Chapter Thirty Three.
A Forced Confession
The party of Texans has made what prairie men call a “coup.” On counting the corpses of their slain enemies they find that at least one-half of the Tenawa warriors have fallen, including their chief. They can make an approximate estimate of the number that was opposed to them by the signs visible around the camp, as also upon the trail they have been for several days following. Those who escaped have got off, some on their horses, hastily caught and mounted; others afoot, by taking to the timber. They were not pursued, as it was still dark night when the action ended, and by daylight these wild centaurs, well acquainted with the country, will have scattered far and wide, beyond all likelihood of being again encountered.
The settlers are satisfied at having recovered their relatives, as also their stolen stock. As to the Rangers, enough has been accomplished to slake their revengeful thirst – for the time. These last, however, have not come off unscathed; for the Comanches, well armed with guns, bows, and lances, did not die unresistingly. In Texas Indians rarely do, and never when they engage in a fight with Rangers. Between them and these border guerrilleros– in one sense almost as much savages as themselves – war is an understood game – to the bitter end, with no quarter either asked or given.
The Rangers count three of their number killed and about twice as many wounded – enough, considering the advantage they had in their unwarned attack upon enemies who for once proved unwatchful.
When the conflict has finally come to a close, and daylight makes manifest the result, the victors take possession of the spoil – most of it their own property. The horses that strayed or stampeded during the fight are again collected into a drove – those of the Indians being united to it. This done, only a short stay is intended – just long enough to bury the bodies of the three Rangers who have been killed, get stretchers prepared for such of the wounded as are unable to sit in the saddle, and make other preparations for return towards the settlements.
They do not hasten their departure through any apprehension of a counter-attack on the side of the Comanches. Fifty Texan Rangers – and there are this number of them – have no fear on any part of the plains, so long as they are mounted on good horses, carry rifles in their hands, bowie-knives and pistols in their belts, with a sufficient supply of powder in their flasks, and bullets in their pouches. With all these items they are amply provided; and were there now any necessity for continuing the pursuit, or the prospect of striking another coup, they would go on, even though the chase should conduct them into the defiles of the Rocky Mountains. To pursue and slay the savage is their vocation, their duty, their pastime and pleasure.
But the settlers are desirous of a speedy return to their homes, that they may relieve the anxiety of other dear ones, who there await them. They long to impart the glad tidings they will take with them.
While the preparations for departure are going on, Cully – who, with several others, has been collecting the arms and accoutrements of their slain enemies – gives utterance to a cry that brings a crowd of his comrades around him.
“What is it, Nat?” inquires the Ranger captain.
“Look hyar, cap! D’ye see this gun?”
“Yes; a hunter’s rifle. Whose is it?”
“That’s jess the questyin; though thar ain’t no questyin about it. Boys, do any o’ ye recognise this hyar shootin’ iron?”
One after another the Rangers step up, and look at the rifle.
“I do,” says one.
“And I,” adds another.
And a third, and fourth, make the same affirmation, all speaking in tones of surprise.
“Walt Wilder’s gun,” continues Cully, “sure an’ sartin. I know it, an oughter know it. See them two letters in the stock thar – ‘WW.’ Old Nat Cully hez good reezun to recconise them, since ’twas hisself that cut ’em. I did it for Walt two yeern ago, when we war scoutin’ on the Collyrado. It’s his weepun, an’ no mistake.”
“Where did you find it?” inquires the captain.
“I’ve jess tuk it out o’ the claws o’ the ugliest Injun as ever made trail on a puraira – that beauty thar, whose karkidge the buzzards won’t be likely to tech.”
While speaking Cully points to a corpse. It is that of the Tenawa chief, already identified among the slain.
“He must a’ hed it in his clutch when suddenly shot down,” pursues the guide. “An’ whar did he git it? Boys, our ole kummerade’s wiped out for sartin. I know how Walt loved that thar piece. He w’udn’t a parted wi’ it unless along wi’ his life.”
This is the conviction of several others acquainted with Wilder. It is the company of Rangers to which he formerly belonged.
