Майн Рид
The Lone Ranche
Chapter Twenty One.
Struggling among the Sages
It is the fourth day after forsaking the couch among the shin oaks, and the two fugitives are still travelling upon the Llano Estacado. They have made little more than sixty miles to the south-eastward, and have not yet struck any of the streams leading out to the lower level of the Texan plain.
Their progress has been slow; for the wounded man, instead of recovering strength, has grown feebler. His steps are now unequal and tottering. In addition to the loss of blood, something else has aided to disable him – the fierce cravings of hunger and the yet more insufferable agony of thirst.
His companion is similarly afflicted; if not in so great a degree, enough to make him also stagger in his steps. Neither has had any water since the last drop drank amid the waggons, before commencing the fight; and since then a fervent sun shining down upon them, with no food save crickets caught in the plain, an occasional horned frog, and some fruit of the opuntia cactus – the last obtained sparingly.
Hunger has made havoc with both, sad and quick. Already at the end of the fourth day their forms are wasted. They are more like spectres than men.
And the scene around them is in keeping. The plain, far as the eye can reach, is covered with artemisia, whose hoary foliage, in close contact at the tops, displays a continuation of surface like a vast winding-sheet spread over the world.
Across this fall the shadows of the two men, proportioned to their respective heights. That of the ex-Ranger extends nearly a mile before him; for the sun is low down, and they have its beams upon their backs.
They are facing eastward, in the hope of being able to reach the brow of the Llano where it abuts on the Texan prairies; though in the heart of one of them this hope is nearly dead. Frank Hamersley has but slight hopes that he will ever again see the homes of civilisation, or set foot upon its frontier. Even the ci-devant Ranger inclines to a similar way of thinking.
Not far off are other animated beings that seem to rejoice. The shadows of the two men are not the only ones that move over the sunlit face of the artemisia. There, too, are outlined the wings of birds – large birds with sable plumage and red naked necks, whose species both know well. They are zopilotés– the vultures of Mexico.
A score of such shadows are flitting over the sage – a score of the birds are wheeling in the air above.
It is a sight to pain the traveller, even when seen at a distance. Over his own head it may well inspire him with fear. He cannot fail to read in it a forecast of his own fate.
The birds are following the two men, as they would a wounded buffalo or stricken deer. They soar and circle above them, at times swooping portentously near. They do not believe them to be spectres. Wasted as their flesh may be, there will still be a banquet upon their bones.
Now and then Walt Wilder casts a glance up towards them. He is anxious, though he takes care to hide his anxiety from his comrade. He curses the foul creatures, not in speech – only in heart, and silently.
For a time the wearied wayfarers keep on without exchanging a word. Hitherto consolation has come from the side of the ex-Ranger; but he seems to have spent his last effort, and is himself now despairing.
In Hamersley’s heart hope has been gradually dying out, as his strength gets further exhausted. At length the latter gives way, the former at the same time.
“No farther, Walt!” he exclaims, coming to a stop. “I can’t go a step further. There is a fire in my throat that chokes me; something grips me within. It is dragging me to the ground.”
The hunter stops too. He makes no attempt to urge his comrade on. He perceives it would be idle.
“Go on yourself,” Hamersley adds, gasping out the words. “You have yet strength left, and may reach water. I cannot, but I can die, I’m not afraid to die. Leave me, Walt; leave me!”
“Niver!” is the response, in a hoarse, husky voice, but firm, as if it came from a speaking-trumpet.
“You will; you must. Why should two lives be sacrificed for one? Yours may still be saved. Take the gun along with you. You may find something. Go, comrade – friend – go!”
Again the same response, in a similar tone.
“I sayed, when we were in the fight,” adds the hunter, “an’ aterwards, when gallupin’ through the smoke, that livin’ or dyin’ we’d got to stick thegither. Didn’t I say that, Frank Hamersley? I repeat it now. Ef you go unner hyar in the middle o’ this sage-brush, Walt Wilder air goin’ to wrap his karkiss in a corner o’ the same windin’ sheet. There ain’t much strength remainin’ in my arms now, but enuf, I reck’n, to keep them buzzarts off for a good spell yit. They don’t pick our bones till I’ve thinned thar count anyhow. Ef we air to be rubbed out, it’ll be by the chokin’ o’ thirst, and not the gripin’ o’ hunger. What durned fools we’ve been, not to a-thinked o’ ’t afore! but who’d iver think o’ eatin’ turkey buzzart? Wall, it’s die dog or swaller the hatchet; so onpalatable as thar flesh may be, hyar goes to make a meal o’ it!”
