dread conjectures.

it is wilder who so emphatically proclaims the character of the cavalcade. he has no need, hamersley having already made it out himself.

“yes; they are soldiers,” he rejoins, mechanically, adding, “mexican, as a matter of course. none of our troops ever stray this fair west. ’tis out of united states territory. the texans claim it. but those are not texans: they are uniformed, and carry lances. your old friends, the rangers, don’t affect that sort of thing.”

“no,” responds wilder, with a contemptuous toss of the head, “i shedn’t think they did. we niver tuk to them long sticks; ’bout as much use as bean-poles. in coorse they’re mexikins, lanzeeros.”

“what can they be doing out here? there are no indians on the staked plain. if there were, such a small party as that, taking it to be mexican, would not be likely to venture after them.”

“maybe it’s only a advance guard, and thar’s a bigger body behint. we shell soon see, as they’re ridin’ deerect this way. by the ’tarnal, ’twon’t do to let ’em sight us; leastwise, not till we’ve seen more o’ them, an’ know what sort they air. white men tho’ they call themselves, i’d a’most as soon meet injuns. they’d be sure to take us for texans; and ’bout me there’d be no mistake in that. but they’d treet you the same, an’ thar treetment ain’t like to be civil. pull yur mule well back among the bushes. let’s blind the brutes, or they may take it into their heads to squeal.”

the hybrids are led back into the grove, tied, and zapadoed—the last operation performed by passing a blanket, mask fashion, over their eyes. this done, the two men return to the edge of the copse, keeping themselves screened behind the outstanding trees.

in their absence the moving cohort has drawn nearer, and still advances. but slowly, and, as when first sighted, enveloped in a cloud of dust. only now and then, as the wind wafts this aside, can be distinguished the forms of the individuals composing it. then but for an instant, the dust again drifting around them.

still the nimbus draws nigher, and is gradually approaching the spot where the travellers had concealed themselves.

at first only surprised at seeing soldiers on the staked plain, they soon become seriously alarmed. the troop is advancing towards the black-jack grove, apparently intending it for a place of bivouac; if so, there will be no chance for them to escape observation. the soldiers will scatter about, and penetrate every part of the copse. equally idle to attempt flight on their slow-footed animals, pursued by over two score of cavalry horses.

they can see no alternative but surrender, submit to be made prisoners, and receive such treatment as their captors may think fit to extend to them.

while thus despairingly reflecting, they take note of something that restores their disturbed equanimity. it is the direction in which the mexicans are marching. the cloud moving in slow, stately progress does not approach any nearer to the copse. evidently the horsemen do not design halting there, but will ride past, leaving it on their left.

they are, in truth, passing along the same path from which the travellers have late deflected; only in the counter direction.

now, for the first time, a suspicion occurs to hamersley, shared by the texan, giving both far greater uneasiness than if the soldiers were heading direct towards them.

it is further intensified as a fresh spurt of the desert wind sweeps the dust away, displaying in clear light the line of marching horsemen. no question as to their character now. there they are, with their square-peaked corded caps, and plumes of horsehair; their pennoned spears sloped over their shoulders; their yellow cloaks folded and strapped over the cantles of their saddles; sabres lying along thighs, clinking against spurs and stirrups—all the picturesque panoply of lancers.

it is not this that strikes dismay into the minds of those who are spectators, for it is now struck into their heart of hearts. on one figure of the cavalcade the eyes of both become fixed; he who rides at its head.

their attention had been first attracted to his horse, wilder gasping out, soon as he set eyes on the animal, “look yonner, frank!”

“at what?”

“the fellur ridin’ foremost. d’ye see the anymal he’s on? it’s the same we war obleeged to abandon on takin’ to the rocks.”

“by heavens! my horse!”

“yurs, to a sartinty.”

“and his rider! the man i fought with at chihuahua, the ruffian uraga!”

on recognising his antagonist in the duel, the kentuckian gives out a groan. the texan, too. for on both the truth flashes in all its fulness—all its terrible reality.

it is not the possession of hamersley’s horse, identifying its rider with the destroyers of the caravan. that is nothing new, and scarce surprises them. what pains—agonises them—is the direction in which the soldiers are proceeding.

they can have no doubt as to the purpose of the military march, or the point to which it is tending.

