TWO VARIETIES OF VILLAINS.
Now that the reader is well informed touching Fray Ambrosio, we will
follow him on his road home from the mesón. The night was calm, silent
and serene. Not a sound troubled the silence, save the trot of the mule
over the pebbles on the road, or at times, in the distance, the snapping
bark of the coyotes chasing in a pack, according to their wont, some
straggling hind.
Fray Ambrosio ambled gently on, while reflecting on the events of the
evening, and calculating mentally the probable profits of the expedition
he meditated. He had left far behind him the last houses of the village,
and was advancing cautiously along a narrow path that wound through an
immense sugar cane field. Already the shadow of the tall hacienda walls
stood out blackly in the horizon. He expected to reach it within twenty
minutes, when suddenly his mule, which had hitherto gone so quietly,
pricked up its ears, raised its head, and stopped short.
Roughly aroused from his meditations by this unexpected halt, the monk
looked about for some obstacle that might impede his progress. About ten
paces from him a man was standing right in the middle of the path. Fray
Ambrosio was a man not easily to be frightened: besides, he was well
armed. He drew out one of the pistols hidden under his gown, cocked it,
and prepared to cross-question the person who so resolutely barred his
way. But the latter, at the sharp sound of the setting hammer, thought
it prudent to make himself known, and not await the consequences of an
address nearly always stormy under similar circumstances.
"Halloh!" he shouted in a loud voice, "Return your pistol to your belt,
Fray Ambrosio; I only want to talk with you."
"_Diavolo_!" the monk said, "the hour and moment are singularly chosen
for a friendly conversation, my good fellow."
"Time belongs to nobody," the stranger answered sententiously. "I am
obliged to choose that which I have at my disposal."
"That is true," the monk said as he quietly uncocked his pistol, though
not returning it to his belt. "Who the deuce are you, and why are you so
anxious to speak with me? Do you want to confess?
"Have you not recognised me yet, Fray Ambrosio? Must I tell you my name
that you may know with whom you have to deal?"
"Needless, my good sir, needless; but how the deuce is it, Red Cedar,
that I meet you here! What can you have so pressing to communicate to
me?"
"You shall know if you will stop for a few moments and dismount."
"The deuce take you with your whims! Cannot you tell me that as well
tomorrow! Night is getting on, my home is still some distance off and I
am literally worn out."
"Bah! you will sleep capitally by the side of a ditch, where you could
not be more comfortable. Besides, what I have to say to you does not
admit of delay."
"You wish to make a proposal to me, then?"
"Yes."
"What about, if you please?"
"About the affair we discussed this evening at the Paso."
"Why, I fancied we had settled all that, and you accepted my offer."
"Not yet, not yet, my master. That will depend on the conversation we
are about to have, so you had better dismount and sit down quietly by my
side; for if you don't do it, it will come to nothing."
"The deuce take people that change their minds every minute, and on whom
one cannot reckon more than on an old surplice!" the monk growled with
an air of annoyance, while, for all that, getting off his mule, which he
fastened to a shrub.
The squatter did not seem to remark the chaplain's ill temper, and let
him sit down by his side without uttering a syllable.
"Here I am," the monk went on, so soon as he was seated. "I really do
not know, Red Cedar, why I yield so easily to all your whims."
"Because you suspect that your interest depends on it: were it not for
that, you would not do so."
"Why talk thus in the open country, instead of going to your house,
where we should be much more comfortable?"
Red Cedar shook his head in denial.
"No," he said; "the open is better for what we have to talk about. Here
we need not fear listeners at out doors."
"That is true. Well, go on; I am listening."
"Hum! You insist upon my commanding the expedition you project?"
"Of course. I have known you a long time. I am aware that you are a sure
man, perfectly versed in Indian signs; for, if I am not mistaken, the
greater part of your life has been spent among them."
"Do not speak about what I have done? The question now concerns you, and
not me."
"How so?"
