Stronghand; or, The Noble Revenge
by Gustave Aimard · English · Gutenberg #44672 · 691,275 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Stronghand; or, The Noble Revenge
Author: Gustave Aimard
Translator: Sir Lascelles Wraxall
Release date: January 15, 2014 [eBook #44672]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44672
Credits: Produced by Camille Bernard & Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Bodleian Libraries, Oxford)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRONGHAND; OR, THE NOBLE REVENGE ***
STRONGHAND
OR
THE NOBLE REVENGE
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD
AUTHOR OF "PRAIRIE FLOWER," "BUCCANEER CHIEF," ETC.
LONDON
WARD AND LOCK, 158, FLEET STREET
MDCCCLXIV
CONTENTS.
I. AN EXCHANGE OF SHOTS
II. ON THE PRAIRIE
III. THE BIVOUAC
IV. THE POST OF SAN MIGUEL
V. THE STAY IN THE FOREST
VI. A GLANCE AT THE PAST
VII. THE FAMILY TRIBUNAL
VIII. THE TWO BROTHERS
IX. A NEW CHARACTER
X. DON JOSÉ PAREDES
XI. ON THE ROAD
XII. A CONVERSATION BY NIGHT
XIII. THE REAL DE MINAS
XIV. THE BARGAIN
XV. THE PAPAZOS
XVI. THE ATEPETL
XVII. THE SPY
XVIII. THE COUNCIL OF THE SACHEMS
XIX. THE RANCHO
XX. LOST!
XXI. STRONGHAND
XXII. THE RETURN
XXIII. CHANCE WORK
XXIV. FATHER AND SON
XXV. THE HATCHET
XXVI. THE WHITE-SKINS
XXVII. SERIOUS EVENTS
XXVIII. THE TIGRERO
XXIX. THE EXCURSION
XXX. THE HUNTER'S CAMP
XXXI. THE LEGEND
XXXII. KIDD REAPPEARS
XXXIII. COMPLICATIONS
XXXIV. TWO VILLAINS
XXXV. A FRIENDLY BARGAIN
XXXVI. THE HACIENDA DEL TORO
XXXVII. THE HUERTA
XXXVIII. THE ASSAULT ON QUITOVAR
XXXIX. THE VENGEANCE OF HEAVEN
XL. FUNERAL OF A SACHEM
STRONGHAND
CHAPTER I.
AN EXCHANGE OF SHOTS.
The country extending between the Sierra de San Saba and the Rio
Puerco, or Dirty River, is one of the most mournful and melancholy
regions imaginable.
This accursed savannah, on which bleach unrecognized skeletons, which
the wind and sun strive to convert into dust, is an immense desert,
broadcast with grey rocks, beneath which snakes and wild beasts have,
from time immemorial, formed their lurking-place, and which only
produces black shrubs and stunted larches that rise from distance to
distance above the desert.
White or Indian travellers rarely and most unwillingly venture to
cross this frightful solitude, and at the risk of lengthening their
journey they prefer making a detour and following the border, where
they are certain of finding shade and water--those delights of tropical
countries and indispensable necessities for a long trip on the western
prairies.
Towards the second half of June--which the Navajo Indians call the
"strawberry moon" in their harmonious language--and in the Year of
Grace 1843, a horseman suddenly emerged from a thick clump of oaks,
sumachs, and mahogany trees, entered the savannah at a gallop, and,
instead of following the usual travellers' track, which was distinctly
traced on the edge of the sand, he began without any hesitation
crossing the desert in a straight line.
This resolution was a mark of great folly, or a proof of extraordinary
daring on the part of a solitary man, however brave he might be; or
else some imperious reasons compelled him to lay aside all prudence in
order to reach his journey's end more speedily.
However, whatever the motives that might determine the traveller, he
continued his journey rapidly, and buried himself deeper and deeper in
the desert, without seeming to notice the gloomy and desolate aspect
the landscape around him constantly assumed.
As this person is destined to play an important part in our story, we
will draw his portrait in a few words. He was a man of from twenty-five
to thirty years of age--belonging to the pure Mexican race, of average
height, and possessed of elegant manners; while his every gesture,
graceful though it was, revealed a far from ordinary strength. His
face, with its regular features and bright hue, evidenced frankness,
bravery, and kindliness; his black eyes, haughty and well open,
had a straight and penetrating glance; his well cut mouth, adorned
with dazzling white teeth, was half concealed beneath a long brown
moustache; his chin, of too marked an outline perhaps, denoted a great
firmness of character; in short, his whole appearance aroused interest
and attracted sympathy.
As for his dress, it was the Mexico costume in all its picturesque
richness. His broad-brimmed Vicuna skin hat, decorated with a double
gold and silver _golilla_, was carelessly set on his right ear, and
allowed curls of luxurious black hair to fall in disorder on his
shoulders. He wore a jacket of green velvet, magnificently embroidered
with gold, under which could be seen a worked linen shirt. An Indian
handkerchief was fastened round his neck by a diamond ring. His
_calzoneras_, also of green velvet, held round his hips by a red silk
gold-fringed _faja_ were embroidered and slashed like a jacket, while
two rows of pearl-set gold buttons ran along the opening that extends
from the boot to the knee. His vaquero boots, embroidered with pretty
designs in red thread, were fastened to his legs by silk and gold
garters, from one of which emerged the admirably carved hilt of a long
knife. His zarapé, of Indian fabric and showy colours, was folded on
the back of his horse, an animal full of fire, with fine legs, small
head, and flashing eye. It was a true prairie mustang; and its master
had decorated it with the coquettish elegance peculiar to Mexican
horsemen.
In addition to the knife we referred to, and which the horseman wore
in his right boot, he had also a long American rifle laid across his
saddle-bow, two six-shot revolvers in his girdle, a machete, or species
of straight sabre, which was passed, unsheathed, through an iron ring
on his left side; and, lastly, a reata of plaited leather, rolled up
and fastened to the saddle.
Thus armed, the man we have just described was able--on the admission
that his determined appearance was not deceitful--to make head against
several adversaries at once, without any serious disadvantage. This
was a consideration not at all to be despised in a country where a
traveller ever runs the risk of encountering an enemy, whether man or
beast, and, at times both together.
While galloping, the horseman carelessly smoked a husk cigarette, only
taking an absent and disdainful glance at the coveys of birds that rose
on his approach, or the herds of deer and packs of foxes which fled in
terror on hearing the horse's gallop.
The savannah, however, was already beginning to assume a more gloomy
tinge; the sun, now level with the ground, only appeared on the horizon
as a red unheated ball, and night was soon about to cover the earth
with its dense gloom. The horseman drew up the bridle of his steed
to check its speed, though not entirely stopping it, and, casting an
investigating glance around him, seemed to be seeking a suitable spot
for his night halt.
After a few seconds of this search, the traveller's determination was
formed. He turned slightly to the left, and proceeded to a half dried
up stream that ran along a short distance off, and on whose banks grew
a few prickly shrubs and a clump of some dozen larches, forming a
precarious shelter against the curiosity of those mysterious denizens
of the desert that prowl about in search of prey during the darkness.
On drawing nearer, the traveller perceived to his delight that this
spot, perfectly hidden from prying glances, by the conformation of the
ground and a few blocks of stone scattered here and there among the
trees and shrubs, offered him an almost certain shelter.
The journey had been tiring; and both man and horse felt themselves
worn with fatigue. Both, before proceeding further, imperiously
required a few hours' rest.
The horseman, as an experienced traveller, first attended to his steed,
which he unsaddled and led to drink at the stream; then, after hobbling
the animal for fear it might stray and become the prey of wild beasts,
he stretched his zarapé on the ground, threw a few handfuls of Indian
corn upon it, and when he was assured that his horse, in spite of its
fatigue, was eating its provender willingly, he thought about himself.
Mexicans, when travelling, carry behind their saddle two canvas bags,
called _alforjas_, intended to convey food, which it is impossible to
procure in the desert; and these, with two jars filled with drinking
water, form the sole baggage with which they cover enormous distances,
and endure privations and fatigue, the mere enumeration of which would
terrify Europeans, who are accustomed to enjoy all the conveniences
supplied by an advanced stage of civilization.
The horseman opened his alforjas, sat down on the ground with his back
against a rock, and, while careful that his weapons were within reach,
for fear of being attacked unawares, he began supping philosophically
on a piece of tasajo, some maize tortillas, and goat's cheese as hard
as a flint, the whole being washed down with the pure water of the
stream.
This repast, which was more than frugal, was soon terminated. The
horseman, after cleaning his teeth with an elegant gold toothpick,
rolled a pajilla, smoked it with that conscientious beatitude peculiar
to the Hispano-Americans, and then wrapped himself in his zarapé, shut
his eyes, and fell asleep.
Several hours passed; and it is probable that the traveller's sleep
would have been prolonged for some time, had not two shots, fired a
short distance from him, suddenly aroused him from his lethargy. The
general rule on the prairie is, that when you hear a shot, it is rare
for it not to have been preceded by the whistle of a bullet past your
ear--in other words, there are ninety-nine reasons in a hundred that
the lonely man has been unconsciously converted into the target of an
assassin.
The traveller, thus unpleasantly aroused, seized his weapons, concealed
himself behind a rock, and waited. Then, as after the expiration of
a moment, the attack was not renewed, he rose softly, and carefully
looked around him.
Not a sound disturbed the majestic solitude of the desert. But this
sudden tranquillity after the two shots, instead of re-assuring the
traveller, only augmented his anxiety, by revealing to him the approach
of a certain danger, though it was impossible for him to divine the
cause or the magnitude.
The night was clear, and, so to speak, transparent; the sky, of a deep
blue, was studded with a profusion of sparkling stars, and the moon
shed a white and melancholy light, that allowed the country to be
surveyed for a long distance.
At all hazards he saddled his horse; then, after concealing it in a
rocky cavity, he lay down, placed his ear to the ground, and listened.
Then he fancied he could hear a long distance off a sound, at first
almost imperceptible, but which rapidly approached; and he soon
recognized in it the wild galloping of several horses.
It was a hunt, or a pursuit. But who would dream of hunting in the
middle of the night? The Indians would not venture it, while white and
half-bred trappers only rarely visited these deserted regions, which
they abandoned to the savages and border ruffians; utter villains, who,
expelled from the towns and pueblos, have no other shelter than the
desert.
Were the galloping horsemen pirates of the prairie, then?
The situation was becoming painful to the traveller when, all at once,
the noise ceased, and all became silent.
The traveller rose from the ground.
Suddenly, the shrieks of a woman or girl burst forth on the night, with
an expression of terror and agony impossible to depict.
The stranger, leaving his horse in the shelter he had selected for it,
dashed forward in the direction whence the cry came, leaping from rock
to rock and clearing shrubs, at the risk of hurting himself, with the
feverish speed of the brave man who believes himself suddenly called
by Providence to save a fellow being in danger.
Still, prudence did not desert him in his hazardous enterprise; and,
before risking himself on the plain, he stopped behind a fringe of
larch trees, in order to try and find out what was going on, and act in
accordance.
This is what he saw:--two men, who from their appearance he at once
recognized as belonging to the worst species of prairie runners, were
madly pursuing a young girl. But, thanks to her juvenile agility--an
agility doubtless doubled by the profound terror the bandits inspired
her with--this maiden bounded like a startled fawn across the prairie,
leaping ravines, clearing every obstacle, and gaining at each moment
a greater advance on her pursuers, who were impeded by their vaquero
boots and heavy rifles.
A few minutes later, and the maiden reached the belt of trees behind
which the traveller had concealed himself. The latter was about to rush
to her assistance, when suddenly one of the bandits raised his rifle
and pulled the trigger.
The girl fell, and the horseman seemed to change his mind--for instead
of advancing, he drew himself back and stood motionless, with his
finger on the trigger, ready to fire.
The pirates rapidly approached, talking together in that medley of
English, French, Spanish and Indian which is employed throughout the
Far West.
"Hum!" said a hoarse and panting voice; "What a gazelle! At one moment
I really thought she would escape us."
"Yes, yes," the other answered, shaking his head and tapping the
barrel of his rifle with his right hand; "but I always felt certain of
bringing her down when I thought proper."
"Yes, and you did not miss her, _caray!_ Although it was a long shot,
and your hand must have trembled after such a chase."
"Habit, compadre! Habit!" the bandit answered, with a modest smile.
While talking thus, the two bandits had reached the spot where the body
of the girl lay. One of them knelt down, doubtless to assure himself
of the death of their victim; while the other, the one who had fired,
looked on carelessly, leaning on his rifle.
The traveller then drew himself up, raised his piece, and fired. The
bandit, struck in the centre of the breast, sank down like a sack, and
did not stir. He was dead.
His companion had started and laid his hand on his _machete_; but not
leaving him time to employ it, the traveller rushed on him, and with a
powerful blow of the butt end on his head, sent him to join his comrade
on the ground, where he rolled, half killed.
The traveller, taking the bandit's reata, then firmly bound his hands
and feet; and, easy in mind on this point, he eagerly approached the
maiden. The poor girl gave no sign of life, but, for all that, was not
dead; her wound, indeed, was slight, as the pirate's bullet had merely
grazed her arm. Terror alone had produced her fainting fit.
The stranger carefully bandaged the wound, slightly moistened her
lips and temples, and, after a comparatively short period, had the
satisfaction of seeing her open her eyes again.
"Oh!" she murmured, in a voice soft and melodious as a bird's song,
"Those men--those demons! Oh! Heaven! Protect me!"
"Reassure yourself, Señorita," the traveller answered; "you have
nothing further to fear from those villains."
The maiden started at the sound of this strange voice; she fixed
her eyes on the stranger without giving him any answer, and made an
instinctive movement to rise. She doubtless took the man who had spoken
for one of her pursuers. The latter smiled mournfully, and pointed to
the two bandits lying on the ground.
"Look, Señorita," he said to her; "you have only a friend here."
At this sight an expression of unbounded gratitude illumined the
wounded girl's face, and a sickly smile appeared on her lips; but
almost immediately her features grew saddened again. She sprang up,
and raising herself on the tips of her small feet, she stretched out
her right arm toward a point on the horizon, and exclaimed in a voice
broken by terror--
"There, there! Look!"
The stranger turned to the indicated direction. A party of horsemen
were coming up at full speed, preceded about a rifle shot distance by
another horseman, evidently better mounted than they, and whom they
appeared to be pursuing. The stranger then remembered the furious
galloping he had heard a few moments previously.
"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, clasping her hands in entreaty, "Save him,
Señor! Save him!"
"I will try, Señorita," he replied, gently; "all that a man can do, I
swear to do."
"Thank you," she said, offering him her pretty little hand; "you are a
noble-hearted man, and Heaven will aid you."
"You must not remain here exposed to the insults of these men, who are
evidently the comrades of those from whom you have just escaped."
"That is true," she said; "but what can I do? Where shall I seek
shelter?"
"Follow me behind these trees; we have not a moment to lose."
"Come," she said, resolutely. "But you will save him! Will you not?"
"At least I will try. I have only my life to offer the person in whom
you take an interest; and believe me, Señorita, I shall not hesitate to
make the sacrifice."
The maiden looked down with a blush, and silently followed her guide.
They soon reached the thicket in which the stranger had established his
quarters for the night.
"Whatever happens," he said, while reloading his rifle, "remain here,
Señorita. You are in safety in this hollow rock, where no one will
dream of seeking you. For my part, I am going to help your friend."
"Go," she said, as she knelt down on the ground; "while you are
fighting I will pray for you--and Heaven will grant my prayer."
"Yes," the stranger answered, mournfully, "God listens gladly to the
voice of angels, so let us hope for the best."
He leaped on his horse; and after giving a parting glance at the
maiden, who was praying fervently, he dashed at full speed in the
direction of the newcomers. There were seven in number--bandits with
stern faces and dangerous aspect, who dashed up brandishing their
weapons and uttering horrible yells.
The pursued horseman, on seeing a man emerge so unexpectedly from the
thicket, and come towards him at full speed, rifle in hand, naturally
supposed that assistance was arriving for his foes, and dashed on one
side to avoid a man whom he assumed, with some show of reason, to be an
adversary the more. But the bandits were not mistaken when they saw the
stranger not only let their prey escape, but stop in front of them and
cock his rifle.
Two shots were fired at the same moment, one by a bandit the other
by the stranger, with the difference, however, that the bandit's
shot, being fired haphazard was harmless; while the stranger's, being
deliberately aimed, struck exactly in the mass of his serried foes.
A few seconds later, one of them let go his bridle, beat the air with
his arms, fell back on his horse, and at length on the ground, tearing
with his huge spurs the sides of his steed, which reared, kicked, and
started off like an arrow.
A war so frankly declared could not have a sudden termination: four
shots succeeding each other with extreme rapidity on either side were
a sufficient proof of this. But the stranger's position was growing
critical: his rifle was discharged, and he had only his revolvers left.
The revolver, by the way, is a weapon more convenient than useful in
a fight, for if you wish to hit your man, you must fire at him almost
point blank, otherwise the bullets have a tendency to stray. This is a
sufficient explanation why, in spite of the immoderate use the North
Americans make of this weapon, the number of murders among them is
proportionately limited.
The stranger was, therefore, somewhat embarrassed, and was preparing in
his emergency for a hand-to-hand fight, when help he had been far from
calculating on suddenly reached him.
The pursued horseman, on hearing the firing, and yet finding no bullets
whizzed past him, understood that something unusual was taking place,
and that some strange incident must have occurred in his favour.
Hence he turned back, and saw one of his enemies fall. Recognising
his mistake, he made up his mind at once: though only armed with a
_machete_, he wheeled his horse round and bravely drew up alongside
his defender.
Then the two men, without exchanging a word, resolutely dashed at the
bandits. The contest was short--the success unhoped for. Moreover, the
sides were nearly equal, for of the seven pirates only four were now
alive.
The attack was so sudden, that the pirates had not time to reload. Two
were killed with revolver shots. The third fell with his head severed
by a _machete_ blow from the horseman, who was burning to take an
exemplary vengeance; while the fourth, finding himself alone leaped his
horse over the corpses of his comrades, and fled at full speed without
attempting to continue longer a combat which could not but be fatal to
him.
The two men consequently remained masters of the battlefield.
CHAPTER II.
ON THE PRAIRIE.
When the last bandit had disappeared in the darkness, the horseman
turned to his generous defender, in order to thank him; but the latter
was no longer by his side, and he saw him galloping some distance off
on the plain.
The horseman knew not to what he should attribute this sudden
departure--(for the stranger was following a direction diametrically
opposite to that on which the pirate had fled)--till he saw him return,
leading another horse by the bridle.
The stranger had thought of the young lady he had so miraculously
saved; and on seeing the horses of the killed bandits galloping about,
he resolved at once to capture the best of them, in order to enable
her to continue her journey more comfortably; and when the animal was
lassoed, he returned slowly towards the man to whom he had rendered so
great a service.
"Señor," the horseman said, as soon as they met again, "all is not over
yet; I have a further service to ask of you."
"Speak, Caballero," the stranger replied, starting at the sound of the
voice, which he fancied he recognised. "Speak, I am listening to you."
"A woman, an unhappy girl--my sister, in a word, is lost in this
horrible desert. Some of the scoundrels started in pursuit of her, and
I know not what may have happened to her. I am in mortal agony, and
must rejoin her at all risks; hence do not leave the good action you
have so well begun unfinished; help me to find my sister's track,--join
with me in seeking her."
"It is useless," the stranger answered, coldly.
"What, useless!" the horseman exclaimed with horror; "Has any
misfortune happened to her? Ah! I remember now; I fancied, while I was
flying, that I heard several shots. Oh, Heaven, Heaven!" he added,
writhing his hands in despair, "My poor sister, my poor Marianita!"
"Reassure yourself, Caballero," the stranger continued in the same cold
deliberate accent; "your sister is in safety, temporarily at least, and
has nothing to fear. Heaven permitted that I should cross her path."
"Are you stating truth?" he exclaimed, joyfully. "Oh, bless you, Señor,
for the happy news! Where is she? Let me see her! Let me press her to
my heart. Alas! How shall I ever acquit my debt to you?"
"You owe me nothing," the stranger answered in a rough voice; "it was
chance, or God, if you prefer it, that did everything, and I was only
the instrument. My conduct would have been the same to any other
person; so keep your gratitude--which I do not ask of you. Who knows,"
he added ironically, "whether you may not some day repent of having
contracted any obligations toward me?"
The horseman felt internally pained at the way in which his advances
were received by a man who scarce five minutes previously had saved his
life. Not knowing to what he should attribute this sudden change of
temper, he pretended not to notice anything offensive the words might
contain, and said, with exquisite politeness--
"The spot is badly chosen for a lengthened conversation, Caballero. We
are still, if not strangers, at least unknown to each other. I trust
that ere long all coldness and misunderstanding will cease between us,
and make room for perfect confidence."
