THE
SCARLET SHOULDERS;
OR,
THE MINER RANGERS.
BY HARRY HAZARD.
AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
38. The Heart Eater.
43. The White Outlaw.
54. Arkansas Jack.
66. Rattling Dick.
71. Delaware Tom.
79. Outlaw Jack.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
CONTENTS
I The Tragedy 9
II A Story Told and a Surprise 17
III Marcos Sayosa, the Young Miner 25
IV The Miner’s Riot 33
V The Rescue 39
VI Carlita 47
VII Felipe’s Visitor 54
VIII A Fearful Peril 60
IX The Jarocho’s Prisoner 69
X Felipe’s Confession 77
XI In the Cave and Out of It 86
XII Explanations 95
THE SCARLET SHOULDERS;
OR,
THE MINER RANGERS.
CHAPTER I.
THE TRAGEDY.
“_Indios—Indios bravos!_” yelled Manuel Navaja, as he discharged his
_escopette_ full at the glowing disk of old Sol; then dropping it, he
rushed through the outer gates, sounding the terrible words at every
step, his affright being shared by all the _peons_ who heard him, and,
leaving their posts, one and all swarmed to the main building.
There is a spell—a fascination like that of a rattlesnake—that none but
the dweller in “the land of the sun” can know. Young and old, men, women
and children felt it now, and all rushed into the _hacienda_, only
intent upon their own safety. But a clear, stern voice soared above the
din, above the shouts of men, the shrieks of women and children; and,
aided by his strong arm, that dealt blows upon every hand, he managed to
restore order so far that the inner gates were fastened securely, the
window shutters closed, and doors barred, and then blockaded with such
heavy articles of the furniture as could be moved. The outer gates were
left open; no person would venture there, the _haciendado_ being held
back by a beautiful woman, who twined her arms around him with strength
lent by terror.
Then, with wild yells and whoops, the half nude, paint-bedaubed horde
came swarming through the gateway into the _patio_, or outer courtyard,
while others assailed the building in front. The _peons_ within had been
hastily armed, and opened a scattering fusilade, but with little damage
to the enemy, for in their terror they generally fired at random, as
often with both eyes shut as taking aim.
Then the shock came. The doors shook and creaked under the weight hurled
against them; the hinges slowly yielded, but the barricade held them in
place.
If the majority of the defenders were cowardly, others were there whose
courage amply supplied this deficiency. A tall, stalwart man, of a
singularly handsome and noble countenance, went from post to post,
reproving or encouraging the men in a few quick words, pointing out the
best methods of procedure—at times aiming an _escopette_ with a skill
that spoke well for his marksmanship. This was the _haciendado_, Don
Christobal Canelo, a man of perhaps thirty years of age.
Close behind him was a lady, who, although her face was as pale as
death, betrayed no fear; on the contrary, whenever her husband fired a
shot, and the wild yell of mortal agony followed, a smile of pride swept
athwart her face, and her eyes flashed with an ardor equal to his own.
Then the first fury of the assault was checked, the savages drawing
behind the outbuildings, and, turning to note the extent of the damage
inflicted upon his little band, Canelo noticed the presence of his wife.
“My God, Luzecita, you here! Where is Felipe?”
“With Josefa in the—”
“But you—this is no place for you, my wife. Think, a bullet might—”
“Pardon, Christobal; where should I be if not by my husband’s side?”
“But not now; there is danger. You should be with your child—our boy,”
urged Canelo, affectionately.
“And is there no danger to you?” she added, reproachfully.
“It is my place—my duty to encourage and assist the _peons_. But think,
if you are here, in danger, it will do no good, and only distract me. I
could think of nothing else. If you should be—any thing happen to you,
what would become of our Felipe? Come, let me take you to him, where you
will be safe, at least for the present.”
“And leave you here to be killed?”
“_Mi alma_, if that is to be my fate, your presence could not avert it,
but only make it the more bitter. Your prayers to the blessed Virgin
will strengthen our hands and hearts. Come,” and he led her from the
hall.
