And, sure enough, when the pursuers, at length at the creek's mouth, enter the canon through which it disembogues its crystal water into the grander and more turbid stream, they discovered certain traces of the pursued having passed along its banks.

Another mile of travelling, the same silence observed, with caution increased, and there is no longer a doubt about the truth of Cully's conjecture. Noises are heard ahead, sounds disturbing the stillness of the night air that are not those of the uninhabited prairie. There is the lowing of cattle, in long monotonous moans, like when being driven to slaughter, with, at intervals, the shriller neigh of a horse, as if uneasy at being away from his stable.

On hearing these sounds, the Ranger captain, acting by the advice of the guide, orders a halt. Then the pursuing party is separated into two distinct troops. One, led by Cully, ascends the cliff by a lateral ravine, and pursues its way along the upper table-land. The other, under the command of the captain, is to remain below until a certain time has elapsed, its length stipulated between the two leaders before parting.

When it has passed, the second division moves forward up the creek, again halting as a light shines through the trees, which, from its reddish colour, they know to be the glare of log fires.

They need not this to tell them they are close to an encampment—that of the savages they have been pursuing. They can hear their barbarous jargon, mingled with shouts and laughter like that of demons in the midst of some fiendish frolic.

They only stay for a signal the guide arranged to give as soon as he has got round to attack on the opposite side. The first shot heard, and they will dash forward to the fires.

Seated in their saddles, with reins tight drawn, and heels ready to drive home the spur—with glances bent greedily at the gleaming lights, and ears keenly alert to catch every sound—the hearts of some trembling with fear, others throbbing with hope, still others thrilling with the thought of vengeance—they wait for the crack that is to be the signal— wait and listen, with difficulty restraining themselves.

It comes at length. Up the glen peals a loud report, quickly followed by another, both from a double-barrelled gun.

This was the signal for attack, arranged by Cully.

Soon as hearing it, the reins are slackened, the spurs sent home, and, with a shout making the rocks ring, and the trees reverberate its echoes, they gallop straight towards the Indian encampment, and in a moment are in its midst.

They meet little resistance—scarce any. Too far from the settlements to fear pursuit—in full confidence they have not been followed, the red robbers have been abandoning themselves to pleasure, spending the night in a grand gluttonous feast, furnished by the captured kine.

Engrossed with sensual joys, they have neglected guard; and, in the midst of their festivities, they are suddenly set upon from all sides; the sharp cracking of rifles, with the quick detonation of repeating pistols, soon silences their cacchinations, scattering them like chaff.

After the first fusillade, there is but little left of them. Those not instantly shot down retreat in the darkness, skulking of! among the pecan trees. It is altogether an affair of firearms: and for once the bowie—the Texan's trusted weapon—has no part in the fray.

The first rays of next morning's sun throw light upon a sanguinary scene—a tableau terrible, though not regrettable. On the contrary, it discloses a sight which, but for the red surroundings, might give gladness. Fathers, half frantic with joy, are kissing children they never expected to see again; brothers clasping the hands of sisters late deemed lost for ever; husbands, nigh broken-hearted, once more happy, holding their wives in fond, affectionate embrace.

Near by, things strangely contrasting—corpses strewn over the ground, stark and bleeding, but not yet stiff, all of coppery complexion, but bedaubed with paint of many diverse colours. All surely savages.

A fearful spectacle, but one too often witnessed on the far frontier land of Texas.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

A FORCED CONFESSION.

The party of Texans has made what prairie men call a "coup." On counting the corpses of their slain enemies they find that at least one-half of the Tenawa warriors have fallen, including their chief. They can make an approximate estimate of the number that was opposed to them by the signs visible around the camp, as also upon the trail they have been for several days following. Those who escaped have got off, some on their horses, hastily caught and mounted; others afoot, by taking to the timber. They were not pursued, as it was still dark night when the action ended, and by daylight these wild centaurs, well acquainted with the country, will have scattered far and wide, beyond all likelihood of being again encountered.

The settlers are satisfied at having recovered their relatives, as also their stolen stock. As to the Rangers, enough has been accomplished to slake their revengeful thirst—for the time. These last, however, have not come off unscathed; for the Comanches, well armed with guns, bows, and lances, did not die unresistingly. In Texas Indians rarely do, and never when they engage in a fight with Rangers. Between them and these border guerrilleros—in one sense almost as much savages as themselves—war is an understood game—to the bitter end, with no quarter either asked or given.

The Rangers count three of their number killed and about twice as many wounded—enough, considering the advantage they had in their unwarned attack upon enemies who for once proved unwatchful.

When the conflict has finally come to a close, and daylight makes manifest the result, the victors take possession of the spoil—most of it their own property. The horses that strayed or stampeded during the fight are again collected into a drove—those of the Indians being united to it. This done, only a short stay is intended—just long enough to bury the bodies of the three Rangers who have been killed, get stretchers prepared for such of the wounded as are unable to sit in the saddle, and make other preparations for return towards the settlements.

They do not hasten their departure through any apprehension of a counter-attack on the side of the Comanches. Fifty Texan Rangers—and there are this number of them—have no fear on any part of the plains, so long as they are mounted on good horses, carry rifles in their hands, bowie-knives and pistols in their belts, with a sufficient supply of powder in their flasks, and bullets in their pouches. With all these items they are amply provided; and were there now any necessity for continuing the pursuit, or the prospect of striking another coup, they would go on, even though the chase should conduct them into the defiles of the Rocky Mountains. To pursue and slay the savage is their vocation, their duty, their pastime and pleasure.

But the settlers are desirous of a speedy return to their homes, that they may relieve the anxiety of other dear ones, who there await them. They long to impart the glad tidings they will take with them.

While the preparations for departure are going on, Cully—who, with several others, has been collecting the arms and accoutrements of their slain enemies—gives utterance to a cry that brings a crowd of his comrades around him.

"What is it, Nat?" inquires the Ranger captain.

"Look hyar, cap! D'ye see this gun?"

"Yes; a hunter's rifle. Whose is it?"

"That's jess the questyin; though thar ain't no questyin about it. Boys, do any o' ye recognise this hyar shootin' iron?"

One after another the Rangers step up, and look at the rifle.

"I do," says one.

"And I," adds another.

And a third, and fourth, make the same affirmation, all speaking in tones of surprise.

"Walt Wilder's gun," continues Cully, "sure an' sartin. I know it, an oughter know it. See them two letters in the stock thar—'WW.' Old Nat Cully hez good reezun to recconise them, since 'twas hisself that cut 'em. I did it for Walt two yeern ago, when we war scoutin' on the Collyrado. It's his weepun, an' no mistake."

"Where did you find it?" inquires the captain.

"I've jess tuk it out o' the claws o' the ugliest Injun as ever made trail on a puraira—that beauty thar, whose karkidge the buzzards won't be likely to tech."

While speaking Cully points to a corpse. It is that of the Tenawa chief, already identified among the slain.

"He must a' hed it in his clutch when suddenly shot down," pursues the guide. "An' whar did he git it? Boys, our ole kummerade's wiped out for sartin. I know how Walt loved that thar piece. He w'udn't a parted wi' it unless along wi' his life."

This is the conviction of several others acquainted with Wilder. It is the company of Rangers to which he formerly belonged.

"Thar's been foul play somewhar," continues Cully. "Walt went back to the States—to Kaintuck, ef this chile ain't mistook. But 'tain't likely he stayed thar; he kedn't keep long off o' the purairas. I tell ye, boys, these hyar Injens hev been makin' mischief somewhar'. Look thar, look at them leggin's! Thar's no eend o' white sculps on' 'em, an' fresh tuk, too!"

The eyes of all turned towards these terrible trophies that in gory garniture fringe the buck-skin leg-wear of the savages. Cully, with several others who knew Wilder well, proceed to examine them, in full expectation of finding among them the skin of their old comrade's head. There are twelve scalps, all of white men, with others that are Indian, and not a few that exhibit the equally black, but shorter crop of the Mexican. Those that are indubitably of white men show signs of having been recently taken, but none of them can be identified as the scalp of Walt Wilder.

There is some relief in this, for his old comrades love. Walt. Still, there is the damning evidence of the gun, which Cully declares could only have been taken from him along with his life. How has it got into the hands of the Horned Lizard?

"I reckon we can settle that," says the Captain of the Rangers. "The renegade ought to know something about it."

This speech refers to Barbato, who has been taken prisoner, and about whose disposal they have already commenced to deliberate. His beard betrayed him as a renegade; and, the paint having been partially wiped from his skin, all perceive that he is a white man—a Mexican. Some are for shooting him on the spot, others propose hanging, while only a few of the more humane advocate taking him on to the settlements and there giving him a trial. He will have to die anyhow—that is pretty sure; for not only as a Mexican is he their enemy, but now doubly so from being found in league with their most detested foes, the Tenawa Comanches.

