Chapter Forty Three.
The Last Appeal
“I have news for you, nina.”
It is Colonel Miranda speaking to his sister, shortly after the conversation reported.
“What news, Valerian?”
“Well, there are two sorts of them.”
“Both good, I hope.”
“Not altogether; one will be pleasant to you, the other, perhaps, a little painful.”
“In that case they should neutralise one another; anyhow, let me hear them.”
“I shall tell the pleasant ones first. We shall soon have an opportunity of leaving this lonely place.”
“Do you call that good news? I rather think it the reverse. What will the bad be?”
“But, dear Adela, our life here, away from all society, has been a harsh experience – to you a terrible one.”
“In that, hermano mio, you’re mistaken. You know I don’t care a straw for what the world calls society – never did. I prefer being free from its stupid restraints and silly conventionalities. Give me Nature for my companion – ay, in her wildest scenes and most surly moods.”
“Surely you’ve had both to a surfeit.”
“Nothing of the kind; I’m not tired of Nature yet. I have never been happier than in this wilderness home. How different from my convent school – my prison, I should rather call it! Oh, it is charming! and if I were to have my way, it should never come to an end. But why do you talk of leaving this place? Do you suppose the troubles are over, and we can return safely? I don’t wish to go there, brother. After what has happened, I hate New Mexico, and would prefer staying in the Llano Estacado.”
“I have no thought of going back to New Mexico.”
“Where, then, brother?”
“In the very opposite direction – to the United States. Don Francisco advises me to do so; and I have yielded to his counsel.”
Adela seems less disposed to offer opposition. She no longer protests against the change of residence.
“Dear sister,” he continues, “we cannot do better. There seems little hope of our unfortunate country getting rid of her tyrants – at least, for some time to come. When the day again arrives for our patriots to pronounce, I shall know it in time to be with them. Now, we should only think of our safety. Although I don’t wish to alarm you, I’ve never felt it quite safe here. Who knows, but that Uraga may yet discover our hiding-place? He has his scouts searching in all directions. Every time Manuel makes a visit to the settlements, I have fear of his being followed back. Therefore, I think it will be wiser for us to carry out our original design, and go on to the American States.”
“Do you intend accompanying Don Francisco?”
She listens eagerly for an answer.
“Yes; but not now. It will be some time before he can return to us.”
“He is going home first, and will then come back?”
“Not home – not to his home.”
“Where, then?”
“That is the news I thought might be painful. He has resolved upon going on to our country for reasons already known to you. We suspect Uraga of having been at the head of the red robbers who have plundered him and killed his people. He is determined to find out and punish the perpetrators of that foul deed. It will be difficult; nay, more, there will be danger in his attempting it – I’ve told him so.”
“Dear brother, try to dissuade him!”
If Hamersley could but hear the earnest tone in which the appeal is spoken it would give him gratification.
“I have tried, but to no purpose. It is not the loss of his property – he is generous, and does not regard it. His motive is a nobler, a holier one. His comrades have been murdered; he says he will seek the assassins and obtain redress, even at the risk of sacrificing his own life.”
“A hero! Who could not help loving him?”
Adela does not say this aloud, nor to her brother. It is a thought, silent within the secret recesses of her own heart.
“If you wish,” continues the colonel, “I will see him, and again try to turn him from this reckless course; though I know there is little hope. Stay! a thought strikes me, sister. Suppose you speak to him. A woman’s words are more likely to be listened to; and I know that yours will have great weight with him. He looks upon you as the saviour of his life, and may yield to your request.”
“If you think so, Valerian – ”
“I do. I see him coming this way. Remain where you are. I shall send him in to you.”
With a heart heaving and surging, Hamersley stands in the presence of her, the sole cause of its tumultuous excitement. For he has been summoned thither in a manner that somewhat surprises him. “Don Francisco, my sister wishes a word with you,” is the speech of Colonel Miranda, an invitation promptly responded to.
What is to be the import of his interview, unexpected, unsought, apparently commanded?
He asks himself this question as he proceeds towards the place where she stands waiting to receive him. Coming up to her, he says, —
“Senorita, your brother has told me you wish to speak with me?”