“Thar’s been foul play somewhar,” continues Cully. “Walt went back to the States – to Kaintuck, ef this chile ain’t mistook. But ’tain’t likely he stayed thar; he kedn’t keep long off o’ the purairas. I tell ye, boys, these hyar Injens hev been makin’ mischief somewhar’. Look thar, look at them leggin’s! Thar’s no eend o’ white sculps on’ ’em, an’ fresh tuk, too!”
The eyes of all turned towards these terrible trophies that in gory garniture fringe the buck-skin leg-wear of the savages. Cully, with several others who knew Wilder well, proceed to examine them, in full expectation of finding among them the skin of their old comrade’s head. There are twelve scalps, all of white men, with others that are Indian, and not a few that exhibit the equally black, but shorter crop of the Mexican. Those that are indubitably of white men show signs of having been recently taken, but none of them can be identified as the scalp of Walt Wilder.
There is some relief in this, for his old comrades love. Walt. Still, there is the damning evidence of the gun, which Cully declares could only have been taken from him along with his life. How has it got into the hands of the Horned Lizard?
“I reckon we can settle that,” says the Captain of the Rangers. “The renegade ought to know something about it.”
This speech refers to Barbato, who has been taken prisoner, and about whose disposal they have already commenced to deliberate. His beard betrayed him as a renegade; and, the paint having been partially wiped from his skin, all perceive that he is a white man – a Mexican. Some are for shooting him on the spot, others propose hanging, while only a few of the more humane advocate taking him on to the settlements and there giving him a trial. He will have to die anyhow – that is pretty sure; for not only as a Mexican is he their enemy, but now doubly so from being found in league with their most detested foes, the Tenawa Comanches.
The wretch is lying on the ground near by, shaking with fear, in spite of the fastenings in which he is tightly held. He knows he is in dire danger, and has only so far escaped through having surrendered to a settler instead of to one of the Rangers.
“Let’s gie him a chance o’ his life; ef he’ll tell all about it,” counsels Cully. “What d’ye say, cap?”
“I agree to that,” responds the Ranger captain. “He don’t appear to be worth shooting; though it may be as well to take him on to the settlements, and shut him up in prison. The promise of pardon may get out of him all he knows; if not, the other will. He’s not an Indian, and a bit of rope looped round his neck will, no doubt, loosen his tongue. Suppose we try boys?”
The “boys” are unanimous in their assent, and the renegade is at once brought up for examination. The man in the green blanket coat, who, as a Santa Fé expeditioner, has spent over twelve months in Mexican prisons, is appointed examiner. He has been long enough among the “yellerbellies” to have learnt their language.
The renegade is for a time reticent, and his statements are contradictory. No wonder he declines to tell what has occurred, so compromising to himself! But when the lariat is at length noosed around his neck, the loose end of it thrown over the limb of a pecan tree – the other conditions being clearly expounded to him – he sees that things can be no worse; and, seeing this, makes confession – full, if not free. He discloses everything – the attack and capture of the caravan, with the slaughter of the white men who accompanied it; he tells of the retreat of two of them to the cliff, one of whom, by the description, can be none other than Walt Wilder. When he at length comes to describe the horrible mode in which their old comrade has perished, the Rangers are almost frenzied with rage, and it is with difficulty some of them can be withheld from breaking their given word, and tearing him limb from limb.
He makes appeal to them for mercy, stating that he himself had no part in that transaction; that, although they have found him among the Indians, he was only as their prisoner; and forced to fight along with them.
This is evidently untrue; but, false or true, it has the effect of pacifying his judges, so far, that the lariat is left loose around his neck.
Further examination, and cross-examination, elicit other facts about the captured caravan – in short, everything, except the secret alliance between the Mexican officer and the Tenawa chief. Not thinking of this – in truth, having no suspicion of it – his examiners do not put any questions about it; and, for himself, the wretch sees no reason to declare it, but the contrary. He indulges in the hope of one day returning to the Del Norte, and renewing his relations with Colonel Gil Uraga.
“Comrades!” cries the Ranger captain, addressing himself to his men, as soon as the examination is concluded, “you all of you loved Walt Wilder – all who knew him?”
“We did! we did!” is the response feelingly spoken. “So did I. Well, he’s dead, beyond a doubt. It’s nearly a month ago, and he could not last so long, shut up in that cave. His bones will be there, with those of the other poor fellow, whoever he was, that went in with him. It’s dreadful to think of it! Now, from what this scoundrel says, it can’t be so very far from here. And, as we can make him guide us to the place, I propose we go there, get the remains of our old comrade, and give them Christian burial.”
