Майн Рид
The Lone Ranche
Chapter Fifty Three.
A Sleepless Night
All night long Hamersley and the hunter remain upon the summit of the mound. It is a night of dread anxiety, seeming to them an age.
They think not of taking sleep – they could not. There is that in their minds that would keep them wakeful if they had not slept for a week. Time passing does not lessen their suspense. On the contrary, it grows keener, becoming an agony almost unendurable.
To escape from it, Hamersley half forms the resolution to descend the hill and endeavour to steal past the sentinels. If discovered, to attack them boldly, and attempt cutting a way through; then on into the valley, and take such chances as may turn up for the rescue of the refugees.
Putting it to his companion, the latter at once offers opposing counsel. It would be more than rashness – sheer madness. At least a dozen soldiers have been left on picket at the summit of the pass. Standing or sitting, they are scattered all over the ground. It would be impossible for anyone going down the gorge to get past them unperceived; and for two men to attack twelve, however courageous the former and cowardly the latter, the odds would be too great.
“I wouldn’t mind it for all that,” says Walt, concluding his response to the rash proposal, “ef thar war nothin’ more to be did beyont. But thar is. Even war we to cut clar through, kill every skunk o’ ’em, our work ’ud be only begun. Thar’s two score to meet us below. What ked we do wi’ ’em? No, Frank; we mout tackle these twelve wi’ some sort o’ chance, but two agin forty! It’s too ugly a odds. No doubt we ked drop a good grist o’ ’em afore goin’ under, but in the eend they’d git the better o’ us – kill us to a sartinty.”
“It’s killing me to stay here. Only to think what the ruffians may be doing at this moment! Adela – ”
“Don’t gie yur mind to thinkin’ o’ things now. Keep your thoughts for what we may do arterward. Yur Adela ain’t goin’ to be ate up that quick, nor yet my Concheeter. They’ll be tuk away ’long wi’ t’others as prisoners. We kin foller, and trust to some chance o’ bein’ able to git ’em out o’ the clutches o’ the scoundrels.”
Swayed by his comrade’s counsel, somewhat tranquillised by it, Hamersley resigns himself to stay as they are. Calmer reflection convinces him there is no help for it. The alternative, for an instant entertained, would be to rush recklessly on death, going into its very jaws.
They lie along the ground listening, now and then standing up and peering through the branches at the sentries below. For a long while they hear nothing save the calls of the card-players, thickly interlarded with carajoz, chingaras, and other blasphemous expressions. But just after the hour of midnight other sounds reach their ears, which absorb all their attention, taking it away from the gamesters.
Up out of the valley, borne upon the buoyant atmosphere, comes the baying of bloodhounds. In echo it reverberates along the façade of the cliff, for a time keeping continuous. Soon after a human voice, quickly followed by a second; these not echoes or repetitions of the same; for one is the coarse guttural cry of a man, the other a scream in the shrill treble of of a woman. The first is the shout of surprise uttered by Chico, the second the shriek of alarm sent forth by Conchita.
With hearts audibly beating, the listeners bend their ears to catch what may come next, both conjecturing the import of the sounds that have already reached them, and this with instinctive correctness. Walt is the first to give speech to his interpretation of it.
“They’re at the shanty now,” he says, in a whisper. “The two houn’s guv tongue on hearin’ ’em approach. That fust shout war from the Injun Cheeko; and the t’other air hern – my gurl’s. Durnation! if they hurt but a he’r o’ her head – Wagh! what’s the use o’ my threetenin’?”
As if seeing his impotence, the hunter suddenly ceases speech, again setting himself to listen. Hamersley, without heeding him, is already in this attitude.
And now out of the valley arise other sounds, not all of them loud. The stream, here and there falling in cataracts, does something to deaden them. Only now and then there is the neigh of a horse, and intermittently the bark of one of the bloodhounds, as if these animals had yielded, but yet remain hostile to the intruders. They hear human voices, too, but no shout following that of Chico, and no scream save the one sent up by Conchita.
There is loud talk, a confusion of speakers, but no report of firearms. This last is tranquillising. A shot at that moment heard by Hamersley would give him more uneasiness than if the gun were aimed at himself.
“Thank God!” he gasps out, after a long spell of listening, “Miranda has made no resistance. He’s seen it would be no use, and has quietly surrendered. I suppose it’s all over now, and they are captives.”