While speaking, he has carried the gun to his shoulder.
Simultaneous with his last words comes the crack, quickly followed by the descent of a zopiloté among the sages.
“Now, Frank,” he says, stooping to pick up the dead bird, while the scared flock flies farther away, “let’s light a bit o’ a fire, an’ cook it. Thar’s plenty o’ sage for the stuffin’, an’ its own flavour’ll do for seasonin’ ’stead o’ inyuns. I reck’n we kin git some o’ it down, by holdin’ our noses; an’ at all events, it’ll keep us alive a leetle longer. Wagh, ef we only hed water!”
As if a fresh hope has come suddenly across his mind, he once more raises himself erect to the full stretch of his gigantic stature, and standing thus, gazes eastwardly across the plain.
“Thar’s a ridge o’ hills out that way,” he says. “I’d jest spied it when you spoke o’ giein out. Whar thar’s hills, thar’s a likelihood o’ streams. Sposin’, Frank, you stay hyar, whiles I make tracks torst them. They look like they wa’n’t mor’n ten miles off anyhow. I ked easy get back by the mornin’. D’ye think ye kin hold out thet long by swallerin’ a bit o’ the buzzart?”
“I think I could hold out that long as well without it. It’s more the thirst that’s killing me. I feel as if liquid fire was coursing through my veins. If you believe there be any chance of finding water, go, Walt.”
“I’ll do so; but don’t you sturve in the meanwhile. Cook the critter afore lettin’ it kim to thet. Ye’ve got punk, an’ may make a fire o’ the sage-brush. I don’t intend to run the risk o’ sturvin’ myself; an’ as I mayn’t find any thin’ on the way, I’ll jest take one o’ these sweet-smellin’ chickens along wi’ me.”
He has already re-loaded the rifle; and, once more pointing its muzzle towards the sky, he brings down a second of the zopilotés.
“Now,” he says, taking up the foul carcase, and slinging it to his belt, “keep up your heart till this chile return to ye. I’m sure o’ gettin’ back by the mornin’; an’ to make sartint ’bout the place, jest you squat unner the shadder o’ yon big palmetto – the which I can see far enuff off to find yur wharabouts ’thout any defeequelty.”
The palmetto spoken of is, in truth, not a “palmetto,” though a plant of kindred genus. It is a yucca of a species peculiar to the high table plains of Northern and Central Mexico, with long sword-shaped leaves springing aloe-like from a core in the centre, and radiating in all directions, so as to form a spherical chevaux-de-frize. Its top stands nearly six feet above the surface of the ground, and high over the artemisias; while its dark, rigid spikes, contrasted with the frosted foliage of the sage, render it a conspicuous landmark that can be seen far off over the level plain.
Staggering on till he has reached it, Hamersley drops down on its eastern side, where its friendly shadow gives him protection from the sun, fervid, though setting; while that of Walt Wilder is still projected to its full length upon the plain. Saying not another word, with the rifle across his shoulder and the turkey buzzard dangling down his thigh, he takes departure from the spot, striking eastward towards the high land dimly discernible on the horizon.
Chapter Twenty Two.
A Huntress
“Vamos, Lolita! hold up, my pretty pet! Two leagues more, and you shall bury that velvet snout of yours in the soft gramma grass, and cool your heated hoof in a crystal stream. Ay, and you shall have a half peck of pinon nuts for your supper, I promise you. You have done well to-day, but don’t let us get belated. At night, as you know, we might be lost on the Llano, and the wicked wolves eat us both up. That would be a sad thing, mia yegua. We must not let them have a chance to dispose of us in that manner. Adelante!”
Lolita is a mustang pony of clear chestnut colour, with white mane and tail; while the person thus apostrophising her is a young girl seated astride upon its back.
A beautiful girl, apparently under twenty of age, but with a certain commanding mien that gives her the appearance of being older. Her complexion, though white, has a tinge of that golden brown, or olive, oft observed in the Andalusian race; while scimitar shaped eyebrows, with hair of silken texture, black as the shadows of night, and a dark down on the upper lip, plainly proclaim the Moorish admixture.
It is a face of lovely cast and almost Grecian contour, with features of classic regularity; while the absence of obliquity in the orbs of the eye – despite the dusky hue of her akin – forbids the belief in Indian blood.
Although in a part of the world where such might be expected, there is, in truth, not a taint of it in her veins. The olivine tint is Hispano Moriscan – a complexion, if not more beautiful, certainly more picturesque than that of the Saxon blonde.