"Good, good! Let me speak. You need me, so it is to my interest to make
you pay as dearly as I can for me."
"Eh?" the monk muttered, as he made a grimace. "I am not rich, gossip,
as you are aware."
"Yes, yes; I know that, so soon as you have a few piastres or ounces,
the monte table strips you of them immediately."
"Hang it! I have always been unlucky at play."
"For that reason I do not intend asking you for money."
"Very good. If you have no designs on my purse we can easily come to an
understanding. You may speak boldly."
"I hope that we shall easily understand one another, the mere so as the
service I expect from you is almost a mere nothing."
"Come to the point, Red Cedar: with your deuced way of twining your
phrases together in the Indian way, you never make an end of it."
"You know that I have a deadly hatred against Don Miguel Zarate?"
"I have heard some say about it. Did he not lodge his knife somewhere in
your chest?"
"Yes, and the blow was so rude that I all but died of it; but, thanks to
the devil, I am on my legs again, after remaining three weeks on my back
like a cast sheep. I want my revenge."
"I can't help saying you are right: in your place, may Satan twist my
neck if I would not do the same!"
"For that I count on your help."
"Hum! that is a delicate affair. I have no cause of complaint against
Don Miguel--on the contrary: besides, I do not see how I can serve you."
"Oh! very easily."
"You believe so?"
"You shall see."
"Go on, then; I am listening."
"Don Miguel has a daughter?"
"Doña Clara."
"I mean to carry her off."
"Deuce take the mad ideas that pass through your brain-pan, gossip! How
would you have me help you in carrying off the daughter of Don Miguel,
to whom I owe so many obligations? No, I cannot do that, indeed."
"You must, though."
"I will not, I tell you."
"Measure your words well, Fray Ambrosio, for this conversation is
serious. Before refusing so peremptorily to give me the help I ask,
reflect well."
"I have reflected well, Red Cedar, and never will I consent to help you
in carrying off the daughter of my benefactor. Say what you like,
nothing will ever change my resolution on that head, for it is
inflexible."
"Perhaps."
"Oh! Whatever may happen, I swear that nothing will make me alter."
"Swear not, Fray Ambrosio, for you will be a perjurer."
"Ta, ta, ta! You are mad, my good fellow. Don't let us waste our time.
If you have nothing else to say to me, I will leave you, though I take
such pleasure in your society."
"You have become scrupulous all of a sudden, my master."
"There is a beginning to everything, compadre; so let us say no more,
but good-bye."
And the monk rose.
"You are really going?"
"_Caray_! Do you fancy I mean to sleep here?"
"Very good. You understand that you need not count on me for your
expedition?"
"I am sorry for it; but I will try to find someone to take your place."
"Thank you."
The two men were standing, and the monk had put his foot in the stirrup.
Red Cedar also appeared ready to make a start. At the moment of
separation a sudden idea seemed to occur to the squatter.
"By the way," he said carelessly, "be kind enough to give me some
information I require."
"What is it now?" the monk asked.
"Oh! a mere trifle," the squatter remarked indifferently. "It concerns a
certain Don Pedro de Tudela, whom I think you formerly knew."
"Eh!?" the monk exclaimed, as he turned, with his leg still in the air.
"Come, come, Fray Ambrosio," Red Cedar continued in a jeering voice,
"let us have a little more talk together. I will tell you, if you like,
a very remarkable story about this Don Pedro, with whom you were
acquainted."
The monk was livid; a nervous tremor agitated all his limbs; he let
loose his mule's bridle, and followed the squatter mechanically, who
seated himself tranquilly on the ground, making him a sign to follow his
example. The monk fell, suppressing a sigh, and wiping away the drops of
cold perspiration that beaded on his forehead.
"Eh, eh!" the squatter continued at the end of a moment, "we must allow
that Don Pedro was a charming gentleman--a little wild, perhaps; but
what would you have? He was young. I remember meeting him at Albany a
long time ago--some sixteen or seventeen years ago--how old one
gets!--at the house of one--wait awhile, the name has slipped my
memory--could you not help me to it, Fray Ambrosio?"
