HOW PEDRO PROVIDED HIMSELF WITH A HORSE AND VALET.
Santiago lies sixty miles south-west of Valparaiso towards the Andes,
a rough and hilly road. To proceed there on foot by no means suited
Pedro's ideas of locomotion, while to travel by any kind of vehicle
might lead to detection and other serious annoyances, so, as evening
approached, and Pedro considered that old Moreno and his daughter
must have had ten or twelve hours' start, he became sorely perplexed.
The sun set, the moon rose, and still Pedro was undecided.
Slowly, solemnly, and majestically that broad, round silver moon
ascended from the calm waters of the Pacific. White as snow shone
all the plastered streets of Valparaiso, and the sea that rolled
rippling into the bay, between the embattled forts, seemed a sheet of
liquid sheen; but in the blue sky her silver light struggled for
supremacy with a lurid red cast--not upon the clouds, for there were
none--but upon the very ether itself, by the flames that were now
shooting upward from the vast cone of Aconcagua.
From the windows of the front drawing-room, or large public saloon of
the posada, which opened towards the bay, Pedro sauntered, sunk in
thought and rage--perplexity always took that form with him--to those
of the back, which overlooked the stable-yard, and there a violent
altercation arrested his attention. It was taking place between no
less a personage than Felipe Fernandez and a horseman who had just
arrived.
"I have ridden from the Maypo River," said the latter, "and must put
up here."
"A short distance, senor, and your horse is quite fresh," replied the
host; "it is useless dismounting, as I cannot accommodate you."
"Why?" asked the other, with a malediction which sounded familiar to
the ear of Pedro.
"We have no room."
"Bah! I have been told that elsewhere."
"Very likely," replied the host, drily, as he turned to retire.
"If you have no room inside, just shove a pole out of the upper
window, and I'll roost on that in California fashion," urged the
speaker, as he deliberately dismounted, and, taking the lasso from
his saddlebow, threw it over his arm; "I must have a bottle of wine,
at least, ere I look for other diggings--_caramba_."
This interjection made Pedro regard the stranger more closely as he
passed from where he had fastened his horse, and crossed the yard in
the full blaze of the moonlight. Then Barradas ground his teeth as
he recognised Cramply Hawkshaw, whom he had not met since that
afternoon of crime in the Barranca Secca; and he was quite as much
enraged and bewildered on seeing Hawkshaw there in the Posada de San
Augustin as that personage had been on beholding him when perched on
the yard-arm of the _Hermione_, on that evening after she left London.
But Pedro's measures were rapidly taken; already he heard the
footsteps of him he must avoid ascending the broad marble-staircase
of the hotel! Save his poncho, knife, and revolver, Pedro had no
luggage that he cared about, so he thrust the weapons in his sash,
threw the poncho over his shoulders, stuck his sombrero fiercely on
his head, and brushed past Hawkshaw just as that person entered the
room.
Descending quickly to the stable-yard, Pedro went straight to where
Hawkshaw's horse was standing in shadow, and after deliberately
giving a glance at the bit and bridle, and lengthening the
stirrup-leathers, to suit himself, he mounted, rode softly out of the
stable-yard, and before Captain Hawkshaw, late of the Texan Partisan
Rangers, had finished his wine, and had another expostulation with
the _maestro de casa_, who either knew him of old, or disliked his
trapper-like equipment, Pedro was fully three miles from Valparaiso,
and was ascending, at a slow pace, of course, the steep and winding
path which led to one of the many ravines in the mountain range that
overhangs the city.
The horse had come from the Maypo River that day, as Hawkshaw stated;
but it was strong and active, being one of that degenerated breed of
Spanish chargers, which are to be met with, sometimes in herds of
10,000, on the vast plains which extend from the shores of La Plata
to the mountains of Patagonia. His head was broad; his legs clumsy;
he was long-eared, rough-coated, and of a chestnut bay colour; but,
like his brethren of the grassy prairies, he was possessed of great
strength and spirit, and thus ascended the rough mountain path with
unflagging zeal; but not so quickly as to prevent another horse,
whose hoofs were heard behind, from gaining on him as they entered
the ravine in the hills, where their galloping was re-echoed by the
overhanging volcanic rocks.