With the damask-red dancing out upon her cheeks, her eyes aglow from the equestrian exercise she has been taking, the young girl looks the picture of physical health; while the tranquil expression upon her features tells of mental contentment.
Somewhat singular is her costume, as the equipment. As already said, she bestrides her mustang man-fashion, the mode of Mexico; while a light fowling-piece, suspended en bandoulière, hangs down behind her back.
A woollen seraph of finest wool lies scarf-like across her left shoulder, half concealing a velveteen vest or spencer, close-buttoned over the rounded hemispheres of her bosom. Below, an embroidered skirt – the enagua– is continued by a pair of white calzoncillas, with fringe falling over her small feet, they are booted and spurred.
On her head is a hat of soft vicuna wool, with a band of bullion, a bordering of gold lace around the rim, and a plume of heron’s feather curving above the crown.
This, with her attitude on horseback, might seem outré in the eyes of a stranger to the customs of her country. The gun and its concomitant accoutrements give her something of a masculine appearance, and at the first glance might cause her to be mistaken for a man – a beardless youth.
But the long silken tresses scattered loosely over her shoulders, the finely-cut features, the delicate texture of the skin, the petticoat skirt, the small hand, with slender tapering fingers stretched forward to caress the neck of the mustang mare, are signs of femininity not to be misunderstood.
A woman – a huntress; the character clearly proclaimed by a brace of hounds – large dogs of the mastiff bloodhound breed – following at the heels of the horse. And a huntress who has been successful in the chase – as proved by two prong-horn antelopes, with shanks tied together, lying like saddle-bags across the croup.
The mustang mare needs no spur beyond the sound of that sweet well-known voice. At the word adelante (forward) she pricks up her ears, gives a wave of her snow-white tail, and breaks into a gentle canter, the hounds loping after in long-stretching trot.
For about ten minutes is this pace continued; when a bird flying athwart the course, so close that its wings almost brush Lolita’s muzzle, causes her rider to lean back in the saddle and check her suddenly up.
The bird is a black vulture – a zopiloté. It is not slowly soaring in the usual way, but shooting in a direct line, and swiftly as an arrow sent from the bow.
This it is that brings the huntress to a halt; and for a time she remained motionless, her eye following the vulture in its flight.
It is seen to join a flock of its fellows, so far off as to look like specks. The young girl can perceive that they are not flying in any particular direction, but swooping in circles, as if over some quarry that lies below. Whatever it is, they do not appear to have yet touched it. All keep aloft, none of them alighting on the ground, though at times stooping down, and skimming close to the tops of the sage-bushes with which the plain is thickly beset.
These last prevent the huntress from seeing what lies upon the ground; though she knows there must be something to have attracted the concourse of zopilotés. Evidently she has enough knowledge of the desert to understand its signs, and this is one of a significant character. It not only challenges curiosity, but calls for investigation.
“Something gone down yonder, and not yet dead?” she mutters, in interrogative soliloquy. “I wonder what it can be! I never look on those filthy birds without fear. Santissima! how they made me shudder that time when they flapped their black wings in my own face! I pity any poor creature threatened by them – even where it but a coyoté. It may be that, or an antelope. Nothing else likely to become their prey on this bare plain. Come, Lolita! let us go on and see what they’re after. It will take us a little out of our way, and give you some extra work. You won’t mind that, my pet? I know you won’t.”
The mare wheels round at a slight pressure upon the rein; and then commenced her canter in the direction of the soaring flock.
A mile is passed over, and the birds are brought near; but still the object attracting them cannot be seen. It may be down among the artemisias, or perhaps behind a large yucca, whose dark whorl rises several feet above the sage, and over which the vultures are wheeling.
As the rider of Lolita arrives within gun-shot distance of the yucca-tree she checks the mustang to a slower pace – to a walk in short. In the spectacle of death, in the throes and struggles of an expiring creature, even though it be but a dumb brute, there is something that never fails to excite commiseration, mingled with a feeling of awe. This last has come over the young girl, as she draws near the spot where the birds are seen circling.
It has not occurred to her that the cause of their presence may be a human being, though it is a remembrance of this kind that now prompts her to ride forward reflectively. For once in her life, with others around her who were near and dear, she has been herself an object of like eager solicitude to a flock of zopilotés.
But she has not the slightest suspicion of its being a human creature that causes their gathering now. There, upon the Llano Estacado, so rarely trodden by human feet, and even shunned by almost every species of animal, she could not.