“See, _comarados_,” exclaimed Tadeo Campos, the _capataz_, “the
red-skinned devils come again. Show yourselves men now, and true
Mexicans. Fire!”
He was answered by a volley that did some execution, and then the
savages hurled themselves against the shattered door, hewing it with
axes, battering it with beams and logs of wood that they had procured
from the _caballariza_ (stable), while others pummeled the window
screens, or fired at the loop-holes. The _patio_ was filled with smoke,
and through it gleamed the oiled bodies of the Indians, as they flitted
to and fro.
A large hole was now made in the door, and through it shots were
exchanged. But the besieged had the advantage of being in a darkened
room, while the enemy were plainly revealed. From without the shots were
fired at random, although several took effect; but Campos, with his
comrades, taking deliberate aim, made fearful havoc among their
assailants.
But this could not last long. One of the shutters began to give way
before the force applied to it, and the _grills_ of strong iron bars,
called _rega_, were bending inward, and the ranks of the besieged were
really thinned. Then came a loud shout from without, and, with wild
yells of exultation, the savages retreated, to the great joy of the
_peons_, for it seemed as if a few minutes more would see the foe effect
an entrance.
For a few moments all was silence within the building; even the process
of reloading was checked, so eager were they to learn the cause of this
strange maneuver. They could hear a faint hum from without, that told
them the enemy had not yet abandoned the siege. In vain they peered
through the shattered door. The smoke concealed every thing, as it was a
still, foggy day, and it settled heavily upon the earth.
Then came a bright flash, a loud roar, and the _adobes_ by the side of
the door crumbled, while the shock made the entire house tremble. But
one thing could have that effect, and the swarthy faces turned a shade
more ashen as the whisper run around of:
“_Los canones!_”
Where had the cannon come from? there were none belonging to the
_hacienda_. And what were the Indians doing with such a piece? These
were questions that all asked, but none could answer.
If their danger had been great before, now it was increased tenfold. A
few hours, at least, would end the struggle. The fog and smoke might
prevent them from getting range of the doorway for a spell, but not
long; and then one or two balls would open a breach for their entrance.
Another barricade was formed at the other end of the hall, but that
could avail little. The same power would reduce that, and then it would
be hilt to hilt, breast to breast.
At this new phase, Canelo sought the chamber where his wife and child
were, and hastily explained the cause of the commotion.
“And now, Luzecita, you must not remain here. We can not tell what may
happen, and with you and darling Felipe in safety, I can fight with a
better will.”
“And you?”
“My place is here. The _peons_ need my influence to encourage and direct
them.”
“Where you are, I stay—nay, do not interrupt me,” she hastily exclaimed.
“I am your wife, and will live or die with you. The blow that kills you
shall reach my heart at the same time.”
“But it can not be; think—”
“I do think—I have thought, and I will stay. What would life be without
you?” the woman uttered, as she clasped him around the neck.
“My wife, you _must_ listen, and you will see that what I say is best.
Think of our Felipe—what would become of him if these fiends should
overpower us? Remember that not we alone would perish—and you know but
too well the fate a woman would receive at their hands—but he, our
bright, beautiful boy—he, too, would die!”
“Why should he live if we are killed?” faltered the wife.
“Perhaps we may beat them off, then no harm is done. But if the worst is
to be, he will have a parent’s hand—a mother’s love to show him how to
live. Would you doom him to death, and he so brave and innocent? And
then,” as he bent his head and whispered, “think of the one that is to
come; would you—”
“My husband, do not ask me; I can not—can not leave you!” and she clung
to Canelo hysterically, sobbing as though her heart would break.
“Luzecita,” he cried, assuming a stern voice, while the great tears
stood in his eyes, “this is folly. You _must_ go, and soon, or it will
be too late. See, if you refuse, I will kill myself before your eyes!
