"SAVED BY AN ANGEL!"
The shadow of Walt Wilder is again projected over the Staked Plain, as
before, to a gigantic length. But this time westwardly, from a sun that
is rising instead of setting.
It is the morning after he parted with his disabled companion; and he is
now making back towards the spot where he had left the latter, the sun's
disc just appearing above the horizon, and shining straight upon his
back. Its rays illumine an object not seen before, which lends to
Walt's shadow a shape weird and fantastic. It is that of a giant, with
something sticking out on each side of his head that resembles a pair of
horns, or as if his neck was embraced by an ox-yoke, the tines tending
diagonally outwards.
On looking at Walt himself the singularity is at once understood. The
carcase of a deer lies transversely across his back, the legs of the
animal being fastened together so as to form a sling, through which he
has thrust his head, leaving the long slender shanks, like the ends of
the letter X, projecting at each side and high above his shoulders.
Despite the load thus borne by him, the step of the ex-Ranger is no
longer that of a man either despairing or fatigued. On the contrary, it
is light and elastic; while his countenance shows bright and joyous as
the beams of the ascending sun. His very shadow seems to flit over the
frosted foliage of the artemisias as lightly as the figure of a
gossamer-robed belle gliding across the waxed floor of a ball-room.
Walt Wilder no longer hungers or thirsts. Though the carcase on his
back is still unskinned, a huge collop cut out of one of its
hind-quarters tells how he has satisfied the first craving; while the
gurgle of water, heard inside the canteen slung under his arm, proclaims
that the second has also been appeased.
He is now hastening on to the relief of his comrade, happy in the
thought of being able soon to relieve him also from his sufferings.
Striding lightly among the sage-bushes, and looking ahead for the
landmark that should guide him, he at length catches sight of it. The
palmilla, standing like a huge porcupine upon the plain, cannot be
mistaken; and he descries it at more than a mile's distance, the shadow
of his own head already flickering among its bayonet-like blades.
Just then something else comes under his eyes, which at once changes the
expression upon his countenance. From gay it grows grave, serious,
apprehensive. A flock of buzzards, seemingly scared by his shadow, have
suddenly flapped up from among the sage-plants, and are now soaring
around, close to the spikes of the palmilla. They have evidently been
down _upon the earth_. And what have they been doing there?
It is this question, mentally put by Walt Wilder, that has caused the
quick change in his countenance--the result of a painful conjecture.
"Marciful heavens!" he exclaims, suddenly making halt, the gun almost
dropping from his grasp. "Kin it be possyble? Frank Hamersley gone
under! Them buzzards! They've been upon the groun' to a sartinty.
Darnashin! what ked they a been doin' down thar? Right by the bunch o'
palmetto, jest whar I left him. An' no sign o' himself to be seen?
Marciful heavens! kin it be possyble they've been--?"
Interrupting himself, he remains motionless, apparently paralysed by
apprehension, mechanically scanning the palmilla, as though from it he
expected an answer to his interrogatory.
"It air possyble," he continues after a time, "too possyble--too
likesome. He war well-nigh done up, poor young fellur; an' no wonder.
Whar is he now? He must be down by the side o' the bush--down an' dead.
Ef he war alive, he'd be lookin' out for me. He's gone under; an' this
deer-meat, this water, purcured to no purpiss. I mout as well fling
both away; they'll reach him too late."
Once more resuming his forward stride, he advanced towards the dark mass
above which the vultures are soaring. His shadow, still by a long
distance preceding him, has frightened the birds higher up into the air,
but they show no signs of going altogether away. On the contrary, they
keep circling around, as if they had already commenced a repast, and,
driven off, intend returning to it.
On what have they been banqueting? On the body of his comrade? What
else can be there?
Thus questioning himself, the ex-Ranger advances, his heart still aching
with apprehension. Suddenly his eye alights on the piece of paper
impaled upon the topmost spike of the palmilla. The sight gives him
relief, but only for an instant; his conjectures again leading him
astray.
"Poor young fellur!" is his half-spoken reflection; "he's wrote
somethin' to tell how he died--mayhap somethin' for me to carry back to
the dear 'uns he's left behind in ole Kaintuck. Wall, that thing shall
sartinly be done ef ever this chile gets to the States agin. Darnashin!
only to think how near I war to savin' him; a whole doe deer, an' water
enough to a drownded him! It'll be useless venison now, I shan't care
no more to put tooth into it myself. Frank Hamersley gone dead--the man
o' all others I'd 'a died to keep alive. I'd jest as soon lie down an'
stop breathin' by the side o' him."
While speaking he moves on towards the palmilla. A few strides bring
him so near the tree that he can see the ground surface about its base.
There is something black among the stems of the sage-bushes. It is not
the dead body of a man, but a buzzard, which he knows to be that he had
shot before starting off. The sight of it causes him again to make
stop. It looks draggled and torn, as if partially dismembered.
"Kin he hev been eatin' it? Or war it themselves, the cussed kannybals?
