A singular habitation was that into which Frank Hamersley, and after him
Walt Wilder, had found their way. Architecturally of the rudest
description--a kind among Mexicans especially styled _jacal_, or more
generally _rancho_, the latter designation Anglicised or Americanised
into ranche. The _rancho_, when of limited dimensions, is termed
_ranchito_, and may be seen with walls of different materials, according
to the district or country. In the hot low lands (_tierras calientes_)
it is usually built of bamboos, with a thatching of palm-leaf; higher
up, on the table lands (_tierras templadas_) it is a structure of mud
bricks unburnt (adobe's); while still higher, upon the slopes of the
forest-clad sierras, it assumes the orthodox shape of a log cabin,
though in many respects differing from that of the States.
The one which gave shelter to the fugitives differed from all these,
having walls of split slabs, set stockade fashion, and thatched with a
sedge of _tule_, taken from a little lake that lay near. It had three
rooms and a kitchen, with some sheds at the back--one a stable
appropriated to the mustang mare, another to some mules, and a third
occupied by two men of the class of "peons"--the male domestics of the
establishment.
All, with the house itself, structures of the rudest kind, unlike as
possible to the dwelling-place of a lady, to say nought of an _angel_.
This thought occurs to Wilder as he enters under its roof. But he has
no time to dwell upon it. His wounded comrade is inside, to whom he is
conducted. He finds the latter still alive--thank God for that!--but
unconscious of all that is passing around. To the kindly words spoken
in apostrophe he makes no reply, or only in speeches incoherent. His
skin is hot, his lips parched, his pulse throbbing at ninety to the
minute. He is in the throes of a raging fever, which affects his brain
as his blood.
The stalwart hunter sits down by his side, and stays there, tenderly
nursing him. It glads him to observe there are others solicitous as
himself--to find that he and Hamersley have fallen among friends.
Though also surprising him, as does the sort of people he sees around.
First, there is a lady, easily recognised as the _angel_; then a man of
military aspect, who addresses her as "Hermanita," unquestionably a
gentleman with a second and older man wearing spectacles, by both spoken
of as "el medico." Strange inhabitants for a hovel, as that this should
be in such an odd situation--hundreds of miles beyond the borders of
civilisation, as Walt well knows.
No wonder at his wondering, above all when he discovers that his comrade
is already known to them--to the younger of the two men, who is their
host. This, however, is soon explained. Walt was already aware that
the young prairie trader had made a former trip to New Mexico, when and
where, as he is now told, the acquaintance commenced, along with some
other particulars, to satisfy him for the time.
In return for this confidence he gives a detailed account of the caravan
and its mischances--of the great final misfortune, which explains to
them why its owner and himself had been forced to take to the Staked
Plain, and were there wandering about, helpless fugitives.
To his narrative all three eagerly listen. But when he enlarges on the
bravery of his young comrade, lying unconscious beside them, one bends
upon the latter eyes that express an interest amounting to admiration.
It is the "angel."
In the days that succeed she becomes Walt's fellow-watcher by the
bedside of the sufferer; and often again does he observe similar glances
given to their common patient. Rough backwoodsman though he be, he can
tell them to be looks of love.
He thinks less about them because he has himself found something of like
kind stealing over his thoughts. All his cares are not given to his
invalided comrade; for in the hut is a fourth individual, whose habitual
place is the _cocina_, coming and going, as occasion calls.
A little brown-skinned beauty, half Spanish, half Pueblo Indian, whose
black eyes have burnt a hole through his buckskin hunting-shirt, and set
fire to his heart. Though but little more than half his height, in less
than a week after making her acquaintance she has become his master, as
much as if their stature were reversed.
Walt does not want her for his mistress. No; the hunter is too noble,
too honourable, for that His glance following her as she flits about the
room, taking in her dainty shape, and the expression of her pretty face,
always wreathed in smiles, he has but one single-hearted desire, to
which he gives muttered expression, saying,--
"Thet's jest the kind o' gurl a fellow ked freeze to. I ne'er seed a
apple dumplin' as looked sweeter or more temptin'; an' if she's
agreeable, we two air born to be bone o' one bone, and flesh o' one
flesh!"