Pedro's hasty flight, together with the disappearance of the horse of
the unwelcome visitor, who now stormed, and threatened to complain to
the nearest alcalde, having excited the suspicion of the host, and a
gust of rage in the breast of Hawkshaw, the latter, on hearing of the
ponderous and immovable trunk, suggested that it should at once be
examined, for, being aware of every species of trick under the sun,
he at once suspected that it was full alone of emptiness.
Promptly acting on this alarming suggestion, Fernandez burst it open,
and then nothing was seen in it, save the heads of the screws that
secured it to the floor. He tore his hair, said many irreverent
things of poor San Augustin, the patron of his posada, and leaping on
one of his own horses, after a few inquiries, started in pursuit of
the runaway along the Santiago road.
His horse being one of those which are imported from San Domingo, was
of pure Castilian breeding, and rapidly overtook the Chilian nag
ridden by Pedro, whom Fernandez soon recognised in the moonlight, as
he jogged along, with his toes turned out and his elbows squared, and
whom he summoned to stop, just as they gained the wildest part of the
ravine, where the hills overhung it darkly, though at its western
end, far down below, could be seen white Valparaiso, its deep-blue
bay and shipping, its lighted thoroughfares, its spires and convents,
spread out like a fairy map in the silver sheen.
"Hollo!" answered Pedro, reining up, "who are you that follow a
gentleman thus, shouting on the road like a drunken Indian? What--is
it you, Senor Fernandez?"
"Yes, tis I," replied the landlord, breathless alike with rage and
his hasty ride, yet resolving to dissemble a little; "permit me to
expostulate with you, senor, on the double mistake you have
committed."
"Mistake--I?"
"Yes, senor!"
"Explain yourself, and quickly too," replied Pedro, fiercely, as he
grasped the revolver under his poncho.
"You have taken a stranger's horse from my house, and departed
without paying the bill."
"I have left baggage, fellow," Pedro was beginning, with great
loftiness.
"Only an empty box," interrupted Fernandez, but with rather a
quavering voice, when remembering with deep mortification that he had
come on this errand unarmed.
"You know Don Salvador de Moreno?"
"Perfectly."
"I have here a cheque of his for a large sum, sir," said Pedro,
producing the old merchant's stamped paper. "What change have you
about you?"
"I regret, senor, that I have only twenty pistoles," said the
landlord, with sudden affability; "yes--just twenty, and a few
dollars."
"All of which I require you to hand over instantly, or I shall send
this bullet through your brain!" cried Pedro, with an oath, as he
levelled the revolver full at the head of the startled Fernandez.
The latter saw the steel barrel glittering in the moonlight; he saw
the caps on the breech; and he saw, too, that there was no
misunderstanding the fierce glitter in the eyes of Pedro. The path
was lonely, and no aid was nigh.
"_Presto!_" roared Pedro; "I have no time to spare."
With a reluctance that was no way feigned, Fernandez gave his purse,
which Pedro thrust into his pocket.
"Now, senor," said Fernandez, "I beseech you to give me the horse,
for which I must account to Captain Hawkshaw, as he left it on my
premises."
Pedro laughed aloud on hearing this request.
"Harkye, shipmate, he rides seldom who only rides borrowed horses; so
I ride seldom, and, being a sailor, don't overlike it. Captain
Hawkshaw is an old friend of mine, and may find his horse if he
inquires at Quillota." (This was said to mislead the landlord as to
his route.) "All my little mistakes are rectified now, I think, eh?
_Adios_! I shall always recommend the Posada de San Augustin to my
friends. Your cooking is admirable, your wines ditto. Be assured
alike of my boundless custom and most distinguished consideration
when next I visit your beautiful city of Valparaiso."
And thus bantering, the ruffian rode off, leaving Fernandez,
speechless with rage, to retrace his steps or enjoy the moonlight
among the mountains, as he chose, on very bad terms, however, with
his patron, San Augustin, whom he believed had handed him over to the
Evil One.
Pedro's horse, if not swift, had good mettle in him, and trotted
steadily eastward up the ascent, towards the higher ranges of hills,
and ere long no less than four volcanic peaks were visible, all
flaming at once, like the cones of a mighty natural furnace, and
casting from afar off a glow of fire even to the zenith.
