Chapter Forty Eight.
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.