With the Texan Rangers obedience to duty is less a thing of command than request; and this is a request of such nature as to receive instant and unanimous assent “Let us go!” is the universal response. “We needn’t all make this journey,” continues the captain. “There’s no need for any more than our own boys, the Rangers, and such of the settlers as may choose to go with us. The rest, who have to look after the women, and some for driving back the stock, can make their way home at once. I reckon we’ve left the track pretty clear of Indians, and they’ll be in no further danger from them.”
Without further discussion, this arrangement is decided upon; and the two parties commence making the preparations suitable to their respective plans.
In less than half an hour after they separate; the settlers, with the women, children, and cattle, wending their way eastward; while the Rangers, guided by the renegade, ride off in the opposite direction – toward the Llano Estacado.
Chapter Thirty Four.
A Proposal by Proxy
Day by day Hamersley grows stronger, and is able to be abroad.
Soon after Wilder, plucking him by the sleeve, makes request to have his company at some distance from the dwelling.
Hamersley accedes to the request, though not without some surprise. In the demeanour of his comrade there is an air of mystery. As this is unusual with the ex-Ranger, he has evidently something of importance to communicate.
Not until they have got well out of sight of the house, and beyond the earshot of anyone inside or around it, does Walt say a word. And then only after they have come to a stop in the heart of a cotton-wood copse, where a prostrate trunk offers them the accommodation of a seat.
Sitting down upon it, and making sign to Hamersley, still with the same mysterious air, to do likewise, the backwoodsman at length begins to unburden himself.
“Frank,” says he, “I’ve brought ye out hyar to hev a little spell o’ talk, on a subjeck as consarns this coon consid’able.”
“What subject, Walt?”
“Wal, it’s about a wumman.”
“A woman! Why, Walt Wilder, I should have supposed that would be the farthest thing from your thoughts, especially a such a time and in such a place as this.”
“True it shed, as ye say. For all that, ef this chile don’t misunnerstan’ the sign, a wumman ain’t the furrest thing from yur thoughts, at the same time an’ place.”
The significance of the observation causes the colour to start to the cheeks of the young prairie merchant, late so pale. He stammers out an evasive rejoinder, —
“Well, Walt; you wish to have a talk with me. I’m ready to hear what you have to say. Go on! I’m listening.”
“Wal, Frank, I’m in a sort o’ a quandary wi’ a critter as wears pettikotes, an’ I want a word o’ advice from ye. You’re more practised in thar ways than me. Though a good score o’ year older than yurself, I hain’t hed much to do wi’ weemen, ’ceptin’ Injun squaws an’ now an’ agin a yeller gurl down by San Antone. But them scrapes wan’t nothin’ like thet Walt Wilder heve got inter now.”
“A scrape! What sort of a scrape? I hope you haven’t – ”
“Ye needn’t talk o’ hope, Frank Hamersley. The thing air past hopin’, an’ past prayin’ for. Ef this chile know anythin’ o’ the signs o’ love, he has goed a good ways along its trail. Yis, sir-ee; too fur to think o’ takin’ the backtrack.”
“On that trail, indeed?”
“Thet same; whar Cyubit sots his little feet, ’ithout neer a moccasin on ’em. Yis, kummerade, Walt Wilder, for oncest in in his kureer, air in a difeequelty; an’ thet difeequelty air bein’ fool enuf to fall in love – the which he hez dun, sure, sartin.”
Hamersley gives a shrug of surprise, accompanied with a slight glance of indignation. Walt Wilder in love! With whom can it be? As he can himself think of only one woman worth falling in love with, either in that solitary spot, or elsewhere on earth, it is but natural his thoughts should turn to her.
Only for an instant, however. The idea of having the rough Ranger for a rival is preposterous. Walt, pursuing the theme, soon convinces him he has no such lofty aspirations.
