A stream coursing through a canoned channel whose banks rise three
hundred feet above its bed. They are twin cliffs that front one
another, their _facades_ not half so far apart. Rough with projecting
points of rock, and scarred by water erosion, they look like angry
giants with grim visages frowning mutual defiance. In places they
approach, almost to touching; then, diverging, sweep round the opposite
sides of an ellipse; again closing like the curved handles of callipers.
Through the spaces thus opened the water makes its way, now rushing in
hoarse torrent, anon gently meandering through meadows, whose vivid
verdure, contrasting with the sombre colour of the enclosing cliffs,
gives the semblance of landscape pictures set in rustic frame.
The traveller who attempts to follow the course of the stream in
question will have to keep upon the cliffs above: for no nearer can he
approach its deeply-indented channel. And here he will see only the
sterile treeless plain; or, if trees meet his eye, they will be such as
but strengthen the impression of sterility--some scrambling mezquite
bushes, clumps of cactaceae, perhaps the spheroidal form of a
melocactus, or yucca, with its tufts of rigid leaves--the latter
resembling bunches of bayonets rising above the musket "stacks" on a
military parade ground.
He will have no view of the lush vegetation that enlivens the valley a
hundred yards below the hoofs of his horse. He will not even get a
glimpse of the stream itself; unless by going close to the edge of the
precipice, and craning his neck over. And to do this, he must needs
diverge from his route to avoid the transverse rivulets, each trickling
down the bed of its own deep-cut channel.
There are many such streams in South-Western Texas; but the one here
described is that called _Arroyo de Coyote_--Anglice, "Coyote Creek"--a
tributary of the Colorado.
In part it forms the western boundary of the table-land, already known
to the reader, in part intersecting it. Approaching it from the San
Saba side, there is a stretch of twenty miles, where its channel cannot
be reached, except by a single lateral ravine leading down to it at
right angles, the entrance to which is concealed by a thick chapparal of
thorny mezquite trees. Elsewhere, the traveller may arrive on the
bluff's brow, but cannot go down to the stream's edge. He may see it
far below, coursing among trees of every shade of green, from clearest
emerald to darkest olive, here in straight reaches, there sinuous as a
gliding snake. Birds of brilliant plumage flit about through the
foliage upon its banks, some disporting themselves in its pellucid wave;
some making the valley vocal with their melodious warblings, and others
filling it with harsh, stridulous cries. Burning with thirst, and faint
from fatigue, he will fix his gaze on the glistening water, to be
tortured as Tantalus, and descry the cool shade, without being able to
rest his weary limbs beneath it.
But rare the traveller, who ever strays to the bluffs bounding Coyote
Creek: rarer still, those who have occasion to descend to the
bottom-land through which it meanders.
Some have, nevertheless, as evinced by human sign observable upon the
stream's bank, just below where the lateral ravine leads down. There
the cliffs diverging, and again coming near, enclose a valley of ovoidal
shape, for the most part overgrown with pecan-trees. On one side of it
is a thick umbrageous grove, within which several tents are seen
standing. They are of rude description, partly covered by the skins of
animals, partly scraps of old canvas, here and there eked out with a bit
of blanket, or a cast coat. No one would mistake them for the tents of
ordinary travellers, while they are equally unlike the wigwams of the
nomadic aboriginal. To whom, then, do they appertain?
Were their owners present, there need be no difficulty in answering the
question. But they are not. Neither outside, nor within, is soul to be
seen. Nor anywhere near. No human form appears about the place; no
voice of man, woman, or child, reverberates through the valley. Yet is
there every evidence of recent occupation. In an open central space,
are the ashes of a huge fire still hot, with fagots half-burnt, and
scarce ceased smoking; while within the tents are implements, utensils,
and provisions--bottles and jars of liquor left uncorked, with stores of
tobacco unconsumed. What better proof that they are only temporarily
deserted, and not abandoned? Certainly their owners, whether white men
or Indians, intend returning to them.
It need scarce be told who these are. Enough to say, that Coyote Creek
is the head-quarters of the prairie pirates, who assaulted the San Saba
settlement.
Just as the sun is beginning to decline towards the western horizon,
those of them sent on ahead arrive at their rendezvous; the chief, with
Chisholm and the other three, not yet having come up.
On entering the encampment, they relieve their horses of the precious
loads. Then unsaddling, turn them into a "corral" rudely constructed
among the trees. A set of bars, serving as a gate, secures the animals
against straying.
This simple stable duty done, the men betake themselves to the tents,
re-kindle the fire, and commence culinary operations. By this, all are
hungry enough, and they have the wherewithal to satisfy their appetites.
