MARCOS SAYOSA, THE YOUNG MINER.
The _venta_ of _tia_ Joaquina was widely celebrated among the miners of
Los Rayas for the excellence of its liquors, the fine flavor of its
_cigarettes_, and the buxom beauty of _el patrona_, or “the hostess.”
Situated on the outskirts of Guanajuato, it was allowed a little more
license then would have been shown it, had it stood in a more
respectable portion of the city. Many a night of wild revelry, drinking,
carousing, quarreling, and fighting had been passed there by the
hotheaded young miners of the surrounding country, without fear of being
interrupted by the entrance of the _alguazils_, to wind up their
festivities by a morning visit at the _levee_ of the _alcalde_.
Many a tragic scene had those old walls witnessed, either within or
without, as the miners of Los Rayas, as a general thing, are not over
punctilious in regard to the shedding of blood when their veracity or
honor is deemed brought in question.
A young man was slowly approaching the _venta_, and although he kept his
hand upon the haft of his _cuchillo_, it was more from habit than
caution, for he was evidently in a deep reverie. But when he reached the
door of the _posada_, he threw off this feeling, and entering the room,
was met by the _patrona_, a large, handsome woman of perhaps forty
years.
“Well, _’nor_ Marcos, you are here at last,” she exclaimed, warmly
greeting the miner, who was an especial favorite with her. “The
_cavalleros_ have given you up, and, as you can hear, are enjoying
themselves hugely,” she added, as a burst of laughter came from beyond a
thickly-listed door.
“Yes, _tia_ Joaquina, I was delayed, and even now, if I must confess the
truth, I own more than half inclined to give the lads a cold shoulder
to-night. I am not in the humor for revelry,” said he, in a low voice,
that sounded rich and deep as the tones of a flute.
“_P’r Dios_, that would never do! There is business to be done to-night.
I believe they have heard that on the morrow the _Melladios_ are going
to try the strength of your ‘Scarlet Shoulders,’ and see if the defeat
you gave them at the last—”
“By the Virgin of Atocha! but that is good news,” exclaimed Marcos, his
full, black eyes sparkling with ardor. “We will teach the—”
“_H’la, ’na_ Joaquina!” shouted a voice, as the door was opened and a
head thrust through the aperture from within. “Bring some more—_mira,
comarados_, the capitan is making love to Santa Joaquina!” he yelled, as
he caught sight of the young miner.
“Treason—treason!” they shouted, as several rushed forth, and,
clustering around Marcos, forced him laughingly into the room, where he
was greeted with cheers and _vivas_, that testified to his popularity.
It was a long, low-ceiled room, the rude _adobe_ walls white-washed, but
the rough rafters overhead were black with smoke and festooned with
cobwebs, the accumulations of years. A rough table ran the entire length
of the room, with a narrow passage at either end. Along the sides and
secured to the walls were small stands, intended for three persons each,
and all equally guiltless of cloth or covering of any kind. Lights were
suspended from overhead, and, with candles stuck in niches around the
walls, illumined the room sufficiently for the purpose.
A thick, hazy cloud of smoke now filled every crevice, being supplied by
the glowing _cigarette_ that each man held, some forty in number. Before
them were scattered various utensils that were, or had been, full of
liquor. Tin and bone cups, stone jugs and leather bottles, in every
possible position that such utensils could possibly assume, covered the
table. The _patrona_ was far too careful of her crockery to intrust it
in such hands, even though sure of being paid for the damage done. It
was too scarce a commodity.
He who was called Marcos Sayosa finally seated himself at one of the
side tables, with two of his more particular friends, who quickly
enlightened him as to the truth of the subject hinted at by Joaquina. To
understand it more fully, the reader must know that the men who worked
in Los Rayas, and those of Mellado, a neighboring mine, were bitter
rivals, each party contending that their mine was the richest and best,
and many were the contests, both single and _en masse_, that had taken
place; all leaving the point in question as far from being settled as
ever. It had reached such a point that regular organizations were formed
on both sides, with officers chosen, signals and passwords arranged, and
the office of _spy_ was well rewarded. Of the miners from Rayas, who had
gained the _soubriquet_, “Scarlet Shoulders,” from the knot of ribbon of
that color they wore around their left shoulder, Marcos Sayosa was the
chief, while a middle-aged man, Perico Fuenter by name, commanded the
opposition. The two war-cries, “Rayas” or “Mellado,” were as famous and
promptly answered as that of the ’prentices in London of “clubs.” When
they were heard, those not belonging to the faction barred their doors,
and sought such place of security as they could find.
“You see,” said Lucas Planillas, the second in command, “they swear they
will go through the town on the morrow, and make every man drink to the
health of their cursed hole, and vow that it is far superior to our
blessed mine.”
“I wish them joy of the attempt,” sneered Marcos, “but this—this spy;
who is he? I never heard of him before as I know of.”
“Sylva Cohecho is his name. But who he is I know not, save that he gave
the signals and grips all correct. Look, yonder he is, at the next
table. Shall I call him?”
