"Oh, oh!" one of them said, as he looked up; "Did she really say that?"
"Apparently, since I heard it," Ruperto retorted brutally.
The girl took a timid glance around, as if imploring an absent protector.
"He is not there," Ruperto remarked cruelly, "so it is of no use looking for him."
"Who?" she asked, hesitating between the shame of the supposition and the terror of her dangerous position.
"He," he answered with a grin. "Listen, Carmela; several times already you have learned more of our business than we liked; I repeat to you the remark you made a minute ago to the Captain, and try to profit by it; take care."
"Yes," the second speaker said brutally; "for we might forget that you are only a child, and make you pay dearly for your treachery."
"Nonsense," the third said, who had hitherto contented himself with drinking, and taking no part in the conversation; "the law must be equal for all; if Carmela has betrayed us, she must be punished."
"Well said, Bernardo," Ruperto exclaimed, as he smote the table; "there are just enough of us to pronounce the sentence."
"Good Heavens!" she screamed, as she freed herself by a sudden effort from the grasp of the arm which had hitherto held her; "Let me go, let me go!"
"Stay!" Ruperto shouted as he rose; "If you do not, some misfortune will happen."
The three men rushed on the maiden, and the latter, half wild with terror, sought in vain the door of the venta by which to escape.
But, at the moment when the three men laid their rough and horny hands on her white and delicate shoulders, the door, whose hasp she had been unable to lift in her terror, was thrown wide open, and a man appeared on the threshold.
"What is the matter here?" he asked in a harsh voice, as he crossed his hands on his chest; and he stood motionless, looking round at the company.
There was such menace in the voice of the new-comer, such a flash shot from his eyes, that the three terrified men fell back mechanically against the opposing wall, muttering—"The Jaguar! The Jaguar!"
"Save me! Save me!" the maiden shrieked, as she rushed wildly toward him.
"Yes," he said in a deep voice; "yes, I will save you, Carmela; woe to the man who causes a hair of your head to fall."
And softly raising her in his powerful arms, he laid her gently on a butacca, where she reclined in a half-fainting condition.
The man who appeared so suddenly was still very young; his beardless face would have seemed that of a child, if his regular features, with their almost feminine beauty, had not been relieved by two large black eyes, which possessed a brilliancy and magnetic power that few men felt themselves capable of enduring.
He was tall, but graceful and elegant, and his chest was wide; his long hair, black as the raven's wing, fell in clusters beneath his vicuna hat, which was ornamented with a deep gold toquilla.
He wore the brilliant and luxurious Mexican costume; his calzoneras of violet velvet, open above the knee, and decorated with a profusion of carved gold buttons, displayed his shapely leg, elegantly imprisoned in plaid silk stockings; his manga, thrown over, his shoulder, was bordered with a wide gold galoon, a girdle of white China crape confined his hips, and bore a pair of pistols and a sheathless machete, with a broad and glittering blade, passed through a ring of bronzed steel: an American rifle, studded with silver ornaments, was slung over his shoulder.
There was in the person of this man, still so young, an attraction so powerful, a dominating fire so strange, that it was impossible to see him without loving or hating him—so profound was the impression he unconsciously produced on all those, without exception, with whom chance brought him into relation.
No one knew who he was, or whence he came; his very name was unknown; and people had consequently been compelled to give him a sobriquet, with which, however, he did not appear at all offended.
As for his character, the following scenes will make it sufficiently well known for us to dispense for the present with entering into any lengthened details.
The first feeling of terror which had caused the three men to recoil at the appearance of the Jaguar, had gradually worn off; their effrontery, if not their courage, had returned on seeing the inoffensive manner of the man they had long been accustomed to fear.
Ruperto, the biggest scoundrel of the three, was the first to regain his coolness, and, reflecting that the man who caused them such terror was alone, and therefore could not have the force on his side, he walked resolutely toward him.
"Rayo de Dios!" he said in a brutal voice, "Let that girl alone, for she deserves not only what has happened to her, but also the chastisement we are about to inflict on her at once."
The young man started as if a snake had stung him, and darted over his shoulder a glance full of menace at the man who had addressed him.
"Are you speaking to me in that way?" he asked.
"To whom else?" the other answered, resolutely, although in his heart he felt alarmed at the way in which his question had been taken up.
"Ah!" was all the Jaguar said; and without adding another word, he walked slowly toward Ruperto, whom he held motionless beneath his fascinating glance, and who watched him come up with a terror that momentarily increased.
On arriving about a yard from the Mexican the young man stopped.
This scene, apparently so simple, must, however, have possessed a terrible significance for the witnesses, for all bosoms were heaving, every brow was pallid.
The Jaguar, with livid face, crisped features, eyes inflamed with blood, and brows frowning, thrust forth his arm to seize Ruperto, who, overcome by terror, did not make a single movement to escape from this clutch, which he knew, however, would be mortal.
Suddenly Carmela bounded like a startled fawn, and cast herself between the two men.
"Oh!" she shrieked, as she clasped her hands; "have pity on him; do not kill him, in Heaven's name!"
The young man's face suddenly changed, and assumed an expression of ineffable gentleness.
"Be it so!" he said; "Since such is your wish, he shall not die; but he insulted you, Carmela, and must be punished. On your knees, villain!" he continued, as he turned to Ruperto and pressed his hand heavily on his shoulder; "On your knees, and ask pardon of this angel."
Ruperto sunk together beneath the weight of this iron hand, and fell at the maiden's feet, murmuring in a timid voice—
"Pardon, pardon!"
"Enough," the Jaguar then said, with a terrible accent; "rise, and thank your God for having escaped this time again from my vengeance. Open the door, Carmela."
The maiden obeyed.
"To horse!" the Jaguar continued; "Go and wait for me at the Rio Seco, and mind that not one stirs before my arrival, under penalty of death. Begone!"
The three men bowed their heads, and went out without reply; an instant later the gallop of their horses could be heard echoing on the sandy road.
The two young people remained alone in the venta.
The Jaguar sat down at the table where the men had been drinking a moment previously, buried his face in his hands, and seemed plunged in serious thought.
Carmela looked at him with a mixture of timidity and fear, not daring to address him.
