Chapter Sixty Nine.An Intercepted Dispatch.While the thrilling incident described is occurring in Uraga’s camp, the Rangers,en routealong the banks of the Pecos, are making all the haste in their power to reach it, Hamersley and Wilder every now and then saying some word to urge them on.In pursuit of such an enemy the Texans need no pressing. ’Tis only the irrestrainable impatience of the two whose souls are tortured by the apprehension of danger hovering over the heads of those dear to them. There is no difficulty in lifting the trail of the soldiers. Their horses are shod, and the late storm, with its torrent of rain, has saturated the earth, obliterating all old hoof-marks, so that those later made are not only distinct but conspicuous. So clear, that the craft of Cully and Wilder is not called into requisition. Every Ranger riding along the trail can take it up as fast as his horse is able to carry him.All see that Uraga has taken no pains to blind the track of his party. Why should he? He can have no suspicion of being pursued; certainly not by such pursuers.Along the trail, then, they ride rapidly; gratified to observe that it grows fresher as they advance for they are travelling thrice as fast as the men who made it.All at once they come to a halt—summoned to this by a sight which never fails to bring the most hurried traveller to a stand. They see before them the dead body of a man!It is lying on a sand-spit, which projects into the river. Upon this it has evidently been washed by the waters, now subsiding after the freshet, due to the late tornado. Beside it shows the carcase of a mule, deposited in similar manner. Both are conspicuous to the Rangers as they ride abreast of the spit; but their attention has been called to them long before by a flock of buzzards, some hovering above, others alighting upon the sandbank.Six or seven of the Texans, heading their horses down the sloping bank, ride towards the “sign”—so sad, yet terribly attractive. It would tempt scrutiny anywhere; but in the prairie wilderness, in that dangerous desert, it may be the means of guiding to a path of safety, or warding from one that is perilous.While those who have detached themselves proceed out upon the sand-bar, the main body remains upon the high bank, awaiting their return.The dead man proves to be an Indian, though not of thebravos, or savage tribes. Wearing a striped woollentalma, with coarse cotton shirt underneath, wide sheep-skin breeches, ex tending only a little below the knee, and rude raw-hide sandals upon his feet, he is evidently one of the Christianised aboriginals.There are no marks of violence on his body, nor yet on the carcase of the mule. The case is clear at a glance. It is one of drowning; and the swollen stream, still foaming past, is evidence eloquent of how it happened. On the man’s body there are no signs of rifling or robbery. His pockets, when turned inside out, yield such contents as might be expected on the person of anIndio manso.Only one thing, which, in the eyes of the examinators, appears out of place; a sheet of paper folded in the form of a letter, and sealed as such. It is saturated with water, stained to the hue of the still turbid stream. But the superscription can be read, “Por Barbato.”So much Cully and Wilder, who assist at the examination, can make out for themselves. But on breaking open the seal, and endeavouring to decipher what is written inside, both are at fault, as also the others along with them. The letter is in a language that is a sealed book to all. It is in Spanish.Without staying to attempt translating it, they return to the river’s bank, taking the piece of paper along, for the superscription has touched a tender point, and given rise to strange suspicions.Walt carries the wet letter, which, soon as rejoining their comrades, he places in the hands of Hamersley. The latter, translating, reads aloud:“Señor Barbato,—As soon as you receive this, communicate its contents to the chief. Tell him to meet me on the Arroyo de Alamo—same place as before—and that he is to bring with him twenty or thirty of his painted devils. The lesser number will be enough, as it’s not an affair of fighting. Come yourself with them. You will find me encamped with a small party—some female and two male captives. No matter about the women. It’s the men you have to deal with; and this is what you are to do. Charge upon our camp the moment you get sight of it; make your redskins shout like fiends, and ride forward, brandishing their spears. You won’t meet resistance, nor find any one on the ground when you’ve got there, only our two prisoners, who will be fast bound, and so cannot flee with us. What’s to be done with them, amigo mio, is the important part—in fact, the whole play. Tell the chief they are to be speared upon the spot, thrust through as soon as you get up to them. See to this yourself, lest there be any mischance; and I’ll take care you shall have your reward.”Made acquainted with the contents of this vile epistle, the rage of the Rangers, already sufficiently aroused, breaks from all bounds, and, for a while, seeks vent in fearful curses and asseverations. Though there is no name appended to the diabolical chapter of instructions, they have no doubt as to who has dictated it. Circumstances, present and antecedent, point to the man of whom they are in pursuit—Gil Uraga.And he to whom the epistle is superscribed, “Por Barbato.”A wild cry ascends simultaneously from the whole troop as they face round towards the renegade, who is still with them, and their prisoner. The wretch turns pale, as if all the blood of his body were abruptly drawn out. Without comprehending the exact import of that cry, he can read in fifty pairs of eyes glaring angrily on him that his last hour has come.The Rangers can have no doubt as to whom the letter has been addressed, as they can also tell why it has miscarried. For the renegade has already disclosed his name, not thinking it would thus strangely turn up to condemn him to death.Yes—to death; for, although promised life, with only the punishment of a prison, these conditions related to another criminality, and were granted without the full knowledge of his guilt—of connivance at a crime unparalleled for atrocity. His judges feel absolved from every stipulation of pardon or mercy; and, summoning to the judgment seat the quick, stem decreer—Lynch—in less than five minutes after the trembling wretch is launched into eternity!There is reason for this haste. They know that the letter has miscarried; but he who could dictate such a damnable epistle is a wild beast at large, who cannot be too soon destroyed.Leaving the body of Barbato to be devoured by wolves and vultures, they spur on along the Pecos, only drawing bridle to breathe their horses as the trail turns up at the bottom of a confluent creek—the Arroyo de Alamo.
While the thrilling incident described is occurring in Uraga’s camp, the Rangers,en routealong the banks of the Pecos, are making all the haste in their power to reach it, Hamersley and Wilder every now and then saying some word to urge them on.
In pursuit of such an enemy the Texans need no pressing. ’Tis only the irrestrainable impatience of the two whose souls are tortured by the apprehension of danger hovering over the heads of those dear to them. There is no difficulty in lifting the trail of the soldiers. Their horses are shod, and the late storm, with its torrent of rain, has saturated the earth, obliterating all old hoof-marks, so that those later made are not only distinct but conspicuous. So clear, that the craft of Cully and Wilder is not called into requisition. Every Ranger riding along the trail can take it up as fast as his horse is able to carry him.
All see that Uraga has taken no pains to blind the track of his party. Why should he? He can have no suspicion of being pursued; certainly not by such pursuers.
Along the trail, then, they ride rapidly; gratified to observe that it grows fresher as they advance for they are travelling thrice as fast as the men who made it.
All at once they come to a halt—summoned to this by a sight which never fails to bring the most hurried traveller to a stand. They see before them the dead body of a man!
It is lying on a sand-spit, which projects into the river. Upon this it has evidently been washed by the waters, now subsiding after the freshet, due to the late tornado. Beside it shows the carcase of a mule, deposited in similar manner. Both are conspicuous to the Rangers as they ride abreast of the spit; but their attention has been called to them long before by a flock of buzzards, some hovering above, others alighting upon the sandbank.
Six or seven of the Texans, heading their horses down the sloping bank, ride towards the “sign”—so sad, yet terribly attractive. It would tempt scrutiny anywhere; but in the prairie wilderness, in that dangerous desert, it may be the means of guiding to a path of safety, or warding from one that is perilous.
While those who have detached themselves proceed out upon the sand-bar, the main body remains upon the high bank, awaiting their return.
The dead man proves to be an Indian, though not of thebravos, or savage tribes. Wearing a striped woollentalma, with coarse cotton shirt underneath, wide sheep-skin breeches, ex tending only a little below the knee, and rude raw-hide sandals upon his feet, he is evidently one of the Christianised aboriginals.
There are no marks of violence on his body, nor yet on the carcase of the mule. The case is clear at a glance. It is one of drowning; and the swollen stream, still foaming past, is evidence eloquent of how it happened. On the man’s body there are no signs of rifling or robbery. His pockets, when turned inside out, yield such contents as might be expected on the person of anIndio manso.
Only one thing, which, in the eyes of the examinators, appears out of place; a sheet of paper folded in the form of a letter, and sealed as such. It is saturated with water, stained to the hue of the still turbid stream. But the superscription can be read, “Por Barbato.”
So much Cully and Wilder, who assist at the examination, can make out for themselves. But on breaking open the seal, and endeavouring to decipher what is written inside, both are at fault, as also the others along with them. The letter is in a language that is a sealed book to all. It is in Spanish.
Without staying to attempt translating it, they return to the river’s bank, taking the piece of paper along, for the superscription has touched a tender point, and given rise to strange suspicions.
Walt carries the wet letter, which, soon as rejoining their comrades, he places in the hands of Hamersley. The latter, translating, reads aloud:
“Señor Barbato,—As soon as you receive this, communicate its contents to the chief. Tell him to meet me on the Arroyo de Alamo—same place as before—and that he is to bring with him twenty or thirty of his painted devils. The lesser number will be enough, as it’s not an affair of fighting. Come yourself with them. You will find me encamped with a small party—some female and two male captives. No matter about the women. It’s the men you have to deal with; and this is what you are to do. Charge upon our camp the moment you get sight of it; make your redskins shout like fiends, and ride forward, brandishing their spears. You won’t meet resistance, nor find any one on the ground when you’ve got there, only our two prisoners, who will be fast bound, and so cannot flee with us. What’s to be done with them, amigo mio, is the important part—in fact, the whole play. Tell the chief they are to be speared upon the spot, thrust through as soon as you get up to them. See to this yourself, lest there be any mischance; and I’ll take care you shall have your reward.”
“Señor Barbato,—As soon as you receive this, communicate its contents to the chief. Tell him to meet me on the Arroyo de Alamo—same place as before—and that he is to bring with him twenty or thirty of his painted devils. The lesser number will be enough, as it’s not an affair of fighting. Come yourself with them. You will find me encamped with a small party—some female and two male captives. No matter about the women. It’s the men you have to deal with; and this is what you are to do. Charge upon our camp the moment you get sight of it; make your redskins shout like fiends, and ride forward, brandishing their spears. You won’t meet resistance, nor find any one on the ground when you’ve got there, only our two prisoners, who will be fast bound, and so cannot flee with us. What’s to be done with them, amigo mio, is the important part—in fact, the whole play. Tell the chief they are to be speared upon the spot, thrust through as soon as you get up to them. See to this yourself, lest there be any mischance; and I’ll take care you shall have your reward.”
