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The Lone Ranche
Chapter Fifty Eight.
Old Acquaintances
Not necessary to say that the horsemen riding up to the ranche are Captain Haynes and his company of Rangers. They have come up the canon guided by Barbato.
Even more than they is the renegade surprised at seeing a house in that solitary spot. It was not there on his last passing through the valley in company with his red-skinned confederates, the Tenawas, which he did some twelve months before. Equally astonished is he to see Walt Wilder spring out from the door, though he hails the sight with a far different feeling. At the first glance he recognises the gigantic individual who so heroically defended the waggon-train, and the other behind – for Hamersley has also come forth – as the second man who retreated along with him. Surely they are the two who were entombed!
The unexpected appearance produces on the Mexican an effect almost comical, though not to him. On the contrary, he stands appalled, under the influence of a dark superstitious terror, his only movement being to repeatedly make the sign of the Cross, all the while muttering Ave Marias.
Under other circumstances his ludicrous behaviour would have elicited laughter from the Rangers – peals of it. But their eyes are not on him, all being turned to the two men who have issued out of the cabin and are coming on towards the spot where they have pulled up.
Several of them have already recognised their old comrade, and in hurried speech communicate the fact to the others.
“Walt Wilder!” are the words that leap from a dozen pairs of lips, while they, pronouncing the name with glances aghast, look as if a spectre had suddenly appeared to them.
An apparition, however, that is welcome; altogether different to the impression it has produced upon their guide.
Meanwhile, Wilder advances to meet them; as he comes on, keeping up a fire of exclamatory phrases, addressed to Hamersley, who is close behind.
“Air this chile awake, or only dreaming? Look thar, Frank! That’s Ned Haynes, my old captin’. An’ thar’s Nat Cully, an’ Jim Buckland. Durn it, thar’s the hul strenth o’ the kumpany.”
Walt is now close to their horses’ heads, and the rangers, assured it is himself and not his ghost, are still stricken with surprise. Some of them turn towards the Mexican for explanation. They suppose him to have lied in his story about their old comrade having been closed up in a cave, though with what motive they cannot guess. The man’s appearance does not make things any clearer. He still stands affrighted, trembling, and repeating his Paternosters. But now in changed tone, for his fear is no longer of the supernatural. Reason reasserting itself, he has given up the idea of disembodied spirits, convinced that the two figures coming forward are real flesh and blood; the same whose blood he assisted in spilling, and whose flesh he lately believed to be decaying in the obscurity of a cave. He stands appalled as ever; no more with unearthly awe, but the fear of an earthly retribution – a terrible one, which he is conscious of having provoked by the cruel crime in which he participated.
Whatever his fears and reflections they are not for the time intruded upon. The rangers, after giving a glance to him, turn to the two men who are now at their horses’ heads; and, springing from their saddles, cluster around them with questions upon their tongues and eager expectations in their eyes.
The captain and Cully are the two first who interrogate.
“Can we be sure it’s you, Walt?” is the interrogatory put by his old officer. “Is it yourself?”
“Darn me ef I know, cap. Jess now I ain’t sure o’ anythin’, arter what’s passed. Specially meetin’ you wi’ the rest o’ the boys. Say, cap, what’s fetched ye out hyar?”
“You.”
“Me!”
“Yes; we came to bury you.”
“Yis, hoss,” adds Cully, confirming the captain’s statement. “We’re on the way to gie burial to your bones, not expecting to find so much flesh on ’em. For that purpiss we’ve come express all the way from Peecawn Crik. An’ as I know’d you had a kindly feelin’ for yur ole shootin’-iron, I’ve brought that along to lay it in the grave aside o’ ye.”
While speaking, Cully slips out of his saddle and gives his old comrade a true prairie embrace, at the same time handing him his gun.
Neither the words nor the weapon makes things any clearer to Walt, but rather add to their complication. With increased astonishment he cries out, —
“Geehorum! Am I myself, or somebody else? Is’t a dream, or not? That’s my ole shootin’ stick, sartin. I left it over my hoss, arter cuttin’ the poor critter’s throat. Maybe you’ve got him too? I shedn’t now be surprised at anythin’. Come, Nat; don’t stan’ shilly-shallyin’, but tell me all about it. Whar did ye git the gun?”
