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

There is no outlet save above and below, and both these are now effectually closed, shutting them up as in a strong-walled prison. On each side the precipice is unscalable. Even if men might ascend, horses could not be taken along; and on such a chase it would be hopeless for them to set out afoot.

But men could not go up the cliff.

“A cat kedn’t climb it,” says Walt, who during his sojourn in the valley has explored every inch of it. “We’ve got to stay hyar till the flood falls. I reckon no one kin be sorrier to say so than this chile. But thar’s no help for ’t.”

“Till the flood falls? When will that be?”

No one can answer this, not even Wilder himself. And with clouded brows, sullen, dispirited, they return to the jacal.

Two days they stay there, chafing with angry impatience. In their anger they are ready for the most perilous enterprise. But, although bitterly cursing the sinister chance that hinders pursuit, deeming each hour a day, they can do nought save wait till the swollen stream subsides.

They watch it with eager solicitude, constantly going to the bank to examine it, as the captain of a ship consults his weather-glass to take steps for the safety of his vessel. All the time one or another is riding to, or returning from, the head of the valley, to bring back report of how the subsidence progresses.

And long ere the stream has returned to its regular channel, they plunge their horses into it, breasting a current that almost sweeps them off their feet. But the Texan horses are strong, as their riders are skilful; the obstacle is surmounted, and the Rangers at length escape from their prolonged and irksome imprisonment.

It is mid-day, as filing up the pass, they reach the higher level of the Llano. Not many moments do they remain there; only long enough for the rear files to get out of the gorge, when those in front move forward across the plain, guided by the two best trackers in Texas, Nat Cully and Walt Wilder.

At first there is no following of a trail, since there is none visible. Wind, rain, and drifted dust have obliterated every mark made by the returning soldiers. Not a sign is left to show the pursuers the path Uraga’s troop has taken.

They know it should be westward, and strike out without waiting to look for tracks.

For the first ten or twelve miles they ride at a rapid rate, often going in a gallop. Their horses, rested and fresh, enable them to do so. They are only stayed in their pace by the necessity of keeping a straight course—not so easy upon a treeless plain, when the sun is not visible in the sky. Unluckily for them, the day is cloudy, which renders it more difficult. Still, with the twin buttes behind—so long as these are in sight they keep their course with certainty; then, as their summits sink below the level of the plain, another landmark looms up ahead, well known by Walt Wilder and Hamersley. It is the black-jack grove where, two days before, they made their midday meal.

The Rangers ride towards it, with the intention also to make a short halt there and snatch a scrap from their haversacks.

When upon its edge, before entering among the trees, they see that which decides them to stay even less time than intended—the hoof-prints of half a hundred horses!

Going inside the copse, they observe other signs that speak of an encampment. Reading these with care, they can tell that it has not long been broken up. The ashes of the bivouac fires are scarce cold, while the hoof-marks of the horses show fresh on the desert dust, for the time converted into mud. Wilder and Cully declare that but one day can have passed since the lancers parted from the spot; for there is no question as to who have been bivouacking among the black-jacks.

A day—only a day! It will take full five before the soldiers can cross the Sierras and enter the valley of the Del Norte. There may still be a chance of overtaking them. All the likelier, since, cumbered with their captives, and not knowing they are pursued, they may be proceeding at a leisurely pace.

Cheered by this hope, and freshly stimulated, the Texans do not even dismount, but, spurring forth upon the plain, again ride rapidly on, munching a mouthful as they go.

They are no longer delayed by any doubt as to course. The trail of the lancer troop is now easily discernible, made since the storm passed over. Any one of the Rangers could follow it in a fast gallop.

At this pace they all go, only at intervals drawing in to a walk, to breathe their blown steeds for a fresh spurt.

Even after night has descended they continue on, a clear moonlight enabling them to lift the trail.

As next morning’s sun breaks over the Llano Estacado they descend its western slope into the valley of the Rio Pecos.

Traversing its bottom, of no great breadth, they reach the crossing of the old Spanish trail, from Santa Fé to San Antonio de Bejar.

Fording the stream, on its western bank, they discover signs which cause them to come to a halt, for some time perplexing them. Nothing more than the tracks of the troop they have been all the while pursuing, which entered the river on its left side. Now on its right they are seen the same, up the sloping causeway of the bank. But on reaching the bottom, a little aback from the water’s edge, the trail splits into two distinct ramifications, one continuing westward towards the Sierras, the other turning north along the stream. The first shows the hoof-marks of nigh forty horses, the second only ten or twelve.

Unquestionably the Mexican colonel had here divided his troop, the main body proceeding due west, the detachment striking up stream.

The route taken by this last would be the old Spanish road for Santa Fé, the first party proceeding on to Albuquerque.

For a time the pursuing Texans are at fault, as foxhounds by a fence, over which Reynard has doubled back to mislead them. They have halted at the bifurcation of the trails, and sit in their saddles, considering which of the two they should take.

Not all remain mounted. Cully and Wilder have flung themselves to the ground, and, in bent attitudes, with eyes close to the surface, are scanning the hoof-marks of the Mexican horses.

The others debate which of the two troops they ought to take after, or whether they should themselves separate and pursue both. This course is opposed by a majority, and it is at length almost decided to continue on after the main body, which, naturally enough, they suppose to have Uraga at its head, with the captives in keeping.

In the midst of their deliberations a shout calls the attention of all, concentrating it on Walt Wilder. For it is he who has uttered the cry. The ex-Ranger is seen upon his knees, his great body bent forward, with his chin almost touching the ground. His eyes are upon the hoof-marks of a horse—one of those that went off with the smaller detachment along the river’s bank.

That he has identified the track is evident from the speech succeeding his ejaculation.

“Yur hoss, Hamersley! Hyar’s his futprint, sure. An’, as he’s rud by Urager, the scoundrel’s goed this way to a sartinty. Eqwally sartin, he’s tuk the captives along wi’ him.”

On hearing their old comrade declare his prognosis, the Rangers wheel their horses and ride towards him.

Before reaching the spot where he is still prospecting, they see him give a sudden spring forward, like a frog leaping over meadow sward, then pause again, scrutinising a track.

A second examination, similar to the first, tells of another discovery. In like manner explained, by his speech close following,—

“An’ hyar’s the track o’ the mare—the yeller mustang as war rid by the saynorita. An’, durn me, that’s the hoof-mark o’ the mule as carried my Concheter. Capting Haynes! Kumrades! No use botherin’ ’bout hyar any longer. Them we want to kum up wi’ are goed north ’long this trail as leads by the river bank.”

Not another word is needed. The Rangers, keen of apprehension and quick to arrive at conclusions, at once perceive the justness of those come to by their old comrade. They make no opposition to his proposal to proceed after the smaller party.

Instead, all signify assent; and in ten seconds after they are strung out into a long line, going at a gallop, their horses’ heads turned northward up the right bank of the Rio Pecos.