At length, after a considerable period had elapsed, the young man raised his head, and looked around him, as if suddenly aroused from deep sleep.
"What, you remained here?" he said to her.
"Yes," she answered, softly.
"Thanks, Carmela—you are kind! You alone love me, when all else hates me."
"Have I not reason to do so?"
The Jaguar smiled mournfully, but answered this question by asking another, the usual tactics of persons who do not wish to let their thoughts be read.
"Now, tell me frankly what happened between you and those scoundrels."
The maiden seemed to hesitate for a moment, but made up her mind and confessed the warning she gave the Captain of Dragoons.
"You were wrong," the Jaguar said sternly to her; "your imprudence may produce serious complications. Yet I dare not blame you; you are a woman, and consequently ignorant of many things. Are you alone here?"
"Quite alone."
"What imprudence! How can Tranquil leave you thus?"
"His duties keep him at present at the Larch-tree hacienda, where there is going to be a grand hunt in a few days."
"Hum! At any rate, Quoniam ought to have remained with you."
"He could not, for Tranquil required his help."
"The devil is in the business, as it seems," he said, in an ill-humoured voice; "he must be mad thus to abandon a girl alone in a venta situated alone in the midst of such a desolate country, during whole weeks."
"I was not alone, for Lanzi was left with me."
"Ah! And what has become of him?"
"A little before sunrise I sent him to kill a little game."
"A capital reason; and you have been left exposed to the coarse language and ill-treatment of the first scoundrel who thought proper to insult you."
"I did not think there was any danger."
"Now, I trust you are undeceived."
"Oh!" she cried, with a start of terror, "That shall never happen again, I swear to you."
"Good! But I think I hear Lanzi's footsteps."
She looked out.
"Yes," she replied, "here he is."
The man shortly after entered. He was of about forty years of age, with an intelligent and bold face; he had on his shoulders a magnificent deer, fastened much in the way Swiss hunters carry a chamois, and in his right hand he held a gun.
He gave a look of annoyance on perceiving the young man; still, he bowed slightly to him as he placed the venison on the table.
"Oh, oh," the Jaguar said, in a good-humoured tone, "you have had a good hunt it seems, Lanzi; are the deer plentiful on the plain?"
"I have known the time when they were more numerous," he replied, gruffly; "but now," he added, shaking his head sorrowfully, "it is a hard matter for a poor man to kill one or two in a day."
The young man smiled.
"They will return," he said.
"No, no," Lanzi replied, "when the deer have been once startled, they do not return to the parts they have left, however much it might be to their benefit to do so."
"You must put up with it then, master, and take things as they are."
"Well, what else do I?" he growled, as he angrily turned his back on the speaker.
And, after this sally, he reloaded the game on his shoulders, and entered the other room.
"Lanzi is not amiable to-day," the Jaguar observed, when he found himself alone with Carmela.
"He is annoyed at meeting you here."
The young man frowned.
"Why so?" he asked.
Carmela blushed and looked down without answering.
The Jaguar looked at her searchingly for a moment.
"I understand," he said at last; "my presence in this hostelry displeases somebody—him, perhaps."
"Why should it displease him? He is not the master, I suppose."
"That is true; then it displeases your father—is that it?"
The maiden gave a nod of assent.
The Jaguar sprung up violently, and walked up and down the room, with his head down, and his arms behind his back; after a few minutes of this behaviour, which Carmela followed with an anxious eye, he stopped suddenly before her, raised his head, and looked at her fixedly.
"And does my presence here, Carmela, displease you also?"
The girl remained silent.
"Reply," he went on.
"I did not say so," she murmured, with hesitation.
"No," he said, with a bitter smile, "but you think so, Carmela, though you have not the courage to confess it to my face."
She drew herself up proudly.
"You are unjust to me," she replied, with peevish excitement, "unjust and unkind. Why should I—I, desire your absence? You never did me any harm; on the contrary, I have ever found you ready to defend me; this very day you did not hesitate to protect me from the ill-treatment of the wretches who insulted me."
"Ah! You allow it?"
"Why should I not allow it, since it is true? Do you consider me ungrateful, then?"
"No, Carmela, you are only a woman," he replied, bitterly.
"I do not understand your meaning, and do not wish to do so; I alone here defend you, when my father, or Quoniam, or anyone else accuses you. Is it my fault, if, owing to your character, and the mysterious life you lead, you are placed beyond the pale of ordinary existence? Am I responsible for the silence you insist on maintaining on all that concerns you personally? You know my father; you know how kind, frank, and worthy he is; many times he has tried, by circuitous ways, to lead you to an honourable explanation—but you have always repulsed his advances. You must, therefore, only blame yourself for the general isolation in which you are left, and the solitude formed around you; and do not address reproaches to the only person who, up to the present, has dared to support you against all."
"It is true," he answered, bitterly; "I am a madman. I acknowledge my wrongs towards you, Carmela, for you say truly; in all this world, you alone have been constantly kind and compassionate for the reprobate—for the man whom the general hatred pursues."
"Hatred as foolish as it is unjust."
"And which you do not share in—is it not?" he exclaimed, sharply.
"No, I do not share it; still, I suffer from your obstinacy; for, in spite of all that is said of you, I believe you to be honourable."
"Thank you, Carmela; I wish I had it in my power to prove immediately that you are right, and give a denial to those who insult me like cowards behind my back, and tremble when I stand before them. Unfortunately, that is impossible for the present; but the day will come, I hope, when it will be permitted me to make myself known as what I really am, and throw off the mask that stifles me; and then—"
"Then?" she repeated, seeing that he hesitated.
Again he hesitated.
"Then," he said, in a choking voice, "I shall have a question to ask you, and a request to make."
The maiden blushed, but recovered herself directly.
"You will find me ready to answer both," she murmured, in a low and inarticulate voice.
"Do you mean it?" he asked, joyfully.
"I swear it to you."
A flash of happiness lit up the young man's face like a sunbeam.
"My good Carmela," he said, in a deep voice, "when the moment arrives, I shall remind you of your promise."
She bowed her head in dumb assent.
