The Lone Ranche

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.

Chapter Fifty Five.

A Lagger Lagged

The surprise of the two men is but momentary; for there can be no mystery about the peon’s disappearance. He has simply gone down the ravine, and back into the valley. Is he on return to the house, which they know is now untenanted, and, if so, with what intent? Has he become so attached to the place as to intend prolonging his sojourn there? or has something arisen to make him discontented with the company he has been keeping, and so determined to get quit of it by hanging behind?

Something of this sort was on their minds as they last saw him over the crest of the ridge. While in conflict with his mule, he was ever and anon turning his eyes towards the point where the soldiers must have been last seen by him; for from the gap in which he was these were no longer visible. Both Hamersley and Wilder had noticed an uneasy air about him at the time, attributing it to his vexation at being delayed by the obstinacy of the animal and the fear of being left behind. Now that he had mounted and taken the back-track, the cause must be different.

“Thar’s somethin’ queery in what the coyoats doin’,” is Walt’s half-soliloquised observation; adding, “Though what he’s arter tain’t so eezy to tell. He must be tired o’ their kumpany, and want to get shet o’ it. He’ll be supposin’ they ain’t likely to kum back arter him; an’ I reck’n they won’t, seein’ they’ve got all out o’ him they need care for. Still, what ked he do stayin’ hyar by himself?”

Walt is still ignorant of the peon’s partiality for his own sweetheart. He has had a suspicion of something, but not the deep, dire passion that burns in the Indian’s heart. Aware of this, he would not dwell on the probability of the man having any intention, any more than himself, remain behind now that Conchita is gone.

“Arter all,” he continues, still speaking in half soliloquy, “I don’t think stayin’s his game. There’s somethin’ else at the bottom on’t.”

“Can Uraga have sent him back on any errand?”

“No, that ain’t it eyther. More like he’s good on a errand o’ his own. I reckon I ken guess it now. The traitur intends turnin’ thief as well – doin’ a leetle bit o’ stealin’ along wi’ his treason. Ye remember, Frank, thar war a goodish grit o’ valleyables in the shanty – the saynorita’s jeweltry an’ the like. Jest possyble, in the skrimmage, whiles they war making capter o’ thar prisoners, this ugly varmint tuk devantage o’ the confusion to secret a whun o’ thar gimcracks, an’s now goed back arter ’em.”

“It seems probable enough. Still, he might have some other errand, and may not go on as far as the house. In which case, we may look for his return this way at any moment. It will never do for us to start upon their trail, leaving him coming in our rear. He would see us, and in the night might slip past and give them warning they were followed.”

“All that air true. We must grup him now.”

“Should we go down after him, or stay here till he comes up?”

“Neythur o’ the two ways’ll do. He moutn’t kum along no time. If he’s got plunder he won’t try to overtake the sogers, but wait till they’re well out o’ his way. He knows the road to the Del Norte, and kin travel it by hisself.”

“Then we should go down after him.”

“Only one o’ us. If we both purceed to the shanty there’s be a chance o’ passin’ him on the way. He mout be in the timmer, an’, seein’ us, put back out hyar, an’ so head us. There’d no need o’ both for the capterin’ sech a critter as that. I’ll fetch him on his marrowbones by jest raisin’ this rifle. Tharfor, s’pose you stay hyar an’ guard this gap, while I go arter an’ grup him. I’m a’most sartin he’ll be at the shanty. Anyhow, he’s in the trap, and can’t get out till he’s hed my claws roun’ the scruff o’ his neck an’ my thumb on his thropple.”

“Don’t kill him if you can help it. True he deserves to die; but we may want a word with him first. He may give information that will afterwards prove useful to us.”

“Don’t be afeared, Frank. I shan’t hurt a har o’ his head, unless he reesists, then I must kripple him a bit. But he ain’t like to show fight, such a coyoat as he!”

“All right, Walt. I’ll wait for you.”

