The Lone Ranche Part 35

Dismounting, they lead their males in among the trees, and there make them secure by looping the bridles to a branch. Then, laying themselves along the earth, they eat their midday meal, pull out their pipes, and follow it with a smoke.

With little thought, they are burning the last bit of tobacco which remained to the refugees. At parting, their generous host, to comfort them on their journey, presented them with the ultimate ounce of his stock; with true Spanish politeness saying nothing of this.

As they lie watching the blue film curling up among the branches of the black-jacks, as little do they reflect how fortunate for them it is not the smoke of a fire, nor visible at any great distance. Were it so, there would not be much likelihood of their ever reaching the Del Norte or leaving the Llano Estacado alive.

Not dreaming of danger in that desolate place--at least none caused by human kind--they remain tranquilly pulling at their pipes, now conversing of the past, anon speculating about their plans for the future.

Three or four hours elapse; the sun having crossed the meridian, begins to stoop lower. Its rays fall less fervently, and they think of continuing their journey. They have "unhitched" the mules, led them out to the edge of the copse, and are standing by the stirrup, ready to remount, when an object catches the quick eye of the ex-Ranger, causing him to utter a sharp e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

Something seen west, the way they want to go.

Pointing it out to Hamersley, the two stand observing. No great scrutiny needed to tell them 'tis a cloud of dust, although in breadth not bigger than a blanket. But while they are regarding it it gradually spreads out, at the same time showing higher above the surface of the plain.

It may be a swirl of the wind acting on the dry sand of the desert--the first commencement of a regular whirlwind--a thing common on the table lands of New Mexico. But it has not the round pillar-like form of the _molino_, nor do they believe it to be one. Both are too well acquainted with this phenomenon to be deceived by its counterfeit.

If they had any doubts, as they stand gazing these are resolved. The cloud presents a dense dark head, with a nucleus of something more solid than dust. And while guessing at the true character of this opaque central part, a circ.u.mstance occurs disclosing it. A puff of wind striking the dust causes it to swirl sideways, showing underneath a body of mounted men. Men, too, in military array, marching in double file, armed, uniformed, with lances borne erect, their blades glinting in the sun.

"Sogers!" exclaims the ex-Ranger.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

DREAD CONJECTURES.

It is Wilder who so emphatically proclaims the character of the cavalcade. He has no need, Hamersley having already made it out himself.

"Yes; they are soldiers," he rejoins, mechanically, adding, "Mexican, as a matter of course. None of our troops ever stray this fair west. 'Tis out of United States territory. The Texans claim it. But those are not Texans: they are uniformed, and carry lances. Your old friends, the Rangers, don't affect that sort of thing."

"No," responds Wilder, with a contemptuous toss of the head, "I shedn't think they did. We niver tuk to them long sticks; 'bout as much use as bean-poles. In coorse they're Mexikins, _lanzeeros_."

"What can they be doing out here? There are no Indians on the Staked Plain. If there were, such a small party as that, taking it to be Mexican, would not be likely to venture after them."

"Maybe it's only a advance guard, and thar's a bigger body behint. We sh.e.l.l soon see, as they're ridin' deerect this way. By the 'Tarnal, 'twon't do to let 'em sight us; leastwise, not till we've seen more o'

them, an' know what sort they air. White men tho' they call themselves, I'd a'most as soon meet Injuns. They'd be sure to take us for Texans; and 'bout me there'd be no mistake in that. But they'd treet you the same, an' thar treetment ain't like to be civil. Pull yur mule well back among the bushes. Let's blind the brutes, or they may take it into their heads to squeal."

The hybrids are led back into the grove, tied, and _zapadoed_--the last operation performed by pa.s.sing a blanket, mask fas.h.i.+on, over their eyes.

This done, the two men return to the edge of the copse, keeping themselves screened behind the outstanding trees.

In their absence the moving cohort has drawn nearer, and still advances.

But slowly, and, as when first sighted, enveloped in a cloud of dust.

Only now and then, as the wind wafts this aside, can be distinguished the forms of the individuals composing it. Then but for an instant, the dust again drifting around them.

Still the _nimbus_ draws nigher, and is gradually approaching the spot where the travellers had concealed themselves.

At first only surprised at seeing soldiers on the Staked Plain, they soon become seriously alarmed. The troop is advancing towards the black-jack grove, apparently intending it for a place of bivouac; if so, there will be no chance for them to escape observation. The soldiers will scatter about, and penetrate every part of the copse. Equally idle to attempt flight on their slow-footed animals, pursued by over two score of cavalry horses.

