CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

A SLEEPLESS NIGHT.

All night long Hamersley and the hunter remain upon the summit of the mound. It is a night of dread anxiety, seeming to them an age.

They think not of taking sleep—they could not. There is that in their minds that would keep them wakeful if they had not slept for a week. Time passing does not lessen their suspense. On the contrary, it grows keener, becoming an agony almost unendurable.

To escape from it, Hamersley half forms the resolution to descend the hill and endeavour to steal past the sentinels. If discovered, to attack them boldly, and attempt cutting a way through; then on into the valley, and take such chances as may turn up for the rescue of the refugees.

Putting it to his companion, the latter at once offers opposing counsel. It would be more than rashness—sheer madness. At least a dozen soldiers have been left on picket at the summit of the pass. Standing or sitting, they are scattered all over the ground. It would be impossible for anyone going down the gorge to get past them unperceived; and for two men to attack twelve, however courageous the former and cowardly the latter, the odds would be too great.

"I wouldn't mind it for all that," says Walt, concluding his response to the rash proposal, "ef thar war nothin' more to be did beyont. But thar is. Even war we to cut clar through, kill every skunk o' 'em, our work 'ud be only begun. Thar's two score to meet us below. What ked we do wi' 'em? No, Frank; we mout tackle these twelve wi' some sort o' chance, but two agin forty! It's too ugly a odds. No doubt we ked drop a good grist o' 'em afore goin' under, but in the eend they'd git the better o' us—kill us to a sartinty."

"It's killing me to stay here. Only to think what the ruffians may be doing at this moment! Adela—"

"Don't gie yur mind to thinkin' o' things now. Keep your thoughts for what we may do arterward. Yur Adela ain't goin' to be ate up that quick, nor yet my Concheeter. They'll be tuk away 'long wi' t'others as prisoners. We kin foller, and trust to some chance o' bein' able to git 'em out o' the clutches o' the scoundrels."

Swayed by his comrade's counsel, somewhat tranquillised by it, Hamersley resigns himself to stay as they are. Calmer reflection convinces him there is no help for it. The alternative, for an instant entertained, would be to rush recklessly on death, going into its very jaws.

They lie along the ground listening, now and then standing up and peering through the branches at the sentries below. For a long while they hear nothing save the calls of the card-players, thickly interlarded with carajoz, chingaras, and other blasphemous expressions. But just after the hour of midnight other sounds reach their ears, which absorb all their attention, taking it away from the gamesters.

Up out of the valley, borne upon the buoyant atmosphere, comes the baying of bloodhounds. In echo it reverberates along the facade of the cliff, for a time keeping continuous. Soon after a human voice, quickly followed by a second; these not echoes or repetitions of the same; for one is the coarse guttural cry of a man, the other a scream in the shrill treble of of a woman. The first is the shout of surprise uttered by Chico, the second the shriek of alarm sent forth by Conchita.

With hearts audibly beating, the listeners bend their ears to catch what may come next, both conjecturing the import of the sounds that have already reached them, and this with instinctive correctness. Walt is the first to give speech to his interpretation of it.

"They're at the shanty now," he says, in a whisper. "The two houn's guv tongue on hearin' 'em approach. That fust shout war from the Injun Cheeko; and the t'other air hern—my gurl's. Durnation! if they hurt but a he'r o' her head—Wagh! what's the use o' my threetenin'?"

As if seeing his impotence, the hunter suddenly ceases speech, again setting himself to listen. Hamersley, without heeding him, is already in this attitude.

And now out of the valley arise other sounds, not all of them loud. The stream, here and there falling in cataracts, does something to deaden them. Only now and then there is the neigh of a horse, and intermittently the bark of one of the bloodhounds, as if these animals had yielded, but yet remain hostile to the intruders. They hear human voices, too, but no shout following that of Chico, and no scream save the one sent up by Conchita.

There is loud talk, a confusion of speakers, but no report of firearms. This last is tranquillising. A shot at that moment heard by Hamersley would give him more uneasiness than if the gun were aimed at himself.

"Thank God!" he gasps out, after a long spell of listening, "Miranda has made no resistance. He's seen it would be no use, and has quietly surrendered. I suppose it's all over now, and they are captives."

"Wal, better thet than they shed be corpses," is the consolatory reflection of the hunter. "So long as thar's breath left in thar bodies we kin hev hope, as I sayed arready. Let's keep up our hearts by thinkin' o' the fix we war in atween the wagguns, an' arterwards thet scrape in the cave. We kim clar out o' both in a way we mout call mirakelous, an' we may yit git them clar in someat the same fashion. 'Slong's I've got my claws roun' the stock o' a good gun, wi' plenty o' powder and lead, I ain't a-goin' to deespar. We've both got that, tharfor niver say die!"

The hunter's quaint speech is encouraging; but for all, it does not hinder him and his comrade from soon after returning to a condition of despondency, if not actual despair.

A feeling which holds possession of them till the rising of the sun, and on till it reaches meridian.

When the day breaks, with eyes anxiously scrutinising, they look down into the valley. A mist hangs over the stream, caused by the spray of its cataracts.

Lifting at length, there is displayed a scene not very different from what they have been expecting.

Around the ranche they see horses picketed and soldiers moving among them or standing in groups apart; in short, a picture of military life in "country quarters."

Their point of view is too far off to identify individual forms or note the exact action carried on. This last, left to conjecture, is filled up by fancies of the most painful kind.

For long hours are they constrained to endure them—up to that of noon. Then, the notes of a bugle, rising clear above the hissing of the cascades, foretell a change in the spectacle. It is the call, "Boots and saddles!" The soldiers are seen caparisoning their horses and standing by the stirrup.

Another blast gives the order to "Mount!" Soon after, the "Forward!" Then the troop files off from the front of the jacal, disappearing under the trees like a gigantic glittering serpent. The white drapery of a woman's dress is seen fluttering at its head, as if the reptile had seized upon some tender prey—a dove from the cote—and was bearing it off to its slimy lair.

For another half-hour the two men on the mound wait with nervous impatience. It requires this time to make the ascent from the centre of the valley to the upper plain. After entering among the trees, the soldiers and their captives are out of sight; but the clattering of their horses' hoofs can be heard as they strike upon the rock-strewn path. Once or twice a trumpet sound proclaims their movements upon the march.

At length the head of the troop appears, the leading files following one after the other along the narrow ledge. As they approach the summit of the pass the track widens, admitting a formation "by twos." At the trumpet call they change to this, a single horseman riding at their head.

He is now near enough for his features to be distinguished, and Hamersley's heart strikes fiercely against his ribs as he recognises them. If he had any doubt before, it is set at rest now. He sees Gil Uraga, certain of his being the man who caused the destruction of his caravan. His own horse, ridden by the robber, is proof conclusive of the crime.

He takes note that the lancer colonel is dressed in splendid style, very different from the dust-stained cavalier who the day before passed over the desert plain. Now he appears in a gorgeous laced uniform, with lancer cap and plume, gold cords and aiguillettes dangling adown his breast; for he has this morning made his toilet with care, in consideration of the company in which he intends travelling.

Neither Hamersley nor the hunter hold their eyes long upon him; they are both looking for another individual—each his own. These soon make their appearance, their white dresses distinguishable amid the darker uniforms. During the march their position has been changed. They are now near the centre of the troop, the young lady upon her own mare Lolita, while the Indian damsel is mounted on a mule. They are free, both hand and limb, but a file in front, with another behind, have charge of them. Farther rearward is another group, more resembling captives. This is composed of three men upon mules, fast bound to saddle and stirrup, two of them having their arms pinioned behind their backs. Their animals are led each by a trooper who rides before. The two about whose security such precaution has been taken are Don Valerian and the doctor, the third, with his arms free, is Chico. His fellow-servant Manuel, also on mule-back, is following not far behind, but in his attitude or demeanour there is nothing to tell of the captive. If at times he looks gloomy, it is when he reflects upon his black treason and infamous ingratitude. Perhaps he has repented, or deems the prospect not so cheerful as expected. After all, what will be his reward? He has ruined his master and many others beside, but this will not win him the love of Conchita.

