Майн Рид
The Rifle Rangers
Chapter Forty.
Maria de Merced
There was a deep ditch under the wall, filled with cactus-plants and dry grass. We lay in the bottom of this for some minutes, panting with fatigue. Our limbs were stiff and swollen, and we could hardly stand upright. A little delay then was necessary, to bring back the blood and determine our future course.
“We had best ter keep the gully,” whispered Lincoln. “I kum across the fields myself, but that ’ar kiver’s thin, and they may sight us.”
“The best route is the ditch,” assented Raoul: “there are some windows, but they are high, and we can crawl under them.”
“Forward, then!” I whispered to Raoul.
We crept down the ditch on all-fours, passing several windows that were dark and shut. We reached one, the last in the row, where the light streamed through. Notwithstanding our perilous situation, I resolved to look in. There was an impulse upon me which I could not resist. I was yearning for some clue to the mystery that hung around me.
The window was high up, but it was grated with heavy bars; and, grasping two of these, I swung myself to its level. Meanwhile my comrades had crept into the magueys to wait for me.
I raised my head cautiously and looked in. It was a room somewhat elegantly furnished, but my eye did not dwell long on that. A man sitting by the table engrossed my attention. This man was Dubrosc. The light was full upon his face, and I gazed upon its hated lines until I felt my frame trembling with passion.
I can give no idea of the hate this man had inspired me with. Had I possessed firearms, I could not have restrained myself from shooting him; and but for the iron grating, I should have sprung through the sash and grappled him with my hands. I have thought since that some providence held me back from making a demonstration that would have baffled our escape. I am sure at that moment I possessed no restraint within myself.
As I gazed at Dubrosc, the door of the apartment opened, and a young man entered. He was strangely attired, in a costume half-military, half-ranchero. There was a fineness, a silky richness, about the dress and manner of this youth that struck me. His features were dark and beautiful.
He advanced and sat down by the table, placing his hand upon it. Several rings sparkled upon his fingers. I observed that he was pale, and that his hand trembled.
After looking at him for a moment, I began to fancy I had seen the features before. It was not Narcisso; him I should have known; and yet there was a resemblance. Yes – he even resembled her! I started as this thought crossed me. I strained my eyes; the resemblance grew stronger.
Oh, Heaven! could it be? – dressed thus? No, no! those eyes – ha! I remember! The boy at the rendezvous – on board the transport – the island – the picture! It is she – the cousin —María de Merced!
These recollections came with the suddenness of a single thought, and passed as quickly. Later memories crowded upon me. The adventure of the morning – the strange words uttered at the window of my prison – the small hand! This, then, was the author of our deliverance.
A hundred mysteries were explained in a single moment. The unexpected elucidation came like a shock – like a sudden light. I staggered back, giving way to new and singular emotions.
“Guadalupe knows nothing of my presence, then. She is innocent.”
This thought alone restored me to happiness. A thousand others rushed through my brain in quick succession – some pleasant, others painful.
There was an altercation of voices over my head. I caught the iron rods, and, resting my toes upon a high bank, swung my body up, and again looked into the room. Dubrosc was now angrily pacing over the floor.
“Bah!” he ejaculated, with a look of cold brutality; “you think to make me jealous, I believe. That isn’t possible. I was never so, and you can’t do it. I know you love the cursed Yankee. I watched you in the ship – on the island, too. You had better keep him company where he is going. Ha, ha! Jealous, indeed! Your pretty cousins have grown up since I saw them last.”
The insinuation sent the blood in a hot stream through my veins.
It appeared to have a similar effect upon the woman; for, starting from her seat, she looked towards Dubrosc, her eyes flashing like globes of fire.
“Yes!” she exclaimed; “and if you dare whisper your polluting thoughts to either of them, lawless as is this land, you know that I still possess the power to punish you. You are villain enough, Heaven knows, for anything; but they shall not fall: one victim is enough – and such a one!”
“Victim, indeed!” replied the man, evidently cowed by the other’s threat. “You call yourself victim, Marie? The wife of the handsomest man in Mexico? Ha, ha!”
There was something of irony in the latter part of the speech, and the emphasis placed on the word “wife.”
“Yes; you may well taunt me with your false priest, you unfeeling wretch! Oh, Santisima Madre!” continued she, dropping back into her chair, and pressing her head between her hands. “Beguiled – beggared – almost unsexed! and yet I never loved the man! It was not love, but madness – madness and fascination!”
The last words were uttered in soliloquy, as though she regarded not the presence of her companion.
“I don’t care a claco,” cried he fiercely, and evidently piqued at her declaration; “not one claco whether you ever loved me or not! That’s not the question now, but this is: You must make yourself known to your Croesus of an uncle here, and demand that part of your fortune that he still clutches within his avaricious old fingers. You must do this to-morrow.”
