Chapter Twenty Nine.Don Samuel Bruno.Before separating from Don Eusebio I received from him a detailed account of the coach robbery, with all the allied incidents. It was necessary I should know everything; and everything was made known to me.In addition to what he had already communicated, there was one fact of a curious, if not comical, character. Before permitting him to depart in thediligencia, the brigands had taken his bond for ten thousand dollars—as collateral security against the ransom of his daughters!They had even gone so far as to require it in the shape of a writtenacceptance—to be cancelled and sent back along with the señoritas, whenever the cash should be forthcoming!Such were the quaint stipulations of thesalteadores!Though sounding strange to English ears, no Mexican would be at all surprised at them. Oft and again have similar bargains been made—and kept—among the mountains of Mexico!There was something that still perplexed me. How was this queer contract to be carried out?I had been told that the usual mode is by a messenger; some one acquainted with the neutral ground—if there be such—lying between robber-land and the precincts of the police. This messenger meets an envoy—deputed by the brigands; the acceptance is honoured; the captives given up, and permitted to depart without further molestation!In some cases even achequehas been taken in exchange; afterwards presented at the bank by one of the robbers themselves—andpaid!Who was to be Don Eusebio’s deputy? This was a question that interested me.The answer gave me great satisfaction. It was the driver of thediligenciathat had been stopped—known to his passengers by the name of “Don Samuel Bruno.”When it is said, that the stage-coaches of Mexico are a modern importation from the United States, I need scarcely add that their drivers have been imported along with them. They are all, or nearly all,States’men; and “Don Samuel,” despite hissobriquet, was not an exception. He was simply Sam Brown.Though the intended envoy of Don Eusebio, he had been nominated by the bandits themselves; no doubt for the reason that he knew where to carry the cash, and that it could be safely entrusted in his keeping. Any treachery on his part would put an end to his stage driving—at least, upon the roads of Mexico—and ten chances to one whether he should survive to handle the “ribbons” elsewhere.Sam knew all this, on consenting to become a “go-between;” though it was scarcely by his own consent: since the office had been assigned to him, not by request, but command.It was a fortunate circumstance for me—the very thing I would have wished for. My chief difficulty—I had seen it from the first—would be to obtain aninterviewwith the knights of the road. With the stage-driver as a guide, the difficulty seemed more than half removed.As good luck would have it, I knew something of Don Samuel. I knew him to be intelligent—and notwithstanding the ambiguousrôlehe was oft compelled to play—honest.I was not long in placing myselfen rapportwith him. As I had expected, I found him ready and right willing to “co-operate.”There was at this time much talk of our permanently occupying the country. In that case he would have nothing to fear for his future; but in any case he was too gallant to regard consequences where aseñoritawas concerned.There was yet another difficulty. Sam’s appointment with the robbers had been made for an early hour of the next morning—the place of rendezvous a treeless plain lying under the shadow of forest-clad hills—not far from the noted inn of Cordova.Alone he might easily meet theparlamentariosof the other party; but it would be quite a different thing if he should go accompanied by a score of mounted men.How was the difficulty to be got over?I put the question to himself.The intelligent Yankee soon bethought him of a scheme; and one that appeared feasible.My party should make approach in the night; go into covert under the pine-forest that shrouded the slopes above the place of rendezvous; and leave Sam himself to come on in the morning—carrying the ransom-money along with him. That night he could go with us to a certain distance—as a guide all the way—returning, to return again, at the hour of daybreak.The plan seemed excellent. There was but one drawback. Our ambuscade could only affect the envoy of the robbers, not the robbers themselves—whose den might be at a distance, among the passes of the mountains.“Don Samuel” did not see it in this light. With the bandit emissary in our power, and the dollars of Don Eusebio at our disposal, he did not apprehend any difficulty. If there were asalteadorin all Mexico proof against gold, Sam Brown did not believe it.I was satisfied with his reasoning; and consented to act under his guidance.But little time was required for preparation. The commander-in-chief—not so ungenerous after all, and always liberal in the cause of humanity—had given mecarte, blanche. I only drew a score of my own men—Mounted Rifles—with a small supplementary force of the dare-devils already alluded to.
Before separating from Don Eusebio I received from him a detailed account of the coach robbery, with all the allied incidents. It was necessary I should know everything; and everything was made known to me.
In addition to what he had already communicated, there was one fact of a curious, if not comical, character. Before permitting him to depart in thediligencia, the brigands had taken his bond for ten thousand dollars—as collateral security against the ransom of his daughters!
They had even gone so far as to require it in the shape of a writtenacceptance—to be cancelled and sent back along with the señoritas, whenever the cash should be forthcoming!
Such were the quaint stipulations of thesalteadores!
Though sounding strange to English ears, no Mexican would be at all surprised at them. Oft and again have similar bargains been made—and kept—among the mountains of Mexico!
There was something that still perplexed me. How was this queer contract to be carried out?
I had been told that the usual mode is by a messenger; some one acquainted with the neutral ground—if there be such—lying between robber-land and the precincts of the police. This messenger meets an envoy—deputed by the brigands; the acceptance is honoured; the captives given up, and permitted to depart without further molestation!
In some cases even achequehas been taken in exchange; afterwards presented at the bank by one of the robbers themselves—andpaid!
Who was to be Don Eusebio’s deputy? This was a question that interested me.
The answer gave me great satisfaction. It was the driver of thediligenciathat had been stopped—known to his passengers by the name of “Don Samuel Bruno.”
When it is said, that the stage-coaches of Mexico are a modern importation from the United States, I need scarcely add that their drivers have been imported along with them. They are all, or nearly all,States’men; and “Don Samuel,” despite hissobriquet, was not an exception. He was simply Sam Brown.
Though the intended envoy of Don Eusebio, he had been nominated by the bandits themselves; no doubt for the reason that he knew where to carry the cash, and that it could be safely entrusted in his keeping. Any treachery on his part would put an end to his stage driving—at least, upon the roads of Mexico—and ten chances to one whether he should survive to handle the “ribbons” elsewhere.
Sam knew all this, on consenting to become a “go-between;” though it was scarcely by his own consent: since the office had been assigned to him, not by request, but command.
It was a fortunate circumstance for me—the very thing I would have wished for. My chief difficulty—I had seen it from the first—would be to obtain aninterviewwith the knights of the road. With the stage-driver as a guide, the difficulty seemed more than half removed.
As good luck would have it, I knew something of Don Samuel. I knew him to be intelligent—and notwithstanding the ambiguousrôlehe was oft compelled to play—honest.
I was not long in placing myselfen rapportwith him. As I had expected, I found him ready and right willing to “co-operate.”
There was at this time much talk of our permanently occupying the country. In that case he would have nothing to fear for his future; but in any case he was too gallant to regard consequences where aseñoritawas concerned.
There was yet another difficulty. Sam’s appointment with the robbers had been made for an early hour of the next morning—the place of rendezvous a treeless plain lying under the shadow of forest-clad hills—not far from the noted inn of Cordova.
Alone he might easily meet theparlamentariosof the other party; but it would be quite a different thing if he should go accompanied by a score of mounted men.
How was the difficulty to be got over?
I put the question to himself.
The intelligent Yankee soon bethought him of a scheme; and one that appeared feasible.
My party should make approach in the night; go into covert under the pine-forest that shrouded the slopes above the place of rendezvous; and leave Sam himself to come on in the morning—carrying the ransom-money along with him. That night he could go with us to a certain distance—as a guide all the way—returning, to return again, at the hour of daybreak.
The plan seemed excellent. There was but one drawback. Our ambuscade could only affect the envoy of the robbers, not the robbers themselves—whose den might be at a distance, among the passes of the mountains.
“Don Samuel” did not see it in this light. With the bandit emissary in our power, and the dollars of Don Eusebio at our disposal, he did not apprehend any difficulty. If there were asalteadorin all Mexico proof against gold, Sam Brown did not believe it.
I was satisfied with his reasoning; and consented to act under his guidance.
But little time was required for preparation. The commander-in-chief—not so ungenerous after all, and always liberal in the cause of humanity—had given mecarte, blanche. I only drew a score of my own men—Mounted Rifles—with a small supplementary force of the dare-devils already alluded to.
