The Lone Ranche by Mayne Reid (good e books to read .txt) 📕
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- Author: Mayne Reid
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“You won’t hev long. Ye’d better take kiver back o’ them big stones to make sure o’ not bein’ seen by him, shed he by any chance slip past me. An’ keep yur ears open. Soon as I’ve treed him I’ll gie a whistle or two. When ye hear that ye can kim down.”
After delivering this chapter of suggestions and injunctions, the ex-Ranger heads his mule down the pass, and is soon lost to his comrade’s sight as he turns off along the ledge of the cliff.
Hamersley, himself inclined to caution, follows the direction last given, and rides back behind one of the boulders. Keeping in the saddle, he sits in silent meditation. Sad thoughts alone occupy his mind. His prospects are gloomy indeed; his forecast of the future dark and doubtful. He has but little hope of being able to benefit Don Valerian Miranda, and cannot be sure of rescueing his sister—his own betrothed—in time to avert that terrible catastrophe which he knows to be impending over her. He does not give it a name—he scarce dares let it take shape in his thoughts.
Nearly half-an-hour is spent in this painful reverie. He is aroused from it by a sound which ascends out of the valley. With a start of joy he recognises the signal his comrade promised to send him. The whistle is heard in three distinct “wheeps,” rising clear above the hoarser sibillations of the cascades. From the direction he can tell it comes from the neighbourhood of the house; but, without waiting to reflect whither, he spurs his mule out, and rides down the pass as rapidly as possible.
On reaching the level below he urges the animal to a gallop, and soon arrives at the ranche.
There, as expected, he finds his companion, with the peon a captive.
The two, with their mules, form a tableau in front of the untenanted dwelling.
The ex-Ranger is standing in harangue attitude, slightly bent forward, his body propped by his rifle, the butt of which rests upon the ground. At his feet is the Indian, lying prostrate, his ankles lashed together with a piece of cowhide rope, his wrists similarly secured.
“I ked catched him a leetle sooner,” says Walt to his comrade, coming up, “but I war kewrious to find out what he war arter, an’ waited to watch him. That’s the explication o’ it.”
He points to a large bag lying near, with its contents half poured out—a varied collection of articles of bijouterie and virtu, resembling a cornucopia; spilling its fruits. Hamersley recognises them as part of the penates of his late host.
“Stolen goods,” continues Walt, “that’s what they air. An’ stole from a master he’s basely betrayed, may be to death. A mistress, besides, that’s been too kind to him. Darnation! that’s a tortiss-shell comb as belonged to my Concheeter, an’ a pair o’ slippers I ken swar wur here. What shed we do to him?”
“What I intended,” responds Hamersley, assuming a curious air; “first make him confess—tell all he knows. When we’ve got his story out of him we can settle that next.”
The confession is not very difficult to extract. With Wilder’s bowie-knife gleaming before his eyes, its blade within six inches of his breast, the wretch reveals all that has passed since the moment of his first meditating treason. He even makes declaration of the motive, knowing the nobility of the men who threatened him, and thinking by this means to obtain pardon.
To strengthen his chances he goes still farther, turning traitor against him to whom he had sold himself—Uraga. He has overheard a conversation between the Mexican colonel and his adjutant, Lieutenant Roblez. It was to the effect that they do not intend taking their prisoners all the way back to Albuquerque. How they mean to dispose of them the peon does not know.
He had but half heard the dialogue relating to Don Valerian and the doctor.
The female prisoners! Can he tell anything of what is intended with them? Though not in these terms, the question is asked with this earnestness.
The peon is unable to answer it. He does not think they are prisoners—certainly not Conchita. She is only being taken back along with her mistress. About the senorita, his mistress, he heard some words pass between Uraga and Roblez, but without comprehending their signification.
In his own heart Hamersley can supply it—does so with dark, dire misgivings.
Westward, across the Liana Estacado, Uraga and his lancers continue on their return march. The troop, going by twos, is again drawn out in an elongated line, the arms and accoutrements of the soldiers glancing in the sun, while the breeze floats back the pennons of their lances. The men prisoners are a few files from the rear, a file on each flank guarding them. The women are at the head, alongside the guide and sub-lieutenant, who has charge of the troop.
For reasons of his own the lancer colonel does not intrude his company on the captives. He intends doing so in his own time. It has not yet come. Nor does he take any part in directing the march of the men. That duty has been entrusted to the alferez; he and Roblez riding several hundred paces in advance of the troop.
He has thus isolated himself for the purpose of holding conversation with his adjutant, unembarrassed by any apprehension of being overheard.
“Well, ayadante,” he begins, as soon as they are safe beyond earshot, “what’s your opinion of things now?”
“I think we’ve done the thing neatly, though not exactly the way you wanted it.”
“Anything but that. Still, I don’t despair of getting everything straight in due time. The man Manuel has learnt from his fellow-servant that our American friends have gone on to the settlements of the Del Norte. Strange if we can’t find them there; and stranger still if, when found, I don’t bring them to book at last. Caraja! Neither of the two will ever leave New Mexico alive.”