“I do,” she replies, without quail in her look or quiver in her voice.
In returning her glance Hamersley feels as if his case is hopeless. That very day he had thought of proposing to her. It almost passes from his mind. So cool, she cannot care for him. He remains silent, leaving her to proceed.
“Señor, it is about your going to the Rio del Norte. My brother tells me such is your intention. We wish you not to go, Don Francisco. There is danger in your doing it.”
“It is my duty.”
“In what respect? Explain yourself!”
“My brave comrades have been slain – assassinated. I have reason to believe that in the town of Albuquerque I may discover their assassins – at all events their chief, and perhaps bring him to justice. I intend trying, if it costs me my life.”
“Do you reflect what your life is worth?”
“To me not much.”
“It may be to others. You have at home a mother, brothers, and sisters. Perhaps one dearer?”
“No – not at home.”
“Elsewhere, then?”
He is silent under this searching inquisition.
“Do you think that danger to your life would be unhappiness to her’s – your death her life’s misery?”
“My dishonour should be more, as it would to myself. It is not vengeance I seek against those who have murdered my men, only to bring them to justice. I must do that, or else proclaim myself a poltroon – I feel myself one – a self-accusation that would give me a life-long remorse. No, Señorita Adela. It is kind of you to take an interest in my safety. I already owe you my life; but I cannot permit you to save it again, at the sacrifice of honour, of duty, of humanity.”
Hamersley fancies himself being coldly judged and counselled with indifference. Could he know the warm, wild admiration struggling in the breast of her who counsels him, he would make rejoinder in different fashion.
Soon after he talks in an altered tone, and with changed understanding. So also does she, hitherto so difficult of comprehension.
“Go!” she cries. “Go and get redress of your wrongs, justice for your fallen comrades; and if you can, the punishment of their assassins. But remember! if it brings death to you, there is one who will not care to live after.”
“Who?” he asks, springing forward, with heart on fire and eyes aflame. “Who?”
He scarce needs to put the question. It is already answered by the emphasis on her last words.
But it is again replied to, this time in a more tranquil tone; the long, dark lashes of the speaker veiling her eyes as she pronounces her own name, —
“Adela Miranda!”
From poverty to riches, from a dungeon to bright daylight, from the agonising struggle of drowning to that confident feeling when the feet stand firm upon terra firma – all these are sensations of a pleasantly-exciting kind. They are dull in comparison with that delirious joy, the lot of the despairing lover on finding that his despair has been all a fancy, and that his passion is reciprocated.
Such a joy thrills through Hamersley’s breast as he hears the name pronounced. It is like a cabalistic speech, throwing open to him the portals of Paradise.
Chapter Forty Four.
A Mysterious Message
As is known, Hamersley’s suspicions about the treachery of the peon are not without cause. On the contrary, they might seem second-sight. For, almost at the moment he is communicating them to Colonel Miranda, the native is telling his tale to Uraga.
Nor does the latter lose much time in acting upon the information gained – only that short interlude given to exultation as he stepped up to the portrait of Adela Miranda, and stood triumphantly regarding the likeness of her he now looks upon as sure to be his. He has no hope to get possession of her by fair means; foul are alone in his thoughts.
After delivering his half-frenzied apostrophe to the painted image, he returns to the table, beside which Roblez has already taken a seat.
They re-fill their glasses, and drink the toasts specified, with a ceremony in strange contrast to the hellish glee sparkling in the eyes of the Lancer-Colonel. His countenance beams with triumph, such as might be shown by Satan over the ruin of innocence. For he now feels sure of his victims – alike that of his love as well as those of his revenge.
Not long does he remain over his cups in the company of his subordinate. He has an important matter upon his mind which calls for reflection – in silence and by himself.
