An old, gray-haired man, unarmed and upon foot, was slowly and wearily walking along a narrow, faintly-defined pathway that wound, leading up and around a precipitous hill that might almost be called a mountain. He was dressed in a travel-stained suit of frayed and torn clothes, that gave him the appearance of one of the beggars that may be met with in the province described. His tall and once powerful frame was bowed somewhat, and he leaned heavily upon his stout staff. His hands and face were begrimed with dust, and this, added to a stiff, bristling beard of several days’ growth, helped to complete the picture.
“Hold, vagabundo! what are you doing here?” challenged the voice of a concealed man, and the wayfarer’s ears were saluted by a significant click, so suggestive of an ounce of lead, as he suddenly paused and exclaimed:
“Do not fire, senor stranger; I am a friend.”
“Are there more of you?”
“I am alone, and, as you see, unarmed,” replied the traveler.
“Good. But who are you, and what do you seek here?” the challenger added, as he stepped from his covert among the bushes, and leaped lightly down into the pathway.
He was the beau ideal of a hardy mountaineer, tall, handsome, and of a fine, stalwart form. His dress was that of a Jarocho (as all the peasants who reside near the sea-coast and the country around Vera Cruz are termed), and wore in all its purity the peculiar costume of this class of men.
A hat of Jipajopa straw, with the broad brim turned up behind; a fine linen shirt, with a band of fine embroidery half hidden between frills of cambric, worn without any vest or coat above it; and a pair of purple cotton-velvet calzeneros, open at the knee, and falling in two points to the middle of his calf. A scarf of scarlet China crape was knotted around his waist, in which hung a straight sword, or cortente, without sheath or guard, the sharp and glittering blade of which sparkled in the bright sunshine. On his feet were half-boots of stamped Cardovan leather, heavily spiked with steel. A very valuable, if only for its gold and silver mountings, carabine was dropped into the hollow of his left arm, while the thumb and forefinger of his right hand played with the hammer and trigger, as he curiously scanned the traveler’s face and form.
“The senor can see that I am a poor, homeless traveler who has been forced to beg his way from Tabasco, on foot, old as I am. And I fear me my long journey has been for naught. I have only one hope left me now, and I seek for Don Serapio Barana, or if he is dead, any of his old band.”
“Ha! what may be your business with him, or I should say them?” exclaimed the Jarocho, in apparent surprise.
“Do you know aught of him? The blessed Virgin grant that you may say yes!” cried the traveler, eagerly. “Can you direct me to him?”
“Perhaps. But answer my question first. What is it you wish to know?”
“Listen, then; a few words will tell it. To Don Barana’s band of—of guerilleros there belonged a man called Tomas Ventura, and whom I have lost track of for nearly twenty years. I wish to know whether he yet lives, or if he is dead, to be shown his grave,” hurriedly uttered the traveler.
“And for what—why should you look for him, who may have died years since?”
“Senor, he was my brother!”
“Your brother?” slowly said the Jarocho, then added, after a slight pause: “Well, I will trust you, as I think you are honest. I belonged to the band at that time, and think I remember the man. But there are older men among us, who may be able to tell you about him, for I was but a boy then. However, do not hope for too good tidings, for I fear me he is dead long since.”
As he finished, he drew an ivory whistle from his bosom, and blew a shrill, quavering peal that echoed through the hills. In a few moments, two men, attired much as their comrade, appeared upon the hillside, and, after a short explanation, one of them took the place of sentinel, while the other two led the way over a rough path up the hillside, followed by the traveler. Turning a sharp spur in the hill, they passed the foot of an almost perpendicular cliff, whose face was dotted with shrubbery and parasitic plants.
The Jarochos led the way by a series of rude steps, partly the work of nature, partly cut by the hand of man, up the side of the ascent. It was a precarious footing, but their eyes were true, and then, when perhaps three hundred feet from the base, a long line of shrubbery was reached, bordering a ledge of some ten paces in width, that led into a spacious cavern, hollowed out of the rock.
Within this natural fort there gleamed several fires, and further from the entrance burned several rude lamps, either stuck into a crevice or hanging from the roof. Forms of men, women and children were walking around the cavern, or lying by the fires in every attitude of indolent ease, smoking, sleeping, or playing cards. The flickering gleam of the fires but imperfectly lighting up the recesses, playing over the picturesque forms, rendered it a weird, fantastic scene.
A bustle followed the appearance of the stranger, and the form of a monk, as his robe proclaimed him, advanced from a rude couch in one corner, and, after a profound obeisance, the Jarocho introduced the subject of the visit.
“And you wish to see this Don Serapio Barana?”
“If possible, holy father, yes,” replied the stranger, in a respectfully low voice.
“You say it is to gain news of your brother; are you sure that you have no other object?” persisted the padre, keenly eyeing the traveler.
“No, your reverence, I have no other object; and I pray you, if he is yet alive, to direct me to him.”
“It can not be. He is dead!”
“Dead? Alas, then, my poor brother, art thou dead also?” murmured the stranger, in a half-choked voice. “But may I not inquire among these cavalleros, father? They may be able to give me some clue; but if not, then, if you will allow me, I will join your band. You smile, but I am worn now by sickness and fatigue. In a week’s time I will engage to stand up before your best man, with whatever weapon he may choose, and, my life upon it, I will not be the first to cry hold!” proudly said the traveler, drawing himself up to his full hight, and glancing half defiantly around the crowd gathered near the entrance of the cavern.
“And you have been—”
“A soldier, father, from my fifteenth year until I started in search of my brother; and if he is no more, I care not what becomes of me. He was the last of my race, and there is no one to care or think of me now. But may I question the men?”
“Yes. But if what you tell me is true about your accomplishments, I trust you will hear nothing against your staying with us. If you lose one brother, you will find five score as true and good,” replied the padre, speaking in a clear, full voice, and, as the Jarochos cast a quick, significant glance at each other, he saw that he was understood.