“What about these two—our Mexican friends?”
“For them a fate the very reverse. Neither shall ever reach it alive.”
“You intend taking them there dead, do you?”
“Neither living nor dead. I don’t intend taking them there at all.”
“You think of leaving them by the way?”
“More than think; I’ve determined upon it.”
“But surely you don’t mean to kill them in cold blood?”
“I won’t harm a hair of their heads—neither I, nor you, nor any of my soldiers. For all that, they shall die.”
“Colonel, your speech is somewhat enigmatical. I don’t comprehend it.”
“In due time you will. Have patience for four days more—it may be less. Then you will have the key to the enigma. Then Don Valerian Miranda and the old rascal Don Prospero shall cease to trouble the dreams of Gil Uraga.”
“And you are really determined on Miranda’s death?”
“A silly question for a man who knows me as you. Of course I am.”
“Well, for my part, I don’t care much one way or the other, only I can’t see what benefit it will be to you. He’s not such a bad sort of a fellow, and has got the name of being a courageous soldier.”
“You’re growing wonderfully sentimental, ayadante. The tender glances of the senorita seem to have softened you.”
“Not likely,” rejoins the adjutant with a grim smile. “The eyes that could make impression upon the heart of Gaspar Roblez don’t exist in the head of woman. If I have any weaknesses in the feminine way, it’s for the goddess Fortuna. So long as I can get a pack of playing cards, with some rich gringo to face me in the game, I’ll leave petticoats alone.”
In turn the colonel smiles. He knows the idiosyncracy of his confederate in crime. Rather a strange one for a man who has committed many robberies, and more than once imbued his hands in blood. Cards, dice and drink are his passions, his habitual pleasure. Of love he seems incapable, and does not surrender himself to its lure, though there has been a chapter of it in his life’s history, of which Uraga is aware, having an unfortunate termination, sealing his heart against the sex to contempt, almost hatred. Partially to this might be traced the fact of his having fallen into evil courses, and, like his colonel, become a robber. But, unlike the latter, he is not all bad. As in the case of Conrad, linked to a thousand crimes, one virtue is left to him—courage. Something like a second remains in his admiration of the same quality in others. This it is that leads him to put in a word for Colonel Miranda, whose bravery is known far and wide throughout the Mexican army. Continuing to plead for him, he says—
“I don’t see why you should trouble yourself to turn States’ executioner. When we get to Santa Fé our prisoners can be tried by court-martial. No doubt they’ll be condemned and shot.”
“Very great doubt of it, ayadante. That might have done when we first turned their party out. But of late, things are somewhat changed. In the hills of the Moctezumas matters are again getting complicated, and just now our worthy chief, El Cojo, will scarce dare to sign a sentence of death, especially where the party to be passado por les armes is a man of note like Don Valerian Miranda.”
“He must die?”
“Teniente! Turn your head round and look me straight in the face.”
“I am doing so, colonel. Why do you wish me?”
“You see that scar on my cheek?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Don Valerian Miranda did not give the wound that’s left it, but he was partly the cause of my receiving it. But for him the duel would have ended differently. It’s now twelve months gone since I got that gash, at the same time losing three of my teeth. Ever since the spot has felt aflame as if hell’s fire were burning a hole through my cheek. It can only be extinguished by the blood of those who kindled it. Miranda is one of them. You’ve asked the question, ‘Must he die?’ Looking at this ugly scar, and into the eye above it, I fancy you will not think it necessary to repeat the question.”
“But how is it to be done without scandal? As you yourself have said, it won’t do for us to murder the man outright. We may be held to account—possibly ourselves called before a court-martial. Had he made resistance, and given us a pretext—”
“My dear ayadante, don’t trouble yourself about pretexts. I have a plan which will serve equally as well—my particular purpose, much better. As I’ve promised, you shall know it in good time—participate in its execution. But, come, we’ve been discoursing serious matters till I’m sick of them. Let’s talk of something lighter and pleasanter—say, woman. What think you of my charmer?”
“The Dona Adela?”
“Of course. Could any other charm me? Even you, with your heart of flint, should feel sparks struck out of it at the sight of her.”
“Certainly she’s the most beautiful captive I’ve ever assisted at the taking of.”
“Captive!” mutters Uraga, in soliloquy. “I wish she were, in a sense different.”
Then, with a frown upon his face, continuing,—
“What matters it! When he is out of the way, I shall have it all my own way. Woo her as Tarquin did Lucretia, and she will yield not as the Roman matron, but as a Mexican woman—give her consent when she can no longer withhold it. What is it, cabo?”
The interrogatory is addressed to a corporal who has ridden alongside, and halts, saluting him.
“Colonel, the alferez sends me to report that the Indian is no longer with us.”
“What! the man Manuel?”
“The same, colonel.”
“Halt!” commands Uraga, shouting aloud to the troop, which instantly comes to a stand. “What’s this I hear, alferez?” he asks, riding back, and speaking to the sub-lieutenant.
“Colonel, we miss the fellow who guided us. He must have dropped behind as we came out of the gorge. He was with us on leaving the house, and along the
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