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- Author: Mayne Reid
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“I tolt ye so,” says Walt. “See! yonner’s the skunk himself astride o’ a mule at the tail o’ the gang.”
Hamersley directs his eyes to the rear of the outstretched rank. There, sure enough, is a man on muleback, dressed differently from the troopers. The coarse woollen tilma, and straw hat, he remembers as having been worn by one of Mirander’s male domestics. He does not identify the man. But Walt’s recollection of his rival is clearer, and he has no doubt that he on the mule is Manuel. Nor, for that matter, has Hamersley. The peon’s presence is something to assist in the explanation. It clears up everything.
Hamersley breathes hard as the dark shadows sweep through his soul. For a long time absorbed in thought, he utters scarce an ejaculation. Only after the lancer troop has passed, its rearmost files just clearing the alignment of the copse, he gasps out, in a voice husky as that of one in the act of being strangled,—
“They’re going straight for the place. O God!”
“Yes,” rejoins the ex-Ranger, in a tone like despondent, “Thar boun’ thar for sartint. The darned creetur’s been tempted by the blood-money set on Kumel Miranda’s head, an’ air too like to git it. They’ll grup him, sure; an’s like as not gie him the garota. Poor gentleman! He air the noblest Mexikin I iver sot eyes on, an’ desarves a better fate. As for the ole doc, he may get off arter sarvin’ a spell in prison, an’ the saynorita—”
A groan from Hamersley interrupts the remark. His comrade, perceiving how much he is pained, modifies what he meant to say.
“Thar’s no need to be so much afeard o’ what may happen to her. She ain’t goin’ to be rubbed out, anyhow; an’ if she hasn’t no brother to purtect her, I reckon she’s got a frien’ in you, Frank. An’ hyar’s another o’ the same, as they say in the Psalms o’ Davit.”
Walt’s words have a hopeful sound. Hamersley is cheered by them, but replies not. He only presses the hand of his comrade in silent and grateful grasp.
“Yis,” continues the ex-Ranger with increased emphasis, “I’d lay down my life to save that young lady from harum, as I know you’d lay down yourn. An’ thet air to say nothin’ o’ my own gurl. This chile ain’t niver been much guv to runnin’ arter white wheemen, an’ war gen’rally content to put up wi’ a squaw. But sech as them! As for yourn, I don’t wonder yur heart beats like a chased rabbit’s; myen air doin’ the same for Concheeter. Wal, niver fear! Ef thar’s a hair o’ eyther o’ thar heads teched, you’ll hear the crack o’ Walt Wilder’s rifle, and see its bullet go into the breast o’ him as harms ’em. I don’t care who or what he air, or whar he be. Nor I don’t care a durn—not the valley of a dried buffler-chip—what may come arter—hangin’, garrotin’, or shootin’. At all risks, them two sweet creeturs air bound to be protected from harum; an ef it comes, they shall be reevenged. I swar that, by the Eturnal!”
“I join you in the oath,” pronounces Hamersley, with emphatic fervour, once more exchanging a hand-squeeze with his companion. “Yes, Walt; the brave Miranda may be sacrificed—I fear it must be so. But for his sister, there is still a hope that we may save her; and surely heaven will help us. If not, I shall be ready to die. Ah! death would be easier to bear than the loss of Adela!”
“An’ for this chile the same, rayther than he shed lose Concheeter.”
No need saying that the cavalcade seen passing the copse is the lancer troop of Colonel Uraga.
Some thirty hours before, they ascended to the Staked Plain, and are now nearly across it. Guided by the traitor, they had no need to grope their way, and have made quick time. In a few hours more they will pounce upon the prey for which they have swooped so far.
The two men concealed in the grove expect them to ride on without stopping, till out of sight. Instead, they see them draw up at a few miles distance, though all remain mounted. Two separate from the rest keep on a couple of hundred yards ahead, then also halt.
These are Uraga himself, with his adjutant Roblez.
’Tis only a temporary pause to exchange counsel about the plan of proceeding—as a falcon expands itself in the air before its last flight towards the quarry it has selected.
Before separating from his followers, Uraga has summoned to his side the youngest commissioned officer of the troop, saying,—
“Alferes! go back to that Indian! Send the brute on to the front here.”
Manuel is the individual thus coarsely indicated.
Told that he is wanted, the peon spurs his mule forward, and places himself by the side of the commanding officer, who has meanwhile dismounted.
In the countenance of the Indian there is an expression of conscious guilt, such as may appear in that of one not hardened by habitual crime. There is even something like compunction for what he is about to do, with remorse for what he has already done. Now that he is drawing near the scene, where those betrayed by him must suffer, his reflections are anything but pleasant. Rather are they tinged with regret. Don Valerian Miranda has been an indulgent master to him, and the Dona Adela a kind mistress. On both he is bringing destruction.
