"Well, as I was agwine to say, I see dis man, Conrad ob de Mountains, on
de plains ob Proo. I's in de Proo camp at de time, attendin' on you's
fadder, an' de army ob Chili was in front ob us on de slopes ob de
hills, agwine to go in for a fight wid us. De sojers of Proo wasn't
bery keen for fightin'. I could see dat, but their gin'ral screwed 'em
up to de pint, an' dey was all ready, when all of a sudden, we sees a
pris'ner brought in by four sojers. Dey seem so 'fraid ob him dey
darn't touch him, tho' he was unarmed. Two walked behind him, an' two
walked in front ob 'im, all wid dere baynets pintin' at 'im, ready to
skewer 'im all round if he was try to run. But, poor chap, he walk wid
his head down, bery sad-like--nebber t'inkin' ob runnin'. So dey druv'
'im up to our gin'ral. I was in a crowd o' tall fellers, an' de
pris'ner had his back to me, so I not seed his face well. `Das Conrad
ob de Mountains dey've cotched,' says a feller near me. `Listen!' We
all listen'd so quiet you could hear a 'skito sneeze. `What's you'
name?' asks de gin'ral, ridin' close up to Conrad on his splendid
war-hoss--a child ob one ob de war-hosses as come ober wid Pizarro from
Spain. `My name's Pumpkin,' answers de pris'ner. `Das a lie!' says de
gin'ral. `No's not,' says Conrad, lookin' up, as I could see by de back
ob his head. `What side you b'longs to, raskil?' `To no side,
gin'ral.' `Whar you come fro'?' `Fro' de mountains, gin'r'l.' `Whar
you go to?' `Ober de mountains, gin'ral.' I could see by de way de
fedders in de gin'ral's hat shake dat he's gittin' in a wax at de cool
imprence ob de pris'ner, but he 'strain hisself, an' spoke sarkmustic.
`Senhor Pumpkin,' says he, `you are Conrad ob de Mountains,'--('cause he
guess who he was by dat time); `how you prepose to go ober de
mountains?' `Dis way!' says Conrad, an', nixt momint, up goes de
gin'ral's leg, down goes his head an' fedders on de ground, and Conrad
sits in de saddle afore you can wink. All round de baynets was charge,
but dey haul up jist in time not to skewer one anoder, for de horse
shotted out fro' between dem all, an' away straight to de Chili lines,
whar dere was a great cheerin', for dey t'ought it was a deserter. When
Conrad came up, he trotted quietly troo de ranks, till he got near to
whar de Chili commander stood wid his hofficers, wonderin' who he was.
As he couldn't 'spec' to git no furder, he rides quietly up to a
hofficer, takes de sword out ob his hand afore he understand what he
wants, den, diggin' de spurs into de big war-hoss, off he goes wid a
yell like a Red Inj--oh! I's mean like a--a buff'lo bull. Out comes de
swords. Dey close all round 'im. I no see him by dat time. He too fur
off; but a friend ob mine was near, an' he say dat Conrad swing de long
sword so quick, an' de sun was shinin' so clar, dat it look like a
circle ob fire all round him. Down dey hoed on ebery side. Off goed a
head here, an arm dere. One trooper cut troo at de waist, an' fall'd
off, but de legs stick on. Anoder splitted right down fro' de helmet,
so as one half fall on one side, an' de odour half fall--"
"Come now, Quashy," interrupted Lawrence, with a laugh, "you
exaggerate."
"What! you call _dat_ exaggerate, massa? Den Conrad exaggerate about
ten more afore he cut his way troo an' 'scaped to de hills. Oh, he's an
awrful man!"
"Truly he must be very awful, if all you relate of him be true," said
Lawrence; "and I sincerely trust that if we fall in with him we may find
him friendly. Now, I shall ride forward, and ask Pedro if we are far
from our halting-place."
This abrupt change of subject was usually understood by the amiable
negro to mean that our hero--whom he persisted in regarding as his
master--had had enough of his conversation at that time, so he reined
back his mule, while Lawrence pushed forward.
To his question Pedro replied that he expected to reach the next
sleeping-place very soon.
"It will not be as luxurious as the last," he said; "but, doubtless, one
who has traversed the mountains of Scotland is prepared to rough it in
South America."
"You speak as if you were yourself somewhat acquainted with the Scottish
mountains."
"So I am, senhor," replied the guide. "I had clambered up Ben Nevis
while I was yet a little boy."
"Surely you are not a Scot?" said Lawrence, with a quick glance.
"No, I am not a Scot, senhor. To have travelled in a country does not
render one a native, else might I claim England, Ireland, and
Switzerland as my native lands. See, yonder lies the little farm where
I hope to put up for the night."
He pointed as he spoke to the head of the glen or valley, which was
somewhat narrower and more gloomy than the vales through which they had
ridden in the earlier part of the day. Since crossing the first
cordillera on the Pacific side of the Andes they had, indeed, traversed
a great variety of country. In some places the land was rocky and
comparatively barren. In others, where the peculiar form of the
mountains sheltered the table-lands, the country was fertile, and
numerous farms dotted the landscape, but as they ascended higher on the
main chain the farms became fewer, until they finally disappeared, and
an occasional hut, with a mere patch of cultivated ground, was all that
remained in the vast solitudes to tell of the presence of man.
