The Lone Ranche, Mayne Reid [romantic love story reading txt] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
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Once more Miranda represents the danger they are about to undergo. It does not daunt them.
“No matter,” is the reckless response. “Whatever be the consequences, go we will. We must.”
Thus determined to start off, after exchanging tender adieus with those left behind—two of them in tears.
According to promise, Miranda has placed his mules at their disposal, and on these they are mounted. He has, moreover, furnished them with spare dresses from his wardrobe—costumes of his native country, which will enable them to travel through it without attracting attention.
Starting at sunrise, it is still early morning when they reach the upper plain through the ravine between the two twin mountains. So far Colonel Miranda accompanies them, as also Don Prospero. There parting, the refugees return to the ranche, while the travellers strike out over the treeless waste, which spreads before their faces to the very verge of vision.
They have no landmark to guide them, neither rock nor tree; but the sky is without a cloud, and there is a sun in it gleaming like a globe of fire. To the experienced prairie man this is sufficient for telling every point of the compass, and they but want one. Their course is due west till they strike the Pecos; then along its bank to the crossing, thence west again through the Sierras, and on to Santa Fé.
Keeping the sun slightly on the left shoulder, they journey till near noon, when a dark object, seen a little to the right, attracts them. Not to surprise, for they well know what it is—a grove. They can tell, too, that the trees composing it are oaks, of the species known as black-jack. Notwithstanding their stunted growth, the black-jacks are umbrageous, and give good shade. Though the sun has not yet reached meridian, its rays are of meridian heat, and strike down with fiery fervour on the surface of the parched plain.
This determines them to seek the shelter of the grove, and there make their noontide halt. It is a little but of their way; but, far as they can see ahead, no other spot offers a chance of protection against the burning beams.
The grove is a mere copse, covering scarce half an acre, and the topmost branches rise but a few feet above their heads. Still is there shade, both for them and their animals; and cover, should they require to conceal themselves—the last a fortunate circumstance, as is soon proved. Equally fortunate their not having need to kindle a fire. In their haversacks they carry provisions already cooked.
Dismounting, they lead their males in among the trees, and there make them secure by looping the bridles to a branch. Then, laying themselves along the earth, they eat their midday meal, pull out their pipes, and follow it with a smoke.
With little thought, they are burning the last bit of tobacco which remained to the refugees. At parting, their generous host, to comfort them on their journey, presented them with the ultimate ounce of his stock; with true Spanish politeness saying nothing of this.
As they lie watching the blue film curling up among the branches of the black-jacks, as little do they reflect how fortunate for them it is not the smoke of a fire, nor visible at any great distance. Were it so, there would not be much likelihood of their ever reaching the Del Norte or leaving the Llano Estacado alive.
Not dreaming of danger in that desolate place—at least none caused by human kind—they remain tranquilly pulling at their pipes, now conversing of the past, anon speculating about their plans for the future.
Three or four hours elapse; the sun having crossed the meridian, begins to stoop lower. Its rays fall less fervently, and they think of continuing their journey. They have “unhitched” the mules, led them out to the edge of the copse, and are standing by the stirrup, ready to remount, when an object catches the quick eye of the ex-Ranger, causing him to utter a sharp ejaculation.
Something seen west, the way they want to go.
Pointing it out to Hamersley, the two stand observing. No great scrutiny needed to tell them ’tis a cloud of dust, although in breadth not bigger than a blanket. But while they are regarding it it gradually spreads out, at the same time showing higher above the surface of the plain.
It may be a swirl of the wind acting on the dry sand of the desert—the first commencement of a regular whirlwind—a thing common on the table lands of New Mexico. But it has not the round pillar-like form of the molino, nor do they believe it to be one. Both are too well acquainted with this phenomenon to be deceived by its counterfeit.
If they had any doubts, as they stand gazing these are resolved. The cloud presents a dense dark head, with a nucleus of something more solid than dust. And while guessing at the true character of this opaque central part, a circumstance occurs disclosing it. A puff of wind striking the dust causes it to swirl sideways, showing underneath a body of mounted men. Men, too, in military array, marching in double file, armed, uniformed, with lances borne erect, their blades glinting in the sun.
“Sogers!” exclaims the ex-Ranger.
It is Wilder who so emphatically proclaims the character of the cavalcade. He has no need, Hamersley having already made it out himself.
“Yes; they are soldiers,” he rejoins, mechanically, adding, “Mexican, as a matter of course. None of our troops ever stray this fair west. ’Tis out of United States territory. The Texans claim it. But those are not Texans: they are uniformed, and carry lances. Your old friends, the Rangers, don’t affect that sort of thing.”
“No,” responds Wilder, with a contemptuous toss of the head, “I shedn’t think they did. We niver tuk to them long sticks; ’bout as much use as bean-poles. In coorse they’re Mexikins, lanzeeros.”
“What can they be doing out here? There are no Indians on the Staked Plain. If there were, such a small party as that, taking it to be Mexican, would not be likely to venture after them.”
