The Lone Ranche by Mayne Reid (good e books to read .txt) 📕

the Pecos till reaching the Alamo, he turned up the creek, and is now en bivouac in its bottom, some ten miles above the confluence of the streams.

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.