“I will not!”
“But you shall, or – .”
The woman rose suddenly, and walked towards the door as if she intended to go out.
“No, not to-night, dearest!” said Dubrosc, grasping her rudely by the arm. “I have my reasons for keeping you here. I noted you to-day speaking with that cursed Yankee, and you’re just traitor enough to help him to escape. I’ll look to him myself, so you may stay where you are. If you should choose to rise early enough to-morrow morning, you will have the felicity of seeing him dance upon the tight-rope. Ha! ha! ha!”
And with a savage laugh the Creole walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.
A strange expression played over the features of the woman – a blending of triumph with anxiety. She ran forward to the window, and, pressing her small lips close to the glass, strained her eyes outward.
I held the diamond in my fingers, and, stretching up until my hand was opposite her face, I wrote the word “Gracias.”
At first seeing me she had started back. There was no time to be lost. My comrades were already chafing at my delay; and, joining them, we crept through the magueys, parting the broad, stiff leaves with our fingers. We were soon upon the edge of the chaparral wood.
I looked back towards the window. The woman stood holding the lamp, and its light was full upon her face. She had read the scrawl, and was gazing out with an expression I shall never forget. Another bound, and we were “in the woods.”
Chapter Forty One.
The Pursuit
For a time there was a strange irresolution in my flight. The idea of leaving Guadalupe in such company – that after all they might be prisoners, or, even if not, the thought that they were in the power of Dubrosc to any extent – was enough to render me wretched and irresolute. But what could we do – five men, almost unarmed?
“It would be madness to remain – madness and death. The woman – she possesses some mysterious power over this brute, her paramour: she will guard them.”
This thought decided me, and I yielded myself freely to flight. We had but little fear of being caught again. We had too much confidence, particularly Lincoln and myself, in our forest-craft. Raoul knew all the country, the thickets and the passes. We stopped a moment to deliberate on the track we should take. A bugle rang out behind us, and the next instant the report of a cannon thundered in a thousand echoes along the glen.
“It is from the hacienda,” said Raoul; “they have missed us already.”
“Is that a ‘sign’, Rowl,” asked Lincoln.
“It is,” replied the other; “it’s to warn their scouts. They’re all over these hills. We must look sharp.”
“I don’t like this hyur timber; it’s too scant. Cudn’t yer put us in the crik bottom, Rowl?”
“There’s a heavy chaparral,” said the Frenchman, musing; “it’s ten miles off. If we could reach that we’re safe – a wolf can hardly crawl through it. We must make it before day.”
“Lead on, then, Rowl!”
We stole along with cautious steps. The rustling of a leaf or the cracking of a dead stick might betray us; for we could hear signals upon all sides, and our pursuers passing us in small parties, within earshot.
We bore to the right, in order to reach the creek bottom of which Lincoln had spoken. We soon came into this, and followed the stream down, but not on the bank. Lincoln would not hear of our taking the bank path, arguing that our pursuers would be “sartin ter foller the cl’ar trail.”
The hunter was right, for shortly after a party came down the stream. We could hear the clinking of their accoutrements, and even the conversation of some of the men, as follows:
“But, in the first place, how did they get loose within? and who cut the wall from the outside, unless someone helped them? Carajo! it’s not possible.”
“That’s true, José,” said another voice. “Someone must, and I believe it was that giant that got away from us at the rancho. The shot that killed the snake came from the chaparral, and yet we searched and found nobody. Mark my words, it was he; and I believe he has hung upon our track all the way.”
“Vaya!” exclaimed another; “I shouldn’t much like to be under the range of his rifle; they say he can kill a mile off, and hit wherever he pleases. He shot the snake right through the eyes.”
“By the Virgin!” said one of the guerilleros, laughing, “he must have been a snake of good taste, to be caught toying around that dainty daughter of the old Spaniard! It reminds me of what the Book tells about Mother Eve and the old serpent. Now, if the Yankee’s bullet – .”
We could hear no more, as the voices died away in the distance and under the sound of the water.
“Ay,” muttered Lincoln, finishing the sentence; “if the Yankee’s bullet hadn’t been needed for the varmint, some o’ yer wudn’t a’ been waggin’ yer clappers as ye air.”
“It was you, then?” I asked, turning to the hunter.
“’Twur, Cap’n; but for the cussed catawampus, I ’ud ’a gin Mister Dubrosc his ticket. I hed a’most sighted him when I seed the flash o’ the thing’s eye, an’ I knowed it wur a-gwine to strike the gal.”
“And Jack?” I inquired, now for the first time thinking of the boy.
“I guess he’s safe enuf, Cap’n. I sent the little feller back with word ter the kurnel.”
