Chapter Fifty.

Chapter Fifty.Awkward Odds.Ijurra was alone, and I continued to advance to the spot where he was standing. His back was towards me, for he still fronted in the direction in which Isolina had galloped off. He had followed her with his eyes, with a cry of disappointed rage, with a threat of malignant vengeance.The sound of his own voice hindered him from hearing mine, and he was not aware of my presence, when I paused scarcely three feet from where he stood, and directly behind him.I held my sword drawn; I could have thrust him in the back, through and through again, before he could have offered either defence or resistance. He was completely in my power.Fortunate was it for him at that moment that I had been bred a gentleman, else in another instant his lifeless body would have lain at my feet. A plebeian blade would have made short work with the ruffian, and I confess that my instincts of fair-play were sorely tried. I had before me a man who had sought my life—a deadly foe—a deadly foe to her I loved—a perjured villain—a murderer! With such titles for himself, he had none to the laws of honour; and I confess that for one short moment, I felt like ignoring his claim.’Twas but for a moment: the thought revolted me. Wicked and worthless as he was, I could not stab him in the back.I leaned forward, and tapping him upon the shoulder, pronounced his name.It was the first intimation he had of my presence; and starting as if hit by a bullet, he turned face towards me. The flush of anger upon his cheek suddenly gave place to deadly pallor, and his eyes became set in that peculiar stare that indicates an apprehension of danger. This he must have felt keenly, for my determined look and drawn sword—to say nothing of the surprise by which I had come upon him—were calculated to produce that effect.It was the first time we had stood face to face, and I now perceived that he was a much larger man than myself. But I saw, too, that his eye quailed, and his lip quivered, at the encounter. I saw that he was cowed; felt that I was his master.“You are Rafael Ijurra?” I repeated, as he had not made answer to my first interrogation.“Si, señor,” he answered hesitatingly. “What want you with me?”“You have some documents there,” (he still held the papers in his hand); “a portion of them belongs to me. I shall trouble you to hand them over.”“Are you Captain Warfield?” he asked, after a pause, at the same time pretending to examine the superscription upon the commissary’s letter. I saw that his fingers trembled.“I am Captain Warfield—you ought to know by this time?”Without noticing the insinuation, he replied—“True—there is a letter here bearing that address. I found it upon the road: you are welcome to it, señor.”As he said this, he handed me the commissary’s order, still retaining the other documents.“There was an enclosure. I perceive you have it in your hand. I beg you will make me equally welcome to that.”“Oh! a note signed Ramon de Vargas? It was an enclosure?”“Precisely so; and of course goes along with the letter.”“Oh, certainly; here it is, señor.”“There is still another little document in your possession—a safeguard from the American commander granted to a certain lady. It is not yours, Señor Ijurra! I beg you will deliver it to me. I wish to return it to the lady to whom it belongs.”This was the bitterest pill I had yet presented to him. He glanced hastily first to the right and then to the left, as if desirous of making escape. He would fain have done so, but I kept him under my eye, and he saw that my hand was ready.“Certainly there is a safeguard,” replied he, after a pause, and with a feigned attempt at laughter. “’Tis a worthless document to me; ’tis at your service, sir captain;” and as he handed me the paper, he accompanied the act with another sorry cachinnation.I folded the precious documents, and thrust all three under the breast of my coat; then placing myself in fighting attitude, I cried out to my adversary to “draw and defend” himself.I had already noticed that he wore a sword, and, like myself, it appeared to be the only weapon he carried. I saw no pistols upon his person. I had none myself—nothing save a light cut-and-thrust sword. It was far slighter than the sabre of my antagonist, but it was a weapon that had seen service in my hands, and I had perfect confidence in it. I had no fear for the result against so cowardly an adversary; I was not awed, either by his heavier blade, or the superior size of his person.To my astonishment, he hesitated to unsheath his sword!“Youmustdraw,” I shouted with emphasis. “You or I have now to die. If you do not defend yourself, I shall run you through the body. Coward! would you have me kill you with your blade in its sheath?”Even the taunt did not nerve him. Never saw I complete a poltroon. His white lips trembled, his eyes rolled wildly from side to side, seeking an opportunity to escape. I am certain that could he have hoped to get clear, he would at that crisis have turned and run.All at once, and to my surprise, the coward appeared smitten with courage; and, grasping the hilt of his sabre, he drew the blade ringing from its scabbard, with all the energy of a determined man! His reluctance to fight seemed suddenly to have forsaken him. Had I mistaken my man? or was it despair that was nerving his arm?His cowed look had disappeared: his eyes flashed with fury and vengeance; his teeth gritted together; and a fiercecarajohissed from his lips.Our blades met—the sparks crackled along the creasing steel, and the combat began.Fortunate for me, that, in avoiding the first lunge of my antagonist, I had to turn half round: fortunately I turned so soon, else I should never have left that glade alive.As I faced in the new direction, I saw two men running towards us, sword in hand. A single glance told me they were guerrilleros. They were already within ten paces of the spot, and must have been seen long before by Ijurra.This was the key to his altered demeanour. Their approach it was that had inspired him with courage to begin the fight—for he had calculated the time when they should be able to get up, and assail me from behind.“Hola!” shouted he, seeing that I had discovered them—“Hola! El Zorro—José! anda! anda! Mueran los Yankies! at muerte con el picaro!”For the first time, I felt myself in danger. Three swords to one was awkward odds; and the red giant, with a companion nearly as large as himself, would no doubt prove very different antagonists from the poltroon with whom I was engaged.Yes, I was conscious of danger, and might have retreated, had I deemed such a course possible; but my horse was too far off, and the new-comers were directly in the path I should have to take to reach him. I could not hope to escape on foot; I well knew that these men run as lightly as Indians, for we had often proved their capacity in that accomplishment. They were alreadytoonear. I should be overtaken, struck down, pierced, with my back to the foe.I had no time to reflect—just enough to leap back a pace or two, so as to bring all three of them in front of me, when I found my sword clashing against their blades, and parrying their blows one after the other.I can describe the unequal combat no farther. It was a confused medley of cut and thrust, in which I both gave wounds and received them. I was wounded in several places, and felt the warm blood running under my clothes and over my face.I grew wearied to death, and every second growing weaker and fainter.I saw the red giant before me with his hand raised on high. His blade had already drawn my blood, and was crimsoned at the point; it was about to descend with a finishing stroke. I should be unable to parry it, for I had just exhausted my strength in guarding against a blow from Ijurra. My hopeless peril wrung from me a cry of despair.Was it my cry that caused the blade to drop from the hand of my antagonist, and the uplifted arm to fall loosely by his side? Was it my cry that created the consternation suddenly visible in the faces of my foes? I might have fancied so, had I not heard a sharp crack from behind, and seen that the arm of El Zorro was broken by a shot!It seemed like the awaking from some horrid dream. One moment I was battling, face to face, with three desperate men; the instant after, their backs were towards me, and all three were running as for life!I followed them with my eyes, but not far; for at twenty paces off they plunged into the thicket, and disappeared.I turned in the opposite direction. A man was running across the open ground with a gun in his hand. He was advancing towards the spot where I stood. It was he who had fired the shot. I saw that he was in Mexican costume; surely he was one of the guerrilleros—he had aimed at me, and wounded his comrade?For some seconds, I fancied that such might be the case. Evidently he was bolder than any of the three, for he continued to advance, as if determined to attack me alone!I placed myself in readiness for this new antagonist—taking a fresh grasp on my sword, and wiping the blood from my eyes, that I might the better receive him.It was not until he was close to the point of my blade, that I recognised the long ape-like arms, and crooked mateless limbs, of Elijah Quackenboss!The ranger, after delivering his fire, had not waited to reload, but ran forward with the intention of joining me in the hand-to-hand fight—though he carried no other weapon than his empty gun. But this would have been an efficient arm in such hands; for, despite his unsymmetrical build, Dutch Lige was stalwart and though, and would have been a full match for any two of my assailants, had they stood their ground.But the crack of the gun had set them off like deer. They fancied, no doubt, that a stronger force was near; perhaps they remembered the terrible rifles of the trappers, and no doubt believed it was they who had arrived to the rescue. Indeed, such was my own belief, until I saw the oddly-costumed ranger bounding towards the spot.A glance satisfied me that I owed my preservation to Lige’s love of botanical science. A large globe-shaped cactus plant, bristling like a hedgehog, hung dangling from the swivel of his gun—it was thus carried to save his fingers from contact with its barbed spines—while stuck into every loop and button-hole of his dress could be seen the leaves and branchlets, and fruits and flowers, of a host of curious and unknown plants! He had been herborising in the woods; and coming by chance within earshot of the scuffle, had scrambled through the bushes just in time to spoil thecoup-de-grâceintended by El Zorro.“Thanks, Quackenboss! thanks, my brave friend! you came in good time: you have saved me.”“But a poor shot I’ve made, capten. I ought to have broken that red divel’s skull, or sent my bullet into his stomach; he’s got off too easy.”“It was a good shot: you broke his arm, I think.”“Ach! ’twas a poor shot; the cactus spoiled my aim. You hurt, capten?”“I am wounded, but not mortally, I think. I feel a little faint: ’tis only the blood. My horse—you will find him yonder—among the trees—yonder. Go, Lige; bring my horse—my horse—”For some minutes, I was out of the world.When consciousness came back, I perceived that my steed had been brought up, and stood near. The botanist was bending over me, and binding up my wounds with strips torn from his own shirt. He had one boot on; the other stood by, full of water, a portion of which he had already poured down my throat, and with the rest he proceeded to bathe my temples and wash the blood from my face.This done, I soon felt refreshed and strong enough to mount; and having climbed into the saddle, I set out for the rancheria, my companion half guiding, half leadin my horse.By the path which we followed, we should have to pass close to the hacienda and within sight of it; but night had come on, and the darkness would hinder us from being observed. It was what I now desired, though I had left the cerro with hopes and wishes directly the reverse. With a red gash upon my forehead—my uniform torn and blood-stained—I feared being seen, lest my invalid appearance should create unnecessary alarm. But we passed on without meeting any one, either by the hill or upon the main road; and in half-an-hour after, I was safe within mycuartoin the house of the alcalde.

Ijurra was alone, and I continued to advance to the spot where he was standing. His back was towards me, for he still fronted in the direction in which Isolina had galloped off. He had followed her with his eyes, with a cry of disappointed rage, with a threat of malignant vengeance.

The sound of his own voice hindered him from hearing mine, and he was not aware of my presence, when I paused scarcely three feet from where he stood, and directly behind him.

I held my sword drawn; I could have thrust him in the back, through and through again, before he could have offered either defence or resistance. He was completely in my power.

Fortunate was it for him at that moment that I had been bred a gentleman, else in another instant his lifeless body would have lain at my feet. A plebeian blade would have made short work with the ruffian, and I confess that my instincts of fair-play were sorely tried. I had before me a man who had sought my life—a deadly foe—a deadly foe to her I loved—a perjured villain—a murderer! With such titles for himself, he had none to the laws of honour; and I confess that for one short moment, I felt like ignoring his claim.