The spectators feel somewhat relieved as Colonel Miranda comes in sight. Still more as the march brings him nearer, and it can be seen that he sits his horse with no sign of having received any injury; and neither has Don Prospero. The elaborate fastenings are of themselves evidences that no hurt has happened to them. It has been a capture without resistance, as their friends hoped it would, their fears having been of a conflict to end in the death of the exiles.

One by one, and two by two, the troops come filing on, till the leader is opposite the spot where the two spectators stand crouching among the trees. These are dwarf cedars, and give the best cover for concealment. Thoroughly screened by their thickly-set boughs and dense dark foliage, Hamersley and the hunter command a clear view of everything below. The distance to the summit of the pass is about two hundred yards in a slanting direction.

As the lancer colonel approaches the spot where the picket is posted, he halts and gives an order. It is for the guard to fall in along with the rest of the troop.

At this moment a similar thought is in the minds of the two men whose eyes are upon him from above. Wilder is the first to give expression to it. He does so in an undertone,—

"Ef we ked trust the carry o' our rifles, Frank."

"I was thinking of it," is the rejoinder, equally earnest. "We can't I'm afraid it's too far."

"I weesh I only had my old gun; she'd a sent a bullet furrer than that. A blue pill inter his stomach 'ud simplerfy matters consid'rable. 'Tall events it 'ud git your gurl out o' danger, and mayhap all on 'em. I b'lieve the hul clanjamfery o' them spangled jay birds 'ud run at hearin' a shot. Then we ked gie 'em a second, and load an' fire half a dozen times afore they could mount up hyar—if they'd dar to try it. Ah! it's too fur. The distance in these hyar high purairas is desprit deceivin'. Durned pity we kedn't do it. I fear we can't."

"If we should miss, then—"

"Things 'ud only be wuss. I reck'n we'd better let'm slide now, and foller arter. Thar boun' straight for the Del Norte; but whether or no, we kin eesy pick up thar trail."

Hamersley still hesitates, his fingers alternately tightening on his gun, and then relaxing. His thoughts are flowing in a quick current— too quick for cool deliberation. He knows he can trust his own aim, as well as that of his comrade. But the distance is doubtful, and the shots might fall short. Then it would be certain death to them; for the situation is such that there could be no chance to escape, with fifty horsemen to pursue, themselves mounted upon mules, and therewith be reached without difficulty. They might defend themselves on the mound, but not for long. Two against fifty, they would soon be overpowered. After all, it will be better to let the troop pass on. So counsels the ex-Ranger, pointing out that the prisoners will be carried on to New Mexico—to Albuquerque, of course. He and his comrade are Americans, and not proscribed there. They can follow without fear. Some better opportunity may arise for rescuing the captives. Their prison may offer this; and from what they have heard of such places it is probable enough. A golden key is good for opening the door of any gaol in Mexico.

Only one thought hinders Hamersley from at once giving way to this reasoning—the thought of his betrothed being in such company—under such an escort, worse than unprotected!

Once more he scans the distance that separates him from the soldiers, his gun tightly grasped.

Could their colonel but suspect his proximity at that moment, and what is passing through his mind, he would sit with little confidence in his saddle, bearing himself less pompously.

Caution, backed by the ex-Ranger's counsel, asserts its sway, and the Kentuckian relaxes his grasp on the gun, dropping its butt to the ground.

The last files, having cleared the gap, are formed into a more compact order; when, the bugle again sounding "Forward," the march is resumed, the troop striking off over the plain in the direction whence it came.



CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

A MAN AND A MULE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The durned scoundrel," hissed Walt, through clenched teeth. "What's kep him ahint, I wonder?"

Hamersley responds not—he, too, conjecturing.

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

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

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

"Do you mean the man or the mule?"

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

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

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

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

"How d'ye devise, then?"

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

A LAGGER LAGGED.

The surprise of the two men is but momentary; for there can be no mystery about the peon's disappearance. He has simply gone down the ravine, and back into the valley. Is he on return to the house, which they know is now untenanted, and, if so, with what intent? Has he become so attached to the place as to intend prolonging his sojourn there? or has something arisen to make him discontented with the company he has been keeping, and so determined to get quit of it by hanging behind?

Something of this sort was on their minds as they last saw him over the crest of the ridge. While in conflict with his mule, he was ever and anon turning his eyes towards the point where the soldiers must have been last seen by him; for from the gap in which he was these were no longer visible. Both Hamersley and Wilder had noticed an uneasy air about him at the time, attributing it to his vexation at being delayed by the obstinacy of the animal and the fear of being left behind. Now that he had mounted and taken the back-track, the cause must be different.

"Thar's somethin' queery in what the coyoats doin'," is Walt's half-soliloquised observation; adding, "Though what he's arter tain't so eezy to tell. He must be tired o' their kumpany, and want to get shet o' it. He'll be supposin' they ain't likely to kum back arter him; an' I reck'n they won't, seein' they've got all out o' him they need care for. Still, what ked he do stayin' hyar by himself?"

Walt is still ignorant of the peon's partiality for his own sweetheart. He has had a suspicion of something, but not the deep, dire passion that burns in the Indian's heart. Aware of this, he would not dwell on the probability of the man having any intention, any more than himself, remain behind now that Conchita is gone.

"Arter all," he continues, still speaking in half soliloquy, "I don't think stayin's his game. There's somethin' else at the bottom on't."

"Can Uraga have sent him back on any errand?"

"No, that ain't it eyther. More like he's good on a errand o' his own. I reckon I ken guess it now. The traitur intends turnin' thief as well—doin' a leetle bit o' stealin' along wi' his treason. Ye remember, Frank, thar war a goodish grit o' valleyables in the shanty— the saynorita's jeweltry an' the like. Jest possyble, in the skrimmage, whiles they war making capter o' thar prisoners, this ugly varmint tuk devantage o' the confusion to secret a whun o' thar gimcracks, an's now goed back arter 'em."

"It seems probable enough. Still, he might have some other errand, and may not go on as far as the house. In which case, we may look for his return this way at any moment. It will never do for us to start upon their trail, leaving him coming in our rear. He would see us, and in the night might slip past and give them warning they were followed."

"All that air true. We must grup him now."

"Should we go down after him, or stay here till he comes up?"

"Neythur o' the two ways'll do. He moutn't kum along no time. If he's got plunder he won't try to overtake the sogers, but wait till they're well out o' his way. He knows the road to the Del Norte, and kin travel it by hisself."

"Then we should go down after him."

"Only one o' us. If we both purceed to the shanty there's be a chance o' passin' him on the way. He mout be in the timmer, an', seein' us, put back out hyar, an' so head us. There'd no need o' both for the capterin' sech a critter as that. I'll fetch him on his marrowbones by jest raisin' this rifle. Tharfor, s'pose you stay hyar an' guard this gap, while I go arter an' grup him. I'm a'most sartin he'll be at the shanty. Anyhow, he's in the trap, and can't get out till he's hed my claws roun' the scruff o' his neck an' my thumb on his thropple."

"Don't kill him if you can help it. True he deserves to die; but we may want a word with him first. He may give information that will afterwards prove useful to us."

"Don't be afeared, Frank. I shan't hurt a har o' his head, unless he reesists, then I must kripple him a bit. But he ain't like to show fight, such a coyoat as he!"

"All right, Walt. I'll wait for you."

"You won't hev long. Ye'd better take kiver back o' them big stones to make sure o' not bein' seen by him, shed he by any chance slip past me. An' keep yur ears open. Soon as I've treed him I'll gie a whistle or two. When ye hear that ye can kim down."

After delivering this chapter of suggestions and injunctions, the ex-Ranger heads his mule down the pass, and is soon lost to his comrade's sight as he turns off along the ledge of the cliff.