Chapter Thirty.A Yankee Jehu.Along the lone causeway, three hundred years ago traversed by Cortez—and now, instead of open water, with azancaon each side of it—we journeyed in solemn silence.I had waited for that hour of the night when wayfarers, who might turn informers, were not likely to be encountered on the road.We passed the isolated hill of El Peñon without meeting any one; and commenced skirting the saline shores of Tezcoco.The ride, though long, was far from appearing tedious. How could it be in the company of a stage-coach driver—especially one from the “States?”Who does not know him? Who that has journeyed upon the “corduroy roads” of Kentucky, Mississippi, or Tennessee—who thus dreadfully jolted—does not remember the compensation he has had, in the cheerful conversation of the man who conducted him over these accursed causeways?In Mexico he is met, just as in the States; mounted on the box of a “Troy” coach; dressed in jacket, or tailed-coat with short skirts; the universal white hat upon his head; and perchance a cigar sticking slantwise between his teeth. Thus he may be seen—and never seen without being liked—almost beloved—by those whose luck it is to have a seat upon the box beside him.Light, tight, intelligent, and cheery—civil to the humblest outsider—daring to a degree of recklessness—he is as different from the unwieldy six-caped carcase of English stage-coach celebrity, as a butterfly to a buffalo. Who ever sate on the box beside him, without longing to sit there again?Where is the guide-book that can tell you half so much of the road—every turn and winding—every incident that has occurred upon it for the last ten years—murders, suicides, runaway matches, struggles with black bears, and chases of red deer—in short, everything worthy of being recorded?And all this with a thorough disinterestedness—his sole design being to entertain you. No thought of the “tip” which your Old World Jehu expects to receive at parting company. Offer it tohim, and in all likelihood he will fling it back at your feet! He has not yet been corrupted by the customs of king-loving communities.Meet him in Mexico: for he is there. He had to go with the coaches imported from “Troy”—not the Troy of the Dardanelles, that “Ammon’s sons ran proudly round”—but its modern, and more peaceful, namesake in the state of New York.Although under a different name, thediligenciaof Mexico is the stage-coach of the States—its driver the same light-hearted happy fellow, with a good word for everybody, and a kindly smile for all themuchachas, plain or pretty, he may pass upon his route.Interesting as this man is—and has been for a century in the United States—he is still more interesting upon the stage roads of Mexico. Scarcely a day of his life passes without his being in peril. I do not allude to the reckless pace at which he urges his half-tamed mustangs—three abreast—down the declivities of the Mexican mountains. These are occurrences of every hour. I speak of the perils that threaten him from the behaviour of thebandoleros—by whom he is repeatedly surrounded.Sam Brown’s dealings with these gentry were of almost daily occurrence. At all events, there was scarcely a week without his being witness to a scene—not unfrequently having a tragical termination. More than once had he been present at the spilling of blood!Thediligenciais usually accompanied by anescolta—a troop ofdragones, orlanzeros, ill-armed and equipped; whose tattered uniforms, and feet set shoeless in their stirrups, render them more grotesque than terrible.At times the escort is itself attacked; and a sharp skirmish comes off between troops and bandits—the former not unfrequently fleeing the field, and leaving theirprotégés, the passengers, to be plundered at the discretion of the triumphantsalteadores.At other times theescoltadeclines “coming to the scratch”—having taken the precaution just at the critical moment to be riding far in the rear; then galloping up with swaggering demonstration, after the robbers have completed their pillage, and gone away from the ground!Either a strong escort, or none at all, was Sam Brown’s sentiment; but his preference was, decidedly, for none at all!In the latter case thediligenciais often permitted to continue its route uninterrupted: the bandits believing, that it carries no passengers worth protecting, and therefore not worth pillaging!It is no rare thing for the “escolta” itself to be suspected; or at least the officer commanding it. More than once has the connivance been established, by evidence, in a court of law!Still rarer does punishment follow in any proportion to the diabolical crime—the criminal usually getting clear by turningsalteadorhimself!On the other hand, there are times when an honest officer—one of action and courage—makes his appearance upon the scene; and by the energetic performance of his duty becomes a terror to the bandits—rendering the roads comparatively safe.Unluckily this improved state of things continues but for a short period. Some newgrito—followed by the usual spasmodic revolution—brings about a change, both in rulers and robbers; who sometimes alsoexchangesituations! The energetic officer is snatched away from the scene—either by death, or promotion to a better post; and the passage of the roads becomes perilous as ever.Such were a few of the revelations I had from the lips of Don Samuel Bruno, as we journeyed along the lone causeway leading by the lake Tezcoco.There were two things still unexplained, and which no little puzzled me: how my guide had contrived to come safe out of so many hair-breadth perils? And how he managed to keep his peace with thesalteadores?The explanation was asked for, and freely given.The secret lay in a nutshell.No matter what happened, Sam always remained neutral!“Ye see, cap’n,” said he—by way of explanation rather than apology, “as I’m only the driver, they hain’t no ill-will agin me. They know I’m but doin’ my duty. Besides, if thar was no driver, there ked be nodiligencia; an’ ifitwar off the road, all the wuss for them, I reck’n. They look upon me as bein’ nootral; otherwise I needn’t go that way agin. I keep on my box, an’ leave ’em do as they’ve a mind—knowin’ that I ked be of no sarvice to the poor passengers that’s bein’ plundered. I kin dothemmore good, arter it’s all over—by drivin’ them on to thar destinashun.”For a time my companion was silent, and I too. I became absorbed in thoughts, cheerless, if not absolutely sad.The sight of Tezcoco, along whose shores we were now proceeding, was not calculated to cheer me. The lake looked still, and dark as Acheron itself—its sombre silence relieved only at intervals by sounds yet more lugubrious—the scream of the great curlew, or the screech-like call of the American ibis!Giving way to a string of unpleasant fancies, I rode on without speaking to any of my comrades.I was roused from my reverie by the voice of Sam Brown; who appeared desirous of once more entering into conversation.“Cap’n!” said he, spurring alongside of me, and dragging the pack-mule after him. “’Scuse me for intrudin’ upon you; but I’ve got somethin’ more to say about this business we’re on. What air ye goin’ to do?”“No excuse, Mr Brown. On the contrary, I was about to put the same interrogatory to you. I confess that I feel a little perplexed. Now that we’ve started on this expedition, I begin to see the difficulty—if not the absolute idleness of it. It seems absurd to suppose that the robbers would send one of their number to meet any messenger, who may be deputed to them,—without taking precautions against a surprise?”“They never do, cap’n. They ain’t sech consarned fools.”“Well, I thought as much; or do now—now that I’ve had time to reflect upon it. It isn’t the scheme I had intended to have carried out. After all, there’s no alternative, but to go through with it. What’s your advice?”“Well, cap’n; my advice might be no better than anybody else’s; only that I’ve took notice to a thing or two.”“Where? When?”“I kin answer both yer questions at the same time: whar and when the coach was stopped.”“You noticed something strange?”“More’n one thing; several o’ ’em.”“What were they?”“First, then, the skunks werecraped.”“I’ve heard the same from Don Eusebio. But what signification is there in that?”“Not much, I admit; only that it ain’t common for reg’lar robbers to wear crape. They don’t care who seestheirfaces: bein’ as they make thar home among the mountings; and never put themselves in the power of the sojers, oralguazils. These bein’ craped, shows they’re a lot from the town.”“What town?”“Puebla, in coorse. It’s the biggest nest in all the Mexikin domeenyuns. They wore that kiver to keep from bein’ recognised—shed they be met afterwards in the streets. It don’t follow that they were any the less brigands on that account. Them of the town air jest as bad as them that keep out in the country. They all belong to the same school; only the outsiders don’t care whether they’re known by them as they plunder; while the town chaps sometimes do—for sartin reasons.”“There were some other circumstances that appeared odd to you?” I asked of my intelligent guide.“One other as looked darnationed odd. It puzzled me at the time, an’ do still. I had my eyes on them two saynoritas as travelled with the old Don, thar father. There’s one o’ them especially I’d like to know who ked keep his eyes off o’. Well, what surprised me was, that instead o’ seemin’ scared-like, and squealin’ out—as I’ve heerd other Mexikin sheemales do when tuk by the robbers—they both flirted off among the trees, with two or three o’ the brigands attending on ’em, jest as if they were startin’ out a huckleberryin’!“All the while the old Don war down upon his belly—flat as a pancake—from which seetuation he warn’t allowed to stir, till the gurls had gone clean out o’ sight.“Then one o’ the band bargained wi’ him about the ransom-money—tellin’ him it was to be trusted to me, an’ whar it was to be brought. They then bundled him back into the coach, an ordered me to drive on—the which, I reckon, I war riddy enough to do.”“But there was a priest along with them. What became of him?”“Oh! the monk. That ’ere is also kewrious. The robbers usooaly letthemgo—after makin’ ’em give each o’ the band a blessin’!Himthey kep along wi’ ’em; for what purpose the Lord only knows. Maybe to make sport o’ him, by way o’ divarshin. Seein’ that I war no longer wanted, I gave the whup to the hosses; and fetched the old gentleman away, all by himself.”“Do you think his daughters in danger of being ill-treated?”“Well, that depends on whose hands they’ve fallen into. Some are worse than others. Some times they’re only a set o’ idle fellows from the towns, who put on robber for the time—just to raise the wind in that way. When they’ve got up a stake, they go back to their gamblin’ atmonté; the which pays them better, and ain’t so much risk o’ their gettin’ shot, or shet up. There are officers of the army who’ve been known to take a turn at the business—after they’ve spent their pay, or don’t get it to spend—which last happens beout half the time.“Then there’s the reg’larbandoleros—orsalteadores, as they sometimes call ’em—who live by it for constant. Of them there’s several seprit bands along this road. One in partickler, calledCarrasco’s, who used to be a officer in Santa Anna’s army. There’sDominguez, too, who was a colonel; but he’s now along wi’ you at the head o’ the Spies. I don’t think it was Carrasco’s fellows that stopped us this time.”“Why not?”“Theywouldn’t a’ cared to wear crape. I hope it wan’t them.”I had a painful suspicion why this hope was expressed; and anxiously enquired the reason.“Because,” answered the guide, “if it hez been Carrasco, I shed say a pity o’ them two young critters. Kewrious thar showin’ so little skeeart!“Maybe they didn’t more’n half know thar danger. As the robbers don’t allers ill-treat the weemen—’ceptin’ to strip ’em of thar gimcracks and the like—the Mexican sheemales ain’t so much ’fraid o’ ’em as ye might suppose they’d be.”“Arter all,” continued he, “it may be that I war mistaken. They were so quick bore off into the bushes, I hadn’t much time to take notice o’ ’em—the more so as I had enough to do in keepin’ my hosses from goin’ over the edge o’ a precipice—by the side o’ which we were brought to the stand.”“In any case,” pursued Sam Brown, riding a little closer to me, and speaking so as not to be overheard by my followers, “It air time ye made up your mind what to do, cap’n. We’re now come to the place, whar we must take leave o’ the main road. The rendezvoos gin me by the robbers lies up one o’ these side gullies, whar there’s nothin’ but a bridle path. Another half-hour’s ridin’ ’ll fetch us to the place o’ appointment.”“Have you thought of any other plan than that already spoken of?”I put the question, fancying from his manner that something else had suggested itself to him.“I hev, cap’n. There’s jest a chance that I know whar them craped gentlemen air at this very minute—jest a chance of thar bein’ thar.”The last words were spoken slowly, and in a sort of meditative soliloquy.“Where? Of what place are you speaking?”“A queery place; and ye wouldn’t know whar it is if I war to tell ye. To understan the lie o’ that shanty, ye’d hev to see it for yourself; which not many ever do, ceptin’ them as have got bizness thar—an’ they ain’t sech as air honest.”“A shanty—there’s a house? Some solitary dwelling, I suppose?”“Ye may well call it that, cap’n. It sartinly are the most solitariest dwellin’ I ever seed; an’ what any man ked iver a built it for, beats my recknin’—as I b’lieve it do that o’ most others as hev specklated upon it. Lies up thar.”I looked in the direction indicated by his gesture. Several dark lists seamed the side of the mountain—at the foot of which we had come to a halt. One of them looked deeper and more cavernous than the rest; though all seemed to trend towards the summit of the slope.The mountain itself went up with a gradual acclivity; its sides forest-covered—except here and there, where the naked porphyry peeped out through the dark green drapery of the pines.Though the sky was moonless, there were stars. By their light I could distinguish something white above and beyond the pine-covered track. It looked like a patch of fleecy cloud.“That ere’s the buzzum o’ the White Woman,” remarked the guide, seeing what my eyes were fixed upon. “She lies jest beyont the big black mountain. There’s only a sort o’ a ridge atween ’em.”“Ixticihuatl!” I said, now recognising the snowy summit. “You don’t mean that the robbers are gone up there?”“Not so fur as that. If they war, weshedhave a climb for it. The place I’m speakin’ o’ is in that dark gulley ye see straight afore you. It’s this side the lower end o’ it whar I’m to meet thar messenger, and deliver up the dollars. That’s jest why I think we might find them at the shanty I’ve told ye about.”“There can be no harm in our going there?”“I reckon not,” answered the guide, reflectingly. “If we don’t find ’em thar, we kin get back to the bottom afore daylight, an’ then carry out the other plan. Thar’s one thing we’ve got to do, afore we reach that ere shanty. We’ve got to hev a climb for it; and the last quarter o’ a mile ’ll hev to be made upon Shanks’s mare.”“No matter for that,” I said, impatient to proceed. “You lead the way. I’ll answer for myself and men being able to follow you.”“I ain’t afeerd beout that,” rejoined Don Samuel Bruno. “But mind, cap’n!” added he, in the exercise of his Yankee caution, “I haint said we’ll find them thar—only thet it air likely. All events it air worth while tryin’—considerin’ sech a sweet gurl as she air in the hands o’ sech ruffins. She oughter be tuk from ’em anyhow—an’ at any price!”I needed not to ask him which was meant by the “sweet gurl.” Too well did I divine that it was Dolores.“Lead on!” I exclaimed, giving the spur to my horse, and the “Forward” to my followers.