The wretch is lying on the ground near by, shaking with fear, in spite of the fastenings in which he is tightly held. He knows he is in dire danger, and has only so far escaped through having surrendered to a settler instead of to one of the Rangers.

"Let's gie him a chance o' his life; ef he'll tell all about it," counsels Cully. "What d'ye say, cap?"

"I agree to that," responds the Ranger captain. "He don't appear to be worth shooting; though it may be as well to take him on to the settlements, and shut him up in prison. The promise of pardon may get out of him all he knows; if not, the other will. He's not an Indian, and a bit of rope looped round his neck will, no doubt, loosen his tongue. Suppose we try boys?"

The "boys" are unanimous in their assent, and the renegade is at once brought up for examination. The man in the green blanket coat, who, as a Santa Fe expeditioner, has spent over twelve months in Mexican prisons, is appointed examiner. He has been long enough among the "yellerbellies" to have learnt their language.

The renegade is for a time reticent, and his statements are contradictory. No wonder he declines to tell what has occurred, so compromising to himself! But when the lariat is at length noosed around his neck, the loose end of it thrown over the limb of a pecan tree—the other conditions being clearly expounded to him—he sees that things can be no worse; and, seeing this, makes confession—full, if not free. He discloses everything—the attack and capture of the caravan, with the slaughter of the white men who accompanied it; he tells of the retreat of two of them to the cliff, one of whom, by the description, can be none other than Walt Wilder. When he at length comes to describe the horrible mode in which their old comrade has perished, the Rangers are almost frenzied with rage, and it is with difficulty some of them can be withheld from breaking their given word, and tearing him limb from limb.

He makes appeal to them for mercy, stating that he himself had no part in that transaction; that, although they have found him among the Indians, he was only as their prisoner; and forced to fight along with them.

This is evidently untrue; but, false or true, it has the effect of pacifying his judges, so far, that the lariat is left loose around his neck.

Further examination, and cross-examination, elicit other facts about the captured caravan—in short, everything, except the secret alliance between the Mexican officer and the Tenawa chief. Not thinking of this—in truth, having no suspicion of it—his examiners do not put any questions about it; and, for himself, the wretch sees no reason to declare it, but the contrary. He indulges in the hope of one day returning to the Del Norte, and renewing his relations with Colonel Gil Uraga.

"Comrades!" cries the Ranger captain, addressing himself to his men, as soon as the examination is concluded, "you all of you loved Walt Wilder—all who knew him?"

"We did! we did!" is the response feelingly spoken. "So did I. Well, he's dead, beyond a doubt. It's nearly a month ago, and he could not last so long, shut up in that cave. His bones will be there, with those of the other poor fellow, whoever he was, that went in with him. It's dreadful to think of it! Now, from what this scoundrel says, it can't be so very far from here. And, as we can make him guide us to the place, I propose we go there, get the remains of our old comrade, and give them Christian burial."

With the Texan Rangers obedience to duty is less a thing of command than request; and this is a request of such nature as to receive instant and unanimous assent "Let us go!" is the universal response. "We needn't all make this journey," continues the captain. "There's no need for any more than our own boys, the Rangers, and such of the settlers as may choose to go with us. The rest, who have to look after the women, and some for driving back the stock, can make their way home at once. I reckon we've left the track pretty clear of Indians, and they'll be in no further danger from them."

Without further discussion, this arrangement is decided upon; and the two parties commence making the preparations suitable to their respective plans.

In less than half an hour after they separate; the settlers, with the women, children, and cattle, wending their way eastward; while the Rangers, guided by the renegade, ride off in the opposite direction— toward the Llano Estacado.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

A PROPOSAL BY PROXY.

Day by day Hamersley grows stronger, and is able to be abroad.

Soon after Wilder, plucking him by the sleeve, makes request to have his company at some distance from the dwelling.

Hamersley accedes to the request, though not without some surprise. In the demeanour of his comrade there is an air of mystery. As this is unusual with the ex-Ranger, he has evidently something of importance to communicate.

Not until they have got well out of sight of the house, and beyond the earshot of anyone inside or around it, does Walt say a word. And then only after they have come to a stop in the heart of a cotton-wood copse, where a prostrate trunk offers them the accommodation of a seat.

Sitting down upon it, and making sign to Hamersley, still with the same mysterious air, to do likewise, the backwoodsman at length begins to unburden himself.

"Frank," says he, "I've brought ye out hyar to hev a little spell o' talk, on a subjeck as consarns this coon consid'able."

"What subject, Walt?"

"Wal, it's about a wumman."

"A woman! Why, Walt Wilder, I should have supposed that would be the farthest thing from your thoughts, especially a such a time and in such a place as this."

"True it shed, as ye say. For all that, ef this chile don't misunnerstan' the sign, a wumman ain't the furrest thing from yur thoughts, at the same time an' place."

The significance of the observation causes the colour to start to the cheeks of the young prairie merchant, late so pale. He stammers out an evasive rejoinder,—

"Well, Walt; you wish to have a talk with me. I'm ready to hear what you have to say. Go on! I'm listening."

"Wal, Frank, I'm in a sort o' a quandary wi' a critter as wears pettikotes, an' I want a word o' advice from ye. You're more practised in thar ways than me. Though a good score o' year older than yurself, I hain't hed much to do wi' weemen, 'ceptin' Injun squaws an' now an' agin a yeller gurl down by San Antone. But them scrapes wan't nothin' like thet Walt Wilder heve got inter now."

"A scrape! What sort of a scrape? I hope you haven't—"

"Ye needn't talk o' hope, Frank Hamersley. The thing air past hopin', an' past prayin' for. Ef this chile know anythin' o' the signs o' love, he has goed a good ways along its trail. Yis, sir-ee; too fur to think o' takin' the backtrack."

"On that trail, indeed?"

"Thet same; whar Cyubit sots his little feet, 'ithout neer a moccasin on 'em. Yis, kummerade, Walt Wilder, for oncest in in his kureer, air in a difeequelty; an' thet difeequelty air bein' fool enuf to fall in love— the which he hez dun, sure, sartin."

Hamersley gives a shrug of surprise, accompanied with a slight glance of indignation. Walt Wilder in love! With whom can it be? As he can himself think of only one woman worth falling in love with, either in that solitary spot, or elsewhere on earth, it is but natural his thoughts should turn to her.

Only for an instant, however. The idea of having the rough Ranger for a rival is preposterous. Walt, pursuing the theme, soon convinces him he has no such lofty aspirations.

"Beyond a doubt, she's been an' goed an' dud it—that air garl Concheeter. Them shining eyes o' her'n hev shot clar through this chile's huntin' shirt, till thar's no peace left inside o' it. I hain't slep a soun' wink for mor'en a week o' nights; all the time dreemin' o' the gurl, as ef she war a angel a hoverin' 'bout my head. Now, Frank, what am I ter do? That's why I've axed ye to kum out hyar, and enter into this confaberlation."

"Well, Walt, you shall be welcome to my advice. As to what you should do, that's clear enough; but what you may or can do will depend a good deal on what Miss Conchita says. Have you spoken to her upon the subject?"

"Thar hain't yit been much talk atween us—i'deed not any, I mout say. Ye know I can't parley thar lingo. But I've approached her wi' as much skill as I iver did bear or buffler. An', if signs signerfy anythin', she ain't bad skeeart about it. Contrarywise, Frank. If I ain't terribly mistuk, she shows as ef she'd be powerful willin' to hev me."

"If she be so disposed there can't be much difficulty in the matter. You mean to marry her, I presume?"

"In coorse I duz—that for sartin'. The feelin's I hev torst that gurl air diffrent to them as one hez for Injun squaws, or the queeries I've danced wi' in the fandangoes o' San Antone. Ef she'll agree to be myen, I meen nothin' short o' the hon'rable saramony o' marridge—same as atween man an' wife. What do ye think o't?"

"I think, Walt, you might do worse than get married. You're old enough to become a Benedict, and Conchita appears to be just the sort of girl that would suit you. I've heard it said that these Mexican women make the best of wives—when married to Americans."

Hamersley smiles, as though this thought were pleasant to him.

"There are several things," he continues, "that it will be necessary for you to arrange before you can bring about the event you're aiming at. First, you must get the girl's consent: and, I should think, also that of her master and mistress. They are, as it were, her guardians, and, to a certain extent, responsible for her being properly bestowed. Last of all, you'll require the sanction of the Church. This, indeed, may be your greatest difficulty. To make you and your sweetheart one, a priest, or Protestant clergyman, will be needed; and neither can be had very conveniently here, in the centre of the Staked Plain."