Made acquainted with the contents of this vile epistle, the rage of the Rangers, already sufficiently aroused, breaks from all bounds, and, for a while, seeks vent in fearful curses and asseverations. Though there is no name appended to the diabolical chapter of instructions, they have no doubt as to who has dictated it. Circumstances, present and antecedent, point to the man of whom they are in pursuit—Gil Uraga.
And he to whom the epistle is superscribed, “Por Barbato.”
A wild cry ascends simultaneously from the whole troop as they face round towards the renegade, who is still with them, and their prisoner. The wretch turns pale, as if all the blood of his body were abruptly drawn out. Without comprehending the exact import of that cry, he can read in fifty pairs of eyes glaring angrily on him that his last hour has come.
The Rangers can have no doubt as to whom the letter has been addressed, as they can also tell why it has miscarried. For the renegade has already disclosed his name, not thinking it would thus strangely turn up to condemn him to death.
Yes—to death; for, although promised life, with only the punishment of a prison, these conditions related to another criminality, and were granted without the full knowledge of his guilt—of connivance at a crime unparalleled for atrocity. His judges feel absolved from every stipulation of pardon or mercy; and, summoning to the judgment seat the quick, stem decreer—Lynch—in less than five minutes after the trembling wretch is launched into eternity!
There is reason for this haste. They know that the letter has miscarried; but he who could dictate such a damnable epistle is a wild beast at large, who cannot be too soon destroyed.
Leaving the body of Barbato to be devoured by wolves and vultures, they spur on along the Pecos, only drawing bridle to breathe their horses as the trail turns up at the bottom of a confluent creek—the Arroyo de Alamo.
Chapter Seventy.A Scheme of Atrocity.Discomfited—chagrined by his discomfiture—burning with shame at the pitiful spectacle he has afforded to his followers—Uraga returns within his tent like an enraged tiger. Not as one robbed of its prey—he is still sure of this as ever; for he has other strings to his bow, and the weak one just snapped scarce signifies.But for having employed it to no purpose he now turns upon Roblez, who counselled the course that has ended so disastrously.The adjutant is a safe target on which to expend the arrows of his spleen, and to soothe his perturbed spirit he gives vent to it.In time, however, he gets somewhat reconciled; the sooner by gulping down two or three glasses of Catalan brandy. Along with the liquor, smoking, as if angry at his cigar, and consuming it through sheer spite, Roblez endeavours to soothe him by consolative speech.“What matters it, after all!” puts in the confederate. “It may be that everything has been for the best. I was wrong, no doubt, in advising as I did. Still, as you see, it’s gained us some advantage.”“Advantage! To me the very reverse. Only to think of being chased about my own camp by a man who is my prisoner! And before the eyes of everybody! A pretty story for our troopers to tell when they get back to Albuquerque! I, Colonel commanding, will be the jest of thecuartel!”“Nothing of the kind, colonel! There is nothing to jest about. Your prisoner chanced to possess himself of your sword—a thing no one could have anticipated. He did it adroitly, but then you were at the time unsuspecting. Disarmed, what else could you do but retreat from a man, armed, desperate, determined on taking your life. I’d like to see anyone who’d have acted otherwise. Under the circumstances only an insane man would keep his ground. The episode has been awkward, I admit. But it’s all nonsense—excuse me for saying so—your being sensitive about that part of it. And for the rest, I say again, it’s given us an advantage; in short, the very one you wanted, if I understand your intentions aright.”“In what way?”“Well, you desired a pretext, didn’t you?”“To do what?”“Court-martial your prisoners, condemn, and execute them. The attempt on your life will cover all this, so that the keenest scandal-monger may not open his lips. It will be perfectlyen regiefor you to hang or shoot Don Valerian Miranda—and, if you like, the doctor, too—after ten minutes’ deliberation over a drum’s head. I’m ready to organise the court according to your directions.”To this proposal Uraga replies with a significant smile, saying:“Your idea is not a bad one; but I chance to have a better. Much as I hate Miranda and wish him out of the way, I don’t desire to imbrue my hands in his blood; don’t intend to, as I’ve already hinted to you.”Roblez turns upon his superior officer a look of increduloussurprise, interrogating,—“You mean to take him back, and let him be tried in the regular way?”“I mean nothing of the kind.”“I thought it strange, after your telling me he would never leave this place alive.”“I tell you so still.”“Colonel! you take pleasure in mystifying me. If you’re not going to try your prisoners by court-martial, in what way are your words to be made good? Surely you don’t intend to have them shot without form of trial?”“I’ve said I won’t imbrue my hands in their blood.”“True, you’ve said that more than once, but without making things any clearer to me. You spoke of some plan. Perhaps I may now hear it?”“You shall. But first fill me out anothercapitaof the Catalan. That affair has made me thirsty as a sponge.”The adjutant, acting as Ganymede, pours out the liquor and hands the cup to his colonel, which the latter quaffs off. Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he proceeds with the promised explanation.“I spoke of events, incidents, and coincidences—didn’t I,ayadante?”“You did, Colonel.”“Well, suppose I clump them altogether, and give you the story in a simple narrative—a monologue? I know, friend Roblez, you’re not a man greatly given to speech; so it will save you the necessity of opening your lips till I’ve got through.”Roblez, usually taciturn, nods assent.“Before coming out here,” continues the Colonel, “I’d taken some steps. When you’ve heard what they are I fancy you’ll give me credit for strategy, or cunning, if you prefer so calling it. I told you I should take no prisoners back, and that Don Valerian and the doctor are to die. They will go to their graves without causing scandal to any of us. To avoid it I’ve engaged an executioner, who will do the job without any direct orders from me.”“Who?” asks the adjutant, forgetting his promise to be silent.“Don’t interrupt!”The subordinate resumes silence.“I think,” continues Uraga, in a tone of serio-comicality, “you have heard of a copper-coloured gentleman called ‘Horned Lizard.’ If I mistake not, you have the honour of his acquaintance. And, unless I’m astray in my reckoning, you’ll have the pleasure of seeing him here this evening, or at an early hour to-morrow morning. He will make his appearance in somewhat eccentric fashion. No doubt, he’ll come into our camp at a charging gallop, with some fifty or a hundred of his painted warriors behind him. And I shouldn’t wonder if they should spit some of our gay lancers on the points of their spears. That will depend on whether thesevalientesbe foolish enough to make resistance. I don’t think they will. More likely we shall see them gallop off at the first whoop of the Indian assailants. You and I, Roblez, will have to do the same; but, as gallant gentlemen, we must take the women along with us. To abandon them to the mercy of the savages, without making an effort to save them, were absolute poltroonery, and would never bear reporting in the settlements. Therefore, we must do our best to take the ladies along. Of course, we can’t be blamed for not being able to save our male prisoners. Their fate, I fear, will be for each to get half a dozen Comanche spears thrust through his body, or it may be a dozen. It’s sad to think of it, but such misfortunes cannot always be avoided. They are but the ordinary incidents of frontier life. Now,señor ayadante, do you comprehend my scheme?”“Since I am at length permitted to speak, I may say I do—at least, I have an obscure comprehension of it. Fairly interpreted, I take it to mean this. You have arranged with the Horned Lizard to make a counterfeit attack upon our camp—to shoot down or spear our poor devils of soldiers, if need be?”“Not the slightest need of his doing that, nor any likelihood of his being able to do it. They’ll run like good fellows at the first yell of the Indians. Have no apprehensions about them.”“In any case, the Horned Lizard is to settle the question with our captives, and take the responsibility off our hands. If I understand aright, that is the programme.”“It is.”
Discomfited—chagrined by his discomfiture—burning with shame at the pitiful spectacle he has afforded to his followers—Uraga returns within his tent like an enraged tiger. Not as one robbed of its prey—he is still sure of this as ever; for he has other strings to his bow, and the weak one just snapped scarce signifies.
But for having employed it to no purpose he now turns upon Roblez, who counselled the course that has ended so disastrously.
The adjutant is a safe target on which to expend the arrows of his spleen, and to soothe his perturbed spirit he gives vent to it.
In time, however, he gets somewhat reconciled; the sooner by gulping down two or three glasses of Catalan brandy. Along with the liquor, smoking, as if angry at his cigar, and consuming it through sheer spite, Roblez endeavours to soothe him by consolative speech.
“What matters it, after all!” puts in the confederate. “It may be that everything has been for the best. I was wrong, no doubt, in advising as I did. Still, as you see, it’s gained us some advantage.”
“Advantage! To me the very reverse. Only to think of being chased about my own camp by a man who is my prisoner! And before the eyes of everybody! A pretty story for our troopers to tell when they get back to Albuquerque! I, Colonel commanding, will be the jest of thecuartel!”
“Nothing of the kind, colonel! There is nothing to jest about. Your prisoner chanced to possess himself of your sword—a thing no one could have anticipated. He did it adroitly, but then you were at the time unsuspecting. Disarmed, what else could you do but retreat from a man, armed, desperate, determined on taking your life. I’d like to see anyone who’d have acted otherwise. Under the circumstances only an insane man would keep his ground. The episode has been awkward, I admit. But it’s all nonsense—excuse me for saying so—your being sensitive about that part of it. And for the rest, I say again, it’s given us an advantage; in short, the very one you wanted, if I understand your intentions aright.”
“In what way?”
“Well, you desired a pretext, didn’t you?”
“To do what?”
“Court-martial your prisoners, condemn, and execute them. The attempt on your life will cover all this, so that the keenest scandal-monger may not open his lips. It will be perfectlyen regiefor you to hang or shoot Don Valerian Miranda—and, if you like, the doctor, too—after ten minutes’ deliberation over a drum’s head. I’m ready to organise the court according to your directions.”
To this proposal Uraga replies with a significant smile, saying:
“Your idea is not a bad one; but I chance to have a better. Much as I hate Miranda and wish him out of the way, I don’t desire to imbrue my hands in his blood; don’t intend to, as I’ve already hinted to you.”
Roblez turns upon his superior officer a look of increduloussurprise, interrogating,—
“You mean to take him back, and let him be tried in the regular way?”
“I mean nothing of the kind.”
“I thought it strange, after your telling me he would never leave this place alive.”
“I tell you so still.”
“Colonel! you take pleasure in mystifying me. If you’re not going to try your prisoners by court-martial, in what way are your words to be made good? Surely you don’t intend to have them shot without form of trial?”
“I’ve said I won’t imbrue my hands in their blood.”
“True, you’ve said that more than once, but without making things any clearer to me. You spoke of some plan. Perhaps I may now hear it?”
“You shall. But first fill me out anothercapitaof the Catalan. That affair has made me thirsty as a sponge.”
The adjutant, acting as Ganymede, pours out the liquor and hands the cup to his colonel, which the latter quaffs off. Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he proceeds with the promised explanation.
“I spoke of events, incidents, and coincidences—didn’t I,ayadante?”
