DON STEFANO COHECHO.
As we related a short time back, after leaving Brighteye Don Stefano
had returned to the camp of the Gambusinos, into which he had managed
to enter again unseen.
Once inside the camp, the Mexican had nothing more to fear; he went
back to the fire, near which his horse was picketed, patted the
noble brute, which turned toward him, and pricked up its ears at his
approach, and then lay down calmly, rolled himself in his wraps, and
fell asleep with that placidity peculiar to consciences at rest.
Several hours elapsed, and no sound arose to disturb the calmness that
brooded over the camp. Suddenly Don Stefano opened his eyes, for a hand
had been gently laid on his right shoulder.
The Mexican looked at the man who interrupted his sleep; by the
light of the paling stars he recognized Domingo. Don Stefano rose,
and silently followed the Gambusino. The latter led him to the
entrenchments, probably with the design of speaking without fearing
indiscreet ears.
"Well?" Don Stefano asked him, when the Gambusino had made a sign that
he could speak.
Domingo, obeying the order he had received from Brighteye, concisely
related to him all that had happened in the prairie. On learning that
the Canadian had succeeded in meeting Marksman, Don Stefano gave
a start of joy, and began listening to the Gambusino's story with
increasing interest. When the latter at last finished, or at any rate
remained silent, he asked him--"Is that all?"
"All," the other answered.
Don Stefano drew out his purse, and took from it several gold pieces,
which he handed to Domingo; the latter took them with a gesture of
pleasure.
"Did Brighteye give you no message for me?" the Mexican asked again.
The other seemed to reflect for a moment. "Ah!" he said, "I forgot; the
hunter bade me tell you, Excellency, not to leave the camp."
"Do you know the reason of this recommendation?"
"Certainly; he intends to join the Cuadrilla this evening at the ford
of the Rubio."
The Mexican's brow grew dark. "You are sure of that?" he said.
"That is what he said to me."
There was a few moments' silence. "Good!" he then continued; "the
hunter added nothing further?"
"Nothing."
"Hum!" Don Stefano muttered, "after all, it is of no consequence;"
then, leaning heavily on the Gambusino's shoulder, he looked him
fiercely in the face. "Now," he added, laying a stress upon every word,
"remember this carefully; you do not know me, whatever happens; you
will not breathe a syllable of the way in which we met on the prairie."
"You may be assured of it, Excellency."
"I am assured," the Mexican replied, with an accent which made Domingo
tremble, brave as he was: "remember the oath you took, and the pledge
you gave me."
"I shall remember."
"If you keep your promise, and are faithful to me, it will be mine to
keep you from want for life,--if not, look out."
The Gambusino shook his shoulders with disdain, and answered
ill-temperedly--"It is unnecessary to threaten me, Excellency; what is
said is said; what is promised is promised."
"We shall see."
"If you have nothing else to recommend to me, I believe we had better
separate. The day is beginning to break; my comrades will soon awake,
and I fancy you are no more anxious than I am to be surprised together."
"You are right." They then parted. Don Stefano returned to his place,
while the Gambusino laid himself down where he was, and both slept, or
seemed to do so.
With the first beams of the sun, Don Miguel raised the curtain of the
tent, and walked toward his guest; the latter was soundly asleep. Don
Miguel felt unwilling to trouble this peaceful sleep; he sat down at
the fire, brought together the logs, blew them up, rolled one maize
cigarette, and smoked philosophically, while awaiting his guest's
awakening.
By this time all was movement in the camp; the Gambusinos were
attending to their morning duties, some leading the horses to water,
others lighting the fires, in order to prepare breakfast for the
Cuadrilla; in short, everybody was engaged in his own way on the
general behalf.
At length Don Stefano, on whose face a sunbeam had been playing for
some minutes, thought it advisable to wake; he turned round, stretched
his limbs, and opened his eyes, while yawning several times.
"_Caramba!_" he said, as he drew himself up, "it is day already; how
quickly a night is passed; I feel as if I had been hardly an hour
asleep."
"I see with pleasure that you have slept soundly, Caballero," Don
Miguel said politely to him.
"What! is that you, my host?" Don Stefano exclaimed, with perfectly
well-acted surprise; "the day will be a happy one for me, since the
first face I notice, on opening my eyes, is that of a friend."
"I accept the compliment as politeness on your part."
"On my word, no: I assure you that what I say to you is the sincere
expression of my thought," the Mexican said, simply; "it is impossible
to do the honours of the desert better, or comprehend the holy laws of
hospitality more thoroughly."
