While the Rangers are preparing for their Homeric repast, a group
gathered in front of the jacal is occupied with an affair altogether
different.
The individuals most conspicuous in it are the Texan captain, the guide
Cully, Walt Wilder, and the young Kentuckian, though several besides
take part in the conference.
Two others are concerned in it, though not forming figures in the group.
They are some paces apart, lying on the grass, both bound. These are
the traitor Manuel and the renegade Barbato.
Both Indian and Mexican appear terribly cowed and crestfallen, for both
feel themselves in what Cully or Walt Wilder would call a "bad fix."
They are, in truth, in a dangerous predicament; for, now that Walt and
the Kentuckian have turned up alive, what with the story they have to
tell, added to that already known to the Rangers--comparing notes
between the two parties--new light is let in, floods of it, falling upon
spots hitherto dark, and clearing up points confused and obscure. The
two culprits are again cross-examined, and, with pistols held to their
heads, forced to still further confession.
The peon repeats what he has already told, without adding much, not
having much to add. With the renegade it is different. He has kept
much back concerning the part played by Uraga and his lieutenant in the
affair of the destroyed waggon train.
But with Hamersley, who speaks his own native tongue, now
cross-questioning him, and Walt Wilder to extract his testimony by the
persuasive influence of a knife-blade glistening in his eyes, he goes
further, and admits the unnatural confederation that existed between the
white and red robbers--the Mexican colonel and Comanche chief. In
short, to save his life, he makes a much cleaner breast of it than
before, this time only keeping back his own special guiltiness in being
their willing go-between.
While he is repeating his confession, all the other Rangers gather
around the group to listen to him. They stand silent, with bated breath
and brows contracted.
When at length they become possessed of the tale in all its diabolical
atrocity, all its completeness, their anger, already excited, become
almost ungovernable; and it is as much as their captain can do to
restrain them from at once starting in pursuit. Some fling their spits
in the fire with the meat upon them still untouched; others drop the
pieces roasted and partly eaten; most demanding to be led on.
The counsels of the more prudent prevail; and again tranquillised, they
recover the morsels of meat and continue their repast.
Not long, till they have reason to regret the delay and deem the
prudence misplaced. Though this arises not from any mistake on the part
of their counsellors, but from a circumstance entirely accidental.
While they are still in the midst of their meal, the sky, all day long
of cerulean clearness, becomes suddenly clouded. Not as this term is
understood in the ordinary sense, but absolutely black, as if the sun
were instantly eclipsed, or had dropped altogether out of the firmament.
Scarce ten minutes after its commencement the obscurity has reached
completeness--that of a total solar eclipse or as in a starless night.
Though troubled at the change, none of the Rangers are dismayed by it,
or even surprised. The old prairie men are the least astonished, since
they know what it means. At the first portentous sign Cully is heard
crying out,--
"A hurricane!--A norther!"
Wat Wilder has observed it at the same time, and confirms the
prognostic. This is before any of the others have noticed aught
peculiar in the aspect of the sky, and when there is just the selvedge
of a cloud seen above the cliff.
All Texans understand the significance of the word "norther"--a storm or
tornado, usually preceded by a hot, stifling atmosphere, with drifting
dust, accompanied by sheet or forked lightning and claps of terrific
thunder, followed by wind and rain, sometimes hail or sleet, as if the
sluices of heaven were drawn open, ending in a continued blast of more
regular direction, but chill as though coming direct from the Arctic
regions.
In less than ten minutes after its first sign, the tempest is around
them. Down into the valley pours the dust, swept from the surface of
the upper plain, along with it the leaves and stalks of the wild
wormwood, with other weeds of the desert. Simultaneously the wind, at
first in low sighs, like the sound of a distant sea; then roaring
against the rocks, and swooping down among the trees, whose branches go
crashing before its blast. Then succeed lightning, thunder, and rain--
the last falling, not in drops, but in sheets, as if spilled from a
spout.
For shelter the Rangers rush inside the ranche, leaving their horses to
take care of themselves. The latter stand cowering under the trees,
neighing with affright--the mules among them giving vent to their
plaintive hinney. There are dogs, too, that howl and bark, with other
sounds that come from farther off--from the wild denizens of the
wilderness; cries of the cougar in contralto, wolf-barkings in
mezzo-soprano, screaming of eagles in shrill treble, snorting of bears
in basso, and hooting of scared owls in lugubrious tone, to be likened
only to the wailing of agonised spirits in Purgatory.
Crowded within the hut, so thickly as to have scarce standing room, the
Rangers wait for the calming of the tempest. They submit with greater
resignation, knowing it will not long continue. It is far from being
their first experience of a "norther."
The only thought that troubles them is the delay--being hindered from
setting forth on the pursuit. True, the party to be pursued will be
stayed by the same obstruction. The soldiers will have to halt during
the continuance of the storm, so that the distance between will remain
the same.
But then their tracks will be obliterated--every vestige of them. The
wind, the rain, and dust will do this. How is their trail to be taken
up? "That will be easy enough," says one, whose self-esteem is greater
than his prairie experience. He adds: "As they're going due west, we
can't make any mistake by steering the same way."
"How little he knows about it!" is the muttered remark exchanged between
Wilder and Cully. For they know that the deflection of a single point
upon the prairies--above all, upon the Staked Plain--will leave the
traveller, like a ship at sea without chart or compass, to steer by
guesswork, or go drifting at sheer chance.
To most, the consoling thought is that the Mexicans will halt near, and
stay till the storm is over. They have some baggage--a tent or two,
with other camp equipage. This is learnt from the Indian; and
Hamersley, as also Wilder, have themselves made note of it.
To the returning soldiers there can be no great reason for haste, and
they will not likely resume their march till the sky is quite clear.
Therefore they will gain nothing in distance.
Satisfied by such assurance given by the sager ones of the party, the
Rangers remain inside the hut, on the roof of which the rain dashes
down, without experiencing any keen pangs of impatience. Some of them
even jest--their jokes having allusion to the close quarters in which
they are packed, and other like trifles incidental to the situation.
Walt Wilder for a while gives way to this humour. Whatever may be the
danger of Don Valerian and the others, he does not believe his
sweetheart much exposed. The little brown-skinned damsel is not in the
proscribed list; and the ex-Ranger, strong in the confidence of having
her heart, with the promise of her hand, has less reason to be
apprehensive about the consequences. Besides, he is now in the midst of
his former associates, and the exchange of new histories and old
reminiscences is sufficient to fill up the time, and keep him from
yielding to impatient longing.
Of all Hamersley alone is unhappy. Despite the assurances spoken, the
hopes felt, there is yet apprehension for the future. The position,
however, is endurable, and only passes this point as a thought comes
into his mind--a memory that flashes across his brain, as if a bullet
had struck him between the temples.
It causes him to spring suddenly to his feet, for he has been seated, at
the same time wringing from him a cry of peculiar signification.
"What is it, Mr Hamersley?" asks the Ranger Captain, who is close by
his side.
"My God!" exclaims the Kentuckian. "I'd forgotten. We must be off at
once, or we shall be too late--too late!"
Saying this, he makes a dash for the door, hurtling his way through the
crowd close standing between.
The Rangers regard him with glances of astonishment, and doubts about
his sanity. Some of them actually think he has gone mad!
One alone understands him--Walt Wilder; though he, too, seems demented.
With like incoherent speech and frantic gesture, he follows Hamersley to
the door.