At high noon a terrible and heartrending wail of anguish sounded through
the house, penetrating with dismal insistence through the clamor of the
soldiery and the thousand indescribable noises of the animals, which had
been hastily collected; and which added the element of mere brute
bewilderment to the scarcely more reasonably restrained terror of the
people.
Ramirez had recognized the obstinate defiance of the administrador. More
than once before he had dealt with others as tenacious of the interests
of those they served. He had no time to lose in vain persuasions, and
had himself conducted the search throughout the vast building, of which
he believed he knew every nook and corner. But he had to his amazement
and chagrin found neither treasure nor any member of the family of the
administrador save the apparently dying Doña Feliz. After a fruitless
endeavor to recall her to consciousness, he left her with a curse, and
returning to her son, assaulted him with menaces, alternated with fair
promises,—the one as little regarded as the other.
Upon one subject only would Don Rafael permit himself to speak; and to
that Ramirez, in his rage, refused to listen. The suggestion that his
daughter, if indeed he had a reason to seek one there, might prove to be
Chinita, the foster-daughter of Pedro Gomez, he received with utter
contempt. He remembered her well, he said; an imp as black as Pedro
himself,—black as he must be now, scorching in Hades. That little demon
was none of his, while Chata had the very face of his mother,—the face
of an angel. Ah! ah! that was indeed a daring jest, that Isabel should
strive to palm off upon him the brat of her doorkeeper! Once long
before, like the witch she was, the girl had stopped him and thrust into
his hand an amulet,—he drew it from his pocket, and cast it from him. By
the way, now Pedro was dead, if Rafael still believed her worth a
thought, he had better see in such a day as this that she had some other
protector. She must be nearly a woman now!
Ramirez fell into greater rage when he learned that Doña Isabel had
taken charge of this despised waif. He swore that it was in mockery of
himself; and Don Rafael soon perceiving that every word he uttered was
construed as an attempt to deceive, and fearing that at some time it
might bring evil upon the girl to whom, whether she were the daughter of
Ramirez or no, he certainly desired no harm, the administrador became
utterly silent, in his heart commending the prudence of Rita in
following this time with exactness his instructions, and condoning the
treason of which by the assurances of Ramirez he had been forced to
believe her guilty.
In truth, although at first the alarmed and not too scrupulous woman had
urged Chata to secure the safety of herself and her child by claiming
the protection of Ramirez, as time passed and he made no movement toward
such recognition she began to distrust the effect it might produce upon
the renowned guerilla. He and his soldiers were there for plunder and
rapine, not paternal sentiment. As the cries of the women-servants and
villagers reached her, the resolution to seek safety in concealment
seized her. Though still far from wishing to conceal Chata from Ramirez,
to whom the accidental sight of her might recall some sense of mercy or
tenderness, she feared both him and her husband too greatly to dare
leave her to the chance of insult from the licentious soldiery. But
Chata absolutely refused to leave Doña Feliz, from whose side even the
servants had fled; and it was her scream that had penetrated to the
rooms below, when, by the friendly force of Don Alonzo, she was immured
with Doña Rita and Rosario in the secret recess, which Don Rafael had
constructed with a vague apprehension of such an emergency.
It chanced that this recess, which was in the immensely thick outer wall
of the great house, was dimly lighted and ventilated by a loop-hole so
small as to be barely visible from without, but which opened funnel-like
toward the inside of the apartment. Through this loop-hole these three
women, whose voices were quite inaudible to those either within or
without the building, heard confusedly the village cries, and caught
uncertain glimpses of the space outside the hacienda gates. After what
seemed hours of incarceration, during which Rosario had fretted and
slept, and Doña Rita had alternately chided and lamented, while Chata
entreated to be released that she might return to the side of Doña
Feliz, they saw with anxious surprise a crowd gathering upon the sandy
slope; not of the soldiery alone, but the people of the
hacienda,—clerks, workmen, women who were wringing their hands and
uttering sharp cries of terror and entreaty, which ended in that deep
wail, which seemed to signify some agonizing catastrophe.
