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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 ... |
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 sc... |
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 ... |
As circumstances had ofttimes compelled the ex-Ranger to eat his deer-meat underdone, the habit had become his gout; 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 soun... |
"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 mo... |
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 hunt... |
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 ... |
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, s... |
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." |
Chapter Twenty Seven. |
The Lone Ranche. |
A singular habitation was that into which Frank Hamersley, and after him Walt Wilder, had found their way. Architecturally of the rudest description -- a kind among Mexicans especially styled jacal, or more generally rancho, the latter designation Anglicised or Americanised into ranche. The rancho, when of limited dime... |
The one which gave shelter to the fugitives differed from all these, having walls of split slabs, set stockade fashion, and thatched with a sedge of tule, taken from a little lake that lay near. It had three rooms and a kitchen, with some sheds at the back -- one a stable appropriated to the mustang mare, another to so... |
All, with the house itself, structures of the rudest kind, unlike as possible to the dwelling-place of a lady, to say nought of an angel. |
This thought occurs to Wilder as he enters under its roof. But he has no time to dwell upon it. His wounded comrade is inside, to whom he is conducted. He finds the latter still alive -- thank God for that! -- but unconscious of all that is passing around. To the kindly words spoken in apostrophe he makes no reply, or ... |
The stalwart hunter sits down by his side, and stays there, tenderly nursing him. It glads him to observe there are others solicitous as himself -- to find that he and Hamersley have fallen among friends. Though also surprising him, as does the sort of people he sees around. First, there is a lady, easily recognised as... |
No wonder at his wondering, above all when he discovers that his comrade is already known to them -- to the younger of the two men, who is their host. This, however, is soon explained. Walt was already aware that the young prairie trader had made a former trip to New Mexico, when and where, as he is now told, the acqua... |
In return for this confidence he gives a detailed account of the caravan and its mischances -- of the great final misfortune, which explains to them why its owner and himself had been forced to take to the Staked Plain, and were there wandering about, helpless fugitives. |
To his narrative all three eagerly listen. But when he enlarges on the bravery of his young comrade, lying unconscious beside them, one bends upon the latter eyes that express an interest amounting to admiration. It is the "angel." |
In the days that succeed she becomes Walt's fellow-watcher by the bedside of the sufferer; and often again does he observe similar glances given to their common patient. Rough backwoodsman though he be, he can tell them to be looks of love. |
He thinks less about them because he has himself found something of like kind stealing over his thoughts. All his cares are not given to his invalided comrade; for in the hut is a fourth individual, whose habitual place is the cocina, coming and going, as occasion calls. |
A little brown-skinned beauty, half Spanish, half Pueblo Indian, whose black eyes have burnt a hole through his buckskin hunting-shirt, and set fire to his heart. Though but little more than half his height, in less than a week after making her acquaintance she has become his master, as much as if their stature were re... |
Walt does not want her for his mistress. No; the hunter is too noble, too honourable, for that His glance following her as she flits about the room, taking in her dainty shape, and the expression of her pretty face, always wreathed in smiles, he has but one single-hearted desire, to which he gives muttered expression, ... |
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