The Lone Ranche by Mayne Reid (good e books to read .txt) đź“•
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- Author: Mayne Reid
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He hastens on, therefore, supposing them still before him.
In ten minutes more he is sure of it—they are in sight!
The timber through which the chase has hitherto led abruptly terminates, a long grassy mead of over a mile in length lying beyond; and beyond it the trees again obstruct the vista up the valley. The retreating horsemen have entered upon this open tract, but not got far over it, when Hamersley spurs his horse out of the timber tract, and pursuer and pursued are in sight of other.
It is now a tail-on-end chase, all three horses going at the greatest speed to which their riders can press them. It is evident that the large American horse is rapidly gaining upon the Mexican mustangs, and, if no accident occur, will soon be alongside them.
Hamersley perceives this, and, casting a glance ahead, calculates the distance to where the timber again commences. To overtake them before they can reach it is the thought uppermost in his mind. Once among the tree-trunks they can go as fast as he, for there the superior fleetness of his horse will not avail. Besides, there may be a thick underwood, giving them a chance of concealment.
He must come up with them before they can reach the cover, and to this end he once more urges his animal both with spur and speech.
At this moment Roblez looking back, perceives there is but one man in chase of them. A long stretch of open plain in his rear, and no other pursuer upon it. Brigand though he be, the adjutant possesses real courage. And there are two of them, in full health and strength, both armed with sabres, himself carrying a pair of dragoon pistols in his holsters. Those belonging to Uraga are nearer to the hand of Hamersley—having been left upon the saddle which the colonel, in his hasty retreat, had been hindered from occupying.
“Carajo!” exclaims Roblez, “there’s but one of them after us. The others haven’t had time to get mounted, and won’t be up for a while. It’s some rash fool who’s got your horse under him. Let’s turn upon him, colonel.”
The coward thus appealed to cannot refuse compliance. In an instant the two wheel round, and, with blades bared, await the approach of the pursuer.
In a dozen more strides of his horse Hamersley is on the ground. Uraga now recognises his antagonist in the Chihuahua duel—the man he hates above all others on earth.
This, hatred, intense as it is, does not supply him with courage. In the eye of the pursuer coming on, when close up, Uraga reads a terrible expression—that of the avenger!
Something whispers him his hour has come, and with shrinking heart and palsied arm he awaits the encounter.
As said, the two Mexican officers carry swords, cavalry sabres. Against these the Kentuckian has no weapon for parrying or defence. He is but ill-armed for the unequal strife, having only a Colt’s revolver with one chamber empty, and, as a dernier ressort, the single-barrelled pistols in the holsters.
Quickly perceiving his disadvantage, he checks up before coming too close, and with his revolver takes aim, and fires at the nearest of his antagonists, who is Roblez.
The shot tells, tumbling the lancer lieutenant out of his saddle, and making more equal the chances of the strife.
But there is no more fighting, nor the show of it, for Uraga, on seeing his comrade fall, and once more catching sight of that avenging glance that glares at him as if from the eyes of Nemesis, wrenches the mustang round, and rides off in wild retreat; his sword, held loosely, likely to drop from his grasp.
Soon it does drop, for Hamersley, following in close pursuit, delivers a second shot from the revolver. The bullet hits the extended sword arm; the naked blade whirls out, and falls with a ring upon the meadow turf.
Uraga rides on without looking back. He has not even courage to turn his face towards his antagonist. He thinks only of reaching the timber, in a despairing hope he may there find shelter and safety.
It is not his destiny to reach it; the pursuer is too close upon his heels. The head of Hamersley’s horse is swept by the mustang’s tail, its long, white hair spread comet-like behind.
Once more the revolver is raised, its muzzle pointed at the retreating coward. The pressing of its trigger would send a bullet into his back. It is not pressed.
As if from mercy or mere caprice Hamersley suddenly transfers the pistol to his left hand. Then, forcing his horse to a long leap forward, he lays hold of Uraga with his right.
Grasping the Mexican by the sword-belt and jerking him out of the saddle, he dashes him down to the earth. Then reining up, with the revolver once more in his right hand, he cries out—
“Lie still, you ruffian! Don’t move an inch! I have four shots to spare, and if you attempt to stir, one of them will quiet you.”
The admonition is not needed. Uraga, stunned by the shock for a time, makes no movement. He is insensible.
Before he comes to himself the Rangers have ridden up, with Walt Wilder at their head. They proceed to make prisoners of the two men, neither of whom has been killed in the encounter.
Better for both if they had. For they are now in the hands of men who will surely doom them to a death less easy thar that they had escaped.
Their fate is inevitable.
Another sun rises over the Llano Estacado, his beams gilding with ruddy glow the brown basaltic cliffs that enclose the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo.
