Only a short interval, a score of seconds elapses, when the door, once
more opening, admits the expected visitor. The adjutant, after ushering
him into the room, withdraws, and commences pacing to and fro in the
patio.
Colonel Gil Uraga feels very much inclined to laugh as he contemplates
the new-comer, and reflects on the precautions he has taken. A poor
devil of an Indian _peon_, in coarse woollen _tilma_, tanned sheepskin
trousers reaching only to the knee, bare legs below, _guaraches_ upon
his feet, and a straw hat upon his head; his long black hail hanging
unkempt over his shoulders; his mien humble and looks downcast, like all
of his tribe. Yet it might be seen that, on occasion, his eyes could
flash forth a light, indicative of danger--a fierce, fiery light, such
as may have shone in the orbs of his ancestors when they rallied around
Guatimozin, and with clubs and stakes beat back the spears and swords of
their Spanish invaders.
At the entrance of this humble personage, into the splendidly furnished
apartment, his first act is to pull off his tattered straw hat, and make
lowly obeisance to the gorgeously attired officer he sees sitting behind
the table.
Up to this time Uraga has presumed him to be a perfect stranger, but
when the broad brim of the sombrero no longer casts its shade over his
face, and his eyelids become elevated through increasing confidence, the
colonel starts to his feet with an exclamatory speech that tells of
recognition.
"_Carrambo_! You are Manuel--mule driver for Don Valerian Miranda?"
"_Si, Senor; a servido de V_ (Yes, Sir; at your Excellency's service),"
is the reply meekly spoken, and accompanied with a second sweep of the
straw hat--as gracefully as if given by a Chesterfield.
At sight of this old acquaintance, a world of thought rushes crowding
through the brain of Gil Uraga--conjectures, mingled with pleasant
anticipations.
For it comes back to his memory, that at the time of Colonel Miranda's
escape, some of his domestics went off with him, and he remembers that
Manuel was one of them. In the Indian bending so respectfully before
him he sees, or fancies, the first link of a chain that may enable him
to trace the fugitives. Manuel should know something about their
whereabouts? And the _ci devant_ mule driver is now in his power for
any purpose--be it life or death.
There is that in the air and attitude of the Indian which tells him
there will be no need to resort to compulsory measures. The information
he desires can be obtained without, and he determines to seek it by
adopting the opposite course.
"My poor fellow," he says, "you look distressed--as if you had just come
from off a toilsome journey. Here, take a taste of something to
recuperate your strength; then you can let me know what you've got to
say. I presume you've some communication to make to me, as the military
commandant of the district. Night or day, I am always ready to give a
hearing to those who bring information that concerns the welfare of the
State."
While speaking the colonel has poured out a glass of the distilled
mezcal juice. This the peon takes from his hand, and, nothing loth,
spills the liquor between his two rows of white glittering teeth.
Upon his stomach, late unused to it, the fiery spirit produce! an effect
almost instantaneous; and the moment after he becomes freely
communicative--if not so disposed before. But he has been; therefore
the disclosures that follow are less due to the alcohol than to a
passion every whit as inflammatory. He is acting under the stimulus of
a revenge, terrible and long restrained.
"I've missed you from about here, Manuel," says the colonel, in kindly
tones, making his approaches with skill. "Where have you been all this
while, my good man?"
"With my master," is the peon's reply.
"Ah, indeed! I thought your master had gone clear out of the country?"
"Out of the settled part of it only, senor."
"Oh! he is still, then, within Mexican territory! I am glad to hear
that. I was very sorry to think we'd lost such a good citizen and
patriot as Don Valerian Miranda. True, he and I differ in our views as
regards government; but that's nothing, you know, Manuel. Men may be
bitter political enemies, yet very good friends. By-the-way, where is
the colonel now?"