“yes,” says walt, “they’re strikin’ straight fur the valley, goin’ ’ithout guess-work, too. thar’s a guide along, an’ thar’s been a treetur.”

“who do you think?”

“that injun, manoel. ye remember he went on a errand ’bout a week ago, to fetch them some things that war needed. instead, he’s made diskivery o’ the hidin’ place o’ his master, and sold that master’s head. that’s what he’s did, sure.”

“it is,” mutters hamersley, in a tone that tells of affliction too deep for speech. before his mind is a fearful forecast. don valerian a prisoner to uraga and his ruffians—don prospero, too; both to be dragged back to albuquerque and cast into a military prison. perhaps worse still—tried by court-martial soon as captured, and shot as soon as tried. nor is this the direst of his previsions. there is one darker—adela in the company of a ribald crew, surrounded by the brutal soldiery, powerless, unprotected—she his own dear one, now his betrothed! overcome by his emotions he remains for some time silent, scarce heeding the remarks of his comrade. one, however, restores his attention.

“i tolt ye so,” says walt. “see! yonner’s the skunk himself astride o’ a mule at the tail o’ the gang.”

hamersley directs his eyes to the rear of the outstretched rank. there, sure enough, is a man on muleback, dressed differently from the troopers. the coarse woollen tilma, and straw hat, he remembers as having been worn by one of mirander’s male domestics. he does not identify the man. but walt’s recollection of his rival is clearer, and he has no doubt that he on the mule is manuel. nor, for that matter, has hamersley. the peon’s presence is something to assist in the explanation. it clears up everything.

hamersley breathes hard as the dark shadows sweep through his soul. for a long time absorbed in thought, he utters scarce an ejaculation. only after the lancer troop has passed, its rearmost files just clearing the alignment of the copse, he gasps out, in a voice husky as that of one in the act of being strangled,—

“they’re going straight for the place. o god!”

“yes,” rejoins the ex-ranger, in a tone like despondent, “thar boun’ thar for sartint. the darned creetur’s been tempted by the blood-money set on kumel miranda’s head, an’ air too like to git it. they’ll grup him, sure; an’s like as not gie him the garota. poor gentleman! he air the noblest mexikin i iver sot eyes on, an’ desarves a better fate. as for the ole doc, he may get off arter sarvin’ a spell in prison, an’ the saynorita—”

a groan from hamersley interrupts the remark. his comrade, perceiving how much he is pained, modifies what he meant to say.

“thar’s no need to be so much afeard o’ what may happen to her. she ain’t goin’ to be rubbed out, anyhow; an’ if she hasn’t no brother to purtect her, i reckon she’s got a frien’ in you, frank. an’ hyar’s another o’ the same, as they say in the psalms o’ davit.”

walt’s words have a hopeful sound. hamersley is cheered by them, but replies not. he only presses the hand of his comrade in silent and grateful grasp.

“yis,” continues the ex-ranger with increased emphasis, “i’d lay down my life to save that young lady from harum, as i know you’d lay down yourn. an’ thet air to say nothin’ o’ my own gurl. this chile ain’t niver been much guv to runnin’ arter white wheemen, an’ war gen’rally content to put up wi’ a squaw. but sech as them! as for yourn, i don’t wonder yur heart beats like a chased rabbit’s; myen air doin’ the same for concheeter. wal, niver fear! ef thar’s a hair o’ eyther o’ thar heads teched, you’ll hear the crack o’ walt wilder’s rifle, and see its bullet go into the breast o’ him as harms ’em. i don’t care who or what he air, or whar he be. nor i don’t care a durn—not the valley of a dried buffler-chip—what may come arter—hangin’, garrotin’, or shootin’. at all risks, them two sweet creeturs air bound to be protected from harum; an ef it comes, they shall be reevenged. i swar that, by the eturnal!”

“i join you in the oath,” pronounces hamersley, with emphatic fervour, once more exchanging a hand-squeeze with his companion. “yes, walt; the brave miranda may be sacrificed—i fear it must be so. but for his sister, there is still a hope that we may save her; and surely heaven will help us. if not, i shall be ready to die. ah! death would be easier to bear than the loss of adela!”

“an’ for this chile the same, rayther than he shed lose concheeter.”