The other smiled bitterly.
"Come," he said, "your sister is near here, and must be impatient to
see you."
The horseman followed him without replying; but asking himself mentally
who this singular man could be, who risked his life to defend him, and
yet appeared anxious to treat him as an enemy.
All the sounds of the combat had reached the maiden's ear: she had
heard them while kneeling on the ground, half dead with terror, and
searching her troubled memory in vain for a prayer to address to Heaven.
Then the firing had ceased: a mournful silence again spread over the
desert--a silence more terrifying a thousandfold than the terrible
sounds of the fight, and she remained crouching in a corner and
suffering from nameless agony, alone, far from all human help, not
daring to retain a single hope, and fearing at each moment to see a
frightful death awaiting her. The poor girl could not have said how
long she remained thus crushed beneath the weight of her terror. A
person must really have suffered, to know of how many centuries a
minute is composed when life or death is awaited.
Suddenly she started: her strong nerves relaxed, a fugitive flush
tinged her cheek, she fancied she had heard a few words uttered in a
low voice not far from her. Were her enemies again pursuing her? Or was
her saviour returning to her side?
She remained anxious and motionless, not daring to make a movement or
utter a cry to ask for help; for a movement might reveal her presence,
a cry hopelessly ruin her.
But, ere long, the bushes were parted by a powerful hand; and two
horsemen appeared at the base of the rock. The maiden stretched out her
hands to them with an exclamation of delight; and, too weak to support
this last emotion, she fainted.
She had recognised in the men, who arrived side by side, her brother
and the stranger to whom she owed her life.
When she regained her senses, she was lying on furs in front of a large
fire. The two men were sitting on her right and left; while in the rock
cave, three horses were eating their provender of alfalfa.
Somewhat in the shadow a few paces from her, the maiden perceived a
mass, whose form it was impossible for her to distinguish at the first
glance, but which a more attentive examination enabled her to recognise
as a bound man lying on the ground.
The maiden was anxious to speak and thank her liberator; but the shock
she had received was so rude, the emotion so powerful, that it was
impossible for her to utter a word--so weak did she feel. She could
only give him a glance full of all the gratitude she felt, and then
fell back into a state of feverish exhaustion and morbid apathy, which
almost completely deprived her of the power of thinking and feeling,
and which rendered her involuntarily ignorant of all that was going on
around her.
"It is well," said the stranger, as he carefully closed a gold mounted
flask and concealed it in his bosom. "Now, Caballero, there is nothing
more to fear for the Señorita; the draught I have administered to her,
by procuring her a calm and healthy sleep, will restore her strength
sufficiently for her to be able to continue her journey at sunrise,
should it be necessary."
"Caballero," the stranger answered, "you are really performing the part
of Providence towards me and my sister, I know not, in truth, how to
express to you the lively gratitude I feel for a procedure which is the
more generous as I am a perfect stranger to you."
"Do you think so?" he answered sarcastically.
"The more I examine your face, the more convinced I am that I have met
you tonight for the first time."
"You would not venture to affirm it?"
"Yes, I would. Your features are too remarkable for me not to remember
them if I had seen you before; but I repeat, if you fancy you know me,
you are mistaken, and an accidental resemblance to some other person is
the cause of your error."
There was a momentary silence, and then the stranger spoke again, with
a politeness too affected for the irony it concealed not to be seen--
"Be it so, Caballero," he answered, with a bow; "perhaps I am mistaken.
Be good enough, therefore, if you have no objection, to tell me who
you are, and by what fortuitous concourse of circumstances I have
been enabled to render you what you are kind enough to call a great
service?"
"And it is an immense one, in truth, Caballero," the stranger
interrupted with warmth.
"I will not discuss that subject any longer with you, Caballero; I am
awaiting your pleasure."
"Señor, I will not abuse your patience for long. My name is Don Ruiz
de Moguer, and I reside with my father at a hacienda in the vicinity
of Arispe. For reasons too lengthy to explain to you, and which would
but slightly interest you, the presence of my sister (who has been at
school for some years at the Convent of the Conception at El Rosario)
became indispensable at the hacienda. By my father's orders I set out
for El Rosario a few months ago, in order to bring my sister back to
her family. I was anxious to rejoin my father; and hence, in spite of
the observations made to me by persons acquainted with the dangers
attending so long a journey through a desert country, I resolved to
take no escort, but start for home merely accompanied by two peons, on
whose courage and fidelity I could rely."
"My sister who had been separated from her family for several years,
was as eager as myself to quit the convent; and hence we soon set
out. For the first few days all went well; our journey was performed
under the most favourable auspices, and my sister and I laughed at the
anxiety and apprehensions of our friends, for we had begun to believe
ourselves safe from any dangerous encounter."
"But yesterday at sunset, just as we were preparing our camp for the
night, we were suddenly attacked by a party of bandits, who seemed
to emerge from the ground in front of us, so unforeseen was their
apparition. Our poor brave peons were killed while defending us; and
my sister's horse, struck by a bullet in the head, threw her. But the
brave girl, far from surrendering to the bandits, who rushed forward
to seize her, began flying across the savannah. Then I tried to lead
the aggressors off the scent, and induce them to pursue me. You
know the rest, Caballero; and had it not been for your providential
interference, it would have been all over with us."
There was a silence, which Don Ruiz was the first to break.
"Caballero," he said, "now that you know who I am, tell me the name of
my saviour?"
"What good is that?" the stranger answered, sadly. "We have come
together for a moment by chance, and shall separate tomorrow never to
meet again. Gratitude is a heavy burden. Not knowing who I am, you will
soon have forgotten me. Believe me, Señor Don Ruiz, it is better that
it should be so. Who knows if you may not regret some day knowing me?"
"It is the second time you have said that, Caballero. Your words
breathe a bitterness that pains me. You must have suffered very
grievously for your thoughts to be so sad and your heart so
disenchanted at an age when the future ordinarily appears so full of
promise."
The stranger raised his head, and bent on his questioner a glance that
seemed trying to read to the bottom of his soul: the latter continued,
however, with some degree of vivacity--
"Oh! Do not mistake the meaning I attach to my words, Caballero. I
have no intention to take your confidence by surprise, or encroach on
your secrets. Every man's life belongs to himself--his actions concern
himself alone; and I recognise no claim to a confidence which I neither
expect nor desire. The only thing I ask of you is to tell me your name,
that my sister and myself may retain it in our hearts."
"Why insist on so frivolous a matter?"
"I will answer--What reason have you to be so obstinate in remaining
unknown?"
"Then you insist on my telling you my name?"
"Oh, Caballero, I have no right to insist; I only ask it."
"Very good," said the stranger, "you shall know my name; but I warn you
that it will teach you nothing."
"Pardon me, Caballero," Don Ruiz remarked, with a touch of exquisite
delicacy, "this name, repeated by me to my father, will tell him every
hour in the day that it is to the man who bears it that he owes the
life of his children, and a whole family will bless you."
In spite of himself, the stranger felt affected. By an instinctive
movement he offered his hand to the young man, which the latter pressed
affectionately. But, as if suddenly reproaching himself for yielding
to his feelings, this strange man sharply drew back his hand, and
reassuming the expression of sternness, which had for a moment departed
from him, said, with a roughness in his voice that astonished and
saddened the young Mexican, "You shall be satisfied."
We have said that Doña Marianita, in looking round her, fancied she saw
the body of a man stretched on the ground a few paces from the fire.
The maiden was not mistaken; it was really a man she saw, carefully
gagged and bound. It was in a word, one of the two bandits who had
pursued her so long, and the one whom the stranger had almost killed
with a blow of his rifle butt.
After recommending Don Ruiz to be patient by a wave of his hand, the
stranger rose, walked straight up to the bandit, threw him on his
shoulders, and laid him at the feet of the young Mexican, perhaps
rather roughly--for the pirate, in spite of the thorough Indian
stoicism he affected, could not suppress a stifled yell of pain.
"Who is this man, and what do you purpose doing with him?" Don Ruiz
asked, with some anxiety.
"This scoundrel," the stranger answered, harshly, "was one of the band
that attacked you; we are going to try him."
"Try him?" the young gentleman objected; "We?"
"Of course," the stranger said, as he removed the bandit's gag, and
unfastened the rope that bound his limbs. "Do you fancy that we are
going to trouble ourselves with the scoundrel till we find a prison
in which to place him, without counting the fact that, if we were so
simple as to do so, the odds are about fifty to one that he would
escape from us during the journey, and slip through our fingers like an
opossum, to attack us a few hours later at the head of a fresh band of
pirates of his own breed. No, no; that would be madness. When the snake
is dead, the venom is dead, too; it is better to try him."
"But by what right can we constitute ourselves the judges of this man?"
"By what right?" the stranger exclaimed, in amazement. "The Border law,
which says, 'Eye for eye; tooth for tooth.' Lynch law authorizes us to
try this bandit, and when the sentence is pronounced, to execute it
ourselves."
Don Ruiz reflected for a moment, during which the stranger looked at
him aside with the most serious attention.
"That is possible," the young man at length answered; "perhaps you are
right in speaking thus. This man is guilty--he is evidently a miserable
assassin covered with blood; and, had my sister and myself fallen into
his hands, he would not have hesitated to stab us, or blow out our
brains."
"Well?" the stranger remarked.
"Well," the young man continued, with generous animation in his voice;
"this certainly does not authorize us in taking justice into our own
hands; besides, my sister is saved."
"Then it is your opinion--"
"That as we cannot hand this man over to the police, we are bound to
set him at liberty, after taking all proper precautions that he cannot
injure us."
"You have, doubtless, carefully reflected on the consequences of the
deed you advise?"
"My conscience orders me to act as I am doing."
"Your will be done!" and, addressing the bandit, who throughout the
conversation had remained gloomy and silent, though his eyes constantly
wandered from one to the other of the speakers, he said to him, "Get
up!"
The pirate rose.
"Look at me," the stranger continued; "do you recognise me?"
"No," the bandit said.
The stranger seized a lighted brand, and held it up near his face.
"Look at me more carefully, Kidd," he said, in a sharp, imperious voice.
The scoundrel, who had bent forward, drew himself back with a start of
fear.
"Stronghand!" he exclaimed, in a voice choked by dread.
"Ah!" the horseman said, with a sardonic smile; "I see that you
recognise me now."
"Yes," the bandit muttered. "What are your orders?"
"I have none. You heard all we have been saying, I suppose?"
"All."
"What do you think of it?"
The pirate did not answer.
"Speak, and be frank! I insist."
"Hum!" he said, with a side-glance.
"Will you speak? I tell you I insist."
"Well!" he answered, in a rather humbling voice, but yet with a tinge
of irony easy to notice; "I think that when you hold your enemy, you
ought to kill him."
"That is really your opinion?"
"Yes."
"What do you say to that?" the stranger asked, turning to Don Ruiz.
"I say," he replied, simply, "that as this man is not my enemy, I
cannot and ought not to take any vengeance on him."
"Hence?"
"Hence, justice alone has the right to make him account for his
conduct. As for me, I decline."
"And that is truly the expression of your thoughts?"
"On my honour, Caballero. During the fight I should not have felt the
slightest hesitation in killing him--for in that case I was defending
the life he tried to take; but now that he is a prisoner, and unarmed,
I have no longer aught to do with him."
In spite of the mask of indifference the stranger wore on his face, he
could not completely hide the joy he experienced at hearing these noble
sentiments so simply expressed.
There was a moment's silence, during which the three men seemed
questioning each other's faces. At length Stronghand spoke again,
and addressed the bandit, who remained motionless, and apparently
indifferent to what was being said--
"Go! You are free!" he said, as he cut the last bonds that held him.
"But remember, Kidd, that if it has pleased this Caballero to forget
your offences, I have not pardoned them. You know me, so do your best
to keep out of my way, or you will not escape, so easily as this day,
the just punishment you have deserved. Begone!"
"All right, Stronghand, I will remember," the bandit said, with a
covert threat.
And at once gliding into the bushes, he disappeared, without taking
further leave of the persons who had given him his life.
CHAPTER III.
THE BIVOUAC.
For some moments the bandit's hurried footsteps were audible, and then
all became silent once again.
"You wished it," Stronghand then said, looking at Don Ruiz from under
his bent brows. "Now, be certain that you have at least one implacable
enemy on the prairie; for you are not so simple, I assume, as to
believe in the gratitude of such a man?"
"I pity him, if he hates me for the good I have done him in return for
the harm he wished to do me, but honour ordered me to let him escape."
"Yours will be a short life, Señor, if you are obstinate in carrying
out such philanthropic precepts in our unhappy country."
"My ancestors had a motto to which they never proved false."
"And pray what may that motto be, Caballero?"
"Everything for honour, no matter what may happen," the young man said,
simply.
"Yes," Stronghand answered, with a harsh laugh; "the maxim is noble,
and Heaven grant it prove of service to you; but," he continued, after
looking round him, "the darkness is beginning to grow less thick, the
night is on the wane, and within an hour the sun will be up. You know
my name, which, as I told you beforehand, has not helped you much."
"You are mistaken, Caballero," Don Ruiz interrupted him, eagerly; "for
I have frequently heard the name mentioned, of which you fancied me
ignorant."
Stronghand bent a piercing glance on the young man.
"Ah!" he said, with a slight tremor in his voice; "And doubtless,
each time you heard that name uttered, it was accompanied by far from
flattering epithets, which gave you but a poor opinion of the man who
bears it."
"Here again you are mistaken, Señor; it has been uttered in my presence
as the name of a brave man, with a powerful heart and vast intellect,
whom unknown and secret sorrow has urged to lead a strange life, to
fly the society of his fellow men, and to wander constantly about the
deserts; but who, under all circumstances, even spite of the examples
that daily surrounded him, managed to keep his honour intact and retain
a spotless reputation, which even the bandits, with whom the incidents
of an adventurous life too often bring him into contact, are forced
to admire. That, Señor, is what this name, which you supposed I was
ignorant of, recalls to my mind, and the way in which I have ever heard
the man who bears it spoken of."
Stronghand smiled bitterly.
"Can the world really be less wicked and unjust than I supposed it?" he
muttered, in self-colloquy.
"Do not doubt it," the young man said, eagerly. "God, who has allowed
the good and the bad to dwell side by side on this earth, has yet
willed that the amount of good should exceed that of bad, so that,
sooner or later, each should be requited according to his works and
merits."
"Such words," he answered, ironically, "would be more appropriate in
the mouth of a priest or missionary, whose hair has been blanched, and
back bowed by the weight of the incessant struggles of his apostolic
mission, than in that of a young man who has scarce reached the dawn
of life, whom no tempest has yet assailed, and who has only tasted the
honey of life. But no matter; your intention is good, and I thank you.
But we have far more serious matters to attend to than losing our time
in philosophical discussions which would not convince either of us."
"I was wrong, Caballero, I allow," Don Ruiz answered; "it does not
become me, who am as yet but a child, to make such remarks to you; so,
pray pardon me."
"I have nothing to pardon you, Señor," Stronghand replied with a smile;
"on the contrary, I thank you. Now let us attend to the most pressing
affair--that is to say, what you purpose doing to get out of your
present situation."
"I confess to you that I am greatly alarmed," Don Ruiz replied,
with a slight tinge of sadness, as he looked at the girl, who was
still sleeping. "What has happened to me, the terrible danger I have
incurred, and from which I only escaped, thanks to your generous help--"
"Not a word more on that subject," Stronghand interrupted him quickly.
"You will disoblige me by pressing it further."
The young man bowed.
"Were I alone," he said, "I should not hesitate to continue my journey.
A brave man, and I believe myself one, nearly always succeeds in
escaping the perils that threaten him, if he confront them: but I have
my sister with me--my sister, whose energy the terrible scene of this
night has broken, and who, in the event of a second attack from the
pirates of the prairies, would become an easy prey to the villains--the
more so because, too weak to save her, I could only die with her."
Stronghand turned away, murmuring to himself compassionately.
"That is true, poor child;" then he said to Don Ruiz, "Still, you must
make up your mind."
"Unfortunately I have no choice; there is only one thing to be done:
whatever may happen, I shall continue my journey at sunrise, if my
sister be in a condition to follow me."
"That need not trouble you. When she awakes, her strength will be
sufficiently recovered for her to keep on horseback without excessive
fatigue; but from here to Arispe the road is very long."
"I know it: and it is that which frightens me for my poor sister."
"Listen to me. Perhaps there is a way for you to get out of the scrape,
and avoid up to a certain point the dangers that threaten you. Two
days' journey from here there is a military post, placed like an
advanced sentry to watch the frontier, and prevent the incursions of
the Indios bravos, and other bandits of every description and colour,
who infest these regions. The main point for you is to reach this post,
when it will be easy for you to obtain from the Commandant an escort to
protect you from any insult for the rest of your journey."
"Yes; but, as you remark, I must reach the post."
"Well?"
"I do not know this country: one of the two peons who accompanied me
acted as guide; and now he is dead, it is utterly impossible for me to
find my way. I am in the position of a sailor, lost without a compass
on an unknown sea."
Stronghand looked at him with surprise mingled with compassion.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "How improvident is youth! What! Imprudent boy!
You dared to risk yourself in the desert, and entrust to a peon your
sister's precious life?" But, recollecting himself immediately, he
continued, "Pardon me; reproaches are ill suited at this moment; the
great thing is to get you out of the danger in which you are."
He let his head fall on his hands, and plunged into serious
reflections, while Don Ruiz looked at him with mingled apprehension and
hope. The young man did not deceive himself as to his position: the
reproaches which Stronghand spared him, he had already made himself,
cursing his improvident temerity; for things had reached such a point,
that if the man to whom he owed his life, refused to afford him his
omnipotent protection, he and his sister were irremediably lost.
Stronghand, after a few minutes, which seemed to last an age, rose,
seized his rifle, went up to his horse, saddled it, mounted, and said
to Don Ruiz, who followed all his movements with anxious curiosity--
"Wait for me, however long my absence may be; do not stir from here
till I return."
Then, without waiting for the young man's answer, he bent lightly over
his horse's neck, and started at a gallop. Don Ruiz watched the black
outline, as it disappeared in the gloom; he listened to the horse's
footfalls so long as he could hear them, and then turned back and
seated himself pensively at the fire, and looked with tearful eyes at
his sleeping sister.
"Poor Marianita!" he murmured, with a heart-rending outburst of pity.
He bowed his head on his chest, and with pale and gloomy face awaited
the return of Stronghand--a return which, in his heart, he doubted,
although, with the obstinacy of desperate men, who try to deceive
themselves by making excuses whose falsehood they know, he sought to
prove its certainty.
We will take advantage of this delay in our narrative to trace rapidly
the portraits of Don Ruiz de Moguer and his sister Marianita. We will
begin with the young lady, through politeness.
Doña Mariana--or rather Marianita, as she was generally called at
the convent, and by her family--was a charming girl scarce sixteen,
graceful in her movements, and with black lustrous eyes. Her hair had
the bluish tinge of the raven's wing; her skin, the warm and gilded
hues of the sun of her country; her glance, half veiled by her long
brown eyelashes, was ardent; her straight nose, with its pink flexible
nostrils, was delicious; her laughing mouth, with its bright red lips,
gave her face an expression of simple, ignorant candour. Her movements,
soft and indolent, had that indescribable languor and serpentine
undulation alone possessed in so eminent a degree by the women of Lima
and Mexico, those daughters of the sun in whose veins flows the molten
lava of the volcanoes, instead of blood. In a word, she was a Spanish
girl from head to foot--but Andalusian before all. Hers was an ardent,
wild, jealous, passionate, and excessively superstitious nature. But
this lovely, splendid statue still wanted the divine spark. Doña
Mariana did not know herself; her heart had not yet spoken; she was as
yet but a delicious child, whom the fiery breath of love would convert
into an adorable woman.
Physically, Don Ruiz was, as a man, the same his sister was a woman.
He was a thorough gentleman, and scarce four years older than Doña
Mariana. He was tall and well built; but his elegant and aristocratic
form denoted great personal strength. His regular features--too regular
perhaps, for a man--bore an unmistakable stamp of distinction; his
black eye had a frank and confident look; his mouth, which was rather
large, but adorned with splendid teeth, and fringed by a fine brown
moustache, coquettishly turned up, still retained the joyous, careless
smile of youth; his face displayed loyalty, gentleness, and bravery
carried to temerity;--in a word, all his features offered the most
perfect type of a true-blooded gentleman.
Brother and sister, who, with the exception of a few almost
imperceptible variations, had the most perfect physical likeness, also
resembled each other morally. Both were equally ignorant of things of
the world. With their pure and innocent hearts they loved each other
with the holiest of all loves, fraternal affection, and only lived
through and for each other.
