The other troop-horses have been stripped, and, scattered over the mead, are browsing at the length of their lariats.

It is in the positions and att.i.tudes of the men that a spectator might read preparation; and of a kind from which he could not fail to deduce the sequence of a sanguinary drama. Not one accompanied by much noise, but rather solemn and silent; only a few words firmly spoken, to be followed by a volley; in short, a military execution, or, as it might be more properly designated, a military murder.

The victims devoted are seen near the edge of the open ground--its lower edge regarding the direction of the stream. They are in erect att.i.tude, each with his back to the trunk of a tree, to which with raw-hide ropes they are securely lashed. No need telling who they are. The reader knows them to be the prisoners lately lying prostrate near the same place.

In their front, and scarce ten paces distant, the lancers are drawn up in line and single file. There are ten of them, the tenth a little retired to the right, showing chevrons on his sleeve. He is the sergeant in immediate command of the firing party. Farther rearward, and close by the conical tent, and two in the uniform of officers, Uraga and his adjutant. The former is himself about to p.r.o.nounce the word of command, the relentless expression upon his face, blent with a grim smile that overspreads it, leading to believe that the act of diabolical cruelty gives him gratification. Above, upon the cliff's brow, the black vultures also show signs of satisfaction. With necks craned and awry, the better to look below, they see preparations which instinct or experience has taught them to understand. Blood is about to be spilled; there will be flesh to afford them a feast.

There is now perfect silence, after a scene which preceded; once more Uraga having made overtures to Miranda, with promise of life under the same scandalous conditions; as before, to receive the response, firmly spoken,--

"No--never!"

The patriot soldier prefers death to dishonour.

His choice taken, he quails not. Tied to the trunk of the tree, he stands facing his executioners without show of fear. If his cheeks be blanched, and his bosom throbbing with tumultuous emotion, 'tis not at sight of the firing party, or the guns held loaded in their hands. Far other are his fears, none of them for himself, but all for his dear sister--Adela. No need to dwell upon or describe them. They may be imagined.

And Don Prospero, brave and defiant too. He stands backed by the tree, his eyes showing calm courage, his long silvered beard touching his breast, not drooping or despairingly, but like one resigned to his fate, and still firm in the faith that has led to it--a second Wickliffe at the stake.

The moment has arrived when the stillness becomes profound, like the calm which precedes the first burst of a thunderstorm. The vultures above, the horses and men below, are all alike silent.

The birds, gazing intently, have ceased their harsh croaking; the quadrupeds, as if startled by the very silence, forsaking the sweet gra.s.s, have tossed their heads aloft, and so hold them. While the men, hitherto speaking in whispers, no more converse, but stand mute and motionless. They are going to deal death to two of their fellow-creatures; and there is not one among them who does not know it is a death undeserved--that he is about to commit murder!

For all this, not one has a thought of staying his hand. Along the whole line there is no heart amenable to mercy, no breast throbbing with humanity. All have been in a like position before--drawn up to fire upon prisoners, their countrymen. The patriots of their country, too; for the followers of Gil Uraga are all of them picked adherents of the _parti preter_.

"_Sergente_!" asks Uraga, on coming forth from his tent, "is everything ready?"

"All ready," is the prompt reply.

"Attention!" commands the Colonel, stepping a pace or two forward, and speaking in a low tone, though loud enough to be heard by the lancers.

"Make ready!"

The carbines are raised to the ready.

"Take aim!"

The guns are brought to the level, their bronzed barrels glistening under the rays of the setting sun, with muzzles pointed at the prisoners. They who grasp them but wait for the word "Fire!"

It is forming itself on Gil Uraga's lips. But before he can speak there comes a volley, filling the valley with sound, and the s.p.a.ce around the prisoners with smoke. The reports of more than forty pieces speak almost simultaneously, none of them with the dull detonation of cavalry carbines, but the sharper ring of the rifle!

While the last crack is still reverberating from the rocks, Uraga sees his line of lancers prostrate along the sward; their guns, escaped from their grasp, scattered beside them, still undischarged!

CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

"SAUVE QUI PEUT."

At sight of his soldiers cut down like ripe corn before the reaper, Uraga stands in stupefied amaze; his adjutant the same. Both are alike under the spell of a superst.i.tious terror. For the blow, so sudden and sweeping, seems given by G.o.d's own hand. They might fancy it a _coup d'eclair_. But the jets of fire shooting forth from the forest edge, through a cloud of sulphurous smoke, are not flashes of lightning; nor the rattle that accompanies them the rolling of thunder, but the reports of firearms discharged in rapid succession. While in shouts following the shots there is no accent of Heaven; on the contrary, the cries are human, in the voices of men intoned to a terrible vengeance.

