The Lone Ranche

The movement has not escaped the observation of the two men lying tied under the tree. They cannot divine its meaning, but neither do they augur well of it. Still worse, when Uraga, calling to Galvez to come to him, mutters some words in his ear.

Their apprehensions are increased when the sentry returns to them, and, unfastening the cord from the doctor’s ankles, raises him upon his feet, as if to remove him from the spot.

On being asked what it is for, Galvez does not condescend to give an answer, except to say in a gruff voice that he has orders to separate them.

Taking hold of the doctor’s arm, he conducts him to a distance of several hundred yards, and, once more laying him along the ground, stands over him as before in the attitude of a sentry. The action is suspicious, awe-inspiring – not more to Don Prospero than Miranda himself.

The latter is not left long to meditate upon it. Almost instantly he sees the place of his friend occupied by his enemy. Gil Uraga stands beside him.

There is an interval of silence, with only an interchange of glances; Don Valerian’s defiant, Uraga’s triumphant. But the expression of triumph on the part of the latter appears held in check, as if to wait some development that may either heighten or curb its display.

Uraga breaks silence – the first speech vouchsafed to his former commanding officer since making him a prisoner.

“Señor Miranda,” he says, “you will no doubt be wondering why I have ordered your fellow-captive to be taken apart from you. It will be explained by my saying that I have words for you I don’t wish overheard by anyone – not even by your dear friend, Don Prospero.”

“What words, Gil Uraga?”

“A proposal I have to make.”

Miranda remains silent, awaiting it.

“Let me first make known,” continues the ruffian, “though doubtless you know it already, that your life is in my power. If I put a pistol to your head and blow out your brains there will be no calling me to account. If there was any danger of that, I could avoid it by giving you the benefit of a court-martial. Your life is forfeit to the state; and our military laws, as you are aware, can be stretched just now sufficiently to meet your case.”

“I am aware of it,” rejoins Miranda, his patriotic spirit roused by the reflection; “I know the despotism that now rules my unfortunate country. It can do anything, without respect for either laws or constitution.”

“Just so,” assents Uraga; “and for this reason I approach you with my proposal.”

“Speak it, then. Proceed, sir, and don’t multiply words. You need not fear of their effect. I am your prisoner, and powerless.”

“Since you command me to avoid circumlocution, I shall obey you to the letter. My proposal is that, in exchange for your life – which I have the power to take, as also to save – you will give me your sister.”

Miranda writhes till the cords fastening his wrists almost cut through the skin. Withal, he is silent; his passion too intense to permit of speech.

“Don’t mistake me, Don Valerian Miranda,” pursues his tormentor, in a tone intended to be soothing. “When I ask you to give me your sister I mean it in an honourable sense. I wish her for my wife; and to save your life she will consent to become so, if you only use your influence to that end. She will not be a faithful sister if she do not. I need not tell you that I love her; you know that already. Accept the conditions I offer, and all will be well. I can even promise you the clemency of the State; for my influence in high places is somewhat different from what it was when you knew me as your subordinate. It will enable me to obtain free pardon for you.”

Miranda still remains silent – long enough to rouse the impatience of him who dictates, and tempt the alternative threat already shaping itself on his tongue.

“Refuse,” he continues, his brow suddenly clouding, while a light of sinister significance flashes from his eyes, “Refuse me, and you see not another sun. By that now shining you may take your last look of the earth; for this night will certainly be your last on it alive. Observe those vultures on the cliff! They are whetting their beaks, as if they expected a banquet. They shall have one, on your body, if you reject the terms I’ve offered. Accept them, Don Valerian Miranda; or before to-morrow’s sun reaches meridian the birds will be feeding upon your flesh, and the wild beasts quarrelling over your bones. Answer me, and without prevarication. I demand plain speech, yes or no.”

“No!” is the monosyllable shouted, almost shrieked, by him so menaced. “No!” he repeats; “never shall I consent to that. I am in your power, Gil Uraga. Put your pistol to my head, blow out my brains, as you say you can do with impunity. Kill me any way you wish, even torture. It could not be more painful than to see you the husband of my sister, either by my consent or her own. You cannot force mine upon such disgraceful conditions, nor yet gain her’s. My noble Adela! She would rather see me die, and die along with me.”

