloquy, “I don’t think stayin’s his game. There’s somethin’ else at the bottom on’t.”
“Can Uraga have sent him back on any errand?”
“No, that ain’t it eyther. More like he’s good on a errand o’ his own. I reckon I ken guess it now. The traitur intends turnin’ thief as well—doin’ a leetle bit o’ stealin’ along wi’ his treason. Ye remember, Frank, thar war a goodish grit o’ valleyables in the shanty—the saynorita’s jeweltry an’ the like. Jest possyble, in the skrimmage, whiles they war making capter o’ thar prisoners, this ugly varmint tuk devantage o’ the confusion to secret a whun o’ thar gimcracks, an’s now goed back arter ’em.”
“It seems probable enough. Still, he might have some other errand, and may not go on as far as the house. In which case, we may look for his return this way at any moment. It will never do for us to start upon their trail, leaving him coming in our rear. He would see us, and in the night might slip past and give them warning they were followed.”
“All that air true. We must grup him now.”
“Should we go down after him, or stay here till he comes up?”
“Neythur o’ the two ways’ll do. He moutn’t kum along no time. If he’s got plunder he won’t try to overtake the sogers, but wait till they’re well out o’ his way. He knows the road to the Del Norte, and kin travel it by hisself.”
“Then we should go down after him.”
“Only one o’ us. If we both purceed to the shanty there’s be a chance o’ passin’ him on the way. He mout be in the timmer, an’, seein’ us, put back out hyar, an’ so head us. There’d no need o’ both for the capterin’ sech a critter as that. I’ll fetch him on his marrowbones by jest raisin’ this rifle. Tharfor, s’pose you stay hyar an’ guard this gap, while I go arter an’ grup him. I’m a’most sartin he’ll be at the shanty. Anyhow, he’s in the trap, and can’t get out till he’s hed my claws roun’ the scruff o’ his neck an’ my thumb on his thropple.”
“Don’t kill him if you can help it. True he deserves to die; but we may want a word with him first. He may give information that will afterwards prove useful to us.”
“Don’t be afeared, Frank. I shan’t hurt a har o’ his head, unless he reesists, then I must kripple him a bit. But he ain’t like to show fight, such a coyoat as he!”
“All right, Walt. I’ll wait for you.”
“You won’t hev long. Ye’d better take kiver back o’ them big stones to make sure o’ not bein’ seen by him, shed he by any chance slip past me. An’ keep yur ears open. Soon as I’ve treed him I’ll gie a whistle or two. When ye hear that ye can kim down.”
After delivering this chapter of suggestions and injunctions, the ex-Ranger heads his mule down the pass, and is soon lost to his comrade’s sight as he turns off along the ledge of the cliff.
Hamersley, himself inclined to caution, follows the direction last given, and rides back behind one of the boulders. Keeping in the saddle, he sits in silent meditation. Sad thoughts alone occupy his mind. His prospects are gloomy indeed; his forecast of the future dark and doubtful. He has but little hope of being able to benefit Don Valerian Miranda, and cannot be sure of rescueing his sister—his own betrothed—in time to avert that terrible catastrophe which he knows to be impending over her. He does not give it a name—he scarce dares let it take shape in his thoughts.
Nearly half-an-hour is spent in this painful reverie. He is aroused from it by a sound which ascends out of the valley. With a start of joy he recognises the signal his comrade promised to send him. The whistle is heard in three distinct “wheeps,” rising clear above the hoarser sibillations of the cascades. From the direction he can tell it comes from the neighbourhood of the house; but, without waiting to reflect whither, he spurs his mule out, and rides down the pass as rapidly as possible.
On reaching the level below he urges the animal to a gallop, and soon arrives at the ranche.
There, as expected, he finds his companion, with the peon a captive.
The two, with their mules, form a tableau in front of the untenanted dwelling.
The ex-Ranger is standing in harangue attitude, slightly bent forward, his body propped by his rifle, the butt of which rests upon the ground. At his feet is the Indian, lying prostrate, his ankles lashed together with a piece of cowhide rope, his wrists similarly secured.
“I ked catched him a leetle sooner,” says Walt to his comrade, coming up, “but I war kewrious to find out what he war arter, an’ waited to watch him. That’s the explication o’ it.”
He points to a large bag lying near, with its contents half poured out—a varied collection of articles of bijouterie and virtu, resembling a cornucopia; spilling its fruits. Hamersley recognises them as part of thepenatesof his late host.
“Stolen goods,” continues Walt, “that’s what they air. An’ stole from a master he’s basely betrayed, may be to death. A mistress, besides, that’s been too kind to him. Darnation! that’s a tortiss-shell comb as belonged to my Concheeter, an’ a pair o’ slippers I ken swar wur here. What shed we do to him?”
“What I intended,” responds Hamersley, assuming a curious air; “first make him confess—tell all he knows. When we’ve got his story out of him we can settle that next.”
The confession is not very difficult to extract. With Wilder’s bowie-knife gleaming before his eyes, its blade within six inches of his breast, the wretch reveals all that has passed since the moment of his first meditating treason. He even makes declaration of the motive, knowing the nobility of the men who threatened him, and thinking by this means to obtain pardon.
To strengthen his chances he goes still farther, turning traitor against him to whom he had sold himself—Uraga. He has overheard a conversation between the Mexican colonel and his adjutant, Lieutenant Roblez. It was to the effect that they do not intend taking their prisoners all the way back to Albuquerque. How they mean to dispose of them the peon does not know.
He had but half heard the dialogue relating to Don Valerian and the doctor.
The female prisoners! Can he tell anything of what is intended with them? Though not in these terms, the question is asked with this earnestness.
The peon is unable to answer it. He does not think they are prisoners—certainly not Conchita. She is only being taken back along with her mistress. About the senorita, his mistress, he heard some words pass between Uraga and Roblez, but without comprehending their signification.
In his own heart Hamersley can supply it—does so with dark, dire misgivings.