Despite his apparent stolidity, the Indian is not so stupid as to be
misled by talk like this. With a full knowledge of the situation--
forced upon him by various events--the badinage of the brilliant
_militario_ does not for a moment blind him. Circumstances have given
him enough insight into Uraga's character and position to know that the
tatter's motives should somewhat resemble his own. He has long been
aware that the Lancer colonel is in love with his young mistress, as
much as he himself with her maid. Without this knowledge he might not
have been there--at least, not with so confident an expectation of
success in the design that has brought him hither. For design he has,
deep, deadly, and traitorous.
Despite the influence of the aguardiente, fast loosening his tongue, he
is yet somewhat cautious in his communications; and not until Uraga
repeats the question does he make answer to it. Then comes the
response, slowly and reluctantly, as if from one of his long-suffering
race, who has discovered a mine of precious metal, and is being put to
the torture to "denounce" it.
"Senor coronel," he says, "how much will your excellency give to know
where my master now is? I have heard that there's a large bounty
offered for Don Valerian's head."
"That is an affair that concerns the State. For myself, I've nothing
personally to do with it. Still, as an officer of the Government, it is
my duty to take what steps I can towards making your master a prisoner.
I think I may promise a good reward to anyone who, by giving
information, would enable me to arrest a fugitive rebel and bring him
before the bar of justice. Can you do that?"
"Well, your excellency, that will depend. I'm only a poor man, and need
money to live upon. Don Valerian is my master, and if anything were to
happen to him I should lose my situation. What am I to do?"
"Oh, you'd easily get another, and better. A man of your strength-- By
the way, talking of strength, my good Manuel, you don't seem to have
quite recovered from your journey, which must have been long and
fatiguing. Take another _copita_; you're in need of it; 'twill do you
good."
Pressure of this sort put upon an Indian, be he _bravo_ or _manso_, is
rarely resisted. Nor is it in Manuel's case. He readily yields to it,
and tosses off another glass of the aguardiente.
Before the strong alcohol can have fairly filtered down into his stomach
its fumes ascend to his skull.
The cowed, cautious manner--a marked characteristic of his race--now
forsakes him; the check-strings of his tongue become relaxed, and, with
nothing before his mind save his scheme of vengeance, and that of
securing Conchita, he betrays the whole secret of Colonel Miranda's
escape--the story of his retreat across the Staked Plain, and his
residence in the lone valley.
When he further informs Uraga about the two guests who have strayed to
this solitary spot, and, despite his maudlin talk, minutely describes
the men, his listener utters a loud cry, accompanied by a gesture of
such violence as to overturn the table, sending bottle and glasses over
the floor.
He does not stay to see the damage righted, but with a shout that
reverberates throughout the whole house, summons his adjutant, and also
the corporal of his guard.
"_Cabo_!" he cries, addressing himself to the latter in a tone at once
vociferous and commanding; "take this man to the guard-house! And see
you keep him there, so that he may be forthcoming when wanted. Take
heed to hold him safe. If he be missing, you shall be shot ten minutes
after I receive the report of it. You have the word of Gil Uraga for
that."
From the way the corporal makes prisoner the surprised peon, almost
throttling him, it is evident he does not intend running any risk of
being shot for letting the latter escape. The Indian appears suddenly
sobered by the rough treatment he is receiving. But he is too much
astonished to find speech for protest. Mute, and without offering the
slightest resistance, he is dragged out through the open doorway, to all
appearance more dead than alive.
"Come, Roblez!" hails his superior officer, as soon as the door has
closed behind the guard corporal and his captive, "Drink with me!
Drink! First to revenge! I haven't had it yet, as I'd thought; that
has all to be gone over again. But it's sure now--surer than ever.
After, we shall drink to success in love. Mine is not hopeless, yet.
Lost! she is found again--found! Ah, my darling Adela!" he exclaims,
staggering towards the portrait, and in tipsy glee contemplating it,
"you thought to escape me; but no. No one can get away from Gil Uraga--
friend, sweetheart, or enemy. You shall yet be enfolded in these arms;
if not as my wife, my--_margarita_!"