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
A pretty spot has he selected for the site of his encampment. A verdant mead, dotted with groves of leafy alamo trees, that reflect their shadows upon crystal runlets silently coursing beneath, suddenly flashing into the open light like a band of silver lace as it bisects a glade green with gramma grass. A landscape not all woodland or meadow, but having also a mountain aspect, for the basaltic cliffs that on both sides bound the valley bottom rise hundreds of feet high, standing scarce two hundred yards apart, grimly frowning at each other, like giant warriors about to begin battle, while the tall stems of the pitahaya projecting above might be likened to poised spears.
It is a scene at once soft and sublime—an Eden of angels beset by a serried phalanx of fiends; below, sweetly smiling; above, darkly frowning and weirdly picturesque. A wilderness, with all its charms, uninhabited; no house in sight; no domestic hearth or chimney towering over it; no smoke, save that curling aloft from the fire lately kindled in the soldiers’ camp. Beasts and birds are its only habitual denizens; its groves the chosen perching place of sweet songsters; its openings the range of the prong-horn antelope and black-tailed deer; while soaring above, or seated on prominent points of the precipice, may be seen the caracara, the buzzard, and bald-headed eagle.
Uraga has pitched his tents in an open glade of about ten acres in superficial extent, and nearly circular in shape, lying within the embrace of an umbrageous wood, the trees being mostly cotton woods of large dimensions. Through its midst the streamlet meanders above, issuing out of the timber, and below again entering it.
On one side the bluffs are visible, rising darkly above the tree-tops, and in the concavity underneath stand the tents, close to the timber edge, though a hundred paces apart from each other. The troop horses, secured by their trail-ropes, are browsing by the bank of the stream; and above, perched upon the summit of the cliff, a flock of black vultures sun themselves with out-spread wings, now and then uttering an ominous croak as they crane their necks to scan what is passing underneath.
Had Uraga been influenced by a sense of sylvan beauty, he could not have chosen a spot more suitable for his camping-place.
Scenic effect has nought to do with his halting there. On the contrary, he has turned up the Alamo, and is bivouacking on its bank, for a purpose so atrocious that no one would give credit to it unacquainted with the military life of Mexico in the days of the Dictator Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. This purpose is declared in a dialogue between the lancer colonel and his lieutenant, occurring inside the conical tent shortly after its being set up.
But before shadowing the bright scene we have painted by thoughts of the dark scheme so disclosed, let us seek society of a gentler kind. We shall find it in the marquee set apart for Adela Miranda and her maid.
It scarce needs to say that a change is observable in the appearance of the lady. Her dress is travel-stained, bedraggled by dust and rain; her hair, escaped from its coif, hangs dishevelled; her cheeks show the lily where but roses have hitherto bloomed. She is sad, drooping, despondent.
The Indian damsel seems to suffer less from her captivity, having less to afflict her—no dread of that terrible calamity which, like an incubus, broods upon the mind of her mistress.
In the conversation passing between them Conchita is the comforter.
“Don’t grieve so, senorita,” she says, “I’m sure it will be all right yet. Something whispers me it will. It may be the good Virgin—bless her! I heard one of the soldiers say they’re taking us to Santa Fé, and that Don Valerian will be tried by a court martial—I think that’s what he called it. Well, what of it? You know well he hasn’t done anything for which they can condemn him to death—unless they downright assassinate him. They dare not do that, tyrants as they are.”
At the words “assassinate him,” the young lady gives a start. It is just that which is making her so sad. Too well she knows the man into whose hands they have unfortunately fallen. She remembers his design, once nigh succeeding, only frustrated by that hurried flight from their home. Is it likely the fiend will be contented to take her brother back and trust to the decision of a legal tribunal, civil or military? She cannot believe it; but shudders as she reflects upon what is before them.
“Besides,” pursues Conchita, in her consolatory strain, “your gallant Francisco and my big, brave Gualtero have gone before us. They’ll be in Albuquerque when we get there, and will be sure to hear of our arrival. Trust them for doing something to save Don Valerian.”
“No, no,” despondingly answers Adela, “they can do nothing for my brother. That is beyond their power, even if he should ever reach there. I fear he never will—perhaps, none of us.”
“Santissima! What do you mean, senorita? Surely these men will not murder us on the way?”
“They are capable of doing that—anything. Ah! Conchita, you do not know them. I am in as much danger as my brother, for I shall choose death rather than—”
She forbears speaking the word that would explain her terrible apprehension. Without waiting for it, Conchita rejoins—
“If they kill you, they may do the same with me. Dear duena, I’m ready to die with you.”
The duena, deeply affected by this proffer of devotion, flings her white arms around the neck of her brown-skinned maid, and imprints upon her brow a kiss, speaking heartfelt gratitude.
For a time the two remain enlocked in each other’s arms, murmuring words of mutual consolation. Love levels all ranks, but not more than misery—perhaps not so much. In the hour of despair there is no difference between prince and peasant, between the high-born dame and the lowly damsel accustomed to serve her caprices and wait upon her wishes.