“You did, Colonel.”
“Well, suppose I clump them altogether, and give you the story in a simple narrative—a monologue? I know, friend Roblez, you’re not a man greatly given to speech; so it will save you the necessity of opening your lips till I’ve got through.”
Roblez, usually taciturn, nods assent.
“Before coming out here,” continues the Colonel, “I’d taken some steps. When you’ve heard what they are I fancy you’ll give me credit for strategy, or cunning, if you prefer so calling it. I told you I should take no prisoners back, and that Don Valerian and the doctor are to die. They will go to their graves without causing scandal to any of us. To avoid it I’ve engaged an executioner, who will do the job without any direct orders from me.”
“Who?” asks the adjutant, forgetting his promise to be silent.
“Don’t interrupt!”
The subordinate resumes silence.
“I think,” continues Uraga, in a tone of serio-comicality, “you have heard of a copper-coloured gentleman called ‘Horned Lizard.’ If I mistake not, you have the honour of his acquaintance. And, unless I’m astray in my reckoning, you’ll have the pleasure of seeing him here this evening, or at an early hour to-morrow morning. He will make his appearance in somewhat eccentric fashion. No doubt, he’ll come into our camp at a charging gallop, with some fifty or a hundred of his painted warriors behind him. And I shouldn’t wonder if they should spit some of our gay lancers on the points of their spears. That will depend on whether thesevalientesbe foolish enough to make resistance. I don’t think they will. More likely we shall see them gallop off at the first whoop of the Indian assailants. You and I, Roblez, will have to do the same; but, as gallant gentlemen, we must take the women along with us. To abandon them to the mercy of the savages, without making an effort to save them, were absolute poltroonery, and would never bear reporting in the settlements. Therefore, we must do our best to take the ladies along. Of course, we can’t be blamed for not being able to save our male prisoners. Their fate, I fear, will be for each to get half a dozen Comanche spears thrust through his body, or it may be a dozen. It’s sad to think of it, but such misfortunes cannot always be avoided. They are but the ordinary incidents of frontier life. Now,señor ayadante, do you comprehend my scheme?”
“Since I am at length permitted to speak, I may say I do—at least, I have an obscure comprehension of it. Fairly interpreted, I take it to mean this. You have arranged with the Horned Lizard to make a counterfeit attack upon our camp—to shoot down or spear our poor devils of soldiers, if need be?”
“Not the slightest need of his doing that, nor any likelihood of his being able to do it. They’ll run like good fellows at the first yell of the Indians. Have no apprehensions about them.”
“In any case, the Horned Lizard is to settle the question with our captives, and take the responsibility off our hands. If I understand aright, that is the programme.”
“It is.”
Chapter Seventy One.A Bootless Journey.Having returned to his original design—the scheme of atrocity so coolly and jestingly declared, Uraga takes steps towards its execution.The first is, to order his own horse, or rather that of Hamersley, to be saddled, bridled, and tied behind his own tent. The same for that ridden by Roblez. Also the mustang mare which belongs to Adela Miranda—her own “Lolita”—and the mule set apart for themestiza. The troop horses already caparisoned are to remain so.Ignorant of their object, the troopers wonder at these precautions, though not so much as might be expected. They are accustomed to receive mysterious commands, and obey them without cavil or question.Not one of the ten but would cut a throat at Gil Uraga’s bidding, without asking the reason why.The picket placed on a spin of the cliff has orders to signal if any one is seen coming up the creek. If Indians appear he is to gallop into the camp, and report in person.The alarm thus started will easily be fostered into a stampede, and at the onslaught of the savages the lancers will rush to their horses and ride off without offering resistance. In thesauve qui peutnone of them will give a thought to the two prisoners lying tied under the tree. These are to be left behind to the tender mercies of the Tenawa chief. It will be an act of gallantry to save the female captives by carrying them off. This Uraga reserves for himself, assisted by Roblez.Such is his scheme of vicarious assassination; in the atrocity of conception unequalled, almost incredible. He has no anxiety as to its success. For himself he is more than ever determined; while Roblez, restrained by the fiasco following his advice, no longer offers opposition.Uraga has no fear the Tenawa chief will fail him. He has never done so before, and will not now.The new proposal, which the colonel supposes to have reached the hands of Horned Lizard in that letter carried by Pedrillo, will be eagerly accepted. Barbato will bring the chief with his cut-throats to the Arroyo de Alamo, sure as there is a sun in the sky.It is but a question of time. They may come up at any hour—any minute; and having arranged all preliminaries, Uraga remains in his tent to await the cue for action. He little dreams at the moment he is thus expecting his red-skinned confederate, that the latter, along with the best braves of his band, has gone to the happy hunting grounds, while his go-between, Barbato, is in safe keeping elsewhere.As the hours pass, and no one is reported as approaching, he becomes impatient; for the time has long elapsed since the Tenawa chief should have been upon the spot.Chafing, he strides forth from the tent, and proceeds towards the place where the look-out has been stationed. Reaching it, he reconnoitres for himself, with a telescope he has taken along, to get a better view down the valley.At first, levelling the glass, no one can be seen. In the reach of open ground, dotted here and there with groves, there are deer browsing, and a grizzly bear is seen crossing between the cliffs, but no shape that resembles a human being.He is about lowering the telescope when a new form comes into its field of view—a horseman riding up the creek. No the animal is a mule. No matter the rider is a man.Keenly scrutinising, he perceives it is an Indian, though not one of the wild sort. His garb betokens him of the tamed.Another glance through the glass and his individuality declares itself, Uraga recognising him as one of the messengers sent to the Tenawas’ town. Not the principal, Pedrillo, but he of secondary importance, José.“Returning alone!” mutters the Mexican to himself. “What does that mean? Where can Pedrillo be? What keeps him behind, I wonder?”He continues wondering and conjecturing till José has ridden up to the spot, when, perceiving his master, the latter dismounts and approaches him.In the messenger’s countenance there is an expression of disappointment, and something more. It tells a tale of woe, with reluctance to disclose it.“Where is Pedrillo?” is the first question asked in anxious impatience.“Oh,señor coronel!” replies José, hat in hand, and trembling in every joint. “Pedrillo!Pobre Pedrillito!”“Well! Poor Pedrillito—what of him? Has anything happened to him?”“Yes, your excellency, a terrible mischance I fear to tell it you.”“Tell it, sirrah, and at once! Out with it, whatever it is!”“Alas, Pedrillo is gone!”“Gone—whither?”“Down the river.”“What river?”“The Pecos.”“Gone down the Pecos? On what errand?” inquired the colonel, in surprise.“On no errand, your excellency.”“Then what’s taken him down the Pecos? Why went he?”“Señor coronel, he has not gone of his own will. It is only his dead body that went; it was carried down by the flood.”“Drowned? Pedrillo drowned?”“Ay de mi! ’Tis true, as I tell you—too true,pobrecito.”“How did this happen, José?”“We were crossing at the ford, señor. The waters were up from anortethat’s just passed over the plains. The river was deep and running rapid, like a torrent, Pedrillo’smachostumbled, and was swept off. It was as much as mine could do to keep its legs. I think he must have got his feet stuck in the stirrups, for I could see him struggling alongside the mule till both went under. When they came to the surface both were drowned—dead. They floated on without making a motion, except what the current gave them as their bodies were tossed about by it. As I could do nothing there, I hastened here to tell you what happened.Pobre Pedrillito!”The cloud already darkening Uraga’s brow grows darker as he listens to the explanation. It has nothing to do with the death of Pedrillo, or compassion for his fate—upon which he scarce spends a thought—but whether there has been a miscarriage of that message of which the drowned man was the bearer. His next interrogatory, quickly put, is to get satisfied on this head.“You reached the Tenawa town?”“We did,señor coronel.”“Pedrillo carried a message to the Horned Lizard, with a letter for Barbato. You know that, I suppose?”“He told me so.”“Well, you saw him deliver the letter to Barbato?”“He did not deliver it to Barbato.”“To the chief, then?”“To neither, your Excellency. He could not.”“Could not! Why?”“They ere not there to receive it. They are no longer in this world—neither the Horned Lizard nor Barbato. Señor Coronel, the Tenawas have met with a great misfortune. They’ve had a fight with a party of Tejanos. The chief is killed, Barbato is killed, and nearly half of their braves. When Pedrillo and I reached the town we found the tribe in mourning, the women all painted black, with their hair cut off; the men who had escaped the slaughter cowed, and keeping concealed within their lodges.”A wild exclamation leaps from the lips of Uraga as he listens to these disclosures, his brow becoming blacker than ever.“But, Pedrillo,” he inquires, after a pause; “what did he say to them? You know the import of his message. Did he communicate it to the survivors?”“He did, your Excellency. They could not read your letter, but he told them what it was about. They were to meet you here, he said. But they refused to come. They were in too great distress about the death of their chief, and the chastisement they had received. They were in fear that the Tejanos would pursue them to their town; and were making preparations to flee from it when Pedrillo and myself came away.Pobre Pedrillito!”Uraga no longer stays listening to the mock humanity of his whining messenger. No more does he think of the drowned Pedrillo. His thoughts are now given to a new design. Murder by proxy has failed. For all that, it must still be done. To take counsel with his adjutant about the best mode of proceeding, he hastens back to the camp; plunges into his tent; and there becomes closeted—the lieutenant along with him.
Having returned to his original design—the scheme of atrocity so coolly and jestingly declared, Uraga takes steps towards its execution.
The first is, to order his own horse, or rather that of Hamersley, to be saddled, bridled, and tied behind his own tent. The same for that ridden by Roblez. Also the mustang mare which belongs to Adela Miranda—her own “Lolita”—and the mule set apart for themestiza. The troop horses already caparisoned are to remain so.
Ignorant of their object, the troopers wonder at these precautions, though not so much as might be expected. They are accustomed to receive mysterious commands, and obey them without cavil or question.
Not one of the ten but would cut a throat at Gil Uraga’s bidding, without asking the reason why.
The picket placed on a spin of the cliff has orders to signal if any one is seen coming up the creek. If Indians appear he is to gallop into the camp, and report in person.
The alarm thus started will easily be fostered into a stampede, and at the onslaught of the savages the lancers will rush to their horses and ride off without offering resistance. In thesauve qui peutnone of them will give a thought to the two prisoners lying tied under the tree. These are to be left behind to the tender mercies of the Tenawa chief. It will be an act of gallantry to save the female captives by carrying them off. This Uraga reserves for himself, assisted by Roblez.
Such is his scheme of vicarious assassination; in the atrocity of conception unequalled, almost incredible. He has no anxiety as to its success. For himself he is more than ever determined; while Roblez, restrained by the fiasco following his advice, no longer offers opposition.
