III.

It is not to be supposed that this bloody deed occurred entirely

unsuspected. Pedro, the gate-keeper, lay half-stunned upon the stones

where he had been cast by the man who called himself Planillos, and

listened with strained ears to every sound. No indication of a struggle

reached him, but his horrified imagination formed innumerable pictures

of treacherous violence, in which one or the other of the men who had

left him figured as the victim. He dared give no alarm; indeed, at first

he was so unnerved by terror that he could neither stir nor speak. At

length, after what appeared to him hours but was in reality only a few

minutes, he heard the shrill neigh of the horse and the sound of rearing

and plunging, followed by the dull thud of retreating footsteps and

shrill whistles in challenge and answer from the watchmen upon the

hacienda roof, who, however, took no further steps toward investigating

what they supposed to be a drunken brawl which had taken place, almost

out of hearing and quite out of sight, and which therefore, as they

conceived, could in no wise endanger the safety or peace of the

hacienda.

Their signals, however, served to arouse Pedro, who shaking in every

limb, his brain reeling, his heart bursting with apprehension, crawled

to the postern, and after many abortive efforts managed to secure the

bolts. He then staggered to the alcove in which he slept, and searching

beneath the sheepskin mat which served for his bed, found a small flask

of _aguardiente_, and taking a deep draught of the fiery liquor, little

by little recovered his outward composure.

For that night, however, sleep no more visited his eyes; and he spent

the hour before dawn in making to himself wild excuses for his treason,

in wilder projects for flight, and in mentally recapitulating his sins

and preparing himself for death; so it can readily be imagined that it

was a haggard and distraught countenance that he thrust forth from the

postern at dawn, when with the first streak of light came a crowd of

excited villagers to the gate, to beat upon it wildly, and with hoarse

groans and cries to announce that Don Juan had been found murdered under

a mesquite tree.

“Impossible! Ye are mad! Anselmo, thou art drunk, raving!” stammered

forth the gate-keeper. “Don Juan is is at the reduction-works!”

“Thou liest!” cried an excited villager; “he is in purgatory. God help

him! Holy angels and all saints pray for him!”

“Ave Maria! Mother of Sorrows, by the five wounds of thy Son, intercede

for him!” cried a chorus of women, wringing their hands and

gesticulating distractedly.

“Open the gate, Pedro!” demanded the throng without, by this time almost

equalled by that within, through which the administrador, Don Rafael

Sanchez, was seen forcing his way, holding high the great keys of the

main door. He was a small man, with a pale but determined face, before

whom the crowd fell back, ceasing for a moment their incoherent

lamentations, while he assisted Pedro to unlock and throw open the

doors.

“Good heavens, man, are you mad?” he exclaimed, as Pedro darted from his

side and rushed toward the group of rancheros, who, bearing between them

a recumbent form, were slowly approaching the hacienda. “Ah! ah, that is

right,” as he saw that Pedro, with imperative gestures and a few

expressive words, had induced the bearers to turn and proceed with the

body toward the reduction-works; “better there than here. What could

have induced him to roam about at night? I have told him a score of

times his foolhardiness would be the death of him;” and with these and

similar ejaculations Don Rafael hastened to join the throng which were

soon pouring into the gates of the reduction-works.

Meanwhile from within the great house came the cries of women, above

which rose one piercing shriek; but few were there to hear it, for in

wild excitement men, women, and children followed the corpse across the

valley and thronged the gates of the works which were closed in their

faces, or surrounded with gaping looks, wild gesticulations, and

meaningless inquiries, the tree beneath which the murdered man had been

found, thus completely obliterating the signs of the struggle and flight

of the murderer even while most eagerly seeking them.

John Ashley had been an alien and a heretic. No longer ago than

yesterday there had been many a lip to murmur at his foreign ways. In

all the history of the mining works never had there been known a master

so exacting with the laborer, so rigorous with the dishonest, so harsh

with the careless; yet he had been withal as generous and just as he was

severe. The people had been ready to murmur, yet in their secret hearts

they had respected and even loved the young _Americano_, who knew how to

govern them, and to gain from them a fair amount of work for a fair and

promptly paid wage; and who, from a half ruinous, ill-managed source of

vexation and loss, was surely but slowly evolving order and the promise

of prosperity.

The bearers and the crowd of laborers belonging to the reduction-works

were admitted with their burden, and as they passed into the large and

scantily-furnished room which John Ashley had called his own, they

reverently pulled off their wide, ragged straw hats, and many a lip

moved in prayer as the people, for a moment awed into silence, crowded

around to view the corpse, which had been laid upon a low narrow bed

with the striped blanket of a laborer thrown over it. As the coarse

covering was thrown back, a woful sight was seen. The form of a man

scarce past boyhood, drenched from breast to feet in blood, yet still

beautiful in its perfect symmetry. The tall lithe figure, the straight

features, the downy beard shading cheeks and lips of adolescent

softness, the long lashes of the eyelids now closed forever, and the

fair curls resting upon the marble brow, all showed how comely he had

been. The women burst into fresh lamentations, the men muttered threats

of vengeance. But who was the murderer? Ay, there was the mystery.

“He has a mother far off across the sea,” said a woman, brokenly.

“Ay, and sisters,” added another; “he bade us remember them when we

drank to his health on his saint’s day. ‘In my country we keep

birthdays,’ he said (I suppose, poor gentleman, he meant the saints had

never learned his barbarous tongue); and then he laughed. ‘But saint’s

day or birthday, it is all the same; I’m twenty-three to-day.’”

