The Lone Ranche, Mayne Reid [romantic love story reading txt] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
Book online «The Lone Ranche, Mayne Reid [romantic love story reading txt] 📗». Author Mayne Reid
“I reckon we can settle that,” says the Captain of the Rangers. “The renegade ought to know something about it.”
This speech refers to Barbato, who has been taken prisoner, and about whose disposal they have already commenced to deliberate. His beard betrayed him as a renegade; and, the paint having been partially wiped from his skin, all perceive that he is a white man—a Mexican. Some are for shooting him on the spot, others propose hanging, while only a few of the more humane advocate taking him on to the settlements and there giving him a trial. He will have to die anyhow—that is pretty sure; for not only as a Mexican is he their enemy, but now doubly so from being found in league with their most detested foes, the Tenawa Comanches.
The wretch is lying on the ground near by, shaking with fear, in spite of the fastenings in which he is tightly held. He knows he is in dire danger, and has only so far escaped through having surrendered to a settler instead of to one of the Rangers.
“Let’s gie him a chance o’ his life; ef he’ll tell all about it,” counsels Cully. “What d’ye say, cap?”
“I agree to that,” responds the Ranger captain. “He don’t appear to be worth shooting; though it may be as well to take him on to the settlements, and shut him up in prison. The promise of pardon may get out of him all he knows; if not, the other will. He’s not an Indian, and a bit of rope looped round his neck will, no doubt, loosen his tongue. Suppose we try boys?”
The “boys” are unanimous in their assent, and the renegade is at once brought up for examination. The man in the green blanket coat, who, as a Santa Fé expeditioner, has spent over twelve months in Mexican prisons, is appointed examiner. He has been long enough among the “yellerbellies” to have learnt their language.
The renegade is for a time reticent, and his statements are contradictory. No wonder he declines to tell what has occurred, so compromising to himself! But when the lariat is at length noosed around his neck, the loose end of it thrown over the limb of a pecan tree—the other conditions being clearly expounded to him—he sees that things can be no worse; and, seeing this, makes confession—full, if not free. He discloses everything—the attack and capture of the caravan, with the slaughter of the white men who accompanied it; he tells of the retreat of two of them to the cliff, one of whom, by the description, can be none other than Walt Wilder. When he at length comes to describe the horrible mode in which their old comrade has perished, the Rangers are almost frenzied with rage, and it is with difficulty some of them can be withheld from breaking their given word, and tearing him limb from limb.
He makes appeal to them for mercy, stating that he himself had no part in that transaction; that, although they have found him among the Indians, he was only as their prisoner; and forced to fight along with them.
This is evidently untrue; but, false or true, it has the effect of pacifying his judges, so far, that the lariat is left loose around his neck.
Further examination, and cross-examination, elicit other facts about the captured caravan—in short, everything, except the secret alliance between the Mexican officer and the Tenawa chief. Not thinking of this—in truth, having no suspicion of it—his examiners do not put any questions about it; and, for himself, the wretch sees no reason to declare it, but the contrary. He indulges in the hope of one day returning to the Del Norte, and renewing his relations with Colonel Gil Uraga.
“Comrades!” cries the Ranger captain, addressing himself to his men, as soon as the examination is concluded, “you all of you loved Walt Wilder—all who knew him?”
“We did! we did!” is the response feelingly spoken. “So did I. Well, he’s dead, beyond a doubt. It’s nearly a month ago, and he could not last so long, shut up in that cave. His bones will be there, with those of the other poor fellow, whoever he was, that went in with him. It’s dreadful to think of it! Now, from what this scoundrel says, it can’t be so very far from here. And, as we can make him guide us to the place, I propose we go there, get the remains of our old comrade, and give them Christian burial.”
With the Texan Rangers obedience to duty is less a thing of command than request; and this is a request of such nature as to receive instant and unanimous assent “Let us go!” is the universal response. “We needn’t all make this journey,” continues the captain. “There’s no need for any more than our own boys, the Rangers, and such of the settlers as may choose to go with us. The rest, who have to look after the women, and some for driving back the stock, can make their way home at once. I reckon we’ve left the track pretty clear of Indians, and they’ll be in no further danger from them.”
Without further discussion, this arrangement is decided upon; and the two parties commence making the preparations suitable to their respective plans.
In less than half an hour after they separate; the settlers, with the women, children, and cattle, wending their way eastward; while the Rangers, guided by the renegade, ride off in the opposite direction—toward the Llano Estacado.
Day by day Hamersley grows stronger, and is able to be abroad.
Soon after Wilder, plucking him by the sleeve, makes request to have his company at some distance from the dwelling.
Hamersley accedes to the request, though not without some surprise. In the demeanour of his comrade there is an air of mystery. As this is unusual with the ex-Ranger, he has evidently something of importance to communicate.
Not until they have got well out of sight of the house, and beyond the earshot of anyone inside or around it, does Walt say a word. And then only after they have come to a stop in the heart of a cotton-wood copse, where a prostrate trunk offers them the accommodation of a seat.
Sitting down upon it, and making sign to Hamersley, still with the same mysterious air, to do likewise, the backwoodsman at length begins to unburden himself.