"Durn both sorts!" exclaims the ex-Ranger in a tone of chagrin. "Ef't warn't for the need o' 'em jest now, I say the Staked Plain air better 'ithout 'em, as wu'd anywars else. Why can't she an' me be tied thegither 'ithout any sech senseless saramony? Walt Wilder wants no mumblin' o' prayers at splicin' him to the gurl he's choosed for his partner. An' why shed thar be, supposin' we both gie our mutooal promises one to the tother?"

"True. But that would not be marriage such as would lawfully and legally make you man and wife."

"Doggone the lawfulness or legullity o' it! Priest or no priest, I want Concheteter for my squaw; an' I've made up my mind to hev her. Say, Frank! Don't ye think the old doc ked do it? He air a sort o' professional."

"No, no; the doctor would be of no use in that capacity. It's his business to unite broken bones, not hands and hearts. But, Walt, if you are really resolved on the thing, there will, no doubt, be an opportunity to carry out your intention in a correct and legitimate manner. You must be patient, however, and wait till you come across either a priest or a Protestant clergyman."

"Doggoned ef I care which," is the rejoinder of the giant. "Eyther'll do; an' one o' 'em 'ud be more nor surficient, ef 't war left ter Walt Wilder. But, hark'ee, Frank!" he continues, his face assuming an astute expression, "I'd like to be sure 'bout the thing now—that is, to get the gurl's way o' thinking on 't. Fact is, I've made up my mind to be sure, so as thar may be no slips or back kicks."

"Sure, how?"

"By procurin' her promise; getting betrothed, as they call it."

"There can be no harm in that. Certainly not."

"Wal, I'm gled you think so; for I've sot my traps for the thing, an' baited 'em too. Thet air's part o' my reezun for askin' ye out hyar. She's gin me the promise o' a meetin' 'mong these cotton woods, an' may kum at any minnit. Soon's she does, I'm agoin' to perpose to her; an' I want to do it in reg'lar, straightforrard way. As I can't palaver Spanish, an' you kin, I know'd ye wudn't mind transleetin' atween us. Ye won't, will ye?"

"I shall do that with the greatest pleasure, if you wish it. But don't you think, Walt, you might learn what you want to know without any interpreter? Conchita may not like my interference in an affair of such a delicate nature. Love's language is said to be universal, and by it you should understand one another."

"So fur's thet's consarned, I reck'n we do. But she, bein' a Mexikin, may hev queery ideas about it; an' I want her promise guv in tarms from which thar'll be no takin' the back track; same's I meen to give myen."

"All right, old fellow. I'll see you get such a promise, or none."

"Thet's satisfactory, Frank. Now, as this chile air agoin' to put the thing stiff an' strong, do you transleet it in the same sort."

"Trust me, it shall be done—verbatim et literatim."

"Thet's the way!" joyfully exclaims Walt; thinking that the verbatim et literatim—of the meaning of which he has not the slightest conception—will be just the thing to clinch his bargain with Conchita.

————————————————————————————————————

The singular contract between the prairie merchant and his ci-devant guide has just reached conclusion as a rustling is heard among the branches of the cottonwoods, accompanied by a soft footstep.

Looking around, they see Conchita threading her way through the grove. Her steps, cautious and stealthy, would tell of an "appointment," even were this not already known to them. Her whole bearing is that of one on the way to meet a lover; and the sight of Walt Wilder, who now rises erect to receive her, proclaims him to be the man.

It might appear strange that she does not shy back, on seeing him in company with another man. She neither starts nor shows any shyness; evidence that the presence of the third party is a thing understood and pre-arranged.

She advances without show of timidity; and, curtseying to the "Senor Francisco," as she styles Hamersley, takes seat upon the log from which he has arisen; Walt laying hold of her hand and gallantly conducting her to it.

There is a short interregnum of silence. This Conchita's sweetheart endeavours to fill up with a series of gestures that might appear uncouth but for the solemnity of the occasion. So considered, they may be deemed graceful, even dignified.

Perhaps not thinking them so himself, Walt soon seeks relief by turning to his interpreter, and making appeal to him as follows—

"Doggone it, Frank! Ye see I don't know how to talk to her, so you do the palaverin. Tell her right off, what I want. Say I hain't got much money, but a pair o' arems strong enuf to purtect her, thro' thick an' thro' thin, agin the dangers o' the mountain an' the puraira, grizzly bars, Injuns, an' all. She sees this chile hev got a big body; ye kin say to her thet his heart ain't no great ways out o' correspondence wi' his karkidge. Then tell her in the eend, thet his body an' his hands an' heart—all air offered to her; an' if she'll except 'em they shall be hern, now, evermore, an' to the death—so help me God!"

As the hunter completes his proposal thus ludicrously, though emphatically pronounced, he brings his huge hand down upon his brawny breast with a slap like the crack of a cricket bat.

Whatever meaning the girl may make out of his words, she can have had no doubt about their earnestness or sincerity, judging by the gestures that accompany them.

Hamersley can scarce restrain his inclination to laugh; but with an effort he subdues it, and faithfully, though not very literally, translates the proposal into Spanish.

When, as Walt supposes, he has finished, the ex-Ranger rises to his feet and stands awaiting the answer, his huge frame trembling like the leaf of an aspen. He continues to shake all the while Conchita's response is being delivered; though her first words would assure, and set his nerves at rest, could he but understand them. But he knows not his fate, till it has passed through the tedious transference from one language to another—from Spanish to his own native tongue.

"Tell him," is the response of Conchita, given without sign of insincerity, "tell him that I love him as much as he can me. That I loved him from the first moment of our meeting, and shall love him to the end of my life. In reply to his honourable proposal, say to him yes. I am willing to become his wife."

When the answer is translated to Walt, he bounds at least three feet into the air, with a shout of triumph such as he might give over the fall of an Indian foe.

Then, advancing towards the girl, he flings his great arms around her, lifts her from the ground as if she were a child's doll; presses her to his broad, throbbing breast, and imprints a kiss upon her lips—the concussion of which can be heard far beyond the borders of the cottonwood copse.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

A DANGEROUS EAVESDROPPER.

However successful in his suit with Conchita, Walt Wilder is not without a rival. Hamersley has reason to suspect this soon after separating from the lovers, which he does, leaving them to themselves. It has occurred to him, that the presence of more than two on that spot can be no longer desirable. His part has been performed, and he withdraws without saying a word.

There is a third man, notwithstanding—a spectator—whose breast is stirred with terrible emotion.

As the Kentuckian passes out through the copse, he catches sight of a figure crouching behind the trunk of a tree—apparently that of a man. Twilight is now on, and beneath the leafy branches reigns an obscurity almost equalling night. What he sees may be some straying animal, or perhaps it is only fancy. His thoughts are engrossed with that which carries him on towards the house. There one will be awaiting him, in whose refined presence he will soon forget the uncouth spectacle of courtship at which he has been assisting.

But the form he has observed cowering under the shadow of the cotton-woods was no fancy, nor four-footed creature, but a human being, a man—in short, Manuel the Indian.

Manuel is mad in love with the little mestiza, who, with Spanish blood in her veins, is, nevertheless, maternally of his own race—that of the Indios mansos, or "tame Indians," of New Mexico—so called in contradistinction to the Indios bravos, the savages who, from the conquest till this day, have never submitted themselves to Spanish rule. Though Christianised, after a fashion, by the Franciscans, with others of the missionary fathers—living in walled towns, each with its capilla or church, and cultivating the lands around, many of these so-called Christian Indians still continue to practice Pagan rites, more or less openly. In some of their villages, it is said, the estafa, or sacred fire, is kept burning, and has never been permitted to go out since the time of Montezuma, from whom and his people they believe themselves descended. They are undoubtedly of Aztec race, and sun-worshippers, as were the subjects of the unfortunate Emperor of Tenochtitlas.

Travellers who have visited their more remote "pueblos" have witnessed something of this sun-worship, seeing them ascend to the flat roofs of their singularly constructed houses, and there stand in fixed attitude, devoutly gazing at the sun as it ascends over the eastern horizon.

Notwithstanding the epithet "tame," which their Spanish conquerors have applied to them, they are still more than half wild; and, upon occasions, the savage instinct shows itself in deeds of cruelty and blood.

This very instinct has been kindled in the heart of Manuel. It was not devotion to Don Valerian Miranda that moved him to follow the fortunes of his master into exile; his love for Conchita accounts for his presence there. And he loves her with an ardour and singleness of passion such as often burns in the breasts of his people.

The girl has given him no encouragement, rather the reverse. For all that, he has pursued her with zealous solicitation, regardless of rebuffs and apparently unconscious of her scorn.

Hitherto he has had no rival, which has hindered him from despairing. Conchita is still young, in her earliest teens, having just turned twelve. But even at this age a New Mexican maiden is deemed old enough for matrimony; and Manuel, to do justice to him, has eyes upon her with this honest intent. For months he had made up his mind to have her for his wife—long before their forced flight into the Llano Estacado. And now that they are in the desert, with no competitor near—for Chico does not count as one—he has fancied the time come for the consummation of his hopes.

