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The Lone Ranche
Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Lone Ranche
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!”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
A Sweet Awakening
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 the room. But he can perceive that they are close to the door, and the first words heard admonish him of their design to enter.
“Now, Conchita! Go get the wine, and bring it along with you. The doctor left directions for it to be given him at this hour.”
“I have it here, senorita.”
“Vaya! you have forgotten the glass. You would not have him drink out of the bottle?”
“Ay Dios! and so I have,” responds Conchita, apparently gliding off to possess herself of the required article, with which she soon returns.
“Ish!” cautions the other voice; “if he be still asleep, we must not wake him. Don Prospero said that. Step lightly, muchacha!”
Hamersley is awake, with eyes wide open, and consciousness quite restored. But at this moment something – an instinct of dissembling – causes him to counterfeit sleep; and he lies still, with shut eyelids. He can hear the door turning upon its hinges of raw hide, then the soft rustle of robes, while he is sensible of that inexpressible something that denotes the gentle presence of woman.
“Yes, he is asleep,” says the first speaker, “and for the world we may not disturb him. The doctor was particular about that, and we must do exactly as he said. You know, Conchita, this gentleman has been in great danger. Thanks to the good Virgin, he’ll get over it. Don Prospero assures us he will.”
“What a pity if he should not! Oh, senorita, isn’t he – ”
“Isn’t he what?”
“Handsome – beautiful! He looks like a picture I’ve seen in the church; an angel – only that the angel had wings, and no mustachios.”
“Pif, girl; don’t speak in that silly way, or I shall be angry with you. Vayate! you may take away the wine. We can come again when he awakes. Guardate! Tread lightly.”
Again there is the rustling of a dress; but this time as if only one of the two were moving off. The other seems still to linger by the side of the couch.
The invalid queries which of the two it is. There is an electricity that tells him; and, for an instant, he thinks of opening his eyes, and proclaiming consciousness of what has been passing.
A thought restrains him – delicacy. The lady will know that he has been awake all the while, and overheard the conversation. It has been in Spanish, but she is aware that he understands this, for he has no doubt that the “señorita” is she who has saved him.
He remains without moving, without unclosing his eyelids. But his ears are open, and he hears a speech pleasanter than any yet spoken.
It is in the shape of a soliloquy – a few words softly murmured. They are, “Ay de mil ’Tis true what Conchita says, and as Valerian told me. He is, indeed, handsome – beautiful!”
More than ever Hamersley endeavours to counterfeit sleep, but he can resist no longer. Involuntarily his eyes fly open, and, with head upraised, he turns towards the speaker.
He sees what he has been expecting, what he beheld in fancy throughout his long, delirious dream – the fair form and beautiful face that so much interested him, even in that hour when life seemed to be forsaking him. It is the angel of the desert, no longer in huntress garb, but dressed as a lady.
There is a red tinge upon her cheek, that appears to have flushed up suddenly, as if suspecting her soliloquy has been heard. The words have but parted from her lips, and the thought is yet thrilling in her heart.
Can he have heard it? He shows no sign.
She approaches the couch with a look of solicitude, mingled with interrogation. A hand is held out to her, and a word or two spoken to say she is recognised. Her eyes sparkle with joy, as she perceives in those of the invalid that reason is once more seated on its throne.
“I am so happy,” she murmurs, “we are all so happy, to know you are out of danger. Don Prospero says so. You will now get well in a short time. But I forget; we were to give you something as soon as you should awake. It is only some wine. Conchita, come hither!”
A young girl is seen stepping into the chamber. A glance would tell her to be the maid, if the overheard conversation had not already declared it. A little brown-skinned damsel, scarce five feet in height, with raven hair hanging in double plait down her back, and black eyes that sparkle like those of a basilisk.
Provident Conchila has brought the bottle and glass with her, and a portion of the famed grape juice of El Paso is administered to the invalid.
“How good and kind you’ve all been!” he says, as his head once more settles down upon the pillow. “And you especially, senorita. If I mistake not, I’m indebted to you for the saving of my life.”