Uraga has no fear the Tenawa chief will fail him. He has never done so before, and will not now.
The new proposal, which the colonel supposes to have reached the hands of Horned Lizard in that letter carried by Pedrillo, will be eagerly accepted. Barbato will bring the chief with his cut-throats to the Arroyo de Alamo, sure as there is a sun in the sky.
It is but a question of time. They may come up at any hour—any minute; and having arranged all preliminaries, Uraga remains in his tent to await the cue for action. He little dreams at the moment he is thus expecting his red-skinned confederate, that the latter, along with the best braves of his band, has gone to the happy hunting grounds, while his go-between, Barbato, is in safe keeping elsewhere.
As the hours pass, and no one is reported as approaching, he becomes impatient; for the time has long elapsed since the Tenawa chief should have been upon the spot.
Chafing, he strides forth from the tent, and proceeds towards the place where the look-out has been stationed. Reaching it, he reconnoitres for himself, with a telescope he has taken along, to get a better view down the valley.
At first, levelling the glass, no one can be seen. In the reach of open ground, dotted here and there with groves, there are deer browsing, and a grizzly bear is seen crossing between the cliffs, but no shape that resembles a human being.
He is about lowering the telescope when a new form comes into its field of view—a horseman riding up the creek. No the animal is a mule. No matter the rider is a man.
Keenly scrutinising, he perceives it is an Indian, though not one of the wild sort. His garb betokens him of the tamed.
Another glance through the glass and his individuality declares itself, Uraga recognising him as one of the messengers sent to the Tenawas’ town. Not the principal, Pedrillo, but he of secondary importance, José.
“Returning alone!” mutters the Mexican to himself. “What does that mean? Where can Pedrillo be? What keeps him behind, I wonder?”
He continues wondering and conjecturing till José has ridden up to the spot, when, perceiving his master, the latter dismounts and approaches him.
In the messenger’s countenance there is an expression of disappointment, and something more. It tells a tale of woe, with reluctance to disclose it.
“Where is Pedrillo?” is the first question asked in anxious impatience.
“Oh,señor coronel!” replies José, hat in hand, and trembling in every joint. “Pedrillo!Pobre Pedrillito!”
“Well! Poor Pedrillito—what of him? Has anything happened to him?”
“Yes, your excellency, a terrible mischance I fear to tell it you.”
“Tell it, sirrah, and at once! Out with it, whatever it is!”
“Alas, Pedrillo is gone!”
“Gone—whither?”
“Down the river.”
“What river?”
“The Pecos.”
“Gone down the Pecos? On what errand?” inquired the colonel, in surprise.
“On no errand, your excellency.”
“Then what’s taken him down the Pecos? Why went he?”
“Señor coronel, he has not gone of his own will. It is only his dead body that went; it was carried down by the flood.”
“Drowned? Pedrillo drowned?”
“Ay de mi! ’Tis true, as I tell you—too true,pobrecito.”
“How did this happen, José?”
“We were crossing at the ford, señor. The waters were up from anortethat’s just passed over the plains. The river was deep and running rapid, like a torrent, Pedrillo’smachostumbled, and was swept off. It was as much as mine could do to keep its legs. I think he must have got his feet stuck in the stirrups, for I could see him struggling alongside the mule till both went under. When they came to the surface both were drowned—dead. They floated on without making a motion, except what the current gave them as their bodies were tossed about by it. As I could do nothing there, I hastened here to tell you what happened.Pobre Pedrillito!”
The cloud already darkening Uraga’s brow grows darker as he listens to the explanation. It has nothing to do with the death of Pedrillo, or compassion for his fate—upon which he scarce spends a thought—but whether there has been a miscarriage of that message of which the drowned man was the bearer. His next interrogatory, quickly put, is to get satisfied on this head.
“You reached the Tenawa town?”
“We did,señor coronel.”
“Pedrillo carried a message to the Horned Lizard, with a letter for Barbato. You know that, I suppose?”
“He told me so.”
“Well, you saw him deliver the letter to Barbato?”
“He did not deliver it to Barbato.”
“To the chief, then?”
“To neither, your Excellency. He could not.”
“Could not! Why?”
“They ere not there to receive it. They are no longer in this world—neither the Horned Lizard nor Barbato. Señor Coronel, the Tenawas have met with a great misfortune. They’ve had a fight with a party of Tejanos. The chief is killed, Barbato is killed, and nearly half of their braves. When Pedrillo and I reached the town we found the tribe in mourning, the women all painted black, with their hair cut off; the men who had escaped the slaughter cowed, and keeping concealed within their lodges.”
A wild exclamation leaps from the lips of Uraga as he listens to these disclosures, his brow becoming blacker than ever.
“But, Pedrillo,” he inquires, after a pause; “what did he say to them? You know the import of his message. Did he communicate it to the survivors?”
“He did, your Excellency. They could not read your letter, but he told them what it was about. They were to meet you here, he said. But they refused to come. They were in too great distress about the death of their chief, and the chastisement they had received. They were in fear that the Tejanos would pursue them to their town; and were making preparations to flee from it when Pedrillo and myself came away.Pobre Pedrillito!”
Uraga no longer stays listening to the mock humanity of his whining messenger. No more does he think of the drowned Pedrillo. His thoughts are now given to a new design. Murder by proxy has failed. For all that, it must still be done. To take counsel with his adjutant about the best mode of proceeding, he hastens back to the camp; plunges into his tent; and there becomes closeted—the lieutenant along with him.
Chapter Seventy Two.A Mock Court-Martial.For the disaster that was overtaken the Tenawa chief and his warriors, Gil Uraga does not care a jot. True, by the death of Horned Lizard he has lost an ally who, on some future scheme of murder, might have been used to advantage; while Barbato, whose life he believes also taken, can no more do him service as agent in his intercourse with the red pirates of the prairie.It matters not much now. As military commander of a district he has attained power, enabling him to dispense with any left-handed assistance; and of late more than once has wished himself rid of such suspicious auxiliaries. Therefore, but for the frustration of his present plans, he would rather rejoice than grieve over the tidings brought by the returned emissary.His suit scorned, his scheme of assassination thwarted, he is as much as ever determined on the death of the two prisoners.In the first moments of his anger, after hearing José’s tale, he felt half inclined to rush upon Miranda, sword in hand, and settle the matter at once. But, while returning to the camp-ground, calmer reflections arose, restraining him from the dastardly act, and deciding him to carry out the other alternative, already conceived, but kept back as adernier ressort.“Sit down,camarado!” he says, addressing the adjutant on entering. “We must hold a court-martial, and that is too serious a ceremonial to be gone through without the customary forms. The members of the court should be seated.”The grim smile which accompanies his words shows that he means them in jest only as regards the manner of proceeding. For the earnestness of his intention there is that in his eyes—a fierce, lurid light, which Roblez can read.In rejoinder the adjutant asks,—“You are still resolved upon the death of the prisoners?”“Still resolved! Carramba! An idle question, after what has occurred! They die within the hour. We shall try, condemn, and then have them shot.”“I thought you had arranged it in a different way?”“So I had. But circumstances alter cases. There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, and I’ve just heard of one. The Horned Lizard has failed me.”“How so, colonel?”“You see that Indian outside. He’s one of my muleteers I’d sent as a messenger to the Tenawa town. He returns to tell me there’s no Horned Lizard in existence, and only a remnant of his tribe. Himself, with the best of his braves, has gone to the happy hunting grounds; not voluntarily, but sent thither by a party of Tejanos who fell foul of them on a foray.”“That’s a strange tale,” rejoins Roblez, adding, “And Barbato?”“Dead, too—gone with his red-skinned associates.”“Certainly a singular occurrence—quite a coincidence.”“A coincidence that leaves me in an awkward predicament, without my expected executioners. Well, we must supply their places by substituting our own cut-throats.”“You’ll find them willing, colonel. The little interlude of Miranda getting loose, and making to run you through, has been all in your favour. It affords sufficient pretext for court-martialling and condemning both prisoners to be shot I’ve heard the men say so, and they expect it.”“They shall not be disappointed, nor have long to wait. The court has finished its sitting, and given its verdict. Without dissenting voice, the prisoners are condemned to death. So much for the sentence. Now to carry it into execution.”“How is the thing to be done?”“Call in the sergeant. With him I shall arrange that. And when you’re out, go among the men and say a word to prepare them for the measure. You may tell them we’ve been trying the prisoners, and the result arrived at.”The adjutant steps out of the tent; and while Uraga is swallowing another cup of Catalan to fortify him for his fearful purpose, the sergeant enters.“Sergente! there’s some business to be done of a delicate nature, and you must take direction of it.”The Serjeant salutes, and stands awaiting the explanation. The colonel continues:—“We intend taking our prisoners no farther—the men, I mean. With the women we have nothing to do—as prisoners. After what you saw, we deem it necessary that Don Valerian Miranda should die; and also the other, who is equally incriminated as a traitor to the State—a rebel, an old conspirator, well known. Lieutenant Roblez and I have held a court, and decreed their death. So order the men to load their carbines, and make ready to carry out the sentence.”The sergeant simply nods assent, and, again saluting, is about to retire, when Uraga stays him with a second speech.“Let all take part in the firing except Galvez. Post him as sentry over the square tent. Direct him to stand by its entrance and see that the flap is kept down. Under no circumstances is he to let either of its occupants out. It’s not a spectacle for women—above all, one of them. Never mind; we can’t help that I’m sorry myself, but duty demands this rigorous measure. Now go. First give Galvez his orders; then to the men and get them ready. Make no more noise than is necessary. Let your lancers be drawn up in line; afoot, of course, and single file.”“Where am I to place the prisoners, colonel?”“Ah! true; I did not think of that.”Uraga steps to the entrance of the tent, and, looking forth, takes a survey of the camp-ground. His eyes seek the spot occupied by the prisoners. They are both again together, under the same tree where first placed, a sentry keeping guard over them. The tree is a cottonwood, with smooth stem and large limbs extending horizontally. Another is near, so similar as to seem a twin; both being a little out from the thick timber, which forms a dark background behind them.After regarding them a moment, scanning them as a lumberman would a log intended for a saw-mill, Uraga directs.“Raise the prisoners upright, and tie one to each of those two trees. Set their backs to the trunk. They’ve both been army men, and we won’t disgrace the cloth by shooting them from behind. That’s grace enough for rebels.”The sergeant, saluting, is again about to go, only staying to catch some final words of direction. They are—“In ten minutes I shall expect you to have everything ready. When you’ve got the stage set I shall myself appear upon it as an actor—the Star of this pretty play!”And with a hoarse laugh at his horrid jest, the ruffian retires within his tent.