’Twas but for a moment: the thought revolted me. Wicked and worthless as he was, I could not stab him in the back.

I leaned forward, and tapping him upon the shoulder, pronounced his name.

It was the first intimation he had of my presence; and starting as if hit by a bullet, he turned face towards me. The flush of anger upon his cheek suddenly gave place to deadly pallor, and his eyes became set in that peculiar stare that indicates an apprehension of danger. This he must have felt keenly, for my determined look and drawn sword—to say nothing of the surprise by which I had come upon him—were calculated to produce that effect.

It was the first time we had stood face to face, and I now perceived that he was a much larger man than myself. But I saw, too, that his eye quailed, and his lip quivered, at the encounter. I saw that he was cowed; felt that I was his master.

“You are Rafael Ijurra?” I repeated, as he had not made answer to my first interrogation.

“Si, señor,” he answered hesitatingly. “What want you with me?”

“You have some documents there,” (he still held the papers in his hand); “a portion of them belongs to me. I shall trouble you to hand them over.”

“Are you Captain Warfield?” he asked, after a pause, at the same time pretending to examine the superscription upon the commissary’s letter. I saw that his fingers trembled.

“I am Captain Warfield—you ought to know by this time?”

Without noticing the insinuation, he replied—

“True—there is a letter here bearing that address. I found it upon the road: you are welcome to it, señor.”

As he said this, he handed me the commissary’s order, still retaining the other documents.

“There was an enclosure. I perceive you have it in your hand. I beg you will make me equally welcome to that.”

“Oh! a note signed Ramon de Vargas? It was an enclosure?”

“Precisely so; and of course goes along with the letter.”

“Oh, certainly; here it is, señor.”

“There is still another little document in your possession—a safeguard from the American commander granted to a certain lady. It is not yours, Señor Ijurra! I beg you will deliver it to me. I wish to return it to the lady to whom it belongs.”

This was the bitterest pill I had yet presented to him. He glanced hastily first to the right and then to the left, as if desirous of making escape. He would fain have done so, but I kept him under my eye, and he saw that my hand was ready.

“Certainly there is a safeguard,” replied he, after a pause, and with a feigned attempt at laughter. “’Tis a worthless document to me; ’tis at your service, sir captain;” and as he handed me the paper, he accompanied the act with another sorry cachinnation.

I folded the precious documents, and thrust all three under the breast of my coat; then placing myself in fighting attitude, I cried out to my adversary to “draw and defend” himself.

I had already noticed that he wore a sword, and, like myself, it appeared to be the only weapon he carried. I saw no pistols upon his person. I had none myself—nothing save a light cut-and-thrust sword. It was far slighter than the sabre of my antagonist, but it was a weapon that had seen service in my hands, and I had perfect confidence in it. I had no fear for the result against so cowardly an adversary; I was not awed, either by his heavier blade, or the superior size of his person.

To my astonishment, he hesitated to unsheath his sword!

“Youmustdraw,” I shouted with emphasis. “You or I have now to die. If you do not defend yourself, I shall run you through the body. Coward! would you have me kill you with your blade in its sheath?”

Even the taunt did not nerve him. Never saw I complete a poltroon. His white lips trembled, his eyes rolled wildly from side to side, seeking an opportunity to escape. I am certain that could he have hoped to get clear, he would at that crisis have turned and run.

All at once, and to my surprise, the coward appeared smitten with courage; and, grasping the hilt of his sabre, he drew the blade ringing from its scabbard, with all the energy of a determined man! His reluctance to fight seemed suddenly to have forsaken him. Had I mistaken my man? or was it despair that was nerving his arm?

His cowed look had disappeared: his eyes flashed with fury and vengeance; his teeth gritted together; and a fiercecarajohissed from his lips.

Our blades met—the sparks crackled along the creasing steel, and the combat began.

Fortunate for me, that, in avoiding the first lunge of my antagonist, I had to turn half round: fortunately I turned so soon, else I should never have left that glade alive.

As I faced in the new direction, I saw two men running towards us, sword in hand. A single glance told me they were guerrilleros. They were already within ten paces of the spot, and must have been seen long before by Ijurra.

This was the key to his altered demeanour. Their approach it was that had inspired him with courage to begin the fight—for he had calculated the time when they should be able to get up, and assail me from behind.

“Hola!” shouted he, seeing that I had discovered them—“Hola! El Zorro—José! anda! anda! Mueran los Yankies! at muerte con el picaro!”

For the first time, I felt myself in danger. Three swords to one was awkward odds; and the red giant, with a companion nearly as large as himself, would no doubt prove very different antagonists from the poltroon with whom I was engaged.

Yes, I was conscious of danger, and might have retreated, had I deemed such a course possible; but my horse was too far off, and the new-comers were directly in the path I should have to take to reach him. I could not hope to escape on foot; I well knew that these men run as lightly as Indians, for we had often proved their capacity in that accomplishment. They were alreadytoonear. I should be overtaken, struck down, pierced, with my back to the foe.

I had no time to reflect—just enough to leap back a pace or two, so as to bring all three of them in front of me, when I found my sword clashing against their blades, and parrying their blows one after the other.

I can describe the unequal combat no farther. It was a confused medley of cut and thrust, in which I both gave wounds and received them. I was wounded in several places, and felt the warm blood running under my clothes and over my face.

I grew wearied to death, and every second growing weaker and fainter.

I saw the red giant before me with his hand raised on high. His blade had already drawn my blood, and was crimsoned at the point; it was about to descend with a finishing stroke. I should be unable to parry it, for I had just exhausted my strength in guarding against a blow from Ijurra. My hopeless peril wrung from me a cry of despair.

Was it my cry that caused the blade to drop from the hand of my antagonist, and the uplifted arm to fall loosely by his side? Was it my cry that created the consternation suddenly visible in the faces of my foes? I might have fancied so, had I not heard a sharp crack from behind, and seen that the arm of El Zorro was broken by a shot!

It seemed like the awaking from some horrid dream. One moment I was battling, face to face, with three desperate men; the instant after, their backs were towards me, and all three were running as for life!

I followed them with my eyes, but not far; for at twenty paces off they plunged into the thicket, and disappeared.

I turned in the opposite direction. A man was running across the open ground with a gun in his hand. He was advancing towards the spot where I stood. It was he who had fired the shot. I saw that he was in Mexican costume; surely he was one of the guerrilleros—he had aimed at me, and wounded his comrade?

For some seconds, I fancied that such might be the case. Evidently he was bolder than any of the three, for he continued to advance, as if determined to attack me alone!

I placed myself in readiness for this new antagonist—taking a fresh grasp on my sword, and wiping the blood from my eyes, that I might the better receive him.

It was not until he was close to the point of my blade, that I recognised the long ape-like arms, and crooked mateless limbs, of Elijah Quackenboss!

The ranger, after delivering his fire, had not waited to reload, but ran forward with the intention of joining me in the hand-to-hand fight—though he carried no other weapon than his empty gun. But this would have been an efficient arm in such hands; for, despite his unsymmetrical build, Dutch Lige was stalwart and though, and would have been a full match for any two of my assailants, had they stood their ground.

But the crack of the gun had set them off like deer. They fancied, no doubt, that a stronger force was near; perhaps they remembered the terrible rifles of the trappers, and no doubt believed it was they who had arrived to the rescue. Indeed, such was my own belief, until I saw the oddly-costumed ranger bounding towards the spot.

A glance satisfied me that I owed my preservation to Lige’s love of botanical science. A large globe-shaped cactus plant, bristling like a hedgehog, hung dangling from the swivel of his gun—it was thus carried to save his fingers from contact with its barbed spines—while stuck into every loop and button-hole of his dress could be seen the leaves and branchlets, and fruits and flowers, of a host of curious and unknown plants! He had been herborising in the woods; and coming by chance within earshot of the scuffle, had scrambled through the bushes just in time to spoil thecoup-de-grâceintended by El Zorro.

“Thanks, Quackenboss! thanks, my brave friend! you came in good time: you have saved me.”

“But a poor shot I’ve made, capten. I ought to have broken that red divel’s skull, or sent my bullet into his stomach; he’s got off too easy.”

“It was a good shot: you broke his arm, I think.”

“Ach! ’twas a poor shot; the cactus spoiled my aim. You hurt, capten?”

“I am wounded, but not mortally, I think. I feel a little faint: ’tis only the blood. My horse—you will find him yonder—among the trees—yonder. Go, Lige; bring my horse—my horse—”

For some minutes, I was out of the world.

When consciousness came back, I perceived that my steed had been brought up, and stood near. The botanist was bending over me, and binding up my wounds with strips torn from his own shirt. He had one boot on; the other stood by, full of water, a portion of which he had already poured down my throat, and with the rest he proceeded to bathe my temples and wash the blood from my face.

This done, I soon felt refreshed and strong enough to mount; and having climbed into the saddle, I set out for the rancheria, my companion half guiding, half leadin my horse.

By the path which we followed, we should have to pass close to the hacienda and within sight of it; but night had come on, and the darkness would hinder us from being observed. It was what I now desired, though I had left the cerro with hopes and wishes directly the reverse. With a red gash upon my forehead—my uniform torn and blood-stained—I feared being seen, lest my invalid appearance should create unnecessary alarm. But we passed on without meeting any one, either by the hill or upon the main road; and in half-an-hour after, I was safe within mycuartoin the house of the alcalde.