Hamersley, himself inclined to caution, follows the direction last given, and rides back behind one of the boulders. Keeping in the saddle, he sits in silent meditation. Sad thoughts alone occupy his mind. His prospects are gloomy indeed; his forecast of the future dark and doubtful. He has but little hope of being able to benefit Don Valerian Miranda, and cannot be sure of rescueing his sister—his own betrothed—in time to avert that terrible catastrophe which he knows to be impending over her. He does not give it a name—he scarce dares let it take shape in his thoughts.

Nearly half-an-hour is spent in this painful reverie. He is aroused from it by a sound which ascends out of the valley. With a start of joy he recognises the signal his comrade promised to send him. The whistle is heard in three distinct "wheeps," rising clear above the hoarser sibillations of the cascades. From the direction he can tell it comes from the neighbourhood of the house; but, without waiting to reflect whither, he spurs his mule out, and rides down the pass as rapidly as possible.

On reaching the level below he urges the animal to a gallop, and soon arrives at the ranche.

There, as expected, he finds his companion, with the peon a captive.

The two, with their mules, form a tableau in front of the untenanted dwelling.

The ex-Ranger is standing in harangue attitude, slightly bent forward, his body propped by his rifle, the butt of which rests upon the ground. At his feet is the Indian, lying prostrate, his ankles lashed together with a piece of cowhide rope, his wrists similarly secured.

"I ked catched him a leetle sooner," says Walt to his comrade, coming up, "but I war kewrious to find out what he war arter, an' waited to watch him. That's the explication o' it."

He points to a large bag lying near, with its contents half poured out— a varied collection of articles of bijouterie and virtu, resembling a cornucopia; spilling its fruits. Hamersley recognises them as part of the penates of his late host.

"Stolen goods," continues Walt, "that's what they air. An' stole from a master he's basely betrayed, may be to death. A mistress, besides, that's been too kind to him. Darnation! that's a tortiss-shell comb as belonged to my Concheeter, an' a pair o' slippers I ken swar wur here. What shed we do to him?"

"What I intended," responds Hamersley, assuming a curious air; "first make him confess—tell all he knows. When we've got his story out of him we can settle that next."

The confession is not very difficult to extract. With Wilder's bowie-knife gleaming before his eyes, its blade within six inches of his breast, the wretch reveals all that has passed since the moment of his first meditating treason. He even makes declaration of the motive, knowing the nobility of the men who threatened him, and thinking by this means to obtain pardon.

To strengthen his chances he goes still farther, turning traitor against him to whom he had sold himself—Uraga. He has overheard a conversation between the Mexican colonel and his adjutant, Lieutenant Roblez. It was to the effect that they do not intend taking their prisoners all the way back to Albuquerque. How they mean to dispose of them the peon does not know.

He had but half heard the dialogue relating to Don Valerian and the doctor.

The female prisoners! Can he tell anything of what is intended with them? Though not in these terms, the question is asked with this earnestness.

The peon is unable to answer it. He does not think they are prisoners— certainly not Conchita. She is only being taken back along with her mistress. About the senorita, his mistress, he heard some words pass between Uraga and Roblez, but without comprehending their signification.

In his own heart Hamersley can supply it—does so with dark, dire misgivings.



CHAPTER FIFTY SIX.

"THE NORTE."

Westward, across the Liana Estacado, Uraga and his lancers continue on their return march. The troop, going by twos, is again drawn out in an elongated line, the arms and accoutrements of the soldiers glancing in the sun, while the breeze floats back the pennons of their lances. The men prisoners are a few files from the rear, a file on each flank guarding them. The women are at the head, alongside the guide and sub-lieutenant, who has charge of the troop.

For reasons of his own the lancer colonel does not intrude his company on the captives. He intends doing so in his own time. It has not yet come. Nor does he take any part in directing the march of the men. That duty has been entrusted to the alferez; he and Roblez riding several hundred paces in advance of the troop.

He has thus isolated himself for the purpose of holding conversation with his adjutant, unembarrassed by any apprehension of being overheard.

"Well, ayadante," he begins, as soon as they are safe beyond earshot, "what's your opinion of things now?"

"I think we've done the thing neatly, though not exactly the way you wanted it."

"Anything but that. Still, I don't despair of getting everything straight in due time. The man Manuel has learnt from his fellow-servant that our American friends have gone on to the settlements of the Del Norte. Strange if we can't find them there; and stranger still if, when found, I don't bring them to book at last. Caraja! Neither of the two will ever leave New Mexico alive."

"What about these two—our Mexican friends?"

"For them a fate the very reverse. Neither shall ever reach it alive."

"You intend taking them there dead, do you?"

"Neither living nor dead. I don't intend taking them there at all."

"You think of leaving them by the way?"

"More than think; I've determined upon it."

"But surely you don't mean to kill them in cold blood?"

"I won't harm a hair of their heads—neither I, nor you, nor any of my soldiers. For all that, they shall die."

"Colonel, your speech is somewhat enigmatical. I don't comprehend it."

"In due time you will. Have patience for four days more—it may be less. Then you will have the key to the enigma. Then Don Valerian Miranda and the old rascal Don Prospero shall cease to trouble the dreams of Gil Uraga."

"And you are really determined on Miranda's death?"

"A silly question for a man who knows me as you. Of course I am."

"Well, for my part, I don't care much one way or the other, only I can't see what benefit it will be to you. He's not such a bad sort of a fellow, and has got the name of being a courageous soldier."

"You're growing wonderfully sentimental, ayadante. The tender glances of the senorita seem to have softened you."

"Not likely," rejoins the adjutant with a grim smile. "The eyes that could make impression upon the heart of Gaspar Roblez don't exist in the head of woman. If I have any weaknesses in the feminine way, it's for the goddess Fortuna. So long as I can get a pack of playing cards, with some rich gringo to face me in the game, I'll leave petticoats alone."

In turn the colonel smiles. He knows the idiosyncracy of his confederate in crime. Rather a strange one for a man who has committed many robberies, and more than once imbued his hands in blood. Cards, dice and drink are his passions, his habitual pleasure. Of love he seems incapable, and does not surrender himself to its lure, though there has been a chapter of it in his life's history, of which Uraga is aware, having an unfortunate termination, sealing his heart against the sex to contempt, almost hatred. Partially to this might be traced the fact of his having fallen into evil courses, and, like his colonel, become a robber. But, unlike the latter, he is not all bad. As in the case of Conrad, linked to a thousand crimes, one virtue is left to him— courage. Something like a second remains in his admiration of the same quality in others. This it is that leads him to put in a word for Colonel Miranda, whose bravery is known far and wide throughout the Mexican army. Continuing to plead for him, he says—

"I don't see why you should trouble yourself to turn States' executioner. When we get to Santa Fe our prisoners can be tried by court-martial. No doubt they'll be condemned and shot."

"Very great doubt of it, ayadante. That might have done when we first turned their party out. But of late, things are somewhat changed. In the hills of the Moctezumas matters are again getting complicated, and just now our worthy chief, El Cojo, will scarce dare to sign a sentence of death, especially where the party to be passado por les armes is a man of note like Don Valerian Miranda."

"He must die?"

"Teniente! Turn your head round and look me straight in the face."

"I am doing so, colonel. Why do you wish me?"

"You see that scar on my cheek?"

"Certainly I do."

"Don Valerian Miranda did not give the wound that's left it, but he was partly the cause of my receiving it. But for him the duel would have ended differently. It's now twelve months gone since I got that gash, at the same time losing three of my teeth. Ever since the spot has felt aflame as if hell's fire were burning a hole through my cheek. It can only be extinguished by the blood of those who kindled it. Miranda is one of them. You've asked the question, 'Must he die?' Looking at this ugly scar, and into the eye above it, I fancy you will not think it necessary to repeat the question."