Hence, Doña Mariana had felt a great delight and great impatience to
quit the convent, when Don Ruiz, in obedience to his father's commands,
came to fetch her from the Rosario. This impatience obliged Don Ruiz
not to consent to wait for an escort on his homeward journey, for fear
of vexing his sister. It was an imprudence that caused the misfortunes
we have already described, and for which, now they had arrived, Don
Ruiz reproached himself bitterly. He cursed the weakness that had made
him yield to the whims of a girl, and accused himself of being, through
his weakness, the sole cause of the frightful dangers from which she
had only escaped by a miracle, and of those no less terrible, which,
doubtless, still threatened her on the hundred and odd leagues they
had still to go before reaching the hacienda del Toro, where dwelt her
father, Don Hernando de Moguer.
Still the hours, which never stop, continued to follow each other
slowly. The sun had risen; and, through its presence on the horizon,
immediately dissipated the darkness and heated the ground, which was
chilled by the abundant and icy dew of morning.
Doña Marianita, aroused by the singing of the thousands of birds
concealed beneath the foliage, opened her eyes with a smile. The calm
sleep she had enjoyed for several hours restored not only her strength,
which was exhausted by the struggles of the previous evening, but also
her courage and gaiety. The girl's first glance was for her brother,
who, anxious and uneasy, was attentively watching her slumbers, and
impatiently awaiting the moment for her to awake.
"Oh, Ruiz," she said, in her melodious voice, and offering her hand and
cheek simultaneously to the young man, "what a glorious sleep I have
had."
"Really, sister," he exclaimed, kissing her, gladly, "you have slept
well."
"That is to say," she continued, with a smile, "that at the convent I
never passed so delicious a night, accompanied by such charming dreams;
but it is true there were two of you to watch over my slumbers--two
kind and devoted hearts, in whom I could trust with perfect confidence."
"Yes, sister; there were two of us."
"What?" she asked in surprise mingled with anxiety. "You were--What do
you mean, Ruiz?"
"What I say; nothing else, dear sister."
"But I do not see the caballero to whom we have incurred so great an
obligation. Where is he?"
"I cannot tell you, little sister. About two hours ago he mounted his
horse and left me, telling me not to stir from here till his return."
"Oh, in that case I am quite easy. His absence alarmed me; but now that
I know he will return--"
"Do you believe so?" he interrupted.
"Why should I doubt it?" she continued with some animation in her
voice; "Did he not promise to return?"
"Certainly."
"Well! A caballero never breaks his pledged word. He said he would
come, and he will come."
"Heaven grant it!" Don Ruiz muttered.
And he shook his head sadly, and gave a profound sigh. The maiden felt
herself involuntarily assailed by anxiety. This persistency undoubtedly
terrified her.
"Come, Ruiz," she said, turning very pale, "explain yourself. What has
happened between this caballero and yourself?"
"Nothing beyond what you know, sister. Still, in spite of the man's
promise, I know not why, but I fear. He is a strange, incomprehensible
being--at one moment kind, at another cruel--changing his character,
and almost his face, momentarily. He frightens and repels, and yet
attracts and interests me. I am afraid he will abandon us, and fear
that he will return. A secret foreboding seems to warn me that this man
will have a great influence over your future and mine. Perhaps it is
our misfortune that we have met him."
"I do not understand you, Ruiz. What means this confusion in your
ideas? Why this stern and strange judgment of a man whom you do not
know, and who has only done you kindness?"
At the moment when Don Ruiz was preparing to answer, the gallop of a
horse became audible in the distance.
"Silence, brother!" she exclaimed, with an emotion she could not
repress; "Silence, here he comes!"
The young man looked at his sister in amazement.
"How do you know it?" he asked her.
"I have recognised him," she stammered, with a deep blush. "Stay--Look!"
In fact, at this moment the shrubs parted, and Stronghand appeared in
the open space. Don Ruiz, though surprised at the singular remark which
had escaped his sister, had not time to ask her for an explanation.
Without dismounting, Stronghand, after bowing courteously to the young
lady, said, hurriedly--
"To horse!--To horse! Make haste! Time presses!"
Don Ruiz at once saddled his own horse and his sister's, and a few
minutes later the two young people were riding by the hunter's side.
"Let us start!" the latter continued. "_Cuerpo de Cristo_, Caballero, I
warned you that you were doing an imprudent action in liberating that
villain. If we do not take care, we shall have him at our heels within
an hour."
These words sufficed to give the fugitives wings, and they started at
full gallop after the bold wood ranger. An hour elapsed ere a word
was exchanged between the three persons; bent over the necks of their
steeds they devoured the space--looking back anxiously from time to
time, and only thinking how to escape the unknown dangers by which
they felt themselves surrounded. About eight o'clock in the morning,
Stronghand checked his horse, and made his companions a sign to follow
his example.
"Now," he said, "we have nothing more to fear. When we have crossed
that wood, which stretches out in front of us like a curtain of
verdure, we shall see the Port of San Miguel, whose walls will offer us
a certain shelter against the attacks of all the bandits of the desert,
were there ten thousand of them."
"Last night I fancy that you spoke to me of a more distant post," Don
Ruiz said.
"Yes; for I fancied San Miguel abandoned, if not in ruins. Before I
gave you what might prove a fallacious hope, I wished to assure myself
of the truth of the case."
"Do you believe that the Commandant will consent to receive us?" the
young lady asked.
"Certainly, Señorita, for a thousand reasons. In the first place, the
frontier posts are only established for the purpose of watching over
the safety of travellers; and then, again, San Miguel is commanded by
one of your relations--or, at any rate, an intimate friend of your
family."
The young people looked at each other in surprise.
"Do you know this Commandant's name?" Don Ruiz asked.
"I was told it: he is Don Marcos de Niza."
"Oh!" Doña Mariana exclaimed, joyfully; "I should think we do know him:
Don Marcos is a cousin of ours."
"In that case, all is for the best," the hunter answered, coldly. "Let
us continue our journey; for there is a cloud of dust behind us that
forebodes us no good, if it reaches us before we have entered the post."
The young people, without answering, resumed their gallop, crossed the
wood, and entered the little fort.
"Look!" Stronghand said to Don Ruiz and his sister, the moment the gate
closed upon them. They turned back. A numerous band of horsemen issued
from the wood at this moment, and galloped up at full speed, uttering
ferocious yells.
"This is the second time you have saved our lives, Caballero," Doña
Mariana said to the partizan, with a look of gratitude.
"Why count them, Señorita?" he replied, with a sadness mingled with
bitterness. "Do I do so?"
The maiden gave him a look of undefinable meaning, turned her head away
with a blush, and silently followed her brother.
The Spaniards, whatever may be the opinion the Utopians of the old
world express about their mode of civilization, and the way in which
they treated the Indians of America, understood very well how to
enhance the prosperity of the countries they had been endowed with by
the strong arms of those heroic adventurers who were called Cortez,
Pizarro, Bilboa, Alvadaro, &c., and whose descendants, if any by
chance exist, are now in the most frightful wretchedness, although
their ancestors gave a whole world and incalculable riches to their
ungrateful country.
When the Spanish rule was established in America, the first care of
the conquerors--after driving back the Indians who refused to accept
their iron yoke into frightful deserts, where they hoped want would
put an end to them--was to secure their frontiers, and prevent those
indomitable hordes, impelled by hunger and despair, from entering the
newly conquered country and plundering the towns and the haciendas.
For this purpose they established along the desert line a cordon of
presidios and military posts, which were all connected together, and
could, in case of need, assist each other, not so much through their
proximity--for they were a great distance apart, and scattered over
a great space--but by means of numerous patrols of lanceros, who
constantly proceeded from one post to the other.
At present, since the declaration of independence, owing to the neglect
of the governments which have succeeded each other in this unhappy
country, most of the presidios and forts no longer exist. Some have
been burned by the Indians, who became invaders in their turn, and are
gradually regaining the territory the Europeans took from them; while
others have been abandoned, or so badly kept up, that they are for
the most part in ruins. Still, here and there you find a few, which
exceptionable circumstances have compelled the inhabitants to repair
and defend.
As these forts were built in all the colonies on the same plan, in
describing the post of San Miguel, which still exists, and which we
have visited, the reader will easily form an idea of the simple and yet
effective defence adopted by the Europeans to protect them from the
surprises of their implacable and crafty foes.
The post of San Miguel is composed of four square pavilions, connected
together by covered ways, the inner walls of which surround a courtyard
planted with lemon trees, peach trees, and algarrobas. On this court
opens the room intended for travellers, the barracks, &c. The outer
walls have only one issue, and are provided with loopholes, which can
only be reached by mounting a platform eight feet high and three wide.
All the masonry is constructed of _adobes_, or large blocks of earth
stamped and baked in the sun.
Twenty feet beyond this wall is another, formed of cactuses, planted
very closely together, and having their branches intertwined. This
vegetable wall, if we may be allowed the use of the expression, is
naturally very thick, and protected by formidable prickles, which
render it impenetrable for the half-clad and generally badly-armed
Indians. The only entrance to it is a heavy gate, supported by posts
securely bedded in the ground. The soldiers, standing at the loopholes
of the second wall, fire in perfect shelter, and command the space
above the cactuses.
On the approach of the Indians, when the Mexican Moon is at hand--that
is to say, the invariable season of their invasions--the sparse
dwellers on the border seek refuge inside San Miguel, and there in
complete safety wait till their enemies are weary of a siege which can
have no result for them, or till they are put to flight by soldiers
sent from a town frequently fifty leagues off.
Don Marcos de Niza was a man of about forty, short and plump, but
withal active and quick. His regular features displayed a simplicity
of character, marked with intelligence and decision. He was one of
those educated honest professional officers, of whom the Mexican army
unfortunately counts too few in its ranks. Hence, as he thoroughly
attended to his duties, and had never tried to secure promotion by
intrigue and party manoeuvres, he had remained a captain for ten years
past, without hope of promotion, in spite of his qualifications (which
were recognised and appreciated by all) and his irreproachable conduct.
The post he occupied at this moment as Commandant of the Blockhouse
of San Miguel proved the value the Governor of the province set upon
him; for the frontier posts, constantly exposed to the attacks of the
Redskins, can only be given to sure men, who have long been accustomed
to Indian warfare.
CHAPTER IV.
THE POST OF SAN MIGUEL.
As the dangerous honour of commanding one of the border forts like
San Miguel is not at all coveted by the brilliant officers accustomed
to clatter their sabres on the stones of the Palace in Mexico, it
is generally only given to brave soldiers who have no prospect of
promotion left to them.
Informed by a cabo, or corporal, of the names of the guests who thus
suddenly arrived, the Captain rose to meet them with open arms and a
smile on his lips.
"Oh, oh," he exclaimed, gleefully; "this is a charming surprise!
Children, I am delighted to see you."
"Do not thank us, Don Marcos," Doña Mariana answered, smilingly. "We
are not paying you a visit, but have come to ask shelter and protection
of you."
"You have them already. ¡Rayo de Dios! Are we not relations, and very
close ones, too?"
"Without doubt, cousin," Don Ruiz said; "hence, in our misfortune, it
is a great happiness for us to come across you."
"Hilloh! You have something serious to tell me," the Captain continued,
his face growing gloomy.
"So serious," the young man said, with a bow to the partizan, who stood
motionless by his side, "that had it not been for the help of this
caballero, in all probability we should be lying dead in the desert."
"Oh, oh; my poor children! Come, dismount and follow me; you must need
rest and refreshment after such an alarm. Cabo Hernandez, take charge
of the horses."
The corporal took the horses, which he led to the corral; and the young
people followed the Captain, after having been kissed and hugged by him
several times. Don Marcos pressed the hunter's hand, and made him a
sign to follow them.
"There," he said, after introducing his guests into a room modestly
furnished with a few butacas; "sit down, children; and when you have
rested, we will talk."
Refreshments had been prepared on the table. While the young people
enjoyed them, the Captain quitted them, and went with the hunter into
another room. So soon as they were alone, the two men became serious,
and the joy that illumined the Captain's face was suddenly extinguished.
"Well," he asked Stronghand, after making him a sign to sit down, "what
news?"
"Bad," he answered, distinctly.
"I expected it," the officer muttered, with a sad toss of the head; "we
must put on our harness again, and push out into the savannah, in order
to prove to these bandits that we are able to punish them."
The hunter shook his head several times, but said nothing. The Captain
looked at him attentively for some minutes.
"What is the matter, my friend?" he at length asked him, with growing
anxiety; "I never saw you so sad and gloomy before."
"The reason is," he answered, "because circumstances have never been so
serious."
"Explain yourself, my friend; I confess to you that you are really
beginning to alarm me. With the exception of a few insignificant
marauders, the borders have never appeared to me more quiet."
"It is a deceitful calm, Don Marcos, which contains the tempest in its
bosom--and a terrible tempest, I, assure you."
"And yet our spies are all agreed in assuring us that the Indians are
not at all thinking of an expedition."
"It proves that your spies betray you, that's all."
"Possibly so; but still, I should like some proof or sign."
"I ask for nothing better; I am enabled to give you the most positive
information."
"Very good; that is the way to speak. I am listening to you."
"Before all, is your garrison strong?"
"I consider it large enough."
"Perhaps so: how many men have you?"
"Sixty or seventy, about."
"That is not enough."
"What! Not enough? The garrisons of blockhouses are never more
numerous."
"In a time of peace, it may be so; but under present circumstances, I
repeat to you, that they are not enough, and you will soon agree with
me on that score. You must send off a courier, without the loss of a
moment, to ask for a reinforcement of from one hundred and fifty to two
hundred men. Do not deceive yourself, Captain; you will be the first
attacked, and the attack will be a rude one. I warn you."
"Thanks for the hint. Still, my good friend, you will permit me not to
follow it till you have proved to me that there are urgent reasons for
doing so."
"As you please, Captain; you are the commandant of the post, and your
responsibility must urge you to prudence. I will therefore abstain from
making any farther observations on the subject which only concerns me
very indirectly."
"You are annoyed, and wrongly so, my friend; the responsibility to
which you refer demands that I should not let myself be led by vague
rumours to take measures I might have cause to regret. Give me the
explanation I expect of you; and, probably, when I know the imminence
of the danger that threatens me, I shall follow your advice."
"I wish for nothing more than to satisfy you; so listen to me. What I
have to tell you will not take long."
At this moment the room door opened and Corporal Hernandez appeared.
The Captain, annoyed at being thus inopportunely disturbed, turned
sharply round and angrily addressed the man--
"Well Corporal," he said, "what the fiend do you want now?"
"Excuse me, Captain," the poor fellow said, astounded at this rough
greeting, "but the Lieutenant sent me."
"Well, what does the Lieutenant want? Speak! But be brief, if that is
possible."
"Captain, the sentry has seen a large party of horsemen coming at full
gallop towards the fort, and the Lieutenant ordered me to warn you."
"Eh," said the Captain, looking uneasily at the hunter, "were you in
the right? and is this troop the vanguard of the enemy you threaten us
with?"
"This troop," the hunter answered, with an equivocal smile, "has been
following Don Ruiz and myself since the morning. I do not believe that
these horsemen are Indians."
"What's the Lieutenant's opinion about these scamps?" the Captain asked
the corporal.
"They are too far off yet, and too hidden by the dust they raise,
Captain, for it to be possible to recognise them," the non-commissioned
officer replied with a bow.
"That is true. We had better, I believe, go and look for ourselves.
Will you come?"
"I should think so," the hunter said, as he seized his rifle, which he
had deposited in a corner of the room; and they went out.
Don Ruiz and his sister were talking together, while doing ample
justice to the refreshment placed at their disposal. On seeing the
Captain, the young man rose and walked up to him.
"Cousin," he said to him, with a bow, "I hear that you are on the point
of being attacked; and as it is to some extent my cause you are going
to defend, for the bandits who threaten you at this moment are allies
of those with whom I had a fight last night, pray allow me to fire a
shot by your side."
"¡Viva Dios! Most heartily, my dear cousin," the Captain answered,
gaily: "although these scoundrels are not worth the trouble. Come
along!"
"That's a fine fellow!" the Captain whispered in the hunter's ear.
The latter made no answer. He contented himself with shrugging his
shoulders, and turned away.
"Oh," Doña Mariana exclaimed, "Ruiz, what are you going to do? Stay
with me, I implore you, brother!"
"Impossible, sister," the young man answered, as he kissed her; "what
would our cousin think of me were I to skulk here when fighting was
going on?"
"Fear nothing, Niña; I am answerable for your brother," the Captain
said with a smile.
The girl sat down again sadly on the butaca from which she had risen,
and the four men then left the room, and proceeded to the patio, or
court. Here everybody was busy. The Lieutenant, an old experienced
soldier, with a grey moustache and face furrowed by sabre cuts, and
whose whole life had been spent on the borders, had not lost his time.
While, by his order, Corporal Hernandez warned the Captain, he had
ordered the "fall-in" to be beaten, had placed the best shots at the
loopholes, and made all arrangements to avoid a surprise and give a
warm reception to the enemy who advanced so daringly against the fort.
When the Captain set foot in the court, he stopped, embraced at a
glance the wise and intelligent arrangements made by his Lieutenant,
and a smile of satisfaction spread over his features.
"And now," he said to the hunter, "let us go and see who the enemy is
with whom we have to deal."
"It is unnecessary; for I can tell you, Captain," the other replied;
"they are the pirates."
"Pirates!" Don Marcos exclaimed in amazement. "What! Those villains
would dare--"
"Alone, certainly not," Stronghand quickly interrupted him; "but with
the certainty of being supported by the Indians, of whom they are
only the vanguard, they will not hesitate to do so. However, unless
I am greatly mistaken, their attack will not be serious; and their
object is probably to discover in what state of defence the post is.
Receive them, then, in such a way as to leave them no doubt on this
head, and prove to them that you are perfectly on your guard; and this
demonstration will without doubt be sufficient to send them flying."
"You are right," said the Captain. "Viva Dios! They shall have their
answer, I promise you."
He then gave the Corporal an order in a low voice; the latter bowed,
and went off hurriedly. For some minutes a deep silence prevailed in
the fort. The moments that precede a contest bring with them something
solemn, which causes the bravest men to reflect, and prepare for the
struggle, either by a powerful effort of the will, or by mentally
addressing a last and fervent prayer to Heaven.
All at once, horrible yells were heard, mingled with the furious
galloping of many horses; and then the enemy appeared, leaning over
the necks of their steeds, and brandishing their weapons with an air
of defiance. When they came within pistol shot, the word to fire was
given from the walls, and a general discharge burst forth like a clap
of thunder.
The horsemen fell into confusion, and turned back precipitately and in
the greatest disorder, followed by the Mexican bullets, which, directed
by strong arms and sure eyes, made great ravages in their ranks at
every step. Still, they had not fled so fast but that they could be
recognised for what they really were--that is, pirates of the prairies.
Half naked for the most part, and without saddles, they brandished
their rifles and long lances, and excited their horses by terrific
yells.
Two or three individuals, probably chiefs, with their heads covered by
a species of turban, were noticeable through their ragged uniforms,
doubtless torn off murdered soldiers; their repulsive dirt and
ferocious appearance inspired the deepest disgust. No doubt was
possible: these wretches were certainly whites and half-breeds. What a
difference between these sinister bandits and the Apaches, Comanches,
and Arapahoes--those magnificent children of nature, so careful in the
choice of their weapons--so noble in their demeanour.
After a rather long race, they stopped to hold counsel, out of range of
the firearms. They were at this moment joined by a second band, whose
leader began speaking and gesticulating with the utmost excitement,
pointing to the fort each moment with his rifle. The two bands, united,
might possibly amount to one hundred and fifty horsemen.
After a rather long discussion, the pirates started again, and stopped
at the very foot of the walls. Captain Niza, wishing to inflict a
severe chastisement on them, had given orders not to fire, but to let
them do as they pleased. Hidden by the thick cactus hedge, the bandits
had suddenly become invisible; but the Mexicans, confiding in the
strength of their position and the solidity of the posts and gates,
felt no fear.
Reassured by the silence of the garrison, some thirty pirates, among
whom were several of their chiefs, escaladed the great gate in turn,
and rushed toward the second wall. Unluckily for the success of their
plan, the wall was too lofty to be cleared in the same way; hence they
scattered. Some sought stones and posts to beat in the second gate;
while others tried, though in vain, to open the one they had so easily
scaled.
The Mexicans could distinctly hear the pirates in the second
_enceinte_ explaining to their comrades the difficulty they experienced
in penetrating into the fort, and they must force the gate, in order
to allow a passage for those who remained outside. The latter then
threw their _reatas_, which, caught upon the posts, were tightened by
the combined efforts of the men and horses, and seemed on the point of
pulling the gate off its hinges; but the posts held firmly, and were
not even shaken by this supreme effort.
"What are you waiting for, Captain?" Don Ruiz whispered in the
Commandant's ear. "Why do you not kill these vermin?"