Doña Rita was the first to divine what was happening. “Maria Purissima!”
she cried. “Is it possible Rafael is as mad as the administrador of Los
Chalcos,—that he has refused some demand? Does he not remember how
Ramirez caused that poor foolish one to be hanged without mercy! O my
husband, my husband! Oh! has he no thought for me, for his child, that
he will sacrifice his life for Doña Isabel? How will she thank him?
Whoever thinks twice of the foolhardy obstinacy of an administrador?”
Chata sprang to her feet. “Give me the key!” she cried. “Let me go! Now
if Ramirez is my father, he shall prove it! Would he deny his daughter
the life of her foster-father? Give me the key!”
“No, no!” screamed Doña Rita, “the place is full of ruffians. Ramirez
himself is a tiger! I—” but Chata had wrenched the key from her numbed
and shaking hands, and thrusting it in the lock had turned the grating
wards.
When she rushed into the corridors they were empty,—there was a sight to
behold elsewhere. On she flew, not noticing that Doña Rita and Rosario
followed, and that their shrieks rose with hers, as in a minute or less
they reached the outer court, and strove to penetrate the throng that
filled it and extended to the village beyond.
Within the high arch of the doorway, clear against the deep blue of the
mid-day sky, swayed the figure of a man,—of Rafael Sanchez. Below, sword
in hand, stood Ramirez and two panting laborers who that instant had
accomplished his decree. Around them were gathered scores of armed men,
evil-eyed, with the ferocity of brutes in their faces; and Ramirez stood
pre-eminent, a very demon.
The crowd parted like water before the shrieks of the three women. In a
moment Chata reached the side of Ramirez, and grasped his sword. “Spare
him! spare him!” she demanded rather than entreated. “If I am your
daughter, cut the rope! Spare him, and do as you like with me; else I
swear I will die with him rather than be known as your child!”
The women were on their knees,—not Doña Rita and Rosario alone, but all
those of the village. Sobs and entreaties filled the air. Ramirez threw
a glance of triumphant admiration upon Chata, and put one arm around
her, while he raised the other, pointing with a nod to the swaying
figure.
A man sprang to cut the rope, and the administrador fell into the dozen
arms stretched out to receive him. Chata saw with infinite joy that he
was not dead. He threw up his arms, gasped, opened wide-staring eyes. A
moment later, she was hurried away. Half-fainting though she was, she
was glad to escape that embrace from which she dared not shrink.
“Ah, Rafael, you are conquered,—I have the girl! And now where is the
gold?” she heard Ramirez exclaim, and saw the gesture of defiance with
which the scarce conscious victim answered this demand.
An hour later Chata was riding by the side of the baffled Ramirez. She
knew not whether her foster-father was living or dead, and dared not
ask; but stifling her sobs, looked back through a mist of tears upon the
desolated hacienda. It was incredible even to her horrified and longing
gaze, the terrible devastation that had been worked in a few short
hours. Seemingly to complete its ruin, a thunder-cloud, which had been
lurking over the valley, discharged its contents over the devoted house.
Upon the hills the sun shone; Chata was safe from the fury of the storm.
And yet she felt as though the very wrath of heaven had burst over her.
“_Caramba_, Chatita! thou wilt make a soldier’s daughter yet!” Ramirez
was exclaiming. “By my faith, I am proud of thee!” In spite of the
unattained gold, he pressed on in rare good humor. His fury, like the
storm, was quickly expended. “And by our Lady of Glory I am glad that
you came in time to save that obstinate fool, Rafael. He has, after all
is said, served me a good turn in aiding Isabel to put what she meant
for a shabby trick upon me. _Caramba!_ It was clever of her. I should
never have discovered it but for a slip of the tongue on Rafael’s part
which no one else would have noticed, and but for thy wonderful likeness
to my mother,—the angels give her good rest!”
