The Rifle Rangers, Mayne Reid [intellectual books to read txt] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
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“According to rank, Lopez,” cried Jarauta, seeing that all was ready; “the captain first—do you hear?”
“Yes, Captain,” answered the imperturbable brigand who superintended the operations.
“I shall keep you to the last, Monsieur,” said the priest, addressing Raoul; “you will have the pleasure of bringing up the rear in your passage through purgatory. Ha! ha! ha! Won’t he, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Maybe some of you would like a priest, gentlemen.” This Jarauta uttered with an ironical grin that was revolting to behold. “If you would,” he continued, “say so. I sometimes officiate in that capacity myself. Don’t I, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
A diabolical laugh burst from the Jarochos, who had dismounted, and were standing out upon the cliff, the better to witness the spectacle of our hanging.
“Well, Lopez, does any of them say ‘yes’?”
“No, Captain.”
“Ask the Irishman there; ask him—he ought to be a good Catholic.”
The question was put to Chane, in mockery, of course, for it was impossible for him to answer it; and yet he did answer it, for his look spoke a curse as plainly as if it had been uttered through a trumpet. The Jarochos did not heed that, but only laughed the louder.
“Well, Lopez, what says Saint Patrick? ‘Yes’ or ‘no’?”
“‘No’, Captain.”
And a fresh peal of ruffian laughter rang out.
The rope was now placed around my neck in a running noose. The other end had been passed over the tree, and lay coiled near the edge of the cliff. Lopez held it in his hand a short distance above the coil, in order to direct its movements.
“All ready there, Lopez?” cried the leader.
“Yes, Captain.”
“Swing off the captain, then—no, not yet; let him look at the floor on which he is going to dance; that is but fair.”
I had been drawn forward until my feet projected over the edge of the precipice, and close to the root of the tree. I was now forced into a sitting posture, so that I might look below, my limbs hanging over. Strange to say, I could not resist doing exactly what my tormentor wished. Under other circumstances the sight would have been to me appalling; but my nerves were strung by the protracted agony I had been forced to endure.
The precipice on whose verge I sat formed a side of one of those yawning gulfs common in Spanish America, and known by the name barrancas. It seemed as if a mountain had been scooped out and carried away. Not two hundred yards horizontally distant was the twin jaw of the chasm, like a black burnt wall; yet the torrent that roared and foamed between them was full six hundred feet below my position! I could have flung the stump of a cigar upon the water; in fact, an object dropping vertically from where I sat—for it was a projecting point—must have fallen plumb into the stream.
It was not unlike the cañon where we had tossed over the dogs; but it was higher, and altogether more hell-like and horrible.
As I looked down, several small birds, whose species I did not stay to distinguish, were screaming below, and an eagle on his broad, bold wing came soaring over the abyss, and flapped up to my very face.
“Well, Captain,” broke in the sharp voice of Jarauta, “what do you think of it? A nice soft floor to dance upon, isn’t it, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“All ready there? Stop! some music; we must have music: how can he dance without music? Hola, Sanchez, where’s your bugle?”
“Here, Captain!”
“Strike up, then! Play ‘Yankee Doodle’. Ha! ha! ha! ‘Yankee Doodle’, do you hear?”
“Yes, Captain,” answered the man; and the next moment the well-known strains of the American national air sounded upon my ear, producing a strange, sad feeling I shall never forget.
“Now, Lopez!” cried the padre.
I was expecting to be swung out, when I heard him again shout, “Stay!” at the same time stopping the music.
“By heavens! Lopez, I have a better plan,” he cried: “why did I not think of it before? It’s not too late yet. Ha! ha! ha! Carambo! They shall dance upon their heads! That’s better—isn’t it, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
A cheer from the Jarochos announced their approval of this change in the programme.
The padre made a sign to Lopez, who approached him, appearing to receive some directions.
I did not at first comprehend the novelty that was about to be introduced. I was not kept long in ignorance. One of the Jarochos, seizing me by the collar, dragged me back from the ledge, and transferred the noose from my neck to my ankles. Horror heaped upon horror! I was to be hung head downwards!
“That will be much prettier—won’t it, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“The gentleman will have time to make himself ready for heaven before he dies—won’t he, Lopez?”
“Yes Captain.”
“Take out the gag—let him have his tongue free; he’ll need that to pray with—won’t he, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
One of the Jarochos jerked the bayonet roughly from my mouth, almost dislocating my jaw. The power of speech was gone. I could not, if I had wished it, have uttered an intelligible word.
“Give him his hands, too; he’ll need them to keep off the zopilotes; won’t he, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
The thong that bound my wrists was cut, leaving my hands free. I was on my back, my feet towards the precipice. A little to my right stood Lopez, holding the rope that was about to launch me into eternity.
“Now the music—take the music for your cue, Lopez; then jerk him up!” cried the sharp voice of the fiend.
I shut my eyes, waiting for the pull. It was but a moment, but it seemed a lifetime. There was a dead silence—a stillness like that which precedes the bursting of a rock or the firing of a jubilee-gun. Then I heard the first note of the bugle, and along with it a crack—the crack of a rifle; a man staggered over me, besprinkling my face with blood, and, falling forward, disappeared!