“On Peecawn Crik. Thar we kim acrost a party o’ Tenawa Kimanch, unner a chief they call Horned Lizart, o’ the whom ye’ve heern. He han’t no name now, seein’ he’s rubbed out, wi’ the majority of his band. We did that. The skrimmage tuk place on the crik, whar we foun’ them camped. It didn’t last long; an’ arter ’twere eended, lookin’ about among thar bodies, we foun’ thar beauty o’ a chief wi’ this gun upon his parson, tight clutched in the death-grup. Soon’s seeing it I know’d ’twar yourn; an’ in coorse surspected ye’d had some mischance. Still, the gun kedn’t gie us any informashun o’ how you’d parted wi’ it. By good luck, ’mong the Injuns we’d captered a Mexikin rennygade – thet thing ye see out thar. He war joined in Horned Lizart’s lot, an’ he’d been wi’ ’em some time. So we put a loose larzette roun’ his thrapple, an’ on the promise o’ its bein’ tightened, he tolt us the hul story; how they hed attackted an’ skuttled a carryvan, an’ all ’bout entoomin’ you an’ a kimrade – this young fellur, I take it – who war wi’ ye. Our bizness out hyar war to look up yur bones an’ gie ’em a more Christyun kind o’ beril. We were goin’ for that cave, the rennygade guidin’ us. He said he ked take us a near cut up the gully through which we’ve just come – arter ascendin’ one o’ the heads o’ the Loosyvana Rod. Near cut! Doggone it, he’s been righter than I reck’n he thort o’. Stead o’ your bones thar’s yur body, wi’ as much beef on’t as ever. Now I’ve told our story, we want yourn, the which appears to be a darned deal more o’ a unexplainable mistry than ourn. So open yur head, ole hoss, and let’s have it.”
Brief and graphic as is Cully’s narrative, it takes Walt still less time to put his former associates in possession of what has happened to himself and Hamersley, whom he introduces to them as the companion of his perilous adventures – the second of the two believed to have been buried alive!
Chapter Fifty Nine.
Mutual Explanations
The arrival of the Rangers at that particular time is certainly a contingency of the strangest kind. Ten minutes later, and they would have found the jacal deserted; for Hamersley and Wilder had made up their minds to set off, taking the traitor along with them. The Texans would have discovered signs to tell of the place having been recently occupied by a large body of men, and from the tracks of shod horses these skilled trailers would have known the riders were not Indians. Still, they would have made delay around the ranche and encamped in the valley for that night. This had been their intention, their horses being jaded and themselves wearied making their way up the canon. Though but ten miles in a direct line, it was well nigh twenty by the winding of the stream – a good, even difficult, day’s journey.
On going out above they would have seen the trail of Uraga’s party, and known it to be made by Mexican soldiers. But, though these were their sworn foemen, they might not have been tempted to follow them. The start of several hours, their own animals in poor condition, the likelihood of a larger force of the enemy being near – all this would have weighed with them, and they would have continued on to the cave whither the renegade was guiding them – a direction altogether different. A very singular coincidence, then, their coming up at that exact instant. It seemed the hand of Providence opportunely extended; and in this light Hamersley looked upon it, as also the ex-Ranger.
Briefly as may be they make known to the new-comers all that had transpired, or as much as for the time needs to be told. Then appeal to them for assistance.
By the Texans their cause is instantly espoused – unanimously, without one dissenting voice. On the contrary, all are uttered with an energy and warmth that give Hamersley a world of hope. Here are friends, whose enemies are his own. And they are in strength sufficient to pursue Uraga’s troop and destroy it. They may overtake it that very night; if not, on the morrow. And if not then, they will pursue it to the borders of New Mexico – to the banks of the Del Norte itself.
His heart is no more depressed. The chance of rescuing his friends from death and saving his betrothed from dishonour is no longer hopeless. There is now a probability – almost a certainty – of its success. Backed by Wilder, he proposes instant pursuit.
To the Texans the proposal is like an invitation to a ball or frontier fandango. Excitement is the breath of their life, and a fight with Mexicans their joy; a pursuit of these their supremest delight. Such as this, moreover, having for its object not only the defeat of a hated foe, but the recovery of captives, beautiful women, as their old comrade Walt enthusiastically describes them, is the very thing to rouse the Rangers to energetic action, rekindling in their hearts the spirit of frontier chivalry – the same which led them to become Rangers.
Notwithstanding their wild enthusiasm they do not proceed rashly. Haynes, their captain, is an old “Indian fighter,” one of the most experienced chiefs of that Texan border warfare, so long continued.
Checking their impatience to pursue at once, he counsels prudence and deliberate action. Cully also recommends this course.
“But why should we lose a moment?” inquires the hot-blooded Kentuckian, chafing at the delay; “they cannot yet be more than ten miles off. We may overtake them before sunset.”