But just when the fair fruit seems ripe for plucking, like the fox in the fable, he discovers it is beyond his reach. What is worse still, another, taller than he, and who can reach higher, is likely to gather it.

Ever since the arrival of Walt Wilder in the valley he has been watching the movements of the latter.

Not without observing that between the great Texan hunter and the little Mexican muchacha there has sprung up an attachment of a suspicious nature.

He has not heard them express it in speech, for in this way they cannot communicate with one another; but certain looks and gestures exchanged, unintelligible to others, have been easily interpreted by the Indian as the signs of a secret and mutual understanding between them.

They have driven the poor peon well nigh distracted with jealousy—felt all the keener from its being his first experience of it, all the angrier from consciousness of his own honest love—while he believes that of the intruder to have a different intent.

As the days and hours pass he observes new incidents to sharpen his suspicions and strengthen his jealous ire.

In fine, he arrives at the conclusion that Conchita—long loved by him, long vainly solicited—has surrendered her heart to the gigantic Texan, who like a sinister shadow, a ghoul, a very ogre, has chanced across the sunlight of his path.

Under the circumstances, what is he to do? He is powerful in passion, but weak in physical strength. Compared with his rival, he is nought. In a conflict the Texan would crush him, squeeze the breath out of his body, as a grizzly bear would that of a prairie squirrel or ground gopher.

He does not show open antagonism—does not think of it. He knows it would but end in his ruin—his utter annihilation.

Still, he is not despairing.

With the instincts peculiar to his race, he contemplates revenge. All his idle hours are spent brooding over plans to frustrate the designs of his rival—in short, to put him out of the way altogether.

More than once has a thought of poison passed through his mind as the surest way of effecting his fiendish purpose, as also the safest; and upon this mode of killing the Texan he has at length determined.

That very day he has been engaged in making ready for the deed— preparing the potion. Certain plants he has found growing in the valley, well known among his people as poisonous, will furnish him with the means of death—a slow, lingering death, therefore all the surer to avert suspicion from the hand that has dealt it.

To all appearance, Walt Wilder is doomed. He has escaped the spears, arrows, and tomahawks of the Tenawa savages to fall a victim to a destroyer, stealthy, subtle, unseen.

And is the noble Texan—guide, ranger, and hunter—thus sadly to succumb? No. Fate has not decreed his death by such insidious means. A circumstance, apparently accidental, steps in to save him. On this very day, when the poison it being prepared for him, the poisoner receives a summons that for the time at least, will frustrate his foul plans. His master commands him to make ready for a journey. It is an errand similar to that he has been several times sent upon before. He is to proceed to the settlements on the Rio Grande, where Don Valerian has friends with whom, in his exile, he keeps up secret correspondence, Manuel acting as messenger. Thence the trusted peon is to bring back, as oft before, despatches, news, provisions—the last now more than ever needed, on account of the stranger guests so unexpectedly thrown upon his hospitality.

Manuel is to commence his journey on the following day at the earliest hour of dawn. There will be no chance for him now to carry out his nefarious design. It must remain uncompleted till his return.

While chafing at the disappointment, he sees Conchita stealing out from the house and entering the cotton-wood grove. He follows her with a caution equalling her own, but from a far different cause. Crouching on through the trees, he takes stand behind a trunk, and, concealed by it, becomes spectator of all that passes. He is at first surprised at seeing three where he expected only two. Pleased also; for it gives him hope the girl's errand may not be the keeping of a love appointment. But as the triangular conference proceeds; above all, when it arrives at its conclusion, and he sees the Texan raise Conchita in his arms, giving her that kiss, the echo of which is distinctly audible to him, his blood boils, and with difficulty does he restrain himself from rushing up to the spot, and taking the lives of all three, or ending his own if he fail.

For a time he stands erect, with his machete drawn from its sheath, his eyes flashing with the fires of jealous vengeance. Fortunately for those upon whom they are bent, an instinct of self-preservation stays him. His hand is ready, but his heart fails him. Terrible as is his anger, it is yet controlled by fear. He will wait for a more favourable time and surer opportunity. A safer means, too—this more than aught else restraining him. While still in intense agitation, he sees Hamersley depart, leaving the other two to themselves. And now, as other kisses are exchanged between the lovers, his jealous fury becomes freshly excited, and for the second time he is half resolved to rush forward and kill—kill.

But again his fears gain the ascendency, and his hand refuses to obey the dictates of his angry heart. With the bare blade held tremblingly, he continues spectator of that scene which fills his breast with blackest, bitterest emotion. He has not the courage to interrupt it. Calculating the chances, he perceives they are against him. Should he succeed in killing the Texan, with Conchita standing by and bearing witness to the deed, would be to forfeit his own life. He could find it in his heart to kill her too; but that would lead to the same result. Failing in his first blow, the great hunter would have him under his heel, to be crushed as a crawling reptile.

Thus cogitating, he sticks to his place of concealment, and overlooks the love scene to its termination; then permits the lovers to depart in peace—the woman he so wildly loves, the man he so madly hates.

After they have gone out of the grove, he advances towards the log upon which they were seated. Himself taking seat on it, he there ponders upon a plan of vengeance surer and safer than the assassin's steel.

It is no longer his intent to employ poison. A new idea has entered his brain—has been in it ever since receiving notice of the journey on which he is about to set forth; in truth, suggested by this. A scheme quite as efficient as poisoning, but also having a purpose far more comprehensive, for it includes others besides his rival the Ranger. Of late neglectful of his duties, Colonel Miranda has severely chided him, thus kindling the hereditary antipathy of his race towards the white man.

His master is to be among the victims—in short, all of them, his fellow-servant, Chico, excepted. Should the diabolical plan prove a success, not one of them can escape ruin, and most of them may meet death.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

A TALE OF PERIL.

Thanks to the skill of Don Prospero, exerted with kind assiduity, Hamersley's wounds are soon healed, his strength completely restored. Doubtless the tender nursing of the "angel" has something to do with his rapid recovery, while her presence, cheerful as gentle, does much to remove the gloom from his spirits, caused by the terrible disaster he had sustained. Long before reaching convalescence he has ceased to lament the loss of his property, and only sorrows as he reflects on the fate of his brave followers, whose lives were sacrificed in the effort to preserve it.

Happily, however, as time passes the retrospect of the red carnage loses something of its sanguinary hue, its too vivid tints becoming gradually obscured in the oblivion of the past with the singular surroundings of the present. Amid these his spirit yields itself to pleasanter reflections. How could it be otherwise?

Still, with restored strength, his curiosity has been increasing, till it has reached a point of keenness requiring to be satisfied. He wonders at all around him, especially the strange circumstance of finding his old friend and duelling second in such an out-of-the-way place. As yet, Miranda has only given him a hint, though one pretty much explaining all. There has been a revolution; and they are refugees.

But the young Kentuckian is curious to learn the details, about which, for some reason, the Mexican has hitherto preserved silence. His reticence has been due to an injunction of the doctor, who, still under some anxiety about the recovery of his patient, forbade imparting to him particulars that might have an injurious effect on his nervous system, sadly debilitated by the shock it has received.

Don Prospero is an acute observer. He perceives the growing interest which Hamersley takes in the sister of his host. He knows the story of the Chihuahua duel; and thinks that the other story—that of the disastrous revolution—told in detail, might retard the convalescence of his patient. Counselled by him, Colonel Miranda has refrained from communicating it.

Ignorant of the cause, Hamersley is all the more eager to learn it. Still, his curiosity does not impel him to importunate inquiry. In the companionship of such kind friends he can afford to be patient.

Walt Wilder has no curiosity of any kind. His thoughts have become centred, his whole soul wrapped up in Conchita. The heart of the colossal hunter has received a shock such as it never had before; for, as he declared himself, he is in love for the first time in his life.

Not but that he has made love before, after a fashion. For he has shared his tent with more than one Indian squaw, drank and danced with those nondescript damsels who now and then find their way to the forts of the fur-traders scattered among the Rocky Mountains and along the border-land of the prairies. To all this he has confessed.

But these have been only interludes, "trifling love scrapes." His present affair with the little mestiza is different. Her sparkling black eyes pierced deeper and more direct—"straight plum-centre to his heart," as, in professional jargon, he described it.

The invalid is at length convalescent; the doctor removes the seal of injunction placed upon the lips of Colonel Miranda, and the latter fulfils his promise made to give a narrative of the events which have led to their residence in that remote and solitary spot.

The two seated together sipping Paseno wine and smoking cigars, the Mexican commences his tale.

"We are refugees, as I've already stated, and came here to save our heads. At least, there was danger of my losing mine—or, rather, the certainty of it—had we not succeeded in making our escape from Albuquerque. The word pronunciamento explains all. A revolt of the troops under my command, with a name, that of the leader, will give you a key to the whole affair."