There are skilful hunters among them, and the proceeds of a chase, that
came off before starting out on their less innocent errand, are seen
hanging from the trees, in the shape of bear's hams and haunches of
venison. These taken down, are spitted, and soon frizzling in the
fire's blaze; while the robbers gather around, knives in hand, each
intending to carve for himself.
As they are about to commence their Homeric repast, Borlasse and the
others ride up. Dismounting and striding in among the tents, the chief
glances inquiringly around, his glance soon changing to disappointment.
What he looks for is not there! "Quantrell and Bosley," he asks, "ain't
they got here?"
"No, capting," answers one. "They hain't showed yet."
"And you've seen nothin' of them?"
"Nary thing."
His eyes light up with angry suspicion. Again doubts he the fidelity of
Darke, or rather is he now certain that the lieutenant is a traitor.
Uttering a fearful oath, he steps inside his tent, taking Chisholm along
with him.
"What can it mean, Luke?" he asks, pouring out a glass of brandy, and
gulping it down.
"Hanged if I can tell, cap. It looks like you was right in supposin'
they're gin us the slip. Still it's queery too, whar they could a goed,
and wharf ore they should."
"There's nothing so strange about the wherefore; that's clear enough to
me. I suspected Richard Darke, _alias_ Phil Quantrell, would play me
false some day, though I didn't expect it so soon. He don't want his
beauty brought here, lest some of the boys might be takin' a fancy to
her. That's one reason, but not all. There's another--to a man like
him 'most as strong. He's rich, leastaways his dad is, an' he can get
as much out o' the old 'un as he wants,--will have it all in time. He
guesses I intended squeezin' him; an' thar he was about right, for I
did. I'd lay odds that's the main thing has moved him to cut clear o'
us."
"A darned mean trick if it is. You gied him protection when he was
chased by the sheriffs, an' now--"
"Now, he won't need it; though he don't know that; can't, I think. If
he but knew he ain't after all a murderer! See here, Luke; he may turn
up yet. An' if so, for the life o' ye, ye mustn't tell him who it was
we dibbled into the ground up thar. I took care not to let any of them
hear his name. You're the only one as knows it."
"Ye can trust me, cap. The word Clancy won't pass through my teeth,
till you gie me leave to speak it."
"Ha!" exclaims Borlasse, suddenly struck with an apprehension. "I never
thought of the mulatto. He may have let it out?"
"He mayn't, however!"
"If not, he shan't now. I'll take care he don't have the chance."
"How are ye to help it? You don't intend killin' him?"
"Not yet; thar's a golden _egg_ in that goose. His silence can be
secured without resortin' to that. He must be kep' separate from the
others."
"But some o' them 'll have to look after him, or he may cut away from
us."
"Fernandez will do that. I can trust him with Clancy's name,--with
anything. Slip out, Luke, and see if they've got it among them. If
they have, it's all up, so far as that game goes. If not, I'll fix
things safe, so that when we've spent Monsheer Dupre's silver, we may
still draw cheques on the bank of San Antonio, signed Ephraim Darke."
Chisholm obeying, brings back a satisfactory report.
"The boys know nothin' o' Clancy's name, nor how we disposed o' him. In
coorse, Watts, Stocker, an' Driscoll, haint sayed anything 'bout that.
They've told the rest we let him go, not carin' to keep him; and that
you only wanted the yellow fellow to wait on ye."
"Good! Go again, and fetch Fernandez here."
Chisholm once more turns out of the tent, soon after re-entering it, the
half-blood behind him.
"Nandy," says Borlasse; calling the latter by a name mutually
understood. "I want you to take charge of that mulatto, and keep him
under your eye. You musn't let any of the boys come nigh enough to hold
speech wi' him. You go, Luke, and give them orders they're not to."
Chisholm retires.
"And, Nandy, if the nigger mentions any name--it may be that of his
master--mind you it's not to be repeated to any one. You understand
me?"
"I do, _capitan_."
"All serene. I know I can depend on ye. Now, to your duty."
Without another word, the taciturn mestizo glides out of the tent,
leaving Borlasse alone. Speaking to himself, he says:--
"If Quantrell's turned traitor, thar's not a corner in Texas whar he'll
be safe from my vengeance. I'll sarve the whelp as I've done 'tother,--
a hound nobler than he. An' for sweet Jessie Armstrong, he'll have
strong arms that can keep her out o' mine. By heavens! I'll hug her
yet. If not, hell may take me!"
Thus blasphemously delivering himself, he clutches at the bottle of
brandy, pours out a fresh glass, and drinking it at a gulp, sits down to
reflect on the next step to be taken.