“The Norte.”

Westward, across the Liana Estacado, Uraga and his lancers continue on their return march. The troop, going by twos, is again drawn out in an elongated line, the arms and accoutrements of the soldiers glancing in the sun, while the breeze floats back the pennons of their lances. The men prisoners are a few files from the rear, a file on each flank guarding them. The women are at the head, alongside the guide and sub-lieutenant, who has charge of the troop.

For reasons of his own the lancer colonel does not intrude his company on the captives. He intends doing so in his own time. It has not yet come. Nor does he take any part in directing the march of the men. That duty has been entrusted to the alferez; he and Roblez riding several hundred paces in advance of the troop.

He has thus isolated himself for the purpose of holding conversation with his adjutant, unembarrassed by any apprehension of being overheard.

“Well, ayadante,” he begins, as soon as they are safe beyond earshot, “what’s your opinion of things now?”

“I think we’ve done the thing neatly, though not exactly the way you wanted it.”

“Anything but that. Still, I don’t despair of getting everything straight in due time. The man Manuel has learnt from his fellow-servant that our American friends have gone on to the settlements of the Del Norte. Strange if we can’t find them there; and stranger still if, when found, I don’t bring them to book at last. Caraja! Neither of the two will ever leave New Mexico alive.”

“What about these two—our Mexican friends?”

“For them a fate the very reverse. Neither shall ever reach it alive.”

“You intend taking them there dead, do you?”

“Neither living nor dead. I don’t intend taking them there at all.”

“You think of leaving them by the way?”

“More than think; I’ve determined upon it.”

“But surely you don’t mean to kill them in cold blood?”

“I won’t harm a hair of their heads—neither I, nor you, nor any of my soldiers. For all that, they shall die.”

“Colonel, your speech is somewhat enigmatical. I don’t comprehend it.”

“In due time you will. Have patience for four days more—it may be less. Then you will have the key to the enigma. Then Don Valerian Miranda and the old rascal Don Prospero shall cease to trouble the dreams of Gil Uraga.”

“And you are really determined on Miranda’s death?”

“A silly question for a man who knows me as you. Of course I am.”

“Well, for my part, I don’t care much one way or the other, only I can’t see what benefit it will be to you. He’s not such a bad sort of a fellow, and has got the name of being a courageous soldier.”

“You’re growing wonderfully sentimental, ayadante. The tender glances of the senorita seem to have softened you.”

“Not likely,” rejoins the adjutant with a grim smile. “The eyes that could make impression upon the heart of Gaspar Roblez don’t exist in the head of woman. If I have any weaknesses in the feminine way, it’s for the goddess Fortuna. So long as I can get a pack of playing cards, with some rich gringo to face me in the game, I’ll leave petticoats alone.”

In turn the colonel smiles. He knows the idiosyncracy of his confederate in crime. Rather a strange one for a man who has committed many robberies, and more than once imbued his hands in blood. Cards, dice and drink are his passions, his habitual pleasure. Of love he seems incapable, and does not surrender himself to its lure, though there has been a chapter of it in his life’s history, of which Uraga is aware, having an unfortunate termination, sealing his heart against the sex to contempt, almost hatred. Partially to this might be traced the fact of his having fallen into evil courses, and, like his colonel, become a robber. But, unlike the latter, he is not all bad. As in the case of Conrad, linked to a thousand crimes, one virtue is left to him—courage. Something like a second remains in his admiration of the same quality in others. This it is that leads him to put in a word for Colonel Miranda, whose bravery is known far and wide throughout the Mexican army. Continuing to plead for him, he says—

“I don’t see why you should trouble yourself to turn States’ executioner. When we get to Santa Fé our prisoners can be tried by court-martial. No doubt they’ll be condemned and shot.”

“Very great doubt of it, ayadante. That might have done when we first turned their party out. But of late, things are somewhat changed. In the hills of the Moctezumas matters are again getting complicated, and just now our worthy chief, El Cojo, will scarce dare to sign a sentence of death, especially where the party to be passado por les armes is a man of note like Don Valerian Miranda.”

“He must die?”

“Teniente! Turn your head round and look me straight in the face.”

“I am doing so, colonel. Why do you wish me?”

“You see that scar on my cheek?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Don Valerian Miranda did not give the wound that’s left it, but he was partly the cause of my receiving it. But for him the duel would have ended differently. It’s now twelve months gone since I got that gash, at the same time losing three of my teeth. Ever since the spot has felt aflame as if hell’s fire were burning a hole through my cheek. It can only be extinguished by the blood of those who kindled it. Miranda is one of them. You’ve asked the question, ‘Must he die?’ Looking at this ugly scar, and into the eye above it, I fancy you will not think it necessary to repeat the question.”

“But how is it to be done without scandal? As you yourself have said, it won’t ............