"There are not enough yet in the trap," he answered, with a cunning
look; "let them come."
In fact, as if the bandits had wished to obey the old soldier, some
twenty more clambered over the gale, so that there were fifty of the
pirates between the cactus and the stone wall. Encouraged by their
numbers, which momentarily increased, they made a general assault. But,
all at once, every loophole was lit up by a sinister flash, and the
bullets began showering uninterruptedly on the wretches, who, through
their own position, found it impossible to answer the plunging fire of
the Mexicans. Recognising the fault they had committed, and the trap
they had so stupidly entered, the pirates became demoralized, fear
seized upon them, and they only thought of flight.
Then they dashed at the outer gate, to clamber over it and reach the
plain; there the bullets dashed them down again--suffering from a
desperation which was the greater because they had no help to hope for
from their friends outside, whom, at the first check, they had heard
start off at full speed; and consequently they felt they were lost.
The Mexicans, pitiless in their vengeance, fired incessantly on
the wretches, some of whom, by crawling on their hands and knees,
succeeded in reaching the foot of the wall below the loopholes--a
position in which they could not be attacked, unless the Mexicans
exposed themselves, and ran the risk of being killed or wounded. Of
fifty bandits who had scaled the gate, fourteen still lived; the others
were dead, and not one had succeeded in making his escape.
"Ha! Ha!" said the Captain, rubbing his hands gleefully. "I fancy that
the lesson will be useful, though it may have been a trifle rough."
But, on the reiterated entreaties of Don Ruiz, the worthy Commandant,
who in his heart was not cruel, consented to ask the survivors if they
were willing to surrender, a proposition which the pirates greeted with
yells of rage and defiance. These fourteen men, though their rifles
were discharged, were not enemies to despise, armed as they were with
long and heavy _machetes_, and resolved to die. The Mexicans were
acquainted with them, and knew that in a hand-to-hand fight they would
prove tough customers.
Still there must be an end to it. At an order from the Captain the
gate of the second wall was suddenly opened, and some twenty horsemen
charged at full gallop the bandits, who, far from recoiling, awaited
them with a firm foot. The _mêlée_ was terrible, but short. Three
Mexicans were killed, and five others seriously wounded; but the
pirates, after an obstinate resistance, fell never to rise again.
Only one of them--profiting by the disorder and the attention which the
soldiers remaining at the loopholes paid to the fight--succeeded by a
miracle of resolution and strength in scaling the wall and flying. This
pirate, the only one who escaped the massacre, was Kidd. On reaching
the plain he stopped for a second, turned to the fort with a gesture of
menace and defiance, and, leaping on a riderless horse, went off amid
a shower of bullets, not one of which struck him.
CHAPTER V.
THE STAY IN THE FOREST.
When the fight was over, and order restored at the post, the Captain
bade his Lieutenant have the bodies lying on the battlefield picked
up and hung by the feet to the trees on the plain, so that they
might become the prey of wild beasts, though not until they had been
decapitated. The heads were to remain exposed on the walls of the
forts, and act as an object of terror to the bandits, who, after this
act of summary justice, would not venture to approach the neighbourhood
of the post.
Then, when all these orders had been given, the Commandant returned
to his residence, where Don Ruiz had already preceded him in order to
re-assure his sister as to the result of the fight. Don Marcos was
radiant: he had gained a great advantage--at least he thought so--over
the border ruffians; he had inflicted on them an exemplary punishment
at the expense of an insignificant loss, and supposed that for a long
time no one would venture to attack the post entrusted to him.
Unfortunately, the wood ranger was not of the same opinion: each time
the Captain smiled and rubbed his hands at the recollection of some
episode in the fight, Stronghand shook his head sadly, and frowned
anxiously. This was done so frequently, that at last the worthy
Commandant was compelled to take notice of it.
"What's the matter with you now?" he asked him, with an air half
vexed, half pleased. "You are, on my soul, the most extraordinary man
I know. Nothing satisfies you; you are always in a bad temper. Hang
it! I do not know how to treat you. Did we not give those scoundrels a
remarkable thrashing, eh? Come, answer!"
"I allow it," the hunter replied laconically.
"Hum! It is lucky you allow so much. And yet they fought bravely, I
fancy."
"Yes; and it is that which frightens me."
"I do not understand you."
"Was I not giving you important information when we were interrupted by
the Cabo Hernandez?"
"That is to say, you were going to give it me."
"Yes; and with your permission, now that we have no fear of being
interrupted for a while, I will impart the news to you."
"I ask nothing better; although I suppose that the defeat the pirates
have experienced must deprive the news of much of its importance."
"The pirates play but a very small part in what I have to tell you."
"Speak, then! I know that you are too earnest a man to try and amuse
yourself at my expense by inspiring me with ridiculous alarm."
"You shall judge for yourself the perils of the situation in which you
may find yourself at any moment, if you do not employ the greatest
precaution and the most excessive prudence."
The two men seated themselves on butacas, and the Commandant, who was
more excited than he wished to show by this startling preamble, made
the hunter a sign to commence his revelations.
"About two months ago," the latter began, "I was at the Presidio of
San Estevan, whither certain personal matters had called me. This
Presidio, which, as you know, is about two days' journey from here, is
very important, and serves to some extent in connecting all the posts
scattered along the Indian border."
The Captain gave a nod of assent.
"I am," the hunter continued, "on rather intimate terms with Don
Gregorio Ochova, the Colonel commanding the Presidio, and during my
last stay at San Estevan I had opportunities for seeing him rather
frequently. You know the savageness of my character, and the species of
instinctive repulsion with which anything resembling a town inspires
me; hence, I need hardly say, that no sooner was my business ended than
I made preparations to depart, and, according to my custom, intended
to leave the Presidio at a very early hour. I did not like to go away
without saying good-bye to the Colonel and shaking hands with him;
so I went to his house for the purpose of taking leave. I found him
in a state of extreme agitation, walking up and down, and apparently
affected by a violent passion or great anxiety. On seeing me, he
uttered an exclamation of delight, and ran up to me, exclaiming--"
"'Oh, Stronghand! Where on earth have you been hiding? I have been
seeking you everywhere for the last two hours, and have put a dozen
soldiers on your heels, who could not possibly find you.'"
"I looked at the Colonel in surprise."
"'You were seeking for me, Don Gregorio? I assure you that I was close
to you, and very easy to find.'"
"'It seems not. But here you are--that is the main point; and I care
little where you were, or what you were doing. Do you think about
making any lengthened stay at San Estevan?'"
"'No, Colonel,' I answered at once, 'my affairs are settled; I intend
to start at an early hour tomorrow, and I have just come to say
good-bye, and thank you for the hospitality you have shown me during my
stay at the Presidio.'"
"'Good!' he said eagerly, 'that is all for the best but,' he added,
recollecting himself, and taking my hand in a kindly way, 'do not
suppose that it is my desire to see you depart that makes me speak
thus.'"
"'I am convinced of the contrary,' I remarked with a bow."
"He continued,--'You can, Stronghand, do me a great service, if you
will.'"
"'I am at your command.'"
"'This is the matter,' he said, at once entering on the business. 'For
some days past, the most alarming reports have been spreading through
the Presidio, though it is impossible to find out their origin.'"
"'And what may they be?' I asked."
"'It is said--(notice, I say it is said, and affirm nothing, as I know
nothing positive)--it is said, then, that a general uprising against us
is preparing--that the Indians, laying aside for a moment their private
hatreds, and forgetting their clannish quarrels to think only of the
hereditary hatred they entertain for us, are combining to attempt a
general attack on the posts, which they purpose to destroy, in order
to devastate our borders more freely. Their object is said to be, not
only the destruction of the posts, but also the invasion of several
States, such as Sonora and Sinaloa, in which they intend to establish
themselves permanently after expelling us.'"
"'The reports are serious,' I remarked, 'but nothing has as yet
happened to confirm their truth.'"
"'That is true; but you know that there is always a certain amount of
truth in every vague rumour, and it is that truth I should like to
know.'"
"'Is no nation mentioned by name among those which are to take up
arms?'"
"'Yes; more particularly the Papayos--that is to say, the grand league
of the Apaches, Axuas, Gilenos, Comanches, Mayos, and Opatas. But the
more serious thing is, always according to the report, that the white
and half-bred marauders on the border are leagued with them, and mean
to help them in their expedition against us.'"
"'That is really serious,' I answered; 'but, pardon me for questioning
you, Colonel; what do you purpose doing to make head against the
imminent danger that threatens you?'"
"'That is exactly why I want you, my friend; and you would do me a real
service by assisting me in this affair.'"
"'I am ready to do anything that depends on myself to oblige you.'"
"'I was certain of that answer, my friend. This is the matter, then.
You understand that I cannot remain thus surrounded by vague rumours
and terrors that have no apparent cause, but still carry trouble into
families and cause perturbation in trade. During the last few weeks,
especially, various serious events have given a certain consistency
to these rumours--travellers have been murdered, and several valuable
waggon trains plundered, almost at the gates of the Presidio. It is
time for this state of things to cease, and for us to know definitively
the truth or falsehood of the rumours; for this purpose I require a
brave, devoted man, thoroughly acquainted with Indian manners and
customs, who would consent--'"
"I interrupted him quickly."
"'I understand what you want, Colonel; seek no further, for I am the
man you stand in need of. Tomorrow at sunrise I will start: and within
two months I pledge myself to give you the most explicit information,
and tell you what you may have to fear, and what truth there is in all
that is being said around you.'"
"The Colonel thanked me warmly, and the next morning I set out on my
tour of investigation, as we had arranged."
"Well," the Captain exclaimed, who had followed this long story with
ever increasing interest; "and what information have you picked up?"
"This information," the hunter answered, "is of a nature far more
serious than even public report had said. The situation is most
critical, and not a moment must be lost in preparing for defence. I was
going to San Estevan, where Colonel Don Gregorio must be awaiting my
return with the utmost impatience, when I thought of seeing whether the
Post of San Miguel, which had been so long unoccupied, had received a
garrison. That is how chance, my dear Captain, made us meet here when I
thought I should see you at the Presidio."
The Captain shook his head thoughtfully. "A month ago," he said, "Don
Gregorio ordered me to come here and hold my ground, though he did not
inform me of the motives that compelled him so suddenly to place San
Miguel in a state of defence."
"Well; now you know the reasons."
"Yes; and I thank you for having told me. But, between ourselves, are
matters so serious as you lead me to suppose?"
"A hundred times more so. I have traversed the desert in all
directions; I have been present at the meetings of the chiefs--in
a word, I know the most private details of the expedition that is
preparing."
"_¡Viva Dios!_ I will not let myself be surprised--be at your ease
about that; but you were right in advising me to ask for help, as my
garrison is too weak to resist a well-arranged assault. This morning's
attack has made me reflect; so I will immediately--"
"Do not take the trouble," the hunter interrupted him; "I will act as
your express."
"What! Are you going to leave us at once?"
"I must, my dear Captain; for I have to give Don Gregorio an account of
the mission he confided to me. Reflect what mortal anxiety he must feel
at not seeing me return."
"That is true. In spite of the lively pleasure I should feel in keeping
you by me, I am compelled to let you go. When do you start?"
"This moment."
"Already?"
"My horse has rested; there are still five or six hours of daylight
left, and I will take advantage of them?" He made a movement to leave
the room.
"You have not said good-bye to Don Ruiz and his sister," the Captain
observed.
The hunter stopped, his brows contracted, and he seemed to be
reflecting.
"No," he said, ere long, "it would make me lose precious time. You will
make my apologies to them, Captain. Moreover," he added with a bitter
smile, "our acquaintance is not sufficiently long, I fancy, for Don
Ruiz and his sister to attach any great importance to my movements, so
for the last time, good-bye."
"I will not press you," the Captain answered; "do as you please. Still,
it would have perhaps been more polite to take leave."
"Nonsense," he said, ironically; "am I not a savage? Why should I
employ that refinement of politeness which is only customary among
civilized people?"
The Captain contented himself with shrugging his shoulders as an
answer, and they went out. Five minutes later the hunter was mounted.
"Do not fail to report to the Colonel," Don Marcos said, "what happened
here today; and, above all, ask him for assistance."
"All right, Captain; and do not you go to sleep."
"_Caray_--I shall feel no inclination. So now, good-bye, and good luck!"
"Good-bye, and many thanks."
They exchanged a last shake of the hand, the hunter galloped out into
the plain, and the Captain returned to his house, muttering to himself.
"What a strange man! Is he good or bad? Who can say?"
When the supper hour arrived, the two young people, astonished at the
hunter's absence, asked after him of the captain. When the latter told
them of his departure, they felt grieved and hurt at his having gone
without bidding them farewell; and Doña Mariana especially was offended
at such unaccountable behaviour on the part of a caballero; for which,
in her desire to excuse him, she in vain sought a reason. Still they
did not show their feelings, and the evening passed very pleasantly.
At the hour for retiring, Don Ruiz, more than ever eager to rejoin
his father, reminded the Captain of the offer of service he had made
him, and asked for an escort, in order to continue his journey on
the morrow; but Don Marcos answered with a peremptory refusal, that
not only would he give no escort, but he insisted on his relations
remaining temporarily under his guard.
Don Ruiz naturally asked an explanation of his cousin; which he did not
hesitate to give, by telling them of the conversation between himself
and the hunter. Don Ruiz and his sister had been too near death to
expose themselves again to the hazards of a long journey in the desert
alone, and unable to offer any effectual defence against such persons
as thought proper to attack them; still the young man, annoyed at this
new delay, asked the Captain at what period they might hope to regain
their liberty.
"Oh! Your seclusion will not be long," the latter replied with a
smile; "so soon as I have received the reinforcements I expect from San
Estevan--that is to say, in seven or eight days at the most--I will
pick you out an escort, and you can be off."
Don Ruiz, forced to satisfy himself with this promise, thanked him
warmly; and the young people made their arrangements to pass the
week in the least wearisome way possible. But life is very dull at a
frontier post, especially when you are expecting a probable attack from
the Indians, and when, consequently, all the gates are kept shut, when
sentries are stationed all around, and the only amusement is to look
out on the plain through the loopholes.
The Captain, justly alarmed by the news the hunter had given him, had
made the best arrangements his limited resources allowed to resist any
attack from the Indians, if they appeared before the succour arrived
from San Estevan. By his orders all the rancheros and small landowners
established within a radius of fifteen leagues had been warned of an
approaching invasion, and received an invitation to take shelter within
the post.
The majority, recognising the gravity of this communication, hastened
to pack up their furniture and most valuable articles; and driving
before them their horses and cattle, hurried from all sides at once to
the fort, with a precipitation which proved the profound terror the
Indians inspired them with. In this way, the interior of San Miguel
was soon encumbered with young men and old men, women, and children,
and cattle--most of whom, unable to find lodgings in the houses, were
forced to bivouac in the yards; which, however, was but a trifling
inconvenience to them in a country where it hardly ever rains, and
where the nights are not cold enough to render sleeping in the open air
unpleasant.
The Captain organized this heterogeneous colony to the best of his
ability. The women, children, and old men were sheltered under tents or
_jacales_ made of branches, to protect them from the copious morning
dew, while all the men capable of bearing arms were exercised, so as in
case of attack to assist in the common defence.
But this enormous increase of population required an enormous stock
of provisions; and hence the Captain sent out numerous patrols for
the purpose of procuring the required corn and cattle. Don Ruiz took
advantage of this to make excursions in the vicinity; while his sister,
in the company of young girls of her own age, of whom several had
entered the fort with their families, tried to forget, or rather cheat,
the weariness of their seclusion.
The appearance of the post had completely changed; and, thanks to the
Captain's intelligence, ten days after the hunter's departure San
Miguel had become a really formidable fortress. Large trenches had been
dug, and barricades erected; but, unfortunately, the garrison, though
numerous enough to resist a sudden attack, was too weak to sustain a
long siege.
One morning, at sunrise, the sentries signalized a thick cloud of dust
advancing towards the post with the headlong speed of a whirlwind. The
alarm was immediately given; the walls were lined with soldiers; and
preparations were made to resist these men, who, though invisible, were
supposed to be enemies.
Suddenly, on coming within gunshot, the horsemen halted, the dust
dispersed, and the garrison perceived with delight that all these men
wore the Mexican uniform. A quarter of an hour later, eighty lanceros,
each carrying an infantry man behind him, entered the fort, amid the
deafening shouts of the garrison and the farmers who had sought refuge
behind the walls. It was the succour requested by the Captain, and
sent off from San Estevan by Colonel Don Gregorio.
CHAPTER VI.
A GLANCE AT THE PAST.
In Spanish America, and especially in Peru and Mexico, all the Creoles
of the pure white breed pretend to be descended in a straight line
from the first Conquistadors. We have no need to discuss this claim,
whose falsehood is visible to any man at all conversant with the
sanguinary history of the numberless civil wars--a species of organized
massacre--which followed the establishment of the Spaniards in these
rich countries.
Still there are in America some families, very few in number it is
true, which can justly boast of this glorious origin. Most of these
families live on the estates conceded to their ancestors--they only
marry among themselves, and only interfere against the grain in the
political events of the day. With their eyes turned to the past,
which is so full of great memories for them, they have kept up the
old traditions of the chivalrous loyalty of the time of Charles V.,
which are forgotten everywhere else. They maintain the national honour
unsullied, and those patriarchal virtues of the old time which they
alone still practise with a proud and simple majesty.
The Creoles, half-breeds, and Indians, in spite of the hatred they
affect for their old masters, and the principles of so-called
republican equality which they profess with such absurd emphasis in
the presence of strangers, feel for these families a respect bordering
on veneration; for they seem to understand inwardly the superiority of
these powerful natures, which no political convulsion has been able to
level or even bind, over their own vicious decrepit natures, which have
grown old without ever having been young.
A few leagues from Arispe, the old capital of the Intendancy of Sonora,
but now greatly fallen, and only a second-class city, there stands like
an eagle's nest, on the summit of an abrupt rock, a magnificent showy
mansion, whose strong and haughty walls are crowned with _Almenas_,
which at the time of the Spanish conquest were only permitted to
families of the old and pure nobility, and they alone had the right to
have battlements on their houses.
This fortress-palace--which dates from the first days of the conquest,
and whose antiquity is written on its walls, which have seen so many
bullets flatten, so many arrows break against them, but which time,
that grand destroyer of the most solid things, is gradually crumbling
away by a continuous effort, under the triple influences of the air,
the sun, and rain--has never changed masters since the day of its
construction, and the chiefs of the same family, on dying, have ever
left it to their descendants.
This family is one of those to which we just now referred, whose
origin dates back to the first conquerors, and whose name is Tobar de
Moguer--(Moguer was added at a later date, doubtless in memory of the
Spanish town whence the chief of the family came.)
In 1541, Don Antonio de Mendoza, Viceroy of New Spain, organized
the expedition to Cibola, a mysterious country, visited a few years
previously by Alvaro Núñez Cabeza de Vaca, and about which the most
marvellous and extraordinary reports were spread, all the better suited
to inflame the avarice and unextinguishable thirst for gold by which
the Spanish adventurers were devoured.
The expedition, consisting of 300 Spaniards and 800 Indian allies,
started from Compostela, the capital of New Galicia, on April 17, 1541,
under the orders of Don Francisco Vásquez de Coronado. The officers
nominated by the Viceroy were all gentlemen of distinction; among them
as standard bearer was Don Pedro de Tobar, whose father, Don Fernando
de Tobar, had been Majordomo-Major in the reign of Jane the Mad, mother
of the Emperor Charles V.
We will only say a few words about this expedition, the preparations
for which were immense; and which would have doubtless furnished better
results, and proved to the advantage of all, had the chief thought less
of the immense fortune he left behind in New Spain, and more of the
immense responsibility weighing upon him.
After innumerable fatigues, the expedition reached Cibola, which,
instead of being the rich and magnificent city they expected to see,
was only a wretched insignificant village, built on a rock, and which
the Spaniards seized after an hour's fighting. Still, the Indians
defended themselves bravely, and several Spaniards were wounded. The
General himself, hurled down by a stone, would have been infallibly
killed, had it not been for the devotion of Don Pedro de Tobar and
another officer, who threw themselves before him, and gave their chief
time to rise and withdraw from the fight.
The Spaniards, half discouraged by the extraordinary fatigue they were
forced to endure, and the continual deceptions that awaited them at
every step, but still urged on by that spirit of adventure which never
deserted them, resolved after the capture of Cibola to push further
on and try their fortunes once again. Thus they reached, with extreme
difficulty, the last country visited by Cabeza de Vaca, to which he had
given the name of the Land of Hearts (Tierra de los Corazones)--not,
as might be supposed, because the inhabitants had seemed so gentle and
amiable, but solely because, at the period of his passing, the only
food they offered him had been stags' hearts.
