Майн Рид
The Lone Ranche
Chapter Twenty Four.
Foes or Friends?
Mounted on the mustang mare, Frank Hamersley pursues his way, wondering at his strange guide. So lovely a being encountered in such an out-of-the-way corner of the world – in the midst of a treeless, waterless desert, over a hundred miles from the nearest civilised settlement!
Who is she? Where has she come from? Whither is she conducting him?
To the last question he will soon have an answer; for as they advance she now and then speaks words of encouragement, telling him they are soon to reach a place of rest.
“Yonder!” she at length exclaims, pointing to two mound-shaped elevations that rise twin-like above the level of the plain. “Between those runs our road. Once there, we shall not have much farther to go; the rancho will be in sight.”
The young prairie merchant makes no reply. He only thinks how strange it all is – the beautiful being by his side – her dash – her wonderful knowledge exhibited with such an air of naïvété– her generous behaviour – the picturesqueness of her dress – her hunter equipment – the great dogs trotting at her heels – the dead game on the croup behind – the animal he bestrides – all are before his mind and mingling in his thoughts like the unreal phantasmagoria of a dream.
And not any more like reality is the scene disclosed to his view when, after passing around the nearest of the twin mound-shaped hills, and entering a gate-like gorge that opens between them, he sees before him and below – hundreds of feet below – a valley of elliptical form like a vast basin scooped out of the plain. But for its oval shape he might deem it the crater of some extinct volcano. But then, where is the lava that should have been projected from it? With the exception of the two hillocks on each hand, all the country around, far as the eye can reach, is level as the bosom of a placid lake. And otherwise unlike a volcanic crater is the concavity itself. No gloom down there, no black scoriae, no returning streams of lava, nor débris of pumice-stone; but, on the contrary, a smiling vegetation – trees with foliage of different shades, among which can be distinguished the dark-green frondage of the live-oak and pecan, the more brilliant verdure of cottonwoods, and the flower-loaded branches of the wild China-tree. In their midst a glassy disc that speaks of standing water, with here and there a fleck of white, which tells of a stream with foaming cascades and cataracts. Near the lakelet, in the centre, a tiny column of blue smoke ascends over the tree-tops. This indicates the presence of a dwelling; and as they advance a little further into the gorge, the house itself can be descried.
In contrast with the dreary plain over which he has been so long toiling, to Hamersley the valley appears a paradise – worthy home of the Peri who is conducting him down to it. It resembles a landscape painted upon the concave sides of an immense oval-shaped dish, with the cloudless sky, like a vast cover of blue glass, arching over it.
The scene seems scarcely real, and once more the young prairie merchant begins to doubt the evidence of his senses. After all, is it only a vision of his brain, distempered by the long strain upon his intellect, and the agony he has been enduring? Or is it but the mirage of the desert, that has so oft already deceived him?
His doubts are dissipated by the sweet voice sounding once more in his ears.
“Mira, caballero! you see where you are going now? It is not far; you will need to keep a firm seat in the saddle for the next hundred yards or so. There is a steep descent and a narrow pathway. Take good hold with your knees, and trust yourself to the mare. She knows the way well, and will bear you in safety. Won’t you, Lolita? You will, my pet!”
At this the mustang gives a soft whimper, as if answering the interrogatory.
“I shall myself go before,” the girl continues. “So let loose the rein, and leave Lolita to take her own way.”
After giving this injunction, she turns abruptly to the right, where a path almost perpendicular leads down a ledge, traversing the façade of the cliff. Close followed by the mustang, she advances fearlessly along it.
Certainly a most dangerous descent, even for one afoot; and if left to his own will, Hamersley might decline attempting it on horseback. But he has no choice now, for before he can make either expostulation or protest, Lolita has struck along the path, and continues with hind-quarters high in air and neck extended in the opposite direction, as though standing upon her head! To her rider there is no alternative but do as he has been directed – stick close to the saddle. This he manages by throwing his feet forward and laying his back flat along the croup, till his shoulders come between the crossed shanks of the prong-horns.