"But how is it to be done without scandal? As you yourself have said, it won't do for us to murder the man outright. We may be held to account—possibly ourselves called before a court-martial. Had he made resistance, and given us a pretext—"

"My dear ayadante, don't trouble yourself about pretexts. I have a plan which will serve equally as well—my particular purpose, much better. As I've promised, you shall know it in good time—participate in its execution. But, come, we've been discoursing serious matters till I'm sick of them. Let's talk of something lighter and pleasanter— say, woman. What think you of my charmer?"

"The Dona Adela?"

"Of course. Could any other charm me? Even you, with your heart of flint, should feel sparks struck out of it at the sight of her."

"Certainly she's the most beautiful captive I've ever assisted at the taking of."

"Captive!" mutters Uraga, in soliloquy. "I wish she were, in a sense different."

Then, with a frown upon his face, continuing,—

"What matters it! When he is out of the way, I shall have it all my own way. Woo her as Tarquin did Lucretia, and she will yield not as the Roman matron, but as a Mexican woman—give her consent when she can no longer withhold it. What is it, cabo?"

The interrogatory is addressed to a corporal who has ridden alongside, and halts, saluting him.

"Colonel, the alferez sends me to report that the Indian is no longer with us."

"What! the man Manuel?"

"The same, colonel."

"Halt!" commands Uraga, shouting aloud to the troop, which instantly comes to a stand. "What's this I hear, alferez?" he asks, riding back, and speaking to the sub-lieutenant.

"Colonel, we miss the fellow who guided us. He must have dropped behind as we came out of the gorge. He was with us on leaving the house, and along the valley road."

"It don't much signify," says Uraga, in an undertone to Roblez; "we've got all out of him we need care for. Still, it may be better to bring him along. No doubt he slipped off to settle some affair of his own— some pilferings, I presume; and will be found at the ranche. Cabo! take a file of men, go back to the valley, and bring the loiterer along with you. As I intend marching slowly, you'll easily overtake us at our night camp."

The corporal, singling out the file as directed, rides back towards the buttes, still in sight, while the troop continues its uninterrupted march. Uraga and Roblez again go in advance, the former making further disclosure of his plans to his particeps criminis.

Their confidential dialogue has lasted about an hour, when another of the lancers riding up again interrupts it. He is a grizzled old veteran, who has once been a cibolero, and seen life upon the plains.

"What is it, Hernandez?" demands the colonel.

"Senor coronel," says the man, pointing to a little speck in the sky, that has just shown itself above the north-eastern horizon, "do you see yonder cloud?"

"Cloud! I see no cloud, unless you mean that spot on the horizon, scarce so large as the crown of my hat Is it that you mean?"

"It is, colonel. And small as it seems, there may come trouble from it. It don't look much now, but in ten minutes time it will be big enough to spread all over the sky, and over us too."

"You think so? Why, what is it, Hernandez? El Norte?"

"I'm sure of it. Carramba! I've seen it too often. Trust me, colonel, we're going to have a storm."

"In that case we'd better bring to a halt and get under shelter. I see nothing here that would screen a cat, save yonder clump of dwarf oaks. In a way it'll keep the blast off us, and, as we may as well stay under it for the night, it will furnish fuel for our fires. Ride back to the troop. Tell the alferez to bring on the men to yonder grove, and quickly. Let the tents be pitched there. Vaya!"

The ci-devant cibolero does as directed, going at a gallop; while the colonel and his adjutant trot on to the clump of blackjacks, standing some three hundred paces out of the line of march. It was the same copse that gave shade and concealment to Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder on the day preceding.

On arriving at its edge, which they do before their followers, Uraga and Roblez see the tracks of the two mules. Not without surprise, and they exchange some words regarding them. But the fast-darkening sky drives the subject out of their thoughts, and they occupy themselves in choosing a spot for pitching the tents.

Of these there are too—one which Urago owns, the other, found in the ranche, an old marquee Miranda had carried with him in his flight. This has been brought along for the accommodation of his sister, whom Uraga has reason to treat tenderly.

Both tents are soon set up in the shelter of the black-jacks; the marquee, as ordered by Uraga, occupied by the female captives.

The lancers, having hastily dismounted, picket their horses and make other preparations for the storm, predicted by the ex-cibolero as something terrific.

Before long they see his prediction verified to the spirit and the letter.

The sky, hitherto shining like a sapphire and blue as a turquoise, becomes changed to the sombre hue of lead; then darker, as if night had suddenly descended over the sterile plain. The atmosphere, but a moment before unpleasantly hot, is now cold as winter; the thermometer is less than twenty minutes falling over forty degrees—almost to freezing point!

It is not night which causes the darkness, nor winter the cold. Both come from an atmospheric phenomenon peculiar to the table-lands of Texas, and far more feared by the traveller. It is that called by Mexicans and styled by the ex-cibolero El Norte; by Texans known as "The Norther."

Alike dreaded by both.



CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

A CUMBERSOME CAPTIVE.

Having made prisoner of the peon, and drawn out of him all he is able to tell, his captors have a difficulty in deciding what to do with him. It will hamper them to take him along. Still they cannot leave him behind; and the young Kentuckian is not cruel enough to kill him, though convinced of his deserving death.

If left to himself, Walt might settle the question quickly. Indignant at the Indian's treason, he has now a new reason to dislike him—as a rival.

With the ex-Ranger this last weighs little. He is sure of having the affections of Conchita. He has her heart, with the promise of her hand, and in his own confiding simplicity has no fear of failure in that sense—not a pang of jealousy. The idea of having for a rival the abject creature at his feet, whom he could crush out of existence with the heel of his horseskin boot, is too ridiculous for him to entertain. He can laugh it to scorn.

Not for that would he now put an end to the man's life, but solely from a sense of outraged justice, with the rough-and-ready retribution to which, as a Texan Ranger, he has been accustomed.

His comrade, less prone to acts of high-handed punishment, restrains him; and the two stand considering what they are to do with their prisoner, now proving so inconvenient.

While still undecided a sound reaches their ears causing them to start and turn pale. It is the trampling of horses; there can be no mistaking it for aught else. And many of them; not two or three, or half a dozen, but a whole troop.

Uraga and his lancers have re-entered the valley! They are riding up to the ranche! What but this can it be? No other party of horsemen could be expected in that place.

And no other thought have the two men hearing the hoof strokes. They are sure it is the soldiers returning.

Instinctively they retreat into the house, without taking their prisoner along with them. Tied, he cannot stir from the spot. If he could it would make little difference now. Their determination is to defend themselves, if need be, to the death; and the hut, with its stout timber walls, is the best place they can think of. It has two doors, opening front and back, both of heavy slabs—split trunks of the palmilla. They have been constructed strongly and to shut close, for the nights are sometimes chilly, and grizzly bears stray around the ranche.

Hastily shutting to the doors and barring them they take stand, each at a window, of which there are also two, both being in front. They are mere apertures in the log wall, and of limited dimensions, but on this account all the better for their purpose, being large enough to serve as loopholes through which they can deliver their fire.

The position is not unfavourable for defence. The cabin stands close to a cliff, with but passage way behind. In front the ground is open, a sort of natural lawn leading down to the lake; only here and there a tree diversifies its smooth surface. Across this anyone approaching must come, whether they have entered the valley from above or below. On each flank the facade of the precipice projects outward, so that the abutting points can be seen from either of the windows; and, as they are both within rifle range, an assailant attempting to turn the cabin so as to enter from the back would be exposed to the enfilading fire of those inside. For security against a surround, the spot could not have been better chosen, and with anything like a fair proportion between besiegers and besieged the former would fail. Under the circumstances, however, there is not likely to be this, and for the two men to attempt defending themselves would seem the certain sealing of their doom.

What chance for them to hold the hut against a force of fifty armed men—soldiers—for if the whole of the troop is returning there is this number? It may be not all have re-entered the valley—only a party sent back to bring on the pilferer, who has been missed upon the march. In that case there will be some chance of withstanding their attack. At all hazards it is to be withstood.