“Do not speak of that,” she rejoins; “I’ve shown you no kindness in particular. You would not have one leave a fellow creature to perish?”
“Ah! but for you I should now have been in another world.”
“No, indeed. There you are mistaken. If I had never come near you, you’d have been saved all the same. I have good news for you. Your comrade is safe, and here. He returned to your trysting-place, with both food and drink; so, as you see, I have no merit in having rescued you. But I must not talk longer. Don Prospero has given instructions for you to be kept quiet. I shall bring the doctor at once. Now that you are awake it is necessary he should see you.”
Without waiting for a reply, she glides out of the room, Conchita having gone before.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Don Valerian
Hamersley lies pondering on what he has seen and heard, more especially on what he has overheard – that sweet soliloquy. Few men are insensible to flattery. And flattery from fair lips! He must be indeed near death whose heart-pulsations it does not affect.
But Don Prospero! Who is he? Is he the owner of the voice heard in dialogue with Walt Wilder? May he be the owner of all? This thought troubles the Kentuckian.
Approaching footsteps put a stop to his conjectures. There are voices outside, one of them the same late sounding so sweetly in his ears. The other is a man’s, but not his who was conversing with Wilder. Nor is it that of the ex-Ranger himself. It is Don Prospero, who soon after enters the room, the lady leading the way.
A man of nigh sixty years of age, spare form and face, hair grizzled, cheeks wrinkled; withal hale and hearty, as can be told by the pleasant sparkle of his eye. Dressed in a semi-military suit, of a subdued tint, and facings that tell of the medical staff.
At a glance there is no danger in Don Prospero. The invalid feels easier, and breathes freely.
“Glad to see you looking so well,” says Don Prospero, taking hold of his patient’s wrist and trying the pulse. “Ah! much more regular; it will be all right now. Keep quiet, and we shall soon get you on your feet again. Come, señor! A little more of this grape-juice will do you no harm. Nothing like our New Mexican wine for bringing back a sick man to his appetite. After that, we shall give you some wild-turkey broth and a bone to pick. In a day or two you’ll be able to eat anything.”
Other personages are now approaching the chamber. The lady glides out, calling, —
“Valerian!”
“Who is Valerian?” feebly interrogates the invalid. Once more the name of a man is making him unhappy.
“Don Valerian!” responds the doctor, in a tone that tells of respect for the individual so designated; “you shall see, señor. You are about to make his acquaintance. No; I am wrong about that. I forgot. You cannot now.”
“Cannot! Why?”
“Because you have made it already. Mira! He is there!”
This as a tall, elegant man, under thirty years of age, steps inside the chamber, while a still taller form appears in the doorway, almost filling up the space between the posts.
The latter is Walt Wilder, but the former – who is he? Don Valerian, of course!
“Colonel Miranda!” exclaims Hamersley, starting up on his couch. He has already dismissed all suspicious fears of Don Prospero; and now he no longer dreads Valerian.
“Colonel Miranda, is it you?”
“It is, mio amigo, myself, as you see. And I need not tell you how glad I am to meet you again. So unexpected in this queer quarter, where I little hoped to have the pleasure of entertaining an old friend. Our worthy doctor here informs us you will soon get strong again, and become more of a tax on my hospitality than you have yet been. No doubt, after your illness, you’ll have the appetite of an ostrich. Well, in one way, that will be fortunate, since we are living, as you may see, in a somewhat Homeric fashion. Carrambo! you will be deeming my manners quite as rude as the roughest of Homer’s heroes. I am forgetting to introduce you to one of whom you’ve heard me speak. Though it don’t so much signify, since the lady has made your acquaintance already. Permit me to present my dear Adela.”
It is the beautiful huntress who steps forward to be introduced, now looking more beautiful than ever.
To Hamersley all is explained by her presence. He remembers the portrait upon the wall, which accounts for his fancy of having seen her face before.
He sees it now; his wonder giving way to an intense, ardent admiration.
Soon, the young lady retiring, his curiosity comes back, and he asks his host for an explanation. How came Colonel Miranda there, and why? By what sinister combination of circumstances has the military commandant of Albuquerque made his home in the midst of a howling wilderness, for such is the Llano Estacado?
