Sudden as it was, and unexpected, there was no mystery in my capture. I
had fallen into the hands of Mexicans, and, of course, enemies.
It was a party of horsemen, about forty in number--irregularly armed,
but all armed one way or another. They must have seen me as I advanced
up the long opening among the trees, though I had no idea that I had
been observed by human eye.
Perhaps they had not seen me, but only received warning of my approach
by hearing the hoof-strokes of my horse; or they might have seen the
steed I was in pursuit of, before mine had made its appearance in the
avenue.
At all events, they had been made aware of my coming in some way, and
had thrown themselves into an ambush on both sides of the path.
Improbable as it might appear, I could not help fancying that the grey
mustang had been sent forth as a "stool pigeon," so well had the
creature succeeded in decoying me into their midst.
I scrambled over the ground, and at length managed to recover my legs.
On looking up, I saw that I was surrounded; and felt, moreover, that,
although permitted to regain my feet, I was still tightly held in the
loops of numerous lazos, which encircled my neck, arms, waist, and
limbs.
Any attempt to get away from such multifarious fastenings would have
been worse than idle, and could only result in my being plucked off my
feet again, and perhaps treated with greater rudeness than before.
Knowing this, I surrendered without making the least movement or
resistance.
It was a motley group in whose midst I stood: in this respect equalling
a party of Guy Fawkes mimers. No two were dressed exactly alike, though
there was a general similitude of costume among them, especially in the
particular articles of broad-brimmed hats, and wide-legged trowsers of
velveteen.
Some of them had _serapes_ hanging scarf-like over their shoulders; but
all were armed with long knives (_machetes_), and lances; I could also
see short guns (_escopetas_) strapped along the sides of their saddles.
"A _guerilla_," I muttered to myself, thinking I had fallen among a hand
of guerilleros.
I was soon undeceived, and found I had not been so fortunate. The
ruffian countenances of my captors--as soon as I had time to scrutinise
them more closely--the coarse jests and ribald language passing between
them, along with some other professional peculiarities--told me that,
instead of a band of partisans, I was in the clutches of a _cuadrilla_
of _salteadores_--true robbers of the road!
My observation of the fact was not calculated to tranquillise my
spirits, but the contrary. As a general rule, the bandits of Mexico are
not bloodthirsty. If the purse be freely delivered up to them, they
have no object in ill-treating the person of their captives. It is only
when the latter show ill-humour, or attempt resistance, that their lives
are in danger.
At that time, however, with the country in a state of active war--with a
hated enemy marching victorious along its roads--some of the outlawed
chiefs had become inspired with a sort of sham patriotism--in most
instances for the purpose of being left free to plunder, or else with
the design of obtaining pardon for past offences. Though occasionally
acting as guerilleros, and attacking the wagon trains of the American
army, their patriotism was of a very ambiguous order; and not
unfrequently were their own countrymen the victims of their despoiling
propensities.
In one respect only did this patriotism display itself with partiality,
and that was in the ferocity with which they treated such American
prisoners as had the misfortune to fall into their hands. Horrible
mutilations were common--with all the vindictive modes of punishment
known to the _lex talionis_.
I could easily believe, while regarding the ferocious faces around me,
that I was in great danger of some fearful fate: perhaps to be drawn and
quartered; perhaps burnt alive; perhaps--I knew not what--I could only
conjecture something terrible.
After I had been pulled about for some minutes, and rudely abused by
several of the band, a man made his appearance in their midst, who
seemed to exert over the others some species of authority. The word
"capitan," pronounced by several as he came forward, told me that he was
the chief of the robbers; and his appearance entitled him to the
distinction.
He was a man of large frame, and swarthy complexion--heavily bearded and
moustached. His dress was splendid in the extreme--being a full suit of
_ranchero_ costume, with all its ornamental trimming of gold lace,
bell-buttons, and needlework embroidery.
The countenance of this man might have been handsome, but for an
expression of ferocity that pervaded it; and this was so marked as at
once to impress the beholder with the belief that it was the face of a
fiend rather than of a human being.