What else can the two men do? Surrender, and become the prisoner of Uraga? Never! They know the relentless ruffian too well, and with too good reason. After their experience of him they need expect no mercy. The man who could leave them buried alive to die a lingering death in the gloomy recesses of a cavern, would be cruel enough not only to kill but torture them. They have to "go under," anyhow, as the prairie hunter expresses it, adding, "Ef we must die let's do so, killin' them as kills us. I'm good for half a score o' them leetle minikin Mexikins, an' I reck'n you, Frank, kin wipe out as many. We'll make it a bloody bizness for them afore the last breath leeves our bodies. Air you all churged an' riddy?"

"I am," is the response of the Kentuckian, in stern, solemn tones, showing that he, as the Texan, has made up his mind to "die killing."

Says the latter, "They'll come out through the trees yonder, where the path runs in. Let's take the fust as shows, an' drop him dead. Gie me the chance, Frank. I'm dyin' to try the doctor's gun."

"By all means do so."

"You fetch the second out o' his saddle, if a second show. That'll gie the others a scare, an' keep 'em back a bit, so's we'll hev good time to get loaded agin."

All this—both speech and action—has not occupied over two minutes of time. The rush inside the cabin, the closing of the doors, and taking stand at the windows, have been done in that haste with which men retreat from a tiger or flee before a prairie fire.

And now, having taken all the precautions possible, the two men wait behind the walls, gun in hand, prepared for the approach of the assailants—themselves so sheltered by the obscurity inside as not to be seen from without.

As yet no enemy has made appearance. No living thing is seen outside, save the lump of copper-coloured humanity prostrate on the sward, beside the bag and swag he has been hindered from taking away. Still the shod hoofs are heard striking against stones, the click sounding clearer and nearer. They inside the jacal listen with bated breath, but hearts beating audibly. Hearts filled with anxiety. How could it be else? In another minute they may expect to engage in a life-and-death conflict— for themselves too likely a death one.

Something more than anxiety stirs within them. Something of apprehension, perhaps actual fear. If so, not strange; fear, under the circumstances, excusable, even in the hearts of heroes. Stranger were it otherwise.

Whatever their emotions at the moment, they experience a sudden change, succeeded by a series. The first is surprise. While listening to the hoof strokes of the horses, all at once it appears to them that these are not coming down the valley, but up it from below. Is it a sonorous deception, caused by the sough of the cascade or reverberation from the rocks?

More intently they bend their ears, more carefully note the quarter whence proceeds the sound. Soon to answer the above question, each to himself, in the negative. Unquestionably it comes from below.

They have recovered from this, their first surprise, before a second seizes upon them. Mingling with the horses' tramp they hear voices of men. So much they might expect; but not such voices. For amidst the speeches exchanged arise roars of laughter, not such as could come from the slender gullets of puny Mexicans, nor men of the Spanish race. Nor does it resemble the savage cachinnation of the Comanche Indians. Its rough aspirate, and rude, but hearty, tone could only proceed from Celtic or Anglo-Saxon throats.

While still wondering at the sound ringing in their ears, a sight comes before their eyes which but lessens their surprise by changing it into gladness. Out of the trees at the lower end of the lake a horseman is seen riding—after him a second. Both so unlike Uraga or any of his lancers, so different from what they would deem enemies, that the rifles of Hamersley and the hunter, instead of being aimed to deliver their fire, are dropped, butts to the ground.

Before clearing the skirt of timber, the two horsemen make halt—only for an instant, as if to reconnoitre. They appear surprised at seeing the hut, and not less at sight of a man lying along the ground in front of it. For they are near enough to perceive that he is tied hand and foot, and to note the spilled paraphernalia beside him.

As they are men not easily to be daunted, the tableau, though it somewhat mystifies, does not affright or drive them back. Instead, they advance without the slightest show of fear. And behind the two first showing themselves follow two others, and two more, till fifty have filed out of the timber, and ride across the clear ground, heading direct for the house.

Clad in rough coats of sombre hue, jeans, blanket, and buckskin, not a few of them ragged, with hats of all shapes and styles; carrying rifles in their hands, with revolving pistols and bowie-knives in their belts, there could be no mistaking them for the gaudily-bedizened troop whose horses at sunrise of that same day trampled over the same turf. To the spectators no two cohorts could present a coup d'oeil more dissimilar. Though about equal in numbers, the two bodies of men were unlike in everything else—arms, dresses, accoutrements; even their horses having but slight resemblance. The horsemen late upon the spot would seem dwarfs beside those now occupying it, who in comparison might be accounted giants.

Whatever the impression made upon the young prairie merchant by the sight of the newly-arrived troop, its effect upon the ex-Ranger might be compared to a shock of electricity, or the result that succeeds the inspiration of laughing-gas.

Long before the first files have reached the centre of the cleared space he has sprung to the door, pulled the bar back, slammed open the slabs, almost smashing them apart, and rushed out; when outside sending forth a shout that causes every rock to re-echo it to the remotest corner of the valley. It is a grand cry of gladness like a clap of thunder, with its lightning flash bursting forth from the cloud in which in has been pent up.

After it some words spoken more coherently give the key to its jubilant tone.

"Texas Rangers! Ye've jest come in time. Thank the Lord!"



CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

Not necessary to say that the horsemen riding up to the ranche are Captain Haynes and his company of Rangers. They have come up the canon guided by Barbato.

Even more than they is the renegade surprised at seeing a house in that solitary spot. It was not there on his last passing through the valley in company with his red-skinned confederates, the Tenawas, which he did some twelve months before. Equally astonished is he to see Walt Wilder spring out from the door, though he hails the sight with a far different feeling. At the first glance he recognises the gigantic individual who so heroically defended the waggon-train, and the other behind—for Hamersley has also come forth—as the second man who retreated along with him. Surely they are the two who were entombed!

The unexpected appearance produces on the Mexican an effect almost comical, though not to him. On the contrary, he stands appalled, under the influence of a dark superstitious terror, his only movement being to repeatedly make the sign of the Cross, all the while muttering Ave Marias.

Under other circumstances his ludicrous behaviour would have elicited laughter from the Rangers—peals of it. But their eyes are not on him, all being turned to the two men who have issued out of the cabin and are coming on towards the spot where they have pulled up.

Several of them have already recognised their old comrade, and in hurried speech communicate the fact to the others.

"Walt Wilder!" are the words that leap from a dozen pairs of lips, while they, pronouncing the name with glances aghast, look as if a spectre had suddenly appeared to them.

An apparition, however, that is welcome; altogether different to the impression it has produced upon their guide.

Meanwhile, Wilder advances to meet them; as he comes on, keeping up a fire of exclamatory phrases, addressed to Hamersley, who is close behind.

"Air this chile awake, or only dreaming? Look thar, Frank! That's Ned Haynes, my old captin'. An' thar's Nat Cully, an' Jim Buckland. Durn it, thar's the hul strenth o' the kumpany."

Walt is now close to their horses' heads, and the rangers, assured it is himself and not his ghost, are still stricken with surprise. Some of them turn towards the Mexican for explanation. They suppose him to have lied in his story about their old comrade having been closed up in a cave, though with what motive they cannot guess. The man's appearance does not make things any clearer. He still stands affrighted, trembling, and repeating his Paternosters. But now in changed tone, for his fear is no longer of the supernatural. Reason reasserting itself, he has given up the idea of disembodied spirits, convinced that the two figures coming forward are real flesh and blood; the same whose blood he assisted in spilling, and whose flesh he lately believed to be decaying in the obscurity of a cave. He stands appalled as ever; no more with unearthly awe, but the fear of an earthly retribution—a terrible one, which he is conscious of having provoked by the cruel crime in which he participated.

Whatever his fears and reflections they are not for the time intruded upon. The rangers, after giving a glance to him, turn to the two men who are now at their horses' heads; and, springing from their saddles, cluster around them with questions upon their tongues and eager expectations in their eyes.

