The Lone Ranche, Mayne Reid [romantic love story reading txt] 📗

levelled up the ravine through which the valley is entered from above.

Only as the shades of night close over them do they desist from this vigil, proving fruitless.

Added to the idea of danger, they have another reason for desiring the speedy return of the messenger. Certain little luxuries he is expected to bring—among the rest a skin or two of wine and a few boxes of cigars. For neither the colonel himself nor the ex-army surgeon are anchorites, however much they have of late been compelled to the habit. Above all, they need tobacco, their stock being out; the last ounce given to their late guests on leaving.

These are minor matters, but yet add to the cheerlessness of the time after the strangers have gone. Not less at night, when more than ever one feels a craving for the nicotian weed, to consume it in some way—pipe, cigar, or cigaritto.

As the circle of three assemble in their little sitting-room, after a frugal supper, tobacco is the Colonel’s chief care, and becomes the first topic of conversation.

“Carramba!” he explains, as if some new idea had entered his head, “I couldn’t have believed in a man suffering so much from such a trifling cause.”

“What are you referring to?” interrogates the doctor.

“The thing you’re thinking of at this moment, amigo mio. I’ll make a wager it’s the same.”

“As you know, colonel, I never bet.”

“Nor I upon a certainty, as in this case it would be. I know what your mind’s bent upon—tobacco.”

“I confess it, colonel. I want a smoke, bad as ever I did in my life.”

“Sol.”

“But why don’t you both have it, then?”

It is Adela who thus innocently interrogates.

“For the best of all reasons,” rejoins her brother. “We haven’t the wherewith.”

“What! no cigarittos? I saw some yesterday on one of the shelves.”

“But not to day. At this moment there isn’t a pinch of tobacco within twenty miles of where we sit, unless our late guests have made a very short day’s march. I gave them the last I had to comfort them on the journey.”

“Yes, senorita,” adds the doctor, “and something quite as bad, if not worse. Our bottles are empty. The wine is out as well as the weed.”

“In that,” interrupts the Colonel, “I’m happy to say you’re mistaken. It’s not so bad as you think, doctor. True, the pigskin has collapsed; for the throat of the huge Texan was as difficult to saturate as the most parched spot on the Staked Plain. Finding it so, I took occasion to abstract a good large gourd, and set it surreptitiously aside. I did that to meet emergencies. As one seems to have arisen, I think the hidden treasure may now be produced.”

Saying this, the colonel steps out of the room, soon returning with a large calabash bottle.

Conchita is summoned, and directed to bring drinking cups, which she does.

Miranda, pouring out the wine says,—

“This will cheer us; and, in truth, we all need cheering. I fancy there’s enough to last us till Manuel makes his reappearance with a fresh supply. Strange his not having returned. He’s had time to do all his bargainings and been back three days ago. I hoped to see him home before our friends took departure, so that I could better have provided them for their journey. They’ll stand a fair chance of being famished.”

“No fear of that,” puts in Don Prospero.

“Why do you say so, doctor?”

“Because of the rifle I gave to Señor Gualtero. With it he will be able to keep both provisioned. ’Tis marvellous how he can manage it. He has killed bits of birds without spoiling their skins or even ruffling a feather. I’m indebted to him for some of my best specimens. So long as he carries a gun, with ammunition to load it, you need have no fear he or his companion will perish from hunger, even on the Llano Estacado.”

“About that,” rejoins Miranda, “I think we need have no uneasiness. Beyond lies the thing to be apprehended—not on the desert, but amid cultivated fields, in the streets of towns, in the midst of so-called civilisation. There will be their real danger.”

For some time the three are silent, their reflections assuming a sombre hue, called forth by the colonel’s words.

But the doctor, habitually light-hearted, soon recovers, and makes an effort to imbue the others with cheerfulness like his own.

“Senorita,” he says, addressing himself to Adela, “your guitar, hanging there against the wall, seems straining its strings as if they longed for the touch of your fair fingers. You’ve been singing every night for the last month, delighting us all I hope you won’t be silent now that your audience is reduced, but will think it all the more reason for bestowing your favours on the few that remain.”

To the gallant speech of pure Castilian idiom, the young lady answers with a smile expressing assent, at the same time taking hold of her guitar. As she reseats herself, and commences tuning the instrument, a string snaps.

It seems an evil omen; and so all three regard it, though without knowing why. It is because, like the strings of the instrument, their hearts are out of tune, or rather attuned to a presentiment which oppresses them.

The broken string is soon remedied by a knot; this easily done. Not so easy to restore the tranquillity of thought disturbed by its breaking.

No more does the melancholy song which succeeds. Even to that far land has travelled the strain of the “Exile of Erin.” Its appropriateness to their own circumstances suggesting itself to the Mexican maiden, she sings—

Sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,

    The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee,

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

    A home and a country remain not to me.

“Dear Adela!” interrupts Miranda. “That song is too sad. We’re already afflicted with its spirit. Change it for one more cheerful. Give us a lay of the Alhambra—a battle-song of the Cid or the Campeador—something patriotic and stirring.”

Obedient to her brother’s request, the young girl changes tune and song, now pouring forth one of those inimitable lays for which the language of Cervantes is celebrated.

Despite all, the heaviness of heart remains, pressing upon those who listen as on her who sings. Adela’s voice appears to have lost its accustomed sweetness, while the strings of her guitar seem equally out of tune.

All at once, while in the middle of her song, the two bloodhounds, that have been lying on the floor at her feet, start from their recumbent position, simultaneously giving utterance to a growl, and together rush out through the open door.

The singing is instantly brought to an end; while Don Valerian and the doctor rise hastily from their chairs.

The bark of watch-dog outside some quiet farmhouse, amidst the homes of civilisation, can give no idea of the startling effect which the same sound calls forth on the far Indian frontier—nothing like the alarm felt by the dwellers in that lone ranche. To add to it, they hear a hoof striking on the stones outside—that of either horse or mule. It cannot be Lolita’s; the mustang mare is securely stalled, and the hoof-stroke comes not from the stable. There are no other animals. Their late guests have taken away the two saddle mules, while the mulas de carga are with the messenger, Manuel.

“It’s he come back!” exclaims the doctor. “We ought to be rejoiced instead of scared. Come, Don Valerian! we shall have our smoke yet before going to bed.”

“It’s not Manuel,” answers Miranda. “The dogs would have known him before this. Hear how they keep on baying! Ha! what’s that? Chico’s voice! Somebody has caught hold of him!”

A cry from the peon outside, succeeded by expostulations, as if he was struggling to escape—his voice commingled with shrill screams from Conchita—are sounds almost simultaneous.

Don Valerian strides back into the room and lays hold of his sword, the doctor clutching at the first weapon that presents itself.

But weapons are of no avail where there are not enough hands to wield them.

Into the cabin lead two entrance doors—one front, the other back—and into both is seen pouring a stream of armed men, soldiers in uniform.

Before Miranda can disengage his sword from its scabbard, a perfect chevaux-de-frise of lance-points are within six inches of his breast, while the doctor is similarly menaced.

Both perceive that resistance will be idle. It can only end in their instant impalement.

“Surrender, rebels!” cries a voice rising above the din.

“Drop your weapons, and at once, if you wish your lives spared! Soldiers, disarm them!”

Miranda recognises the voice. Perhaps, had he done so sooner, he would have held on to his sword, and taken the chances of a more protracted and desperate resistance.

It is too late. As the weapon is wrested from his grasp, he sees standing before him the man of all others he has most reason to fear—Gil Uraga!