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
They are not dismayed by the uncouth apparition. She who has brought Hamersley to the house guesses it to be the comrade of whom he spoke—describing him as “true and faithful.”
And, without reflecting further, she glides out, grasps the great hunter by the hand, and conducts him to the bedside of his unconscious companion.
Looking at her as she leads him, Walt Wilder mutters to himself,—
“Saved by a angel! I knowed it would turn out a woman, and this is one for sartin.”
A singular habitation was that into which Frank Hamersley, and after him Walt Wilder, had found their way. Architecturally of the rudest description—a kind among Mexicans especially styled jacal, or more generally rancho, the latter designation Anglicised or Americanised into ranche. The rancho, when of limited dimensions, is termed ranchito, and may be seen with walls of different materials, according to the district or country. In the hot low lands (tierras calientes) it is usually built of bamboos, with a thatching of palm-leaf; higher up, on the table lands (tierras templadas) it is a structure of mud bricks unburnt (adobe’s); while still higher, upon the slopes of the forest-clad sierras, it assumes the orthodox shape of a log cabin, though in many respects differing from that of the States.
The one which gave shelter to the fugitives differed from all these, having walls of split slabs, set stockade fashion, and thatched with a sedge of tulé, taken from a little lake that lay near. It had three rooms and a kitchen, with some sheds at the back—one a stable appropriated to the mustang mare, another to some mules, and a third occupied by two men of the class of “peons”—the male domestics of the establishment.
All, with the house itself, structures of the rudest kind, unlike as possible to the dwelling-place of a lady, to say nought of an angel.
This thought occurs to Wilder as he enters under its roof. But he has no time to dwell upon it. His wounded comrade is inside, to whom he is conducted. He finds the latter still alive—thank God for that!—but unconscious of all that is passing around. To the kindly words spoken in apostrophe he makes no reply, or only in speeches incoherent. His skin is hot, his lips parched, his pulse throbbing at ninety to the minute. He is in the throes of a raging fever, which affects his brain as his blood.
The stalwart hunter sits down by his side, and stays there, tenderly nursing him. It glads him to observe there are others solicitous as himself—to find that he and Hamersley have fallen among friends. Though also surprising him, as does the sort of people he sees around. First, there is a lady, easily recognised as the angel; then a man of military aspect, who addresses her as “Hermanita,” unquestionably a gentleman with a second and older man wearing spectacles, by both spoken of as “el medico.” Strange inhabitants for a hovel, as that this should be in such an odd situation—hundreds of miles beyond the borders of civilisation, as Walt well knows.
No wonder at his wondering, above all when he discovers that his comrade is already known to them—to the younger of the two men, who is their host. This, however, is soon explained. Walt was already aware that the young prairie trader had made a former trip to New Mexico, when and where, as he is now told, the acquaintance commenced, along with some other particulars, to satisfy him for the time.
In return for this confidence he gives a detailed account of the caravan and its mischances—of the great final misfortune, which explains to them why its owner and himself had been forced to take to the Staked Plain, and were there wandering about, helpless fugitives.
To his narrative all three eagerly listen. But when he enlarges on the bravery of his young comrade, lying unconscious beside them, one bends upon the latter eyes that express an interest amounting to admiration. It is the “angel.”
In the days that succeed she becomes Walt’s fellow-watcher by the bedside of the sufferer; and often again does he observe similar glances given to their common patient. Rough backwoodsman though he be, he can tell them to be looks of love.
He thinks less about them because he has himself found something of like kind stealing over his thoughts. All his cares are not given to his invalided comrade; for in the hut is a fourth individual, whose habitual place is the cocina, coming and going, as occasion calls.
A little brown-skinned beauty, half Spanish, half Pueblo Indian, whose black eyes have burnt a hole through his buckskin hunting-shirt, and set fire to his heart. Though but little more than half his height, in less than a week after making her acquaintance she has become his master, as much as if their stature were reversed.
Walt does not want her for his mistress. No; the hunter is too noble, too honourable, for that His glance following her as she flits about the room, taking in her dainty shape, and the expression of her pretty face, always wreathed in smiles, he has but one single-hearted desire, to which he gives muttered expression, saying,—
“Thet’s jest the kind o’ gurl a fellow ked freeze to. I ne’er seed a apple dumplin’ as looked sweeter or more temptin’; an’ if she’s agreeable, we two air born to be bone o’ one bone, and flesh o’ one flesh!”
For many days the young Kentuckian remains unconscious of all that is passing around. Fortunately for him, he has fallen into the right hands; for the old gentleman in spectacles is in reality a medical man—a skilled surgeon as well as a physician, and devotes all his time and skill to restoring his patient to health.