Along the lone causeway, three hundred years ago traversed by Cortez—and now, instead of open water, with azancaon each side of it—we journeyed in solemn silence.
I had waited for that hour of the night when wayfarers, who might turn informers, were not likely to be encountered on the road.
We passed the isolated hill of El Peñon without meeting any one; and commenced skirting the saline shores of Tezcoco.
The ride, though long, was far from appearing tedious. How could it be in the company of a stage-coach driver—especially one from the “States?”
Who does not know him? Who that has journeyed upon the “corduroy roads” of Kentucky, Mississippi, or Tennessee—who thus dreadfully jolted—does not remember the compensation he has had, in the cheerful conversation of the man who conducted him over these accursed causeways?
In Mexico he is met, just as in the States; mounted on the box of a “Troy” coach; dressed in jacket, or tailed-coat with short skirts; the universal white hat upon his head; and perchance a cigar sticking slantwise between his teeth. Thus he may be seen—and never seen without being liked—almost beloved—by those whose luck it is to have a seat upon the box beside him.
Light, tight, intelligent, and cheery—civil to the humblest outsider—daring to a degree of recklessness—he is as different from the unwieldy six-caped carcase of English stage-coach celebrity, as a butterfly to a buffalo. Who ever sate on the box beside him, without longing to sit there again?
Where is the guide-book that can tell you half so much of the road—every turn and winding—every incident that has occurred upon it for the last ten years—murders, suicides, runaway matches, struggles with black bears, and chases of red deer—in short, everything worthy of being recorded?
And all this with a thorough disinterestedness—his sole design being to entertain you. No thought of the “tip” which your Old World Jehu expects to receive at parting company. Offer it tohim, and in all likelihood he will fling it back at your feet! He has not yet been corrupted by the customs of king-loving communities.
Meet him in Mexico: for he is there. He had to go with the coaches imported from “Troy”—not the Troy of the Dardanelles, that “Ammon’s sons ran proudly round”—but its modern, and more peaceful, namesake in the state of New York.
Although under a different name, thediligenciaof Mexico is the stage-coach of the States—its driver the same light-hearted happy fellow, with a good word for everybody, and a kindly smile for all themuchachas, plain or pretty, he may pass upon his route.
Interesting as this man is—and has been for a century in the United States—he is still more interesting upon the stage roads of Mexico. Scarcely a day of his life passes without his being in peril. I do not allude to the reckless pace at which he urges his half-tamed mustangs—three abreast—down the declivities of the Mexican mountains. These are occurrences of every hour. I speak of the perils that threaten him from the behaviour of thebandoleros—by whom he is repeatedly surrounded.
Sam Brown’s dealings with these gentry were of almost daily occurrence. At all events, there was scarcely a week without his being witness to a scene—not unfrequently having a tragical termination. More than once had he been present at the spilling of blood!
Thediligenciais usually accompanied by anescolta—a troop ofdragones, orlanzeros, ill-armed and equipped; whose tattered uniforms, and feet set shoeless in their stirrups, render them more grotesque than terrible.
At times the escort is itself attacked; and a sharp skirmish comes off between troops and bandits—the former not unfrequently fleeing the field, and leaving theirprotégés, the passengers, to be plundered at the discretion of the triumphantsalteadores.
At other times theescoltadeclines “coming to the scratch”—having taken the precaution just at the critical moment to be riding far in the rear; then galloping up with swaggering demonstration, after the robbers have completed their pillage, and gone away from the ground!
Either a strong escort, or none at all, was Sam Brown’s sentiment; but his preference was, decidedly, for none at all!
In the latter case thediligenciais often permitted to continue its route uninterrupted: the bandits believing, that it carries no passengers worth protecting, and therefore not worth pillaging!
It is no rare thing for the “escolta” itself to be suspected; or at least the officer commanding it. More than once has the connivance been established, by evidence, in a court of law!
Still rarer does punishment follow in any proportion to the diabolical crime—the criminal usually getting clear by turningsalteadorhimself!
On the other hand, there are times when an honest officer—one of action and courage—makes his appearance upon the scene; and by the energetic performance of his duty becomes a terror to the bandits—rendering the roads comparatively safe.
Unluckily this improved state of things continues but for a short period. Some newgrito—followed by the usual spasmodic revolution—brings about a change, both in rulers and robbers; who sometimes alsoexchangesituations! The energetic officer is snatched away from the scene—either by death, or promotion to a better post; and the passage of the roads becomes perilous as ever.
Such were a few of the revelations I had from the lips of Don Samuel Bruno, as we journeyed along the lone causeway leading by the lake Tezcoco.
There were two things still unexplained, and which no little puzzled me: how my guide had contrived to come safe out of so many hair-breadth perils? And how he managed to keep his peace with thesalteadores?
The explanation was asked for, and freely given.
The secret lay in a nutshell.
No matter what happened, Sam always remained neutral!
“Ye see, cap’n,” said he—by way of explanation rather than apology, “as I’m only the driver, they hain’t no ill-will agin me. They know I’m but doin’ my duty. Besides, if thar was no driver, there ked be nodiligencia; an’ ifitwar off the road, all the wuss for them, I reck’n. They look upon me as bein’ nootral; otherwise I needn’t go that way agin. I keep on my box, an’ leave ’em do as they’ve a mind—knowin’ that I ked be of no sarvice to the poor passengers that’s bein’ plundered. I kin dothemmore good, arter it’s all over—by drivin’ them on to thar destinashun.”
For a time my companion was silent, and I too. I became absorbed in thoughts, cheerless, if not absolutely sad.
The sight of Tezcoco, along whose shores we were now proceeding, was not calculated to cheer me. The lake looked still, and dark as Acheron itself—its sombre silence relieved only at intervals by sounds yet more lugubrious—the scream of the great curlew, or the screech-like call of the American ibis!
Giving way to a string of unpleasant fancies, I rode on without speaking to any of my comrades.
I was roused from my reverie by the voice of Sam Brown; who appeared desirous of once more entering into conversation.
“Cap’n!” said he, spurring alongside of me, and dragging the pack-mule after him. “’Scuse me for intrudin’ upon you; but I’ve got somethin’ more to say about this business we’re on. What air ye goin’ to do?”
“No excuse, Mr Brown. On the contrary, I was about to put the same interrogatory to you. I confess that I feel a little perplexed. Now that we’ve started on this expedition, I begin to see the difficulty—if not the absolute idleness of it. It seems absurd to suppose that the robbers would send one of their number to meet any messenger, who may be deputed to them,—without taking precautions against a surprise?”
“They never do, cap’n. They ain’t sech consarned fools.”
“Well, I thought as much; or do now—now that I’ve had time to reflect upon it. It isn’t the scheme I had intended to have carried out. After all, there’s no alternative, but to go through with it. What’s your advice?”
“Well, cap’n; my advice might be no better than anybody else’s; only that I’ve took notice to a thing or two.”
“Where? When?”
“I kin answer both yer questions at the same time: whar and when the coach was stopped.”
“You noticed something strange?”
“More’n one thing; several o’ ’em.”
“What were they?”
“First, then, the skunks werecraped.”
“I’ve heard the same from Don Eusebio. But what signification is there in that?”
“Not much, I admit; only that it ain’t common for reg’lar robbers to wear crape. They don’t care who seestheirfaces: bein’ as they make thar home among the mountings; and never put themselves in the power of the sojers, oralguazils. These bein’ craped, shows they’re a lot from the town.”
“What town?”
“Puebla, in coorse. It’s the biggest nest in all the Mexikin domeenyuns. They wore that kiver to keep from bein’ recognised—shed they be met afterwards in the streets. It don’t follow that they were any the less brigands on that account. Them of the town air jest as bad as them that keep out in the country. They all belong to the same school; only the outsiders don’t care whether they’re known by them as they plunder; while the town chaps sometimes do—for sartin reasons.”
“There were some other circumstances that appeared odd to you?” I asked of my intelligent guide.
“One other as looked darnationed odd. It puzzled me at the time, an’ do still. I had my eyes on them two saynoritas as travelled with the old Don, thar father. There’s one o’ them especially I’d like to know who ked keep his eyes off o’. Well, what surprised me was, that instead o’ seemin’ scared-like, and squealin’ out—as I’ve heerd other Mexikin sheemales do when tuk by the robbers—they both flirted off among the trees, with two or three o’ the brigands attending on ’em, jest as if they were startin’ out a huckleberryin’!
“All the while the old Don war down upon his belly—flat as a pancake—from which seetuation he warn’t allowed to stir, till the gurls had gone clean out o’ sight.
“Then one o’ the band bargained wi’ him about the ransom-money—tellin’ him it was to be trusted to me, an’ whar it was to be brought. They then bundled him back into the coach, an ordered me to drive on—the which, I reckon, I war riddy enough to do.”
“But there was a priest along with them. What became of him?”
“Oh! the monk. That ’ere is also kewrious. The robbers usooaly letthemgo—after makin’ ’em give each o’ the band a blessin’!Himthey kep along wi’ ’em; for what purpose the Lord only knows. Maybe to make sport o’ him, by way o’ divarshin. Seein’ that I war no longer wanted, I gave the whup to the hosses; and fetched the old gentleman away, all by himself.”
“Do you think his daughters in danger of being ill-treated?”
“Well, that depends on whose hands they’ve fallen into. Some are worse than others. Some times they’re only a set o’ idle fellows from the towns, who put on robber for the time—just to raise the wind in that way. When they’ve got up a stake, they go back to their gamblin’ atmonté; the which pays them better, and ain’t so much risk o’ their gettin’ shot, or shet up. There are officers of the army who’ve been known to take a turn at the business—after they’ve spent their pay, or don’t get it to spend—which last happens beout half the time.
“Then there’s the reg’larbandoleros—orsalteadores, as they sometimes call ’em—who live by it for constant. Of them there’s several seprit bands along this road. One in partickler, calledCarrasco’s, who used to be a officer in Santa Anna’s army. There’sDominguez, too, who was a colonel; but he’s now along wi’ you at the head o’ the Spies. I don’t think it was Carrasco’s fellows that stopped us this time.”
“Why not?”
“Theywouldn’t a’ cared to wear crape. I hope it wan’t them.”
I had a painful suspicion why this hope was expressed; and anxiously enquired the reason.
“Because,” answered the guide, “if it hez been Carrasco, I shed say a pity o’ them two young critters. Kewrious thar showin’ so little skeeart!