The captain and Cully are the two first who interrogate.

"Can we be sure it's you, Walt?" is the interrogatory put by his old officer. "Is it yourself?"

"Darn me ef I know, cap. Jess now I ain't sure o' anythin', arter what's passed. Specially meetin' you wi' the rest o' the boys. Say, cap, what's fetched ye out hyar?"

"You."

"Me!"

"Yes; we came to bury you."

"Yis, hoss," adds Cully, confirming the captain's statement. "We're on the way to gie burial to your bones, not expecting to find so much flesh on 'em. For that purpiss we've come express all the way from Peecawn Crik. An' as I know'd you had a kindly feelin' for yur ole shootin'- iron, I've brought that along to lay it in the grave aside o' ye."

While speaking, Cully slips out of his saddle and gives his old comrade a true prairie embrace, at the same time handing him his gun.

Neither the words nor the weapon makes things any clearer to Walt, but rather add to their complication. With increased astonishment he cries out,—

"Geehorum! Am I myself, or somebody else? Is't a dream, or not? That's my ole shootin' stick, sartin. I left it over my hoss, arter cuttin' the poor critter's throat. Maybe you've got him too? I shedn't now be surprised at anythin'. Come, Nat; don't stan' shilly-shallyin', but tell me all about it. Whar did ye git the gun?"

"On Peecawn Crik. Thar we kim acrost a party o' Tenawa Kimanch, unner a chief they call Horned Lizart, o' the whom ye've heern. He han't no name now, seein' he's rubbed out, wi' the majority of his band. We did that. The skrimmage tuk place on the crik, whar we foun' them camped. It didn't last long; an' arter 'twere eended, lookin' about among thar bodies, we foun' thar beauty o' a chief wi' this gun upon his parson, tight clutched in the death-grup. Soon's seeing it I know'd 'twar yourn; an' in coorse surspected ye'd had some mischance. Still, the gun kedn't gie us any informashun o' how you'd parted wi' it. By good luck, 'mong the Injuns we'd captered a Mexikin rennygade—thet thing ye see out thar. He war joined in Horned Lizart's lot, an' he'd been wi' 'em some time. So we put a loose larzette roun' his thrapple, an' on the promise o' its bein' tightened, he tolt us the hul story; how they hed attackted an' skuttled a carryvan, an' all 'bout entoomin' you an' a kimrade—this young fellur, I take it—who war wi' ye. Our bizness out hyar war to look up yur bones an' gie 'em a more Christyun kind o' beril. We were goin' for that cave, the rennygade guidin' us. He said he ked take us a near cut up the gully through which we've just come— arter ascendin' one o' the heads o' the Loosyvana Rod. Near cut! Doggone it, he's been righter than I reck'n he thort o'. Stead o' your bones thar's yur body, wi' as much beef on't as ever. Now I've told our story, we want yourn, the which appears to be a darned deal more o' a unexplainable mistry than ourn. So open yur head, ole hoss, and let's have it."

Brief and graphic as is Cully's narrative, it takes Walt still less time to put his former associates in possession of what has happened to himself and Hamersley, whom he introduces to them as the companion of his perilous adventures—the second of the two believed to have been buried alive!



CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS.

The arrival of the Rangers at that particular time is certainly a contingency of the strangest kind. Ten minutes later, and they would have found the jacal deserted; for Hamersley and Wilder had made up their minds to set off, taking the traitor along with them. The Texans would have discovered signs to tell of the place having been recently occupied by a large body of men, and from the tracks of shod horses these skilled trailers would have known the riders were not Indians. Still, they would have made delay around the ranche and encamped in the valley for that night. This had been their intention, their horses being jaded and themselves wearied making their way up the canon. Though but ten miles in a direct line, it was well nigh twenty by the winding of the stream—a good, even difficult, day's journey.

On going out above they would have seen the trail of Uraga's party, and known it to be made by Mexican soldiers. But, though these were their sworn foemen, they might not have been tempted to follow them. The start of several hours, their own animals in poor condition, the likelihood of a larger force of the enemy being near—all this would have weighed with them, and they would have continued on to the cave whither the renegade was guiding them—a direction altogether different. A very singular coincidence, then, their coming up at that exact instant. It seemed the hand of Providence opportunely extended; and in this light Hamersley looked upon it, as also the ex-Ranger.

Briefly as may be they make known to the new-comers all that had transpired, or as much as for the time needs to be told. Then appeal to them for assistance.

By the Texans their cause is instantly espoused—unanimously, without one dissenting voice. On the contrary, all are uttered with an energy and warmth that give Hamersley a world of hope. Here are friends, whose enemies are his own. And they are in strength sufficient to pursue Uraga's troop and destroy it. They may overtake it that very night; if not, on the morrow. And if not then, they will pursue it to the borders of New Mexico—to the banks of the Del Norte itself.

His heart is no more depressed. The chance of rescuing his friends from death and saving his betrothed from dishonour is no longer hopeless. There is now a probability—almost a certainty—of its success. Backed by Wilder, he proposes instant pursuit.

To the Texans the proposal is like an invitation to a ball or frontier fandango. Excitement is the breath of their life, and a fight with Mexicans their joy; a pursuit of these their supremest delight. Such as this, moreover, having for its object not only the defeat of a hated foe, but the recovery of captives, beautiful women, as their old comrade Walt enthusiastically describes them, is the very thing to rouse the Rangers to energetic action, rekindling in their hearts the spirit of frontier chivalry—the same which led them to become Rangers.

Notwithstanding their wild enthusiasm they do not proceed rashly. Haynes, their captain, is an old "Indian fighter," one of the most experienced chiefs of that Texan border warfare, so long continued.

Checking their impatience to pursue at once, he counsels prudence and deliberate action. Cully also recommends this course.

"But why should we lose a moment?" inquires the hot-blooded Kentuckian, chafing at the delay; "they cannot yet be more than ten miles off. We may overtake them before sunset."

"That's just what we mustn't do," rejoins the Ranger chief. "Suppose they get sight of us before we're near? On the naked plain, you say it is, they'd be sure to do that. What then? Their horses, I take it, are fresh, compared with ours. They might gallop off and leave us gazing after them like so many April fools. They'd have time, too, to take their prisoners along with them."

This last speech makes an impression upon all. Even Hamersley no longer offers opposition.

"Let the sun go down," continues the Texan captain; "that's just what we want. Since they're bound due west I reckon we can easily keep on their trail, clear night or dark one. Here's Nat Cully can do that; and if our friend Walt hasn't lost his old skill he can be trusted for the same."

The Ranger and ex-Ranger, both standing by, remain modestly silent.

"Our plan will be," pursues Haynes, "to approach their camp under cover of night, surround, and so make certain of them. They'll have a camp; and these Mexican soldiers are such greenhorns, they're sure to keep big fires burning, if it is only to give them light for their card-playing. The blaze'll guide us to their squatting-ground, wherever they may make it."

The captain's scheme seems so rational that no one opposes it. Walt Wilder in words signifies assent to it, and Hamersley, with, some reluctance, is at length constrained to do the same.

It is resolved to remain two hours longer in the valley, and then start for the upper plain. That will give time to recruit their horses on the nutritious gramma grass, as themselves on the game they have killed before entering the canon. This hangs plentifully over the horns of their saddles, in the shape of wild turkeys, haunches of venison, and pieces of bear meat.

The fire on the cabin hearth and those kindled by the soldiers outside are still smouldering. They are quickly replenished, and the abandoned cooking utensils once more called into use. But pointed saplings, and the iron ramrods of their rifles—the Ranger's ordinary spit—are in greater demand, and broiling is the style of cuisine most resorted to.

The turkeys are plucked and singed, the venison and bear meat cut into collops, and soon two score pieces are sputtering in the flames of half-a-dozen bivouac fires, while the horses, unbridled, are led out upon their lariats, and given to the grass.