They can see no alternative but surrender, submit to be made prisoners, and receive such treatment as their captors may think fit to extend to them.

While thus despairingly reflecting, they take note of something that restores their disturbed equanimity. It is the direction in which the Mexicans are marching. The cloud moving in slow, stately progress does not approach any nearer to the copse. Evidently the hors.e.m.e.n do not design halting there, but will ride past, leaving it on their left.

They are, in truth, pa.s.sing along the same path from which the travellers have late deflected; only in the counter direction.

Now, for the first time, a suspicion occurs to Hamersley, shared by the Texan, giving both far greater uneasiness than if the soldiers were heading direct towards them.

It is further intensified as a fresh spurt of the desert wind sweeps the dust away, displaying in clear light the line of marching hors.e.m.e.n. No question as to their character now. There they are, with their square-peaked corded caps, and plumes of horsehair; their pennoned spears sloped over their shoulders; their yellow cloaks folded and strapped over the cantles of their saddles; sabres lying along thighs, clinking against spurs and stirrups--all the picturesque panoply of lancers.

It is not this that strikes dismay into the minds of those who are spectators, for it is now struck into their heart of hearts. On one figure of the cavalcade the eyes of both become fixed; he who rides at its head.

Their attention had been first attracted to his horse, Wilder gasping out, soon as he set eyes on the animal, "Look yonner, Frank!"

"At what?"

"The fellur ridin' foremost. D'ye see the anymal he's on? It's the same we war obleeged to abandon on takin' to the rocks."

"By heavens! my horse!"

"Yurs, to a sartinty."

"And his rider! The man I fought with at Chihuahua, the ruffian Uraga!"

On recognising his antagonist in the duel, the Kentuckian gives out a groan. The Texan, too. For on both the truth flashes in all its fulness--all its terrible reality.

It is not the possession of Hamersley's horse, identifying its rider with the destroyers of the caravan. That is nothing new, and scarce surprises them. What pains--agonises them--is the direction in which the soldiers are proceeding.

They can have no doubt as to the purpose of the military march, or the point to which it is tending.

"Yes," says Walt, "they're strikin' straight fur the valley, goin'

'ithout guess-work, too. Thar's a guide along, an' thar's been a treetur."

"Who do you think?"

"That Injun, Manoel. Ye remember he went on a errand 'bout a week ago, to fetch them some things that war needed. Instead, he's made diskivery o' the hidin' place o' his master, and sold that master's head. That's what he's did, sure."

"It is," mutters Hamersley, in a tone that tells of affliction too deep for speech. Before his mind is a fearful forecast. Don Valerian a prisoner to Uraga and his ruffians--Don Prospero, too; both to be dragged back to Albuquerque and cast into a military prison. Perhaps worse still--tried by court-martial soon as captured, and shot as soon as tried. Nor is this the direst of his previsions. There is one darker--Adela in the company of a ribald crew, surrounded by the brutal soldiery, powerless, unprotected--she his own dear one, now his betrothed! Overcome by his emotions he remains for some time silent, scarce heeding the remarks of his comrade. One, however, restores his attention.

"I tolt ye so," says Walt. "See! yonner's the skunk himself astride o'

a mule at the tail o' the gang."

Hamersley directs his eyes to the rear of the outstretched rank. There, sure enough, is a man on muleback, dressed differently from the troopers. The coa.r.s.e woollen tilma, and straw hat, he remembers as having been worn by one of Mirander's male domestics. He does not identify the man. But Walt's recollection of his rival is clearer, and he has no doubt that he on the mule is Manuel. Nor, for that matter, has Hamersley. The peon's presence is something to a.s.sist in the explanation. It clears up everything.

Hamersley breathes hard as the dark shadows sweep through his soul. For a long time absorbed in thought, he utters scarce an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. Only after the lancer troop has pa.s.sed, its rearmost files just clearing the alignment of the copse, he gasps out, in a voice husky as that of one in the act of being strangled,--

"They're going straight for the place. O G.o.d!"

"Yes," rejoins the ex-Ranger, in a tone like despondent, "Thar boun'

thar for sartint. The darned creetur's been tempted by the blood-money set on k.u.mel Miranda's head, an' air too like to git it. They'll grup him, sure; an's like as not gie him the garota. Poor gentleman! He air the n.o.blest Mexikin I iver sot eyes on, an' desarves a better fate. As for the ole doc, he may get off arter sarvin' a spell in prison, an' the saynorita--"

A groan from Hamersley interrupts the remark. His comrade, perceiving how much he is pained, modifies what he meant to say.