Nor did the rangers themselves come unscathed out of the fight; two had dropped out of their saddles, pierced by the Comanche spear; while nearly a dozen were more or less severely wounded by arrows.

While Quackenboss was climbing the cliff, Garey and I found time to talk over the strange incidents to which we had been witness. We were aided by explanations from below, but without these we had no difficulty in comprehending all.

The Indians were a band of Comanches, as their war-cry had already made known to us. Their arrival on the ground at that moment was purely accidental, so far as we or the Mexicans were concerned: it was a war-party, and upon the war-trail, with the intention of reiving a rich Mexican town on the other side of the Rio Grande, some twenty leagues from the rancheria. Their spy had discovered the horsemen by the mesa, and made them out to be Mexicans--a foe which the lordly Comanche holds in supreme contempt. Not so contemptible in his eyes are Mexican horses, silver-studded saddles, speckled serapes, mangas of fine cloth, bell-buttoned breeches, arms, and accoutrements: and it was to sweep this paraphernalia that the attack had been made; though hereditary hatred of the Spanish race--old as the conquest--and revenge for more recent wrongs, were of themselves sufficient motives to have impelled the Indians to their hostile attempt.

All this we learned from one of their braves, who remained wounded upon the ground, and who, upon closer examination, turned out to be a _ci-devant_ Mexican captive, now completely Indianised!

Fortunately for the Mexican town, the savages, thus checked, abandoned their design, and returned to their mountain fastnesses sadly humbled.

The rest of the affair was still of easier explanation to Garey and myself. Rube, as we conjectured, had arrived safe at the rancheria; and in ten minutes after his story had been told, fifty rangers, with Holingsworth at their head, rode rapidly for the mesa.

Rube had guided them with his usual craft. Like the Indians, they had been moving forward during the intervals of darkness; but, coming in the opposite direction, they had kept the mound between them and their foe, and, trusting to this advantage, were in hopes of taking the guerrilleros by surprise.

They had approached almost within charging distance, when the war-whoop of the savage sounded in their ears, and they were met by the retreating band.

Knowing that all who came that way must be enemies, they delivered their fire upon the approaching horsemen, and then galloping forward, found themselves face to face with the painted warriors of the plains.

The mutual surprise of rangers and Indians, caused by the unexpected rencontre, proved a happy circumstance for the cowardly guerrilla--who, during the short halt of their double pursuers, and the confused fight that followed, were enabled to gallop off beyond reach of pursuit.

It was a curious conjecture what would have been the result had the rangers not arrived on the ground. Certainly the Indians would have rescued us from our not less savage foes. My companion and I might have remained undiscovered, but we should have lost our precious horses. As it was, we were soon once more upon their backs; and, free from all thought of peril, now joyfully turned our faces towards the rancheria.

Wheatley rode by my side. Holingsworth with a party remained upon the ground to collect the "spoils" and bury our unfortunate comrades. As we moved away, I turned, and for a moment gazed back on the scene of strife. I saw Holingsworth dismounted on the plain. He was moving among the bodies of the five guerrilleros; one after another, he turned them over, till the moon glared upon their ghastly features. So odd were his movements, and so earnest did he appear, that one might have fancied him engaged in searching for a fallen friend, or more like some prowling robber intent upon stripping the dead!

But neither object was his--on the contrary, he was searching for a foe.

He found him not. After scanning the features of all five, he was seen to turn away, and the unconcerned manner in which he moved from the spot told that he who was sought was not among the slain.

"The news, Wheatley?"

"News, Cap! Grand news, by thunder! It appears we have been barking up the wrong tree--at least so thinks President Polk. They say we can't reach Mexico on this line; so we're all going to be drawn off, and shipped to some port farther down the gulf, Vera Cruz--I believe."

"Ah! grand news, indeed."

"I don't like it a bit," continued Wheatley; "the less so since it is rumoured that old 'Rough and Ready' is to be recalled, and we're to be commanded by that book martinet Scott. It's shabby treatment of Taylor, after what the old vet has accomplished. They're afraid of him setting up for President next go. Hang their politics! It's a confounded shame, by thunder!"

I could partly understand Wheatley's reluctance to be ordered upon the new line of operations. The gay lieutenant was never troubled with ennui; his leisure hours he contrived to pass pleasantly enough in company with Conchita, the plump, dark-eyed daughter of the alcalde; more than once, I had unwittingly interrupted them in their amorous dalliance. The rancheria with its mud huts and dusty lanes, in the eyes of the Texan, was a city of gilded palaces, its streets paved with gold.

It was Wheatley's heaven, and Conchita was the angel who inhabited it.