“That’s just what we mustn’t do,” rejoins the Ranger chief. “Suppose they get sight of us before we’re near? On the naked plain, you say it is, they’d be sure to do that. What then? Their horses, I take it, are fresh, compared with ours. They might gallop off and leave us gazing after them like so many April fools. They’d have time, too, to take their prisoners along with them.”
This last speech makes an impression upon all. Even Hamersley no longer offers opposition.
“Let the sun go down,” continues the Texan captain; “that’s just what we want. Since they’re bound due west I reckon we can easily keep on their trail, clear night or dark one. Here’s Nat Cully can do that; and if our friend Walt hasn’t lost his old skill he can be trusted for the same.”
The Ranger and ex-Ranger, both standing by, remain modestly silent.
“Our plan will be,” pursues Haynes, “to approach their camp under cover of night, surround, and so make certain of them. They’ll have a camp; and these Mexican soldiers are such greenhorns, they’re sure to keep big fires burning, if it is only to give them light for their card-playing. The blaze’ll guide us to their squatting-ground, wherever they may make it.”
The captain’s scheme seems so rational that no one opposes it. Walt Wilder in words signifies assent to it, and Hamersley, with, some reluctance, is at length constrained to do the same.
It is resolved to remain two hours longer in the valley, and then start for the upper plain. That will give time to recruit their horses on the nutritious gramma grass, as themselves on the game they have killed before entering the canon. This hangs plentifully over the horns of their saddles, in the shape of wild turkeys, haunches of venison, and pieces of bear meat.
The fire on the cabin hearth and those kindled by the soldiers outside are still smouldering. They are quickly replenished, and the abandoned cooking utensils once more called into use. But pointed saplings, and the iron ramrods of their rifles – the Ranger’s ordinary spit – are in greater demand, and broiling is the style of cuisine most resorted to.
The turkeys are plucked and singed, the venison and bear meat cut into collops, and soon two score pieces are sputtering in the flames of half-a-dozen bivouac fires, while the horses, unbridled, are led out upon their lariats, and given to the grass.
Chapter Sixty.
Cross-Questioning
While the Rangers are preparing for their Homeric repast, a group gathered in front of the jacal is occupied with an affair altogether different.
The individuals most conspicuous in it are the Texan captain, the guide Cully, Walt Wilder, and the young Kentuckian, though several besides take part in the conference.
Two others are concerned in it, though not forming figures in the group. They are some paces apart, lying on the grass, both bound. These are the traitor Manuel and the renegade Barbato.
Both Indian and Mexican appear terribly cowed and crestfallen, for both feel themselves in what Cully or Walt Wilder would call a “bad fix.” They are, in truth, in a dangerous predicament; for, now that Walt and the Kentuckian have turned up alive, what with the story they have to tell, added to that already known to the Rangers – comparing notes between the two parties – new light is let in, floods of it, falling upon spots hitherto dark, and clearing up points confused and obscure. The two culprits are again cross-examined, and, with pistols held to their heads, forced to still further confession.
The peon repeats what he has already told, without adding much, not having much to add. With the renegade it is different. He has kept much back concerning the part played by Uraga and his lieutenant in the affair of the destroyed waggon train.
But with Hamersley, who speaks his own native tongue, now cross-questioning him, and Walt Wilder to extract his testimony by the persuasive influence of a knife-blade glistening in his eyes, he goes further, and admits the unnatural confederation that existed between the white and red robbers – the Mexican colonel and Comanche chief. In short, to save his life, he makes a much cleaner breast of it than before, this time only keeping back his own special guiltiness in being their willing go-between.
While he is repeating his confession, all the other Rangers gather around the group to listen to him. They stand silent, with bated breath and brows contracted.
When at length they become possessed of the tale in all its diabolical atrocity, all its completeness, their anger, already excited, become almost ungovernable; and it is as much as their captain can do to restrain them from at once starting in pursuit. Some fling their spits in the fire with the meat upon them still untouched; others drop the pieces roasted and partly eaten; most demanding to be led on.
The counsels of the more prudent prevail; and again tranquillised, they recover the morsels of meat and continue their repast.
Not long, till they have reason to regret the delay and deem the prudence misplaced. Though this arises not from any mistake on the part of their counsellors, but from a circumstance entirely accidental.
While they are still in the midst of their meal, the sky, all day long of cerulean clearness, becomes suddenly clouded. Not as this term is understood in the ordinary sense, but absolutely black, as if the sun were instantly eclipsed, or had dropped altogether out of the firmament. Scarce ten minutes after its commencement the obscurity has reached completeness – that of a total solar eclipse or as in a starless night.
Though troubled at the change, none of the Rangers are dismayed by it, or even surprised. The old prairie men are the least astonished, since they know what it means. At the first portentous sign Cully is heard crying out, —
“A hurricane! – A norther!”