"Uraga!" exclaims Hamersley, the word coming mechanically from his red lips; while a cloud passes over his brow, and a red flush flecks the pallor on his cheeks. "Captain Uraga! 'Twas he?"

"It was."

"The scoundrel! I thought so."

"Not Captain Uraga now, but Colonel; for the reward of his treason reached him simultaneously with its success, and the traitor is now in command of the district from which I have been, deposed. Not only that, but, as I have heard, he has appropriated my house—the same where, twelve months ago, I had the pleasure of showing you some hospitality. Contrasting it with our present humble abode, you will see, senor, that my family affairs have not prospered, any more than my political fortunes. But to the narration.

"Not long after you left us I made application to the Government for an increase to the mounted force at my disposal. This had become necessary for due protection of the district from our warlike neighbours in the west—the Navajoes. They had made several raids upon the river settlements, and carried off goods, cattle, and a number of captives. The force I had made requisition for was obtained; but not the right men, or at least the officers I should have chosen to command it. A troop of light cavalry was sent me—Lancers. You may imagine my chagrin, not to say disgust, when I saw Captain Gil Uraga at its head. Marching into the town of Albuquerque, he reported himself for duty.

"I need not tell you how unpleasant it was for me to have such a fellow for subordinate. In addition to our Chihuahua duel, there were many reasons for my having an aversion to him—one, and not the least, that which I have already hinted to you—his pretensions to be the suitor of my sister."

Hamersley writhes as he listens, the red spot on his cheek spreading and flushing redder.

Miranda proceeds—

"He continued his ill-received attentions whenever chance gave him an opportunity. It was not often. I took care of that; though, but for precautions and my authority as his superior officer, his advances would, no doubt, have been bolder—in short, persecutions. I knew that to my sister, as to myself, his presence was disagreeable, but there was no help for it. I could not have him removed. In all matters of military duty he took care to act so that there should be no pretext for a charge against him. Besides, I soon found that he was in favour with one of the Government dignitaries. Though I did not then know why, I learnt it afterwards; and why he, of all others, had been sent to Albuquerque. The sap had commenced for a new revolution, and he was one of its secret fomenters. He had been chosen by the parti pretre as a fitting agent to act in that district, of which, like myself, he was a native.

"Having no suspicion of this, I only thought of him in regard to his impertinent solicitation of my sister; and against this I could restrain him. He was polite; obsequiously so, and cautiously guarded in his gallantries; so that I had no cause for resorting to the desafio. I could only wait and watch.

"The vigil was not a protracted one; though, alas! it ended differently from what I expected. About two months after his coming under my command, the late grito was proclaimed all over Mexico. One morning as I went down to the military quarters I found confusion and disturbance. The soldiers were under arms, many of them drunk, and vociferating 'Viva Santa Anna! Viva el Coronel Uraga!' Hearing this, I at once comprehended all. It was a pronunciamento. I drew my sword, thinking to stem the tide of treason; and called around me such of my followers as were still faithful. It was too late. The poison had spread throughout the whole command. My adherents were soon overpowered, several of them killed; myself wounded, dragged to the carcel, and there locked up. The wonder is that I was not executed on the spot; since I know Gil Uraga thirsted for my life. He was only restrained, however, by a bit of caution; for, although I was not put to death on that day, he intended I should never see the sun rise upon another. In this he was disappointed, and I escaped.

"I know you will be impatient to learn how," resumes the refugee, after rolling and igniting a fresh cigarrito. "It is somewhat of an incident, and might serve the writer of a romance. I owe my life, my liberty, and, what is more, my sister's safety, to our good friend Don Prospero. In his capacity of military surgeon he was not compromised like the rest of us; and after the revolt in the cuartel he was left free to follow his vocation. While seeking permission to dress the wound I had received, chance conducted him to a place where he could overhear a conversation that was being carried on between Uraga and one of his lieutenants—a ruffian named Roblez, fit associate for his superior. They were in high glee over what had happened, carousing, and in their cups not very cautious of what they said. Don Prospero heard enough to make him acquainted with their scheme, so diabolical you will scarcely give credence to it. I was to be made away with in the night—carried up to the mountains, and there murdered! With no traces left, it would be supposed that I had made my escape from the prison. And the good doctor heard other designs equally atrocious. What the demons afterwards intended doing when my sister should be left unprotected—"

Something like a groan escapes from the listener's lips, while his fingers move nervously, as if clutching at a weapon.

"Devoted to me, Don Prospero at once resolved upon a course of action. There was not a moment to be lost. He obtained permission to attend me professionally in the prison. It was a cheap grace on Uraga's part, considering his ulterior design. An attendant, a sort of hospital assistant, was allowed to accompany the doctor to the cell, carrying his lints, drugs, and instruments. Fortunately, I had not been quite stripped by the ruffians who had imprisoned me, and in my own purse, along with that of Don Prospero, was a considerable sum of gold—enough for tempting the attendant to change clothes and places with me. He was the more ready to do so, relying upon a story he intended to tell—that we had overpowered and compelled him. Poor fellow! As we afterwards learnt, it did not save him. He was shot the next morning to appease the chagrin of Uraga, furious at our escape. We cannot help feeling regret for his fate; but, under the circumstances, what else could have been done?

"We stepped forth from the carcel, the doctor leading the way, and I, his assistant, bearing the paraphernalia after him. We passed out of the barracks unchallenged. Fortunately, the night was a dark one, and the guards were given to carousing. The sentries were all intoxicated.

"By stealth, and in silence, we hastened on to my house, where I found Adela, as you may suppose, in a state of agonised distress. But there was no time for words—not even of explanation. With two of my servants whom I could trust, we hastily collected some of our animals—horses and pack-mules. The latter we loaded with such things as we could think of as being requisite for a journey. We intended it to be a long one—all the way across the great prairies. I knew there would be no safety for us within the limits of New Mexico; and I remembered what you had said but a few months before—your kind proffer of hospitality, should it ever be my fate to seek refuge in your country. And to seek it we set forth, leaving my house untenanted, or only in charge of the remaining domestics, from whom gold had gained a promise not to betray us. The doctor, Adela and myself, the two peons who had volunteered to accompany us, with the girl, Conchita, composed our travelling party. I knew we dared not take the route usually travelled. We should be followed by hostile pursuers and forced back, perhaps slain upon the spot. I at least would have had a short shrift. Knowing this, we made direct for the mountains, with whose passes I was familiar, having traversed them in pursuit of the savages.

"We passed safely through the Sierra, and kept on towards the Rio Pecos. Beyond this river all was unknown to us. We only knew that there lay the Llano Estacado, invested with mysterious terrors—the theme of our childhood's fears—a vast stretch of desert, uninhabited, or only by savages seeking scalps, by wild beasts ravening for blood, by hideous reptiles—serpents breathing poison. But what were all these dangers to that we were leaving behind? Nothing, and this thought inspired us to proceed.

"We crossed the Pecos and entered upon the sterile plain. We knew not how far it extended; only that on the other side lay a fertile country through which we might penetrate to the frontier settlements of your great free nation. This was the beacon of our hopes, the goal of safety.

"We travelled in an easterly course; but there were days when the sun was obscured by clouds; and then, unguided, we had either to remain at rest or run the chance of getting strayed.

"We toiled on, growing weak for want of food, and suffering terribly from thirst. No water was to be found anywhere—not a drop.

"Our animals suffered as ourselves. Staggering under the weight of their loads, one by one they gave out, dropping down upon the desert plain. Only one held out bravely to the last—the mustang mare that brought you to our present abode. Yes, Lolita survived to carry my dear sister, as if she understood the value we all placed upon her precious burden. The others gave out—first the horses ridden by Don Prospero and myself, then the pack-mules. Fortunately, these fell near the spot where we at length found relief—near enough for their loads, and two of themselves, to be afterwards recovered.

"One day, as we toiled on afoot, in the hourly expectation of death, we came in sight of this fair spot. It appeared to us a Paradise, as you say it did to yourself. Under our eyes were green trees and the gleam of crystal streams; in our ears the songs of birds we had never expected to hear again. Chance had brought us direct to the path, the only one by which the valley can be reached from the upper plain. Inspirited by the fair spectacle below, we gained strength enough to descend. We drank of the sweet water, and procured food from the branches of the trees that shaded it. It was the season when fruits and berries were abundant. Afterwards we discovered game, and were successful in capturing it.

"Soon with restored strength we were able to go back, and recover the paraphernalia we had left upon the plain, along with two of the mules that, after resting, had regained their feet, and could stagger on a little farther.

"At first we only thought of making this a temporary resting-place; though there seemed but slight hope of being able to continue our journey. But as the days passed, and we were left undisturbed, we began to realise the fact that we had found an asylum, safe as pleasant.