“No, no; I wish to take a good look at the gentleman first. So, that is
he?”
The man that he looked upon was one that would have attracted attention
in any company, not for his beauty, either of face or person; on the
contrary, he was rather under-sized, but had the head and shoulders of a
giant. As he faced the captain, with one arm dangling by the side of his
seat, the immense length of arm and deepness of his chest was fully
revealed. His cheeks and chin was covered with a stiff, bristly mass of
grizzled hair of much more recent growth than his mustache, the ends of
which rested upon his shoulders. He was dressed in the usual holiday
garb of the _mineros_, and from beneath the slouched brim of his straw
hat one piercing black eye glanced around the room. The bridge of his
nose was wanting, the purple scar showing that it had been mutilated by
the same blow that had deprived him of his eye. Altogether he was not
exactly the person a traveler would be pleased to meet upon a solitary
road. And so thought Marcos.
“_Voto a Brios, ’nor_ Lucas, but he is a hang-dog looking fellow. Are
you sure he is not a spy upon the wrong side?” muttered Sayosa.
“You know as much about him as I do,” returned Planillas. “But if you
suspect, better end it before harm is done. Say but the word, a nod, and
he will never trouble any one, unless it is his master, the devil,”
significantly tapping the hilt of his knife that peeped from his shirt
frill.
“No, Planillas; at least not until I have had speech with him. The
_mezcal_ he is using so freely may loosen his tongue after awhile. But
have you sent messengers to the rest of the band?”
“By daylight the city will be full, and all prepared for business,” said
the lieutenant, as he lighted another cigar.
They sat conversing in whispers for some time, forming their plans for
the expected assault, and drinking but sparingly. Then the young captain
heard a name mentioned that made him start from his chair and listen
intently.
“_H’la, ’nor_ Carlos,” shouted a young man across the table, “you know
how you were foiled by that little Carlita, the one who lives with old
_tio_ Tomas? Here is a _cavallero_ who has been smiled upon by the
Virgin, ay, and the black-eyed _doncella_, too!”
“Who is it you mean. Not yourself, I hope,” replied the man addressed, a
little sarcastically.
“Not so happy. But I referred to Senor Don Despierto here.”
“’Tis true, _senores cavalleros_,” added Despierto, with mock modesty.
“I saw the beautiful Carlita, and as I had nothing of greater importance
on my hands, I laid siege to her affections, and—succeeded.”
“By Venus, the cunning little prude, and she would not so much as even
look at me!” murmured Don Carlos. “But how far did you succeed?”
“How far can—”
“Hold, Senor Despierto!” shouted Marcos, as he leaped forward and
grasped the speaker by the shoulder. “_Por todos de Santos!_ if you do
not retract that base calumny, and say that you foully lied of one who
is as pure as the holy Virgin herself, I will tear your tongue out by
the roots, and force it down your throat!” he hissed, compressing his
fingers until it seemed they would meet through the yielding flesh.
“_Mil demonios_, if you were twice my captain, you should answer for
this,” gritted Estevan Despierto. “Unloose your hand, or I’ll unloosen
it with a dose of steel.”
“Bah, if you looked on a knife you’d turn pale and run like a _coyote_!”
said Marcos, as he hurled the other from his seat, half way through the
crowd that had gathered around the disputants.
“Look out, Marcos; he’s drawn his _cuchillo_,” cautioned Planillas, as
he leaped before his captain, who was prepared for the attack of his
foe. “_Abojo—abojo los armas_ (down with your weapons). Do you think
there are no bodies to carve but those of your friends? Remember the
_Melladios_!” he added.
“Peace, _’nor_ Planillas. He must either retract his words, and
acknowledge he was lying, or not all the saints will save him from my
vengeance,” calmly, but bitterly said Sayosa.
“A Despierto is not a Sayosa. He never denies his word,” sneered Don
Estevan.
“Enough. Stand aside, _comarados_, and let us end this,” gritted Marcos,
drawing his _cuchillo_ and wrapping a _frazada_ (a woolen cloak) around
his left arm.
“_H’la, senores_,” called a voice from the crowd. “Fair play! let them
fight upon the great table, so we can all see the sport.”
Ready for any thing that was novel, the _mineros_ soon cleared the
table, by brushing the drinking utensils upon the floor—thus proving the
_patrona’s_ prudence in abjuring crockery. A few minutes sufficed for
this, and then the combatants leaped upon the table, prepared for the
_sport_, while the spectators crowded around the arena, or stood upon
the little stands by the side of the walls, eagerly staking their money
upon the first wound and result of the duel.
Marcos had doffed his hat and outer _jayneta_, revealing a
closely-fitting garment of quilted silk. A sash was tightly bound around
his waist, and a handkerchief secured his long hair from falling over
his face. His antagonist was prepared much like the same. They were both
handsome, well-built and hardened men, but there was a peculiar look
about Despierto, that could only result from dissipation and excesses,
that was not visible in his adversary, and the older gamesters freely
laid their money against him. They knew that in a prolonged contest he
must go down before his more temperate foe.
