The Lone Ranche, Mayne Reid [romantic love story reading txt] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
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It matters not much now. As military commander of a district he has attained power, enabling him to dispense with any left-handed assistance; and of late more than once has wished himself rid of such suspicious auxiliaries. Therefore, but for the frustration of his present plans, he would rather rejoice than grieve over the tidings brought by the returned emissary.
His suit scorned, his scheme of assassination thwarted, he is as much as ever determined on the death of the two prisoners.
In the first moments of his anger, after hearing José’s tale, he felt half inclined to rush upon Miranda, sword in hand, and settle the matter at once. But, while returning to the camp-ground, calmer reflections arose, restraining him from the dastardly act, and deciding him to carry out the other alternative, already conceived, but kept back as a dernier ressort.
“Sit down, camarado!” he says, addressing the adjutant on entering. “We must hold a court-martial, and that is too serious a ceremonial to be gone through without the customary forms. The members of the court should be seated.”
The grim smile which accompanies his words shows that he means them in jest only as regards the manner of proceeding. For the earnestness of his intention there is that in his eyes—a fierce, lurid light, which Roblez can read.
In rejoinder the adjutant asks,—
“You are still resolved upon the death of the prisoners?”
“Still resolved! Carramba! An idle question, after what has occurred! They die within the hour. We shall try, condemn, and then have them shot.”
“I thought you had arranged it in a different way?”
“So I had. But circumstances alter cases. There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, and I’ve just heard of one. The Horned Lizard has failed me.”
“How so, colonel?”
“You see that Indian outside. He’s one of my muleteers I’d sent as a messenger to the Tenawa town. He returns to tell me there’s no Horned Lizard in existence, and only a remnant of his tribe. Himself, with the best of his braves, has gone to the happy hunting grounds; not voluntarily, but sent thither by a party of Tejanos who fell foul of them on a foray.”
“That’s a strange tale,” rejoins Roblez, adding, “And Barbato?”
“Dead, too—gone with his red-skinned associates.”
“Certainly a singular occurrence—quite a coincidence.”
“A coincidence that leaves me in an awkward predicament, without my expected executioners. Well, we must supply their places by substituting our own cut-throats.”
“You’ll find them willing, colonel. The little interlude of Miranda getting loose, and making to run you through, has been all in your favour. It affords sufficient pretext for court-martialling and condemning both prisoners to be shot I’ve heard the men say so, and they expect it.”
“They shall not be disappointed, nor have long to wait. The court has finished its sitting, and given its verdict. Without dissenting voice, the prisoners are condemned to death. So much for the sentence. Now to carry it into execution.”
“How is the thing to be done?”
“Call in the sergeant. With him I shall arrange that. And when you’re out, go among the men and say a word to prepare them for the measure. You may tell them we’ve been trying the prisoners, and the result arrived at.”
The adjutant steps out of the tent; and while Uraga is swallowing another cup of Catalan to fortify him for his fearful purpose, the sergeant enters.
“Sergente! there’s some business to be done of a delicate nature, and you must take direction of it.”
The Serjeant salutes, and stands awaiting the explanation. The colonel continues:—
“We intend taking our prisoners no farther—the men, I mean. With the women we have nothing to do—as prisoners. After what you saw, we deem it necessary that Don Valerian Miranda should die; and also the other, who is equally incriminated as a traitor to the State—a rebel, an old conspirator, well known. Lieutenant Roblez and I have held a court, and decreed their death. So order the men to load their carbines, and make ready to carry out the sentence.”
The sergeant simply nods assent, and, again saluting, is about to retire, when Uraga stays him with a second speech.
“Let all take part in the firing except Galvez. Post him as sentry over the square tent. Direct him to stand by its entrance and see that the flap is kept down. Under no circumstances is he to let either of its occupants out. It’s not a spectacle for women—above all, one of them. Never mind; we can’t help that I’m sorry myself, but duty demands this rigorous measure. Now go. First give Galvez his orders; then to the men and get them ready. Make no more noise than is necessary. Let your lancers be drawn up in line; afoot, of course, and single file.”
“Where am I to place the prisoners, colonel?”
“Ah! true; I did not think of that.”
Uraga steps to the entrance of the tent, and, looking forth, takes a survey of the camp-ground. His eyes seek the spot occupied by the prisoners. They are both again together, under the same tree where first placed, a sentry keeping guard over them. The tree is a cottonwood, with smooth stem and large limbs extending horizontally. Another is near, so similar as to seem a twin; both being a little out from the thick timber, which forms a dark background behind them.
After regarding them a moment, scanning them as a lumberman would a log intended for a saw-mill, Uraga directs.
“Raise the prisoners upright, and tie one to each of those two trees. Set their backs to the trunk. They’ve both been army men, and we won’t disgrace the cloth by shooting them from behind. That’s grace enough for rebels.”