Chapter Fifty One.An Official Black List.The incidents of the day preyed upon my spirits, and I was far from feeling easy about the future. I knew that my betrothed would be true till death; and I felt ashamed that I had doubted her, even for a moment. About her loyalty I had no uneasiness, and I mentally vowed never more to give way to suspicion.It was no thought of that that now troubled me, but an anxiety abouther personal safety; and this grew stronger the more I pondered upon it, till it assumed almost the form of a fear.The man who had used such bitter threats, and behaved with so much rudeness, would scarcely stop at anything. ’Tis true I had deprived him of much of his power over her, by stripping him of the dangerous documents; but it was not this time, nor was he the man, to stand upon nice distinctions of legality, where jealousy and cupidity were the incentives to action. Holding a sort of irresponsible office as the chief of what was less a patriotic guerrilla than a band of brigands, it was difficult to tell what such a monster might or might not attempt. In our absence from the post the ruffian would be full master of the neighbourhood. What deed might he not accomplish with impunity, holding his power directly from the unprincipled dictator, whom he was accustomed to imitate as a model, and who would indorse any act of villainy, provided it was the act of one of his own satellites? I shuddered as I reflected.The reappearance of Ijurra and his band—for I doubted not that his followers were near—their reappearance in that vicinity, and at such a crisis—just as we were being withdrawn—had something ominous in it. They must have known ere this of the plan of campaign designed for the American army. Wheatley’s rumour had proved well founded. The new commander-in-chief, Scott, had arrived upon the ground, and three-fourths of the “army of occupation” had been draughted to form the expedition destined to act upon Vera Cruz. As this greedy general stripped our old favourite “Rough and Ready” ofonlyhis best troops, we had the consolation of knowing that the “rangers” were among the “picked;” though, for all that, many of us would have preferred remaining with the brave veteran who had already led us so often to victory. I can answer for Wheatley and myself; I might also vouch for Holingsworth, though far different were his motives for wishing to remain on the Rio Grande. His sweetheart was revenge—in his breast long cherished—to his heart faithful and true.I have said that our design must have been known to the enemy ere this; indeed our army was already in movement. Troops and brigades were marching upon Brazos Santiago, and Tampico, there to be embarked for the south, and all that were to go had received their orders. The provinces on the Rio Grande were not to be entirely abandoned, but the army left there was to have its lines contracted, and would therefore cover much less ground. Not only was our little post to be deserted, but the neighbouring town, which had long been the head-quarters of a division, was also to be evacuated. No force of ours would remain within fifty miles of the rancheria; and perhaps no American troop would ever again visit that isolated village. The reflection rendered me more than melancholy.No doubt of it, then, the enemy was apprised of our movements. In our special case—thatwethe rangers were to march on the following morning, was well known to the people of the neighbourhood. It had been known to them for several days; and it had not passed unobserved by us that the citizens of the place—those who were not Ayankieados—had lately shown themselves more sulky and inhospitable, in proportion as the time approached for our departure. Thisbrusqueriehad led to several street-conflicts, in which knives had been drawn and blood spilled, and much “bad blood” begotten on both sides.Another circumstance was not unnoticed amongst us. Ribald pasquinades, rudely written, and accompanied by threats of proscription, were at this time thrust under the doors of such of the citizens as had been friendly to us. Even the alcalde had received some documents of this character—perhaps emanating from a jealoustienderowho had looked with bitter eye upon the courtship of Wheatley and Conchita. It was not till afterwards I learned that similar missives had “come to hand” in a quarter that more concerned myself.Some scouted the absurdity of these acts—alleging that they sprung from personal enmity, or originated in the mob-patriotism of theleperos. It was not so, as we afterwards learned; the government of the country—or, at all events, several of its prominent members—countenanced the meanness; and at their instigation, a “black list” was made out in every town and village through which the American army had occasion to pass. Let the minister, Señor O—, make answer to this accusation.I was musing on this disagreeable theme, after my return from the cerro, and endeavouring to sketch out some plan for the safety of my betrothed during my absence; but my thoughts proved barren.With a sort of faint hope that the villain Ijurra might yet fall into our hands, I had despatched Holingsworth—nothing loath for the duty—with a party of rangers upon his trail, and I was impatiently awaiting their return.The voice of Wheatley aroused me from my reverie.“Well, lieutenant, what is it?”“Only that precious boy,” answered he, with a significant smile, at the same time ushering “Cyprio” into the room.The lad carried a note, which I opened. A green sprig of juniper was enclosed, and the simple word “tuya” was written in pencil.I knew the symbol well. The juniper istuyain that most beautiful of tongues, andtuyafrom a lady signifies “yours.”“Anything more?” I asked of the messenger.“Nothing, Señor Capitan,” answered the intelligent boy; “only to inquire if you had arrived safe.”She had been anxious then!I separated the branchlet into two equal parts: one I placed in my bosom; the other, having fervently kissed, I enclosed in a folded sheet, upon which I wrote the words—“Tuyo—tuyo—hasta la muerte!”Cyprio bore back my parting message.At midnight Holingsworth and his party came in from the scout. Nothing had been seen of the guerrilla.

The incidents of the day preyed upon my spirits, and I was far from feeling easy about the future. I knew that my betrothed would be true till death; and I felt ashamed that I had doubted her, even for a moment. About her loyalty I had no uneasiness, and I mentally vowed never more to give way to suspicion.

It was no thought of that that now troubled me, but an anxiety abouther personal safety; and this grew stronger the more I pondered upon it, till it assumed almost the form of a fear.

The man who had used such bitter threats, and behaved with so much rudeness, would scarcely stop at anything. ’Tis true I had deprived him of much of his power over her, by stripping him of the dangerous documents; but it was not this time, nor was he the man, to stand upon nice distinctions of legality, where jealousy and cupidity were the incentives to action. Holding a sort of irresponsible office as the chief of what was less a patriotic guerrilla than a band of brigands, it was difficult to tell what such a monster might or might not attempt. In our absence from the post the ruffian would be full master of the neighbourhood. What deed might he not accomplish with impunity, holding his power directly from the unprincipled dictator, whom he was accustomed to imitate as a model, and who would indorse any act of villainy, provided it was the act of one of his own satellites? I shuddered as I reflected.

The reappearance of Ijurra and his band—for I doubted not that his followers were near—their reappearance in that vicinity, and at such a crisis—just as we were being withdrawn—had something ominous in it. They must have known ere this of the plan of campaign designed for the American army. Wheatley’s rumour had proved well founded. The new commander-in-chief, Scott, had arrived upon the ground, and three-fourths of the “army of occupation” had been draughted to form the expedition destined to act upon Vera Cruz. As this greedy general stripped our old favourite “Rough and Ready” ofonlyhis best troops, we had the consolation of knowing that the “rangers” were among the “picked;” though, for all that, many of us would have preferred remaining with the brave veteran who had already led us so often to victory. I can answer for Wheatley and myself; I might also vouch for Holingsworth, though far different were his motives for wishing to remain on the Rio Grande. His sweetheart was revenge—in his breast long cherished—to his heart faithful and true.

I have said that our design must have been known to the enemy ere this; indeed our army was already in movement. Troops and brigades were marching upon Brazos Santiago, and Tampico, there to be embarked for the south, and all that were to go had received their orders. The provinces on the Rio Grande were not to be entirely abandoned, but the army left there was to have its lines contracted, and would therefore cover much less ground. Not only was our little post to be deserted, but the neighbouring town, which had long been the head-quarters of a division, was also to be evacuated. No force of ours would remain within fifty miles of the rancheria; and perhaps no American troop would ever again visit that isolated village. The reflection rendered me more than melancholy.

No doubt of it, then, the enemy was apprised of our movements. In our special case—thatwethe rangers were to march on the following morning, was well known to the people of the neighbourhood. It had been known to them for several days; and it had not passed unobserved by us that the citizens of the place—those who were not Ayankieados—had lately shown themselves more sulky and inhospitable, in proportion as the time approached for our departure. Thisbrusqueriehad led to several street-conflicts, in which knives had been drawn and blood spilled, and much “bad blood” begotten on both sides.

Another circumstance was not unnoticed amongst us. Ribald pasquinades, rudely written, and accompanied by threats of proscription, were at this time thrust under the doors of such of the citizens as had been friendly to us. Even the alcalde had received some documents of this character—perhaps emanating from a jealoustienderowho had looked with bitter eye upon the courtship of Wheatley and Conchita. It was not till afterwards I learned that similar missives had “come to hand” in a quarter that more concerned myself.

Some scouted the absurdity of these acts—alleging that they sprung from personal enmity, or originated in the mob-patriotism of theleperos. It was not so, as we afterwards learned; the government of the country—or, at all events, several of its prominent members—countenanced the meanness; and at their instigation, a “black list” was made out in every town and village through which the American army had occasion to pass. Let the minister, Señor O—, make answer to this accusation.

I was musing on this disagreeable theme, after my return from the cerro, and endeavouring to sketch out some plan for the safety of my betrothed during my absence; but my thoughts proved barren.

With a sort of faint hope that the villain Ijurra might yet fall into our hands, I had despatched Holingsworth—nothing loath for the duty—with a party of rangers upon his trail, and I was impatiently awaiting their return.

The voice of Wheatley aroused me from my reverie.

“Well, lieutenant, what is it?”

“Only that precious boy,” answered he, with a significant smile, at the same time ushering “Cyprio” into the room.

The lad carried a note, which I opened. A green sprig of juniper was enclosed, and the simple word “tuya” was written in pencil.

I knew the symbol well. The juniper istuyain that most beautiful of tongues, andtuyafrom a lady signifies “yours.”

“Anything more?” I asked of the messenger.

“Nothing, Señor Capitan,” answered the intelligent boy; “only to inquire if you had arrived safe.”

She had been anxious then!

I separated the branchlet into two equal parts: one I placed in my bosom; the other, having fervently kissed, I enclosed in a folded sheet, upon which I wrote the words—

“Tuyo—tuyo—hasta la muerte!”

Cyprio bore back my parting message.

At midnight Holingsworth and his party came in from the scout. Nothing had been seen of the guerrilla.