Little as either he or I had liked the post at first, neither of us desired a change of quarters.

As yet, no order had arrived to call the picket in, but my companion affirmed that the camp-rumour was a substantial one, and believed that we might expect such a command at any moment.

"What say they of me?" I inquired.

"Of you, Cap? Why, nothing. What do you expect them to say of you?"

"Surely there has been some talk about my absence?"

"Oh, that! No, not a word, at least at head-quarters, for the simple reason, that you're not yet reported missing."

"Ah! that is good news; but how--"

"Why, the truth is, Holingsworth and I thought we might serve you better by keeping the thing dark--at all events, till we should be sure you were dead lost. We hadn't given up all hope. The greaser who guided you out, brought back word that two trappers had gone after you. From his description, I knew that queer old case Rube, and was satisfied that if anything remained of you, he was the man to find it."

"Thanks, my friend! you have acted wisely; your discreet conduct will save me a world of mortification."

"No other news?" I inquired after a pause.

"No," said Wheatley, "none worth telling. Oh, yes!" he continued, suddenly recollecting himself, "there is a bit. You remember those hang-dog greasers that used to loaf about the village when we first came? Well, they're gone, by thunder! every mother's son of them clean _vamosed_ from the place, and not a grease-spot left of them. You may walk through the whole settlement without seeing a Mexican, except the old men and the women. I asked the alcalde where they had cleared to; but the old chap only shook his head, and drawled out his eternal 'Quien sabe?' Of course they're off to join some band of guerrillas. By thunder! when I think of it, I wouldn't wonder if they were among that lot we've just scattered. Sure as shootin' they are! I saw Holingsworth examine the five dead ones as we rode off. He'll know them, I guess, and can tell us if any of our old acquaintances are among them."

Knowing more of this matter than Wheatley himself, I enlightened him as to the guerrilleros and their leader.

"Thought so, by thunder! Rafael Ijurra! No wonder Holingsworth was so keen to start--in such a hurry to reach the mound, he forgot to tell me who we were after. Deuce take it! what fools we've been to let these fellows slide. We should have strung up every man of them when we first reached the place--we should, by thunder!"

For some minutes, we rode on in silence. Twenty times a question was upon my lips but I refrained from putting it, in hopes that Wheatley might have something more to tell me--something of more interest than aught he had yet communicated. He remained provokingly silent.

With the design of drawing him out, I assumed a careless air, and inquired--

"Have we had no visitors at the post? Any one from the camp?"

"Not a soul," replied he, and again relapsed into meditative silence.

"No visitors whatever? Has no one inquired for _me_?" I asked, determined to come boldly to the point.

"No," was the discouraging reply.--"Oh, stay: oh, ah--yes, indeed!" he added, correcting himself, while I could perceive that he spoke in a peculiar tone. "Yes, you _were_ inquired for."

"By whom?" asked I, in a careless drawl.

"Well, that I can't tell," answered the lieutenant in an evident tone of badinage; "but there appears to be _somebody_ mighty uneasy about you.

A slip of a Mexican boy has been backward and forward something less than a million of times. It's plain somebody sends the boy; but he's a close little shaver that same--he won't tell either who sends him, or what's his business: he only inquires if you have returned, and looks dead down in the mouth when he's told no. I have noticed that he comes and goes on the _road that leads to the hacienda_."

The last words were spoken with a distinct emphasis. "We might have arrested the little fallow as a spy," continued Wheatley, in a tone of quiet irony, "but we fancied he might have been sent by some friend of yours."

The speaker concluded with another marked emphasis, and under the moonlight I could see a smile playing across his features. More than once I had "chaffed" my lieutenant about Conchita; he was having his revenge.

I was not in a mood to take offence; my companion could have taken any liberty with me at that moment--his communication had fallen like sweet music upon my ears; and I rode forward with the proud consciousness that I was not forgotten. Isolina was true.

Soon after, my eyes rested upon a shining object; it was the gilded vane of the little capilla, and beneath glistened the white vails of the hacienda, bathed in the milky light of the moon. My heart beat with strange emotions as I gazed upon the well-known mansion, and thought of the lovely jewel which that bright casket contained.

Was she asleep? Did she dream? Of what--of whom, was she dreaming?

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

DUTCH LIGE IN A DIFFICULTY.

The soft blue light of morning was just perceptible along the eastern horizon as we rode into the rancheria. I no longer felt hunger. Some of the more provident of the rangers had brought with them well-filled haversacks, and had made me welcome to the contents. From their canteens I had satisfied my thirst, and Wheatley as usual carried his free flask.