The Lone Ranche by Mayne Reid (books to read to be successful .txt) 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
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“Viva el General Armijo!”
“Viva el Coronel Uraga!”
Beyond doubt it was a pronunciamento. The old regime under which Colonel Miranda held authority was passing away, and a new one about to be initiated.
Drawing his sword and putting spur to his horse, he dashed in among the disaffected men.
A few of the faithful ran up, and ranged themselves by his side.
Then commenced a struggle, with shouting, shooting, sabring, and lance-thrusts. Several fell—some dead, some only disabled; among the last, Colonel Miranda himself, gravely wounded.
In ten minutes it was all over; and the commandant of Albuquerque, no longer commanding, lay lodged in the garrison carcel; Captain Gil Uraga, now colonel, replacing him as the supreme military officer of the district.
While all around ran the rumour that Don Antonio Lopes de Santa Anna was once more master of Mexico; his satellite, Manuel Armijo, again Governor of Santa Fé.
“What delays Valerian? What can be keeping him?”
These questions came from Adela Miranda, on the evening of that same day, standing in the door of her brother’s house, with eyes bent along the road leading to Albuquerque. Valerian was her brother’s baptismal name, and it was about his absence she was anxious.
For this she had reasons—more than one. Though still only a young girl, she quite understood the political situation of the Mexican Republic; at all times shifting, of late more critical than usual. In her brother’s confidence, she had been kept posted up in all that transpired in the capital, as also the district over which he held military command, and knew the danger of which he was himself apprehensive—every day drawing nigher and nigher.
Shortly after his leaving her she had heard shots, with a distant murmur of voices, in the direction of the town. From the azolea, to which she had ascended, she could note these noises more distinctly, but fancied them to be salutes, vivas, and cheers. Still, there was nothing much in that. It might be some jubilation of the soldiery at the ordinary evening parade; and, remembering that the day was a fiesta, she thought less of it.
But, as night drew down, and her brother had not returned, she began to feel some slight apprehension. He had promised to be back for a dinner that was long since due—a repast she had herself prepared, more sumptuous than common on account of the saint’s day. This was it that elicited the anxious self-asked interrogatories.
After giving utterance to them, she paced backward and forward; now standing in the portal and gazing along the road; now returning to the sola de comida, to look upon the table, with cloth spread, wines decantered, fruits and flowers on the épergne—all but the dishes that waited serving till Valerian should show himself.
To look on something besides—a portrait that hung upon the wall, underneath her own. It was a small thing—a mere photographic carte-de-visite. But it was the likeness of one who had a large place in her brother’s heart, if not in her own. In hers, how could it? It was the photograph of a man she had never seen—Frank Hamersley. He had left it with Colonel Miranda, as a souvenir of their short but friendly intercourse.
Did Colonel Miranda’s sister regard it in that light? She could not in any other. Still, as she gazed upon it, a thought was passing through her mind somewhat different from a sentiment of simple friendship. Her brother had told her all—the circumstances that led to his acquaintance with Hamersley; of the duel, and in what a knightly manner the Kentuckian had carried himself; adding his own commentaries in a very flattering fashion. This, of itself, had been enough to pique curiosity in a young girl, just escaped from her convent school; but added to the outward semblance of the stranger, by the sun made lustrous—so lustrous inwardly—Adela Miranda was moved by something more than curiosity. As she stood regarding the likeness of Frank Hamersley she felt very much as he had done looking at hers—in love with one only known by portrait and repute.
In such there is nothing strange nor new. Many a reader of this tale could speak of a similar experience.
While gazing on the carte-de-visite she was roused from the sweet reverie it had called up by hearing footsteps outside. Someone coming in through the saggan.
“Valerian at last!”
The steps sounded as if the man making them were in a hurry. So should her brother be, having so long delayed his return.
She glided out to meet him with an interrogatory on her lips.
“Valerian?”—this suddenly changing to the exclamation, “Madre de Dios! ’Tis not my brother!”
It was not, but a man pale and breathless—a peon of the establishment—who, on seeing her, gasped out,—
“Señorita! I bring sad news. There’s been a mutiny at the cuartel—a pronunciamento. The rebels have had it all their own way, and I am sorry to tell you that the colonel, your brother—”
“What of him? Speak! Is he—”
“Not killed, nina; only wounded, and a prisoner.”
Adela Miranda did not swoon nor faint. She was not of the nervous kind. Nurtured amid dangers, most of her life accustomed to alarms from Indian incursions, as well as revolutionary risings, she remained calm.
She dispatched messengers to the town, secretly, one after another; and, while awaiting their reports, knelt before an image of the Virgin, and prayed.
Up till midnight her couriers went, and came. Then one who was more than a messenger—her brother himself!
As already reported to her, he was wounded, and came accompanied by the surgeon of the garrison, a friend. They arrived at the house in hot haste, as if pursued.
And they were so, as she soon after learnt.
There was just time for Colonel Miranda to select the most cherished of his penates; pack them on a recua of mules, then mount, and make away.