There was a moment of silence. The maiden attended to her household duties with that bird-like lissomness and activity peculiar to women; the Jaguar walked up and down the room with a preoccupied air; after a few moments he went to the door and looked out.
"I must be gone," he said.
She gave him a scrutinizing glance.
"Ah," she said.
"Yes; then be kind enough to order Lanzi to prepare Santiago. Perhaps if I told him so myself he would feel disinclined to do it. I fancy I can see I am no longer in his good graces."
"I will go," she answered him with a smile.
The young man watched her depart with a stifled sigh.
"What is this I feel?" he muttered, as he pressed his hand powerfully against his heart, as if he suddenly felt a sudden pain: "Can it be what people call love? I am mad!" he went on, directly after; "How can I, the Jaguar, love? Can a reprobate be beloved?"
A bitter smile contracted his lips; he frowned and muttered, in a hollow voice—
"Every man has his task in this world, and I shall know how to accomplish mine."
Carmela came in again.
"Santiago will be ready in a moment. Here are your vaquera boots, which Lanzi begged me to give you."
"Thank you," he said.
And he began fastening on his legs those two pieces of stamped leather which in Mexico play the part of gaiters, and serve to protect the rider from the horse.
While the young man fastened on his botas, with one foot on the bench, and his body bent forward, Carmela examined him attentively, with an expression of timid hesitation.
The Jaguar noticed it.
"What do you want?" he asked her.
"Nothing," she said, stammering.
"You are deceiving me, Carmela. Come—time presses—tell me the truth."
"Well," she replied, with a hesitation more and more marked, "I have a prayer to make to you."
"Speak quickly, Niña, for you know that, whatever it may be, I grant it to you beforehand."
"You swear it?"
"I do."
"Well, whatever may happen, I desire that if you meet the Captain of Dragoons who was here this morning, you will grant him your protection."
The young man sprung up, as if stung by a viper.
"Ah, then," he shrieked, "what I was told was true, then?"
"I do not know what you are alluding to, but I repeat my request."
"I do not know the man, since I did not arrive until after his departure."
"Yes, you know him," she continued, boldly. "Why seek a subterfuge, if you wish to break the promise you made me? It would be better to be frank."
"It is well," he replied, in a gloomy voice and a tone of biting irony; "reassure yourself Carmela, I will defend your lover."
And he rushed madly from the venta.
"Oh!" the maiden exclaimed, as she fell on a bench, and melted into tears; "Oh! That demon is properly christened the Jaguar! He has a tiger's heart in his bosom."
She buried her face in her hands, and broke out into sobs.
At the same moment the rapid gallop of a retreating horse was heard.
Before we continue our story, it is indispensable for us to give our readers certain important and indispensable details about facts that have to come.
Among the provinces of the vast territory of New Spain, there is one, the most eastern of all, whose real value the Government of the Viceroys has constantly ignored. This ignorance was kept up by the Mexican Republic, which, at the period of the proclamation of Independence, did not think it worthy of being formed into a separate state, and, without dreaming of what might happen at a later date, negligently allowed it to be colonized by the North Americans, who even at that period seemed infected by that fever of encroachment and aggrandizement which has now become a species of endemic mania among these worthy citizens—we refer to Texas.
This magnificent country is one of the most fortunately situated in Mexico; territorially regarded, it is immense, no country is better watered, for considerable rivers pour into the sea, their waters swollen by countless streams which fertilize this country, as they traverse it in every direction; and these currents and rivers being deeply imbedded, never form those wide expanses of water by their overflow, which in other countries are transformed into fetid marshes.
The climate of Texas is healthy, and exempt from those frightful diseases which have given such a sinister celebrity to certain countries of the New World.
The natural borders of Texas are the Sabina on the East, Red River on the north, to the west a chain of lofty mountains, which enters vast prairies, and the Rio Bravo del Norte, and lastly, from the mouth of the latter river to that of the Sabina, the Gulf of Mexico.
We have said that the Spaniards were almost ignorant of the real value of Texas, although they had been acquainted with it for a very long time, for it is almost certain that in 1536, Cabeça de Vaca traversed it when he proceeded from Florida to the northern provinces of Mexico.
Still the honour of the first settlement attempted in this fine country belongs incontestably to France.
In fact, the unfortunate and celebrated Robert de la Salle, ordered by the Marquis de Siegnelay to discover the mouth of the Mississippi in 1684, made a mistake, and entered the Rio de Colorado, which he descended with countless difficulties, till he reached the San Bernardo lagoon, where he built a fort between Velasco and Matagorda, and took possession of the country. We will enter into no further details about this bold explorer, who twice attempted to reach the unknown lands to the east of Mexico, and was traitorously assassinated in 1687, by villains who belonged to his band.
A later reminiscence attaches France to Texas, for it was there that General Lallemand attempted in 1817 to found, under the name of Champ d'Asyle, a colony of French refugees, the unhappy relics of the invincible armies of the first empire. This colony, situated about ten leagues from Galveston, was utterly destroyed by the orders of the Viceroy Apodaca, by virtue of the despotic system, constantly followed by the Spaniards of the New World, of not allowing strangers, under any pretext, to establish themselves on any point of their territory.
We shall be forgiven these prosy details when our readers reflect that this country, scarce twenty years free, with a superficies of one hundred thousand acres and more, and inhabited by two hundred thousand persons at the most, has, however, entered on an era of prosperity and progress, which must inevitably arouse the attention of European Governments, and the sympathies of intelligent men of all nations.
At the period when the events occurred which we have undertaken to narrate, that is to say in the later half of 1829, Texas still belonged to Mexico, but its glorious revolution had begun, it was struggling valiantly to escape from the disgraceful yoke of the central government, and proclaim its independence.
Before, however, we continue our story, we must explain how it was that Tranquil, the Canadian hunter, and Quoniam, the Negro, who was indebted to him for liberty, whom we left on the Upper Missouri leading the free life of wood-rangers, found themselves established, as it were, in Texas, and how the hunter had a daughter, or, at any rate, called his daughter, the lovely fair-haired girl we have presented to the reader under the name of Carmela.