On reaching this place the Spaniards halted. Don Tristán de Arellano,
who had taken the command of the army in place of Don Francisco
Coronado, who was ailing from the wound received at Cibola, seeing the
rich and fertile appearance of this country, resolved to found a town,
which he called San Hieronima de los Corazones. This town was, however,
almost immediately abandoned by the Spaniards, who carried the various
elements further, and started a new town, to which they gave the name
of Señora, afterwards corrupted into Sonora, which eventually became
the name of the province.
During this long expedition Don Pedro de Tobar distinguished himself
on several occasions. At the head of seventeen horsemen, four foot
soldiers, and a Franciscan monk of the name of Fray Juan de Padella
who in his youth had been a soldier, Don Pedro de Tobar discovered the
province of Tutaliaco, which contained several towns, the houses being
of several storeys. All these towns, or rather villages, were carried
by storm by Don Pedro, and the province was subjugated in a few days.
When, twenty years after, the Viceroy wishing to recompense Don
Pedro's services, offered him estates, the latter, who held Señora
in pleasant recollection, asked that land should be granted him in
this province, which reminded him of the prowess of his youth, and
to which he was attached by the very fatigues he had undergone and
the dangers he had incurred. During the twenty years that had elapsed
since Coronado's expedition, Don Pedro had married the daughter of Don
Rodrigo Maldonado, brother-in-law of the Duke of Infantado, and one
of his old comrades in arms. As Don Rodrigo had settled in Sonora,
Don Pedro, in order to be near him, took up his abode on the site of
Cibola, which had long been destroyed and abandoned, and built on the
crest of the rock the magnificent Hacienda del Toro, which, as we have
said, remained for centuries in the family, with the immense estates
dependent on it.
Like all first-class haciendas in Mexico, El Toro was rather a town
than a simple habitation, according to the idea formed in Europe of
private estates. It comprised all the old territory of Cibola. On all
sides its lofty walls, built on the extremity of the rock, hung over
the abyss. It contained princely apartments for the owners, a chapel,
workshops of every description, storehouses, barracks, quarters for the
pious, and corrals for the horses and cattle, with an immense _huerta_,
planted with the finest trees and the most fragrant flowers. In a word,
it was, and probably still is, one of those gigantic abodes which
appear built for Titans, and of which the finest feudal châteaux in the
Old World offer but an imperfect idea.
The fact is, that at the time when the conquerors built these vast
residences, inhabitants were sparse in these countries, as is indeed
the case now. The owners having their elbows at liberty, could take
what land they liked, and hence each ultimately became, without
creating any surprise, possessors of a territory equal in size to one
of our counties.
It was in 1811, twenty-nine years before the period when our story
begins, at the dawn of that glorious Mexican revolution the first
cry of which had been raised on the night of September 16, 1810, by
Hidalgo--at that time a simple parish priest in the wretched town of
Dolores, and whose success, sixteen months later, was so compromised
by the disastrous battle of Calderón, in which countless bands of
fantastic Indians were broken by the discipline of the old Spanish
troops--that the most sensible men regarded it as an unimportant
insurrection--a fatal error which caused the ruin of the Spanish
domination.
But on November 25, 1811, the day on which we begin this narrative, the
insurgents had not yet been conquered at Calderón; on the contrary,
their first steps had been marked by successes; from all sides Indians
came to range themselves beneath their banner, and their army, badly
disciplined, it is true, but full of enthusiasm, amounted to 80,000
men. Already master of several important towns, Hidalgo assembled
all his forces with the evident design of dealing a great blow, and
generalizing the insurrection, which had hitherto been confined to two
provinces.
About two in the afternoon, that is to say, the time when in these
climes the heat is most oppressive, a horseman, mounted on a
magnificent mustang, was following at a gallop the banks of a small
stream, half dried up by the torrid heat of the southern sun, and by
whose side a few sickly cottonwood trees were withering.
The dust, reduced to impalpable atoms, formed a dense cloud round the
horseman, who, plunged into sad and gloomy thought, with pale forehead
and brows contracted till they touched, continued his journey without
noticing the desolate aspect of the country he was traversing, and the
depressing calm that prevailed around him. In fact, an utter silence
brooded over this desert: the birds had hidden themselves gasping
under the foliage, and no other sound could be heard save the shrill,
harsh cry of the grasshoppers, which occupied in countless myriads
the calcine grass that bordered the road, or rather the track, the
traveller was following.
This rider appeared to be about twenty-five years of age; his features
were handsome, his glance proud, and the expression of his face
haughty, although marked with kindness and courtesy. He was tall and
well built; his gestures, which were pleasing, though not stiff,
indicated a man who, through his position in the world, was accustomed
to a certain deference, and to win the respect of those who surrounded
him. His dress had nothing remarkable about it: it was that usually
worn by wealthy Spaniards when travelling; still, a short sword in a
silver sheath and with a curiously carved hilt, the only weapon he
openly carried, showed him to be a gentleman; besides, his complexion,
clearer than that of the Creoles, left no doubt as to his Spanish
origin.
This horseman, who had left Arispe at sunrise, had been travelling, up
to the moment we join him, without stopping or appearing to notice the
stifling heat that made the perspiration run down his cheek--so deep
was he in thought. On reaching a spot where the track he was following
turned sharply to the left, his horse suddenly stopped. The rider, thus
aroused from his reverie, raised his head and looked before him, with
grief, almost despair, in his glance.
He was at the foot of the rock on the summit of which stands the
Hacienda del Toro in all its gloomy majesty. For some minutes he gazed
with an expression of regret and sorrow at these frowning buildings,
which doubtless recalled happy memories. He shook his head several
times, a sigh escaped from his overburdened chest, and, seemed to form
a supreme resolution, he said, in a choking voice, "I will go;" and
letting his horse feel the spur, he began slowly scaling the narrow
path that led to the summit of the rock and the hacienda gate. A
violent contest seemed to be going on in his mind: his flexible face
changed each moment, and reflected the various feelings that agitated
him; several times his clenched hand drew up the bridle, as if he
wished to check his horse and turn back. But each time his will was
the more powerful; he constantly overcame the instinctive repugnance
that seemed to govern him, and he continued his ascent, with his eyes
constantly looking ahead, as if he expected to see someone whose
presence he feared come round an angle of the track. But he did not see
a soul the whole way.
When he reached the hacienda gate, it was open, and the drawbridge
lowered; but though he was evidently expected, there was no one to bid
him welcome.
"It must be so," he murmured sadly. "I return to my paternal roof, not
as a master, but as a stranger, a fugitive--an accursed man, perhaps."
He crossed the drawbridge, the planks of which re-echoed his horse's
footfall, and entered the first courtyard. Here, too, there was no one
to greet him. He dismounted; but instead of throwing the bridle on
his horse's neck, he held it in his hand and fastened it to a ring in
the wall, saying, in a low, concentrated voice--"Wait for me, my poor
Bravo; you, too, are regarded as an accursed one: be patient; we shall
doubtless soon set out again."
The noble animal as if understanding its master's words and sharing in
his grief, turned its delicate, intelligent head toward him, and gave a
soft and plaintive whine. The young man after giving a parting glance
at his steed, crossed the first yard with a firm and resolute step, and
entered a second one considerably larger. At the end of this court two
men were standing motionless on the first step of a magnificent marble
staircase, apparently leading to the apartments of the master of the
hacienda.
On seeing these two men, the young horseman drew himself up; his face
assumed a gloomy and ironical expression, and he walked rapidly toward
them. They still remained motionless and stiff, with their eyes fixed
on him. When he was but a few paces from them, they uncovered by an
automatic movement, and bowed ceremoniously.
"The Marquis is waiting for you, Señor Conde," one of them said.
"Very good," the strange visitor answered; "one of you can announce my
arrival to his lordship my father, while the other will guide me to the
apartment where I am expected."
The two men bowed a second time, and with heads still uncovered,
preceded the young man, who followed with a firm and measured tread.
On reaching the top of the steps, one of the servants hurried forward,
while the second, slightly checking his speed, continued to guide the
horseman. When the footsteps of the first man died out in the immense
corridors, the face of the second one suddenly lost its indifferent
expression, and he turned round, his eyes full of tears.
"Oh, my young master!" he said, in a voice broken by emotion, "What a
misfortune! Oh, Heavens! What a misfortune!"
"What?" the young man asked anxiously; "Has anything happened to the
marquis? Or is my lady mother ill?"
The old servant shook his head sadly. "No," he answered; "Heaven be
blessed! Both are in good health: but why did you leave the paternal
mansion, your lordship? Alas! Now the misfortune is irremediable."
A cloud of dissatisfaction flitted across the young man's forehead.
"What has happened so terrible during my absence, Perote?"
"Does not your Excellency know?" the servant asked in amazement.
"How should I know, my friend?" he answered, mildly. "Have you
forgotten that I have been absent from the hacienda for two years?"
"That is true, Excellency;--forgive me, I had forgotten it. Alas! Since
the misfortune has burst upon us, my poor head has been so bad."
"Recover yourself, my good fellow," the young man said, kindly. "I know
how much you love me. You have not forgotten," he added, with a bitter
sorrow, "that your wife, poor Juana, nourished me with her milk. I know
nothing; am even ignorant why my father ordered me so suddenly to come
hither. The servant who handed me the letter was doubtless unable to
tell anything, and, indeed, I should not have liked to question him."
"Alas! Excellency," the old servant continued, "I am myself ignorant
why you have been summoned to the hacienda; but Hernando, he may know."
"Ah!" said the young man, with a nervous start, "My brother is here,
then?"
"Did you not know it?"
"Have I not already told you that I am utterly ignorant of everything
connected with this house?"
"Yes, yes, Excellency. Don Hernando is here, and has been here a long
time. Heaven guard me from saying anything against my master's son;
but perhaps it would have been better had he remained at Guadalajara,
for all has greatly changed since his arrival. Take care, Sir, for Don
Hernando does not love you."
"What do I care for my brother's hatred?" the young man answered
haughtily. "Am I not the elder son?"
"Yes, yes," the old servant repeated, sadly, "you are the elder son;
and yet your brother commands here as master. Since his arrival, it
seems as if everything belonged to him already."
The young man let his head sink on his chest, and remained for some
minutes crushed; but he soon drew himself up, with flashing eye, and
gently laid his hand on the old servant's shoulder.
"Perote," he said to him affectionately, "what is the motto of my
family?"
"What do you mean, Excellency?" the manservant asked, startled at the
singular question his master asked him.
"You do not remember it," the young man continued, with a smile, as he
pointed to an escutcheon over a door. "Well; look, what do you read
there?"
"What does your Excellency want?"
"Read--read, I tell you."
"You know that motto better than I do, as it was given to one of your
ancestors by King Don Ferdinand of Castile himself."
"Yes, Perote, I know it," he replied, in a firm voice; "and since you
will not read it, I will repeat it to you. The motto is: 'Everything
for honour, no matter what may happen.' That motto dictates my conduct
to me; and be assured, Perote, that I will not fail in what it orders
me."
"Oh, your Excellency, once again take care. I am only a poor servant of
your family, but I saw you born, and I tremble as to what may happen in
the coming interview."
"Do not be anxious, my old friend," he answered, with an expression of
haughty pride, full of nobleness. "Whatever may happen, I will remember
not only what I owe to the memory of my ancestors, but also what I owe
to myself; and, without going beyond the limits of that obedience and
respect those who gave me birth have a right to, I shall be able to
defend myself against the accusations which will doubtless be brought
against me."
"Heaven grant, Sir, that you may succeed in dissipating the unjust
suspicions so long gathering in the minds of your noble parents, and
carefully kept up by the man who, during your lifetime, dares to look
with an eye of covetousness on your rich inheritance."
"What do I care for this inheritance?" the young man exclaimed,
passionately. "I would gladly abandon it entirely to my brother, if he
would cease to rob me of a more precious property, which I esteem a
hundred times higher--the love of my father and my mother."
Old Perote only answered with a sigh.
"But," the young man continued, "let us not delay any longer. His
lordship must be informed of my arrival; and the slight eagerness
I seem to display in proceeding to him and obeying his orders will
probably be interpreted to my injury by the man who has for so many
years conspired my ruin."
"Yes, you are right: we have delayed too long as it is; come, follow
me."
"Where are you taking me?" the young man remarked. "My father's
apartments are not situated in this part of the hacienda."
"I am not leading your Excellency to them," he answered, sorrowfully.
"Where to, then?" he asked, stopping in surprise.
"To the Red Room," the old servant remarked in a low voice.
"Oh!" the young man muttered; "Then my condemnation is about to be
pronounced."
Perote only answered by a sigh; and his young master, after a moment's
hesitation, made him a sign to go on; and he silently followed him,
with a slow step that had something almost solemn in it.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FAMILY TRIBUNAL.
The Hacienda del Toro, like many feudal mansions, contained one room
which remained constantly closed, and was only opened on solemn
occasions. The head of the family was conveyed there to die, and
remained on a bed of state till the day of his funeral: and the wife
was confined there. There, too, marriage contracts were signed. In a
word, all the great acts of life were performed in this room, which
inspired the inhabitants of the hacienda with a respect greatly
resembling terror; for on the few occasions on which the Marquises de
Tobar found themselves compelled to punish any member of their family,
it served as the tribunal where the culprit was tried and sentence
pronounced.
This room, situated at the end of the hacienda, was a large hall of
oblong shape, paved with alternate large black and white slabs, and
lighted by four lofty windows, which only allowed a gloomy and doubtful
light to penetrate.
Tapestry, dating from the fourteenth century, and representing with all
the simplicity of the age the different episodes of the mournful battle
of Xeres--which delivered Spain to the Moors, and in which Don Rodrigo,
the last Gothic king, was killed--covered the walls, and imprinted an
indescribable character of sepulchral majesty on this cold and mournful
hall, which was probably called the "Red Room" from the prevalence of
that colour in the tapestry work.
The young Count de Tobar had never entered this room since the day of
his birth; and, however far back his thoughts reverted in childhood,
he never remembered to have seen it open. Hence, in spite of all his
courage, and the firmness with which he had thought it wise to arm
himself for this decisive interview with his father, he could not
restrain a slight start of fear on learning that his parents were
prepared to receive him there.
The folding doors were open, and on reaching the threshold the young
man took in the room at a single glance. At one end, on a dais covered
with a petate, the Marquis and Marchioness of Tobar were seated,
gloomy and silent, beneath a canopy of black velvet with gold fringe
and tassels. Candles, lit in tall, many-branched candelabra, in order
to overcome the habitual gloom of the room, threw their flickering
light on the aged couple, and imparted to their faces an expression of
sternness and harshness that probably did not belong to them.
At the foot of the dais, and almost touching it, stood a young man of
three or four-and-twenty, with handsome and distinguished features,
whose elegant attire contrasted with the simple dress of the aged
couple: this gentleman was Don Hernando de Tobar, younger son of the
Marquis. A footman, the same who had preceded the Count in order to
announce his arrival to his master, took a step forward on perceiving
the young man.
"El Señor Conde, Don Rodolfo de Tobar y Moguer," he said, in a loud and
marked voice.
"Show in the Count," the Marquis said, in a voice which, though broken,
was still powerful.
The manservant discreetly retired, and the door closed upon him. The
Count walked up to the foot of the dais: on reaching it, he bowed a
second time, then drew himself up, and respectfully awaited till it
pleased his father to address him.
So profound a silence prevailed for some minutes in the room, that
the hearts of the four persons might have been heard beating in their
bosoms. Don Hernando took cunning side-glances at his brother, whom
the aged couple examined with a mixture of sadness and severity.
The young Count, as we said, was standing motionless in front of the
dais. His posture was full of nobility, without being in any way
provocative: with his right foot in front, his hand on his sword guard,
and the other holding his hat, whose long feather swept the ground, and
his head slightly thrown back, he looked straight before him, without
any display of arrogance or disdain. He waited, with a brow rather
pale, it is true, owing to the internal emotions he felt; but the
expression of his features, far from being that of a culprit, was, on
the contrary, that of a man convinced of his innocence, and who expects
to see his conduct approved rather than blamed.
"You have arrived, then, Señor Conde," the Marquis at length said,
sharply.
The young man bowed, but did not answer.
"You did not display any great eagerness in obeying my invitation."
"My lord, I only received very late last night the letter you did me
the honour to send me," the Count answered, gently. "This morning
before sunrise I mounted my horse, and rode twenty leagues without
stopping, so anxious was I to obey you."
"Yes," the Marquis said, ironically, "I know that; for you are a most
obedient son--in words, if not otherwise."
"Excuse me, my lord," he replied, respectfully, "but I do not
understand to what you deign to allude at this moment."
The old gentleman bit his lips angrily. "It is because we probably no
longer speak the same language, Señor Conde," he said, drily; "but I
will try to make myself better understood."
There was a silence, during which the Marquis seemed to be reflecting.
"You are the elder son of the family, sir," he presently continued,
"and, as such, responsible for its honour, which your ancestors handed
down to you unsullied. You are aware of this, I presume?"
"I am, my lord."
"Since your birth your sainted mother and myself have striven to place
before you only examples of loyalty; during your childhood we took
pleasure in training you in all the chivalrous virtues which for a long
succession of centuries have been the dearest appanage of the race of
worthies from whom you are descended. We continuously kept before your
eyes the noble motto of our family, of which it is so justly proud.
How is it, then, sir, that, suddenly forgetting what you owe to our
care and the lessons you received from us, you suddenly, without your
mother's permission or mine, abandoned without any plausible motive
the paternal roof, and that, deaf to the remonstrances and tearful
entreaties of your mother, and rebellious against my orders, you have
so completely separated your life from ours, that, with the exception
of the name you continue to bear, you have become a perfect stranger?"
"My lord!" the young man stammered.
"It is not an accusation I bring against you, Don Rodolfo," the Marquis
continued, quickly; "but I expect a frank and honourable explanation
of your conduct. But, take care; the explanation must be clear and
unreserved."
"My lord," the Count answered, throwing up his head proudly, "my heart
reproaches me with nothing: my conduct has been ever worthy of the
name I have the honour to bear. My object, in obeying your orders so
eagerly, has not been to justify myself, as I am not guilty of any
fault, but to assure you of my respect and obedience."
An incredulous smile played round Don Hernando's month, and the Marquis
continued with the same tone of frigid sternness--
"I expected another answer from you, sir. I hoped to find you eagerly
seize the opportunity my kindness offered you to justify yourself in my
sight."
"My lord," the young man replied, respectfully but firmly, "in order
that the justification you demand may be possible, I must know the
charges brought against me."
"I will not press this subject for the present, sir; but since, as you
say, you profess such great respect for my orders, I wish to give you
an immediate opportunity to prove your obedience to me."
"Oh, speak, father!" the Count exclaimed, warmly; "Whatever you may ask
of me--"
"Do not be overhasty in pledging yourself, sir," the Marquis coldly
interrupted him, "before you know what I am about to ask of you."
"I shall be so happy to prove to you how far from my heart are the
intentions attributed to me."
"Be it so, sir. I thank you for those excellent feelings; hence I will
not delay in telling you what you must do to reinstate yourself in my
good graces."
"Speak,--speak, my lord!"
The old man, cold and impassive, still regarded his son with the same
stern look. The Marchioness, restrained by her husband's presence,
fixed on the young man's eyes filled with tears, without daring, poor
mother, to interfere on his behalf. Don Hernando smiled cunningly
aside. As for Don Rodolfo, his father's last words had filled him with
fear; and in spite of the pleasure he affected, he trembled inwardly,
for he instinctively suspected a snare beneath this pretended kindness.
"My son," the Marquis continued, with a slight tinge of sadness in his
voice, "your mother and I are growing old. Years count double at our
age, and each step brings us nearer the tomb, which will soon open for
us."
"Oh, father!" Don Rodolfo exclaimed.
"Do not interrupt me, my son," the Marquis continued, with a commanding
gesture. "You are our firstborn, the hope of our name and race; you
are four-and-twenty years of age; you are handsome, well built,
instructed by us in all the duties of a gentleman; in short, you are an
accomplished cavalier, of whom we have just reason to be proud."
The Marquis paused for a little while. Don Rodolfo felt himself
growing more and more pale. His eyes turned wildly to his mother, who
sorrowfully bowed her head, in order that his anxious glance might not
meet hers. He was beginning to understand what sacrifice his father was
about to demand of his filial obedience, and he trembled with terror
and despair. The old man continued, in a firm and more marked voice--
"Your mother and I, my son, may be called away soon to appear before
the Lord; but as I do not wish to repose in the tomb without having
the satisfaction of knowing that our name will not die with us, but be
continued in our grandchildren--this desire, which I have several times
made known to you, my son, the moment has now arrived to realise; and
by marrying, you can secure the tranquillity of the few days still left
us to spend on this earth."