Poor Frank, I reck'n I'll find him on t'other side, his body mangled in
the same way. Darn it, 't air kewrous, too. 'Twar on this side he laid
down to git shade from the sun. I seed him squat whiles I war walkin'
away. The sun ain't hot enuf yit to a druv him to westward o' the bush,
though thar for sartin he must be. What's the use o' my stannin'
shilly-shally hyar? I may as well face the sight at oncest, ugly as I
know it'll prove. Hyar goes."
Steeling himself for the terrible spectacle, which he believes to be
certainly awaiting him, he once more advances towards the tree.
A dozen strides bring him up, and less than half a dozen more carry him
around it.
No body, living or dead--no remains of man, mutilated or otherwise!
For some time Wilder stands in speechless surprise, his glances going
all around. But no human figure is seen, either by the palmilla or
among the sage-bushes beside it. Can the wounded man have crawled away?
But no; why should he? Still, to make sure, the ex-Ranger shouts out,
calling Hamersley by name.
He gets no response. Alone he hears the echo of his own voice, mingling
with the hoarse croaking of the vultures, scared by his shouts.
His hunter habits now counsel him to a different course of action. His
comrade cannot be dead, else the corpse would be there. The vultures
could not have eaten up both body and bones. There is no skeleton, no
remains. His fellow fugitive has gone off or been taken. Whither?
While asking the question Wilder sets about the right way to answer it.
As a skilled tracker he begins by examining the signs that should put
him on the trace of his missing companion. At a glance he perceives the
prints of a horse's hoof, and sees they are those of one unshod. This
bodes ill, for the naked-hoofed horse betokens a savage rider--an
Indian. Still, it may not be; and he proceeds to a more careful
scrutiny of the tracks. In a short time he is able to tell that but one
horse has been there, and presumably but one rider, which promises
better. And while shaping conjectures as to who it could have been his
eye ascends to the piece of paper impaled upon the spike, which he has
for a time forgotten. This promises still better. It may clear up
everything.
Hoping it will, he strides towards and takes hold of it. Lifting it
carefully from the leaf, he spreads it out. He sees some writing in
pencil, which he prepares to read.
At first sight he supposed it might be a dying record. Now he believes
it may be something else.
His hands tremble, and his huge frame is convulsed as he holds the paper
to his eyes.
With a thrill of joy he recognises the handwriting of Hamersley, which
he knows. He is not much of a scholar; still, he can read, and at a
glance makes out the first four words, full of pleasant meaning:
"_Saved by an Angel_!"
He reads no farther, till after giving utterance to a "hurrah!" that
might have been heard many miles over the Staked Plain. Then, more
tranquillised, he continues deciphering the chirography of his companion
to the end; when a second shout terminates the effort.
"Saved by a angel!" he says, muttering to himself. "A angel on the
Staked Plain! Whar can the critter hev come from? No matter whar.
Thar's been one hyar, for sartin. Darn me ef I don't smell the sweet o'
her pettikotes now! This piece o' paper--'t ain't Frank's. I knows he
hedn't a scrap about him. No. Thar's the scent o' a woman on it, sure;
an' whar thar's a woman Frank Hamersley ain't likely to be let die o'
sturvashun. He air too good-lookin' for that. Wall I reck'n it's all
right an' thar ain't no more need for me to hurry. T'war rayther a
scant breakfast I've hed, an' hain't gin this chile's in'ards
saterfacshun. I'll jest chaw another griskin o' the deer-meat to
strengthen me for this six-mile tramp southard."
In less than five minutes after, the smoke from a sage-stalk fire was
seen ascending from beside the palmilla, and in its blaze, quickly
kindled, a huge piece of venison, cut from the fat flanks of the doe,
weighing at least four pounds, spitted upon one of the stiff blades of
the plant, was rapidly turning from blood red to burnt brown.
As circumstances had ofttimes compelled the ex-Ranger to eat his
deer-meat underdone, the habit had become his _gout_; and it was,
therefore, not long before the griskin was removed from the spit. Nor
much longer till it ceased to be a griskin--having altogether
disappeared from his fingers, followed by a gurgling sound, as half the
contents of the canteen went washing it down his throat.
"Now!" he said, springing to his feet, after he had completed his
Homeric repast, "this chile feels strong enuf to face the devil hisself,
an' tharfor he needn't be backward 'bout the encounterin' o' a angel.
So hyar goes to find out Frank Hamersley, an' how _he's_ farin'.
Anyhow, I'll take the deer along in case thar mout be a scarcity o'
eetables, though I reck'n thar's no fear o' that. Whar a angel makes
dwelling-place thar oughter be a full crib, though it may be ambrosyer
or mannar, or some o' them fixin's as a purairy man's stummick ain't
used to. Anyways, a bit o' doe-deer meat won't do no harum. So, Walt
Wilder, ole coon, let's you an' me set our faces southart, an' see
what's to turn up at the tarminashun o' six miles' trampin'."
Once more shouldering the carcase, he strides off towards the south,
guiding himself by the sun, but more by the hoof-marks of the mustang.
These, though scarce distinguishable, under the over-shadowing
sage-plants, are descried with little difficulty by the experienced eye
of the Ranger.
On goes he, now and then muttering to himself conjectures as to what
sort of a personage has appropriated and carried off his comrade. But,
with all his jocular soliloquising, he feels certain the _angel_ will
turn out to be a _woman_.