Though every one of the firing party has fallen, sergeant as well as rank and file, the two officers are still untouched. So far they have been saved by the interposition of the formed line. But straggling shots succeed, and bullets are whizzing past their ears.

These, quickening their instincts, rouse them from their stupefaction; and both, turning from the direction of the danger, looked to the other side for safety.

At first wildly and uncertain, for they are still under a weird impression, with senses half bewildered.

Neither has a knowledge of the enemy that has made such havoc among their men; only an instinct or intuition that the blow has been struck by those terrible _Tejanos_, for the shots heard were the cracks of rifles, and the shouts, still continued, are not Indian yells nor Mexican vivas, but the rough hurrahs of the Anglo-Saxon.

While standing in hesitancy, they hear a voice raised above the rest-- one which both recognise. Well do they remember it, pealing among the waggons on that day of real ruthless carnage.

Glancing back over their shoulders, they see him who sends it forth--the giant guide of the caravan. He has just broken from the timber's edge, and in vigorous bounds is advancing towards them. Another is by his side, also recognised. With trembling frame, and heart chilled by fear, Uraga identifies his adversary in the duel at Chihuahua.

Neither he nor his subordinate remains a moment longer on the ground.

No thought now of carrying off their female captives, no time to think of them. Enough, and they will be fortunate, if they can themselves escape.

Better for both to perish there by the sides of their slain comrades.

But they know not this, and only yield to the common instinct of cowardice, forcing them to flee.

Fortune seems to favour them. For animals fully caparisoned stand behind the conical tent. They are these that were in readiness for a flight of far different kind, since unthought of--altogether forgotten.

Good luck their being saddled and bridled now. So think Uraga and Roblez as they rush towards them. So thinks Galvez, who is also making to mount one. The sentry has forsaken his post, leaving the marquee unguarded. When a lover no longer cares for his sweetheart, why should he for a captive.

And in the _sauve-qui-peut_ scramble there is rarely a regard for rank, the colonel counting for no more than the corporal. Obedient to this levelling instinct, Galvez, who has arrived first on the ground, selects the best steed of the three--this being the horse of Hamersley.

Grasping the bridle, and jerking it from the branch, he springs upon the animal's back and starts to ride off. Almost as soon the two officers get astride, Roblez on his own charger, the mustang mare being left to Uraga. From her mistress he must part thus unceremoniously, covered with ignominious shame!

The thought is torture, and for a time stays him.

A dire, d.a.m.nable purpose flashes across his brain, and for an instant holds possession of his heart. It is to dismount, make for the marquee, enter it, and kill Adela Miranda--thrust her through with his sword.

Fortunately for her, the coward's heart fails him.

He will not have time to do the murder and remount his horse. The Rangers are already in the open ground and rushing towards him, Wilder and Hamersley at their head. In a minute more they will be around him.

He hesitates no longer, but, smothering his chagrin and swallowing his unappeased vengeance, puts whip and spur to the mustang mare, going off as fast as she can carry him.

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

DIVIDED BY DUTY.

But for a half-score men lying dead along the earth, their warm blood welling from wounds where bullets have pa.s.sed through their bodies, the gory drops here and there like dew bedecking the blades of gra.s.s, or in fuller stream settling down into the sand--but for this, the too real evidence of death, one who entered the camp of Uraga as the Mexican Colonel is riding out of it might fancy himself spectator of a pantomime during the scene of transformation. In the stage spectacle, not quicker or more contrasting could be the change.

The gaily-apparelled lancers, with their plumes, pennons, and ta.s.sels, representing the sprites and sylphides of the pantomime, are succeeded by men who look real life. Big bearded men, habited in homespun; some wearing buckskin, others blanket coats; all carrying guns, bowie-knives, and pistols; the first smoking at the muzzles, as freshly fired, the last held in hand, ready to be discharged as soon as somebody worth shooting at shows himself.

Entering the open ground ahead of the others, Hamersley and Wilder glance around in search of this somebody, both thinking of the same.

They see stretched along the sward ten soldiers dead as herrings on a string, but among them no one wearing the uniform of an officer-- certainly not him they are after.

Their first glance is unrewarded, but their second gives all they seek.