"It was not likely that anyone would discover the track we had taken in our flight. Even the resentment of Uraga would scarce pursue us across the Staked Plain. In any case, there was no help for it but to remain in the valley, as we had not animals enough to carry us on. Our only alternative was to go back to the Del Norte—a thing not to be thought of. We resolved, therefore, on staying, at least for a time. I had conceived a plan for communicating with my friends in New Mexico, and am not without hope that sooner or later we may get tidings that will make it safe for as to return. In our country, as you know, there is nothing permanent; and we have hopes ere long to see the Liberal party once more in the ascendant.

"Our resolution to remain here becoming fixed we sot about making our situation as comfortable as circumstances would permit. We erected this humble tenement whose roof now shelters us. We turned fishermen and hunters; in the last my sister proving more accomplished than any of us—a real huntress, as you have seen. We have enjoyed the life amazingly; more especially our worthy medico, who is an enthusiastic naturalist, and here finds a rare opportunity of gratifying his scientific tastes. For subsistence we have not had to depend altogether upon the chase. Manuel, one of our peons, an old muleteer, makes an occasional trip to Albuquerque, the route of which he has good reason to remember. I send him with messages, and to purchase provisions. He is cautious to make his approaches under cover of night, and do his marketing with circumspection. With our gold, not yet all gone, he is enabled to bring back such commodities as we stand in need of; while a friend, entrusted with the secret of our hiding-place, keeps us informed of the novedades. Now you know all."



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

Colonel Miranda, having told the tale of his perilous escape, for a time remains silent and reflective. So does his listener. Both are thinking on the same subject—the villainy of Gil Uraga.

Hamersley first breaks silence, asking the question,—

"Did you get my letter?"

"What letter?"

"I wrote you only one. Now I think of it, you could not have received it. No. By the time it would reach Albuquerque, you must have been gone from there."

"I got no letter from you, Don Francisco. You say you sent one. What was the nature of its contents?"

"Nothing of any importance. Merely to say that I was coming back to New Mexico, and hoped to find you in good health."

"Did it particularise the time you expected to reach Albuquerque?"

"Yes; as far as I could fix that, if I remember rightly, it did."

"And the route you were to take?"

"That too. When I wrote the letter I intended to make trial of a new trail lately discovered—up the Canadian, and touching the northern end of the Staked Plain. I did make trial of it, alas! with lamentable result. But why do you ask these questions, Colonel Miranda?"

The colonel does not make immediate answer. He appears more meditative than ever, as though some question has come before his mind calling for deliberate examination.

While he is thus occupied the ex-Ranger enters the room and sits down beside them. Walt is welcome. Indeed, Don Valerian had already designed calling him into their counsel. For an idea has occurred to the Mexican Colonel requiring the joint consideration of all three. Turning to the other two, he says,—

"I've been thinking a good deal about the attack on your caravan. The more I reflect on it the more I am led to believe that some of the Indians who plundered you were painted."

"They were all painted," is the reply of the young prairie merchant.

"True, Don Francisco; but that isn't what I mean."

"I reckon I knows what ye mean," interposes the ex-Ranger, rising excitedly from his chair on hearing the Mexican's remark. "It's been my own suspeeshun all along. You know what I tolt ye, Frank?"

Hamersley looks interrogatively at his old comrade.

"Did I not say," continues Wilder, "that I seed two men 'mong the Injuns wi' ha'r upon thar faces? They wa'n't Injuns; they war whites. A'n't that what ye mean, Kurnel Meoranda?"

"Precisamente!" is the colonel's reply.

The other two wait for him to continue on with the explanation Wilder has already surmised. Even the young prairie merchant—less experienced in Mexican ways and wickedness, in infamy so incredible—begins to have a glimmering of the truth.

Seemingly weighing his words, Miranda proceeds,—

"No doubt it was a band of Comanche Indians that destroyed your caravan and killed your comrades. But I have as little doubt of there being white men among them—one at least, and that one he who planned and instigated the deed."

"Who, Colonel Miranda?" is the quick interrogatory of the Kentuckian, while with flashing eyes and lips apart he breathlessly awaits the answer. For all, he does not much need it; the name to be pronounced is on the tip of his own tongue.

It is again "Gil Uraga!"

"Yes," replies the Mexican, with added emphasis. "He is, undoubtedly, the robber who despoiled you. Though done in the guise of an Indian onslaught, with real Indians as his assistants, he has been their instructor—their leader. I see it all now clear as sunlight. He got your letter, which you say was addressed to me as colonel commanding at Albuquerque. As a matter of course, he opened it. It told him when and where to meet you; your strength, and the value of your cargo. The last has not been needed as an incentive for him to assail you, Don Francisco. The mark you made upon his cheek was sufficient. Didn't I tell you at the time he would move heaven and earth to have revenge on you—on both of us? He has succeeded; behold his success. I a refugee, robbed of everything; you plundered the same; both ruined men!"

"Not yet!" cries the Kentuckian, starting to his feet. "Not ruined yet, Colonel Miranda. If the thing be as you say, I shall seek a second interview with this scoundrel—this fiend; seek till I obtain it. And then—"

"Hyur's one," interrupts the ex-Ranger, unfolding his gigantic form with unusual rapidity, "who'll take part in that sarch. Yis, Frank, this chile's willin' to go wi' ye to the heart o' Mexiko, plum centre; to the halls o' the Montyzoomas; reddy to start this minnit."

"If," resumes Hamersley, his coolness contrasting with the excited air of his comrade, now roused to a terrible indignation, "if, Colonel Miranda, it turns out as you conjecture, that Gil Uraga has taken part in the destruction of my waggon-train, or even been instrumental in causing it, I shall leave no stone unturned to obtain justice."

"Justice!" exclaims the ex-Ranger, with a deprecatory toss of the head. "In case o' this kind we want somethin' beside. To think o' thirteen innercent men attacked without word o' warnin', shot down, stabbed, slaughtered, and sculped! Think o' that; an' don't talk tamely o' justice; let's shout loudly for revenge!"



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE LAND OF THE "LEX TALIONIS."

During the quarter of a century preceding the annexation of New Mexico to the United States, that distant province of the Mexican Republic, like all the rest of the country, was the scene of constantly recurring revolutions. Every discontented captain, colonel, or general who chanced to be in command of a district, there held sway as a dictator; so demeaning himself that martial and military rule had become established as the living law of the land. The civic authorities rarely possessed more than the semblance of power; and where they did it was wielded in the most flagitious manner. Arbitrary arts were constantly committed, under the pretext of patriotism or duty. No man's life was safe who fell under the displeasure of the ruling military chieftain; and woman's honour was held in equally slight respect.

In the northern frontier provinces of the republic this irresponsible power of the soldiery was peculiarly despotic and harassing. There, two causes contributed to establish and keep it in the ascendency. One of these was the revolutionary condition of the country, which, as elsewhere, had become chronic. The contest between the party of the priests and that of the true patriots, begun in the first days of Mexico's independence, has been continued ever since; now one, now the other, in the ascendant. The monstrous usurpation of Maximilian, supported by Napoleon the Third, and backed by a soldier whom all Mexicans term the "Bandit Bazaine," was solely due to the hierarchy; while Mexico owes its existing Republican government to the patriot party—happily, for the time, triumphant.

The province of New Mexico, notwithstanding its remoteness from the nation's capital, was always affected by, and followed, its political fortunes. When the parti pretre was in power at the capital, its adherents became the rulers in the distant States for the time being; and when the Patriots, or Liberals, gained the upper hand this role was reversed.

It is but just to say that, whenever the latter were the "ins," things for the time went well. Corruption, though not cured, was to some extent checked; and good government would begin to extend itself over the land. But such could only last for a brief period. The monarchical, dictatorial, or imperial party—by whatever name it may be known—was always the party of the Church; and this, owning three-fourths of the real estate, both in town and country, backed by ancient ecclesiastical privileges, and armed with another powerful engine—the gross superstition it had been instrumental in fostering— was always able to control events; so that no Government, not despotic, could stand against it for any great length of time. For all, freedom at intervals triumphed, and the priests became the "outs;" but ever potent, and always active, they would soon get up a new "grito" to bring about a revolutionary change in the Government. Sanguinary scenes would be enacted—hangings, shooting, garrottings—all the horrors of civil war that accompany the bitterest of all spite, the ecclesiastical.

In such an uncertain state of things it was but natural that the militarios should feel themselves masters of the situation, and act accordingly.

