But for a half-score men lying dead along the earth, their warm blood
welling from wounds where bullets have passed through their bodies, the
gory drops here and there like dew bedecking the blades of grass, or in
fuller stream settling down into the sand--but for this, the too real
evidence of death, one who entered the camp of Uraga as the Mexican
Colonel is riding out of it might fancy himself spectator of a pantomime
during the scene of transformation. In the stage spectacle, not quicker
or more contrasting could be the change.
The gaily-apparelled lancers, with their plumes, pennons, and tassels,
representing the sprites and sylphides of the pantomime, are succeeded
by men who look real life. Big bearded men, habited in homespun; some
wearing buckskin, others blanket coats; all carrying guns, bowie-knives,
and pistols; the first smoking at the muzzles, as freshly fired, the
last held in hand, ready to be discharged as soon as somebody worth
shooting at shows himself.
Entering the open ground ahead of the others, Hamersley and Wilder
glance around in search of this somebody, both thinking of the same.
They see stretched along the sward ten soldiers dead as herrings on a
string, but among them no one wearing the uniform of an officer--
certainly not him they are after.
Their first glance is unrewarded, but their second gives all they seek.
Behind a tent, and partially screened by the trees, three men are in the
act of mounting three horses. One is already in the saddle and moving
away, the other two have just set foot in the stirrup. The roan mounted
is unknown to the pursuers; but his animal is recognised by them. It is
Hamersley's own horse! Of the other two but one is identified, and him
only by Hamersley. He sees Gil Uraga.
A cry from the Kentuckian expresses disappointment. For on the instant
after sighting the Mexican officers the latter have leaped into their
saddles and gone off at a full gallop. A rifle shet might yet reach
them; but the guns of both Kentuckian and Texan are empty. Their
revolvers are loaded to no purpose. The retreating horsemen are beyond
pistol range!
Sure of this, they do not think of firing. And afoot, as all the
Rangers are--having left the horses behind to steal forward--they feel
helpless to pursue for the present. While hesitating, a circumstance
occurs giving Hamersley a hope. The man who has mounted his horse finds
a difficulty in managing him. As a Mexican he sits the saddle to
perfection, but cannot make the animal go the way he wants.
From behind the horse has heard neighing, which he knows to come from
the steeds of his own race, and, knowing this, has resolved to rub noses
with them.
In vain Galvez kicks against his ribs, beats him about the head, and
makes frantic efforts to urge him on. He but rears in the opposite
direction, backing so far as to bring his rider within reach of the
revolver held in the hands of Hamersley. Its crack rings clear--not
needing to be repeated or the cylinder turned. At the first explosion
the soldier is seen to spring from the saddle, dropping dead without
kick or cry, while the steed, disembarrassed, sheers round and comes
trotting towards the place whence the shot proceeded.
In a moment more its real master has hold of the bridle-rein, his shout
of joy answered by a whimper of recognition.
Seeing how matters stand, the Rangers hasten back to get possession of
their horses; others make for those of the fallen lancers, that now in
affright are rearing and straining at the end of their trail-ropes in a
vain endeavour to break loose.
For neither can Hamersley wait. It will take time, which his
impatience--his burning thirst for vengeance--cannot brook. He is
thinking of his slain comrades, whose bones lie unburied on the sands of
the Canadian; also of the outrage so near being perpetrated, so
opportunely interrupted.
But one thought stays him--Adela. Where is she? Is she safe? He turns
towards the marquee late guarded by Galvez. A very different individual
is now seen at its entrance. Walt Wilder, with bowie-knife bared, its
blade cutting the cords that kept the tent closed. In an instant they
are severed, the flap flies open, and two female forms rush forth. In
another instant one of them is lying along Hamersley's breast, the other
in the embrace of Wilder. Kisses and words are exchanged. Only a few
of the latter, till Hamersley, withdrawing himself from the arms that
softly entwine him, tells of his intention to part.
"For what purpose?" is the interrogatory, asked in tremulous accents,
and with eyes that speak painful surprise.
"To redress my wrongs and yours, Adela," is the response firmly spoken.
"_Santissima_!" she exclaims, seeing her lover prepare to spring into
the saddle. "Francisco! Stay with me. Do not again seek danger. The
wretch is not worthy of your vengeance."
"'Tis not vengeance, but justice. 'Tis my duty to chastise this crime--
the greatest on earth. Something whispers me 'tis a destiny, and I
shall succeed. Dearest Adela, do not stay me. There is no danger. I
shall be back soon, bringing Uraga's sword, perhaps himself, along with
me."
"Thar's odds again ye, Frank," interposes Wilder. "Two to one. If I
foller afoot I mayn't be up in time. An' the boys that's gone arter
thar critters, they'll be too late."
"Never mind the odds! I'll make it up with the five shots still in my
revolver. See, dearest, your brother is coming this way. Go meet and
tell him I shall soon return with a prisoner to be exchanged for him.
Another kiss! _Adios! hasta luego_!"
Tearing himself from arms so reluctant to release him, he bounds upon
the back of his horse and spurs off, soon disappearing among the trees.
Scarce is he out of sight when another quadruped is seen galloping
after--not a horse, but a hybrid.
Walt Wilder has espied the saddled mule hitched up behind the tent--that
intended for Conchita. It is now ridden by the ex-Ranger, who, prodding
it with the point of his bowie, puts it to its best speed.
And soon after go other horsemen--the Texans who have recovered their
steeds, with some who have caught those of the troopers, rapidly bridled
and mounted them bare-back.
They who stay behind become spectators of a scene strange and tender.
Two male prisoners unexpectedly rescued--snatched, as it were, from the
jaws of death--two female captives alike saved from dishonour. A
brother embracing his sister, whose noble affection but the moment
before prompted her to share with him the first sooner than submit to
the last.