Adela Miranda has in her veins the purest sangre azul of Andalusia. Her ancestors came to New Spain among the proud conquistadores; while those of Conchita, at least on the mother’s side, were of the race conquered, outraged, and humiliated.
No thought of ancestral hostility, no pride of high lineage on one side, or shame of low birth on the other, as the two girls stand inside the tent with arms entwined, endeavouring to cheer one another.
Under the dread of a common danger, the white doncella and the dusky damsel forget the difference in the colour of their skins; and for the first time feel themselves sisters in the true sisterhood of humanity.
Simultaneous with the scene in the square marquee a dialogue is taking place within the conical tent, the speakers being Uraga and Roblez.
The colonel is reclining on a bearskin, spread over the thick sward of grass, which forms a soft couch underneath. The lieutenant sits on a camp-stool beside.
Both are smoking; while from a canteen and two cups, resting upon the top of a bullock trunk, comes a perfume which tells they have also been indulging in a drink.
Uraga is thoughtful and silent; Roblez patiently waiting for him to speak. The adjutant has but late entered the tent and delivered his report about the pitching of the camp, the arrangements of which he has been superintending.
“You’ve stationed a look-out as I directed?” the Colonel inquires, after a long silence.
“I have.”
“I hope you’ve placed him so that he can command a good view of the valley below?”
“He’s on a spur of the cliff, and can see full five miles down stream. May I ask, colonel, whom we may expect to come that way? Not pursuers, I take it?”
Uraga does not make immediate reply. There is evidently something in his thoughts he hesitates to communicate to his subordinate. The answer he at length vouchsafes is evasive.
“Whom may we expect? You forget those fellows left behind on the Llano. The corporal and two men, whether they’ve found the Indian or not, will make all haste after us. Fear of falling in with some party of Apaches will stimulate their speed. I wonder why they haven’t got up long ago. Something strange about that.”
“No doubt the storm has detained them.”
“Do you think it’s been that, ayadante?”
“I can’t think of anything else, colonel. Anyhow, they wouldn’t be likely to come here, but go on straight to Albuquerque. The corporal is a skilled rastrero, and, reaching the place where the troop separated, he’d be pretty sure to follow the trail of the larger party. All the more from his knowing it the safer one, so far as savages are concerned.”
“I hope he has done so. We don’t want him here.”
Saying this, Uraga resumes his thoughtful attitude and silently puffs away at his cigar, apparently watching the smoke as it curls up and spreads against the canvas.
Roblez, who appeared anxious about something, after a time again essays speech. He puts the interrogatory,—
“How long are we to remain here?”
“That will depend on—”
Uraga does not complete the response—at least not till after taking several whiffs at his weed.
“On what?” asks the impatient subordinate.
“Many matters—circumstances, events, coincidences.”
“May I know what they are. You promised to tell me, colonel.”
“I did—in time. It has not yet come. One thing I may now make known. When we leave this camping-place we shall take no prisoners along with us.”
“You intend setting them free?” The question is asked, not with any idea that this is Uraga’s design, but to draw out the explanation.
“Free of all cares in this world, whatever may be their troubles in the next.”
“They are to die, then?”
“They are to die.”
“You mean only the men—Don Valerian and the doctor?”
“What a ruffian you are, Roblez! By your question you must take me for the same—a sanguinary savage. I’m not so bloodthirsty as to think of killing women, much less one so sweet as the Senorita Miranda. Men don’t desire the deaths of their own wives—at least, not till after the honeymoon. The Dona Adela is to be mine—shall, and must!”
“I am aware that is your wish, and as things stand you have a fair chance of obtaining it. You can have her without spilling her brother’s blood. Excuse me, colonel, but I can see no reason why he should not be let live, at least till we take him to Santa Fé, There a prison will hold him safe, and a court-martial can be called, which, with the spirit just now abroad, will condemn him in one day, and execute him on the morning of the next. That would keep you clear from all suspicion of over-haste, which may attach to you if you take the thing into your own hands here.”
“Bah! you talk like a child, teniente! The security of a prison in New Mexico, or the chances of a prisoner being condemned, far less executed, are things merely imaginary. All the more now that there’s some probability of a change in the political sky. Clouds have shown themselves on the horizon at the capital—talk that our good friend Gameleg is going out again. Before the storm comes I for one intend making myself secure. As the husband of Adela Miranda, owning all that belongs to her brother, and which will be hers after his death, I shall care but little who presides in the Halls of the Moctezumas. Priest-party or patriots, ’twill be all the same to me.”
“Why not become her husband and let the brother live?”
“Why? Because that cannot be.”
“I don’t see any reason against it. Both are in your power. You may easily make terms.”
Uraga, impressed with the observation, remains for a while silent, considering. To aid reflection he smokes harder than ever.
Resuming speech, he asks,—
“How do you counsel?”
“As
Comments (0)