Part 11 (1/2)
”What say you to this, sergeant? Do you believe,--do you think it possible that Bland has deserted and joined these outlaws?”
”I don't know what to think, sir, but I haven't forgotten what Feeny said of him.”
”What was that?”
”That he had too smooth a tongue to have led a rough and honest life; that if he was a Texan as he claimed, Texas people had learned to talk a different lingo since he was stationed among them with the old Second Cavalry before the war, and that he wished he'd been there at Lowell when the adjutant accepted those letters from former officers of the regiment as genuine. Bland would never show them to Feeny. Said he had sent 'em all to his home in Texas. That was what made bad blood between them.”
”By heaven! and now to think that one of our troop--'C' troop--should have been engaged in this outrage! But we'll get them, men,” said Drummond, straightening up to his full height and raising his gauntleted hand in air. ”They can't go fast or far with those wagons such a night as this. They'll strike the foot-hills before they've gone ten miles, then they'll have to go slow. We'll catch them before the sun is up, and, by the G.o.d of heaven, if Bland is with them, I'll string him to the highest tree we can find.”
”There's more than him that'll be strung up,” growled a grizzled old trooper in an undertone. ”The gang that murdered Pat Donovan will find scant mercy in this crowd.”
”Ay, ay,” said another, ”and there's more than Pat Donovan to be scored off. Look yonder.” For at the instant one of the packers came leading into the corral a resisting mule, at sight of whose burden many of the horses started in fear. It was the lifeless body of Donovan's companion, the soldier who had escaped the a.s.sa.s.sin's bullet when ”Patsy” fell only to be overtaken and cut down half-way to Moreno's.
”It's the bloodiest night I've known even in Arizona,” said Lee to his young leader. ”The paymaster and Mr. Harvey about as good as dead, old Feeny dying, most like, the clerk and Mullan and some other trooper of the escort burned to ashes in that h.e.l.l-hole there, and Donovan and this last one--some of our fellows think is Flynn, from 'F'
troop--shot to death. It's worse than Apache, lieutenant, and there'll be no use trying to restrain our fellows when we catch the blackguards.”
Quarter of an hour later, leaving half a dozen soldiers under an experienced sergeant to guard the packs, the wounded, and the non-combatants at the smouldering ruins of the ranch, with barely a score of seasoned troopers at his back, Lieutenant Jim Drummond rode resolutely out towards the southern desert, towards the distant line of jagged mountains that spanned the far horizon. The false and fatal blaze at the Picacho had utterly disappeared, and all was darkness at the west. The red glow of the smouldering embers behind was no longer sufficient to light their path. Straight away southward led the wheel-tracks, first separate and distinct, but soon blending, as though one wagon had fallen behind and followed the trail of the bolder leader in the first. Straight away after them went the ruck of hoof-tracks, telling plainly that for a time at least the gang had ma.s.sed and was prepared to guard its plunder. Stop to divide it was evident they dared not, for they had not with them the implements to break into the safe, and all their searching and threatening had failed to extract from the apparently dying paymaster any clue as to what he had done with the key. Stick together, therefore, they undoubtedly would, reasoned the lieutenant, and all their effort would be to reach some secure haunt in the Sierras, and there send back their demand for ransom. Twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and George Harvey's precious daughters! It was indeed a rich haul,--one that in all the dread history of the Morales gang had never been equalled. Even had they failed to secure the safe the richer booty was theirs in having seized the girls. But few people in Arizona--as Arizona then was const.i.tuted--would make great effort to overhaul a gang of robbers whose only victim was Uncle Sam and ”his liveried hirelings.” n.o.body in Sonora would fail to regard them with envious eyes; but in the deed of rapine that made them the captors and possessors of those defenceless sisters each man had put a price upon his head, a halter round his neck, for ”Gringo” and ”Greaser,”
American and Mexican alike, would spring to arms to rescue and avenge.
As the rearmost of the little party of pursuers disappeared in the darkness and the wearied pack-mules went jogging sullenly after, urged on by the goad of their half-Mexican driver, the sergeant left in charge of the detachment at the corral looked at his watch and noted that it was just half-past two o'clock. The dawn would be creeping on at four.
Wearied as were his men he did not permit them all to rest. The condition of his wounded and the instructions left him by Lieutenant Drummond made it necessary that they should have constant attention.
