Perhaps no river on all the North American continent is marked with
interest more romantic than that which attaches to the Rio Grande of
Mexico. On its banks has been enacted many a tragic scene--many an
episode of Indian and border war--from the day when the companions of
Cortez first unfurled Spain's _pabellon_ till the Lone Star flag of
Texas, and later still the banner of the Stars and Stripes, became
mirrored on its waves.
Heading in the far-famed "parks" of the Rocky Mountains, under the name
of Rio Bravo del Norte, it runs in a due southerly direction between the
two main ranges of the Mexican "Sierre Madre;" then, breaking through
the Eastern Cordillera, it bends abruptly, continuing on in a
south-easterly course till it espouses ocean in the great Mexican Gulf.
Only its lower portion is known as the "Rio Grande;" above it is the
"Bravo del Norte."
The Pecos is its principal tributary, which, after running through
several degrees of latitude parallel to the main stream, at length
unites with it below the great bend.
In many respects the Pecos is itself a peculiar river. For many hundred
miles it courses through a wilderness rarely traversed by man, more
rarely by men claiming to be civilised. Its banks are only trodden by
the savage, and by him but when going to or returning from a raid. For
this turbid stream is a true river of the desert, having on its left
side the sterile tract of the Llano Estacado, on its right dry table
plains that lead up to the Sierras, forming the "divide" between its
waters and those of the Bravo del Norte.
On the side of the Staked Plain the Pecos receives but few affluents,
and these of insignificant character. From the Sierras, however,
several streams run into it through channels deeply cut into the plain,
their beds being often hundreds of feet below its level. While the
plateau above is often arid and treeless, the bottom lands of these
tributaries show a rich luxuriant vegetation, here and there expanding
into park-like meadows, with groves and copses interspersed.
On the edge of one of these affluents, known as the _Arroyo Alamo_
(Anglice "Cottonwood Creek"), two tents are seen standing--one a square
marquee, the other a "single pole," of the ordinary conical shape.
Near by a half score of soldiers are grouped around a bivouac fire, some
broiling bits of meat on sapling spits, others smoking corn-husk
cigarettes, all gaily chatting. One is some fifty paces apart, under a
spreading tree, keeping guard over two prisoners, who, with legs lashed
and hands pinioned, lie prostrate upon the ground.
As the soldiers are in the uniform of Mexican lancers, it is needless to
say they belong to the troop of Colonel Uraga. Superfluous to add that
the two prisoners under the tree are Don Valerian Miranda and the
doctor.
Uraga himself is not visible, nor his adjutant, Roblez. They are inside
the conical hut, the square one being occupied by Adela and her maid.
After crossing the Pecos, Uraga separated his troop into two parties.
For some time he has sent the main body, under command of his alferez,
direct to Albuquerque, himself and the adjutant turning north with the
captives and a few files as escort and guard. Having kept along the
bank of the Pecos till reaching the Alamo, he turned up the creek, and
is now _en bivouac_ in its bottom, some ten miles above the confluence
of the streams.
A pretty spot has he selected for the site of his encampment. A verdant
mead, dotted with groves of leafy _alamo_ trees, that reflect their
shadows upon crystal runlets silently coursing beneath, suddenly
flashing into the open light like a band of silver lace as it bisects a
glade green with _gramma_ grass. A landscape not all woodland or
meadow, but having also a mountain aspect, for the basaltic cliffs that
on both sides bound the valley bottom rise hundreds of feet high,
standing scarce two hundred yards apart, grimly frowning at each other,
like giant warriors about to begin battle, while the tall stems of the
_pitahaya_ projecting above might be likened to poised spears.
It is a scene at once soft and sublime--an Eden of angels beset by a
serried phalanx of fiends; below, sweetly smiling; above, darkly
frowning and weirdly picturesque. A wilderness, with all its charms,
uninhabited; no house in sight; no domestic hearth or chimney towering
over it; no smoke, save that curling aloft from the fire lately kindled
in the soldiers' camp. Beasts and birds are its only habitual denizens;
its groves the chosen perching place of sweet songsters; its openings
the range of the prong-horn antelope and black-tailed deer; while
soaring above, or seated on prominent points of the precipice, may be
seen the _caracara_, the buzzard, and bald-headed eagle.
Uraga has pitched his tents in an open glade of about ten acres in
superficial extent, and nearly circular in shape, lying within the
embrace of an umbrageous wood, the trees being mostly cotton woods of
large dimensions. Through its midst the streamlet meanders above,
issuing out of the timber, and below again entering it.