“You won’t hev long. Ye’d better take kiver back o’ them big stones to make sure o’ not bein’ seen by him, shed he by any chance slip past me. An’ keep yur ears open. Soon as I’ve treed him I’ll gie a whistle or two. When ye hear that ye can kim down.”

After delivering this chapter of suggestions and injunctions, the ex-Ranger heads his mule down the pass, and is soon lost to his comrade’s sight as he turns off along the ledge of the cliff.

Hamersley, himself inclined to caution, follows the direction last given, and rides back behind one of the boulders. Keeping in the saddle, he sits in silent meditation. Sad thoughts alone occupy his mind. His prospects are gloomy indeed; his forecast of the future dark and doubtful. He has but little hope of being able to benefit Don Valerian Miranda, and cannot be sure of rescueing his sister – his own betrothed – in time to avert that terrible catastrophe which he knows to be impending over her. He does not give it a name – he scarce dares let it take shape in his thoughts.

Nearly half-an-hour is spent in this painful reverie. He is aroused from it by a sound which ascends out of the valley. With a start of joy he recognises the signal his comrade promised to send him. The whistle is heard in three distinct “wheeps,” rising clear above the hoarser sibillations of the cascades. From the direction he can tell it comes from the neighbourhood of the house; but, without waiting to reflect whither, he spurs his mule out, and rides down the pass as rapidly as possible.

On reaching the level below he urges the animal to a gallop, and soon arrives at the ranche.

There, as expected, he finds his companion, with the peon a captive.

The two, with their mules, form a tableau in front of the untenanted dwelling.

The ex-Ranger is standing in harangue attitude, slightly bent forward, his body propped by his rifle, the butt of which rests upon the ground. At his feet is the Indian, lying prostrate, his ankles lashed together with a piece of cowhide rope, his wrists similarly secured.

“I ked catched him a leetle sooner,” says Walt to his comrade, coming up, “but I war kewrious to find out what he war arter, an’ waited to watch him. That’s the explication o’ it.”

He points to a large bag lying near, with its contents half poured out – a varied collection of articles of bijouterie and virtu, resembling a cornucopia; spilling its fruits. Hamersley recognises them as part of the penates of his late host.

“Stolen goods,” continues Walt, “that’s what they air. An’ stole from a master he’s basely betrayed, may be to death. A mistress, besides, that’s been too kind to him. Darnation! that’s a tortiss-shell comb as belonged to my Concheeter, an’ a pair o’ slippers I ken swar wur here. What shed we do to him?”

“What I intended,” responds Hamersley, assuming a curious air; “first make him confess – tell all he knows. When we’ve got his story out of him we can settle that next.”

The confession is not very difficult to extract. With Wilder’s bowie-knife gleaming before his eyes, its blade within six inches of his breast, the wretch reveals all that has passed since the moment of his first meditating treason. He even makes declaration of the motive, knowing the nobility of the men who threatened him, and thinking by this means to obtain pardon.

To strengthen his chances he goes still farther, turning traitor against him to whom he had sold himself – Uraga. He has overheard a conversation between the Mexican colonel and his adjutant, Lieutenant Roblez. It was to the effect that they do not intend taking their prisoners all the way back to Albuquerque. How they mean to dispose of them the peon does not know.

He had but half heard the dialogue relating to Don Valerian and the doctor.

The female prisoners! Can he tell anything of what is intended with them? Though not in these terms, the question is asked with this earnestness.

The peon is unable to answer it. He does not think they are prisoners – certainly not Conchita. She is only being taken back along with her mistress. About the senorita, his mistress, he heard some words pass between Uraga and Roblez, but without comprehending their signification.

In his own heart Hamersley can supply it – does so with dark, dire misgivings.

Chapter Fifty Six.

“The Norte.”

Westward, across the Liana Estacado, Uraga and his lancers continue on their return march. The troop, going by twos, is again drawn out in an elongated line, the arms and accoutrements of the soldiers glancing in the sun, while the breeze floats back the pennons of their lances. The men prisoners are a few files from the rear, a file on each flank guarding them. The women are at the head, alongside the guide and sub-lieutenant, who has charge of the troop.

