Leon Vallé had not parted from his sister in declared hostility, yet
months passed before she heard directly from him. But this was not to be
wondered at, as letters were necessarily sent by private carriers, and
it was not to be expected that in the adventurous excitement of his life
he should pause to send a mere salutation over leagues of desolate
country.
Meanwhile the prevailing anarchy of the time crept closer and closer to
the hacienda limits. Bandits gathered in the mountains and ravaged the
outlying villages, driving off flocks of sheep or herds of cattle,
lassoing the finest horses, and mocking the futile efforts of the
country people to guard their property. The name of one Juan Planillos
became a terror in every household; yet one by one the younger men stole
away to strengthen the number of his followers and share the wild
excitement of the bandit life, rather than to wait patiently at home to
be drafted into the ranks of some political chieftain whose career
raised little enthusiasm, and whose political creed was as obscure as
his origin. “The memory is confused,” says an historian, “by the plans
and _pronunciamientos_ of that time. Men changed ideas at each step, and
defended to-day what they had attacked yesterday. Parties triumphed and
fell at every turn.” The form of government was as changeable as a
kaleidoscope, and only the brigand and guerilla seemed immutable.
Whatever the politics of the day, their motto was plunder and rapine;
and their deeds, so brilliant, so unforeseeable, offered an irresistible
attraction to the restless spirits of that revolutionary epoch.
Though Doña Isabel Garcia, like all others, was imbued with the military
ardor of the time, the brilliant reputation that her brother was winning
in distant fields, though in harmony with her own political opinions,
horrified rather than dazzled her. She shuddered as she heard his name
mentioned in the same breath with that of the remorseless Valdez, or the
crafty and bloody Planillos; yet she was glad to believe his incentive
was patriotism rather than plunder, and when at last a messenger from
him reached her with the same old cry for “Money! money! money!” she
responded with a heaping handful of gold,—all she had been able to
accumulate in the few months of his absence. Don Gregorio however, vexed
by recent losses and harassed by constant raids from the mountain
brigands, sent a refusal that was worded almost like a curse; and
ashamed of her brother, annoyed by and yet sympathizing with her
husband, Doña Isabel felt her heart sink like lead in her bosom, and for
the first time her superb health showed signs of yielding to the severe
mental strain to which she had been so long subjected.
June had come again; the rainy season would soon begin, and Don
Gregorio, suddenly thinking that the change would benefit his wife,
suggested that they should pass some months in the city. The roads were
threatened by highwaymen, yet Isabel was glad to go, and even to incur
the novelty of danger. Her travelling carriage was luxurious, and with
her little girls immediately under her own eye, with an occasional
glimpse of the four-year-old Norberto riding proudly at his father’s
side in the midst of the numerous escort of picked men, she felt an
exhilaration both of body and mind to which she had long been a
stranger.
The travelling was necessarily slow, for the roads were excessively
rough, and the party had at sunset of the first day scarcely left the
limits of the hacienda and entered the defile which led to the deeper
cañons of the mountains, wherein upon the morrow they anticipated the
necessity of exercising a double vigilance. Not a creature had been seen
for hours; the mountains with their straggling clumps of cacti and
blackened, stunted palms seemed absolutely bereft of animal life, except
when occasionally a lizard glided swiftly over a rock, or a snake
rustled through the dry and crackling herbage. Caution seemed absurd in
such a place where there was scarce a cleft for concealment, yet the
party drew nearer together, and the men looked to their arms as the
cliffs became closer on either side and so precipitous that it seemed as
though a goat could scarcely have scaled them.
They had passed nearly the entire length of this cañon, and the nervous
tension that had held the whole party silent and upon the alert was
gradually yielding to the glimpse of more open country which lay beyond,
and on which they had planned to camp for the night, when suddenly the
whole country seemed alive with men. They blocked the way, backward and
forward; they hung from the cliffs; they bounded from rock to rock, on
foot and on horse, the horses as agile as the men. Amid the tumult one
man seemed ubiquitous. All eyes followed him, yet not one caught sight
of his face; the striped jorongo thrown over shoulders and face formed
an impenetrable disguise, such as the noted guerilla chief of the
mountains was wont to wear. Suddenly there was a cry of “Planillos!
