into the storm.
lightning flashes, thunder rolls, wind bellows, and rain pours down in sheets, as if from sluices; for the storm is still raging as furiously as ever. into it have rushed the two, regardless of all.
the texans are astounded—for a time some of them still believing both men mad. but soon it is seen they are acting with method, making straight for the horses, while shouting and gesticulating for the rangers to come after.
these do not need either the shouts or signs to be repeated. walt’s old comrades know he must have reason, and, disregarding the tempest, they strike out after. their example is electric, and in ten seconds the jacal is empty.
in ten more they are among their horses, drawing in the trail-ropes and bridling them.
before they can get into their saddles they are made aware of what it is all about.
hamersley and walt, already mounted and waiting, make known to the ranger captain the cause of their hurried action, apparently so eccentric. a few words suffice.
“the way out,” says the kentuckian, “is up yonder ravine, along the bed of the stream that runs through. when it rains as it’s doing now, then the water suddenly rises and fills up the channel, leaving no room, no road. if we don’t get out quick we may be kept here for days.”
“yis, boys!” adds wilder, “we’ve got to climb the stairs right smart, rain or shine, storm or no storm. hyar’s one off for the upper storey, fast as his critter kin carry him.”
while speaking, he jobs his heels against the ribs of his horse—for he is now mounted on one, as also hamersley—supernumeraries of the texan troop. then, dashing off, with the kentuckian by his side, they are soon under the trees and out of sight. not of the rangers, who, themselves now in the saddle, spur after in straggling line, riding at top speed.
once again the place is deserted, for, despite their precipitate leave-taking, the texans have carried the prisoners along with them. no living thing remains by the abandoned dwelling. the only sign of human occupation is the smoke that ascends through its kitchen chimney, and from the camp fires outside, these gradually getting extinguished by the downpour.
still the lightning flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and the rain pours down as from dishes. but not to deter the texans, who, drenched to their shirts, continue to ride rapidly on up the valley road. there is in reality no road, only a trail made by wild animals, occasionally trodden by the domesticated ones belonging to colonel miranda; later still by uraga’s lancers.
soaked by the rain, it has become a bed of mud, into which the horses of the rangers sink to their saddle girths, greatly impeding their progress. whip and spur as they may, they make but slow time. the animals baulk, plunge, stumble, some going headforemost into the mire, others striking their shoulders against the thick-standing trees, doing damage to themselves and their riders. for with the norther still clouding the sky, it is almost dark as night.
other dangers assail them from falling trees. some go down bodily before the blast, while from others great branches are broken off by the wind, and strike crashing across the path. one comes near crushing half a dozen horsemen under its broad, spreading avalanche of boughs.
notwithstanding all, they struggle on fearlessly, and fast as they can, hamersley and wilder at their head, haynes, cully, and the best mounted of the troop close following. walt and the kentuckian well know the way. otherwise, in the buffeting of that terrible storm, they might fail to find it.
they succeed in keeping it, on to the head of the valley, where the stream comes in between the cliffs. a tiny runlet as they last looked upon it—a mere brook, pellucid and sparkling as the sand on its bed. now it is a torrent, deep, red and roaring; only white on its surface, where the froth sweeps on, clouting the cliffs on each side. against these it has risen quite six feet, and still creeps upward. it has filled the channel from side to side, leaving not an inch of roadway between the river and rock.
to wade it would be impossible; to attempt swimming it destruction. the staunchest steed could not stem its surges. even the huge river-horse of africa would be swept off his feet and tossed to the surface like one of its froth-flakes.
arriving on its edge, hamersley sees this at a glance. as he checks up his horse, the exclamation that leaps from his lips more resembles the anguished cry of a man struggling in the torrent than one seated safely in a saddle on its bank.
after it, he gives utterance to two words in sad despairing tone, twice repeated,—
“too late—too late!”
again repeated by walt wilder, and twenty times again by a score of the rangers who have ridden up, and reined their horses crowdingly behind.
there is no response save echo from the rocks, scarce audible through the hoarse sough of the swollen surging stream, that rolls relentlessly by, seeming to say, as in scorn, “ford me! swim across me if you can!”