On projecting points of these, above the spot chosen by Uraga for his camp, the black vultures are still perched. Though ’tis not their usual roosting-place, they have remained there all night, now and then giving utterance to their hoarse, guttural croaks, when some howling, predatory quadruped—coyote or puma—approaching too near, has startled them from their dozing slumbers. As the first rays of the sun rouse them to activity, their movements tell why they have stayed. No longer at rest, or only at intervals, they flit from rock to rock, and across the valley from cliff to cliff, at times swooping so low that their wings almost touch the topmost twigs of the trees growing upon the banks of the stream. All the while with necks astretch, and eyes glaring in hungry concupiscence. For below they perceive the materials of a repast—a grand, gluttonous feast—no longer in doubtful expectation, but now surely provided for them.
Ten men lie prostrate upon the sward; not asleep, as the vultures well know—nor yet reclining to rest themselves. Their attitudes are evidence against this. They lie with bodies bent and limbs stiff, some of them contorted to unnatural postures. Besides, on the grass-blades around are drops and gouts of blood, grown black during the night, looking as if it had rained ink; while little pools of the same are here and there seen, dull crimson and coagulated.
From these sanguinary symbols the vultures are well aware that the recumbent forms are neither asleep nor reposing. Every bird knows that every man of them is dead; and, though still clad in the uniform of soldiers, with all the gay insignia of lancers, they are but clay-cold corpses.
It is the firing party, still lying as it fell; not a figure disturbed, not a coat stripped off nor pocket rifled; no strap, plume, or pennon displaced since the moment when all dropped dead almost simultaneously at the detonation of the Rangers’ rifles.
Except the tents, which are still set as before, this cluster of corpses is the only thing seeming unchanged since yesterday’s sun went down. For it was after sunset when the pursuers returned, bringing their prisoners along with them. As on yesterday, two captives are seen under the same tree, where late lay Don Valerian and the doctor. But different men, with quite another style of sentry standing over them. The latter, a rough-garbed, big-bearded Texan, full six feet in height, shouldering a gun whose butt, when rested on the ground, places the muzzle within an inch of his chin. No need to say who are the two he is guarding. At his feet Uraga lies, crestfallen, with a craven look upon his face, like a fox in the trap; his splendid habiliments torn, mud-bedaubed, bedraggled. Besides him his adjutant, Roblez—his confederate in many a crime—also showing signs of having received rough treatment, but not without resenting it. His aspect is that of a tiger encaged, chafing at the torture, regardless of what may be the end. On the camp ground are seen some sixty horses with half-a-dozen mules. About fifty of the former are under saddle and bridle, as if soon to be mounted. The others have lariats around their necks, intended to be led.
A few men—those of inferior standing—look after the animals; while the larger number is gathered into a group near the centre of the camp ground. Their air, attitudes, earnest speech, and excited gesticulations tell they are taking counsel on some matter of serious import.
Walt Wilder is among them, Hamersley being absent. The latter is inside the square tent, in pleasanter companionship.
He is seated upon a catré, Adela by his side, her hand clasping his. This without any bashfulness or reserve at her brother being present. Which he is, along with the dear old doctor, both now released from their bonds. It is a tableau of true love, wreathed with fraternal affection.
With devotion also, of an humbler kind, Conchita is passing out and in, rejoicing in a general way. She pays no attention to a peon who lies tied behind the tent—José; and gives only scorn to another seen fast bound beside him—Manuel.
Notwithstanding her knowledge that this man is madly in love with her—for she now also knows how much he has been a traitor—her thoughts, as her eyes, are upon one more true—on her grand, gallant Tejano! She is proud to observe the distinguished part he plays among his compaisanos. For, in truth, Walt is doing this. Standing a half head taller than any of the Rangers around him, he is alike leader in their deliberations, those the most serious in which men can be engaged.
No question of life and death. It has been, but is no longer. The latter has been unanimously decreed, the verdict declared, the sentence pronounced. Their talk now only relates to the manner of execution.
The Ranger Captain, who presides, puts the interrogatory thus:
“Well, boys, what are we to do with them? Shoot or hang?”
“Hang!” is the response from more than a majority of voices.
“Shootin’ is too clean a death for scoundrels sech as them,” is the commentary of a voice recognisable as that of Nat Cully.
“They ought to be scalped, skinned, an’ quartered,” adds a man disposed to severer punishment.
“Yes!” affirms another of the like inclining. “A bit of torture wouldn’t be more than the rascals deserve.”
“Come, comrades!” cries the Ranger Captain. “Remember, we are Texans, and not savages like those we’re about to punish. Sufficient to send them out of the world without acting inhumanly. You all declare for hanging?”
“All!”
“Enough! Where shall we string them up?”
“Yonner’s a pick spot,” responds Wilder, pointing out the two trees to which Don Valerian and the doctor had been lately lashed. “They kin each hev a branch separate, so’s not to crowd one the t’other in makin’ tracks to etarnity.”
“Jest the place!” endorses Cully. “Kedn’t be a better gallis if the sheriff o’ Pike County, Massoury, had rigged it up hisself. We’ll gie ’em a tree apiece, as they war about to do wi’ thar innocent prisoners. Takin’ their places’ll be turn an’ turn about. That’s fair, I reckin.”
“Boys!” cries Walt, “look out a cupple o’ layvettes, an’ fetch ’em this way.”
Several start towards the
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