Chapter Fifty Two.The Route.It was a struggle between Aurora and the moon which of them should rule the sky, when our bugle rang its clearréveillé, rousing the rangers from their slumber, and startling their steeds at the stall. The goddess of morning soon triumphed, and under her soft blue light, men and horses could be seen moving about, until the bugle again sounded—this time to “boot and saddle”—and the rangers began to form in the piazza, and prepare for the route.A single wagon with its white tilt and long team of mules, already “hitched up,” stood near the centre of the square. It constituted the whole baggage-train of the corps, and served as an ambulance for our invalids. Both baggage and sick had been safely stowed, and the vehicle was ready for the road. The bugler, already in his saddle, awaited orders to sound the “forward.”I had climbed to my favourite “smoking-room,” the azotea. Perhaps it was the last time I should ever set foot on those painted tiles. My eyes wandered over the piazza, though I little heeded what was passing there. Only the salient points of the picture were noted by me—steeds under saddle and bridle; men buckling on folded blankets, holsters, and valises; a few already in the saddle; a few more standing by the heads of their horses, and still another few grouped round the door of thepulperia, having a last drink ofmezcalorCatalanwith their swarthy Mexican acquaintances.Here and there, in front of some adobe hut, might be observed a more tender leave-taking. The ranger fully equipped—with arms, haversack, and canteen—leaning against the heavy bars of a window, his face turned inward, as though he was talking to some prisoner through the grating of a jail. But he is himself the real captive, ensnared during his short sojourn, and still held in chains by the olive-skinnedpoblana, whose dark liquid eyes may be seen on the other side of the reja, flashing with love, or melting with sad tenderness at the prospect of parting.Others, again, are bidding theiradiosin retired corners, under the shadow of the church walls, or in groups of four or five more openly in the piazza itself. Early as is the hour, the people have all arisen; and not a few of the brown, rebosa-clad, short-skirted wenches are already on their way,jarroon crown, to the fountain. There the pitchers are filled, and lifted on their heads—perhaps for the last time—by the rangers, who perform the office with all the rude grace in their power. Then follows a profusion of smiles and bows, and a dialogue, on the ranger’s part extending to the whole of his Spanish, which consists of the phrase—“Mucho bueno, muchacha!”The usual reply, accompanied with a display of pretty white teeth, is—“Mucho bueno, cavallero! mucho bueno, Tejano!” given in like ungrammatical phrase, in order that it may be intelligible to the person to whom it is addressed.I have often been surprised at the success of my great uncouth followers with thesepetitedark-eyed damsels of Anahuac; but, indeed, many of the rangers are not bad-looking men. On the contrary, there are handsome fellows among them, if they were only put into clean shirts, and a little more closely shaven. But woman’s eye is keen-sighted in such matters: she easily penetrates through the disguise of dust, the bronze of sun-tan, and the shaggy mask of an ill-kept beard; and no eye is quicker in this respect than that of the fair Mexicana. In the big, apparently rude, individual, called a “ranger,” she beholds a type of strength and courage, a heart that can cherish, and an arm that can protect her. These are qualities that, from all time, have won the love of woman.It is evident they are not all friends whom we are leaving behind us. Hostile faces may be observed, many of them peering from open doors or windows. Here and there a sulky lepero swings about in his blanket, or cowers by the corner of the street, scowling savagely from under his broad-brimmed hat. Most of this class are absent—as long since ascertained—with the guerrilla; but a few still remain to give shadow to the picture. They regard the approaches towards their women with ill-concealed anger; and would resent this politeness if they dared. They confine the exhibition of their spite to the dastardly meanness of ill-treating the women themselves, whenever they have an opportunity. No later than the night before, one of them was detected in beating his sweetheart or mistress for the crime, as was alleged, of dallying too long in the company of a Tejano. The Tejano, in this case, took the law into his own hands, and severely chastised the jealouspelado.Even in the hurried glance which I gave to these scenes of leave-taking, I could not help noticing an expression on the faces of some of the young girls that had in it a strange significance. It was something more than sadness: it was more like the uneasy look that betokens apprehension.Perhaps the state of mind I was in magnified my perceptions. At that moment, a struggle was passing in my own breast, and a feeling of irresolution lay heavy upon me. All night long had my mind dwelt upon the same thought—the danger that menaced my betrothed—all night long I had been occupied with plans to avert it; but no reasonable scheme had I succeeded in devising.It is true the danger was only hypothetical and undefined; but it was just this supposititious indefiniteness that caused the difficulty in providing against it. Had it assumed a tangible shape, I might more easily have adopted some means of avoiding it: but no—it remained a shadow, and against a shadow I knew not what precautions to take. When morning broke, I was still struggling under the same nervous indecision.Problematical as was the peril my fancy had formed, there were moments when it appalled me—moments when my mind laboured under a painful presentiment, and I could not cast the load by any act of volition. With all my philosophy, I could not fortify myself against the belief that “coming events cast their shadows before;” and, spite of myself, I kept repeating in thought the weird prophetic words. Upon my soul, certainly, there were shadows, and dark ones; if the events should have any correspondence with them, then there was misery before me.I have termed the danger in which Isolina was placed indefinite: it was not so indefinite, after a fair analysis; it was directly traceable to the presence of Rafael Ijurra.True, there were other sources of apprehension; other perils surrounded her, arising from the disturbed state of the country—but these did not point at her in particular. That frontier province had been for years in a distracted condition—by revolution or Indian invasion—and war was no new thing to its people. In the midst of strife had this fair flower grown to perfect blooming, without having been either crushed or trodden upon. Isolina de Vargas was a woman of sufficient spirit to resist insult and cast off intrusion. I had just had proof of this. Under ordinary circumstances, I had no fear that she would be unequal to the emergency; but the circumstances in which she now stood were not of that character; they were extraordinary, and that to an extreme degree. In addition to the light thrown upon Ijurra’s designs by his own menacing confession, I knew other particulars of him. Holingsworth had helped me to a knowledge of this bad man, and this knowledge it was that rendered me apprehensive. From a nature so base and brutal, it was natural I should dread the worst.But what could I do? I might have thrown up my commission, and remained upon the spot, but this would have been worse than idle. I could not have protected myself, much less another. The rangers once gone from the place, my life would not have been safe there for a single hour.Only one plan suggested itself that had the semblance of feasibility: to seek another interview with Isolina—her father as well—and adjure them to remove at once from the scene of danger. They might proceed to San Antonio de Bexar, where, far removed from hostile ground, they could live in safety till the war should be ended.It was only at the last moment that this happy idea came into my head, and I reviled myself that I had not conceived it sooner. The chief difficulty would lie in the opposition of Don Ramon. I knew that he was aware of thefriendshipthat existed between his daughter and myself, and, furthermore, that he had opposed no obstacle to it; but how could I convince him of the necessity for so sudden an expatriation as the one I was about to propose? how should I persuade him of the peril I myself dreaded? and from such a source?Another difficulty I might encounter: in the proud spirit of Isolina herself. Much did I fear she would never consent to be thus driven from her home, and by such a poltroon as she knew her cousin to be. She had cowed and conquered him but the day before; she feared him not; she would not be likely to partake of my painful apprehensions. My counsel might be disregarded, my motives misconstrued.The time, too, was unfavourable. We must be on the march by sunrise—so ran our orders—and already the day was breaking. I cared not much for this: I could easily have overtaken my troop; but it was a delicate matter—that could only be excused by a certain knowledge of danger—to awake a gentleman’s family at such an hour, even for the purpose of warning them. Moreover, should my advice prove fruitless, I reflected that my visit—which could not be made in secret—might aid in bringing about the very danger I apprehended. A circumstance so extraordinary could not fail to be noticed by all.It was thus that I was held in irresolution, while my troop was forming for the march.At the last moment, thanks to the thoughtful Holingsworth, a compromise offered. He suggested that I should send my advice in writing. In that I could be as explicit as I pleased, and bring before my protegés all the arguments I might be able to adduce—perhaps more successfully than if urged by a personal appeal.My comrade’s suggestion was adopted; and in haste, but with a fervour resulting from my fears, I penned the admonitory epistle.A trusty messenger was found in one of theAyankieados; who promised, as soon as the family should be stirring, to carry the letter to its destination.With my heart somewhat relieved of its load, though still far from light, I gave the order to march.The bugle rang clear and loud, and its cheerful notes, as I sprang into the saddle, combined with the inspiration borrowed from my buoyant steed, produced a soothing effect upon my spirits.

It was a struggle between Aurora and the moon which of them should rule the sky, when our bugle rang its clearréveillé, rousing the rangers from their slumber, and startling their steeds at the stall. The goddess of morning soon triumphed, and under her soft blue light, men and horses could be seen moving about, until the bugle again sounded—this time to “boot and saddle”—and the rangers began to form in the piazza, and prepare for the route.

A single wagon with its white tilt and long team of mules, already “hitched up,” stood near the centre of the square. It constituted the whole baggage-train of the corps, and served as an ambulance for our invalids. Both baggage and sick had been safely stowed, and the vehicle was ready for the road. The bugler, already in his saddle, awaited orders to sound the “forward.”

I had climbed to my favourite “smoking-room,” the azotea. Perhaps it was the last time I should ever set foot on those painted tiles. My eyes wandered over the piazza, though I little heeded what was passing there. Only the salient points of the picture were noted by me—steeds under saddle and bridle; men buckling on folded blankets, holsters, and valises; a few already in the saddle; a few more standing by the heads of their horses, and still another few grouped round the door of thepulperia, having a last drink ofmezcalorCatalanwith their swarthy Mexican acquaintances.

Here and there, in front of some adobe hut, might be observed a more tender leave-taking. The ranger fully equipped—with arms, haversack, and canteen—leaning against the heavy bars of a window, his face turned inward, as though he was talking to some prisoner through the grating of a jail. But he is himself the real captive, ensnared during his short sojourn, and still held in chains by the olive-skinnedpoblana, whose dark liquid eyes may be seen on the other side of the reja, flashing with love, or melting with sad tenderness at the prospect of parting.

Others, again, are bidding theiradiosin retired corners, under the shadow of the church walls, or in groups of four or five more openly in the piazza itself. Early as is the hour, the people have all arisen; and not a few of the brown, rebosa-clad, short-skirted wenches are already on their way,jarroon crown, to the fountain. There the pitchers are filled, and lifted on their heads—perhaps for the last time—by the rangers, who perform the office with all the rude grace in their power. Then follows a profusion of smiles and bows, and a dialogue, on the ranger’s part extending to the whole of his Spanish, which consists of the phrase—

“Mucho bueno, muchacha!”

The usual reply, accompanied with a display of pretty white teeth, is—

“Mucho bueno, cavallero! mucho bueno, Tejano!” given in like ungrammatical phrase, in order that it may be intelligible to the person to whom it is addressed.

I have often been surprised at the success of my great uncouth followers with thesepetitedark-eyed damsels of Anahuac; but, indeed, many of the rangers are not bad-looking men. On the contrary, there are handsome fellows among them, if they were only put into clean shirts, and a little more closely shaven. But woman’s eye is keen-sighted in such matters: she easily penetrates through the disguise of dust, the bronze of sun-tan, and the shaggy mask of an ill-kept beard; and no eye is quicker in this respect than that of the fair Mexicana. In the big, apparently rude, individual, called a “ranger,” she beholds a type of strength and courage, a heart that can cherish, and an arm that can protect her. These are qualities that, from all time, have won the love of woman.

It is evident they are not all friends whom we are leaving behind us. Hostile faces may be observed, many of them peering from open doors or windows. Here and there a sulky lepero swings about in his blanket, or cowers by the corner of the street, scowling savagely from under his broad-brimmed hat. Most of this class are absent—as long since ascertained—with the guerrilla; but a few still remain to give shadow to the picture. They regard the approaches towards their women with ill-concealed anger; and would resent this politeness if they dared. They confine the exhibition of their spite to the dastardly meanness of ill-treating the women themselves, whenever they have an opportunity. No later than the night before, one of them was detected in beating his sweetheart or mistress for the crime, as was alleged, of dallying too long in the company of a Tejano. The Tejano, in this case, took the law into his own hands, and severely chastised the jealouspelado.

Even in the hurried glance which I gave to these scenes of leave-taking, I could not help noticing an expression on the faces of some of the young girls that had in it a strange significance. It was something more than sadness: it was more like the uneasy look that betokens apprehension.

Perhaps the state of mind I was in magnified my perceptions. At that moment, a struggle was passing in my own breast, and a feeling of irresolution lay heavy upon me. All night long had my mind dwelt upon the same thought—the danger that menaced my betrothed—all night long I had been occupied with plans to avert it; but no reasonable scheme had I succeeded in devising.

It is true the danger was only hypothetical and undefined; but it was just this supposititious indefiniteness that caused the difficulty in providing against it. Had it assumed a tangible shape, I might more easily have adopted some means of avoiding it: but no—it remained a shadow, and against a shadow I knew not what precautions to take. When morning broke, I was still struggling under the same nervous indecision.

Problematical as was the peril my fancy had formed, there were moments when it appalled me—moments when my mind laboured under a painful presentiment, and I could not cast the load by any act of volition. With all my philosophy, I could not fortify myself against the belief that “coming events cast their shadows before;” and, spite of myself, I kept repeating in thought the weird prophetic words. Upon my soul, certainly, there were shadows, and dark ones; if the events should have any correspondence with them, then there was misery before me.

I have termed the danger in which Isolina was placed indefinite: it was not so indefinite, after a fair analysis; it was directly traceable to the presence of Rafael Ijurra.