Despite the smiling oasis immediately surrounding it, it cannot have been choice. No. Chance, or rather mischance, must have led to this change in the affairs of his New Mexican acquaintance. More than an acquaintance – a friend who stood by him in the hour of danger, first courageously protecting, then nobly volunteering to act as his second in a duel; afterwards taking him on to his home and showing him hospitality, kind as was ever extended to a stranger in a strange land.
No wonder Frank Hamersley holds him dear. Dearer now, after seeing his sister in propriâ personâ– she whose portrait had so much impressed his fancy – the impression now deepened by the thought that to her he has been indebted for his life.
Naturally enough, the young Kentuckian is desirous of knowing all, and is anxious about the fortunes of his Mexican friend, that for the time seem adverse.
“No,” is Colonel Miranda’s response to his appeal. “Not now, Señor Don Francisco. Our good doctor here places an embargo on any further conversation for the present. The tale I have to tell might too much excite you. Therefore let it rest untold till you are stronger and more able to hear it rehearsed. Now, amigo, we must leave you alone, or rather, I should say, in the best of good company, for such has your worthy comrade, the Señor Wilder, proved himself to be. No doubt you’ll be anxious to have a word with one who, while your life was in danger, would have sacrificed his own to save it. Don Prospero permits him to remain with you and give such explanations as you may need. The rest of us are to retire. Hasta luega.” So saying, Miranda steps out of the room. “Keep perfectly quiet,” adds the ex-army surgeon, preparing to follow. “Don’t excite yourself by any act or thought that may cause a return of the fever. For in that lies your greatest danger. Feel confident, caballero, that you’re in the company of friends. Don Gaulterio here will be able to convince you of that. Ah! señor, you’ve a nurse who feels a great interest in seeing you restored to health.”
Pronouncing these last words in undertone and with an accent of innuendo, accompanied by a smile which the invalid pleasantly interprets, Don Prospero also retires, leaving his patient alone with his old caravan guide.
Drawing one of the chairs up to the side of the bed, the ex-Ranger sits down upon it, saying, —
“Wal, Frank, ain’t it wonderful? That we shed both be hyar, neested snug an’ comfortable as two doons in the heart of a hollow tree, arter all the dangersome scrapes we’ve been passin’ through. Gheehorum! To think o’ thar bein’ sech a sweet furtile place lyin’ plum centre in the innermost recesses o’ the Staked Plain, whar we purairey men allers believed thar wun’t nothin’ ’ceptin’ dry desert an’ stinkin’ sage-bush. Instead, hyar’s a sort o’ puradise aroun’ us, sech as I used read o’ when I war a youngster in the big Book. Thar’s the difference, that in the Gardin o’ Eeden thar’s but one woman spoken of; hyar thar’s two, one o’ which you yurself hev called a angel, an’ ye hain’t sayed anythin’ beyont the downright truth. She air a angel, if iver thar was sech on airth. Now, not detractin’ anythin’ from her merits, thar’s another near hand – somewhat of a smaller sort, though jest as much, an’ a little bit more, to my likin’. Ye won’t mind my declarin’ things that way. As they say in Mexican Spanish, cadder uner a soo gooster (cada una a su gusto), every one to his own way o’ thinkin’, so my belief air that in this. Gardin o’ Eeden thar air two Eves, one o’ which, not countin’ to be the mother o’ all men, will yit, supposin’ this chile to hev his way, be the mother o’ a large family o’ young Wilders.”
While Hamersley is still smiling at the grotesque prognostication, the ex-Ranger, seizing hold of his hand, continues, —
“I’m so glad you’re a goin’ to rekiver. Leavin’ out the angels we love, ther’ll be some chance to git square wi’ the devils we’ve sech reezun to hate. We may yit make them pay dear for the bloody deed they’ve done in the murderin’ o’ our innercent companyuns.”
“Amen to that,” mutters Hamersley, returning the squeeze of his comrade’s hand with like determined pressure. “Sure as I live, it shall be so.”
