THE GUEST.
On the same day that our story begins, and about three miles from where
the events narrated in our preceding chapter occurred, a numerous
caravan had halted at sunset, in a vast clearing situated on the skirt
of an immense virgin forest, the last species of which ended on the
banks of the Rio Colorado.
This caravan came from the south-east, that is, from Mexico. It
appeared to have been on the march for a long time, as far as possible
to judge by the state in which the clothes of the men were, as well
as the harness of the horses and mules. In fact, the poor beasts
themselves were reduced to a state of leanness and weakness, which
amply testified to the rude fatigue they must have endured. The
caravan was composed of some thirty-five persons, all attired in
the picturesque and characteristic costume of the half-bred hunters
and Gambusinos, who alone, or in small bands, at the most of four,
incessantly traverse the Far West, which they explore in its most
mysterious depths, for the purpose of hunting, trapping, or discovering
the numberless gold veins it contains in its bosom.
The adventurers halted, dismounted, fastened their horses to picket
ropes, and began immediately, with that skill and quickness only
attained by long habit, making their preparations to bivouac. The grass
was pulled up over a considerable extent of ground; the baggage, piled
up in a circle, formed a breastwork, behind which a sudden attack of
the desert marauders might be resisted; and then fires were lighted in
the shape of a St. Andrew's cross in the interior of the camp.
When all this had been attended to, some of the adventurers put up a
large tent above a palanquin hermetically closed, which was carried by
two mules, one before and one behind. When the tent was pitched, the
mules were taken out of the palanquin, and the curtains, in falling,
covered it so completely, that it was entirely concealed.
This palanquin was a riddle to the adventurers. No one knew what it
contained, though the general curiosity was singularly aroused on the
subject of a mystery so specially incomprehensible in this deserted
country; each kept carefully to himself the opinions he had formed
about it--above all, since the day when, in the midst of a difficult
piece of country, and during the momentary absence of the chief of the
Cuadrilla, who usually never left the palanquin, which he guarded like
a miser does his treasure, a hunter leaned over and slightly opened
one of the curtains; but the man had scarce time to take a furtive
peep through the opening, ere the chief, suddenly coming up, split his
skull open with a blow of his machete, and laid him dead at his feet.
Then he turned to the terrified witnesses, and said calmly,--"Is there
another among you who would like to discover what I think proper to
keep secret?"
These words were uttered in such a tone of implacable raillery and
furious cruelty, that these villains, for the most part without faith
or law, and accustomed to brave, with a laugh, the greatest perils,
felt an internal shudder, and their blood stagnated in their veins.
This lesson had been sufficient. No one tried afterwards to discover
the captain's secret.
The final arrangements had been scarcely made for the encampment, ere
the sound of horses was heard, and two horsemen arrived at a gallop.
"Here is the Captain," the adventurers said to each other.
The newcomers gave their reins to men who ran up to receive them, and
walked hastily toward the tent. On arriving there, the first stopped
and addressed his companion:--"Caballero," he said to him, "you are
welcome among us; although very poor ourselves, we will gladly share
the little we possess with you."
"Thanks," the second said, with a bow, "I will not abuse your gracious
hospitality; tomorrow, at sunrise, I think I shall be sufficiently
rested to continue my journey."
"You will act as you think proper: seat yourself by this fire prepared
for us, while I go for a few moments into that tent. I will soon rejoin
you, and have the honour of keeping you company."
The stranger bowed, and took his place by the fire, lighted a short
distance from the tent, while the captain let the curtain he had lifted
fail behind him, and disappeared from his guest's sight.
The latter was a man of marked features, his stalwart limbs denoting
a far from ordinary strength; the few wrinkles that furrowed his
energetic face served to indicate that he had already passed midlife,
though no trace of decrepitude was visible on his solidly-built body,
and not a white hair silvered his long and thick locks, which were
black as a raven's wing. He wore the costume of the rich Mexican
hacenderos, that is to say, the mança; the zarapé, of many colours;
the velvet calzoneras, open at the knee, and botas vaqueras; his hat,
of vicuna skin, gallooned with gold, was drawn in by a rich toquilla,
fastened with a costly diamond; a sheathless machete hung from his
right hip, merely passed through an iron ring: the barrels of two
six-chambered revolvers shone in his waist belt, and he had thrown on
the grass by his side an American rifle, beautifully damascened with
silver.