It was to one of these huts that Pedro now directed his companion's
attention.
"A most suitable place for the abode of banditti," remarked Lawrence, as
they advanced up the winding path.
"And many a time do the bandits lodge there," returned Pedro. "Of
course, robbers of the Andes do not go about with placards on their
backs announcing their profession to all the world, and, as long as they
behave themselves, farmers are bound to regard them as honest men."
"You said, if I heard rightly," observed Lawrence, "that you had
formerly met with the rascal whom we let off the other day."
"Yes, I know him well. One of the worst men in the land. I'm almost
sorry we did not shoot him, but I never could take human life in cold
blood, even when that life had been forfeited over and over again.
However, he's sure to get his deserts sooner or later."
"Then he is not Conrad of the Mountains whom you mentioned to me
lately?"
"No, Conrad is a very different stamp of man--though he has not too much
to boast of in the way of character if all that's said of him be true.
The man we let go is a gaucho of the Pampas named Cruz. He delights in
war, and has fought in the armies of Chili, Peru, and the Argentine
Confederation without much regard to the cause of quarrel. In fact,
wherever fighting is going on Cruz is sure to be there. Lately he has
taken to the mountains, and now fights for his own hand."
"And the other poor fellow who went over the precipice," asked Lawrence,
"did you know him?"
"I knew him slightly. Antonio is his name, I think, but he is a villain
of no note--an inferior bandit, though quite equal to his captain, no
doubt, in selfishness and cruelty."
On arriving at the hut or small farm at the head of the valley, they
found its owner, a burly, good-humoured Creole, alone with his mother,
an old woman whose shrivelled-up appearance suggested the idea of a
mummy partially thawed into life. She was busy cooking over a small
fire, the smoke of which seemed congenial to her--judging from the
frequency with which she thrust her old head into it while inspecting
the contents of an iron pot.
There was plenty of room for them, the host said, with an air of
profound respect for Pedro, whom he saluted as an old acquaintance. The
house had been full two days before, but the travellers had gone on, and
the only one who remained was a poor man who lay in an out-house very
sick.
"Who is he?" asked Pedro, as he assisted Manuela to alight.
"I know not, senhor," replied the host. "He is a stranger, who tells me
he has been robbed. I can well believe it, for he has been roughly
handled, and there are some well-known bandits in the neighbourhood.
His injuries would not have been so serious, however, if he had not
caught a fever from exposure."
"Indeed," returned the guide, who, however, seemed more interested in
unsaddling his mules than in listening to the account of the unfortunate
man, "was it near this that he fell in with the bandits?"
"No, senhor, it was far to the west. The travellers who brought him on
said they found him almost insensible on the banks of a stream into
which he appeared to have fallen or been thrown."
Pedro glanced at Lawrence.
"Hear you that, senhor?"
"My Spanish only suffices to inform me that some one has been robbed and
injured."
Explaining fully what their host had said, Pedro advised Lawrence to
visit the stranger in his medical character.
"My friend is a doctor," he said, turning to the host, "take him to the
sick man; for myself, I will put up the mules and then assist the old
mother, for mountain air sharpens appetite."
In a rude, tumble-down hut close to the main building Lawrence found his
patient. He lay stretched in a corner on a heap of straw in a state of
great exhaustion--apparently dying--and with several bandages about his
cut and bruised head and face.
The first glance told Lawrence that it was Antonio, the robber whom he
had tried to rescue, but he carefully concealed his knowledge, and,
bending over the man, addressed him as if he were a stranger. The start
and look of surprise mingled with alarm on the robber's face told that
he had recognised Lawrence, but he also laid restraint on himself, and
drew one of the bandages lower down on his eyes.
Feeling his pulse, Lawrence asked him about his food.
He got little, he said, and that little was not good; the people of the
farm seemed to grudge it.
"My poor man," said Lawrence in his bad Spanish, "they are starving you
to death. But I'll see to that."
He rose and went out quickly. Returning with a basin of soup, he
presented it to the invalid, who ate it with relish. Then the man began
to relate how he had been attacked a few days before by a party of
robbers in one of the mountain passes, who had cut the throats of all
his party in cold blood, and had almost killed himself, when he was
rescued by the opportune arrival of some travellers.
Lawrence was much disgusted at first by the man's falsehood. Observing
the poor fellow's extreme weakness, however, and his evident anxiety
lest he should be recognised, the feeling changed to pity. Laying his
hand gently on the man's shoulder, he said, with a look of solemnity
which perchance made, up to some extent for the baldness of the
phraseology--
"Antonio, tell not lies; you are dying!"
The startled man looked at his visitor earnestly. "Am I dying?" he
asked, in a low tone.
"You are, perhaps; I know not. I will save you if possible."
These words were accompanied by a kind look and a comforting pat on the
shoulder, which, it may be, did more for the sick man than the best of
physic. At all events the result was a sudden grasp of the hand and a
look of gratitude which spoke volumes. The robber was about to give
vent to his feelings in speech when the door opened, and the burly host,
putting his head in, announced that supper was ready.
Giving his patient another reassuring pat, the young doctor left him and
returned to the banqueting-hall of the mountain farm, where he found
that Manuela, Pedro, and Quashy were more or less earnestly engaged with
the contents of the iron pot.