Cyprio bore back my parting message.

At midnight Holingsworth and his party came in from the scout. Nothing had been seen of the guerrilla.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

THE ROUTE.

It was a struggle between Aurora and the moon which of them should rule the sky, when our bugle rang its clear _reveille_, rousing the rangers from their slumber, and startling their steeds at the stall. The goddess of morning soon triumphed, and under her soft blue light, men and horses could be seen moving about, until the bugle again sounded-- this time to "boot and saddle"--and the rangers began to form in the piazza, and prepare for the route.

A single wagon with its white tilt and long team of mules, already "hitched up," stood near the centre of the square. It constituted the whole baggage-train of the corps, and served as an ambulance for our invalids. Both baggage and sick had been safely stowed, and the vehicle was ready for the road. The bugler, already in his saddle, awaited orders to sound the "forward."

I had climbed to my favourite "smoking-room," the azotea. Perhaps it was the last time I should ever set foot on those painted tiles. My eyes wandered over the piazza, though I little heeded what was passing there. Only the salient points of the picture were noted by me--steeds under saddle and bridle; men buckling on folded blankets, holsters, and valises; a few already in the saddle; a few more standing by the heads of their horses, and still another few grouped round the door of the _pulperia_, having a last drink of _mezcal_ or _Catalan_ with their swarthy Mexican acquaintances.

Here and there, in front of some adobe hut, might be observed a more tender leave-taking. The ranger fully equipped--with arms, haversack, and canteen--leaning against the heavy bars of a window, his face turned inward, as though he was talking to some prisoner through the grating of a jail. But he is himself the real captive, ensnared during his short sojourn, and still held in chains by the olive-skinned _poblana_, whose dark liquid eyes may be seen on the other side of the reja, flashing with love, or melting with sad tenderness at the prospect of parting.

Others, again, are bidding their _adios_ in retired corners, under the shadow of the church walls, or in groups of four or five more openly in the piazza itself. Early as is the hour, the people have all arisen; and not a few of the brown, rebosa-clad, short-skirted wenches are already on their way, _jarro_ on crown, to the fountain. There the pitchers are filled, and lifted on their heads--perhaps for the last time--by the rangers, who perform the office with all the rude grace in their power. Then follows a profusion of smiles and bows, and a dialogue, on the ranger's part extending to the whole of his Spanish, which consists of the phrase--

"Mucho bueno, muchacha!"

The usual reply, accompanied with a display of pretty white teeth, is--

"Mucho bueno, cavallero! mucho bueno, Tejano!" given in like ungrammatical phrase, in order that it may be intelligible to the person to whom it is addressed.

I have often been surprised at the success of my great uncouth followers with these _petite_ dark-eyed damsels of Anahuac; but, indeed, many of the rangers are not bad-looking men. On the contrary, there are handsome fellows among them, if they were only put into clean shirts, and a little more closely shaven. But woman's eye is keen-sighted in such matters: she easily penetrates through the disguise of dust, the bronze of sun-tan, and the shaggy mask of an ill-kept beard; and no eye is quicker in this respect than that of the fair Mexicana. In the big, apparently rude, individual, called a "ranger," she beholds a type of strength and courage, a heart that can cherish, and an arm that can protect her. These are qualities that, from all time, have won the love of woman.

It is evident they are not all friends whom we are leaving behind us.

Hostile faces may be observed, many of them peering from open doors or windows. Here and there a sulky lepero swings about in his blanket, or cowers by the corner of the street, scowling savagely from under his broad-brimmed hat. Most of this class are absent--as long since ascertained--with the guerrilla; but a few still remain to give shadow to the picture. They regard the approaches towards their women with ill-concealed anger; and would resent this politeness if they dared.

They confine the exhibition of their spite to the dastardly meanness of ill-treating the women themselves, whenever they have an opportunity.

No later than the night before, one of them was detected in beating his sweetheart or mistress for the crime, as was alleged, of dallying too long in the company of a Tejano. The Tejano, in this case, took the law into his own hands, and severely chastised the jealous _pelado_.

Even in the hurried glance which I gave to these scenes of leave-taking, I could not help noticing an expression on the faces of some of the young girls that had in it a strange significance. It was something more than sadness: it was more like the uneasy look that betokens apprehension.