“Maybe they didn’t more’n half know thar danger. As the robbers don’t allers ill-treat the weemen—’ceptin’ to strip ’em of thar gimcracks and the like—the Mexican sheemales ain’t so much ’fraid o’ ’em as ye might suppose they’d be.”
“Arter all,” continued he, “it may be that I war mistaken. They were so quick bore off into the bushes, I hadn’t much time to take notice o’ ’em—the more so as I had enough to do in keepin’ my hosses from goin’ over the edge o’ a precipice—by the side o’ which we were brought to the stand.”
“In any case,” pursued Sam Brown, riding a little closer to me, and speaking so as not to be overheard by my followers, “It air time ye made up your mind what to do, cap’n. We’re now come to the place, whar we must take leave o’ the main road. The rendezvoos gin me by the robbers lies up one o’ these side gullies, whar there’s nothin’ but a bridle path. Another half-hour’s ridin’ ’ll fetch us to the place o’ appointment.”
“Have you thought of any other plan than that already spoken of?”
I put the question, fancying from his manner that something else had suggested itself to him.
“I hev, cap’n. There’s jest a chance that I know whar them craped gentlemen air at this very minute—jest a chance of thar bein’ thar.”
The last words were spoken slowly, and in a sort of meditative soliloquy.
“Where? Of what place are you speaking?”
“A queery place; and ye wouldn’t know whar it is if I war to tell ye. To understan the lie o’ that shanty, ye’d hev to see it for yourself; which not many ever do, ceptin’ them as have got bizness thar—an’ they ain’t sech as air honest.”
“A shanty—there’s a house? Some solitary dwelling, I suppose?”
“Ye may well call it that, cap’n. It sartinly are the most solitariest dwellin’ I ever seed; an’ what any man ked iver a built it for, beats my recknin’—as I b’lieve it do that o’ most others as hev specklated upon it. Lies up thar.”
I looked in the direction indicated by his gesture. Several dark lists seamed the side of the mountain—at the foot of which we had come to a halt. One of them looked deeper and more cavernous than the rest; though all seemed to trend towards the summit of the slope.
The mountain itself went up with a gradual acclivity; its sides forest-covered—except here and there, where the naked porphyry peeped out through the dark green drapery of the pines.
Though the sky was moonless, there were stars. By their light I could distinguish something white above and beyond the pine-covered track. It looked like a patch of fleecy cloud.
“That ere’s the buzzum o’ the White Woman,” remarked the guide, seeing what my eyes were fixed upon. “She lies jest beyont the big black mountain. There’s only a sort o’ a ridge atween ’em.”
“Ixticihuatl!” I said, now recognising the snowy summit. “You don’t mean that the robbers are gone up there?”
“Not so fur as that. If they war, weshedhave a climb for it. The place I’m speakin’ o’ is in that dark gulley ye see straight afore you. It’s this side the lower end o’ it whar I’m to meet thar messenger, and deliver up the dollars. That’s jest why I think we might find them at the shanty I’ve told ye about.”
“There can be no harm in our going there?”
“I reckon not,” answered the guide, reflectingly. “If we don’t find ’em thar, we kin get back to the bottom afore daylight, an’ then carry out the other plan. Thar’s one thing we’ve got to do, afore we reach that ere shanty. We’ve got to hev a climb for it; and the last quarter o’ a mile ’ll hev to be made upon Shanks’s mare.”
“No matter for that,” I said, impatient to proceed. “You lead the way. I’ll answer for myself and men being able to follow you.”
“I ain’t afeerd beout that,” rejoined Don Samuel Bruno. “But mind, cap’n!” added he, in the exercise of his Yankee caution, “I haint said we’ll find them thar—only thet it air likely. All events it air worth while tryin’—considerin’ sech a sweet gurl as she air in the hands o’ sech ruffins. She oughter be tuk from ’em anyhow—an’ at any price!”
I needed not to ask him which was meant by the “sweet gurl.” Too well did I divine that it was Dolores.
“Lead on!” I exclaimed, giving the spur to my horse, and the “Forward” to my followers.
Chapter Thirty One.Demonté.It had not yet reached the hour of midnight, as we left the Great National Road, and commenced moving up the mountain,—in a lateral though somewhat parallel course to that we had been following.For a mile we marched along a path, where wheels might have passed at a pinch.We could see by the starlight that there were some small settlements on each side, and one more conspicuous above, which we knew to be the hacienda of Buena Vista—famed as the spot where the best view can be had of the valley of Mexico. From this circumstance does the dwelling derive its name; and he who from itsazoteacan look downward, without having his soul stirred within him, must be incapable of romantic emotion.On approaching from the coast—I mean Vera Cruz—it is here the traveller first obtains a good view (buena vista) of the world-renowned “Valle of Tenochtitlan;” here that he first comes within sight of the City of the Moctezumas.Story-telling tourists can see it from the summit of the Sierra—looking through the long-leaved pines! Almost every one who has written a book about Mexico has made this plausible assertion.But it must be remembered that these books have been mostly compiled after the travellers had returned home; and, in some instances to my knowledge, before they started out—not having started at all!One and all have followed the first teller of the fictitious talc; who must have been sharper sighted than I. With tolerably good eyes—strengthened by a capital field glass—I could see no city of Mexico from the summit of the Sierra, nor from any part of its sloping declivity, through the dearest break the pine-forest afforded.Considering the distance, it is not likely that I should. What I saw was the “Valle” itself—not a valley in our sense, but a wide plain; inclosing within its limits several isolated hills, that might almost be termed mountains; mottled with broad expanses of swamp, and sheets of clear water—the largest of these being Lakes Tezcoco and Chalco; here and there a white dot, showing the lime-washed walls of a hacienda, the keener sparkle of a church spire, or the glistening of an enamelled dome amidst the scattered huts of apueblita.All this you may see from the summit of the Cordillera; but not the towers of Tenochtitlan. Before you can distinguish these, you must descend—nearer and lower. You must look from the terrace where stands Buena Vista; or the plateau occupied by the “Venta” of Cordova.When nearly abreast of the latter place, the road we were pursuing ran out, or rather into a bridle path; and my little troop had to stretch out into “twos.”A mile farther on, and even this slender formation had to be changed to one still more extended. The path was only possible for “single file;” and into this we fell.Another mile of marching, and it was not possible for cavalry, or horsemen of any kind. Only a pedestrian could pursue it, and he, too, one accustomed to climbing.I muttered the command to halt, which had become indispensable. It was earned insotto voceto the rear; and the horses, strung out for a hundred yards, came to a stand—one behind the other.“There is no road beyond?” I said, interrogating the guide, who had squeezed up alongside of me.“For horses, no. Only a footpath; an’ scace that eyther. Thar air a horse track further up; but it comes in from t’other side o’ the ridge—on the left. It strikes off o’ the National Road, close to the place whar the coach got stopped. Thet’s why I hev the suspicion the fellurs may be found at the house as lies up hyar.”“But why have we not gone along the main road, and then taken that you speak of? We could have ridden on to the house?”“No—not to the house. Thar’s a bit o’ it too—the last hundred yards or so—impossible for bosses.”“Still it would have been better than to leave them here? I don’t like separating the men from their saddles—especially as we know nothing of the ground.”“Thar’s another reezun for our not goin’ the other way,” pursued the guide, without replying to my remarks. “If I’d taken you by the road we might a made a mess o’ it.”“How?”“If they’re up at the big house there’ll be one o’ ’em on the watch down below—near the joinin’ o’ the roads. They allers keep a sentry there. He’d be sartin to a seen us—whereas, by comin’ this way, we may have a chance o’ stealin’ close to the shanty afore any o’ ’em sets eyes on us.”“You propose that we dismount, then, and go forward afoot?”“Thar’s no other way, cap’n.”“How far is it to the house?”“As to distance, nothin’; not over six hundred yards, I shed say. I’ve only been there once. It’s the steepness o’ the track that takes up the time.”I did not much like the idea of dismounting my men, and leading them away from their horses. Not but that the individuals I had selected were equal to good fighting afoot; but it occurred to me that it was possible for us to have been seen, as we marched along the lower road—seen, too, by those who might have a fancy to follow us.There were guérilleros along the mountain foot, as well as robbers in its ravines. In short, every peasant and small proprietor was at this time apartisan.What if a band should get together, and come on after us? The capture of twenty American horses—without a blow struck to retain them—would have been a blow to me I should not easily have got over. It would have been the ruin of a military reputation, I had but just commenced making.I dared not risk such a discomfiture; and I determined upon the men remaining by their horses.I had no idea of abandoning the enterprise. That would have been a still greater disgrace. I but stayed to consider some plan of approach, involving less risk of a failure.A few minutes spent in reflection, and a few more words exchanged with the stage-driver, helped me to what I conceived a better: the men to remain where they were; myself and the guide to go up the ravine alone, reconnoitre the house, and then take such measures as circumstances might suggest.If we should find that the brigands were “abroad,” my troopers would be spared a toilsome ascent, and the chagrin of a disappointment. If “at home,” it might then be worth while to pay them a visit in full force.The guide thought there would be no danger in our going alone—so long as we made our reconnoissance with proper caution. There was no scarcity of cover, both underwood and tall timber. In the event of our being perceived while making approach, we could fall back upon our friends, before much harm could be done to us. Should we be close pressed, the men could meet us half-way. I had the means of making them hear me at three times the distance.I had no lieutenant with me—only my first sergeant, who had seen service in three out of the four quarters of the globe. Above all, he had “fit Injun, both in forest and prairie;” and could be trusted on an enterprise like that we had in hand.Having arranged the signal in a whisper, and communicated to him such other instructions as occurred to me, I dismounted from my horse; and followed “Don Samuel Bruno” in the direction of the “shanty.”The night was far from being a dark one. These are rare under the skies of Southern Mexico. There was no moon, but myriads of stars; and at a later hour the moon might be expected.The atmosphere was tranquil—scarce a breath of air stirring the suspended leaves of the pines. The slightest sound could have been heard at a remarkable distance. We could distinguish the bleating of sheep on the plain below, and the screaming of wildfowl on the sedgy shores of Lake Chalco!Less light, and more noise, would have answered our purpose better.We ourselves made but little of the last. Though the path was steep, it was not so difficult of ascent—only here and there, as it extended from terrace to terrace by a more precipitous escarpment—and up these we were assisted by the shrubbery.We had agreed to proceed by signs; or, when near enough, by whispers. We knew that the slightest sound might betray us.At short intervals we stopped to obtain breath—less from actual exhaustion, than to keep down the noise of our heightened respiration.At one place we made a more lengthened pause. It was upon a shelf-like terrace of some extent—where there were hoof-prints of horses, and other indications of a trodden path. My guide pointed them out—whispering to me, that it was the road of which he had spoken.I bent down over the tracks. They were of recent date—made that very day. My prairie experience enabled me to tell this, despite the obscurity through which I scrutinised them. The “sign” promised well for the success of our enterprise.Beyond, the road became opener and easier. For two or three hundred yards it trended along a horizontal level, and we could walk without strain.The stage-driver silently preceded me—still going slowly, and without any abatement of caution.I had time to reflect, as I followed him.My thoughts were anything but cheerful. The gloomy canopy of the pines appeared to give a tinge to my spirit, and it became attuned to the sad sighing heard high up among theirancillae. The moaning of the great Mexican owl, as it glided past on soft silent wing, seemed meant only to mock me!I had been under a half belief that I had forgotten Dolores Villa-Señor, or become indifferent to her existence. Vain hallucination! Idle, and I knew it now.Long weary marches; sieges protracted; battles, and wounds therein received; even the coquetry of other eyes—wicked as hers—had not chased her image from my heart, or my memory. It was there still.I could see her countenance before me—under the sombre shadow of the trees—plain as I saw the white-winged owls—soft as the weird wafting of their wings!I had not forgotten her. In that hour I knew that I never should.And while hastening to effect her rescue, I felt as if I could have gloated over her ruin—so steeped was my soul in chagrin—so brimful of black vengeance!It was no chivalrous thought that was carrying me up the slopes of Ixticihuatl—only the hope of humiliating her, who had humiliated me!I was aroused from my unworthy imaginings by the voice of Sam Brown, whispering close to my ear. His words were:—“Don’t ye hear it, cap’n?”