“Ha! ha!” responded Uraga, in a peal of mocking laughter, mingled with a whine of chagrin, “we shall see about that. Perhaps the senorita may not treat my offer quite so slightingly as yourself. Women are not so superbly stupid. They have a keener comprehension of their own interests. Your sister may better appreciate the honour I am intending her. If not, Heaven help her and you! She will soon be without a brother. Adios, Don Valerian! I go to pour speech into softer ears. For your own sake, hope – pray – that my proposal may be more favourably received.”

Saying this, Uraga turns upon his heel and abruptly walks away, leaving behind his captive with hands tied and heart in a tumult of anguished emotion.

Chapter Sixty Seven.

A Sister Sorely Tried

The marquee occupied by Adela Miranda and her maid is not visible from the spot where her brother lies bound. The other tent is between, with some shrubbery further concealing it.

But from the tenour of his last speech, Don Valerian knows that Uraga has gone thither, as also his object.

Chagrined by the denial he has received from the brother, roused to recklessness, he resolves on having an answer from the sister, point-blank, upon the instant.

With slight ceremony he enters her tent. Once inside, he mutters a request, more like a command, for Conchita to withdraw. He does this with as much grace as the excited state of his feelings permits, excusing himself on the plea that he wishes a word with the senorita – one he is sure she would not wish to be heard by other ears than her own.

Aroused from a despondent attitude, the young lady looks up, her large round eyes expressing surprise, anger, apprehension, awe. The mestiza glances towards her mistress for instructions. The latter hesitates to give them. Only for an instant. It can serve no purpose to gainsay the wishes of one who has full power to enforce them, and whose demeanour shows him determined on doing so.

“You can go, Conchita,” says her mistress; “I will call you when you are wanted.”

The girl moves off with evident reluctance, but stops not far from the tent.

“Now, Don Gil Uraga,” demands the lady, on being left alone with the intruder, “what have you to say to me that should not be overheard?”

“Come, senorita! I pray you will not commence so brusquely. I approach you as a friend, though for some time I may have appeared in the character of an enemy. I hope, however, you’ll give me credit for good intentions. I’m sure you will when you know how much I’m distressed by the position I’m placed in. It grieves me that my instructions compel such harsh measures towards my two prisoners: but, in truth, I can say no discretion has been left me. I act under an order from headquarters.”

“Señor,” she rejoins, casting upon him a look of scornful incredulity, “you have said all this before. I suppose you had something else to speak of.”

“And so I have, senorita. Something of a nature so unpleasant I hesitate to tell it, fearing it may sadly shock you.”

“You need not. After what has passed I am not likely to be nervous.”

Despite her natural courage, and an effort to appear calm, she trembles, as also her voice. There is an expression on the face of the man that bodes sinister risings – some terrible disclosure.

The suspense is too painful to be borne; and in a tone more firm and defiant she demands the promised communication.

“Dona Adela Miranda,” he rejoins, speaking in a grave, measured voice, like a doctor delivering a prognosis of death, “it has been my duty to make your brother a prisoner – a painful one, as I have said. But, alas! the part I’ve already performed is nothing compared with that now required of me. You say you are prepared for a shock. What I’m going to say will cause you one.”

She no longer attempts to conceal alarm. It is now discernible in her large, wondering eyes.

“Say it!”

The words drop mechanically from her lips, drawn forth by the intensity of her apprehension.

“You are soon to be without a brother!”

“What mean you, señor?”

“Don Valerian dies within the hour.”

“You are jesting, sir. My brother has not been sick? He is not wounded? Why should he die?”

She speaks hurriedly, and with an incredulous stare at Uraga; while at the same time her heaving, palpitating bosom shows she too truly believes what he said.

“Don Valerian is not sick,” continues the unfeeling wretch, “nor yet has he received any wound. For all this, in less than an hour he must die. It is decreed.”

“Madre de Dios! You are mocking me. His death decreed! By whom?”

“Not by me, I assure you. The military authorities of the country have been his judges, and condemned him long ago, as also Don Prospero. It only needed their capture to have the sentence carried out. This disagreeable duty has been entrusted to me. My orders at starting were to have both shot on the instant of making them captives. For your sake, senorita, I’ve so far disobeyed the rigorous command – an act which may cost me my commission. Yes, Dona Adela, for your sake.”