They had scarce cleared the premises when the myrmidons of the new commandant, led by the man himself, rode up and took possession of the place.
By this time, and by good luck, the ruffian was intoxicated—so drunk he could scarce comprehend what was passing around him. It seemed like a dream to him to be told that Colonel Miranda had got clear away; a more horrid one to hear that she whom he designed for a victim had escaped from his clutches.
When morning dawned, and in soberer mood he listened to the reports of those sent in pursuit—all telling the same tale of non-success—he raved like one in a frenzy of madness. For the escape of the late Commandant of Albuquerque had robbed him of two things—to him the sweetest in life—one, revenge on the man he heartily hated; the other, possession of the woman he passionately loved.
A plain of pure sand, glaring red-yellow under the first rays of the rising sun; towards the east and west apparently illimitable, but interrupted northward by a chain of table-topped hills, and along its southern edge by a continuous cliff, rising wall-like to the height of several hundred feet, and trending each way beyond the verge of vision.
About half-distance between this prolonged escarpment and the outlying hills six large “Conestoga” waggons, locked tongue and tail together, enclosing a lozenge-shaped or elliptical space—a corral—inside which are fifteen men and five horses.
Only ten of the men are living; the other five are dead, their bodies lying a-stretch between the wheels of the waggons. Three of the horses have succumbed to the same fate.
Outside are many dead mules; several still attached to the protruding poles, that have broken as their bodies fell crashing across them. Fragments of leather straps and cast gearing tell of others that have torn loose, and scoured off from the perilous spot.
Inside and all around are traces of a struggle—the ground scored and furrowed by the hoofs of horses, and the booted feet of men, with here and there little rivulets and pools of blood. This, fast filtering into the sand, shows freshly spilled—some of it still smoking.
All the signs tell of recent conflict. And so should they, since it is still going on, or only suspended to recommence a new scene of the strife, which promises to be yet more terrible and sanguinary than that already terminated.
A tragedy easy of explanation. There is no question about why the waggons have been stopped, or how the men, mules, and horses came to be killed. Distant about three hundred yards upon the sandy plain are other men and horses, to the number of near two hundred. Their half-naked bodies of bronze colour, fantastically marked with devices in chalk-white, charcoal-black, and vermillion red—their buckskin breech-clouts and leggings, with plumes sticking tuft-like above their crowns—all these insignia show them to be Indians.
It is a predatory band of the red pirates, who have attacked a travelling party of whites—no new spectacle on the prairies.
They have made the first onslaught, which was intended to stampede the caravan, and at once capture it. This was done before daybreak. Foiled in the attempt, they are now laying siege to it, having surrounded it on all sides at a distance just beyond range of the rifles of those besieged. Their line forms the circumference of a circle of which the waggon clump is the centre. It is not very regularly preserved, but ever changing, ever in motion, like some vast constricting serpent that has thrown its body into a grand coil around its victim, to close when ready to give the fatal squeeze.
In this case the victim appears to have no hope of escape—no alternative but to succumb.
That the men sheltered behind the waggons have not “gone under” at the first onslaught is significative of their character. Of a surety they are not common emigrants, crossing the prairies on their way to a new home. Had they been so, they could not have “corralled” their unwieldy vehicles with such promptitude; for they had started from their night camp, and the attack was made while the train was in motion—advantage being taken of their slow drag through the soft, yielding sand. And had they been but ordinary emigrants they would not have stood so stoutly on the defence, and shown such an array of dead enemies around them. For among the savages outside can be seen at least a score of lifeless forms lying prostrate upon the plain.
For the time, there is a suspension of hostilities. The red men, disappointed by the failure of their first charge, have retreated back to a safe distance. The death-dealing bullets of the whites, of which they have had fatal proof, hold them there.
But the pause is not likely to be for long, as their gestures indicate. On one side of the circle a body of them clumped together hold counsel. Others gallop around it, bearing orders and instructions that evidently relate to a changed plan of attack. With so much blood before their eyes, and the bodies of their slain comrades, it is not likely they will retire from the ground. In their shouts there is a ring of resolved vengeance, which promises a speedy renewal of the attack.
“Who do you think they are?” asks Frank Hamersley, the proprietor of the assaulted caravan. “Are they Comanches, Walt?”
“Yis, Kimanch,” answers the individual thus addressed; “an’ the wust kind o’ Kimanch. They’re a band o’ the cowardly Tenawas. I kin tell by thar bows. Don’t ye see that thar’s two bends in ’em?”
“I do.”
“Wal, that’s the sort o’ bow the Tenawas carry—same’s the Apash.”
“The Indians on this route were reported friendly. Why have they attacked us, I wonder?”
“Injuns ain’t niver friendly—not Tenawas. They’ve been riled considerably of late by the Texans on the Trinity. Besides, I reck’n I kin guess another reezun. It’s owin’ to some whites as crossed this way last year. Thar war a scrimmage atween them and the redskins, in the which some squaws got kilt—I mout say murdered.
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