“Hear what?”“The music.”“If you call the hooting of that horrid owl—”I stopped at a gesture from my guide. In the obscurity I could see his hand uplifted, his finger pointing upwards.“Don’t ye hear somethin’ up that way?” he continued, “Thar’s the twang o’ a guitar, or one o’ them thar Mexikin bandoleens—as they call ’em. Hear that? Somebody laughin’! Hear that, too? If my ears haven’t lost thar hearin’, that ere’s the voice o’ a sheemale!”The last remark secured my attention. I listened—as if expecting to hear a summons of life or death!Therewasthe twang of a stringed instrument—harp or guitar, bandolon orjarana. Therewasa voice—a man’s voice—and the instant after a series soft tones, with that metallic ring that can only proceed from the feminine throat.“Yes,” I assented, mechanically, “there’s music there!”“Moren’ that, cap’n! Thar’s dancin’.”Again I listened.Certainly there was the pattering of feet over a floor—with motion timed to the music—now and then a pause—a laugh or an exclamation—all betokening a scene of enjoyment!“It’s the exact direckshin o’ the shanty,” whispered Sam. “They must beinit. Thar’s somethin’ goin’ on, hear that? There’s a bust! Darn me, if they hain’t got afandango!”It was an increased swelling in the sound that had called forth this exclamatory language. A violin had joined its continuous strain to the throbbing of thejarana; and several voices appeared to take part in the conversation, which was carried on during the intervals of the music.There appeared to be nothing boisterous—no riot or roystering—only such sounds as might be made by a party of pleasure-seekers engaged in a picnic, ordia de campo—the chief difference being that it wasin the night!Certainly the sounds were not such, as I should have expected to proceed from a band of brigands engaged in an interlude of festivity.“It’sthem!” whispered the driver of the diligencia—a better judge of brigand music than myself. “The very chaps we’re in search o’. They’re doin’ a little bit o’ divartin; an’, cuss me, cap’n, ef I don’t b’lieve that them two gurls is joinin’ willinly in the spree!”I answered his speech only in thought. And a fell, fearful thought it was.“Dolores Villa-Señor not forced by cruel circumstances, but voluntarily assisting at a carnival ofsalteadores!”All thoughts of strategy were chased out of my mind. Even prudence for the time forsook me. The remembrance of the past—the morbid imaginings of the present—alike maddened me.She upon whom I had fixed my affections—high and holy—the toy of a robber-chief! Worse still; herself wanton and willing!“Go on!” I said, grasping my guide by the arm; “on to the house! Let us see what it means. On, on! There’s no danger. In ten minutes I can call my men around me; and if need be, we can run back to them. On! on! I must see with my own eyes, if she can be so degraded!”Without altogether comprehending why, Sam Brown saw that I was determined on advancing; and, yielding to my impulsive command, once more led the way.
It had not yet reached the hour of midnight, as we left the Great National Road, and commenced moving up the mountain,—in a lateral though somewhat parallel course to that we had been following.
For a mile we marched along a path, where wheels might have passed at a pinch.
We could see by the starlight that there were some small settlements on each side, and one more conspicuous above, which we knew to be the hacienda of Buena Vista—famed as the spot where the best view can be had of the valley of Mexico. From this circumstance does the dwelling derive its name; and he who from itsazoteacan look downward, without having his soul stirred within him, must be incapable of romantic emotion.
On approaching from the coast—I mean Vera Cruz—it is here the traveller first obtains a good view (buena vista) of the world-renowned “Valle of Tenochtitlan;” here that he first comes within sight of the City of the Moctezumas.
Story-telling tourists can see it from the summit of the Sierra—looking through the long-leaved pines! Almost every one who has written a book about Mexico has made this plausible assertion.
But it must be remembered that these books have been mostly compiled after the travellers had returned home; and, in some instances to my knowledge, before they started out—not having started at all!
One and all have followed the first teller of the fictitious talc; who must have been sharper sighted than I. With tolerably good eyes—strengthened by a capital field glass—I could see no city of Mexico from the summit of the Sierra, nor from any part of its sloping declivity, through the dearest break the pine-forest afforded.
Considering the distance, it is not likely that I should. What I saw was the “Valle” itself—not a valley in our sense, but a wide plain; inclosing within its limits several isolated hills, that might almost be termed mountains; mottled with broad expanses of swamp, and sheets of clear water—the largest of these being Lakes Tezcoco and Chalco; here and there a white dot, showing the lime-washed walls of a hacienda, the keener sparkle of a church spire, or the glistening of an enamelled dome amidst the scattered huts of apueblita.
All this you may see from the summit of the Cordillera; but not the towers of Tenochtitlan. Before you can distinguish these, you must descend—nearer and lower. You must look from the terrace where stands Buena Vista; or the plateau occupied by the “Venta” of Cordova.
When nearly abreast of the latter place, the road we were pursuing ran out, or rather into a bridle path; and my little troop had to stretch out into “twos.”
A mile farther on, and even this slender formation had to be changed to one still more extended. The path was only possible for “single file;” and into this we fell.
Another mile of marching, and it was not possible for cavalry, or horsemen of any kind. Only a pedestrian could pursue it, and he, too, one accustomed to climbing.
I muttered the command to halt, which had become indispensable. It was earned insotto voceto the rear; and the horses, strung out for a hundred yards, came to a stand—one behind the other.
“There is no road beyond?” I said, interrogating the guide, who had squeezed up alongside of me.
“For horses, no. Only a footpath; an’ scace that eyther. Thar air a horse track further up; but it comes in from t’other side o’ the ridge—on the left. It strikes off o’ the National Road, close to the place whar the coach got stopped. Thet’s why I hev the suspicion the fellurs may be found at the house as lies up hyar.”
“But why have we not gone along the main road, and then taken that you speak of? We could have ridden on to the house?”
“No—not to the house. Thar’s a bit o’ it too—the last hundred yards or so—impossible for bosses.”
“Still it would have been better than to leave them here? I don’t like separating the men from their saddles—especially as we know nothing of the ground.”
“Thar’s another reezun for our not goin’ the other way,” pursued the guide, without replying to my remarks. “If I’d taken you by the road we might a made a mess o’ it.”
“How?”
“If they’re up at the big house there’ll be one o’ ’em on the watch down below—near the joinin’ o’ the roads. They allers keep a sentry there. He’d be sartin to a seen us—whereas, by comin’ this way, we may have a chance o’ stealin’ close to the shanty afore any o’ ’em sets eyes on us.”
“You propose that we dismount, then, and go forward afoot?”
“Thar’s no other way, cap’n.”
“How far is it to the house?”
“As to distance, nothin’; not over six hundred yards, I shed say. I’ve only been there once. It’s the steepness o’ the track that takes up the time.”
I did not much like the idea of dismounting my men, and leading them away from their horses. Not but that the individuals I had selected were equal to good fighting afoot; but it occurred to me that it was possible for us to have been seen, as we marched along the lower road—seen, too, by those who might have a fancy to follow us.
There were guérilleros along the mountain foot, as well as robbers in its ravines. In short, every peasant and small proprietor was at this time apartisan.
What if a band should get together, and come on after us? The capture of twenty American horses—without a blow struck to retain them—would have been a blow to me I should not easily have got over. It would have been the ruin of a military reputation, I had but just commenced making.
I dared not risk such a discomfiture; and I determined upon the men remaining by their horses.
I had no idea of abandoning the enterprise. That would have been a still greater disgrace. I but stayed to consider some plan of approach, involving less risk of a failure.
A few minutes spent in reflection, and a few more words exchanged with the stage-driver, helped me to what I conceived a better: the men to remain where they were; myself and the guide to go up the ravine alone, reconnoitre the house, and then take such measures as circumstances might suggest.
If we should find that the brigands were “abroad,” my troopers would be spared a toilsome ascent, and the chagrin of a disappointment. If “at home,” it might then be worth while to pay them a visit in full force.
The guide thought there would be no danger in our going alone—so long as we made our reconnoissance with proper caution. There was no scarcity of cover, both underwood and tall timber. In the event of our being perceived while making approach, we could fall back upon our friends, before much harm could be done to us. Should we be close pressed, the men could meet us half-way. I had the means of making them hear me at three times the distance.
I had no lieutenant with me—only my first sergeant, who had seen service in three out of the four quarters of the globe. Above all, he had “fit Injun, both in forest and prairie;” and could be trusted on an enterprise like that we had in hand.
Having arranged the signal in a whisper, and communicated to him such other instructions as occurred to me, I dismounted from my horse; and followed “Don Samuel Bruno” in the direction of the “shanty.”
The night was far from being a dark one. These are rare under the skies of Southern Mexico. There was no moon, but myriads of stars; and at a later hour the moon might be expected.
The atmosphere was tranquil—scarce a breath of air stirring the suspended leaves of the pines. The slightest sound could have been heard at a remarkable distance. We could distinguish the bleating of sheep on the plain below, and the screaming of wildfowl on the sedgy shores of Lake Chalco!
Less light, and more noise, would have answered our purpose better.
We ourselves made but little of the last. Though the path was steep, it was not so difficult of ascent—only here and there, as it extended from terrace to terrace by a more precipitous escarpment—and up these we were assisted by the shrubbery.
We had agreed to proceed by signs; or, when near enough, by whispers. We knew that the slightest sound might betray us.
At short intervals we stopped to obtain breath—less from actual exhaustion, than to keep down the noise of our heightened respiration.
At one place we made a more lengthened pause. It was upon a shelf-like terrace of some extent—where there were hoof-prints of horses, and other indications of a trodden path. My guide pointed them out—whispering to me, that it was the road of which he had spoken.