Perhaps the state of mind I was in magnified my perceptions. At that moment, a struggle was passing in my own breast, and a feeling of irresolution lay heavy upon me. All night long had my mind dwelt upon the same thought--the danger that menaced my betrothed--all night long I had been occupied with plans to avert it; but no reasonable scheme had I succeeded in devising.

It is true the danger was only hypothetical and undefined; but it was just this supposititious indefiniteness that caused the difficulty in providing against it. Had it assumed a tangible shape, I might more easily have adopted some means of avoiding it: but no--it remained a shadow, and against a shadow I knew not what precautions to take. When morning broke, I was still struggling under the same nervous indecision.

Problematical as was the peril my fancy had formed, there were moments when it appalled me--moments when my mind laboured under a painful presentiment, and I could not cast the load by any act of volition.

With all my philosophy, I could not fortify myself against the belief that "coming events cast their shadows before;" and, spite of myself, I kept repeating in thought the weird prophetic words. Upon my soul, certainly, there were shadows, and dark ones; if the events should have any correspondence with them, then there was misery before me.

I have termed the danger in which Isolina was placed indefinite: it was not so indefinite, after a fair analysis; it was directly traceable to the presence of Rafael Ijurra.

True, there were other sources of apprehension; other perils surrounded her, arising from the disturbed state of the country--but these did not point at her in particular. That frontier province had been for years in a distracted condition--by revolution or Indian invasion--and war was no new thing to its people. In the midst of strife had this fair flower grown to perfect blooming, without having been either crushed or trodden upon. Isolina de Vargas was a woman of sufficient spirit to resist insult and cast off intrusion. I had just had proof of this. Under ordinary circumstances, I had no fear that she would be unequal to the emergency; but the circumstances in which she now stood were not of that character; they were extraordinary, and that to an extreme degree. In addition to the light thrown upon Ijurra's designs by his own menacing confession, I knew other particulars of him. Holingsworth had helped me to a knowledge of this bad man, and this knowledge it was that rendered me apprehensive. From a nature so base and brutal, it was natural I should dread the worst.

But what could I do? I might have thrown up my commission, and remained upon the spot, but this would have been worse than idle. I could not have protected myself, much less another. The rangers once gone from the place, my life would not have been safe there for a single hour.

Only one plan suggested itself that had the semblance of feasibility: to seek another interview with Isolina--her father as well--and adjure them to remove at once from the scene of danger. They might proceed to San Antonio de Bexar, where, far removed from hostile ground, they could live in safety till the war should be ended.

It was only at the last moment that this happy idea came into my head, and I reviled myself that I had not conceived it sooner. The chief difficulty would lie in the opposition of Don Ramon. I knew that he was aware of the _friendship_ that existed between his daughter and myself, and, furthermore, that he had opposed no obstacle to it; but how could I convince him of the necessity for so sudden an expatriation as the one I was about to propose? how should I persuade him of the peril I myself dreaded? and from such a source?

Another difficulty I might encounter: in the proud spirit of Isolina herself. Much did I fear she would never consent to be thus driven from her home, and by such a poltroon as she knew her cousin to be. She had cowed and conquered him but the day before; she feared him not; she would not be likely to partake of my painful apprehensions. My counsel might be disregarded, my motives misconstrued.

The time, too, was unfavourable. We must be on the march by sunrise--so ran our orders--and already the day was breaking. I cared not much for this: I could easily have overtaken my troop; but it was a delicate matter--that could only be excused by a certain knowledge of danger--to awake a gentleman's family at such an hour, even for the purpose of warning them. Moreover, should my advice prove fruitless, I reflected that my visit--which could not be made in secret--might aid in bringing about the very danger I apprehended. A circumstance so extraordinary could not fail to be noticed by all.

It was thus that I was held in irresolution, while my troop was forming for the march.

At the last moment, thanks to the thoughtful Holingsworth, a compromise offered. He suggested that I should send my advice in writing. In that I could be as explicit as I pleased, and bring before my proteges all the arguments I might be able to adduce--perhaps more successfully than if urged by a personal appeal.