As she draws still nearer, a black disc, dimly outlined against the dark green leaves of the yucca, upon scrutiny, betrays the form of a bird, itself a vulture. It is dead, impaled upon the sharp spikes of the plant, as it came there by falling from above.
A smile curls upon her lips as she sits regarding it.
“So, yegua!” she says, bringing the mare to a stand, and half-turning her. “I’ve been losing my time and you your labour. The abominable birds – it’s only one of themselves that has dropped dead, and they’re holding a velorio over it.”
She continues, again facing towards the dead vulture.
“Now, I wonder if they are only waking it, or if the wakers are cannibals, and intend making a repast on one of their own kind. That would be a curious fact for our natural historian, Don Prospero. Suppose we stay awhile and see?”
For a moment she seems undecided as to staying or going. Only for a moment, when an incident occurs that changes the current of her thoughts from scientific curiosity to something of fear.
The bloodhounds that have lagged behind in the scurry across the plain, now close up; and, instead of stopping by the side of Lolita, rush on towards the yucca. It is not the odour of the dead buzzard – strong as that may be – that attracts them; but the scent of what is more congenial to their sanguinary instincts.
On arriving at the tree they run round to its opposite side; and then spring growling back, as if something they have encountered there has suddenly brought them to bay.
“A wounded bear or wolf!” is the muttered reflection of their mistress.
It has scarce passed her lips, when she is made aware of her mistake. Above the continued baying of the dogs she can distinguish the tones of a human voice; and at the same instant, a man’s head and arm appear above the spikes of the plant – a hand clutching the hilt of a long-bladed knife!
Chapter Twenty Three.
“Down, Dogs!”
Notwithstanding her apparent sang-froid, and the presence of mind she surely possesses, the rider of Lolita is affrighted – far more than the vultures, that have soared higher at her approach.
And no wonder that she is affrighted at such a strange apparition – the head of a man, with a dark moustache on his lip, holding in his hand a blade that shows blood upon it! This, too, in such a solitary place!
Her first thought is to turn Lolita’s head and hurry off from the spot. Then a reflection stays her. The man is evidently alone, and the expression on his countenance is neither that of villainy nor anger. The colour of his skin, with the moustache, bespeak him a white man, and not an Indian. Besides, there is pallor upon his cheeks – a wan, wasted look, that tells of suffering, not sin.
All this the quick eye of the huntress takes in at a glance, resolving her how to act. Instead of galloping away she urges the mustang on towards the yucca.
When close up to it she flings herself out of the saddle, and, whip in hand, rushes up to the hounds, that are still giving tongue and threatening to spring upon the stranger.
“Abajo, perros! abajo, feos!” (Down, dogs! down, you ugly brutes!)
“A tierra!” she continues to scold, giving each a sharp cut that at once reduces them to quiescence, causing them to cower at her feet. “Do you not see the mistake you have made?” she goes on addressing the dogs; “don’t you see the caballero is not an Indio? It is well, sir!” she adds, turning to the caballero, “well that your skin is white. Had it been copper-coloured, I’m not certain I could have saved you from getting it torn. My pets are not partial to the American aboriginal.”
During these somewhat bizarre speeches and the actions that accompany them, Frank Hamersley – for it is he – stands staring in silent wonder. What sees he before him? Two huge, fierce-looking dogs, a horse oddly caparisoned, a young girl, scarce a woman, strangely and picturesquely garbed. What has he heard? First, the loud baying of two bloodhounds, threatening to tear him to pieces; then a voice, sweet and musical as the warbling of a bird!
Is it all a dream?
Dreaming he had been, when aroused by the growling of the dogs. But that was a horrid vision. What he now sees is the very reverse. Demons had been assaulting him in his sleep. Now there is an angel before his eyes.
The young girl has ceased speaking; and as the vertigo, caused by his sudden uprising, has cleared away from his brain, he begins to believe in the reality of the objects around him.
The shock of surprise has imparted a momentary strength that soon passes; and his feebleness once more returning, he would fall back to the earth did he not clutch hold of the yucca, whose stiff blades sustain him.
“Valga me Dios!” exclaims the girl, now more clearly perceiving his condition. “Ay de mi!” she repeats in a compassionate tone, “you are suffering, sir? Is it hunger? Is it thirst? You have been lost upon the Llano Estacado?”
“Hunger, thirst – both, senorita,” he answers, speaking for the first time. “For days I have not tasted either food or drink.”
