The Rifle Rangers

By Captain Mayne Reid ________________________________________________________________________ Quite a lively story! At one point the hero is to die by hanging by the heels over a precipice! At another he and his companions are attacked by a pack of snarling bloodhounds! And many other tense situations.

As usual with this prolific author the text is well interlarded with Spanish words, and those from other languages, French, German, Latin, Greek. We have done our best to get these words right, but beg to be forgiven if you spot an error here and there.

In addition to our difficulties with the Spanish, there is an Irish member of the cast whose words are so mis-pronounced that they practically constitute a language of their own. Here again we have tried to get the spellings as they appear in the book, but you can quite see how difficult that has been.

This book first appeared in the 1850s, and went through several editions in a few years. Forty years later there was a revival, and again several editions appeared. There are people even nowadays who revere "Captain" Mayne Reid as the first author to start this genre: authentic books about the wilder parts of North America, and its history. NH ________________________________________________________________________

THE RIFLE RANGERS ADVENTURES IN SOUTH MEXICO

BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID

CHAPTER ONE.

THE LAND OF ANAHUAC.

Away over the dark, wild waves of the rolling Atlantic--away beyond the summer islands of the Western Ind--lies a lovely land. Its surface-aspect carries the hue of the emerald; its sky is sapphire; its sun is a globe of gold. It is the land of Anahuac!

The tourist turns his face to the Orient--the poet sings the gone glories of Greece--the painter elaborates the hackneyed pictures of Apennine and Alp--the novelist turns the skulking thief of Italy into a picturesque bandit, or, Don Quixote-like, betaking himself into the misty middle age, entertains the romantic miss and milliner's apprentice with stories of raven steeds, of plumed and impossible heroes. All-- painter, poet, tourist, and novelist--in search of the bright and beautiful, the poetic and the picturesque--turn their backs upon this lovely land.

Shall we? No! Westward, like the Genoese, we boldly venture--over the dark wild waves of the rolling Atlantic; through among the sunny islands of Ind--westward to the land of Anahuac. Let us debark upon its shores; let us pierce the secret depths of its forests; let us climb its mighty mountains, and traverse its table-plains.

Go with us, tourist! Fear not. You shall look upon scenes grand and gloomy, bright and beautiful. Poet! you shall find themes for poesy worthy its loftiest strains. Painter! for you there are pictures fresh from the hand of God. Writer! there are stories still untold by the author-artist--legends of love and hate, of gratitude and revenge, of falsehood and devotion, of noble virtue and ignoble crime--legends redolent of romance, rich in reality.

Thither we steer, over the dark wild waves of the rolling Atlantic; through the summer islands of the Western Ind; onward--onward to the shores of Anahuac!

Varied is the aspect of that picture-land, abounding in scenes that change like the tints of the opal. Varied is the surface which these pictures adorn. Valleys that open deep into the earth; mountains that lead the eye far up into heaven; plains that stretch to the horizon's verge, until the rim of the blue canopy seems to rest upon their limitless level; "rolling" landscapes, whose softly-turned ridges remind one of the wavy billows of the ocean.