“Thanks, holy father,” replied the stranger, as he bowed over the hand that was extended him, and noticing the effect of the last words. “If it were not a sin for me to speak so, I would say amen to your wish. But first my brother, then myself,” and he was about to turn away, when the priest spoke:
“Stay, my friend; as you are about to join our band—”
“Pardon, father; if I do not find my brother Tomas.”
“Of course. But I don’t believe you will learn any thing,” and he smiled in a significant manner. “It has been so long since, you know.”
“True, I can but hope for the best.”
“But your name?” added the padre.
“Is Garote Ventura.”
“Good. When you have questioned the men, come to me, and I will fit you out as a worthy Jarocho should be,” added the padre.
“If I do not learn of my brother,” answered Garote, with a bow.
“True; if,” smiled the monk, as he turned away to his couch, while the other pursued his inquiries regarding the lost one with a praiseworthy industry.
He did hear of Tomas Ventura, and if a tithe was true that was told him, then his brother must have been a wonderful man, surely. Every Jarocho appeared to recollect him, told tragic anecdotes in which he was the hero, but all coincided that he was dead; the only point, however, upon which they were agreed.
He was killed by a knife, gun, a fall from his horse, drowned, hung, by falling over the cliff, drank himself to death; and one Jarocho even affirmed that upon one night he saw the devil place the poor fellow astride of his tail, bidding him hold fast around his body, and then fly through the air, riding upon a streak of chain lightning. Oh, yes, he was dead of a surety, and so at length Garote Ventura returned to the padre, and announced his intention of becoming one of his band of worthies, which resolve was warmly commended, and the holy father ordered a general carousal in honor of the new recruit.
As a preliminary, the new member was sent with a score of others to Manterial, a little hamlet some few miles distant, with orders to procure all the wine, brandy, and liquor that they could carry, and if the owners demanded pay, to settle the score with a cortante or cuchillo, by which proceeding he considered the novice would be perfectly initiated into the mysteries of their craft.
Although nothing more serious was shed than some liquor, the expedition was a success, and when they returned the orgies were begun. As there was little fear of a surprise, the sentinels were called in to participate, for no stranger could scale the precipice, unless in broad daylight, without giving the alarm, and the rear entrance was securely closed. All joined in the revelry, even the women and padre Gayferos, who proved himself a veteran in the art of wine-bibbing; excelling even among the many experts that were there.
But among them all, there was not one more uproarious, or who filled his cup oftener, than Garote Ventura. As padre Gayferos trilled out the last words of a love song, he suddenly started and glanced around the group. Then pointing to a low, squat-built man, he roared out in a voice that was not entirely free from hiccoughs.
“Andrez, thou drunken rascal, come hither!”
“Drunken, by the Virgin! ’Tis pleasure to hear the kettle call the pot black,” muttered the fellow, as he arose to his feet, and using his arms as balancing poles, staggered toward the monk.
“Eh! what’s that you say?” demanded the monk, a little sharply, as his ear caught the words, although he did not fully comprehend them.
“I only wish the blessed Virgin would remove this killing pain in my back, father,” stammered the Jarocho. “See; I can not stand upright, and it twinges so that I nearly fall down from pain.”
“Abjure the cup, my son, and it will leave you. Oh, if you could only see yourself now, as I see you, you would feel how disgraceful is drunkenness. Andrez—Andrez, take pattern after me, and you will be a better man,” reprovingly quoth the padre, shaking his head, and looking as solemn as an owl.
“I will, holy father, I will. If I ever get less sober than you are now, may the devil carry me off, as he did old Ventura,” said the fellow, assaying a facetious wink, but which only had the effect of further distorting his naturally ugly visage. “But your will, father, your will?”
“Yes, my thoughts wandered. I was reflecting upon the sinfulness of poor human nature,” and as he murmured, he poured a pint of wine down the cavity that represented his mouth. “You know where the prisoner is, good Andrez? Yes. Well, my heart is softened at the sight of our innocent pleasures, and I wish you to take him this bottle of wine, to drink our healths in. Poor devil, ’tis a long time since he tasted as good. Do you hear?”
“Yes, your excellency; but don’t you think—hadn’t I, that is—”
“Carrai, bobo! what do you mean?”
“You see if the—the pain in my back, your excellency, should overcome me, I might fall and break the bottle; which would be a pity, you know,” stammered Andrez, swaying to and fro.
“Thou speakest well, Andrez, my son. Here, take this; and now go,” returned the priest, as he handed the outlaw a huge leathern bottle.
This was not exactly what Andrez meant, but he knew too well the fierce temper of padre Gayferos when once he was aroused, and dared not hesitate longer. But before he had taken a dozen steps he fell to the ground, rolling over and over as he assayed to arise. The new member of the Jarocho band noted this, and he staggered over to the prostrate fellow, and by dint of much pulling and tugging, managed to raise him erect once more; and then he muttered, in a low tone:
“Come, compadre, I will go with you. See; lean on me and show me the way to turn. So. We will do it finely,” as under Andrez’ guidance he turned to the left, after taking down one of the rude lamps, to light their way along the rough, uneven passage.
When once out of sight of the revelers, Andrez whispered:
“Por Bacchus, ’nor Garote, the padre is cruel in sending us here, away from the wine. Suppose we drink together? The prisoner does not need this wine as much as we. Besides, it is a shame for us gentlemen to wait upon him;” he held up the bottle before him, shaking it and listening to the musical rattle of its contents.
“’Tis true, Andrez. But who is this prisoner?” eagerly asked Ventura.
“Ho, ho! that is a secret, that is known only to the holy father and me. Why, he would burn me alive if I so much as whispered that our old capitan, Don Serapo Barana, was his prisoner. No, no, ’nor Ventura, that is a secret—a secret, do you hear? And although you may be a true man, I won’t share it with you,” rambled Andrez, with a drunken leer.