Though often admitting his adjutant to a share in his criminal schemes, the participation is only in their profits and the act of execution. Despotic even in his villainies, he keeps the planning to himself, for he has secrets even Roblez must not know. And now an idea has dawned upon his mind, a purpose he does not care to communicate to the subaltern till such time as may be necessary or seem fit to him. Not that he dreads treachery on the part of his fellow freebooter. They are mutually compromised, and long have been; too much to tell tales about one another. Besides, Roblez, though a man of undoubted courage, of the coarse, animal kind, has, neverthless, a certain moral dread of his commanding officer, and fears to offend him. He knows Gil Uraga to be one whose hostility, once provoked, will stop short at nothing, leave no means untried to take retribution – this of a terrible kind. Hence a control which the colonel holds over him beyond that drawn from his superior military rank. Hence, also, his receiving but a small share in the proceeds of their various robberies, and his being satisfied with this, or, at all events, seeming so.
On his side, Uraga has several motives for not letting his subordinate into the knowledge of all his complicated schemes; among them one springing from a moral peculiarity. He is of a strangely-constituted nature, secretive to the last degree – a quality or habit in which he prides himself. It is his delight to practice it whenever the opportunity offers; just as the thief and detective officer take pleasure in their respective callings beyond the mere prize to be derived from their exercise.
The intelligence just received from the traitorous mule-driver, unexpected as pleasing, has opened to him the prospect of a grand success. It may enable him to strike a coup covering all – alike giving gratification to his love, as his hate.
But the blow must needs be dealt deftly. There are circumstances to be considered and precautions taken, not only to prevent its failing, but secure against a publicity that might cause scandal to himself, to say naught of consequent danger.
And it must be struck soon – at once. It is too ticklish a matter to admit of delay, either in the design or execution.
Already has the matter flitted before his mind in its general outlines; almost soon as receiving the report of the peon.
It is only the details that remain for consideration; and these he intends considering alone, without any aid from his adjutant.
As time is an object, he speedily terminates his carousal with the subaltern; who, dismissed, returns to the military cuartel.
Soon as he is gone the colonel again seats himself, and lighting a fresh cigar, continues smoking. For several minutes he remains silent, his eyes turned upwards, and his features set in a smile. One might fancy him but watching the smoke of his cigar as it rises in spiral wreaths to the ceiling. He is occupied with no such innocent amusement. On the contrary, his grim smile betokens meditation deep and devilish. He is mentally working out a problem, a nefarious scheme, which will ere long bear evil fruit.
As the cigar grows shorter he seems to draw nearer to his conclusions. And when at length there is only the stump between his teeth, he spits it out; and, taking a hand-bell from the table, rings until a domestic appears in the doorway in answer to the summons.
“Call in the guard-corporal!” is the order received by the servant, who withdraws without saying a word.
Soon the soldier shows himself, saluting as he enters the door.
“Cabo! Bring your prisoner before me.”
The corporal retires, and shortly after returns, having the Indian in charge. He is commanded to leave the latter, and himself remain waiting without. Directed also to close the door; which he does on getting outside.
Thus closeted with the peon – still wondering why he has been made a prisoner – Uraga submits him to a process of examination, which elicits from the scared creature everything he seeds to know. Among the rest, he makes himself acquainted with the situation of the valley, where the exiles have found temporary asylum; the direction, distance, and means of access to it – in short, its complete topography.
With all the Indian is familiar, can correctly describe it, and does so. In that imposing presence he dare not attempt deception, even if inclined. But he is not. Between questioner and questioned the aim and end are similar, if not the same. Besides, the peon’s blood has again been warmed up, and his tongue set loose, by a fresh infusion of aguardiente – so that his confessions are full as free. He tells about the life led by the Mexican refugees, as also their American guests – all he knows, and this is nearly everything. For trusted, unsuspected, he has had every opportunity to learn. The only thing concealed by him is his own love affair with Conchita and its disastrous ending, through the intrusion of the Texan Ranger.
This, if told, would give his listener slight concern, alongside the grave impressions made upon him by another affair; some particulars of which the peon communicates. These points refer to tender relations existing between the young prairie trader and Adela Miranda, almost proving their existence. Confirmed or not, on hearing of them Gil Uraga receives a shock which sends the blood rushing in quick current through his veins; while upon his countenance comes an expression of such bitter malignity, that the traitor, in fear for his own safety, repents having told him.
But Uraga has no spite against him – no motive for having it. On the contrary, he intends rewarding him, after he gets out of him certain other services for which he is to be retained.