"Father--"
"Oh, re-assure yourself, Count," the old gentleman continued,
pretending to misunderstand his son's meaning. "I do not intend to
force on you one of those marriages in which a couple, united against
their wish, only too soon hate one another through the instinctive
aversion they feel. No; the wife I intend for you has been chosen by
your mother and myself with the greatest care. She is young, lovely,
rich, and of a nobility almost equal to ours;--in a word, she combines
all the qualities necessary not only to render you happy, but also to
revive the brilliancy of our house and impart a fresh lustre to it."
"Father!" Don Rodolfo stammered again.
"My son!" the Marquis continued, with a proud intonation in his voice,
as if the name he was about to utter must remove all scruples; "my son,
be happy, for you are about to marry Doña Aurelia de la Torre Azul,
cousin in the fifth degree to the Marquis del Valle."
"Oh, my son!" the Marchioness added entreatingly "this alliance, which
your father so dearly desires, will soothe my last days."
The young man was of livid pallor. He tottered, his eyes wandered
hesitatingly around, and his hand, powerfully pressed to his heart,
seemed trying to stifle its beating.
"You know my will, sir," the Marquis continued, not appearing to
perceive his unhappy son's condition. "I hope that you will soon
conform to it: and now, as you must be fatigued after a long ride in
the great heat of the day, withdraw to your apartments. Tomorrow, when
you have rested, we will consult as to the means of introducing you to
your future wife as soon as possible."
After uttering these words, in the same cold and peremptory tone he
employed during the whole interview, the Marquis prepared to rise.
By an effort over himself the young count succeeded in repressing the
storm that was raging in his heart. Affecting a tranquillity he was far
from feeling, he took a step forward, and bowed respectfully to the
Marquis.
"Pardon me, my lord," he said, in a voice which emotion involuntarily
caused to tremble, "but may I say a few words now?"
The old gentleman frowned.
"Did I not say tomorrow, sir?" he answered drily.
"Yes, my lord," the young man answered, sadly; "but, alas! If you do
not consent to listen to me today, tomorrow may be too late."
"Ah!" said the Marquis, biting his lips with a passion that was
beginning to break out, "And for what reason, sir?"
"Because, father," the young man said, firmly, "tomorrow I shall have
left this house never to reenter it."
The Marquis gave him a thundering look from under his grey eyelashes.
"Ah, ah!" he exclaimed, "Then I was not deceived; what I have been told
is really true."
"What have you been told?"
"Do you wish to know?" the old gentleman exclaimed, furiously. "After
all, you are right; it is time that this pitiable farce should end."
"Sir,--sir!" the Marchioness said, with deep grief, "remember that he
is your son--your firstborn!"
"Silence, madam!" the old man said, harshly; "This rebellious son has
played with us long enough; the hour of punishment has pealed, and, by
Heaven! It shall be terrible and exemplary."
"In God's name, sir," the Marchioness continued, "do not be inexorable
to your child. Let me speak to him; perhaps you are too harsh with
him, although you love him. I am his mother; I will convince him, and
induce him to carry out your wishes: a mother can find words in her
heart to soften her son, and make him understand that he ought not to
reject his father's orders."
The old man seemed to hesitate for a moment, but immediately recovered.
"Why should I consent to what you ask, madam?" he replied, with a
roughness mingled with pity; "Do you not know that the sole quality,
or rather the sole vice, of his race which this rebellious son has
retained is obstinacy? You will get nothing from him."
"Oh, permit me to say, sir," the old lady continued, in a suppliant
voice, "he is my son as well as yours. In the name of that love and
that unswerving obedience you have ever found in me, I beseech you
to let me make a final attempt to break his resistance, and lead him
penitent to your feet."
"And then, my lord," Don Hernando, who had hitherto remained an
apparent stranger to all that was taking place, remarked in a mocking
voice, "perhaps we are mistaken; do not condemn my brother without
hearing him; he is too good a gentleman, and of too old a family, to
have committed the faults of which he is accused."
"That is well, Hernando; I am delighted thus to hear you undertake your
brother's defence," said the old lady, smiling through her tears, and
deceived by his words.
"Certainly, mother; I love my brother too dearly," the young man said
ironically, "to let him be accused without proof. That Rodolfo has
seduced the daughter of the principal Cacique of the Opatas and made
her his mistress is evident, and known to all the world as true, but
it is of very little consequence. But what I will never believe until
it is proved to me is, that he has married this creature, any more
than I will put faith in the calumnies that represent him not only
as one of the intimate friends of the Curate Hidalgo, but also as one
of his most active and influential partisans in this province. No; a
thousand times No! A gentleman of the name and blood of Tobar knows
too well what honour demands to commit such infamy! Acting so would
be utter apostasy, and complete forgetfulness of all that a noble
Castilian owes to himself, his ancestors, and that honour of which he
is only the holder. Come, Rodolfo; come, my brother, raise your head:
confound the calumniators: give a solemn denial to those who have dared
to sully your reputation! One word from you, but one that proves your
perfect innocence, and the storm unjustly aroused against you will
be dispersed; my father will open his arms to you, and all will be
forgotten."
During this speech, whose deep perfidy the Count recognised, he
was suffering from extreme emotion. At the first words his brother
uttered, he started as if he felt the sting of a viper; but gradually
his anger had made way for contempt in his heart; and it was with a
smile of crushing disdain that he listened to the emphatic and mocking
conclusion.
"Well, my son," the marquis said, "you see everybody defends you here,
while I alone accuse you! What will you answer to prove your innocence
to me?"
"Nothing, father!" the young man said, coolly.
"Nothing?" the old gentleman repeated, angrily.
"No, father!" he continued; "because, if I attempted to justify myself,
you would not listen to me; and that, supposing you consented to listen
to me, you would not comprehend me. Oh! Do not mistake my meaning," he
said, on seeing the Marquis about to speak; "you would not understand
me, father, not through want of intellect, but through pride. Proud of
your name and the privileges it gives, you are accustomed to judge men
and things from a peculiar point of view, and understand honour in your
own fashion."
"Are there two sorts of honour, then?" the Marquis exclaimed,
involuntarily.
"No, father," Don Rodolfo answered, calmly, "there is only one; but
there are two ways of comprehending it: and my brother, who a moment
back told you without incurring your disapproval that a gentleman had
the right to abuse the love of a maiden and make her his mistress,
but that the honour of his name would forbid him marrying her, seems
to me to have studied the point thoroughly, and is better able than I
to discuss it. As you said yourself, father, we must come to an end.
Well, be it so. I will not attempt to continue an impossible struggle
with you. When I received orders to come to you, I knew I was condemned
beforehand, and yet I obediently attended your summons; it was because
my resolution was irrevocably formed. What am I reproached with? Having
married the daughter of an Indian Cacique? It is true; I avow openly
that I have done so: her birth is perhaps as good as mine, but most
certainly her heart is greater. What is the next charge--that I am a
friend of the Curate Hidalgo, and one of his firmest adherents? That
is also true; and I am happy and proud of this friendship: I glory in
these aspirations for liberty with which you reproach me as a crime.
Descendants of the first conquerors of Mexico, this land, discovered
and subjugated by our fathers, has become our country; for the last
three centuries we have not been Spaniards, but Mexicans. The hour has
at length arrived for us to shake off the yoke of this self-called
country, which has so long been battening on our blood and tears, and
enriching itself with our gold. In speaking thus to you, my venerated
father, my heart is broken, for Heaven is my witness that I have a
profound respect and love for you. I know that I am invoking on my head
all the weight of your anger, and that anger will be terrible! But, in
my sorrow, one sublime hope is left to me. Faithful to the motto of our
ancestors, I have done everything for honour; my conscience is calm;
and some day--soon, perhaps--you will forgive me, for you will see that
I have not failed in fealty."
"Never!" the Marquis shouted in a voice the more terrible because the
constraint he had been forced to place on himself, in order to hear his
son's speech to the end, had been so great. "Begone! I no longer know
you! You are no longer my son! Begone!--villain! I give you my--"
"Oh!" the Marchioness shrieked, as she threw herself into his arms,
"Do not curse him, sir! Do not add that punishment to the one you have
inflicted on him. The unhappy boy is already sufficiently punished. No
one has the right to curse him; a father less than any other--for in
that case it is God who avenges."
The Marquis stood for a moment silent and gloomy, then stretched out
his arms to his son, and shook his head sadly.
"Begone!" he said in a hollow voice. "May God watch over you--for
henceforth you have no family. Farewell!"
The young man pale and trembling, bent beneath the weight of this
sentence; then rose and tottered out of the room without saying a word.
"My son!--My son!" the Marchioness exclaimed in a heart-rending voice.
The implacable old man quickly stopped her at the moment when,
half-mad with grief, she was rushing from the dais, and pointed to Don
Hernando, who was bowing hypocritically to her.
"You have only one son, madam," he said, in a harsh voice, "and that
son is here."
The Marchioness uttered a cry of despair, and, crushed with grief, fell
senseless at her husband's feet; who, also overcome in this fearful
struggle of pride of race against paternal love, sank into a chair and
buried his face in his hands, while a mighty sob escaped from his bosom.
Don Hernando had rushed after his brother, not for the purpose of
consoling or bringing him back, but solely not to let the joy be
seen which covered his face at this mournful scene, all the fearful
incidents in which he had been so long preparing with feline patience.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE TWO BROTHERS.
After quitting the Red Room, Don Rodolfo, under the weight of the
condemnation pronounced against him, with broken heart and burning head
had rushed onwards, flying the paternal anger, and resolved to leave
the hacienda as quickly as possible, never to return to it. His horse
was still in the first yard, where he had tied it up. The young man
went up to it, seized the bridle, and placed his foot in the stirrup.
At the same moment a hand was laid on his shoulder--Don Rodolfo turned
as if seared with a hot iron. His brother was standing before him.
A feverish redness suffused his face; his hands closed, and his eyes
flashed lightning; but at once extinguishing the fire of his glance and
affecting a forced calmness, he said, in a firm voice--
"What do you want brother?"
"To press your hand before your departure, Rodolfo," the young man
said, with a whining voice.
Rodolfo looked at him for a moment with an expression of profound
disdain, then unhooking the sword that hung at his side, he handed it
to his brother.
"There, Hernando," he said, ironically, "it is only right that, since
you will henceforth bear the name and honour of our family, this sword
should revert to you. You desired my inheritance, and success has
crowned your efforts."
"Brother," the young man stammered.
"I am not reproaching you," Don Rodolfo continued, haughtily. "Enjoy
in peace those estates you have torn from me. May Heaven grant that
the burden may not appear to you some day too heavy, and that the
recollection of the deed you have done may not poison your last years.
Henceforth we shall never meet again on this earth. Farewell!" And
letting the sword he had offered his brother fall on the ground, he
leaped on his horse and went off at full speed, without even giving a
parting glance at those walls which had seen his birth, and from which
he was now eternally banished. Don Hernando stood for a moment with
hanging head and pale face, crushed by the shame and consciousness
of the bad action he had not feared to commit. Already remorse was
beginning to prey on him. At length, when the galloping of the horse
had died away in the distance, he raised his eyes, wiped away the
perspiration that inundated his face, and picked up the sword lying at
his feet.
"Poor Rodolfo!" he muttered, stifling a sigh; "I am very guilty."
And he slowly returned to the hacienda. Count Don Rodolfo de Moguer
kept the word he had given his brother: he never reappeared. Nothing
was ever heard of him, and his intimate friends never saw him again
after his journey to the hacienda, nor knew what had become of him. The
next year, a few Indians who escaped from the massacre at the bridge
of Calderón, when Hidalgo was defeated by the Spanish General Calleja,
spread the report that Don Rodolfo, who during the whole action kept by
Hidalgo's side, was killed in a desperate charge he made into the heart
of the Spanish lines, in the hope of restoring the fortunes of the day;
but this rumour was not confirmed. In spite of all the measures taken
by the Marquis, the young man's body was not found among the dead, and
his fate remained a mystery for the family.
In the meanwhile, Don Hernando, by his father's orders, had succeeded
to his brother's title, and almost immediately married Doña Aurelia de
la Torre Azul, originally destined for Don Rodolfo. The Marquis and
Marchioness lived some few years longer. They died a few days after
one another, bearing with them a poisoned sting of remorse for having
banished their firstborn son from their presence.
But, inflexible up to his dying hour, the Marquis never once made a
complaint, and died without mentioning his son's name. However, the
Marquis's hopes were realized ere he descended to the grave, for he
had the supreme consolation of seeing his family continued in his
grandchildren.
At the funeral, a man was noticed in the crowd wrapped up in a wide
cloak, and his features concealed by the broad brim of his hat being
pulled over them. No one was able to say who this man was, although one
old servant declared he had recognised Don Rodolfo. Was it really the
banished son who had come for the last time to pay homage to his father
and weep on his tomb? The arrival of the stranger was so unexpected,
and his departure so sudden, that it was impossible to get at the truth
of the statement.
Then, time passed away, important events succeeded each other, and Don
Rodolfo, of whom nothing was heard, was considered dead by his family
and friends, and then forgotten; and Don Hernando inherited without
dispute the title and estates.
The Marquis de Moguer, in spite of the light under which we have shown
him to our readers, was not a wicked man, as might be supposed; but
as a younger son, with no other hope than the tonsure, devoured by
ambition, and freely enjoying life, he internally rebelled against the
harsh and unjust law which exiled him from the pleasures of the world,
and condemned him to the solitude of the cloister. Assuredly, had his
brother frankly accepted his position as firstborn, and consented to
undertake its duties, Don Hernando would never have thought for a
moment of defrauding him of his rights. But when he saw Don Rodolfo
despise the old tradition of his race--forget what he owed to his
honour as a gentleman, so far as to marry an Indian girl and make
common cause with the partisans of the Revolution, he eagerly seized
the opportunity chance so providentially offered him to seize the power
lost by his brother, and quietly put himself in his place. He thought
that, in acting thus he was not committing a bad action, but almost
asserting a right by substituting himself for a man who seemed to care
very little for titles and fortune.
Don Hernando, while whitewashing himself in this way, only obeyed that
law of justice and injustice which God has placed in the heart of man,
and which impels him, when he does any dishonourable deed, to seek
excuses in order to prove to himself that he was bound to act as he
had done. Still, the Marquis did not dare to confess to himself that
the chance by which he profited he had helped by all his power, by
envenoming by his speeches and continual insinuations his brother's
actions, ruining him gradually in his father's mind, and preparing,
long beforehand, the condemnation eventually uttered in the Red Room
against the unfortunate Rodolfo.
And yet strange contradiction of the human heart, Don Hernando dearly
loved his brother; he pitied him--he would like to hold him back on
the verge of the precipice down which he thrust him, as it were. Once
master of the estates and head of the family, he would have liked to
find his brother again, in order to share with him this badly-acquired
fortune, and gain pardon for his usurpation.
Unfortunately these reflections came too late--Don Rodolfo had
disappeared without leaving a trace, and hence the Marquis was
compelled to restrict himself to sterile regrets. At times, tortured
with the ever-present memory of the last scene at the hacienda, he
asked himself whether it would not have been better for him to have
had a frank explanation with his brother, after which Don Rodolfo,
whose simple tastes agreed but badly with the exigencies of a great
name, would have amicably renounced in his favour the rights which his
position as elder brother gave him.
But now to continue our narrative, which we have too long interrupted.
At the beginning of 1822, on a day of madness which was to be expiated
by years of disaster, the definitive separation took place between
Spain and Mexico, and the era of _pronunciamientos_ set in. After the
ephemeral reign of the Emperor Iturbide, Mexico reverted to a republic,
or, more correctly, to a military government. Under the pressure of
an army of 20,000 soldiers, which had 24,000 officers, the Presidents
succeeded each other with headlong speed, burying the nation deeper
and deeper in the mire, in which it is now struggling, and which will
eventually swallow it up.
By _pronunciamiento_ on _pronunciamiento_ Mexico had reached the period
when this story begins; but her wealth had been swallowed up in the
tornado--her commerce was annihilated, her cities were falling in
ruins, and New Spain had only retained of her old splendours fugitive
recollections and piles of ruins. The Spaniards had suffered greatly
during the War of Independence, as had their partisans, whose property
had been burned and plundered by the revolutionists. The fatal decree
of 1827, pronouncing the expulsion of the Spaniards, dealt the final
and most terrible blow to their fortunes.
The Marquis de Moguer was one of the persons most affected by this
measure, although, during the entire War of Independence and the
different governments that succeeded each other, he had taken the
greatest care not to mix himself up at all in politics, and remained
neutral between all parties. This position, which it was difficult and
almost impossible to maintain for any length of time, had compelled him
to make concessions painful to his pride: unfortunately, his fortune
consisted of land and mines, and if he left Mexico he would be a ruined
man.
His friends advised him frankly to join the Mexican government, and
give up his Spanish nationality. The Marquis, forced by circumstances,
followed their advice; and, thanks to the credit some persons enjoyed
with the President of the Republic, Don Hernando was not only not
disturbed, but authorized to remain in the country, where he was
naturalized as a Mexican.
But things had greatly changed with the Marquis. His immense fortune
had vanished with the Spanish government. During the ten years of the
War of Independence, his estates had lain fallow, and his mines,
deserted by the workmen he formerly employed, had gradually become
filled with water. They could not be put in working order again except
by enormous and most expensive works. The situation was critical,
especially for a man reared in luxury and accustomed to sow his money
broadcast. He was now compelled to calculate every outlay with the
utmost care, if he did not wish to see the hideous spectre of want rise
implacable before him.
The pride of the Marquis was broken in this struggle against poverty;
his love for his children restored his failing courage, and he bravely
resolved to make head against the storm. Like the ruined gentleman who
tilled the soil, with their sword by their side, as a proof of their
nobility, he openly became hacendero and miner,--that is to say, he
cultivated his estates on a large scale, and bred cattle and horses,
while trying to pump out the water which had taken possession of his
mines. Unfortunately, he was deficient in two important things for the
proper execution of his plans: the necessary knowledge to assist the
different operations he meditated: and, above all, money, without which
nothing was possible. The Marquis was therefore compelled to engage a
majordomo, and borrow on mortgage. For the first few years all went
well, or appeared to do so. The majordomo, Don José Paredes, to whom
we shall have occasion to refer more fully hereafter, was one of those
men so valuable in haciendas, whose life is spent on horseback, whose
attention nothing escapes, who thoroughly understand the cultivation of
the soil, and know what it ought to produce, almost to an arroba.
But if the estates of the Marquis were beginning to regain their
value under the skilful direction of the bailiff, it was not the same
with the mines. Taking advantage of the convulsions in which Mexico
was writhing, the independent Indians, no longer held in subjection
by the fear of the powerful military organization of the Spaniards,
had crossed the frontiers and regained a certain portion of their
territory. They had permanently settled upon it, and would not allow
white men to encroach on it. Most of the Marquis's mines being situated
in the very country now occupied by the Indians, were consequently
lost to him. The others, almost entirely inundated, in spite of the
incessant labour bestowed on them, did not yet hold out any hopes of
becoming productive again.
What Don Hernando gained on one side he lost on the other; and his
position, in spite of his efforts, became worse and worse, and the
abyss of debt gradually enlarged. The Marquis saw with terror the
moment before him when it would be impossible for him to continue the
struggle. Sad and aged by sorrow rather than years, the Marquis no
longer dared to regard the future, which daily became more gloomy for
him. He watched in mournful resignation the downfall of his house--the
decay of his race; seeking in vain, like the man without a compass on
the mighty ocean, from what point of the horizon the vessel that would
save him from shipwreck would arrive.
But, alas! Days succeeded days without bringing any other change in
the position of the Marquis, save greater poverty, and more nearly
impending ruin. In proportion as the misfortune came nearer, the
Marquis had seen his relations and friends keep aloof from him; all
abandoned him, with that selfish indifference which seems a fundamental
law of every organized society, when the precept, "Each man for
himself," is put in practice, with all the brutal force of the _vae
victis_.
Hence Don Hernando resided alone, with his son, at the Hacienda del
Toro; for he had lost his wife several years before, and his daughter
was being educated in a convent at the town of Rosario; with that
noble pride which so admirably becomes men of well-tempered minds, the
Marquis had accepted without a murmur the ostracism passed upon him.
Far from indulging in useless recriminations with men, the majority of
whom had, in other days, received obligations from him, he had made his
son a partner in his labours, and, aided by him, redoubled his efforts
and his courage.
Some months before the period when our story begins, ill fortune had
seemed, not to grow weary of persecuting the Marquis, but desirous
of granting him a truce--this is how a gleam of sunshine penetrated
the gloomy atmosphere of the hacienda. One morning, a stranger, who
appeared to have come a great distance, stopped at the gate, leading a
mule loaded with two bales. This man, on reaching the first courtyard,
threw the mule's bridle to a peon, with the simple remark,--"For Signor
Don Hernando de Moguer--" and, without awaiting an answer, he started
down the rocky road at a gallop and was lost in the windings of the
path ere the peon had recovered from the surprise caused by the strange
visit. The Marquis, at once warned, had the mule unloaded, and the
bales conveyed to his study. They each contained twenty-five thousand
piastres in gold, or nearly eleven thousand pounds of our money: on a
folded paper was written one word--Restitution.