Chata could not be grateful for this favor of nature; it seemed to her
indeed the bitterest spite that could have been wreaked upon her. She
turned her eyes upon the face of Ramirez with a questioning glance,
which startled him: those gray eyes, limpid and clear as they were, were
far different from the large, languorous, black ones of his mother,—yet
not unfamiliar. Where had he seen such before? The inquiry was not worth
a special effort of memory. Enough that the eyes were beautiful. The
very softness and appeal in their expression held a peculiar charm for
this fierce, hard spirit. He had begun a denunciation of the revenge
practised against him by his sister, but he abruptly paused. What if
this young creature knew nothing of those wild deeds of bygone years?
Why shock her tender and immature mind by the recital of such episodes
as she would view but at their darkest? For the first time in his life
he felt the impossibility of impressing his hearer with the daring
rather than the villany of his deeds, and rode beside her in silence,
furtively watching her face, which with wonderful control, indicating a
latent strength of character, she suffered to reveal none of the horror
or fear with which he inspired her, but only the natural grief with
which she had been separated from the home of her childhood.
Indeed, the thought of Doña Feliz was the dominant one in Chata’s mind,
and prevented any serious grief or alarm as to her own situation. The
question of her own safety or future position troubled her little. It
was the fact of her separation from the beloved and stricken friend, who
was so dependent upon her care, and her absolute horror of the murderer
of the American,—for as such Ramirez ever figured in her thoughts,—which
rendered it so difficult a task for her to retain her self-possession
and answer with calmness the few questions or remarks that were from
time to time addressed to her.
Chata soon perceived that as the day wore on, and she began to exhibit
signs of fatigue from the hurried march and the heat, her presence
caused far more anxiety than triumph to her captor. “The old folly!” he
muttered from time to time,—“to act without counting the cost. I doubt
whether there is a decent woman among this drove of camp-followers. If I
had but thought to bring one from the hacienda! In fact, it was a fool’s
act to bring the child at all, with such work before me as I have!”
Chata caught these broken sentences with a wild hope that he might
decree her return to Tres Hermanos. Willingly would she have risked
going alone on foot if necessary. But the sun set, the shades of evening
closed in, and the hurried march was still pursued, until, when she was
ready to faint with fatigue, the General ordered a halt, and lifting her
from the saddle, placed her upon a pile of blankets; while a half-dozen
men set to work with practised hands to build a little hut or tent of
mesquite and manzanita boughs to shelter her from the night air.
As the weary girl sat near the tent fire, endeavoring to eat the food of
which she stood in much need, but for which she could not force an
appetite, she found herself the centre of a wild horde of perhaps nearly
five hundred persons, of whom a fifth were women and children, who were
busy at the fires preparing the evening meal while the men were staking
horses, or patrolling the circle of the camp, keeping within bounds the
hard-driven and panting cattle and sheep, whose distressing lowing and
bleating at intervals filled the air. Apparently there was an entire
lack of discipline, the unreasoning enthusiasm of the moment and the
personal magnetism of the renowned leader serving to hold the unruly
elements subservient to the necessities of the occasion, and obedient to
his slightest mandate. The majority of the troops were of the most wild
and even savage appearance; for, as their leader had said, they were the
riff-raff, the scourings of the mountain villages and remote farms.
Chata was not unaccustomed to the sight of such individuals, but in mass
the impression they made upon her was of concentrated evil. The trace of
gentler feeling that each face or person might have revealed on scrutiny
was lost in the prevailing ferocity of expression and accoutrement. The
clash of arms, the jingle of spurs, the hoarse voices made her shudder
no less than the sullen faces, the gleaming eyes, and the sinewy and
powerful frames.
Strangely enough, as her eyes followed Ramirez, a sense of his complete
harmony with his surroundings seemed in the girl’s mind to condone the
wild deeds of which he had figured as the hero. She realized for the
first time the fascination that unlimited power over such elements must
exercise over a mind given to daring, and uncontrolled by any moral
principle. She thought of Chinita, and how her adventurous spirit would
have exulted in such an adventure as this. As she gazed into the fire
the very face of that fearless, enigmatic young nature seemed to rise
before her, beautiful, passionate, yet with that capacity of endurance,
which in a man might become cruelty, that capricious changeableness,
which one moment dissolved in tears, and the next shone in a smile. So
real was the vision that Chata started, and found herself gazing
affrightedly into the face of Ramirez, who was regarding her with the
expression of mingled affection, triumph, and vexation which had not
left his countenance since he had set her upon Doña Rita’s favorite
horse at the door of the hacienda.
