While the thrilling incident described is occurring in Uraga's camp, the
Rangers, _en route_ along the banks of the Pecos, are making all the
haste in their power to reach it, Hamersley and Wilder every now and
then saying some word to urge them on.
In pursuit of such an enemy the Texans need no pressing. 'Tis only the
irrestrainable impatience of the two whose souls are tortured by the
apprehension of danger hovering over the heads of those dear to them.
There is no difficulty in lifting the trail of the soldiers. Their
horses are shod, and the late storm, with its torrent of rain, has
saturated the earth, obliterating all old hoof-marks, so that those
later made are not only distinct but conspicuous. So clear, that the
craft of Cully and Wilder is not called into requisition. Every Ranger
riding along the trail can take it up as fast as his horse is able to
carry him.
All see that Uraga has taken no pains to blind the track of his party.
Why should he? He can have no suspicion of being pursued; certainly not
by such pursuers.
Along the trail, then, they ride rapidly; gratified to observe that it
grows fresher as they advance for they are travelling thrice as fast as
the men who made it.
All at once they come to a halt--summoned to this by a sight which never
fails to bring the most hurried traveller to a stand. They see before
them the dead body of a man!
It is lying on a sand-spit, which projects into the river. Upon this it
has evidently been washed by the waters, now subsiding after the
freshet, due to the late tornado. Beside it shows the carcase of a
mule, deposited in similar manner. Both are conspicuous to the Rangers
as they ride abreast of the spit; but their attention has been called to
them long before by a flock of buzzards, some hovering above, others
alighting upon the sandbank.
Six or seven of the Texans, heading their horses down the sloping bank,
ride towards the "sign"--so sad, yet terribly attractive. It would
tempt scrutiny anywhere; but in the prairie wilderness, in that
dangerous desert, it may be the means of guiding to a path of safety, or
warding from one that is perilous.
While those who have detached themselves proceed out upon the sand-bar,
the main body remains upon the high bank, awaiting their return.
The dead man proves to be an Indian, though not of the _bravos_, or
savage tribes. Wearing a striped woollen _talma_, with coarse cotton
shirt underneath, wide sheep-skin breeches, ex tending only a little
below the knee, and rude raw-hide sandals upon his feet, he is evidently
one of the Christianised aboriginals.
There are no marks of violence on his body, nor yet on the carcase of
the mule. The case is clear at a glance. It is one of drowning; and
the swollen stream, still foaming past, is evidence eloquent of how it
happened. On the man's body there are no signs of rifling or robbery.
His pockets, when turned inside out, yield such contents as might be
expected on the person of an _Indio manso_.
Only one thing, which, in the eyes of the examinators, appears out of
place; a sheet of paper folded in the form of a letter, and sealed as
such. It is saturated with water, stained to the hue of the still
turbid stream. But the superscription can be read, "Por Barbato."
So much Cully and Wilder, who assist at the examination, can make out
for themselves. But on breaking open the seal, and endeavouring to
decipher what is written inside, both are at fault, as also the others
along with them. The letter is in a language that is a sealed book to
all. It is in Spanish.
Without staying to attempt translating it, they return to the river's
bank, taking the piece of paper along, for the superscription has
touched a tender point, and given rise to strange suspicions.
Walt carries the wet letter, which, soon as rejoining their comrades, he
places in the hands of Hamersley. The latter, translating, reads aloud:
"Senor Barbato,--As soon as you receive this, communicate its contents
to the chief. Tell him to meet me on the Arroyo de Alamo--same place
as before--and that he is to bring with him twenty or thirty of his
painted devils. The lesser number will be enough, as it's not an
affair of fighting. Come yourself with them. You will find me
encamped with a small party--some female and two male captives. No
matter about the women. It's the men you have to deal with; and this
is what you are to do. Charge upon our camp the moment you get sight
of it; make your redskins shout like fiends, and ride forward,
brandishing their spears. You won't meet resistance, nor find any one
on the ground when you've got there, only our two prisoners, who will
be fast bound, and so cannot flee with us. What's to be done with
them, amigo mio, is the important part--in fact, the whole play. Tell
the chief they are to be speared upon the spot, thrust through as soon
as you get up to them. See to this yourself, lest there be any
mischance; and I'll take care you shall have your reward."
Made acquainted with the contents of this vile epistle, the rage of the
Rangers, already sufficiently aroused, breaks from all bounds, and, for
a while, seeks vent in fearful curses and asseverations. Though there
is no name appended to the diabolical chapter of instructions, they have
no doubt as to who has dictated it. Circumstances, present and
antecedent, point to the man of whom they are in pursuit--Gil Uraga.