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
And they do stay in it until the receding horsemen, who present the appearance of giants under the magnifying twilight mist, gradually grow less, and at length fade from view under the thickening darkness.
Not another moment do Hamersley and the hunter remain within the grove, but springing to their saddles, push on after the troop.
Night soon descending, with scarce ten minutes of twilight, covers the plain with a complete obscurity, as if a shroud of crape had been suddenly thrown over it.
There is no moon, not even stars, in the sky; and the twin buttes, that form the portals of the pass, are no longer discerned.
But the ex-Ranger needs neither moon, nor stars, nor mountain peaks to guide him for such a short distance. Taking his bearings before starting from the black-jack copse, he rides on in a course straight as the direction of a bullet from his own rifle, until the two mounds loom up, their silhouettes seen against the leaden sky.
“We mustn’t go any furrer, Frank,” he says, suddenly pulling up his mule; “leastwise, not a-straddle o’ these hyar conspikerous critters. Whether the sogers hev goed down inter the valley or no, they’re sartin to hev left some o’ the party ahind, by way o’ keepin’ century. Let’s picket the animals out hyar, an’ creep forrad afut. That’ll gie us a chance o’ seeing in, ’ithout bein’ seen.”
The mules being disposed of as Walt had suggested, the two continue their advance.
First walking erect, then in bent attitude, then crouching still lower, then as quadrupeds on all-fours, and at length, crawling like reptiles, they make their approach to the pass that leads down into the valley.
They do not enter it; they dare not. Before getting within the gape of its gloomy portals they hear voices issuing therefrom. They can see tiny sparks of fire glowing at the lips of ignited cigars. From this they can tell that there are sentries there—a line of them across the ravine, guarding it from side to side.
“It ain’t no use tryin’, Frank,” whispers Wilder; “ne’er a chance o’ our settin’ through. They’re stannin’ thick all over the ground. I kin see by thar seegars. Don’t ye hear them palaverin? A black snake kedn’t crawl through among ’em ’ithout bein’ obsarved.”
“What are we to do?” asks Hamersley, in a despairing tone.
“We kin do nothin’ now, ’ceptin’ go back an’ git our mules. We must move them out o’ the way afore sun-up. ’Taint no matter o’ use our squattin’ hyar. No doubt o’ what’s been done. The main body’s goed below; them we see’s only a party left to guard the gap. Guess it’s all over wi’ the poor critters in the cabin, or will be afore we kin do anythin’ to help ’em. Ef they ain’t kilt, they’re captered by this time.”
Hamersley can scarce restrain himself from uttering an audible groan. Only the evident danger keeps him silent.
“I say agin, Frank, ’tair no use our stayin’ hyar. Anythin’ we kin do must be did elsewhar. Let’s go back for our mules, fetch ’em away, an’ see ef we kin clomb up one o’ these hyar hills. Thar’s a good skirtin’ o’ kiver on thar tops. Ef the anymals can’t be tuk up, we kin leave them in some gulch, an’ go on to the summut ourselves. Thar we may command a view o’ all that passes. The sogers’ll be sartin to kum past in the mornin’, bringin’ thar prisoners. Then we’ll see who’s along wi’ ’em, and kin foller thar trail.”
“Walt, I’m willing to do as you direct. I feel as if I’d lost all hope, and could give way to downright despair.”
“Deespair be durned! Thar’s allers a hope while thar’s a bit o’ breth in the body. Keep up yur heart, man! Think o’ how we war ’mong them wagguns. That oughter strengthen yur gizzern. Niver say die till yur dead, and the crowner are holdin’ his ’quest over yur karkidge. Thet’s the doctryne o’ Walt Wilder.”
As if to give illustrative proof of it, he catches hold of his comrade’s sleeve; with a pluck turns him around, and leads him back to the place where they had parted from the mules. These are released from their pickets, then led silently, and in a circuitous direction, towards the base of one of the buttes.
Its sides appear too steep for even a mule to scale them; but a boulder-strewed ravine offers a suitable place for secreting the animals.
There they are left, their lariats affording sufficient length to make them fast to the rocks, while a tapado of the saddle-blankets secures them against binneying.
Having thus disposed of the animals, the two men scramble on up the ravine, reach the summit of the hill, and sit down among the cedar-scrub that crowns it, determined to remain there and await the “development of events.”
Were we gifted with clairvoyance, it might at times spare us much misery, thought at other times it would make it. Perhaps ’tis better we are as we are.
Were Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder, keeping watch on the summit of the mound, possessed of second sight, they would not think of remaining there throughout all the night—not for an hour—nay, not so much as a minute, for they would be aware that within less than ten miles of them is a party of men with friendly hearts and strong arms, both at their disposal for the very purpose they now need such. Enough of them to strike Uraga’s lancers and scatter them like chaff.
