“How?” inquire several voices.
“Wal, thar’s a way Nat Cully an’ me hev been speaking o’. I’ve heern o’ them Mexikins practisin’ themselves on thar Injun prisoners for sport. We’ll gie’ ’em a dose o’ their own medicine. Some o’ you fellows go an’ fetch a kupple o’ pack mules. Ye may take the saddles off—they won’t be needed.”
Half-a-dozen of the Rangers rush out, and return leading two mules, having hastily stripped off their alparejas.
“Now!” cries Walt, “conduct hyar the kriminals!”
A party proceeds to the spot where the two prisoners lie; and taking hold, raise them to an erect attitude. Then, half carrying, half dragging, bring them under the branches designed for their gallows-tree.
With their splendid uniforms torn, mud-bedaubed, and stained with spots of blood, they present a sorry spectacle. They resemble wounded wolves, taken in a trap; nevertheless, bearing their misfortune in a far different manner. Roblez looks the large, grey wolf—savage, reckless, unyielding; Uraga, the coyote—cowed, crestfallen, shivering; in fear of what may follow.
For a time neither speaks a word nor makes an appeal for mercy. They seem to know it would be idle. Regarding the faces around, they may well think so. There is not one but has “death” plainly stamped upon it, as if the word itself were upon every lip.
There is an interval of profound silence, only broken by the croak of the buzzards and the swish of their spread wings. The bodies of the dead lancers lie neglected; and, the Rangers now further off, the birds go nearer them. Wolves, too, begin to show themselves by the edge of the underwood—from the stillness thinking the time arrived to commence their ravenous repast. It has but come to increase the quantity of food soon to be spread before them.
“Take off thar leg fastenin’s!” commands Wilder, pointing to the prisoners.
In a trice the lashings are loosed from their ankles, and only the ropes remain confining their wrists—these drawn behind their backs, and there made fast.