When the Captain left him alone, this man, while installing himself
before the fire in the most comfortable way possible, that is to say,
arranging his zarapé and water bottles to serve as a bed, if necessary,
had cast a furtive glance around, whose expression would, doubtless,
have supplied the adventurers with serious matter of thought had they
been able to notice it; but all were busied in getting the bivouac
snug, and preparations for supper; and trusting entirely in the loyalty
of prairie hospitality, they did not at all dream of watching what the
stranger seated at their fire was about.
The unknown, after a few moments' reflection, rose and walked up to a
party of trappers, whose conversation seemed very animated, and who
were gesticulating with that fire natural to southern races.
"Eh!" one of them said, on noticing the stranger, "this señor will set
us right with a word."
The latter, thus directly appealed to, turned toward the speaker.
"What is the matter, caballeros?" he asked.
"Oh, a very simple matter," the adventurer made answer; "your horse, a
noble and handsome animal, I must allow, señor, will not associate with
others; it stamps its feet and bites at the companions we have given
it."
"Oh, that is, indeed, simple enough," a second adventurer remarked,
with a grin; "that horse is a _costeño_, and too proud to associate
with poor _tierras interiores_ like our horses."
At this singular reason, all burst into an Homeric laugh. The stranger
smiled cunningly.
"It may be the reason you state, or perhaps some other," he said
gently; "at any rate, there is a very simple way of settling the
dispute, which I will employ."
"Ah!" the second speaker said, "what is it?"
"This," the stranger replied, with the same air of placidity.
Then, walking up to the horse, which two men had a difficulty in
holding, he said,--"Let go!"
"But if we let go, nobody knows what will happen."
"Let go! I answer for all then," addressing his horse,--"Lillo!" he
said.
At this name, the horse raised its noble head, and fixing its sparkling
eye on the man who had called it, with a sharp and irresistible
movement, it threw off the two men who tried to check it, sent them
rolling on the grass, to the shouts of their comrades, and rubbed its
head against its master's chest with a neigh of pleasure.
"You see," the stranger said, as he patted the noble animal, "it is not
difficult."
"Hum!" the first adventurer who picked himself up said, in an angry
tone, and rubbing his shoulder; "that is a _demonio_ to which I would
not entrust my skin, old and wrinkled as it is at present."
"Do not trouble yourself any further about the horse, I will attend to
it."
"On the faith of Domingo, I have had enough, for my part; 'tis a noble
brute, but it has a fiend inside it."
The stranger shrugged his shoulders without replying, and returned
to the fire, followed by his horse, which paced step by step behind
him, not evincing the slightest wish to indulge further in those
eccentricities which had so greatly astonished the adventurers, who
are, however, all men well versed in the equine art. This horse was
a pure barb of Arab stock, and had probably cost its present owner
an enormous sum, and its pace seemed strange to men accustomed to
American horses. Its master gave it provender, hobbled it near him,
and then sat down again by the fire: at the same instant the Captain
appeared in the entrance of the tent.
"I beg your pardon," he said, with that charming courtesy natural to
the Hispano-Americans; "I beg your pardon, Señor Caballero, for having
neglected you so long, but an imperative duty claimed my presence. Now,
I am quite at your service."
The stranger bowed. "On the contrary," he replied, "I must ask you to
accept my apologies for the cool manner in which I avail myself of your
hospitality."
"Not a word more on this head, if you wish not to annoy me."
The Captain seated himself by his guest's side.
"We will dine," he said. "I can only offer you scanty fare; but one
must put up with it, and I am reduced to tasajo and red beans with
pimento."
"That is delicious, and I should assuredly do honour to it if I felt
the slightest appetite; but, at the present moment, it would be
impossible for me to swallow the smallest mouthful."
"Ah!" the Captain said, looking distrustfully at the stranger.
But he met a face so simply calm, a smile so frank, that he felt
ashamed of his suspicions, and his face, which had grown gloomy, at
once regained all its serenity.
"I am vexed. Still, I will ask permission to dine at once; for,
differently from you, Caballero, I must confess to you that I am
literally dying of hunger."
"I should be in despair at causing you the slightest delay."
"Domingo," the Captain shouted, "my dinner."