“True, I was wrong, as you say,” suppressing the exultant smile that shot over his features. “But come, we will go to the cell, and then, after we have drank the wine, will throw the bottle inside, so the padre will find it there to-morrow, and then he will not suspect us.”
“Good! that is it. Come, your arm. That cursed pain is in my legs now. The rheumatism in my knee joints, you know.”
In a few minutes more the men were at the end of the passage, and holding up the lamp, Ventura saw that a massive wooden door, thickly studded with iron nails, and secured by a huge lock and two bolts, had been set into the solid rock. It was a good piece of work, and appeared strong enough to resist any thing short of artillery.
“Here we are at last, and, thank the Virgin, that pain has left me,” muttered Andrez, as he dropped to the floor, and began to remove the stopper of the flask. “Come, friend, let us drink and be merry.”
“Stop, ’nor Andrez; how do you open the door?” asked Garote.
“With the key, of course,” and he cut short his speech by introducing the mouth of the flask into his own, while the wine gurgled merrily down his throat.
“But where is it? If you have forgotten it, we must find it, or else the padre will find us out, after all,” added his comrade, a little anxiously.
“Here, see; I carry it in my bosom,” said Andrez, as he pulled it forth, attached to a cord that hung around his neck.
“Is it the right one, do you think?” and as he spoke Garote adroitly cut the string, and placing the key in the lock, turned the bolt with some effort.
“Hold, hold, ’nor Garote! I must let no one touch that but myself. Hand it here, or, by the blessed Virgin, I will blow your brains out!” shouted Andrez, as he grasped the pistol at his belt.
“There—see, here it is. And now let us drink. Hold, will you not leave me a drop?” as the now satisfied Jarocho again elevated the flask, and at the same time lowered the liquor.
“Ah, that is delicious!” murmured the drunkard, as he relinquished the bottle and wiped his mouth upon his shirt sleeve. “I wish that the curs—holy Mother, pardon me, I mean blessed padre Gayferos would send us upon this mission every night! Don’t you conpairano?”
“That I do! I would not have missed this chance for a thousand pesos,” warmly returned the new member, as he handed the bottle to Andrez.
“If he send the wine, yes; if not, no.”
This time Ventura did not reprove his comrade for his gluttony, but allowed him to drink as freely and often as he pleased. After a few attempts, ending by missing his mouth, and pouring the remainder of the liquor down the outside of his throat, Andrez dropped the flask, and laying his head upon it for a pillow, closed his eyes. When the loud music that streamed from his nostrils told that he slept the heavy sleep of the drunkard, Ventura picked up the light, and with a steadiness that would have astonished his comrade, had he seen the movement, opened the door and entered the little cell.
Holding the lamp above his head, so as to cast its light around him, Garote soon perceived the form of a man crouching in one corner of the room, his eyes glaring wildly at the intruder, as if in mortal dread.
“Santissima Virgin! can this be he, once so proud and handsome!” murmured Ventura, as he scanned the wretched-looking object before him.
The prisoner started in wonder, partly at the face of a stranger, but more from hearing the voice of kindness and commiseration, when he expected curses and revilings, perhaps blows.
“Who are you?” he faltered, as he shielded his eyes from the glare of the lamp.
“A friend, and if you are he whom I think, a rescuer,” returned Ventura.
Marcos Sayosa did not escape entirely scatheless from his frightful peril at the tiro general, where Estevan Despierto attempted his murder, for the shock had thrown him into a fever that settled upon his brain. But fortunately it was not very severe, and in a week’s time he was well again, although somewhat feeble. Still he would not return to his work at the mine. The adventure had sickened him of that, for the time being, at least.
Then he recalled his promise to visit the Canelo hacienda, and thinking that a change of air and scene would do him good, he determined to redeem it, and so announced to Tomas Ventura. On the next day the old man told Carlita to get ready to pay an old friend a visit of a few days. She knew better than to cross her father, and although wondering inwardly what new whim he had taken, accompanied him to Donna Paxuita’s house, greatly to that venerable dame’s surprise. But a few words from Ventura satisfied her.
Marcos was also surprised, but still more so when tio Tomas said that he was going to accompany him upon his visit.
“You need not be troubled, Marcos. I shall not intrude upon the fine folk, but stop with the servants. There is one there that I must see, and this may be my only chance; for I do not believe that my days are to be much longer,” he exclaimed.
“Pshaw, tio Tomas, you will outlive me yet, see if you don’t. But are you really in earnest about going with me?”
“So much so that there is but one thing that can prevent me.”
“And that?”
“Is death.”
“Do you know, tio, that I wish you would not speak so much about that? It does not seem right, and gives me the cold chills whenever you mention the word. Perhaps because I have stared it in the face so lately,” said Marcos, with a little shrug.
“I may be wrong, but it seems to me that before many days, I, too, shall stand face to face with it; only instead of evading it, as you did, it will be the victor. I only hope that it may not be until after I have seen the person I wish. Then it matters but little, for I know that you will care for Carlita,” solemnly uttered Ventura.
“Carambo, tio, take a drop of this; it will warm you up and banish all such idle fancies,” as he handed the old man a bottle of wine from the cupboard against the wall.
“Not so idle as you think, perhaps; but we will see.”
Early the next day the two men rode out from the little timber belt, and set out rapidly upon their journey. They were well mounted and thoroughly armed, as indeed they needed to be, for the country then was not the most peaceful or safe to traverse. They determined to divide the journey into three days’ ride, as neither of them was very strong.
Nothing occurred till the third day of any consequence. They had halted at about eleven o’clock, to lie by during the heat of the day, under a few small trees that grew beside a spring, bubbling forth from beneath a pile of sandstone. They kindled a fire to boil their chocolate, and, not fearing any danger, were not particular as to whether they burned perfectly dry or damp wood. In consequence, the smoke, thick and dark, arose in a considerable column above the tree tops before the fire was fairly started.