In this position he remains, without saying a word, or even daring to look below, till he at length finds himself moving forward with face upturned to the sky, thus discovering that the animal he bestrides is once more going along level ground.
Again he hears the voice of Lolita’s mistress, saying, “Now, señor, you can sit upright; the danger is past. You have behaved well, yegua – yeguita!” she adds, patting the mare upon the neck; “you shall have the promised pinons – a whole cuartilla of them.”
Once more stepping to the front, she strikes off among the trees, along a path which still inclines downward, though now in gentler slope.
Hamersley’s brain is in a whirl. The strange scenes, things, thoughts, and fancies are weaving weird spells around him; and once more he begins to think that his senses have either forsaken or are forsaking him.
This time it is really so, for the long-protracted suffering – the waste of blood and loss of strength – only spasmodically resuscitated by the excitement of the strange encounter – is now being succeeded by a fever of the brain, that is gradually depriving him of his reason.
He has a consciousness of riding on for some distance farther – under trees, whose leafy boughs form an arcade over his head, shutting out the sun. Soon after, all becomes suddenly luminous, as the mustang bears him out into a clearing, with what appears a log-cabin in the centre. He sees or fancies the forms of several men standing by its door; and as the mare comes to a stop in their midst his fair conductor is heard excitedly exclaiming, —
“Hermano! take hold of him! Alerte! Alerte!”
At this one of the men springs towards him; whether to be kind, or to kill, he cannot tell. For before a hand is laid on him the strange tableau fades from his sight; and death, with all its dark obliviousness, seems to take possession of his soul.
Chapter Twenty Five.
“Saved by an Angel!”
The shadow of Walt Wilder is again projected over the Staked Plain, as before, to a gigantic length. But this time westwardly, from a sun that is rising instead of setting.
It is the morning after he parted with his disabled companion; and he is now making back towards the spot where he had left the latter, the sun’s disc just appearing above the horizon, and shining straight upon his back. Its rays illumine an object not seen before, which lends to Walt’s shadow a shape weird and fantastic. It is that of a giant, with something sticking out on each side of his head that resembles a pair of horns, or as if his neck was embraced by an ox-yoke, the tines tending diagonally outwards.
On looking at Walt himself the singularity is at once understood. The carcase of a deer lies transversely across his back, the legs of the animal being fastened together so as to form a sling, through which he has thrust his head, leaving the long slender shanks, like the ends of the letter X, projecting at each side and high above his shoulders.
Despite the load thus borne by him, the step of the ex-Ranger is no longer that of a man either despairing or fatigued. On the contrary, it is light and elastic; while his countenance shows bright and joyous as the beams of the ascending sun. His very shadow seems to flit over the frosted foliage of the artemisias as lightly as the figure of a gossamer-robed belle gliding across the waxed floor of a ball-room.
Walt Wilder no longer hungers or thirsts. Though the carcase on his back is still unskinned, a huge collop cut out of one of its hind-quarters tells how he has satisfied the first craving; while the gurgle of water, heard inside the canteen slung under his arm, proclaims that the second has also been appeased.
He is now hastening on to the relief of his comrade, happy in the thought of being able soon to relieve him also from his sufferings.
Striding lightly among the sage-bushes, and looking ahead for the landmark that should guide him, he at length catches sight of it. The palmilla, standing like a huge porcupine upon the plain, cannot be mistaken; and he descries it at more than a mile’s distance, the shadow of his own head already flickering among its bayonet-like blades.
Just then something else comes under his eyes, which at once changes the expression upon his countenance. From gay it grows grave, serious, apprehensive. A flock of buzzards, seemingly scared by his shadow, have suddenly flapped up from among the sage-plants, and are now soaring around, close to the spikes of the palmilla. They have evidently been down upon the earth. And what have they been doing there?
It is this question, mentally put by Walt Wilder, that has caused the quick change in his countenance – the result of a painful conjecture.