The sergeant, saluting, is again about to go, only staying to catch some final words of direction. They are—
“In ten minutes I shall expect you to have everything ready. When you’ve got the stage set I shall myself appear upon it as an actor—the Star of this pretty play!”
And with a hoarse laugh at his horrid jest, the ruffian retires within his tent.
The sun is descending towards the crest of the Cordillera, his rays becoming encrimsoned as twilight approaches. They fall like streams of blood between the bluffs enclosing the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo, their tint in unison with a tragedy there about to be enacted—in itself strangely out of correspondence with the soft, tranquil scene.
The stage is the encampment of Uraga and his detachment of lancers, now set for the terrible spectacle soon to take place.
The two tents are still standing as pitched, several paces apart. At the entrance of the square one, with its flap drawn close and tied, a soldier keeps sentry; that of conical shape being unguarded.
Rearward, by the wood edge, are three horses and a mule, all four under saddle, with bridles on; these attached to the branches of a tree. There is no providence in this, but rather neglect. Since the purpose for which they were caparisoned has proved abortive, they remain so only from having been forgotten.
The other troop-horses have been stripped, and, scattered over the mead, are browsing at the length of their lariats.
It is in the positions and attitudes of the men that a spectator might read preparation; and of a kind from which he could not fail to deduce the sequence of a sanguinary drama. Not one accompanied by much noise, but rather solemn and silent; only a few words firmly spoken, to be followed by a volley; in short, a military execution, or, as it might be more properly designated, a military murder.
The victims devoted are seen near the edge of the open ground—its lower edge regarding the direction of the stream. They are in erect attitude, each with his back to the trunk of a tree, to which with raw-hide ropes they are securely lashed. No need telling who they are. The reader knows them to be the prisoners lately lying prostrate near the same place.
In their front, and scarce ten paces distant, the lancers are drawn up in line and single file. There are ten of them, the tenth a little retired to the right, showing chevrons on his sleeve. He is the sergeant in immediate command of the firing party. Farther rearward, and close by the conical tent, and two in the uniform of officers, Uraga and his adjutant. The former is himself about to pronounce the word of command, the relentless expression upon his face, blent with a grim smile that overspreads it, leading to believe that the act of diabolical cruelty gives him gratification. Above, upon the cliff’s brow, the black vultures also show signs of satisfaction. With necks craned and awry, the better to look below, they see preparations which instinct or experience has taught them to understand. Blood is about to be spilled; there will be flesh to afford them a feast.
There is now perfect silence, after a scene which preceded; once more Uraga having made overtures to Miranda, with promise of life under the same scandalous conditions; as before, to receive the response, firmly spoken,—
“No—never!”
The patriot soldier prefers death to dishonour.
His choice taken, he quails not. Tied to the trunk of the tree, he stands facing his executioners without show of fear. If his cheeks be blanched, and his bosom throbbing with tumultuous emotion, ’tis not at sight of the firing party, or the guns held loaded in their hands. Far other are his fears, none of them for himself, but all for his dear sister—Adela. No need to dwell upon or describe them. They may be imagined.
And Don Prospero, brave and defiant too. He stands backed by the tree, his eyes showing calm courage, his long silvered beard touching his breast, not drooping or despairingly, but like one resigned to his fate, and still firm in the faith that has led to it—a second Wickliffe at the stake.
The moment has arrived when the stillness becomes profound, like the calm which precedes the first burst of a thunderstorm. The vultures above, the horses and men below, are all alike silent.
The birds, gazing intently, have ceased their harsh croaking; the quadrupeds, as if startled by the very silence, forsaking the sweet grass, have tossed their heads aloft, and so hold them. While the men, hitherto speaking in whispers, no more converse, but stand mute and motionless. They are going to deal death to two of their fellow-creatures; and there is not one among them who does not know it is a death undeserved—that he is about to commit murder!
For all this, not one has a thought of staying his hand. Along the whole line there is no heart amenable to mercy, no breast throbbing with humanity. All have been in a like position before—drawn up to fire upon prisoners, their countrymen. The patriots of their country, too; for the followers of Gil Uraga are all of them picked adherents of the parti preter.
“Sergente!” asks Uraga, on coming forth from his tent, “is everything ready?”
“All ready,” is the prompt reply.
“Attention!” commands the Colonel, stepping a pace or two forward, and speaking in a low tone, though loud enough to be heard by the lancers.
“Make ready!”
The carbines are raised to the ready.
“Take aim!”
The guns are brought to the level, their bronzed barrels glistening under the rays of the setting sun, with muzzles pointed at the prisoners. They who grasp them but wait for the word “Fire!”
It is forming itself on Gil Uraga’s lips. But before he can speak there comes a volley, filling the valley with sound, and the space around the prisoners with smoke. The reports of more than forty pieces speak almost simultaneously, none of
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