On one side the bluffs are visible, rising darkly above the tree-tops,
and in the concavity underneath stand the tents, close to the timber
edge, though a hundred paces apart from each other. The troop horses,
secured by their trail-ropes, are browsing by the bank of the stream;
and above, perched upon the summit of the cliff, a flock of black
vultures sun themselves with out-spread wings, now and then uttering an
ominous croak as they crane their necks to scan what is passing
underneath.
Had Uraga been influenced by a sense of sylvan beauty, he could not have
chosen a spot more suitable for his camping-place.
Scenic effect has nought to do with his halting there. On the contrary,
he has turned up the Alamo, and is bivouacking on its bank, for a
purpose so atrocious that no one would give credit to it unacquainted
with the military life of Mexico in the days of the Dictator Don Antonio
Lopez de Santa Anna. This purpose is declared in a dialogue between the
lancer colonel and his lieutenant, occurring inside the conical tent
shortly after its being set up.
But before shadowing the bright scene we have painted by thoughts of the
dark scheme so disclosed, let us seek society of a gentler kind. We
shall find it in the marquee set apart for Adela Miranda and her maid.
It scarce needs to say that a change is observable in the appearance of
the lady. Her dress is travel-stained, bedraggled by dust and rain; her
hair, escaped from its coif, hangs dishevelled; her cheeks show the lily
where but roses have hitherto bloomed. She is sad, drooping,
despondent.
The Indian damsel seems to suffer less from her captivity, having less
to afflict her--no dread of that terrible calamity which, like an
incubus, broods upon the mind of her mistress.
In the conversation passing between them Conchita is the comforter.
"Don't grieve so, senorita," she says, "I'm sure it will be all right
yet. Something whispers me it will. It may be the good Virgin--bless
her! I heard one of the soldiers say they're taking us to Santa Fe, and
that Don Valerian will be tried by a court martial--I think that's what
he called it. Well, what of it? You know well he hasn't done anything
for which they can condemn him to death--unless they downright
assassinate him. They dare not do that, tyrants as they are."
At the words "assassinate him," the young lady gives a start. It is
just that which is making her so sad. Too well she knows the man into
whose hands they have unfortunately fallen. She remembers his design,
once nigh succeeding, only frustrated by that hurried flight from their
home. Is it likely the fiend will be contented to take her brother back
and trust to the decision of a legal tribunal, civil or military? She
cannot believe it; but shudders as she reflects upon what is before
them.
"Besides," pursues Conchita, in her consolatory strain, "your gallant
Francisco and my big, brave Gualtero have gone before us. They'll be in
Albuquerque when we get there, and will be sure to hear of our arrival.
Trust them for doing something to save Don Valerian."
"No, no," despondingly answers Adela, "they can do nothing for my
brother. That is beyond their power, even if he should ever reach
there. I fear he never will--perhaps, none of us."
"_Santissima_! What do you mean, senorita? Surely these men will not
murder us on the way?"
"They are capable of doing that--anything. Ah! Conchita, you do not
know them. I am in as much danger as my brother, for I shall choose
death rather than--"
She forbears speaking the word that would explain her terrible
apprehension. Without waiting for it, Conchita rejoins--
"If they kill you, they may do the same with me. Dear _duena_, I'm
ready to die with you."
The _duena_, deeply affected by this proffer of devotion, flings her
white arms around the neck of her brown-skinned maid, and imprints upon
her brow a kiss, speaking heartfelt gratitude.
For a time the two remain enlocked in each other's arms, murmuring words
of mutual consolation. Love levels all ranks, but not more than
misery--perhaps not so much. In the hour of despair there is no
difference between prince and peasant, between the high-born dame and
the lowly damsel accustomed to serve her caprices and wait upon her
wishes.
Adela Miranda has in her veins the purest _sangre azul_ of Andalusia.
Her ancestors came to New Spain among the proud _conquistadores_; while
those of Conchita, at least on the mother's side, were of the race
conquered, outraged, and humiliated.
No thought of ancestral hostility, no pride of high lineage on one side,
or shame of low birth on the other, as the two girls stand inside the
tent with arms entwined, endeavouring to cheer one another.
Under the dread of a common danger, the white _doncella_ and the dusky
damsel forget the difference in the colour of their skins; and for the
first time feel themselves sisters in the true sisterhood of humanity.