The open space in front of the hovel was occupied by a group of women--
most of them young girls. There were six or seven; I did not count
them. There were two or three men, Mexicans, mixed up in the group.
Rube was in their midst, endeavouring in his broken Spanish to give them
consolation and assurance of safety. Poor victims! they needed both.
The women were half-naked--some of them simply _en chemise_. Their long
black hair fell loosely over their shoulders, looking tossed, wet, and
draggly. There was blood upon it; there was blood upon their cheeks in
seams half dried, but still dropping. The same horrid red mottled their
necks and bosoms, and there was blood upon the hands that had wiped
them. A red-brown blotch appeared upon the foreheads of all. In the
moonlight, it looked as if the skin had been burnt.
I rode closer to one, and examined it: it was a brand--the fire-stamp of
red-hot iron. The skin around was scarlet; but in the midst of this
halo of inflammation I could distinguish, from their darker hue, the
outlines of the two letters I wore upon my button--the well-known "U.S."
She who was nearest me raised her hands, and tossing back from her
cheeks the thick clustered hair, cried out--
"_Miralo, senor! mira_!"
Oh, Heaven! my flesh crept as I looked upon the source of that crimson
haemorrhage. Her ears had been cut off--they were wanting!
I needed no further uplifting of their hair to satisfy me that the
others had been served in like manner; the red stream still trickling
adown their necks was evidence enough.
The men, too, had been similarly abused. Two of them had suffered still
further mutilation. They held up their right arms before my face--not
their hands. _There were no hands_. I saw the hanging sleeve, and the
blood-steeped bandage on the stump. Their hands had been chopped off at
the wrists. Horrid sight!
Both men and women gathered around me, clasping my knees, and uttering
prayers and entreaties. No doubt most of them were known to me by
sight; but their features were now unrecognisable. They had been the
friends and sweethearts of the corps, and my followers were already
addressing them by name. The lovers of one or two were present, sadly
embracing them!
One appeared more richly costumed than the rest, and upon her my eyes
had fallen, as I first rode up. I almost dreaded to approach her, as
she stood a little apart; but no--it could not be--she was not tall
enough; besides, the ruffians would not dare--
"Your name, senorita?"
"_Conchita, senor_--_la hija del alcalde_."
The tears burst from her eyes, mingling with blood as they ran down her
cheeks. Oh, that I too could have wept! Poor Wheatley! he was not with
us. He had yet to receive the blow: it would soon fall.
My heart was on fire; so were those of my followers. They swore and
foamed at the mouth. Some drew pistols and knives, calling out to me to
lead them on. Never saw I men in such a frenzy of rage: the most
cold-blooded among them seemed to have suddenly gone mad.
I could scarcely restrain them, till we should hear the tale. We
guessed it already; but we needed some details to guide us in the
execution of vengeance. It was told by many mouths, interrupting or
confirming one another.
One of the men was more coherent--Pedro, who used to sell mezcal to the
troop. To him we listened. The substance of his story was as
follows:--
Shortly after we had left the rancheria, it was entered by the
guerrilleros with cries of "_Viva Santa Anna! Viva Mexico_!" and
"_Death to the Yankees_!" They commenced by breaking open the
_tiendas_, and drinking mezcal and whatever they could find. They were
joined by the mob of the place--by _leperos_ and others. Pedro noticed
the _herredero_ (blacksmith) and the _matador_ (cattle-killer) taking a
conspicuous part. There were many women in the mob--the mistresses of
the guerrilleros, and others of the town.
After drinking a while, they grew more excited. Then was heard the cry,
"_Mueran los Ayankieados_!" and the crowd scattering in different
directions, entered the houses, shouting, "_Saquenlos afuera!
matenlos_!" (Drag them out! kill them!)
The poor girls, and all who had been friendly to the _Americanos_, were
dragged into the piazza amidst the oaths and execrations of the
guerrilla, and hissings and hootings from the mob. They were spit upon,
called by filthy names, pelted with mud and melon-rinds, and then some
of the crowd suggested that they should be _marked_, so that their
friends the _Tejanos_ should know them again. The suggestion was
adopted; the women, more fiendish than the men, exciting the latter to
the deed. Voices were heard calling to the blacksmith--
"_Traiga el fierro! traiga el fierro_!" (Bring the branding-iron!)