“Frank,” says he, “I’ve brought ye out hyar to hev a little spell o’ talk, on a subjeck as consarns this coon consid’able.”
“What subject, Walt?”
“Wal, it’s about a wumman.”
“A woman! Why, Walt Wilder, I should have supposed that would be the farthest thing from your thoughts, especially a such a time and in such a place as this.”
“True it shed, as ye say. For all that, ef this chile don’t misunnerstan’ the sign, a wumman ain’t the furrest thing from yur thoughts, at the same time an’ place.”
The significance of the observation causes the colour to start to the cheeks of the young prairie merchant, late so pale. He stammers out an evasive rejoinder,—
“Well, Walt; you wish to have a talk with me. I’m ready to hear what you have to say. Go on! I’m listening.”
“Wal, Frank, I’m in a sort o’ a quandary wi’ a critter as wears pettikotes, an’ I want a word o’ advice from ye. You’re more practised in thar ways than me. Though a good score o’ year older than yurself, I hain’t hed much to do wi’ weemen, ’ceptin’ Injun squaws an’ now an’ agin a yeller gurl down by San Antone. But them scrapes wan’t nothin’ like thet Walt Wilder heve got inter now.”
“A scrape! What sort of a scrape? I hope you haven’t—”
“Ye needn’t talk o’ hope, Frank Hamersley. The thing air past hopin’, an’ past prayin’ for. Ef this chile know anythin’ o’ the signs o’ love, he has goed a good ways along its trail. Yis, sir-ee; too fur to think o’ takin’ the backtrack.”
“On that trail, indeed?”
“Thet same; whar Cyubit sots his little feet, ’ithout neer a moccasin on ’em. Yis, kummerade, Walt Wilder, for oncest in in his kureer, air in a difeequelty; an’ thet difeequelty air bein’ fool enuf to fall in love—the which he hez dun, sure, sartin.”
Hamersley gives a shrug of surprise, accompanied with a slight glance of indignation. Walt Wilder in love! With whom can it be? As he can himself think of only one woman worth falling in love with, either in that solitary spot, or elsewhere on earth, it is but natural his thoughts should turn to her.
Only for an instant, however. The idea of having the rough Ranger for a rival is preposterous. Walt, pursuing the theme, soon convinces him he has no such lofty aspirations.
“Beyond a doubt, she’s been an’ goed an’ dud it—that air garl Concheeter. Them shining eyes o’ her’n hev shot clar through this chile’s huntin’ shirt, till thar’s no peace left inside o’ it. I hain’t slep a soun’ wink for mor’en a week o’ nights; all the time dreemin’ o’ the gurl, as ef she war a angel a hoverin’ ’bout my head. Now, Frank, what am I ter do? That’s why I’ve axed ye to kum out hyar, and enter into this confaberlation.”
“Well, Walt, you shall be welcome to my advice. As to what you should do, that’s clear enough; but what you may or can do will depend a good deal on what Miss Conchita says. Have you spoken to her upon the subject?”
“Thar hain’t yit been much talk atween us—i’deed not any, I mout say. Ye know I can’t parley thar lingo. But I’ve approached her wi’ as much skill as I iver did bear or buffler. An’, if signs signerfy anythin’, she ain’t bad skeeart about it. Contrarywise, Frank. If I ain’t terribly mistuk, she shows as ef she’d be powerful willin’ to hev me.”
“If she be so disposed there can’t be much difficulty in the matter. You mean to marry her, I presume?”
“In coorse I duz—that for sartin’. The feelin’s I hev torst that gurl air diffrent to them as one hez for Injun squaws, or the queeries I’ve danced wi’ in the fandangoes o’ San Antone. Ef she’ll agree to be myen, I meen nothin’ short o’ the hon’rable saramony o’ marridge—same as atween man an’ wife. What do ye think o’t?”
“I think, Walt, you might do worse than get married. You’re old enough to become a Benedict, and Conchita appears to be just the sort of girl that would suit you. I’ve heard it said that these Mexican women make the best of wives—when married to Americans.”
Hamersley smiles, as though this thought were pleasant to him.
“There are several things,” he continues, “that it will be necessary for you to arrange before you can bring about the event you’re aiming at. First, you must get the girl’s consent: and, I should think, also that of her master and mistress. They are, as it were, her guardians, and, to a certain extent, responsible for her being properly bestowed. Last of all, you’ll require the sanction of the Church. This, indeed, may be your greatest difficulty. To make you and your sweetheart one, a priest, or Protestant clergyman, will be needed; and neither can be had very conveniently here, in the centre of the Staked Plain.”
“Durn both sorts!” exclaims the ex-Ranger in a tone of chagrin. “Ef’t warn’t for the need o’ ’em jest now, I say the Staked Plain air better ’ithout ’em, as wu’d anywars else. Why can’t she an’ me be tied thegither ’ithout any sech senseless saramony? Walt Wilder wants no mumblin’ o’ prayers at splicin’ him to the gurl he’s choosed for his partner. An’ why shed thar be, supposin’ we both gie our mutooal promises one to the tother?”
“True. But that would not be marriage such as would lawfully and legally make you man and wife.”
“Doggone the
Comments (0)