"What matters it! When he is out of the way, I shall have it all my own
way. Woo her as Tarquin did Lucretia, and she will yield not as the
Roman matron, but as a Mexican woman--give her consent when she can no
longer withhold it. What is it, _cabo_?"
The interrogatory is addressed to a corporal who has ridden alongside,
and halts, saluting him.
"Colonel, the _alferez_ sends me to report that the Indian is no longer
with us."
"What! the man Manuel?"
"The same, colonel."
"Halt!" commands Uraga, shouting aloud to the troop, which instantly
comes to a stand. "What's this I hear, _alferez_?" he asks, riding
back, and speaking to the sub-lieutenant.
"Colonel, we miss the fellow who guided us. He must have dropped behind
as we came out of the gorge. He was with us on leaving the house, and
along the valley road."
"It don't much signify," says Uraga, in an undertone to Roblez; "we've
got all out of him we need care for. Still, it may be better to bring
him along. No doubt he slipped off to settle some affair of his own--
some pilferings, I presume; and will be found at the ranche. _Cabo_!
take a file of men, go back to the valley, and bring the loiterer along
with you. As I intend marching slowly, you'll easily overtake us at our
night camp."
The corporal, singling out the file as directed, rides back towards the
buttes, still in sight, while the troop continues its uninterrupted
march. Uraga and Roblez again go in advance, the former making further
disclosure of his plans to his _particeps criminis_.
Their confidential dialogue has lasted about an hour, when another of
the lancers riding up again interrupts it. He is a grizzled old
veteran, who has once been a _cibolero_, and seen life upon the plains.
"What is it, Hernandez?" demands the colonel.
"_Senor coronel_," says the man, pointing to a little speck in the sky,
that has just shown itself above the north-eastern horizon, "do you see
yonder cloud?"
"Cloud! I see no cloud, unless you mean that spot on the horizon,
scarce so large as the crown of my hat Is it that you mean?"
"It is, colonel. And small as it seems, there may come trouble from it.
It don't look much now, but in ten minutes time it will be big enough
to spread all over the sky, and over us too."
"You think so? Why, what is it, Hernandez? El Norte?"
"I'm sure of it. _Carramba_! I've seen it too often. Trust me,
colonel, we're going to have a storm."
"In that case we'd better bring to a halt and get under shelter. I see
nothing here that would screen a cat, save yonder clump of dwarf oaks.
In a way it'll keep the blast off us, and, as we may as well stay under
it for the night, it will furnish fuel for our fires. Ride back to the
troop. Tell the _alferez_ to bring on the men to yonder grove, and
quickly. Let the tents be pitched there. _Vaya_!"
The _ci-devant_ cibolero does as directed, going at a gallop; while the
colonel and his adjutant trot on to the clump of blackjacks, standing
some three hundred paces out of the line of march. It was the same
copse that gave shade and concealment to Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder
on the day preceding.
On arriving at its edge, which they do before their followers, Uraga and
Roblez see the tracks of the two mules. Not without surprise, and they
exchange some words regarding them. But the fast-darkening sky drives
the subject out of their thoughts, and they occupy themselves in
choosing a spot for pitching the tents.
Of these there are too--one which Urago owns, the other, found in the
ranche, an old marquee Miranda had carried with him in his flight. This
has been brought along for the accommodation of his sister, whom Uraga
has reason to treat tenderly.
Both tents are soon set up in the shelter of the black-jacks; the
marquee, as ordered by Uraga, occupied by the female captives.
The lancers, having hastily dismounted, picket their horses and make
other preparations for the storm, predicted by the ex-cibolero as
something terrific.
Before long they see his prediction verified to the spirit and the
letter.
The sky, hitherto shining like a sapphire and blue as a turquoise,
becomes changed to the sombre hue of lead; then darker, as if night had
suddenly descended over the sterile plain. The atmosphere, but a moment
before unpleasantly hot, is now cold as winter; the thermometer is less
than twenty minutes falling over forty degrees--almost to freezing
point!
It is not night which causes the darkness, nor winter the cold. Both
come from an atmospheric phenomenon peculiar to the table-lands of
Texas, and far more feared by the traveller. It is that called by
Mexicans and styled by the ex-cibolero _El Norte_; by Texans known as
"The Norther."
Alike dreaded by both.