Wat Wilder has observed it at the same time, and confirms the prognostic. This is before any of the others have noticed aught peculiar in the aspect of the sky, and when there is just the selvedge of a cloud seen above the cliff.
All Texans understand the significance of the word “norther” – a storm or tornado, usually preceded by a hot, stifling atmosphere, with drifting dust, accompanied by sheet or forked lightning and claps of terrific thunder, followed by wind and rain, sometimes hail or sleet, as if the sluices of heaven were drawn open, ending in a continued blast of more regular direction, but chill as though coming direct from the Arctic regions.
In less than ten minutes after its first sign, the tempest is around them. Down into the valley pours the dust, swept from the surface of the upper plain, along with it the leaves and stalks of the wild wormwood, with other weeds of the desert. Simultaneously the wind, at first in low sighs, like the sound of a distant sea; then roaring against the rocks, and swooping down among the trees, whose branches go crashing before its blast. Then succeed lightning, thunder, and rain – the last falling, not in drops, but in sheets, as if spilled from a spout.
For shelter the Rangers rush inside the ranche, leaving their horses to take care of themselves. The latter stand cowering under the trees, neighing with affright – the mules among them giving vent to their plaintive hinney. There are dogs, too, that howl and bark, with other sounds that come from farther off – from the wild denizens of the wilderness; cries of the cougar in contralto, wolf-barkings in mezzo-soprano, screaming of eagles in shrill treble, snorting of bears in basso, and hooting of scared owls in lugubrious tone, to be likened only to the wailing of agonised spirits in Purgatory.
Crowded within the hut, so thickly as to have scarce standing room, the Rangers wait for the calming of the tempest. They submit with greater resignation, knowing it will not long continue. It is far from being their first experience of a “norther.”
The only thought that troubles them is the delay – being hindered from setting forth on the pursuit. True, the party to be pursued will be stayed by the same obstruction. The soldiers will have to halt during the continuance of the storm, so that the distance between will remain the same.
But then their tracks will be obliterated – every vestige of them. The wind, the rain, and dust will do this. How is their trail to be taken up? “That will be easy enough,” says one, whose self-esteem is greater than his prairie experience. He adds: “As they’re going due west, we can’t make any mistake by steering the same way.”
“How little he knows about it!” is the muttered remark exchanged between Wilder and Cully. For they know that the deflection of a single point upon the prairies – above all, upon the Staked Plain – will leave the traveller, like a ship at sea without chart or compass, to steer by guesswork, or go drifting at sheer chance.
To most, the consoling thought is that the Mexicans will halt near, and stay till the storm is over. They have some baggage – a tent or two, with other camp equipage. This is learnt from the Indian; and Hamersley, as also Wilder, have themselves made note of it.
To the returning soldiers there can be no great reason for haste, and they will not likely resume their march till the sky is quite clear. Therefore they will gain nothing in distance.
Satisfied by such assurance given by the sager ones of the party, the Rangers remain inside the hut, on the roof of which the rain dashes down, without experiencing any keen pangs of impatience. Some of them even jest – their jokes having allusion to the close quarters in which they are packed, and other like trifles incidental to the situation.
Walt Wilder for a while gives way to this humour. Whatever may be the danger of Don Valerian and the others, he does not believe his sweetheart much exposed. The little brown-skinned damsel is not in the proscribed list; and the ex-Ranger, strong in the confidence of having her heart, with the promise of her hand, has less reason to be apprehensive about the consequences. Besides, he is now in the midst of his former associates, and the exchange of new histories and old reminiscences is sufficient to fill up the time, and keep him from yielding to impatient longing.
Of all Hamersley alone is unhappy. Despite the assurances spoken, the hopes felt, there is yet apprehension for the future. The position, however, is endurable, and only passes this point as a thought comes into his mind – a memory that flashes across his brain, as if a bullet had struck him between the temples.
It causes him to spring suddenly to his feet, for he has been seated, at the same time wringing from him a cry of peculiar signification.
“What is it, Mr Hamersley?” asks the Ranger Captain, who is close by his side.
“My God!” exclaims the Kentuckian. “I’d forgotten. We must be off at once, or we shall be too late – too late!”
Saying this, he makes a dash for the door, hurtling his way through the crowd close standing between.
The Rangers regard him with glances of astonishment, and doubts about his sanity. Some of them actually think he has gone mad!
One alone understands him – Walt Wilder; though he, too, seems demented. With like incoherent speech and frantic gesture, he follows Hamersley to the door.
Both rush outside; as they do so calling back, “Come on! come on!”