“Ha! then we may expect them from camp?”
“No doubt on it, Cap’n; but yer see, if they kum, they may not be able to foller us beyond the rancho. So it’ll be best for us not to depend on them, but ter take Rowl’s track.”
“You are right. Lead on, Raoul!”
After a painful journey we reached the thicket of which Raoul had spoken; and, dragging ourselves into it, we came to a small opening, covered with long dry grass. Upon this luxurious couch we resolved to make a bivouac. We were all worn down by the fatigues of the day and night preceding, and, throwing ourselves upon the grass, in a few minutes were asleep.
Chapter Forty Two.
A New and Terrible Enemy
It was daylight when I awoke – broad daylight. My companions, all but Clayley, were already astir, and had kindled a fire with a species of wood known to Raoul, that produced hardly any smoke. They were preparing breakfast. On a limb close by hung the hideous, human-like carcass of an iguana, still writhing. Raoul was whetting a knife to skin it, while Lincoln was at some distance, carefully reloading his rifle. The Irishman lay upon the grass, peeling bananas and roasting them over the fire.
The iguana was soon skinned and broiled, and we all of us commenced eating with good appetites.
“Be Saint Pathrick!” said Chane, “this bates frog-atin’ all hollow. It’s little meself dhramed, on the Owld Sod, hearin’ of thim niggers in furrin parts, that I’d be turning kannybawl meself some day!”
“Don’t you like it, Murtagh?” asked Raoul jocosely.
“Och! indade, yes; it’s betther than an empty brid-basket; but if yez could only taste a small thrifle ov a Wicklow ham this mornin’, an’ a smilin’ pratie, instid of this brown soap, yez – .”
“Hisht!” said Lincoln, starting suddenly, and holding the bite half-way to his mouth.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’ll tell yer in a minit, Cap’n.”
The hunter waved his hand to enjoin silence, and, striding to the edge of the glade, fell flat to the ground. We knew he was listening, and waited for the result. We had not long to wait, for he had scarce brought his ear in contact with the earth when he sprang suddenly up again, exclaiming:
“Houn’s trailin’ us!”
He wore a despairing look unusual to the bold character of his features. This, with the appalling statement, acted on us like a galvanic shock, and by one impulse we leaped from the fire and threw ourselves flat upon the grass.
Not a word was spoken as we strained our ears to listen.
At first we could distinguish a low moaning sound, like the hum of a wild bee; it seemed to come out of the earth. After a little it grew louder and sharper; then it ended in a yelp and ceased altogether. After a short interval it began afresh, this time still clearer; then came the yelp, loud, sharp, and vengeful. There was no mistaking that sound. It was the bark of the Spanish bloodhound.
We sprang up simultaneously, looking around for weapons, and then staring at each other with an expression of despair.
The rifle and two case-knives were all the weapons we had.
“What’s to be done!” cried one, and all eyes were turned upon Lincoln.
The hunter stood motionless, clutching his rifle and looking to the ground.
“How fur’s the crik, Rowl?” he asked after a pause.
“Not two hundred yards; this way it lies.”
“I kin see no other chance, Cap’n, than ter take the water: we may bamfoozle the houn’s a bit, if thar’s good wadin’.”
“Nor I.” I had thought of the same plan.
“If we hed hed bowies, we mouter fit the dogs whar we air, but yer see we hain’t; an’ I kin tell by thar growl thar ain’t less nor a dozen on ’em.”
“It’s no use to remain here; lead us to the creek, Raoul;” and, following the Frenchman, we dashed recklessly through the thicket.
On reaching the stream we plunged in. It was one of those mountain torrents common in Mexico – spots of still water alternating with cascades, that dash, and foam over shapeless masses of amygdaloidal basalt. We waded through the first pool, and then, clambering among the rocks, entered a second. This was a good stretch, a hundred yards or more of still, crystal water, in which we were waist-deep.
We took the bank at the lower, and on the same side, and, striking back into the timber, kept on parallel to the course of the stream. We did not go far away from the water, lest we might be pushed again to repeat the ruse.
All this time the yelping of the bloodhounds had been ringing in our ears. Suddenly it ceased.
“They have reached the water,” said Clayley.
“No,” rejoined Lincoln, stopping a moment to listen: “they’re chawin’ the bones of the varmint.”
“There again!” cried one, as their deep voices rang down the glen in the chorus of the whole pack. The next minute the dogs were mute a second time, speaking at intervals in a fierce growl that told us they were at fault.
Beyond an occasional bark we heard nothing of the bloodhounds until we had gained at least two miles down the stream. We began to think we had baffled them in earnest, when Lincoln, who had kept in the rear, was seen to throw himself flat upon the grass. We all stopped, looking at him with breathless anxiety. It was but a minute. Rising up with a reckless air, he struck his rifle fiercely upon the ground, exclaiming:
“They’re arter us agin!”