I bent down over the tracks. They were of recent date—made that very day. My prairie experience enabled me to tell this, despite the obscurity through which I scrutinised them. The “sign” promised well for the success of our enterprise.
Beyond, the road became opener and easier. For two or three hundred yards it trended along a horizontal level, and we could walk without strain.
The stage-driver silently preceded me—still going slowly, and without any abatement of caution.
I had time to reflect, as I followed him.
My thoughts were anything but cheerful. The gloomy canopy of the pines appeared to give a tinge to my spirit, and it became attuned to the sad sighing heard high up among theirancillae. The moaning of the great Mexican owl, as it glided past on soft silent wing, seemed meant only to mock me!
I had been under a half belief that I had forgotten Dolores Villa-Señor, or become indifferent to her existence. Vain hallucination! Idle, and I knew it now.
Long weary marches; sieges protracted; battles, and wounds therein received; even the coquetry of other eyes—wicked as hers—had not chased her image from my heart, or my memory. It was there still.
I could see her countenance before me—under the sombre shadow of the trees—plain as I saw the white-winged owls—soft as the weird wafting of their wings!
I had not forgotten her. In that hour I knew that I never should.
And while hastening to effect her rescue, I felt as if I could have gloated over her ruin—so steeped was my soul in chagrin—so brimful of black vengeance!
It was no chivalrous thought that was carrying me up the slopes of Ixticihuatl—only the hope of humiliating her, who had humiliated me!
I was aroused from my unworthy imaginings by the voice of Sam Brown, whispering close to my ear. His words were:—
“Don’t ye hear it, cap’n?”
“Hear what?”
“The music.”
“If you call the hooting of that horrid owl—”
I stopped at a gesture from my guide. In the obscurity I could see his hand uplifted, his finger pointing upwards.
“Don’t ye hear somethin’ up that way?” he continued, “Thar’s the twang o’ a guitar, or one o’ them thar Mexikin bandoleens—as they call ’em. Hear that? Somebody laughin’! Hear that, too? If my ears haven’t lost thar hearin’, that ere’s the voice o’ a sheemale!”
The last remark secured my attention. I listened—as if expecting to hear a summons of life or death!
Therewasthe twang of a stringed instrument—harp or guitar, bandolon orjarana. Therewasa voice—a man’s voice—and the instant after a series soft tones, with that metallic ring that can only proceed from the feminine throat.
“Yes,” I assented, mechanically, “there’s music there!”
“Moren’ that, cap’n! Thar’s dancin’.”
Again I listened.
Certainly there was the pattering of feet over a floor—with motion timed to the music—now and then a pause—a laugh or an exclamation—all betokening a scene of enjoyment!
“It’s the exact direckshin o’ the shanty,” whispered Sam. “They must beinit. Thar’s somethin’ goin’ on, hear that? There’s a bust! Darn me, if they hain’t got afandango!”
It was an increased swelling in the sound that had called forth this exclamatory language. A violin had joined its continuous strain to the throbbing of thejarana; and several voices appeared to take part in the conversation, which was carried on during the intervals of the music.
There appeared to be nothing boisterous—no riot or roystering—only such sounds as might be made by a party of pleasure-seekers engaged in a picnic, ordia de campo—the chief difference being that it wasin the night!
Certainly the sounds were not such, as I should have expected to proceed from a band of brigands engaged in an interlude of festivity.
“It’sthem!” whispered the driver of the diligencia—a better judge of brigand music than myself. “The very chaps we’re in search o’. They’re doin’ a little bit o’ divartin; an’, cuss me, cap’n, ef I don’t b’lieve that them two gurls is joinin’ willinly in the spree!”
I answered his speech only in thought. And a fell, fearful thought it was.
“Dolores Villa-Señor not forced by cruel circumstances, but voluntarily assisting at a carnival ofsalteadores!”
All thoughts of strategy were chased out of my mind. Even prudence for the time forsook me. The remembrance of the past—the morbid imaginings of the present—alike maddened me.
She upon whom I had fixed my affections—high and holy—the toy of a robber-chief! Worse still; herself wanton and willing!
“Go on!” I said, grasping my guide by the arm; “on to the house! Let us see what it means. On, on! There’s no danger. In ten minutes I can call my men around me; and if need be, we can run back to them. On! on! I must see with my own eyes, if she can be so degraded!”
Without altogether comprehending why, Sam Brown saw that I was determined on advancing; and, yielding to my impulsive command, once more led the way.
Chapter Thirty Two.Paradise from the Pillory.Another terrace was ascended; and before us stood the house—a massive structure of quadrangular shape only one story in height, but surmounted by anazoteawith a parapet running around it.It was placed upon a platform of limited extent; backed by a precipitous slope, of which the platform was the base; and flanked by two cliffs that scarped off in the opposite direction—downward.What might be called the gables of the dwelling were flush with the flanking cliffs; but between its rear and the ascending slope was an inclosed space—forming acorral, or courtyard.Itsfaçadelay towards the smooth space in front; that declined gently from the walls, like the glacis of a fortification.A better site for defence could scarcely have been chosen. No foe could advance by either flank; and an attacking party from the front would be exposed while crossing the open ground. The place might be more successfully assailed from the rear—by an enemy coming over the top of the sierra.The idea of defence could not have been entertained. On the Indian frontier, yes; but in the valley of Mexico—tranquil since the time of Moctezuma—there had been no fighting. The structure could have nothing to do with the revolutionary era. It was too ancient for that.It was difficult to understand why such a dwelling had been erected in such a place. It could not be an agricultural establishment: there was no arable land within reach. Nor yet ahacienda de ganados: since there was no pasture upon the pine-covered slopes that surrounded it.Had it been built by the monks? Perhaps by some eccentric recluse, who had chosen the site, for the purpose of contemplating civilisation, without being disturbed by it?These thoughts were things of an after-time; when, upon an excursion of curiosity, I made myself better acquainted with the topography of the place.All that I saw then—as we were making our stealthy approach—was a block of dark mason work, with a still darker disc in the centre indicating the entrance door; and on each side of this a large window, from which a stream of light was escaping.The ground in front had the look of a ruined garden—overgrown with rank grass, and here and there some clumps of shrubbery run wild.Among these we made our approach—taking care to keep clear of the two bands of yellow light diverging from the windows. Both were mere apertures without glass; defended, as in all Mexican houses, by strong iron bars rising vertically from the sill.There was neither blind nor curtain, to obstruct the passage of the light outward, or the view inward.After a few seconds spent in skulking across the lawn, we succeeded in placing ourselves within good viewing distance of one of the windows.Inside we could see a table set with the paraphernalia of a feast. It appeared a rude piece of furniture; as did also the chairs that stood around it. So, also, were the plates, dishes, and drinking vessels that covered it: though in these we could perceive a grotesque commingling of the cheap and costly.Common earthenwareollas, and carved bowls of calabash, stood side by side with goblets of silver, and bottles, whose tapering necks told of claret and champagne!Tall wax candles, that looked as if they had been moulded for the service of the Church, were suspended in chandeliers of thepitahayacactus, or held in cleft sticks—themselves stuck into the interstices of the slab table!Only the drink had been as yet brought upon the board; though the meats could be scented from thecocina; while several brown-skinned, leathern-clad, “muchachos” were moving to and fro, with a hurriedempressementthat showed they were setting the supper.It was evident that the two windows were in different apartments; the one opposite us being thesala de comida, or dining-room.It was thesala grande, or drawing-room, I most desired to look into.Not to listen to the music, or become a spectator to the dancing. Both had ceased some time before; and in their place we could now hear only a single voice—that of a man, who seemed to be speaking in a tone measured and solemn!It required some strategy to get into position for looking through the second window. But it was worth the effort.From the grand preparations in the dining-room, there should be corresponding company in the drawing-room? Was its quality alike heterogeneous?As yet we could not tell. A ruined pile, that had once been a sort of portico, extended between the two windows—overshadowing the doorway. It hindered us from obtaining a view of the second.We had been kneeling among rhododendrons—a clump of which grew near the dining-room window. There were none in front of the drawing-room; but instead, an enormous aloe—themagueyof Mexico. Once to rearward of it, and screened by its broad blades, we should be in an excellent place for observation.The question was how to get there, without being ourselves observed. The ground between the rhododendrons and the “pulque plant” was a smooth piece of turf, without shrub or tree. On this the two bands of light—widening as they went out from the windows—became commingled.To have crossed from one side to the other would have been to expose ourselves under a light, clear almost as day.We did not so much fear being seen by those within thesala grande. Their preoccupation—sport, or whatever was going on—would hinder them from looking forth.But while crouching among the “rose trees” we had noticed that the great gate was open; and in the faint light that fell straggling across thesaguan—a little brighter in thepatiobehind—we could see the dark-skinned domestics flitting to and fro with the supper dishes—like spectres engaged in the preparation of some infernal feast!Some of these standing in thesaguan, or loitering by the outside entrance, might observe us while crossing?We dared not risk it. The exposure would be too great. Should we attempt to cross there would be scarce a chance to escape detection.There was only one other course: to steal back down the lawn, cross over through the fainter light, and return along the edge of the other cliff. What a pity we had not taken this route at first!I was loth to lose the time, but there was no help for it. To have saved it, by going direct, might have resulted in the loss of our lives; or, at all events, in disaster to our expedition.Ten minutes more, and we stood behind themaguey.Parting its spinous leaves, and passing in between them, we obtained the desired standpoint.As I have said, the music had ceased, as also the conversation and laughter. All three had been hushed for some time—having come to a stop while we were skulking among the rhododendrons.We supposed at first, that supper had been announced to the company in thesala grande, and we might soon see them in thesala de comida.Although the preparations did not appear complete, we should have stayed to await the going in of the guests—but for what we heard from the other apartment.The sounds of merriment, abruptly brought to an end, had been succeeded by the solitary voice. It was that of a man, who appeared to speak in slow measured tones—as if addressing himself to an audience.We could hear him all the time we were changing place; and his harangue was still going on, as we came into cover among the fronds of the pulque plant.The first glance through these explained everything—why the music had ceased, and the laughter been restrained.Inside the sala a ceremony was progressing, that, under the circumstances, might well be termed solemn. It was the ceremonial of a marriage!A monk, whose robe of bluish grey proclaimed him of the order of San Francisco, was standing near the middle of the floor. I mention him first, as he was the first to come under my eye.He held a book in his hand; and was reading from it the ritual of marriage—according to the Romish Church.My eyes did not dwell upon him for a single second. They went in search of the bride, and bridegroom.A little shifting among the leaves brought me face to face with the latter. Imagine my astonishment on beholding Francisco Moreno!It was scarcely increased when I obtained a view of the bride. A presentiment—sad, almost stifling—had prepared me for seeing Dolores Villa-Señor. It was she!I could not see her face. She was standing with her back towards the window. Besides, a white scarf, thrown loosely over her crown, and draping down to her waist, hindered even a side view of it.There could be no doubt about its being Dolores. There was no mistaking that magnificent form—even when seenen detras. She it was, standing at the altar!A wide space separated the bridegroom from the bride. I could not tell who, or what, was between. It appeared a little odd; but I supposed it might be the fashion of the country.Behindhimwere other figures—all men—all in costumes that proclaimed a peculiar calling. They werebrigands. Francisco only differed from the rest in being more splendidly attired. But then he was their chief!I had been puzzled—a little pained—by some speeches he had let fall during our intercourse in the City of the Angels. How gentle had been his reproaches, and tolerant his condemnation, of Carrasco! As a rival, not as a robber, he had shown indignation against theci-devantcaptain of Santa Anna!What I now saw explained all. Don Eusebio had spoken only of probabilities, when he said that Moreno might be a bandit. Had he known the real truth regarding this aspirant to his daughter’s hand, he might have been excused for his design to shut her up in a convent.The bride was willing; there could be no doubt of it. I remembered what the stage-driver had told me, of her tripping off so lightly among the trees, her present behaviour confirmed it. Even in that solemn hour, I fancied that she was gay. I could not see the face; but there was a free,nonchalantcarriage of the head, and a coy vibration of the scarf that covered it, very different from the staid, drooping attitude that denotes compulsion. On the contrary, she appeared contented—trembling only with joy!It would be vain to attempt a description of my own feelings. For the time, a statue set among the shrubbery could not have been more motionless than I. I stood rigid as the fronds of the aloe around me,—my gaze steadfastly fixed upon the spectacle passing inside. I began to fancy it a dream!But, no! There was the bride and the bridegroom; and the monk, in dull monotone still reciting from his book!And now I could hear the promise to “love, honour, and cherish,” and the responsive vow to “love, honour, and obey”—all after the formula of the Catholic faith.Oh! it was no dream, but a hellish, heart-rending reality!The woman who had won my heart—whom for six months I had been vainly endeavouring to forget—was before my eyes, surrounded by a band of brigands—not their captive, but the bride of their chief—freely consenting to the sacrifice!“Otra cosa de Mexico!”