For the disaster that was overtaken the Tenawa chief and his warriors, Gil Uraga does not care a jot. True, by the death of Horned Lizard he has lost an ally who, on some future scheme of murder, might have been used to advantage; while Barbato, whose life he believes also taken, can no more do him service as agent in his intercourse with the red pirates of the prairie.
It matters not much now. As military commander of a district he has attained power, enabling him to dispense with any left-handed assistance; and of late more than once has wished himself rid of such suspicious auxiliaries. Therefore, but for the frustration of his present plans, he would rather rejoice than grieve over the tidings brought by the returned emissary.
His suit scorned, his scheme of assassination thwarted, he is as much as ever determined on the death of the two prisoners.
In the first moments of his anger, after hearing José’s tale, he felt half inclined to rush upon Miranda, sword in hand, and settle the matter at once. But, while returning to the camp-ground, calmer reflections arose, restraining him from the dastardly act, and deciding him to carry out the other alternative, already conceived, but kept back as adernier ressort.
“Sit down,camarado!” he says, addressing the adjutant on entering. “We must hold a court-martial, and that is too serious a ceremonial to be gone through without the customary forms. The members of the court should be seated.”
The grim smile which accompanies his words shows that he means them in jest only as regards the manner of proceeding. For the earnestness of his intention there is that in his eyes—a fierce, lurid light, which Roblez can read.
In rejoinder the adjutant asks,—
“You are still resolved upon the death of the prisoners?”
“Still resolved! Carramba! An idle question, after what has occurred! They die within the hour. We shall try, condemn, and then have them shot.”
“I thought you had arranged it in a different way?”
“So I had. But circumstances alter cases. There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, and I’ve just heard of one. The Horned Lizard has failed me.”
“How so, colonel?”
“You see that Indian outside. He’s one of my muleteers I’d sent as a messenger to the Tenawa town. He returns to tell me there’s no Horned Lizard in existence, and only a remnant of his tribe. Himself, with the best of his braves, has gone to the happy hunting grounds; not voluntarily, but sent thither by a party of Tejanos who fell foul of them on a foray.”
“That’s a strange tale,” rejoins Roblez, adding, “And Barbato?”
“Dead, too—gone with his red-skinned associates.”
“Certainly a singular occurrence—quite a coincidence.”
“A coincidence that leaves me in an awkward predicament, without my expected executioners. Well, we must supply their places by substituting our own cut-throats.”
“You’ll find them willing, colonel. The little interlude of Miranda getting loose, and making to run you through, has been all in your favour. It affords sufficient pretext for court-martialling and condemning both prisoners to be shot I’ve heard the men say so, and they expect it.”
“They shall not be disappointed, nor have long to wait. The court has finished its sitting, and given its verdict. Without dissenting voice, the prisoners are condemned to death. So much for the sentence. Now to carry it into execution.”
“How is the thing to be done?”
“Call in the sergeant. With him I shall arrange that. And when you’re out, go among the men and say a word to prepare them for the measure. You may tell them we’ve been trying the prisoners, and the result arrived at.”
The adjutant steps out of the tent; and while Uraga is swallowing another cup of Catalan to fortify him for his fearful purpose, the sergeant enters.
“Sergente! there’s some business to be done of a delicate nature, and you must take direction of it.”
The Serjeant salutes, and stands awaiting the explanation. The colonel continues:—
“We intend taking our prisoners no farther—the men, I mean. With the women we have nothing to do—as prisoners. After what you saw, we deem it necessary that Don Valerian Miranda should die; and also the other, who is equally incriminated as a traitor to the State—a rebel, an old conspirator, well known. Lieutenant Roblez and I have held a court, and decreed their death. So order the men to load their carbines, and make ready to carry out the sentence.”
The sergeant simply nods assent, and, again saluting, is about to retire, when Uraga stays him with a second speech.
“Let all take part in the firing except Galvez. Post him as sentry over the square tent. Direct him to stand by its entrance and see that the flap is kept down. Under no circumstances is he to let either of its occupants out. It’s not a spectacle for women—above all, one of them. Never mind; we can’t help that I’m sorry myself, but duty demands this rigorous measure. Now go. First give Galvez his orders; then to the men and get them ready. Make no more noise than is necessary. Let your lancers be drawn up in line; afoot, of course, and single file.”
“Where am I to place the prisoners, colonel?”
“Ah! true; I did not think of that.”
Uraga steps to the entrance of the tent, and, looking forth, takes a survey of the camp-ground. His eyes seek the spot occupied by the prisoners. They are both again together, under the same tree where first placed, a sentry keeping guard over them. The tree is a cottonwood, with smooth stem and large limbs extending horizontally. Another is near, so similar as to seem a twin; both being a little out from the thick timber, which forms a dark background behind them.
After regarding them a moment, scanning them as a lumberman would a log intended for a saw-mill, Uraga directs.
“Raise the prisoners upright, and tie one to each of those two trees. Set their backs to the trunk. They’ve both been army men, and we won’t disgrace the cloth by shooting them from behind. That’s grace enough for rebels.”
The sergeant, saluting, is again about to go, only staying to catch some final words of direction. They are—
“In ten minutes I shall expect you to have everything ready. When you’ve got the stage set I shall myself appear upon it as an actor—the Star of this pretty play!”
And with a hoarse laugh at his horrid jest, the ruffian retires within his tent.
Chapter Seventy Three.The Hand of God.The sun is descending towards the crest of the Cordillera, his rays becoming encrimsoned as twilight approaches. They fall like streams of blood between the bluffs enclosing the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo, their tint in unison with a tragedy there about to be enacted—in itself strangely out of correspondence with the soft, tranquil scene.The stage is the encampment of Uraga and his detachment of lancers, now set for the terrible spectacle soon to take place.The two tents are still standing as pitched, several paces apart. At the entrance of the square one, with its flap drawn close and tied, a soldier keeps sentry; that of conical shape being unguarded.Rearward, by the wood edge, are three horses and a mule, all four under saddle, with bridles on; these attached to the branches of a tree. There is no providence in this, but rather neglect. Since the purpose for which they were caparisoned has proved abortive, they remain so only from having been forgotten.The other troop-horses have been stripped, and, scattered over the mead, are browsing at the length of their lariats.It is in the positions and attitudes of the men that a spectator might read preparation; and of a kind from which he could not fail to deduce the sequence of a sanguinary drama. Not one accompanied by much noise, but rather solemn and silent; only a few words firmly spoken, to be followed by a volley; in short, a military execution, or, as it might be more properly designated, a military murder.The victims devoted are seen near the edge of the open ground—its lower edge regarding the direction of the stream. They are in erect attitude, each with his back to the trunk of a tree, to which with raw-hide ropes they are securely lashed. No need telling who they are. The reader knows them to be the prisoners lately lying prostrate near the same place.In their front, and scarce ten paces distant, the lancers are drawn up in line and single file. There are ten of them, the tenth a little retired to the right, showing chevrons on his sleeve. He is the sergeant in immediate command of the firing party. Farther rearward, and close by the conical tent, and two in the uniform of officers, Uraga and his adjutant. The former is himself about to pronounce the word of command, the relentless expression upon his face, blent with a grim smile that overspreads it, leading to believe that the act of diabolical cruelty gives him gratification. Above, upon the cliff’s brow, the black vultures also show signs of satisfaction. With necks craned and awry, the better to look below, they see preparations which instinct or experience has taught them to understand. Blood is about to be spilled; there will be flesh to afford them a feast.There is now perfect silence, after a scene which preceded; once more Uraga having made overtures to Miranda, with promise of life under the same scandalous conditions; as before, to receive the response, firmly spoken,—“No—never!”The patriot soldier prefers death to dishonour.His choice taken, he quails not. Tied to the trunk of the tree, he stands facing his executioners without show of fear. If his cheeks be blanched, and his bosom throbbing with tumultuous emotion, ’tis not at sight of the firing party, or the guns held loaded in their hands. Far other are his fears, none of them for himself, but all for his dear sister—Adela. No need to dwell upon or describe them. They may be imagined.And Don Prospero, brave and defiant too. He stands backed by the tree, his eyes showing calm courage, his long silvered beard touching his breast, not drooping or despairingly, but like one resigned to his fate, and still firm in the faith that has led to it—a second Wickliffe at the stake.The moment has arrived when the stillness becomes profound, like the calm which precedes the first burst of a thunderstorm. The vultures above, the horses and men below, are all alike silent.The birds, gazing intently, have ceased their harsh croaking; the quadrupeds, as if startled by the very silence, forsaking the sweet grass, have tossed their heads aloft, and so hold them. While the men, hitherto speaking in whispers, no more converse, but stand mute and motionless. They are going to deal death to two of their fellow-creatures; and there is not one among them who does not know it is a death undeserved—that he is about to commit murder!For all this, not one has a thought of staying his hand. Along the whole line there is no heart amenable to mercy, no breast throbbing with humanity. All have been in a like position before—drawn up to fire upon prisoners, their countrymen. The patriots of their country, too; for the followers of Gil Uraga are all of them picked adherents of theparti preter.“Sergente!” asks Uraga, on coming forth from his tent, “is everything ready?”“All ready,” is the prompt reply.“Attention!” commands the Colonel, stepping a pace or two forward, and speaking in a low tone, though loud enough to be heard by the lancers.“Make ready!”The carbines are raised to the ready.“Take aim!”The guns are brought to the level, their bronzed barrels glistening under the rays of the setting sun, with muzzles pointed at the prisoners. They who grasp them but wait for the word “Fire!”It is forming itself on Gil Uraga’s lips. But before he can speak there comes a volley, filling the valley with sound, and the space around the prisoners with smoke. The reports of more than forty pieces speak almost simultaneously, none of them with the dull detonation of cavalry carbines, but the sharper ring of the rifle!While the last crack is still reverberating from the rocks, Uraga sees his line of lancers prostrate along the sward; their guns, escaped from their grasp, scattered beside them, still undischarged!
The sun is descending towards the crest of the Cordillera, his rays becoming encrimsoned as twilight approaches. They fall like streams of blood between the bluffs enclosing the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo, their tint in unison with a tragedy there about to be enacted—in itself strangely out of correspondence with the soft, tranquil scene.
The stage is the encampment of Uraga and his detachment of lancers, now set for the terrible spectacle soon to take place.
The two tents are still standing as pitched, several paces apart. At the entrance of the square one, with its flap drawn close and tied, a soldier keeps sentry; that of conical shape being unguarded.
Rearward, by the wood edge, are three horses and a mule, all four under saddle, with bridles on; these attached to the branches of a tree. There is no providence in this, but rather neglect. Since the purpose for which they were caparisoned has proved abortive, they remain so only from having been forgotten.
