Despite his rapid military promotion and the ill-gotten wealth he has
acquired, Colonel Gil Uraga is anything but a happy man. Only at such
times as he is engaged in some stirring affair of duty or devilry, or
when under the influence of drink, is he otherwise than wretched. To
drinking he has taken habitually, almost continually. It is not to
drown conscience; he has none. The canker-worm that consumes him is not
remorse, but disappointment in a love affair, coupled with a thirst for
vengeance.
There are moments when he is truly miserable, his misery reaching its
keenest whenever he either looks into his mirror or stands before a
portrait that hangs against the wall of the _sala_. It is a likeness of
Adela Miranda; for he has taken possession of the house of his
predecessor, with all its furniture and pictures, left in their hasty
retreat, the young lady's portrait as the rest.
The Lancer colonel loves Adela Miranda; and though his love be of a
coarse, brutal nature, it is strong and intense as that the noblest man
may feel.
In earlier days he believed there was a chance of his obtaining her
hand. Humble birth is no bar in Mexico--land of revolutions--where the
sergeant or common soldier of to-day may be a lieutenant, captain, or
colonel to-morrow. His hopes had been a stimulant to his military
aspirations; perchance one of the causes that first led him into crime.
He believed that wealth might bridge over the social distinction between
himself and her, and in this belief he cared not how it should be
acquired. For the rest he was not ill-looking, rather handsome, and
fairly accomplished. Like most Mexican _militarios_, he could boast of
his _bonnes fortunes_, which he often did.
These have become more rare since receiving the sword-thrust from his
American adversary in the duel at Chihuahua, which not only cost him
three front teeth, but a hideous scar across the cheek. The teeth have
been replaced, but the scar cannot be effaced; it remains a frightful
cicatrix. Even his whiskers, let grow to their extremest outcrop, will
not all conceal it; it is too far forward upon the face.
It was after this unfortunate affair that he made proposal to Adela
Miranda. And now he cannot help thinking it had something to do with
her abrupt and disdainful rejection of him, though the young lady's
little concealed disgust, coupled with her brother's indignation, had no
reference to the physical deformity. But for his blind passion he might
have perceived this. Fancying it so, however, it is not strange that he
goes half frantic, and can be heard giving utterance to fearful oaths
every time he glances in his looking-glass.
After returning from his secret expedition of murder and pillage, he can
gaze with more equanimity into the glass. From the man who caused the
disfiguration of his visage he has exacted a terrible retribution. His
adversary in the Chihuahua duel is now no more. He has met with a fate
sufficient to satisfy the most implacable vengeance; and often, both
sober and in his cups, does Gil Uraga break out into peals of laughter,
like the glee of a demon, as he reflects on the torture, prolonged and
horrible, his hated enemy must have endured before life became extinct!
But even all this does not appease his malevolent spirit. A portion of
his vengeance is yet unappeased--that due to him who was second in the
duel. And if it could be satisfied by the death of Miranda himself,
then there would still be the other thought to torture him--his thwarted
love scheme. The chagrin he suffers from this is stronger than his
thirst for vengeance.
He is seated in the sala of Miranda's house, which he occupies as his
official headquarters. He is alone, his only companion being the bottle
that stands upon a table beside him--this and a cigar burning between
his lips. It is not wine he is drinking, but the whisky of Tequila,
distilled from the wild maguey. Wine is too weak to calm his perturbed
spirit, as he sits surveying the portrait upon the wall.
His eyes have been on it several times; each time, as he takes them off,
drinking a fresh glass of the mezcal and igniting another cigar. What
signifies all his success in villainy? What is life worth without her?
He would plunder a church to obtain possession of her--murder his
dearest friend to get from Adela Miranda one approving smile.
Such are his coarse thoughts as he sits soliloquising, shaping
conjectures about the banished commandant and his sister.
Where can they have gone to? In all probability to the United States--
that asylum of rebels and refugees. In the territory of New Mexico they
cannot have stayed. His spies have searched every nook and corner of
it, their zeal secured by the promise of large rewards. He has
dispatched secret emissaries to the Rio Abajo, and on to the _Provincias
Internas_. But no word of Miranda anywhere--no trace can be found
either of him or his sister. "_Chingara_!"
