Were we gifted with clairvoyance, it might at times spare us much
misery, thought at other times it would make it. Perhaps 'tis better we
are as we are.
Were Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder, keeping watch on the summit of the
mound, possessed of second sight, they would not think of remaining
there throughout all the night--not for an hour--nay, not so much as a
minute, for they would be aware that within less than ten miles of them
is a party of men with friendly hearts and strong arms, both at their
disposal for the very purpose they now need such. Enough of them to
strike Uraga's lancers and scatter them like chaff.
And could the man commanding these but peep over the precipitous
escarpment of the Llano Estacado and see those stalwart Texans
bivouacked below, he would descend into the valley with less
deliberation, and make greater haste to retire out of it. He and his
know nothing of the formidable foes so near, any more than Hamersley and
Wilder suspect the proximity of such powerful friends. Both are alike
unconscious that the Texans are encamped within ten miles. Yet they
are; for the gorge at whose mouth they have halted is the outlet of the
valley stream, where it debouches upon the Texan plain.
Without thought of being interfered with, the former proceed upon their
ruthless expedition; while the latter have no alternative but await its
issue. They do so with spirits impatiently chafing, and hearts sorely
agonised.
Both are alike apprehensive for what next day's sun will show them--
perchance a dread spectacle.
Neither shuts eye in sleep. With nerves excited and bosoms agitated
they lie awake, counting the hours, the minutes; now and then
questioning the stars as to the time.
They converse but little, and only in whispers. The night is profoundly
still. The slightest sound, a word uttered above their breath, might
betray them.
They can distinctly hear the talk of the lancers left below. Hamersley,
who understands their tongue, can make out their conversation. It is
for the most part ribald and blasphemous, boasts of their _bonnes
fortunes_ with the damsels of the Del Norte, commingled with curses at
this ill-starred expedition that for a time separates them from their
sweethearts.
Among them appears a gleam greater than the ignited tips of their
cigarittos. 'Tis the light of a candle which they have stuck up over a
serape spread along the earth. Several are seen clustering around it;
while their conversation tells that they are relieving the dull hours
with a little diversion. They are engaged in gambling, and ever and
anon the cries, "_Soto en la puerta_!" "_Cavallo mozo_!" ascending in
increased monotone, proclaim it to be the never-ending national game of
monte.
Meanwhile Uraga, with the larger body of the lancers, has got down into
the glen, and is making way towards the point aimed at. He proceeds
slowly and with caution. This for two distinct reasons--the sloping
path is difficult even by day, at night requiring all the skill of
experienced riders to descend it. Still with the traitor at their head,
who knows every step, they gradually crawl down the cliff, single file,
again forming "by twos" as they reach the more practicable causeway
below.
Along this they continue to advance in silence and like caution.
Neither the lancer colonel nor his lieutenant has forgotten the terrible
havoc made among the Tenawas by the two men who survived that fearful
affray, and whom they may expect once more to meet. They know that both
have guns--the traitor has told them so--and that, as before, they will
make use of them. Therefore Uraga intends approaching stealthily, and
taking them by surprise. Otherwise he may himself be the first to
fall--a fate he does not wish to contemplate. But there can be no
danger, he fancies as he rides forward. It is now the mid-hour of
night, a little later, and the party to be surprised will be in their
beds. If all goes well he may seize them asleep.
So far everything seems favourable. No sound comes from the direction
of the lonely dwelling, not even the bark of a watch dog. The only
noises that interrupt the stillness of the night are the lugubrious cry
of the coyote and the wailing note of the whip-poor-will; these, at
intervals blending with the sweeter strain of the tzenzontle--the
Mexican nightingale--intermittently silenced as the marching troop
passes near the spot where it is perched.
Once more, before coming in sight of the solitary jacal, Uraga commands
a halt. This time to reconnoitre, not to rest or stay. The troopers
sit in their saddles, with reins ready to be drawn; like a flock of
vultures about to unfold their wings for the last swoop upon their
victims--to clutch, tear, kill, do with them as they may wish!