“Maybe it’s only a advance guard, and thar’s a bigger body behint. We shell soon see, as they’re ridin’ deerect this way. By the ’Tarnal, ’twon’t do to let ’em sight us; leastwise, not till we’ve seen more o’ them, an’ know what sort they air. White men tho’ they call themselves, I’d a’most as soon meet Injuns. They’d be sure to take us for Texans; and ’bout me there’d be no mistake in that. But they’d treet you the same, an’ thar treetment ain’t like to be civil. Pull yur mule well back among the bushes. Let’s blind the brutes, or they may take it into their heads to squeal.”
The hybrids are led back into the grove, tied, and zapadoed—the last operation performed by passing a blanket, mask fashion, over their eyes. This done, the two men return to the edge of the copse, keeping themselves screened behind the outstanding trees.
In their absence the moving cohort has drawn nearer, and still advances. But slowly, and, as when first sighted, enveloped in a cloud of dust. Only now and then, as the wind wafts this aside, can be distinguished the forms of the individuals composing it. Then but for an instant, the dust again drifting around them.
Still the nimbus draws nigher, and is gradually approaching the spot where the travellers had concealed themselves.
At first only surprised at seeing soldiers on the Staked Plain, they soon become seriously alarmed. The troop is advancing towards the black-jack grove, apparently intending it for a place of bivouac; if so, there will be no chance for them to escape observation. The soldiers will scatter about, and penetrate every part of the copse. Equally idle to attempt flight on their slow-footed animals, pursued by over two score of cavalry horses.
They can see no alternative but surrender, submit to be made prisoners, and receive such treatment as their captors may think fit to extend to them.
While thus despairingly reflecting, they take note of something that restores their disturbed equanimity. It is the direction in which the Mexicans are marching. The cloud moving in slow, stately progress does not approach any nearer to the copse. Evidently the horsemen do not design halting there, but will ride past, leaving it on their left.
They are, in truth, passing along the same path from which the travellers have late deflected; only in the counter direction.
Now, for the first time, a suspicion occurs to Hamersley, shared by the Texan, giving both far greater uneasiness than if the soldiers were heading direct towards them.
It is further intensified as a fresh spurt of the desert wind sweeps the dust away, displaying in clear light the line of marching horsemen. No question as to their character now. There they are, with their square-peaked corded caps, and plumes of horsehair; their pennoned spears sloped over their shoulders; their yellow cloaks folded and strapped over the cantles of their saddles; sabres lying along thighs, clinking against spurs and stirrups—all the picturesque panoply of lancers.
It is not this that strikes dismay into the minds of those who are spectators, for it is now struck into their heart of hearts. On one figure of the cavalcade the eyes of both become fixed; he who rides at its head.
Their attention had been first attracted to his horse, Wilder gasping out, soon as he set eyes on the animal, “Look yonner, Frank!”
“At what?”
“The fellur ridin’ foremost. D’ye see the anymal he’s on? It’s the same we war obleeged to abandon on takin’ to the rocks.”
“By heavens! my horse!”
“Yurs, to a sartinty.”
“And his rider! The man I fought with at Chihuahua, the ruffian Uraga!”
On recognising his antagonist in the duel, the Kentuckian gives out a groan. The Texan, too. For on both the truth flashes in all its fulness—all its terrible reality.
It is not the possession of Hamersley’s horse, identifying its rider with the destroyers of the caravan. That is nothing new, and scarce surprises them. What pains—agonises them—is the direction in which the soldiers are proceeding.
They can have no doubt as to the purpose of the military march, or the point to which it is tending.
“Yes,” says Walt, “they’re strikin’ straight fur the valley, goin’ ’ithout guess-work, too. Thar’s a guide along, an’ thar’s been a treetur.”
“Who do you think?”
“That Injun, Manoel. Ye remember he went on a errand ’bout a week ago, to fetch them some things that war needed. Instead, he’s made diskivery o’ the hidin’ place o’ his master, and sold that master’s head. That’s what he’s did, sure.”
“It is,” mutters Hamersley, in a tone that tells of affliction too deep for speech. Before his mind is a fearful forecast. Don Valerian a prisoner to Uraga and his ruffians—Don Prospero, too; both to be dragged back to Albuquerque and cast into a military prison. Perhaps worse still—tried by court-martial soon as captured, and shot as soon as tried. Nor is this the direst of his previsions. There is one darker—Adela in the company of a ribald crew, surrounded by the brutal soldiery, powerless, unprotected—she his own dear one, now his betrothed! Overcome by his emotions he remains for some time silent, scarce heeding the remarks of his comrade. One, however, restores his attention.
“I tolt ye so,” says Walt. “See! yonner’s the skunk himself astride o’ a mule at the tail o’ the gang.”
Hamersley directs his eyes to the rear of the outstretched rank. There, sure enough, is a man on muleback, dressed differently from the troopers. The coarse woollen tilma, and straw hat, he remembers as having been worn by one of Mirander’s male domestics. He does not identify the man.
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