The fight could not have lasted more than ten minutes. The whole
skirmish had the semblance of a moonlight dream, interrupted by
interludes of darkness. So rapid had been the movements of the forces
engaged, that after the first fire not a gun was reloaded. As for the
guerrilleros, the Indian war-cry seemed to have shaken the pieces out of
their hands, for the ground where they had first broken off was
literally strewed with carbines, escopettes, and lances. The great gun
of El Zorro was found among the spoils.
Notwithstanding the shortness of the affair, it proved sufficiently
tragical to both Mexicans and Indians; five of the guerrilleros had bit
the dust, and twice that number of savage warriors lay lifeless upon the
plain--their bodies glaring under the red war-paint, as if shrouded in
blood. The Mexicans lay near the foot of the mesa, having fallen under
the first fire of the rangers, delivered as they galloped up. The
Indians were farther out upon the plain, where they had dropped to the
thick rapid detonations of the revolvers, that, so long as the warriors
held their ground, played upon them with fearful effect. They may have
heard of this weapon, and perhaps have seen a revolver in the hands of
some trapper or traveller, but, to my knowledge, it was the first time
they had ever encountered a band of men armed with so terrible a power
to destroy; for the rangers were indeed the first military organisation
that carried Colt's pistol into battle--the high cost of the arm having
deterred the government from extending it to other branches of the
service.
Nor did the rangers themselves come unscathed out of the fight; two had
dropped out of their saddles, pierced by the Comanche spear; while
nearly a dozen were more or less severely wounded by arrows.
While Quackenboss was climbing the cliff, Garey and I found time to talk
over the strange incidents to which we had been witness. We were aided
by explanations from below, but without these we had no difficulty in
comprehending all.
The Indians were a band of Comanches, as their war-cry had already made
known to us. Their arrival on the ground at that moment was purely
accidental, so far as we or the Mexicans were concerned: it was a
war-party, and upon the war-trail, with the intention of reiving a rich
Mexican town on the other side of the Rio Grande, some twenty leagues
from the rancheria. Their spy had discovered the horsemen by the mesa,
and made them out to be Mexicans--a foe which the lordly Comanche holds
in supreme contempt. Not so contemptible in his eyes are Mexican
horses, silver-studded saddles, speckled serapes, mangas of fine cloth,
bell-buttoned breeches, arms, and accoutrements: and it was to sweep
this paraphernalia that the attack had been made; though hereditary
hatred of the Spanish race--old as the conquest--and revenge for more
recent wrongs, were of themselves sufficient motives to have impelled
the Indians to their hostile attempt.
All this we learned from one of their braves, who remained wounded upon
the ground, and who, upon closer examination, turned out to be a
_ci-devant_ Mexican captive, now completely Indianised!
Fortunately for the Mexican town, the savages, thus checked, abandoned
their design, and returned to their mountain fastnesses sadly humbled.
The rest of the affair was still of easier explanation to Garey and
myself. Rube, as we conjectured, had arrived safe at the rancheria; and
in ten minutes after his story had been told, fifty rangers, with
Holingsworth at their head, rode rapidly for the mesa.
Rube had guided them with his usual craft. Like the Indians, they had
been moving forward during the intervals of darkness; but, coming in the
opposite direction, they had kept the mound between them and their foe,
and, trusting to this advantage, were in hopes of taking the
guerrilleros by surprise.
They had approached almost within charging distance, when the war-whoop
of the savage sounded in their ears, and they were met by the retreating
band.
Knowing that all who came that way must be enemies, they delivered their
fire upon the approaching horsemen, and then galloping forward, found
themselves face to face with the painted warriors of the plains.
The mutual surprise of rangers and Indians, caused by the unexpected
rencontre, proved a happy circumstance for the cowardly guerrilla--who,
during the short halt of their double pursuers, and the confused fight
that followed, were enabled to gallop off beyond reach of pursuit.
It was a curious conjecture what would have been the result had the
rangers not arrived on the ground. Certainly the Indians would have
rescued us from our not less savage foes. My companion and I might have
remained undiscovered, but we should have lost our precious horses. As
it was, we were soon once more upon their backs; and, free from all
thought of peril, now joyfully turned our faces towards the rancheria.
Wheatley rode by my side. Holingsworth with a party remained upon the
ground to collect the "spoils" and bury our unfortunate comrades. As we
moved away, I turned, and for a moment gazed back on the scene of
strife. I saw Holingsworth dismounted on the plain. He was moving
among the bodies of the five guerrilleros; one after another, he turned
them over, till the moon glared upon their ghastly features. So odd
were his movements, and so earnest did he appear, that one might have
fancied him engaged in searching for a fallen friend, or more like some
prowling robber intent upon stripping the dead!
But neither object was his--on the contrary, he was searching for a foe.
He found him not. After scanning the features of all five, he was seen
to turn away, and the unconcerned manner in which he moved from the spot
told that he who was sought was not among the slain.
"The news, Wheatley?"
"News, Cap! Grand news, by thunder! It appears we have been barking up
the wrong tree--at least so thinks President Polk. They say we can't
reach Mexico on this line; so we're all going to be drawn off, and
shipped to some port farther down the gulf, Vera Cruz--I believe."