And what is to be his reward? From the time of his betraying them, the moment he parted with the secret of their hiding-place, he has lost control of it.
He is no longer treated with the slightest respect. On the contrary, he to whom he communicated it behaves to him as conqueror to conquered, master to slave, forcing him forward with sword pointed at his breast, or pistol aimed at his head.
If a guide, he is no longer looked upon as a voluntary one. Nor would he be this, but for a thought that inspires, while keeping him true to his treasonous intent. When he thinks of Conchita—of that scene in the cotton-wood grove—of the Texan kissing her—holding her in his fond embrace—when the Indian recalls all this, torturing his soul afresh, then no more remorse, not a spark of regret, not a ray of repentance!
No; perish the dueno—the duena too! Let die the good doctor, if need be—all whom his vengeance has devoted!
“Sirrah! are those the two peaks you spoke of?”
It is Uraga who puts this interrogatory, pointing to a pair of twin summits seen rising above the horizon to eastward.
“Si Señor Coronel; they are the same.”
“And you say the path leads down between them?”
“Goes down through a gulch, after keeping round the cliff.”
“And there’s no other by which the valley may be entered?”
“Your excellency, I did not say that. There is another entrance, but not from the upper plain here. A stream runs through, and cuts it way out beyond. Following its channel through the cañon, the place can be reached from below; but not after it’s been raining. Then the flood fills its bed, and there’s no path along the edge. As it hasn’t rained lately, the banks will be above water.”
“And anyone could pass out below?”
“They could, Señor Coronel.”
“We require to observe caution, Roblez,” says Uraga, addressing himself to the adjutant; “else we may have made our long journey for nothing. ’Twill never do to enter the cage and find the birds flown. How far is it to the point where the river runs below?”
The question is put to the peon.
“Cinco leguas, Señor; not less. It’s a long way to get round, after going down the cliff.”
“Five leagues there, and five back up the canon of the stream—quite a day’s journey. If we send a detachment round ’twill take all of that. Shall we do it?”
“I don’t think there’s the slightest need for wasting so much time,” counsels the adjutant.
“But the Indian says any one going down the defile between those hills can be seen from the house. Supposing they should see us, and retreat by the opening below?”
“No need to let them see us. We can stay above till night, then descend in the darkness. As they’re not likely to be expecting visitors, there should be no great difficulty in approaching this grand mansion unannounced. Let us make our call after the hour of midnight, when, doubtless, the fair Adela will be dreaming of—”
“Enough!” exclaims Uraga, a cloud suddenly coming over his countenance, as if the words of his subordinate recalled some unpleasant souvenir. “We shall do as you say, ayadante. Give orders for the men to dismount. We shall halt here till sunset. Meanwhile, see that this copper-skin is closely kept. To make safe, you may as well clap the manacles on him.”
In obedience, Roblez takes the Indian back to the halted troop, directs him to be shackled; then gives the order for dismounting.
But not for a night camp, only for a temporary bivouac; and this without fires, or even unsaddling of the horses. The troopers are to stay by the stirrup, ready at any moment to remount.
There stay they; no longer in formation, but, as commanded, silent and motionless; only such stir as is made by snatching a morsel from their haversacks or smoking their corn-husk cigarritos.
Thus till near sundown, when, remounting, they move on.
The spot upon which the lancer troop had halted was less than a league from the grove that gave shelter to the two Americans. In the translucent atmosphere of the tableland it looked scarce a mile. The individual forms of troopers could be distinguished, and the two who had taken themselves apart. The taller of these was easily identified as the commanding officer of the troop.
“If they’d only keep thar till arter sundown,” mutters Wilder, “especially him on yur hoss, I ked settle the hul bizness. This hyar gun the doc presented to me air ’bout as good a shootin’-iron as I’d care to shet my claws on, an ’most equal to my own ole rifle. I’ve gin it all sorts o’ trials, tharfor I know it’s good for plum center at a hundred an’ fifty paces. Ef yonner two squattin’ out from the rest ’ill jest stay thur till the shades o’ night gie me a chance o’ stealin’ clost enuf, thar’s one o’ ’em will never see daylight again.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Hamersley, with a sigh of despair, and yet half hopeful, “if they would but remain there till night, we might still head them into the valley, time enough to get our friends away.”
“Don’t you have any sech hopes, Frank; thar’s no chance o’ that I kin see what the party air arter. They’ve made up thar mind not to ’tempt goin’ inter the gully till they hev a trifle o’ shadder aroun’ them. They think that ef they’re seen afore they git up to the house their victims might ’scape ’em. Tharfor they purpiss approachin’ the shanty unobserved, and makin’ a surround o’ it. That’s thar game. Cunnin’ o’ them, too, for Mexikins.”
“Yes, that is what they intend doing—no doubt of it. Oh, heavens! only to think we are so near, and yet cannot give Miranda a word of warning!”
“Can’t be helped. We must put our trust in Him as hes an eye on
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