It caught the eye of a single horseman, who was riding along upon the opposite side of the rocks, and, after eyeing it curiously for a few moments, he slowly advanced in its direction. Then securing his horse in a small ravine, he unslung his escopette, and proceeded to investigate the cause.
But of this our two friends were, of course, unaware. They little suspected that the hunter of blood was so near. Had a zopilate, that dusky scavenger of Mexico, been sailing overhead, he would have seen this picture:
The green clump of trees, shadowing the little rill of water that ran from the sparkling, bubbling spring; the fire lighted and now bursting into a bright, roaring blaze, with the forms of two men bending over it, while their horses eagerly cropped the rich grass that grew hard by. On the opposite side of the gray rocks he would have seen the dark form of a man rapidly gliding along with trailed rifle, crouching half way to the ground, until he had to bend his long arms to keep them from dragging. This he would have seen, and more. Two horsemen swiftly approaching the spring upon nearly the same trail as that followed by Marcos Sayosa and Tomas Ventura, and consequently closed out from the view of the solitary stalker.
His instincts would have told him that there was a fair prospect of his dinner being afforded him, and he would have hovered over the spot.
The two men were sitting near the fire, engaged in conversation, when one of the horses stamped his hoof and pricked up his ears, as though he scented something suspicious. This did not escape the watchful eye of Ventura, and, as he followed the direction indicated by the tremulous ears of his horse, he saw a shaggy head rise from behind a boulder, and then the bright barrel of a gun as it was leveled toward them.
“Look out, Marcos, there’s some deviltry going on!” he shouted out, leaping forward and pulling the young miner backward to the ground.
Just then the gun cracked, and, with a wild yell of agony, the old man fell to the ground, writhing and moaning with pain. The bullet that had been intended for Marcos had passed through his own body. The youth saw the jet of flame-colored smoke, and regaining his feet, he drew a pistol and bounded forward to avenge the death of his companion.
The murderer, nothing loth, leaped from behind his covert, and with one report the two pistols were discharged. Marcos was untouched, and Sylva Cohecho received but a crease upon his shoulder, that acted as a spur. Before either could draw another weapon, they came into collision, and grappled with each other in a death struggle.
Although Sayosa was a powerful man, and had never before met his superior, his late illness had weakened him considerably, and he found, when too late, he was overmatched. The long arms of his antagonist seemed like bars of flexible steel, and wound around him, clasping him close to Cohecho’s body, with such force that it seemed as if his ribs were being crushed.
Still, he struggled manfully, and, by being so much taller than his foe and very active, he managed to keep his feet. But he was weakening, and his head began to swim. Cohecho saw his advantage, and did not fail to improve it. Under his enormous strength the tall, stalwart miner bent and swayed, until, with a dexterous trip, the murderer threw his antagonist, falling heavily upon him.
“Ah-ha! my game cock, your spurs are clipped now!” he growled, as he kneeled upon the senseless body, and, drawing his knife from his bootleg, tore open the shirt upon the young miner’s bosom, so as to gain a fair blow.
When Tomas Ventura fell, he thought that he was mortally wounded, but when he heard the struggle going on between his adopted son and Cohecho, he raised himself up on one hand, fearing lest Marcos, too, should be worsted. He saw enough to know that, unassisted, this would be the result and, dragging himself along by his hands, he managed to reach the guns, although the path was marked with his blood, and every motion wrung a groan from his lips.
He reached and cocked one of them, supporting it by resting his elbow upon the ground. Still he dared not fire, for the chances were as much in favor of his hitting Marcos as Cohecho. But then the combatants fell, and, as Sylva raised his knife to give the finishing blow, the escopette cracked and, true to its aim, an ounce ball crashed through the huge, shaggy head of the hunchbacked monster.
When the smoke shut off his view, Ventura swooned away, and for a long time all was blank. When he once more awoke to consciousness, he saw that Marcos was bending over him, and there were strangers in the glade. Then one of them approached and stood where the sunbeams fully revealed his features. Tomas Ventura glared at him wildly for a moment, and then shrieked:
“Holy Virgin, it is he!”
* * * * * * *
“And what is puzzling your brain now, Luisa, darling! You have been silent for one whole ten minutes by the watch. Surely something dreadful must be pending.”
“Why—was I still? I must have been thinking, Felipe.”
“Really? Well, as I never heard of your doing such a thing before, suppose you tell me the subject of your thoughts. Come, call me your father confessor, and begin.”
The speakers were Luisa and Felipe Canelo, who were walking in the large garden at the rear of the house, that was surrounded by a moderately high wall. They both looked somewhat abstracted, and Felipe particularly so, as though ill at ease.
“Well, I know of none that would suit me better than my handsome, noble brother,” she replied, with forced gaiety. “Come, here in the arbor. Let us sit down and I will try to explain why I am ‘out of sorts,’ if you will be as frank.”
“I?” echoed Felipe, as if astonished at her words.
“Yes, sir, you. Do you think you can blind me? I say that you have some secret in your mind, and I must know what it is; so there!”
“Sis—Luisa, tell me what you mean. What is it that you know?” cried Felipe, hoarsely, as he sunk upon the seat at her side.
“Brother, Felipe, are you ill? You are as pale as a ghost!”
“No, no; I am well, quite well. But tell me what you know—what you meant by my secret,” tightly clasping her hands.
“A secret—did I say that? No, Felipe, I was only jesting. Surely, you have no secret from me, your sister, who loves you so dearly?” asked Luisa, gazing up into his half-averted face.
“Are you sure that you do not know—that you tell me the whole truth?” faltered her brother.
“Felipe!”
“Pardon, sister. I believe I am mad of late—” he began.
“Yes, ever since that strange man visited you. Dearest brother, can not you confide your troubles to your mother and sister? Who should you trust if not those who are so proud of, and love you so tenderly?” pleaded Luisa, pressing his hand.
“And so I will; but first, dear one, tell me of what you were thinking a while since,” returned Felipe, as he banished the cloud from his face, and turned toward his sister.