About twelve years before the day we visit the Venta del Potrero, Tranquil arrived at the same hostelry, accompanied by two comrades, and a child of five to six years of age, with blue eyes, ruddy lips, and golden hair, who was no other than Carmela; as for his comrades, one was Quoniam, the other an Indian half-breed, who answered to the name of Lanzi.
The sun was just about setting when the little party halted in front of the venta.
The host, but little accustomed in this desolate country, close to the Indian border, to see travellers, and especially at so late an hour, had already closed and barred his house, and was himself getting ready for bed, when the unexpected arrival of our friends forced him to alter his arrangements for the night.
It was, however, only with marked repugnance, and on the repeated assurances the travellers made him that he had nought to fear from them, that he at length decided to open his door, and admit them to his house.
Once that he had resolved to receive them, the host was as he should be to his guests, that is to say, polite and attentive, as far as that can enter into the character of a Mexican landlord, a race, be it noted in a parenthesis, the least hospitable in existence.
He was a short, stout man, with cat-like manners, and crafty looks, already of a certain age, but still quick and active.
When the travellers had placed their horses in the corral, before a good stock of alfalfa, and had themselves supped with the appetite of men who have made a long journey, the ice was broken between them and the host, thanks to a few tragos of Catalonian refino, liberally offered by the Canadian, and the conversation went on upon a footing of the truest cordiality, while the little girl, carefully wrapped up in the hunter's warm zarapé, was sleeping with that calm and simple carelessness peculiar to that happy age when the present is all in all, and the future does not exist.
"Well, gossip," Tranquil said gaily, as he poured out a glass of refino for the host; "I fancy you must lead a jolly life of it here."
"I?"
"Hang it, yes; you go to bed with the bees, and I feel certain you are in no hurry to get up in the morning."
"What else can I do in this accursed desert, where I have buried myself for my sins?"
"Are travellers so rare, then?"
"Yes and no; it depends on the meaning you give the word."
"Confound it! there are not two meanings, I should fancy."
"Yes, two very distinct meanings."
"Nonsense! I am curious to know them."
"That is easy enough: there is no lack of vagabonds of every colour in the country, and if I liked, they would fill my house the whole blessed day; but they would not shew me the colour of their money."
"Ah, very good; but these estimable Caballeros do not constitute the whole of your customers, I presume?"
"No; there are also the Indios Bravos, Comanches, Apaches, and Pawnees, and Heaven alone knows who else, who prowl about the neighbourhood from time to time."
"Hum! those are awkward neighbours, and if you have only such customers, I am beginning to be of your opinion; still, you must now and then receive pleasanter visits."
"Yes, from time to time, straggling travellers like yourself, of course; but the profits, in any case, are far from covering the expenses."
"That is true, here's your health."
"The same to you."
"In that case, though, allow me a remark which may appear to you indiscreet."
"Speak, speak, Caballeros, we are talking as friends, so have no chance of offence."
"You are right. If you are so uncomfortable here, why the deuce do you remain?"
"Why, where would you have me go?"
"Well, I do not know, but you would be better off anywhere than here."
"Ah! if it only depended on me," he said, with a sigh.
"Have you anybody with you here?"
"No, I am alone."
"Well, what prevents you going then?"
"Eh, Caramba, the money! All I possessed, and that was not much, was spent in building this house, and installing myself, and I could not have managed it had it not been for the peons."
"Is there a hacienda here?"
"Yes, the Larch tree hacienda, about four leagues off, so that, you understand, if I go, I must give up my all."
"Ah, ah," Tranquil said thoughtfully, "very good, go on. Why not sell it?"
"Where are the buyers? Do you fancy it so easy to find about here a man with four or five hundred piastres in his pocket; and, moreover, ready to commit an act of folly?"
"Well, I can't say, but I fancy by seeking he could be found."
"Nonsense, gossip, you are jesting!"
"On my word I am not," Tranquil said, suddenly changing his tone, "and I will prove it to you."
"Good."
"You say you will sell your house for four hundred piastres?"
"Did I say four hundred?"
"Don't finesse, you did."
"Very good, then; I admit it: what next?"
"Well, I will buy it, if you like."
"You?"
"Why not?"
"I will think about it."
"That is done; say yes or no, take it, or leave it; perhaps I may have altered my mind in five minutes, so decide."
The landlord gave the Canadian a searching glance. "I accept," he said.
"Good: but I will not give you four hundred piastres."
"How much?" the other said, crying off.
"I will give you six hundred."
The landlord looked at him in amazement.
"I am quite agreeable," he said.
"But on one condition."
"What is it?"
"That to-morrow, so soon as the sale is completed, you will mount your horse—you have one, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Well, you will mount, start, and never show yourself here again."
"Oh! You may be quite certain on that point."
"It's settled then?"
"Perfectly."
"Then let your witnesses be ready at day-break."
"They shall be."
The conversation ended here. The travellers wrapped themselves in their fressadas and zarapés, lay down on the lumpy floor of the room, and fell asleep; the host followed their example.
As was arranged between them, the landlord, a little before daybreak, saddled his horse, and went to fetch the witnesses necessary for the validity of the transaction; for this purpose he galloped to the Larch-tree hacienda and returned by sunrise, accompanied by the major-domo and seven or eight peons.
The major-domo, the only one who could read and write, drew up the deed of sale, and after collecting all the persons, read it aloud.
Tranquil then took thirty-seven and a half gold onzas from his girdle, and spread them out on the table.
"Be witnesses, Caballeros," the major-domo said, addressing his audience, "that the Señor Tranquilo has paid the six hundred piastres agreed on for the purchase of the Venta del Potrero."
"We are witness," they replied.
Then all present, the major-domo at their head, passed into the corral behind the house.
On reaching it, Tranquil pulled up a tuft of grass which he cast over his shoulder; then picking up a stone, he hurled it over the opposite wall: according to the terms of Mexican law, he was now the owner.
"Be witness, Señores," the major-domo again spoke, "that Señor Tranquilo, here present, has legally taken possession of this estate. Dios y libertad!"
"Dios y libertad!" the others shouted; "Long life to the new huesped!"
All the formalities being performed, they now returned to the house, when Tranquil poured out bumpers for his witnesses, whom this unexpected liberality filled with delight.
