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Updated: May 8, 2025
This chile niver seed so many o' the Jack Ketch kind since he fust set foot on the soil o' Texas. Maybe it's the smell o' these Mexikins makes ye so savagerous." Walt's quaint speech elicits a general laugh, but suppressed. The scene is too solemn for an ebullition of boisterous mirth. The ex-Ranger continues "I see you'll want to have a pull at these ropes.
Whatever the impression made upon the young prairie merchant by the sight of the newly-arrived troop, its effect upon the ex-Ranger might be compared to a shock of electricity, or the result that succeeds the inspiration of laughing-gas.
Across this fall the shadows of the two men, proportioned to their respective heights. That of the ex-Ranger extends nearly a mile before him; for the sun is low down, and they have its beams upon their backs. They are facing eastward, in the hope of being able to reach the brow of the Llano where it abuts on the Texan prairies; though in the heart of one of them this hope is nearly dead.
It is now ridden by the ex-Ranger, who, prodding it with the point of his bowie, puts it to its best speed. And soon after go other horsemen the Texans who have recovered their steeds, with some who have caught those of the troopers, rapidly bridled and mounted them bare-back. They who stay behind become spectators of a scene strange and tender.
Indignant at the Indian's treason, he has now a new reason to dislike him as a rival. With the ex-Ranger this last weighs little. He is sure of having the affections of Conchita. He has her heart, with the promise of her hand, and in his own confiding simplicity has no fear of failure in that sense not a pang of jealousy.
As this is unusual with the ex-Ranger, he has evidently something of importance to communicate. Not until they have got well out of sight of the house, and beyond the earshot of anyone inside or around it, does Walt say a word. And then only after they have come to a stop in the heart of a cotton-wood copse, where a prostrate trunk offers them the accommodation of a seat.
At no time does the ex-Ranger stand in need of much sleep, even after the most protracted toil. Six hours is his usual daily or nocturnal dose; and as the grey dawn begins to glimmer over the tops of the shin oaks, he springs to his feet, shakes the dew from his shoulders like a startled stag, and then stoops down to examine the condition of his wounded comrade.
Men, too, in military array, marching in double file, armed, uniformed, with lances borne erect, their blades glinting in the sun. "Sogers!" exclaims the ex-Ranger. It is Wilder who so emphatically proclaims the character of the cavalcade. He has no need, Hamersley having already made it out himself. "Yes; they are soldiers," he rejoins, mechanically, adding, "Mexican, as a matter of course.
A very singular coincidence, then, their coming up at that exact instant. It seemed the hand of Providence opportunely extended; and in this light Hamersley looked upon it, as also the ex-Ranger. Briefly as may be they make known to the new-comers all that had transpired, or as much as for the time needs to be told. Then appeal to them for assistance.
Only after the lancer troop has passed, its rearmost files just clearing the alignment of the copse, he gasps out, in a voice husky as that of one in the act of being strangled, "They're going straight for the place. O God!" "Yes," rejoins the ex-Ranger, in a tone like despondent, "Thar boun' thar for sartint.
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