For reasons of his own the lancer colonel does not intrude his company on the captives. He intends doing so in his own time. It has not yet come. Nor does he take any part in directing the march of the men. That duty has been entrusted to the alferez; he and Roblez riding several hundred paces in advance of the troop.

He has thus isolated himself for the purpose of holding conversation with his adjutant, unembarrassed by any apprehension of being overheard.

“Well, ayadante,” he begins, as soon as they are safe beyond earshot, “what’s your opinion of things now?”

“I think we’ve done the thing neatly, though not exactly the way you wanted it.”

“Anything but that. Still, I don’t despair of getting everything straight in due time. The man Manuel has learnt from his fellow-servant that our American friends have gone on to the settlements of the Del Norte. Strange if we can’t find them there; and stranger still if, when found, I don’t bring them to book at last. Caraja! Neither of the two will ever leave New Mexico alive.”

“What about these two – our Mexican friends?”

“For them a fate the very reverse. Neither shall ever reach it alive.”

“You intend taking them there dead, do you?”

“Neither living nor dead. I don’t intend taking them there at all.”

“You think of leaving them by the way?”

“More than think; I’ve determined upon it.”

“But surely you don’t mean to kill them in cold blood?”

“I won’t harm a hair of their heads – neither I, nor you, nor any of my soldiers. For all that, they shall die.”

“Colonel, your speech is somewhat enigmatical. I don’t comprehend it.”

“In due time you will. Have patience for four days more – it may be less. Then you will have the key to the enigma. Then Don Valerian Miranda and the old rascal Don Prospero shall cease to trouble the dreams of Gil Uraga.”

“And you are really determined on Miranda’s death?”

“A silly question for a man who knows me as you. Of course I am.”

“Well, for my part, I don’t care much one way or the other, only I can’t see what benefit it will be to you. He’s not such a bad sort of a fellow, and has got the name of being a courageous soldier.”

“You’re growing wonderfully sentimental, ayadante. The tender glances of the senorita seem to have softened you.”

“Not likely,” rejoins the adjutant with a grim smile. “The eyes that could make impression upon the heart of Gaspar Roblez don’t exist in the head of woman. If I have any weaknesses in the feminine way, it’s for the goddess Fortuna. So long as I can get a pack of playing cards, with some rich gringo to face me in the game, I’ll leave petticoats alone.”

In turn the colonel smiles. He knows the idiosyncracy of his confederate in crime. Rather a strange one for a man who has committed many robberies, and more than once imbued his hands in blood. Cards, dice and drink are his passions, his habitual pleasure. Of love he seems incapable, and does not surrender himself to its lure, though there has been a chapter of it in his life’s history, of which Uraga is aware, having an unfortunate termination, sealing his heart against the sex to contempt, almost hatred. Partially to this might be traced the fact of his having fallen into evil courses, and, like his colonel, become a robber. But, unlike the latter, he is not all bad. As in the case of Conrad, linked to a thousand crimes, one virtue is left to him – courage. Something like a second remains in his admiration of the same quality in others. This it is that leads him to put in a word for Colonel Miranda, whose bravery is known far and wide throughout the Mexican army. Continuing to plead for him, he says —

“I don’t see why you should trouble yourself to turn States’ executioner. When we get to Santa Fé our prisoners can be tried by court-martial. No doubt they’ll be condemned and shot.”

“Very great doubt of it, ayadante. That might have done when we first turned their party out. But of late, things are somewhat changed. In the hills of the Moctezumas matters are again getting complicated, and just now our worthy chief, El Cojo, will scarce dare to sign a sentence of death, especially where the party to be passado por les armes is a man of note like Don Valerian Miranda.”

“He must die?”

“Teniente! Turn your head round and look me straight in the face.”

“I am doing so, colonel. Why do you wish me?”

