A Dangerous Design.
At length the day, the hour, is at hand when the young Kentuckian purposes taking departure. He does not anticipate this with pleasure. On the contrary, the prospect gives him pain. In that sequestered spot he could linger long—for ever, if Adela Miranda were to be with him. He is leaving it with reluctance, and would stay longer now, but that he is stirred by a sense of duty. He has to seek justice for the assassination of his teamsters, and, if possible, punish their assassins. To obtain this he intends going on to the Del Norte—if need be, to Albuquerque itself. The information given by the ex-commandant, with all the suspicious circumstances attending, have determined him how to act. He intends calling Uraga to account; but not by the honourable action of a duel, but in a court of justice, if such can be found in New Mexico.
“If it turns out as we have been conjecturing,” he says, in conversation with Miranda, “I shall seek the scoundrel in his own stronghold. If he be not there, I shall follow him elsewhere—ay, all over Mexico.”
“Hyar’s one’ll be wi’ ye in that chase,” cries the ex-Ranger, coming up at the moment. “Yis, Frank, go wi’ ye to the heart o’ Mexiko, plum centre; to the halls o’ the Montezoomas, if ye like, enywhar to be in at the death o’ a skunk like that.”
“Surely, Colonel Miranda,” continues Hamersley, gratified, though not carried away by his old comrade’s enthusiastic offer of assistance, “surely there is law in your land sufficient to give redress for such an outrage as that.”
“My dear Don Francisco,” replies the Mexican, tranquilly twirling a cigarrito between his fingers, “there is law for those who have the power and money to obtain it. In New Mexico, as you must yourself know, might makes right; and never more than at this present time. Don Manuel Armijo is once more the governor of my unfortunate fatherland. When I tell you that he rose to his present position by just such a crime as that we’ve been speaking of, you may then understand the sort of law administered under his rule. Manuel Armijo was a shepherd, employed on one occasion to drive a flock of thirty thousand sheep—the property of his employer, the Señor Chavez—to the market Chihuahua. While crossing the Jornado del Muerte, he and one or two confederates, whom he had put up to his plan, disguised themselves as Apache Indians, attacked their fellow sheep-drivers, murdered them, and made themselves masters of the flock. Then pulling the plumes from their heads, and washing the paint off their faces, they drove their muttons to a different market, sold them, and returned to Chavez to tell a tale of Indian spoliation, and how they themselves had just escaped with their scalps. This is the true history of General Don Manuel Armijo, Governor of New Mexico; at least that of his first beginnings. With such and many similar deeds since, is it likely he would look with any other than a lenient eye on the doings of Gil Urago, his imitator? No, señor, not even if you could prove the present commandant of Albuquerque, in full, open court, to have been the individual who robbed yourself and murdered your men.”
“I shall try, for all that,” rejoins Hamersley, his heart wrung with sorrow at the remembrance of his slaughtered comrades, and bursting with the bitter thought of justice thus likely to be obstructed. “Don’t suppose Colonel Miranda, that I intend resting my cause on the clemency of Don Manuel Armijo, or any chance of right to be expected at his hands. There’s a wide stretch of desert between the United States and Mexico, but not wide enough to hinder the American eagle from flapping its wings across, and giving protection to all who have a right to claim it, even to a poor prairie trader. A thousand thanks, Colonel Miranda. I owe you that for twice saving my life, and now for setting me on the track of him who has twice endangered it. No use your tr............