“_Andela!_” (forward), shouted Lucas Planillas.
At the word both men bounded forward, and their knives met with a clash
that sent showers of tiny sparks to the table. Then their thrusts and
blows were made so quickly, the parries and changes of position were so
rapid, that the eye could not follow them. It was like the rapid
shifting of the kaleidoscope when quickly turned. The eye could catch
the motion, but ere it could fix the details, another combination would
obliterate its predecessor.
Despierto was slowly being forced back, or retreated from policy, when,
as Marcos stood near the edge of the table, Sylva Cohecho—he who had
brought the news of the intended attack by the _Melladios_—thrust forth
a hand, and strove to catch the young miner by the foot. If he had
succeeded it must have been fatal, for Estevan would have profited by
the stumble, and ended the combat then and there. But Lucas’ eye caught
the motion in time to frustrate it, and as he delivered a swift blow
behind the spy’s ear with his clenched fist, an adroit trip of the foot
sent him headlong under the table.
“Cursed crookback, you would do murder?” yelled Planillas, drawing his
knife and diving under the table just as Cohecho crowded out through the
crowd, who were ignorant of the cause of the disturbance.
He ran to the door, and turning, saw Lucas dart forward. Drawing a
pistol from his belt, he fired at the youth, the bullet piercing his
_sombrero_, while a faint yell and heavy fall among the spectators told
that the bullet had not been entirely harmless. Cohecho saw Planillas
stagger, and thinking his aim had been true, burst open the door with a
strong pull, and rushed through the bar-room, gaining the open street in
safety, sending back a wild, taunting laugh of triumph.
Further pursuit would be worse than useless, so the miners returned to
the room where the fight was still in progress, and a little knot
gathered around the dead body of a youth, who had been shot through the
brain by the missile intended for Planillas. The latter only gave one
glance at the victim, and then turned to view the duel.
They were both wounded, but evidently not very severely. The
perspiration ran in streams from their bronzed faces. Marcos adroitly
unrolled the _frazada_ that enveloped his left arm until it nearly
reached the floor. And, as the motions of his knife were thus concealed,
penetrated his antagonist’s guard, and sent his long blade to the hilt
in Despierto’s body.
But an attempted parry of the latter diverted the aim slightly, and
instead of passing between his ribs, as was intended, the knife glanced
into his back, inflicting a painful flesh wound, but not disabling the
duelist. The force of the blow, however, staggered him, and he fell upon
his back, as his foot slipped upon some blood. Marcos kicked the knife
from his grasp, and then kneeling upon his breast, pressed the point of
his knife against the man’s throat.
“Now, base liar, unsay the words, or by the Virgin of Atocha, I will
kill you like a dog!”
“I am Don Estevan Despierto!” scornfully replied the defeated duelist,
as though in those words were contained his answer to the threat.
“Once more I ask you. If you do not, before I count ten, you will never
speak again!”
“Bah! your arm is not strong enough, nor your heart brave enough to kill
a man,” sneered Despierto, vindictively struggling to free himself.
For a moment all was breathless silence in the room. Naught was heard
but the half-choked breathing of the man, who, laying upon his back,
with a foeman’s knees pressing into his breast—the dull, red gleam of
the long knife that had already drank his blood, as it was poised above
his throat, glancing full in his eyes, quailed not, but glowered
fiercely at his conqueror, as if daring the final blow. Then a faint
murmur ran around the room, half of admiration, half of pity for the
bold, strong-hearted man who was about to meet his death. But no one
offered to interfere; had he done so, a score of knives would have
confronted him. By the miner’s laws of the entire country, Despierto’s
life was forfeited to his victor, to be taken when and how his fancy
might dictate. Still, a shudder ran over the spectators as the voice of
the young miner began to count; it had a hard, metallic ring to it, that
appeared to fill the entire room, like the clanging of a huge bell.
“_Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho_—”
But he counted no further, for the door was thrown violently open, and
Joaquina rushed in from the bar-room, screaming:
“_Valga me Dios, cavalleros_, you are betrayed! The accursed _Melladios_
are here. _Hay mucho—muchissimos!_” (they are many.)
Instantly all was confusion. Several of those nearest the door ran out
to the entrance to see if it was not a false alarm, while the rest
hastily possessed themselves of their firearms that were stacked in the
corner of the room. Marcos Sayosa arose from the prostrate body of his
foe, and said:
“We will settle this affair afterward. Now, every man is needed. Will
you help your comrades?”
“I belong to the band,” haughtily replied Despierto, “and will do my
duty. You will not have to search for me, if we are both alive after we
chastise these beggarly hounds.”
“Good! I will trust you.”
A loud roar, as of many voices, was heard from without, closely followed
by a volley of firearms, and then two of the “Scarlet Shoulders”
re-entered, bearing between them the wounded body of their comrade.