Foes in Ambush | Page 6

regiment, could be so disturbed over the
indications, it was high time to take precaution. What was the
threatened danger? Apaches? They would never assault the ranch with
its guard of soldiers, whatsoever they might do in the cañons in the
range beyond. Outlaws? They had not been heard of for months. He
had inquired into all this at Yuma, at the stage stations, by mail of the
commanding officers at Lowell and Bowie and Grant. Not for six
months had a stage been "held up" or a buck-board "jumped" south of
the turbid Gila. True, there was rumor of riot and lawlessness among
the miners at Castle Dome and the customary shooting scrape at
Ehrenberg and La Paz, but these were river towns, far behind him now
as he looked back over the desert trail and aloft into the star-studded,
cloudless sky. Nothing could be more placid, nothing less prophetic of
peril or ambush than this exquisite summer night. Somewhere within

the forbidden region of Moreno's harem a guitar was beginning to
tinkle softly. That was all very well, but then a woman's voice,
anything but soft, took up a strange, monotonous refrain. Line after line,
verse after verse it ran, harsh, changeless. He could not distinguish the
words,--he did not wish to; the music was bad enough in all conscience,
whatsoever it might become when sung by youth or beauty. As it fell
from the lips of Señora Moreno the air was a succession of vocal nasal
disharmonies, high-pitched, strident, nerve-wracking.
[Illustration: Music]
Unable to listen after the third repetition, Plummer slowly retired from
the corral and once more appeared at the front, just in time for a
sensation. Two troopers, two of the men who had ridden back with
Donovan, came lurching into the lighted space before the main entrance.
At sight of the paymaster one of them stiffened up and with
preternatural gravity of mien executed the salute. The other, with an
envelope in his hand, reeled out of saddle, failed to catch his balance,
plunged heavily into the sand and lay there. Corporal Murphy sprang
eagerly forward, the first man to reach him, and turned the prostrate
trooper over on his back.
"What's the matter?" queried Plummer. "Is he sick?"
"Sick is it?" was the quick retort, as the corporal sniffed at the tainted
breath of the sufferer. "Be the powers! I only wish I had half his
disayse."
And then came Feeny, glaring, wrathful.
"Come down off the top of that horse, Mullan," he ordered, fiercely.
"How--how'd ye get here? Which way'd ye come? Where's the rest?"
With the ponderous dignity of inebriety, Mullan slowly pointed up the
desert under the spot where the pole-star glowed in the northern skies.
"Sarsh'nt," he hiccoughed, "we're--we're too late; 'Paches got
there--first."

"Hwat! hwat!" thundered Feeny. "D'ye mean there were women,--that
it wasn't a plant?"
"Fack."
"Hware's your despatches, you drunken lout? How dare you dhrink
when there was fight ahead? Hware's your despatches? and may heaven
blast the souls of you both!"
"Here, sergeant," said Murphy, wrenching the soiled envelope from the
loose grasp of the prostrate trooper.
"It's to you, sir," said Feeny, with one glance at the sprawling
superscription. "In God's name read and let us know what devil's work's
abroad to-night."
Even Plummer's pudgy fingers trembled as he tore open the dingy
packet. Old Moreno came forth with a light, his white teeth gleaming,
his black eyes flashing from one to another of the group. Holding the
pencilled page close to the lantern, the paymaster read aloud,--
"Camp burned. One man killed; others scattered; mules and buck-board
gone. For God's sake help in the pursuit. Strike for Raton Pass. The
Indians have run away my poor sisters.
"EDWARD HARVEY."
The major dropped the paper, fairly stunned with dismay. Feeny sprang
forward, picked it up, and eagerly scrutinized the page. Mullan,
standing unsteadily at the head of his wearied and dejected horse, was
looking on with glassy eyes, his lips vainly striving to frame further
particulars. Leaving their supper unfinished, the other men of the little
squad had come tumbling out into the summer night. No one paid other
heed to the trooper sprawling in the sand. Already in deep, drunken
slumber, he was breathing stertorously. Feeny's eyes seemed fastened
to the letter. Line by line, word by word, again and again he spelled it
through. Suddenly he leaped forward and clutched Mullan at the throat,
shaking him violently.

"Answer now. Hware'd you get your liquor? Didn't this fellow give it to
you?"
"On my honor--no, sarsh'nt, 'pon my 'on--"
"Oh, to hell with your honor and you with it! Hware'd you get it if it
wasn't from him? Shure you've not been near Ceralvo's?"
"No, sarsh'nt, no Ceralvo's. We met couple gen'l'men--perfec' gen'l'men,
ranchers; they were