The tale is preposterous, and might seem to her who hears it a lie, but for her knowledge of many similar occurrences in the history of her native land, “Cosas de Mexico.” Besides, her own and her brother’s experience render it but too probable.

“Dios de mi alma!” she cries out in the anguish of conviction, “can this be true?”

“It is true.”

“Colonel Uraga, you will not carry out this cruel sentence! It is not an execution – it is an assassination! You will not stain your soul with murder?”

“I must obey orders.”

“My poor brother! Have mercy! You can save him?”

“I can.”

“You will? You will?”

“I will!”

The emphasis with which these two words are pronounced brings a flush of gratefulness over her face, and she makes a forward movement as if to thank him by a pressure of the hand. She might have given it but for the cast upon his features, telling his consent not yet obtained, nor his speech finished. There is more to come – two other words. They are —

“Upon conditions!”

They check her bursting gratitude. Conditions! She knows not what they may be. But she knows the character of Gil Uraga, and can predict they will be hard.

“Name them!” she demands. “If it be money, I’m ready to give it. Though my brother’s property is taken from him, as we’ve heard, not so mine. I have wealth – houses, lands. Take all, but save Valerian’s life.”

“You can save it without expending a single claco; only by giving a grace.”

“What mean you, señor?”

“To explain my meaning I’ll repeat what I’ve said. Your brother’s head is forfeit. It can be saved by a hand.”

“Still I do not understand you. A hand?”

“Yes, your hand.”

“How?”

“Grasped in mine – united with it in holy wedlock. That is all I ask.”

She starts as if a serpent had stung her, for she now comprehends all.

“All I ask,” he continues in a strain of fervid passion, “I who love you with my whole soul; who have loved you for long hopeless years – aye, senorita, ever since you were a schoolgirl; myself a rough, wild youth, the son of a ranchero, who dared only gaze at you from a distance. I am a peasant no longer, but one who has wealth; upon whom the State has bestowed power to command; made me worthy to choose a wife from among the proudest in our land – even to wed with the Dona Adela Miranda, who beholds him at her feet!”

While speaking he has knelt before her, and remains upon his knees awaiting her response.

She makes none. She stands as if petrified, deprived of the power of speech.

Her silence gives him hope.

“Dona Adela,” he continues in an appealing tone, as if to strengthen the chances of an affirmative answer, “I will do everything to make you happy – everything a husband can. And remember your brother’s life! I am risking my own to save it. I have just spoken to him on the subject. He does not object; on the contrary, has given consent to you being mine.”

“You say so?” she inquires, with a look of incredulity. “I do not believe it – will not, without hearing it from his own lips.”

While speaking, she springs past the kneeling suppliant, and, before he can get upon his legs or stretch forth a hand to detain her, she has glided out of the tent, and makes for the place where she supposes the prisoners to be kept.

Starting to his feet, Uraga rushes after. His intent is to overtake and bring her back, even if he have to carry her.

He is too late. Before he can come up with her she has reached the spot where her brother lies bound, and kneels beside him with arms embracing, her lips pressing his brow, his cheeks moistened by her tears.

Chapter Sixty Eight.

A Terrible Intention

Not for long does the scene of agonised affection remain uninterrupted. In a few seconds it is intruded on by him who is causing its agony.

Uraga, hastening after, has reached the spot and stands contemplating it. A spectacle to melt a heart of stone, it has no softening effect on his. His brow his black with rage, his eyes shining like coals of fire.

His first impulse is to call Galvez and order him to drag brother and sister apart. His next to do this himself. He is about seizing Adela’s wrist, when a thought restrains him. No melting or impulse of humanity. There is not a spark of it in his bosom. Only a hope, suddenly conceived, that with the two now together he may repeat his proposal with a better chance of its being entertained.

From the expression upon their countenances he can see that in the interval before his coming up words have passed between them – few and hastily spoken, but enough for each to have been told what he has been saying to the other. It does not daunt; on the contrary, but determines him to renew his offer, and, if necessary, reiterate his threats.

There is no one within earshot for whom he need care. Galvez has taken Don Prospero far apart. Roblez is inside the tent, though he thinks not of him; while the Indian damsel, who stands trembling by, is not worth a thought. Besides, he is now more than ever regardless of the result.