True, there were other sources of apprehension; other perils surrounded her, arising from the disturbed state of the country—but these did not point at her in particular. That frontier province had been for years in a distracted condition—by revolution or Indian invasion—and war was no new thing to its people. In the midst of strife had this fair flower grown to perfect blooming, without having been either crushed or trodden upon. Isolina de Vargas was a woman of sufficient spirit to resist insult and cast off intrusion. I had just had proof of this. Under ordinary circumstances, I had no fear that she would be unequal to the emergency; but the circumstances in which she now stood were not of that character; they were extraordinary, and that to an extreme degree. In addition to the light thrown upon Ijurra’s designs by his own menacing confession, I knew other particulars of him. Holingsworth had helped me to a knowledge of this bad man, and this knowledge it was that rendered me apprehensive. From a nature so base and brutal, it was natural I should dread the worst.

But what could I do? I might have thrown up my commission, and remained upon the spot, but this would have been worse than idle. I could not have protected myself, much less another. The rangers once gone from the place, my life would not have been safe there for a single hour.

Only one plan suggested itself that had the semblance of feasibility: to seek another interview with Isolina—her father as well—and adjure them to remove at once from the scene of danger. They might proceed to San Antonio de Bexar, where, far removed from hostile ground, they could live in safety till the war should be ended.

It was only at the last moment that this happy idea came into my head, and I reviled myself that I had not conceived it sooner. The chief difficulty would lie in the opposition of Don Ramon. I knew that he was aware of thefriendshipthat existed between his daughter and myself, and, furthermore, that he had opposed no obstacle to it; but how could I convince him of the necessity for so sudden an expatriation as the one I was about to propose? how should I persuade him of the peril I myself dreaded? and from such a source?

Another difficulty I might encounter: in the proud spirit of Isolina herself. Much did I fear she would never consent to be thus driven from her home, and by such a poltroon as she knew her cousin to be. She had cowed and conquered him but the day before; she feared him not; she would not be likely to partake of my painful apprehensions. My counsel might be disregarded, my motives misconstrued.

The time, too, was unfavourable. We must be on the march by sunrise—so ran our orders—and already the day was breaking. I cared not much for this: I could easily have overtaken my troop; but it was a delicate matter—that could only be excused by a certain knowledge of danger—to awake a gentleman’s family at such an hour, even for the purpose of warning them. Moreover, should my advice prove fruitless, I reflected that my visit—which could not be made in secret—might aid in bringing about the very danger I apprehended. A circumstance so extraordinary could not fail to be noticed by all.

It was thus that I was held in irresolution, while my troop was forming for the march.

At the last moment, thanks to the thoughtful Holingsworth, a compromise offered. He suggested that I should send my advice in writing. In that I could be as explicit as I pleased, and bring before my protegés all the arguments I might be able to adduce—perhaps more successfully than if urged by a personal appeal.

My comrade’s suggestion was adopted; and in haste, but with a fervour resulting from my fears, I penned the admonitory epistle.

A trusty messenger was found in one of theAyankieados; who promised, as soon as the family should be stirring, to carry the letter to its destination.

With my heart somewhat relieved of its load, though still far from light, I gave the order to march.

The bugle rang clear and loud, and its cheerful notes, as I sprang into the saddle, combined with the inspiration borrowed from my buoyant steed, produced a soothing effect upon my spirits.

Chapter Fifty Three.Camp Gossip.It was but a short-lived light—a passing gleam—and soon again fell the shadow, dark as ever. Strive as I might, I could not cast the load that weighed upon my bosom; reason as I would, I could not account for its heaviness.It was natural that a parting like ours should produce pain, and misgivings as to the future. My life was to be staked in the lottery of war; I might fall on the field of fight; I might perish by camp-pestilence—a foe that in the campaign kills more soldiers than sword or shot—the many perils of flood and field were before me, and it was natural I should regard the future with a degree of doubtfulness.But it was not the contemplation of all these dangers that filled me with such a terrible foreboding. Strange to say, I had a forecast that I should survive them. It was almost a conviction, yet it failed to comfort me, for it comprehended not the safety of Isolina. No—but the contrary. Along with it came the presentiment, that we should never meet again.Once or twice, as this dread feeling became most acute, I reined up my horse, half resolved to gallop back; but again the wild idea passed from me, and I continued irresolutely on.Something of prudence, too, now restrained me from returning: it would no longer have been safe to go back to the rancheria. As we issued from the piazza, we could hear distant jeering, and cries of “Mueran los Tejanos!” It was with difficulty I could restrain the rangers from turning to take vengeance. One, the worse for mezcal, had loitered behind—under the influence of the drink fancying himself secure. Him thepeladoshad “bonneted,” and otherwise maltreated. They would have murdered him outright; but that some of them, more prudent than their fellows, had counselled the mob to let him go—alleging that the Tejanos were yet “too near, and might come back.”Again I had strife with my men: they would have returned and fired the place, had I permitted them. Fortunately, he who had been ill-treated was a good-for-nothing fellow—scarcely worth the sympathy of his comrades—and I was well satisfied at his having received a lesson. It might be useful, and was much needed, for “straggling” was one of the ranger-crimes most difficult to cure.Along the road, we saw signs of a guerrilla. Shots were fired at us from a hill; but a party sent to the place encountered no one. Horse-tracks were observed, and once a brace of mounted men were seen galloping away over a distant slope. It might be the band of Ijurra, and doubtless it was so; but we fancied at the time that Canales himself was near; and as an encounter with his large and well-organised force would be a very different affair from a skirmish with the other, we felt the necessity of advancing with caution.The prospect of a “fight” with this noted partisan created quite an excitement in the ranks. To have captured Canales—the “Chapparal Fox,” as the Texans termed him—or to have made conquest of his band, would have been esteemed a feat of grand consequence—only inferior in importance to a pitched battle, or the taking of “Game-leg” (Santa Anna) himself.I confess that to me the idea of measuring strength with the famed guerrillero was at that moment rife with charms; and the excitement derived from the hope of meeting him, for a while abstracted my mind from its painful bodings.But we reached the town without seeing aught of the Chapparal Fox. It was not likely that he was on our road; or if so, he took care not to show himself. Canales fought not for glory alone, and the rangers were not the foes he cared to encounter. Rich baggage-trains were the game he was used to hunt; and our solitary “company-wagon,” filled with frying-pans, camp-kettles, sick soldiers, and tattered blankets—half alive with those charming little insects of the generapulesandpediculus—had no attractions for the gallant guerrillero.On reaching the town, we were surprised to find that the division had not yet moved. It was to have marched on that morning; but a countermand had arrived from head-quarters, delaying the movement for some days—perhaps a week.This was rare news to me; and as soon as I heard it, my mind became occupied with projects and anticipations of a pleasant nature. I had hoped that we should be sent back to the rancheria, but alas! no—our orders were to remain with the division.As every available building was occupied by troops, the rangers, as usual, were treated as “outsiders,” and compelled to take to the grass.Half-a-mile from the town, a spot was shown us for our camp. It was on the banks of a pretty rivulet; and there, having picketed our steeds, stretched our canvas to the sun, and washed the dust from our faces, we made ourselves at home.I did not remain long by the camp. As soon as the tents were fairly pitched, I left them, and walked back into the town—partly to get more definite information as to the future movements of the army, and partly with the design of indulging a little in the social feeling. I had some old comrades among the different regiments of the division; and, after such a long spell of rustication, I was not indisposed to refresh my spirit by the renewal of former fellowships.At head-quarters, I learned definitely that we should not march for a week at the least. So far good; and after hearing this, I proceeded to thefonda—the rendezvous of all the jovial spirits of the army. Here I encountered the friends of whom I was in search; and for a short while I found respite from the thoughts that had been harrowing me.I soon gathered the current “camp gossip,” and learned who were the “newspaper heroes” of the hour; over many of whose names my friends and I could not restrain either our satire or laughter. It appeared that the men of deeds were scarcely known beyond the limits of the army itself, while others, who in the field of battle had actually played the poltroon, had at home become household words in the mouths of the people. One general, whom I myself saw hiding in a ditch daring the rage of battle, was the theme of speech, sentiment, and song. The newspapers were filled with praises, and the windows with pictures, of a “gallant dragoon officer,” who had somehow obtained the credit of capturing a certain battery. My rangers cried “Bah!” when I told them this. They themselves were the men who had first galloped over those Mexican guns!“Keeping an editor in pay” was a standing sarcasm applicable to more than one of our generals; and the “army correspondent,” taking advantage of this pruriency for fame, lived well, and swaggered in proportional importance.Ah, glory! what sacrifices men make for thee upon the shrine of conscience! For my part, I do not think I could feel happy under the credit of a feat I had not performed. Surely the consciousness of having done a deed is of itself a sufficient reward? He is but an unhappy hero who is not a hero to himself!Pleasanter gossip I heard about the relations existing between our troops and the people of the town. Many of the inhabitants had grown quite friendly, in consequence of our excellent behaviour towards them. Our conduct was compared with that which they had lately experienced at the hands of their own army. The latter was in the habit of seizing property at pleasure, on pretence of using it for the defence of the state. We, on the contrary, paid for everything—round prices too—in bright American dollars. The ricos and merchants preferred this system, and had no objections to making it permanent. Outrages were few on the part of our soldiery, and severely punished by the general. Our enemies contrasted the modest bearing of the American soldier with the conceited strut and insolent swagger of their own gold-bedizenedmilitarios, who were wont on all occasions to “take the wall” of them. It was only outside the lines, between stragglers and leperos, that the retaliation system was carried on so fiercely. Within the walls, everything was order, with a mildness too rare under martial law. Private property was strictly regarded, and private dwellings were not occupied by our troops. Even the officers were not billeted in private houses; and many of them had to make shift in rather uncomfortable quarters, while most of the soldiers lived under canvas. This state of things was scarcely satisfactory to the troops; and some grumbling was heard. There was no complaint, however, from the Mexicans, who seemed rather astonished at so much forbearance on the part of their conquerors.I doubt whether, in the whole history of war, can be found a conquest characterised by equal mildness and humanity with the “Second Conquest of Mexico.”It was principally for this reason the people had grown so well affected towards us. But there was another reason, perhaps, not less potent. From the extensive operations we were now about to undertake, they saw that we meant war in earnest; and the belief had become general, that a large “annexation” was to follow; that perhaps the whole valley of the Rio Grande would become American territory. It was but human nature in them to do homage to the rising sun.The ricos were better disposed towards us than the common people; but this enigma is easily explained. The latter were morepatriotic—that is, more ready to fight for native tyranny, than accept freedom from a foreign hand. ’Tis so in all lands. In the event of a war with England, the black slave of Carolina would range himself by the side of his master, and prove the bitterest foe to the enemies, not ofhis freedom, but of hiscountry.Thefamilias principalesof Mexico had good reasons for being friendly to us. They had a stake to lose, which, under their own government, had been ill guarded for them. No wonder they should desire to come under the broad protecting wings of the northern eagle.I found that another species of “annexation” had been going on during my absence. One of our officers had become annexed to a wealthy señorita of the place, and the marriage-ceremony had been performed with great pomp and splendour. Another was talked of as beingfiancé; and it was expected that the example would find numerous imitators.I need not say that I was much interested by thesenovedadesand I returned with lighter heart to the ranger-camp.