“Beyond a doubt, she’s been an’ goed an’ dud it – that air garl Concheeter. Them shining eyes o’ her’n hev shot clar through this chile’s huntin’ shirt, till thar’s no peace left inside o’ it. I hain’t slep a soun’ wink for mor’en a week o’ nights; all the time dreemin’ o’ the gurl, as ef she war a angel a hoverin’ ’bout my head. Now, Frank, what am I ter do? That’s why I’ve axed ye to kum out hyar, and enter into this confaberlation.”
“Well, Walt, you shall be welcome to my advice. As to what you should do, that’s clear enough; but what you may or can do will depend a good deal on what Miss Conchita says. Have you spoken to her upon the subject?”
“Thar hain’t yit been much talk atween us – i’deed not any, I mout say. Ye know I can’t parley thar lingo. But I’ve approached her wi’ as much skill as I iver did bear or buffler. An’, if signs signerfy anythin’, she ain’t bad skeeart about it. Contrarywise, Frank. If I ain’t terribly mistuk, she shows as ef she’d be powerful willin’ to hev me.”
“If she be so disposed there can’t be much difficulty in the matter. You mean to marry her, I presume?”
“In coorse I duz – that for sartin’. The feelin’s I hev torst that gurl air diffrent to them as one hez for Injun squaws, or the queeries I’ve danced wi’ in the fandangoes o’ San Antone. Ef she’ll agree to be myen, I meen nothin’ short o’ the hon’rable saramony o’ marridge – same as atween man an’ wife. What do ye think o’t?”
“I think, Walt, you might do worse than get married. You’re old enough to become a Benedict, and Conchita appears to be just the sort of girl that would suit you. I’ve heard it said that these Mexican women make the best of wives – when married to Americans.”
Hamersley smiles, as though this thought were pleasant to him.
“There are several things,” he continues, “that it will be necessary for you to arrange before you can bring about the event you’re aiming at. First, you must get the girl’s consent: and, I should think, also that of her master and mistress. They are, as it were, her guardians, and, to a certain extent, responsible for her being properly bestowed. Last of all, you’ll require the sanction of the Church. This, indeed, may be your greatest difficulty. To make you and your sweetheart one, a priest, or Protestant clergyman, will be needed; and neither can be had very conveniently here, in the centre of the Staked Plain.”
“Durn both sorts!” exclaims the ex-Ranger in a tone of chagrin. “Ef’t warn’t for the need o’ ’em jest now, I say the Staked Plain air better ’ithout ’em, as wu’d anywars else. Why can’t she an’ me be tied thegither ’ithout any sech senseless saramony? Walt Wilder wants no mumblin’ o’ prayers at splicin’ him to the gurl he’s choosed for his partner. An’ why shed thar be, supposin’ we both gie our mutooal promises one to the tother?”
“True. But that would not be marriage such as would lawfully and legally make you man and wife.”
“Doggone the lawfulness or legullity o’ it! Priest or no priest, I want Concheteter for my squaw; an’ I’ve made up my mind to hev her. Say, Frank! Don’t ye think the old doc ked do it? He air a sort o’ professional.”
“No, no; the doctor would be of no use in that capacity. It’s his business to unite broken bones, not hands and hearts. But, Walt, if you are really resolved on the thing, there will, no doubt, be an opportunity to carry out your intention in a correct and legitimate manner. You must be patient, however, and wait till you come across either a priest or a Protestant clergyman.”
“Doggoned ef I care which,” is the rejoinder of the giant. “Eyther’ll do; an’ one o’ ’em ’ud be more nor surficient, ef ’t war left ter Walt Wilder. But, hark’ee, Frank!” he continues, his face assuming an astute expression, “I’d like to be sure ’bout the thing now – that is, to get the gurl’s way o’ thinking on ’t. Fact is, I’ve made up my mind to be sure, so as thar may be no slips or back kicks.”
“Sure, how?”
“By procurin’ her promise; getting betrothed, as they call it.”
“There can be no harm in that. Certainly not.”
“Wal, I’m gled you think so; for I’ve sot my traps for the thing, an’ baited ’em too. Thet air’s part o’ my reezun for askin’ ye out hyar. She’s gin me the promise o’ a meetin’ ’mong these cotton woods, an’ may kum at any minnit. Soon’s she does, I’m agoin’ to perpose to her; an’ I want to do it in reg’lar, straightforrard way. As I can’t palaver Spanish, an’ you kin, I know’d ye wudn’t mind transleetin’ atween us. Ye won’t, will ye?”