“Don Valerian Miranda!” he exclaims, recovering breath after his chase across the camp-ground. “I take it your sister has told you what has passed between us. If not, I shall tell you myself.”

“My sister has communicated all – even the falsehood by which you’ve sought to fortify your infamous proposal.”

“Carramba!” exclaims Uraga, upon whose cheeks there is no blush of shame for the deception practised. “Does the offer to save your life, at risk of my own – to rescue you from a felon’s death – does that deserve the harsh epithet with which you are pleased to qualify it? Come, señor, you are wronging me while trifling with your own interests. I have been honest, and declared all. I love the Dona Adela, as you’ve known, long. What do I ask? Only that she shall become my wife, and, by so doing, save the life of her brother. As your brother-in-law it will be my duty, my interest, my pleasure, to protect you.”

“That you shall never be!” firmly rejoins Miranda. “No, never!” he adds, with kindling fervour, “never, on such conditions!”

“Does the senorita pronounce with the same determination?” asks Uraga, riveting his eyes on Adela.

It is a terrible ordeal for the girl. Her brother lying bound by her side, his death about to be decreed, his end near as if the executioner were standing over him – for in this light does Uraga appear. Called upon to save his life by promising to become the wife of this man – hideous in her eyes as the hangman himself; knowing, or believing, that if she does not, in another hour she may be gazing upon a blood-stained corpse – the dead body of her own brother! No wonder she trembles from head to foot, and hesitates to endorse the negative he has so emphatically pronounced.

Don Valerian notes her indecision, and, firmly as before, repeats the words, —

“No – never!” adding, “Dear sister, think not of me. Do not fear or falter; I shall not. I would rather die a hundred deaths than see you the wife of such a ruffian. Let me die first!”

“Chingara!” hisses the man thus boldly defied, using the vilest exclamation known to the Spanish tongue. “Then you shall die first. And, after you’re dead, she shall still be my wife, or something you may not like so well – my Margarita!”

The infamous meaning conveyed by this word, well understood by Miranda, causes him to start half-upright, at the same time wrenching at the rope around his wrists. The perspiration forced from him by the agony of the hour has moistened the raw-hide thong to stretching. It yields to the convulsive effort, leaving his hands released.

With a quick lurch forward he clutches at the sword dangling by Uraga’s side. Its hilt is in his grasp, and in an instant he has drawn the blade from its scabbard!

Seeing himself thus suddenly disarmed, the Lancer Colonel springs back shouting loudly for help. Miranda, his ankles bound, is at first unable to follow, but with the sword-blade he quickly cut the thongs, and is on his feet – free!

In another instant he is chasing Uraga across the camp-ground, the latter running like a scared hound.

Before he can be overtaken, the trampling of hoofs resound upon the grassy turf, and the returned lancers, with Roblez and the sentry, close around the prisoner.

Don Valerian sees himself encircled by a chevaux de frise of lances, with cocked carbines behind. There is no chance of escape, no alternative but surrender. After that —

He does not stop to reflect. A wild thought flashes across his brain – a terrible determination. To carry it out only needs the consent of his sister. She had rushed between their horses and stands by his side, with arms outstretched to protect him.

“Adela!” he says, looking intently into her eyes, “dear sister, let us die together!”

She sees the sword resolutely held in his grasp. She cannot mistake the appeal.

“Yes; let us, Valerian!” comes the quick response, with a look of despairing resignation, followed by the muttered speech of “Mother of God, take us both to thy bosom! To thee we commit our souls!”

He raises the blade, its point towards his sister – in another moment to be buried in her bosom, and afterwards in his own!

The sacrifice is not permitted, though the soldiers have no hand in hindering it. Dismayed or careless, they sit in their saddles without thought of interfering. But between their files rushes a form in whose heart is more of humanity.

The intruder is Conchita – opportune to an instant.

Two seconds more, and the fratricidal sword would have bereft her of a mistress and a master, both alike beloved.

Both are saved by her interference; for grasping the upraised arm, she restrains it from the thrust.

Roblez, close following, assists her, while several of the lancers, now dismounted, fling themselves upon Miranda and disarm him.

The intending sororicide and suicide is restored to his fastenings; his sister taken back to her tent; a trooper detailed to stand sentry beside and frustrate any attempt at a second escapade.

