Between lovers, those who truly love, the parting is ever painful Frank
Hamersley, taking leave of Adela Miranda, feels this as does Walt Wilder
separating from Conchita.
There may be a difference in degree, in the intensity of their
respective passions; perhaps also something in its character. Still the
sentiment is the same. Both suffer at the thought of separation, feel
it keenly. All the more as they reflect on what is before them--a
prospect anything but cheerful. Clouds in the sky; many chances they
may never see their loved ones again. No wonder they turn towards the
Del Norte with gloom in their glances and dark forebodings in their
breasts. Men of less loyal hearts, less prone to the promptings of
humanity, would trifle and stay; spend longer time in a dalliance so
surely agreeable, so truly delightful. Not so the young Kentuckian and
his older companion, the Texan. Though the love of woman is enthroned
in their hearts, each has kept a corner sacred to a sentiment almost as
strong, and perhaps purer. The blood of their slaughtered comrades
cries from the ground, from the sand through which they saw it filtering
away. They cannot find peace without responding to its appeal; and for
this even the fruition of their love is to be delayed. To seek
retribution they must journey on to the settlements of the Del Norte;
not sure of success on arrival there, but more likely to meet failure--
perhaps imprisonment. In this there would be nothing new or strange.
They would not be the first Americans to suffer incarceration without
cause in a New Mexican _calabozo_, and lie there for long years without
trial.
Once more Miranda represents the danger they are about to undergo. It
does not daunt them.
"No matter," is the reckless response. "Whatever be the consequences,
go we will. We must."
Thus determined to start off, after exchanging tender adieus with those
left behind--two of them in tears.
According to promise, Miranda has placed his mules at their disposal,
and on these they are mounted. He has, moreover, furnished them with
spare dresses from his wardrobe--costumes of his native country, which
will enable them to travel through it without attracting attention.
Starting at sunrise, it is still early morning when they reach the upper
plain through the ravine between the two twin mountains. So far Colonel
Miranda accompanies them, as also Don Prospero. There parting, the
refugees return to the ranche, while the travellers strike out over the
treeless waste, which spreads before their faces to the very verge of
vision.
They have no landmark to guide them, neither rock nor tree; but the sky
is without a cloud, and there is a sun in it gleaming like a globe of
fire. To the experienced prairie man this is sufficient for telling
every point of the compass, and they but want one. Their course is due
west till they strike the Pecos; then along its bank to the crossing,
thence west again through the Sierras, and on to Santa Fe.
Keeping the sun slightly on the left shoulder, they journey till near
noon, when a dark object, seen a little to the right, attracts them.
Not to surprise, for they well know what it is--a grove. They can tell,
too, that the trees composing it are oaks, of the species known as
black-jack. Notwithstanding their stunted growth, the black-jacks are
umbrageous, and give good shade. Though the sun has not yet reached
meridian, its rays are of meridian heat, and strike down with fiery
fervour on the surface of the parched plain.
This determines them to seek the shelter of the grove, and there make
their noontide halt. It is a little but of their way; but, far as they
can see ahead, no other spot offers a chance of protection against the
burning beams.
The grove is a mere copse, covering scarce half an acre, and the topmost
branches rise but a few feet above their heads. Still is there shade,
both for them and their animals; and cover, should they require to
conceal themselves--the last a fortunate circumstance, as is soon
proved. Equally fortunate their not having need to kindle a fire. In
their haversacks they carry provisions already cooked.
Dismounting, they lead their males in among the trees, and there make
them secure by looping the bridles to a branch. Then, laying themselves
along the earth, they eat their midday meal, pull out their pipes, and
follow it with a smoke.
With little thought, they are burning the last bit of tobacco which
remained to the refugees. At parting, their generous host, to comfort
them on their journey, presented them with the ultimate ounce of his
stock; with true Spanish politeness saying nothing of this.
As they lie watching the blue film curling up among the branches of the
black-jacks, as little do they reflect how fortunate for them it is not
the smoke of a fire, nor visible at any great distance. Were it so,
there would not be much likelihood of their ever reaching the Del Norte
or leaving the Llano Estacado alive.
Not dreaming of danger in that desolate place--at least none caused by
human kind--they remain tranquilly pulling at their pipes, now
conversing of the past, anon speculating about their plans for the
future.
Three or four hours elapse; the sun having crossed the meridian, begins
to stoop lower. Its rays fall less fervently, and they think of
continuing their journey. They have "unhitched" the mules, led them out
to the edge of the copse, and are standing by the stirrup, ready to
remount, when an object catches the quick eye of the ex-Ranger, causing
him to utter a sharp ejaculation.
Something seen west, the way they want to go.
Pointing it out to Hamersley, the two stand observing. No great
scrutiny needed to tell them 'tis a cloud of dust, although in breadth
not bigger than a blanket. But while they are regarding it it gradually
spreads out, at the same time showing higher above the surface of the
plain.
It may be a swirl of the wind acting on the dry sand of the desert--the
first commencement of a regular whirlwind--a thing common on the table
lands of New Mexico. But it has not the round pillar-like form of the
_molino_, nor do they believe it to be one. Both are too well
acquainted with this phenomenon to be deceived by its counterfeit.
If they had any doubts, as they stand gazing these are resolved. The
cloud presents a dense dark head, with a nucleus of something more solid
than dust. And while guessing at the true character of this opaque
central part, a circumstance occurs disclosing it. A puff of wind
striking the dust causes it to swirl sideways, showing underneath a body
of mounted men. Men, too, in military array, marching in double file,
armed, uniformed, with lances borne erect, their blades glinting in the
sun.
"Sogers!" exclaims the ex-Ranger.