The Lone Ranch by Mayne Reid (new reading .txt) 📕

Carefully as ever, Hamersley and the Texan keep to their place of concealment. They dare not do otherwise. The slope by which they ascended is treeless, the cedars only growing upon the summit. The gorge, too, by which they went up, and at the bottom of which their mules were left, debouches westwardly on the plain—the direction in which the lancers have ridden off. Any of these chancing to look back would be sure to catch sight of them if they show themselves outside the sheltering scrub. They have their apprehensions about their animals. It is a wonder these have not been seen by the soldiers. Although standing amid large boulders, a portion of the bodies of both are visible from the place mentioned. Fortunately for their owners, their colour closely resembled the rocks, and for which the troopers may have mistaken them. More probably, in their impatience to proceed upon the return route, none of them turn their eyes in that direction.

An equally fortunate circumstance is the fact of the mules being muffled. Otherwise they might make themselves heard. Not a sound, either snort or hinney, escape them; not so much as the stamping of a hoof. They stand patient and silent, as if they themselves had fear of the men who are foes to their masters.

For a full hour after the lancers have left these stay crouching behind the cedars. Even an hour does not take the troop out of sight. Cumbered with their captives, they march at slow, measured pace—a walk. Moreover, the pellucid atmosphere of the Staked Plain makes objects visible at double the ordinary distance. They are yet but five miles from the buttes, and, looking back, could see a man at their base, more surely one mounted.

The two who are on the summit allow quite twenty minutes more to elapse before they think of leaving it. Then, deeming it safe, they prepare to descend.

Still they are in no haste. Their intention is to follow the cavalcade, but by no means to overtake it. Nor do they care to keep it in sight, but the contrary, since that might beget danger to themselves. They anticipate no difficulty in taking up the trail of a troop like that Walt confidently declares he could do so were he blindfolded as their mules, adding, in characteristic phraseology, “I ked track the skunks by thar smell.”

Saying this he proposes a “bit o’ brakwist,” a proposition his comrade assents to with eagerness. They have not eaten since dinner of the day before, their provisions having been left below, and the sharp morning air has given additional edge to their appetites. This at length draws them down to their mules.

Taking off the tapados to relieve the poor animals, who have somewhat suffered from being so scurvily treated, they snatch a hasty repast from their haversacks, then light their pipes for a smoke preparatory to setting forth. It is not yet time, for the soldiers are still in sight. They will wait till the last lance pennon sinks below the horizon.

Whilst smoking, with eyes bent upon the receding troop, a sound salutes their ears, causing both to start. Fortunately they draw back behind one of the boulders, and there remain listening. What they heard was certainly a hoofstroke, whether of horse or mule—not of either of their own; these are by their sides, while the sound that has startled them appears to proceed from the other side of the mound, as if from the summit of the pass leading up out of the valley.

They hear it again. Surely it is in the gorge that goes down, or at the head of it.

Their conjecture is that one of the lancers has lagged behind, and is now en route to overtake the troop.

If it be thus what course are they to pursue? He may look back and see themselves or their animals, then gallop on and report to his comrades.

’Twould be a sinister episode, and they must take steps to prevent it.

They do so by hastily restoring the tapados and leading the mules into a cul-de-sac, where they will be safe from observation.

Again they hear the sound, still resembling a hoofstroke, but not of an animal making way over the ground in walk, trot, or gallop, but as one that refused to advance, and was jibbing.

Between them and it there seems great space, a projecting spur of the butte from which they have just descended. By climbing the ridge for a score of yards or so they can see into the gorge that goes down to the valley.

As the trampling still appears steadfast to the same point, their alarm gives place to curiosity, then impatience. Yielding to this, they scramble up the ridge that screens the kicking animal from their view.

Craning their heads over its crest, they see that which, instead of causing further fear, rather gives them joy.

Just under their eyes, in the gap of the gorge, a man is struggling with a mule. It is a contest of very common occurrence. The animal is saddled, and the man is making attempts to get his leg over the saddle. The hybrid is restive, and will not permit him to put foot in the stirrup. Ever as he approaches it shies back, rearing and pitching to the full length and stretch of the bridle-rein.

Soon as seeing him, they upon the ridge recognise the man thus vexatiously engaged. He is the peon Manuel.

“The durned scoundrel,” hissed Walt, through clenched teeth. “What’s kep him ahint, I wonder?”

Hamersley responds not—he, too, conjecturing.

“By Jehorum!” continues the hunter, “it looks like he’d stayed back apurpose. Thar ked been nothin’ to hinder him to go on ’long wi’ the rest. The questyun air what he’s stayed for. Some trick o’ trezun, same as he’s did afore.”

“Something of the kind, I think,” rejoins Hamersley, still considering.

“Wal, he’s wantin’ to get on bad enuf now, if the mule ’ud only let him. Say, Frank, shell I put a payriud to their conflict by sendin’ a bit o’ lead that way, I kin rub the varmint out by jest pressin’ my finger on this trigger.”

“Do you mean the man or the mule?”

“The man, in coorse. For what shed I shoot the harmless critter that’s been carryin’ him? Say the word, an’ I’ll send him to kingdom come in the twinklin’ o’ a goat’s tail. I’ve got sight on him. Shall I draw the trigger?”

“For your life, don’t look yonder! They’re not yet out of sight. They might see the smoke, perhaps hear the crack. Comrade, you’re taking leave of your senses!”

“Contemplatin’ that ugly anymal below air enough to make me. It a’most druv me out o’ my mind to think o’ his black ungratefulness. Now, seein’ hisself through the sight of a rifle ’ithin good shootin’ distance, shurely ye don’t intend we shud let him go!”

“Certainly not. That would be ruin to ourselves. We must either kill or capture him. But it must be done without noise, or at least without firing a shot. They’re not far enough off yet.”

“How d’ye devise, then?”

“Let’s back to our mules, mount, and get round the ledge. We must head him before he gets out of the gap. Come on!”

Both scramble back down the slope quicker than they ascended it, knowing there is good reason for haste—the best for their lives—every thing may depend on capturing the peon. Should he see them, and get away, it will be worse both for them and their dear ones.

In two minutes the mules are again unmuffled and mounted. In two more they are entering the gap from outside, their masters on their backs.

These, spurring the animals to speed, enter the gorge, their eyes everywhere. They reach the spot where the peon was so late seen, striving to get into his saddle. They see the turf torn up by the hybrid’s hoofs, but no man, no mule.