“Marciful heavens!” he exclaims, suddenly making halt, the gun almost dropping from his grasp. “Kin it be possyble? Frank Hamersley gone under! Them buzzards! They’ve been upon the groun’ to a sartinty. Darnashin! what ked they a been doin’ down thar? Right by the bunch o’ palmetto, jest whar I left him. An’ no sign o’ himself to be seen? Marciful heavens! kin it be possyble they’ve been – ?”
Interrupting himself, he remains motionless, apparently paralysed by apprehension, mechanically scanning the palmilla, as though from it he expected an answer to his interrogatory.
“It air possyble,” he continues after a time, “too possyble – too likesome. He war well-nigh done up, poor young fellur; an’ no wonder. Whar is he now? He must be down by the side o’ the bush – down an’ dead. Ef he war alive, he’d be lookin’ out for me. He’s gone under; an’ this deer-meat, this water, purcured to no purpiss. I mout as well fling both away; they’ll reach him too late.”
Once more resuming his forward stride, he advanced towards the dark mass above which the vultures are soaring. His shadow, still by a long distance preceding him, has frightened the birds higher up into the air, but they show no signs of going altogether away. On the contrary, they keep circling around, as if they had already commenced a repast, and, driven off, intend returning to it.
On what have they been banqueting? On the body of his comrade? What else can be there?
Thus questioning himself, the ex-Ranger advances, his heart still aching with apprehension. Suddenly his eye alights on the piece of paper impaled upon the topmost spike of the palmilla. The sight gives him relief, but only for an instant; his conjectures again leading him astray.
“Poor young fellur!” is his half-spoken reflection; “he’s wrote somethin’ to tell how he died – mayhap somethin’ for me to carry back to the dear ’uns he’s left behind in ole Kaintuck. Wall, that thing shall sartinly be done ef ever this chile gets to the States agin. Darnashin! only to think how near I war to savin’ him; a whole doe deer, an’ water enough to a drownded him! It’ll be useless venison now, I shan’t care no more to put tooth into it myself. Frank Hamersley gone dead – the man o’ all others I’d ’a died to keep alive. I’d jest as soon lie down an’ stop breathin’ by the side o’ him.”
While speaking he moves on towards the palmilla. A few strides bring him so near the tree that he can see the ground surface about its base. There is something black among the stems of the sage-bushes. It is not the dead body of a man, but a buzzard, which he knows to be that he had shot before starting off. The sight of it causes him again to make stop. It looks draggled and torn, as if partially dismembered.
“Kin he hev been eatin’ it? Or war it themselves, the cussed kannybals? Poor Frank, I reck’n I’ll find him on t’other side, his body mangled in the same way. Darn it, ’t air kewrous, too. ’Twar on this side he laid down to git shade from the sun. I seed him squat whiles I war walkin’ away. The sun ain’t hot enuf yit to a druv him to westward o’ the bush, though thar for sartin he must be. What’s the use o’ my stannin’ shilly-shally hyar? I may as well face the sight at oncest, ugly as I know it’ll prove. Hyar goes.”
Steeling himself for the terrible spectacle, which he believes to be certainly awaiting him, he once more advances towards the tree.
A dozen strides bring him up, and less than half a dozen more carry him around it.
No body, living or dead – no remains of man, mutilated or otherwise!
For some time Wilder stands in speechless surprise, his glances going all around. But no human figure is seen, either by the palmilla or among the sage-bushes beside it. Can the wounded man have crawled away? But no; why should he? Still, to make sure, the ex-Ranger shouts out, calling Hamersley by name.
He gets no response. Alone he hears the echo of his own voice, mingling with the hoarse croaking of the vultures, scared by his shouts.