“I have a notable project in my mind for you,” he said abruptly. “You
know that I am the Governor of Guanapila.”
“Yes,” she said timidly; “but I thought—” she hesitated, fearing to
offend.
“Ah, you thought I was beaten and barred out. They will find I am
neither one nor the other. The gate is shut but not bolted, and it will
be hard if I find not a way to creep in. It is impossible for me to keep
you with me on the march. You must be with some woman.”
“Oh, I would rather be with you. Indeed I will give no trouble! I will
be brave!” she exclaimed, instinctively shrinking from the thought of
contact with such women as she saw around her.
He smiled with gratification, his egotistic nature flattered by the
thought that he was gaining her confidence; but his face darkened as she
added with hesitation, “I had hoped—I thought perhaps you were taking me
to my mother.”
“It is not of your mother I was thinking,” he said ambiguously, “when I
spoke of Guanapila, but of my niece Carmen de Velasquez. She knows that
the General Ramirez once sent an escort with her mother to Tres
Hermanos, and levied upon her husband for a loan of ten thousand dollars
when he might have had five times as much,—for the old fellow she has
married is rich, and does honor to the financial acumen of the fair
Carmen, and we will see whether she has a just appreciation of the
favors I am supposed to have rendered her. There, go to your tent and
sleep in peace; in three days you shall be safe within the house of
Velasquez in Guanapila.”
It cannot be said that Chata slept in peace; yet the prospect was
reassuring, and enabled her to bear with resignation the fatigues and
excitements of the following days, and the loneliness and terrors of the
nights. The General slept before the opening of her tent. Upon the
fourth night he awoke her, and handed her a torn and shabby reboso and a
skirt of coarse red cloth, with instructions to put them on. She did so
with some repugnance, though the clothing she left was not better; and
at a call stepped out into the starlight. The young Captain Alva
preceded her in silence outside the limits of the camp, where two horses
were in waiting, held by a man whom at the first startled glance she
failed to recognize. It would have horrified her beyond control had she
known that in his size and air and dress he was the image of the
ranchero who had entered Tres Hermanos on the night of the murder, years
before. She uttered a cry of relief as Ramirez greeted her.
“Ah, is it not a perfect disguise?” he said. “Why, I might go into El
Toro itself with impunity! Mount, child, and keep close at my side!”
In a minute or less, with the assistance of Alva, Chata was ready for
the start,—her courage rising with the sense of mystery and daring under
which Ramirez seemed to glow and expand. He paused to give his last
commands to Alva, of which she heard only the concluding words: “Reyes
should be here by daylight. Keep him at all hazards, for he must sound
Ruiz before another day passes. _Caramba!_ I cannot believe that fellow
has failed me; but whether or no, the end will be the same,—except that
I swear if Ruiz prove false, were he twice my godson he shall not escape
my vengeance.”
The General pulled his hat over his eyes, waved his hand, struck the
spurs into his horse, and led the way at a swift canter. Chata until
within the last few days had never ridden on horseback; but she was
singularly free from fear or awkwardness, and with ease, though in
silence, kept at his side.
“Chata,” Ramirez once said abruptly, turning his dark and piercing eyes
upon her, “I am risking much for your sake. Remember that you are my
daughter. Be faithful to me, obey my bidding, and I will cherish you as
the apple of my eye. It may depend upon you whether the troops of Doña
Isabel follow my lead or that of Gonzales. You will know my meaning
later; but I swear to you, as I have done by Ruiz, my vengeance shall
rest upon whomsoever balks me,—yes, if it is even you, the newfound
daughter whom I love.”
Chata trembled. Though his words were an enigma, they indicated that her
_rôle_ was not to be an utterly passive one. Her companion awaited no
answer, and Chata did not attempt to make one. They rode on at ever
increasing speed as the night advanced. Just at daybreak they reached a
hut, which was placed at the mouth of a cañon. There they left their
horses, and an old woman appeared with a crate of turkeys in each hand,
one of which she gave to the disguised chieftain, the other to the
wondering Chata.
