He is now hastening on to the relief of his comrade, happy in the thought of being able soon to relieve him also from his sufferings.
Striding lightly among the sage-bushes, and looking ahead for the landmark that should guide him, he at length catches sight of it. The palmilla, standing like a huge porcupine upon the plain, cannot be mistaken; and he descries it at more than a mile’s distance, the shadow of his own head already flickering among its bayonet-like blades.
Just then something else comes under his eyes, which at once changes the expression upon his countenance. From gay it grows grave, serious, apprehensive. A flock of buzzards, seemingly scared by his shadow, have suddenly flapped up from among the sage-plants, and are now soaring around, close to the spikes of the palmilla. They have evidently been down upon the earth. And what have they been doing there?
It is this question, mentally put by Walt Wilder, that has caused the quick change in his countenance—the result of a painful conjecture.
“Marciful heavens!” he exclaims, suddenly making halt, the gun almost dropping from his grasp. “Kin it be possyble? Frank Hamersley gone under! Them buzzards! They’ve been upon the groun’ to a sartinty. Darnashin! what ked they a been doin’ down thar? Right by the bunch o’ palmetto, jest whar I left him. An’ no sign o’ himself to be seen? Marciful heavens! kin it be possyble they’ve been—?”
Interrupting himself, he remains motionless, apparently paralysed by apprehension, mechanically scanning the palmilla, as though from it he expected an answer to his interrogatory.
“It air possyble,” he continues after a time, “too possyble—too likesome. He war well-nigh done up, poor young fellur; an’ no wonder. Whar is he now? He must be down by the side o’ the bush—down an’ dead. Ef he war alive, he’d be lookin’ out for me. He’s gone under; an’ this deer-meat, this water, purcured to no purpiss. I mout as well fling both away; they’ll reach him too late.”
Once more resuming his forward stride, he advanced towards the dark mass above which the vultures are soaring. His shadow, still by a long distance preceding him, has frightened the birds higher up into the air, but they show no signs of going altogether away. On the contrary, they keep circling around, as if they had already commenced a repast, and, driven off, intend returning to it.
On what have they been banqueting? On the body of his comrade? What else can be there?
Thus questioning himself, the ex-Ranger advances, his heart still aching with apprehension. Suddenly his eye alights on the piece of paper impaled upon the topmost spike of the palmilla. The sight gives him relief, but only for an instant; his conjectures again leading him astray.