CHAPTER SIXTY.

CROSS-QUESTIONING.

While the Rangers are preparing for their Homeric repast, a group gathered in front of the jacal is occupied with an affair altogether different.

The individuals most conspicuous in it are the Texan captain, the guide Cully, Walt Wilder, and the young Kentuckian, though several besides take part in the conference.

Two others are concerned in it, though not forming figures in the group. They are some paces apart, lying on the grass, both bound. These are the traitor Manuel and the renegade Barbato.

Both Indian and Mexican appear terribly cowed and crestfallen, for both feel themselves in what Cully or Walt Wilder would call a "bad fix." They are, in truth, in a dangerous predicament; for, now that Walt and the Kentuckian have turned up alive, what with the story they have to tell, added to that already known to the Rangers—comparing notes between the two parties—new light is let in, floods of it, falling upon spots hitherto dark, and clearing up points confused and obscure. The two culprits are again cross-examined, and, with pistols held to their heads, forced to still further confession.

The peon repeats what he has already told, without adding much, not having much to add. With the renegade it is different. He has kept much back concerning the part played by Uraga and his lieutenant in the affair of the destroyed waggon train.

But with Hamersley, who speaks his own native tongue, now cross-questioning him, and Walt Wilder to extract his testimony by the persuasive influence of a knife-blade glistening in his eyes, he goes further, and admits the unnatural confederation that existed between the white and red robbers—the Mexican colonel and Comanche chief. In short, to save his life, he makes a much cleaner breast of it than before, this time only keeping back his own special guiltiness in being their willing go-between.

While he is repeating his confession, all the other Rangers gather around the group to listen to him. They stand silent, with bated breath and brows contracted.

When at length they become possessed of the tale in all its diabolical atrocity, all its completeness, their anger, already excited, become almost ungovernable; and it is as much as their captain can do to restrain them from at once starting in pursuit. Some fling their spits in the fire with the meat upon them still untouched; others drop the pieces roasted and partly eaten; most demanding to be led on.

The counsels of the more prudent prevail; and again tranquillised, they recover the morsels of meat and continue their repast.

Not long, till they have reason to regret the delay and deem the prudence misplaced. Though this arises not from any mistake on the part of their counsellors, but from a circumstance entirely accidental.

While they are still in the midst of their meal, the sky, all day long of cerulean clearness, becomes suddenly clouded. Not as this term is understood in the ordinary sense, but absolutely black, as if the sun were instantly eclipsed, or had dropped altogether out of the firmament. Scarce ten minutes after its commencement the obscurity has reached completeness—that of a total solar eclipse or as in a starless night.

Though troubled at the change, none of the Rangers are dismayed by it, or even surprised. The old prairie men are the least astonished, since they know what it means. At the first portentous sign Cully is heard crying out,—

"A hurricane!—A norther!"

Wat Wilder has observed it at the same time, and confirms the prognostic. This is before any of the others have noticed aught peculiar in the aspect of the sky, and when there is just the selvedge of a cloud seen above the cliff.

All Texans understand the significance of the word "norther"—a storm or tornado, usually preceded by a hot, stifling atmosphere, with drifting dust, accompanied by sheet or forked lightning and claps of terrific thunder, followed by wind and rain, sometimes hail or sleet, as if the sluices of heaven were drawn open, ending in a continued blast of more regular direction, but chill as though coming direct from the Arctic regions.

In less than ten minutes after its first sign, the tempest is around them. Down into the valley pours the dust, swept from the surface of the upper plain, along with it the leaves and stalks of the wild wormwood, with other weeds of the desert. Simultaneously the wind, at first in low sighs, like the sound of a distant sea; then roaring against the rocks, and swooping down among the trees, whose branches go crashing before its blast. Then succeed lightning, thunder, and rain— the last falling, not in drops, but in sheets, as if spilled from a spout.

For shelter the Rangers rush inside the ranche, leaving their horses to take care of themselves. The latter stand cowering under the trees, neighing with affright—the mules among them giving vent to their plaintive hinney. There are dogs, too, that howl and bark, with other sounds that come from farther off—from the wild denizens of the wilderness; cries of the cougar in contralto, wolf-barkings in mezzo-soprano, screaming of eagles in shrill treble, snorting of bears in basso, and hooting of scared owls in lugubrious tone, to be likened only to the wailing of agonised spirits in Purgatory.

Crowded within the hut, so thickly as to have scarce standing room, the Rangers wait for the calming of the tempest. They submit with greater resignation, knowing it will not long continue. It is far from being their first experience of a "norther."

The only thought that troubles them is the delay—being hindered from setting forth on the pursuit. True, the party to be pursued will be stayed by the same obstruction. The soldiers will have to halt during the continuance of the storm, so that the distance between will remain the same.

But then their tracks will be obliterated—every vestige of them. The wind, the rain, and dust will do this. How is their trail to be taken up? "That will be easy enough," says one, whose self-esteem is greater than his prairie experience. He adds: "As they're going due west, we can't make any mistake by steering the same way."

"How little he knows about it!" is the muttered remark exchanged between Wilder and Cully. For they know that the deflection of a single point upon the prairies—above all, upon the Staked Plain—will leave the traveller, like a ship at sea without chart or compass, to steer by guesswork, or go drifting at sheer chance.

To most, the consoling thought is that the Mexicans will halt near, and stay till the storm is over. They have some baggage—a tent or two, with other camp equipage. This is learnt from the Indian; and Hamersley, as also Wilder, have themselves made note of it.

To the returning soldiers there can be no great reason for haste, and they will not likely resume their march till the sky is quite clear. Therefore they will gain nothing in distance.

Satisfied by such assurance given by the sager ones of the party, the Rangers remain inside the hut, on the roof of which the rain dashes down, without experiencing any keen pangs of impatience. Some of them even jest—their jokes having allusion to the close quarters in which they are packed, and other like trifles incidental to the situation.

Walt Wilder for a while gives way to this humour. Whatever may be the danger of Don Valerian and the others, he does not believe his sweetheart much exposed. The little brown-skinned damsel is not in the proscribed list; and the ex-Ranger, strong in the confidence of having her heart, with the promise of her hand, has less reason to be apprehensive about the consequences. Besides, he is now in the midst of his former associates, and the exchange of new histories and old reminiscences is sufficient to fill up the time, and keep him from yielding to impatient longing.

Of all Hamersley alone is unhappy. Despite the assurances spoken, the hopes felt, there is yet apprehension for the future. The position, however, is endurable, and only passes this point as a thought comes into his mind—a memory that flashes across his brain, as if a bullet had struck him between the temples.

It causes him to spring suddenly to his feet, for he has been seated, at the same time wringing from him a cry of peculiar signification.

"What is it, Mr Hamersley?" asks the Ranger Captain, who is close by his side.

"My God!" exclaims the Kentuckian. "I'd forgotten. We must be off at once, or we shall be too late—too late!"

Saying this, he makes a dash for the door, hurtling his way through the crowd close standing between.

The Rangers regard him with glances of astonishment, and doubts about his sanity. Some of them actually think he has gone mad!

One alone understands him—Walt Wilder; though he, too, seems demented. With like incoherent speech and frantic gesture, he follows Hamersley to the door.

Both rush outside; as they do so calling back, "Come on! come on!"



CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

INTO THE STORM.

Lightning flashes, thunder rolls, wind bellows, and rain pours down in sheets, as if from sluices; for the storm is still raging as furiously as ever. Into it have rushed the two, regardless of all.

The Texans are astounded—for a time some of them still believing both men mad. But soon it is seen they are acting with method, making straight for the horses, while shouting and gesticulating for the Rangers to come after.

These do not need either the shouts or signs to be repeated. Walt's old comrades know he must have reason, and, disregarding the tempest, they strike out after. Their example is electric, and in ten seconds the jacal is empty.

In ten more they are among their horses, drawing in the trail-ropes and bridling them.