And could the man commanding these but peep over the precipitous escarpment of the Llano Estacado and see those stalwart Texans bivouacked below, he would descend into the valley with less deliberation, and make greater haste to retire out of it. He and his know nothing of the formidable foes so near, any more than Hamersley and Wilder suspect the proximity of such powerful friends. Both are alike unconscious that the Texans are encamped within ten miles. Yet they are; for the gorge at whose mouth they have halted is the outlet of the valley stream, where it debouches upon the Texan plain.
Without thought of being interfered with, the former proceed upon their ruthless expedition; while the latter have no alternative but await its issue. They do so with spirits impatiently chafing, and hearts sorely agonised.
Both are alike apprehensive for what next day’s sun will show them—perchance a dread spectacle.
Neither shuts eye in sleep. With nerves excited and bosoms agitated they lie awake, counting the hours, the minutes; now and then questioning the stars as to the time.
They converse but little, and only in whispers. The night is profoundly still. The slightest sound, a word uttered above their breath, might betray them.
They can distinctly hear the talk of the lancers left below. Hamersley, who understands their tongue, can make out their conversation. It is for the most part ribald and blasphemous, boasts of their bonnes fortunes with the damsels of the Del Norte, commingled with curses at this ill-starred expedition that for a time separates them from their sweethearts.
Among them appears a gleam greater than the ignited tips of their cigarittos. ’Tis the light of a candle which they have stuck up over a serape spread along the earth. Several are seen clustering around it; while their conversation tells that they are relieving the dull hours with a little diversion. They are engaged in gambling, and ever and anon the cries, “Soto en la puerta!” “Cavallo mozo!” ascending in increased monotone, proclaim it to be the never-ending national game of montè.
Meanwhile Uraga, with the larger body of the lancers, has got down into the glen, and is making way towards the point aimed at. He proceeds slowly and with caution. This for two distinct reasons—the sloping path is difficult even by day, at night requiring all the skill of experienced riders to descend it. Still with the traitor at their head, who knows every step, they gradually crawl down the cliff, single file, again forming “by twos” as they reach the more practicable causeway below.
Along this they continue to advance in silence and like caution. Neither the lancer colonel nor his lieutenant has forgotten the terrible havoc made among the Tenawas by the two men who survived that fearful affray, and whom they may expect once more to meet. They know that both have guns—the traitor has told them so—and that, as before, they will make use of them. Therefore Uraga intends approaching stealthily, and taking them by surprise. Otherwise he may himself be the first to fall—a fate he does not wish to contemplate. But there can be no danger, he fancies as he rides forward. It is now the mid-hour of night, a little later, and the party to be surprised will be in their beds. If all goes well he may seize them asleep.
So far everything seems favourable. No sound comes from the direction of the lonely dwelling, not even the bark of a watch dog. The only noises that interrupt the stillness of the night are the lugubrious cry of the coyoté and the wailing note of the whip-poor-will; these, at intervals blending with the sweeter strain of the tzenzontle—the Mexican nightingale—intermittently silenced as the marching troop passes near the spot where it is perched.
Once more, before coming in sight of the solitary jacal, Uraga commands a halt. This time to reconnoitre, not to rest or stay. The troopers sit in their saddles, with reins ready to be drawn; like a flock of vultures about to unfold their wings for the last swoop upon their victims—to clutch, tear, kill, do with them as they may wish!
A house from which agreeable guests have just taken departure is rarely cheerful. The reverse, if these have been very agreeable—especially on the first evening after.
The rude sheiling which gives shelter to the refugees is no exception. Everyone under its roof is afflicted with low spirits, some of them sad—two particularly so.
Thus has it been since the early hour of daybreak, when the guests regretted spoke the parting speech.
In the ears of Adela Miranda, all day long, has been ringing that painful word, “Adios!” while thoughts about him who uttered it have been agitating her bosom.
Not that she has any fear of his fealty, or that he will prove traitor to his troth now plighted. On the contrary, she can confide in him for that, and does—fully, trustingly.
Her fears are from a far different cause; the danger he is about to dare.
Conchita, in like manner, though in less degree, has her apprehensions. The great Colossus who has captured her heart, and been promised her hand, may never return to claim it. But, unacquainted with the risk he is going to run, the little mestiza has less to alarm her, and only contemplates her lover’s absence, with that sense of uncertainty common to all who live in a land where every day has its dangers.
Colonel Miranda is discomforted too. Never before since his arrival in the valley have his apprehensions been so keen. Hamersley’s words, directing suspicion to the peon, Manuel, have excited them. All the more from his having entertained something of this before. And now still more, that his messenger is three days overdue from the errand on which he has sent him.
At noon he and Don Prospero again ascend to the summit of the pass, and scan the table plain above—to observe nothing upon it, either westwardly or in any other direction. And all the afternoon has one or the other been standing near the door of the jacal, with a lorgnette
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