It was but a short-lived light—a passing gleam—and soon again fell the shadow, dark as ever. Strive as I might, I could not cast the load that weighed upon my bosom; reason as I would, I could not account for its heaviness.

It was natural that a parting like ours should produce pain, and misgivings as to the future. My life was to be staked in the lottery of war; I might fall on the field of fight; I might perish by camp-pestilence—a foe that in the campaign kills more soldiers than sword or shot—the many perils of flood and field were before me, and it was natural I should regard the future with a degree of doubtfulness.

But it was not the contemplation of all these dangers that filled me with such a terrible foreboding. Strange to say, I had a forecast that I should survive them. It was almost a conviction, yet it failed to comfort me, for it comprehended not the safety of Isolina. No—but the contrary. Along with it came the presentiment, that we should never meet again.

Once or twice, as this dread feeling became most acute, I reined up my horse, half resolved to gallop back; but again the wild idea passed from me, and I continued irresolutely on.

Something of prudence, too, now restrained me from returning: it would no longer have been safe to go back to the rancheria. As we issued from the piazza, we could hear distant jeering, and cries of “Mueran los Tejanos!” It was with difficulty I could restrain the rangers from turning to take vengeance. One, the worse for mezcal, had loitered behind—under the influence of the drink fancying himself secure. Him thepeladoshad “bonneted,” and otherwise maltreated. They would have murdered him outright; but that some of them, more prudent than their fellows, had counselled the mob to let him go—alleging that the Tejanos were yet “too near, and might come back.”

Again I had strife with my men: they would have returned and fired the place, had I permitted them. Fortunately, he who had been ill-treated was a good-for-nothing fellow—scarcely worth the sympathy of his comrades—and I was well satisfied at his having received a lesson. It might be useful, and was much needed, for “straggling” was one of the ranger-crimes most difficult to cure.

Along the road, we saw signs of a guerrilla. Shots were fired at us from a hill; but a party sent to the place encountered no one. Horse-tracks were observed, and once a brace of mounted men were seen galloping away over a distant slope. It might be the band of Ijurra, and doubtless it was so; but we fancied at the time that Canales himself was near; and as an encounter with his large and well-organised force would be a very different affair from a skirmish with the other, we felt the necessity of advancing with caution.

The prospect of a “fight” with this noted partisan created quite an excitement in the ranks. To have captured Canales—the “Chapparal Fox,” as the Texans termed him—or to have made conquest of his band, would have been esteemed a feat of grand consequence—only inferior in importance to a pitched battle, or the taking of “Game-leg” (Santa Anna) himself.

I confess that to me the idea of measuring strength with the famed guerrillero was at that moment rife with charms; and the excitement derived from the hope of meeting him, for a while abstracted my mind from its painful bodings.

But we reached the town without seeing aught of the Chapparal Fox. It was not likely that he was on our road; or if so, he took care not to show himself. Canales fought not for glory alone, and the rangers were not the foes he cared to encounter. Rich baggage-trains were the game he was used to hunt; and our solitary “company-wagon,” filled with frying-pans, camp-kettles, sick soldiers, and tattered blankets—half alive with those charming little insects of the generapulesandpediculus—had no attractions for the gallant guerrillero.

On reaching the town, we were surprised to find that the division had not yet moved. It was to have marched on that morning; but a countermand had arrived from head-quarters, delaying the movement for some days—perhaps a week.

This was rare news to me; and as soon as I heard it, my mind became occupied with projects and anticipations of a pleasant nature. I had hoped that we should be sent back to the rancheria, but alas! no—our orders were to remain with the division.

As every available building was occupied by troops, the rangers, as usual, were treated as “outsiders,” and compelled to take to the grass.

Half-a-mile from the town, a spot was shown us for our camp. It was on the banks of a pretty rivulet; and there, having picketed our steeds, stretched our canvas to the sun, and washed the dust from our faces, we made ourselves at home.

I did not remain long by the camp. As soon as the tents were fairly pitched, I left them, and walked back into the town—partly to get more definite information as to the future movements of the army, and partly with the design of indulging a little in the social feeling. I had some old comrades among the different regiments of the division; and, after such a long spell of rustication, I was not indisposed to refresh my spirit by the renewal of former fellowships.

At head-quarters, I learned definitely that we should not march for a week at the least. So far good; and after hearing this, I proceeded to thefonda—the rendezvous of all the jovial spirits of the army. Here I encountered the friends of whom I was in search; and for a short while I found respite from the thoughts that had been harrowing me.

I soon gathered the current “camp gossip,” and learned who were the “newspaper heroes” of the hour; over many of whose names my friends and I could not restrain either our satire or laughter. It appeared that the men of deeds were scarcely known beyond the limits of the army itself, while others, who in the field of battle had actually played the poltroon, had at home become household words in the mouths of the people. One general, whom I myself saw hiding in a ditch daring the rage of battle, was the theme of speech, sentiment, and song. The newspapers were filled with praises, and the windows with pictures, of a “gallant dragoon officer,” who had somehow obtained the credit of capturing a certain battery. My rangers cried “Bah!” when I told them this. They themselves were the men who had first galloped over those Mexican guns!

“Keeping an editor in pay” was a standing sarcasm applicable to more than one of our generals; and the “army correspondent,” taking advantage of this pruriency for fame, lived well, and swaggered in proportional importance.

Ah, glory! what sacrifices men make for thee upon the shrine of conscience! For my part, I do not think I could feel happy under the credit of a feat I had not performed. Surely the consciousness of having done a deed is of itself a sufficient reward? He is but an unhappy hero who is not a hero to himself!

Pleasanter gossip I heard about the relations existing between our troops and the people of the town. Many of the inhabitants had grown quite friendly, in consequence of our excellent behaviour towards them. Our conduct was compared with that which they had lately experienced at the hands of their own army. The latter was in the habit of seizing property at pleasure, on pretence of using it for the defence of the state. We, on the contrary, paid for everything—round prices too—in bright American dollars. The ricos and merchants preferred this system, and had no objections to making it permanent. Outrages were few on the part of our soldiery, and severely punished by the general. Our enemies contrasted the modest bearing of the American soldier with the conceited strut and insolent swagger of their own gold-bedizenedmilitarios, who were wont on all occasions to “take the wall” of them. It was only outside the lines, between stragglers and leperos, that the retaliation system was carried on so fiercely. Within the walls, everything was order, with a mildness too rare under martial law. Private property was strictly regarded, and private dwellings were not occupied by our troops. Even the officers were not billeted in private houses; and many of them had to make shift in rather uncomfortable quarters, while most of the soldiers lived under canvas. This state of things was scarcely satisfactory to the troops; and some grumbling was heard. There was no complaint, however, from the Mexicans, who seemed rather astonished at so much forbearance on the part of their conquerors.

I doubt whether, in the whole history of war, can be found a conquest characterised by equal mildness and humanity with the “Second Conquest of Mexico.”

It was principally for this reason the people had grown so well affected towards us. But there was another reason, perhaps, not less potent. From the extensive operations we were now about to undertake, they saw that we meant war in earnest; and the belief had become general, that a large “annexation” was to follow; that perhaps the whole valley of the Rio Grande would become American territory. It was but human nature in them to do homage to the rising sun.

The ricos were better disposed towards us than the common people; but this enigma is easily explained. The latter were morepatriotic—that is, more ready to fight for native tyranny, than accept freedom from a foreign hand. ’Tis so in all lands. In the event of a war with England, the black slave of Carolina would range himself by the side of his master, and prove the bitterest foe to the enemies, not ofhis freedom, but of hiscountry.

Thefamilias principalesof Mexico had good reasons for being friendly to us. They had a stake to lose, which, under their own government, had been ill guarded for them. No wonder they should desire to come under the broad protecting wings of the northern eagle.

I found that another species of “annexation” had been going on during my absence. One of our officers had become annexed to a wealthy señorita of the place, and the marriage-ceremony had been performed with great pomp and splendour. Another was talked of as beingfiancé; and it was expected that the example would find numerous imitators.

I need not say that I was much interested by thesenovedadesand I returned with lighter heart to the ranger-camp.