Then came the pluck upon my ankles, and I was jerked head downwards into the empty air. I felt my feet touching the branches above, and, throwing up my arms, I grasped one, and swung my body upwards. After two or three efforts I lay along the main trunk, which I embraced with the hug of despair. I looked downward. A man was hanging below—far below—at the end of the lazo! It was Lopez. I knew his scarlet manga at a glance. He was hanging by the thigh in a snarl of the rope.
His hat had fallen off. I could see the red blood running over his face and dripping from his long, snaky locks. He hung head down. I could see that he was dead!
The hard thong was cutting my ankles, and—oh, heaven!—under our united weight the roots were cracking! Appalling thought! “The tree will give way!” I held fast with one arm. I drew forth my knife—fortunately I still had one—with the other. I opened the blade with my teeth, and, stretching backward and downward, I drew it across the thong. It parted with a “snig”, and the red object left me like a flash of light. There was a plunge upon the black water below—a plunge and a few white bubbles; but the body of the Jarocho, with its scarlet trappings, was seen no more after that plunge.
During all this time shots were ringing over me. I could hear the shouts and cheering of men, the trampling of heavy hoofs, and the clashing of sabres. I knew that some strange deliverance had reached us. I knew that a skirmish was going on above me, but I could see nothing. I was below the level of the cliff.
I lay in a terrible suspense, listening. I dared not change my posture—I dared not move. The weight of the Jarocho’s body had hitherto held my feet securely in the notch; but that was gone, and my ankles were still tied. A movement and my legs might fall off the limb and drag me downward. I was faint, too, from the protracted struggle for life and death, and I hugged the tree and held on like a wounded squirrel.
The shots seemed less frequent, the shouts appeared to recede from the cliffs. Then I heard a cheer—an Anglo-Saxon cheer—an American cheer, and the next moment a well-known voice rang in my ears.
“By the livin’ catamount, he’s hyur yit! Whooray—whoop! Niver say die! Hold on, Cap’n, teeth an’ toenail! Hyur, boys! clutch on, a lot o’ yer! Quick!—hook my claws, Nat! Now pull—all thegether!—Hooray!”
I felt a strong hand grasping the collar of my coat, and the next moment I was raised from my perch and landed upon the top of the cliff.
I looked around upon my deliverers. Lincoln was dancing like a lunatic, uttering his wild, half-Indian yells. A dozen men, in the dark-green uniform of the “mounted rifles”, stood looking on and laughing at this grotesque exhibition. Close by another party were guarding some prisoners, while a hundred others were seen in scattered groups along the ridge, returning from the pursuit of the Jarochos, whom they had completely routed.
I recognised Twing, and Hennessy, and Hillis, and several other officers whom I had met before. We were soon en rapport, and I could not have received a greater variety of congratulations had it been the hour after my wedding.
Little Jack was the guide of the rescue.
After a moment spent in explanation with the major, I turned to look for Lincoln. He was standing close by, holding in his hands a piece of lazo, which he appeared to examine with a strange and puzzled expression. He had recovered from his burst of wild joy and was “himself again.”
“What’s the matter, Bob?” I inquired, noticing his bewildered look.
“Why, Cap’n, I’m a sorter bamfoozled yeer. I kin understan’ well enuf how the feller; irked yer inter the tree afore he let go. But how did this hyur whang kum cuf? An’ whar’s the other eend?”
I saw that he held in his hand the noose of the lazo which he had taken from my ankles, and I explained the mystery of how it had “kum cut”. This seemed to raise me still higher in the hunter’s esteem. Turning to one of the riflemen, an old hunter like himself, he whispered—I overheard him:
“I’ll tell yer what it is, Nat: he kin whip his weight in wild-cats or grizzly b’ars any day in the year—he kin, or my name ain’t Bob Linkin.”
Saying this, he stepped forward on the cliff and looked over; and then he examined the tree, and then the piece of lazo, and then the tree again, and then he commenced dropping pebbles down, as if he was determined to measure every object, and fix it in his memory with a proper distinctness.
Twing and the others had now dismounted. As I turned towards them Clayley was taking a pull at the major’s pewter—and a good long pull, too. I followed the lieutenant’s example, and felt the better for it.
“But how did you find us, Major?”
“This little soldier,” said he, pointing to Jack, “brought us to the rancho where you were taken. From there we easily tracked you to a large hacienda.”
“Ha! you routed the guerilla, then?”
“Routed the guerilla! We saw no guerilla.”
“What! at the hacienda?”
“Peons and women; nothing more. Yes, there was, too—what am I thinking about? There was a party there that routed us; Thornley and Hillis here have both been wounded, and are not likely to recover—poor fellows!”
I looked towards these gentlemen for an explanation. They were both laughing, and I looked in vain.
“Hennessy, too,” said the major, “has got a stab under the ribs.”
“Och, by my soul have I, and no mistake!” cried the latter.
“Come, Major—an explanation, if you please.”
I was in no humour to enjoy this joke. I half divined the cause of their mirth, and it produced in me an unaccountable feeling of annoyance, not to say pain.
“Be my faith, then, Captain,” said Hennessy, speaking for the major, “if ye must know all about
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