Another terrace was ascended; and before us stood the house—a massive structure of quadrangular shape only one story in height, but surmounted by anazoteawith a parapet running around it.
It was placed upon a platform of limited extent; backed by a precipitous slope, of which the platform was the base; and flanked by two cliffs that scarped off in the opposite direction—downward.
What might be called the gables of the dwelling were flush with the flanking cliffs; but between its rear and the ascending slope was an inclosed space—forming acorral, or courtyard.
Itsfaçadelay towards the smooth space in front; that declined gently from the walls, like the glacis of a fortification.
A better site for defence could scarcely have been chosen. No foe could advance by either flank; and an attacking party from the front would be exposed while crossing the open ground. The place might be more successfully assailed from the rear—by an enemy coming over the top of the sierra.
The idea of defence could not have been entertained. On the Indian frontier, yes; but in the valley of Mexico—tranquil since the time of Moctezuma—there had been no fighting. The structure could have nothing to do with the revolutionary era. It was too ancient for that.
It was difficult to understand why such a dwelling had been erected in such a place. It could not be an agricultural establishment: there was no arable land within reach. Nor yet ahacienda de ganados: since there was no pasture upon the pine-covered slopes that surrounded it.
Had it been built by the monks? Perhaps by some eccentric recluse, who had chosen the site, for the purpose of contemplating civilisation, without being disturbed by it?
These thoughts were things of an after-time; when, upon an excursion of curiosity, I made myself better acquainted with the topography of the place.
All that I saw then—as we were making our stealthy approach—was a block of dark mason work, with a still darker disc in the centre indicating the entrance door; and on each side of this a large window, from which a stream of light was escaping.
The ground in front had the look of a ruined garden—overgrown with rank grass, and here and there some clumps of shrubbery run wild.
Among these we made our approach—taking care to keep clear of the two bands of yellow light diverging from the windows. Both were mere apertures without glass; defended, as in all Mexican houses, by strong iron bars rising vertically from the sill.
There was neither blind nor curtain, to obstruct the passage of the light outward, or the view inward.
After a few seconds spent in skulking across the lawn, we succeeded in placing ourselves within good viewing distance of one of the windows.
Inside we could see a table set with the paraphernalia of a feast. It appeared a rude piece of furniture; as did also the chairs that stood around it. So, also, were the plates, dishes, and drinking vessels that covered it: though in these we could perceive a grotesque commingling of the cheap and costly.
Common earthenwareollas, and carved bowls of calabash, stood side by side with goblets of silver, and bottles, whose tapering necks told of claret and champagne!
Tall wax candles, that looked as if they had been moulded for the service of the Church, were suspended in chandeliers of thepitahayacactus, or held in cleft sticks—themselves stuck into the interstices of the slab table!
Only the drink had been as yet brought upon the board; though the meats could be scented from thecocina; while several brown-skinned, leathern-clad, “muchachos” were moving to and fro, with a hurriedempressementthat showed they were setting the supper.
It was evident that the two windows were in different apartments; the one opposite us being thesala de comida, or dining-room.
It was thesala grande, or drawing-room, I most desired to look into.
Not to listen to the music, or become a spectator to the dancing. Both had ceased some time before; and in their place we could now hear only a single voice—that of a man, who seemed to be speaking in a tone measured and solemn!
It required some strategy to get into position for looking through the second window. But it was worth the effort.
From the grand preparations in the dining-room, there should be corresponding company in the drawing-room? Was its quality alike heterogeneous?
As yet we could not tell. A ruined pile, that had once been a sort of portico, extended between the two windows—overshadowing the doorway. It hindered us from obtaining a view of the second.
We had been kneeling among rhododendrons—a clump of which grew near the dining-room window. There were none in front of the drawing-room; but instead, an enormous aloe—themagueyof Mexico. Once to rearward of it, and screened by its broad blades, we should be in an excellent place for observation.
The question was how to get there, without being ourselves observed. The ground between the rhododendrons and the “pulque plant” was a smooth piece of turf, without shrub or tree. On this the two bands of light—widening as they went out from the windows—became commingled.
To have crossed from one side to the other would have been to expose ourselves under a light, clear almost as day.
We did not so much fear being seen by those within thesala grande. Their preoccupation—sport, or whatever was going on—would hinder them from looking forth.
But while crouching among the “rose trees” we had noticed that the great gate was open; and in the faint light that fell straggling across thesaguan—a little brighter in thepatiobehind—we could see the dark-skinned domestics flitting to and fro with the supper dishes—like spectres engaged in the preparation of some infernal feast!
Some of these standing in thesaguan, or loitering by the outside entrance, might observe us while crossing?
We dared not risk it. The exposure would be too great. Should we attempt to cross there would be scarce a chance to escape detection.
There was only one other course: to steal back down the lawn, cross over through the fainter light, and return along the edge of the other cliff. What a pity we had not taken this route at first!
I was loth to lose the time, but there was no help for it. To have saved it, by going direct, might have resulted in the loss of our lives; or, at all events, in disaster to our expedition.
Ten minutes more, and we stood behind themaguey.
Parting its spinous leaves, and passing in between them, we obtained the desired standpoint.
As I have said, the music had ceased, as also the conversation and laughter. All three had been hushed for some time—having come to a stop while we were skulking among the rhododendrons.
We supposed at first, that supper had been announced to the company in thesala grande, and we might soon see them in thesala de comida.
Although the preparations did not appear complete, we should have stayed to await the going in of the guests—but for what we heard from the other apartment.
The sounds of merriment, abruptly brought to an end, had been succeeded by the solitary voice. It was that of a man, who appeared to speak in slow measured tones—as if addressing himself to an audience.
We could hear him all the time we were changing place; and his harangue was still going on, as we came into cover among the fronds of the pulque plant.
The first glance through these explained everything—why the music had ceased, and the laughter been restrained.
Inside the sala a ceremony was progressing, that, under the circumstances, might well be termed solemn. It was the ceremonial of a marriage!
A monk, whose robe of bluish grey proclaimed him of the order of San Francisco, was standing near the middle of the floor. I mention him first, as he was the first to come under my eye.
He held a book in his hand; and was reading from it the ritual of marriage—according to the Romish Church.
My eyes did not dwell upon him for a single second. They went in search of the bride, and bridegroom.
A little shifting among the leaves brought me face to face with the latter. Imagine my astonishment on beholding Francisco Moreno!
It was scarcely increased when I obtained a view of the bride. A presentiment—sad, almost stifling—had prepared me for seeing Dolores Villa-Señor. It was she!
I could not see her face. She was standing with her back towards the window. Besides, a white scarf, thrown loosely over her crown, and draping down to her waist, hindered even a side view of it.
There could be no doubt about its being Dolores. There was no mistaking that magnificent form—even when seenen detras. She it was, standing at the altar!
A wide space separated the bridegroom from the bride. I could not tell who, or what, was between. It appeared a little odd; but I supposed it might be the fashion of the country.
Behindhimwere other figures—all men—all in costumes that proclaimed a peculiar calling. They werebrigands. Francisco only differed from the rest in being more splendidly attired. But then he was their chief!
I had been puzzled—a little pained—by some speeches he had let fall during our intercourse in the City of the Angels. How gentle had been his reproaches, and tolerant his condemnation, of Carrasco! As a rival, not as a robber, he had shown indignation against theci-devantcaptain of Santa Anna!
What I now saw explained all. Don Eusebio had spoken only of probabilities, when he said that Moreno might be a bandit. Had he known the real truth regarding this aspirant to his daughter’s hand, he might have been excused for his design to shut her up in a convent.
The bride was willing; there could be no doubt of it. I remembered what the stage-driver had told me, of her tripping off so lightly among the trees, her present behaviour confirmed it. Even in that solemn hour, I fancied that she was gay. I could not see the face; but there was a free,nonchalantcarriage of the head, and a coy vibration of the scarf that covered it, very different from the staid, drooping attitude that denotes compulsion. On the contrary, she appeared contented—trembling only with joy!
It would be vain to attempt a description of my own feelings. For the time, a statue set among the shrubbery could not have been more motionless than I. I stood rigid as the fronds of the aloe around me,—my gaze steadfastly fixed upon the spectacle passing inside. I began to fancy it a dream!
But, no! There was the bride and the bridegroom; and the monk, in dull monotone still reciting from his book!
And now I could hear the promise to “love, honour, and cherish,” and the responsive vow to “love, honour, and obey”—all after the formula of the Catholic faith.
Oh! it was no dream, but a hellish, heart-rending reality!
The woman who had won my heart—whom for six months I had been vainly endeavouring to forget—was before my eyes, surrounded by a band of brigands—not their captive, but the bride of their chief—freely consenting to the sacrifice!
“Otra cosa de Mexico!”