The other troop-horses have been stripped, and, scattered over the mead, are browsing at the length of their lariats.
It is in the positions and attitudes of the men that a spectator might read preparation; and of a kind from which he could not fail to deduce the sequence of a sanguinary drama. Not one accompanied by much noise, but rather solemn and silent; only a few words firmly spoken, to be followed by a volley; in short, a military execution, or, as it might be more properly designated, a military murder.
The victims devoted are seen near the edge of the open ground—its lower edge regarding the direction of the stream. They are in erect attitude, each with his back to the trunk of a tree, to which with raw-hide ropes they are securely lashed. No need telling who they are. The reader knows them to be the prisoners lately lying prostrate near the same place.
In their front, and scarce ten paces distant, the lancers are drawn up in line and single file. There are ten of them, the tenth a little retired to the right, showing chevrons on his sleeve. He is the sergeant in immediate command of the firing party. Farther rearward, and close by the conical tent, and two in the uniform of officers, Uraga and his adjutant. The former is himself about to pronounce the word of command, the relentless expression upon his face, blent with a grim smile that overspreads it, leading to believe that the act of diabolical cruelty gives him gratification. Above, upon the cliff’s brow, the black vultures also show signs of satisfaction. With necks craned and awry, the better to look below, they see preparations which instinct or experience has taught them to understand. Blood is about to be spilled; there will be flesh to afford them a feast.
There is now perfect silence, after a scene which preceded; once more Uraga having made overtures to Miranda, with promise of life under the same scandalous conditions; as before, to receive the response, firmly spoken,—
“No—never!”
The patriot soldier prefers death to dishonour.
His choice taken, he quails not. Tied to the trunk of the tree, he stands facing his executioners without show of fear. If his cheeks be blanched, and his bosom throbbing with tumultuous emotion, ’tis not at sight of the firing party, or the guns held loaded in their hands. Far other are his fears, none of them for himself, but all for his dear sister—Adela. No need to dwell upon or describe them. They may be imagined.
And Don Prospero, brave and defiant too. He stands backed by the tree, his eyes showing calm courage, his long silvered beard touching his breast, not drooping or despairingly, but like one resigned to his fate, and still firm in the faith that has led to it—a second Wickliffe at the stake.
The moment has arrived when the stillness becomes profound, like the calm which precedes the first burst of a thunderstorm. The vultures above, the horses and men below, are all alike silent.
The birds, gazing intently, have ceased their harsh croaking; the quadrupeds, as if startled by the very silence, forsaking the sweet grass, have tossed their heads aloft, and so hold them. While the men, hitherto speaking in whispers, no more converse, but stand mute and motionless. They are going to deal death to two of their fellow-creatures; and there is not one among them who does not know it is a death undeserved—that he is about to commit murder!
For all this, not one has a thought of staying his hand. Along the whole line there is no heart amenable to mercy, no breast throbbing with humanity. All have been in a like position before—drawn up to fire upon prisoners, their countrymen. The patriots of their country, too; for the followers of Gil Uraga are all of them picked adherents of theparti preter.
“Sergente!” asks Uraga, on coming forth from his tent, “is everything ready?”
“All ready,” is the prompt reply.
“Attention!” commands the Colonel, stepping a pace or two forward, and speaking in a low tone, though loud enough to be heard by the lancers.
“Make ready!”
The carbines are raised to the ready.
“Take aim!”
The guns are brought to the level, their bronzed barrels glistening under the rays of the setting sun, with muzzles pointed at the prisoners. They who grasp them but wait for the word “Fire!”
It is forming itself on Gil Uraga’s lips. But before he can speak there comes a volley, filling the valley with sound, and the space around the prisoners with smoke. The reports of more than forty pieces speak almost simultaneously, none of them with the dull detonation of cavalry carbines, but the sharper ring of the rifle!
While the last crack is still reverberating from the rocks, Uraga sees his line of lancers prostrate along the sward; their guns, escaped from their grasp, scattered beside them, still undischarged!
Chapter Seventy Four.“Sauve Qui Peut.”At sight of his soldiers cut down like ripe corn before the reaper, Uraga stands in stupefied amaze; his adjutant the same. Both are alike under the spell of a superstitious terror. For the blow, so sudden and sweeping, seems given by God’s own hand. They might fancy it acoup d’éclair. But the jets of fire shooting forth from the forest edge, through a cloud of sulphurous smoke, are not flashes of lightning; nor the rattle that accompanies them the rolling of thunder, but the reports of firearms discharged in rapid succession. While in shouts following the shots there is no accent of Heaven; on the contrary, the cries are human, in the voices of men intoned to a terrible vengeance.Though every one of the firing party has fallen, sergeant as well as rank and file, the two officers are still untouched. So far they have been saved by the interposition of the formed line. But straggling shots succeed, and bullets are whizzing past their ears.These, quickening their instincts, rouse them from their stupefaction; and both, turning from the direction of the danger, looked to the other side for safety.At first wildly and uncertain, for they are still under a weird impression, with senses half bewildered.Neither has a knowledge of the enemy that has made such havoc among their men; only an instinct or intuition that the blow has been struck by those terribleTejanos, for the shots heard were the cracks of rifles, and the shouts, still continued, are not Indian yells nor Mexican vivas, but the rough hurrahs of the Anglo-Saxon.While standing in hesitancy, they hear a voice raised above the rest—one which both recognise. Well do they remember it, pealing among the waggons on that day of real ruthless carnage.Glancing back over their shoulders, they see him who sends it forth—the giant guide of the caravan. He has just broken from the timber’s edge, and in vigorous bounds is advancing towards them. Another is by his side, also recognised. With trembling frame, and heart chilled by fear, Uraga identifies his adversary in the duel at Chihuahua.Neither he nor his subordinate remains a moment longer on the ground. No thought now of carrying off their female captives, no time to think of them. Enough, and they will be fortunate, if they can themselves escape.Better for both to perish there by the sides of their slain comrades. But they know not this, and only yield to the common instinct of cowardice, forcing them to flee.Fortune seems to favour them. For animals fully caparisoned stand behind the conical tent. They are these that were in readiness for a flight of far different kind, since unthought of—altogether forgotten.Good luck their being saddled and bridled now. So think Uraga and Roblez as they rush towards them. So thinks Galvez, who is also making to mount one. The sentry has forsaken his post, leaving the marquee unguarded. When a lover no longer cares for his sweetheart, why should he for a captive.And in thesauve-qui-peutscramble there is rarely a regard for rank, the colonel counting for no more than the corporal. Obedient to this levelling instinct, Galvez, who has arrived first on the ground, selects the best steed of the three—this being the horse of Hamersley.Grasping the bridle, and jerking it from the branch, he springs upon the animal’s back and starts to ride off. Almost as soon the two officers get astride, Roblez on his own charger, the mustang mare being left to Uraga. From her mistress he must part thus unceremoniously, covered with ignominious shame!The thought is torture, and for a time stays him.A dire, damnable purpose flashes across his brain, and for an instant holds possession of his heart. It is to dismount, make for the marquee, enter it, and kill Adela Miranda—thrust her through with his sword.Fortunately for her, the coward’s heart fails him.He will not have time to do the murder and remount his horse. The Rangers are already in the open ground and rushing towards him, Wilder and Hamersley at their head. In a minute more they will be around him.He hesitates no longer, but, smothering his chagrin and swallowing his unappeased vengeance, puts whip and spur to the mustang mare, going off as fast as she can carry him.
At sight of his soldiers cut down like ripe corn before the reaper, Uraga stands in stupefied amaze; his adjutant the same. Both are alike under the spell of a superstitious terror. For the blow, so sudden and sweeping, seems given by God’s own hand. They might fancy it acoup d’éclair. But the jets of fire shooting forth from the forest edge, through a cloud of sulphurous smoke, are not flashes of lightning; nor the rattle that accompanies them the rolling of thunder, but the reports of firearms discharged in rapid succession. While in shouts following the shots there is no accent of Heaven; on the contrary, the cries are human, in the voices of men intoned to a terrible vengeance.
Though every one of the firing party has fallen, sergeant as well as rank and file, the two officers are still untouched. So far they have been saved by the interposition of the formed line. But straggling shots succeed, and bullets are whizzing past their ears.
These, quickening their instincts, rouse them from their stupefaction; and both, turning from the direction of the danger, looked to the other side for safety.
At first wildly and uncertain, for they are still under a weird impression, with senses half bewildered.
Neither has a knowledge of the enemy that has made such havoc among their men; only an instinct or intuition that the blow has been struck by those terribleTejanos, for the shots heard were the cracks of rifles, and the shouts, still continued, are not Indian yells nor Mexican vivas, but the rough hurrahs of the Anglo-Saxon.
While standing in hesitancy, they hear a voice raised above the rest—one which both recognise. Well do they remember it, pealing among the waggons on that day of real ruthless carnage.
Glancing back over their shoulders, they see him who sends it forth—the giant guide of the caravan. He has just broken from the timber’s edge, and in vigorous bounds is advancing towards them. Another is by his side, also recognised. With trembling frame, and heart chilled by fear, Uraga identifies his adversary in the duel at Chihuahua.
Neither he nor his subordinate remains a moment longer on the ground. No thought now of carrying off their female captives, no time to think of them. Enough, and they will be fortunate, if they can themselves escape.
Better for both to perish there by the sides of their slain comrades. But they know not this, and only yield to the common instinct of cowardice, forcing them to flee.
Fortune seems to favour them. For animals fully caparisoned stand behind the conical tent. They are these that were in readiness for a flight of far different kind, since unthought of—altogether forgotten.
Good luck their being saddled and bridled now. So think Uraga and Roblez as they rush towards them. So thinks Galvez, who is also making to mount one. The sentry has forsaken his post, leaving the marquee unguarded. When a lover no longer cares for his sweetheart, why should he for a captive.
And in thesauve-qui-peutscramble there is rarely a regard for rank, the colonel counting for no more than the corporal. Obedient to this levelling instinct, Galvez, who has arrived first on the ground, selects the best steed of the three—this being the horse of Hamersley.
Grasping the bridle, and jerking it from the branch, he springs upon the animal’s back and starts to ride off. Almost as soon the two officers get astride, Roblez on his own charger, the mustang mare being left to Uraga. From her mistress he must part thus unceremoniously, covered with ignominious shame!
The thought is torture, and for a time stays him.
A dire, damnable purpose flashes across his brain, and for an instant holds possession of his heart. It is to dismount, make for the marquee, enter it, and kill Adela Miranda—thrust her through with his sword.
Fortunately for her, the coward’s heart fails him.
He will not have time to do the murder and remount his horse. The Rangers are already in the open ground and rushing towards him, Wilder and Hamersley at their head. In a minute more they will be around him.