It was in vain that the Marquis ordered the most minute researches;
the strange messenger could not be found. Don Hernando was therefore
compelled to keep this large sum, which arrived so opportunely to
extricate him from a difficult position, for he had a considerable
payment to make on the morrow. Still, it was only on the repeated
assurances of Don Ruiz and the majordomo, that the money was really
his, that he consented to use it.
Cheered by this change of fortune, Don Hernando at length consented
that Don Ruiz should go and fetch his sister, and bring her back to the
hacienda, where her presence had been long desired; though there had
been an obstacle, in the dangers of such a journey.
We will now resume our narrative, begging the reader to forgive this
long digression, which was indispensable for the due comprehension of
what is about to follow, and lead him to the Hacienda del Toro, a few
hours before the arrival of Don Ruiz and his sister; that is to say,
about three weeks since we left them at the post of San Miguel.
CHAPTER IX.
A NEW CHARACTER.
Although, owing to its position on the shores of the Pacific, Sonora
enjoys the blessings of the sea breeze, whose moisture at intervals
refreshes the heated atmosphere; still, for three hours in the
afternoon, the earth incessantly heated by the torrid sunbeams produces
a crushing heat. At such times the country assumes a really desolate
aspect beneath the cloudless sky, which seems an immense plate of
red-hot iron. The birds suddenly cease their songs, and languidly hide
themselves beneath the thick foliage of the trees, which bow their
proud crests towards the ground. Men and domestic animals hasten to
seek shelter in the houses, raising in their hurried progress a white,
impalpable, and calcined dust, which enters mouth and nostrils. For
some hours Sonora is converted into a vast desert from which every
appearance of life and movement has disappeared.
Everybody is asleep, or at least reclining in the most shady rooms,
with closed eyes, and with the body abandoned to that species of
somnolency which is neither sleeping nor waking, and which from that
very fact is filled with such sweet and voluptuous reveries--inhaling
at deep draughts the artificial breeze produced by artfully contrived
currents of air, and in a word indulging in what is generally called in
the torrid zones a siesta.
These are hours full of enjoyment, of those sweet and beneficent
influence on body and mind we busy, active Englishmen are ignorant,
but which people nearer the sun revel in. The Italians call this state
the _dolce far niente_, and the Turks, that essentially sensual race,
_keff_.
Like that city in the "Arabian Nights," the inhabitants of which the
wicked enchanter suddenly changed into statues by waving his wand, life
seemed suddenly arrested at the Hacienda del Toro, for the silence was
so profound: peons, vaqueros, craidos, everybody in fact, were enjoying
their siesta. It was about three in the afternoon; but that indistinct
though significant buzz which announces the awakening of the hour that
precedes the resumption of labour was audible. Two gentlemen alone had
not yielded to sleep, in spite of the crushing midday heat; but seated
in an elegantly furnished _cuarto_, they had spent the hours usually
devoted to slumber in conversation. The cause for this deviation from
the ordinary custom must have been most serious. The Hispano-American,
and especially the Mexican, does not lightly sacrifice those hours of
repose during which, according to a Spanish proverb, only dogs and
Frenchmen are to be seen in the sun.
Of these two gentlemen, one, Don Hernando de Moguer, is already known
to us. Years, while stooping his back, had furrowed some wrinkles on
his forehead, and mingled many silver threads with his hair; but the
expression of his face, with the exception of a tinge of melancholy
spread over his features by lengthened misfortunes, had remained nearly
the same, that is to say, gentle and timid, although clever; slightly
sarcastic and eminently crafty.
As for the person with whom Don Hernando was conversing at this moment,
he deserves a detailed description, physically at least, for the
reader will soon be enabled to appreciate his moral character. He was
a short, plump man, with a rubicund face and apoplectic look, though
hardly forty years of age. Still his hair, which was almost white,
his deeply wrinkled forehead, and his grey eyes buried beneath bushy
whiskers, gave him a senile appearance, harmonizing but little with the
sharp gesticulation and youthful manner he affected. His long, thin,
violet nose was bent like a parrot's beak over a wide mouth filled with
dazzling white teeth; and his prominent cheekbones, covered with blue
veins, completed a strange countenance, the expression of which bore a
striking likeness to that of an owl.
This species of nutcracker, with his prominent stomach and short
ill-hung limbs, whose whole appearance was most disagreeable, had such
a mobility of face as rendered it impossible to read his thoughts
on his features, in the event of this fat man's carcase containing
a thought. His cold blue eyes were ever pertinaciously fixed on the
person addressing him, and did not reveal the slightest emotion; in
short, this man produced at the first contact that invariable antipathy
which is felt on the approach of reptiles, and which, after nearer
acquaintance, is converted into disgust and contempt.
He was a certain Don Rufino Contreras, one of the richest landowners in
Sonora, and a year previously had been elected senator to the Mexican
Congress for the province.
At the moment when we enter the _cuarto_, Don Hernando, with arms
folded at his back and frowning brow, is walking up and down, while Don
Rufino, seated on a butaca, with his body thrown back, is following his
movements with a crafty smile on his lips while striving to scratch
off an invisible spot on his knee. For some minutes, the hacendero
continued his walk, and then stopped before Don Rufino, who bent on him
a mocking, inquiring glance.
"Then," he said, in a voice whose anxious expression he sought in vain
to conceal, "you must positively have the entire sum within a week?"
"Yes," the fat man replied, still smiling.
"Why, if that is the case, did you not warn me sooner?"
"It was through delicacy, my dear sir."
"What--through delicacy?" Don Hernando repeated, with a start of
surprise.
"You shall judge for yourself."
"I shall be glad to do so."
"I believe you do me the justice of allowing that I am your friend?"
"You have said you are, at least."
"I fancy I have proved it to you."
"No matter; but let us pass over that."
"Very well. Knowing that you were in a critical position at the moment,
I tried to procure the sum by all possible means, as I did not wish to
have recourse to you, except in the last extremity. You see, my dear
Don Hernando, how delicate and truly friendly my calculations were.
Unfortunately, at the present time it is very difficult to get money
in, owing to the stagnation of trade produced by the new conflict
which threatens to break out between the President of the Republic and
the Southern States. It was therefore literally impossible for me to
obtain the smallest sum. In such a perplexing position, I leave you to
judge what I was obliged to do. The money I must have; you have owed it
for a long time, and I applied to you--what else could I do?"
"I do not know. Still, I think you might have sent a peon to warn me,
before you left Sonora."
"No, my dear sir, that is exactly what I should not do. I have not come
direct to you: in pursuance of the line of conduct I laid down I hoped
to collect the required sum on my road, and not be obliged to come all
the way to your hacienda."
Don Hernando made no reply. He began his walk again after giving the
speaker a glance which would have given him cause for thought, had he
noticed it; but the latter gentleman had begun rubbing the invisible
spot again with more obstinacy than before. In the meanwhile the
sunbeams had become more and more oblique; the hacienda had woke up
to its ordinary life; outside the shouts of the vaqueros pricking the
oxen or urging on the horses could be heard mingled with the lowing and
neighing of the draught cattle. Don Hernando walked up to a window, the
shutters of which he threw open, and a refreshing breeze entered the
_cuarto_. Don Rufino gave a sigh of relief and sat up in his _butaca_.
"Ouf," he said, with an expression of comfort, "I was very tired; not
through the long ride I was compelled to make this morning, so much as
through the stifling heat."
Don Hernando started at this insinuation, as if he had been stung by
a serpent; he had neglected all the laws of Mexican hospitality; for
Don Rufino's visit had so disagreeably surprised him, and made him
forget all else before the sudden obligation of satisfying the claims
of a merciless creditor. But at Don Rufino's remarks he understood how
unusual his conduct must have seemed to a weary traveller, hence he
rang a bell, and a peon at once came in.
"Refreshment," he said.
The peon bowed, and left the room.
"You will excuse me, Caballero," the hacendero continued, frankly,
"but your visit so surprised me, that at the moment I did not think
of offering the refreshment which a tired traveller requires so much.
Your room is prepared, rest yourself tonight, and tomorrow we will
resume our conversation, and arrive at a solution I trust mutually
satisfactory."
"I hope so, my dear sir. Heaven is my witness that it is my greatest
desire," Don Rufino answered, as he raised to his lips the glass of
orangeade brought by the peon. "Unhappily I fear that, with the best
will in the world, we cannot come to a settlement unless--"
"Unless!" Don Hernando sharply interrupted. Don Rufino quietly sipped
his orangeade, placed the glass on the table, and said, as he threw
himself back on the _butaca_, and rolled a cigarette--
"Unless you pay me in full what you owe me, which, from what you have
said, appears to me to be difficult, I confess."
"Ah!" Don Hernando remarked with an air of constraint, "What makes you
suppose that?"
"I beg your pardon, my dear sir, I suppose nothing: you told me just
now that you were hardly pressed."
"Well, and what conclusion do you derive from that?" the hacendero
asked impatiently.
"A very simple thing--that seventy thousand piastres form a rather
round sum, and that however rich a man may be, he does not always have
it in his hands, especially when he is pressed."
"I can make sacrifices."
"Believe me, I shall be sincerely sorry."
"But can you not wait a few days longer?"
"Impossible, I repeat: let us understand our respective positions, in
order to avoid any business misunderstanding, which should always be
prevented between honourable gentlemen holding a certain position. I
lent you that sum, and only stipulated for small interest, I believe."
"I allow it, Señor, and thank you for it."
"It is not really worth the trouble; I was anxious to oblige you. I
did so, and let us say no more about it; but remember that I made one
condition which you accepted."
"Yes," Don Hernando said, with an impatient start, "and I was wrong."
"Perhaps so; but that is not the question. This condition which you
accepted was to the effect that you should repay me the sum I advanced
upon demand."
"Have I said the contrary?"
"Far from it; but now that I want the money, I ask you for it, and
that is natural: I have in no way infringed the conditions. You ought
to have expected what is happening today, and taken your precautions
accordingly."
"Hence, if I ask a month to collect the money you claim?"
"I should be heartbroken, but should refuse; for I want the money, not
in a month, but in a week. I can quite put myself in your position, and
comprehend how disagreeable the matter must be; but unluckily so it is."
What most hurt Don Hernando was not the recall of the loan, painful as
it was to him, so much as the way in which the demand was made; the
show of false good nature employed by his creditor, and the insulting
pity he displayed. Carried away involuntarily by the rage that filled
his heart, he was about to give Don Rufino an answer which would have
broken off all friendly relations between them for ever, when a great
noise was heard in the hacienda, mingled with shouts of joy and the
stamping of horses. Don Hernando eagerly leant out of the window, and
at the expiration of a moment turned round to Don Rufino, who was
sucking his cigarette with an air of beatitude.
"Here are my children, Caballero," he said; "not a word of this affair
before them, I entreat."
"I know too well what I owe you, my dear Señor," the other replied, as
he prepared to rise. "With your permission, however, I will withdraw,
in order to allow you entire liberty for your family joy."
"No, no!" Don Hernando added, "I had better introduce you at once to my
son and daughter."
"As you please, my dear sir. I shall be flattered to form the
acquaintance of your charming family."
The door opened, and Don José Parades appeared. The majordomo was a
half-breed of about forty years of age, tall and powerfully built, with
bow legs and round shoulders that denoted his capacity as a horseman;
in fact, the worthy man's life was spent in the saddle, galloping about
the country. He took a side-glance at Don Rufino, bowed to his master,
and lowering his usual rough tone, said--
"Señor amo, the niño and niña have arrived in good health, thanks to
Our Lady of Carnerno."
"Thanks, Don José," Don Hernando replied; "let them come in. I shall be
delighted to see them."
The majordomo gave a signal outside, and the two young people rushed
into the room. With one bound they were in their father's arms, who
for a moment pressed them to his heart; but then he pushed them
away, remarking that a stranger was present. The young couple bowed
respectfully.
"Señor Don Rufino," the Marquis said, "I present to you my son, Don
Ruiz de Moguer, and my daughter, Doña Marianita: my children, this is
Señor Don Rufino Contreras, one of my best friends."
"A title of which I am proud," Don Rufino replied, with a bow, while
giving the young lady a cold searching glance, which made her look down
involuntarily and blush.
"Are the apartments ready, Don José?" Don Hernando continued.
"Yes, Excellency," the majordomo said, who was contemplating the young
people with a radiant face.
"If Señor Don Rufino will permit it, you can go and lie down, my
children," the hacendero said. "You must be tired."
"You will also allow me to rest, Don Hernando?" the Senator then said.
The hacendero bowed.
"We will resume our conversation at a more favourable moment," he
continued, as he took a side-glance at Donna Marianita, who was just
leaving the room with her brother. "However, my dear Señor, do not feel
too anxious about my visit; for I believe I have discovered a way of
arranging matters without inconveniencing you too much."
And, bowing to his knees to the Marquis, who was astounded at this
conduct, which he was so far from expecting, Don Rufino left the room,
smiling with an air of protection.
CHAPTER X.
DON JOSÉ PAREDES.
Several days had elapsed since the return of Don Ruiz and his sister
to the hacienda, and Don Rufino had not said a word about the money
which occasioned his visit. The hacendero, while employing all the
means in his power to procure the necessary sum to pay his debt, had
been careful not to allude to the conversation he had held with his
creditor on the first day; the more so because Don Rufino seemed to
have forgotten the pressing want of money he had at first given as his
excuse for not granting any delay.
At the hacienda everything had returned to its old condition. Don Ruiz
went out on horseback in the morning with José Paredes, in order to
watch the peons and vaqueros, leaving to his father and sister the
care of doing the honours to Don Rufino. For the first two or three
days Doña Marianita had been considerably embarrassed by their guest's
obsequious smiles and passionate glances; but she soon made up her
mind, and only laughed at the craving look and absurd postures of the
stout gentleman. The latter, while perceiving the effect he produced
on the young lady, appeared to take no heed of it, and conscientiously
continued his manoeuvres with the tenacity that formed the basis of his
character. Probably in acting thus, and by openly paying his court to
Doña Marianita, in the presence of her father and brother, Don Rufino
was carrying out a pre-arranged plan, in order to gain an end which may
be easily guessed.
It was evident to everybody that Don Rufino was seeking to obtain the
hand of Doña Marianita. Don Hernando, in spite of the secret annoyance
this pursuit caused him, for this man was the last he would have
desired as his son-in-law, did not dare, however, let his vexation be
seen, owing to his delicate position, and the sword of Damocles which
Don Rufino held in suspense over his head. He contented himself with
watching him closely, while leaving him free to act, hoping everything
from him, and striving to collect all his resources in order to pay
him off as speedily as possible; and once liberty was regained, to
dismiss him. Unfortunately, money was difficult to obtain. Most of Don
Hernando's debtors failed in meeting their engagements; and it was with
great difficulty he obtained at the end of a fortnight one quarter the
sum he owed Don Rufino, and this sum even could not be employed in
liquidating the debt, for it was indispensable for the continuation of
the works at the hacienda.
Since his arrival at the hacienda, Don Rufino had sent off messengers
in several directions, and received letters. One morning he entered Don
Hernando's study with an easy air, where the latter passed nearly the
day, engaged in the most abstruse calculations. The hacendero raised
his head with amazement on seeing the Senator; it was the first time
the latter had come to seek him in this room. He suffered a heart pang;
but he succeeded in hiding his emotion, and good-humouredly invited his
visitor to take a seat.
"My dear Señor," Don Rufino began, as he comfortably stretched
himself out upon a butaca, "excuse me for pursuing you into your last
entrenchments, but I want to talk seriously with you, and so I frankly
knocked at this door."
"You have done well," Don Hernando answered, with ill-dissembled agony:
"you know that I am entirely at your disposal. How can I be of any
service to you?"
"I will not trouble you long: I am not fond of lengthy conversations,
and have merely come to terminate the affair which we began on the day
when I arrived at the hacienda."
The hacendero felt a cold perspiration stand on his temples at this
brutally frank avowal.
"I had not forgotten you," he replied: "at this very moment I was
making arrangements which, I trust, will enable me to discharge the
debt in a few days."
"That is not the point," Don Rufino remarked, airily: "I do not want
the money, and request you to hold it for me as long as you possibly
can."
Don Hernando looked at him in amazement. "That surprises you," the
Senator continued, "and yet the affair is very simple. I was anxious to
prove to you that you had in me not a pressing creditor, but a truly
devoted friend. When I saw that it would greatly embarrass you to repay
me this trifle, and as you are a gentleman I am anxious to oblige, I
turned to another quarter."
"Still," Don Hernando, who feared a snare, objected: "you said to me--"
"I believed it," Don Rufino interrupted him. "Fortunately it was not
so, as I have recently acquired the proof: not only have I been able to
meet my payment, but I have a considerable sum left in my hands which
I do not know what to do with, and which I should feel much obliged
by your taking; for I do not know a more honourable gentleman than
yourself, and I wish to get rid of the money, which is useless to me at
the moment."
Don Hernando, confounded by this overture, which he had been so far
from expecting from a man who had at first been so harsh with him, was
silent, for he knew not what to answer, or to what he should attribute
this so sudden and extraordinary change.
"Good gracious!" continued Don Rufino, with a smile; "During the
few days I have been with you, my dear Señor, I have been enabled
to appreciate the intelligent way in which you manage your immense
estate; and it is evident to me that you must realize enormous profits.
Unfortunately for you, you are in the position of all men who
undertake great things with limited resources. You are short of capital
just at the moment when it is most necessary; but as this is a common
case, you cannot complain. You have made sacrifices, and will have to
make more before obtaining real results. The money you want I have,
and I offer it to you. I trust you will not insult me by doubting my
friendship, or my desire to be of service to you."
"Certainly, Caballero. Still," Don Hernando stammered, "I am already
your debtor to a heavy amount."
"Well, what matter? You will be my debtor for a larger amount, that is
all."
"I understand all the delicacy and kindness of your conduct, but I
fear--"
"What?--That I may demand repayment at an inconvenient moment?"
"I will not conceal from you--"
"You are wrong, Don Hernando. I wish to deal with you as a friend, and
do you a real service. You owe me seventy thousand piastres, I believe?"
"Alas, yes!"
"Why that 'alas?'" the senator asked, with a smile. "Seventy thousand
piastres, and fifty thousand more I am going to hand you directly,
in six bills payable at sight, drawn on Wilson and Co., Bankers, at
Hermosillo, will form a round sum, for which you will give me your
acceptance payable--come, what date will suit you best?"
Don Hernando hesitated. Evidently Don Rufino, in making him so strange
a proposal, had an object; but that object he could not see. The
Senator's love for his daughter could not impel him to do such a
generous act: this unexpected kindness evidently concealed a snare;
but what was the snare? Don Rufino carefully followed the different
feelings that were reflected on Don Hernando's face.
"You hesitate," he said to him, "and you are wrong. Let us talk
candidly. You cannot possibly hope to realize any profit within eight
months, so it will be impossible for you to pay me so large a sum
before that period." Then, opening his pocketbook and taking out
the six bills, which he laid on the table, he continued: "Here are
the fifty thousand piastres; give me an acceptance for one hundred
and twenty thousand, payable at twelve months' date. You see that
I give you all necessary latitude to turn yourself round. Well,
supposing--which is not probable--that you are unable to pay me when
the bill falls due; we will renew it, that is all. _¡Cuerpo de Cristo!_
I am not a harsh creditor. Come, is the matter settled, or must I take
the bills back?"
Money, under whatever shape it presents itself, has an irresistible
attraction in the eyes of the speculator and embarrassed man. Don
Hernando, in spite of all his efforts--in spite of all the numerous
sacrifices he had made, felt himself rapidly going down the incline of
ruin, on which it is impossible for a man to stop; but time might save
him. Don Rufino, whatever his wishes might be, rendered him an immense
service by giving him, not only time, but also the money he required,
and which he despaired of obtaining elsewhere. Any longer hesitation
on his part would therefore have been unjustifiable; hence he took the
bills, and gave his acceptance.
"That's settled," Don Rufino said, as he folded the document and
carefully placed it in his pocketbook. "My dear Señor, you are really a
singular man. There is more difficulty in getting you to accept money
than there would be in getting another to pay it."
"I really do not know how to thank you, Don Rufino, for the service
you have rendered me, and which I am now free to confess has arrived
very opportunely."
"Money is always opportune," the Senator replied, with a laugh; "but
let us say no more about that. If you happen to have a safe man, send
him off at once to cash these bills at Hermosillo, for money is too
scarce to be allowed to lie idle."
