However successful in his suit with Conchita, Walt Wilder is not without
a rival. Hamersley has reason to suspect this soon after separating
from the lovers, which he does, leaving them to themselves. It has
occurred to him, that the presence of more than two on that spot can be
no longer desirable. His part has been performed, and he withdraws
without saying a word.
There is a third man, notwithstanding--a spectator--whose breast is
stirred with terrible emotion.
As the Kentuckian passes out through the copse, he catches sight of a
figure crouching behind the trunk of a tree--apparently that of a man.
Twilight is now on, and beneath the leafy branches reigns an obscurity
almost equalling night. What he sees may be some straying animal, or
perhaps it is only fancy. His thoughts are engrossed with that which
carries him on towards the house. There one will be awaiting him, in
whose refined presence he will soon forget the uncouth spectacle of
courtship at which he has been assisting.
But the form he has observed cowering under the shadow of the
cotton-woods was no fancy, nor four-footed creature, but a human being,
a man--in short, Manuel the Indian.
Manuel is mad in love with the little mestiza, who, with Spanish blood
in her veins, is, nevertheless, maternally of his own race--that of the
_Indios mansos_, or "tame Indians," of New Mexico--so called in
contradistinction to the _Indios bravos_, the savages who, from the
conquest till this day, have never submitted themselves to Spanish rule.
Though Christianised, after a fashion, by the Franciscans, with others
of the missionary fathers--living in walled towns, each with its
_capilla_ or church, and cultivating the lands around, many of these
so-called Christian Indians still continue to practice Pagan rites, more
or less openly. In some of their villages, it is said, the _estafa_, or
sacred fire, is kept burning, and has never been permitted to go out
since the time of Montezuma, from whom and his people they believe
themselves descended. They are undoubtedly of Aztec race, and
sun-worshippers, as were the subjects of the unfortunate Emperor of
Tenochtitlas.
Travellers who have visited their more remote "pueblos" have witnessed
something of this sun-worship, seeing them ascend to the flat roofs of
their singularly constructed houses, and there stand in fixed attitude,
devoutly gazing at the sun as it ascends over the eastern horizon.
Notwithstanding the epithet "tame," which their Spanish conquerors have
applied to them, they are still more than half wild; and, upon
occasions, the savage instinct shows itself in deeds of cruelty and
blood.
This very instinct has been kindled in the heart of Manuel. It was not
devotion to Don Valerian Miranda that moved him to follow the fortunes
of his master into exile; his love for Conchita accounts for his
presence there. And he loves her with an ardour and singleness of
passion such as often burns in the breasts of his people.
The girl has given him no encouragement, rather the reverse. For all
that, he has pursued her with zealous solicitation, regardless of
rebuffs and apparently unconscious of her scorn.
Hitherto he has had no rival, which has hindered him from despairing.
Conchita is still young, in her earliest teens, having just turned
twelve. But even at this age a New Mexican maiden is deemed old enough
for matrimony; and Manuel, to do justice to him, has eyes upon her with
this honest intent. For months he had made up his mind to have her for
his wife--long before their forced flight into the Llano Estacado. And
now that they are in the desert, with no competitor near--for Chico does
not count as one--he has fancied the time come for the consummation of
his hopes.
But just when the fair fruit seems ripe for plucking, like the fox in
the fable, he discovers it is beyond his reach. What is worse still,
another, taller than he, and who can reach higher, is likely to gather
it.
Ever since the arrival of Walt Wilder in the valley he has been watching
the movements of the latter.
Not without observing that between the great Texan hunter and the little
Mexican _muchacha_ there has sprung up an attachment of a suspicious
nature.
He has not heard them express it in speech, for in this way they cannot
communicate with one another; but certain looks and gestures exchanged,
unintelligible to others, have been easily interpreted by the Indian as
the signs of a secret and mutual understanding between them.
They have driven the poor peon well nigh distracted with jealousy--felt
all the keener from its being his first experience of it, all the
angrier from consciousness of his own honest love--while he believes
that of the intruder to have a different intent.
As the days and hours pass he observes new incidents to sharpen his
suspicions and strengthen his jealous ire.
In fine, he arrives at the conclusion that Conchita--long loved by him,
long vainly solicited--has surrendered her heart to the gigantic Texan,
who like a sinister shadow, a ghoul, a very ogre, has chanced across the
sunlight of his path.
Under the circumstances, what is he to do? He is powerful in passion,
but weak in physical strength. Compared with his rival, he is nought.
In a conflict the Texan would crush him, squeeze the breath out of his
body, as a grizzly bear would that of a prairie squirrel or ground
gopher.