Chapter Thirty Three.A Rude Interruption.“Otra cosa de Mexico!”Another strange occurrence of Mexico; if not the most incomprehensible, certainly the most painful, that had yet come under my cognisance: for it related to myself—the black, bitter part of it.Words will not convey the state of my mind, as I stood regarding the group inside. I could not move—either to advance, or go back. I could scarce get breath. My heart felt as if compressed under a heavy weight, never more to be removed. It was undergoing its maximum of misery.My feelings can only be understood by one, who has had the misfortune to pass through a like ordeal. He who has bestowed his affections upon some high-born beauty may feel chagrin, on discovering that they are not returned. It will be deepened by the knowledge, that another has won the wished-for prize. Still is there solace, however slight, in the reflection: that the preference has been given to one worthy, whose fortune has been more favourable.When otherwise—when the preferred rival is worthless, socially or morally, then is the humiliation complete—overwhelming. It is self-love stung to the quick.Such a humiliation was I called upon to suffer.With all my pretensions of pride—a conceit in the possession of certain superiorities, mental as well as physical; courage, talent, strength, activity; a position not humble; a reputation each day increasing; with, and in spite of all these, I saw that my suit had been slighted, and the favour I coveted more than aught upon earth, bestowed upon another.And who that other? Abandolero! A robber!It was the very wantonness of woe that swept over my heart, whelming it with terrible desolation!I stood like a stranded ship with the huge seas breaking over her. Waves of passion rushed impetuously through my breast, black as the billows of the storm-contorted ocean.The spectacle, while stirring me to anger, at the same time kept me fixed to the spot. I made no movement—either forward or backward. I felt paralysed with a passion, such as I hope I may never feel again. The world seemed full of woe!For a time I was unable to reflect. My thoughts were but instincts, now woeful, now wicked—now despairing, now tending to resolves.One a little nobler at length took possession of me. My own fate was sealed; but not that of Dolores Villa-Señor—which to me seemed equally dark, and drear. Was it possible to save her?I had not heard those mystic words that rivet the golden chain of wedlock, “With this ring I thee wed.” The shining symbol had not yet appeared upon her finger.There was still time to interrupt the ceremony. A single breath into the silver tube, that hung suspended over my breast, would stay it; and, before it could be resumed, the green jackets would be around me.It was no thought of danger that withheld me from sounding that signal. I was too unhappy to have a feeling of fear; too reckless to care a straw for any consequences to myself. At that moment I could have rushed into the presence of the bridal group, and defied one and all to the death!It was neither caution, nor a craven spirit, that restrained me; but an instinct more ignoble than either—an instinct of revenge.Dolores had adopted her destiny. However dark it might prove, it was not for me to attempt turning it aside. She would not thank me for saving her. Sweeter would be my triumph to show her the man she had chosen for husband, in my power—a scorned captive at my feet.So ran my ungenerous reflections.“Let the marriage go on!” I muttered to him by my side. “She shall be wed, and—widowed!”In all my life I never felt so spitefully cruel—so desirous of retaliation. Every spark of chivalric thought had departed from my soul.The imperturbable Yankee made no reply. The scene inside seemed to be absorbing all his attention—as it was my own. Far different his interpretation of it. With him it was simple conjecture. He little suspected the knowledge I possessed, or the dread interest stirring within me.We remained in the maguey, to await the conclusion of the ceremony.We saw the ring glancing between the fingers of the bridegroom. But it came not in contact with those of the bride. Before that critical moment arrived, a change—quick as the transformation in a pantomime—terrible as the passage from calm to tropic storm—from life to death—went sweeping over the scene!A phalanx of dark forms rushed past the spot where we were crouching. They were human—but so silent in their movements—so weird-like under the wan light—as to appear spectral!They could not be phantoms. One or two of them touched the tips of the plant in passing, causing its elastic blades to rebound backwards. They were forms of flesh, blood, and humanity; animated by the spirit of fiends—as in another instant they proved themselves.We saw them by a rapid rush precipitate themselves into the open doorway—a few scattering along the façade, and taking stand by the windows.We saw the glittering of armour. We saw spears andmachetésthrust through the iron bars. We heard the cocking of carbines, and the rude summons to surrender—followed by menaces of murder!There was a short scuffle in thesaguan, and the courtyard behind it; and then there were death groans, proceeding from the domestics, who fell stabbed upon the stones!The two apartments appeared to be simultaneously entered. Dark shadowy forms flitted through the dining-room; but in the other the shadows were darker.There was a rushing to and fro—a changing of places—not as in a kaleidoscope, but in crowded confusion. There was screaming of women—shouting of men—threats and curses—followed by pistol reports; and, what made thefracasstill more infernal, an occasional peal of diabolical laughter!Only for a short while did this continue; so short, that I scarce believed in its reality till it was all over!Almost at its commencement the lights in both rooms had been extinguished; but whether by chance, or design, it was impossible for us to tell.What occurred afterwards we knew only by hearing, or from glimpses afforded by the occasional flashing of firearms.Though there was loud talking all the while that the strife continued—with exclamations, every other one an oath—we heard nothing to give a clue to it.Nor did we find any explanation in what followed. We could only tell, that the conflict had come to an end; that it was succeeded by the shuffling of footsteps across the pavedpatio, gradually retiring to the rear, and at length heard ascending the precipitous pine-covered slope that soared darkly above the dwelling!As they rose higher, they grew fainter; until the only sounds distinguishable were the moanings of the Mexican owl, the hissing of the cascade below, and the sighing of the mountain breeze among the tops of the tall pine-trees.
“Otra cosa de Mexico!”
Another strange occurrence of Mexico; if not the most incomprehensible, certainly the most painful, that had yet come under my cognisance: for it related to myself—the black, bitter part of it.
Words will not convey the state of my mind, as I stood regarding the group inside. I could not move—either to advance, or go back. I could scarce get breath. My heart felt as if compressed under a heavy weight, never more to be removed. It was undergoing its maximum of misery.
My feelings can only be understood by one, who has had the misfortune to pass through a like ordeal. He who has bestowed his affections upon some high-born beauty may feel chagrin, on discovering that they are not returned. It will be deepened by the knowledge, that another has won the wished-for prize. Still is there solace, however slight, in the reflection: that the preference has been given to one worthy, whose fortune has been more favourable.
When otherwise—when the preferred rival is worthless, socially or morally, then is the humiliation complete—overwhelming. It is self-love stung to the quick.
Such a humiliation was I called upon to suffer.
With all my pretensions of pride—a conceit in the possession of certain superiorities, mental as well as physical; courage, talent, strength, activity; a position not humble; a reputation each day increasing; with, and in spite of all these, I saw that my suit had been slighted, and the favour I coveted more than aught upon earth, bestowed upon another.
And who that other? Abandolero! A robber!
It was the very wantonness of woe that swept over my heart, whelming it with terrible desolation!
I stood like a stranded ship with the huge seas breaking over her. Waves of passion rushed impetuously through my breast, black as the billows of the storm-contorted ocean.
The spectacle, while stirring me to anger, at the same time kept me fixed to the spot. I made no movement—either forward or backward. I felt paralysed with a passion, such as I hope I may never feel again. The world seemed full of woe!
For a time I was unable to reflect. My thoughts were but instincts, now woeful, now wicked—now despairing, now tending to resolves.
One a little nobler at length took possession of me. My own fate was sealed; but not that of Dolores Villa-Señor—which to me seemed equally dark, and drear. Was it possible to save her?
I had not heard those mystic words that rivet the golden chain of wedlock, “With this ring I thee wed.” The shining symbol had not yet appeared upon her finger.
There was still time to interrupt the ceremony. A single breath into the silver tube, that hung suspended over my breast, would stay it; and, before it could be resumed, the green jackets would be around me.
It was no thought of danger that withheld me from sounding that signal. I was too unhappy to have a feeling of fear; too reckless to care a straw for any consequences to myself. At that moment I could have rushed into the presence of the bridal group, and defied one and all to the death!
It was neither caution, nor a craven spirit, that restrained me; but an instinct more ignoble than either—an instinct of revenge.
Dolores had adopted her destiny. However dark it might prove, it was not for me to attempt turning it aside. She would not thank me for saving her. Sweeter would be my triumph to show her the man she had chosen for husband, in my power—a scorned captive at my feet.
So ran my ungenerous reflections.
“Let the marriage go on!” I muttered to him by my side. “She shall be wed, and—widowed!”
In all my life I never felt so spitefully cruel—so desirous of retaliation. Every spark of chivalric thought had departed from my soul.
The imperturbable Yankee made no reply. The scene inside seemed to be absorbing all his attention—as it was my own. Far different his interpretation of it. With him it was simple conjecture. He little suspected the knowledge I possessed, or the dread interest stirring within me.
We remained in the maguey, to await the conclusion of the ceremony.
We saw the ring glancing between the fingers of the bridegroom. But it came not in contact with those of the bride. Before that critical moment arrived, a change—quick as the transformation in a pantomime—terrible as the passage from calm to tropic storm—from life to death—went sweeping over the scene!
A phalanx of dark forms rushed past the spot where we were crouching. They were human—but so silent in their movements—so weird-like under the wan light—as to appear spectral!
They could not be phantoms. One or two of them touched the tips of the plant in passing, causing its elastic blades to rebound backwards. They were forms of flesh, blood, and humanity; animated by the spirit of fiends—as in another instant they proved themselves.
We saw them by a rapid rush precipitate themselves into the open doorway—a few scattering along the façade, and taking stand by the windows.
We saw the glittering of armour. We saw spears andmachetésthrust through the iron bars. We heard the cocking of carbines, and the rude summons to surrender—followed by menaces of murder!
There was a short scuffle in thesaguan, and the courtyard behind it; and then there were death groans, proceeding from the domestics, who fell stabbed upon the stones!
The two apartments appeared to be simultaneously entered. Dark shadowy forms flitted through the dining-room; but in the other the shadows were darker.
There was a rushing to and fro—a changing of places—not as in a kaleidoscope, but in crowded confusion. There was screaming of women—shouting of men—threats and curses—followed by pistol reports; and, what made thefracasstill more infernal, an occasional peal of diabolical laughter!
Only for a short while did this continue; so short, that I scarce believed in its reality till it was all over!
Almost at its commencement the lights in both rooms had been extinguished; but whether by chance, or design, it was impossible for us to tell.
What occurred afterwards we knew only by hearing, or from glimpses afforded by the occasional flashing of firearms.
Though there was loud talking all the while that the strife continued—with exclamations, every other one an oath—we heard nothing to give a clue to it.
Nor did we find any explanation in what followed. We could only tell, that the conflict had come to an end; that it was succeeded by the shuffling of footsteps across the pavedpatio, gradually retiring to the rear, and at length heard ascending the precipitous pine-covered slope that soared darkly above the dwelling!
As they rose higher, they grew fainter; until the only sounds distinguishable were the moanings of the Mexican owl, the hissing of the cascade below, and the sighing of the mountain breeze among the tops of the tall pine-trees.