LITMIR.BIZ

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type="note">[247], washing them down with as many gulps of mezcal. Then having caught and caparisoned his horse, buckled on his huge heavy spurs, strapped his short carbine to the saddle, thrust a pair of pistols into their holsters, and belted the leathern sheathed macheté on his hip, he sprang into the stirrups, and rode rapidly away.

      The short interval that elapsed, before making his appearance on the open plain, was spent in the suburbs of the village – waiting for the three horsemen who accompanied him, and who had been forewarned of their being wanted to act as his coadjutors, in some secret exploit that required their assistance.

      Whatever it was, his trio of confrères[248] appeared to have been made acquainted with the scheme; or at all events that the scene of the exploit was to be on the Alamo. When a short distance out upon the plain, seeing Diaz strike off in a diagonal direction, they called out to warn him, that he was not going the right way.

      “I know the Alamo well,” said one of them, himself a mustanger. “I’ve hunted horses there many a time. It’s southwest from here. The nearest way to it is through an opening in the chapparal you see out yonder. You are heading too much to the west, Don Miguel!”

      “Indeed!” contemptuously retorted the leader of the cuartilla. “You’re a gringo[249], Señor Vicente Barajo! You forget the errand we’re upon; and that we are riding shod horses? Indians don’t go out from Port Inge and then direct to the Alamo to do – no matter what. I suppose you understand me?”

      “Oh true!” answered Señor Vicente Barajo, “I beg your pardon, Don Miguel. Carrambo! I did not think of that.”

      And without further protest, the three coadjutors of El Coyote fell into his tracks, and followed him in silence – scarce another word passing between him and them, till they had struck the chapparal, at a point several miles above the opening of which Barajo had made mention.

      Once under cover of the thicket, the four men dismounted; and, after tying their horses to the trees, commenced a performance that could only be compared to a scene in the gentlemen’s dressing-room of a suburban theatre, preliminary to the representation of some savage and sanguinary drama.

      Chapter 42

      Vultures on the Wing

      He who has travelled across the plains of Southern Texas cannot fail to have witnessed a spectacle of common occurrence – a flock of black vultures upon the wing.

      An hundred or more in the flock, swooping in circles, or wide spiral gyrations – now descending almost to touch the prairie award, or the spray of the chapparal – anon soaring upward by a power in which the wing bears no part – their pointed pinions sharply cutting against the clear sky – they constitute a picture of rare interest, one truly characteristic of a tropical clime.

      The traveller who sees it for the first time will not fail to rein up his horse, and sit in his saddle, viewing it with feelings of curious interest. Even he who is accustomed to the spectacle will not pass on without indulging in a certain train of thought which it is calculated to call forth.

      There is a tale told by the assemblage of base birds. On the ground beneath them, whether seen by the traveller or not, is stretched some stricken creature – quadruped, or it may be man – dead, or it may be dying.

      On the morning that succeeded that sombre night, when the three solitary horsemen made the crossing of the plain, a spectacle similar to that described might have been witnessed above the chapparal into which they had ridden. A flock of black vultures, of both species, was disporting above the tops of the trees, near the point where the avenue angled.

      At daybreak not one could have been seen. In less than an hour after, hundreds were hovering above the spot, on widespread wings, their shadows sailing darkly over the green spray of the chapparal.

      A Texan traveller entering the avenue, and observing the ominous assemblage, would at once have concluded, that there was death upon his track.

      Going farther, he would have found confirmatory evidence, in a pool of blood trampled by the hooves of horses.

      Not exactly over this were the vultures engaged in their aerial evolutions. The centre of their swoopings appeared to be a point some distance off among the trees; and there, no doubt, would be discovered the quarry that had called them together.

      At that early hour there was no traveller – Texan, or stranger – to test the truth of the conjecture; but, for all that, it was true.

      At a point in the chapparal, about a quarter of a mile from the blood-stained path, lay stretched upon the ground the object that was engaging the attention of the vultures.

      It was not carrion, nor yet a quadruped; but a human being – a man!

      A young man, too, of noble lineaments and graceful shape – so far as could be seen under the cloak that shrouded his recumbent form – with a face fair to look upon, even in death.

      Was he dead?

      At first sight any one would have said so, and the black birds believed it. His attitude and countenance seemed to proclaim it beyond question.

      He was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky – no care being taken to shelter it from the sun. His limbs, too, were not in a natural posture; but extended stiffly along the stony surface, as if he had lost the power to control them.

      A colossal tree was near, a live oak, but it did not shadow him. He was outside the canopy of its frondage; and the sun’s beams, just beginning to penetrate the chapparal, were slanting down upon his pale face – paler by reflection from a white Panama hat that but partially shaded it.

      His features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep. It had more the look of death than sleep. The eyes were but half closed; and the pupils could be seen glancing through the lashes, glassy and dilated. Was the man dead?

      Beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was. But the black birds were judging only by appearances. Their wish was parent to the thought. They were mistaken.

      Whether it was the glint of the sun striking into his half-screened orbs, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame.

      Soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow, stared confusedly around him.

      The vultures soared upward into the air, and for the time maintained a higher flight.

      “Am I dead, or living?” muttered he to himself. “Dreaming, or awake? Which is it? Where am I?”

      The sunlight was blinding him. He could see nothing, till he had shaded his eyes with his hand; then only indistinctly.

      “Trees above – around me! Stones underneath! That I can tell by the aching of my bones. A chapparal forest! How came I into it?

      “Now I have it,” continued he, after a short spell of reflection. “My head was dashed against a tree. There it is – the very limb that lifted me out of the saddle. My left leg pains me. Ah! I remember; it came in contact with the trunk. By heavens, I believe it is broken!”

      As he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect attitude. It proved a failure. His sinister limb would lend him no assistance: it was swollen at the knee-joint – either shattered or dislocated.

      “Where is the horse? Gone off, of course. By this time, in the stables of Casa del Corvo. I need not care now. I could not mount him, if he were standing by my side.

      “The other?” he added, after a pause. “Good heavens! what a spectacle it was! No wonder it scared the one I was riding!

      “What

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