the intercepted letter.

colonel miranda, having told the tale of his perilous escape, for a time remains silent and reflective. so does his listener. both are thinking on the same subject—the villainy of gil uraga.

hamersley first breaks silence, asking the question,—

“did you get my letter?”

“what letter?”

“i wrote you only one. now i think of it, you could not have received it. no. by the time it would reach albuquerque, you must have been gone from there.”

“i got no letter from you, don francisco. you say you sent one. what was the nature of its contents?”

“nothing of any importance. merely to say that i was coming back to new mexico, and hoped to find you in good health.”

“did it particularise the time you expected to reach albuquerque?”

“yes; as far as i could fix that, if i remember rightly, it did.”

“and the route you were to take?”

“that too. when i wrote the letter i intended to make trial of a new trail lately discovered—up the canadian, and touching the northern end of the staked plain. i did make trial of it, alas! with lamentable result. but why do you ask these questions, colonel miranda?”

the colonel does not make immediate answer. he appears more meditative than ever, as though some question has come before his mind calling for deliberate examination.

while he is thus occupied the ex-ranger enters the room and sits down beside them. walt is welcome. indeed, don valerian had already designed calling him into their counsel. for an idea has occurred to the mexican colonel requiring the joint consideration of all three. turning to the other two, he says,—

“i’ve been thinking a good deal about the attack on your caravan. the more i reflect on it the more i am led to believe that some of the indians who plundered you were painted.”

“they were all painted,” is the reply of the young prairie merchant.

“true, don francisco; but that isn’t what i mean.”

“i reckon i knows what ye mean,” interposes the ex-ranger, rising excitedly from his chair on hearing the mexican’s remark. “it’s been my own suspeeshun all along. you know what i tolt ye, frank?”

hamersley looks interrogatively at his old comrade.

“did i not say,” continues wilder, “that i seed two men ’mong the injuns wi’ ha’r upon thar faces? they wa’n’t injuns; they war whites. a’n’t that what ye mean, kurnel meoranda?”

“precisamente!” is the colonel’s reply.

the other two wait for him to continue on with the explanation wilder has already surmised. even the young prairie merchant—less experienced in mexican ways and wickedness, in infamy so incredible—begins to have a glimmering of the truth.

seemingly weighing his words, miranda proceeds,—

“no doubt it was a band of comanche indians that destroyed your caravan and killed your comrades. but i have as little doubt of there being white men among them—one at least, and that one he who planned and instigated the deed.”

“who, colonel miranda?” is the quick interrogatory of the kentuckian, while with flashing eyes and lips apart he breathlessly awaits the answer. for all, he does not much need it; the name to be pronounced is on the tip of his own tongue.

it is again “gil uraga!”

“yes,” replies the mexican, with added emphasis. “he is, undoubtedly, the robber who despoiled you. though done in the guise of an indian onslaught, with real indians as his assistants, he has been their instructor—their leader. i see it all now clear as sunlight. he got your letter, which you say was addressed to me as colonel commanding at albuquerque. as a matter of course, he opened it. it told him when and where to meet you; your strength, and the value of your cargo. the last has not been needed as an incentive for him to assail you, don francisco. the mark you made upon his cheek was sufficient. didn’t i tell you at the time he would move heaven and earth to have revenge on you—on both of us? he has succeeded; behold his success. i a refugee, robbed of everything; you plundered the same; both ruined men!”

“not yet!” cries the kentuckian, starting to his feet. “not ruined yet, colonel miranda. if the thing be as you say, i shall seek a second interview with this scoundrel—this fiend; seek till i obtain it. and then—”

“hyur’s one,” interrupts the ex-ranger, unfolding his gigantic form with unusual rapidity, “who’ll take part in that sarch. yis, frank, this chile’s willin’ to go wi’ ye to the heart o’ mexiko, plum centre; to the halls o’ the montyzoomas; reddy to start this minnit.”

“if,” resumes hamersley, his coolness contrasting with the excited air of his comrade, now roused to a terrible indignation, “if, colonel miranda, it turns out as you conjecture, that gil uraga has taken part in the destruction of my waggon-train, or even been instrumental in causing it, i shall leave no stone unturned to obtain justice.”

“justice!” exclaims the ex-ranger, with a deprecatory toss of the head. “in case o’ this kind we want somethin’ beside. to think o’ thirteen innercent men attacked without word o’ warnin’, shot down, stabbed, slaughtered, and sculped! think o’ that; an’ don’t talk tamely o’ justice; let’s shout loudly for revenge!”