When his cross-questioning is at length brought to a close, he is once more committed to the charge of the guard-corporal, with orders to be returned to the prison. At the same time a hint is given him that his incarceration is only precautionary, with a promise it will not be for long.
Immediately after his removal, Uraga seats himself before an escritoire, which stands on one side of the room. Laying open the lid, he spreads a sheet of paper upon it, and commences to write what appears an epistle.
Whatever it is, the composition occupies some considerable time. Occasionally he stops using the pen, as though pondering what to put down.
When it is at length completed, apparently to his satisfaction, he folds the sheet, thrusts a stick of wax into the flame of a candle, and seals the document, but without using any seal-stamp. A small silver coin taken from his pocket makes the necessary impression. There does not appear to be any name appended to the epistle, if one it is; and the superscription shows only two words, without any address. The words are “El Barbato.”
Again ringing the bell, the same servant answers it.
“Go to the stables,” commands his master, “or the corral, or wherever he may be, and tell Pedrillo I want him. Be quick about it!”
The man bows and disappears.
“It will take them – how many days to reach the Tenawas’ town, and how many back to the Pecos?” soliloquises Uraga, pacing the floor, as he makes his calculations. “Three, four, five. No matter. If before them we can wait till they come. Pedrillo!”
Pedrillo has put in an appearance. He is an Indian of the tame sort, not greatly differing from the man Manuel, with a countenance quite as forbidding. But we have seen Pedrillo before; since he was one of the two muleteers who conducted the atajo transporting the spoil from the caravan of the prairie traders.
“Pedrillo,” directs the Colonel, “catch a couple of the best roadsters in the corral – one for yourself, the other for José. Have them saddled, and get yourselves ready for a journey of two weeks, or so. Make all haste with your preparations. When ready, come here, and report yourself.”
The muleteer disappears, and Uraga continues to pace the floor, apparently yet busied with a mental measurement of time and distance. At intervals he stops before the portrait on the wall, and for a second or two gazes at it. This seems to increase his impatience for the man’s reappearance.
He has not a great while to wait. The scrip and staff of a New Mexican traveller of Pedrillo’s kind is of no great bulk or complexity. It takes but a short time to prepare it. A few tortillas and frijoles, a head or two of chile Colorado, half a dozen onions, and a bunch of tasojo– jerked beef. Having collected these comestibles, and filled his xuaje, or water gourd, Pedrillo reports himself ready for the road, or trail, or whatever sort of path, and on whatever errand, it may please his master to despatch him.
“You will go straight to the Tenawa town – Horned Lizard’s – on the south branch of the Goo-al-pah. You can find your way to the place, Pedrillo. You’ve been there before?”
The Indian nods an affirmative.
“Take this.” Here Uraga hands him the sealed paper. “See you show it to no one you may chance to meet passing out from the settlements. Give it to Barbato, or hand it to the Horned Lizard himself. He’ll know who it’s for. You are to ride night and day, as fast as the animals can carry you. When you’ve delivered it you needn’t wait, but come back – not here, but to the Alamo. You know the place – where we met the Tenawas some weeks ago. You will find me there. Vaya!”
On receiving these instructions Pedrillo vanishes from, the room; a strange sinister glance in his oblique Indian eyes telling that he knows himself to be once more – what he has often been – an emissary of evil.
Uraga takes another turn across the floor, then, seating himself by the table, seeks rest for his passion-tossed soul by drinking deep of the mescal of Tequila.
Chapter Forty Five.
The Staked Plain
The elevated table-land known as Llano Estacado is in length over three hundred miles, with an average width of sixty or seventy. It extends longitudinally between the former Spanish provinces of New Mexico and Texas; their respective capitals, Santa Fé and San Antonia de Bejar, being on the opposite side of it. In the days of vice-royal rule, a military road ran across it, connecting the two provincial centres, and mule trains of traders passed to and fro between. As this road was only a trail, often obliterated by the drifting sands of the desert, tall stakes were set up at intervals to indicate the route. Hence the name “Llano Estacado” – literally, Staked Plain.