At midnight, the moonshine was still glorious. Pedro had ridden more
than half-way to Santiago--thirty miles--so he stopped to rest
himself, rather than the poor horse, in a little dell amid groves of
mimosa trees, where parroquets, flame-coloured and green, chattered
amid the branches; where the tall ceibas, or cotton-wood timber, cast
their shadows on a deep and reedy lagune, whereon the giant
water-flowers of that tropical region floated, and where, for
coolness, the picaflor, or little humming-bird, nestled in their cups
by day.
Though a South American, Pedro, as a seaman, had been long unused to
the saddle. He felt as if all his bones had been mangled; wearily he
threw the bridle over the stump of a broken tree, and stretched
himself on the grass, while his nag drank of the lagune.
On the whole, Pedro was greatly pleased with himself. He had Don
Salvador's bill for 1,000 dollars; he had ten dollars yet remaining
of the plunder from the brigantine, and he had twenty pistoles and
four dollars just taken from Fernandez. Then there was Hawkshaw's
horse, which, with its furniture, he valued at 500 more.
"_Vamas!_" thought he; "at this rate I shall soon realise a fortune."
While Pedro was thus casting up this little sum, gained by his
industry, he did not perceive a dark, lithe, and athletic young
fellow, who had been lurking among the luxuriant weeds, and who now
stole stealthily towards him, with a knife glittering in his hand;
and little thought Pedro that the clink of his ill-gotten pistoles
had been overheard.
This stealthy personage wore a red baize shirt, a yellow poncho
cloak, or _surreppa_, an old-fashioned Spanish hat, much broken and
bruised, and long brown leather leggings.
He had a calf-skin girdle, fastened to which by a thong the sheath of
his knife was dangling, beside an Indian bota, or drinking-flask.
Gliding like a serpent or eel, he was close to Pedro, ere a sound
made the latter turn sharply, with instinctive caution.
Each uttered an imprecation--an expletive not to be found in Johnson
or Walker--there was a gleam of the lurker's knife, and a flash of
Pedro's pistol, as they closed suddenly, and, without harming each
other, suddenly drew back.
"Pedro!"
"Zuares!"
Such were the exclamations that escaped the lips of these worthies,
just in time to prevent a little culpable fratricide.
The brothers now exchanged an account of their adventures since they
had scuttled the boat of the brigantine at the harbour of the
Almendral, and separated, each to shift for himself.
Those of Zuares were very simple, being merely the breaking of all
the commandments, and spending his dollars in such a fashion that the
atmosphere of Valparaiso became too hot for his comfort, and he was
now travelling inland, to avoid the chance of being legally garotted
in a city where there was no Sangrado equalling our friend Heriot in
a skill calculated to baffle even Calcraft.
But Pedro's narrative and intentions filled Zuares with genuine
admiration and envy of his brother, the part of whose valet he
promptly resolved to personate, in the prosecution of their scheme
upon the funds and family of Don Salvador de Moreno, the account of
whose simplicity, together with the beauty of Donna Ignez, he vowed
to be quite delightful.
"Of course. _Corpo Santo!_ a rich man's only daughter is always
lovely," said Pedro; "but now, Zuares, _hermano mio_, you must
remember all I have said, particularly about our--I mean _my_ noble
relatives."
"I have spelt them all over, I think. There is Serrano,
Captain-General of Ciudad Rodrigo, and your cousin, Don Florez, who
is alcalde of Cuba----"
"No, no, no!" exclaimed Pedro; "at this rate you will play the devil
with me. I am Don Pedro Florez de Serrano, cousin to the
Captain-General of Cuba; my late uncle was corregidor of Ciudad
Rodrigo, as rich and as pious as you please."
"And you--you are----"
"A lieutenant of the Southern Navy on parole; which will account for
my brown hands, and other shortcomings in the matter of gentility.
You----"
"I am a most attached and faithful servant."
"A regular Sancho. You have your cue?"
"_Por vida del demonio_, what a game!"
"_Glorioso! Vamos_ (come)!"
And the two rascals laughed heartily as they resumed the road that
led to Santiago, chatting, and fraternally riding by turns the horse
of Hawkshaw, which now, poor animal, began to droop its head and ears
in weariness.