An hour later they were in the streets of Guanapila, and before they had
broken their fast Chata sat overcome with fatigue and dismay upon the
stone stairs that led to the corridor of a palatial residence. The
ranchero, as the servants supposed him, had gone to speak with the lady
of the mansion. It was a long time before he re-appeared; and when he
did, a beautiful woman preceded him. She was very pale, and there was in
her eyes an incredulous and startled expression, which changed to pity
as her gaze fell upon Chata,—who, looking up, thought of the pale and
lovely face she had seen but once, and knew she must be in the presence
of Carmen, the sister of the nun of El Toro.
Ramirez whispered a word in the ear of the bewildered girl, it might be
of warning or of farewell; but her senses failed her,—she neither saw
nor heard more.
“Go, go!” cried the mistress of the house. “For God’s sake go, before
there is any one to wonder. Whether your tale be true or false, she has
the face of a Garcia, and a loveliness and sweetness of her own. I will
guard her as though she were my child. Go, go! and the saints grant you
a safe passage. I will not betray your confidence. Ah, she has fainted!
I will manage that; it shall be my pretext for charity.”
Ramirez kissed the hand of the unconscious Chata, and turned away. For
once he had executed an act of extreme self-denial, yet amid it all his
crafty mind foresaw how he might use it to his advantage.
The exit from the city was readily effected, but Ramirez did not proceed
many miles unrecognized after mounting his horse at the hut where he had
left it. The man who spoke his name unhesitatingly, though in a cautious
voice, was Reyes. He gave the General unwelcome tidings. Gonzales had
joined forces with those of Tres Hermanos. He had risked the attack and
occupation of El Toro, and it was conjectured would attempt the march to
the Capital itself, round which the audacious Juarez was from his
stronghold in Vera Cruz directing the concentration of the Liberal
forces.
Ramirez ground his teeth in rage. “I have been delayed and hampered by
that girl,” he cried. “Could I but have gone straight to Ruiz, he would
not have dared defy me. As it is—”
“As it is,” interrupted Reyes, “all is not yet lost. I have still to see
Ruiz,—he is not my son if it is impossible to convince him upon which
hot plate the cake is best toasted.”
The conference of the two men lasted but a few moments. They had been so
accustomed in their long intercourse to treat of subjects of which one
was as well informed as the other, and upon the course to be taken at
the present time they were so well agreed, that they parted with no
attempt at explanation, but simply after a few words of instruction had
been given by Ramirez to the other.
“Tell him,” the chief said finally, “I am ready to fulfil my word; and
if Ruiz be anxious to see her, let him risk as much for love as I have
done. She is at the house of Doña Carmen Velasquez in Guanapila; and
tell him as surely as he is my godson and your son he shall be shot as a
traitor if he fails me in this affair. Good-by for a time; good news or
bad news, my blood is up for a desperate venture now. It cannot be that
after all these years luck is turning against me at last.”
“It did that years ago when you stabbed the American,” thought Reyes as
they parted; “it was that that weighted the scale. That accursed
foreigner who is here to avenge him has upset all our plans for
misleading Gonzales. With both together Ramirez has fearful odds against
him, which even with the help of Ruiz and his men he may find it hard to
combat. But how in heaven’s name has the General his daughter with him?
_Caramba!_ I have often wondered how he would relish that drunken freak
of mine! Faith, I did not care to try his temper to-night by many
questions. Well, who would have thought he would have kept in the same
mind for so many years! To think of his striving to give her the family
training at this late date! Ah, ah, ah! it is more likely to mar than to
make her. If Fernando is of my mind he will wait in such a matter for no
pruning and training, but pluck the flower while it is within his reach,
thorns and all.”
With which poetic simile, Tio Reyes rode on well pleased on his errand
to the young Ruiz, while Ramirez, proceeding rapidly in the opposite
direction, regained within the hour his enthusiastic but disorderly
horde.