And then you will have my death upon your soul, as well as that of your
children!” and he held her tightly to his breast as he drew a pistol,
and, cocking it, placed the barrel against his temple.
“Christobal—husband, what would you do?” shrieked his wife, struggling
wildly to free her arms, so that she could avert the weapon.
“I have said, if you will not flee with Felipe—our son—as I believe in
the holy Virgin, I will kill myself!”
“Enough—enough, I will go—my God, I will go!” faintly murmured the lady,
as she swooned from grief and terror.
“This is a deeper pain to me, my darling, than death could bring,” he
murmured, as he gently placed her upon a sofa, while the scalding tears
fell freely from his eyes. “My God, to speak such words to her—my
heart’s darling, when perhaps an hour may part us forever. It is hard,
ah, so hard; but it was for _her_ sake and our child’s,” and then he
hastened from the room, after directing the terrified maid to attend to
her mistress.
As he entered the hall, the cannon was fired for the second time, and
the six-pound ball crashed through the barricade, shattering the
furniture and scattering the splinters in every direction. One of the
_peons_ was killed outright, and several others severely wounded.
Another shot as well aimed would clear the passage so that an entrance
could be effected. Canelo knew that he had no time to spare, if he would
save his dear ones.
As he looked for Tadeo Campos, he heard a loud shout and then the sound
of a struggle in an adjoining room, or pantry, where there was a door
leading out into the garden. Thinking the enemy had effected an
entrance, he rushed to the place, just in time to see the _capataz_
master one of the _peons_, and hurl him to the floor.
“What’s this, Campos? Is not that Pepe Raymon?”
“_Si, senor_,” panted the _capataz_, “and a precious scoundrel he is,
too. What do you think? He was unbarring the door yonder to let in the
savages—the cursed dog!”
“Are you sure, Tadeo?”
“_Carrai!_ yes. He pretended to be badly wounded, but I watched him, and
when he sneaked off here, I followed after, and was just in time, as you
see. The upper bolt is drawn!”
“Then he must be put beyond chance of doing us any further harm. Take
this pistol, and when it is unloaded, come to me. I have work for you to
do.”
He had scarcely passed the door, when the report told that the traitor
had met his doom, and then Campos overtook his master. In a few, quick
words, Canelo told him what he required him to do, and although the
_capataz_ looked any thing but pleased at the task, he dared not hint as
much.
He was to conduct his mistress and child, with the servant, by a rear
exit, from the _hacienda_, trusting that the besiegers would be all
occupied with the cannon and preparing for the assault, in front of the
building, and the dense and smoke-laden fog, to effect their escape
unseen. It would be risky to attempt securing horses, as the stable was
probably occupied by the savages, so they were to hasten on foot to the
_chapparal_, where they could lay concealed until the fate of the
building was settled. It was risky, but would not entail as great danger
as remaining in the building, when in a few minutes more, at the
furthest, a hand-to-hand combat must take place.
Tadeo Campos first reconnoitered the ground, found the way clear, and
then, after a few hasty words of parting, the husband, wife, and child
separated, never more to meet on this earth alive.
And not a minute too soon, either. Another ball hurtled through the
barricade and completed the breach. The _haciendado_ returned to his
men, and formed them into a double rank to meet the onset that he knew
was coming. Over the heads of the kneeling ones, those in the rear
leveled their _escopettes_, nerved with despair, to meet their fate like
men. Many of them were the veriest cowards that lived, but now, under
their master’s eye, and knowing that, while there was no chance of
fleeing, no quarter was to be expected from their red-skinned foes, they
would fight desperately and well.
Then came the rush. There was only a subdued rustling, as of many feet
cautiously planted, and then from the dense fog a horde of the painted
demons rushed into the breach left by the shattered door. Their own
impetuosity came near being fatal to themselves, for, as the crowd
became jammed in the doorway, and entangled in the mass of broken
furniture, the clear, strong tones of Canelo rung out the order to fire.