Planillos!” amid the confusion of angry voices, of curses, and the
clanking of sabres and echo of pistol-shots. Don Gregorio found himself
driven against the rocks, a sword-point at his throat, a pistol pressed
to his temple, his own smoking weapon in his hand.
Immediately the shouts ceased, and before the smoke which had filled the
gorge had cleared, the travellers found themselves alone, with two or
three dead men obstructing the road. Don Gregorio had barely time to
notice them, or the blank faces of his men staring bewildered at one
another, when a cry from Doña Isabel recalled him to his senses, and he
saw her rushing wildly from group to group. In an instant he was at her
side. “Norberto! where is Norberto?” both demanded wildly, and some of
the men who had caught the name began to force their horses up the
almost inaccessible cliffs, and to gallop up or down the cañon in a
confused pursuit of the vanished enemy.
Don Gregorio alone retained his presence of mind; though night was
closing in and the horses were wearied by a day’s travel, not a moment
was lost in dispatching couriers to the city for armed police and to the
hacienda for fresh men and horses, and the return to Tres Hermanos was
immediately begun. Sometime during the morning hours they were met by a
party from the hacienda, and putting himself at the head of his
retainers Don Gregorio led them in search of his son, while Doña Isabel
in a state bordering upon distraction proceeded to her desolated home.
Her first act was to send a courier to her brother. No one knew the
mountains as he did, and in her terrible plight she was certain he would
not fail her. But her haste was needless, for information reached him
from some other source, and within a few days he was at the head of a
party of valiant Garcias, who had hastened from far and near to the
rescue of their young kinsman.
In all the country round the abduction of Norberto Garcia was called
“the abduction by enchanters,”—so sudden had been the attack, so
complete the disappearance of the victim. Beyond the immediate scene no
trace remained of the act,—it seemed that the very earth must have
opened to swallow the perpetrators; and yet day by day proofs of their
existence were found in letters left upon the very saddle crossed by the
father, or upon the pillow wet with the tears of the mother, demanding
ransom which each day became more exorbitant, accompanied by threats
more and more ingenious and horrible.
Such seizures, though rare, were by no means unprecedented, and such
threats had been proved to be only too likely to be fulfilled. As days
went by the agony of the parents became unbearable, and Don Gregorio’s
early resolution to spend a fortune in the pursuit and punishment of the
robbers rather than comply with their demands, and thus lend
encouragement to similar outrages, began to yield before the imminent
danger to the life of his son; and to Doña Isabel it seemed a cruel
mockery that her brother and the young Garcias should urge him to
further exertion and postponement of the inevitable moment when he must
accede to the imperious demands of the outlaws.
The family were one evening discussing again the momentous and
constantly agitated question, when Doña Feliz appeared among them with
starting eyes and pallid cheeks, bidding Don Gregorio go to his wife,
from whose nerveless hand she had wrested a paper, which Leon seized and
opened as the excited woman held it toward him. Don Gregorio turned back
at his brother-in-law’s exclamation, and beheld upon his outstretched
hand a lock of soft brown hair, evidently that of a child. It had been
severed from the head by a bloody knife. It was a mute threat, yet they
understood it but too well. Every man there sprang to his feet with a
groan or an oath. Such a threat they remembered had been sent to the
parents the very day before the infant Ranulfo Ortega had been found
dead not a hundred yards from his father’s door. Did this mean also that
the last demand for ransom had been made, and the patience of Norberto’s
abductors was exhausted?
Don Gregorio clasped his hands over his eyes, and reeled against the
wall. Leon sprang to his feet, pale to his lips, his eyes blazing.