“Wal, better thet than they shed be corpses,” is the consolatory reflection of the hunter. “So long as thar’s breath left in thar bodies we kin hev hope, as I sayed arready. Let’s keep up our hearts by thinkin’ o’ the fix we war in atween the wagguns, an’ arterwards thet scrape in the cave. We kim clar out o’ both in a way we mout call mirakelous, an’ we may yit git them clar in someat the same fashion. ’Slong’s I’ve got my claws roun’ the stock o’ a good gun, wi’ plenty o’ powder and lead, I ain’t a-goin’ to deespar. We’ve both got that, tharfor niver say die!”
The hunter’s quaint speech is encouraging; but for all, it does not hinder him and his comrade from soon after returning to a condition of despondency, if not actual despair.
A feeling which holds possession of them till the rising of the sun, and on till it reaches meridian.
When the day breaks, with eyes anxiously scrutinising, they look down into the valley. A mist hangs over the stream, caused by the spray of its cataracts.
Lifting at length, there is displayed a scene not very different from what they have been expecting.
Around the ranche they see horses picketed and soldiers moving among them or standing in groups apart; in short, a picture of military life in “country quarters.”
Their point of view is too far off to identify individual forms or note the exact action carried on. This last, left to conjecture, is filled up by fancies of the most painful kind.
For long hours are they constrained to endure them – up to that of noon. Then, the notes of a bugle, rising clear above the hissing of the cascades, foretell a change in the spectacle. It is the call, “Boots and saddles!” The soldiers are seen caparisoning their horses and standing by the stirrup.
Another blast gives the order to “Mount!” Soon after, the “Forward!” Then the troop files off from the front of the jacal, disappearing under the trees like a gigantic glittering serpent. The white drapery of a woman’s dress is seen fluttering at its head, as if the reptile had seized upon some tender prey – a dove from the cote – and was bearing it off to its slimy lair.
For another half-hour the two men on the mound wait with nervous impatience. It requires this time to make the ascent from the centre of the valley to the upper plain. After entering among the trees, the soldiers and their captives are out of sight; but the clattering of their horses’ hoofs can be heard as they strike upon the rock-strewn path. Once or twice a trumpet sound proclaims their movements upon the march.
At length the head of the troop appears, the leading files following one after the other along the narrow ledge. As they approach the summit of the pass the track widens, admitting a formation “by twos.” At the trumpet call they change to this, a single horseman riding at their head.
He is now near enough for his features to be distinguished, and Hamersley’s heart strikes fiercely against his ribs as he recognises them. If he had any doubt before, it is set at rest now. He sees Gil Uraga, certain of his being the man who caused the destruction of his caravan. His own horse, ridden by the robber, is proof conclusive of the crime.
He takes note that the lancer colonel is dressed in splendid style, very different from the dust-stained cavalier who the day before passed over the desert plain. Now he appears in a gorgeous laced uniform, with lancer cap and plume, gold cords and aiguillettes dangling adown his breast; for he has this morning made his toilet with care, in consideration of the company in which he intends travelling.
Neither Hamersley nor the hunter hold their eyes long upon him; they are both looking for another individual – each his own. These soon make their appearance, their white dresses distinguishable amid the darker uniforms. During the march their position has been changed. They are now near the centre of the troop, the young lady upon her own mare Lolita, while the Indian damsel is mounted on a mule. They are free, both hand and limb, but a file in front, with another behind, have charge of them. Farther rearward is another group, more resembling captives. This is composed of three men upon mules, fast bound to saddle and stirrup, two of them having their arms pinioned behind their backs. Their animals are led each by a trooper who rides before. The two about whose security such precaution has been taken are Don Valerian and the doctor, the third, with his arms free, is Chico. His fellow-servant Manuel, also on mule-back, is following not far behind, but in his attitude or demeanour there is nothing to tell of the captive. If at times he looks gloomy, it is when he reflects upon his black treason and infamous ingratitude. Perhaps he has repented, or deems the prospect not so cheerful as expected. After all, what will be his reward? He has ruined his master and many others beside, but this will not win him the love of Conchita.
The spectators feel somewhat relieved as Colonel Miranda comes in sight. Still more as the march brings him nearer, and it can be seen that he sits his horse with no sign of having received any injury; and neither has Don Prospero. The elaborate fastenings are of themselves evidences that no hurt has happened to them. It has been a capture without resistance, as their friends hoped it would, their fears having been of a conflict to end in the death of the exiles.
One by one, and two by two, the troops come filing on, till the leader is opposite the spot where the two spectators stand crouching among the trees. These are dwarf cedars, and give the best cover for concealment. Thoroughly screened by their thickly-set boughs and dense dark foliage, Hamersley and the hunter command a clear view of everything below. The distance to the summit of the pass is about two hundred yards in a slanting direction.
As the lancer colonel approaches the spot where the picket is posted, he halts and gives an order. It is for the guard to fall in along with the rest of the troop.
