A wild cry ascends simultaneously from the whole troop as they face round towards the renegade, who is still with them, and their prisoner. The wretch turns pale, as if all the blood of his body were abruptly drawn out. Without comprehending the exact import of that cry, he can read in fifty pairs of eyes glaring angrily on him that his last hour has come.
The Rangers can have no doubt as to whom the letter has been addressed, as they can also tell why it has miscarried. For the renegade has already disclosed his name, not thinking it would thus strangely turn up to condemn him to death.
Yes—to death; for, although promised life, with only the punishment of a prison, these conditions related to another criminality, and were granted without the full knowledge of his guilt—of connivance at a crime unparalleled for atrocity. His judges feel absolved from every stipulation of pardon or mercy; and, summoning to the judgment seat the quick, stem decreer—Lynch—in less than five minutes after the trembling wretch is launched into eternity!
There is reason for this haste. They know that the letter has miscarried; but he who could dictate such a damnable epistle is a wild beast at large, who cannot be too soon destroyed.
Leaving the body of Barbato to be devoured by wolves and vultures, they spur on along the Pecos, only drawing bridle to breathe their horses as the trail turns up at the bottom of a confluent creek—the Arroyo de Alamo.
Chapter Seventy.
A Scheme of Atrocity.
Discomfited—chagrined by his discomfiture—burning with shame at the pitiful spectacle he has afforded to his followers—Uraga returns within his tent like an enraged tiger. Not as one robbed of its prey—he is still sure of this as ever; for he has other strings to his bow, and the weak one just snapped scarce signifies.