Читать книгу Ranchero - Stewart Edward White - Страница 10

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Andy too went his way. But not for very long. Within the half mile an uneasiness overtook him. It was a mental—or rather a psychic—condition with which past experience had made him familiar. In externals and in most essentials Andy was a direct, matter of fact, rather slow bit of efficiency, but he possessed spiritual perceptions, antennæ, which worked mysteriously below his knowledges. Sometimes they helped him, as when they enabled him to smell out hidden dangers; sometimes they disconcerted him—as when they forced him too clearly to see the other fellow’s point of view. But he had learned never to ignore them. So he reined in his horse and sat relaxed in his saddle, his eyes roaming the surrounding prospect for sign of life, his inner ear cocked for a whisper.

Then, unquestioning, he turned back on his trail. He did not yet know why, but that was the thing to do. When an hour’s travel had returned him to the top of the butte-like hill where he had spent the night, the reason was revealed.

From the elevation he could see ahead for a long distance over the plain. About half a mile distant Andy saw Cortilla and his four men gathered in a compact group. The lieutenant was holding out something in his hand and apparently making a speech. In a moment Andy saw why. A dark head appeared above the grass, then another and another, until a dozen were in sight. They were at some little distance from the Mexicans. Cortilla was evidently trying to coax them nearer but was having difficulty in doing so. They seemed shy, and at a sudden movement of one of the horses dove out of sight like scattering quail. But Cortilla persisted. Finally one of the savages, bolder than the rest, perhaps the chief, plucked up courage enough to take the object that Cortilla was offering. He examined it; others drew near to look. Soon the Mexicans were surrounded by a dark crowd of savages; as Andy had been surrounded the day before. Now, Andy reflected, if Cortilla knows their language, he may get some information. But as yet he did not know why he had come back. It was none of his council.

But suddenly Cortilla arose in his stirrups. The sun caught a flash of his sword as it leaped from his scabbard. The bright pennoned lances of the troopers dipped. The horses plunged, rearing high, striking down viciously. The black mass of the savages held for an instant’s astonishment, then broke into flight. The dark figures dove into the grass in all directions. A few stood, apparently paralyzed with fear. Andy saw these pierced through by the soldiers’ lances. Then all five men, holding together in a compact group, set their horses at speed through the high grass, ranging like bird dogs, hunting down the fugitives, flushing them from their concealments or overtaking them as they ran.

By this time Andy had reached the spot. He had started his horse at a run down the hill the instant the purport of the scene had penetrated his incredulity. He wasted no time, energy, nor speed in trying to attract attention. The spare horse kicked up his heels and raced joyously alongside and ahead. The pack horse, outraged at this invasion of his privilege of laden sobriety, lumbered along behind.

The Mexicans were mad with the excitement of the pursuit. They yelled at one another exultantly, dashed headlong toward this point and that where the agitation of the grasses revealed another victim. Andy now shouted at them, but in vain. They must have been aware of his approach. Probably they imagined he was joining them to take part in this rare opportunity for a matanza, a slaughter, where were no brush, no barrancas, no “mountains where horse cannot go.” Indeed, as he drew near, Cortilla waved at him his blade and flashed at him a quick smile. At that instant an Indian, about to be overridden in the shallow place of his concealment, arose almost under the horses’ feet to oppose his puny bow in a last desperation. The arrow struck Cortilla’s cuero without effect, and the Indian fell, pierced by the lances. An old woman, wailing, bent low, scuttling away. His rapier pointed, Cortilla spurred forward his horse. At the same instant Andy stood erect in his stirrups; his arm swept forward in a wide arc; his long bladed knife whirled glittering through the air to bury itself deep in the neck of the Mexican’s horse. It was a chancy cast in the circumstances; the long rifle would have been more certain for the purpose; but Andy could not afford to empty his only weapon this early. The stricken animal plunged forward and rolled over. Cortilla hit the baked earth with a crash and lay still.

Andy whirled toward the astounded troopers.

“Rein back!” he commanded sharply. “I’ll shoot the man who moves a hand.”

They stared at the cold fierce fire in his gray eyes and obeyed. The affair was beyond their slow comprehension, but not the menace of the long rifle.

Andy dismounted.

“Ride back,” he repeated, “over there. And sit still.”

They trotted away obediently. It was no longer their affair. They were paid to fight Indians, who rarely fought back, not one of these accursed Boston rifleros, rumors of whose deadliness had seeped over the mountains, around by Santa Fe and Taos, even into this remote and sleepy land. Especially a mad one. As for Jesús María Corbedo de Cortilla, he had not endeared himself. So they glanced at each other and shrugged and withdrew the required distance, where they rolled cigarettes and rather curiously awaited events. Curiously, and a little uneasily, for who knew what the madman might do when he had finished with el comandante?

It certainly looked as though it were all up with el comandante. The American had possessed himself of the officer’s sword and was standing over him, waiting for him to return to consciousness.