“You will not laugh at me, brother? Well, it was of that noble stranger, who so gallantly rescued us from those ruffians.”
“And what did you think of him—in what way, I mean?”
“I can scarcely tell. When he first spoke to me, it seemed as though I had often heard his voice before, and when he was silent, the words were repeated over and over in my heart. And then something seemed to tell me that he was connected with my future life, and that he would have great influence over it. But whether for joy or sorrow, I could not tell. I knew that I should meet him again, and that we would become very dear to each other, and it was that secret voice that made me join my request to yours that he would visit us. I have often thought of this since, and tried to explain it to myself, but can not. We have not seen or heard of him since, and yet I know that he will come, that he will be here soon, and that my feeling will be explained. But how, or in what manner, I can not tell. I only know that it will be so!” murmured Luisa, in a dreamy, half-musing tone.
“And shall I explain this miracle, Luisa?” asked Felipe, bitterly, as he dropped her hand, and drew a little back.
“It you can, oh, if you can, dear brother!” exclaimed the maiden.
“I have solved many an enigma far more difficult than this one of yours, child. You say that you know this young miner will come here?”
“He will; I feel it.”
“And what would you say, my sister, if he should come to you and ask you to be his bride—to mate with him, the digger in the earth?”
“Felipe, what do you mean? You frighten me!”
“This. I mean that this Marcos Sayosa loves you. And more; that you love him!” exclaimed Canelo, bitterly.
“Oh, brother, surely you are wrong. He does not love me, nor do I love him—in the way you mean. And yet he is very dear to me; I know it, and perhaps I do love him. I don’t know; it is so strange—so sudden; you have frightened me!” cried Luisa, burying her face in her hands, and sobbing convulsively.
“Pardon me, sister—dear Luisa; I was mad—cruel, to speak so fiercely,” exclaimed Felipe, gently raising her head, and wiping the tears tenderly away. “See, let this be my apology,” softly pressing a kiss upon her brow.
“Thank you, Felipe; I was very foolish,” smiled Luisa, through her tears, “but I could not bear that you should speak harshly to me. I may love this stranger; perhaps I do, as you say so; but rest assured that I love you far better—a thousand times better than him!”
“If I could believe that you would say this after you have heard my confession, then I would be happy—oh, so happy!”
“I will, Felipe. Surely, you can say nothing to change it.”
“Ah, you do not know. You will hate me, scorn me, if I tell you my secret!” he murmured, despondingly.
“Felipe, can not you trust me?” asked Luisa, reproachfully.
“Yes, yes; I will—I must. It burns my heart and racks my brain until it seems as though I would go mad! But our poor mother; how will she bear it? Holy Virgin! at times I am tempted to kill myself.”
“Don’t, brother—dear Felipe; you frighten me when you look that way,” murmured Luisa, shrinking back a little.
“Frighten you, my angel? Not for worlds!” and he bent forward to bestow a kiss, when he suddenly started back. “No, no, not now. If ever my lips touch yours, the offer must first come from you, not me. It were a sin now!”
“Felipe!”
“Wait. Do not speak or look at me. If you should, my courage will fail me. Wait until I have finished my confession, and then—you shall judge me. Luisa, if you loved a man with such love as you should feel for a husband, and he should be guilty of a sin, a great crime, what would you do? Would you hate and despise him, and tell him to begone where you might never look upon his face again?”
“Not if he repented, Felipe, and acknowledged his sin of his own free will. No. If I loved a man as you say, brother—if I loved him as I do you, his fate should be mine. Where he dwelt, there would be my home; in all things we would be but one. If the world neglected or scorned him, I would try and make him forget all—all except that to me he was dearest of all. Do you understand me? I can not say what I would, but you can guess what I mean,” exclaimed Luisa, as she drew nearer to Felipe.
“No, Luisa, not yet; wait until I have told all, and then if you forgive me, put your hand in mine. But think well. If you do, it will be mine—mine forever! But now, listen.
“Luisa, I am not your brother, but am an impostor! Stay. Do not speak yet; let me finish, now that I have said the worst. But as the blessed Virgin knows, I thought that I was when I first came. In that, at least, I am innocent.
“The story that I told you and moth—your mother, was all true, so far as concerned myself. I was raised among your uncle’s band of Jarochos, and taught to consider myself an orphan. Who or what my parents were, I could never learn. They either did not know, or would not tell me. As I grew older, I learned how wicked were the ways of my comrades, but I could not resolve to leave the only friends that I had ever known, and still continued with the band. But I did not join them upon their plundering excursions, and managed to live fairly by selling the game I killed, or its hides. Then, as I told you, when I returned from one of my excursions, I found our captain, or your uncle, lying wounded unto death; and then he told me who I was, giving me the letter to carry to your mother and whom he swore was also my parent. God help me, I did not dream that a dying man would so perjure himself, and I believed all that he told me!
“You know how I was received, and that your mother was struck by my resemblance to your dead father, even before the letter was opened. But I can not dwell upon that now—now that I have lost it all. Then came the note that so astounded me, when I left you here, to meet the writer, who was none other than the lieutenant of the band to which I had belonged. I met him, and then, for the first time, I learned the plot of which I had been made the instrument.
“He told me that I was not your brother; that he was dead, and showed me a letter from your uncle saying as much. He then offered me my choice. Either to pay two thousand onzas each year, and he would be silent, otherwise he would expose the imposition to Senora Canelo. What could I do? That which was right, you say; but I could not. Holy Mother, forgive me, I promised the villain that I would submit to his demands, and in that was my sin, or part of it.
“The other was in receiving the caresses of you two—ladies, that belonged to a relation—not to me, the impostor. But my punishment was begun, even then. How could I look you in the face, and know, that if you only realized what a wretch I was, in reality, that you would as soon place to your lips a plate of red-hot iron, as to have kissed me. Can you guess how the words, ‘mother—sister,’ choked me as I was forced to utter them. But that was not all.