In the northern districts they had yet another pretext for their unrestrained exercise of power—in none more than New Mexico. This remote province, lying like an oasis in the midst of uninhabited wilds, was surrounded on all sides by tribes of hostile Indians. There were the Navajoes and Apaches on its west, the Comanche and other Apache bands on the south and east, the Utahs on its north, and various smaller tribes distributed around it. They were all more or less hostile at one time or another: now on terms of an intermittent peace, secured by a "palaver" and treaty; this anon to be broken by some act of bad faith, leaving their "braves" at liberty once more to betake themselves to the war-path.

Of course this condition of things gave the soldiery a fine opportunity to maintain their ascendency over the peaceful citizens. Rabble as these soldiers were, and poltroons as they generally proved themselves in every encounter with the Indians, they were accustomed to boast of being the country's protectors, for this "protection" assumed a sort of right to despoil it at their pleasure.

Some few years preceding the American-Mexican war—which, as well known, gave New Mexico to the United States—these belligerent swaggerers were in the zenith of their arbitrary rule. Their special pet and protector, Santa Anna, was in for a new spell of power, making him absolute dictator of Mexico and disposer of the destinies of its people. At the same time, one of his most servile tools and successful imitators was at the head of the Provincial Government, having Santa Fe for its capital. This man was Manuel Armijo, whose character may be ascertained, by those curious to study it, from reading the chronicles of the times, especially the records of the prairie merchants, known as the "Santa Fe traders." It will there be learnt that this provincial despot was guilty of every act that could disgrace humanity; and that not only did he oppress his fellow-citizens with the soldiery placed at his disposal to protect them from Indian enemies, but was actually in secret league with the savages themselves to aid him in his mulcts and murders! Whatever his eye coveted he was sure to obtain, by fair means or foul— by open pillage or secret theft—not unfrequently accompanied by assassination. And as with the despot himself, so with his subordinates—each in his own town or district wielding irresponsible power; all leading lives in imitation of the provincial chieftain, as he of him—the great prototype and patron of all—who held dictatorial sway in the capital of the country, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.

A knowledge of this abnormal and changeable condition of Mexican affairs will, in some measure, explain why Colonel Miranda so suddenly ceased to be commandant of Albuquerque. Santa Anna's new accession to power brought in the Padres, turning out the Patriotas, many of the latter suffering death for their patriotism, while the adherents of the former received promotion for their support.

Staunchest among these was the captain of Lancers, Gil Uraga, promoted to be colonel as also commandant of the district from which its deposed chief so narrowly escaped with his life.

And now this revolutionary usurper is in full authority, his acts imitating his master, Armijo, like him in secret league with the savages, even consorting with the red pirates of the plains, taking part in their murderous marauds, and sharing their plunder.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

PROSPEROUS, BUT NOT HAPPY.

Despite his rapid military promotion and the ill-gotten wealth he has acquired, Colonel Gil Uraga is anything but a happy man. Only at such times as he is engaged in some stirring affair of duty or devilry, or when under the influence of drink, is he otherwise than wretched. To drinking he has taken habitually, almost continually. It is not to drown conscience; he has none. The canker-worm that consumes him is not remorse, but disappointment in a love affair, coupled with a thirst for vengeance.

There are moments when he is truly miserable, his misery reaching its keenest whenever he either looks into his mirror or stands before a portrait that hangs against the wall of the sala. It is a likeness of Adela Miranda; for he has taken possession of the house of his predecessor, with all its furniture and pictures, left in their hasty retreat, the young lady's portrait as the rest.

The Lancer colonel loves Adela Miranda; and though his love be of a coarse, brutal nature, it is strong and intense as that the noblest man may feel.

In earlier days he believed there was a chance of his obtaining her hand. Humble birth is no bar in Mexico—land of revolutions—where the sergeant or common soldier of to-day may be a lieutenant, captain, or colonel to-morrow. His hopes had been a stimulant to his military aspirations; perchance one of the causes that first led him into crime. He believed that wealth might bridge over the social distinction between himself and her, and in this belief he cared not how it should be acquired. For the rest he was not ill-looking, rather handsome, and fairly accomplished. Like most Mexican militarios, he could boast of his bonnes fortunes, which he often did.

These have become more rare since receiving the sword-thrust from his American adversary in the duel at Chihuahua, which not only cost him three front teeth, but a hideous scar across the cheek. The teeth have been replaced, but the scar cannot be effaced; it remains a frightful cicatrix. Even his whiskers, let grow to their extremest outcrop, will not all conceal it; it is too far forward upon the face.

It was after this unfortunate affair that he made proposal to Adela Miranda. And now he cannot help thinking it had something to do with her abrupt and disdainful rejection of him, though the young lady's little concealed disgust, coupled with her brother's indignation, had no reference to the physical deformity. But for his blind passion he might have perceived this. Fancying it so, however, it is not strange that he goes half frantic, and can be heard giving utterance to fearful oaths every time he glances in his looking-glass.

After returning from his secret expedition of murder and pillage, he can gaze with more equanimity into the glass. From the man who caused the disfiguration of his visage he has exacted a terrible retribution. His adversary in the Chihuahua duel is now no more. He has met with a fate sufficient to satisfy the most implacable vengeance; and often, both sober and in his cups, does Gil Uraga break out into peals of laughter, like the glee of a demon, as he reflects on the torture, prolonged and horrible, his hated enemy must have endured before life became extinct!

But even all this does not appease his malevolent spirit. A portion of his vengeance is yet unappeased—that due to him who was second in the duel. And if it could be satisfied by the death of Miranda himself, then there would still be the other thought to torture him—his thwarted love scheme. The chagrin he suffers from this is stronger than his thirst for vengeance.

He is seated in the sala of Miranda's house, which he occupies as his official headquarters. He is alone, his only companion being the bottle that stands upon a table beside him—this and a cigar burning between his lips. It is not wine he is drinking, but the whisky of Tequila, distilled from the wild maguey. Wine is too weak to calm his perturbed spirit, as he sits surveying the portrait upon the wall.

His eyes have been on it several times; each time, as he takes them off, drinking a fresh glass of the mezcal and igniting another cigar. What signifies all his success in villainy? What is life worth without her? He would plunder a church to obtain possession of her—murder his dearest friend to get from Adela Miranda one approving smile.

Such are his coarse thoughts as he sits soliloquising, shaping conjectures about the banished commandant and his sister.

Where can they have gone to? In all probability to the United States— that asylum of rebels and refugees. In the territory of New Mexico they cannot have stayed. His spies have searched every nook and corner of it, their zeal secured by the promise of large rewards. He has dispatched secret emissaries to the Rio Abajo, and on to the Provincias Internas. But no word of Miranda anywhere—no trace can be found either of him or his sister. "Chingara!"

As if this exclamatory phrase, sent hissing through his teeth—too foul to bear translation—were the name of a man, one at this moment appears in the doorway, who, after a gesture of permission to enter, steps inside the room.

He is an officer in full uniform—one whom we have met before, though not in military costume. It is Lieutenant Roblez, Uraga's adjutant, as also his confederate in crime.

"I'm glad you've come, ayudante," says the Colonel, motioning the new-comer to a seat. "I'm feeling a little bit lonely, and I want some one to cheer me. You, Roblez, are just the man for that; you've got such a faculty for conversation."

This is ironical; for Roblez is as silent as an owl.

"Sit down and give me your cheerful company," the Colonel adds. "Have a cigar and a copita of this capital stuff; it's the best that Tequila produces."

"I've brought other company that may be more cheerful than mine," returns the adjutant, still keeping his feet.

"Ah! some of our fellows from the cuartel? Bring them in."

"It is not any of the officers, Colonel. There's only one man, and he's a civilian.

"Civilian or soldier, you're free to introduce him. I hope," he adds, in an undertone, "it's one of the ricos of the neighbourhood, who won't mind taking an albur at monte or a throw of the dice. I'm just in the vein for a bit of play."

"He I'm going to introduce don't look much like a rico. From what I can see of him in the darkness, I should say that the blanket upon his shoulders and his sheepskin smallclothes—somewhat dilapidated by the way—are about all the property he possesses."

"He's a stranger to you, then?"

"As much as to yourself, as you'll say after seeing him—perhaps more."

"What sort of man is he?"

"For that matter, he can hardly be described as a man. At least, he's not one of the gent-de-razon. He's only an Indian."

"Ha! Comanche?"

As he utters this interrogatory, Colonel Gil Uraga gives a slight start, and looks a little uneasy. His relations with men of the Indian race are of a delicate nature; and, although keen to cultivate their acquaintance whenever occasion requires it, he prefers keeping all Indians at a distance—more especially Comanches, when he has no particular need of their services. The thought has flashed across his mind that the man waiting to be ushered into his presence may be a messenger from the Horned Lizard; and with the Tenawa chief he desires no further dealings—at least for a time. Therefore, the belief of its being an emissary from his red-skinned confederate somewhat discomposes him.

The reply of his subordinate, however, reassures him.

"No, colonel, he's not a Comanche; bears no resemblance to one, only in the colour of his skin. He appears to be a Pueblo; and from his tattered costume, I take him to be some poor labourer."

