The Lone Ranche by Mayne Reid (books to read to be successful .txt) š
- Author: Mayne Reid
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A score of such shadows are flitting over the sageāa score of the birds are wheeling in the air above.
It is a sight to pain the traveller, even when seen at a distance. Over his own head it may well inspire him with fear. He cannot fail to read in it a forecast of his own fate.
The birds are following the two men, as they would a wounded buffalo or stricken deer. They soar and circle above them, at times swooping portentously near. They do not believe them to be spectres. Wasted as their flesh may be, there will still be a banquet upon their bones.
Now and then Walt Wilder casts a glance up towards them. He is anxious, though he takes care to hide his anxiety from his comrade. He curses the foul creatures, not in speechāonly in heart, and silently.
For a time the wearied wayfarers keep on without exchanging a word. Hitherto consolation has come from the side of the ex-Ranger; but he seems to have spent his last effort, and is himself now despairing.
In Hamersleyās heart hope has been gradually dying out, as his strength gets further exhausted. At length the latter gives way, the former at the same time.
āNo farther, Walt!ā he exclaims, coming to a stop. āI canāt go a step further. There is a fire in my throat that chokes me; something grips me within. It is dragging me to the ground.ā
The hunter stops too. He makes no attempt to urge his comrade on. He perceives it would be idle.
āGo on yourself,ā Hamersley adds, gasping out the words. āYou have yet strength left, and may reach water. I cannot, but I can die, Iām not afraid to die. Leave me, Walt; leave me!ā
āNiver!ā is the response, in a hoarse, husky voice, but firm, as if it came from a speaking-trumpet.
āYou will; you must. Why should two lives be sacrificed for one? Yours may still be saved. Take the gun along with you. You may find something. Go, comradeāfriendāgo!ā
Again the same response, in a similar tone.
āI sayed, when we were in the fight,ā adds the hunter, āanā aterwards, when gallupinā through the smoke, that livinā or dyinā weād got to stick thegither. Didnāt I say that, Frank Hamersley? I repeat it now. Ef you go unner hyar in the middle oā this sage-brush, Walt Wilder air goinā to wrap his karkiss in a corner oā the same windinā sheet. There aināt much strength remaininā in my arms now, but enuf, I reckān, to keep them buzzarts off for a good spell yit. They donāt pick our bones till Iāve thinned thar count anyhow. Ef we air to be rubbed out, itāll be by the chokinā oā thirst, and not the gripinā oā hunger. What durned fools weāve been, not to a-thinked oā āt afore! but whoād iver think oā eatinā turkey buzzart? Wall, itās die dog or swaller the hatchet; so onpalatable as thar flesh may be, hyar goes to make a meal oā it!ā
While speaking, he has carried the gun to his shoulder.
Simultaneous with his last words comes the crack, quickly followed by the descent of a zopilotƩ among the sages.
āNow, Frank,ā he says, stooping to pick up the dead bird, while the scared flock flies farther away, āletās light a bit oā a fire, anā cook it. Tharās plenty oā sage for the stuffinā, anā its own flavourāll do for seasoninā āstead oā inyuns. I reckān we kin git some oā it down, by holdinā our noses; anā at all events, itāll keep us alive a leetle longer. Wagh, ef we only hed water!ā
As if a fresh hope has come suddenly across his mind, he once more raises himself erect to the full stretch of his gigantic stature, and standing thus, gazes eastwardly across the plain.
āTharās a ridge oā hills out that way,ā he says. āIād jest spied it when you spoke oā giein out. Whar tharās hills, tharās a likelihood oā streams. Sposinā, Frank, you stay hyar, whiles I make tracks torst them. They look like they waānāt morān ten miles off anyhow. I ked easy get back by the morninā. Dāye think ye kin hold out thet long by swallerinā a bit oā the buzzart?ā
āI think I could hold out that long as well without it. Itās more the thirst thatās killing me. I feel as if liquid fire was coursing through my veins. If you believe there be any chance of finding water, go, Walt.ā
āIāll do so; but donāt you sturve in the meanwhile. Cook the critter afore lettinā it kim to thet. Yeāve got punk, anā may make a fire oā the sage-brush. I donāt intend to run the risk oā sturvinā myself; anā as I maynāt find any thinā on the way, Iāll jest take one oā these sweet-smellinā chickens along wiā me.ā
He has already re-loaded the rifle; and, once more pointing its muzzle towards the sky, he brings down a second of the zopilotƩs.
āNow,ā he says, taking up the foul carcase, and slinging it to his belt, ākeep up your heart till this chile return to ye. Iām sure oā gettinā back by the morninā; anā to make sartint ābout the place, jest you squat unner the shadder oā yon big palmettoāthe which I can see far enuff off to find yur wharabouts āthout any defeequelty.ā
The palmetto spoken of is, in truth, not a āpalmetto,ā though a plant of kindred genus. It is a yucca of a species peculiar to the high table plains of Northern and Central Mexico, with long sword-shaped leaves springing aloe-like from a core in the centre, and radiating in all directions, so as to form a spherical chevaux-de-frize. Its top stands nearly six feet above the surface of the ground, and high over the artemisias; while its dark, rigid spikes, contrasted with the frosted foliage of the sage, render it a conspicuous landmark that can be seen far off over the level plain.