Chapter Sixty Nine.

An Intercepted Dispatch

While the thrilling incident described is occurring in Uraga’s camp, the Rangers, en route along the banks of the Pecos, are making all the haste in their power to reach it, Hamersley and Wilder every now and then saying some word to urge them on.

In pursuit of such an enemy the Texans need no pressing. ’Tis only the irrestrainable impatience of the two whose souls are tortured by the apprehension of danger hovering over the heads of those dear to them. There is no difficulty in lifting the trail of the soldiers. Their horses are shod, and the late storm, with its torrent of rain, has saturated the earth, obliterating all old hoof-marks, so that those later made are not only distinct but conspicuous. So clear, that the craft of Cully and Wilder is not called into requisition. Every Ranger riding along the trail can take it up as fast as his horse is able to carry him.

All see that Uraga has taken no pains to blind the track of his party. Why should he? He can have no suspicion of being pursued; certainly not by such pursuers.

Along the trail, then, they ride rapidly; gratified to observe that it grows fresher as they advance for they are travelling thrice as fast as the men who made it.

All at once they come to a halt – summoned to this by a sight which never fails to bring the most hurried traveller to a stand. They see before them the dead body of a man!

It is lying on a sand-spit, which projects into the river. Upon this it has evidently been washed by the waters, now subsiding after the freshet, due to the late tornado. Beside it shows the carcase of a mule, deposited in similar manner. Both are conspicuous to the Rangers as they ride abreast of the spit; but their attention has been called to them long before by a flock of buzzards, some hovering above, others alighting upon the sandbank.

Six or seven of the Texans, heading their horses down the sloping bank, ride towards the “sign” – so sad, yet terribly attractive. It would tempt scrutiny anywhere; but in the prairie wilderness, in that dangerous desert, it may be the means of guiding to a path of safety, or warding from one that is perilous.

While those who have detached themselves proceed out upon the sand-bar, the main body remains upon the high bank, awaiting their return.

The dead man proves to be an Indian, though not of the bravos, or savage tribes. Wearing a striped woollen talma, with coarse cotton shirt underneath, wide sheep-skin breeches, ex tending only a little below the knee, and rude raw-hide sandals upon his feet, he is evidently one of the Christianised aboriginals.

There are no marks of violence on his body, nor yet on the carcase of the mule. The case is clear at a glance. It is one of drowning; and the swollen stream, still foaming past, is evidence eloquent of how it happened. On the man’s body there are no signs of rifling or robbery. His pockets, when turned inside out, yield such contents as might be expected on the person of an Indio manso.

Only one thing, which, in the eyes of the examinators, appears out of place; a sheet of paper folded in the form of a letter, and sealed as such. It is saturated with water, stained to the hue of the still turbid stream. But the superscription can be read, “Por Barbato.”

So much Cully and Wilder, who assist at the examination, can make out for themselves. But on breaking open the seal, and endeavouring to decipher what is written inside, both are at fault, as also the others along with them. The letter is in a language that is a sealed book to all. It is in Spanish.

Without staying to attempt translating it, they return to the river’s bank, taking the piece of paper along, for the superscription has touched a tender point, and given rise to strange suspicions.

Walt carries the wet letter, which, soon as rejoining their comrades, he places in the hands of Hamersley. The latter, translating, reads aloud:

“Señor Barbato, – As soon as you receive this, communicate its contents to the chief. Tell him to meet me on the Arroyo de Alamo – same place as before – and that he is to bring with him twenty or thirty of his painted devils. The lesser number will be enough, as it’s not an affair of fighting. Come yourself with them. You will find me encamped with a small party – some female and two male captives. No matter about the women. It’s the men you have to deal with; and this is what you are to do. Charge upon our camp the moment you get sight of it; make your redskins shout like fiends, and ride forward, brandishing their spears. You won’t meet resistance, nor find any one on the ground when you’ve got there, only our two prisoners, who will be fast bound, and so cannot flee with us. What’s to be done with them, amigo mio, is the important part – in fact, the whole play. Tell the chief they are to be speared upon the spot, thrust through as soon as you get up to them. See to this yourself, lest there be any mischance; and I’ll take care you shall have your reward.”