He hesitates no longer, but, smothering his chagrin and swallowing his unappeased vengeance, puts whip and spur to the mustang mare, going off as fast as she can carry him.
Chapter Seventy Five.Divided by Duty.But for a half-score men lying dead along the earth, their warm blood welling from wounds where bullets have passed through their bodies, the gory drops here and there like dew bedecking the blades of grass, or in fuller stream settling down into the sand—but for this, the too real evidence of death, one who entered the camp of Uraga as the Mexican Colonel is riding out of it might fancy himself spectator of a pantomime during the scene of transformation. In the stage spectacle, not quicker or more contrasting could be the change.The gaily-apparelled lancers, with their plumes, pennons, and tassels, representing the sprites and sylphides of the pantomime, are succeeded by men who look real life. Big bearded men, habited in homespun; some wearing buckskin, others blanket coats; all carrying guns, bowie-knives, and pistols; the first smoking at the muzzles, as freshly fired, the last held in hand, ready to be discharged as soon as somebody worth shooting at shows himself.Entering the open ground ahead of the others, Hamersley and Wilder glance around in search of this somebody, both thinking of the same. They see stretched along the sward ten soldiers dead as herrings on a string, but among them no one wearing the uniform of an officer—certainly not him they are after.Their first glance is unrewarded, but their second gives all they seek. Behind a tent, and partially screened by the trees, three men are in the act of mounting three horses. One is already in the saddle and moving away, the other two have just set foot in the stirrup. The roan mounted is unknown to the pursuers; but his animal is recognised by them. It is Hamersley’s own horse! Of the other two but one is identified, and him only by Hamersley. He sees Gil Uraga.A cry from the Kentuckian expresses disappointment. For on the instant after sighting the Mexican officers the latter have leaped into their saddles and gone off at a full gallop. A rifle shet might yet reach them; but the guns of both Kentuckian and Texan are empty. Their revolvers are loaded to no purpose. The retreating horsemen are beyond pistol range!Sure of this, they do not think of firing. And afoot, as all the Rangers are—having left the horses behind to steal forward—they feel helpless to pursue for the present. While hesitating, a circumstance occurs giving Hamersley a hope. The man who has mounted his horse finds a difficulty in managing him. As a Mexican he sits the saddle to perfection, but cannot make the animal go the way he wants.From behind the horse has heard neighing, which he knows to come from the steeds of his own race, and, knowing this, has resolved to rub noses with them.In vain Galvez kicks against his ribs, beats him about the head, and makes frantic efforts to urge him on. He but rears in the opposite direction, backing so far as to bring his rider within reach of the revolver held in the hands of Hamersley. Its crack rings clear—not needing to be repeated or the cylinder turned. At the first explosion the soldier is seen to spring from the saddle, dropping dead without kick or cry, while the steed, disembarrassed, sheers round and comes trotting towards the place whence the shot proceeded.In a moment more its real master has hold of the bridle-rein, his shout of joy answered by a whimper of recognition.Seeing how matters stand, the Rangers hasten back to get possession of their horses; others make for those of the fallen lancers, that now in affright are rearing and straining at the end of their trail-ropes in a vain endeavour to break loose.For neither can Hamersley wait. It will take time, which his impatience—his burning thirst for vengeance—cannot brook. He is thinking of his slain comrades, whose bones lie unburied on the sands of the Canadian; also of the outrage so near being perpetrated, so opportunely interrupted.But one thought stays him—Adela. Where is she? Is she safe? He turns towards the marquee late guarded by Galvez. A very different individual is now seen at its entrance. Walt Wilder, with bowie-knife bared, its blade cutting the cords that kept the tent closed. In an instant they are severed, the flap flies open, and two female forms rush forth. In another instant one of them is lying along Hamersley’s breast, the other in the embrace of Wilder. Kisses and words are exchanged. Only a few of the latter, till Hamersley, withdrawing himself from the arms that softly entwine him, tells of his intention to part.“For what purpose?” is the interrogatory, asked in tremulous accents, and with eyes that speak painful surprise.“To redress my wrongs and yours, Adela,” is the response firmly spoken.“Santissima!” she exclaims, seeing her lover prepare to spring into the saddle. “Francisco! Stay with me. Do not again seek danger. The wretch is not worthy of your vengeance.”“’Tis not vengeance, but justice. ’Tis my duty to chastise this crime—the greatest on earth. Something whispers me ’tis a destiny, and I shall succeed. Dearest Adela, do not stay me. There is no danger. I shall be back soon, bringing Uraga’s sword, perhaps himself, along with me.”“Thar’s odds again ye, Frank,” interposes Wilder. “Two to one. If I foller afoot I mayn’t be up in time. An’ the boys that’s gone arter thar critters, they’ll be too late.”“Never mind the odds! I’ll make it up with the five shots still in my revolver. See, dearest, your brother is coming this way. Go meet and tell him I shall soon return with a prisoner to be exchanged for him. Another kiss!Adios! hasta luego!”Tearing himself from arms so reluctant to release him, he bounds upon the back of his horse and spurs off, soon disappearing among the trees.Scarce is he out of sight when another quadruped is seen galloping after—not a horse, but a hybrid.Walt Wilder has espied the saddled mule hitched up behind the tent—that intended for Conchita. It is now ridden by the ex-Ranger, who, prodding it with the point of his bowie, puts it to its best speed.And soon after go other horsemen—the Texans who have recovered their steeds, with some who have caught those of the troopers, rapidly bridled and mounted them bare-back.They who stay behind become spectators of a scene strange and tender. Two male prisoners unexpectedly rescued—snatched, as it were, from the jaws of death—two female captives alike saved from dishonour. A brother embracing his sister, whose noble affection but the moment before prompted her to share with him the first sooner than submit to the last.
But for a half-score men lying dead along the earth, their warm blood welling from wounds where bullets have passed through their bodies, the gory drops here and there like dew bedecking the blades of grass, or in fuller stream settling down into the sand—but for this, the too real evidence of death, one who entered the camp of Uraga as the Mexican Colonel is riding out of it might fancy himself spectator of a pantomime during the scene of transformation. In the stage spectacle, not quicker or more contrasting could be the change.
The gaily-apparelled lancers, with their plumes, pennons, and tassels, representing the sprites and sylphides of the pantomime, are succeeded by men who look real life. Big bearded men, habited in homespun; some wearing buckskin, others blanket coats; all carrying guns, bowie-knives, and pistols; the first smoking at the muzzles, as freshly fired, the last held in hand, ready to be discharged as soon as somebody worth shooting at shows himself.
Entering the open ground ahead of the others, Hamersley and Wilder glance around in search of this somebody, both thinking of the same. They see stretched along the sward ten soldiers dead as herrings on a string, but among them no one wearing the uniform of an officer—certainly not him they are after.
Their first glance is unrewarded, but their second gives all they seek. Behind a tent, and partially screened by the trees, three men are in the act of mounting three horses. One is already in the saddle and moving away, the other two have just set foot in the stirrup. The roan mounted is unknown to the pursuers; but his animal is recognised by them. It is Hamersley’s own horse! Of the other two but one is identified, and him only by Hamersley. He sees Gil Uraga.
A cry from the Kentuckian expresses disappointment. For on the instant after sighting the Mexican officers the latter have leaped into their saddles and gone off at a full gallop. A rifle shet might yet reach them; but the guns of both Kentuckian and Texan are empty. Their revolvers are loaded to no purpose. The retreating horsemen are beyond pistol range!
Sure of this, they do not think of firing. And afoot, as all the Rangers are—having left the horses behind to steal forward—they feel helpless to pursue for the present. While hesitating, a circumstance occurs giving Hamersley a hope. The man who has mounted his horse finds a difficulty in managing him. As a Mexican he sits the saddle to perfection, but cannot make the animal go the way he wants.
From behind the horse has heard neighing, which he knows to come from the steeds of his own race, and, knowing this, has resolved to rub noses with them.
In vain Galvez kicks against his ribs, beats him about the head, and makes frantic efforts to urge him on. He but rears in the opposite direction, backing so far as to bring his rider within reach of the revolver held in the hands of Hamersley. Its crack rings clear—not needing to be repeated or the cylinder turned. At the first explosion the soldier is seen to spring from the saddle, dropping dead without kick or cry, while the steed, disembarrassed, sheers round and comes trotting towards the place whence the shot proceeded.
In a moment more its real master has hold of the bridle-rein, his shout of joy answered by a whimper of recognition.
Seeing how matters stand, the Rangers hasten back to get possession of their horses; others make for those of the fallen lancers, that now in affright are rearing and straining at the end of their trail-ropes in a vain endeavour to break loose.
For neither can Hamersley wait. It will take time, which his impatience—his burning thirst for vengeance—cannot brook. He is thinking of his slain comrades, whose bones lie unburied on the sands of the Canadian; also of the outrage so near being perpetrated, so opportunely interrupted.
But one thought stays him—Adela. Where is she? Is she safe? He turns towards the marquee late guarded by Galvez. A very different individual is now seen at its entrance. Walt Wilder, with bowie-knife bared, its blade cutting the cords that kept the tent closed. In an instant they are severed, the flap flies open, and two female forms rush forth. In another instant one of them is lying along Hamersley’s breast, the other in the embrace of Wilder. Kisses and words are exchanged. Only a few of the latter, till Hamersley, withdrawing himself from the arms that softly entwine him, tells of his intention to part.
“For what purpose?” is the interrogatory, asked in tremulous accents, and with eyes that speak painful surprise.
“To redress my wrongs and yours, Adela,” is the response firmly spoken.
“Santissima!” she exclaims, seeing her lover prepare to spring into the saddle. “Francisco! Stay with me. Do not again seek danger. The wretch is not worthy of your vengeance.”
“’Tis not vengeance, but justice. ’Tis my duty to chastise this crime—the greatest on earth. Something whispers me ’tis a destiny, and I shall succeed. Dearest Adela, do not stay me. There is no danger. I shall be back soon, bringing Uraga’s sword, perhaps himself, along with me.”
“Thar’s odds again ye, Frank,” interposes Wilder. “Two to one. If I foller afoot I mayn’t be up in time. An’ the boys that’s gone arter thar critters, they’ll be too late.”
“Never mind the odds! I’ll make it up with the five shots still in my revolver. See, dearest, your brother is coming this way. Go meet and tell him I shall soon return with a prisoner to be exchanged for him. Another kiss!Adios! hasta luego!”
Tearing himself from arms so reluctant to release him, he bounds upon the back of his horse and spurs off, soon disappearing among the trees.
Scarce is he out of sight when another quadruped is seen galloping after—not a horse, but a hybrid.
