Lightning flashes, thunder rolls, wind bellows, and rain pours down in
sheets, as if from sluices; for the storm is still raging as furiously
as ever. Into it have rushed the two, regardless of all.
The Texans are astounded--for a time some of them still believing both
men mad. But soon it is seen they are acting with method, making
straight for the horses, while shouting and gesticulating for the
Rangers to come after.
These do not need either the shouts or signs to be repeated. Walt's old
comrades know he must have reason, and, disregarding the tempest, they
strike out after. Their example is electric, and in ten seconds the
jacal is empty.
In ten more they are among their horses, drawing in the trail-ropes and
bridling them.
Before they can get into their saddles they are made aware of what it is
all about.
Hamersley and Walt, already mounted and waiting, make known to the
Ranger captain the cause of their hurried action, apparently so
eccentric. A few words suffice.
"The way out," says the Kentuckian, "is up yonder ravine, along the bed
of the stream that runs through. When it rains as it's doing now, then
the water suddenly rises and fills up the channel, leaving no room, no
road. If we don't get out quick we may be kept here for days."
"Yis, boys!" adds Wilder, "we've got to climb the stairs right smart,
rain or shine, storm or no storm. Hyar's one off for the upper storey,
fast as his critter kin carry him."
While speaking, he jobs his heels against the ribs of his horse--for he
is now mounted on one, as also Hamersley--supernumeraries of the Texan
troop. Then, dashing off, with the Kentuckian by his side, they are
soon under the trees and out of sight. Not of the Rangers, who,
themselves now in the saddle, spur after in straggling line, riding at
top speed.
Once again the place is deserted, for, despite their precipitate
leave-taking, the Texans have carried the prisoners along with them. No
living thing remains by the abandoned dwelling. The only sign of human
occupation is the smoke that ascends through its kitchen chimney, and
from the camp fires outside, these gradually getting extinguished by the
downpour.
Still the lightning flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and
the rain pours down as from dishes. But not to deter the Texans, who,
drenched to their shirts, continue to ride rapidly on up the valley
road. There is in reality no road, only a trail made by wild animals,
occasionally trodden by the domesticated ones belonging to Colonel
Miranda; later still by Uraga's lancers.
Soaked by the rain, it has become a bed of mud, into which the horses of
the Rangers sink to their saddle girths, greatly impeding their
progress. Whip and spur as they may, they make but slow time. The
animals baulk, plunge, stumble, some going headforemost into the mire,
others striking their shoulders against the thick-standing trees, doing
damage to themselves and their riders. For with the norther still
clouding the sky, it is almost dark as night.
Other dangers assail them from falling trees. Some go down bodily
before the blast, while from others great branches are broken off by the
wind, and strike crashing across the path. One comes near crushing half
a dozen horsemen under its broad, spreading avalanche of boughs.
Notwithstanding all, they struggle on fearlessly, and fast as they can,
Hamersley and Wilder at their head, Haynes, Cully, and the best mounted
of the troop close following. Walt and the Kentuckian well know the
way. Otherwise, in the buffeting of that terrible storm, they might
fail to find it.
They succeed in keeping it, on to the head of the valley, where the
stream comes in between the cliffs. A tiny runlet as they last looked
upon it--a mere brook, pellucid and sparkling as the sand on its bed.
Now it is a torrent, deep, red and roaring; only white on its surface,
where the froth sweeps on, clouting the cliffs on each side. Against
these it has risen quite six feet, and still creeps upward. It has
filled the channel from side to side, leaving not an inch of roadway
between the river and rock.
To wade it would be impossible; to attempt swimming it destruction. The
staunchest steed could not stem its surges. Even the huge river-horse
of Africa would be swept off his feet and tossed to the surface like one
of its froth-flakes.
Arriving on its edge, Hamersley sees this at a glance. As he checks up
his horse, the exclamation that leaps from his lips more resembles the
anguished cry of a man struggling in the torrent than one seated safely
in a saddle on its bank.
After it, he gives utterance to two words in sad despairing tone, twice
repeated,--
"Too late--too late!"
Again repeated by Walt Wilder, and twenty times again by a score of the
Rangers who have ridden up, and reined their horses crowdingly behind.
There is no response save echo from the rocks, scarce audible through
the hoarse sough of the swollen surging stream, that rolls relentlessly
by, seeming to say, as in scorn, "Ford me! swim across me if you can!"