Chapter Fifty Four.The Ruined Rancho.The pleasant excitement caused by the visit to my old comrades was soon over; and having nothing to do but lounge about my tent, I became again the victim of the same painful bodings. I could not shake them off.Subtle and mysterious is the spirit-world within us; certainly does it seem to have prescience of the future. Is it an electric chain connecting what is, with what is to be? Or is it the second-sight of instinct? Certainly there are times when something within whispers a warning—as, in the physical world, God’s wild creatures are warned from without of the earthquake and the storm. How often do we experience the realisation of portentous dreams? Why should not the waking soul have also its moments of clairvoyance?As I lay stretched upon my leatherncatré, I gave way to such reflections. I soon succeeded in reasoning myself into a full belief in foreknowledge; and my apprehensions were proportionately strengthened. But I had conceived a design; and the prospect of putting it in execution somewhat relieved me from the heaviness I had hitherto felt.My new project was to take a score of my best men, to ride back the road we had come, place the party in ambush near the hacienda, while I alone should enter the house, and further urge the counsels I had committed to writing. If I should find that these had been already followed, so much the better—I should be assured, and return content; but I felt almost certain that Don Ramon had rejected them. At all events, I was determined to know the truth—determined, moreover, to gratify my longing for one more interview with my beloved.I had warned the men and fixed the hour—as soon it was dark enough to conceal our departure from the camp.I had two reasons for not starting earlier—first, because I did not wish thisprivate scoutingto be known at head-quarters. It is true, that in such matters we rangers had the advantage of regular troops. Though belonging to the division, our duty was usually detached from it, and we were rarely “missed” when absent. There was thus a sort of pleasant independence in my command, which I for one fully appreciated. For all that, I did not desire the whole world to know of an expedition like the one projected.My second motive for going in the night was simple prudence. I dared not take the whole of my command along with me without permission from head-quarters. The absence of the corps without leave would certainly be noticed—even were it but for a few hours—and with the smaller party I intended to take, caution would be requisite. Should we move along the road before it was deserted, some swift messenger might carry the tidingsen avant, and get us into trouble.I designed to start at the earliest hour of darkness—so that I might not alarm the hacienda by a midnight visit.An hour and a half of constant riding would bring me to its gate.At the last moment of twilight we leaped into our saddles; and rode silently into the chapparal that skirted the camp. After filing for some distance through a narrow path, we debouched upon the up-river road—the same that conducted to the rancheria.The trappers, Rube and Garey, acting as scouts, went forward in the advance. They were on foot—their horses remaining behind with the party.It was a mode of march I had adopted after some experience in bush-fighting. The scouts of a marching force should always go on foot, whether the main body be dragoons or infantry. In this manner they can take advantage of the ground; and by keeping under cover of the timber, are enabled to reconnoitre the angles of the road in a much safer way than when on horseback. The great danger to a scout—and consequently to the party for which he is acting—lies in his beingfirstseen, and the risk is greater when he is mounted. The horse cannot be drawn under cover without an effort; and the sound of the hoof may be heard; whereas in nine cases out of ten, a man on foot—that is, such a man as either Rube Rawlings or Bill Garey—will discover the enemy before he is himself seen, or any ambuscade can be attempted. Of course the scout should never advance beyond the possibility of retreating upon the party he is guiding.With full confidence in the men who had been sent forward, we rode on—timing our pace, so as not to overtake them. Now and then we caught a glimpse of them, at the further end of a long stretch, skirting the bushes, or stooping behind the cover, to reconnoitre the road in advance. To our chagrin, it was clear moonlight, and we could distinguish their forms at a great distance. We should have preferred a darker night.The road we were travelling upon was entirely without habitations; most of it ran through light chapparal forest, with neither clearing nor homestead. One solitary rancho stood at about equal distances between the town and the rancheria; and was known among the rangers by the familiar sobriquet of the “half-way house.” It was a poor hovel of yucca, with a small patch around that had once grown yams, chile-pepper, and a stock of maize for whoever had tilled it; but the occupants of the little rancho had long since disappeared—the prowling soldier-robber from the camp had paid it many a visit, and its household gods lay broken upon the hearth. Thetortillastone andcomal, red earthen ollas, calabash cups, bedsteads and benches of thecaña vaquera, a whirligig spindle, an old stringlessjaranaor bandolon, with other like effects, lay in fragments upon the floor. Mingling with these were cheap coloured wood-prints, of saints and Saviour, that had been dragged from the walls, and with the torn leaves of an old Spanishmisa, trampled in dust and dishonour.I paint this tableau of ruin, not that it was in any way connected with the events of our narrative, but that it had strangely affected me. On the day before, as we rode past, I had halted a moment by the rancho, and contemplated the scene with a feeling of melancholy that amounted almost to sadness. Little thought I that a still sadder spectacle awaited me in that same spot.We had approached within less than half-a-mile of the ruined house, when a strange medley of sounds reached our ears. Human voices they were; and borne upon the light breeze we could distinguish them to be the voices of women. Occasionally harsher tones were heard mingling in the murmur, but most of them had the soft rich intonation that distinguishes the female voice.We all drew bridle, and listened.The sounds continued in the same confused chorus, but there was neither song nor joy in the accents. On the contrary, the night-wind carried upon its wings the voices of “lamentation and wailing.”“There are women in trouble,” remarked one of my followers, in a suggestive tone.The remark caused all of us simultaneously to ply the spur, and ride forward.Before we had galloped a dozen lengths, a man appeared coming from the opposite direction, and advancing rapidly up the middle of the road. We saw it was the scout Garey; and, once more reining up, we awaited his approach.I was at the head of the little troop, and as the trapper drew near, I could see his face full under the light of the moon. Its expression was ominous of evil tidings.He spoke not until he had laid his hand upon the pommel of my saddle, and then only in a subdued and saddened tone. His words were:—“Thar’s ugly news, capt’n.”Oh, that terrible foreboding!“News?—ill news?” I stammered out; “what, for Heaven’s sake?—speak, Garey!”“They’ve been playin’ the devil at the rancherie. Them ruffins hez behaved wuss than Injuns would a done. But ride forrard, capt’n, an see for yurself. The weemen are clost by hyar at the shanty. Rube’s a tryin’ to pacify them, poor critters.”Oh, that terrible foreboding!I made no response to Garey’s last speech, but rode forward as fast as my horse could carry me.A brace of minutes brought me up to the rancho; and there I beheld a spectacle that caused the blood to curdle in my veins.

The pleasant excitement caused by the visit to my old comrades was soon over; and having nothing to do but lounge about my tent, I became again the victim of the same painful bodings. I could not shake them off.

Subtle and mysterious is the spirit-world within us; certainly does it seem to have prescience of the future. Is it an electric chain connecting what is, with what is to be? Or is it the second-sight of instinct? Certainly there are times when something within whispers a warning—as, in the physical world, God’s wild creatures are warned from without of the earthquake and the storm. How often do we experience the realisation of portentous dreams? Why should not the waking soul have also its moments of clairvoyance?

As I lay stretched upon my leatherncatré, I gave way to such reflections. I soon succeeded in reasoning myself into a full belief in foreknowledge; and my apprehensions were proportionately strengthened. But I had conceived a design; and the prospect of putting it in execution somewhat relieved me from the heaviness I had hitherto felt.

My new project was to take a score of my best men, to ride back the road we had come, place the party in ambush near the hacienda, while I alone should enter the house, and further urge the counsels I had committed to writing. If I should find that these had been already followed, so much the better—I should be assured, and return content; but I felt almost certain that Don Ramon had rejected them. At all events, I was determined to know the truth—determined, moreover, to gratify my longing for one more interview with my beloved.

I had warned the men and fixed the hour—as soon it was dark enough to conceal our departure from the camp.

I had two reasons for not starting earlier—first, because I did not wish thisprivate scoutingto be known at head-quarters. It is true, that in such matters we rangers had the advantage of regular troops. Though belonging to the division, our duty was usually detached from it, and we were rarely “missed” when absent. There was thus a sort of pleasant independence in my command, which I for one fully appreciated. For all that, I did not desire the whole world to know of an expedition like the one projected.

My second motive for going in the night was simple prudence. I dared not take the whole of my command along with me without permission from head-quarters. The absence of the corps without leave would certainly be noticed—even were it but for a few hours—and with the smaller party I intended to take, caution would be requisite. Should we move along the road before it was deserted, some swift messenger might carry the tidingsen avant, and get us into trouble.

I designed to start at the earliest hour of darkness—so that I might not alarm the hacienda by a midnight visit.

An hour and a half of constant riding would bring me to its gate.

At the last moment of twilight we leaped into our saddles; and rode silently into the chapparal that skirted the camp. After filing for some distance through a narrow path, we debouched upon the up-river road—the same that conducted to the rancheria.

The trappers, Rube and Garey, acting as scouts, went forward in the advance. They were on foot—their horses remaining behind with the party.

It was a mode of march I had adopted after some experience in bush-fighting. The scouts of a marching force should always go on foot, whether the main body be dragoons or infantry. In this manner they can take advantage of the ground; and by keeping under cover of the timber, are enabled to reconnoitre the angles of the road in a much safer way than when on horseback. The great danger to a scout—and consequently to the party for which he is acting—lies in his beingfirstseen, and the risk is greater when he is mounted. The horse cannot be drawn under cover without an effort; and the sound of the hoof may be heard; whereas in nine cases out of ten, a man on foot—that is, such a man as either Rube Rawlings or Bill Garey—will discover the enemy before he is himself seen, or any ambuscade can be attempted. Of course the scout should never advance beyond the possibility of retreating upon the party he is guiding.

With full confidence in the men who had been sent forward, we rode on—timing our pace, so as not to overtake them. Now and then we caught a glimpse of them, at the further end of a long stretch, skirting the bushes, or stooping behind the cover, to reconnoitre the road in advance. To our chagrin, it was clear moonlight, and we could distinguish their forms at a great distance. We should have preferred a darker night.

The road we were travelling upon was entirely without habitations; most of it ran through light chapparal forest, with neither clearing nor homestead. One solitary rancho stood at about equal distances between the town and the rancheria; and was known among the rangers by the familiar sobriquet of the “half-way house.” It was a poor hovel of yucca, with a small patch around that had once grown yams, chile-pepper, and a stock of maize for whoever had tilled it; but the occupants of the little rancho had long since disappeared—the prowling soldier-robber from the camp had paid it many a visit, and its household gods lay broken upon the hearth. Thetortillastone andcomal, red earthen ollas, calabash cups, bedsteads and benches of thecaña vaquera, a whirligig spindle, an old stringlessjaranaor bandolon, with other like effects, lay in fragments upon the floor. Mingling with these were cheap coloured wood-prints, of saints and Saviour, that had been dragged from the walls, and with the torn leaves of an old Spanishmisa, trampled in dust and dishonour.

I paint this tableau of ruin, not that it was in any way connected with the events of our narrative, but that it had strangely affected me. On the day before, as we rode past, I had halted a moment by the rancho, and contemplated the scene with a feeling of melancholy that amounted almost to sadness. Little thought I that a still sadder spectacle awaited me in that same spot.

We had approached within less than half-a-mile of the ruined house, when a strange medley of sounds reached our ears. Human voices they were; and borne upon the light breeze we could distinguish them to be the voices of women. Occasionally harsher tones were heard mingling in the murmur, but most of them had the soft rich intonation that distinguishes the female voice.

We all drew bridle, and listened.

The sounds continued in the same confused chorus, but there was neither song nor joy in the accents. On the contrary, the night-wind carried upon its wings the voices of “lamentation and wailing.”

“There are women in trouble,” remarked one of my followers, in a suggestive tone.

The remark caused all of us simultaneously to ply the spur, and ride forward.

Before we had galloped a dozen lengths, a man appeared coming from the opposite direction, and advancing rapidly up the middle of the road. We saw it was the scout Garey; and, once more reining up, we awaited his approach.

I was at the head of the little troop, and as the trapper drew near, I could see his face full under the light of the moon. Its expression was ominous of evil tidings.

He spoke not until he had laid his hand upon the pommel of my saddle, and then only in a subdued and saddened tone. His words were:—

“Thar’s ugly news, capt’n.”

Oh, that terrible foreboding!

“News?—ill news?” I stammered out; “what, for Heaven’s sake?—speak, Garey!”

“They’ve been playin’ the devil at the rancherie. Them ruffins hez behaved wuss than Injuns would a done. But ride forrard, capt’n, an see for yurself. The weemen are clost by hyar at the shanty. Rube’s a tryin’ to pacify them, poor critters.”

Oh, that terrible foreboding!

I made no response to Garey’s last speech, but rode forward as fast as my horse could carry me.

A brace of minutes brought me up to the rancho; and there I beheld a spectacle that caused the blood to curdle in my veins.