As if this exclamatory phrase, sent hissing through his teeth--too foul
to bear translation--were the name of a man, one at this moment appears
in the doorway, who, after a gesture of permission to enter, steps
inside the room.
He is an officer in full uniform--one whom we have met before, though
not in military costume. It is Lieutenant Roblez, Uraga's adjutant, as
also his confederate in crime.
"I'm glad you've come, _ayudante_," says the Colonel, motioning the
new-comer to a seat. "I'm feeling a little bit lonely, and I want some
one to cheer me. You, Roblez, are just the man for that; you've got
such a faculty for conversation."
This is ironical; for Roblez is as silent as an owl.
"Sit down and give me your cheerful company," the Colonel adds. "Have a
cigar and a _copita_ of this capital stuff; it's the best that Tequila
produces."
"I've brought other company that may be more cheerful than mine,"
returns the adjutant, still keeping his feet.
"Ah! some of our fellows from the cuartel? Bring them in."
"It is not any of the officers, Colonel. There's only one man, and he's
a civilian.
"Civilian or soldier, you're free to introduce him. I hope," he adds,
in an undertone, "it's one of the _ricos_ of the neighbourhood, who
won't mind taking an _albur_ at _monte_ or a throw of the dice. I'm
just in the vein for a bit of play."
"He I'm going to introduce don't look much like a _rico_. From what I
can see of him in the darkness, I should say that the blanket upon his
shoulders and his sheepskin smallclothes--somewhat dilapidated by the
way--are about all the property he possesses."
"He's a stranger to you, then?"
"As much as to yourself, as you'll say after seeing him--perhaps more."
"What sort of man is he?"
"For that matter, he can hardly be described as a man. At least, he's
not one of the _gent-de-razon_. He's only an Indian."
"Ha! Comanche?"
As he utters this interrogatory, Colonel Gil Uraga gives a slight start,
and looks a little uneasy. His relations with men of the Indian race
are of a delicate nature; and, although keen to cultivate their
acquaintance whenever occasion requires it, he prefers keeping all
Indians at a distance--more especially Comanches, when he has no
particular need of their services. The thought has flashed across his
mind that the man waiting to be ushered into his presence may be a
messenger from the Horned Lizard; and with the Tenawa chief he desires
no further dealings--at least for a time. Therefore, the belief of its
being an emissary from his red-skinned confederate somewhat discomposes
him.
The reply of his subordinate, however, reassures him.
"No, colonel, he's not a Comanche; bears no resemblance to one, only in
the colour of his skin. He appears to be a Pueblo; and from his
tattered costume, I take him to be some poor labourer."
"But what does he want with me?"
"That, colonel, I cannot say; only that he has expressed a very urgent
desire to speak with you. I fancy he has something to communicate,
which might be important for you to hear; else I should not have taken
the liberty to bring him here."
"You have him at hand?"
"I have. He is outside in the _patio_. Shall I usher him in?"
"By all means; there can be no harm in hearing what the fellow has to
say. It may be about some threatened invasion of the savages; and as
protectors of the people, you, ayudante, know it's our duty to do
whatever we can for warding off such a catastrophe."
The colonel laughs at his sorry jest; the adjutant expressing his
appreciation of it in a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied by a grim
smile.
"Bring the brute in!" is the command that followed, succeeded by the
injunction.
"Stay outside in the court till I send for or call you. The fellow may
have something to say intended for only one pair of ears. Take a glass
of the _mezcal_, light cigarrito, and amuse yourself as you best may."
The adjutant obeys the first two of these directions; then, stepping out
of the _sala_, leaves his superior officer alone.
Uraga glances around to assure himself that there are weapons within
reach. With a conscience like his, a soul charged with crime, no
wonder.
His sabre rests against the wall close to his hand, while a pair of
dragoon pistols, both loaded, lie upon the table.
Satisfied with the proximity of these weapons, he sits upright in his
chair and tranquilly awaits the entrance of the Indian.