In those days Spain was a strong, enterprising nation, and her Mexican colonists could travel over most parts of their vast territory without fear of being assaulted by the savages. At a later period, when Spanish power began to decline, all this became changed. Cities fell to ruin, settlements were deserted, mission establishments abandoned, and in the provinces of Northern Mexico white travellers had to be cautious in keeping to the most frequented roads, in some districts not daring even to venture beyond the walls of their haciendas or towns. Many of these were fortified against Indian attack, and are so to this day.
Under these circumstances the old Spanish trail across the Staked Plain fell into disuse; its landmarks became lost, and of late years only expeditions of the United States army have traversed it for purposes of exploration.
In physical aspect it bears resemblance to the table lands of Abyssinia and Southern Arabia, and at its northern end many outlying spurs and detached mesas remind the traveller of the Abyssinian hills – known as ambas. A portion of this singular territory belongs to the great gypsum formation of the south-western prairies, perhaps the largest in the world; while a highly-coloured sandstone of various vivid hues, often ferruginous, forms a conspicuous feature in its cliffs. Along its eastern edge these present to the lower champaign of Texas a precipitous escarpment several hundred feet sheer, in long stretches, tending with an unbroken façade, in other places showing ragged, where cleft by canons, through which rush torrents, the heads of numerous Texan streams. Its surface is, for the most part, a dead horizontal level, sterile as the Sahara itself, in places smooth and hard as a macadamised road. Towards its southern end there is a group of medanos (sandhills), covering a tract of several hundred square miles, the sand ever drifting about, as with dunes on the seashore. High up among their summits is a lakelet of pure drinking water, though not a drop can be found upon the plateau itself for scores of miles around. Sedge and lilies grow by this tarn so singularly situated.
Here and there the plain is indented by deep fissures (barrancas), apparently the work of water. Often the traveller comes upon them without sign or warning of their proximity, till, standing on the edge of a precipitous escarpment, he sees yawning below a chasm sunk several hundred feet into the earth. In its bed may be loose boulders piled in chaotic confusion, as if cast there by the hands of Titans; also trunks of trees in a fossilised state such as those observed by Darwin on the eastern declivity of the Chilian Andres.
Nearly all the streams that head in the Staked Plain cut deep channels in their way to the outer world. These are often impassable, either transversely or along their course. Sometimes, however, their beds are worn out into little valleys, or “coves,” in which a luxuriant vegetation finds shelter and congenial soil. There flourish the pecan, the hackberry, the black walnut, the wild china, with evergreen oaks, plums, and clustering grapevines; while in the sterile plain above are only seen those forms of the botanical world that truly indicate the desert – various species of cactaceae, agaves, and yuccas – the palmilla and lechuguilla, dwarf-cedars, and mezquites, artemisia, and the strong-smelling larrea, or “creosote plant.”
Animals are rare upon the Llano Estacado, although the prong-horn antelope – true denizen of the desert – is there found, as also its enemy, the Mexican jackal, or coyote. To the rattlesnake and horned lizard (agama) it is a congenial home; and the singular snake-bird (paisano) may frequently be seen running over the arid waste, or skulking through the tortuous stems of the nopals. In the canons of the stream the grizzly bear makes his haunt, and in times not long gone by it was ascended and traversed by the unwieldy buffalo. The wild horse (musteno) still occasionally courses across it.
Of all the living things it is least frequented by man. Even the Indian rarely strays into its solitudes; and the white man, when necessitated to enter them, does so with fear and trembling, for he knows there is danger.
This is chiefly due to the absence of water; but there is also the chance of going astray – getting lost in the absence of landmarks. To be astray in a wilderness of any kind is a perilous predicament for the traveller – in one without water it is death.
After their affair with the Tenawas, the Texan Rangers directed their course towards the Llano Estacado. On starting, it was their intention to strike north, and get upon the main stream of the Canadian, then follow it up to the place where the prairie traders met their murderous doom. From the country of the Tenawa Comanches this would be the correct route, and was the same taken by these freebooters returning with the spoils of the caravan. But from the mouth of the Pecan Creek is one more direct, leading across a spur of the plateau itself, instead of turning its north-eastern extremity.
