Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Lone Ranche by Mayne Reid (rooftoppers .txt) 📖
- Author: Mayne Reid
Book online «The Lone Ranche by Mayne Reid (rooftoppers .txt) 📖». Author Mayne Reid
The mare wheels round at a slight pressure upon the rein; and then commenced her canter in the direction of the soaring flock.
A mile is passed over, and the birds are brought near; but still the object attracting them cannot be seen. It may be down among the artemisias, or perhaps behind a large yucca, whose dark whorl rises several feet above the sage, and over which the vultures are wheeling.
As the rider of Lolita arrives within gun-shot distance of the yucca-tree she checks the mustang to a slower pace—to a walk in short. In the spectacle of death, in the throes and struggles of an expiring creature, even though it be but a dumb brute, there is something that never fails to excite commiseration, mingled with a feeling of awe. This last has come over the young girl, as she draws near the spot where the birds are seen circling.
It has not occurred to her that the cause of their presence may be a human being, though it is a remembrance of this kind that now prompts her to ride forward reflectively. For once in her life, with others around her who were near and dear, she has been herself an object of like eager solicitude to a flock of zopilotés.
But she has not the slightest suspicion of its being a human creature that causes their gathering now. There, upon the Llano Estacado, so rarely trodden by human feet, and even shunned by almost every species of animal, she could not.
As she draws still nearer, a black disc, dimly outlined against the dark green leaves of the yucca, upon scrutiny, betrays the form of a bird, itself a vulture. It is dead, impaled upon the sharp spikes of the plant, as it came there by falling from above.
A smile curls upon her lips as she sits regarding it.
“So, yegua!” she says, bringing the mare to a stand, and half-turning her. “I’ve been losing my time and you your labour. The abominable birds—it’s only one of themselves that has dropped dead, and they’re holding a velorio over it.”
She continues, again facing towards the dead vulture.
“Now, I wonder if they are only waking it, or if the wakers are cannibals, and intend making a repast on one of their own kind. That would be a curious fact for our natural historian, Don Prospero. Suppose we stay awhile and see?”
For a moment she seems undecided as to staying or going. Only for a moment, when an incident occurs that changes the current of her thoughts from scientific curiosity to something of fear.
The bloodhounds that have lagged behind in the scurry across the plain, now close up; and, instead of stopping by the side of Lolita, rush on towards the yucca. It is not the odour of the dead buzzard—strong as that may be—that attracts them; but the scent of what is more congenial to their sanguinary instincts.
On arriving at the tree they run round to its opposite side; and then spring growling back, as if something they have encountered there has suddenly brought them to bay.
“A wounded bear or wolf!” is the muttered reflection of their mistress.
It has scarce passed her lips, when she is made aware of her mistake. Above the continued baying of the dogs she can distinguish the tones of a human voice; and at the same instant, a man’s head and arm appear above the spikes of the plant—a hand clutching the hilt of a long-bladed knife!
Notwithstanding her apparent sang-froid, and the presence of mind she surely possesses, the rider of Lolita is affrighted—far more than the vultures, that have soared higher at her approach.
And no wonder that she is affrighted at such a strange apparition—the head of a man, with a dark moustache on his lip, holding in his hand a blade that shows blood upon it! This, too, in such a solitary place!
Her first thought is to turn Lolita’s head and hurry off from the spot. Then a reflection stays her. The man is evidently alone, and the expression on his countenance is neither that of villainy nor anger. The colour of his skin, with the moustache, bespeak him a white man, and not an Indian. Besides, there is pallor upon his cheeks—a wan, wasted look, that tells of suffering, not sin.
All this the quick eye of the huntress takes in at a glance, resolving her how to act. Instead of galloping away she urges the mustang on towards the yucca.
When close up to it she flings herself out of the saddle, and, whip in hand, rushes up to the hounds, that are still giving tongue and threatening to spring upon the stranger.
“Abajo, perros! abajo, feos!” (Down, dogs! down, you ugly brutes!)
“A tierra!” she continues to scold, giving each a sharp cut that at once reduces them to quiescence, causing them to cower at her feet. “Do you not see the mistake you have made?” she goes on addressing the dogs; “don’t you see the caballero is not an Indio? It is well, sir!” she adds, turning to the caballero, “well that your skin is white. Had it been copper-coloured, I’m not certain I could have saved you from getting it torn. My pets are not partial to the American aboriginal.”
During these somewhat bizarre speeches and the actions that accompany them, Frank Hamersley—for it is he—stands staring in silent wonder. What sees he before him? Two huge, fierce-looking dogs, a horse oddly caparisoned, a young girl, scarce a woman, strangely and picturesquely garbed. What has he heard? First, the loud baying of two bloodhounds, threatening to tear him to pieces; then a voice, sweet and musical as the warbling of a bird!
