from the camp had paid it many a visit, and its household gods lay
broken upon the hearth. The _tortilla_ stone and _comal_, red earthen
ollas, calabash cups, bedsteads and benches of the _cana vaquera_, a
whirligig spindle, an old stringless _jarana_ or bandolon, with other
like effects, lay in fragments upon the floor. Mingling with these were
cheap coloured wood-prints, of saints and Saviour, that had been dragged
from the walls, and with the torn leaves of an old Spanish _misa_,
trampled in dust and dishonour.

I paint this tableau of ruin, not that it was in any way connected with
the events of our narrative, but that it had strangely affected me. On
the day before, as we rode past, I had halted a moment by the rancho,
and contemplated the scene with a feeling of melancholy that amounted
almost to sadness. Little thought I that a still sadder spectacle
awaited me in that same spot.

We had approached within less than half-a-mile of the ruined house, when
a strange medley of sounds reached our ears. Human voices they were;
and borne upon the light breeze we could distinguish them to be the
voices of women. Occasionally harsher tones were heard mingling in the
murmur, but most of them had the soft rich intonation that distinguishes
the female voice.

We all drew bridle, and listened.

The sounds continued in the same confused chorus, but there was neither
song nor joy in the accents. On the contrary, the night-wind carried
upon its wings the voices of "lamentation and wailing."

"There are women in trouble," remarked one of my followers, in a
suggestive tone.

The remark caused all of us simultaneously to ply the spur, and ride
forward.

Before we had galloped a dozen lengths, a man appeared coming from the
opposite direction, and advancing rapidly up the middle of the road. We
saw it was the scout Garey; and, once more reining up, we awaited his
approach.

I was at the head of the little troop, and as the trapper drew near, I
could see his face full under the light of the moon. Its expression was
ominous of evil tidings.

He spoke not until he had laid his hand upon the pommel of my saddle,
and then only in a subdued and saddened tone. His words were:--

"Thar's ugly news, capt'n."

Oh, that terrible foreboding!

"News?--ill news?" I stammered out; "what, for Heaven's sake?--speak,
Garey!"

"They've been playin' the devil at the rancherie. Them ruffins hez
behaved wuss than Injuns would