Walt Wilder has espied the saddled mule hitched up behind the tent—that intended for Conchita. It is now ridden by the ex-Ranger, who, prodding it with the point of his bowie, puts it to its best speed.
And soon after go other horsemen—the Texans who have recovered their steeds, with some who have caught those of the troopers, rapidly bridled and mounted them bare-back.
They who stay behind become spectators of a scene strange and tender. Two male prisoners unexpectedly rescued—snatched, as it were, from the jaws of death—two female captives alike saved from dishonour. A brother embracing his sister, whose noble affection but the moment before prompted her to share with him the first sooner than submit to the last.
Chapter Seventy Six.The Chase.Hamersley has his horse fairly astretch ere the fugitives, though out of sight, are many hundred yards ahead; for the scenes and speeches recorded occupied but a few seconds of time.He is confident of being able to overtake them. He knows his Kentucky charger is more than a match for any Mexican horse, and will soon bring him up with Uraga and the other officer. If they should separate he will follow the former.As he rides on he sees they cannot go far apart. There is a sheer precipice on each side—the bluffs that bound the creek bottom. These will keep the pursued men together, and he will have both to deal with.The ground is such that they cannot possibly escape him except by superior speed. He can see the cliffs on each side to their bases. There is not enough underwood for a horseman to hide in.He hastens on, therefore, supposing them still before him.In ten minutes more he is sure of it—they are in sight!The timber through which the chase has hitherto led abruptly terminates, a long grassy mead of over a mile in length lying beyond; and beyond it the trees again obstruct the vista up the valley. The retreating horsemen have entered upon this open tract, but not got far over it, when Hamersley spurs his horse out of the timber tract, and pursuer and pursued are in sight of other.It is now a tail-on-end chase, all three horses going at the greatest speed to which their riders can press them. It is evident that the large American horse is rapidly gaining upon the Mexican mustangs, and, if no accident occur, will soon be alongside them.Hamersley perceives this, and, casting a glance ahead, calculates the distance to where the timber again commences. To overtake them before they can reach it is the thought uppermost in his mind. Once among the tree-trunks they can go as fast as he, for there the superior fleetness of his horse will not avail. Besides, there may be a thick underwood, giving them a chance of concealment.He must come up with them before they can reach the cover, and to this end he once more urges his animal both with spur and speech.At this moment Roblez looking back, perceives there is but one man in chase of them. A long stretch of open plain in his rear, and no other pursuer upon it. Brigand though he be, the adjutant possesses real courage. And there are two of them, in full health and strength, both armed with sabres, himself carrying a pair of dragoon pistols in his holsters. Those belonging to Uraga are nearer to the hand of Hamersley—having been left upon the saddle which the colonel, in his hasty retreat, had been hindered from occupying.“Carajo!” exclaims Roblez, “there’s but one of them after us. The others haven’t had time to get mounted, and won’t be up for a while. It’s some rash fool who’s got your horse under him. Let’s turn upon him, colonel.”The coward thus appealed to cannot refuse compliance. In an instant the two wheel round, and, with blades bared, await the approach of the pursuer.In a dozen more strides of his horse Hamersley is on the ground. Uraga now recognises his antagonist in the Chihuahua duel—the man he hates above all others on earth.This, hatred, intense as it is, does not supply him with courage. In the eye of the pursuer coming on, when close up, Uraga reads a terrible expression—that of the avenger!Something whispers him his hour has come, and with shrinking heart and palsied arm he awaits the encounter.As said, the two Mexican officers carry swords, cavalry sabres. Against these the Kentuckian has no weapon for parrying or defence. He is but ill-armed for the unequal strife, having only a Colt’s revolver with one chamber empty, and, as adernier ressort, the single-barrelled pistols in the holsters.Quickly perceiving his disadvantage, he checks up before coming too close, and with his revolver takes aim, and fires at the nearest of his antagonists, who is Roblez.The shot tells, tumbling the lancer lieutenant out of his saddle, and making more equal the chances of the strife.But there is no more fighting, nor the show of it, for Uraga, on seeing his comrade fall, and once more catching sight of that avenging glance that glares at him as if from the eyes of Nemesis, wrenches the mustang round, and rides off in wild retreat; his sword, held loosely, likely to drop from his grasp.Soon it does drop, for Hamersley, following in close pursuit, delivers a second shot from the revolver. The bullet hits the extended sword arm; the naked blade whirls out, and falls with a ring upon the meadow turf.Uraga rides on without looking back. He has not even courage to turn his face towards his antagonist. He thinks only of reaching the timber, in a despairing hope he may there find shelter and safety.It is not his destiny to reach it; the pursuer is too close upon his heels. The head of Hamersley’s horse is swept by the mustang’s tail, its long, white hair spread comet-like behind.Once more the revolver is raised, its muzzle pointed at the retreating coward. The pressing of its trigger would send a bullet into his back. It is not pressed.As if from mercy or mere caprice Hamersley suddenly transfers the pistol to his left hand. Then, forcing his horse to a long leap forward, he lays hold of Uraga with his right.Grasping the Mexican by the sword-belt and jerking him out of the saddle, he dashes him down to the earth. Then reining up, with the revolver once more in his right hand, he cries out—“Lie still, you ruffian! Don’t move an inch! I have four shots to spare, and if you attempt to stir, one of them will quiet you.”The admonition is not needed. Uraga, stunned by the shock for a time, makes no movement. He is insensible.Before he comes to himself the Rangers have ridden up, with Walt Wilder at their head. They proceed to make prisoners of the two men, neither of whom has been killed in the encounter.Better for both if they had. For they are now in the hands of men who will surely doom them to a death less easy thar that they had escaped.Their fate is inevitable.
Hamersley has his horse fairly astretch ere the fugitives, though out of sight, are many hundred yards ahead; for the scenes and speeches recorded occupied but a few seconds of time.
He is confident of being able to overtake them. He knows his Kentucky charger is more than a match for any Mexican horse, and will soon bring him up with Uraga and the other officer. If they should separate he will follow the former.
As he rides on he sees they cannot go far apart. There is a sheer precipice on each side—the bluffs that bound the creek bottom. These will keep the pursued men together, and he will have both to deal with.
The ground is such that they cannot possibly escape him except by superior speed. He can see the cliffs on each side to their bases. There is not enough underwood for a horseman to hide in.
He hastens on, therefore, supposing them still before him.
In ten minutes more he is sure of it—they are in sight!
The timber through which the chase has hitherto led abruptly terminates, a long grassy mead of over a mile in length lying beyond; and beyond it the trees again obstruct the vista up the valley. The retreating horsemen have entered upon this open tract, but not got far over it, when Hamersley spurs his horse out of the timber tract, and pursuer and pursued are in sight of other.
It is now a tail-on-end chase, all three horses going at the greatest speed to which their riders can press them. It is evident that the large American horse is rapidly gaining upon the Mexican mustangs, and, if no accident occur, will soon be alongside them.
Hamersley perceives this, and, casting a glance ahead, calculates the distance to where the timber again commences. To overtake them before they can reach it is the thought uppermost in his mind. Once among the tree-trunks they can go as fast as he, for there the superior fleetness of his horse will not avail. Besides, there may be a thick underwood, giving them a chance of concealment.
He must come up with them before they can reach the cover, and to this end he once more urges his animal both with spur and speech.
At this moment Roblez looking back, perceives there is but one man in chase of them. A long stretch of open plain in his rear, and no other pursuer upon it. Brigand though he be, the adjutant possesses real courage. And there are two of them, in full health and strength, both armed with sabres, himself carrying a pair of dragoon pistols in his holsters. Those belonging to Uraga are nearer to the hand of Hamersley—having been left upon the saddle which the colonel, in his hasty retreat, had been hindered from occupying.
“Carajo!” exclaims Roblez, “there’s but one of them after us. The others haven’t had time to get mounted, and won’t be up for a while. It’s some rash fool who’s got your horse under him. Let’s turn upon him, colonel.”
The coward thus appealed to cannot refuse compliance. In an instant the two wheel round, and, with blades bared, await the approach of the pursuer.
In a dozen more strides of his horse Hamersley is on the ground. Uraga now recognises his antagonist in the Chihuahua duel—the man he hates above all others on earth.
This, hatred, intense as it is, does not supply him with courage. In the eye of the pursuer coming on, when close up, Uraga reads a terrible expression—that of the avenger!
Something whispers him his hour has come, and with shrinking heart and palsied arm he awaits the encounter.
As said, the two Mexican officers carry swords, cavalry sabres. Against these the Kentuckian has no weapon for parrying or defence. He is but ill-armed for the unequal strife, having only a Colt’s revolver with one chamber empty, and, as adernier ressort, the single-barrelled pistols in the holsters.
Quickly perceiving his disadvantage, he checks up before coming too close, and with his revolver takes aim, and fires at the nearest of his antagonists, who is Roblez.
The shot tells, tumbling the lancer lieutenant out of his saddle, and making more equal the chances of the strife.
But there is no more fighting, nor the show of it, for Uraga, on seeing his comrade fall, and once more catching sight of that avenging glance that glares at him as if from the eyes of Nemesis, wrenches the mustang round, and rides off in wild retreat; his sword, held loosely, likely to drop from his grasp.
Soon it does drop, for Hamersley, following in close pursuit, delivers a second shot from the revolver. The bullet hits the extended sword arm; the naked blade whirls out, and falls with a ring upon the meadow turf.
Uraga rides on without looking back. He has not even courage to turn his face towards his antagonist. He thinks only of reaching the timber, in a despairing hope he may there find shelter and safety.
It is not his destiny to reach it; the pursuer is too close upon his heels. The head of Hamersley’s horse is swept by the mustang’s tail, its long, white hair spread comet-like behind.
Once more the revolver is raised, its muzzle pointed at the retreating coward. The pressing of its trigger would send a bullet into his back. It is not pressed.
As if from mercy or mere caprice Hamersley suddenly transfers the pistol to his left hand. Then, forcing his horse to a long leap forward, he lays hold of Uraga with his right.
Grasping the Mexican by the sword-belt and jerking him out of the saddle, he dashes him down to the earth. Then reining up, with the revolver once more in his right hand, he cries out—
“Lie still, you ruffian! Don’t move an inch! I have four shots to spare, and if you attempt to stir, one of them will quiet you.”
The admonition is not needed. Uraga, stunned by the shock for a time, makes no movement. He is insensible.
Before he comes to himself the Rangers have ridden up, with Walt Wilder at their head. They proceed to make prisoners of the two men, neither of whom has been killed in the encounter.
Better for both if they had. For they are now in the hands of men who will surely doom them to a death less easy thar that they had escaped.
Their fate is inevitable.