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
“Not home—not to his home.”
“Where, then?”
“That is the news I thought might be painful. He has resolved upon going on to our country for reasons already known to you. We suspect Uraga of having been at the head of the red robbers who have plundered him and killed his people. He is determined to find out and punish the perpetrators of that foul deed. It will be difficult; nay, more, there will be danger in his attempting it—I’ve told him so.”
“Dear brother, try to dissuade him!”
If Hamersley could but hear the earnest tone in which the appeal is spoken it would give him gratification.
“I have tried, but to no purpose. It is not the loss of his property—he is generous, and does not regard it. His motive is a nobler, a holier one. His comrades have been murdered; he says he will seek the assassins and obtain redress, even at the risk of sacrificing his own life.”
“A hero! Who could not help loving him?”
Adela does not say this aloud, nor to her brother. It is a thought, silent within the secret recesses of her own heart.
“If you wish,” continues the colonel, “I will see him, and again try to turn him from this reckless course; though I know there is little hope. Stay! a thought strikes me, sister. Suppose you speak to him. A woman’s words are more likely to be listened to; and I know that yours will have great weight with him. He looks upon you as the saviour of his life, and may yield to your request.”
“If you think so, Valerian—”
“I do. I see him coming this way. Remain where you are. I shall send him in to you.”
With a heart heaving and surging, Hamersley stands in the presence of her, the sole cause of its tumultuous excitement. For he has been summoned thither in a manner that somewhat surprises him. “Don Francisco, my sister wishes a word with you,” is the speech of Colonel Miranda, an invitation promptly responded to.
What is to be the import of his interview, unexpected, unsought, apparently commanded?
He asks himself this question as he proceeds towards the place where she stands waiting to receive him. Coming up to her, he says,—
“Senorita, your brother has told me you wish to speak with me?”
“I do,” she replies, without quail in her look or quiver in her voice.
In returning her glance Hamersley feels as if his case is hopeless. That very day he had thought of proposing to her. It almost passes from his mind. So cool, she cannot care for him. He remains silent, leaving her to proceed.
“Señor, it is about your going to the Rio del Norte. My brother tells me such is your intention. We wish you not to go, Don Francisco. There is danger in your doing it.”
“It is my duty.”
“In what respect? Explain yourself!”
“My brave comrades have been slain—assassinated. I have reason to believe that in the town of Albuquerque I may discover their assassins—at all events their chief, and perhaps bring him to justice. I intend trying, if it costs me my life.”
“Do you reflect what your life is worth?”
“To me not much.”
“It may be to others. You have at home a mother, brothers, and sisters. Perhaps one dearer?”
“No—not at home.”
“Elsewhere, then?”
He is silent under this searching inquisition.
“Do you think that danger to your life would be unhappiness to her’s—your death her life’s misery?”
“My dishonour should be more, as it would to myself. It is not vengeance I seek against those who have murdered my men, only to bring them to justice. I must do that, or else proclaim myself a poltroon—I feel myself one—a self-accusation that would give me a life-long remorse. No, Señorita Adela. It is kind of you to take an interest in my safety. I already owe you my life; but I cannot permit you to save it again, at the sacrifice of honour, of duty, of humanity.”
Hamersley fancies himself being coldly judged and counselled with indifference. Could he know the warm, wild admiration struggling in the breast of her who counsels him, he would make rejoinder in different fashion.
Soon after he talks in an altered tone, and with changed understanding. So also does she, hitherto so difficult of comprehension.
“Go!” she cries. “Go and get redress of your wrongs, justice for your fallen comrades; and if you can, the punishment of their assassins. But remember! if it brings death to you, there is one who will not care to live after.”
“Who?” he asks, springing forward, with heart on fire and eyes aflame. “Who?”
He scarce needs to put the question. It is already answered by the emphasis on her last words.
But it is again replied to, this time in a more tranquil tone; the long, dark lashes of the speaker veiling her eyes as she pronounces her own name,—
“Adela Miranda!”
From poverty to riches, from a dungeon to bright daylight, from the agonising struggle of drowning to that confident feeling when the feet stand firm upon terra firma—all these are sensations of a pleasantly-exciting kind. They are dull in comparison with that delirious joy, the lot of the despairing lover on finding that his despair has been all a fancy, and that his passion is reciprocated.
Such a joy thrills through Hamersley’s breast as he hears the name pronounced. It is like a cabalistic speech, throwing open to him the portals of Paradise.
As is known, Hamersley’s suspicions about the treachery of the peon are not without cause. On the contrary, they might seem second-sight. For, almost at the moment he is communicating them to Colonel Miranda, the native is telling his tale to Uraga.
Nor does the latter lose much time in acting upon the information gained—only that short interlude given to exultation as he stepped up to the portrait of Adela Miranda, and stood triumphantly regarding the likeness of her he now looks upon as sure to be his. He has no hope to get possession of her by fair means; foul are alone in his thoughts.