“Virgen santissima! is that so?”
As she says this she returns to her horse; and, jerking a little wallet from the saddle, along, with a suspended gourd, again advances towards him.
“Here, señor!” she says, plunging her hand into the bag and bringing forth some cold tortillas, “this is all I have; I’ve been the whole day from home, and the rest I’ve eaten. Take the water first; no doubt you need that most. I remember how I suffered myself. Mix some of this with it. Trust me, it will restore your strength.”
While speaking she hands him the gourd, which, by its weight, contains over a pint; and then from another and smaller one she pours some liquid first into the water and then over the tortillas. It is vinegar, in which there is an infusion of chile Colorado.
“Am I not robbing you?” inquires Hamersley, as he casts a significant glance over the wide, sterile plain.
“No, no! I am not in need, besides I have no great way to go to where I can get a fresh supply. Drink, señor, drink it all.”
In ten seconds after the calabash is empty.
“Now eat the tortillas. ’Tis but poor fare, but the chili vinagre will be sure to strengthen you. We who dwell in the desert know that.”
Her words proved true, for after swallowing a few morsels of the bread she has besprinkled, the famished man feels as if some restorative medicine had been administered to him.
“Do you think you are able to ride?” she asks.
“I can walk – though, perhaps, not very far.”
“If you can ride there is no need for your walking. You can mount my mare; I shall go afoot. It is not very far – only six miles.”
“But,” protests he, “I must not leave this spot.”
“Indeed!” she exclaims, turning upon her protégé a look of surprise. “For what reason, señor? To stay here would be to perish. You have no companions to care for you?”
“I have companions – at least, one. That is why I must remain. Whether he may return to assist me I know not. He has gone off in search of water. In any case, he will be certain to seek for me.”
“But why should you stay for him?”
“Need you ask, senorita? He is my comrade, true and faithful. He has been the sharer of my dangers – of late no common ones. If he were to come back and find me gone – ”
“What need that signify, caballero? He will know where to come after you.”
“How should he know?”
“Oh, that will be easy enough. Leave it to me. Are you sure he will find his way back to this place?”
“Quite sure. This tree will guide him. He arranged it so before leaving.”
“In that case, there’s not any reason for your remaining. On the contrary. I can see that you need a better bed than sleeping among these sage-plants. I know one who will give it. Come with me, caballero? By the time your comrade can get back there’ll be one here to meet him. Lest he should arrive before the messenger I shall send, this will save him from going astray.”
While speaking she draws forth a small slip of paper from a pouch carried â la chatelaine; along with it a pencil. She is about to write, when a thought restrains her.
“Does your comrade understand Spanish?” she asks.
“Only a word or two. He speaks English, or, as we call it, American.”
“Can he read?”
“Indifferently. Enough, I suppose, for – ”
“Señor,” she says, interrupting him, “I need not ask if you can write. Take this, and put it in your own language. Say you are gone south, due south, to a distance of about six miles. Tell your friend to stay here till some one comes to meet and conduct him to where you’ll be found.”
Hamersley perceives the rationality of these instructions. There is no reason why he should not do as desired, and go at once with her who gives them. By staying some mischance might still happen, and he may never see his fair rescuer again. Who can tell what may arise in the midst of that mysterious desert? By going he will the sooner be able to send succour to his comrade.
He hesitates no longer, but writes upon the piece of paper – in large, carefully-inscribed letters, so that the ci-devant Ranger need have no difficulty in deciphering them: —
“Saved by an Angel. – Strike due south. Six miles from this you will find me. There is a horse, and you can take up his tracks. If you stay here for a time, one will come and guide you.”
The huntress takes the paper from his hand, and glances at the writing, as if out of curiosity to read the script of a language unknown to her. But something like a smile playing around her lips might lead one to believe she has divined the meaning of at least the initial sentence.
She makes no remark, but stepping towards the yucca and reaching up, impales the piece of paper on one of its topmost spikes.
“Now, caballero,” she says, “you mount my mare. See, she stands ready for you.”
Hamersley again protests, saying he can walk well enough.
But his tottering steps contradict him, and he urges his objections in vain.
The young girl appealingly persists, until at length the gallantry of the Kentuckian gives way, and he climbs reluctantly into the saddle.
“Now, Lolita!” cries her mistress, “see that your step is sure, or you shan’t have the pinons I promised you. Adelante! Nos vamos, señor!”
So saying, she strikes off through the sage, the mustang stepping by her side, and the two great hounds, like a rear guard, bringing up behind.
