If our enemies were awed by our sudden disappearance, it was soon robbed
of its mysterious character. Our faces, and the dark barrels of our
rifles, visible around the edges of the white rock, must have dispelled
all ideas of the supernatural. Having hastily disposed of our horses,
we had placed ourselves thus--in case of a charge being made--though of
this we had no longer any great apprehension; and still less as we
watched the movements of our adversaries.
El Zorro continued for some time to fire his big gun--the bullets of
which we could dodge as easily as if they had been turnips hurled at
us--and the leaden missiles fell harmlessly at our feet.
Seeing this, the salteador at length ceased firing, and with another,
rode off in the direction of the settlements--no doubt sent on some
errand by Ijurra.
One pair of eyes was sufficient to watch the movements of the besiegers.
Garey undertook this duty, leaving Rube and myself free to think over
some plan of escape.
That we were not to be attacked was now certain. We had the choice,
then, of two alternatives--either to keep the position we were in till
thirst should force us to surrender, or attack _them_, and by a bold
_coup_ cut our way through their line.
As to the former, we well knew that thirst would soon compel us to
yield. Hunger we dreaded not. We had our knives, and before us a
plentiful stock of that food on which the prairie wanderer often
sustains life. "Horse-beef" we had all eaten, and could do so again;
but for the sister-appetite--thirst--we had made no provision. Our
gourd-canteens were empty--had been empty for hours--we were actually
pushing for the _mesa spring_ when the enemy first came in sight. We
were then athirst; but the excitement of the skirmish, with the play of
passion incident thereto, had augmented the appetite, and already were
we a prey to its keenest pangs. We mumbled as we talked, for each of us
was chewing the leaden bullet. Thirst we dreaded even more than our
armed enemy.
The other alternative was a desperate one--now more desperate than ever,
from the increased number of our foes. To cut our way through them had
no other signification than to fight the whole party hand to hand; and
we regretted that we had not done so when only eleven were opposed to
us.
A little reflection, however, convinced us that we were in a yet better
position. We might make the attempt in the darkness. Night would
favour us to some extent. Could we succeed by a bold dash in breaking
through their deployed line, we might escape under the friendly cover of
the night, and the confusion consequent upon the melee.
There was probability in this. The boldest was clearly the wisest
course we could pursue. Desperate it appeared. One or other of us
might fall, but it offered the only hope that _any_ of us might get
free, for we knew that to surrender was to be shot--perhaps
worse--_tortured_.
We had but faint hopes of a rescue; so faint, we scarcely entertained
them. I knew that my friends, the rangers, would be in search of me.
Wheatley and Holingsworth would not give me up without making an effort
for my recovery; but then the search would be made in a different
direction--that in which I had gone, and which lay many miles from the
route by the mesa. Even had they thought of sending to the mound, the
search must have been already made, and the party returned from it. Too
long time had elapsed to make any calculation on a chance like this.
The hope was not worth holding, and we held it not.
For some time, Rube and I thought in combination, canvassing the details
of the plan that had offered. After a while, we stood apart, and each
pursued the train of his own reflections.
I declare that in that hour I had more painful thoughts than those that
arose from the peril of my situation; this I solemnly declare.
I have already said, that when I first recognised the leader of the
guerrilla, I experienced an unpleasant suspicion. Since then, I had not
time to dwell upon it--self-preservation engrossing all my thoughts.
Now that I found more leisure for reflection, the dire doubt returned in
full strength, and I bitterly pondered upon it. Need I name the subject
of my wretched reflections? Isolina de Vargas!
Knew _she_ of this? Knew she that Ijurra was the chief of a guerrilla?
Her cousin--sharer of the same roof--she could scarcely be ignorant of
it! Who set him on our trail? Oh, bitter thought! was the hunt of the
wild horse a _ruse_--a scheme--to separate me from my command, and thus
render it an easy prey to the Mexican guerrilleros? Perhaps my
straggling followers were by this cut off? Perhaps the post had been
attacked by a large body of the enemy--captured? I was not only to lose
life, but had already lost my honour. I, the proud captain of a boasted
troop, to be thus entrapped by artifice--the artifice of a woman!
My heart, overwhelmed with such bitter fancies, stayed not to reason.
Presently followed a calmer interval, and I began to discuss the
probability of my suspicions. What motive could she have to plot my
destruction? Surely not from any feeling of love for her country, and
hatred towards its enemies? From all I had learned, no such sentiment
existed in her mind, but rather an opposite one--a truer patriotism.
She was a woman of sufficient aim and intellect to have a feeling one
way or the other; but had I not good grounds for believing her a friend
to our cause; a foe to the tyrants we would conquer? If otherwise, I
was the victim of profound deception and unparalleled hypocrisy!
Perhaps, however, her feeling was personal, not national. Was _I_ alone
the object of her hatred? Had I done aught by word or deed to call
forth her antagonism--to deserve such cruel vengeance? If so, I was
sadly ignorant of the fact. If she hated me, she hated one who loved
_her_, with his whole soul absorbed in the passion. But no, I could not
think that I was an object of hatred to her. Why should she hate me?
How _could_ she?
I could think of but one motive why she should make herself instrumental
in the accomplishment of my ruin. It was explicable only on the
presumption that she was attached to Ijurra--that Rafael Ijurra was the
lord of her heart. If so, he could easily bend it to his will--for this
is but the sequence of the other--could influence her to whatever act.
As for Ijurra, there was motive enough for his hostility, even to the
seeking of my life. The insult put upon him at our first meeting--the
knowledge that I loved _her_--for I was certain he knew it--with the
additional fact that I was an enemy--one of the invaders of his country.
These were sufficient motives, though, doubtless, the two first far
outweighed the other: with Rafael Ijurra, revenge and jealousy were
stronger passions than patriotism.
Then came consolation--thoughts of brighter hue. In the face of all was
the fact, that _the white steed had been found_, and captured! There
stood the beautiful creature before my eyes. There was no deception in
that--there could be none--no scheme could have contrived a contingency
so remarkable.
Ijurra might easily have known of the expedition without _her_ agency.
Its result he would have learned from the returned vaqueros. He had
time enough then to collect his band, and set after me. Perhaps she
even knew not that he was a leader of guerrilleros? I had heard that
his movements were shrouded in mystery--that mystery which covers the
designs of the adventurer. He had served in the school of Antonio Lopez
de Santa Anna--a fit master of deception. Isolina might be innocent
even of the knowledge of his acts.
I re-read Isolina's letter, weighing every word. Strange epistle, but
natural to the spirit that had dictated it. In its pages I could trace
no evidence of treason. No; Isolina was loyal--she was true!