"Mucho bueno, cavallero! mucho bueno, Tejano!" given in like
ungrammatical phrase, in order that it may be intelligible to the person
to whom it is addressed.
I have often been surprised at the success of my great uncouth followers
with these _petite_ dark-eyed damsels of Anahuac; but, indeed, many of
the rangers are not bad-looking men. On the contrary, there are
handsome fellows among them, if they were only put into clean shirts,
and a little more closely shaven. But woman's eye is keen-sighted in
such matters: she easily penetrates through the disguise of dust, the
bronze of sun-tan, and the shaggy mask of an ill-kept beard; and no eye
is quicker in this respect than that of the fair Mexicana. In the big,
apparently rude, individual, called a "ranger," she beholds a type of
strength and courage, a heart that can cherish, and an arm that can
protect her. These are qualities that, from all time, have won the love
of woman.
It is evident they are not all friends whom we are leaving behind us.
Hostile faces may be observed, many of them peering from open doors or
windows. Here and there a sulky lepero swings about in his blanket, or
cowers by the corner of the street, scowling savagely from under his
broad-brimmed hat. Most of this class are absent--as long since
ascertained--with the guerrilla; but a few still remain to give shadow
to the picture. They regard the approaches towards their women with
ill-concealed anger; and would resent this politeness if they dared.
They confine the exhibition of their spite to the dastardly meanness of
ill-treating the women themselves, whenever they have an opportunity.
No later than the night before, one of them was detected in beating his
sweetheart or mistress for the crime, as was alleged, of dallying too
long in the company of a Tejano. The Tejano, in this case, took the law
into his own hands, and severely chastised the jealous _pelado_.
Even in the hurried glance which I gave to these scenes of leave-taking,
I could not help noticing an expression on the faces of some of the
young girls that had in it a strange significance. It was something
more than sadness: it was more like the uneasy look that betokens
apprehension.
Perhaps the state of mind I was in magnified my perceptions. At that
moment, a struggle was passing in my own breast, and a feeling of
irresolution lay heavy upon me. All night long had my mind dwelt upon
the same thought--the danger that menaced my betrothed--all night long I
had been occupied with plans to avert it; but no reasonable scheme had I
succeeded in devising.
It is true the danger was only hypothetical and undefined; but it was
just this supposititious indefiniteness that caused the difficulty in
providing against it. Had it assumed a tangible shape, I might more
easily have adopted some means of avoiding it: but no--it remained a
shadow, and against a shadow I knew not what precautions to take. When
morning broke, I was still struggling under the same nervous indecision.
Problematical as was the peril my fancy had formed, there were moments
when it appalled me--moments when my mind laboured under a painful
presentiment, and I could not cast the load by any act of volition.
With all my philosophy, I could not fortify myself against the belief
that "coming events cast their shadows before;" and, spite of myself, I
kept repeating in thought the weird prophetic words. Upon my soul,
certainly, there were shadows, and dark ones; if the events should have
any correspondence with them, then there was misery before me.
I have termed the danger in which Isolina was placed indefinite: it was
not so indefinite, after a fair analysis; it was directly traceable to
the presence of Rafael Ijurra.
True, there were other sources of apprehension; other perils surrounded
her, arising from the disturbed state of the country--but these did not
point at her in particular. That frontier province had been for years
in a distracted condition--by revolution or Indian invasion--and war was
no new thing to its people. In the midst of strife had this fair flower
grown to perfect blooming, without having been either crushed or trodden
upon. Isolina de Vargas was a woman of sufficient spirit to resist
insult and cast off intrusion. I had just had proof of this. Under
ordinary circumstances, I had no fear that she would be unequal to the
emergency; but the circumstances in which she now stood were not of that
character; they were extraordinary, and that to an extreme degree. In
addition to the light thrown upon Ijurra's designs by his own menacing
confession, I knew other particulars of him. Holingsworth had helped me
to a knowledge of this bad man, and this knowledge it was that rendered
me apprehensive. From a nature so base and brutal, it was natural I
should dread the worst.
But what could I do? I might have thrown up my commission, and remained
upon the spot, but this would have been worse than idle. I could not
have protected myself, much less another. The rangers once gone from
the place, my life would not have been safe there for a single hour.
Only one plan suggested itself that had the semblance of feasibility: to
seek another interview with Isolina--her father as well--and adjure them
to remove at once from the scene of danger. They might proceed to San
Antonio de Bexar, where, far removed from hostile ground, they could
live in safety till the war should be ended.
It was only at the last moment that this happy idea came into my head,
and I reviled myself that I had not conceived it sooner. The chief
difficulty would lie in the opposition of Don Ramon. I knew that he was
aware of the _friendship_ that existed between his daughter and myself,
and, furthermore, that he had opposed no obstacle to it; but how could I
convince him of the necessity for so sudden an expatriation as the one I
was about to propose? how should I persuade him of the peril I myself
dreaded? and from such a source?
Another difficulty I might encounter: in the proud spirit of Isolina
herself. Much did I fear she would never consent to be thus driven from
her home, and by such a poltroon as she knew her cousin to be. She had
cowed and conquered him but the day before; she feared him not; she
would not be likely to partake of my painful apprehensions. My counsel
might be disregarded, my motives misconstrued.
The time, too, was unfavourable. We must be on the march by sunrise--so
ran our orders--and already the day was breaking. I cared not much for
this: I could easily have overtaken my troop; but it was a delicate
matter--that could only be excused by a certain knowledge of danger--to
awake a gentleman's family at such an hour, even for the purpose of
warning them. Moreover, should my advice prove fruitless, I reflected
that my visit--which could not be made in secret--might aid in bringing
about the very danger I apprehended. A circumstance so extraordinary
could not fail to be noticed by all.
It was thus that I was held in irresolution, while my troop was forming
for the march.
At the last moment, thanks to the thoughtful Holingsworth, a compromise
offered. He suggested that I should send my advice in writing. In that
I could be as explicit as I pleased, and bring before my proteges all
the arguments I might be able to adduce--perhaps more successfully than
if urged by a personal appeal.
My comrade's suggestion was adopted; and in haste, but with a fervour
resulting from my fears, I penned the admonitory epistle.
A trusty messenger was found in one of the _Ayankieados_; who promised,
as soon as the family should be stirring, to carry the letter to its
destination.
With my heart somewhat relieved of its load, though still far from
light, I gave the order to march.
The bugle rang clear and loud, and its cheerful notes, as I sprang into
the saddle, combined with the inspiration borrowed from my buoyant
steed, produced a soothing effect upon my spirits.