His hunter habits now counsel him to a different course of action. His comrade cannot be dead, else the corpse would be there. The vultures could not have eaten up both body and bones. There is no skeleton, no remains. His fellow fugitive has gone off or been taken. Whither? While asking the question Wilder sets about the right way to answer it. As a skilled tracker he begins by examining the signs that should put him on the trace of his missing companion. At a glance he perceives the prints of a horse’s hoof, and sees they are those of one unshod. This bodes ill, for the naked-hoofed horse betokens a savage rider – an Indian. Still, it may not be; and he proceeds to a more careful scrutiny of the tracks. In a short time he is able to tell that but one horse has been there, and presumably but one rider, which promises better. And while shaping conjectures as to who it could have been his eye ascends to the piece of paper impaled upon the spike, which he has for a time forgotten. This promises still better. It may clear up everything.
Hoping it will, he strides towards and takes hold of it. Lifting it carefully from the leaf, he spreads it out. He sees some writing in pencil, which he prepares to read.
At first sight he supposed it might be a dying record. Now he believes it may be something else.
His hands tremble, and his huge frame is convulsed as he holds the paper to his eyes.
With a thrill of joy he recognises the handwriting of Hamersley, which he knows. He is not much of a scholar; still, he can read, and at a glance makes out the first four words, full of pleasant meaning:
“Saved by an Angel!”
He reads no farther, till after giving utterance to a “hurrah!” that might have been heard many miles over the Staked Plain. Then, more tranquillised, he continues deciphering the chirography of his companion to the end; when a second shout terminates the effort.
“Saved by a angel!” he says, muttering to himself. “A angel on the Staked Plain! Whar can the critter hev come from? No matter whar. Thar’s been one hyar, for sartin. Darn me ef I don’t smell the sweet o’ her pettikotes now! This piece o’ paper – ’t ain’t Frank’s. I knows he hedn’t a scrap about him. No. Thar’s the scent o’ a woman on it, sure; an’ whar thar’s a woman Frank Hamersley ain’t likely to be let die o’ sturvashun. He air too good-lookin’ for that. Wall I reck’n it’s all right an’ thar ain’t no more need for me to hurry. T’war rayther a scant breakfast I’ve hed, an’ hain’t gin this chile’s in’ards saterfacshun. I’ll jest chaw another griskin o’ the deer-meat to strengthen me for this six-mile tramp southard.”
In less than five minutes after, the smoke from a sage-stalk fire was seen ascending from beside the palmilla, and in its blaze, quickly kindled, a huge piece of venison, cut from the fat flanks of the doe, weighing at least four pounds, spitted upon one of the stiff blades of the plant, was rapidly turning from blood red to burnt brown.
As circumstances had ofttimes compelled the ex-Ranger to eat his deer-meat underdone, the habit had become his goût; and it was, therefore, not long before the griskin was removed from the spit. Nor much longer till it ceased to be a griskin – having altogether disappeared from his fingers, followed by a gurgling sound, as half the contents of the canteen went washing it down his throat.
“Now!” he said, springing to his feet, after he had completed his Homeric repast, “this chile feels strong enuf to face the devil hisself, an’ tharfor he needn’t be backward ’bout the encounterin’ o’ a angel. So hyar goes to find out Frank Hamersley, an’ how he’s farin’. Anyhow, I’ll take the deer along in case thar mout be a scarcity o’ eetables, though I reck’n thar’s no fear o’ that. Whar a angel makes dwelling-place thar oughter be a full crib, though it may be ambrosyer or mannar, or some o’ them fixin’s as a purairy man’s stummick ain’t used to. Anyways, a bit o’ doe-deer meat won’t do no harum. So, Walt Wilder, ole coon, let’s you an’ me set our faces southart, an’ see what’s to turn up at the tarminashun o’ six miles’ trampin’.”
Once more shouldering the carcase, he strides off towards the south, guiding himself by the sun, but more by the hoof-marks of the mustang. These, though scarce distinguishable, under the over-shadowing sage-plants, are descried with little difficulty by the experienced eye of the Ranger.