After delivering his half-frenzied apostrophe to the painted image, he returns to the table, beside which Roblez has already taken a seat.
They re-fill their glasses, and drink the toasts specified, with a ceremony in strange contrast to the hellish glee sparkling in the eyes of the Lancer-Colonel. His countenance beams with triumph, such as might be shown by Satan over the ruin of innocence. For he now feels sure of his victims—alike that of his love as well as those of his revenge.
Not long does he remain over his cups in the company of his subordinate. He has an important matter upon his mind which calls for reflection—in silence and by himself.
Though often admitting his adjutant to a share in his criminal schemes, the participation is only in their profits and the act of execution. Despotic even in his villainies, he keeps the planning to himself, for he has secrets even Roblez must not know. And now an idea has dawned upon his mind, a purpose he does not care to communicate to the subaltern till such time as may be necessary or seem fit to him. Not that he dreads treachery on the part of his fellow freebooter. They are mutually compromised, and long have been; too much to tell tales about one another. Besides, Roblez, though a man of undoubted courage, of the coarse, animal kind, has, neverthless, a certain moral dread of his commanding officer, and fears to offend him. He knows Gil Uraga to be one whose hostility, once provoked, will stop short at nothing, leave no means untried to take retribution—this of a terrible kind. Hence a control which the colonel holds over him beyond that drawn from his superior military rank. Hence, also, his receiving but a small share in the proceeds of their various robberies, and his being satisfied with this, or, at all events, seeming so.
On his side, Uraga has several motives for not letting his subordinate into the knowledge of all his complicated schemes; among them one springing from a moral peculiarity. He is of a strangely-constituted nature, secretive to the last degree—a quality or habit in which he prides himself. It is his delight to practice it whenever the opportunity offers; just as the thief and detective officer take pleasure in their respective callings beyond the mere prize to be derived from their exercise.
The intelligence just received from the traitorous mule-driver, unexpected as pleasing, has opened to him the prospect of a grand success. It may enable him to strike a coup covering all—alike giving gratification to his love, as his hate.
But the blow must needs be dealt deftly. There are circumstances to be considered and precautions taken, not only to prevent its failing, but secure against a publicity that might cause scandal to himself, to say naught of consequent danger.
And it must be struck soon—at once. It is too ticklish a matter to admit of delay, either in the design or execution.
Already has the matter flitted before his mind in its general outlines; almost soon as receiving the report of the peon.
It is only the details that remain for consideration; and these he intends considering alone, without any aid from his adjutant.
As time is an object, he speedily terminates his carousal with the subaltern; who, dismissed, returns to the military cuartel.
Soon as he is gone the colonel again seats himself, and lighting a fresh cigar, continues smoking. For several minutes he remains silent, his eyes turned upwards, and his features set in a smile. One might fancy him but watching the smoke of his cigar as it rises in spiral wreaths to the ceiling. He is occupied with no such innocent amusement. On the contrary, his grim smile betokens meditation deep and devilish. He is mentally working out a problem, a nefarious scheme, which will ere long bear evil fruit.
As the cigar grows shorter he seems to draw nearer to his conclusions. And when at length there is only the stump between his teeth, he spits it out; and, taking a hand-bell from the table, rings until a domestic appears in the doorway in answer to the summons.
“Call in the guard-corporal!” is the order received by the servant, who withdraws without saying a word.
Soon the soldier shows himself, saluting as he enters the door.
“Cabo! Bring your prisoner before me.”
The corporal retires, and shortly after returns, having the Indian in charge. He is commanded to leave the latter, and himself remain waiting without. Directed also to close the door; which he does on getting outside.
Thus closeted with the peon—still wondering why he has been made a prisoner—Uraga submits him to a process of examination, which elicits from the scared creature everything he seeds to know. Among the rest, he makes himself acquainted with the situation of the valley, where the exiles have found temporary asylum; the direction, distance, and means of access to it—in short, its complete topography.
With all the Indian is familiar, can correctly describe it, and does so. In that imposing presence he dare not attempt deception, even if inclined. But he is not. Between questioner and questioned the aim and end are similar, if not the same. Besides, the peon’s blood has again been warmed up, and his tongue set loose, by a fresh infusion of aguardiente—so that his confessions are full as free. He tells about the life led by the Mexican refugees, as also their American guests—all he knows, and this is nearly everything. For trusted, unsuspected, he has had every opportunity to learn. The only thing concealed by him is his own love affair with Conchita and its disastrous ending, through the intrusion of the Texan Ranger.
This, if told, would give his listener slight concern, alongside the grave impressions made upon him by another affair; some particulars of which the peon communicates. These points refer to tender relations existing between the young prairie trader and Adela Miranda, almost proving their existence. Confirmed or not,
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