approaching the prey.
were we gifted with clairvoyance, it might at times spare us much misery, thought at other times it would make it. perhaps ’tis better we are as we are.
were frank hamersley and walt wilder, keeping watch on the summit of the mound, possessed of second sight, they would not think of remaining there throughout all the night—not for an hour—nay, not so much as a minute, for they would be aware that within less than ten miles of them is a party of men with friendly hearts and strong arms, both at their disposal for the very purpose they now need such. enough of them to strike uraga’s lancers and scatter them like chaff.
and could the man commanding these but peep over the precipitous escarpment of the llano estacado and see those stalwart texans bivouacked below, he would descend into the valley with less deliberation, and make greater haste to retire out of it. he and his know nothing of the formidable foes so near, any more than hamersley and wilder suspect the proximity of such powerful friends. both are alike unconscious that the texans are encamped within ten miles. yet they are; for the gorge at whose mouth they have halted is the outlet of the valley stream, where it debouches upon the texan plain.
without thought of being interfered with, the former proceed upon their ruthless expedition; while the latter have no alternative but await its issue. they do so with spirits impatiently chafing, and hearts sorely agonised.
both are alike apprehensive for what next day’s sun will show them—perchance a dread spectacle.
neither shuts eye in sleep. with nerves excited and bosoms agitated they lie awake, counting the hours, the minutes; now and then questioning the stars as to the time.
they converse but little, and only in whispers. the night is profoundly still. the slightest sound, a word uttered above their breath, might betray them.
they can distinctly hear the talk of the lancers left below. hamersley, who understands their tongue, can make out their conversation. it is for the most part ribald and blasphemous, boasts of their bonnes fortunes with the damsels of the del norte, commingled with curses at this ill-starred expedition that for a time separates them from their sweethearts.
among them appears a gleam greater than the ignited tips of their cigarittos. ’tis the light of a candle which they have stuck up over a serape spread along the earth. several are seen clustering around it; while their conversation tells that they are relieving the dull hours with a little diversion. they are engaged in gambling, and ever and anon the cries, “soto en la puerta!” “cavallo mozo!” ascending in increased monotone, proclaim it to be the never-ending national game of montè.
meanwhile uraga, with the larger body of the lancers, has got down into the glen, and is making way towards the point aimed at. he proceeds slowly and with caution. this for two distinct reasons—the sloping path is difficult even by day, at night requiring all the skill of experienced riders to descend it. still with the traitor at their head, who knows every step, they gradually crawl down the cliff, single file, again forming “by twos” as they reach the more practicable causeway below.
along this they continue to advance in silence and like caution. neither the lancer colonel nor his lieutenant has forgotten the terrible havoc made among the tenawas by the two men who survived that fearful affray, and whom they may expect once more to meet. they know that both have guns—the traitor has told them so—and that, as before, they will make use of them. therefore uraga intends approaching stealthily, and taking them by surprise. otherwise he may himself be the first to fall—a fate he does not wish to contemplate. but there can be no danger, he fancies as he rides forward. it is now the mid-hour of night, a little later, and the party to be surprised will be in their beds. if all goes well he may seize them asleep.
so far everything seems favourable. no sound comes from the direction of the lonely dwelling, not even the bark of a watch dog. the only noises that interrupt the stillness of the night are the lugubrious cry of the coyoté and the wailing note of the whip-poor-will; these, at intervals blending with the sweeter strain of the tzenzontle—the mexican nightingale—intermittently silenced as the marching troop passes near the spot where it is perched.
once more, before coming in sight of the solitary jacal, uraga commands a halt. this time to reconnoitre, not to rest or stay. the troopers sit in their saddles, with reins ready to be drawn; like a flock of vultures about to unfold their wings for the last swoop upon their victims—to clutch, tear, kill, do with them as they may wish!
