THE VENTA DEL POTRERO.
Using now our privilege as romancer, we will transfer the scene of our
narrative to Texas, and resume our story about sixteen years after the
events recorded in the prologue.
Dawn was beginning to tinge the clouds with its opaline rays, the stars
went out one after the other in the gloomy depths of the sky, and on the
extreme blue line of the horizon a bright red reflection, precursor of
sunrise, showed that day would ere long appear. Thousands of invisible
birds, hidden beneath the foliage, suddenly woke up, and melodiously
began their morning concert, while the yells of the wild beasts quitting
the watering places, and returning slowly to their unexplored lairs,
became gradually more dull and indistinct.
At this moment the breeze rose, burst into the dense cloud of steam
which at sunrise exhales from the earth in these intertropical regions,
whirled it round for an instant, then rent it asunder, and scattered it
in space; thus displaying, without any apparent transition, the most
delicious landscape the dreaming mind of poet or painter could imagine.
It is, before all, in America that Providence appears to have taken a
pleasure in lavishing the most striking landscape effects, and in
infinitely varying the contrasts and harmonies of that puissant nature
which can only be found there.
Through the centre of an immense plain, circled on all sides by the tall
foliage of a virgin forest, there ran in capricious windings a sandy
road, whose golden colour contrasted harmoniously with the deep green of
the grass and the silvery whiteness of a narrow stream which the first
beams of the sun caused to sparkle like a casket of jewels. Not far from
the stream, and at about the middle of the plain, rose a white house
with a verandah running round it, and a roof of red tiles. This house,
prettily covered with creepers that almost hid its walls, was a _Venta_,
or hostelry, built on the top of a small mount. It was reached by an
imperceptible ascent, and, owing to its position, commanded the immense
and grand landscape.
Before the door of the venta several dragoons, picturesquely grouped,
and about twenty in number, were saddling their horses while the
arrieros were actively engaged in loading seven or eight mules.
Along the road and some paces from the venta, several horsemen,
resembling black dots, could be seen just entering the forest to which
we alluded, a forest which rose gradually, and was commanded by a girdle
of lofty mountains, whose rugged and bare crests were almost confounded
with the azure of the sky.
The door of the venta opened, and a young officer came out singing,
accompanied by a stout and jolly-looking monk; after them, a charming
maiden of eighteen or nineteen, fair-haired and fragile, with blue eyes
and golden hair, appeared on the threshold.
"Come, come," the Captain said, for the young officer wore the marks of
that grade, "we have lost too much time already, so to horse."
"Hum!" the monk growled, "we have had hardly time to breakfast; why the
deuce are you in such a hurry, Captain?"
"Holy man," the officer went on with a laugh, "if you prefer remaining,
you are at liberty to do so."
"No, no, I will go with you," the monk exclaimed, with a look of terror;
"_caspita!_ I want to take advantage of your escort."
"Then make haste, for I shall give orders to start within five minutes."
The officer, after looking round the plain, gave his _asistente_ orders
to bring up his horse, and mounted with that grace peculiar to Mexican
riders. The monk stifled a sigh of regret, probably thinking of the
savoury hospitality he was leaving, to run the risk of a long journey,
and, aided by the arrieros, he contrived to lift himself on to a mule,
whose loins gave way beneath the enormous load.
"Ouf!" he muttered, "Here I am."
"To horse!" the officer commanded.
The dragoons obeyed at once, and for a few seconds the clash of steel
could be heard.
The maiden, to whom we have alluded, had hitherto stood silent and
motionless in the doorway, apparently suffering from some secret
agitation, and looking now and then anxiously at two or three
Campesinos, who, leaning negligently against the wall of the venta,
listlessly followed the movements of the party; but at the moment when
the Captain was about to give the order to start, she resolutely went up
to him and offered him a mechero.
"Your cigarette is not lighted, sir," she said, in a soft and melodious
voice.
"On my honour, 'tis true," he replied, and bending gallantly down to
her, he returned her the mechero, saying, "thanks, my pretty child."
The girl profited by this movement, which brought his face close to
hers, to whisper hurriedly--
"Take care!"
"What?" he said, as he looked fixedly at her. Without replying, she laid
her finger on her rosy lips, and turning quickly away, ran back into the
venta.
The Captain drew himself up, frowned savagely, and bent a threatening
glance on the two or three fellows leaning against the wall, but he soon
shook his head.
"Bah!" he muttered, disdainfully, "they would not dare."
He then drew his sabre, whose blade glistened dazzlingly in the
sunbeams, and placed himself at the head of the troop.
"Forward!" he shouted.
They started at once.
The mules followed the bell of the Néna, and the dragoons collected
round the _recua_ enclosed it in their midst.
For a few minutes the Campesinos, who had been watching the departure of
the troop, looked after it along the winding road, then re-entered the
venta one by one.
The girl was seated alone on an _equipal_, apparently busily engaged in
sewing; still, through the almost imperceptible tremor that agitated her
body, the flush on her brow, and the timid look she shot through her
long eyelashes on the entrance of the Campesinos, it was easy to read
that the calmness she affected was far from her heart, and that, on the
contrary, a secret fear tormented her.
These Campesinos were three in number; they were men in the full vigour
of life, with harshly marked features, firm glances, and brusque and
brutal manners. They wore the Mexican border costume, and were well
armed.
They sat down on a bench placed before a clumsily planed table, and one
of them striking it sharply with his fist, turned to the girl and said
roughly--
"Drink here."
She started, and raised her head quickly.
"What do you wish for, Caballeros?" she said.
"Mezcal."
She rose and hastened to serve them; the man who had spoken caught her
by the dress at the moment she passed.
"An instant, Carmela," he said.
"Let go my dress, Ruperto," she replied, with a slight pout of
ill-humour, "you will tear it for me."
"Nonsense!" he replied, with a coarse laugh, "you must fancy me very
awkward."
"No, but your manner does not please me."
"Oh! oh! you are not always so wild, my charming bird."
"What do you mean?" she continued, with a blush.
"No matter, I understand it; but that is not the question just at
present."
"What is it, then?" she asked with feigned surprise; "Have I not brought
you the mezcal you ordered?"
"Yes, yes; but I have something to say to you."
"Well, say it quickly, and let me go."
"You are in a great hurry to escape from me; are you afraid lest your
lover may surprise you in conversation with me?"
Ruperto's comrades began laughing, and the maiden stood quite abashed.
"I have no lover, Ruperto, and you know it very well," she answered with
tears in her eyes; "it is cruel of you to insult a defenceless girl."
"Nonsense! I am not insulting you, Carmela; what harm is there in a
pretty girl like you having a lover, if not two?"
"Let me go," she cried, as she made an angry movement to free herself.
"Not before you have answered my question."
"Ask it then, and let us have an end of this."
"Well, my wild little maid, be good enough to repeat to me what you
whispered just now to that springald of a captain."
"I?" she replied in embarrassment; "what do you suppose I said to him?"
"That is the very point. Niña, I do not suppose what you said to him, I
merely wish you to tell me what it was."
"Leave me alone, Ruperto, you only take a delight in tormenting me."
The Mexican looked at her searchingly.
"Do not turn the conversation, my beauty," he said drily, "for the
question I ask you is serious."
"That is possible; but I have no answer to give you."
"Because you know you have done wrong."
"I do not understand you."
"Of course not! Well, I will explain myself; at the moment the officer
was about to start, you said to him, 'Take care,' Would you venture to
deny it?"
The girl turned pale.
"Since you heard me," she said, attempting to jest, "why do you ask me?"
The Campesinos had frowned on hearing Ruperto's accusation; the position
was growing serious.
"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.