Is it all a dream?
Dreaming he had been, when aroused by the growling of the dogs. But that was a horrid vision. What he now sees is the very reverse. Demons had been assaulting him in his sleep. Now there is an angel before his eyes.
The young girl has ceased speaking; and as the vertigo, caused by his sudden uprising, has cleared away from his brain, he begins to believe in the reality of the objects around him.
The shock of surprise has imparted a momentary strength that soon passes; and his feebleness once more returning, he would fall back to the earth did he not clutch hold of the yucca, whose stiff blades sustain him.
“Valga me Dios!” exclaims the girl, now more clearly perceiving his condition. “Ay de mi!” she repeats in a compassionate tone, “you are suffering, sir? Is it hunger? Is it thirst? You have been lost upon the Llano Estacado?”
“Hunger, thirst—both, senorita,” he answers, speaking for the first time. “For days I have not tasted either food or drink.”
“Virgen santissima! is that so?”
As she says this she returns to her horse; and, jerking a little wallet from the saddle, along, with a suspended gourd, again advances towards him.
“Here, señor!” she says, plunging her hand into the bag and bringing forth some cold tortillas, “this is all I have; I’ve been the whole day from home, and the rest I’ve eaten. Take the water first; no doubt you need that most. I remember how I suffered myself. Mix some of this with it. Trust me, it will restore your strength.”
While speaking she hands him the gourd, which, by its weight, contains over a pint; and then from another and smaller one she pours some liquid first into the water and then over the tortillas. It is vinegar, in which there is an infusion of chile Colorado.
“Am I not robbing you?” inquires Hamersley, as he casts a significant glance over the wide, sterile plain.
“No, no! I am not in need, besides I have no great way to go to where I can get a fresh supply. Drink, señor, drink it all.”
In ten seconds after the calabash is empty.
“Now eat the tortillas. ’Tis but poor fare, but the chili vinagre will be sure to strengthen you. We who dwell in the desert know that.”
Her words proved true, for after swallowing a few morsels of the bread she has besprinkled, the famished man feels as if some restorative medicine had been administered to him.
“Do you think you are able to ride?” she asks.
“I can walk—though, perhaps, not very far.”
“If you can ride there is no need for your walking. You can mount my mare; I shall go afoot. It is not very far—only six miles.”
“But,” protests he, “I must not leave this spot.”
“Indeed!” she exclaims, turning upon her protégé a look of surprise. “For what reason, señor? To stay here would be to perish. You have no companions to care for you?”
“I have companions—at least, one. That is why I must remain. Whether he may return to assist me I know not. He has gone off in search of water. In any case, he will be certain to seek for me.”
“But why should you stay for him?”
“Need you ask, senorita? He is my comrade, true and faithful. He has been the sharer of my dangers—of late no common ones. If he were to come back and find me gone—”
“What need that signify, caballero? He will know where to come after you.”
“How should he know?”
“Oh, that will be easy enough. Leave it to me. Are you sure he will find his way back to this place?”
“Quite sure. This tree will guide him. He arranged it so before leaving.”
“In that case, there’s not any reason for your remaining. On the contrary. I can see that you need a better bed than sleeping among these sage-plants. I know one who will give it. Come with me, caballero? By the time your comrade can get back there’ll be one here to meet him. Lest he should arrive before the messenger I shall send, this will save him from going astray.”
While speaking she draws forth a small slip of paper from a pouch carried â la chatelaine; along with it a pencil. She is about to write, when a thought restrains her.
“Does your comrade understand Spanish?” she asks.
“Only a word or two. He speaks English, or, as we call it, American.”
“Can he read?”
“Indifferently. Enough, I suppose, for—”
“Señor,” she says, interrupting him, “I need not ask if you can write. Take this, and put it in your own language. Say you are gone south, due south, to a distance of about six miles. Tell your friend to stay here till some one comes to meet and conduct him to where you’ll be found.”
Hamersley perceives the rationality of these instructions. There is no reason why he should not do as desired, and go at once with her who gives them. By staying some mischance might still happen, and he may never see his fair rescuer again. Who can tell what may arise in the midst of that mysterious desert? By going he will the sooner be able to send succour to his comrade.
He hesitates no longer, but writes upon the piece of paper—in large, carefully-inscribed letters, so that the ci-devant Ranger need have no difficulty in deciphering them:—
“Saved by an Angel.—Strike due south. Six miles from this you will find me. There is a horse, and you can take up his tracks. If you stay here for a time, one will come and guide you.”
The huntress takes the paper from his hand, and glances at the writing, as if out of curiosity to read the script of a language unknown to her. But something like a smile playing around her lips
Comments (0)