It was not known to the Rangers, though Cully remembered having heard something about it. But the Mexican renegade declared himself familiar with, and counselled taking it. There had been hesitation before acceding to his counsel. Of course, they could have no confidence in such a man, but rather suspicion of all he said or did. In guiding them across the Staked Plain he might have some sinister purpose – perhaps lead them into a trap.
After all, how could he? The tribe of savages with which he had been consorting was now so terribly chastised, so effectually crushed, it was not probable – scarce possible – they would be encountered again. Certainly not for a season. For weeks there would be weeping and wailing in the tents of the Tenawas. If the renegade had any hope of being rescued from his present captivity, it could not be by them. He might have some thought of escape, taking the Rangers by the route he proposed to them. On this score they had no apprehension – not the slightest. Suspicious, they would keep close watch upon him; shoot him down like a dog at the first sign of his attempting to deceive them. And, as Cully remembered having heard of this trail over the Staked Plain, it was most probable the Mexican had no other object than to bring them to the end of their journey in the shortest time and straightest course. All knew it would be a near cut, and this decided them in its favour.
After parting from Pecan Creek, with their faces set westward, they had a journey before them anything but easy or pleasant. On the contrary, one of the most difficult and irksome. For it lay across a sterile tract – the great gypsum bed of North-western Texas, on which abut the bluffs of the Llano Estacado. Mile after mile, league after league; no “land in sight,” to use a prairie-man’s phrase – nothing but level plain, smooth as a sleeping sea; but, unlike the last, without water – not a sheet to cheer their eyes, not a drop to quench the thirst, almost choking them. Only its resemblance, seen in the white mist always moving over these arid plains – the deluding, tantalising mirage. Lakes lay before them, their shores garlanded by green trees, their bosoms enamelled with islets smiling in all the verdure of spring – always before them, ever receding; the trees, as the water, never to be reached!
Water they do arrive at more than once – streams rushing in full flow across the barren waste. At sight they ride towards them rapidly. Their horses need not to be spurred. The animals suffer as themselves, and rush on with outstretched necks, eager to assuage their thirst. They dip their muzzles, plunge in their heads till half-buried, only to draw out again and toss them aloft with snorts of disappointment shaking the water like spray from their nostrils. It is salt!
For days they have been thus journeying. They are wearied, worn down by fatigue, hungry; but more than all, tortured by the terrible thirst – their horses as themselves. The animals have become reduced in flesh and strength; they look like skeletons staggering on, scarce able to carry their riders.
Where is the Mexican conducting them? He has brought them into a desert. Is the journey to end in their death? It looks like enough.
Some counsel killing him, and returning on their tracks. Not all; only a minority. The majority cry “Onward!” with a thought beyond present suffering. They must find the bones of Walt Wilder and bury them! Brave men, true men, these Texan Rangers! Rough in outward appearance, often rude in behaviour, they have hearts gentle as children. Of all friends the most faithful, whether it be affection or pure camaraderie. In this case a comrade has been killed – cruelly murdered, and in a strange manner. Its very strangeness has maddened them the more, while sharpening their desire to have a last look at his remains, and give them Christian burial. Only the fainthearted talk of retreating; the others do not think of it, and these are more than the majority.
On, therefore, they ride across treeless, grassless tracks; along the banks of streams, of whose bitter, saline waters they cannot drink, but tantalising themselves and their animals. On, on!
Their perseverance is at length rewarded. Before their eyes looms up a line of elevated land, apparently the profile of a mountain.
But no; it cannot be that.
Trending horizontally, without curvature, against the sky, they know it is not a mountain, but a mesa – a table-land.
It is the Llano Estacado.
Drawing nearer, they get under the shadow of its beetling bluffs.
They see that these are rugged, with promontories projecting far out over the plain, forming what Spanish Americans, in their expressive phraseology, call ceja.
Into an embayment between two of the out-stretching spurs Barbato conducts them.
Joyously they ride into it, like ships long storm-tossed entering a haven of safety; for at the inner end of the concavity there is a cleft in the precipitous wall, reaching from base to summit, out of which issues a stream whose waters are sweet!
It is a branch of the Brazos River, along whose banks they have been some time travelling, lower down finding its waters bitter as gall. That was in its course through the selenite. Now they have reached the sandstone it is clear as crystal, and to them sweeter than champagne.