A row of white teeth glistened under his coal-black moustache; and
these, as he came near the spot where I was held captive, were
displayed, in what was intended for a smile of gratification, but which
had all the characteristics of a grin.
I supposed at first that this gratification simply proceeded from his
having made prisoner one of the enemies of his country. I had no idea
that it could by any possibility have especial reference to myself.
One thing, however, struck me as peculiar. When the brigand spoke--
addressing some words of direction to his subordinates--I fancied I had
heard his voice before!
It fell on my ears without producing an agreeable impression. Rather
the contrary; but where I could have heard it, or why it should jar upon
my ear, were questions I could not answer.
I had been a good deal among Mexicans of all classes--not only since the
capture of Vera Cruz, but long before the commencement of the campaign.
My knowledge of their language had naturally inducted me into a more
extensive acquaintance with our enemies than was the lot of most of my
comrades. For this reason it did not follow that the sound of a
familiar voice should lead to the instant recognition of the man who
uttered it--more especially as he from whom it proceeded was before my
eyes in _propria persona_--the chief of a band of salteadores.
I scanned the robber's face with as much minuteness as circumstances
would permit. I could not perceive in it a single feature that I
remembered ever to have seen before.
Perhaps I was mistaken about the voice?
I listened to hear it again. Not long was I kept waiting. Once more it
was raised; not, as before, in words addressed to the _salteadores_ who
surrounded me, but to myself.
"Ho, _cavallero_!" cried the robber chief, coming up to the spot where I
stood, and speaking in a tone of triumphant exultation; "you are welcome
among us--the more especially as I owe you a _revanche_ for the little
bit of service you did me last night. If I am not mistaken, it is to
your bullet I am indebted for this."
As the brigand spoke, he threw back upon his shoulders the closed folds
of his _manga_, exposing his right arm to my view. I saw that it was
carried in a sling, and that the hand, protruding beyond the scarf that
supported it, was wrapped in cotton rags, that were stained with
blotches of dry blood!
My memory needed no further refreshing. No wonder that the bandit's
voice had fallen upon my ears with a familiar sound. It was the same I
had heard only the night before, giving utterance to that hideous threat
of which I had hindered the fulfilment--the same that had cried, "Die,
Calros Vergara!"
No additional explanation was required. I stood in the presence of
Ramon Rayas!
"How feel you now?" continued the robber, in a taunting tone, not
unmingled with fierce bitterness. "Don Quixote of the modern time!
You, the protector of female innocence! Ha! ha! ha!"
"Ah," cried he, turning round, and fixing his eyes upon my beautiful
horse--held captive, like myself, by half a score of lazos. "_Por
Dios_! You have the advantage of La Mancha's knight in your mount. A
steed fit for a salteador! He will suit me, as if he had been foaled on
purpose.
"Ho there, Santucho!" he cried out to one of his band, who was holding
Moro by the bridle-rein. "Off with that stupid saddle, and replace it
with my own. I just wanted such a horse. Thank you, _Senor Americano_!
You can have mine in exchange; and you will be the more welcome to him
since you have only one more ride to make before making that great leap
that will launch you into the gulf of eternity! Ha! ha! ha!"
To this series of taunting speeches I offered no reply. Words of mine
would have been idle as the murmurings of the wind. I knew it; and
withheld them.
"Into your saddles, _leperos_!" cried the brigand, thus familiarly
addressing himself to his subordinates. "Bring your prisoner along with
you. Strap him tightly to the horse. Have a care he don't escape! If
he do you shall dearly rue your negligence, besides losing the pleasure
of a spectacle which I shall provide for you after we arrive at the
_Rinconada_."
Rayas leaped upon the back of my own brave steed, which chafed,
discontented, under the clumsy caparison of the Mexican saddle; but more
so when mounted by one whom he seemed to recognise as the enemy of his
master.
For myself I was roughly pitched upon the back of the brigand's horse;
and, after being securely tied, hands behind, and legs to the
stirrup-leathers, I was conducted from the ground, a brace of brigands
riding, one on either side, and guarding me with a vigilance that
forbade me to indulge in the slightest hope of escape.
Story 1, Chapter XXI.