"Ah! grand news, indeed."
"I don't like it a bit," continued Wheatley; "the less so since it is
rumoured that old `Rough and Ready' is to be recalled, and we're to be
commanded by that book martinet Scott. It's shabby treatment of Taylor,
after what the old vet has accomplished. They're afraid of him setting
up for President next go. Hang their politics! It's a confounded
shame, by thunder!"
I could partly understand Wheatley's reluctance to be ordered upon the
new line of operations. The gay lieutenant was never troubled with
ennui; his leisure hours he contrived to pass pleasantly enough in
company with Conchita, the plump, dark-eyed daughter of the alcalde;
more than once, I had unwittingly interrupted them in their amorous
dalliance. The rancheria with its mud huts and dusty lanes, in the eyes
of the Texan, was a city of gilded palaces, its streets paved with gold.
It was Wheatley's heaven, and Conchita was the angel who inhabited it.
Little as either he or I had liked the post at first, neither of us
desired a change of quarters.
As yet, no order had arrived to call the picket in, but my companion
affirmed that the camp-rumour was a substantial one, and believed that
we might expect such a command at any moment.
"What say they of me?" I inquired.
"Of you, Cap? Why, nothing. What do you expect them to say of you?"
"Surely there has been some talk about my absence?"
"Oh, that! No, not a word, at least at head-quarters, for the simple
reason, that you're not yet reported missing."
"Ah! that is good news; but how--"
"Why, the truth is, Holingsworth and I thought we might serve you better
by keeping the thing dark--at all events, till we should be sure you
were dead lost. We hadn't given up all hope. The greaser who guided
you out, brought back word that two trappers had gone after you. From
his description, I knew that queer old case Rube, and was satisfied that
if anything remained of you, he was the man to find it."
"Thanks, my friend! you have acted wisely; your discreet conduct will
save me a world of mortification."
"No other news?" I inquired after a pause.
"No," said Wheatley, "none worth telling. Oh, yes!" he continued,
suddenly recollecting himself, "there is a bit. You remember those
hang-dog greasers that used to loaf about the village when we first
came? Well, they're gone, by thunder! every mother's son of them clean
_vamosed_ from the place, and not a grease-spot left of them. You may
walk through the whole settlement without seeing a Mexican, except the
old men and the women. I asked the alcalde where they had cleared to;
but the old chap only shook his head, and drawled out his eternal `Quien
sabe?' Of course they're off to join some band of guerrillas. By
thunder! when I think of it, I wouldn't wonder if they were among that
lot we've just scattered. Sure as shootin' they are! I saw
Holingsworth examine the five dead ones as we rode off. He'll know
them, I guess, and can tell us if any of our old acquaintances are among
them."
Knowing more of this matter than Wheatley himself, I enlightened him as
to the guerrilleros and their leader.
"Thought so, by thunder! Rafael Ijurra! No wonder Holingsworth was so
keen to start--in such a hurry to reach the mound, he forgot to tell me
who we were after. Deuce take it! what fools we've been to let these
fellows slide. We should have strung up every man of them when we first
reached the place--we should, by thunder!"
For some minutes, we rode on in silence. Twenty times a question was
upon my lips but I refrained from putting it, in hopes that Wheatley
might have something more to tell me--something of more interest than
aught he had yet communicated. He remained provokingly silent.
With the design of drawing him out, I assumed a careless air, and
inquired--
"Have we had no visitors at the post? Any one from the camp?"
"Not a soul," replied he, and again relapsed into meditative silence.
"No visitors whatever? Has no one inquired for _me_?" I asked,
determined to come boldly to the point.
"No," was the discouraging reply.--"Oh, stay: oh, ah--yes, indeed!" he
added, correcting himself, while I could perceive that he spoke in a
peculiar tone. "Yes, you _were_ inquired for."
"By whom?" asked I, in a careless drawl.
"Well, that I can't tell," answered the lieutenant in an evident tone of
badinage; "but there appears to be _somebody_ mighty uneasy about you.
A slip of a Mexican boy has been backward and forward something less
than a million of times. It's plain somebody sends the boy; but he's a
close little shaver that same--he won't tell either who sends him, or
what's his business: he only inquires if you have returned, and looks
dead down in the mouth when he's told no. I have noticed that he comes
and goes on the _road that leads to the hacienda_."
The last words were spoken with a distinct emphasis. "We might have
arrested the little fallow as a spy," continued Wheatley, in a tone of
quiet irony, "but we fancied he might have been sent by some friend of
yours."
The speaker concluded with another marked emphasis, and under the
moonlight I could see a smile playing across his features. More than
once I had "chaffed" my lieutenant about Conchita; he was having his
revenge.
I was not in a mood to take offence; my companion could have taken any
liberty with me at that moment--his communication had fallen like sweet
music upon my ears; and I rode forward with the proud consciousness that
I was not forgotten. Isolina was true.
Soon after, my eyes rested upon a shining object; it was the gilded vane
of the little capilla, and beneath glistened the white vails of the
hacienda, bathed in the milky light of the moon. My heart beat with
strange emotions as I gazed upon the well-known mansion, and thought of
the lovely jewel which that bright casket contained.
Was she asleep? Did she dream? Of what--of whom, was she dreaming?