The double volley, delivered at such close quarters, was withering in
its effects. The savages fell in piles, almost blocking up the entrance,
and the others shrunk back from such a deadly reception. The besieged,
led by Canelo, sprung forward to meet them, with _machetes_, pistols, or
clubbed guns. Then came an order for the savages to rush over their dead
and close hand to hand.
Christobal Canelo started, as if thunderstruck. The order had been given
in _pure Castilian_, and, moreover, he could almost have sworn that he
recognized the voice as that of one whom he had befriended, trusted, and
loved!
And then where did an Indian—a Comanche upon the war-path—learn to speak
that language so perfectly? And to his braves; could they comprehend
him? If so, they must be strange savages.
But he had no further time to ponder over the matter. The savages had
rallied, and tearing their dead comrades from the breach, they swarmed
into the house, led by a tall, sinewy man, who dashed into the midst of
his foes. In vain Canelo strove to meet this person, for he knew that if
their chief was slain, the assailants would probably retreat. But the
savage ever eluded him, ever kept a crowd between him and the
_haciendado_. He wielded a heavy saber that, while it seemed to shed the
blows rained at him, like a magic shield, dealt death or gaping wounds
at every stroke.
Several savages had singled out Canelo, and were pressing him hard. Two
of their number had fallen before his sword, but he was wounded, and the
blood flowed freely. It required all his address and activity to keep
from being clenched from behind by his enemies; but then, as he clove
down the foremost, he dashed to the wall, where he could no longer be
surrounded.
The savages were all around with _sabers or machetes_, and he was fast
failing. Still he met them bravely. A saber laid bare his cheek but the
man who dealt the wound went down the next moment with his head cloven
in twain.
The tall leader of the savages saw this, and, hissing out a fierce oath,
drew his pistol, and, retreating to the wall at a space that was free
from combatants, deliberately aimed at the brave Canelo. The latter saw
nothing of this, as he desperately struggled with his assailants. Then
the finger pressed upon the trigger, and there came a flash, a loud
report, and the _haciendado_ sunk at the feet of his foes, with the
blood slowly oozing from the little discolored hole in the center of his
forehead, a dead man.
His death was noted by a _peon_, and he raised the cry. It was like
depriving a ship in a storm of its rudder, the fall of their leader, and
with but one or two exceptions, the besieged threw down their weapons
and begged for quarter. But the mercy they received was like that
rendered famous in the revolutionary war, as “_Tarleton quarter_.”
One by one they were cut down, even as they kneeled and implored mercy
in the Virgin’s name, and in two minutes after the death of Christobal
Canelo the only survivors were they who wore the paint and trappings of
Comanche warriors; even those who were dying received a finishing
stroke.
The leader did not await this. As soon as he had murdered the
_haciendado_, he left the hall, and proceeded at once, and without
hesitation, to the room where Canelo had so shortly before changed his
wife’s resolve of sharing his fate. He looked through this apartment as
though he was seeking some person, and then ran hurriedly into the other
rooms, but with the same result. What he sought was not there.
Calling to his men in a tone choked with rage and baffled vengeance, he
cried to one, a huge, herculean man:
“_Mil diablos_, Barajo, the birds have both vanished! But they can’t be
gone far, for they were here an hour since. Take you a few men and
circle around the place. Scatter, and look well, for if they are lost,
what we have done here is all for nothing. Find them and a thousand
_pesos_ are yours. _Al monte—al monte! Capa de Dios!_ why do you wait?”
raged the disguised Mexican or Spaniard, for surely an Indian tongue
never mastered the _lingua Espagnol_ so perfectly.
But at length the men returned from a fruitless search, and then, half
wild with rage and disappointment, the leader reluctantly gave the order
for marching, and they filed out from the _hacienda_. The building was
left intact, with the exception of what injury had been done by the
cannon. The outhouses were undisturbed; the stock, both horses and
cloven-footed animals, were abandoned. Truly they were a strange
war-party of Comanches in more ways than one.