“Yes, ’twas twenty-three he said,” confirmed another; “and do you

remember how he reddened and laughed when I told him he was old enough

to think of wedding?”

“But vexed enough,” added another, “when I repeated our old proverb,

‘Who goes far to marry, goes to deceive or be deceived.’ I meant no ill,

but he turned on me like a hornet. But, poor young fellow, all his quick

tempers are over now; he’ll be quiet enough till the Judgment day—cursed

be the hand that struck him!”

“Come, come!” suddenly broke in Don Rafael, “no more of this chatter;

clear the room for the Señor Alcalde,” and with much important bustle

and portentous gravity the official in question entered. He had in fact

been one of the first to hasten to the scene of the murder, for the time

forgetting the dignity of his position, of which in his ragged

_frazada_, his battered straw hat, and unkempt locks, there was little

to remind either himself or his fellow villagers. However, on the

alcalde being called for, he immediately dropped his _rôle_ of idle

gazer, and proceeded with the most stately formality to the

reduction-works. After viewing the dead body, he made most copious notes

of the supposed manner of assassination, which were chiefly remarkable

in differing entirely from the reality; and he gave profuse orders for

the following of the murderer or murderers, delivering at the same time

to Don Rafael Sanchez the effects of the deceased, for safe keeping and

ultimate transmission to the relatives, meanwhile delivering himself of

many sapient remarks, to the great edification of his hearers.

It appeared upon examination of various persons connected with the

reduction-works that the young American had been in the habit of riding

forth at night, sometimes attended by a servant, but often alone,

spending hours of the beautiful moonlight in exploring the deep cañons

of the mountains, having, seemingly, a peculiar love for their wild

solitudes and an utter disregard of danger. More than once when he had

ventured forth alone, the gate-keeper or clerk had remonstrated, but he

had laughed at their fears; and in fact it was the mere habit of caution

that had suggested them, the whole country being at that time remarkably

free from marauders, and the idea that John Ashley—almost a stranger, so

courteous, so well liked by inferiors, as well as by those who called

themselves his equals or superiors—should have a personal enemy had

never entered the mind of even the most suspicious. But for once the

cowards were justified; the brave man had fallen, the days of his young

and daring life were ended.

The alcalde and Don Rafael were eloquent in grave encomiums of his worth

and regret for his folly, as they at last left the reduction-works

together. They had agreed that a letter must be written to the American

consul in the city of Mexico, with full particulars, and that he should

be asked to communicate the sad event to the family of the deceased; but

as several days, or even weeks, must necessarily elapse before he could

be heard from, it was decided that the murdered man should be buried

upon the following day. To wait longer was both useless and unusual. And

so, these matters being satisfactorily arranged, the alcalde and

administrador, both perhaps ready for breakfast, parted.

The latter at the gate of the hacienda met the major-domo, who whispered

to him mysteriously, and finally led him to the courtyard, where the

forsaken mule was munching his fodder. A pair of sandals lay there.

Pedro, had he wished, could have shown a striped blanket and hat that he

had picked up near the gateway and concealed; but the mule and sandals

were patent to all.

“Well, what then?” cried Don Rafael, impatiently, when he had minutely

inspected them, turning the sandals with his foot as he stared at the

animal.

“Oh, nothing,” answered the major-domo; “I am perhaps a fool, but the

ranchero is gone.”

Don Rafael started—fell into a deep study—turned away—came back, and

laid his hand upon the major-domo’s arm. This was the first suggestion

that had been advanced of the possibility of the murderer having sought

his victim from within the walls of the great house. “_Silencio!_” he

said; “what matters it to us how the man died? There is more in this

than behooves you or me to meddle with.”

The two men looked at each other. “Why disturb the Señora Doña Isabel

with such matters? The American is dead. The ranchero can be nothing to

her,” said Don Rafael, sententiously. “He who gives testimony unasked

brings suspicion upon himself. No, no! leave the matter to his

countrymen; they have a consul here who has nothing to do but inquire

into such matters.”

“True, true! and one might as well hope to find again the wildbird

escaped from its cage, as to see that Juan Planillos! God save us! if he

was indeed the true Juan Planillos!” and the mystified major-domo

actually turned pale at the thought. “They say he is more devil than

man; that would explain how he got out of the hacienda, for Pedro Gomez

swears he let no man pass, either out or in.”

Don Rafael had his own private opinion about that, and of whom the

disguised visitor might be. Yet why should he have attacked the

American? Had Ashley too been within the walls,—and for what purpose?

These questions were full of deep and startling import, and again

impressing upon his subordinate that endless trouble might be avoided by

a discreet silence, he walked thoughtfully away, those vague suspicions

and conjectures taking definite shape in his mind. He went to the gate

with some design of warily questioning Pedro, but the man was not there;

for once, friend or foe might go in or out unnoticed. But it was a day

of disorder, and Don Rafael could readily divine the excuse for the

gate-keeper’s neglect of duty. Remembering that he had not broken his

fast that day, he went to his own rooms for the morning chocolate; and

from thence he presently saw Pedro emerge from the opposite court, and

with bowed head and reluctant steps repair to his wonted post. Don

Rafael Sanchez knew his countrymen, especially those of the lower class,

too well to hasten to him and ply him with inquiries as he longed to do.

He knew too well the value of patience, and more than once had found it

golden. Rita, his young wife, had come to him, and through her tears and

ejaculations was relating the account of the murder the servants had

brought to her, which was as wild and improbable as the reality had

been, though not more ghastly, when a servant entered with a hasty

message from Doña Isabel.