The Texans ride on to the ranche. They still chafe at being thwarted of
a vengeance; by every man of them keenly felt, after learning the
criminality of the Lancer Colonel. Such unheard of atrocity could not
help kindling within their breasts indignation of the deepest kind.
The three soldiers strung up to the trees have been its victims.
But this episode, instead of appeasing the executioners, has only roused
them, as tigers who have tasted blood hindered from banqueting on flesh.
They quite comprehend the position in which the norther has placed them.
On the way Hamersley and Wilder, most discomforted of all, have made
them aware of it. The swollen stream will prevent egress from the
valley till it subsides.
There is no outlet save above and below, and both these are now
effectually closed, shutting them up as in a strong-walled prison. On
each side the precipice is unscalable. Even if men might ascend, horses
could not be taken along; and on such a chase it would be hopeless for
them to set out afoot.
But men could not go up the cliff.
"A cat kedn't climb it," says Walt, who during his sojourn in the valley
has explored every inch of it. "We've got to stay hyar till the flood
falls. I reckon no one kin be sorrier to say so than this chile. But
thar's no help for 't."
"Till the flood falls? When will that be?"
No one can answer this, not even Wilder himself. And with clouded
brows, sullen, dispirited, they return to the jacal.
Two days they stay there, chafing with angry impatience. In their anger
they are ready for the most perilous enterprise. But, although bitterly
cursing the sinister chance that hinders pursuit, deeming each hour a
day, they can do nought save wait till the swollen stream subsides.
They watch it with eager solicitude, constantly going to the bank to
examine it, as the captain of a ship consults his weather-glass to take
steps for the safety of his vessel. All the time one or another is
riding to, or returning from, the head of the valley, to bring back
report of how the subsidence progresses.
And long ere the stream has returned to its regular channel, they plunge
their horses into it, breasting a current that almost sweeps them off
their feet. But the Texan horses are strong, as their riders are
skilful; the obstacle is surmounted, and the Rangers at length escape
from their prolonged and irksome imprisonment.
It is mid-day, as filing up the pass, they reach the higher level of the
Llano. Not many moments do they remain there; only long enough for the
rear files to get out of the gorge, when those in front move forward
across the plain, guided by the two best trackers in Texas, Nat Cully
and Walt Wilder.
At first there is no following of a trail, since there is none visible.
Wind, rain, and drifted dust have obliterated every mark made by the
returning soldiers. Not a sign is left to show the pursuers the path
Uraga's troop has taken.
They know it should be westward, and strike out without waiting to look
for tracks.
For the first ten or twelve miles they ride at a rapid rate, often going
in a gallop. Their horses, rested and fresh, enable them to do so.
They are only stayed in their pace by the necessity of keeping a
straight course--not so easy upon a treeless plain, when the sun is not
visible in the sky. Unluckily for them, the day is cloudy, which
renders it more difficult. Still, with the twin buttes behind--so long
as these are in sight they keep their course with certainty; then, as
their summits sink below the level of the plain, another landmark looms
up ahead, well known by Walt Wilder and Hamersley. It is the black-jack
grove where, two days before, they made their midday meal.
The Rangers ride towards it, with the intention also to make a short
halt there and snatch a scrap from their haversacks.
When upon its edge, before entering among the trees, they see that which
decides them to stay even less time than intended--the hoof-prints of
half a hundred horses!
Going inside the copse, they observe other signs that speak of an
encampment. Reading these with care, they can tell that it has not long
been broken up. The ashes of the bivouac fires are scarce cold, while
the hoof-marks of the horses show fresh on the desert dust, for the time
converted into mud. Wilder and Cully declare that but one day can have
passed since the lancers parted from the spot; for there is no question
as to who have been bivouacking among the black-jacks.
A day--only a day! It will take full five before the soldiers can cross
the Sierras and enter the valley of the Del Norte. There may still be a
chance of overtaking them. All the likelier, since, cumbered with their
captives, and not knowing they are pursued, they may be proceeding at a
leisurely pace.
Cheered by this hope, and freshly stimulated, the Texans do not even
dismount, but, spurring forth upon the plain, again ride rapidly on,
munching a mouthful as they go.
They are no longer delayed by any doubt as to course. The trail of the
lancer troop is now easily discernible, made since the storm passed
over. Any one of the Rangers could follow it in a fast gallop.
At this pace they all go, only at intervals drawing in to a walk, to
breathe their blown steeds for a fresh spurt.
Even after night has descended they continue on, a clear moonlight
enabling them to lift the trail.
As next morning's sun breaks over the Llano Estacado they descend its
western slope into the valley of the Rio Pecos.
Traversing its bottom, of no great breadth, they reach the crossing of
the old Spanish trail, from Santa Fe to San Antonio de Bejar.
Fording the stream, on its western bank, they discover signs which cause
them to come to a halt, for some time perplexing them. Nothing more
than the tracks of the troop they have been all the while pursuing,
which entered the river on its left side. Now on its right they are
seen the same, up the sloping causeway of the bank. But on reaching the
bottom, a little aback from the water's edge, the trail splits into two
distinct ramifications, one continuing westward towards the Sierras, the
other turning north along the stream. The first shows the hoof-marks of
nigh forty horses, the second only ten or twelve.
Unquestionably the Mexican colonel had here divided his troop, the main
body proceeding due west, the detachment striking up stream.
The route taken by this last would be the old Spanish road for Santa Fe,
the first party proceeding on to Albuquerque.
For a time the pursuing Texans are at fault, as foxhounds by a fence,
over which Reynard has doubled back to mislead them. They have halted
at the bifurcation of the trails, and sit in their saddles, considering
which of the two they should take.
Not all remain mounted. Cully and Wilder have flung themselves to the
ground, and, in bent attitudes, with eyes close to the surface, are
scanning the hoof-marks of the Mexican horses.
The others debate which of the two troops they ought to take after, or
whether they should themselves separate and pursue both. This course is
opposed by a majority, and it is at length almost decided to continue on
after the main body, which, naturally enough, they suppose to have Uraga
at its head, with the captives in keeping.
In the midst of their deliberations a shout calls the attention of all,
concentrating it on Walt Wilder. For it is he who has uttered the cry.
The ex-Ranger is seen upon his knees, his great body bent forward, with
his chin almost touching the ground. His eyes are upon the hoof-marks
of a horse--one of those that went off with the smaller detachment along
the river's bank.
That he has identified the track is evident from the speech succeeding
his ejaculation.
"Yur hoss, Hamersley! Hyar's his futprint, sure. An', as he's rud by
Urager, the scoundrel's goed this way to a sartinty. Eqwally sartin,
he's tuk the captives along wi' him."
On hearing their old comrade declare his prognosis, the Rangers wheel
their horses and ride towards him.
Before reaching the spot where he is still prospecting, they see him
give a sudden spring forward, like a frog leaping over meadow sward,
then pause again, scrutinising a track.
A second examination, similar to the first, tells of another discovery.
In like manner explained, by his speech close following,--
"An' hyar's the track o' the mare--the yeller mustang as war rid by the
saynorita. An', durn me, that's the hoof-mark o' the mule as carried my
Concheter. Capting Haynes! Kumrades! No use botherin' 'bout hyar any
longer. Them we want to kum up wi' are goed north 'long this trail as
leads by the river bank."
Not another word is needed. The Rangers, keen of apprehension and quick
to arrive at conclusions, at once perceive the justness of those come to
by their old comrade. They make no opposition to his proposal to
proceed after the smaller party.
Instead, all signify assent; and in ten seconds after they are strung
out into a long line, going at a gallop, their horses' heads turned
northward up the right bank of the Rio Pecos.