The ex-landlord, faithful to his agreement, pressed the buyer's hand, mounted his horse, and went off, wishing him good luck. From that day they never heard of him again.
This was the manner in which the hunter arrived in Texas, and became a landed proprietor.
He left Lanzi and Quoniam at the venta with Carmela. As for himself, thanks to the patronage of the major-domo, who recommended him to his master, Don Hilario de Vaureal, he entered the Larch-tree hacienda in the capacity of tigrero or tiger-killer.
Although the country selected by the hunter to establish himself was on the confines of the Mexican border, and, for that reason, almost deserted, the vaqueros and peons cudgelled their brains for some time in trying to discover the reason which bad compelled so clever and brave a hunter as the Canadian to retire there. But all the efforts made to discover this reason, all the questions asked, remained without result; the hunter's comrades and himself remained dumb; as for the little girl, she knew nothing.
At length the disappointed people gave up trying to find the explanation of this enigma, trusting to time, that great clearer up of mysteries, to tell them at length the truth which was so carefully concealed.
But weeks, months, years elapsed, and nothing raised even a corner of the hunter's secret.
Carmela had grown an exquisite maiden, and the venta had increased the number of its customers. This border, hitherto so quiet, owing to its remoteness from the towns and pueblos, felt the movement which the revolutionary ideas imparted to the centre of the country; travellers became more frequent, and the hunter, who had up to this time appeared rather careless as to the future, trusting for his safety to the isolation of his abode, began to grow anxious, not for himself, but for Carmela, who was exposed almost definitively to the bold attempts not only of lovers, whom her beauty attracted, as honey does flies, but also to those of the ruffians whom the troublous times had drawn out of their lairs, and who wandered about all the roads like coyotes seeking prey to devour.
The hunter, wishful no longer to leave the maiden in the dangerous position into which circumstances had thrown her, was actively employed in warding off the misfortunes he foresaw; for, although it is impossible, for the present, to know what ties attached him to the girl who called him father, we will state here that he felt a really paternal affection and absolute devotion for her, in which, indeed, Quoniam and Lanzi imitated him. Carmela to these three men was neither girl nor woman; she was an idol they adored on their bended knees, and for whom they would have readily sacrificed their lives at the slightest sign it might please her to make them.
A smile from Carmela rendered them happy; the slightest frown from her made them sorrowful.
We must add, that although she was aware of the full extent of her power, Carmela did not abuse it, and it was her greatest joy to see herself surrounded by these three hearts which were so entirely devoted to her.
Now that we have given these details, doubtless very imperfect, but the only ones possible, we will resume our story at the point where we left it in the penultimate chapter.
We will now return to the caravan, which we saw leave the Potrero at sunrise, and in the Chief of which Carmela seemed so greatly interested.
This Chief was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with delicate, dashing, and distinguished features; he wore, with supreme elegance, the brilliant uniform of a Captain of Dragoons.
Although he belonged to one of the oldest and noblest families in Mexico, Don Juan Melendez de Gongora would only owe his promotion to himself; an extraordinary desire in a country where military honour is regarded almost as nothing, and where only the superior grades give those who hold them a degree of consideration which is rather the result of fear than of sympathy, on the part of the people.
Still Don Juan had persevered in his eccentric idea, and each step he won was not the result of a pronunciamento successfully carried out by any ambitious General, but that of a brilliant action. Don Juan belonged to that class of real Mexicans who honestly love their country, and who, jealous of its honour, dream for it a restoration, very difficult, if not impossible, to obtain.
The force of virtue is so great, even on the most depraved natures, that Captain Don Juan Melendez de Gongora was respected by all the men who approached him, even by those who loved him the least.
However, the Captain's virtue had nothing austere or exaggerated about it; he was a thorough soldier, gay, obliging, brave as his sword, and ever ready to help, either with his arm or purse, all those, friends or foes, who had recourse to him. Such, physically and morally, was the man who commanded the caravan, and granted his protection to the monk who rode by his side.
This worthy Frayle, about whom we have had already occasion to say a few words, deserves a detailed description.
Physically, he was a man of about fifty, almost as tall as he was wide, bearing a striking likeness to a barrel set on legs, and yet gifted with far from common strength and activity; his violet nose, his huge lips, and ruddy face, gave him a jovial appearance, which two little grey sunken eyes, full of fire and resolution, rendered ironical and mocking.
Morally, he was in no way distinguished from the majority of Mexican monks—that is to say, he was ignorant as a carp, prone to drinking, a passionate lover of the fair sex, and superstitious in the highest degree; but for all that, the best companion in the world, at home in all society, and always able to raise a laugh.
What singular accident could have brought him so far on the border? This no one knew or cared for, as everyone was aware of the vagabond humour of Mexican monks, whose life is constantly passed in roaming from one place to the other, without object, and generally without interest, but simply at the dictates of caprice.
At this period, Texas, joined to another province, formed a state called Texas and Cohahuila.
The party commanded by Don Juan de Melendez left Nacogdoches eight days previously, bound for Mexico; but the Captain, in accordance with the instructions he received, left the ordinary road, inundated at that moment with bands of brigands of every description, and made a long circuit to avoid certain ill-famed gorges of the Sierra de San Saba. He would still have to cross that range; but on the side of the great prairies, that is to say, at the spot where the plateaux, gradually descending, do not offer those variations of landscape which are so dangerous to travellers.
The ten mules the Captain escorted must be loaded with very precious merchandise, for the Federal Government—seeing the small number of troops it had in the State—to have resolved on having it convoyed by forty dragoons under an officer of Don Juan's reputation, whose presence, under existing circumstances, would have been highly necessary, not to say indispensable, in the interior of the State, in order to suppress revolutionary attempts, and keep the inhabitants in the path of duty.
In fact, the merchandise was very valuable; these ten mules transported three millions of piastres, which would assuredly be a grand windfall for the insurgents, if they fell into their hands.
The time was left far behind, when, under the rule of the Viceroys, the Spanish flag borne at the head of a train of fifty or sixty mules laden with gold, was sufficient to protect a conducta de plata effectually, and enable it to traverse, without the slightest risk, the whole width of Mexico, so great was the terror inspired by the mere name of Spain.