It was sore trouble for him to look at the old paymaster, whose life seemed ebbing away, lying there so pallid and moaning at times so pitifully, but Feeny lay torpid, breathing, yet seeming to suffer not at all. Both were in desperate need of surgical attendance, but where could surgeon be found? The nearest was at Stoneman, the little cantonment across the Christobal, thirty miles to the east; and though a gallant fellow had volunteered to make the ride alone through the Apache-infested pa.s.s and carry the despatch that Drummond had hurriedly pencilled, there was no possibility of doctors reaching them before the coming night, and the thought of all they might have to suffer through the fierce white heat of the intervening day was one that gave the sergeant deep concern. Then, too, who could say whether the solitary trooper would succeed in running the gauntlet and making his way through? He was a resolute old frontiersman, skilled in Indian warfare, and well aware that his best chance was in the dark, but speed as he might the broad light of day would be on him long before he could get half-way through the range. The stage from the west would probably come along about sunset, but nothing could be hoped for sooner. No troops were nearer than the Colorado in that direction except the little signal-post at the Picacho. Corporal Fox and two men had been sent thither to inquire what the signal meant, and it would soon be time for them to come riding in with their report. How he wished Wing were here! Wing knew something about everything. He was an expert veterinarian, something of a doctor, knew more of mineralogy than all the officers put together, and could speak Spanish better than any man in the regiment. When it became necessary to have a signal-station at the peak and it was found that no one knew anything about the business, Wing got one of the old red manuals, studied the system, and inside of a week was signalling with the expert sent down from San Francisco.
The interior of the ranch was still a smouldering furnace as four o'clock drew nigh. Woods, weak and exhausted, had fallen into an uneasy sleep. The trooper detailed to watch over old Plummer and Feeny and bathe their faces with cool water was nodding over his charge.
Here and there under the shed on the north side which the flames had not reached the men were dozing, or in low, awe-stricken tones, talking of the tragic events of the night. Near the east gate, reverently and decently covered with the only shroud to be had, the newest of the saddle-blankets, lay the stiffening remains of poor Donovan and his comrade. Lurking about the westward end of the enclosure, their beady eyes every now and then glittering in the fire-light, the Mexicans, men and boy, were smoking their everlasting _papellitos_, apparently indifferent to the fate that had deprived them of home and occupation. One of the troopers had burrowed a hole in the sand, started a little cook fire, and was boiling some coffee in a tin quart mug. Overhead and far down to the horizon, on every side the stars shone and sparkled through the vaporless skies.
Eastward towards the Christobal they were just beginning to pale when a faint voice was heard pleading for water. Sergeant Butler sprang from his seat and hastened to where he had left Mr. Harvey but a few minutes before, still in deep and obstinate swoon.
”Water is it, sir? Here you are! I'm glad to see you picking up a little. Mr. Drummond left this for you, too, sir. He said you would maybe need it.” And the sergeant raised the dizzy head and held a little flask to Harvey's lips.
”Where is he?” at last the sufferer was able to gasp.
”Overhauling the outlaws, hand over fist, by this time, sir. He has twenty good men at his back, and we'll have the ladies safe to-night,--see if we don't.”
”Oh, G.o.d!” groaned the stricken brother, burying his face in his arms as the recollection of the fearful events of the night came crowding upon him. For a moment he seemed to quiver and tremble in every limb, then with sudden effort raised his head and turned again, the blood trickling anew from a gash in his face as he did so.
”Give me more of that,” he moaned, stretching forth a trembling hand.
”More water, too. Lend me a horse and your carbine. I must go! I _must_ go!” But there his strength failed him, and grasping wildly at empty air, poor Harvey fell heavily back before the sergeant could interpose an arm to save.
”Don't think of it, sir; you're far too weak, and you're not needed.
Never fear, the lieutenant and 'C' troop will do all that men can do.
They'll bring the ladies safely back as soon as they've hung what's left of that murdering gang.--h.e.l.lo! That you, Fox?” he shouted, springing up as two or three hors.e.m.e.n came spurring in.
”It's I,--Wing,” was the answer in ringing tones. ”Fox is coming slower. Quick now. Is it so that that gang has run off the young ladies?”
”It's G.o.d's truth. Here's Mr. Ned Harvey himself.”