"This very day my majordomo, Don José Paredes, shall set out for the
_ciudad_."
"Very good. Now I have one request to make of you."
"Speak, speak! I shall be delighted to prove to you how grateful I am."
"This is the matter: now that I am, temporarily at least, no longer
your creditor, I have no decent pretext for remaining at the hacienda."
"Well, what does that matter?"
"It matters a great deal to me. I should like to remain here a few days
longer, in order to enjoy your agreeable society."
"Are you jesting, Don Rufino? The longer you remain at the hacienda,
the greater honour you will do us; we shall be delighted to keep you,
not for a few days, but for all the time you may be pleased to grant
us."
"Very good; that is what I desired. Now, I shall go away and leave you
to your business."
When the majordomo returned to the hacienda at about eleven o'clock in
the morning, Don Hernando sent for him. Without taking the time to pull
off his vaquero boots or unbuckle his heavy spurs, José Parades hurried
to his master.
"Have you a good horse?" the hacendero asked, so soon as the majordomo
entered the study.
"I have several, Excellency," he answered.
"I mean by a good horse, one capable of going a long distance."
"Certainly, mi amo; I have a mustang on which I could ride to
Hermosillo and back without giving it any further rest than that of the
camping hours."
"I want to send you to Hermosillo."
"Very good, Excellency; when must I start?"
"Why, as soon as possible after you have rested."
"Rested from what?"
"The ride you have taken this morning."
The majordomo shrugged his shoulders with a smile. "I am never tired,
Excellency; in half an hour I shall have lassoed my horse, saddled it,
and mounted, unless you wish me to defer my journey."
"The hours for the siesta will soon be here, and the heat will be
insufferable."
"You are aware, Excellency, that we half-Indians are children of the
sun; its heat does not affect us."
"You have an answer for everything, Don José."
"For you, Excellency, I feel myself capable of performing
impossibilities."
"I know that you are devoted to my house."
"Is it not just, Excellency? For two centuries my family has eaten the
bread of yours; and, if I acted otherwise than I am doing, I should be
unworthy of those from whom I am descended."
"I thank you, my friend; you know the esteem and affection I have for
you. I am about to intrust an important commission to you."
"Be assured that I shall perform it, Excellency."
"Very good. You will start at once for Hermosillo, where you will cash
these bills for fifty thousand piastres, at the bank of Wilson and Co."
"Fifty thousand piastres!" the majordomo repeated, with surprise.
"It surprises you, my friend, to whom I have confided my most secret
affairs, that I have so large a sum to receive. You ask yourself,
doubtless, in what way I managed to obtain it."
"I ask nothing, Excellency; it does not concern me. I am here to carry
out your orders, and not permit myself improper observations."
"This money has been lent me by a friend whose kindness is
inexhaustible."
"Heaven grant that you are not mistaken, Excellency; and that the man
from whom you have this money is really a friend."
"What do you mean, Don José? To what are you alluding?"
"I make no allusion, mi amo; I merely think that friends who lend
fifty thousand piastres from hand to hand--pardon my frankness,
Excellency--to a man whose affairs are in such a condition as yours,
are very rare at present; and that, before forming a definite judgment
about them, it would be wiser to wait and learn the cause of such
singular generosity."
Don Hernando sighed. He shared his majordomo's opinions, though he
would not allow it. Following the tactics of all men who have not good
reasons to allege, he suddenly turned the conversation.
"You can take three or four persons with you," he said.
"What to do, Excellency?"
"Why, to act as escort on your return."
The majordomo began laughing.
"What use is an escort, Excellency? You want your money here? I will
buy a mule at Hermosillo, and load the money on it, and it will take a
very clever fellow to rob me, I assure you."
"Still, it would be, perhaps, better to have an escort."
"Permit me to remark, Excellency, that it would be the best way of
setting robbers on my track."
"_¡Viva Dios!_ I should be curious to know how you arrive at that
conclusion."
"You will easily understand me, mi amo. A single man is certain to pass
unnoticed, especially when, as at this moment, the roads are infested
with bandits of every description and every colour."
"Hum! what you are saying is not re-assuring, Don José, do you know
that?" Don Hernando remarked, with a smile, for his majordomo's
reasoning amused him.
"On the contrary, the bandits to whom I am referring, Excellency, are
clever, too clever, and it is that which ruins them; they will never
imagine that a poor devil of a half-breed, leading a sorry mule, can be
carrying fifty thousand piastres. Deceived by my appearance, they will
let me pass, without even pretending to see; while if I take persons
with me, it will arouse their suspicions, they will want to know why I
am guarded, and I shall be plundered."
"You may really be right, Don José."
"I am certain I am, Excellency."
"Well, I will not argue any longer; do what you think proper."
"All right, Excellency; I will deliver the money to you, without the
loss of a real, I promise you."
"May Heaven grant it: here are the bills, and now--you can start
whenever you please."
"I shall be gone within an hour, Excellency," the majordomo answered.
He took up the bills, hid them in his bosom, and, after bowing to his
master, left the study. José Paredes went straight to the corral, where
in a few minutes he had lassoed a mustang with small head and flashing
eye, which he began saddling, after he had carefully rubbed it down.
Then he inspected his weapons, laid in a stock of powder and ball,
placed some provisions in his alforjas, and mounted. But, instead of
leaving the hacienda, he proceeded to a separate building, and twice
gently tapped a window before which he pulled up. The window opened,
and Don Ruiz appeared.
"Ah! Is that you, Paredes; going back to the plantations already?" he
said; "Well, wait a minute, and I will be with you."
The majordomo shook his head.
"Do not disturb yourself, Niño," he said. "I am not going to the
plantations, but on a journey."
"A journey?" the young man asked, in surprise.
"Yes; but only for a few days. The Marquis has sent me, and I shall
soon be back."
"Can you tell me the reason why you are going, and whither?"
"The master will tell you himself, Niño."
"Good! But I suppose you have some other motive for coming to wish me
good-bye?"
"Yes, Niño; I wished to give you a piece of advice before leaving the
hacienda."
"Advice?"
"Yes; and of a serious nature. Niño, during my absence, watch carefully
the man who is here!"
"Whom do you mean, Paredes?"
"The Senator, Don Rufino Contreras."
"For what reason?"
"Watch him, Niño, watch him! And now, good-bye for the present."
And without awaiting the question the young man was about to ask him,
the majordomo dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and left the
hacienda at a gallop.
CHAPTER XI.
ON THE ROAD.
Mexico, considering its size, is one of the least populated countries
in the world. With but few exceptions, the old Spanish colonies,
since they have proclaimed their independence and become free
republics, having been constantly engaged in war with each other, or
in overthrowing the government they themselves elected, have seen all
the ties attaching families to the soil broken in turn. Foreigners, no
longer finding the necessary safety for their speculations in countries
incessantly troubled by revolutions, have gone away. Trade has been
annihilated; commerce has fallen into a state of atrophy; and the
population has frightfully decreased, with such rapidity, that sensible
men, who sought a remedy for this incurable evil, called emigration to
the help of these states, which nothing can galvanise, and which only
possess a factitious existence.
Unfortunately, the Hispano-American race is essentially haughty and
jealous. Poor fellows, who let themselves be seduced by the brilliant
promises made them, and who consented to cross the sea to settle in
this country, found, on their arrival, and especially in Mexico, an
ill-disguised hatred and contempt, which was displayed in all classes
of society by ill will and aversion. Hence, being disgusted by their
reception, and recognising the slight trust they could place in the
promises of the men who had summoned them, they hastened to leave a
country in which they had only found unjust prejudices and deplorable
ill faith, and went to ask of the United States the protection refused
them by those who had so pressingly summoned them.
Mexico, in spite of a certain varnish of civilization, the last
reminiscence of the Spanish occupation, which may still be found in
the large cities and their environs, is, therefore, in reality plunged
into a state of barbarism relatively greater than it was fifty years
ago. The Pacific States, especially, being less frequently visited
by strangers, and left, as it were, to themselves, have retained a
peculiar physiognomy, whose picturesque savageness and rough manners
would cause the tourist's heart to beat with joy, if ever a tourist
ventured into these countries; but which inspire an involuntary fear,
justified, however, by everything the traveller, forced to visit this
land on business, witnesses.
In Europe and all civilized countries, the means of transport are
numerous and convenient, but in Mexico only one is known--the horse. In
the Central States, and those which run along the Atlantic seaboard,
some towns possess diligences, which change horses at the _tambos_,
a species of inn, where the travellers stop to pass the night. But
these _tambos_ and _mesones_, which possess a great resemblance to
the Sicilian hostelries and Spanish ventas, supply absolutely nothing
to the guests they shelter, excepting a roof, reduced to its simplest
expression; that is to say, the traveller is compelled to take his
bed with him, in addition to provisions, if he does not wish to sleep
wrapped up in his cloak.
In spite of the numberless disagreements which the uncomfortable
mode of progressing from one place to another entails, the traveller
derives one advantage from it--that of not being exposed, in a fickle
atmosphere like that of Mexico, where after burning days the nights
are chilly, to the attacks of the climate. In the Pacific States,
matters are no longer thus; the traveller who proceeds from one town to
another is forced to do so on horseback, without any hope of finding
for a distance of sixty or eighty leagues the smallest inn, or even
most wretched rancho, where he can shelter himself from wind and rain
at nightfall. At sunset he camps where he is in the open air, and
begins his journey again on the morrow Still, as Providence has been
in its wisdom careful to give an equal amount of good and evil, the
robbers, salteadores, and brigands of every description, who infest all
the roads in the interior, on which they reign as masters, plundering
travellers in open day and assassinating them with the most perfect
impunity, are rarely found in Sonora. In this country the roads in this
respect enjoy a relatively complete security, except when the Indians
have risen, or a fresh _pronunciamiento_ has let bands of revolted
soldiers loose on the country. These fellows have no scruple about
imitating professional robbers, and killing and plundering people,
whose unlucky stars have exposed them to their tender mercies.
José Paredes, though he had in reality only fifty leagues to go, a
distance which in most European countries is comfortably performed
in a railway carriage in a few hours, was obliged, on account of the
bad state of the roads, and the indispensable precautions he had
to take, to remain at least four days on the road before reaching
Hermosillo. This journey, which would have been very painful to any
man accustomed to the ease and luxuries of life, was only a pleasure
trip for the worthy majordomo, a real Centaur, whose life was spent
on horseback--who slept more frequently in the open air than under a
roof, and whose powerful constitution rendered him insensible to the
annoyances inseparable from a journey made under such conditions. The
Mexicans have two expressions which admirably depict the class of men
to whom the majordomo belonged; they call them _Jinetes_ and _Hombres
de a Caballo_.
José Paredes, then, rode along jauntily on his horse, at one moment
carelessly smoking a husk cigarette, at another humming a _jarabe_
or a _seguedilla_, while keeping his eye and ear on the watch, and
his finger prudently laid on the trigger of his gun, which was placed
across his saddle-bow. His second day's ride was drawing to a close;
he had left Arispe far behind him, which town he had passed through
without stopping longer than he required to lay in fresh provisions and
forage for his horse.
The sun was rapidly declining on the horizon; a rather powerful wind
blew in gusts, raising clouds of dust, which blinded the horseman and
formed a thick fog round him, in the midst of which he almost entirely
disappeared. Although, as we have said, the day was drawing to a close,
the heat was stifling, the sky had assumed a livid appearance; yellow
clouds gradually collected in the horizon and were rapidly brought
up by the wind. The birds whirled in the air, uttering shrill and
discordant cries; sharp noises and shrill whistlings rose from among
the rocks that on both sides flanked the narrow ravine the majordomo
was now following, and large drops of rain fell on the calcined soil,
which easily imbibed them. The horse pricked its ears, shook its head,
and snorted in terror. All presaged one of those storms which it is
only possible to witness in these regions--veritable cataclysms which
rend and uproot the largest trees, force streams from their beds, and
overthrow the soil, as if the earth were struggling wildly beneath the
grasp of those horrible convulsions of Nature, which completely change
within a few hours the aspect of the country over which they have swept
with the fury of the African simoom.
"Hum!" José Paredes muttered to himself, as he took an anxious glance
along the road; "If I am not greatly mistaken, within an hour we shall
have one of the most tremendous _cordonazos_ that has been seen for
some time. That will be most agreeable for me, and my position will
not fail to be most amusing. Confound the temporal! Why could it not
have waited for another eight-and-forty hours?"
The majordomo lost no time in vain lamentation. The situation in which
he found himself was really critical: he knew that if the temporal
surprised him on this ravine, he would have enormous difficulties
to overcome in escaping its violence. He therefore resolved at all
hazards to attempt the greatest efforts in getting out of the scrape.
Minutes were precious; hesitation was impossible, and he must form a
decision at once. José Paredes was a resolute man, long accustomed
only to reckon on his courage, strength, and energy, to get him out
of difficult situations; he therefore carefully wrapped himself in
his zarapé, pulled his hat down over his forehead, and, bending over
his horse's neck, dug his spurs, while crying, sharply, one word:
"Santiago!" a cry employed in this country to excite horses. The noble
animal, astonished that its master should deem it necessary to employ
spurs to give it ardour, gave a snort of passion, and started at a
headlong pace.
In the meanwhile the clouds had completely covered the blue sky; the
atmosphere was gradually growing darker; the sunbeams had lost their
heat; the horse still dashed on, rendered furious by the incessant
prick of the spurs, which the majordomo dug into his panting flanks.
At length Paredes uttered a cry of joy, for he had reached the end of
the ravine, and before him extended a vast plain, bordered by tall
mountains in the horizon. These mountains the majordomo wanted to
reach, for there alone had he chance of safety. Although his position
had greatly improved after leaving the ravine, it was still extremely
difficult, if the storm were to burst before he had succeeded in
crossing the plains, which afforded him no shelter to brave the
tornado. Hence, the traveller, after exploring the neighbourhood with a
rapid glance, and assuring himself that he had no hope of escaping the
tempest, and the barren sandy plain which was only traversed by a few
streams, repeated his cry of "Santiago," and set out on his mad ride
once more.
As always happens, and as anyone who has studied the admirable instinct
of the horse can certify, the noble animal the majordomo rode seemed
to have identified itself with its master. Through the effort of
that magnetic current, whose power is no longer doubted, it appeared
to understand that their common safety depended on its efforts; and
it literally devoured the space, darting across the plain with the
fantastic rapidity of the spectre steed of the German ballad.
All at once a vivid flash broke through the clouds, followed by a
tremendous thunderclap. The horse gave a start of terror, but quickly
checked by its rider, started again through the torrents of rain which
were beginning to fall. Night bad suddenly set in; the sun, veiled by
the clouds, had become invisible, and it was in condemned obscurity
that the majordomo was compelled to attempt the supreme efforts on
which life or death depended. Still, Paredes was not discouraged,
and his will seemed to grow fearless in the struggle; while sitting
firmly in the saddle, like a granite statue, with contracted brows
and eyes looking ahead, as if constantly trying to pierce the gloom,
and exciting his horse with spur and voice, his features were as calm
and impassive as if he were merely in one of the thousand ordinary
accidents of his adventurous life in the desert. In the meanwhile the
tempest had changed into a fearful hurricane, and raged with extreme
fury. The unchained winds whistled violently, dashing the rain, and
upraising masses of mud, which flew along the ground.
An ill-omened swashing made the unhappy traveller, who was surprised by
the tornado, understand that the streams were beginning to overflow and
inundate the plain. By the vivid flashes which uninterruptedly followed
each other, the majordomo could see all around large grey pools of
water, which constantly widened and enclosed him in an incessantly
contracting circle; distant sounds borne by the breeze heightened his
apprehensions. An hour more, he felt, and the plains would only form
one vast lake, in the midst of which he would infallibly perish. Warned
by that instinct which never deceives them, the wild beasts had left
their lairs, and were flying madly, while uttering hoarse roars of
terror. When a flash lit up the horizon, Paredes could see indistinct
forms pass by his side, which were no other than the dangerous denizens
of the prairie. All was overthrown and confounded. The swash of the
water was mingled with the artillery of the thunder and the howling of
the wind. But the horse still galloped on straight ahead, sustained by
the very terror which maddened it and spurred it on better than the
sharpest knife could have done.
Suddenly the majordomo uttered a cry of terror and anger, drew himself
up, and pulled bridle with such strength that the horse stopped short
on his trembling legs. He fancied he had heard the distant sound of a
bell. When an inundation comes, the hacenderos have all their bells
rung, in order to warn straggling travellers and tell them of a place
of refuge. The majordomo listened; in a few seconds a sound, faint as
a sigh, reached the ear. The practised hunter was not mistaken; it
was really the expiring sound of a bell that reached him, and the
sound, came from a direction diametrically opposite to the one he was
following. In the darkness he had left his track; he was lost in the
midst of an entirely submerged country without chance of help. In spite
of his indomitable bravery the majordomo felt an internal horror; an
icy perspiration stood on his forehead, and he shook all over. At this
supreme moment the man had but one terrible thought that he would bear
with him to the tomb the fortune entrusted to him by his master, and on
which the future of his children perhaps depended. Paredes felt burning
tears start from his eyes, and a choking sob from his bosom. He cared
little for life; he would gladly have sacrificed it for his master; but
the thought of dying thus, and completing his master's ruin, caused
him indescribable grief. For some minutes this lion-hearted man, this
bold wood ranger, who had faced without blenching the most terrible
dangers, felt weaker than a child. But this prostration only lasted a
short time, and a reaction quickly took place; ashamed of the passing
despondency to which he had yielded, the majordomo became the firmer
when all seemed to abandon him, and resolved to sustain the insensate
struggle till he drew his last breath.
Rendered stronger by his energetic resolution, the majordomo, whose
arteries were beating as if about to burst, passed the back of his band
over his eyes, addressed to Heaven that mental prayer which the most
intrepid men find in their hearts at the supreme moment when life or
death only hangs by a thread; and, instead of going on, he waited for
a flash, by which he could examine his position, and decide the new
course he had to take. He had not to wait long; almost immediately a
flash shot athwart the sky. Paredes uttered a cry of joy and surprise:
he had seen, a few paces from him on his right, a rather tall hill,
on the top of which he fancied he noticed a horseman, motionless and
upright as an equestrian statue.
With that coolness which powerful men alone possess in critical
circumstances, the majordomo, although he felt that the water was
rapidly encircling him, and was almost up to his horse's girths, would
not leave anything to chance. Fearing he had been deceived by one of
those optical illusions, so frequent when the senses are overexcited,
he resolved to wait for a second flash, and kept his eyes fixed on the
spot where the hill must be, which he fancied he must have seen as in
a dream. All at once, at the moment when the desired flash lit up the
darkness, a voice, that overpowered the roar of the tempest, reached
his ear:
"Courage! Keep straight on," he heard.
The majordomo uttered a cry of delight, which resembled a yell; and,
lifting his horse with his bridle and knees, he dashed toward the hill,
pursued by the seething waters which were powerless to arrest him; and,
after an ascent that lasted scarce ten minutes, he fell fainting into
the arms of the man whose summons had saved him. From this moment he
had nothing to fear: an inundation could not reach the top of the hill
where he had found such a providential refuge.
CHAPTER XII.
A CONVERSATION BY NIGHT.
The majordomo's fainting fit, caused rather by the moral struggle he
had sustained than by the physical fatigue he had endured, was not of
any duration: when he re-opened his eyes, he was alone on the top of
the hill. He threw off the furs and blankets laid over him, to protect
him, doubtless from the icy cold of the night, and looked curiously
round him. The tempest was still raging, but it had lost a great deal
of its violence. The rain had ceased: the deep blue sky was gradually
becoming studded with twinkling stars, which shed an uncertain light,
and gave the landscape an aspect of strange and desolate wildness.
The wind blew furiously, and formed waves on the seething top of the
waters, which had now almost risen to the spot where the majordomo lay.
A few yards from its master, his horse was quietly grazing; it was
eating the young tree shoots, and the tall close grass that covered the
ground like a thick carpet of verdure. Another horse was browsing close
by.
"Good!" Paredes muttered to himself, "My saviour has not gone away; I
hope he is not far off, and that I shall see him soon. Where can he be?
At his own business, of course, though I cannot guess the nature of his
occupation at such a moment. Well, the best plan will be to wait for
him."
The Mexican had scarce ended his soliloquy, ere a shadow stood out in
the gloom, and the man of whom he was speaking appeared.
"Ah, ah!" he said, gaily, "You are all right again, I see: all the
better; I would sooner have you in that position than the one you were
in just now."
"Thanks," the majordomo cordially answered. "I fancy I must have looked
very pitiable, stretched out like a half-throttled _novillo_. Is it not
disgraceful for a strong man to faint like a child or a feeble woman?"
"Not the least in the world, _compañero_," the other said, f
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