At this moment a similar thought is in the minds of the two men whose eyes are upon him from above. Wilder is the first to give expression to it. He does so in an undertone, —
“Ef we ked trust the carry o’ our rifles, Frank.”
“I was thinking of it,” is the rejoinder, equally earnest. “We can’t I’m afraid it’s too far.”
“I weesh I only had my old gun; she’d a sent a bullet furrer than that. A blue pill inter his stomach ’ud simplerfy matters consid’rable. ’Tall events it ’ud git your gurl out o’ danger, and mayhap all on ’em. I b’lieve the hul clanjamfery o’ them spangled jay birds ’ud run at hearin’ a shot. Then we ked gie ’em a second, and load an’ fire half a dozen times afore they could mount up hyar – if they’d dar to try it. Ah! it’s too fur. The distance in these hyar high purairas is desprit deceivin’. Durned pity we kedn’t do it. I fear we can’t.”
“If we should miss, then – ”
“Things ’ud only be wuss. I reck’n we’d better let’m slide now, and foller arter. Thar boun’ straight for the Del Norte; but whether or no, we kin eesy pick up thar trail.”
Hamersley still hesitates, his fingers alternately tightening on his gun, and then relaxing. His thoughts are flowing in a quick current – too quick for cool deliberation. He knows he can trust his own aim, as well as that of his comrade. But the distance is doubtful, and the shots might fall short. Then it would be certain death to them; for the situation is such that there could be no chance to escape, with fifty horsemen to pursue, themselves mounted upon mules, and therewith be reached without difficulty. They might defend themselves on the mound, but not for long. Two against fifty, they would soon be overpowered. After all, it will be better to let the troop pass on. So counsels the ex-Ranger, pointing out that the prisoners will be carried on to New Mexico – to Albuquerque, of course. He and his comrade are Americans, and not proscribed there. They can follow without fear. Some better opportunity may arise for rescuing the captives. Their prison may offer this; and from what they have heard of such places it is probable enough. A golden key is good for opening the door of any gaol in Mexico.
Only one thought hinders Hamersley from at once giving way to this reasoning – the thought of his betrothed being in such company – under such an escort, worse than unprotected!
Once more he scans the distance that separates him from the soldiers, his gun tightly grasped.
Could their colonel but suspect his proximity at that moment, and what is passing through his mind, he would sit with little confidence in his saddle, bearing himself less pompously.
Caution, backed by the ex-Ranger’s counsel, asserts its sway, and the Kentuckian relaxes his grasp on the gun, dropping its butt to the ground.
The last files, having cleared the gap, are formed into a more compact order; when, the bugle again sounding “Forward,” the march is resumed, the troop striking off over the plain in the direction whence it came.
Chapter Fifty Four.
A Man and a Mule
Carefully as ever, Hamersley and the Texan keep to their place of concealment. They dare not do otherwise. The slope by which they ascended is treeless, the cedars only growing upon the summit. The gorge, too, by which they went up, and at the bottom of which their mules were left, debouches westwardly on the plain – the direction in which the lancers have ridden off. Any of these chancing to look back would be sure to catch sight of them if they show themselves outside the sheltering scrub. They have their apprehensions about their animals. It is a wonder these have not been seen by the soldiers. Although standing amid large boulders, a portion of the bodies of both are visible from the place mentioned. Fortunately for their owners, their colour closely resembled the rocks, and for which the troopers may have mistaken them. More probably, in their impatience to proceed upon the return route, none of them turn their eyes in that direction.
An equally fortunate circumstance is the fact of the mules being muffled. Otherwise they might make themselves heard. Not a sound, either snort or hinney, escape them; not so much as the stamping of a hoof. They stand patient and silent, as if they themselves had fear of the men who are foes to their masters.
For a full hour after the lancers have left these stay crouching behind the cedars. Even an hour does not take the troop out of sight. Cumbered with their captives, they march at slow, measured pace – a walk. Moreover, the pellucid atmosphere of the Staked Plain makes objects visible at double the ordinary distance. They are yet but five miles from the buttes, and, looking back, could see a man at their base, more surely one mounted.
The two who are on the summit allow quite twenty minutes more to elapse before they think of leaving it. Then, deeming it safe, they prepare to descend.
Still they are in no haste. Their intention is to follow the cavalcade, but by no means to overtake it. Nor do they care to keep it in sight, but the contrary, since that might beget danger to themselves. They anticipate no difficulty in taking up the trail of a troop like that Walt confidently declares he could do so were he blindfolded as their mules, adding, in characteristic phraseology, “I ked track the skunks by thar smell.”