Julian Garcia picked up the hair which had fallen from Leon’s hand; the
others stood grouped in horrified expectancy. Doña Feliz stood for a
moment looking at them with lofty courage and determination upon her
face.
“What,” she cried, “is this a time for hesitation? The money must be
paid, the child’s life saved. Vengeance can wait!” She spoke with a fire
that thrilled them, and though they spoke but of the ransom, it was the
word “vengeance” that rang in their ears, and steeled Don Gregorio to
the terrible task that awaited him.
That night the quaint hiding-places of the vast hacienda were ransacked,
and many a hoard of coin was extracted from the deep corners of the
walls, and the depths of half-ruinous wells. Doña Isabel saw treasures
of whose existence she had never heard before, but had perhaps vaguely
suspected; for through the long years of anarchy the Garcias had become
expert in secreting such surplus wealth as they desired to keep within
reach. Large as was the sum brought to light, it barely sufficed to meet
the demands of the robbers; yet it was a question how such a weight of
coin was to be conveyed by one person to the spot indicated for the
payment of the ransom and delivery of the child,—for it had been
urgently insisted upon that but one man should go into the very
stronghold of the bandits.
At daybreak, having refused the offer of Leon Vallé to go in his stead,
Don Gregorio mounted his horse and set out on his mission. He knew well
the place appointed, for he had been in his youth an adventurous
mountaineer, and more than once had penetrated the deep gorge into
which, late in the afternoon, he descended, bearing with him the gold
and silver. As he entered the “Zahuan del Infierno” he shuddered. Not
ten days before he had passed through it, followed by a dozen trusty
followers, in search of his child, and had discovered no trace of him;
now he was alone, weighted with treasure, sufficient sensibly to retard
his movements and render him a rich prize for the outlaws he had gone to
meet. Once he fancied he heard a step behind him; doubtless he was
shadowed by those who would take his life without a moment’s hesitation.
Yet he pressed on, obliged to leave his horse and proceed on foot, for
at times the cliffs were so close together that a man could barely force
his way between them.
Just as the last rays of daylight pierced the gloomy abyss, at a sudden
turn in the narrowest part of the gorge Don Gregorio saw standing two
armed men, placed in such a position that the head of one overtopped
that of the other, while the features of both were shadowed though made
the more forbidding by heavy black beards, which it occurred to him
later were probably false and worn for the purpose of disguise. At the
feet of the foremost was placed a child; and though he restrained the
cry that rose to his lips, the tortured father recognized in him his
son,—but so emaciated, so deathly pale, with such wild, startled eyes,
gazing like a hunted creature before him, yet seeing nothing, that he
could scarcely credit it was the same beautiful, sensitive,
highly-strung Norberto who had been wrested from him but a short month
before.
At the sight the father felt an almost irresistible impulse to
precipitate himself upon those fiends who thus dared to mock him; but
even had his hands been free to grasp the pistol in his belt, to have
done so would have been to bring upon himself certain death. As it was
he could but look with blind rage from the bags of coin he carried to
the brigands who stood like statues, the right hand of the foremost laid
upon the throat of the trembling boy. Even in that desperate moment Don
Gregorio noticed that the hand was whiter and more slender than the
hands of common men are wont to be; the nails were well formed and well
kept, though there was a bruise or mark on the second one, as though it
had met some recent injury. He was not conscious at the time that he
noticed this, but it came to him afterward. The foremost man did not
speak; it was the other who in a soft voice, as evenly modulated as
though to words of purest courtesy, bade the Señor Garcia welcome, and
thanked him for his prompt appearance.
“Let us dispense with compliments,” said Don Gregorio, huskily. “Here is
the money you have demanded for my child. I know something of the honor
of bandits, and as you can gain nothing by falsifying your word, I have
chosen to trust in it. Here am I, alone with the gold,” and he poured it
out on the rock at the child’s feet,—“count it if you will;” and he put
out his hand and laid it upon the child’s shoulder. As he did so his
hand touched the brigand’s, and both started, glaring like two tigers
before they spring; but at that moment Norberto bounded over the
scattered heap of coin and into his father’s arms.