Now, it was not one hundred, or sixty mules; but ten, which forty resolute men seemed hardly sufficient to protect.
The government considered it advisable to employ the greatest prudence in sending off this conducta, which had long been expected at Mexico. The greatest silence was maintained as to the hour and day of departure, and the road it would follow.
The bales were made so as to conceal, as far as possible, the nature of the merchandise carried; the mules sent off one by one, in open day, only under the protection of the arriero, joined, fifteen leagues from the town, the escort which had been encamped for more than a month, under some plausible excuse, in an ancient presidio.
All had, therefore, been foreseen and calculated with the greatest care and intelligence to get this precious merchandise in safety to its destination; the arrieros, the only persons who knew the value of their load, would be careful not to speak about it, for the little they possessed was made responsible for the safety of their freight, and they ran the risk of being utterly ruined if their mules were robbed on the road.
The conducta advanced in the most excellent order, to the sound of the Néna's bells; the arrieros sang gaily their mules, urging them on by this eternal "arrea, Mula! Arrea, Linda!"
The pennons fastened to the long lances of the dragoons fluttered in the morning breeze, and the Captain listened idly to the monk's chatter, while at intervals taking a searching glance over the deserted plain.
"Come, come, Fray Antonio," he said to his stout companion, "you can no longer regret having set out at so early an hour, for the morning is magnificent, and everything forebodes a pleasant day."
"Yes, yes," the other replied with a laugh; "thanks to Nuestra Señora de la Soledad, honourable Captain, we are in the best possible state for travelling."
"Well, I am glad to find you in such good spirits, for I feared lest the rather sudden waking this morning might have stirred up your bile."
"I, good gracious, honourable Captain!" he replied, with feigned humility; "we unworthy members of the church must submit without murmuring to all the tribulations which it pleases the Lord to send us; and besides, life is so short, that it is better only to look at the bright side, not to lose in vain regret the few moments of joy to which we can lay claim."
"Bravo! That is the sort of philosophy I like; you are a good companion, Padre—I hope we shall travel together for a long while."
"That depends a little on you, Señor Captain."
"On me? how so?"
"Well, on the direction you propose following."
"Hum!" Don Juan said; "and pray where may you be going, Señor Padre?"
This old-fashioned tactic of answering one question by another, is excellent, and nearly always succeeds. This time the monk was caught; but, in accordance with the habit of his brethren, his answer was as it was meant to be, evasive.
"Oh, I," he said with affected carelessness; "all roads are pretty nearly the same to me; my gown assures me, wherever chance bends my steps, pleasant faces and hearty reception."
"That is true; hence I am surprised at the question you asked me an instant back."
"Oh, it is not worth troubling yourself about, honourable Captain. I should feel agonised at having annoyed you, hence I humbly beg you to pardon me."
"You have in no way annoyed me, Señor Padre. I have no reason for concealing the road I purpose following; this recua of mules I am escorting does not affect me in any way, and I propose leaving it to-morrow or the day after."
The monk could not restrain a start of surprise.
"Ah!" he said, as he looked searchingly at the speaker.
"Oh yes," the Captain continued, in an easy tone, "these worthy men begged me to accompany them for a few days, through fear of the gavillas that infest the roads; they have, it appears, valuable merchandize with them, and would not like to be plundered."
"I understand; it would not be at all pleasant for them."
"Would it? hence I did not like to refuse them the slight service which took me only a little way out of my road; but so soon as they consider themselves in safety, I shall leave them and enter the prairie, in accordance with the instructions I have received, for you know that the Indios Bravos are stirring."
"No, I was not aware of it."
"Well, in that case, I tell it you; there is a magnificent opportunity that presents itself to you, Padre Antonio, and you must not neglect it."
"A magnificent opportunity for me?" the monk repeated, in amazement; "What opportunity, honourable Captain?"
"For preaching to the Infidels, and teaching them the dogmas of our Holy Faith," he replied, with imperturbable coolness.
At this abrupt proposal the monk made a frightful face.
"Deuce take the opportunity!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers; "I will leave that to other asses! I feel no inclination for martyrdom."
"As you please, Padre; still you are wrong."
"That is possible, honourable Captain, but hang me if I accompany you near those pagans; in two days I shall leave you."
"So soon as that?"
"Why, I suppose, that since you are going on to the prairie, you will leave the recua of mules you are escorting at the Rancho of San Jacinto, which is the extreme point of the Mexican possessions on the desert border."
"It is probable."
"Well, I will go on with the muleteers; as all the dangerous passes will then have been left behind, I shall have nothing to fear, and shall continue my journey in the most agreeable way possible."
"Ah," the Captain said to him, with a piercing glance; but he was unable to continue this conversation, which seemed highly interesting to him, for a horseman galloped up at full speed from the front, stopped before him, and stooping to his ear, whispered a few words.
The Captain looked scrutinizingly round him, drew himself up in the saddle, and addressed the soldier—
"Very good. How many are they?"
"Two, Captain."
"Watch them, but do not let them suspect they are prisoners; on arriving at the halting ground I will cross-question them. Rejoin your comrades."
The soldier bowed respectfully without reply, and went off at the same speed he had come up.
Captain Melendez had for a long time accustomed his subordinates not to discuss his orders, but obey them unhesitatingly.
We mention this fact because it is excessively rare in Mexico, where military discipline is almost a nullity, and subordination unknown.
Don Juan closed up the ranks of the escort, and ordered them to hurry on.
The monk had seen with secret alarm the conference between the officer and the soldier, of which he was unable to catch a word. When the Captain, after attentively watching the execution of his orders, returned to his place by his side, Father Antonio tried to jest about what had happened, and the cloud of gravity that had suddenly darkened the officer's face.
"Oh, oh," he said to him, with a loud laugh, "how gloomy you are, Captain! did you see three owls flying on your right? The pagans assert that such is an evil omen."
"Perhaps so," the Captain drily replied.
The tone in which the remark was uttered had nothing friendly or inviting about it. The monk understood that any conversation at this moment was impossible; he took the hint, bit his lips, and continued to ride silently by his companion's side.
An hour later they reached the bivouac; neither the monk nor the officer had said a word; but the nearer they came to the spot selected for the halt, the more anxious each seemed to grow.