He does not show open antagonism--does not think of it. He knows it
would but end in his ruin--his utter annihilation.
Still, he is not despairing.
With the instincts peculiar to his race, he contemplates revenge. All
his idle hours are spent brooding over plans to frustrate the designs of
his rival--in short, to put him out of the way altogether.
More than once has a thought of poison passed through his mind as the
surest way of effecting his fiendish purpose, as also the safest; and
upon this mode of killing the Texan he has at length determined.
That very day he has been engaged in making ready for the deed--
preparing the potion. Certain plants he has found growing in the
valley, well known among his people as poisonous, will furnish him with
the means of death--a slow, lingering death, therefore all the surer to
avert suspicion from the hand that has dealt it.
To all appearance, Walt Wilder is doomed. He has escaped the spears,
arrows, and tomahawks of the Tenawa savages to fall a victim to a
destroyer, stealthy, subtle, unseen.
And is the noble Texan--guide, ranger, and hunter--thus sadly to
succumb? No. Fate has not decreed his death by such insidious means.
A circumstance, apparently accidental, steps in to save him. On this
very day, when the poison it being prepared for him, the poisoner
receives a summons that for the time at least, will frustrate his foul
plans. His master commands him to make ready for a journey. It is an
errand similar to that he has been several times sent upon before. He
is to proceed to the settlements on the Rio Grande, where Don Valerian
has friends with whom, in his exile, he keeps up secret correspondence,
Manuel acting as messenger. Thence the trusted peon is to bring back,
as oft before, despatches, news, provisions--the last now more than ever
needed, on account of the stranger guests so unexpectedly thrown upon
his hospitality.
Manuel is to commence his journey on the following day at the earliest
hour of dawn. There will be no chance for him now to carry out his
nefarious design. It must remain uncompleted till his return.
While chafing at the disappointment, he sees Conchita stealing out from
the house and entering the cotton-wood grove. He follows her with a
caution equalling her own, but from a far different cause. Crouching on
through the trees, he takes stand behind a trunk, and, concealed by it,
becomes spectator of all that passes. He is at first surprised at
seeing three where he expected only two. Pleased also; for it gives him
hope the girl's errand may not be the keeping of a love appointment.
But as the triangular conference proceeds; above all, when it arrives at
its conclusion, and he sees the Texan raise Conchita in his arms, giving
her that kiss, the echo of which is distinctly audible to him, his blood
boils, and with difficulty does he restrain himself from rushing up to
the spot, and taking the lives of all three, or ending his own if he
fail.
For a time he stands erect, with his _machete_ drawn from its sheath,
his eyes flashing with the fires of jealous vengeance. Fortunately for
those upon whom they are bent, an instinct of self-preservation stays
him. His hand is ready, but his heart fails him. Terrible as is his
anger, it is yet controlled by fear. He will wait for a more favourable
time and surer opportunity. A safer means, too--this more than aught
else restraining him. While still in intense agitation, he sees
Hamersley depart, leaving the other two to themselves. And now, as
other kisses are exchanged between the lovers, his jealous fury becomes
freshly excited, and for the second time he is half resolved to rush
forward and kill--kill.
But again his fears gain the ascendency, and his hand refuses to obey
the dictates of his angry heart. With the bare blade held tremblingly,
he continues spectator of that scene which fills his breast with
blackest, bitterest emotion. He has not the courage to interrupt it.
Calculating the chances, he perceives they are against him. Should he
succeed in killing the Texan, with Conchita standing by and bearing
witness to the deed, would be to forfeit his own life. He could find it
in his heart to kill her too; but that would lead to the same result.
Failing in his first blow, the great hunter would have him under his
heel, to be crushed as a crawling reptile.
Thus cogitating, he sticks to his place of concealment, and overlooks
the love scene to its termination; then permits the lovers to depart in
peace--the woman he so wildly loves, the man he so madly hates.
After they have gone out of the grove, he advances towards the log upon
which they were seated. Himself taking seat on it, he there ponders
upon a plan of vengeance surer and safer than the assassin's steel.
It is no longer his intent to employ poison. A new idea has entered his
brain--has been in it ever since receiving notice of the journey on
which he is about to set forth; in truth, suggested by this. A scheme
quite as efficient as poisoning, but also having a purpose far more
comprehensive, for it includes others besides his rival the Ranger. Of
late neglectful of his duties, Colonel Miranda has severely chided him,
thus kindling the hereditary antipathy of his race towards the white
man.
His master is to be among the victims--in short, all of them, his
fellow-servant, Chico, excepted. Should the diabolical plan prove a
success, not one of them can escape ruin, and most of them may meet
death.