“When I found that you were not my sister, the love that I had thought a brother’s grew stronger and more painful, until I found that I loved you as only a man can love once in his lifetime. God knows how I strove to subdue it, and crush it out from my heart; but could I? Ah, no; it grew from day to day, hour to hour, until it became my master. It showed me the crime that I had contemplated, and at last I resolved to confess it, and then fly from the spot where I had been so happy, but I must again make miserable!” concluded the young man, as he covered his face with his hands, and wept the bitter tears of one whose soul is rocked with agony.
For a few moments Luisa set as if petrified, so sudden and unexpected had been the shock. But then the wild look passed from her eyes, and as they dimmed, her hand stole slowly along and rested upon that of him whom she had believed her brother. As he felt the light touch he shrunk away, as if it had been a serpent, and exclaimed:
“Stay, Luisa; do not touch me!”
“Felipe, do you remember what you said a while since? Here is my hand,” whispered the maiden, as she again touched his hand with hers.
“Luisa, think what you do. If I take your hand, remember that it is for ever; as that of my wife!” cried Felipe.
“Still I say, take it, Felipe—must I say it? I love you!”
As the Jarocho’s prisoner heard these words spoken by Garote Ventura, he approached, but with the hesitating step of one who doubts, while yet he hopes. The glow of the lamplight shone full upon him, and Ventura’s eyes quickly and keenly scrutinized his form and every feature.
In stature he was tall, unusually so, and although now greatly emaciated, had once been a robust and powerful man. The muscles of his arms and chest still stood out like bands of steel, showing plainly through the tatters that served him for clothes. Although his hair was thickly threaded with silver lines, his form was not yet bowed, nor the fire quenched in his large, keen black eyes.
The remnants of his former beauty could still be discerned—the proud, well-cut profile and noble features, although marred somewhat by grims and wrinkles, were yet plain enough for any one who had known him in better days, to be enabled to recognize him now.
“A friend, and if you are he whom I think, a rescuer,” Garote Ventura had said.
“The Virgin grant that I may be! But it can not be. A friend to me, and here? No, no, I was foolish to think so,” bitterly exclaimed the prisoner.
“Perhaps not,” added Ventura. “I think you are the one I seek, and if so, in an hour’s time you may be far from here, if you wish it.”
“If I wish it!” echoed the captive.
“Yes. But tell me who you are. Stop. If you are he whom I mean, you have committed fearful crimes. But you have reparation in your power; and if you perform it faithfully, I think I may promise that you can live in peace, to go whither you will,” he added, impressively.
“You ask my name. If it were stained with a tenfold blackness, I would speak it, in the chance of escaping from here. And yet it was a noble one once, until I defiled it! I am, or was, Agustin Canelo,” answered the prisoner.
“I thought so. But, holy Mother of Mercy, what a change!” murmured Garote, as he gazed at the man. “It is good. You are the man that I seek, and I will keep my word, although you murdered my master.”
“Your master? Who are you?”
“Look. You should know me. I have not changed so much. Think; can you not remember the time that I used to carry you upon my back, playing horse?”
“Tadeo Campos?”
“Yes, I am Tadeo Campos. But we have no time to lose. Remove your rags, while I haul in this drunken scoundrel.”
In a few moments Andrez was pulled inside the cell, and his clothes donned by the prisoner, although not without some difficulty, for they were several sizes too small. Tadeo Campos, as we must now call him, relocked the door from the inside, and coolly seated himself upon the body of Andrez, much to the surprise of Canelo.
“Why do you stop here, Campos? Every moment seems an age until I am free from this cursed hole once more,” impatiently exclaimed the latter, fingering nervously the weapons that he had taken from the drunken Jarocho.
“For two reasons. One is, that it is best to give the gentlemen outside a little more time to swill their wine, for, unless their wits are somewhat foggy, you would never pass for our dumpy friend Andrez, here. And the other, is to do justice to your brother’s family—to prove who their son is. Will you promise to do this?”
“I will; any thing so that I can get away from this hole and the tortures of that cursed padre Gayferos. But, supposing the boy is dead?” added Canelo, anxiously.
“It may be. But the one you sent is an impostor, at any rate. But we will settle that afterward. Will you do all that lays in your power to do?”
“I will!” emphatically replied the other.
“Well, it may be so, but I am a cautious man by nature, and experience has doubled it. If you will swear to tell the entire truth, to answer fully and explicitly all questions that may be asked you—if you swear this, I say, and kiss the holy cross, I will set you free. If—”
“If not?”
“Then I will raise the alarm, and you may do the best you can.”
“Enough, I will swear it,” hastily said Canelo.
The crucifix was produced, and the required oath taken, when Tadeo said:
“Now you remain here while I go and reconnoiter. If all is right we will be free in half an hour. But blow out the light, as it might be seen as I open the door.”
“You will come back?” faltered Canelo.
“If I meant to betray you or do you harm, would I have taken all this trouble?” returned Campos, impatiently.
“Pardon, good friend; I am sadly changed from what I once was.”
The capataz, after extinguishing the light, softly opened the door and stepped forth. Then he saw the wisdom of having put out the light, for, just turning the nearest angle, he saw a man bearing a light, and then recognized it to be none other than padre Gayferos. He only paused long enough to note that the worthy priest had imbibed such a quantity of the confiscated wine, that he was laying off a somewhat irregular pattern for a “Virginny rail fence,” and muttering incoherently to himself. Then he slipped inside the cell, and after silently locking the door, told his companion of the approaching visitor.
Canelo shuddered and shrunk back as if in fear, so great had been the tortures that he had endured at the monk’s hands, when unable to resist. But as his hand touched the knife at his waist, this vanished—the sudden change boding ill for the enemy, should he fall into the ex-prisoner’s hands.
