the camp transformed.
another sun rises over the llano estacado, his beams gilding with ruddy glow the brown basaltic cliffs that enclose the valley of the arroyo de alamo.
on projecting points of these, above the spot chosen by uraga for his camp, the black vultures are still perched. though ’tis not their usual roosting-place, they have remained there all night, now and then giving utterance to their hoarse, guttural croaks, when some howling, predatory quadruped—coyote or puma—approaching too near, has startled them from their dozing slumbers. as the first rays of the sun rouse them to activity, their movements tell why they have stayed. no longer at rest, or only at intervals, they flit from rock to rock, and across the valley from cliff to cliff, at times swooping so low that their wings almost touch the topmost twigs of the trees growing upon the banks of the stream. all the while with necks astretch, and eyes glaring in hungry concupiscence. for below they perceive the materials of a repast—a grand, gluttonous feast—no longer in doubtful expectation, but now surely provided for them.
ten men lie prostrate upon the sward; not asleep, as the vultures well know—nor yet reclining to rest themselves. their attitudes are evidence against this. they lie with bodies bent and limbs stiff, some of them contorted to unnatural postures. besides, on the grass-blades around are drops and gouts of blood, grown black during the night, looking as if it had rained ink; while little pools of the same are here and there seen, dull crimson and coagulated.
from these sanguinary symbols the vultures are well aware that the recumbent forms are neither asleep nor reposing. every bird knows that every man of them is dead; and, though still clad in the uniform of soldiers, with all the gay insignia of lancers, they are but clay-cold corpses.
it is the firing party, still lying as it fell; not a figure disturbed, not a coat stripped off nor pocket rifled; no strap, plume, or pennon displaced since the moment when all dropped dead almost simultaneously at the detonation of the rangers’ rifles.
except the tents, which are still set as before, this cluster of corpses is the only thing seeming unchanged since yesterday’s sun went down. for it was after sunset when the pursuers returned, bringing their prisoners along with them. as on yesterday, two captives are seen under the same tree, where late lay don valerian and the doctor. but different men, with quite another style of sentry standing over them. the latter, a rough-garbed, big-bearded texan, full six feet in height, shouldering a gun whose butt, when rested on the ground, places the muzzle within an inch of his chin. no need to say who are the two he is guarding. at his feet uraga lies, crestfallen, with a craven look upon his face, like a fox in the trap; his splendid habiliments torn, mud-bedaubed, bedraggled. besides him his adjutant, roblez—his confederate in many a crime—also showing signs of having received rough treatment, but not without resenting it. his aspect is that of a tiger encaged, chafing at the torture, regardless of what may be the end. on the camp ground are seen some sixty horses with half-a-dozen mules. about fifty of the former are under saddle and bridle, as if soon to be mounted. the others have lariats around their necks, intended to be led.
a few men—those of inferior standing—look after the animals; while the larger number is gathered into a group near the centre of the camp ground. their air, attitudes, earnest speech, and excited gesticulations tell they are taking counsel on some matter of serious import.
walt wilder is among them, hamersley being absent. the latter is inside the square tent, in pleasanter companionship.
he is seated upon a catré, adela by his side, her hand clasping his. this without any bashfulness or reserve at her brother being present. which he is, along with the dear old doctor, both now released from their bonds. it is a tableau of true love, wreathed with fraternal affection.
with devotion also, of an humbler kind, conchita is passing out and in, rejoicing in a general way. she pays no attention to a peon who lies tied behind the tent—josé; and gives only scorn to another seen fast bound beside him—manuel.
notwithstanding her knowledge that this man is madly in love with her—for she now also knows how much he has been a traitor—her thoughts, as her eyes, are upon one more true—on her grand, gallant tejano! she is proud to observe the distinguished part he plays among his compaisanos. for, in truth, walt is doing this. standing a half head taller than any of the rangers around him, he is alike leader in their deliberations, those the most serious in which men can be engaged.
no question of life and death. it has been, but is no longer. the latter has been unanimously decreed, the verdict declared, the sentence pronounced. their talk now only relates to the manner of execution.
the ranger captain, who presides, puts the interrogatory thus:
“well, boys, what are we to do with them? shoot or hang?”
“hang!” is the response from more than a majority of voices.
“shootin’ is too clean a death for scoundrels sech as them,” is the commentary of a voice recognisable as that of nat cully.
“they ought to be scalped, skinned, an’ quartered,” adds a man disposed to severer punishment.
“yes!” affirms another of the like inclining. “a bit of torture wouldn’t be more than the rascals deserve.”
“come, comrades!” cries the ranger captain. “remember, we are texans, and not savages like those we’re about to punish. sufficient to send them out of the world without acting inhumanly. you all declare for hanging?”
“all!”
“enough! where shall we string them up?”
“yonner’s a pick spot,” responds wilder, pointing out the two trees to which don valerian and the doctor had been lately lashed. “they kin each hev a branch separate, so’s not to crowd one the t’other in makin’ tracks to etarnity.”
“jest the place!” endorses cully. “kedn’t be a better gallis if the sheriff o’ pike county, massoury, had rigged it up hisself. we’ll gie ’em a tree apiece, as they war about to do wi’ thar innocent prisoners. takin’ their places’ll be turn an’ turn about. that’s fair, i reckin.”
“boys!” cries walt, “look out a cupple o’ layvettes, an’ fetch ’em this way.”
several start towards the horse-drove, and soon return with the trail-ropes. then all proceed towards the two trees. each chances to have a large limb extending horizontally outward from the trunk. over each a tazo is flung, one end left loose, the other remaining in the hand of him who pitched it. before flinging them the rope has been passed through the iron ring with which all lariats are provided, thus furnishing a ready-made running noose.
“who’s to haul up?” asks the ranger captain; adding, “boys! ’taint a nice business, i know; but i suppose there’s some of you willing to undertake it.”
some of them!
forty voices, nearly all present, are heard crying out with one accord—
“i’m willing!”
in fact, every man upon the ground seems eager to take part in a duty which, under other circumstances, would be not only disagreeable, but disgusting to them. rough, rude men as most of the rangers are, little prone to delicate sentimentalism, they are, nevertheless, true to the ordinary instincts of humanity. accustomed to seeing blood spilled, and not squeamish about spilling it if it be that of a red-skinned foe, it is different when the complexion is white.
in the present case they have no scruples on the score of colour. what has been told them about their two prisoners—the atrocities these have committed—puts all this aside. the tale has made a profound impression upon their minds; and, beyond any motive of mere revenge, they are stirred by a sense of just retribution. every man of them feels as if it were his sacred duty to deal out justice, and administer the punishment of death to criminals so surely deserving it.