My comrade's suggestion was adopted; and in haste, but with a fervour resulting from my fears, I penned the admonitory epistle.

A trusty messenger was found in one of the _Ayankieados_; who promised, as soon as the family should be stirring, to carry the letter to its destination.

With my heart somewhat relieved of its load, though still far from light, I gave the order to march.

The bugle rang clear and loud, and its cheerful notes, as I sprang into the saddle, combined with the inspiration borrowed from my buoyant steed, produced a soothing effect upon my spirits.

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

CAMP GOSSIP.

It was but a short-lived light--a passing gleam--and soon again fell the shadow, dark as ever. Strive as I might, I could not cast the load that weighed upon my bosom; reason as I would, I could not account for its heaviness.

It was natural that a parting like ours should produce pain, and misgivings as to the future. My life was to be staked in the lottery of war; I might fall on the field of fight; I might perish by camp-pestilence--a foe that in the campaign kills more soldiers than sword or shot--the many perils of flood and field were before me, and it was natural I should regard the future with a degree of doubtfulness.

But it was not the contemplation of all these dangers that filled me with such a terrible foreboding. Strange to say, I had a forecast that I should survive them. It was almost a conviction, yet it failed to comfort me, for it comprehended not the safety of Isolina. No--but the contrary. Along with it came the presentiment, that we should never meet again.

Once or twice, as this dread feeling became most acute, I reined up my horse, half resolved to gallop back; but again the wild idea passed from me, and I continued irresolutely on.

Something of prudence, too, now restrained me from returning: it would no longer have been safe to go back to the rancheria. As we issued from the piazza, we could hear distant jeering, and cries of "_Mueran los Tejanos_!" It was with difficulty I could restrain the rangers from turning to take vengeance. One, the worse for mezcal, had loitered behind--under the influence of the drink fancying himself secure. Him the _pelados_ had "bonneted," and otherwise maltreated. They would have murdered him outright; but that some of them, more prudent than their fellows, had counselled the mob to let him go--alleging that the Tejanos were yet "too near, and might come back."

Again I had strife with my men: they would have returned and fired the place, had I permitted them. Fortunately, he who had been ill-treated was a good-for-nothing fellow--scarcely worth the sympathy of his comrades--and I was well satisfied at his having received a lesson. It might be useful, and was much needed, for "straggling" was one of the ranger-crimes most difficult to cure.

Along the road, we saw signs of a guerrilla. Shots were fired at us from a hill; but a party sent to the place encountered no one.

Horse-tracks were observed, and once a brace of mounted men were seen galloping away over a distant slope. It might be the band of Ijurra, and doubtless it was so; but we fancied at the time that Canales himself was near; and as an encounter with his large and well-organised force would be a very different affair from a skirmish with the other, we felt the necessity of advancing with caution.

The prospect of a "fight" with this noted partisan created quite an excitement in the ranks. To have captured Canales--the "Chapparal Fox,"

as the Texans termed him--or to have made conquest of his band, would have been esteemed a feat of grand consequence--only inferior in importance to a pitched battle, or the taking of "Game-leg" (Santa Anna) himself.

I confess that to me the idea of measuring strength with the famed guerrillero was at that moment rife with charms; and the excitement derived from the hope of meeting him, for a while abstracted my mind from its painful bodings.

But we reached the town without seeing aught of the Chapparal Fox. It was not likely that he was on our road; or if so, he took care not to show himself. Canales fought not for glory alone, and the rangers were not the foes he cared to encounter. Rich baggage-trains were the game he was used to hunt; and our solitary "company-wagon," filled with frying-pans, camp-kettles, sick soldiers, and tattered blankets--half alive with those charming little insects of the genera _pules_ and _pediculus_--had no attractions for the gallant guerrillero.

On reaching the town, we were surprised to find that the division had not yet moved. It was to have marched on that morning; but a countermand had arrived from head-quarters, delaying the movement for some days--perhaps a week.

This was rare news to me; and as soon as I heard it, my mind became occupied with projects and anticipations of a pleasant nature. I had hoped that we should be sent back to the rancheria, but alas! no--our orders were to remain with the division.