As he felt that slight form within his grasp the father reeled, and his
sight failed him; a voice presently recalled him to his senses, and
glancing up he saw the two men still standing motionless, with their
pistols levelled upon him and the child.
“The Señor will find it best to withdraw backward,” said the bandit;
“there is not space here for me to have the honor of passing and leading
the way, and it is even too narrow for your grace to turn. You will find
your horse at the entrance to the gorge; it has been well cared for.
Adios, Señor, and may every felicity attend this fortunate termination
of our negotiations.”
“I doubt not there will,” cried Don Gregorio, though in a voice of
perfect politeness, “for I swear to you I will unearth the villains who
have tortured and robbed me, and give myself a moment of exquisite joy
with every drop of life-blood I slowly wring from them. You have my
gold, and I have my child, and now—Vengeance!”
Gregorio Garcia knew so well the peculiar ideas of honor among bandits
as well as the spirit of his countrymen that perhaps he was assured that
no immediate risk would follow this proclamation. The word “vengeance”
rang from cliff to cliff, yet the bandits only smiled mockingly and
bowed, waving a hand in token of farewell, as with what haste he might
he withdrew. A turn in the gorge soon hid them from his sight, and
staggering through the darkness, he hastened on with his precious
burden, feeling that Norberto had fainted in his aims.
It was near midnight when Don Gregorio reached the hacienda, and
needless is it to attempt to describe the joy of the mother at sight of
her child, though Norberto, after one faint cry of recognition, laid his
head upon her breast with a long shuddering sigh, which warned her that
his strength and courage had been so overtaxed that they were, perhaps,
destroyed forever.
As days passed, it seemed evident that the mind of the boy was suffering
from the shock. The male relatives who during the absence of Don
Gregorio had mostly dispersed to find, manlike, some distraction
a-field, returned one by one to embrace him; but he turned from each
with unreasoning fear and aversion, unable to distinguish between them
and the strangers in whose hands he had been held a prisoner. At some of
them he gazed as if fascinated, especially at his Uncle Leon; and when
by any chance the latter touched him he would burst into agonizing
wails, which ceased only when his father held him closely in his arms,
whispering words of affection and encouragement.
Before many days it became evident that Norberto was dying. There was a
constant, low, shuddering cry upon his lips, “He will kill me!—he will
kill me if I tell!” and the horrified father and mother became convinced
that Norberto knew at least one of his captors, and that deadly fear
alone prevented him from uttering the name. They entreated him in vain;
and one night the end of the tortured life drew near, and Norberto’s
wailing cry was still.
The family was alone, except for the presence of Leon Vallé and a young
cousin, Doctor Genaro Calderon, one of the numerous family connections;
and those, with the Padre Francisco and Doña Feliz, were gathered around
the bed of the dying child. The father in an agony of grief and vengeful
despair stood at the head, and Doña Isabel, ghostlike and haggard from
her long suspense and watching, was on her knees at the side, her eyes
fixed upon the face of the child, when suddenly he opened his eyes in a
wild stare upon Leon Vallé, who stood near the foot of the bed, and
faintly, slowly articulated the same agonizing cry, “He will kill me if
I tell!”
At that moment, as if by an irresistible impulse, Leon stretched out his
hand and placed a finger on the lips of the dying boy. The eyes of Don
Gregorio followed it; and then like a thunderbolt hurled through space
he threw himself upon his brother-in-law, grappling his throat with a
deathlike grasp. He had recognized the bruise upon the second finger of
the white hand,—he had recognized the very hand. Recalled to life by the
excitement of the moment, Norberto started up and exclaimed in a loud
shrill voice, “Take him away! He cut my hair with his bloody knife! Oh,
Uncle Leon, will you kill me?” and fell back in the death agony,—the
agony that only the priest witnessed, for even Isabel turned to the
mortal combat waged between her husband and her brother.