Soon the wound shows signs of healing, and, along with it, the fever begins gradually to abate. The brain at length relieved, reason resumes its sway.
Hamersley becomes conscious that he still lives, on hearing voices. They are of men. Two are engaged in a dialogue, which appears to be carried on with some difficulty, as one is speaking English, which the other but slightly understands. Neither is the English of the first speaker of a very correct kind, nor is his voice at all euphonious. For all that, it sounds in Hamersley’s ears sweet as the most seraphic music, since in its tones he recognises the voice of Walt Wilder.
A joyous throb thrills through his heart on discovering that his comrade has rejoined him. After their parting upon the plain he had his fears they might never come together again.
Walt is not within sight, for the conversation is carried on outside the room. The invalid sees that he is in a room, a small one, of which the walls are wood, roughly-hewn slabs, with furniture fashioned in a style corresponding. He is lying upon a catré, or camp bedstead, rendered soft by a mattress of bearskins, while a serapé of bright-coloured pattern is spread over him, serving both for blanket and counterpane. In the apartment is a table of the rudest construction, with two or three chairs, evidently from the hand of the same unskilful workman, their seats being simply hides with the hair on. On the table is a cup with a spoon in it, and two or three small bottles, that have the look of containing medicines.
All these objects come under his eyes at the first dim glance; but as his vision grows clearer, and he feels strength enough to raise his head from the pillow, other articles are disclosed to view, in strange contrast with the chattels first observed. Against the wall hang several articles of female apparel—all of a costly kind. They are of silk and silk-velvet, richly brocaded; while on a second table, slab like the first, he can distinguish bijouterie, with other trifles usually belonging to a lady’s toilet.
These lie in front of a small mirror set in a frame which appears to be silver; while above is suspended a guitar, of the kind known as bandolon.
The sick man sees all these things with a half-bewildered gaze, for his senses are still far from clear. The costly articles of apparel and adornment would be appropriate in a lady’s boudoir or bed chamber. But they appear strange, even grotesque, in juxtaposition with the roughly-hewn timbers of what is evidently a humble cottage—a log cabin!
Of course he connects them with her, that singular being who has succoured, and perhaps saved his life. He can have no other conjecture. He remembers seeing a house as they approached its outside. It must be that he is now in; though, from the last conscious thought, as he felt himself swooning in the saddle, all has been as blank as if he had been lying lifeless in a tomb. Even yet it might appear as a dream but for the voice of Walt Wilder, who, outside, seems labouring hard to make himself intelligible to some personage with whom he is conversing.
Hamersley is about to utter a cry that will summon his comrade to his side, when he perceives that the voices are becoming fainter, as if the two speakers had gone outside the house and were walking away from it. Feeling too weak even for the slightest exertion, he remains silent, taking it for granted they will soon return.
It is broad daylight, the sun glancing in through an aperture in the wall that serves for a window. It has neither frame nor glass, and along with the bright beams there drifts in a cool breeze laden with the delicious fragrance of flowers, among which he can distinguish the aromatic perfume of the wild China tree. There are voices of birds mingling their music with the sough of falling water—sounds very different from those of the desert through which he has of late been straying.
He lies thinking of the beautiful being who brought him thither, shaping conjectures in regard to the strangeness of the situation. He has no idea how long he may have been unconscious; nor has the whole time been like death—unless death have its dreams. For he has had dreams, all with a fair form and lovely face flitting and figuring in them. It is the wild huntress.
He has a fancy that the face seemed familiar to him; or, if not familiar, one he has looked upon before. He endeavours to recall all those he had met in Mexico during his sojourn there; for if encountered anywhere, it must have been there. His female acquaintances had been but few in that foreign land. He can remember every one of them. She is not of their number. If he has ever seen her before their encounter on the Staked Plain, it must have been while passing along the street of some Mexican city.
And this could scarcely be, in his silent reflection; for such a woman once seen—even but for a moment—could never be forgotten.
He lies pondering on all that has passed—on all he can now recall. Walt had got back, then, to the place where they parted. He must have found food and water, though it matters now no more. Enough that he has got back, and both are in an asylum of safety, under friendly protection. This is evident from the surroundings.
Still feeble as a child, the effort of thought very soon fatigues him; and this, with the narcotic influence of the flower perfume, the songs of the birds, and the soothing monotone of the waters, produces a drowsiness that terminates in a profound slumber. This time he sleeps without dreaming.
How long he cannot tell; but once more he is awakened by voices. As before, two persons are engaged in conversation. But far different from those already heard. The bird-music still swelling in through the window is less sweet than the tones that now salute his ear.
As before, the speakers are invisible, outside
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