Before they can get into their saddles they are made aware of what it is all about.

Hamersley and Walt, already mounted and waiting, make known to the Ranger captain the cause of their hurried action, apparently so eccentric. A few words suffice.

"The way out," says the Kentuckian, "is up yonder ravine, along the bed of the stream that runs through. When it rains as it's doing now, then the water suddenly rises and fills up the channel, leaving no room, no road. If we don't get out quick we may be kept here for days."

"Yis, boys!" adds Wilder, "we've got to climb the stairs right smart, rain or shine, storm or no storm. Hyar's one off for the upper storey, fast as his critter kin carry him."

While speaking, he jobs his heels against the ribs of his horse—for he is now mounted on one, as also Hamersley—supernumeraries of the Texan troop. Then, dashing off, with the Kentuckian by his side, they are soon under the trees and out of sight. Not of the Rangers, who, themselves now in the saddle, spur after in straggling line, riding at top speed.

Once again the place is deserted, for, despite their precipitate leave-taking, the Texans have carried the prisoners along with them. No living thing remains by the abandoned dwelling. The only sign of human occupation is the smoke that ascends through its kitchen chimney, and from the camp fires outside, these gradually getting extinguished by the downpour.

Still the lightning flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and the rain pours down as from dishes. But not to deter the Texans, who, drenched to their shirts, continue to ride rapidly on up the valley road. There is in reality no road, only a trail made by wild animals, occasionally trodden by the domesticated ones belonging to Colonel Miranda; later still by Uraga's lancers.

Soaked by the rain, it has become a bed of mud, into which the horses of the Rangers sink to their saddle girths, greatly impeding their progress. Whip and spur as they may, they make but slow time. The animals baulk, plunge, stumble, some going headforemost into the mire, others striking their shoulders against the thick-standing trees, doing damage to themselves and their riders. For with the norther still clouding the sky, it is almost dark as night.

Other dangers assail them from falling trees. Some go down bodily before the blast, while from others great branches are broken off by the wind, and strike crashing across the path. One comes near crushing half a dozen horsemen under its broad, spreading avalanche of boughs.

Notwithstanding all, they struggle on fearlessly, and fast as they can, Hamersley and Wilder at their head, Haynes, Cully, and the best mounted of the troop close following. Walt and the Kentuckian well know the way. Otherwise, in the buffeting of that terrible storm, they might fail to find it.

They succeed in keeping it, on to the head of the valley, where the stream comes in between the cliffs. A tiny runlet as they last looked upon it—a mere brook, pellucid and sparkling as the sand on its bed. Now it is a torrent, deep, red and roaring; only white on its surface, where the froth sweeps on, clouting the cliffs on each side. Against these it has risen quite six feet, and still creeps upward. It has filled the channel from side to side, leaving not an inch of roadway between the river and rock.

To wade it would be impossible; to attempt swimming it destruction. The staunchest steed could not stem its surges. Even the huge river-horse of Africa would be swept off his feet and tossed to the surface like one of its froth-flakes.

Arriving on its edge, Hamersley sees this at a glance. As he checks up his horse, the exclamation that leaps from his lips more resembles the anguished cry of a man struggling in the torrent than one seated safely in a saddle on its bank.

After it, he gives utterance to two words in sad despairing tone, twice repeated,—

"Too late—too late!"

Again repeated by Walt Wilder, and twenty times again by a score of the Rangers who have ridden up, and reined their horses crowdingly behind.

There is no response save echo from the rocks, scarce audible through the hoarse sough of the swollen surging stream, that rolls relentlessly by, seeming to say, as in scorn, "Ford me! swim across me if you can!"



CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

A SHORT SHRIFT.

Difficult—indeed, impossible—for pen to describe the scene consequent upon the arrival of the Rangers by the banks of the swollen stream, and finding it unfordable.

Imagine a man who has secured passage by a ship bound for some far-off foreign land, and delayed by some trifling affair, comes upon the pier to see the hawser cast off, the plank drawn ashore, the sails spread, himself left hopelessly behind!

His chagrin might be equal to that felt by the Texans, but slight compared with what harrows the hearts of Hamersley and Walt Wilder. To symbolise theirs, it must be a man missing his ship homeward bound, with sweetheart, wife, child awaiting him at the end of the voyage, and in a port from which vessels take departure but "few and far between."

These two, better than any of the Texans, understand the obstruction that has arisen, in the same proportion as they are aggrieved by it. Too well do they comprehend its fatal import. Not hours, but whole days, may elapse before the flood subsides, the stream can be forded, the ravine ascended, and the pursuit continued.

Hours—days! A single day—an hour—may seal the fate of those dear to them. The hearts of both are sad, their bosoms racked with anguish, as they sit in their saddles with eyes bent on the turbid stream, which cruelly forbids fording it.

In different degree and from a different cause the Texans also suffer. Some only disappointment, but others real chagrin. These last men, whose lives have been spent fighting their Mexican foemen, hating them from the bottom of their hearts. They are those who knew the unfortunate Fanning and the lamented Bowie, who gave his name to their knives; some of themselves having escaped from the red massacre of Goliad and the savage butchery of the Alamo.

Ever since they have been practising the lex talionis—seeking retaliation, and oft-times finding it. Perhaps too often wreaking their vengeance on victims that might be innocent. Now that guilty ones—real Mexican soldiers in uniform, such as ruthlessly speared and shot down their countrymen at Goliad and San Antonio—now that a whole troop of these have but the hour before been within reach—almost striking distance—it is afflicting, maddening, to think they may escape.

And the more reflecting on the reason, so slight and accidental—a shower of rain swelling a tiny stream. For all this, staying their pursuit as effectively as if a sea of fire separated them from the foe, so despised and detested.

The lightning still flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and the rain pours down.

No use staying any longer by the side of the swollen stream, to be tantalised by its rapid, rushing current, and mocked by its foam-flakes dancing merrily along.

Rather return to the forsaken ranche, and avail themselves of such shelter as it may afford.

In short, there seems no alternative; and, yielding to the necessity, they rein round, and commence the backward march, every eye glancing gloomily, every brow overcast.

They are all disappointed, most of them surly as bears that had been shot in the head, and have scratched the place to a sore. They are just in the humour to kill anyone, or anything, that should chance in their way.

But there is no one, and nothing; and, in the absence of an object to spend their spite upon, some counsel wreaking it on their captives—the traitor and renegade.

Never during life were these two men nearer their end. To all appearance, in ten minutes more both will be dangling at the end of a rope suspended from a limb of a tree.

They are saved by a circumstance for them at least lucky, if unfortunate for some others.

Just as a half-score of the Rangers have clumped together under a spreading pecan-tree, intending to hang them upon one of its branches, a horse is heard to neigh. Not one of their own, but an animal some way off the track, amid the trees. The hail is at once responded to by the steeds they are bestriding; and is promptly re-answered, not by one horse, but three neighing simultaneously.

A strange thing this, that calls for explanation. What horses can be there, save their own? And none of the Rangers have ridden in the direction whence the "whighering" proceeds.

A dozen of them do so now; before they have gone far, finding three horses standing under the shadow of a large live oak, with three men mounted on their backs, who endeavour to keep concealed behind its broad buttressed trunk.

In vain. Guided by the repeated neighing and continuous tramp of their horses, the Rangers ride up, close around, and capture them.

Led out into the light, the Texans see before them three men in soldier garb—the uniform of Mexican lancers. It is the corporal squad sent back by Uraga to bring on the truant traitor.

Of their errand the Rangers know nought, and nothing care. Enough that three of their hated foemen are in their hands, their hostility intensified by the events of the hour.

No more fuel is needed to fire them up. Their vengeance demands a victim, and three have offered ready to hand.

As they ride back to the road, they leave behind them a tableau, telling of a spectacle just passed—one having a frightful finale. From a large limb of the live oak, extending horizontally, hang three men, the Mexican lancers. They are suspended by the neck, dangling, dead!