“You see that scar on my cheek?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Don Valerian Miranda did not give the wound that’s left it, but he was partly the cause of my receiving it. But for him the duel would have ended differently. It’s now twelve months gone since I got that gash, at the same time losing three of my teeth. Ever since the spot has felt aflame as if hell’s fire were burning a hole through my cheek. It can only be extinguished by the blood of those who kindled it. Miranda is one of them. You’ve asked the question, ‘Must he die?’ Looking at this ugly scar, and into the eye above it, I fancy you will not think it necessary to repeat the question.”

“But how is it to be done without scandal? As you yourself have said, it won’t do for us to murder the man outright. We may be held to account – possibly ourselves called before a court-martial. Had he made resistance, and given us a pretext – ”

“My dear ayadante, don’t trouble yourself about pretexts. I have a plan which will serve equally as well – my particular purpose, much better. As I’ve promised, you shall know it in good time – participate in its execution. But, come, we’ve been discoursing serious matters till I’m sick of them. Let’s talk of something lighter and pleasanter – say, woman. What think you of my charmer?”

“The Dona Adela?”

“Of course. Could any other charm me? Even you, with your heart of flint, should feel sparks struck out of it at the sight of her.”

“Certainly she’s the most beautiful captive I’ve ever assisted at the taking of.”

“Captive!” mutters Uraga, in soliloquy. “I wish she were, in a sense different.”

Then, with a frown upon his face, continuing, —

“What matters it! When he is out of the way, I shall have it all my own way. Woo her as Tarquin did Lucretia, and she will yield not as the Roman matron, but as a Mexican woman – give her consent when she can no longer withhold it. What is it, cabo?”

The interrogatory is addressed to a corporal who has ridden alongside, and halts, saluting him.

“Colonel, the alferez sends me to report that the Indian is no longer with us.”

“What! the man Manuel?”

“The same, colonel.”

“Halt!” commands Uraga, shouting aloud to the troop, which instantly comes to a stand. “What’s this I hear, alferez?” he asks, riding back, and speaking to the sub-lieutenant.

“Colonel, we miss the fellow who guided us. He must have dropped behind as we came out of the gorge. He was with us on leaving the house, and along the valley road.”

“It don’t much signify,” says Uraga, in an undertone to Roblez; “we’ve got all out of him we need care for. Still, it may be better to bring him along. No doubt he slipped off to settle some affair of his own – some pilferings, I presume; and will be found at the ranche. Cabo! take a file of men, go back to the valley, and bring the loiterer along with you. As I intend marching slowly, you’ll easily overtake us at our night camp.”

The corporal, singling out the file as directed, rides back towards the buttes, still in sight, while the troop continues its uninterrupted march. Uraga and Roblez again go in advance, the former making further disclosure of his plans to his particeps criminis.

Their confidential dialogue has lasted about an hour, when another of the lancers riding up again interrupts it. He is a grizzled old veteran, who has once been a cibolero, and seen life upon the plains.

“What is it, Hernandez?” demands the colonel.

“Señor coronel,” says the man, pointing to a little speck in the sky, that has just shown itself above the north-eastern horizon, “do you see yonder cloud?”

“Cloud! I see no cloud, unless you mean that spot on the horizon, scarce so large as the crown of my hat Is it that you mean?”

“It is, colonel. And small as it seems, there may come trouble from it. It don’t look much now, but in ten minutes time it will be big enough to spread all over the sky, and over us too.”

“You think so? Why, what is it, Hernandez? El Norte?”

“I’m sure of it. Carramba! I’ve seen it too often. Trust me, colonel, we’re going to have a storm.”

“In that case we’d better bring to a halt and get under shelter. I see nothing here that would screen a cat, save yonder clump of dwarf oaks. In a way it’ll keep the blast off us, and, as we may as well stay under it for the night, it will furnish fuel for our fires. Ride back to the troop. Tell the alferez to bring on the men to yonder grove, and quickly. Let the tents be pitched there. Vaya!”