The sun had almost entirely disappeared on the horizon at the moment when the caravans reached the halting ground.
This spot, situated on the top of a rather scarped hill, had been selected with that sagacity which distinguishes Texan or Mexican arrieros; any surprise was impossible, and the aged trees that grew on the crest of the hill would, in the event of an attack, offer a secure protection against bullets.
The mules were unloaded, but, contrary to the usual custom, the bales, instead of being employed as a breastwork for the camp, were piled up and placed out of reach of the marauders whom chance or cupidity might attract to this quarter when the darkness had set in.
Seven or eight large fires were lit in a circle, in order to keep off wild beasts; the mules received their ration of Indian corn on mantas or horsecloths laid on the ground; then, so soon as sentinels were posted round the camp, the troopers and arrieros were busily engaged in preparing the poor supper, which the day's fatigues rendered necessary.
Captain Don Juan and the monk, who had gone a little aside to a fire lit expressly for them, were beginning to smoke their husk cigarettes, while the officer's servant was hastily preparing his master's meal—a meal, we are bound to say, as simple as that of the other members of the caravan, but which hunger had the privilege of rendering not only appetising, but almost succulent, although it was only composed of a few varas of tocino, or meat dried in the sun, and four or five biscuits.
The Captain soon finished his supper. He then rose, and, as night had completely fallen, went to visit the sentries, and see that all was in order. When he resumed his place by the fire, Father Antonio, with his feet turned to the flame, and wrapped in a thick zarapé, was sleeping, or pretending to sleep, soundly.
Don Juan examined him for a moment with an expression of hatred and contempt, impossible to describe, shook his head twice or thrice thoughtfully, and then told his assistants, who were standing a few paces off in expectation of his orders, to have the two prisoners brought up.
These prisoners had hitherto been kept apart; though treated with respect, it was, however, easy for them to see that they were guarded with the greatest care; still, either through carelessness or some other reason, they did not appear to notice the fact, for their weapons had been left them, and, judging from their muscular force and energetic features, though both had reached middle life, there was fair ground for supposing when the moment arrived for them to insist on their liberty, they would be the men to try and regain it by force.
Without any remark they followed the Captain's servant, and soon found themselves before that officer.
Though the night was gloomy, the flames of the fire spread sufficient light around to illumine the faces of the new comers.
On seeing them Don Juan gave a start of surprise, but one of the prisoners laid his finger on his lip to recommend prudence to him, and at the same time glanced significantly at the monk lying near them.
The Captain understood this dumb warning, to which he replied by a light nod of the head, and then affected the utmost carelessness.
"Who are you?" he asked, as he idly rolled a cigarette between his fingers.
"Hunters," one of the prisoners answered, without hesitation.
"You were found a few hours back halting on the bank of a stream."
"Quite correct."
"What were you doing there?"
The prisoner bent a scrutinizing glance around, and then looked again boldly at the speaker.
"Before giving any further answer to your questions," he said, "I should like to ask you one in my turn."
"What is it?"
"Your right to cross-question me?"
"Look round you," the Captain lightly replied.
"Yes, I understand you, the right of force. Unluckily I do not recognize that right. I am a free hunter, acknowledging no other law but my will, no other master but myself."
"Oh, oh! your language is bold, comrade."
"It is that of a man not accustomed to yield to any arbitrary power; to take me you have abused—I do not say your strength, for your soldiers would have killed me, before compelling me to follow them, had not such been my intention—but the facility with which I confided in you: I therefore protest against it, and demand my immediate freedom."
"Your haughty language has no effect on me, and were it my good pleasure to force you to speak, I could compel you by certain irresistible arguments I possess."
"Yes," the prisoner said, bitterly, "the Mexicans remember the Spaniards their ancestors, and appeal to torture when necessary; well, try it, Captain—who prevents you? I trust that my gray hairs will not grow weak before your young moustache."
"Enough of this," the Captain said, angrily. "If I give you your liberty, should I deliver a friend or a foe?"
"Neither."
"Hum! what do you mean?"
"My answer is clear enough, surely."
"Still, I do not understand it."
"I will explain in two words."
"Speak."
"Both of us being placed in diametrically opposite positions, chance has thought proper to bring us together to-day: if we now part, we shall take with us no feeling of hatred through our meeting, because neither you nor I have had cause to complain of each other, and probably we shall never see each other again."
"Still, it is plain that when my soldiers found you, you were expecting somebody on this road."
"What makes you suppose that?"
"Hang it! you told me you were hunters; I do not see any game you could hunt along this road."
The prisoner began laughing.
"Who knows?" he replied, with a stress on his words, "Perhaps it was more precious game than you may fancy, and of which you would like to have your share."
The monk gave a slight start, and opened his eyes as awaking.
"What?" he said, addressing the Captain, and stifling a yawn. "You are not asleep, Don Juan?"
"Not yet," the latter answered. "I am questioning the two men my vanguard arrested some hours ago."
"Ah!" the monk remarked with a disdainful glance at the strangers, "these poor devils do not appear to me very alarming."
"You think so?"
"I do not know what you can have to fear from these men."
"Perhaps they are spies?"
Fray Antonio assumed a paternal air.
"Spies?" he said; "Do you fear an ambuscade?"
"Under the circumstances in which we now are, that supposition is not so improbable, I fancy."
"Nonsense! in a country like this, and with the escort you have at your service, that would be extraordinary; moreover, these two men let themselves be captured without resistance, as I heard, when they might easily have escaped."
"That is true."
"It is evident, then, that they had no bad intentions. If I were you, I would quietly let them go where they pleased."
"Is that your advice?"
"Indeed it is."
"You seem to take a great interest in these two strangers."
"I? Not the least in the world. I only tell you what is right, that's all: now you can act as you please. I wash my hands of it."
"You may be right, still I will not set these persons at liberty till they have told me the name of the person they were expecting."
"Were they expecting anybody?"
"They say so, at any rate."
"It is true, Captain," said the person who had hitherto spoken; "but though we knew you were coming, it was not you we were waiting for."
"Who was it, then?"
"Do you insist on knowing?"