The adventurer, whom the stranger's horse had treated so roughly, soon
came up limping, and carrying his chief's supper in a wooden tray; a
few tortillas he held in his hand completed the meal, which was worthy
of an anchorite.
Domingo was an Indian half-bred, with a knowing look, angular features,
and crafty face: he appeared to be about fifty years of age, so far
as it is possible to judge an Indian's age by his looks. Since his
misadventure with the horse, Domingo felt a malice for the stranger.
"_Con su permiso_," the Captain said, as he broke a tortilla.
"I will smoke a cigarette, if that can be called keeping you company,"
the stranger said, with his stereotyped smile.
The other bowed politely, and fell to on his meagre repast with that
eagerness which denotes a lengthened abstinence. We will take advantage
of the opportunity to draw for the reader a portrait of the chief of
the caravan.
Don Miguel Ortega, for such was the name by which he was known to his
comrades, was an elegant and handsome young man, not more than six and
twenty years of age, with a bronzed complexion, delicate features,
haughty and flashing eyes; while his tall stature, well-shaped limbs,
and wide and arched chest, denoted rare vigour. Assuredly, through
the whole extent of the old Spanish colonies, it would have been
difficult--if not impossible--to meet a more seductive cavalier, whom
the picturesque Mexican costume became so well, or combining to the
same extent as he did, those external advantages which charm women and
captivate the populace. Still, for the observer, Don Miguel had too
great a depth in his eye, too rude a frown, and a smile too false and
perfidious, not to conceal, beneath his pleasing exterior, an ulcerated
soul and evil instincts.
A hunter's meal, seasoned by appetite, is never long. The present one
was promptly disposed of.
"There," the Captain said, as he wiped his fingers with a tuft of
grass; "now for a cigarette to help digestion, and then I shall have
the honour to wish you good night. Of course, you do not intend to
leave us before daybreak."
"I can hardly tell you. That will depend, to some extent, on the
weather tonight. I am in a considerable hurry, and you know, Caballero,
that--as our neighbours, the Gringos, so justly remark--time is money."
"You know better than I do, Caballero, what you have to do. Act as you
please; but, before I retire, accept my wishes for a pleasant night's
rest, and the success of your plans."
"I thank you, Caballero."
"One last word, or rather, one last question before separating?"
"Ask it."
"Of course, if this question appears to you indiscreet, you are at
perfect liberty not to answer it."
"It would surprise me, on the part of so accomplished a Caballero.
Hence, be kind enough to explain yourself."
"My name is Don Miguel Ortega."
"And mine, Don Stefano Cohecho."
The Captain bowed.
"Will you allow me, in my turn," the stranger said, "to ask you a
question?"
"I beg you to do so."
"Why this exchange of names?"
"Because, on the prairie it is good to be able to distinguish friends
from foes."
"That is true. And now?"
"Now I am certain that I do not count you among the latter."
"_¿Quién sabe?_" Don Stefano retorted, with a laugh. "There are such
strange accidents."
The two men, after exchanging a few more words in the most friendly
manner, cordially shook hands. Don Miguel went into the tent, and Don
Stefano, after turning his feet towards the fire, slept, or pretended
to do so.
An hour later, the deepest silence reigned in the camp. The fires only
produced a doubtful gleam; and the sentinels, leaning on their rifles,
were themselves yielding to that species of vague somnolency, which
is not quite sleep, but is no longer watching. All at once, an owl,
probably hidden in a neighbouring tree, twice uttered its melancholy
hu-hu.
Don Stefano suddenly opened his eyes, without changing his position; he
assured himself, by an investigating glance, that all was quiet around
him; then, after convincing himself that his machete and revolvers had
not left him, he took up his rifle, and in his turn imitated the cry of
the owl, which was answered by a similar whoop.
The stranger, after arranging his zarapé, so as to imitate a human
body, whispered a few words to his horse while patting it, in order to
calm it; and laying himself at full length on the ground, he crawled
towards one of the outlets from the camp, stopping at intervals to look
around him.
All continued to be tranquil. On reaching the foot of the breastwork
formed by the baggage, he jumped up, leapt over the obstacles with a
tiger's bound, and disappeared in the prairie. At the same instant a
man rose, sprang over the entrenchment, and rushed in pursuit of him.
That man was Domingo.