They both stood close to the door, and soon heard the tipsy priest fumbling at the lock for some time before he could fit his key into place, cursing fearfully at every breath. But at last the bolt yielded, and he kicked the door wide open. Canelo sprung forward with a howl like a wild beast, and clutched the monk by the throat, while Tadeo grasped the lamp.
The two foes fell to the ground, and by some means the light was dashed from Tadeo’s hand, and shattered to pieces upon the rocky floor. He turned to light the other, for he could do nothing in the dark, and knew that their safety depended upon the monk’s capture without an alarm being raised. A few moments sufficed for this, but when he turned the light upon the two men, a horrible, sickening sight met his gaze.
The half-crazed Canelo was kneeling upon the breast of padre Gayferos, brandishing a gory knife in one hand, while the other clutched his victim’s throat. He had slit the unfortunate man’s mouth from ear to ear, and actually torn out his tongue by the roots, and then thrust it down his throat!
Acting on the impulse, Tadeo leaped forward and knocked Canelo from his victim’s body, and then buried his long knife to the hilt in the priest’s breast, at once putting an end to his tortures. As he turned, it was just in time to avoid the rush of Canelo, and elude the vicious plunge of a cuchillo, that slit open the clothes upon his side. Then, before the mad man could turn, he was upon his back, driving him head first to the floor; when, placing a knife at his throat, Campos hissed:
“Mil diablos, ingrate! Is that my reward for risking my life to save yours? By the Virgin of Atocha, I have a mind to serve you the same trick that you did the padre, cursed dog!”
“I was mad, good Campos, and knew not what I did. And if you only knew the tortures that man has subjected me to, you would praise not blame me. But let me up now. It has passed and I am myself again.”
“I will. But look you. If you make a motion toward me, I will plaster the wall with your brains, as I’m a living man. Do you hear?”
“You may. Take my weapons if you will, but let me up. We must be going. They may discover us, and then—”
“And then; yes, I know,” said Campos, as he arose, keeping a watchful eye upon his companion. “Come, drag this carrion into the cell, and then we will be going. It is time now, if ever.”
This was quickly done, and as the monk was fully as large as Canelo, he exchanged clothes once more, knowing that he would run less risk of detection in that garb than the other, for no one of the Jarochos would venture to address him unless spoken to first, so great were their fears of the padre.
“I will lead the way,” said Canelo, “and you follow close. I know every inch of the passage, even in the dark.”
The lamp was extinguished, and, after locking the cell door and retaining the key, the two adventurers stole cautiously along the passage. The sounds of the outlaws carousing grew rapidly plainer, and from the number of voices combined it was plain that Tadeo had either overrated the strength of the wine, or underestimated the strength of the reveler’s brains. Still they did not despair, but resolved to run the risk at once, and trust to their good fortune and the priestly disguise to carry them through, rather than delay longer.
“Will you risk it?” asked Campos.
“We must. I can imitate the padre’s air and motion.”
“Remember that he was slightly tipsy, and if you shroud your face and long hair in the cowl, I think there will be no particular danger,” whispered Tadeo, as they paused at the angle from whence the first glimpse could be caught of the orgies.
Fully one half of the Jarochos were overcome totally by their potations, and lay scattered about, regardless whether they rolled upon the table or beside it, as it was all the same hight. In some cases they were used for seats, in others as pillows, and the crowd amply made up in loudness what it had lost by the decrease in numbers. Men, women, and children were mixed in one grand, ever-shifting panorama, but indistinctly revealed by the faint, flickering light.
Making the best of a bad bargain, the two adventurers entered the grand apartment, and reeling in a zigzag course, proceeded toward the top of the “staircase.” But they were destined not to escape without interruption. Tadeo Campos was recognized (as Garote Ventura), and recollecting that it was in honor of his having joined the band that they were carousing, began to call him to come and drink with them, several of the more sober men rising and staggering toward the two adventurers.
Then it was that the monk’s garb stood them in good stead. Fearing lest he should be recognized if they approached too closely, Canelo turned, with his face and head still shrouded in the cowl, and with a very fair imitation of the padre’s voice, said:
“Go back to your wine. Our brother Ventura hath something to confide to me, that may prove of great benefit to the band. Cuerpo di Cristo! ye dogs, do you hear me? The one who comes a step nearer will drink no more, for his head will be all mouth! Back with you, you sacrilegious thieves!”
The Jarochos paused, and then returned to their liquor, for the steely glitter of the monk’s pistol awed the boldest of them. But there was considerable muttering among them, and one especially, whose comments were overheard by our friends.
“By Venus, the padre is in grum humor all of a sudden. I guess ’na Jesusita was not in the mood to be confessed tonight.”
A wild, boisterous peal of laughter followed this pointed remark, and Canelo deemed it best not to notice it, although he well knew what would have been the bona fide padre’s answer.
They had now nearly reached the edge of the platform and were congratulating themselves inwardly upon their happy escape, when a man arose from the face of the cliff, and meeting them, at once dropped upon his knees before the disguised men, murmuring:
“Your benediction, holy father!”
This renconter was so sudden and unexpected that Canelo started back with an exclamation of dismay, and at the same moment the cowl dropped back from his face. The man looked up, and, as the moonlight shone full upon the ex-chief’s features, he uttered a gasp of terror:
“Santissima Virgin! the captain’s ghost!”
Fortunately Tadeo Campos did not lose his presence of mind, and as the intruder arose he leaped forward, and shot out his clenched fist, the blow alighting full upon the unprotected throat of the Jarocho, its terrible force effectually checking any further outcry, and at the same time hurled him headlong down the precipice. There was a dull, horrible thud, and then all was still.
Glancing around at the Jarochos, half expecting to see the band come rushing in a body to avenge their comrade’s death, the two men grasped their weapons, determined to sell their lives dearly, if such must be. But to their great joy they saw that the outlaws were unconscious of the tragedy just enacted, and then hastily began their perilous descent.