By one impulse we all rushed back to the creek, and, scrambling over the rocks, plunged into the water and commenced wading down.
A sudden exclamation burst from Raoul in the advance. We soon learnt the cause, and to our dismay. We had struck the water at a point where the stream cañoned.
On each side rose a frowning precipice, straight as a wall. Between these the black torrent rushed through a channel only a few feet in width so swiftly that, had we attempted to descend by swimming, we should have been dashed to death against the rocks below.
To reach the stream farther down it would be necessary to make a circuit of miles; and the hounds would be on our heels before we could gain three hundred yards.
We looked at each other and at Lincoln, all panting and pale.
“Stumped at last!” cried the hunter, gritting his teeth with fury.
“No!” I shouted, a thought at that moment flashing upon me. “Follow me, comrades! We’ll fight the bloodhounds upon the cliff.”
I pointed upward. A yell from Lincoln announced his approval.
“Hooray!” he cried, leaping on the bank; “that idee’s jest like yer, Cap. Hooray! Now, boys, for the bluff!”
Next moment we were straining up the gorge that led to the precipice; and the next we had reached the highest point, where the cliff, by a bold projection, butted over the stream. There was a level platform covered with tufted grass, and upon this we took our stand.
Chapter Forty Three.
A Battle with Bloodhounds
We stood for some moments gathering breath and nerving ourselves for the desperate struggle. I could not help looking over the precipice. It was a fearful sight. In a vertical line two hundred feet below, the stream rushing through the cañon broke upon a bed of sharp, jagged rocks, and then glided on in seething, snow-white foam. There was no object between the eye and the water; no jutting ledge, not even a tree, to break the fall – nothing but the spiky boulders below, and the foaming torrent that washed them.
It was some minutes before our unnatural enemies made their appearance, but every howl sounded nearer and nearer. Our trail was warm, and we knew they were scenting it on a run. At length the bushes crackled, and we could see their white breasts gleaming through the leaves. A few more springs, and the foremost bloodhound bounded out upon the bank, and, throwing up his broad jaw, uttered a hideous “growl.”
He was at fault where we had entered the water. His comrades now dashed out of the thicket, and, joining in a chorus of disappointment, scattered among the stones.
An old dog, scarred and cunning, kept along the bank until he had reached the top of the cañon. This was where we had made our crossing. Here the hound entered the channel, and, springing from rock to rock, reached the point where we had dragged ourselves out of the water. A short yelp announced to his comrades that he had lifted the scent, and they all threw up their noses and came galloping down.
There was a swift current between two large boulders of basalt. We had leaped this. The old dog reached it, and stood straining upon the spring, when Lincoln fired, and the hound, with a short “wough”, dropped in upon his head, and was carried off like a flash.
“Counts one less to pitch over,” said the hunter, hastily reloading his rifle.
Without appearing to notice the strange conduct of their leader, the others crossed in a string, and, striking the warm trail, came yelling up the pass. It was a grassy slope, such as is often seen between two tables of a cliff; and as the dogs strained upward we could see their white fangs and the red blood that had baited them clotted along their jaws. Another crack from Lincoln’s rifle, and the foremost hound tumbled back down the gorge.
“Two rubbed out!” cried the hunter; and at the same moment I saw him fling his rifle to the ground.
The hounds kept the trail no longer. Their quarry was before them; their howling ended, and they sprang upon us with the silence of the assassin. The next moment we were mingled together, dogs and men, in the fearful struggle of life and death!
I know not how long this strange encounter lasted. I felt myself grappling with the tawny monsters, and hurling them over the cliff. Now they sprang at my throat, and I threw out my arms, thrusting them fearlessly between the shining rows of teeth. Then I was free again, and, seizing a leg, or a tail, or the loose flaps of the neck, I dragged a savage brute towards the brink, and, summoning all my strength, dashed him against its brow, and saw him tumble howling over.
Once I lost my balance and nearly staggered over the precipice, and at length, panting, bleeding, and exhausted, I fell to the earth. I could struggle no longer.
I looked around for my comrades. Clayley and Raoul had sunk upon the grass, and lay torn and bleeding. Lincoln and Chane, holding a hound between them, were balancing him over the bluff.
“Now, Murter,” cried the hunter, “giv’ him a good heist, and see if we kin pitch him cl’ar on t’other side; hee-woop! – hoo!”
And with this ejaculation the kicking animal was launched into the air. I could not resist looking after. The yellow body bounded from the face of the opposite cliff, and fell with a heavy plash upon the water below.
He was the last of the pack!