Saying this he proposes a “bit o’ brakwist,” a proposition his comrade assents to with eagerness. They have not eaten since dinner of the day before, their provisions having been left below, and the sharp morning air has given additional edge to their appetites. This at length draws them down to their mules.
Taking off the tapados to relieve the poor animals, who have somewhat suffered from being so scurvily treated, they snatch a hasty repast from their haversacks, then light their pipes for a smoke preparatory to setting forth. It is not yet time, for the soldiers are still in sight. They will wait till the last lance pennon sinks below the horizon.
Whilst smoking, with eyes bent upon the receding troop, a sound salutes their ears, causing both to start. Fortunately they draw back behind one of the boulders, and there remain listening. What they heard was certainly a hoofstroke, whether of horse or mule – not of either of their own; these are by their sides, while the sound that has startled them appears to proceed from the other side of the mound, as if from the summit of the pass leading up out of the valley.
They hear it again. Surely it is in the gorge that goes down, or at the head of it.
Their conjecture is that one of the lancers has lagged behind, and is now en route to overtake the troop.
If it be thus what course are they to pursue? He may look back and see themselves or their animals, then gallop on and report to his comrades.
’Twould be a sinister episode, and they must take steps to prevent it.
They do so by hastily restoring the tapados and leading the mules into a cul-de-sac, where they will be safe from observation.
Again they hear the sound, still resembling a hoofstroke, but not of an animal making way over the ground in walk, trot, or gallop, but as one that refused to advance, and was jibbing.
Between them and it there seems great space, a projecting spur of the butte from which they have just descended. By climbing the ridge for a score of yards or so they can see into the gorge that goes down to the valley.
As the trampling still appears steadfast to the same point, their alarm gives place to curiosity, then impatience. Yielding to this, they scramble up the ridge that screens the kicking animal from their view.
Craning their heads over its crest, they see that which, instead of causing further fear, rather gives them joy.
Just under their eyes, in the gap of the gorge, a man is struggling with a mule. It is a contest of very common occurrence. The animal is saddled, and the man is making attempts to get his leg over the saddle. The hybrid is restive, and will not permit him to put foot in the stirrup. Ever as he approaches it shies back, rearing and pitching to the full length and stretch of the bridle-rein.
Soon as seeing him, they upon the ridge recognise the man thus vexatiously engaged. He is the peon Manuel.
“The durned scoundrel,” hissed Walt, through clenched teeth. “What’s kep him ahint, I wonder?”
Hamersley responds not – he, too, conjecturing.
“By Jehorum!” continues the hunter, “it looks like he’d stayed back apurpose. Thar ked been nothin’ to hinder him to go on ’long wi’ the rest. The questyun air what he’s stayed for. Some trick o’ trezun, same as he’s did afore.”
“Something of the kind, I think,” rejoins Hamersley, still considering.
“Wal, he’s wantin’ to get on bad enuf now, if the mule ’ud only let him. Say, Frank, shell I put a payriud to their conflict by sendin’ a bit o’ lead that way, I kin rub the varmint out by jest pressin’ my finger on this trigger.”
“Do you mean the man or the mule?”
“The man, in coorse. For what shed I shoot the harmless critter that’s been carryin’ him? Say the word, an’ I’ll send him to kingdom come in the twinklin’ o’ a goat’s tail. I’ve got sight on him. Shall I draw the trigger?”
“For your life, don’t look yonder! They’re not yet out of sight. They might see the smoke, perhaps hear the crack. Comrade, you’re taking leave of your senses!”
“Contemplatin’ that ugly anymal below air enough to make me. It a’most druv me out o’ my mind to think o’ his black ungratefulness. Now, seein’ hisself through the sight of a rifle ’ithin good shootin’ distance, shurely ye don’t intend we shud let him go!”
“Certainly not. That would be ruin to ourselves. We must either kill or capture him. But it must be done without noise, or at least without firing a shot. They’re not far enough off yet.”
“How d’ye devise, then?”
“Let’s back to our mules, mount, and get round the ledge. We must head him before he gets out of the gap. Come on!”
Both scramble back down the slope quicker than they ascended it, knowing there is good reason for haste – the best for their lives – every thing may depend on capturing the peon. Should he see them, and get away, it will be worse both for them and their dear ones.
In two minutes the mules are again unmuffled and mounted. In two more they are entering the gap from outside, their masters on their backs.
These, spurring the animals to speed, enter the gorge, their eyes everywhere. They reach the spot where the peon was so late seen, striving to get into his saddle. They see the turf torn up by the hybrid’s hoofs, but no man, no mule.