"Certainly."
"Then answer, Fray Antonio," the prisoner said with a grin; "for you alone can reveal the name the Captain asks of us."
"I?" the monk said with a start of passion, and turning pale as a corpse.
"Ah, ah!" the Captain said, as he turned to him, "this is beginning to grow interesting."
It was a singular scene presented by the four men standing round the fire, whose flame fantastically lit up their faces.
The Captain carelessly smoked his cigarette, while looking sarcastically at the monk, on whose face impudence and fear were fighting a battle, every incident in which was easy to read; the two hunters, with their hands crossed over the muzzles of their long rifles, smiled cunningly, and seemed to be quietly enjoying the embarrassment of the man whom they had placed in this terrible dilemma.
"Don't pretend to look so surprised, Padre Antonio," the prisoner then at length said; "you know very well we were expecting you."
"Me?" the monk said in a choking voice; "the scoundrel is mad, on my soul."
"I am not mad, Padre, and I will trouble you not to employ such language toward me," the prisoner replied drily.
"Come, give in," the other, who had hitherto been silent, cried coarsely; "I do not care to dance at the end of a rope for your good pleasure."
"Which will inevitably happen," the Captain remarked quietly, "if you do not decide, Caballeros, on giving me a clear and explicit explanation of your conduct."
"There you see, Señor Frayle," the prisoner continued, "our position is growing delicate; come, behave like a man."
"Oh!" the monk exclaimed furiously, "I have fallen into a horrible trap."
"Enough," the Captain said in a thundering voice; "this farce has lasted only too long, Padre Antonio. It is not you who have fallen into a trap, but you tried to draw me into one. I have known you for a long time, and possess the most circumstantial details about the plans you were devising. It is a dangerous game you have been playing for a long time; a man cannot serve GOD and the devil simultaneously, without all being discovered at last; still, I wished to confront you with these worthy men, in order to confound you, and make the mask fall from your hypocritical face."
At this rude apostrophe the Monk was for a moment stunned, crushed as he was beneath the weight of the charges brought against him; at length he raised his head and turned to the Captain.
"Of what am I accused?" he asked haughtily.
Don Juan smiled contemptuously.
"You are accused," he replied, "of having wished to lead the conducta I command into an ambush formed by you, and where at this moment your worthy acolytes are waiting to massacre and rob us. What will you reply to that?"
"Nothing," he answered, drily.
"You are right, for your denials would not be accepted. Still, now that you are convicted by your own confession, you will not escape without an eternal recollection of our meeting."
"Take care of what you are about to do, Señor Captain: I belong to the church, and this gown renders me inviolable."
A mocking smile contracted the Captain's lips.
"No matter for that," he replied, "it shall be stripped off you."
Most of the troopers and arrieros, aroused by the loud voices of the monk and the officer, had gradually drawn nearer, and attentively followed the conversation.
The Captain pointed to the monk, and addressed the soldiers.
"Strip off the gown that covers that man," he said; "fasten him to a catalpa, and give him two hundred lashes with a chicote."
"Villains!" the monk exclaimed, nearly out of his mind; "Any man of you who dares to lay hands on me I curse; he will be eternally condemned for having insulted a minister of the altar."
The soldiers stopped in terror before this anathema, which their ignorance and stupid superstition robbed them of the courage to brave.
The monk folded his arms, and addressed the officer triumphantly—
"Wretched madman," he said, "I could punish you for your audacity, but I pardon you. Heaven will undertake to avenge me, and you will be punished when your last hour arrives. Farewell! Make room for me to pass, fellows!"
The dragoons, confused and timid, fell back slowly and hesitatingly before him; the Captain, forced to confess his impotence, clenched his fists, as he looked passionately around him.
The monk had all but passed through the ranks of the soldiers, when he suddenly felt his arm clutched; he turned with the evident intention of severely reprimanding the man who was so audacious as to touch him, but the expression of his face suddenly changed on seeing who it was that stopped him, and looked at him craftily, for it was no other than the strange prisoner, the first cause of the insult offered him.
"One moment, Señor Padre," the hunter said. "I can understand that these worthy fellows, who are Catholics, should fear your curse, and dare not lay a hand on you through their dread of eternal flames, but with me it is different. I am a heretic, as you know, hence I run no risk in taking off your gown, and, with your permission, I will do you that slight service."
"Oh!" the monk replied, as he ground his teeth; "I will kill you, John, I will kill you, villain!"
"Nonsense, threatened people live a long while," John replied, as he forced him to take off his monk's gown.
"There," he continued, "now, my fine fellows, you can carry out your Captain's orders in perfect safety; this man is no more to you than the first comer."
The hunter's bold action suddenly broke the spell that enchained the soldiers. So soon as the much-feared gown no longer covered the monk's shoulders, listening to neither prayers nor threats, they seized the culprit, fastened him, in spite of his cries, securely to a catalpa, and conscientiously administered the two hundred lashes decreed by the Captain, while the hunters played their part by counting the blows and laughing loudly at the contortions of the wretched man, whom pain caused to writhe like a serpent.
At the one hundred and twenty-eighth lash the monk became silent: his nervous system being completely overthrown, rendered him insensible; still, he did not faint, his teeth were clenched, a white foam escaped from his crisped lips, he looked fixedly before him without seeing anything, and giving no other signs of existence than the heavy sighs which at intervals upheld his muscular chest.
When the punishment was ended, and he was unfastened, he fell to the ground like a log, and lay there motionless.
His robe was handed back to him, and he was left to lie there, no one troubling himself further about him.
The two hunters then went off, after talking to the Captain for some minutes in a low voice.
The rest of the night passed away without incident.
A few minutes before sunrise, the soldiers and arrieros prepared to load the mules, and prepare everything for the start.
"Stay," the Captain suddenly exclaimed, "where is the monk? We cannot abandon him thus; lay him on a mule, and we will leave him at the first rancho we come to."
The soldiers hastened to obey, and look for Padre Antonio, but all their search was in vain; he had disappeared, and left no trace of his flight.
Don Juan frowned at the news, but, after a moment's reflection, he shook his head carelessly.
"All the better," he said, "he would have been in our way."
The conducta herewith started again.