“I shall do that with the greatest pleasure, if you wish it. But don’t you think, Walt, you might learn what you want to know without any interpreter? Conchita may not like my interference in an affair of such a delicate nature. Love’s language is said to be universal, and by it you should understand one another.”
“So fur’s thet’s consarned, I reck’n we do. But she, bein’ a Mexikin, may hev queery ideas about it; an’ I want her promise guv in tarms from which thar’ll be no takin’ the back track; same’s I meen to give myen.”
“All right, old fellow. I’ll see you get such a promise, or none.”
“Thet’s satisfactory, Frank. Now, as this chile air agoin’ to put the thing stiff an’ strong, do you transleet it in the same sort.”
“Trust me, it shall be done —verbatim et literatim.”
“Thet’s the way!” joyfully exclaims Walt; thinking that the verbatim et literatim– of the meaning of which he has not the slightest conception – will be just the thing to clinch his bargain with Conchita.
The singular contract between the prairie merchant and his ci-devant guide has just reached conclusion as a rustling is heard among the branches of the cottonwoods, accompanied by a soft footstep.
Looking around, they see Conchita threading her way through the grove. Her steps, cautious and stealthy, would tell of an “appointment,” even were this not already known to them. Her whole bearing is that of one on the way to meet a lover; and the sight of Walt Wilder, who now rises erect to receive her, proclaims him to be the man.
It might appear strange that she does not shy back, on seeing him in company with another man. She neither starts nor shows any shyness; evidence that the presence of the third party is a thing understood and pre-arranged.
She advances without show of timidity; and, curtseying to the “Señor Francisco,” as she styles Hamersley, takes seat upon the log from which he has arisen; Walt laying hold of her hand and gallantly conducting her to it.
There is a short interregnum of silence. This Conchita’s sweetheart endeavours to fill up with a series of gestures that might appear uncouth but for the solemnity of the occasion. So considered, they may be deemed graceful, even dignified.
Perhaps not thinking them so himself, Walt soon seeks relief by turning to his interpreter, and making appeal to him as follows —
“Doggone it, Frank! Ye see I don’t know how to talk to her, so you do the palaverin. Tell her right off, what I want. Say I hain’t got much money, but a pair o’ arems strong enuf to purtect her, thro’ thick an’ thro’ thin, agin the dangers o’ the mountain an’ the puraira, grizzly bars, Injuns, an’ all. She sees this chile hev got a big body; ye kin say to her thet his heart ain’t no great ways out o’ correspondence wi’ his karkidge. Then tell her in the eend, thet his body an’ his hands an’ heart – all air offered to her; an’ if she’ll except ’em they shall be hern, now, evermore, an’ to the death – so help me God!”
As the hunter completes his proposal thus ludicrously, though emphatically pronounced, he brings his huge hand down upon his brawny breast with a slap like the crack of a cricket bat.
Whatever meaning the girl may make out of his words, she can have had no doubt about their earnestness or sincerity, judging by the gestures that accompany them.
Hamersley can scarce restrain his inclination to laugh; but with an effort he subdues it, and faithfully, though not very literally, translates the proposal into Spanish.
When, as Walt supposes, he has finished, the ex-Ranger rises to his feet and stands awaiting the answer, his huge frame trembling like the leaf of an aspen. He continues to shake all the while Conchita’s response is being delivered; though her first words would assure, and set his nerves at rest, could he but understand them. But he knows not his fate, till it has passed through the tedious transference from one language to another – from Spanish to his own native tongue.
“Tell him,” is the response of Conchita, given without sign of insincerity, “tell him that I love him as much as he can me. That I loved him from the first moment of our meeting, and shall love him to the end of my life. In reply to his honourable proposal, say to him yes. I am willing to become his wife.”
When the answer is translated to Walt, he bounds at least three feet into the air, with a shout of triumph such as he might give over the fall of an Indian foe.
Then, advancing towards the girl, he flings his great arms around her, lifts her from the ground as if she were a child’s doll; presses her to his broad, throbbing breast, and imprints a kiss upon her lips – the concussion of which can be heard far beyond the borders of the cottonwood copse.