"I thank you for the good opinion you are kind enough to have of me.
I trust that you will not leave us yet, but consent to remain several
days with us."
"Would I could, Don Miguel--Heaven is my witness, that I should
be delighted to enjoy your charming company for a short time;
unfortunately, that is utterly impossible."
"Why so?"
"Alas! an imperious duty compels me to leave you this very day; I am
really in despair at this vexatious mischance."
"What motive can be so powerful as to force you to leave us so
suddenly?"
"A very trivial motive, and which will probably make you smile. I am
a merchant of Santa Fé; a few days back, the successive failures of
several houses at Monterey, with which I am extensively connected,
obliged me to leave my house suddenly, in order to try and save, by my
presence, a few waifs from the shipwreck with which I am threatened; I
set out without asking anybody's advice, and here I am."
"But," Don Miguel objected, "you are still along way from Monterey."
"I know it; and it is that which drives me to despair. I have a
frightful fear of arriving too late; the more so, as I have been warned
that the people with whom I have to do are rogues: the sums they owe me
are large, and form, I am sorry to say, the largest part of my fortune."
"_Cáspita!_ if that is the case, I can understand that you are anxious
to get there. I could not suspect that you had so serious a motive for
pressing on."
"You see how it is; so pity me, Don Miguel."
All this conversation was carried on by the two men with a charming
ease, and a simplicity perfectly well assumed on both sides; still
neither was duped: Don Stefano, as so often happens, had committed the
enormous fault of being too clever, and advancing beyond the limits of
prudence, while trying to persuade this man of the sincerity of his
words. This feigned sincerity had aroused Don Miguel's suspicions for
two reasons: in the first place, if Don Stefano were going from Santa
Fé to Monterey, he was not only off the road he ought to have followed,
but was completely turning his back on those two towns--an error which
his ignorance of the topography of the country made him commit without
suspecting it. The second instance was equally premature: no merchant
would have ever attempted, however grave the motive of such a journey,
to cross the desert alone, for fear of the Indian bravos, the pirates,
the wild beasts, and countless other dangers no less great, to which he
would be exposed, without possible hope of escaping them.
Still, Don Miguel pretended to admit, without discussion, the reasons
his guest offered him, and it was with an air of the utmost conviction
that he answered,--"In spite of the earnest desire I may have of
enjoying your agreeable society longer, I will not detain you, friend,
for I understand how urgent it must be for you to hurry on."
Don Stefano bowed with an almost imperceptible smile of triumph.
"In short," Don Miguel added, "I wish that you may succeed in saving
your fortune from the claws of those rogues; but at any rate, I hope,
Caballero, that we shall not separate before breakfasting. I confess
that your refusal to accept a share of my scanty supper last night
pained me."
"Oh," Don Stefano interrupted him, "believe me, Caballero--"
"You gave me a very admirable excuse," Don Miguel continued, "but,"
he added, significantly, "we Gambusinos and adventurers are singular
fellows--we fancy, rightly or wrongly, that the guest who refuses to
eat with us is our enemy, or will become so."
Don Stefano gave a slight start at this unforeseen attack. "How can you
imagine such a thing, Caballero?" he said, evasively.
"It is not I who suppose, but all of us; it is a prejudice, a foolish
superstition; call it as you like, but so it is," he said, with a
smile as sharp as a dagger's point, "and nothing will change our
nature; so that is settled, we will breakfast together, then I will
wish you a prosperous journey, and we shall part."
Don Stefano's face assumed an expression of despair.
"Really, I am the plaything of ill luck," he said, with a toss of the
head.
"How so?"
"Good gracious, I know not how to explain it to you; it is so absurd,
that I really dare not--"
"Pray speak, Caballero; although I am only an illiterate adventurer, I
may possibly manage to understand you."
"The truth is, I shall hurt your feelings."
"Not the least in the world: are you not my guest? a guest is sent by
heaven, that is to say, is sacred."
Don Stefano hesitated.
"Well," Don Miguel said, with a laugh, "I will have breakfast served;
perhaps that will undo your tongue."
"That is the embarrassing point!" the Mexican exclaimed, quickly, with
an accent of chagrin; "the fact is, that, in spite of my great desire
to be agreeable to you, I cannot accept your kind invitation."
The young man frowned. "Ah, ah!" he said, fixing a suspicious glance on
the speaker, "why so?"
"That is the very thing I dare not confess to you."