"But what does he want with me?"

"That, colonel, I cannot say; only that he has expressed a very urgent desire to speak with you. I fancy he has something to communicate, which might be important for you to hear; else I should not have taken the liberty to bring him here."

"You have him at hand?"

"I have. He is outside in the patio. Shall I usher him in?"

"By all means; there can be no harm in hearing what the fellow has to say. It may be about some threatened invasion of the savages; and as protectors of the people, you, ayudante, know it's our duty to do whatever we can for warding off such a catastrophe."

The colonel laughs at his sorry jest; the adjutant expressing his appreciation of it in a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied by a grim smile.

"Bring the brute in!" is the command that followed, succeeded by the injunction.

"Stay outside in the court till I send for or call you. The fellow may have something to say intended for only one pair of ears. Take a glass of the mezcal, light cigarrito, and amuse yourself as you best may."

The adjutant obeys the first two of these directions; then, stepping out of the sala, leaves his superior officer alone.

Uraga glances around to assure himself that there are weapons within reach. With a conscience like his, a soul charged with crime, no wonder.

His sabre rests against the wall close to his hand, while a pair of dragoon pistols, both loaded, lie upon the table.

Satisfied with the proximity of these weapons, he sits upright in his chair and tranquilly awaits the entrance of the Indian.



CHAPTER FORTY.

A CONFIDENCE WELL REWARDED.

Only a short interval, a score of seconds elapses, when the door, once more opening, admits the expected visitor. The adjutant, after ushering him into the room, withdraws, and commences pacing to and fro in the patio.

Colonel Gil Uraga feels very much inclined to laugh as he contemplates the new-comer, and reflects on the precautions he has taken. A poor devil of an Indian peon, in coarse woollen tilma, tanned sheepskin trousers reaching only to the knee, bare legs below, guaraches upon his feet, and a straw hat upon his head; his long black hail hanging unkempt over his shoulders; his mien humble and looks downcast, like all of his tribe. Yet it might be seen that, on occasion, his eyes could flash forth a light, indicative of danger—a fierce, fiery light, such as may have shone in the orbs of his ancestors when they rallied around Guatimozin, and with clubs and stakes beat back the spears and swords of their Spanish invaders.

At the entrance of this humble personage, into the splendidly furnished apartment, his first act is to pull off his tattered straw hat, and make lowly obeisance to the gorgeously attired officer he sees sitting behind the table.

Up to this time Uraga has presumed him to be a perfect stranger, but when the broad brim of the sombrero no longer casts its shade over his face, and his eyelids become elevated through increasing confidence, the colonel starts to his feet with an exclamatory speech that tells of recognition.

"Carrambo! You are Manuel—mule driver for Don Valerian Miranda?"

"Si, Senor; a servido de V (Yes, Sir; at your Excellency's service)," is the reply meekly spoken, and accompanied with a second sweep of the straw hat—as gracefully as if given by a Chesterfield.

At sight of this old acquaintance, a world of thought rushes crowding through the brain of Gil Uraga—conjectures, mingled with pleasant anticipations.

For it comes back to his memory, that at the time of Colonel Miranda's escape, some of his domestics went off with him, and he remembers that Manuel was one of them. In the Indian bending so respectfully before him he sees, or fancies, the first link of a chain that may enable him to trace the fugitives. Manuel should know something about their whereabouts? And the ci devant mule driver is now in his power for any purpose—be it life or death.

There is that in the air and attitude of the Indian which tells him there will be no need to resort to compulsory measures. The information he desires can be obtained without, and he determines to seek it by adopting the opposite course.

"My poor fellow," he says, "you look distressed—as if you had just come from off a toilsome journey. Here, take a taste of something to recuperate your strength; then you can let me know what you've got to say. I presume you've some communication to make to me, as the military commandant of the district. Night or day, I am always ready to give a hearing to those who bring information that concerns the welfare of the State."

While speaking the colonel has poured out a glass of the distilled mezcal juice. This the peon takes from his hand, and, nothing loth, spills the liquor between his two rows of white glittering teeth.

Upon his stomach, late unused to it, the fiery spirit produce! an effect almost instantaneous; and the moment after he becomes freely communicative—if not so disposed before. But he has been; therefore the disclosures that follow are less due to the alcohol than to a passion every whit as inflammatory. He is acting under the stimulus of a revenge, terrible and long restrained.

"I've missed you from about here, Manuel," says the colonel, in kindly tones, making his approaches with skill. "Where have you been all this while, my good man?"

"With my master," is the peon's reply.

"Ah, indeed! I thought your master had gone clear out of the country?"

"Out of the settled part of it only, senor."

"Oh! he is still, then, within Mexican territory! I am glad to hear that. I was very sorry to think we'd lost such a good citizen and patriot as Don Valerian Miranda. True, he and I differ in our views as regards government; but that's nothing, you know, Manuel. Men may be bitter political enemies, yet very good friends. By-the-way, where is the colonel now?"

Despite his apparent stolidity, the Indian is not so stupid as to be misled by talk like this. With a full knowledge of the situation— forced upon him by various events—the badinage of the brilliant militario does not for a moment blind him. Circumstances have given him enough insight into Uraga's character and position to know that the tatter's motives should somewhat resemble his own. He has long been aware that the Lancer colonel is in love with his young mistress, as much as he himself with her maid. Without this knowledge he might not have been there—at least, not with so confident an expectation of success in the design that has brought him hither. For design he has, deep, deadly, and traitorous.

Despite the influence of the aguardiente, fast loosening his tongue, he is yet somewhat cautious in his communications; and not until Uraga repeats the question does he make answer to it. Then comes the response, slowly and reluctantly, as if from one of his long-suffering race, who has discovered a mine of precious metal, and is being put to the torture to "denounce" it.

"Senor coronel," he says, "how much will your excellency give to know where my master now is? I have heard that there's a large bounty offered for Don Valerian's head."

"That is an affair that concerns the State. For myself, I've nothing personally to do with it. Still, as an officer of the Government, it is my duty to take what steps I can towards making your master a prisoner. I think I may promise a good reward to anyone who, by giving information, would enable me to arrest a fugitive rebel and bring him before the bar of justice. Can you do that?"

"Well, your excellency, that will depend. I'm only a poor man, and need money to live upon. Don Valerian is my master, and if anything were to happen to him I should lose my situation. What am I to do?"

"Oh, you'd easily get another, and better. A man of your strength— By the way, talking of strength, my good Manuel, you don't seem to have quite recovered from your journey, which must have been long and fatiguing. Take another copita; you're in need of it; 'twill do you good."

Pressure of this sort put upon an Indian, be he bravo or manso, is rarely resisted. Nor is it in Manuel's case. He readily yields to it, and tosses off another glass of the aguardiente.

Before the strong alcohol can have fairly filtered down into his stomach its fumes ascend to his skull.

The cowed, cautious manner—a marked characteristic of his race—now forsakes him; the check-strings of his tongue become relaxed, and, with nothing before his mind save his scheme of vengeance, and that of securing Conchita, he betrays the whole secret of Colonel Miranda's escape—the story of his retreat across the Staked Plain, and his residence in the lone valley.

When he further informs Uraga about the two guests who have strayed to this solitary spot, and, despite his maudlin talk, minutely describes the men, his listener utters a loud cry, accompanied by a gesture of such violence as to overturn the table, sending bottle and glasses over the floor.

He does not stay to see the damage righted, but with a shout that reverberates throughout the whole house, summons his adjutant, and also the corporal of his guard.

"Cabo!" he cries, addressing himself to the latter in a tone at once vociferous and commanding; "take this man to the guard-house! And see you keep him there, so that he may be forthcoming when wanted. Take heed to hold him safe. If he be missing, you shall be shot ten minutes after I receive the report of it. You have the word of Gil Uraga for that."

From the way the corporal makes prisoner the surprised peon, almost throttling him, it is evident he does not intend running any risk of being shot for letting the latter escape. The Indian appears suddenly sobered by the rough treatment he is receiving. But he is too much astonished to find speech for protest. Mute, and without offering the slightest resistance, he is dragged out through the open doorway, to all appearance more dead than alive.

"Come, Roblez!" hails his superior officer, as soon as the door has closed behind the guard corporal and his captive, "Drink with me! Drink! First to revenge! I haven't had it yet, as I'd thought; that has all to be gone over again. But it's sure now—surer than ever. After, we shall drink to success in love. Mine is not hopeless, yet. Lost! she is found again—found! Ah, my darling Adela!" he exclaims, staggering towards the portrait, and in tipsy glee contemplating it, "you thought to escape me; but no. No one can get away from Gil Uraga— friend, sweetheart, or enemy. You shall yet be enfolded in these arms; if not as my wife, my—margarita!"