Having made prisoner of the peon, and drawn out of him all he is able to
tell, his captors have a difficulty in deciding what to do with him. It
will hamper them to take him along. Still they cannot leave him behind;
and the young Kentuckian is not cruel enough to kill him, though
convinced of his deserving death.
If left to himself, Walt might settle the question quickly. Indignant
at the Indian's treason, he has now a new reason to dislike him--as a
rival.
With the ex-Ranger this last weighs little. He is sure of having the
affections of Conchita. He has her heart, with the promise of her hand,
and in his own confiding simplicity has no fear of failure in that
sense--not a pang of jealousy. The idea of having for a rival the
abject creature at his feet, whom he could crush out of existence with
the heel of his horseskin boot, is too ridiculous for him to entertain.
He can laugh it to scorn.
Not for that would he now put an end to the man's life, but solely from
a sense of outraged justice, with the rough-and-ready retribution to
which, as a Texan Ranger, he has been accustomed.
His comrade, less prone to acts of high-handed punishment, restrains
him; and the two stand considering what they are to do with their
prisoner, now proving so inconvenient.
While still undecided a sound reaches their ears causing them to start
and turn pale. It is the trampling of horses; there can be no mistaking
it for aught else. And many of them; not two or three, or half a dozen,
but a whole troop.
Uraga and his lancers have re-entered the valley! They are riding up to
the ranche! What but this can it be? No other party of horsemen could
be expected in that place.
And no other thought have the two men hearing the hoof strokes. They
are sure it is the soldiers returning.
Instinctively they retreat into the house, without taking their prisoner
along with them. Tied, he cannot stir from the spot. If he could it
would make little difference now. Their determination is to defend
themselves, if need be, to the death; and the hut, with its stout timber
walls, is the best place they can think of. It has two doors, opening
front and back, both of heavy slabs--split trunks of the palmilla. They
have been constructed strongly and to shut close, for the nights are
sometimes chilly, and grizzly bears stray around the ranche.
Hastily shutting to the doors and barring them they take stand, each at
a window, of which there are also two, both being in front. They are
mere apertures in the log wall, and of limited dimensions, but on this
account all the better for their purpose, being large enough to serve as
loopholes through which they can deliver their fire.
The position is not unfavourable for defence. The cabin stands close to
a cliff, with but passage way behind. In front the ground is open, a
sort of natural lawn leading down to the lake; only here and there a
tree diversifies its smooth surface. Across this anyone approaching
must come, whether they have entered the valley from above or below. On
each flank the facade of the precipice projects outward, so that the
abutting points can be seen from either of the windows; and, as they are
both within rifle range, an assailant attempting to turn the cabin so as
to enter from the back would be exposed to the enfilading fire of those
inside. For security against a surround, the spot could not have been
better chosen, and with anything like a fair proportion between
besiegers and besieged the former would fail. Under the circumstances,
however, there is not likely to be this, and for the two men to attempt
defending themselves would seem the certain sealing of their doom.
What chance for them to hold the hut against a force of fifty armed
men--soldiers--for if the whole of the troop is returning there is this
number? It may be not all have re-entered the valley--only a party sent
back to bring on the pilferer, who has been missed upon the march. In
that case there will be some chance of withstanding their attack. At
all hazards it is to be withstood.
What else can the two men do? Surrender, and become the prisoner of
Uraga? Never! They know the relentless ruffian too well, and with too
good reason. After their experience of him they need expect no mercy.
The man who could leave them buried alive to die a lingering death in
the gloomy recesses of a cavern, would be cruel enough not only to kill
but torture them. They have to "go under," anyhow, as the prairie
hunter expresses it, adding, "Ef we must die let's do so, killin' them
as kills us. I'm good for half a score o' them leetle minikin Mexikins,
an' I reck'n you, Frank, kin wipe out as many. We'll make it a bloody
bizness for them afore the last breath leeves our bodies. Air you all
churged an' riddy?"
"I am," is the response of the Kentuckian, in stern, solemn tones,
showing that he, as the Texan, has made up his mind to "die killing."
Says the latter, "They'll come out through the trees yonder, where the
path runs in. Let's take the fust as shows, an' drop him dead. Gie me
the chance, Frank. I'm dyin' to try the doctor's gun."
"By all means do so."
"You fetch the second out o' his saddle, if a second show. That'll gie
the others a scare, an' keep 'em back a bit, so's we'll hev good time to
get loaded agin."
