“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.