Don Gregorio was unarmed, but Leon had managed to draw a knife from his
belt. The murderous dagger was poised for a blow, when a woman rushed
between the combatants; Don Gregorio was flung bleeding upon the bed,
Doña Feliz hurled into a corner of the apartment the dagger which she
had grasped with her naked hand, and Leon Vallé rushed like a madman
from the room. Before he could escape, however, he was seized, pinioned,
and thrust like a wild beast into one of the solid stone rooms of the
building. Don Gregorio was held by main force from accomplishing his
purpose of taking the life of the unnatural bandit ere the bolts were
shot upon him. He however gave immediate orders that messengers be
despatched in quest of police; but by some misapprehension or
intentional delay on the part of the administrador these messengers were
detained till dawn, and just as they were about to set forth, a cry went
through the house that the prisoner had escaped.
Gregorio Garcia rushed to the room, glanced in with wild, bloodshot
eyes, and then with unrestrainable fury, sought out his wife, and
grasping her arm cried in a voice as full of horror as of rage,
“Traitress! You have set free the murderer of your child!”
She threw herself on her knees at his feet,—he never knew with what
purpose, whether to confess her weakness or declare her innocence,—for
Doña Feliz cast herself between them.
“It was I who set him free!” she exclaimed. “I love the Garcias too well
to suffer them to be made a mockery of by the false mercy of such laws
as ours. Think you the idol of the bandits would be sacrificed for such
a trifle as a child’s life? And you, Gregorio Garcia, would you, this
fury passed, avenge your injuries in the blood of your wife’s brother,
robber and murderer though he be? Leon has sworn to me to hide himself
forever from the family he has disgraced, under another name in another
land. He has the brand of Cain upon his brow,—God will surely bring his
doom upon him!”
Doña Feliz spoke like a prophetess. The superb assurance upon which she
had acted, setting aside all rights of man and relegating vengeance to
the Lord, did more to reconcile Don Gregorio to the escape of his enemy
than all further reflection, decisive though it was in convincing him
that in the disordered and anarchical state of the country, the laws
would have shielded rather than punished an offender so popular as was
Leon Vallé. There was perhaps, too, a comfort in the hidden hope of
personal vengeance with which he waited long months to learn the retreat
of the man who had done him such foul wrong.
Meanwhile the exact facts of the case were never known abroad; and when
at last it was rumored that Leon Vallé had been shot by a rival guerilla
chief and hung to a tree placarded as a traitor and robber, there were
few to doubt the story, or to make more than a passing comment on the
hard necessities of war. There seemed so much poetic justice in it, that
Gregorio Garcia, who was near the end of the disease contracted through
exposure and mental agony, did not for a moment doubt it, and died
almost content. Indeed, the circumstances were so minutely detailed by a
servant who had followed Leon in his adventurous career and who dared to
face the family in order to prove the death, that even Doña Isabel
herself did not question it until long months afterward, when a petty
scandal stole through the land. The lady of San Lazaro had
disappeared,—whether of her own free will, whether in madness she had
strayed, or whether she had been kidnapped, none could conjecture. No
demand for ransom came, no tidings were ever heard of the peerlessly
beautiful Dolores.
It was after that time that Doña Isabel began to demand tidings of all
who came to her door, and a suspicion entered her mind which became a
certainty upon the night our story opened, but which no subsequent event
had tended to confirm during the years that had passed since then.
This brief relation may serve to explain the strange emotions and
experiences that made Doña Isabel what her full womanhood found her, and
which with other events of her later life rendered possible and natural
the bitter suspense and fear that held her the long night through, a
watcher at the door of one who, as others had done, might find a means
to pierce her heart and wound her pride, if not to awaken her deep and
passionate affections.