Chapter Fifty Five.A Cruel Proscription.The open space in front of the hovel was occupied by a group of women—most of them young girls. There were six or seven; I did not count them. There were two or three men, Mexicans, mixed up in the group. Rube was in their midst, endeavouring in his broken Spanish to give them consolation and assurance of safety. Poor victims! they needed both.The women were half-naked—some of them simplyen chemise. Their long black hair fell loosely over their shoulders, looking tossed, wet, and draggly. There was blood upon it; there was blood upon their cheeks in seams half dried, but still dropping. The same horrid red mottled their necks and bosoms, and there was blood upon the hands that had wiped them. A red-brown blotch appeared upon the foreheads of all. In the moonlight, it looked as if the skin had been burnt.I rode closer to one, and examined it: it was a brand—the fire-stamp of red-hot iron. The skin around was scarlet; but in the midst of this halo of inflammation I could distinguish, from their darker hue, the outlines of the two letters I wore upon my button—the well-known “U.S.”She who was nearest me raised her hands, and tossing back from her cheeks the thick clustered hair, cried out—“Miralo, señor! mira!”Oh, Heaven! my flesh crept as I looked upon the source of that crimson haemorrhage. Her ears had been cut off—they were wanting!I needed no further uplifting of their hair to satisfy me that the others had been served in like manner; the red stream still trickling adown their necks was evidence enough.The men, too, had been similarly abused. Two of them had suffered still further mutilation. They held up their right arms before my face—not their hands.There were no hands. I saw the hanging sleeve, and the blood-steeped bandage on the stump. Their hands had been chopped off at the wrists. Horrid sight!Both men and women gathered around me, clasping my knees, and uttering prayers and entreaties. No doubt most of them were known to me by sight; but their features were now unrecognisable. They had been the friends and sweethearts of the corps, and my followers were already addressing them by name. The lovers of one or two were present, sadly embracing them!One appeared more richly costumed than the rest, and upon her my eyes had fallen, as I first rode up. I almost dreaded to approach her, as she stood a little apart; but no—it could not be—she was not tall enough; besides, the ruffians would not dare—“Your name, señorita?”“Conchita, señor—la hija del alcaldé.”The tears burst from her eyes, mingling with blood as they ran down her cheeks. Oh, that I too could have wept! Poor Wheatley! he was not with us. He had yet to receive the blow: it would soon fall.My heart was on fire; so were those of my followers. They swore and foamed at the mouth. Some drew pistols and knives, calling out to me to lead them on. Never saw I men in such a frenzy of rage: the most cold-blooded among them seemed to have suddenly gone mad.I could scarcely restrain them, till we should hear the tale. We guessed it already; but we needed some details to guide us in the execution of vengeance. It was told by many mouths, interrupting or confirming one another.One of the men was more coherent—Pedro, who used to sell mezcal to the troop. To him we listened. The substance of his story was as follows:—Shortly after we had left the rancheria, it was entered by the guerrilleros with cries of “Viva Santa Anna! Viva Mexico!” and “Death to the Yankees!” They commenced by breaking open thetiendas, and drinking mezcal and whatever they could find. They were joined by the mob of the place—byleperosand others. Pedro noticed theherredero(blacksmith) and thematador(cattle-killer) taking a conspicuous part. There were many women in the mob—the mistresses of the guerrilleros, and others of the town.After drinking a while, they grew more excited. Then was heard the cry, “Mueran los Ayankieados!” and the crowd scattering in different directions, entered the houses, shouting, “Saquenlos afuera! matenlos!” (Drag them out! kill them!)The poor girls, and all who had been friendly to theAmericanos, were dragged into the piazza amidst the oaths and execrations of the guerrilla, and hissings and hootings from the mob. They were spit upon, called by filthy names, pelted with mud and melon-rinds, and then some of the crowd suggested that they should bemarked, so that their friends theTejanosshould know them again. The suggestion was adopted; the women, more fiendish than the men, exciting the latter to the deed. Voices were heard calling to the blacksmith—“Traiga el fierro! traiga el fierro!” (Bring the branding-iron!)Others cried out, “Sacan las orejas!” (Cut off their ears.)The brutal blacksmith and butcher, both half drunk obeyed the call—willingly, Pedro alleged. The former used the branding-iron—already prepared—while the latter performed his bloody office with the knife of his trade!Most of the guerrilleros wore masks. The leaders were all masked, and watched the proceedings from the roof of the alcalde’s house. One Pedro knew in spite of his disguise; he knew him by his great size and red hair: it was thesalteador, El Zorro. Others he guessed at; but he had no doubt it was the band of Don Rafael Ijurra—nor had we.Had they left the rancheria before Pedro and the others came away?Pedro thought not; he and the other victims, as soon as they got out of the hands of the mob, had fled to the chapparal, and were making for the American camp when met by our scouts. They were straggling along the road one after the other; Rube had detained them by the rancho, till we should come up.Pedro feared that they were not all who had suffered—that there were other victims; the alcalde, he feared, had been worse than mutilated—he had beenmurdered.This last information the poor fellow imparted in a whisper—at the same time casting a sorrowful look towards Conchita. I had not the courage to inquire further.The question arose whether we should send back for more men, and wait till they arrived, or advance at once to the rancheria.The former was negatived with unanimous voice. We were strong enough, and vengeance was impatient.I was joyed by this decision;Icould not have waited.The women were directed to continue on to the ranger-camp; Pedro, mounted behind one of the men, should go with us. We needed him for purposes ofidentification.We were about to move forward, when a figure appeared along the road in the direction we were going to take. On coming within sight of us, the figure was seen to skulk and hide in the bushes.Rube and Garey ran rapidly forward; and in a few minutes returned bringing with them a Mexican youth—another of the victims!He had left the scene of his sufferings somewhat later than the rest.Was the guerrilla still in the place?No; they were gone from the village.“Whither?” was the anxious interrogatory.They had taken the up-river road,towards the hacienda de Vargas. They had passed the boy as he lay concealed among some magueys; he had heard their cries as they rushed past.“What cries?”They shouted: “Mueran al traidor y traidora! Mueran al padre y hija! Isolina la p-t-a!”“O merciful God!”

The open space in front of the hovel was occupied by a group of women—most of them young girls. There were six or seven; I did not count them. There were two or three men, Mexicans, mixed up in the group. Rube was in their midst, endeavouring in his broken Spanish to give them consolation and assurance of safety. Poor victims! they needed both.

The women were half-naked—some of them simplyen chemise. Their long black hair fell loosely over their shoulders, looking tossed, wet, and draggly. There was blood upon it; there was blood upon their cheeks in seams half dried, but still dropping. The same horrid red mottled their necks and bosoms, and there was blood upon the hands that had wiped them. A red-brown blotch appeared upon the foreheads of all. In the moonlight, it looked as if the skin had been burnt.

I rode closer to one, and examined it: it was a brand—the fire-stamp of red-hot iron. The skin around was scarlet; but in the midst of this halo of inflammation I could distinguish, from their darker hue, the outlines of the two letters I wore upon my button—the well-known “U.S.”

She who was nearest me raised her hands, and tossing back from her cheeks the thick clustered hair, cried out—

“Miralo, señor! mira!”

Oh, Heaven! my flesh crept as I looked upon the source of that crimson haemorrhage. Her ears had been cut off—they were wanting!

I needed no further uplifting of their hair to satisfy me that the others had been served in like manner; the red stream still trickling adown their necks was evidence enough.

The men, too, had been similarly abused. Two of them had suffered still further mutilation. They held up their right arms before my face—not their hands.There were no hands. I saw the hanging sleeve, and the blood-steeped bandage on the stump. Their hands had been chopped off at the wrists. Horrid sight!

Both men and women gathered around me, clasping my knees, and uttering prayers and entreaties. No doubt most of them were known to me by sight; but their features were now unrecognisable. They had been the friends and sweethearts of the corps, and my followers were already addressing them by name. The lovers of one or two were present, sadly embracing them!

One appeared more richly costumed than the rest, and upon her my eyes had fallen, as I first rode up. I almost dreaded to approach her, as she stood a little apart; but no—it could not be—she was not tall enough; besides, the ruffians would not dare—

“Your name, señorita?”

“Conchita, señor—la hija del alcaldé.”

The tears burst from her eyes, mingling with blood as they ran down her cheeks. Oh, that I too could have wept! Poor Wheatley! he was not with us. He had yet to receive the blow: it would soon fall.

My heart was on fire; so were those of my followers. They swore and foamed at the mouth. Some drew pistols and knives, calling out to me to lead them on. Never saw I men in such a frenzy of rage: the most cold-blooded among them seemed to have suddenly gone mad.

I could scarcely restrain them, till we should hear the tale. We guessed it already; but we needed some details to guide us in the execution of vengeance. It was told by many mouths, interrupting or confirming one another.

One of the men was more coherent—Pedro, who used to sell mezcal to the troop. To him we listened. The substance of his story was as follows:—

Shortly after we had left the rancheria, it was entered by the guerrilleros with cries of “Viva Santa Anna! Viva Mexico!” and “Death to the Yankees!” They commenced by breaking open thetiendas, and drinking mezcal and whatever they could find. They were joined by the mob of the place—byleperosand others. Pedro noticed theherredero(blacksmith) and thematador(cattle-killer) taking a conspicuous part. There were many women in the mob—the mistresses of the guerrilleros, and others of the town.

After drinking a while, they grew more excited. Then was heard the cry, “Mueran los Ayankieados!” and the crowd scattering in different directions, entered the houses, shouting, “Saquenlos afuera! matenlos!” (Drag them out! kill them!)

The poor girls, and all who had been friendly to theAmericanos, were dragged into the piazza amidst the oaths and execrations of the guerrilla, and hissings and hootings from the mob. They were spit upon, called by filthy names, pelted with mud and melon-rinds, and then some of the crowd suggested that they should bemarked, so that their friends theTejanosshould know them again. The suggestion was adopted; the women, more fiendish than the men, exciting the latter to the deed. Voices were heard calling to the blacksmith—

“Traiga el fierro! traiga el fierro!” (Bring the branding-iron!)

Others cried out, “Sacan las orejas!” (Cut off their ears.)

The brutal blacksmith and butcher, both half drunk obeyed the call—willingly, Pedro alleged. The former used the branding-iron—already prepared—while the latter performed his bloody office with the knife of his trade!

Most of the guerrilleros wore masks. The leaders were all masked, and watched the proceedings from the roof of the alcalde’s house. One Pedro knew in spite of his disguise; he knew him by his great size and red hair: it was thesalteador, El Zorro. Others he guessed at; but he had no doubt it was the band of Don Rafael Ijurra—nor had we.

Had they left the rancheria before Pedro and the others came away?

Pedro thought not; he and the other victims, as soon as they got out of the hands of the mob, had fled to the chapparal, and were making for the American camp when met by our scouts. They were straggling along the road one after the other; Rube had detained them by the rancho, till we should come up.

Pedro feared that they were not all who had suffered—that there were other victims; the alcalde, he feared, had been worse than mutilated—he had beenmurdered.

This last information the poor fellow imparted in a whisper—at the same time casting a sorrowful look towards Conchita. I had not the courage to inquire further.

The question arose whether we should send back for more men, and wait till they arrived, or advance at once to the rancheria.

The former was negatived with unanimous voice. We were strong enough, and vengeance was impatient.

I was joyed by this decision;Icould not have waited.

The women were directed to continue on to the ranger-camp; Pedro, mounted behind one of the men, should go with us. We needed him for purposes ofidentification.

We were about to move forward, when a figure appeared along the road in the direction we were going to take. On coming within sight of us, the figure was seen to skulk and hide in the bushes.

Rube and Garey ran rapidly forward; and in a few minutes returned bringing with them a Mexican youth—another of the victims!

He had left the scene of his sufferings somewhat later than the rest.

Was the guerrilla still in the place?

No; they were gone from the village.

“Whither?” was the anxious interrogatory.

They had taken the up-river road,towards the hacienda de Vargas. They had passed the boy as he lay concealed among some magueys; he had heard their cries as they rushed past.

“What cries?”

They shouted: “Mueran al traidor y traidora! Mueran al padre y hija! Isolina la p-t-a!”

“O merciful God!”

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