"You can, Caballero; have I not told you that you had the right to say
anything?"
"Good heavens, you force me to it," he continued, in a voice that grew
even more melancholy; "first imagine, then, that I have made a vow to
Nuestra señora de los Ángeles, never to take food before sunset, so
long as this accursed journey lasts."
"Ah!" Don Miguel said, with an accent of but slight conversion, "but
last evening, when I offered you supper, the sun had set a long time, I
fancy."
"Listen; I have not finished."
"Go on."
"And even then," the Mexican continued, "only to eat one of the maize
tortillas I carry with me in my alforjas, and which I had blessed by
a priest, prior to my departure from Santa Fé; you see, all this must
seem to you very ridiculous, but we are fellow countrymen, we have
Spanish blood in our veins, and instead of laughing at my foolish
superstition, you will pity me."
"_Cáspita!_ the more so, because you have a rude penance to undergo. I
will not attempt to make you give up your superstition, for I too have
mine; I believe that it is best not to return to the subject."
"You are not angry with me, at least?"
"I--why should I be angry?"
"Then we are still good friends?"
"More than ever," Don Miguel remarked, with a laugh. Still, the way
in which these words were pronounced, but slightly reassured the
Mexican--he took a side glance at the speaker, and then rose.
"Are you going?" the young man asked him.
"If you will permit me, I shall start."
"Do so, my guest."
Don Stefano, without further reply, immediately began saddling his
horse.
"You have a noble brute there," Don Miguel observed.
"Yes, he is a purely bred barb."
"That is the first time I ever saw one of that precious race."
"Pray have a good look at him."
"I thank you, but I should be afraid of delaying you;--hola! my
horse," he added, addressing Domingo.
The latter brought up a mustang full of fire, on the back of which Don
Miguel leaped at a bound, while Don Stefano also mounted.
"If you have no objection, I will have the honour of accompanying you a
little way, unless," he added, with a sarcastic smile, "you have made a
vow which prevents it."
"Come," Don Stefano said, reproachfully, "you are angry with me."
"On my faith, no; I swear it."
"Very good: we will start when you please."
"I am at your orders."
They spurred their horses, and went out of the camp. They had scarce
gone twenty yards, ere Don Miguel pulled up his horse and stopped.
"Are you going to leave me already?" Don Stefano asked him.
"I shall not go a step further," the young man answered, and drawing
himself up fiercely and frowning, he said in a haughty tone, "Here you
are no longer my guest; we are out of my camp in the desert; I can,
therefore, explain myself clearly and plainly, and _voto a brios_, I
will do so."
The Mexican regarded him with surprise. "I do not understand you," he
said.
"Perhaps so: I hope it is so, but I do not believe it. So long as you
were my guest, I pretended to believe the falsehoods you told me; but
now that you are to me no more than the first comer, a stranger, I wish
to tell you my thoughts frankly. I do not know by what name to address
you to your livid face, but I am certain that you are my enemy, or, at
any rate, a spy of my enemies."
"Caballero! these words--" Don Stefano exclaimed.
"Do not interrupt me," the young man continued, violently. "I care
little who you are; it is sufficient to have asked you: I thank you
for having entered my camp, at any rate; if ever I meet you again,
I shall recognize you: but let me give you one piece of advice on
parting: shake the dust off your boots on leaving me, and do not come
across me again, for it might bring you misfortune."
"Threats!" the Mexican interrupted, pale with rage.
"Take my words as you please, but remember them in the interest of your
safety; although I am only an adventurer, I give you at this moment
a lesson in honesty you will do well to profit by; nothing would be
easier for me than to acquire proofs of your treachery; I have with me
twenty devoted comrades, who, at a sign, would treat you very scurvily;
and who, by searching your clothes and alforjas, would doubtless find
among your _blessed tortillas_," he said, with a sardonic smile, "the
reasons for the conduct you have employed toward me ever since we met;
but you have been my guest, and that title is your safeguard: go in
peace, but do not cross my path again."
While uttering the last words, he raised his arm and dealt a vigorous
blow with his _chicote_ on the rear of Don Stefano's horse. The barb,
but little used to such treatment, started off like an arrow from a
bow, in spite of all his rider's efforts to hold him in.
Don Miguel looked after him for a moment, and then returned to the
camp, laughing heartily at the way in which he had ended the interview.
"Come, lads," he said to the Gambusinos, "let us be off at once; we
must reach the ford of the Rubio before sunset, where the guide is
awaiting us."
And half an hour later the caravan set out.