By keeping close to Canelo, and stepping in his footprints, Campos effected it in safety, and in a few minutes they were both standing in the firm path at the foot of the precipice. Then Canelo muttered, in a cautious voice:
“And now the next thing is to procure horses, for we can not go upon foot, as we may be followed at any moment.”
“I have a horse four miles from here, where I left him at a jacale as I came,” returned Tadeo.
“We can do better than that. The stable of the band is not far from here, and in it are the best horses for leagues around, or was, when I was chief. I do not think that there can be any guard left there, as it would be almost impossible for a stranger to find it, even in the daytime. Besides, you said that padre Gayferos bade all the men join in the carousal?”
“He did; and when it began all were present who were at home, or at least so I was told in answer to my questions. But that man whom we threw over the cliff? Who was he?”
“Not one of the regular members, but a sort of spy who lives at the foot of the mountain. He came with news, I presume.”
“Well, then, if you think best, let us hasten to the stable, for the further we are away from this den by daybreak, the safer I will feel about my neck. For my part, I have seen quite enough for one night, although they do not stint one in wine, and it was first-class, too,” said Tadeo, as he closely followed his companion, who now turned up a narrow defile, the bottom of which was thickly strewn with coarse gravel.
“And a little of that same wine would not be amiss now. But silence; we are nearly there,” cautioned Canelo.
After making several abrupt turns, the two men paused in front of a dense thicket, and Canelo uttered a low, peculiar whistle, then repeated it twice, at short intervals. There was no answer, and again he sounded the signal, but with the same result.
“It is as I thought. There is no one here. Come; in five minutes we will be clear of the mountain,” cried Canelo, joyously, and closely followed by Tadeo Campos, pushed through the yielding screen of bushes, and after a few steps they entered a spacious chamber, excavated from the earth.
Numerous large, lustrous eyes, in pairs, were turned toward them, and when Canelo lighted the lamp that he had brought with him from the cell, the glow showed them the sleek forms of a large number of horses, standing in rude stalls, with their accouterments ranged along the other side of the “stable.” A few moments sufficed to saddle and bridle the two animals they had selected, and then once more extinguishing the light, they led their steeds out along the way they had entered, and in a few minutes were clear of the hill and speeding along the valley.
After riding some miles in silence, they drew in their horses to a walk to breath them, and Canelo broke the silence by saying:
“But you have not told me yet how it was you learned I was a prisoner, and where they had confined me. How was it?”
“Well, in the first place, I overheard a conversation between master Felipe, or rather he who passes as such, and a precious scoundrel who called himself Don Lopez Romulo—”
“Barajo; he goes by both names.”
“Yes. And I then learned that the young man was an impostor, and that you were yet alive. He did not then hint that you were a prisoner; that I learned afterward. Well, this Romulo or Barajo gave Don Felipe an address at Guanajuato, where he was to call and pay him a lot of money to keep the secret he had got hold of. I heard the address and resolved to be at the meeting.
“When the night came, I was hanging round the venta, which was in a low part of the city just at the outside edge. I waited until Don Romulo came out, jingling his pocketfull of golden ounces, and after following him until he came to a dark alley, I gave him a few inches of cold steel, and dragged him into the alley, out of the way, and where I would not be interrupted by any person passing by.
“I had not intended to kill him at once, but only disable him, and then frighten him into telling where I could find you, and any thing else that might be of service. He was badly hurt, and it was not hard to frighten him into doing as I wished, for the beggar vowed that he was not fit to die, and I did not spare my threats.
“Somehow he mistook me for one Ventura—Tomas Ventura—who had once belonged to his band, and told me all that I wanted to know. That you were kept a prisoner by him and a priest, who had forced you to write the letter given to Felipe, and make him believe that you was dying; and the place where I would find the band.
“I saw that the poor devil would not live until morning, and as he would have no use for the gold at the place he was booked for, I transferred it to my own pocket, and left him where he lay. Then I resolved to act upon what I had learned, and try to rescue you, that the whole truth of the matter might be arrived at.
“So I passed myself off as Garote Ventura, seeking for my dear brother Tomas, and as you know, gained my object after some little trouble. And now, is this boy, the real Felipe Canelo, alive, or not?”
“I believe that he is dead,” slowly answered Canelo. “Yes, he must be. He said he killed him.”
“Now look you, Senor Don Augustin Canelo,” hotly replied Campos. “I am a quick-tempered man, as you know well, and when I make up my mind to a thing, I generally do it. Now you may be perfectly honest in what you say, but I don’t believe that you are. I have not told you all I heard from this Lopez Romulo, and it is a clue that I can follow up, if you do not satisfy me. It may be hard and require time, but it can be done, if needs be. And if you play me false, by the Virgin of Atocha, you will find the hand that set your body free will not hesitate long about doing your soul the same service. Do you understand me?”
“I do. But there is no need of such heat. I told you I was changed, and moreover, I have sworn upon the holy cross to reveal the truth. What I may have to say I will keep until it can be told to Senora Canelo herself,” proudly answered Don Augustin.
“Good! now I know you again. I will trust you,” exclaimed Tadeo Campos, as he set his horse once more into a gallop.
“Thank the Virgin, we are nearly at the spring where we can get a good drink of cold water. I am nearly famished with thirst!” exclaimed Tadeo Campos.
“Yes, this cursed road, added to the sun’s heat, is intolerable. See, the horses know it as well as we do, although I doubt whether either of them were ever within fifty leagues of the place,” returned Augustin Canelo, as their jaded beasts increased their pace of their own accord, with loud whickers of delight.
In the course of a few minutes the little grove was sighted, and as the horses broke into a gallop, Tadeo, who was looking intently toward their intended resting-place, uttered an exclamation of vexation, and pulled up his horse, almost throwing him upon his haunches.
“Maldito! see, a fire!”
“Sure enough, some one is before us. But there can be no danger. Let’s advance. We must have water, and will, if I have to fight for it!” impatiently exclaimed Canelo, clapping spurs to his horse’s side, and charging ahead, closely followed by Tadeo.