All this--both speech and action--has not occupied over two minutes of
time. The rush inside the cabin, the closing of the doors, and taking
stand at the windows, have been done in that haste with which men
retreat from a tiger or flee before a prairie fire.
And now, having taken all the precautions possible, the two men wait
behind the walls, gun in hand, prepared for the approach of the
assailants--themselves so sheltered by the obscurity inside as not to be
seen from without.
As yet no enemy has made appearance. No living thing is seen outside,
save the lump of copper-coloured humanity prostrate on the sward, beside
the bag and swag he has been hindered from taking away. Still the shod
hoofs are heard striking against stones, the click sounding clearer and
nearer. They inside the _jacal_ listen with bated breath, but hearts
beating audibly. Hearts filled with anxiety. How could it be else? In
another minute they may expect to engage in a life-and-death conflict--
for themselves too likely a death one.
Something more than anxiety stirs within them. Something of
apprehension, perhaps actual fear. If so, not strange; fear, under the
circumstances, excusable, even in the hearts of heroes. Stranger were
it otherwise.
Whatever their emotions at the moment, they experience a sudden change,
succeeded by a series. The first is surprise. While listening to the
hoof strokes of the horses, all at once it appears to them that these
are not coming down the valley, but up it from below. Is it a sonorous
deception, caused by the sough of the cascade or reverberation from the
rocks?
More intently they bend their ears, more carefully note the quarter
whence proceeds the sound. Soon to answer the above question, each to
himself, in the negative. Unquestionably it comes from below.
They have recovered from this, their first surprise, before a second
seizes upon them. Mingling with the horses' tramp they hear voices of
men. So much they might expect; but not such voices. For amidst the
speeches exchanged arise roars of laughter, not such as could come from
the slender gullets of puny Mexicans, nor men of the Spanish race. Nor
does it resemble the savage cachinnation of the Comanche Indians. Its
rough aspirate, and rude, but hearty, tone could only proceed from
Celtic or Anglo-Saxon throats.
While still wondering at the sound ringing in their ears, a sight comes
before their eyes which but lessens their surprise by changing it into
gladness. Out of the trees at the lower end of the lake a horseman is
seen riding--after him a second. Both so unlike Uraga or any of his
lancers, so different from what they would deem enemies, that the rifles
of Hamersley and the hunter, instead of being aimed to deliver their
fire, are dropped, butts to the ground.
Before clearing the skirt of timber, the two horsemen make halt--only
for an instant, as if to reconnoitre. They appear surprised at seeing
the hut, and not less at sight of a man lying along the ground in front
of it. For they are near enough to perceive that he is tied hand and
foot, and to note the spilled paraphernalia beside him.
As they are men not easily to be daunted, the tableau, though it
somewhat mystifies, does not affright or drive them back. Instead, they
advance without the slightest show of fear. And behind the two first
showing themselves follow two others, and two more, till fifty have
filed out of the timber, and ride across the clear ground, heading
direct for the house.
Clad in rough coats of sombre hue, jeans, blanket, and buckskin, not a
few of them ragged, with hats of all shapes and styles; carrying rifles
in their hands, with revolving pistols and bowie-knives in their belts,
there could be no mistaking them for the gaudily-bedizened troop whose
horses at sunrise of that same day trampled over the same turf. To the
spectators no two cohorts could present a _coup d'oeil_ more dissimilar.
Though about equal in numbers, the two bodies of men were unlike in
everything else--arms, dresses, accoutrements; even their horses having
but slight resemblance. The horsemen late upon the spot would seem
dwarfs beside those now occupying it, who in comparison might be
accounted giants.
Whatever the impression made upon the young prairie merchant by the
sight of the newly-arrived troop, its effect upon the ex-Ranger might be
compared to a shock of electricity, or the result that succeeds the
inspiration of laughing-gas.
Long before the first files have reached the centre of the cleared space
he has sprung to the door, pulled the bar back, slammed open the slabs,
almost smashing them apart, and rushed out; when outside sending forth a
shout that causes every rock to re-echo it to the remotest corner of the
valley. It is a grand cry of gladness like a clap of thunder, with its
lightning flash bursting forth from the cloud in which in has been pent
up.
After it some words spoken more coherently give the key to its jubilant
tone.
"Texas Rangers! Ye've jest come in time. Thank the Lord!"