"I do not know what you mean," the monk said in a hollow voice.
The man was in a state that would have produced pity; the veins in his
forehead were swollen ready to burst; he was choking; his right hand
clutched the hilt of his dagger; and he bent on the squatter a glance
full of deadly hatred. The latter seemed to see nothing of all this.
"I have it!" he continued. "The man's name was Walter Brunnel, a very
worthy gentleman."
"Demon!" the monk howled in a gasping voice, "I know not who made you
master of that horrible secret, but you shall die."
And he rushed upon him, dagger in hand.
Red Cedar had known Fray Ambrosio a long time, and was on his guard. By
a rapid movement he checked his arm, twisted it, and seized the dagger,
which he threw a long distance off.
"Enough," he said in a harsh voice. "We understand one another, my
master. Do not play that game with me, for you will be sick of it, I
warn you."
The monk fell back on his seat, without the strength to make a sign or
utter a syllable. The squatter regarded him for a moment with mingled
pity and contempt and shrugged his shoulders.
"For sixteen years I have held that secret," he said, "and it has never
passed my lips. I will continue to keep silence on one condition."
"What is it?"
"I want you to help me in carrying off the hacendero's daughter."
"I will do it."
"Mind, I expect honest assistance; so do not attempt any treachery."
"I will help you, I tell you."
"Good! I count on your word. Besides you may be easy, master; I will
watch you."
"Enough of threats. What is to be done?"
"When do we start for Apacheria?"
"You are coming, then?"
"Of course."
A sinister smile played round the monk's pale lips.
"We shall start in a week," he said.
"Good! On the day of the start you will hand over the girl to me, one
hour before our departure."
"What shall I do to compel her to follow me?"
"That is not my business."
"Still--"
"I insist."
"Be it so," the monk said with an effort. "I will do it; but remember,
demon, if I ever hold you in my hands, as I am this day in yours, I
shall be pitiless and make you pay for all I suffer at this moment."
"You will be right to do so--it is your due; still I doubt whether you
will ever be able to reach me."
"Perhaps."
"Live and learn. In the meanwhile I am your master, and I reckon on your
obedience."
"I will obey."
"That is settled. Now, one thing more; how many men have you enlisted
this evening?"
"About twenty."
"That's not many; but, with the sixty I shall supply, we shall have a
very decent band to hold the Indians in check."
"May Heaven grant it!"
"Don't be alarmed, my master," the squatter said, re-assuming the
friendly tone which he employed at the outset of the conversation; "I
pledge myself, to lead you straight to your placer. I have not lived ten
years with the Indians not to be up to all their tricks."
"Of course," the monk answered as he rose, "You know, Red Cedar, what
was agreed upon; the placer will be shared between us. It is, therefore,
to your interest to enable us to reach it without obstacle."
"We shall reach it. Now that we have nothing more to say to each other
and have agreed on all points--for we have done so, I think?" he said
significantly.
"Yes, all."
"We can part, and go each home. No matter, my master! I told you that I
should succeed in making you alter your mind. Look you, Fray Ambrosio,"
he added in impudent tone, which made the monk turn pale with rage;
"people need only to understand one another to do anything."
He rose, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and turning away sharply,
went off with lengthened strides. The monk remained for a moment as if
stunned by what had happened. Suddenly he thrust his hand under his
gown, seized a pistol, and aimed at the squatter. But ere he had time to
pull the trigger his enemy disappeared round a turning, uttering a
formidable burst of laughter, which the mocking echo bore to his ear,
and revealed to him all the immensity of his impotence.
"Oh!" he muttered as he got in the saddle, "How did this fiend discover
the secret which I believed no one knew?"
And he went off gloomy and thoughtful. Half an hour later he reached the
Hacienda de la Noria, when the gate was opened for him by a trusty peon,
for everybody was asleep. It was past midnight.