On goes he, now and then muttering to himself conjectures as to what sort of a personage has appropriated and carried off his comrade. But, with all his jocular soliloquising, he feels certain the angel will turn out to be a woman.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Fallen among Friends
If, before losing consciousness, Hamersley had a thought that he had fallen into the hands of enemies, never in all his life could he have been more mistaken, for those now around him, by their words and gestures, prove the very reverse. Six personages compose the group – four men and a girl; the sixth, she, the huntress, who has conducted him to the house. The girl is a brown-skinned Indian, evidently a domestic; and so also two of the four men. The other two are white, and of pronouncedly Spanish features. One is an oldish man, greyheaded, thin-faced, and wearing spectacles. In a great city he would be taken for a savant, though difficult to tell what he may be, seen in the Llano Estacado surrounded by a desert. In the same place, the other and younger man is equally an enigma, for his bearing proclaims him both gentleman and soldier, while the coat on his back shows the undress uniform of an officer of more than medium rank.
It is he who answers to the apostrophe, “Hermano!” springing forward at the word, and obeying the command of his sister – for such is she whom Hamersley has accompanied to the spot.
Throwing out his arms, and receiving the wounded man as he falls insensible from the saddle, the obedient brother for a moment stands aghast, for in the face of him unconscious he recognises an old friend – one he might no more expect to see there than to behold him falling from the sky.
He can have no explanation from the man held in his arms. The latter has fainted – is dying – perhaps already dead. He does not seek it, only turns to him who wears the spectacles, saying, —
“Doctor, is he, indeed, dead? See if it be so. Let everything be done to save him.”
He thus addressed takes hold of Hamersley’s pulse, and, after a moment or two, pronounces upon it. It beats; it indicates extreme weakness, but not absolute danger of death.
Then the wounded man is carried inside – tenderly borne, as if he, too, were a brother – laid upon a couch, and looked after with all the skill the grey-haired medico can command, with all the assiduity of her who has brought him to the house, and him she calls “Hermano.”
As soon as the stranger has been disposed of, between these two there is a dialogue – the brother seeking explanations from the sister, though first imparting information to her. He knows the man she has saved; telling her how and where their acquaintance was made. Few words suffice, for already is the story known to her. In return, she too gives relation of what has happened – how, after her chase upon the plain, coming back successful, she saw the zopilotés, and was by them attracted out of her way; narrating all the rest already told.
And now nothing more can be known. The man still lives – thank Heaven for that! – but lies on the couch unconscious of all around him. Not quiet, for he is turning about, with quick-beating pulse, and brain in a condition of delirium.
For a night and a part of a day they keep by his bedside – all three, sister, brother, and doctor, grouped there, or going and coming. They know who the wounded man is, though ignorant of how he came by his wounds, or what strange chance left him stranded on the Staked Plain.
They have no hope of knowing until he may regain consciousness and recover. And of this the doctor has some doubt; when asked, shaking his head ominously, till the spectacles get loosened upon his nose.
But, though the prognosis remain uncertain, the diagnosis is learnt in a manner unexpected. Before noon of the next day the hounds are heard baying outside; and the watchers by the sick-bed, summoned forth, see one approaching – a personage whose appearance causes them surprise. Any one seen there would do the same, since for months no stranger had come near them. Strange, indeed, if one had, for they are more than a hundred miles from any civilised settlement, in the very heart and centre of a desert.
What they see now is a man of colossal form and gigantic stature, with bearded face and formidable aspect, rendered somewhat grotesque by a deer’s carcase carried over his shoulders, the shanks of the animal rising crossways over his crown.
They are not dismayed by the uncouth apparition. She who has brought Hamersley to the house guesses it to be the comrade of whom he spoke – describing him as “true and faithful.”
And, without reflecting further, she glides out, grasps the great hunter by the hand, and conducts him to the bedside of his unconscious companion.
Looking at her as she leads him, Walt Wilder mutters to himself, —
“Saved by a angel! I knowed it would turn out a woman, and this is one for sartin.”