Staggering on till he has reached it, Hamersley drops down on its eastern side, where its friendly shadow gives him protection from the sun, fervid, though setting; while that of Walt Wilder is still projected to its full length upon the plain. Saying not another word, with the rifle across his shoulder and the turkey buzzard dangling down his thigh, he takes departure from the spot, striking eastward towards the high land dimly discernible on the horizon.
āVamos, Lolita! hold up, my pretty pet! Two leagues more, and you shall bury that velvet snout of yours in the soft gramma grass, and cool your heated hoof in a crystal stream. Ay, and you shall have a half peck of pinon nuts for your supper, I promise you. You have done well to-day, but donāt let us get belated. At night, as you know, we might be lost on the Llano, and the wicked wolves eat us both up. That would be a sad thing, mia yegua. We must not let them have a chance to dispose of us in that manner. Adelante!ā
Lolita is a mustang pony of clear chestnut colour, with white mane and tail; while the person thus apostrophising her is a young girl seated astride upon its back.
A beautiful girl, apparently under twenty of age, but with a certain commanding mien that gives her the appearance of being older. Her complexion, though white, has a tinge of that golden brown, or olive, oft observed in the Andalusian race; while scimitar shaped eyebrows, with hair of silken texture, black as the shadows of night, and a dark down on the upper lip, plainly proclaim the Moorish admixture.
It is a face of lovely cast and almost Grecian contour, with features of classic regularity; while the absence of obliquity in the orbs of the eyeādespite the dusky hue of her akināforbids the belief in Indian blood.
Although in a part of the world where such might be expected, there is, in truth, not a taint of it in her veins. The olivine tint is Hispano Moriscanāa complexion, if not more beautiful, certainly more picturesque than that of the Saxon blonde.
With the damask-red dancing out upon her cheeks, her eyes aglow from the equestrian exercise she has been taking, the young girl looks the picture of physical health; while the tranquil expression upon her features tells of mental contentment.
Somewhat singular is her costume, as the equipment. As already said, she bestrides her mustang man-fashion, the mode of Mexico; while a light fowling-piece, suspended en bandouliĆØre, hangs down behind her back.
A woollen seraph of finest wool lies scarf-like across her left shoulder, half concealing a velveteen vest or spencer, close-buttoned over the rounded hemispheres of her bosom. Below, an embroidered skirtāthe enaguaāis continued by a pair of white calzoncillas, with fringe falling over her small feet, they are booted and spurred.
On her head is a hat of soft vicuna wool, with a band of bullion, a bordering of gold lace around the rim, and a plume of heronās feather curving above the crown.
This, with her attitude on horseback, might seem outrĆ© in the eyes of a stranger to the customs of her country. The gun and its concomitant accoutrements give her something of a masculine appearance, and at the first glance might cause her to be mistaken for a manāa beardless youth.
But the long silken tresses scattered loosely over her shoulders, the finely-cut features, the delicate texture of the skin, the petticoat skirt, the small hand, with slender tapering fingers stretched forward to caress the neck of the mustang mare, are signs of femininity not to be misunderstood.
A womanāa huntress; the character clearly proclaimed by a brace of houndsālarge dogs of the mastiff bloodhound breedāfollowing at the heels of the horse. And a huntress who has been successful in the chaseāas proved by two prong-horn antelopes, with shanks tied together, lying like saddle-bags across the croup.
The mustang mare needs no spur beyond the sound of that sweet well-known voice. At the word adelante (forward) she pricks up her ears, gives a wave of her snow-white tail, and breaks into a gentle canter, the hounds loping after in long-stretching trot.
For about ten minutes is this pace continued; when a bird flying athwart the course, so close that its wings almost brush Lolitaās muzzle, causes her rider to lean back in the saddle and check her suddenly up.
The bird is a black vultureāa zopilotĆ©. It is not slowly soaring in the usual way, but shooting in a direct line, and swiftly as an arrow sent from the bow.
This it is that brings the huntress to a halt; and for a time she remained motionless, her eye following the vulture in its flight.
It is seen to join a flock of its fellows, so far off as to look like specks. The young girl can perceive that they are not flying in any particular direction, but swooping in circles, as if over some quarry that lies below. Whatever it is, they do not appear to have yet touched it. All keep aloft, none of them alighting on the ground, though at times stooping down, and skimming close to the tops of the sage-bushes with which the plain is thickly beset.
These last prevent the huntress from seeing what lies upon the ground; though she knows there must be something to have attracted the concourse of zopilotƩs. Evidently she has enough knowledge of the desert to understand its signs, and this is one of a significant character. It not only challenges curiosity, but calls for investigation.
āSomething gone down yonder, and not yet dead?ā she mutters, in interrogative soliloquy. āI wonder what it can be! I never look on those filthy birds
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